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 147 DE KOCK (Paul) Novels, translated into English (Unexpurgated) : 
 Wine ; Love under the Tiles ; Georgette ; Zizine ; Vampire ; The Courtesan ; 
 A Fast Young Man ; La Petite Lise ; Bride of the First Night ; That Ras( 
 Atkins' Mary ; Three Pair of Breeches ; Pucelle of Belleville ; Wine, Women 
 Three Petticoats ; Madame Pantaloons ; Monsieur Dupont ; My Neighbour 11 
 Wife, Husband, and Lover; together, 22 vols, in 11, cr. 8vo, half calf \ 
 
 \ 
 
 
2^Ll///h <~ //. 
 
 ards, Women, and 
 ree Pairs of Stays ; 
 Gustave; Tommy 
 1 Song ; Cuckold ; 
 tnond ; Friquette ; 
 '#, gilt top edges, 
 (188-) 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://archive.org/details/novelsfirsttimeiOOkock 
 
Jfirsi %ivxt m CSngltstr — Stespttrgairfr, 
 
 CARDS, 
 
 WOMEK 
 
 AND 
 
 WINE. 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HAT HIES ON & CO, 
 
CARDS, WOMEN, AND WINE 
 
 i. 
 
 TWO NEIGHBOURS. 
 
 ■ Si I say, my fair neighbour, is Anita going to dance this 
 evening ? " " Anita ? Yes, neighbour, she dances in 
 the ballet in the tenth tableau, and then again in 
 
 -the sixteenth." " How many tableaux are there in your 
 new piece r " " Upon my word, I believe there are twenty- 
 five or twenty-six." ' ; You are not sure ? " " iSTo, because 
 as I am not on at the end, it does not matter to me. I 
 go away after the sixteenth tableau." " It must be very 
 late before it is over ? " '•' Yes, ic never finishes on the 
 same day on which it began. Now-a-days people are not 
 satisfied if a play is over before twelve o'clock." "That 
 is true, for the public are becoming regular gluttons, and 
 people do not care so much for quality as for quantity." 
 **. Then I suppose you are certain to be at the theatre 
 to-night ? " "I shall try to be, if I can get away from 
 my uncle with whom I am going to dine." "How 
 delightful a family dinner always is ! " " Don't speak of 
 it ! And, to make *it still better, my uncle is continually 
 blowing me up ! " . . . . 
 
 " Well, perhaps he is right, for people say that you are 
 a bit of a scamp." " People say ! . . . I should like 
 to know who says it?" ''Nearly everybody, for the 
 matter of that." '"Then everybody is wrong!" "Oh! 
 Monsieur Felix, you have a very bad reputation." .... 
 " Suppose I am like Figaro, and better than my reputa- 
 tation ? " " But everyone declares that you love gambling, 
 drink, and women." " To begin with, my dear little 
 neighbour, I should put women into the first place, for it 
 
4 TWO NEIGHBOURS. 
 
 seems to me that they ought to go before everything else, 
 and so how can it be wrong to love them ? What would 
 you think of a man who did not love them ? . . . . You 
 would certainly say: ' What a horrid fellow he is l" 
 " Very well, then, I can't pardon you for that fault " . . . . 
 " Say rather, that you compliment me on it, for that would 
 be more correct." "But nothing ought to be pushed to 
 extremes, and when a man loves all women, it is the same 
 as if he did not love any !".... "Do you think so ? 
 Then you are wrong there. It is just the same thing as 
 if you were to say to me that I do not like wine because I 
 am fond of all wines .... when they are good ! . . . . 
 and I love all women, when they are pretty ! " "Then 
 you are never faithful to your mistress ? " " As little as 
 possible ! " " Fy, Monsieur ! It is horrid to say things 
 like that." " I am only saying what three men out of four 
 think, only they do not say it because they are hypocrites, 
 whereas I am open ; but it is quite true that it does not 
 pay to be so in everyday life, for it is rather a fault than 
 a good quality." " I shall forbid my Alexander to 
 associate with you, you will spoil him for me." . . . " Ah I 
 ah ! ah ! that is a good joke ! In the first place, your 
 Alexander cannot be spoilt ! . . . . Tou need not have 
 any fear of that any longer ! " "What do you mean by 
 that, Monsieur ? " "I mean that he is a regular old rake, 
 who has done a hundred times worse than I have ! " . . . 
 " Why do you call him an old rake r . . . . He is very 
 young still ! " " Yery young ! . . . . He must be nine 
 and thirty at the very least." '"' No, Monsieur, he is only 
 thirty-five." " All right, he shall be only twenty-five if 
 you like .... it is all the same to me." " Tou look as 
 old as he does " . . . . " I ? . . . . Thank you .... I 
 shall be three-and-twenty in six months." " That does not 
 matter, Alexander looks much fresher than you do ! " 
 " Ah ! ah ! ah ! little neighbour, you are very amusing this 
 morning, upon my honour ! . . . . How well you said 
 that ! . . . . It is very strange, but you are not nearly so 
 natural on the stage .... How is that ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Felix, you worry me .... Do not make 
 me angry or I shall ask the manager not to allow you 
 behind the scenes again .... I really do not know why 
 
TWO NEIGHBOURS. 5 
 
 you are permitted to go there for you have no right of 
 entry, as you are neither an author, nor journalist, nor 
 decorator, nor composer." tl That is true, neighbour, and 
 I am not even a prompter, though it is an employment- I 
 should have no objection to, occasionally .... It must 
 be very nice in that box, where one can see the ladies' legs, 
 and even their garters ! " .... " Very well, turn prompter ! 
 that would be very funny." ie Good heavens ! what would 
 my uncle say if he knew that I had such an idea in my 
 head ? " " He would disinherit you, and quite right too." 
 u In the first place, as he has three sons and a daughter, I 
 have not the slightest expectations from him, and so I 
 cannot be afraid of being disinherited." " Then why are 
 you afraid of making him angry ? " " Why, just because 
 he is my uncle .... the only protector whom I have, for 
 unfortunately I lost my father and mother whilst I was 
 still a child. My uncle undertook to see after my 
 education, and so I owe him a debt of gratitude." " Is he 
 rich ? " "I should rather think so ; he is worth nearly a 
 million."* "Upon my word! .... I say, you might 
 just as well bring him on to the stage sometimes ! " " You 
 would not mind if he were to go behind the scenes, I 
 suppose! " " There, my little Felix, don't get cross; you 
 know I only said it for a joke." " Oh ! I am not cross, 
 
 Hermance, for I know that you are not bad You 
 
 took up your Alexander's cause, and that deserves praise. 
 You defend your lover, whereas most ladies in your posi- 
 tion make fun of theirs, so you are worth more than they 
 
 -are But as for my uncle, oh ! there is no fear of 
 
 his going behind the scenes. He is a very stern man, and 
 never laughs .... and if he knew that I, his nephew, was 
 in the habit of going there, he would be quite capable of 
 forbidding me his* house." " Good heavens, what a 
 bear ! . . . . Then I suppose his sons do not have much 
 fan, either ? " " His sons ? He keeps them very strictly 
 and forbids them to go to balls or cafes, and only allows 
 them to go to the theatre very rarely, and so in conse* 
 quence they are extraordinarily good young men ! . . . in a 
 word, such young men as one rarely sees." "Not of your 
 
 * Of franc?, £40 : 000. (Translator.) 
 
6 TWO NEIGHBOURS. 
 
 sort, then ? " " Jfp, I must confess that I should be very 
 sorry if I had to lire like they do ! "... . "I suppose 
 they live with their father ? " u Under the same roof, yes, 
 and they must not be a minute late for breakfast or dinner 
 if they wish to escape a regular blowing up, and so in spite 
 of all the money that they will have some day, I do not 
 envy their lot." "And the young lady?" "My cousin 
 js very nice and very amiable, but she is only a child, not 
 fifteen yet, but my uncle relaxes some of his severity to- 
 wards her, and even takes her to the theatre sometimes. But 
 Emma does not abuse her power, and. is just as timid in 
 her father's presence as her brothers are." "Oh! dear, 
 what time is it. neighbour ? I have a rehearsal this 
 morning, and I had forgotten all about it." " Wait a 
 moment, and I will tell you .... Eive minutes past 
 eleven." " Eleven o'clock, and the rehearsal is at a quarter 
 past, and here I am not dressed yet ! I shall be fined, and 
 it is all Alexander's fault, who promised me a watch three 
 weeks ago, and has not given it me yet! " " Take care ? 
 little neighbour, for if the month passes by without your 
 lover keeping his promise, the chances are that yoo. will 
 never see what time it is by that watch !"..,. 
 
 But the girl had already left her window, and so her 
 neighbour followed her example. 
 
 The conversation which we have just heard had taken 
 place on the fifth floor in a house in the Rue Mazagran 
 between two neighbours, one of whom occupied rooms in 
 front, and the other a little room looking out on to the 
 yard, but the yard was so small that the neighbours could 
 easily talk together without even raising their voice. As 
 you will have guessed, the girl was a young actress who 
 had thought it necessary to take an engagement at the 
 theatre des- Delassements-Corniqiies,. on, £he Boulevard du 
 Temple before going to the Opera or the Theatre Franpais, . 
 She occupied an apartment in the front, but when she 
 stood at her dining-room window she could see quite 
 plainly into her neighbour's room, as his window, which 
 was almost constantly open, as he liked fresh air in his 
 room, was exactly opposite hers. 
 
 The neighbour's name was Felix Albrun, who was a 
 very good-looking young fellow with a pair of black eyes> 
 
TWO NEIGHBOURS. 7 
 
 which flashed like carbuncles at the sight of a pretty 
 woman, and besides this he was well-made, held himself- 
 very upright and possessed a great fund of gaiety. From, 
 the conversation which you have just heard, you will have 
 gathered that the young man was in business, but that he 
 had the reputation of being a loose fish — in short, of having 
 those three great faults which are foolishly called, 
 gambling, drink, and woman. The sequel will show 
 us whether Felix Albrun deserved his reputation. 
 
 Artists strike up acquaintances very easily, and 
 Mademoiselle Hermance had spoken to her young neigh- 
 bour, whom she had recognized from having seen him 
 lounging about behind the scenes at her theatre, and then 
 handsome Alexander, the girl's lover, had also recognized 
 him, as he was smoking his cigar one day at the dining- 
 room window, as he had frequently spoken with him at 
 the Cafe du Cirque. In consequence, the neighbours 
 became great friends, a very rare and remarkable thing ! 
 Felix never dreamt of making love to his friend's mistress, 
 who, on her part, did not try to effect her conquest. 
 
 That peculiarity is worth mentioning, because it is 
 an exception to the general rule. 
 
 '' She will certainly be fined," Felix said to himself, 
 as he looked in his chest of drawers for a clean collar. 
 " She is always such a long time dressing, and I will bet 
 that she does not get to her theatre before twelve o'clock. . . . 
 So much the worse for Alexander, for he will have to pay 
 the fine. . . . Well ! no collars .... I surely must have 
 a clean collar somewhere .... I must put one on to go 
 and dine with my uncle .... If I did not look as if I 
 came out of a bandbox, he would say to me : ' I can see 
 quite plainly that you do not trouble about your dress 
 when you come and dine with me ; you think that anything 
 is good enough.' He can be very caustic, can my dear 
 uncle, when he pleases. . . . Ah ! here is one .... 
 and upon my word it is the last. Oh ! confound it, one of the 
 button-holes is broken out, and I cannot fasten it with 
 one .... what shall I do ? " 
 
 He went back to his window with the collar in his 
 hand, and called out : " Neighbour ! could you mend the 
 button-hole of my collar ? I have only this one clean I 
 
8 THE FOSTER-BROTHER. 
 
 I say, neighbour ! Confound it, I suppose she has gone 
 into her front room and cannot hear me. . . . Well, 
 there is nothing else for it ; I must go down to the porter's 
 wife, the highly respectable Madame Rabottot. I am 
 rather in her bad books, because I always come in so late, 
 and do not grease her paws for her often enough; I am 
 not quite sure even whether I have ever greased them 
 .... but this time I must spring half-a-franc, and she 
 will be ready to dance on the cord with which she opens 
 the house door, if I ask her." 
 
 n. 
 THE FOSTER-BROTHER. 
 
 When he opened his door to go out of his room, he 
 found himself face to face on the landing with a stout 
 young man of about four-and-twenty, below the middle 
 height, but strong and muscular, and with fists big enough 
 to fell an ox. His face would not have been unpleasant 
 except that it was the type of stupidity, but people who 
 pay no attention to physiognomy, might have thought him. 
 a good-looking fellow, for he had large eyes, good teeth, 
 red lips, and his colour proclaimed him healthy and 
 strong. 
 
 As soon as he saw Felix, the fat fellow exclaimed t 
 tc What luck ! he is at home ! . . . . The porter's wife 
 said she did not know whether you were in, as you went in 
 and out a hundred times a day, and she could not always be 
 on. the look out for you, so I had better go upstairs and see. 
 But it is all right, now I see you are in." " Yes, here I am 
 „ . . . But what do yoa want of me, Dufilet ; what brings 
 you here ? , . . . How come you to have left your shop ? 
 .... Are you not a butcher any longer, I mean a 
 butcher's man ? " " Oh, yes, but not much longer." " Is 
 not your master satisfied with you ? ' " Just the 
 
TEE FOSTEE-BEOTHEE. 9 
 
 opposite ! Last week I skinned two sheep, and if I go on 
 well, he has promised that I may slaughter an animal next 
 week." " Oh ! he is going to let yon slaughter ? " "Yes, 
 a calf or an ox." " Poor brutes ! I should not like your 
 business, D unlet, and yet I must confess that I am fond of 
 chops and cutlets ! But what brings you here in full fig ? 
 for, God forgive me, if you are not dressed in black, and 
 have on a white necktie." "I should rather think that I 
 am dressed in black, and if I could have made myself look 
 more of a swell I would have done so, but I could not ! 
 .... Never mind, however, it is uncommonly lucky that 
 you are at home ; the porter's wife said : ' Very likely he 
 may not be in, because '".... u There, that will do $ 
 are you going to tell it me all over again ? What do you 
 want of me ? " " Well, this is it, my dear brother, for 
 you know I am your foster-brother. We both wore 
 suckled by Mother Michaud, at Meudon. . . . She had 
 good milk, had Mother Michaud ! " " She certainly had 
 a very fine nursling in you; why, you are as strong as 
 Samson ! " " What Samson ? I don't know him." " That 
 does not matter, but I am not so strong as you are, far 
 from it, but I am very well, and that is the chief thing. 
 Well, you are my foster-brother, that is a recognized fact, 
 and besides, as you are a good and honest fellow, I am 
 always glad to see you, and now tell me what I can do for 
 you." " Well, foster-brother, I have come to ask you to 
 do me a great service." "Willingly, as long as it is no 
 question of money, however, for I rarely am well provided 
 with that commodity, and at this moment I am in very low 
 water." " No, oh, it is no question of money ! You 
 know that I am going to get married to-day." "You are 
 going to get married to-day ? Certainly I did not know 
 it; this is the first I have heard of it." "Did not you 
 receive the formal announcement of it ? " "I have received 
 nothing at all." " That is too bad ! I posted all the 
 letters myself, and I am sure that yours was amongst 
 them." " How long ago is that ? " " You ought to have 
 had it a week ago." " That is some trick of the portress, 
 and we will clear it up as we go out. And so you are 
 going to be married to-day ; that is all right, and perhaps 
 you had invited me to the wedding dinner ? " "By 
 
10 THE EOSTEE-BEOTKE3. 
 
 George, I should rather think so ! Will you not come ? " 
 " That confounded portress ! . . . . If I had known that 
 .... but I am going to dine at my uncle's to-night, some 
 grand dinner, I don't know on what occasion, hut I cannot 
 possibly be absent." "Oh; what a piece of bad luck t 
 .... especially as it is going to be a grand spread .... 
 close to the lake in the Saint-Fargeau Park at Belleville, 
 as I am going to marry a Belleville girl" .... "Is 
 your wife pretty ? " "I should rather think so ... . she 
 is a better-looking woman than T am a man, so you may 
 judge what a couple we shall make ! " " It will, indeed, 
 be grand .... and you came to ask me to give my arm 
 to the bride " . . . . 
 
 " Oh ! for something else as well ! Just fancy ! My 
 groomsmen are, first of all, Merluchet, who is my bride's 
 brother, and then Monsieur Grandcerf, who is a friend of 
 my father-in-law. I did not care much about having him for 
 a groomsman, especially as he is lame, but my father-in- 
 law said, * I wish to have Grandcerf for one of the 
 groomsmen,' and so I could not refuse. But this morning, 
 just as I had finished dressing, my father-in-law that is to 
 be sent me word that Grandcerf has a boil that has not 
 come to a head, and which so interferes with his walking, 
 that be cannot go to the town-hall.* Consequently, I 
 must find another groomsman immediately, and I at once 
 thought of you, and I have come to ask you to do me that 
 honour." " With all my heart, my dear friend ! " " You 
 accept my invitation, then ? Ah ! you are indeed my 
 foster-brother !".... "Of course, I accept ; but where 
 are you going to be married ? " "At Belleville." " Oh ! 
 the 'devil ! So I must go there? " " Yes, one o'clock is 
 the time fixed." .... " Yery well; 1 must go to my 
 counting-house, but I have plenty of time. I will be "at the 
 Mansion Eouse at Belleville at one o'clock.'' " And you 
 
 will take Monsieur Grandcerf's place How 
 
 fortunate! I know you do noo limp!" " ]No ; between 
 
 * In France all marriages must be performed before the mayor, of 
 whom there is one in every village or township, and one for every 
 division of Paris. There is no choice in the matter. The religious 
 ceremony, however, almost invariably takes place as well. (Trans- 
 lator. ) 
 
THE FOSTER-BROTHER. 11 
 
 ourselves, my dear Dufilet, it would have been rather a bad 
 omen to have had a Grandcerf* at your wedding." " Ha I 
 ha! ha! Yes, I understand. . . . What a capital joke. 
 . . . . A Grandcerf! You mean on account of the 
 horns ! " "Of course I do." " Ah ! but my wife will not 
 stand any nonsense. The day before yesterday, for a joke 
 
 I wanted to pinch something You know what I 
 
 mean just to get better acquainted. But immedi- 
 ately she gave me a box on the ear which would have 
 killed a sheep ! . . . . So I said to myself, ' If that is the 
 way she receives a lover, I can be quite easy in my mind.' ' 
 "What is your wife's name?" "Laurette. Laurette 
 Merluchet. Her father is a master mason. Merluchet,. 
 Dufilet ! . . . . It rhymes, so we were bound to mairy ! " 
 " If all those people were to marry whose names rhymed,- 
 that would be going rather far. But I must put on 
 evening dress also, and then I shall be ready to go and 
 dine with my uncle." .... "I say, Monsieur Felix, 
 don't you think that I look very nice like this ? . . . . My 
 
 coat is quite new, and my trousers the same 
 
 Do they fit me well ? " " Let me see. Turn round. 
 Yes, fairly well, but your coat seems to be too tight 
 under the arms." " Yes, but the tailor assured me 
 that would give." " But there is one thing you must 
 
 have Your boots are shocking, and you cannot go 
 
 shod like that." et Of conrse I know that, but I am going 
 to buy myself a pair on my way back. I am going to buy 
 a pair of patent leather boots, especially as Laurette said 
 to me, *I shall not marry you unless you have polished 
 leather shoes.' " "Ah ! your future wife said that! Then r 
 my friend, go instantly and buy them, for you have no 
 time to lose, as it is already twenty minutes past eleven." 
 
 " Oh ! that is true Good-bye for the present, 
 
 then ! " "I will come downstairs with you, for I must have 
 an explanation with the porter's wife about your letter." 
 
 The foster-brothers went down the five flights of stairs 
 and stopped outside Madame Rabottot's lodge. She was 
 
 * i.e., Great Srag. Felix alludes to the horns with which married 
 men who have unfaithful spouses are supposed to have their heads- 
 decorated (Translator.) 
 
"12 THE FOSTEE-BKOTHER. 
 
 a little woman, and as dried up and wrinkled as a piece of 
 old parchment. When she deigned to he amiable she 
 showed three teeth, one in the upper and two in the lower 
 jaw, which looked as if they wished to bite you. Felix 
 opened the door, and they found Madame Eabottot busy 
 catching her dog's fleas, and she did not desist from that 
 interesting operation at their entry. 
 
 "Madame," Felix said, "how is it that I have not 
 received & letter which this gentleman sent me a week ago, 
 and which he posted himself ? " lc Oh, what a question to 
 ask me ! Do you think I eat your letters ? " " No, but 
 you might forget to give them to me, and then lose them." 
 
 -" I never lose anything Will you keep quiet, you 
 
 brute. Where do you get all your fleas from, I wonder ? " 
 '* The letter could not have been lost, for it was very thick 
 and very long." " Ah ! then it was circoculaire ? That is 
 a different matter. When any come for Monsieur Albrun, 
 he at once throws them away and says, ' I don't want 
 
 those things They worry one with all their 
 
 rubbish.' Therefore, sir, thinking that it was another 
 circoculaire, I very likely used it to light my fire with, for 
 
 I said to myself 3 'It is not worth while to give it to 
 him.' " 
 
 " It was the announcement of my approaching marriage 
 and an invitation for the wedding dinner that you burnt, 
 that is all ! " " Ah ! I am sorry .... but as he always 
 throws his circoculaires into my lodge . . . ." " Be good 
 enough in future always to give me all letters addressed to 
 me, otherwise I shall complain to the landlord." " All 
 right ! All right ! You need not make such a fuss about 
 an invitation to a weddiDg! Do keep quiet, Lozor ! " 
 
 II Oh ! what a wretched, scurvy sort of woman ! She shall 
 certainly never have a halfpenny from me," Felix cried, 
 " and I would sooner go and buy a new collar than ask her 
 to sew a tape on for me. Good-bye, Dufilet. I will be at 
 the mayor's office punctually at one o'clock." " I reckon 
 on you, Monsieur Albrun, and now I will make haste and 
 buy a pair of patent leather boots." 
 
THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 13 
 
 in. 
 
 THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 
 
 • 
 
 Felix had finished dressing with the exception of the 
 collar, which he put on in the shop where he bought it. 
 He hastened to his employer, and as it was a slack time 
 and his occupation was calling on customers, so that he was 
 never wanted in the office, he was soon free for the day, 
 and got into the omnibus which was to take him to 
 
 Belleville. . ,, 
 
 The clock struck one as Felix went into the Mansion 
 House. "They shall not complain of my want of 
 punctuality !" he said to himself as he asked to be shown 
 the room where marriages were performed. 
 
 There were already a great many people m the large 
 hall, for five weddings were to be celebrated the same day, 
 and on all sides gentlemen and ladies in foil dress were to 
 be seen ; certainly all the costumes were not in the best 
 taste, but they had all done what they could. The principal 
 thing was that they all looked happy and seemea to 
 announce that they meant to enjoy themselves ; some ot 
 the guests seemed as if they had been setting to work at it 
 beforehand, their faces which were illuminated by eccentric 
 cheerfulness showed that they had wished to get themselves 
 into trim by times. 
 
 The brides had the traditional toilettes ; the bouquet ot 
 orange flowers was not wanting j there might, perhaps, 
 indeed be something else which would be found missing, 
 but the bride would have the right to sing :— 
 
 " If what you wish for is not in its place, 
 My orange flowers I'll not disgrace." 
 
 Felix examined all the brides ; he counted four of them ; 
 two of them were ugly, one was passable, and one was 
 pretty, but her hair was the colour of a carrot. 
 
 "After all," the young man said to himself, that 
 jounce lady must appear delightful to those who like that 
 
14 THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 
 
 colour ; can she be Dufilet's bride ? . . . . But it is no use 
 to wonder .... and I do not see him .... I must ask, 
 and I know that the father-in-law's name is Merluchet." 
 
 Next to Felix there happened to be a little gentleman 
 who seemed as if he knew everybody and belonged to all 
 the wedding parties, for he addressed jokes, which were 
 often very broad, to each of the brides, and laughed after- 
 wards till he made the windows rattle. Bat as laughter is 
 infectious, the men who were there soon joined in 
 chorus with this merry gentleman. There were some, 
 however, who were a long time getting into proper fettle, 
 and Felix remarked a tall individual sitting at the end of a 
 bench who looked like a peasant dressed in full fig, and 
 who only began to laugh when everybody else had finished, 
 which produced a singular effect. 
 
 *■ Monsieur, as you seem to know many people here, 
 oould you be kind enough to tell me which of the brides is 
 Mademoiselle Laurette Merluchet?" " Laurette Mer- 
 luchet, the daughter of Jerome Merluchet, the master- 
 mason?" "That is the young lady, Monsieur." "And 
 who is going to marry Nicolas Dufilet, a young journeyman 
 butcher from Paris, but who is going to set up here in a 
 nionth with his wife's dowry ; he is going to take the shop 
 of his master who is about to retire." "You are perfectly 
 right, Monsieur ; in fact, you know more than I did, for I 
 was unaware of these last details." " Oh ! I know every- 
 thing ! . . . . I know everybody in Belleville, for I have 
 lived here twenty-five years. I have independent means 
 and nothing to do, but I like to be useful, and so I execute 
 everybody's commissions ; it amuses me and gives me 
 some occupation, so when anyone wants anything 
 done in Paris and has not got time to go personally he 
 comes to me and says: ' My little Dardard ' — that is my 
 name, Mithridates Dardard, at your service — and he says : 
 c My little Dardard, will you be kind enough to go to Paris and 
 buy this and that for me ? ' And I agree and execute the 
 commissions and always very satisfactory. Though a week 
 ago someone asked me to buy some linseed meal to make 
 poultices for a child who was ill, and I made a mistake and 
 brought mustard powder ; hut it had precisely the same 
 effect .... the child died ; it could not have recovered. " 
 
THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 15 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Dardard, as you know everybody 
 here, would you kindly point out Mademoiselle Laurette 
 Merluchet to me, for I am best man ; her intended came to 
 see me this morning and asked me to do him that small 
 
 service " "I would gladly show you the bride 
 
 whom you are asking for, only there is this slight difficulty 
 .... she is not here .... Ha ! ha ! ha ! and for a 
 good reason ! . . . . the Merluchet wedding party has not 
 arrived yet, and they are all behind hand, as theirs is the 
 second turn .... There are five weddings to-day, and as 
 soon as the Mayor arrives they will begin." " Well, we must 
 wait, most likely they will not be long." " Ah ! You are 
 one of D unlet' s groomsmen?" "Yes, Monsieur." "I 
 understand ! You are taking Monsieur Grandcerf s place. 
 Poor Grandcerf! He is suffering very much from his boil. 
 1 went to Paris on purpose to get some ointment which has 
 been very much praised, and which was to cure him 
 immediately ! . . . . Well, since he has applied it, he has 
 been much worse." 
 
 Pelix said to himself, that if this gentleman did the 
 same for Monsieur Grandcerf s boil as he did with the 
 poultice for the sick child, it was not astonishing that that 
 gentleman had not been able to perform his duties as 
 groomsman. 
 
 " Five weddings on the same day ! That puts me out 
 very much," Monsieur Dardard went on, " for you will 
 understand that I am invited everywhere, and I cannot cut 
 myself into five pieces .... I certainly said to the bride- 
 grooms : You can dine at two o'clock ; you at four ■ you 
 at six, and in that way I could have been at all three 
 dinners, but they would not listen to me, as they all wish 
 to dine at four o'clock ! " "Do you think that you couid 
 have eaten three dinners ? " " Oh ! yes, with a little man- 
 agement. One takes some fowl at one place, some eels at 
 another, and pickled gherkins everywhere, for gherkins are 
 never wanting anywhere .... Ha ! ha ! Is it not 
 true Duponfr, that there are gherkins at every wed. 
 ding?"* J 
 
 * A somewhat broad'allusion and bad pun. Comic/ions, gherkins. 
 ■Cor, a horn ; nicker, to lie hidden. (Translator.) 
 
16 THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 
 
 The person to whom this question was put, immediately- 
 burst out iuto a loud laugh, his neighbours joined in the 
 chorus, and when the gentlemen at last grew quiet, the 
 countryman who was sitting at the end of the bench, began 
 to laugh all to himself. 
 
 '* Ah ! here comes the Merluchet wedding ! " several 
 ladies exclaimed, looking out of the windows, and Felix 
 did the same, and saw his foster-brother's bride, who 
 was a pretty, fresh-coloured, strongly-made girl, who 
 carried her bridal bouquet proudly, and did not look the 
 least nervous. She was holding her father's hand, and 
 Dufilet was walking behind with an old aunt on his arm. 
 The bridegroom was even redder than usual, and seemed to 
 walk with difficulty. 
 
 As the fifth wedding party made its appearance in the 
 hall, Monsieur Dardard said : " Just look, one might 
 almost think that the bridegroom limps ! It seems as if 
 there were absolutely to be some hitch in th.is marriage." 
 
 At that moment Dufilet uttered an exclamation of 
 pleasure on seeing his foster-brother, and he ran up to 
 Felix and presented him to his bride, saying, " My wife y 
 this is my new groomsman .... I hope that he is quite 
 as good as Daddy Grandcerf, and that we have not lost by 
 the change." Mademoiselle Laurette gave Felix a very 
 charming smile, and said, " Ah ! I certainly prefer this 
 gentleman ! In the first place, he is young, at all events, 
 and it is very stupid to have an old groomsman ! " "I 
 say, Monsieur Felix, I did not deceive you when I said that 
 my intended was pretty, eh ? Is not she a nice, well-made 
 woman ? . . . . and look how cut out her dress is ! " 
 " Look here, Dufilet, don't begin any of your nonsense j 
 Monsieur can see very well how I am made !".... 
 " Certainly, Madame, I must sincerely congratulate him on 
 being the fortunate possessor of a lady who owns so many 
 charms ! " fi Ah ! Yes, she has charms, indeed, and how 
 firm they are !".... " Dufilet, if you do not hold your 
 tongue, I shall go and complain to papa!" "But you 
 have come very late." " It is all his fault," the bride said, 
 " he walks like an old cluck .... I thought we should 
 leave him on the road." " It is all the fault of my shoes 
 .... these confounded shoes, how they hurt me ! .... 
 
THE BRIDE'. BOOTS. if 
 
 The shoemaker declared tha r I would be all right when 
 I had walked in them, but it is just the other way ; as soon 
 as 1 begin to walk they pi in me horribly." " But, then, 
 how nice they look ! " Mademoiselle Laurette said. " Oh ! 
 here comes the Mayor .... Ours is the second turn, is 
 it not?'' "Yes, yes, we haye plenty of time .... 
 Ah ! ah ! I cannot bear it any longer ; I must make 
 myself comfortable a little." 
 
 So Dufilet went and sat down by the side of the peasant 
 who was laughing with the others, and, stooping down 
 gently, he took off his shoes and uttered a prolonged a — h t 
 of satisfaction when he had got rid of them. In the mean- 
 while, Mademoiselle Laurette had introduced Felix to her 
 father, the master-mason, then to her brother, to her 
 relations, and to all the assembled guests Monsieur Mer- 
 luchet shook Eelix's hand so vigorously that he almost 
 crushed his fingers, and then he continued his conversation 
 with Mithridates Dardard, who was trying to prove to 
 him that people enjoyed their dinner much more when they 
 did not dine till six o'clock. But the eloquence of the 
 factotum of the place was all in vain, for he had to deal 
 with people whose appetite never failed them, and Monsieur 
 Merlu chefs answer was : — 
 
 " I am not listening to you ; and, by the by, I have a 
 complaint to make against you from poor Grandcerf ....** 
 fl A complaint from your friend. Grandcerf? What about ? 
 Is it my fault if his abscess will not break ? " " Of course 
 it is ! It seems that you did not bring him the ointment 
 that had been recommended to him, and unluckily he only 
 read what was written on the box this morning, and it is a 
 salve for corns and not for boils." " That is quite im- 
 possible .... I know I asked for a salve for corns . . . » 
 No, I mean for boils. If the chemist made a mistake, that 
 is surely no fault of mine ? Besides, I am sure it will have 
 the same effect and produce the same results, for, after all, 
 corns and boils .... are almost the same thing ! " 
 " No, they are not at all the same thing .... and the proof 
 is that Grandcerf is in much greater pain '"...." That 
 is a proof that he is going to be cured ! " " TheMerluchet 
 wedding ! it is the turn of the Merjuchet wedding ! " a 
 messenger cried, going up and down the hall. "It is our- 
 
18 THE BRIDEGROOM'S EOOTS. 
 
 turn, our turn ! " Mademoiselle Laurette said. " "Why ! 
 Where is Dufilet ? " " My son-in-la.v, where is my son-in- 
 law ? Does he mean to make us hunt for him just at the 
 moment when he is going to get married. Ah ! I see him 
 sitting down yonder .... He does not hear us calling 
 him." "I will go and fetch him," Felix said, pushing his 
 way through the crowd. 
 
 Dufilet, who was as red as a hoiled lobster, had one of 
 his feet crossed over his other knee, and was holding a 
 polished boot in his hand. " Well ! don't you hear 
 yourself being called?" Felix asked him. "It is your 
 turn .... come along ; your wife is getting impatient." 
 " Yes, yes, I heard them calling us, but it is not my fault. 
 My feet hurt me so badly that I took off my shoes to have 
 a moment's comfort" .... "Very well, but just put 
 them on at once, now." " That is just what I am trying to 
 do .... but I cannot manage it ; my feet seem to be too 
 swollen. A — h ! . . . . confound it . . . . I cannot get 
 my feet in." . . . 
 
 Just then the master-mason came up looking very 
 angry, and said, " Well, son-in-law, are you making fun of 
 us ? . . . . It is showing me a great want of respect to 
 make my daughter and the Mayor who is calling you to 
 come and be married, wait like this." "It is not my 
 favlt ; .... it is all through my shoes, which I cannot 
 get on again." " Why did you take them off? Do people 
 generally take off their boots when they are just going to get 
 married ? " " Ah ! there is one of them on, at any rate ! " 
 
 At that moment one of the messengers shouted out, 
 " The Gigoteau wedding party, number three ; where is 
 the Gigoteau party ? . . . . This marriage will be taken 
 first, as the Merluchet bridal party has not appeared." 
 .... " Here we are ! Here are the Gigoteaus ! Here 
 we are !".... And wedding number three hastened to 
 take up their place in front of the Mayor, whilst Monsieur 
 Merluchet exclaimed, "Do yon see what has happened? 
 The wedding which ought to have been third comes before 
 us ... . and it is all your fault ! " " No, it's not, father- 
 in-law ; it is the fault of my shoes. .... Well, /ve 
 must come after them, that is all." 
 
 Daddy Merluchet went to look for his daughter, w 10 
 
THE BRIDEGROOM'S BOOTS. 19 
 
 was dancing with impatience, although Felix was doing 
 Lis best to calm her by saying, " You must excuse Dufilet ; 
 he has taken off his shoes and cannot get them on again." 
 " But it is his fault. What did he want to take them off 
 for?" " Because they hurt him very badly. You saw 
 how he limped in them." " Why did he buy shoes that 
 were too tight for him ? . . . . He is always committing 
 some stupidity or other, and if it goes on like this things 
 will turn out badly ! " " My son-in-law does not deserve 
 to have such a treasure as I am giving him ! " the master- 
 mason said. " Nobody ever saw a man guilty of such 
 conduct before .... to keep the Mayor waiting .... 
 and to take off his shoes in the middle of the Mansion 
 
 House Did ever anyone see such a thing before ! " 
 
 *' It is certain," Dardard said, " that the moment was very 
 ill chosen ! . . . . Later, of course, if he did it, I should 
 say nothing. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Whilst they were trying to quiet the bride and her 
 father, Dufilet, instead of trying to put on his other boot, 
 took off the one which he had put on with so much 
 difficulty, saying to himself, "As there is another wedding 
 first, I need not cripple myself a long time beforehand. 
 .... Ah ! scoundrel of a shoemaker, to assure me that 
 they would be quite easy ! . . . . And shoes which cost 
 me eighteen francs, so I must use them ! If I were to take 
 off my stockings I should certainly be able to get them on 
 
 more easily Bat I cannot get married without 
 
 any stockings on ; it would upset my wife ! " 
 
 At last the Merluchet wedding party was somewhat 
 appeased, and the bride said to Felix, " Is that idiot afraid 
 to come near me ? r . "Of whom are you speaking, 
 Laurette ? " " Why, of my intended, of course, who is 
 staying down yonder instead of coming to us. Please go 
 and tell him that I forgive him, and that my father does 
 also .... but that he must come to me immediately. 
 .... It would be very nice of you to do that, and I will 
 let you take off my garter."* " With such a prospect in 
 
 * At French weddings, especially amongst the lower middle classes, 
 it u-ed to be, and m<*y be still, the custom for some male guest to get 
 
 ler tha tabla and take off the bride's garter, which became his 
 \ roperty. This often led to broad jokes, practical and otherwise. 
 i ransiator.) 
 
20 THE BRIDEGROOM'S DOoTS. 
 
 view who would not do it ? ... . I will go and look fo.r 
 Dufilet." .... "Our turn will be here immediately. 
 The Mayor gets through the marriages very Quickly." 
 
 Felix joined the bridegroom, who was smiling witfc 
 pleasure, as be had got rid of his shoes. " Well, my 
 friend, what are you doing here all by yourself, instead oi 
 being with your bride P " 
 
 The journeyman butcher smiled at his foster-brothei> 
 and replied, " i can strut about now ; I am so comfortable' 
 when I have not got them on." " You have taken your 
 shoes off again ? " " I had not put them both on again, 
 and they hurt me so ! " " But you will be called directly 
 to go and get married. Are you going to do the 
 same as you did just now ? " " Oh ! I have plenty of 
 time." 
 
 But at that moment the messenger's voice was heard 
 again : " The Merluchet wedding party must come now. 
 
 .... It is bheir turn next Come before the 
 
 Mayor The Merluchet wedding ! " " Oh ! con- 
 found it ! Our turn come again already ! " Dufilet said, 
 stooping down to pick up his shoe. " I did not think that 
 it would come again so soon.' 7 " Make haste, you unlucky 
 fellow ; your fair bride is getting impatient." " It is all 
 very well to tell me to make haste . . . . if I only had a 
 shoe-horn, but I have not got one." The attendant cried 
 louder than ever, " Come along, that Merluchet wedding t 
 The Mayor is waiting !".... 
 
 In spite of all his desperate efforts, poor Dufilet could 
 not succeed in getting on both his patent leather shoes, 
 and in a few moments his father-in-law came up to him, 
 looking furious and threatening and swearing like several 
 troopers. " Well, ten thousand devils, are you doing it 
 intentionally, Monsieur Dufilet ? Have you made up your 
 mind to make a fool of my daughter just when she is to be- 
 joined to you in matrimony ? " " No, father-in-law ; you 
 see that I am doing all I can to get my shoes on ... , 
 My feet are horribly swollen. 5 ' . . . . "You are wanting 
 
 in respect with your shoes You are making fun 
 
 of my daughter I would send you to the devil for 
 
 sixpence ! " " They will come directly .... there is cne- 
 on already." . . . 
 
THE BfUDEGItOOM.'S BOOTS. 21 
 
 But jusfc then they heard the messenger calling ■wedding- 
 party number four, as number two had not yet replied to 
 the summons. " Out of it again ! " the master-mason 
 said, knocking on the floor with his stick. " Oh ! this is 
 too much ! And if my daughter follows my advice, she 
 will send you back to your sheep, son-in-law, and marry 
 -Orandcerf as soon as his boil has broken." 
 
 The bride was shedding tears of anger and vexation, 
 but she felt no inclination to marry Grandcerf, and she 
 said to Felix, who came up to her and tried to make 
 -excuses for his foster-brother, " You see, Monsieur, it i* 
 too bad of Dufilet. Everybody is looking at me and 
 laughing and making fun of me, and they are already say- 
 ing, " He will not marry her ; he is only pretending that 
 his feet hurt him, but it is nothing but a farce and a got 
 jup affair." " I assure you, fair Laurette, that poor DuSlet 
 is quite incapable of having any such ideas." " That may 
 be, Monsieur, but I know my father. If my bridegroom 
 .does not come immediately the first time we are called, he 
 will go and give him a couple of smacks in the face, and 
 ,our marriage will come to nothing." "Ah, well ! don't 
 4istress yourself, but trust to me. I promise ycu that 
 your bridegroom shall not keep you waiting the next time ; 
 I will take care of that." " Oh ! Monsieur, I should be so 
 grateful to you." 
 
 Whereupon Felix left the bride and went to look for 
 the intended husband, whom he found with one shoe on, 
 but trying in vain to get on the other. " D unlet, do you 
 know that you are behaving very stupidly for a man on 
 his wedding day ? " "So now my foster-brother is 
 also beginning to blow me up. as if it were my fault." 
 "Yes, certainly, it is your fault ; you came here with your 
 shoes on, and you ought to have kept them on." " But 
 I could not walk in them." " Nonsense ! you should 
 .surely be able to endure a libtie pain for the sake of having 
 sl pretty wife." " To think that I cannot get the other one 
 on ! , . . . You have not got a shoe-horn ? " " No ! I 
 .am not in the habit of carrying one about v\ith me!" 
 il Oh ! good heavens ! I am crashing my fingers. ... I 
 4ian never manage to get it on ! " 
 
 The messenger's voice was a^ain heard : " If the 
 
22 THE MONTLAURENT FAMILY. 
 
 Merluchet wedding party has arrived, they are to go before 
 the Mayor." " Oh ! good heavens, and I have not got it 
 on yet," Dufilet stammered. But without allowing him 
 time to know what he was about, Felix took him in his 
 arms, lifted him up and carried him before the Mayor, 
 exclaiming : " Here is the bridegroom ! " 
 
 Now they were waiting for Mademoiselle Merluchet, 
 but stout Laurette did not keep them, and in a few seconds 
 she was at her bridegroom's side, who looked down with 
 an air of confusion, and kept, his left hand behind bis 
 back, because he had his shoe in it. Luckily the Mayor 
 did not remark all these details, and they were speedily 
 united, although Dufilet had only one shoe on. As for 
 Felix, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, for 
 he had performed a feat of strength in carrying off the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 When the ceremony was over, they allowed the bride- 
 groom to go to a shoemaker to buy another pair of shoes^ 
 and then the whole wedding" party set off for the restaurant 
 of the lake Saint- Fargeau, where Felix promised to go in 
 the evening and dance with the bride, a,nd claim a piece 
 of the garter — he had fully earned it. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE MONTLAURENT FAMILY. 
 
 It is now time to make the acquaintance of the Mont- 
 laurent family, which consisted of the uncle, three male 
 cousins, and Felix's girl cousin. There was also an old' 
 relation who must not be forgotten, for she lived with 
 Monsieur Montlaurent, and had special charge of Emma's 
 education. 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent was sixty years old, and looked 
 ten years older, for he was thin, yellow, and had a weak 
 constitution, although he almost always dieted himself and 
 
THE MONTLAURENT FAMILY. 23 
 
 never ate anything that the faculty did not assure him was 
 good for his constitution. All the precautions which he 
 was continually taking to keep well did not prevent him. 
 from being nearly always ailing, and his nephew Felix 
 used to declare that the reason why he was so constantly 
 ill was because he took so much care of himself. 
 
 Thus he breakfasted on radishes because he declared that 
 they were conducive to sleep ; at dinner he would have 
 watercress and small wild chicory, because, according to 
 him, they purified the blood. He always insisted on 
 having a dish of carrots, as they prevented jaundice ; when 
 asparagus was in season, he had it every day, because he 
 was told that it was very wholesome. But his stomach, 
 which had already been weakened by large quantities of 
 herb tea, could not easily accustom itself to this foed 
 which was so good for the health ; and the infusion of 
 mallow which he drank from morning till night, gave him 
 no appetite. 
 
 As he was very strict in his morals, and a very rigid 
 observer of the usages, the etiquette and the duties of 
 families, Monsieur Montlaurent was almost continually 
 finding fault, and was rarely in a good temper. That, 
 perhaps, arose from his bad state of health and his weak 
 stomach ; it is very easy to be merry when one is well, but 
 it is very difficult to laugh when we cannot digest any- 
 thing that we eat, and we should often be more indulgent 
 towards our friends' tempers if we knew the real state of 
 their health. 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent, who was a man of the strictest 
 probity, had made his money in business, but he never 
 failed to meet any of his engagements, and had never 
 wronged anybody of a halfpenny, and in return he ex- 
 pected the same exactitude from others, for with him a 
 promise was sacred, and he thought that a word should 
 always be as good as a bond. 
 
 Such a man naturally had no confidence in those care- 
 less people who amuse themselves to-day without thinking 
 of the morrow; for him disorder was the source of every 
 vice, and he would not pardon it, even in young people. 
 Indulgence was not his virtue, but it does not always prove 
 that people are virtuous because they arc strict and severe. 
 
24 THE MONTLAUREKT FAMILY. 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent had early been left a widower 
 with four children, three sons and a daughter. Eelicien, 
 the eldest of the boys was twenty-four and was in a 
 lawyer's office. He was tall,>pale, and had light hair, and 
 was tolerably good looking, but he hardly ever raised his 
 china-blue eyes from the ground and never looked anybody 
 in the face. He spoke slowly and softly, blushed in the 
 presence of a woman, and reproved his cousin Felix when- 
 ever the latter made a somewhat improper joke. The 
 young man had never had any mistresses, or at any rate 
 nobody ever knew that he had ; he was always in bed by 
 ten o'clock, and was their father's Benjamin. 
 
 The second son, Adolphe, who was a year younger, 
 had a round and merry face. He would have liked to 
 laugh and joke constantly if he had dared, but as he was 
 very much afraid of his father, he watched himself con- 
 tinually, only laughed with the tip of his lips and pretended 
 to put a great deal of water into his wine, because he had 
 heard his father thunder against drunkards. He was 
 employed in a commercial house.. 
 
 Lastly, the third son, who was only twenty, was called 
 "Victorin ; he was thin and weak by nature, like his father, 
 but there was something in his eyes that announced strong 
 passions, and a nervous organization which occasionally 
 suffers from the restraints which it lays upon itself. He 
 was in a banking house, and occasionally spoke enthusiasti- 
 cally of the profits which some of their customers had 
 made on the Stock Exchange, and he did not conceal his 
 wish to make a large fortune also. But at such times his 
 father used to say to him, in a severe voice : " Work hard, 
 keep everything in the strictest order, never trust any- 
 thing to luck, and then you will prosper. Large fortunes 
 won on the Stock Exchange never last longer than the 
 time which it took to make them, and there is nothing 
 durable except what has cost labour and trouble. Above 
 all, never gamble ! the largest fortunes may be swallowed 
 up at play, and a man who has come to misery in con- 
 sequence of that vice, is never pitied." And Victorin 
 would reply : i( I never play, father ; I don't even know 
 how to hold a billard cue." 
 
 " So much the better, my son. Billiards are a dangerous 
 
T2iE MOXTLAURENT FAMILY. 25 
 
 o-ame which leads young men into mad expenses ; for some 
 time pffst the game has been gaining ground in a most per- 
 nicious manner, and when T see outside a house, Cafe with 
 ten billiard tables, I cannot help thinking of how much money 
 workmen will go and lose there .... and of all the 
 privations which that will entail on their families." 
 
 After the three young men came Emma, who was nearly 
 fifteen She was a charming girl, pretty without being 
 beautiful, graceful without any pretensions, amiable, and 
 always kind. She loved her father tenderly, and he, 
 touched by her constant gentleness and her even character, 
 was much less strict with her than with her brothers, and 
 did not think it wrong that she should be merry. He 
 very rarely scolded his daughter, but then, why should he 
 do so, as she was always submissive and obedient ? There 
 was, however, one subject which sometimes drew down a 
 reprimand upon her, and that was when she tried to 
 defend her cousin Felix and to find some excuses for him 
 to her father. 
 
 Then Monsieur Montlaurent would say to Emma in a loud 
 voice : " What are you interfering about ? Why do you 
 take the part of a heedless hot-headed fellow, who has 
 nearly every fault under the sun, and who will never be 
 anything but a good-for-nothing scamp ? " " But, father, 
 Felix is your sister's son, and I have often heard you say 
 that you used to love your sister, and that you would 
 never abandon her son." "And I have not abandoned 
 him. I have had him educated and put him into a 
 house of business, and for a long time I have provided for 
 all his expenses ; but he cares for nothing but going about, 
 amusing himself, gambling and keeping bad company . . . 
 and then he is in debt ! . . . . I have paid them for him 
 once, and that is enough ; he need not look to me again.'' 
 " But my cousin will amend his ways ! " " Oh ! no ; that 
 is all over ! He has taken his bent .... I tell you that 
 he has every vice ! He is fond of gambling, wine and 
 .... and .... Well, you cannot understand what I 
 mean, my child, but I tell you thaAEaster Felix will never 
 be anything but a good-for-nothing ! " 
 
 Emma did not venture to persist ; she ouly sighed and 
 contented herself with thinking : " My poor cousin, it is 
 
26 THE MONTLAURENT FAMILY. 
 
 a great pity that he is such a good-for-nothing fellow, for 
 he is very nice ! " 
 
 We have still to make the acquaintance of Madam© 
 Sarget, Monsieur Montlaurent's distant relative. She was 
 an old widow lady, with an income of eighty pounds a 
 year, which satisfied all her wishes, as she had never had 
 any ambition. Coquetry was her only fault, but unfor- 
 tunately she possessed a nose which was a continual 
 obstacle in the way of her wish to please, for it was so 
 long and pointed, that one was obliged to ask oneself 
 however any man could have been found who was brave 
 enough to marry the woman who had it. Assuredly the 
 late Sarget could never have kissed his wife's face ; bufc 
 then there are many men who are satisfied with loving 
 their wives in profile. 
 
 There had been no issue of this union, and when 
 Madame Sarget was left a widow she would "have been 
 very willing to give the departed Sarget a successor, but 
 nobody was found brave enough to confront that menacing 
 nose. In vain did she pay the greatest attention to her 
 dress and put on her most charming airs when talking to 
 a bachelor ; she was forced to grow old with her title of 
 widow, which is so envied by some women, and so hated 
 by others. Besides her wish to please, which she retained 
 still at the age of fifty -nine, Madame Sarget was also a 
 woman who knew how to keep house extremely well, and 
 so she was invaluable to Monsieur Montlaurent, who had 
 asked her to come and take up her abode with him and to 
 act as Mentor to his daughter, and she had accepted on the 
 condition that she should pay for her board and lodging, 
 and perhaps in the hope that one day Monsieur Montlau- 
 rent, who was himself a widower, would offer her a more" 
 agreeable title ; that hope, however, was soon destroyed,, 
 for Monsieur Montlaurent who was persuaded that 
 marriage was bad for the health, had no inclination to- 
 enter into it again. 
 
 Emma got on very well with Madame Sarget, who wa& 
 always good-tempered if she was told that her headdress" 
 became her. Monsieur Montlaurent's sons had soon 
 grown used to their old relation's nose, and paid no more- 
 attention to it, but it was not the same with Felix. As h e - 
 
THE MONTLAURENT FAMILY. 27* 
 
 was of a very merry disposition, and as it took very little 
 to provoke him to loud bursts of laughter, he had not been 
 able to keep his countenance the first time he saw 
 Madame Sarget, and she, very much astonished at seeing 
 her young nephew ready to die with laughter, said to him r 
 " What is the matter with you, my young friend, and 
 what is the cause of this access of mirth ? " " What is 
 making me laugh ! . . . . Ah ! you know well enough ! " 
 "I assure you that I do not know, that I cannot even 
 guess . ..." "Bah! you have got on a false nose, and 
 you expect me not to laugh at it ! " " A false nose ! 
 What do you mean by that ? Let me tell you, young man, 
 that I never put on anything false." " Oh ! what a joke ! 
 Please take it off, so that I may see how it is made." 
 * l Monsieur Felix, I must beg you not to make fun of 
 me .... I do not like it, Monsieur, and a young fellow 
 of your age ought to respect a woman like me." 
 
 Felix was really only seventeen at that period, and as 
 he was obliged to acknowledge that Madame Sarget's nose 
 was real, he could scarcely keep from laughing every time 
 he was in her company, and the consequence was that she 
 became secretly prejudiced against him. 
 
 On New Tear's day, when the weather was very cold, 
 Felix presented Madame Sarget with an immense sheath, 
 and said to her : "That is for your nose .... the o-] a ss 
 is down to zero .... and your nose would be frozen if 
 you exposed it to the cold uncovered." That present was 
 not at all to the . old lady's taste, and Felix was severely 
 reprimanded for it by his uncle, to whom he replied: 
 " We put clothes on our bodies, stockings on our legs, and 
 gloves on our hands to keep them from the cold .... and 
 so I thought one might also put something on the nose 
 when one had such an extraordinary one." 
 
 On his birthday Monsieur Montlaurent gave a grand 
 dinner to which he had, in the first place, invited his 
 doctor ; he was never forgotten ; only as Monsieur 
 Montlaurent who never felt well, always thought that the 
 medical man under whose care he was did not know what 
 to give him to cure him, he was constantly changing him, 
 as he always hoped that under a new one, he should in the- 
 end get well. 
 
23 A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOSD Uif GOOD LIVING. 
 
 Then Monsieur Montlaurent never failed to ask a 
 chemist to meet the doctor, for that was the means of 
 having quickly, and almost under his hands, any remedies 
 which the doctor might order, in case any one should be 
 taken ill. Sometimes a surgeon would also be asked, but 
 lie was frequently dispensed with, and lastly the gathering 
 was completed by a few old friends of the host, who were 
 nearly all grave, serious men, who preferred eating to 
 talking, especially as they acquitted themselves much better 
 of the former than of the latter. 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent scarcely ever invited any ladies, 
 for he thought that he should have to put himself out for 
 the in ; they often kept him waiting, and their dresses were 
 very much in the way of those who sat next to them. 
 Emma and the widow Sarget were the only representatives 
 of the more beautiful half of the human race ; the one 
 deserved it on account of her charms, and the other could 
 claim priority on account of her nose. 
 
 V. 
 
 A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIVING. 
 
 The dinner hour at Monsieur Montlaurent's was five 
 o'clock, and he would not have put off the time for any- 
 thing in the world, as he felt certain that health depended 
 very much on the exactitude in the manner of living. 
 His guests who knew him, and who were aware that he 
 would not wait for them, were always punctual, but on 
 this occasion the doctor, who had only been attending his 
 host for a few days, had come two minutes late, which had 
 made Monsieur Montlaurent frown, as he said to himself: 
 tf I do not think I shall keep him for my doctor ; he is 
 not quite what I want ! " And immediately on his 
 appearance he called out : " Serve up dinner ! " " Bat 
 Cousin Felix has not come yet," Emma said timidly to her 
 
A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIT! . 29' 
 
 father. " Well ! what does that matter to me ? Do you 
 really think that I intend to run any risk of upsetting my 
 stomach by putting off my usual dinner hour on your 
 cousin's account? We are already two minutes late 
 throuoh the doctor, and that is too much. As for Master 
 Felix, we all know that he cannot be punctual and will 
 never become methodical." " But I see a place unoccupied." 
 the doctor said, as they were sitting down to table. "Is 
 there a guest wanting ? " "Oh! that is my nephew's 
 place, and you may suppose that an uncle does not usually 
 wait for his nephew. Besides, I never wait for anyone, 
 and if you had been a minute later, Doctor Choubert, you 
 would also have found us at table." " How very strict S 
 But I arrived at two minutes past five." " Very well then, 
 that is two minutes too late." ''What, do you not allow 
 a quarter of an hour's grace ? " " Never ! Is it not just 
 as easy to be punctual as not to be so ? " " Not always, 
 for something important may happen, or you may meet 
 somebody to detain you." " I cannot admit that ; one 
 does not do any business when one is going out to dinner, 
 and as for the chatterboxes one may meet, one can turn 
 one's back on them without giving them an answer, and 
 that puts an immediate stop to any conversation." " You 
 are very strict!" "It is my habit. I never kept any- 
 body waiting in my life, and it seems to me that other 
 people may very well do the same for me." " My dear 
 Monsieur Montlaurent, we can never remake our friends, 
 and so we must put up with them as they are with their 
 faults ; there are some people for whom it is as impossible 
 to be punctual as it is for yon to break your word." 
 ■• Such people shall not dine with me ; besides is it not 
 true that punctuality in the hour for meals is indispensable 
 for good health?" "Oh! indispensable .... that 1ms 
 not been proved ! . . . . It is certainly better, but half 
 an hour earlier or later does not matter the least." " Here 
 is a kind of doctor who will decidedly not suit me at all," 
 the host said to himself, with a frown. fi In the first place, 
 he is too young .... What the devil was I thinking 
 about to take a young doctor who is always laughing ! 
 It was that fool of a chemist who recommended him to 
 me .... I shall have to change him also, I see." 
 
30 A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOXD OF GOOD LIVING. 
 
 The doctor was, as a matter of fact, still a young man, 
 with a kind, pleasant face, and without anything about him 
 to make people think of evil or of sickness. But 
 Monsieur Montlaurent was persuaded that a good doctor 
 ought to look grave, even stern, and never to laugh ; a 
 little more, and he would have liked to see them always 
 dressed in mourning. 
 
 " If Felix has not come in by the time we have finished 
 the soup, you will remove his cover," Monsieur Montlaurent 
 said to the servant. " Oh ! father," Emma said, " Felix 
 is sure to come, do not have his cover taken away ! " "I 
 will add my petition to that of your daughter," the doctor 
 said, " as I have the pleasure of knowing your sons I should 
 lie very glad also to make the acquaintance of your 
 nephew." " A nice sort of acquaintance you will make ! 
 A gadabout, a scamp ! " " Some scamps are very amiable 
 fellows." "I do not think so." " Mademoiselle, we have 
 the power of acting on your cousin's behalf," the doctor 
 continued, " and that is to eat our soup very slowly and 
 even to have some more, as I beg to do now, which suits 
 me capitally, as the soup is excellent." 
 
 Emma smiled, Monsieur Moutlaurent frowned, but 
 just then the door opened and the laggard came into the 
 dining-room, and after a slight salute to them all, said : 
 " Uncle, I beg your pardon for being late, but it is not my 
 fault .... I was fetched to be best man and one of the 
 witnesses at a wedding." " Oh ! we all know that it is never 
 your fault, and that you always have some tale ready as an 
 excuse .... but that will not go down with me." "But, 
 uncle, it was Dufilet's, my foster-brother's wedding." 
 " And you did not know that beforehand ? " " No, because 
 my porter's wife did not think it necessary to give me the 
 letter of invitation. She never gives me anything printed." 
 " Monsieur," the doctor said, who was very agreeably 
 struck with Felix's open countenance and clever face, 
 " you are the cause of my eating more soup, but I am not 
 sorry for it, and here is your cousin who also pleaded your 
 cause." " Oh, I know quite well how good my cousin is 
 to me," Felix replied with a polite inclination of the head 
 to the doctor whom he saw for the first time, and hastily 
 swallowing his soup. 
 
A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIVING. 31 
 
 After causing his second plate of soup to disappear, 
 the doctor, who had been looking for some Madeira, made 
 up his mind to drink vin ordinaire, and offered some to 
 Emma, and said to her : " Mademoiselle, after the soup it 
 is a very good thing to drink a thimbleful of undiluted 
 wine." "Undiluted wine .... I never drink it, Mon- 
 sieur." "Then you are wrong ! Monsieur Montlaurent, 
 tell your daughter to accept what I have offered her." 
 " Undiluted wine ! . . . . What are you thinking of ? . 
 My children do as I do, and never drink it." " What, you 
 never drink undiluted wine ? " "I take good care not 
 tol" " Then you are wrong, very wrong, for undiluted wine 
 strengthens and warms the stomach. ... It is verv good 
 for the health .... I do not mean to drink it continually 
 daring your meals ..... although there are some people 
 who do not find that it disagrees with them ; but, at anv 
 rate you ought to drink some .... and remember, after 
 soup, the best thing is Madeira; try some." "I have 
 none in the house." " Very well, then get some, and I am 
 ssire you will feel better for it. Monsieur Felix, are you 
 also a water drinker like your cousins ? " " Oh, no. 
 Monsieur, I am quite ready to drink pure wine." "And 
 I also," the chemist said, who had not taken any part in 
 the discussion hitherto. " I quite agree with the doctor. 
 Long live undiluted wine ! And then, Hippocrates himself 
 says that we ought to have a little too much occasionally, 
 in order to keep well." 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent looked up to heaven, for he did 
 not venture to find fault with the tastes of his guests, but 
 lie gave his nephew an angry look, to which the latter, 
 however, paid no attention, but merely held out his glass 
 to the doctor, and the host made another wry face and said 
 to himself, " He cannot possibly be really a doctor." 
 
 During the first course Dr. Choubert had nearly the 
 whole conversation to himself, but fortunately he had 
 plenty to talk about, and so it did not languish, though 
 Monsieur Montlaurent's three sons scarcely ventured to 
 litter a syllable from time to time, whilst the elder guests 
 ate without talking. Felix was the only one who occa- 
 sionally allowed himself to laugh with the doctor, or who 
 <3a»\ d to venture on a joke. The master of the house ate 
 
32 A DOCTOIt WilO WAS FOND UF GOOD LtVIJiO. 
 
 radishes and watercresses, and would scarcely venture on 
 a small piece of beef-steak, and then only because the 
 doctor ordered him to eat some. 
 
 "By the way, Master Felix/' the doctor said, as he- 
 poured out some wine for him, " you have not told us 
 whether the bride was pretty ? ' "Yes, Monsieur, she is 
 a rather striking, dark girl, .... but one of those some- 
 what vulgar beauties." "Are they country people?" 
 " Not exactly ; they come from the suburbs,"as they live 
 
 at Belleville The father is a master-mason." . . . . 
 
 "How is it that you are not at the wedding dinner?' 7 
 '•Oh! they pressed me to go ... . but I had promised 
 my uncle .... and I did not like to break my word." 
 "That is all that would have been wanting," Monsieur 
 Montlaurent said, " to have gone with your master-masons 
 . , . . your Dufilets." " But, uncle, they are most respect- 
 able people." .... " That is no . more than their 
 duty ! " " That is true," the doctor said, " but there are 
 
 so many people who do not do it One has great 
 
 fun sometimes at these weddings of the working classes. 
 . . . . Where is the dinner being given?" "At the 
 Pare Saint-Fargeaio, a restaurant where there is a large 
 garden with a piece of water." .... " Can one drown 
 oneself there ? " Felicien murmured. " It might be done, 
 but I do not think that Monsieur Merluchet is celebrating 
 his daughter's wedding there on that account." "Mer- 
 luchet ! . . . . Ah ! the name* itself is very amusing. 
 And there will be dancing this evening ? r " Yes, there is 
 a ball-room in the garden." "And are you not going back 
 to dance at the wedding?" "Well .... yes. I 
 promised .... and .... if I can." ... 
 
 His uncle, who had been listening to this conversation 
 with evident impatience, said suddenly, " Please, nephew t 
 leave us at peace a little with your public-house weddings. 
 I did not ask a friend to dine here this evening in order 
 that we might listen to such vileness. Gentlemen, it is 
 my birthday; I am sixty-one to-daj r ." "Ah! I should 
 have taken you for much older/' one of the old guests, who 
 
 * Merluche is dried cod, or stockfish ; but there ia no French word 
 Merluchet. (Translator.) 
 
A D0CT0E WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIVING. 3I> 
 
 had not spoken hitherto, nmrmured. " That gentleman is 
 very charming," the doctor whispered in Emma's ear. " He 
 has not said a word before, but he is decidedly beginning- 
 well." "Yes, gentlemen," their host continued, "I am 
 sixty-one, and I flatter myself that I have made my fortune 
 honourably, and fulfilled my duties as the father of a 
 family. 5 ' " Who doubts it ? " the chemist cried, holding- 
 out his glass to the doctor, " Excuse me > Monsieur 
 Sinuant, but allow me to speak without interrupting me. 
 I may say that I do not think that anyone can find the 
 slightest thing to reproach me with. But that does not 
 satisfy me. I have always wished my children to be worthy 
 of their father, so that they may one day do me honour, and 
 that it may be said of them, ' Qualis pater, talis JiUus,'* 
 and I have brought ihem up in pursuance of this idea. 
 To-day I am glad to do them justice, and to say that they 
 have fully answered my hopes." 
 
 Here the three sons rose and bowed profoundly to their 
 father, who continued, " Felicien, my eldest, is a model of 
 steadiness, and he has neyer deviated from the right road. 
 His employer, the notary^ is very well satisfied with him, 
 and one day he will take his place and I shall give him the 
 wherewithal to buy a practice. Meanwhile, he is in bed 
 every night by ten o'clock, and I think that is the highest 
 praise I can give him for his conduct. . . . . Ab uno disce 
 omnes ! "f 
 
 The chemist exchanged a look with the doctor, who in 
 turn exchanged one with the nephew, who turned away se- 
 as not to see Madame Sarget'3 nose, lest he should burst 
 out laughing, and Monsieur Montlaurent went on, " My 
 second son, Adolphe, is not, perhaps, quite so steady as 
 his elder brother. However, I have nothing to reproach 
 
 him with Above everything, he is remarkably 
 
 temperate You would never persuade him to- 
 
 drink undiluted wine. His employer is very well satisfied 
 with him, and is soon going to give him a share in the 
 business ; that is already settled," During that part of his 
 father's speech, Adolphe had grown as red as a cherry, and 
 kept his eyes steadily fixed on his plate. " The character 
 
 * Like father, like son. + From one thing you may gather all 
 
 2 
 
34 A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIVING. 
 
 of my third son, Victorin, is not quite so quiet as that of his 
 brothers, for he has a spice of ambition in him, and is 
 quite determined to make a fortune. Such a desire is not 
 blameworthy when one employs nothing but honourable 
 means, such as hard work, perseverance and patience to 
 satisfy it, and when one shows the greatest exactness in 
 meeting all one's engagements, and as Yictorin has always 
 fjeen ready to listen to my advice, I have no doubt that he 
 'will succeed some day. Meanwhile, the banker in whose 
 employ he is is astonished at the rapidity with which he 
 <san calculate. My daughter Emma is only fifteen, and I 
 '-siiall wait till she is twenty before allowing her to get 
 married, for at that age a woman's constitution is 
 thoroughly settled." 
 
 tf The young lady already looks as if she were in very 
 ; ; good health," the doctor murmured. " I think, then, that 
 JE may flatter myself that I have brought up my children 
 well. I have set them in the right way, from which I am 
 fully persuaded they will not deviate, and I therefore think 
 that I may now lay aside the load of business matter^ 
 "without incurring any reproach, and devote myself exclu- 
 sively to studying my health, which is far from good." 
 
 " We will restore you to health ! We will make a hon- 
 wivant of you, as we are," the doctor cried. "But before 
 everything else, my dear sir, you must follow my directions, 
 •drink wine, eat roast meat, and leave your radishes, your 
 •watercresses, and chicory alone, for they are ruining your 
 atomach ! " " Doctor, I am afraid you do not yet properly 
 -understand my constitution." " Nobody could withstand 
 •the dietary that you are following ! But there, we have had 
 snough of sickness, and I am not fond of consultations 
 -during dinner. Bat, Monsieur Montlaurent, allow me to 
 make one observation : You have praised your sons, and I 
 am sure that they deserve all that you have said of them, I 
 :kave no doubt of that, but you have said nothing about 
 ;your nephew, nor of your intentions with regard to him. 
 His looks are so much in his favour, that I immediately 
 -felt inclined to become one of his friends. Tell me, my 
 -dear Sir, what you intend to do with this young man, in 
 'whom I am already much interested ? " " With my 
 oephew ! I shall do nothing at all with him ; I intended 
 
A DOCTOR WHO WAS FOND OF GOOD LIVING. 35 
 
 to bring him up like I did my sons, but it was impossible ! 
 He has never obeyed me ! " 
 
 "But listen j all young men cannot go to bed at ten 
 o'clock ; one requires to be particularly constituted to do 
 that." "I must tell you, as you force me to do so, that 
 my nephew has every vice : he is fond of gambling, eating, 
 wine, and .... all the rest ! " " Oh ! uncle ! " Felix cried, 
 u I am only fond of «all those things like .... like every- 
 body .... like all young men are fond of pleasure . . . . " 
 " Everybody ! . . . . young men ! . . . . Why ! just look 
 at your cousins ; have they any of those weaknesses ? " 
 " If my cousins are phenomenal, I certainly cannot flatter 
 myself that I am like them." " No, you will certainly never 
 resemble them, I quite know that ! " " Come, Monsieur," 
 the doctor said, " you are rather hard on your nephew .... 
 Have a little indulgence with him — I am a pretty good 
 physiognomist — and I can see in Felix' face that he will one 
 day be worthy of his uncle." "Thank you, Monsieur, 
 thank you for the good opinion you have of me ! " Felix 
 said, holding out his hand to the doctor. " Whatever my 
 uncle may say, I will try and justify it." 
 
 The dinner ended rather cheerlessly, for if Monsieur 
 Montlaurent let his guests drink, he certainly did not press 
 them to do so, and far from setting them the example he 
 continued to help himself from one decanter and passed it 
 to his sons, who did not venture to refuse its contents, and 
 when they left the dining room and went into the drawing- 
 room, as Monsieur Montlaurent hated cards, there were no 
 means of passing the evening except in talking, unless 
 Emma would consent to go to the piano. The chemist 
 had already made his escape, and the doctor, who foresaw 
 all the amusement that was in store for him during the 
 evening went up to Felix and whispered to him : " Are 
 you not going back to Merluchet's wedding ? " " Yes, of 
 course I am .... I promised to go, and, besides, I am 
 sure that it will be a very funny affair this evening." 
 " Will you take me with you ? " " Grladly, doctor, I may 
 ■even say with the greatest pleasure," " You do not think 
 it will put the bride or her parents out ? " " Quite the 
 contrary ; the more people I bring, the better pleased they 
 will be . . . . Besides, the husband is my foster-brother ! " 
 
36 THE MEELUCHET WEDDING. 
 
 "Very well, that is an agreement; we will be off in five 
 minntes .... You go first whilst I ani diverting your 
 uncle's attention by talking to him about his health, and 
 then I will join you downstairs .... we will take a cab 
 and off we go to Belleville ! " el That's it ... . that's 
 it ! Bat be sure and take up my uncle's attention 
 altogether, for if he were to see me going to the door, he 
 would be quite capable of calling me back and making me 
 stop at home." 
 
 Everything was soon carried out as Dr. Choubert had 
 said. He got Monsieur Montlaurent into a corner and kept 
 him there for some time, prescribing potions for him, some 
 of those innocent remedies which, if they do no good, 
 cannot possibly do any harm. Then he took his leave and 
 found Felix waiting for him downstairs, who said to him : 
 " My uncle did not see that I had gone ? He did not ask 
 for me?" " Oh ! no ; you may be quite easy on that 
 score ! Besides, it is half-past nine, and all those upstairs 
 will no doubt be thinking of going to bed, whilst we will 
 go and enjoy ourselves. I do not know whether it Abetter 
 for us, but I am quite sure that it is far more amusing." 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 
 
 On their way in the cab, Felix told the doctor all that 
 had happened in the morning at the Mansion-House, when 
 the Dufilet's turn came. Monsieur Choubert laughed very 
 much at it and said to Felix : — 
 
 "Why did you not give us that story at dinner, it 
 w r ould have enlivened the meal a little, for it was certainly 
 not very cheerful ! " " Oh ! I took good care not to relate 
 that in my uncle's presence ! I know him too well, and he 
 would have found fault with me and have thought it very 
 wiong of me to take the bridegroom before the Mayor with 
 
THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 37 
 
 only one shoe on." " Becaiise his marriage would not have 
 come off without that ! Look here, my dear Monsieur 
 Felix, I have only been your uncle's doctor for a very short 
 time, but between ourselves, I think he has followed a 
 wrong road, both with regard to his sons and also with 
 regard to his own health. I examined your three cousins 
 carefully; they tremble before their father, but what does 
 that prove? That if they have faults, or even vices, they 
 carefully hide them and adroitly conceal their inclinations. 
 What will happen ? Why, as soon as ever they are their 
 own masters (and it will not be long before that happens, 
 for Monsieur Montlaurent is in very bad health, which cannot 
 long resist the combined effects of mallows, watercress, and 
 succory), well ! those gentlemen, his sons, will then amply 
 make up for the restraints which he imposes on them now. 
 I do not think that tall Felicien will continue to go to bed 
 at ten o'clock then ; that stout Adolphe will refuse to drink 
 wine without any water it, that thin Yictorin will declare 
 that he has a horror of cards and billiards. The only nice 
 person I saw at your uncle's was your cousin Emma. She 
 is gentle, innocent, and although somewhat shy, she does 
 not conceal what she thinks. She will grow up into a 
 charming woman. She was the only one who said a word 
 in your favour to her father, for your cousins did not open 
 their mouths ! " 
 
 " No doubt they were afraid of making their father 
 angry." " One ought never to be afraid of defending the 
 absent. Then there is an old relative .... whom I did 
 not know before, and after all I only saw her nose, for she 
 hid all the rest of her face from me." " That was Madame 
 Sarget ; she is a good woman, but she cannot bear me ! " 
 " If she is a good woman, why cannot she bear you ? " 
 " Because unfortunately one day I made fun of her nose ! " 
 " My dear friend, you are a young man, so remember this : 
 You may find fault with women, deceive them, even ruin 
 them . . . „ they will forgive you; but if you attack their 
 physical qualities, they will never pardon you." " Here is 
 the restaurant of Saint Fargeau." " And I hear the sound 
 of violins .... Come along, we must only think about 
 amusing ourselves, and there is an infallible way of doing 
 this!" " AY hat is it?" "By putting ourselves im- 
 
38 THE MESLUCHET WEDDING. 
 
 mediately on a level with the people we meet; conse- 
 quently, if they are all drunk, we must get drunk also, to 
 be on the same footing as they are." " Do you really 
 always employ those means ? " " Always and for every- 
 thing ; thus, a short time ago, I was invited to an evening 
 party by a lady of a certain class. . . . When I got into 
 the drawing-room where there were six or seven ladies, I 
 found that each of them was sitting on the knee of a part- 
 ner ; only one gentleman was alone on his chair, so I went 
 up to him, bowed and said : ' Will you allow me to sit on 
 your knee, so that we may be in harmony with the rest of 
 the company ? ' . . . My proposal made them all laugh 
 very much." " And then ? " " And then the ladies got 
 up. Coachman, drive in and wait for us." "All right, 
 Sir." "And get something to drink." "Willingly, 
 Sir." 
 
 The ball-room was in the garden, and was covered over 
 in case of rain. There was an orchestra consisting of 
 three violins, a cornet-a-piston,' and a big drum ; all the 
 musicians played or beat loud enough for four, and the five 
 musicians made as much noise as if they had been twenty. 
 But then they were not stinted in wine : nobody was in- 
 fact ; and when Eelix and his new friend arrived all the men 
 were more or less drunk, and some of the ladies were on a 
 level with the gentlemen. 
 
 " Confound it," the doctor said, " how it smells of 
 dinner here ! " " You are too polite, doctor, it smells of 
 wine, that is the prevailing odour." "We should have 
 enough to do to get on equality in liquor with all these 
 fellows ! " 
 
 Dancing was in full swing, a quadrille had just begun, 
 and for the first time in the evening the bridegroom had 
 been able to dance with the bride ; but as soon as he saw 
 Felix, instead of going to meet them, he cried out : " My 
 foster-brother ! . . . . Ah ! bravo ! here is my foster- 
 brother ! ..... Stop the music! .... he is going to 
 dance ! Stop, I tell you ! What fools they are, they will 
 go on." 
 
 Dufilet left his wife and went up to Felix, who said to 
 him: "Pray finish your quadrille; you can talk _ to me 
 afterwards." "TSTo, no I want you to dance with 
 
THE MESLUCHET WEDDING. 39> 
 
 the bride instead of me You are best man, and so 
 
 it is yours by right .... Stop the music ! " .... 
 " I will dance later .... I have brought one of my friends 
 with me, a doctor who isj fond of amusing himself . . . '* 
 " Oh ! so much the better. ... It is very nice of you to- 
 come .... and you ought to have brought at least four- 
 friends instead of one." " Monsieur," the doctor said, " I 
 will try and cut myself into quarters to do you a pleasure.'* 
 " Ah ! Monsieur ? you know I only said that . . . .just to 
 say something .... but you will have a glass of wine ? ** 
 " Of course ! In fact I will take several ! " " Ah ! bravo f 
 Ah ! what a jolly fellow you are ; you will suit us exactly ! * 9 
 " I will do my very best to suit you. ..." " Hullo X 
 D unlet. . .• . It is your turn ; do come to your place. . . „'* 
 " No, my foster-brother is going to take my place. . . » 
 Do stop, you musicians ! " 
 
 At last the leader of the orchestra, who saw the bride- 
 groom gesticulating, made the musicians stop, which had 
 a very singular effect on the dance ; the men stopped witi& 
 ene leg in the air, the women finished their balaacez alone, 
 and Monsieur Grandcerf, whose boil had burst during* 
 dinner, and who was dancing vis-a-vis to the bride, called: 
 out : " Well ! what is the meaning of this ? . . . . Just as 
 I was going to cut the most lovely caper, for I feel as light 
 as a feather since my boil has burst — the music stops t 
 There, you fellows in the orchestra ! What are you 
 thinking about, up there ? Go on quickly .... and bo 
 sure and play us The Little Milkmaid, I am very fond 
 of that!" 
 
 " But, Monsieur Grandcerf, they cannot play it every 
 time," the bride said, " and we danced it only a short time- 
 ago." " That is all the same to me. A short time ago I 
 was not dancing opposite you, fair Laurette, and I want 
 The Little Milkmaid, because one kisses one's vis-a-vis" 
 " What a nuisance he is, with his Little Milkmaid / " the 
 bride murmured. 
 
 But Dufilet took Felix up to his wife, and said to her r 
 " Here is my substitute. . . . My foster-brother is going 
 to dance with you. . . . Ah ! You are not vexed, I am 
 sure?" "Oh! no, no! . . . It is very kind of the 
 gentleman to have come back." .... " Have you kept 
 
40 THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 
 
 me a bit of your garter?" "Yes ... I would not let 
 anybody take it, on purpose." ... " Here, I say .... 
 foster-brother, my wife would not let anybody take any- 
 thing from her, so that she might keep it for you .... 
 that is nice, eh ! . . . . Now then, orchestra, strike up 
 that quadrille again just as if nothing had happened ! " 
 "And forbid them to play The Little Milkmaid" the bride 
 whispered to her husband, " because I do not want to be 
 kissed by Monsieur Grandcerf.'' " Oh ! how cunning my 
 wife is ! . . . Did you hear that, Monsieur Felix ? . . . . 
 Set your mind at rest ; I will go and tell the musicians . . 
 . . Oh ! you do not know, Laurette, that Monsieur 
 •Felix has brought a doctor with hiro. .... that is nice . . . 
 we must try and be ill, and we shall be doctored at once." 
 " Thank you, I prefer being well .... Do go and tell 
 the musicians." " I am off like a shot." 
 
 Felix noticed that the bride, who in the morning had 
 eaid you to her husband, now called him thou,* as if she 
 had always been in the habit of doing so, whence he 
 inferred that greater intimacy existed between the newly 
 married couple since the wedding dinner. 
 
 Whilst the dance was beginning again, the doctor 
 made the acquaintance of the bride's family, and thi3 was 
 naturally done glass in hand, for there is a certain class 
 of people that does not understand making a dry acquain- 
 tanceship 
 
 The master-mason was sitting at a table which was 
 placed close to the dancers, and on which an enormous 
 quantity of fall and empty bottles bore witness to the 
 exploits which had been performed, and to those which 
 they hoped still further to add to them. 
 
 Daddy Merluchet, who was as red, or rather as violet 
 as a beetroot, was surrounded by half-a-dozen friends 
 who were clinking glasses with him, and whom he was 
 haranguing, and losing himself in phrases which neither 
 he nor his hearers understood, which made them all 
 admire him hugely. Dufilet introduced the doctor to his 
 
 * Vows, you, is generally used in French, except amongst relations 
 and very intimate friends, when tu, thou, is usually employed. 
 (Translator.) 
 
THE ME3LUCHET WEDDING. 41 
 
 father-in-law and said to him : " This is a friend of my 
 foster-brother ; he is a medical man and a joliy fellow, 
 who has come to enjoy himself and to clink glasses with 
 lis, Papa Merluchet ! " 
 
 At the sound of the word cliiik, the master-mason got 
 up and offered the doctor a full glass, saying in a thick 
 voice : " Monsieur, if you are a friend of his friend, you 
 are our friend .... and 1 think you are capable of it . . . 
 because, as the proverb says : ' The friends of our 
 friends . . . . ' you know the rest." ie Yes," the doctor 
 said, taking the glass that was offered him, " and I am 
 delighted to have this opportunity of making your 
 acquaintance, and that of all this honourable com- 
 pany ! " 
 
 This reply, and the way in which it was given pleased 
 them all so much, that one of the drinkers broke his glass 
 against the doctor's in his delight, and his eagerness to 
 be first to clink glasses with him ; but a waiter im- 
 mediately gave him another, and this incident caused 
 gen 3ral hilarity. " Gentlemen," the doctor said, " I pro- 
 pose the health of Monsieur Merluchet, who is here 
 present, and of the charming bride, his daughter .... 
 and I drain my glass to the last drop ! " As he said this, 
 the doctor emptied his glass at a gulp ; that action 
 delighted all the topers, who wished to imitate this doughty 
 antagonist, though three-quarters of them drank the 
 wrong way when they tried to drain the glasses in the 
 same way. Having disposed of this first bumper, the 
 doctor had his glass filled again, and raised it, saying : " I 
 drink this second bumper to the bridegroom, Monsieur 
 Dufilet, and to all this delightful company, in whose honour 
 I also empty my glass, and no heeltaps ! " And again the 
 doctor emptied his glass at a draught. The enthusiasm 
 increased, the company broke out into bi'avos, the master- 
 mason wished to begin a speech, but before he had 
 managed to find the first word, the doctor had again had 
 his glass filled, and raised it up high, saying : " This time 
 I drink to the happiness of the newly-married couple, to 
 their prosperity, and to the charming offspring which they 
 are certain to procreate. . . . Again, no heeltaps, if you 
 please, gentlemen ! " 
 
42 THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 
 
 This third bumper gave rise to frenzied transports of 
 joy. The topers were drunk ; they applauded, they thumped 
 on the table as they could find no other means of express- 
 ing their admiration than by making an infernal row. It 
 grew to uch. a pitch that the dancers were disturbed by it 
 and asked what was the matter, what was the cause of all 
 this noise, and a young booby went and said to the 
 dancers : " Oh ! he is a swagger drinker ! That gentlemen- 
 there is outdoing them all .... he has drained his glass 
 at a gulp, no heeltaps / three times, and he will make them 
 all drunk." "He will not have much difficulty in doing 
 that," a stout matron said, " for they are three parts so 
 already." 
 
 The doctor had stopped after his third bumper, and 
 Monsieur Merluchet, who had at last succeeded in finding 
 the beginniDg of his speech, got up and said : u Gentle- 
 men, .... here is a fellow-guest who has shown us ... . 
 shows us, that a man's greatness can rise even .... even 
 to the most extensive spheres. ... I do not think thai 
 any one will .... contradict me when I say that I am 
 his friend .... for life and death .... and I will even 
 say more .... and even .... what was I saying ? . . . " 
 
 The doctor, who saw that the father-in-law would never 
 succeed in finishing his speech, extricated him from his 
 embarrassment by shouting at the top of his voice : tl Long 
 live Monsieur Merluchet ! " 
 
 All the drinkers joined in chorus, and the master- 
 mason, delighted at the success which he fancied he had 
 obtained by his eloquence, thought it was the correct 
 thing to throw himself into the doctor's arms and to press 
 him to his heart with an amount of emotion which 
 threatened to turn to weeping. Luckily, however, a dis- 
 pute amongst the dancers checked the tear3 which were 
 ready to start from Monsieur Merluchet's eyes. 
 
 Monsieur Grandcerf, who was a very obstinate man, 
 and who, moreover, was vexed at seeing the bride dancing 
 with an elegant young man whom he did not know, whilst 
 he, the intimate friend of Daddy Merluchet, who, but for 
 his boil, would have been best man, had not been able to 
 obtain a single quadrille ; Monsieur Grandcerf then, hoped 
 at least to indemnify himself by kissing pretty Lauretta 
 
THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 43 
 
 during the figure of The Little Milkmaid. But already the 
 Pantaloon, Summer and the Pastoral had been danced, but 
 no Little Milkmaid ; and at last, when he was reckoning on 
 that figure for the last, the orchestra played the ritornello 
 of a gallop. 
 
 Then Monsieur Grandcerf was furious and shouted : 
 " That is not it, you musicians, we don't want a gallop I 
 We want The Little Milkmaid; play The Little Milk- 
 maid ! " 
 
 But the bride began to call out on her own account : 
 ie Yes, yes, a gallop, I want a gallop ! " and naturally Felix, 
 who was obliged to support his partner also snouted : 
 " Yes, yes, the gallop ! the gallop ! not the Milkmaid ; it is 
 quite out of date." And all the young people who were 
 dancing, and who wished to please the bride, cried 
 vociforously : " Yes, the gallop ! No Milkmaid, nothing 
 out of date ! down with, that old stuff ! " 
 
 Monsieur Grandcerf grtw green with vexation ; he 
 thought they were calling him out of date, and at the 
 moment when Felix began to gallop with the fair Laurette, 
 he rushed at them to stop them. But Felix and his 
 partner were a substantial couple and went on without 
 stopping. Monsieur Grandcerf, who did not know how 
 to prevent them from continuing, caught hold of one of 
 the skirts of the young man's and hung on to it, but Felix 
 went on dancing, and cried out : " Will you let go of my 
 coat .... have you nearly done ? . ..." But Grandcerf, 
 who was obliged to dance also in order to keep hold of the 
 skirt of the coat, and who was quite out of breath, replied, 
 as he jumped : " Monsieur, you shall give me satisfaction 
 
 for this You have had the impertinence to call me 
 
 out of date! That does not suit me ! .... I don't know 
 where you come from, but that sort of thing will not do 
 for me !...." " Leave go of my coat, and we will 
 have an explanation afterwards." " No ! I will not leave 
 go ! So ! I am Out op date ! . . . . very well ! You're 
 another ! " "I do not think so. . . . If you tear my coat, 
 you will have to pay for it ! " " Don't you wish you may 
 get it, you intruder ! " " Why 1 the devil must be in this 
 old fellow ! " " He is Monsieur Grandcerf," the bride said, 
 " and he is vexed because he was to have been one of the 
 
44 THE MEBLTJCHET WEDDING. 
 
 groomsmen. ..." " Oh ! so he is the gentleman who 
 had the boil?" "Just so." "And he is dancing this 
 evening ? " " It seems that it burst during dessert." 
 " That is very fortunate for the ball ! " 
 
 And Felix turned away, saying, "Monsieur Grandcerf, 
 you will hurt yourself if you go on galloping like that 
 after what happened to you this morning ! You will have 
 another boil." " Oh, I do not limp any more, Monsieur, I 
 am quite cured; I will just show you that! " " Oh, no, 
 no, bless my heart I do not want to see it ; much obliged to 
 you ! . . . . But do leave go of the tail of my coat ! " 
 
 Far from letting it go, however, Grandcerf tried to 
 seize hold of the other tail, but in doing this, he did not 
 notice two young fellows who had started off to gallop 
 together, with the object of upsetting the gentleman who 
 was so infuriated against the bride's partner, and in fact 
 the two dancers knocked up against Grandcerf so violently 
 that he, dazed by the shock, let go of what he was holdiQg 
 and fell in the midst of the dancers, and got kicks on all 
 parts of his body from the couples who knocked against 
 nil? as they were dancing. Then the unlucky Grandcerf 
 made the ball-room resound with his cries. " Help ! 
 help ! Come to me ! Take care ! they are trampling on 
 me .... stamping on me as if I were couch-grass." 
 
 Such were the cries that reached the ears of the 
 drinkers at the moment when Monsieur Merluchet was 
 pressing Monsieur Choubert affectionately in his arms. 
 The doctor quickly freed himself from the mason's 
 embrace, everybody rushed into the ball-room, and the 
 dancers were obliged to stop. They found Monsieur 
 Grandcerf on all fours, swearing like a madman, so they 
 picked him up, and though he was very dirty he had 
 received no hurt with the exception of a bruise on one ear, 
 but in spite of this he declared that he was hurt all over. 
 
 The doctor felt him, sounded him, examined him care- 
 fully, and said to him : " You have received no damage 
 except, perhaps, a few bruises and a scratch on the ear, 
 but that is all." " Yes, Monsieur, I have ! I tell you I 
 am hurt somewhere else ; T am fractured all over." " Then 
 undress yourself and we will examine you naked," 
 
 At this proposal of the doctor's all the ladies made 
 
THE MERLUCHET WEDDING. 4o 
 
 their escape, as they had no wish to see Monsieur 
 Grandcerf' in the costume of Adam and Eve, and Monsieur 
 Dufilet said to him : "How lucky it is that you were hurt 
 while we had a doctor here j how well it turns out .... 
 how sagacious you are ! " 
 
 However, Monsieur Grandcerf would not undress 
 himself, he only consented to have his ear bathed. "But 
 why did you go in amongst the dancers?" Monsieur 
 Merluchet asked him. " That was no place for you, old 
 fellow ; you had far better remained hob-nobbing with us. 
 And the dear doctor .... what a man he is ! .... he 
 is really magnificent." " That is the gentleman who is 
 the cause of all this ! " Grandcerf exclaimed, pointing to 
 Felix. "He insulted me, he called me old Out-of-date.''' 
 " My foster-brother said that ? Impossible ! it is not 
 true." 
 
 The fair Laurette, who had not ran away like the other 
 women had done when they were going to undress 
 Monsieur Grandcerf, most probably because in her quality 
 of a newly-married woman she thought that she ought to 
 get used to seeing a variety of things, now told them how 
 it had happened. 
 
 When it became known that Monsieur Grandcerf was 
 obstinately bent on dancing The Little Milkmaid, in 
 spite of the bride's openly-expressed wish to the con- 
 trary, and also he had clung on to Felix's coat tails to 
 prevent him from galloping which was evident from the 
 manner in which they were torn, they began to raise a 
 shout against Monsieur Grandcerf, all the youug people 
 laughed in his face, the men of mature age blamed him, 
 and the women made fun of him. At this, forgetting that 
 he had said that he was hurt, he jumped up with a bound, 
 smashed his hat on to his head, and pushing everybody 
 aside, he said : " So this is the way I am treated ! . . . . 
 this is the way you use an old friend. . . . Good-bye ; I 
 have had enough of your wedding ; you are nothing but a 
 pack of clodhoppers ! " . . . . 
 
 And Monsieur Grandcerf went out followed by the 
 shouts of all the company, whilst the bride jumped for joy 
 and cried : " Oh ! what a good thing ! We are rid of hiru, 
 at any rate. . . . The old fellow is always trying to get 
 
46 A TRICK OF MONSIEUR DARDARD'S. 
 
 up a quarrel. . . . And now I shall not have the un- 
 pleasant duty of dancing with him." 
 
 VII, 
 
 A TRICK OF MONSIEUR DARDARD'S. 
 
 Monsieur Dardard, who was the factotum of the neigh- 
 bourhood, arrived almost immediately after Monsieur 
 Grandcerf has left. He was always in a merry and 
 talkative humour, and came in wiping his forehead and 
 shaking hands with everybody, saying : 
 
 " Here I am .... I horje your ball is not over .... 
 I have been to three weddings and have just come from 
 Gigoteau's .... it was very nice .... and very merry 
 .... we ' drank burnt brandy, it is a very good vthing at 
 night and makes the dancers vigorous. . . . But what 
 lias happened to Monsieur Grandcerf? I just met him as 
 he was leaving, and he was swearing like a trooper, and 
 when I asked him what was the matter with him, and why 
 be had left so early, he only replied in one word, but that 
 one was so energetic that 1 will not repeat it to you .... 
 although it is already a celebrated one* ; then he went out 
 like a madman .... and I did not think it worth while 
 to detain him." "You were quite right; we have had 
 enough of this gentleman who quarrels wherever he goes/' 
 .D unlet replied. " And is Gigoteau's wedding party over 
 yet ? " ■" No, not yet .... they want to go on dancing 
 
 * The author refers to General Cambroune's celebrated reply at ths 
 battle of Waterloo, when the Old Guard was summoned to surrender. 
 The commonly received answer is : w The Guard dies, but does not 
 surrender," whereas he is said to have replied with one single word, 
 siot fit for ears polite {it was not an oath). The reader will find it 
 in Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables," with the author's eulogy thereon. 
 Vide Les Miserables (in French), Part II., Book 1, Champs. 14, 15. 
 (Translator.) 
 
A TRICK OF MONSIEUR DARDARD'S. 47 
 
 till very late .... but I have just played them a trick 
 which I and the bidegrooni concerted together. Ka ! 
 ha ! ha ! how they will be caught !" "What is it ? Do 
 tell us, Monsieur Dardard." " Yes, do tell us the trick." 
 *' All right .... this is how it is : Just fancy ! Gigoteau, 
 the bridegroom, took me aside a short time ago and said 
 to me, ' Monsieur Dardard, I am very much put out because 
 they want the dance to go on until very late. IsLy ardent 
 love cannot stand that, because .... well .... you 
 understand what I mean .... but as soon as I begin to 
 talk to my wife they come and surround me, for fear lest 
 I should take her away. It is annoying to my wife as wel], 
 because .... you will understand again .... she 
 shares my feelings. So now I have hit upon this plan : 
 you will give my wife your arm # and walk about with her 
 in the ball-room j they will not suspect you or follow you, 
 and then under the pretence <}f getting her something to 
 drink, crack ! you go downstairs and take her to my house, 
 as she does not know where the lodgings are that I have 
 just taken for us two. But you know where it is, ISTo. 18, 
 Hue E,igoles, on the second floor ; I left the key in the 
 door on purpose, so you need only just see my wife into 
 the house ; she will quite easily find her way upstairs by 
 herself. Will you do me this service ? ' * With pleasure,* 
 I replied, and Gigoteau said : ' I shall remain a little while 
 longer so as not to appear to be an accomplice in the 
 matter .... Oh ! at the same time, as you are going to 
 see my wife home, be kind enough to take little Fourniquet 
 back .... He has had the stomachache for the last two 
 hours and has been asking to go . . . . but as he is only 
 six years old, one cannot very well send him home alone 
 at this time of the night, and I did not choose to ask his 
 brother, the fireman, to my wedding, as he is too fond of 
 practical jokes, and makes fan of all married men. You 
 understand that, now that I have entered into that cor- 
 poration, I cannot allow it to be attacked any longer/ 
 s Very well,' I replied, ' but where does little Fourniquet 
 live ? ' 'At his brother's, also in the Rue des Kigoles, two 
 doors before you get to my house ; it will not give you any 
 extra trouble whatever.' 
 
 "I accepted his proposal very gladly. Gigoteau went 
 
48 A TRICK OP MONSIEUR DARDARD'S. 
 
 off to tell his wife, and then I went and offered her my 
 arm as if to take her round the ball-room ; she accepted it 
 with a smile . * . . and we walked about a little, whilst I 
 laughed in my sleeve at the trick which we were going to~ 
 
 play I am very fond of jokes. At last, seizing a 
 
 favourable moment, we left the ball-room and went down- 
 stairs, where we found little Tourniquet waiting for us, 
 holding his stomach, and we quickly took ourselves off by 
 the Rue des Bigoles. Then I did as I had been told. I 
 said to the bride, ' Your husband lives in that house ; go 
 up to the second floor, go to bed, and he will not be long 
 before he joins you.' Then I saw little Fourniquet to his 
 door and said, ' Ton know where you live ; go to bed, 5 
 
 and away I went and here I am again Ha ! ha ! 
 
 ha ! The others will be looking for the bride and think I 
 took her off on my own account. .... Ha ! ha ! ha ; 
 .... I hope I have done it well .... and I think I 
 deserve some refreshment." 
 
 They all applauded Monsieur Dardard, but pretty 
 Lauretta exclaimed, il Well, I shall not do like she did ; I 
 am not going to be carried off, and I mean to dance till 
 quite late, and if Dufilet does not like it, so much the 
 worse for him." li 1 have not the least objection ; rather 
 the contrary," Dufilet said. " I quite agree with my 
 wife's idea." 
 
 There was renewed applause, and then they thought of 
 nothing but dancing, for these various incidents had 
 interrupted the ball, and the ladies wished to make up for 
 lost time. 
 
 . Amongst the plebeian crowd which surrounded him, 
 the doctor had remarked a fat, roundabout woman with 
 light hair, but who had a very white skin, and a small foot 
 and a very pretty leg, with a good calf, which she did not 
 try to hide, but rather the contrary, for when she danced 
 she lifted up her petticoats as if she were going to jump 
 over a brook. Doctors are generally fond of good legs, 
 and they are right, for they are much less apt to deceive 
 us than many other charms, so he went and invited the 
 fat roundabout to dance, and she accepted him, saying, 
 " Little Blaise had asked, but so much the worse ! I 
 prefer dancing with you because he perspires in his feet, 
 
A TRICK OF MONSIEUB DABDARD's. 49^ 
 
 arid tlie more be dances the more unpleasant he becomes. " 
 " I can assure you, Madame, that with me you will not 
 have to put up with that annoyance ! " " Oh ! I believe 
 
 that, and then one perceives it immediately You 
 
 smeli very nice, on the contrary. You have scented your- 
 self, I suppose?" " No ; ouly a few drops of eau-de- 
 Cologne on my pocket-handkerchief." " Well, at any rate 
 
 that is much nicer than little Blaise's feet Oh t 
 
 here he is. I am very sorry, Blaise, but this gentleman 
 has engaged me." 
 
 Young Blaise was very good-tempered, and did not 
 seem put out as he went away. The orchestra struck up 
 a quadrille, and whilst dancing the doctor talked a great 
 deal to his partner, who did not wish for anything better. 
 After the first figure he already knew that her name was 
 Madame Tricond, that her husband was a cattle dealer and 
 almost constantly travelling about the country on account 
 of his business, and that this often troubled her, as it 
 created a void in her existence. "And is Monsieur 
 Tricond here?" the doctor asked. "Oh no! He has 
 gone to Normandy after some horned beasts. To hear 
 him talk one might imagine that there are none anywhere 
 but there, and yet I think they are not so very un- 
 common ! " " What you have just said is very witty. '* 
 " Oh ! you funny man ! . . . . You are trying to get 
 over me." .... " There is nothing I should like better. 
 .... You have the prettiest leg in the room." " Do 
 you think so ? My foot is certainly smaller than the 
 bride's. I am proud of my foot ! . . . . And so you 
 have been looking at my legs? " "I have done nothing 
 else ever since I have been here." .... "Oh! what an 
 intriguer you are ! . . . All the ladies declare that I lift 
 up my petticoats too high when I am dancing." "They 
 only say that from jealousy, because none of them can 
 show such a good calf as you can." " Oh ! so you have 
 seen my calves. .... Well, after all, one ought to be 
 proud of showing anything nice that one has." 
 
 The doctor thought that such a maxim might bring 
 people before the police magistrate, but he took care not 
 to say so to Madame Tricond, with whom he danced as he 
 had never danced before in his life. The animation had 
 
-50 A TRICK OP 3IONSIETJE EARDARD's. 
 
 become general. Extraordinary ardour pervaded the 
 dancers, and in order to increase it, the orchestra, to whom 
 the husband had given the hint, went on playing the 
 quadrille, which had already lasted more than half-an-hour. 
 Some dancers who could not hold out any longer had given 
 up their places, but tbey were immediately taken by others. 
 Madame Tricond would not leave off; she told her partner 
 that she could dance the whole night long without 
 stopping, and the doctor, who also could not hold out any 
 longer, began to think that there was too much muscle in 
 thick legs. Suddenly he noticed the fresh couple who 
 had come to take the place of their vis-a-vis, and he asked 
 himself where he had seen the gentleman's face, who was 
 giving himself many airs as he danced, but he could not 
 remember ; but the latter as he passed him said with a 
 
 smile, "It is I, Sir .... your coachman They 
 
 asked me to come in and enjoy myself, and upon my word 
 I accepted the invitation. It is a very well arranged 
 wedding ball." 
 
 " Oh ! It is you, my coachman ! . . . „ I was saying 
 
 to myself that I knew your face All right, my 
 
 man. Go on dancing and have your fill. It is only a pity 
 that your horse cannot dance also ; I am sure he would have 
 been invited as well." " Oh ! I am quite easy. He is 
 being very well looked after." 
 
 "Well," the doctor said to himself, "certainly this 
 wedding of Merluchet's daughter is well worth seeing, but 
 that quadrille is really going on too long. ... I am tired 
 out whilst my partner is going on as vigorously as ever. 
 .... I really think that this woman could give me 
 points. She does not speak very good French, but what a 
 very lively woman ! Certainly her husband was born to 
 associate with horned beasts." 
 
 A sudden noise interrupted the eternal quadrille, and 
 this time the noise proceeded from the place where the 
 drinkers were assembled, and the doctor profited by the 
 occasion and said to Madame Tricond, " They are 
 quarrelling yonder ; let us go and see what it is." 
 
 The lady with the good legs would have preferred to 
 go on dancing, but the doctor carried her off without 
 giving her time to reply. They found a tall young man 
 
A TRICK OF MONSIEUR DARDARD's. 51 
 
 who was furious with Monsieur Dardard, who was drink- 
 ing at the table where Daddy Merluchet was still sitting. 
 " Why, it is Grigoteau ! " all the dancers exclaimed when 
 they got near. " What is G-igoteau doing here instead of 
 being at his own wedding?" The man of whom they 
 were speaking soon explained the reason for his visit, for 
 he shouted out like a madman, " Come ! what is the lnean- 
 ino" of all this ? . . . . I want my wife ! . . . . I will 
 have my wife ! . . . . I entrusted her to you, Monsieur 
 Dardard, so that you might carry out our little plot. 
 .... What have you done with her ? " "I did what 
 
 you told me .... what we agreed upon I cannot 
 
 understand your anger. .... Do you think I am keep- 
 ing your wife for myself ? . . . . It is quite evident that 
 
 you do not know me I am utterly incapable of 
 
 doing such a thing ! " 
 
 " Well, but where have you put my wife ? . . . . W© 
 agreed that you were to take her to my apartments on the 
 second floor in the Rue des RAgoles .... I have just 
 been there .... the key was in the door and there was 
 no light in the room, so I said to myself: ' It is only a 
 little bit of bashfuiness ' . . . . and so I got into bed, 
 and what do you think I found there ? A little boy, little 
 Fourniquet .... who had been most disgusting, and 
 so I said to him : ' What are you doing in my bed, you 
 brat ? ' And he said : l Why, I thought I was at my 
 brother's .... Monsieur Dardard put me into the door 
 and told me to go upstairs, as the key was in the door. I 
 knew that, because my brother, the fireman, always leaves 
 it in.' ' But,' I said, ' my wife was to have come here ; 
 why is she not here now ? ' And thereupon, little Fourni- 
 quet went to sleep again, saying that he had not seen my 
 wife. Come, Monsieur Dardard, what have you done with 
 my wife ? . . . . The Mayor has given me permission . . . • 
 so I order you to hand her over to me." 
 
 The factotum of the district scratched his head and 
 seemed very much perplexed ; but suddenly he struck 
 himself upon the leg and exclaimed : " 1 have it ! It must be 
 that ! . . . . Do not be uneasy, G-igotea*, I guess where 
 your wife is ... . She is not lost .... We made a 
 mistake, and T ±«ok her to the house of little tourniquet's 
 
52 a tsick or MONSIEUR daedaed's. 
 
 brother, that is all." . ..." To the fireman's ! . . . . 
 You took niy wife to sleep at the fireman's ! . . . . ten 
 thousand heads ! And yon tell me that to reassure me ! 
 .... Oh ! the devil ! Tou have damaged my wife for 
 me ! Oh ! How horrible ! " " jSTo ! no ! .... don't 
 be alarmed ! The fireman will have seen immediately that 
 it was not his little brother who was lying by his side . . . * 
 and he would say to your wife : ' Do not move ! there is 
 gome mistake ! ' and he would be sure to get up im- 
 mediately. '" " Yes ! he would be very likely to say to my 
 wife, ' Do not move ! ' . . . . You know the fireman is a 
 very immoral fellow .... Oh ! my poor Toinon ...» 
 if I find you intact I shall indeed be lucky .... Come, 
 Monsieur Dardard, come with me directly ! . . . . and 
 if Toinon is damaged .... I will pay you out ! " " What I 
 you will pay me out; ! . . . . Do you think I did it on 
 purpose ? . . . . Do not mistakes happen every day ? " 
 "No, Monsieur, in the case of a newly- married girl one is 
 careful ! . . . . Come, march, and quickly ! " 
 
 Dardard went with big Gigoteau much against his will, 
 but the other took him bj the arm and forced him to 
 accompany him, and some young men who were at the 
 wedding went with them to see what would be the upshot 
 of this adventure. But all those who stayed behind, 
 exclaimed : u Poor Gigoteau ! . . . . He is quite sure of 
 his affair ! . . . . And then, Fourniquet, the fireman, is 
 an accomplished seducer ! " " And lie owed Gigoteau a 
 grudge because he was not invited to the wedding." " By 
 ♦love ! " Dufilet said, "if such a thing were to happen to 
 me . . . . I do not know what I .should do! . ... .' 5 
 " And you would be right, son-in-law," the master-mason 
 stammered ; he had drunk so much that he could not get 
 off his chair. " That is how a man .... who is a man, 
 ought to behave !...." <l But, nevertheless," the husband 
 continued, " I am wrong to be afraid, for my wife is a strong, 
 buxom woman who could easily keep a fireman in his 
 roper place." " Oh ! I am not frightened of anything,' 5 
 Laurette said, " and, after all, it is Gigoteau's own fault ; 
 if he had only let his wife go on dancing, he could have 
 gone off' quite quietly with her aftewards." " She is right," 
 Madame Tricond said, i( and I have always noticed that 
 
A TRICK OF MONSIEUR DARDARD'S. 53 
 
 when men want to play a trick, it always falls back on to 
 their own head ! " 
 
 The day was beginning to break, and as the endless 
 ouadrille had heated the ladies very much, they asked to be 
 taken on the water in the boats belonging to the establish- 
 ment. The gentlemen hastened to meet their wishes, and 
 pretty Laurette wanted Felix to row her, because during 
 the day Dufilet had already once almost upset when 
 acting as her boatman. The ladies had soon all embarked, 
 but, as the boats were small, there were very few men with 
 them. Dufilet, who had arrived too late to find room in a 
 boat, stood at the water's edge and called out : " Make a 
 little room for me .... I will bet that I jump from here 
 into your boat without your stopping ! " "I will bet that 
 you do not," said the bride's brother, who was a tall booby, 
 and rather drunk because he had tried to drink as much as 
 his father did. '.* I will bet you a bottle of champagne you 
 don't." " I am on ! " 
 
 As he said this, Dufilet took a run and a jump, and leapt 
 into the boat which his brother-in-law was pulling, and 
 which contained four ladies and an old uncle of Dufilet's. 
 The bridegroom certainly got into the boat, but he fell 
 almost on to the old uncle's shoulders, who threw himself 
 back to avoid the shock, bat lost his balance in doing so, 
 and fell into the water. " Oh ! good heavens ! I have 
 drowned Uncle Miraux ! " Dufilet exclaimed. " He cannot 
 swim, so I must fish him out." Saying this, he jumped 
 into the water and looked for his uncle amongst the bleak 
 which peopled it ; but the confusion became general. As 
 everybody wished to help, all the boats went to the spot 
 -where the accident had happened, and Monsieur Merluchet, 
 who was standing on the bank with a pole, had twice 
 pushed Uncle Miraux back to the bottom of the water, 
 whilst trying to hand it to him. Luckily, however, some 
 of the others who were more skilful had assisted Dufilet, who 
 reappeared on the surface of the water with his uncle, whom 
 he had seized by the seat of his trousers, and they pushed him 
 to the bank without his letting go his uncle's garment, and 
 Daddy Miraux soon came to himself and asked for some 
 brandy, and Dufilet exclaimed : "" Xever mind, I have won 
 the bet .... I got into the boast." ;t Yes, but you knocked 
 
54 THE THREE COUSINS. 
 
 your uncle into the water ! " " That will do him no harm, 
 as he never has a bath." 
 
 This eventually put an end to the ball, for the bride- 
 groom was wet through and wanted to dry himself. 
 i( That is very nice ! " pretty Laurette said t% her husband, 
 i( You are doing nothing but making a fool of yourself ! . . 
 , . If it goes on like this, what will happen ? " 
 
 Dufilet grasped his foster-brother's hand and said to 
 him : "I hope you will come to see us in Paris, where we 
 shall be settled in our shop in a week ! " " Monsieur 
 Felix promised me to do so ! " the bride said with a smile. 
 " Oh ! very well then, Laurette ; that is just the same as if 
 he were there ! " 
 
 Felix renewed his promise, and looked for Dr. Choubert, 
 so that they might start together. But the doctor had 
 already left the wedding party with Madame Tricond, and 
 when the young man asked where the cab was in which he 
 had come, he was told that the coachman was so drunk 
 that they had been obliged to put him into one of the 
 private rooms of the restaurant to sleep off his intoxi- 
 cation. 
 
 Till. 
 
 THE THREE COUSINS. 
 
 Several days had passed since Dufilet's marriage with 
 pretty Laurette ; Felix had not been to his uncle's house 
 again, and yet he stood greatly in need of his help, for he 
 had got into debt, and he could not pay them out of the 
 sixty pounds a year which he got as clerk in a house of 
 business. But he did not venture to tell his uncle of his 
 embarrassment, as he treated him very strictly and read 
 him a lecture every time he saw him. 
 
 One morning, however, when he had been more than 
 usually dunned by his tailor, his shirtmaker and his shoe- 
 maker, he set off to go to Monsieur Montlaurent's, but he 
 
THE THEEE COUSINS. 55 
 
 met Doctor Choubert, whom he had not seen since the 
 Merluchet wedding, in the street, and they went np to 
 each other with outstretched hands. 
 
 " Good morning, doctor ; I am delighted to meet you." 
 11 The same here, my dear Monsieur Eelix ; in the first 
 place, because I am always glad to see you, and then 
 because I wanted to thank you for the pleasure you pro- 
 cured me by taking me to your foster-brother's wedding." 
 "Did you really enjoy yourself?" "More than lever 
 did in my life before ! . . . . It was enough to make a 
 man die of laughter ; I nearly got drunk with the bride's 
 father ; I danced like a madman with a great fat woman 
 who was very easily amused ; then I went for a row on the 
 lake ; I did not fall in like the bridegroom did, certainly, 
 but I ventured on a declaration of love which was not at 
 all badly received .... and, lastly, I danced vis-a-vis to 
 my coachman, a thing which never happened to me before^ 
 It seems to me that a man must be very bad-tempered not 
 to be satisfied with such an evening. Ah ! I must, how. 
 ever, say that I should like to know the end of the adven- 
 ture that happened to that poor GKgoteau, who could not 
 find his wife." 
 
 " He found her again. Deceived by appearances, she 
 had gone into the fireman's house, but he swore by his axe 
 that he did not wake up. By the bye, how did you get 
 back ? I could not find our cab again." " By Jove ! I 
 should rather think not. As I saw that my vis-a-vis the 
 cabman was dead drunk, I took his cab, of which I made 
 use to drive my new conquest, Madame Tricond, home, 
 after telling the landlord of the inn, where my driver 
 would find his vehicle. And you returned on foot ? " 
 " Yes, with several other young men who had been at the 
 wedding ; but as on the way home, those gentlemen amused 
 themselves by knocking at every door, thumping on the 
 shutters of all the shops, and by making generally a most 
 infernal noise, I soon had enough of their company, and so 
 I left them." " And now you are going to your uncle's ? " 
 "Yes, .... I was going there. ..." "Very well, I 
 am going there also, so we will go together." 
 
 However, instead of taking the doctor's arm, which he 
 offered him. Felix merely sighed, and did not move. 
 
56 THE THREE COUSINS. 
 
 " Well ! What is the matter ? " the doctor asked. " Yon 
 look thoughtful, which is not at all usual with you, and as 
 we do not forsake our usual habits without being driven to 
 do so by some fresh event, just tell me what has happened, 
 -and what you are sighing about ? " (i Ah ! doctor, it is no 
 new event ! " " At any rate something is the matter with 
 you. so tell me what it is ; 'as a medical man I will cure 
 you, if it proceeds from any physical cause, and as a friend 
 I will try and console you if it springs from any moral 
 «ause." " Well then, doctor, I am in debt, and no money 
 to pay my debts with ! " " Then I can understand why 
 you are going to see your nncle ; it is quite simple, he is a 
 millionnaire and ought to pay your debts. He will scold 
 you at first, there is no doubt of that ; but lie will end by 
 paying; because it always comes to that in the long run." 
 " Ah ! that is just what I doubt. My uncle does not like 
 me .... because I drink my wine undiluted, play 
 billiards occasionally and do not go to bed at ten o'clock. . 
 . . But really, doctor, it would be impossible for me to 
 Ibe such a model of virtue as my cousins are ! " 
 
 u I should rather think so, it would be impossible for 
 me also, and I will say more : I should be sorry to be 
 steady after their fashion." u My uncle has paid my debts 
 once, but he made me swear never to run into debt again! '' 
 £l Ought young people be made to swear when men of 
 mature years themselves so often break the oaths which 
 they have made ? " l( My uncle, who is an exceptional 
 .man, has always kept his promises, and he expects to find 
 the same trustworthiness in others." "If, because we 
 possess virtues, we were obliged to exact the same virtues 
 from all others with whom we are brought in contact, we 
 should have very few friends, and even very few acquain- 
 tances." " Well, I am afraid that my uncle will give me 
 a tremendous blowing up, and not pay my debts after all." 
 " Then you owe a large amount ? " " Fourteen hundred 
 francs," (£56). "Fourteen hundred francs! Why, that 
 is a mere nothing to yonr uncle. . . . He ought to give 
 you that immediately ! " " Oh ! he will certainly not give 
 it me immediately." " Then why do you not go to your 
 -cousins ? It is a pleasure to young men to help one 
 another. - , . Rut perhaps they have no money ? " 
 
THE THEEE COUSINS. 57 
 
 " Yes, they have, for their father gives them some, but he 
 forbids them to spend it, which is the same thing; as if they 
 had not got any." " What a strange family ! Well, these 
 debts cannot be claimed immediately, I suppose ? . . . . 
 Yon have some time before yon ? " " If there were 
 nobody but the tailor and the other tradespeople, they 
 wonld, perhaps, wait a little longer ; bnt, unfortunately, I 
 gave a bill for a thousand francs to an old Jew in return 
 for seven hundred in ready money, and I do not know how 
 many bundles of cigars .... dreadful cigars they were, 
 too ! He has had my bill protested and obtained judgment, 
 so that he can arrest me ... . and he has threatened to 
 do so if I do not pay within three days." 
 
 " The devil ! So there is no time to lose then. Listen, 
 my dear Felix : I am going to see how your uncle is, so 
 would you like me to speak to him for you ? " " Ah ! I 
 did not venture to ask you, but you would be doing me a 
 great service ! " " Then why did you not say so 
 immediately ! .... I am not afraid of speaking to him, 
 though he is such a perfect man and wishes everyone else 
 to be like him. Be quite tranquil; I will plead your 
 cause warmly with your uncle, and I am sure that I shall 
 succeed. Come, you must wait for me in the cafe which 
 is almost opposite your uncle's house, and thus you will 
 know his answer immediately." 
 
 When they had got within a few yards of the 
 millionnaire's house, Felix went into the cafe, and the 
 doctor went to Montlaurent's. 
 
 Felix tried to read a newspaper, but he was too 
 impatient and too pre-occupied to pay any attention to 
 what he was reading ; his eyes wandered into the street 
 every moment. Suddenly he saw his cousin Felicien who 
 was going to his father's, and remembering what the 
 doctor had said to him, Felix left the cafe, saying to him- 
 self: "Well, I may as well try. After all, amongst young 
 men, one need not be ashamed of acknowledging it, when 
 one is in a fix." And running into the street, Felix 
 stopped the tall, light-haired young man. " Good morn- 
 ing, Felicien." " Ah ! is that you, Felix ? " young 
 .Montlaurenfc replied, rather dryly. " What are yon doing 
 in this neighbourhood, instead of being at your ofiice ? " 
 
58 THE THEEE COUSINS. 
 
 " I am here, probably because I have some business here. 
 Are you going to read me a lecture the same as my uncle 
 does ? " " Oh ! dear no, for after all it is quite immaterial to 
 me whether you work or whether you don't work." " Thank 
 you ; but that is not the question just now. I say, have 
 you any money?" "Any money?" "Yes, have you 
 any money of your own ? " " Money ? . . . . Certainly, 
 I always have money, for my father often gives me some 
 as he knows I shall not make a bad use of it, and that I 
 don't go on the spree like you do." " You are quite right j 
 I acknowledge that I am not so steady as you are ! And 
 how much have you got, about ? " " You are very 
 inquisitive ! Well, I have about .... Oh ! yes, I have 
 at least two thousand five hundred francs (£100). When 
 one spends nothing one saves !".... 
 
 " That is quite true. Well, Felicien, will you do me a 
 great pleasure, and do me a real service as a friend, and I 
 shall always be grateful to you ? " " What is it, in the 
 first place ? " Lend me fourteen hundred francs (£56) 
 to pay a pressing debt, and I will pay you back by degrees, 
 and you will get me out of a great difficulty." 
 
 Felicien looked at his cousin in a mocking manner, and 
 then began to laugh, saying, " Ah ! well, I really did not 
 expect that. ... It is coming it rather strong ! Ha I 
 ha ! ha ! " . . . . " When you have done laughing, perhaps 
 you will give me an answer." " Oh, the answer is not at 
 all difficult. I should be mad to lend you money ! You 
 already spend what my father gives you, quite quickly 
 enough, and it is not worth while to let my money go the 
 same road." "In the first place, my uncle has not given 
 me any money for a long time, and it is not generous of 
 you to reproach me with his having paid my debts once. 
 So you refuse ? " u Oh, most positively." " Very well ; 
 I did not expect anything else of you." " I, :ase it 
 
 was not worth while to stop me in order to ask me. 
 Good-bye, Felix ; I am going to lunch." And the tall, fair 
 young man went away, whilst Felix looked after him and 
 said : 
 
 " Yes, I fancied he would refuse me .... and now I 
 am sure. But to laugh in my face .... when I told him 
 what a fix I was in ... . Oh ! that is too much, and does 
 
THE THREE COUSINS. 59 
 
 not show a kind heart. But here comes fat Adolphe, who 
 , is also going to lunch at his father's. I think he is a better 
 sort of fellow. Let us see whether I shall be any luckier 
 with him." 
 
 Felix stopped his cousin Adolphe as he was going by ; 
 he held out his hand to Felix, and squeezed it cordially, 
 saying, " Ah, Felix, is that you ? Lucky Felix. You are 
 rightly named ! You do just as you please, and enjoy 
 yourself from morning till night. I often envy your lot." 
 " My dear Adolphe, I certainly amuse myself as much as 
 I can, but my lot is not always as enviable as you 
 think. Look here, just at this moment, I am without a 
 halfpenny, and one cannot have much fun without any 
 money. Then, I have debts into the bargain; I owe 
 fourteen hundred francs to a man who is suing me for them. 
 If you could lend them me you would be doing me a great 
 service." 
 
 Adolphe shook his cousin's hands, and said with a sigh : 
 " In order to lend you that sum, I must in the first place 
 have it myself, and I have little more than three hundred. 
 My father does not give me money like he does Felicien, 
 in whom he has great confidence, and who is his Benjamin ;■-'■ 
 he never asks him for any account of how he has spent his 
 money, whereas it is quite different with me 5 I must show 
 him what I have in hand. Sometimes I am a few five 
 franc pieces short, because I have been indulging too freely 
 in glorias.* I am very fond of gloria .... I also like 
 Curacoa .... and Chartreuse. Ah ! Chartreuse ! how 
 good it is ! But then, when there is a deficit I must make 
 up a tale .... and I am not very clever at inventing 
 stories. So you see, that even if I had the sum that you 
 have asked me for, I could not possibly lend it you ; for if 
 I were fourteen hundred francs short, I could never invent 
 
 a taL g enough for tl Don't be angry with me, 
 
 Felix ; you see it is not my fault." " No, my dear fellow, 
 I am not vexed with you, because you are frank with me. 
 " Are you coming to lunch at my father's ? " " No, I am 
 
 * A small cup of strong coffee {toithozit milk) and brandy, mixed 
 together. (Translator.) 
 
30 THE THREE COUSINS. 
 
 not going there." " Good-bye then, for you know, we 
 must never be late." 
 
 And stont Adolphe left Felix., who said to himself: " I 
 prefer that cousin . . . „ for I believe he would have 
 obliged me if he could. Ah ! here is Victorin ; shall I 
 ask him ? Why not ? Whilst I am in the right mood, I 
 may as well immediately judge of the friendship winch my 
 three cousins feel for me." 
 
 Yictorin was walking very quickly and looked very 
 preoccupied. He was going to push Felix, who stood in 
 his way, on one side, when the latter said to him : " Well S 
 don't you know me any longer?" "Ah! is that you 
 Felix ? I beg your pardon .... I did not see you, for I 
 was thinking how the funds had risen since this morning, 
 that is to say yesterday . . . , What a profit anybody 
 would have made, who bought a week ago." "Upon my 
 word, I know nothing whatever about it, and I must 
 acknowledge that the Stock Exchange interests me very 
 little. ... I am not in a position to operate at all there." 
 " But that need not prevent you from following the market 
 prices, from examining and calculating, and to learn how 
 great fortunes are made." " I do not think that anyone can 
 know that with certainty. Does not everything contingent 
 depend upon chance ? ' 5 " No, for there are some, 
 infallible combinations ! " "I must tell you that at this 
 moment I am trying to find out how to pay fourteen 
 hundred francs that I owe. Let us see, calculator, how 
 you would manage to pay that sum in my place, if you 
 had not a halfpenny ? " " Well, if I had only a hundred 
 francs I should risk them .... no matter on what." 
 •" Oh ! what bad advice ; in the first place, gambling is a 
 poor resource, and only favours those who do not require 
 it." " Come, come, when one knows how to calculate the 
 chances, one makes them favourable to oneself." 
 
 " Well, I cannot risk a hundred francs on gambling, 
 because, as I told you, I have not a halfpenny." " Ah ! 
 that is true ! So much the worse for you then, for one can 
 only make money with money." " You must have some, 
 Yictorin. Well then, lend me the money to pay my debt 
 j, ... I will pay you back later." 
 
 Victorin reflected for a few moments and then said : 
 
THE LITTLE COUSIN. 01 
 
 rt No, I will not Jend you any. If it had been for an 
 operation on the Stock Exchange I might have risked it c 
 . . . But when you have paid your debts you will have 
 nothing left, and you will not be able to pay me, and so I 
 prefer to keep my money. Good bye, Felix, I am in a 
 hurry." • 
 
 His third cousin had gone off like the others, and 
 Felix returned to the cafe, saying to himself, u I have put 
 my three cousins to the proof, and I know now what 
 reliance I can place on their friendship. If the doctor is 
 not more fortunate with my uncle, I think I can see myself 
 at Clichy* almost immediately. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE LITTLE COUSIN. 
 
 Meanwhile Doctor Choubert had been shown into Mon- 
 sieur Montlaurent's study, where he found him complaining 
 of his legs, his head, and his stomach. " Doctor," he 
 said, " I am not at all well, and you do not do me any 
 good," the millionnaire said, as soon as his medical adviser 
 had come in. " I don't do you any good ? . . . . But in 
 the first place, what have you got there ? " the doctor 
 asked, looking at a cup and a teapot. " It is an infusion 
 of linseed, which is very emollient and extremely refresh- 
 ing." " Eh ! By Jove ! My dear sir, how can you 
 expect me to cure you if you go contrary to my prescrip- 
 tions ? . . . . Did I prescribe linseed for you r . . . . 
 I told you to take quinine wine .... two tablespoonfuls 
 a day in a glass of Madeira j that would strengthen you 
 and restore tone to your stomach, which stands greatly in 
 need of it. Instead of that, you put yourself on linseed 
 
 tea I shall refuse to attend you any longer if you 
 
 go on acting like this, and I must tell you this clearly. ' r 
 
 * The debtors' prison of Paris. (Translator.) 
 
62 THE LITTLE GOFSIN. 
 
 " Doctor, I was afraid that the quinine wine would be too 
 strong for my delicate constitution." " As I ordered you 
 to take it, it is probably good for you. Have you any 
 confidence in me or not ? " 
 
 Monsieur stammered a somewhat doubtful " Yes," and 
 murmured, " I will take the quinine wine." "And you 
 will find that it will do you good. And, now, I am going to 
 execute a commission which I undertook. Tour nephew 
 Felix is a most amiable young fellow, and I saw him 
 only a few moments ago." .... "My nephew Felix? 
 Ah ! he is thoroughly unprincipled ! I have heard some 
 nice things about him ! Just fancy, doctor, at his foster- 
 brother's wedding, at which he was one of the witnesses, 
 he had the audacity to bring the bridegroom into the 
 Mayor's presence with a boot on one foot and the other 
 nnshod." " I know all about it ; he told me the story 
 iiimself." "And don't you think it most indecent ? It 
 was showing a total want of respect for the authorities." 
 Ci The Mayor did not even notice it, and if he had not acted 
 as he did the wedding would not have taken place." ei J 
 do not agree with you, doctor, and I cannot excuse such 
 an act of impropriety. And what commission has this 
 scapegrace entrusted to you ? " " Well, really, as I see 
 that you are so prejudiced against him just now, I am 
 afraid." .... "I cannot feel otherwise towards my 
 
 nephew any longer You* will find me just the 
 
 same any other day." " Well, then, I may just as well get 
 it over immediately .... especially as the matter is 
 argent. Your nephew owes fourteen hundred francs, for 
 which he is being sued ; ... in fact, there is a warrant 
 
 out for his arrest He hopes, therefore, that you 
 
 will help him once more, and — "..... " Debts ! more 
 debts ! And he has the impudence to come to me ! . . . . 
 After swearing .... for he did swear that he would not 
 incur any more, when I paid them for him last year. By 
 George ! Can an honourable man break his oath ? 
 r< But your nephew is so young." " There is no excuse for 
 his conduct." " Well, monsieur, it is only a question of a 
 wretched sum of fourteen hundred francs, and what is that 
 to you ? " "I could certainly let him have that sum 
 without any inconvenience, but I will not encourage bad 
 
THE LITTLE COUSIN. 63 
 
 conduct A young fellow who cares only for wine, 
 
 women, and cards. How dreadful ! " "But, monsieur, it 
 is no good making ourselves out better than we are. We 
 all of us have those tastes." " No, monsieur, no I I have 
 never had them, and I am proud of it." .... iC At any 
 rate, I do not see that you are any the better for it." " I 
 have not got the gout, monsieur." " Well, but good God ! 
 All rakes do not suffer from it. I could find plenty of 
 specimens for you. But to return to your nephew. You 
 would not like your sister's son to be put into prison, I 
 suppose?" " Yes, sir, I shall let him go there. It will 
 be a lesson for him." 
 
 At that moment Emma came into her father's study, as 
 she had heard them raising their voices, and after greeting 
 the doctor she said, " What is the matter, father '? How 
 excited you seem. Are you angry ? " Monsieur Mont- 
 laurent turned his head away with a growl, but the doctor 
 quickly said, tC Mademoiselle, you have come just in time 
 to intercede in favour of your cousin Felix." .... "My 
 cousin ! What about him, monsieur ? " " Good heavens, 
 Mademoiselle ! He has been committing follies like young 
 
 men do, who spend money without thinking In 
 
 short, he has got into debt, and he is being sued for an 
 
 amount .... which is not very large He did 
 
 not venture to come to his uncle himself, and so he asked 
 
 me to plead his cause But your father has shown 
 
 himself quite inflexible, and refuses to extricate his nephew 
 from his difficulties." lc Oh ! dear father, you will not be 
 too hard ! " the charming girl said, going up to her father. 
 " I am sure my cousin will amend his conduct. I am sure. 
 .... You will let him have the amount he wants, will 
 you not?" "No, my child, for your cousin will never 
 amend. He swore that he would and he has broken his 
 promise, so I shall do no more for him." " Then the poor 
 fellow must go to prison ! " the doctor said. " To prison ! 
 They are going to put my cousin, in prison ! " Emma cried. 
 " Oh ! that would be too dreadful ! No, father, you will 
 
 never allow that Oh ! please, I beseech you, don't 
 
 be so hard ! " " There, that will do, my dear," the 
 banker said, in an imperative voice. <f I forbid you to 
 say another word on the subiect, or to speak to me about 
 
64 THE LITTLE COUSIN. 
 
 your cousin again, and I must beg the doctor to do the 
 same." 
 
 The girl loosed down and began to tremble, whilst the 
 doctor, who was extremely irritated at Monsieur Mont- 
 laurent's manner, took up his hat, clapped it on his head, 
 and cried, "Very well, monsieur ! You have one of those 
 cold hearts which require warming. Drink your linseed 
 tea and your decoctions of herbs ! As for me, I will not 
 look after your health any longer ! " "I am rather glad of 
 that ! " Monsieur Montlaurent said, in a low voice. 
 
 The doctor was already almost downstairs, when a 
 little hand touched him lightly on the shoulder, and on 
 turning round he saw Emma, who gave him a small pocket- 
 book, and said to him in a voice full of emotion, " Take 
 this, monsieur, if you please, and give it to my cousin ; it 
 is all the money that I have, but perhaps it may help to 
 
 get him out of his difficulties But be sure and do 
 
 not tell him it was I Let him think it was my 
 
 father. .... Good-bye ! I must go back." .... 
 
 The charming girl had already quickly mounted the 
 stairs again before the doctor had time tc tell her what he 
 thought of her kind action. But he had the pocketbook in 
 his hand, so he opened it and found a bank note for a 
 thousand francs in it. 
 
 " What a charming girl," he said to himself. " She 
 gives her cousin all the money she has, and she is not 
 afraid of incurring her father's displeasure. Ah ! I judged 
 her correctly ; I saw that she was not like her brothers 
 .... and upon my word, not like her father, either. 
 .... and I would have complimented her mother on it if 
 she had been alive. A thousand francs !*.«,. That is 
 something, but not enough to get our young man out of 
 
 his difficulties By Jove ! I will become a partner 
 
 in her good action I have received five hundred 
 
 francs this morning from a convalescent, patient .... 
 from whom I never expected to get a farthing, and I will 
 add it to the bank note for a thousand francs, and there 
 .... our friend is freed from his troubles." 
 
 Felix was still waiting at the cafe, but he had little 
 
AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. Q& 
 
 hope, when he saw the doctor come in looking radiant, and 
 who gave him the little pocketbook, saying to him, "There, 
 
 my young friend. I have succeeded in my embassy 
 
 There is the money to pay your creditors." .... " Is it 
 possible ? . . . . Oh, my dear doctor, I did not at all 
 reckon on it ! Do you mean to say that you absolutely 
 succeeded in softening my uncle ? " "Your uncle! He 
 will never be softened. He is an old shark, who must 
 have a heart of indiarubber He refused point- 
 blank to help you." .... " Then how ?".... "Ah 1 
 there was an angeJ in the shape of a girl .... your 
 cousin, in fact. She ran downstairs after me, and gave me 
 her savings to hand over to you." .... "My cousin t 
 . . . . Is it possible?" .... "Yes, and she forbade 
 me to say that this money came from her ; but, upon my 
 word, I have not the courage to lay a kind action to the 
 account of someone who has shown himself without any 
 pity for you, and who thinks it wrong to be fond of 
 
 women Old blockhead ! " 
 
 " My cousin ! It was my cousin ? " " Yes, .... 
 
 yfes He cannot get over it. Come, young man ; 
 
 go and pay your debts, and I will go and visit my patients. 
 Everyone to his trade ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. j 
 
 Felix would have liked to go and thank his cousin, but, on 
 the other hand, he had no wish to go and see his uncle and 
 his amiable cousins; and so, not knowing what to do, he 
 waited for some favourable opportunity, till he should meet 
 his cousin by chance and so be able to express his gratitude 
 to her. 
 
 Meanwhile, the young man had become more attentive 
 to business, and was more assiduous in his attendance at 
 the office, for he often said to himself: " I must absolutely 
 
 3 
 
6Q AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 manage to repay Emma those fifteen hundred francs which 
 I have had of her, some day." 
 
 However, as at Felix's age, good intentions never 
 prevent us from committing some follies, he did not forget 
 a rather pretty actress called Anita, whom we heard him 
 talking about one morning with his neighbour. This 
 Anita, who was attached to the Theatre des Delassements, 
 danced there occasionally. Was she an actress, or was she 
 a dancer ? She was most likely both, or rather, I do not 
 think that she was either one or the other ; but, at any 
 rate, she was on the stage, and that is a very enviable 
 position for a pretty woman. As his neighbour had said, 
 he only got behind the scenes by a lucky accident, for he 
 neither wrote plays nor music; he could not paint the 
 scenes nor design dresses. If he had even been a share- 
 holder, that would have given him the entry, and many 
 people only became shareholders in order to be able to go 
 behind the scenes, so as to admire the ladies, who charm us 
 so in the body of the house, at close quarters. But, fool 
 that you are ! instead of admiring them when you are close 
 to them, you will lose all your illusions, for rouge, pearl 
 powder, blue, carmine and black, which look so well at a 
 distance, do not bear closer inspection. 
 
 But really, even if you lose some of your illusions, you 
 will be indemnified by the amusing chatter, which is some- 
 times witty and always funny, by the quick, smart replies 
 which one hears nowhere else, for it is very droll to hear a 
 Spanish Grandee saying pretty things to a little Savoyard 
 girl, to see an Englishman quarrelling with a bear, or a 
 •king offering a pinch of snuff to a clown. 
 
 But to return to Felix. He had a friend whose brother 
 wrote plays, and by these means he had been several times 
 behind the scenes with his friend, and then had ventured 
 to go by himself, and there he had met Mademoiselle 
 Hermance's Alexander, who was a shareholder. He had 
 lost several bowls of punch to him at dominoes, and had 
 thus, by his interest, been allowed to remain behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 That evening they were acting a fairy scene, inter- 
 mingled with dances and embellished with cupids and 
 devils. Cupids and devils always take very well at the 
 
AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. 67 
 
 theatre, thanks to the slight attire which they wear ; when 
 they are off the stage they disguise themselves, which, 
 however, does not prevent them from making their way. 
 Mademoiselle Anita represented a Cupid, and as she was 
 very well made, the skintights suited her very well, and 
 caused her to make several conquests, for on the stage 
 the costume has a great deal to do with the success of an 
 actress, and one who has not been noticed in the simple 
 dress of a peasant, will be overwhelmed with bouquets and 
 declarations of love when she appears as a Sylph or a 
 Cupid. 
 
 Felix wished to see the young lady in that costume 
 which is really none at all, and which makes us long for 
 that lost Paradise in which Adam and Eve w ilked about 
 without being obliged to have recourse to either tailor or 
 dressmaker. Felix had gone behind the scenes, and was 
 waiting for the moment when his flame would have timu to 
 spare to come and speak to him. But his neighbour Her- 
 mance, who had seen him, seized a moment waen she had 
 not to be on the stage, to whisper to him : " My little 
 neighbour, take care of yourself! Trabucos is going to 
 dance this evening ! " " Who is Trabucos ? " " He is an 
 actor .... he is going to perform as the Devil, and is 
 very talented." •" Well ! What does it matter to me that 
 Monsieur Trabucos is going to dance this evening ? " 
 " Don't you know that he is very much in love with Anita, 
 and that he is paying his addresses to her ? He is as 
 jealous as a tiger .... and he is very malicious ! So 
 if he sees you talking to Anita, he is quite capable of 
 picking a quarrel with you." ie A lot I care for Monsieur 
 Trabucos! Let him act the Devil and leave us alone ; he 
 certainly will not prevent me from talking to Anita as long 
 as she is willing." " Yes. but as he is a very good actor, 
 he might be able to get your permission to go behind the 
 scenes cancelled by complaining to the manager that you 
 interfere with him when he has to go on." " If he ventures 
 to do that, he shall see what I am made cf !" "Well, I 
 have warned you, so at any rate be careful." " Thank you, 
 my dear neighbour ; I will keep my eyes upon the Devil's 
 manoeuvres." a You have not seen Alexander ? " " He is 
 playing dominoes at the Cafe du Cinque." 
 
68 AN ADVENT DUE BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 Mademoiselle Hermance went on to the stage again, 
 and soon the ballet began. "When her turn was over, she 
 went back to Felix, and an animated conversation began 
 between Cnpid and the young clerk. Suddenly, however, 
 Felix felt a touch on his shoulder ; he turned round, and, 
 seeing nobody, he went on with the conversation, but in a 
 minute or two, the same thing happened again. " Who is 
 amusing himself by touching me on the shoulder and then 
 disappearing suddenly ? " Felix cried. "It is Trabucos," 
 Anita replied with a smile. " I saw him stealing up very 
 softly, and then ran away after he had touched you.'* 
 " Ah ! he is the gentleman who plays the Devil and is in 
 love with you .... Is he your lover ? " u What an 
 idea ! On the contrary, I cannot bear him, and he worries 
 me dreadfully. He has already been the cause of several 
 disagreeable scenes ! " u In that case, he had better look 
 out .... Just give me a sign when you see him coming 
 towards me." ... " Here he is, coming back now.'' . . . 
 " All right ; this time he shall get what he wants." 
 
 The individual who was acting the Devil was a short 
 and rather stoat man, but tolerably well made; he- 
 appeared muscular, and reminded people of those Alcides 
 who perform tricks of strength on the Boulevards, and, as 
 he was very ugly, he had everything that could be required 
 in a devil. But as he thought himself handsome, he was 
 very careful to disguise himself, and put on a red wig with 
 herns, and gave himself enormous eyebrows which met 
 over his nose, like those of a wandering Jew, with a burnt 
 cork, and lastly put on a false nose, which had the shape of 
 an enormous trumpet ; all that, with his red skintights 
 adorned with snakes and bats, made a very terrible demon 
 of kini. 
 
 Monsieur Trabucos advanced on the tips of his toes, to 
 touch the young man whose attentions to Anita vexed him 
 very much, on the shoulder again. But this ime, Felix had 
 taken his measure so well that at the moment when the 
 devil touched him on the shoulder he received such a well- 
 applied blow in the middle of his face, that his false nose, 
 which was nearly smashed, shifted its position and got 
 pushed on to his right eye. Monsieur Trabucos was about 
 to rush at Felix, but at that moment the manager's voice 
 
AN .ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. 69 
 
 •called to him : " It is 'your turn, Trabucos ! It is your 
 dance ! . . . . Go on to the stage . . . . you will miss 
 your cue ! V .... 
 
 Struggling between duty and rage, the actor neverthe- 
 less obeyed the manager's voice ; he went on the stags like 
 a madman, and his dance naturally partook of the agitation 
 that he felt ; never before had he jumped so high, nor 
 executed such jerky movements. His performance had a 
 marvellous effect, and the public applauded vociferously 
 enough to bring the ceiling down, whilst the cruel manager 
 cried out to him from the wings : " Your nose, Trabucos, 
 do put your nose on to the right place ; it is on your right 
 eye!" 
 
 But Trabucos was not thinking about his nose ; whilst 
 dancing he was continually looking towards the side where 
 Felix was still standing, and he kept making grimaces at 
 him, and rolled his eyes horribly, shook his fist at him and 
 redoubled his contortions, and the audience thought that 
 the Devil was doing it for greater effect, and so redoubled 
 their applause, and thought it a very amusing idea of the 
 actor to put his nose over his eye. 
 
 Felix was much amused at the menacing gestures which 
 the Devil made at him whilst dancing. In vain Anita said 
 to him : " Go away, my friend ; you have given Trabucos a 
 blow, and he is furious, and will want to avenge himself 
 .... Pray go away ! " But the young man stayed, 
 because he did not wish to run away from the menaces of* 
 the Devil, and so he merely replied : " ISTo, no, I am not 
 going ; I think the Devil much too amusing . . , . I like 
 to see him dance." 
 
 As soon as he had done, Trabucos rushed behind the 
 scenes like a whirlwind and jumped at Felix to strike him, 
 but, as he had foreseen the attack, he awaited his opponent 
 firmly, and replied by vigorous blows to those which he 
 received. They tried to separate the combatants, but it 
 was impossible to do so ; they held each other tight ; 
 pushed and tugged, and finally rolled on to the stage 
 together, their heads and half their bodies projecting 
 beyond the wings, so that the audience were very much 
 surprised at suddenly seeing such a heap falling into the 
 Sultan's palace, and continuing to exchange vigorous blows. 
 
70 AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 Meanwhile the manager and the dancers were palling 
 them by their legs so as to make them disappear from the 
 spectators' sight ; but they had had plenty of time to see 
 them and to laugh at their expense, and by one of those 
 accidents which seem as if they happen on purpose,. 
 Monsieur Montlaurent, who scarcely ever went to the play, 
 was there that evening with Emma and Madame Sarget. 
 
 For a long time Emma had been begging her father to 
 take her to the theatre, and on his consenting, he had 
 asked Madame Sarget as well, for he said to himself : u If 
 it is too much for me and makes me feel ill, my daughter 
 would not be able to attend to me by herself ! " 
 
 As he knew very little of what was going on at the 
 theatres, Monsieur Montlaurent asked her to which theatre 
 ghe would like to go, and told her to choose whichever she 
 liked as it would be all the same to him. And Emma 
 replied : " And to me also, father, only I should like to see 
 a fairy scene " 
 
 They had looked in the theatrical announcements to see 
 at what theatre there was one, and as the Theatre des 
 Delassements was the only one where a fairy scene was 
 being given, they gave it the preference. In consequence, 
 as Monsieur Montlaurent, with his daughter and Madame 
 Sarget were sitting in a box on the front tier close to the 
 stage, when Felix and the Devil rolled on to it in their 
 struggle, they saw the whole affair perfectly, seated where 
 they were. 
 
 " Is it possible ! " Montlaurent exclaimed, " that young 
 man who is rolling about the stage .... Do look at him, 
 Madame Sarget .... Is it not my nephew Felix ? " " Oh ! 
 good heaveus, yes ! He is belabouring the Devil .... 
 What can be the meaning of it ? " " My cousin ! Do you 
 really think it is my cousin ? " Emma said, with some 
 hesitation ; but she went on almost immediately : " Yes, it 
 is he ... . Has he turned actor ? " " There was only that 
 wanting .... to fight .... to exchange blows in public. 
 The wretched fellow ! .... It is terrible." ... " They 
 are not there any longer, father ; they have been taken 
 off." ic Yes, I am quite aware that this scene was not parf 
 of the play . . . But I will find out what gave rise to this 
 incident .... I will go out between the acts and inquire. '* 
 
AN ADVENTUKE BEHIND THE SCENES. 71 
 
 Nearly all the spectators were as curious as Monsieur 
 Montlaurent to know by what accident they had become 
 witnesses to this boxing match between Trabucos the 
 dancer and a young man who was not in costume, whom 
 nobody recognized.. as an actor, and so the end of the act 
 was waited for with much impatience ; but scarcely had the 
 curtain fallen when some rushed to the refreshment room y 
 others to the doorkeeper ; those who had the entry on to the 
 stage were there already, and soon the case was known 
 more or less accurately. Everybody was talking about it 
 in the passages, and the box-openers were not the last to 
 learn the motives for that fight. 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent allowed those who seemed in the 
 greatest hurry to go first, and then addressing a box- 
 opener whom he saw haranguing a crowd of listeners, 
 which made him surmise that she knew more than the 
 others, he spoke to her in his turn : " Could you tell me," 
 he said, " what was the cause of this scene, this scandalous 
 fight between the two individuals who rolled on to the stage 
 after the ballet ? " And Monsieur Montlaurent accom- 
 panied his question with a piece of silver, which made the 
 box-opener more communicative than before. " Yes, Mon- 
 sieur, yes, I can certainly tell you better than anybody else. 
 And, besides that, I guessed it would happen ! Before I 
 was told, I said : ' I will bet they are fighting about 
 Anita ! . . . , That girl has already been the cause of 
 several scenes, and I was not mistaken ; it was about 
 Anita again !".... " And, pray, who is Anita, Madame ? " 
 " One of the girls who danced in front of the Cupids ...» 
 a little dark girl .... very well made .... Ah ! her 
 legs have been a great success ! " " I understand ; so it 
 was on her account." . . . "Yes, you understand j 
 Trabucos is madly in love with her, and they do say that 
 he would even sell his furniture for her ; he is what they 
 call quite gone on her." " And who is Trabucos ? " " He 
 is the dancer who acted the part of the Devil .... He is 
 a very clever fellow ! You saw what a success his dance 
 was .... Oh ! he is very popular with the public .... 
 but Anita, who allows that young man whom you saw roll 
 on to the stage, to say pretty things to her, does not like 
 him .... But I don't think he is up to much . . . . he is a 
 
72 AN ADVENTFEE BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 poor sort of devil ! . ... why, he has not even paid for her 
 eheval glass yet . ... and ?he owes for it ... . But women 
 -are so stupid, they go and fall in love with young fellows 
 who are not good for anything .... and neglect men of 
 mature age. who would make their fortune ! .... I would 
 not give them such advice as that ! " " "Well, Madame ? " 
 " "Well, Monsieur, Trabueos had already noticed that the 
 young man in question went behind the scenes to talk to 
 Anita, and he said to himself: ' That fellow is a rival, so I 
 will give him something for himself ! ' For Trabueos is 
 very strong 5 he is all muscle ! He had told the girl 
 beforehand, and said to her: 'If you whisper with that 
 man again, I shall give him a pounding,' and she said : 
 1 Snow ! Snow ! Yes, or Turnips ! ' Those are her 
 favourite expressions. But it came off, all the same. She 
 was talking with ber young swell and Trabueos saw them 
 whilst he was dancing, and was furious, and as soon as his 
 dance was over he rushed at the young man and said : ' I 
 order you not to talk to that young lady, and, if necessary, 
 I forbid yon to do it ! ' and it seems that the other laughed 
 in his face. Well, of course, yon can see how it ended. 
 Two furious cocks, eh ! And blows poured down ; they 
 tried to separate them, but it was impossible, and then 
 •during their struggle they fell on to the stage ! . . . . And 
 do you know what Anita was doing all the while ? . . . . 
 She was laughing like mad, wretched, heartless little 
 -creature ! She is delighted when men come to blows on 
 her account .... she says it brings her into notice." 
 " And what was the end of it all ? " " Why, of course the 
 young man was driven off the stage where he ought never 
 to have been allowed to pat his foot; but they are never 
 severe enough with intruders .... the porter shuts his 
 •eyes, and the manager is a good sort of fellow ! Ah ! but 
 the handsome seducer will be refused admittance for the 
 future ! There is no danger of handsome Felix being 
 allowed behind the scenes again .... His name is Felix, 
 for Anita used constantly to say : ( Ah ! Felix is not 
 coming this evening, and I am very vexed. ' " 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent had heard enough, so he 
 
 returned to his box and said to Emma : " My dear, I have 
 
 just heard something which confirms me in the bad 
 
AN ADVENTURE BEHIND THE SCENES. /S 
 
 opinion I had of your cousin ; he is a worthless fellow from 
 whom one can hope for nothing. You always took his 
 part, and you were wrong. Your brothers judged him 
 most correctly, for they never said a word in his favour, 
 and for the future I do not wish you to mention him to me, 
 as I am ashamed at his conduct, and I never wish to see 
 him again." 
 
 Emma hung her head, and said sadly : " I will obey 
 you, father; " whilst Madame Sarget sighed and said: 
 " Young men who make fun of women, are capable of 
 anything." 
 
 The day after this adventure, Felix received a letter 
 from his uncle which contained the following words : " I 
 was at the theatre yesterday with my daughter, when you 
 favoured the audience with a scandalous scene, as you 
 rolled on the stage and fought with an actor, who was 
 dressed like a devil. From this day forward I forbid you 
 to come to my house, and I shall also give orders that 3 ou 
 are to be refused admittance." 
 
 Felix crumpled up the note in his hand, and said to 
 himself, " How unlucky I am ! . . . . My uncle hardly 
 ever goes to the theatre, and now he must happen to be 
 there just on that evening and see me at fisticuffs with 
 Trabucos ! And my cousin saw me also ! . . . . He will 
 not receive me for the future, so I shall not be able to 
 thank Emma. ... I cannot even express my regret pud 
 my gratitude to her through the doctor .... for my uncle 
 has already got rid of Choubert. And all that through 
 Anita, whom I saw in a carriage this morning with a stock- 
 broker. Ah ! I was wrong .... and yet I could not 
 accept that gentleman's blows without returning them." 
 
74 THE WILL. 
 
 XL 
 
 THE WILL 
 
 Pelix saw the doctor occasionally; he had told him his 
 adventure at the little theatre on the Boulevards, and 
 Dr. Choubert had laughed like mad when he heard the 
 account of his battle with the devil, which had ended in 
 the presence of the public, and had exclaimed : 
 
 11 Oh ! how I wish I had seen it ! Please give me a 
 second representation of the scene, and I will book a box 
 in advance." " No, certainly not. Once is quite enough. 
 It is too much even, as it has made my uncle quarrel with 
 me altogether, as he absolutely refuses to let me go to his 
 house in future." " Between you and me, my friend, you 
 will not find that a great deprivation ; your uncle's house 
 is anything but cheerful. It is enough to give anyone the 
 blues ! " "Yes, but I used to see my cousin, who was 
 always so kind, and who came to my assistance, though I 
 have not been able to thank her yet." " If you thank her 
 she will see that I betrayed her secret, and then what 
 should I look like ? Doctor, there are some indiscretions 
 which are always pardoned. But I shall be obliged to keep 
 silence, as I cannot go and see her ; and you, doctor, you 
 do not go at all to my uncle's now ? " " Certainly not. 
 You know that he sent me what he owed me, and at the 
 same time let me know that my method of treatment did 
 not agree with his constitution. He gave me my dismissal, 
 in fact. Poor man ! to pretend that he knows more than 
 doctors do. Certainly, we are not all of us eagles, but to 
 know how to treat your uncle it is only necessary to look 
 at him, to listen to him, and to know what he eats. I 
 should have prolonged his life for another ten years at 
 least. Whereas, seeing the regimen that he pursues, I 
 should be surprised if he lived another six months." fl Do 
 you really think he is as ill as that ? " " Yes, my dear 
 friend, I do. But do tell me something about the newly- 
 married couple, your foster-brother and his lively wife." 
 " They have set up in business in Paris, and are doing very 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 75 
 
 well there." " Pretty Laurette ought to make a splendid 
 "butcher's wife .... but I would rather she sold cigars 
 than cutlets, for then one could go and chat with her." 
 " It is quite certain that one cannot very well go and do 
 the polite in a butcher's shop. Dufilet often asks me to 
 go and lunch with them, but I should prefer having 
 luncheon with her alone." " How nice it is to be a foster- 
 brother. Well, you were both fed from the same breast, 
 so it would only be a continuation ! " 
 
 " And Madame Tricond ? " " She wants to dance too 
 much ; it grows fatiguing. There are some women like 
 that in the world, who do not the least mind if they utterly 
 knock their partners up ; as long as they enjoy themselves 
 they do not object to ruining another person's health. Do 
 not trust women like that, Felix, and believe me, do not 
 let foolish vanity induce you to dance with them frequently. 
 They will neither love you more nor be more faithful to 
 you for it, and when you are out of breath, they will 
 immediately give you a substitute. But, nevertheless, when- 
 ever there is another Merluchet wedding, pray do not forget 
 me, a*id come and see me ... . you know my address. I told 
 you that I was a friend of yours, and although I am fifteen 
 years older than you, that does not make any difference. On 
 the contrary, the one who has had experience, can impart 
 it to the other. ... I do not look too much like a wise 
 man, it is true. I follow the maxim of Hippocrates, who 
 said that we ought to take rather too much wine, at least 
 once a month. But all that does not prevent me from being 
 able to give you good advice." "Thank you, doctor, 
 thank vou. I believe in such spontaneous friendship as 
 you showed me at our very first meeting .... for I believe 
 in the sympathy which impels us towards persons who ' 
 feel themselves attracted to us. Do you think that I am 
 
 wrong ? " X . _ 
 
 " JSTo, my dear friend. In the first place, it is always- 
 right that we should believe in something .... for 
 credulous people are much happier than those who doubt 
 everything. Eemember Voltaire's Candide, and what Dr. 
 Pangloss, my colleague, said at the end : ' I married, I was 
 a cuckold, and I found that it was the happiest state on 
 earth.' So the happiest state for a man is to believe in 
 
76 THE WILL. 
 
 his wife's virtue. When I am attending a patient, do I not 
 always tell him that he will get well, when I quite well 
 know the contrary ? And is not my patient quite right to 
 believe me? When you are making love to a woman, 
 don't you tell her that you will love her all your life ? She 
 does her best to believe you, and at last she succeeds in 
 doing so. I repeat it, doubt means uneasiness, belief is 
 security, and, consequently, unhappiness." 
 
 And the doctor left Felix after shaking hands with 
 him, whilst the young man went home, saying to himself, 
 " There can be no possible doubt that Anita has totally 
 forgotten me since I have not been able to stand her 
 delicate suppers at JBouvaletfs. To please such ladies one 
 must always have one's pockets full of gold. Load them 
 with presents and stuff them with bonbons, and even that 
 
 does not prevent them from making fun of us 
 
 There can be no doubt of that. But my cousin, that kind, 
 good little Emma, whom I have not seen for more than 
 four months; .... who saved me from being sent to 
 prison for debt; .... whom I have not been able to 
 
 thank for the service she did me What must she 
 
 think of me ? . . . . Especially after seeing me roll on to 
 the stage, having a fight with the devil." 
 
 Felix had been several times to see Dr. Choubert, but 
 had never found him at home, but one day they met in the 
 street, and the doctor patted him on the shoulder and said, 
 " Well ! .... did I not tell you so ? " " What did you 
 tell me ? What about, doctor ? " " About your uncle, 
 of course.'' .... " My uncle ? Tou told me .... I 
 really do not quite remember what it was, anyhow." ie I 
 told you that he could not outlive the year .... and that 
 
 was about a month ago He has gone off quicker 
 
 than I expected." "Good heavens ! What are you 
 saying ? " " Did not you know that he was dead ? " 
 " Dead S Good heavens ! My uncle dead !".... Felix 
 had become very pale, and the doctor put his arm through 
 his to support him, and said, " Excuse me, my dear friend ; 
 excuse me for having told you this too suddenly .... 
 but I thought that you had been informed of the occur- 
 rence." "jSTo, I had heard nothing of it. I did not even 
 know that my poor uncle was ill." .... " He was not 
 
THE WILL. 77 
 
 ill ; he expired between a cup of marsh-mallow tea and 
 
 a radish He was bound to end like that." .... 
 
 '* And they never told me of it ! . . . . Ah ! my uncle 
 did not like me ... . and yet I feel that I regret him, 
 for I cannot forget that he took care of me before I grew 
 up ... . and that I owe the little that I know to him. 
 .... And when did the unhappy event take place ? '" 
 
 " Yesterday evening Most likely when you get 
 
 home you will find an invitation for the funeral, which is to 
 take place to-morrow." " Doctor, will you come to it with 
 me ? " " If your uncle had continued to be my patient I 
 should refuse you, as we do not go to our patients' 
 funerals ; it would take up too much of our time ! But as 
 I was not attending him any longer I will go with you, to 
 study your cousins' faces a little." 
 
 On his return home, Felix found a letter inviting him 
 to the mournful ceremony, and, as usual, they met at the 
 house of the deceased. Felix felt a choking sensation at 
 finding himself one more in that house, where he had not 
 been for six months. He asked a servant after his cousin 
 Emma, and was told that she had been in the country with? 
 Madame Sarget since the unhappy occurrence. i( And my 
 
 cousins ? How grieved they must be Their 
 
 father loved them so ! . . . . Perhaps they will not be 
 able to join in the mournful procession." " Oh ! excuse 
 me, monsieur," the man said, " the gentlemen are in the 
 drawing-room, and Monsieur Felicien has just been giving 
 Bertrand a famous blowing up because he had not put the 
 crape on all the hats It is wonderful how Mon- 
 sieur Felicien's voice has altered since his father's death. 
 .... He used to speak very softly, like a little flute, and 
 now he has a voice .... like a hunting horn." 
 
 Without paying any attention to what the servant said, 
 Felix went upstairs into the drawing-room, where a 
 numerous company had assembled, and where his cousins, 
 who looked grave and stiff, scarcely gave him their hand. 
 Stout Adolphus was the only one who sighed as he said to 
 Felix, " Ah ! who would have believed it ? To die so 
 suddenly, so quickly ! But there ! he would never drink 
 undiluted wine .... and yet he was advised to do so." 
 
 " I know who will drink it now ! '' Dr. Choubert, who 
 
78 THE WILL. 
 
 had just arrived, said in a whisper to Felix. " Yon 
 remember that I said to you that it would be a curious 
 thing to look at your cousins ! . . . . They are already 
 not the same men as they were when I dined with them 
 when their father was my patient. Just look at that 
 gentleman who used always to go to bed at ten o'clock ; 
 who always kept his head down and had such a soft voice. 
 .... What a change ! How high he carries his head 
 now, how haughty and almost disdainful his looks are, and 
 what a sharp and assured voice he has The young- 
 est, Victorin, seems to be thinking of something else than 
 of the loss which he has just sustaiDed ; he cannot remain 
 in his place, but keeps coming and going, is nervous, and 
 
 pays very little attention to the people round him 
 
 He certainly has some grand projects for the future, and I 
 would bet that at this moment his thoughts are far from 
 nere. As for your cousin Adolphe, he is less changed, and 
 jet his face also is more placid and open than it used to be. 
 I will not say that he is already thinking of what he is 
 going to have for dinner, but I am certain that grief will 
 not rob him of his appetite. Oh ! you who bring up your 
 children to fear you, and to tremble before you, if you 
 could see how little they regret you, you would be sorry 
 for having followed such a system of education !".... 
 The funeral ceremony was performed with all the pomp 
 which people desire, who can pay for it. When they left 
 the cemetery, Felix looked for his cousins to exchange a 
 few words of condolence with them, but tall Felicien got 
 into a carriage, the door of which he shut after him, with- 
 out replying to his cousin. Stout Adolphe had disappeared, 
 and Yictorin replied, all at random, to what Felix said to 
 him, so that he, as he saw that no attention was being 
 paid to what he said, went and took the doctor's arm and 
 said : " If my cousins receive me like this, they may be 
 quite certain that they will very rarely have a visit from 
 me." " What, my dear Felix, does that surprise you ? 
 E-emember that these young men are rich now, and thiuk 
 themselves persons of importance, whilst you .... you 
 have not a halfpenny .... and moreover you are their 
 relative, which is a double reason for them to turn their 
 back to you .... because a poor relation is annoying 
 
THE WILL. 79 
 
 .... one always fears lest he should try and borrow 
 money." " They are very wrong if they are afraid of that, 
 I should be very sorry to appeal to them for the slightest 
 service. My only wish is to get out of Emma's debt." 
 " Do you think she is in want of such a trifling sum ? 
 Remember she is now a rich heiress." " That makes no 
 difierence, I wish to pay it. . . . Dear Emma ! It is a 
 long time since I have seen her ... Ah, I am sure 
 that she has wept for her father. She is not like her 
 brothers." " That is very fortunate for her. As for me, 
 I must confess that I am very curious to know what use 
 these gentlemen will make of their fortune." 
 
 A week after Monsieur Montlaurent's funeral, Felix 
 received a letter from a lawyer, asking him to be at the 
 house of his deceased uncle the day but one following, so 
 as to be present at the reading of his will. " So ! my 
 uncle made a will, and I am asked to be present when 
 it is read. That is strange ! How can this will concern 
 me ? My uncle who could not bear me, is, perhaps, going 
 to scold me after his death, or to inflict some penance on me to 
 make me good. But, never mind, I will accept the invitation. 
 It will not be any pleasure to meet my cousins, but I shall 
 see Emma this time, and that will make amend for it." 
 
 At the day and hour indicated, Felix went to his uncle's 
 house, and in the drawing-room he found his cousins, 
 Emma, Madame Sarget and a few old servants of the 
 deceased, as well as his last medical attendant, who had 
 also been invited to hear the will read. 
 
 Felix saluted the three brothers very coldly, whilst 
 they, on the contrary, showed him more politeness, but 
 seemed uneasy, like people who feared that their father 
 might have left Felix a valuable legacy. Poor Emma 
 seemed very sad, and made Felix a rather ceremonious 
 bow, whilst he never got tired of looking at her, for in the 
 six months that had elapsed since he had seen her, a great 
 change had taken place in her, which was altogether to her 
 advantage. She was no longer the girl, almost a child, who 
 looked as if she was still a school girl. She had become a 
 sedate and reasonable young lady, and whose figure had 
 developed so well, that she looked older than she really 
 was. Then again, the grief that she had felt at her father's 
 
80 THE WILL. 
 
 death had given a melancholy expression to her features 
 which made her even more attractive. 
 
 Felix could not get tired of admiring his cousin, and 
 so braving Madame Sarget's nose, which looked as if it 
 were about to run him through, he went up to Emma's 
 chair, and stooping over her, he said in a low voice : 
 
 "I am very glad to meet you at last, Emma, for I have 
 wanted to do so for a long time, so as to tell you of my 
 gratitude for the service which you rendered me. Perhaps 
 you have thought me ungrateful, but I swear to you that 
 I was not." 
 
 Emma appeared moved, but she tried to hide her 
 feelings, and replied somewhat coldly : " I do not know 
 what you mean ; you do not owe me any thanks." " Oh, do 
 not try to deny it .... I was in debt and should have 
 been arrested but for you, who so generously came to my 
 assistance." "But .... I .... no I assure you, it 
 was not I. . . . It was my father who sent you that 
 money." " In spite of the respect which I feel for my 
 uncle's memory, I cannot owe him that service, for I know 
 from Dr. Choubert that he positively refused to assist me 
 .... whilst you ran after the doctor and gave him the 
 fifteen hundred francs* which I wanted." " Oh ! no, 
 indeed ! There were only a thousand francs." " Very 
 well, then, a thousand. So you acknowledge now that you 
 gave him that sum for me ? ' ' 
 
 Emma grew very red, and found nothing to say, and 
 Felix went od. " I know now who made up the sum that 
 I required ; the doctor joined you in that kind action. I 
 therefore have two benefactors instead of only one. . . . 
 A thousand thanks, my dear cousin, but I will pay my debt, 
 and perhaps one day " . . . . 
 
 Madame Sarget, who came and poked Lter nose between 
 Emma and Felix, prevented him from continuing, and the 
 old lady said to the young man in a hard voice : " Monsieur, 
 it is not usual to speak in such a manner to a young lady 
 who has just lost her father; it is not at all becoming." 
 " But, Madame, I was speaking to my cousin on a matter 
 of great importance, and " . . . . " Monsieur Felix, Emma 
 
 * £60. 
 
THE WILL. 81 
 
 has now been placed under my supervision, and I will not 
 let you speak to her ; besides this, we are here to listen to 
 the will being read, and not to talk. Try and respect your 
 uncle's memory. This is not a theatre where people roll 
 about on the stage .... and poor Monsieur Montlaurent, 
 when he entrusted his daughter to my care, gave me special 
 injunctions not to allow you to come and see her." 
 
 Felix was about to reply, but the lawyer had just 
 arrived, and so he thought it most prudent to keep silence. 
 
 The man of law read in the eyes of all the wish to hear 
 the deceased man's will, and so he sat down at a table and 
 began to read it immediately. Monsieur Montlaurent had 
 left a fortune of about eleven hundred thousand francs.*' 
 The million was divided equally amongst his four children : 
 some legacies were payable to old servants out of the 
 hundred thousand francs that remained ; twenty thousand 
 francs were left to his last medical man, with whom he 
 was perfectly satisfied (and who had let him die) ; and, 
 lastly, there was the following clause : 
 
 " My nephew, Felix Albrun, is a very worthless fellow ; 
 nevertheless, in memory of his mother, who was my sister, 
 I wish to give him something wherewith to pay his debts. 
 I therefore leave him the sum of eight thousand francs, 
 which will be paid to him immediately, but I forbid any of 
 my children ever to lend him a halfpenny." 
 
 Felix felt deeply hurt when he heard this clause, in 
 which his uncle humiliated him again. A slight smile was 
 on the lips of the three brothers, and they said to each 
 other that there was no necessity for their father to lay 
 that injunction upon them. 
 
 In conclusion, he left forty thousand francs which 
 would remain out of the hundred thousand after the 
 various legacies were paid, to Madame Sarget, and finally 
 he named her his daughter's guardian. 
 
 As soon as he had finished reading the document, the 
 lawyer took twenty notes for a thousand francs each out of 
 a pocketbook that was lying on the table before him, and 
 gave them to the doctor, saying in a slightly jesting voice, 
 
 £4i,000. 
 
32 LOYE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 
 
 *' Monsieur, this is from the late Monsieur Montlaurent, 
 who was so well satisfied with your attention." 
 
 The doctor stepped forward, took the twenty bank 
 notes in a courteous manner, bowed to the assembled com- 
 pany, and went out, saying, "Ah ! If all my patients who 
 are dead had left me the like amount, what a nice fortune 
 I should have now ! 
 
 Then the lawyer handed Felix the eight thousand 
 francs, and said to him, " Here is your uncle's legacy." 
 Felix came forward ; he blushed, hesitated, and then 
 replied in a firm voice, " If it were not for the respect that 
 I feel for my uncle, I should refuse this legacy, which is 
 accompanied by such harsh words ! I wish, however, only 
 to remember the kindness which he showed me, and, from 
 Lis last abode, my uncle will, perhaps, see that he has 
 judged me wrongly." 
 
 Taking the bank notes, and extracting one for a 
 ■thousand francs from them, he quickly went through the 
 drawing-room so as to pass close to his cousin, and in 
 doing so he let it fall on to Emma's knees, and then went 
 out rapidly, without even looking at his other cousins. 
 
 Felix's first care then was to go to his friend Choubert, 
 to whom he gave a bank note for five hundred franco, and 
 said to him, " Here, this is what I owed you without 
 knowing it, friend such as one rarely meets with 1 " 
 f* Where would the merit be," the doctor replied, " if 
 everybody did the same ? . . . . I prefer to be singular 
 myself." 
 
 XII. 
 
 LOVE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 
 
 Eight months had passed since Monsieur Montlaurent's 
 will had been read. With the six thousand five hundred 
 francs* which remained from his uncle's legacy he had paid 
 
 * £260. 
 
LOVE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 83 
 
 a few pressing debts which a young man is always sure to 
 contract, even without wishing to do so, and then, breaking 
 with the past, giving up going behind the scenes at the 
 minor theatres, he began to work in earnest. 
 
 He felt now how hard it is occasionally to have to trust 
 to one's friends for assistance, though it is very foolish to 
 reckon on them, and he did not wish to find himself in that 
 position again. Independence ought, above all things, to 
 be a man's ambition, and in order to be independent we 
 must earn enough to live on. Felix had not yet said to 
 himself that he wished to become rich, and yet at the 
 bottom of his heart he sometimes felt a natural desire to be 
 able to live on equal terms with the fortunate ones of the 
 world. He remembered the haughty manner and the 
 almost disdainful tone in which his cousins had treated 
 him, and he felt that it would be very pleasant to show 
 them that he had no need of their assistance, and that he 
 had been able to acquire by his own exertions that fortune 
 which they owed only to their father. In addition to that, 
 however, there was another feeling, another recollection, 
 which had altered the young man more than anything else 
 perhaps. His cousin's image was constantly before his 
 mind. Since he had seen Emma again, and perceived that 
 she had grown taller, and more serious and beautiful, since 
 he had found in her a charming girl instead of a child, he 
 felt that the liking he had experienced for the child had 
 changed into deep love for the girl. He loved his cousin, 
 and what grieved him was that she had a bad opinion of 
 him. She had answered him very coldly when he had meti 
 her on the occasion of the reading of the will, and he had 
 not seen her since. He knew that Madame Sarget would 
 not receive him were he to call, as she would allege that 
 she was only fulfilling Monsieur Montlaurent's last wishes. 
 
 All this pained Felix as much as any good-looking 
 young fellow can be pained who is not romantic, and who 
 has no wish to resemble Werther or Mirk Antony ; bat with- 
 out having those passions which derange our brain and 
 make us commit follies, one can love well and truly. Fires 
 which show the least flame last the longest. But if he 
 could not see Emma, he at any rate had the right to think 
 about her. He knew that she was living with Madame 
 
g4 LOVE SOMETIMES M&.KES US STEADY. 
 
 target in a pretty house which they had taken on the 
 Boulevard Malesherbes, and that they had a very nice 
 garden which his cousin took great pleasure in, and that 
 they scarcely went out at all, which was quite natural as 
 they were in such deep mourning. And Eelix also 
 reflected that Emma, charming as she was, and with an 
 income of about twelve thousand francs (£480), would 
 certainly have many aspirants for her hand, and that he, 
 poor as he was, could not be amongst their number, and 
 that, even if he were to make enough to enable him to 
 marry, his cousin would have nothing to do with him 
 because he was such a bad character. 
 
 "But how am I a bad character ? " our youthful lover 
 asked himself. "I am fond of pleasure .... is not that 
 only natural at my age ? But I have never been guilty of 
 any action at which I ought to blush in order to procure it. 
 My fight with Trabucos is the only thing that anyone can 
 blame me for .... and, after all, it was only a funny 
 scene. Unfortunately my pretty cousixi knows too little 
 of such incidents of the green-room, and she took it too 
 seriously, whilst those around her made her look upon it 
 as something monstrous, whereas it was only a man's folly. 
 That wretched Madame Sarget, who is always with Emma, 
 oeuV makes me out still blacker. Ah ! why did I make 
 fun of her nose ? What a mistake to make fun of a 
 woman's nose, and how imprudent young people are." 
 
 . As to his other cousins, Felix hardly ever thought of 
 them ; for what did the conduct of these three phoenixes, 
 whom he did not, however, in the least wish to resemble, 
 matter to him ? " They are probably only thinking about 
 increasing their fortune," he said to himself, " and are 
 happy in their own fashion. Much good may it do them. 
 But not to care for women and good wine .... never to 
 play cards or billiards .... why, it is not worth calling 
 life. I must, however, confess that we ought not to abuse 
 any of those things .... they are very nice, but 
 dangerous. And because I am fond of the pleasures 
 suitable to my age, Emma is persuaded that I am a libertine, 
 a drunkard, a gambler ! Ah, I am very steady and work 
 ing very hard now, but she does not know it . . . , and if I 
 were to tell her so, she would not believe it ... . and 
 
LOVE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 85 
 
 then, how can I tell her, as Madame Sarget will not 
 receive me. . . . However, if I meet my cousin, that long 
 nose shall certainly not prevent me from speaking to her." 
 And in the hope of meeting her, Felix often went into the 
 Boulevard Maiesherbes and into the Pare Monceaux, and 
 used often also to go into the Bois de Boulogne, which 
 was quite near. He met many people walking there, and 
 saw crowds of pretty women all vying with each other in 
 dress and elegance, but he did not see Emma, and returned 
 home quite low-spirited, saying to himself: 
 
 " I suppose she is in their garden. . . . How I wish 
 I were with her. But I daresay she never thinks of me, 
 and yet she seemed fond of me. Are not the thousand 
 francs which she sent me to help me pay my debts a proof 
 of this ? Yes, of her goodness of heart certainly ; but 
 perhaps she would have done as much for anyone else who 
 was menaced with imprisonment." 
 
 Felix gave way to these reflections as he was walking 
 amongst the loungers, which caused him several tim^s 
 heedlessly to run up against people coming in the opposite 
 direction, who would call out, " Do take care ! " " The 
 gentleman does not see clearly." " Why don't you look 
 where you are going to?" And other such phrases, to 
 which he thought it best to make no reply, until at last 
 something was said so different to the usual complaints, 
 that it made him listen. A loud voice cried out to him, 
 " Tou idiot ! What do you mean by treading on my wife's 
 dress ? If I thought you had done it on purpose " . . . . 
 Felix stopped to reply to the gentleman who called him an 
 idiot, and whom he had already passed, but almost at the 
 same time two other cries were heard, the voice of a man 
 and of a woman, " Why, it is my foster-brother ! " " Oh, 
 Monsieur Felix." And on looking up he saw Dufilet and 
 pretty Laurette, his wife. 
 
 The young butcher struck himself on the forehead in 
 despair, and cried, " It was my foster-brother whom I 
 called idiot ! Why, I am a regular jackass. Monsieur 
 Felix, box my ears, for I thoroughly deserve it." "]STot at 
 all, Dufilet, and I certainly do not mean to b'~>x your ears; 
 .1 should be very sorry to do so. ' v Yes, yes, please, do ; 
 J should really be glad if you would .... I called you 
 
86 LOVE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 
 
 an idiot .... and I am another." " I might have been 
 angry if a stranger had called me so, but certainly not 
 when it was yon. And then, it seems that I trod on yonr 
 wife's dress, and I deserve to be found fault with." " Oh, 
 Monsieur, it is nothing at all. It is only the trimming, 
 and that can easily be sewn on again." " That is nothing," 
 Dufilet echoed, " it can easily be sewn on again .... 
 Tread on it again, if you like, foster-brother ; do not stand 
 upon ceremony." " Do you think I trod on your wife's 
 dress for amusement ? I was not thinking of what I was 
 doing, and looking to the right and left, and did not see 
 you, that is how I was so awkward .... However, do 
 not let us talk about it any more. But, I say, you do not 
 seem to trouble about business much, as you come into the 
 Bois de Boulogne during the week. What about the 
 shop ? " 
 
 " The shop. Oh ! we have a large, high-class trade 
 and close at half-past four o'clock. Then we take an open 
 fly and are driven here . . , . and then we walk, because 
 Laurette declares that people ought to have a carriage of 
 their own if they want to drive." "Do you think I am 
 wrong, Monsieur Felix ? People cut a nice figure in a fly 
 amongst all these handsome carriages." rt That is so, but 
 there are some capital carriages to be hired, and you may 
 be sure that all the people whom you see showing off in 
 these grand equipages, are not the real owners of them 
 any more than you are. In Paris everything can be hired ; 
 luxury, carriages, footmen, liveries, dresses .... every- 
 thing, even to reputation." " You hear, Laurette, every- 
 thing is hired. I am very glad that you have heard that 
 » , . . even reputation. So if I wanted to have the 
 reputation of being a witty man, I might hire it ? " "It 
 would cost you a great deal, for you would have to address 
 yourself to the newspapers, get articles and puffs inserted 
 .... which you would write yourself and which would 
 say : ' Monsieur Dufilet, the wittest butcher in Paris, 
 always keeps very tender chops and cutlets.' " " That 
 would be very nice. Laurette, would you like me to be 
 the wittest butcher in Paris ? " " If you dare to do such 
 a thin^, I shall return to Belleville, to papa." 
 
 " There, you see that my wife does not want me to be 
 
LOYE SOMETIMES MAKES US STEADY. 87" 
 
 witty. But I only said it for fun. . . . But, foster-brother, 
 might I venture to ask you .... we should be very 
 flattered if you woulc^fgive my wife your arm.'' " But, 
 Dufilet, you have no business to ask Monsieur that, when 
 he was going in the opposite direction." 
 
 Felix would have preferred to return to Paris, but he 
 was afraid of appearing proud, and to hurt his foster- 
 brother's feelings, if he refused to give his wife his arm. 
 And then, the young woman was quite pretty enough tc 
 prevent there being anything disagreeable in the proposal. 
 She was rather stout and high-coloured, but she bad a pair 
 of eyes worthy of an Andalusian, regular features, red 
 lips and very good teeth, and very well-developed haunches, 
 which required no crinoline. And so Felix gave his arm 
 to pretty Laurette most aimably, and said to her, " I shall 
 be very glad to go a little way with you." The young 
 woman blushed with pleasure and took the arm that he 
 offered her ; Dufllet was as much delighted as his wife was^ 
 and in his pleasure walked behind them, and also trod on 
 her dress, and Felix was obliged to get angry before his 
 foster-brother would make up his mind to come and walk 
 by their side. They walked thus for some time, stopping- 
 by the side of the drive occasionally to see the carriages 
 with their elegant lady occupants pass. Laurette's two 
 eyes did not seem enough to enable her to see the ladies' 
 toilettes and their jewels, and at every moment Dufilet 
 said : " By Jove ! What swells ! Laurette, you are so fond 
 of distinguished-looking people that you ought to be 
 satisfied. My wife is constantly wanting to come to the 
 Bois de Boulogne to see the swells .... Laurette, when 
 I get rid of two oxen a day, I will give you dresses and 
 bonnets like these." " Will you hold your tongue,. 
 Dufilet ; you need not let everybody know that you sell 
 beef." " But everybody eats it, and so it is not a business 
 to be despised. Oh ! what loveiy ladies ! I suppose they 
 are all countesses or marchionesses, foster-brother ? " " I 
 certainly see a good many who are marchionesses or 
 countesses at night, in front of the prompter's box. But 
 I should not like to assert .... Eh ! what was I saying ? 
 Just look, that woman who is so beautifully dressed coming 
 along in that victoria. . . . At any rate sbe is an actress 
 
85 WOMAN. 
 
 from the Delassements. . . . Anita .... little Anita" 
 ** What, that beautiful lady .... is not a princess ? " 
 "Yes, what we call a princess of the footlights. But, 
 good heavens ! " " What is the matter with you, Monsieur 
 Felix ? " " That gentleman who is in the victoria .... 
 by Anita's side .... is Felicien .... my eldest 
 cousin." 
 
 At that moment, the victoria which was not going fast, 
 almost grazed them. Mademoiselle Anita had seen Felix 
 with pretty Lanrette on his arm, and began to laugh as she 
 looked at him, and nodded to him. " That handsome lady 
 bowed to you ! " D unlet exclaimed, whilst Felix looked 
 after the victoria as it drove away. " What a fortunate man 
 you are to know such grand ladies ! " " Do you happen to 
 wish to make her acquaintance ? " pretty Laurette said, 
 giving her husband a furious look, " Oh ! that is good, 
 here is my jealous wife getting into a rage ! . . . . It is 
 iust the same in the morning when I joke with the servant 
 whilst I am giving her her soup, she always gets up a 
 scene with me." ... " Dufilet, be quiet ! You are only 
 talking nonsense ! " "I say that you are very jealous." 
 
 Felix let his foster-brother quarrel with his wife, 
 and said good-bye to them and returned to Paris. 
 But all the way back he thought of what he had seen, and 
 said to himself : " Felicien ! . . . . the chaste and virtuous 
 Felicien with Anita ! It cannot be possible j I must have 
 made a mistake ! " 
 
 XIII 
 
 TTelix was still thinking of the people he had met in the 
 Bois de Boulogne, when, the next morning, he received a 
 little, very much perfumed, and very badly written note ; 
 lie guessed that it came from a woman, and uttered an 
 
WOMAN. 89 
 
 exclamation of surprise on seeing that it came from Anita, 
 and he eagerly read it. 
 
 " My dear little Felix, — You were with an enormously 
 big woman yesterday. What a lump ! Her face was not so 
 bad, but the whole get up was not at all the thing ! Do come 
 and tell me where you fished up such a whale ; come and 
 see me ! for I have a number of funny things to tell you about 
 somebody whom you know very well. I am living at No. 24 
 Rue de la Cliaussee d'Antin, but do not go and ask for Anita, 
 for they would not knowwhom you meant. I am nowSignora 
 Mirobelli, a pure Italian, and I am learning to play the 
 guitar. For you, however, I shall always be, Anita." 
 
 Felix read the note over twice, and, curious to know 
 whether he had not made a mistake the day before, when 
 he thought that he recognised his cousin Felicien in the 
 gentleman who was driving in the Bois with the yonng 
 courtezan, he said to himself : " I will accept her invitation, 
 not because I want to renew my relations with her, but 
 because I want to know whether it was really Felicien who 
 was with her." 
 
 So about two o'clock he went to the address which she 
 had given him, went into a fine house and found the 
 porter, whose lodge was a drawing-room in which there 
 was a piano. He asked a gentleman who seemed quite 
 taken up with reading his newspaper for Madame Mirobelli, 
 and he replied, without looking up : " On the first floor ; 
 the door on the right." 
 
 Felix almost felt inclined to ask the gentleman's pardon 
 for having interrupted him in his reading, but he hastened 
 upstairs. rt How perfect everything is in Paris ; porters 
 have drawing-rooms ! . . . . Very soon they will put a 
 beadle at their door, and you will have to ask him whether 
 the porter will be kind enough to speak to you .... How 
 Paris is altering .... Elegance is to be met with every- 
 where, though I must confess that we have not yet arrived 
 at the pitch of the English .... whose chimney-sweeps 
 have carriages, and the people of the lower class always 
 wear dress-coats and white neckties.* Shall we get as far 
 
 * The author's knowledge of England is peculiar, but this story 
 was written long before Frenchmen travelled at all. By carriage^ he 
 •snay mean a chimney-sweep's donkey-cart 1 (Translator.) 
 
90 WOMAN. 
 
 as that ? I hope not ; for I know nothing so ugly as a 
 beggar dressed up." 
 
 When he rang the bell, a little tiger came and opened 
 the door to him, and he fonnd himself in a handsome apart- 
 ment, and a lady'smaid, who was ngly enough not to dis- 
 tract the attention of visitors, came to see who it was. 
 The young man gave his name, and immediately the maid 
 exclaimed : u Oh you can come in, Monsieur ; Madame is 
 at home to you ! " 
 
 After going through a drawing-room which was fur- 
 nished with much luxury, Felix was shown into a delight- 
 ful little boudoir in which looking-glasses, velvet, satin and 
 flowers were lavished in every direction, and he was so 
 dazzled by what he saw, that he stopped in the middle of 
 the room and exclaimed : " But where am I ? All that I 
 see is delightful ! It must be some fairy, or a goddess who 
 is living here ! " " Yes, my dear fellow .... and the fairy 
 is 1 1 " Saying this, Anita, who was lying almost curled 
 up on a couch, got up quickly and threw her arms round 
 Felix' neck and kissed him, which the young man allowed 
 with a good grace ; it is always the best thing that a man 
 can do, unless he wishes to pass as a Joseph, and that is a 
 reputation which is not very tempting for most men. Then 
 he sat down by Anita's side and said to her: "I con- 
 gratulate you .... So you have become a success ? '* 
 (i Yes, I am on the pinnacle, I assure you ! .... I am the 
 fashionable beauty just now ! " 
 
 " But why call yourself Mirobelli." " Because my 
 name of Anita was too well known on the boulevards." 
 "And so at present you strum the guitar?" "I strum 
 something else as well ! .... I call myself an Italian, and 
 all I now want is a good voice." u Your rooms are mag- 
 nificent .... Gilding, mirrors, the choicest flowers .... 
 You don't seem to deny yourself anything 1 " " You had 
 better say that I am denied nothing .... Your cousin 
 does things well, doesn't he ? " " What* .... really ?. 
 Then I was not mistaken .... It was Felicien Montlaurent 
 who was sitting by your side in your carriage yesterday ? ,r 
 " The very man." u He is your lover, I suppose ? " " My 
 lover ! Oh ! dear no ... . How you jump at conclusions ! 
 He keeps me, which is not at all the same thing. But he 
 
WOMAN. OT- 
 
 IS too stupid and conceited for me ever to care for him I 
 . . . . Your cousin is a regular oyster, a regular man in a 
 shell." ... " That is how you manage matters I And a 
 man who has put you into a palace, or something very like 
 one 1 " " Don't you yet know that the man who pays is 
 never the one we really care for ? . . . . There may be 
 exceptions, but they are extremely rare." "I cannot get 
 over it ! Felicien, who was so steady .... who did not 
 venture to look at a woman !".... " Felicien ! . . . . 
 Why, he adores women, and they can make him do every- 
 thing they please ! . . . . He has already been with 
 Carlina and little Tantinette, but as soon as I appeared, I 
 had only to give him one look and he was at my feet ! As 
 I am fond of dancing, he takes me to one of the public 
 balls nearly every night." " Whilst his father was alive? 
 he went to bed at ten o'clock every night." "All the 
 more reason that he should make up for it now. It is like 
 schoolboys who are made to drink their milk without 
 sugar, and who afterwards make it like syrup." " And he 
 had other mistresses before you ? " "I should rather 
 think so ! Have I not told you that he idolises our sex ? 
 And if I were not careful, there is a certain Antonia who 
 makes eyes at him .... and who would like to carry him 
 off from me .... But I have him tight, and when I let 
 him go he will be plucked quite bare ! " 
 
 " But, Anita, it is very bad of you to say that 
 
 Do you mean to say that you really mean to pluck my 
 cousin bare ? " " Why not ? . . . . I or some other 
 woman ? . . . . And if it is not I, it will certainly be 
 some other woman. Oh I I know Felicien now as well as 
 if I had moulded him in wax myself. .... He is a 
 regular bit of dough. But, by-the-bye, Felix, tell me who 
 was that tall grenadier, dressed up as a woman, who had 
 hold of your arm yesterday in the Bois de Boulogne ? " 
 *' The wife of my foster-brother .... a butcher." .... 
 14 Oh ! so that is it. I said to myself, ' What legs of 
 mutton!' So you run after butchers' wives now ? " "I 
 do not run after anybody ; I have become quite steady." 
 " Are you ill ? " " Not the least, but if some people 
 choose to ruin themselves I want to grow rich." " Ah ! well, 
 my dear fellow, you are not such a fool as some are, then.' 5 
 
92 -woman. 
 
 At that moment the bell rang, and the lady's maid 
 came in and said, " Monsieur Felicien Montlaurent." 
 " All right ; .... let him wait in the drawing-room. I 
 
 am not visible yet By-and-bve I will 
 
 ring." The lady'smaid went out, and Felix said, " Wnat 
 the devil will Felicien think when he finds me here ? " 
 " Oh ! that would be quite immaterial to me, and I should 
 
 find plenty of reasons to give him I should prefer, 
 
 instead of his seeing you, that you should hear one of my 
 conversations with your cousin, so that you may judge 
 what an empire I have over him. . . . Here, just go into 
 this little room with the glass door ; you can hear perfectly 
 there .... and even see by pushing the blind aside a 
 little." " But I have no wish to listen to your conversa- 
 tion." " Yes, yes, I want you to know your cousin, whom 
 you take for a Cato, so just go." .... "At any rate, 
 do not make me see too much ! " " How stupid you 
 . are ! . . . . There is no danger of that, I assure 
 y° u! ". 
 
 Anita pushed Felix into the small room and shut the 
 door on him, and then she rang for her maid, and told her 
 to show Felicien in. Monsieur Montlaurent's eldest son 
 came into the boudoir, but he was no longer the same 
 young man that we saw at his father's house. In the first 
 place, Felicien seemed to have grown ten years older in 
 .eight months. Instead of a fresh, rosy colour, he had a 
 pale, long, worn-out face 5 his features were already 
 withered, and his eyes were swollen and red ; he had an 
 uncertain expression, and the look generally of a man who 
 has made an abuse of pleasure, and whom a doctor would 
 tell that it was high time to stop. 
 
 He came into the boudoir looking very cross, and threw 
 himself into an easy-chair, saying, " You made me wait in 
 the ante-room. Why did you not let me come in here 
 immediately ? " "I presume, because I did not choose to. 
 In the first place, it was not the ante-rooom, as you were 
 in the drawing-room." .... " I cannot understand your 
 idea of preventing me from coming in!" "You never 
 understand anything ! Suppose I was dressing ? " " Well, 
 .if I had even seen you in your chemise,it would not have 
 >.been the first time." .... " That is a very nice thing to 
 
WOMAN. 93 
 
 say ! ! . . . Ton ought to have it announced by the 
 public crier ! " " There is no need for that. Does not 
 everyone know that yon are my mistress ? " Ton ought 
 to stick it on your hat ; people would see it better then.''" 
 " Ton are out of sorts to-day, and take everything that I 
 say amiss." " Tes, and it is all your fault. .... Tou 
 come in like a madman, and get up a scene just because I 
 
 \voul^ not let you come into my room immediately 
 
 as I was taking a foot bath." .... " Tes, I was in the 
 wrong. . . . Come, my dear, don't be angry." .... 
 And Felicien came up to her and took one of her hands, 
 which he carried to his lips, but Anita dragged it away, 
 
 and said, u Leave me alone Tou pretend to love 
 
 me, but I see that it is all nonsense Tou are not 
 
 sighing for me any longer." " Oh! my dear .... I do 
 not deserve that reproach, .... and I want" .... 
 " Leave me alone, I tell you ! . . . . When a man really 
 loves a woman, he is ready to satisfy all her wishes, and to 
 gratify her smallest fancies." .... " Well, it seems to me 
 that I certainly do so." " It does not seem so to me, at 
 all ! Two days ago I showed you a little watch, set with 
 rose diamonds, in a jeweller's shop, which took my fancy 
 
 immensely I thought, of course, that you would 
 
 bring it me almost immediately .... a paltry jewel. 
 .... I am sure it is not worth more than four or five 
 thousand francs at most .... and yet it has not entered 
 your head to make me a present of it." 
 
 Felicien pulled rather a long face ; however, he replied, 
 choosing his words, "Ah ! that trinket. .... I think it- 
 was a brooch But I was not quite sure, and that 
 
 is why " . . . . " Tou are lying Tou know quite well 
 
 what I wanted Ah ! If Mademoiselle Antonia 
 
 had expressed the same wish to you, it would have been 
 gratified a long time ago." " What an idea ! .... And 
 why should you mention Antonia to me, when I have not 
 thought about her for a long time, and when I only care 
 for you ? . . . „ Come, my dearest, let me kiss you 
 and" ... . 
 
 But Anita repulsed her adorer roughly, and got up 
 hastily, saying, " Oh ! you monster ! you traitor ! you 
 wretch ! . . . . He dares to come near me, and he smells 
 
i)4 "WOMAN. 
 
 of tuberose enough to poison me, when it is a scent I hate ' 
 
 But it is Antonia's favourite You have just come 
 
 •from her, of course, and she has perfumed you like that ! " 
 
 (C I declare it is nothing of the sort I had several 
 
 scent bottles on my toilette table, and I poured some out 
 of the first that I took up on to my pocket handkerchief 
 without thinking.'* .... " You are not speaking the 
 ■ truth ! You did it to please Antonia ! . . . . Very well, 
 Monsieur, I will let Prince Boursicoff make love to me. 
 .... He is a rich Boyard, who overwhelms me with 
 
 love letters and bouquets Oh ! he will give me 
 
 brooches .... and not smell of tuberose." Felicien ran 
 after Anita into her room, and said to her, " Oh ! my 
 dearest, you will not do that, surely ? . . . . You will 
 not pay any attention to your Boyard .... will you ? 
 .... You only said it to vex me." "Yes, yes, I shall 
 
 listen to him Go and perfume yourself for 
 
 Antonia Go and buy her a brooch." .... "Never! 
 
 1 only care for you I will go and buy that brooch 
 
 Immediately, but only to lay it at your feet And I 
 
 will go home beforehand and change all my things, so as 
 not to smell any longer of that scent which you dislike so. 
 «... And then .... you will not repel me any more, 
 oh ? " " Then, . . : . then I shall, perhaps, be kind 
 enough to forgive you ! " "In that case I will run j I will 
 fir and come back again directly." 
 
 As soon as Felicien had gone Felix came out of the 
 little room. Anita had thrown herself on to the couch, 
 where she rolled about with laughter, and then looking at 
 Felix, she said, " That is how it is done, my dear friend. 
 Don't you think that your cousin is a big flat enough, 
 
 now?" " Yes 9 upon my word, I do I declare I 
 
 shall never forget it How he has changed. Oh ! 
 
 uncle, if you could but see your dearly-beloved son at 
 present ! . . . . But, no, it is better that he never saw 
 
 him so And he will bring you the brooch ? " 
 
 i ' Most certainly he will ! 1 should like to see him come 
 back without it ! " " Good-bye, Anita." " I hope you 
 will come and see me again ? " " Yes, .... and by-the- 
 way, what about Trabucos ? " " Ah ! leave him alone ; 
 h.e is altogether out of it." 
 
THE PAKC MONCEAUX. THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 95 
 
 And Felix went away, thinking that if his cousin 
 allowed himself to be led by women, his money would not 
 go very far. 
 
 XIY. 
 
 THE PARC MONCEAUX.— THE LITTLE BEGGAR 
 
 GIRL 
 
 You surely know the Pare Monceaux ? There are charm- 
 ing walks, beautiful alleys, cool shade, water, green turf 
 and lovely flowers. That is more than is requisite to 
 attract visitors, and yet one of the greatest charms of the 
 place is that one very rarely meets many people there. 
 What is the reason of that ? It is because of its situation, 
 and because it is far from the centre and from the busy 
 life of Paris. 
 
 Although he lived far from it, Eelix went for a walk in 
 the Pare Monceaux as soon as his affairs left him a moment's 
 liberty, which was becoming a very rare occurrence, as for 
 some time he had shown such an eagerness for work, he 
 had managed the business with which he had been en- 
 trusted, so well, that the head of the business house in 
 which he was employed, had just raised him to a more im- 
 portant post, and told him that he was to have a share in 
 the profits of the business. 
 
 Felix felt very proud in his new position, and said to 
 himself : " If my cousin knew how satisfied my employer 
 is with me, she would change her opinion about me .... 
 But if I were to go and tell her she would not believe me ! 
 .... People never believe the good we say of ourselves 
 .... And then, I am not to be allowed admittance to the 
 house .... Oh ! Madame Sarget ! . . . . why did I go 
 and offer you a case for your nose ! " 
 
 The young man gave way to these reflections as he was 
 walking in the Pare Monceaux. He had just gone into a 
 
96 THE PARC MONCEAUX.— THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 
 
 walk, when a little girl of eight or nine stopped in front of 
 him and held out a hand with a smile to implore his 
 charity. She was a pale, delicate child, whose gentle and 
 interesting face had not that false expression, that tearful 
 and assumed misery which we so often see in children who 
 have been trained up to beg. She was poorly dressed, but 
 at any rate she was not in rags j her face was clean, and 
 there was nothing of that wretchedness about her which 
 seems to think that it must make itself disgusting in order 
 to be more interesting. 
 
 Felix, who often went into the Pare Monceaux, had con- 
 stantly seen the little girl there, as she stood by the side of 
 a poor blind woman. The child looked at the passers-by 
 without daring to beg ; but her looks were so expressive 
 and touching, that they said more than words, and the first 
 time he had seen her he had put a piece of silver into her 
 hand, and had gone oif without waiting for her thanks. 
 But each time when he came again he had seen the poor 
 blind woman and her little girl, and then he had always 
 gone up and given her his alms, until it became a pleasure 
 and almost a duty to him, and he felt uneasy when he had 
 been some time without seeing the little beggar girl. On 
 her part, the child felt the greatest delight when she saw 
 the gentleman, who was always so generous towards her 
 mother and herself, and as soon as she saw him in the dis- 
 tance, she exclaimed : " Here he comes ! " and, leaving the 
 poor blind woman, she ran to meet Felix, who smiled at 
 her, whilst she said in a touching voice : " Oh, Monsieur, 
 I have not come to beg for assistance .... but to have the 
 pleasure of thanking you for my mother and myself ! " 
 
 On this occasion Felix gently pressed the child's hand 
 and said to her : " Good-day, my dear child .... Where 
 is your mother ? " " There, Monsieur, on that bench .... 
 Oh ! she is not uneasy ; I told her I saw you coming, and 
 that I was going to say good morning to you." "That is 
 right, my child ; but I wish you to share somewhat in my 
 change of fortune. I am going to earn more money than I 
 have done hitherto .... and so I ought to be more 
 generous towards you ; here, take this and carry it to your 
 mother." With these words, Felix put a twenty franc 
 piece into the little girl's hand ; she uttered an exclamation 
 
THE PARC MONCEAUX. — THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 97' 
 
 of surprise and then said : " Twenty francs ! Bnt tbat is 
 too much, Monsieur .... my mother will scold me for 
 accepting as much as that .... Why do you give me so 
 much, Monsieur ? " "I repeat it, my child, because I am 
 better off myself than I was a week ago, and because my 
 new employment will not allow me to come here as often 
 as I used to do ; so you see I ought to be more generous. 
 Go and take the money to your mother, and tell her that 
 there is still some happiness in store for her in the world r 
 as she has such an affectionate and devoted daughter as you 
 are." 
 
 The child's eyes were full of tears, and one could see- 
 that she wished, and did not dare, to kiss that beneficent 
 hand .... but she took the twenty francs, and ex- 
 claimed : " Ah ! I shall make my mother very happy ! '* 
 And then she ran off towards the bench where the poor 
 blind woman was sitting, whilst Felix continued his walk. 
 He had forgotten all about the little beggar girl for some 
 time, when he saw, at some distance, two ladies in mourn- 
 ing coming towards him. His heart beat, and he stopped 
 and looked at them attentively .... and soon in one of the 
 two he recognized his cousin Emma. 
 
 " It is she 1 . . . . Oh ! yes, it is she ! " he said to him- 
 self . . . . " At last I am to meet her again .... How 
 fortunate that I am here to-day .... I shall be able to 
 speak to her a little .... I hope that her guardian will 
 not prevent me from wishing my cousin good-day." 
 
 It was really Emma and Madame Sarget, who had come 
 by accident for a walk in the Pare Mouceaux. They 
 came on towards the spot where Felix had stopped, 
 and as they were both wearing veils, they had not 
 remarked the young man who was standing motionless 
 against a tree, and so he suddenly found himself in front of 
 them, and stopped them with a bow. 
 
 Emma appeared very much disturbed at seeing her 
 cousin, whilst Madame Sarget exclaimed in a disagreeable- 
 voice: u Monsieur Felix ! . ... Oh! what a meeting ! " 
 .... "lain very glad that accident has allowed me to- 
 meet you here, my dear cousin, for I have been most 
 anxious to see you for a long time .... and to know how 
 you were." . . . " Thank you, cousin ; and you are well 
 
 4 
 
'98 THE PARC MONCEAUX. — 'J HE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 
 
 yourself? " " Yes, thank you ; but you .... Oh ! you 
 have grown still prettier .... and that was a difficult 
 matter !".... " Oh ! yes, we are very well .... and 
 liave grown very pretty ! " Madame Sarget said, angrily. 
 **' and now that you know all .that .... Come, Emma: 
 good morning, Mon'sieur Felix ! " . . . 
 
 But Felix stood in front of the old lady, and said to her 
 -in a tolerably firm voice : " Oh ! just a moment, Madame ! 
 I hope that you will allow me to exchange a few words 
 with my cousin, whom I have not seen for nearly a year. 
 Am I a man whose presence can frighten you ? . . . . And 
 ■what have I done, after all, to be repelled like this? .... 
 Ought a few youthful follies cause you to treat me as if I 
 were a pariah ? You must know, Madame, that I did not 
 persevere in a bad road ; thanks to my aptitude for work 
 -and to my regularity of conduct, the head of the house in 
 which I was only a simple clerk, has just raised me to the 
 post of head clerk, and has promised to give me an interest 
 in the business." " That is possible, Monsieur, and if it 
 really is so, so much the better .... but as you are working 
 so hard now, what are you doing in the Pare Monceaux in 
 the middle of the day ? . . . . Do you keep your books 
 whilst walking about here ? " " Madame, one has an 
 occasional moment's leisure in every business, and I employ 
 my spare time in coming here because .... because .... 
 why should I not acknowledge it ? — because I was always 
 iioping to meet my cousin here, as I knew she lived in this 
 neighbourhood .... and to-day I have had that pleasure ! " 
 " We, however, do not spend our time in walking about, 
 Monsieur. I do not think you will meet Victorin here, as 
 he is also working and wishes to make his fortune, and he 
 will succeed in doing so, for he goes to the Stock-Exchange 
 every day 1 "... . " Do you think that that is enough in 
 order to make a fortune, Madame ?'" "I think, Monsieur, 
 that one ought to be able to do business better there than 
 in the Pare Monceaux." " And is my cousin Felicien also 
 making his fortune ? " a Felicien ? . . . . We have nok 
 seen him for a long time, for he rather neglects us, but 
 most probably the reason for that is that he is working too 
 iiard .... he is such an excellent, steady young fellow I 
 Take him for vour model, and you will get on all the better 
 
THE PARC MONCEAUX. — THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 99 
 
 for it ! " "I have no intention of doing so, Madame. 
 Well, my dear cousin, are you still angry with me, and will 
 you not do away with that strict prohibition which pre- 
 vents me from going to see you .... when it would give 
 me so much pleasure ? " 
 
 Emma was very much embarrassed, and said with some 
 hesitation : " If it only depended on me ... . I should not 
 put any obstacles in the way of your visits .... but . . . . " 
 "But! .... but! .... I should put them ! " Madame 
 Sarget cried, " in the first place as your guardian, and then 
 in obedience to the last wishes of your father .... and I 
 am astonished, Emma, that you should forget them so 
 quickly!" "I do not forget them, as I regulate myself 
 according to them." ... " But, cousin, if my uncle were 
 still alive, he would not repel me from his house .... 
 "When he knew how I am going on now, he would have 
 been the first to open his arms to me." .... " Ta, ta, ta ! 
 All that is very easily said now that your uncle is dead ! 
 Look here, Monsieur Felix, I am as clever as you are .... 
 and my big nose does not prevent me from seeing into you 
 quite clearly ! . . . . You would like to see Emma again in 
 order to make love to her .... to try and please her, 
 because you know she is an excellent match ! She has 
 twelve thousand francs a year already, without counting all 
 that I shall leave her .... for she will be my sole heiress, 
 and without reckoning the fortune that her brother Yic- 
 torin is going to make for her, for he wants to treble what 
 his sister already possesses .... Well ! I am very 
 sorry, Monsieur Felix, but none of that will be for 
 you." .... 
 
 Felix could not restrain a movement of anger j he 
 stepped back and exclaimed: "Enough, Madame, you 
 insult me now by supposing that the attachment I feel for 
 my cousin is only based on interest .... Ah ! If Emma 
 were poor I should be only too happy if she would accept 
 me ! . . . . but she is rich .... you are right, I must not 
 allow myself to pay my addresses to her .... But you 
 oannot prevent me from loving, from adoring her, or from 
 never loving any other woman in the future .... Good- 
 bye, Emma, good-bye, and forgive me for loving you, and 
 let me pray for your happiness." 
 
100 THE PARC MONCEAUX. — THE LITTLE EEGGAR GIRL. 
 
 When the young man had taken his leave, Emma 
 seemed very much moved by what he had said, bur. 
 Madame Sarget shrugged her shoulders and murmured,. 
 " He will never love any other woman ! . . . . Ah ! we 
 know those phrases ! . . . . I would make a bet that he 
 has at least two mistresses .... and is carrying on a 
 
 number of intrigues When men go behind the 
 
 scenes at the theatre and come to blows with the actors 
 ... . it is all over. They can never become respectable 
 members of society again. I hope, my dear Emma, that 
 you do not believe a word of all that your cousin has just 
 
 been saying to you Such gentlemen never open 
 
 their mouth except to tell lies He working hard, 
 
 und a head clerk ! I believe a lot of that ! Come, Emma, 
 let us make haste home." 
 
 But Emma was vexed at hearing her cousin constantly 
 spoken against, and so she said crossly, "I am tired, 
 Madame, and I want to rest a little." " Oh ! you are 
 •tired ? That is rather surprising, as we have not walked 
 
 ranch But as you wish it, let us sit down. There 
 
 a^e plenty of benches about here ; . . . . there is one just 
 down there." 
 
 The ladies happened at that moment to be very near 
 the grotto, and so they sat down on a bench whose only 
 occupant was a poor blind woman and the little beggar girl 
 whom we know sitting at one end. Was Emma really 
 tired, or did she only wish to prolong her stay in the 
 park ? Something must have told her that she should see 
 her cousin again, for a lover does not leave the girl he 
 loves in that fashion, especially when he so rarely has the 
 opportunity of seeing her. That is just what Felix 
 thought, and so after leaving the two ladies he came back 
 by another way, saying to himself, " If I cannot speak tc 
 my cousin any more, at any rate I wish to see her as long 
 as she is here. If it were only to make Madame Sarget 
 mad I would not lose sight of Emma ! " 
 
 He had, therefore, seen Emma and her strict guardian 
 sit down on a bench, and at first he felt inclined to sit down 
 there also, but that would only have been the way to make 
 Madame Sarget run away again and take her ward with 
 her. He therefore contented himself with walking up and 
 
THE PARC MONCEAUX. THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 101 
 
 down near them. His cousin saw him quite plainly, and 
 her aunt saw him also and said to herself, " He is doing it 
 on purpose to worry me ! . . . . Very well ; .... I will 
 
 not forget it I have a capital memory." 
 
 Suddenly the little beggar girl saw Felix going past 
 them, and she exclaimed, "Mamma, there he is, there he 
 is, just passing us ! " And immediately the child got up, 
 oourtesied to him several times, and said in her little gentle 
 voice, " Grood-day, Monsieur ; I hope you are well, Mon- 
 sieur. My mother is much obliged to you, Monsieur." 
 Felix smiled at the girl and gave her a friendly nod as he 
 passed, and immediately Madame Sarget said to Emma in 
 a mocking voice, " Well, your cousin has some nice 
 
 acquaintances Did you see .... that woman 
 
 who is sitting on our bench and that little badly-dressed 
 
 girl ? He nodded to them No doubt they are 
 
 friends of his ! " Emma did not reply, but moving up to 
 the child, who was sitting on her left, she said to her, " So 
 you know that gentleman who has just gone by, my 
 child?" "Oh yes, Madame .... and very lucky we 
 
 are to know him We like him very much, mother 
 
 and I. . . . . She cannot see him, because she is blind, 
 .... but I have described him to her ! " " Your mother 
 is blind ! Poor little girl ! I beg your pardon for not 
 having noticed it. And how did you get to know my 
 cousin ? " " Your cousin ! Is that gentleman your 
 cousin ? Ah ! you ought to be proud at having such a 
 good and generous cousin ! . . . . Just fancy, Made- 
 moiselle, that for more than a year mother and I have 
 
 come here every day Mother and I are very poor, 
 
 but yet I can scarcely beg ; it seems to choke me but 
 
 as soon as that gentleman, your cousin, saw us, he came 
 up, and without my asking put a piece of silver into my 
 hand .... and since then he has often come here again, 
 and every time, without exception, he has given me some- 
 thing. .... It brought us luck, for from that moment 
 other people gave us something also .... not so much as 
 le does, but that does not matter, for it is always a great 
 deal for us. Well, to-day when I saw our kind young 1 
 ^gentleman coming .... that is what we call him, mother 
 .and I, I ran to meet him. and do you know what he gave 
 
102 THE PAEC MONCEAUX. — THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIEL. 
 
 me, Mademoiselle ? . . . . Twenty francs ! a beautiful 
 gold piece ! I did not want to take as much as that, but 
 your cousin said to me, ' I am earning plenty of money 
 now, and I wish you to share my change of fortune.' 
 .... Ah ! Mademoiselle, you see that I was right in 
 saying that you ought to be proud of your cousin !".... 
 Emma's eyes were full of tears, and she turned to Madame 
 Sarget, who had heard what the little girl had said quite 
 plainly, and asked her, " Well, Madame, do you still think 
 badly of my cousin ? . . . . When any one is so kind to 
 unfortunates, can he be a bad man ? " 
 
 The old lady pinched in her lips, and replied, " So 
 kind ! so kind 1 A bad head and a good heart ; yes, that 
 is quite clear. I think he cannot have much method 
 to give twenty francs to a beggar woman. There is 
 no common sense in it, and shows that he does not know 
 the value of money ! " 
 
 Emma did not reply, but she turned to the little girl 
 and gave her a franc, saying, " Take this, my poor child. 
 I should have liked to give you more, but this is all I have 
 about me." " Oh! Madame, you are very kind ; .... it 
 is a great deal ! . . . . Ah ! mamma, what a lucky day 
 
 for us Come ! come ! Take my arm. We can go 
 
 home now." 
 
 And the child went away with her mother, after having 
 again thanked and bowed to Emma. Felix had from a 
 distance seen his cousin talking to the little beggar. He 
 had no suspicion of what she might be saying, and merely 
 thought that the child's nice manners had interested her. 
 But when he made up his mind to go past the bench on 
 which his cousin was sitting a second time, what was his 
 surprise to see that Emma never took her eyes off him, but 
 that she looked at him with a gentle and affectionate 
 expression, and gave him a charming smile with a bend of 
 the head that was full of grace and friendliness. 
 
 " Whatever can be the meaning of this ? " Eelix asked 
 himself. "My cousin is not the same with me! . . . . 
 
 She is as smiling as she used to be formerly Can 
 
 the little beggar girl have told her ? . . . . Ah ! If that 
 gives me back my cousin's favour, the proverb is quite 
 true that says, l A benefit is never lost/ ' " 
 
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 10& 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 
 
 It may be guessed that Felix was not long before he 
 returned to the Pare Monceaux. Whenever he had a 
 moment to spare, he took a cab and had himself driven 
 there ; but for several weeks he went in vain both in the 
 morning and afternoon, for he did not see his cousin. 
 
 He questioned the blind woman's child and she told 
 him that his cousin had seemed deeply touched by his 
 kindness for them in their misfortune, whilst, on the other 
 hand, Madame Sarget had declared that there was no 
 common sense in giving twenty francs to beggars. The 
 little girl had heard and remembered all, for children have 
 an excellent memory, where nothing is lost. " Your cousin 
 is very pretty and very kind as well," the little girl said, 
 " She gave me a franc, and said she was sorry it was all she 
 had about her, but a franc is a good deal ; generally we 
 only get a sou or two. . . . Everybody is not like you, 
 Monsieur." " And you have not seen my cousin here since 
 then ? " u No, Monsieur." " But you would know her 
 again ? " " Know her again ? Oh ! yes, Monsieur .... 
 I can always see her. When people are kind to us we like 
 to look at them so much .... and then, your cousin is 
 very pretty ; it is not often one sees anyone so pretty as 
 she is. It is quite surprising, considering all the people 
 that pass, that one may see a hundred ugly ones before 
 noticing one good-looking one." 
 
 l( So she has not been again. . . . Oh, I am certain. 
 that that disagreeable Madame Sarget will not take any more 
 walks in the park for fear of meeting me, and I shall not 
 see Emma again." And Eelix went away quite sad, but 
 his numerous occupations distracted his thoughts at last, 
 for there is no better specific than work for getting rid of 
 any grief or trouble. A month passed, and eager to show 
 that he was worthy of his employer's favour, Eelix hardly 
 ever left the office and had not been to the Pare Monceaux 
 
104 A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 
 
 •once. But one morning, when he was not particularly busy T 
 he said to himself, " My poor blind woman and her little 
 girl must think that I have entirely forgotten them. I 
 •shall not meet my cousin, but that is no reason why I 
 should abandon my little protegee." So Felix had himself 
 •driven to the park, and as soon as he got in he immediately 
 went to the place where the poor blind woman and her 
 <child generally were. He had scarcely gone fifty yards 
 down the walk when cries of joy met his ears, and the 
 little beggar-girl ran towards him crying out, " Here he is 
 mamma ! He is not dead .... he is not even ill ! 
 Here he is, our kind young gentleman ! Oh ! how glad 
 2 am to see you ! " 
 
 The child jumped with joy, and when she had reached 
 2?elix, she took his hand, squeezed it in both hers, and she 
 looked at him with such real pleasure, that he was quite 
 touched, and said, " Yes, my child, yes, it is I .... I have 
 been a long time without coming, have I not ? " u Oh, yes, 
 Monsieur, especially as latterly you used to come nearly 
 43very day. My mother has often said to me, ' Caroline, yoa 
 do not see the gentleman who was so kind to us ? You don't 
 Ikeep a good look out.' And I replied, ' Oh, mamma, if he 
 were in the park, you know he would not go away without 
 •speaking to us.' " "You are right, my dear child, but I 
 iiad not forgotten you, only I have been very busy. I live 
 a long way off. ... But take this, Caroline, for I am in 
 arrears to you." " Oh ! Monsieur, all this money again 
 . . . . I really do not like" ♦ . . . And the little girl 
 Ibegan to cry. 
 
 " What are you crying for, Caroline ? " " Because I 
 am afraid that you might think .... that I am only glad 
 to see you because you give us money. And that is not 
 -the reason why I am so fond of you." " No, my child, 
 no ; I can easily see from your eyes that you have a 
 grateful heart. Come, don't cry any more, or I shall be 
 obliged to scold you." " There, Monsieur, it is over, and I 
 •will not cry any more." "And now tell me; I suppose 
 you have not seen my cousin here again, since P " " Oh> 
 yes, Monsieur, I have. I was going to tell you, we have 
 seen her twice within the last few days." " Twice ! How 
 anfortunate that I was not here. You are sure it was 
 
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL 105 
 
 she ? " " Oh, yes, Monsieur, I knew her again, although 
 3he was not dressed in mourning any longer, nor the old 
 lady either." " Of course, she could leave off her mourn- 
 ing a month ago ; and did she speak to you ? " " Yes, but 
 she seemed embarrassed, because there was somebody else 
 with her besides the old lady." "Who was it?" "A 
 young man ; a handsome, elegant young man." " A young 
 man .... Oh, one of her brothers, of course." "I do 
 not know, but I don't think that the gentleman was her 
 brother, for the old lady said to your cousin, ' Why do you 
 not take Monsieur Saint-Esteve's arm, Emma?' And 
 your cousin replied, ' Because I prefer to walk alone.' " 
 
 Felix grew pale, but he tried to collect himself, and 
 said with some hesitation, " Saint-Esteve .... Oh, no, 
 that is not her brother. And he was with the ladies the 
 last time that you saw them?" "And the other time 
 the gentleman was also with them." " Each time ? Ah, I 
 understand." "Monsieur, what I have told you, seems to 
 pain you. I am very sorry, and if I had known .... I 
 would not have told you." " No, my child, you need not be 
 sorry, I must have found it out sooner or later .... and 
 is Monsieur Saint-Esteve good-looking ? " " Yes, Monsieur, 
 tolerably, but he looks proud and disdainful. When your 
 cousin came up to me to give me the money, he looked at 
 my mother and me with great contempt. He was so 
 different to you." l( Good-bye, my child." "Are you 
 going already ? " " Yes, I am in a hurry." "Will it be 
 long before you come again ? " "I do not know. . . . 
 No .... but in any case you may be sure that I shall not 
 forsake you. Good-bye." 
 
 Felix presumed that Monsieur Saint-Esteve was a 
 suitor for his cousin's hand, and although he had never 
 had any hope of winning Emma, he yet felt in despair at 
 the thought that perhaps the time was not far distant when 
 his cousin would go into a husband's arms. As Felix 
 rightly thought that it was never well to remain in doubt 
 about anything, he went to his cousin's house, saying to 
 himself, " I will make the porter talk. There are always 
 means to find things out from such sort of people. They 
 have been twice into the Pare Monceaux within a few days 
 with this gentleman. Oh, Madame Sarget, I recognize 
 
106 A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 
 
 your nose in this business also. No doubt she said to 
 herself, ' If we meet Felix, he will see that his cousin has 
 a cavalier, and he knows me well enough to be sure that I 
 should only allow her future husband to accompany us so 
 often.' " 
 
 Felix did not wish to be seen either by Emma or by 
 Madame Sarget, but when he got to the house the porter 
 was just sweeping outside, and so he made a sign to him 
 and the man came to him with his broom in his hand. 
 Felix took him some little distance from the house, and 
 putting five francs into his hand, said to him in a voice 
 that was oppressed by emotion and anxiety, "Does a 
 Monsieur Saint-Esteve go to see my cousin, for I am 
 Mademoiselle Montlaurent's cousin ? " " Oh, I know, 
 Monsieur, for you told me so once before when you came 
 to ask whether the ladies went out often. That is nearly 
 a year ago." "Well, just tell me ... . how long is it 
 since Monsieur Saint-Esteve began to come here ? " 
 " About six months, but not often at first. He has only 
 come frequently since the ladies have left off their mourn- 
 ing, and from what my wife heard the ladies' servant say, 
 he seems to be a suitor for Mademoiselle Montlaurent's 
 band. . . . and Madame Sarget favours him, for he is very 
 rich, and it will be a very good match for your cousin, who, 
 however, does not seem to be in any hurry to get married." 
 " Thank you, that will do, I know quite enough. But be 
 sure and do not say I have been questioning you." " Oh, 
 Monsieur, you may be quite easy. I am just as reticent 
 as my wife is given to gossiping .... and if you had not 
 given me these five francs, I should not have said a word." 
 
 Felix went away feeling downcast and unhappy, and 
 he said to himself: " Emma is in no haste to get married, 
 but by dint of entreaties and of persuasion they will make 
 her consent . . . Besides, it must come to that! .... 
 This Saint-Esteve or another .... as long as it is a 
 good match ! . . . . And yet, if my cousin would have 
 waited until she came of age she would have been mistress 
 *>f her own actions and could have done as she pleased . , 
 . . But they will make her marry Saiut Esteve .... 
 who, I am sure, does not love her as much as I do." 
 
 The young man walked on at random, absorbed in his 
 
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 107" 
 
 thoughts, when a hand was slipped under his arm and a 
 friendly voice said to him, " Are we concocting a tragedy 
 or a drama whose termination is difficult to work out ? ,r 
 " Ah ! It is you, my dear fellow ! No, I am not workings 
 
 out a drama But I have much to trouble me, I 
 
 can tell you." " Come, tell me all about it Our 
 
 troubles always grow less when we unbosom ourselves 
 about them." 
 
 So Felix told Dr. Choubert his meetings in the Pare 
 Monceaux, and then what he had learnt that day. " "Well, 
 my dear friend, I do not see anything in that to cause you 
 to despair. He is paying his addresses to your cousin, that 
 is a very simple matter, because she is rich. But the 
 
 marriage is not concluded yet What did the little 
 
 beggar girl tell you ? That your cousin would not take 
 that gentleman's arm, and told her guardian that she pre- 
 ferred to walk by herself. If Emma had the slightest 
 liking for this Saint-Esteve, would she rather walk alone 
 than take his arm ? There is but one answer to that, 
 
 .... Your cousin does not love him Now, yon 
 
 say that Emma, who is a charming girl, gave you an 
 affectionate look and a smile after talking to the little beggar 
 girl, a proof that she was much touched at your kindness 
 of heart, and she has always been very fond of you . . . • 
 What she gave you a short time ago is a proof of this. 
 What she has been told has awakened that feeling which 
 was lying dormant at the bottom of her heart, and your 
 declaration of love will have enlightened her as to her feel- 
 ings for you .... and I would bet .... my first patient ! 
 that she will not marry this Saint-Esteve ! " " Oh ! my dear 
 doctor, you restore me to hope, to happiness and to life." 
 .... " Very well, then ; let us go and dine together, ■ 
 and I will try and restore your appetite also." 
 
 The gentlemen went to the Palais-Royal, where one • 
 can always dine very well when one knows where to go. 
 Eelix had recovered his good spirits, because, as he was by 
 no means of a melancholy disposition, it took very little to - 
 restore them. In order to finish the day together, the two 
 friends afterwards went to the play, which was not over till 
 very late, which, however, did not prevent them from 
 walking on the Boulevards for a long time, because they 7 " 
 
.108 A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 
 
 liked to be together, and Felix told the doctor of his visit 
 to Anita, and what he had heard about his cousin. " I 
 was sure of it," Chouberfc said ; " it was sure to happen ! 
 ■ „ . . . Women will be the ruin of Felicien, because he 
 gives the reins to his passions in order to make up for lost 
 time, and thinks himself capable of performing one of the 
 labours of Hercules over again.* .... He cannot go on 
 long like this." 
 
 The lover then spoke of the object of his affections, and 
 the doctor, whilst listening to him, frequently drew his 
 attention to the fact that his cousiu had constantly shown 
 a predilection for him. Suddenly, however, he looked at 
 his watch and exclaimed, " One o'clock in the morning ! 
 I really must go home. I have a patient in labour .... 
 and perhaps they have been to look for me." .... " Oh ! 
 the devil ! . . . . and if she has been confined ?"..,. 
 *' Without me ? Never ! . . . . No, no, it will come off 
 
 rto-morrow I shall go up the Faubourg Poi- 
 
 aonniere to the Rue Montholon." " I will see you home, 
 
 for I am in no hurry to go to bed I am too much 
 
 excited to go to sleep." .... " Very well ; come with 
 me." 
 
 They met only very few people, but close to the Con- 
 servatoire they saw a gentleman almost glued to the wall, 
 and who seemed anxious to read the notices of the plays, 
 although they were, for the most part, torn down. " That 
 gentleman appears to me to be rather late if he wants to 
 go to the theatre to-night," Felix said. " He is talking to 
 Mmself. .... I believe he is drunk." "Do you really 
 think so ? . . . . such a well-dressed man ? " .... 
 
 " That is no reason Let us listen, for it is always 
 
 •amusing to hear drunken men One hears things 
 
 which one never hears except from them, ami they utter 
 very crude truths .... which come from the gutter." 
 The individual in question stopped in front of them, rubbed 
 his nose against the wall again, and said, " What a bad 
 . light the gas gives here I wanted to see Les Miles 
 
 * The reader must consult Dr. Smith's (or Lempriere's) " Dictionary 
 .of Mythology " (article Hercules) for the particular labours of Hercules 
 to which the doctor refers. It was a veritable labour of love. (Trans- 
 lator.) 
 
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 109 
 
 de Marbre Somebody told me it was being acted 
 
 this evening .... but I cannot find it. ... . Ah ! yes. 
 I believe this is it ; . . . . Le Pied de .... The rest 
 
 has been torn down I have got some fog in my 
 
 eyes." .... "Very strange .... bnt I fancy I recog- 
 nize the voice," Felix said. " So do I Wait a 
 
 moment. Eh! yes It is your cousin Adolphe." 
 
 . . . . " Is it possible ? . . . . and in such a state 
 
 The wretched fellow cannot stand, and will fall down if we 
 don't help him." " Who is there ? " the tipsy young man 
 asked, trying to stand straight and to walk a few steps, but 
 he staggered and very nearly fell several times. 
 
 " Somebody mentioned my name. ... I heard some 
 
 one say Adolphe .... Adolphe Montlaurent 
 
 That is my name, and if he is a friend of mine let him say 
 so." "Yes, yes, we are friends of yours," Felix exclaimed, 
 holding his cousin up by one arm. "It is I, your cousin, 
 Felix Albrun, and Dr. Choubert, who was your father's 
 
 medical man " Not for long," the doctor added, 
 
 " but long enough to help you to undiluted wine when I 
 
 dined at his house on one occasion I guessed that 
 
 yon had no objection to it." "Dr. Choubert and Felix. 
 . . . . Well .... well .... well, how strangely one 
 
 meets sometimes I am very glad to see you again. 
 
 . . . . You shall come with me and see Les Filles de 
 
 Marbre" .... " But, cousin, it is too late All 
 
 the plays are over a long time ago .... and everybody 
 is going home to bed .... and we ought to do the 
 same." ..... " Really, is the performance over ? " 
 " Come, my dear Monsieur Montlaurent, acknowledge that 
 you have been dining out and have got a little bit screwed, 
 very much screwed, indeed!" "What a devil of a 
 
 doctor ! . . . . He sees everything immediately ; 
 
 things which . . . . oh ! how slippery it is here !".... 
 " Lean on me, cousin." "And on me," the doctor said, 
 taking Adolphe's other arm, " and so we shall walk 
 
 steadily Where do you live ? " " Still in the 
 
 same place." .... "That is all right, but where is the 
 place ? " "As I have not changed my lodgings, it is in the 
 same house." "I understand, but where is the house ? " 
 I am still in the same street ; I am not fond of moving." 
 
 <t 
 
110 A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. 
 
 . . . u Confound it ! We must find out Felix, 
 
 are you still living in the Rue Mazagran ? " " No, I am 
 living in the Rue Sentier now ; and you, doctor ? " " In 
 the Rue Montholon ; and you, Monsieur Adolphe ? n " I ? 
 .... Still in the same place." .... " Really, this is 
 too much ! ,f the doctor said to Felix ; " what are we going 
 to do with the fellow ? " " Wait a moment ; I have an 
 
 idea Adolphe, you will take us home with you, 
 
 and give us some cognac, won't you, for I am sure yours 
 
 snust be excellent ? " " Bravo ! A capital idea 
 
 You want to know whether I have any cognac ! The very 
 finest, my boys ; just come back from India." " That is 
 good. He is confounding brandy with Madeira." " Very 
 well, show us the way, cousin ; which turning must we 
 take to get to your place ? " " Which turning ? . . . . It 
 
 is only a few steps from here I dined at Robinard's 
 
 an the Rue de VEchiquier. Flanquette was there also, and 
 lie kept saying to me, 'Don't go away; you are close 
 fiome, and I will see you back.' .... But I wanted ico 
 
 •see Les Filles de Marbre and then they began to 
 
 play lansquenet, and ..... and I am not fond of cards." 
 f* So we are quite close to your lodgings ? . . . . That is 
 all right ! Which way do we turn ? " " Oh ! don't let us 
 i}urn. Groing round makes me feel sick .... and I am 
 
 rather giddy as it is Flanquette's wines are not so 
 
 good as mine .... for I must tell you that I have a 
 cellar . . . . oh ! a cellar .... such wines ! " 
 *' We shall be able to judge when we come to lunch or 
 -dine with you." " Come to-morrow; I shall expect you 
 to-morrow. Will that suit you?" .... " Yes, I will 
 come .... to-morrow. We will have lunch with you, 
 eh, Felix? " " I am quite willing, but meanwhile I do not 
 
 want to go to be in the street Let us see ; . . . . 
 
 it is on the right or left ? " "Ah ! doctor, to pretend that 
 you cannot find the Rue de Paradis." .... " Rue de 
 
 Paradis Victory ! . . . . Straight on. .... It 
 
 is to be hoped that he will know his house." 
 
 They started off holding their fine gentleman up, who 
 stopped every moment and hiccoughed out : " I should have 
 liked to see Les Filles de Marbre.* ..." You can see them 
 
 * G-irls of marble. 
 
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS DINED WELL. Ill 
 
 to-morrow or the day after ; there is nothing easier to be seen, 
 one meets them everywhere 1 But your Mend Kobinard 
 was wrono- Id making yon drink wines which were too 
 heady for° yon." " That is true ; you are quite right, 
 doctor ; they get into one's head .... I have a very bad 
 headache." ... "I should think so, indeed .... Tour 
 servant must make you some tea as soon as you get in." 
 11 He has some ready for me every night." ..." That 
 only shows that he knows that you often require it ; he is 
 a man of forethought." ... " Yes, decidedly, only it is a 
 pity that he robs me." " What makes you think that ? " 
 " Flanquette told me so, and advised me to kick him out." 
 " And who is this Monsieur Flanquette ? What is he ? " 
 " He is in business . . . . he is a stockbroker, and dabbles 
 in everything .... You will meet him at lunch to- 
 morrow." ... " Oh I he is going to have lunch with you 
 io-morrow ? " * Yes, he comes to lunch nearly every day 
 .... He comes without ceremony, and does not wait to 
 be asked." ... "I am curious to see this gentleman 
 . . . . But we are in the Rue de Paradis .... all 
 right." 
 
 Luckily, Adolphe lived at the beginning of the street, 
 and he stopped before his house. The friends knocked, 
 and the servant who was waiting for his master in the 
 porter's lodge came and helped to hold the drunken man 
 up, who cried : '* Ah ! here is Jean .... he always stays up 
 for me downstairs .... and I am sure that he has some 
 tea ready." " Your master is in a nice state ! " Felix 
 whispered to the valet, who replied : " Oh ! Monsieur, I 
 am used to that ; he comes in like this nearly every night. '* 
 " Do you really mean it ? What a misfortune ! " " You 
 will not come up stairs and have a drop ? " Adolphe 
 stammered, holding on to his valet. " No ; and you must 
 drink nothing more except some tea to-night." ..." Very 
 well, then, to-morrow .... you know .... we shall 
 have breakfast." ... "At what o'clock?" "Jean, at 
 what o'clock shall I have breakfast ? " " At the usual 
 time, Monsieur; at twelve o'clock." "Very well then, at 
 twelve to-morrow ! " 
 
 The two friends made their escape. Felix had not yet 
 recovered from what he had just seen, and the doctor said 
 
112 WINE. 
 
 to him : " We must go and breakfast with him to- 
 morrow. We shall find out what has brought him to this- 
 state." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 WINE. 
 
 The next morning, at about half past eleven, Eelix and the 
 doctor arrived at the house. It was not yet the appointed 
 breakfast time, but they were not of those sort of people who, 
 when they are invited anywhere, think that they need not 
 arrive till the very moment of sitting down to table, as much as 
 to say to the master of the house : " We have come to eat,, 
 and for nothing else." It may be good style, but it is not 
 flattering- The footman was sweeping the drawing-room., 
 as his master had got up very late. 
 
 Adolphe came in in his dressing-gown ; he had got rid 
 of the effects of drink, and Felix could examine him at his 
 leisure ; he had grown very fat ; his face was puffed and 
 his nose was a violet colour, which does not suit anyone, 
 but which is especially ugly in a young man. On the 
 whole, he had not changed for the better, unless it were for 
 the happy and satisfied look which his face constantly 
 wore. 
 
 He received his guests with a smile, and said to them : 
 " Well, gentlemen ! here I am, rather more firm on my 
 legs than I was last night, eh ? . . . . Ha ! ha ! I had 
 dined uncommonly well last night ; upon my word, I must 
 tell you, that I am in my element at table ; I do like to 
 dine well." . . . " You had certainly been drinking very 
 well ! . . . . I am also fond of good wine, but we ought 
 not to drink it so as to make us lose our balance ! " " Ha ! 
 ha ! this is excellent, doctor ! I will give you something 
 of the very best in the shape of white wine immediately 
 . . . . some Moutrahet .... do you know it? " " Yesy 
 
WINE. llg 
 
 it is certainly one of the best white wines, but it is very 
 heady ! " " What does that matter ! And Vosne .... do- 
 yon know the wine, doctor ? " " Upon my word I do not j. 
 I know Beanne, which is an excellent wine." ..'.." Vosne 
 is better .... the finest Burgundy .... and Romanes ?' 
 And "... . 
 
 But Felix interrupted this nomenclature of wines, say- 
 ing, " I say, cousin, can you not find anything else to talk 
 about except wines ? Just find some better subject of con- 
 versation, if you can ! " M Certainly I can ! " " You might 
 almost make me believe that you have become a drunkard I 
 .... I hope it is not the case ! " " Well ! and suppose it 
 were so ? . . . . Whilst my father was alive, I could only- 
 drink very sparingly, and now I am making up for it, and 
 do you not think I am right ? Do I look very different 
 to what I used to do ? ... . I am getting visibly stouter 
 .... You are always the same, Felix ; no stouter ! " " I 
 am very glad of it, for I do not at all wish to grow fat f 
 But what have you been doiDg since my uncle's death,. 
 Adolphe ? Are you still in the same house of business ? " 
 " Just fancy ! What do you take me for ? To remain a 
 c?.6rk when I have a quarter of a million* .... I am not 
 such a fool ! . . . . It is true that I have already made a 
 pretty good hole in my quarter of a million . . . but I am 
 still rich .... and Flanquette, with whom I have begun 
 some important business operations .... in brandy, tells 
 me that they will bring us in large profits." " Is that the 
 gentleman who is going to breakfast with us this morn- 
 ing ?" the doctor asked. "Yes .... Oh! he will come 
 .... I did not tell him, but he is sure to come ! " . . . .. 
 "By George! .... he comes every day." Jean, who was 
 polishing the drawing-room floor, f whispered in Felix' ear : 
 " His Monsieur Flanquette is a regular sponger." rt Well, 
 Adolphe, how do you employ your time all day ? " a Oh I 
 the day passes quickly enough .... In the first place, I. 
 get up late, for I generally go to bed late ; then I break- 
 fast .... I generally have a few friends to breakfast with. 
 
 * Francs=aeiO,000. 
 
 t The carpetless floors in France are polished by men with brushes 
 4>m their feet, with which they rub the floor. (Translator.) 
 
3.14 WINE. 
 
 me . . . . I do not care about breakfasting by myself, as I 
 like to have somebody to drink with .... and that brings 
 me up to three o'clock.'' " Beginning at twelve ? . . . . 
 What a breakfast ! " " We must talk as well, of course. 
 Then we go out and take a walk, play a few games of 
 billiards, for that is the only game that I play, as it gives 
 one an appetite on account of the exercise one takes. After 
 that, I dine at half-past six or seven, and that lasts till ten ; 
 then I go to the cafe and have some punch or bishop, so 
 you see the time passes quickly ! " 
 
 " But," Felix said with a smile, "I do not notice even 
 a solitary quarter of an hour of all that time devoted to 
 
 love It is hardly possible that at your age you 
 
 should not cherish some tender passion at the bottom of 
 your heart ? " 
 
 " Tender feeling ? Upon my word, nothing of tAe 
 
 kind ! You see, women are not my passion I do 
 
 siot say that it is not very nice from time to time, like an 
 Ice at dessert, but, honestly, I would give the prettiest 
 woman for a truffled turkey or a goose liver pie. 5 ' " So 
 you are not like your brother Felicien?" "Felicien! 
 .... Oh ! he is in a bad way, poor fellow ! . . . . He 
 lias a face like papier-mache now, .... pale and worn. 
 .... What a difference to me I " " He is certainly of a 
 very different disposition." .... " He frightened me the 
 Jast time he came and borrowed fifteen thousand francs of 
 jne!"* "What! your brother Felicien was in want of 
 
 money ?".... " Yes I have forgotten how it 
 
 was that he had no more, though he told me Oh ! 
 
 yes, he said he did not wish to sell his railway shares 
 
 because they were low He was to have paid me 
 
 l)ack my money in a week . . . .and now it is three 
 weeks ago and I have not seen him again, but I am not 
 
 'uneasy It is not like with Yictorin It is 
 
 true that in Yictorin's case it was a much larger amount ! " 
 £f What! Yictorin has also borrowed money of you?" 
 ''Forty thousand francs, t that is all!" . . . . "Forty 
 thousand francs 1 Why, he is as rich as you are . . ._ . What 
 does he do with his money ? " "On the Stock Exchange 
 
 * £600. t £1,600. 
 
WINE. 
 
 115 
 
 . . . large speculations which are to make him a mil- 
 
 uonnaire But he also was to pay me back in a 
 
 fortnight, but instead of that, when he came again it was 
 to borrow another forty thousand francs, and I refused 
 
 him, of course Manquette advised me to do so. 
 
 He 'said to me, ' They look upon you as a milch-cow, and 
 what one lends to relations is never repaid. Don't lend 
 any more ! '" "I cannot understand it," Felix said to the 
 doctor. " Why not ? It is quite natural. On the 
 contrary, do you not see, my dear Felix, that each of your 
 
 cousins has his own particular passion It 
 
 smouldered under the embers whilst their father was alive, 
 and now that he is dead the fire bursts out ! " " But I 
 suppose you go to see your sister occasionally, Adolphe ? ' 
 u "Upon my word, I do not. I only went once, and I was 
 bored to death. Madame Sarget offered me a glass 
 
 of sugar-water Thank you ! And I said to 
 
 myself, ' You will not catch me at your house again ! ' 
 " But surely you know that she wants to make your sister 
 marry a Monsieur Saint-Esteve ? " " That does not matter 
 to me ! Let her marry whom the old woman chooses, for 
 
 I am sure there will be no fun at the wedding 
 
 Such sort of people do not know how to live." 
 
 The arrival of the two gentlemen put a stop to the con- 
 versation. The one was his friend Manquette, the usual 
 guest, who had a full red beard. He had a long, thin face 
 very much pitted with small-pox, with a protruding chin 
 and high cheek-bones, and with a look of a cat or a fox, a 
 shrill voice, and who always seemed to be trying to find 
 something to say, and who frequently appeared astonished 
 himself at what he had said. He always gave you a look 
 afterwards to see whether you believed him. 
 
 The gentleman who came with him was rather older 
 than he~was, and still uglier. He had a nose like a 
 squashed chestnut, a mouth with hardly a tooth in it, 
 although in spite of that he was constantly smiling. His 
 hair was like wool, and so thick and long that his head was 
 broader than his shoulders. He spoke with a German 
 accent, and his hands were dirty and his boots muddy. 
 
 "It is not twelve o'clock yet ! " Monsieur Manquette 
 exclaimed, as he came into the drawing-room and bowed to 
 
116 WINE. 
 
 the company. u If I am ever a minute late at lunch or 
 dinner, I will consent to be fined a thousand crowns.* 
 
 Gentlemen, your servant My dear Montlaurent, 
 
 allow me to introduce Monsieur Goudmann, a very good 
 
 friend of mine, to you He is an optician. He 
 
 came to lunch with me, but T said to him, * Come with me 
 to a friend of mine, and then you will still have lunch with 
 me.' I hope you will excuse the very small liberty I have 
 taken." " You have done quite right, my dear friend, and 
 if this gentleman is fond of good wine " . . . . " Ach 
 
 jac f . . . . I am particularly fond of good wines 
 
 I love them." " Goudmann is an extremely good judge of 
 wines." 
 
 Choubert said to Felix, in a low voice, " I fancy that 
 this spectacle merchant is neither more nor less than a 
 creditor of this Monsieur Flanquette's, who no doubt said 
 to him, ' I cannot giye you any money, but I can take you 
 out to lunch.' " " It is quite certain that this brandy- 
 broker gives me the impression of being a humbug 
 
 I am afraid that my cousin will allow himself to be taken 
 in by these friends ! " " That is very likely, but what can 
 we do ? Your cousin is much more likely to listen to what 
 they say than he is to pay any attention to us." 
 
 Just then the cook called Jean, who soon came back to 
 gay that luncheon was ready. 
 
 " Ah ! bravo ! " Adolphe said ; u let us go and sit 
 down. Gentlemen, will you excuse me if I have lunch in 
 my dressing-gown ? " " Naturally." " It is very pleasant 
 to have one's meals in a dressing-gown," Monsieur Flm- 
 quette said ; " one is comfortable, and there is nothing to 
 
 be too tight One ought never to take one's meals 
 
 in any other way My dear Adolphe, I have an old 
 
 Inverness cape, which I shall take the liberty of bringing and 
 leaving here, so that I can always put it on at lunch." " That 
 is not worth while, Flanquette, for I have several loose 
 overcoats which I never wear .... because they are too 
 tight for me, .... and I will give you one." "Very 
 
 * The crown is no longer a French, coin, but the word is still 
 employed colloquially. The petit ecu was worth three francs=half-a- 
 crown ; the e£«=four shillings approximately. 
 
 f "Oh! yes." 
 
WINE. 117 
 
 well. That is better still." " Presently he will be asking 
 for a bed, so that he may have his siesta after lunch," the 
 doctor whispered to Felix. 
 
 "When they sat down to table, Monsieur Goudmann did 
 not speak any more ; he thought of nothing but eating and 
 drinking, whilst Monsieur Flanquette, though he played a 
 very good knife and fork, kept up the conversation. 
 
 "Excellent Madeira, eh, gentlemen?" "Yes, it is 
 perfect 1 '' " It has been a voyage to the East Indies and 
 back," Adolphe said, sipping his wine. " Well, Monsieur 
 Goudmann, you who are a judge, what do you think 
 of it?" 
 
 The optician's mouth was so full that he could not 
 reply, so he merely held out his empty glass. " He wants 
 some more, and that is the highest praise which he can 
 give it." " Gentlemen, we must drink Montrachet with 
 the kidneys ! " " Yes, let us see what this Montrachet is 
 like ! " the doctor said. " I have no objection to makhig 
 its acquaintance, as you say it is so good." 
 
 The white wine circulated two or three times, but Felix 
 never emptied his glass, as he was on his guard, whilst the 
 doctor acknowledged that the Montrachet was a very 
 superior wine. Adolphe, who was very pleased at the 
 praise bestowed on it, said to Monsieur Goudmann, 
 " Well, what do you say to it, as you are such a judge of 
 wine ? " And thereupon the optician, whose mouth was 
 never empty, renewed his pantomimic action by holding 
 out his glass, and friend Flanquette repeated his words for 
 the same reason. 
 
 Felix seized the moment when all the gentlemen were 
 drinking to say, f* My dear cousin, as you give such 
 excellent entertainments at your house, why do you not 
 get married ? A woman would be a great help to you in 
 entertaining your guests, and there are a thousand small 
 details in a house which you cannot see after yourself." 
 Monsieur Flanquette made a wry face, Goudmann put his 
 fork up to his nose instead of into his mouth, the doctor 
 began to laugh, and Adolphe exclaimed, " What ! I get 
 married ? . . . . Oh ! I think I see myself doing it ! To 
 
 lose my liberty I am not such a fool!" "And 
 
 ? then," Monsieur Flanquette said, " tastes are not always 
 
IIS WINE. 
 
 the same ; there are many ladies who do not think it right 
 to sit long over meals." " I conld spend my life over them. 
 .... Besides, women are not always amiable! " . . . . 
 " They are generally what they are made," the doctor said, 
 " and I certainly am for marriage It is an associa- 
 tion ; a wife is a reliable friend ; . . . . she is a man's 
 second self." "Yes," Monsieur Flanquette said, "and 
 sometimes there is even a third self, eh, Goudmann ? " 
 
 The latter, who by some extraordinary chance had his 
 month empty at that moment replied, "I have a very 
 apathetic wife." " Monsieur," the doctor replied, "a 
 certain English writer has said that to be married to an 
 apathetic wife is like playing at cards withont taking any 
 interest in the game ; one does not take mnch pleasure in 
 it, but it kills the time." "I think we have had enough 
 about marriage, gontlemen," Adolphe observed ; " just 
 try this Vosne .... Monsieur Goudmann, tell me what 
 yon think of it." But the optician was again unable to 
 speak as he had his mouth too full, and Flanquette replied 
 for him, and they all declared it excellent. Then they 
 tried the Leoville, then the Lafitte, and, lastly, the 
 champagne. Felix was very careful, but the doctor had 
 not followed his example and soon was slightly elevated 
 also. 
 
 fl So this is the way in which you show your good- 
 sense ? " Felix said to his friend. " Upon my word, my 
 dear fellow, all these wines are excellent, you must 
 acknowledge that . . . . and then once ... .is not being 
 so habitually; Hippocrates allows it." "And suppose 
 your lady patient who is expecting to be confined wants 
 you ? " " Oh, no, I have plenty of time, it will not come 
 off till this evening." 
 
 When Felix saw that his cousin was drunk, that the 
 doctor could not speak a word without shouting with 
 laughter, that Monsieur Flanquette was becoming mixed 
 in his talk and could not finish his sentences, and, lastly, 
 that the optician's eyes were starting out of his head, he 
 quickly got up from the table, took his hat and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
A DISINTERESTED LOVER. 11& 
 
 XVIL 
 
 A DISINTERESTED LOVER. 
 
 "We must now go to the pretty, elegant, and comfortable- 
 house on the Boulevard Malesherbes where pretty Emma 
 and the lady with the long nose, who had been appointed 
 as her guardian, lived. 
 
 Since she had met her cousin in the Pare Monceaux^ 
 where he had frankly told her that he loved her and that 
 he should never love another woman, Emma was no longer 
 the same ; she had become serious and pensive, and liked 
 to be alone so that she might question her own heart ; she had 
 always felt a secret liking for her cousin, but so many bad 
 things were said about him, and he had been painted to her 
 as such a profligate fellow that she tried to banish all 
 thoughts of him when they arose in her mind. And then 
 Felix had never told her that he loved her, and she thought 
 that he was constantly taken up with ballet-girls and 
 actresses, so that she had no reason for nourishing those 
 tender feelings which pleaded in her cousin's favour, at the 
 bottom of her heart. Since she had met him in the Pare 
 Monceaux how different everything was. All seemed 
 changed for her, she knew that he loved her, and what the 
 little beggar-girl had told her had greatly increased the 
 attachment she felt for her cousin. She could not believe 
 that anyone who was so kind to the unfortunate, could, 
 possess all the moral defects which he was said to have,. 
 And then even if Felix had been somewhat thoughtless 
 and even somewhat of a rake, had he not told her that he 
 had reformed and that he was then thinking of nothing 
 but work ! 
 
 She often said this to Madame Sarget, when the latter 
 refused to go into the Pare Monceaux again, saying, " We 
 might meet your cousin Felix there, and he would be sure 
 to come and speak to us, and I do not wish you to listen 
 to the silly and extravagant things that he says to you," 
 u But he has never said tally things to me. Do you think 
 
120 A DISINTERESTED LOVER. 
 
 it is silly of him to love me ? For that is what he has 
 said to me." " Love you ! Do yon believe that, my dear 
 child ? Are you going to he taken in by the fine phrases 
 of a libertine ? He does not love you ; he only cares 
 for your fortune, and nothing else." " But why should 
 you think that he does not really love me ? " " Because 
 men who run after every woman are incapable of really 
 loving only one." " But since my cousin has altered, and as 
 lie now thinks of nothing but work .... and as his 
 superiors are so well satisfied with him now." " Do you 
 believe it just because he has told us so ? A credible 
 witness, upon my word ! He who has drank will want to 
 «Irink again. Drive the natural disposition out, and it will 
 come back again full gallop ! * You know that proverbs 
 a-re the wisdom of nations." " No, Madame, I did not 
 know it." " Look here, Emma, Monsieur Saint- 
 Esteve is a young man who is worthy of fixing your 
 regard. What manners he has, and how amiable he is. 
 He only goes into good society .... and does not 
 ^associate and roll about the stage with actors and actresses. 
 He is rich and good-looking, and it would be a most 
 suitable match and one worthy of you, and the young man 
 sincerely loves you. He is not paying his addresses to 
 you on account of your fortune." " How do you know 
 ihat, Madame ? " " Because he already possesses an 
 income of fifteen thousand francsf a year, and so he is not 
 •obliged to look for money in anyone whom he may marry. 
 He has told me so himself several times." " But I do not 
 like this Monsieur Saint-Esteve ; he looks very foolish." 
 •" He looks just as he ought to do, miss. It is true that he 
 has not the free manners of those young men who frequent 
 low cafes .... and then, he never smells of tobacco, and 
 ih&t is very much in his favour." 
 
 As their year of mourniug was over, Madame Sarget 
 invited Monsieur Saint-Esteve to come and see them more 
 frequently, and then, changing her batteries, she said to 
 
 * Naturam ezpellas furca y tamen usque recurret. Drive nature 
 <aut with a pitchfork, it will be sure to come again. — Horace, Epist. I., 10, 
 24. (Translator.) 
 
 f £600 
 
A DISINTERESTED LOVER. 121 
 
 herself, " We must go to the Pare Monceaux and take 
 Monsieur Saint-Esteve with us, and then Felix will see that 
 Emma has a suitor, and that will deprive him of any hope 
 of obtaining his cousin's love." 
 
 We know that this plan succeeded completely. Emma 
 had been very vexed at seeing Monsieur Saint-Esteve come 
 and join them, but she had not been able to oppose his 
 doing so ; she could only refuse to take his arm, and it was 
 not without design that she had said in the little beggar- 
 girl's presence that she preferred to walk by herself. . . . 
 Something made her guess that the child would repeat her 
 words to her cousin, for women are very far-seeing in 
 everything that concerns the heart. However, Monsieur 
 de Saint-Esteve was not rebuffed although she would not 
 take his arm, but became very assiduous in his attentions 
 to Madame Sarget, and scarcely a day passed without the 
 ladies receiving a visit from him. Emma's guardian always 
 received him in the most friendly manner, and already 
 treated him as her ward's future husband, although he had 
 not yet obtained any satisfactory answer from her. 
 
 Occasions for declaring his passion were not wanting, 
 and Saint-Esteve frequently found Emma in the garden 
 whilst the lady with the long nose remained in the drawing- 
 room. Now, with Madame Sarget's permission, he went 
 and joined the girl, who was attending to her flowers, and 
 who made a very distinct grimace on seeing the young 
 man who had come to disturb her in her pleasant occupa- 
 tion, and Monsieur Saint-Esteve who saw that Emma was 
 making herself a bouquet, exclaimed, as soon as he got 
 near enough for her to hear him : 
 
 " One cannot be better than in the bosom of one's family /" 
 The girl raised her head, looked at the gentleman 
 almost impertinently, and replied, " What do you mean 
 by that, Monsieur ? " "Do you not know what I mean, 
 Mademoiselle ? It really seems to me to be self-evident." 
 ■*' What is self-evident ? " " My quotation .... which is 
 from a very well-known song." But as soon as he began 
 to give her a specimen of it she exclaimed, " Oh, thank 
 jfou, Monsieur, but it is not worth while to sing " . . . . 
 4i But, Mademoiselle, I find you amongst your flowers and 
 you are one of the fairest flowers yourself, therefore you are in 
 
122 A DISINTEBESTED LOVER. 
 
 the bosom of your family .... is not that perfectly clear ? "' 
 " Ah ! yes ; now that yon have explained yourself, I begin 
 to understand." lt Because your modesty forbade you to 
 class yourself amongst the flowers .... and yet you are 
 the most beautiful of all." " Oh ! Monsieur, if you only 
 knew how I dislike compliments, you would not pay me 
 any." " But I have not paid you any ; I am merely telling 
 you the truth." " My cousin Felix never pays me any 
 compliments .... and so I am very fond of listening to 
 his conversation." 
 
 Monsieur Saint-Esteve always bit his lips with vexa- 
 tion when Emma spoke to him of her cousin Felix, and he 
 exclaimed, " Mademoiselle, I cannot compare myself to 
 that gentleman in any way. "No doubt he is much wittier 
 than I am." "Oh, Monsieur, my cousin does not set up 
 for a wit." " I am certain of one thing, and that is that 
 he does not love you with that sincerity, that disinterested- 
 ness which would make me prefer you to any other woman, 
 even if you were poor .... if you were nothing but a 
 simple workgirl, obliged to work for your own living." 
 " You would marry me if I were a mere workgirl ? Oh I 
 I really cannot believe that, Monsieur.'" " Oh, charming 
 Emma, on the contrary, I should only be all the happier,, 
 because you would see that I loved you alone, and then, as 
 I am tolerably well-off, I could enrich you and make you 
 share my wealth. . . . Ah, I repeat it to you, that if you 
 had nothing, all my wishes would be fulfilled." " You do 
 not care about money, then ? " " What a dreadful idea. 
 What is money compared to love ? Only vile metal, which 
 too often serves the purposes of vice, and for the satisfac- 
 tion of evil passions. ... A tender glance from her whom 
 "we love is the richest treasure." 
 
 Madame Sarget, who had just left the drawing-room to 
 join the young people, and who had heard Saint-Est eve's 
 last words, exclaimed, M Oh, what loving sentiments .... 
 to despise a fortune. I certainly do not mean to say that 
 *we ought to worship it, but it does not at all interfere with 
 happiness, but, on the contrary, contributes to it. Love is 
 all very well .... but it is not enough. Love will not 
 buy laces and diamonds for a man's wife." "Thank 
 Jieaven, Madame, that I am rich enough to satisfy every 
 
GAMBLING. 128 
 
 wish of a young lady who has been as well brought np as 
 your niece. And even if she were poor, I should be very 
 happy, for then she would owe everything to me." " All 
 that proves the disinterested nature of your affection, of 
 which, however, I never had the slightest doubt. Ton 
 love Emma for herself .... which is as it should be 
 .... but I am sorry to have to tell you, that you must 
 make up your mind to find that she is rich .... I may 
 say, very rich .... much richer than you imagine." 
 " What ! Madame ? " " Yes, yes, it is a surprise which we 
 have reserved for her future husband. Manage to per- 
 suade Emma to accept you, and you will see." "Yon 
 hear, Mademoiselle, will you still be cruel and hard- 
 hearted ? " " Monsieur, I have already told you that I am 
 too young, and that I do not wish to marry yet." 
 
 Saint-Esteve bowed and took his leave, with a superb 
 dramatic gesture, and Madame Sarget went to the door 
 with him, saying, " Patience ! patience ! girls refuse one 
 day and are quite willing the next." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 GAMBLING. 
 
 The day after the conversation with Monsieur Saint- 
 Esteve, Emma said to Madame Sarget at breakfast, 
 " Madame, why did you tell Monsieur Saint-Esteve yester- 
 day, that I should be much richer than people think ? " 
 " Because it must turn out so, my dear child. Have you 
 forgotten what your brother Victorin came to see us about, 
 three months ago ? " " He came to ask me to lend him 
 a hundred and thirty thousand francs for a commercial 
 operation which was to turn out very lucrative. You told 
 me that I ought to have every confidence in my brother, 
 and so I gave him an authority to the lawyer to let him 
 
lL24 GAMBLING. 
 
 'have that amount." u And you did quite right. Victorin is 
 a very shrewd young fellow, whose one idea has always been 
 to make a large fortune ; and he will make it. Of course, 
 you understand that whilst doing this for himself, he is 
 working on our behalf as well. He said to me, * I intend 
 to double my sister's capital ' . . . . That will be very 
 nice!" " But what has he done with his own money ? " 
 " He has invested it in something else, and could not draw 
 it out again just then ; do you understand ? " " Not very 
 well. I know so little about business matters, but I have 
 entire confidence in my brother ; only I do not care very 
 much about being any richer." u There you are wrong. I 
 should not be at all sorry to double my fortune by safe 
 speculations, and Victorin assured me that he does not go 
 in for any others .... so I have entrusted him -with 
 
 .svery franc that I possess, and have told him to sell out 
 my money from the Funds, and I have given him the 
 money which your father left me as well." " You have 
 
 •really let my brother have all that you possess ? " " Yes, 
 my dear. At my age one does not despise money, and one 
 is very glad to be able to indulge in little comforts and 
 luxuries: one is glad to coddle oneself and grow indolent, 
 or, rather, one no longer has the strength and agility to do 
 much for oneself, and so one requires to be waited on at 
 every turn." 
 
 Victorin' s arrival put a stop to the conversation. The 
 young man had grown much older-looking, like his 
 brothers had, in the eighteen months that had elapsed 
 since his father's death. But the change in his looks did 
 not betoken the abuse of pleasure : it was a feverish 
 expression, and in his features a close observer would have 
 noticed the tension of a mind that was constantly pre- 
 occupied, and have perceived it in his manner, which was 
 
 ■that of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere, of one who 
 was scarcely listening to you when you spoke to him, 
 because his nerves were always in a state of excitement 
 and irritation from the loss which he was obliged to 
 conceal. 
 
 The old lady and the girl both uttered an exclamation 
 
 ,of pleasure when they saw Victorin come into the room, 
 
 -and they told him that they had just that moment been 
 
GAMBLING. 12§ 
 
 speaking of him. rt How are yon, Madame Sarget ? Good 
 evening, Emma." " Give me a kiss, Victorin ! Why, he 
 never even thonght of it." "Yon have come to lunch 
 with us, Victorin ? That is very nice of you." " No, 
 Madame, no, I have lunched already. I have it earlier 
 than you do." " Yes, brother, we are rather late .... 
 for you know there is no reason why we should hurry." 
 u You are quite right, whilst I .... I have so many 
 things to attend to, and letters to write, that I am always 
 very early." " My dear Victorin, it is quite right to be 
 fond of work .... but it does not do to overtire oneself. 
 I think you are looking pale and haggard." " And your 
 eyes are sunken. What is the reason of that ? " " What 
 is the reason ? What a strange question to ask, Emma. 
 Because I have sat up very late several nights following, 
 writing." . . . "You see, my dear nephew, I was right 
 in saying that you were working too hard, your health will 
 suffer from it." 
 
 Victorin walked up and down the room in great agita- 
 tion several times, and then said, " My health is all right. 
 That does not cause me any uneasiness." " Has anything 
 happened to upset you ? " Emma asked. " Me ! nothing 
 at all, quite the contrary." " Have you seen my brothers 
 recently ? '* " Upon my word I have not, I have not had 
 any time to go to them." " And you have come to bring 
 us some money, Victorin; a great deal of money, have 
 you not ?" 
 
 The young man bit his lips to conceal a grimace, and 
 replied : " No, Madame Sarget, no, I have not brought you 
 money .... You see business matters are not settled so 
 quickly as that ! . . . . But you need not be at all uneasy, 
 for the affair is quite safe." " Oh ! I am quite satisfied, my 
 dear .... I know that you are a careful and prudent 
 young man .... You do not risk your money on the 
 Stock Exchange, do you ? " "I should take very good 
 care not to do that ! I am on the look out for promising 
 operations, and when the opportunity presents itself, I 
 seize it ... . Now just at this moment, for instance, I know 
 of something by which I can gain thirty thousand francs,* 
 
 * £1,200. 
 
126 GAMBLING. 
 
 and perhaps twice as much ! . . . . Bat, in order to under- 
 take it, I require a hundred thousand francs immediately, 
 and I have come to ask my sister for them." Emma 
 opened her eyes wide, and exclaimed : " A hundred 
 thousand francs, and I have already lent you a hundred and 
 thirty thousand ! . . . . What have you done with all the 
 money ? " " What have I done with it ? Well, I have in- 
 vested it very advantageously, and it will bring you in 
 large dividends, but I cannot take it out and alter the in- 
 vestment just now .... and that is why I ask you to let 
 me have some more now for another infallible operation, 
 which it would be a great pity to let slip .... That is 
 slear enough, is it not, Madame Sarget ? M " Certainly, my 
 friend, certainly ! Oh ! I understand about business much 
 Ibetter than Emma does." 
 
 " Then you think I should be right in lending my 
 Brother these hundred thousand francs ? " " Certainly, my 
 dear, certainly, as it is an operation which he does not ydih 
 to let escape him !"..,. " The only thing is ... * 
 iihat I shall have nothing left then .... I have already 
 been obliged to pay all the law costs and succession duties, 
 as my brothers said they would repay me later." .... 
 £i Make yourself quite easy ! You shall have all your costs 
 back .... Your hundred thousand francs are in a 
 banker's hands, I believe ? " " Yes, who pays me five per 
 sent, interest." " Five per cent.! What wretched percent- 
 age ! I intend your hundred thousand francs to bring you 
 in ten or twelve per cent.! " " And what about my money, 
 ITictorin ? " " Your money, my dear lady, will be invested 
 exactly like my sister's .... absolutely .... Here, 
 Emma, sign this paper which I have drawn up, put, * I 
 approve of the above,' and sign it." 
 
 The girl signed after a little hesitation, but she finally 
 gave her brother the paper, saying: "But now we have 
 nothing left except a little ready money here .... Is that 
 not so, Madame ? " " That is true .... and next month 
 is quarter-day, and there will be seven hundred francs to 
 pay, and we shall be short." ... " Do not alarm your- 
 self! I will bring you money before the end of the month, 
 or at the end of the month at the latest." " You will be 
 sure and not forget us ? " "Of course not, and now good- 
 
GAMBLING. 
 
 127 
 
 love, as I must make to the banker's to get the money .... 
 I have no time to lose, for I want to see after my fresh 
 
 speculation to-day I shall see you again soon, 
 
 Madame Sarget good-bye, Emma" « And be sure 
 
 and not forget ns at the end of the month ! ... 
 
 Victorin made no further reply and was gone imme- 
 diately ; he got into his cab again and drove to the banker s 
 who had the remainder of his sister's money, but when he 
 got there he was detained some time before his business 
 could be attended to, and then he received an order on the 
 Bank of France, where he was kept waiting so long that 
 the Stock Exchange, for it was there that Monsieur Mont- 
 laurent did those money operations which he declared were 
 so secure, but where his own fortune had been entirely 
 swallowed up, as well as a portion of his sister s, and all the 
 money that had been lent him. 
 
 Victorin was walking up and down outside the btock 
 Exchange in a state of great vexation, when a nandsome, 
 very fashionable looking young man, with an eyeglass 
 fixed in one eye, stood in front of him and stopped him i 
 " What are you doing here, my dear fellow, looking as 
 bored as if you had been listening to somebody reading a 
 tragedy aloud?" "Oh! Is that you, Roseville! I am 
 vexed, dreadfully vexed! . . . . I have a hundred thousand 
 francs at my disposal, and I wished to make up my losses 
 on the Stock Exchange, where I have not been lucky 
 hitherto .... and I should have speculated for arise .... 
 I was sure that I should be safe in doing so, and, as a 
 matter of fact, the Funds have risen considerably . . . . 
 but I was too late, the Stock Exchange was closed ! ... 
 '•'My dear fellow, I cannot understand your hkrug for the 
 Stock Exchange, when you must wait until the end ot 
 the month to know whether you have wou or lost .... 
 I know my fate much quicker! Give me lansquenet, 
 baccarat, or even ecarte. . . . any of those games by which 
 one can double or treble one's capital in an evening 
 Those I call really interesting games ! They keep you m 
 a constant state of excitement, and every moment you pass 
 from fear to hope." . . . " Tes,but what can one win in such 
 nights P . . . . A few thousand franc notes .... 1 never 
 met with any player who would risk more .... and such 
 
128 GAMBLING. 
 
 mediocre gains do not suit me." .... "I can assure yoi? 
 that I know some places where one can win or lose very large 
 sums .... But then you have never been introduced into* 
 any good houses ! However, I am going this evening to % 
 house where the company will be extremely brilliant ..... 
 Some of the very best men in Paris, though perhaps the 
 ladies are a rather mixed lot, but that will not matter to us, 
 Or, rather, it will only be all the more amusing. Come 
 with me and I will introduce you." " Will there be high 
 play?" 
 
 " I will answer for that ! There will be foreigners there 
 who are rolling in money .... Russian Princes who lose 
 a hundred, or even two hundred thousand francs without a 
 frown ; Americans, who would spend the whole night at 
 cards . . . . Englishmen, Spaniards who have just returned 
 from California and who do not know what to do with their 
 nuggets .... And even Chinamen come, who are always 
 great gamblers ! " " But you have forgotten the Greeks ! * 
 
 " Oh ! no, there are no Greeks, as you understand the 
 word ! Madame Dalvimare is very particular about whom 
 she invites, and a player as to whose character there was 
 any doubt would not be allowed to come a second time ! " 
 " And yet you have offered to introduce me, and nobody 
 there knows me." ■[ Yes, but they know me, and they are 
 sure that I should not introduce a cheat ! . . . . Will you 
 come with me this evening ? " "Of course I will !...,. 
 I have no objection to making the acquaintance of all those 
 people who are rolling in money." " Very well, then, we 
 have dinner together and th^n we will drive to a charming- 
 little house in the Rue de Ponthieu .... Nothing but 
 carpets, hangings .... mirrors, flowers, gilding .... in 
 fact, everything very sivell ! " 
 
 The two young men went and smoked a cigar on the 
 Boulevard des Italiens, and then went to the Maison-Doree.f- 
 Victorin ate but little; gamblers, as a rule, have only a 
 
 * i.e. Swindlers at cards ; now a generic and not a specific appella- 
 tion. The card-playing Greeks used to have, whether rightly or wrong Jy, 
 the reputation of being able and willing to correct fortune. (Translator. ) 
 
 f One of the best, and most expensive restaurants in Paris. • 
 (Translator.) 
 
GAMBLING. 12£ 
 
 small appetite, for their consuming passion absorbs all 
 others. They know nothing about love, and are insensible 
 to the smiles of a pretty woman, the pleasures of the table 
 or the delights of the theatre, and they would pay no 
 attention to the best play acted by the most celebrated 
 actors, so preoccupied would they be by the ace of spades 
 or the queen of hearts. 
 
 Koseville, who was not nearly such a gambler as 
 Victorin, told his friend his intrigues and love adventures, 
 whilst young Montlaurent thought of all the money he had 
 lost, though he was sure that the vein of luck could not 
 always be against him, and that his time would come, and 
 30 he was impatient to go to Madame Dalvi mare's, and his 
 friend was obliged to say to him : " Patience, my dear 
 fellow ! "We cannot show ourselves before half-past nine 
 at the earliest 5 we should look as if we had just come from 
 the country .... and then those who play for lar^e 
 stakes never come before ten o'clock." 
 
 But at last it was time to go, and on their arrival, Vic- 
 torin saw that his friend had not deceived him. Every- 
 thing was very elegant, and the handsomely furnished 
 rooms were a blaze of light ; the ladies were in ball dress, 
 and nearly all were pretty, and they were quite ready to 
 talk and smile agreeably on strangers ; but Victorin took 
 no notice of that, for he cared for nothing, he looked at 
 nothing but the green baize covered card tables. 
 
 Only few games of ecarte for small stakes were going 
 on, as the high players had not yet arrived ; so, in order 
 to pass away the time, Victorin went to one of the tables, 
 where the ladies were playing at chemin de fer. They 
 were only playing for gold, but he managed to lose a few 
 banknotes, and so the ladies ogled him very expressively, 
 and all tried who could be most alluring ; they leant on 
 his elbow, rested against his arm, and addressed those half 
 words to him which are worth whole sentences, and they 
 flattered his vanity by saying to him : <( Should you keep 
 those cards ? " " Would you back that ? " And although 
 Victorin did not think that the stakes were high enough, 
 he nevertheless managed to leave some ten thousand francs 
 in the hands of those ladies, who thereupon left off play- 
 ing, and said : " Now we will go and dance ! " . , . ► 
 
 5 
 
130 GAMBLING. 
 
 '• Oh ! very well ! " Victorin said to himself, <( they leave 
 off just when luck was about to turn in my favour .... 
 bat I was a fool to play against women, for one never 
 wins ! . . . . However, I hope those high players will 
 come soon." 
 
 The strangers were not long before they made their 
 appearance, and soon high play began. For some time he 
 merely looked at the persons who took their places at the 
 card- tables, and soon the Russian nobleman took a hand 
 at lansquenet, and put three thousand franc notes in front 
 of him. Three players covered his stake ; the banker won 
 and said : " There are six thousand francs, gentlemen ! * 
 <! Banco ! " Victoria cried, throwing six thousand-franc 
 "banknotes on to the table, and everyone made way for the 
 bold player who made such a good beginning. The 
 Russian drew the cards and won, and then he said, in the 
 same imperturbable voice as before : M There are twelve 
 thousand francs, gentlemen!" "Banco!" Victorin ex- 
 claimed, putting more bank notes on to the green baize 
 table. The banker drew two aces, and began his phrases 
 over again, always in the same tone of voice, only that he 
 altered the amounts: "There are twenty -four thousand 
 francs, gentlemen?" "Banco!" Victorin whose voice 
 betrayed his excitement, although he did his best to 
 master it. 
 
 By that time the ga*3e had become so interesting that 
 many people left their places and went up to the lansque- 
 net table. The Russian turned the cards and won again, 
 so he put all the bank-notes in a heap in front of him 
 and said : " There are now forty-eight thousand francs to 
 be covered .... but I will withdraw part, if it is too 
 much. ..." '"N ) ! no ! I will cover it ! " Victorin said. 
 . . . "Banco, for the forty-eight thousand francs,"* he 
 exclaimed, in a trembling voice, spreading the whole 
 remaining amount, which was exactly forty- eight thousand 
 francs, on to the table. 
 
 "Ah! bravo Monsieur, you are a bold player!" the 
 Russian noble said, smiling at his opponent, " and I like 
 to play with gentlemen who venture such high stakes as 
 you do!" Bat Victorin made no reply, and waited 
 
 * £1920. 
 
GAMBLING. 131 
 
 anxiously for the banker to turn the cards. ... Every- 
 one in the room seemed to share his impatience, and pro- 
 bably they all wished that the young man might win 
 instead of the other, who had not the slighest need of 
 doing so. The most absolute silence reigned ; the banker 
 turned the cards . , . . and drew two queens. Victorin 
 had lost again, and when the banker doubled the stakes 
 with his usual coolness, nobody replied. 
 
 Victorin left the table ; he could not play any longer, 
 for he had no more money. He had lost ninety thousand 
 francs at lansquenet and ten at chemin de fer, which made 
 up the hundred thousand francs which he had had about 
 him. 
 
 He rushed out of the drawing-room with his head 
 down, his eyes inflamed and a fierce look. ... As soon 
 as he was outside he gave way to his rage, tore his hair, 
 cursed his luck, and every moment exclaimed : " Nothing 
 left! nothing left!" 
 
 But he did not for a moment think of his sister whom 
 he had ruined, of Madame Sarget, whom he had reduced 
 to poverty, of his brother and many others to whom he 
 owed sums which were more or less great. Only one 
 thing occupied his thoughts, and that was how to procure 
 more money to enable him to begin gambling again. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERD. 
 
 The end of the month had come, but Felix had not made 
 his appearance on the Boulevard Malesherbes. 
 
 Emma was uneasy, but she did not allow her guardian 
 to notice it more than possible, as the latter was continually 
 saying : " Victorin will come to-day ; he is sure to come. 
 ... He knows that we shall be short of money. . . . 
 But of course his business detains him. ... I am sure 
 that it is no fault of his that he has not been yet." " But, 
 
132 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 
 
 Madame, you know that I have only five hundred francs*' 
 left in my desk. . . . Furnishing this house in the style I 
 have done, cost me a great deal of money. . . . " "I know 
 that, my child, as' I saw the upholsterer's bill. . . . You 
 are rich enough to be able to indulge in fashionable furni- 
 ture. ... It is not that. ... I have about four 
 hundred francs in my cash box still." "But on the fifteenth 
 we must pay the quarter's rent, seven hundred francsf .... 
 and we must spend some money every day." " Of course, 
 we must. . . . But Victorin will not allow us to be em- 
 barrassed for the want of it, and will be sure to come ! " 
 
 Instead of Victorin, Esteve came to see the two ladies y 
 excusing himself for not having been for several days, as 
 he had been obliged to stay at the house of an old aunt 
 who was ill, and whose heir he was, and although he 
 despised money, he yet thought it his duty to bear his 
 aunt company, as she was very rich and extremely fond 
 of him. Emma listened to all this with the most perfect 
 indifference, but Madame Sarget replied quickly : " I t,m 
 very glad you have come, my dear Monsieur Saint- Esteve, 
 for you can do us a great service." " A service, Madame P 
 I shall be only too glad if you will give me the opportunity 
 of proving you my zeal and my eagerness to be of any use 
 to you ! Dispose of me in any way you please, only com- 
 mand, and I will obey ! " "My dear Sir," the old lady 
 went on with a laugh, "just imagine, you see before you 
 two women who have not a penny, or who at any rate are 
 almost penniless, for they have scarcely enough to pay their 
 quarter's rent ! " 
 
 The young man opened his eyes wide, and then began 
 >to laugh also : " What a good joke ! I suppose you have 
 lost the key of your desk or of your strong-box, or else 
 that it opens by some secret mechanism and you have for- 
 gotten what it is, and you want me to find it ? " " No, 
 that is not it! ... . we can open our desks perfectly 
 easily, but I am not joking when I tell you that we are, as 
 I said, almost penniless. . . . Luckily, it does not worry 
 us much as we have entrusted all our money to Victorin 
 Montlaurent, one of Emma's brothers, who is a most 
 
 * £20. f £28. 
 
THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. ' 133 
 
 business like, clever young man, and who works day and 
 night as he wishes to become a millionnaire .... and he 
 will succeed, and double his sister's fortune and my small 
 means at the same time !...." 
 
 Saint-Esteve, who had become very serious, interrupted 
 •the old lady. " You entrusted your money to that gentle 
 man ? But I do not suppose that your niece has also 
 handed over her fortune to him ? " "I beg your pardon, 
 but we have given everything into Victorin's hands. . . . 
 Emma did not wish to do it, as she thought that she was 
 rich enough. . . . But I said to her : * My dear child, 
 nobody is ever too rich. . . . The man you marry will 
 certainly be of my opinion. . . . ' " " And so you with- 
 drew your money which was, I believe, in the hands of a 
 lawyer or a banker ? " '* Yes, Monsieur ; my guardian ad- 
 vised me to, and my brother begged me so earnestly. . . .** 
 il Bat what is your brother doing ? .... What position 
 does he hold ? " " I know nothing about it, Monsieur." . . . 
 "*' Victorin ? " Madame Sarget said. " He speculates and 
 carries on commercial operations. . . . Oh ! you may 
 be quite sure that he is far too prudent to risk any money 
 that has been entrusted to him ! . . . . He only ventures 
 on certainties ! . . . . And he is sure to bring us money 
 soon; indeed, he may come at any moment. . . . Mean- 
 while, it will not, I hope, inconvenience you to lend us a 
 thousand francs, .... only for a few days ! . . . . We 
 may be able to give it you back tu-morrow, and that is why 
 I make no scruple of asking you. ..." 
 
 The expression of Saint-Esteve's face had completely 
 altered and grown considerably elongated; his amiable 
 looks and friendly smile had disappeared and given way 
 to embarrassment and uneasiness, and he stammered out ; 
 " Ah ! you require a thousand francs. . . . That will not 
 inconvenience me in the slightest .... certainly not .... 
 only I have not the money about me. ... I will go and 
 get it for you. ... I have my cab waiting for me. . . . 
 I will be back almost directly." " Do not trouble about it 
 until to-morrow if you have no time to-day. ..." " By 
 the way, what is your brother Victorin's address ? .... I 
 might give him a call and remind him that you are ex- 
 pecting him." " Oh ! that Would be very kind of you, 
 
134 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVEEED. 
 
 Monsieur. My brother is living at No. 27, Rue St. 
 George's." " Very well, I will go and see him. . . . ,? 
 *' And if he has no time to come himself, he can give the 
 money to you for us ... . and then there will be no neces- 
 sity for you to lend it us." " Oh ! Madame .... I should 
 be too happy. . . . But I will not lose any time. ... I 
 will go and execute your commissions. . . . Good-morning, 
 ladies, until I see you again. ..." " That will be very 
 soon, Monsieur Saint-Esteve ? " " Yes, .... yes, . . . , 
 very soon." 
 
 The fine gentleman, who appeared in a great hurry to 
 get away, seized his hat and made his exit so promptly 
 that he upset a chair in his eagerness to reach the door, 
 which made Emma laugh heartily, and say: 4 ' In what a 
 hurry Monsieur Saint-Esteve was to get away ! He very 
 nearly threw over the console table as well ! .... " " That 
 
 only shows how eager he is to make himself agreeable. . . . 
 
 "We ought to be very much obliged to him, I am sure." 
 " I do not know whether it was his eagerness which also 
 changed the expression of his face so totally ! . . . . 
 
 But when he heard that I had entrusted the whole of 
 jry money to Yictorin he made such a queer face ! I 
 really thought that he was going to cry ! '' " Emma, you 
 do not like the young man, which is very ungrateful of 
 you .... for you know that he wished you were poor, so 
 
 as to make jon rich when he married you." "Who 
 knows ! . . . . Perhaps he will have the opportunity of 
 
 doing so. ... " "What nonsense you are talking! ...... 
 
 Do you mean to doubt your brother's honesty? " "God 
 forbid ! I only thought I was very comfortable as I 
 was. ... I am not at all ambitious myself! " "That is 
 
 all very well, but at your age, young people should be 
 guided by persons of experience ! " " And that is exactly 
 what I have done, aunt." 
 
 However, the day went over, and Monsieur Saint-Esteve 
 did not return, and though Emma said nothing, at the 
 bottom of her heart she was delighted that this gentleman, 
 showed so very little eagerness to be of any service to 
 ihem, but Madame Sarget could not help occasionally 
 saying : " It is very strange that Monsieur Saint-Esteve 
 does not come back ! . . . . Ah ! those young people I 
 
THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 135 
 
 No doubt lie has met some friends who have carried him 
 off with them .... or perhaps his aunt is ill 
 again !...." 
 
 Emma did not reply, and the evening passed like the 
 day had done, and they went to bed without hearing any- 
 more of Monsieur Saint-Esteve than of Victorin. 
 
 The next morning the old lady was seized by a vague 
 feeling of uneasiness, and she listened eagerly, hoping- 
 every moment to hear the front door bell ring, but nobody- 
 came, and after the clock had struck twelve, Emma could 
 not help saying : " Do you still think that Monsieur Sainfc- 
 Esteve is eager to oblige us ? . . . . I myself believe that 
 this highly disinterested young man does not the least 
 care about lending us a thousand francs !...." "I can- 
 not understand it at all ! Something must have happened 
 to him ! . . . . And then, Victorin does not come and 
 does not write ! . . . . He must be ill also." " And only 
 three days more till the fifteenth, and we have never been 
 behindhand with our rent, ..." ''My dear child, I will 
 take a cab and go and see Victorin, for we must know 
 what the meaning of this is. I shall give him a thorough 
 good scolding to teach him to forget us like this! " " Oh ! 
 yes, go to my brother's, and if you do not find him try and 
 see Felicien and Adolphe, for I think it looks more natural 
 to borrow money from them than from Monsieur Saint- 
 Esteve, for it would be painful to me to be under any 
 obligations to him. ..." "Yes .... certainly, as he 
 has not come again. ... Oh ! I am quite sure that some- 
 thing must have happened to him. ..." 
 
 Madame Sarget hastily dressed herself, sent the servant 
 for a cab and started, after saying to Emma : " If Monsieur 
 Saint-Esteve comes whilst I am out, as I presume he will 
 do, ask him to wait for me." " Oh ! I would make a bet 
 that I shall not be troubled with him !...." 
 
 The old lady drove to Victorin's lodgings, and asked if 
 he was in, but was told that the bird had floivn, though 
 very many people were trying to catch him. " Did yon 
 not understand me, porter," the old lady said j " I want to- 
 know if Monsieur Victorin Montlaurent is at home. . . . 
 Does he not live here any longer ? " "I should really be 
 very much embarrassed to tell you where he is roosting at 
 
136 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 
 
 present; but he must be a long way off, if be is still 
 running !,..." " T do not understand you, so please 
 explain yourself better — if he is still running ! Has be 
 gone on a journey ? " " It is easy enough to understand, 
 however ! . . . . The young gentleman has been playing 
 the fool, and getting into debt in all directions. . . . Good 
 gracious ! What a lot of creditors have been after him, 
 to be sure ! It is three weeks since he disappeared, 
 and he went off without paying anyone . . . . he has cut his 
 stick, as they say ! " Madame Sarget grew pale, and then 
 green and yellow ; her nose appeared to swell, and she 
 seized the porter by the arm and exclaimed : " That is 
 impossible .... you must be mistaken .... I am speak- 
 ing of Monsieur Victorin Montlaurent, a young man of 
 good family .... a very hard worker and very rich. ..." 
 *f Very rich ? Well, yes, they say he was when he came to 
 live here. • t . But in spite of that he never paid any- 
 body. . « . He still owes the upholsterer for his furniture 
 and two quarters* rent to the landlord, without counting 
 the current one. . . . " " Are you speaking of Monsieur 
 "Victorin Montlaurent? " " Yes, Madame, a nice looking 
 fellow .... rather short, thin and sallow. ..." "And 
 you do not know where he is now ? He did not give you 
 his address ? " " Not exactly ! . . . . He bolted without 
 saying anything, in order to throw hisjcreditors off the scent." 
 
 " Oh ! good heavens ! good heavens ! What shall we 
 do ! " and Madame Sarget got into her cab again, whilst 
 the porter went back into his lodge, saying: " I fancy he 
 must have let that lady in for a considerable sum ! . . , . 
 That comes of lending money to young men ! " 
 
 Emma's guardian could not persuade herself that the 
 porter had spoken the truth, and so she drove to Felicien's 
 address, hoping to learn something certain about Vic- 
 torin from him, so that she might be able to find him. 
 *' Monsieur Felicien Montlaurent ? " the old lady asked a 
 woman in the porter's lodge. l( He does not live here any 
 longer, Madame ; he is now lodging in the Hue des 
 
 Martyrs Here is his address." Madame Sarget 
 
 took it, and had herself driven to Felicien's new abode, 
 and she was surprised to find it a dirty, squalid, 
 dilapidated house, and asked an old woman, who appeared 
 
THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 137" 
 
 -to belong to the place, after Monsieur Felicien Mont- 
 laurent. " Monsieur Felicien ? Ah ! you are are fortu- 
 nate, as he happens to be in ! . . . . Generally, he is not 
 ,at home at this time, for he keeps the books at a whole- 
 sale grocer's But he has not gone to-day, as he is 
 
 not very well, and I have made him some marsh-mallow 
 •■tea with liquorice juice, which is excellent for a cold. 
 .... And the poor young man coughs so, that he 
 makes my dog Azor bark .... when I take him upstairs 
 with me to do my lodger's room." 
 
 Madame Sarget listened to all this without understand- 
 ing a single word, and said, "I think you must bo 
 mistaken, and that your lodger is not the young man I ant 
 looking for. . . . The gentleman I want, Monsieur 
 Felicien Montlaurent, is very rich, and certainly does not 
 keep the books at any grocer's." .... " Ah ! but 
 listen ! My lodger also used to be very well off, from what 
 he says, for he does nothing but sigh all day long over his 
 lost fortune, and says, 'Ah! women I women!' . . . . 
 Between ourselves I think that he has had rather too 
 much to do with them ! . . . . It is a man's duty to love 
 them .... and I am sure we deserve it, but nobody 
 ought to exceed the bounds of nature." " What is your 
 lodger like ? " "A very tall, fair young man, with light 
 blue eyes and dreadfully thin, now, • . • . and I should 
 say he is about twenty-seven or twenty-eight." .... 
 • The description is like him ; is he at home ? " " Yes, 
 Madame, and coughing enough to drive anyone mad." 
 ** I will go upstairs ; on what floor, if you please ? " " Off 
 the fifth, .... the door close to the .... I mean there 
 is a dreadful smell from the drains when it rains ! " 
 
 Madame Sarget went up a dark and dirty staircase, and 
 she slipped at every step, but at last she reached the fifth 
 floor, opened a door, and found herself in a miserable den. 
 Felicien was sitting on a wretched bed, and he was so 
 changed that she scarcely knew him. But the young man 
 knew her perfectly well, and exclaimed, " Why ! It is 
 Madame Sarget ! . . . . Ah ! It is very kind of you to 
 come and see me. .... I should have gone to my 
 
 lister's if I had not had such a bad cough I 
 
 wanted to borrow some money of her But you 
 
138 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 
 
 •will lend me some, and that will be just the same 
 thing." 
 
 The old lady was thunderstruck, and looked at Felicienv 
 murmuring, " Can it really be you, Felicien, .... in suck 
 a wretched room ? . . . . Why have you left your beauti- 
 ful apartments ? . . . . What is the meaning of it F M 
 *' The meaning of it is, that I have lost everything ; » . , 
 
 that women have stripped me Oh ! it is whsat 
 
 you might call stripping a man to the skin I . . . . Anita 
 and Antonia, especially, finished me off ! . . . . Oh t 
 Anita ! . . . , A — h ! . . . . Now I am obliged to driisk 
 herb tea .... and can hardly stand on my legs I " " Good 
 heavens ! is it possible ? and you, Felicien, who hardly ves- 
 tured to look at me, even !".... " That does not pror© 
 anything ! " " And do you ever see your brother Victoriu f 
 Where is he now ? I particularly want to know." . . * * 
 M How should I know anything about him ; what does if 
 matter to me what he is doing, miser that he is ? I 
 wanted to borrow some money of him, and he refused nacv 
 „ . . . So let him go to the devil ! . . . . But my little 
 sister will lend me some, will she not, Madame Sarget ? CT 
 ** No, sir, no ! . . . . Money in order to keep you m. 
 debauchery ? . . . Never ! . . . . And besides, , . . • 
 even if she wished to .... oh ! great heaven ! . . „ „ 
 there is only one hope left for us. Good-bye, Felicien.' 9 
 " What ! Are you going off like that, Madame Sarget f 
 At any rate, give me ten francs for my porteress ! " 
 
 But the poor lady did not listen to him, but went dows 
 from the fifth floor, tottering at every step, and went pssst 
 the porter's wife, who asked her whether he was the 
 gentleman she was in search of. Without answering her 
 she got into the cab, and was driven to Adolphe Moat- 
 laurent's, who had not moved. She found him at tabl^ 
 between his faithful friends, Flanquette and Goudmaxm ? 
 and all three were already nearly drunk, but Adolphe more 
 nearly so than the other two. 
 
 When he saw Madame Sarget come in, who was unmis- 
 takable wherever she was on account of her nose, Adolpij©- 
 uttered such a vehement exclamation of surprise, that he 
 frightened his two guests. "Madame Sarget ! . . . . Wfeai 
 a delightful surprise ! So you have come to lunch. We> 
 
THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOTEKED. 139' 
 
 have already had ours, but that is no matter, we will go 
 
 on again We are at it all day, we fellows 
 
 Jean, a plate .... and several glasses." " No, ray dear 
 
 Monsieur Adolphe, I have not come to lunch I am not 
 
 the least hungry .... and then, you have done." " Bah 8 
 
 bah ! you must have some wine Here is some 
 
 champagne You like champagne ? " .... u Ii 
 
 is the wine of the fair sex ! " . . . . Monsieur Flanquefcte 
 murmured, trying to assume a dignified manner. 
 
 Madame Sarget endeavoured to recognize Adolphe in 
 that fat man with swollen cheeks and a purple nose, whose 
 eyes were sunken and had the vague and stupid expression 
 of drunkenness. She then looked at Flanquette, who was 
 trying very hard to hold himself straight, and at the 
 optician who smiled at her and bowed to her continually* 
 
 Adolphe filled some long stemmed glasses with another 
 wine which Jean had just put on the table, and gave one 
 to Madame Sarget, and the gentlemen clinked their glasses 
 saying in rather a thick voice : " The health of the ladies ! " 
 " This is very good wine .... is it red champagne ? " 
 "Eh! No .... it is Grenache .... Don't you know i% 
 G-oudmann ? " " No, I never tasted it before." " Come, 
 Mamma Sarget .... you are not drinking with us I n 
 But the old lady pushed away her glass, and replied : " I 
 tell you, once more, Adolphe, that I did not come here to 
 drink." u Then what the devil did you come for ? " " To 
 see if you knew anything of your brother Victorin, whether 
 you could tell me what he is doing .... what has become 
 of him, for I must find him." ... " Victorin ? .... he 
 is a rogue .... He borrowed forty thousand francs of 
 me .... and instead of paying me back, he wanted to 
 borrow more money .... but nix* .... don't under- 
 stand ! I have not seen him since .... Flanquette has 
 been trying to find him everywhere .... but he cannot 
 put his hand upon him ! . . . . And Felicien owes me 
 fifteen thousand francs, which I shall never see again 
 Do oblige your brothers ! Thank you, I have had enough 
 of it . ... Tour good health." ... "I told you," Moo- 
 
 German, nichts, nothing. (Translator.) 
 
140 THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 
 
 sieur Flanquette said, " I warned you never to lend money 
 to relations . ... it is just so much money lost ! Is not 
 that so, Goudmann ? " Goudmann's only answer was a nod 
 ■ and a wink, whilst he sipped his Grenache. 
 
 " Oh ! But it cannot be possible .... Victorin has 
 ruined your sister .... He has taken all our money under 
 the pretence of trebling our capital ! " "I am not at all 
 surprised at that ! I think he is quite capable of doing it 
 .... Decidedly, I prefer the champagne I This is too 
 sweet !".... " My dear Adolphe, your sister is worried 
 for money .... You will not refuse to lend her two or 
 three thousand francs .... Thank heaven, you must be 
 wealthy still?" 
 
 Fat Adolphe looked at the old lady in a stupefied way, 
 and then turning to his friend, Flanquette, he said : 
 6i Flanquette, are we still rich ? . . . . Speak, partner ! " 
 Pianquette sat up straight, blew his nose, and said in a 
 thick voice : " I am sorry to say that as our speculation 
 in brandy has not turned out as we expected, it has caused 
 us great inconvenience .... Now we have invested 
 nearly all our available capital in rum .... and we are 
 waiting for the returns .... Goudmann, did rum rise 
 yesterday ? " " I rose four bottles into my room," he 
 replied, ei always the same sort, the rum which . . . ." 
 " 'I'here, there, that will do ! You need not say any more 
 about it ! " " But you do not mean to say, Adolphe, that 
 you will not come to your sister's assistance ? " " My dear 
 Madame Sarget .... I have assisted my brothers, and I 
 think that is sufficient .... It has not done me any good ! 
 & . . '. And, besides, why did Emma give all her money to 
 Victorin ? . . . . How green she was ! . . . . And you, 
 lier guardian .... why did you allow it ? Your good 
 liealth ! " " 1 1 I \ " the poor lady stammered, for she 
 was so agitated that she could scarcely speak. u I . . . . 
 Oh ! yes, I know that I am very much to blame! " 
 
 With these words, Madame Sarget went out of the 
 .room where the three drunken men were, in despair, and 
 got into her cab again, and she hardly had strength left to 
 tell the driver to take her back to where she had come 
 &)m. She got home quite overcome and trembling, and 
 .with her eyes full of tears, and Emma, who was alarmed at 
 
THE IMPOSTURE IS DISCOVERED. 141? 
 
 seeing her in that state, ran up to her, took her in her 
 arms and wanted to pnt her into an arm-chair, but the old 
 ady resisted ; she fell at her ward's feet and there said, in 
 a voice half-choked with sobs : " Curse me, my child, for I 
 have ruined you I You are ruined, and I have nothing 
 left .... My wish to grow richer has caused my ruin and 
 yours .... my loss was nothing, but you had enough on 
 which to live comfortably .... and I have reduced you 
 to poverty .... Oh I It is terrible, and I shall never 
 forgive myself ! " 
 
 The girl was obliged to console her guardian, and to 
 swear that she forgave her and would never bear ber a 
 grudge for what she had done, and that she was quite able 
 to bear adversity, and then Madame Sarget informed 
 Emma of everything she had learnt whilst she was out. 
 Emma was especially distressed about her brothers Felicien 
 and Adolphe, and said, " Victorin a swindler 1 . . . . Oh ! 
 no, I can never believe that !".... "And .... and has 
 Monsieur Saint-Esteve been ? " Madame Sarget asked, in a 
 trembling voice." " Oh ! no, he did not come, I am 
 thankful to say .... Cannot you imagine how painful it 
 would be for me now to be put under any obligations to 
 him, which I could never discharge .... I see a fortunate 
 side in the misfortune that has overtaken us, as it has 
 enabled us thoroughly to know this gentleman who declares 
 he is so disinterested, and who vowed that he loved me for 
 myself alone ! . . . . He has vanished with my fortune 
 .... like the swallows vanish at the approach of 
 winter ! " 
 
 " But, my child, we have nothing whatever left ! What 
 are we going to do, and what will become of us ? " " We 
 still possess this elegant furniture, which cost nearly ten 
 thousand francs,* and we will sell it, leave our pretty 
 house at once, discharge the two servants, and take modest 
 lodgings, and I will work." .... " Work ! . . . . you, 
 Emma, who have been used to comfort and luxury ?".... 
 
 " Why not ? I shall do like my cousin Felix He 
 
 has to work now, and is none the worse for it, but rather 
 
 £400. 
 
142 SOMETIMES A FALL IS FORTUNATE. 
 
 the contrary. I am young and brave, and will work for us 
 both .... and I shall be proud to know that my exist- 
 ence is useful to some one." 
 
 XX 
 
 SOMETIMES A FALL IS FORTUNATE. 
 
 JDe was the middle of winter. Felix knew nothing about 
 the change that had taken place in his cousin's position. 
 Since he had questioned the porter's wife at the house on 
 the Boulevard Malesherbes, and had been told that 
 "Madame Sarget received Saint-Esteve as Emma's future 
 tiusband, he had made up his mind never to see her again, 
 jas she could not be his wife. Nevertheless, he went at 
 least once every month to the Pare Monceaux, but it was 
 only to give something to the little beggar girl, who used 
 ■to say to him sadly, without even being asked, " Your 
 pretty cousin never comes here for a walk now." 
 
 Felix found distraction in work from that love which he 
 tried in vain to banish from his heart, but he had lost all 
 liis high spirits, and Dr. Ohoubert tried in vain to bring 
 shem back. One morning the doctor found himself face 
 to face in the street with a fat, jolly-looking fellow, who 
 ibowed to him and said, "Why, .... it is the doctor 
 who came to my wedding, when he drank no heel taps so 
 often." .... " Eh ! Why, you are Monsieur Dufilet, 
 and I certainly danced at your wedding .... by the 
 lake in the park of Saint Fargeau." .... " That is it ; 
 we all enjoyed ourselves, didn't we?" "Very much! 
 As for me, I have very pleasant recollections of it ; and 
 itow is your wife ? " " Laurette ? . . . . Oh ! she is all 
 right ! . . . . I say, it is all there ! " " It is all there ? 
 I am afraid I don't understand ! " "I mean to say .... 
 
 that she goe3 double Eh ! do you understand 
 
 now ? " " Oh ! you mean to say, perhaps, that she is in 
 
SOMETIMES A FALL IS FORTUNATE. 14$ 
 
 -i&e family way ? " " Oh ! there is no perhaps about it ! 
 Zt 9 s all there ! . . . . She is as fat as an ox already, and, 
 in fact, I came out to find an accoucher, because at any 
 moment .... you understand, .... one must not be 
 taken by surprise ! Monsieur Dardard insists upon pro- 
 curing us a mid-wife wbo is under his patronage .... 
 but my wife will not trust to Dardard ! Laurette said, 
 * When I am on the point of being confined, he will send 
 me a fortune-teller instead of a midwife ! ' " " Oh! Is 
 that the gentleman who is fond of practical jokes ? n 
 tl Yes ! You remember what he did at Gigoteau's 
 
 wedding Thank you ! . . . . He would prevent 
 
 say wife from being confined." " But, I say, if you have 
 jaobody in view, I am at your service." "Bah! Really, 
 da you go in for that sort of thing ? " "I have already 
 introduced more than three hundred children into the 
 world." « Ah! Well done! .... All right, then, 
 
 £here is no more to be said Come at once, so that 
 
 T may introduce you to Laurette as her doctor ; she will 
 he very glad to see you again." 
 
 Dufilet took the doctor with him to his butcher's shop, 
 Adhere they found Laurette behind the counter. She 
 recognized the doctor again immediately, and seemed very 
 pleased at having him for her medical attendant, whilst for 
 Iks part Dafilet was enchanted, and wanted to go and tell 
 mis foster-brother that his friend was going to undertake 
 &e duty of introducing the expected little stranger into 
 the world. But the doctor said to him, " Don't trouble 
 .about that ; I expect to see Felix soon, and I will be sure 
 jm& tell him myself." "And tell him that you are to be 
 my doctor also when I am ill." 
 
 The doctor lefo his new patients, and as he was going 
 along the Faubourg Saint-Martin he heard a cry close to 
 &ira, and saw that it proceeded from a lady who had 
 slipped down on the pavement. She was soon picked up ; 
 Ciionbert was one of the first to hasten to her assistance, 
 and he was very much surprised at recognizing Madame 
 Sarget, whom he used to see so often when he was 
 Monsieur Montlaurent's medical adviser. She was not 
 ses'iously hurt ; she had only sustained some braises on one 
 knee and on her side. The doctor sent for a cab to take 
 
144 SOMETIMES A FALL IS FORTUNATE. 
 
 her home, but the old lady would not hear of it, saying" 
 that she lived only a few yards off. 
 
 " In that case, take my arm, Madame, and I shall have^ 
 the honour of seeing you home, for after a fall it is always> 
 as well to take something." 
 
 Madame Sarget had not yet recognized the doctor, sg t 
 when he had given her his arm, and they were going to* 
 her house, he told her who he was, and congratulated 
 himself on having been there, so as to go to her assistance. 
 The old lady, who was still somewhat dazed from her falljr 
 looked at Choubert and said, " Well, doctor, I am beginning 
 
 to recognize you again Yes, of course, you were 
 
 Monsieur Montlaurent's medical man.'' " Not for very long. 
 But how is it that I have met you alone and on foot, and in 
 a part of the town so far from yours, for I believe you live- 
 on the Boulevard Malesherbes ? " 
 
 Madame Sarget uttered a deep sigh, looked at the 
 doctor, and said with some hesitation : " Ah ! Monsie,ar r 
 you do not know all our misfortunes !".... " Your 
 misfortunes ? I know absolutely nothing at all about them * v 
 has Mademoiselle Emma had anything to trouble or vex 
 her ? " " Much worse than that, Monsieur , ... we have 
 lost everything .... we are ruined ! Victorin, Emma's 
 brother, who said he was going to triple our money, has 
 disappeared — and our money as well ! " " Can it be 
 possible ? " " It is all my fault, Monsieur ; I advised my 
 niece to entrust her brother with her money .... and now 
 the poor child has to work to keep us both. This is where 
 we live, on the fourth storey. Come .... you shall see our 
 poor lodgings ; we have been here four months now , . r - 
 and Emma has not complained once." 
 
 The doctor could scarcely believe what he heard, and 
 when he went into the small, modest, but perfectly clean 
 and tidy abode, where he saw the girl sitting sewing in- 
 front of the fireplace in which there were only a few 
 embers, Choubert ran up to her and began to kiss her with 
 tears in his eyes, and said : " Pardon me, dear young lady ; 
 pardon me, dear child, for permitting myself .... but when 
 I see you again thus, you whom I knew rich and happy 
 .... it pained me ! . . . . Allow me to kiss you again- 
 .... to console myself a little." 
 
SOMETIMES A FALL IS FORTUNATE. 145* 
 
 Emma sqneezed the doctor's hands, for she was very 
 glad to see him again, and smiled as she said : te Oh !' 
 Monsieur, I feel how happy we are when we are in 
 adversity to see those who like ns, again ; and yon are the 
 first who has shown any interest in us, or who has given 
 ns a proof of friendship since our misfortunes happened." 
 *' But, my dear young lady, why did you not let your 
 friends know what had happened to you ? Your cousin 
 Eelix does not know it any more than I myself knew it." 
 
 Emma looked down as she replied: "My brothers- 
 refused to help us, and Madame Sarget declared that it was 
 useless to apply to any one else. And then, I must confess 
 that I thought that my cousin knew of our misfortune, and 
 I said to myself : ' It is not kind of him not to come and try 
 and console us a little.' " u I repeat to you, Mademoiselle, 
 that Eelix believes that you are still rich, happy, and about 
 to marry a fine gentleman whom he saw walking with 
 you." " What I He believed that ? " " If he had known 
 your altered po sition, he would already have been at your 
 feet ! " " Ah ! Monsieur, how happy it makes me to hear 
 that ! " " Madame Sarget always judged your cousin very 
 wrongly .... because he once was unfortunate enough, 
 to make fun of her nose. Ah ! If once you wound 
 a woman's vanity, she never forgets it . . . .But how can 
 this young man, this Monsieur Saint-Esteve, who was going 
 to marry you and who is so rich, leave you in such a 
 position ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Saint-Esteve ! . ; . . Why, since I have been 
 mined, he has passed quite close to me in the street once 
 or twice, and has looked away, so that he need not bow to 
 me ! " " What a boor ! " " Ah ! Monsieur, you must 
 admit that I am very fortunate not to have married him." 
 '* Yes, upon my word ; and there is some consolation in 
 that." ... " But what accident has brought you here 
 this morning, doctor ? " " It was really an accident 
 Your aunt fell, she slipped down in the street .... And 1 
 thank heaven .... as her fall was not at all dangerous, 
 and as it has been the cause of my learning what has 
 happened to you ! " "Doctor, I cannot believe that 
 Yictorin has entirely ruined us ! " Madame Sarget said, 
 " Would you be kind enough to find out, and try to learn 
 
 a 
 
146 NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING 
 
 something about him .... for his two brothers would not 
 listen to me.'' "Yes, Madame, yes, you may depend upon 
 me ; I will go and ask and find out .... I have a friend 
 who is one of the heads at the Prefecture of Police, and 
 from him I shall learn what has become of Monsieur 
 Victorin. To-morrow, at the latest, I will come and tell 
 you what I have found out ; meanwhile, Madame, drink an. 
 infusion of wound- wort and keep yourself warm. Good- 
 bye, my dear young lady." . . . And the doctor added, as 
 he shook hands with Emma : 
 
 " To-day Felix shall know that you are no longer a 
 rich heiress .... and I will answer for it that that will not 
 prevent him from calling upon you." 
 
 Emma made no reply, but she squeezed the doctor 's 
 hand. It was far more expressive than any words ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING. 
 
 In the evening which followed the doctor's visit, and 
 which had restored Emma to hope and happiness, whilst 
 her aunt continued to utter deep sighs, the porter brought 
 up a letter for the ladies. It was addressed to Madame 
 Sarget, but as her sight was bad she said to Emma : " Read 
 it to me, my child, for I presume it has as much to do 
 with you as it has with me. Perhaps it is from the doctor, 
 who may already have some good news for us." Emma 
 opened the letter, from which there fell first of all two bank 
 notes for a thousand francs each. " Good heavens ! 
 Bank notes 1 " the old lady exclaimed. "Oh! I was quite 
 sure that Victorin had not forsaken us altogether. . . . 
 The letter is from him, is it not, my dear child ? " " I do 
 not see any signature. ..." "At any rate he has 
 written, so read it at once," and Emma read the following 
 note with much emotion : " On hearing of your misfor- 
 tunes, I hasten immediately to send you this slight 
 assistance. Do not refuse it, and do not be uneasy about 
 
NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING. 147 
 
 -the future, as yon will receive the same amount every six 
 months until something better can be done for you." 
 
 " Oh ! What good fortune ! . . . . And there is no 
 signature ? " " None." " But surely you know your 
 brother Victorin's handwriting?" "No, it is not his 
 handwriting. ... I never saw this writing before. . . . 
 Then you think that he has sent us this assistance ? " 
 " Certainly ! "Who but he would send us this sum and 
 promise us the same amount every six months ? . . . . 
 It is, of course, only a very small amount on account, con- 
 sidering what he owes you, my child ; but at any rate it 
 proves that he has not lost everything, as people said, and 
 who knows whether he will not become fortunate in his 
 speculations again ! " 
 
 Emma did not share Madame Sarget's opinion ; she had 
 a different one which she took care not to tell her, and 
 they went to bed, each of them with their own hopes, and 
 already less uneasy regarding their future. 
 
 The next morning they impatiently waited for the 
 doctor's coming, for they thought that he might have 
 learnt something which would not leave them in doubt 
 about the author of the anonymous letter. He came about 
 two o'clock in the afternoon, looking serious, and even 
 grave. Bat Madame Sarget did not leave him time to 
 speak to them, but showed him the letter and the two 
 bank notes, exclaiming : " Look here, doctor, we have 
 news, good news, thank God ! See what Victorin has sent 
 us ... . two thousand francs, and he promises to send us 
 the same amount every six months. Ah ! I was quite sure 
 that he could not be so dishonest ! " 
 
 The doctor frowned, looked at the letter and said : 
 ""What leads you to suppose that this letter is from 
 Victorin? .... Has he signed it ? " "No .... but 
 who else would give us this money ? " " Ah ! You do 
 not suspect anybody ! . . . . I will bet that Mademoiselle 
 Emma thinks quite differently to you. ..." Emma 
 smiled and gave the doctor a happy look. "Well, Mon- 
 sieur," Madame Sarget said, for she clung to her hope 
 " but why do you not believe that Victorin sent us this 
 assistance? " " Why ? I will tell you, Madame, f or y OU 
 ought to kuow the truth : the veil which has so long blinded 
 
148 NOT TOO MUCH OP ANYTHING. 
 
 you, and made you judge the brothers of this dear young 
 lady, who have been so ridiculously, I might even say so 
 stupidly brought up by their father, quite wrongly. . . . 
 Victorin could not have sent you that letter, for he is 
 dead .... he blew his brains out in the forest of Mendon 
 a month ago. ..." 
 
 Madame Sarget uttered a cry and hid her face in her 
 hands, whilst Emma fell into a chair and burst into tears. 
 The doctor took her hand and said, " Forgive me, my 
 child, for having told you this sad news so suddenly. 
 .... But I adhere to the same principle with regard to 
 bad news as I do with regard to painful operations: I 
 think there is no good in hesitating. And, believe me, do 
 not regret your brother. He was a gambler, a mad 
 gambler ; he began his own ruin on the Stock Exchange, 
 and then he lost other people's money. The last hundred 
 thousand francs that you entrusted to him were swallowed 
 
 up in one evening at cards When any one has 
 
 got as far as that, when a man loses what does not belong 
 to him, without remorse, he is very near becoming a 
 rogue ! Victorin killed himself .... and it was the 
 best thing he could do Do not regret him. 
 
 " Your brother Felicien has spent all his fortune with 
 women, with courtezans and mistresses, who made fun of 
 him ! But, at least, he only lost what belonged to him 
 .... or nearly so ; for the worst of it is that his health 
 
 is in a deplorable state I saw him this morning, 
 
 and he frightened me. 
 
 " There remains your brother Adolphe ; he is in a fair 
 way to lose his health and his money, for he has taken to 
 drinking, which is the most disgraceful tendency a man 
 can have, because it often brutalizes him, and puts him on 
 a level with idiots. Your brother is surrounded by 
 rogues, who profit by his fondness for drink utterly to 
 ruin him, under the pretence of enabling him to speculate 
 very profitably in alcohol. I will not give him three 
 years before he is penniless and incapable of doing any 
 work. 
 
 u Well, Madame Sarget, such has been the result of the 
 strict education that Monsieur Montlaurent gave to his 
 sons. If instead of making Felicien go to bed at ten 
 
NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING. 149 
 
 o'clock,, of telling him to cast down his eyes in a woman's 
 presence, and to avoid them as much as possible, he had 
 allowed his son to indulge in some of the pleasures, and 
 even the follies, of young men, when he became his own 
 master, he would never have abandoned himself in such an 
 inordinate manner to a passion whose fragility he would 
 already have known. If he had not always made Ado! phe 
 put water with his wine, he would not have felt such a 
 desire to give himself up to the pleasures of the table 
 .... pleasures into which he plunged recklessly, because 
 they had been forbidden to him. 
 
 " As to Victoria, his father would not allow him to 
 touch cards ; he forbade him to enter a cafe in order to 
 
 play a game of billiards Even supposing that the 
 
 young man had lost a few hundred francs at play, it 
 would not have ruined his father, and it would have taught 
 him the folly of hoping to grow rich by play. 
 
 "And now look at Felix Albrun, whom his uncle treated 
 so severely, because he was fond of pleasure under its 
 most seductive forms — women, wine, and play — by the side 
 of these young men. Yes, he certainly had been fond of 
 
 them all But like young men of his age . . . . ne 
 
 quid nimis / Not too much of anything, said the Latin 
 
 fabulist, and Phasdrus' maxim is a very wise one 
 
 "We ought to enjoy everything without abusing it. When 
 we become wise before our time, we run the risk of making 
 fools of ourselves later in life ; whilst this worthless fellow 
 .... as Monsieur Montlaurent used to call his nephew, 
 this worthless fellow, Felix, is now a valued employi, who 
 already has & share in the business of the mercantile house 
 where he is engaged, liked and respected by his principals, 
 whilst his only object is to get on ... . and who soon 
 sent you those two thousand francs, his first savings .... 
 only too happy to prove to you that your misfortunes did 
 not change his feelings of friendship for you." .... "Is 
 it possible ? " Madame Sarget exclaimed ; " do you mean 
 to say that Felix sent us that money ? " " Yes, Madame, 
 I told him yesterday how you were circumstanced, and 
 you see that he did not lose any time in letting you * hear 
 from him." " Ah ! I guessed immediately that that letter 
 came from my cousin ! " Emma said, wiping away her 
 
150 NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING. 
 
 tears. " But is he really steady now ? " " Eh ! Of 
 course he is ! He is what everybody ought to be, for 
 Saint Paul says, ' Oportet sapere an sobrietatem I ' ' Every 
 man ought to be wise with sobriety ! '* Well, Madame, 
 do you intend still to refuse to receive my young friend ? " 
 " Oh ! no, doctor, for I see how unjust I have been towards 
 
 him Poor fellow ! He must almost hate me for 
 
 what I have done ! " " Everything is forgotten, my dear 
 lady ! " Felix cried, rushing into the room, where he em- 
 braced Madame Sarget and kissed his cousin's hand, who 
 forgot all her troubles when she saw him. 
 
 " What ? Is it he ? ... . So he has been here all 
 the time ? " the old lady asked. " Yes, he followed me," 
 the doctor replied. "And now, as I do not like anything 
 to 15e delayed, Madame Sarget, I ask for the hand of your 
 charming ward on behalf of her cousin, Felix Albrun." 
 (l Oh ! doctor, I am not her guardian any longer, for I 
 have committed nothing but follies ! . . . . Emma must 
 reply for herself, and I may say, beforehand, that I shall 
 approve of anything she does." 
 
 Emma blushed, and gave her cousin her hand, saying 
 
 to him, " This is my answer, Felix But I am poor 
 
 now." .... u My dear Emma, I bless your poverty, as 
 it allows me at last to become vour husband." 
 
 Six weeks later Emma and Felix were married. Doctor 
 Choubert and Felix's employer were his witnesses. Emma 
 had wished to have her two brothers as her witnesses, but 
 Felicien was no longer able to leave his room, and Adolphe 
 had gone to Bordeaux with Flanquette, with the intention 
 of drinking Clos-Vougeot on the very spot where it was 
 grown. 
 
 Dufilet and his wife, who had been invited to the 
 ceremony, were amongst the first to make their appearance 
 at the Mayor's office, and when the bride and bridegroom 
 were called, pretty Laurette said in a low voice to her 
 Imsband, "You see, your foster-brother has not done as 
 
 you did He comes as soon as he is called ; he is 
 
 quite ready, and has not taken off his shoes !".... 
 
 * Rom. xii. 3. " But to think soberly " {Authorised Version.) 
 St. Paul was certainly not alluding to intoxication ! (Translator.) 
 
NOT TOO MUCH OF ANYTHING. 151 
 
 " How sharp you are ! " Dufilet replied ; " he has got on 
 boots ! " 
 
 The doctor's predictions were soon fulfilled. At the 
 end of eight months Felicien was dead of consumption, 
 and the next year fat Adolphe, who was reduced to a 
 yearly income of fifteen hundred francs (£60) in conse- 
 quence of his speculations with the house of Flanquette 
 and Goudmann, had so besotted himself by the abuse of 
 wine, that he was quite unfitted for any employment. You 
 know to what Yictorin's passion for gambling had led 
 him. 
 
 Felix, on the contrary, whose sole object was to gain 
 an honourable place in the world, acquired an ample 
 fortune by his industry, and made an excellent husband 
 and father. 
 
 Nevertheless, he had been fond of cards, women, and 
 wine, .... but, Ne quid nimis. 
 
 FINIS; 
 
OR, 
 
 A QUEER HOUSEHOLD 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 MATHIESON & COMPANY. 
 
X.OVE UNDER THE TILES, 
 
 OR. 
 
 A QUEER HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A TERM OF STUDY. 
 
 It was in a large house in the Rue Rambuleau. I do 
 not see the necessity of telling you the number. The 
 first floor was occupied by a gentleman who was reputed 
 to be very rich, who had neither wife nor child, and who 
 was satisfied with the cooking provided by the portress; 
 which made the other lodgers think that if he was rich,, 
 as was supposed, he must also be very avaracious, seeing 
 that he did not keep any domestics. For the rest, if 
 people had not said this of him, it is most probable 
 they would have said something else. Is this not 
 always the case when people prattle, when they make 
 conjectures, and especially when they speak evil of their 
 neighbours ? Speak well, rarely ! almost always evil. 
 And why this penchant to invent slander, so common 
 amongst poor humanity ! Such a thing does them no 
 honour ; but let us pass on. 
 
 On the second floor there resided a dentist : opposite 
 the dentist a tailor. On the third floor a mid-wife, and 
 opposite the mid-wife a shirt maker. Finally, on the 
 fourth floor, three young men, two on the same side, the 
 third opposite. The uppermost floor, the attic, was 
 
.2 A TERM OF STUDY. 
 
 occupied by two young women, who did up bonnets. 
 These two lodgers quitted their rooms every morning 
 at eight o'clock, and never returned before ten o'clock 
 at nigfht — time to go to bed. 
 
 Let us first make the acquaintance of the three young 
 men. Adolphe Durard, the youngest, was twenty ; he 
 was neither handsome nor plain, neither spirituel nor 
 stupid : but he was as lean as a broom handle. B e 
 was one of those people of the neuter gender, of whom 
 ♦one does not speak, or takes any notice of: but whom 
 one is glad to have in the house with one when one is 
 alone and oppressed with ennui. Not that Adolphe 
 was in himself amusing, but that he was of a peaceable 
 disposition, did, everything that was asked of him, never 
 opposed anybody, and was not angry when people jeered 
 and laughed at him. He was employed in a larg£ 
 commercial house, and earned about 1000 francs per 
 annum. It were useless to say that he did not dine 
 each day at Brebanfs, and that it was only on extraor- 
 dinary occasions when he wore gloves ; and what is 
 more, as he made one pair last him for a whole year., 
 it was necessary for him to take the greatest care of 
 them. 
 
 The second one was Anatole Bizon. He was twenty 
 years of age ; a handsome enough fellow, fresh and red, 
 and was if anything rather boyish looking. He had 
 become somewhat stout, which was a great grief to 
 him ; every time he looked at his stomach he sighed ; 
 he measured its circumference every second day to know 
 whether it was increasing. He was all the time want- 
 ing to know what he should eat that would not make 
 him fat; but then, seeing he was a great gourmand, 
 when anything pleased him, he would devour it, even 
 to the extent of making himself uncomfortable, where- 
 upon he would say, " So much the worse : I shall only 
 have my next pair of pantaloons' made a little wider." 
 
 M. Anatole was continually boasting of the number 
 of conquests he was making ; he could not believe anj 
 
A TERM OF STUDY. p 
 
 -woman was capable of resisting his fascinating regards ; 
 he curled and frizzed his hair, and got himself up like 
 a ginger-beer seller. He worshipped the dance; he 
 executed fancy steps, cross-capers, and pirouettes in 
 dancing a quadrille, and as it had become unusual for 
 one to do these kind of steps, everybody stared at Ana- 
 tole when he danced. People said to one another under 
 their breath : Most assuredly this young man ought to 
 be engaged at the Opera, or at least at Port St. Martin^ 
 certainly his dancing is most theatrical. 
 
 Anatole Bizon was enchanted at the effect he pro- 
 duced : he was eager to bring back into fashion the 
 gavotte, and he said to himself : " It is with dancing 
 as with all other things : people follow the fashion, but 
 fashion is a road which has many turns in it. It takes 
 up to-day what it abandoned yesterday: fancy steps are 
 out of fashion ; but they can be made fashionable again. 
 "Why should I not have the glory of reviving them ? " 
 
 And while waiting for fancy steps to come once more 
 into fashion Anatole Bizon is much gratified by obtain- 
 ing a position at the Treasury. He is as yet only 
 earning 1,500 francs a year, but he has great expec- 
 tations. And who among us, from the least even unto 
 the greatest, has not had his expectations? Without 
 hope what would life be? What would youth be? 
 What would love be ? 
 
 We come now to the third young man of the fourth 
 floor. The latter was called Fanfan Grenouillet. He 
 was not badly formed, but his features were dismal to 
 look on. His pug nose, his prominent cheek-bones and 
 his verdant green eyes, had nothing seductive about 
 them. Still, his manners were not vulgar, and this of 
 itself was something at a time when so many men 
 attempted to conceal their vulgarity behind the fumes 
 of a cigar. For, let us not dissimulate the fact that 
 the coming into vogue of cigars and cigarettes was 
 due in a great measure to the want so many men ex- 
 perienced of not being able to draw sufficient attention 
 
4 A TERM OF STUDY. 
 
 to their physiognomy. Thanks to the little roll of 
 tobacco they curl about their lips, they have learned 
 how to give their mouths the proper curve, and, do not 
 deceive yourselves, it is the expression of the mouth 
 which almost always betrays vulgarity. Supplied with 
 a cigar, you need no longer give it any concern ; you 
 have only to remove the cigar from time to time, that 
 you may puff out the smoke ; this done, and when you 
 have gravely replaced the cigar, you are perfectly satis- 
 fied with yourself. 
 
 Fanfan Grenouillet had not then a vulgar air : and 
 as a matter of fact he was anything but vulgar. In 
 conversation he was amusing, naturally a little caustic, 
 while he enjoyed laughter at the expense of others % 
 but we have already stated that this is a penchant 
 natural to the whole human species. He had come to 
 Paris in order to study law, but once there he preferred 
 to study the theatre. The theatres are so attractive ; 
 what with the green rooms, the pretty actresses, and 
 the plagarising of authors' rights. For a young man 
 possessed of a lively imagination, who is devoted to 
 pleasure, one can very well conceive why this presents 
 greater attractions than Gujas and Barthole. One can 
 get into one's head more readily some song which is all 
 the vogue than the Pandectes of Justinian. 
 
 But what does Petit- Jean say in the Plaideurs ? 
 " In everything it is necessary to consider the fin (the 
 end.) If I was not afraid of making a pun I would also 
 say the /aim (hunger !) for one must live, and in order 
 to do that one must create a means of subsistence. Fan- 
 fan Grenouillet was twenty-seven: and for the eight 
 years he had been in Paris, he had nothing to cut a 
 figure on beyond the allowance of 1,800 francs a year, 
 which had been made him by his father ; a successful 
 Beauce Wine Grower, who was beginning to find out 
 that his son would require a very long time in which 
 to become an advocate, and, who wrote to him every 
 week : " You ought to get some cases : Why should 
 
A TERM OF STUDY. 5 
 
 you not take on a few ? There seems to be no want 
 of business in Paris. Every day the newspapers are 
 filled with the records of crimes : thefts, assassinationso 
 These are taking place everywhere. Try then to fall 
 in with one of those people, so that he may employ 
 you as his advocate, his defender. You should speak 
 much, put on airs, and in this way you would make 
 yourself known. Say everything that comes into your 
 head, even when you ought to have your client found 
 guilty. The principal thing is that you keep on speak- 
 ing, so that people may take notice of you," 
 
 If the letters of Papa Grenouillet had not been 
 franked it is probable that his scape-grace of a son 
 would have allowed them to remain at the post office. 
 But seeing that they cost nothing, he took them ; but 
 I am not in a position to affirm that he also read them 
 through, Again, instead of following up his terms* 
 he followed up a young lady whom he thought he 
 recognised, from having seen her play at a small 
 theatre. He was far from being timid, and would 
 launch immediately into a conversation, and attempt 
 to say something different from the vulgar compliments 
 which all the men offer to the women that they follow 
 in the streets. As he was not handsome, girls would 
 hurry past him without making him any answers ; but 
 as he was not altogether ugly, some of the other sex 
 laughed sometimes at what he said. When by accident 
 he succeeded in making an acquaintanceship, he invari- 
 ably give another name than his own; for the reason 
 that Fanfan had nothing of the romantic about it, and 
 Grenouillet was decidedly not elegant. Instead, he 
 chose names the most euphonic, the most harmonious y 
 he passed himself off for noble, or at least a gentleman 
 by birth, and as he always had his letters addressed 
 under cover to Adolphe Durard, with whom he lodged 5 . 
 the porter received all the missives that were remitted 
 to the young Adolphe. One day the former said to 
 hi chamber companion : 
 
6 A TEEM OF STUDY. 
 
 " Is it you who are called Arthur de Saint-Berlin ? n 
 „ . " Yes ; it is I." . . " But the other day you 
 were named Ernest de Montenlair ? " . • " Well 
 that proves that I have several names. What difference 
 does that make to you, seeing that all the letters are 
 pre-paid ? " • . " But why do you have your letters 
 under cover to me?" . • "Why? that is easy to 
 understand. It is because I do not want the porter 
 to know all the names I choose to take, for he would 
 be sure to tell the landlord; I am not here, if the letter 
 does not bear your address." . . "That is quite 
 right." . . "You understand, I see; I am glad." 
 . . " Yes, but I do not understand why you change 
 your name so often." . • " My poor Adolphe. If 
 you were what is called a lady's man you would under- 
 stand my reasons, But, in truth, you know no more 
 of love, little love affairs, intrigues, gallantries, than 
 . Annette and Lubin. And, candidly, I do not believe 
 that you will ever become a Bon Juan ! " . . " That 
 is not my fault. When I see a pretty girl I dare not 
 speak to her ; that's my trouble." . . " Then speak 
 to those who are ugly : that will accustom you to talk- 
 ing." . . " Oh, no ! with those who are ugly I have 
 no desire to speak at all, But you have promised me, 
 Grenouillet, to introduce me some day to a little female 
 acquaintance." , . "I still promise you that. When 
 I have too many of them, I shall think of you. While 
 waiting, be careful to wear your cap on one side ; in 
 walking give yourself a devil-me-care air, and sport a 
 cigar in your mouth : that is all the advice I can give 
 you." . , "Will I have to change my name like 
 you ? That would be all the same to me." . . " No, 
 do not take the trouble. Besides your name is Adolphe, 
 which is genteel, and so easy to pronounce, A girl 
 might fall in love with an Adolphe, but never with a 
 Fanfan, nor a Grenouillet." 
 
 You know now the three young gentlemen who occupy 
 the fourth floor of this house in the Rue Kambuleau* 
 
A TERM OF STUDY. 7 
 
 which also contains a dentist, a mid-wife, a tailor, a 
 shirt-maker, two young bonnet-makers and a very rich 
 gentleman, who has his meals served him by the por- 
 tress ; personages whose biographies I have not the 
 slightest intention of writing— at least for the present. 
 
 It is with the three young men that we must first 
 occupy ourselves ; for at the present moment they are 
 placed in a very embarrassing position. It is nine 
 o'clock at night, and the hour is striking. Fanfan 
 Grenouillet is alone in the room which he occupies in 
 common with Adolphe Durard. The apartments con- 
 sist of two rooms and a small entrance hall, in which 
 there is only room for a wash-hand basin and a trunk, 
 which latter on a pinch, is used as a bench, for visitors 
 who have to wait before they can be admitted to the 
 sitting room. 
 
 (xrenouillet is dressed in large checked pantaloons, 
 very thread-bare in front, and even more so behind, a 
 kind of brown paletot, so short, that it might also pass 
 for a vest, and a sort of Biscayian head-gear, the colour 
 of which is not distinguishable. He strides up and 
 down in one room, then in the other ; goes from time 
 to time to look out at the window which faces the 
 street, or half opens the outer door to listen, so as to 
 find out whether any one is coming up the stairs ; and 
 amidst all exhibiting frequent signs of impatience, by 
 stamping on the floor, and at intervals calling out: 
 " Sapristi ! Why is it that no one is coming ! Are they 
 going to keep me waiting until the very last minute, 
 just to try my patience! It must now be nine o'clock 
 at least ! more than nine o'clock as it seems to me ! 
 Ah, well! what is the use of my carrying my hand to my 
 waist-coat pocket ! the force of habit, for it is a long 
 time since I parted with my watch ! True, it was only 
 a large silver onion, but it went well, and my father 
 •charged me to take great care of it ! it came to him 
 from his uncle, who received it from his mother — that 
 is going back a long way. It was not in the fashion, 
 
S A TERM OF STUDY. 
 
 but, all the same, I regret losing it, and especially afc 
 this particular moment. Ah ! suppose I go and ask 
 the hour from the shirt-maker down stairs ! It seems 
 to me that I already have asked her, and that not long 
 ago. I shall go to the door opposite the shirt-maker's 
 and ring the mid-wife's bell. But somehow she is not 
 very friendly with me, this mid-wife. This is perhaps 
 owing to the fact that I have never procured for her 
 women in an interesting condition. Ah ! so much the 
 worse. I shall risk it. Besides, there is no one in the 
 whole house, outside of her, that I can now address 
 myself to. The dentist is never in in the evening, no 
 more the tailor. The two little bonnet-makers up 
 stairs have not yet returned ; moreover, I doubt very 
 much whether either of them possesses a clock. There 
 is of course the millionaire on the first-floor, but he 
 has no servant, and the wonder is that he remains at 
 home in the evenings. And then, what a droll appear- 
 ance he has, that man ! — a sombre forehead, drooping 
 eyes ; he never receives anybody. And people say that 
 inside, his apartments are superb. But what an imbecile 
 he must be! Of what use is his fortune — his rich fur- 
 niture — his beautiful paintings ! Is it not worse than 
 murder to see such beautiful things, so much wealth 
 in the hands of bears ! Ah, God, if only I had it ! 
 How I should make it go — make it circulate ! I shall go 
 and ring the bell of Madame Ponderant, the mid-wife." 
 
 Grenouillet thereupon rushed out to the landing, 
 slowly descended the stairs, rang the bell of the door, 
 upon which was a brass-plate, bearing these words — 
 Mid -wife. 
 
 The door was opened. It was Madame Ponderant 
 herself, a woman fifty years of age, tall, with a dried 
 up yellow and haggard air, and a nose resembling a 
 plug of tobacco. She made a grimace in recognising 
 her neighbour, and said to him in harsh tones: 
 
 44 What is it you want, sir ? " . . " Good evening, 
 Madame Ponderant: and your health, do you alway s 
 
A TERM OF STUDY. 9 
 
 keep well?" • . "Yes, sir; I am quite well. What 
 
 " • • "I — I am not bad, though sometimes, 
 
 especially at nights, I have dreadful pains between the 
 shoulders ; it is very annoying when one wishes to have 
 a chat." . . "Is it to tell me this that you rung my 
 bell, sir ? " . . " No, not precisely ; nevertheless, as 
 you are very learned — for midwives are all but doctors^ 
 I suppose ? " . . " No, sir ; I do not give advice — 
 take yourself elsewhere," 
 
 Madame Ponderant made a motion as if to shut her 
 door, but the young man hindered her by pushing 
 against it. 
 
 " If you will permit me, Madame Ponderant, I have 
 another thing I would like to say to you. You must 
 know th«t I have lost the key of my watch." 
 •'What is it to do with me whether or not you have 
 lost the key of your watch ! " . . "I know of course 
 that that does not particularly interest you ; but if you 
 will have patience for a minute you will learn the con- 
 sequence of this accident ; for you know that everything 
 in life is closely linked together." . . " Sir, you are 
 keeping me too long at the door." . . "You see ? . 
 Madame, that having lost my watch key it is absolutely 
 impossible for me to tell the time by my watch, and I 
 have come to beg of you to be so good as to tell me the 
 time." . . " And it is only to know the time that 
 you have taken upon you to ring my bell at this hour 
 of the evening ! You are not even ill, but only lack 
 manners ; you dare to disturb me in the midst of my 
 occupation, the most interesting that can be conceived 
 of!" . . "Is it indeed the case, that you are 
 engaged in adding one to the population, Madame Pon- 
 derant ? " . . "I want no more of your pleasantry, 
 sir." "I am not jesting, seeing that that is your regular 
 calling." " I assist to bring them into the world, sir 5 
 but that is all I have to do with children, thank Grod." 
 " Thank Grod ! that appears to me to be very 
 wicked, Madame Ponderant." . . " See, sir, you 
 
10 A TERM OF STUDY. 
 
 must -finish." • . "Very well, dear neighbour; if 
 you will only be so good as to tell me the time, I shall 
 leave you." . . "I do not know the hour — my 
 watch is stopped." . . " But what about your clock ? 
 you must surely have a clock ! " . . 4i The works are 
 broken." . . " Your sun-dial, then ? You surely 
 cannot be without a sundial ! " . . " You have said 
 enough ; you are boreing me ; leave me in peace." 
 
 This time the mid- wife slammed the door so violently 
 to that it came unexpectedly in contact with the nose 
 of Grenouillet, who became furious, and in stroking 
 the injured part murmured : 
 
 " Ah, Madame Ponderant, you have will to pay for 
 this insult. I will have my revenge." After cursing 
 for several minutes, the young law student smiled, and 
 striking his forehead said to himself; "Jupiter! I have 
 an idea, and not a bad one either; but it must be put 
 into execution at once. Let's see ; I have got a knife 
 in my coat pocket.. Yes, I have my eustache, the 
 blade of which is not Toledo, but which is good enough 
 for cutting my bread and cheese. Alas ! I am com- 
 pelled to breakfast too often on this ! This blade 
 ought to be sufficient to protect me! though I have 
 not the slightest intention of committing murder. The 
 question only is, How can I erase the name on that 
 copper-plate on her door — Mid-wife. That ought not 
 to be difficult. I have it, by slipping the blade of my 
 knife between the copper and the wood, I should be 
 able — Yes; that is it — I shall be able to wrench the 
 plate off; it cannot be very securely fastened to the 
 door ; and I shall at once make the experiment," 
 
 In a second, Grrenouillet, held the plate in his hand, 
 and began to think how he could change the name. 
 Opposite Madame Ponderant there lodged the shirt- 
 maker, but she had no door-plate ; her name was merely 
 written in black ink on the door. It was not long be- 
 fore another idea came into the head of the young man, 
 accompanied by a burst of laughter, and descending 
 
A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. li- 
 
 the stairs he said to himself: " The dentist has a door- 
 plate — oh ; how he will rave ! To-morrow will "witness 
 the most comic scenes that have ever been known in 
 the house. I shall of course stay at home to-morrow 
 morning to see the fun, and I shall have my ears cocked 
 so as not to lose anything that may he said." 
 
 Grenouillet thereupon attacked the door plate of the 
 dentist with his knife. It was difficult to wrench off, 
 but he nevertheless succeeded. The thing now was. 
 How was he to fasten the Mid-wife's door plate in its 
 place ? Fortunately he had preserved the nails which 
 had come away with the plate, but how was he to drive 
 them! In this he succeeded but poorly. He said to 
 himself : 
 
 Provided I can make them hold until to-morrow that 
 will be enough. He then commenced the same operation 
 on the door of Madame Ponderant, and fastened to it 
 the plate of the dentist. When he had finished this 
 work he ascended the stairs to the fourth floor, rubbing 
 his hands, and laughing like a fool. Then on listening 
 he heard some one coming up stairs, and recognised the 
 voice to be that of Anatole Bizon, who, on coming up. 
 always hummed an air, and on reaching the top always 
 said to himself. " At last I have reached the door. 
 But, unfortunately, to-night I see I have made some 
 mistake." 
 
 CHAPTFR II. 
 
 A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 
 
 The young and overgrown Anatole, on reaching the 
 fourth landing, give vent to one long-drawn u Ouf!" 
 
 "Sapristi! how high these stairs are. They would 
 pass muster for a six-storey house.'" . . " Yes, especi- 
 
12 A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 
 
 ally for one like you who take on such a stomach ' y 
 
 , . "Fanfan, I have told you several times already 
 not to speak to me about my belly." . , " That is 
 true : I have already mentioned the fact more than once." 
 - . "What are you doing on the stairs, Fanfan." . . 
 " I am preparing a little entertainment for Madame 
 Ponderant, who banged her door in my face when I 
 went to ask her the time. But I shall tell you more 
 about it later on ; let us talk of something more inter- 
 esting to ourselves. Have you succeeded in purchasing 
 a pair of black breeches and a waistcoat idem ? " . . 
 -■" I have succeeded in nothing. The friends who should 
 have obliged me were not at home — impossible to put 
 my hand on a single one of them," . . " And what 
 about money ? With money one can find any sort of 
 ready-made vestments." . . " Parbleu ! ! I know 
 that quite well ; but I had no money* I have broken 
 into my last five-franc gold piece — these jolly little 
 pieces which go into such small space. I bought a fine 
 pair of gloves — real kids ; because when one goes to a 
 bail one must have fresh gloves. I have only left, then, 
 Ifr. 50c, and I cannot realise from my allowance until 
 the end of the month, and this is but the 20th. For- 
 tunately I have credit at a restaurant — I ought to say 
 bouillon shop, but I prefer to say a restaurant." . . 
 f c It was certainly very hard on you to have to spend 
 three francs, ten sous on a pair of gloves, seeing that 
 after all we cannot go to the ball to which we are invi- 
 ted, I mean the three of us; unless Durard has been 
 more fortunate than you, and has succeeded in raising 
 some funds ; but I can assure you / have little or 
 nothing." 
 
 Anatole let himself drop down into an old armchair 
 that adorned the apartments of the two friends ; the 
 chair cracked so loudly, that Grrenouillet exclaimed : 
 •"What are you doing; going to break all the furniture 
 •we have. Take care of our furniture I beseech of you." 
 . " Where did that piece of antiquity come from t 
 
A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 13 
 
 Grenouillet?" . . " I'm sure I dont know ; it belongs 
 to Adolphe, who, I believe, inherited it from an aunt." 
 . . "If it had been worth twenty francs, I would have 
 bought a pair of breeches ; but it would not fetch fifty 
 sous. I have a good mind to take it to pieces ; who 
 knows that it may not have some bank notes concealed 
 about the cushions; don't you think the idea a good 
 one?" . . "Well, yes, but it contains nothing; I 
 have already analysed it. But that does not matter ; 
 our position is quite unique. There is to be a vaudville 
 up the street. Our proprietress, Madame Tournesol, a 
 very amiable woman, a widow, — entering on the sear 
 and yellow, yet a very pretty autumn blossom— and 
 extremely rich ; for, besides this house, in which she 
 does not reside, she owns several others on the front 
 streets of Paris, gives this evening at her residence, in 
 the house which she inhabits in the Rue de Rivoli, a 
 small ball, to which she has been so kind as to invite 
 the three of us, Adolphe included. This lady, far from 
 resembling those voracious proprietors, who are justly 
 termed vultures, is extremely aimable, good, and very 
 indulgent to her tenants. Far from exacting peremp- 
 torily her rent from the lodgers, she never asks for 
 money, except by chance one happens to take it to her 
 — and I trust to chance — but that does not happen 
 often, yet when it does she exclaims; ' What ! did you 
 come all the way here for that? Eh, my God, you 
 need not have been so pressing ; young people are 
 always in need of money ; yet it was not necessary to 
 take all this trouble : I am in a position to wait ! ' In 
 fact, she has a thousand and one such other things to 
 say ; and it is this which tempts me to say, and with 
 reason, that we have a model proprietress, rare amongst 
 her species — vara avis. Again, unless some event 
 happens I cannot now foresee, I have made up my mind 
 never to move from here. And you, Anatole, I presume 
 you have the same intentions?" . . "Assuredly! 
 although I do not think Madame Tournesol is as good 
 
14 A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 
 
 to all her tenants as she is to us. But listen, my friend. 
 Our proprietress, despite her forty-eight years — she 
 must be quite that — is still a coquette, and has a weak- 
 ness for young men. As for me, when I regard her in 
 a certain way, her face takes on such queer little airs r 
 
 " . . " Good ! you already fancy that you have 
 
 taken her eye; what a coxcomb you are, Bizon I" 
 6i What is there extraordinary about that ? It is not 
 that silly Adolphe who is going to make a conquest, 
 nor is it you with your flat nose." . . " If you 
 do not let my nose alone I shall fall plump on your 
 stomach. Still if the proprietress has a weakness for 
 you, how is it that she has made the same terms with 
 Adolphe and me in regard to paying our rent, as with 
 you?" . . " Because she knows you are my friends, 
 and she thinks it is agreeable to me for her to ^ct 
 thus." . . " You are charming ! Upon my honour, 
 my sturdy Anatole, you ought to be placed under lock 
 and key. You would have us believe that it is to you 
 we should, from this forth, pay our rent ! Ah ! she 
 is a beauty, this lady ! " . . ' Grenouillet, you 
 exaggerate on everything I say." . . "But look here, 
 what is certain is that Madame Tournesol has invited 
 the three of us to her ball, and that in the most amiable 
 and gracious manner, saying : " Gentlemen, I count on 
 you, and I shall be greatly chagrined if you do not 
 come.' . ♦ " Yes : it is true she said that ; but she 
 never suspected that each of us had not a complete ball 
 suit, black coat, trousers, and vest — white cravat ; in a 
 word, all that is essential to making oneself presentable 
 at a fine social gathering." . . " Notwithstanding, 
 we ought to go to that ball — we must — except we want 
 to fall out with our land-lady, with whom it is so essen- 
 tial we should keep up good relations," . '• "Just 
 to think that at the ball there is sure to be a supper — 
 for Madame Tournesol is punctilious about such things 
 — and I have only a coat and gloves ! " . . " While 
 I — I have a vest and a cravat ! " . . " And Adolphe 
 
A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 15 
 
 he has pantaloons." . . " That is too distressing." 
 . . " It is sheer desperation." . . " Ah ! I hear 
 Adolphe coming up stairs. He has probably been able 
 to raise the wind." 
 
 " I am here, gentlemen," said Adolphe on entering, 
 and proceeding to throw himself into a chair, he said : 
 66 Ah ! I can do no more. How I have been about ! I 
 am sure I have done more than fifteen miles since- 
 dinner." . . "But has your hunting about, as you 
 elegantly call it, ended in moonshine?" . . "I have 
 been to see all my shop-fellows: I know where to find 
 them in the evenings ; but not one of them was able to 
 lend me anything. There was one of them who offered 
 to lend me ten francs, but I refused to take them from 
 him; what good would ten francs do us? that would 1 
 not buy a suit of clothes for all three of us." 
 " All the same, you should have taken them ; but pro- 
 ceed." . . "Fortunately, I chanced to call on my 
 cousin, a court broker — an excellent fellow, and in easy 
 circumstances — he does a great business." " Ah ! Bravo I 
 You went to his house ? " . . "He was going out 5 . 
 but I found him just as he -was leaving : how fortunate 
 it was ! " . . " And he lent you some money ! How 
 jolly!" . . "Don't be in too great a hurry. I told; 
 him I wanted about fifty crowns, and that he would 
 render me a great service if he would let me have them*- 
 He took me by the hand, and, pressing it, said, ' Most 
 gladly, little cousin, most gladly : you have done right 
 in applying to me: you shall have one hundred francs.'"" 
 . . " Oh, what a charming cousin ! " . . "A jewel 
 of a cousin." . . "And you have brought the money 
 with you ? " . . " Just wait a little. My cousin 
 added, 'Only, my friend, I cannot give you the money 
 this evening : I have not a sou by me : but come again 
 on Monday, about four o'clock, and I shall then give 
 you the sum I have named.' And this was all I could; 
 do." 
 
 Grrenouillet stamped on the floor with rage: Bizon- 
 
16 A COMBINATION BALL SUIT 
 
 jerked himself in the old arm-chair, one of the legs of 
 which he broke, and both yelled out : " Oh, the villain, 
 oh, the rogue : he tells us that he will get money in 
 four day's time, when we want it now, this very evening, 
 in order that we can rig ourselves out to go to the ball. 
 What the devil does it matter to have a cousin who is a 
 court broker fa broker without a license) ; who makes a 
 pleasant face — result nothing." . . " What is the 
 matter with you two gentlemen? It was not my fault: 
 I did all that I could. Of course, if Beaurenard had 
 had the money on him I would have got it." 
 "Oh your cousin is called Beaurenard (sly fox) : then 
 he was making a fool of you. And so we must forego 
 the ball of Madame Tournesol, our aimable landlady ! 
 It is horrible, for one would have been sure to get a 
 supper at least." . . "The three young gentlemen 
 were very distressed, and they remained silent for some 
 time, plunged in deep reflection. But suddenly Grenou- 
 illet, striking his forehead, cried out gleefully: I have 
 hit on a plan, gentlemen : congratulate yourselves on 
 laaving an inventive friend ; we shall go to the ball of 
 our landlady." . . " The three of us." . . " Yes 
 the three of us, but not all together. Listen to my 
 plan. Neither of us possesses a complete suit in which 
 to appear at the ball ; but in putting together what 
 each of us has, we can furnish out a complete costume. 
 Let us then put the pieces together. The new panta- 
 loons of Adolphe, Anatole's coat and gloves, and finally 
 my waistcoat and white cravat. One of us can put 
 on all these things, and then present himself in that 
 irreproachable costume at the residence of Madame 
 Tournesol. Happily it is close to here, within seven 
 minutes walk, no more ;,the first can pass two hours at 
 the ball, not one minute more ; then he will return here 
 and throw off his costume, which another of us can at 
 once don and present himself in turn at the residence 
 of our landlady. The second can then return, in two 
 hours, when the third can set out in turn. In this 
 
A COMBINATION BALL SUIT. 17 
 
 -way all the three of us shall put in an appearance at the 
 ball. Well, gentlemen, what do you think of my idea." 
 
 " Jupiter ! " exclaimed Anatole, " it is almost too 
 funny." 
 
 "As for me," said young Adolphe, "I think it is 
 splendid — charming." . . "Yes; only the one that 
 goes last shall have the supper, whilst the others " 
 
 " The others shall have ices, syrups, liqueurs. More- 
 over, we are not quite certain that there will be any 
 supper at all. See if you two can hit on anything 
 better." 
 
 "No, no; your idea is decidedly very good. But 
 -who shall be the first to go to the ball ? " 
 
 As this proposition gave rise to a long discussion, 
 it had in the end to be decided by lot. " I shall write 
 • on three pieces of paper," said Grenouillet, "the figures 
 1, 2, and 3, and we shall draw them from a hat. 
 Naturally, he who draws one, shall go first, and the 
 others in the order of the numbers." 
 
 This was agreed to, and the numbers were written 
 out at once aud put into a little opera hat, so as to 
 save time. It was already half-past ten — time for one 
 of them to dress. It would not do for the first to be 
 later than eleven o'clock. 
 
 Grenouillet cut three pieces of paper into equal sizes. 
 He wrote on them separately the figures 1, 2, and 3, 
 then rolling them up tight he threw them into the 
 hat. The first to put in his hand was Anatole, who 
 drew 2 ; Adolphe followed, who drew 1 ; and 3 was left 
 for Grenouillet. " Happy Grenouillet ! " said Anatole. 
 " He will be in for the supper." . . " Upon my 
 honour, gentlemen, it was all luck. Besides you two 
 had the draw before me, and it is you who left this 
 number. Never mind : it is Adolphe who has the first 
 turn. Now, my dear friend, make haste with your 
 toilette. I shall go and fetch my fine coat. As for the 
 gloves : if I remember rightly you have a pair of your 
 own which are still presentable ? " . . " Yes, I 
 
18 THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 
 
 cleaned them myself, eight days ago, with anama soap 
 — that new discovery which is guaranteed to clean 
 everything, takes out grease spots, and I know not what 
 else." . . " Very well : then I shall keep my own 
 gloves." . . "But you will lend them to me," said 
 Grenouillet, 4i for I have not got any ? " . . "I 
 don't care about it: but be it so : it is in the original 
 bargain." 
 
 Young Adolphe made his toilette in quick haste, his 
 two friends assisting him as well as they could, for they 
 were eager to get him off, in order that his two hours 
 should all the sooner come to an end. The coat of 
 dodo Anatole was found to be much too large, for the 
 spare form of the shrunken and lean employe of the 
 ribbon shop. He could have danced a cancan inside 
 of it. But Grenouillet said to him : " That only shows 
 that you have not been niggardly with your tailor in 
 providing yourself with a coat. You are a young man 
 in easy circumstances ! one who leads a happy life." 
 His toilette being at length finished, they listened to 
 hes;r the neighbouring church clock strike eleven, at 
 the sound of which Grenouillet and Anatole pushed 
 Adolphe out of the door, crying after him: 'Make 
 haste, take plenty of ices, eat any number of cakes ? 
 but above all do not forget to return here at one o'clock 
 precisely." . . " Gentlemen, have no fear on that 
 score. You know that people can trust me. But see 
 here. Supposing Madame Tournesol should ask why 
 you are not come with me ? " . . " You shall say 
 that we are following you — that we are waiting for a& 
 carriage — that they are very hard to get about here." 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 
 
 This model proprietress, who never asked her tenants 
 for money, occupied a very beautiful set of rooms on 
 
THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 19 
 
 the second floor, in one of the houses situated in the 
 "Eue de Eivoli. Not being of the stupid disposition of 
 those rich misers, who own several residences and live 
 themselves in some dismal hole, so as to secure rent 
 from all their tenants, Madame Tournesol was lodged 
 in such a manner as to do honour to one of her station 
 and fortune. Her salons were large and very richly 
 adorned. In them one was made to feel the real com- 
 fort enjoyed by those people who know how to live, and 
 ■who have no fear that their creditors or the bailiffs will 
 put in an appearance at any fetes they may give : an 
 inconvenience that has been experienced at more than 
 one brilliant assembly. 
 
 Madame Tournesol, whose husband had amassed a 
 large fortune in the timber trade, was not so foolish as 
 to seek to pass herself off as a grand dame, seeing that 
 she still remained a widow, though she had an income 
 of 50,000 francs a year. Her single weakness had been 
 this : to bring up her daughter as though she had been 
 descended from Godfrey de Bouillon. 
 
 Mademoiselle Melina had every kind of master, with 
 the result that she had been left no time to become 
 accomplished in any thing whatever. She had always 
 been made to wear cotton, which gave her a saintly, 
 fragile, delicate appearance, as if she could not support 
 -the slightest fatigue. Again, it had become a cult of 
 the mother's to satisfy every desire, every whim of the 
 daughter's ; for which reason this young lady, having 
 nothing left she could desire, yawned and languished the 
 ^great part of the day. Grieved at seeing her daughter 
 so bored, Madame Tournesol, asked her daughter, as 
 soon as she had reached the age of seventeen, whether 
 she would not like to get married ; and Mademoiselle 
 "Melina, like all young females of her years, only seeing 
 in marriage rich tojlettes, a great ceremony and a ball, 
 had answered : 
 
 "Oh, yes, mamma: I should like so much to get mar- 
 Tied; it would be so amusing." To which the mother 
 
20 THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 
 
 ought to have responded, "not always," but instead she 
 looked her daughter in the eyes and said : "Have you a. 
 fancy for anyone?" . . " A fancy for any one ! Good 
 gracious, no : no more for one young man than for an- 
 other young man." . . "So much the better. Leave 
 it to me, then, to select a husband who shall be worth v 
 of you." . . "But I should like a handsome fellow."' 
 . . " That goes without saying." . . " And that 
 he should be dark, mamma. I prefer brunettes to 
 blonde.'' . . " I am glad you have told me this. 
 Give yourself no concern. You are very neat — very 
 pretty — you possess every accomplishment as well as a 
 superb dot, which latter would be a strong recommend- 
 ation of itself, apart from natural talents. I should 
 like to find you some one, on taking whose arm, the 
 world would say, ' There goes a pretty couple.' " . .. 
 " Oh, yes, mamma, people must be made to speak thus r 
 and I shall often give them the chance to do so, by- 
 walking out every day on the arm of my husband." 
 
 A few days after this conversation Madame Tournesofl 
 called her daughter to her and said: " What do you, 
 think of Arthur Delval ? " . . "He is not so far 
 amiss : he is at least dark/' . . " Yes, he is very 
 handsome. He is twenty-seven years of age, has a 
 nice fortune, though not as handsome as yours, still it 
 amounts to twenty-five thousand a year, and he has 
 great hopes. He is a very well made young man: he 
 is almost noble, and he has the promise of becoming 
 one day an auditor." . . "What do you mean by 
 auditor, mamma ? " . . " An auditor, my child, * 
 * * wait a moment * * * an auditor is one 
 who listens to what is said." . . " And that is con- 
 sidered an agreeable employment? Is it not the case 
 that everybody listens to what is said to them ? " . «~ 
 " True, my daughter : but an auditor listens to that 
 which is said by the Counsel of State." . . "To the 
 counsel of state ? " . . "Oh, that is quite different* 
 And my husband shall always take me to listen with 
 
THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 21 
 
 him," . . " I do not think, my dear, that tflat is 
 customary ; but in any case your husband shall be sur- 
 rounded with splendour, have honours heaped on him, 
 and they will be reflected in you ; you will be received 
 in the highest society." . . " Mamma, that is quite 
 enough : I consent to .marry M. Delval." 
 
 Six months after this conversation there was cele- 
 brated the marriage of Mademoiselle Melina TourDesol 
 with M. Arthur Delval, and it was two years after this 
 event that Madame Tournesol proposed to give the ball 
 to which she had invited her three young gentlemen 
 tenants in the Eue Rambuleau. In losing her title of 
 Miss, the pretty Melina continued to be as ethereal, as 
 fragile, and as delicate, as before her marriage. It was 
 even said that she yawned now more than she had done 
 before marriage. Still, her husband was a pretty good 
 sort of a fellow, who walked strictly in the ways of 
 fashion, and who loved his wife as much as a sportsman 
 is capable of doing. Only, he had renounced the idea 
 of becoming an auditor, and was satisfied at becoming 
 a member of the stock exchange ; who made it a point 
 to appear every day in the Bois, in order that his horses 
 should be properly exercised. 
 
 Arthur's friends and his habitual associates were na- 
 turally more distinguished than those of the widow of 
 the timber merchant ; but under a rich and elegant 
 toilette they fused up pretty well. The ball was hence- 
 a very "swell" affair, and had served to bring together - 
 a considerable number of pretty women when Adolphe 
 Durard modestly made his entry to it. He could not 
 shake off a certain timidity in thus finding himself in 
 the middle of that brilliant world, and in those resplen- 
 ently lighted rooms; his coat, in which he tossed about 5 . 
 contributing not a little to enhance his embarrassment. 
 But Madame Tournesol hastened to greet him : 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur Durard." . „ "Madame.. 
 
 I have the honour " . . "Well, well; but where 
 
 are your two friends, Messrs. Bizon and Grenouillet ? " 
 
22 THE BALL OF THE PROPKIETRESS. 
 
 .. . " Madame, they are following me ; they are com- 
 ing, it is the non-appearance of their carriage that is 
 keeping them so late." . . " Ah ! almost everybody 
 has now taken on the habit of coming too late to balls. 
 Would you believe it ? My son and my daughter have 
 not yet arrived." . . " Yes, Madame ; it is no doubt 
 their being unable to find carriages that has made them 
 late." . . "But seeing that they have their own, 
 they have no occasion to go and seek for others. No ; 
 it is a fashion ; now-a-days people do not like to arrive 
 a moment before midnight ; all of which can hardly be 
 regarded as common sense." Adolphe contented him- 
 self by making an inclination of the body, and in 
 saying to himself: "As for Grrenouillet he won't be 
 here before three o'clock in the morning." 
 
 " You dance, do you not, Monsieur Durard ? " . • 
 
 "Yes, Madame, I like nothing better: I love the dance." 
 
 " That is well. You are not one of those who 
 
 prefer cards, who only think of playing " 
 
 " Oh, Madame, you need have no fear of my playing." 
 ... . " Very well, invite a lady. You see, that there is 
 no lack of dancers. My Grod, how uneasy it makes me 
 not to see my daughter arrive." • • " Madame, it is 
 the carriages " 
 
 Fortunately, however, for our young commercial em- 
 ploye, Madame Tournesol had now quitted him and did 
 not hear what he said in reply. In order to comply 
 with the wishes of the proprietress Adolphe eagerly 
 sought to find a lady who would join him in a contre 
 danse. One accepted him and they took their places, 
 she regarding his gloves, which were not so clean as 
 one could have wished, and did not have a very good 
 effect in the midst of a society which was elegantly 
 gloved. Happily for him, his partner was a young lady 
 who was more occupied with her toilette than with her 
 cavalier; for she fidgetted every moment about a rose 
 which .was not properly fastened on the top of her head, 
 .and which threatened at moments to fall on the floor. 
 
THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 23 
 
 Nevertheless, when the spare Adolphe began to kick 
 -about in a galop, the air rushed under his coat, which 
 was loosely on his body, and formed down his back a 
 sort of balloon, which did not have a very good effect. 
 Already, several of the young men who were not dancing, 
 and had directed their glasses towards the dancers, had 
 began to say to one another under their breath: "Look 
 at that gentleman's coat which inflates every time he 
 makes a spring." . . " That is not a coat he has on ; 
 it is a sack." . . "He no doubt believes that he will 
 one day be able to fill it up," • . " All the same, I 
 do not want to know the address of his tailor." 
 
 After the quadrille, poor Adolphe ventured on a polka, 
 then on a muzurka. But already it had several times 
 "been whispered in his ear, " Look at the sack dancing 
 — how funny to watch it ! " 
 
 Adolphe pretended not to hear these whispers; yet 
 he was ill at ease, and only consoled his self esteem by 
 stuffing himself with cakes, and gulping down a glass 
 of syrup or of punch every time a tray passed near him. 
 
 Meanwhile, Madame Tournesol, had come to him 
 more than once to say : " Well, your two friends have 
 not yet arrived; what does that mean?" . . "Ma- 
 dame, it must be that they have not been able to find a 
 carriage." . . "Why, they do not live more than 
 two steps from here; these two young fellows could 
 easily come on foot." . . "That is true; and that 
 is j ust what I did myself, Madame." 
 
 Exactly at half-past twelve the angelic Melina made 
 her entry into the ball room, accompanied by her hus- 
 band. The young wife was covered from head to foot 
 with crepe, lace and flowers, resembling a sylph, a 
 creature of the air. Madame Tournesol hurried away to 
 embrace her daughter. "Here, at last!" she exclaimed. 
 " Ah! it is too bad of you to be so late in coming ! " . 
 . "It is not late, mamma; Arthur says that we are even 
 now arrived too soon." . . "He is very considerate, 
 jour husband. Is this what he calls treating his mother 
 
24 THE BALL OF THE PEOPRIETRESS. 
 
 •with, courtesy." . • " But, mamma, we must conform 
 to the usages of the great ivorld. Ah ! I am tired 
 already." . . " Tired ! you have just arrived, and 
 have not yet danced ! " . . " No matter : I don't 
 know that I shall dance at all." . . " That would 
 be pretty conduct ! all the more seeing that all these 
 young people have been waiting impatiently for you — 
 burning with desire to dance with you. Ah ! Melina,. 
 you must not vex me so. I have given a ball ivholly 
 in your honour, and you refuse to dance ! How will 
 this appear in the world's eyes?" . . "Mamma,, 
 in fashionable circles, one does as one pleases, without 
 disturbing oneself as to how one's conduct may appear 
 in the eyes of others." At this moment, the fashionable 
 Arthur,' who had just made a tour of the salons and 
 passed in review the company, came up to his wife and 
 said : " My dear : If that young man in the sack 
 invites you to dance I trust you will refuse him. I do- 
 not wish you to dance with him. Will you remember 
 this ? I do not wish it." . . *" Of what gentleman are 
 you speaking?" . . "He who is over there, against the 
 window. I believe he is trying to hide himself behind 
 the curtains. Where in Jupiter has your mother picked 
 him up ? " . • "I believe he is one of her tenants." 
 " Why did she not invite the gate porter when 
 she was about it?" . . "Ah, my dear, how you do 
 treat the tenants of mamma ! " . . "I esteem them 
 much when they pay their rent ; but when they get 
 themselves up like that gentleman over there I am of 
 opinion they ought to be left at home. Has your 
 mother amongst her tenants a person named M. l)au- 
 berton ? " . . " My dear, I know nothing at all about 
 it; why should I know anything about the tenants of 
 the different houses ? Ask mamma," 
 
 Madame Tournesol, who was buzzing about the salons 
 like a fly in a bottle, especially anxious that all the 
 ladies should have the opportunity of dancing, and 
 should not be kept waiting too long, chanced to pass 
 
THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 25 
 
 "where Adolphe was standing-, who said to her : " Ma- 
 dame, may I take the liberty of inviting Madame, your 
 daughter, to dance" . . "Most certainly, my dear 
 friend, you can ; it would please me very much indeed, 
 for I only wish she would dance. But she says that 
 she is fatigued already ; but I am sure if she could 
 only be induced to make the attempt, she would not 
 stop with one dance. Go to her, and if she says she 
 is fatigued, insist ; do not lose courage." Elated at 
 this recommendation, he went straight up to Madame 
 Delval, and, bowing most profoundly, said to her : 
 "Will Madame do me the honour of accepting me for 
 the first contre danseP 
 
 The pretty Melina would perhaps have accepted, for 
 the young man had such a gentle, timid air,' which 
 argued strongly with her in his favour; but her husband, 
 was by, who darted at her, a significant glance, and she 
 responded : " Monsieur, I thank you very much ; but 
 I feel very greatly fatigued ; I shall not dance just 
 now." . . "Ah, Madame, that is a pity; your mother 
 is very anxious that you should dance, and as for me, 
 
 I should be so proud to " . . "My wife has 
 
 refused you, sir," said Arthur in a stern voice; "and 
 it seems to me that that ought to suffice. I think it 
 very singular that you should insist. If you wish to 
 have other reasons for being refused, I myself shall give 
 you them." . . "No, sir, you need not take the 
 trouble," answered Adolphe, and when he had with- 
 drawn himself for some distance he encountered Madame 
 Tournesol to whom he said, sadly: "Eefused! repulsed 
 with harshness. I believe her husband does not wish 
 her to dance." 
 
 Madame Tournesol rushed straight up to her daughter 
 and said to her: "Why have you refused to dar^ce 
 with my young tenant Adolphe Durard? He is a well 
 bred young man ! " . . " Madame, it is I who have 
 forbidden my wife to dance with that gentleman, who 
 has soiled gloves and a coat that does not lie quite- 
 
:26 THE BALL OF THE PROPRIETRESS. 
 
 close to his back. I feel sure that he will lose himself 
 in it in dancing." . . "My God, my son-in-law 
 — you are much too particular about other people's 
 toilettes: gloves are easily soiled. That young man is 
 in black. His coat has the appearance of being new. 
 'What more do you want." . . " I will wager that 
 that coat was never made for him. You have other 
 lodgers who would do more honour to it than he. Does 
 not one M, Dauberton stay in your house in Rue Ram- 
 buleau ? " . . " Yes, for the last six months." . . 
 " He is a man one could accept. He is very rich, at 
 least, I should think so : I am his broker on the ex- 
 change: he has quite lately bought both Credit Fonciers 
 and Norths, to a considerable amount, and )>aid for 
 them in ready cash. Why, then, do I not see him at 
 your ball ? " . . "I invited him ; but this M. Dau- 
 berton is not very aimable to appearance." . . " I 
 thank you, madame," said he, "but I never go to balls." 
 .„ . "Melina I would like if you would dance; you 
 would do me a great favour if you would." 
 *' Keep calm, dear mamma, I am going to dance with 
 my wife, so that your handsome young tenant may see 
 that it was with him that Melina did not wish to 
 -dance." . . "Ah! my son, you are wicked, very- 
 wicked: But never mind. Get my daughter to dance, 
 and that will please me." 
 
 Adolphe, quite ashamed at the blunt refusal he had 
 jeceived, and comprehending, after seeing the pretty 
 Melina dance with her husband that this was designed 
 as an affront to him, decided there and then to quit the 
 ball, although he had still a quarter of an hour to go 
 on, in terms of the arrangement entered into with his 
 friends. He hastily left the room where the dancing 
 was, stopped a minute in an adjoining apartment, where 
 he seized an ice, in the shape of a pear, put it almost 
 whole in his mouth, swallowed a glass of liqueur in 
 .order to dissolve it, and thereupon gained the stair-case, 
 muttering to himself; " I shall never again go to a 
 ball in a coat that was not made for me." 
 
NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 
 
 " Ah ! bravo : here is a gentleman of his word ! ex- 
 claimed Anatole on seeing Adolphe return. " He is 
 even ten minutes before his time, for the hour has not 
 yet struck. You have not then been amused at the 
 ball, Adolphe." . . " Yes, indeed : too much indeed. 
 I should say. It was that devil of a coat that caused 
 me all the trouble, I could constantly hear people 
 whispering in my ears ; He is in a sack — He will lose 
 himself inside his coat while dancing. That maddened 
 me. And then my gloves were not so clean as I had 
 believed : they did not show to advantage amongst all 
 those gentlemen who seemed as though they had just 
 stepped out of band boxes." . . "But you must 
 at least have had cakes enough to satisfy you." . 
 " They only served up four-corned dried biscuit. I 
 should have preferred buns or sponge cakes." 
 " So much the better. It shows that there will be a 
 supper," exclaimed Grenouillet, rubbing his hands. 
 And the fat Anatole grinned maliciously, and said : " If 
 there is to be one you shall not have it." . . " Come, 
 Adolphe, be quick and get off the clothes, and let me 
 get into that superb costume. You shall soon see how 
 I look in it — 1 who have brand new gloves ? and my 
 coat looks beautiful when one knows how to wear it." 
 
 The deeply-chagrined seller of novelties was not long 
 in disrobing, and almost immediately the great Anatole 
 picked up the pantaloons, saying: "You will permit 
 me, gentlemen, to dress in your room ; this will be 
 much more convenient than my going to my own room. 
 " Parbleu, you can go and dress on the stair 
 landing, if that will please you better." . . "Well, 
 Crrenouillet, what do you saj about it: I do not wish 
 to violate the proprieties.' , • . "At this hour 
 
28 NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL, 
 
 there will be no one on the stairs." . ♦ "One does 
 not know. One of our little charmers up stairs might 
 become suddenly indisposed. By the way one of them 
 is rather pretty." . . " The blonde ? " . . " Yes, 
 she is a blonde, with the slighest tinge of the carroty 
 — but in the gas-light that does not look bad." . . 
 . . . " That is Miss Ninette." . . " Tiens ! you 
 know her name, Adoiphe, take care that you treat her 
 properly. But never mind, for the present. Come 
 hand over those trousers until I get inside of them." 
 
 " That was the best thing I had with me." . 
 "Ah ! my Grod ! By Jupiter ! Yes, they are very gen- 
 teel." . . " What do you mean ? " . . "I cannot 
 get into these pantaloons of yours : and to think that 
 I had never taken that into account ! They are much 
 too tight for me." . , " They fit me very well, 
 nevertheless." . . "It is for that very reason they 
 do not fit me : you are a mere spindle, while I am a 
 dodo. See the two legs how tight they are ; I will 
 never get them to meet at the waist." . . " That is 
 just possible." . . "Yes, it is more than possible I 
 shall never get into them. Ouf ! What hard work ! 
 Sapristi ; but I must get into them somehow." . . 
 " Undo the waist band." . . " Parbleu ! I have 
 undone everything. Let's have the button hook : Ah t 
 that's better ; that's it ; b^t I feel rather uncomfortable. 
 After all it will serve to conceal my stomach. The 
 latter pains me for the moment ; but it cannot be 
 helped." . . " These pantaloons, I must say, are 
 very tight-fitting." . . " Fortunately, I am pretty 
 well made." . . Ci You present the appearance of a 
 circus groom in mourning." . . "That will not 
 prove disadvantageous to me near the ladies. I will 
 try to fascinate at least a dozen of them." . . • 
 " Thanks to the pantaloons for that." . . " Perhaps 
 so. But make haste with the other things. Grrenouil- 
 iet's vest fits me quite well. He, too, has something 
 of a corporation. Now the cravate * * * be careful 
 
NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 29 
 
 with that. It is by the cravat that a man of taste is 
 known. It was Vestris who said : ' One cannot know 
 all the things that go to make up a successful minu et.' 
 I say : There can be no question at all when one 
 looks at the knot of a cravat ! " . . "Be quick 
 then and finish dressing," said Grenouillet; "your time 
 is passing, and you know you have to be back here by 
 three o'clock ; I will not give you five minutes more." 
 
 The stout Anatole made no response ; but in looking 
 narrowly into the little mirror that stood on the mantel 
 piece, he pressed his tongue into his cheek, which for- 
 tunately was not seen by Grenouillet. Finally, Anatole 
 pulled on his beautiful coat, and began to strut about, 
 when, suddenly, he made a grimace, because the trousers 
 were cutting him behind. But Grenouillet pushed 
 him out on to the landing, and said to him: "Be 
 off, number 2, and do not forget that number 3 is await- 
 ing your return." 
 
 " He will have to wait for me for a long time," said 
 the stout Bizon to himself as he was descending the 
 stairs rapidly. " Poor Grenouillet who fancies that I will 
 quit the ball just at the moment the supper is to be 
 laid. No doubt he will fume and rage, but I will close 
 his mouth with a truffle, which I will bring with me in 
 my pocket: provided always, there will be truffles at 
 supper. But they are sure to be there. Madame 
 Tournesol will have provided all such things, and must 
 know that a supper without truffles, is like a beautiful 
 woman without breasts." 
 
 Number 2, with his stomach compressed, arrived 
 quickly at the residence of the proprietress. He at 
 once entered the ball, which was then at full swino-. 
 But timidity was not one of Anatole's attributes: he 
 traversed two rooms in order to show himself off, like 
 a peacock displaying his tail. He went to salute Ma- 
 dame Tournesol, who received him with a most gracious 
 smile, saying; "You have come at last. How late 
 you are; how you young people study to be taken notice 
 
30 NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 
 
 of!" • • "Madame, I can assure you it was not my 
 fault." . . " Ah : well ! and Monsieur Grenouillet, I 
 suppose he has come with you." . . " Yes, he is paying 
 the eabman, who has no change. These cabman have 
 never any change : when it is required." . . " You 
 dance, I hope, Monsieur Bizon ?" . . "Ah, Madame,, 
 I worship the dance. I can never have enough of it." 
 " Very good ; on that account alone, I shall pardon you 
 for coming so late. See ! look over there in the corner. 
 That young lady in pink has already missed several 
 contre danses." . . " Very well ; I comprehend you ; 
 I shall go at once and invite her." . . " You are 
 very kind." 
 
 Madame Tournesol then turned towards her son-in- 
 law, who chanced to be standing near, and said : " This 
 tenant here, will not displease you, I hope ; he is not in 
 a sack like the other one." . . " Not at all, not at 
 all," responded Arthur, laughing ; " very far indeed 
 from being in a sack, but he has got on a pair of pan- 
 taloons that lie very close to his limbs. What can be 
 the idea of having trousers made which are so tight 
 fitting. It does not look well ; it is in fact ridiculous." 
 . . " In good truth, my dear son, you are much too 
 critical ; with you there is always something you are 
 finding fault with." . . "It is not my fault, my 
 dear mamma, but only look at that gentleman. I'll 
 wager that he is most uncomfortable in what the English 
 call riding breeches. You can see it when he walks. 
 and goodness only knows how he will manage to dance 
 in them." • • " Oh, he dances exceedingly well : he 
 is even renowned for that. Everybody says of him 
 ' What a fine dancer ! '" . . "A fresh proof that this 
 gentleman does not go often into society ; do the men 
 of the present day dance ? Stuff ! it is bad form : 
 people walk round a prescribed area, make several 
 obeisances, and that suffices." . . " That is no doubt 
 more convenient for those who do not know how to 
 dance. Well, as for me, Arthur, I like to see a young 
 
DUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 31 
 
 man execute a nice step by himself." . • u Ah ! ah [' 
 you are indeed charming ! All the same, I shall pay 
 particular attention to the dancing of this young man."" 
 
 Anatole got the lady who had been designated to. 
 him, to join him in a dance. In the first quadrille,, 
 he managed pretty well : he was in fact forced to 
 moderate his desire to make a display, for the reason 
 that his trousers gave him very little liberty. He- 
 limited himself then to making a few little neat steps- 
 instead of his usual brilliant cross capers ; but his ex- 
 ecution of the former was none the less remarked. The 
 young ladies, as well as the elder ones, thought hi? 
 dancing very elegant, and one could hear, on every 
 hand, such remarks as : " There is a young man who 
 is a pretty dancer. He executes steps that belong to> 
 the ballet : he is very graceful ; that is more agreeable 
 than to see young men walking about languidly, and. 
 making every now and then an awkward bow." 
 
 The young men commented on his dancing in these - 
 terms : " How funny it is to see a gentleman show 
 off his dancing like that ! " • . " See there ! Every- 
 body is laughing." . ' . " Why, he is executing 
 a pirouette and the entrechat ! " . . , " It is not 
 impossible that that young man purposes to join the 
 Opera at the Port St. Martin." 
 
 When a polka or a waltz was being played Anatole 
 rested; because in those dances he had no opportunity 
 to display his graceful dancing. When he was thus 
 resting he heard one young man say to another : 
 
 "Do you know whether there is to be any supper?"" 
 . . " Yes, yes, there is to be a very splendid one : of 
 that I am sure." . . "What makes you sure of it?" 
 „ . " Because Madame Tournesol told my aunt, who 
 has charged me not to eat too many buns and cakes." 
 . . "Ah! It is well to know that." . . "Yes,, 
 certainly, it is well to know that," said Anatole, "and 
 I too have refused cakes. But I see they are passing 
 round the punch. Ah, yes ; vive le punch : that will 
 jiot interfere with one's supper." 
 
32 NUMBER 2 AT THE BALL. 
 
 In the next quadrille our beautiful dancer launched 
 out a little more : people now began to press round 
 him. to watch his dancing, and his self esteem was very 
 flattered by the effect he was producing. But when 
 the third quadrille came round, Anatole, who, during 
 the polkas, muzurkas and waltzs, had not been sparing 
 ■of the punch, decided to launch out and to show to 
 everyone what he was capable of. 
 
 This time then, and in spite of his pantaloons, he 
 gave himself up to the excitement of the dance: he 
 ventured on entrechats, and even pirouettes. The 
 gallery is quite astonished ; the men laugh, while others 
 applaud. But the cursed pantaloons most cruelly re- 
 venge the liberties which have been taken with him. 
 Suddenly, in the middle of a pirouette, which has been 
 -attacked with vigour, a rent is heard — and a break in 
 the continuity of the rear part of the indispensable 
 garment shows itself. Anatole, who now felt more at 
 his ease, only pirouetted all the better. But the burst 
 of laughter, which came from all sides, advertised the 
 fact that something extraordinary had occurred, the 
 gentlemen laughing like to burst, the ladies withdraw- 
 ing or placing their fans in front of their eyes. Several, 
 however, remained firm, and continued to look on, 
 while the fashionable Arthur, who was quite close by 
 watching the dancing of Anatole, walked up to him, 
 and, touching him gently on the shoulder, said to him 
 in an undertone : 4t Monsieur, I do not think it is your 
 intention to exhibit your behind to society. This is 
 what will happen if you continue to dance." 
 "What do you mean, sir?" . . "Feel your pan- 
 taloons under your coat." 
 
 Bizon carried his hand in the direction indicated. 
 He felt his shirt, which was hanging out : he found 
 even a place through which the air was entering un- 
 obstructed. Almost immediately the red mounted into 
 -his face, and he ejaculated, between his teeth : "Ah! 
 these cursed pantaloons: I ought to have foreseen this. 
 AH the fault of that Adolphe being as lean as a slate." 
 
A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 33 
 
 "The elegant Arthur, whose ready ear was directed to the 
 dancer, heard these words, and said to him : " Adolphe 
 is spare ! Who is this Adolphe, anyhow ? " . . " My 
 tailor, sir : who is very elongated and thinks that 
 everybody is like himself. What a mishap ! and I was 
 enjoying myself so much here ! " . . " You have 
 also amused us very much, sir, for you dance — magnifi- 
 cently." . . " You are very kind, sir, to say so." . 
 „ "But why the devil did you have your pantaloons 
 made so tight-fitting." . . "I find that that is 
 more effective." . . " Yours at this moment has the 
 contrary effect," . . u And matters were proceeding 
 so well! You have seen that that did not impair my 
 ■dancing." . . "We have seen a host of things, that 
 we do not desire to look on any longer." . . " Oh ! 
 but that did not in any way interfere with my dancing." 
 " But it will hinder any of the ladies dancing 
 with you." . . " That is so ; yes, I understand. I 
 must get away. Ah ! what an untoward affair." Ana- 
 tole had the greatest aversion possible to leaving the 
 ball, but he could not avoid it, for he saw quite well 
 everybody desired he should take his leave. Everybody 
 followed him with their eyes, each smiling as he or she 
 did so ; he alone did not laugh. Seizing: his hat at 
 length, he made his escape, boilingwith rage at being 
 obliged to renounce the supper, which" was just going 
 to be served up; and he said to himself as he walked 
 home : " If that rend had not been seen I should 
 certainly have remained to supper ; I should not have 
 danced any more; I should simply have sat down and 
 never budged, under the pretext of having injured my 
 foot; but it was seen. Ah! fichtre! it was too well 
 seen ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 
 
 It was scarcely half-past two when Bizon returned. 
 
34 A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 
 
 Adolphe was in bed and long since fast asleep, but 
 Grenouillet was quite awake, listening attentively for 
 the return of number two. He was rather dubious- 
 of Anatole keeping- his promise, he was such a greed f 
 fellow, and the temptation to remain for the supper 
 would be strong. However, the appointed time wa.- 
 not yet come, by half-an-hour at least; so when Anatole 
 walked in Grenouillet could scarcely believe his eyes. 
 " You ? Is it possible." . . " Of course." . 
 *Why; half-past two only just struck; but I was per— 
 jiaps mistaken. Half-past three would be more like - 
 it." . . " No, no, you are quite right, it's only half- 
 past two." . . "Then you must be ill, to have^ 
 returned so soon." . . " I am all right, but I could 
 not help thinking how you would be chafing for your 
 turn, and how late it would be before you got to the 
 ball, so for pity's sake I came away, and I hope you 
 appreciate it ? " Grenouillet with a face which cer- 
 tainly did not imply any belief of what Anatole. had 
 said, made haste to dress himself: "Now for my turn. . 
 Hand over the togs. By the way, is there a supper ? " 
 . . "I don't think so." . . "You are sure of it,, 
 you mean ; or you would'nt have come back. So much 
 the worse ! I'll go for the light refreshment," 
 " They were all done when I left." . . " What ! you-, 
 have swallowed the lot ! surely there will be some little 
 thing to be gleaned." . . "I much doubt it, and in 
 fact if I were you I'd go to bed and let the ball alone." 
 " Oh t I like that. You two may go and be 
 amused, but I need not go you think. That's good I 
 Wei], I tell you this, my boy, I'm going to the ball., 
 and will stay much longer than you have done. I'll 
 be the last to leave. So hand over those nether gar- 
 ments." . . "Give me time, then. It's as much 
 trouble getting them off as it was getting them on. 
 Ouf ! get off, you vile tights. There they're off now.' ? 
 . . " Luckily I am not so fat as you, Anatole, They 
 will suit me very well." 
 
A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 3 5 
 
 But in the act of putting his leg into the trousers 
 #ie discovered the enormous rent in the fundemental 
 part of them, and cried out : " Ah, traitor ; I was sure 
 that this overprompt return had some horrible mystery 
 about it. This is what you hoped I would appreciate. 
 And poor Adolphe ! What a wreck you've made of his 
 pantaloons." . . "Do you think I did it intentionally. 
 But for this accident you would'nt have seen me so 
 soon; you would have had to wait for a considerable 
 time longer." . . "Ah, you let out the truth at 
 last, you fat monster ! I know what was the occasion 
 of the rent. You have been showing off your fancy 
 steps." . . "Umph! I was doing so well, too. I 
 danced like a fairy, scarcely touching the ground, all 
 spring and elasticity. How the ladies admired me!" 
 . • " Yes, and you burst your pants." . . " Quite 
 so, and I had to make my escape, for the rend was too 
 much in evidence. You don't mean to put 'em on do 
 you ? What ! going to the ball in the same plight 
 that occasioned my coming away ! " . . "Of course, 
 why, rather than stop away, I'd go naked." 
 
 They won't admit you. It is'nt a carnival you know. 
 And — well — you are really going like that ! " 
 
 Certainly ! The case is not altogether hopeless. I 
 may get the janitor or his wife to sew up the rent. 
 They ought to be able to sew, seeing that the husband 
 is a cobbler." . . "A pretty job he'll make of it." 
 • . "Never mind provided it holds together." . # 
 "But it will be seen." . . "How will it be seen. 
 Do you think that when I arrive at the ball, everybody 
 is going to lift the tails of my coat. Besides, I shall 
 he careful not to dance ; but I'll make up for it at 
 supper, for I know there will be a supper. I know it 
 by your regretful physog." . . " Alas, yes, there is 
 a supper." . . " I've no time to lose then. Quick ! 
 The white cravate — coat — gloves — " . . " Ah ! must 
 you have my gloves." . . " Certainly ! since I have 
 none myself." . . "They won't suit you at all." 
 ^ " Then I shall have to hold them in my hand." # ♦ 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
36 A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 
 
 " My beautiful gloves ! Don't soil them more than you 
 can help." . . "I shall take more care of them- 
 than you have done of Adolphe's bogs. Well, here 
 I am all ready. Now for the janitor and his wife, who 
 boast about drawing the door chain, to let us in, even 
 in their sleep. Good night, Anatole." , . " You'll- 
 bring me something won't you, Grenouillet." 
 
 Grenouillet was already down at the porter's door,. 
 striking the knocker, and saying : " Father Roch — 
 Madame Koch. Two words if you please ; won't keep- 
 you a minute." 
 
 The chain was drawn, and there came a voice so* 
 sleepy and choristerless that it was difficult to make out 
 whether it was male or female, 
 
 " Yes, I can see that the door is open, but I'm not- 
 knocking you up for that, I have a little favour to ask 
 from you ; either of you will do." . . "It is too 
 late." . . " It's never too late to mend." 
 " Now leave us alone in peace." . . " Now, see 
 here, my dear Madame Eoch — for something tells me- 
 that it is to one of the gentler sex I have the honour' 
 of speaking." . . "With whom are you speaking, 
 Pulcherie? muttered a bass voice rather cracked." ,. 
 . " With one of the tenants, dear — Mons. Grenouillet, 
 I think." . . " What can he have to say at this time- 
 of night. He does not want to enter our chamber.' r 
 i4 No, no, Monsieur Roch, I only want a little 
 favour. They are waiting for me at a ball, and I have 
 just torn a part of my costume. You can both sew, 
 can you not ? " . . " What ! can I sew ! I could 
 sew porcelain, sir." . . " I readily believe it, but 
 my cloth will be easier than that to work with. With 
 a decent bit of thread you will do it in a tick tack, 
 and I shall remember your zeal, at the proper time and 
 place." . . " Don't rise, dear, I have already got a 
 light, and will attend to Monsieur Grenouillet." . • 
 " But are you in proper dress to see him." . . " Oh,. 
 yes — my morning gown." 
 
 A candle now lighted up the domicile, and presently- 
 
A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 37 
 
 the door opened, and Grenouillet skipped in and found 
 Madame Koch in irreproachable attire, a needle and 
 thread in her hand. "Where is this rent then?" said 
 she, and the good woman, not without natural diffidence- 
 and some fear of her husband's displeasure, proceeded to 
 mend the young man's garment. Unfortunately, in 
 her trepidation she pricked the young man, who uttered' 
 a cry, and thoroughly aroused the janitor to the true 
 state of affairs. Altamort drew his wife aside, saying 
 he had no idea the service required was of such a deli- 
 cate nature, and that he would do it himself, and so 
 sent her off. He then substituted shoemaker's thread,, 
 worked with such vigour that Grenouillet effusively 
 complimented him, and had no fear of the sewing 
 giving way this time. 
 
 "No fear of that thread," said Altamort, "you can 
 now make somersaults if you like without any fear."" 
 " I don't intend to indulge in any luxuries of 
 that sort." . . " Well, there you are, I've finished 
 it." . . " Bravo, dear janitor, and thanks. I shall 
 pay you after." 
 
 Grenouillet was soon in the street, and lost no time- 
 in making his appearance at the ball. Madame Tour- 
 nesol perceived him, and coming to him wanted to 
 know what had detained him. " Your friends are both 
 gone," she added. "Madame," said he, "I hope you< 
 will excuse me, for I was obliged to show myself at 
 another ball before coming here." . . "But, at 
 least, you will remain here, won't you?" . . "Cer- 
 tainly, Madame, as long as you like— till you drive me- 
 out in fact." . . " All in good time," said she, and> 
 turning to her son-in-law who stood surveying the new 
 comer, said, "Well, are you pleased with this one, or 
 is there something wrong about him too. He bears- 
 himself well, and his clothes sit easy on him." 
 
 Arthur smiled with a quizzing air as he replied r 
 " This fellow looks as if he regarded this as a country 
 fair." • . " Oh, come ! how wicked you are ! " . * 
 
38 A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 
 
 ""Not at all. I possess simply the knack of reading* 
 people when I meet them. Now this one arouses my 
 curiosity, and I won't be surprised if he goes in for 
 high kicks during the dance." 
 
 But the prescient Arthur was out of it this time ; 
 for Grenouillet did not dance. He was content to 
 look on, or promenade through the rooms, eating and 
 drinking at every opportunity. Arthur kept him in 
 view, for some time, and then decided to draw him 
 out. 
 
 "You are not dancing," said he. "No, Monsieur, 
 no, the fact is I'm a little tired. I've been at three 
 balls already this evening." . . " Oh, I see* By the 
 way, are you not the friend of Messieurs Adolphe 
 Durard and Anatole Bizon." . . " Yes. We are 
 all tenants of Madame Tournesol's house in the Eue 
 Eambuleau." . . "I am Madame Tournesol's son- 
 in-law." . . " Indeed. I am delighted to make 
 your acquaintance." . , "Your friends left rather 
 early. Do you know what happened to the stout one." 
 , . "To Bizon? No ! what was it ? " . . "Well, 
 just picture him. His nether garments were so tight 
 that they fairly gripped him, and when he began his 
 pirouetting, for this gentleman is a very eccentric 
 dancer, why, the most important part of his breeches 
 gave way." 
 
 Grrenouillet began to feel a little uneasy, but replied : 
 
 ' " Served him right ! The reason he gets his legs cased 
 so tight is because he is rather well-built, and wants to 
 
 , show himself off. Stupid fellow ! This will teach him 
 a lesson, and I am glad at what has happened to him." 
 
 -. . "Your other friend was not tightly cased as you 
 put it. Ha, ha! Quite the contrary. I don't believe 
 the coat was made for him. Why, it never touched 
 
 'bis back. It was like a balloon round him." 
 *' Ah, yes. I was going to tell you. He is rather slim 
 you know, and gets his clothes made with allowance for 
 
 -an increase." . . "Oh, that's it? I should, how- 
 
A NEEDLE AND THKEAD. 39 
 
 ever, advise both of them to change their tailors. But 
 here I am keeping you standing, forgetting that you 
 have already been to three balls this evening, and that 
 jou must be tired. Let us sit down." . . "With 
 pleasure." 
 
 Arthur threw himself into a chair, and Grenouillet 
 followed his example, but the latter immediately 
 bounded to his feet again uttering a piercing cry. 
 
 "What is the matter," cried Arthur. "Something 
 on the chair has pierced me. A pin no doubt — left 
 by some lady." . . " Very singular," said Arthur, and 
 began to look for the offending pin, while Grenouillet 
 questioned himself if this was not the work of that 
 jealous brute the porter who had possfbly left his needle 
 in. " Infamous ! " thought he, «' Well I can't see to it 
 at present, nor get anybody here to put it right." 
 
 Meanwhile Arthur had finished his search, and found 
 nothing. " I believe you," said Grrenouillet, " I think 
 it has hung on to me somewhere." . . "Won't you 
 sit down again." , . "No thanks, I prefer to pro- 
 menade and admire the fair sex." . ♦ " Just as you 
 like," said Arthur. 
 
 Grenouillet walked away wondering if he could take 
 supper standing, but concluded he had better sit down 
 — but very gently. And Arthur looked after him. 
 .wondering what had caused his cry of pain, and quite 
 convinced that there was no pin in the cushion. At 
 last when they had danced until four o'clock in the 
 morning, Madame Tournesol said to her guests : 
 
 " The supper waits. Come, gentlemen, lead in the 
 ladies. There is plenty of room, and I don't like ladies 
 to sup apart. It is so much pleasanter when we are all 
 together, so I have doubled the number of tables." 
 
 The couples now trooped into the supper room, but 
 •Grenouillet, still pre-occupied with his unlucky trousers, 
 .and now fancying there was a thread hanging down, 
 lagged behind, and was the last to arrive at the table. 
 He found two immense tables and the seats all taken, 
 
40 A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 
 
 and was accordingly rather pleased. He walked round 
 the tables saying : 
 
 " It really doesn't matter, I can eat as well standing." 
 But Madame Tournesol, observing this manoeuvre, cried 
 out : " Well, Monsieur, why don't you sit down." . . 
 "Never mind me, Madame, I beg — " . . "But — 
 but — I wish every one to be seated." . . "There- 
 isn't a place for me, Madame." . . "I'm going to 
 make room for you beside me, then. Francois ? bring 
 me a chair, quick ! " . . " But Madame I shall in- 
 commode you, I fear." . . " Not at all. Now, then ;^ 
 here's a nice place for you. Dear me, what a ceremony 
 you go through. Will you seat yourself there at once r 
 sir ! " 
 
 Grenouillet advanced, but in a hesitating way, and 
 Madame Tournesol, who was a determined woman y 
 thinking it was only timidity that caused his delay, 
 arose, and, seizing him by the shoulder, pushed him 
 abruptly into the chair. Poor Grenouillet uttered such 
 a dolorous cry that everybody shuddered : " Oh ! poor 
 fellow," cried the hostess. "There must have been a 
 plate on the chair and he has broken it, and the pieces- 
 have wounded him. Francois! attend here. There is 
 something on the chair." . . " No, Madame, I assure 
 you there is nothing," . . "Monsieur, where are 
 you hurt ? " 
 
 Grenouillet replied not a word, though he made 
 terrible faces, and repelled those who attempted to 
 raise him, saying, " Do not touch me ! I am spitted 
 and cannot move." 
 
 Meanwhile Arthur, who was one of the first to run 
 to his side, took him vigorously by the arms and raised 
 him up from the chair, saying: " Pardon me, Monsieur, 
 but we cannot bear to hear you utter such terrible cries 
 every time you sit down, without knowing the cause*. 
 We cannot allow you to sit thus in my mother's house." 
 And without further ado, the waggish Arthur lifted the 
 tails of Grenouillet's coat, and nearly exploded with 
 
A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 41 
 
 laughter on seeing a great big needle and a long thread 
 — the needle piercing the cloth and even beyond that,, 
 unfortunately for the victim, Madame Tournesol with- 
 drew it, murmuring with great solicitude : 
 
 "Ah, the poor boy. No wonder he cried out, with 
 that needle stuck there. And you, Arthur, what is 
 there to laugh at. The poor young man is ill." . . 
 " Pardon, Madame, but I cannot help laughing at the- 
 mishaps which have befallen your guests' pantaloons 
 this evening. , Here is one re-sewn in the very place 
 where a similar pair came to grief in the earlier part 
 of the evening — those of the gentleman who cut such 
 capers. Ha, ha, £ia, what a coincidence. Oh ! oh ! I 
 shall laugh for ever." . . "Enough, Arthur, take 
 your place at table, and let us now give our thoughts 
 to the supper." 
 
 Her son-in-law went to his place choking with mirth, 
 and saying for those around him to hear : " I would 
 bet twenty louis that it's the same pair. Oh, that is 
 superb. What genteel tenants my mother-in-law has, 
 to be sure." 
 
 Grenouillet, who had turned scarlet while the work 
 of rescue was going on, could not make up his mind 
 at first either to take his place again or go away, but 
 his hostess, good woman, coaxed him to sit down again, 
 assuring him there was no danger, for she had removed 
 the cause of offence. " Come," said she, "eat and think 
 no more about it," 
 
 This time Grenouillet did not require much pressing,- 
 and soon had scarcely other thoughts than satisfying 
 his hunger. He was careful, however, not to turn his 
 head towards the side where sat the terrible Arthur, 
 who still rippled with laughter every time he looked 
 at him. The ladies, eager for more dancing, did not 
 remain long at the table, and Grenouillet was left with 
 a few other men, who seemed to have taken root at 
 the feast, but the gay Arthur could not resist coming 
 back to his seat, and saying to those who still ate ; 
 
-42 QUID PRO QUO. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I'm going to tell you something funny 
 — no less than the story of a pair of unmentionables, 
 that has served three gentlemen in the course of one 
 evening." 
 
 Grenouillet, not caring to hear any more, rose and 
 escaped, saying to himself: "Go on with your story, 
 nabob, I can laugh now for I've had a jolly good 
 cupper. All the same, Altamort, has played me a 
 dirty trick." 
 
 When he left, Arthur Delval went up to his mother- 
 in-law, and whispered to her : " Dear, mamma, the 
 next time you invite your three young proteges I 
 .advice you to see that each has a complete outfit." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 QUID PRO QUO. 
 
 It was six o'clock in the morning when Grenouillet 
 got home ; he received a sour look from the janitor 
 as he passed him busily sweeping in front of the door. 
 The young man passed on without saying a word, for he 
 was afraid of giving the jealous Altamort the pleasure 
 of knowing that his vengeful trick had succeeded. Ar- 
 rived quickly at the second landing, he heard a great 
 row going on in the dentist's rooms. The shouting 
 .and r* wearing and disputing continued, and our student 
 stopped to listen, delighted to think that, no doubt, 
 this was due to the changing of the door-plate over 
 night. It was a hearty-looking cooper of the neigh- 
 bourhood, whose wife during the night had been seized 
 with labour. At break of day she said to her husband 
 -■ — " Go, John Peter, and bring a doctor or a mid-wife, 
 
QUID PRO QUO. 4& 
 
 I don't care which, only be quick, for I think my time 
 
 is come." 
 
 John Peter started at once, and getting the address 
 from a neighbour, was soon at our house in the Rue 
 Rambuleau. On entering he asked of the janitor if 
 there was any one there to aid at an accouchement, 
 and Altamort had replied : " Yes, upstairs. You will 
 see the name on the door." So John Peter went up, 
 and seeing on the second floor, the door-plate of Ma- 
 dame Ponderant, he gave a tug to the bell, and cried 
 out : " Open, open, time presses. Make haste." The 
 dentist, with difficulty aroused by his servant, hastily 
 threw on a dressing gown, and himself opened the door 
 to the cooper, and exclaimed : 
 
 " What a peal you make with my bell. I thought 
 the house was on fire." . . " Yes, but I'm in a great 
 hurry, don't you see. Is it you that operates ? " . . 
 " Certainly ! " . . " They told me it was a woman." 
 . . "Oh, then they were mistaken." . . "Well, 
 man or woman, I don't care so long as you do the job 
 right." . . "Be easy about that, my talent is well 
 known, and you can depend on it. Come into my 
 surgery." . . "But that isn't worth while, seeing 
 that you must come with me." . . "Go with you ! 
 It is not you that I have to deal with then ? " The 
 cooper laughed heartily at this. " Me," he cried, " Ah, 
 that is good. Ha ! Ha ! you are a bit of a joker." . 
 . " For whom do you seek me then ? " . . " Devil 
 take it, for my wife, of course. She has been in pain 
 all night." . . " And she has not been able to come 
 to have it out." . . "It seems to me that the 
 operation would be more convenient at my house." . .• 
 " That depends. How long has she suffered ? " . . 
 " Heavens ! the usual time of course — nine months, 
 though really she has suffered but little until now." 
 . . " Nine months ! What silliness, keeping a useless 
 thing all that time." . . " How useless ? What are 
 you chattering about? What leads you to suppose I 
 
44 QUID PRO QUO. 
 
 have caused myself to — " . . "Oh, never mind, it 
 wasn't your fault. You had nothing to do with it." 
 * . "I had nothing to do with it ? Come that is a 
 little too strong. Do you take me for one of those 
 complacent husbands who let themselves be laughed 
 at ? No, that's not my style. I like a good laugh, 
 but if you talk of my wife in that way I shall become 
 very angry indeed." . . " Sir, I cannot understand 
 you at all; but since it is necessary to go to your wife 
 I shall get ready ; of course, I cannot go in this gown." 
 . " No, of course, but make haste." . . " But 
 just one question. Is it a molar or an incisor?" 
 " There you go again with your nonsense. Do you 
 want me to tell you beforehand whether it's a boy or 
 a girl?" . . "The devil, sir, I think it is you who 
 are laughing at me ! What I am interested in is 
 neither girl nor boy, but a root you say your wife 
 requires to have extracted." . . " A root ! You call 
 it a root ? A poor infant that asks but to live ? " . , 
 66 An infant ! you require me for an infant ! " 
 " Of course, my wife is now in labour, and it is for that 
 I am fetching you, since that is your business." . . 
 " My business ! See here; it's an accoucheur you 
 want." . . " Of course." . • " But I am a dentist, 
 and never have been the other." . . "Then why 
 have you ' Mid-wife' on your door-plate.' M . . "Not 
 true ; there is nothing of the sort." . . " What ! 
 Not true ! Do you mean then that I've told a lie, you 
 insolent fellow; for two straws I would chastise you." 
 .. . " You mean instead that you will give me three 
 francs, as compensation, for disturbing me at this time 
 of the morning." . . " Three francs ! Three smacks, 
 my clever fellow, and double that if you like." 
 ■■'" In that case I shall pull your nose instead of a tooth." 
 .» . "Just try it; that's all:" 
 
 The dispute grew hot, and Grenouillet, who heard it 
 all, laughed till his sides ached. Presently a woman 
 about fifty years of age, dresspd in a round bonnet, 
 
QUID PRO QUO. 45 
 
 came up the stairs, holding her handkerchief to her 
 left cheek. Examining the door-plates on the way, she 
 at last stopped at the third floor and entered Madame 
 Ponderant's. Grenouiilet ran up first to his own door 
 landing, but returning immediately put his ear to the 
 keyhole of Madame Ponderant's door, as soon as the 
 patient had entered. The latter, who was suffering 
 from toothache, on entering, went straight through 
 to the second room, scarcely knowing what she did, 
 threw herself into a chair and moaned out : 
 
 " Ah, my dear lady, I am in great pain. I haven't 
 closed aa eye overnight." 
 
 Madame Ponderant looked her patient all over,, and 
 remarked: "That is most strange! There is not the 
 slightest appearance of anything." . , "Do you 
 not see my swollen — " . . " No, I see nothing." 
 . . "Will you not remove this trouble from me at 
 once ; this minute ! " . . " No ; it is not usual to 
 do things in such haste. You are somewhat late in 
 life for—" . . "What! late in life! thanks! if 
 you think I have come here for diversion — " 
 " Ah, every woman says that. Have you already had 
 — " . . " I should say so. I have got four extracted 
 already." . . "Extracted! Fye, they are not ex- 
 tracted. We manage to have them yielded up quite 
 gently." . . " Eeally ! and you think it won't be 
 painful.'' . . "I expect not, at least." . . " Well 
 then let's have it done at once ; get your instruments. 
 I am all ready." And the poor woman threw herself 
 back, rested her head on the back of the chair, and 
 opened a mouth that might have passed for an oven. 
 Madame Ponderant gazed at her a moment, and said : 
 
 " Why do you sit that way with your mouth open. 
 I am not going to operate on you in this chair." . . 
 " Then where have I to go." . . "On a bed ; it 
 will be much better." . . " Why, I've had four 
 taken out and in no case did they put me on a bed." 
 , . " You surprise me. It is always done on a bed, 
 
46 QUID PRO QUO. 
 
 however." . • " That is to say that such is your 
 way, Madame. No matter, show me this bed, so that 
 we can get to business, and have done with the job."" 
 
 Madame Ponderant led the way into another room 
 where there was a couch, and the patient threw herself 
 upon it and proceeded to open her mowth again, wider 
 than ever. The mid-wife shrugged hfe*. shoulders, and 
 said: 
 
 " What is wrong with you that you open your mouth 
 like that. Do you think it is from there that it will 
 come." . . "Quite certain, where did you think?" 
 . . " What a question ! you know as well as T do. 
 Come, lie quite down : you must not remain like that,, 
 and I beg yon to close your mouth. It looks as it you 
 meant to swallow me." . . " Ah ! that is too much,. 
 I see now you are playing a joke upon me. You want 
 to extract my tooth without my mouth being opened. 
 You don't know your business." . . " A tooth ! You 
 wish me to extract a tooth." . . "For two hour& 
 I've been telling you about it. Here it is, this side r 
 the second last. You can distinguish it easily. It is 
 quite black. There ! have you got it now." 
 
 Madame Ponderant now felt that she had had enough 
 of her visitor, and instead of approaching the latter, 
 she walked out. of the room, crying out furiously r 
 " What ! you want me to extract a tooth. What made 
 you come to me. The efTrontory of the thing, dis- 
 turbing me at six o'clock in the morning, because your 
 teeth ache. When did you ever hear of midwives 
 becoming teeth extractors." . . "When they give 
 it out themselves. What do you mean by mid-wife r 
 According to your door-plate you are a dentist." . . 
 "la dentist ? My good woman you are dreaming. 
 You saw that door-plate just below, and most likely, 
 while still half-asleep, you passed it." . . " Asleep ! 
 I tell you I did not close an eye overnight ; and more 
 it was on your door I saw the brass plate with 'Dentist' 
 upon it." . . " Impossible ! you have been seeing 
 
EYERYBODY LENDS A HAND, 47 
 
 double.'' . . "Seeing double! What do you mean r 
 you old she mule!" . . "Madame, do not insult 
 me, or I shall call the police." . . " Call the whole 
 force if you like, but at all events go outside your door 
 and look at the plate." , . "Ah I very well. I 
 shall do so." 
 
 G-renouillet hastened up stairs when he heard the two 
 women coming to look at the brass plate. At the same- 
 moment the dentist and John Peter came out on a simi- 
 lar errand, and thus it was that exclamations of surprise- 
 and anger rose at the same time from both landings,, 
 Madame Ponderant screaming at the top of her voice : 
 "It is frightful. It is scandalous. Who is it that has- 
 played this trick. What scoundrel has changed my 
 plate ! " . • " But it shall not end this way. I will 
 lodge a complaint." . . "Janitor! Janitor! Come 
 up at once." . . " Monsieur Alt amort ! I require 
 you to come here instantly to see the sort of thing 
 that goes on in this house!" 
 
 The two called out in chorus and at intervals so long 
 and loud that all the tenants were soon on the stairs toi* 
 ascertain the cause of the disturbance. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND. 
 
 The spectators of these stormy scenes consisted at first of 
 the three young men of the fourth floor, for Adolphe and 
 An atole, hearing (xrenouillet's burst of laughter, quickly 
 left their beds to see what was the matter. They were 
 somewhat lightly clad, An atole in an old coat barely 
 reaching to his knees. This was what he called his 
 
48 EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND, 
 
 dressing gown. Adolphe wore an old mackintosh which 
 enveloped him up to the nose, though it did not hide 
 him altogether, as it was in great need of mending, 
 and disclosed his shirt at places, forming a sort of float- 
 ing simphony in black and white. 
 
 The lady who lived opposite Madame Ponderant next 
 appeared. This was our friend the shirt-maker, a woman 
 considerably over fifty, and stout enough to fill the 
 place of two ordinary folks. Her complexion resembled 
 beetroot, and her hair was such a gleaming black that 
 it was like jet. It was done up with amarantine lacy 
 stuff into peaks all over. Happily for the spectators 
 she was clothed in a hermetically sealed dressing gown, 
 in which she stood panting at her door, with her arms 
 folded, and her ears all attention. On the landing 
 below, just as the dentist and John Peter were getting 
 their hands into each other's hair, there stepped out the 
 •German tailor from the door opposite, rather scantily 
 dressed. He was a large ruddy faced man with long 
 hair, long beard and long teeth, something of an ogre 
 in fact, slow of speech and stupid. He looked on at 
 the dispute, caressing at the same time his spaniel dog 
 -which had come out with him, and was now adding 
 its quota to the din as far as its yelping abilities would 
 allow. Presently the tailor said slowly, "Quiet, Sultan, 
 quiet. Don't mix yourself in neighbour's affairs." 
 
 On the first floor, the unsociable personage whom we 
 have named Monsieur Dauberton, had also opened his 
 door to know what was causing the din. This gentle- 
 man had no doubt been in his youth a handsome man, 
 but now, at fifty or over, his complexion was rather 
 bilious, his eyes were cavernous and ringed with bluish 
 wrinkles, his face looked wearied, and his whole person 
 ■seemed to betoken suffering, in spite of his elegant 
 attire, which consisted of a handsome velvet dressing 
 ^own and velvet smoking cap, set off with a large gold 
 tassel. 
 
 We must not forget the fifth floor, for there, the 
 
EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND. 4$ 
 
 -Tnost attractive of all our company were now to be seen 
 at their door ; I mean the two young bonnet triinmeis. 
 Emma was nineteen and a charming girl, though not 
 what you would call beautiful ; her face was oval and very 
 pale, but a sweet expression was given to it by her blue 
 eyes, so sad and sensitive : and though her mouth was 
 a trifle large, her smile was none the less very winning. 
 Her long and abundant brown hair always answered 
 her purpose, no matter what the fashion was, without 
 the aid of those pads so commonly used by women, 
 and which are often too patent to deceive anybody. 
 Mademoiselle Emma's dress was modest, and yet always 
 -in perfect taste, her voice expressed the same sweetness 
 as her eyes, and evidenced further a retiring disposition, 
 yet latent in this fragile frame and shrinking nature 
 was one of those courageous souls that never flinch. 
 
 Juliet was the name of our other young friend, a 
 brunette of twenty summers, rosy and healthy. Her 
 retrousse nose gave her that saucy air which we notice 
 in the possession of the aquiline. Her black eyes 
 betokened intelligence and vivacity, and while not 
 positively pretty there was about her that something 
 which pleases the male sex, not wholly to be accounted 
 for by her natty appearance, and the coquettish manner 
 in which she wore her bonnet. But with all this, and 
 a mirthful nature to boot, Mademoiselle was well able 
 to take care of herself, and keep the boldest of lady 
 killers at his proper distance. She and Emma lived 
 quietly in their two rooms ; never had any company; 
 went to their work punctually in the morning and 
 returned in the evening always at the same hour ; 
 and, in fact, bore such good characters that the most 
 slanderous tongues had nothing to say against. them. 
 
 All these people, then, good or bad, had by this time 
 come to their doors on the staircase to see the fun, and 
 were now looking on, some from above and some from 
 below, some laughing, and some shouting, and all 
 speaking at the same time. In the middle of the 
 
50 EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND. 
 
 medley, now at its height, the janitor ascended with 
 measured step, carrying his broom on his shoulder like 
 a gun. 
 
 The jealous Altamort stopped on the second rlooiv 
 grounded arms, and demanded in guttural tones, "Who 
 is the cause of this disgraceful disturbance in my house 
 — my house I say! for I have been invested with full 
 powers by the proprietor." 
 
 " Porter ! " shouted the dentist, "if you looked better 
 after your house, as you call it, this plate changing 
 would not have happened. See what they have put 
 on my door." Now the porter, poor man, could not 
 read, and so, after staring blankly at the door-plate, - 
 he stammered : " Well, haven't you always had one." 
 . . " Always had one," cried the dentist, " Can't you 
 see what's on this one? Look here, porter, if you can't 
 read, send for your wife so that you will know what you 
 are doing." . . "My dear, sir," returned Altamort,. 
 " iny wife is dressing, and I shall allow no one to see 
 her." . . "Monsieur Altamort," cried Madame Pon- 
 derant, leaning over the balustrade, " they have played 
 me the same trick. Come and see. They have put 
 Monsieur the dentist's plate on my door, and what is- 
 the consequence ? Why, I have been exposed to the 
 nuisance of receiving people who open their mouths 
 as wide as farm yards, so that I can see right to the 
 bottom of their windpipes. Oh, it is too dreadful." 
 "And whut about me, Madame," buoke in the 
 dentist, " I assure you it's no joke to be called up fit 
 six o'clock in the morning to attend an accouchement." 
 . . " Then I was right, Mr. Dentist," cried John Peter. 
 " At all events I came to the right door-plate." . . 
 " Madame Ponderant, give me my plate." . . " With 
 all my heart, sir. Ah ! they are laughing a good deal 
 up stairs, and I suppose our young gentlemen are greatly 
 diverted by the result of their shameful trick." 
 
 4i Madame," cried Anatole, craning his neck, while 
 Orenouillet looked slyly up at the work girls, "Ma- 
 
EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND. 51 
 
 dame, we cannot help laughing, for really it is all very 
 funny, but that is no reason for fastening the blame 
 upon us, other people are laughing. Are you going 
 to suspect our charming neighbours above, for instance, 
 *)f having changed the plate." 
 
 "No, sir," rejoined the mid-wife, severely, "they are 
 too well behaved, but it is different with you on the 
 fourth floor." . . " Ah, Madame Ponderant, you 
 are most unkind to say that,"' cried Grenouiliet, in a 
 railing tone. " You accuse us ? — us who adore midwives." 
 .. . "Oh, are you there!" answered Madame, "porter, 
 if you don't at once dismiss this gentlemao, I shall 
 leave the — the barrack." . . " Barrack — you call 
 my house a barrack," bellowed the porter, " Depend 
 upou it we shan't engage you next time we — " . • 
 "Mein Gott," cried the German tailor, " What a noise 
 about nothing, change the plates back again, can't you, 
 and be done with it ! " 
 
 The German was right, and they now did what they 
 might have done at first, and the cooper went to secure 
 the mid-wife's services for his poor wife, while the 
 woman in the round bonnet made haste to enter the 
 dentist's, where she opened her mouth wide enough to 
 swallow him. Every one had now retired from the 
 staircase, except the occupants of the fourth floor and 
 the rich gentleman downstairs, who still kept looking 
 up. 
 
 " What a splendid gown he has," said Grenouillet, 
 •*' Pbn-my-soul I could make a coat and two vests out 
 of it." . .. "Ah! that is the rich old fellow that 
 lives all alone," said Anatole. "Ah, yes ; 1 know him 
 too, for I have met him several times, and where do 
 you think, of all places." . . "Not at the Italian 
 Opera. He's too mean for that." . . "Quite right! 
 it was not there. No, it was at the ' Closerie des Lilas,' 
 and places like that, you know, but mostly at the Clo- 
 rserie. He goes there regularly." . . " What ! You 
 don't mean to tell me that this man, wbo shuns society 
 
52 EVERYBODY LENDS A HAND. 
 
 and lives selfish and surly like a bear in its hole, goes- 
 dancing in the Closerie where they do the cancan. No, 
 no. It can't be." . . "I did not say he danced 
 himself, for I never saw him indulge in that, but what 
 I do say is that he goes to these places and looks on.- 
 And he does not fail to pay . attention to the young 
 women either ; I have often seen him treating them by 
 way of making their acquaintance." . . " Well, it's 
 an unlikely thing, and I think you must have mistaken 
 your man." . . "Not at all. I couldn't be mistaken, . 
 he is so peculiar. Just watch, and you'll see him pass 
 his hand across his brow every few minutes, as if his 
 head ached. There ? what did I tell you ? " . 
 " You are right, for he did it this moment. But what's 
 he waiting there for. Do you think he is watching us." 
 . . " Bah 1 Can't you understand it's the young ladies 
 up above that he is interested in." . . " But they 
 are not on the staircase now." . . "No, but soon 
 they will be going to their work, and the old Adonis 
 wants to talk to them as they pass his door." . 
 " Gracious goodness ! " exclaimed Anatole, " much good 
 may it do him. As for me I'm going back to bed. I 
 rather like that brunette, though, do you know?" . . 
 "Really?" cried Adolphe, "Oh, I like the fair one.. 
 What say you, Grenouillet ? " . . " I am in love with 
 both of them," said Grenouillet, " I suppose it was 
 you that changed the plates, Grenouillet, was it not ? " 
 . . . " Yes, and served Madame right. The old 
 thing actually refused to tell me the time last night. 
 Wouldn't you yourself have paid her back ? " 
 " Well, I don't know, but you have been rather rough 
 with her. Are you not afraid you will be dismissed 
 the house ?" said Adolphe. " No tear of that. Madame 
 Tournesol thinks too well of us, and I made a splendid 
 impression at her ball I can tell you. If it hadn't been 
 for that confounded — but never mind, you will know 
 soon enough." . . "What?" . . "Nothing; go 
 back to bed, Adolphe, and finish your sleep." 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 5& 
 
 *' Ah ! but you are hiding something from me, I hope 
 nothing has happened to my pants, for I shall require 
 them to-morrow. My uncle is giving a grand break- 
 fast." . . " All the more reason for going to bed, my 
 boy, if you want to look well and please your uncle," 
 said Anatole; "and what are you waiting for, Grenouil- 
 let. I suppose you are on the same tack as the old bear 
 down stairs" . . " Oh, not I. I adore the fair sex, 
 but not being made of iron, here goes for bed. Good- 
 night I* 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 As soon as the three young men had gone in and shut 
 their doors, the door above them opened, and Juliet 
 appeared. She looked for a moment over the rail, and 
 then urged Emma to make haste. 
 
 " Come, Emma. They are gone, so we can go down 
 in peace. Not that I care a bit for them, though you 
 are so particular." . . "Well, they always try to* 
 speak with us, and make compliments. I can't bear 
 their impertinence." . . " You needn't listen to- 
 them." . . " I don't want to, but I can't help hearing 
 what they say." . " My dear, you may as well try 
 
 to keep back the ocean as hinder men from cheeking 
 up to the women, especially if they are pretty. After 
 all, these gentlemen haven't said any thing very bad 
 to us. One of them, in fact, never speaks at all : the 
 thin one, you know. Then there's that soft looking,, 
 fat fellow. He thinks all the women are in love with 
 him, I do believe." . . " Well, I'm not smitten, nor 
 likely to be." . • " Then there's the other one*. 
 Grenouillet." . • " What an ugly fellow he is,'* 
 
54 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 • . "Well, I like him the best of the lot. He's 
 Fiich a queer fellow, to be sure, always finding some 
 means of diversion. I believe 'twas he that changed 
 the plates." . . "And yet you say you like him." 
 .. . "Yes, I do! why it was all so funny. They will 
 laugh all day at the shop when we tell them about the 
 door-plates. But let us start. It's time we were off 
 to the creamery for our breakfast." 
 
 Emma left her room, and the two young women 
 descended, each holding a little basket on her arm. 
 Presently the timid Emma stopped : " See," she said, 
 " that rich gentleman is still at his door." . . "Well, 
 what about that ? He won't eat us, will he ? " . 
 
 • " No, but you know he is always on the look out for 
 us. I don't know what makes me so afraid of that 
 
 Milan." • . " Oh, you are afraid of them all ! Why, 
 he is very polite, is this gentleman." • • "He is 
 far too polite, and I don't like it." • • "Oh, very 
 well, but let us go. You don't mean to stay here all 
 day on his account, I suppose ? " 
 
 Our rich friend of the gorgeous dressing gown was 
 standing right in the way of any one coming down 
 stairs, and instead of making way for the two friends 
 lie bowed, and addressed them with a " Grood morning, 
 ladies. Always early on foot, I see." . . " Yes, sir, 
 but to-day we are rather late even, so will you kindly 
 allow us to pass." . . " Oh, don't hurry, ladies. 
 Won't you give me the pleasure of your company for 
 two minutes. I want you to taste an excellent cordial 
 that will do you good this morning." . . "Thank 
 you, sir, but we never drink cordials," said Emma. 
 " Ah, that's a pity, for it would put some colour in your 
 pale cheeks, and you seem so delicate, my dear." . . 
 "I am very well, sir," replied Emma. "I have always 
 been pale, and don't require any colour, thank you." 
 
 . . . " Pardon me, miss, I am sorry that I have given 
 you offence, but it was for your health's sake that I 
 spoke." . . " Oh, there is no offence, sir— come, 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 55 
 
 Juliet, you know our mothers are waiting for us, and 
 we are late." 
 
 Their passage was no longer barred, and the two 
 friends bowed, and passed quickly down the stairs. 
 Dauberton watched them disappear, and then entered 
 his lodging quite discouraged, saying to himself, " Their 
 mothers await them ! Ah, I must then give up hope 
 in this quarter — and yet I cannot give up hope. So 
 like, so pale, the same frail appearance. Can it be an 
 illusion, and do I find in my eagerness a resemblance 
 where in reality there is none." 
 
 The two workgirls were now in the street, and as they 
 walked Emma looked round now and again at the house 
 opposite to theirs. It was the fourth story that always 
 attracted her gaze. Presently her companion plucked 
 her sleeve, and said : " Come, dear, it's no use looking 
 up there, for Monsieur Reginald is not at the window, 
 so he won't see you — and if he did I don't suppose 
 he would pay much attention." . . "Oh, Juliet, 
 how can you be so wicked, talking like that, as if my 
 thoughts were always occupied with this gentleman, 
 when I scarcely know him." . . "Seeing is believing, 
 dear, and you may as well admit that he has made a 
 conquest of you. Confess you are smitten." . . . 
 " Ah, Juliet, it is very bad of you to think that. Surely 
 I can think with gratefulness of the man who saved my 
 life, for but his aid I should have been run over by an 
 omnibus, just here where we are now passing." . 
 " Yes, yes, you've told me all that before. The omni- 
 bus was nearly upon you when this young man sprang 
 quickly forward and drew you aside so neatly that the 
 wheel merely grazed you." . . " Yes, I had scarcely 
 time even to be afraid, and wouldn't have known why 
 I was jerked aside had it not been for an old lady, who 
 told me I ought to be thankful that the wheel did not 
 pass over me. Well, naturally, I heartily thanked the 
 young man, who smiled, bowed and disappeared. The 
 very next morning, on sitting down at my window, I 
 
56 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 was astonished to see this same young man at a window 
 on the fourth floor of the house opposite. He wore a* 
 morning vest, and I could see that he lived there. He 
 didn't see me, though I remained- at my window a long 
 time ; for I wanted to bow to him, to show that I recog- 
 nised him, I at least owed him that." . . " You 
 owed him fiddlesticks ! You mean that you were dying 
 to draw his attention, and since then he has seen 
 you, you have bowed and he has bowed, and you have 
 enquired what the interesting young man is, and the 
 porter has told you he is a musician of great talent, 
 who gives piano lessons for less than twenty shillings — 
 nearly as much as we gain in a week. Then, next you 
 asked the name of this famous artist — ." . . " My 
 saviour," interrupted Emma. 6i Oh ! would he have been- 
 your saviour? if he had been an ugly man. Saviour,, 
 indeed, I've been saved fifty times the same way myself." 
 Emma did not reply, and Juliet, perceiving her friend- 
 was annoyed, made haste to change the conversation.- 
 " Ah ! that was not a bad idea of yours, Emma, to tell 
 Monsieur Dauberton that our parents awaited us. He 
 made no effort to detain us after that. Much our 
 parents care about us. Since my stepmother wanted 
 to beat me, I have not been in my father's house, and 
 shall never go back. Don't you think I am right?" 
 . '* Yes, for if your father allowed you to be ill- 
 treated, he has ceased to care for you." . . " Oh, he 
 doesn't mind what becomes of me. I might have gone 
 wrong like some of the other girls for all he cared, and 
 my stepmother would have been delighted, I do believe* 
 But she won't have that gratification, the old fright ! " 
 And Juliet bridled up at the thought of her wrongs. 
 Presently she asked in a softer tone, " And you are an 
 orphan, Emma. You were very young to lose your 
 father and mother ? " . . " Yes, very young." . . 
 66 What was your father ? " . . "A workman." . -. 
 "What did he work at?" . . "Dear, have I not 
 told you already that. I was so young I can scarcely 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 57 
 
 remember. I think he was a joiner." . . "And what 
 was your mother ? " . . " She worked for a tailor." 
 " And when they both died, who took care of 
 you?" . . "A sister — of my mother's." • . "Oh, 
 your aunt then. What's become of her ? " . . She is 
 dead." . . " And you have no relations left ? " 
 "None." . . "Oh, Iv'e a long string of them, but 
 they all pay court to my stepmother for what they can 
 get out of her, so I've made up my mind to have no 
 more to do with them. You don't know what makes 
 rue talk about all this to-day. Well, I'll tell you what 
 the janitor's wife told me. Monsieur Dauberton has 
 been making enquiries about our ages and our parent- 
 age." . . " He is a strange man" replied Emma. 
 "What business can it be of his?" . . "Just what 
 I said to Pulcherie, but she could not read his mind, 
 bless you. She told him she did not think we were of 
 noble family, but, good soul, she was certain we were 
 good girls, and received no attention from the men, 
 but simply occupied ourselves with our work." 
 " Yes, but this good account of us did not prevent him 
 asking us in to have a liqueur. For whom can he be 
 taking us. I shall complain about him to Pulcherie, 
 and she will ask him to cease his impertinence. She 
 does his house work, you know." 
 
 The girls now entered the creamery, where they 
 usually breakfasted before going to their shop. They 
 usually dined at the shop, so as not to lose time, and 
 there they would remain until half-past eight, though 
 sometimes, when business was brisk, it was eleven o'clock 
 at night before they got away. To-day, however, work 
 being slack, by eight o'clock all the girls were at liberty 
 to go, and, as it was a fine and mild April evening, 
 several proposed a promenade in the Champs Elysees, 
 Juliet agreed, and tried to coax her companion to join 
 in the walk, saying, they would get " mouldy " if they 
 didn't seize chances like this, as they occurred. Emma 
 pretended that her head ached, and that she would pre- 
 
58 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 fer to lie down. "But," said she, "do not deny yourself 
 on my account, Juliet. Go by all means, and, dear, do 
 not be late." . . " Pshaw ! how tiresome this tooth- 
 ache is," replied the brunette, in a slightly mocking 
 tone, " and how quickly you have acquired it. All 
 right then, since you won't come with us, do as you 
 like. Come, girls," and off they went to the Champs 
 Elysees, while Emma hastened home. She did not lie 
 down, however, when she had gained her little chamber, 
 but went straight to her window, and looked across to 
 see if the young pianist was at home, for, truth to tell, 
 Juliet wasn't wrong in saying that Emma was in love 
 with Monsieur Keginald. She loved him with all the 
 strength of her pure heart. Yes, this young woman, 
 hitherto so indifferent to the attentions of the other 
 sex, who, up till now, had even fled when a man sought 
 to speak to her, who blushed at the bare idea of having 
 a lover, was now head over ears in love with a man who 
 had never shown,' by word or deed, the least desire to 
 make her acquaintance. Well may you ask how this 
 could be possible, when the only apparent reason of the 
 lighting of this tender flame was a trifling service in 
 the street that the first passer-by would have hastened 
 to render. Ah, he would be wise, indeed, who could 
 explain to you the suddenness and strength of her 
 passion. He would be wise, indeed, who could lay bare 
 the eccentricities of the human heart, why in one case 
 two beings are drawn together, who seemed destined 
 never to know each other, and why, in another case, 
 two persons may know each other for a long time, see 
 each every day, and yet remain perfectly indifferent, 
 until suddenly, one fine day, they find they are in love. 
 To attempt to sound the depths of the feminine 
 heart time would not permit, nor science avail. Suffi- 
 cient, that here was Emma, the sweet and trembling 
 young Emma, who has never thought of love, suddenly 
 awakened to a new feeling on beholding young Eeginald 
 after he had jerked her away from an omnibus wheel. 
 
LOYE WITHOUT HOPE. 5^ 
 
 Since that moment the young man has possessed her 
 thoughts by day and her dreams by night ; and, as we 
 have heard Juliet remark, she already knows the name, 
 address, and position of he whom she persists in calling 
 her saviour — most likely as an excuse to herself for 
 being so wrapped up in him. 
 
 The sensitive Emma, overjoyed to discover that her 
 "saviour" was a neighbour, and in fact lived across 
 the street, on the fourth floor, began, for the first time r 
 to take an interest in the house opposite. Sitting at 
 her window, she overlooked her neighbour's rooms, and 
 could see plainly into them. They seemed very well 
 furnished, and indeed, in Paris now-a-days, the lodgings 
 on the upper floors are as well furnished as those on the 
 lower. Monsieur Reginald bad three windows, one for 
 his bedroom and the others for his sitting- room, and 
 he usually kept them open, so that it was not difficult 
 for a woman's eye to take in at a glance the elegance, 
 betokening easy circumstances and good taste, of the 
 young man's apartments. 
 
 As Emma sat at her window on the first occasion , 
 the young artist was at his, but he did not look her 
 way, do all she might to attract his attention. Presently 
 she stretched her neck, spoke to her geranium as if 
 it were a bird, and leaned over so far that she risked 
 falling into the street — what mattered danger to her 
 when she was still unobserved by the object of her 
 love. 
 
 At last her neighbour's glance was attracted, and she 
 hastened to salute him. The artist bowed in return, 
 not in recognition, but as one who returns a politeness, 
 and quitted his window. Emma now withdrew also,, 
 wondering if he had recognised her. 
 
 On the following mornings she rose earlier than usual, 
 and sat at her window, but alas the artist's window- 
 were often still closed, and when they were at last 
 opened, and the young man made his appearance, he 
 did not look up at the poor little attic where Emma 
 
60 A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 waited so longingly for one of his glances. These were 
 sad mornings, when at the call of work, she had to 
 leave home without even the satisfaction of being seen 
 by the dearest object of her thoughts. All day she 
 would remain more silent than usual, and the observant 
 Juliet, knowing very well the length of time that her 
 shopmate passed at the attic window, easily devined 
 the cause of her companion's pre-occupation, and did 
 not let her off without a little chaff about her passion 
 for a man who paid no attention to it. Juliet was not 
 sentimental, and the romance that she liked was of the 
 joyous and natural order, and frankly I don't blame 
 her. 
 
 The reader is now made aware why Emma did not 
 go walking with her girl friends. The evenings were 
 now mild and fine, and Monsieur Keginald's windows 
 would be open, and thanks to the candles which lit up 
 his sitting room, the love-smitten girl would be able 
 to see her " saviour " and his surroundings, better even 
 than during the day. So Emma concluded to take the 
 air at her attic window, in preference to that of the 
 Champs Ely sees. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 "EMMA bad seen from the street that there was a light 
 in Eeginald's room : she had also slowly ascended the 
 flight of five stairs, without even responding to Grenou- 
 illet, who had met her on the stairs, and who had thus 
 addressed her : 
 
 M What ! you returned all alone ? This is most 
 nnusual! What has become of your inseparable com- 
 
A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 61 
 
 panion ? that waggish Juliet, who laughs in my 
 
 face every time I speak to her?" Grenouillet receiving 
 no answer had gone on: "You do not answer me — 
 Decidedly I prefer your friend to you : she laughs in 
 my face, no doubt, but then she is so merry." 
 
 After this Emma had hastened to her room, and 
 opening her window, looked out to see whether her 
 saviour was in his room. She discovered Keginald in 
 front of his piano, playing some trifling morceau. 
 But on this evening he did not seem to be playing with 
 his accustomed ardour : he stopped frequently, posed, 
 as if he were listening, and would then resume playing. 
 *' What can be the matter with him," said Emma to 
 herself, who followed each movement of the young 
 musician, and sought to divine his thoughts from his 
 gestures and from his movements, from the manner 
 in which he walked up and down his room. How 
 excited and restless he seems this evening. See, he 
 is getting up * * * he is striding up and down 
 liis room. Ah, he is coming to the window. Oh, 
 there is no need for me to quit mine, for it is certain 
 lie cannot see me : I am in complete darkness : and 
 besides, it would do no good to light up my attic, for 
 he never looks my way. I wonder whether he recog- 
 nised me, the day when he returned my salute : I rather 
 think not ! How could he recognise me, for in the 
 street he hardly got a glimpse of me ! My God, what a 
 fool I am to keep constantly thinking of this young 
 man who never thinks of me. Again, his position is far 
 above that of mine : and to judge by his fine lodgings 
 and rich furniture, he must be rich. As for me, I am 
 only a poor working girl — poor is not even the word, for 
 I earn hardly enough to live on, and to supply my other 
 wants. Juliet tells me that I have got a great deal 
 of talent, that if I only liked I could earn the double 
 of what I receive in the workshop. But I have no 
 ambition : I do not wish to change my employer whose 
 place is close to here, I do not wish either to change 
 
62 A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 i 
 
 my lodgings. No, never! for my little chamber pi ease? 
 me so much now ! Juliet makes fun of me ; she has 
 devined a part of my secret. My God, is it my own 
 fault, if I entertain for that young man a sentiment 
 which has never been put to the test ? the very thought 
 excites me : it makes me altogether different from what 
 I am, it is true ; nevertheless, I do not regret that I am 
 no longer as indifferent as I once was. This sentiment 
 that I feel does not render me unhappy. Formerly, I 
 often suffered from ennui ; now, I do not experience 
 ennui at all. But what does this avail, when there is 
 one thought, one image haunting me wherever I turn. 
 And what a comfort this is ! I am never alone — he 
 is always with me. What would happen if he also 
 loved me ? Ah ! I dare not entertain the idea for a 
 single moment — to be loved by the being whom one 
 cherishes, must be perfect heaven on earth ! And 
 though I hear many young women speak much of their 
 lovers, with whom they pass the whole of their Sundays 
 yet they do not appear to me to look as if they had 
 visited paradise ! 
 
 Probably all women do not love in the same manner r 
 the proof is, that at the workshops these women pass 
 much of their time in describing to one another their 
 amours, while my greatest happiness is not to mention 
 a word of what I experience, to hide all away at the 
 bottom of my heart, where I sincerely wish no one 
 will ever discover it. 
 
 " But what do I see ? He retires once more to the 
 other end of the room, and appears to listen. He looks 
 as if he were expecting some one. Who can he be ex- 
 pecting this evening ? A pupil, perhaps. There are 
 pupils who can only take lessons in the evening. My 
 God, if that gentleman only knew that I watch his 
 every movement — see all that is going on in his room — 
 I should be ashamed, and he would be very angry with 
 me, perhaps. But he knows nothing about it; Juliet's 
 opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, that every- 
 
A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR, 63- 
 
 "body's sole occupation is the seeking to find out what 
 their neighbours are doing. Ah ! he takes up a book r 
 but I could wager that he does not know a word he is 
 reading. Sometimes, too, I feel as if I would like to 
 read. Thank Heaven, I can write without smudging* 
 the paper all over. Oh, how I would like to be a great 
 scholar ! And if I must blush because of my parents, I 
 should not then, at least, have occasion to blush for my" 
 ignorance. But now I can no longer read — I am always 
 thinking of something else when reading. Juliet is 
 right. I am not endowed with common sense. Ah,. 
 he has thrown his book aside. I was sure of it. He 
 has come back to the window. But hold ! some one is 
 entering. It is doubtless the people whom he has been 
 expecting." 
 
 This M. Eeginald, whom we only know yet through 
 what has dropped from Emma, is a handsome enough 
 young fellow, about twenty-seven years of age, with 
 large eyes, so soft and tender in their expression, as to 
 be admirably adapted for achieving conquests, nor did 
 the rest of his person belie that of his eyes. Born of 
 parents in easy circumstances, this young man was at 
 first destined for the bar: but he had no aptitude or 
 liking for that profession, in which an honest man is 
 often compelled to defend an infamous cut-throat, to 
 seek to paliate, to make excuses for slips, for crimes 
 even, in order to make it believed that some individual 
 is innocent, when in the bottom of his heart, he has for 
 him the most profound contempt — 
 
 Eeginald had wished to be an artist — he was a born 
 musician; for one is born a musician, just as one is 
 born a poet, or a coffee-house keeper. A correct ear 
 is a gift of nature, which the instruction of the greatest, 
 master can never impart to him who has not received 
 it at birth. But Reginald possessed every gift which 
 goes to make up a true artist. In a very short time 
 he had acquired a superior mastery over the technique 
 of the piano.; he played agreeably on the violin, on 
 
'€4 A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 the cornet : finally, he composed charming little melo- 
 dies, and, like Jean- Jacques, he had taught himself 
 composition. And in spite of all he did not wear his 
 hair long — have it hang down his back. Yet like those 
 -great geniuses, that no one can fathom, and without 
 being positively romantic, he carried a high head, and 
 <was capable of producing great illusions. 
 
 Take him all in all, Eeginald was a superior sort of 
 ^young fellow, somewhat lively, and rather important, 
 yet obliging, sensible, incapable of a mean action and 
 of deliberate falsehood. It is needless to say that he 
 ^was very good-natured, very sensitive — a perfect musi- 
 cian who is not sensitive is like a cook that has lost the 
 sense of taste. 
 
 But now some one had rung the bell of the young 
 man of the fourth floor, and he hastily ran to open it, 
 for it was evident he expected some one, and that some 
 one, would be a lady. Do you think he would have 
 shown so much impatience if he had only been expect- 
 ing a man I 
 
 The lady who has just entered the apartments of 
 Reginald is dressed with much elegance, and carries her 
 'toilette with an equal grace. She is a woman of at least 
 twenty-seven years of age, perhaps more — with ladies 
 one can never be quite sure of anything. She is pretty, 
 has a countenance expressively mischievous, playful, 
 exceedingly seductive. She is one of those piquant 
 brunettes, one of those women who know how to turn 
 everything to the most advantage: there is marked 
 ' coquetry in her every movement. 
 
 She stopped suddenly at the door of the drawing 
 - room, and apparently had some hesitation about enter- 
 ing. But Reginald at once advanced and took her by 
 the hand, leading her to a sofa in front of his piano. 
 * She was hardly seated, when she took off her bonnet 
 and threw it to one side. The artist appeared to wish 
 to sit down close beside her, but she would not permit 
 this, and made a sign to him that he was to take a 
 
A SQUINT AT A NEIGHBOUR. 65 
 
 -chair. He obeyed, but he placed his chair so close in 
 front of the lady — so near, too near — that their knee? 
 almost touched. 
 
 Emma saw all this : she lost nothing of what was 
 taking place in the rooms of her neighbour. At first 
 she believed it was a pupil who had come to get a 
 lesson, but she was surprised to see her come alone, 
 for young ladies are, as a rule, accompanied on such 
 occasions. But soon after a closer examination of this 
 lady, she came to comprehend she was not a pupil : the 
 ,get up, the figure and the toilette of this lady — all 
 three displeased her. She strained her eyes in order 
 to see the better, she even endeavoured to try to catch 
 the words spoken; but this was impossible: the sound 
 -did not cross the court. Nevertheless, if she was not 
 able to hear what these two young persons said, she 
 strove with all her might to devine from their gestures, 
 their expression, their slightest actions, what was the 
 subject engaging them. Her looks were ri vetted on 
 the couple, whom she could see quite well : because 
 the sofa was not placed at the far end of the room ; 
 the thunder-bolt had fallen before her very eyes. Her 
 heart now beat violently, for already she guessed that 
 this woman, who was visiting Reginald, was a rival, 
 -or to speak more correctly, was beloved by that man 
 she, too, was also so foolish as to love. 
 
 "How fervently he addresses her — how near he ap- 
 proaches her when he wants to speak," said this poor 
 girl to herself, who was already suffering grievously 
 from what she observed. "What can he be saying? 
 that he makes this lady laugh so. What does it import 
 when one laughs thus ? Oh, I understand : she has 
 fine teeth ; and, my God, how she does show them ! 
 Look ! the gentleman takes her by the hand, but why 
 -does she also take him by the hand ? He may be 
 squeezing hers in his — yes, I am sure he is squeezing 
 it tenderly. What ! he is now kissing her hand ! Ah I 
 lie is deeply in love with this woman ! What can now 
 
66 CASTOR AND POLLUX. 
 
 be the matter with me. I feel as if I were about to- 
 suffocate. There is a heavy weight bearing me down 
 to the very ground. What a happy woman that must 
 be ! He kisses her hand and that causes her to laugh I 
 Were I her, I would weep for very joy. But see, he 
 is eagei to embrace her — yes, at this very moment ; 
 she repulses him ; so far good. Yes, but she repulses 
 him with a smile. Madame, if I could make you hear, . 
 I would tell you that that is not the way you ought to 
 repulse any one. Now behold, the proof! he is trying 
 it again. My God ! she no longer repels him — " 
 
 Emma buried her face in her hands — she durst no- 
 longer look in front of her. She remained thus for 
 some minutes, but, finally, her curiosity overcame her 
 better judgment; she took away her hands from her 
 eyes ; she was eager to see all that was going on. But 
 while she had not been looking, someone had shut the 
 ■window, and now it was not possible for anyone to see 
 anything. A re-action had now taken place in the 
 breast of the young woman. Overpowering dejection 
 had succeeded the excitement which had agitated her. 
 She quitted the window ; let herself fall down into a 
 chair, whereupon a torrent of tears began to gush from 
 her eyes. These tears, however, assuaged her feelings,, 
 and she suffered them to flow down her cheeks, merely 
 murmuring : " It is all over. I shall never again look. 
 into this neighbour s window." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CASTOK AND POLLUX. 
 
 The day after the ball given by Madame Tournesol 
 young Adolphe was filled with consternation, for when 
 about to fold and put away his new pantaloons, he per- 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 67 
 
 •<?eived the enormous rend made in the seat of them, 
 and the horrible sewing of the jealous Altamort, who, 
 in drawing the torn portions together, had made use 
 of the thread with which he was accustomed to make 
 slippers. Adolphe showed Grrenouillet the seat of his 
 trousers, and said to him : " See how you have used 
 my clothes when I was so kind as to lend them to you. 
 This is infamous." . . "It was not I who tore your 
 pantaloons; it was Anatole: you must remember how 
 rxnuch too tight they were for him, and that he had 
 infinite pains in getting into them." . . "Yes, but 
 lie did get into them, and I could then see that they 
 did not rend," . . " But he rent them later on when 
 dancing, a fact which I discovered when I came to put 
 them on. If you had not then been fast asleep I 
 should there and then have showed it to you, but I 
 did not wish to wake you up for that ; I only remarked 
 i:o myself: 'He will see it quite soon enough.' It was 
 the porter who sewed them, that is easy to see — that 
 dunder head ! " 
 
 Poor Adolphe now hurried to the room of Anatole 
 Bizon, who was still fast asleep, and shouted in his ear ; 
 •" It was you, then, that rent my pantaloons." 
 
 The stout young man who had been dreaming that 
 he was a dancing a mazurka with a Russian princess,, 
 rudely repulsed Adolphe, murmuring : " Why can you 
 mot let me sleep, you imbecile, waking me up just at 
 the moment when I was having such a beautiful dream." 
 
 "But why did you tear my trousers?" 
 46 Why did you have them made so tight that one could 
 hardly push a broom handle into them ? " 
 "Then why did you have them so badly sewn? I want 
 to know that first." . . "Take them to Dussautoy's 
 and leave me in peace." 
 
 Adolphe retired with his pantaloons under his arms, 
 -saying to himself : " He is only poking fun at me. 
 He asks me to go to Dussautoy's, one of the worst 
 jailors in Paris, to get my pantaloons patched up I 
 
68 CASTOR AND POLLUX. 
 
 What a reception I would have ! The idea ! that I 
 should go to a second-hand tailor ! That is the way to 
 return a kindness ! " 
 
 The novelty-shop clerk, then went down the stairs- 
 and rang the bell of the tailor on the second floor, to 
 whom he held out his torn vestment, and begged him 
 to be so good as to re- sew them, but the Grerman slam- 
 med the door in his face, saying : " Take them to the 
 person who commenced the job, and tell him to finish 
 it ! " 
 
 Poor Adolphe, obliged to be at his place of business- 
 to perform his duties, had to put off the sewing of them 
 properly till the evening. To sum up, when the day's- 
 occupations were over, he returned home, whence he 
 almost immediately set out again with his new pant- 
 aloons rolled up under his arm. 
 
 This was the same evening that Grrenouillet had seen 
 Emma return home alone, and had attempted to open 
 up a conversation with her. But we have seen how the- 
 young woman, eager to enter her room in order to place 
 herself at the window, had cut short his attempt on 
 the part of her neighbour. The latter had remained 
 standing on the stair-case, not knowing what to do 
 with himself that evening ; but not having any money 
 to go to the theatre, he had descended and reascended 
 the stair-case several times, halting on each landings 
 and scratching his head, thus communing with himself:: 
 " What can I do to amuse myself this evening? Last 
 night I changed the door-plates. I may not repeat 
 that operation to-day. Besides, I believe that they 7 
 have now had the plates more securely nailed oUo- 
 Ah I I remember that Monsieur the dentist said that 
 we were rogues and vagabonds. He did not positively 
 refer to me by name, but I am quite certain that it was 
 to me he addressed his remarks. Parbleu ! my good 
 friend, I must teach you to attend to your own business. 
 Let me see. I ought to have some soft sealing wax up- 
 stairs. But a very little will serve my purpose." 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 6&* 
 
 Grenouillet hurried up stairs to the room which he- 
 occupied in common with Adolphe, and found in a, 
 drawer a small soft green stick. He rolled it with, 
 his fingers, after which he crammed it into his mouth,, 
 iu the place of a tooth he had pulled. He then fastened 
 it with his tongue to the shape and size of a tooth, and 
 drawing an old cap over his ears, and holding his hand- 
 kerchief over his face, he rang the bell of the dentist. 
 
 A domestic opened the door. " Is M. the dentist at 
 home?" . . "Yes, but he is not in the habit of 
 extracting teeth in the evening." . . "Oh, but he 
 mav chance it for once. I have suffered all the tortures 
 of the damned. Aye ! aye I " . . " Very well : step, 
 in, and I shall inform my master." 
 
 The servant having gone to seek her master, Grenou-- 
 illet planted himself in the great traditional, dental 
 armchair, continuing to hold his handkerchief to hi* 
 face. The dentist coming in, witnessed a man holding; 
 his hands over his face, giving vent to deep groans and 
 making the most horrible contortions, but he could not 
 recognise the sufferer as being one of his neighbours^ 
 He said: "The devil, sir, you seem to be in great 
 pain." Grenouillet did not answer, save by making* 
 an inclination of the head. " Let us see. Open your 
 mouth— very wide — where is it— is it on this side ?- 
 Oh, yes. I see a tooth that is horribly decayed. It 
 is quite green. We must have that removed, for as- 
 suredly it would soon corrupt all the others. Keep 
 your head well back, and have no fear. I shall not 
 require to have a second pull at it. I have a wrist of 
 iron." Grenouillet did what he had been told. The> 
 dentist introduced his instrument, fixed it on the toothy 
 then pulling with all his might he fell back on his. 
 behind on the floor, because, instead of finding any- 
 obstacles, he had seized on the soft sealing wax, which 
 did not oppose the least resistance to leaving its place,., 
 «' What is the meaning of this ? " cried the dentist., 
 angered by his fall. Grenouillet, thereupon took off 
 
70 CASTOR AND POLLUX. 
 
 his cap, and laughing straight in his face, thus saluted 
 him: "I mean, dear neighbour, that you have ex- 
 tracted a tooth of soft wax, and that without giving 
 the least pain." . . " Whom do I see before me ? 
 -One of the gentlemen of the fourth floor. Ah ! you 
 have been making a fool of me, and you fancy I am 
 going to let you off like that? To-morrow I shall 
 take out a summons against you, sir." . . " Summons 
 away, as much as you like. People will then find out 
 that you mistook a piece of sealing wax for a tooth, 
 a fact which will greatly enhance your reputation. 
 Good evening, neighbour ! " 
 
 Grenouillet, in ascending the stairs, was enchanted 
 •with himself, and laughed so loudly that the porter 
 opened the door of his lodge and cried out: "What 
 is this going on again ? I have received orders that 
 henceforth any one found making a noise on the stairs 
 is forthwith to be ejected as a lodger. Ah ! I see it 
 is you M. Grenouillet, who are promenading up and 
 down the staircase. Aldegonde, I forbid you wandering" 
 up and down the house." . . " Yes, Mr. Eoch ; yes, 
 it is I who have come to demand an explanation of 
 your villianous conduct. Yesterday you left an enormous 
 needle in the seat of the pantaloons I was wearing — 
 you can readily imagine that proved anything but 
 agreeable to me." . . " Sir, if a needle was left in 
 your pantaloons it was simply an oversight. But after 
 all, if you had not presented your full moon to my 
 wife that would not have happened. I forbid you, 
 Aldegonde, from playing any more of your pranks on 
 your neighbours." . . " Porter, you are a block- 
 head." . . " Sir, I shall report you to the proprietor, 
 and I shall inform him as to the names you call me." 
 The porter thereupon majestically re-entered his lodge, 
 and Grenouillet continued his promenade on the stairs, 
 saying to himself: "This porter is very amusing. If 
 I were a vaudevilliste, I would quickly introduce him 
 in a piece. I must ask him for a lock of his hair." 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 71 
 
 Not long after, Juliet returned from a walk, and 
 Grenouillet encountered her on the first landing of the 
 staircase. "How kind it is of you, Juliet, to enter 
 lust at this time : and all alone, too ! Well, of course, 
 it is some time now since your friend came in. . . 
 " Ah ' you know that, M. Grenouillet ? . . 1 
 ought to know it, seeing that I met your friend on the 
 stairs " . . "You appear then, sir, to pass the most 
 of your time on the stairs ! " . . " That may be so : 
 hut, at all events, I have no occasion to regret it* seeing 
 that it affords me the pleasure of meeting you. . . 
 "That is a pleasure, which, so far as I am concerned, 
 must be of short duration." . . « Is this because 
 you do not wish it to be of long duration? If you 
 would only permit me to accompany you to your room, 
 we could have a talk together." . . « But I cannoo 
 give you that permission, so good night, sir. ^ . . 
 " Good night, but it is very cruel on your part. . . 
 " As you like it : but why are you going up stairs t 
 
 "You must surely be aware that I live up stairs 
 also— and I must go up stairs to get to my room." . 
 " That is true. But we have now reached the tourtn 
 floor, where you live, and you appear as if you wanted 
 to go higher still?" . • "I wish to have the pleasure 
 of conducting you to your door." . . "Man Dieul 
 How very gallant you are this evening! . . 1 
 am not gallant : I feel amorous, and you know _ oi 
 whom." . . "Of Emma, my friend?" . . On, 
 no. You know very well that it is you who have stolen 
 my heart." . . "In any case, I have not done it 
 intentionally." . . " Intentionally or not you possess 
 it still the same." . . «M. Grenouillet, you see 
 my door is open, so good night." . . "Let me slip 
 in with you for a few minutes." . . "No, sir ; no 
 single man may step into my rooms." . . Inen 
 I will make a pillow of your straw door mat and you 
 shall find me there to-morrow morning— you shall have 
 to pass over my body to get out." , . "That will 
 
72 CASTOR AND POLLUX. 
 
 "be a fine thing ! Do you wish then to compromise' 
 me ? " . . "Ill would rather a hundred times dine 
 off cabbage only, aud heaven is my witness that this 
 is a dish I do not care for." . . " Very well : then- 
 go away." • . "It is still early: let us talk for a^ 
 little." . . " How can we do that on the stairs ? ■ 
 . " Because you do not wish I should enter with 
 you." . . " How you do chatter this evening ! " ^ 
 . "By what accident has it happened that your friend 
 and you do not return home together ? " . . " Ah I 
 you are a little bit too curious." . . "But the fact 
 seems to me somewhat singular, inasmuch as you two 
 are hardly ever separate." . . " Mori Dieu ! we 
 must have a little time to rest ; I have been walking 
 up and down the shop with my fellow shop-women r 
 until now, while Emma had to leave sooner because 
 she had a headache — that is all." . . " Ah ! I could 
 almost wish that the same thing would occur oftener ? . 
 for, when you are with your friend, one cannot have 
 even a minute's conversation with you ; and it is so nice, 
 you know, to talk with a lady who has a neat little nose 
 and bewitching eyes." . . " My God ! what a fool 
 you are this evening ! " . . " If I am only that for 
 this one evening, I must be prepossessing." . . *. 
 "Look here, sir ! There is some one coming up the 
 stairs." . . "Well, what has that to do with us? 
 No one can be coming so high up as here, seeing that 
 your friend has returned, and that you two are the sole 
 occupants of this floor — unless you are going to receive 
 a visitor — in which case I shall retire, for I do not wish 
 to be an annoyance to you." . . " No, sir ; I do not 
 receive visitors at ten o'clock at night; moreover, you 
 know quite well that we never receive anybody." 
 
 " Oh ! I see who it is that is coming up the 
 stairs. It is Adolphe — my room mate." . . " What 
 can then be the matter with your friend this evening ? 
 He is speaking to himself, and he looks as though he 
 were in great trouble." . • " You are quite right* 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 7$> 
 
 There is certainly something the matter with him." . 
 " Poor fellow ! Hear how he moans. He is no 
 doubt very ill." . . "Just wait a minute: we shall 
 soon know. He has reached the fourth landing. Adol- 
 phe ! hie Adolphe ! Turn your nose up this way, and 
 tell what it is that makes you groan like a fat ox on 
 its way to the slaughter house." 
 
 The young clerk was returning with his pantaloons 
 which he had not been able to have mended: and this 
 is why he was stamping on the stairs, and speaking 
 thus to himself: "I must be an unlucky wretch! and 
 to think that to-morrow morning I must go to my 
 uncle's to breakfast, who, too, breakfasts so very early !" 
 
 On hearing his name called out Adolphe looked 
 upwards. " Who is calling me," he said. " It is I r ~ 
 Crrenouillet, your fellow lodger." • . "What the 
 deuce are you doing up there ? " • . "I am having- 
 a talk with our charming neighbour, Miss Juliet, who 
 has been so kind as to indulge me with her society 
 on the landing. But why are you moaning so ? Has 
 anybody robbed you?" . . "Oh! I have never any 
 fear of being robbed. But my pantaloons! — my brand 
 new pantaloons : how you have rent them in the seat ! " 
 " It was not I. I have told you that it was 
 Anatole, whose person was made too exuberant for 
 them." . . " But the worst is, I cannot find anyone^ 
 who will undertake the task of repairing them, which is- 
 too bad. I have gone from one tailor to another^ and 
 have been refused in each case; while the porter says he 
 had too many affairs of his own to attend to. I have 
 also visited the residences of some young ladies who* 
 are well-disposed to me, but they were all out, except 
 one, who had a bad finger and could not sew. In a- 
 word, I can find no one who will undertake to patch 
 up my garment, and, this, too, when I must be at my 
 uncle's to breakfast to-morrow ! " . . "Is it only 
 this, sir, that is causing you so much trouble?" said 
 Juliet, leaning over the balustrade. "But, Miss, that 
 
74 CASTOR AND POLLUX. 
 
 seems to me to be quite enough." . . "Have you 
 your pantaloons there ? " . . " Yes, Miss : I have 
 had them under my arm the whole evening.'* 
 "Very well : come up here, and I shall adjust them 
 for you, and it will not take me long either." 
 "Ah! Miss: can it be possible that you will under- 
 take to do this for me?" . . "Come up here, then, 
 you booby," exclaimed Grrenouillet; "why do you stand 
 down there star-gazing." 
 
 Adolphe was by the side of Juliet the next minute, 
 to whom he reached his pantaloons, with the remark : 
 M Ah ! Miss, you are a very angel ! " . . " M on Dieu I 
 sir, only on the chance of your angel having a black 
 cotton thread* But if I have not got a black cotton 
 thread, I know I have a silk one, and perhaps that 
 will do as well ! " . . " Yes, yes, Miss, silk will do 
 as well as cotton." 
 
 The young shop-woman opened her chamber door 
 and entered her apartments, where she quickly made 
 a light : on this she called out to her neighbours : 
 " You may come in, gentlemen." Grrenouillet reached 
 the interior in a couple of steps. " Oh, Adolphe," he 
 exclaimed, " blessed be thou of men ! thou who hast 
 opened a path to that oasis, which was previously 
 barred to every one ! " . . " Why, nothing can be 
 more natural than that I should hesitate to admit one 
 gentleman to chat with : but when there are more than 
 one, it is quite different. But, gentlemen, be pleased 
 to take a seat; I have four chairs, thank God. My 
 apartment is not very elegant, but I will undertake to 
 •say that you will find no dirt on such furniture as there 
 is." • . "Not elegant? Oh, angelic neighbour! I 
 mean, to say, how charming your apartment looks. 
 Everything is shining, brilliant, clean. This chamber 
 *ts a little fairy castle, exhaling too of sweet odours. 
 It smells of Eue de Cologne." . • "That is my 
 favourite scent." . . "A pretty woman and Eue 
 de Cologne I that is my beau ideal ! " . . " There 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 75< 
 
 yon go again — you speak nonsense." . . "Surely,.. 
 you would not have me sit silent." ..." But 
 Monsieur Adolphe, how did you manage to tear your 
 garment thus ? You are not so very stout." 
 "It was not I who tore them, Miss: it was Anatole, 
 if Grenouillet here is to be believed, There was a ball 
 at the residence of our proprietress, at which it was 
 necessary for us to look smart : but amongst the three 
 of us we could only furnish forth one complete suit 
 — which we had to don in turn. Otherwise, we could 
 not have appeared at the ball." . . " Good gracious ! 
 what a funny idea." . . " But then, among friends, 
 what belongs to the one belongs to the other." . 
 " Yes, but it is inconvenient to have a friend so stout 
 as Anatole." . . "Take care, Monsieur Adolphe, 
 in drawing out your handkerchief — you are goino- to 
 let fall a letter that is in your pocket." . . " You 
 are right, Miss: it is a letter the porter put into my 
 hand just as I was passing him ; but I was so concerned 
 about my pantaloons, that I had forgotten about it. I 
 have not yet opened it." . . "Hum! you scamp, 
 you knew the writing : that it's from a mistress you 
 no longer love." . . "Not at all. In the first 
 place I have no mistresses ; and even if I had — " . . 
 "They would not be able to write?" . . "They 
 never write for fear of compromising themselves. I 
 do not know that writing, at all." . . " Well, why 
 don't you open it? Perhaps you will find it contains 
 a bank order." . . " I do not expect any." . 
 " All the more reason it may contain one." 
 
 Adolphe tore open the letter, and commenced to read 
 in a low voice ; but he soon gave vent to an eager cry, 
 and twisted about on his chair as if he had been sud- 
 denly taken ill. " Oh, my God ! " he exclaimed : " can 
 it be possible; it must be a dream." . . "Well, 
 what is it all about ? Have you been named as prime 
 minister ? " . . " Sixteen thousand eight hundred 
 francs coming tome!" . . " What the devil aro 
 
76 CASTLE AND POLLUX. 
 
 you talking about ? explain yourself." . • " Hold 
 on, my friends : pardon me Miss, for calling you a 
 friend, but the joy — ■" . . " Then no ill has befallen 
 you, sir." . • "But why do you not explain your- 
 self!" . . "Listen then to what has been written 
 to me. It is from a Paris notary." 
 
 " Sir, — If your name is Adolphe Dnrard, age twenty- 
 one years, born at Chelles, near Paris, and son of 
 Pierre-Nicholas Durard, formerly pastry cook, will you 
 be good enough to repair to my chambers, in order 
 to become possessed of the sum of sixteen thousand 
 eight hundred francs, which have been bequeathed to 
 you by your cousin Michel Durard, who has just died 
 at Lyons, without children, and who knew you to be 
 the poorest of your family, and that your conduct was 
 above reproach. You will, however, take heed, when 
 coming to visit me, to be furnished with such papers 
 as will prove your identity." — Dumont, notaire. 
 
 " Well, what say you to that ? here is one — " Gren- 
 ouillet did not permit Adolphe to finish his sentence: 
 he ran at once to embrace him, entwined him in his 
 arms, and pressed him as though he would make a 
 jelly of him, exclaiming — "the heir— you an heir, dear 
 friend ! You deserve indeed to be one. You — are a 
 model friend. Let me embrace you once more!" » . 
 ••-" But not so tight : you will take the breath out of 
 me." , . " Ah ! it is because I am so pleased at 
 what has happened. You are going at once to receive 
 the money. I feel as though I had received it myself. 
 You will be able now to buy coats, vests, pantaloons, 
 and all that sort of thing, galore, so that if one of 
 them gives out you will be able to replace it on the 
 nail." . . " One thing is certain, that if I had 
 known I was going to be so rich to-morrow I would 
 not have given Miss Juliet the trouble of mending 
 these trousers." . . " Oh, sir, the trouble is nothing 
 at all, and, believe me, that, though you are about to 
 inherit sixteen thousand francs, it is no reason for 
 
CASTOR AND POLLUX. 77 
 
 ^throwing your money out of the window. In a word, 
 sixteen thousand francs, as it seems to me, will not 
 suffice to produce an income of one thousand francs 
 per annum." • . "You are right, Miss; still, in 
 the first moments such an inheritage dumfounds me : 
 on reflection, however, it will, I think, be found that 
 you are right in saying that sixteen thousand francs 
 ■will not bring in a thousand francs a year. But, all 
 the same, I am satisfied." . . "And you have good 
 reason : you ought to be delighted, Miss Juliet, is too 
 prudent ; she preaches economy to you ; but at your 
 age, it enhances the pleasure not to have to think. 
 Nevertheless, to begin with, you are going to pay for 
 punch all round." . . "But, I have not got a sou." 
 ^ . " The lemonade woman will lend it you ; you have 
 only to show her the letter of the notary. You will 
 order two bottles for here, some maccaroni, some — '• 
 <. . " Mr. Grenouillet I warn you that I do not wish 
 anything at all to be sent here; also, that I do not 
 drink punch, and that you are giving bad advice to 
 your friend, and, that finally, if you go on like that 
 I shall cease speaking to you." . . "Ah, pretty 
 Juliet, you are too hard on me." . . "Miss Juliet 
 is right ; you are always urging me to spending," 
 
 " How could I urge you to spend, you imbecile ; 
 seeing that you never have a sou ? " . . " All right, 
 as soon as I have touched my money, I shall seek other 
 lodgings. I shall want to have a chamber to myself." 
 _ . "What is that I hear? Is it indeed possible? 
 Is it Adolphe, my Adolphe whom I have trained, to 
 whom I have been a second mother, who is going to 
 behave thus — who threatens to quit his friend, his 
 brother, his Plyades, his Castor! because he is about 
 to inherit a considerable sum, because he will now be 
 able to dine in the best restaurants, where it costs no 
 more to dine two than it does to dine one, because that 
 one always orders only for one ! No, it is not possible : 
 I have heard wrong : so much ingratitude could not 
 
78 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 
 
 enter the soul of the clerk of a novelty store. You 
 cannot wish to abandon, to flee from me as soon as 
 fortune smiles on you. That would he a cruelty : nay v 
 more correctly, a villany. Adolphe, one does not often 
 find a landlady like Madame Tournesol, who invites one 
 to balls, where one has supper, and all the time never 
 asks you for rent. Such landladies one ought to carry 
 in one's heart. Let us say that you were only jesting — 
 that you will never leave without taking me with you." 
 Adolphe hesitated: he was troubled, and knew not how 
 to respond : and this instant of silence permitted one 
 to hear what appeared to be groans and sobs coming 
 from the chamber of Emma. Juliet sprang up im- 
 mediately, threw Adolphe's pants at him, and insisted 
 on the two gentlemen leaving at once, saying to them: 
 " Here are your pantaloons mended — good night, 
 gentlemen — be off — leave here at once, I fear Emma 
 has taken very ill, I must go and see her." . . . 
 " But my pretty neighbour — " . . " Miss Juliet, 
 I thank you a thousand times over." . . "That is 
 well — but make haste and go." The two gentlemen 
 tools their departure, and Juliet lost no time in seeking 
 the chamber of her friend, who had left the key above 
 the door. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 
 
 When Juliet entered the chamber of Emma, she found 
 the latter seated on the edge of her bed shedding 
 copious tears, and so absorbed was she in her grief that 
 she did not perceive Juliet enter. 
 
 " Well, what has come over you ? What do all these 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 7& 
 
 tears signify?" cried Juliet, who at once, in order to 
 console Emma, commenced to embrace her with all 
 her might. And the afflicted girl allowed herself to* 
 be embraced, without uttering a word, and continued 
 to utter deep groans. "Tell me what it is that has 
 happened to you this evening that afflicts you so ? 
 Emma. I beg of you to explain to me -why it is you 
 weep so ? You know well that I love you, and that 
 I would willingly share your grief. Come, speak *j 
 * * speak ! I wish you to — " . • " You would 
 only jeer and mock at me if I did." , . "No! I 
 promise you that I shall not mock at you. When I 
 see you weeping, do you think that I should be inclined 
 to laugh ! " . . " Well, when I came in this after- 
 noon I placed myself at the window." . . " Naturally^ 
 in order to watch M. Eeginald. Of late you have been 
 very fond of doing that." . . u Oh, no ! * * * 
 it is finished * * * all over. It will not cause 
 me to weep again." . . " Bah ! is it only that which 
 has made you put on such a face this evening ? " . ^ 
 "Oh, at first he did not see me! he did not perceive 
 that I was watching him. But I— I could see so 
 plainly into his room, that it was easy for me to see 
 every thing that was taking place. This evening this 
 gentleman it was evident was expecting company — it 
 was very easy to divine that — be paced up and down his 
 room — then he would put himself at the window to see 
 whether anyone was coming. Finally, some one came 
 — and it was a lady, a very elegant lady and young." 
 . . " And pretty ? " . . " Yes, as far as I could 
 make out. At first she had a hat on, which she took, 
 off — then her cloak — next her gloves — she took off 
 everything — " . . " And what then ? " . . " She- 
 sat down on the lounge : he placed himself in front of 
 her : then he took her by the hands — and kissed them." 
 . . " And you saw all that ? " . . " Mori Dieu I 
 yes : it was that that made me ill : but I kept on 
 looking. Then he appeared to address her in passionate- 
 
^0 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 
 
 tones, and almost immediately he tried to embrace her. 
 She repulsed him at first ; but very soon she no longer 
 resisted." . . " And you still kept on looking ? " 
 -• . " Oh, no : I next concealed my face in my hands 
 — " . . " Not for long, I wager." . . " But 
 when I looked up to see what they would do next — 
 they had closed the blinds. Oh, it is terrible, is it 
 not ? " . . " Terrible : that they should put down 
 the blinds ? On the contrary, they ought to have 
 ■closed them much sooner." . . " What I regarded 
 as terrible was that a lady should go alone to the 
 rooms of a young man and allow herself to be em- 
 braced." . . "In truth, Emma, you seem to have 
 lost your head. The lady is no doubt the mistress of 
 .M. Eeginald. You think that wicked? But because 
 you are enamoured of this young man (who no doubt 
 has not yet discovered the fact), is that a reason why 
 lie should not have a mistress ? that he should never 
 think of any woman? that he should not fall in love 
 with anyone ? You are foolish. Men are not like 
 'lis. They have a right to make love — to seek to make 
 conquests, and to do a thousand and one things that 
 are not permitted to us, and which does not in any way 
 impair their reputations; but quite the contrary. If 
 M. Eeginald had sought to make love to you, if he had 
 promised you that he would love no other, I could 
 understand your tears. But he hardly knows you by 
 sight, and you commence to grieve because he receives 
 the company of another lady who — in a word, makes 
 him close his windows. Now then, my dear friend, if 
 you would be a little reasonable, you will see that your 
 conduct is very foolish." . . "Yes, quite true: I 
 , am a fool : but my folly is stronger than I am. I love 
 that man, and I had convinced myself that he also 
 i loved me. It is absurd ; I know it is : but I could not 
 help crying. It is all over now; I shall think no more 
 of him; and I shall never again place myself at the 
 window to watch him ; henceforth he can do as he 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 81 
 
 y likes for me ; he can receive as many women as he 
 pleases : that will not put me out. I swear to you 
 that I shall never again look into his room to see what 
 he is doing." . . "So be it then; and you shall 
 never again waste your time crying in your room by 
 yourself, for one who has no idea that you are in love 
 with him ? — that would be too stupid. Now, go to 
 bed at once and sleep. As for me, I shall do the same, 
 .as it is very late, but to-morrow I shall tell you some- 
 thing that will interest you." 
 
 Emma had sworn to her friend that she would not 
 again look into the window of her neighbour opposite. 
 Whv is it that the oaths of one in love, are so like 
 the oaths of one in drink, as well as like a multitude 
 of other oaths, which I have no desire to enumerate, 
 since that would take me too long a time ! Two days 
 passed without the young woman putting her nose to 
 her window, but on the day following she could not 
 help but to take a peep out of it. As an excuse, for 
 looking out, she said that she wanted to look at the 
 sky, for it seemed to her that the weather was very 
 dull, and that there was going to be a storm. But in 
 her anxiety to view the clouds, she could not help ob- 
 serving that M. Eeginald was again walking to and 
 fro in his rooms ; perhaps she accidentally squinted 
 for once, and could not therefore help seeing two 
 objects at the same time. Her neighbour seemed to 
 her to be very gay ; he sang snatches of songs, and 
 accompanied himself on the piano: looked in the glass, 
 and gave a great deal of attention to his toilette: he 
 had tried several cravats, and not finding them suit- 
 able, threw them aside ; he had also done the same 
 in regard to vests. Emma watched all this, and said 
 to herself: "No one would take all this trouble for 
 nothing. There can be no question, but he expects 
 some lady — doubtless the same who visited him the 
 other evening — or perhaps a different one — men are so 
 •iond of changes. Oh ! I must really find out whether 
 
82 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 
 
 it be the same lady that he is going to receive ; after 
 all, I think I should like it better if it were a different 
 one." 
 
 Juliet had already been several times at the door of 
 Emma, bawling out : " Come, make haste : it is now 
 past 8.30 o'clock; we shall not be able to be at the 
 workshop by nine." Emma, having answered several 
 times, " in a minute," now made up her mind to excuse 
 herself. " I have a bad headache," she called out : " I 
 do not feel at all in trim for work this morning ; I am 
 going to make an antimacassar ; go on without me.' r 
 . . " Good : I knew it : you have a bad headache,"" 
 answered Juliet: "he has blue eyes; well, as you like; 
 but it will be all the worse for you if I find you crying 
 again." 
 
 Juliet departed without Emma, the latter saying to 
 herself: " After all, it is only once that I have not 
 been able to go to work ; I can go and lie down a 
 little. I am quite certain not to be thrown out of 
 work. Besides, I know my business so well, that I 
 can earn as much in one day as any of the others can 
 in three. Moreover, there is no need of me earning so- 
 nrach money. What would I do with it? Provided 
 I have as much as buy all that I require ! — I am not- 
 ambitious. Still, if I were very rich, perhaps people 
 would pay me more attention, perhaps, too, the one 
 whom I would like to please might give me more at- 
 tention also. No, no ; what am I dreaming about ; it 
 would not be myself he would love then — it would be 
 my money. It is better to be poor and to be loved 
 for oneself. Ah 1 I see he has not yet settled on a 
 cravat. He is very coquettish, is this young man. His 
 mistress no doubt believes that he is very elegant. As 
 for me, I wish him well ; but I am only a single work- 
 woman, and his mistress must be a lady belonging to 
 the best society, at least judging by her toilette." 
 
 An hour passed by, Emma whose eyes were all the 
 time directed to her neighbour's window, did not find 
 
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 83 
 
 f;he time too long: when one is strongly pre-occupied, 
 -one does not count minutes. He whom she watched 
 with so much attention, looked often at the clock, and 
 l>egan to show signs of impatience; he came often to 
 f;he window. At such times the young woman did not 
 fail to put in an appearance before hers, on the pretence 
 of attending to some flowers. Suddenly, a red flush 
 suffused her cheeks, which were habitually so pale : a 
 flush of joy, of happiness, illuminated her countenance; 
 her neighbour, in accidently looking up to her window, 
 had saluted her. " Ah, I have done well in staying at 
 Jiome," she said to herself: "he saluted me first; he 
 knows me then! at least I am no longer unknown to 
 him. How my heart beats ! I have not the slightest 
 •doubt he will come to pay me a visit." It was not long 
 before a waiter entered the apartments of M. Eeginald, 
 holding in his hand a basket which seemed to contain 
 a number of things; in fact, on a sign given by the 
 young gentleman, he began to lay a small table, which 
 stood in the middle of the room, in front of the sofa* 
 on which it appeared some one would sit during break- 
 fast ; then he laid the covers, and the table became 
 loaded with dishes and bottles. Several things, for 
 which room could not be found, were placed on a side 
 fable. When all was completed, Eeginald gave the 
 waiter a tip, and the latter immediately took his leave. 
 -" He has laid two covers," said Emma to herself; " M. 
 Eeginald therefore expects some one to breakfast — 
 perhaps one of his friends. Oh, no ; it must be a 
 sweetheart : he would not have changed his cravat so 
 often if he had only expected a male friend. And 
 what a breakfast ! What a lot of things are on the 
 table ! The lady must surely be a great gourmand. 
 And look at the number of bottles ! He perhaps 
 wishes to make her tight. Ah! he is looking at his 
 watch ; he is getting impatient. This lady is making 
 •him wait a long time. Good, he is coming again to 
 look out of the window, but his eyes are no longer 
 
84 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE IS OFTEN THE MOST TRUE. 
 
 turned upwards." In a word, when the clock had just 
 pointed to ] 0.30 the lady so eagerly looked for arrived.. 
 She was the same person whom Emma had previously 
 seen visit her neighbour. The view into the room was 
 quite unimpeded, and Emma could see and examine 
 the lady at her ease. The sun shone straight into the- 
 window of the composer, and, what was more, the lady 
 in question almost immediately came to place herself 
 close up to the window, which her cavalier soon begged 
 her to quit, pointing to the breakfast that had been 
 waiting for a long time. " She is pretty — very pretty,"' 
 said the young workwoman to herself, in drawing a 
 deep sigh. " But, all the same, I do not like that 
 woman ; besides she does not regard her lover as it 
 seems to me one ought to regard one with whom one 
 is in love: she wears a sneering aspect; she is always- 
 laughing. Ah ! she now condescends to take a place 
 at the table ; he sits very close to her. How he strives- 
 to please her in every little thing; he is waiting on 
 her — he pours out for her to drink. How agreeable- 
 men can be when they like ! Ah ! he is already be- 
 ginning to embrace her. How funny ! It is always 
 he that embraces, and never she. Once more ! Ah I 
 I have seen enough; I do not want to regard them, 
 any longer. I shall go now to my work. 
 
 Hereupon the young woman quitted her window^ 
 But instead of setting out she sat down at the far end 
 of her room, took a book and began to read. Neverthe- 
 less, the book did not appear to occupy her very closely r 
 as from time to time, she made a movement as if she 
 would rise, then, checking herself, she would sit down 
 again, muttering while she did so : " Me, I shall not 
 look at them again ; what pleasure could I have in 
 watching them eating. Bat they do not breakfast like 
 other people : embracing and eating proceed simul- 
 taneously. It is he who embraces, while she submits- 
 with an air that would indicate she was bestowing on 
 iiiin a favour. From this one must conclude that she- 
 
WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 8& 
 
 does not love him as much as he loves her." When a 
 few minutes had elapsed Emma found she could keep 
 her seat no longer, and, getting up, she ran towards the 
 window, remarking to herself: "I shall only look to- 
 see whether they have finished breakfast." But she 
 could no longer see into the window of Eeginald: the 
 curtains had been drawn. Emma thereupon closed her 
 curtains also, and decided to go to work, murmuring 
 sadly : " Juliet was right ; I am very foolish, very- 
 stupid. What then must I do to cure myself of this 
 ridiculous love affair ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 Seveeal months have run their course; Adolphe has 
 received the money bequeathed to him, and Grenouillet 
 never leaves his side. He has made Adolphe buy coats, 
 vests, pantaloons, in duplicate, even to hats. When 
 these two young gentlemen walk out together in the 
 evening, and when the heir has put on one suit, Gren- 
 ouillet persuades him that he would be rendering him 
 a service by putting on the other. He reasons with him 
 thus: "You are pretty near my height, but I have 
 a much better figure than you. In putting on one 
 of your new suits, I would give them, an agreeable 
 shape, and then, when you put them on, they would 
 look so much better. That is a service I would render 
 you, do you see ? " Adolphe not fully comprehending 
 the nature of the service, had said to him in reply : 
 "But, you know, my head is much smaller than yours,, 
 and you want to put on my second hat ! Of course 
 you would enlarge it, but when I come to put it on, 
 
•%6 WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 1 would find it too large." • . "You do not seem 
 to comprehend me at all, Adolphe. You see, when 
 you want to put on the hat I would place a cotton band 
 carefully round it under the lining, and you would find 
 this much more comfortable, not to mention that it 
 "would keep your head warm ! In fact, you would never 
 Ibefore have been so well fitted about the head. Do you 
 understand now ? " But what Adolphe did not under- 
 stand most of all was that one should have debts when 
 t>ne had money to pay them ; he had therefore hastened to 
 ^Madame Tournesol to pay her the four terms that they 
 owed in common: but Grenouillet who thought it ridi- 
 culous to pay his landlady, when she did not press for 
 payment, reproved his fellow lodger in these terms : 
 f What the devil sort of idea is this you have taken 
 into your head I Why should you take money to your 
 landlady when she had not asked you for it? By so 
 doing you will accustom Madame Tournesol to the idea 
 of receiving rent, which is a shabby trick to play on 
 the other lodgers." . • "Do you mean to say that 
 mone of the other tenants pay rents ? " . . "I cannot 
 say anything about that. But in any case, it is always 
 'well to let sleeping dogs alone. She must, indeed, have 
 i>een surprised when you took four terms to her all at 
 once ! " • " She simply said : ' My dear friend, 
 
 you need Dot have given yourself so much trouble about 
 the rent.'" . . "But do you not see how ridiculous 
 you made yourself, she must say : ' This young man 
 surely thinks I am in need of money.' You will have 
 given offence — wounded her amour-propre. Ah I if 
 you had only consulted me ! but you acted without my 
 knowledge and you have made a fool of yourself. After 
 sfcrl, your father was merely a pastry cook, and that 
 accounts for it." 
 
 Grenouillet was indeed compelled to quit Adolphe, 
 while the latter was at his post in the novelty-shop, 
 though he had strongly advised the young clerk to 
 abandon his position, reasoning thus with him : " It 
 
WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 87 
 
 •will be quite time enough for you to go back to the 
 shop again when your money runs out." But if Adol- 
 phe had not much wit, he had, at least, good sense! 
 -enough to comprehend that his small heritage would 
 quickly be dissipated if he listened to the counsels of 
 his Pylades. He began to resist him, when the latter 
 insisted that he should take him to dine at Brebants' 
 or at Peters'. At such times, Grenouillet, in order to 
 console himself would waylay Juliet on the stairs, and 
 pay marked courtesy to her ; and seeing that for some 
 time back the pretty work girl often returned and set 
 out alone, the occasions of talking with her became 
 more frequent. 
 
 It is nine o'clock in the evening, and Juliet, returning 
 home quite alone, found, on the landing of the fourth 
 floor, Grenouillet, who had been doing sentinel duty: 
 " Good evening, neighbour : you seem to be always on 
 the stairs." . . " It is only to greet you then, dear 
 neighbour, in passing. It is more than an hour since 
 I began to walk sentinel here." . . "How is that? 
 You say it is on my account that you pass your evenings 
 on the stairs?" . . "Who else could it be for," 
 . "And you have not with you your dear friend, 
 young Adolphe, who is so good-natured !" . . "Good- 
 natured, not so much as that term would seem to imply. 
 I had an idea to-day of going to dine at Brebants' or 
 at the Freres provencaux — to eat at this provencal 
 cuisine is a thing to be remembered. Well, this dunce 
 Adolphe persisted in going to a thirty-two sous restau- 
 rant : Ah ! fudge ! when he has a deskful of gold ! 
 Avarice is a villanous vice. The avaricious are capable 
 of anything! except paying for a good dinner." . . 
 " Monsieur Grenouillet, I think, between ourselves, that 
 you give very bad advice to your young friend. The 
 sum which he has inherited is very far from being a 
 fortune, and if he listened to you it would soon be 
 gone." . . " You judge me wrongly, you little spit- 
 fire. How I do like your little trumpet nose ! " . ♦ 
 
88 WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 " I have a trumpet nose now, have I ? You told me- 
 the other evening it was a nose a la Roxelane." . - 
 "It is the same thing." . . "And as to M. Adolphe, 
 has he changed his lodgings yet ? " . . " Jehu ! I 
 should like to see him do that. On the contrary, we 
 were thinking of embellishing our apartments, having- 
 them all freshly papered. And as we have paid our 
 proprietress four terms at one time, we are likely to 
 have it done. At the same time, Adolphe wanted to 
 stand the expense of a new paper himself. He is an 
 imbecile : when one comes forward and pays the 
 landlady all arrears of rent, one has a right to expect 
 she will make everything look fresh. I shall go myself 
 to see Madame Tournesol; she Las always received me 
 like an ambassador. She drinks camomile for her 
 health ; she has even offered me a cup, but I refused it. 
 I do not like that infusion. As to my request she will 
 come herself and see it carried out. Now do not make 
 fun of me, but if you examine the paper closely yon 
 will see yourself that it requires to be replaced. Should 
 the proprietress call here, take advantage of the oc- 
 casion, to get her to put on a fresh paper on your rooms 
 also." . • " No that would be useless : my paper i& 
 still quite good." . . " And the paper of your 
 friend ? " . . " The same, and I am quite sure 
 Emma would not like to see workmen in her rooms.' r 
 . . "As to that dear girl Emma, it appears to me 
 that you are not so often together now — you set out 
 by yourself and return by yourself, almost always. Has 
 a hitch occurred between you ? " . . " Oh, no ; not 
 at all : though it is too true that my friend does not 
 work now so assidiously as formerly. Happily she is 
 very skilled in her trade ; she surpasses everyone of us. 
 Do you know that she is capable of earning sometimes 
 seven francs a day ? " . . " Seven francs ! you 
 astonish me ! and do you earn as much?" . . "Oh v 
 no: when I make about five francs a day I am satisfied." 
 . . "That itself is very handsome. A woman who* 
 
WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 89 1 ' 
 
 can earn 100 sous per day would satisfy me." • ..- 
 "And you would not earn anything?" . . "But you 
 see 1 would overwhelm her with caresses evening 1 and 
 morning." . • "A pretty income that. But all 
 the same, I am sorry to see Emma neglect that which 
 she formerly loved so much ; still I would not care if 
 by acting thus she amused herself." . . "Ah, and 
 is it not to amuse herself?" . . "Oh, no: it is 
 to indulge in tears, and to make herself ill. Such 
 conduct does not appear to me to be common sense."" 
 . "What! do you mean to say that this young 
 girl has given up work in order to weep at leisure! 
 My pretty neighbour, I divine the cause of it: it is- 
 love." . . " Why of course : with us women love 
 always is accompanied by torment more or less severe. 
 But the love of Emma is ridiculous. Just fancy, the 
 person she loves has not the slightest suspicion of it." 
 " Indeed ! is it I she is in love with ? " . .. 
 "Ah ! ah ! I must say you are a little dense. No; 
 there is no danger of that." . . "No danger! that 
 is very unkind. Is it then my room companion, Adol- 
 phe, who has made a conquest of her?" . . "Oh! 
 there is not the least danger of that neither?" . •* 
 " Once more : is it the gross Anatole who has plucked 
 the bud." . . " No, not all. He, for whom she sobs 
 and sighs, does not reside in this house." . . "Ah! 
 where then does he perch?" . , "You are much 
 too curious, Monsieur Grenouillet ; this is a secret my 
 friend confided to me, and I shall not betray it." , ... 
 "I shall not press you any further, superb Juliet. A 
 woman who can keep a secret is a curiosity too rare 
 not to be respected. Only I pity the over sensitive 
 Emma." . . " Oh, yes, pity her ! Poor little things 
 she is to be pitied in every way." . • " There is one 
 thing in particular she is to be pitied for. Perhaps she 
 is losing her hair." . . "What a beast you are." . „~ 
 " You have already told me that, but it does not make 
 me angry : for if you thought it you would not speak to 
 
DO WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 me. • • " That is possible : but poor Emma, with 
 a heart so sensitive, that she should be so eager to love 
 some one ! " . . " She ought to lavish her love on 
 her father and her mother." . . " Alas ! she has 
 never known either." . • "She lost them, then, 
 when she was yet a baby." . . " Good evening, Mr. 
 Orenouillet, you always make me talk, and I have got 
 a thousand things to do in my rooms." . . " Permit 
 me to accompany you — you can do your thousand little 
 things, and that need not hinder us from talking." . . 
 &i No, sir ; you are alone, and I have already told you 
 that I will not receive a man by himself. Good evening, 
 neighbour." . . "Good evening, heart of bronze. 
 But see here, neighbour, suppose I had a dog, I would 
 not then be alone ? I have one in view." But Juliet 
 -did not respond, for she had already closed her door. 
 Grenouillet then decided to enter his lodgings, saying 
 as he did so: "She has not yet consented to receive 
 me, but now she speaks willingly with me. I believe 
 that matters will soon arrange themselves." 
 
 From the time that love had entered her heart, Emma 
 had, in fact, much neglected her work. Often, when 
 she was on the point of setting out, if Reginald ap- 
 peared at his window, nothing could induce her to quit 
 tier rooms. She would remain in the hope that she 
 would be perceived by her neighbour, and receive a 
 salute from him. But her hope was almost always 
 doomed to disappointment. It was not to her side of 
 the mansard he cast his looks, especially when the hour 
 approached in which he expected his mistress. Emma, 
 nevertheless, observed all that took place, and counted 
 the days which passed since the handsome lady visited 
 the rooms of Reginald — had remarked that for some 
 time the visits became less frequent. At first she came 
 every second day , then she came twice a week ; finally a 
 week would roll over before she would put in an appear- 
 ance. Emma did not fail to draw her own conclusions 
 therefrom. She reasoned : " Does that lady love the? 
 
WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 9* 
 
 young artist less now? or Lave obstacles arisen to pre- 
 vent her from visiting him so often as formerly ? As 
 to Keginald he appears to me to be as amorous as ever r 
 he always looks so sad when the handsome lady does 
 not come, rushing to the windows every minute, and 
 oh ! the transports of delight he evinces when finally his 
 mistress puts in her appearance." 
 
 The spring had come. As soon as the work girls of 
 the shop, where Emma was employed, had a moment to 
 spare, they availed themselves of the opportunity to 
 take a walk. But Emma almost always refused to 
 accompany them, preferring to take a rest in her rooms. 
 This unbroken confinement injured, however, her health r 
 already delicate, she languished, and her sweet pale 
 face became more haggard still. Juliet said to her r 
 " If you continue in this fashion you will fall ill ; and 
 you know that continuous sighing will do little to 
 establish it ? If you think that it is in this way you 
 will make a conquest of M. Eeginald you will indeed 
 find yourself sadly mistaken. Let us see, the weather 
 to-day is superb. My master has charged me with a 
 commission for a lady who buys by the wholesale : this 
 lady lives in the Champs Elysees, Avenue Marigny. 
 and she is only to be found at home at two o'clock in 
 the afternoons. Would you like to come with me ? It 
 would be a pretty walk to take, and it would do you 
 good. If you like I shall come and fetch you : I shall 
 be here by l.lo, so that we can take plenty of time. 
 You will come, will you not ? It would afford me 
 great pleasure if you would : for since you got that 
 cursed love affair into your head, you hardly or never 
 come with me. It would appear that with you love 
 makes a breach of friendship." Emma threw herself 
 on the neck of her friend, assuring her that she loved 
 her as much as ever, and she accepted the proposition 
 of Juliet, which filled the latter with joy. 
 
 Emma had made a very modest toilette, in which she 
 looked a hundred times more genteel than those ladies 
 
92 WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 with their languid airs, who are every moment turning 
 to see whether anyone is following them, simply because 
 they have erected a chignon, which, from its height, 
 • ought necessarily to attract attention. At the stated 
 hour Juliet arrives ; enters her room for a minute, in 
 order to put on a little hat which has nothing at all 
 eccentric about it, whereupon the two young girls trip 
 down stairs with a brisk step ; but on reaching the first 
 floor they again encounter M. Dauberton, who has 
 planted himself in front of his door, where he pretends 
 to be searching for papers in his hand bag. 
 
 " Just so ! the tenants in this house appear to pass 
 the most of their time on the stairs — what a queer 
 house it is," murmured Juliet, in slowly passing in front 
 of the first floor gentleman. This time, however, the 
 gentleman did not stop the young girls, contenting 
 himself with merely saluting them, and looking after 
 Emma, as long as it was possible to follow her figure. 
 " For once, at least, this gentleman has not offered to 
 invite us to enter his rooms to partake of his liqueurs," 
 said Juliet. " No, but he always stares at me so per- 
 sistently — he frightens me, that gentleman. When I 
 look at him, I begin at once to tremble." . . " That 
 is a mere childish fancy, for that gentleman has never 
 spoken to us an unbecoming word. He looks at you ! 
 Why, it is because he must consider you are pretty. 
 You cannot hinder anyone from thinking you are that. 
 Hem, suppose it was M. Eeginald who looked at you 
 like that ? " . . "Be quiet, Juliet, do be quiet. 
 It is not kind to speak to me like that." . . " You 
 ..sire right : I sometimes speak without reflection, in 
 which case one must say stupid things. Ah ! what fine 
 weather. How beautiful the sun is. The Champs Ely- 
 sees must be splendid. If you like we will drink some 
 beer when we get there ? " . . "Do whatever pleases 
 jou." • • "Well, decidedly, you are charming to- 
 -day." 
 
 They set out on their journey, stopping now and then 
 
 V- 
 
WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 93 
 
 i:o look at the shops, especially at those in which ready- 
 made bonnets were exposed, for in each of us there is 
 a feeling which always betrays us, and by which an 
 observer can easily divine our profession or vocation; 
 the man of letters stops before a bookseller's ; the 
 military man before an armourer's; the actor before the- 
 atrical bills; the covetous before the money changer's; 
 the swell before the jeweller's; the grisette before the 
 modistes ; the fop before the hairdresser's ; the glutton 
 before the cook shops, and the drunkard before the 
 taverns* 
 
 The two friends have reached the Champs Elysees. 
 They now walk more leisurely, in order the better to 
 enjoy the pleasures of that charming promenade. They 
 approach the Avenue Marigny, when suddenly Emma 
 stops, and seizing the arm of her companion, cries: 
 "Ah, my Grod, it is she!" . . "Who? what she?" 
 asks Juliet. " You frighten me. One would almost 
 think you were walking on a crevice." • . " Oh, yes, 
 it is indeed she : I cannot be mistaken. I know her so 
 well, now. She wears the same hat she wore the last 
 time she came to see him." . . " But who is he?" 
 " Tiens, Juliet, did you not see that lady who 
 just passed us? — in a light grey dress — a straw hat — 
 wearing a veil, but thrown back." . . "Yes, I saw 
 her. What then?" . . "It is the mistress of M. 
 Reginald — she who comes to see him." . . "Ah! 
 indeed! Well, what has that to do with us? This 
 woman has a perfect right to walk in the Champs Ely- 
 sees. Look here, you have stopped walking." 
 "Oh, wait a minute, wait. She has halted yonder: 
 she is looking all about her: she looks as if she were 
 expecting some one." . . " Even so, what does that 
 matter? But I must execute my commission." . 
 *• Oh, Juliet, just a minute, I beg of you. I should 
 like well to see who it is that this lady is waiting for." 
 ^ . "That is not difficult to divine: it is M. Reginald. 
 The latter in that case will be pleased to see you," . . 
 
94 WOMEN CHANGE OFTEN. 
 
 " But if it is not he ? Juliet, go on without me, if yon 
 are pressed for time ; but I shall not budge until I 
 have seen who it is that the lady expects." 
 " Look you, Emma," said Juliet, in the most gentle 
 tone, "what a fool you are making of yourself? I do 
 not want to leave you." . . "Come then, let us go 
 up close to the lady. She will not take any notice of 
 us ; she will not concern herself with us." 
 
 The two young girls retraced their steps. They kept 
 themselves at a proper distance from the beautiful lady, 
 who seemed to be marking time, and who often stopped 
 to give vent to tokens of impatience. But in the end 
 a neat coupe went past the side of the obelisque, and 
 pulled up near the circus. A handsome young fellow,- 
 very elegantly dressed, according to the latest fashion, 
 stepped out, and advanced rapidly to join the lady who 
 had been waiting. He accosted her with a smile, and 
 had not at all the air of one excusing himself for his 
 being late. One thing was certain, it was not the first 
 time that he had made an engagement with that self- 
 same lady. He held out his arm, which she took af 
 once : then, they both quickly went up to the carriage 
 entered it and drove away. 
 
 Emma witnessed all this without drawing breath; 
 she stammered in a trembling voice : " It is not Regin- 
 ald?" . . "No," responded Juliet, "though he is 
 a fine young fellow — a rich gentleman who has a very 
 distinguished air — who is very elegant." . . "But 
 seeing she makes appointments with another gentleman, 
 she cannot love Reginald." . . "What one can be 
 positive of, is that she deceives him." . . "And 
 why does he deceive her? " . . " She is not obliged 
 to— that is not her husband." . . " Do you really 
 believe that a woman only deceives her husband?" . * 
 " I believe that one ought not to deceive 'anybody, and 
 to feio-n to love a certain individual, when one all the 
 time loves another." . . "Ah! my good friend, 
 you have not yet dispelled these chimeras which have- 
 
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 93> 
 
 gone into your head." . . "No, look here, let us 
 go now and execute my commission." . . " Yes, let 
 us go." . . " Good, but you look very bad at 
 present ! Are you angry because this beautiful woman 
 has herself proved Reginald's unfaithfulness." , 
 " Yes, and I am heart sorrow for him." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 
 
 The Bourse was quiet; only the slightest hum of human 
 voices was to be heard ; the operators had began to take 
 their departure, for it was just on the stroke of three. 
 A few groups of speculators conversed in the corridors ; 
 one of these surrounded an old gentleman, of Israel- 
 itish type, who was credited with always knowing the 
 freshest news: he was thought to know the secret of 
 every European cabinet, and was never short of an 
 answer when questioned as to the designs of some 
 powerful foreigner. Sensible operators laughed and 
 shrugged their shoulders when passing close to this 
 man — so well-informed ; but the hoodlums, the ninnies, 
 the jobbers (and the Bourse was frequented by not a 
 few of this class), pressed about him, and swallowed all 
 that he saw fit to deal out to them. 
 
 A tall gentleman, whose figure was anything but 
 symmetrical, but who assumed a most superior air, was 
 walking to and fro amongst the crowd, when he was 
 accosted by an elegant young man, who still held in his 
 hand, a bundle of scrip and other business papers. This 
 was Arthur Delval, the son-in-law of Madame Tournesol, 
 who had done his best to bring into contempt the three 
 young men, her tenants, that she had invited to her 
 
96 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIEST ELOOR. 
 
 ball. The other person was M. Dauberton, -who resided 
 on the first floor, in the same house as the three invites, 
 and who had acquired the reputation on the Bourse of 
 being a bear. 
 
 " Grood-day, my dear Mr. Dauberton: I am delighted 
 to see you, for I must take your orders in regard to 
 what I should do next. I have sold your Italians as 
 you told me to do : and you have realised a very hand- 
 some profit. I have remarked that you are very for- 
 tunate in your stock operations. During the last three 
 months you have made over fifty thousand francs." . 
 
 " Yes, something like that." . . " Well, what am 
 I to do with your funds ? At this moment I have over 
 one hundred thousand francs belonging to you." . . 
 "My faith, you may do as you please with them; I shall 
 leave it to you." . . "By no means; I must have 
 an order." . . " Well, I shall think it over, and 
 write to you." . . " Are you waiting here for some- 
 one ? " . . " No, for no one." . . " Well, let us 
 leave, and we can smoke a cigar as we go along. What 
 do you say ? " , . " Most willingly." 
 
 These two gentlemen then quitted the Bourse, Arthur, 
 who had always a stock of the choicest cigars, offered 
 one to M. Dauberton, and remarked: "Do you know, 
 M. Dauberton, that you are a very singular person? 
 You are extremely fortunate in business. You make a 
 great deal of money, yet that does not seem to afford you 
 the slightest pleasure." . . " Ah ! it is not enough to 
 be fortunate in business only ! You must also be happy 
 in that which concerns the heart." . . " Bah ! do 
 not try to stuff me like that ! Is it not a fact that one 
 can with money get everything that one desires ? What 
 beauty is it that has brought you under her thrall ? who 
 is she that can resist a man who can overwhelm her 
 with presents ? " . . "Is that your opinion ? " . . 
 "Yes: that is my notion. With time and money one 
 can subdue the most haughty and cruel beauty. True 
 it is, that, with women, I have exceptional chances. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 97 
 
 1 have never yet sighed in vain, nor do I require to 
 sigh for long," . . "You are a young and handsome 
 man— that goes a long way." . . "Ah! but that 
 does not suffice for everything. Let us go ; but wait 
 a moment. See below there— my partner— he looks 
 sad, as if he had committed a mortal sin. Well, he 
 has' more mistresses than hairs on his head — but of 
 course he is bald. As for me, I have at this moment a 
 ravishing little woman — not a timid, unexperienced 
 .creature, but a woman, married to an old general ; at 
 least she says so, but, between us, 1 do not believe her 
 to be married. In any case, she has not the slightest 
 compunction in betraying her poor old general. I have 
 met her at the theatre. I have slipped into her hand 
 billet-doux, which she always answers the next day. 
 The thing goes on with the speed of an express train. 
 But, between ourselves, I am growing wearied of finding 
 all so easy. Why, I have no time to think about them. 
 I should like to find a woman who would resist me — 
 for a time, at least. That would change me— it would 
 pique me at the game." . . " But I thought you 
 were married % '* . . " Yes, so I am— most assuredly ; 
 I have a very pretty little wife, whom I love very much, 
 and to whom I can refuse nothing." . . " You love 
 your wife and you have mistresses ! " . . "Why, my 
 dear sir, no man is perfect: and, of course, my wife 
 knows nothing about it. Besides, Melina is in very 
 delicate health; she wants managing: do you follow 
 me?" , . I find that Fontaine is right, and that 
 his eel pate is an eternal truth." . . "So, so, my 
 dear Mr. Dauberton, you have never been married, you 
 who would deal so severely with husbands." . 
 66 Pardon me, I have even been twice married ; I am 
 a widower from my second wife." . . "Ah! if you 
 have just been made a widower, I can understand your 
 remaining faithful to her memory ; I ought not to have 
 jested as I have done. Have you any children ? " 
 
 The figure of M. Dauberton shrunk within itself, and 
 
98 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 
 
 it was some moments before he made answer: "Nor 
 I have had them by each of my wives, but I have lost 
 them all." . . " Ah ! well ; begin again : marry a 
 third wife, Tertia solvet ! you will no doubt be more 
 fortunate with number 3." . . "Oh, no: it is all 
 over ; I do not wish to marry again." . . " Indeed. . 
 when you have been married twice already I But I 
 think I understand. Yon want to preserve your liberty 
 — so that you can go after the pretty ballet girls — 
 the queens of the Mabile and the Cloiserie de Lilas ;. 
 for I have heard of you being there. But you are a 
 bear in social as well as in physical life. You refused 
 an invitation from my mother-in-law to attend a ball 
 she gave ; and yet you often go to public places where 
 the female dancers fling their heels as high as the nose 
 of their male partners. Ah! you are a bad subject. 
 Do not attempt to deny it : I have seen you there.. 
 And how you seemed to enjoy treating two young high- 
 flyers to punch — but I would not disturb you." . 
 "I do not seek to deny it; indeed, I very often go to 
 public balls that are frequented by grisettes, seeing 
 that there young girls only seek to please. I accost 
 them, I converse with them, and as they are in general 
 very off-handed, they will accept refreshment, be it 
 punch or anything else: — and I ask no more from them. 
 than simply a response to the questions I address to 
 them ; but you are mistaken if you think it is for their 
 loose talk — to satisfy a mere caprice, that I conduct 
 myself thus." . . "I do not presume to say, that 
 you pursue with these ladies, a course of questionable 
 morals, and that you make them drink punch in order 
 to demonstrate the danger there is in dancing a can- 
 can." . . "Monsieur Delval, appearances are often, 
 deceptive, is a maxim as old as the world itself. You 
 are very far from guessing the motive which prompts 
 me — the end I have in view, when you see me seeking 
 to make the acquaintance of those young ladies who- 
 come to laugh and to dance, and who have not always 
 
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 99 
 
 the wherewithal to get their dinner the next day. 
 I seek from amongst them a person — one whom I 
 should give all the world to find — a person who is 
 perhaps in misery — perhaps without work — without 
 resources." . . " And it is from amongst those 
 young women, who only laugh and dance, that you 
 seek your person so unfortunate ? " . . " Why not ? 
 Youth is thoughtless, and such as have had, during the 
 whole day, only dry bread to eat, go to the ball in the 
 evening, the entry to which is free, in order to for- 
 get their troubles, and to try to find some one who 
 will treat them to supper. Again I cannot be sure 
 that those I seek out are in that position. . It is quite 
 possible that fate may have been to them more pro- 
 pitious. Ah ! if I could only know for certain ! " 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear M. Dauberton, patdon I 
 I see you regard it in a serious light, and that I 
 .am completely mistaken in my conjectures. But you 
 yourself have just said that appearances are often de- 
 ceptive. People know that, and act accordingly." 
 " Yes, it is a very serious matter — a fault of youth I 
 should like to repair." . . " Eh ! who the devil 
 does not do it, or has not done it ? If I were to count 
 the number of times — but it would be too long." . . 
 " One can always find some excuse for the position in 
 which one finds oneself. But it is not so with my 
 conquests. I was already in easy circumstances, when 
 I conducted myself like a fool — like a man bereft of 
 /his senses." . . " My God, M. Dauberton, you 
 seem to have been badly hit : I fancy you must be 
 exaggerating." . . "Judge for yourself. In spite 
 of your easy-going way, in matters of love, I am per- 
 suaded that even you would not absolve me I was 
 about your own age — twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and, 
 like you, I was only bent on pleasure. I made the 
 acquaintance of a young girl who was very pretty — 
 to whom I stuck vigourously for a considerable time, 
 but in the end it terminated by her saying to me : ' If 
 
100 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 
 
 I should become a mother, you will at least, take care 
 of my infant; will you swear that?' I swore everything' 
 she asked me, and at the end of a few months Lucia 
 — that was the name of the pretty maiden-— informed 
 me that she carried about her person a pledge of my 
 love. I paid little or no attention to that declaration^ 
 But my fancy for Lucia began at once to grow blunt ; 
 very soon it disappeared altogether, and I then ceased 
 to see her at her lodgings. Lucia possessed a certain 
 pride of character; she did not call to her assistance 
 either tears or prayers. She did not seek to see me 
 again ; I heard no more about her, and I believed that 
 all relations between us had entirely ceased. But six. 
 months later, an elderly woman brought me one day 
 a new born infant, with a letter from Lucia, containing 
 simply these words : ' This is your child, your daughter,, 
 remember your promise, and take care of her.' At 
 the time I was wholly taken up with a marriage I was 
 on the point of contracting. Greatly displeased at 
 the present which had been made to me, in a moment 
 of anger, I put the woman, with her infant, to the 
 door, saying to her : ' Take it back to its mother, and 
 tell her from me that I wish her to let me alone from 
 this time forth.'" . . "And you did not give that 
 woman a purse containing, at least enough money to- 
 maintain the child, and to pay for its nursing, for 
 several years ? " . . "No: I gave her nothing." . ».. 
 " Yes, to be sure, that was wicked, very wicked indeed." 
 . . " Yes, I felt that afterwards : I did not even pro- 
 mise to send Lucia anything. But getting married at tha 
 time, and placed in a new position, I forgot her whom 
 I had caused to become a mother. It was then that I 
 received a second letter from Lucia, in which she said t 
 * You are a contemptable wretch : you have repudiated 
 your own child : as for me, I disdain to touch that 
 which has come from you. Your daughter is at the 
 hospital for outcast children. If you should take it into 
 your head some day to seek to find her out, you will 
 
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 101- 
 
 be able to distinguish her by the letter L, which I have 
 imprinted on her left arm, a little above the elbow r 
 and a glass medallion, I have hung about her neck, 
 with a black ribbon. In the medallion is a paper on 
 which I have written these words — 'Thy father was with- 
 out pity: never forgive him.'" . . "The devil," 
 murmured Arthur, " your Lucia possessed a decidedly 
 marked character. Well, what did you do next?" . . 
 " Nothing — I feared that Lucia was deceiving me, and 
 had written this out of revenge. Not long after the 
 prescribed time my wife made me a father ; and I 
 assure you I no longer gave a thought to her who had 
 been my mistress. Time rolled on. I lost my wife, 
 and soon after the little girl she had given to me. I 
 then became anxious to learn what had become of 
 Lucia, to find out, in fact, whether she had written to 
 me. But Lucia was dead, and those who had been 
 acquainted with her could not call to mind ever seeing 
 a child about her house: I strove to forget that fault 
 of my youth, and soon after I contracted a second 
 jaarriage. Heaven seemed at first to be propitious. 
 My fortune increased ; and I had found a wife tender 
 and good, who presented me with a son and a daughter^ 
 I believed myself to be safe against the whirligigs of 
 fate. Alas ! how far I was from forseeing all the mis- 
 fortunes which were reserved in store for me. I became- 
 once more a widower. I lost the wife whom I so dearly 
 cherished. Next my daughter, then my son, were 
 taken from me. It was then that despair seemed to 
 grip my very soul. I said to myself that so many 
 misfortunes could only be punishments sent by heaven ; 
 I called to mind my heartless conduct towards Lucia, 
 and I saw in all that befell me only the just chastise- 
 ment of that fault of my youth. How willingly then 
 would I have done all in my power to repair it ? But 
 it was much too late. Fifteen years had passed by 
 since then — I would have given my whole fortune to- 
 discover that infant whom I had formerly repulsed t 
 
102 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 
 
 But how to find it ? Lucia was dead ; I had no notion 
 of the date, far less the day, when the infant had been 
 left at the Enjants Trouves. I made enquiries: I 
 •searched everywhere for information, but could learn 
 nothing." . . u She must then have obtained adult 
 age — the age at least when these children have to be 
 apprenticed to some trade, to be placed in a condition 
 to earn their own living." . . "Now, my dear friend 
 Delval, do you understand why, instead of going into 
 the world, into that society my position would entitle 
 me to enter, I go to those places, which are the habi- 
 tual rendezvous of these working girls, grisettes? It 
 is not in gilded drawing rooms that I can ever expect 
 ■ to find the poor girl who was brought up on charity ; 
 but in public balls, in popular promenades, among the 
 young women who, without care for the morrow, expend 
 all the fruit of their labours: do you think that amongst 
 these young women there may not be one who does 
 not know friends — and who was received — brought up 
 — as the daughter of Lucia ? At any rate, these are 
 the young women I want to know, with whom I want 
 to talk, and, when I find one of them who has never 
 known either father or mother, I take note of it, 
 and try to seek out other information; and I shall 
 only abandon the society of these grisettes when it is 
 demonstrated to me that my hopes are incapable of 
 realization. Four years have passed since I began to 
 make these searches — for the infant of Lucia — for — 
 my daughter, who must now be nineteen years of age 
 — that is, if she still lives— and I have not discovered 
 the slightest trace of her. Ah ! I fear I must renounce 
 the hope of ever being able to repair my fault." . 
 "Yes, to be sure, after nineteen years, it does appear 
 to be improbable that you will succeed in finding that 
 young woman. Poor Monsieur Dauberton ! and I have 
 been accusing you of running after the girls merely 
 for the purpose of amusing yourself! But if I were 
 in your place I should perform my duties. I should 
 
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE FIRST FLOOR. 103 
 
 not flee the society which can provide you with dis- 
 traction, in order to pursue a phantom which must for 
 ever elide you." . . "And what distraction do you 
 suggest I should seek in the world, seeing that I have 
 lost everything which could lend a charm to my life ? 
 An orphan child could furnish me with some of that 
 contentment I stand so much in need of. And mark 
 this: some months ago when I first came to lodge in 
 your mother-in-law's house I believed for a moment 
 I had at last found what I had sought for during four 
 long years." . . " Indeed, and where was that ? " 
 . . " Before taking the first floor I informed myself 
 from the concierge of the persons who were occupying 
 the house; quite a common thing to do. The con- 
 cierge told me that there were on the fifth floor, two 
 very respectable working girls, with whom he was very 
 satisfied, because they led such a regular life, and, 
 above all, never received any visitors. ' What I ' said 
 I, ' do their parents not even come sometimes to see 
 them ? ' . . 'I do not know whether they have 
 parents, but of one thing I am certain — they never 
 receive anybody.' Hearing this I hastened to rent the 
 apartments, and this arranged, it became easy to find 
 an introduction to the young ladies of the fifth floor ; 
 yet, judge my surprise, the profound emotion which 
 seized me, on discovering that one of these young 
 women was the perfect image of Lucia. She has the 
 same features, the same eyes ! only the expression of 
 the latter is more soft, more modest. A foolish hope 
 seized my heart, 'This must be the child of Lucia,' 
 said I: 'this must be my daughter I have been looking 
 for.' I made enquiries : I learned that the person whose 
 figure had struck me was called Emma: that she was 
 a bonnet trimmer. I essayed to speak to her, but she 
 was very angry, and would not stop to speak to me. 
 However, I succeeded in encountering her companion. 
 I learned from her that Emma was an orphan, but that 
 her father had been a tradesman ; at this all my hopes 
 
104 A HEBREW TRICK. 
 
 vanished. I have several times since attempted to 
 speak to the young ladies, inviting them to enter my 
 apartments to rest a little ; when they have refused 
 me, saying that they expected their parents. They 
 have parents, and I must hence give up all hope in 
 that quarter; but despite this, I never see this Emma 
 — I never pass near her, but I feel an emotion, at once 
 sad and sweet. She always brings up to my mind 
 Lucia — the remembrance of the woman I had treated 
 so badly." . . "Is this young girl Emma pretty ?" 
 " Pretty, yes ; her features are perhaps not 
 remarkable, but there is a charm in the expression of 
 her countenance, an extreme softness in her look — " 
 . " By jingo, I must go and see her. The more 
 so, when my mother-in-law is always boring me to go 
 and find out whether any of the rooms are in need of 
 repair. I shall go and see whether Emma wants any 
 repairs done. Good-day, M. Dauberton ; but take my 
 advice, and go a little into society. Be philosophical: 
 you should take things as they come." . . " My dear 
 friend, Delval, the easiest kind of -philosophy known 
 to the world is — to give advice." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 A HEBREW TRICK. 
 
 Since her walk to the Champs Elysees, since she had 
 seen the mistress of the young composer rejoin there 
 a young elegant, with whom she had entered a car 
 riage, Emma occupied herself more than ever with 
 Eeginald. She was eager to know whether he was 
 aware of the deceit of that woman with whom he 
 
A HEBREW TRICK. 105'' 
 
 appeared to be so greatly smitten, and in order to- 
 learn the fact she placed herself more than ever at her 
 window. She saw her youthful neighbour very often 
 at his, either looking constantly out into the street, 
 or walking sadly up and down his apartments, casting 
 his eyes very often up to the clock: or he would let 
 himself fall into an easy chair and remain there, 
 his looks rivetted on the floor, his countenance at 
 such moments, being the picture of despair and cha- 
 grin. 
 
 The days rolled past, and the pretty woman came no - 
 more to the rooms of Eeginald, who became pale and 
 castdown, and seemed to be a prey to some profound 
 sorrow. On one occasion he carried his handkerchief 
 to his eyes, which were inundated with tears, and 
 Emma who saw that from her window, could not re- 
 frain from murmuring aloud: "Monsieur, monsieur, 
 do not weep ! she will return to you. It is not possible 
 that she will not love you again." But those words 
 were lost in space, and the young girl, who would 
 have given all the world to be able to console the poor 
 lover, lamented with herself thus : " He will surely fall 
 ill. Oh, yes, I am certain he will become ill; he has 
 already, in these eight days, very much changed. Ah,, 
 if I could only find out what to do to make him happy. 
 Poor fellow — sick with love ! Let no one say again 
 that men do not know how to love. Here is positive 
 proof to the contrary. And as ill luck would have it 
 he must fall in love with a woman who has deceived 
 him ! She does not come to see him any more : very 
 likely she will never return again : she has determined 
 to drive him to despair ; she has resolved that he shall, 
 die for her. Ah, what a frightful thing to contemplate E 
 And to think that I, who love him to distraction — I 
 can do nothing to ease his sorrow ! " 
 
 Two days after, the prediction of Emma was realized. 
 Eeginald took to his bed, which he did not leave dur- 
 ing the day except for a few hours, in order to stretch 
 
106 A HEBREW TRICR. 
 
 himself on a sofa, which he placed quite close up to 
 the window. 
 
 Emma, who saw everything that was going on in 
 the rooms of Eeginald, passed sometimes whole hours, 
 with her eyes rivetted on the sick man. But the latter 
 did not see her. He kept looking into the street, and 
 there sought in vain for a woman who no longer loved 
 him, whilst another woman who adored him, passed 
 her time in contemplating him. It is often so in life. 
 We seek happiness in one place, and turn our backs 
 -on the quarter where it is to be found ! 
 
 Emma was wholly engrossed in the contemplation 
 described, when a knock came to her door: at which 
 she made an impatient gesture, saying: " Mon Dieu 9 
 who can this be who has come to disturb me ? It is 
 mid-day. Juliet never comes back from the shop 
 during the day. It is probably some bonnets that 
 have been sent me to do up. I go less often to the 
 shop now, and they perhaps have sent me work to do 
 here. But they continue to knock: what a nuisance!" 
 
 Emma decided nevertheless to go and open the door ; 
 but in place of a work girl from the shop, she was as- 
 tonished to see standing before her an elegant young 
 man, with a distinguished air, who saluted her very 
 politely, and said to her: "A thousand pardons for 
 disturbing you, Miss. I choose perhaps a bad time to 
 present myself at your house, but you must excuse me, 
 for I am not always master of my own actions^" . 
 ;t Oh, sir, you must assuredly be mistaken." responded 
 the young woman ; "it is not possible that you can 
 have any business with me. What do you wish ? " 
 "You are Miss Emma, whose occupation is a 
 bonnet maker. You are that person are you not?" 
 Emma blushed, and stood astonished. But Arthui 
 Delval, for it is the son-in-law of Madame Tournesol 
 who has just presented himself at the rooms of the 
 young girl, and who steps unceremoniously into the 
 little room, and immediately takes a seat, saying j 
 
A HEBREW TRICK. 107" 
 
 *< Excuse me for acting so unceremoniously in your 
 house, Miss ; but when one has just mounted five 
 flights of stairs, one ought to be permitted to rest a 
 little. I avouch to you that I detest climbing stairs, 
 and I pity the persons who are obliged to lodge at such 
 an altitude," Emma remained standing, much sur- 
 prised at the manner of this gentleman, who had the 
 appearance of being as much at his ease in her house 
 as though he had been in his own. Arthur, who per- 
 ceived the astonishment of Emma, hastened to add : 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss, I ought to have commenced 
 by informing you the object of my visit. Be assured, 
 however, that there is nothing about it which ought 
 to be disagreeable to you. But sit down please, for 
 if you remain standing, you will compel me also to 
 get up, and that I assure you would cost me an effort." 
 Emma hesitated a moment, but in the end took a seat, 
 though at a great distance from the fine gentleman, 
 which made the latter smile, and who went on to say: 
 " Mademoiselle, my name is Arthur Delval, and I am 
 the son-in-law of Madame Tournesol, your proprietress. 
 For a long time my revered mother-in-law has been 
 urging me to make a turn of the apartments of her 
 tenants, in order to inform myself directly from their 
 own lips whether their rooms were not in need of 
 some repairs — that is to say, to find out whether the 
 chimneys did not smoke, whether the wall paper was 
 still in proper order, whether the doors and windows 
 were quite tight. Believe me Madame Tournesol 
 looks on tenants as if they were her own children — 
 she is anxious that they should be comfortable in her 
 house. She is a model proprietress; and I am sure 
 she would have made this turn herself, if it were not 
 that she is so frequently in ill-health ; besides she^ is 
 growing so stout, that if she goes on she will finish 
 by not being able to move. So, Miss, you now under- 
 stand the object of my visit, my coming here in person 
 Permit me to add that I am happy to have been 
 
108 A HEBREW TRICK. 
 
 charged with this mission, seeing that it has furnished 
 the occasion of becoming acquainted with so charming 
 a person.'* 
 
 While the elegant Arthur was speaking, Emma, 
 recovered from her fright, was able to regard him with- 
 out fear, and each time that she raised her eyes to his 
 she said to herself: "This is singular — where have I 
 already met this gentleman ? I am certain it is not 
 the first time I have seen him ? " 
 
 Arthur waited for a response, but the young girl was 
 thinking of something altogether different from that 
 about which this gentleman had spoken to her. As 
 she regarded him pretty often without flinching, the 
 fashionable lion had not the slightest doubt that his 
 appearance had already made an impression upon the 
 heart of the attractive little lodger; he hence smiled 
 anew, and said to her : " Miss, would you be kind 
 enough to inform me whether you want anything done 
 to your unpretentious apartments ? — much too modest 
 for a young lady so pretty, and to whom I should only 
 be too happy to offer apartments more genteel, more 
 comfortable — which should not be on the fifth floor, 
 and which should include everything that was necessary 
 to administer to the tastes of a young lady." 
 
 Arthur again waited for an answer, but Emma did 
 not pay the least attention to what he had just said 
 to her : she was only occupied with thinking where 
 she had already met this gentleman. 
 
 The silence which she maintained after what he had 
 just said, began to appear singular to the gentleman 
 of the great world, and he drew his chair nearer that 
 of the young girl, and resumed: "You do not answer 
 me, Miss ? I sincerely trust that what I have said 
 has not hurt your feelings." . . " Pardon me, sir, 
 but I have not heard what you have said to me," res- 
 ponded Emma, in a voice so natural, so sincere, that 
 the magnificent Arthur felt himself taken down a peg. 
 •** Miss, I asked you in the first place whether you 
 
A HEBREW TRICK. 109 
 
 wanted your apartments newly papered — but that, let 
 me say, was only a pretext for my making you this 
 visit. I have been told that in this unpretentious 
 attic there lived a charming young lady, remarkable 
 alike for her grace and for the angelic expression of 
 her features. In good truth, I sought only an occasion 
 to make the acquaintance of this treasure ensconsed 
 under the tiles. The occasion presented itself, I have 
 seized it and — " . . " Ah, I remember, I remember 
 now ! " cried Emma. " Yes — yes, it is indeed there 
 that I have seen you, sir. I could not for some time 
 recall the circumstances — but now, I am sure." . . 
 " You have already seen me somewhere, Miss, and you 
 have retained a recollection of me ? In truth, you 
 flatter me too much, permit me to thank you most 
 sincerely." • . " Oh, you need not take the trouble 
 to do that, sir! it was in the Champs-Elysees; about 
 a fortnight ago. It was a Tuesday; I remember it 
 well ; a lady waited for you near the Avenue Marigny ; 
 you came up in a coupe ; you jumped out, and having 
 joined the lady you re-entered the coupe accompanied 
 by her." . . " That is true, perfectly true ; but it 
 is singular that you should remember all these circum- 
 stances — a jealous husband could not have remembered 
 them better." . . " Yes, sir, I had a very good 
 reason to remember this lady who waited for you in 
 the Champs-Elysees — that was not the first time I had 
 seen the lady — I know her." . . " Bah ! you know 
 Madame de Harloville ? by* what accident ? " 
 " (rood ! I now know her name ! " said Emma to her- 
 self, before responding : " Sir, when I said that I knew 
 that lady, I did not mean to say that I was acquainted 
 with her. A fine lady like that would not deign to 
 recognise a simple working girl ; but this is how it 
 happened. One day I was taking some elegant bonnets 
 into a shop, where was this same Madame de Harloville 
 — that is indeed her name, is it not, sir ? " . . " Yes, 
 that is indeed her name — and then — " . . "Then 
 
110 A HEBREW TRICK. 
 
 that lady, seeing my bonnets, found them very much 
 to her taste, and said to me : ' I wish you would make 
 me some like those ; bring them to my house, and T 
 shall pay you well for your labour.' This lady then 
 gave me her address, and admonished me not to fail to 
 come to see her. But I lost the address, and that 
 worried me very much ! When I saw that lady in 
 the Champs-Elysees, I recognised her at once. I had 
 a mind to go up and speak to her, but I hesitated: I 
 was afraid it would displease her to be seen speaking 
 with a little working girl in a public promenade ; but 
 I did not lose sight of her. I did indeed have a doubt 
 as to whether or not she was waiting on any one, and 
 just at that moment you drove up, and jumped out 
 of the coupe. Having found the lady in question, 
 she immediately took your arm and entered with you 
 into the carriage which was waiting. This is why I 
 remembered you, sir, and this is the reason which I, 
 immediately on seeing you, wanted to know where I 
 had seen you before." Arthur pursed up his mouth 
 a little, seeing that it was not positively for his own 
 personal appearance that this young girl had remarked 
 him. Nevertheless, he recommenced hi3 attempts at 
 seduction, but Emma addressed herself anew to him : 
 " Sir, would you do me a great favour, render me a 
 service which would cost you little?" . . "Most 
 assuredly, Miss, anything you might ask me. I would 
 rather it would cost me a great deal, for I want to 
 prove to you that there is nothing I would refuse you. 
 Speak, order me!" . . "Sir, what I ask is, would 
 you give me the address of Madame de Harloville?'* 
 " How do you mean ? is it only that you ask ? 
 Madame de Harloville lives in the Rue d'Antin, at 
 the corner of the Rue Joubert." • , " Thank you, 
 sir, thank you a thousand times." . . " But what 
 the devil do you want to do with that address ? " , ► 
 " It is to take to that lady the bonnets I have made 
 her." . • " Oh, what an idea! just think of it». 
 
A HEBREW TRICK. Ill 
 
 Leave your bonnets where they are ! let them vegetate 
 with their present possessors. Did you not hear what 
 I said to you not a minute ago? You are ravishing, 
 and were not made to live in an attic. Let me take- 
 you away from here. To-morrow I shall come to seek 
 you, to take you a nice little trip, of which you shall 
 he the queen and I your humble slave ! " This time 
 Emma heard quite well, understood all. A lively 
 colour mounted to her cheeks, and rising, she thus 
 addressed the fine gentleman, in a polite though severe 
 tone : " Sir, you take me for that which I am not. 
 If I had sooner understood your proposals, I should 
 have begged you not to repeat them. I find myselt 
 quite happy in this attic, and do not desire to quit it. 
 Be good enough to thank my proprietress, and to say 
 to her that I do not want anything done to my little* 
 lodgings." . . " My charming Emma, you are a 
 little too severe," said Arthur, rising in his turn.- 
 " There is nothing about my proposals that ought to< 
 offend you. Again, I say, that young women, so at- 
 tractive as you are, are not made to pass their lives 
 labouring under the tiles. And yet again, you must 
 love some one, some little acquaintance who takes you 
 to the theatre, takes you out for a walk, or drives you 
 in a carriage in the environs of Paris. Well, why 
 should I not do that as well as another — unless you 
 have not another already ; I am satisfied that you 
 are a model of prudence — and it is on that account 
 alone that I am anxious to conquer your love. See, 
 here, my dear child, one cannot remain virtuous all 
 one's life!" 
 
 In saying this Arthur approached the young girl and . 
 sought to take her hand, but the latter escaped from- 
 him, and running towards the door, opened it, reached, 
 the landing, and standing there, said to the son-in-law 
 of the proprietress : " I cannot listen to you any 
 longer, sir : I have work to do, and I shall not re-enter 
 my rooms until you have quitted them." Arthur was 
 
IT 2 A HEBREW TRICK. 
 
 piqued, but dissimulated his disappointment under a 
 burst of laughter, and quitting the house of the little 
 bonnet maker, he said to her: "Well, Miss, since 
 it must be thus, I depart : I leave you to your interest- 
 ing occupations. But I must say you are very peculiar ; 
 yes, on my word of honour, you are most singular ; and 
 jour little wicked ways become you amazingly. Well, 
 don't be angry — I am going, yet I shall not say adieu 
 — I shall see you again." . . "I hope not, sir." 
 - . " Ah ! ah ! she is ravishing." 
 
 Arthur took his leave smiling, whereupon Emma 
 re-entered her rooms, and her first care was to run to 
 "the window. She perceived Reginald, sitting in his 
 •easy chair, pale, his countenance sad, and his head 
 bent down on his chest. " Poor boy ! how he must 
 be suffering. I shall go at once and render him assist- 
 ance. That fine lady is no doubt ignorant that he is 
 sick, otherwise she could not be cruel enough to abandon 
 him thus. I know her name, her address : I shall go 
 and find her. I shall say to her that this young man 
 bas been very ill since she ceased coming to visit him 
 — anji that will certainly bring her to him. My Grod, 
 this perhaps is a very daring thing to do. If the lady 
 •should become angry with me, chase me away. Oh ! 
 .-so much the worse: I do this in order that he shall 
 weep no more, and I must therefore not think of my- 
 self." 
 
 Putting on hastily a shawl and a little hat, Emma, 
 set out to seek the address that she had discovered. 
 On the stairs she encountered Juliet, who said to her : 
 " Where are you going to like that ? " . . "To 
 the residence of the mistress of M. Reginald, whose 
 name and address I have discovered." . . " And 
 what are you going to do there ?" . . "To supplicate 
 that lady to return to the residence of that young man, 
 who is dying of despair since she deserted him." . . 
 " Well, upon my word, that is a little too strong ! You 
 yourself are smitten with this gentleman, and you wish 
 
A SINGULAR VISIT. 113 
 
 -to go and fetch to him his mistress I" • . " Well ? " 
 
 .. . "Well — we must, my dear friend, have you put 
 under a glass case." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SINGULAR VISIT. 
 
 "Madame de Harloville occupied very beautiful 
 lodgings in the Rue d'Antin. She was said to be 
 married to an old general, but no one ever saw this 
 pretended husband ; he was always at watering places, 
 away hunting, or at the chateau of a friend. In any 
 case, he was a very accommodating spouse ; neverthe- 
 less, Madame de Harloville tried sometimes to make a 
 lover believe that she was exposing herself to great 
 danger, in giving herself up to him, and this is how 
 she treated the matter : 
 
 66 Ah ! if my husband knew that I deceived him, I 
 should be lost ! He would kill me ! Yes, he would 
 kill me without the slightest hesitation ? " But it is 
 jnore than probable the general knew nothing, although 
 the conduct of the lady in question had often furnished 
 matter for scandal. Madame de Harloville was not 
 what is called a " kept " woman ; she had a fortune ot 
 her own large enough to satisfy all her whims, and 
 she expended as much of it on love as on her toilette. 
 She now became crazy over a new head dress, which 
 she must have immediately. But after it had been 
 brought to her two or three times, made up as she 
 required it, it invariably happened that, when it was 
 thus presented to her, she could no longer endure it* 
 We do not pretend to say that she acted in the same 
 manner with a man who pleased her : but of one thing we 
 
114 A SINGULAR VISIT. 
 
 are sure, namely, constancy was not one of her virtues- 
 This lady loved pleasure above everything : she had' 
 more judgment than heart ; more temper than sensi- 
 bility, and more coquetry than wit. For several weeks 
 she had worshipped Keginald, first, because he was a 
 good-natured fellow, next, because he had great talent 
 as a pianist, and had already acquired some reputation 
 as a composer. Such women are always anxious to 
 include men of reputation among the number of their 
 slaves: they are proud of being able to subjugate them,, 
 but they do not love very long for all that. 
 
 The young artist, pleased to be distinguished by an 
 elegant and beautiful lady, really believed himself to be - 
 beloved, and on his part had become greatly taken by his 
 conquest. There happened what almost always happens 
 with these women who are so impressionable : from the 
 moment she perceived that Eeginald adored her, her 
 fancy for him began to wane. Very soon a new liaison 
 came to thwart her intrigue with the young composer ; 
 and we know that the dandified Arthur Delval was 
 the happy mortal who had replaced Eeginald in the 
 affections of that lady who was always eager for change^ 
 
 This is the person at whose house Emma presents 
 herself. The young girl did not doubt that there was 
 an enormous difference between her manner of loving, 
 and that of Madame de Harloville. Nevertheless, the 
 nearer she approached the residence, which had been in- 
 dicated to her, the more she felt herself tremble. She 
 did not dissimulate to herself that it was not a bold 
 thing, to go to speak to a lady with whom she was not 
 acquainted, in these terms : " Madame, I know you 
 have as a lover a M. Reginald : I have seen you several 
 times at his rooms, and he appeared to be very happy 
 when he received you there. But since you ceased 
 coming to visit him, some time ago, he has become 
 verv ill ; I am quite sure that this illness is the result 
 ,he chagrin which he experiences from not seeing 
 any more. Ah ! Madame, I beg of you to go and 
 
A SINGULAR VISIT. 115 
 
 r-see that poor young man ; your presence would re- 
 store him to health ; while, as for me, I would no 
 longer suffer from seeing him so unhappy." 
 
 All this would indeed be risky? This fine lady might 
 take it very ill for a little working girl to come to her 
 and mix herself in matters which did not belong to her. 
 When she thought of this Emma halted, and did not 
 Jmow whether she ought to proceed any farther; but 
 the vision of Reginald rising up immediately before 
 her mind — so pale and extended at full length on a 
 sofa ; her courage at once returned and she walked 
 •on more briskly than before. 
 
 Finally she reaches the residence of Madame de 
 Harloville. She is instructed by the concierge to as- 
 cend to the second floor, which is the one occupied by 
 that lady. She has no thoughts of recoiling. Emma 
 ascended, rung the bell, asked for Madame de Har- 
 loville of a chambermaid, who eyed her from head to 
 foot with an impertinent air, and said to her : 
 
 " At whose instance do you come here ? " . . "I 
 
 -come — on my own account." . . " On your own 
 
 account ? to do what ? what do you want with Ma- 
 
 -dame ? " . . "I wish to speak to her, Miss, but on 
 
 business which does not concern you." 
 
 The firm tone in which Emma answered the questions 
 of the servant had an immediate effect, and the latter 
 responded more politely : " Well,' then, whom shall 
 I announce to Madame ? " . • "A person who has 
 something very interesting to communicate to her." 
 The chambermaid then withdrew, but returning soon 
 said to Emma : " This way, Miss ; Madame will be 
 pleased to receive you." 
 
 The young woman was introduced into a delicious 
 little boudoir, which combined everything that could 
 seduce, please and charm a woman. The furniture was 
 .covered from top to bottom with orange satin, relieved 
 by blue velvet ; looking-glasses, placed all round the 
 #oom, reflected in every sense your person. Divans, 
 
116 A SINGULAR VISIT. 
 
 small sofas, pots filled with rare flowers adorned this- 
 mysterious retreat, in which the senses are agreeably 
 refreshed by the sweetest perfumes, and into which the 
 light only penetrates through triple curtains. " Wait 
 here, Madame will soon come," said the servant in* 
 withdrawing. 
 
 Emma who had never seen anything comparable to 
 that ravishing boudoir, was quite taken aback. She 
 looked all about her, felt ashamed at seeing her figure 
 reflected in so many looking glasses, examined the 
 ceiling where precious stuffs were formed into the shape 
 of a star, and from which depended the flowers which 
 perfumed the air. She then said to herself: "What 
 elegance ! What a difference between this furniture 
 and that of my little chamber. But, all the same, I 
 am more at my ease in my own room — I would rather 
 be there than here." 
 
 . A door, concealed by draperies, is opened and Ma- 
 dame de Harloville appeared in a charming morning 
 dressing-gown. "It is you who desire to speak to me. 
 Miss," said the fine lady, in throwing herself down on a 
 settee, and regarding the young girl with curiosity. 
 "Yes, Madame it is I." . . " Then, what do you 
 wish ? And, first of all, who are you ? what is your 
 occupation ? how do you know my name?" Emma, 
 a little intimidated by the somewhat supercilious air 
 of the lady who interrogated her, strove to collect 
 herself, and she answered as follows, in a low voice h 
 " Madame, I am a bonnet trimmer — my name is quite- 
 unknown to you." . . " Ah ! you make bonnets ! 
 why did you not say that at once ? I suppose you 
 have come to show me some. I very seldom wear 
 them : still you may, by chance, have one that might 
 suit my taste. Let us see ; where are your bonnets ? 
 You do not seem to have boxes about you." 
 "Madame, it is not to submit bonnets to your inspec- 
 tion that I have taken the liberty to qall at your house." " 
 m . . "What is it then? Come now, Miss, speak,. 
 
A SINGULAR VISIT. 11T 
 
 explain yourself: I have no time to listen to a long- 
 story." . . " Madame, I have come — my God! — I fear 
 to make Madame angry, and yet it seems to me that 
 it cannot be wicked so to act as to induce you to have 
 compassion on one who suffers." . . u Mori Dieu 9 , 
 Miss, how you do provoke me with your phrases, the 
 meaning of which I cannot comprehend. Explain . 
 yourself better, or I shall leave you." . . " Very 
 well, Madame : I live in the Rue Rambuteau, exactly 
 opposite the house where M. Reginald, the pianist 
 lodges." At the name of Reginald, the handsome wo- 
 man gives more attention ; though she affected an 
 indifferent air, murmuring : " Very well, Miss, what 
 has that to do with me?" . . "Madame, my window,, 
 being on the fifth floor, I can see clearly into the 
 apartments of M. Reginald, who is on the fourth floor; 
 and as I frequently work at my window, I have had 
 the opportunity of seeing Madame visit several times 
 at the rooms of M. Reginald." Madame de Harloville 
 bit her lips as she answered with an ironical smile ; 
 H Ah ! you amuse yourself by watching what is taking- 
 place in the houses of your neighbours. That is very 
 fine, Miss; it is an honourable occupation, and ought 
 to procure you a great deal of amusement. But you 
 have seen wrong in this instance ; I do not know your 
 M. Reginald, and I have never been at his house."" 
 Emma was taken aback for a moment at this response t 
 but she soon recovered her voice, and responded in a 
 supplicating tone : " Ah ! Madame, you judge me 
 wrongly. It is not out of curiosity : and it is not to 
 offend you I have said this; but this poor young man 
 who looks so happy when you visit him: if you knew 
 how much he is changed ; how ill he is, how unhappy,, 
 since you have ceased visiting him. Ah! Madame, I 
 am sure that you would have compassion on him." . .. 
 " What ! indeed ! Reginald is ill ? " cried Madame de 
 Harloville, who was almost touched by the desolate 
 air of the young work girl. " Poor boy ! Ah ! but 
 
118 A SINGULAK VISIT. 
 
 this is the point : He has commissioned you to come 
 to me to tell me all this." . . " Oh, no, Madame; M. 
 Reginald does not know me. He has no idea that I 
 have made this visit to you. I have acted on my own 
 motion ; it grieves me so much to see this young man 
 weeping." . . " What ! he weeps ! Oh the great 
 booby! A man ought never to weep. Come now, 
 my little one, own up that you are amorous of your 
 neighbour, and that it is to make him love you in 
 turn that you have made this visit here. Now, I 
 understand, you." . . " No, Madame, no ; I swear 
 to you I have no such idea as that — and that I should 
 make M. Reginald very angry if he knew what I am 
 doing at this moment, and I beg of you not to tell 
 him. But you will go and see him, will you not, 
 Madame ? You would restore him to health. You 
 -should pity him in his sorrow. For heaven's sake, 
 JVladame, promise me that you will go and see him ? " 
 Emma crossed her hands and was about to throw herself 
 -on her knees at the feet of the fine lady, when the 
 latter stopped her, saying : " Come, my little one, 
 calm yourself. My Grod, what a queer creature you 
 are ! You plead thus for some one whom you do not 
 know! How young you are too ! Ah! if you knew 
 the men as I do ! " . . " Madame, you will go to 
 ftp see him, will you not ? " . , "I promise you ; 
 I shall go to-morrow." . . "And you will not speak 
 to him of me ? " . . " If I acquainted him with 
 your visit here, it would take away all the pleasure of 
 any going to see him." . . "Well, that is true. 
 Adieu, Madame; you will pardon me for coming here, 
 will you not?" . . "Yes, I pardon you because of the 
 originality displayed by you ; I delight in everything 
 that is original. Adieu, my little one; but if you 
 interest yourself thus in the affairs of unhappy lovers, 
 ah ! my dear young friend, you will never lack occu- 
 pation." Emma departed, greatly delighted because 
 of the promise that had been made to her, while Ma« 
 
A SINGULAR VISIT. 
 
 <!ame de Harloville returned to her toilette saying to 
 herself : " What ! Reginald is sick of love. He is a 
 fool, this boy ! But is he really a fool ; For all that 
 I forgot to ask this young girl how she came to know 
 my name and address; for itjis certain she could not 
 learn all this from looking out of her windows. Oh ! 
 it is Reginald who must have told her ; she is not 
 drilling to own it, but I am persuaded that it is he who 
 has sent her to me." 
 
 On the morrow, having nothing to do, not expecting 
 to have the pleasure of receiving a visit from Arthur 
 Delval, Madame de Harloville decided to go and see 
 her former lover, saying to herself: "Well, I have 
 promised to go and save the life of the too faithful 
 Reginald ! He is perhaps not ill at all. Never mind, I 
 shall soon find out whether this little one has told me 
 the truth. But on entering the apartments of Reginald 
 this lady saw at once that Emma had not deceived 
 her. The poor fellow was so pale, so lean, that he 
 was hardly able to get up from the easy chair on seeing 
 Madame de Harloville. He gave vent to a feeble cry 
 which expired on his lips. " It is you, Herminie ! you 
 .at last! Ah I then, you have not entirely forgotten 
 me." . . " Good-day, Reginald ; you have then 
 been really ill, dear friend." . . " Yes ; but did 
 you not know it ? I wrote you all about it." . . 
 -" Ah ! my pet : you did wrong in this ! you knew that 
 I forbade you to write. Letters may compromise me. 
 If my husband were to intercept them, then I would 
 be a lost woman." . . w Your husband ? You told 
 me that your husband had gone to Italy for six months." 
 
 " Of course, and that is very fortunate." . 
 -" Then you did receive my letter ! " . . "I do 
 not think so. It must have gone astray. My chamber- 
 maid pays so little attention." . . "But you have 
 come at last. You have not been here for three months. 
 Do you know that this is frightful ! " . . "I have 
 not been able to spare the time. I am not always 
 
120 A SINGULAR VISIT. 
 
 free." . . "Since your husband has gone to Italy ?*** 
 . . "Well, and society which has its eyes fixed on 
 me. My God, what is it that smells so bad here ? ? 
 . " Bad smells — there is nothing." . . " Your 
 room smells of drugs. What is it that you are taking?" 
 "Oh, nothing: I drank an infusion of bark; 
 that is all." . . " We must have some fresh air 
 here." . . " My window is open." . . " But not 
 enough." 
 
 The beautiful Herminie, went and placed herself at 
 the window, and her first concern was to examine the 
 mansardes opposite ; but Emma, who had observed 
 that lady arrive, took care to place herself in such a 
 position that she could not be perceived. 
 
 " Keginald, have you some pretty female neighbours 
 living opposite ? " The young man raised his head 
 with an air of surprise, and answered : " I ? my faiths 
 I do not know. I have never paid any attention to 
 them ! But come and sit down near me, Herminie. ,? 
 " My dear, I want to imbibe -the fresh air ; I 
 have a bad headache. I have an idea that just oppo- 
 site, there lives on the fifth floor a pretty little girl 
 who works in bonnets. Have you never remarked 
 her ? " . . "I have not remarked any one. But 
 why do you ask me such a question ? " . . " My 
 God, because your female neighbours have cultivated 
 the habit of looking into the rooms of their male neigh- 
 bours; and the latter do the same, so their is nothing 
 extraordinary about it." . . "Thanks, we do not 
 occupy ourselves with our female neighbours. But 
 come and sit down beside me, Herminie, now that yoir 
 are arrived here, I have not yet once embraced you." ... 
 . " Oh ! my dear friend, when one is ill, one must not 
 indulge in embraces. You must be prudent, do you 
 know, you must re-establish your health. You are 
 horribly pale ! One would actually think that you 
 had had a severe illness." . . " Herminie ! one kiss 
 from you will make me well. I beseech you for one 
 
A SINGULAR VISIT. 12F 
 
 — only one. " No, no : such things are too* 
 
 dangerous. Besides I am concerned in your recovery. 
 I repeat it : you must be reasonable ; take care of 
 yourself and do not go out." . . "And you will 
 come often to see me ? " . . "I shall come when 
 I can. I have so many people calling on me, so many 
 visits ! Sometimes, at the moment when I am about 
 to set out, I am prevented by the arrival of some one 
 whom I cannot send away." . . . " Nevertheless, - 
 formerly you came three times a week." . . "But 
 that was when I did not receive so much society. Oh, - 
 Mon Dieu ! what does the clock say? It is nearly 
 two o'clock." . . "Well, what are you going to do ?" 
 " What ? what am I going to do ! My dress- 
 maker is coming at two o'clock to fit on two dresses 
 of which I stand greatly in need!" . . " What I 
 you are thinking of quitting me already ! you who- 
 have j ust arrived ! " . . " Yes, I must leave you, my 
 dear. I am thinking of my dressmaker. She is a- 
 woman who fits out the best ladies in Paris ; you can 
 then understand why I should like her to deck me 
 out. One cannot always command her services. She is 
 dressmaker to the Court of Brazil. If she did not 
 find me at home, the chances are that she would not 
 come back again. A u revoir, Reginald." . . "You' 
 leave me so soon! Herminie, I believe that you no 
 longer love me." . . "Now, my dear friend, we- 
 are not going to revive our former scenes of jealousy;, 
 you know I have no liking for them. Moreover, at 
 this moment I have no time to listen to your dis- 
 courses. I repeat that my dressmaker expects me 5 
 and I must not disappoint her. She is a real artist, 
 this dressmaker. Au revoir, and take good care of 
 yourself." . . " Herminie, you will at least come 
 back and see me." . . "We shall see about that." 
 The beautiful woman quickly disappeared, and Reg- 
 inald, who made a movement to follow her, fell back 
 on his chair sobbing and murmuring : " What a hurry 
 
122 MADAME DE HARLOVILLE. 
 
 she was in to get away ! Ah ! I see quite well that 
 the thing is all up. She no longer loves me." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MADAME DE HARLOVILLE. 
 
 Emma had seen Madame de Harloville arrive at the 
 rooms of Reginald. She had also witnessed her leave, 
 .and she observed that this lady had remained but a 
 short time in the apartments of him who was ill of 
 chagrin from not seeing her. But yet that lady had 
 kept her promise, and the young girl said to herself: 
 M I have done everything that I could in order to re- 
 store that poor gentleman to health; I can do nothing 
 more ; his mistress has seen how much he has changed 
 and no doubt it will not be long before she returns to 
 him." 
 
 After seeing the beautiful Herminie take her leave, 
 Emma descended from the fifth storey, in order to go 
 to her workshop. On the first tloor she once more 
 encountered M. Dauberton, but this time that gentle- 
 man stopped her: "Pardon me, Miss, only two words,, 
 if you please : I will not detain you long." Emma 
 stood still quite amazed : the presence of M. Dauberton 
 always produced in her a profound emotion, for which 
 she could not account. She stopped to listen : " Miss, 
 you resemble so much a person I formerly knew well, 
 that I have come to the conclusion there must exist 
 .between you and that person some tie of relationship. 
 Have you ever heard tell of a lady named Lucia Gour- 
 det?" . . "No, sir, never." . . " And your parents 
 — your mother — have you never heard her mentioned 
 by the name Gourdet ? " Emma hesitated a moment, 
 Mushed to the tips of her ears, and finally stammered 
 
MADAME DE HARLOVILLE. 12£ 
 
 out : " No, sir." . . " That is singular. You have 
 the exact voice of this person, whom I knew ! Miss, 
 would it be regarded by you as indiscreet in me to ask 
 the name of your family ?" A profound sadness now 
 spread over the features of the young girl, but not 
 for long. Eaising her head with a dignified air, she 
 responded in a firm voice : " Sir, what right have 
 you to put all these questions to me ? " . . " Mon 
 Dieu, Miss, it is the interest that you inspire in me : 
 I had no idea that that would have made you angry." 
 . . " I do not want people to interest themselves in 
 me, sir ; I need the protection of no one : I do not 
 court the friendship of anybody : I am not therefore 
 bound to account to others for what I do, for what 
 concerns myself. Accept my salutations." 
 
 After uttering these words, Emma disappeared so 
 quickly that M. Dauberton had not even the time to 
 return her salutations. He re-entered his rooms quite 
 pensive ; for the singular responses of the young girl 
 were calculated rather to strengthen his suspicions than 
 to dissipate them. 
 
 As for Keginald, he flattered himself that his fashion- 
 able mistress, who had found him so changed, would 
 return soon to learn the news in regard to his health. 
 But the days rolled on : a whole week had passed and 
 Madame de Harloville did not appear at his rooms ; 
 she did not even deign to send to enquire after his 
 condition. This abandonment confirmed his suspicions; 
 he had no longer any doubt of the treason of that lady, 
 and he accordingly wished to have the proofs. He 
 said to himself once more : " Seeing that she no 
 longer loves me, why did she come to see me again. 
 It must have been simply out of a feeling of com- 
 passion. Yet she did not know that I was ill. If 
 Herminie has ceased to love me why does she not 
 say so frankly ? Why continue to deceive me ? I 
 do not want her to toy with me ! I wish to be relieved 
 from that uncertainty." Out of sheer spite and im- 
 
'124 MADAME DE HARLOVILLK 
 
 .patience, Reginald's health was soon restored ; for even 
 in anger one can regain one's courage. Twelve days 
 after the visit of his mistress, he had quite recovered 
 all his former vitality* and he decided to present himself 
 at the residence of Madame de Harloville. The latter 
 had always forbidden him from coming to see her, 
 under the pretext that such a proceeding might com- 
 promise her ; but on this occasion Reginald braved the 
 prohibition which had been put on him. He wanted 
 to know his fate ; perhaps he still flattered himself that 
 the sight of him, would restore to him his unfaithful 
 mistress. 
 
 After having made an irreproachable toilette, Regin- 
 ald stepped into a victoria and ordered the coachman 
 to drive him to the house of the beautiful Herminie. 
 It was two o'clock in the afternoon, an hour when a 
 pretty woman is visible. After satisfying himself that 
 the lady was at home, the young man thought it was 
 ;his duty to add : "As for her husband, General de 
 Harloville, is he always travelling ? " The concierge 
 made a gesture of surprise, and responded : " Her 
 husband, the general? This is the first time I have 
 ■heard him spoken of. What! this lady has a husband? 
 I should not be at all surprised, but he does not stay 
 here." 
 
 Reginald asked no more : he comprehended that 
 he had been made a fool of. He ascended the stairs, 
 rung the bell, and, as soon as the chambermaid had 
 opened to him, he dived immediately into the apart- 
 ment, saying : " Madame de Harloville is at home ; 
 I know her, and I desire to speak to her." . . " Sir ! 
 sir ! no one may thus enter the house of Madame." 
 cried the servant, running to place herself in front of 
 Reginald. " You must first tell me your name, so that 
 I may announce you. I must find out whether Madame 
 ^wishes to see you." . . " Mon Diewl what a lot of 
 ceremony! Tell her that it is M. Reginald; that I wish 
 "to see her ; that I must see her, and that I shall not 
 
MADAME DE HAELOVILLE. 125 
 
 ■go away until I do see her. I had no idea, moreover, 
 that she would dream of refusing to receive me." The 
 chambermaid went to the room of Madame to execute 
 her commission. This lady did indeed expect someone, 
 but that person was not Reginald. The beautiful 
 Herminie, who was giving the greatest care to her 
 toilette, raised her eyebrows on hearing the name ot 
 her visitor. She stamped her foot impatiently on the 
 .ground, and exclaimed: "What a fool you are! You 
 had only to say that I was not here. It is impossible 
 to get an idea into your head." . . " But, Madame, 
 that imbecile of a concierge told him that you had 
 not gone out." . . " What ! this boy Reginald 
 dares to come here in spite of my prohibition ! Tell 
 him I am asleep, and that you do not wish to awaken 
 me." . . " Oh ! Madame, this little fellow wears 
 .a very determined air : he told me that he would not 
 go away without seeing you; and I believe he is capable 
 of installing himself here." . . "Ah! my God! 
 show him into the drawing room. I shall try to dis- 
 embarrass myself of him very quickly. I think that 
 will be the most prudent course." . . "Oh yes, 
 Madame; when he has seen you, he must take wings 
 immediately." . . " Ah ! Justine, if by chance M. 
 Ajthur should come before he departs, lead him into 
 my boudoir, by the other door." . . " Yes, Madame, 
 keep yourself easy ; I understand all." 
 
 The servant went to rejoin Eeginald, who had already 
 become impatient. She showed him into the drawing 
 room; he had hardly entered there when Madame de 
 Harloville made her appearance through a side door. 
 Eeginald advanced to take the hand of his former 
 mistress, but the latter withdrew hers 5 and received 
 the young man with a smile which might have passed 
 for a grimace. "What! sir, you here, in my house, 
 in spite of my prohibition ? Is this the way you 
 conform to my desires ? " . . " Herminie, you pro- 
 mised to come back and see me. It is twelve days 
 
126 MADAME DE HARLOVILLE. 
 
 since you were at my place; for I have counted the 
 days. I could no longer endure the suspense — I wa& 
 too unhappy." . , " Eh ! Mon Dieu, sir, are you 
 going to commence again your jeremiads ? What has 
 your counting the days to do with me ? You evidently 
 have not much to do. If it pleases you to be unhappy,- 
 what would you have me do ? " . . " What Her- 
 minie, is it thus that you receive me ? If I have 
 been ill, if I suffer, are you not aware that is in con- 
 sequence of not seeing you ? If I loved you less, I 
 should not suffer so much from chagrin ! " . . " My 
 dear friend, I must avow to you that both you and 
 your laments are mortally tiresome. But apart from 
 this altogether, you come here in spite of my pro- 
 hibition ; go away as quickly as you can, for you 
 compromise me horribly. If my husband, the general, 
 were to find you here, I should be lost. Come then r 
 my dear, take your departure at once. I shall go to 
 see you when I have time. Cut your stick — be off." 
 
 Instead of going away as the lady begged of him ? 
 Reginald threw himself into an easy chair, saying in 
 a much louder tone this time : " No, Madame, I 
 shall not go away until I have an understanding with 
 you. And as for your general, the so-called husband, 
 whom you seek to use as a bug-bear, your concierge 
 laughed in my face when I made mention of such a 
 person. Hence, believe me, it will be well for you to 
 renounce this wicked pleasantry." . . "What do 
 you say, sir; my general a piece of pleasantry! Are 
 you aware, sir, that you are insulting me ? " 
 "This I know, Madame, that you still wish to deceive 
 me, and I have no mind to be deceived any longer." 
 "We can have mutual explanations later on ; 
 but go away now." . . " No, Madame ; not before 
 vou have franklv informed me whether vou love me 
 any longer," . . " But, my dear, you must be a 
 stupid to put such a question to me. You see that 
 for a long time I have treated you as a perfect fool. 
 
MADAME DE HAHLOVILLE. 127 
 
 that I have wished to break off all relations with you, 
 that your presence is most disagreeable to me. Well 
 you wished that T should say all this to you! You 
 know all now. Are you satisfied ? " • . . " Yes,. 
 Madame," responded Eeginald rising, boiling with 
 anger, walking with long strides to and fro in the 
 room; "but I again must ask you to give me the reason 
 why : since I have become insupportable to you. You 
 visited me twelve days ago, when I had begun to think 
 that all was over between us." . . " Why I went 
 again to see you ? Ah ! that is a pretty question to 
 put to me ! On my part, I demand to know from you,, 
 sir, why you related all about our liaison to your little 
 female neighbour of 'the fifth floor opposite to yout 
 why did you send that young girl to me? This girl 
 came weeping ; uttering groans in my house, assuring* 
 me that you were very ill, and that you would surely 
 die if I did not go to see you." Eeginald pulled up,, 
 quite surprised. "I, Madame; I send you one of my 
 female neighbours to beg of you to come and see 
 me ! " . . " Yes, sir, yes ; and I swear to you that 
 had it not been that, I should not have visited you 
 again. Still, this little one was a subtle creature ; 
 she played her part well : weeping seemed natural to- 
 her ; I promised her I would go and see you." . . 
 "Madame, I understand nothing of what you say. T 
 sent nobody to you. I do not know any female neigh- 
 bours." , . " You do not know a pretty little girl, a 
 little pale, who trims bonnets, and whose windows look 
 straight down into yours? Come now, do not attempt 
 to deny it! for, after all, you are no better than others. 
 You are the lover, sir, of this girl. Take my advice, 
 then, and go and seek out your grisette, and leave me 
 in peace. Adieu, sir." . . " Pardon me, Madame,, 
 but as I have not sent any female neighbour to you, 
 I demand an explanation of all this." . . " Further 
 explanation ! Ah ! that is too much, sir : once mo/- 
 I ask you to take your leave. I expect company, anti 
 
128 MADAME DE HARLOVILLE. 
 
 your presence is embarrassing." . . " I do not 
 doubt this, Madame, and it is just on that account 
 I do not wish to go." . . " Sir, take care ; my 
 patience is nearly exhausted ; in a few moments a 
 gentleman will be here, who will toss you out of the 
 window." . . "Ah! ah! ah! I should like to see 
 anyone attempt that." 
 
 Just at this moment one of the drawing room doors 
 was opened, and Arthur Delval appeared. The cham- 
 bermaid had indeed attempted to detain him in the 
 boudoir, but this gentleman was too well acquainted 
 with the tricks of women not to suspect that it was 
 wished to conceal from him some intrigue, and so he 
 walked straight into the drawing room. The new 
 ■comer halted for a moment on the threshold, then he 
 made a slight obeisance, saying in a mocking tone ; 
 " Ah ! pardon me ; I have disturbed you : but, in good 
 ■truth, I did it intentionally." 
 
 Keginald eyed Arthur from head to foot contemptu- 
 ously, all the more because he recognised that his rival 
 was a more handsome man than himself, and exclaimed: 
 "Is this the gentleman who is going to throw me out 
 • of the window ? " . . . " Throw you out of the 
 window!" answered Arthur, smiling, "Well, sir, I 
 beg of you to believe that I am not accustomed to do 
 that sort of thing. When I have an altercation with 
 a gentleman of honour, I am always ready to put 
 myself at his disposal; as is becoming gentlemen of 
 proper courage. But to throw any one out of the 
 window ! — I leave such conduct to the auvergnats ! " 
 Madame de Harloville, who was at first somewhat em- 
 barrassed by the presence of Arthur, decided to throw 
 herself down on a sofa, where she rolled, and exclaimed 
 in despairing tones : " Ah ! what an unfortunate 
 person I am ! — a man whom I hardly know — whom I 
 hold in horror ! — comes to call on me — has the audacity 
 to injure and insult me — and when I wish to put him 
 to the door, he braves me, he refuses to go. Who 
 
MADAME DE HABLOVILLE. 12£ 
 
 then will deliver me from his presence? Arthur, I 
 beg of you to have pity on me ! " . . " Reassure 
 yourself, Madame," said the dandified Arthur, bending 
 forward. " In a word, sir, if you have insulted Madame, 
 you ought to apologise. If you refuse to do this, I 
 shall use force to compel you." . . - "I have no 
 apologies to offer Madame," exclaimed Reginald heat- 
 edly. " She has lied in saying that I insulted her ; it 
 is she who has conducted herself unworthily towards 
 me." . . "Arthur, do you hear that this man dares 
 to give me the lie. Blackguard, go ! " . . " Sir, 
 you seem to forget that you are speaking to a lady, 
 and that ladies ought always to be treated with respect." 
 . . " Oh, indeed ! For the rest, sir, I do not want 
 any of your discourses. I told Madame what I wanted 
 to tell her, and I beg of you not to mix yourself up 
 in the matter." Arthur bit his lips and answered: 
 " Sir, you assume very haughty airs." . . " That is 
 my way, and it is not you who will make me change it." 
 . . "Perhaps, sir." . . "You constitute yourself the 
 champion of this lady, because, for the present, you 
 are her lover ; but I too have been her lover, and I do 
 not see that you have much occasion for boasting." 
 "Ah! it is not true! — Arthur do not believe 
 him , it is not true : it is because I would never have 
 anything to do with him that he is so furious now. 
 Oh, God ! if I had a sword ! " . . " Sir," said 
 Arthur, " whether you have or have not been the lover 
 of Madame, thereis one thing an honourable man 
 will not be guilty of — to avow such things before 
 others." . . " I have already requested you to keep 
 your lessons to yourself, • Leave me alone or else — " 
 . . "What! is that a threat I hear?" 
 "Arthur! he has shaken his fist at you!" cried Her- 
 minie, which was not true. But Reginald was too 
 irritated to pay any attention to this woman. His 
 rival took him by the arm, and squeezing it vigourously, 
 said : " Sir, we must fight." . " I could not 
 
130 MADAME DE HAfcLOVILLE. 
 
 ask for anything better; and I now challenge your, 
 to-morrow morning early." . • "Sir, I do not rise- 
 very early, and I do not care to change my habit. 
 Your address ? " . . " Here it is." . . " That 
 is well: to-morrow about ten o'clock, my seconds will 
 be at your residence; have yours ready, and we shall 
 meet about noon." . . "That is sufficient, sir.''* 
 And Eeginald, calmed by the prospect of a duel, sal- 
 uted Arthur and withdrew without deigning to cast 
 a look on Madame de Harloville. This lady, who was 
 greatly pleased at the turn things had taken, exclaimed 
 as soon as Eeginald was gone : " Ah ! what a little 
 monster ! but you, my cavalier, you will chastise him. 
 You see what respect he has for the ladies! " 
 
 In saying this Herminie sought to entwine Arthur 
 in her arms, but the latter gently repulsed that lady 
 with the remark ; " Pardon me : I cannot remain any- 
 longer; I must go and seek out seconds for to-morrow." 
 . . " What ! do you mean to quit me already : you 
 have plenty of friends who will be ready to serve you 
 in that capacity." . . " Yes, but pardon me. Some- 
 times one cannot always find friends at the moment one 
 is in want of them." . . "As for me, I counted 
 on passing the whole day with you." . . " Good 
 day, my dear lady." . . " Ah ! how it grieves me 
 that you should depart so soon : but it will not be- 
 long before you are back, will it ? " Arthur responded 
 in the same words he had used to Reginald : " We 
 shall see about that." " Ah ! this woman is not satis- 
 fied unless one sheds one's blood for her;" said Delval 
 to himself as he walked away. " I am going to fight 
 because the young man has insulted me ; but, I repeat,, 
 it is not for the flighty Herminie ; she has set this 
 trap for me." 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 Tn ascending the stairs one evening, on which he had 
 for some time been waiting in vain for his neighbour 
 Juliet, Grenouillet encountered Madame Ponderant, 
 the mid-wife of the third floor, and as he did not get 
 quick enough to one side to allow her to pass, the 
 crinoline which the latter wore, became entangled in 
 the unbuttoned gaiters of the former. Madame, who 
 wanted to descend, kept drawing in one direction, 
 while Grenouillet, who was bent on ascending, kept 
 drawing in another, which led to these two persons 
 addressing the most opprobrious epithets to each other. 
 ■" Sir, will you not be good enough to stop ? Do you 
 not feel that you have become entangled in my petti- 
 coat ? He must be an ill-bred person who cannot stand 
 aside to allow a lady to pass." . . " What is that you 
 say, Madame Ponderant ? I still find it always gives 
 you pleasure to do me an injury: in the present case 
 it is you who have injured me with your iron hoops — 
 which have unbuttoned my gaiters. Fi! at your age, to 
 wear such things ! You ought to be ashamed of your- 
 self — you ought to blush at the very thought of it. 
 You ought to leave such things to the puppets who 
 resort to the Breda quarter." . . "My age! you 
 clown, how dare you speak of my age ! Besides, if I 
 am elder than you it is all the more reason you should 
 have more respect for me." . . " I respect people 
 who are respectable. Certainly, if you had said to 
 me politely as you were coming, ' Sir, would you be 
 kind enough to permit me to pass : I am in a hurry : 
 I am going to bring a child into the world : ' I should 
 -at once have stood aside and allowed, you to pass, with 
 
132 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 the remark : — 6 Madame, I honour the functions you 
 perform ! ' But you descend like a hail storm, you. 
 throw yourself on me, you jostle me, you entangle my 
 legs in your cylinder, and you speak to me still of" 
 insults ! This is too much ! " . . " Hold your 
 peace : you are a low-bred fellow. You seek to de- 
 bauch the little work girls of the fifth floor; but I 
 shall warn their parents, and I ought to give you a 
 good drubbing." Madame Ponderant accompanied 
 these words with so violent a movement, that she 
 detached her girdle, whereupon she precipitately des- 
 cended the stairs. 
 
 " Ah ! you will give me a thrashing, you wicked 
 sorceress ! " cried Grenouillet, leaning over the bal- 
 ustrade. " Take care. I will teach you who you are 
 doing business with. She has carried a piece of my 
 gaiters with her, the petrified old mummy! True, she 
 is thoroughly matured, nevertheless I could still lift 
 her up in my arms. I seek to debauch the little 
 work girls ! What impudence ! There is one of them: 
 to whom I never speak, and the other I only see on 
 the stairs. Besides, I have nothing but honourable 
 intentions. But calumny flies so swiftly. Ponderant !. 
 you old Basil mare ! I will be revenged on you ! ' y 
 . " To whom were you speaking, neighbour ? ' 7 
 said Juliet, who was ascending to the fifth storey. " You 
 were speaking quite loud, gesticulating : I heard you 
 on the first landing." . . "To whom did I address 
 myself, neighbour ? Ah ! if you knew what that 
 precious old mid-wife said to me — after she had torn 
 my gaiters with her iron hoops ! " . . "I shall sew 
 them for you." . . "Thanks! it is hardly worth, 
 the trouble. That infamous Ponderant pretends that 
 I am eager to debauch you and your friend." 
 . "Let her talk. When one conducts oneself proper ly r 
 one can brave all calumny." . . "You are wrong, 
 Miss, for the most foolish and ridiculous calumny,, 
 always finds people to believe it. But I have vowed. 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 133 
 
 to revenge myself on that old sibyl and you must assist. 
 
 me." 
 
 "If you mean only to indulge in some pleasantry, 
 I shall fall in with your wishes ; but not on any other 
 pretext." . . " Give yourself no concern, you know- 
 quite well that the sole vengeance I wish to take is 
 a few jests. Will you lend me an old dress and an* 
 old shawl? and not too large ? It will be for a day 
 only ? " . . " Yes, I have a dress, and, when I come 
 to think, an old tartan shawl as well, which latter I 
 am going to cut in two." . . "The tartan shawl, 
 will be jolly. But I must have a bonnet besides— a 
 large peaked bonnet like the bonnets of the market 
 women." . . " I can make you one out of odd 
 pieces of stuff I have lying about: and it won't take 
 me long. When do you want it ? " . . " To-morrow 
 morning, if that be possible." . . "It will be ready 
 by then." . . " You are a charming girl. To- 
 morrow we shall have a rich laugh. Au revoir, dear 
 neighbour." . . "You are going away? May I 
 ask where to." . . "To buy the baby which I shall- 
 ask Madame Ponderant to deliver me of to-morrow." 
 . .• "Ah! what supreme folly!" . . "Wait till 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 At nine o'clock on the following morning Grenouillet 
 had finished his feminine toilette. He had put on a 
 dress, a tartan shawl, which enveloped his whole body, 
 and an immense bonnet, the trimmings of which fell 
 over his eyes and concealed his cheeks. He wore 
 blonde hair, with long curls which fell over his neck* 
 Moreover, he had rubbed his face with a yellow pom- 
 ade, which gave his countenance a sickly air, and wore- 
 two small rings in his nose. Thus disguised it was 
 impossible to recognise him. Again, he made his 
 stomach up to such a conspicious size, that everybody 
 would have believed he was far gone in the family 
 way. 
 
 Thus got up he went to ring the bell of the mid 
 
134 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 wife. He learned, however, from the concierge that 
 Madame Ponderant had gone out, and that he did 
 not believe she would be back before mid-day. He 
 had hence to await her return. Juliet, who knew 
 what was taking place, made it a point to return at 
 this hour. In addition, the two friends of Grren- 
 ouillet, who had viewed him in his fantastic feminine 
 costume, were eager likewise to be on the spot to 
 enjoy the comedy which was going to be enacted in 
 the house. 
 
 At half-past twelve the mid-wife had returned to 
 her house. Five minutes later Grrenouillet proceeded 
 to ring the bell of Madame Ponderant. The servant 
 made haste to show him in, and he at once threw him- 
 self on an easy chair, exclaiming : 
 
 " Ah, Miss, quick ! quick ! prepare me a couch. 
 <3all your mistress : there is no time to lose." 
 " Yes, Madame ; but could you not wait a little ; my 
 -mistress has been out all night ; she is greatly fatigued, 
 and has just thrown herself on a bed to take a little 
 rest ; she is asleep." . . " Wait ! wait ! -what are 
 you thinking about! seeing that my child is on the 
 T point of being born, and demands only the light of 
 the sun and moon. Go and wake up your mistress : 
 lell her to come immediately. In her profession one 
 ought never to fall asleep." 
 
 The servant at once obeyed. During her absence 
 
 • Grenouillet entered a chamber, where there was a little 
 
 *couch, on which he disposed himself in the most skilful 
 
 manner. It was not long before the mid-wife appeared 
 
 Tubbing her eyes. She looked at the person stretched 
 
 upon the bed, and murmured : " I see that Madame 
 
 ? is from the country: is that not so?" . . "No, 
 
 Madame, I am from Algiers — from Bougie." 
 
 *"*' And you are about to be delivered?" . . "Yes, 
 
 any feelings tell me that my time is indeed come?" 
 
 " I shall examine you a little closer," saying 
 
 which she approached the bed, in order to assure her- 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 135 
 
 self as to the condition of her new client ; but Grenou- 
 illet, throwing up his legs with such force, caught her 
 under the chin, and made her spin for at least ten feet 
 across the room. " Well, Madame," cried the mid- 
 wife, "what does all this mean? You kick me with 
 your feet : do you have attacks de nerfs ? " . . . 
 ■*'No, Madame, but it seemed to me you were going 
 to carry your hand somewhere ? " . . "I must do 
 that, in order to know in what condition you are?" 
 " You touch me ! Oh, it is too horrible ! 
 Remember, that in my country — one never touches 
 another there — never. Alii! Allah!" . . "But 
 then, Madame, what do you want a mid-wife for, and 
 ■why did you wake me out of my sleep ? " . . "In 
 order that you might receive the little stranger, and 
 that you might put it immediately to your bosom." 
 . " To whose breast ? " . . "To such as you 
 have — you will make a good nurse. Aie! aie! it is 
 coming — it is born." 
 
 Grenouillet, after uttering some piercing cries, and 
 going through a number of contortions, passed one 
 hand under his clothes and drew thence a little black 
 baby in wax, which he handed to Madame Ponderant, 
 saying : " There ! wrap him up well. Ah ! how pretty 
 he must be ! " . . " My God, Madame, it is a 
 negro you have given birth to." . . "A negro ! oh ! 
 I did not wish that ! I did not wish that ! put it back 
 again ! put it back again ! My dear husband, who 
 was jealous of a coal heaver, will say that that child 
 smells of coal. Alii ! Allah ! " However, on exam- 
 ining the little one more closely, Madame Ponderant 
 ^was not long in perceiving it was made of wax ; 
 whereupon she threw it at the head of the would-be 
 Algerian lady, exclaiming: "What is the meaning 
 of all this ? It is a wax baby that you have handed 
 over to me, Madame." . . "Well, dear lady, did 
 I not tell you I came from Bougie [Candles], and in 
 Bougie we make children from wax," But the mid-wife 
 
136 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 had by this time divined who was mocking her: sTier 
 looked closely at Grenouillet and cried: " Jt is he, tire 
 miserable scapegrace." Grenouillet then threw aside 
 his bonnet, his gown, his shawl, and the whole of his- 
 disguise ! began to dance about the chamber and to force 
 Madame Ponderant to whirl round with him. Then y 
 gathering up his effects, he made his escape, exclaiming:. 
 " 1 shall not take the new-born from you; adopt it in 
 memory of me." Madame Ponderant, stupified by 
 the waltz forced upon her, fell back on a chair stam- 
 mering out : " Help ! help, an assassin ! arrest him ! " 
 Grenouillet has, however, reached the stairs, which he 
 descends laughing like a fool. At the first landing 
 below he encounters Juliet and Emma, together with 
 the corpulent Anatole, who had heard a part of the 
 scene and wanted to know the finish of it. " The 
 farce is ended," said Grenouillet, " Ponderant has- 
 been taken in entirely. She is furious, and treated 
 me as an assassin. I have, nevertheless, left my baby 
 with her." . . " Ho ! my friend, how yellow you? 
 do look ! As you are, you would indeed pass for a 
 villain," said Anatole, ogling, at the same time, th& 
 two girls, who paid no attention to his remark. " My 
 friend, I must play the part of villain to the end, in 
 order not to be recognised. But where is Adolphe ? 
 He must also be made a witness to the comedy. He 
 will arrive too late, as is his wont." . . " Mon 
 DieuV said Juliet, "I hear the mid-wife leaving her 
 house." . . "So much the better : we shall all have 
 an opportunity of seeing her." Madame Ponderant 
 comes down the stairs breathless, furious. She has- 
 in her arms the wax black baby, and shouts out, in 
 passing the persons assembled on the stairs : " Ah I 
 this trick has been played on me ! but do not imagine 
 I will let it pass thus ! I am going to take out a 
 summons : I am going straight to the police office,, 
 whither I will take with me the proof of the affront 
 that has been put upon me. I shall deposit the baby~ 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 137" 
 
 on the commissioner's desk, and you shall see whether 
 any one has the right to mock a public functionary,- 
 and the latter's functions. For I am a licentiate — all 
 but a member of the Faculty. Ah ! Monsieur Gren- 
 ouillet, you shall not get off cheaply! I shall claim 
 20,000 francs damages and interest." . . "Bah! 
 when you are about it why not claim 100,000, Madame 
 Ponderant ? It will not cost you any more, and it 
 will be no more difficult for me to pay the latter sum 
 than the former." 
 
 The mid-wife left them. They all laughed at the 
 figure she made with the negro baby in her arms, 
 about which she threatened Grenouillet. Even Emma 
 could not refrain joining in the general hilarity, and 
 they were all still laughing when young Adolphe Dur-- 
 ard ascended the stairs, and joined the party. " Ah ! 
 here is the flaneur? said Grenouillet, "who comes on 
 the scene when all is over. You have missed witnessing 
 the departure of Madame Ponderant, which was some- 
 thing superb. Ask these young ladies ! " . . "It 
 is not my fault ; I had work to do at the warehouse." 
 , , " But why do you wear such a serious aspect ? 
 What has happened to you? Have you been acting 
 some tragic part ? " . . " Indeed, sir, you are very 
 pale; are you indisposed?" . . "No, Miss, it is 
 simply emotion ; for whilst you were standing laughing 
 here, I witnessed, a few steps from me, people carrying 
 a young man — oh ! the poor young fellow ! in what a 
 condition he was ! " . . " People were assisting 
 home some one who had been injured. Ah, Mon Dieu! 
 in Paris this is but too frequent! But how can it be- 
 otherwise ? there are so many carriages, omnibuses and 
 wagons, one has not always the time to get out of the 
 way?" . . " No, it was not a carriage accident ; the 
 young man who was brought home in a coupe, had, 
 as it would appear, been fighting a duel." . " A 
 
 duel ! oh ! that is most interesting." . . " How did 
 you come to know that, M. Adolphe?" asked Juliet,. 
 
138 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 ,4C 
 
 Why, of course, from the concierge, whom I questioned 
 -on the subject ; for it is immediately opposite here 
 -where the victim was carried in. Poor fellow ! They 
 iSay his wounds are mortal, the sword having pierced 
 right through his body." . . "Opposite, did you 
 *say, Monsieur ? " murmured Emma, in a frightened 
 tone. " Do you know the name of the young man who 
 was being carried in? — are your acquainted with him?" 
 ... . " Very well, by sight ; he lives right opposite to 
 us. You must have seen him very often, Miss ; it is 
 M. Keginald, a musician." . , " What ! he ! are 
 you sure?" Emma had hardly uttered these words, 
 when she fell unconscious into the arms of Grenouillet, 
 who, fortunately, was standing to receive her. "My 
 God ! behold my poor Emma who has suddenly become 
 - s so ill," cried Juliet. " Gentlemen, I beg of you, to 
 help me to restore her." . . "Yes, Miss, yes, cer- 
 tainly. It is that imbecile Adolphe, with his harrowing 
 details of suffering ! What reason had you to come 
 here and tell us all this ? " . . " Hang it, how could 
 I tell that this would happen ? What must we get 
 tfor her? some smelling salts." • . "Have any of 
 you gentlemen a bottle ? " . . " No, I have lost 
 the one I had," said Anatole. "As for me," said Gren- 
 .ouillet, "I have never had one; but if you knock at 
 the dentist's door — " . . "No; try the tailor." . 
 ... . "Must we carry her up stairs ?" Just at this 
 .crisis, the first floor gentleman, who had heard every- 
 thing, came up to the second floor, put aside everyone, 
 and, lifting her in his arms, said : " I shall carry her 
 to my rooms, where we will find everything that is 
 necessary for her restoration. M. Dauberton, walked 
 away with the young girl, as if she had been a feather, 
 descending the stairs quickly, followed by the whole 
 •company, who found that this gentleman had arrived 
 in the nick of time to rescue them from their embarras- 
 sing condition, all speaking at the same time, and none 
 .of them knowing what to do in order to restore Emma. 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 139* 
 
 They all entered the splendid first floor apartments. 
 M. Dauberton, on entering his drawing room, disposed 
 his precious burden on a sofa : then, taking a bottle of 
 smelling salts from the mantel piece, he placed it to the 
 nose of the young girl ; still, she did not open her eyes. 
 Juliet, distracted, struck the hands of her friend ; but 
 M. Dauberton pointing her to a door, said : " You will 
 find there a decanter of fresh water and a glass.' 5 . .. 
 " Yes, fresh water on her temples," said Grenouillet ; 
 " that will restore her. I am not a doctor, still, I 
 know that these fainting fits are not dangerous. It 
 is the result of the emotion on hearing the recital of 
 the details of the duel, that has upset the little one. 
 You must make her drink some cordial." . . " See, 
 gentlemen, be good enough to look into that sideboard 
 — that one there — and there you will find liqueurs : 
 choose which ever you like best." 
 
 Grenouillet, with his two friends, went in the dir- 
 ection of the sideboard indicated, oach trying to appear 
 that he was good for something; but the aim of M. 
 Dauberton, was to send every one away for a moment 
 from Emma. As soon as he found himself alone with 
 her he hastened to pull up the left sleeve of the jacket 
 she wore. This garment was very loose; consequently 
 it was easy to uncover the arm of Emma, to a little 
 above the elbow, and, having done so, he saw the letter 
 L stamped on her arm : which, though a little effaced 
 by time, was still quite distinct. M. Dauberton be- 
 came as pale as the young girl, and he only murmured : 
 " lb is she" — after which he let drop the bottle he had 
 been holding to her nose. 
 
 Juliet, hereupon, returned with a glass and water. 
 In seeing the first floor gentleman as pale as her friend, 
 and the bottle lying on the floor, she exclaimed : " Ah ! 
 my God, sir, have you also taken ill ? You are as 
 white as my poor Emma ! " . . "It is nothing — 
 it is nothing." . . « Well, she is coming to, at 
 least. I shall bathe her temples. See, she is beginning 
 
"140 A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 
 
 to move. Gentlemen, come here and help Monsieur, 
 who has also taken ill." But the three friends were 
 too much occupied at the sideboard, sampling the 
 ■different kinds of liqueurs. Grenouillet had placed 
 a cup on a pretty china side table, close at hand ; and 
 pouring out one sort of liqueur, drank it up, saying: 
 " It is necessary that I should judge what will be most 
 suitable for the sick person. This is very strong : let 
 me try that other one." The overgrown Anatole had 
 also taken a cup, remarking ; " I am a better judge 
 than you ; I have studied chemistry ; let me taste 
 that." The timid Adolphe alone refused to taste any- 
 thing, and said to his friends : " Gentlemen, what 
 are you doing there ? It is not proper for you to drink 
 the liqueurs of this gentleman ; is this the way you 
 restore Emma to consciousness ? " . . " Leave us 
 alone ; we are trying to find out what will do her the 
 most good — what will bring her to soonest." 
 
 Emma at length became conscious. She cast her 
 eyes about her,' but lowered them again as soon as they 
 encountered those of M. Dauberton, who seemed to 
 be in a great state of excitement. " Where, then, 
 am I ? " said she, in turning towards Juliet who pressed 
 her hands. " In the apartments of the first floor 
 gentleman, who carried you quickly here, where there 
 is everything necessary to succour a sick person. My 
 poor dear ! how you did frighten me ! to find yourself 
 so ill! Are you better?" . . . "My God! I 
 remember now — it is not a dream — somebody has 
 mortally wounded him ! Ah ! I must go." . . 
 "But, Emma, why should you go? You do not even 
 know the gentleman." Emma heard nothing ; she 
 pushed away Juliet, walked past the others, and left 
 the room as quick as lightning. Juliet turned towards 
 M. Dauberton, who made not the slightest movement 
 to restrain Emma. "Ah! sir, excuse my friend for 
 her rudeness; for, at this m\meit, she has on her 
 tieart a deep sorrow." . . "Most willingly do j 
 
A LABORIOUS ACCOUCHEMENT. 141 
 
 pardon her, Miss; but I shall see her again. Yes, I 
 must absolutely see her — speak to her. It is a question 
 of her future — of the fortune that shall come to her. 
 I hope she will listen kindly to me." 
 
 Juliet saluted M. Dauberton, and turned towards 
 her three friends. Adolphe stood stockstill in a corner, 
 without daring to open his lips, looking at a cupful of 
 chartreuse, which Grrenouillet had forced into his hands, 
 but the two others continued to taste the liqueurs. 
 xi What are you doing there, gentlemen ? What ! 
 you drink the gentleman's liqueurs, that is bad form ! " 
 
 . " If you please, Miss, we are not drinking the 
 liqueurs, we are only tasting them, simply to discover 
 what would be the best for the health of Miss Emma. 
 Will you excuse us, sir?" . . " Not only do I excuse 
 you, gentlemen, but I shall only be too happy if you 
 rind anything there to please you. Be good enough 
 to help yourselves, and as often as you see fit to par- 
 take of them — come and honour me with a visit." 
 
 . " That is too kind of you, sir." . . " You 
 are too generous," said Grenouillet ! i: and I felicitate 
 myself, sir, on having made your acquaintance." 
 
 Juliet had meanwhile taken her leave, and the three 
 young men reluctantly decided to follow her example. 
 *' Who said that this M« Dauberton was a bear ? " said 
 Orenouillet. " On the contrary, he is a most charming 
 man; he is just the man whose acquaintance I would 
 like to cultivate. Adolphe, let us go to Peters' to 
 dine : the fever of my accouchement has fatigued me. 
 I need something to pick me up. Besides, it is now 
 a long time since you regaled us." Adolphe, who had 
 just swallowed a cup of chartreuse, made a submissive 
 inclination of the head, and the corpulent Anatole, 
 taking his arm said : " Boys, where the table is spread 
 for two, there is room for a third." 
 
142 HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 
 
 M. DAUBERTON now experienced a feeling of happiness, 
 such as he had not felt for a long time : he had found 
 his daughter, and for him this was no longer a simple 
 hope — it was a certainty. The striking resemblance of 
 Emma to the young woman he had caused to become 
 a mother, had already aroused in him the suspicion that 
 the answers which had been made to him were not of 
 a nature to dissipate that suspicion. He had earnestly 
 striven to discover by what means he could obtain the 
 proof which would dispel his doubts. The occasion had 
 now presented itself, and he had eagerly seized on it ; 
 he had seen on the left arm of Emma the letter which 
 Lucia had imprinted on the arm of her child. There 
 yet remained the small medallion, which contained 
 some words written by her mother. Yet M. Dauberton 
 had no doubt that this medallion was still in the 
 possession of Emma, and he had great hopes that she 
 would consent to show it to him. 
 
 After having allowed several hours to elapse in order 
 to give the young work girl time to recover, M. Dau- 
 berton mounted to the fifth floor and knocked softly 
 at the door of Emma. No response being made, he 
 knocked again, also in vain. He then went and 
 knocked at the next door, hoping she whom he was 
 burning to see might be in the room of her female 
 friend, but he was no more successful here. It was 
 now five o'clock in the afternoon, and M. Dauberton, 
 presuming that the young women had returned from 
 their work, was on the tip-toe of expectation to see 
 Emma. He cursed this contrariness of events, and 
 going down stairs to the concierge asked, whether* 
 for a fact, young Emma was out of the building. 
 
 Altamort Eoch manifested the greatest respect for 
 the tenant of the first floor, , who paid liberally for 
 any services rendered by the concierge to him, and 
 
HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 14& 
 
 -who had always the money in his hand to give for the 
 slightest commission he might require to have done. 
 He hence bowed low to M. Dauberton in answering : 
 " Monsieur desires to know whether Miss Emma of 
 the fifth floor is out ? You are sure it is young Emma 
 and not her friend Miss Juliet that you want to see ? 
 Do not let us make a mistake." . . "Yes, it is- 
 Emma, the younger of the two work girls." . . ^ 
 " However, I cannot tell you anything more of the one 
 than the other, having been obliged to be absent all 
 day at the office of the commissioner of police, at the 
 instance of Madame Ponderant, in order to affirm that 
 M. Grrenouillet, my tenant on the fourth floor, visited 
 the apartments of the mid-wife, disguised in the ap- 
 parel of the opposite sex, and feigned to be with child ; . 
 all this that he might give birth to a negro child in 
 wax; but in faith, I declared that I knew nothing 
 about it, inasmuch as all this took place where I could, 
 not see it." . . " But, M. Roch, I did not ask you 
 about that — I want to know — " . . . " If Miss. 
 Emma has gone out ? I have just this moment arrived; 
 but if I was absent, my wife was here; let us inter- 
 rogate her. Holla ! Pulcherie. Leave your dumpling 
 cooking for a little, and come here and answer my 
 interpellations." 
 
 Pulcherie comes upon the scene with her mouth full,, 
 and armed with a fork. " Permit me to salute you, 
 M. Dauberton ; you wanted to see me ? " . . " Pul- 
 cherie, you have not once quitted this lodge to-day?" 
 . "No, not even to blow my nose." . . "M. 
 Dauberton is anxious to know — do not gesticulate so 
 much with that fork of your%— you want to stick it 
 into my nose — Monsieur would like to know whether 
 Miss Emma has gone out." . . " Little Emma ? 
 yes, yes, and the proof that she went out is that she 
 came back again." . . "Then is she in the house 
 at this moment?" . . "No, sir, for she went out 
 again a short time after, carrying a little parcel under 
 
144 HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 
 
 her arm." • • "A parcel, my dear ? and what 
 might the parcel contain ? " . . " Gracious, what 
 do I know ? I did not examine it." . . " In 
 strictness you had the right to do so." . . "I 
 assure you Miss Emma went out again, and she has 
 not since returned." . . " You are certain of this 
 Madame ? " . . "Oh, yes, sir, I am sure of it." 
 . . " Enough ; pardon me for having disturbed you. 
 I am going to dine at home — go and tell the cook 
 this ; and if this young lady returns meanwhile, be 
 good enough to inform me at once." M. Dauberton 
 accompanied these words with a five franc piece, which 
 he slipped into the hand of Pulcherie, who thereupon 
 made him a profound reverence, at the same time 
 dropping her fork, whilst Altamort exclaimed: "Mon- 
 sieur has not said what he would wish the cook to 
 prepare for dinner." . . • "I am not particular 
 — anything she likes J' . . " Enough, sir ; I will, 
 admonish her to have some nice dishes." M. Dauberton 
 dined at home ; where he also passed the evening. 
 Every time any one closed the door, he started up, 
 "hoping it would be Emma that entered. But nine ■ 
 o'clock struck, then 9.30 ; and the young girl had 
 not yet returned. A little before 10 o'clock he heard 
 some one ascending the stairs, humming a refrain : 
 he recognized the voice of Juliet; almost immediately 
 the concierge came up to say to him : " Monsieur, 
 Miss Emma has not returned; but here is her friend, 
 Juliet, who has just come in, that is the same thing, 
 perhaps — " . ' . "Thank you, M. Eoch; no, it is 
 not the same thing : it is Miss Emma I wish to speak 
 to. It is very important." . . "I am astonished 
 that the young lady has not returned with her friend: 
 ten o'clock has struck. It is not customary for her 
 to return alone so late, and you will be saying to me 
 that this young woman is naturally frivolous. To-day 
 is the only occasion I have ever known her to stay out. 
 But I expect her every moment." 
 
HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 145 
 
 M. Dauberton waited for half- an -hour longer, when 
 
 'he could not resist the temptation of going up stairs 
 
 lo the room of Juliet. The latter being the intimate 
 
 ^friend of Emma, he wished to know from her what 
 
 had become of the latter. 
 
 Juliet had not yet gone to bed ; not because she 
 expected her friend ; she knew quite well where she 
 •was likely to be, but the different events of the day 
 had occupied her so much, tbat she had no time, until 
 now, to put in their place the feminine garments she 
 had lent to Grenouillet. On hearing some one knock 
 -.at her door so late, she concluded it was her facetious 
 neighbour who wanted to talk with her, and she an- 
 swered: " M. Grenouillet, I have already admonished 
 you that I never open my door to any one when I 
 am alone. Besides, I am just going to bed. Good 
 night," . . "It is not M. Grenouillet, Miss, it is I, 
 M. Dauberton, who desire to speak with you a moment 
 about your friend, Miss Emma ; it is a matter of great 
 importance." On recognizing the voice of the tenant 
 of the first floor, Juliet decided to open. "Pardon 
 me, Miss, in coming to disturb you at so late an hour," 
 said Dauberton, "but when you know the motive which 
 has prompted me to act thus, I think you will forgive 
 me." . . " Certainly, sir : I hope there is nothing 
 wrong : is it about Emma you want to speak to me?" 
 .. . " Yes, Miss ; but first of all would you kindly 
 inform me where she is at this moment ? for she has 
 not returned, and her absence disquiets me ! " 
 -" My dear sir, I am not the least disquieted about her ; 
 I am almost certain that she is not far from here — 
 with one of her friends who is ill ; and I do not doubt 
 but she will remain all night by the side of — that 
 person." . . " Ah ! you re-assure, Miss ; and I am 
 Tery happy to hear you speak as you have. The lively 
 interest which Intake in that young girl astonishes you 
 no doubt ? " . . " Indeed, sir, it does astonish me 
 somewhat," . . " But you wHl cease to be surprised 
 
146 HOPE— IMPATIENCE. 
 
 when you know the truth, and I am going now to tell 
 you. I am going to reveal to you some of the secrets 
 of my life — a great fault of my youth." . . "Buty 
 sir, I do not ask you to do so." . . " Nevertheless^ 
 Miss, I think it is incumbent on me that you should 
 know all. You love Emma, do you not?" . . . 
 " Yes, yes, sir ; as though she were my own sister ! ' r 
 " Very well ; you will then second me when I 
 tell you that it concerns her fortune — her future settle- 
 ment in life — of giving her a splendid position in the 
 world." . . " Can it be possible ! My poor Emma L 
 Oh ! speak — speak sir." Juliet offered M. Dauberton 
 a chair, who sat down, and began to speak as follows : 
 " Miss, in my youth I was very fond of pleasure — 
 and, like the majority of men, I indulged in love in- 
 trigues. Ke-assure yourself ! I will not recount to 
 you all my follies : suffice it to know that I had for 
 a mistress one named Lucia Gourdet. Virtuous, up 
 till then, Lucia acceded to my wishes, to my protes- 
 tations. She became a mother, and I — I ceased visiting 
 her — in fact abandoned her." . . " Ah ! sir ! and 
 your child as well?" . . "Yes, and it is for this 
 that I am especially culpable; for one may be unfaithful,, 
 cease to love, but one ought never to renounce the 
 duties of a father. Lucia sent me this child, and I 
 rejected it: I sent it back to its mother, without doing 
 anything for it ! " . . " Ah ! sir ; were you then 
 in an unfortunate position ? " . . " No, Miss ; I 
 was rich ! My conduct was infamous, was it not ? 
 Soon alter I received a letter from Lucia, in which 
 she informed me that she had sent the child to the 
 Foundling Hospital." . . . " What a disgrace ! " ~- 
 "Lucia had a resolute, fiery disposition. She in- 
 formed me at the same time that she had imprinted 
 the letter L on the left arm of the girl, just above 
 the elbow." . . " Ah ! that is singular ! I have 
 seen that mark on the arm of Emma." 
 " Moreover, she had hung round her neck a little glass 
 
HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 147 
 
 medallion, in which was a piece of paper, on which 
 was inscribed, some words, addressed to me." 
 "A little glass medallion? Emma has one. It contains 
 a small piece of folded up paper. Emma has several 
 times shewn me this medallion, and said to me : ' This 
 is all that has come down to me from my mother.' As 
 for the paper, let me think what is written on it? 
 Well, it contains the last wishes of her mother, but 
 I must not reveal them to any person." . . " Ah ! 
 IMiss, you see quite well that I am not deceived. 
 Emma is my daughter ! " . . " Your daughter ! 
 How can that be ? " . . " Yes, she is indeed my 
 daughter, the child of Lucia, which I indignantly re- 
 pulsed. How I burn now to become acquainted with 
 lier, to hold her in my arms. The first time I saw. 
 Emma I was so struck with her resemblance to Lucia, 
 that I at once conceived suspicions of her origin. I 
 wanted to convince myself, but in answer only received 
 vague responses : and you, Miss, have you not been told 
 by your friend that she was brought up on charity ? " 
 "Oh, no, sir; Emma has never told me that; 
 rfor she is proud and would not that any one should 
 know she was abandoned by her parents. Only, when 
 I have questioned her about her family, I have re- 
 marked, that she answered me now in this way, and 
 now in that. Observing that such questions were 
 distasteful to her I did not return to the subject — I 
 resolved never to speak to her again on the question 
 of her parentage." . . "But now, since you know 
 that it is a matter of giving to her a father — bestowing 
 on her a fortune, you will assist me, will you not, 
 Miss ? If you only knew how earnestly I have longed 
 to make amends for my wrong-doing — to call Emma 
 nay daughter. Ah ! heaven has indeed punished me 
 for that fault of my youth ! Twice married, twice a 
 ^widower, and I have lost all the children born to me 
 in wedlock. This is the cause of the sadness that 
 anakes me flee society, visit public houses, and public 
 
148 HOPE — IMPATIENCE. 
 
 balls, where I would have liked to interrogate every 
 girl who was about the age of her of whom I was in- 
 quest. To-day, the fainting fit which your friend had 
 furnished me the occasion for clearing up my doubts; 
 I saw the mark on her arm ; I recognised my daughter.^ 
 I shall have no more peace of mind until I press her 
 in my arms and say to her : ' I am your father. ' You 
 will assist me in this Juliet, will you not ? You will- 
 aid me to conquer the heart of my daughter?" . . 
 "Why, sir, it seems to me that when Emma has satisfied*. 
 herself you are her father, no other persuasion will be 
 necessary." . . " Where is she at this moment ?' 
 You of course know the person she has gone to sit 
 up with : is it far from here ? " Juliet hesitated a 
 moment, then answered: "I know nothing about it y . 
 sir. Emma has sometimes spoken to me of this friend,, 
 but I have never known where she lived." . . " How 
 provoking to be sure! I am thus prevented from seeing 
 her — from approaching her. But she will return — she 
 must indeed return. When you next see her, Juliet,- 
 you will be sure to tell her how much I long to clasp 
 her to my bosom, and to call her my daughter ? " .- 
 . . " Yes, sir, I shall relate to her everything you 
 have told me." 
 
 M. Dauber ton returned to his rooms, Juliet sought 
 her couch, the night passed and Emma did not re- 
 turn. The following morning several of the occupants 
 of the house assembled in front of the lodge of the 
 concierge, and passed not a few disparaging remarks- 
 touching the wickedness of the conduct of the young r 
 work girl, who had passed the night outside of her 
 own home. M. Koch kept on repeating : " I sat up 
 for this young woman till after twelve had struck,, 
 disregarding the repeated exhortations of Pulcherie : 
 * Altamort, why do you sit up : come to bed, dear ; I 
 want you to keep me warm.' Nevertheless, I had a 
 good mind to sit up all night : though that would have- 
 been useless — the young girl has not yet returned."" 
 
THE YOUNG NURSE. 149' 
 
 . . u For one that sets herself up as a model of pro- 
 priety, this is not a bad start," remarked the corpulent 
 chemist of the third floor, with an ironical sneer* 
 "What the devil could you expect!" exclaimed the 
 stout Anatole, who had stopped in the court to see 
 whether there were no creases in his pantaloons. "She 
 has just arrived at the age when the heart becomes- 
 tender," said one. "My faith," said Anatole, "that 
 of Emma's will have been expanded last night — yes — " 
 "You are an imbecile," said Grrenouillet, who 
 came down stairs, after he had held a long conversation 
 with Juliet. " Because a young girl passes one night 
 out of the house, is that a sufficient reason for supposing 
 that she has ceased to be virtuous ? when, probably, 
 she has only been rendering a service, sitting up with 
 a sick person, and depriving herself of her own rest? 
 No: people are always more ready to suspect evil than 
 good, and the best antecedents of a person, in such 
 circumstances, suffice not to shelter such a one from 
 the slings of calumny 1" . . " Well spoken, very 
 well spoken, M. Grenouillet," said M. Dauberton, who 
 had heard everything from one of his windows which 
 looked into the court : " You stand up for Miss Emma, 
 and you are right, for it is most unjust to speak evil 
 of that young girl. Do me the kindness to pay me 
 a visit here for a few moments, and to taste a little 
 of my green chartreuse. I will open the door for you." 
 . . "With the greatest of pleasure, M. Dauberton: 
 I shall be greatly flattered to cultivate your acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE YOUNG NUKSE. 
 It has to be remembered that Emma, in recovering- 
 
150 THE YOUNG NURSE. 
 
 lier senses, after she had been in a swoon for some 
 considerable time in the rooms of M. Dauberton, had 
 abruptly repulsed Juliet, who sought to console her, 
 and, without even answering her, had disappeared like 
 a flash of lightning. The young girl had but one 
 thought, one aim. She had just learned that Reginald 
 had been brought home dangerously wounded, and she 
 lost no time in making the best of her way to the 
 rooms occupied by that gentleman. At the door of 
 the house she addressed herself to the concierge, a 
 "worthy old woman whom she found, cleaning her spec- 
 tacles, while she was smoking her pipe. 
 
 " Madame," said Emma, " is it true that the young 
 man who lives on the fourth floor, M. Reginald, has 
 just been brought home wounded in a duel — and — 
 dangerously wounded?" . . "Yes, my child, it is 
 true : and you may hence guess how much it has upset 
 me, so much so, indeed, that I have not been able to 
 swallow my soup. Gracious I it makes one feel bad, 
 when one sees a young lodger start out in the morning 
 in perfect health, and in two hours afterwards be 
 brought back half dead ! It is heart-rending ! and 
 to think that he left here to fight, as gay of heart as 
 a lark ! What fools the men are ! If I had known 
 that he left here to do that, I should have set the 
 sergents de ville on his track, in order to separate the 
 combatants — but one cannot know everything." . 
 '-" Madame, is it a fact that M. Reginald has no one 
 ivith him at the present moment ? " . . " He has 
 one of his friends, and the surgeon has just told me 
 to look out immediately for some one who will nurse. 
 and sit up with the wounded man. I am expecting- 
 every minute a neighbour woman who will take care 
 of my lodge while I go to do this." . . " Ah ! Ma- 
 dame, I beg of you not to go. Here am I : I came 
 for the express purpose of offering my services as nurse 
 to that young man. Oh ! be sure, Madame, that he 
 -shall be well cared for, well watched night and day; 
 
THE YOUNG NUESE. 151 
 
 I shall not fall asleep for a minute. I shall take care 
 of him. I shall follow exactly all the doctor's instruc- 
 tions." . . " But, my child, you are too young to 
 act as a sick nurse." . . "It is not my habitual 
 occupation, Madame, but I desire to be a nurse on 
 this occasion, because I know M. Reginald, who once 
 saved my life on the street, just I was about to be run 
 over by a carriage. Ah ! I should feel so happy, if I 
 could be permitted to prove to him mv gratitude. 
 Madame, I beseech you not to get any other nurse 
 but me for him ! " Emma then took the hands of the 
 concierge and pressed them eagerly in her own, her 
 eyes meanwhile streaming with tears. " 0, my dear 
 child, since you are so eager to become his nurse, I 
 consent, and I wish you every success. After all, as 
 well you as another; nay, better, you than any other 
 seeing that you are so much interested in my lodger, 
 who is a very fine young man indeed ! Well, then, I 
 have executed my commission : can you come at once ? " 
 . • "I only require to go back to my rooms for my 
 cap and a few garments suited for night-wear. But 
 it is only a couple of steps from here ; I shall return 
 in less than five minutes. You understand, Madame, 
 do not engage another nurse meanwhile ! " 
 " Keep yourself easy, my child ; the matter is settled." 
 
 It was then that Madame Koch had seen Emma enter 
 her room, and to leave after she had secured a long 
 scooped hat under which she could easily conceal her 
 pretty countenance, and, thus attired to repair to the 
 bedside of the wounded man. On the way she had 
 encountered Juliet, who said to her : " Where are 
 you going ? Are you not going to return with me to 
 our attic ? " . . "I am not going back to the 
 attic, and you can inform the forewoman that she is 
 not likely to see me for a long time." . . "What 
 does all this mean ? What do you intend doing ? " 
 . . " Can you not guess? He is very ill — almost 
 dead; and yet you ask me what I am going to do?" 
 
152 THE YOUNG NURSE. 
 
 . . " Are you going to take care of M. Keginald? 
 But you are not a doctor ! " . . "It does not require 
 a doctor to watch by the bedside of a wounded man. 
 It only requires one to be constantly near him, to ad- 
 minister to him all that the doctor prescribes; in fact,, 
 a nurse," . . " And you are going to act as sick 
 nurse ? " . . " Yes, and my services have been 
 accepted. Oh ! how happy it makes me to think that 
 I shall nurse him 1 " . . " But, my dear friend,, 
 what you say is not common sense, you have lost your 
 head ; you are over fatigued ; and as for yourself, you 
 are not over strong : you will surely fall ill. You have 
 just recovered from a long fainting fit — you ought to 
 take a good rest." . . " Juliet, anything you may 
 say to me is useless ; when I form a resolution, I never 
 change ; but yet, I beseech you — I beg of you not to 
 tell any one what I am doing, nor where I am. Will 
 you swear to me ? " . . " My God, since you wish 
 it, I shall say nothing ; I promise you that." 
 " Good-bye, Juliet ; I already wish that I were by his 
 side ! " It was not long before Emma had entered 
 the house opposite. " You have not been long, my 
 child," said the old portress. " I am going upstairs,. 
 Madame." . . "It is on the fourth floor, the door 
 to the left." . . " Oh ! I shall soon find it." , . 
 " The key is in the door. If you require me call for 
 me — Madame Mouton." . , "Thank you, thank- 
 you, Madame." 
 
 As Emma ascended the stairs she felt her heart beat 
 violently : she trembled on touching the key which 
 was to open the door into the apartments of Eeginald- 
 She at length entered, crossed a little anti-chamber,, 
 then stepped into that room which she had so closely 
 scrutinised from her own. A young man came out of" 
 the bedroom, which was near by, and came to her : 
 " Are you the nurse we are expecting ? " . . " Yes,, 
 sir" . . "Ah! I am glad of that! for I must go 
 to attend to business, and I did not wish to leave that 
 
THE YOUNG NURSE. 153- 
 
 poor boy alone." . .. " How is he, sir ? " . . "He 
 is not able to speak : be must not speak. The surgeon 
 who has dressed the wound will not return until to- 
 morrow, morning, and it will only be then he will be 
 able to say whether there is any hope of saving him. 
 But stop I I did not remark at first, how young you 
 are to be acting as a sick nurse ! " . . " Kest easy, 
 sir, your friend will none the less be well cared for." 
 
 . " I do not doubt that, Miss. See there, on the 
 drawers, is a potion, of which you shall give him a 
 spoonful, if he should wake up, or if he should com- 
 plain." . . " Very well, sir ; and what else ? " . 
 " The surgeon is going to send a physician ; you shall 
 do whatever he orders. If you require to buy drugs, - 
 or something to compound drinks, there is money there, 
 on that secretaire ; take all that you require. As for 
 yourself, be sure you keep awake." . . "Do not 
 disquiet yourself about me, sir ! " . . " Well, I 
 shall return to-morrow morning to learn the news." 
 . . " Pardon me, sir; do you know what M. Keginald 
 has been righting about?" . . "Eh! Mon Dieuf 
 over a woman ! and who was not worth fighting for,,. 
 I can assure you. Good evening : I must go : see that 
 you do not leave him I " • . " Oh I there is no- 
 danger of that, sir." 
 
 The young man went away. Emma's first care was 
 to approach the bed, and to regard the wounded man. 
 He was very pale : his eyes were closed, and his breath- 
 ing was short and seemingly painful. One of his hands 
 hung over the side of the bed ; Emma took it and 
 placed it gently on the bed. This hand was moist and 
 feverish ; nevertheless, the young sick-nurse could not 
 refrain from pressing it gently in hers ; but she quickly 
 relaxed it, saying to herself: " Man Dieu! what is 
 this I have done! if T should awake him! He has 
 fought for a woman! for that ' Madame de Harloville,- 
 no doubt ! Was it worth the trouble that I should go 
 and beg her to come here ! Perhaps I did wrong - r 
 
154 THE YOUNG NURSE. 
 
 but I did it in the hope of restoring to bim the love 
 -of that woman ! Ah ! love, when it is once lost, can 
 it ever be restored again?" She then entered the 
 sitting room, and gazing around her, she sat down on 
 the sofa, on the spot where she had seen Eeginald con- 
 duct his mistress to. She sighed, and said to herself: 
 " It is here that he seated that woman, and placed 
 himself close beside her. How happy he appeared to 
 be ! How lovingly he regarded her ! Yet she loves 
 him no longer. It is singular how the heart can change 
 .-so quickly ! No : it is impossible ! She never loved 
 him, for one never deceives when one truly loves. As for 
 him, does he love her still? I should like to know that I " 
 Emma's reflections were cut short by the arrival of 
 the physician. The latter was a little old man, yet 
 active, alert ; his looks were severe, and his speech curt. 
 He hardly looked at the young woman, who had drawn 
 her large cap over her eyes, leaving only the tip of 
 her nose to be seen. He went up to the sick man, 
 felt his pulse, shook his head, and said ; " The fever 
 is high. Here nurse. Let him have an infusion of 
 orange water to drink, but not much. Do you under- 
 stand, mother? but do not make him drink if he does 
 not ask for it. Let me see the potion. That is right. 
 Only give it him if he has a fainting fit : you under- 
 stand, mother ? The surgeon shall change the dressing 
 to-morrow. Then we shall know what is likely to 
 happen. On no account permit him to speak. No 
 visitors: put everyone to the door who wishes to see 
 him, for in the latter case our friends are our enemies. 
 He has been fighting a duel ? do you know why ? " 
 „ . "I have been told that it was about a woman.'' 
 ^ . . " Of course ! and while the two rivals were 
 fighting, I wager that the lady was making love to a 
 third. Ah ! the simpletons ! if they knew what we 
 know, we doctors ! I must go : I shall come again 
 -to-morrow, after the surgeon has made Ms visit. Now 
 pay attention to what I have said." 
 
THE YOUNG NURSE. 155 
 
 The physician departed. Emma called the portress ; 
 Madame Mo-uton entered. The young nurse begged 
 her to go and fetch the orange water. "And you, 
 my child, what will you take to eat ; for it is now 
 already seven o'clock in the evening, and you must 
 have dinner?" . . " I, Madame, I am not hungry ."" 
 "Not hungry! and you think of spending the 
 night without taking anything ! You must not think 
 of such a thing. Eemember that to be in a fit state 
 to care for others, one must begin by caring for one- 
 self." Emma concluded that the portress was right. 
 She consented that there should be sent up to her a 
 little soup and bread. Madame Mouton, who had 
 formed a liking for the young nurse, and wished to 
 take her under her protection, took the liberty to add 
 to that menu a bottle of wine and the wing of a fowl. 
 
 When the portress, after having served up this meal, 
 departed, Emma felt herself quite happy. She was 
 alone with him — with him ; she was going to be by 
 his bedside all night, she would watch his slightest 
 movement, and she said to herself: "He will get 
 better, for I will tend him so carefully that he cannot 
 die." 
 
 Sweet illusion of youth and of first love ! You ever 
 cherish hope, inasmuch as you have not yet learned 
 that sad science which is called experience, but which 
 is only disenchantment ! 
 
 Emma passed the whole night seated by the pillow 
 of Eeginald; she did not close her eyes for an instant; 
 and the night did not seem to her long. She tried to 
 read a little, but before she had completed a few lines 
 her eyes would wander from the book to the patient. 
 Twice, when he appeared to breathe with difficulty, she 
 had administered to him a potion. He took what was 
 given him without hardly opening his eyes, and im- 
 mediately relapsed into his former state of prostration. 
 
 When the day broke, and the hour approached when 
 the surgeon was to arrive to dress the wound, Emma 
 
156 THE YOUNG NURSE. 
 
 awaited that moment with anxiety. The portress 
 came up to learn how she had passed the night, and 
 the kind Mother Mouton brought with her a large cup 
 -of coffee with cream, which she placed before the 
 young nurse, saying: "I must take care of you, other- 
 wise, I believe — Grod forgive me ! — you would attempt 
 to live on the air. Ah ! it is easy to see that you are 
 not like other nurses ! " 
 
 About nine o'clock the surgeon arrived. Emma 
 shuddered, for the decisive moment had come. A few 
 minutes before, Eeginald had opened his eyes, and 
 looked vaguely around him, but he had not the strength 
 to speak. The surgeon went straight up to the bed, 
 caused Emma to bring him whatever he required, then 
 proceeded to examine the state of the wound. The 
 young girl stood trembling a few steps off, hardly able 
 to breathe ; she did not dare to look at what was going 
 on, but she could not take her eyes from the surgeon's 
 face, for it was there that she expected to read whether 
 she ought to fear or to hope. It was not long before 
 the features of the latter began to express satisfaction, 
 and he exclaimed : " Not bad ! not at all : much better 
 than I expected. Yes, we shall save him, but you have 
 had a narrow escape, young man. A little more to the 
 left and the weapon would have pierced the lungs." 
 
 Emma relapsed into a chair ; her heart bounding 
 with delight, and big tears running down her cheeks ; 
 for we shed tears of joy as well as of pain; nay, there 
 are some also who shed tears of falsehood ; which would 
 go to prove generally that we must not place much 
 store by them. 
 
 Thft surgeon then made Eeginald drink a few drops 
 of a cordial he had brought with him, and in handing- 
 the bottle to Emma, said : " See, Madame, you will 
 give a few spoonfuls in the course of the day — two 
 -or three, not more. Moreover, the physician will see 
 whether he can permit a little weak bouillon ! I shall 
 be here again to-morrow morning, Madame, and — but 
 
THE YOUNG NURSE. 157 
 
 let me see — there is only one nurse, and she — why a 
 young and pretty girl." 
 
 The surgeon, with the manner characteristic of great 
 practitioners, lifted off the large cap, which enveloped 
 the head of Emma, who became as red as a cherry, 
 and stammered out : " Sir, one may be young and yet 
 >be able to take care of a sick person." . . "Eh, 
 M on Dieu ! my dear child,. I did not say anything 
 to the contrary. In fact, I have no very great love 
 for old women. I find that the wound is no worse 
 from having such a gentle nurse as you. I see that he 
 has been well cared for. Continue, my child, continue: 
 I shall call again to-morrow morning. Grood-bye, 
 young man. Do not budge ! do not turn over ! do not 
 speak ! Ah ! you have had a narrow escape ! " 
 
 After the departure of the surgeon, Emma resumed 
 her large brimmed cap, and pulled it down over her 
 eyes. She was curious to know whether Eeginald had 
 seen and recognised her, when she had taken the cap 
 from her head; but he gave no indication of the fact, 
 and seemed to be asleep. The portress came up again 
 to know what the surgeon had said : Emma ran to her 
 and embraced her, saying : " Saved, Madame ! He 
 will get better : this is what the surgeon has said." 
 . . . "Ah! my child, how glad T am! Well, the 
 next thing is for me to go and fetch you the other 
 wing of the chicken." . . " Not just now : I do 
 not want anything." . "But I say yes! You 
 
 fancy you are not tired, though you have sat up the 
 whole night ? Why, your face has the appearance of 
 paper mache. You must, too, take a little sleep 
 during the day : when I will come and take your place 
 by the patient." ..." But, Madame, I am not 
 fatigued." • • " I tell you I will come and relieve 
 you." 
 
 Later on in the day the physician arrived, and wa3 
 given an account of what the surgeon had said ; felt 
 .Reginald's pulse, prescribed a little weak bouillon, for- 
 
158 THE YOUNG NURSE. 
 
 bade anyone speaking to him, continued to call Emma 
 " mother," and, on leaving, banged his nose against 
 the door of a press, which he mistook for the door. 
 
 Two hours later, Keginald opened his eyes, and 
 murmured in a faint voice : " Madame, I should like 
 something to drink." "Madame!" thought Emma to 
 herself; "he has not recognised me, and, pulling her 
 large cap well down over her eyes, she administered 
 to the patient what he asked for, then murmured : 
 " How do you find yourself?" . . "Very weak, 
 but — nevertheless — " . . "Do not speak ; the 
 physician has forbidden it, but you are going to get 
 well ; that is certain. Later on you will take a little 
 bouillon." Eeginald essayed to smile, then closed his 
 eyes. Emma went and sat down in a place where she 
 could contemplate the sleeping patient — him whom 
 she had promised to guard. 
 
 During the day the two young men who had acted 
 as seconds to Reginald came to learn the news. They 
 were delighted to hear that there were hopes of his 
 recovery. Emma obeyed strictly the doctor's orders ; 
 she would not permit these gentlemen to enter the 
 chamber of the patient, who, moreover was asleep. 
 But when they began to talk to each other in the 
 drawing room, she bent her ear, and heard this dialogue : 
 " You know the person he fought with ? " . . " Yes, 
 it was with Arthur Delval. I know him : he is a very 
 good fellow, somewhat fat. I meet him often in the 
 evenings." . . " Well, he came to see me this 
 morning, to learn the news about Eeginald. He would 
 be distracted if Reginald should die of his wounds. I 
 will see him to-day on the Bourse, and I am pleased 
 that I have good news to take to him." . . " About 
 the lady ? " . . " Oh ! Arthur does not want to have 
 anything said about her." On this the young men 
 took their leave. 
 
 " He has been fighting with Arthur Delval," said 
 Emma to herself. "Yes, it was the latter who came 
 
CONFIDENCES. 15<^ 
 
 to my rooms ; the son-in-law of the landlady. It is 
 he I saw in the Champs-Elysee with that lady. They 
 said that he did not wish to have this lady spoken 
 about. But — he ! — he ! — I should like to know whether 
 he still loves her." 
 
 Later in the day Mother Mouton appeared and said 
 to Emma : " My niece is taking care of my lodge ; 
 I have a little time to spare; go, my child, and lie 
 down on the sofa in the drawing room, and take two 
 or three hours sleep ; it will do you great good — indeed 
 it is indispensable. I shall take care of my lodger. 
 Emma was fain to resist ; but, in spite of herself, ever 
 since the morning she experienced a prostration, a 
 fatigue which she strove in vain to overcome : for 
 nature is always nature ! — nature is stronger than all 
 our resolutions, than all our courage, and seems to say 
 to us : " Poor creature ! it is useless in you not to 
 submit yourself to my laws ! I am the stronger ! and 
 when you attempt to revolt, I have only to make you 
 feel, to remind you, what you are, that you must 
 always be my slave." 
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 The young nurse was greatly refreshed by her sleep,, 
 and the portress informed her that while she was re- 
 posing Reginald had taken a little bouillon, and that 
 he had gone to sleep again. Emma dismissed Mother 
 Mouton and went and took her place near the patient. 
 She could regard him at her ease, for he slept and had 
 no suspicion that a young girl was in close proximity 
 to him, cheerfully contemplating him, since she was 
 
160 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 now convinced that she discerned in his features the 
 signs of immediate convalescence. 
 
 In the evening, Reginald addressed his nurse, asking 
 if she had all that she required, begging of her not 
 to want for anything, and pointing to a drawer in the 
 secretaire, 'from which she could take whatever money 
 she required. Emma thanked him, responding in curt 
 phrases, eagerly enjoining her patient not to speak, 
 because he must avoid the least fatigue. The latter 
 obeyed and kept silence; but sometimes he would fix 
 his regards on his nurse for a considerable time, as if 
 he were anxious to discover her features, which were 
 concealed beneath her scooped cap. About ten o'clock 
 in the evening Reginald had fallen asleep, and Emma, 
 seated near him in an easy chair was about to drop 
 off also, when a gentle tap was heard at the door. 
 The young girl, whose ears were alert, sprang at once 
 to her feet and went to open the door, persuaded that 
 it was the portress who had come up again to know 
 -whether she wanted anything. But it was not Madame 
 Mouton ; it was Juliet she found on the landing. 
 
 " What ! it is you, Juliet ! Why do you come here 
 — what do you want with me ? " . . "I came because 
 I have something very interesting, very important, 
 to tell you. I beg of you to permit me to enter for 
 a little." . . "Well, then, you must promise to 
 speak very low, for M. Reginald is asleep, and must 
 not be disturbed." . . " Oh ! I shall speak very low: 
 I shall not make the least noise." . . " Come in then." 
 
 Emma led her friend into the salon, where she made 
 ;her sit down, as far away as possible, from the bed- 
 room, and sitting down beside her, said : " Well, you 
 can speak now." . . "My dear Emma, you little 
 jreck of the happiness that awaits you. You are going 
 to be rich: you are about to change your social position: 
 you will soon be the equal of those fine ladies whose 
 toilettes we have so often admired." . . "I do not 
 •understand you, Juliet s explain yourself." • . - 
 
CONFIDENCES. 161 
 
 **< Listen, then, but, first of all, you must not be angry 
 at the question I am going to put to you — you know 
 that I am your sincere friend! and please answer me 
 candidly; Do you know anything of your father and 
 mother ? " . . " No ; I was abandoned by them, 
 and put into that large house whence all poor children 
 are taken who, like myself, have been brought up on 
 charity. But you must understand that one does not 
 like to own this, especially when one is endowed with 
 a proud spirit. This is why I have concealed the fact, 
 even from you." . . " Oh ! so much the better ! so 
 much the better ! If you only knew ! You possess 
 a little glass medallion, which depends from your neck, 
 and in which is a small piece of paper, upon which 
 is written some words — from your mother ? " . . . 
 " Yes, but why should you bring this thing up, seeing 
 that, if I remember, you only saw it once?" . . "0, 
 my dear friend, - he who has asked me all this, is a 
 person who has been seeking for you for a long time 
 — who burns with desire to embrace you, and to render 
 you happy ; in a word, it is your father." Emma grew 
 pale, and could only stammer out: "My father! you 
 know my father ! " . . " Yes ; it is M. Dauber ton, 
 who occupies the first floor, in our house. He has 
 already remarked you, for it would appear that you 
 greatly resemble your mother. This is why he cannot 
 keep from looking at you — constantly lies in wait for 
 you. Ah 1 if you only knew how happy he is to have 
 found you." . . "But what has made that gentle- 
 man think that I could be the — girl he has been 
 seeking for?" . . "The sign — that is to say, the 
 mark you carry on your left arm. When you were 
 taken ill yesterday, and when you were carried into 
 his rooms, he took advantage of your unconsciousness,. 
 1.0 pull up your sleeve and to examine your arm : this 
 removed all his doubts. Last evening he hoped to see 
 yott; but you were not at home. He came to my room, 
 questioned me about you, asked me, especially, whether 
 
162 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 you possessed a little glass medallion, containing a>. 
 paper." . . "And you told him that I did ? " . . 
 " Undoubtedly, seeing that it was the truth." 
 * 4 You did wrong ; there are truths which one has a 
 right to conceal. I hope, nevertheless, that you die 7 
 not inform M. Dauberton as to where I was?" . .- 
 " No ; you made me swear not to tell any one, but now 
 I think that you would like that I should tell him." 
 . . " Now, more than ever, I forbid you telling him." 
 
 . " What ! though he is your father ? " . 
 " That gentleman is not my father." . . " How do 
 you mean ? You do not wish that M. Dauberton 
 should be your father, when he is certain of it, possesses 
 the proof of it ? " . .. "No, I tell you; my re- 
 lations cowardly abandoned me: I have no father: I do 
 not wish to have one ; I will not acknowledge the right 
 of any one to give me that title. And in acting thus 
 I am only carrying out the instructions of my mother, 
 who, it is certain, was cruelly wronged by this gentle- 
 man, yet who, to-day, is anxious I should be his 
 daughter." . . . "But, Emma, only reflect. A~ 
 person may commit a wrong and repent of it. Think 
 of the fortune which will fall to your lot." . . "You 
 do not know me well. Do you imagine that I care for 
 money ? I pray you, not another word as to this. 
 And bear in mind, if you tell where I am, I shall never 
 speak to you again." . . "Well, that is sufficient,, 
 seeing that you wish it thus. But I should never have 
 thought — " >. . "Enough; it is late; my patient 
 may have woke up : go now Juliet ; you shall see me 
 again, when he has recovered." . . " Since you wish 
 it, I shall go. Mori Dieu ! I, who thought to make 
 you happy by informing you that you had a father, a 
 rich father, who is so delighted to have found his 
 daughter." . ♦ "He has not found her: he never 
 shall find her." . . " Emma, do reflect ! " . . "I 
 believe M. Keginald is awake. Gro away now; go^ 
 And if you desire that I should remain your friend,. 
 
CONFIDENCES. 163 
 
 3iot another word on the subject!" . . "What a 
 singular girl you are ! Well, it is all over ; I shall go." 
 " Embrace me." . . " Ah ! it is indeed 
 fortunate that you are still willing to embrace me." 
 
 The two friends embraced, after which Juliet de- 
 parted, and Emma went back to take up her position 
 near Reginald, who had not awaked. There, alone, 
 near him whom she loved, she had time to think, to 
 reflect on what Juliet had just told her, but the result 
 of her reflections only confirmed her in her resolution, 
 which, moreover, had been taken for a long time. For 
 in the most important act of their lives, the people who 
 
 , appear the most timid are often those who exhibit the 
 greatest strength of character. 
 
 When the surgeon appeared the next morning, he 
 was much satisfied with the condition of Reginald, and 
 on leaving felicitated the young nurse on the great care 
 she had taken of the patient, accompanying these words 
 with a malicious smile, and adding, that he would re- 
 commend her to his clients ; to which latter Emma 
 made haste to reply : " Oh ! no, sir ; that would be 
 useless. I have indeed wished to nurse M. Reginald, 
 because I was slightly acquainted with him; but I do 
 not wish to nurse any others." . . " Parbleu, 
 my child, I was sure of that, and it was only to obtain 
 your avowal of it that I spoke. It is your heart which 
 has conducted you here. Very well : there is nothing 
 reprehensible in that." Emma blushed and did not 
 dare to make any answer to this gentleman who had 
 divined her secret. As to the physician, he continued 
 to call Emma, " mother," and always in leaving to 
 bump his nose against the door of the press. 
 
 Seven days have rolled over ; Reginald becomes more 
 and more convalescent : nevertheless, he is not yet 
 able to leave his bed ; but he is now permitted to talk 
 a little. He has received visits from the two young 
 men who had acted as his seconds, and from some 
 
 -■others of his friends. Everytime he receives any one, 
 
164 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 Emma hastily quits the sick man's chamber, for she- 
 feels it would be indiscreet in her to remain and listen 
 to the conversation of these gentlemen. Several times r 
 too, she has quivered at hearing the bell ring, saying 
 to herself: " Mon Dieu! if it should be her! if she 
 comes again to see him!" But in time this fear leaves 
 her, and she reflects : " She has not even sent to ask 
 the news. I was wrong in worrying about this : she 
 will not come back again." 
 
 Up till now, Emma had always appeared before- 
 Reginald in her large cap which concealed in great 
 part her features ; but for several days she had observed 1 
 that he had followed her with his eyes, and seemed 
 to examine her more closely. Finally, one evening,, 
 when they were quite alone, he decided to speak to- 
 iler : " Madame," said he, " it seems to me that I 
 knew you before you came here to be my nurse. I 
 cannot indeed call to mind — the rather, when you 
 wear a head dress that does not permit one seeing your 
 features. You ought to be very warm in that head 
 dress. Do you never take it off?" Without answer- 
 ing, Emma threw aside the cap which concealed her 
 features, whereupon Reginald gave vent to a slight cry, 
 saying : " Ah ! yes ; I am not mistaken ; I recognise 
 you." . . "You recognize me? What, sir; you 
 have some faint recollection of me?" . . "Y'es, Miss; 
 and I have been calling you Madame ; you who in the 
 first days you were here passed yourself off for being 
 an old person. But it was not long before I divined 
 that you were not old. Y^ou are the young lady who 
 live opposite here — on the fifth floor." . . "Yes y 
 sir, I am the person whose life you saved one day, in 
 rescuing me from in front of an omnibus." . . * 
 " Miss, you have attached too much importance to an 
 action that any one else would have done as well as- 
 me ! But by what accident have you come to be a sick 
 nurse ? " . . "In this way. When I heard you. 
 had been brought home dangerously wounded, my first 
 
CONFIDENCES. 165 ; 
 
 thought was as to how I could make myself useful to- 
 you, to care for you. Are you angry with me, sir?" 
 . . " Angry ! I would be an ingrate if I could be- 
 angry with you for that. You have taken great care 
 of me. I perceived, during the very first days, that 
 you wept when looking at me. Though I could not 
 speak I could see. Ah ! Miss, you are kind, very kind I 
 You are sensitive, and it is so rare to meet one who 
 loves one." . . "You surely must have often met 
 such a one ! " . . " No : but see here. I have been 
 born with a heart which yearns to attach itself to 
 someone, but which is too apt to take for granted 
 the slightest marks of affection. I can see quite well 
 that this is wrong." . . , " Then you no longer 
 believe in the tokens of affection that others may give 
 to you ? " . . "I beg your pardon. Ah ! Miss it 
 is a cruel thing to be deceived by a person whom one 
 has truly loved. You cannot comprehend such a things 
 if you yourself have never been in love — or do not now 
 love some one." . . " Yes, sir, yes, I am in love — 
 I mean I have loved. In any case, I quite comprehend 
 what you say." . . "That has happened to me 
 twice, and that though I am not yet quite twenty-six 
 years of age." . . " Ah ! you have twice been in 
 love!" . . "Yes, loved sincerely, for I do not call 
 these little affairs love, which are thrown off as soon* 
 as formed. The first time — but Mon Dieu ! I am 
 speaking to you of things which cannot interest you." 
 " Pardon me, sir, pardon me ; everything you 
 can say of love is always of interest to us young girls. 
 You were then saying : the first time that you reallj 
 loved." . . "It was a simple work girl like yourself f 
 Miss, who was about five and twenty years of age. 
 She was prodigal of grand phrases, and her head was 
 full of ambitious and romantic ideas. Everyday she 
 threatened to poignard me or poison herself, and I swear 
 to you that I do not believe she had the least idea of 
 doing either. I thought I had met a veritable phoenix. 
 
166 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 of constancy. But one day, because I had waltzed 
 one evening at a ball with another young lady, I 
 received a letter in which she said to me : 'Adieu-! 
 I am going to throw myself into the river at Bercy ! ' 
 I was desperate. I flew to Bercy : I enquired all along 
 the river whether anyone had seen a lady drown her- 
 self. I discovered at length that she whom I believed 
 to be in the water, was dining at a restaurant with, 
 the officer of a merchantman, and, soon after, this 
 officer and my phoenix vanished from human ken." 
 " You say she jilted you, and eloped with the 
 officer." . . " Yes, Miss, this woman was no better 
 than any of the others; she was even less so, for she 
 pretended she was no coquette, since with a coquette 
 one only expects what invariably happens." . . "And 
 your second love?" . • "The second! Ah! the latter 
 was a woman of the world — an adroit mistress. My 
 God ! it was she that was the cause of my duel." . . 
 " Madame de Harloville ? " . . " What ! you know 
 her name ! " Emma sat abashed, but stammered out 
 at length : " I know hex name — yes — because — I have 
 heard her spoken of." ... "By one of my friends 
 210 doubt ? Well, this fine lady seems to have led me 
 wherever she pleased, so much so that he must be blind 
 who did not now comprehend her, I paid court to 
 ner. I was very much enamoured. She told me also 
 that she had never before known love, that I was the 
 first who had inspired her with that sentiment ; that 
 she had innumerable adorers, but she never lent an 
 «ar to a single one of them. I believed her : I 
 only asked her to believe me in turn. And, then, she 
 was very pretty ; I gave myself up to the pleasing 
 thought of having a mistress who was admired by 
 -everybody. I was much smitten — I expected a return 
 for my love, but my illusion was of very short duration. 
 At first, she came often to see me — then seldomer — " 
 . " Yes, then very seldom." . . " You know 
 cfchat also?" • • "Ah! as I live opposite you — from. 
 
CONFIDENCES. 167 
 
 any window I have seen this lady more than once." 
 ^ . " You, finally j were able to remark that she no 
 longer came at all, while I, who had easily taken her 
 love to heart, fell ill of ennui, and of disappointment!" 
 * . "I observed that also : you passed whole days, 
 stretched on your sofa, near the window, and you 
 looked so pale, so.- downcast ! Ah ! that caused me 
 the most acute pain." Keginald looked at the young 
 girl for a few minutes, then responded : " But she 
 -did come one day to see me, when I did not expect 
 her. Ah ! I believe, she suspected there was something 
 wrong. I felt a new man, but my happiness was of 
 short duration. She quitted me almost immediately, 
 promising to come back again, but she did not come. 
 I then wished to know if she was ill. Fool that I 
 was ! At her house I wanted an explanation. I asked 
 her to tell me plainly whether she still loved me. But 
 women in such circumstances are never frank. De- 
 ception is so great a part of their nature, that they 
 carry you on, even after it is no longer necessary. In 
 the end, he who had supplanted me, put iu an appear- 
 ance—" . . "M. Arthur Delval." . . "You 
 likewise know the name of this gentleman ? then you 
 know everything?" . . "It was your friends who 
 mentioned, in my presence, the name of the person 
 you had fought with, besides, I learned that that 
 gentleman was the son-in-law of our proprietress." . 
 . " Well, I was furious at finding myself supplanted. 
 This was wrong, I know now ; for in becoming the 
 lover of that lady, I was simply doing what many 
 others had done before me. In short, we made an 
 appointment, we fought, and you know the conse- 
 quences." . . , " Oh, yes, a wound which might 
 have proved mortal. You owe that gentleman a bitter 
 grudge." . . "I? I do not wish him the least harm, 
 I can assure you. He has several times made anxious 
 enquiries regarding me from my friends, and I am quite 
 ready to shake hands with him, when we meet." . . 
 
168 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 * 6 Ah! I am glad of that; it shows you are not ran- 
 courous. And — and — she for whom you fought, do 
 you love her still?" . . "I still love Madame de 
 Harloville ! In such a case you would be justified in 
 writing me down an ass." 
 
 Emma could not repress an exclamation of joy, heir 
 face beamed with delight, and she murmured: "You* 
 love her no longer ! — not any more!— are you quite 
 sure of that ? " . . " Miss, one cannot again love 
 the people one despises; and a woman who is enchanted 
 when one fights for her could not inspire me with any 
 other sentiment." . . "You are right — it is true 
 — you cannot again love her." . . "But there is 
 another thing that I cannot explain to myself." . . 
 " What is that ? " . . " When I went to the resi- 
 dence of Madame de Harloville, I asked her why she 
 had come to revisit me, seeing that she had got another 
 to fill my place, and she said to me : ' It was not at 
 all becoming to send to me a young girl — your neigh- 
 bour — to weep and supplicate me to go to see you, so 
 as to prevent you from dying of despair.' In this that 
 lady certainly lied, for I never sent anybody to her., 
 and she only said that to ridicule me." Emma lowered 
 her eyes, blushed, not knowing what to say. "Monsieur 
 Reginald," she exclaimed at length, "you have been 
 speaking for a long time : you must be fatigued : you 
 are not yet strong enough to speak at such length - r 
 and despite the pleasure I have derived from listening,- 
 you must not speak any more, sir." Reginald laughed,, 
 and responded : " Well, I shall be silent. But now 
 you must speak to me. Relate to me all that you have 
 seen ; I shall have great pleasure in listening ; will 
 you do this ? I have confided to you my love affairs ; 
 will you tell me yours now?" . . "My loves! O r 
 sir, I have never had a lover." . . " What ! a pretty 
 girl like you never to have lovers ? " . . " No, sir, 
 no lovers;* and I swear to you that I lie not." . - 
 "I believe you, Miss: besides you have no object in 
 
* CONFIDENCES. 169" 
 
 telling me a lie. Well, then, speak of yourself, of your 
 parents, of your family. If your mother is still alive- 
 she must love you tenderly." Emma lowered her head 
 and stammered out : " No, sir, my mother did not 
 love me : no more did my father : I have never known 
 either ; I was brought up out of compassion." 
 . " Ah ! pardon me, pardon me, my dear child, for 
 putting such questions to you: if I had only known 
 that — " . . " You could not do that, sir, for I have 
 only told it to one of my friends. One experiences 
 a certain kind of shame in saying that one is only a 
 foundling; and yet it is not one's own fault, when one 
 has had parents cruel enough to abandon one." . 
 " I quite agree with you, Miss, and I assure you that 
 I do not share the foolish prejudices which certain 
 persons entertain in regard to orphans. The latter 
 who, without name, without family, without support,, 
 are able to carve out an honourable position ; who, 
 by their abilities, can build up a reputation, a good 
 name, seem to me more worthy of the world's esteem, . 
 than those who, born in the lap of opulence, of splen- 
 dours, who have everything to make them happy, dig- 
 nities, employment, favours, without ever having to 
 give themselves the slightest trouble to merit them." 
 . * "Ah! sir, it is pleasant to hear you speak thus, . 
 and I am satisfied to know that you do not despise 
 me, because I have no patronymic ! " . . "I despise 
 you ! I should then indeed be a vile ingrate ; after 
 all the care you have lavished on me — to come, at your 
 age, to watch night and day a sick person ! what could 
 be purer devotion!" . . "Sir, you still persist in 
 speaking too much. Come, let us leave off talking: 
 for if I speak you always answer me : this is not 
 prudent; it is late; you must go to sleep, sir." . „- 
 "Be it so, but to-morrow we shall have another talk, 
 will we not ? Goodness gracious, I do not even know 
 your name." . . "Emma, sir." . . "Well, until 
 to-morrow, dear Emma." . . " Until to-morrow M» 
 
"1 70 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 Reginald. But do not hesitate to call me, if you want 
 .anything. I hope that you may sleep soundly." . . 
 * 6 I shall try," . . "Where are you going to sleep?" 
 . . " In the salon, on the sofa." . . " You cannot 
 be very comfortable there." . . " On the contrary, 
 I have never been so comfortable." 
 
 Emma repaired to the salon where she made up her 
 little bed. But she was so happy that she found it 
 impossible to close an eye ; for extreme joy causes also 
 sleeplessness, and even, what is very agreeable, and 
 flattering to our hopes, disturbs our sleep more than 
 some profound sorrow: for which let us thank nature 
 for not always loading us with delights. 
 
 On the following day there was no lack of subjects 
 -of conversation ; indeed they talked for the greater 
 part of the day. The most perfect concord reigned 
 between the patient and his young nurse. Reginald 
 -desired that the latter should always be near him. The 
 physician, moreover, gave the convalescent permision 
 to get up, and to remain for several hours in an easy 
 chair, and Reginald joyfully availed himself of this 
 permission. Emma, too, appeared to be very happy 
 in giving the invalid her arm, when he began to walk 
 a little about his room. But suddenly her brow be- 
 ■came clouded, and she began to sob. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Emma?" asked 
 Reginald, who already took the liberty of calling his 
 nurse only by her christian name, without attaching 
 to it " Miss." " You appear to be very depressed : are 
 you sorry to see me getting better ? " . . " Oh ! no, 
 M. Reginald, quite the contrary. I am very glad to 
 see this. Only I thought that soon you would have 
 no more need of me, and then I could no longer come 
 — " . , " Oh, indeed ! you will cease to come ! quit 
 me, abandon me ! Then do you wish that my wound 
 should re-open again ? For, do you see, I am never 
 well except when you are near me ; when you go away 
 ;from me for a few minutes, my sufferings return. And 
 
CONFIDENCES. 171 
 
 you are going to abandon me ! But I feel I am art 
 egotist. . You must be tired here, always alone with 
 me!" • . "I tired to be with you! I, who have 
 no other wish, no other desire, I who — My God ! you 
 vex me — I no longer know what I say. But I shall 
 remain — yes, I shall remain as long as you wish." In 
 answer, Reginald took Emma's hand and pressed it 
 tenderly in his own. This did not amount to a de- 
 claration of love, but it much resembled it. 
 
 Three days after this conversation, Reginald, who- 
 from time to time, made various pretexts of illness,. 
 so that his nurse might not think of quitting him, 
 was seized in the evening with a violent headache and 
 had gone to bed, and Emma had also gone to lie down 
 on the sofa, when she heard a gentle tap at the door. 
 
 Emma recognized in it the knock of her friend 
 Juliet. Satisfying herself that Reginald was asleep r 
 she decided to go and open. It was indeed Juliet who 
 stood before the door, and who said to her : " I am 
 so troubled at not seeing you. You do not even come 
 to your room to get the things you require, but send 
 always Madame Mouton. Is it because your patient 
 is not getting any better ? or is it because you do not 
 even want me to come in for a moment to talk with 
 you?" . . "Yes, come in, but only on condition 
 that you do not make any noise, for M. Reginald has 
 just gone to sleep; he has a bad headache." . . . 
 " M on Dieu ! keep easy, I am not in the habit of 
 bawling out." Juliet entered the salon, sat down on 
 a chair, and said to Emma : " Now, come near me,, 
 that I may look at you at my leisure. I am troubled 
 at not seeing you as in the past. It seems as if I too- 
 were going to be ill — " . . " My good Juliet ! " . ^ 
 " Yes, your good Juliet, you who have taken up your 
 quarters here, and do not offer to embrace me; and 
 all to become the sick nurse — of a young man ! Mon- 
 Dieu! I know well that you are in love with him — 
 even to madness, and he has not the least suspicion 
 
172 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 of it, the poor boy." . . " Be silent, Juliet, hold 
 your peace." . . " Seeing he is asleep, there is no 
 danger. But no matter: this passion has changed you v. 
 entirely. You have passed days at your window, in 
 order to watch your neighbour, and neglected your work. 
 It grieved you to see that young man deserted by his 
 mistress. This is what I have never been able to 
 ■understand." . . "It means simply that my manner 
 of loving is different from yours." . . "Again, you 
 went to the house of that beastly woman, in order to 
 entreat her to return to M. Reginald." . . " Juliet, I 
 must ask you to be silent." . . " Ah ! this is because 
 I have discovered that your whole conduct is very 
 foolish ; and has resulted in your becoming a sick 
 nurse ! But it must all soon come to an end with this 
 gentleman : the portress tells me, he is now able to 
 .get up a little every day. And yet you remain here ? 
 Do you wish to become his sick nurse for life ? " . 
 " M. Reginald has entreated me not to quit 
 him just yet. After all, am I not mistress of my 
 own actions? At any rate, who has a right to con- 
 trol my actions?" . . " Mon Dieuf do not get 
 angry ; what T have said is intended for your good. 
 In a word, Emma, have you reflected on your conduct? 
 There is one who still has a great interest in you, who 
 loves you, who desires to bestow on you a fortune, to 
 ^ive you an income of twenty thousand francs a year. 
 He himself has told me this. Every day he asks me 
 if I have seen you, whether you will soon return. He 
 is eager to call you his daughter ; for he is your father. 
 Oh! you well know this, and between us, you dare not 
 deny it. Do you then intend always to repulse him ? 
 He gives me the greatest pain and anxiety — poor M. 
 Dauberton. I do not know now what to say to him." 
 ... . "Juliet, I charged you not to speak to me again 
 about this gentleman." . . "I know it, but I had 
 hoped you had reconsidered your decision, for it is 
 most unusual for anyone to refuse a fortune which 
 
CONFIDENCES. 173 
 
 ■somes like this one — quite honestly. Think, then, 
 that if you were rich you would easily find a husband 
 — even him with whom you are in love." . . " My 
 good friend, if I had weakened in my resolution, what 
 you have just said has doubly confirmed me on it. 
 You believe then that it would make me happy to 
 think that a husband would marry me for my money? 
 Ah ! Juliet, you do not know my heart. It loves with 
 passion, but it shall not be given to anyone who does 
 not offer a love equally true, and disinterested." . . 
 ■" Then, my dear friend, you will perhaps have to wait 
 for a long time Since you have decided not to have 
 a father — adieu ! " . . " No, I do not wish to have 
 a father who shamefully abandoned both me and my 
 mother. For she has said to me on that scrap of paper 
 she has left me : " Thy father was without com- 
 passion, never forgive him ! Well, I shall carry out 
 the wishes of my mother." . . . " Oh ! that is 
 different. I have no more to say to you. Only, shall 
 I permit M. Dauberton to continue flattering himself 
 that one day he will be able to call you daughter?" 
 .. . "No, I feel that all this must come to an end; 
 to-morrow I shall visit my room, and I shall then speak 
 to this gentleman." . . "The sooner the better, 
 and I trust thereafter that he will leave me in peace. 
 Adieu ! my dear Emma, you are nevertheless a peculiar 
 girl. Ah ! if a fortune were to fall to my lot, I would 
 perhaps marry Grenouillet, who is most eager to be 
 my husband. But he is such a droll person ! Au re- 
 ■voir, Emma." The two friends embraced each other, 
 after which Juliet departed', and Emma returned to 
 re-assure herself that Reginald was still asleep. The 
 letter's eyes, were firmly closed, too firmly for a man 
 who was actually asleep. 
 
174 A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 
 
 Juliet, in going up stairs to her room, encountered- 
 as usual her neighbour Grenouillet on the way. The 
 so-calied student, has got into such a habit of pro- 
 menading up and down between the first and the fifth 
 floors, that when anyone asks the concierge for him.,. 
 Altamort has only to respond: "You are sure to find 
 him on the staircase ; if he is not there then he is- 
 not in the house." 
 
 One naturally becomes more intimate with people 
 who talk with one every day, and, in the frankness 
 of conversation, Grenouillet having asked Juliet why 
 the gentleman of the first floor always ran after her 
 as soon as he perceived her, and even took the liberty 
 sometimes to knock at her door in the evenings, and 
 that she seemed to have no fear of admitting him for 
 a few minutes, Juliet made answer : "You do not 
 suppose that that gentleman is paying court to me. 
 Poor M. Dauberton ! why do you wish that I should 
 not speak to him, seeing that he comes to me only 
 to learn some news of his daughter ? and seeing that 
 be comes to me with tears in his eyes in order to be 
 informed whether I have seen Emma, whether I know 
 where she is." Such an avowal being made, Juliet wa& 
 obliged to tell the rest, everything which concerned 
 Emma, always under the seal of secrecy, of course. 
 Grenouillet gave vent to a cry of astonishment on 
 bearing that the young girl with the pale countenance 
 was a rich heiress; and said in his heart: "Why is it 
 that I did not pay court to her instead of to Juliet ? " 
 But his surprise was still greater when Juliet informed 
 him that Emma did not wish to be taken for the 
 daughter of M. Dauberton, and that she positively 
 
A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 175 
 
 spurned the brilliant future, which the latter had de- 
 signed for her : "It is a caprice, a mere fad of the 
 young girl," exclaimed Grenouillet ; " but it will not 
 last, she will accept, she must of necessity accept ; 
 that she may become rich in order to do good to her 
 friends, to all those who love her. Ah ! my God, if 
 M. Dauberton, instead of desiring a daughter had only- 
 wished for a son, how eagerly I would have embraced 
 the chance. How I would have proved to him my 
 filial devotion! All the more, as I am not very sure 
 of being the son of my father. But chance never 
 does things by halves." 
 
 Grenouillet, who knew that Juliet had gone again 
 to speak to Emma, awaited, with eager impatience, 
 her return, and when he descried her coming in the 
 distance, he called out to her: "Well, it is all arranged.,. 
 is it not? She accepts the handsome fortune that has 
 been offered to her. She is going to roll in wealth, 
 and will stand us choice dinners." . . . " By no 
 means, my dear sir; she refuses more than ever, and 
 is coming here to-morrow to tell M. Dauberton thatv 
 he is mistaken, and that she is not his daughter." «. 
 . " Well, then, if she would only give me her little 
 medallion, I would tatoo my left arm and would per- 
 suade M. Dauberton that he had been deceived as to 
 the sex, and that I am the infant he rejected." . . 
 "Hold your tongue, you rascal; such a joke as this 
 would be in bad taste." . . "No, on the contrary, 
 it would be admirable. What would be the harm of 
 me enriching myself, when this young lady does not* 
 want to be ? It would do harm to no one." 
 " About your age ; you are at least ten years older 
 than Emma. Do you imagine that M. Dauberton 
 would be so easily taken in?" . . "Ah! bigrel I 
 did not think of that ! Then I can only propose to 
 him to adopt me." 
 
 About two o'clock on the following afternoon, Emma, 
 visited her room, and M. Koch, who had seen her enter 9> 
 
176 A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 
 
 hastened to ascend to the tenant of the first floor, whose 
 orders he still remembered. He called out to him be- 
 fore he had even entered the apartments : " Shy the 
 young work girl of the fifth floor, Miss Emma, who 
 has been absent so long, has returned at last ; she is 
 now in her room." M. Dauberton sprang to his feet 
 hurriedly, and exclaimed : " Emma has returned and 
 is now in her room do you say ? " . . " Yes, sir, I 
 am positively sure ; I followed at her heels up stairs." 
 . " Ah ! thanks, thanks ! " saying which M. Dau- 
 berton slipped a five franc piece into the hand of the 
 concierge, who thanked him profusely. 
 
 M. Dauberton hastily left his rooms and ascended 
 to the fifth floor. Arrived there he was obliged to stop 
 and knock. His heart beat violently, a secret dis- 
 quietude disturbed his great joy. He recalled the 
 coldness, the unaimable tone with which Emma had 
 always responded to him, but he said to himself: "She 
 had then no suspicion she was speaking to her father ; 
 to-day she will be changed."- He at length decided 
 to knock, but the key being in the door, Emma called 
 out from within for him to enter. M. Dauberton felt 
 himself shudder as he entered that poor garret, occupied 
 so long by his daughter. Emma got up, respectfully 
 saluted him whom she now knew to be her father, and 
 offered him a chair, saying : " Be good enough to take 
 a seat, sir, for 1 have been told, that for a long time 
 you wanted to speak to me." . . "Yes, Miss, Oh, 
 how I have longed to see you, to contemplate you at 
 my leisure ; for you do not know, have no suspicion 
 of all that I have to say to you." . . " Pardon me, 
 sir, I know everything. Juliet, whom I have seen, has 
 told me all." . . " Then, dear child, you know that 
 I am — " . . " I know, sir, that you believe I am 
 your daughter, but this a mistake, you deceive your- 
 self, I am not she you have been searching for." . - 
 "What do you say, Miss? you are not my daughter I 
 when everything proves to me — even the resemblance- 
 
A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 177 
 
 alone you bear to your mother is sufficient to convince 
 me." . . "Kesemblance proves nothing, sir: it is 
 a mere accident ! You saw a mark on my arm, that 
 mark is a burn which I inflicted on myself when I 
 was five or six years of age. It has also been told you 
 that I possess a small glass medallion, which contains 
 a paper on wkich is written the last wishes of my 
 mother. You are again deceived. The medallion only 
 informs me as to the date of my birth." . „ " You, 
 nevertheless, told your intimate friend Juliet some- 
 thing quite different from this." ..." One can 
 sometimes permit oneself to be guilty of a little de- 
 ception, just to make believe that one's mother occupies 
 one's thoughts for a moment." M. Dauberton was 
 dumfounded; he looked at Emma, and sought to read 
 in her countenance what was passing in the bottom 
 of her heart; but the young girl sat composed, and 
 allowed nothing to appear that would discover her 
 secret. Suddenly M. Dauberton exclaimed: "Well, 
 Miss, for my sake, be good enough to shew me that me- 
 dallion, and if I recognise the writing of your mother 
 there can be no doubt that you are my daughter: for 
 this writing can be compared with that of the last 
 letter your mother sent to me and which I still possess." 
 Emma's brow grew dark, she hesitated a moment, then 
 answered in a firm tone: "I will not show you that 
 medallion ; nothing obliges me to do so. I have said 
 all to you I intend to say; this conversation will be 
 the last we shall have together, and I repeat that you 
 must desist speaking of me as your daughter." 
 "Ah! I understand you, Miss," said M. Dauberton in 
 rising and struggling to restrain the tears which choked 
 his voice. " If I had any doubts before, they are re- 
 moved now. At this moment you are putting into 
 execution the last wishes of your mother. She wrote 
 to you : 6 Your father was without compassion : never 
 forgive him!' and you are obliging her. Ah! you are 
 indeed the daughter of Lucia. Adieu, then : you refuse 
 
178 A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 
 
 to recognise me as your father, because I once rejected 
 you as my daughter. The punishment is indeed cruel, 
 but I feel that I merit it. Adieu ! " 
 
 M. Dauberton departed quickly. Emma, for an 
 instant, was on the point of detaining him, but she 
 resisted the emotion. When, however, she was alone, 
 the tears rolled from her eyes. She wiped them away, 
 saying: "I have obeyed the commands of my mother: 
 I was forced to act thus. If M. Dauberton had not 
 lost the children he had by his two wives, he would 
 never have concerned himself about me. I have hence 
 to-day the right to refuse to be called his daughter." 
 
 Emma did not stay long in her room. She hastily 
 returned to the side of Eeginald, who said to her : " If 
 you had stayed much longer away, I should have fallen 
 ill again immediately." The convalescent, who began 
 to walk alone, got up to go where Emma was, and 
 placing himself beside her on the sofa, said : " Your 
 absence appeared to me very prolonged. I suffer when 
 I am not near you." . . " Nevertheless, M. Eegin- 
 ald, I cannot always remain with you, and then — " 
 " First, dear Emma, do not call me Monsieur 
 — that appellation is out of place between us, next, 
 listen to me : I have one more confidence to bestow 
 on you." . . " Indeed ! then give it me quickly." 
 "Do you know, Emma, I want you to marry 
 me ? " . . " You marry me ! " Emma became pale, 
 and made a motion as if she wanted to get up, but 
 Reginald restrained her, and said: "Well, is this the 
 way you listen to me?" . . "Sir, I do not know 
 what is the matter with me ; let me alone." . . . 
 ~"No, not before you have heard what I have to say. 
 Yes, I have met this time the woman who can make 
 me happy. But stay where you are. She is a charm- 
 ing girl. She is nameless, it is true ; but what does 
 that matter ? And just fancy ; she has loved me for 
 a long time ; of that I have no doubt. Poor dear, 
 she loves to the point of watching by my sick bed, 
 
A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 179 
 
 of suffering my pains. To restore to me the love of 
 n mistress who deceived me, she was not afraid to go 
 to the house of the latter, and to supplicate her to 
 return to me." . . t6 Oh, my God, Reginald ! who 
 told you that ? " . . " Finally, when I was foolish 
 enough to fight a duel for that woman and was brought 
 back here wounded, she forsook everything in order to 
 come and sit by my pillow, to watch over me night 
 and day." . . " Keginald, do I understand aright ? 
 Ah ! do you mean that I should die of happiness ? " 
 . . " So late as this morning, she even refused the 
 profers of a man who recognised in her the child whom 
 he had abandoned ; she preferred to remain a poor 
 work girl, in order to be assured of the love of him 
 who now offers her his hand." , . " Mon Dieu ! 
 who has told you all this?" . . "No one told it 
 to me ; but I heard all when Juliet was here, yesterday 
 evening : I was not asleep. Ah ! how glad I am that 
 I listened I Emma, will you be my wife ? " . . . 
 " So much happiness for me ! only think of it, my 
 dear? I have neither name nor future. For just as 
 I told Juliet^ I have refused both." . . "And you 
 did well in that. I have enough to live on without 
 having to work. But I will work, for I love my art 
 passionately. You shall take care of our little house ; 
 you shall make order reign in it, economy; and a good 
 wife who is not a coquette is a treasure to a husband. 
 You wish me well, do you not ? " By way of response, 
 Emma let herself fall into the arms of Keginald, who, 
 for the first time, pressed her tenderly to his heart. 
 For the first time, you understand ? Few marriages 
 have so pleasant a betrothal. 
 
 Eight days after, the tenants of Madame Tournesol 
 learned that young Emma was going to espouse her 
 neighbour, M. Reginald, the composer; there was a 
 chorus of surprise, of cancans, and of reflections more 
 or less stupid. "She constituted herself nurse to the 
 young man," said Altamort Roch. " I know this from 
 
ISO A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 
 
 Madame Mouton, the portress opposite. It was wicked 
 in her to assail the sick man in this way." 
 
 But M. Dauberton, who heard this statement, gripped 
 the concierge firmly by the ear, and said to him : 
 " You are a malignant beast. Be careful what you 
 say of that young girl, who is as respectable as she is 
 disinterested, unless you want to be kicked out of the 
 house. In order to do this, I have only to &./ a word 
 to the son-in-law of Madame Tournesol," From that 
 moment, Altamort spoke no more of Mademoiselle 
 Emma without lifting his cap. 
 
 On the day fixed for the marriage of Reginald and 
 Emma, to which Juliet and Grrenouillet were invited, 
 the young bridegroom received a sealed packet. On 
 opening it it was found to contain a settlement, bear- 
 ing Emma's name, for six thousand francs per annum, 
 and a letter from M. Dauberton, bearing these words : 
 "You know, by what title I make this settlement on 
 your future wife. In the name of her mother I beg 
 you to accept of it, a mother who perhaps would have 
 had compassion on me after my repentance." Regin- 
 ald showed the letter, together with the settlement, 
 to Emma, and said to her : " See this ; what will you 
 do about it ? " " Forgiveness is the grandest virtue of 
 the greatest souls," said Grenouillet. " Do you wish 
 to reduce that poor man to absolute despair," said 
 Juliet. Emma hesitated for a moment, then handing 
 the settlement to her husband, said : " Look here, 
 my dear ; I can now accept, for I am sure that it was 
 not for this that vou married me." 
 
 Grrenouillet whispered in the ear of Juliet : " If she 
 had refused I should never have forgiven her." The 
 day after the marriage he went to M. Dauberton and 
 said : " She will be happy, very happy, dear little 
 Emma. And you may be sure that your splendid pre- 
 sent will not be misused. When one begins house 
 keeping, and when one leaves it off, one can never 
 have to much money, It only remains now to pro- 
 
A YOUNG WOMAN OF CHARACTER. 181 
 
 vide for her darling friend Juliet. She is an excellent 
 young woman — one who loves Emma, and who would 
 go through fire for her. I should like to marry Juliet, 
 but my income only amounts to eighteen hundred 
 francs per annum, while, on her part, she is penniless. 
 In order to marry her one must have a — well it does not 
 matter from what quarter it comes." . . " Monsieur 
 Grenouillet," answered M. Dauberton, « seeing that 
 she has given so many proofs of her attachment, I 
 shall, if you marry her, give her a dot of twenty 
 thousand francs." . . " Ah ! M. Dauberton, your 
 generosity is extreme. It was not with that object 
 that I spoke to you, but, all the same, I accept it in 
 the name of Juliet, and to-morrow the banns shall be 
 published." 
 
 And, as a matter of fact, Juliet, a fortnight later, 
 became Madame Grenouillet ; and what would scarcely 
 be credited is, that once married, this man, so frivolous, 
 so libertine, became exemplary for his prudence, as well 
 as for his economy, an economy which verged on avarice, 
 so much so, that he would stop in the street to pick 
 lip a pin. But rest your eyes once more on Emma 
 and Reginald, a happy couple, loving, faithful. A 
 household, in which the couple never cease to be lovers: 
 a rare occurrence, but sometimes to be met with. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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GEORGETTE. 
 
 BY 
 
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 Xtmtam : 
 
 MATHIESON & CO 
 
GEORGETTE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN INTERIOR — SCANDAL. 
 
 BOUT five o'clock one chilly afternoon, ear^r 
 in the month of April, Monsieur Rudemar, 
 an elderly notary of the neat town of 
 Ramberviiliers. took off his wig and his 
 cravat, untied his waistcoat strings, put on his slippers, 
 seated himself in his large arm-chair before the fire,, 
 bade his housekeeper stir and blow it, stretched out- 
 his arms, yawned, and proceeded to smoke his pipe 
 and make himself particularly comfortable for the 
 remainder of the evening. As the wood blazed and 
 crackled under the influence of the bellows, Monsieur 
 Rudemar first rubbed his hands over the flame, and 
 then extending his legs to the warmth, regarded 
 § them with evident complacency ; to be sure, the 
 o notary had a very well made leg indeed, and if you 
 $ add to that physical possession, good features, bright 
 - black eyes, gentlemanly manners, and a soft, in- 
 -j sinuating voice, you will not be surprised to hear 
 -that, notwithstanding he bad attained his fiftieth 
 
 VOL. I. A 
 
 <7U 
 
-2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 .year, Monsieur Rudemar was considered a prize 
 'worth catching by all the unmarried ladies of a 
 certain age in Rambervilliers. He was a good- 
 iearted, humane man besides, and his charity was 
 proverbial ; one notable proof of it being that he had 
 adopted and was carefully bringing up Georgette, a 
 little girl five years old, whom he called his niece, 
 although some scandalous tongues — for there are even 
 such in country towns — attributed another paternity 
 to the interesting child. 
 
 When the infant was brought home by Monsieur 
 'Hudemar, his household affairs were under the super- 
 intendence of a buxom female named Jacqueline, to 
 "whom he entrusted her, stating that she was the 
 child of his sister, a widow at Nancy, who had died 
 lately, leaving her portionless daughter to his care ; 
 and during Jacqueline's residence with her master, 
 "Georgette was caressed and treated by the house- 
 keeper with an almost maternal solicitude, which 
 Ikindness set scurrilous tongues wagging again, as 
 several lynx-eyed gossips called to mind that, about 
 ilve years before, Jacqueline became uncommonly 
 -«tout, complained of dropsy, and was absent for 
 ^some months for the benefit of her native air. 
 
 And now, readers, you possess all the information 
 T can give you relative to the birth and parentage 
 of my heroine Georgette ; and if you should enter- 
 tain any suspicions as to her legitimacy, you may 
 -:;give free scope to your imagination, for this true 
 Jhistory saith no more upon that subject. 
 
 When Georgette had reached her eighth year, 
 
 ■ Jacqueline died, and her responsibilities and keys of 
 -office descended to the widow Gertrude, a person 
 
 ■ peculiarly fitted for the gay bachelor, being only 
 "thirty-six years old, extremely good-looking, with 
 
 dark eyes and hair, and a well-rounded, voluptuous 
 ^figure, and being also an excellent cook, for Monsieur 
 J&udeinar was strongly attached to the pleasures of 
 
THE SUNDAY DINNER — THE FLIGHT. 3 
 
 the cellar and the table. Unfortunately for Georgette, 
 <xer trade's disposition was not as amiable as her 
 person was attractive ; careless little kindnesses, 
 and all the thousand trivial pleasures so dear to child- 
 Iiood, were given to the winds, for Gertrude, armed 
 w r ith her unsullied reputation as with a shield of 
 proof, had watched the progress of the dropsy with 
 which poor Jacqueline had been afflicted, and con- 
 sequently hated Georgette with all the intensity of 
 virtue. Besides, Gertrude had a daughter, and as she 
 was determined that the notary should bring up her 
 girl alone, she conceived the Christian project of 
 ejecting his niece from his affections, and subse- 
 quently from his house. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs on that Saturday 
 afternoon when Monsieur Rudemar enjoyed himself 
 at his own fireside, as I had the honour of informing 
 you at the commencement of this chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE SUNDAY DINNER — THE FLIGHT. 
 
 When Rudemar had inhaled a few whiffs of the 
 fragrant weed, he removed the pipe from his mouth, 
 puffed gently out a long volume of smoke, and then 
 addressed Gertrude as follows : — 
 
 " Gertrude." 
 
 " Monsieur ? " 
 
 " To-morrow is Sunday, and I have invited Mon- 
 sieur Boullard and his wife, my school-fellow Jerome, 
 his friend Eustache, and my neighbour Tonpin, to 
 -dinner." 
 
 ".Now, what can you want with all these people % 
 
4 GEORGETTE, 
 
 Do you think, Monsieur Rudernar, that I have not 
 enough to do all the week long but I must slave- 
 myself to death — on a Sunday too 1 Dinner parties 
 are very expensive, too, and who of them all does- 
 think of asking you to dine, except Jerome % Ah, he 
 has some consideration for me ! but as for the 
 Boullards, the stingy creatures, you never smelt their 
 kitchen, I know. But I see how it is. Madame 
 Boullard's an angel in your eyes, with her little grey 
 pig's eyes and her sausage nose, with no neck at all,, 
 and her double chin hanging down to her great fat 
 bosom. Ah, me ; how blind men are ! " 
 
 4i Gertrude, you do not know what you are paying." 
 "Oh! don't' I? Do you think I didn't see what 
 you were at the last time she dined here, and how 
 she smiled at you when you let your fork drop pur- 
 posely, and felt her knees underneath the table a* 
 you stooped to pick it up ? Such goings-on ! " 
 " Gertrude, you will make me angry." 
 "And that Eustache, there never was such a busy- 
 body, poking his nose everywhere about the house, 
 and always having something sharp and impertinent 
 to say. But I'll serve him out if ever he comes into- 
 the kitchen again ; and as for neighbour Tonpin, he's* 
 & confirmed drunkard ; everybody knows that. He 
 only comes here to get as much wine as he can. Oh, 
 his drinking, it's disgusting, it's — " 
 
 Without doubt Gertrude would have gone on with a 
 more lengthened list of the dire offences of the invited 
 guests : had she not been interrupted by the entrance 
 of Georgette, bathed in tears, and complaining that 
 she had been beaten by Catherine (Gertrude's petted 
 daughter), whereupon the matron turned her out of 
 the room, ordered her to go to bed in the garret 
 where she slept, boxed her. ears, and told her she- 
 should not have any supper for having dared to 
 complain of dear, sweet Catherine. And Rudernar 
 submitted patiently to the housekeeper's brutal 
 
THE SUNDAY DINNER— THE FLIGHT. 5 
 
 treatment of his niece. The woman had acquired a 
 mastery over him. How, I will not venture to surmise. 
 
 Alas, Georgette ! The poor child sobbed herself to 
 sleep, as had been her constant custom since the 
 death of Jacqueline. Nevertheless, this humble garret 
 was the confidant of our heroine's projects ; she was 
 singularly precocious, quick, intelligent, and cour- 
 ageous, and the result of her reflections, as she lay in 
 bed the following morning, faint for want of food, 
 was that she would run away from the notary's 
 house, in which she had not one moment's peace, and 
 that she would wander through the world, begging 
 her bread, sooner than remain to be the victim of 
 Gertrude's spiteful anger and of Catherine's pinches, 
 ticks, and blows. 
 
 The Sunday morning came in due course. Ger- 
 trude was all anxiety to display her talents to the 
 guests, and especially to Monsieur Jerome ; all the 
 stewpans were on the fire at an early hour, and poor 
 Georgette received strict orders not to leave off 
 turning the spit, whilst Catherine amused herself by 
 dipping her fingers into all the sauces, and doing 
 as much mischief as she could. Jerome, who was 
 .always the first in the field, because by coming early 
 he generally managed to obtain a few minutes' 
 private conversation with Gertrude, was the first to 
 arrive. He shook Rudemar's hand warmly, and bowed 
 gracefully to the housekeeper, but she, in returning 
 his courtesy, so lost her presence of mind that she 
 let a sweetbread she had by chance in her hand, 
 and which was to form a masterpiece of the science 
 of cooking as a side dish, fall into the ashes of the 
 fire. The gourmand Rudemar was in despair, and 
 Gertrude was affected almost to tears at the loss of 
 her chef d'asuvre, but tranquillity was completely re- 
 stored by Jerome producing a splendid turkey, 
 stuffed with truffles, from under his capacious cloak, 
 for Rudemar inspected the points of the bird with 
 
6 GEOKGETTE. 
 
 the acumen of a connoisseur. Gertrude thanked her 
 gossip with a smile, and he, seizing the handle of a 
 frying-pan, professed his willingness to make himself 
 useful in any way he could. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Boullard presented them- 
 selves just before the dinner hour. He was a stout., 
 burly man, whose ideas did not go beyond his trade, 
 and she was precisely such a woman as Gertrude 
 had depicted her in her tirade of the previous- 
 evening, and with them were Eustache and Tonpin,, 
 dressed in their company clothes. On entering t he- 
 notary's drawing-room, Eustache gave his hand to 
 Madame Boullard, who stopped in the doorway to 
 make a profound courtesy to the master of the house,, 
 but unfortunately Tonpin, who was immediately 
 behind Madame, trod upon the flounces of her dress 
 as she bent the knee, and as she rose again, being 
 suddenly checked by his feet, she lost her equilibrium 
 and fell back upon him, who, not being prepared 
 to receive her ponderous weight, succumbed to the 
 shock and fell to the floor, together with the lady,, 
 entirely crushing a large jar of fresh butter which 
 at that moment happened to be under that portion 
 of his body which gravitated quickest to the earth. 
 Neighbour Jerome, hearing the noise, rushed from 
 the kitchen with the frying-pan in his hand, scatter- 
 ing the contents as he ran along, and Monsieur 
 Boullard slipped down over the boiling dripping as- 
 he endeavoured to cover the hidden charms which 
 the fall of his better-half had so unexpectedly re~ 
 vealed to the good company. 
 
 In the midst of the screams and exclamations which 
 the accident produced, Gertrude alone retained her 
 equanimity. She advanced and pulled down Madame- 
 Boullard's petticoats — which the men did not appear 
 in any hurry to do — and then her husband wiped off 
 the dripping from his shoes and trousers ; Tonpin. 
 scraped "off the butter from his seat of honour ^ 
 
THE SUNDAY DINNER — THE FLIGHT. «T 
 
 Jerome gave up tlie frying-pan to Georgette ; all 
 began to laugh and joke, and even Madame Boullard 
 did not seem to regret an occurrence which made all 
 the men more attentive to her, that being in fact 
 an undoubted acknowledgment that they were 
 delighted with the view that had been afforded to 
 them. 
 
 Dinner was served soon afterwards, and pro- 
 nounced excellent ; praises were showered upon 
 Gertrude, who somewhat regained her good-temper 
 through the flattery and the sly looks of neighbour 
 Jerome; witty jokes and funny tales abounded; 
 Rudemar, who was seated next to Madame Boullard,. 
 dropped his fork whenever he thought his house- 
 keeper was not looking at him ; Boullard stuffed: 
 himself with all the good things within his reach * 
 Eustache sang couplets of free-and-easy songs; Tonpin 
 rocked a little on his chair; and all were happy 
 except poor Georgette, who was worried and hurried 
 about waiting on the guests, whilst lazy Catherine 
 ate her dinner comfortably by the kitchen fire... 
 Towards the end of the dessert, when darkness had 
 come on, Tonpin having remarked that the bottles 
 were empty, Gertrude was directed to go into the 
 cellar and fetch up some more wine. Jerome took 
 up a candle to light her, and left the company 
 at table, where Tonpin went to sleep, Boullard 
 continued his masticatory exertions, and Rudemar's 
 fork was continually falling on the floor, until 
 Eustache dryly remarked that Gertrude and Jerome 
 had been away long enough to bring up half-a-dozen 
 hampers of wine, and requested Georgette to see 
 what they were doing in the cellar. 
 
 The girl left the room, but not to execute the 
 order that was given to her ; on the contrary, she 
 thought that the state of things in the house, tho 
 hour of the day, and the moment itself, were favour- 
 able for carrying her long contemplated project into 
 
~8 . GEORGETTE. 
 
 -execution. She ran into the kitchen, filled a small 
 basket with, the remains of the dinner, boxed 
 Catherine's ears soundly for remonstrating at what 
 she was doiog, stepped gently to the cellar door and 
 double-locked it, threw the key into the -well as 
 dae crossed the yard, flew through the house door, 
 and then ran — ran — ran as fast as her legs would! 
 carry her, without thinking whether anybody would 
 take the trouble of running after her. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FARMER JOHN. 
 
 * What are you doing there, my little girl ? " 
 
 i* Resting myself, and eating my breakfast, as you 
 see." 
 
 ** You're early on the road this morning, my dear." 
 
 * That is not to be wondered at, sir : I slept upon 
 It last night." 
 
 " Pooh ! Where are you going to ? " 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 4i Where do you come from ? " 
 
 4( Where I will not go back." 
 
 This brief dialogue took place on the roadside, be- 
 tween Georgette and an open- countenanced, middle- 
 aged man, whose dress announced he was a farmer. 
 The poor girl had ran and walked until fatigue and 
 sleep compelled her to lie down, unconscious where 
 she was going;, and only fearful that she should be 
 caught, taken back, and subjected to Gertrude's ven- 
 geance, and now she was seated on the stump of a 
 tree by a dry ditch, eating her humble breakfast, 
 when she was accosted by the farmer. The good 
 
FARMER JOHN. 9 
 
 man stood before her, watching her with deep atten- 
 tion and growing interest. The singularity of the 
 answers of one so young (for Georgette was only 
 eleven years old), her decided tone of speaking, and 
 the intelligence that sparkled in her eyes, all aston- 
 ished and confounded him ; whilst she took no more 
 notice of the farmer, but continued to eat the pro- 
 visions she had brought with her in the basket. After 
 a short pause, the farmer renewed his questions. 
 
 " What is your name, my dear 1 " he said. 
 
 "•Georgette." 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 "Almost eleven." 
 
 "What can you do?" 
 
 " Read, write, and work." 
 
 " Will you come and live with me f " 
 
 Georgette reflected for a moment, and then said, — 
 
 " Where are you going to ? " 
 
 " To Epinal ; and when I have finished my business 
 there, I shall return to my wife and my farm near 
 Bondy." 
 
 " Is it far from here? " 
 
 " Yes ; but as you are too young to travel so far 
 on foot, we will take the coach to the town where I 
 am going." 
 
 "Ah, shall I ride in a coach 1 ? How delightful ! I 
 will go with you." 
 
 " But, my dear, will not your parents mourn vour 
 loss?" 
 
 " Alas ! monsieur, I never had a father or a mother." 
 
 "In that case, jump up, give me your hand, and 
 we will be off at once." 
 
 Georgette did not wait to be told so twice. She 
 rose as briskly as she could after a night of such 
 unusual fatigue, and was again on the road, holding- 
 her basket with one hand and her conductor with the 
 other ; and whilst they walk along, let us make some 
 farther acquaintance with the honest man. 
 
10 GEORGETTE. 
 
 John was a good man in the fullest acceptation oF 
 the word. Bred a simple farmer near Bondy, he 
 married a young woman named Theresa, in the same 
 station as himself, and they had passed their lives in 
 honest industry until their savings had placed them 
 in competence, the only regret they had ever felt" 
 being that they had not been blessed with offspring. 
 
 As thev walked towards the town where thev were 
 to find the coach, Georgette told the farmer her hi3~ 
 tory, concealing only the name of the town where 
 she had lived, and the good man, feeling convinced 
 by the girl's earnest manner that she had told the 
 truth, and that she had been miserable at her uncle's, 
 determined to take her home, protect her, and dis- 
 charge those parental duties towards her which her 
 relative had so shamefully neglected. The greatest 
 intimacy and confidence was soon established between 
 the travellers. John rejoiced at the idea of having 
 found a child' who would fill up the void that had 
 endured so long in his heart, and smiled to think of 
 the joy with which Theresa would receive Georgette;, 
 whilst the latter was so delighted at being free from 
 the insults and blows of Gertrude and Catherine that 
 she forgot her fatigue, and jumped, and skipped, and 
 gambolled along the road, charming John's heart by 
 her vivacity and the shrewdness of her replies. 
 
 In due time John and his protegee arrived at Epinal r 
 where they did not remain long, for John, being sole 
 heir to the relative whose property he had inherited 
 and went there to receive, had no dispute as to the 
 succession with any other claimant, much to the dis- 
 gust of the legal gentlemen of Lorraine, who under- 
 stand mystifying affairs as well as then comrades in 
 other provinces ; so, having turned the bequest into 
 money, he again took Georgette by the hand, and got 
 into the coach which was to convey them to their 
 home near Bondy. 
 
 " Another coach ! " I think I hear you say, reader. 
 
7V 
 
 THE STAGE-COACH. xl 
 
 And why should I not give you the description of 
 one, notwithstanding I have written twenty or thirty 
 others already? So as the fresh one amuses you, 
 that is all that is wanted. Do we not see in a new 
 piece at the theatre incidents that we have seen in a 
 hundred others % Do we not run after the same 
 balloon ascents, illuminations, and fireworks that we 
 have seen before 1 And do we not behave to a new 
 flame precisely the same as we did to the preceding 
 one ? Manners and habits change continually, but 
 human nature has always been the same since the 
 creation of the world. We eat, we drink, we sleep, 
 make love, and fight ; and therefore I think I may 
 very easily indite another chapter upon that useful 
 vehicle — a stage-coach. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE STAGE-COACH. 
 
 The coach was almost full, and those who occupied 
 it formed such an amusing group, that I must give 
 you, reader, details of the personal appearance of each 
 passenger. On the right-hand back-seat in the inside 
 was a soi-disant countess, whose sixty years did not 
 prevent her from covering her withered cheeks with 
 a thick coating of rouge, dotted with sundry beauty- 
 spots of sticking-plaster. By her side was her fat, 
 pampered spaniel Azor, which she caressed with mater- 
 nal tenderness, and on her knees she bore a large 
 cage containing a parrot, who divided her caresses 
 with the dog. In addition, she read a book, from 
 which she only raised her eyes to give some biscuit 
 to the parrot, and sponge-cake to the dog. Next to 
 
12 GEORGETTE. 
 
 the old lady was a non-commissioned officer, with a 
 careless, open countenance, and beyond him, a pretty, 
 fresh-coloured, plump young woman, holding an in- 
 fant in her arms, whose squalling she appeased by 
 tendering to it a bosom white as snow, to the great 
 horror and indignation of the old Countess, who 
 frowned and snorted, and shook herself, and hid her 
 face behind her fan. 
 
 In front of the young nurse was a man about fifty 
 years of age, with an infinity of red veins meandering 
 all over his face, and an enormous belly protruding 
 beyond his knees. Apparently he had an idea that 
 such a mountain of flesh required extra nourishment, 
 for every quarter of an hour he consumed a bun, wash- 
 ing it down with a draught of cold brandy and water, 
 which he carried in a bottle in his pocket. To the 
 right of this fat man was seated a spare, thin skeleton 
 of a fellow, habited in a black coat, with waistcoat, 
 breeches, and stockings of black silk, with a large 
 cocked hat on his head, the front point of which 
 descended to the very tip of his nose, and carrying a 
 rapier as long as those worn on the stage by Bardolph, 
 the Copper Captain, or any of the Swashbucklers in 
 the ancient comedies ; and Georgette was the fifth 
 passenger, Farmer John having preferred to ride 
 outside with the conductor on his bench upon the 
 roof. 
 
 The first few miles were traversed in almost uni- 
 versal silence, as is generally the case. The old lady 
 read, the soldier smoked his pipe, the nurse suckled 
 the child, the fat man drank his brandy and ate his 
 buns, his thin neighbour did not take his eyes off his 
 rusty sword, and Georgette went to sleep. At length 
 the silence was broken by an altercation between the 
 Countess and the chevr.lier, whose accent at once 
 betrayed his Gascon origin. The lady commenced 
 the dialogue by observing,— 
 
 " Really, monsieur, do take a little more care of 
 
THE STAGE-COACH. 13 
 
 what you are doing. For the last two hours you have 
 done nothing but play with that long spit, very much 
 to my annoyance." . 
 
 " By the bones of Charlemagne, niadame, my friend 
 Duguesclin (it was thus he denominated the sword) 
 has annoyed many others before you." 
 
 " It is very disagreeable ; nor can I see any neces- 
 sity for carrying such a ridiculous weapon as that in 
 a stage-coach." 
 
 "You cannot, ehl Know, madame, that for the 
 thirty years I have been travelling all over the world, 
 Duguesclin has been my constant companion. My 
 great-great-grandfather used it so manfully against 
 the Moors, that the King of Lombardy, in whose army 
 he was then serving, offered to make him Commander- 
 in-Chief of his artillery. From that time to the present 
 our family have not derogated from their old habits, 
 and when I was ten years old, I could use this weapon 
 as skilfully as I can now." 
 
 Being unable to contravene these assertions, the 
 old lady resumed her reading, when the soldier, in 
 changing the position of his legs, touched the spaniel 
 dog, who began to yelp and growL The Countess 
 looked at the man as if she could eat him, dropping 
 the parrot, who forthwith began to scream ; the child. 
 frightened at the noise, added his melody to the con- 
 cert, and the young woman burst into a fit of laughter, 
 which exasperated the old lady more and more. 
 
 " Take care, sir," she cried ; " you will kill my poor 
 dear Azor." 
 
 " To the devil with your dog and your parroquet,. 
 madame ; you have no business with the brutes inside 
 a coach." 
 
 " They eat more than they are worth," murmured 
 the fat man. 
 
 "Oh, the sweet dear is hurt, I am sure, and poor 
 Polly does not speak a word. Azor! Polly I are you 
 not almost killed, my pretty loves ? " 
 
14 GEORGETTE. 
 
 " Here's a precious row," quoth the corporal ; " the 
 child is the quietest of, the three." 
 
 " Indeed you are too good, sir," exclaimed the 
 nurse. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear ; I would not exchange my 
 seat by your side on any account." 
 
 " You must be very comfortable, indeed " — it was 
 the Gascon who spoke — " Venus by the side of 
 Mars ! " 
 
 " What's that you say 1 " 
 
 " Merely a figure of speech." 
 
 " Then keep your figures to yourself, and make no 
 impertinent remarks, or, in spite of your long spit 
 
 which is of as much use as a wet cartridge to a 
 
 soldier — I may chance to pull your lanky nose ! " 
 
 The Gascon pretended not to hear, put his head 
 out of the window, and made an inward vow not to 
 speak of the heathen mythology to persons who 
 were not acquainted with the subject. 
 
 Another silence ensued, which was broken by the 
 corpulent individual asking the Countess whether it 
 was a cookery book she was perusing with so much 
 attention. 
 
 " No, monsieur," she replied ; " books that treat of 
 sensual luxuries possess no charms for me. It is a 
 romance by Mistress Radcliffe, and I have just come 
 to a very interesting part where the heroine leaves 
 her chamber, when the bell strikes one, to seek the 
 northern tower." 
 
 " Don't you think, now, that the young lady would 
 be much better in bed at that time of night than 
 wandering about by herself? " 
 
 " In bed ! Sleep ! Who ever heard of such a 
 thing % Know that she is the tender victim of a 
 vile, barbarous oppressor. Do you suppose that a 
 heroine like her sleeps just the same as a cornmoD 
 shop-girl ? " 
 
 "To be sure: I thought all women were made alike.* 
 
THE STAGE-COACH. 15 
 
 "Ah, dear me I It shows you know nothing about 
 romances. Learn that the young ladies in them 
 traverse dismal caves in the dark watches of the 
 night without the slightest fear, that they pass 
 whole weeks occupied with their love, and never 
 give a moment's thought to vulgar eating and drink- 
 ing ; that, hotly pursued by brutal lovers, who would 
 forcibly possess their charms, they are frequently 
 surprised fast asleep, and yet they escape as pure 
 virgins as they were before ; and you must learn — 
 Oh, heavens, what a stench ! " 
 
 The infant broke in upon the old lady, when in full 
 career, by an accident common to his age ; the nurse 
 proceeded to make all right, the soldier puffed away 
 at his pipe, the fat man took, at least, half-an-ounce 
 of snuff, the Gascon held his nose, and the Countess 
 proposed in a fury that the child should be placed 
 on the roof of the coach, which brought down an 
 angry remark from the nurse that her ladyship had 
 done the same thing sixty-five years previously. 
 
 The Countess could not speak. " Sixty-five years" 
 liad effectually stopped her mouth, so she s"ighed, 
 turned up her nose spitefully, caressed her dog, and 
 resumed her book ; and whilst the young woman 
 looked languishingly at the corporal and trod upon 
 iiis toes — and he swore the infant was as sweet as a 
 nut, which asservation the Gascon supported, having 
 decided in his own mind to think just as the soldier 
 3id — the coachman's whip cracked smartly, and the 
 cumbrous vehicle rolled into the yard of the inn at 
 Metz, where the travellers were to sup and pass the 
 night 
 
JS 1V GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER V 4 
 
 THE INN. 
 
 "ROUSE up, >ry dear," cried Farmer John, taking 
 Georgette by the arm to help her out of the coach. 
 
 " Are we at home now? " 
 
 "No, but we sup here." 
 
 " So much the better, for I am hungry." 
 
 " That child is no fool," said the fat man. 
 
 " Here, conductor, take care of this cage. TVhere 
 is my Azor ? oh, I fear I shall lose him ! Now mind, 
 you are hurting the bird ! " 
 
 " Here's a fuss about the animals! If you'd said 
 you were going to bring a menagerie with yOu y 
 madame, vou would not have been allowed to take a 
 place in the coach. 7 ' 
 
 The old lady pestered the conductor to take the 
 utmost care of her dog and bird whilst she got out 
 of the carriage, until the man's patience was com- 
 pletely worn out, and he tossed Azor amongst the 
 luggage on the hall floor. The pampered brute be- 
 gan to yelp, and his cries reaching the ears of his- 
 mistress as she stood on the step descending care- 
 fully, holding on by one hand, and having the bird- 
 cage in the other, she made no doubt but that some 
 dreadful accident had happened to it, and strove to 
 hasten to its succour ; but unfortunately, in her 
 hurry, her dress was caught by the hinges of .the 
 door, and as she stepped back quickly, she was effec- 
 tually prevented from reaching the ground, remain- 
 ing, with regard to her lower extremities, in a very 
 primitive condition. The position of the old lady 
 was certainly the reverse of pleasant. In her fright 
 she let the bud -cage drop. The cries of Azor 
 pierced her ears and filled her with alarm as to the 
 
THE INN. \J 
 
 dog's pitiful situation. She could bear her fate no. 
 longer, and making a vigorous effort and pulling at, 
 her dress, the stuff gave way and she fell heavily on 
 the cage, when, misery of miseries, the poor parrot 
 was smashed beneath her weight, and, dying, struck 
 with all his force at her aggressive seat of honour. She 
 cried out lustily, and the other passengers feared that 
 she was hurt ; the soldier and the Gascon, running to 
 her, raised her from the ground. The latter pulled 
 the dead creature from the offended part, and the 
 former observed, laughing till his eyes ran over, that 
 it was the first time he had ever seen a clyster ad~ 
 minstered through the medium of a parrot's beak. 
 
 Let us leave the Countess mourning over the re- 
 mains^ of Polly, whom, she declared, she would have 
 stuffed^ and follow Georgette, who was comfortably- 
 seated in the coffee-room by the side of a handsome, 
 gentlemanly-looking youth, about fourteen years of 
 age,whose style and manners announced that he had 
 received an excellent education, and already moved 
 m good society. Intimacy is speedily formed be- 
 tween young persons, especially if there is any 
 similarity of talent and disposition ; so in this in- 
 stance the youth was struck with the sprightiiness 
 of Georgette, and the quaintness of her replies to his*, 
 remarks, and she was delighted with the elegance 
 and aristocratic bearing of her temporary companion. 
 
 Charles was the only son of the Marquis de 
 Merville, a French nobleman, who, after having made 
 the tour of Europe — as was then the custom — married 
 an amiable young lady for whom he did not care a 
 button, and retired from the gay world of Paris, to. 
 reside at the family mansion in Lorraine. The 
 Marquis had some very singular ideas: amongst 
 others, he believed that, in order to be completely 
 happy, a man must meet a woman destined by Fate- 
 to be his marital companion ; that an innate sym- 
 pathy would make them known to each other ; that 
 VOL. I, B 
 
>i8 GEORGETTE. 
 
 love would spring up at first sight in their hearts, 
 «nd that they would be imbued with the same tastes, 
 desires, and pursuits. Full of this visionary idea, the 
 Marquis de Merville wandered throughout Europe, 
 .galloped over a part of Asia, and travelled into a 
 portion of the New World, seeking the fair, imaginary 
 Ijeing whom Destiny had allotted to him ; but as he 
 happened to be uncommonly ugly, no woman fell in 
 love with him at first sight, and he returned to his 
 native land, where, just like any other ordinary 
 mortal, he wooed and won Adrienne de Valencourt, 
 and Charles was the only fruit of their reasonable 
 union. This youth inherited a few of his father's 
 eccentricities with his mother's virtues and sweet 
 "temper : susceptible and giving way to first im- 
 pressions, of a confiding disposition, and soon attach- 
 ing himself to whomsoever pleased him, he needed 
 all his mother's excellent advice to make him dis- 
 tinguish the difference between a passing frivolous 
 <caprice and a real firm attachment. 
 
 At eight years of age, Charles was sent to a public 
 school in Paris, passing the vacation, as a matter of 
 course, with his parents, and so it happened that, 
 t)eing on one of his annual visits to the chateau in 
 Xorraine, attended by an old servitor of the family, 
 who invariably came up to the capital and acted as 
 Iris valet on the journey home, Charles found himself 
 -chatting with Georgette in the country inn. As I 
 said before, eleven years of feminine and fourteen 
 ;years of masculine age soon become exceeding in- 
 timate. The young folks recounted their history to 
 each other. Georgette told Charles all that had 
 •occurred to her, and then, acting as the veritable 
 -daughter of Farmer John, she took upon herself to 
 :invite Charles to come and see her at the farm near 
 Sondy, which he promised faithfully to do, as soon 
 &s he should be able. When they had reached thus 
 dar in their confidential communications, their tete-a- 
 
THE INN. 19 
 
 i&te was interrupted by the entrance of the other 
 travellers ; upon which Charles left for his own 
 room, telling Georgette he would be up early to wish 
 her "farewell" on the morrow. 
 
 Thanks to the superintendence of the stout tra- 
 veller, who was a wealthy grazier, a capital supper 
 was served at the moderate price — as announced by 
 the host. — of five shillings a-head. The amount ap- 
 peared rather too expensive to the nurse, who had 
 •some doubts about sitting down to it ; but they were 
 removed by the Gascon and the soldier stating they 
 never allowed ladies to pay in their company, and all 
 then placed themselves merrily at table, with the ex- 
 ception of the old lady, whose grief for the death of 
 Polly had taken away her appetite. 
 
 The travellers did honour to the supper ; the Gas- 
 con, who professed that he seldom took any, acquitted 
 himself marvellously well, and even surpassed the 
 retired grazier in speed, until the latter, furious at 
 seeing that the Son of the South secured all the 
 • superior morsels in the dishes, nearly choked himself 
 in his attempts to overtake his lathy comrade, and 
 once would infallibly have passed into the other world, 
 had it not been that the smart, bright-eyed servant- 
 girl rubbed his enormous paunch, and Farmer John 
 struck him a number of blows on the back almost 
 violent enough to fell an ox. The Gascon, having 
 satisfied his appetite at last, his gastronomic adver- 
 sary ate more tranquilly, and the hilarity became 
 general, many jokes being uttered with respect to the 
 accident that had befallen the poor Countess. When 
 the meal was finished, the wine circulated freely, 
 and the party broke into little groups. The soldier 
 became very ardent with the nurse, who lent a will- 
 ing ear to his compliments. The grazier, who, when 
 he was full, had a decided tendency towards the 
 amorous, ogled, and winked at, and chattered to tha 
 servant, a young, fresh, cherry - lipped brunette, 
 
20 GEORGETTE. 
 
 strongly-built, but well enough shaped for a manwho 
 did not object to an armful of joy; and the Gascon 
 was the only quiet person present except Georgette 
 and Farmer John, who were fast asleep when the 
 landlord came to say the beds were ready. All the 
 travellers rose, took their lights, exchanged f ' Good- 
 night," whispered in each other's ears, and retired to 
 their rooms. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 THE NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 
 
 Profound silence reigned throughout the house at 
 midnight, and all the inmates seemed to be wrapped 
 in peaceful slumber, but, like the autumnal atmo- 
 sphere, this treacherous repose was only the precursor 
 of a fearful storm. Georgette slept as a child eleven 
 years old always sleeps after a long day's ride, and 
 Farmer John like a man with a pure conscience and 
 a heart devoid of care. 
 
 At the very "witching hour when churchyards 
 yawn, and graves give up their dead," an amorous- 
 tom-cat, who filled the whole neighbourhood with his- 
 caterwauling, was promenading on the roof of the 
 inn awaiting the forthcoming of the lady of his love, 
 immediately above the window of the landlord's room, 
 and close by the side of the skylight which looked 
 into the attic where the female servant slept, and 
 which, consequently, was directly over her master's 
 chamber. P era d venture the landlord, a fine young 
 man, who, by-the-by, was married to a woman as 
 blind as a bat, and many years older than himself, 
 had arranged that the girl should sleep where she 
 did, that he might pay her occasional visits during: 
 
THE NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 21 
 
 the repose of his better-half, but however that may 
 be, our tale at present treats only of the cat. 
 
 Now "Tom" had not been long at the appointed 
 rendezvous before he heard some responsive wau- 
 lings from the bottom of the yard, and recognising 
 the voice of his belle, he descended precipitately, 
 when, unfortunately, his talons lost their hold, and 
 slipping on to the skylight, his weight broke one of 
 the panes of glass, and he fell through it upon the 
 garret floor. At that moment the landlady was 
 wide-awake — contrary to her usual custom" — and 
 very much to the chagrin. of her young husband, who 
 had perceived at supper the winks, and nods, and 
 telegraphic signs that had been going on between 
 the fat grazier and the servant-girl, and had deter- 
 mined to ascertain whether his suspicions as to their 
 intentions were well founded. His wife's watchful- 
 ness, pinchings, coaxings, and ticklings, had become 
 almost unendurable, when the noise of the cat's fall 
 and the breaking of the glass resounded over their 
 heads, and the landlord availed himself of it as an 
 excuse to jump out of bed. 
 
 " Where are you goiog, dear ? " she exclaimed, in a 
 reproachful tone. 
 
 " Darn it, didn't you hear that infernal noise over- 
 head 1" 
 
 " Yes, dear ; no doubt it is Fanchette, who has got 
 ■out of bed in the dark, and thrown down a chair." 
 
 "Fanchette! yes, like enough, but she could not 
 make all that row by herself! There must be some- 
 one with her, and I'll soon see who it is." 
 
 "But, my love — " 
 
 But "my love" was far away before the good 
 lady's sentence was concluded, and as she again laid 
 her head upon the pillow in no very amiable mood, 
 her : gay husband ascended the short staircase like a 
 madman, and soon stood at the half-opened garret 
 door. Curbing his passion, and thinking to surprise 
 
22 GEORGETTE. 
 
 the sportsman who dared to trespass on his manor ? 
 he advanced on tip-toe into the room, and felt some- 
 thing try to pass between his legs, and then closing 
 them quickly to prevent the contemplated object, he 
 received an energetic scratch from the cat's talons in 
 his calves, and thereupon he threw them wide apart 
 with an oath, and left the road free to the animal^ 
 who dashed down the stairs in a paroxysm of affright. 
 
 The landlord, cursing the cat and rubbing his- 
 injured legs, groped his way to the girl's bed, which 
 was empty, and whilst he sat down upon it, twirling 
 in his hands a smart bamboo-cane which he had 
 brought with him, and pondering how he should 
 punish the servant and her lover, the door was- 
 pushed open, and he could just distinguish, by the 
 faint light of the waning moon, a man undressed to* 
 his shirt. As the stranger advanced cautiously, he 
 said, in a honeyed tone, — 
 
 " Are you there, my darling f " to which the land- 
 lord replied, making his voice as soft as possible, — 
 
 " Yes, love, I've been waiting a long while for you.' y 
 
 " Bless me, Fanchette, there must have been some 
 mistake ; I was quite tired of waiting for you in the 
 coach-house, where you said you would meet me, and 
 so I came to this room where you told me you slept. 
 I have had great difficulty in finding it, but now that 
 I am with you, my angel, I shall be happy." 
 
 Uttering these words, the amorous grazier threw 
 himself upon the bed, but instead of meeting the 
 caresses of his Dulcinea, received a shower of blow® 
 from the infuriated Boniface. Astounded with this 
 reception — so different to what he had anticipated — 
 he ran out of the room bawling "murder," rushed 
 down the staircase, followed by the landlord playing 
 away unmercifully on his shoulders, threw the whole 
 weight of his body against the first door he came to, 
 banged it behind him, and thanked heaven for hav- 
 ing delivered him from his assailant. 
 
THE NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 2S 
 
 The latter, however, had no intention of further 
 pursuing the discomforted grazier, being satisfied 
 with the vengeance he had taken ; but he deter- 
 mined, in consequence of what he had heard, to go 
 to the coach-house, which was, in fact, only a large 
 shed near the garden, filled for present convenience 
 with trusses of hay and straw, where he expected 
 to find the fickle, false Fanchette. Having passed 
 quickly to his own room and slipped on a pair oi 
 trousers, he came out again, and on his way to the 
 yard met several travellers, who had left their beds- 
 to ascertain the cause of the grazier's cries ; but he 
 pretended not to be in the least aware whence they- 
 proceeded, and saying he thought there must be 
 thieves about the premises, solicited his guests to 
 arm themselves, and then take some flambeaux, and 
 in the first instance search the outhouses and yard 
 This proposition being deemed advisable, most of the 
 inale inmates accompanied the landlord to the yard : 
 but as they crossed it, under his direction, towards 
 the coach-house, their attention was attracted by the 
 low sounds of a human voice issuing from out a well 
 without any external defence except a dwarf wall,, 
 not more than eighteen inches high, about ten yards- 
 from the shed. 
 
 As there could not be any doubt that some unfor- 
 tunate person had accidentally fallen into the well 
 
 which luckily was not deep— one of the ostlers got 
 into the large bucket attached to the windlass by 
 a stout rope, and was lowered down, carrying & 
 lantern with him ; but he had hardly been in the 
 well two minutes before he called out to those above 
 to haul away, which they did, lifting a much heavier 
 weight than they let down ; and on the bucket again 
 making its appearance, all were astonished to see 
 the gallant ostler supporting the corporal in his 
 arms, half dead with fright and cold. The landlord 
 shrugged his shoulders r not knowing what to make 
 
24: GEORGETTE. 
 
 of the occurrence ; and whilst some of the people 
 ■robbed the soldier to restore the circulation of his 
 blood, the former proceeded to the coach-house, ac- 
 companied by the more curious individuals of the 
 group. Not a sound was heard as they walked into 
 the shed ; the landlord thought Franchette, having 
 heard the noise, and seeing the lights, had secretly 
 withdrawn herself, and he was about to do the same, 
 when he perceived something white under a truss of 
 iiay. Advancing softly towards the object, it assumed 
 the appearance of a woman's shift, and then — the 
 •hay and straw being thrown aside — the servant and 
 the young nurse lay revealed in that simple but charm- 
 ing attire in which, ladies generally pass the night ! 
 
 Trembling — not with cold, for they were well 
 nigh smothered under the hay, but with shame and 
 rage — the two women rose, and hiding their charms 
 as best they could, ran away to regain their own 
 rooms, and the travellers and servants were crossing 
 the yard leisurely to re-enter the inn, speculating on 
 the causes of the two singular spectacles they had 
 beheld, when shouts were heard at the top of the 
 stairs, and immediately afterwards, the old Countess 
 was seen descending in her night-dress, with Azor 
 and the defunct parrot in her arms, bawling, 
 ~ u Murder, fire, rape ! " 
 
 " Rape, my dear lady," all the men exclaimed at 
 once; (i surely you must have dreamed it; nobody 
 would ever think of such a thing with you ! " 
 
 * Oh, no, indeed, I have not been dreaming, gentle- 
 man, I assure you. A man — a man with nothing on 
 but his shirt, burst into my room, and threw himself 
 upon my bed, but Providence preserved my virtue. 
 I awoke and jumped out of bed, or, no doubt he 
 would have taken advantage of my sleep to effect 
 liis fiendish purposes, and with the greatest difficulty I 
 -east off his grasp, and succeeded in escaping from 
 the room. Oh ! oh ! oh I " 
 
THE NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 25 
 
 More surprised than ever that any man should 
 iiave been urged by the demon of libidinousness to an 
 attack upon the ugly, antiquated lady, the guests 
 were about to ascend to the Countess's chamber in 
 order to assure themselves of the fact, when repeated 
 knocks were heard at the great gate of the inn, and 
 on its being opened, a detachment of police marcher! 
 in, escorting the Gascon chevalier, with a small 
 packet underneath his arm. The sergeant, address- 
 ing himself to the landlord, said that as he was 
 going his rounds he saw a man letting himself down 
 the side wall of the house with a bundle under his 
 arm, which, being a most suspicious circumstance, in- 
 duced him to watch him ; the man on reaching the 
 .ground looked all round him, and seeing no one near 
 was walking swiftly away, when the sergeant took 
 him into custody, whereupon the Gascon rubbed his 
 eyes and said he was a somnambulist, and was in the 
 habit of walking in his sleep at night without being 
 aware of it. Under those circumstances he had 
 brought him back, and would detain him until it 
 •should be ascertained whether anything had been 
 •stolen from the house. The Gascon threw himself 
 into a passion on hearing the imputation of his being 
 a robber; but as there appeared in his bundle no- 
 thing that did not belong to him, the sergeant of 
 police released him, advising the landlord when next 
 he should have a somnambulist in his house, to make 
 him pay his bill before he went to bed, for fear he 
 should rise ready dressed in his sleep, and walk 
 away for good. 
 
 On the departure of the police, order was perfectly 
 restored. While the explanation of the Gascon's ar- 
 rest was going on, the servant, the soldier, and the 
 nurse had retired to their respective rooms ; the self- 
 styled chevalier did the same, having promised not to 
 walk in his sleep any more that night, and the old 
 lady was escorted to hers, where, strange to say, no 
 
2Q GEORGETTE. 
 
 body was to be found, and she was advised to submit^ 
 quietly to the next attempt upon her chastity, which 
 her counsellors thought was not likely to occur, seeing. 
 that the age of miracles is passed. And now that all 
 are buried in deep sleep, let us see how all these singu- 
 lar events occurred. 
 
 In the first place, the servant-girl had yielded to 
 the grazier's importunities, and pointed out her bed- 
 room to him ; but then recollecting that her master's 
 chamber was close to hers, she gave him an assigna- 
 tion in the coach-house, where she thought they should 
 be undisturbed. By the merest chance, the same spot 
 was selected by the soldier and the nurse for their 
 rendezvous, and both the women had proceeded 
 thither in a costume from which it might be fairly 
 inferred they would not have driven their swains to 
 commit any rash act from their cruelty, and whilst 
 they waited, the Gascon overhauled the state of his- 
 finances, and finding that he could neither pay for 
 his supper nor his coach-hire, he Cxought the best step 
 he could take would be to be off in the darkness of 
 the night, and was carrying his scheme into execution 
 when he was arrested by the police. 
 
 Now Satan — or by what other name the spirit thai? 
 loves to derange the projects of mankind may be 
 called — took it into his head to frustrate ail these 
 very convenient Paphian arrangements. The grazier 
 arrived first at the shed, and becoming tired . at 
 Fanchette's not meeting him according to promise,, 
 climbed the stairs and went to her chamber, where 
 he was welcomed by the landlord as we have seen ; 
 but scarcely had he left when Fanchette, who had 
 descended by another staircase, came upon the scene, 
 and hid herself beneath the straw. At the end of a 
 quarter of an hour the door was opened by the nurse, 
 who came to fulfil her promise to the stalwart cor- 
 poral, and the situation of the two young women be- 
 came exceedingly ridiculous. The last comer, after 
 
THE NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 27 
 
 gently shutting the door, listened for some sound, 
 and hearing the breathings of the servant, was con- 
 vinced that her lover was there, and lay down upon 
 the hay, surprised at his not coming to her, and re- 
 solving not to commence the conversation ; whilst 
 Fanchette, conceiving the nurse was the fat grazier, 
 was perfectly astounded at his cold behaviour. 
 
 Whilst the women were pouting in the shed, and 
 inwardly reproaching their lovers' cowardly stupidity, 
 the Gascon came quietly down the stairs, when, as 
 he was crossing the yard to the outer gates, the 
 soldier, who was half-blinded by his potations at the 
 supper-table, caught hold of him by the skirt of the 
 coat, thinking in the dark it was the nurse, and asked 
 him if all was right. The chevalier, seeing the state 
 of affairs, answered in the affirmative in a feigned 
 voice, and bidding the soldier follow him, ran off as 
 fast as he could; but the latter, in attempting to do 
 so, reeled and stumbled against the abutments of the- 
 walls, the pumps, and the horse-troughs in the yard, 
 and finally fell into the well, where he was almost 
 drowned from his inability to help himself, at the 
 time his groans were heard by the landlord and his 
 men. 
 
 The only occurrence that remains to be explained 
 is the fright of the old lady, caused by the grazier 
 taking refuge in her room, from which he escaped so 
 goon as she left it, and regained his own. Such be- 
 ing the case, and all the travellers in bed, we will 
 proceed to the further relation of this faithful history. 
 
:28 GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 DEPARTURE FROM THE INN, AND ARRIVAL AT TEE FARM. 
 
 Our little heroine and her protector were the only- 
 two persons in the hotel during that eventful night 
 who did not quit their beds, but continued quietly to 
 sleep, and, as a natural consequence, they were the 
 first up and dressed in the morning. 
 
 When Farmer John entered the coffee-room, he 
 was surprised to find it empty, and was about to 
 mount to his chamber again when he met the chevalier 
 coming down the stairs as gently as if he were tread- 
 ing upon eggs. The Gascon appeared by no means 
 content at seeing the farmer, but quickly recovering 
 himself, proposed a short turn in the country before 
 breakfast, to which the good man acceded ; but on 
 their proceeding to the garden to pass through it 
 to the fields, the gate, which had been open on the 
 preceding evening, was firmly locked. The face of 
 the chevalier lengthened at least two inches on en- 
 countering this obstacle ; then, stroking his enormous 
 moustachios, and thinking for a moment, he bowed 
 to John, turned upon his heel, and walked towards 
 the house, saying he would wait in his own room 
 until the other travellers came down. 
 
 Shortly afterwards the whole of the inmates were 
 on foot, and on their meeting in the public room, each 
 looked askance and knowingly at their companions, 
 and put searching questions as to the diverting oc- 
 currences of the night. The servant-girl ran out of 
 the room the instant after she had placed the break- 
 fast things upon the table ; the grazier hobbled in. 
 leaning upon a thick stick, and appearing ten years 
 older than he was when he went to bed ; the corporal 
 turned his back upon the company, and smoked away 
 
DEPARTURE FROM THE INN, ETC. 29 
 
 without speaking a single word ; the nurse did not 
 take her eyes from off the baby; the old lady looked 
 anxiously into the face of every male, striving to dis- 
 cover the one who had been stricken with her charms ; 
 Georgette sighed to be again upon the road; and 
 after a hasty, cheerless meal, all felt relieved when 
 the conductor entered and stated he was ready to 
 depart. As the passengers took their seats in the 
 coach, Charles de Merville took his farewell of Georg- 
 ette, then sprang into his saddle, kissed his hand 
 gallantly to her, and cantered off. 
 
 At the moment that the conductor had directed 
 the coachman, to proceed he missed the Gascon, and 
 began to swear at and call him, but in vain; the 
 landlord — who had not been paid — also became un- 
 easy at the prolonged absence of his lodger, and 
 commenced a general search throughout the inn, 
 when on visiting the chamber where the chevalier 
 had reposed, the immediate locality of the fire-place 
 was found to be in great disorder, the hearth and 
 the hobs being covered with soot, the garrets and 
 the roof were subsequently inspected, and there 
 they discovered the redoubtable weapon of the 
 descendant of the great conqueror of the Moors 
 driven into the mortar between a course of bricks, 
 from which it was deduced that the braggart had let 
 himself down by means of a rope, and escaped pay- 
 ing his coach fare and his tavern bill. 
 
 The coach then rolled heavily away, and no event 
 of consequence took place until the cumbrous vehicle 
 arrived at Bondy, where Georgette and John bade 
 their fellow-passengers farewell, and proceeded to 
 his happy, humble, hospitable roof. 
 
30 GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 TEE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 Nothing more charms the eye, nothing more invigror- 
 ates the achmg senses and calms the troubled mind 
 than the view of a smiling fertile landscape. The gor- 
 geous spectacle of the rising sun is so often beheld by 
 the peasantry, that they do not appreciate its beauty 
 — therefore they lose one enjoyment ; and again there 
 are some persons of such an atra-bilious temperament, 
 that they see everything with a jaundiced eye, and 
 their melancholy invests every object with a sombre 
 hue ; but these are exceptions to the general rule. 
 Assuredly I should not advise a mother who had lost 
 her one loved child to bury herself in the shades of a 
 deep forest, nor would place a man smitten with 
 affliction in a solitary dell ; but in an ordinary view, 
 the valleys gemmed with variegated flowers, the 
 nodding woods, and the fields whereon are seen 
 the flocks of peaceful sheep, the lowly shepherd's 
 hut and labourer's cot, all these scenes convey a 
 sensation of delight every varying and always new. 
 
 The house of the kind-hearted farmer was situated 
 at a short distance from the village, in a lovely 
 -valley surrounded with a landscape pushing into 
 verdure under the genial influence of an early 
 spring, and bordered with a forest whose mighty 
 oaks were again budding into life. John felt the 
 warm blood circulate more quickly through his 
 veins as he again beheld his modest habitation. 
 
 " See you, my child," he exclaimed, in a voice 
 trembling with emotion, "see you that low, long, 
 white house, almost embosomed amongst the chestnut 
 trees ? It is there that we are goino- : it is there that 
 I nave lived for fifty years, happy and contented 
 
THE FARM-HOUSE. 31 
 
 *' What, father ! in that melancholy - looking 
 house?" 
 
 " Yes, my child ; but I assure you there is not 
 any melancholy there. I have been married for 
 many years to an admirable wife ; our greatest 
 pleasure is to be together, and, believe me, when 
 "that is the case, there is no melancholy in any house. 
 But come, Georgette, walk faster with me, and let 
 us surprise the old woman with the sight of you." 
 
 One of England's noblest poets has written : — 
 
 a 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark, 
 
 Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 
 'Tis sweet to knoAV there is an eye will mark 
 
 Our coming, and grow brighter when we come . . J 1 
 
 Such were the feelings of the good farmer as he 
 approached his dwelling. As he entered the trim 
 .garden-path that led up to the house, a noble dog 
 -sprang, barking furiously, from his kennel, then, 
 recognising his master at a glance, he bounded for- 
 ward, gambolling round and round him, and changing 
 his note to a glad short whining yelp, until Theresa, 
 coming out to ascertain the reason of his joy, threw 
 herself into her kind husband's longing arms. In 
 an instant the master's arrival was known through- 
 out the homestead; the women came running from 
 -the poultry-yard, the dairy, and the kitchen, and 
 the men from the ricks, the stables, and the barns, 
 all giving free scope to the unmitigated pleasure 
 which their master's safe return inspired. Happy 
 are those who, like Farmer John, are surrounded by 
 -affectionate and grateful hearts ! 
 
 When the first ebullitions of affection subsided, 
 Theresa inquired who Georgette was, to which John 
 replied that he had found her on the roadside with- 
 out parents or resources, and as they had not been 
 blessed with children he had brought her home, 
 promising to act to her as a father. Upon this 
 
32 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Theresa embraced Georgette affectionately, promis- 
 ing herself great pleasure in bringing her up, but 
 old Ursula, the servant, who had lived all her life 
 with Farmer John, having examined the child long 
 and attentively, shook her head and walked away, 
 muttering to herself, — 
 
 " She's bold enough anyhow ; well, well, I know 
 something about people's character — that child will 
 never come to anv srood." 
 
 The simple supper was soon served, and the 
 farmer, his wife, and their dependants placed them- 
 selves at table in high glee. Georgette, having satis- 
 fied the cravings of her appetite before the hearty 
 villagers had finished their repast, began to make 
 balls of the victuals the bounty of Theresa had 
 heaped upon her plate, and throw them to the dog. 
 Csesar, who received them with sundry approving 
 waggings of the tail, and other demonstrations of 
 canine pleasure; but Urusla, not relishing the pro- 
 cess, which, according to her ideas, partook of wasteful 
 extravagance, checked the child by observing that 
 she was doing mischief, and would make the animal 
 sleep ail night on a full belly when he ought to be 
 upon the watch, and concluded with her original 
 remark " that she would never come to any good." 
 The frugal meal being at an end, John retired to* 
 rest, much fatigued with his journey, and Georgette 
 was shown to a small chamber looking out upon the 
 open country, and containing a bed with sheets and 
 furniture as white as snow. Here then Georgette 
 was comfortably installed beneath a hospitable roof,, 
 and blessed with the fostering care of truly generous 
 hearts she might have glided happily through life ; 
 and whilst we suppose some weeks to elapse, let us- 
 eee how the orphan passed her time. 
 
 With the dawn of day she was in the garden, 
 thence she would proceed to the farm-buildings r 
 looking at the milkmaids and the threshers at their 
 
THE FARM-HOUSE. S& 
 
 heavy work, and then ride the mules and the donkeys- 
 over the fields adjacent to the house, until becoming- 
 tired she would return to breakfast, which beisg^ 
 dispatched with a hearty youthful appetite, Theresa, 
 would instruct her in the mysteries of plain needle- 
 work and spinning, and shortly before dinner she- 
 was consigned to Ursula to initiate her in the 
 homely but all-important art of cooking, to which,.. 
 we are sorry to say, the wayward child would not 
 pay the least attention. In the afternoon, whilst 
 her protectors took their nap, she would peae- \ 
 trate into the recesses of the forest, where she 
 would repose upon a mossy bank, sheltered from the 
 rays of the bright sun, and listening to the bird^ 
 " warbling their native wood-notes wild," until the 
 shades of evening recalled her to the house, where 
 she would be petted by John, romp with the dog,, 
 and tease old Ursula, till night ushered her again io> 
 her happy, peaceful bed. 
 
 Several months had passed away in this agreeable 
 manner, so different to the life Georgette had beeit 
 doomed to lead at her uncle the notary's, so pleas- 
 antly opposed to Gertrude's kicks and blows ; but at 
 last she began to weary of always seeing the green 
 meadows, the tufted bowers, and the limpid brooks, 
 and of hearing the shepherd's pipe, the bleating of 
 the flocks, the lowing of the herds, and the feathered 
 songsters of the woods, and pined for some change 
 of scene and occupation — if such her listless employ- 
 ment might be called — although, if she had been 
 asked, she could not have defined what things were 
 wanting to her full enjoyment. But so it always baa 
 been with weak human nature ; we become tired of 
 one uniform mode of life, however happy ; we despise i 
 those calm blessings which are within our reach, and v - 
 dream of those unknown pleasures which mystery 
 makes more dear to our imaginations ! No joys are^ 
 so exquisite as those which are forbidden ! 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
^4 GEORGETTE. 
 
 '^Occasionally our heroine would proceed to the 
 -summit of a bill commanding an extensive prospect, 
 rfrom which the peasants would point out to her the 
 road which led to the " great city " — for it was thus 
 ~they designated Paris — and on beholding it she 
 ^would fall into a reverie, picturing its thousand 
 -charms, until one day, feeling assured that her des- 
 r&my would not allow her to remain upon an obscure 
 •'farm, she determined to solicit John and Theresa to 
 l Iet her go to school at Bondy, that she might perfect 
 iierself in reading and writing, and learn those 
 ■sciences and accomplishments which would cause 
 Jier to shine hereafter in the great world to which 
 she was irresistibly impelled. The good couple 
 4hcught she knew enough already for one who was 
 dated to marry an honest farmer and live upon his 
 land, but as, in their mistaken affection, they could 
 '•never refuse anything to Georgette, they yielded to 
 3ier entreaties, and decided that she should go, not 
 to the humble village school, but to a first-rate educa- 
 tional establishment, where she would be equally 
 instructed with the young ladies from the city. As 
 -John possessed the universal talisman — gold — he 
 -iitad no difficulty in procuring an entrde for Georgette 
 -amongst the proud offspring of Parisian dames, and 
 "the teachers soon discovered that not only did the 
 
 young girl's natural talents enable her to master the 
 --useful elements of education, but she became mistress 
 
 of music and dancing, and other showy arts. When 
 -.she returned home her adopted parents listened to 
 User with wonder, and the labourers and servants 
 cregar^ed her as an oracle, except old Ursula, who 
 -went grumbling and muttering about the house, — 
 
 ** What's the use of all this hoity-toity nonsense 
 ^if she is to stop upon the farm ? Do they think she 
 
 will turn out her toes and fling her feet about in 
 "that way merely to run across the fields, and sing all 
 
 those fine songs to amuse poor Caesar? She'd much 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 35 
 
 better learn to knit, and spin, milk the cows and 
 make batter, but my poor master and mistress will 
 make a fine lady of her. Ah, me! That girl will 
 never come to any good ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 
 
 FOUR years flew rapidly by. Georgette astonished 
 her tutors with the progress she made, and acquired 
 tastes and habits totally unsuited to the station her 
 protectors flattered themselves she would occupy, 
 and by the time she had completed her fifteenth year, 
 her residence beneath the humble roof of the kind 
 hearts near Bondy became almost insupportable to 
 her acquired tastes and wants. 
 
 At that same period Charles de Merville had at- 
 tained his eighteenth year, and in obedience to a 
 mandate from his father, bid a final adieu to college, 
 and set out on his return to the ancestral chateau in 
 Lorraine. The youth had not forgot his promise to 
 visit the little farmer's daughter whom he had en- 
 countered in the hotel at Metz, but circumstances 
 hitherto had prevented him from fulfilling it, and 
 now he burned with desire to behold the pleasing 
 child again ; indeed he would have been frequently at 
 "Bondy on his journeys to and from the public school, 
 had it not been for Dumont, the old confidential ser- 
 vitor, his travelling companion, being always with 
 him, for Charles did not like it to be known at the 
 chateau that he demeaned himself by paying atten- 
 tion to a peasant girl. It was not that he feared his 
 
36 ~—^_ GEORGETTE. **-— ^ 
 
 father's anger, because the marquis, true to his old 1 
 doctrine of sympathy, gave him the most unbounded 
 liberty but he dreaded displeasing, or rather vexing, 
 his admirable mother, who wrote him the most affec- 
 tionate letters, and gave him such excellent advice;. 
 and although a passing call at a farm-house was not 
 a culpable action in itself, yet he felt a repugnance,, 
 for which he could not account, to the marchioness 
 becoming acquainted with his youthful attachment 
 to Georgette. Happy, happy youth, when each 
 transient fondness appears an all-enduring, ever- 
 lasting love ! The young heart seeks always for 
 another congenial soul on which it can repose ; young 
 men adore the gentler sex, and there are many old 
 ones who would fain conduct themselves just like the- 
 young. 
 
 Now a youth eighteen years of age cannot be con- 
 sidered in the light of a boy who needs a steady 
 mentor to protect him from the perils of the road,, 
 and to see he is not imposed upon at the inns where 
 he puts up for the night, so when Charles left Paris- 
 on his homeward journey, he was not accompanied 
 by the trusty Dumont as his guardian and humble 
 friend, but was attended by a smart groom named 
 Baptiste, a son of one of his father's favoured tenants,. 
 about the same age as himself, so that there could 
 not possibly be a more favourable opportunity for 
 taking the longer route into Lorraine by way of 
 Bondy. In the middle of the month of June, Charles 
 and his groom rode into that village, and made a 
 number of inquiries about Georgette, but the peasants 
 and shopkeepers could not conceive who he meant 
 by the description he gave of the girl — such as he 
 had seen her nearly five years before — and he left the 
 little town at a walk, quite out of temper at what he 
 termed the stupidity of its inhabitants. Baptiste 
 followed slowly behind him with an air of deep de- 
 jection, for the astute young groom had learnt to be 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 37 
 
 gay or sad according to the momentary expression 
 of his master's physiognomy, from which circum- 
 stance it may be seen that the lad was likely to 
 arrive at distinction in the world. 
 
 Throwing the bridle on the horse's neck, Charles 
 permitted the animal to take his own course, and on 
 entering the country a short distance from Bondy, 
 perceiving a farm-house, he directed his servant to 
 approach it and inquire whether the occupants could 
 find accommodation for the horses and themselves for 
 a few hours, and as Baptiste trotted away to dis- 
 charge his errand, Charles dismounted and followed 
 him on foot, leading his tired horse. Before he 
 had proceeded many yards he was astonished to hear 
 a clear, ringing, bell-like female voice singing a 
 favourite operatic air, at no great distance from him. 
 He felt convinced that that sweet organ could not 
 belong to any of the sturdy peasant girls of the 
 neighbourhood, and stopping suddenly, he deter- 
 mined to await the issuing of the invisible songstress 
 from one of the thick shrubberies that bordered the 
 .roadside. 
 
 Presently a vision of a wood-nymph came upon the 
 way. It assumed the shape of a lovely girl six- 
 teen years old at the utmost, whose vestal-coloured 
 robe, agitated by the zephyrs that played around her, 
 partially disclosed limbs, and a bosom cast in love's 
 own mould, a small low-crowned straw hat, tied 
 with a ribbon underneath the chin, shadowed the 
 upper portion of her countenance ; but in that part 
 which was disclosed, Charles beheld a bright, spark- 
 ling eye, pouting cherry lips, and two rows of fine 
 white teeth. And what else ? readers, I know you. 
 .say. Nothing. What! Has she not a com- 
 plexion blended of the lily and the rose, an alabaster 
 skin, a high majestic forehead, and a nose shaped by 
 the chisel of Phidias himself? No ! My heroine was 
 certainly a very fascinating creature, but not angelic. 
 
38 GEORGETTE. 
 
 She was one of those enchanting women whom we 
 frequently meet in society, and yet not quite a god- 
 dess, not possessing all those perfections from the 
 crown of her head to the sole of her foot which wo 
 constantly hear of — in romances. 
 
 Recovering from his amazement, Charles did not 
 doubt that the charming girl who walked so grace- 
 fully beside him was the Georgette he sought, the 
 being who had occupied his thoughts so long, and 
 walking gently towards her, he determined to 
 address her, and satisfy his mind at once. The fact 
 was that Georgette was returning from the academy 
 at Bondy, where she had been studying for the dajv 
 when she met with Charles. Her quick perception saw 
 at a glance the pleased emotion her presence had 
 excited in the young man's heart, and a slight smile 
 of satisfaction played about her lips. All women, 
 handsome or ugly, are desirous of inspiring pleasure 
 in men's breasts ; but when they are coquettes by 
 nature they think of nothing else. Not that I blame 
 them in the least. To what a miserable state should 
 we lovers not be reduced if the women were to- 
 abstain from attempting to make any further con- 
 quests ! If the young girls walked with their eyes con- 
 stantly on the ground ; if the grisettes should attend- 
 entirely to their work and not put their hair in curl ;. 
 if pretty milliners should turn cruel and become 
 insensible to Cupid's darts ; if interesting little shop- 
 keepers should not repair to tea-gardens on Sundays 
 in order to captivate young men with honourable 
 intentions in their heads; if opera dancers should 
 refuse to bless some favoured individuals with 
 the possession of her charms ; and if wives should re- 
 main faithful to their marriage vows ? I tremble to 
 think of the horrible condition civilised society would 
 then be in. 
 
 Georgette walked on trilling a rustic lay, seeming 
 not to take any notice of Charles, and really not recog- 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 35- 
 
 nising him, for four years had made an extraordinary 
 alteration in his personal appearance, when presently* 
 he summoned up his courage, stilled the hurried! 
 beatings of his throbbing heart, and, lifting his hat 
 courteously from his head, advanced close to Georg- 
 ette's side, and said, — 
 
 P Mademoiselle, I am seeking a young person fa 
 this part of the country of whom, as yet, I have not 
 been able to gain any information; perhaps I may be- 
 more fortunate in addressing myself to you." 
 
 " I shall be happy to assist you, monsieur, if I an> 
 able. What is her name ? " 
 
 5 Georgette. That is the only appellation by which, 
 I knew her." 
 
 Our heroine looked at Charles attentively. The 
 remembrance of the conversation with him at the 
 inn at Metz flashed across her mind ; she beheld with 
 a delight that she could scarcely suppress, that the 
 handsome young traveller had not forgotten her, and- 
 she replied with inward satisfaction, but in a careless- 
 tone, — 
 
 " This young person seems to interest you." 
 
 " A moment ago, mademoiselle, I own she did, but. 
 
 now another engrosses all my thoughts." 
 
 " That is the reason, I suppose, Charles, that your 
 
 do not recognise me." 
 
 " Is it possible ! No, it cannot be that you are 
 Georgette I" .. 
 
 " Indeed I am," Georgette exclaimed, with a gay- 
 laugh ; "I think you expected to see me the little- 
 child you left me four years ago/' 
 
 "Forgive me, mademoiselle, I beg; you promised 
 to become a lovely creature, but I was not prepared:, 
 to benold the union of so many graces." 
 
 Charles then kissed her hand ardently, and as they 
 walked on, Georgette reproaching hinTfor having so 
 long delayed the fulfilment of his promise of coming- 
 to see her, and he excusing himself on account of the- 
 
GEORGETTE. 
 
 presence of his guardian, Ba'ptiste cantered up, very 
 : inopportunely, and stated that the farmer sent his 
 compliments to his master, and would be happy to 
 e&tertain him as comfortably as he could. Charles, 
 "vexed at the interruption, put the bridle of his own 
 iiorse into Baptiste's hands, directing him to return, 
 and at the same moment Georgette expressed her 
 pleasure at his proceeding to the farm, whither she 
 iad been about to invite him when the groom came 
 up. 
 
 * Ah ! " he cried, " what a happy chance has brought 
 sue here ! " 
 
 And then gazing admiringly on the girl, he said, — 
 ^But surely you deceive me; your language, your 
 maimers, all deny the supposition that you inhabit a 
 ^fanD-house." 
 
 ^And, nevertheless, the assertion is quite true. 
 -Are you vexed at it % " 
 
 "Oh, no I Did you reside in the humblest cabin, 
 -with you the spot would be paradise ! " 
 
 " In that case, give me your arm and let us go to 
 .good old Farmer John." 
 
 The enamoured youth — for the spell had sunk 
 deeply in his heart in the few minutes he had been 
 speaking — did not need a second invitation ; he passed 
 Creorgette's arm underneath his own, and advanced 
 slowly towards the farm, revelling in the thoughts of 
 T>eing near so exquisite a woman; with his imflammable 
 imagination, and his tendency to give entire way to 
 ■"the influence of fresh sensations, it was not to be 
 -■wondered at that Georgette at that moment absorbed 
 liis every thought. She read her triumph in his 
 ..glowing eyes, and sought to entangle him still deeper 
 is the meshes of her net ; when a large pebble on a 
 ■cart rut presented a slight obstacle to their advance, 
 she leaned tenderly upon his arm, looked up in his 
 face with an enchanting smile, and thanked him 
 ^emulously for his assistance, and he, steeped in 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 41 
 
 delirium to the very lips^ was in ecstasy whenever in 
 the pauses of their dialogue her brilliant eyes met his. 
 
 When they arrived at the farm-house, John and 
 his wife, who had just sat down to dinner, were 
 surprised to see Georgette enter the kitchen lean- 
 ing on the arm of a handsome, fashionably-dressed 
 young man, but on her explaining that he was the 
 young gentleman they saw at Metz, the farmer took 
 Charles's hand, gave it a hearty shake, and made 
 him welcome to his house. Charles returned the 
 pressure cordially, caressed Csesar, kissed Theresa, 
 and almost embraced the ancient Ursula in the ex- 
 cess of his delight. All then sat down to table in 
 great glee ; Charles, who had gained a good appetite 
 hj his morning's ride, did honour to the repast, and 
 having satisfied his hunger — in defiance of the ac- 
 cepted maxim that love prevents a man from eating 
 — exerted himself successfully to please his hospitable 
 hosts, casting aside all that dignity and hauteur that 
 the highly-born unfortunately too often assume to their 
 inferiors, that he speedily won their hearts, and that 
 of Ursula, which latter task was very difficult indeed. 
 -Charles could not take his eyes from off Georgette, 
 and was never tired of hearing the accents of her 
 voice ; she had never been more gay, more witty, 
 more amiable, and every hour as it passed riveted 
 still more strongly the chains that bound him to her. 
 
 At length evening came, and as Charles rose with 
 slow, unwilling motion to take Ms leave, John insisted 
 that he should take a bed that night at least, and 
 said he would confer a great pleasure upon both his 
 wife and himself, if he would do them the honour to 
 stop a few days at the farm. No proposition could 
 give greater pleasure to the youth ; he looked towards 
 Georgette as if to ascertain her wishes, and as her 
 eyes seemed to say that he must stay, he accepted 
 the invitation readily, only too happy to be near the 
 syren who had enslaved his heart. Baptiste was the 
 
42 GEORGETTE. 
 
 only person who presumed to* remonstrate against 
 the arrangements, reminding his master that the- 
 marquis and marchioness would be anxiously expect- 
 ing him at the chateau, but he was reduced to silence- 
 by a peremptory order to hold his tongue and leave 
 the room. Georgette, perceiving the snappishness 
 with which Charles dismissed his groom, divined its 
 cause with a woman's innate quickness of perception, 
 and advancing towards her lover with a timid ahy 
 and her eyes upon the ground, said, — 
 
 " I fear, Monsieur Charles " (that was the only name 
 by which he was known to her) " that you constrain 
 your feelings by remaining on this spot ; most likely 
 you will soon grow weary of it." 
 
 "Think not so for a single moment, dear Georg- 
 ette/' 
 
 " Perhaps you have important business elsewhere I ' r 
 
 " It is not to be thought of in your presence." 
 
 " The farm will not amuse you long." 
 
 * While you are with me I cannot be otherwise than 
 happy." 
 
 " A residence in the country is so monotonous, so 
 lonely." 
 
 " With you it must be Paradise." 
 
 " Your station in society, your wealth, place you 
 at such an immeasurable distance from these kind- 
 hearted folks — from us." 
 
 "All distinctions of rank disappear before your lovely 
 form. Life would become odious to me if I were 
 doomed to pass through it away from you. You were 
 not destined by Providence to be buried in a farm ; 
 you must quit it and take the station in the great 
 world that your beauty, your talents, and accomplish- 
 ments point out to you." 
 
 Georgette, who was naturally vain and ambitious, 
 and utterly disgusted with the station it was her lot 
 to occupy, blushed a deep scarlet as she heard the 
 tremulous butpassionate whispers of her young lover's 
 
FIKST LOVE AND INNOCENCE.. 43 
 
 heart She could not well analyse her feelings at 
 the time, but, if the truth must be told, gratified 
 vanity was uppermost, although she must have been 
 cold and insensible indeed, if her breast did not ex- 
 perience some slight emotion at the flattering attach- 
 ment of a youth like Charles, of rank so far superior 
 to her own, highly educated, and gifted with every 
 physical attraction that could please the eye. 
 
 In a few minutes Ursula brought the chamber 
 candles ; Farmer John requested Charles to consider 
 himself perfectly at home, and to get up and go in 
 and out just when he liked, and the enamoured swain,, 
 having cast one glance full of the deepest love upon 
 Georgette, followed the old woman to a bedroom 
 that looked upon the garden. Arrived there he would 
 fain have asked her which was Georgette's chamber, 
 that he might pass the night in watching the windows 
 if they were visible, but as the faithful domestic did 
 not appear peculiarly susceptible to the tender passion,,, 
 or inclined to listen to the ravings of those it had 
 enthralled, he abstained from questioning her, and 
 taking the light from her, wished her " good-night," 
 and shut the door behind her with a sigh. 
 
 For a long time Charles lay wide awake, thinking 
 of the extraordinary change which had taken place in 
 the child he had first seen at Metz, building a thousand 
 castles in the air with respect to her, each more ex- 
 travagant than the other, and when sleep overcame- 
 him, the radiant person of his mistress still hovered 
 round his couch. Georgette, too, slept but little, but 
 her wakefulness was compounded of many elements 
 — small love, great coquetry, much vanity, a love of 
 display, and inordinate ambition. 
 
 The sun had scarcely raised his broad disc above 
 the eastern horizon, when Charles left his bed and 
 gazed upon the garden from his window ; the awaken- 
 ing of animated nature in the presence of the bright 
 God of Day gratified hi3 eye3, and the balmy morning 
 
44 GEORGETTE. 
 
 air cooled his brow, still fevered with the reminiscences 
 of the preceding evening, and the exciting dreams that 
 had disturbed his rest. Gradually his imagination be- 
 came more calm, he descended from his aerial ecstasy 
 to the things of earth, and the recollections of his 
 anxious, affectionate parents obtruded themselves 
 upon his mind. 
 
 " What," he murmured, " will my father think of my 
 neglect in not hastening to him f How deep my dear 
 mother's anxiety will be ! Well, I will remain here 
 only a few days and then go home. But how can I 
 tear myself away from this angel who has enthralled 
 my very soul ? And yet, to stay here with her will 
 but expose me to the most cruel anguish ! I must 
 call all my fortitude to my aid, and quit this too fas- 
 cinating Georgette. But it shall not be for long ; 1 
 will inform my parents of her beauty, her graces, and 
 her accomplishments ; I will tell them of her elegance 
 and style, so different to anything they can con- 
 ceive of a girl born and brought up upon a farm ; I 
 -will tell them that my happiness, my life, depends upon 
 her being mine, and that I cannot exist without her ; 
 then they will yield to my ardent prayers. I shall re- 
 turn to Georgette, take her back with me in triumph, 
 and they will love her — as who indeed would not ! — 
 and I shall be the happiest of men." 
 
 " Poor boy," I think I hear my lady readers say, 
 " how very green he is ! He falls in love with a bright- 
 eyed villager, and talks of making her his wife ! " 
 "Very true, ladies, but I would request you to recollect 
 that Charles had only just left a public school, and had 
 not been formed in the great libertine school of the 
 world, wherein a girl of fifteen has forgotten how to 
 blush, because she has nothing more to learn in the 
 shape of sensual knowledge and effrontery, and where 
 a man of twenty-five is broken, toothless, and worn 
 out as a countryman of sixty, and is compelled to 
 wear a wig, despite the wondrous Macassar oil, bear's 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 45 
 
 grease, dentifrices, and other nostrums to preserve 
 the teeth and hair. 
 
 All at once Charles perceived Georgette'^ airy 
 figure tripping lightly down one of the gravel walks, 
 and in an instant he was by her side. She smiled 
 blandly on him as he took her hand and pressed it to 
 his lips,, complimented him upon his early rising, and 
 then proposed to take a turn through the gardens- 
 aud the home-fields until the breakfast should be 
 served. Charles acceded, glad of any pretext that 
 would keep him near her, and whilst they strolled 
 along, arm-in-arm, and stopping occasionally to gaze 
 in each other's eyes, Georgette related to 'him how 
 she had been found and brought up by Farmer John,, 
 and how he and Theresa had consented to her being 
 educated at the establishment in Bondy. Charles- 
 listened to her with rapture, and drank in the poison 
 that distilled from every accent of her voice, but, 
 when she said that however much she was attached 
 to the good farmer and his wife, that she would 
 willingly leave the hospitable but dull asylum where 
 she had passed her youth for Paris or any other great 
 city, that would proffer luxury and amusement to her, 
 Charles sighed to think that her physical organisa- 
 tion was far more perfect than her mental. 
 
 At the usual hour the young folks returned to the- 
 house to breakfast, during which Charles chatted, 
 familiarly with his entertainers, and when, at the con- 
 clusion of the cheerful meal, John went to superin- 
 tend the culture of the farm, and Charles, guided by- 
 Georgette, repaired again to the fields, old Ursula 
 approached Theresa and said abruptly, — 
 
 " I think, missis, its not right to let them young 
 people run about the woods alone." 
 
 " And why, Ursula?" 
 
 "Because — because of — they're of an age when 
 they may easily forget themselves, and — and — 
 Georgette — " 
 
•16 GEORGETTE. 
 
 " Fear not, Ursula, Monsieur Charles is too good 
 
 .and honourable to take any advantage of Georgette." 
 
 "Yes, missis, he's a very amiable, virtuous young 
 
 man, I make no doubt ; but sometimes Love goes on 
 
 . at a terrible pace, and if you had observed with what 
 eyes he looked at her, and how kindly she smiled on 
 him when he spoke to her, you'd have thought — " 
 
 a Ah, Ursula ; you always see everything on the 
 black side, but I have no fears about them, so, pray, 
 hold your tongue." 
 
 Ursula did as she was bid, but she muttered to 
 herself, — 
 
 " Well, well, we shall see some day or other 
 whether I was right or not : but this I do know — 
 that girl will never come to any good." 
 
 Whilst this dialogue as to the fate of Charles and 
 
 -Georgette was going on, they had proceeded into the 
 wood, where they sauntered along, he holding her 
 by the hand, understanding each other perfectly, 
 although hardly one word was spoken, and when, 
 fatigued with rambling, they sat down beneath the 
 shady branches of a mighty oak, Charles passed his 
 
 . arm around her waist, pressed her slight form against 
 his heart, and ravished a thousand kisses from her 
 lips, and though she feigned to repulse his love, her 
 
 i struggles to free herself from his ardent caresses 
 were so faint, and she smiled so tenderly upon him, 
 that he was encouraged to go on, and had he not 
 just escaped from his tutor's supervision he might 
 have pushed his amorous enterprises to a summary 
 
 .conclusion on that verv morn. 
 
 In this manner a fortnight passed away : Charles, 
 more passionately in love than ever, could not make 
 up his mind to leave the farm that held the treasure 
 he prized above all others in the earth ; nevertheless, 
 the grief and anger of his parents would sometimes 
 rise up in judgment against him, and when Baptiste 
 
 . appeared before his master, his air seeming to say, — 
 
FIRST LOVE AND INNOCENCE. f.7 
 
 " When shall we depart? — why do we linger h?ra % " 
 then Charles said' to himself that he would leave, but 
 -Georgette appeared and smiled upon him, and all his 
 firm resolves were scattered to the winds. 
 
 One day, as the youthful couple had gone out as 
 visual for a walk, in the course of which Charles could 
 pour out the feelings of his enthusiastic heart, the 
 'teat became so insufferable, that, to avoid the rays of 
 the burning sun they directed their steps into the re- 
 cesses of the wood. Charles was more abstracted and 
 melancholy than he had yet been, for his thoughts 
 .at that moment had wandered to the chateau in 
 Lorraine, and Georgette, piqued at his want of at- 
 tention to her and his continued silence, sat down 
 -upon the root of a wide-spreading tree, and declared 
 ; -she was so tired she could go no further. Starting 
 from his reverie, Charles observed his companion's dis- 
 pleased air, and sitting down by her, made a hundred 
 ■excuses for his thoughtlessness, and strove to take 
 her hand ; Georgette moved pettishly away from 
 tiim, and would not be appeased, but in" their relative 
 positions it was impossible that at their age this state 
 of things could last, and Charles doubled his caresses 
 -until he induced Georgette again to turn her head 
 towards him. | This victory achieved, the road to a 
 perfect reconciliation was wide and plain; first her 
 hand was yielded to his embrace, and then her 
 panting bosom's charms; her head fell listlessly 
 sipon his breast, but raising it and glueing his hot 
 lips to hers, the blood ran like lightning through her 
 'veins, until, mad with passion, she returned his fiery 
 *kisses, and, straining each other to their breasts, the 
 -world was all forgot, when luckily the dog Cassar 
 t)arked in close approximation to them, and in an in- 
 stant both were on their feet. 
 
 Looking furtively around them, they became 
 assured that the dog was not followed by Farmer 
 John as they had feared, and Georgette, regarding 
 
48 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Jfrarles with an inexplicable expression, sighed 
 deeply, and again. dropped down upon the grass; but 
 the cloud had passed away from Charles's brain. He 
 shuddered at the thought that in another moment he 
 should have forgotten his obligation to the farmer, 
 and repaid his hospitality by the ruin of his adopted 
 daughter ; he turned away from the contemplation of 
 the young girl's heaving bosom, and the fierce desires 
 that flashed like diamonds in her eyes, and resolved 
 internally that he would wander no more alone in the 
 forest with Georgette. Firm in this resolution, he- 
 assisted her coldly but courteously to rise, and led 
 her from the wood, escorted by the faithful dog, who* 
 had arrived so opportunely to preserve her virtue- 
 from destruction. 
 
 Silently and thoughtfully they walked along, she 
 marvelling at his hasty wish to leave the forest, and 
 he determining not to expose himself again to the 
 terrible temptation he had successfully resisted, but 
 to leave with the morning's light, and having seen 
 his parents and acquainted them with his undying 
 love, to return to Bondy for Georgette, from whom 
 he would never part again. So soon as he reached 
 the house, Charles made Baptist e acquainted with his- 
 intention, and then entered the usual sitting-room,, 
 where Theresa and the women were employed spin- 
 ning. Georgette was apparently wrapped in a re- 
 verie, and John was reading the Bible to the assembled 
 household. Charles stopped to contemplate this peace- 
 ful scene, gazed long and fixedly upon Georgette, who* 
 had never appeared more beautiful in his eyes, and 
 then said, with a deep sigh, — 
 
 " My excellent kind friends, I must leave you to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 " Surely you are not going ! " they all exclaimed to- 
 gether, and Georgette looked at him in astonishment,, 
 as if she could not believe her ears had heard aright. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, "my business is indispensable, and 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF OTHER ACTORS IN THE DRAMA. 4 9^ 
 
 I have neglected it too long, but I will return again 
 before a month shall pass." 
 
 He then sat down by Georgette's side, and in a. 
 low tone renewed his protestations of attachment and.: 
 of loving none but her. The evening meal was eaten 
 in mournful silence, and when the early hour for 
 retiring arrived, Charles thanked his good hosts for 
 their kindness, and, pressing Georgette's hand with a. 
 convulsive grasp, betook himself to bed. 
 
 After passing a sleepless night, he rose with the 
 sun, looked up from the garden at Georgette's 
 window, and thanked Heaven for having saved him 
 from the commission of a grievous sin; and as he 
 took a farewell of the lovely girl, she dropped a. 
 handkerchief, which he picked up hastily and placed 
 within his breast, swearing to defend it with his 
 heart's best blood, then, rushing from the spot, 
 mounted his horse, which Baptiste held in readiness, 
 and galloped off towards Lorraine. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF OTHER ACTORS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 " Absence is as the wind to fire ; it destroys a small 
 one, but makes a large one burn more brightly."' 
 This observation was made by an acute observer of 
 human nature ; we shall soon see how it was realised 
 in the case of our friend Charles. 
 
 The first days that succeeded his absence from the 
 farm, were passed by Georgette in the profoundest 
 melancholy, for the modest house no longer presented! v 
 to her that delicious future which her ambitious 
 imagination had created. Separated from her pro- 
 tectors, the labourers and servants, by the dissimi— 
 VOL L D 
 
50 GEORGETTE. 
 
 laxity of tastes, and goaded by those aspirations to 
 wliich her factitious education impelled her, she 
 passed her time alone in the woods where she had 
 so often roamed with Charles; her heart palpitated 
 mknost to bursting as she surveyed the fields, the 
 garden, and the forest where he had poured forth his 
 mrdent love, and when evening forced her to regain 
 '■£be house, she sat without uttering a word, seemingly 
 unconscious of what was going on around. Theresa 
 mnd her husband endeavoured to reanimate her 
 spirits, but without success, and Ursula, shaking her 
 liead ominously, had recourse to her old prophecy re- 
 specting the forsaken, love-sick girl. 
 
 One evening, about three weeks after the departure 
 -of her lover, when all the household were united 
 wilder the farmer's rustic roof, an unusual oppressive 
 lieat pervaded the atmosphere, and when the sun set 
 ^behind a bank of blood-red clouds, and night enveloped 
 the surrounding country with her murky veil, there 
 •was a total want of that refreshing coolness which 
 -attends the absence of the great orb of light. The 
 parched earth, broken into a thousand clefts, seemed 
 "to woo the fertilising drops to its dried-up breast, 
 -mad the mutterings of the deep-toned thunder in the 
 ^distance gave every indication of a coming storm. 
 As the night wore on, the fearful growlings came 
 nearer and nearer, until John looked out upon the 
 -scene, and calling Georgette to his side, and bidding 
 Miev remark the whistling of the wind and the masses 
 ^of electric matter as they hurtled together in the air, 
 and occasionally illuminated the tall trees of the forest 
 -with their lightning blaze, put up a prayer to the 
 .Father of all Good for protection to the poor travellers 
 -who should be abroad on such a fearful night. 
 
 The pious wish had scarcely passed his lips before 
 
 *■<&, crash of thunder was heard, making all the vessels 
 
 In the kitchen tremble on the shelves, and appearing 
 
 --to shake the house to its foundation. Ursula uttered 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF OTHER ACTORS IN THE DRAMA. 51 
 
 a piercing shriek, crossed herself, and ran down into 
 the cellar — her ordinary place of refuge in all moments 
 of alarm. John shut the door precipitately, and be- 
 fore all had ascended to their rooms the rain came 
 down in torrents. Before many minutes had elapsed, 
 repeated heavy blows were struck at the door, and a 
 voice was heard imploring the inmates to admit two 
 travellers who were drenched to the skin by the 
 deluge that was pouring from the heavens. 
 
 John, who scorned the idea of robbers, and pitied 
 unfortunate people whose business compelled them 
 to be out in such a night, came down at once, and, 
 unlocking the door, welcomed two men, whose gar- 
 ments, covered with mud and hanging dank and 
 loosely on them, showed the fierce elemental strife 
 io which they had been exposed. He placed seats 
 for them before the fire, blew the expiring wood ashes' 
 into a cheerful blaze, heaped more logs upon the 
 embers, ordered one of the labourers to lead the 
 travellers' horses to the stable, and whilst Theresa 
 was dressing herself, called Ursula to come up from 
 the cellar and assist in preparing supper for the 
 -strangers. 
 
 There was a difference of mien and station between 
 the two which could not fail to be remarked. The 
 younger, who was evidently the superior, was tall 
 and of a well-shaped form. His face was very hand- 
 some, and would have been extremely pleasing had 
 it not been for a haughty, disdainful bearing which 
 extended to the tones of his loud voice, and prevailed 
 in all his gestures and every observation that he made. 
 Every action, every word, betrayed that he was a 
 man blessed with rank and worldly gifts, and that, 
 proud of his birth and fortune, he would let no ob- 
 stacle stand in the way of his desires. But through 
 all this pride there was an unmistakable air that 
 showed, young as he was, he had exhausted the 
 ^pleasures of fashionable life, and, equally insupport- 
 
52 a* - GEORGETTE. 
 
 able to himself as to others, was — to use an expressive- 
 phrase — effectually used up. 
 
 To this portrait of the Marquis de Saint Ange may 
 be added that he possessed great natural talents, 
 improved by a first-rate education, and that origin- 
 ally he had a virtuous, honest heart; but he would 
 have blushed to have shown amongst his friends the 
 slightest symptoms of commiseration for human suf- 
 fering — ridicule being the only thing he dreaded in 
 the world. 
 
 The valet who attended upon this too common 
 specimen of perverted original nobleness of mind was- 
 named Lafleur, a sharp-witted, intelligent scoundrel,- 
 who would stick at no atrocity to gratify his master's - 
 tvishes, however base and degraded they might be. 
 Supple and exacting, cringing and audacious, as cir- 
 cumstances called his faculties into action, and of : 
 undoubted courage, he was exactly calculated to 
 second such a master in the conduct of those in- 
 trigues which now formed the only amusement — or 
 rather daily business — of his life. 
 
 Seating himself on one of the stools before the fire, 
 and warming his hands over the invigorating blaze, .. 
 the Marquis coolly said, — 
 
 "My good man, it was extremely fortunate that we 
 should have hit upon your place, or we might have 
 slept our last sleep upon the damp bosom of our 
 Mother Earth." 
 
 ■• Yes, monsieur, it is a fearful night indeed." 
 
 " This infernal chase, and that cursed beast I pur- 
 sued all the afternoon, and could not refrain from 
 following when evening fell. And then to lose my- 
 self, and such a pelting storm ! The devil is in the 
 whole affair, I think ! " 
 
 "Will you taste the humble fare that we can offer 
 you, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Ffaith I will ; this chase has given me a terrific 
 appetite." 
 
I 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF OTHER ACTORS IN THE DRAMA. 53 
 
 " You shall have all that my house affords so late. 
 Here, Theresa, Ursula I " 
 
 The latter crept up the cellar stairs at her master's 
 summons, and as she reached the floor, Lafleur, slap- 
 ping* her familiarly on the back, said, — 
 
 M Now then, old wench, stir your stumps and get 
 my lord's supper ready as soon as you can." 
 
 Angry at being treated so unceremoniously, Ursula 
 was about to reply sharply, when she was interrupted 
 by the farmer calling to Georgette to come down and 
 ;help to entertain his guests whilst supper was getting 
 ready, and their chambers were prepared. The 
 Marquis, thinking he should only see an awkward 
 country girl, desired John not to give himself any 
 trouble about his daughter's presence, but before he 
 had finished his sentence, Georgette entered the room 
 half undressed, the cap upon her head not entirely 
 concealing all her flowing locks, and the kerchief, 
 thrown hastily upon her neck, partially permitting 
 the whiteness of her bosom to be seen. 
 
 The Marquis remained mute as he gazed upon her, 
 and then, as her adopted father said she might retire, 
 he exclaimed, — 
 
 " Not so, mine host ; when you called simply for 
 Georgette, you should have told me that an angel re- 
 sided in your house." 
 
 " An angel ! my lord, I really was not aware of it 
 tnyself, but as it pleases you, the girl can stay." 
 
 These words were uttered by John in a dry, short 
 •tone, for neither he nor Theresa liked the haughty 
 •style of the Marquis or the insolence of his serving- 
 man, but they had charitable hearts within their 
 breasts, and they could not think of turning the 
 •strangers from their door in such a night. While 
 they went upstairs to arrange the bedrooms, 
 Oeorgette remained behind, seeking, with her usual 
 vanity, to engage the attention of the noble-looking 
 anan, and pleased at the ardent compliments he kept 
 
54 GEORGETTE. 
 
 pouring in her ears. Indeed the Marquis was already 
 captivated by the fascinating girl ; so, casting a glance 
 at Lafleur, who well understood him, that worthy 
 went out into the poultry-yard, where he caught and 
 killed two plump young fowls for supper, spying all 
 around him with the view of discovering some pretty 
 fresh-looking peasant girl with whom he might trifle 
 away a few of the dull hours he must pass in what he 
 acutely foresaw would be a somewhat lengthy visit 
 at the farm. 
 
 Timidity was not amongst the number of our 
 heroine's failings ; she did the honours of the house 
 with a native grace that astonished and delighted 
 the Marquis, who was already as deeply in love with 
 her as he had been with a hundred others before, and 
 he, formed to please, and possessing the gifts of 
 eloquence and consummate tact, exerted all his per- 
 suasion to dazzle the young girl's imagination and 
 win her to his arms. He praised the beauty of her 
 person, her elegance of manner, and pureness of 
 expression, which he never expected to have met 
 with on a farm ; and she, drinking in his adulation 
 with the avidity of sixteen years of age, and delighted 
 with having made the conquest of a man of his high 
 rank (for she had heard Lafleur call his master 
 " Marquis ") had forgotten Charles, and was already 
 lost before old Ursula entered with the supper. In 
 the course of their conversation, Saint Ange per- 
 ceived, with his usual penetration, that vanity and 
 ambition were Georgette's weakest points, and he re- 
 solved to turn them to good account in effecting the 
 ruin of the unhappy girl. 
 
 During supper the Marquis formed a plan of 
 future operations, and, changing his haughty man- 
 ners, sought to please the farmer and his wife by his- 
 openness and freedom ; but he did not succeed with 
 John, with whom first impressions were everything, 
 neither could Theresa pardon Lafieur's impuder^.e in 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 55= 
 
 killing her fowls without permission, or Ursula for- 
 give him for impertinently calling her " old wench/* 
 The strangers being sufficiently refreshed, the^ Mar- 
 quis retired to his room, with the amiable inten- 
 tion of devising a plan with Lafleur for carrying:, 
 off Georgette to Paris as speedily as possible. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 
 
 For once fatigue was more powerful than lova 
 The Marquis and his pander were fast asleep before 
 their rascally scheme was arranged; but at break 
 of clay Saint Ange awoke his valet, cursing his lazi- 
 ness, and addressed him thus : — 
 
 " Lafleur, I am in love." 
 
 * I know it, my lord." 
 
 " But desperately, madly in love." 
 
 " Just as usual." 
 
 "Did you observe the girl — is she not beautiful" 
 —adorable ? " 
 
 " Ye — es, pretty well." 
 
 " She must be mine, Lafleur ; I will possess her at 
 all hazards." 
 
 " There will be no difficulty about that, my lord." 
 
 " More than you think. She is not a simple 
 country girl. She is clever, has wit and talents." 
 
 " So much the better ; those women always come 
 round the quickest. Their passions are more turbul- 
 
 ent than those of cold-blooded, plodding louts ; they 
 rely upon their own strength, and therefore they fall. 
 Yes, my lord ! there are always hopes with what are 
 called clever wom^n, because you may confuse theif 
 
56 GEORGETTE. 
 
 brain, and so win your way through it to their hearts, 
 but if you miss pleasing a stupid woman at first 
 sight, or she has got some ridiculous ideas about 
 wisdom and virtue in her head, there's an end of the 
 whole affair at once. With regard to this rustic 
 beauty, the greatest obstacles we shall have to en- 
 counter will be the farmer and his wife. I could sea 
 "through them at once; they do not like you, my 
 lord, and wish to see you gone." 
 
 " What of that, Lafleur, so that I please Georgette ? 
 • She told me last evening that these hobnails are 
 not her parents." 
 
 * All that goes for nothing ; we must not be rash 
 with the puppet, and must manage to cajole her 
 without these people having the least suspicion of it. 
 You. must obtain an assignation with the girl at 
 some distance from the house, where I will have a 
 .-carriage waiting ; if she consents to accompany you, 
 rwell and good, and if not, we will force her into it, 
 whether she will or not. In the meantime, I will 
 inform myself of mademoiselle's habits, and the daily 
 routine of the farm." 
 
 Thus saying, the remorseless villain finished his 
 master's toilette and descended to the kitchen. 
 
 Saint Ange suspected, from his knowledge of the 
 - female heart, that he should find Georgette walking 
 in the garden early in the morning, and he was 
 right. The girl was strolling leisurely along, think- 
 ing of the compliments the Marquis had paid her on 
 " the previous night, and pining for the enjoyment of 
 the delights and luxuries of the capital that he had 
 recounted to her. The accomplished rake did not 
 let the opportunity pass by, so he reproduced the 
 .glowing pictures in her imagination, and, with his 
 ^energetic eloquence, made more progress in Georg- 
 ette's affections in one half-hour than poor Charles 
 nad in a whole month. Throwing himself at her 
 ieet, he implored her to grant him a rendezvous, and 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 57 
 
 she, fearing he would be surprised in that situation, 
 eo gratifying to her vanity, told him she went every 
 day to Bondy. He desired no more, and kissing her 
 hand and thanking her a thousand times, he released 
 her, and walked back to the house by another path. 
 
 After breakfast the Marquis thanked the farmer 
 with much affability for his hospitable entertainment, 
 and announced his intention of departing, which was 
 heard with great satisfaction by all except Georgette, 
 who looked tenderly at the Marquis as he politely 
 made his adieux, and when he had gone, John 
 openly expressed his delight, comparing him and his 
 haughty manners unfavourably with the softness of 
 Charles de Merville. The name of the latter produced 
 a sudden chill throughout Georgette's frame, but 
 rallying herself, she observed coldly that he had been 
 long gone, and most probably had forgotten all about 
 them ; John maintained stoutly that he would re- 
 turn as soon as his affairs would let him, and then 
 Georgette rose, and, sighing heavily, retired to her 
 chamber. For which of her lovers was that sigh 1 
 
 As soon as the strangers were out of sight of the 
 inhabitants of the farm, Lafleur, with the easy in- 
 solence which he considered justified by his inti- 
 macy with his master's amorous intrigues, trotted up 
 close to the Marquis's side, and inquired how the 
 land lay, to which Saint Ange replied by telling him 
 of Georgette's daily visits to Bondy. 
 
 "Bravo!" said Lafleur, "that's much indeed for 
 a first tete-a-tete, and will soon make us masters of 
 the field. Without me you would have lost much 
 time remaining here talking of undying love and all 
 that stuff." 
 
 "Indeed, Lafleur, you are a wonderfully clever 
 fellow, and reason like a professor." 
 
 " Yes, my lord, I flatter myself I know a thing or 
 two, and have had some experience in the world. 
 A man needs it to make converts." 
 
58 GEORGETTE. 
 
 <( S y rather dupes." 
 
 "Dupes ! my lord? Is it not the great universally 
 studied science? Possessed of it, a man can never 
 die of hunger." 
 
 " No, no, Lafieur, for then he lives at the expense 
 ©f others, eh?" 
 
 " True, my lord, that is your only real philosophy." 
 
 " Your philosophy has a slight touch of vagabond- 
 ism in it." 
 
 " That's the very reason, my lord, that there are so 
 many philosophers now-a-days." 
 
 Talking in this manner, without the slightest dis- 
 tinction of rank, the worthy pair rode on until the 
 Marquis reached his mansion, when he immediately 
 cast off his riding costume, put on a shooting dress, 
 and throwing a fowling-piece over one shoulder, and a 
 shot-belt and game-bag over the other, took the route 
 back to Bondy on foot. He had hardly reached the 
 other side of the village by making a circuit that he 
 might not be perceived, and was creeping cautiously 
 along a dry ditch by the side of a hedge, when he saw 
 Georgette coming along the road, looking anxiously 
 and attentively around her for the young nobleman 
 who had said so many delicious things to her, who 
 had kissed her hand so ardently, who had vowed he 
 must die if he were removed from her ; in fact, the 
 man who had completely turned her head. 
 
 On his presenting himself suddenlv, an exclama- 
 tion of mingled pleasure and delight escaped her. 
 She endeavoured faintly to rally him upon his passion 
 for the chase, as evidenced by his costume, but the 
 ready answer was on his lips, that the dress was only 
 assumed to blind any prying eyes that might be about, 
 that the impression she had made upon his heart could 
 never be effaced, and that it was only to gaze upon 
 her surpassing loveliness that he had returned. The 
 girl trembled in every limb through excess of pleasure^ 
 but, a coquette at heart, she pretended to lend a dull 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 59 
 
 ear to his vehement protestations, enjoying his tor- 
 ments with all the gusto of an astute, experienced 
 town lady, so that all the Marquis could obtain of her 
 at this first ill-omened rendezvous, was a promise that 
 she would be at the same spot every day punctually 
 at the same hour, and that she would not mention 
 their stolen interviews to anybody on the farm, and 
 then he quitted her, knowing that the rubicon was- 
 passed, and that she soon would be all his own. 
 
 The period that Charles de Merville had fixed for 
 his return was now long past, and yet he came not 
 back. The good farmer and his wife were vexed at- 
 his continued absence, but Georgette was secretly- 
 pleased at it, as she had now become really attached 
 to the brilliant, fascinating de Saint Ange, and it gave 
 her some excuse for her discarding her modest, un- 
 enterprising lover. Every day she went to meet the 
 Marquis, who succeeded daily in establishing a deep 
 personal interest in her youthful heart, and inflaming 
 her with an ardent desire to behold the glories of the 
 capital ; for, under the advice of the villainous La- 
 Hem*, he would not risk the loss of a triumph which 
 promised to his jaded, sensual fancy such exquisite 
 results, by any abrupt proposition that might alarm 
 her delicacy and enlist her prudence, but he sought, 
 by a skilful play upon her feelings, her ambition, and 
 her vanity, to produce gradual disgust for her pro- 
 tectors and her present state, with a desire for dis- 
 tinction in the great city and attachment to his per- 
 son, that should induce her at some unhappy moment, 
 when her fancy was exalted and her passions raised r 
 to yield herself spontaneously to him. The insidious 
 design was rapidly approaching the desired end. For 
 a long time, even previous to the arrival of the young 
 de Merville, Georgette had wished to escape from the 
 dulness of the farm ; since then she had burned to quit 
 her lowly, peaceful home, and had been twenty times 
 on the verge of yielding to the gentle persuasions of. 
 
60 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Saint Ange, and, throwing herself upon his breast, be- 
 seeching him to lead her to the luxuries of the vaunted 
 capital; but the sight of John, the kindness that Ther- 
 esa lavished on her, and the memory of all their bene- 
 fits, still held her by a feeble, silken string ; and then 
 a fierce struggle raged within her breast between 
 gratitude, accompanied with uncontaminated feeling, 
 and the spur of ambition, combined with vanity and 
 love. 
 
 At length Lafleur, who was becoming weary of 
 his long stay in the country — for he was an Epicurean 
 in his way — thought it high time that the intrigue 
 should be brought to a conclusion, and therefore 
 took upon himself to reproach his master for his 
 supineness. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, " not finished yet, my lord, 
 with this little pullet ? I protest I do not know you ! 
 You are no longer the same man ! You cannot be that 
 gay, invincible Marquis de Saint Ange who was the 
 model of all the fashionable young men of Paris! 
 He never would have remained a whole month 
 whistling into a simple peasant's ear. Rouse your- 
 self, my lord, act like a man, and such a man as has 
 profited by my instructions." 
 
 Saint Ange did not reply, but, blushing with false 
 shame, and goaded by the scoundrel's taunts, he flew 
 to the place of rendezvous, where he was sure to 
 find Georgette, be the hour what it might, for the 
 deluded girl was now so wholly captivated that she 
 never went to Bondy at all, but passed the time that 
 ought to have been occupied in study, with her 
 new lover in the woods. That day, however, he was 
 doomed to wait some time, for she came later than 
 usual, with every mark of depression on her face and 
 in her mien, which he swore inwardly should be 
 changed for far more different feelings before she 
 should depart. He flew towards her as she approached 
 with a faltering step, kissed her hand and pressed it 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 61 
 
 to his heart, then led her into the dark woods, far 
 removed from human ken, and pressing her gently 
 down upon a bank, passing his arm around her waist, 
 and gazing affectionately in her eyes, he said, in the 
 most tender tones, — 
 
 " Whence springs this melancholy, my beloved. 
 Georgette ? What has happened to annoy you ? " 
 
 " Alas, my lord — " 
 
 "No * lords' between you and me, Georgette ; call' 
 me Saint Ange alone." 
 
 " Well, then, dearest Saint Ange, I have been weep- 
 ing for I have thought over and over again of the 
 delightful picture you have drawn of Paris, and as 
 I cannot leave the farm without some valid excuse,, 
 some proper motive, I have been thinking it would 
 be better that we should never meet again. 5 ' 
 
 Saint Ange affected to be in despair ; he raved, he 
 implored her to alter a determination that must 
 prove fatal to him ; he swore he could not live with- 
 out her, and would die on his own sword before her 
 if she withdrew herself from his enraptured eyes. 
 He had never been so tender, so eloquent before. 
 Fascinated like the bird by the serpent's eye, the 
 leprous distilment of his glowing words gradually 
 made its fell way throughout her agitated frame ; she 
 trembled in every limb, her pulses throbbed tumultu- 
 ously, her resistance to his passionate entreaties 
 every instant became fainter and more faint, until 
 Saint Ange dared all, and no dog was there to recall 
 the victim to her senses by his honest faithful bark. 
 
 And when those deep and fatal moments passed, 
 and the unhappy girl awoke to the full consciousness 
 of all the frightful reality of her position, she stood 
 for a few moments with uplifted eyes and hands 
 clasped together in mute agony, and then faltered 
 forth, in a voice broken by hysteric sobs, — 
 
 " Alas ! Saint Ange, I am undone I " 
 
 'Forgive me, dearest Georgette, and dry those- 
 
-62 GEORGETTE. 
 
 "tears, that grieve me to the heart. Love alone, 
 passionate, intense, undying love, has made me 
 -guilty." ^ 
 
 " My innocence, my lord, was my only wealth, my 
 sole possession, where is it now? " 
 
 " Cast these melancholy fancies from you, dearest, 
 and give yourself to pleasure and to love. Trust to me, 
 my own love, who lives alone for you, and who takes 
 "Heaven to witness that he never will desert you. 
 We must away far from this paltry village, where we 
 cannot give a free course to our love. You were 
 born to shine a bright particular star in the galaxy of 
 fashion ; consent then to follow me to Paris, and the 
 dull, dreary life that you have led shall be changed 
 to an enduring delirium that even your fertile imagi- 
 nation has never yet conceived." 
 
 " Saint Ange," the miserable girl murmuringly 
 replied, bursting into tears, and falling into his out- 
 stretched arms, "dispose of me as you will, for now, 
 indeed, I am all your own." 
 
 Elated with his^ success, Saint Ange trod the earth 
 with a haughty step as he led Georgette away from 
 the recesses of the wood, and she, with a swelling 
 heart, and almost suffocated with the thought of her 
 irreparable fall, cast one last look at the fatal verdant 
 bank It was her adieu to all her innocence. The 
 Marquis did not give her time for the least reflection, 
 but as they walked along, he made her promise that 
 she would meet him at midnight, prepared for flight, 
 at the end of an avenue of trees about a musket-shot 
 distant from the farm, where he would have a chaise 
 -in readiness, and then left her to make the necessary 
 arrangements for the elopement. 
 
 Georgette approached the farm-house with a 
 mournful eye and tottering step, and entered the 
 asylum that had sheltered her homeless youth with- 
 out once lifting up her eyes. The words, " This farm 
 was never made for you," resounded in her ears, and 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 63 
 
 she thought, with a deep sigh, that in very truth it 
 could be for her no more, for she was no longer worthy 
 to reside with those protectors who had been to her 
 as parents. The voice of John recalled her from her 
 reverie. 
 
 " Why are you so late, my child f " he said. " Your 
 mother and I have waited for your coming to begin 
 our supper, for, you know, when you are away we 
 have not any appetite. It's very foolish of us, you 
 will say, but we are accustomed to it, and at our age 
 people seldom alter." 
 
 Georgette muttered some unintelligible excuses, 
 and sat down to table ; but her shame, and fear of the 
 scene she had yet to go through, prevented her from 
 eatiug. The kind attentions of the farmer and his 
 wife, who thought she was ill, heaped coals of fire on 
 her head ; but she mastered her emotion with a 
 gigantic effort, and when the meal was at an end, 
 she embraced the good folks with a tearful eye, that 
 excited their surprise, and rushed to her chamber, to 
 attempt to curb this first sign of her repentance. 
 When alone, she gave a free vent to her pent-up 
 feelings ; the tears streamed from her eyes as she re- 
 flected it was the last evening she should ever pass 
 in that room, where she had found a respite from the 
 miseries that oppressed her childhood. The idea of 
 her base abandonment of her benefactors, when they 
 had become infirm from age, and required additional 
 care and nurture, pierced her to the heart ; but the 
 thoughts of her lordly lover, and of the brilliant 
 capital, again passed like a fairy vision through her 
 dazzled mind, and hastily drying her tears, and tying 
 a few necessaries in a pocket-handkerchief, she steeled 
 her heart against all remorse, and, striving to think 
 alone of the sensation Saint Ange assured her she 
 could not fail to make in Paris, unreservedly sub- 
 mitted to her fate. 
 
 Filled with the inage of Georgette, whom at that 
 
64 GEORGETTE. 
 
 time lie really loved, and flushed with the recollection 
 of his triumph, the Marquis re-entered his mansion 
 with a bounding step, and calling Lafleur to him,, 
 informed him of all that had occurred, and when he 
 professed that his love for the country girl could never 
 pass away, and that she had inspired him with a feel- 
 ing that he had never felt for any other woman, the 
 scoundrel coolly remarked that his lordship had said 
 precisely the same thing 1 of his last five mistresses, 
 and that it was as difficult to persuade a young man 
 that his impetuous passion would not grow cold, as 
 it was to induce a coquette to believe she must grow 
 old. But when Saint Ange announced his intention 
 of taking Georgette to Paris, and bade him prepare 
 the vehicle and horses, Lafleur assumed to remon- 
 strate, urging that his master would do well to guard 
 his rustic beauty at his chateau, free from the attacks* 
 °f g a 7 youths and rich old fools, who assuredly 
 would try to take her from him, for this he knew 
 would have the effect of rousing his pride, and con- 
 firm him in the idea of setting out forthwith. 
 
 " No, Lafleur," the Marquis cried, " Georgette will 
 do me honour ; she will eclipse all that has ever yet 
 been seen in Paris ; she will become the glass of 
 fashion, the lioness of the day, and all the roufe of 
 the city will envy me my conquest. And yet you 
 would rob the world of its chief ornament, you would 
 have me leave this comet in her retreat ? No, I will 
 have her the observed of all observers. Have a 
 chaise and a pair of fast horses ready at twelve 
 o'clock this night. We will set out at that hour, and 
 to-morrow morning shall find us at my house in the 
 Hue Mont Blanc, and I will defy any one to-morrow 
 afternoon to recognise in my Georgette the simple 
 peasant girl of Bondy." 
 
 " But what must be done, my lord, if the farmer 
 should loose his men and dogs on us ? " 
 
 "Beat them off, coward, to be sure." 
 
THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 6S? 
 
 " No coward, my lord Marquis, although I wouM. 
 rather run off with half-a-dozen well-bred womea:, 
 than one peasant girl. Your country fellows are so 
 brutal in their ideas, and thick sticks are my aversion 
 As for fear of anything else, I have not the least m, _ 
 the world." 
 
 Having delivered himself of these polished obser- 
 vations, the pliant valet congratulated himself on the 
 success of his machinations, and left the room to get: 
 all in readiness for the abduction, whilst his master 
 threw himself upon a couch, and whiled away the- 
 time by drawing glowing pictures of the future. 
 
 At the appointed hour the chaise was at the end: 
 of the avenue, Lafleur acting as postillion. The - 
 Marquis was walking up and down anxiously awaiting^ 
 the arrival of Georgette, and as the winds whistled,, 
 the clouds looked black and lowering, and all nature 
 presaged a storm, the servant could not help observe 
 ing, as he peered down the avenue, that there would:; 
 be a strange resemblance between that night and 
 the one that found them in that portion of th^ 
 country, wet through and almost dead with cold, &&. 
 they besought admission to the farm. Saint Anga 
 shuddered slightly at the remembrance of the farmer*^ 
 hospitality and the way in which he had repaid it^ 
 but he stilled the small voice of his reproaching con- 
 science, and advanced towards the farm to meet; 
 Georgette, whose absence from the rendezvous begaft 
 to excite suspicions in his mind that her heart had 
 failed her, and she would not come. 
 
 Absorbed in her reflections, and at times half in- 
 clined to give up her mad scheme, Georgette sat in. 
 her chamber taking no heed of time, but when the?; 
 village clock struck twelve she started at the sound* ; 
 pressed her hand upon her eyes, looked round the " 
 room as if to take a last farewell of each accustomed- 
 object, and then, having put out her light, descended 
 the stairs, stopping at almost every step to ascertain: 
 VOL. L E 
 
MS GEORGETTE. 
 
 whether all was quiet, and no one heard her guilty 
 flight. Alas ! alas ! her kind protectors slept on in 
 peaceful innocence, unconscious of the damning fact, 
 and when the misguided girl reached the kitchen, 
 she found no obstacle to her egress from the house. 
 
 Here she stopped for a moment to take breath and 
 muster courage, and looking towards the chamber 
 where John and Theresa slumbered, she murmured, — 
 
 "*' Adieu, kind souls, who have ever acted as parents 
 to me ; adieu, perhaps for ever." Passing then 
 
 -"-through the door her strength gave way, and she 
 leaned for support against the wall. As she recognised 
 the spot where Charles de Merville had picked up 
 her handkerchief and placed it in his breast, a 
 
 "^thousand agonising sensations rushed through her 
 brain, her better genius momentarily prevailed, and 
 sshe had turned to retrace her steps, when the low- 
 toned voice of Saint Ange was heard calling fondly 
 an her, and her better angel fled. 
 
 In an instant he darted forward, and was at her 
 side ; he passed his arm around her sylph-like figure, 
 and bore her fainting to the chaise ; he placed her 
 senseless form within it, and got in himself, and as 
 the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed their 
 lurid glare around, Lafleur struck the horses furiously 
 with his whip, the excited animals galloped on, and 
 peaceful Bondy was soon far behind 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE RECOMPENSE OP A GOOD ACTION— THE MURDER. 
 
 The fearful storm that raged during the dark watches 
 of the night fled before the rays of the glorious 
 
THE RECOMPENSE OF A GOOD ACTION — THE MURDER. 67 
 
 morning sun, and as soon as his bright orb was seen 
 above the eastern horizon, Farmer John stepped out 
 into the yard, rejoicing in the refreshing air, to see 
 that none of his labourers neglected their allotted 
 work. As he was not in the habit of seeing Georgette 
 so early, her absence was not remarked, but when 
 she did not appear as usual at the breakfast- table, he 
 became uneasy, but was compelled to console himself 
 with the assurance that most probably she had gone 
 to Bondy, and would certainly be back to dinner. 
 When he returned from the fields to the repast and 
 did not see her, he was surprised to hear that she 
 iiad not been at home all day. 
 
 "I cannot conceive what has become of her," 
 said his wife, " and the most extraordinary thing 
 is, that Ursula found the outer door open this 
 morning." 
 
 "My dear, Georgette could not have gone out 
 without opening it; there is nothing astonishing 
 in that." 
 
 "Humph," old Ursula put in, "she must have 
 gone out during the night, or I should have heard 
 her pass my door in the morning, as she always did 
 when she went, as she said, to the school." 
 
 " As she said, Ursula \ What can you mean ? " 
 
 *< Why, you see, master, I never told you before, 
 ^because if I had you would have said I was a fool, 
 as you always did when anybody said anything 
 about Georgette ; but the fact is that very often, 
 instead of going to the village, she would spend 
 the whole of the day along with that puppet that 
 you took in and sheltered on the night of the great 
 storm. Oh, I've seen them Jfften and often together 
 when they little thought I was near them." 
 
 A dark cloud came over the farmer's honest face, 
 for, desirous as he was of thinking Georgette guilt- 
 less, he felt she ought not to have concealed her 
 Interviews with Saint Ange, while Theresa, who 
 
68 GEOKGETTE. 
 
 loved the erring girl as much as if she had been, 
 her own child, expected she would return every 
 moment and satisfactorily explain her absence. The 
 hope was vain ; the day dragged slowly on to them, 
 the shades of evening fell, and yet Georgette came 
 not to their longing arms. As the night waned, 
 the anxiety of the good couple became more intense i. 
 Theresa could not restrain her tears, John paced 
 impatiently up and down the yard, anticipating the 
 worst, then looked down the road to Bondy, and- 
 stamped with passion at not seeing the lost loved 
 one drawing nigh. Ursula did not dare to speak^ 
 and the misery of her employers affected her so 
 deeply that she prayed fervently Georgette might 
 not prove so guilty as she feared she was. 
 
 As the village clock tolled twelve on the dull ear 
 of night, John rushed into the house and seized his 
 stick and hat, exclaiming to his wife, — 
 
 "Theresa, I cannot bear it any longer, I must, 
 go to Bondy and know the worst at once. It is 
 impossible that we can remain all night in this state 
 of miserable uncertainty ; the dear child may be 
 ill and need assistance. I cannot believe that she 
 has left us." 
 
 His wife and Ursula represented to him, but in 
 vain, the dangers any man ran in passing through 
 the neighbouring forest at night, but the old man 
 was not to be diverted from his object, so embracing 
 his wife and trying to comfort her with the assur- 
 ance that he would bring back good news, he loosed 
 the collar from Caesar's neck, and, accompanied 
 by the faithful animal, left the farm-house on his 
 fruitless quest. 
 
 Occupied, as he was, completely with the thoughts 
 of the orphan girl, and forming excuse after excuse 
 for her in his mind, he strode stoutly on through the 
 dense forest, not in the least perceiving where he 
 went, whilst the dog, with the instinct of his species,. 
 
THE RECOMPENSE OF A GOOD ACTION — THE MURDER. 69 
 
 saw bis master's trouble, and not presuming to dis- 
 turb bis reverie with bis gambols, followed quietly 
 -close upon bis beels. After walking for a period 
 wbieb, according to bis calculation, ougbt to bave 
 brougbt bim witbin sight of Bondy, Farmer Jobn 
 stopped and looked forward to see wbetber be could 
 discover any traces of tbe village, and then preceived 
 that be had taken tbe wrong road, and on turning 
 round to retrace his steps, he started as he saw some 
 one gliding silently behind tbe trees. Jobn was a 
 bold man, but notwithstanding his natural courage, 
 for a moment the life-blood ran more rapidly to bis 
 heart ; be listened, he heard nothing but the mur- 
 muring of the leaves as the branches of the sturdy 
 oaks bent to the breeze, but as he recommenced 
 his march Caesar sprang forward, barking furiously, 
 and John had no longer any doubts that some one 
 was hidden in the wood. He walked on as swiftly 
 as he could, but just as be turned from tbe bye-path 
 on to the main road, four men rushed upon him from 
 the covert. Lifting up his formidable stick, John 
 laid about bim like a lion, and the brave dog new 
 to bis master's aid, but they were obliged to yield 
 to numbers, and, furious at the unexpected resistance 
 the old man had made, the robbers threw him to 
 the earth, took from him all he had in bis pockets, 
 and after kicking and beating bim in a fearful 
 manner, left him senseless and weltering in bis blood. 
 The next morning's light found poor Theresa 
 bathed in tears, awaiting with fear and trembling 
 her good man's return. Tbe peaceful house, so long 
 the abode of cheerful happiness, looked dull and 
 cold; the labourers and servants had no heart to 
 pursue the farm work and resume their daily avo- 
 cations, the poultry and the pigs were still unfed, 
 and the cows lowed as they missed the hands that 
 should relieve them of their milky burthens, when 
 melancholy howls were heard upon the road, and all 
 
70 GEORGETTE. 
 
 recognised the voice of the faithful dog. Theresa and 
 the women threw up their hands and stood aghast, 
 in silent expectation of some sad catastrophe, and 
 the men, on running to the door beheld poor Caesar, 
 wounded and covered with blood, limping along, 
 and filling the air with his plaintive moans. Theresa,, 
 as she saw the animal, shrieked out that her husband' 
 had been murdered, and fell fainting on the floor, 
 and whilst Ursula and the women lifted her up and 
 endeavoured to restore suspended animation, the 
 dog approached one of the labourers, licked his hand, 
 then returned to the door, looked up in his face, and 
 seemed to implore him to come with him to the 
 forest. Trusting to the instinct of the noble animal, 
 the men snatched up their clubs, and following the 
 dog as he dragged himself along to the fatal spot, 
 their worst suspicions were confirmed by finding the 
 body of their kind-hearted master stiff and cold ; 
 and then slowly and mournfully they bore back 
 John's brutally mangled corpse to that house he had 
 so long gladdened with his presence. The miser- 
 able Theresa was in despair : husband and adopted 
 daughter, all that she loved on earth, were torn from, 
 her at one fell swoop, and the sounds of lamentation 
 were alone heard throughout the farm. Time 
 brought but little consolation for her woes, for there 
 are some so deeply seated in the heart, that the 
 great assuager only benumbs, but cannot cure them. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL LOVER, 
 
 One morning, about a month after the murder of 
 Farmer John, Ursula cried out from the kitchen to- 
 
THE FAITHFUL LOVES. 71; 
 
 lier mistress, who was alone indulging her grief up- 
 stairs, that Charles de Merville and his groom hacE 
 just ridden into the yard: and as we have missed 
 the amiable youth for some considerable time, and. 
 as his absence has been productive of such disasters* 
 let us see why he did not redeem the promise he 
 made to Georgette, not to be longer than a months 
 away. 
 
 Upon quitting the farm near Bondy, the young: 
 man journeyed at once to his parents, who had:. 
 become very uneasy as to his fate. His father was 
 exceedingly ill, and the uncertainty of his son's* 
 situation added great mental suffering to the bodily 
 pains he endured, but Charles's arrival brought bacfc. 
 smiles and gladness to the whole family, and to 
 escape the innumerable questions his father and) 
 mother put to him, he pretended that he had beex* 
 laid up by a severe fall from his horse, a fictitious 
 event that frequently does yeoman service to youngs 
 noblemen, who are sent by their kind country parents 
 to make a tour in foreign nations, whilst they remain 
 passing their time in the dissipation and delights of 
 Paris, occasionally studying geography and readings, 
 books of travel, in order to acquire some informal 
 tion respecting the towns and cities their credulous, 
 parents believe them to have visited. 
 
 Immediately after Charles's return to the paternal 
 chateau in Lorraine, his father's illness took a favour- 
 able turn, but notwithstanding all fears for his life- 
 were dispelled, it was clear that his restoration to 
 full health must be delayed for a considerable period^, 
 and whilst the young lover discharged his filial 
 duties near his father's couch, thinking only of 
 Georgette, the time he had fixed for his return to 
 Bondy passed away. He tormented himself witk 
 the idea that Georgette would think he had . for- 
 gotten her, and every afternoon, whilst his father 
 dozed, he retired to the park that surrounded the-- 
 
1?2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 bateau, and there unseen by mortal eye, threw him- 
 Beif upon the grass, took Georgette's pledge of love 
 4kmi out his bosom, and covered it with a thousand 
 ikisses, as ardent as if he held the beauteous donor 
 within his circling arms. 
 
 Mothers are proverbially quick-sighted with regard 
 %> the affection of their children. Madame de Merville 
 ^SKK>n perceived Charles's melancholy, and strove to in- 
 
 '--^Inoe him to confide the reason of it to her ; but the 
 ^•<&tith was ashamed to confess to his high-born mother 
 Ifet a simple peasant had enslaved his heart, although 
 iMs peasant was by no means an ordinary village-girl, 
 
 "'&ni an angel gifted with lustrous charms and every 
 excelling quality of mind and heart, a model of beauty, 
 -virtue, modesty, intelligence, and grace, for these cold- 
 ■Mooded parents have such an unhappy knack of re- 
 
 - yarding things, that they often do foul wrong to the 
 Objects of their sons' attachments; they cannot be 
 hzcmght to view young ladies through love's prism, 
 Ibsii, on the contrary, the singular obliquity of their 
 •visions will find defects in the pictures painted in the 
 colours of fair Venus' son. 
 
 At last the health of Monsieur de Merville became 
 perfectly re-established, and he resolved to pass some 
 *J£s&8 in the enjoyment of the sports of the field on the 
 estate of an old college friend, situated near Kam- 
 
 !: ^bervilliers, and previous to his departure, his wife drew 
 isis attention to the cloud that now habitually rested 
 -mi the fine expressive features of their son. Contrary 
 
 : t® the fond mother's anticipation, her husband did 
 
 "•'afiot partake her alarms for her son's future happiness, 
 tat merely remarked that Charles had not yet seen 
 
 ""^IS» world, but when he should be sent out in life, 
 ^wfii-ch would be very shortly, no doubt he would find 
 : ^ie one fair sympathiser destined for him, and then 
 Ms melancholy would disappear. The mother replied 
 "$ha,t she feared Charles was grieving for the loss of 
 ^k mistress whom he had found already, but the positive 
 
THE FAITHFUL LOVER. 73 
 
 father settled the point by stating it was impossible 
 his son could have discovered, at his early age, that 
 which he had been seeking all his life, and the con- 
 versation ended. 
 
 Madame de Merville could not view her dear child's 
 sadness in the same light as her husband, but feared 
 that he had fixed his affections upon some low un- 
 worthy female, whom he could never present to his 
 parents, and, faithful to a plan she had conceived of 
 bringing Charles to a confession of his love, she 
 watched him from the house, and then followed him 
 to his lonely lair in the park. When she came upon 
 him, as he lay in a dreamy reverie upon the grass, 
 she said, — 
 
 " My dear Charles, I have observed of late that 
 your brow is overcast with care and every indication 
 of gloomy discontent, and that whenever you have 
 an opportunity, you fly from the pleasures of society 
 and bury yourself in solitude." 
 
 " Yes, dearest mother, I have much to think of." 
 " You are desirous of leaving us again, my son ; at 
 least your father and I think so ; what powerful in- 
 ducement is there to draw you from your happy 
 home'?" 
 
 "What can make you think so, mother ?" 
 " My dearest son, although you will not act frankly 
 to your fond parents, I will deal openly with you. It 
 is clear that you wish to be gone, — that some fanciful 
 attachment, some desire which you will not mention, 
 draws you from us. With most parents that conviction 
 would make them retain their children, but we will 
 pursue another and a nobler course. Go, Charles, go, 
 to the sorceress, and assure yourself of her constancy, 
 but take care not to be deceived ; your father and 
 myself love you too fondly to oppose your wishes, 
 but we trust implicitly to your honour not to form 
 an alliance with any one unworthy of your education 
 and your rank." 
 
74 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Enchanted with his mother's goodness, Charles 
 threw himself into her arms, and swore that he 
 would never disappoint her hopes, and the next morn- 
 ing, in ecstasy at the thought of again seeing his 
 beloved Georgette, he left for Bondv, attended by 
 Baptiste, and without entertaining the slightest idea 
 that he was secretly followed by his former companion 
 and guardian, old Dumont, who had received instruc- 
 tions from Madame de Merville to keep a strict watch 
 upon his actions. Urged by his burning love, Charles 
 pressed forward every day as far as he dared without 
 breaking down his horse, and as he rode into the farm- 
 yard, with a shout of delight, he pulled up suddenly 
 in utter amazement at the mournful silence that 
 reigned around, and wondered why the jolly farmer 
 and his servants did not flock to greet him. 
 
 Throwing the bridle to Baptiste, he sprang from 
 the saddle and ran into the house. Seeing no one in 
 the parlour or the kitchen, he rushed upstairs and 
 found Theresa sitting pale and disconsolate, wiping 
 away the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, and 
 attended by old Ursula, who smiled mournfully upon 
 him as he stumbled into the room. 
 
 "Great heavens I "the excited youth exclaimed, 
 "what tragedy has taken place? what means this 
 deathlike silence 1 Speak to me, Theresa. Where is 
 your husband, where is the excellent old man ? " 
 
 " Alas, monsieur, he is no more." 
 
 Staring at the unhappy widow as if the eyea would 
 start from out his head, and with the presentiment 
 that he should hear more fatal tidings, he stammered 
 out, — 
 
 " Georgette ! " 
 
 " She too is gone ; alas ! she has abandoned us." 
 
 The shock was too much for the enamoured youth ;. 
 for a few minutes he remained immovable as a statue,. 
 the very image of despair, and then jealousy and 
 rage made their fierce way into his breast, and he in- 
 
THE FAITHFUL LOVER. 75 
 
 quired angrily when, how, and with whom she had 
 left. Ursula then recounted to him all that had 
 occurred whilst he was away — the storm, the arrival 
 of the Marquis de Saint Ange, and Georgette's daily 
 interviews with him in the wood. Every word the 
 garrulous old woman spoke went like a dagger to 
 the young man's heart, until good Theresa, who saw 
 his agony, suggested that Georgette might have 
 been forcibly carried off, although she had not the 
 least hope or even idea that such had been the case. 
 
 Charles caught at the supposition as eagerly as a 
 drowning man grasps at the straw that rapidly floats 
 by him on his watery grave, and on Ursula stating, 
 with a shake of the head, that Georgette most likely 
 would be found in Paris, as she had always expressed 
 a desire, amounting almost to madness, to see the 
 capital, Charles declared his intention of proceeding- 
 there immediately the horses had been refreshed. 
 
 "I will take no rest," he ejaculated fervently, 
 " neither night nor day, until I find Georgette ; if she is 
 innocent, it is my duty to deliver her from the trap 
 into which she has fallen ; and if she should prove 
 guilty, I can only leave her to her miserable fate." 
 
 "Oh, "no! no! no!" good Theresa cried; "bring 
 her to me if she repents, that I may welcome the de- 
 luded wanderer back again, but do not break her 
 heart by telling her of the murder of my poor deai 
 John." 
 
 Charles blessed Theresa's Christian charity, and 
 pressed her hand against his heart, then mounted 
 his horse and galloped along the road to Paris, to find 
 her who, notwithstanding her infamy, was still 
 mistress of his heart. 
 
76 GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GEORGETTE IN PARIS. 
 
 The chaise which held the Marquis and Georgette 
 stopped at break of day before a superb mansion in 
 -the Chaussee D'Antin. Lafleur knocked at the great 
 gates loud enough to wake the dead, which caused 
 the servants to start from their beds ; and the neigh- 
 bours, who were roused by the noise, cursed the 
 Marquis, and turning on the other side, disposed 
 themselves to sleep again. Unaccustomed to rise at 
 such an unreasonable hour, the servants were not in 
 n fit state to receive their noble master ; but the 
 steward having come down hastily in a dressing- 
 gown, and the porter slipped on his trousers, the 
 gates were opened, and the chaise rolled into the 
 -courtyard. Lafleur, being the confidant of the great 
 man, received every possible obsequious attention 
 from his comrades, and then Georgette, who shrank 
 back, frightened by the novelty of her situation and 
 by the number of domestics, was almost lifted from 
 -the carriage by the Marquis. All the servants, being 
 quite used to these sorts of scenes, bowed reverently 
 as she stood, pale and trembling, with her eyes upon 
 the ground, and Saint Ange, having surveyed the 
 group with an air which seemed to dare any one of 
 ihem to dispute his will, took her by the hand and 
 led her to a magnificent chamber, where he left her 
 ±o that repose which her excited mind and agitated 
 frame so imperatively needed. 
 
 When she awoke at a late hour in the day, casting 
 her eyes around and forgetting for the moment the 
 occurrences of the past night, she could not think 
 where she was ; but presently the recollection of all 
 that had passed flashed upon her mind, and the 
 luxury, the elegance, the splendour of everything 
 
GEORGETTE IN PARIS. 77 
 
 around her charmed her vanity, and instantly chased 
 away all remembrance of the humble farm. Two 
 well-dressed, smart, young women, who had been 
 watching in the room, seeing that she was awake, 
 advanced respectfully towards her, and on Georgette 
 inquiring what they wanted with her, one of them 
 replied that when "Madame" wished to rise, they 
 were entirely at her orders. " Madame ! " That 
 magic word fell agreeably upon her ears, and the sub- 
 missive tone in which her servile attendant spoke 
 pandered to her pride. Georgette certainly did wish to 
 get up, and gratify her ambition by inspecting all the 
 splendours of her new abode ; but one thought alone 
 detained her in her bed, and that was that the 
 servants' dresses were so much superior to her own 
 that her vanity would not permit her to appear before 
 them in the simple rustic costume she had on when 
 she left her home; but this difficulty was soon re- 
 moved by the women spreading out several magnifi- 
 cent dresses on the bed, and inquiring which she 
 would preftar to wear. Georgette gazed upon the 
 various costumes with a dazzled eye, for they sur- 
 passed in beauty everything that her imagination had 
 created. The "embarrassment of riches " was certainly 
 hers at that exciting moment, so, feeling that she 
 could not choose amongst the blaze of laces, silks, 
 and satins, she gave up her fair form to the servants 7 
 hands, and told them to dress her as they liked. 
 
 This pleasing operation being at an end, the proud, 
 vain girl, who fondly believed she was a marchioness 
 for life, descended to the apartment where Saint 
 Ange waited for her for breakfast ; her step, her air, 
 her natural grace, and the ease with which she wore 
 habiliments to which she was totally unused, made 
 him ten thousand times more amorous, and leading 
 his lovely victim to a large glass that reached from 
 the floor to the ceiling of the room, she raised her 
 eyes to the faithful mirror, and could not believe tha 
 
78 GEORGETTE. 
 
 splendidly-apparelled creature it reflected wa3 her- 
 self. After breakfast, the Marquis drove her in a 
 phaeton to the Park of Boulogne, where his dashing 
 equipage was soon surrounded by a host of fashion- 
 able young men, who complimented him on his re- 
 turn to Paris, where the light of his presence had 
 been long missed, and narrowly scrutinised his fair 
 companion whilst conversing with him. 
 
 Saluting their friend, and bowing respectfully to 
 Georgette, who was wrapped in Elysium at all she 
 saw and heard, the exquisites rode off, whispering to 
 each other, — 
 
 " She's very pretty." 
 
 « Delightful." 
 
 " What a sweet smile ! 
 
 " Such brilliant eyes, and fine white teeth ! " 
 
 "Rather stiff and formal just now, but that will go 
 off." 
 
 " Really Saint Ange has the devil's own luck in 
 picking up the little dears." 
 
 " I like her uncommonly, and as the Marquis is my 
 particular friend, why, after a time he must hand her 
 over to me." 
 
 Before that drive was over Georgette had made 
 great progress in the art of Life. As Saint Ange 
 stopped continually, in order to parade his conquest 
 before his envying friends, the flattered girl, drunk 
 with the inceuse that was showered upon her, re- 
 sponded familiarly to the dandies who addressed 
 her, and as she had a large fund of native ability, 
 and an intuitive perception that seemed to pierce 
 through and appreciate the mysteries of fashion, it 
 was at once predicted of her, in the exclusive co- 
 teries, that she would become the reigning kept 
 woman of the day, From the Park, Saint Ange, 
 delighted with the sensation his victim had created, 
 and consequently the reflected honour upon him- 
 self, drove back to his mansion, and after a sumptu- 
 
GEORGETTE IN PARIS 79 
 
 ous dinner, on which the head cook exhausted all the 
 resources of his art, and the most exhilarating liquors 
 crowned the board, he conducted Georgette to the 
 theatre, where she attracted all eyes by the freshness 
 of her beauty and the magnificence of her toilette. 
 
 For a whole month, Georgette's life was a com- 
 plete round of fetes, balls, drives in the park or 
 the sweet country that surrounds the capital, races, 
 water-parties, picnics, and pleasures of every de- 
 scription. She possessed diamonds and other jewels, 
 with rich cashmere shawls, and had a box at the 
 opera, horses, carriages, and servants at her com- 
 mand.^ In the torrent of dissipation that was fast 
 sweeping her to ruin, she had not a single moment 
 for reflection ; and if for an instant a thought of the 
 farm where her youth was passed, and of the par- 
 ental kindness and affection of the farmer and his 
 wife came across her mind, and Charles de Merville 
 was not entirely forgotten, it was but as the breath 
 that stains a lucid mirror, it abided for an instant, and 
 then her juvenile remembrances passed away as an 
 airy dream, and she plunged into all the sensual 
 realities of her position. 
 
 The possession of his mistress had not diminished 
 the Marquis's attachment to her, which circumstance 
 was so entirely unprecedented, that Lafleur could not 
 but wonder at it. 
 
 "Bless me, my lord," the worthy said one morning 
 whilst assisting his master at his toilette, " one month 
 with this little girl, and not tired of her yet ! " 
 
 " I am really surprised at it myself, but this 
 woman unites so many graces in herself; such beauty, 
 such natural sense and wit ; in fact, all that charms 
 and enthrals a man, that I cannot help being constant 
 to her, and like it ail the better from the rarity of 
 the case." 
 
 As this state of mind somewhat curtailed the profits 
 which Lafleur made by his master's versatility in his 
 
80 GEOKGETTE. 
 
 amours, he left him in anything but a good humour, 
 and resolved, as soon as he possibly could, to find an- 
 other plaything who should supplant Georgette, but 
 his rascally determination for once was thwarted. 
 
 One evening, after a delightful excursion in 
 the country, Saint Ange and Georgette went to 
 the opera, accompanied by a party of fashionable 
 young men. The play had commenced when they 
 arrived, but the attention of the whole house was 
 drawn to the box they occupied, because it is first- 
 rate style, and indicative of high-breeding, to slam 
 the door to, let the benches fall heavily, talk loud, 
 and make as much noise as you can. Occasionally 
 this interruption annoys some stupid people who go 
 to the opera to hear the music, but the ilite only 
 laugh at the silly old-world creatures, because fashion- 
 able folks have not the least intention of lending 
 their ears to the opera, and they are only silent dur- 
 ing the ballet, where the faculty of hearing is not of 
 the slightest use. As Georgette looked haughtily 
 around her, gratifying her vanity with the oglings 
 of the men, and the supercilious but envious glances of 
 the women, she thought she perceived in the opposite 
 box the face of a young man who was not unknown 
 to her, and did not take his eyes from off her, and then,, 
 regarding him more attentively through her glass, 
 she trembled, blushed, and dropped her eyes on recog- 
 nising Charles de Merville. What would she not have 
 given to have been away from the opera that night I 
 
 The fact was, Charles had been in Paris more 
 than a week seeking the lost fugitive, and had come 
 to the opera for an hour's relaxation, not dreaming 
 of finding her there, and least of all so attended and 
 arrayed. For some time he thought his senses had 
 deceived him, but on looking fixedly, he had no doubt 
 that he beheld the miserable girl ; jealousy and 
 anger took possession of him ; in a transport of rage 
 he left his seat, caused the box next to Georgette's 
 
GEORGETTE IN PARIS. SI 
 
 to be opened, threw himself "upon one of the beaches^, 
 and instead of looking on the stage, turned towards- 
 her, leaned his head upon his hand, and gazed? 
 ardently upon the ingrate, whom he still foocOyr 
 loved, not thinking of the singular expression of hiet- 
 countenance, which formed the subject of conversa- 
 tion of all the fashionable idlers in the house. 
 
 Charles's eager looks and Georgette's tremulous^ 
 anxiety did not escape the Marquis ; he begas to 
 chafe at the continuance of what he deemed to be 
 insolence on the part of the simple, enamoured youth, 
 and was rising to demand an explanation of Ms 
 strange conduct, when Charles approached roore- 
 closely to Georgette, and whispered something ia 
 her ear. Maddened at beholding this interference 
 with his mistress, the Marquis asked Charles abruptly - 
 how he dared to address the lady, to which Charles 
 replied coolly that he had had the honour of know- 
 ing the lady for a long time, and should not solicit? 
 the Marquis's permission to speak to her. Saint; 
 Ange flew into a towering rage, Charles retorted,, 
 provocation and insult were reciprocated, and the? 
 quarrel was concluded with an appointment for a* 
 duel in the wood of Boulogne, at five o'clock the fol- 
 lowing morning. Somewhat calmed with the antici- 
 pation of approaching vengeance, the young men 
 resumed their seats, and Georgette sat in agony 
 until the opera was over. 
 
 During the quarrel, the situation of the miserable 
 woman was exquisitely painful, for the neighbours, 
 who heard the altercation, and guessed she was th& 
 cause of the quarrel, kept constantly looking at her^ 
 and irritating her with the remarks they made. 
 
 " Did you hear that fracas just now, Eugene ?' ? 
 
 "No, what was it?" 
 
 " Two young men, who each wished the society o£ 
 the lady you see there." 
 
 R A jealous quarrel, I suppose? " 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
&2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 •" Yes, of course." 
 
 ? You are quite wrong, sir," said another ; " it was 
 oimply because the fair youth leaned so far forward 
 that the lady could not see." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, I heard the words used, and 
 jabm sure I am correct." 
 
 " Not at all, I assure you ; I saw the whole of it, 
 irom beginning to end." 
 
 " You know nothing about it, sir." 
 
 4i And you, sir. are foolishly obstinate." 
 
 "Obstinate! You shall soon learn who you are 
 talking to." 
 
 In this manner various quarrels went on; the 
 ^persons in the pit called out for silence, young men 
 laughed, the whole house became excited, and the 
 .piece finished amidst great confusion, to the disgust 
 .of honest people who had paid their money, and 
 laboured under the delusion that folks went to the 
 ^opera to hear music. 
 
 The Marquis gave his hand to Georgette to 
 ^conduct her to the carriage, and when they reached 
 Jiome, left her without uttering a single word. At 
 -daylight he rang the bell for Lafleur, told him to 
 assist him in dressing as quickly as possible, and to 
 jbring the pistols fit for service, as they would be 
 wanted shortly. Whilst he made a hurried toilette, 
 lie said, in answer to questions from his confidant, 
 who was surprised at his master's agitation, that the 
 gentleman with whom he was about to fight had long 
 known Georgette, that he must have been a former 
 ..favoured lover, and therefore she could not have 
 3been pure when she eloped with him, and that he, 
 the experienced Marquis de Saint Ange, had been 
 <duped by a simple country girl. Then, burning with 
 jealousy and rage, he said the idea of Georgette 
 %again becoming his rival's would be gall and worm- 
 wood to him, and exacted a solemn promise from his 
 •Tascallv valet, that if he should fall in the approach- 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 83 
 
 ing duel, he would take care of Georgette, push her 
 fortune as boldly as he could, and, above all, prevent 
 her from becoming the mistress of De Merville. 
 
 It having been agreed by the fiery young men 
 that they would have no other seconds than their 
 confidential attendants, Saint Ange left his house 
 on foot, accompanied only by Lafieur, and arrived at 
 the place of rendezvous, where he found Charles, 
 who had reached the spot some minutes previously, 
 thirsting for vengeance, and impatiently awaiting 
 the arrival of his opponent. Behind him stood little 
 Baptiste, the groom, who had never before been 
 present at a hostile meeting, and seemed to have a 
 mortal dread of the weapons in his master's hands. 
 
 The adversaries saluted each other with formal 
 -courtesy, and took their ground ; Saint Ange, being 
 the insulted party, because Georgette was under his 
 protection when Charles addressed her, fired and 
 missed ; De Merville then levelled his pistol, drew the 
 trigger, and the ball, passing through Saint Ange's 
 lungs, brought him headlong to the earth. 
 
 Whilst Lafieur ran to assist his master, Charles, 
 followed by the weeping Baptiste, made precipitately 
 for a post-chaise, which he had ordered to be in 
 waiting, and drove back rapidly to Paris, in the 
 direct ion of the Champs Elysees. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 The few syllables that Charles whispered to Georgette 
 at the opera, contained an impassioned request to 
 i her to meet him very early on the following morning 
 
84 GEORGETTE. 
 
 in the Champs Elysees, to which she had acceded, he? 
 inordinate vanity being pleased, notwithstanding her 
 connection with Saint Ange, to see she was still dear 
 to her youthful lover. When Charles ordered the 
 postillion to stop in a bye-road, and left the chaise, he 
 crossed the grass plots to the main drive, and walked 
 up and down without perceiving the object that he 
 sought, and then he tortured himself with thinking 
 she would not prove faithful to her promise, given 
 perhaps only to free herself from his importunities^ 
 in the opera box ; and next, he grieved at the crime 
 he had committed in killing a man whose only fault 
 in his eyes consisted in being beloved by Georgette. 
 Repentance, however, was in vain, and as he re- 
 proached himself for his culpable weakness in being- 
 still fondly attached to a woman his reason told 
 him was not worthy of his love, he was roused from 
 his sombre reflections by the light sound of approach- 
 ing footsteps, and raising his eyes, he saw that the 
 new-comer was the lost Georgette. 
 
 She was habited in a modest, morning dress ; she 
 appeared pale and weak, and walked with a totter- 
 ing step ; but yet, beneath her ample Leghorn bonnet^ 
 Charles could see she had given way to tears. The 
 sight of her affliction overcame the resolution that 
 the youth had formed ; his heart throbbed violently,, 
 and he had well-nigh thrown himself at her feet and 
 renewed the passionate avowal of his love ; but he 
 restrained himself, and, leading her to a bench, sat 
 down by her side, and drooped his head upon his- 
 bosom, uncertain in what manner to address the 
 lovely, erring girl. At length Georgette broke the 
 silence by saying, — 
 
 "You desired to speak to me, monsieur." 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle. I am here in obedience to 
 your wishes.'' 
 
 i( What is it you would say ? " 
 
 "Can you ask me such a question, Georgette?- 
 
THE INTERVIEW, §5 
 
 1 beg pardon, mademoiselle, that name cannot be 
 yours now. I am aware that when the sentiments of 
 young ladies become altered, and their conduct 
 changed, the names which they were known by at 
 their happy, humble homes can only bring back 
 regrets, and must be forgotten for others more 
 fashionable and high-sounding." 
 
 " No, monsieur, such is not the case with me ; my 
 name is still the same." 
 
 " I did not expect, mademoiselle, when I quitted 
 you at the farm of your benefactors, to find you in 
 =this splendid misery — for such it must be — at Paris. 
 .Ah ! Georgette, can you have forgotten — I will not 
 say my love, for I never had the unspeakable delight 
 of exciting that feeling in your breast, but those 
 :good people who watched over your weak childhood, 
 those honest folks whom gratitude ought to have 
 ■taught you never to abandon % Did you but know, 
 Georgette, the awful consequences of your flight? " 
 
 ls Charles, do not kill me with your words. Has any 
 misfortune happened to poor John or his wife? " 
 
 " Georgette, John is no more ; the good old man 
 "was murdered whilst seeking for you, the very night 
 you left the farm for Paris." 
 
 Georgette clasped her hands together, uttered a 
 low moan, and then burst into tears ; her heart was not 
 yet altogether hardened, the memory of the home of 
 her youth, and the affection of the good couple who 
 had been to her as parents, rushed upon her mind, 
 And Charles, believing and hoping that lie beheld the 
 .germs of repentance and amendment in her grief, 
 endeavoured to strengthen the impression that his 
 mournful tale had made. He drew a vivid, affecting 
 picture of Theresa's agony ; deprived of the support 
 of her beloved husband, and the presence of that 
 dear child to whom she had looked for consolation 
 and happiness in her old age ; and then, forgetting 
 the true position of the deluded girl, he recalled to 
 
86 GEORGETTE. 
 
 her remembrance the hours, the days they passed 
 together, and, spite of his previous determination and 
 his strong sense, he renewed his protestations, and 
 again poured forth the eloquent accents of his love. 
 
 Georgette's heart was touched by the recital of 
 Theresa's woes ; for a moment she became the simple 
 village girl again, and Charles, perceiving his victory, 
 would not give her time for a moment's reflection, 
 but pressed her to fly with him from her present- 
 residence, fraught with dishonour and disgrace. 
 
 "But where, Charles, where can I go?" she- 
 exclaimed, wringing her hands in bitter grief. 
 «' Surely Theresa will not receive the ingrate who 
 shamefully abandoned her, and has been the wretched 
 cause of her good husband's death ! " 
 
 " You know her kindness of heart, Georgette ; 
 she has never believed that you were wilfully guilty, 
 but thought you were the victim of a conspiracy, and 
 were foreiblv carried off. She will receive you, never 
 fear/' 
 
 " Charles, we will go to her ; but if the Marquis 
 should come — " 
 
 " Fear nothing, dearest ; he will not think of you.'* 
 
 He said no more about the duel with Saint Ange r 
 but rising, with the triumph of having done a good 
 action shining in his eyes, he took Georgette's arm~ 
 upon his own, hurried her to the spot where the 
 chaise was waiting, entered it with her, and bade the 
 postillion hasten to the farm at Bondy. 
 
 Behold Georgette, then, readers, promising to 
 amend her life and sin no more ; but was this change 
 the effect of a true sense of her errors, and a sincere 
 repentance, and if not, worse than vain will it be for 
 young De Merville to endeavour to impress senti- 
 ments of religion and morality upon her mind, when 
 pleasure calls her with its fascinating lures'? The 
 woman who has been deceived renounces all future 
 love ; the libertine, brought to the gates of death by 
 
THE RETURN TO THE FARM. BT 
 
 his excesses, swears he will reform if he should live- 
 the gambler, who has lost his money, makes oath thai 
 he will never touch a dice-box or a card; the play- 
 wright, whose melodrama has been damned, swears- 
 that he will never write another ; and the drunkard 
 wounded severely by a fall in his beastly intoxication! 
 swears that he will never drink again ; but, never- 
 theless, the old but vulgar axiom is true,—" What i& 
 bred m the bone will neyer come out of the flesh." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE RETURN TO THE FARM. 
 
 After a melancholy ride, during which Georgette' 
 heaved continual sighs and shed abundant tears- 
 caused either by her repentance or her regret for the- 
 delights she had left at Paris— and Charles, with the 
 image of the slain Saint Ange before his eyes, pon~ 
 derea over the course he should pursue, and in what 
 way he snould elude the search the Marquis's rela- 
 tives most undoubtedly would make for the man 
 who had killed him, they rolled rapidly along the* 
 road, ana soon reached the outskirts of the well-re- 
 membered farm. The sight of the peaceful home- 
 stead drew tne travellers from their reverie, and as 
 the carriage stopped, Charles, at Georgette's request 
 descended and entered the farm-house to break the? 
 news of her arrival gently to Theresa. When she 
 was alone, she cast her eyes around upon the fields, 
 the buildings, and the gardens, which reminded her 
 of the nappy days of youth. Within a few feet 
 stood the kennel of the faithful dog she loved so 
 much ; but Caasar seemed to share the grief of his 
 
151? GEORGETTE. 
 
 j&aor mistress, and w r ould not approach the coach in 
 .-answer to her call. Vexed at the thought that even 
 , $lie noble dog rejected her, Georgette got out and 
 Tranced towards him ; but he fled from her, and 
 i.e followed him, vainly inducing him to come to 
 tin til they reached a secluded, sombre spot near 
 ~to a slight rising ground crowned with cypress trees. 
 "Hae solitary, gloomy aspect of the place filled 
 Creergette with dismay. Trembling without any 
 apparent cause, she threw a timid glance around, 
 ^m$. then saw the dog lie down dejectedly at the 
 Waot of a monumental stone. The girl stooped to 
 s^e^i the inscription, and when she saw it w r as the 
 nftoe»f3 of her generous benefactor Farmer John, her 
 Ibiees bent involuntarily, and she fell prostrate 
 Ijefore this simple testimonial of conjugal fidelity and 
 israe- 
 lii the meantime, Charles proceeded to the sitting- 
 '^room, where he found Theresa with old Ursula, He 
 m^siounced to the farmer's widow that he had 
 Ibseiig'ht Georgette back with him, and was about 
 "to plead the cause of the lost one with all his 
 -eloquence, when the good woman stopped him, ex- 
 ^dbttsning that she was only too happy to receive the 
 ^repentant girl, and implored him to lead her directly 
 %& her longing arms ; while old Ursula, still strong in 
 lies* want of confidence in the truthfulness of ail 
 -Creorgette's actions, muttered to herself, — 
 
 * Humph ! ha ! well, w r e shall soon see wmether all 
 $£as repentance is sincere." 
 
 Charles ran back to the carnage to communicate 
 "f to .pleasing tidings to Georgette. Surprised at not 
 .feeling her there, he traversed the immediate fields, 
 ^msd. at last discovered her at the foot of the isolated 
 * -temdi. Pleased at this mark of gratitude paid to the 
 ■msm&ry of her benefactor, he raised her from the 
 Mwandj and led her back to the farm-house, where, 
 ih& instant Theresa saw the wanderer, she lavished 
 
THE RETURN TO THE FARM. 89 
 
 the fondest caresses upon her ; and the latter, pierced 
 to the heart by the kind reception she felt she lifcd 
 not deserved, threw herself npon her foster-mother's 
 breast, and relieved her over-burthened heart with a 
 fresh burst of tears. Charles was much agitated at 
 the affecting scene ; but Ursula looked on with a 
 hard face and stern eye, and examined Georgette 
 attentively from head to foot. 
 
 Thus Georgette was happily re-installed at the 
 farm where her childhood had been passed ; and on 
 the morning after her arrival — although it could be 
 4seen from her eyes that she had passed a sleepless 
 night — she resumed her ancient habits, and had it 
 not been for the soft melancholy that reigned through- 
 out the buildings and the house, and the absence of 
 the honest, smiling countenance of Farmer John, an 
 indifferent spectator, unacquainted with the truth, 
 would not have known that any change had ever 
 taken place in the establishment. In the mornings, 
 -Georgette worked as usual, and in the afternoons 
 Charles accompanied her in her walks in the adjacent 
 woods — for, as a matter of course, she shunned meet- 
 ing any of the villagers or residents at the neigh- 
 bouring town — and these walks tended in some de- 
 gree to diminish Georgette's regrets for the splendid 
 luxuries of Paris and the brilliant Marquis, who had 
 rather dazzled her imagination than created a sensa- 
 tion of true affection in her breast, for Charles spoke 
 with all the sincerity of warm attachment, and her 
 heart began to respond to the eagerness with which 
 he pressed his love. 
 
 And yet Charles was not altogether easy in his 
 mind ; he was irresolute, vacillating, wavering, and 
 undecided what course to pursue. It was an 
 undeniable fact that Georgette had fallen, and, there- 
 fore, how could he present her to his noble parents! 
 Yet she had repented, and left her seducer for her 
 home. Why, then, he thought, should she not be 
 
90 GEORGETTE. 
 
 pardoned ? Why should men reserve to themselves 
 the sole right of committing wrongs time after time 
 without reproach or shame, and deny forgiveness ta- 
 that feeble sex who have effaced the memory of their 
 errors with their tears? Repentance has been well 
 described as amongst the category of absolute virtues. 
 
 One morning, after Charles had been a fortnight at 
 the farm, and whilst he was sitting gloomily in his- 
 room, Baptisie burst in upon him with consternation 
 painted upon his face, and when he had regained his 
 breath, faltered out that his master must leave the 
 farm directly, if he would escape being arrested for 
 killing the Marquis de Saint Ange. The family of 
 the deceased nobleman had been very active in their 
 researches, the police were on his track, and the pro- 
 bability was that his master would be apprehended 
 that very evening. This information had been given 
 to him by a labourer employed upon the farm, whose 
 cottage the officers had entered to make inquiries r 
 and to him they had shown their warrant, and then 
 left to obtain a reinforcement at Bondy, for fear of a 
 spirited resistance on his master's part. From this 
 unexpected intelligence, Charles saw the necessity of 
 his immediate departure, although it was much 
 against his will. An absence of a few weeks, he 
 thought, would deaden the search after him, as neither 
 the name nor the person of the individual who killed 
 the Marquis had been ascertained, and then he would 
 return to that part of the country, and judge for him- 
 self whether Georgette's repentance was sincere. 
 
 Accordingly he ordered Baptist e to saddle the 
 horses, and whilst the groom did so with the great- 
 est alacrity, trembling for his master's safety, Charles- 
 went to the room where Theresa and Georgette were 
 seated at work, and stated abruptly his intention of 
 leaving the hospitable roof directly. The widow 
 looked at him in surprise, and Georgette gave him a 
 reproachful glance, that almost made him determine- 
 
THE CLOVEN HOOF AGAIN. 91 
 
 to remain. Making a great effort, he stated that 
 every moment was precious ; that he could not ex- 
 plain the necessity of his leaving, which they would 
 soon know after he was gone, and then they would 
 see that he was right. Then, tearing himself from the 
 room, he cast one lingering look at Georgette, threw 
 himself upon his horse, and galloped from the spot 
 where he had left his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE CLOVEN HOOF AGAIN. 
 
 A WEEK elapsed, and the family at the farm were still 
 as much in the dark as ever as to the cause of Charles's 
 flight; and the reason of their ignorance was this, 
 that no officers of justice came to seek him at the 
 house, for none had ever been at the labourer's cot- 
 tage, and there had never been any intention of arrest- 
 ing him at all. All existence became a blank again 
 to Georgette, and she concluded, from Charles's 
 absence, that his love for her had fled. She sighed; 
 the tears were always in her eyes, and life was pain- 
 ful to her. The days passed slowly and mournfully 
 away ; with him she could bear the monotony of the 
 farm, but without his presence it was insupportable.- 
 Time passed on, and the fine weather was almost at 
 an end ; the meadows had lost their emerald green - r 
 the sere and yellow leaf had replaced the verdant 
 colours of the woods, and in a short time the sturdy 
 peasant, as he trudged to and from his work, would 
 trample their fallen foliage beneath his heavy foot. 
 
 Georgette beheld with despair the gradual ap- 
 proach of those chilly days and long, dark evenings 
 
#2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 which she must pass in her humble asylum, without 
 the least amusement to vary the same dull, everlast- 
 ing tasks. The remembrance of the pleasures she 
 had enjoyed disturbed her peace of mind; the form 
 of Saint Ange would sometimes mingle with her 
 ■thoughts, and although she was piqued at the con- 
 temptuous indifference with which he had relin- 
 quished her, and left her without inquiry to his rival, 
 she sometimes entertained the idea that if he were to 
 see her once again, his affection for her would return. 
 As she gazed from the window of her own room 
 upon the dreary landscape, she could not help railing 
 against the perfidy of man. 
 
 " This Saint Ange," she said, "has sworn a thousand 
 times that I formed his only happiness ; that he had 
 never loved, and never could love, any other than 
 myself, and yet apparently he has not stirred an inch 
 to discover my retreat ! And this Charles, too, who 
 professes to adore me, and will never upbraid me 
 with my fatal slip, scarcely have I accompanied him 
 back to this dull farm, which was the greatest proof 
 of love that I could give him, than he quits me 
 abruptly, without the slightest reason ! No, I will 
 never trust to the word, the oaths of any man again ; 
 they set us women examples of inconstancy, and then 
 blame us for acting in the same manner as themselves." 
 
 In the course of the ensuing month, Georgette 
 became still more dispirited, and as Time dragged 
 on his slow but never-ending steps, her distress was 
 -deeper on her discovering that she would become a 
 mother. A prey to the most poignant grief, she passed 
 whole days awav from the farm, for fear Theresa 
 and the servants should behold her shame, and 
 she now dreaded Charles's return as much as she 
 had previously desired it, for she felt assured that her 
 last misfortune had raised an insurmountable barrier 
 between them. Theresa attributed Georgette's 
 melancholy to her anxietv for Charles, but Ursula 
 
THE CLOYEN HOOF AGAIN. 93 
 
 shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and thought 
 the girl was meditating the renewal of her flight. 
 
 One calm evening, when the day had been warmer 
 than usual at that season of the year, and all the 
 household were congregated on the green grass-plot 
 enjoying the glories of a golden sunset, two inert 
 came out of the wood, and passed two or three times- 
 before the assembly, but at so great a distance as- 
 totally to preclude ail recognition. Ursula saw them, 
 first, and pointing them out to her comrades, said 
 she could not make out what they were about ; she 
 had seen them day after day reconnoitring the 
 farm-house, and when they saw they were observed,, 
 they hid themselves in the wood. Several of the- 
 labourers suggested the men might be robbers ; but 
 old Ursula gave the supposition a decided negative,. 
 observing that she might be mistaken, time would 
 show; notwithstanding the attempts of one man to 
 disguise himself, she knew him well enough, and 
 concluded with her old phrase, — " Ah ! that girl will- 
 never come to any good I " She then relapsed into 
 silence, and nothing could induce her to speak niore- 
 explicitly upon the subject. 
 
 Wrapped in her reflections, Georgette did not pay 
 any attention to the remarks that were made by t he- 
 labourers and women relative to the mysterious- 
 strangers, but at daybreak on the following morning, 
 as she sat at her window brooding over her unhappy 
 lot, she beheld the two men of the preceding even- 
 ing emerge from the wood and advance rapidly to- 
 wards the farm, looking sharply around them to see 
 whether they were observed. Seized w T ith a sudden 
 curiosity to know who they were, she remained at 
 the window, and in a few minutes she became 
 satisfied, as they drew near, that one of them was the 
 late Marquis's valet Lafleur, disguised in a peasant's 
 dress. This worthy, perceiving Georgette, made 
 signs that he had a message to communicate to her,- 
 
"94 GEORGETTE. 
 
 and on her gently opening her window to hear what 
 he had to say, he informed her that he had been 
 prowling round the farm to endeavour to speak to her, 
 and now that the opportunity had presented itself, 
 he would station his comrade on the watch in order 
 that they might not be disturbed. He then said. — 
 
 " I have had the greatest trouble, mademoiselle, in 
 .getting speech of you, for that infernal old hag 
 Ursula always contrives to be in my way whenever I 
 approach the house. We have no time to lose, 
 mademoiselle, and therefore I will state briefly that I 
 have come to take you back to Paris. 
 
 " To Paris I Lafleur, I thank you ; you could not 
 confer a greater favour on me just now. And Saint 
 Ange, Lafleur, how is he — where is he ? " 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle, I have much to tell you on 
 the road." 
 
 " But why has he not come with you ? 
 
 " Time will not allow me to enter into particulars ; 
 we must first think about the means of flight, and 
 arrange." 
 
 At this moment Lafleur's companion coughed, 
 and the scoundrel, tossing a billet through the 
 window, besought Georgette to pay attention to its 
 -contents, then said he would come at the same hour 
 4;he following morning for a reply, swore at old 
 -Ursula, and hurried off. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE OLD EPICUREAN. 
 
 We must now recall the attention of our readers to 
 that period when we left Saint Ange in the wood of 
 Boulogne, mortally wounded by De Merville. Lafleur, 
 
THE OLD EPICUREAN. 95 
 
 who had acquired considerable experience in duels, 
 through the numerous fashionable vagabonds whom 
 he had served, ran to the Marquis when he fell, and 
 taking from his pocket a small flask of a restorative 
 which he never failed to have upon him in similar 
 circumstances, lifted the Marquis to a sitting pos- 
 ture, poured a few drops down his throat. 
 Opening his eyes, which were fixing fast with the 
 dull glaze of death, he said, in an almost inaudible 
 tone, — 
 
 " Lafleur, I feel that I have only a few moments more 
 to live ; promise me, promise, before I expire — " 
 
 " Yes, my lord, I swear." 
 
 t That— that— Georgette." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my loved master," Lafleur exclaimed, in- 
 terrupting the Marquis, and thinking he understood 
 his wishes. " I renew the promise 1 made to you this 
 morning, that she shall never fall into the power of 
 your rival." 
 
 The Marquis shook his head as well as he was able, 
 murmured a lew indistinct words, and died in Lafleur's 
 arms. 
 
 But the valet was deceived as to the dead man's 
 intentions with respect to the unhappy victim of his 
 lust. The unfortunate young man was not wicked 
 at heart ; he had all those faults incident to his class, 
 and committed all those crimes of which the gay 
 world takes no heed without thinking for a moment 
 of the misery the gratification of his desires carried 
 Into the bosoms of happy families ; but when the hand 
 of Death was upon him, his ideas underwent a sudden 
 change; he felt the most bitter regret for his seduction 
 of poor Georgette, and was about to make Lafleur 
 swear to take her back to Bondy, when his voice failed 
 him, and life passed away. 
 
 When the spirit of the impetuous young man had 
 gone to its account, Lafleur procured assistance, and 
 the body was conducted to the mansion in the Rue 
 
96 GEORGETTE. 
 
 D'Antin. As he was an orphan, there were no rela- 
 tives to avenge his death nor mourn his loss, and the 
 few remarks that were made in good society upon 
 the occurrence, were some ordinary expressions of 
 regret from wives who desired to profit by his atten- 
 tions, and from his intimate friends, who were helping 
 him on his road to ruin, that it was a monstrous pity, 
 for he promised great things; was an excellent fellow, 
 and gave such capital dinners. The gentlemen took 
 snuff and turned upon their heels, and the ladies held 
 their smelling-bottles to their noses, and admired 
 themselves in the glass, for they were all so delicately 
 organised, that their systems would have been de- 
 ranged by talking any longer of their amiable de- 
 parted friend. 
 
 Having deposited the corpse in an apartment, 
 Laneur inquired for "Madame" (this was Georgette's- 
 designation in the household), and learning that she 
 had gone out alone very early in the morning, but 
 no one could tell where, so that there was no one to 
 interfere with his proceedings, the rascal took pos- 
 session of all the ready money he found in the 
 Marquis's private cabinet, of which he always had 
 the key, added it to the already large amount of his 
 honest earnings, left the house-steward and the other 
 servants to dispute amongst themselves and with 
 the myrmidons of the law for Saint Ange's goods and 
 chattels, and then betook himself provisionally in a 
 quiet lodging, until he should find another situation 
 worthy of his resplendent talents. For three days 
 he reflected upon the way in which he should be able 
 to carry out Saint Ange's desires with respect to 
 Georgette, for, though he was a villain, he held his 
 word sacred, according to the proverb, "Honour 
 amongst thieves," and as he was of an intriguing 
 nature, he pictured to himself the delight of tearing 
 the girl from her old lover's arms by some exquisite 
 stroke of policy, and then of forcing her to commit folly 
 
THE OLD EPICUREAN. 9? 
 
 after folly until she became completely ruined, and 
 all to gratify, as he thought, a dead man's revenge. 
 
 The whole of the first day after the duel, Lafleur 
 sought for Georgette all over Paris ; and at the close 
 of the second, when he had made another fruitless 
 search, and was convinced that as she was not in the 
 capital she must be at the farm, just as he was enter- 
 ing the courtyard of the house where he now lodged, 
 the porter put a visiting-card into his hand, and told 
 him that a gentleman had called and begged Lafleur 
 would go to him at an early hour the next morning; 
 The address on the card was " Monsieur de Lacaille, 
 Rue Vendome." This gentleman was a fashionable 
 young man, between fifty-five and sixty years of age 9 
 of such juvenile feelings that he could not brip%* 
 himself to settle down in marriage because his gay, 
 libertine habits would ill accord with the steady 
 matrimonial state, lie had always been a coxcomb, 
 and still wished to have a fine figure, although he had 
 become excessively corpulent, but his fortune of two 
 thousand pounds a year procured him a favourable 
 reception in society, where, if he had been a poor 
 map, his pretensions would have met with the severest 
 ridicule. He was short and thick, almost as broad as 
 he was long, and notwithstanding the belt that com- 
 pressed his bowels and impeded his respiration, he 
 could not screw himself into the least shape. His com- 
 plexion-was naturally florid,but as that was not by any 
 means interesting, he rubbed his face with a species 
 of mineral cream that produced an unearthly pallor ; 
 and if to these physical perfections, readers, you add 
 a fiaxen wig curled like a child's hair, a costume in 
 the very height of fashion, a wrinkled forehead and 
 an affected, mincing, namby-pamby voice, you have 
 an accurate portrait of Monsieur de Lacaille. 
 
 So soon <as he had passed his fortieth year, thia 
 gentleman was under the delusion that he had become 
 juvenile again, and was only happy in the company 
 VOL. i. q 
 
D8 GEORGETTE. 
 
 <df young men. Amongst others of the dlite of the 
 Obaiiss&e D'Antin, he had made the acquaintance of 
 15a hit Ange, who merely tolerated him on account of 
 Ms absurdities. Asa matter of course, the gay young 
 <anen made a thorough butt of Lacaille, who did not 
 ^perceive it until, what with the expenses of horses 
 •and carriages, dinners to his friends, suppers with bal- 
 'let girls, and lending money to those youths who never 
 iiad any intention of returning it, he found his income 
 •diminish, so, resolving to reform and economise, he 
 ;gave up his splendid apartments in the Rue DAntin, 
 -and, without renouncing his desire of shining in the 
 •world, chose the Rue Vendome as the centre of a less 
 expensive theatre of gallant exploits. Established 
 r there, he furnished a small house richly, painted the 
 agates of the court-yard to resemble Viennese marble, 
 iiired a gigantic Swiss as a porter, and set up a hand- 
 some phaeton, with a high-actioned, good-looking 
 Iiorse ; and thus, at the end of a few weeks, nothing 
 i>ut the fat little gentleman, his house, his Swiss, 
 iiis trotting nag and well-appointed carriage, were 
 talked of from one end to the other of that district 
 •which is known by the cognomen of " The Marsh." 
 
 Now in " The Marsh " a man with a house to him- 
 self, and a phaeton, is quite a divinity, and, as a 
 natural consequence, Lacaille soon became the lion 
 of all the dinner parties, the life and soul of "all 
 ■the soirSes. and the great pet of all the Scheming 
 mammas, who could not do without him. He was 
 •perfection itself at all the innocent little games that 
 _young girls indulge in, could always find a suitable 
 word for Charade in Action, could play a part in these 
 admirably, and played the flute whenever he could 
 get any one to dance to it. A man possessed of 
 i:hese rare talents is an extraordinary being in society; 
 •and thus it happened that the moment lie appeared 
 the girls smiled tenderly upon him, mammas shook 
 'liim cordially by the hand, the men surrounded him 
 
THE OLD EPICUREAN. 9$ 
 
 =and held out their snuff-boxes, and all awaited im- 
 patiently the moment he should speak, that they 
 might applaud the brilliant sallies that must fall from 
 the lips of a man who has an income of two thousand 
 ^pounds a year. 
 
 Things were precisely in this state when one night, 
 as the old coxcomb was at one of the theatres, where 
 lie went occasionally to settle the merits of an'actress 
 or a melodrama by his fiat, he beheld Georgette with 
 the Marquis de Saint Ange. He hastened to be seen 
 speaking to his titled friend, entered the box, and 
 whilst he was chatting with the Marquis, the beauty 
 of the country girl turned his brain, and he could 
 only look at the lovely being before him. Georgette 
 smiled at the face and figure of her ardent, elderly 
 admirer, but he did not perceive it, and left the box 
 as deeply in love as a man of sixty years can be. The 
 proverb is right, there are no fools like old ones ! 
 
 From that moment the disconsolate wretch bade 
 adieu to soirees, dinners, balls, and childish games. 
 3IeIancholy as an owl in a ruined tower, he shut 
 iiimself up in his house, exhausted himself in sighs ; 
 lie could not eat his meals for love, and yet he had 
 mot the gratification of seein g that his obesity decreased. 
 But one morning the news flew from the Chaussee 
 d'Antin to the Rue Vendome that the young Marquis 
 <le Saint Ange had been shot in a duel. LacaiJle 
 ,cast off his apathy at once, for he saw the woman he 
 ^adored was now without an engagement, and he 
 ■determined she should be his at all hazards, notwith- 
 standing what the possession of her might cost. 
 Lacaille knew Lafleur well: the fact was, the 
 -scoundrel was a wonder in his way, and just the sort 
 of man that an old libertine, who cannot seduce girls 
 •any longer by his own fascinations, requires ; for we 
 -see — in the operas and comedies — that masters in 
 general have very little invention ; that the valets 
 conduct all the intrigues, where the Counts and 
 
100 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Barons are useless nonentities, which induces the 
 belief that the passion of love is so all-absorbing,, 
 that it drives genius and common-sense entirely out- 
 of a man's head. Thus it happened that Monsieur de 
 Lacaille rose up all at once like a giant refreshed : he 
 resumed his pristine energy, ordered the carriage to- 
 be brought out, entered it, drove to the late Marquis's 
 mansion, ascertain ed Lafleur's address, went to his- 
 lodgings, left his card with the porter, and made an 
 appointment for the acute scoundrel to come and see 
 him on the following morning. 
 
 Precisely as mid-day struck, Lafleur bent his steps- 
 towards the Rue Vendome, for he knew that a 
 fashionable man's morning does not commence before- 
 that hour. When he arrived at the house, the Swiss 
 placed himself before him, and asked authoritatively 
 whom he wanted; Lefleur replied he wanted Monsieur 
 de Lacaille, and on the porter answering that his- 
 master could not be seen, he moved towards the stairs; 
 the functionary fetched his halberd from the lodge,, 
 and effectually barred the way. Lafleur, who was a 
 bold man, looked around him for some means of 
 defence, and seeing a broom in the corner of the yard, 
 tore out the handle and prepared to parry the attacks 
 the Swiss seemed disposed to make. The noise of 
 the thrusts and parries was at its height when a 
 window on the first floor was opened, and Monsieur 
 de Lacaille, half-dressed, called out to his servants to 
 separate the combatants ; then recognising Lafleur,. 
 he politely desired him to walk upstairs, and repri- 
 manded Luderlich, the Swiss, who lowered his- 
 redoubtable halberd, and sneaked back to his little 
 lodge. 
 
 Lafleur threw the handle of the broom upon the 
 pavement, and ascended the stairs in obedience to 
 the request of Monsieur de Lacaille, but before he- 
 reached that gentleman's dressing-room, he passed. 
 through a suite of apartments decorated with great: 
 
TEE OLD EPICUREAN. 101 
 
 taste ; in the first a Danish carriage-dog was lying 
 upon an ottoman; in a second, an ape was amusing 
 ■himself with placing the furniture and draperies in 
 the greatest disorder ; and in the third was a favourite 
 grey parrot, who talked quite as fluently and as 
 ■sensibly as his master. The Epicurean presented a 
 singular appearance when the valet entered the 
 ;boudoir ; only one cheek had gone through the paling 
 process ; the wig was placed on one chair, and the 
 tight stays on another ; but as valets are always 
 •completely versed in the mysteries of the toilette, 
 Lacaille did not cease from the creation of his daily 
 juvenility, but bade Lafleur take a seat, and then 
 ordered his footman not to let any one disturb 
 their interview. 
 
 Throwing himself into a luxurious lounging chair, 
 the enamoured old fool sighed, and said, in a lan- 
 guishing tone, — 
 
 " My dear Lafleur, I am in an abyss of de- 
 spair." 
 
 " Can it be possible, monsieur ? Is there anything 
 jfchat I can do for you ? " 
 
 " Really, my friend, I am in a most distressing 
 position. I am suffering to such an extent, — burn- 
 ing, absolutely dying." 
 
 " Good God ! monsieur, you frighten me. What 
 can have happened? You, rich, young, amiable, 
 .and formed to please I " 
 
 " 1 know, I know." 
 
 " Surely no woman can resist you." 
 
 " Lafleur, I am feted, caressed in every society I 
 •enter ; the women all desire me, but I am tired of 
 them ; it is not that that annoys me ; there is one 
 object alone that reconciles me to life, and I look for 
 the possession of it through you alone." 
 
 " Through me, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes, listen. I learned yesterday that poor Saint 
 Ange was killed." 
 
102 GEORGETTE. 
 
 1 Alas ! my poor master ! Yes, monsieur, I received 
 his parting sign." 
 
 " I am deeply grieved at his loss, Lafleur, he was an 
 excellent young man ; but of course you are without 
 a place for the present. You are a shrewd, clever, 
 intelligent fellow, even a little bit of a scamp, 
 Lafleur, eh ? " 
 
 " Ah I monsieur, you flatter me.'' 
 
 (i Well, well, I think you will suit me in every 
 respect, and if it answers your purpose, I will take* 
 you into my service and make you my confidant. I 
 can assure you that you will have many nice little 
 pickings besides the liberal wages that I shall give you.' r 
 
 " Monsieur, I shall only be too happy." 
 
 " That affair, then, is finished ; you are aware that 
 we thoughtless young bachelors never trouble our- 
 selves with domestic details. I give you the keys- 
 and full power over all the servants, and from this 
 moment you are my Mercury, my faithful messenger 
 of love ; nay, you must come here this very night r 
 and to-morrow I shall exact a special and important 
 service from you." 
 
 " This very minute, monsieur, if it pleases you ;.. 
 speak, I beg, that I may show my zeal in your service." 
 
 " Well then, Lafleur, as the truth must be told, it is- 
 as well now as later ; know that the cause of my 
 grief is that I am madly, desperately in love with 
 an angelic creature whom I have often seen with, 
 your late master." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes, she is a fairy-shaped brunette, an enchantress.. 
 You must know who I mean, she has fairly turned 
 my brain." 
 
 " You mean the country girl, Georgette % " 
 
 " It cannot be her, I think ; that vulgar name can- 
 not possibly be attached to such an angel I " 
 
 " AVe will change it, monsieur, as soon as she \sr 
 yours." 
 
THE OLD EPICUREAN. 103 
 
 " Lafieur, you roust place that woman in my arms/" 
 
 " I swear, monsieur, it shall he done ; but I warn 
 you that the enterprise is difficult ; that it will require 
 some time, great address, and — " 
 
 " Do not spare for money ; there is my purse, arid 
 there the key of my private chest, I make jom 
 master of all." 
 
 " In that case, monsieur, success is certain." 
 
 " But where is she, Lafieur ? Cannot I behold thfs 
 -divinity V 
 
 " Not at present, I fear. If I am correct in my 
 opinion, she has left Paris for a farm-house w T here- 
 she was brought up, and from which the Marquis- 
 took her only a lew- weeks ago. You will be her 
 second lover, monsieur, almost her first, for indeed 
 she is quite as good as new." 
 
 " Not quite ; but if she should have returned to this 
 farm, what shall we do ? " 
 
 44 Take her from it again." 
 
 " Capital idea ! an abduction is delicious ; it ls> 
 always talked about. But there is one obstacle to* 
 the girl's coming here. I am well known in this 
 quarter of the city, and cannot receive her openly as 
 my mistress. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood] 
 are very primitive and stupid in love affairs, but pro- 
 priety must be respected." 
 
 " A fig for them, monsieur ; neither need you have 
 her here at all. Take a house near, furnish it ele- 
 gantly, hire servants, with a carriage and horses, 
 and prepare jewellery and nick-nacks for her, for 
 I must tell you that this girl has a decided taste for 
 luxuries ; and then see her as often as you like. Yon 
 will give her a good patrician name ; you will assert 
 everywhere that she is one of your relatives, and in 
 that w r ay you can present her wherever you go, for 
 she is a clever girl, and her lady-like manner will 
 prevent any one from detecting the deception." 
 
 " Bravo, bravo, Lafieur, every obstacle disappears 
 
104 GEORGETTE. 
 
 before your talents. Away, away, my friend, and the 
 * sooner your plan is carried out, and the delicious crea- 
 ture is my own, the better it will be for you.' ; 
 
 Lafleur thanked his new master in the most servile 
 manner, protested his devotion to him, and retired 
 to fetch his worldly goods from his apartment. 
 
 As he strolled leisurely towards it, congratulating 
 himself on the prospect of making his new fool of an 
 employer pay richly for his amorous folly, he pon- 
 dered as to the best way to lead him by the nose, 
 and so become master of the establishment. As for 
 Georgette, whom lie had engaged, rather rashly, to 
 place in Lacaille's hands, he determined to ascertain 
 forthwith whether she was at the farm or not, and 
 laughed at the idea that in again compassing her 
 ruin he was carrying out the dying wishes of Saint 
 Ange. Only let him once bring her back to Paris, 
 and he did not care whether she liked Lacaille or not. 
 He knew her passion for display, her vanity, her un- 
 feigned delight at hearing her beauty praised, and 
 her wretched ambition to be talked of ; he was sure 
 that these inducements would constrain her to re- 
 main with the rich old fool, and he saw numerous 
 ■contingent advantages in perspective from the skil- 
 ful manner in which he should play with the weak- 
 ness and follies of Lacaille. 
 
 Having laid down his plan of action, the scoundrel 
 placed his things in a hackney-coach, and repaired 
 to Lacaille's residence to take up his abode for good. 
 All the servants had been informed by their master 
 that they must consider Lafleur as their superior, 
 and obey his orders implicitly ; accordingly they 
 bowed respectfully, declared their desires to make 
 everything agreeable to the great man's great man, 
 and Luderlich the Swiss stood in silence awaiting 
 his doom, with his halberd in his hand ; but the crafty 
 Lafleur, knowing that an act of apparent generosity 
 would make him popular, and really amused with 
 
THE OLD EPICUREAN. 105 
 
 the poor fellow's long face, clapped him familiarly 
 *upon the shoulder, and then held out his hand, 
 <s wearing he bore no enmity from the untoward oc- 
 currence of the morning. He then addressed him- 
 self to the other servants ; desired the cook to 
 augment the daily fare, bade the butler give him a 
 key that would open the wine-cellar, directed the 
 ■coachman to get a close carriage, with a pair of 
 •csplendid horses, and a driver with a handsome livery, 
 .and set the whole household on a sumptuous footing. 
 Thus it was with the projects of economy entertained 
 by poor Lacaille in removing from the Rue D'Antiu ; 
 but love, who is said to be blind, never fails to ob- 
 scure the eyes of all, and especially the old, who are 
 ^seduced by the fluttering of his banner. 
 
 Two days after his accepting service, Lafleur 
 yielded to his master's urgent solicitations and set 
 out for Bondy, attended by an underling as bold and 
 unscrupulous as himself, and who would not boggle 
 at using force if Georgette should refuse to accom- 
 pany her betrayers back to Paris. To avoid creating 
 any suspicion, the villainous associates put on peasants' 
 chesses, and in that disguise, by dint of inquiries, 
 Lafleur soon learned that John was dead, and that 
 Georgette and Charles were stopping at the farm. He 
 •-■charged his comrade to find out Baptiste, and taught 
 him his lesson, which he discharged so well, that 
 -the groom fell into the trap, and persuaded his master 
 to fly for fear of being apprehended by the gendarmes. 
 Enchanted at his success, Lafleur approached the farm 
 snore boldij^, but did not succeed in meeting Georg- 
 ette alone, as it always happened that she was ac- 
 companied by Ursula or Theresa in her walks. 
 
 At last the proceedings of the confederates caused 
 -<some alarm in the neighbourhood, and they were 
 watched. Ursula kept a sharp look-out, the faithful 
 dog barked whenever he saw them draw nigh, and 
 their actions seemed to announce that they had na 
 
106 GEORGETTE. 
 
 honest scheme in hand. Lafleur began to lose alP 
 hope of accomplishing his nefarious project, when one- 
 morning, as he prowled around the farm, he saw 
 Georgette at her window, hope sprang up again, he- 
 accosted her, and, as we have seen, succeeded in- 
 making her partially acquainted with his plans. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LAFLEUR'S STRATAGEMS. 
 
 Old Ursula, who, for several days past, had been all: 
 anxiety to discover the projects of the two men who- 
 were constantly skulking about the premises, opened; 
 the door that looked into the garden just in time to 
 see Lafleur and his comrade running away, and to 
 hear Georgette shut down the window. 
 
 " Humph I " she ejaculated, " what can all this- 
 mean? Verily Georgette is at her tricks again, but 
 I'll out-scheme her, or my name is not what it is. It 
 shall never be said, if I can help it, that poor dear 
 Charles found the bird flown on his return. These- 
 fellows appear to have a good understanding with 
 her, but it will be better to tell the mistress they are 
 robbers, and assure her that Ma'amselle Georgette is- 
 not safe in that chamber; for, if I was to tell her" 
 that her favourite was plotting to be off again, she 
 would not believe me. It's easy enough to see that 
 the girl's penitence was all a pretence, and that she 
 wants to go back to that wicked Marquis." 
 
 Whilst the old woman was. muttering her fears,. 
 Georgette opened the billet hurriedly, and read, — 
 
 " Madame, — You are a lovely woman, only seven— 
 
lafleur's stratagems. 10 T 
 
 teen years old, and I do not think you have any 
 desire' to pass your life amongst pigs, peasants, - 
 fowls, and ducks. I am empowered by my master 
 to offer you an elegant house in Paris, a carriage, 
 servants/ diamonds, and Cashmere shawls. You 
 have too much good sense to reject such an offer* 
 and I feel sure that you will not bury in the country 
 those distinguished charms which have formed the 
 greatest ornament of the city. Leave this dull hole^ 
 Paris calls you, noblemen languish for you, pleasures 
 of the highest class await you, the young love you,, 
 the old adore you, and the women fear, envy, and 
 hate you. Can any life be more delightful"? Love v 
 luxury, inconstancy, and all the joys of life will 
 crown your days and nights. Say but the word*. 
 and I will carry you off in spite of all the servants- 
 and ail the dogs." 
 
 Georgette was astonished to find that Saint 
 Ange's name was not once mentioned in this epistle r 
 yet Lafleur — for it was undoubtedly his writing — 
 talked of his master, and that master must be the 
 Marquis. But why had he not come himself? Some 
 matters of importance detained him, which Lafleur 
 would explain on their road to town. Another in- 
 fluence that acted upon the poor girl's mind was,, 
 that in her present state there was no room for 
 hesitation. She must quit the farm-house under any 
 circumstances, and since a residence was offered to 
 her, at all events she would know where to go to. 
 
 Then came the thoughts of giving pain to Charles- 
 and good Theresa ; that would grieve her much, but 
 her shame must be concealed at all risks, for she felt 
 she could not bear the reproaches, the contempt, and 
 scornful looks of all those by whom she had been 
 long surrounded. Her mind being made up, she 
 wrote this laconic reply, — 
 
 " I consent to be led by you, but endeavour 
 
108 GEORGETTE. 
 
 -not to be recognised, and, above all, avoid old 
 Ursula," 
 
 She then wrapped the slip of paper around the 
 .stone which was in Lafleur's note, and sat down tc 
 work, waiting patiently until the following morning's 
 light should enable her to throw it to him. 
 
 She had not been long employed thus when Theresa 
 -entered the room, followed by Ursula, and told our 
 heroine that she must leave that chamber for another 
 -on the other side of the house, because from its being 
 "known that robbers had been reconnoitring the pre- 
 mises, the room, being easy of access from the garden, 
 was not safe from midnight attacks, but if Georgette 
 should be removed, and two stout labourers placed in it, 
 then everything would be quite safe. Georgette ridi- 
 culed the idea of thieves ; but on Theresa replying t hat 
 Ursula knew one of them, and the old servant stating 
 pointedly and significantly that she knew much more 
 than ma'amselle thought she did, Georgette blushed 
 deep scarlet, held her tongue, and obeyed, trusting 
 "to chance to renew her correspondence with Lafleur. 
 
 On the following morning, at break of day, Lafleur 
 was beneath Georgette's window, whilst his com- 
 rade kept watch against interruption, but as the 
 time slipped away and the window still remained 
 •closed, he became impatient, took two or three turns 
 -up and down the walks, came back, hummed a tune, 
 -and coughed several times, and having given up all 
 hopes of an interview with Georgette, he was on the 
 point of leaving the garden, when he heard the 
 window opened with the greatest caution. Believing 
 it to be Georgette with an answer to his note, he looked 
 -up quickly, but instead of obtaining a reply, received 
 on his head and face the contents of a utensil which 
 assuredly was not rilled with cinnamon and orange- 
 -flower water. Half-blinded, stamping and cursing, he 
 heard a sardonic laugh above him. and then old 
 Ursula exclaimed, — 
 
lafleur's stratagems. 10^ 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! Master Jackanapes, it wasn't that you 
 looked for, I reckon ; that'll teach you to come here- 
 grinning and coughing underneath my window." 
 
 Wild with rage, Lafleur caught up some pebbles, 
 intending to throw them at the old woman, but on- 
 looking round for his comrade, be saw him running' 
 away as fast as his legs could carry him, pursued by 
 several labourers, with thick sticks in their hands.- 
 All idea of breaking the window fled from Lafleur's- 
 mind. At that moment another strapping youth came 
 quickly round a hedge towards him with threatening 
 gestures ; but the cunning valet was not to be daunted 
 by trifling obstacles, and waiting patiently until the- 
 young man had nearly reached him, he threw the- 
 stones he held in his hand one after another in his- 
 adversary's face with such rapidity and certain aim 
 that the blood oozed out from every pore, and Lafleur, 
 profiting by his artifice, ran after his companion, and 
 was soon beyond pursuit. 
 
 Completely occupied with her projected flight,. 
 Georgette feared that Lafleur, finding so many ob- 
 stacles in his way, would finally renounce his en- 
 terprise. She sat upon thorns all day, and though 
 no one spoke of the adventure of the morning, she 
 guessed, from the titterings and whisperings of the 
 household, and old Ursula's triumphant air, that some- 
 thing particular had taken place. Desirous of escap- 
 ing from this state of miserable suspense, she waited 
 until a period of the day when she thought all the 
 servants would be engaged, and then, leaving her 
 new room without making any noise, and holding in 
 her hand another billet to Lafleur, in which she made 
 him acquainted with the change of her apartment, she 
 stepped lightly across the yard, and had reached the- 
 outside of the great gates, congratulating herself on 
 having escaped the vigilance of Ursula, when, hearing' 
 the pottering of some aged foot, she turned round 
 and beheld the old woman immediately behind her. 
 
110 GEORGETTE. 
 
 u What is it you want, Ursula? " she said, in an 
 angry tone ; " why do you follow me like a spy ? " 
 
 " Because the country is not safe, ma'amselle." 
 
 " Nonsense, Ursula, it is all a dream of yours ; be- 
 sides, I have no fear." 
 
 " Ma'amselle Georgette," the old woman replied, 
 with an accent that could not be mistaken, "my 
 fears are for you." 
 
 Irritated at this system of espionage, and seeing 
 no means of getting rid of the old woman who was 
 acting as her gaoler, with orders not to lose her 
 from her sight, Georgette began to run across the 
 fields, where she soon left Ursula behind, and on turn- 
 ing sharply round the corner of a bye-path in the 
 wood she came suddenly upon Lafleur, to whom she 
 tossed the note, and then calmly walked back in the 
 direction of the farm. 
 
 Lafleur, perceiving from the note that Georgette 
 was not a party to the reception he met with in the 
 morning, swore he would carry her off that very 
 night, so, rejoining his subaltern, he directed him to 
 have a post chaise ready near the farm, and then 
 ■ comforted himself with the anticipation of executing 
 his vengeance without any further aid. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE FARM ON FIRE. 
 
 ■In country places at midnight, generally speaking, 
 nobody is awake but lovers, robbers, and dogs. 
 Lafleur did not suspect that any lover would inter- 
 fere with the business he was upon ; he had no fear 
 of robbers, and as for the dogs, he had provided him- 
 self with a talisman that would control their utmost 
 
THE FARM ON FIRE. Ill 
 
 vigilance. At that hour he emerged from the shade 
 of the wood, and advanced boldly and openly towards 
 the house, and when he reached the low wall that 
 bounded the farm-yard he stopped, looked up and 
 listened attentively, but could not see any light nor 
 bear the slightest sound. Feeling convinced that all 
 witkia the house were wrapped in sleep except 
 -•Georgette, he placed a dark lantern, a rope-ladder 
 with two hooks at the end, a paper-bag, and a small 
 vparcel, on the top of it, and climbing over, stepped 
 lightly into the farm-yard. 
 
 "Perdition take me, Mademoiselle Georgette," he 
 -thought, as he advanced towards the window he be- 
 lieved from her description to be hers, " I am running 
 . a thousand risks for you. If these brutal rustics should 
 ■discover me with these nick-nacks about me, they 
 would shoot me like a wood-cock, and swear I came 
 -to" rob the house. Well, well, I have promised to 
 Idling you back to Paris, and even received money 
 on account, and so it must be done, for a true gentle- 
 man never breaks his word." 
 
 Before he had advanced many feet, a largo dog 
 •bounded towards him,barkingfuriously. Thrusting his 
 Iiand rapidly into the paper bag, Lafleur drew out 
 ^orae small round balls of meat, which he threw to the 
 dnfuriated animal, and jumped behind a heap of old 
 liurdles, ready to defend himself, but poor Csesar was 
 siot proof against the temptation that assailed him ; he 
 ^snuffed the delicacies, stopped short, pounced upon 
 them, devoured them eagerly, and passed almost in- 
 stantaneously from enjoyment unto death. As soon 
 .as Lafleur was assured the dog was dead, he came 
 out from behind the hurdles where he had ensconced 
 iliimself, and tried to discover Georgette's chamber. 
 At first he feared that Cassar's barking might have 
 ^ivenan alarm, and had his mysterious parcel ready 
 for any extremity, but finding all quiet, he replaced 
 it in his pocket, and again proceeded into action. 
 
112 GEORGETTE. 
 
 And now it is time to inform our readers that thi© 
 packet contained a bundle of squibs, crackers, and 
 small maroons, tied tightly together, which he meant 
 to throw down lighted, as a last resource, in case he 
 should be discovered and opposed, hoping that the- 
 explosion, without being dangerous, would throw the 
 farm-servants into extraordinary confusion, and then, 
 under cover of the noise, the cracking of the fireworks- 
 and the smoke, he and Georgette would succeed in 
 effecting their escape. 
 
 Lafleur stole cautiously four or five times round 
 the yard, scrutinising the windows narrowly without 
 obtaining the slightest clue to indicate which was- 
 Georgette's. To be sure, she had told- him she was- 
 lodged at the bottom of the yard, but there were so- 
 many windows that he could not decide against 
 which he would direct his operations. There were 
 also two staircases, but he could not guess which 
 would be the right one to ascend, and whilst he hesi- 
 tated, he heard some one throw up a window quietly, 
 and on hiding himself in the shadow of the wall, he 
 saw a woman looking through the sash. Recollecting 
 the odoriferous affair in the garden that morning, he 
 retreated, till he took a stand immediately opposite 
 the window, in order that Georgette — if it were she — - 
 might see he was at his post ; but his hopes vanished 
 as he heard old Ursula call to the dog, and then, not 
 finding the animal respond to her, she shut down the- 
 window in a fright, declaring that something horrible- 
 must have taken place. 
 
 "Accursed hag!" the rascal muttered to himself,. 
 " you are continually in my way ; it is you who are- 
 always counteracting my plans, but I will not be- 
 beaten from the field by a prying busybody of an old 
 woman. You will come down, and when you see the 
 dog is dead you will give the alarm, but before that 
 happens I will make you safe, and even compel joxt 
 to be of service to me." 
 
THE FARM ON FIRE, 11^ 
 
 Thus saying, he hid himself in one corner of ih& 
 yard, holding the dark lantern and the packet in ona 
 hand, and a large stick, which he had picked up, in»> 
 the other, and waited impatiently for Ursula. In a< 
 few minutes the faithful servant made her appearance,- 
 in great disorder, her only vestments being a night- 
 jacket and a coloured woollen petticoat, slightly* 
 concealing a bosom, legs, and other anatomical pro- 
 portions whose beauty had not the effect of deterring 
 the valet from the execution of his promised ven- 
 geance. As soon as she reached the bottom of the- 
 stairs she walked straight to the kennel, and was- 
 surprised to find it empty; then peering about the- 
 yard and seeing the dead body of the dog, she- 
 uttered a piercing shriek, and cried out that some- 
 robber had killed Ca3sar, and at the moment that she- 
 turned to re-enter the house, Lafleur sprang upon, 
 her, threw her down upon her knees with great 
 violence, flourished his bludgeon above her head, and 
 commanded her to be silent upon pain of death.. 
 Ursula recognised Lafleur's voice, and implored him 
 not to murder her, but he, smarting with the remem- 
 brance of his bath, bade her remain quiet, or he would' 
 knock her brains out on the spot, and then ordered 
 her to conduct him in silence to Georgette's room. 
 
 Not daring to disobey, Ursula pretended to resign* 
 herself to the scoundrel's will ; and then risings- 
 ascended one staircase, traversed a long passage,, 
 went up a second staircase, descended another, and 
 then passed through several rooms, until Lafleur 
 became angry, thinking she was playing with him,, 
 and she stopped before a door at the end of a long 
 gallery, and said that was Georgette's room. She- 
 then knocked loudly, announcing her name, and 
 Lafleur whispered his, again threatening her with 
 condign punishment if she continued making such a 
 noise. Presently the sounds of some one stirring 
 within the room were heard, and Ursula requested 
 VOL. I. H 
 
114 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Xafleur to let her go, as lie could not have any further 
 occasion for her services ; but he held her tight by the 
 arm, telling her she must be content to remain for 
 ;ike rest of the night locked up in Georgette's room, 
 i for fear she should arouse the inmates of the house. 
 ^Presently the door of the chamber was opened, but 
 instead of Georgette, three men appeared, to whom 
 ■Ursula, striving to disengage herself, called to fall 
 upon Lafleur ; but he held her fast round the waist, 
 -with consummate coolness, and as the men stood 
 Auddled in the doorway, threw her with all his force 
 i against them, and then rushed along the passage 
 and down the stairs. Encumbered as the men were 
 ■cwith the heavy body hurled so unexpectedly upon 
 "them, it took them a few seconds before they could 
 get rid of Ursula and pursue Lafleur, who thus ob- 
 tained an excellent start, but when he reached the 
 -yard, and would have jumped over the wall, he missed 
 Ms rope-ladder, which he did not like to leave behind 
 Giim, and losing the advantage he had gained whilst 
 looking for it, the pursuers were so close upon him 
 -that he feared he must be captured, and as a last re- 
 source dashed into a wood house, the door of which 
 -stood open, and closed it instantly behind him. 
 
 He had hardly reached this place of refuge before 
 *t-he labourers were in the yard, where they stopped 
 In amazement at not seeing the fugitive ; immediately 
 afterwards old Ursula hobbled out, and on being in- 
 formed of Lafleur's being missing, saw at once that 
 -the receptacle for the logs of wood for domestic use 
 -was the only shelter he could have gained. On this 
 3unt the men called to him to come out, thundered at 
 tlie door, and would soon have dashed it from the 
 iiinges. The danger became imminent, and the im- 
 prisoned valet had but one resource. Without giviDg 
 34 moment's thought to the danger of the explosion in 
 ^4 hut filled with coal, dry wood, old faggots, and other 
 .inflammable material, Lafleur placed the packet on 
 
THE FARM ON FIRE. 115 
 
 -the farthest end of the floor, and drew out the con- 
 necting slow train as long as possible, and then 
 setting fire to it with the lantern, he threw the latter 
 down, deliberately opened the door, and walked out 
 with his arms crossed before the peasants. Thinking 
 he had come to yield himself up quietly as a prisoner, 
 they seized him by the collar and were about to' 
 thrash him unmercifully, when a terrible explosion 
 was heard, the door of the log-house was split into a 
 hundred bits, and scattered, with large pieces of wood, 
 over the whole yard ; the windows of the farm-house 
 cracked with the concussion, and the labourers, be- 
 lieving the last day had come, threw themselves upon 
 the earth and filled the air with their lamentations. 
 
 In the midst of this tumult, whilst the faggots 
 crackled and the whole scene was brilliantly lighted 
 up by the blaze, Lafleur saw Georgette at one of the 
 windows, and ardently implored her to descend in 
 her night-dress as she was, and to bring the rest of 
 her garments in her hand. The unhappy girl left 
 the window to follow his advice, and as he turned 
 round to catch a glimpse of the present state of 
 affairs, he saw that the wood-house was on fire, and 
 that the flames were spreading rapidly to the adjac- 
 ent buildings. He was surprised beyond measure at 
 the baneful results of his fireworks ; but the mischief 
 was done, and now the only alternative was to profit 
 'by it. At that moment Georgette arrived, and 
 hurriedly inquired the reason of the flames. Lafleur 
 assured her it was nothing but a device of his to 
 frighten the peasants, and that they would soon 
 "disappear, and then throwing a dress hastily over 
 ilier shoulders, they traversed the ground-floor of the 
 house into the garden, passed through it, opened the 
 gate, and gained the outskirts of the wood, where 
 Lafleur's companion was ready with the chaise and 
 .horses. 
 
 Lafleur almost threw Georgette into the vehicle, 
 
116 GEORGETTE, 
 
 then turning for an instant towards the farm-house y 
 he saw it was enveloped in flames, that stood out 
 in bright relief against the darkness of the sky, and 
 that it must infallibly become a prey to the devour- 
 ing elements ; then, fearing that the unusual light 
 might betray the truth of what had happened to- 
 Georgette, and thinking that she brought ruin and 
 desolation to all with whom she was connected, he 
 bade his comrade set off at a gallop, and thus left 
 the theatre of his diabolical exploits. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE CONVERSATION. 
 
 When the fugitives had proceeded about a league- 
 from the wood, and Georgette had arranged her 
 dress as well as she could, considering the rapid 
 motion and jolting of the chaise, Lafleur looking out 
 of the window to spare her modesty, that amiable 
 gentleman drew in his head, and addressed his re- 
 gained mistress as follows : — 
 
 u Now that we are safe from all pursuit, ma'am- 
 selle, and I have quite recovered my equanimity. 
 I shall make you acquainted with every particular 
 of what has taken place that I think it important 
 you should know." 
 
 " Go on, Lafleur, I am listening to you/' 
 
 "In the first place, then, I am not conducting you 
 to the Marquis de Saint Ange, for one simple reason,, 
 and that is that he is dead." 
 
 " Great God ! Saint Ange dead ? " 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, I am exceedingly grieved to' 
 say so, but it is a melancholy fact." 
 
THE CONVERSATION. 117 
 
 " Why did you not tell me so before ? If I had 
 aiot thought I was going to him, I would not have 
 left the farm." 
 
 " It was precisely that idea that prevented me 
 from informing you of the occurrence, and which 
 has saved you from committing an act of ridi- 
 culous folly by remaining incarcerated at Bondy. 
 Look, mademoiselle, Monsieur de Saint Ange is 
 dead, so much the worse ; it is a pity ; and you re- 
 gret him, which is all very proper ; but you must not 
 •suppose that he is the only man in the world with 
 whom a woman could live or could love ; there are 
 plenty of young, handsome fellows now-a-days, and 
 stupid fools who have nothing but their gold to re- 
 commend them, are not less numerous; and old men 
 .almost in their second childhood, who are still cox- 
 -combs and wish to be thought young, with their false 
 teeth, false hair, and false calves, are by no means 
 -rare ; and so a pretty, clever young woman, who has 
 wits about her, can do what she likes with all three 
 •classes. The first will find occupation for her fancy, 
 her taste, and, possibly, her heart ; for then she may 
 chance to find amidst her thousand tumultuous avo- 
 cations some one for whom she can entertain a pass- 
 ing caprice ; the second will be her puppets — she will 
 laugh at them behind their backs, but tell them she 
 .adores them before their faces — for their vanity will 
 make them believe anything — and so obtain from 
 them everything she wants ; and as for the third, they 
 merit a punishment for their folly, they deserve to 
 rpay through the nose — which the fools always do — 
 ,-and if they escape dying in penury and want, it is 
 because their excesses are sure to cut short their 
 despicable lives. You are one of those women formed 
 by nature to guide all these men with a piece of 
 ihread ; I read you accurately on the first glance I 
 had of you ; and you may believe what I say, 
 for I have no reason to deceive vou. I am not in love 
 
118 GEORGETTE. 
 
 with yon, and only tell you the truth when I say yoi* 
 will do well to follow my advice. There is no reason 
 because the Marquis has departed this life that you 
 should remain buried in a farm ; you were born to- 
 ehine, and you will do so. Therefore, mademoiselle^ 
 I beg yon to dry your tears ; regret his death, but do- 
 not sacrifice all your future happiness to his memory."' 
 
 " You talk this well, Lafleiir ; pray, where may 
 you have acquired this philosophy ? " 
 
 " A man who is inclined to learn may acquire as- 
 much in the servants'-hall as in the draw T ing-room. 
 I was born with the gift of eloquence, and might have- 
 been a renowed barrister, if my father — that is, my 
 mother's husband — had not made the pleasing dis- 
 covery one morning that his wife was more intimate- 
 with a drawing-master than he was fastidious enough 
 to think agreeable. The good man caused his wife- 
 to be locked up in a prison — which was often done- 
 in those days for peccadilloes, but if a man were to 
 think of pleading against his wife for adultery now, 
 he would certainly be despatched to a lunatic asylum 
 — where she soon died of regret at not being able to- 
 take any more drawing lessons, and my respected 
 father, after ruining himself with the .women, in order 
 to avenge the mortal affront passed upon his fore- 
 head, died miserably, leaving me alone in the world, 
 and glad to enter into service to procure a bit of 
 bread. Oh ! the instability of human affairs ! for 
 you see, mademoiselle, that these latter misfortunes 
 arose from my mother not being able to take her 
 drawing lessons comfortably. But let us return to 
 vour own affairs ; are you satisfied now at leaving: 
 Bondy?" 
 
 "Alas ! I cannot help it ! But what is it you have 
 in store for me? " 
 
 " An elegant house. In fact, a magnificent establish- 
 ment," 
 
 "And your master, what sort of a man is he % " 
 
THE CONVERSATION. 11^ 
 
 " You will be his master. He is one of the third 
 class of individuals I spoke of just now — old, stupid^ 
 and a coxcomb, but rich." 
 
 " 1 thank you, Lafleur, for your exquisite present.'*' 
 
 " You will, by-and-by ; he will turn out a perfect 
 treasure to you, a mine of wealth. Never forget for 
 a moment that he is very rich; he is ridiculously in 
 love with you, and you will do what you like with, 
 him." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Lafleur, I do not think I shall like^ 
 and I am sure I shall never love him." 
 
 " Whoever thinks of such trumpery as love? Who> 
 has put such ridiculous stuff in your head as loving m 
 man when you only see him on your own account ? Ahv 
 mademoiselle, I see I have a great deal to teach yon. 
 yet ! The two rarest things to be met within the world! 
 are faithful love and disinterested friendship ; the liber- 
 tine who seduces a young girl, the heir who mourns 
 his dead relation, the schoolboy who thanks his master 
 for flogging him, the young wife who caresses her j 
 old husband, all affect love and friendship which they 
 do not feel ; society is made up of a lot of grievances^ 
 and deceptions that are called * politeness,' and which, 
 all mankind pretend to believe are genuine. The wise,., 
 worldly man appreciates them according to their pro- 
 per value, and he justly compares men and women to 
 those actors and actresses who, after making vehe- 
 ment love upon the stage, kick and scratch eae& 
 other in the wings. In fact, we are all actors through- 
 out life, the only difference being that we cannot 
 anticipate the finish of the play, which may come to 
 pass at the most unexpected moment." 
 
 "From all of which, Lafleur, I suppose I must 
 derive the comfortable assurance that I must nevei. 
 believe one word that is uttered to me ? " 
 
 " Generally speaking, but there are certainly some 
 exceptions. If your hatter, after selling you a hand- 
 some bonnet, shall say it does not become you ; iff 
 
120 GEORGETTE. 
 
 your dressmaker should say your robe is not well 
 inade ; if your maid should tell you you look pale 
 4ind haggard ; your doctor that he does not under- 
 stand what is the matter with you ; and your lover 
 that he is faithless, you may believe them implicitly, 
 •because they have not any interest in deceiving you. 
 Interest — self-interest — is the mainspring of the 
 ^actions of all mankind — interest which exercises its 
 influence as vividly in the drawing-room as in the 
 servants'-hall, in the palace as in the peasant's cot, 
 and if it were not restrained by vanity — which is an 
 equally ridiculous passion, but less dangerous — would 
 lead us to commit innumerable follies, notwithstand- 
 ing, we enter into too many as it is. But my pro- 
 pensity for moral reflections and hearing myself talk 
 lias diverted me from the subject immediately before 
 nog. Well, you will perceive that you will be the 
 •-constant object of all the attention, care, and love of 
 .Monsieur de Lacaille." 
 
 "Lacaille, Lafleur?" 
 
 ?■ Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Bless me, I remember the original; I could never 
 (look at him without laughing." 
 
 " So much the better. Laugh as much as you like ; 
 
 lie will think it is at the witty things he has been 
 
 -saying*. You must change your name, too. Georgette 
 
 **wili never do in your new style, and so you will be 
 
 -called Madame de Rosambeau." 
 
 " Madame ! Why not mademoiselle ? I am not 
 -married." 
 
 " Propriety demands it. Truly, Monsieur de Saint 
 Ange neglected your education sadly. What on earth 
 did he teach you ? " 
 
 "To love." 
 
 " A pretty accomplishment enough, but very com- 
 mon. At fifteen years of age, now-a-days, a girl has 
 the experience of a woman of thirty in making love, 
 and indeed it has become so universal that there is 
 
THE CONVERSATION. 121 
 
 nothing to be gained by it. Besides, you will have 
 no occasion to play at making love with De Lacaille; 
 lie will take all that part of the- business upon him- 
 self. So you will call yourself Madame de Rosam- 
 beau. It is a very pretty name in itself, and will be 
 very effective in 'The Marsh.' Recollect that you 
 are a relative of Lacaille's, and a widow." 
 " Now what is the use of all this deception ? " 
 " I will show you : the old donkey is desirous of 
 ■taking you into society with him, not as his mistress 
 — that would be impossible — but as his near relation. 
 People may think what they like of the assertion, 
 but the public eye will be respected, and that is 
 -enough. Vulgar people call ladies like you 'kept 
 women;' but with the title of a relative of the rich 
 "Monsieur de Lacaille, you will be respected as an 
 1 honest woman.' " 
 " But this old fool knows that I have been — " 
 " Yes, yes, he knows your connection with Saint 
 Ange, but he does not care about it. There is even 
 & chance that he may propose to marry you." 
 " Now, Heaverf forbid ! " 
 
 " Your ignorance, Madame de Rosambeau, is really 
 lamentable. Ten thousand women situated as you 
 -are would think themselves in paradise to gain a 
 handsome fortune and the name of * wife,' under 
 which they could play all their tricks, past, present, 
 -and to come, with the greatest impunity. These are 
 the women who have abused every pleasure that can 
 'he found in life, who have made all Paris resound 
 with the accounts of their follies and extravagance, 
 and they always find fools for husbands, asses who 
 think themselves lucky in. gaining women whom fifty 
 others have possessed before them, and whose facti- 
 tious charms dissolve the very moment they are un- 
 dressed, whilst virtuous girls suffer the spring-time 
 of their years to pass away, pining and whistling for 
 ~a husband without obtaining one. Poor little dears I 
 
122 GEORGETTE. 
 
 what is the use of all their modesty and virtue since- 
 those women who have neither invariably get mar- 
 ried before them ? And now, Madame de Rosambean,. 
 I have made you acquainted with the whole state of 
 affairs, and you have only to act as you think proper."" 
 
 " Yes. Lafleur, and I am infinitely obliged to you ; 
 but I am bound to tell you there is one circumstance- 
 winch, I am afraid, will disarrange all your projects. ,r 
 
 " There cannot be. It is impossible, if you will act- 
 as I direct." 
 
 " Lafleur, I can scarcely speak the wor&[ ? ' 
 
 " Out with it. Don't play the baby with me." 
 
 " It is just that." 
 
 " What ! You cannot mean — " 
 
 " Exactly so ; I shall soon become a mother." 
 
 " Phew I And is that what you feared to tell me t 
 It's quite a trifle ; those things happen fifty times a 
 day. Don't trouble yourself about that ; but still,, 
 extra precautions must be taken. In the first place,. 
 Lacaille must not know it ; men of his stamp always 
 think women with children are twice as old as they 
 really are ; and when they do not attribute the pater- 
 nity to themselves, their fancy soon gets tired. If 
 your infant that is to come was only a few weeks 
 younger, we would flatter the old man by putting it 
 to his account, and he would have been proud and 
 delighted at the idea of his prowess ; but as that is 
 out of the question now, the little misfortune must 
 be concealed from him." 
 
 " How can that be done ? " 
 
 " Easily enough ; Lacaille is so stupid that there is 
 scarcely any pleasure in cheating him. After a fort- 
 night in Paris you will feel fatigued, and require the 
 country air, and when you are out of town you will 
 be so ill that you cannot come back just yet, and all 
 will be right." 
 
 " Well, all that is all feasible enough, but what is ; 
 to become of the child? " 
 
POOR CHARLES. 123 
 
 "Tut, tut; do what you like with it. I have 
 been the father of a good many in my time, but 1 
 never troubled my head about what became of them. 
 Besides, Paris is a very convenient place; there are 
 a great number of Foundling Hospitals to receive the- 
 fruits of susceptible young ladies' loves, and, truth 
 to say, the susceptible ones are rather numerous 
 in the city. But here we are before the door of 
 your new residence; recollect there is no such 
 person as Georgette, and that you are — Madame de 
 Rosambeau. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 POOR CHARLES. 
 
 Whilst Georgette, acting under the pernicious- 
 counsels of Laneur, fled from her benefactress at the 
 farm, and plunged again into all the delights and 
 luxuries of the capital, let us leave her awhile in all 
 her splendour, and see what became of Charles de- 
 Merville — a lover such as we seldom see, of a woman 
 of whom we see too many. 
 
 Believing that he was pursued by the gendarmes,,, 
 he journeyed on for several days as far as the horse 
 would carry him without distressing the noble animal, 
 and one evening arrived at a village, where he and 
 Baptiste put up for the night. On reconnoitring the 
 environs on the following morning, the romantic situa- 
 tion of the hamlet pleased him, and he determined 
 to remain there until he should receive some tidings 
 of Georgette. Charles did not weary of his solitude 
 — your true lover never does. He cannot give him- 
 self up too freely to his delicious dreams ; he seeks the- 
 
124' GEORGETTE. 
 
 deepest shades, the least frequented spots, and thinks 
 by isolating himself from the world around him, that 
 he approaches more nearly to the distant object of his 
 love. Sometimes, it is true, when he felt the need of 
 a confidant, he would pour out his whole soul to his 
 young attendant, and Baptiste soon learned inwardly 
 to curse the name of " dear Georgette." However, 
 he was obliged to be patient, as all men must be, with 
 lovers, authors, actors, invalids, and old coquettes. 
 
 It was undoubtedly an act of madness on the part 
 of the young man to give way to a passion for a 
 woman who was utterly unworthy of him, and, 
 hitherto, had caused him nothing but misery, but he 
 was only twenty years of age, and had not the least 
 experience of the world. He carried, as it were, his 
 heart upon his sleeve ; Georgette was his first love, 
 and that is all-in-all to an enthusiastic, dreamy 
 youth. All of a sudden the last person in the world 
 whom Charles expected to see happened to pass 
 through the village, and aroused De Merville from 
 his reverie. Dumont, deeming it was high time to 
 make his appearance, having watched Charles pro- 
 ceed to a wood at some little distance from the village, 
 mounted his horse, made a slight circuit at the gallop, 
 that the animal might seem hot and dusty from a 
 journey, and then meeting his young master, drew his 
 bridle, and saluted him in the most respectful manner. 
 
 " Now, Dumont," the young man exclaimed, " can 
 it be you? By what chance did you know that I 
 was here ? " 
 
 " The Marchioness herself directed me to this 
 village." 
 
 a Indeed ! I cannot conceive how she could learn." 
 
 " Monsieur, I am entirely ignorant of your lady 
 -mother's information, but she charged me to deliver 
 this letter to you." 
 
 So saying, the faithful servitor presented a letter 
 -to Charles, which he read with precipitation. The 
 
POOR CHARLES. li'5 1 
 
 fact was, Dumont had fulfilled the instructions he 
 received at the chateau to the very letter. Knowing 
 where Charles lodged at Paris, he had not followed 
 him to the opera, and therefore knew nothing of the 
 quarrel, and could not prevent the duel, but as soon 
 as he found Baptiste following his master with the 
 horses to the farm, he was on his track, and he kept 
 up a continual interchange of letters with his mis- 
 tress, in which his accounts of Georgette were not 
 too flattering to that young lady. 
 
 Charles was much agitated as he read the letter*, 
 for he saw that his mother was perfectly acquainted 
 with the history of Georgette ; but the only reproach 
 the Marchioness made to him was that of exposing 
 his life for a wanton who was unworthy of him. She 
 then entreated him to banish this insane degrading 
 attachment from his breast, and to return to the 
 bosom of his family, where she retained a treasure- 
 for him, a young, innocent, sweet-tempered bride, 
 whose accomplishments, sound sense, and amiable 
 qualities would soon efface the image of the pretty 
 peasant from his heart. 
 
 Trembling with passion at finding that all that he- 
 had hoped was buried in the densest obscurity was as 
 clear and open as the day, he turned round sharply 
 upon Dumont, and asked if he knew who could have 
 informed the Marchioness of the facts she mentioned in 
 that letter ; the old man answered unhesitatingly in 
 the negative, and Charles then told him roughly he 
 might depart. Dumont, firm in his hereditary attach- 
 ment to his employers, was not to be put off in that 
 way ; he represented to Charles his mother's anxiety 
 on his behalf, and her hope that her dear son would 
 accompany him back to the chateau, and having pre- 
 vailed upon Charles to empower him to tell the 
 Marchioness that he would follow him in a few days, 
 he took his leave, and set out directly for Lorraine. 
 
 When he was gone, our lover read his mother's 
 
126 GEORGETTE. 
 
 letter over and over again. He thought she exagger- 
 ated Georgette's misfortunes — for in his eyes the girl 
 had not any faults — and that his mother had been 
 deceived with respect to her. Georgette had been 
 the subject of calumny. No doubt she had erred, but 
 she had repented ; she had re-entered the paths of 
 virtue, and she would never stray from them again. 
 He folded up the letter, and remained in a state of the 
 greatest indecision. What annoyed him in it most 
 was the paragraph stating that his mother had re- 
 served a young bride for him. Still madly in love 
 with Georgette, he could not bear to think that his 
 parents should dream of disposing of his hand in 
 marriage ; and then, tearing the letter into pieces, 
 he determined to return to the farm. He cared not 
 whether he should be arrested or not ; he would as- 
 certain whether Georgette's repentance and promises 
 of amendment were sincere, and then — his foresight 
 went no farther — and then he would act as circum- 
 stances might direct. He ordered Baptiste to saddle 
 tfie horses immediately, which command the youth 
 obeyed with alacrity, because he was not in love, and 
 longed to escape from that dull village ; and Charles, 
 having remunerated his host liberally, struck his 
 hackney with the spurs, and cantered gaily along the 
 road to Bondy, where they arrived two days after- 
 wards, just as the shades of night closed in and a 
 heavy rain began to fall. 
 
 As it was not far from the town to the farm, Charles 
 decided to push on at once ; poor Baptiste, worn 
 out with the fatigue of the rate at which they had 
 travelled, and wet through, shivered with cold as he 
 sat in the saddle, but Charles encouraged him with 
 the assurance that he would soon dry himself before 
 the kitchen fire at the farm, and find a warm and 
 comfortable bed. They speedily reached the open 
 country where the buildings formerly stood, and 
 strained their eyes vainly to discover them in the 
 
POOR CHARLES. 127 
 
 •darkness, in which by this time all things were ob- 
 scured. Wondering that they could not see any 
 lights or discover any traces of the farm, although 
 -thej were sure, from some peculiarities in the land, 
 and the appearance of some well-known trees, that 
 they were near it, they both dismounted, and, almost 
 feeling their way-before them, were suddenly stopped 
 by a portion of a wall that had not been entirely con- 
 sumed. Charles groped along the wall, and soon 
 found himself amongst a confused mass of bricks, 
 timber, and fallen beams, so heaped together that the 
 horses could not advance. Every step they took con- 
 •vinced them they were on the ruins of what had once 
 been an extensive habitation; a horrible idea took 
 rpossession of Charles's brain. 
 
 " It was here," he ejaculated, his hair standing on 
 •end with agony ; " it was on this spot the farm once 
 .stood, and it was here I left Georgette. God! 
 perhaps she too has perished in the fire, a victim to 
 this horrible disaster ! " 
 
 "What, monsieur," Baptiste exclaimed, "do you 
 fthink we are on the farm? " 
 
 " Yes, Baptiste, what was once the farm, for these 
 ;are now its ruins." 
 
 Terrified with the fearful thoughts that crowded on 
 his brain, and desirous of knowing the whole truth, 
 'Charles remained seated for some time immovable 
 tipon a heap of calcined stones — the cold, the rain 
 iihat fell in torrents, and the piercing wind that cut 
 shim to the bone, nothing could rouse him from his 
 -abstraction. Baptiste sighed, but dared not disturb 
 his master ; nevertheless, he felt it was extremely 
 disagreeable to pass the night without any kind of 
 shelter in that inclement weather, for the small por- 
 tion of the wall that still was standing afforded 
 no protection to them, and as their situation became 
 more desolate every moment, he took heart of grace, 
 ,a,nd said, — 
 
128 GEORGETTE. 
 
 "Monsieur, is it your pleasure that we should 
 remain here all night ? " 
 
 " Where shall we look for shelter, my poor 
 Baptiste f " 
 
 "Anywhere, monsieur ; we shall be better any- 
 where than amongst these ruins. We cannot gain 
 any information of Mademoiselle Georgette by 
 remaining here. Do not give way to useless grief r 
 my dear master ; there is nothing to show that 
 she was included in this disaster, and perhaps we- 
 shall hear of her at the first cottage that we come 
 to." 
 
 "You are quite right, Baptiste ; your words restore 
 me to myself. Let us leave this dreadful spot, once 
 the witness of my happiness, and which presents 
 nothing but the picture of frightful desolation to my 
 mind." 
 
 The groom did not wait to be told twice to quit 
 the ruins. He extricated the horses, mounted his own r 
 and advanced as a pioneer, at a walk — peering into 
 the darkness to discover any light that might guide 
 them to an asylum for the night. After advancing 
 at a snail's pace for abotit half-an-hour, to his great 
 joy Baptiste discovered a light twinkling at a dis- 
 tance, and hastening towards it as fast as the jaded 
 animals could carry them, they saw it proceeded from 
 the interior of a peasant's hut. 
 
 Charles, knocking at the door, lifted up his voice- 
 requesting admission for two travellers almost dead 
 with wet and cold ; and before the words were well 
 nigh out of his mouth; a female presented herself at 
 an upper window, looked attentively at the young 
 man, and shrieked out, — 
 
 " Oh, heavens, it is Monsieur Charles ! Wait, wait 
 a moment till I come down and let you in." 
 
 It was old Ursula! In a few minutes she came 
 down, opened the door and let the wanderers in, then 
 kissed Charles as affectionately as if he had been her 
 
POOR CHARLES. 12£ 
 
 own son; and whilst Baptiste tied the horses ur> 
 under a shed, she entreated Charles to come and see- 
 her old mistress Theresa, who had thought she neverr 
 should set eyes on him again. Ursula's words re- 
 called to the youth's mind the dreadful loss that 
 his kind hostess had experienced ; he made a sign* 
 to Ursula that he was ready, and followed her into* 
 a small inner room, where he found Theresa em- 
 ployed with her spinning-wheel by the side of a few 
 aying embers that bespoke her present poverty.. 
 She rose and embraced him, the tears standing in 
 her eyes, and when he cast his eyes anxiously around' 
 the room, but not uttering a word, she guessed his- 
 thoughts intuitively and said with a heart-broken 
 sigh, — " Alas, she has abandoned me again ; " and 
 Ursula, frightened at the deadly paleness that over- 
 spread his face, exclaimed abruptly, — " Look, Mon- 
 sieur Charles, that ungrateful girl is not worth 
 thinking of for an instant ; if you had judged her 
 character as well as I did, you would not have been 
 deceived a second time ; the burning of the firms 
 is all owing to her, and she seems born to destroy 
 the happiness of every one who has had the misery* 
 to know her." 
 
 The old woman then told Charles all that had 
 taken place since his departure. 
 
 We must now break the thread of the narrative in. 
 order to bring up our story to this point. Lafleur's 
 packet of fireworks had been the cause of all the fear- 
 ful destruction. The long slow match, when ignited,, 
 set fire to the dry faggots as it burnt its way to the 
 chief contents of the packet, and they, communicating 
 it to the logs and pieces of wood that were strewed* 
 upon the floor, the outhouse was speedily in flames. 
 The labourers, terrified at the explosion and the- 
 cracking and hissing of the squibs, ran off as fast as* 
 they could, thinking the devil was at their haunches,, 
 without seeing that the fire from the shed was reach- 
 VOL. I. ~ I 
 
130 GEORGET7 £ 
 
 .ing the barns and other portions of the buildings. 
 Ursula strove vainly to appease their fears, and 
 < called upon them to help her mistress and herself 
 in throwing water upon the nascent flames. Their 
 superstition effectually prevented them from render- 
 ing any aid, and the destructive element was soon 
 completely master of the house. Seeing that all 
 Auman aid was now futile. Theresa sat herself down 
 on a small rising ground at a short distance, and 
 contemplated the gradual swallowing up of all that 
 i-she possessed in the world, and in one short hour not 
 one brick stood upon another of that peaceful asylum 
 'where she had passed the happiest part of her exist- 
 ence, and where she had hoped to dwell until the 
 Almighty Disposer of events should please to call her 
 to Himself. The harvest bad been gathered in ; the 
 barns were full of different grain, and the yard covered 
 with ricks of hay and stacks of beans — all were 
 ^consumed, and poor Theresa was reduced almost to 
 beggary. 
 
 The inhabitants of Bondy pitied the distressed 
 widow's miserable lot, and provided a humble asylum 
 for her, and on the morning after the fire, when they 
 iound her still seated with Ursula on the little hill, 
 «ilently regarding the destruction of her worldly 
 goods* they conveyed her passive form to the cottage 
 in which she now resided, and the poor woman 
 received their gifts with thankfulness, for had they 
 been in the same situation, she would have done as 
 .much for them. Ursula remained with her mistress, 
 and helped her cheerfully to work at her needle for 
 their mutual support. 
 
 De Merville listened to the piteous recital without 
 
 -speaking ; he was stupefied, and all the hopes with 
 
 which he had deluded his love-sick imagination fled 
 
 -as a dream, leaving a. dull, cold blank within his breast. 
 
 For some time he sat motionless, but suddenly he gave 
 
 way to a paroxysm of fresh jealousy and rage; he 
 
POOR CHARLES. 131 
 
 swore to be revenged upon the faithless, ungrateful 
 girl who had been the cause of so much misery ; he 
 swore he would pursue her throughout the world ; 
 that when he found her he would reproach her with 
 her baseness and her treachery, and then leave her 
 for ever, stating to her that he now hated and 
 despised as much as he had ever loved her. But he 
 was no longer in a state to bear the mingled violent 
 emotions that tore his breast to pieces ; the great 
 fatigue he had endured in riding post-haste to Bondy, 
 and the pouring rain with which he had been deluged, 
 threw him into a high fever, and the morning after 
 the night he arrived at Theresa's cottage, he was 
 confined to his bed with a severe illness, caused by 
 the bodily and mental pains he had endured, and his 
 life was soon in danger. 
 
 Theresa and old Ursula lavished upon him every 
 kindness and attention that the sincerest affection 
 and esteem could dictate, but delirium supervened, 
 and Baptiste was sent to seek a doctor. Unfortun- 
 ately the groom, not knowing to whom to repair, and 
 anxious to procure immediate assistance for his 
 master, went to the near est, barber's shop to inquire 
 where he should find a physician ; and more un- 
 fortunate still, the barber had a great idea with 
 respect to his own medical talents, as he knew enough 
 to dress a flesh wound amongst the peasants, open a 
 vein, extract a tooth, mix a draught, make up pills, 
 and send his patient to the regions below like any 
 regular practitioner. And thus it happened that 
 this empiric, instead of telling Baptiste where a surgeon 
 )r physician resided, persuaded him that he was the 
 mly medical man in the district, and catching up a 
 ?ase of lancets, some razors, sundry phials, and pills 
 ;hat cured all diseases, followed the groom to the 
 jiottage, assuring him that his master should be upon 
 ds legs again in no time. 
 
 When they arrived at the bedside, the barber felt 
 
^32 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Jharles's pulse, and declared oracularly that he had 
 too much blood; that the violence of the > fever was 
 caused by pressure upon the organs of the head; that 
 the via mater was so much distended that it was not 
 improbable, if he had not been called in, that the said 
 head might have forsaken its natural position on the 
 patient's shoulders; that nothing but excessive 
 ^gemorrhage would save him, and that to produce it 
 the good folks must apply sixty leeches on the back 
 of his head, his neck, and loins. And here our readers 
 must be informed that one reason for the quacks 
 giving "this extensive prescription was that on his 
 last iournev to Paris he had laid in a large stock of 
 leeches, which he thought he could dispose of at a 
 great profit in the neighbourhood ; but notwithstand- 
 ing all his eloquence, the peasants had such an aver- 
 sion for the useful reptiles, that he could not sell one 
 of them ; and as they were dying fast, he was in a 
 terrible hurry to fasten them upon the first patient 
 entrusted to his tender mercies. -,.-,. 
 
 Thanks to this ingenious remedy— which, 111 tact 
 was not very far from being right— Charles recovered 
 his senses, and the fever was reduced ; but he was so 
 weakened at the same time, that he could not move, 
 and the barber began to plume himself upon the mira- 
 culous cure he had effected. When Ursula represented 
 to him that Charles had hardly a breath in his body 
 he replied it was of no consequence, so that thai 
 breath was pure. When she said he was so weah 
 that he could not stir a hand or foot, it was a proo: 
 that the malignant fever had departed ; his eyes were 
 dim that his brain was not oppressed ; that he coulcj 
 not speak, that showed the lungs were not in a stat( 
 of irritation ; and when she observed that to her mint 
 the young man had not two days to live, he assertec 
 that if death should ensue at that period, it would fine 
 his patient completely cured. l -,-,,.-,. 
 
 " What ! " she exclaimed, in a passion, "I thins 1 
 
POOR CHARLES. J 33 
 
 is p Si? 8 wel1 for him to die > if he »«* ^ 
 
 " Die while he is ill ! Woman, you don't know 
 what you are saying. What would become of my 
 reputation then ? But make your mind easy the 
 gentleman will not die. We will put on threTdozen 
 more leeches on his chest and stomach, and if that 
 does not succeed, why, we will cup him. Ah that 
 cupping ! I don't know in what country it was in- 
 
 "biSi h F° rr was such a «*«& »«^" 
 
 it s beautitul I Forty Jaucet points pierce at once into 
 
 he flesh, and tattoo a man lilfe a New Zealand prince » 
 
 '; Oh, monstrous ! Forty wounds all together °" 
 
 res my good woman ; there's nothing like it in 
 
 he world, so I'll go home at once and prepare it * 
 
 We just made the instrument with appoints of 
 
 wfll To?" Ma / eS ' EUd - ? m ™ 8 to see h P ow they 
 will act, and so saying, the fellow left the cottaol 
 
 ■^SmSS?*^ ° f -^^-xpeTS 
 
 „f ^ hil l* ^ harleS Iay in th, ' s retched state, his family 
 at the chateau were at the high top-gallant ofthefr 
 J -y for the return of Dnmont? with the inteU gene* 
 
 able young man. Mademoiselle Alexandrine snflW 
 
^34 GEORGETTE. 
 
 quality— that of listening patiently to a twice-told 
 tale that did not interest him in the least ; and this 
 Quality recommended him particularly to the Marquis 
 who wasin the habit of makinglong dissertations about 
 his second self, whom he had never yet been able to 
 find. However, these long discourses did not by any 
 means amuse Alexandrine, and fortunately the Mar- 
 chioness, seeing her amiable temper, talents and edu- 
 cation begged her father to trust her to her for a short 
 Sjand when she arrived at the chateau the two 
 kindred natures became so inseparably united, that 
 the Marchioness soon resolved that, if possible, the 
 fair Alexandrine should become her daughter. { lne 
 girl was one of those fairy creatures whom it is im- 
 foLlle to see and not admire. Her bright black eyes 
 were tempered by long silken lashes, her mouth was 
 formed of coral lips and pearly teeth ; her hair curled 
 naturally over a noble forehead ; her waist was small 
 and fine 7 ; her height rather under the middle stature, 
 and nothing could be more perfect than her shape 
 
 But at that moment nothing could be further from 
 Charles's mind than the idea of marriage tor, pale 
 and motionless, he lay in bed, the very phantom of 
 Ms former self. The faithful Baptiste sat by his side 
 frLhtened at the fearful alteration that hadtaken place 
 X master, cursing the barber and his leeches every 
 minute and vowing to kill him outright if Charles 
 5d die. Whilst he sat there, weeping like a 
 child, the barber entered the room, and said,— 
 " How is your master % " 
 
 V As bad as he can be." m . , . 
 
 « Ah! let us see; yes, the pulse as high the skm 
 is inflamed, the blood is hematous, and there is a 
 . great deal of plethora; we must cup him, and that 
 
 ^Thesroom'did not not know what cupping meant 
 but he was determined that the barber should nol 
 do anything that he thought might injure his master 
 
POOR CHARLES. l?d> 
 
 and the moment he saw him take from his pocket 
 an instrument armed with long pointed blades, and 
 then advance to thrust them into his master's body,. 
 he flew into a fury and placed himself firmly between 
 the barber and the bed. 
 
 " Thank you, young man," said the rustic practi- 
 tioner, " but I have no need of your assistance." 
 
 " Assistance, indeed I So far from assisting youv 
 I forbid you to touch my master with your infernal 
 machine." 
 
 " You forbid me, you ignoramus % " 
 
 " Yes, you want to kill my master." 
 
 " Fool I I am going to cure him." 
 
 But Baptiste would not hear another word, andD 
 barred the barber's approach. The latter got into> 
 a passion, and seeing Baptiste was only a youths 
 though he could easily remove him ; but he was mis— 
 taken ; the groom had been brought up in a rough, 
 hardy school, and was as brave as a lion ; he seized, 
 the barber by the neck, shook him violently, and. 
 thrust him from the room, then paid him for his visits. 
 and his leeches, and threatened to knock his brains^ 
 out if ever he came there again. 
 
 Form that time the discomfited barber did not 
 come back to the cottage, and a strong constitution 
 triumphing over the leeches, Charles gradually re- 
 covered health, but two long months elapsed befora 
 he had regained sufficient strength to quit his bed- 
 room, and when he came down stairs at last, to the 
 great gratification of his humble friends, a sweet 
 melancholy took possession of him, that all their 
 attentions could not dissipate. Baptiste did not 
 dare to make any observations to his master relative 
 to his dejection, but when he could sit his horse* 
 again, he ventured to say one morning that the* 
 animals were quite fresh, and that the Marchioness, 
 had expected them at the chateau for a considerable 
 jperiod 
 
136 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Charles did not reply, but directed his faithful 
 attendant to pack up his scanty travelling wardrobe 
 in the saddle-bags, then bade abieu to Ursula and 
 Theresa, and put gold and bank notes in the hand 
 of the latter, sufficient to place her above the reach 
 of want for the remainder of her days. Then 
 mounting his horse, he rode at a walk to the main 
 road, but instead of directing the nag's head towards 
 Lorraine, he trotted gently on the route to Paris. 
 
 "There's no help for us," quoth young Baptiste, 
 * verily, my poor, dear master is bewitched." 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 
GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MADAME DE ROSA M BEAU. 
 
 |HE manners of Lafleur towards Georgette- 
 underwent an extraordinary change the 
 moment the carnage stopped, early in the 
 morning, at the door of the house where 
 she was to take up her future residence. "Room, 
 fellows," he cried, making the devil's own noise, 
 ". room for Madame de Rosambeau ! " and al- 
 though our heroine did not see anybody to get 
 out of the way, in a few minutes the servants, who 
 were awakened from their sleep, came running down 
 the stairs to welcome their half-dressed mistress ^ 
 but little did they care about her singular costume, 
 for she had a splendid house, a handsome carriage 
 with a pair of dashing horses, and was rich to boot — - 
 that was quite enough for them. 
 
 Georgette stepped quickly from the chaise, shiver- 
 ing with cold, in consequence of the few clothes she 
 had on, from leaving her chamber so precipitately, and 
 requested to be shown to her apartments. Accord- 
 VOL. II. A 
 
GEORGETTE. 
 
 i sagly, Lafleur conducted her through a suite of 
 5 rooms, richly decorated and elegantly furnished, 
 ; -iisitil she reached a delightful boudoir, where she 
 - -was received with a smile by a smartly-dressed girl, 
 ^tbout twenty, of agreeable, intelligent features, with 
 -ja sharp, wicked-looking eye. 
 
 u Madame," said Lafleur, "allow me to present to 
 you your own maid, Rose, a young woman of extra- 
 s-ordinary merit for her years ; she can dress hair 
 rwell, relate the news of the day with wit and taste, 
 wb sharp, lively, and has a hundred useful resources 
 ■&£, her fingers' ends ; she can deceive a jealous hus- 
 imad or friend, serve a handsome young lover, de- 
 preciate a rival, conduct an intrigue prosperously, 
 -3si£p a billet-doux, and, in short, is a complete adept 
 ■:ia tier avocation, and I hope, madame, that she will 
 vsnit you." 
 
 Georgette replied she had no doubt she should 
 ilind Rose all she wished, and looking kindly on the 
 girl, told her she might retire, as she should not 
 ^require her services until later in the day. 
 
 When the acute waiting-woman had withdrawn, 
 lafleur continued thus : — 
 
 ■" And now, madame — for I must not call you by 
 atiy other appellation — as you are comfortably in- 
 stalled in your own house, I must go and see my 
 master, who will be on thorns to know whether I 
 kave succeeded in my enterprise. He will be out of 
 :Ms wits with joy when he hears the result of our 
 adventures ; you must expect to see him here the 
 cllrst thing in the afternoon." 
 
 "So soon, Lafleur?" 
 
 "Certainly; old folks have no time to lose, you 
 
 l ; ^210W." 
 
 * But what shall I say to the oddity 1 " 
 4i Anything you like ; a clever woman like you can 
 sever be at a loss in a gallant tete-a-tete ; you will 
 ~;:£o nothing but laugh at him. 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. S 
 
 " Laughing at him is well enough ; but if he should 
 pester me with his love ? " 
 
 " Oh, never fear ! the eager attacks of lovers of 
 upwards of sixty years old are not much to be 
 feared. I'll tell you what it is, madame, in public 
 these would-be youths pretend to be the greatest 
 rakes on the earth ; they talk of nothing but their 
 conquests' of the weaker sex, swear and speak as 
 if they were all Hercules' in strength, but when they 
 are left alone with women, nothing can be more 
 altered than their tone; truly they are no longer the 
 same. Pretend to be afraid of them, to resist their 
 advances, to dread their impetuous juvenility, and 
 the old fools are satisfied, but a young woman must 
 he very inexperienced in love's ways, or very spiteful, 
 to put their manhood to the proof." 
 
 " You give me new life, Lafleur ; but how shall 
 we manage about the infant ? " 
 
 " Ah, madame, it is not in this world yet, and per- 
 haps never may be ; besides, I have placed servants 
 of every description about you upon whom you may 
 rely. Then do not entertain the slightest uneasi- 
 ness, for all the chances are in your favour : you are 
 young and pretty, and I am your adviser ; my 
 master is a wealthy ass, your maid is sharp-witted 
 and everything you can want, and with these helps 
 we can confidently meet all events that are likely to 
 occur." 
 
 The cunning valet then retired, and left Georgette 
 -to admire the house, the furniture, and the elegant 
 dresses that had been purchased in anticipation of 
 her arrival. In her renewed delirium the past was 
 forgotten, and she formed a thousand extravagant 
 projects for the future. 
 
 When Lafleur reached his master's house, Luder- 
 lich, the Swiss, opened the door with an obsequious 
 bow to the confidant, who then hurried up the stairs, 
 passed through the chambers appropriated to the 
 
4 GEORGETTE. 
 
 dog, the parrot, and the ape, and entered his master's- 
 room at once, well-knowing that the intelligence he 
 brought would form an ample apology for the abrupt 
 intrusion. Walking upon tip-toe through this dimly 
 lighted bower of youth and love, Lafleur approached 
 a massive bedstead, hung with curtains of rose- 
 coloured damask trimmed with silver lace; luxurious- 
 couches and lounging chairs also divided the apart- 
 ment with carved chests of drawers and eastern 
 cabinets, and the scene was reflected by several 
 mirrors and cheval glasses, surmounted by figures 
 of zephyrs and little cupids, who contrasted rather 
 unfavourably with the fat, vain, old, love-sick fool 
 who was comfortably ensconced between the sheets, 
 and snoring like a pig. 
 
 Although Lacaille was in the habit of boasting 
 that his sleep was as light as the breath of one of the 
 zephyrs that adorned his room, he did not hear his- 
 valet enter, and it was only after repeated tweaks- 
 of the nose and punches in the ribs and on the back 
 by that exemplary individual that the master was 
 recalled to consciousness, when, rousing from his deep 
 sleep, he stretched his arms, yawned, opened his- 
 eyes slowly, and beholding Lafleur, was wide awake 
 at once, and sitting upright in the bed. Lafleur 
 bowed reverently, and excused himself for disturbing 
 his master's rest by stating that the news he had 
 to communicate would not brook delay. Lacaille 
 was delighted with this commencement, and bade- 
 his man proceed ; and then the scoundrel recounted 
 to him how, after much pain and trouble, and many 
 unlooked-for obstacles — insurmountable except by a 
 man of his talent and perseverance — he had induced 
 the charming Georgette to accompany him to Paris, 
 and that at that moment, under the name of Madame 
 de Rosambeau, she awaited with impatience the 
 arrival of her protector, the seductive young Lacaille,.. 
 who, she had no doubt, would hasten to gratify hei°~ 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. 5 
 
 with the declaration of his eternal fidelity and 
 love. 
 
 The amorous old man was almost out of his senses 
 with delight; he rolled over and over in his bed for 
 joy, then swore he could not remain in it any longer, 
 but, scrambling out, waltzed round the chamber in 
 ;his shirt, and then dropping into an easy chair, 
 fatigued with his exertions, called to Lafleur to help 
 "to dress him directly. It was in vain that the valet 
 represented to him that as Madame de Kosam- 
 beau had been up all night travelling, she had need 
 of rest ; the old fool would not listen to a word 
 -that would interfere with his desires, but as Lafleur 
 jknew his toilet, to be extra brilliant, would last into 
 -the afternoon, he felt that Georgette would have 
 some hours to repose and recover her good looks. 
 On that eventful morning nothing was forgotten 
 that could convert the corpulent old man into an 
 Adonis; the stays were laced, the white put on, the 
 juvenile perruque duly curled, and the legs passed 
 through the tight-fitting pantaloons, but they could 
 not be drawn up so high as Lacaille wished, and 
 whilst Lafleur and two men-servants strove with all 
 -their might and main to thrust their master into 
 them, crack went the stuff; the pantaloons split up 
 the middle, and Lacaille damned the tailor who 
 tnade them, instead of anathematising his own fat 
 'belly and prodigious rump. Another pair was 
 "brought, which fitted perfectly, and according to 
 jLafleur's opinion, gave the old man the muscular 
 appearance of a gladiator ; so after three hours' 
 labour the toilette was completed, and Lacaille, 
 .scarcely able to walk from the way in which he 
 -was screwed up, and the high heels of his Hessian 
 ■boots, proceeded to the abode of his divinity. 
 
 At one o'clock in the afternoon, when Georgette 
 -was still in bed, Rose came to say that a gentleman 
 -desired to see her. She guessed who he was by the 
 
6 GEORGETTE. 
 
 oddity of his dress and his assumption of juvenility, 
 and although she had told him her mistress was not 
 up, he had replied that was not of any consequence. 
 Knowing that she must see her old lover sooner or 
 later, Georgette thought the best policy and ther 
 mest flattering to his vanity would be to permit 
 him to come up at once ; so desiring Rose to remain 
 in the ante-chamber ready to enter the bedroom the- 
 moment she should ring, she told her to admit him. 
 Whilst Rose withdrew to escort the aged lover to 
 his youthful mistress, Georgette arranged the clothes 
 lightly over her, and took a reclining position that 
 would best develop her graceful figure beneath the- 
 drapery, and then, with the aid of a small hand-glass,, 
 arranged her luxuriant locks temptingly within her 
 cap, determined to increase Lacaille's ardent admira- 
 tion, if possible, that she might mould him to her 
 will, but without any intention of ever yielding her 
 person to his arms. Laughing in her sleeve, Rose- 
 introduced Lacaille and then retired. The sight of 
 the bed on which the enslaver of his heart reposed 
 produced such an emotion in him, that he stood still 
 in the middle of the room, and Georgette, who 
 thought he feared to disturb her, drawing back the- 
 curtain and bursting into a fit of laughter on be- 
 holding him with one leg advanced, his mouth open,, 
 and his eye with some faint resemblance of fire- 
 in it. He bowed low several times, and said, inx 
 an affected, mincing tone, stealing towards the bed, — 
 
 " Pardon me, loveliest, if — ah ! ah ! the emotion 
 that I feel — feel, on beholding those charms — which, . 
 the soft light only adds to — that is — forgive, if I re- 
 mained rooted to the spot at the sight of so much* 
 beauty." 
 
 The fact was, Lacaille was in such a perturbation 
 at the idea of wholly possessing the charming; 
 creature whom he had languished for so long, thafc 
 he did not know what he said or did ; but Georgette* 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. W 
 
 taking compassion upon him, restrained her rnersi- 
 ment and replied, — 
 
 " What need of all this embarrassment, my deajr 
 Monsieur de Lacaille? I hope I do not frighteoN 
 you?" 
 
 Lifted up to the seventh heaven with this delight- 
 ful reception, Lacaille advanced tremblingly, aB*P 
 taking a velvet-cushioned arm-chair, sat down hy~ 
 the bedside, and whispered that he feared he haab 
 chased slumber from her beauteous eyelids by life- 
 appearing so early in the day, to which the asivto- 
 girl answered she could not have been awakened lou 
 a more pleasing manner. 
 
 The old man was beside himself; he rubbed haer- 
 chin in his ecstasy, and unconsciously removed st* 
 portion of the white, which act drew another burst- 
 of laughter from the girl. Growing emboldened fejp ~ 
 her hilarity, he said, — 
 
 "May I inquire, beauteous divinity, whether jotsu 
 are satisfied with this poor house ? " 
 
 " Completely, monsieur ; it is delightful, and co33~ 
 tains everything that I could wish." 
 
 " I hope so, for it has cost me a world of moneys 
 but I can never cease from enjoying life." 
 
 "You are quite right. Youth, monsieur, will noK 
 be controlled." 
 
 " True, sweetest, I never could restrain the ardour 
 of my passions." 
 
 " You do not show it. If you have committed ex- 
 cesses, no traces of them remain. At your age, how- 
 ever, men never become steady. .Reason always^ 
 flies before a tender heart." 
 
 " Mine has always been a loving one, and I feel Jp 
 ten times more strongly, lovely lady, now that l j 
 have the felicity of being with you. Your eyes are? 
 brilliant sparks from love's own torch." 
 
 Here Lacaille tried to sigh, to give the greater, 
 effect to his metaphor : but, recollecting the rnisfoi:^- 
 
8 GEORGETTE. 
 
 tune of the pantaloons at the morning toilette, he 
 suppressed the aspiration half-way in its upward 
 flight, and his surcharged lungs growled forth an 
 unearthly sound that quite alarmed Georgette. 
 
 "My dear sir," she exclaimed, "I fear you are 
 taken ill 1 " 
 
 " If so, it is only a malady which I endure near 
 ;you, and which you alone can cure ; really I do not 
 know, but your lovely person, the sight of your 
 -celestial charms, confuses my ideas." 
 
 " If my eyes distress you," she said, as she leered 
 •at him, " I will shut them." 
 
 " In mercy, no ! do not deprive me of their 
 lieavenly light " (another groan). 
 
 " Really, Monsieur Lacaiiie, you seem to me to be 
 .choking ; perhaps your clothes are rather tight." 
 
 'This insinuation was too derogatory to his gladia- 
 torial development to be put up with, so, hurriedly 
 ^uttering a deprecatory "No, no," he began frisking 
 • about on his chair, to show the elasticity of his limbs 
 and freedom of his movements, until Georgette 
 could not contain herself any longer, and fairly 
 Tolled in convulsive laughter in the bed. Every 
 •motion of the girl involuntarily disclosed some fresh 
 beauty to the dotard's longing eyes, till he seized 
 one of her hands, and, steadying himself, leaned 
 ■forward with his chair upon the balance as he tried 
 ^to lift her lingers to his lips. 
 
 "Take care, monsieur," she said, "lest you fall. 
 The floor is slippery with the wax." 
 
 He heeded her not, but went on, — 
 
 "And so, lovely lady, you have left the spot 
 .honoured and lighted by your presence ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes ; it had no charms for me." 
 
 "'May I indulge a hope that this house will 
 Lave?" 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 " It is yours. Pleasures shall spring up before 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. 9 
 
 your feet, and, under certain stipulations, they shall 
 he ever new." 
 
 " Stipulations, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Oh, trifles, light as air. Lafleur must have told 
 you of them, but they can be better acted than 
 described. Fear not, loveliest, your own Lacaille 
 adores you. Have pity upon me, and relieve the 
 -torments I endure." 
 
 , Finding himself going a-head, the old man coughed, 
 sighed, scratched his ear, arranged his curly locks r 
 and did all he could to inflame Georgette with the 
 display of his manly graces, still keeping a firm hold 
 of _ her hand. She replied only with provoking 
 smiles ; and as Lacaille knew, from former experi- 
 ence, the truth of the proverb, " That a woman who 
 smiles on a man is won," he hugged himself with the 
 idea that the moment of his bliss had come. He 
 ^conjured her to put an end to his miserable suffer- 
 ings ; said she continued to smile and look languish- 
 ingly in his eyes ; until, becoming bolder, he strove 
 i.o kiss her hand, and she, in pretending to fear his 
 impassioned violence, withdrew it, which disarranged 
 -the upper part of her light dress, and left her snowy 
 bosom partly exposed to view. The beauties which 
 were now exposed excited poor Lacaille to perfect 
 -frenzy. He sprang from the chair, leaned over the 
 bed on tip-toe, and tried to kiss Georgette, whose 
 lovely person had operated wonders in him, and as 
 — daring all — he placed his trembling hands upon 
 her bosom, and hers were stretched towards the bell 
 -to summon Rose, the poor man's boots slipped, and 
 the curtains, that he grasped to save himself, giving 
 way, he fell with a loud groan heavily upon the 
 rfloor. 
 
 Georgette laughed as if she was mad ; but seeing, 
 &t the expiration of a few minutes, that Lacaille did 
 not move, and fearing that he had hurt himself seri- 
 ously, she rang for Rose, who rushed in, thinking she 
 
10 GEORGETTE. 
 
 understood what was going on, but who added her 
 laughter to that of her mistress when she saw the 
 situation of Lacaille. With great exertions the two 
 young women placed the old man upon his legs 
 again, and he, affecting to treat his accident as a 
 good joke, kissed Georgette's hand far less amor- 
 ously than he had done before, and departed, telling 
 her he would return in the evening with the carriage,, 
 and conduct her to a party at the mansion of a lady 
 friend. 
 
 Lacaille re-entered his room with his dress sadly 
 disarranged by his fall, but with a smiling counten- 
 ance that quite surprised Lafleur — who had thought 
 the first interview would have been stormy on 
 Georgette's part — and said he was the happiest man 
 alive. 
 
 " Yes, Lafleur ; I came, I pleased, I conquered." 
 
 " But you have fallen, I think, monsieur? " 
 
 " Yes, but it is nothing. Give me the lavender 
 bottle. Oh, what a woman ! " 
 
 " You are not hurt, I hope ? " 
 
 " No. What exquisite charms ! What eyes, lips r 
 and a bosom that — oh ! " 
 
 " The skin of your nose is broken." 
 
 " She only repulsed me timidly to make my 
 ecstasy the greater." 
 
 " You must have a plaister, indeed." 
 
 " And then came that fearful slip. Oh, that 
 woman has stole my senses from me," etc., etc. 
 
 And thus the dotard drivelled on, whilst La- 
 fleur could not conceive why he rejoiced at gain- 
 ing nothing but a severe fall for all his attention to 
 his belle. 
 
 As soon as he was gone Georgette drank a cup of 
 chocolate and commenced her toilette, chatting with 
 the servant about the singularities of her ancient 
 lover. They laughed at the thought of the ridiculous 
 figure Lacaille cut when extended on the floor, and 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. Ik 
 
 Georgette remarked that his slip had occurred very 
 opportunely. 
 
 "Ah, madame," Rose said, "I shall grieve much 
 for you if you have not more redoubtable lovers- 
 than him to fear." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Rose, under my present circum- 
 stances, I am compelled to listen to his drivellings." 
 
 "True, madame, but that will not prevent you* 
 from listening to others, and, young and handsome 
 as you are, there are hundreds who will adore you •• 
 and as for this vain old coxcomb, he deserves to be- 
 made a fool of. You, madame, must listen only to 
 your heart." 
 
 At that instant Georgette, glancing at the glass, 
 thought Rose's opinion was quite correct, and the 
 latter, as she laced her mistress's stays, perceived that 
 somebody had already succeeded in attracting that 
 heart to a rather uncomfortable extent. When 
 Georgette was dressed she resumed the conversation* 
 by inquiring what time it was, to which her hand- 
 maid replied it was the fashionable hour for going 
 out, and as there was a beautiful clear frost, madame 
 could not do better than take an airing in the 
 carriage. Georgette suggested that her protector 
 might be vexed at her going out alone ; but Rose 
 removed that difficulty by saying it would be the- 
 worse for him if he did, and then gave her young 
 mistress a full insight into the mysteries of her new 
 position. 
 
 " You will observe, madame," she said, " that it is 
 a point of honour for women to do just what they 
 please with these old men ; from the first moment 
 thev enter your room you must accustom them to 
 obey your wishes implicitly, and if they are refractory y 
 you must have a fainting-fit directly. All men are- 
 deceitful, and generally fools, although some are 
 more difficult to lead by the nose than others. They 
 are full of selfishness and vanity. Their great object" 
 
12 GEORGETTE. 
 
 is to enjoy life as ranch as they can, that is the first 
 article of their creed, and they are too often success- 
 ful with weak susceptible women who have been 
 caught with their good looks, and been stupid 
 enough to listen to them and believe their vows. 
 Jealous — from vanity more than from love — they 
 fear to be deceived, only because it humiliates them. 
 They flatter us so long as we are pretty, and the pos- 
 session of our charms pleases them; but the very 
 moment one's beauty fades, they cease to think of us. 
 Sometimes they will have half-a-dozen mistresses 
 .at once, because their delights are all sensual, and 
 they are too weak to resist the slightest temptation 
 "they may meet with, and yet they would restrict us 
 io a single man. But luckily we know their failings 
 perfectly, and with a little management, we frequently 
 become the absolute tyrants of these vaunted masters 
 of the world." 
 
 " "Indeed, Rose, your knowledge of life is very 
 extensive; I am as yet quite ignorant, but I wish 
 to become otherwise, and I see that I cannot do 
 better than follow your advice." 
 
 " You are right, madame, I know what I am about, 
 and Lafleur appreciated me properly when he en- 
 gaged me for your service." 
 
 Rose had certainly studied acutely those phases 
 of the human heart that had been presented to her 
 view in the vile school in which she had been 
 educated, and any one who had witnessed how 
 eagerly Georgette drank in her pernicious counsels, 
 would have predicted the inevitable ruin of the mis- 
 guided girl. 
 
 A handsome carriage was driven round in a short 
 time by a coachman in a splendid livery, and Madame 
 ote Rosambeau, enveloped in costly furs, having 
 entered it with her maid, was taken through the 
 Champs Elysees and the most fashionable streets of 
 Paris, when as Rose had predicted, she was followed, 
 
MADAME DE ROSAMBEAU. 13^ 
 
 ogled, and admired by a crowd of men, and the 
 young coquette returned home intoxicated with' 
 vanity at the effect she had produced. When she 
 regained her dressing-room, and was taking off her 
 things, Rose complimented her upon her truimph,. 
 and said a handsome young officer had rode after 
 the carriage to see where it went, and an elegant 
 young man had slipped a billet into her hand as she 
 followed her mistress to the house. In an agony 
 of impatience, Georgette took the billet from the 
 girl, opened it, her heart fluttering with gratified 
 vanity, and read : — 
 
 '$My Dear, — Your mistress is an enchanting crea- 
 ture, and I am over head and ears in love with her ; 
 bring me to her or I die; Breakfast and twenty 
 pounds await you to-morrow at Folleville's, No. 1 
 Rue d'Antin." 
 
 Madame de Rosambeau returned the note to the girl 
 with a sparkling eye, observing that the man was mad r 
 and that Rose would not risk an interview with him ; 
 but Rose said the style of the note was laconic but 
 very promising, and that she could not refuse an 
 invitation to breakfast tendered with so much polite- 
 ness, and then ran downstairs to inquire of the 
 porter what the officer had said. On her return she 
 informed her mistress that the officer had asked her 
 name, what her habits were, whether she was rich, 
 married, and fifty other questions, and that the porter 
 had replied cunningly that she was a widow, and had 
 just arrived from the country. She added the officer 
 then rode off, but she entertained no doubt that he 
 would soon find some means of introducing himself 
 to the pretty widow. 
 
 Whilst the two young women were talking over 
 the occurrences of the ride, and speculating upon 
 what pleasurable events they might lead to, Lacaille 
 entered followed by Lafleur, who bowed respectfully 
 to Madame de Rosambeau. The former kissed her 
 
Tli GEORGETTE. 
 
 hand with all the enthusiasm of which he was cap- 
 able, and said he had come to carry her off to dine 
 with him at his own house, and in the evening he 
 would take her to a brilliant circle, where she would 
 infallibly eclipse all the women present. Georgette 
 
 ^accepted the invitation, and the old man and his 
 young mistress were driven home, where they par- 
 took of a luxurious repast. Georgette laughed 
 heartily at Lacaille's stupidity, and he, excited by 
 her beauty and the champagne, gave a free rein to 
 those sallies which he thought wit, and kissed her 
 cheek, but did not proceed farther, as he was not 
 man enough to undertake two great enterprises in 
 the same day, although he could not slip, as the 
 dining-room was covered with a superb Turkey 
 carpet. 
 
 Eight o'clock struck : the ill-assorted pair rose 
 from table, and Lacaille handed Madame de Rosam- 
 beau downstairs. They then entered his carriage, and 
 as they went along he informed Georgette that he 
 should state in every society to which he introduced 
 her that she was his niece, the widow of a dis- 
 tinguished officer who had been killed in action at a 
 very early age, and she must take care not to do or 
 
 : say anything that would throw a doubt upon the 
 assertion. Georgette promised to be on her guard; 
 
 _ and as they rattled over the stones she seemed to be 
 listening to the effusions of Lacaille's love, but in 
 fact was dreaming of the two additional conquests 
 
 .she had already made. 
 
THE SOIREE. 15 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE SOIREE. 
 
 The carriage stopped before a substantial, dull, 
 formal-looking house in the Rue des Francs Bour- 
 geois, the outer walls of which were blackened by the 
 rust of ages. The sharp notes of a badly-played 
 violin sounded from within, and upon Georgette 
 looking into Lacaille's face with an inquiring air, he 
 stated that the soirees given in the lady's house they 
 were about to enter were not exactly balls, but that 
 a select party met there sociably on certain evenings, 
 and did exactly as they liked ; the elderly folks played 
 ecarte, loo, or whist, whilst he and the other young 
 folks amused themselves with country dances, " Peep 
 in the Corner," " Blindman's Buff," and other inno- 
 cent amusing games. 
 
 Whilst this dialogue was taking place in the court- 
 yard of the antiquated mansion, the porter was 
 bawling for Madame Godin, the servant who officiated 
 *as groom of the chambers and announced the guests, 
 but his little girl acquainted him that the good 
 woman was inevitably absent at that moment, be- 
 •cause she had run into the cellar after her tom-cat, 
 Monton, who had pursued a lady-cat thither belonging 
 to Madame Miradon, who did not wish to be encum- 
 bered with a litter of young kittens. The child 
 Sazon ran after her mother, who was running after 
 the amorous cat, and Lacaille and Madame de 
 Eosambeau remained standing in the cold until the 
 joint search should be brought to a successful ter- 
 mination. She thought this rigid adherence to the 
 etiquette of announcement was ridiculous, but he 
 stated that it was imperative in that part of the city 
 designated " The Marsh," but when once she should 
 
16 GEORGETTE. 
 
 be in the room, the fact of her being introduced by 
 him would procure her a flattering reception, and 
 even should she scarcely speak two words, her 
 diamonds, shawl, and elegant costume would invest 
 all her sentiments with wit. 
 
 Tired with waiting, Georgette had almost prevailed 
 upon Lacaille to set the prescribed observances at 
 nought, and enter the saloon unannounced, when the- 
 porter's wife ascende 1 from the cellar with the peccant 
 tom-cat in her arms, and hurriedly and anxiously 
 stammered out an apology to the following effect, as 
 she crossed the yard : — 
 
 " I beg you ten thousand pardons, for keep- 
 ing you waiting, Monsieur de Lacaille, but this- 
 libertine of a cat, Monton, is the cause of— pray walk 
 upstairs, Monsieur — ah ! Monton, Monton, you want 
 to be off, do you ? It's a very long time since we 
 have had the pleasure of seeing you, monsieur — will 
 you be quiet, Monton ? I see I must have you put 
 right. Madame was afraid that you were ill. Ncy 
 no, you sha'n't go, indeed, you rascal." 
 
 By the time the last words had issued from the 
 old woman's mouth the party reached the drawing- 
 room, and the servant, with the cat struggling in her 
 arms, inquired Georgette's name, and threw open 
 the door, crying out with a stentorian voice, — 
 
 " Monsieur de Lacaille and Madame de Rosambeau." 
 
 In general, a young woman unaccustomed to society 
 ieels bashful on entering, for the first time, a large 
 circle of women, especially when she perceives their 
 rigid formality, the almost mechanical unison with 
 which they rise to receive her, the puppet-like pre- 
 cision with which they all drop their stiff curtsies, 
 and the cold, determined phlegm with which they 
 resume their seats ; but Georgette was not naturally 
 timid. She saw, after the first glance she cast around, 
 that she should derive great amusement from the 
 peculiarities of the assembly, and she determined to> 
 
THE SOIREE. IT 
 
 observe the habits and customs of a soirfa so narrowly;,, 
 as never to be at fault on any future occasion. The* 
 card-tables had not been formed when Lacaille and 5 
 his niece entered, and his arrival produced a murmur 
 of satisfaction. He presented the handsome young- 
 widow with the greatest assurance; she was received? 
 with much distinction, and requested to take t he- 
 seat of honour — a lounging chair on one side of the 
 fire — having the hostess's lap-dog at her feet, which 
 she patted and caressed with great tact, although 
 it did little else than bark and snap throughout the- 
 evening. Georgette was admirably fitted by nature- 
 to become a perfect model woman of the world. 
 
 Lacaille was speedily surrounded by a group of 7 
 young men, who pretended to admire the cut of mV 
 coat, which scarcely covered his posterior, and a 
 number of young ladies worried him to know whether* 
 he had invented any new charades, or had auy new- 
 words to bring into acting tableaux ; and others in* 
 quired anxiously whether he had his flute with 
 him,ihat he might accompany the amateur on the 
 violin who had promised to play to them whilst: 
 they danced. 
 
 During the time that Lacaille was surrounded byr 
 the young people, Georgette kept up a tete-a-tete with 
 the dog, and she found herself compelled to conceal 
 her yawns with her pocket-handkerchief, when the 
 mistress of the house relieved the universal dulness- 
 by proposing that the company should proceed to 
 various amusements. Immediately Monsieur de Son~ 
 zaigre, the violinist, began to execute some ear-pierc- 
 ing strains on his instrument; one portion of the young; 
 ladies repaired to the ante-chamber, which formed 
 the ball-room, and ranged themselves there, awaitingr 
 the arrival of the gentlemen; and another select party; 
 disdaining the pleasures of the dance, which, accord- 
 ing to their views, were only fit for children, and did: 
 not suit them, took possession of an alcove, which 
 
 VOL. TI B 
 
&8 GEORGETTE. 
 
 'tliey declared to be a theatre, and having formed 
 side-wings with the aid of some screens, prepared to 
 ■represent an impromptu " Charade in Action," which 
 ^they had been rehearsing for the last six weeks. 
 'Others went to the card-tables, and the hostess, 
 Madame de Vieux-Bois, proposed to Georgette to do 
 ■something or other, bnt the girl declined playing, and 
 assured the old lady that the contemplation of her 
 .guests would be amply sufficient for her amusement. 
 
 A gentleman of about fifty years of age, of acuta 
 •aspect, with a bald head and a sharp sarcastic eye, 
 -who had been examining Madame de Rosambeau for 
 -some time, came up to her as soon as the hostess left 
 lier, and bowing politely, sat down by her side, and 
 ^as his appearance bespoke the possession of consider- 
 able intelligence, Georgette promised herself much 
 ..gratification from the conversation he originated. 
 
 " This is the first time, madame," he said, " I have 
 iiad the pleasure of meeting you at these reunions ; 
 -we owe that delight to Monsieur de Lacaille, and I 
 <shall take upon myself to thank him individually for 
 it. You are one of his relatives, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 *' And a widow, I hear % " 
 
 4i Yes, monsieur." 
 
 . " With your youth, face, and figure, you will not 
 remain long in that unenviable state. Do you reside 
 an the country or the town f " 
 
 u I only came to Paris yesterday." 
 
 " And do you purpose remaining here ? " 
 
 -"" I think so at present." 
 
 "" I am extremely glad of it, madame, for in that 
 <sa.se I hope we shall enjoy the pleasure of seeing you 
 -often at our scirSes." 
 
 "However, you see, monsieur, that I contribute very 
 little towards them." 
 
 " What does it signify in what manner you pass 
 -away your time ? All cannot play with those painted 
 
THE SOIREE. 19 
 
 t)its of pasteboard, or talk: there must be some 
 listeners, and if yon will permit me, I will let you into 
 the secrets of a great portion of the guests, that you 
 -may have some idea by whom you are surrounded," 
 and then, without waiting for Georgette's assent, 
 Monsieur' Pliuplan — that was his name — dashed off 
 at score with his history, or what he called "Tho 
 •Chronicle of the Marsh." 
 
 " Look at that loo-table, and observe that stout 
 *man fidgetting over his cards, with an unbrushed 
 coat, a dirty neckerchief, and his hair hanging about 
 his oars ; he is a magistrate at a police office. In the 
 morning he imprisons or fines ill-doers and careless 
 people who offend against the laws, and in the even- 
 ing he loses his substance, and impoverishes his wife 
 .and children at the gaming-table. He stands almost 
 every hand, and when he is absent from these parties, 
 it is only from want of money. The enormous man 
 in front of him is a retired tradesman ; he is gener- 
 ally fortunate, and is an enormous eater. He never 
 will find fault with fate so long as it leaves him 
 wherewithal to buy a dinner. Do you see the lady 
 at the same table with these two? I mean she who 
 speaks through that ruby-coloured nose, with the grey, 
 hollow eyes, black teeth, and florid skin. That 
 woman's past life will not bear close inspection, nor 
 will that of her late husband. He was a banker, or 
 rather bankrupt, who died in prison for merely having 
 erased a blot from a bill of exchange for a large sum, 
 although, his enemies say he scratched out two O's, 
 and not a simple blot. My disposition induces me to 
 believe that he was innocent ; and his widow is re- 
 ceived here because she plays high. In most societies 
 she would not be admitted, but she pays liberally 
 towards the Lights, and that covers a multitude of 
 sins." 
 
 " Pray what may you mean by ' The Lights,' mon- 
 ; sieur ? I do not understand you." 
 
20 GEORGETTE. 
 
 "Most likely not. It is a contribution towards the^ 
 expenses of the evening, which is levied upon every 
 one who plays at cards." 
 
 "Does it bring in much ? " 
 
 " There are some establishments which are kept 
 afloat entirely by it, where the mistresses contrive to- 
 give dinners and evening parties." 
 
 " You astonish me, monsieur. I could not have- 
 supposed the existence of such a custom amongst 
 friends." 
 
 " Ah, madame, it is easy enough to see that yore 
 have resided in the country. You must not look for 
 friendship in a society constituted like this. You 
 must look for vanity, envy, jealousy and scandal. 
 ^Every one pulls his neighbour to pieces, and the- 
 women all find fault with' each other's characters, or,, 
 what is more important, their costumes, and at the 
 play-tables there are endless quarrels and disputes. 
 Madame So-and-So is out of humour because she is- 
 not petted as much as usual ; another lady rernarks- 
 out loud that the wife of the old lawyer is whisper- 
 ing in a corner with a certain gay young man ; and a 
 third thinks another lady's hat is extremely ugly r 
 for the only reason that it suits her particularly well. 
 That lady sitting sulky in the corner is furious against" 
 all the young men in the room because they do not 
 ask her hand for the dance, and against all the girls- 
 for their having partners ; and yet, when they talk 
 together, smiles are upon their lips, and they embrace- 
 each other when they part, uttering the most endear- 
 ing terms." 
 
 "Ah, monsieur, what fearful deceit! You will 
 make me hate the world." 
 
 " You would be wrong to do so ; when you look at 
 it in its proper light it is an amusing spectacle enough, 
 a magic-lantern in which every change brings some- 
 thing new. But let us proceed with our review. 
 
 " That gentleman in the shabby coat, who is play- - 
 
THE SOIREE. 21 
 
 ; mg at chess, is a perfect man of business. You will 
 find him in the course of the same day at the Ex- 
 change, the Palais Royal, and in some of the Minis- 
 terial offices. Should you chance to talk with him, 
 the probability is that he will offer to sell you a farm, 
 a house, or even a large landed estate; he will tell 
 you that he has twenty thousand pounds to invest, 
 mortgages to no end to redeem, and bills to discount 
 of an unheard-of sum ; but if you enter into con- 
 versation with him a second time, beyond all doubt 
 he has forgotten his purse, and will finish by bor- 
 rowing a crown-piece from you. Do you see that 
 person sitting on the sofa by the side of the lady in 
 rthe grey silk dress ? " 
 
 " I see, monsieur ; that young, thin, jaundiced-look- 
 ing man." 
 
 " You take the being for a man. It is not so ; she 
 js a woman ! " 
 
 " A woman ! She has all the manners* of a man;" 
 
 " Certainly ; and all the tastes of one, and at this 
 -moment she is delighted to perceive that her neigh- 
 bour, who does not know her, thinks she is a man, 
 .and talks to her as if she were one. Distrust those 
 women who wish to change the immaculate order of 
 Dame Nature. Those disguises cannot be assumed 
 with pure intentions, but as the world tolerates all 
 .abuses for its own purposes, these unnatural Amazons 
 •escape without remark. 
 
 " Examine attentively that fat lady with her arms 
 •two feet round, and the flowers, pearls, and diamonds 
 4n her hair, who makes more noise at that loo-table 
 -than all the rest of the players put together. Her 
 husband was a ninny in the fullest sense of the term, 
 but he contrived to enrich himself by plodding on, 
 -and she now opens the doors of every middle-class 
 drawing-room by means of the golden key. You pan 
 -tell by her tone that she has not the least acquaint- 
 ance with the customs and manners of society. She 
 
22 GEORGETTE. 
 
 calls everybody ' my dear,' 'my child,' ' old fellow,' or 
 * young scamp,' and will make you her bosom friend, - 
 aiid tell you her whole history, two minutes after her 
 introduction to you. At the same table is a lady- 
 named Dupont, whose husband is fast asleep in the- 
 arm-chair. The poor man is completely under her 
 thumb. He is passionately fond of ecarte, and always 
 loses, but, as she has forbidden him to play, he dares 
 not disobey her, for if he should, he would be 
 locked up at home and get the horsewhip from his^ 
 better half. I do not affirm that it is so from my own 
 knowledge, but I have it from good authority ; one- 
 thing, however, is certain — Madame Dupont does 
 wear the breeches. 
 
 "Next to her is a lady who has just given up her 
 place to her husband. In about five minutes you will 
 see him yield it again to his wife ; and so on, vice versa r 
 they get through the evenings in this way, and, by 
 dint of sweeping the board now and then alternately;, 
 pickup a decent living. That tall, masculine woman 
 who is continually walking up and down the room, in* 
 that low dress, showing her neck and her shoulders,. 
 is under the monomaniac delusion that she wins the 
 hearts of all mankind ; there is not one from fifteen to- 
 seventy that she is not desirous of subjugating. But 
 notwithstanding her affected, love-sick glance, and the 
 liberal display of her charms, we are quite tired of her, 
 and as we know her throat, her bosom, shoulders, and: 
 almost down to her loins by heart, she only has all 
 her exercise for nothing. That pretty little creature 
 in the hat with pink feathers was nothing but & 
 flower-girl, until the old notary took it into his head 
 to marry her, and yet she has acquired a taste for good 
 company already. Does she not behave herself grace- 
 fully, madame ? One would swear that she had lived. 
 in the great world all her life." 
 
 Georgette blushed, for she thought there was some 
 slight similarity between the young wife's situation- 
 
THE SOIREE. 2& 
 
 and her own, but Monsieur Plinplan did «iot perceive 
 her agitation, and went on, — 
 
 " That tall man, with his collar almost cutting his 
 ears off, and who talks with so much impudence on 
 every subject, is a genius — in his own estimation^ 
 He interrupts every one, decides everything, andl 
 plays the great lord, because he has about six acres: 
 of land and a cottage in the outskirts of the city, and 
 knows a country magistrate. He bores you to deatk 
 with 'my friend the Prefect/ but as he writes verses- 
 in ladies' albums, and songs for fetes, and epitaphs or&. 
 pug-dogs, or gets them done by somebody else, he is- 
 pretty generally looked after. I could bet any wagerr 
 that at this moment he is explaining the "Charade is? 
 Action," because he furnished the subject, to the girls*. 
 But let us turn our eyes at this same charade, and.* 
 I will make you acquainted with all the action in it. 
 
 " That lady in pink, who is playing the tender- 
 mother, and is near fainting because her child has. 
 fallen down and hurt himself, has been married for the 
 last ten years ; but three months after her marriage, it 
 is said, her husband surprising her in her boudorb 
 playing some curious scene or other with that dark: 
 man you see playing at ecarte, thought it advisable to> 
 have a separation. Since then the world has been out- 
 rageous against the poor man. He is a fellow that: 
 runs after women — a morose, jealous brute — a monster 
 to whom the happiness of a tender virgin of sixteen* 
 was sacrificed. The men laughed, wise people saicl 
 nothing, and the occurrences of a few months justified, 
 the husband's deed. I cannot tell how she gets in- 
 here. The female who has just come on the stage- 
 is about thirty-six years old, and has refused several 
 good offers : she requires a young, handsome, well- 
 made, elegant, intelligent accomplished fellow, whc? 
 will adore her — I am afraid she will remain single^ 
 yet she plays old aunts, housekeepers, and other 
 character bits uncommonly well. The big lady who 
 
54 GEORGETTE. 
 
 is playing the gawky girl has sixteen children, but 
 .not one of them resembles her husband ; the last i3 
 uncommonly like her cousin, a strapping officer of 
 hussars, very handsome, and the terror of all the 
 anarried men of the district. And now, as you know 
 almost everybody in this rrgm, let us proceed into that 
 where they are dancing. You are acquainted with 
 the majority of those present quite as intimately as 
 myself, and if there are some whom I have omitted, 
 it is because they have not any distinctive peculiarities. 
 If they possessed any, I should be aware of it at once, 
 for my information is first-rate, not that I am inquisi- 
 tive at all, nor that I like to speak ill of anybody — ■ 
 •quite the contrary — but as I am an old bachelor, with 
 ■an independent fortune, and like to amuse myself, I 
 live in apartments opposite to a lady who receives 
 a great deal of company. From my windows I can 
 ■•see all that is going on in her rooms, and as I do 
 mot wish that she should suspect the fact, or think 
 r me of a prying disposition, I have had Venetian 
 blinds made for the windows, and keep them al- 
 ways down, but nevertheless they do not obstruct 
 my view, and with my powerful spy-glass, I assure 
 you I occasionally behold some very interesting 
 •scenes." 
 
 Georgette laughed at the last observation, and, 
 leaning on Piinplan's arm, passed into the room 
 •where the young folks were dancing, pleased with 
 the acuteness of her new friend's remarks. Monsieur 
 -de Tonzaigre was scraping the violin, and Lacaille 
 was blowing into the flute, and as the quadrille com- 
 posed ten couples, because there was not space enough 
 for two sets, the dancers were continually getting en- 
 tangled in the figures. Tonzaigre shouted out, — "For- 
 ward two — queue decJiat — balancez — chaine des dames 
 - — ladies to the left." But it was all of no use. The 
 ladies would go to the right ; the gentlemen followed 
 them. Instantly they were all abroad and inextric- 
 
THE SOIREE. 25 
 
 .ably mixed up ; but still they danced on, laughing 
 anore merrily than if all was right. 
 
 Madame de Rosambeau was so desirous of acquir- 
 ing more information with respect to the company, 
 that she said to her companion, — 
 
 " Who is that tall, fair woman, so over-dressed 
 with flowers and tawdry finery ? " 
 
 " I cannot describe her to you exactly. She dances 
 -extremely well for a woman of her age, and is always 
 surrounded by a group of youths, whose minds she 
 appears desirous to form on their first entering into 
 society; and it seems she is very successful in her 
 occupation, inasmuch as the same young gentleman 
 is seldom seen with her twice." 
 
 " Has she a husband ? " 
 
 " So it is reported ; but at anyrate he is unknown. 
 He is said to be with the army — a very convenient 
 .assertion at all times — but if so he must be either 
 -dead or a general. That gentleman who points his 
 toes, rounds his arms, and makes so much of himself, 
 is the Yestris — the zephyr — of the party. No cne ever 
 <ireams of competing with him in the dance. When 
 he begins the gavotte you may hear a pin drop. He 
 is quite petted here ; and in the summer evenings 
 you are sure to see him figuring away at Vauxhall 
 or Ranelagh. Nay, I should not be surprised at see- 
 ing him dancing a minuet on the Boulevard or at the 
 Turkish Gardens. That young lady who throws out 
 her legs so energetically, and is always out of time, 
 is the niece of Madame de Muraille, the old lady be- 
 hind the violinist, and the poor old woman is obliged 
 -to grieve every time her niece stands up at the loss 
 of the half-crown lessons paid to the dancing-master, 
 who, as yet, has not been able to teach the young 
 lady to take one step without treading on her own 
 dress, or kicking her next neighbour. That elderly 
 man on the extreme left occupies more space than 
 -three exquisites of the present day ; to be sure they 
 
26 GEORGETTE. 
 
 all walk now. He never misses a set of quadrilles- 
 or a waltz, and, in my belief, would dance all night. 
 He is called ' The Indefatigable,' but hi3 wife states ; 
 lie does not deserve the appellation." 
 
 " And pray tell me who is that fair young man with 
 his hair flying about, and who dances with so much 
 gravity ? " 
 
 Monsieur Plinplan was about to reply, when he was 
 addressed by a lady, who stated she had a droll r 
 piquant anecdote to relate to him ; and he, being" 
 always on the look-out for news, bowed to Georgette, 
 who returned into the saloon, and took a seat near a 
 table, where heavy play was going on. It happened 
 that she was immediately behind the fat, vulgar 
 woman, who kept turning to her and showing her 
 hand, making remarks upon the game, of which 
 Georgette knew nothing. 
 
 " Look, my dear," she said, " did you ever see such- 
 cards ? Was that well played, eh % " 
 
 " Yes, rnadame." 
 
 " Who is your milliner, my love ? What a delight- 
 ful dress yours is." 
 
 " Will you have the goodness, madame, to recollect 
 you are playing at loo." 
 
 " Yes, yes, old fellow, I know it. I must positively 
 inquire who your dressmaker is." 
 
 u It is your turn, ma'am, Pray talk millinery an- 
 other time." 
 
 " What is it to you if I do now, scamp ? I can- 
 play just as well." 
 
 "Play, then; we have been waiting for you this 
 twenty minutes." 
 
 "What is trumps? Who played last? Am I to- 
 take it?" 
 
 " It is impossible to play with people who do not 
 pay the least attention to the game." 
 
 " Y'ou're a bear." 
 
 "There, I knew how it would be. That lady 
 
THE SOIREE. 27" 
 
 has won the whole pool, and now it will be 'club- 
 law.' " 
 
 " Club law ! I never play it, and I won't pay." 
 
 " Madame, it is always played here." 
 
 " I won't, I declare." 
 
 " But you must," etc., etc. 
 
 Georgette left the dispute at its height, marvelling 
 that such things could occur in what was called Good' 
 Society, and walked up to a table at which the players- 
 had just left off ecarte, and where an angry discussion 
 was being carried on between Madame de Vieux- 
 Bois and a little old gentleman, who reproached her 
 w r ith charging more than usual for the cards that 
 evening, and refused to pay his share of the amount 
 demanded ; and on her removing from that spot r 
 Georgette found that some quarrel was going on at 
 every table in the room. 
 
 At that moment Lacaille approached her, and on 
 her saying she felt fatigued and should like to return 
 home, he informed her that it was necessary for her 
 to remain, because the hostess had prepared a colla- 
 tion for a few of her most distinguished guests, in 
 which, of course, his niece, Madame de Rosambeau 
 was particularly included. Seeing that the sacrifice- 
 for that evening must be complete, Georgette yielded 
 with good grace, resolving never to be found again 
 at a soirSe of that description if she could help it. 
 
 At last the whole of the games were up, the dances 
 finished, the charade at an end, and three-fourths of 
 the company had departed, those intimates alone re- 
 maining who had been made acquainted with the- 
 surprise prepared for them, amongst them being Mon- 
 sieur Plinplan, the magistrate, the solicitor, the wit,. 
 the lady with the feathers, the tender wife, and the 
 indefatigable dancer. As Plinplan handed Georgette 
 to the supper-room, he whispered to her that Madame 
 de Vieux-Bois expected her guests would not do great 
 honour to the repast, upon which the girl, in order' 
 
28 GEORGETTE. 
 
 io prevent her being asked a second time, determined 
 to conduct herself at table in such a manner as to 
 make the niggardly old woman regret the preference 
 she had accorded to her. 
 
 In the middle of the room a large table was placed, 
 on which there was one enormous old turkey, cut up 
 so as to represent half-a-dozen, swimming in a mess 
 composed of butter and carrots, intended to represent 
 jelly; this was flanked by salads and plenty of castors; 
 four dishes of apples and buns were at the respective 
 corners, and the splendid repast was brought to a 
 •conclusion by two small jars of preserves, which had 
 not been opened, and were only there for show. 
 
 Georgette was in amazement, and asked Plinplan 
 an a low tone whether the hostess expected twenty 
 people to be satisfied with such a display, and that 
 astonishment was materially increased on his replying 
 that she certainly did, and reckoned on some of it 
 being left untouched. 
 
 " Take your places, ladies," the old woman cried, 
 •** no ceremony, if you please ; the gentlemen will stand 
 behind your chairs, and will not be forgotten, I assure 
 them; but we must make room for Monsieur 
 Deschasses — this was the name of the Zephyr — for he 
 has danced so much he must really be tired." 
 
 Room was accordingly made for him, and on his 
 sitting down, the friend of the country magistrate 
 took it in dudgeon that the preference was not 
 awarded to himself, so he seized hold of one of the 
 plates of apples and swallowed them in a minute. 
 Madame de Vieux-Bois darted an angry look at him, 
 and commenced cutting up the turkey, which all the 
 ladies praised to the skies, and when Georgette be- 
 held the very extraordinary thinness and smallness 
 of the slices, she began to entertain an idea that 
 there was some possibility of part of the bird being 
 left. As she was served one of the first, the morsel 
 «ent was consumed by her before the hostess had 
 
THE SOIREE. 2£ 
 
 made the round of the table, and when she arrived 
 at Madame de Rosambeau again, she was both sur- 
 prised and indignant at her pointedly requesting 
 more. The rest of the women looked at her, and 
 whispered to each other, but Georgette was natur- 
 ally bold, and determined not to be abashed. She- 
 asked openly and abruptly to be served again. 
 
 The old lady could not contain her anger any 
 longer, but exclaimed, — 
 
 " It seems to me, madame, I may as well pass the 
 dish to you." 
 
 The only reply to which was, — "If you please." 
 But Madame de Vieux-Bois was too wary to com- 
 mit such a piece of extravagance, so she desired 
 the servants to take away the remains of the miser- 
 able bird, to the great chagrin of the men who had 
 been standing, and had been regaled, as yet, with a 
 few stale buns. Georgette enjoyed the fun with her 
 whole heart. Looking at De Lacaille, she saw he was 
 on thorns at the singular mode in which she had 
 been conducting herself ; Plinplan laughed ; the 
 women whispered fifty remarks, and the men called 
 out for wine, but the cunning old Madame Godin,. 
 having descended to the cellar, made her appearance 
 no more that evening. 
 
 But Georgette, who was in a mischievous hum our,. 
 determined to carry out her frolic, and annoy Madame 
 de Vieux-Bois to the very utmost, and happening to 
 cast her eyes upon the two pots of preserves, which,. 
 according to Plinplan, had served throughout the 
 season as "Pieces of Parade," and whose integrity 
 was never to be violated, she said, with an ami- 
 able smile, — 
 
 " My dear madame, could you not afford me one 
 little taste of those exquisite preserves ? " 
 
 " Certainly, madame, if you desire it," the hostess- 
 replied, crimson with rage ; " but I fear that you will 
 really make yourself ill," 
 
.30 GEORGETTE. 
 
 " Never fear, madame," Georgette replied laugh- 
 ingly, "they will not do me any harm," and having 
 received the two jars from the hands of Monsieur 
 Desckasses who was passionately attached to sweets, 
 she emptied their contents upon her own plate and 
 those of her immediate neighbours, who were in 
 ■despair at the loss of the turkey ; and the preserves 
 almost disappeared before the empty pots were re- 
 placed upon the table. The old hostess drew her- 
 self up, bit her lips, and vowed Madame de Rosambeau 
 should never see the inside of her house again ; all 
 the female visitors bridled up, pretending to be 
 shocked at the very improper levity of our heroine's 
 behaviour, until the awkward pause that followed 
 •Georgette's daring infringements of the convention- 
 alities of Madame de Vieux-Bois* suppers was put an 
 end to by some one entreating the witty Monsieur 
 Lefin to recite some verses of his own composition. 
 
 According to all established usage, the wit became 
 exceedingly modest, coughed, spat, sneezed, blew his 
 nose, rubbed his forehead, scratched his ears, re- 
 quested tlie wax-lights might be snuffed, and said he 
 had a cold, but as he wished to gratify the company 
 with his verses, he would try to prevail upon one of 
 the ladies present to sing some he had composed 
 lately, when on a visit to his dear friend the pro- 
 vincial magistrate. The excuse was accepted readily, 
 . and thereupon the lady with the feathers, who 
 laboured under a hullucination that she warbled like 
 Sontay, undertook to sing the verses without the 
 slightest pressing, and burst out with a shrill, ear- 
 piercing voice, that went to the inmost marrow of 
 Georgette's bones, and when the discordant strains 
 had come to an end, the ladies rose, and after 
 making three formal curtsies, each retired. Madame 
 . de Vieux-Bois saw Georgette depart with uncon- 
 cealed satisfaction ; Lacaille, shocked at her ill-bred 
 behaviour, sat in silence all the way home ; aiid our 
 
TEE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 31 
 
 Jieroine, having unrobed, threw herself upon her 
 -sumptuous bed and rocked herself to sleep, with the 
 .amusing recollection of all the absurdities of M The 
 .Soiree in the Marsh." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 
 
 It was high noon the following day before Georgette 
 .awoke, and on ringing her bell for Rose, that astute 
 young lady did not wait to hear any questions from 
 her mistress, but informed her she had been employ- 
 ing her time industriously that morning. 
 
 "In the first place, madame," she said, "I was 
 dying to know whether Monsieur de Tolleville's 
 person and manners corresponded in any way with 
 the vivacity displayed in his note, and so, whilst you 
 -were sleeping, I thought I could not do better than 
 accept his invitation and drink his chocolate this 
 morning. You will not be disappointed in him, ma- 
 dame, I can assure you, for he understands things 
 completely. I gave him all sorts of hopes — they 
 cost nothing, you know — and when I came away he 
 ^begged me to transmit this billet to you, in which 
 lie implores you to grant him a rendezvous." 
 
 " Very pretty indeed, Rose ! And had you any 
 .•more adventures after this ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, madame. As I was returning home I 
 came suddenly upon the young officer ; he recognised 
 me instantly, stopped me, took me round the waist 
 before I knew where I was, swore he was dying for 
 you, and if I did not introduce him to your apart- 
 ments this very evening, he would come here in 
 
32 GEORGETTE 
 
 spite of everybody, and do something or other 
 desperate, that should make all of us talked of for 
 gome time to come." 
 
 " Bless me, what a firebrand, Rose ! " 
 
 " Yes, madame ; but, however, I calmed him at lasf 
 by promising him to present this amorous billet, 
 descriptive of his sufferings, to you." 
 
 " Anything more, Rose, in the same way % " 
 
 " Yes, madame. Just as I was entering the house, 
 who should accost me but our modest-looking, simply- 
 dressed but really handsome, sobbing, sighing swain, 
 the poet. He lives on the other side of the way, and 
 his windows look fall into our courtyard, which is 
 easy enough, because his are on the garret-rloor 7 
 and Lafleur says it is natural enough for a 
 disciple of the Muses to endeavour to be as near 
 Parnassus as possible. Well, madame, this Son of 
 Pindar, as he is always called hereabout, saw you» 
 cross the yard, and since that moment he has done 
 nothing but rave about you : he swears you are the 
 Tenth Muse, and has written a sonnet about you in 
 this billet, which I could not find in my heart to 
 refuse promising him you should have.' 
 
 "Now, Rose, would you have me enter into a 
 correspondence witli a young man in a garret ? " 
 
 " Ah, madame, when you see him I wager you'll 
 alter your tone. So young, with such expressive eyes- 
 and such a soft-low toned voice ! I declare I am half 
 in love with him myself; at any rate, he's. worth a 
 thousand of that wretched, ugly, old Lacaille." 
 
 " No doubt of that, Rose ; any amiable young man 
 is. But what do vou propose by bringing me these 
 notes?" 
 
 "Dear me, madame, I should have thought you. 
 would have guessed at once! merely this, that all 
 clever, beautiful ladies in your position make use of 
 their old fool's money to please themselves with 
 their young lovers. Indeed, it's a meritorious work* 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OP PROSPERITY. 3S 
 
 But, I am in an agony of impatience, madame, so da 
 pray open the billets." 
 
 Smiling at the girl's experience of the world, and 
 gratified at the triple homage paid already to her 
 charms, Georgette broke the seal of the three billets* 
 and amused herself with the different style of their con- 
 tents. Tolleville was energetic, quick, and sparkling ;, 
 the soldier passionate, brief, but impetuous ; and the? 
 poet retiring, poetic, tender and seductive. She 
 played with all three of the epistles, read and re-read 
 them, twisted them round her fingers, sighed, and 
 then asked Bose to which of them she should reply... 
 The soubrette's answer was short, sharp, and' 
 decisive, to the effect that hopes must be held out to 
 all three of the adorers. 
 
 " What ! " Georgette almost shrieked, " three- 
 lovers at once, besides Monsieur de Lacaille?" 
 
 " Oh, he goes for nothing." 
 
 " But, Rose." 
 
 " Bless me, madame, you're not frightened at three- 
 men, I hope ! It's only a trifle, a mere bagatelle ; 
 some ladies amuse themselves with playing with 
 a dozen at a time ; besides, you can always turn 
 them out if they become at all troublesome ; but I 
 don't think you'll be annoyed with these, for, taking 
 them all together, I never saw three nicer young 
 men." 
 
 " Well, well ; but what shall I say to them ? " 
 
 " If I were you, I should give rendezvous to thenx 
 all." 
 
 " What ! on my first writing to them? " 
 
 " Nothing more simple, madame ; your country 
 education has prevented you from knowing how 
 easily these little affairs are arranged in Paris. At 
 any rate, if you will not see them at once, let me give 
 them some hopes, and try to soothe their terrible 
 despair." 
 
 Georgette did not utter another word, but went 
 vol. n. 
 
34 GEORGETTE. 
 
 rto the secretaire, and having written three billets 
 xipon scented satin paper, delivered them to the 
 isoubrette, who trotted off to give them to the three 
 enamoured swains. Perhaps Georgette thought if 
 she did not in some way assuage the torments of her 
 . adorers, Rose might take it upon herself according to 
 her own fashion ; for the waiting-woman was lively 
 and good-looking, and by no means to be despised. 
 
 The girl had scarcely left the room before Lafleur 
 entered, bearing a small jewel-case in his hand, 
 "which his master had sent to Madame de Rosambeau 
 ■for her acceptance, and announcing that he would 
 conduct her to the opera in the evening. Georgette 
 ^was delighted with the brilliant diamonds the case 
 contained, and on Rose's return from delivering the 
 three notes, she dressed herself, took a drive, dined, 
 dressed again magnificently, adding the long-coveted 
 diamonds to her toilette, and went with her stupid 
 antiquated keeper to the opera, where his luck was 
 cursed and envied by all the rouSs of the town. 
 
 For several days affairs went on in precisely the 
 same manner, and the weariness Georgette experi- 
 enced in the continual society of her superannuated 
 lover was only rendered bearable by the splendid 
 .{presents Lafleur brought her from his master, who, 
 • since his opportune fall in the bed-chamber on the 
 day of our heroine's arrival, had confined the demon- 
 strations of his attachment to vows, and oaths, and 
 sighs. In the meantime Madame de Rosambeau's 
 rpregnancy began to show itself, and a man with the 
 slightest penetration could not have failed to see it, 
 "but the old man was absolutely blind to all but his 
 ^mistress's perfections, and with the aid of Lafleur 
 and Rose, who were completely in Georgette's confi- 
 dence, Lacaille was effectually deceived. 
 
 Days passed on in the same round of perpetual 
 
 amusement, until the three young lovers became 
 
 " weary of Rose's protestations of devotion to their 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 35 
 
 -service, and plied Georgette with the most impas- 
 sioned billets, seeking some proofs of love more 
 tangible than cold promises at her hands. Rose 
 ^pleaded for them with an energy varying in intense- 
 fiiess, according to the value of the presents she 
 deceived, and Georgette, who was now heartily tired 
 of the amorous twaddling persecutions, offered but a 
 -very faint resistance to the solicitations of her maid, 
 .and at length declared she did not exactly know to 
 which of the three she would accord the preference. 
 :Such being the case, one morning when Rose was 
 engaged dressing her mistress, the girl again brought 
 rihe subject forward in the following manner : — 
 
 " Since you cannot make up your mind, madame, 
 as to these three gentlemen, the simplest way of 
 .settling the difficulty will be to give them all a ren- 
 dezvous, and then choose between them. . ." 
 
 " You are right, Rose, I think, but then in what 
 ^way shall I act ? " 
 
 " Write to them to come to you this evening, at 
 
 different hours ; being a first interview, they will not 
 
 expect the honour of your company for more than a 
 
 few minutes, and in those you will be able to judge 
 
 -which man will please you best." 
 
 " But I am to accompany Monsieur de Lacaille to 
 ~£he opera this evening." 
 
 " I will go to him and say you are so ill that you 
 
 • cannot leave the house.'' 
 
 " And if these young men should encounter each 
 
 • other here!" 
 
 " Impossible, if you act discreetly. One must be 
 -sent sacking before the other arrives." 
 
 « But—" 
 
 " Oh, dear madame, when will you leave off those 
 foolish ' buts ' 1 Make your mind easy, I will be 
 close by in case of any accident." 
 
 " Well, well, Rose, I am quite tired of the stupid 
 •old man, and must have some fresh amusement." 
 
36 GEORGETTE. 
 
 In a few minutes the letters were written and 
 given to Rose to be delivered ; Lacaille was informed 
 that Georgette was indisposed, and preparations were 
 made to receive the lovers in the evening. As the 
 day closed she felt some slight agitation at the 
 thought of meeting the fresh slaves of her attrac- 
 tions, but gratified vanity soon overcame it, and, 
 ambitious of riveting their chains, she neglected no- 
 effort of art that could increase her charms. A loosely 
 floating robe permitted the contour of her lovely 
 bosom to be seen, at the same time that it concealed 
 the consequences of her passion for Saint Ange ; and 
 her glossy, silky hair, arranged in flowing curls, fell 
 in wavy ringlets over that brow which, if not the 
 abode of modesty, was still that of beauty and of 
 love. Certain of her triumph, she reclined on a 
 luxuriously-cushioned ottoman in an elegant boudoiiy 
 dimly lighted by several of those dreamy-looking lamps 
 which were certainly invented in order to render 
 ardent lovers still more enterprising, and to hide the 
 blushes of yielding female love. 
 
 As the marble clock on the mantelpiece struck: 
 eight o'clock, the Scion of the Muses was ushered" 
 into the boudoir. Timid by nature, and rendered 
 more so from his sole feminine acquaintance as yet 
 being only the tuneful Nine, who are said to be 
 extremely reserved and circumspect in their behavi- 
 our — although it is an undoubted fact that they pros- 
 titute themselves sometimes — the young poet stood' 
 amazed at the close contemplation of those beauties 
 which hitherto he had only beheld from his garret, 
 his " eye in a fine frenzy rolling," and a sonnet to his 
 mistress in his hand ; but Georgette, who was well 
 pleased at the mighty effect her presence had pro- 
 duced, bade him take a chair in the most mellifluous 
 tones, and speaking to him with great tact and 
 kindness, placed him speedily so completely at his' 
 ease that the dark cloud that obscured the exercise 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 37 
 
 -of his bright faculties passed off, and he became witty; 
 eloquent, impassioned, and successful. The girl 
 heard him with un mingled pleasure, as he knelt at her 
 -feet, pouring forth the feelings of his overflowing 
 heart, and reading to her the burning verses he had 
 written in her honour ; she took no heed of time, until 
 Rose entered in hot haste, announcing that Monsieur 
 .de Lacaille was coming up the stairs, making a 
 private sign to her mistress that it was the second 
 iover, Monsieur Tolleville. All was consternation ; 
 the poet was bewildered ; Georgette was in despair, 
 and looked to Rose for assistance in the dilemma, 
 and that young lady, without a moment's hesitation, 
 opened the door of an adjacent dressing-room and 
 pushed the young man in, promising to let him^ out 
 as soon as possible. She then shut the door, scolded 
 Georgette for being so careless as to give a lover so 
 much encouragement at a first interview, and begged 
 her to grant but a short audience to Tolleville, so 
 that the aspirant to Parnassus might be speedily re- 
 leased. 
 
 Now this young sprig of fashion, Lover No. 2, was 
 4he very antipodes of Lover No. 1. He entered 
 humming an opera air, with a jaunty, tripping step, 
 and playing with the bow of his cravat. He stopped 
 short in the centre of the room, bowing nonchalantly 
 -to the Sultana, who had resumed her seat, then ad- 
 vanced to the ottoman, placed himself by her side, 
 4ook her hand, kissed it, pressed it to his heart, 
 and proceeded to rattle out a flood of compliments, 
 hon mots, puns, and fag-ends of playhouse songs, 
 Madame de Rosambeau could not get in a single 
 word; but Toiieville's lively conversation amused 
 without distracting her, and whilst she looked at 
 4he timepiece and observed that twenty minutes 
 had elapsed since his entrance, a noise was heard 
 upon the stairs, and Rose, rushing in again, said 
 Monsieur de Lacaille was at her heels, and would be 
 
38 GEORGETTE. 
 
 in the room immediately. Georgette could not" 
 understand this second interruption, but the sou^ 
 brette soon explained it by whispering that the in- 
 truder was the officer, whose impatience would not 
 be controlled, and had induced him to anticipate the 
 hour of the rendezvous. Here was another diffi- 
 culty : the exquisite was wroth at being disturbed 
 in his amour, and blustered loudly, but his vapouring 
 was reduced to a very craven crow when he was in-- 
 formed that the individual outside was an exceeding 
 jealous husband. He turned pale and trembled, the 
 songs died away in broken mournful cadences, and 
 he pressed into every corner of the room to seek a 
 covert from the husband's wrath. Whilst the women 
 were laughing almost in fits at the fellow's poltroon-- 
 ery, a firm step was heard ascending the stairs, - 
 and Tolleville's alarm redoubled ; he espied a closet 
 in which some dresses were suspended, and without 
 making any further observation — for in his distress- 
 he would have crept down a mouse-hole — threw" 
 himself into it, shut fast the door, and cowered down' 
 in one of the corners, screwing himself into the 
 smallest possible compass in which his limbs could 
 be bestowed, and he had scarcely made his exit, and 
 Georgette again seated herself upon the sofa, before- 
 the soldier entered. 
 
 The Son of Mars was a good-looking, dashing 
 young fellow, whose appearance prepossessed Georg- 
 ette materially in his favour, although, under all the 
 circumstances, she felt inclined to take umbrage^ 
 at his abruptness, and reproach him for neglecting 
 to obey her with respect to the appointed hour. 
 However, his excuses were all so well delivered, and 
 his rudeness referred to his impatience to behold her 
 who held him captive, that Georgette's brow relaxed,, 
 whereupon the hussar seemed disposed to press the 
 siege with vigour, and had almost proceeded to take 
 the citadel by storm, when Georgette recollected 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 39' 
 
 that the poet and the dandy were within sight anc£ 
 hearing, and, pushing him from her, requested that 
 he would moderate his transports and behave with; 
 more propriety, under pain of being summarily- 
 ejected from the house. He was instantly plunged into* 
 an abyss of fell despair, and, drawing his sword, swore* 
 he would impale himself upon it if the hard-hearted! 
 woman would not crown his love ; but she only bursts 
 into a fit of hearty laughter, which became so contagi- 
 ous that he returned his sword to the scabbard and 1 ; 
 joined in it, and whilst the merriment of the pair* 
 was at its height, and Georgette, fired with the* 
 soldier's warmth, had well nigh forgotten the occu- 
 pants of the closet and the dressing-room, Rose- 
 suddenly made her appearance for the third time s . 
 with every mark of distress upon her speaking face. 
 Georgette exclaimed in a displeased tone, — 
 " And pray, Rose, what may be the matter now f " 
 To which she replied, with much agitation, — 
 " The devil himself is mixing in our affairs to-night,, 
 I think. Here's Monsieur de Lacaille just stepped at 
 the porter's lodge, very uneasy about your health, and: 
 saying he will see you. He was following me up- 
 stairs into this room, and was only restrained front, 
 doing so by my telling him I would step in and ascer- 
 tain whether you were asleep or not. . ." 
 "Really, Rose, is it Lacaille indeed? " 
 " Oh, yes, madame, this time. I assure you, there's* 
 no mistake about the fact." 
 
 " Who is this man % " inquired the officer ; " cannot 
 you send him away? " 
 
 " Oh, dear no ; he is our treasurer ; he would be 
 angry." 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! let me go down and kick him out." 
 "No, no, it cannot be. Rose, what shall wedo?" 
 "Why, madame, I see no other way of getting out 
 of the scrape than hiding this gentleman." 
 
 The officer stormed, and swore he would, much, 
 
40 GEORGETTE. 
 
 rather remain where he was and fight Lacaille ; but 
 the two now really frightened women represented that 
 by being obstinate he would do Georgette an irrepar- 
 able injury, and they persuaded him with the greatest 
 difficulty to creep under the ottoman, and extend 
 himself at length without stirring an inch until the 
 troublesome old man could be sent away. 
 
 No sooner had this arrangement been completed, 
 and Georgette languidly reclined upon the piece of 
 furniture, with her draperies disposed so as to conceal 
 all traces of her lover, than Lacaille, preceded bv 
 Hose, with her finger raised in a warning attitude, 
 walked into the room on tiptoe, craning his head for- 
 ward to obtain a glimpse of his inamorata, and fear- 
 ing to make the slightest noise. Gently he sat down 
 on the sofa by her side, and whispered that his over- 
 whelming attachment would not let him rest satisfied 
 -with sending to inquire after her health, but that he 
 -must come personally and see with his own eyes how 
 /she was, for he could not pass the evening in deep 
 anxiety, indeed he could not enter society with the 
 least enjoyment, for all pleasures faded and became 
 -distasteful when not enjoyed in company with her. 
 !Not knowing how to get rid of the dotard's atten- 
 tions, Georgette stretched out her legs, groaned, and 
 made every preparation to throw herself into hyste- 
 rics. Lacaille became alarmed, directed Rose to send 
 for a physician, and said he would not leave his beloved's 
 room that night ; but the expression of this determina- 
 tion had an instantaneous happy effect upon the ner- 
 vous attack, and the artful girl resolved to adopt some 
 -other means of inducing him to quit the house. 
 
 " I am much better, my dear friend," she lisped ; 
 ■** that paroxysm, 1 think, will be the last. My head- 
 ache is less intense, my nerves are becoming calm, 
 and I have no longer any need of your kind atten- 
 tions, for which I am truly grateful, Do not let me 
 Jkeep you one moment from your friends." 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 41 
 
 Whilst Georgette uttered these last words, Lacaille 
 moved involuntarily upon the sofa, and cried out that 
 it was shaking under him. Recovering from his 
 momentary fright, he placed his arm gently around 
 -Georgette's waist, and looked into her face with the 
 same expression of desire that glittered in his eyes 
 the day of his memorable fall upon the floor. She 
 felt as if she were sitting upon thorns, and did not 
 -well know how to repulse his ardour. Finding him- 
 self in an unwonted condition that greatly surprised 
 him, he became more ardent at every moment. In vain 
 -Georgette retreated gradually from him to the very 
 edge of the sofa ; he drew himself after her ; his hands 
 recovered an animation that had deserted them for 
 the last twenty years; his youthful vigour returned; 
 he predled her shrinking form firmly towards him ; 
 lie kissed her bosom and her lips, and was fast ap- 
 proaching the completion of his bliss, when the sofa 
 was upheaved as with an earthquake, causing the 
 amorous old suitor and his youthful prey to roil from 
 it upon the carpet, and at the same instant the doors 
 of the dressing-room and the closet were thrown open 
 with a common impulse ; four men appeared upon the 
 -scene, the lamps were hurled down, the lights ex- 
 tinguished ; the young men, endeavouring to profit 
 hj the darkness and make their escape, rushed for- 
 ward, tumbled against each other, and were precipi- 
 tated upon Georgette and Lacaille, who up to that 
 moment w T ere too much amazed to rise and relieve 
 themselves from the awkward predicament in which 
 they had been placed. 
 
 It was impossible that this scene of tumult could 
 last long. Lacaille, almost smothered by the super- 
 incumbent weight of his young rivals, bawled out 
 for help with all his might and main ; Georgette 
 •wriggled herself from beneath the mass, and stretching 
 out her hands, caught hold of the first thing she 
 -touched, to enable her to rise, which unfortunately 
 
42 GEORGETTE. 
 
 happened to be a toilette-table, but it gave way ta- 
 ker efforts, and falling over upon one side, scattered 
 a handsome swing-glass, bottles of water, phials of 
 essences, and pots of rouge, pomatum, and cosmetics- 
 upon the floor. All were broken and mixed in most 
 admired disorder. The lovers, in their attempts to 
 find the door, upset other pieces of furniture, and 
 the noise and confusion was at its height when Rose,,, 
 hearing the outcries, entered with a light. For a 
 moment she stood petrified, but regaining her pre- 
 sence of mind — as her quick intellect comprehended 
 the whole matter at a glance — she beckoned to the 
 lovers to pass down the stairs, whilst she covered, 
 their retreat by hastening to assist Lacaille, and- 
 placed herself directly between him and the door. 
 The fourth man was Lafleur; having reached the 
 house a few minutes after his master, he founu. Rose 
 in a state of great agitation, and on her telling him 
 of the rendezvous of the three young men and their 
 subsequent concealment, he perceived the dangerous 
 situation hi which his unhappy victim had placed 
 herself. Not a moment was to be lost ; the first 
 thing, of course, was to get Lacaille out of the house* 
 so Lafleur ascended the stairs, and had just entered 
 the boudoir with a plausible invention ready cut and. 
 dried to impose upon his master, when the lovers,, 
 impatient of their restraint, suddenly left their several 
 retreats, and the soldier upset the sofa, resolved not 
 to become a witness of the scene which there was- 
 every indication would take place. In an instant 
 the cunning valet dashed down the richly-cut glass 
 globes that held the lights, and as soon as he saw 
 the young men had escaped, shouted, — " Thieves I 
 robbers ! thieves ! " as hard as he could cry. 
 
 As quick as light Rose entered into the spirit oF 
 the device, and seconded him with all her force. 
 Their joint shouts resounded through the house, and 
 most of the servants, frightened out of their wits, 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 4$ 
 
 •without knowing why, ran to the top rooms and hid 
 themselves wherever they could find a refuge. One 
 or two went to fetch the municipal patrol, and as- 
 they ran to the guard-house, contrived to create a 
 panic throughout the quarter. Their efforts were 
 speedily successful ; the patrol was met with, and a 
 corporal with a file of men repaired to the chamber 
 of Madame de Rosambeau, before Lafleur and Kose 
 had calmed the old man's fears and restored some 
 slight order in the room. Apparently the commander 
 of the reinforcement was not overburdened with 
 courage, for, like a prudent general, he placed himself 
 in the rear of his four men as he inquired, in a voice 
 trembling with agitation, whether the robbers had 
 fled, and how many of them there might be. Lafleur's 
 reply that there were at least twelve of them did 
 not tend to re-animate the corporal's courage ; his 
 nether jaw dropped, and at once he announced his 
 determination to return to the guard-house and pro- 
 cure the assistance of more men, leaving two sentinels 
 posted outside the door to prevent the egress of any 
 of the robbers who might have concealed themselves 
 within the room. 
 
 Whilst this hero was employed seeking his rein- 
 forcements, Lacaille, all bruised by the fall and the 
 trampling upon his body, was lifted upon his legs by 
 his faithful servitor, and placed upon the sofa — the 
 unconscious cause of all his woes; and Georgette, 
 seated in a lounging-chair, crammed her handkerckiet 
 into her mouth to prevent her roars of laughter from 
 being heard ; whilst Lafleur eagerly recounted to his 
 master that a whole dozen of ferocious robbers had 
 secreted themselves in Georgette's room, and had it 
 not been for the timely entrance of himself and Rose, 
 would have stripped the house of every valuable. 
 On the thieves seeing them they had thrown down 
 the lamps, and most likely had made their escape in 
 the obscurity. The old debauche was so upset that 
 
44 • ' GEORGETTE. 
 
 lie scarcely understood the tale Lafleur essayed to 
 cajole him with, and he was about to ask for a 
 repetition of it, when a detachment of mounted 
 gendarmes drew up in the courtyard, and half a 
 company of soldiers arrived under the guidance of 
 the gallant corporal, who posted some of them in 
 battle array at the foot of the main staircase and 
 other places of exit, whilst he ascended with the rest 
 to the scene of operations. By this time the whole 
 neighbourhood was in commotion ; the inhabitants of 
 the adjacent houses were at their windows ; the pas- 
 sengers in the streets stopped to ask what was going 
 on ; and, as is always the case in a great city, a large 
 crowd assembled in an incredibly short space of time 
 upon the spot. Assertions and conjectures of every 
 description prevailed; some believed a conspiracy 
 against the government had been detected, and that 
 the engineers were about to blow the rebels all up in 
 the house ; the old women were consequently in an 
 agony of terror, and mistook the water-carriers' carts 
 for pieces of cannon and tumbrils of ammunition; 
 children cried, their mammas were almost frightened 
 to death, and hastened to pack up their things, and 
 their papas were uncertain what to do ; the grisettes, 
 who were going home from their workshops, mingled 
 in the crowd, and the young fellows placed them- 
 selves near them with no very honourable intent. 
 
 All the dispositions for the attack being finally 
 completed, the corporal commandant took a huge 
 pinch of snuff, and addressed his men as follows : — 
 
 " Comrades, everything shows that this will be a 
 very sharp affair. A band of desperate robbers have 
 secreted themselves somewhere in this mansion. It 
 is true we are here in force, but you know — or per- 
 haps some of you don't — that robbers always fight 
 like lions and tigers and other devils, and won't be 
 -caught if they can help it ; and that's the reason that 
 we are now six to one against them. We will act with 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 45 
 
 prudence, and keep our communication with the rear 
 open, that the wounded may be easily removed.'' 
 
 This eloquent harangue, equal to any soul-stirring- 
 discourse ever pronounced by any great commander 
 previous to a sanguinary conflict, was lost upon the 
 sergeant of gendarmes, who commenced his opera- 
 tions by ordering the gates of the courtyard to bo 
 shut, to prevent escape in that direction ; and as the. 
 corporal of the municipals directed the drummers to 
 beat the "charge," the sergeant compelled them to 
 be silent, and cursed his temporary companion in- 
 command as a paltry coward and a stupid fool. 
 
 Upstairs they went, with fixed bayonets, to the 
 dining-room, where, of course, they found nobody. 
 Thev then visited every room on the first floor with 
 the 'same result, until the sergeant lost his temper,, 
 and asked the corporal what he meant by making 
 such a fool of him. 
 
 " Patience," the official replied, " patience, comrade. 
 The scoundrels are hidden somewhere, and are trying 
 to lead us into an ambuscade." 
 
 The only answer to this astute observation was an 
 indignant " Pooh ! " 
 
 The search was continued until they reached the 
 garrets, and came to a dead halt before a large, empty 
 storeroom, the door of which was locked. They 
 knocked without obtaining a reply; they called upon 
 the supposed malefactors within to yield themselves 
 prisoners at discretion without receiving any answer - r 
 and then the sergeant, placing his ear to the keyhole,, 
 distinguished certain smothered sounds, which con- 
 vinced him there were several persons in the room. 
 On making his opinion known, the municipal corporal 
 withdrew behind his men, in order not to impede the 
 simultaneous rush to the assault. The sergeant again 
 called to the refugees to come forth, but the echoes 
 of his sonorous voice met with no response ; so, with- 
 out further ado, he ordered a file of men to knock in. 
 
46 GEORGETTE. 
 
 the door. This was soon accomplished by a few 
 blows from the butt ends of the muskets ; and as the 
 door fell back into the room, the wind that gushed 
 forth blew out all the flambeaux the men had brought 
 with them, and left the assailing party completely in 
 the dark. 
 
 Onwards they crept with the greatest precaution, 
 fearing to encounter the weapons of the assassins in 
 the darkness that prevailed. The sergeant com- 
 manded a halt, and summoned the robbers to sur- 
 render for the last time. A confused murmuring at 
 the end of the room was heard, and the sergeant, 
 thinking the thieves were about to throw themselves 
 upon the attacking force, gave the word to fire in 
 the air. The reports of the muskets rang through- 
 out the house, and a chorus of plaintive cries, fearful 
 groans, and exclamations, followed. 
 
 "What the devil does all this mean 1 " said the 
 sergeant. " These are women's voices. Listen, 
 corporal." 
 
 But that reckless individual was at that moment 
 far beyond all hearing, as he had thought it prudent 
 to descend the staircase the instant the firearms were 
 brought into immediate requisition. The sergeant, 
 feeling assured that there was some mistake, told his 
 men to advance cautiously to the further end of the 
 room ; and as they did so, their feet stumbled over 
 trusses of hay and straw, and they fell upon warm, 
 breathing, shrinking bodies, which certainly were not 
 those of desperate robbers. 
 
 Determined to find out with what description of 
 animals they had to do, the men placed their guns 
 aside, extended their arms, and found first an arm and 
 throat and bust, and then boots, petticoats and limbs 
 beneath their hands, and instantly they took possession 
 of the captives of their bow and spear, who, truth to 
 say, bowed with submission and without remonstrance 
 to the conquerors' yoke; and it appeared to be written 
 
THE FLOOD TIDE OF PROSPERITY. 47 
 
 an the Book of Fate that upon that eventful evening 
 -the visitors to the mansion of Madame de Rosambear 
 should fall upon each other. At length candles were 
 brought, and the whole mystery was made clear. The 
 sergeant could not believe his eyes when he dis- 
 covered that his brave men had been engaged with 
 -the women of the establishment, who had formed the 
 advance guard, and so been exposed to the hottest 
 fire of the enemy, for the cowardly men were in the 
 Tear ; and on their being dragged from their hiding- 
 places beneath the straw, the vanquished enemy pre- 
 sented a motley group of lacqueys, porters, cooks, 
 -coachmen, turnspits, nurse-girls, chamber-maids, and 
 grooms. 
 
 It must be borne in mind that when Lafleur gave 
 the alarm of robbers being in Madame de Rosambeau's 
 apartments, all the servants in the different families 
 -in the house ran to the upper portion of it, and locked 
 -themselves within the storeroom, where they remained 
 in mortal fear ; and upon hearing the advance of the 
 rgendarmes, they mistook them for the thieves, and 
 •the voice of the sergeant for the summons of the 
 -captain of the band. Fortunately, however, all ended 
 -without unpleasant consequences. The sergeant 
 -chuckled at what had taken place ; and the only dis- 
 pleased persons were the poltroon of a corporal, who 
 -was confounded at the mistake he had made, and the 
 -women, who, in their hearts, were sadly vexed with 
 .^and indignant at Lafleur for bringing the lights so 
 speedily upon the scene of combat. 
 
 Like brave enemies when the strife is done, the 
 ^victors and the vanquished descended to the lower 
 stories of the mansion in friendly chat together ; 
 the servants returned to their employment; the 
 sergeant of gendarmes marched off with the honours 
 of war at the head of his bold men ; the crestfallen 
 ^corporal sneaked away. Monsieur de Lacaille was 
 conducted home by Lafleur, who sat up half the 
 
48 GEORGETTE. 
 
 night bathing his ancient back and loins with cam- 
 phorated liniment ; and Georgette, having nearly 
 killed herself with laughing with Rose at the un- 
 expected consequences of the rendezvous, went to 
 bed undecided to which of her new swain's to yield 
 the palm. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TEE ACCIDENT — THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 A GREAT stretch of imagination, readers, would he 
 required to conceive that the three young men re- 
 mained content with their first visit to Georgette. On 
 the contrary, all of them continued to see her con- 
 stantly, so that no decided preference was awarded 
 to either of them, although some malevolent tongues- 
 would assert broadly that, under the able tuition of 
 Ma'amselle Rose, Madame de Rosambeau kept her 
 three men in hand at once. But however that might 
 have been, it is an undeniable fact that she was not 
 so inexpert for the future as to give either of them 
 an interview that was likely to be interrupted by 
 the others. 
 
 The doting old Lacaille was as besotted with 
 Georgette as ever, and lavished his means to procure- 
 that last favour which, under some pretence or otheiv 
 was constantly denied him ; but in the midst of all 
 the pleasures the gay capital could furnish, time stole 
 on, the moment had nearly arrived when the fruit ot 
 Georgette's first error must see the light, and it 
 became necessary for the girl to leave Paris, and 
 sojourn in the country for a short period until 
 lightened of her sinful burden, and with renovated 
 health she could again take her share in those^ 
 
THE ACCIDENT — THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 luxurious delights in which alone she lived and had 
 her being. The so-called Madame de Rosambeau 
 was in despair at her misfortune. In her fondest 
 affection for Saint Ange, she had never desired to 
 become a mother ; the pains and grievances incidental 
 to the title filled her with dismay, and a forced resi- 
 dence in the country during the fashionable season 
 appeared well-nigh insupportable to her vitiated 
 taste. Several consultations were held with Rose 
 and Lafleur as to the best mode of deceiving De 
 Lacaille with respect to the real state of affairs ,. 
 he was accordingly easily persuaded that Georgette 
 was subject to nervous attacks, which could be cured 
 only by a course of mineral waters at Plombieres, and 
 after an ineffectual attempt to accompany her out 
 of town, he offered no objection to her immediate 
 departure. 
 
 Accordingly, one fine morning Georgette, accom- 
 panied by Rose, left Paris in a well-appointed travel- 
 ling landau and pair, and instead of proceeding te 
 Plombieres, was driven on the road to Montmorency,, 
 where Lafleur had engaged a quiet cottage in which 
 she could remain unknown during her temporary 
 retirement from the fascinations of the world. Sur- 
 rounded by bandboxes containing every requisite 
 for a negligS toilette, and the indispensable neces- 
 saries for the forthcoming event, she chatted with 
 her servant upon the renewed pleasures she would 
 enjoy upon her return to the capital; of the thousand 
 tricks she would play upon Lacaille; and of the sum- 
 mary mode in which she would dispose of her three 
 lovers, who had begun to satiate her, and to lose 
 the charm of novelty which had been the chief 
 inducement of the vile intrigue. This wretched 
 lascivious conversation, this anticipation of sensual 
 delights, so completely occupied the attention of 
 the unhappy woman and her servant, that they were 
 surprised to find in how short a time the journey 
 VOL. II, L D 
 
50 GEORGETTE. 
 
 >vas accomplished. The spire of the church at Mont- 
 morency stood out distinctly marked against the 
 azure background of the sky; the postillion, in 
 accordance with his directions, was urging the fiery 
 horses to the topmost of their speed ; the animals, 
 as if conscious that the termination of their task 
 was near, redoubled their bounds ; Rose screamed 
 with fear as the vehicle was dragged madly along, 
 and Georgette, in spite of her situation, was enjoying 
 her attendant's timidity, when the horses, shying at 
 something on the road, plunged on one side upon a 
 heap of pebbles, one of the linch-pins was forced oat 
 by the shock, the wheel came off, the carriage rolled 
 over, and the inmates were thrown with violence 
 ;ipoh the stones. For a few moments the postillion 
 was so entangled with the carriage and the horses 
 that he could not render any assistance to the women ; 
 Georgette lay stunned and bleeding from the fore- 
 head, and Rose, more frightened than hurt, filled the 
 air with her shrieks and lamentations. 
 
 Guided by the fearful sounds, a young gentleman 
 came galloping up, and with the assistance of his 
 groom, raised the females from the earth, and bore 
 them to an adjacent spot of grass. He then directed 
 the postillion, who had regained his legs, and relieved 
 the horses of a part of their broken harness, to run to 
 a peasant's cottage a few hundred paces distant, and 
 bring back the best help with him that he could, and 
 while the man was so employed, the young gentle- 
 man staunched with his handkerchief the blood that 
 issued from the wound in Georgette's head. At first 
 the crimson fluid prevented his distinguishing the 
 features of the frail being he supported on his knee; 
 but, as consciousness gradually returned, and the face, 
 freed from blood, assumed its natural distinctiveness, 
 a strange idea thrilled throughout his frame, and as 
 she opened her languid eyes, and fixed them upon 
 his, each of them involuntarily exclaimed, — 
 
THE ACCIDENT — THE UNEXPECTED MEETING, 51 
 
 ^Charles!" 
 
 " Georgette ! " 
 
 It had happened that when Charles took the road 
 <to Paris on his leaving old Theresa, his horse fell with 
 him near Montmorency, and he was so much hurt 
 that he was obliged to keep his chamber during the 
 whole of the period that Georgette had devoted her- 
 self to the enjoyment of the pleasures of the capital r 
 and now that the return of spring had partially re- 
 established his health, and he was permitted to take 
 -short rides in the sweet scenery of the pretty town, 
 chance, or a happy fatality, had made him useful to 
 the erring woman whom he had so long loved and 
 mourned. Recovering from the surprise of the unex- 
 pected meeting, Charles said coldly, dwelling with 
 1 mphasis on the last words of the phrase, — 
 
 " I have sent your servant, madam e, for medical 
 assistance, if it can be found ; in your present state, 
 too many precautions cannot be adopted." 
 
 Georgette blushed, for her pregnancy was too ap- 
 parent to escape the notice of the most casual observer. 
 She then disengaged herself from the support the 
 young man had afforded her, and strove to walk alone, 
 but she had only taken a few steps when her head 
 dswam, her limbs failed her, and she again clung trem- 
 bling to his arm. The sight of her wound, her death- 
 like pallor, and her interesting condition, softened 
 -Charles's heart, and for the moment obliterated all re- 
 membrance of her black ingratitude, and the deep 
 misery she had caused her benefactors. He spoke to 
 her more tenderly, checking the accents of reproach 
 that rose from his heart and struggled on his lips ; 
 but she heard him with an averted head, and on the 
 postillion returning, accompanied by several peasants 
 bearing a litter, on which they offered to convey her 
 to the town, she answered haughtily she would not 
 fee made a spectacle to all the gaping louts, but would 
 walk ; and then she ordered the man to pay the people 
 
52 GEORGETTE. 
 
 liberally for their trouble, and to join her at her resi- 
 dence as soon as the vehicle should be put to rights. 
 Charles listened in amazement, and could not trust to 
 the evidence of his eyes and ears when he heard her 
 dictatorial tones, and saw the wondrous change that 
 six months had effected in her manners. 
 
 When Georgette had given her orders to her ser- 
 vant, and dismissed the good people who had hastened 
 to her assistance, she turned towards Rose, who re- 
 mained seated on the grass, pretending to be much 
 hurt, and amusing herself with the awkward atten- 
 tions of Baptiste, and requested her to give her her 
 arm as she walked to Montmorency ; but as the young 
 woman hadtaken it into her headto patronisethe fresh- 
 soloured, good-looking, simple-hearted groom, and 
 had some designs upon him best known to herself, she 
 assumed she could not possibly walk without his aid, 
 and therefore, as a last resource, Georgette was com- 
 pelled reluctantly to solicit the help of Charles, who 
 was standing, silent and melancholy, a few paces off. 
 Starting suddenly from his state of lethargy, ne acceded 
 to the request, and passed Georgette's arm underneath 
 his own, and Baptiste, having performed the same 
 kind ceremony for Mademoiselle Rose, the party pro- 
 ceeded slowly and silently upon their march. Charles 
 was thoughtful, and revolved in his mind all the mourn- 
 ful events that had taken place, all the bright hopes 
 destroyed, the murder and the fire that had ensued 
 since the fatal day that he had returned to meet 
 Georgette at the farm ; and she suffered the greatest 
 mental pain at being compelled to lean for support 
 upon a man the very sight of whom recalled to her 
 memory the innocent pleasures of her childhood, the 
 forms and features of her benefactors, the undying 
 misery she had caused them, and a thousand other 
 circumstances that busy thought would not permit 
 her mind to bury in oblivion. Her bosom heaved 
 tumultuouslv. her heart beat* violently, and a sensa- 
 
THE ACCIDENT — Tlir: UNEXPECTED MEETING. 53 
 
 iion of regret, not unaccompanied by remorse, took 
 possession of her breast. At times she lifted her eyes 
 furtively to young De Merville's face, and strove to 
 guess from its expression what was passing in his 
 Heart ; but Charles studiously avoided her anxious 
 scrutiny. His heart was torn with grief at finding 
 himself in close proximity with that wilful, degraded 
 girl whom he had so long adored, who had formed 
 the torment of his life ; he felt that for the future they 
 <jould only be as perfect strangers to each other, and 
 when, from the effects of pain or of fatigue, she leaned 
 -more heavily upon him, he sighed deeply, and could 
 not help giving one solitary tear to the memory of 
 those delicious dreams of happiness and love that had 
 faded from his sight, and which it was impossible could 
 ever more return. 
 
 With considerable difficulty, owing to Georgette's 
 weakness, which rendered it necessary for her to 
 stop frequently upon the road, they reached the 
 quiet, retired cottage which Lafleur had engaged. 
 On their knocking, the door was opened by a re- 
 spectable-looking aged woman, and Georgette, 
 making a strong effort, invited Charles to enter and 
 repose a while ; but he declined with a mournful 
 ; shake of the head, and, bowing to her, ordered 
 Baptiste to follow him to the spot where they had 
 left the horses ; but the moment he was out of sight 
 of the cottage, he stopped abruptly, and pondered 
 over the reason that had induced Georgette to in- 
 tiabit the modest house. Perhaps, he thought, she 
 has repented and is willing to hide her sin from the 
 world, and expiate her failings in retirement, and if 
 bo, who shall deny forgiveness to her ? Alas, poor 
 Charles ! cured of his infatuation as he believed, his 
 heart still sought excuses for her whose image he 
 could not tear from out his breast, spite of his 
 better thoughts. 
 
 When Charles had returned, Rose remarked that 
 
54 GEORGETTE, 
 
 something might be made of his groom, who was a»- 
 promising lad, and Georgette entered the house, 
 which was really a charming residence for one liking 
 a country life, bnt appeared a desert to her, whose 
 mind was set alone upon the conquests of men's 
 imaginations, if not their hearts, and the pampered 
 excesses of the capital. 
 
 The moment so ardently desired by all affectionate- 
 wives arrived at last, and after the usual sufferings, 
 Georgette became a mother. The sight of her son 
 produced no sensation in her heart, and the infant 
 was placed in the hands of a stout female peasant,, 
 with a twelvemonth's pay in advance, and strict 
 orders never to come near Paris. At the expira- 
 tion of the term exacted by custom with respect 
 to women who have brought children into the world 
 — notwithstanding the difference of their constitu- 
 tion and adventitious circumstances — Lafleur was 
 directed by letter to inform his master that 
 Georgette was so far improved in health that she 
 was able to return to Paris. The greatest precautions 
 were taken to avert suspicion, and in a few days 
 Madame de Kosambeau a second time took posses- 
 sion of her splendid mansion, without any of her 
 servants, except the two confidants, having the 
 slightest suspicion of what had taken place. 
 
 Young men, who are seeking an innocent, good 
 wife, do not select a girl whose health has required 
 temporary seclusion and the benefit of country air. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FIRST REVERSE. 
 
 Monsieur de Lacaille. as madly in love as ever r 
 posted to the house as fast as the trotting horse- 
 
THE FIRST REVERSE. 5& 
 
 conld cany him, the instant it was told him that his- 
 mistress had returned to town, and to his greav 
 astonishment he found her thin, pale, and muck 
 changed for the worse. It was evident that she had 
 lost all the freshness of her beauty, which she at- 
 tributed in his hearing to the searching qualities of 
 the mineral waters she had been imbibing, and then,, 
 wishing to conceal the natural ravages of late hours 
 and excess by powders and cosmetics and the> 
 sumptuousness of her toilette, she plunged into the 
 most reckless extravagance, which threatened to* 
 involve the doting protector in inextricable ruin. 
 At times the besotted man bestowed a thought or 
 so upon the inevitable results that must ensue ; but 
 his vanity and pride would not let him give up his 
 bauble plaything, and as he now only saw and 
 heard with the eyes and ears of Lafleur, who was 
 his steward, treasurer, major-domo, and, in fact ? 
 domestic tyrant, the superannuated fool suffered 
 himself to float quietly down the stream towards 
 the dread abyss which was yawnhig to engulf him. 
 
 Not only did Madame de Rosambeau purchase the 
 most costly articles for herself, but she supplied all. 
 the extravagances of her three lovers, who had re- 
 sumed their visits as soon as she returned to Paris ; 
 for, knowing that her personal attractions were con- 
 siderably diminished, she feared, with all the vanity 
 of a coquette, to be abandoned, and so prodigally 
 wasted Lacaille's means to retain her sovereignty 
 over her three young slaves. She caused all the 
 works of the poet — good, bad, and indifferent — to bet 
 printed in the most finished manner, with an adula- 
 tory dedication to herself ; for Tolleville, who had no 
 head, but a mania for horses, she bought the most 
 splendid high-bred animal the city could produce,, 
 on which he caracoled by her side in the park ; and 
 as for the officer, although he was content witb 
 always riding the same courser, he had a passion for 
 
56 GEORGETTE. 
 
 gambling, and as he was rarely successful, and 
 Madame de Eosambeau was his partner in his 
 speculations, she was obliged almost daily to nil up 
 the deficit his ill-luck made in the joint funds of the 
 association. 
 
 It was impossible that poor Lacaille's two thousand 
 pounds a-year conld stand against this constant drain. 
 The sly cashier LafLeur was aware of the impending 
 storm, but, like an able financier, he would not inform 
 Iiis master of the crisis, and contented himself instead 
 with robbing him, and filling his own pockets in every 
 available manner, and gently pushing him towards 
 the precipice. He mortgaged the old man's houses 
 and lands, borrowed money from the Israelites at 
 most usurious interest, and Lacaille signed every 
 document presented to him without reading it, for 
 lie dared not look into the state of his affairs ; and 
 as Lafleur assured him there was no harm done, and 
 lie had plenty of resources left, he doffed all care 
 .aside, and was supremely happy if he could only 
 •pour riches into the lap of his deceitful mistress, 
 and gratify her in the indulgence of every passing 
 whhn. 
 
 One morning, while the antiquated Sardanapalus 
 -was still in bed, having passed the greater portion of 
 the previous night at a ball, where the splendour of 
 Madame de Eosambeau's attire and her aristocratic 
 manners had produced a great sensation, an extra- 
 ordinary noise and great confusion was heard in the 
 servants' hall. Lacaille was awakened from his sleep 
 |>y the outcries and dispute, and having rung the bell 
 for his page Jasmin, was informed by that promising 
 : pupil of Lafieur that lawyers, money-lenders, bailiffs, 
 and a whole host of other devils from hell were wait- 
 ing below, and said they had come to seize his 
 master's goods, and person too. 
 
 '• What ! " he exclaimed, in a fury. " Tell them to 
 he off immediately ; it cannot be intended for me. . ." 
 
THE FIRST RBVERSJS. 57 
 
 " Perhaps not, monsieur ; but still they assert the 
 execution is against Monsieur de Lacaille, an old 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Old gentleman ! Jasmin, that cannot be me," 
 
 " I fear it is, sir, they described you so exactly." 
 
 " Well, well, what is it they say they want? " 
 
 *\ Money." 
 
 ** Tell Lafleur to pay them." 
 
 "Impossible, monsieur; the steward left for the 
 ■country at daybreak this morning, with all his own 
 .things, and a large trunk besides." 
 
 The blow was overwhelming, and the miserable old 
 man fell back in bed almost bereft of life. The boy 
 .Jasmin, seeing his master, as he thought, dead, ran 
 out of the room to secure his share of the general 
 wreck; the tumult increased at every minute ; the 
 usurers cried out for their money, and the bailiffs 
 bayed like hounds eager to seize their prey. The 
 servants possessed themselves of every _ portable 
 article of value on which they c.ould lay their hands ; 
 and in a short time the harpies of the law mounted 
 the stairs and clamoured at the bedside of the miser- 
 able debauchl They showed him the bonds that he 
 had given, and the bills he had accepted, and then it 
 appeared that all his goods, when sold, would not 
 realise one-third of the amount of the debts his 
 steward had contracted for him. This discovery did 
 not tend to calm the anger of the exasperated credi- 
 tors, who also found themselves the dupes of Lafleur's 
 assertions of his master's wealth. The old man was 
 compelled to leave his bed, and without either red or 
 white upon his cheeks, false calves, or false hair, was 
 dressed summarily by the rough hands of the bailiffs 
 in a very different manner to that to which he was 
 accustomed, and ordered to follow them to prison. 
 On reaching the head of the staircase he was met by 
 Bose, who put a note into his hand, and whilst he 
 read it, looked in amazement upon the. hard counten- 
 
GEORGETTE. 
 
 /hces of the uncouth men who filled the landing-place- 
 and rooms. 
 
 Now this note contained a modest request from 
 Georgette for the paltry sum of three hundred pounds; 
 and when Lacaille had read it his only answer was,— 
 
 " Tell your mistress, Rose, that I am going to prison 
 for her. and it is the last proof I can sive her of dot 
 love." 
 
 "And tell her too," said a livid, truculent-looking 
 bailiff, " that I will only give her twenty-four hours to- 
 quit the apartments she inhabits. I know who this 
 Madame de Rosambeau is well enough ; the suite of 
 rooms and the furniture belong to Monsieur de 
 Lacaille, and will all pass to his creditors, of course." 
 
 Rose did not stop to hear another word, but ran off 
 as fast as her legs could carry her ; and poor Lacaille 
 was conveyed to gaol, where he died a few days- 
 afterwards, without a sigh from any one, and deserted 
 at his utmost need by those whom he had amused 
 and fed during his long, lazy, useless, foolish life. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FINAL ADIEU. 
 
 OUR tale now returns to Charles de Merville, whom we 
 left in the environs of Montmorency, believing, with a* 
 lover's credulity, that Georgette had been influenced 
 in her selection of a house by sincere repentance, and 
 a desire, after getting rid of the living consequence 
 of her folly, to return as speedily as possible to the 
 straight and narrow path of virtue. Filled with the 
 desire of again beholding her, and vexed at having: 
 quitted her so cavalierly, he hesitated a long time- 
 
THE FINAL ADIEU. 59 
 
 whether he should present himself at the cottage, 
 until at last love gained the victory, and he took his 
 way with Baptiste to the retired house; but when 
 he arrived there, he was informed by the old woman 
 who opened the door that madame had gone to Paris 
 a few days before, and had not left any instructions 
 as to her return. Charles felt the disappointment 
 acutely ; still, he resolved he would not cease in his 
 endeavours to seek out Georgette and prevail upon 
 her to accompany him to Theresa, who would receive 
 her with open arms, and on Baptiste accidentally 
 remarking that he knew where to find her, as Rose 
 had given him her address, requesting him to come 
 and see her, he determined to repair to Paris on the 
 following day. 
 
 From the circumstances that took place at Lacaille's 
 house when Rose conveyed the billet to him from her 
 mistress, the young woman did not return so quickly 
 as Georgette desired, and on the soubrette's making: 
 her appearance in a great flurry, the first words 
 Georgette uttered were, — 
 
 " What has kept you so long, Rose, when you knew 
 I wanted the money immediately, as Tolleville must 
 have another horse to-day." 
 
 " He will go on foot for the future, madame," the 
 girl replied, " if he only rides at Monsieur de Lacaille's 
 expense," and then she recounted all the details of 
 the old man's ruin, and the bailiff's message. 
 
 Georgette was surprised, but not moved, at the 
 lamentable tale ; she reflected that she had a consider- 
 able stock of diamonds and other valuable jewels, 
 and comforting herself with Rose's assurance that at 
 her age, and with her attractions, she could never 
 want stupid admirers with money, she resolved to 
 follow Lafleur's example, and make off with every- 
 thing in the apartments that she could take away. 
 
 When Rose left her to make preparations for their 
 departure, the now houseless woman, shorn of all her 
 
60 GEORGETTE. 
 
 splendour, reclined in one of those luxurious chairs 
 which it was her lot never to press again, and re- 
 flected upon her desolate situation. In looking back 
 upon the past, she felt there were many scenes of 
 her yet young life which she bitterly repented had 
 occurred, and as the tears rose unbidden to her eyes, 
 and she was about to give way to a burst of grief, the 
 door was opened, and Charles presented himself to 
 her astonished view. Hastily brushing away the 
 treacherous evidence of her despair, she drew herself 
 up haughtily, as he hesitated to advance, and said, — 
 
 " I believe it is Madame de Rosambeau whom I 
 have the honour of addressing % " 
 
 " It is, sir ; but who may have informed you of my 
 change of name ? " 
 
 i " There was no trouble in acquiring that name, with 
 which certain coteries in Paris are completely filled ; 
 happier indeed would it be for you if you possessed 
 your innocence and that sweet, simple name by 
 which you were distinguished at the farm." 
 
 " If you came here, De Merville, merely to preach a 
 sermon to me, I must inform you that you will lose 
 your time, for I have no leisure to entertain your 
 homilies, nor inclination to listen to your complaints 
 and reprimands." 
 
 Charles gazed wistfully at her, and then, surveying 
 the splendour by which she was surrounded, felt his 
 efforts to withdraw her from her gilded misery 
 would be all in vain. However, strong in his honesty 
 of purpose, he continued, — 
 
 i " My intention in coming here, Georgette, was not 
 -to offend you with my reproaches, for I fear they 
 would be useless, but to return to you this handker- 
 chief, once the pledge of your fidelity, and which, 
 from the moment you dropped it from your window 
 on the morning that I left the farm, I have worn next 
 to my heart in sickness, in health, in sorrow, and in 
 
 joy-" 
 
 
THE FINAL ADIEU. (3 1 
 
 "And it is for that alone you have come?" she 
 said, with a scornful smile and bitter, taunting laugh. 
 " Always, always the same romantic, dreamy youth ! " 
 
 "And you the same proud, ungrateful, perjured 
 
 girl!" 
 
 "Truly, Monsieur de Merville, you are a most 
 gallant young man. I had thought that time, and 
 some knowledge of the world, might have effected 
 some change in the sentimental schoolboy." 
 
 " Go on, madame, add insult to injury, I beg ; you 
 cannot do me a greater service than to tear away 
 the bandage that up to this moment had obscured 
 my eyes." 
 
 " What, Charles ! you do not mean to say you 
 loved me still % Your constancy is worthy of 'the 
 Paladins of old ; but, between ourselves, I never 
 have deserved it." 
 
 " Too true, alas, Georgette ; would to God it had 
 been otherwise I " 
 
 " Charles, I will be open with you, for dissimulation 
 cannot be of any use. When I first saw you at the 
 inn at Metz, when old John took me to his home, you 
 pleased my fancy, and that feeling was augmented 
 some years afterwards when you came to seek me 
 at the farm. It is probable I might have remained 
 faithful to you, had you not left me as you did ; yes, 
 you left me, a girl only sixteen years of age, without 
 troubling yourself about what might happen in your 
 absence. Well, another man, handsome, elegant, 
 and accomplished, presented himself, and, with con 
 summate knowledge of the world, complimented me 
 more in one short week than you had done in two 
 long months. I was vain, greedy of praise, and 
 loved to hear my beauty vaunted. I forgot you at 
 the moment. Saint Ange triumphed over my virtue, 
 and since his death, the follies I have committed have 
 been innumerable. But — nevertheless, Charles, every 
 time that I have come across you I have found m} 
 
t)2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Former love return, and felt how happy we might 
 have been together ; and now, Charles, that I am 
 free, still pretty, and not yet twenty, an opportunity 
 presents itself that a real lover would not lose. 
 Leave off your pouting, dearest; cast away this 
 stupid, sentimental air ; speak to me of the delights 
 of love, and believe me when I say my heart will 
 eagerly respond to the wildest dreams that yours 
 can form." 
 
 As the artful woman uttered these insidious words, 
 her eyes sparkled with desire, and at the conclusion 
 of the sentence she threw her arm around his waist, 
 her head fell tenderly upon his shoulder, and with 
 panting breast and trembling limbs she waited, ex- 
 ■oecting that her recovered slave would fall prostrate 
 at her feet; but Charles gently and coldly disengaged 
 himself from her libidinous caress, and retreated some 
 steps, as if his sight were blasted by a gorgon's head ; 
 then, heaving a deep sigh, he said, — 
 
 " Georgette, I have listened to you attentively, 
 and my heart weeps tears of blood at finding how 
 long and cruelly I have been deceived. I do not, I 
 cannot, reproach you for all the misery you have made 
 myself and others suffer, for, in so doing, you have 
 only yielded to the desires nature has implanted in 
 you. Pursue the reckless course of folly and extra- 
 vagance in which you have so long and wantonly 
 indulged; increase each day the number of your 
 lovers ; be happy if you can ; and now, Georgette, 
 adieu for ever I " 
 
 De Merville gave her one last lingering look, and 
 then rushed from the house, thanking Heaven that at 
 last his eyes were opened to Georgette's true char- 
 acter, and that he had escaped the meshes of that 
 net which would have consigned him to irredeemable 
 Tuin 
 
THE GREAT CHANGE. 63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE GREAT CHANGE. 
 
 CHARLES'S farewell words gave greater annoyance to 
 ^Georgette than she had expected, and the abrupt, 
 determined manner in which he broke from her at 
 the moment she hoped to have played upon his 
 weakness, and riveted his chains more firmly than 
 •ever, was gall and wormwood to her vanity. Her 
 bitter reflections were put an end to by Rose enter- 
 ing the room, and saying her mistress's things were 
 all packed up, and the now confederates left the 
 splendid apartments, with only the packages con- 
 taining their wardrobes and Georgette's jewels, for 
 the lawyers had placed bailiffs in the house to prevent 
 the clandestine removal of the furniture. So soon 
 as she arrived at a neatly-furnished apartment, very 
 different to that which she had lately occupied, 
 Georgette wrote to the dandy, the poet, and the 
 soldier, informing them of her new residence, and 
 the change in her affairs ; but neither of them came 
 to see her in her altered circumstances, the reason 
 being that the author could no longer get his lucu- 
 brations printed gratis, the exquisite would not be 
 supplied with horses, nor the officer with funds ; so 
 .all three of them transferred their homages to other 
 quarters, where their worldly propensities might pos- 
 sibly be gratified. This was a severe lesson to 
 Georgette, who thereupon made up her mind to be 
 more circumspect in her caprices for the future, and, 
 like the rest of the world, to live for herself alone. 
 
 Time passed on without bringing any new ad- 
 mirers to our heroine, for the singular facility and 
 extraordinary rapidity with which she had contrived 
 to ruin old Lacaille frightened men who otherwise 
 
64 GEORGETTE. 
 
 would have placed her under their protection. Her 
 jewellery and Cashmere shawls were sold to provide 
 the necessaries of life ; and in the absence of Lafleur, 
 who had not yet fonnd it convenient to return to 
 Paris, the young women racked their brains in vain 
 to discover some means of existence. ODe morning, 
 when Georgette was still in bed, mourning her lost 
 estate, and thinking she should be driven to the 
 destitute wretch's last resource for bread, Rose 
 came in and said a capital idea had just entered her 
 head, and if her mistress would be ruled by her, they 
 would not only be placed above the reach of want, 
 but would soon have a mansion, and carriages and 
 horses again. Georgette started up, and having 
 hastily inquired what the magic proposition was, the 
 girl replied, — 
 
 " Madame, you are a good musician, sing well, and 
 dance well, therefore the Grand Opera is the place 
 of all others for you. You will succeed, I am sure ; 
 and depend upon it, wLen a woman once makes her 
 way on those boards, she cannot find a quicker 
 mode of securing a fortune, crowds of admirers, and 
 everything that she may want." , 
 
 " I like the scheme well enough, dear Rose, but in 
 what capacity would you have me make my dSbut ? " \ 
 
 "As a danseuse, to be sure. Sometimes people 
 take notice of a singer if she is very great ; but a 
 danseuse is certain to be remarked. The ballet 
 affords so many opportunities of displaying one's 
 attractions. The piquant, exciting costume, your 
 pretty face, elegant figure, and well-turned limbs, 
 fully displayed and brilliantly lighted by the stage 
 lamps, will bring all Paris to the house, and crowds* 
 of fat, rich, stupid lovers to your feet." ) 
 
 " Indeed, Rose, it is a charming picture that you 
 paint for me, and I am half-inclined to follow your 
 advice; but how shall I obtain an entree to the 
 boards ? " 
 
THE GREAT CHANGE. 6S> 
 
 " Nothing more simple. Formerly I waited upon. 
 a lady whose protector had a brother who was in 
 love with a young lady whose uncle was an intimate 
 friend of the manager of the opera, and through a 11 
 these people I became acquainted with the great 
 man's valet, and he has often told me that his 
 master is a very gallant, amiable, agreeable man, 
 and disposed to do all he can to forward the viewsu 
 of all the pretty women who apply to him. Dress 
 yourself in as becoming a manner as you can, and. 
 go to the manager, and I'll answer for it that ha 
 will grant you a first appearance." 
 
 Seeing no alternative, Georgette yielded to Rose's, 
 counsels, put on the best robe she had left — because*. 
 it is well known that people who appear to be poor 
 never create a favourable impression — hired a hack- 
 ney coach, and was soon admitted to the ante- 
 chamber of the manager. This room — like those of 
 all men who have patronage at their command — 
 was filled with a crowd of would-be debutants,, 
 singers, actors, dancers, scene - painters, candle- 
 snuffers, hired clappers, and every member and 
 hanger-on of a first-rate theatrical establishment;. 
 and whilst Georgette sat down in the midst of ther 
 anomalous assembly, Hose went off to find the com- 
 plaisant valet, and induce him, by every means in. 
 her power, to procure an audience for Georgette 
 before her turn. Whilst the soubrette was thus en- 
 gaged, our heroine was almost stunned by the. 
 hubbub that was going on around her. One map 
 recounted, in a tone that predominated over all the* 
 rest, the scandalous manner in which he was 
 treated in not being put into better parts ; a dancer 
 had come to complain of the lady who, out of pique,. 
 had thrown him over in a pas-de-deux ; a singing lady 
 accused the leader of the orchestra of having played 
 an adagio accompaniment to a martial air, in order ta 
 make her miss the time; and & figurante was out- 
 VOL. II. E 
 
GEORGETTE. 
 
 -Tageotis because, in a grand procession of wild 
 ■vbe&sts, be had been cast for an ugly bear, whilst 
 
 :a of his juniors played the lordly lion. All 
 tfshauted and talked at the same time, so that no 
 -von-e could understand his neighbour ; and Georgette, 
 totally unused to the disputes, vanity, jealousies, 
 ^rnnd heart-burnings of the side-wings, saw Rose 
 return with pleasure. 
 
 * Rose traversed the crowd, and on reaching her 
 Companion told her that she had succeeded, after 
 ?8®Bie difficulty (she appeared very warm and much 
 -■agitated), and immediately afterwards the valet came 
 T&p, and begged Madame de Rosambeau would follow 
 Hiim. to his master's room. She rose and did so, much 
 ifco the chagrin of those who had been dancing attend- 
 ^KQ.ce in the ante-room for a much longer period than 
 Jkerself, and the door of the great man's study closed 
 %ehind her. What took place at the interview, what 
 tsort of dance she executed before the manager, or 
 "With him, and by what means she influenced his gen- 
 erally severe judgment, are mysteries which will never 
 l$e unfolded ; suffice it to say that when Georgette 
 smade her re-appearance, she held an order for her 
 <&dbut at the Grand Opera in her hand, 
 i "Well, madame," said Rose, as soon as they 
 ir©-entered the hackney-coach, " I said you would 
 succeed." 
 
 " Yes, Rose, I have succeeded, but it cost me some 
 trouble, I assure you." 
 
 ** So it did me, madame, with the valet. At first 
 Use <lid not recollect me, but our acquaintance was fully 
 sseaewed before we parted." 
 
 80 saying, both the young women sighed ; Rose 
 arranged her neckerchief, and Georgette put her hair 
 sJBL order. 
 / 
 
^TTLME THE DANSEUSE. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 2ULME THE DANSEUSE. 
 
 Immediately after Georgette's interview with the 
 manager, she was duly admitted amongst the votaries 
 of Terpsichore at the opera, and then the lessons in 
 diplomacy Rose had taken of Laflenr became of the 
 greatest use to her in frustrating the intrigues and 
 conspiracies that were got up by the choregraphio 
 nymphs against her mistress, no longer Madame de 
 Rosambeau, but Mademoiselle Zulme, the lovely debu- 
 tante. The latter was overwhelmed at discovering 
 the innumerable plots and stratagems that were con* 
 cocted to prevent her succeeding with the public. A 
 stranger as she was to the minutiae of a theatrical 
 career, she was ignorant of the astounding fact that 
 it is a for easier task to command an army of twenty 
 thousand men than a small company of fifteen or 
 twenty actresses and actors. She was hitherto un- 
 , acquainted with the hatred and envy of each other'" 
 mental talents and personal attractions, the ridiculous 
 demands for parts totally unfitted for the aspirants 
 to them ; the favouritism of young women, from no 
 ostensible reason ; the quarrelling about characters 
 which the old stagers looked upon as their own by 
 right of seniority ; the outcries of authors against the 
 tree admission of parties who only come to the theatre 
 to support the pieces of their friends, and damn those 
 o, all other writers ; and, worst of all, the morbid dread 
 ot the public opinion, which, sooner or later, is sure 
 to denounce, by its « hisses," all that is radically bad 
 At last the great night came when Zaime made her 
 first appearance, and was extremely well received. 
 Not that she displayed any superior talent, but be- 
 cause, in the first place, Rose had bought tickets 
 
68 geoMette. 
 
 enough to fill three-parts of the pit with "Claqueurs* 
 who were to applaud at all hazards ; secondly, fashion- 
 able people in the boxes never demean themselves by 
 hissing — that would be infra dig. ; thirdly, because 
 Georgette was still exceedingly attractive by the 
 glare of the stage-lights, and her charms, heightened by 
 all the adventitious aid of art, deceived even the old 
 frequenters of the house ; and lastly, because these 
 same frequenters, knowing the calibre of a danseuse's 
 virtue, anticipated fresh piquant gratification for their 
 jaded sensual appetites. And so it happened ; in an 
 incredibly short space of time, the fair Zuline was 
 more courted and in greater vogue than Madame de 
 Rosambeau had ever been ; the most brilliant offers of 
 protec&m, and expensive presents, were showered down 
 upon the pretty dancer, and Rose, notwithstanding 
 her erudition in every species of gallantry, and its 
 probable duration, was in ecstasies, for her pupil Zulme 
 was undoubtedly the goddess of the day. Her house 
 had become the rendezvous of all the rich old men 
 and fashionable young ones of the capital. Every 
 morning a crowd of carriages was ranged in her court- 
 yard, and horses left outside the gate, for none were 
 admitted without an equipage, or a certificate of rank 
 and wealth, and she repaid with a smile or a kind 
 word the devotion of hundreds who aspired to her 
 favours, and thought themselves honoured in squan- 
 dering their means, and, in all probability, going to 
 the dogs for her. 
 
 With the exercise of the slightest forethought, an$ 
 with less extravagance, Georgette might easily have 
 amassed a splendid fortune, but " a short reign, and 
 a merry one," was her motto, and the whirlpool oi 
 dissipation in which she was engulphed, drowned 
 ^very idea of provision for her future wants, when hef 
 turbulent career must be at an end. Every evenings 
 on her return from the opera, she gave supper-parties 
 which lasted through the night ; the most unlimited 
 
AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS. 69 
 
 /gaming was carried on; the losers consoled themselves 
 with bumpers of the choicest Burgundy and other 
 wines, the winners spent their gainings amongst the 
 hostess's frail friends ; licentious songs were sung, 
 and drunken joy, amounting to frenzy, and scenes too 
 scandalous to be designated, terminated these Baccha- 
 nalian orgies. 
 
 But let us leave Georgette giving herself up to the 
 infamous enjoyment of her worst passions, and see 
 ■whether Charles de Merville had effectually burst the- 
 .chains with which the sorceress had bound him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS. 
 
 Charles left the mansion of Madame de Rosambeau 
 with faltering steps and a heavy heart. On behold- 
 ing the woman he had so long adored in her true 
 colours, her breast hardened to insensibility, her mind 
 oppressed with vice, and her eyes sparkling with 
 licentiousness ; her features, formerly so innocent, 
 worn out and sicklied with the abuse of pleasures, 
 his bosom cast out for ever that fatal passion which 
 had formed the bane and torment of his life. He 
 could pardon her for not loving him, and having 
 rejected his honourable addresses for the possession 
 of a libertine, but he could not forgive her for those 
 practices which had rendered her unworthy of his 
 love. Coldness, insensibility, coquetry, even incon- 
 stancy do not always extinguish the affection of an 
 honest heart, but debauchery and degradation never 
 fail to estrange a delicate, susceptible, and highly- 
 cultivated mind. He now determined to think of 
 
70 GEORGETTE. 
 
 the lost, perjured girl no more, and the instant he 
 regained his hotel, he directed Baptiste to prepare 
 the horses, and resolved to quit Paris, where he had 
 no longer any desire to remain. He thought of the 
 anxiety and sorrow his protracted absence must have 
 caused his mother, and a secret voice whispered that 
 he should find an object really worthy of his atten- 
 tions at the chateau in Lorraine. 
 
 Whilst he and Baptiste are journeying homewards 
 as fast as their horses can carry them, let us trans- 
 port ourselves to the country, and see what was 
 passing in the bosom of his peaceful family. 
 
 The- announcement of the faithful Dumont that hie 
 young master would soon join his parents, had spread 
 the greatest pleasure in their hearts, but, neverthe- 
 less, days passed away without the lost one making 
 his appearance at the mansion ; inquietude sup- 
 planted joy, and his doting mother began to feel that 
 " Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." She thought 
 that she miscalculated Charles's power over his mis- 
 placed love ; she feared that he could not throw off 
 the thraldom of a woman who was utterly unworthy 
 of him ; and she prayed fervently that when he should 
 return, the society of the amiable Alexandrine would 
 for ever chase away the image of Georgette. Alexan- 
 drine, on her part, sighed for the coming of the young 
 nobleman, whose virtues had been painted in such 
 glowing colours by the maternal, hand, and to which 
 her ardent imagination had added brilliancy, and the 
 two ladies, in their daily conversations, without being 
 conscious of each other's thoughts, consoled them- 
 selves by talking about him who was never absent 
 from their minds. 
 
 The unerring foot of time marched on, and winter 
 had covered the dark earth with its snowy mantle, 
 when one fine, frosty morning Alexandrine proposed 
 to the Marchioness to profit by the weather, and take 
 a promenade in the environs of the chateau ; accord- 
 
AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS. TE 
 
 ingly the ladies habited themselves so as to resist the? 
 rigour of the season, and sallied forth in the direction, 
 of the town of Hambervilliers. Walking sharply on^ 
 they had proceeded some distance from the chateau, 
 and Madame de Merville, finding herself slightly three!,, 
 had expressed a wish to rest for a few minutes, when, on. 
 casting their eyes before them, they saw a respectable - 
 old man sitting on a bench by the roadside, appar- 
 ently contemplating the dull, monotonous picture 
 that the country always presents when covered wiib..- 
 its icy winter's dress. The gentleman, seeing them, 
 as they approached, bowed to the Marchioness, ancL 
 Alexandrine, remarking a settled melancholy upo3&_ 
 his features, inquired who the old man was. 
 
 f He is the notary of Hamberviiliers, my love," hear 
 companion replied, " but he is not so aged as yum., 
 think ; he has experienced much grief, I hear, aBcL 
 sorrows give a man an appearance much beyond Ms- 
 years. I know but little of him ; he lives now io& 
 complete retirement, does not go into society, andL 
 appears occupied with some secret miserable thought®- 
 of which he can never rid himself. It is said that; 
 his conduct in early and middle life has been far from, 
 irreproachable, but as I put no faith in scandal,. JE 
 cannot speak with certainty upon the subject." 
 
 The fact was, the old gentleman was our ancients 
 acquaintance Monsieur Budemar, who was now in &,- 
 very different condition to that in which we left hint 
 at the commencement of this tale, under the absolute 
 dominion of Gertrude, his housekeeper, whose rule- 
 over him was attributed by envious tongues to a, 
 certain weakness with which we have nothing here- 
 to do. Gertrude, like all women in her situation^ 
 had abused the power she held over her master-- 
 mind to disgust him with Georgette, who, without 
 her machinations and vile oppression, might have 
 remained happily with her uncle, and become a useful 
 and honourable member of society. But the fii^ 
 
 ig' 
 
'?2 GEORGETTE. 
 
 of the child had touched him in the tenderest point ; 
 lie had hoped that she would soon return and sue for 
 pardon, but years passed on, and still the wanderer 
 -came not. The notary, who became more careful in 
 fcis domestic conduct as he grew old — which was 
 iiighly meritorious in him, seeing there are so 
 many antiquated libertines now-a-days — accused 
 liimself of having been the cause of Georgette's 
 -escape. His fancy depicted her a fugitive, unhappy, 
 and plunged in the depths of misery by him who 
 ought to have acted to her as a father — which he 
 really was. Accordingly, the consequence of his 
 ■remorse was that Gertrude was discharged, and 
 jRudemar, engaging a housekeeper to whom slander 
 itself could not object, retired gradually from the 
 world and pined in solitude, hoping that his child 
 would return in time to close his dying eyes. 
 
 As Madame de Merville sat down by the side of 
 Monsieur Rudemar, and entered into conversation 
 "with him, Alexandrine said she would pluck some 
 arbutus berries she espied a short distance off, but 
 * he had scarcely left the Marchioness when she saw 
 -a, young gentleman on horseback, followed by a 
 -groom, approach, walking his horse very carefully on 
 account of the slippery ice upon the road. On 
 passing close to that young lady, the cavalier raised 
 Ms hat and bowed with grace, but at the same 
 moment the noble animal lost his footing, and his 
 rider was precipitated to the earth. Alexandrine 
 littered a cry of horror, and almost felt that she must 
 faint, but the young man was on his feet in an in- 
 stant, and seeing the leg of the poor horse was broken 
 by the fall, said he must deny himself the pleasure of 
 Alexandrine's company whilst he sought immediate 
 assistance for the beast. Pleased at the sight of the 
 handsome stranger, and feeling an indescribable emo- 
 tion in her breast, the trembling girl hazarded an 
 inquiry as to whether he was acquainted with the 
 
AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS. 73 
 
 Seighhourhood, and beard with delight that he was 
 journeying to the Chateau de Merville. She then 
 stated — much to his surprise — that she was going 
 there too, and, blushing slightly, accepted the offer of 
 Ms arm. Her heart beat more quickly than was its 
 wont as she led him unresistingly towards the bench 
 where the Marchioness reposed, and in another 
 dnoment Charles was firmly clasped within his 
 mother's arras. Alexandrine wept like a child, and 
 •the cold heart of Rudemar softened at the affect- 
 ing scene, and when the first passionate burst of 
 maternal love was tempered, and Heaven had been 
 -thanked for its guardian care and protection of the 
 noble youth, the happy group proceeded to the 
 ^mansion to spread the joyful news of the arrival 
 of the honoured heir. The Marquis, despite the 
 singularity of his ideas, could not avoid testify- 
 ing his satisfaction at his son's return, the servants 
 hallooed and cheered as if Charles were of their 
 own flesh and blood, and every preparation was made 
 to celebrate the day. 
 
 Placed at dinner by the side of Alexandrine, 
 ■Charles j silently admired the graces of her person 
 .and the expansion of her intellect ; he could not help 
 making comparisons between her and all the young 
 women he had ever seen, and always to her 
 advantage ; and she, in the fulness of her heart, gave 
 -up her whole soul to the new and delicious sensations 
 that her bosom felt. During the dessert, the Marquis 
 took it into his head to ask Charles what he had been 
 -doing in the capital ; and on his mother seeing her 
 soil's distress at the ill-timed question, and observing 
 that young men would be young men, he said he 
 was not stupid enough to suppose that Charles had 
 been a Scipio or a Cato, but on the contrary he 
 .should have been sorrv if the bov had not entered 
 into some of those venial follies incidental to his age. 
 He never could bear those young men who were 
 
74 GEORGETTE. 
 
 models of perfection, and who, acting as colcf 
 spectators of the errors of their comrades, tasted no- 
 il] icit pleasures, and remained calm as icicles at that- 
 period of life when fervent passion would have its 
 sway. A juvenile philosopher, he said, generally 
 became an old fool ; experience and a knowledge of 
 the world could only be gained by mixing in 
 classes of society, and as hot blood would push man- 
 kind into excesses at some period of men's lives, it 
 was better that follies should be committed at 
 twenty years of age than fifty. Monsieur Rudemar 
 coincided with the Marquis — having good reasons for 
 it — and so that point was settled. In the course of 
 the evening Charles and Alexandrine progressed in 
 each other's feelings, and on the following day they 
 understood each other so perfectly that there was no 
 doubt their union would soon take place. 
 
 Let us leave them, happy in the present hour, and 
 with the prospect of a bright future lot, and return 
 to the apartments of Georgette, or rather Zuime\ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 INSTEAD of diminishing, the number of ZulmeV 
 adorers was constantly on the increase, and hundreds 
 disputed the honour of ruining themselves for this 
 modern Lais ; but everything has an end in this 
 world, and as in Paris all are governed by fashion 
 and caprice, Rose perceived that anew planet was 
 about to eclipse the luxurious Zulme's star, and like 
 a faithful servant, she took high counsel with her 
 mistress as to how this disastrous and dreaded 
 occurrence could be foiled. 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 75^ 
 
 <; Madame," she said, whilst dressing her for the park 
 one afternoon, " do not fee surprised if some of your 
 admirers should leave you for a time, and you should 
 ruin fewer fools than' ordinary, for you must know 
 that a new danseuse, a perfect beauty, will soon be 
 launched, and, of course, amongst these fickle men 
 it is natural that she should attract attention. The 
 worst if it is, as I am told, that she is quite an in- 
 nocent creature, and would not do anything in the- 
 least naughty for the whole universe." 
 
 <; You destroy me, Rose, by the bare supposition^ 
 but at least we must try to prevent her succeeding." 
 " Oh, yes ! madame, we must plot against her, and 
 make every exertion to get her hissed on her debut. 
 We must pay people to shout and make all sorts of 
 noises; they will hoot and swear and light, ^ and 
 throw dead rats and cats from the upper gallery r 
 and if that won't do, why clear the house by crying-- 
 * tire ' ; people will then be out of humour at every- 
 thing*, and the girl will be thought detestable." 
 
 " It is a capital plan, Rose, but I fear, if she is as- 
 pretty as you say, that we shall spend our money 
 without accomplishing our object." 
 
 In pursuance of this cabal Rose exerted all her 
 talents to perfect it, and Georgette, less versed in the 
 conduct of intrigues, only contributed the money, 
 the mainspring that was to set the conspiracy 
 afloat. She scattered gold with the same careless- 
 ness and facility as she gained it; and this odious 
 glittering metal, an absolute necessity in civilised 
 communities, degraded by the abuses of the libertine, 
 thrown recklessly away by the spendthrift, and earned 
 bo hardly by the industrious thrifty labourer, this 
 type of evil and of good, this fertile source and object 
 of so many crimes, this gold became, in the hands of 
 Rose, the important lever by means of which the 
 downfall of her rival was to be achieved. 
 
 But it is written that — -" Men's schemes are traced 
 
76 GEORGETTE. 
 
 in dust," or, according to the proverb — " Man pro- 
 poses, but Heaven disposes " ; and thus it happened 
 that just three days before the dibut of the young 
 danseuse, Georgette felt so indisposed that she 
 was obliged to go to bed. On the following day 
 violent fever ensued, and on a physician being sent 
 ;for, he declared her malady to be an attack of all 
 -women's most inveterate foe, the demoniac small- 
 pox. The miserable woman was in despair at this 
 -terrible announcement, and rent the air with shrieks, 
 ifche clamorous knell of her lost beauty. Rose grew 
 -deadly pale with fright, lest her turn might come 
 next, and all the lovers, protectors, flatterers, soi- 
 disant female friends, and courtesans, fled from the 
 sufferer's presence as if Satan himself had taken 
 possession of the house. 
 
 Adieu then to the conspiracy that was to preserve 
 her sovereignty in the ballet ; farewell to all in- 
 trigues before the curtain and behind the scenes ; 
 -even the fair debutante was forgotten in the 
 anticipation of the horrible results of the disease ; 
 Georgette's only object now was to preserve that 
 beauty upon which not only the enjoyment of un- 
 bounded luxury, but the possession of the actual 
 means of life depended, and in her misery and de- 
 solation, she cursed her uncle and Farmer John for 
 not having thought of vaccination. Rose did not 
 actually quit Georgette, but awaited the consum- 
 mation of the disease in a room far removed froiv 
 that of her unhappy mistress, and thus Georgette, 
 left to endure her sufferings without the soothing 
 consolations of a single friend, had leisure to look 
 back upon the sin and folly of her former life, and 
 form resolutions of repentance and amendment for 
 the future. Under the treatment of a skilful medical 
 man, assisted by the purchased service of an excellent 
 old nurse, the crisis passed over, and Georgette's 
 davs were no more in danger ; but she scarcely ex- 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 77 
 
 pressed the slightest satisfaction at hearing the in- 
 telligence, for she feared the attractions of the 
 fascinating Zulme had passed away for ever, and for 
 several days she dared not consnlt the glass, so much 
 did she dread the confirmation of the fearful fact. 
 
 When all danger of infection was removed, Rose 
 returned to her mistress's room, in obedience to 
 her wish, and advanced tremblingly to the bedside,, 
 but on drawing back the curtain and looking on 
 poor Georgette's face, she uttered a cry of horror y 
 and rushed to the other side of the apartment. 
 Georgette needed no more to convince her of her 
 misfortune, and the conviction of it went like an 
 arrow to her heart ; she desired the soubrette to 
 bring her a mirror — consulted previously so frequently 
 with far different intent — and when she summoned 
 up the courage of desperation to look in it, she saw 
 — Heaven ! her features swollen, and deeply 
 seamed with scars, her eyes lessened in size, the 
 eyelashes and eyebrows almost gone, and the whole- 
 face red as the setting sun. The unhappy woman 
 dashed the truth-telling mirror from her, and fell 
 back senseless on the bed ; her hopes were crushed 
 for ever, and she felt that Georgette's triumphs were 
 but as a dream, and Zulme's occupation, like the noble 
 Moor's, was gone. 
 
 For a few days longer the agitation of her mind 
 and the agony of her despair threw her into renewed 
 fever, and fears for her life were entertained ; but 
 eventually a strong constitution prevailed against the 
 malady, and she rang for Rose to assist her with 
 her toilette; but the faithless abigail was nowhere 
 to be found, for seeing the effects of the disease, and 
 knowing that no more money could be made by her 
 afnieted mistress, she followed the example of her 
 constant model, the amiable Lafleur, and disappeared 
 with Georgette's jewels and every valuable article 
 that she could carry off. 
 
"73 GEORGETTE. 
 
 Thus our heroine was again reduced almost to 
 poverty, and now without the least resource. 
 Finding it impossible to remain where she was, and 
 determined not to encounter the jeers and raillery of 
 her comrades and rivals on the stage, she sold every 
 article that she could dispense with, engaged a 
 humble lodging, and resigned herself for the moment 
 to what the Fates might send her. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A NOCTURNAL ADYEXTUR E. 
 
 During her convalescence, Georgette occupied *». 
 room in the Rue des Moulins, where she passed a 
 dull, monotonous life, regretting her past splendour, 
 mourning over her lost beauty, and endeavouring 
 to dispel the overwhelming ennui that devoured 
 her. Idleness — a burthen more difficult to bear 
 than labour and fatigue — had full possession of her, 
 and at twenty years of age, with ail her education 
 and talents so fearfully misused, she had grown 
 absolutely weary of this life. Occasionally she re- 
 collected that she was a mother, but as she had 
 neYer known, nor wished to know, the sweet pleasures 
 that attend the title, she thought of her son Paul 
 only for a moment, and having paid six months 
 more in advance for his board, she forgot that such 
 a, creature had ever seen the light. 
 
 One night, as she returned from the playhouse, 
 where she had been vainly endeavouring to forget 
 rlier altered lot, she was overtaken on her way 
 iiome by a storm, and compelled to take refuge in 
 
A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE. 79 
 
 <& covered alley until the rain should cease. She had 
 not been there above a quarter of an hour when a 
 -tall, stout man ran into the alley swearing, and as 
 lie passed, said sharply, — 
 
 " My good woman, what are you doing there 1 " 
 " Waiting until the rain shall abate, monsieur, that 
 1 may go home." 
 
 " If you will accompany me to my room, made- 
 moiselle, you will be more comfortable there than 
 
 ■"here." 
 
 Georgette, being accustomed to manners of a 
 much higher class, looked disdainfully at the maker 
 ■of the abrupt proposition, and he, observing it, said 
 ■in a jeering tone, — 
 
 "Ah I you are affronted with my rude proposal, 
 I expect. Be of good cheer, I shall not do you any 
 fcakaj although some people might form very natural 
 -conclusions with respect to a female who takes shelter 
 alone in an alley at this time of night. However, 
 you may be a virtuous woman for all that, and I 
 promise'you I will not use force, for those who have 
 me must come to me with right good-will. But come 
 •with me, if it is only for a few minutes ; you are wet, 
 and shivering with the cold, and can dry your clothes 
 in my apartment." 
 
 Georgette felt the truth of the stout man's observa- 
 tions, and suffered herself to be conducted by him 
 Tip a dark, narrow, winding staircase to the fifth 
 story, and the higher they ascended the more she 
 became frightened, and regretted she had left the 
 street ; but at last he stopped, opened a door with a 
 latch-key, and ushered her into a room, the nature 
 and extent of which was hidden in obscurity. He 
 then struck a light with a flint and steel, lighted a 
 candle, and offered our heroine a chair. As she sat 
 down, totally undecided in what manner to behave 
 to her new acquaintance, she turned her eyes upon 
 Mm, and beheld a tall, portly man, about forty years 
 
SO GEORGETTE. 
 
 of age. with strongly-marked features, and tolerably 
 "well clad, but without the distinctive marks of a> 
 real gentleman about him. Whilst her host was 
 occupied in trying to restore something like order in- 
 the apartment, she turned her attention to it, and 
 saw that it filled the fourfold purpose of bedroom, 
 sitting-room, dining-room, and kitchen. The walls- 
 were of uncovered plaster, the windows devoid of 
 curtains, a frying-pan was placed upon a stove, guilt- 
 less of tire, broken chairs, a bed unarranged since it 
 was last slept in, and the floor was strewn with tawdry 
 mantles, paper helmets painted and gilt to represent 
 Greek and Roman casques, swords of every descrip- 
 tion and of every period — modern, antique, and 
 mediaeval— cuirasses, batons, and rolls of paper, 
 Georgette sighed, and thought she would not re- 
 main long with her fresh friend, whose theatrical- 
 profession was apparent to her at a glance. 
 
 When the man had finished his Augean task, and 
 lighted a wood fire, he looked fixedly at Georgette, 
 and apparently the examination seemed to please 
 him, for he infused more politeness into his manner 
 of addressing her, and said, with a melodramatic air, — « 
 
 " Fair lady, will you condescend to share my frugal- 
 meal, without ceremony? I repeat that I shall not 
 expect the slightest favour from you, but perhaps we 
 shall become better acquainted at the repast. Look,. 
 I am a good, open sort of devil enough, and when we 
 have been together half an hour, you will know me 
 as thoroughly as if you had been my wife for the- 
 last ten years." 
 
 "Well then," Georgette replied, "as it still rains 
 heavily, and I place some faith in you, I will accept 
 vour offer and remain here for an hour." 
 
 As she concluded, her host drew a small table from 
 the wall into the centre of the room, and took from 
 a cupboard the remains of a meat-pie, part of a 
 smoked neat's tongue, a knuckle of ham, a cut 
 
A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE. 8.1 
 
 loaf, and a couple of bottles of wine. He then invited 
 Georgette to place herself in a large arm-chair at the- 
 table, put a worn-out embroidered cushion at heir 
 feet, sat down opposite to her, helped her bounti- 
 fully to the wine and the best parts of the mutilated 
 dishes, and as they ate and drank, and the conversa- 
 tion became lively, Georgette could not refrain from 
 asking him in what department of the histrionic pro- 
 fession he was engaged. 
 
 He laughed as he replied, — 
 
 " I will tell you, beauteous princess, in two words- 
 who and what I am. My name is Duchenu, an actor 
 at the chief theatre over the water. I play what we 
 call ' The Elder Heavies,' desperate oppressors in* 
 melodramas, tyrants in tragedies, unrelenting fathers, 
 good-natured, blustering old uncles — seen only upon 
 the stage — chiefs of bands of robbers, kings, emperorSj.. 
 caziques, incas, prime ministers, head assassins, and 
 wicked confidants. I am thought to have some tal- 
 ent, and as I disguise myself artistically, and can 
 roar like any lion, with the aid of these kickshaws "' 
 (pointing to the properties), " a red cloak, a dark 
 lantern, and a long, bright-bladed knife, 1 am quite 
 a favourite with the discerning public. Of course 
 my comrades are jealous of my popularity, but as- 
 the manager and the public appreciate my abilities 
 properly, I don't care a button about them and their 
 intrigues. I have a good salary, but as I am a single- 
 man I spend all I gain, and am happy and contented. 
 There, that's my history I Pray what is yours ? " 
 
 A thousand ambitious projects rushed through. 
 Georgette's head as she listened to the relation of 
 Duchenu's tale ; but as she did not choose to inform, 
 him what her career had actually been, she invented 
 a doleful tale of misery and unmerited misfortune,, 
 which she delivered with great feeling and every 
 appearance of reality, without much caring whether 
 he attached any truth to it or not. Duchenu did not 
 vol. n. f 
 
82 GEORGETTE. 
 
 ■worry himself about what she had been- — actors are 
 generally philosophers, and take things easily. The 
 main thing was she pleased his fancy, and that was 
 -enough for him. 
 
 Before the second bottle of wine was empty — 
 tyrants always drink hard — he made a tender de- 
 claration of his attachment, offering to share his 
 fortune with her if she would only look to the ar- 
 rangement of his room, do the cooking, hear him 
 recite, and give him the cues whenever he studied 
 a fresh part. A thousand other beauteous women, 
 he swore, had disputed and pulled each other's hair 
 out for the distinguished honour, but he would have 
 none of them. One took snuff like a highlandman, 
 another smoked like a grenadier, and all got drunk 
 regularly when a pantomime was performed, which 
 happened frequently, and therefore it was evident 
 that the lady to suit Monsieur Duchenu must be a 
 steady-going, well-conducted person. 
 
 " You are precisely the woman I have looked for 
 so long," he cried. " Our meeting in the alley was 
 ordained by Fate. Your age, your figure, your man- 
 ners, and your face all charm me. Others might think 
 those little marks upon your countenance were a 
 defect, but they render it more piquant and intellec 
 iual to me. If truth must be told, my love, there is 
 not much appearance of the virgin in your person ; 
 but I am not fool enough to trouble myself about 
 such trifles as that. The fact is, I am delighted with 
 _you ; and now tell me, in two words whether my 
 reposition pleases you, and whether or not you wil 
 a ?cept it ? " 
 
 Georgette's reply was not so ardent and off-handed 
 lis Duchenu required. She reflected upon her present 
 position, alone and forlorn, and thought that when 
 the small sum she had* left was gone she might ab- 
 solutely want her daily bread. She saw a prospect 
 of living comfortably, at least for the present, and a 
 
A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE. 83 
 
 future full of success if she acceded, and could sraijv 
 some theatrical tuition from the actor ; but, woman- 
 like, she would not seem to throw herself at his hea<3 
 as if she would take up with the first-comer who 
 might meet her in the street; and therefore she said 
 she would take some days to consider his proposal 
 before she could give him a definitive reply. 
 
 Duchenu, who never gave a moment's thought to 
 anything but stage business, pressed her to conclude 
 the bargain upon the spot, and as the quantify of 
 wine he had drank made him forget his promises of 
 Jhemg steady, he drew his chair gradually nearer U> 
 georgette's, and wished— speaking allegorical !y— to 
 make a deposit on the treaty ; but our'heroin'e no* 
 being quite an innocent, as he had astutely divines 
 comprehended his intentions, and when he thought 
 ha was assuredly making way in her good graces 
 repulsed him vigorously, threw him and the chair 
 from her, and then jumped briskly up and announced 
 'her intention of returning home. It was in vain that 
 .he endeavoured to prevail upon her to remain by 
 ottering her his bed, and promising not to come near 
 and to sleep in the great armchair. Georgette was 
 inexorable; she would leave him; and as Duchenu 
 was really too polite and good-natured to suffer any 
 one m whom he assumed to have an interest to walk 
 through the streets alone at that late hour, he offered 
 her his escort home, which she accepted thankfully 
 and they set out forthwith. When they arrived at 
 her lodgings m the Eue des Moulins, he renewed his 
 declarations of undying attachment and his seductive 
 offers of himself, his bed, and board, and requested 
 she would soon give him a final answer, as he was 
 somewhat brisk in his actions, and was but little dis- 
 posed to waste his time making love in the old by- 
 gone Arcadian fashion. 
 
 As Georgette undressed herself she thought seri- 
 ously upon the occurrence that had taken place that 
 
84 GEORGETTE. 
 
 evening. It was true that the station of Monsieur 
 Duchenu was immeasurably below that of any man 
 with whom she had been connected. After having' 
 lived with the brilliant Marquis de Saint Ange, 
 ruined the old tool De Lacaille, and shone as a brigh* 
 resplendent star at the Grand Opera, where her 
 comet-like career drew thousands to her feet, it was- 
 cruel to be reduced to accept the offers of a man wh(> 
 had nothing at all to throw away ; but she wag 
 dying of ennui, and was without the slightest hopeo 
 Duchenu was attached to a theatre, although a minor 
 one, and that was something ; through his agency 
 and interest she might obtain an appearance on the 
 stage, and she thought she possessed talents that 
 would ensure success in tragic parts. Vanity — her 
 besetting sin — and a desire to burst forth again 
 before the public in all her pristine splendour, per- 
 suaded her that she had a decided vocation for the 
 stage. She saw herself in her mind's eye at the 
 Theatre Francais playing the Desdemonas, the 
 Ophelias, and the Juliets, her every word listened for 
 ^ith breathless attention, plaudits shaking the very 
 walls of the house, and showers of bouquets falling; 
 at her feet. 
 
 With these illusions she lulled herself to sleep, and 
 dreamed of jewels, flowers, carriages, applauding 
 audiences, and fifty other castles in the air. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 OUR HEROINE'S sad mistake. 
 
 On the following morning, when the ambitious woman 
 opened her eyes and sat up in bed, she looked 
 
OUR heroine's sad mistake. 85 
 
 round her humble room, and was surprised to find 
 that she was still Georgette, and nothing but 
 Georgette, As her full consciousness returned, she 
 recollected what had taken place the previous night ; 
 her pride felt astonished at her consenting to sup in 
 a garret with Monsieur Duchenu, and her vanity re- 
 volted at the idea of consorting with a man pos- 
 sessed of so little delicacy and refinement in his mode 
 of life; so, without giving another thought to her 
 position, she resolved to pay no further attention 
 to the proposal made by the kingly tyrant of the 
 melodramas. 
 
 But as time passed on, the jewels and rich dresses 
 became gradually less ; the direful necessity of doing 
 something for a living pressed upon Georgette's 
 mind, and her thoughts reverted involuntarily to 
 Duchenu again, when one evening a knock was 
 heard at her door, and on her opening it she was 
 surprised to see that worthy gentleman walk in, 
 and truth to say, he could not have arrived at a 
 more favourable moment. 
 
 " Behold me here, most adorable I " he exclaimed, 
 .striking an attitude. " Not hearing any intelligence of 
 the mistress of my heart, I am come to hear all about 
 you myself. I do not play this evening, for a 
 wonder, and therefore I presume there will be but 
 iew people in the house. I have taken the oppor- 
 tunity jof coming to see you, and ascertain your 
 determination ; it is now a fortnight since we met r 
 and that is time enough for you to have made youi 
 mind up as to my proposal." 
 
 " Do you know, Monsieur Duchenu, that you are in 
 a very extraordinary hurry? " 
 
 i "In our profession, my love, we are so particularly 
 rtired of constantly making love in fun that we are 
 ahv.iys in haste when it comes to the reality. Sighs, 
 tears, stratagems, declarations, and intrigues, bless 
 my soul, we know them all by heart and act them 
 
86 GEORGETTE. 
 
 every night, so that we have no pleasure ii? them 
 at all." 
 
 " I see, monsieur ; in that case it will be useless 
 playing off and on with you for the mere effect of 
 the thing, so I will be frank with you, and tell you 
 I accept your proposition at once, with only one 
 condition." 
 
 " Speak it ; anything that I can do to please you, 
 I promise shall be done." 
 
 "Well then, I feel I have great talent for the 
 stage, and you must procure me an appearance at 
 the theatre." 
 
 " So much the better ; it shall be done ; I will push' 
 vou forward, and now, let us seal the bargain with a 
 kiss." 
 
 So saying, the actor seized Georgette by the waist 
 and affixed at least a dozen seals upon her lips. 
 Georgette's position was one of extreme embarrass- 
 ment, for had he not promised to procure her an< 
 engagement at the theatre ? besides, would not 
 starvation stare her in the face if she refused to 
 yield to his solicitations % 
 
 Later on in the evening, Duchenu threw himself 
 upon a couch, and began leisurely to survey the 
 apartment. 
 
 ""My dear," he said, "you are absolutely lodged 
 like a princess. Everything is extremely handsome- 
 
 here." 
 
 "To me the furniture appears very common- 
 place." 
 
 "And what is the use of these pier-glasses and 
 
 these china vases ? " 
 
 " Good taste requires them for ornament and use." 
 
 " All luxury and superfluity, my dear ; we must 
 alter that; and your floor is waxed so highly, that I 
 am afraid of falling down at every step I take." 
 
 ", You will get accustomed to it, Duchenu." 
 
 " By-the-bye, what is your name I " 
 
OUR HEROINE S SAD MISTAKE. 8T 
 
 " Georgette." 
 
 * I'll bet a wager you have not always been knowct 
 by it" 
 
 " No, not exactly." 
 
 "I was sure; I understand women well, and have- 
 a, knack of making them do all I wish." 
 
 "Indeed! what is it?" 
 
 " Oh, you will see when you come to know me 
 more. But it is getting late, so I will go home.*.. 
 make up a little bundle of clothes, and establish my- 
 self here forthwith." 
 
 Duchenu kissed her again, and went his way. . 
 and when he had gone, Georgette sat down and 
 pondered on this new change in her condition. She 
 perceived that her friend had a very decided manner 
 of speaking and acting, and that he did not like to 
 be contradicted in the slightest thing ; but affaire 
 had arrived at such a point that it was impossible 
 for her to retrace her steps, besides, Duchenu had 
 promised that he would procure her an appearance 
 on the stage, and her imagination again conjured up 
 a long series of dramatic triumphs, and all their usual 
 concomitant advantages. 
 
 At six o'clock the following morning, the actor - 
 made a terrific noise at Georgette's door ; being in 
 the habit of sleeping until ten, she rose from her bed- 
 in a very bad humour, and ran to open the door, not 
 conceiving who could possibly be there at that un- 
 usual hour. She was much surprised at seeing^ 
 Duchenu, and asked angrily what had brought him 
 there so early. He answered that he had been 
 knocking there for at least two hours, that it w^s hie 
 custom to rise betimes, and she must learn to dc the 
 same. 
 
 Behold, then, Duchenu installed in poor Georgette's- 
 apartments ! For the first few days all went on 
 smoothly, but as he never brought home any money ,» 
 and ate and drank enough for four, G eorgettewas com- 
 
358 GEORGETTE. 
 
 pelled to part with some articles of furniture, for which 
 loss he tried to console her by asserting that the less 
 'furniture there was in a room the better it was for 
 ^-studying and rehearsing. Her position every day 
 became more insupportable, but the idea of her debut 
 enabled her to bear her grievances with fortitude, 
 ^and Duchenu, who gave her continual instructions 
 in declamation, and what is called the business of the 
 stage, maintained that, formed and educated as she 
 was by him, she could not fail of carrying the town 
 t>y storm. Since she had become Duchenu's pupil, 
 she had insensibly contracted the habit of obeying 
 him implicitly, and now this proud, haughty woman, 
 whose heart no benefits, no kindness, no riches,, 
 oould attack, had become the abject slave of a brutal 
 'tyrant, who was squandering the few pounds she 
 had left, and who was even base enough to strike 
 Aer when she did not happen to do exactly as he 
 ^pleased. Occasionally she would weep and attempt 
 to resist his usurped authority, but whenever she did 
 so his aspect became so fierce, and he flourished his 
 cane so energetically, that she was sadly frightened, 
 .tnd obeyed the wretch, whilst he chuckled and felici- 
 tated himself upon his method of making women do 
 -what he wished. 
 
 Let no one be surprised that Georgette, who, 
 Gbitherto had been accustomed to have her own way 
 in all things, allowed herself to be ill-tieated by a 
 .fifth-rate actor ; the abuses of pleasure she had com- 
 mitted, misery, and despair, had weakened her innate 
 -energy, and all men must have seen at times that 
 lie, who was a hero in prosperity, has betrayed the 
 weakness of a child when times have changed. 
 
 Finding that his unlucky victim's goods did not 
 /disappear fast enough by his individual exertions, 
 Duchenu continually brought home some of his com- 
 panions to dinner or to supper; the former meal 
 -always passed over quietly enough, because, as the 
 
THE BREAKDOWN. 89 
 
 *men had got to perform in the evening, they were 
 obliged to keep sober ; but at supper, when the 
 -theatre was over, they gave themselves up to un- 
 restrained excesses, and frequently brought their 
 women with them. Much against her will, Georgette 
 was forced to smile upon these demireps, and play 
 4he gentle hostess to them, for, if through ill-humour 
 or fatigue she neglected any polite observance that 
 'Duchenu thought necessary, a blow or a kick admin- 
 istered by the heartless ruffian recalled her to the 
 •miseries of her situation, and reduced her to im- 
 mediate subjection to his will. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE BREAKDOWN. 
 
 The^ moment drew nigh when the aspirant for 
 -histrionic honours was to make her first appearance 
 in an affecting melodrama, supported by Duchenu, 
 who hoped by his presence to inspire her with 
 -courage, and enable her to conquer the stage fright 
 which so frequently mars the prospects of young 
 -debutantes. Georgette sighed for the advent of the 
 important day, for, in spite of the lethargy into 
 which she had lapsed, she felt angry with herself at 
 times for submitting to the arbitrary dominion of 
 Duchenu, whom she determined to quit the instant 
 she obtained the means of living by her own exertions. 
 On the evening before the day which was to blazon 
 ^Georgette's success, Duchenu invited half of the 
 theatrical company to come to her apartments and 
 'hear her rehearse her part, after which the festivities 
 were to conclude with a recherchS supper, and as her 
 
90 GEORGETTE. 
 
 money was all gone, and he never had any, the- 
 greater part of the remaining furniture was disposed 
 of to furnish forth the feast, to which proceeding 
 she made no objection, hoping that future comfort 
 would repay her for her present misery. Vfhen 
 the play was over, the company arrived in the very 
 highest spirits, fawning upon and congratulating 
 Duchenu with an ardour that showed the extent of 
 their appetites, and the pleasure they anticipated in 
 consuming the excellent supper they were aware he 
 had provided ; Georgette was caressed, admired, and 
 praised to the third heaven, although her cheeks 
 were swollen, and her eyes red with weeping, from 
 the effects of her master's impetuosity in the after- 
 noon, which they attributed to the fatigue and 
 anxiety she had experienced in making fitting 
 arrangements for the great occasion. 
 
 The women all wished to commence operations- 
 with the supper, but it was voted by the men that they 
 should hear Georgette declaim first, because it was 
 possible that after the repast they would not be- 
 quite in a condition to form a correct judgment of 
 her talents, so they all repaired to the largest room, 
 where, as there were not chairs enough for all, it 
 was agreed that the ladies should sit upon the- 
 men's laps, provided they would promise not to 
 tickle them, thereby distracting their attention from 
 the scene ; thus each lady chose the seat she found 
 most agreeable, and all disposed themselves in 
 silence to hear the recitation. 
 
 Every preliminary being arranged, Duchenu, who 
 was to hold an animated dialogue with his pupil, 
 made his entree from the dressing-room, enveloped 
 w r ith a yellow moreen window curtain, which was- 
 supposed to represent the costume of a Swiss herds- 
 man, and was followed immediately by Georgette, 
 with a pair of snuffers stuck in her waistband by 
 way of a poignard, and her luxuriant hair floating 
 
THE BREAKDOWN. 91' 
 
 wildly over her white shoulders, to indicate the 
 extremity of her danger and distress. Of course a 
 burst of applause greeted her appearance, and stifled 
 exclamations were heard of, — "How beautiful she 
 looks ; what grace in every motion ; what dignity ; 
 what an expressive countenance ! " 
 
 Gratified and animated by the sycophantic mur- 
 mur, Georgette advanced with a proud step into the 
 middle of the room, and then, without one pause — al- 
 most without stopping to take breath — she thundered 
 out a long set speech, whilst Duchenu, delighted with 
 her tenacious memory and volubility, winked at his 
 companions, and looked at them as if saying, — 
 
 "Did you ever hear anything like that, my boys? 
 That's the ticket, — the sort of style that will rather 
 do, I think !" 
 
 The women nodded and smiled approbation, but 
 the men cried " Bravo ! " although they took it all on 
 hearsay, because they could not see whether our 
 heroine's gestures were appropriate or not, in con- 
 sequence of the ladies being seated on their knees, 
 and as soon as the tirade was finished, they turned 
 a deaf ear to the encore demanded by their fair com- 
 panions, who, from some unknown but universal 
 reason, seemed to have an extraordinary predilection 
 for their living chairs. At length Georgette was 
 complimented enthusiastically on the talent she had 
 displayed ; her undoubted success was unhesitatingly 
 predicted, and she was conducted in triumph to the 
 supper-room, where the sight of the viands con- 
 firmed the prepossession in her favour. 
 
 With the readiness of an old, experienced stager 
 Duchenu took two doors from off their hinges, and 
 placed them by the table lengthwise upon chairs to 
 serve for benches, and all the company sat down. 
 The dishes were pronounced excellent, the wine 
 superb ; every one gave way to gaiety ; the women 
 chattered, the men uncorked fresh bottles every 
 
92 GEORGETTE. 
 
 minute, swallowed bumpers, and sang snatches oi 
 bacchanalian and licentious songs ; the women, be- 
 coming excited, laughed and joined in chorus, and 
 speedily the insanity became general. A dancing 
 mania seized the guests, but as they could not stand 
 they rolled against the table, upset the benches and 
 the lights, and were soon all scrambling together on 
 the floor. Then some cried, some swore, and others 
 laughed, until the insensibility of drunkenness came 
 on, and Georgette, profiting by the darkness and the 
 silence, threw herself in an agony of tears upon her 
 bed. 
 
 After passing a miserable, restless night, bitterly 
 lamenting her fallen estate and thinking of the terrible 
 ordeal of the evening, she arose, and passing into 
 the supper-room, beheld with disgust the results of 
 the previous night's debauchery ; being desirous of 
 getting rid of the troop as quickly as she could, she 
 shook Duchenu by the arm, who growled and swore 
 at her for awakening him so soon. However, he shook 
 himself and got up, and having aroused the others 
 from their heavy, drunken slumber with considerable 
 difficulty, they perceived the sun was high in the 
 heavens, and hastened off to wash and dress them- 
 selves, and escape the fine for being absent from 
 rehearsal. 
 
 The great, the important night, big with the fate 
 of the young debutante, arrived at last, and the house 
 ' , «*s crowded from the pit to the gallery — for in those 
 days trashy melodramas, full of mawkish, sickly 
 sentiment, poison, blue fire, guns, drums, daggers, 
 blood, and thunder, had driven the standard works 
 of Moliere and Racine from the boards. When the 
 -curtain rose, the audience remained in a state of im- 
 pertubability awaiting the entre'e of the new actress, 
 of whom — as usual — report spoke highly, and who 
 at that moment, acting under the advice of Duchenu, 
 was stimulating her fading courage with sundry 
 
THE BREAKDOWN. 93 
 
 glasses of liqueur in the wing, but when she ap- 
 peared before the flat scene at the bottom of the 
 stage, the expected burst of applause was sternly 
 withheld, for the audience was under the impression 
 tthat Georgette did not walk so firmly and steadily 
 as she ought, but possibly that might be the effect 
 of sudden fear. Nettled at this cold reception, and 
 thinking that a woman who had pleased at the 
 Grand Opera must needs be a divinity at a theatre 
 on the wrong side of the water, she instantly made 
 up her mind to electrify the house, but the brandy 
 she had drank, the low condemnatory murmurs, 
 prophetic of the coming storm, the dazzling lights, 
 and the oppressive heat shook her reason from its 
 throne, and made her completely forget where she 
 was, so that, thinking she was in the theatre of her 
 previous renown, she advanced to the footlights with 
 a pirouette and an entrechat, narrowly escaping kick- 
 ing the leading young tragedian, her lover, who had 
 languished for her coming in order to tender to her 
 his stalwart arm, his father's old baronial castle, his 
 bold retainers, and his manly heart. The young lover 
 stood aghast, the audience tittered, and Duchenu 5 
 who was in the wing with the prompt-book in his 
 hand, cried in a loud whisper, — 
 
 " The speech ! What are you doing ? You must 
 be mad ! Damnation ! Oh, the speech i " 
 
 Recalled partially to herself by this exclamation, 
 Georgette prepared to deliver the great opening 
 speech. The audience, seeing she was about to speak, 
 subsided into calmness, and the lover, fearless of 
 another kick, approached the dear enslaver of his 
 bosom's lord. Georgette commenced well enough, 
 speaking a few lines with good emphasis and due 
 discretion, and the public, forgetting the pirouette, 
 were disposed to hear her with attention, but un- 
 fortunately an infernal distich stuck completely in 
 her throat, and she plunged hither and thither in tb^ 
 
'"94 GEORGETTE. 
 
 speech, not knowing what she did. The public were 
 
 tired of the farce, and began to hiss ; the prompter 
 
 shouted the words to her as loudly as he could ; the 
 
 leader of the orchestra tried to effect a diversion by 
 
 , playing the overture to The Caravan, but our heroine, 
 
 . exasperated by the hisses, was absolutely mad with 
 
 •rage; she was resolved to finish the speech would 
 
 the audience hear her or not, but finding they paid 
 
 • no attention to her, she made a gesture of derision 
 
 and contempt, and rushed furiously off the stage, 
 
 amidst a storm of shouts, groans, clapping, apples, 
 
 i biscuits, orange-peel, and nuts. 
 
 Duchenu swore fearfully, and tore his hair with 
 rage, and Georgette defied all-comers until the arrival 
 of the Inspector of Police changed the state of things ; 
 supported by a file of men, he hastily threw a mantle 
 over the foaming woman, forced her down stairs 
 to the stage-door, placed her in a hackney-coach 
 which was in waiting, with two men by her side, and 
 caused her to be removed from the scene of riot and 
 disgrace without her knowing or even caring whither 
 she was to be conveyed. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF CORRECTION. 
 
 Before the carriage had proceeded far, the fresh 
 night-air somewhat calmed the tumult that raged in 
 Georgette's brain, and she began to recover so 
 much from her state of excitement and bewilder- 
 ment, as to have a faint idea of the outrageous scene 
 that had taken place, and to feel astonishment at 
 being in the custody of two policemen. She looked 
 
THE HOUSE OF CORRECTION. 95 
 
 --at them attentively, endeavouring to guess the 
 reason why both she and they were there, and 
 nothing could exceed her surprise when one of the 
 men stated, in reply to her inquiry, that they were 
 about to convey her to the House of Correction, 
 where she would be detained for some weeks under 
 rigid discipline for having played such disgraceful 
 tricks upon the boards. Georgette could not see 
 why an actress should be locked up in prison merely 
 for having forgotten her part, and inveighed against 
 the injustice of mankind ; but her objurgations and 
 lamentations were equally useless, for the men did 
 not pay any attention to them, and on the coach 
 stopping, they made her get out and enter a large 
 dreary courtyard, surrounded by high walls, black- 
 ened through age, and studded with iron gratings, 
 and doors and wickets covered with great thick 
 nails, and bars and bolts. 
 
 At the summons of the constables, the head turn- 
 key made his appearance, grumbling and swearing 
 at being disturbed from his natural rest at that late 
 hour of night; Georgette trembled at the sight of 
 his gigantic height, yellow, cadaverous complexion, 
 deep-set ferret-eyes, and red bushy eyebrows, meet- 
 ing together just above his nose. He listened to the 
 !ew words the chief constable whispered, to him, and 
 >hen commanding the shivering woman to follow him, 
 he preceded her through a series of long, dark- 
 passages, across dismal, solitary yards, and up steep, 
 narrow staircases, until, stopping suddenly, he threw 
 open the door of a cell, thrust her into it, locked the 
 door behind him, and left her for the night. 
 
 Overwhelmed with her misfortune, Georgette 
 threw herself upon the only chair in the miserable 
 apartment, and gave way to her pent-up grief. Her 
 heart shrank within her as she heard the grating 
 sounds of the rusty bolts outside the door as the 
 gaoler shut her in, and she wept loDg and bitterly 
 
96 GEORGETTE. 
 
 without experiencing the least relief. Tired at last 
 -with crying, she assumed a little courage, and on- 
 examining the place of her confinement by means of 
 the rays of a lamp in the corridor that fell dimly 
 through a grating placed high up in the door, she 
 saw it was a narrow slip of a room, with another 
 grating admitting the daylight, and most probably 
 looking into one of the numerous yards, and that all 
 the furniture it contained was a common camp-bed, 
 with a mattress and blanket upon it, a small round 
 deal table, and a chair, and notwithstanding her 
 misery, she could hardly help smiling as she thought 
 that if Duchenu were there, even- he would not think 
 the room was too luxuriously furnished. 
 
 At six o'clock in the morning one of the gaolers- 
 unlocked the door, entered the cell, placed a loaf of 
 brown bread, with a jug of water, on the table, and 
 informed our heroine that those homely provisions 
 were intended to form her breakfast, her dinner, and' 
 her supper, adding that when she had eaten the for- 
 mer, she would be expected to come into the work- 
 room and earn her living. Georgette laughed the 
 idea to scorn, and said as she had not sought her 
 board and lodging — such as it was — at the amiable 
 gentleman's hands, she should do no such thing; but 
 when he looked at her with a, glaring, fiendish eye, 
 flourishing a horsewhip, and said he perfectly knew 
 •how to reduce turbulent women to obedience, Geor- 
 gette became frightened at the idea of violence, anct 
 timidly asked what she must do. 
 
 " Work," was the savage reply, " work all day long, 
 from morning until night, and if you don't know how r 
 we'll teach you, madam, quick enough/' 
 
 Abashed, and trembling in every joint, Georgette 
 followed her conductor in silence, for after having 
 passed her childhood in indolence and ease, and her 
 youth amidst luxury, dissipation, and debauchery, the 
 idea of working in a prison all day long almost bowed 
 
THE HOUSE OF CORRECTION. !)?< 
 
 her to the earth. She was soon introduced into a, 
 spacious hall, where she was surprised to find a great, 
 number of women — most of them young and pretty — - 
 all ranged side-by-side on benches, and wearing a. 
 uniform dress of coarse grey stuff. She considered 
 them attentively as they sat in rows, working assi- 
 duously, without uttering a word, and saw that they 
 belonged to all classes of society. Our heroine was 
 about to address an observation to one of the most 
 genteel-looking of these dumb penitents, when a. 
 hard-featured, dry, thin, shrivelled woman at the 
 upper end of the room called to her to approach, and. 
 on her so doing, handed to her a grey dress similar 
 to those worn by the other women. Georgette looked, 
 at the humble garment indignantly, and said, — 
 
 " What do you expect I am to do with this? " 
 
 " Put it on, and then you must perform the task, 
 that I shall set you." 
 
 li I put on this wretched, ugly dress ! I shall do 
 no such thing ; I should look a perfect fright." 
 
 " Obey, and do not answer, or it will be the worse. 
 for you." 
 
 Now, readers, you have all seen that Georgette's^ 
 greatest failing was vanity, and as she was as im- 
 movable as a rock with respect to what she deemed 
 the necessities and proprieties of her toilet, she re- 
 sumed all her native impertinence and courage, and 
 coolly threw the dress at the superior's head, who,, 
 being accustomed to see around her none but the 
 most abject, submissive faces, and to hear her slight- 
 est command listened to with instant and profound 
 obedience, was so astounded and paralysed with rage,. 
 that she could not speak for several minutes, but 
 remained in her chair, with her face purpled with rage.. 
 At length her power of speech returned, and like to^ 
 a mountain torrent that has been temporarily opposed 
 by some obstacle which it has surmounted, and cornea 
 thundering with redoubled vigour on its course, so 
 VOL. II. G 
 
98 GEORGETTE. 
 
 3ier tongue, freedfrom the momentary chain that bound 
 it, poured forth a flood of mingled cries, and oaths, and 
 "threats. But her fury was not limited to words ; 
 ^brandishing a cat-o'-nine-tails — -which, indeed, was 
 seldom idle, as almost every day added a refractc ry 
 (pupil to her motley flock — she precipitated herself 
 towards Georgette, intending to punish her severely, 
 ^and in the madness and blindness of her rage, striking 
 indiscriminately right and left at every unfortunate 
 oreature who came within her reach. 
 
 In order to escape the vengeance of her infuriated 
 enemy, Georgette ran nimbly behind the different 
 benches, calling upon the prisoners to assist her in 
 3ier defence against their common oppressor, who at 
 the same time shouted to them not to dare to stir ; 
 $)ut all history proves that nothing is so contagious 
 ^as example; that of Georgette produced all the effect 
 she had intended; the young women threw down 
 their work, the confusion became general, and in a 
 few moments the mutiny was at its height. Fatigued 
 <and worn out with running after her rebellious liock, 
 "the old woman fell, exhausted and powerless, upon a 
 ■chair. Instantly the prisoners became silent, waiting 
 to see what was to be done next, and the head mutin- 
 eer, seeing she was expected to take the initiative, 
 addressed them to the following effect : — 
 
 "Ladies, I only came to this wretched dungeon 
 last night, and I assure you that I do not mean to 
 *tay here one moment longer than I can help, and 
 you, who most likely have been here a long time, 
 must feel disgusted with the degrading tasks you 
 iiave been compelled to perform. Besides, it is in 
 the nature of ail women not to submit to be beaten 
 and ill-treated, except by a man whom they love, 
 nor will they consent to wear an ugly, filthy, gro- 
 gram dress whilst they are young and pretty, and 
 <jan still win the hearts of men. Such being the 
 -case, I think you will all do your best in assisting 
 
THE HOUSE OP CORRECTION. 90 
 
 me to effect your escape from this wretched 
 prison." 
 
 '__'Yes, yes, we will," the women replied with one 
 voice } " but teli us in what manner we must act." 
 
 " Listen, ladies. In the first place we must stop 
 the voice of this old hag, for if she should cry out,. 
 the turnkey might come up and disarrange our 
 projects." 
 
 The last words were hardly out of Georgette's 
 mouth before a number of the boldest of the young 
 women threw themselves upon the superior, setting 
 her prayers, threats, promises of pardon and kind-' 
 ness, and entreaties equally at nought, and having 
 •stuffed a pincushion into her mouth, and tied a 
 handkerchief over it, they bound her firmly with 
 other portions of their attire to one of the pillars of 
 the hall. 
 
 This operation was performed in complete silence, 
 for fear of arousing the watchfulness of the jailers 
 by any noise, and when it was concluded, the com- 
 mander-in-chief of the insurgents proposed that some 
 of the girls who had been flagellated by the old 
 woman should revenge themselves upon her in the 
 self-same way. The proposition pleased, and was 
 carried into instantaneous effect. The petticoats of 
 the martinet were raised, and girded round her loins ; 
 one of the girls seized the cat-o'-nine tails, raid be- 
 laboured her antiquated ultimatum with right good- 
 will. The instrument passed rapidly from hand to 
 hand, each prisoner exercising it according to her 
 estimate of her own wrongs and their fitting ven- 
 geance, and when the old woman was fairly raw, 
 the whip was cast on one side, and a solemn council 
 was held as to the best mode of escaping from the jail. 
 
 Up to this moment Georgette had directed the 
 movements of the conspirators, but when she asked 
 their advice they all spoke at once, and so fast that 
 it was utterly impossible to hear what their plans 
 
100 ' GEORGETTE. 
 
 were. It was in vain that Georgette ran hither and 
 thither imploring them to speak one at a time and 
 not to talk so lond. But they continued to make 
 such a noise that at last the terrible head jailer en- 
 tered, followed by the four smaller men, bearing in 
 their hands the keys of the outer gates. Nothing 
 could exceed the amazement of the men at seeing 
 the state of affairs. The jailer put down the old 
 woman's clothes, and commanded the insurgents to 
 return to their occupation, under pain of the most 
 condign punishment ; but they treated him and his 
 companions with the greatest contempt, and being 
 reminded by Georgette that they were thirty-two to 
 lour, they threw themselves upon them, and soon 
 were masters of the field. It was recollected by one- 
 of the girls, who had been long an inmate of the 
 establishment, that there was a force in the outer 
 yard of fifteen veterans, armed with muskets, whom 
 it would be impossible to conquer, and consequently 
 another consultation was held to arrange the manner 
 of escape by stratagem. 
 
 Having bound the jailer and his four subordinates- 
 with the linen on which the prisoners were employed, 
 and gagged their mouths, the keys were taken from 
 them, and it was arranged that four of the women 
 should dress themselves in the little turnkevs' clothes 
 — omitting to despoil the jailer, because he was too 
 tall and big, and never went outside the prison gates 
 — and when they had passed out as if on casual busi- 
 ness, and had reached some thicket or other place of 
 shelter, two should take off the men's clothes and 
 resume their accustomed dress, and placing the male 
 attire under their petticoats, should return and enable 
 four others to escape, and so on until all should have 
 left the house. 
 
 The plan was adopted with the greatest hilarity. 
 The turnkeys' trousers were removed in a twinkling 
 —the majority of the women being adepts at that 
 
THE HOUSE OF CORRECTION. 
 
 operation — the coats and waistcoats followed, and 
 the poor men were soon reduced to a very primitive 
 attire. i 
 
 Georgette, being the head executive of the con- 
 spiracy, took upon herself the right of being one of 
 the first to pass before the veterans. The rest of 
 the women drew lots for the disguises, which they 
 put on, tucking up their petticoats about then loins, 
 and their toilet being completed, Georgette took up 
 the keys and descended the staircases, followed by 
 the three girls who had been lucky enough to draw 
 the chances, and recommending them to walk boldly 
 like the men, and by no means to speak a single 
 word. 
 
 They trembled slightly as they crossed the outer 
 yard and approached the gate which opened into the 
 street, but nothing- occurred to stop their flight ; the 
 old soldiers merely lifted up their heads at the sound 
 of feet, and seeing the usual dress of the turnkeys, 
 did not examine them, but went on quietly smoking 
 •their pipes. On reaching the gate Georgette was in 
 a fever of anxiety, fearing she should be discovered 
 in trying which of the keys would turn the lock, but 
 she chose the largest, which, fortunately, was the 
 right one. The bolt revolved, the heavy gate swung 
 upon its hinges, was pressed back to its usual place, 
 locked on the outside to prevent pursuit, and Georg- 
 ette and her companions were at large. No longer 
 fearing the jailer and his myrmidons, they walked 
 quietly off, betraying the confidence of their late 
 comrades in the prison, and swearing all three of 
 them never to place their feet within the walls again 
 if they could help it, and when they had gone about 
 a mile they parted and took different roads, in order 
 the better to avoid suspicion. 
 
102 GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE MILLER AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 When Georgette found herself alone, she turned off 
 at a right angle from the main road, and ran down a 
 rutty bypath as fast as her legs could carry her, 
 fearing to be retaken and doomed to her dreary cell 
 and abominable work, until her strength failed her,- 
 and she fell almost senseless underneath a tree. Re- 
 covering a little from her exhaustion, she raised her- 
 self to a sitting posture, and looked anxiously around 
 her. The aspect of the country in some measure 
 dissipated her alarms. She began to think that the 
 police would not endeavour to pursue an obscure, 
 unsuccessful dSbutante — for Madame de Rosambeau 
 and Zulme had perished with the smallpox, with which 
 she had been attacked — and feeling therefore more 
 tranquil about her liberty, she stretched herself out 
 upon the velvet grass, and, shaded by the branches 
 of the tree, courted the favours of the drowsy god. 
 
 After sleeping some hoars she awoke refreshed,- 
 and feeling the pains of hunger come on, rose to seek 
 some food, when, putting her hands into the jailer's 
 pockets, she was thunderstruck to find that they 
 were empty. She sighed, scratched her head, and 
 thought of fifty schemes to satisfy the importunate 
 cravings of her stomach ; but on looking around her 
 she saw nothing but open fields, and she half-deter- 
 mined to return to Duchenu. But then he was in 
 Paris, and, for the present, that city would not be a 
 jsafe residence for her. 
 
 Under these circumstances, Georgette's only plan> 
 was to find some habitation where she could beg a 
 dinner; and as she could not expect to obtain that 
 meal by remaining under a walnut tree, she walked- 
 
THE MILLER AND HIS WIFE. 10& 
 
 forward on the look-out, determined to enter the? 
 first farmhouse or peasant's cottage she might see;, 
 and at the end of a quarter of an hour she came 
 upon a windmill, before which she saw a burly man 
 and his attendants engaged placing sacks of flour irx 
 a cart. 
 
 Now it must not be forgotten that during the- 
 revolt in the prison, Georgette had thrown off her 
 melodramatic costume, and retained only her staye- 
 and other indispensable garments when she put on 
 the male attire ; and so, what with her sparkling- 
 eyes, her sprightly face, her bold, free step, and her 
 cap placed jauntily on one side of her head, she made 
 a smart-looking, rakish youth enough. She walked 
 up courageously to the miller, whose jolly round 
 good-natured countenance seemed to assure her ot 
 a good reception, and touching her cap lightly with 
 her forefinger by way of a salute, said, — 
 
 " Tell me, old fellow, do the people ever eat in 
 this part of the world ? " 
 
 The miller stared at the querist, and then, thinking 
 the oddity of the question formed an excellent joke> 
 he crossed his hands upon his fat belly, and grinned 
 from ear to ear as he replied, — 
 
 " Ha, ha ! he, he ! you're a rum little fellow, I think.. 
 What a question to ask, to be sure I " 
 
 " Rum little fellow," thought Georgette, forgetting 
 for the moment she was a man ; and then recollect- 
 ing her situation, she said, — 
 
 " Rum enough in all conscience just now, but will 
 you give me some dinner, like a jolly old cock a& 
 you seem ? " 
 
 " A dinner ! Ha, ha ! he, he ! you're mighty free 
 and easy, young gentleman ; but never mind, there's 
 enough for us all, and so come into the house and 
 welcome." 
 
 Georgette was delighted at the prospect of her 
 hunger being soon appeased. She passed her arm. 
 
104 GEORGETTE. 
 
 underneath the miller's, looked him saucily in the face 
 as she thanked him, and tapped his huge stomach 
 with her fingers, upon which he recommenced his 
 " Ha, has ! " and " He, hes ! " and called out for 
 <f Flora " as loud as he could bawl, as she must be fed 
 before all the rest of the family. Luckily for Georg- 
 ette, who had fasted since dinner on the previous 
 day, Flora, who was a fat Flanders mare, came trot- 
 ting heavily up at the miller's call, and neighing, 
 rubbed her head against his person as he caressed 
 her and ejaculated another storm of " Ha, has ! " and 
 *'He, hes!" and after the beast had been led to the 
 stable, and treated to a basket of oats, chopped hay, 
 and meal, the miller and his guest entered the house, 
 where they found the table ready laid, and the miller's 
 wife — a great, fat, coarse woman — and two labourers 
 waiting for their dinner. 
 
 The miller's wife measured our heroine with her 
 eye from top to toe, and apparently the scrutiny was 
 favourable to the supposed young man, for she smiled 
 upon her, placed her by her side, and helped her 
 plentifully to the cabbage soup. A series of inquiries 
 *was then instituted as to where Georgette came from, 
 and where she was going, to which she replied that 
 she had come from a savage country beyond the 
 Pyrenees, and was going to Paris to find out a rich 
 relation, and make a large fortune as he had done. 
 During the dinner the miller's wife paid the greatest 
 attention to Georgette, heaped her plate with victuals 
 — to which the wanderer, half-famished with her long 
 fast, did full honour — pinched her knees under the 
 table, and looked at her in a way that showed the 
 oomelv dame was over head and ears in love with 
 the dapper youth ; but Georgette, who was entirely 
 occupied with satisfying her appetite, laughed in her 
 sleeve at the woman's mistake, and drawing away her 
 chair, paid no attention to the amorous advances. 
 Notwithstanding her want of success, the miller's wife 
 
TEE MILLER AND HIS WIFE. 105 
 
 -was not discouraged, and attributing the boy's dull- 
 ness to his youth and his ignorance of womankind,, 
 .she laid a plan to detain him in the house all night, 
 promising herself to enlighten his mind with respect 
 to certain things as to which he appeared to be at 
 present most lamentably in the dark. 
 
 When the dinner was ended, the labourers left the 
 room, and the miller then informed his wife, much to 
 .her satisfaction, that he must take some sacks of 
 flour to Farmer Gros-Jean, two leagues off, and as he 
 did not choose to run the risk of having his throat 
 cut by robbers in the dark, he should remain with his 
 gossip all night, and not return home until the follow- 
 ing morning. The woman pretended to be afraid of 
 being alone in the house, but the miller observed that 
 if the boy was not in a hurry to get to Paris, he might 
 sleep in the spare bedroom above their's, and as the 
 proposition suited Georgette exactly, it was so ar- 
 ranged to the gratification of all parties, who at the 
 .same time were profoundly ignorant of the intentions 
 of each other. 
 
 Everything being settled, the time was passed by 
 Georgette in looking into the farmyard, listening to 
 the monotonous tic-tac of the mill, and by the wife in 
 .her usual household occupations, varied by sighs, 
 treadings on the toes, pinchings, and glances of un- 
 mistakable meaning at Georgette, until the evening 
 crept on, when Simon the miller made his prepara- 
 tions for his departure, totally unconscious of the 
 honours his better-half proposed to herself to shower 
 on his head, caused the sacks of flour to be placed 
 in the cart, harnessed Flora to it, and drove off, 
 •whistling quite unconcerned. As soon as the night 
 closed in, Georgette went out into the fields to con- 
 template the heavenly bodies, and escape from the 
 "hot pursuit of her persecutrix ; but the miller's wife. 
 ■■i ollowed her a short time after, threw her arms round 
 ihe youth's neck, giving him a smacking kiss on each 
 
106 GEORGETTE. 
 
 cheek, and then, saying their habits were early at 
 the mill, dragged him into the house, and said it 
 was time to go to bed. 
 
 The disguised woman, foreseeing she should have 
 some trouble in preventing the discovery of her sex ? 
 asked whether she was not to sleep in the upper 
 rooms, as Simon had suggested, but the miller's wife 
 said she was afraid to be left alone, as the neighbour- 
 ing forest had a bad character for thieves, and there- 
 fore she had made up a bed for him on the floor in 
 her own room. Affairs were fast becoming more 
 complicated ; Georgette testified some repugnance at 
 this new arrangement, and the fat woman, feeling 
 impatient to get to bed, began to undress herself, and 
 disclose her portly charms with the greatest nonchal- 
 ance, recommending Georgette to do the same. The 
 latter, however, seeing she could only escape by 
 stratagem, declared she would not undress until 
 the candle was extinguished, and on its being' 
 instantly blown out, she fidgeted about as if divest- 
 ing herself of her male garments, and then got into 
 bed with her clothes on. 
 
 But the miller's wife was not to be deterred from 
 the accomplishment of her purpose if she could by 
 any possible means help it. She tossed and 
 turned about in her bed, coughed, chattered, and 
 cursed the stupid timidity of her neighbour ; but 
 Georgette, pretending to be overcome with fatigue, 
 and not to hear her, imitated snoring as well as she 
 could, until the woman, thinking the lad was tired, 
 and needed some rest, decided to let him sleep on ? 
 and to awake him early in the morning, when hie 
 renovated strength might be made available to her 
 fiendish end. Whilst feigning to sleep, slumber crept 
 insensibly upon Georgette, and she reposed quietly, 
 dreaming that she was in affluence again, possessing 
 a mansion, jewels, horses, and a carriage, when she 
 was awoke by a large fat hand being thrust beneath 
 
THE MILLER AND HIS WIFE. 107 
 
 the bed-clothes. She started up, repulsed the intru- 
 sive member, and as she saw by the faint streaks of 
 light that glimmered in the east that her wealth had 
 vanished with her dream, she asked with great petu- 
 lance what the woman meant. 
 
 " Wake, my pretty," Madame Simon said, now 
 fairly tired of insinuations, and determined to carry 
 things out with a high hand ; " if the mountain won't 
 come to Mahomet, why Mahomet must go to the 
 mountain. Oh, you stupid little fellow! will you 
 never have done sleeping ? " 
 
 " Leave me alone ; madam I beg, and let me sleep. 
 What is it you would have me do ? " 
 
 "I'll soon let you know, you dear" (shaking and 
 pinching him) ; " I am here to ask you to make room 
 for me in your bed, because, you see, there are fleas 
 in mine." 
 
 f No, no ; there is only room for one," Georgette 
 almost shouted, withdrawing as far as she could 
 from the attack. But the miller's wife was a robust,, 
 powerful woman ; excited to the utmost by continual 
 resistance ; her eyes flashing fire, she would not re- 
 linquish her prize; she saw that as the day was- 
 dawning, and the labourers at the mill would be 
 soon on foot, there was no time to lose, and Georgette 
 was almost driven to capitulate and tell the truth, 
 when the woman uttered a cry of surprise, her love- 
 turned suddenly to wrath, and she exclaimed that 
 the youth had been laughing at her, by making her 
 blow out the candle whilst he went to bed with all 
 his clothes on. 
 
 In spite of her vexation at being disturbed from 
 her sweet sleep, Georgette could not help burst- 
 ing into a hearty fit of laughter at the mistake 
 the miller's wife had made, and the ridiculous figure 
 she cut as she stood in her chemise by the bedside, 
 furious with rage ; but determined to put an end to 
 the scene at once, our heroine sprang out of bed,. 
 
108 GEORGETTE. 
 
 intending to leave the house, when the fat woman, 
 seizing her with her herculean arm, said he should 
 pay dearly for the affront he had put upon her, and 
 whilst Georgette vainly struggled to get free, the 
 labourers and the miller both knocked at the door. 
 The arrival of the honest man put an entirely new 
 face upon affairs. Madame became a Mrs Potiphar, 
 and Georgette a Joseph, without having exercised the 
 patriarch's virtuous forbearance. The artful woman 
 changed her tactics, began kicking and screaming, 
 and ejaculating that the young vagabond, the scamp 
 to whom her husband had extended his hospitality, 
 had tried to ravish her, and, but for the timely in- 
 terruption, must have succeeded. She had fought as 
 vigorously as she could against the vile attempt, 
 but he had threatened to set fire to the mill if she 
 did not yield herself to his embrace, and only her 
 husband's providential arrival had prevented his 
 accomplishing his will. 
 
 Georgette remained fixed to the floor with wonder 
 whilst the woman poured forth the ready lie. Con- 
 vinced by the lad's silence that he was guilty, Simon 
 averred his belief of his wife's tale, and called to his 
 labourers to thrash the youth within an inch of his 
 life ; but as they were about to fall upon Georgette 
 with their sticks, she laughed again till her sides 
 shook, tossed the turnkey's cap to the other end of 
 the room, shook down her curly locks, tore open the 
 waistcoat, and disclosed her sex. 
 
 " See," she cried, " Father Simon, I am a woman ; 
 and do you, madame, learn to moderate your passions, 
 and not seek to entrap wandering youths to satisfy 
 your base desires. Adieu, jolly miller, and never 
 mount Flora again unless you can be more sure of 
 her than of your precious wife." 
 
 So saying, Georgette descended the stairs and left 
 the house, leaving the miller to anything but pleasant 
 reflections and anticipations, and his wife thunder- 
 
DEEPER AND DEEPER STDLL. 109 
 
 struck at the mistake, and overwhelmed with shame 
 at the exposure of her decided tendency to eat for- 
 bidden fruit. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL. 
 
 Behold Georgette again traversing the fields in- 
 feminine costume, but without her position being in 
 any way altered from what it was before her recep- 
 tion at the mill. Alone, without money, and without 
 resources, she begged a draught of milk at a lowly 
 cottage, and on asking where she was, was glad to hear 
 she was in the neighbourhood of Montmartre, and 
 close to Paris. There was no alternative for her but 
 to return to the brutal Duchenu, and as she passed 
 through the village with that intention, almost giving 
 way to despair, she saw an old gentleman taking his 
 coffee, and warming himself in the bright morning's 
 sun before a clean, neat-looking house. Seeing that 
 she was fatigued, he kindly invited her to rest herself 
 within, stating that he was the notary of the village, 
 and therefore a stranger's preference was due to him. 
 The word " Notary " recalled a host of sad recollec- 
 tions to Georgette's memory, but she accepted the 
 hospitable invitation, and whilst her entertainer and 
 herself partook of a cheerful breakfast, and she told 
 him she was going to the capital to seek some rela- 
 tions, he gave her excellent advice as to her future 
 conduct, and said Paris was a dangerous residence 
 for young females. 
 
 It was true Georgette had nothing to fear on the 
 score of her innocence and virtue, but she heard the 
 
110 GEORGETTE. 
 
 good old man with respectful attention, and when 
 she took her leave of him at the end of the village, 
 whither he accompanied her, she walked on ponder- 
 ing whether it would not be better for her to profit 
 by his counsels and seek some honest mode of living; 
 but old habits got the better of her as she drew near 
 Paris, and she determined to repair to Duchenu 
 forthwith. As he had sold all her furniture in the 
 apartments in the Rue des Moulins, she presumed she 
 should find him at his old lodgings in the alley ; she 
 ascended accordingly to the fifth story, and hearing 
 a noise as of declamation inside the door, knocked 
 at it and was admitted. 
 
 Nothing could exceed Duchenu's surprise at seeing 
 his miserable dupe ; for an instant he was mute, but 
 when he recovered his speech, he swore a fearful 
 oath, and said, — 
 
 " What do you do here ? I thought you were in 
 mil!" 
 
 "No, Duchenu; I have made my escape, and have 
 come to stay with you, until I can find some means 
 of procuring an honest livelihood." 
 
 " Live with me ; a very likely tale indeed, my lady I 
 Do you take me for a fool, an idiot, an ass? Do you 
 remember the pretty little scene at the theatre the 
 other evening, and the disgrace I have incurred 
 through you ! Oh, if I had caught hold of you that 
 night, I would have strangled- you outright! And 
 now it is madness to me to hear the jibes of the 
 company on my pupil, my phoenix who was to take 
 the town by storm, and make such a first appearance 
 ifs was never seen before. But be off downstairs 
 with you this instant, or I cannot answer that I may 
 not slioot you in my rage." 
 
 "And this is the way you meet me, ungrateful 
 man, after feeding and clothing you tor months! 
 But do not think you will get rid of me in this 
 way, after completely ruining me ; I am no longer 
 
DEEPER AND DEEPER STHiL. Ill 
 
 the child I was, and here I will remain in spite of 
 _you." 
 
 " Begone, woman, to the devil if you like ; if you 
 persist in remaining here another minute, I will 
 throw you headlong down the stairs." 
 
 As he uttered this menace he seized his heavy 
 cane and advanced towards Georgette with a threat- 
 ening attitude; she, indeed, was far from being so 
 obstinate and courageous as she seemed, but, fired 
 with a desire for revenge, she broke the china and 
 ■every other brittle article within her reach, and then 
 was forced down the stairs, dragged along the alley, 
 and pushed into the street. 
 
 And now the young fugitive from the notary at 
 ilambervilliers was in a cruel plight indeed. De- 
 spised, abused, ill-treated by a man who had lived 
 upon her and dissipated all her worldly goods, a 
 wretch upon whom formerly she would not have 
 deigned to waste a thought, she was all alone ; 
 Houseless and penniless, she knew not where to go, 
 but she walked mechanically on and on, her heart 
 bursting, obliged to devour her grief in silence, and 
 i rusting to that Providence whose gifts she had 
 £0 fearfully misapplied, to procure wherewith to 
 satisfy her hunger, and a lodging for the night. It 
 was precisely six o'clock, the hour when all the 
 xinemployed in the capital leave their various resi- 
 dences to display their toilet, make assignations, and 
 not unfrequently to chase away the listlessness that 
 weighs them down. 
 
 At this early period of the evening, the man with 
 a limited but certain income, who seeks to pass away 
 his time in inexpensive pleasures, seats himself upon 
 a bench in one of the public promenades, and critic- 
 ally examines the passengers as they lounge by ; 
 the old draper's wife, from the Rue St Denis, leaves 
 her husband diligently employed behind the counter, 
 ^nd takes a stroll in the Champs Elysees with her 
 
112 GEORGETTE. 
 
 protigd the smart young merchant's clerk; and the 
 fat spouse of a low-born speculator, who has sud- 
 denly amassed a heap of gold, comes forth fiaimtingly 
 to parade her silks, her jewels, and her shawls. Her 
 gaudily-dressed plebeian husband gives her his arm,, 
 proud to be seen with a woman habited so com- 
 pletely in the mode; but she, on the contrary, dis- 
 pleased with her companion, annoys him all the way 
 they walk with coarse observations on his corpulent 
 belly and his red nose, which prevent him from 
 having the true aristocratic ah\ Farther on you 
 may see a milliner's girl hastening along as if she 
 had the most important business to transact, and the 
 safety of the world depended upon her being punc- 
 tual to her appointment, but glancing slyly around, 
 and taking care to observe whether any fashionable- 
 man is following her, and occasionally letting drop 
 her handkerchief or her glove, that some polite* 
 officious gentleman may pick it up, and thus pav& 
 the way for a conversation. But look on the other 
 side of the carriage-drive, who is that holding a cane~ 
 m his hand, in the top of which is a receptacle for 
 the finest possible cambric handkerchief? It is an 
 exquisite of the first water, and undoubtedly if he 
 looks into the print shops to-morrow morning he 
 will find a caricature likeness of his own sweet self. 
 
 Elbowed on every side by the passers-by, Georgette- 
 awoke from her trance, and, lifting up her eyes, per- 
 ceived she was in the middle of the Champs Elysees r 
 and, vexed at finding herself so humbly attired in 
 that fashionable spot, she sighed as she thought of the 
 time when her stylish equipage and her magnificent 
 appearance attracted the regard of every eye. The^ 
 sight of the well-remembered rides and drives only 
 added to her grief, and she was about to escape front 
 the gay scene, when as she was crossing the maiiir 
 avenue that leads to Napoleon's triumphal arch, a well^ 
 appointed open britzka,drawnbya pair of blood horses^. 
 
 
DEEPER AND DEEPER STDLL. 11$ 
 
 came dashing along, and was stopped by the coach- 
 man just in time to save Georgette from being, 
 crushed. As she stepped back, her eyes were cast 
 involuntarily into the carriage, and she saw that its 
 occupants were a young bold-looking woman, covered? 
 with lace and shawls, and a rough, middle-aged^, 
 common man, clad in the very extremity of fashion. 
 Both of them regarded the crowd whom the circum- 
 stances had attracted with supercilious glances, as if 
 they were beings of an inferior class ; and on Georgette 
 looking at them a second time, she recognised the^ 
 villain Lafleur and her treacherous servant Rose. 
 
 Georgette could not resist the overwhelming desire 
 she felt to address the ci-devant valet and his brilliant 
 mistress, and placing her hand upon the top of th&- 
 carriage door, she said, — 
 
 " Great Heaven ! I cannot be deceived, it is you 
 Rose, and you Lafleur I How happy I am to meet 
 you ! " 
 
 " What do you want, good woman ? " the heartless 
 vagabond replied; and at the same moment the 
 faithless woman cried, — "We have nothing to give- 
 you ; coachman, pray drive on." 
 
 "How, Lafleur, do you not know me? I am 
 Georgette — Madame de Rosambeau." 
 
 " The poor thing must be mad ; what can she mean 
 by her Roses and Lafleur s ? " 
 
 "What, traitress, after having stolen my pearls 
 and diamonds, do you pretend to be ignorant of 
 whom I am? " 
 
 " Remove this beggar from the carriage-door, 
 Jasmin, or the wheel may hurt her if the horses, 
 move." 
 
 The boy left the footboard behind the carriage,, 
 and tried to induce Georgette to retire ; but the ill- 
 starred wretch clung to the door, and bitterly re- 
 proached Rose and Lafleur with their ingratitude 
 and thefts, until the guilty pair became frightened; 
 vol. n. H 
 
114 GEORGETTE. 
 
 lest the accusation of robbery should reach the ears 
 v<9f the police, and an inquiry be instituted, and com- 
 jmanding the coachman to drive on, that functionary 
 struck the horses with his whip, the high-mettled 
 animals — who had been champing on the bit with ill— 
 repressed impatience — bounded forward, and Georg- 
 ette, releasing the carriage-door, was thrown sense- 
 less on the pavement by the shock. 
 
 Some kind-hearted people of the lower class lifted 
 %er up and placed her on a bench, and when the 
 miserable creature recovered her consciousness, she 
 ,^ave one last look at the scene of her former triumphs, 
 thanked the compassionate persons who had assisted 
 lier, and proceeded to drag her weary, famished body 
 4o another portion of the town. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WORSE AND WORSE. 
 
 1&IGHT had fallen, and Georgette wandered in the 
 streets of Paris without knowing in which part of the 
 town she was, and without any settled end in view. 
 >As she strolled along, the incidents of her life were 
 "traced in characters of fire upon her brain. She 
 'thought of her uncle, the notary at Rambervilliers, — 
 of John, Theresa, Ursula,;and Charles, and then deep- 
 seated remorse and agonised regret took unlimited 
 possession of her mind. By a singular, unaccountable 
 "transition from the thoughts that urged her to despair, 
 she remembered that she was a mother, and for the 
 first time in her life she felt a strong desire to behold 
 Iter child ; but then she recollected she had neglected 
 *2for a considerable period to send any money to the 
 
WORSE AND WORSE. 115 
 
 -cottager who had the guardianship of little Paul, 
 and that, compelled by poverty, they might have 
 deserted the poor child, or consigned him to the 
 tender mercies of the dispensers of cold parochial 
 relief. 
 
 Such were the reflections of the unhappy woman 
 who now walked falteringly, oppressed with melan- 
 choly, along the streets, and no one, had they seen 
 her in her muddy, dusty dress, with hair loosened 
 from its bands, and falling in disorder on her 
 shoulders, could have recognised the enchanting 
 danseuse, the dashing, brilliant courtesan, who made 
 the capital resound with her thousand follies, her 
 -dissipation, luxury, and grace. 
 
 Impelled by hunger, cold, and every species of 
 want, that was driving the iron into her soul, she 
 thought she might obtain an asylum at the farm — 
 for she was not then aware of the disaster by which 
 it had been consumed. She now longed ardently to 
 see Theresa, to throw herself at her feet, to acknow- 
 ledge all her faults, to implore the good old woman's 
 pardon, and then to sin no more. But would Theresa, 
 she thought, believe in the sincerity of her repent- 
 ance, after being twice deceived? She recollected 
 the proverb that, "A first fault is frequently the 
 result of inexperience, but its recommission proves 
 that sin has its inherent charms," and again vanity 
 stepped in and whispered she could not appear at 
 Bondy in that miserable attire. 
 
 The night grew darker and darker as the hours 
 passed on, and Georgette became so utterly ex- 
 hausted that she sat down on a stone bench near one 
 of the great markets, and began to think seriously 
 whether she should not be compelled to wait till 
 morning in the open air. As she gazed mournfully 
 around her she beheld a group of those unfortunates 
 — lost, degraded females with whom Paris literally 
 .swarms ; one of them sang, another danced, and all 
 
116 GEORGETTE. 
 
 talked loudly and together, giving themselves up tc 
 the coarsest gaiety, and addressing all the men who 
 passed them in the most sensual obscene terms. The 
 desperate idea of joining this depraved band of 
 Cyprians rushed like lightning through her brain ; 
 she saw no alternative to prevent her expiring from 
 want ; it was too late, she thought, to return to the- 
 paths of virtue; repentance was useless; she would 
 extinguish her remorse, and yield herself implicitly 
 to Fate. 
 
 Notwithstanding her resolution to stifle every 
 sentiment of honour, Georgette felt her heart beat 
 violently as she rose to prosecute her vile career ; her 
 legs trembled so that she could hardly stand ; but she 
 steeled her breast against the conviction of her base- 
 ness, and tried to persuade herself that her weakness 
 arose entirely from want of food. Standing at the 
 corner of the street, she essayed to accost the men as- 
 they walked by, but the words found no utterance 
 from her lips. The clock of an adjacent church struck 
 twelve ; at every moment the streets became more 
 deserted, and soon she would be left to perish miser- 
 ably upon a bench of stone. At length a young man 
 turned the corner of the street. Making a stupendous 
 effort, she laid her hand upon his arm ; the stranger 
 removed it gently, and was walking swiftly away, 
 when the words, "For Heaven's sake, take pity on 
 me, met his ear. At the sound of the voice he came 
 to an instantaneous halt, he turned round, the flame of 
 a lamp shed its light upon the female's face; Georgette 
 looked at him too, and shrieking, "Charles, Charles!" 
 fell lifeless on the stones. " Georgette ! " he cried 
 "Alas, miguided girl, you in this wretched plight, 
 amongst these miserable women!" then lifting her up, 
 he placed her as carefully as a fond mother would her 
 babe upon the bench, dropped his purse into her lap, 
 and ran from the piteous sight, that tore the inmost 
 fibres of his gentle heart. 
 
A NECESSARY RETROGRESSION. 117 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 A NECESSARY RETROGRESSION. 
 
 Our story has lost sight of the inhabitants of the 
 31arquis's chateau in Lorraine for some length of time, 
 but it needs no ghost to inform our readers that a 
 very short residence in the bosom of his family 
 sufficed to inspire Charles with a sentiment of deep 
 attachment for the charming girl his careful mother 
 liad destined for his bride. Charles's new feeling was 
 of a less violent nature than the boyish passion he 
 had experienced for Georgette : it was more con- 
 ceding, more imbrued with a conviction of the full 
 •worth of its object, and more prophetic of a happy 
 future ; for it is a maxim in physics, as in material 
 subjects, that the fires which are the quickest lighted 
 •and burn the brightest are always those which go out 
 the soonest. Alexandrine shared the enamoured 
 feelings of her lover. Young, innocent, and open, she 
 -knew not how to conceal the pleasing sentiments 
 ihat filled her breast, and she felt no false shame in 
 ^vowing them to Charles. The young man constantly 
 implored his mother to consent to their immediate 
 union, but the Marchioness, knowing the ardent sus- 
 ceptibility of her son, wished to try this new attach- 
 ment by the test of time, and would make him wait 
 .some months before he should receive the fair hand of 
 -,the lovely girl. 
 
 The term fixed by the Marchioness de Merville 
 -was nearly at an end when an unexpected event 
 intervened to protract the happiness of the young 
 lovers ; Monsieur de Saint Ursin was taken danger- 
 ously ill, and Alexandrine, filled with filial piety, 
 devoted herself entirely to promote the re-establish- 
 ment of her fond father's health. Although Charles 
 .repined at an occurrence which deferred the accom- 
 
118 GEORGETTE. 
 
 plishment of his happiness, and might be attended 
 with fatal consequences, he could not help admiring 
 his mistress more and more in the fresh circum- 
 stances in which Fate had placed her. She seemed to 
 hover like a guardian angel around her father's bed, 
 with healing on her wings, anxiously attentive to his 
 every want, anticipating every wdsh, smiling on him 
 as she smoothed his ruffled pillow, and developing 
 the best and inmost feelings of her heart ; and if in 
 those interesting moments a thought of Georgette 
 would intrude itself upon his mind, he pictured her 
 as she sat at the opera, and then casting his eyes- 
 around, he whispered inwardly, " Ah ! what a differ- 
 ence between Alexandrine tending the author of her 
 days, and Georgette, flaunting in gold and satin. 
 giving a rendezvous to some glittering fop or rich 
 old fool." 
 
 Thanks to excellent medical advice and careful 
 nursing Monsieur de Saint Ursin recovered from his- 
 illness, and the lovers' happiness was not to be 
 delayed. He was the first to propose that their 
 mutual constancy and his daughter's affectionate 
 attentions ought to be rewarded; and as Charles's- 
 mother had no longer any reason to oppose the- 
 marriage, the Marquis gave his full consent, and all 
 was satisfactorily arranged ; but as a future husband 
 is always expected to make certain presents to his- 
 bride which can only be obtained in the capital,, 
 Madame de Merville despatched her son to Paris to 
 make the necessary purchases. In sending Charles to 
 town the Marchioness had a secret object in view: 
 she feared that the image of Georgette was not 
 entirely effaced from Charles's heart, and she wished 
 to put him through the last ordeal, lest after his 
 marriage he should make his bride less happy than 
 the amiable girl deserved. If, she thought, he cares- 
 no more for this gay, frivolous Georgette, a short 
 stay in Paris cannot be detrimental to him, and he 
 
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 11$ 
 
 will not stop a moment longer than is necessary to 
 transact his business, but if, on the other hand, he has- 
 a lingering affection for her still, and that the sight 
 of her causes him to forget his charming bride, he- 
 shall never, if I can prevent it, possess the hand of a*, 
 woman of whom he is unworthy. Consequently 
 Charles left for Paris, but not with the desire of 
 seeing the woman he had formerly adored. Ah, no I 
 happily, he was completely cured ! 
 
 it was on the first night of his arrival at Paris that 
 chance brought Charles and Georgette together in, 
 the street. If he had thought she was really in a& 
 state of insensibility he would not have left her so- 
 abruptly, but he attributed her silence to her shame 
 and confusion at being seen in such a degraded situa- 
 tion by a man whom she had deceived ; and casting 
 from him every thought of a woman whom he now 
 blushed to have ever loved, he only became the more 
 anxious to return into the country.* Having made 
 all his purchases, and executed all the commissions, 
 entrusted to him, he left the capital with the great- 
 est alacrity, and joyfully traversed the highroad that- 
 led him to the country, and to love. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 When Georgette returned to consciousness, profound" 
 silence reigned in the deserted streets, the lamps- 
 threw only a dim light upon the melancholy scene^, 
 and all living things appeared hushed as in deep 
 sleep. Astonished to find herself extended on a* 
 stone bench in the middle of the night, she endea- 
 
120 GEORGETTE. 
 
 voured to concentrate her ideas ; but with memory 
 came back the absolute misery of her situation, and, 
 stretching her eyes into the dark vista before her, 
 she vainly strove to catch another glance of Charles. 
 Foiled in the attempt, she sighed, and thus solilo- 
 quised : " Poor wretch, 1 am alone, alone in all the 
 world, — abandoned by all who knewme — even Charles 
 Hies from and despises me ; but how can I expect 
 it to be otherwise, for he must blush ever to 
 have known the unutterably degraded creature I 
 aiow am." 
 
 At that moment the same church clock struck two. 
 'The mournful reverberation of the huge metal as it ran £ 
 oipon the air, and the dismal silence of the night, 
 "filled Georgette's soul with horror. Her brain, swim- 
 ming from weakness, peopled the streets with hideous 
 phantasies ; her reason was hurled from its throne by 
 -suffering and despair, as she muttered, " The last hour 
 : has struck for me, my young life is at an end ; death 
 in any shape is preferable to ignominy and despair." 
 -She raised her eyes to heaven, and implored the 
 mercy of the Almighty for the impious act she con- 
 templated ; her glassy orbs then fell upon the dimly- 
 burning lamps, and she trembled as she thought their 
 "rays would be illumined on the coming night, but 
 who should renew the light of her existence when it 
 should be " put out for ever." 
 
 She started up with the intent of carrying her fell 
 •project into instantaneous effect, but the sudden 
 motion precipitated some jingling substance from her 
 lap, which she had not hitherto perceived, and, stoop- 
 :ing to pick it up, she found — oh, joy of joys ! it was 
 •a heavy purse. The source from which this pro- 
 vidential assistance came was easily divined — Charles 
 ^alone could have left it with her ; and then returning 
 thanks to Heaven for having prevented her from com- 
 mitting the dreadful sin of suicide, she respired more 
 -freely, her desperate intention was abandoned, her 
 
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 12.1 
 
 fieart became more light, and was again gladdened 
 with a ray of hope. " I can still live," she joyously 
 •exclaimed ; " the contents of this purse will supply 
 more than my immediate wants ; I will return to the 
 .good Theresa, abjure my errors, and work hard and 
 lionestly throughout my future life." 
 
 Firm in this resolution, she walked up and down 
 the street during the rest of the night, to dispel the 
 cramp and cold, and when the first streaks of light 
 appeared, she opened the purse, and found it con- 
 tained ten sovereigns and some silver, a sum which a 
 year ago would not have been sufficient to gratify a 
 trifling passing whim, but now it seemed to her 
 to be of incalculable amount. She counted and re- 
 counted it at least a dozen times, and saw in it the 
 ^erms of a happy, tranquil future. Exhausted from 
 want of sleep and food, she awaited impatiently the 
 opening of a baker's shop, that she might satisfy her 
 lunger. At last she saw an early man taking down 
 his shutters; she flew towards him, bought a small 
 loaf, which she swallowed with avidity, drank some 
 ^vater from a fountain that was near, bathed her 
 aching temples with the limpid stream, and having 
 thus appeased her pressing wants, left the street to 
 discover a humble, quiet room where she might live, 
 forgotten and unknown. 
 
 As chance would have it she had passed the night 
 in the Rue des Moulins, where she had formerly resided 
 when she first became acquainted with the brutal 
 Duchenu. Not wishing to be seen in her forlorn 
 condition by any of the occupants, she tried to pass 
 the porter's lodge in haste, but his wife happening to 
 be sweeping the courtyard, called out to her by name, 
 and she was compelled to return and listen whilst 
 the woman informed her that on the previous day a 
 peasant had come to the house and left a child, who 
 •.jfihe asserted was Georgette's, and begged the portress 
 -to tell her that as she had not received any money 
 
122 GEORGETTE. 
 
 for a long time, and had five little children of her 
 own, she conld not afford to keep it any longer. 
 
 Georgette did not stop to hear another word. A 
 sudden desire to behold her offspring seized upon 
 her ; her heart beat violently as she looked eagerly 
 across the yard and saw a lovely boy, four years old r 
 playing at the bottom of the staircase. She re- 
 cognised in the child's face the fine features of St 
 Ange, and flying to him took him in her arms and 
 covered him with kisses, whilst the little fellow,, 
 astonished at so much affection, nestled in her bosom 
 and repaid her fond embraces. With all a mother's- 
 feelings flowing through her heart our heroine put 
 pome silver in the woman's hand and left the house. 
 As she walked away she gave herself up to the 
 pleasure of contemplating his budding graces, and., 
 totally absorbed in the delicious pleasure of gazing 
 at him, she forgot her past misery and her present 
 situation. Little Paul walked by his mother's side 
 in silence, asking a thousand questions which de- 
 veloped the intelligence and acuteness of his mind r 
 until after a long search she found a small, scantily- 
 furnished room, in a solitary quarter of the town, 
 which she engaged forthwith. Here, alone with her 
 child, and going out only when it was necessary to 
 procure fire and food, she lived without experiencing: 
 the slightest tedium. The void within her heart that- 
 had attended her through all the luxuries and splen- 
 dour she had enjoyed was filled ; she thought only 
 of caressing and amusing little Paul. Maternal 
 anxiety and love obliterated all other considerations ; 
 she lived alone for him ; she watched his gambols 
 when awake, and hovered round him when he slept ; 
 but as the halcyon days fled by, the contents of De 
 Merville's purse gradually diminished, and it became 
 apparent to her that she must work to live. 
 
 With the first rays of light Georgette rose and 
 dressed herself, and as she looked at the sleeping 
 
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 123- 
 
 babe, thought how delightful the task would be to 
 work for him. She then bent over the bed, and hav- 
 ing gently kissed him descended to the lower apart- 
 ments and asked the inhabitants respectfully if they 
 could give her anything to do ; but unfortunately 
 some of the ladies only employed certain seamstresses, 
 and others who had not any sewing to be done 
 at present promised they would think of her when 
 they should have ; but all of them received her 
 haughtily and with that tone which never fails to 
 abash and repulse the indigent and humble. She 
 sighed, and the scalding tears rushed into her eyes 
 as she regained her room ; but the sight of her boy, 
 who was now awake and smiling, banished all sorrow 
 from her heart, and for some minutes she lost all con- 
 sciousness of her situation, whilst listening to his 
 prattle. During the whole day she walked and 
 carried the child half over Paris, but without succeed- 
 ing in obtaining anything to do ; and in the evening 
 she returned, worn-out and disheartened, to her 
 room. The same ill-luck pursued her through many 
 following days. She made the same modest requests 
 and received the same humiliating refusals, until the 
 contents of the purse were almost at an end, and 
 she saw with dismay that she would soon be without 
 the means of buying a loaf of bread to allay the- 
 hunger of her child. The unhappy mother, as she 
 contemplated the youthful being who was all in all 
 to her and formed her only comfort in the world, — the 
 only object of her love, her care, and sanguine hopes r 
 — the being who had awakened in her breast the soft r 
 sweet sentiments she had never yet experienced in 
 the turmoil of her life, thought of him only with 
 affright. She feared that her cruel destiny would 
 soon snatch him from her, and slowly she turned her 
 head away, that the affectionate infant might not see 
 her tears. 
 
 One night as she sat sleepless and watching by the 
 
124 GEORGETTE. 
 
 child's bedside, bemoaning her past errors, repenting 
 for her guiltiness, and imploring Heaven to assist her, 
 and spare her child the miseries of starvation, the 
 recollection of Theresa flashed across her mind. She 
 wondered she had not thought sooner of the good 
 old woman, and felt assured that the kind protectress 
 of her youth would have pity on her miserable lot. 
 She decided instantly upon repairing to the farm — 
 all vanity, all false shame, all dread of the jeer- 
 ing, the pointing, the mocking of the once despised 
 poor neighbours vanished before the imperative 
 necessity of sustaining the child's life. " If," she 
 thought, " Theresa, influenced by the fatal, horrible, 
 misfortune I have caused her, should thrust me from 
 her door, at least she will take compassion on my 
 child ; she will not confound the innocent with the 
 guilty; she will not visit my base ingratitude on his 
 young head ; and then, when she has taken him in, 
 assured of the future comfort and happiness of my 
 poor babe, I will cheerfully lay down my head and 
 die." In the morning Georgette prepared the break- 
 fast at an unusually early hour, and made arrange- 
 ments to go back on foot to Bondy. Her rent was 
 paid, and then, with a small bundle of the child's things 
 in one hand, and leading Paul with the other, she left 
 Paris with scarcely sufficient money in the purse 
 to procure subsistence for one day. Screwing up 
 her courage as she passed the gates of the city she 
 thought, " I will be firm, and march boldly forward, 
 and carry the child when he is tired. Luckily Bondy 
 is not far off, a long day's walking will bring us 
 there, and then, whatever may become of my miser- 
 able self, 1 shall find a home for him at the farm." 
 
 When they reached the open country the child was 
 delighted at escaping from the little room in which 
 he had been detained a prisoner so many weeks, and 
 ran and laughed with all the joy peculiar to his age, 
 and Georgette, animated by his gambols, felt her 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF INGRATITUDE, 125 
 
 strength invigorated, and walked onwards full of 
 hope. The anticipation of a tranquil residence in 
 the country charmed her imagination. The farm- 
 house, which formerly had appeared to her so mono- 
 tonous and dull, and which she had fled from twice,, 
 seemed to her excited fancy as a haven against the 
 future storms of life ; but, alas I she was ignorant 
 that that wished-for harbour had perished in the 
 flames. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE PUNISHMENT OF INGRATITUDE. 
 
 The travellers plodded on their weary way, the child' 
 occasionally wandering from his feeble mother's sid& 
 to pluck a bright flower growing upon the hedges- 
 that bordered the main road; at times they reposed 
 at the foot of a tall tree, and, after a few minutes' rest, 
 Georgette recalled her courage, took the tired boy in 
 her arms, and almost stumbled on, determined if pos- 
 sible to reach Bondy before night. The poor afflicted 
 woman was now so fearfully changed that in her no 
 one could possibly have recognised the fascinating 
 Zulme, or the gorgeous Madame de Rosambeau. 
 Night had begun to cover all things with his dusky 
 veil, and the farm at Bondy was still far off. Al- 
 most worn-out with her unaccustomed toil, Georgette 
 leaned against an elm for support, and as her strength 
 failed her, prayed earnestly to Heaven to give her 
 power to reach the farm. The tired child reposed his 
 sinking head upon her shoulder, and she had made 
 up her mind to give him the last crust in the wallet, . 
 and then, wrapping him up with all the spare clothes 
 
"126 GEORGETTE. 
 
 in the bundle, to trust to Providence to wade through 
 the dark hours of night, when a peasant passed by 
 
 -her carrying his rake and spade upon his shoulder. 
 
 -On seeing her distress, and feeling she did not possess 
 the force to overcome the three miles that yet re- 
 mained between her and the village, the kind-hearted 
 labourer took the boy in his arms, and invited the 
 
 -desolate woman to pass the night within his hut. 
 The succour seemed altogether providential, she ac- 
 cepted it with the deepest gratitude, and soon found 
 herself seated before a comfortable fire in Pierre's 
 cottage, surrounded by his wife and family. 
 
 The moment Pierre set his foot upon the threshold 
 the younger children strove who should be the first 
 to kiss him, and when all had had their turns the 
 kindest attentions were lavished on the wanderers. 
 How happy the good people seemed I Supper was 
 soon served, and Georgette was pressed to eat, Pierre 
 observing, as he placed the victuals on her plate, that 
 lie considered hospitality a duty ; that the unfortunate 
 were always well received by him ; that he denied 
 admittance to none but the wicked and ungrateful. 
 All was life and gaiety at the supper-table. Georgette 
 witnessed with delight the ready obedience of the 
 
 -children, and the watchfulness with which they antici- 
 pated their parents' every word; and when the 
 appetites of the family and those of their guests 
 were satisfied, our heroine inquired whether Pierre 
 had resided long in the neighbourhood of Bondy. 
 
 " My good woman," he replied, with a smile, " I was 
 born in this very cottage, and I hope to die in it." 
 
 " You are acquainted then with everybody in the 
 environs? and perhaps you can give me some infor- 
 mation respecting a family who lived at a farm-house 
 in this valley ? " 
 
 "Ah! the farm-house of poor John, I suppose vou 
 mean?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF INGRATITUDE. 12? 
 
 "Do you not know that he is dead ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But you cannot know wh*at caused his death, and 
 iill the miseries that followed the event. Oh ! it is a 
 terrible histoiy indeed ! Poor Farmer John was my 
 .employer, and a real friend. Listen whilst I tell you 
 the whole of the mournful story ; my children have 
 heard it frequently before, but they cannot hear it 
 too often, particularly Louise, who is now fifteen years 
 of age, and the other girls. Bless me, if ever they 
 should act like that accursed, ungrateful— but never 
 mind ; now listen." 
 
 Georgette bowed her head upon her hands, resting 
 iier elbows on her knees, and trembled like an aspen 
 leaf whilst Pierre recounted to her her adoption as 
 tlis daughter by Farmer John, the injudicious manner 
 in which she had been brought up, her being sent to 
 the fashionable academy, and the scorn and contempt 
 -she always testified towards the villagers. The old 
 man scarcely omitted the most trivial occurrence that 
 had taken place. He was acquainted with Charles de 
 Merville's attachment to the farmer's daughter, and 
 did the young man justice, for he saw he had no in- 
 tention to seduce the girl ; but, on the other hand, he 
 lashed unmercifully, in his homely way, the perfidious 
 schemes of the Marquis de St Ange, the prime first 
 cause of all the mischief that took place. The 
 cottager wept as he narrated the details of John's 
 assassination, the wife and family sobbed in concert 
 with him, bitterly censuring the ungrateful girl 
 whose misconduct brought about his death, whilst 
 Georgette, pale and motionless, endeavoured to re- 
 press and conceal all the storm that raged within her 
 breast. When Pierre came to the second flight, and 
 the accidental burning of the house and buildings, 
 Oeorgette's amazement and indignation were so 
 great that she could not contain herself any longer, 
 &nd burst out, — 
 
128 GEORGETTE. 
 
 " What ! Did Lafleur dare 1 * 
 
 " Yes, the villain set fire to the faggot3 in the wood- 
 house, and the flames soon reached the bams, the* 
 stables, and the dwellings. It was at the dead of night r 
 and there was no help near ; the fire was soon master 
 of the premises, and Theresa was brought to ruin 
 by the girl on whom she had heaped all sorts ot 
 benefits." 
 
 " Great God I " Georgette exclaimed unconsciously,. 
 " and I am the cause of this unutterable woe ! " 
 
 " You ! cried Pierre, looking at her as if a basilisk- 
 had struck his sight." 
 
 " Yes, I ; but, for Heaven's sake, tell me what has 
 become of poor Theresa ? " 
 
 " She is dead ; after living several months in indi- 
 gence, the victim of ingratitude, she passed to a 
 better world." 
 
 " May God in His infinite mercy pardon me! " issued 
 passionately from Georgette's lips, as she fell sense- 
 less on the floor. 
 
 Paul cried as if his heart would break, and threw 
 himself upon his mothers body. Pierre's wife and 
 eldest daughter lifted up the guilty woman, and em- 
 ployed the usual restoratives, and all were painfully 
 affected by the scene except Pierre himself. The 
 man's brow became contracted, his sharp eyes were 
 bent inquiringly upon Georgette as he sought to bring 
 her features to his mind, and the more he examined 
 her the darker became his look, and he testified the 
 less sympathy for the sufferings she endured. When 
 she regained her senses, and, shivering, gazed fear- 
 fully around, the excited man shouted, — 
 
 '•Who are you? Speak, and dispel the horrible 
 suspicion that has taken possession of my mind." 
 
 " I am," she stammered, " I am a wretch who has 
 paid dearly for her follies ; I am that Georgette whose- 
 crimes you have detailed." 
 
 " Ah, miserable woman ! you are that ungrateful 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF INGRATITUDE. 12^ 
 
 girl who showered death and destruction upon heir 
 benefactors? Leave my roof this very moment, for- 
 I will not have my cottage degraded by your pre- 
 sence ; every father in the county ought to deny you: 
 entrance to his house, and forbid his children to> 
 accost you, and mine shall not incur the risk of being, 
 corrupted by you." 
 
 "In mercy's sake," she cried, "in pity, do not- 
 thrust me and the child out in this inclement night ! ** 
 
 " There's no mercy, no pity, for the ungrateful." 
 
 "Must my poor infant suffer for his mother's* 
 faults?" 
 
 " The child is the offspring of disgrace, and I will- 
 not have him here ; out with you at once, for I shall] 
 not long control the indignation that rages in me." 
 
 It was in vain the repentant woman prostrated, 
 herself at Pierre's feet, and bathed his knees with* 
 her hot t'jars. The family, softened by her absorbing; 
 grief, sought to mollify his anger, but Pierre was a 
 headstrong, obstinate man when his passions were? 
 aroused. Georgette's presence irritated and annoyed' 
 him, and so she was compelled to leave the cottage*, 
 and, like Hagar, to go forth with her son amidst the 
 shades of night. Reeling from the peasant's door 2 , 
 whilst his denunciations of her ingratitude rang like 
 the shouts of an avenging demon in her ears, she 
 cast herself upon the ground at a few paces from the 
 hut. She was indeed heart-broken, the tears coursed 
 down her cheeks in torrents, and the poor child > 
 ignorant of the cause of all this grief, wiped and 
 kissed away the tears with his little hands and lips*. 
 She placed the innocent babe upon her knees, com- 
 forted him as well as she was able, undid the bundle-, 
 and wrapped him up to guard against the dullness.* 
 of the night — for it was yet early spring — and then,, 
 rocking him to sleep upon her knee, with her owib 
 cloak thrown around him, she trembled in every- 
 limb as the cold blast struck her, and she implored^ 
 vol. n. I 
 
130 GEORGETTE. 
 
 the Almighty to bring her infant safely through the 
 -dangers of the night. 
 
 For upwards of an hour the wretched woman 
 
 remained in this awful situation, the unconscious 
 
 Paul sleeping calmly upon her lap, until she heard 
 
 •approaching footsteps, and on looking up beheld 
 
 "Louise, Pierre's eldest daughter. The charitable 
 
 girl, making a sign for silence, said she could not 
 
 'follow the severity of her angry father, and so she 
 
 ihad come, now the household were asleep, without 
 
 Ms knowledge, to see what she could do for the poor 
 
 ^foung woman, who must not be allowed to perish 
 
 in the fields. Uttering these words she requested 
 
 '"Georgette to follow her, and directing her steps to 
 
 an outhouse, the girl unlocked the door and told 
 
 ^Georgette she would find a bed upon the hay, only 
 
 ^exacting a promise from her that she would leave 
 
 at break of day. This she readily gave, blessing her 
 
 ^benefactress, and the kind girl returned to her 
 
 father's cottage with the proud consciousness of 
 
 liaving done a Christian deed, acceptable in the eyes 
 
 -of the great Disposer of events. 
 
 Stretched by Paul's side upon the hay, unable to 
 -«lose her eyes in sleep, Georgette shuddered as she 
 thought that now Theresa was dead her last hope 
 was gone. She passed the hours of the night in the 
 ~most poignant grief, and when the first grey streak 
 'was seen rising in the east, faithful to her promise to 
 Xouise, but stiff with cold, she raised herself with 
 difficulty, and taking the child in her arms again, 
 "went forth from the barn. As she walked on towards 
 JBondy she began to recognise the well-remembered 
 ^country ; she cast her eyes with a shudder upon the 
 desolate, bleak spot where the comfortable farm- 
 house had stood, and every step she took across the 
 • valley recalled some happy epoch of her girlish life. 
 As she neared a tree or a thicket she would sigh and 
 -think, " It was there I used to run away from Ursula, 
 
TEE PUNISHMENT OP INGRATITUDE. 131 
 
 and there I have romped a thousand times with 
 faithful Caesar ; it was there upon the road I first 
 -saw Charles when he came to find his youthful sweet- 
 heart at the farm ; and in that grove he first swore 
 io be mine for ever. But in no direction that she 
 strained her eyes could she see the least traces of 
 the buildings at the homestead of the form. The 
 plough had passed over the land where they had- 
 reared their heads, and a little mound of bricks and 
 atones alone remained. With an averted head she 
 moved towards the wood where the ashes of her 
 benefactors rested, determined that as she could not 
 orally comfort Farmer John with the assurance of 
 ber repentance, she would pay the last homage to his 
 memory. As she approached the tomb she saw that 
 the villagers had not only respected the sombre spot, 
 but kept the headstone in repair and adorned the 
 grave with flowers. She dropped the boy's hand, 
 bidding him remain for a moment where he was, and 
 then advancing solemnly to the tomb, she read the 
 words, — 
 
 " Stranger, as you pass by, drop one tear to those 
 whom ingratitude destroyed." 
 
 She fell upon her knees and watered the green 
 turf that covered the bodies of John and Theresa 
 with her tears, and she poured forth energetic 
 prayers to Heaven to forgive her for the pungent 
 miseries she had caused, and after having performed 
 this religious duty she felt her heart somewhat 
 relieved from the burthen that oppressed it. She 
 rose from the earth in a calmer mood, again took 
 her poor boy by the hand, and left the spot never to 
 see it more. 
 
 On and on the weary travellers walked side by 
 side, until the child began to feel the pangs of 
 hunger, and clamorously asked his mother for some 
 food. Alas I that poor mother had none to give 
 him, but she soothed him with the assurance that 
 
132 GEORGETTE. 
 
 when they £*ot to Bondy she would sell the contents 
 of the bundle and obtain provision for their wants. 
 Arrived at the village she found out a dealer in 
 second-hand clothes, who gave her five shillings — 
 not a quarter of their value — for the remainder of 
 her scanty wardrobe. She purchased some bread 
 and milk for the famishing child, and whilst he ate 
 his breakfast with all the appetite of youth, and 
 she still mourned Theresa's death, her mind reverted 
 all at once to her uncle at Rambervilliers, and she 
 caught eagerly at this last hope. She had not dared 
 at any previous time to return to the kind relative 
 whom she had abandoned, but now that the very 
 existence of her child trembled in the balance, there 
 was no room for hesitation. The idea of finding her 
 uncle at Rambervilliers revived her drooping spirit,, 
 and she resolved that should he have shuffled off 
 this mortal coil she would apply to some of his old 
 friends who had known her in her early youth, and 
 implore their compassion on her boy. 
 
 The great difficulty was how to arrive at the far 
 distant Rambervilliers with the trifle that she had 
 in hand, but she thought when it was gone that she 
 would beg her bread from the charitable persons 
 she might meet, and, sustained by this forlorn hope, 
 she raised the child once more, and leaving Bondy 
 behind her, plodded on towards the town where 
 formerly lived her uncle, the old notary. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 georgette's last journey. 
 
 Our travellers walked all day, taking rest occasion- 
 ally on the damp earth, until they arrived at night 
 
georgette's last journey. 133 
 
 at a village which Georgette found, upon inquiry, to 
 be eighteen miles from Bondy. Her fancy had in- 
 creased the distance considerably, and now as she 
 looked at her little stock of money, and calculated 
 the time it would take her to reach Rambervilliers, 
 she sighed deeply as she saw she could not possibly 
 arrive at the desired haven without soliciting pecu- 
 niary assistance on the road. She resolved to delay 
 that harrowing moment as long as possible, and 
 whilst she fed her darling boy, to take herself only 
 as much food as would support her on the journey. 
 Not daring to exhaust any of her funds by hiring a 
 lodging for the night, the wanderers prowled about 
 the environs of the village until she discovered an 
 empty barn in which she and the child, extended on 
 the straw, slept soundly through the night, and on 
 the following morning, as she asked her way, some 
 kind beings took pity on her miserable condition, 
 gave her a frugal breakfast, and then with sincere 
 •commiseration bade " God speed her " on the road. 
 
 In this manner, sometimes infringing on her scanty 
 stock for the merest necessaries of existence, Georgette 
 and her poor child toiled on until, when they had 
 accomplished rather more than one hundred miles 
 from Paris, she had not one solitary farthing left. 
 For a few moments the unhappy mother felt her 
 heart sink within her, but looking at her child she 
 nerved herself again to encounter all the privations 
 «he must endure before reaching the still distant 
 Rambervilliers. Weary and faint Georgette arrived 
 one evening at a town of some importance, and sat 
 down upon a bench, totally unable to take another 
 step. Her eyes became fixed, her senses were 
 forsaking her, and her limbs becoming rigid with 
 fatigue and cold, and she must speedily have died, 
 had not little Paul, frightened by his mother's sad 
 condition, wept aloud, and attracted the attention of 
 several passengers. Some of them repaired to the 
 
134 GEORGETTE. 
 
 stone bench where Georgette lay, and having made* 
 their observations upon her misery, and many in- 
 genious suppositions as to who she was, and what 
 had brought her there, passed by, like the Pharisee, 
 upon the other side ; but one old woman in the lower 
 rank of life, more compassionate than the rest, held 
 a phial of aromatic salts to the fainting woman's nose, 
 which partially revived her, and then, supporting her 
 as well as she was able with her own feeble form, 
 offered her an asylum for the night. When they 
 arrived at the humble cottage, the benevolent old 
 woman conducted Georgette upstairs and bade her 
 lie down upon the bed ; she next made her swallow 
 a glass of wine, which she fetched hurriedly from a 
 cupboard, and then hastened to strike a light. 
 
 Whilst she was thus engaged, the mother embraced 
 her child, and murmured a prayer of gratitude ta 
 Heaven that he was safely housed and would be 
 kindly tended for the night ; she then turned her eyes 
 upon the old woman, and as she stood smiling before 
 her, was about to thank her for her charity, when 
 a cold shudder ran throughout her frame, and she 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Great God ! do not my eyes deceive me ? — is it 
 possible that you are Ursula I " 
 
 " Yes/' the good soul replied, " it is even so ; but 
 who are you ? I do not remember ever seeing you 
 before." 
 
 " How, Ursula ! is it possible you do not recollect 
 me?" 
 
 44 No, no, indeed I do not; and yet, that voice! 
 Gracious heavens, can it be possible that you are 
 Georgette I Ah, me ! unhappy, miserable girl, where 
 is your fatal beauty now ? " 
 
 " Oh, do not curse me, Ursula, I implore you, for I 
 am punished. I feel even unto death." 
 
 " Oh, no, I cannot curse you, although ruin and 
 misery have always dogged your steps." 
 
georgette's LAST JOURNEY. 135' 
 
 The good woman said no more, but caressed the 
 innocent child, whose parentage she guessed, and 
 placing some cold meat upon a table, offered the 
 travellers a hearty welcome to all she had. 
 
 When Georgette had appeased the craving3 of her 
 hunger she inquired of Ursula what had brought her 
 into that part of the country, so far from Bondy, andi 
 the old woman informed her that after the death oi 
 Theresa she had no inducement to remain in that 
 neighbourhood, and so had come, with a humble 
 competency, to end her days in that town, whieh>> 
 was her native place. At Ursula's request, Georgette ■ 
 gave her a detailed recital of her varied life. She did 
 not seek to disguise her follies, her errors, and her 
 crimes ; she narrated every important circumstance : 
 since the fatal night when she first left the farm with 
 the Marquis de Saint Ange, and concluded her 
 melancholy tale by stating she was on her way ta, 
 seek her uncle Rudemar at Rambervilliers. 
 
 There was yet another person whom Georgette- 
 longed to inquire after, and yet scarcely dared ; how- 
 ever, summing up courage, she asked Ursula whether 
 she knew anything about De Merville, and was sur- 
 prised to hear his rank, and that his noble parents > 
 resided at the chateau near Rambervilliers. She heard/ 
 with deep interest the account of his illness after he 
 came to seek and rescue her a second time at the farm ^ 
 she felt how truly he must have loved her, and, 
 bitterly repented having cast the precious jewel from 
 her heart. Good Ursula was touched with Georgette's, 
 repentance, and the miserable aspect she presented ;, 
 she thought no more of her crimes and follies, and; 
 did everything in her power to assuage her grief ;„ 
 she left her to enjoy her rest with the boy in a 
 humble bed with sheets white as the driven snow ? , 
 and in the morning, after giving the mother and her 
 child a hearty breakfast, she slipped a few pieces or 
 silver in the former's hand, and accompanied her some^ 
 
136 GEORGETTE. 
 
 «hort distance on the road. Georgette blessed her 
 for her kindness as they parted, implored her pardon 
 for all the wayward, petulant tricks she had played 
 her in her youth, and took her leave of her in this 
 <world for ever. 
 
 Ursula's small but opportune supply sufficed for the 
 "wants of our heroine for two whole days ; at the end 
 of the third, whilst Georgette's heart beat high as she 
 >knew she was drawing near to Rambervilliers, she 
 -entered a cottage to request relief, but the woman 
 who inhabited it was shrivelled and cruel-hearted, 
 and repulsed her rudely. She said there were beggars 
 enough in the neighbourhood without honest, hard- 
 working people being forced to relieve the necessities 
 of lazy tramps upon the road. The disappointed 
 mother tried several other habitations with the same 
 unfortunate result, and then, walking through the 
 "village with a tottering step, she threw herself down 
 .at the foot of a large tree, and, rocking Paul in her 
 ■arms, slept the sleep of wearied, almost exhausted 
 -nature. They rose with the morning's dawn, and set 
 •out again upon their way, but the poor child's strength 
 ~was so prostrated from want of food that he could 
 t-not stir a foot, so Georgette was compelled to carry 
 him in her arms, praying Heaven to aid her in her 
 ■ deep distress. She plodded on her weary way all day, 
 without tasting a morsel of the coarsest food, for 
 charity was not prevalent in that portion of Lorraine, 
 -and sometimes cooling her blistered feet, parched lips, 
 -and burning throat with the streams that trickled in 
 4he ditches by the road, until, as night came on, the 
 now destitute woman found herself in the midst of a 
 broad, dreary plain, without any sign of a habitation 
 cfor many miles around. The child asked plaintively 
 for food, and his miserable parent, as she strained her 
 </eyes into the desert waste, beheld no hold, nor hope, 
 nor shed, nor shelter. She felt all the exquisite 
 bitterness of herself and boy perishing of want, when 
 
GEORGETTE'S LAST JOURNEY. 137 
 
 so near to the termination of their sufferings, in her 
 uncle's home. Seeing no resource, she gathered some 
 leaves of the wild sorrel, and gave them to the child 
 "to eat, and then, making a last desperate effort, she 
 caised him to her breast, and wandered on, in the faint 
 hope of finding some asylum where to place her head. 
 After an hour's faltering march, oh joy ! she beheld, 
 by the light of a young rising moon, the well-known 
 «pire of the church of Rambervilliers. Straining every 
 nerve, she pressed the sleeping boy to her breast, and 
 .strove to cheer herself with the hope of soon arriving 
 in the town ; but as she struggled on her brain reeled, 
 Iher sight became obscure, her knees tottered, and she 
 fell senseless in the middle of the moor. Coming to 
 Iherself after a short time, but feeling utterly unable 
 to lift her aching body off the ground, she put out her 
 iiand to feel her child, and having thus assured herself 
 that he was near, she stretched out her weary limbs 
 upon the cold, damp earth, and sought oblivion for 
 *her woes in sleep. 
 
 The sun was high up in the heavens, and the sky- 
 lark carolled blithely in the air, when Georgette 
 ^iwoke ; turning towards her son with that anxiety 
 which a mother alone can feel, she started in dismay, 
 ..and uttered shriek upon shriek as she beheld the 
 boy's head covered with blood from a deep wound ; 
 -the fact was that when she fell from weakness in the 
 night, the poor child's temple came with violence 
 ..against a sharp stone, and caused concussion of the 
 brain, from which he died immediately, without a 
 dsingle moan. This last blow was too much for the 
 wretched woman's reason ; in her agony she bias-' 
 phemed and called on Heaven's avenging lightnings 
 to blast her, the double murderess, where she stood ; 
 4hen, feeling gifted with a giant's strength, she lifted 
 the child's dead body from the ground, covered it 
 carefully with her cloak, addressed him by the most 
 ^endearing terms as if he were still alive, and promised 
 
138 GEORGETTE. 
 
 him that he should soon have all sorts of things- 
 to eat. 
 
 Pale as monumental alabaster, with haggard eyes- 
 and streaming locks, with bleeding feet and dusty 
 ragged garb, the once admired and beauteous 
 Georgette tottered feebly into her native town. 
 Concealing Paul's body in her breast, she proceeded 
 intuitively — without the slightest perception of what 
 w r as going on around her — to the house of Monsieur 
 Rudemar, and, knocking at the door, inquired where 
 the old man was. The housekeeper who had suc- 
 ceeded the wicked Gertrude in the notary's establish- 
 ment, of course did not know who Georgette was, but, 
 pitying her miserable condition, told her she would 
 rind her master at the Chateau De Merville, a league 
 outside the town. Thither then Georgette dragged 
 her weary steps, still promising food and comfort to- 
 the dead babe, mingled with incoherent prayers to 
 Heaven and hopes of meeting Charles, until she reached 
 the spot, and found the great gates open, and crowds - 
 of people of both sexes going in and out, in evident 
 bustle, as if some great event were taking place. 
 Passing on without impediment her attention was 
 attracted by the sounds of sacred music ; she glanced 
 around, anxious to ascertain from whence they came,. 
 and then perceiving the chapel, she entered the holy 
 place, and, uttering a piercing shriek, fell upon the 
 threshold as she beheld Charles and Alexandrine at ■' 
 the altar, kneeling before an officiating priest. 
 
 The suffering female was removed, and as some 
 peasants unloosed her mantle to relieve the oppression 
 on her chest, they discovered the body of poor Paul. 
 When the ceremony that united the young couple 
 was concluded, Charles led his blooming, blushing 
 bride from out the chapel, and as he gained the porch 
 was horror-struck to find the sufferer was Georgette \ 
 her uncle approached at the same moment, and smote 
 his breast at seeing the condition of his misguided 
 
GEORGETTE'S LAST JOURNEY. 13& 
 
 niece ; and as they endeavoured to release her hold of 
 Paul, she again opened her dim eyes, and faltered 
 forth, "Adieu, dear Charles, farewell for ever; I die 
 the victim of my faults; tell my noor, kind old uncle 
 whom I abandoned, that I am justly punished by 
 offended Heaven, but that my tardy repentance was 
 
 sincere." 
 
 Old Rudemar, who was present at the nuptial 
 ceremony, was dissolved in tears as he recognised his 
 long-lost niece; the dying woman knew him as he 
 bent over her, and taking his hand pressed it fervently 
 against her heart; then endeavouring to rise, but 
 failing in the attempt, she lifted her eyes to heaven 
 as if imploring pardon for her sins, looked tenderly 
 at Charles, encircled the body of her child with a 
 convulsive grasp, and then, with one brief, fearful 
 shudder, the spirit left its earthly tabernacle, and all 
 that was mortal of the erring girl remained lifeless 
 ©n the cold, damp chapel floor. 
 
 THE END, 
 
ZIZINE OR THE MONDE. 
 
ZIZINE 
 
 OR 
 
 THE MONDE. 
 
 BY 
 
 CE PAUL DE KOCK, 
 
 H o n & o n ; 
 
 MATHIESON & CO. 
 
THE HOPE AND THE DEMI J0JDHL 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE BEAR OF CHATEAU-THIERRY. 
 
 DO not need to tell you that Chateau-Thierry is a pretty 
 little town situated upon the right bank of the Marne, 
 about twenty leagues from Paris ; that it stands upon an 
 amphitheatre on the banks of the river ; that numerous 
 boats which pass incessantly before its walls, to proceed to the pro- 
 visioning of Paris, give it the appearance of a very commercial 
 town ; in short, that it is the native country of the celebrated 
 fabulist Jean de la Fontaine, who concealed his wit under a harsh 
 air very different from that of modern writers. You know all this 
 quite as well as I do ; in case you do not, a geographical dictionary 
 will tell you quite as well as I can. 
 
 What you are not obliged to know about is the Chateau- 
 Thierry ; but, if you have lived in a little provincial town, it is 
 easy for you to have an idea of it, — the picture everywhere, with a 
 very slight difference, is the same. It is curious and rough enough. 
 The gentry, when there are any, do not visit except among them- 
 selves ; the authorities entertain none except the rich people ; the 
 higher middle-class form the second order ; the last is composed of 
 the small people, artisans, and the proletariat (a word which has 
 got fashionable lately), and each one of these classes keeps itself 
 separate and ordered, envious of each other, and delighted when it 
 can have a history, a story which allows of scandals to follow in its 
 train. In short, tht aristocracy reigns there with such power that 
 two neighbours do not salute each other in the street if they are not 
 admitted into the same circles of society. The noble person thinks 
 he is lowering himself when he salutes the middle-class person, and 
 the latter, in his turn, thinks that he will compromise himself if he 
 is seen speaking to the working man. You can well imagine this 
 
 A 
 
2 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 is just the social world of a little town. I know some great ones 
 quite near Paris where this is perfectly ridiculous, and where there 
 is the district of the high-class society, just as Paris has its Faubourg 
 St Germaine. ' This poor aristocracy, which people wish to annihi- 
 late, and to sap to the very base, and then turn into ridicule, always 
 manages well, and recovers itself continually. It is in the palace 
 as in the attic ; it exists in the town as in the village. We may 
 abolish the world, but we cannot destroy the thing. If in the 
 saloon of a duke or a marquis, it appears to reign despotically. You 
 will find it likewise with the banker, where the great capitalist 
 regards with disdain the little merchant, where the wife of the 
 stockbroker wishes her toilet to extinguish that of the wife of the 
 retail broker. You see it again in the saloon of this middle-class 
 man, where the head of the bureau takes the tone of a protector 
 over the simple clerk, and where a contractor's wife does not wish 
 to converse with the wife of the artist. He who sells in his ware- 
 house looks down on the little shopkeeper. Among artisans, he 
 who has a new coat and money in his pocket will lay down the 
 law, and people will listen to him like an oracle. In short, there is 
 not a step which one can take into which this aristocracy does not 
 come. The cook of the first floor, who has four hundred francs a 
 year, wishes to have the best place near the stove ; when she comes, 
 everyone bows with respect ; the housekeeper of the fifth floor is 
 often obliged to speak straight out because the cooks don't offer her 
 a seat. And there will always be among men this need for com- 
 manding, for pushing and advancing ; if any remain behind, it is 
 because they cannot do otherwise, for want of courage and capacity. 
 As to that equality of which people speak so much, I have never 
 found it anywhere, ah ! except, perhaps, in the omnibus .... and 
 even there the big people crush the little. 
 
 Let us return to Chateau-Thierry, and enter the saloon of 
 Madame Blanmignon. She is a rich proprietress, who receives 
 whosoever is best in the town. Madame Blanmignon is the widow 
 of an advocate who has been the deputy for his department. She 
 enjoys about fifteen thousand francs of income ; she is forty-nine 
 years of age ; but as she had also dyed hair, tinted eyebrows, 
 painted cheeks, and pomaded lips, it is rather difficult to guess her 
 age exactly. There are some people who make her sixty, others 
 who believe her only thirty. The fact is that Madame Blanmignon 
 has the air of a very vigorously toned water-colour. 
 
 The saloon is large, and elegantly furnished. I have no need to 
 tell you that there is a piano. Nowadays a drawing-room without 
 a piano is like a pretty woman without a corset. 
 
 The seats are arranged in a circle around the fireplace, the ladies 
 and young girls are seated ; the men are standing or leaning over 
 the chairs of these ladies ; there are some odd faces there ; there 
 are some pretty. The fashions are Parisian, and those are fol- 
 lowed with even more strictness than in the capital, but they are 
 not worn with that grace, that coquetry, and that admirable bearing 
 which are found in Paris. Here etiquette, ceremony, and all its 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 3 
 
 troublesome surroundings reign. The men speak in a low voice' 
 and only laugh at the edge of their lips ; the ladies eye and inspect 
 each other, and don't laugh at all ; the young girls do not dare to 
 say a single word without the authority of their mammas ; and in 
 the midst of all this, Madame Blanmignon smiles, salutes, causes a 
 guest to be seated, offers a footstool to another, which leads to a five 
 minutes' discussion. 
 
 " I shall not take it, madame." 
 
 "Oh, I beg you will." 
 
 " I have really no need of it." 
 
 " Quite so ; but you will be the better of it." 
 
 " Your carpet is quite soft enough." 
 
 " I want you to put your feet upon this stool." 
 
 " Really, Madame Blanmignon, you vex me — I am quite con- 
 fused." 
 
 " One cannot, madame, take too much care of you .... There, 
 put down your feet .... Is it high enough ? " 
 
 " It is perfect." 
 
 After this conversation about a footstool, you might well think 
 that an interesting subject would occupy a whole evening. That 
 is what seemed to be the feeling in a group of men who talked 
 with animation in a corner of the saloon. Madame Blanmignon, 
 anxious that the conversation would become general, then raised 
 her voice, saying, — 
 
 "Good gracious, gentlemen, how warmly you are all talking 
 there. Can't you give us a share in what interests you so much ? 
 I think the ladies might, without being indiscreet, ask the subject 
 of your discussion. Come, M. Vadevant, you have been speaking 
 just now ; you will tell us what it is all about." 
 
 M. Yadevant is a man between two ages, of small height, but 
 who would be well enough in figure if his paunch did not already 
 transgress the rules of proportion. His face, in short, was that of 
 a baby, very fresh, very rosy, and such as a child would be delighted 
 to kiss. M. Yadevant has always a smile upon his lips, but it is a 
 somewhat mocking smile, and his little but very bright eyes shone 
 continually with an expression of curiosity which appeared to wish 
 to pierce into your soul, your thoughts, or at least into your 
 pocket. 
 
 Son of a rich merchant of Troyes, M. Yadevant had found him- 
 self, on the death of his father, possessed of a handsome fortune. 
 Re wished to increase it by speculations, and he had for that pur- 
 pose gone to Paris, where he had put money into insurances, beet- 
 root refineries, and even manures. But young Yadevant had not 
 been happy in these undertakings. His curious and mocking mind 
 had not served him in these capital, where he had met with people 
 more skilful than himself. After having spent a dozen years in 
 Paris, and having lost two-thirds of his fortune, M. Yadevant had 
 felt it was time to stop, and he had settled at Chateau-Thierry, 
 where, with five thousand francs of income which remained to him 
 still, he could make a figure, and be received in the best society. 
 
4 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Add to this, that he was a bachelor, a very valuable position in the 
 provinces, where all the girls dream of marriage, and where, con- 
 sequently, they look upon celibates in a very provoking fashion. 
 
 Interrogated thus by Madame Blanmignon, M. Vadevant turned 
 towards the ladies, smiled so as to show his thirty-two white and 
 well-preserved teeth, and then replied, — 
 
 " Eeally, madame, the object which occupies us deserves very 
 little attention. We were speaking of the Bear. Ha, ha ! You 
 know the Bear ? " 
 
 Then the laughter began again ; the ladies took part in it ; only 
 one of them cried, — 
 
 " Who, then, is this Bear ? Good heavens ! is there one in the 
 town?" 
 
 " Ah, Madame Dubouchet does not know about him," replied 
 Vadevant, " because she has been a long time absent from our 
 country. You must know, fair lady, that by the Bear we mean 
 a stranger — an unknown person who has come to live here nearly 
 three years ago, and who all that time is no more known by us 
 than on the day of his arrival." 
 
 " Eeally that is very singular — very curious." 
 
 " It is Monsieur Boullardin who has given him this nickname 
 of Bear. Upon my honour, never was a name better earned." 
 
 M. Boullardin, a big and fat man, fifty years of age, and who 
 was believed to be one of the wittiest men of the district because 
 he was employed at the Mairie in the register of births, murmured 
 in a coarse and hollow voice, which had the appearance of belong- 
 ing to a ventriloquist, — 
 
 " Indeed I have called him a bear, but it was without thinking. 
 I would have called him a camel as readily." 
 
 "He is wicked, he is satirical, this M. Boullardin," replied 
 Vadevant, turning with a mocking air towards the big official who, 
 quite pleased with what he had said, rubbed his hands as he looked 
 at his wife. 
 
 " But indeed, gentlemen, what has this Bear done, since he is a 
 bear?" replied Madame Dubouchet. "You ought to know some- 
 thing about him personally — about his manner of living. Give me 
 some information, since I don't know anything." 
 
 " Come, M. Vadevant," said the mistress of the house, f< it is 
 you who are, I believe, best informed." 
 
 " I — not I. I don't know anything more than these gentlemen — 
 yet if you desire it, fair lady, I shall tell you what I have observed 
 and heard." 
 
 M. Vadevant went towards the circle which the ladies made, 
 the other men came also, and each seemed disposed to listen with 
 pleasure to what he already knew ; for the Bear was a subject of 
 curiosity to ail the inhabitants of Chateau-Thierry, and each time 
 that his name was mentioned they were all " ears " in the hope of 
 hearing something new about this mysterious man. 
 
 M. Vadevant having graciously looked at all the ladies, and 
 leaning against the fireplace, began his story. 
 
The Monde and the Dernt Monde. 5 
 
 " About tliree years ago—yes, it was in 1831 — and we are in 1834 
 now. I believe it was likewise in the month of March — " 
 
 " No, it was February," said M. Boullardin ; " all the town was 
 making fritters — oh ! oh ! " 
 
 And the big man caressed his chin, delighted with what he had 
 to say. 
 
 " In February, possibly," replied Vadevant. " Yes, I remember 
 now that I went dressed as a Spaniard to the Sous-Prefet's ball — a 
 very brilliant affair, where any amount of ices were served ! But, 
 excuse me, I return to my Bear, as is said in the Theatre des 
 Variete's in Paris, in I don't know what piece." 
 
 " In Pourceaugnac, perhaps," replied Boullardin. 
 
 " Ah, my dear M. Boullardin, you make a mistake of memory. 
 " Don't you know that Pourceaugnac is by M. Moliere ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I mix them all up ... . Pourceattgnao, Monsieur de 
 Crac, La Dame Blanche. I don't care for the play. I always 
 fall asleep ; my wife also does. Don't you, Madame Boullardin ? " 
 
 Madame replied by a nod of the head, and M. Vadevant, who 
 listened smiling to the stupid remarks of the official, resumed, — 
 
 " I was saying, madame, that it was in the month of February 
 1831, a traveller arrived in a post-chaise, accompanied by a man — 
 his valet no doubt : this traveller at once asked if there was in the 
 town a small house to let. Many were pointed out to him, among 
 others one that belonged to M. Tricot, and which is at the other 
 end of the town. The stranger went to see the house ; its iso- 
 lated position seemed to please him. He immediately took the 
 house, which was fully furnished. He paid a year's rent in 
 advance." 
 
 " Did he really pay a year in advance ? " said an old, thin gentle- 
 man with a gaunt face, who had been seated in a corner of the 
 saloon, and had not yet opened his mouth. 
 
 u Yes, M. Benolt, he paid .... Oh ! I am quite sure of that. I 
 know it from M. Tricot himself ; and he has always paid six months 
 in advance still. I know also that he pays eight hundred francs 
 for the house." 
 
 "He is, then, a rich man, this unknown ?" 
 
 " Ah ! that's the question, is he rich ? And if he has a fortune, 
 how did he get it ? That is what we don't know. It was expected 
 that the newcomer would visit his neighbours, the authorities, the 
 notables of the town, to whom he would have some introductions, 
 and who would introduce him into our circles. Not at all ; my 
 stranger shuts himself up, and receives no one ! He doesn't go out 
 except to walk outside the town ; he speaks to no one, and when 
 people try to address a word to him, replies with a tone so rude 
 and dry that nobody seeks to try it again, because it might be 
 necessary to argue with him ; and you know that one does not wish 
 to compromise himself with an unknown person, so that the name 
 of Bear is well applied to him." 
 
 " Bear ! Bear's Cub ! It is I who have given him the name, ' said 
 M. Boullardin, looking at his wife. 
 
6 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 "Then, is he a man badly educated, a brute, this unknown 
 person ? " 
 
 " One cannot say that he has the air of a brute. He is a man who 
 seems to be about fifty years of age." 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! and rather more — " 
 
 "I bet you, he isn't forty-eight." 
 
 "You haven't then remarked that his black hair has become 
 grey." 
 
 " "What does that prove ? When I was twenty years old, my hair 
 was white." 
 
 "I," said an old lady, with some coquetry, "had mine blanched 
 through fear. I had hair like jet, but one evening in the street, 
 an insolent man insulted me — took hold of me. I fainted, and on 
 coming to myself, I was grey." 
 
 " Oh," said M. Boullardin in a low tone, " I have made all the 
 women I have taken hold of grey, and — " 
 
 A severe look from his wife caused the official to close his 
 remarks between his teeth. 
 
 "Our Bear," replied Vadevant, "is not absolutely bad- 
 looking." 
 
 "Is he reallv ugly ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh, pardon me, he is frightful — a horribly sinister face." 
 
 " Not at all ; his face is very handsome, on the contrary." 
 
 " I tell you, he has the appearance of a conspirator." 
 
 " Perhaps he is one." 
 
 " I," said quite a young man, " I have only seen him once, and 
 it was at night, but he appeared to me to have eyes as bright as 
 a cat's — " 
 
 " He is perhaps a vampire," said the thin old gentleman. 
 
 "He has rather the air of it himself," murmured Vadevant, 
 turning aside to laugh. 
 
 " Ah ! Good heaven, M. Benoit, don't say things like that. We 
 shall not sleep all night ; but the authorities ought to have their 
 eyes on this monster ! " 
 
 " If I met him in the evening," said Madame Blanmignon, I am 
 certain that I should have a nervous attack ; and although I have 
 never seen him, the very idea is horrible to me. A man who 
 receives no one, goes to see no one, does not speak to anyone, why 
 he must be some great crimimal who is hiding himself." 
 
 " What is his name," asked Madame Dubouchet, " for he must 
 sign his cheques to M. Tricot ? " 
 
 " He signs Guerreville," said Vadevaut; 
 
 " Guerreville ; the name is distinguished enough. This is very 
 singular." 
 
 " It is no doubt a false name he has taken." 
 
 " I bet that he is really called Abracadabra." 
 
 " Hi ! hi ! " said M. Boullardin, laughing like a fool. 
 
 "But you know, gentlemen, it is very disagreeable for the 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 7 
 
 neighbourhood to have such a suspicious individual selecting it as 
 his refuge ; one ought to make it a duty to expel this gentleman 
 from our town." 
 
 " It is certain that one should do so," said Yaclevant, looking 
 into the chimney-glass and showing his thirty-two teeth. 
 
 "The other day," said a gentleman who had not yet spoken, and 
 who blushed whenever he had to say anything alone ; " the other 
 day I went out with the intention of taking a walk, and I saw — 
 that is to sav, I believe that I wanted to meet the unknown called 
 —the Bear." 
 
 "This is fine, this which Desboulleaux is telling us," said M. 
 Vadevant, bending towards a very handsome lady who was biting 
 her lips to keep herself from bursting into a fit of laughter. 
 
 During this time the gentleman who had such difficulty in ex- 
 pressing himself in public withdrew behind some of the party as he 
 wiped two great drops of sweat from his forehead. 
 
 Madame Dubouchet, who was not yet satisfied with what she 
 had heard, addressed new questions to her neighbours and to M. 
 Vadevant. 
 
 " I can't see why, until something positive is known about this 
 man, he should be looked upon askance." 
 
 " But has he no servants ? They will surely speak." 
 
 " Impossible, madame. In the first place, the only servant he has 
 is the man he brought with him. He is another kind of bear, who 
 probably wishes to ape his master — a big, thin man, who holds 
 himself as stiff as a Cossack — who doesn't talk to any person, not 
 even to the nurses in the district, who never goes to the wine-shops, 
 and whose greatest pleasure is to smoke, seated on the stone bench 
 which is in front of their house." 
 
 " I bet that they are Republicans," said old Benoit, tapping with 
 some importance upon his snuff-box. 
 
 "I thought I was once on the point of knowing something," 
 said Yadevant. "The man was sitting smoking before his door, 
 and I was walking along past him. I believe that I was passing 
 expressly in front of the Bear's house. On seeing the valet, the 
 idea of an ingenious experiment suggested itself to me. I pre- 
 tended in walking to make a false step, and twist my foot ; then, 
 appearing not to be able to walk, I went and sat down beside the 
 man-servant on the bench. That was very clever, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Very clever, and witty." 
 
 " Ah, well, my stupid, in place of inviting me to come in to his 
 master's house, where he might get me some help, rose and shook 
 his pipe, then walked inside, banging the door brutally behind 
 him." 
 
 " It was horrid ! " cried Madame Blanmignon ; " it was conduct 
 worthy of a cannibal." 
 
 " And as the proverb says, ' like master, like man,' I drew from 
 this the conclusion that the master was as destitute of humanity as 
 his servant. But, then, what signifies all this mystery ? They have 
 their dinner every day from Godart the pastry cook's ; it is brought 
 
8 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 to them regularly ; it is the servant who pays the bill, and gives 
 the tip to the waiter. Lastly, Margaret, Madame Dechalard's cook, 
 presented herself there by advice, and under the pretext that she 
 was out of service, asked if they would take her. The valet had 
 apparently gone out, for it was the so-called M. Guerreville who 
 opened the door to Margaret. But if you only knew how she was 
 received. Ah! the poor girl will remember it. Scarcely giving her 
 time to explain herself, he sent her to the door, pushing her even 
 by the shoulders because she didn't go out quickly enough." 
 
 " Oh, that was horrible ! " 
 
 " Oh, that was frightful ! " 
 
 " It is even beastly ! " said Boullardin, looking towards his wife. 
 
 " To ill-treat that poor Margaret, who makes such lovely creams." 
 
 " Not such good ones as my cook," muttered old Benoit. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Madame Blanmignon, " we must combine, 
 and make a league to rid the town of this abominable Bear. What 
 is your opinion ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said all the men, lifting up their hands as if to 
 swear, while the ladies approved by bowing. 
 
 " But what shall we do ? What means shall we take to force 
 our man to pack off ? We must seek — " 
 
 "If one were to sound a horn the whole day under his 
 windows." 
 
 "Oh, that would likewise annoy the inhabitants of the neigh- 
 bouring houses." 
 
 " Suppose one were to throw stones about his place," said a 
 young student, laughing. 
 
 " No ; that wouldn't be allowed," said Madame Blanmignon. 
 " We must only employ lawful means." 
 
 The gentleman who had wiped off the great drops of perspira- 
 tion, after having said something alone before, put his head into 
 the group, murmuring, — 
 
 "If— if— if— we— " 
 
 All eyes were turned towards the orator ; he became scarlet, 
 and drew back behind the others, murmuring, — 
 
 " Well, no, it doesn't matter." 
 
 " But," said M. Boullardin with a great laugh, " there is quite 
 a natural way. Why not lay some beastly things in front of his 
 door? Hi, hi!" 
 
 " Oh, fie ! M. Boullardin, how can you think of such things ? 
 This is not carnival time ! " 
 
 " I have found it ! I have discovered the means ! " cried Vade- 
 vant, touching his stomach, his forehead, and his hands. 
 
 " Ah ! tell us quickly, quickly ! " was called out from all parts as 
 they surrounded the little gentleman. 
 
 " Let us give our Bear a charivari ! Let us give him two, ten, 
 twenty, if it should be necessary. This gentleman loves calm soli-' 
 tude and silence ; he must detest cliarivaris. Ours will have a very 
 speedy effect, and, tired of hearing it, the Bear will pack off, and 
 establish himself somewhere else." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 9 
 
 " Bravo, bravo." 
 
 " Perfectly conceived ! This M. Vadevant is a very valuable 
 man ; lie has wit enough for four." 
 
 " If it was a four with the energy of Desboulleaux, it wouldn't 
 be much worth." 
 
 "Well, when shall this charivari come off?" asked Madame 
 Blanmignon, who appeared one of the most incensed against the 
 Bear of the town. 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! this very evening," replied Vadevant. 
 " The weather is fine, and we are gathered together here to-night in 
 sufficient number. While the ladies talk among themselves, or 
 make up a party, we shall go and give our first concert in the open 
 air, and we shall return to tell those ladies what has been the 
 result. Are you of my opinion, gentlemen ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," cried most of the men. 
 
 But M. Boullardin did not share in this reply. As he was em- 
 ployed at the Mairie, he feared that he might compromise himself by 
 making one of the charivari party. 
 
 _ "Nothing remains but to procure the necessary instruments," 
 said Vadevant. "Will Madame Blanmignon place her kitchen stock 
 of material at our disposal ? " 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure, gentlemen. Take from my house 
 whatever pleases you to deafen this wretched man—to break the 
 tympanum of his ear, so that he may go quickly." 
 
 "Bravo, Madame Blanmignon. I move thanks to Madame 
 Blanmignon for the patriotism which she has displayed in this 
 affair. I propose to make some verses, indeed, on the subject ; but 
 first to arms, gentlemen, to arms ! " 
 
 Each one repeated M. Vadevant's call, and followed him to the 
 kitchen. M. Benoit, M. Boullardin, and two other gentlemen who 
 were no longer of a suitable age to take part in a charivari, remained 
 alone in the drawing-room with the ladies; but soon the improvised 
 musicians returned with their instruments, and then there were 
 burstsof laughter of such a kind as had not been allowed for many 
 a day in Madame Blanmignon's saloon. 
 
 One held a saucepan, on which he struck with a skimmer; another 
 had two crossed irons, which he used as cymbals ; this one struck 
 with a shovel upon a pair of tongs; another played castanets 
 with some bits of broken plate ; the timid Desboulleaux shook like 
 one possessed the chains of a turn-spit, which he had passed round 
 his body ; the young student struck a frying-pan with a gravy- 
 spoon ; finally, M. Vadevant was provided with an enormous 
 warming-pan, in which he had placed nails and bits of iron, so that 
 in shaking it there was produced an infernal din. 
 
 " Delicious ! charming ! " exclaimed the ladies ; " it is enough 
 to put to flight all the bears in Berne ! We shall have bad luck if 
 this shall not deliver us from that of Chateau-Thierry." 
 
 "Let us march, gentlemen," said Vadevant. "I claim the 
 honour of going at your head, and of giving the signal for the 
 charivari; but especially let there be great silence kept as we 
 
10 'I'he Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 pass through the town tiil we come to the Bear's house. But we 
 must surprise him like thunder ; that will have a splendid effect. 
 Forward ! " 
 
 All the charivarists set themselves to follow Vadevant, when 
 the sound of the bell startled them. 
 
 ""Who can arrive so late ?" said Madame Blanmignon. 
 
 " Whoever it is, I can reply that he shall be of our party," said 
 Vadevant. 
 
 At that moment the door of the drawing-room opened, and the 
 servant announced " Doctor Jenneval." 
 
 A man of thirty, with an agreeable and lively expression, an 
 elegant and distinguished figure, appeared. He saluted the mis- 
 fc ress of the house and the other ladies, not having yet observed 
 the singular arms which these gentleman had taken. 
 
 " Oh ! it is the dear doctor ! " cried Vadevant. "I said truly that 
 lie should be one of us. Come then, Doctor Jenneval, take a frying- 
 pan, or, at least, a pair of snuffers." 
 
 " Ah ! what signifies all these preparations ? " said the Doctor, 
 examining the things which the musicians carried. " Are you going 
 to play a charade, a proverb, or a symphony V 
 
 "Better than that, we are going to give a charivari, and one 
 which will make a noise in the country." 
 
 "A charivari?" 
 
 " Doubtless ; come, take an instrument. You shall come with 
 us?" 
 
 " But, first, I must know to whom you are giving the charivari." 
 
 " Ah ! if you hadn't come so late, Doctor," said Madame Blan- 
 mignon, "you would have known everything ; but we can tell you." 
 
 " Pardon, madame, but I was obliged to go to see M. Guerreviile, 
 who is indisposed, and — " 
 
 " M. Guerreviile ! " cried they from all sides. " You come from 
 M. Guerreviile — the stranger, the unknown, the Bear ? " 
 
 "Yes, ladies," replied the Doctor smiling; "and I have gone 
 there many times." 
 
 " Oh ! it is too funny ! " said Vadevant, " for it was to him we 
 were going to give the charivari" 
 
 "To him?" 
 
 " Yes, Doctor, for indeed he is an abominable man — is that not 
 so ? — a kind of savage, badly intentioned, and whose conduct is 
 beastly ; an unsociable being, who kicks cooks out at his doors, 
 who salutes nobody in the street — a perfect bear in short." 
 
 " I believe that you are wrong, M. Vadevant, for from the little 
 I have seen of M. Guerreviile, I havs judged him very differently. 
 One may desire to live in solitude, and yet not have all these 
 defects." 
 
 " Come, now, the Doctor is joking ; he chaffs us, I am certain. 1 
 am quite of opinion that we should go on, and give this unknown a 
 charivari. Shall it not be so, gentlemen ?" 
 
 Those gentleman who did not wish to be armed with a frying- 
 pan and a pair of tongs for nothing, were quite disposed to follow 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. ll 
 
 Vadevant, who already inarched towards the door, holding his 
 warming-pan as if he was carrying a flag. 
 
 The Doctor looked at them smiling, and contented himself with 
 saying — 
 
 " I don't object to your charivari, gentlemen ; but I only ask you 
 to wait a few minutes until M. the Sous-Preset, who is with M. 
 Guerreville, has left him." 
 
 It is difficult to describe the effect which these words produced — 
 faces grew long, foreheads were knit, and many countenances grew 
 pale. There was an amazement, a general stupor ; the gentlemen 
 remained motionless and as if struck with lightning, having still 
 their pans and utensils in the air. 
 
 Madame Blanmignon had such a turn that her eyebrows lost 
 their colour, and one of her cheeks all its vermilion. She tried to 
 remain calm, but her voice was much shaken as she said to the 
 Doctor, — 
 
 " Is it possible ? You would not deceive us, M. Jenneval ? Do 
 you really say that M. the Sous-Prefet is with that stranger ?" 
 
 " Yes, madame, I have the honour to repeat to you that I left 
 them together ; and after what I heard of their conversation, in 
 regard to which there seemed to be no mystery, it appears that 
 M. Guerreville and our Sous-Prefet have been friends before. 
 Indeed they are old associates ; they met by chance here on the 
 promenade some days ago, recognised each other, and now they 
 have gone to see each other." 
 
 During the Doctor's explanation one ought to have seen the 
 charivaruts furtively ridding themselves of the things which they 
 had picked up for instruments. One slid his frying-pan under a 
 sofa, the other put his saucepan under an armchair ; a third put 
 his tongs under the piano ; this one put the smoothing-irons into 
 his pocket ; in short, in some minutes, these gentlemen had their 
 hands emptied, with the exception of Vadevant who, carrying his 
 enormous warming-pan, had not been able to find any place to put 
 it away, and who dared not shake it much, as at the very least 
 movement the iron which he had put in the copper cavity made 
 a most disagreeable noise. 
 
 "It is very astonishing !" said Madame Blanmignon. " It appears, 
 then, as if we have been deceived ; that false reports have been made 
 as to M. Guerreville. Since M. the Sous-Prefet is one of his friends 
 — and goes to see him — certainly he must be a most distinguished 
 person. Is it not so, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Madame, that is also my opinion. Being sent for by M. 
 Guerreville, who was suffering, I have only seen him five or six 
 times, but that was sufficient to show me that he was a man of 
 distinction, mind, and wit. In truth, his first address is not very 
 agreeable. M. Guerreville is naturally brusque, and, I believe, fiery. 
 I suspect that there are some annoyances which must have embit- 
 tered his disposition ; but when one knows him a little, when one 
 talks with him, it is easy to discover that, under this appearance of 
 severity, he hides a sensible mind, and a just and generous heart." 
 
12 The Monde a fid the Demi Monde, 
 
 "The poor man ! You believe, then, that he lias some secret 
 sorrow ? " cried several. 
 
 "Yes, I have always had my doubt about this," said Madame 
 Blaumignon ; " and from the bottom of my heart I am interested 
 in him, for I have not believed all the stories which have been 
 told about him." 
 
 " Who is it that told us the anecdotes about the cooks ? " said 
 Boullardin, addressing Vadevant. 
 
 The latter, still much embarrassed with his warming-pan, took 
 up his position in the middle of the room, and said, — 
 
 " If I related some facts which, besides, are known to every- 
 body, it would be seen that it was not I who was the first to give 
 the epithet of Bear to this respectable unknown person." 
 
 Boullardin was petrified, for, being attached to the Mairie, he 
 believed he should be gravely compromised by having called a 
 friend of the Sous-Prefet Bear. He saw himself already thrown 
 out of his situation, and he lowered his eyes without daring to 
 look at his wife ; but all at once observing the warming-pan, he 
 cried with a triumphant air, — 
 
 " I did call this honourable stranger a bear. Certainly, I confess 
 it; but there was no harm in that. By Bear I did not mean to say 
 beast. I meant one who loved quietness, a friend of calm and peace. 
 I swear that I never meant anything else by Bear. But, besides, 
 what manifestly proves that I never had the intention of insulting 
 this gentleman is that I have not taken any part in the projected 
 charivari — I take everybody to witness that I have always been 
 against the charivari!" 
 
 " Ah, sir," cried Vadevant, " anyone might see that the chari- 
 vari was only a joke — a scene which we were playing ! Who could 
 believe that we would really have run through the town armed 
 with all these kitchen utensils ? Fie ! fie ! gentlemen. I declare 
 to you, gentlemen, that I couldn't have gone down the staircase 
 with this warming-pan, which is of a fearful weight — " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " cried Madame Blanmignon ; " these gentlemen only 
 wished to raise .a laugh for us a little, and that was all. But the 
 Doctor will readily believe that it was all a game, a joke ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, I shall believe anything you like," said the 
 Doctor, smiling with an air ever so little incredulous ; " and I assure 
 you that I shall think nothing more of the charivari" 
 
 " Very well," said Vadevant, " let us think no more of it. J 
 propose a contre danse — a galop. I offer even to sing a ' Bomance.' " 
 
 The offer of Vadevant was about to be accepted, and he had 
 even got near the piano, when a noise of chains, which came from a 
 corner of the drawing-room, attracted the attention of the whole 
 party. They listened and looked ; the ladies began to feel afraid. 
 At length a young man approached a window curtain from which 
 the noise seemed to come. lie drew it, and showed to the gaze 
 of the party the timid M. Desboulleaux, who had withdrawn there, 
 hoping to loosen the chains of the turn-spit, which he had wound 
 round his body, but of which he had not been able to rid himself yet. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 13 
 
 M. Desboulleaux blushed to the whites of his eyes, and twisted 
 about in his chains still more when he saw himself the object 
 of general attention. Everybody's face became grave, because 
 they saw the position of this gentleman recalled anew the affair 
 of the charivari; and Madame Blamnignon said to him in a very 
 dry tone, — 
 
 " What are you doing there, M. Desboulleaux." 
 
 " I am seeking to free myself from the chain of this turn-spit, 
 which I had taken to follow in the charivari which — " 
 
 " To take a turn-spit with its chain ! Gracious goodness, what 
 an idea ! What wretchedly bad taste ! Be good enough, M. Des- 
 boulleaux, to take back all this to my kitchen. I don't wish my 
 house to be pillaged in this way." 
 
 M. Desboulleaux walked across the room, ashamed and confused, 
 dragging his chains after him, like one of Anne Badcliffe's spectres ; 
 and it can easily be imagined that he did not return. The com- 
 pany then attempted to form a contre danse ; but nobody was in a 
 mood for jumping about. The affair of the charivari had damped 
 their spirits, and everyone very soon took leave. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 A CHESS-PARTY. 
 
 About five days had passed after the evening of the charivari at 
 Madame Blanmignon's, an evening which multiplied the visiting 
 cards left for the person who had been called the Bear of Chateau- 
 Thierry, and who now was named everywhere the illustrious wihiown. 
 
 In a drawing-room, simply furnished, but waxed and brushed 
 with much care, two people were seated before a little table, on 
 which was arranged a game of chess. It was about two o'clock in 
 the afternoon, a good fire was crackling in the chimney, and near it 
 the chess-players were seated. 
 
 One of them was a man approaching fifty, but no one would 
 have thought him that age, although his careful forehead and the 
 expression of his glance indicated much suffering, and his black 
 hair had grown very grey over his temples. He was tall and well- 
 built, his walk habitually noble and haughty. His regular 
 features had an imposing expression, and his brown eyes intimi- 
 dated one at first ; but on looking at him for some time one was 
 reassured, and the paleness, the air of sadness spread over his 
 whole face, came soon to inspire interest rather than fear. 
 
 This personage was M. Guerreville, that man whose misan- 
 thropical humour had given room for so many conjectures. He was 
 wrapped in a rich robe de chambre ; his head was covered with a 
 cotton cap, furred, and his feet were thrust into slippers, likewise 
 furred. While playing chess, his eyes frequently rested upon a 
 
14 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 timepiece on the mantelpiece ; then lie seemed to listen if some one 
 were coming. 
 
 The other personage was Doctor Jenneval, with whom we have 
 already made acquaintance, and whose arrival at Madame Blan- 
 mignon's had put an end to the charivari. 
 
 " Take care, your castle is taken," said the Doctor after a con- 
 siderable silence, and at the moment when M. Guerreville was 
 preparing to play. 
 
 " Oh, that is right, Doctor ; I did not observe it. But you are 
 generous ; you do not wish to surprise your enemy. You tell him 
 that he ought to defend himself." 
 
 "Ought that not always to be done? Does a man of honour 
 attack his enemy before he puts him on his guard ? " 
 
 "No, certainly: but this principle, respected by some combat- 
 ants, ought to be also in society, and it is not so. On the contrary, 
 people act meanly, and intrigue. In order to do harm, they will 
 not warn him to whom they have given a pledge." 
 
 " Consider that there are many things in regard to which a man 
 might warn one to whom harm might come. Ta,ke, for example, 
 when a man courts a pretty woman, people are not in the habit of 
 warning her husband." 
 
 The Doctor laughed, and seemed to desire that the remark should 
 also make M. Guerreville laugh ; but he contented himself by 
 shaking his head, murmuring, — 
 
 " You are right, Doctor ; but then it would be necessary to 
 show ourselves as we are, not to conceal our tastes, our leanings, 
 nor to cast our eyes towards the woman whose conquest we wish to 
 make, and to affect a reserved style, very severe principles of virtue, 
 tvhile at the bottom of our heart we had every human weakness. 
 What I detest most is hypocrisy ; one must confess his defects like 
 his good points. Then, at least, his social circle would be warned ; 
 and so much the worse for those whom he led astray if they 
 repented afterwards. But there are so few people who like frank- 
 ness ; many wish to be flattered and fawned upon. Women wish 
 that they should be adored, or at least people say so. Come, 
 Doctor, it is only about a month since you knew me, and if I had 
 not been ill, it is probable that I should not have seen you, since I 
 wished to live, as for some time past, in solitude. But I am not 
 sorry for having made your acquaintance, for I believe you to be 
 frank and loyal, and, except for a slight tendency to jocularity on 
 the gravest subjects — " 
 
 The Doctor here bowed, smiling. 
 
 "But men cannot be perfect," resumed M. Guerreville. "You 
 have all, I believe, which is needed to make you a good friend, and 
 even a good doctor. If I tell you so, it is because I think it. I never 
 pay compliments ; but allow me to give you an advice. You will 
 permit me, Doctor." 
 
 " Thoroughly. I listen with sympathy." 
 
 " Oh ! with sympathy, and you don't know what I am going to 
 say ! Well, if you would make progress in your art, apply your- 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 15 
 
 self especially to read countenances, to penetrate the secrets of 
 the mind which often the mouth will not dare to avow. People are 
 cured more by words than by drugs. When the mind is tranquil, 
 physical ills are rarely dangerous." 
 
 " It is a long time since I knew that," said the Doctor, smiling. 
 
 " Ah, then I need not tell you." 
 
 " Do you believe then, M. Guerreville, that one cannot tell that 
 the paleness of your face, the alteration of your features, proceed 
 rather from the depths of vexation than from a derangement in 
 your system ? I don't ask your secrets, because I am not in the 
 habit of seeking to know what people wish to conceal." 
 
 " You have done well, Doctor, for I should not have told you 
 them. Not that I judge you unworthy of my confidence, but be- 
 cause there are some things one does not wish to tell, which one 
 keeps in his own bosom, and which all the consolations of friendship 
 cannot cure or make one forget." 
 
 As he said these last words the voice of M. Guerreville gradually 
 grew weaker, his looks went downward, and a deep sigh escaped 
 from his bosom. 
 
 A long silence followed. At length M. Guerreville passed his 
 hand over his forehead, and, turning to the Doctor, said, — 
 
 " Well, shall we not go on with our game ? " 
 
 " I was waiting till you felt more inclined," replied Jenneval. 
 
 "Ah, you are too considerate," said the convalescent, holding 
 his hand out to the Doctor ; " I don't find many persons endowed 
 with your patience. And, indeed, it is a wearisome part to play 
 with one whose sad thoughts make him every moment distrait 
 or sad." 
 
 " It pleases me. Since you have made your reflections, may I 
 be at liberty to make mine ? " 
 
 "Certainly. You understand that I do well not to go into 
 society. There we only meet gay, amiable, and talkative people, 
 and that is natural enough. To anyone who comes into a joyous 
 company, to hold himself aloof, to heave sighs, and only speak in 
 monosyllables, people would say, ' You had better have remained 
 at home.' " 
 
 " If they did not say it, they would think it." 
 
 " They would be right. Check to the queen, Doctor." 
 
 The game went on for some time. At last the Doctor pronounced 
 the fatal " Checkmate." 
 
 " I am beaten," said M. Guerreville, pushing away the table, 
 and drawing near the fire. " I believed I was as strong as you, but 
 I have too much preoccupation. Ah, Doctor, it is often very 
 difficult to distract oneself. By-the-bye, what do you think of me 
 to-day?" 
 
 " Well enough. I have not cured you as I could have done, for, 
 as you tell me yourself, it is the mind which one must treat ; and 
 vou wish to keep your annoyances all to yourself." 
 
 " You understand physiognomies, and believe in them, Doctor." 
 
 " I have believed in them ; but too many examples have proved 
 
16 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 to me I was still only a scholar in that science. Besides, actions 
 are often as deceitful as the countenance." 
 
 " Actions ! it is the first time I have heard that said." 
 
 " It is because people nearly always judge of the action, without 
 seeking to discover the motive which has led to it. Will you allow 
 me to quote two historical facts, curious enough, and which support 
 what I advance 1 " 
 
 " Willingly ; I shall listen." 
 
 The Doctor drew his chair towards the fire, and commenced his 
 narrative. 
 
 " I was sent for some years ago by a workman's wife ; he was 
 very ill. I gave him my attentions for a fortnight. I went regu- 
 larly to see him. I found Lis wife constantly seated near his bed, 
 attending to him, and watching over him with a zeal which never 
 for a moment flagged, and nearly always with her eyes bathed in 
 tears. Poor woman, I said to myself, how she does love her 
 husband ! She is a model wife. Now, one evening as I came from 
 the sick man's room, a neighbour who was a friend of the family 
 came down with me, and asked me what I thought of the patient'? 
 condition. There is no hope, I replied ; the man cannot recover. 
 With much care, he may last a few days longer, but it is impossible 
 to save him. I have not yet told his poor wife, as I am afraid oi 
 her becoming desperate. See if there is any way of preparing hei 
 for this resuit. The neighbour did not fail to go to report what 
 I had said to her ; but you may judge of my astonishment when, 
 next morning, I received the fee for my visits, with a paper or 
 which was written these words, ' Since my husband cannot 
 recover, it is useless for you, sir, to come here any more.' Not 
 being able to believe what I read, I went as usual to the door. 
 The woman opened to me, and cried, ' Indeed, sir, I informed you 
 that you need not come any more.' 
 
 " Madame, said I, we do not let anybody die without giving 
 them attention up to the last moment." 
 
 " ' Let it be as you wish, sir, but certainly I shall not pay for 
 any more visits, nor shall I purchase any more drugs, since my 
 husband cannot recover.' 
 
 "That will not prevent me from coming to see him, madame." 
 " ' As you please, sir, the poor, dear man. I am going immediately 
 to sell his tools ; since he will not use them again, there is no need 
 to keep them.' 
 
 " And this, sir, was the woman whom I believed was the model 
 wife. She took no care ; she did not watch over the man who had 
 made her livelihood ; she did not w eep with vexation ; and from the 
 moment she was certain that her husband would not be any further 
 use to her, she withdrew her friendship from him." 
 
 " Yes, these were abominable, deceitful, actions ; and now your 
 other example, Doctor." 
 
 " There were some poor people whom I attended, artisans, who had 
 a son whom they loved very much ; but the son, who since nineteen 
 years of age had been well conducted, and had always been submis- 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 17 
 
 give to the will of his parents, changed his character, and became in 
 a short time a very wild fellow. He frequented drink shops, would 
 not work, and often replied to his father's remonstrances by insults. 
 He reached the age of twenty, and the time of conscription arrived — 
 the lot fell on him, and he must go ; but on the very day on which 
 he was to join his corps, judge of my surprise when this young man 
 came to me, and, with an embarrassed and distressed air, said, { My 
 parents love you, sir, and have confidence in you, and they are 
 right ; but I know also that I can confide in you, and I have come 
 therefore to confess to you what I have not told anyone.' Astonished 
 already by the change I remarked in his manner, and in. the tone 
 of the young man, I begged him to explain, and then he said, 
 ' My parents are very poor ; but I am their only son, and they love 
 me much. Often I have heard them speaking of the time when I 
 should be drawn in the conscription, and they said to«me, " We shall 
 sell, we shall pledge everything we possess ; we shall eat nothing 
 but bread for a long time, if necessary, but we shall not allow our 
 son to leave us, for he is a good lad who loves us as much as we 
 love him." Ah, sir, I cannot tell you what I felt then, but I did 
 not wish to reduce my parents to poverty ; to beg them to allow me 
 to go ; to renounce their generous resolution would have been use- 
 less, and I felt that. It was then that I formed the plan of abusing 
 them, of refusing to work — running about the cafes and wine shops — 
 so that, not listening to their remonstrances, I even dared to speak 
 to them with insolence. They were deceived ; they believed it was 
 impossible to correct me. The time for drawing the lot approached, 
 and they allowed me to go. I said adieu to them, but without 
 undeceiving them as yet, for they would have been capable of 
 wishing to buy me off. Now, sir, if T am killed in Spain, or where- 
 ever we go to fight, it will be very hard for me to carry to the 
 grave the despisal of my parents. Then — oh, but then only tell 
 them what I have done, and they will know that their son was not 
 unworthy of their affection.' The poor fellow wept as he spoke 
 these words. I opened my arms, and pressed him for some time to 
 my heart, for indeed I also owed him some reparation, for I had 
 believed him, from his conduct, to be a worthless fellow." 
 
 " That is an example which comforts one after the other," said 
 M. Guerreville, " but, unhappily, I believe that the former kind are 
 less rare." 
 
 At that moment the drawing-room door opened, a big fellow of 
 thirty years of age or more, with a turban of oilcloth round his 
 head, and dressed with hussar trousers and a hunting coat buttoned 
 up to the chin, advanced towards the master of the house, putting 
 his hand up to his helmet with a military salute. 
 
 It was George, M. Guerreville's servant ; he had been a soldier, 
 and he had preserved his habit of prompt and passive obedience, 
 which has become rare with domestics. He was also of extreme 
 propriety, a quality demanded among soldiers ; he was neither a 
 blabber nor curious. All this made his small mind and mediocre 
 intelligence otherwise to be condoned. 
 
18 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Ah, George, have you been to the post-office ? " said M. Guerre- 
 ville. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; "but there are no letters for you." 
 
 "No news — nothing — six years, and yet somehow I hope still. 
 But I think all must be over. Oh, it is cruel thus to live in a con- 
 tinual expectation, to be always deceived in one's hopes." 
 
 M. Guerrevile had pronounced these words in a low voice, but 
 with such a pained accent that the Doctor felt ready to fly to his 
 arms to seek to comfort him ; but he dared not, for the look of his 
 new friend had become so gloomy and pensive that he feared to 
 disturb his meditations. 
 
 George was standing in the middle of the saloon, bolt upright, 
 before his master. 
 
 "What are you doing there V cried M. Guerreville in a moment 
 or two, looking at his servant impatiently. 
 
 "I have some cards to give you, sir, which have been given 
 me." 
 
 And George presented several cards to his master, and went 
 quickly from the drawing-room. 
 
 M. Guerreville had taken the cards with temper, and cast his 
 eyes over them, then threw them into the fire, saying, — 
 
 " Vadevant, Boullardin, Desboulleaux, I don't know anything 
 about them. Can those people not leave me in peace ? What can be 
 the meaning of this, day after day, to be annoyed with those cards 
 every moment ? " 
 
 Doctor Jenneval could not restrain a burst of laughter as he 
 saw burning there the names of the principal members of the 
 society which had met at M. Blanmignon's. M. Guerreville turned 
 towards him, saying, — 
 
 " Why are you laughing at seeing me burn those cards ?" 
 
 " Ah, because I remember — but really I ought not to tell you 
 that." 
 
 " But do tell, Doctor. Ah, if you knew how indifferent I am to 
 all the people in the world." 
 
 ' Well, then, some time ago people called you a Bear in this 
 town, because everyone was piqued at your preferring solitude to 
 society. But since they found out that M. the Sous-Prefet was one 
 of your friends, ah ! how their views as to you changed. You see 
 they take the first step ; they are leaving their cards for you. You 
 are in favour." 
 
 M. Guerreville tried to smile as he replied, — 
 
 " Happy are the people who can take up their attention with 
 these little social matters, they certainly have not got many heart 
 sorrows. Besides, Doctor, in a few days I shall have ceased to be 
 an object of curiosity for the inhabitants of this town." 
 
 " How ? Are you intending to leave it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I mean to go to live in Paris." 
 
 " For a long time ? " 
 
 " Yes, probably." 
 
 " That vexes me, for I have much pleasure in seeing you ; and 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 19 
 
 I flattered myself that you think well enough of me to believe that 
 I am quite disinterested." 
 
 M. Guerreville took the Doctor's hand, and pressed it affec- 
 tionately as he replied, — 
 
 "Yes, certainly, I believe it; and I also enjoy your society." 
 
 "And then," said the Doctor, "you know that your condition 
 improves a little ; and I had flattered myself that I should have 
 been able in the long run to have cured you of your melancholy." 
 
 " Oh ! never, never ! There are aches which one cannot forget ; 
 and besides, it is not melancholy with me. There is no hatred of the 
 world ; it is — that I love better to think of what has caused my 
 suffering than to distract my mind from it.' 
 
 " But it is possible that I may also go to settle in Paris. You 
 know that I have often said to you that I don't much like residing 
 in this little town. In case I should go to Paris, would you allow 
 me to come and see you ? " 
 
 " I should even beg you to do so, as I don't like living in hotels. 
 I shall seek to obtain rooms ; when I shall have fixed on these, 
 T shall send you my address." 
 
 " You promise that ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 The Doctor rose, he shook again M. Guerreville's hand, and 
 said good-bye. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BALL AT THE SOUS-PRilFETURE. 
 
 The evening of the charivari had formed an event in Chateau- 
 Thierry. The discretion of the Doctor had been confided in, and every- 
 one who had been present that evening at Madame Blanmignon's 
 had promised silence on the adventure. And thus it was that the 
 next day about noon everyone in the town was informed of what had 
 taken place the evening before at Madame Blanmignon's reception. 
 Those who had not taken part in the interrupted charivari did not 
 fail to criticise it very severely. According to them, the proposal 
 of M. Vadevant was a shocking idea, arid far from lending herself 
 to it, Madame Blanmignon ought to have prevented its execution. 
 
 Then, as the smallest events in passing from mouth to mouth 
 become like a ball of snow, it soon came to be said that M. 
 Vadevant and many gentlemen of the party had run through 
 the town all night, making an infernal din. They had heard 
 it. Many old women were certain even that they had seen the 
 pans, the hammers, and the clubs, and even some firearms. 
 Their intention was to deafen the respectable M. Guerreville 
 (all the town knew that M. the Sous-Prdfet had gone to visit the 
 stranger) ; the conduct of the charivarists was so blameable that 
 
20 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 the interesting unknown became ill ; and that the horrible noise 
 they made in front of his house irritated his nerves, heated his 
 blood, and would perhaps cause his death. 
 
 And as each one made commentaries upon the story, Vadevant 
 met nothing but severe looks. His acquaintances turned their heads 
 away so as not to salute him ; they appeared to avoid him like a 
 leper. He had sought to excuse himself by saying, — 
 
 "I only carried a warming-pan, and, besides, we never went 
 outside Madame Blanmignon's door." 
 
 They replied to him, — 
 
 " You put into your warming-pan fifty pounds weight of iron. 
 You did go out ; the whole town heard you. What a thing to do 
 to this man, and a friend of the Sous-Pre7et's too ! Oh, it is un- 
 pardonable ! " 
 
 "Vadevant, despairing, stayed indoors for a week, not daring even 
 to show himself at his window. He took physic to make people 
 believe he was ill, and to render himself interesting. 
 
 M. Desboulleaux was really indisposed, and obliged to drink 
 rice water for a fortnight. 
 
 Madame Blanmignon suspended her receptions, and for three 
 days forgot to paint her hair, her eyebrows, or her cheeks. 
 
 The other compromised people abstained from showing them- 
 selves in society. 
 
 Lastly, M. Boullardin, who had first given the nickname of Bear 
 to M. Guerreville, countermanded a new dress coat for which his 
 tailor had taken his measure. 
 
 "What had besides increased the fright of the people implicated 
 in this affair was that it was known that M. the Sous-Pref et had 
 been told about it, and had sent for Doctor Jenneval to give him, 
 doubtless, the fullest particulars. 
 
 Soon another piece of news came to disturb their minds, M. 
 the Sous-Prefet was about to give a grand ball. Usually the 
 people in Madame Blanmignon's circle had the honour of receiving 
 invitations to the Sous-Prefeture ; but this time it was said, 
 certainly those who allowed themselves to insult the Sous-Prefet's 
 friend will not be asked to the ball. 
 
 In fact the invitations arrived for the selected persons, and the 
 charivarists received none. 
 
 "We are going to the Sous-Prefet's ball," one gentleman said, 
 impressively, before MM. Vadevant and Desboulleaux ; " it will be 
 superb they say ; and picked society, the very best — not a single 
 person who has a spot on his character." 
 
 The disgraced unfortunates retired with hanging heads and 
 drooping noses ; some even wejjt when they got home. 
 
 But some days afterwards all those who had not dared to show 
 themselves before, lest they should be laughed at, reappeared, 
 radiant and bright, with their heads in the air, and a smile on their 
 lips as formerly. 
 
 They could allow themselves to be seen now ; they had received 
 also their invitation to the ball at the Sous-Pr6feture ; they ran 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 21 
 
 everywhere telling this ; they spoke only about it, except saying 
 such things as these, " It will be splendidly arranged — picked 
 society — very distinguished — " 
 
 The others were surprised, amazed ; they said among themselves, 
 " This is singular ! How can it be ! M. the Sous-Pre'fet condescend 
 to invite them ! But let us wait ; perhaps some good lesson is 
 reserved for them at the ball." 
 
 Meanwhile they made great preparations of the toilet; the last 
 invited especially wished to be magnificent, to do honour to the 
 Sous-Prefet's ball. 
 
 M. Boullardin had anew ordered his dress coat, and he wished 
 to have also velvet trousers, in spite of his wife's representations 
 that this would conceal too many of his graces. - 
 
 What also piqued curiosity was that M. Guerreville, in spite of 
 his taste for solitude, would perhaps go to the ball of his friend the 
 Sous-Pre'fet. Never had a day been looked forward to with as 
 much impatience ; never had a fete caused so much emotion, or 
 given room for so many conjectures. 
 
 At last the great evening arrived. People went in superb style 
 to the Sous-Prefeture ; some of the invited had not very peaceful 
 minds, and it may be guessed that those were the charivarists. 
 Yet they put a good face on it, and always affected to have a smile 
 upon their lips. M. the Sous-Pre'fet did the honours of his ball 
 with much grace ; he was amiable with everybody, the timorous 
 hearts became reassured, and besides M. Guerreville, the mysterious 
 stranger, was not there. 
 
 The dances began. Vadevant took up his position, and did not 
 leave it. He asked the plainest ladies, and leapt about like a panther 
 — all this to put himself into the good graces of the Sous-Prefet. 
 M. Boullardin believed that it would be to his interest not tc 
 allow a plate of ices or cakes to pass without taking some; even 
 the timid Desboulleaux made an effort over himself, and attempted 
 a galop, but he so trod upon his partner's feet that she had 
 enough of it before she had made the round of the room. 
 
 Doctor Jenneval was at the fete. He did not dance, but he 
 walked and observed. He smiled often, especially when he saw M. 
 Vadevant dancing. 
 
 Everything passed off well ; the ball was very animated, and 
 promised to be more so, but dancing had been stopped to place the 
 ladies at an immense table upon which the supper had been served 
 with profusion, and gaily lighted up. All the ladies were seated, 
 the gentlemen standing behind them, admiring the view, whils 
 waiting still better to admire the supper. M. the Sous-Prefet did 
 the honours of the table, and listened on all sides to compliments 
 on the elegance of his fete. 
 
 A little gentleman, rather plain and clumsy, and who had 
 flattered himself by seeing Madame Blanmignon's circle mystified, 
 slipped behind the chair of the host, and, seizing a moment of 
 silence, when the clatter of forks and knives had somewhat ceased, 
 began to say in a loud voice, — 
 
22 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " M. the Sous-Pr6f et, your soiree is delightful ! But I came 
 expecting to meet M. Guerreville here, for I have been told that 
 that gentleman has the honour of being one of jour friends — " 
 
 These words produced a lively sensation upon the company. 
 Some raised their heads, looking up and waiting with curiosity 
 for M. the Sous-Prdfef s reply ; others lowered their eyes, blush- 
 ing, and not knowing how to keep their countenance. 
 
 Vadevant buried his chin in his cravat, wishing that he could 
 conceal his face. Boullardin capsized his snuff-box over his wife's 
 shoulders, behind whom he had planted himself ; Madame Blan- 
 mignon put a teaspoonful of Russian "Charlotte" to her nose 
 instead of her mouth. And lastly, Desboulleaux allowed a piece 
 of compote, which a lady was kindly passing to him, to drop upon 
 her dress. 
 
 "Ah, you know that M. Guerreville is one of my friends at 
 last," said the Sous-Prefet, casting a severe look around the 
 party. 
 
 The plain little man saw that he had committed a mistake, and 
 murmured between his teeth, — 
 
 " Oh, I know ; that is to say, M. the Sous-Prefet has told me — I 
 believe I know — although I am not quite able to affirm it." 
 
 " Ah, well, you are not mistaken ; I have known M. Guerreville 
 for a long time. I was ignorant of his residence in the town, and 
 was charmed to find him here. I should have been flattered, I 
 confess, to have had him at this gathering ; but M. Guerreville 
 resisted my pressing invitations, and after the few remarks he 
 made, I felt I could not insist. Besides, I understand that there 
 had been regarding him some unfortunate pleasantries in our town 
 about him." 
 
 At this point Boullardin laid his hands upon his wife's shoulders, 
 not having strength to support himself, and Yadevant again buried 
 his chin in his cravat. 
 
 The Sous-Prefet continued, — 
 
 " I don't see why a man should be a butt for the sarcasms of 
 society because he desires to live in solitude. We have had men 
 of much merit who have not enjoyed society." 
 
 " Jean Jacques Rousseau could not suffer it," said Vadevant, 
 coming a little out of his cravat. 
 
 " And one is not always a bad man," replied M. the Sous- 
 Prefet, " because one flees from society ; but there are some people 
 who, for the sake of a jest, would slander their father." 
 
 Boullardin was pulling his wife's ears at this moment ; he did 
 not really know what he was doing. 
 
 "I have even been told that they had got up a charivari to 
 force my friend Guerreville to leave our town." 
 
 Here all eyes turned on the people who had been at Madame 
 Blanmignon's. Vadevant did not see more than his nose. A 
 general silence fell ; the forks, spoons, and mouths remained all 
 inactive. 
 
 The Sous-Prefet went on in a severe tone, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 23 
 
 "But I don't want to believe such a story. How could one 
 suppose that people of fashion, well-educated men, could have had 
 the design of committing such an action — so blameable — and to 
 make its victim one who had never done anything to them, who 
 was quite unknown to them, and who perhaps, by his position in 
 society, had a right to their respect and consideration." 
 
 The Sous-Prefet dwelt with emphasis upon these words. Doctor 
 Jenneval bit his lips to keep himself from laughing, and around the 
 table there was whispered, " The unknown is a great personage — a 
 former minister, a plenipotentiary agent, a general, an ambassador, 
 a count, a duke, a prince." 
 
 " I repeat it ; I don't believe anything of the sort," the Sous- 
 Prefet went on, with an amiable air. " Out of a simple jest people 
 would make something horrible ; but I detest slander. Unite and 
 forget is my motto ; and as I desire especially to see union and 
 peace reigning in our little town, I hope that there will be no more 
 talk about this affair." 
 
 These words brought back gaiety to every countenance. Vadevant 
 drew his chin completely out of his cravat ; Boullardin released the 
 ears of his wife, promising to purchase her a beautiful pair of 
 earrings to recompense her for the damage he had done, and 
 Desboulleaux promised himself to risk a second galop if he could 
 find a partner who was willing to trust herself to go round the 
 room with him. The ladies quitted the table, the gentlemen took 
 their places, and did as much honour as they could to the supper. 
 They drank the Sous-Prefet's champagne, and M. Boullardin, who 
 desired to put himself into the host's good graces, rose glass in 
 hand and said, " To the health of M. the Sous-Prefet and his august 
 family." 
 
 This toast was responded to with all the enthusiasm which 
 champagne can supply. Then these gentlemen returned to the 
 danclhg-room, and the waltzes and galops began again. There 
 was such a mad gaiety that no one would have believed that there 
 would be any more trouble, since the Sous-Preiet had pronounced 
 these words, "to unite and to forget." Splendid words indeed, 
 which everyone ought to meditate upon and to practise ; but there 
 are so many things which ought to be done, and which are not 
 done. 
 
 This brilliant and joyous evening must however finish, as all 
 things must come to an end. It is always so with amusements. 
 If one were to amuse oneself too incessantly, one would grow weary 
 of it. Evil is by the side of good, sadness is near gaiety, and 
 weariness close to pleasure. All this makes shade to the picture. 
 It would make a most monotonous existence if nothing were left 
 to desire. 
 
 Everyone got back to their homes ; the young people began 
 counting over the number of contre danses they had had, for oil 
 the day after a ball it is the greatest satisfaction to be able to say 
 to one's friends, " I have danced more than you." 
 
 The ladies recalled the effect produced by their toilets, their 
 
24 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 good looks, or some little words of which it wa3 quite useless to 
 make any confidence to their husbands. Those latter, on their side, 
 recalled, perhaps with some complacency, the effect of their gallantry 
 upon certain ladies. Each one amused himself in his favourite 
 way. 
 
 Now the favourite penchant of Vadevant was curiosity, and 
 as he went home and betook himself to the rest necessary 
 after a ball, he did not cease thinking of what M. the Sous-Prefet 
 had said when he spoke of M. Guerreville. He repeated those 
 words: He is a man who, by his position in the world, is entitled to 
 a regard, consideration, and respect. And Vadevant racked his 
 brains to find out what could be the rank of this personage. Doctor 
 Jenneval appeared to know, but the Doctor was very discreet, and 
 besides, on many occasions, he had joked at the expense of Vadevant's 
 curiosity. There was therefore no hope of knowing anything 
 through him. 
 
 Vadevant scarcely slept, and the next morning he left his card 
 for M. Guerreville, saying, " It can do no harm at least." 
 
 After some days, another card ; but that did not advance matters. 
 M. Guerreville had not even sent him his. 
 
 Vadevant was not a man to be repulsed ; he wished thoroughly 
 to make the acquaintance of the Sous-Prefet' s friend. He walked 
 several days in front of the house occupied by M. Guerreville. He 
 flattered himself that he would come out, and then he would 
 discover some means for engaging him in conversation. This hope 
 was deceived. M. Guerreville did not come out, and Vadevant got 
 nothing for his pains. 
 
 At last he decided to try a grand method ! One morning after 
 breakfast he dressed himself with much care, and betook himself 
 to make a visit to this mysterious man, into whose presence he was 
 burning to be admitted. 
 
 As he went along, Vadevant said to himself, — 
 
 " After all this man is too well bred not to receive me. I will 
 present myself under the pretext — devil take it, what pretext? 
 Ah ! I have heard it said that he wants to buy a house, and I know 
 a good many to sell, and once in his presence I shall engage him in 
 conversation. I flatter myself that I am quite as amiable as Doctor 
 Jenneval. This unknown will be delighted with my polite- 
 ness, and he will ask me to come and see him again. That will be 
 all right enough. Let me knock now. Vadevant knocked, for he 
 had meanwhile arrived before M. Guerreville's house. A big girl, 
 red and chubby, opened the door. 
 
 " Come," said Vadevant, " I don't know this servant, but I 
 prefer her to that big hulking valet." And smiling with an 
 amiable air upon the girl, he said, as he made a step forward, — 
 "Could I have the honour of speaking to your master. It is 
 about a matter which interests him ; and if I am not indiscreet as 
 to the hour — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir ; it is all right," said the servant. " Master is above 3 
 dining, but you can go up all the same — " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 25 
 
 " He is dining," said Vadevant. " I am afraid, then, I have 
 not selected a good time, and I can scarcely take the liberty — " 
 
 " Oh, go up, go up ; master is not put out by eating before 
 people. Go up to the first floor, you will find him there." 
 
 Vadevant at once mounted the stair, charmed at the ease 
 with which he had obtained access to M. Guerreville, and regret- 
 ting that he had not come before now. When he got to the first 
 floor, he found himself on a landing, and did not know which door 
 to enter. He listened a moment, the sound of bottles guided him. 
 He arranged his cravat, his neck, and took off his hat ; then, open- 
 ing a door and bending low, he murmured, — 
 
 " A thousand excuses, sir, if I am inopportune." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! Who is this who is making his thousand excuses 
 there ?" replied the hoarse voice of a man, who was stout, and whose 
 face was blackened by charcoal, and who, seated at table, was 
 emptying his- third bottle. 
 
 Vadevant raised his eyes, saw the man who was before him, 
 and became red with anger as he saw that he had bowed low to 
 a man wlnjm he would not have spoken to on the street — a big 
 countryman, known in the town for his drunkenness, and who had 
 amassed, by selling charcoal, the fortune which he was now 
 drinking. 
 
 " It is M. Guerreville I asked for !" cried the little man, draw- 
 ing back rudely, and replacing his hat ; " I have certainly no 
 business with you." 
 
 " Well, then, why on earth do you come to me ? But it's all 
 right. Will you have a drink ? " 
 
 " M. Guerreville no longer lives here, then ? " 
 
 " Who is the gentleman you name ? " 
 
 Vadevant impatiently left the room and went down, saying to 
 the servant, — 
 
 " Why did you allow me to go upstairs ? It was M. Guerre- 
 ville I asked for. I don't require any charcoal ! " 
 
 " You didn't say that ! You asked me for my master." 
 
 " Your master ! But do you know where the person has gone 
 who lived here before you ? " 
 
 " Ah ! the gentleman who was here with his man-servant ? " 
 
 "Yes— well?" 
 
 "They have gone to Paris — at least, I heard so." 
 
 " Gone to Paris ! " cried Vadevant, moving away. " I have 
 come here too late. It is all the same, however ; I shall go to 
 Paris too. I shall make a journey thither to find this M. Guerre- 
 ville." 
 
26 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CERTAIN "NOTICE S." 
 
 A few days after the conversation he had had with Doctor Jenneval, 
 M. Guerreville had ordered George to pack their boxes, and the 
 next day a post-chaise took them to Paris. 
 
 During the journey, George, who was in the carriage with his 
 master, had allowed some exclamations of joy to escape him, but 
 he had repressed them immediately, lest he should displease M. 
 Guerreville. George had never been in Paris. Born in Brittany, 
 and enrolled as a soldier, his regiment had not once been in 
 garrison in the capital during all the time that George had carried 
 a musket ; then he had gone into M. Guerreville's service at the 
 time he, after a long course of travel, had come to live in Chateau- 
 Thierry, where they had passed three years. 
 
 , Every time they stopped to change horses, George cast looks 
 all around him, trying to see some sign of his approach to the 
 great city. But Paris is not heard from a distance like the sea, 
 and often, at half a league from the capital, all is silence, solitude, 
 and poverty. 
 
 Fortunately for George, the journey from Chateau-Thierry to 
 Paris was not long. The ex-soldier soon saw himself in the midst 
 of a new world ; the shops, the carriages, the passers-by, all 
 astonished him, stupefied him. He thought himself intoxicated 
 when he entered along with his master a fine hotel in the Bug 
 Richelieu. 
 
 M. Guerreville took rooms which looked out on the street, ana 
 George said to him, — 
 
 " Monsieur will not feel so comfortable here ; he loves quiet 
 and solitude ; he will not repose well." 
 
 And the next morning, when he went into his master's room, he 
 said to him, — 
 
 " Monsieur has not slept well ; there has been too much noise 
 on the street." 
 
 " I am quite accustomed to the noise of Paris," replied M. 
 Guerreville, smiling. " My poor George, I was born in this city ; 
 and its noise, society, and its pleasures for a long time were my 
 delight. That surprises you, George, because now I am sad and 
 sedentary. You have a difficulty in believing that I was once gay 
 like other young men whom you see passing along, and whose sole 
 occupation seems to be to laugh at everything they see. But I was 
 also young ; and I was no better than my neighbours — perhaps 
 not so good — and I did not try to appear better than I was ; and it 
 is a fault not to conceal one's defects. There are some people, 
 however, who give themselves virtues they do not possess ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville appeared as if he were speaking to himself, and 
 making reflections aloud to his servant. Nevertheless George 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 27 
 
 listened respectfully, and waited till his master should finish to 
 ask if he would breakfast. 
 
 M. Guerreville hastened over his dressing, and to George's great 
 surprise, after having breakfasted, he took his hat and went out. 
 
 " It seems that we are not going to lead the same life here as at 
 Chateau-Thierry," said George to himself, as he saw his master 
 disappear. " We are no longer to live like the wolves. I like this 
 better ; it is more pleasant to smoke in company." 
 
 M. Guerreville's intention, indeed, was not to live retired in 
 Paris. When he fixed to go to live in that city, he still wished to 
 seek for a person, news of whom he had not heard for a long time. 
 This person he had sought for in Paris, and then in different 
 countries. He had travelled for three years in the hope of finding 
 him, and, despairing of being able to do so, he had retired to 
 Chateau-Thierry, where, during three years, given up to his sorrows 
 and weariness, he flattered himself that some day good news would 
 bring all his troubles to an end ; but after a long and useless wait- 
 ing, he had been unable to resist the desire to return to Paris, for 
 everything made him believe that she whom he sought would be 
 found there. There is an old proverb which says, " Seek and ye 
 shall find" The proverb is essentially false, for I have sought for 
 a thousand things without being able to find them ; and yet I beg 
 you will believe that I did not run after the philosopher's stone, or 
 the water of Jouvenel. M. Guerreville was no longer happy, and 
 he said, — 
 
 "How can there be found in Paris one who conceals herself 
 there under a name which is not known ? How shall one proceed 
 in this immense city, where at every moment one may pass, with- 
 out knowing it, the very dwelling of the person he asks ? " 
 
 He made these reflections as he walked through Paris in a 
 chance way ; his eyes every moment fell on bills affixed or 
 scribbled in front of houses. He thought he should not stay in a 
 hotel, and that he should therefore seek rooms ; then he thought 
 also that, to discover someone in a large city, bills were excellent 
 auxiliaries, and he gave thanks to Providence who had thus 
 suggested a means he had not thought of. And then, besides, to 
 visit apartments " to let " would both be a pastime, and an oppor- 
 tunity of inspecting singular pictures : to an observant man this is an 
 excellent means of becoming informed on many points. When you 
 have nothing to do, when you move about with no fixed purpose, 
 when you wish to distract your mind, and you don't feel courage 
 enough to attempt any other means, believe me, dear reader, this 
 is a good one ; it is quite innocent, is not costly, and does not 
 fatigue your limbs. In Paris there are always abundance of 
 lodgings to be seen. You will not move thirty steps in a street, or 
 on the boulevards, without observing some bills whose construction 
 is very amusing. I don't here speak of the orthography ! In Paris 
 one is not stopped by that small matter — the signboards will suffi- 
 ciently testify to that ! It matters little to those letter painters 
 what strangers think of our ignorance. Those gentlemen, who call 
 
28 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 themselves artists, are busy rounding or turning letters over shop 
 doors, but they don't trouble themselves about the grammar ; as so 
 much a letter is paid, they wish to earn the highest price, or write 
 epieier with two ps, two ses, and a t at the end ! 
 
 Let us return to the apartments to let. You will perhaps say 
 to me, I don't want to take rooms. What does that matter ? That 
 need not keep you from looking at the apartments. You see so 
 much as you move about in certain localities ! Inside pictures, — 
 family scenes, ladies in undress, sometimes better still ; then the 
 gentleman who has the fancy of being quite easy in his costume as 
 he works ; the young girl who is quite put out because her young 
 teacher is singing something else to her than the gamut ; and the 
 cook who grumbles as she leaves her roast, which will burn ; and 
 the annuitant who believes that lodging-seekers are nothing but 
 thieves (which is sometimes the case), and follows them through all 
 the rooms without letting them out of her sight for a moment, 
 then, when they are gone, she runs to assure herself that her watch, 
 her money, and her desk are yet in their places ; and the honest 
 poor, who dine from one very frugal dish, and use pewter covers. 
 Oh ! how annoyed they are to be found at table ; they take care 
 not to look at their covers which they conceal. We pass on without 
 having the appearance of observing their plate of potatoes, as they 
 say quite aloud, in an affected tone, " The fowl was very good ; 
 excellent, was it not ? " 
 
 Such are some of the things promised you by bills, and I 
 haven't quoted a hundredth part. Even without going inside, you . 
 can amuse yourself with the trifles on the doors. Here you read, 
 " Handsome rooms for a gentleman, with cellaret, furnished with 
 mirrors." Then further on, " Splendid apartments, with stable 
 and coach-house, newly furnished." Then another, " Finely furnished 
 room at the back, to be let for nine." 
 
 For many days M. Guerreville went out after breakfast, and up 
 till the dinner hour passed all his time in looking at apartments. 
 
 Let us stop in front of a house in the Rue Montmartre. Over 
 
 the gateway there are some bills. M. Guerreville enters, and sees 
 
 the porter's lodge on the left ; he knocks, no one answers, but he is 
 
 informed that he is to turn a glass knob. He opens, and passes in 
 
 his head ; he is tempted to withdraw at once, a smell of cabbage 
 
 and garlic have seized both his nose and his stomach. In a space 
 
 of five feet are two children, who roll about the floor, a woman 
 
 nursing a third, while she stirs a saucepan the while ; then an 
 
 ugly man, with a yellow and hideous face, who holds a boot in his 
 
 hand and hums, 
 
 " Give me back rny country, 
 Or leave rue to die 1 " 
 
 And yet M. Guerreville resolved to inhale the vapours which came 
 from the lodge, wondering at the same time how children could 
 live in such an atmosphere, and putting to the porter the usual 
 question, — 
 
 " What have vou to let in this house ? " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 29 
 
 The porter turned round from a board which he was using as a 
 bench, and like his kind began to " look over " his visitor. After 
 that he resolved to reply, — 
 
 " We have several locals, some large, and others small ; that 
 depends on what monsieur would like to pay. Wife, take care of 
 that child ; he will tumble into the pot." 
 
 In fact the porter's wife needed to look after her cabbage soup, 
 for her nursling, who had just left the breast, threatened to go to 
 keep company with an enormous piece of lard which floated on the 
 top of the water. 
 
 " Can I see the rooms ? " asked M. Guerreville. 
 
 "Certainly, sir. I shall conduct you, because the proprietor 
 insists that we shall ourselves conduct the persons — it is a weakness 
 on his part — and that we should show off the rooms. Wife, look 
 after the child ; he's fond of lard, the young monkey." 
 
 The porter left his boot, and making his way through the 
 rubbish on the floor, he came over to M. Guerreville, who could 
 not restrain a smile as he looked at the porter standing upright. 
 Seated, this man appeared to be of the ordinary height, but 
 standing up, he was no bigger than a broom. All his body was in 
 his back ; his legs and thighs were scarcely traceable, which did not 
 hinder the porter-cobbler from marching with the dignity of a 
 drum-major. 
 
 " Is it a furnished room monsieur desires ? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " Ah, good ! with cooking ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "Ah, good! My wife .... who is watching the little one 
 .... But monsieur has children ? " 
 
 At this question M. Guerreville could not repress a hasty move 
 ment, which frightened the porter ; then he replied dryly, — 
 
 " What does it matter to you whether I have children or not ? 
 Will your list of questions soon be done ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, for asking you this, but our proprietor does 
 not like children; he has the weakness of saying that they do 
 damage to a house." 
 
 " How does he keep you as his porter then ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is a true and quite proper remark ; but, you see, my 
 brats don't leave the lodge ; they are kept there, never outside the 
 lodge ; and they are as fond of cabbages as little rabbits in their 
 hutch. Will you come, sir ? My wife takes good charge of the 
 little one." 
 
 M. Guerreville followed the porter, who at last resolved to 
 ascend the staircase. They got to the first landing. The porter 
 stopped, and said with a mischievous air, — 
 
 "It is here — hold ! You see that plate on the door ? It's here 
 that an attorney resides. On this side is the office where the clerks 
 work — oh ! just like so many horses, as my wife says, who some- 
 times takes gruel to the young men. They take a lot of it, these 
 young fellows do. They have colds frequently ; but the master 
 
30 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 works likewise — doesn't he ! He is quite a young man still ; but 
 he makes a great deal of money. He has just married — and he would 
 pay for his office with his wife's dowry — a little girl who is not 
 too pretty and not too good. I hear her often from my lodge cry- 
 ing after the cook in a rage. Ah ! it is most laughable. Besides, 
 her husband, the attorney, has not the gayest air he might have. 
 Some say he is tired of his wife. Ah ! he was so gay before he. 
 became an attorney : he was the first clerk in the office, and he 
 sang all day, and even wrote vaudevilles for the opera. He doesn't 
 sing any more now ; but he has a fine armchair with red leather, and 
 a dressing-gown of pure Persian silk, my wife says." 
 
 M. Guerreville listened to all this with the most exemplary 
 patience, and like one who, in the hope of hearing news which in- 
 terests him, resolves to talk with some wretched babbler. 
 
 The porter had nearly trotted out his horse thoroughly, and he 
 was continuing his talk, when the office door opened. A young man 
 came out with a bundle of papers under his arm, to whom the con- 
 cierge said, — 
 
 " M. Benjamin, I shall be after you, immediately ; I have only 
 five or six nails to drive into your boots." 
 
 " Yery well, M. Fourre ; remember the promises you made me 
 for to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Yes, M. Benjamin ; the thing promised is the thing soled. I 
 only know that." 
 
 M. Fourre, as we now know that to be the porter's name, leaned 
 towards M. Guerreville, adding, — 
 
 " This is one of the ' horses ' of the office. Goodness ! how he 
 does trot about ! He uses up his soles to such an extent, and then 
 his heels ! He always wants me to put nails in them ; but that is 
 nonsense, it makes them last too long. Will you follow me, please ? 
 Ah, but somehow I am afraid my wife may not take care of the 
 baby!" 
 
 And M. Fourre bent half his body over the railing, crying out 
 loudly, " Athena'is, take care of the child ! " 
 
 They reached the second floor ; there the porter stopped before 
 a door, and was about to knock, when, as if reflecting, he turned to 
 M. Guerreville, saying, — 
 
 " Ah, by the way, have you any dogs ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Good ; but that is another weakness of the proprietor. He 
 says dogs make the stairs disagreeable ; he has an infinite number 
 of weaknesses that man. He made his wealth by selling firewood, 
 and he is more susceptible than a marquis of the purest blood. 
 But you will tell me we are all mortal. I shall knock." 
 
 " One moment," said M. Guerreville, " what is the apartment 
 you are to let me see ? " 
 
 " It is very fine, the largest, six rooms and a kitchen — with Prus- 
 sian grates. Twelve hundred francs, and a sou per franc for the 
 cleaning of the stair, which is separate." 
 
 " Is this lodging occupied ? " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 31 
 
 " Yes, by some very respectable people ; a husband, a wife, a 
 cook, and a little girl to hook madame's dresses, who has always 
 the appearance of choking. The husband ' plays ' at the Bourse, 
 according to what I have heard ; but as he is twenty years or more 
 older than his better half, who is young and pretty, that gives him 
 some uneasiness. That man has jealousy on the brain ! He some- 
 times returns quite strange-looking when I believe he has been at 
 the Bourse. There is even something vacant in his stare as he asks 
 me if anyone has been here. I always reply no, even when I ought 
 to say yes — the little woman is so generous ! She heaps presents 
 on my family — and then, you understand, we are all mortal. 
 Besides, the lady is fearfully annoyed at the idea of removing ; but 
 her husband wishes it, for he has remarked opposite a new 
 neighbour, a young man, dark, with moustaches reaching to his 
 neck ; and this young man is always at the window when madame 
 goes there. Ah me ! Well, it is a laughable affair." 
 
 The porter knocked : a young girl opened. M. Fourre removed 
 his otter-skin cap, and saluted her with a kindly air. 
 
 " Good day, Mamzelle Laide ; excuse me, Mamzelle Laide, but 
 can we see the rooms ? " 
 
 " Yes, M. Fourre" ; you may come in." 
 
 " I have your shoe. You know I am putting a point on the 
 pretty thing. Gracious, what a little foot you have to fit ! You 
 can just call it a foot, and that is all." 
 
 Mademoiselle Laide replied to this compliment by a burst of 
 laughter, and M. Guerreville entered the apartment. 
 
 They went through an ante-chamber, a dining-room, and then an 
 elegantly furnished drawing-room, without seeing anyone. This 
 appeared strange to the porter, who said to the girl, — 
 
 " Are your people from home ? I did not see them go out." 
 
 " Monsieur and madame are in the bedroom." 
 
 " Ah ! and it won't disturb them if we go in ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. I tell you it is monsieur and madame." 
 
 " That is right. You are always clever, Mamzelle Laide." 
 
 M. Guerreville hastened to declare that he did not care to see 
 the bedroom ; but already the porter had opened a door on the left, 
 and when he saw the gentleman and the lady he knew he should 
 find there, he drew back and knocked at the door, saying, — 
 
 " Can we enter ? Excuse us, it is for the rooms." 
 
 A gentleman of a certain age was seated some steps from a 
 young and pretty woman, whose only defect was that of being 
 rather stout, but whose regular features recalled those pretty faces 
 which Dubuffe has presented, perhaps a little too often, in his 
 pictures, which one is always glad to meet when they are 
 animated. 
 
 The lady replied with a pleasant air to M. Guerreville's low 
 bow and excuse for troubling her. The husband could not repress 
 a movement of impatience, and from his appearance one could see 
 he wished the lodging-hunters at the devil. M. Fourre looked at 
 them both, then smiled to Mademoiselle Lai'de. 
 
32 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 "There are five wardrobes, 1 ' said he to M. Guerreville, who 
 bowed, and was already passing out. 
 
 " It is all right/' said the latter ; " I don't require to see them." 
 
 " But you have not been in here, sir ; it is a dressing-room. 
 Can we enter, Mamzelle Laide ? " 
 
 " I repeat to you it is of no use," replied M. Guerreville, leaving 
 the room. 
 
 M. Fourre was obliged to follow him, which he did regretfully, 
 murmuring, — 
 
 " Ah ! poor dear man ! You know how to take rooms, you do ! " 
 
 "The kitchen is opposite," said he, aloud, when he found himself 
 on the landing with M. Guerreville. 
 
 " All right ; I know that it's the kitchen. I don't require to 
 see it." 
 
 " Diahle! you are not curious. As for me, if I were seeking for 
 rooms, I should even look under the beds. Well — this building 
 pleases you ? " 
 
 " I shall see — I shall think it over." 
 
 "The lady is very nice — is she not?— and generous, too. If her 
 husband had not been there, I am sure she would have given me 
 something. Between ourselves, it is a tyranny which the man 
 exercises. Would you now like to see the smaller rooms ? " 
 
 " Thanks, yes." 
 
 " Adieu, Mamzelle La'ide. Ah ! she has gone off ! It doesn't 
 matter, she is such a cat that lady's maid ! " 
 
 When they reached the third floor, M Fourre showed M. 
 Guerreville a door, saying, — 
 
 "That is not it; at this landing the locals stop. Here there 
 lives a city employ^ with his wife, people of a certain age ; the 
 husband goes out every morning at nine o'clock, and returns at 
 half -past four. He is all right ; for four years they have lived in the 
 house, and I have observed that there has not been five minutes' 
 difference in his going out and coming in — he is a very ' accurate 
 man.' In the evening he goes to the cafe' till nine o'clock ; on 
 Sundays alone he does not return till ten. The woman is exactly 
 like her husband, one may say his twin ; every day she goes to 
 market at eleven o'clock, and returns at twelve ; then you could 
 not get her to go out afterwards to see the Big Buffalo. Oh ! these 
 are what may be called most respectable people." 
 
 " And in front of us ? " said M. Guerreville, who did not appear 
 to be tired listening. 
 
 " In front are the rooms I am about to show you. There is 
 another song there ! They pull the cord about with them ! Con- 
 ceive of a big widow, who has two daughters, and who gives evening 
 parties, at which the young ladies play — a perfectly infernal chorus — 
 that thumping on the piano to which I could dance in my lodge. 
 They receive all sorts of society, and every evening the door must 
 be opened for those people. Yet, if she were generous, I say — we 
 are all mortal, you know — but I haven't seen the colour of her 
 money, and these parties sometimes go on till midnight ; they dance 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 33 
 
 and sing like people ' possessed' ; such folks are the death of porters. 
 It is said that the mother receives so much society in the hope of 
 marrying off her daughters ; but who would have them ? I am sure 
 she is as poor as Job, and she hasn't even a charwoman ; it is the 
 daughters who do everything — the cooking, the rooms, the boots, 
 and then, afterwards, this dancing, this thumping upon the piano, 
 to give them an appearance of virtuosi, as my wife says. Oh, that 
 does annoy me ! I shall ring now. Oh, by the way, have you got 
 any cats ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Ah, good ! because my proprietor has a dislike to cats, because 
 he says that this animal is not very good smelling." 
 
 M. Fourr6 rings as if he were about to break the bell. A 
 young person of twenty comes to open. She has her hair half done 
 up with a pin which has only three teeth ; she holds in one hand a 
 handful of curl-papers, and in the other a lump of bread and butter. 
 She is in her wrapper, although it is three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 " We have come to see the rooms," said the porter with an in- 
 solent air, and without even putting his hand to his cap. 
 
 " Ah, well, look at them," replied the girl, and went off eating, 
 leaving them where they had rung. 
 
 " That is scarcely polite," said M. Fourre\ " Fortunately, I know 
 every corner of the house. Come, sir, walk at your ease. You 
 needn't mind making a noise, for there is no one to annoy." 
 
 M. Guerreville followed the porter, taking notice of the in- 
 solence of the man to those who did not give him anything ; but 
 when he saw the way in which the rooms of the widow and her 
 daughters were kept, he thought there must be something true in 
 the observations of M. Fourre. 
 
 The dining-room was not swept ; in the middle of the room lay 
 shoes and crusts of bread ; on a table a large lump of hair besida 
 a bottle of English blacking. 
 
 M. Fourr6 kicked the boots out of his way, and looked at M. 
 Guerreville, murmuring, — 
 
 " Isn't this what I told you ? Pretty, is it not ? and so much pro- 
 priety ! If my wife were here, she would shake with indignation. 
 She could not feel a flea on her body without stripping herself as 
 naked as a glass till she found the creature. But we shall go now 
 and see the suite." 
 
 The porter opened a door ; it was that of the ladies' sleeping 
 chamber. The beds were not made, corsets and stockings were 
 lying on the chairs ; certain indispensable pieces of furniture, which 
 usually are hidden, were openly displayed. 
 
 M. Fourre drew from his pocket a white iron snuff-box, and 
 took several pinches with satisfaction, saying, — 
 
 "They say, with good reason, that tobacco is man's consoler. 
 Do you use it, sir ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville pushed away the snuff-box which was presented 
 to him, and the porter returned it to his pocket, saying, — 
 
 " You will have a cold in the head, then." 
 
 c 
 
34 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 A big lady of about fifty years of age, with an immense red 
 turban, as if she were dressed for a ball, but otherwise like one 
 about to walk out, was having her boots laced. The young person 
 who had opened the door was on her knees before the big lady, 
 having placed on the floor a lump of bread and butter, and was 
 perspiring greatly in order to make her mother's foot neat. 
 
 M. Guerreville murmured a few words of excuse, and was about 
 to retire ; but the stout mamma would not allow him, saying, — 
 
 " Stay where you are, sir ; the rooms are not swept yet ; but 
 you know what a household is ! Tighter, my dear, tighter. We 
 had a party last night — my daughter sang — and they have got up 
 late. Laura, you are not lacing it tight enough, my child. Look, 
 sir, see everything about you ; you don't annoy us." 
 
 And the stout mamma lifted her leg a little higher, so as to allow 
 to be seen a perfect mass of beef, then addressed herself anew to 
 her daughter, — 
 
 " Laura, is your sister at the piano ? She must go over that 
 Beniousky air again ; for she will be singing this evening before a 
 professor of the Conservatoire. What a new time for me ! what a 
 happy change ! Ah ! it is beautiful ! Good heavens ! it is fine. Lace 
 tightly, dear." 
 
 While the lady in the turban spoke, the sound of a piano was 
 heard in a side room. M. Guerreville would not remain in the 
 bedroom, although the stout mamma said to him, " Make yourself 
 at home, sir." He passed into the drawing-room. 
 
 A young person in curl-papers was at the piano, and sang to her 
 own accompaniment. The entrance of a stranger did not make her 
 stop ; on the contrary, she appeared to show off all her powers, 
 making the glasses ring. M. Fourre smiled with a mocking air as 
 he whispered, " Didn't I tell you I could hear it in the lodge ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville did not care to listen to the concert, and he went 
 off; while the stout mamma, who seemed anxious to follow him 
 up, appeared in one boot and one slipper, followed by her daughter 
 Laura, who had a fresh hunch of bread in her hand, and her mouth 
 full. 
 
 " Well, sir, how do you like this ? " asked the older lady, 
 addressing M. Guerreville, who, thinking she spoke of the rooms, 
 replied, — 
 
 " It is a little high." 
 
 " High ! " exclaimed she. " It is exactly as in the opera. My 
 daughter always goes by that." 
 
 " I beg pardon, madame ; I thought you spoke of these rooms. 
 Your daughter sings very well." 
 
 "Does she not, sir ? My daughters are both excellent musicians. 
 The elder always plays the castanets. This winter she was dressed 
 as an Andalusian to go to a Middle Ages ball of very high fashion ; 
 and the whole evening, while dancing, she never stopped playing 
 her castanets and making her arms go as if in a bolero — it was 
 delicious ! " 
 
 " I quite believe it, madame." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 35 
 
 ° I often give balls myself. When one has girls, one must take 
 them into society. My parties are very entertaining." 
 
 One could see that the stout mamma, led away by the dis- 
 tinguished air of M. Guerreville, was burning to ask him to her 
 parties ; but he did not give her time, and, bowing deeply, he 
 went out, followed by the porter, while the younger daughter 
 banged the piano, and the elder one ate her bread and butter. 
 
 " Is not this a funny world ? " said the concierge when they were 
 on the landing. 
 
 M. Guerreville contented himself with smiling and replying, — 
 
 " Is this all you have to show me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for I suppose you would not care to live on the fourth 
 floor — what is really the attics — beside Monsieur Flutmann, a 
 journeyman tailor — a decent fellow — a German. He certainly has 
 the weakness of playing the flute. Whenever he comes in, he lays 
 hold of his instrument. Fortunately, he returns late, and goes out 
 early ; except for that, one would have nothing ringing in their ears 
 
 but 
 
 ' Hemember our sorrows,' 
 
 for he always plays the same air." 
 
 M. Guerreville did not think it necessary to go higher, so he 
 began to descend, and the porter followed him, saying, — 
 
 " Beside Flutmann, we have an artist ; but in a good style — a 
 painter. I recommended him here. I know him very well. He 
 is what may be called a true artist." 
 
 "Of what sort?" 
 
 " Oh, of all sorts. It's quite the same to him. He does portraits 
 in oil, signboards — whatever is wanted. He is a man who loves 
 his art as I love a satin shoe. He is very talented. He has painted 
 the portrait of my youngest child at his mother's breast. It is a 
 speaking likeness ; it makes me ready to weep." 
 
 They were nearly at the foot of the staircase when the porter 
 said, — 
 
 " As to the small room to let, it is occupied by a pretty woman 
 — I say woman, or girl, although she calls herself madame. But 
 we men who know the world know what to believe ! A young man 
 comes often to see her. It is quite a romantic history — a woman 
 seduced, who conceals herself under a false name — it is so common 
 in Paris ! " 
 
 For a moment or two M. Guerreville had been listening atten- 
 tively. At last he turned to the porter, saying, — 
 
 " What is the age of this woman ? " 
 
 " What age ? Oh ! she is quite young yet, but her face is wearied- 
 looking already. She has, I am certain, some trials, because the 
 young man has not come so often of late. I observe all that with- 
 out appearing to do so." 
 
 " Is she distinguished-looking ? " 
 
 " How do you mean % " 
 
 " I mean to ask if she is a workwoman, or has any trade ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about her." 
 
36 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Take me to see the rooms, please 1 " 
 
 M. Guerreville had already gone up to the next landing, and the 
 porter followed him, murmuring, — 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! but I am beginning to get a little tired of march- 
 ing up and down this house. Then you say that you want large 
 apartments, and now you wish to see two little poky rooms ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville went on without paying any attention to the 
 porter's reflections, as the latter went on saying, — 
 
 " Wait for me, at least, please." 
 
 When they reached the fourth landing, M. Fourr6 was about to 
 renew his observations, but M. Guerreville did not give him time. 
 
 " Where does this young woman live ? " cried he in an altered 
 voice, and shaking the porter's arm roughly. 
 
 " This young lady ? This is her door ; that is Flutmann's over 
 there." 
 
 " Knock, then, at once — knock ! " 
 
 These words were said in a tone which allowed the porter to 
 hesitate no longer. He bowed, and taking off his hat, knocked at the 
 door he had pointed out, without daring to utter a word. 
 
 A kind of charwoman opened the door. M. Guerreville saw 
 quite well it was not the mistress of the house ; he muttered some 
 words as to the motive which had brought him there, and without 
 waiting for an answer, without knowing whether it was indiscreet 
 to enter or not, he passed through one room, then through a small 
 lobby, and reached a little room where a young lady was seated in 
 front of the fireplace. 
 
 At M. Guerreville's abrupt entrance the young woman turned 
 her head towards him ; he could easily see her features ; but al- 
 ready the fire which had animated his countenance had disappeared, 
 to give place to an expression of sadness and disappointment. He 
 let his head fall on his bosom as he murmured, — 
 
 "It is not she!" 
 
 " Well, sir, are you going to look at the rooms ? You won't have 
 time to see anything, if you don't mind." 
 
 It was M. Fourr6 who spoke, and who was astonished at the 
 abrupt manner in which M. Guerreville had gone into the inner 
 room ; but after having made some excuses to the young lady, M. 
 Guerreville paid no attention to the concierge, but hastened to quit 
 the small rooms. 
 
 " It appears to me, sir," said Fourre\ " that it was scarcely worth 
 while to make me go up four flats, and to go into that lady's rooms, 
 and then to leave without having looked at anything ! I believe 
 you couldn't tell if there were any cupboards in the place. You 
 will say that we are all mortal ; but I have my soup to eat now ! " 
 
 " Another destroyed hope ! '" said M. Guerreville sadly, as he 
 supported himself for a moment on the railing of the stair. 
 
 "You have destroyed something, do you say, in the young 
 ladies' room ? — broken a pane of glass, perhaps ? ■ 
 
 M. Guerreville began descending the staircase without replying 
 to the porter. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 37 
 
 CHAPTER V. % 
 
 * THE LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 A little girl of about six was mounting the staircase at the 
 moment when M. Guerreville put his foot out to go down. 
 
 The child was very poorly, and not very warmly, clad considering 
 the season — a cap of brown linen covered her head, a dress mended 
 in many places, and a black apron much worn made up her dress ; 
 and her feet, which were quite small, were already encased in 
 clogs. 
 
 The little one held in her arms a round four-pound loaf ; its 
 weight was too much for her, yet she appeared proud to carry it, 
 and looked at it with complacency. When she got to the landing, 
 she lowered her head as she caught sight of strangers, and went 
 towards another dark, little stair, like a mill-ladder, which was in a 
 corner of the landing. 
 
 M. Fourre" stopped the child, saying to her, — 
 
 " Ah, little one ! would you tell your father that the proprietor 
 wants his money ? Ha ! Jerome laughs at everybody because he 
 is sick. He believes that people will not think so much of the rent 
 days as they otherwise would ; but they will sell his furniture if he 
 doesn't pay. Tell him that from me." v. 
 
 The child looked at the porter, making a little moue, as if half- 
 ashamed, half -afraid ; then she disappeared quickly as she climbed 
 up the little staircase. 
 
 M. Guerreville, who at first had not paid any attention to the 
 child, looked at her when the porter spoke to her. He examined 
 that little face, so fair and rosy, those delicate and fine features, 
 around which played some ringlets of yellow hair. He was sur- 
 prised by the reflective expression which was spread over such a 
 youthful countenance. This little girl had neither regular features 
 nor vermilion cheeks. She was not one of those angels of whom it 
 is common to write about ; not one of those perfect heads which 
 painters love to put on their canvas ; she was only a little, pale, 
 delicate, serious-looking girl, whom many people would not have 
 remarked, and whom others, perhaps, would have thought even 
 plain, but who was charming for those who could read faces. M. 
 Guerreville remained for some moments pensive, then he turned 
 towards the little staircase. The porter ran to him, crying, — 
 
 " Hold, sir ! Where are you going ? That is not the staircase." 
 
 " I wish to see this Jerome, this poor man of whom you have 
 spoken ; the father of this little girl." 
 
 " You wish to go into that garret ? Ah ! well, it is another kind 
 of jest, I suppose. Do you mean to say that you wish to take a 
 wretched little hole, absolutely under the roof, with a window like a 
 snuff-box — a perfect cupboard such as I use to put my provisions in?" 
 
 " This box is then to let ? " 
 
 "To let, certainly, if anybody wishes it. You could easily guess 
 
38 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 that it is not likely to let to people of style ; and as to poor people, 
 they dogft't pay — witness that Jerome, the water-carrier. So the 
 proprietor is going to keep the place for himself ; he prefers to 
 reserve it for drying raisins or beans than to see it occupied with- 
 out getting anything for it. He is right, for it is very nice in 
 winter to eat those green haricots — they string them on a cord, you 
 know, like chaplets." 
 
 " Take me to this Jerome's," said M. Guerreville, making a sign 
 to the porter to pass on before him ; but M. Fourrd, on the contrary, 
 made several steps to the large stair, exclaiming, — 
 
 "I tell you that you shall not have a wretched room in the 
 attics ! Is it to amuse yourself ? But my lodge and my wife demand 
 my attention now ; let us go downstairs." 
 
 " Take me to this Jerome," repeated M. Guerreville, with a voice 
 already now shaking with anger, and casting upon M. Fourr6 an 
 angry look. 
 
 The porter then passed before him, and putting his hand to his 
 cap, murmured, — 
 
 " All right ; if you have never seen any garret, it is as curious 
 to see as any other thing. Take the trouble to follow me, then ; but 
 take care of hitting yourself, for one cannot see clearly here." 
 
 The porter went up by the little mill-like staircase, which was 
 so narrow that only one person could pass at a time. There was 
 neither rail nor cord to lay hold of, but as one rubbed the wall on 
 the right and left, one could not fall to the side. No light fell upon 
 the stair, which was very rough. 
 
 " What an infernal place ! " said M. Fourre, who knocked his 
 head just then against the wall. " It is a veritable breakneck 
 staircase." 
 
 " How can this little girl pass here without falling ? " asked M. 
 Guerreville." 
 
 " Oh, children, they are like cats, they can get hold of anything. 
 Take care, sir. We are at the top — stop — stop ! I shall knock, and 
 you will see more clearly when I open the door." 
 
 The porter knocked, and the door was opened. It was the little 
 girl who appeared, rather frightened at seeing the porter and the 
 gentleman, whom she had already met. 
 
 " We are going to see your father's room," said M. Fourre, with 
 a mocking air, and an emphasis on the word room. 
 
 " This way, sir ; but stoop, as this garret is low." 
 
 M. Guerreville followed the porter, and penetrated into a miser- 
 able room, whose wretched aspect vexed him to the heart. There 
 was no paper to conceal the walls and the roof, no curtains in the 
 sort of snuff-box window through which the light came — a wretched 
 pallet, a table, some chairs, a little buffet of white wood, which had 
 been varnished a little ; that was the whole furniture of the cham- 
 ber. But in a corner there were some planks from the floor to the 
 roof, to make a partition in the room, providing thus a little cabinet. 
 There was a child's little bed. This bed was in walnut- wood, quite 
 nice and shining ; it had a sort of canopy over it, and there were 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 39 
 
 around it curtains of green linen, which might shut in the couch, 
 and keep out the light which came straight down upon this cabinet. 
 
 A man of fifty lay in the bed which was in the room. His figure 
 and nervous arms appeared to indicate a vigorous man ; but his 
 complexion was yellow, and his eyes were red with fever. One 
 could see that he was suffering very greatly, but that he bore his 
 sickness with courage, with patience against the disease, and that 
 hope had not yet abandoned him. 
 
 After having opened the door, the little girl went and reseated 
 herself against the side of the sick man's bed, taking his hand, 
 which she kept in her own, while seeking to read in his eyes the 
 impression which was produced upon him by the unexpected visit 
 which he had received. 
 
 Jerome the water-carrier raised his head a little as if to bow to 
 the strangers, and put his hand to his cotton cap, saying, with a 
 very pronounced Auvergnat accent, — 
 
 " Excuse me, gentlemen, for not rising to receive you, but it is 
 not in my power ; I am not able." 
 
 " I should be much annoyed by causing you the least trouble, 
 my good man ; and if I thought that my presence here annoyed 
 you in any degree, I should not have come in." 
 
 The polite and friendly tone with which M. Guerreville uttered 
 these words astonished Jerome. He was quite astonished that a 
 man with the appearance and distinguished look of his visitor 
 should condescend to speak to him with so much kindness ; the little 
 girl smiled upon the stranger. Her fear was already dissipated. 
 
 M. Fourre, who had the appearance of not understanding how 
 one could be afraid of putting a water-carrier to inconvenience, 
 threw himself upon a chair, exclaiming, — 
 
 "Oh, it is abominable here ! Well, Jerome, are you so ill still?" 
 
 "Yes, goodness knows, M. Fourre; my strength seems as if it 
 would not return." 
 
 " It is annoying — more than annoying — for during all this time 
 you have not been able to work, or make any money, and the rent 
 is always running on." 
 
 " I wish I could run along with it," said the Auvergnat trying 
 to smile. 
 
 M. Guerreville felt a desire to pull the porter's ears, but he re- 
 frained, and approached the sick man. 
 
 " You have been ailing a long time ? " 
 
 " More than three weeks, sir. It is inflammation of the chest I 
 have had, I believe. But, notwithstanding what M. Fourre says, 
 I feel much better than I was, and soon I shall be able to recom- 
 mence my work." 
 
 " It is a rough life that of a water-carrier ! " 
 
 " Ah ! when one is engaged in it, he does not think so. One 
 must work. I was so contented when I gained what would support 
 us, and I could bring some toy to the little one ! " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! that was money well expended," said the porter, with 
 an important air, as he took a pinch of snuff. " To buy dolls, little 
 
40 The Monde ancC the Demi Monde. 
 
 toy houses for the child — how can people have weaknesses like that 1 
 And it wasn't playthings costing a couple of sous you bought — it 
 was splendid dolls at twenty-live sous ! " 
 
 " Well, M. Fourre, that was because I think nothing too good 
 for my Zizinette ! my little girl ! my little angel ! my little nurse 
 now ! Ah, I should have liked to buy her prettier things still ! " 
 
 " It would have been better to lay out that money in paying 
 your rent. We shall be obliged to put you to the door, and sell 
 your furniture, which is always so disagreeable in a well-regulated 
 house." 
 
 " Put me out ! sell my furniture ! " said Jerome, trying to raise 
 himself up, while a slight tint came over his pale cheeks. " How ! 
 you would have the cruelty — but I shall pay everything when I am 
 able to work." 
 
 " Calm yourself, my good man ! " said M. Guerreville, approach- 
 ing the bed. " Nothing of that sort shall happen. This porter 
 doesn't know what he says." 
 
 " I do know what I say ! " replied M. Fourr6, raising his head. 
 " You see this gentleman, who has not, as I have, the proprietor's 
 confidence, can tell you his intentions ! That is good ! " 
 
 Without even seeming to listen to the concierge, M. Guerreville 
 passed his hand over the little one's cheek, and while caressing it 
 eaid to the Auvergnat, — 
 
 " This is your only child ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you love her much, don't you?" 
 
 " Indeed I do. She is my little treasure. Poor child ! since I 
 have been ill, she has taken such care of me — given me drinks, gone 
 down to seek for bread, and done everything I ask her. She is 
 very young yet, only six and a half ; but there is already in her 
 little head more wit and understanding than in many older ones ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville made no reply, as he had fallen into reflection 
 again ; his head lay on his breast, and a deep grief was visible on 
 his features. 
 
 The water-carrier and the child looked at him with interest, and 
 did not dare to breathe. During this time the concierge had been 
 rummaging in the comers, and especially in the kind of cabinet 
 where the child's bed was placed. 
 
 At length M. Guerreville heaved a deep sigh as he said to 
 Jerome, — 
 
 " Your daughter is near you ; you can embrace her, and press 
 her in your arms. There are some people who would envy your 
 pallet — your poverty." 
 
 " Is it possible, then, that one can deprive oneself like that for a 
 child ? " exclaimed M. Fourre, drawing his head from behind the 
 planks. " There are three good soft mattresses in the little one's 
 bed, and here the father lies on a miserable palliasse ! " 
 
 " If that pleases me, M. Porter," said Jerome, impatiently. " It 
 seems to me that it is my own concern how I am to lie ; I don't 
 need anything very fine or delicate for myself. But this little one, 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 41 
 
 she must be carefully looked after, for she is so little, so fragile, that 
 the least thing would hurt her." 
 
 " Don't tell me that of one who isn't a prince's child ! I love 
 my children, but certainly I could not deprive myself for them. 
 So, sir, you have had time to see this room, and I must go down 
 now. You can have it for fifty francs — and we can put the green 
 haricots elsewhere." 
 
 "Does the gentleman wish to hire this room?" said Jerome, 
 looking at M. Guerreville ; but the latter contented himself by 
 making him a negative sign of the head. 
 
 "I don't know what the gentleman desires," said the porter, 
 11 but I know he has been here long enough to see the whole house, 
 and he doesn't seem inclined to go yet. Ah, heavens ! I believe 
 I hear my wife's voice in the court." 
 
 The concierge put his head over the little staircase. A thin voice 
 cried from the court, — 
 
 " Fourre" ! are they murdering you up there ? Come down at 
 once ! Fourre" ! " 
 
 " I am here, -*ny dear. I am just coming down ! " cried the 
 porter, bending his body forward ; but he returned, and looking at 
 M. Guerreville, he said, — 
 
 " Are you coming, sir ? " 
 
 But M. Guerreville didn't move; he was occupied looking at 
 the little girl's couch, and then he cast his glance over the room. 
 
 " At your service ! " replied M. Fourr6, shrugging his shoulders. 
 " If you want to talk to the water-carrier, don't trouble. As for me, 
 I have the weakness to desire to go down to eat my soup." 
 
 And the concierge went quickly down the staircase, hu mm ing, — 
 
 "My wife she is my glory, 
 Rose has such lovely eyes ! " 
 
 " You are a good father, M. Jerome ! " said M. Guerreville, 
 approaching the sick man, whom he shook cordially by the hana ; 
 then he made several turns through the room, stopped, and appeared 
 embarrassed, as if he wished to say something. 
 
 "It is, I believe, very natural to love one's children," said 
 Jerome ; "and then Zizine is my saviour— my guardian angel, my 
 poor wife used to say — and she was no fool, although she is dead 
 now ! " 
 
 " Your guardian angel ! What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " Ah, sir, I told you that this little one had saved my life." 
 
 " How — so young ? " 
 
 "That didn't prevent her. Listen. One evening I had gone 
 to bed, and was sleeping with my pipe in my mouth, which happens 
 very often with me. It seems that some sparks had fallen from 
 my pipe, and set fire to the woollen coverlet. I felt nothing ; I was 
 asleep like a stone — for I sleep soundly when I have been working 
 hard — and I believe I should have been roasted without awaking, 
 unless the little one, roused by the smoke, had run quickly forward, 
 with her small naked feet, and cried, 'Father, father, you are 
 burning ! ' and at the same moment her little hands tried to tear 
 
42 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 off the covering. You may well imagine that I was up in a moment. 
 I managed to put the fire out, with the loss of half the coverlet ; but 
 from that time I took an oath never to smoke in bed, and I have 
 kept it ; for that dear child would have been roasted along with 
 me. That would have been saddest of all !" 
 
 As he spoke, the Auvergnat drew the little one on his bed, and 
 embraced her. Then he added, — 
 
 " And you may guess, after that, that I bought her some fine 
 dolls. I let the world say as it likes, and please myself. Isn't it 
 so, Zizinette ? " 
 
 The child smiled as she said, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and I take great care of my doll. I sleep with it, 
 and I am going to make a dress for it, because there is a lady in the 
 house who has promised me some fine patches." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you are a good manager, and everybody in the house 
 loves you, except that porter, who says nothing but rude things to 
 you ! But if he ever dares to lay a finger on you, I shall break my 
 pails over his back." 
 
 " Your little one is named Zizinette ? " asked sm Guerreville. 
 
 "Oh no ! Her name is Caroline, but you see I oftener call her 
 Zizine, Zizinette — little pet names — and that imbecile of a porter 
 said to me the other day, ' Why do you call her Zizine ? It is not 
 French.' Ha ! wicked cobbler — they have well called him Fourr^ 
 for he would ' rummage ' about everywhere he could ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville passed his hand once more under the little one's 
 chin ; he threw a last look around him, then he stepped quickly 
 back from the bed, saying as he went to the door, — 
 
 " Adieu, my good man, adieu ! " 
 
 " I have the honour to salute you, sir ! " said the Auvergnat, as 
 he raised his hand to his cap ; " excuse me that I cannot see you 
 out!" 
 
 " But it is not quite light at your door," said M. Guerreville, 
 stopping at the top of the little staircase ; " if your child could 
 show me the way — " 
 
 "Oh, most willingly, sir. Go, my Zizine, and see this gentle- 
 man downstairs ; but take care you don't fall yourself ! " 
 
 The little girl went to the door, and was soon in front of M. 
 Guerreville. She went down the narrow staircase, saying, — 
 
 " Follow me, sir ; put your hand on the wall ! " 
 
 They were soon on the landing, when the child said good-bye to 
 the stranger, and was about to go up the garret staircase again, but 
 M. Guerreville stopped her, saying, — 
 
 " Listen, little one ; I have something to give you for your 
 father. Hold out your pinaf 01 e." 
 
 The child did as she was bid, and M. Guerreville, drawing out 
 his purse, emptied it into her pinafore, adding to it all the silver 
 and coppers in his pockets — the whole making about twenty 
 francs. 
 
 The little girl opened her big eyes when she saw this money ; 
 and as in spite of her tender age she knew that her father worked 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 43 
 
 hard for very little, she was quite moved, and her eyes filled with 
 tears as she murmured, — 
 
 "What, sir ! all that— all that for papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, my little one ; it will pay his rent, and when he is at 
 ease, he will get better soon. Take it to him." 
 
 The child made no reply, she did not even think of thanking the 
 gentleman, but dashed up the staircase, so anxious was she to give 
 her father the money. M. Guerreville judged the heart of the girl 
 most favourably, for the joy she would cause her father, and the 
 hope that health would return to him, were indeed her first thoughts. 
 
 M. Guerreville went downstairs, saying to himself, — 
 
 " If I have discovered nothing as to what interests me, at least 
 I have not quite lost my time in seeing the rooms in this house." 
 
 M. Guerreville got down to the court, where he found the 
 porter, who seemed to be watching as he ate his soup, walking 
 about his lodge. 
 
 M. Guerreville went on without stopping ; the porter, after 
 placing his porringer on a ledge, planted himself, between him and 
 the door, saying,— 
 
 " Ah, well, sir, you have doubtless decided on the rooms you will 
 take?" 
 
 As he said this, M. Fourre" held out his hand. 
 
 " I shall not take any rooms in this house," replied M. Guerre- 
 ville, walking towards the doorway. 
 
 " You won't take rooms — that is all very well — but it seems to 
 me that I have put myself about, and left my work — without any — 
 that is to say, you are too just to — " 
 
 And the concierges hand was still placed before M. Guerreville ; 
 but he, after having fumbled in his pockets, where he found nothing, 
 repulsed the arm that barred his passage as he left the house, 
 saying,— 
 
 " Ah ! that is most annoying ; but I have nothing on me ! " 
 
 M. Fourre" remained a moment stupefied and wrathful ; ab 
 length he gave a blow of his hand on his cap, exclaiming, — 
 
 " I am robbed as if I had been in a wood ! The idea of such 
 villany — a man well-dressed, too — to dare to tell me that he had no 
 money. Fie, fie ! It is indecent ; but this man, after all, I believe 
 he is a spy / " 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 A DAY OF MEETINGS. 
 
 Eight days after this adventure, M. Guerreville having found 
 rooms which suited him in the Eue de Helder, had it furnished 
 comfortably, and installed himself in it with his faithful George. 
 The day after his installation in his new domicile, and to fulfil 
 
44 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 the promise lie made to Doctor Jenneval, M. Guerreviile wrote him, 
 gave him his address, and engaged him to come and see him when 
 he should go to Paris. 
 
 Yet, although he had no longer need of finding a lodging for him, 
 M. Guerreviile continued none the less to visit houses on which he 
 saw written " Eooms to let," and everywhere, as with M. FourrS, 
 he made the porters talk, desiring to have some information rather 
 as to the lodgers than the lodging, which was nothing for him 
 but a pretext for seeking to find the person in discovering whom 
 he was occupied continually, 
 
 More than once M. Guerreviile had the desire to see Jerome 
 and little Zizine again ; but at the moment he was approaching 
 their house he said to himself, — 
 
 " If I go, that poor man will believe that I come to ask him for 
 his thanks for the little I have done for him." 
 
 And M. Guerreviile turned aside, thinking he would be better 
 to wait for Doctor Jenneval's visit, because he would beg the 
 Doctor to go and give his opinion as to the state of the poor man's 
 health. 
 
 One day M. Guerreviile was walking on the boulevards, casting 
 his looks, as he used to do, upon the house doors, seeking for 
 notices, when a lady, who came right opposite him, looked at him 
 a moment, and then ran towards him, crying, — 
 
 " I am not deceived ! It is you, Edouard ! it is indeed you 1 " 
 
 M. Guerreviile gazed at the lady, who seemed about forty, but 
 who was really more, and whose demeanour showed that her days of 
 coquetry were gone. Two brown eyes, very fascinating and tender 
 still, were fixed on M. Guerreville's with an expression which might 
 signify many things ; whilst he whom their language interrogated 
 appeared much moved by this meeting, and said rather coldly, — 
 
 " Yes, madame, it is I — you are not wrong ! " 
 
 " And I am so pleased to see you. It is such a long time since 
 we met. Ah ! that is to say, I have met you once, three or four 
 years ago, and you promised to come to see me — but you never 
 came. It was very bad of you to neglect your old friends ; but I 
 am so happy to have met you again. Ah ! how agitated I am — I 
 must be very pale — " 
 
 "You are really too good, madame !" 
 
 " Too good — ah ! yes — true ; I have always been too good, and 
 you know something of that ; but I never change, it is too late now. 
 Ah ! you don't ask me for any news of Agatha, your god-daughter?" 
 " Ah ! I beg pardon, I was just about to do so." 
 " Oh ! if you knew how pretty she is now, my girl — such a fine 
 figure, graceful and distinguished-looking — she is charming ! She is 
 the very image of someone of whom I have always thought — I — " 
 " What age is your daughter now ? " 
 
 " What age ! she is just eighteen. Somehow I think you might 
 recollect her age as well as I ; but, I see, you have forgotten. For 
 you, the past does not seem even to have left its memory S Oh ! 
 those monsters of men, they are so ungrateful ! n 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 45 
 
 This reflection was accompanied by a deep sigh, but M. Guerre- 
 ville appeared not to observe it, and replied, — 
 
 " And how is your husband ? " 
 
 This question appeared to annoy the lady slightly, who 
 answered in a rather piqued manner, — 
 
 "My husband is very well. Thank heaven M. Grillon is 
 never ill — I have never known him even feverish. He is such a 
 quiet man, and of such a happy disposition ; provided his dinner 
 is served at five o'clock precisely, everything else may go as it 
 likes. If he had not a wife of orderly habits and good head, like 
 me, to manage his affairs, I don't know what would have become 
 of him ! But here I am, fortunately, and I make up for my 
 husband's absurdities. And I believe that if I have some weak- 
 nesses to reproach myself with, on the other hand I only deserve 
 praise. I don't say this to excuse myself ; but what vexes me 
 most of all is your conduct to me. And really, because one is not 
 the most amorous person possible, that is no reason for forsak- 
 ing another utterly — can people not remain friends? Now, sir, 
 you promised that you would always entertain a friendship for 
 me." 
 
 While this was being said, a hand was gently advanced towards 
 M. Guerreville's, which took hold of it good-humouredly. 
 
 "Edouard, what have I done that you should have ceased 
 entirely to let me hear anything of you ? Did you never think of 
 Euphemia — of that poor Euphemia — whom you called Mimie ? " 
 
 "Good heavens, madame," exclaimed M. Guerre ville, thrust- 
 ing her hand roughly away, "when people are young, they say 
 things which mean nothing. If it were necessary to recall all the 
 follies of which one has been guilty, we should often astonish 
 ourselves." 
 
 Madame Grillon — or Euphemia — bit her lips, and was silent ; 
 she appeared, indeed, as if she wished to go away, but already 
 vexed with himself for the rough tone in which he had spoken tc 
 her, M. Guerre ville replied, — 
 
 "Pardon me, madame. Indeed, I am afraid I am not very 
 amiable. I make a bad response to your friendship, but you know 
 I have always been — a little — well — peculiar ! And since you have 
 seen me, certain vexations have so embittered my temper, that 
 often for a word, for the smallest thing, I have allowed myself to 
 go into an angry mood, and have become so impatient that I have 
 blushed for it afterwards. Ah ! my company is not very pleasant ! 
 I am no longer the Edouard you knew once ; and time has altered 
 my character more than my features." 
 
 "Ah ! you shall be always, for me, the only man who could 
 make my heart beat. I don't think you are changed. If you 
 would smile still, you would be always the same. You have had 
 sorrows, poor dear friend, but you have not confided them to me. 
 The last time I met you, four years ago, you may remember that 
 I could see a secret grief was vexing you, and I begged that you 
 would tell me what it was ; but you repelled my comfort." 
 
46 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " There are some sorrows which none can assuage, and which it 
 is better for people to keep at the bottom of their heart." 
 
 " But, good gracious ! what has then distressed you so terribly % 
 Have you had a reverse of fortune ? But no, I am certain such an 
 event would be supported by you with proper philosophy. You 
 are a widower, and the death of your wife might affect you deeply, 
 for I know that you loved her much, although often unfaithful 
 to her. But men are privileged to unite love with inconstancy; 
 it is a right they have arrogated, and which they constantly use. 
 In short, you loved your wife tenderly ; but she has been dead now, 
 I think, for ten years, and I have seen you since that, sorrowful, 
 but not despondent. You had a daughter, too — a daughter whom 
 you adored, and of whom you constantly spoke to me. Can any- 
 thing have happened to your dear Pauline ? " 
 
 At the name of Pauline, M. Guerreville's features quite changed, 
 a dark cloud covered his forehead, and his looks were bent on the 
 ground, as he murmured in a voice that was deeply moved, — 
 
 " No, no ! nothing has happened to my daughter, but for a long 
 time back she has not been with me — she is married." 
 
 " "What ! your daughter is married, and you have consented to 
 separate from her ? " 
 
 " It was necessary — it was for her good." 
 
 " Where does she live now ? " 
 
 " Far away — in Dauphine." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 " Oh ! I am in Paris, and mean to remain here for some 
 time." 
 
 " You are going to stay in Paris ? Have you no longer your 
 fine property at Orleans ? " 
 
 " Yes — but since my wife is dead, and my daughter is married, 
 I have wearied. That's why I have travelled about so long, and 
 now I wish to remain a little at Paris." 
 
 " Oh ! I am so pleased at that. I hope you will come and see 
 us ! You must not live like a hermit, nor fly from society ; and 
 your god-daughter, our little Agatha, have you no desire to see her, 
 to embrace her ? I have spoken to her often of her godfather — 
 poor little thing, it is about twelve years since she saw you. It is 
 fully that since you were at the house. She will, perhaps, not 
 recognise you ; but I know that she will fly to present her respects 
 to her godfather. My servant will bring her to you. My daughter 
 never goes out alone. You will allow her to come ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Yet, your husband ? " 
 
 " Oh, my husband ! You know well that he gives no orders in 
 the house, except about his dinner. Besides, M. Grillon likes you 
 very much, and will be delighted to see you again. He has often 
 asked me if I had heard anything of you, and he will be quite 
 delighted when I tell him you are in Paris. Give me your address, 
 then, for you will be able doubtless to come and see us ; but at least 
 I shall send my Agatha. I want you to see how pretty she is — 
 how much she resembles — But, gracious heavens ! I believe that 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 47 
 
 is all the same to you. Ah ! these men ! these men ! they are not 
 amiable long." ,-.,', 
 
 M. Guerreville drew from his pocket a card, on which he wrote 
 his name and address, and presented it to Madame Grillon, who 
 put it in her bag, saying to him, — 
 
 " Agatha shall go to embrace her godfather ; afterwards, from love 
 to the dear child, you will condescend sometimes to come and see us." 
 They parted then, the lady with a smile, which M. Guerreville 
 forced himself to return. 
 
 He went away thinking of the meeting he had had. The sight 
 of Madame Grillon had recalled an epoch in his life, in which 
 gallantry was conspicuous. Then women and love occupied all his 
 moments ; the sight of a new beauty always made new desires 
 arise, and led to new conquests. Then this man, whose appearance 
 now was only cold and severe, knew how to smile, to attract hearts, 
 and his frankness and vivacity had a charm which few women 
 could resist. 
 
 M. Guerreville could not restrain a little sigh as he recalled 
 this happy time in his existence, and yet, even if he could have 
 returned to it, this was not the happiness he would have liked 
 to enjoy. 
 
 When he was just about to enter his rooms, M. Guerreville 
 recollected that he intended to purchase some gloves ; he continued 
 his walk, and looked round to find a shop where his needs might 
 be supplied. He soon perceived a little establishment for perfumery 
 and haberdashery. He entered, a lady was alone, seated at the 
 counter. M. Guerreville scarcely looked at the seller, but asked 
 some gloves, and while the gloves were being sought for, he sat 
 down before the counter. 
 
 Some boxes were opened; the seller appeared quite troubled, 
 she mixed up the gloves of men with those of women, and confused 
 the colours, because she did not cease to look at M. Guerreville, 
 who took no heed to this, and was already buried in his own 
 reflections. 
 
 " Those will perhaps suit you ? " she at last said in a trembling 
 voice. 
 
 M. Guerreville stretched out his hand, but he felt it pressed 
 gently without any attempt to try the size of the gloves ; he raised 
 his eyes to the shopkeeper, and their looks met. 
 " Maria 1 " cried M. Guerreville. 
 
 " Yes, sir — yes, Maria ! You have come in here, then, without 
 knowing that this shop was mine ? " 
 
 " Who could tell me that ? And if I had known—" 
 " You would not perhaps have come in ? " 
 " Oh ! I don't say that." 
 
 " But — indeed I am persuaded of it. Chance has been favourable 
 to me, and I am much delighted that as you passed here you found 
 you needed gloves." 
 
 These words were pronounced with more sadness than annoy- 
 ance, and M. Guerreville was too embarrassed to reply. 
 
48 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 The lady was about thirty-six, a blonde, and very fine-looking. 
 An expression of melancholy spread over her features, and added 
 to their charm. Her figure was fine, elegant, and her appearance 
 youthful, and those who did not know her age would have been 
 convinced that the pretty perfumeress was not more than thirty. 
 Then, when they observed with her a tall young man, already 
 strong and finely built, whose features much resembled hers, they 
 would say, — 
 
 " This gentleman is your brother, I suppose, madame ? " 
 
 But the pretty perfumeress would embrace the big fellow 
 tenderly, and reply, — 
 
 " No — he is my son ! " 
 
 "Your son — but that is not possible — your son-in-law, you mean?" 
 
 " No ; he is my son. I am really his mother." 
 
 " Why, what is his age then ? " 
 
 " Nineteen almost." 
 
 " Good heavens ! can it be believed ? You, madame, have 
 already a son nineteen years of age ? You must have been married 
 very young ? " 
 
 And the exclamations of surprise recommenced, and were renewed 
 every time that Jules was in the shop, and whenever a new 
 customer arrived. Often, indeed, Madame Gallet was wearied by 
 all the wornout compliments she was forced to hear ; but she was 
 a merchant, and she was obliged to listen to everything with a com- 
 placent air. 
 
 That day the perfumeress' son was not in the shop, but his 
 mother would have desired his presence, and often bent her looks 
 on the boulevard in the hope of seeing her son. On the other 
 hand, she shunned looking into the back shop, where was a man of 
 about forty, with a long-shaped face, thin, and disagreeable-look- 
 ing, who puckered up his brows as he consulted books and verified 
 notes, without occupying himself in anything that passed in the 
 shop, so much did his work appear to absorb him. 
 
 M. Guerreville tried and chose some gloves. The lady at the 
 counter examined them, then lowered her eyes, or bent her looks 
 on the door ; but she seemed as if she did not dare to address 
 a word to him. 
 
 " It appears to me, madame, that you have a good business," at 
 last M. Guerreville said, looking around him. " This shop is 
 elegant— well furnished — and situated in a fine locality." 
 
 " When people pass their lives in working, one must try to lay 
 by something. To make money is my husband's one thought — in 
 that lies the sole motive of his actions." 
 
 " And otherwise — M. Gallet makes you happy ? " 
 
 " Happy ? Yes ; as much as I can be. He is never bad to me ; 
 but ever since we were married, eighteen years ago, I have never 
 asked him for one day of rest or amusement. I have always been 
 here, seated within a little counter, very often alone, and I have 
 been able to think at my ease, and my happiness was in that. My 
 souvenirs, always my souvenirs — " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 49 
 
 Maria's voice was broken by emotion, and one could see that 
 she had to force herself to keep back her tears. M. Guerreville 
 moved the gloves about in his hands ; he felt a little tender, 
 although he affected to have no appearance of that. He coughed 
 several times, walked up and down the shop, looked at the gentle- 
 man, who was absorbed in his books, and coming close to the 
 counter, he said in a whisper, — 
 
 " Have you not another comfort still ? " 
 
 Maria raised her head and looked at M. Guerreville ; a joyful 
 expression came over all her features, and she cried, — 
 
 " Ah, you have not forgotten him, then ? I wanted to see if you 
 would speak of him to me. That poor child — my idol, my treasure, 
 my son ! Oh, great heavens ! tell me, then, that you love him a 
 little, so that I may know the sweetest pleasure of a mother ; so 
 that my heart may again beat with joy ! Ah, yes ! haven't you a 
 desire to see him ? " 
 
 " Maria ! Maria ! ah ! take care — you will be heard." 
 
 " Oh, there is no danger ! He is verifying his memoranda. He 
 doesn't want to hear me. Besides, M. Gallet has never been 
 jealous. Could he be ? In marrying me, he knew quite well that 
 I carried within me the result of my weakness — of my love for 
 another. I concealed nothing from him. He has no right to 
 reproach me in any way, since I have not sought to deceive him. 
 He told me he was philosophical, and that he loved my child as if 
 he had been his own, and would give him his name. The fifteen 
 thousand francs you gave me removed all obstacles. As for myself, 
 I should have preferred not to marry, and remain alone with my 
 son ; but you thought I ought to marry M. Gallet, and I obeyed 
 you." 
 
 " It seems to me that you ought not to regret it. Your son has 
 now a name, you yourself have a position in life, and are considered 
 in regard to that position. Maria, the faults of youth are effaced 
 and forgotten through good conduct." 
 
 " Yes, but the happiness is effaced also. Indeed it must be so. 
 And you, sir, are you happy ? Ah ! I have often thought of you, 
 indeed I have always thought of you. And your wife ? " 
 
 " My wife is no more ; I lost her ten years ago." 
 
 "Your wife is dead ! How sad to die when one was so happy, 
 when one has nothing to desire, for you loved her, and she saw you 
 every day. Poor woman ! Ah ! I wish I had been in her place, and 
 been dead also. But have you any children ? " 
 
 " I had only one daughter — who — is — married — now. She stays 
 far away from me. It is for this I have come to live in Paris — 
 where I wish to employ myself, so as to distract my thoughts a 
 little." 
 
 " You will remain in Paris. Ah, well, if you allow it, my son 
 shall come and see you occasionally— that will not annoy you, I 
 hope. Oh, you must know that my dear Jules is so good. He is a 
 man now, you know ; he is eighteen and a-half years old ; he is so 
 full of wit, and yet he has an excellent character, and a good heart." 
 
 D 
 
50 The Monde ana the Demi Monde. 
 
 "What does he do?" 
 
 " He has been studying at a boarding-school, but he has finished 
 his studies. I should have wished him to embrace some distinguished 
 profession, in which he might have acquired fame, and where they 
 would have spoken of him, such as the bar or letters ; but my 
 husband, who thinks of nothing but business, and thinks of nothing 
 but making money, wishes to keep his son for a clerk, as Jules is 
 very useful to him. Between ourselves, I believe my son would 
 like to be an artist ; he is mad about the theatre, and speaks of it 
 constantly. Every moment he has at his disposal he passes at the 
 play, so much so, that M. Gallet grumbles, and reproaches him with 
 spending all his money on comedy. He is not perhaps wrong, for 
 this enthusiasm of Jules for the theatre has made me fear sometimes 
 that he might take a fancy to become an actor — that would be a 
 terrible misfortune, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Why? If he has truly any talent — a decided vocation." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! that is so rare. Oh, no, I would not wish my son to 
 be an actor ; and I thought that it might be displeasing to you also. 
 When my Jules goes to see you, sir, turn him from his penchant for 
 the theatre." 
 
 " By what authority should I give him such an opinion ? Why, 
 do you suppose he would listen to me ? " 
 
 " Because — because — I know — it appears to me he would listen 
 to you, and respect you. I have told him you are an old friend of 
 my family, and that you have known me — protected me when I 
 was an orphan. Was I right to say that ? " 
 
 "I wish you, Maria, to say nothing to your son that might 
 lessen the respect he ought to have for his mother." 
 
 "Oh, when people love each other, they always respect each 
 other. To-morrow my son will take you the gloves you have 
 chosen. May he ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 " As to you, sir, I dare not hope that the sight of myself will 
 be pleasant to you ; but as you pass this shop, I should be happy, 
 if you required anything, to see you here." 
 
 " You may be certain madame, that it is to this I should give 
 the preference. This is my address ; tell to — your son, that he 
 will find me there every day till noon." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall not forget." 
 
 " Adieu, madame." 
 
 "Adieu, sir." 
 
 M. Guerreville exchanged a last glance with the perfumeress, 
 then he left the shop, and as he entered his room, he said to 
 himself, — 
 
 " A singular day ! . . . . What meetings I have had 1 Poor 
 woman ! All this had gone from my memory." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 JULES AND AGATHA. 
 
 THe next morning at ten o'clock, as M. Guerreville was still in his 
 dressing-gown, and stood at his window, where he breathed with 
 pleasure the air of the spring morning, George came to tell him 
 that a young man asked to speak to him. 
 
 "Ask him to come in?" said M. Guerreville, his eyes fixed with 
 a certain emotion on the door of his bedroom. 
 
 He was a tall, thin young man, whose appearance was that of a 
 student, although sometimes he assumed more nearly the reflective 
 air of a man. His features were regular, and quite in harmony ; a 
 straight nose, a middle-sized mouth, big blue eyes, with eyebrows 
 well-marked, although light, a very high forehead, over which fell 
 in disorder very fair hair, altogether presenting a gentle and 
 interesting appearance. A habitual paleness added a little melan- 
 choly to the character of his physiognomy ; but when he was 
 animated, when those fine blue eyes flashed with all the ardour of 
 an imagination of eighteen years, and a rosy tint coloured his 
 cheeks, people who even did not admire pale or fair people would 
 have considered him a fine-looking lad. The young man approached 
 with a certain bashf ulness, he held in his hand a little packet very 
 neatly tied up, and bowing deeply to M. Guerreville, he said, — 
 
 " Sir, I bring you some gloves which you chose yesterday from 
 my mother, Madame Gallet. She told me at the same time to 
 ask you if you would require anything else, and to present her 
 compliments to you." 
 
 M. Guerreville had been at once struck by the resemblance 
 which the young man bore to his mother, and occupied in thinking 
 of that face, which brought up a thousand memories, he did not 
 once reply to the perfumeress' son, who lowered his eyes, and 
 seemed somewhat discountenanced and troubled by the looks which 
 this gentleman cast upon him, without replying. 
 
 But M. Guerreville soon recovered himself, and perceiving the 
 young man's embarrassment, said to him in a kindly tone, — 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, not having replied to you sooner, but I was a 
 little distrait, and then — I was struck by the resemblance to your 
 mother." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, everyone thinks I bear a strong likeness to her." 
 
 " But, please take a seat ; I shall have much pleasure in chatting 
 a little with you." 
 
 Jules bowed and took a seat, M. Guerreville did so also, and 
 went on to say, — 
 
 "Your mother, I suppose, has told you that I was an old 
 acquaintance — an old friend of the family." 
 
 " Yes, sir, my mother has told me that — more thar> once she has 
 spoken to me of you as one who had always taken much interest in 
 her, and for whom she had retained as much friendship as remem- 
 
52 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 brance. She was sorry to think that I should never have had the 
 pleasure of meeting you, since you did not live in Paris ; but 
 yesterday, when I came home, my mother was quite joyful, and she 
 said to me, ' I have good news for you ; M. Guerreville is in Paris, 
 and he is pleased that you should go and see him. Now, to deserve 
 a little of the friendship which he has for my family, listen with 
 respect to his advices, profit by the opinions which he will know 
 well how to give you ; in short, show him the most complete devotion ; 
 it will be the best manner of proving your affection.' That, sir, is 
 what my mother said to me, and it will be a pleasure to me to 
 prove my obedience to her." 
 
 These words were spoken with a tone of frankness which ad- 
 mitted of no confusion with conventional politenesses which are 
 exchanged in society. M. Guerreville held out his hand to the 
 young man, saying, — 
 
 " I thank you, M. Jules, for your good disposition as to me. The 
 friendship of a man of my age cannot have much attraction for you. 
 For such relationships to have any charm, there must be equality 
 of youth and similar tastes ; but, notwithstanding that, I may be 
 useful to you in some things, and if you think my counsels may be 
 of any service, they are entirely at your disposal." 
 
 The young man bowed, and shook the hand which was presented 
 to him, as M. Guerreville continued,— 
 
 "You are an only son ; your mother loves you much, I believe." 
 " Oh, yes, sir, she is very good to me. Too good, perhaps." 
 " One can never be too much so to one whom they love. And 
 your father ? " 
 
 " My father is a little more severe, yet he is certainly not bad ; 
 but he loves nothing except business ; he wants me to give myself 
 up entirely to it, and — " 
 
 " That is not your vocation ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; I confess that I have no love for that profession." 
 " What career would you like to follow, then % " 
 " Indeed, I do not know, or rather, indeed, I know too well ; but 
 [ dare not speak of it, for I am afraid that my mother will be 
 vexed about it, and yet it appears to me that in everything which 
 touches art there is so much glory, so much room for hope." 
 
 " In all professions one may hope for glory when one succeeds. 
 You believe, M. Jules, that there isriothing of that in the industrious 
 man, who after having begun by being a simple clerk, becomes by 
 force of work, or of talent and enterprise, the head of a grand 
 commercial house, whose signature circulates like a bank note, who 
 has numerous employes under his orders, and is honoured and 
 esteemed everywhere. Oh ! for him there is especially the glory of 
 rising so high from being so humble, and it would be very un- 
 becoming in him to wish to conceal or to desire that people should 
 forget it, for there is no merit in coming into the world rich and 
 powerful, but there is in making oneself a name and an honourable 
 position in society." 
 
 " Sir, I am far from despising 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 53 
 
 my parents carry it on honourably, and if it were necessary — but, 
 sir, when one has not a taste for anything they do it badly." 
 
 " That is very true in the arts ; there is a good choice — but you 
 have doubtless made up your mind ? " 
 
 " Sir, I confess to you ; but I fear — •' 
 
 " Come, M. Jules, speak to me with confidence. I am less severe 
 than perhaps I appear to you. I can remember that I once was 
 young, and that I had great need of indulgence. You are eighteen 
 years of age ; it is the time when illusions begin, when the heart 
 and the mind only ask to be charmed. I do not wish to tell you 
 that all this is a deception — oh ! no, youth ought not to be dis- 
 enchanted, the time will come soon enough for cares. And, besides, 
 there is a freshness in this joy of youth ; there is love in those 
 passions which unceasingly light up and renew themselves within 
 the young heart ; but there is also more folly than reason in a head 
 of eighteen years, and it is because of that that advices of experience 
 are often necessary." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! you speak to me with such kindness. I feel more at 
 my ease with you than with my own father. I shall tell you what is 
 my deepest thought. Sir, it is for the theatre I have a vocation ; it 
 is of the theatre I dream, that I think without ceasing. To be an 
 actor, to have a great talent, to set the whole audience into 
 applauding, to make the public weep and laugh by turns, to cap- 
 tivate their attention, to see every look fastened on oneself, to 
 obtain that flattering murmur which follows a mot well pro- 
 nounced, a phrase well enunciated. Ah, sir ! there is real happiness, 
 pleasure, glory, and that renewed every night 1 Ah ! that is thf 
 career I wish to embrace ! " 
 
 " You would, then, really be an actor 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir. It is this I dare not say to my father, for he would 
 be so very much vexed. He scolds me already when he knows I 
 am going to the play ; he tells me I spend all my money there. I 
 have nothing except what my mother gives me privately, and it 
 appears to me that I could not be better employed than in going to 
 the play, since it is the only pleasure I am permitted to have." 
 
 " And your mother knows your penchant for the theatre ? Does 
 she scold you, too ? " 
 
 " A little, but so gently, so gently ! Oh, if it were not she, I 
 do not know what I should do." 
 
 "M. Jules, it is not bad to be an actor when one really has 
 talent, but when one has not, it is the saddest of occupations." 
 
 "Oh, I should have some talent, sir, I am certain. Ah ! when 
 I see Samson played, when I see Bouffe played, if you knew how 
 my head is excited. I am afraid as I listen to them I lose the 
 smallest part. "What talents ! what comedians ! Ah, sir, it is 
 because people have never seen them play that they have no desire 
 to enter the theatrical profession." 
 
 M. Guerreville coidd not refrain from smiling as he re- 
 plied, — 
 
 " No, indeed, for that would have given me the opposite idea. 
 
54 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 I should have thought it would be so very difficult to arrive at 
 that degree of talent." 
 
 " Why, then ? They have arrived at it. We have still many 
 artists of great talent, and then, besides, I love all actors. When I 
 meet one on my way, I could fall on his neck, I could embrace, I 
 could clasp his hand, and walk with him arm-in-arm." 
 
 " All this proves thoroughly to me your love for the theatre ; 
 but I do not yet see any proof that you have a talent for acting. 
 People are continually admiring something they cannot do." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! if I dared only confess it to you — " 
 
 "Dared! M. Jules, your mother has told you that you may 
 look on me as an old friend, and I repeat to you that you cannot 
 misplace your confidence in me." 
 
 " I am thoroughly persuaded of that, sir ; but what I am going 
 to tell you my mother and father must not come to know anything 
 about." 
 
 " I shall not tell them, since you ask me to keep it secret." 
 
 " Well then, sir, you must know that I am taking private lessons 
 in elocution." 
 
 " You are taking lessons. Ah ! that is quite different. Do you 
 go to the conservatoire ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; unhappily I have not such good luck. I go to a 
 professor." 
 
 " This professor is no doubt one of our comedians, or some old 
 artist of high reputation ? " 
 
 " He is indeed, sir, an old actor who has much talent, from what 
 he savs — " 
 
 "Where did he play?" 
 
 " Oh, he claims to have played everywhere ; besides my means 
 do not permit me to have a very dear professor. I don't often 
 dare to ask money from my mother, for I know that would cause 
 her to have some disagreeable scenes with my father. But my 
 professor is not dear ; he gives lessons at twenty francs, credit, and 
 when he is paid in advance, he gives five per cent, discount." 
 
 " Well, that is not very ruinous." 
 
 " Sometimes he has many students. He says he has shaped great 
 talents." 
 
 " Who, for example ? " 
 
 " Oh, they are all in the provinces ; but I assure you he recites 
 very well, and he says that I have much promise." 
 
 " For what kind of engagement ? " 
 
 " As a young ' premier.' " 
 
 " M. Jules, a professor who gives fifteen lessons for ten francs 
 will be sure to talk in that way to everyone of his students, for it 
 is likely he has considerable need of money ; however, I don't want 
 to discourage you, and yet I confess to you I am vexed to see you 
 thrusting yourself into such a thorny career, and I must not conceal 
 from you that this will very much vex your mother." 
 
 " How, sir ? She has then guessed my vocation ?" 
 
 "Do you think a mother does not always guess the secrets of 
 
The Monde mid the Demi Monde. 55 
 
 aer son ? Yes, yours has seen it from your enthusiasm for dramatic 
 irt. She fears that you have the design of becoming an actor, and 
 it seems to me that her fear is right enough. She has not concealed 
 from me all the sorrow which she feels in this matter. Think, M. 
 Jules, before allowing yourself to be drawn away by a penchant 
 which is doubtless not unsurmountable. Consider if all the success, 
 all the pleasures which you hope to find in the theatre, will be 
 capable of compensating for the annoyances and vexations which 
 you will cause your mother." 
 
 Jules lowered his eyes, and was much moved, keeping silence 
 for some time. At last he murmured between his teeth, — 
 
 " Ah, sir, you know well that parents are all like that ; they 
 grumble at first, but when their children succeed, they are always 
 glad that they have followed their penchant, and that they have 
 not listened to them. If I should become a great artist, it seems 
 to me that that would be as good as being a perfumer. If you 
 would like, sir, to see me play at my professor's — we play scenes, 
 sometimes entire acts when we are in sufficient numbers — and then 
 you could judge whether I have talent or not." 
 
 M. Guerreville was about to reply, when George opened the 
 door and put in his head, only saying, — 
 
 " There is a young lady, sir, with her maid, who says you are 
 her godfather, and asks if she can have the pleasure of presenting 
 her respects to you." 
 
 A slight blush mounted to M. Guerreville's forehead as he 
 hastened to say to George, — 
 
 " That is right ; I will receive this young person. Ask her to 
 go into the drawing-room and wait for me a minute or two." 
 
 George retired, and Jules rose, saying, — 
 
 " Society is coming to wait upon you, sir, and I shall therefore 
 leave you, and beg pardon for having kept you so long — I wish 
 only to give you the address of my professor of elocution — I ought 
 to have it about me — it is M. Triestepattes, Eue du petit Hurleur. 
 Ah, here is his card. Lessons are given there every day except 
 Sundays, from noon till four o'clock, or in the evening, from six to 
 ten. I go while I am travelling on business, for I can gain half- 
 an-hour then ; but I never fail to be there on "Wednesdays and 
 Thursdays in the daytime. You will come to see me play, won't 
 you, sir ? I should be so flattered to have your opinion." 
 
 " Oh, I shall come, I promise you ; but wait, wait, M. Jules." 
 
 As he said these words, M. Guerreville turned and walked into 
 his own room as if preoccupied with something, and embarrassed 
 to know how he could accomplish it. At last he approached his 
 writing-desk, and took from it a roleau of fifty napoleons, and then 
 wrote upon a paper, — 
 
 " For Jules, in order that his pleasures may not cause quarrels 
 between his parents." 
 
 M. Guerreville wrapped this paper round the napoleons, then 
 put the whole packet in another paper, and returning to Jules, 
 placed it in his hand, saying, — 
 
56 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " M. Jules, have the kindness to take this from me to your 
 mother ; it is an old debt which I am paying off — certain fur- 
 nishings with which she provided me long ago." Jules seemed 
 astonished as he felt the weight of the sum which had been slipped 
 into his hand, and he murmured, — 
 
 " Oh, sir, my mother did not tell me that — " 
 
 " She had no need to tell you anything. It is an old account ; 
 she had quite forgotten it. But I beg your pardon, people are 
 waiting for me. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again." 
 
 Jules did not think it wise to ask more, he put the packet in 
 his pocket, bowed deeply to M. Guerreville, and went off, after 
 having requested leave to call again to pay his respects. 
 
 As the young man was going, M. Guerreville followed him with 
 his eyes. He remained absorbed in his own thoughts for some 
 minutes, then he called George, and said to him — 
 
 " Ask the young lady who is in the drawing-room to come in." 
 
 The ex-soldier made a half-turn upon his feet, went out, and 
 soon returned with a young girl, who came rushing into the room, 
 and making her bows, cried from the very threshold of the 
 door, — 
 
 " Good morning, my godfather ; how are you, my godfather ? 
 I am so pleased to see you ! Will you allow me to embrace you, 
 my godfather 1 " 
 
 M. Guerreville remained motionless as he looked at the young 
 girl who came so suddenly to embrace him. She was a young girl 
 of about seventeen, very rounded, pretty stout, very fresh looking, 
 and with a high colour. She was a very piquant brunette, although 
 her large brown eyes spoke rather of gaiety than malice, and her 
 face appeared smiling as much from habit as feeling. But her 
 mouth was little and well made, her nose was small and nicely 
 formed, some pretty dimples were shown each moment in her 
 rounded cheeks ; her figure was excellent, and her bust already 
 well pronounced. Such was Mademoiselle Agatha, who had not 
 the least resemblance to her godfather, but who was none the less 
 a pretty girl, who showed the possession of boisterous health. 
 
 The young person stood rather abashed by the cold and almost 
 severe air with which M. Guerreville received her, but she recom- 
 menced her lively airs, while she went on saying, — 
 
 " Good morning, my godfather. I have already wished you good 
 morning. How are you, godfather ? I come to present my duty 
 to you, and to embrace you, if you will permit me." 
 
 M. Guerreville bent towards Agatha, and kissed her on the 
 forehead, although the young girl presented her cheeks to him, and 
 he led her to an arm-chair, saying, — 
 
 " Sit down, my dear child ! " 
 
 "With pleasure, godfather," replied Mademoiselle Agatha, as 
 she reclined in the arm-chair. 
 
 M. Guerreville sat down near the young girl, whom he carefully 
 looked at, but without appearing to be moved in any way. Then 
 he said to her, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 57 
 
 " You are Madame Grillon's daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes, godfather, I am her only daughter — Agatha, your god- 
 daughter." 
 
 " And your mother has allowed you to come to see me ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, godfather ; it is mamma who told me to come. 
 Without her instructions I should certainly not have come, for I had 
 no thought of seeing you, my godfather, at all ; but yesterday 
 mamma called out from the bottom of the staircase, 'Agatha, 
 Agatha, your godfather is in Paris — I have just met him — you shall 
 go to-morrow to see him, and present your respects to him.' And 
 mamma was so pleased, so joyous, that she did not notice she was 
 treading on papa's coat, which he had laid over a chair to have a 
 button sewn on it ; and when papa said to her, ' Take care, my dear, 
 you have thrown down my coat, and are treading on it,' mamma 
 replied, { Ah, what about that ! I have just met M. Edouard 
 Guerreville, my daughter's godfather ; he is staying in Paris, and 
 will come to see us — I should walk over all the trousers in the 
 house to-day, I feel so gay.' " 
 
 " That was very amiable of your mother ! " 
 
 " Oh ! godfather, we love you so much at home ! and then I am 
 very pleased to make your acquaintance, for mamma has often 
 spoken to me of you, and said to me, ' It is such a pity your god- 
 father is not in Paris, for a godfather is just a second father, and he 
 remembers your birthday, and gives you New Year's presents — 
 your's was very amiable and generous.' Indeed, godfather, I re- 
 gretted much not to know you, for I think I was only five years 
 old when I saw you last ; and I never thought anything more about 
 you. I thought my godfather was a big man, with a big stomach, 
 and thick legs — I don't know what made me think so. It was just 
 as when I was at the boarding-school, and fancied to myself that 
 the theatre was like a shop where all sorts of things were sold. Ah ! 
 when one's little, one is such a fool ! But now I am not like that ; 
 I know everything, and mamma tells me I can talk as if I were 
 forty." 
 
 Mademoiselle Agatha seemed inclined to rattle on for ever ; but 
 M. Guerreville, who listened as if he thought of something else 
 than her chatter, interrupted the young girl, saying to her, — 
 
 " Your parents, no doubt, were careful about your education ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, godfather, certainly. I have been well cared for in 
 that way ; but they took me from the first boarding-school I went 
 to because they gave us haricots every day to dinner. I com- 
 plained to mamma, who said to the mistress that haricots made me 
 ill. The latter said they were not going to change the custom of 
 the house for me ; mamma was angry, and transferred rne to 
 another school, where I was better. We had every week lentils and 
 potatoes with beef ; I am not fond of potatoes, but I adore lentils, 
 especially done in oil. But, you know, godfather, in boarding- 
 schools, as they put very little oil in the salads — and I believe in 
 some even none at all — it is very bad for the stomach. One of my 
 friends — " 
 
58 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " How long have you left school ? " 
 
 " About eighteen months, godfather ; mamma and papa thought 
 I had learned enough — that I didn't require to study any more." 
 
 " What do you know, then ? " 
 
 " Well, godfather, I can sing a little, I can play the piano a 
 little, I can draw a little." 
 
 " It seems you know a little of everything ? " 
 
 " Yes, godfather, and then I dance very well. Oh, I am so fond 
 of dancing ! Mamma likes it, too ; at balls we dance opposite each 
 other, and she says we are taken for sisters." 
 
 " And your father ? " 
 
 " Ah ! he doesn't dance — at least very rarely ; he does sometimes 
 to make up a quadrille, but he always makes a mess of the figures. 
 I have never been able to make him understand la Pastourelle. 
 Speaking of that, godfather, I forgot to tell you that mamma has 
 commissioned me to ask you to do us the honour of dining to-morrow 
 at our house ; we sit down to dinner at five o'clock precisely. " 
 
 " I thank you, my dear child, but you will tell your mamma 
 that I cannot have the pleasure of accepting her invitation." 
 
 " Ah ! why then, my dear godfather ? It would give us so much 
 pleasure to see you. Mamma was going to invite Madame Devaux 
 and her daughters — they are very fashionable people who give 
 parties — and then M. Adalgis, a very amiable young man, who has 
 always perfumed white or straw-coloured gloves. He has a fine 
 appearance, and then this gentleman plays the cornet-a-piston — 
 that is to say, is learning it ; but he will be able to play it well 
 enough soon to accompany me on the piano. And he sings 
 { Romances ' delightfully. He sang to us the other evening Bonne 
 Esperance, by Frederic Berat. Good heavens ! it was lovely. 
 Godfather, do you know Bonne Esperance, by Berat ? " 
 
 " My dear god-daughter, I am sorry to hear all you have told 
 me ; for I must repeat it, I cannot come to-morrow as your parents 
 invite me." 
 
 " Ah ! it is too bad, godfather ; papa was making such a deal of 
 your coming to dinner, because mamma told him that she was 
 going to have a plum-tart." 
 
 " I shall come and see you, Agatha. I shall pay my respects to 
 Madame Grillon." 
 
 " But when, godfather ? " 
 
 " As soon as possible. Meanwhile, my dear god-daughter, would 
 you allow me to make you a little present ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville rose and went to his writing-desk. He felt 
 that with Agatha he didn't require any pretext for presenting her 
 with a gift ; besides, his position as godfather gave him the right 
 to do so. 
 
 Agatha rose also and made a fine courtesy, as she replied, — 
 
 " Godfather, you are very good ; I shall certainly accept every- 
 thing you are pleased to offer me." 
 
 M. Guerreville took from a drawer of his desk a pretty cash- 
 mere purse, embroidered, and ornamented with some fine stones \ 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 59 
 
 He put fifteen napoleons in each end of the purse, and presented it 
 to Agatha, saying, — 
 
 " Now, my dear, you will keep this purse as a souvenir of me ; 
 and with what it holds, you will be able to satisfy some of your 
 fancies. It would have been better, perhaps, if I had myself 
 bought you some of those things which please a young girl. But 
 you will excuse me, because I am so little accustomed to this ; and 
 your own taste will guide you better than mine." 
 
 Agatha took the purse, blushing with pleasure ; then she made 
 two or three jumps about the room, crying, — 
 
 " Oh, but you are good, godfather ! Oh, the beautiful purse ! 
 And oh, all those pieces of gold ! I shall get beautiful things with 
 all that ! Papa will never give me more than a ten-sou piece on 
 Sundays for my own pocket-money, and I cannot gather up money 
 on that. I want to buy a scarf like one I saw the other evening — 
 a very sweet scarf with white fringes, very handsome. Godfather, 
 do let me embrace you ? I am so happy ! Mamma was right when 
 she said to me, ' You will see how it is to know one's godfather, 
 especially when he is rich.' " 
 
 And Agatha ran to offer her pretty fresh cherry-coloured cheeks 
 to M. Guerreville, who just brushed them with his lips, then led her 
 gently towards the door, saying, — 
 
 " I am sorry, my dear god-daughter, not to be able to keep you 
 longer, but some urgent affairs — " 
 
 " Oh, godfather, that is quite enough ! You have no need to 
 annoy yourself with me. I never make any ceremony with people, 
 especially when I like them ; and I like you very much, god- 
 father." 
 
 M. Guerreville had led Agatha to his ante-chamber, where a big 
 girl, with a white apron and a peasant's cap, was seated opposite 
 George, who looked at her frequently, but never spoke to her. 
 
 Agatha ran to her maid, crying, — 
 
 " Jeanette, this is my godfather ! My godfather, this is our 
 maid, Jeanette. She always goes out with me, because my parents 
 do not wish me to go out alone, although I know my way well 
 enough, and certainly would not lose myself. Fortunately, we 
 laugh away when we are out together. She is as fond of fun as I 
 am, and we chaff the people passing along. Oh, it is most amusing. 
 Some such queer people pass along, who have such an odd appear- 
 ance. Good-bye, then, godfather ! I shall say to mamma that 
 you will come to see us soon ; but she will be very much annoyed 
 that you are not able to dine to-morrow. And papa, therefore — 
 how vexed she will be about her plum-tart ! Isn't that so, Jeanette ? 
 Jeanette, bow to my godfather. Good-bye, godfather. Come and 
 see us soon. You will allow me to embrace you ? " 
 
 Miss Agatha again offered her face, but M. Guerreville pressed 
 a very cold kiss on her forehead, then said good-bye as he opened 
 the door. At last the young girl set off, but not without having 
 turned round twenty times to repeat, — 
 
 " Good-bye, godfather ! Come and see us soon ! Do not fail ! " 
 
60 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 M. Guerreville found himself alone in his room, and he threw 
 himself into an arm-chair, saying, — 
 
 " Those two young people, how singular ! I would have be- 
 lieved that the sight of them would have agitated me, softened me ; 
 but no — I have not felt anything at the bottom of my heart, no 
 secret voice has risen in my soul to say, c You also owe me your 
 love ! ' I believe that their tenderness has annoyed me more than 
 pleased me. Oh ! it is wretched, most wretched ! How is this ? 
 It is because, beside even them, I could not forget my daughter — 
 my Pauline ! Oh, my daughter — it is you whose father I really 
 am — it is you whom I idolise — you who have always had all my 
 affection, and away from whom I have not tasted an instant's 
 happiness. But, no news ! it is impossible to know what has 
 become of her. My God ! have I then lost her for ever ? Has she 
 utterly forgotten me — abandoned me ? Oh, no ! not entirely for- 
 gotten her father, that could not be — when she knew that he loved 
 her— when she had the certainty that each day he weeps for his 
 daughter — when she cannot doubt that his tenderness for her 
 would be much greater than his anger, and that he would pardon 
 all her faults, provided only he might embrace his child. And yet — 
 the years roll on, and nothing — nothing — not even a letter or 
 any news ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville let his head fall on his bosom, and appeared 
 quite broken by grief. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 A FRIEND AND AN INTRUDER. 
 
 It was already some time since Agatha had quitted M. Guerre- 
 ville ; and he, plunged still in his thoughts, always under the 
 weight of a sorrow, in which even hope began to fail, remained 
 in his chair in the same attitude, forgetting the present hour, and 
 forgetting everything except the thought of his daughter. 
 
 George, accustomed to his master's humour, never troubled him 
 in his reflections, for he knew that he would not be pleased if he 
 did. More than once M. Guerreville had thus passed the hour at 
 which he was accustomed to dine. On those days George would 
 say to himself, — 
 
 " It is probable that my master is not hungry, since he does not 
 think of dinner. Besides, as he eats at the restaurant, he is free 
 to go at whatever hour pleases him." 
 
 Yet George, on this occasion against his habit, opened the door 
 of his master's room ; and, seeing him motionless on his chair, 
 George conghed to make him listen ; then M. Guerreville, whom the 
 noise recalled to his present position, and who was dreaming among 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 61 
 
 his illusions that he and his daughter had met, turned abruptly to 
 his servant, and cried angrily, — 
 
 " What do you want ? Why did you enter here when I did not 
 call you ? " 
 
 Poor George was quite taken aback. He was on the point of 
 retiring without saying anything, but his master went on, — 
 
 " Ah, well, won't you speak ? Why have you disturbed me ? " 
 
 " It is quite true, sir ; I ought to have thought — but I shall go 
 and say to this gentleman that you are disturbed, and that you 
 cannot receive him to-day." 
 
 "How, some more society — is one never to be left at rest? 
 Who is there?" 
 
 " It is the gentleman from Chateau-Thierry — Doctor Jenneval — 
 who says that a doctor has the right to come to his friend's house, 
 even when he is not sick." 
 
 " Doctor — Doctor Jenneval." 
 
 M. Guerreville rose, passed his hand over his forehead, and said 
 to George, — 
 
 " M. Jenneval may enter." 
 
 The Doctor presented himself, and cordially shook hands with 
 M. Guerreville, while he gave a sign to his servant to go. 
 
 " Here I am ! " said Jenneval, throwing himself into a seat with 
 a satisfied air. I am a little later than I had thought ; but I had 
 to finish my duties, and clear off my sick people from my list. I 
 believe I have cured more of them by making them laugh than by 
 prescriptions. At last I have said adieu to the country, and I have 
 come to practice in Paris." 
 
 " You are to be settled here, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the life of a small town — its pleasures, habits, and gossip 
 — doesn't suit. Vive Paris ! for the arts and sciences, for theory 
 and practice ! I have done many fine things at Chateau-Thierry, 
 and last still wrought a magnificent cure — Madame Blanmignon — 
 whom I have entirely cured of her spasms by making her take pills 
 made only of flour ; and old M. Benoit, who believed he had 
 gastritis, and whom I put on gingerbread for a fortnight. In fact, 
 the patients had the most wonderful faith." 
 
 " You don't seem to have lost your gaiety at all, Doctor." 
 
 " I keep it, on the contrary, since it is with that I treat my 
 patients. I have come here with many letters of recommendation. 
 I have some acquaintances, besides ; and then you know that I 
 practice as much for taste as profit. I have four thousand francs 
 of income, limited desires, and no ambition. Besides that, a doctor 
 who is a bachelor can very readily attend sick people without being 
 afraid of taking home either epidemics or cholera. But now, as to 
 your health ? I ought first to have inquired about it." 
 
 " Thanks, Doctor, my health is good." 
 
 " But you are always sad — always touched in secret. Oh ! I can 
 see well that with you it is the morale which suffers. Ah, well ! I 
 shall set myself to distract you, and occupy you a little. I shall not 
 ask your secrets. Oh ! I shall not solicit your confidences. ConhV 
 
62 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 dence must come naturally ; and then there are some sorrows which # 
 one prefers to keep secret ; probably yours are of that number 
 Later on, perhaps — when you know me better. But, indeed, you 
 have permitted me to cultivate your acquaintance, and I believe 
 that it would be a bad return for your confidence to trouble you 
 with questions. So let it be arranged. I shall not return to the 
 subject, but I shall try to make your forehead less sombre, less 
 careful, because that belongs to my professional functions." 
 " My dear Jenneval, I am truly pleased to see you again." 
 " I must tell you I have travelled from Chateau-Thierry to 
 Paris with a man who is very anxious to make your acquaintance. 
 Indeed, he has the strangest idea I have ever met with. It is M. 
 Vadevant, one of those who left their cards for you whenever they 
 found you were a friend of the Sous-PrC'f et. M. Yadevant, knowing 
 that I was coming to settle in Paris, took occasion to travel here 
 along with me. On the journey, he spoke a great deal about you. 
 To make him envious, I did not conceal from him that I hoped 
 to see you often. He at once begged I would introduce him to 
 you." 
 
 " You will indeed do nothing of the kind, Doctor." 
 "Oh, be quite easy. M. Vadevant is one of those people to 
 whom one is afraid to refuse anything, believing that he will 
 reiterate the same request a hundred times over ; he is one of those 
 who think that by dint of importunity they will obtain their object 
 in the end. It is true that that succeeds sometimes. We give up to 
 those who weary us what we would refuse to a discreet friend — 
 society is constituted so — but I am no longer tempted to cultivate 
 Vadevant's acquaintanceship, who has already offered me as doctor 
 to many of his friends here, and among others to one of his cousins, 
 a very rich lady, and who has two charming daughters about to be 
 married soon. It is even to be present at one of these marriages, and 
 to help his cousin in the arrangements for the wedding, that he says 
 he has come to Paris. He has proposed to take me to his cousin's 
 house." 
 
 "My dear Doctor, let us leave M. Vadevant, who does not 
 interest me in any way ; later on I shall introduce you to some 
 people who interest me more. Meanwhile, you can already do me a 
 great favour." 
 
 "Tell me what it is — I am quite at your service." 
 " About three months ago I sought for rooms — I went to a house in 
 the Rue Montmartre. After having seen many apartments, I heard 
 them speak of a poor devil — ill in a garret (he was a water-carrier) — 
 he had with him, to take care of him, his grand-daughter, a child 
 of six or seven years of age, and they spoke of hunting him out, 
 and selling his furniture, so I had the curiosity to go up to his 
 garret." 
 
 " Curiosity — I understand — " 
 
 " I saw this man ; he is called Jerome — he had the appearance of 
 an honest man, but he was very ill. His poor little girl is very 
 delicate, but she tenderly loves her father, and never quits his side ; 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 63 
 
 and he cherishes this girl very dearly, calling her his guardian 
 
 angel." , , _ , . , 
 
 M. Guerreville stopped, agitated by a thousand memories which 
 affected him ; he added in a low voice, and with his eyes bent on the 
 
 ground, — 
 
 " How happy it is to have one's daughter with one ! 
 Then there was a silence, which M. Jenneval dared not break, 
 for already he guessed one of the sorrows of M. Guerreville. At 
 length the latter continued, — 
 
 " I gave some money to the child, so that her father might not 
 be annoyed about his rent ; but I have desired since then to know 
 if that poor Jerome is quite better." 
 
 " And what prevents you from returning to see him. 
 " I don't know — the time has passed away—" 
 " Say rather that you have not wished to go to seek thanks for 
 your benefits. Oh, I know you, I understand your heart ; and I, 
 who have given nothing to Jerome, will go to see him, and if he is 
 not already cured, I will be his physician." 
 
 " If you will have the kindness to do so, Doctor." 
 " The kindness, and why ? Because I am fond of joking some- 
 times and laughing, do you suppose that I am insensible of the 
 pleasure of obliging ? " ■ 
 
 " Oh, no ; if I had thought so I would not have asked you to 
 some and see me here." 
 
 " What is Jerome's address ? " 
 
 " Here it is ; I have written it on this piece of paper." 
 " Very good — I shall go to-morrow morning, and I shall come on 
 here to tell you the news." 
 " Thanks, my dear Doctor." 
 " Now, is that all ? Have you dined ? '• 
 " No, I have not been thinking of it." 
 
 " But I have been thinking of it a good deal, for it is late, 
 and I am hungry. Let us go and dine together, for you will 
 not eat by yourself ; but perhaps talking to me will give you an 
 appetite." 
 
 " I am quite at your disposal." 
 " Eight ! take your hat, and let us go." 
 
 M. Guerreville went out with the Doctor, who passed his arm 
 through that of his friend, and said to him,— 
 " Where do you usually dine ? " 
 
 " I have no preference. Indeed, to tell you the simple truth, 
 I dine mostly in the district where I find myself ; and as m 
 coming to Paris my purpose is to find someone there, I am quite 
 willing to see new places, when one has an opportunity of seeing 
 new faces." . . 
 
 " Very well, I confess to you that in coming to settle m Paris 1 
 have thought of following out a series of restaurants, and in that 
 matter curiosity will stimulate me more than love of eating. But I 
 like to observe people, and I like to know how people live in Paris, 
 in a crowd of all classes of society. Would you like to accompany 
 
64 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 me? While I make my remarks, you can examine whether you 
 are on the track of him or her whom you seek." 
 
 " "With pleasure, Doctor." 
 
 " But I must premise that I want to see everything, even the 
 smallest provider, up to the most famous restaurateur. When one 
 wishes to gain information, one must be resigned to finding them- 
 selves sometimes in strange company." 
 
 "I repeat to you that I shall willingly go with you, and 
 perhaps, in fact, I shall be thus more fortunate in my search." 
 
 " Well, that is arranged ; let us go and begin to-day. Besides, 
 we shall not be obliged to remain anywhere which seems disagree- 
 able. It is said that in Paris there is nothing so easy as to dine ; 
 that meal is laid at the feet of everybody. In fact, here is a bill on 
 which we read, ' Dinners at sixteen sous.' Sixteen sous — who could 
 believe it ? — in this modern Babylon whither people run from all the 
 corners of the earth, it is possible to dine for sixteen sous. Is there 
 any need then to have fifty thousand livres of income to live in 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Doctor, the restaurants are thick in this city, or rather the 
 districts in which something may be had to eat ; for it would be 
 absurd to call restaurants some of the shops from which one comes 
 out without being refreshed ! There are dealers, some wine mer- 
 chants, some middle-class pensions, some restaurants at a fixed price, 
 and finally some houses where one may eat at any price ; these last 
 establishments are specially frequented by masons, stone-cutters, 
 and tradesmen in general, who, by paying four sous, can have some 
 soup to dip their bread in. I honour philanthropic ideas, and I 
 think it right that a stone-cutter should be able to buy his soup in 
 the cheapest market — everybody must live, those who build houses 
 as well as those who buy them — but I do not think you have any 
 desire to go to dine with the masons ? " 
 
 " No, we shall pass without stopping before those places where 
 they eat at all prices. But a dinner at sixteen sous, that would be 
 curious." 
 
 "You cannot go thirty steps in Paris without coming across 
 some announcements which offer you, at a very low price, a com- 
 plete repast. For twenty-three sous you shall have a soup, a choice 
 of three plates, dessert, a carafe of wine, and bread at discretion, 
 Isn't that tempting, Doctor ? " 
 
 "What I admire is the dessert in a repast when one drinks 
 nothing but water. It is like wearing a torn dress with coquetry ; 
 it is luxury and poverty together. Strangers must laugh to see 
 prunes taken in place of wine. But I desired to learn. I will go 
 into a sixteen-sou restaurant one day when I shall not be hungry. 
 Let us dine to-day at Yefours's in the Palais-Royal." 
 
 M. Guerreville and the Doctor made their way towards the Palais- 
 Royal, and they were soon seated at a table in Yefours's. Some well- 
 dressed men, and even some ladies, dined opposite them. While M. 
 Guerreville cast his looks upon those who were in the saloon, and 
 Jenneval consulted the card which the gar con had given him, a 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 65 
 
 little man opened the door and entered, smiling, and rubbing his 
 hands, made a bow before the counter ; then approaching the table 
 where the Doctor was, he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Jenne- 
 val raised his eyes and saw before him his travelling companion, M. 
 Vadevant." 
 
 " Parbleu / how charming ! how delicious this is ! " cried the little 
 man, slapping the Doctor upon the shoulder. " Oh, this meeting is 
 splendid ; we couldn't have done better if we had made an appoint- 
 ment. I was walking in the garden before the Rotunda. I waited 
 until I felt an appetite, and when it came I said to myself ' Let 
 me go inside and dine at Yefours's.' Delighted to have met 
 you ! " 
 
 Jenneval bent towards M. Guerreville, whispering to him, — 
 
 " I bet that he planted himself before the Rotunda in the hope 
 of meeting me here ; for it is usually here that people make appoint- 
 ments with each other when they come to Paris. I refused his offer 
 to stay with him, and he has got it into his head that he would 
 seek me. I am sorry now that we did not go to have a dinner at 
 sixteen sous, and M. Vadevant would have been alone here." 
 
 "While the Doctor spoke thus, Vadevant made profound bows to 
 M. Guerreville, and said to the waiter, — 
 
 " A plate, gargon ; a plate here at once, beside these gentlemen 
 — if, indeed, I don't annoy you by dining near you." 
 
 These demands were of the kind to which it was impossible to 
 say no ; but when one does himself the pleasure of dining alone with 
 one or two friends, it is always annoying to see importunate people 
 mixing themselves up with the company. People who know better 
 will never throw themselves thus into the midst of a circle which 
 is not expecting them ; they prefer that those friends should dinfl 
 alone, and they are right. 
 
 M. Guerreville was pleased to make M. Vadevant a bow, while 
 Jenneval replied to him, — 
 
 " Sit there, M. Vadevant ; certainly your company will be 
 pleasant." 
 
 " You have not yet begun to dine." 
 
 " Bless me, no ; we have just this moment come in ; it seems 
 that you have just followed us." 
 
 " Oh, that is all right ; if you are willing, we shall dine in common 
 — one gets more choice in that way, and it is more agreeable, and 
 cheaper besides. Each one pays his share, that of course is under- 
 stood ; and I hope this is agreeable to you, sir." 
 
 This question, accompanied by a bow, was again addressed to M. 
 Guerreville, who did not reply, but by a similar courtesy ; but 
 Jenneval smiled as he said, — 
 
 " So be it, M. Vadevant, let us join in dinner ; indeed our meal 
 shall be more charming. We did not expect the pleasure which you 
 are giving us, but we are very sensible of it. I am going to ask 
 leave to eat whatever pleases me." 
 
 " That is right ; as for me, I like everything. I am not hard to 
 pleas* I am like you, I come to dine, not to do anything besides. 
 
 E 
 
66 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Indeed, when one comes habitually to dine in a restaurant, he cornea 
 to dine very much as he does at home." 
 
 That is quite true — gargon, some first-class beaune." 
 
 " You take first-class beaune, usually," said M. Vadevant, with 
 an astonished air. 
 
 " Yes, I like good wine, and as a rule I find that good." 
 
 Vadevant did not wish to have the appearance of holding a 
 different opinion ; he rubbed his hands as he said, — 
 
 " Let us go in for first-class beaune. I do not dislike good wine 
 myself." The little man bent towards the Doctor saying, "This 
 is M. Guerre ville who is dining with us." 
 
 "It is he." 
 
 " Oh, I recognised him at once. That is all right. I was dying 
 with a desire to make his acquaintance ; at table we shall come to 
 know each other. Tell me, does he always talk by signs of the 
 head?" 
 
 "He speaks very little, but I presume your amiability will 
 make him talk more to-day." 
 
 " I shall do my utmost ; and as it might be pleasant for him to 
 come to the marriage of one of my young cousins — " 
 
 " You can propose it to him." 
 
 Jenneval began again to consult the card over which he appeared 
 to meditate. M. Guerreville appeared buried in his reflections, 
 and no longer occupied with what was passing around him. Vade- 
 vant in vain did everything to render himself agreeable ; he 
 pushed the salt-cellar and the mustard-dish before him ; he passed 
 the wine, and offered him bread a little less browned — all these 
 attempts ended in nothing ; he began at last making little balls of 
 bread, and returned to the Doctor. 
 
 " Ah ! well, my dear Doctor, you have buried yourself so in 
 the card of the restaurant, one would think you were meditating 
 % dinner for twenty people." 
 
 " M. Vadevant, I do not see why three people should not dine 
 as well as twenty. At Paris where gastronomy has altars, where 
 the culinary science is every day making new discoveries, it is by no 
 means a useless knowledge that of restaurant cards. It is not 
 sufficient th~t or>- should do honour to a good dinner; it is an 
 advantage that the first rustic should possess — to know how to 
 order a dinner ; it is there that genius, tact, and taste come in ! 
 It is a talent rarer than one would imagine. Gargon, some fresh 
 oysters, and some sauterne ! " 
 
 Vadevant made a motion on his chair, and murmured, — 
 
 " I do not eat oysters — I — " 
 
 "But I eat many of them. Besides, ask what you please ; don't 
 trouble yourself as if you were obliged to eat the oysters. Gargon, 
 do not serve any tc this gentleman ! " 
 
 "Parbleu/" said Vadevant to himself, "I am not going to eat 
 butter and radishes while he is eating oysters — and yet we are each 
 to pay our share of the bill." 
 
 He cried to the waiter, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 67 
 
 "Gargon, I shall reconsider— I shall take oysters like those 
 gentlemen." 
 
 Oysters were served, and the Doctor disposed of them with a 
 dexterity which suffocated Vadevant, who in vain made efforts to 
 eat like his neighbours. The pains which the little gentleman 
 gave himself amused Jenneval much, and he tried to hide his 
 desire to laugh ; and when there were no more oysters on the table 
 he said, — 
 
 " My dear M. Vadevant, I am sure you are like me, and that 
 you would smile with pity as you saw this decent man dining, who 
 believes he knows all the refinements of eating when his servant 
 brings him a cream or whipped eggs." 
 
 " But I am very fond of whipped eggs ! " 
 
 Yadevant made a grimace, and made as if to keep the waiter, 
 saying, — 
 
 " But, what the devil — so many things — salmis with truffles— 
 I am not very great on truffles. Suppose we took something else." 
 
 "Take anything you please, M. Vadevant; I take what I 
 like." 
 
 " But you do not consult M. " 
 
 " Oh I M. Guerreville has given me carte blanche. Besides, I 
 tell you again, ask what you wish — you prefer, perhaps, some beef 
 with vegetables ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I shall eat what you do." 
 
 And Yadevant again began to make up some bread balls, 
 saying, — 
 
 " I should take beef with vegetables, and they partridges with 
 truffles, and we should pay equal shares ; that would be very fine 
 indeed ! " 
 
 The plates ordered were brought ; the Doctor presided, and did 
 honour to the dinner. Yadevant had less appetite, because he was 
 annoyed to think he should have to pay more than he wished ; M. 
 Guerreville ate and said nothing ; Jenneval alone bore the burden 
 of the conversation. 
 
 " Believe me, M. Yadevant, it is good to have me ordering the 
 dinner. I have a good deal of taste, and then I like to become 
 informed on subjects, and to taste everything I don't know. Ga?yon, 
 bring us a chipotata ; but first bring us a roast pheasant." 
 
 " A pheasant ! " cried Yadevant, almost leaping up from his 
 chair. " You are joking ! We cannot possibly eat a pheasant 
 still I » 
 
 " Oh, it is not very large, and I adore pheasant ; but if you 
 prefer the leg of a goose, just ask it. We shall easily eat ^ he 
 pheasant without you. Gargon, the leg of a goose for this 
 gentleman ! " 
 
 "No, no ! what the devil ! I don't wish the leg of a goose, I 
 cannot bear goose. I shall try if I have not a little appetite for 
 the pheasant. But, do you know, Doctor, you are a fearful man 
 to dine with — what an appetite 1 " 
 
 "You see nothing to-day. I am not in good trim ; but the first 
 
68 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 time we dine together again, I shall prepare a menu which will 
 astonish you." 
 
 " Yes ! when you find me at that ! " said Vadevant. 
 
 The pheasant was brought. Jenneval asked some Lafitte 
 Bourdeau, then some champagne. Sometimes he exchanged a 
 glance with M. Guerreville, who contented himself with smiling, 
 and turned his head away when he thought that Yadevant was 
 about to address him. He did not permit himself to make any re- 
 mark to the Doctor ; he resolved to eat and drink still, at the risk 
 of doing himself harm. 
 
 In consequence of his desire to consume as — his money's worth, 
 Vadevant had reached that point which in good company is never 
 thought to be drunkenness, but which somewhat warms conversa- 
 tion. The little gentleman was not positively gay, because he was 
 annoyed at having spent more than he wished, but he sought to 
 stupefy himself ; and he wished, above all, that this dinner would lead 
 to a sort of connection between him and M. Guerreville. They had 
 got as far as dessert, and Yadevant, whose cheeks were purple, and 
 his eyes nearly starting out of his head, never ceased jabbering, 
 addressing himself alternately to M. Guerreville, who did not reply, 
 or to the Doctor, who laughed as he looked at him. 
 
 "I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, sir," said 
 Yadevant, for the third time approaching his glass to that of M. 
 Guerreville ; " it is a very long time since I desired it — the Doctor 
 is here to testify to that. Is it not the case, Doctor, that at Chateau- 
 Thierry, I have often expressed the satisfaction it would give me 
 to be introduced to M. Guerreville, whose praises I have heard so 
 much of from our honourable Sous-Preiet ? There was only one 
 voice in the whole town, and it gave the justice to him which he 
 deserves ; for it said everywhere, ' Oh ! M. Guerreville — he is a very 
 distinguished man — very talented — very — ' " 
 
 " And how could they say all that about me ? " asked M. 
 Guerreville, shrugging his shoulders ; " did they know who I was ? 
 What could give you the desire of making my acquaintance ? Might 
 I not have been a schemer — a black-leg ? " 
 
 " Oh ! impossible — a friend of M. the Sous-Prefet, and besides 
 one could see at once from the style, from the manners — is it not so, 
 Doctor ? — so that, before even knowing the gentleman's name, I said, 
 'It is a highly distinguished personage who has taken Tricot's 
 house?'" 
 
 "Yes, parbleuf" replied Jenneval, laughing. "You had the 
 best opinion of M. Guerreville — and showed it by such marks as 
 wishing to give him a serenade one evening. I remember that 
 everything was already organised one night among a good many 
 people at Madame Blanmignon's party. When I came in you had 
 all the instruments ready — I really don't know which you were to 
 play, M. Yadevant." 
 
 The little gentleman pushed the Doctor's knees and feet, making 
 signs to him to be silent ; but Jenneval went on without seeming 
 to observe this. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 69 
 
 " It was a Basque tambourine you had, I think — at least you 
 made enough noise with what you held — " 
 
 "The dear Doctor is jesting ; he always will have his laugh. It 
 was a charade we were about to act that evening — a sort of 
 proverb — " 
 
 " Of which you were the author, weren't you ? " 
 
 " I don't remember — it is very warm here, we might go outside 
 and take the air a little ! " 
 
 " Certainly, but we must pay the bill first." 
 
 Jenneval asked for it ; it amounted to sixty francs. 
 
 " Only twenty francs a head," said the Doctor, showing the total 
 to Yadevant. The latter made a very wry face as he drew his 
 money from his pocket, but he forced himself to conceal his anger. 
 They went out of the restaurant, and Yadevant, who did not appear 
 disposed to quit his two companions, slipped his arm under that of 
 of the Doctor, saying, — 
 
 " What are we going to do now ? " 
 
 "We have talked, M. Guerreville and I, of going to the 
 Frangais" 
 
 " To the Frangais, that will suit me very well ; there is a piece in 
 fashion there, which has had the run of all Paris — one should see that." 
 
 " What annoys me is that I must go first with M. Guerreville 
 to see one of his friends who is rather ill. It is not far from here ; 
 but I am afraid we shall not find places at the theatre, unless you 
 have the goodness to go at once and keep them for us." 
 
 " Very willingly ; I shall hurry off at once and secure them. 
 What part do you wish to go to ? " 
 
 "To the balcony." 
 
 " The balcony ! Very good. I promise you I shall keep two 
 places. I shall place my gloves, my handkerchief — I shall even say 
 to the attendant to keep the seats — " 
 
 " Then we shall have the pleasure of finishing the evening with 
 you." 
 
 " I fly to the Frangais — to the balcony — that is all arranged, and 
 I shall wait there for you." 
 
 Vadevant began to run across the garden, jostling all about him 
 to arrive with speed at the Theatre-Frangais. During this time 
 Jenneval and M. Guerreville took their way, walking along the 
 boulevard, the Doctor laughing and saying, — 
 
 " I don't think he liked the idea of paying his share of the bill ! 
 I think, my dear M. Guerreville, that you will approve of my con- 
 duct during this whole evening." 
 
 " Oh, thoroughly ! Your M. Vadevant is an insupportable man. 
 I thank you for having delivered me from him." 
 
 " I do not guarantee that we shall be quit of him for ever. Oh ! 
 the little man is most obstinate. But then we shall see, and we 
 shall find additional means." 
 
 The Doctor then walked with M. Guerreville to his rooms, and 
 as the latter was parting from him, he said, — 
 
 " Don't forget the poor water-carrier 1 ' 
 
70 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NEWS OF ZIZINE. 
 
 The next day, in the afternoon, Jenneval called for M. Guerreville, 
 who awaited him impatiently. 
 
 " I have executed your commission," said the Doctor, " but I am 
 annoyed to have nothing satisfactory to report." 
 
 " Is Jerome worse ? " 
 
 " No ; he appears, on the contrary, to be cured, for he has 
 changed his lodgings. The water-carrier has gone with his daughter, 
 and the porter of the house, who appears to me a nasty fellow, could 
 not tell me where they had gone. ' They have gone off — I don't 
 know where. I was not the water-carrier's friend ; and as those 
 people neither received letters nor visits, I didn't need to ask them 
 where they were going.' That was all I could draw from the 
 man." 
 
 " "Well, now ! It is probable I shall see nothing more of the 
 Auvergnat. I am annoyed about this — I regret it especially on 
 account of his child. He has got well, however ; he will be able to 
 gain his living ; he will be happy, I hope. He has a daughter 
 who loves him so much. You have never had a child, Doctor? 
 You cannot understand the happiness a father feels when he sees 
 himself tenderly loved by a girl dear to him." 
 
 " I could imagine that being a very pure and deep joy ! But how 
 sad when one loses children, or they leave one ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville trembled, and walked through the room in an 
 agitated way. The Doctor saw he had probed his friend's wound ; 
 he stopped, and hastened to change the conversation. 
 
 " By-the-way, I saw our friend of yesterday, this morning ; 
 indeed, I am scarcely quit of him. He came to me to know what 
 became of us last night ; he declares he kept our places for a long 
 time, and that he was involved in two duels, in which I must 
 necessarily fight for him. But at last everything has been settled 
 without a meeting, and Yadevant, whom I hoped was a little 
 annoyed with me, does not bear any malice ; far from that, he has 
 already found me some patients ; he has asked me to go to two 
 houses where he says they need my help. A doctor cannot refuse 
 a patient, and you may fancy that Yadevant, by this means, can 
 present me to all his acquaintances. But I shall set myself alone to 
 the task of supporting the annoyance of this gentleman's intrusion, 
 and make him realise that you do not care for his visits. To-day, 
 I hope we shall dine alone, where no intruder can come in between 
 us, and where we can observe as we wish to do. If you like, we 
 shall risk dining to-day at a twenty -five-sou restaurant, and we can 
 dine elsewhere afterwards if we are not satisfied." 
 
 "I have said, Doctor, that I am entirely at your disposal." 
 
 The two friends were just going out when George came to 
 announce that a gentleman asked to see M. Guerreville ; and before 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. ?i 
 
 the latter had time to reply, the visitor, who probably had followed 
 the domestic, entered the drawing-room, crying from the anti- 
 
 chamber 
 
 " Ah,' good-day ; M. Guerreville, how are you ? I am delighted 
 to have the pleasure of finding you. I feared you might have gone 
 out. My wife said to me, « Don't stop on your way. Don't stand 
 looking into the caricature shops. 3 I am very fond of caricatures, 
 you must know. My wife and my daughter Agatha, your god- 
 daughter, have asked me to present you with the assurance of their 
 
 While this gentleman was announcing himself at such length, 
 M. Guerreville presented him with a chair, and the Doctor looked 
 at him. . . . 
 
 The newcomer was a man of about fifty, with fair hair at the 
 sides, and a little more chestnut in the middle of the head, which 
 left no doubt as to their being false locks. It was one of those 
 pleasant faces which it was difficult to look at without a desire to 
 laugh ; an extremely happy air ; a pinching of the lips, which 
 seemed always ready to let out some good jest ; and a nose which 
 seems continually about to sneeze. Such was M. Grillon, the husband 
 of the lady whom M. Guerreville had met on the boulevard, and 
 with whom he had had such a long conversation. 
 
 M. Guerreville went through all the usual politenesses to M. 
 Grillon, and was asking to what he was indebted for the pleasure 
 of seeing him ; but the latter did not give him time. M. Grillon 
 had the habit of never replying to what was said to him. He spoke 
 almost always without hearing. It is a style of action very common 
 in society, where nearly all talkers, not wishing to give up the lead 
 in the conversation, find the simplest way of preserving it to be not 
 to allow others to speak. 
 
 And you have some again who make a conscience of this, because 
 they think they can always say something better than they can 
 hear. Then again, there are these who do it from being distrait, 
 and not having heard what was addressed to them. There are 
 others still who do it through vulgarity, want of good habit, im- 
 pertinence, and the desire of jabbering. Generally you will remark 
 that the people who don't know, or don't wish to hear, have always 
 an amount of self-love which makes their company very wearisome. 
 
 M. Grillon had the pretention of being amiable, and with him 
 preoccupation through what he wanted to say was one of the causes 
 which kept him from listening. He took a seat, having looked 
 where he might place his hat and cane, which he resolved to keep 
 between his legs, and holding out his hand to M. Guerreville, he 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 "I am so delighted to see you, dear M. Guerreville. You 
 have been a long time away from Paris ? " 
 
 '* Yes, sir ; but I have been here sometimes since I have seen 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! it is about a dozen years since you went away. Eh ! eh ! 
 we are old acquaintances. I don't find you changed." 
 
72 The Monde mid the Demi Mo?ide. 
 
 " You are very good — but I have aged, on the contrary — " 
 
 " I don't know any change in myself, and I have always an 
 excellent appetite. And my wife — how did you think she was 
 looking ? " 
 
 " But I—' 
 
 " She has been very pretty, my wife — extremely pretty. My 
 daughter resembles her very much — and me also. You have seen 
 Agatha — your god-daughter — a charming child — a devil in spirit — 
 she hits at everything like her mother. We have given her a 
 brilliant education — music, dancing, drawing — " 
 
 " I have had the pleasure of seeing my god-daughter. She is 
 very nice-looking, and has a very sweet appearance." 
 
 " And then, languages in splendid style — Italian, English — she 
 knows everything. Listen, then — she is only a child. She is proud 
 and natural, and yet, my having that girl is quite providential. I 
 was away travelling, and left my wife ill. I had no idea she was 
 enceinte. She did not think so either ; but, at the end of about a 
 year, when I returned, I was delighted to be a father ! " 
 
 " And business, M. Grillon, you have given it up, I believe ? " 
 
 " Unfortunately, I have never had other children — I have only 
 had this girl. I should have liked a boy also. But what is the 
 use of speaking, 'Man proposes' — you know, etc. And you, M. 
 Guerreville, have children, have you not ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have a daughter ; but she lives far away from Paris." 
 
 " You don't know why I have come — let me tell you now. In 
 the first place, to have the pleasure of seeing you. But, next, as 
 we are very anxious to renew our acquaintance with you, we wish 
 to have you to dinner. You refused my daughter yesterday, and 
 yet she is your god-daughter — " 
 
 " Sir, it was impossible for me to accept." 
 
 "Then my wife said to me, 'Grillon, go yourself and see M. 
 Guerreville ; it is perhaps because you did not accompany your 
 daughter that he has refused.' " 
 
 " Oh ! I beg you will believe I had no such reason ! " 
 
 " Immediately I set out, and here I am. I come to ask you to 
 name your day — whichever you like — as we dine every day. 
 Which will suit you best ? " 
 
 " Truly, M. Grillon, I am very sensible of your kindness ; but 
 I am not very well — here is even my Doctor with me ? " 
 
 " The day after to-morrow — will that suit you ? " 
 
 " Well, I must say I am not at all disposed to dine in town ; 
 and—" 
 
 " Saturday, then, if you prefer that, since it is quite the same 
 to us. But, first, I cannot go without your promise." 
 
 " M. Guerreville saw he had no means of escaping from dining 
 with M. Grillon. Perhaps also a secret voice told him that he 
 owed this recognition at least to the friendship shown him. These 
 reflections decided him, and he replied, — 
 
 "Well, sir, this day fortnight I shall have the pleasure of 
 dining with you." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. ?3 
 
 " This day fortnight ! It is a little far off that. But let it be 
 so ; and we shall not allow you to forget your promise. I shall 
 have the honour of calling again." 
 
 " Oh, you may count on me." 
 
 "Then your god-daughter will come and see you — bright 
 Agatha — she loves her godfather so much ! She has done nothing 
 every day but speak of you ; and when she is not talking about 
 you, my wife is. She has been charming, my wife. Adieu, M. 
 Guerreville ; I must go, for the dinner hour is near, and I am 
 always exact. So, this day fortnight. Have you our address ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; madame gave it to me." 
 
 " Then, let me see, five o'clock precisely, if you please. Besides, 
 your god-daughter will have the pleasure of presenting her respects 
 to you. She speaks of nothing but her godfather. 
 
 " I have the honour to salute you, sir." 
 
 "Oh, Agatha loves you very much. Good-day, then, M 
 Guerreville — charmed to renew our acquaintance. At five o'clock 
 precisely." 
 
 M. Grillon went off. The Doctor smiled as he looked at M. 
 Guerreville, and said, — 
 
 " You were right to accept this invitation, for if you had not, 
 probably the papa, mamma, and your god-daughter would have come 
 one by one to renew it." 
 
 " Yes, I have yielded rightly ; but you see, Doctor, in Paris 
 even one is not always master in doing what he would — he is forced 
 into society in spite of himself." 
 
 " Since you seek certain people in the city, it is not in living in 
 perfect privacy that you will discover them." 
 
 " You are right — but there are some houses to which I have no 
 desire to return." 
 
 " It seems, however, that the Grillon family are much attached 
 to you?" 
 
 " Have you not experienced, Doctor, that sometimes the greatest 
 advances of friendship from certain people repel rather than attract 
 us?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, indeed ! I have remarked it often ; it is generally the 
 case that neither friendship nor love can be taken by force. There 
 are some sentiments which must come naturally of themselves, and 
 which draw back when they are compelled. But shall we go to this 
 twenty-sou restaurant now ? " 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 At the moment when these gentleman were about to enter the 
 drawing-room, George opened the door, and said, — 
 
 " This is M. Jules, who comes to ask leave to say a word or two 
 to M. Guerreville." 
 
 "Again !" cried the latter, making an impatient movement. 
 " Is one not to be left a moment in peace ? " 
 
 " I shall go into the next room," said the Doctor. 
 
 " No, no ; remain where you are. Well, where is he, this M. 
 Jules ? Let him come in ! " 
 
74 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 George went back to the young man, who waited in the ante< 
 chamber, and soon Jules advanced timidly into the drawing-room, 
 when the air of temper on M. Guerreville's face made the blood 
 rush to his face. 
 
 " What do you wish, sir ? " 
 
 " Sir, I beg pardon if I have taken the liberty of returning too 
 quickly to disturb you." 
 
 "What is it about?" 
 
 " It is because you appeared to have a desire to know, that I 
 wished to tell you — that is why — " 
 
 "Explain yourself better than that, sir; I don't understand 
 you." 
 
 Poor Jules was quite disconcerted by these words ; he lowered 
 his eyes, muttered something unintelligible, and did not know 
 whether to remain or withdraw. The Doctor, touched by the 
 embarrassment of the young man, approached M. Guerreville, and 
 said to him, — 
 
 " This poor boy doesn't know where he is ; your reception has 
 made him unable to explain himself." 
 
 " You are right ; I was unjust and wrong." 
 
 And then approaching Jules, who seemed ready to burst into 
 tears, he slapped him on the shoulder, saying in a gentler tone, — 
 
 "Ah well, my young friend, and what have you got to say 
 tome?" 
 
 The young man's brow cleared, and he replied, — 
 
 " Sir, I spoke to you about M. Tristepatte, professor of declama- 
 tion, and you had the goodness to say you would come some day 
 and hear me at his room, in order to judge of my fitness for the 
 stage. I came to tell you, sir, that there will be a great lesson 
 to-morrow at noon ; we shall play some fragments of Zaire and of 
 VEcole des Veillards — one can thus judge much better of the pupils. 
 I must play a great part, and if you could come and hear me — " 
 
 " Ah, well, M. Jules, I shall go, since you desire it." 
 
 " Oh, it will be such a pleasure to me. You know M. Triste- 
 patte's address, Eue du Petit-Hurleur." 
 
 "Yes, you gave it me. I suppose you won't mind if this 
 gentleman accompanies me, if he has time." 
 
 " On the contrary, sir, bring as many people as you can — that 
 will give my professor great pleasure. He asks us to bring our 
 friends to hear us, because that makes a ' public,' and it accustoms 
 us to play before people ; and when our acquaintances don't come, 
 then he seeks among his neighbours and the porters of the district, 
 and that makes a little public ; but if you come to see me, you will 
 not say anything of it to my father or mother." 
 
 " Be easy on that point ; you nave given me your confidence, 
 and I shall not abuse it." 
 
 " Then, to-morrow, sir ! " 
 
 "Yes, M. Jules." 
 
 " I beg a thousand pardons for the liberty I have taken ; but I 
 am so glad you are coming." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, ^ 
 
 " Very good — adieu." 
 
 "Gentlemen, I have the honour to salute you. # 
 
 Jules went backwards, so that he could bow several times ; and 
 when he was gone, Jenneval said,— 
 
 "He is very well this young man; his manners have still the 
 candour and timidity of youth; but what I cannot understand is 
 that he should come to ask you to be present at his dramatic 
 attempts, and that you have promised to go to the demonstration 
 at M. Tristepatte's." .. - 
 
 " Oh for that matter, Doctor, I have certainly some motives tor 
 not refusing this young man; his mother has recommended him 
 very strongly to me ; but he has a passion for the theatre, ana 1 
 am afraid this will compromise his future. If you have nothing 
 better to do to-morrow after mid-day, and will gowith me to this 
 elocution master's — " „ , T , „ 7 , 
 
 « Oh i I accept with all my heart. To hear Zaire and L Ecole des 
 Yeillards recited in the Eue du Petit-Hurleur will be strange 
 enough, and I wouldn't lose the opportunity for all the world. I 
 have sometimes heard the declamation class at the Conservatoire, 
 but I should suppose the affair at M. Tristepatte's will be much 
 more piquant. Meanwhile, shall we go and dine now ? 
 
 " Let us go quickly, lest some other visitor should arrive ! 
 M Guerrevile and the Doctor directed their steps to the Quartiei 
 Latin, and soon were in a twenty-five sou restaurant lhey 
 entered a vast saloon filled with tables, between which there was 
 scarcely room left for the passage of one person. Nearly all those 
 tables were occupied, and often the same was used by many parties. 
 There was a perpetual movement of plates, dishes, and waiters ; 
 there was a clattering sound made by the noise of the forks, glasses, 
 and spoons ; then from all corners of the saloon cries went on un- 
 ceasingly : " Some bread, gargon ; some bread here ! , , 
 
 Not without difficulty did the Doctor find two places at a half- 
 table at which were seated two young people, of whom one had a 
 splendid beard a la Francois I, and the other a twisted cravat 
 larger than the bottom of his hat. The first was disputing with 
 the waiter. 
 
 " I have asked you for a cream pot. 
 " There are no more, sir." 
 " I asked you for it when I came." 
 " There were no more then, sir." 
 
 "For eight days back, it matters not when I asked for one, 
 there were none. There are not enough of them— for it is surely a 
 sorry jest to try to make two dozen serve two hundred persons who 
 come to dine here. I shall not dine here again, and all my friends 
 will act like me. We shall go elsewhere, and your establishment 
 will be ruined, because we know it owes its prosperity to us, and 
 we know how to make it go down when we wish." m 
 
 And as he said these words the young man rose, throwing his 
 napkin angrily on the table, and left with a menacing air as he 
 muttered words like " swindler " and such like. 
 
76 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " You see by what men hold their fortunes," said the Doctor. 
 " This is an establishment on the brink of ruin for a little pot of 
 cream. Revolutions have sometimes no graver causes." 
 
 "Bah!" answered the waiter, taking away the young man's 
 cover, as he was just going off ; " he will be very pleased to return 
 here to-morrow. If one listened to them all, I don't know what 
 would happen ; and how they do demand bread — it is frightful ! 
 What will those gentlemen take ? There is nothing but beefsteak, 
 veal a la bourgeoise, and ducks." 
 
 " Then give us some ducks, beefsteak, and veal." 
 
 " All right ; these gentlemen will not wait." 
 
 While they were being served and attacked the twenty-five 
 sous' dinner, the young man with the knotted cravat, seated near 
 them, amused himself by emptying the contents of a pepper dish 
 into a mustard dish ; then he slipped some handfuls of salt into the 
 carafe, and placed some bread crusts into an oil-bottle. 
 
 " Get up philanthropic establishments, then," said Jenneval, 
 " in order to be thus rewarded. All these young people would be 
 rery much put out if there were no cheap restaurants. Here, for 
 twenty-five sous, they have a soup, about three plates of meat to 
 choose from, a dessert, a carafe of wine, and bread ' at discretion ' ; 
 and, above all, these things are good, especially when one has an 
 appetite such as these gentlemen are provided with. Well ! their 
 delight is to mix up pepper and salt, to destroy the oil and the 
 mustard, so as to cause as much annoyance as possible to the person 
 who entertains them at this low price. Therefore, do good to men, 
 and believe they will make recognition of it." 
 
 M. Guerreville shook his head, and gave a light sigh. While 
 they dined, he ran his eyes through the saloon, and examined all the 
 faces ; then he fell into reflections, which the Doctor did not try to 
 dispel, as M. Guerreville appeared very sad ; for Jenneval held as a 
 principle that one ought not to force people to be frank, and that in 
 order to make them smile, the proper moment must be chosen. 
 
 In the restaurants of "fixed prices" you are served very quickly ; 
 it appears almost as if they gave one on top of the other everything 
 you demand, so that you may feel yourself obliged to give room for 
 others. 
 
 The Doctor and M. Guerreville did not remain very long at the 
 restaurant ; they went out, the one more pensive and sadder than 
 on entering, and the other saying, — 
 
 " That is not very bad ; but I shall not come back here again." 
 
 After having walked some time in silence, Jenneval said at 
 last to his companion, — 
 
 " You appeared to me to be more anxious this evening than you 
 were in the morning. Have you seen anyone at the restaurant 
 who has recalled your sorrow ? " 
 
 " No, doctor, no. Ah, if it should please heaven that I should 
 even meet those who knew them — who have talked to them. But 
 no — never — and it is that which throws me into despair. In vain 
 have I ran everywhere, in vain have I gone through this whole 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 77 
 
 city ; I can find no trace of her I seek. Sometimes, as you have 
 seen, I try to smile and take courage, and distract my thoughts, but 
 if you knew how impossible that is ! At the bottom of my heart I 
 have always the same grief, the same memories ; then, at last, 
 wearied of constraining myself, I need to dream and to groan, in 
 order to keep from being miserable. Adieu, Doctor, adieu ! We 
 shall see you to-morrow." 
 
 Jenneval did not try to retain M. Guerreville ; he knew that 
 ill-addressed comforts annoy, and never console. He allowed his 
 friend to return home alone, saying, — 
 
 " Wait till he gives me his confidence — then only shall I try to 
 take up half his troubles." 
 
 The next day early, M. Guerreville, who had gone out to walk 
 through a district at a distance from his own, was returning slowly 
 along the quays, when an exclamation was heard near him accom- 
 panied by such a loud noise that he at once raised his eyes. 
 
 A water-carrier had stopped before M. Guerreville, and he had 
 put the two vessels he carried so sharply on the pavement that 
 part of the water made quite a puddle at his feet. This man 
 looked at M. Guerreville with an expression of joy and happiness 
 difficult to describe ; he wished to speak, but his emotion was so 
 great, he could only say a few half -broken words. 
 
 " It is he ! — oh heavens, it is he ! What pleasure — what joy 
 — I am so pleased ! " 
 
 " Jerome ! " in his turn cried M. Guerreville, who recognised the 
 water-carrier, and he stretched out his hand to the Auvergnat, who 
 seemed at first afraid to touch it ; then took it with respect, and 
 pressed it nearly to breaking. 
 
 " Yes, it is I, sir — my benefactor ! " 
 
 " Don't speak so, Jerome ; it was such a small service." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! it was a great service, and you have indeed saved me 
 from all trouble, misery, and the devil and his whole train who 
 were at my home. Oh, you are indeed my benefactor ! Your help, 
 you see, has rendered me calm, and my health has returned 
 quickly. Oh, we were so fearfully poor, although I tried to laugh, 
 to keep my poor little Zizine from vexing. Oh ! when she brought 
 me all you had put in her apron — she was so happy also, that dear 
 child — and she would have so much wished to thank you — 
 especially when she saw me weep for joy." 
 
 " Enough, enough, Jerome ! say nothing more about that." 
 
 "Oh, sir, it is a relief to me. It is so long since I have 
 desired to meet you, so as to show you my gratitude. I should 
 stifle if I were to tell you all that is in my heart. Pardon me, sir, 
 for speaking to you in the street ; but there was no other place to 
 do it in." 
 
 " Jerome, I am not one of those people who believe they com- 
 promise themselves by speaking to a water-carrier, or by shaking 
 an artisan by the hand. I have seen many people who preach 
 equality in their writing most abominable to their inferiors. I, 
 who don't preach, because I don't hope to convert anyone, have 
 
78 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 never thought that one should blush to talk with an honest man, 
 whatever be his occupation. I am pleased also to meet you again, 
 for more than once I have thought of you — your position, your 
 tenderness for your child, have interested me in a lively way. 
 And now you are happy ? " 
 
 " Happy ! yes, indeed sir ; on one side I am happy in a way, 
 because I can carry well now, and gain my own living ; but, on 
 the other hand, I am not so joyous when I go home — because I don't 
 find my little one there, her whom I so loved to feel running to my 
 knees, and babbling away — " 
 
 " How ! you have no longer your daughter ? " 
 
 "I shall explain how, if you will allow me. When you had 
 paid my landlord, I was going to stay on at the same place ; but 
 the landlord, through that knave of a shoemaker-porter, told me 
 he wished his lodging before the term. Then I said, ' It's all the 
 same to me, since he cannot keep my furniture. I shall find a 
 garret quite as good.' So I searched for another place, and soon 
 found one in a fine house in the Eue St Honore, and where 
 the porter was a decent man who did not annoy the poor tenants. 
 Six days after we were installed in our new rooms on the sixth 
 floor, and the staircase was, at least, not a breakneck one like the 
 other. If my little Zizine went down ever so often to the fruiterer's, 
 or to play a little with the porter's child, who was of the same age, 
 she was always meeting a young lady and her mother, who lived on 
 the first floor of the house. Oh ! but they were rich people — dis- 
 tinguished people — but that did not prevent the young lady from 
 remarking on my Zinzinette, whom she met so often on the stair- 
 case. You know, sir, she is very neat, that dear child — and she 
 has such a rational, sensible appearance, one might think her 
 twenty years old — if she were not so little. So the young lady of 
 the first floor commenced to talk to Zizine, then, pleased with her 
 replies, made her go into their rooms, and gave her sweatmeats, 
 cakes, and little tarts ; at last, it came to this, that the young lady 
 could not let a day pass without seeing Zizine, and that she spent 
 all her days with her. "When I heard of this, you know, I couldn't 
 be annoyed about it, for I said to myself, ' That dear child will be 
 better on the first than on the sixth floor ! ' And every day the 
 little one came up to me with new presents which these good ladies 
 had given her. But one day they asked me also to go to their 
 house ; that surprised me a little, but it was all the same to me. 
 I dressed properly, and went to Madame Dolbert's house — that is 
 the lady's name. I was bid to enter. I found there the mother 
 and daughter, and then, according to custom, my Zinzinette, who 
 was playing with two or three dolls. The old lady (for she is not 
 the mother but the grandmother of Stephanie, who has no relations 
 but her), came to me and said, ' Jerome, my grand-daughter loves 
 your little one very tenderly. You are old, and can scarcely pro- 
 vide for her. If you will consent to leave her with us, we shall 
 take the most special care of her ; we shall have her educated. She 
 has already so much wit and reason that it would be exceedingly bad 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 79 
 
 not to cultivate the talents nature has happily given her. My 
 grand-daughter will count it a pleasure to teach her music and 
 drawing ; in short, we shall treat her like our own child, and when 
 she has grown up, besides that she will find her talents a resource 
 against misfortune, my Stephanie will engage, moreover, to give her 
 a little dot when she wishes to marry. Ah, think of that, Jerome ! 
 Consent to leave us your child ! ' Indeed, sir, you may well believe 
 that at this proposition I became red — then pale — perfectly over- 
 come. I had a heart full of pleasure and pain ! I believe, indeed, 
 that some tears fell from my eyes, for my little Zizine left all her 
 toys, and came running to my arms, saying, ' Does this pain you so 
 much ? ' I embraced her without having power to reply at first. 
 I pressed her against my heart — it seemed to me already as if it 
 were for the last time — " 
 
 Here Jerome stopped, for the memory of that moment seemed 
 to draw tears from his eyes. M. Guerreville who was not less 
 moved, pressed his hand, murmuring, — 
 
 " Poor Jerome ! " 
 
 The water-carrier heaved a deep sigh, then replied, — 
 
 " I had not long to reflect ; my heart could scarcely bear the 
 thought of parting with Zizine ; but it was for her good — for her 
 happiness — " 
 
 " What, Jerome ! you could consent to deprive yourself of your 
 daughter — of your only child — of her who was to rejoice your last 
 hours ? " 
 
 " It was that she should be more happy, sir ; it appears to me 
 that I ought not to — that I could not oppose myself — " 
 
 " Ah ! you have accomplished a great sacrifice ! " 
 
 " Ah, heavens ! it was a sacrifice. Yet, those ladies who saw 
 my vexation said to me, ' You shall see your daughter when you 
 wish — as often as you like.' And this calmed me a little. As to 
 Zinzinette, they only said to her, ' Your papa wishes you to sleep 
 here, so that you may not need to go up to the sixth floor ; but he 
 will come to see you as often as he has time.' The dear child did 
 not wish it at first ; she threw aside her toys, crying, ' I prefer to 
 sleep at my father's. I don't wish to leave him. If he should set 
 fire to his bed, he would have no one to put it out.' Poor little 
 thing ! I should have been very selfish to ask her to live any more 
 in my garret, and I promised I would go constantly to see her. 
 You see what was done. Zizine remained with Madame Dolbert. 
 During the first days I went to see her often, then a little less 
 frequently, for I feared I was putting them about, and I am not 
 at my ease before these fine ladies ; but I took courage, because I 
 saw the little one was being well taken care of. Things were thus, 
 when six weeks later these ladies changed their rooms ; they left 
 the Eue St Honore to go to live on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, 
 Ah ! I cannot go so much to a place like that. And then my 
 duties do not lie in that quarter. I must, then, see my little one 
 from a distance ; and now I dare not go to see her often — not that 
 she shows any less affection. Ah 1 on the contrary, the dear child 
 
80 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 leaps on my neck whenever she sees me. But my work engages me 
 the whole day, and in the evening I must eat and sleep, to be able 
 to begin again next day. Thus, dear sir, you see what the state of 
 things is. It is a very good thing for my little one, who will be 
 brought up like a fine lady ; but it is a great loss to me not to be 
 able to embrace her evening and morning." 
 
 Jerome ended his story, and passed his handkerchief over his 
 eyes once more. M. Guerreville also appeared much affected, and 
 said to him, — 
 
 " I hope you won't repent of what you have done, Jerome ; but 
 to separate from the child ! Of course you can see her at any time, 
 poor little thing. I can easily fancy how they have taken such an 
 attachment to her. She is peculiarly interesting. And her pro- 
 tectress is called, you say, Madame Dolbert ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And lives on the Boulevard de la Madeleine ? " 
 
 " At the corner of the Rue Duphot." 
 
 " I shall try to find out — to know, indeed — that your daughter 
 is well. As to you, Jerome, come — here is my address — come and 
 see me ; come sometimes and tell me your news, and speak to me 
 about the little one. I am a father also, and I do not love my 
 daughter less tenderly than you love yours. That is the reason 
 I have had so much pleasure in listening to you." 
 
 " Ah, sir, you are too good. I thank you very much, and 
 I shall certainly profit by your permission. I shall have the 
 honour — " 
 
 " Yes ; when you come to see me, Jerome, we shall talk about 
 your child. Adieu ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville went off after having pressed the Auvergnat's 
 hand, and Jerome said to himself as he took up his pitchers, — 
 
 " A fine man, indeed ! And is he really not happy ? What 
 can Providence be thinking of ? " 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A PROFESSOR OF DECLAMATION. 
 
 The Doctor had not forgotten the proposal which M. Guerreville 
 had made to him that he should accompany him to the academy of 
 the professor of declamation. On the day Jules had indicated he 
 went to his friend's at noon, and bjth went off to the Rue du Petit- 
 Hurleur. 
 
 " I shouldn't advise the professor to set up a theatre in this 
 quarter," said Jenneval, as they went along the Rue Bourg-l'Abbe. 
 " I don't believe that the attraction of a play — the squalor met 
 here during the whole year — indeed, it would require much 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 81 
 
 courage or a vocation to go to take dramatic lessons in the Hue 
 Petit-Hurleur." - , 
 
 "And what will you say of those who come to hear the 
 
 students ? " ' . 
 
 " I shall say, they may do it once in chance of some attraction, 
 but that will not be that of curiosity." % . 
 
 Arrived at the street, M. Guerreville stopped with his com- 
 panion at the proper number. It was an old, broken-down house, 
 the entrance to which was very gloomy, and in which all sorts of 
 things seemed to be placed, so as to make people pick their steps. 
 On the right they found a stair by dint of groping, and little by 
 little, as the eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, they began 
 to perceive the steps, half- wood, half -plaster, and a railing on which 
 nobody could have the courage to lay his hand. 
 
 "This house is horribly dirty 1" said M. Guerreville to his 
 companion. 
 
 "It is ' old Paris,' " said the Doctor, smiling. " There are some 
 people who would find this house admirable, because it belongs to 
 the Middle Ages, and they call those who would throw down such 
 infectious cloaca Vandals, and would build instead well-arranged 
 and ventilated dwellings, into which one might penetrate without the 
 risk of breaking his neck ; but fortunately, in spite of these lovers 
 of the antique, Paris improves every day ; and after an enforced 
 visit in the Eue de la Calandre or the Eue Hurleur, great and little, 
 one can breathe at ease in the Eue de la Paix or the Eue Eivoli— 
 but it seems to me we should do well not to stop in this passage. 
 
 " If we could see the porter ! " - m \ 
 
 " Porter ! Do you think they knew anything of him when this 
 house was built ? In those days the citizens themselves came down 
 and opened and shut the door. Let us go and finish by finding 
 those we want ; but we need not stop— for it will be useless— on 
 the first floor. Professor Tristepatte will lodge higher up." 
 
 These gentlemen arrived at the second floor. There were four 
 doors on a kind of landing in front of a corridor. 
 
 (i Suppose we knock at one of these doors," said M. Guerreville. 
 
 " If you like ; but I imagine the Professor will live higher up 
 
 still." 
 
 M. Guerreville knocked at a door, but there was no reply ; at 
 the second, no response ; at the two others, and there was the same 
 
 silence. 
 
 " What does this mean, Doctor ? This house is not inhabited, 
 
 " I believe it is, on the contrary, very much inhabited ; but 
 probably by some artisans who are now at their work. Let us go 
 farther up." . , - 
 
 On the third floor one of the doors was opened, and permitted 
 to be seen a small room in which all the furniture consisted of a 
 broom scarcely possessed of a vestige of hair. M. Guerreville 
 entered the room, knocking at the door as he passed ; there was no 
 reply. But soon the cries of children came from a room at the end 
 
82 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 The Doctor, who had followed M. Guerreville, resolved to open the 
 door ; and then a picture worthy of BiarcPs pencil was presented to 
 their view. 
 
 In a badly-furnished room, without curtains, and nearly without 
 wall-paper, there was on one side a miserable bed, on the other a 
 kind of cradle ; in the middle of the room, a round table, on which 
 were some cups, some bread, and a plate with a large piece of 
 cheese. On the bed was a child three or four years of age, ugly, 
 badly-coloured, but strong and vigorous. In the cradle was 
 another younger infant, who also showed strength and health. 
 Lastly, in the chimney, was lit a stove, on which was placed a 
 stewpan full of milk. 
 
 At the moment the Doctor opened the door, the two children' 
 gave out frightful cries — he who was placed on the bed, his eyes 
 nearly out of his head, so much action did he throw into his grief. 
 The smaller child, while whimpering and making a wry face, 
 stretched himself out of his cradle, so that he seemed about to fall 
 to the floor. 
 
 " Good heavens ! what has happened to these children ? " said 
 M. Guerreville, entering after the Doctor. " Are they ill, then, and 
 their parents leaving them thus alone ! Come, then, Doctor, see 
 what can be done to soothe them." 
 
 But already the Doctor was in fits of laughter as he pointed out 
 to M. Guerreville a cat which was running off with the piece of 
 cheese, and, on the other hand, the milk which the fire had caused 
 to boil up, and which was flowing all over the edges of the pan. It 
 was this, indeed, which had called forth the great cries from the 
 two children, each of whom saw his dinner disappearing, and no 
 power to save anything. 
 
 Jenneval drew back the stewpan from the stove, took the bit 
 of cheese from the cat, replacing it in the plate, and as soon as 
 their cries ceased, the two little monkeys cried each in different 
 tones, — 
 
 " I am hungry — I want to eat — I am hungry ! " 
 
 At this moment a woman with a cap on her head entered the 
 room ; and perceiving two strangers, one of them holding the 
 stewpan in his hand, began crying nearly as loudly as the 
 children, — 
 
 " Thieves ! help ! there are thieves here ! " 
 
 And the children, hearing their mother cry, began to cry also, 
 without knowing why, but without stopping. 
 
 This terrible din deafened Jenneval so much that the saucepan 
 slipped from -his hand and fell on the cat, which received on the 
 head the boiling milk that stuck to its fur. It spat about, feeling 
 itself burning, leaped on the table, smashed the cups, and broke 
 a bottle ; the children and their mother cried louder yet, while 
 Jenneval was in fits of laughter — M. Guerreville alone remaining 
 calm and cool amid this disorder. 
 
 Two old women came out from two doors on the landing, the 
 one in her chemise, a cotton petticoat falling around her, an old 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 83 
 
 scarf wrapped about her head, holding a novel in her hand ; the 
 other, in a black dress, on which it seemed as if pens had been wiped, 
 had a hat of stuff of indefinite colour, and which one might have 
 made use at the same time as a screen, a shed, and an umbrella. 
 
 While these ladies came to know what was the matter, M. 
 Guerreville approached the lady in the cap, and at last made her 
 comprehend that he had entered her house to ask for M. Triste- 
 patte's room, and that the moment when she appeared his friend 
 was trying to save the children's dinner. 
 
 Jenneval, who was quiet now, lifted the saucepan, and pre- 
 sented it to the weeping mother, saying, — 
 
 "I would have saved about a cupful of milk, but your cries 
 made me lose the rest, and your cat has been cruelly punished for 
 his greed ! But as I must blame myself with the damage com- 
 mitted by this poor animal, I beg you will allow me to pay for it." 
 
 And the Doctor placed a piece of one hundred sous on the table, 
 and as all the cat had broken scarcely amounted to thirty, the 
 mother of the two monkeys made deep bows, and became exces- 
 sively polite ; and the two old ladies, who were observing from 
 the landing, said, — 
 
 " Isn't she fortunate, that Madame Limousse ! It's her cat that 
 brings in the money. Mine has never done anything but cause 
 annoyance and disagreeableness." 
 
 " There are some people who have good luck in everything ! 
 For instance, I have found, during my life, ten splendid dogs ; and 
 for them there was neither a bill, nor an honest reward, and 
 although I fed them for weeks, no one ever claimed them. I 
 caught some fleas, and nothing else ! It is enough to disgust one 
 as to kindness — " 
 
 Before going off, M. Guerreville addressed himself to the 
 mother of the two children. 
 
 "Tell me, madame — your children cry very much, and they 
 were asking something to eatf when we came in — have they not 
 dined yet?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " "What ! so late % It is more than half -past twelve." 
 
 " Good heavens, sir, what would you have ? I had to go out 
 some messages, and I must leave early. I have had three just 
 now, and I could not get back till they were done." 
 
 " And if you had had five or six ? " 
 
 " Exactly — my children would have had to dine later still ; but 
 that wouldn't matter, they are quite accustomed to it." 
 
 " Can you not place their dinner beside them — on their beds ? " 
 
 " Oh, goodness, no ! they would eat it too quickly ; they would 
 choke themselves, the dear loves ! " 
 
 " A singular way of loving and educating children ! " said 
 Jenneval, as he left the room. " But what about M. Tristepatte ? " 
 
 "It is above this, gentlemen ; a floor and a half higher. 
 Besides, you will see his name and occupation written on the door." 
 
 These gentlemen went upwards between the two old neigh- 
 
84 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 bours, who had come to make their courtesies. On the higher land- 
 ing they saw, in a lobby, another fragment of stair, which had 
 only eight steps, and which had written on it in Spanish white : 
 u School of Declamation — Classes daily — Ring the bell" 
 
 There was, indeed, in the middle of the door, a hole from which 
 a cord hung ; on this there had been hung a piece of wood, so 
 that it would be more easily pulled. 
 
 " People can't accuse M. Tristepatte of seducing his pupils by 
 the luxury of the decorations and costumes," said Jenneval, taking 
 hold of the cord and the piece of wood. "Everything points to 
 a great simplicity. I am curious to see the rest." 
 
 He drew the cord, the door opened, and they entered a lobby, 
 at the end of which was another door ; as they approached, they 
 heard speech in a loud and heated tone, and they concluded that 
 the lesson had begun. 
 
 The Doctor turned a key which was in the door, opened, and 
 invited M. Guerreville to introduce him into this dramatic temple. 
 
 It was a large room, lit from the roof, and which would have 
 passed for the studio of an artist, if one had seen any paintings 
 about. At the end, and indeed throughout it all, some planks 
 were arranged about a foot and a-half higher than the floor — thir 
 was the theatre ; at each sicte, a piece of tapestry attached to tha 
 ceiling by a cord and some nails, were the "coulisses"; lastly, upon 
 an old canopy of Utrecht velvet, placed at the side of the room, 
 and which appeared as if it had been used to make a salad of, one 
 could see, pell-mell, a turban, a helmet, a toga, a sword, a serge 
 mantle, a tunic, and a girdle. This was the supply of costumes. 
 
 When the gentlemen had opened the door, no one was to be 
 seen in the theatre ; a young girl was seated in a corner of the 
 room, and appeared to be studying her part in a book. A young 
 man meanly dressed, but endowed with a forest of hair, which he 
 had dressed so as to make it look like a lion's mane, was gesticu- 
 lating and declaiming with great firfe, as drops of perspiration rolled 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 Lastly, in an arm-chair with wheels, placed in front of the stage, 
 was seated Professor Tristepatte. He was a man of nearly sixty, 
 but who took great care to hide the effect of time, which he only 
 attributed himself to the fatigues of his profession. His sheepish, 
 although pleasant enough face, his eyes of a blue which was a little 
 too clear, his figure well made, and his limbs well turned, ought to 
 have been successful in his amorous attempts ; but with his years 
 he had increased in stomach, his eyes were swollen, and his face a 
 little wrinkled. To preserve always the physique of a young " pre- 
 mier," M. Tristepatte wore stays, which compressed his stomach ; 
 he wore a fair-haired wig, very nicely curled, and he had a stiff stock, 
 behind which, before fixing the buckle, he drew in all the wrinkles 
 of his face, so that his skin appeared fastened behind his head 
 with pins. 
 
 Such was the Professor, who was always dressed in a large grey 
 surtout, under which he generally wore breeches, so as to show off 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 85 
 
 his leg. On perceiving two strangers, whose appearance showed 
 them to be fashionable, M. Tristepatte hastily left his wheeled 
 arm-chair in order to receive them. 
 
 " Gentlemen, pray be good enough to come in, I beg." 
 
 " Is it M. Tristepatte, the professor of declamation, to whom 
 we have the honour of speaking ? " 
 
 " It is himself — distressed to receive you in this undress, but I 
 am hearing a scholar this morning. "Would you be good enough to 
 pass into my bedroom ? " 
 
 These words were accompanied by such bows as are made by 
 one who wears a sword and uniform ; but M. Tristepatte had so 
 often played the part of the marquis that, perhaps intentionally, 
 he had preserved all its manners ; and very often, in speaking, he 
 threw his handkerchief over his arm, then over the other, as if it 
 had been a hat. 
 
 M. Guerreville stopped M. Tristepatte as he was about to open 
 the door of the other room. 
 
 " We are very well here, sir ; and far from desiring to disturb 
 you in your lessons, we shall be delighted to listen — •' 
 
 " Ah ! gentlemen, that will be indeed too much honour for me 
 and my pupils. You have probably the idea of playing a comedy 
 —a society proverb — and you would like to acquire, as people say, 
 the habit of ' the boards.' You are perfectly right ; that is especi* 
 ally necessary for the { entrees ' and ' exits.' Generally, people in 
 society who wish to play comedy fail in these almost invariably ; 
 and it is there that the great effect is, gentlemen. Oh, don't be 
 mistaken ! it is very difficult. Some enter well enough, but it is 
 the going off — that is the difficult thing — without showing one's 
 back to the public. Oh ! it must be studied ; it is necessary to 
 work at that for a long time. I flatter myself that I am able to 
 suggest excellent principles." 
 
 While speaking the Professor had made his handkerchief pass 
 frequently from one arm to the other with the adroitness of a 
 juggler, and M. Guerreville, impatient under his talk, appeared 
 already inclined to show M. Tristepatte that he knew how to 
 " retire." At last the Professor had to take breath and blow his 
 nose ; the Doctor profitted by that to say to him, — 
 
 " We have no intention of playing a comedy ; but we have come 
 to hear one of your pupils, in whom we are much interested." 
 
 " One of my pupils — which ?" 
 
 " A young man named Jules." 
 
 "M. Jules— ah 1 a charming fellow, a delightful student, full of 
 aptitude for the Gavandatis and the Fleurys—a. little embarrassed 
 in his organs of breathing — but that will come all right. I shall 
 form him, as I have formed many others. Talma listened to me, 
 gentlemen ; he followed my advice and counsel — be good enough to 
 be seated, gentlemen — he found my opinion good. It was I who 
 gave him the inflection of his * Qvten dis-terf de Maulius?' Talma 
 said it very well, for it would, I believe, have been difficult for him 
 to say it badly ; but the inflection came from the nose, and the 
 
86 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 effect was marred ; but I said to him, ' My friend,' — for Talma 
 insisted on my calling him so — ' My friend, do you want to make a 
 splendid effect with that l Qu'en dis-terV Well, say the qxCen from 
 the throat, and throw out the dis-ter from the palate.' The next 
 day he did it, and the floor of the theatre shook under the applause. 
 Place yourselves there — in front of my stage — you will be able to 
 judge of the effect very well. My pupils will not be long of 
 assembling. We have a large class to-day — that is to say, they 
 play each pieces in their various parts — it is a very good way of 
 forming talent. M. Jules cannot be long of coming. Meanwhile, 
 if you would allow me to finish the grand scene in (Edipus with 
 this gentleman — " 
 
 " Go on, sir, and do not trouble yourself with us." 
 
 " Too happy, gentlemen, if I had always a public as capable of 
 appreciating the good traditions ! — Good-day, Brulard ; good-day, 
 my boy." 
 
 These words were addressed to a young man who entered the 
 class ; his dress appeared to be that of a grocer's lad ; he had the 
 cap and the little green apron turned over at the side. The person 
 who was declaiming on the arrival of M. Guerreville and the Doctor 
 had continued to speak alone, and gesticulated as he walked through 
 the room, probably to keep himself warm ; and he was always pass- 
 ing his hand through his hair, so as to make it stick up on end ; 
 the grocer's lad had said " good-day " to him, the other shook him 
 by the hand, without making any remark, but went on reciting. 
 
 " Now, M. Alfred, let us finish your scene from (Edipus" said 
 M. Tristepatte, addressing the student who was always moving. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Josephine, study carefully your rdle of Zaire, as 
 we shall play quite an act of it just now on the stage." 
 
 The young person who was seated, replied, — 
 
 " Yes, sir," without taking her eyes off her book. 
 
 The Professor turned round to the newcomer, — 
 
 " Brulard, do you wish to act Icarus in (Edipus ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it, M. Tristepatte." 
 
 " We shall take, then, the third scene of the fifth act. I shall 
 play Phosbas, and thus the thing will be a certain tone. You know 
 the part of Icarus ? " 
 
 " Oh, very well ! But I cannot recall the whole of it — if you had 
 the book — " 
 
 " The book — if I had it ! He asks me if I have Voltaire ! I — 
 Tristepatte — if I have Voltaire ! It is here — I cannot but have 
 him, for I know him by heart. Come, Brulard, here is the volume 
 in which (Edipus is." 
 
 "Good-morning, Madame Grignoux, you have brought your 
 daughter — that is very good. We shall set to work at once." 
 
 Madame Grignoux was a woman of forty odds, with the appear- 
 ance of a box-opener ; a hat which might have gone into competi- 
 tion with that of Madame Limousse's neighbour ; a big green bag, 
 an enormous .... from which escaped half-a-dozen .... with 
 a pretension in speaking and smiling. She led a little girl of 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 87 
 
 thirteen or fourteen years of age, whose shoes were tied with bits 
 of ribbon, and the rest of her costume 
 
 "This promises to be very amusing," said the Doctor as he bent 
 over to M. Guerreville's ear, the latter smiling as he saw the Pro- 
 fessor throw over his shoulder a tail of his redingote as if it had been 
 a mantle. 
 
 " Shall we begin now ? " asked M. Alfred, still passing his hands 
 through his hair. 
 
 " Yes — certainly. (Edipus was with Icarus when I arrived. T 
 shall go on now." 
 
 In order to make his " going on " effective, M. Tristepatte 
 opened the door which led to the lobby, and placed himself at the 
 farthest corner, from which he began to walk with measured steps, 
 pausing at each — that he might emit a groan. He reached the 
 boards in about two minutes, and stopped before Alfred, looking 
 at the ground, and placing a hand on his thigh. 
 
 " A splendid entrance ! " murmured Madame Grignoux. " It 
 recalls to my mind M. Frederic in the Player, in the third act. 
 Heavens ! how this piece has acted on my nerves ! " 
 
 " Chut ! silence ! Madame Grignoux. Now, Alfred, you ! " 
 
 The young Alfred passed his hands through his hair, and 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 "Ah! Phosbas, approach!" 
 
 The little Brulard recited all in one breath, — 
 
 " My surprise is extreme, 
 Again I see him, and again, ah, Lord! it is himself — 
 It is he ! " 
 
 "That is not right, Brulard," said the Professor, stamping lm 
 foot. " It won't do ; you tell us that as if you cried, ' Who wants 
 something fresh to drink ? who wants a drink ? ' Devil take it, my 
 friend, you should stop and take time. 'Again I see him, and 
 again .... I see him ! ' Stop there as if you had seen a serpent. 
 ' Ah, Lord ! it is himself ! ' Open your arms — open your mouth — 
 express much surprise by the mouth — I reply to you." 
 
 " Pardon me if your unknown features — " 
 Brulard,— 
 
 " What! is the name of Citron not remembered by you? " 
 
 " Who is this you are calling Citron ? " demanded the Professor, 
 letting the skirt of his redingote fall aside ; " the word is Citheron. 
 Take care how you read, my friend." 
 
 " Ah ! I was just thinking so myself," cried Madame Grignoux, 
 " I don't believe that they would ever use the citron in O-Edipus ! 
 Come, Cesarine, take a little bit of bread and butter — that will 
 strengthen your stomach for your recital ! " 
 
 The little Brulard, who appeared to have difficulty in reading 
 quickly, went on, — 
 
 " What! that child whom my hands have — 
 That child who in the trepan." 
 
88 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 " In death ! " cried Tristepatte. 
 
 "Ah I what is that you say ? " 
 
 " It is because I have read it badly," said Brulard. 
 
 " Be silent, then, my friend ; it is Phosbas who speaks." 
 
 " Ah! what is that you say? 
 And with what remembrance are you about to crush me? " 
 
 Brulard (reading) — " Hum . . . where was I ? . . . hum . . " 
 
 " My Lord, do not doubt it, 
 Al — although this Theban says so, he puts you in my stockings/" 
 
 Tristepatte took the book from the grocer's lad, saying to him, 
 " Certainly you are not able to read at first sight ; when you know 
 a part by heart, you do very well, but you must have read it first 
 a good many times. You say ' in my stockings ' for ' in my arms.' 
 Alfred, finish your grand scene alone — your fourth scene — it is a 
 monologue." 
 
 M. Alfred began again to walk up and down the hall, to push 
 his hands through his hair, and breathed out with the whole force 
 of his lungs the last monologue of OEdipus, which Madame Grignou* 
 frequently interrupted with her bravos — good! — very good! — Oh! — 
 Ah ! M. Tristepatte was often obliged to impose silence on her. The 
 Professor had gone to sit near the Doctor, so as to hear his pupil, 
 and from time to time a peculiar movement of the head gave 
 evidence that he was satisfied. 
 
 The monologue finished, M. Tristepatte slapped the shoulder 
 of (Edipus, who was as if he had been drawn out of the water. 
 
 " Very good, Alfred ; very good, my friend. There is a future 
 before you ; there is some Damas in that diction, although you 
 have still much to acquire. Come, my friend, I shall give the 
 monologue, and give you in detail all the directions. Keep them 
 well in mind." 
 
 M. Tristepatte took up a bit of red ribbon, which he knotted 
 round his wig, so as to have his hair like a Greek ; then wrapping 
 his redingote again around his body, he took up his position and 
 began, — 
 
 " ' Behold it then fulfilled— that execrable oracle 
 Of which my fear has brought the inevitable effect. 
 
 Very nice all that — I work for the effect ! 
 
 ' And I see myself at last, by a fearful mixture. 
 Incestuous, a parricide, and yet virtuous.' 
 
 Here now I get a little warmed. 
 
 1 Wretched virtue ! ' 
 
 A great wave of the hand into the air. 
 
 ' Sterile and fatal name 
 Thou, by thee I have endured days I hate 
 
 A very bitter smile. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 89 
 
 • My ascendant darkness thou canst not resist.' 
 I here open my arms. 
 
 1 1 fell into the snare while seeking to escape it. 
 I seem here to see a hole at my feet. 
 
 'A God stronger than I draws me towards the crime.' 
 I here gnash my teeth. 
 
 ' On my flying feet he presses."* 
 
 The Professor was interrupted by the arrival of two young girls, 
 in little hats and silk aprons, who entered with a free-and-easy air 
 into the class, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Is it here that comedy is played ? We wish to take lessons, 
 as after to-morrow we play at M. Genart's, Rue de Lancri, with real 
 artistes, and we don't want to appear stupid. In the first place, I 
 have a good memory, and retain everything I learn — " 
 
 " And as for me, I can sing a couplet very prettily. I know all 
 the bits in Mamzelle ' Jenny Colon. 5 How do you give lessons, sir ? 
 We mustn't ask too much — we are not rolling in gold. But that 
 will perhaps come — " 
 
 " We shall easily arrange that, young ladies. I shall treat yon 
 like artistes. Be seated." 
 
 " Can we stay and see your pupils play ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I have a large class to-day. ThiW must do you 
 some good. Alfred, I ahall finish (Edipus with you some other 
 time. I have so much occupation — so many pupils this morning." 
 
 " Sir," replied one of the grisettes as she sat down, " we wish to 
 play in Agnes of Belville. Can you show us that piece ? ' 
 
 " Ah ! young ladies, I can show you anything you wish. Come, 
 M. Jules. Begin, my dear young friend, they are waiting on you." 
 
 Jules arrived quite perspiring, holding a bottle of eau de Cologne 
 under his arm ; this he laid in a corner. He perceived M. Guerre- 
 ville and the Doctor, whom he at once went over to salute. 
 
 " You see, young man, that I keep my word," said M. Guerre- 
 ville, holding out his hand to the perfumeress' son. 
 
 "Ah, sir, I return you a thousand thanks. I know how 
 annoyed you must have been waiting, but my father had given 
 me many commissions to execute, and I have not been able to get 
 quit of them before now. Ah ! where shall I leave the gloves and 
 pomade ? But you have come, gentlemen, to see me play, and I 
 beg you to tell me, without any compliments, what you think of 
 my ability." 
 
 " We have no reason to deceive you, so you may reckon on our 
 being frank." 
 
 Jules prepared himself for the play, as well as M. Alfred, the 
 grocer's lad, Mademoiselle Josephine, and the young Cesarine Grig- 
 noux. While his students were thus getting ready to go on the 
 boards, the Professor disappeared ; he had gone out with his Greek 
 
90 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 coiffure^ but he quickly reappeared, followed by two old women from 
 the third floor, and by a very old gentlemen, exceedingly stout, 
 and having some difficulty in walking as he leaned on a cane. This 
 gentleman, who wore black slippers, and whose head was covered 
 with a black silk cap, held also in his left hand one of those tin 
 ear-trumpets which are used by deaf people. 
 
 M. Tristepatte took a good deal of trouble to place his public 
 properly ; he made the stout gentleman sit down in the wheeled 
 arm-chair, and passing close to M. Guerreville whispered in his 
 ear, — 
 
 " I beg pardon, but I have brought some neighbours, who have 
 come up in undress ; but artistes think little of that, and I much 
 desire to have my old neighbour here. He is a great connoisseur in 
 the singing part ; he has played the violin for about forty years in 
 different orchestras in Paris ; he is an excellent musician. Unfor- 
 tunately he has become a little deaf, which has rendered it neces- 
 sary for him to retire." 
 
 " But," said Jenneval, " if he is deaf, how can he judge of the 
 lyrical qualifications of your students ? " 
 
 " Ah ! with his ear-trumpet he hears yet ; but you can easily 
 understand that in an orchestra he could not hold his ear-trumpet 
 while playing the violin." 
 
 " That is quite true." 
 
 " Ladies, take your places." 
 
 This invitation, addressed to the two old neighbour women, oi 
 whom the one had kept on, with her black robe, her enormous hat, 
 while the other had thrown an old checked shawl above her night- 
 dress and petticoat. These two ladies stood upright, respectfuUVi 
 behind the chairs, and the two grisettes had already frequently 
 stifled bursts of laughter as they looked at them. Then, on M. 
 Tristepatte's invitation, the two old women placed themselves 
 under the canopy beside Madame Grignoux, who was just be- 
 ginning to eat a fruit biscuit she had drawn from her bag. 
 
 ".We are about to recite two acts of Zaire" said the Professor, 
 arranging his handkerchief like a belt about his redingote, and 
 placing on his head a helmet which exactly resembled a mould for 
 Savoy biscuits. Already Jules had donned a turban, and wrapped 
 his body in a big piece of green serge. The young Alfred was 
 helmeted like a cavalier. As to the two young girls, they had 
 simply removed their combs, and allowed their hair to float over 
 their shoulders ; the grocer's lad had thrown over his vest a tunic 
 and a belt, from which trailed a boy's sword. 
 
 The Professor looked at each of his pupils, and cried, — 
 
 " Not bad, my children ! Alfred, the helmet is too much over 
 your forehead ; allow your eyebrows to be seen — more backwards 
 — that's right. Jules, the turban well pulled on ; drape the mantle 
 over the left arm — some fold to the left. Brulard, my friend, try 
 to keep your sabre from always getting between your legs ; it will 
 annoy you in your exits. You, young ladies, act Zaire and Fatima. 
 Mademoiselle Josephine, remember Zaire is a Christian at heart. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 91 
 
 and Mussulman to the depths of her soul— become penetrated by 
 that idea— it is one of the finest parts in the play . . . You adore 
 Orosoman as a man, and you hate him as a sultan ; make these 
 shades to be well felt. You, little Cesarine, be dignified m 
 FsLtinia " 
 
 " If you have still need of a confidante, you know that I am 
 here, M. Tristepatte," said Madame Grignoux. 
 
 " Thanks, Madame Grignoux, not for this piece. But I observe 
 that we have not a prompter. Perhaps you would be good enough 
 to charge yourself with that duty." 
 
 " Willingly, M. Tristepatte, for I prompt with much ease. It 
 will not put 'me about at all ; you will see how I shall prompt. 
 Where is the piece ? Ah ! good, it is in a volume. I shall seat 
 myself in front of the theatre, and I am not annoyed by being the 
 prompter, because Cesarine does not wear drawers ; and you know 
 well enough that in this position one has a terrible command of 
 the actresses' petticoats, if one may say it without offence—" ; 
 
 " Come, come to the theatre, my children. I shall take Lusig- 
 nan's part. We shall begin with the second act." 
 
 By the help of a little bench the Professor and his pupils 
 mounted the boards, then they concealed themselves behind the 
 two scraps of tapestry which formed the " coullise." From this point 
 M. Tristepatte struck three blows, which threw out such a cloud 
 of dust that Madame Grignoux, seated so that her head was level 
 with the planks, had a fit of coughing, and cried,— 
 
 " Gracious, here is seasoning for my biscuits ; they don t sweep 
 your theatre every day." 
 
 But the entrance of Nerestan and Chatillon forced tne prompter 
 to stop her reflections. The young clerk acted Nerestan, and 
 Brulard acted Chatillon. This first scene passed without any hitch. 
 The two pupils knowing their parts by heart, had no need of the 
 prompter, who cried to them from time to time. 
 
 " Not so quick, plague take you ! I can't follow you." 
 Zaire appeared with her streaming hair. The young woman 
 who represented this personage had a shrieky voice which pierced 
 the ears so that the old deaf gentlemen, who, up till now, had 
 seemed to have no interest in the piece, made a sign of satisfaction 
 as he murmured in good time, " She has a pipe." 
 
 Zaire was about to commence her part, when Madame Grignoux 
 half rose, bent her head over the boards, and cried, — 
 
 " Halloo, Cesarine, why don't you come on also ? What are you 
 doing waiting behind the curtain ? Are you not the confidante 
 
 Fatirna?" 
 
 " She is not in this scene — silence, prompter. 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! that is a farce, too. I have to pay bills of fifteen 
 sous for my daughter to remain in the green-room, whilst the others 
 are playing. Since she acts the confidante, ought she not to follow 
 her mistress 1 " 
 
 " I tell you she is not in this scene." 
 
 " And I tell you that the author is manifestly wrong." 
 
92 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 "Come then, Fatima; come out, little one, that will accustom you 
 to the public." 
 
 To satisfy Madame Grignoux the Professor pushed Fatima upon 
 the stage. The confidante arrived nibbling a cake. M. Tristepatte 
 soon appeared as Lusignan. Upon his entrance the two old women 
 from the third floor began to applaud with all their might, while 
 one of the grisettes said to her friend, — 
 
 " Ah, my dear, he is abominable. He looks like — " 
 
 M. Tristepatte spoke his part with so much effect that it lasted 
 for half-an-hour. He stopped, he took time, he put himself in 
 attitudes, interrupting himself occasionally to say to his pupils, — 
 
 " Your face to the public, Zaire ; take care how you are turning 
 your back on the pit. Attention now, ladies ; always this. 
 
 ' From your anna, my children, I cannot withdraw myself. 
 I shall see you again, dear and sad family. 
 My son — worthy inheritor — ' 
 
 " Alfred, my friend, your helmet is falling over your nose — one 
 cannot see your face now. How do you think the public will be able 
 to judge of the play of your countenance ? " 
 
 " It is not my fault ; the thing is too big." 
 
 " Then put a handkerchief within it." 
 
 • You, alas, you my daughter ! 
 Dissipate my suspicions, remove from me this error.' " 
 
 " This horror," cried Madame Grignoux. 
 
 " How, prompter ! " 
 
 " Bah, it is so." 
 
 " Look again." 
 
 M. Tristepatte consulted the book, and handed it back to her, 
 saying,— 
 
 " This is very extraordinary ; I have always said error, and 
 have never observed the mistake. Certainly, I have no pretension 
 to correct Voltaire ; but I believe that here the word error does 
 not suit badly. I appeal to these gentlemen." 
 
 Those gentlemen did not reply ; but the two old ladies from 
 the third floor thought proper to applaud. M. Tristepatte bowed, 
 and continued the scene. The act closed without any other acci- 
 dent than the fall of Ch&tillon, who stuck his sabre between his 
 legs, and rolled under Neristan's feet, just as they were going out. 
 
 The second act commenced ; but Lusignan, who had finished his 
 part, mingled with the public in order to see his pupils play. 
 
 Jules appeared. It was he who acted Orosoman. The young 
 man made fly around him the green serge, which served him as a 
 mantle ; he declaimed with heat, but in a manner as false as 
 monotonous, which did not prevent the Professor from exclaiming, — 
 
 " Very good, M. Jules ; you are improving vastly ! " 
 
 " I don't know what the young man may attain to," said the 
 Doctor in a low tone to M. Guerreville ; " but I should not advise 
 him to follow this career ; it will ruin him." 
 
 Indeed, when the second act of Zaire was finished, Jules had 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 93 
 
 made such efforts to produce effect that he could no longer speak ; 
 he was quite exhausted. M. Tristepatte threw a woollen wrapper 
 round him, and made him sit down under the canopy, overwhelm- 
 ing him with praises, and predicting a glorious success for him. 
 Then the Professor turned round to the company, saying, — 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, we shall not play to you VEcole des 
 Veillards, my pupil Jules being too fatigued to go on, in conse- 
 quence of the wonderful heat he displayed as Orosoman ; but we 
 shall proceed to give some scenes from a comedy of my own com- 
 position — in verse. It is a pretty little thing — the piece is named 
 Le Marquis JSeducteur ; it has been played with much success, in a 
 thousand private theatres. Josephine, you will act the countess — 
 put up your hair, my dear — you are to be a great coquette ! 
 Alfred will play Lafleur — take off your helmet — and Brulard will 
 be the marquis ; he knows it very well. Cesarine will be Lisette." 
 
 " Ah ! I said, didn't I," muttered Madame Grignoux, " that 
 my daughter must do something." 
 
 " I say ! " exclaimed one of the grisettes, " don't you play 
 vaudevilles here ? We wish to sing, my friend and I." 
 
 " In good time, young ladies ; we shall go on to the opera. I 
 shall make you sing. I should be very glad, indeed, to know your 
 means." 
 
 " He wants to know our means," said one of the grisettes to her 
 friend. " What is he mixing up now ? What does that matter — 
 providing we pay our bills ? " 
 
 " You don't understand — he is speaking of our voices." 
 
 " I say, Phrasie, does this tragedy of theirs here amuse you ? 
 They don't play so well as at M. Tresnoy's at Lazari." 
 
 " Hush ! they want to play a little bit." 
 
 " Come, begin ! " said the Professor. " I know my part bj 
 heart, and I shall prompt you, if there should be any need. It h 
 Lafleur and Lisette who open the scene. My little Cesarine, be 
 kind enough to finish your cake, and don't go on eating while you 
 are playing. I knock." 
 
 M. Tristepatte went on the boards, from which he sent out 
 three clouds of dust on the audience ; then he leaped lightly below, 
 and placed himself in a corner near the theatre. 
 
 Young Alfred, who had a hat capable of being put into any 
 shape, made a kind of shovel of it, put it under his arm, and leaped 
 on the stage. The piece began : — 
 
 Alfred, — 
 
 " Good faith ! long live love and my Lizette ! 
 She is a charming child, pretty, and not coquettish. 
 My master to his mistress makes his court here ; 
 And I, the servant, act likewise in my turn." 
 
 " Sound it out well 1 " said M. Tristepatte, " so as to make the 
 feeling manifest. 
 
 1 My master to his mistress makes his court here. ' 
 Give a pirouette at the word ' here ' to show you are there ; ' make* 
 
94 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 his court] a light slap on your left arm. Thus — look at 
 me!" 
 
 And M. Tristepatte, intending to give himself a slap on the 
 thigh, struck the big hat of one of the two old ladies, and sent it to 
 the other end of the class. There was seen a head half grey, half 
 fair, on which was placed an old stocking, which served as a cap. 
 The Professor overflowed with excuses, and ran to get the hat, 
 which he handed most politely to its owner, who gave furious looks 
 at the two grisettes, whom this accident had immensely amused. 
 
 " Hush ! silence ! " said the Professor. " Let us go on. Now, 
 Lizette." 
 
 Mademoiselle Cesarine, — 
 
 "Ah! here is Monsieur La— fleur; he would still 
 Tell me that I am — charming, and that he adores ms 
 But I fear he is a scoundrel .... who often lies. 
 And I am horribly afraid of lib . . . ertines. " 
 
 " That is not it ! that is not it ! " cried the Professor, stamping 
 his foot impatiently. " Ah, good heavens, mademoiselle ! how have 
 you learned to cut the words in that fashion ? ' And I — and I— 
 fear lib — ertines horribly ! ' That's pretty, isn't it ? * / fear lib — 
 ertines ' — why, it is abominable that ! It is not the li you fear, 
 is it?" 
 
 " I thought, sir, in verses of a dozen feet — I thought it was 
 proper to stop in the middle of each line." 
 
 " You thought wrong, then, mademoiselle. That rest caesura is 
 good enough for old authors, but modern writers don't restrict 
 themselves in that way. Ask these gentlemen. We take the rest 
 when and where we want. I have written a new play. I ought 
 to enjoy the liberties my colleagues possess. Go on, Lizette." 
 
 Mademoiselle Grignoux recited her part all in one breath, and 
 without stopping a moment. M. Tristepatte showed he was 
 satisfied, the two ladies from the third floor applauding. Little 
 Brulard next appeared on the scene, to act the marquis ; he had 
 tied a foil to his side for a sword, and he had paper ruffles and 
 frills. 
 
 Brulard, — 
 
 " Ah! 'tis thou, Lafleur — 'tis thou, Lizette 1 
 Ah! 'tis you, my children — long have I watched 
 The moment to declare to the lovely countess 
 All the flame which unceasingly torments me. 
 Lizette, take this money, and also, my dear child, 
 This ring of great . . . value ; but I trust, I hope . . ." 
 
 " Very good, very good, Brulard ! " said M. Tristepatte, then 
 turning to the Doctor, he added, — 
 
 " What do you think of my style ? It is flowing, is it not ? " 
 
 "Very flowing — but pardon me this remark, that these are 
 rather feminine remarks which follow — " 
 
 "Oh, that is no defect — on the contrary, it is better. If you 
 would take the trouble to listen to the verses at the Grand Opera 
 or the Opera Comique, you will see that this is not bad at all." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. fco 
 
 ' Perhaps for singing, but in comedy — " 
 " They go together ; and I like this — 
 
 ' I should at least have the honour of undertaking it.* 
 
 Now, Lizette — " 
 
 Mademoiselle Cesarine (finishing a cake) — 
 
 " Your gold, your rings, your presents, can never persuade me 
 To serve you in anything." 
 
 " There is no emphasis there, mademoiselle ! " cried the Pro- 
 fessor. " You don't seem to understand what you say : it is an honest 
 maid who will not allow herself to be seduced — but you speak it 
 all as if you were reciting your grammar. Come, come, there must 
 be some heat, some indignation ; as to yourself, you ought to appear 
 to say, ' Your gold, I mock at it ; your rings, I refuse ; your 
 presents, I will have none of them ! ' I beg your pardoa, ladies 
 and gentlemen, but I cannot give directions quite coolly. Come 
 now, Brulard, do this scene over again." 
 
 Brulard — 
 
 " Whatever may be said, I yield to the ardour which presses me. 
 I listen no more, I enter into the countess — " 
 
 Here a low murmuring was heard among the public, and the 
 two grisettes laughed like to split their sides. The grocer's lad 
 appeared quite surprised at the effect he had produced; he was 
 going on, but the Professor stopped him. 
 
 " You are wrong, Brulard ! " 
 
 " You think so ? In what ? " 
 
 "You said, 'I enter into the countess/ and it is into the house 
 of the countess." 
 
 " I enter dans, or I enter chez, is it not the same thing ? " 
 
 " No, no, my friend ; the rhyme is as good, but the meaning 
 would be doubtful. Come, Brulard, contrive and take care." 
 
 Little Brulard finished his part, seconded by Mademoiselle 
 Josephine, and amid loud applause from the two ladies of the third 
 floor. Already, more than once, M. Guerreville had shown a desire 
 to go ; but the Doctor wished to see everything, and had kept him 
 back. At last the Professor's comedy ended, and they began to 
 hear the singing. The two girls, who wished to come out in the 
 vaudeville, began trying some roulades by way of putting them- 
 selves in readiness. 
 
 " Josephine," said M. Tristepatte, " I know you have capacities 
 for the grand opera. Sing us your piece from the Bayaderes, ' san 
 detourner les yeux ' — you know — " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Ah, it is beautiful that ! It is fine music. There are two 
 chords wanting in my guitar, else I should have accompanied you 
 — but I shall beat time. Go on to the stage, and sing with the 
 proper gestures ; I shall hum the flourishes." 
 
 Mademoiselle Josephine went on the boards, and began to sing 
 
96 The Monde and the Demt Mondt. 
 
 her piece from the Bayaderes, joining to it all the gestures of the 
 situation. The piece was applauded by the Professor and his 
 students ; Mademoiselle Josephine returned to the class with a 
 radiant air. 
 
 " What do you think of that voice, M. Berruchon ? * asked the 
 Professor, addressing the fat deaf gentleman, who replied that he 
 had heard nothing. 
 
 " Ah, that is true ; I did not think of that," said M. Tristepatte. 
 * Josephine, my dear, would you have the goodness to begin your 
 song again, and this time to sing it into M. Berruchon's ear- 
 trumpet, that he may judge of your talent?" 
 
 Josephine, like an obedient pupil, approached the old gentle- 
 man's chair. The quondam violinist put his trumpet to his ear, and 
 the young girl began to sing her piece, placing her mouth against 
 the end of the trumpet. When the old musician did not hear 
 distinctly enough, he bent over, and approached the trumpet to the 
 singer's face, which was sometimes nearly covered by the tube — a 
 process which must have somewhat interfered with her roulades. 
 
 When the piece was finished, M. Berruchon threw himself back 
 in his arm-chair, saying, — 
 
 " A very fine voice — a most distinct contralto." 
 
 " Ah ! you think she has a contralto voice," said the Professor, 
 speaking into the ear-trumpet ; " it seems to me she has a very high 
 voice — a soprano — " 
 
 " Not at all, my friend, it is a contralto — a low voice. What do 
 these gentlemen think ? " 
 
 " I also consider mademoiselle to have a very high voice ; but in 
 passing through an ear-trumpet, I should not wonder if it became 
 contralto." 
 
 " Come, ladies, it is your turn now," said M. Tristepatte, address- 
 ing the two fringe-makers ; " you, no doubt, know some pieces bj> 
 heart?" 
 
 " Ah, I should think so ! all the repertory of Mamzelle { Jenny 
 Colon ' — the airs from Achard. Ah ! how I admire her voice in 
 Achard! Come then, Phrasie, and sing the air of the 'Clerk and 
 the Grisette.' " , 
 
 " You will prompt me, if I go wrong ? " 
 
 The young girl was beginning to sing, when the Professor took 
 her by the hand, and led her to M. Berruchon, who held his 
 trumpet to his ear, saying to her, — ^ 
 
 " Be good enough to bend a little over this gentleman's trumpet, 
 so that he may hear you." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " said the grisette, drawing back ; " do you 
 mean to make a fool of me ! It would be a fine idea, indeed, for 
 me to be bending into that thing I Do you think I have come 
 here for the purpose of singing into ear- trumpets ? " 
 
 " But, mademoiselle, my pupil sang in that way the piece from 
 Les Bayaderes ' sans detourner les yeux.' " 
 
 " I don't know whether she turned her eyes or not, but I know 
 that I sha'n't sing into an ear-trumpet ! " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 97 
 
 " Good heavens ! Phrasie, let us get out of this at once. This 
 man's class makes me positively sick." 
 
 " Sick ! my class / " cried the Professor, throwing his hand- 
 kerchief across his arm ; " ladies, I beg you will control your 
 expressions ! " 
 
 " Yes ! Come, Phrasie, we shall enjoy ourselves as well as in 
 this company — even if we should not have any professors among 
 them. Let us away from the Eue du Petit-Hurleur (fourth floor), 
 where people sing into ear-trumpets ! " 
 
 " Young ladies, respect my class ; my talent is well known, and 
 I—" 
 
 "Oh, I believe you are well enough known, considering the 
 time you have been in the world. Come, Phrasie, let us go ; we 
 don't want to play Zaire, we don't — the Turkish dresses would make 
 us look ugly. Good-morning, ladies and gentlemen." 
 
 The two young ladies burst into fits of laughter, while M. 
 Tristepatte, red with anger, went to the stage — his pupils seeming 
 petrified by what had been said to their Professor. 
 
 " They have no manners — no respect — no decorum ! " murmured 
 the two old neighbour ladies, while M. Berruchon, who understood 
 nothing of what had passed, always held up his ear-trumpet, 
 saying — 
 
 li Who is going to sing next 1 " 
 
 " The insolent brats 1 " said Madame Grignoux ; " they deserve 
 a whipping. I could very willingly have given them the birch ! " 
 
 " So could I ! " exclaimed the grocer's lad ; " all the more that 
 they laughed while I was playing Chatillon." 
 
 " I could wager," said M. Tristepatte, " that it was one of my 
 colleagues, who, jealous of the success of my class, has sent those 
 people to malign me." 
 
 During this conversation M. Guerreville and the Doctor had 
 risen. Jules laid aside his woollen garment and put on his hat ; he 
 said good-bye to his Professor, who shook him by the hand, saying 
 once more, — 
 
 " My dear friend, I am delighted with you. You will succeed, I 
 warrant. With my lessons, you shall shine in the first theatres." 
 
 Then M. Tristepatte advanced towards M. Guerreville, and said 
 to him, — 
 
 " May I be happy enough to believe that monsieur and his 
 friend have somewhat enjoyed my class ? " 
 
 " Much, my friend, much ! " replied the Doctor ; " and I assure 
 you I shall not forget this morning." 
 
 "When you do me the honour to return, gentlemen, I shall 
 esteem myself highly favoured by the presence of such distinguished 
 amateurs." 
 
 These words were accompanied by marquis-like bows, with the 
 aid of the handkerchief ; and even on the staircase M. Tristepatte 
 was profuse in his salutations. 
 
 At last M. Guerreville and his friend got out of the Professor's 
 house. Young Jules went down to the street with them ; he con- 
 
98 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 tinued to walk a few paces from his mother's friend ; they saw 
 that he burned with a desire to ask M. Guerreville what he thought 
 of his talent for the theatre ; but he did not know how to begin 
 the conversation, since the compliments of his Professor had given 
 him great confidence in his talent. 
 
 M. Jenneval saw the embarrassment of the young man, and, 
 while walking along, said in a low tone to M. Guerreville, — 
 
 " Ah, well, you don't say anything to M. Tristepatte's pupil." 
 
 " What do you want me to say ? " 
 
 " This young man wants to know what you think of his 
 talent." 
 
 " Of his talent ! poor boy ! Ah, his mother was right ! " 
 
 They came to the boulevards ; then M. Guerreville slowed his 
 steps. Jules always walked at a little distance from him, but his 
 face was overcast because nothing was being said to him. At last 
 M. Guerreville turned round to him and said, — 
 
 " M. Jules, have you a desire still to be an actor ? n 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " Well, you are wrong — thoroughly wrong." 
 
 " How, sir ? Do you not think I have talent ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " But my Professor ? " 
 
 " Your Professor is a fool, whom I believe to be incapable of 
 teaching you what he has never himself known." 
 
 Poor Jules was petrified ; he had expected some compliments, 
 and now there was the plain statement that he had no talent for 
 the theatre. A blush mounted to his forehead, but he was silent, 
 lowered his eyes, and walked on. 
 
 The Doctor approached the person who had just had all his illu- 
 sions destroyed, and, gently passing his arm under his, he said, — 
 
 "Come, M. Jules, you are quite young still. Would you let 
 me give you an advice ? " 
 
 " I listen, sir." 
 
 " I don't pretend to judge of your dramatic vocation — I am not 
 competent to pronounce on that point — but I am a physician, and 
 I must say this to you. You have been born with a delicate chest. 
 Take my advice, and don't go on the stage. Your health will suffer 
 much, and perhaps might not be able to stand the work that one 
 must go through in order to become a great artist — reflect well. 
 At your age, life presents itself as long and beautiful. In place of 
 shortening it, by ever recurring fatigues, would it not be better to 
 enjoy its pleasures ? " 
 
 "Ah, sir, my life would be very gloomy if I were to be a 
 perfumer 1 " 
 
 " Must you be either a perfumer or an actor ? Are there not, 
 even in the arts, a thousand careers to follow? M. Guerreville 
 interests himself in you ; he will guide you, but you must follow 
 his advice." 
 
 "You believe M. Guerreville is interested in me ? Ah, I should 
 be so pleased if that were so ! My mother has enjoined me to 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 99 
 
 make every effort to gain his friendship. But M. Guerreville has 
 sometimes such a severe air that he frightens me." 
 
 " M. Jules, when you know the world better, you will see that it 
 is better to meet with severe countenances which tell us the truth, 
 than laughing faces which lie to us." 
 
 " Oh , no doubt, sir ; but, in spite of that, I dare not believe. 
 Come, you see that M. Guerreville has said no more than the truth. 
 I shall quit you now, for I fear lest I should annoy him." 
 
 " Ah ! he is often distrait — dreamy. He has had sorrows which 
 ought to be respected." 
 
 " Sorrows ! Ah, you believe he has had sorrows ? " 
 
 " I am only too sure of it." 
 
 " Oh ! then I owe him much, for having been so good as to pass 
 this morning at the Professor's." 
 
 " Yes, it was a great effort he made in this, and that proves 
 that he is interested in you ; and I think, on this ground, you 
 ought to renounce the stage." 
 
 " Eenounce the stage ! Ah, sir, what a sacrifice ! But — I shall 
 see — I shall reflect. Adieu, sir." 
 
 Jules bowed to the Doctor, then he took leave two or three 
 times of M. Guerreville ; but not receiving any reply, he bowed 
 profoundly, and went off. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " said Jenneval, " T have assured him that M. 
 Guerreville is interested in him, but I believe that I have said too 
 much." 
 
 And drawing near M. Guerreville, the Doctor said to him, — 
 
 " Well, he has left us ; he has gone off, perfectly overcome by 
 what you have said tp him." 
 
 " Who do you mean ? " asked M. Guerreville, with a surprised 
 air as he emerged from his reflections. 
 
 " Ah, good gracious ! M. Jules ! — that young man whose mother 
 recommended him to you ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I beg pardon, Doctor. Of course, Jules; I had forgotten." 
 
 " I was sure of it," said Jenneval to himself. " There is at the 
 core of his heart a sentiment which allows no room for others." 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 THE DOLBERTS. 
 
 In a very handsome drawing-room, whose windows looked out on 
 the Boulevard de la Madeleine, an old lady, dressed most elegantly, 
 was seated on a sofa, the back and arms of which were covered 
 with cushions, and her feet placed on a pretty footstool covered 
 with tapestry. A book lay beside the old lady, who interrupted 
 her reading frequently to look into a little sideroom whose door 
 was wide open. 
 
1 00 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 This little room, in white cashmere, was filled with those 
 pretty trifles and fancy articles which charm the leisure hours of 
 women. Some tables of laque were covered with boxes, tablets, 
 souvenirs, and all that was requisite for painting and drawing. 
 Beside an escritoire, in mother-of-pearl, was a charming plaque 
 of porcelain ; near a workbox, a poussa or a new game. This room, 
 which seemed to be a model of the " Petit Dunkerque," was the 
 boudoir of Stephanie, grand-daughter of Madame Dolbert. 
 
 Stephanie was about sixteen years of age ; she was a charming 
 girl, blonde, rosy, lissom, and full of grace, with her beautiful 
 Greek profile and her large curls, a la Clotilde. Stephanie recalled 
 one of those pretty chatelaines whom we see, in the pictures of the 
 Middle Ages, occupied in preparing a scarf for her knight ; but 
 what was most charming in the young girl, was a frankness and 
 a gaiety quite infantine, which made it plain that coquetry and 
 pretension had not arrived there as yet. 
 
 Stephanie, clad in a pretty robe of white muslin, was on her 
 knees in her boudoir at that time, engaged in dressing a beautiful 
 doll, which likewise occupied the attention of a little girl of six 
 or seven years of age. This little girl, dressed as elegantly as 
 Stephanie, was the same who, barely covered by a woollen frock 
 and a pinafore much worn, lived in a garret, where necessary food 
 was not always found ; it was the little Zizine, for whom Stephanie 
 Dolbert had conceived an affection, and who now always lived 
 with her ; but, notwithstanding the difference in her dress, and her 
 position, it was always that little pale face, small and expressive, 
 which evidenced an intelligence beyond her age. 
 
 Stephanie, who, in character, was perhaps more a child still 
 than Zizine, took a great pleasure in dressing the doll, and some- 
 times, without fearing to disarrange her fine dress, sat down in the 
 middle of the room, or ran after Zizine, who rushed about, conceal- 
 ing herself behind some pieces of furniture ; then, when she was 
 caught, there were bursts of laughter, so frank, so happy, that 
 it would have been a pity to see the pretty Stephanie more 
 sedate. Since Zizine had lived with Madame Dolbert, her days 
 were passed in innocent amusements, which sometimes interrupted 
 a music or drawing lesson. Stephanie, who was possessed of much 
 talent, wished to teach her accomplishments to her little protege, 
 and the pupil, who showed the best ability, was sometimes more 
 rational than her mistress, who very often left her scholar to make 
 a top turn, or to play with a ball. The child showed a lively 
 desire to understand ; it seemed as if she wished to prove that she 
 deserved what was being done for her, and Stephanie was often 
 obliged to say, — 
 
 " Don't work so hard, my little one ; you will fatigue yourself." 
 
 But Zizine replied, — 
 
 " Oh ! it doesn't fatigue me to learn ; and I wish to know about 
 everything as well as you do. My papa, Jerome, will be so pleased, 
 so happy, when he hears me play the piano." 
 
 Stephanie never went to the theatre, or to walk out, without 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 101 
 
 taking her little friend. She grew tired of balls and soirees because 
 Zizine was not there. Madame Dolbert, who loved her grand' 
 daughter, and had always petted her, never contradicted her in 
 anything she desired. Stephanie wished her protege to dress like 
 herself, and her bed was placed beside her own, so that she should 
 be always with her. The good grandmother consented to every- 
 thing, and Zizine was treated as if she had been one of the family. 
 
 But this new fortune, this change of position, never made hei 
 forget the garret she had lived in, or Jerome the water-carrier. She 
 often spoke of him ; she was restless when she did not see him for a 
 day or two, and Stephanie needed all her eloquence occasionally to 
 prevent Zizine from weeping as she thought of her poor father. 
 
 At this moment, to distract the attention of Zizine, who had 
 just heaved a deep sigh, while she complained that her father had 
 not been to see her for a long time, Stephanie had taken up the doll 
 which they were now dressing in the boudoir. The sadness of the 
 child was speedily dispelled ; she was at that happy age when 
 laughter is ever near tears, and Stephanie, enchanted by having 
 made her gay again, gave herself up to all the nonsense that came 
 into her head. 
 
 "How now, my child, are you on your knees on the floor again?" 
 said Madame Dolbert, as she turned her eyes towards the little 
 room. 
 
 " Yes, dear mamma, I am on my knees — it is more convenient 
 to dress our doll." 
 
 " But, Stephanie, you are too old now to play with a doll." 
 
 " Why so, mamma ? I shall play with what will amuse me, 
 and this does." 
 
 " Reflect, Stephanie, in three months you will be seventeen." 
 
 " That doesn't matter. When we become big, are we on that 
 account to renounce what pleases us ? Then, dear mamma, I should 
 like rather to remain little all my life, like Zizine, my little Zizine, 
 who has promised not to grow big, so as always to play with me." 
 
 And Stephanie, passing her arms around the child's neck, drew 
 her towards her, embracing her tenderly. 
 
 " Zizine is more sensible than you are ! " said Madame Dolbert , 
 " and when she shall be your age, I am certain she won't play with 
 a doll." 
 
 " Zizine is much too sensible ; I know that well enough. That 
 is why I make her play and laugh, for I am afraid she may grow 
 tired of us, and that she will wish to leave us ; and oh, then, I 
 should die of vexation ! Do you hear, Zizine ? " 
 
 "Oh, no ! I don't wish to quit you. I love you so much ! " said 
 the little one, throwing her arms around her benefactress in her 
 turn ; " but I think it is a long time since I have seen my papa. 
 If he should be ill — I must go to nurse him." 
 
 " Yes, no doubt ; but be easy, he is not ill. I heard of him a day 
 or two ago." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Yes, I never tell falsehoods — ask my good mamma." 
 
102 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 "Why does he not come here, then ?" 
 
 "Because he hasn't time. It is his horrible employment as a 
 water-carrier which prevents him. You don't know, Zizine, the 
 last time your father was here, that I proposed he should quit his 
 occupation. Good mamma would have given him some money, on 
 which he could have lived ; he might have done what he liked, 
 and he would then have had plenty of time to come and see you. 
 Well, Jerome refused, saying to me, 'Mademoiselle, you are too 
 good ; do as you like to Zizine, I consent to that, but as for me, I 
 have strength to work, and I should be a coward to accept your 
 offer.' It was very bad, wasn't it, to refuse me so ? " 
 
 The little one lowered her eyes, seemed embarrassed, and was 
 silent, for at the bottom of her heart it seemed to her that her 
 father had just replied as he ought. But the good lady exclaimed, — 
 
 " Jerome is an honest man, and his refusal proved to me that he 
 deserved that I should interest myself in him." 
 
 " Yes, an honest man, that is true ! " said Stephanie, making a 
 pout; "but if he had accepted, Zizine would have been better 
 pleased to-day." 
 
 " Stephanie, you wish everybody to obey your wishes. You do 
 not consider, my dear. Jerome has in his soul a noble pride which 
 we cannot blame." 
 
 Stephanie made no reply, but she rose, took Zizine by the hand, 
 and drawing her after her into the drawing-room, made her dance 
 a galop, until both of them, worn out by fatigue, fell on the sofa, 
 near the good lady. 
 
 Madame Dolbert's acquaintances were sometimes astonished to 
 see her grand-daughter play thus like a child, but when such a 
 remark was made, the dear grandmother would say, — 
 
 " I don't see anything wrong in her being a child as long as she 
 can. The time will come soon enough when those innocent amuse- 
 ments will have no charm for her. My grand-daughter has only 
 myself as a protectress ; should I, to show my authority, scold her 
 when she laughs and is happy, or order her to be prim in the 
 presence of people, assume a reflective air and a solemn look, that 
 people may think highly of her ability ? Oh, no ; certainly I don't 
 wish to constrain her. Stephanie is pretty ; she has some fortune. 
 He will come along soon enough who will wish to take part in her 
 happiness." 
 
 What the good lady had foreseen was not very long before being 
 realised. An old lady friend of Madame Dolbert gave a grand 
 ball, to which Stephanie and her grandmother received pressing 
 invitations. Madame Dolbert, who sought nothing but to procure 
 pleasure for her grand-daughter, and who enjoyed listening to 
 praises of her beauty, had promised to go to the ball. 
 
 But Stephanie immediately said, — 
 
 " I don't wish to go to the ball, at least, unless Zizine is allowed 
 to come with me." 
 
 " My dear child," said Madame Dolbert, " what you ask cannot 
 be j we cannot take the little one into society. She may be here, 
 
Trie Monde and the Demi Monde. 103 
 
 always near you, and I am quite pleased, but among strangers we 
 cannot allow ourselves to introduce Jerome the water-carrier's 
 
 daughter." .;•*»•■ 
 
 " And why not ? My dear mamma, you know that Zizme is m 
 
 every way rational and wise." 
 
 " It doesn't matter— it would not be proper ; and if I refuse you 
 this, you ought to know that it is really impossible." 
 
 " Well, then, I refuse to go to the ball, unless I can take my 
 little friend with me." 
 
 Madame Dolbert did not insist ; but this refusal annoyed her 
 much, because this ball was given by one of her oldest acquaint- 
 ances, whom she knew was so delighted to have Stephanie, who, 
 from her elegance and face, would draw much admiration. 
 
 But little Zizine had heard this discussion from her seat m 
 the corner of the drawing-room, where she had not said a syllable, 
 not wishing to interfere in what was said ; it was only when she 
 saw Stephanie alone that the little girl drew near her, saying,— 
 
 " I beg of you, dear friend, to go to the ball with your grand- 
 mother, else she will think I am the cause of your refusing to go to 
 the amusement, and then she will not like me for that, and I shall 
 be so vexed." . 
 
 Stephanie embraced the little one tenderly, saying to her,— 
 
 " How good you are ! I have great reason to love you so 
 
 much." ■ 1 £ 
 
 Then she ran to tell Madame Dolbert that she would go to the 
 
 They were now much occupied with Stephanie's toilette, for 
 Madame Dolbert desired her grand-daughter to be dressed as 
 became her beauty. Nothing was neglected to embellish still 
 more that which nature had endowed with so many graces. The 
 night of the ball having come, Stephanie, dressed with as much taste 
 as elegance, looked like a nymph ready to fly into space. Everyone 
 admired her, and Zizine, turning around her constantly, heard 
 people say, — 
 
 " Oh, how lovely you are 1 " 
 
 Stephanie alone appeared insensible to the effect produced by 
 her appearance, and she gave little sighs as she looked m the 
 mirrors, murmuring, — 
 
 " It is a pity to take so much trouble with my toilette, tor 1 m 
 sure I shall be quite wearied of the thing." 
 
 At last, when the hour of leaving for the ball had come, 
 Stephanie made a pout of her pretty lips, and bade adieu to 
 Zizine, saying, — 
 
 "Good-bye. To-morrow we shall amuse ourselves splendidly 
 We shall dress our doll exactly as I am at present." 
 
 A murmur of admiration greeted the entrance of the Dolbert 
 ladies. The good grandmother was as happy as if the compliments 
 had been addressed to herself. People enjoy the triumph of their 
 children, at least, when they have not the foolish pretension of 
 trying to appear young still themselves, hiding their age, and 
 
104 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 trying to make conquests ; then they become displeased, and go 
 into corners pouting. 
 
 Among Stephanie's numerous admirers, a gentleman, about 
 thirty, but who still might be called young, because he looked 
 barely twenty-five, appeared to be particularly struck by the 
 charms of Mademoiselle Dolbert. 
 
 This gentlemen was very fine-looking, tall, graceful, and ele- 
 gant ; his noble and distinguished-looking face was often serious, 
 which circumstance, joined to his usual paleness, gave his counten- 
 ance a pleasing tinge of melancholy which at once interested ; but 
 when he smiled, his eyes had an expression difficult to describe, an 
 expression which women can understand better than men, and 
 which, nevertheless, never could wound them. 
 
 Emile Delaberge (that was his name) was not slow in asking 
 Stephanie to dance. Then he exchanged with her only a few 
 insignificant words, having the appearance of one admiring his 
 partner. 
 
 The second time he tried to make her talk. She replied with 
 that frankness and amiable candour which were painted on her 
 features. Emile saw at once that he had not to do with a coquette, 
 and that all the nothings spoken at a ball would have no effect 
 upon this charming girl. 
 
 Stephanie danced for the third time with Emile Delaberge, 
 when Madame Dolbert, who was seated near the lady of the house, 
 asked her who the gentleman was who was dancing with Stephanie. 
 
 " It is M. Emile Delaberge," replied she. " He is a young man 
 of very good family. But, my friend, you must have known his 
 aunt, Madame de Marvelle, who died about five years ago." 
 
 " Oh ! I knew Madame de Marvelle. Ah ! that young man is 
 her nephew ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he has now an income of about twenty-five thousand 
 francs, which his father left him. His aunt, who was not married, 
 left him twice as much. He is very wealthy, and a bachelor still, 
 although he is nearly thirty, although he does not look it. He is 
 a charming man — he is sought after everywhere. When he wishes 
 to marry, he has only to choose. He has travelled a great deal, and 
 it is only since his aunt's death that he seems to have settled in 
 Paris." 
 
 During this conversation Emile Delaberge exchanged some 
 words with a young man who came towards the dancers to have a 
 better view of Stephanie. 
 
 " You are fortunate, my dear Emile," said the newcomer, " to 
 dance with the prettiest person at the ball — and it appears to me 
 as if it were not the first time during the evening." 
 
 " Indeed, I have already had that pleasure. The young lady is 
 delightful. Who is she ? Do you know ? " 
 
 " Certainly. She is Madame Dolbert's grand-daughter — that old 
 
 lady who is seated over there, and who is looking at you just now. 
 
 The beautiful Stephanie's father was in the magistracy. He was 
 
 very able and deserving man, but he died young, as his wife did 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 105 
 
 lso, leaving the little Stephanie to the care of her grandmother, 
 who, moreover, gives way to all her wishes. This young lady will 
 have at least twenty thousand francs of income. She is a good 
 match ; but that is nothing to you, Delaberge, who are a nabob — a 
 Croesus — and might almost marry a province ! Leave us, then, to 
 pay court to Mademoiselle Dolbert, and do not throw yourself 
 across our hopes. You are a most formidable rival ! Wherever 
 you appear, nobody looks at us, who have often no better fortune 
 than hope itself ! We can see more than you can, and the mammas 
 will end by proposing to you their daughters' hands, so much do 
 they desire your alliance. Marry therefore in good time, Dela- 
 berge, so that every desire may no longer be directed towards 
 you !" 
 
 Emile smiled as he replied, — 
 
 "Nothing presses. I find myself very comfortable as I 
 am." 
 
 " Faith, you are right, my dear fellow ; and, rivalry apart, I 
 confess to you that in your place I should never marry — at least to 
 become passionately in love. But a man to whom conquests are so 
 easy rarely falls in love." 
 
 The conversation went no farther; the contredanse finished, and 
 Stephanie's cavalier quitted her after having led her to her grand- 
 mother. Yet Emile did not lose sight of his pretty partner, taking 
 care to conceal the attention with which he looked at her. He had 
 too much wit and tact to allow himself to be observed, or to imitate 
 those young men who believe that to make a conquest of a woman 
 it is necessary to announce before all men that one is in love, and 
 that the way of pleasing her consists in planting himself before her, 
 so that she cannot raise her eyes without meeting glances persist- 
 ently cast on her face. 
 
 About the middle of the evening, Stephanie had danced with 
 many young men, who had thought to please her by paying her 
 compliments. Each one sought to excel each other in gallantry. 
 Everyone flattered himself that he seemed more agreeable and 
 more noticed by his partner, by praising her graces, her features, 
 and her style ; but, far from that, the young men succeeded only in 
 wearying Stephanie, who, ignorant as to their object, refused a 
 contredanse in order to remain near Madame Dolbert. 
 
 " Are you tired already ? Would you like to go now ? " said 
 the good mother to her grand-daughter. 
 
 " No, my dear mamma, it is not that ; but really — all these 
 gentlemen who have danced with me repeat the same thing, and 
 that worries me." 
 
 " What do they sajr, then ? " 
 
 " That I am charming ; that I am the finest-looking at the ball ; 
 that I danced like an angel ; and that I am full of grace." 
 
 "Goodness gracious, is that sufficient to make one refuse to 
 dance ? " asked Madame Dolbert, smiling. 
 
 " Yes, dear mamma ; for they all repeat the same thing to me. 
 Besides, it is not true. Most certainly I am not the prettiest at the 
 
106 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 ball, and there are many young ladies who dance better than I do. 
 Is that not so, dear mamma ? " 
 
 " Possibly ; but it appears to me not a very good reason for 
 being annoyed that people should tell us we are pretty. In society, 
 my dear, men imagine they ought to pay compliments to ladies — it 
 is the fashion." 
 
 " That may be so, but surely not all in the same way." 
 
 " Should you like better that they told you you were ugly ? " 
 
 " That would appear much more amusing to me ; it would make 
 me laugh." 
 
 " And do all these gentlemen think you dance well ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed. There was one only who did not, and I re- 
 marked him, and preferred him to all the others. 
 
 "Who is he, then?" 
 
 "Dear mamma, it is a gentleman with whom I have danced 
 several times. He conversed with me, but it was not to say as 
 the others did, c Mademoiselle, you dance magnificently,' or l Made- 
 moiselle, you are full of grace.' He spoke of this evening's enter- 
 tainment and of the plans for the winter. He asked me if I were a 
 musician, in short, several things ; that, at least, was a change." 
 
 " Show me this gentleman." 
 
 " Come, dear mamma, he was just walking about here a minute 
 or two since. Ah, this is he ; I see him." 
 
 Stephanie stopped, then murmured as she lowered her voice, — 
 
 " That is the gentleman who is coming towards us." 
 
 At this moment the mistress of the house, holding M. Delaberge 
 by the hand, advanced towards Madame Dolbert to present him to 
 her. 
 
 "My dear friend, will you allow me to introduce to you M. 
 Emile Delaberge, nephew of that amiable Madame Marvelle whom 
 both you and I loved so much ? " 
 
 Madame Dolbert received her old friend's nephew very 
 graciously. The distinguished manners of Emile were in his 
 favour, and when he wished to be agreeable, it was difficult not to 
 be led away by the charm of his conversation. The young man 
 respectfully intimated to Madame Dolbert how delighted he was to 
 make the acquaintance of his aunt ; and Stephanie's grandmother, 
 who thought this very natural, replied to M. Emile that she would 
 always receive his visits with pleasure. 
 
 Emile thanked Madame Dolbert for the favour she thus 
 accorded to him, and at that moment his looks were fixed on 
 Stephanie, who blushed and lowered her eyes without knowing 
 why. Emile took leave of the ladies. Dancing was going on still, 
 but a moment after this interview Stephanie expressed a wish to 
 retire ; and after seeing that the gr3atest care was taken lest she 
 should catch cold, Madame Dolbert went with her into the carriage 
 which took them home. 
 
 The next morning little Zizine watched for the awaking of her 
 young protectress ; the child, when she went out, had dressed her doll 
 exactly as Stephanie had been for the ball. She thought she would 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 107 
 
 give her friend an agreeable surprise ; and seated near her bed, 
 holding the pretty doll on her knees, she waited m silence till 
 Stephanie should open her eyes. 
 
 That moment at length arrived; the young girl murmured 
 some words. Zizine ran and embraced her ; then she showed her 
 
 the doll, saying,— .,,,,, 
 
 " Look 1 see how lovely you were last night ! . . 
 
 Stephanie smiled, but she didn't break into laughter as she 
 usually did when playing with her little friend; one would even 
 have said that she looked at the doll with complete indifference. 
 
 When Stephanie had risen, she told Zizme all that had occurred 
 at the baU the evening before, and during the whole day she spoke 
 of nothing else. But when Zizine proposed to her that they should 
 play with the doll, Stephanie refused, and showed that it did not 
 amuse her ; and little Zizine, quite amazed, said to her,— 
 
 "But it amused you so much yesterday ! 
 
 «Yes— yesterday," murmured Stephanie, with a dreamy air. 
 
 For the child, yesterday was only one day back ; for the young 
 girl, it was nothing more than the vague reminiscence of a former 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 THE DINNER AT M. GRILLON'S. 
 
 The day fixed for the dinner at M. Grillon's came at last, and M. 
 Guerreville prepared to visit the parents of his god-daughter. He 
 had rather unwillingly accepted this invitation, which annoyed him ; 
 but he had given his word, and he could not draw back Made- 
 moiselle Agatha had come a day or two before to remind him of 
 his promise, but M. Guerreville was absent when she called. 
 
 "You will amuse yourself perhaps more than you imagine at 
 this dinner ," the Doctor said when he quitted his friend. In 
 society we often meet with pleasure when we don't expect it; but 
 the contrary sometimes happens." '-• 
 
 "Amused," said M. Guerreville, shaking the Doctor by the 
 hand, "you might see that that is impossible in my case, whatever 
 the place may be. I sometimes feign to forget my sorrows, but 
 even when I am obliged to smile, my heart is quite a stranger to 
 what my countenance would seem to show; every day increases 
 my sorrow, for every day I see becoming less the hope which X 
 have still of finding what I have lost." 
 
 "If one knew your sorrows, one perhaps might be able to nelp 
 vou in your search, and obtain a more fortunate result.' 
 
 M. Guerreville did not reply to the Doctor. He allowed his 
 head to fall upon his bosom, and was left alone. 
 
108 The Monde mid the Demi Monde. 
 
 At a quarter to five, M. Guerreville was ringing M. Grilion's 
 bell. 
 
 It was Agatha who came to open the door to him, and soon 
 there were cries of joy, and cries as if some celestial manna had 
 fallen upon the house. 
 
 " Ah, how fortunate ; it is my godfather. Good-day, godfather. 
 Mamma, it is my godfather. You are so kind not to have forgotten 
 us. Papa, it is my godfather. Ah, papa has gone down to the 
 cellar. Come in, godfather ; let me embrace you — you will allow 
 me, godfather, won't you ? " 
 
 And, without waiting for a reply, Mademoiselle Agatha em- 
 braced M. Guerreville, who, quite astounded by the commotion his 
 arrival had caused, entered the drawing-room without having time 
 to look around him. 
 
 There was Madame Grillon, who came forward to receive her 
 guest. Agatha's mamma wore a little rose-coloured cap, placed on 
 her head perhaps with too much show for the mother of a family ; 
 but M. Guerreville's old friend was still fine-looking, and the rose- 
 coloured cap was not absolutely ridiculous. 
 
 A young man, with glossy hair and whiskers, was also in the 
 drawing-room, where he appeared much occupied in setting to 
 rights a false fold which he had discovered in his waistcoat. He 
 was a handsome, dapper lad, with a conceited air. 
 
 Then there was a gentleman so big and tall that his head nearly 
 touched the roof, and made everyone who came near him seem to 
 become shorter, and withal so thin and slender that, as he walked, 
 his limbs appeared as if they were about to break. He was also a 
 young man, but he had nothing of a smart air about him, appear- 
 ing to be confused by his great height. 
 
 Madame Grillon saluted M. Guerreville with a tender smile, 
 which seemed to wish to say many things. The two young men 
 rose as he entered the room, but Agatha scarcely allowed her 
 mother time to speak. She moved and jumped about her god- 
 father, and allowed neither her tongue nor her body a moment's 
 rest. 
 
 " We are very much flattered that you should have been willing 
 to accept our invitation," said Madame Grillon, seeking to meet M. 
 Guerreville's glance as he replied coldly, — 
 
 "Madame, you are a thousand times too good. I only 
 wished to refuse you at first because I went so little into society, 
 and—" 
 
 " Oh, yes, it was so kind of you to come, godfather. I am very 
 happy to see you, godfather." 
 
 " Agatha has never ceased to speak of you," said Madame 
 Grillon, stifling a half -sigh. 
 
 " My god-daughter is too good ! " 
 
 " Godfather, when I love people, I love them exceedingly. I 
 am always like that — and then, sometimes, my affection passes away 
 altogether." 
 
 " Come, hold your tougue, you goose ! " said Madame Grillon, 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 109 
 
 giving her daughter a tap on the cheek ; then she approached M. 
 Guerreville, and said in a low tone, " She is a big child \ very giddy, 
 but sensible, too. She is my very image — just such as I was at 
 that age — you remember ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville, who had a horror of reminiscenes and souvenirs, 
 seemed not to have heard, and turned towards Agatha, who said 
 to him, — 
 
 " Godfather, this is M. Adalgis of whom 1 have spoken to you, 
 who sings * Romances ' so well, and who plays the cornet-a-piston to 
 accompany me on the piano. Will you soon be ready to accom- 
 pany me, M. Adalgis ? " 
 
 The young man bowed, saying, — 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I should not wish to have myself listened to in 
 a drawing-room unless I played very well. I find that at present 
 the fine arts won't endure mediocrity. If you have no fine talent, 
 you just make a fool of yourself. I wish to ascend, not to remain 
 below." 
 
 " That is right ! " said the tall young man ; " otherwise people 
 would laugh at you." 
 
 " Oh, you will see, godfather, that M. Adalgis sings well," said 
 Agatha. Then she added, as she bent towards M. Guerreville's ear, 
 " He has a fine profile, has he not, that young man, godfather ? 
 He would not wear a waistcoat except one cut in the latest fashion. 
 The other tall one who is here is M. Lelon ; they say he has a good 
 deal of money, but I don't like him at all. He is, first of all, too big ; 
 and then, when he wishes to say or relate anything, he always lies, 
 and that is not like M. Adalgis — he always speaks so truthfully. 
 Ah ! here is papa come back from the cellar, I hear. Papa, come j 
 my godfather has arrived ! " 
 
 "My friend, M. Guerreville, has cornel" cried Agatha's mamma 
 in her turn. 
 
 M. Grillon appeared then at the door of the drawing-room, hold- 
 ing his basket of bottles in one hand and a candle in the other. He 
 did not know whether to lay these aside first, or enter with them, 
 to receive quickly his daughter's godfather. In his hesitation he 
 remained at the door, crying, — 
 
 " Good evening, M. Guerreville. I am so charmed to see you. I 
 have just come up from the cellar. And you are well, I hope. I 
 beg a thousand pardons — I have my hands full, and this candle has 
 guttered over them. You are quite well ? " 
 
 " Finish your business, M. Grillon," said M. Guerreville. " Do 
 not trouble yourself about me, I beg of yon." 
 
 " I shall be with you in a moment. It is so disagreeable when 
 a candle gutters over your fingers. Jeanette ! Jeanette ! " 
 
 M. Grillon disappeared with his basket and his candle, while 
 madame exclaimed, — 
 
 " He has a mania for going down to the cellar himself. What 
 can one do ? It is best to let him take his own way ; it is the only 
 thing in the house in which he interferes." 
 
 " I don't see any harm in it," said M. Guerreville. 
 
110 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " I never went down to a cellar in all my life ! " said M. Adalgis, 
 stretching himself in an arm-chair. 
 
 " That is just my case," said M. Lelon. " I never went down 
 into a pit — a cellar, I mean." 
 
 " I hope the Devaux ladies will not make us wait ! " said Madame 
 Grillon ; " they are all we expect now." 
 
 " Ah, you know that Laura is never done dressing herself," 
 replied Agatha, " and her sister always forgets something ; but it's 
 all right, they are very amiable. I have asked Laura to bring her 
 castanets— she is very good with the castanets. Have you heard 
 her, M. Adalgis ? " 
 
 " Oh, mademoiselle, the Castanet is not an instrument ! It is 
 good for accompanying one while dancing the bolero or such like 
 Spanish trifles — but otherwise, I know nothing more insipid." 
 
 " How funny ! I thought it was so pretty ! " 
 
 M. Grillon entered the drawing-room, wiping his fingers still. 
 He hastened to shake M. Guerreville by the hand. 
 
 " How are you, M. Guerreville ? I beg pardon for not having 
 been here at first to receive you ; but I was in the cellar." 
 
 " Sir, these ladies were here, and it was quite unnecessary for 
 you to trouble yourself." 
 
 " You go to your cellar yourself, I suppose, M. Guerreville ? It 
 is one of my pleasures. I pass in review all my bottles, to see if 
 there are any mouldy corks." 
 
 "Your daughter has already done the honours of the house 
 very well." 
 
 "A cork gives a bad taste to the wine, and then I need to 
 change them all." 
 
 " We are only waiting now for the Devaux ladies," said Madame 
 Grillon. " I am astonished that they have not arrived yet. It is 
 most annoying, for my dinner is ready ; but, if they do not come 
 in five minutes, we shall take our seats." 
 
 " Ah, madame," said M. Guerreville, moving away from the 
 master of the house, " we ought to wait for these ladies." 
 
 " Always gallant, M. Guerreville." 
 
 " When the wine has a sediment," said M. Grillon, approaching 
 young Adalgis, " that is a different affair ; that calls for other pro- 
 ceedings. It is necessary then to decant it into other bottles — 
 although there are some people who do otherwise." 
 
 " I don't know anything of that sort of thing," answered the 
 young fellow, rising to speak to Agatha ; then M. Grillon went 
 over to the tall M. Lelon, and continued, — 
 
 "It is not the bad wines which have a sediment, as some 
 people would tell you. As for me, I rather like to find some sedi- 
 ment in my glass. You will say to me that the wine is muddled ; 
 then the shortest way is, in that case, to drink it quickly, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Certainly, it is not to drink it — " 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " I should say to drink it as quickly as possible." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. Ill 
 
 There was a violent ring at thi3 moment, and Agatha bounded 
 up joyfully, crying,— 
 
 " Oh, here are the ladies." 
 
 Then M. Adalgis stood before a mirror, into which he cast a 
 glance to see that nothing was disarranged about his hair ; M. 
 Lelon slipped behind some chairs ; and M. Grillon and his daughter 
 left the drawing-room to meet the company which was arriving. 
 
 Madame Grillon seized that moment to approach M. Guerre- 
 ville, and pressing him gently on the arm, murmured, — 
 
 " Ah, Edouard, how happy I am to see you again. Your presence 
 causes me deep emotion, and such pleasure. I am always Euphemia 
 to you — your Euphemia of former times. But why do you scarcely 
 look at me?" 
 
 M. Guerreville was tempted to reply, — 
 
 " Madame, if you don't stop this, I shall take my hat and go." 
 
 But in society it is often necessary to keep back those spon- 
 taneous replies which come from the bottom of our hearts. 
 
 M. Guerreville was silent, and the tender Euphemia could not 
 press the conversation further, as the Devaux family were entering 
 the room, which was nearly filled by the newcomers. 
 
 On perceiving the big mamma, Madame Devaux — over fifty 
 years of age, and with an enormous turban on her head — M. 
 Guerreville bethought himself where he had already met this lady ; 
 the sight of her two daughters confirmed him in the belief that it 
 fras not the first time he had met the Devaux family. Soon the 
 recollections returned to him ; the big mamma was the lady who 
 was having her boots laced while he was visiting her rooms along 
 with M. Eourre ; Mademoiselle Laura was the young person who 
 had opened the door while munching a lump of bread and butter ; 
 then the little girl, Mademoiselle Ophelia, who had thumped the 
 piano. 
 
 " Good gracious ! how cruel you are to come so late," cried 
 Madame Grillon, as she went forward to embrace Madame Devaux 
 and her daughters. 
 
 " It is not my fault, my dear friend," said the big mamma, as 
 she bowed graciously to the company. "We had gone out, and 
 already passed into the street when I said to Laura, 'My dear 
 girl, your stockings are coming down ; they are not tied rightly.' 
 Then Laura fumbled about, and cried, as she laughed like a goose 
 as she is, ' Oh, I have forgotten my garters ! ' and then we were 
 obliged to go upstairs again till she put them on. Laura had 
 declared she could do well enough without them, but I certainly 
 wouldn't allow her to dine in town without her garters. How- 
 ever, you all appear to me to enjoy good health." 
 
 M. Grillon waited until his wife and daughter had finished 
 their embracings of the ladies, that he might in turn salute them. 
 M. Adalgis bowed to the young ladies in most fashionable style, 
 M. Lelon presented seats to them, and M. Guerreville could not 
 but remark that the dresses in which these two girls had arrived 
 had considerable analogy to that of tight-rope dancers. 
 
112 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Mademoiselle Ophelia held under her arm a roll of music, which 
 she laid upon the piano. Agatha ran up to her, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah, you have brought some ' Eomances ' ; it is so nice of you. 
 You will sing something to us." 
 
 "My daughter has brought some large pieces," said Madame 
 Devaux, " for I do not care for her singing ' Eomances.' All these 
 little airs spoil the voice. I wish her only to sing from Kossini or 
 Meyerbeer. Is it not so, Euphemia ? Hadn't you promised your 
 mother to do this ? " 
 
 " Ah, madame," said M. Adalgis, smiling with a slightly mock- 
 ing air. " I think you might permit her also to sing something 
 from Mozart." 
 
 " Mozart ! " said Madame Devaux, like one who was seeking to 
 recall something. " How ! the man who gives concerts in the Kue 
 StHonore?" 
 
 " No, madame ; I don't speak of Musard, but of the author of 
 Bon Giovanni and the Marriage of Figaro." 
 
 " Oh, that is different. The Marriage of Figaro, that is divine 
 I have seen that at the Frangais. It did make me laugh so." 
 
 Adalgis turned towards Agatha, laughing, then threw himself 
 on the sofa ; but just at that moment the servant called out at the 
 door of the drawing-room, — 
 
 " Dinner is served, madame." 
 
 " To the table ! to the table ! " said M. Grillon ; " we must not 
 allow the dinner to get cold. Gentlemen, give your arms to the 
 ladies." 
 
 And the master of the house presented his to Madame Devaux, 
 M. Adalgis took Agatha and Ophelia, M. Lelon presented his arm 
 to Madamoiselle Laura, and there only was left Madame Grillon, 
 who waited till M. Guerreville should accept the hand she held out 
 to him, which he finally did, and caused her bosom to heave with 
 emotion till they passed into the dining-room. 
 
 When everyone was seated, M. Guerreville found himself placed 
 between Madame Grillon and Madame Devaux, who had already 
 looked at him several times, when the tender Euphemia said to 
 her, " This gentleman is my daughter's godfather, one of our old 
 friends who has been away from Paris for a long time, and whom 
 we are delighted to see once more." 
 
 " Charmed to make his acquaintance," replied Madame Devaux ; 
 " but the gentleman's face is not unknown to me. I wonder — " 
 
 "I can help your memory," said M. Guerreville. I came to 
 the rooms which you have in the Kue Montmartre, and you had 
 the kindness to allow me to look at them, although your toilet was 
 not quite finished." 
 
 " Ah, I remember now ; yes, you are just the same. You were 
 with the porter. Quite right, madame." 
 
 "I also remember," said Mademoiselle Laura. "I was busy 
 lacing mamma's boots at the time. 
 
 "Which were much too large," exclaims Madame Devaux. 
 " Well, sir, have you found rooms to your satisfaction ? You did 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 113 
 
 not take ours, and you were right ; they were horribly ugly, and 
 needed much to be done to them, but now we are in delightful 
 apartments." 
 
 " Which does not hinder us being out of order still," said Laure 
 smiling. 
 
 " You are out of order," said M. Grillon— M. Lelan, look after 
 the comfort of these ladies." M. Lelan bowed, and presented a salt- 
 cellar to M. Grillon, who pushed it from him saying, — " I wish 
 you to take care of the ladies. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I beg pardon, I did not hear." 
 
 "We must change our rooms again," said Madame Devaux, 
 " when one of my daughters is married." 
 
 "Ah, you are always going to marry Ophelia," said Madame 
 Grillon ; " so much the better. I am so pleased that this is going 
 to happen." 
 
 "Oh, yes, certainly, it must be so." Here Madame Devaux 
 bent towards M. Guerreville's chair, saying to him in a low voice, — 
 " Indeed, I wish I was certain that it was Ophelia who is going to 
 be married, but I believe Laure will go off before her sister." 
 
 " Ah, you have also a suitor for her." 
 
 " It is the same." 
 
 " How ! the same for the two girls % " 
 
 "Yes, that is to say he first paid court to Ophelia, then, I 
 believe, he fell in love with Laura. He doesn't dare to speak. 
 From this arises embarrassment and coldness — you understand ? " 
 
 " Is he a good match ? " 
 
 "Oh, excellent, M. Emile Delaberge, nothing like him; the 
 young man is almost a millionaire, and very handsome ; oh, all the 
 women are in love with him. For a fortnight past he has not 
 come to see us ; but I shall compel him to declare himself. But 
 for the matter of that, I am not put at all about about my 
 daughters; thank heaven, everybody loves them; they gain affection 
 everywhere; that is so true, that the other evening at a ball, having 
 been foolish enough to say that I was going to marry Laura, there 
 were two young men who really became quite ill, and two others 
 who had to weep in a corner of the drawing-room, it quite affected 
 me ; but, hush, this is between ourselves, my dear." 
 
 M. Guerreville had found it necessary to be a confidant of 
 what had been said round his back ; for, although they spoke in a 
 low voice, the big mamma bent nearly over his ears ; but he had not 
 the appearance of listening, as he did not wish to make a third in 
 the conversation. 
 
 "Help the ladies who are next you to wine, gentlemen," 
 said M. Grillon, as he helped himself to the choicest bits of each 
 course. 
 
 And M. Lelon took the carafe and poured out some water for 
 Madame Devoux, who had asked him for wine. 
 
 " What is it you are doing, sir ? " said the stout lady. " Do you 
 think I want to injure my stomach?" 
 
 " I beg pardon, Madame, I have heard very imperfectly." 
 
 H 
 
1 14 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Ophelia, my dear, don't eat these gherkins above everything. 
 Your singing master has forbidden yon to touch them." 
 
 " Be easy, mamma." 
 
 " I, who don't sing," said Laura, " can eat of everything. Gherkins 
 won't keep me from playing the castanets." 
 
 " She played like an angel the night before last," said Madame 
 Devaux. " We were at an evening party, where they were dancing 
 Spanish quadrilles, and Laura accompanied them." 
 
 " Yes," said Mademoiselle Laura ; " I accompanied the Cachuca 
 las Manchegas." 
 
 " And then the Zatapette" said the mamma. 
 
 " Elzateapadu, mother, and Jota-Aragonesa" 
 
 " Ah, yes, that's it, Lajoute araguese, it was delicious ; everybody 
 was charmed. My daughter clacked for all the dances." 
 
 " But M. Adalgis says the castanet is an insipid instrument," 
 cried Agatha. 
 
 " Insipid ! " said Laura, smiling disdainfully, while her mother 
 threw angry looks upon the young man, which had not the least 
 effect upon him. 
 
 " Insipid, the castanets ! " cried Madame Devoux ; " where then 
 has the young gentleman discovered that ? He has never seen Spain 
 or Italy. The castanets are adored everywhere ; at the bull-fights 
 they play castanets ; why, it is a national instrument, and playing 
 gives so much grace to a lady. Good heavens ! I shall let you hear 
 •t played after dinner, and you shall see." 
 
 " Madame, I do not pretend but that it makes a graceful effect. 
 I only consider that it is not to be classed among musical 
 instruments." 
 
 "I suppose you would class it with the tambourine and the 
 cymbals, which always are like to rend my ears." 
 
 " In a march," said M. Lelan, bending forward to speak, " the 
 cymbals and the tambourines sound very well indeed, the pistan 
 even, well played, has a good effect. I have heard — I don't 
 remember in what overture — a solo on the bassoon, on the pistan, 
 on the cornet. A pistan — it went very well indeed." 
 
 "Who is this young man who is losing himself among the 
 pistans ?" said Madame Devaux, bending her ear behind M. Guerre- 
 ville's back. 
 
 " He is a young man with plenty of means, and well educated, 
 he comes from a normal school." 
 
 " It is a pity he never knows rightly what to say. As to your 
 M. Adalgis, he is rather a handsome fellow, but his physique spoils 
 him." 
 
 M. Guerreville mingled very little in the conversation. He 
 needed to prevent a communication being kept up with him under 
 the table, where certain feet sought to establish a relation to his 
 own. But Agatha frequently called out, — 
 
 "You are not eating, my godfather. Papa, my godfather is 
 not eating. Mamma, do make my godfather take something." 
 
 Madame Grillon sighed, and bit her lips, as she replied, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 115 
 
 " M. Guerreville will not take anything. I have made every 
 effort, but he will not touch anything I have offered him. Ophelia, 
 don't touch these anchovies, your singing master has forbidden 
 them. He assures me that anchovies are very much against 
 roulades? 
 
 " That is to say, antipathic, mother." 
 
 " Yes, antipat, my tongue gets twisted ; when one has a good 
 voice, there are so many rules made. My future son-in-law, M. 
 Emile Delaberge, is mad about fine voices." 
 
 " Ah, yes, that is true. Speaking of that, you are going to have 
 one of your daughters married," said M. Grillon ; " the eldest, no 
 doubt—" 
 
 "Perhaps both at once," replied Madame Devaux, throwing 
 looks on her daughters, which said, " Say as I do." 
 
 "Both— the devil !— that is better still." 
 
 " It is four years since I have heard her saying she was about 
 to get her daughters married," said Adalgis to Agatha, " and they 
 are spinsters yet ! " 
 
 " Ah ! how wicked of you to say so ! " 
 
 " This M. Emile Delaberge," said the tall Lelan, " is he not a 
 young man who — that is to say — is not quite a young man — but a 
 kind of—" 
 
 "Precisely ! " exclaimed the big mamma ; that is he ! Immensely 
 rich, a handsome fellow, an accomplished gallant, setting the 
 fashion, the style. But M. Adalgis should know him — you who 
 go into fine society ! " 
 
 " Emile Delaberge ! " replied Adalgis, caressing his chin. 
 " Yes, certainly, I know him well, I have been three or four times 
 in his company ; but I have always understood him to jest about 
 marriage, and people who are stupid enough to become engaged." 
 
 " Is that possible ! you must have understood him badly ! " 
 cried Laura, with an air of vexation. 
 
 " Besides, M. Delaberge may no longer think so now ! " said 
 Mademoiselle Ophelia pouting. 
 
 "Yes, you are right, Ophelia," said Madame Devaux; "he 
 could say that I think otherwise — that happens every day. Don't 
 eat mustard, my child, that will make your notes doubtful, as your 
 master says, and I don't like you to have anything doubtful." 
 
 " Gentlemen, look after those ladies ! " said M. Grillon, putting 
 aside for his own use the wing of a fowl he was carving. 
 
 "A propos" said Madame Devaux, who charged herself with 
 leading the whole conversation, " our cousin has arrived in town ; 
 you know, Madame Grillon, you know that I told you that I 
 expected my cousin to be present at my daughters' marriages. He 
 has been here some considerable time now, and I allowed myself 
 the liberty of asking him to come to your house this evening. I 
 wish to introduce him to you." 
 
 " That is quite right, we shall be very pleased to make your 
 cousin's acquaintance." 
 
 " He is a delightful man — sparkling with wit — he lives at Chateau- 
 
116 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Thierry, where he is adored, and where he mixes among the best 
 people, the Sous-Pre'fet, the mayor, the authorities, all good society. 
 He is a fine fellow ! " 
 
 " Is he a young man ? " 
 
 " Yes, a young man of forty, still a bachelor. He is so gay, so 
 boyish ! A very handsome man. Isn't your cousin Vadevant very 
 handsome, my daughters ? " 
 
 "He has too big a stomach," said Laura, helping herself to 
 bread and butter. 
 
 "Which doesn't prevent him dancing like a cork." 
 
 " He has not come to Paris to settle ? " 
 
 "No, I believe not; yet it is quite possible— one doesn't 
 know." 
 
 As she said this, Madame Devaux looked at the daughters with 
 an air which seemed to express much. 
 
 At the name of Vadevant, M. Guerreville made a movement, 
 which did not escape the tender Euphemia; she said to him 
 gently,— 
 
 " Do you know these ladies, cousin ? I believe, in fact, you 
 also come from Chateau -Thierry ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, I was there at the same time as this gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " Ah, you know my cousin Vadevant," said Madame Devaux, " I 
 am enchanted — you shall see him this evening. Oh, that is 
 capital ! how pleased I am that I told him to come here — Ophelia, 
 my dear child, do not eat cresses; they are very bad for the 
 cadences" 
 
 M. Guerreville was not at all delighted to meet this little man 
 who seemed to pursue him everywhere ; but he thought that at 
 M. Gillon's, as well as elsewhere, he would know how to snub his 
 importunities. 
 
 " My cousin Vadevant has already rendered me a great service 
 since^ he has arrived in Paris," replied Madame Devaux; after 
 pushing away M. Lelan's arm, as that gentleman insisted on pre- 
 senting the water-bottle to her ; " but I must tell you first, that 
 we have not for some time had a doctor — ours died, and that dis- 
 tressed us a great deal ; for you see I am very delicate, although I 
 may not seem so — " 
 
 "It is certain that you do not seem so," replied M. Adalgis 
 smiling. 
 
 "That young man is spoilt by his physique," said the big 
 mamma in a low tone ; then she added with an air of pique : 
 " Yes, sir, I am very delicate ; a regime is absolutely necessary to 
 me — much prudence as to my ailments — " 
 
 " It is the same with myself," said M. Lelan, " I eat everything ; 
 but that makes me ill — that is to say, there are some things I eat 
 that I ought not." 
 
 " Certainly," said Madame Devaux, " there is no lack of doctors 
 in Paris, and men of great ability ; but I was wavering. I was 
 uncertain — when my cousin Vadevant came to see us, and said, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 117 
 
 " Take Doctor Jenneval, who has come from Chateau-Thierry with 
 me ; he is a lady's doctor— a man of great ability." 
 
 " And yon were not deceived as to that," said M. Guerreville, 
 who could not keep silent when his friend's name was mentioned. 
 
 " You know him too, sir ?" 
 
 " Very well indeed, madame." 
 
 " He is probably your own doctor ? " 
 
 " Better than that, he is my friend." 
 
 " Then I shall have much pleasure in relating to the company a 
 feature which proves what Doctor Jenneval is capable of doing to 
 bring his patients out of danger. This shows also that he has as 
 much genius as science. I come to the narrative. Ophelia, you 
 must not eat salad, my pretty 1 You know what your master 
 said— salad, and the points of organ playing are quite incom- 
 patible." 
 
 " Mamma, a single leaf." 
 
 "You will get a hiccough, and I don't like my daughter to 
 have hiccough." 
 
 " I shall eat for two — I have no fear of conacs," said Mademoiselle 
 Laura, drawing the salad-dish towards her. 
 
 * Oh, she is something fearful ! She has a cast-iron constitution, 
 and could eat diamonds ! " 
 
 "The devil ! I shouldn't like to be charged with the mainten- 
 ance then!" said M. Adalgis, in a low tone; while the stout 
 mamma went on with her story 
 
 " Gentleman, Doctor Jenneval at last came ; and after having 
 made numerous visits, in which he ascertained the character of my 
 constitution, he advised me for dejeuner to take chocolate, saying 
 that it would thoroughly renew the stomach, but that it might have 
 a good effect he said, — ' You will take your chocolate between two 
 glasses of water, the one before, and the other after.' I followed 
 punctually the Doctor's orders, and already had found the best 
 results, when one morning, uncomfortable from dejeuner, or put 
 out, as I believe, by a visitor, I took my chocolate without a glass of 
 water before it, as I had done formerly. When I perceived what 
 I had done only too late, I took my glass of water afterwards, but 
 there was wanting that which I ought to have drank first, and my 
 chocolate was no longer between the two waters. You may judge 
 of my distress. I said to myself, I have failed to carry out the 
 Doctor's orders, and what will be the result? Possibly of the 
 gravest kind. I cannot tell you how this fear itself made me quite 
 ill" 
 
 " That you were sure to be ! " said Madame Grillon, always 
 seeking to move her foot under M. Guerreville's. 
 
 "Not knowing what part to take, I resolved to send for the 
 Doctor, telling him that the case was pressing. M. Jenneval came, 
 asked me what I had done; I related to him my unfortunate 
 mistake, saying to him, — ' Dear Doctor, what can be done to have 
 that chocolate I have taken be within two glasses of water ? ' M. 
 Jenneval, touched by my perplexity, thought for some seconds 
 
118 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 and then he exclaimed, — ' Put into a syringe the glass of water you 
 ought to have taken first, take it while washing, and in that way 
 your chocolate will be found between two glasses of water.' " 
 
 " Perfectly conceived ! " said M. Grillon. 
 
 " Oh ! it is charming, 'pon my honour, quite delightful ! " said 
 Adalgis, hiding his face behind his table napkin. 
 
 "I did what the Doctor ordered," continued the big mamma, 
 "and there was no accident resulting; but the expedient he had 
 discovered appeared to me so ingenious, and so deep at the same 
 time, that I take pleasure in telling this anecdote everywhere, so 
 that I may add to Doctor Jenneval's reputation." 
 
 Madame Devaux's story made a singular impression on the 
 company. M. Adalgis and Agatha were dying to get bursting 
 into laughter ; Laura and her sister seemed annoyed ; the tall M. 
 Lelon appeared not to understand it ; M. Grillon alone shared in 
 the stout lady's enthusiasm. Fortunately dessert was finished, and 
 Madame Grillon, seeing that her neighbour obstinately kept his 
 foot under his chair, rose with a vexed air, saying, — 
 
 " Coffee awaits us in the drawing-room." 
 
 Then everybody left the table, and Mademoiselle Agatha, who 
 was very caressing, profited by this opportunity to run and 
 embrace her godfather. 
 
 They went into the drawing-room, when M. Grillon, while taking 
 his coffee, went to each of the guests, saying to them, — 
 
 " Well, how do you like it, eh ? I don't think anybody could 
 make it better. It was my wife who made it. She is very clever, 
 my wife." 
 
 " Do you put chicory in it ? " asked M. Lelon. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " I mean — to give it a colour you know — it is that which causes 
 the bitterness." 
 
 " You find my coffee bitter ? " 
 
 " Not at all ; I mean that it gives it a good taste. That is what 
 my aunt does when they have detestable coffee, because she makes 
 it herself." 
 
 " And that makes it detestable ! " 
 
 " No ; I say it is delicious." 
 
 " A small glass of par f ait-amour , Madame Devaux," said M. 
 Grillon, " that is the liqueur of the Islands." 
 
 " No, I don't take liqueur ; but I confess to you that I am like 
 the men, I take some gloria^ I care only for that, and if you will 
 allow me — " 
 
 " Everything you please ! Monsieur Lelon, come and put some 
 eau-de-vie in Madame Devaux's coffee." 
 
 The tall young man came forward, armed with a decanter, and 
 poured some into the big mamma's cup, as that lady helped herself 
 to some large bits of sugar, and occupied herself in making them 
 melt among the gloria. 
 
 During this* time, Mademoiselle Ophelia was placed at the piano, 
 where she rattled away at anything she could remember. M. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 119 
 
 Guerreville was seated, and soon the tender Euphemia placed her- 
 self near him. M. Adalgis surveyed himself in a mirror, and 
 Mademoiselle Laura, looking at everything from a distance, said 
 to Agatha, — 
 
 " I should like to know how M. Adalgis manages to have his 
 whiskers so beautifully arranged — not a single hair out of its 
 place." 
 
 " Oh, I know ! " said Agatha. " I heard him once tell one of his 
 friends." 
 
 "How is it?" 
 
 " Well, my dear, he sleeps at night, he sleeps with a bandage 
 in which his whiskers are arranged in such a way that they cannot 
 take a wrong curl." 
 
 " Oh, ah-hah ! A bandage ! That is very funny ! " 
 
 " What is it that is so funny in that, mademoiselle ? We put 
 our hair in paper, don't we ? " 
 
 " Oh, that is all right enough. But a bandage to sleep in. If I 
 married a man who did things of that kind, I should attach a dish- 
 cloth to his coat-tails ! " 
 
 " And why, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Because it would make me laugh." 
 
 " Oh ! you say that because M. Adalgis said the castanets 
 were an insipid instrument; for, formerly, you thought him 
 charming." 
 
 " Charming ! I have always thought he resembled those wax 
 heads you see at a hairdresser's door." 
 
 The dispute between the two young ladies was becoming warm, 
 for mademoiselle liked the young man ; while Agatha had a strong 
 fancy for him. But an unexpected event ended their discussion. 
 Madame Devaux, who for some time had been mixing the sugar in 
 her gloria^ having at length contrived to dissolve it thoroughly, 
 put her cup to her mouth, and drank its contents ; but very soon, 
 making a horrible grimace, she put down her cup, saying, — 
 
 " Ah, Man Dieu, that is horrible ! detestable ! I have never 
 taken gloria with that taste." 
 
 " Yet my eau-de-vie is delicious 1 " said M. Grillon. " Every 
 body compliments it — " 
 
 Ah, there is something horrible in it — enough to make one 
 sick — give me a glass of water — I believe I am going to be ill." 
 
 " Everybody pressed around Madame Devaux ; but M. Grillon, 
 who was determined to keep up the reputation of his brandy, went 
 to look at the cup containing the remains of the gloria ; he took it 
 up, examined it, and resolved to taste a little with the tip of his 
 finger ; and then he exclaimed, — 
 
 " There has been no brandy there ! It is parfait amour you 
 have put in our coffee. Who poured out this to madame ? " 
 
 M. Lelan said nothing, and kept behind the Devaux girls, who 
 were loosening their mother's dress. But when they had cut 
 several laces, and the stout lady felt better, she pointed with her 
 finger to the young man, crying, — 
 
120 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " That is the culprit. He is the man who has made up that 
 medicine ! I was never looking : I was picking up some bits of 
 sugar — " 
 
 " Gracious heavens, do you say so ? I have been deceived as to 
 the carafe — " 
 
 " You ought to be obliged to drink my gloria to make you more 
 careful next time — " 
 
 " I beg a thousand pardons, madame ; the fact is, I was much 
 put out. One day, when at the house of my aunt — my uncle I 
 mean — they asked me to help the salad — it was the salad dish, you 
 know — I took up the snuff-box of a gentleman who was seated 
 near me for the pepper-castor, which I was looking for. It was 
 unfortunately open, so that I powdered the salad with snuff ; and 
 the whole company was ill for eight days." 
 
 " He is a nice man, your M. Lelan," said madame, as she turned 
 towards M. Grillon. But I declare I don't want to dine with him 
 again. Some day he will poison a whole company." 
 
 Calm being re-established, the party disposed themselves to 
 listen to Mademoiselle Ophelia singing ; when the drawing-room 
 door opened, and M. Yadevant entered, bowing. 
 
 "It is my cousin ! " exclaimed Madame Devaux ; and rising 
 quickly, she ran to meet the new comer ; took him by the hand, 
 and presented him to the master of the house. 
 
 M. Yadevant was very graciously received by the Grillon 
 family, with great abundance of bows, smiles and compliments. 
 The presentation having been finished, Madame Devaux said to 
 her cousin, as she pointed out M. Guerreville to him. 
 
 " You find yourself here in a known country, cousin Yadevant ; 
 here is a gentleman who has spoken to me about you." 
 
 Yadevant approached M. Guerreville, who remained seated in 
 his corner ; the little man saw him, made a bound backward, 
 giving vent to a joyful cry, as if he had found his father, and 
 seizing a hand which was not held out to him, he said in a 
 transport, — 
 
 "It is M. Guerreville ! Oh, what a delightful chance ! How 
 delighted I am — that dear M. Guerreville ! I have not seen you 
 since the day I kept places for you at the Frangais. You did not 
 come ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville sought to disengage his hand, which the other 
 stedfastly refused to give up, while the little man did not give him 
 time to speak, but went on, — 
 
 " I know that it was not your fault ; you are quite to be excused. 
 Jenneval told me that you had made an engagement. That dear 
 Doctor Jenneval — the good Doctor — I am getting many patients 
 for him. I have made him quite a clientele ; he attends my cousin ; 
 he has already saved Madame Devaux from a great peril in connec- 
 tion with chocolate." 
 
 " I have just been telling the circumstances since dinner," said 
 the stout mamma. 
 
 " Oh he is a man very clever in practice as well as in theory ! " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 121 
 
 replied Vadevant. " I believe at Chateau-Thierry he cured you of 
 a dangerous illness." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " I like and esteem him very much, and my cousins are quite 
 enchanted. Is that not so, cousins ? " 
 
 The Devaux family replied " yes " in chorus. M. Adalgis, whom 
 Vadevant's chaff seemed to render impatient, led Agatha to the 
 piano, saying, — 
 
 "Mademoiselle, do sing us something — it will be a double 
 pleasure for us to hear you, and not to be obliged — " 
 
 He finished his sentence in Agatha's ear ; the young lady smiled 
 as she replied, — 
 
 " Ah, you are very wicked ! " 
 
 Yadevant sat dov^i behind Mamma Devaux, who was placed 
 beside M. Guerreviiie. He said to her, — 
 
 " Have my pretty <x ' -is been singing ? " 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 " I hope that I shall hear them." 
 
 " Certainly. But speaking of that, cousin, have you thought of 
 what I spoke to you about ? Have you made any inquiry, or gained 
 any information ? " 
 
 " Oh decidedly, cousin ! I have great news to communi- 
 cate." 
 
 " Tell me at once, I beg." 
 
 Vadevant drew his chair towards his cousin's, to whom he wished 
 to speak in confidence, and M. Guerreviiie found himself yet, with- 
 out desiring it, forced to listen to all the secrets which were confided 
 behind his back, while, before him, his god-daughter sang and 
 accompanied herself in such a manner that one did not hear a word 
 she said. 
 
 "I have put myself on the track of your future son-in-law," 
 continued Vadevant, who spoke to the big mamma ; while Made- 
 moiselle Grillon rattled away at the piano. " I wished to know what 
 M. Emile Delaberge has been doing for the three weeks back since 
 he was with you." 
 
 " I believe he must have been ill." 
 
 " Not at all, cousin. That gentleman who plays the big lord — 
 besides, he is very rich — I am assured — " 
 
 " He is tremendously wealthy." 
 
 " This gentleman, I say, passes his life habitually in pleasure. 
 But since he has ceased to pay court to my pretty cousins, there 
 has sprung up a new passion in his heart — " 
 
 " Oh ! good heavens ! my daughters will be — " 
 
 "This is at least what has been told me. M. Emile goes nearly 
 every day to the house of a lady named Dolbert, also a rich person, 
 who lives in the Boulevard de la Madeleine." 
 
 " The monster ! He wishes to seduce that lady." 
 
 " I don't believe it ; Madame Dolbert is at least seventy years 
 of age — but she has a grand-daughter who is only seventeen, and 
 who, they say, is beautiful as an angel." 
 
122 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Angel of beauty as she may be, I engage she doesn't sing like 
 Ophelia, or play the castanets like Laura." 
 
 " I am not informed as to that. But it would seem that your 
 M. Emile Delaberge is very assiduous in his visits there — you may 
 see clearly his motives." 
 
 " It doesn't matter. M. Emile has paid court to my daughters, 
 and he must explain — he must marry one or other of them. They 
 cannot remain in this perplexity. Most vigorously I shall demand 
 for myself what explanation — for he has many times shaken my 
 hand warmly — " 
 
 " It appears he is a young man capable of everything." 
 
 " But I must think only of my daughters — those dear children. 
 I — who have announced their marriage everywhere. Cousin, I 
 reckon on you to bring M. Delaberge to the foot of the wall." 
 
 " Be calm, cousin, I shall do all you wish. I have come to Paris 
 to assist at your two pretty daughters' marriages, and certainly 
 everything that depends on me shall be done." 
 
 " You are a precious man — but hush — Ophelia is going to sing." 
 
 Madame Devaux, who had been conversing during all the time 
 Agatha had been at the piano, did not wish that anyone should 
 even whisper while her daughter sang. 
 
 But Mademoiselle Ophelia did not feel herself in voice. She 
 was scarcely able to finish the air she had chosen, and her mother 
 cried : 
 
 " You ate some salad ; you would not confess to it, but I am 
 sure you have eaten some. Laura, my pretty, dance the zatapa, 
 the zatapette, with castanet accompaniment — you do it so well. 
 You know my daughter has been at the Opera Ball, expressly to 
 see the Spaniards dance, who do the steps of their own country. 
 She found that so exquisite that the next day in her own room 
 she twisted about in a most bewitching style, absolutely like the 
 Spaniards of both sexes< — " 
 
 "Mamma, I should prefer to dance the cachucha; it is more 
 original." 
 
 " Dance the cache tout ca [ l conceal all that ! '] my dear. Have 
 you brought your pumps ? " 
 
 "Oh, certainly. How could I dance without them — in my 
 shoes?" 
 
 "Then get ready, don't neglect anything. I am quite pleased 
 that M. Adalgis should see what can be done by the castanets." 
 
 "I am very anxious," said M. Lelon, "to see this Italian 
 dance." 
 
 " It is Spanish, sir." 
 
 " Yes ; I mean Spanish. I once went to Vanginard expressly 
 to see some valses danced by some people who dance them so 
 well — you know whom I mean ? " 
 "The Swiss?" 
 
 " Yes. I always wished to learn, but I never succeeded — the 
 machine which — you know — " 
 
 While Mademoiselle Laura was preparing to dance, profiting 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 123 
 
 by a moment when Madame Grillon was at some distance from 
 him, M. Guerreville rose, and appearing as if he were about to 
 walk through the drawing-room, he gained the dining-room, and 
 took his hat and slipped off, saying to himself — 
 
 " I have heard my god-daughter sing, and it appears to me that 
 that is sufficient, and that I don't require to wait to see Made- 
 moiselle Laura dance the cachucha." 
 
 But on regaining his rooms, M. Guerreville had still present to 
 his memory what had been said by M. Vadevant and Madame 
 Devaux ; for in that conversation a name had struck him— that of 
 Madame Dolbert, and he tried to remember where he had heard it 
 before. By collecting his thoughts he recalled the story of Jerome 
 the water-carrier, and said to himself, — 
 
 " Madame Dolbert, Boulevard de la Madeleine. Those are the 
 ladies who have taken care of the honest Auvergnat's child. Yes, 
 it is there where little Zizine is. I promised Jerome to take him 
 some information about her, to assure myself if his daughter was 
 well treated, and I have forgotten, for I forget everything which 
 is not connected with my own sorrows. But I must keep my 
 promise, and, indeed, I shall be glad to see the little one again." 
 
 CHAPTEK XIIL 
 
 Stephanie's loves. 
 
 Three days had passed away since Stephanie had been at the 
 ball, at which she had been the object of so much attention. Three 
 days ! it is so short for happy people, for those who have not to 
 form a single desire which they do not see accomplished. Time 
 usually has wings when people are in the midst of pleasure. 
 
 Yet Stephanie had found these three days of a terrible length, 
 and it appeared to her as if weeks and months had rolled away 
 since the evening of the ball. 
 
 The hours were longer, the days became interminable, and yet 
 nothing was changed in her manner of life ; her good grandmother 
 sought continually to meet her slightest wishes. The little Zizine 
 was always there near her, ready to laugh or to play, as she showed 
 her inclination, but Stephanie had become dreamy, even sad. 
 Everything which used to amuse her wearied her, she even was 
 sometimes indifferent to her little prottfg&s caresses. 
 
 Whence had arisen this change, what had given it birth ? Ah, 
 heavens, you doubtless understand, it is not difficult to guess what 
 a young girl dreams of, and what she sighs for. Love is a sentiment 
 which causes a great change in our disposition when we experience 
 it for the first time. It makes us gay, or it saddens us ; it renders us 
 silent and distrait, sometimes stupid ; often indulgent to others, and 
 
124 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 very rarely ill-tempered; but soon its results come to have less 
 power over those whom it attacks ; it is like a malady through 
 which we have already passed, and which, in consequence, has lost 
 its malignity with us. 
 
 During the evening of the third day, Stephanie listened to 
 Zizine's talk without replying, when a servant announced M. Emile 
 Delaberge. Then the young girl felt her heart beat with violence, 
 and all her blood coursed quickly through her veins, but no one 
 remarked her paleness, or the emotion she sought to conceal. 
 
 M. Emile entered the drawiDg-room, and presented himself 
 with that ease which good fortune, and still more, the habits of 
 good society, bestow. He expressed to Madame Dolbert the pleasure 
 which he felt in cultivating her society. He knew readily how to 
 keep up conversation so as to banish from it that coldness and 
 ceremonious, tone which often it assumes in cases of new friendship. 
 Stephanie herself soon surmounted her reticence, and took her 
 part in what was said. M. Delaberge was witty, amiable, and very 
 amusing to listen to, passing cleverly from one subject to another. 
 He did not fatigue his hearers. He had travelled much, observed 
 much, and seasoned his recitals with piquant anecdotes, with 
 curious facts, all spoken with a simplicity which added to their 
 charm. The evening passed quickly away. M. Emile had asked 
 the lady's permission to come often to call for them, which was 
 quite readily granted. For the grandmamma, like the grand- 
 daughter, had found his society very agreeable. The next day it 
 was necessarily of M. Delaberge that they conversed. It was of 
 him that Stephanie spoke continually. She laughed still at the gay 
 things which he said ; she repeated his funny stories ; she had not 
 lost a word of all she had told him, and she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Zizine, was not that gentleman so nice % " 
 
 And, as the little girl replied in the affirmative rather coldly, 
 for the first time, her protectress pouted a little, and seemed in- 
 clined to scold her. 
 
 The fact is that, to the child, this gentleman did not seem nice 
 at all. Impressive and polite to the Dolbert ladies, M. Emile did 
 not trouble to pay attention to Zizine, and had not addressed a 
 word to her ; it was thus quite natural that the little one should 
 not share the enthusiasm of those ladies. 
 
 Now, more than ever, the doll, the little games, all the pastimes 
 which used to charm Stephanie, had lost their attraction. She 
 still loved Zizine, and was always pleased to have her near her, but 
 her temper had become capricious, and it was not with the same 
 smile she received her caresses ; for now, while embracing her 
 little friend-, her heart was occupied by another object. 
 
 Emile Delaberge was not slow to return to Madame Dolbert's. 
 He was a very good musician. Music is an art which brings 
 together those who cultivate it ; and when one is already inclined 
 to meet, it procures a thousand opportunities of doing so, a 
 thousand sweet and lively pleasures, although quite innocent. 
 
 Stephanie practised at her piano with more goodwill since M. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 125 
 
 Emile listened to her, and played along with her ; she sang the 
 romances he brought with a deeper feeling. Was not this only 
 self-respect, and a desire to obtain the good opinion of a connoisseur ? 
 Stephanie thought it was, for her heart was pure, so, virgin as to 
 all evil thoughts, she allowed her feelings to draw her towards Emile, 
 and did not attempt to resist, because she did not think there was 
 anything wicked in being happy when Emile was there, in de- 
 siring his presence, or in trembling with pleasure when he appeared, 
 or sighing when he went away. The young girl never sought to 
 question herself, without any fear of a danger which she could 
 not conceive of ; she yielded to the influence that Emile exercised 
 oyer her whole being, and she experienced a profound passion for 
 him, but she never even then asked of herself what the feeling was 
 which filled her heart. 
 
 Besides, the grandmamma regarded their new acquaintance 
 with friendship; why should not Stephanie share the pleasure 
 which Emile's presence gave her mother ? 
 
 And then, lastly, why should a young girl of seventeen fear to 
 give herself up to a penchant which discovered a new happiness to 
 her, when no one told her that there might be the danger of being 
 seduced by it ; so many others will yield who yet have been 
 warned ; who then would engage to resist that which one does not 
 shun ? 
 
 Experience ! — but innocence has none. 
 
 So things went on till "M. Emile Delaberge was constantly 
 received at Madame Dolbert's, and that already Stephanie, without 
 having avowed it, and without Emile having spoken to her only 
 with his eyes, experienced the sincerest love for him. 
 
 It is true that Emile's eyes were very eloquent, and that it was 
 difficult not to understand their language. Accustomed to speak of 
 love, he expressed himself so well, that in a short time it was 
 necessary either to reply to them, or to cease looking at them ; and 
 Stephanie had found it pleasanter to allow her own to answer 
 them. 
 
 And all this took place in a very short time ; some evenings 
 together, then a few hours of music, without any witnesses except 
 Madame Dolbert and Zizine. 
 
 But the grandmamma was not always there; if any callers 
 came in, if a game of whist or " Boston " was proposed, the young 
 musicians remained at the piano, and then the music went on longer 
 still. S 
 
 Zizine alone listened and remained a few steps off, while engaged 
 in some occupation suitable to her age. It was very rare that the 
 child was away from Stephanie ; when that happened, it was for a 
 very short time. She hastened always to return, and ran to place 
 herself beside her who caressed her less now, but who liked to 
 receive her caresses. 
 
 As to Emile, on his second visit to Madame Dolbert, he had said 
 when he saw Zizine, — 
 
 " I suppose this is a relative of yours ? " 
 
126 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 But when he understood who the child was, he had shown very 
 little interest in her ; and often, indeed, he appeared impatient to 
 find her always at Stephanie's side. 
 
 Zizine did not complain that she was less caressed when M. 
 Delaberge was visiting, but they saw it well enough ; for children 
 observe sometimes better than men. Yet she always received with 
 a gracious smile him whom her protectress was so pleased to see. 
 But the poor little one gave her smile for nothing. M. Emile did 
 not condescend to cast his eyes on her, or if he looked at her at all, 
 it was to allow a movement of temper to escape him, which showed 
 that the sight of her was not pleasant to him. 
 
 Soon, for Stephanie was always kind to the child whom she had 
 taken care of, she no longer kept all her promises ; the lessons 
 were neglected, as there were too many things to think of, or 
 rather she was so much preoccupied with one, that she could 
 not find a moment to attend to her pupil ; but Zizine worked alone 
 with still greater ardour; the less they seemed to trouble them- 
 selves about her, the more she seemed to seek to merit the friend- 
 ship of her protectresses. 
 
 M. Emile Delaberge's visits became more frequent ; a day did 
 not pass without his spending hours with Stephanie, and the good 
 Madame Dolbert always received him kindly. Yet the grand- 
 mamma had some experience ; she had known love, and began to 
 think that Stephanie's eyes had much to do with the pleasure he 
 felt in his visits. 
 
 Whence arose Madame Dolbert's security ? It was because she 
 thought that her grand-daughter, being rich in charms, accomplish- 
 ments, and with a fortune of twenty thousand livres of income, a 
 man ought, if he were in love with her, to be happy, to be able to 
 make her his bride. Now, as M. Delaberge was a fine-looking 
 man, rich, and of good family, she saw nothing out of place in his 
 becoming Stephanie's husband, and she allowed him to become 
 fond of her grand-daughter, persuaded that, if he could touch her 
 heart, he would come and ask her hand. 
 
 This is how the good mamma reasoned ; and during this time 
 M. Emile made rapid advances in her grand-daughter's heart. Yet 
 he had never said to her, " I love you," but his eyes unceasingly 
 sought Stephanie's ; his hands often met hei^s, and pressed them 
 tenderly ; that was already speaking, or at least declaring his love 
 in pantomime, and we know that the wisest young girls understand 
 pantomime very quickly. 
 
 Emile did not wish Zizine to be there, but she was continually 
 near Stephanie, and the child's presence annoyed him much. It 
 was not so with Stephanie ; she felt it so natural to love, that she 
 would have willingly have avowed her affection before all the world. 
 It seemed to her as if M. Emile should say something to her, that 
 he ought not to limit himself to pressing her hand and looking 
 at her anxiously ; and not understanding why he kept such a 
 silence. She was sometimes tempted to ask him what prevented 
 him from speaking, and when he seemed to wish to make an 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 127 
 
 avowal, he always stopped himself, as if someone were approach- 
 ing them. 
 
 More than once, on seeing little Zizine run towards Stephanie 
 Emile could not repress a motion of his temper, and he had 
 murmured, — 
 
 " How annoying ! one can never be a moment alone with 
 you." 
 
 And Stephanie had looked at Emile with astonishment, not 
 conceiving in what the presence of her little prottgte could be 
 annoying to him she loved. 
 
 One evening, when M. Delaberge called at Madame Dolbert's, 
 he found the grandmamma engrossed in a whist party. Stephanie 
 was in the pretty boudoir off the drawing-room, and little Zizine 
 was practising at the piano, on which she now rarely got lessons. 
 
 Emile profited by this moment, entered the boudoir, and sat 
 down close to Stephanie ; then taking one of her hands in his, he 
 said, in a low voice, — 
 
 " At last I can speak a moment without your being overlooked 
 and observed — dear Stephanie, I have so many things to say to 
 you." 
 
 The young girl looked at Emile with an amiable ingeniousness, 
 as she replied, — 
 
 " You have many things to say to me, and who keeps you from 
 saying them ? " 
 
 " There are some confessions which demand some mystery, and 
 which must not have indiscreet witnesses." 
 
 And the young man lowered his voice, fearing to be heard in 
 the drawing-room, while Stephanie replied, — 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Beautiful Stephanie, since I have seen you, have you not read 
 my heart? Have you not divined the secret of my soul? Ah, 
 indeed, I must tell you all I feel for you. I love you ! I adore 
 you ! And if you do not love me also, I shall be the most unhappy 
 of men." 
 
 Stephanie had heard Emile without being disturbed by his 
 declaration. She only smiled as she replied, — 
 
 "Yes, sir, I have divined all that you would tell me — yes, I 
 have seen well that you loved me, and I was only astonished that 
 you had never told me of it before." 
 
 "What, you have divined that, have you?" replied Emile, 
 lowering his voice, so as to make her do so likewise. But she 
 continued speaking in her ordinary tone. 
 
 " Yes, sir, certainly, I had divined it, for I also love you." 
 
 " It must be so ! You shall love me ! Oh, I am too happy." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I love you." 
 
 " Dear Stephanie, indeed, but lower still, please, for no one must 
 hear the avowal which makes me happy." 
 
 " Why, then, is there anything wrong in responding to another's 
 love ? Oh, I am very sure that my good mamma will not think so 
 since you tell me that you love me, and that I am very sure not to 
 
128 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 be deceived. I should tell you that I love you also, and T have 
 confessed it." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, dear Stephanie, not yet, I beg ; love delights in 
 silence ; what need have we to make others the confidants of our 
 sweet thoughts ? Let us keep our happiness to ourselves." 
 
 "I do not understand y«»u, for I tell everything to my good 
 mamma. Why should you wish that we should conceal our love, 
 since I am sure it will not displease her ? " 
 
 "Perhaps you deceive yourself. She might be annoyed, and 
 prevent me from seeing you so often." 
 
 " Oh, I tell you she will do everything that I wish ; she will not 
 be sorry that I love you." 
 
 " It does not matter. I beg of you, dear Stephanie, do not tell her 
 anything yet ; my reasons I will explain afterwards, but they oblige 
 me to beg of you silence regarding our love." 
 
 " Then, if you wish, I will be silent ; it is wrong however, I should 
 have liked so much to tell everything to my good mamma." 
 
 " But the mystery does not prevent us from being together, from 
 finding means of meeting each other. Ah, if you knew how it adds 
 to the happiness of true lovers — if you — " 
 
 Emile said no more. Madame Dolbert's voice was heard. She 
 called her grand-daughter, who jumped up and ran into the 
 drawing-room, whither M. Delaberge was forced to follow her, but 
 during all the rest of the evening he exchanged the most tender 
 looks with Stephanie, and some half words which signify so many 
 things to lovers. Emile could not doubt as to his triumph. He 
 possessed her heart, he reigned as master in that fresh and pure 
 soul, which had never known love till then, and which yielded 
 itself up with so much the more pleasure that it saw nothing wrong 
 in abandoning itself to this new sentiment. 
 
 Often in the evening Emile sought to draw the young girl into 
 the boudoir, but he could not find means to do so ; Stephanie did 
 not seem to understand the signs he made to her, and remained in 
 the saloon. He was obliged to be content with those slight favours 
 which are much to a timid lover, but Emile was not that, and what 
 annoyed him was that Stephanie would not dissemble when she 
 gave up her hand to him, or looked at him tenderly. 
 
 The day after this evening, Emile Delaberge, lying on a bed as 
 luxurious as it was elegant, and having upon his pillow a pyramid 
 of papers and journals, reflected upon the evening before, saying to 
 himself, — 
 
 " That young Stephanie is adorable. She has confessed to me 
 that she loves me, with a candour which becomes every day more 
 rare. But should I really be foolish enough to marry her? She has, I 
 believe, twenty thousand livres of income. Is it enough for me that 
 I have nearly a hundred ? Oh, no, that would not be common 
 sense, besides, I don't want to marry. I don't want to renounce 
 this life of conquests and delights which render me the most 
 fortunate and envied of mortals. No, certainly not, I am not such a 
 fool as to lose my liberty. I love Stephanie, but that love will be 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 129 
 
 like the others, it will depart with the possession of the beloved 
 object, and Stephanie shall be mine. I have not much resistance to fear 
 on her part. She adores me. The occasion, therefore, only requires 
 to arise. That little girl whom she has with her, and who is always 
 near her, annoys me much, but I know how to triumph over all 
 obstacles. Oh, enchanting Stephanie, no other than I, I swear to 
 you, shall have your first kisses and your first sighs of love, and 
 you shall be one of my most beautiful conquests." 
 
 It was thus M. Delaberge spoke to himself so nonchalantly in 
 bed, and he was occupied with his projects as to Madame Dolbert's 
 grand-daughter when a bell was heard, and soon a valet opened the 
 door of the sleeping-room to say, — 
 
 " Monsieur, here is someone who wishes to speak to you at once. 
 It is the same gentleman who has called three times without find- 
 ing you in." 
 
 " Good heavens ! who is that man ? Coming here so soon in the 
 morning, too. What o'clock is it, Bupre" ? " 
 
 " Half -past eleven, sir." 
 
 " Yes ; but I was out some part of the night. I am still sleepy, 
 and you must say that I am still in bed." 
 
 " I have said so ; but the gentleman asks if you will receive him 
 notwithstanding, or if he will wait until you get up." 
 
 " What the devil does the man want ? If I had creditors, I could 
 imagine at once what brought him ; but I have never liked debt, it 
 is so common. I have found many more original things to do. 
 What is this man's name ? " 
 
 "Vadevant." 
 
 " Vadevant ! a funny name that. I don't know him at all 
 However, let Yadevant come in ; it may be amusing to see him, 
 Dupre', open a blind, that I may have a better view of this gentle- 
 man." 
 
 The man executed his master's orders, and soon M. Vadevant 
 was introduced into M. Delaberge's bedroom. 
 
 The little man entered, and bowed with an air of ease and assur- 
 ance which did not indicate one who was about to solicit anything. 
 He approached the bed and said, smiling, — 
 
 "Enchanted to have the pleasure of saluting M. Emile Dela- 
 berge. It is a long time, sir, since I wished to have the honour of 
 making your acquaintance." 
 
 Emile looked at this gentleman, who appeared as if he were 
 about to take his hand, and twisting himself under the coverlet, he 
 replied to him in a very short tone, — 
 
 " What is it you want, sir. I don't know you. What is it you 
 have to say to me ? Be quick, I beg of you, for I wish to sleep 
 again." 
 
 Vadevant made a step backward, stood on the points of his toes, 
 drew his lips together, and lowering his eyebrows, replied, — 
 
 " Sir, the subject which brings me here is very important. 
 I shall be able, I think, to dismiss any desire you have to 
 sleep." 
 
130 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 " Then be quick, sir, for you certainly have not that effect at 
 present." 
 
 Seeing that a seat was not offered to him, Vadevant approached 
 a chair and was about to sit down, when, upon reflection, he pushed 
 it from him, and taking an armchair, threw himself into it, say- 
 ing — 
 
 " I shall seat myself first. You are at your ease, sir ; allow me 
 to be so also." 
 
 " Here is a curious person indeed," said Emile to himself, look- 
 ing at the little man making all his preparations. 
 
 After having placed, with precaution, his hat upon a piece of 
 furniture near him, Vadevant began, — 
 
 " Sir, a very grave, and at the same time a very sacred motive, 
 brings me before you, and when I say grave and sacred, I do not at 
 all exaggerate, for is there anything in the world more interesting 
 or which deserves our regard more than that feeble sex to which 
 nature has — " 
 
 " Ah, sir," cried Emile, turning round on his pillows, " is this a 
 joke or a wager ? Have you come to play a scene from the 
 Plaid4nrs ? Once more, who are you ? " 
 
 " Ah, well, sir, I am coming to that. You see in me the cousin- 
 german and the intimate friend of the Devaux ladies." 
 
 After having said these words, Vadevant posed, and looked upon 
 the young man on whom that he thought his words would produce 
 much effect. But Emile contented himself with raising his head a 
 little, saying : " The Devaux ladies — who are they ? " 
 
 "Who are my cousins Devaux? Indeed, sir, such a question 
 appears to me very singular. You do not remember my pretty 
 cousins, Laura and Ophelia, splendid musicians, one of whom sings 
 so well, and the other plays the castanets ? " 
 
 " Ah, wait a moment ; I recollect now two very original young 
 people. The mamma is a stout woman who always wears a turban." 
 
 " Stout woman ! " murmured Vadevant. " She is my cousin- 
 german, do not forget that." 
 
 " Ah, well sir, to the matter in hand, what are your Devaux 
 ladies to me ? " 
 
 " You shall know it, sir, if you are not able to guess ; yet it 
 appears to me that, after the relations which have existed between 
 you and my cousins, your heart ought to tell you." 
 
 " The relations of my heart ? What the devil does that mean ? " 
 
 " It means, sir, that you have gone to the house of my cousin 
 Devaux, and that you have plainly paid attention to her daughters, 
 first to Ophelia, then to Laura. How her mother suffered your 
 attentions, quite persuaded that you had honourable views. How 
 the young girls, very sensitive, had lost all their indifference when 
 near you. And last, that my cousin Devaux, not doubting that 
 you would ask in marriage at least one of her daughters, wrote to 
 me and caused me to leave Chateau-Thierry that I might assist at 
 Laura's or Ophelia's marriage — it matters not which, she was 
 willing to give you one or other at your choice. .After this ; sir, 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 131 
 
 surely there is ground for astonishment, finding you no longer 
 visiting them ; and it is to know the reason of this, and how you 
 intend to finish the matter, that I am here to-day." 
 
 Vadevant waited the result of what he had said, but Emile was 
 not in a condition to reply. Whenever he had comprehended the 
 objects of the visit of the little gentleman, he twisted and rolled in 
 his bed, bursting with laughter. Impatient under this access of 
 gaiety which did not seem to be coming to an end, Vadevant 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " It appears to me, sir, that my words have caused you pleas- 
 ure. I am very glad, but if you wish to reply to me — " 
 
 " Oh, it is too funny." 
 
 " It is funny. What is funny, if you please, sir ? " 
 
 " Oh, oh, it is charming. The Devaux family is put under a 
 roller." 
 
 " How, sir. What is that you say ? " 
 
 " That it is absurd to imagine that I ever had any intention of 
 marrying either Mademoiselle Laura or Mademoiselle Ophelia." 
 
 " What, sir, you no longer wish — " 
 
 " Ah, my dear sir, I have never wished. Because I have some- 
 times gone to what were called concerts at the house of these ladies, 
 and because I have laughed and said to your cousins whatever 
 came into my head — for them to imagine that — ah, it needs a 
 Madame Devaux for that. Tell her that I have gone to her house 
 as I should have gone to walk in the Boulevards, to amuse and 
 divert myself for a moment, and that is all." 
 
 Vadevant rose up with a furious air. 
 
 " You have gone to see my cousins as one goes to a promenade. 
 Ah, my fine sir, this is too much, but it shall not pass thus. We 
 are here, sir. You no doubt imagined you were only carrying on an 
 affair with ladies, but you were greatly deceived. The Devaux ladies 
 have eighteen cousins, of whom I am the youngest, and we shall 
 not suffer — " 
 
 Emile laughed still more at the blustering air which the little 
 man had assumed. The latter advanced towards the bed, and 
 laying his hand upon his hip, while he sought to deepen his voice, 
 said, — 
 
 "You must marry one of my cousins, sir. This is necessary, 
 otherwise your life will be in great danger." 
 
 " You hear me." 
 
 " Yes, my dear sir, I hear you very well." 
 
 " It is necessary that I must fight with the eighteen cousins — 
 with all the Devaux indigenous or exotic — that is so, isn't it? 
 Ah, well, to shorten the affair, we can begin the two of us. I have 
 excellent swords and pistols, you shall have your choice. I shall 
 ask only your permission to fight in my shirt, for that will be more 
 convenient if I am wounded." 
 
 During Emile's last words, a great change had taken place in 
 Vadevant's face. The blustering air had disappeared, he took his 
 hand from his hip, lowered his eyes, and glanced from side to side 
 
132 The Monde and the Dem% Monde. 
 
 of the room ; at length a visible emotion was seen over all his 
 person, and at the moment when the young man whom he had 
 come to find was preparing to jump out of bed, Vadevant begged 
 him not to do so, saying, in a honeyed voice, — 
 
 " Sir, for whom do you take me ? I should not suffer you to 
 fight in your shirt. One gets warm in fighting, and you would in 
 that case catch cold — inflammation of the chest." 
 
 " Don't let that trouble you," said Emile. " I have no fear of 
 colds — " 
 
 Emile wished still to jump out of bed, but Vadevant held the 
 coverlet, exclaiming, — 
 
 " No, sir, remain where you are, I beg of you. What ! I 
 fight against one who is almost naked ! What do you think of me ? 
 All the advantages would be on my side." 
 
 " Then that will please me well enough." 
 
 " But I, sir, wish that in a duel the chances should be equal on 
 both sides." 
 
 " Then undress — put yourself in the same condition as I am ; the 
 chances will then be equal." 
 
 " Strip to my shirt ! Fie, sir, the combat would then be 
 indecent." 
 
 "In that case, allow me to slip on a pair of trousers, that is soon 
 done — " 
 
 Emile wished to get up, but Yadevant again prevented hnn, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 "It is useless. We cannot fight this morning. We have n« 
 seconds, and we must have at least two on each side — I don't wish 
 to be taken for an assassin ! " 
 
 Emile looked steadily at the little man, then he shrugged his 
 shoulders, and fell back in bed, saying, — 
 
 " I believe, indeed, that it is useless for me to rise. Confess, 
 sir, that you have no desire to fight at all, that all your talk has 
 been fanfaronades, and nothing more ! " 
 
 Yadevant made no reply, but he drew his handkerchief from 
 his pocket, put it to his eyes, wiped them thrice, then heaved a 
 deep sigh. During this, Emile, turning round, put his head on the 
 pillows, and did not appear as if he thought anyone was in the 
 room. 
 
 After assuming a softened air, Vadevant murmured in a plead- 
 ing tone, — 
 
 "Ah! sir, it would be cruel to proceed to such extremities, 
 always so fatal. Is there no gentler, easier way of settling the 
 matter? Let me speak to your heart — it cannot be deaf to my 
 accents — above all, when I plead the cause of innocence and beauty; 
 for you cannot deny that my cousins are beautiful. They are two 
 roses which only make your breath to expand." 
 
 Vadevant ceased a moment. Emile did not reply. He concluded 
 that he was listening to him with attention, and after having wiped 
 his eyes once to make believe he was weeping, he continued, — 
 
 " My young cousins love you. I do not wish to conceal that 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 133 
 
 Laura plays her castanets for you, and perfects herself in her 
 Spanish dances because you appear to like them. Marry her, and 
 every morning she will dance the cachucha while you take your 
 chocolate. Ophelia adores you already ; an excellent musician, she 
 is advancing with great ardour in singing, in which she knows you 
 to be* a great amateur. She has made a delicious piece for the organ 
 on your name. Once your wife, she will speak to you of nothing but 
 roulades. I know, of course, that you can only marry one of them ; 
 but you shall choose, and the other will console herself by giving you 
 the sweet name of brother." 
 
 Yadevant stopped. He was persuaded that his address must 
 have made an impression upon the young man, who still, however, 
 continued to keep silence. 
 
 " You do not reply to me," said Yadevant. " I can divine the 
 reason. You feel your faults and don't wish to avow them ; reassure 
 yourself in the name of my cousins. I may say to you that you are 
 pardoned. There shall be no mention made of the past. You shall 
 not hear any reproach. Tell me only which of the two sisters you 
 choose, and I will return to bring happiness to the Devaux family." 
 
 Yadevant approached the bed, but there was no reply. He bent a 
 little towards Emile as he went on, " Her name ; which one is it 
 you wish ? Laura or Ophelia, eh ? " 
 
 The little man believed he heard something in reply, but he 
 discovered that what he had heard was only a deep and prolonged 
 breathing, which indicated that he to whom he addressed himself 
 had fallen into a profound slumber. 
 
 " He sleeps," said Yadevant to himself. " He has fallen asleep 
 while I have been speaking to him. What inconceivable reckless- 
 ness ! for I said things so touching that it would have softened 
 anyone. What shall I do ? Shall I go away without getting any 
 answer from him ? I know that he told me he wished neither of 
 my cousins ; but that was when he was angry ; and in attacking 
 his heart I ought to have succeeded, and who knows if this sleep is 
 not feigned ; if he does not shut his eyes only to conceal his tears." 
 
 On this persuasion, Yadevant bent towards Emile and pushed 
 him by the arm, murmuring, — 
 
 " Is it Laura or Ophelia ? Tell me, dear cousin." 
 
 As he felt himself thus pushed, Emile awoke. He yawned, 
 opened his eyes, turned round, and perceived Yadevant, whose face 
 was quite near his own. At the sight an expression of anger 
 crossed the countenance of the young man, who cried, — 
 
 " Is that wretched fellow here yet ? He has sworn not to allow 
 me to sleep. Ah, it is too much. Dupr6 ! Dupr6 ! " 
 
 Emile sat up and rang violently a bell which was at the head 
 of his bed. The valet-de-chambre appeared. During this time 
 Yadevant ran into the next room seeking his hat. 
 
 " Dupre, turn that man at once out of the door," cried Emile, 
 pointing to Yadevant, whom fear prevented finding his hat, "and if 
 he is unfortunate enough to come back to this house again, you have 
 my orders to throw him down the staircase." 
 
134 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 The servant advanced, prepared to do what his master told 
 him, but Yadevant, who at last laid hands on his hat, dashed it on 
 his head, and rushed through the doorway, exclaiming, — 
 
 " It is frightful, it is horrible, to treat an honourable man so. 
 You shall have news of me, sir. I shall revenge my cousins. I 
 shall let you hear from me. I — " 
 
 The last words did not reach Emile, for while speaking, Vade- 
 vant judged it prudent to use his legs lest he might be pursued by 
 the servants. It was only in the street that he recovered all his 
 voice and abandoned himself to a rage which made the passers-by 
 smile. 
 
 Meanwhile Emile, annoyed at being awakened, turned his head 
 anew upon the pillow and thought no more of the visit he had 
 received, as he sought to recover the dream which had been so 
 rudely broken. The image of the charming girl to whom he was 
 making love was caressed anew in his thoughts, and, as he closed his 
 eyes, he said to himself, — 
 
 " It is that child who annoys me — that child whom I must get 
 at a distance from Stephanie." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Some time had passed since M. Guerreville had dined at M. Grillon's. 
 Since then he had only sent his card to the parents of his god- 
 daughter, not feeling courage enough to re-enter a society in which 
 it was necessary to appear as if one were amused. 
 
 M. Guerreville had forgotten the name of the Dolbert ladies 
 pronounced by Vadevant, and which had for a moment recalled to 
 his mind little Zizine. He had thought no more of Jerome the 
 water-carrier, but had given himself up afresh to his searches, to 
 those perquisitions which were always fruitless, and yet renewed 
 every day. 
 
 The winter had gone ; the spring time and fine days had 
 returned, but what were fine days to him whose heart was a 
 prey to a grief which nothing could distract? M. Guerreville 
 scarcely perceived the changing of the seasons ; every night as he 
 returned to his rooms, he said, — 
 
 " Nothing ; not the least indication — none, no news." 
 
 And he threw himself into a seat without observing whether 
 the sky was clear, without thinking of breathing the sweet air of 
 the spring. 
 
 One day M. Guerreville, without divining the cause, had felt 
 more depressed, more miserable than usual. Not having courage to 
 go out, his heart oppressed and he shedding tears, he had remained 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 135 
 
 at home seated beside a table. His head was buried in his hands, 
 and he asked himself why he experienced this special ennui and 
 sadness. 
 
 And yet the heaven was clear and the sun cloudless. 
 
 In these circumstances M. Guerreville had only one desire, it 
 was that nobody would come to trouble his reflections, but at mid- 
 :lay the bell sounded with violence, w"hich startled him in his 
 thoughts. . . 
 
 M. Guerreville was tempted to make them refuse admission to 
 anyone, but he had not seen Jenneval for some days, and believing 
 that it yas the Doctor who had come to see him, he had not told 
 George to say he was not at home. _ 
 
 The servant appeared soon at his door. 
 
 " Who rang ? " asked M. Guerreville. 
 
 " It is— that young lady— and then that young man who has 
 already called for you, sir, your god-daughter, and M. Jules — " j 
 
 M. Guerreville allowed a movement of temper to escape him ; 
 and George went on, — 
 
 " They asked me if you were in— my faith, sir. I said yes— I 
 did not know — " 
 
 "I shall never be free to give myself up to my thoughts— 
 always broken in upon ! And how often these two have come here 
 together." 
 
 " Ah ! I think they only met by accident on the stair, for they 
 do not seem to know each other. But monsieur need not receive 
 them. I shall tell them to go away." 
 
 " Fool— after having said I was in— that would be rude. Bring 
 them in." 
 
 "Both, sir?" 
 
 "Yes; I shall more quickly discover what they want. Go, 
 George." 
 
 The servant went off, and M. Guerreville tried to clear his face 
 a little to receive the two young people. 
 
 Soon the door opened, and it was Agatha who entered first. 
 She held in her hand a pretty pot in which was a myrtle covered 
 with buds. The young girl appeared proud to carry this plant, 
 whose weight must have been considerable for her delicate hands. 
 She advanced towards M. Guerreville, with an air half grave, half 
 smiling, like that of children who, in a ceremony, tried to assume an 
 intelligent face, and are obliged to bite their lips to keep themselves 
 from laughing. 
 
 Behind this young girl came Jules, who also held a pot in his 
 arms, and it also contained a myrtle. The same thought, the same 
 souvenirs had guided those who sent them, and they naturally 
 made choice of the same flower. But the young man advanced 
 with a graver air, more agitated, and having his eyes fixed on the 
 bouquet he came to present. 
 
 M. Guerreville had at first only showed a little surprise when 
 he saw Agatha bringing a myrtle to him, but when his eyes met 
 the bouquet which Jules likewise carried, his face grew pale, and 
 
136 The Monde and the Demi Mo tide. 
 
 his remembrances awakened — his memory went back to that time 
 which was suggested, and in place of rising to meet the young 
 people, he fell back in his chair without power to say a word. 
 
 When Agatha and Jules drew near him, the young girl placed 
 herself on his left, Jules took the other side ; each of them pre- 
 sented their flower, and they said, almost together, — 
 
 " Godfather, will you allow me — " 
 
 " Sir, I take the liberty—" 
 
 " I come to greet you on your birthday, and to bring you this 
 niyrtle, wishing you, for myself and mamma, your prosperity." 
 
 " Sir, deign also to receive my flower. My mother told me that 
 this was your birthday, and that you would permit me to wish you 
 happiness." 
 
 " My birthday ! Is to-day my birthday % " murmured M. 
 Guerreville, in a broken voice ; then, raising his head a little, his 
 eyes went through the room, seeming to look for someone ; but 
 soon, expressing nothing but a blank despair, they were lowered to 
 the ground, as he murmured, " She was with me on such occasions, 
 and now, never / Oh, my God ! never ! " 
 
 " Yes, godfather, this is your birthday — St Isidore's day," replied 
 Agatha, laying down her flower-pot at a distance of some steps, 
 " and I should have taken care that I was not absent on such a day, 
 to present a flower to my godfather. Let me embrace you, 
 godfather ! " 
 
 The young girl bent her rosy cheek to her godfather, but he did 
 not move ; she resolved to kiss him on the forehead, but as she did 
 so she drew back exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah ! how strange — how cold he is ! " 
 
 Jules, who had been waiting some minutes for M. Guerreville to 
 raise his eyes to his, hoping to hear from his lips some friendly 
 word, rushed towards him, giving a cry of terror as he saw that M, 
 Guerreville had lost consciousness. 
 
 "Good heavens, mademoiselle — he is ill — he has fainted quite 
 
 away 
 
 I" 
 
 " Can it be so — my poor godfather ! " 
 
 " What shall we do — what can we give him ? " 
 
 " Wait, I shall call Jeannette ! She has come with — oh, heavens, 
 my poor godfather ! " 
 
 And the young girl flew to seek her nurse, and then came back 
 to M. Guerreville ; she rubbed his forehead, and tapped him over 
 the hands. During this time Jules opened the windows, looked for 
 phials and salts ; George and Jeannette ran through the whole 
 house, bringing a thousand things with them, in perfect terror 
 because M. Guerreville remained in the same condition. 
 
 Doctor Jenneval's arrival brought new hope to everyone. They 
 ran towards him, and begged he would at once bring back con- 
 sciousness to the sufferer. Jenneval began by discovering what had 
 caused the faint, and Agatha hastened to speak, — 
 
 " Sir, we had just come in together, this gentleman and I, to 
 greet him on his birthday. I did not know he was ill to-day," 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 137 
 
 " No," said George, " only to-day the master appeared much more 
 depressed and sad than usual." 
 
 " We came to bring each one a flower, and each one of us had a 
 myrtle to offer him, but that could not make him bad, because it 
 has no odour, isn't that so, sir ? " 
 
 "But doubtless he did not expect your visit," said Jenneval. 
 " What did he say when he saw you ? " 
 
 " He grew pale," replied Jules, " then he appeared to be looking 
 all round the room, then he allowed his head to fall on his breast, 
 murmuring some words that I could not hear." 
 
 " That is enough," said the Doctor, " I can guess, I understand. 
 Please leave the apartment for a little ; step into the next room ; you, 
 George, remove these pots, that your master may not see them when 
 he opens his eyes." 
 
 " But, sir, nothing can be smelt from them." 
 
 " Allow me to act, mademoiselle. George, do what I tell you." 
 
 The Doctor's orders were executed, and the two young people 
 retired sadly from the room, into which they had come with their 
 kindly greeting. 
 
 When he was alone with his friend, Jenneval began to use all 
 the resources of his science. At the end of some seconds he saw M. 
 Guerreville become conscious ; soon his eyes opened, and he looked 
 around him, but his chest was oppressed, and he breathed with 
 difficulty. The Doctor took his hands and chafed them in his own, 
 
 saying,— . , , 
 
 " My poor friend, these young people have done you much harm 
 without meaning it. Oh, I have divined everything ! They had 
 come to greet you on your birthday, of which you were doubtless 
 not thinking, and they recalled to your mind a time when you 
 were happy, when you had near you her whom you seek, whom you 
 regret unceasingly. Then perhaps it was she who first presented 
 you with a flower ? " 
 
 " My daughter, my Pauline ! " exclaimed M. Guerreville. " Yes, 
 yes, she always came the first ; she always brought me a flower, and 
 as she threw herself into my arms, she said, ' My father, how I love 
 to greet you on your birthday.' " 
 
 As he spoke these words, M. Guerreville laid his head on 
 Jemieval's bosom. He was no longer able to speak, but two 
 streams of tears coursed down his cheeks. The Doctor pressed him 
 in his arms, saying, — 
 
 " Weep, weep on your friend's bosom. I have myself purposely 
 called forth these tears which you shed. Give free course to your 
 grief. What should be more respected than that of a father left 
 by his child?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear Jenneval, I am so unhappy, but it seems indeed 
 as if these tears relieved me. Yes, it is my daughter whom I loved 
 who causes all my sorrows to-day. You know everything, my 
 friend, and I do not wish to have any secrets from you. You are 
 worthy of my confidence ; pardon me for having been so tardy 
 in making this confidence. Ah ! it was not because I doubted 
 
L38 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 your friendship, but because I wished to conceal my daughter's 
 error." 
 
 "Come, my friend, be calm. You are better now. Ah, how 
 glad I am that I came just at this moment ! " 
 
 " My good Doctor, yes, I breathe better. To-day, without know- 
 ing the reason, I felt an increase of my usual sadness. Was it a 
 vague recollection of a time when I was so happy ? I know not. 
 But these poor young people who had come to congratulate me, and 
 whom I have so coldly received, I don't see them here now." 
 
 " They are here in the next room, where they wait, doubtless 
 impatiently, until I allow them to return to see you." 
 
 " Poor children, it is very singular, but the sight of them ren- 
 ders me even more unhappy, and yet — Ah, Doctor, if you only 
 knew !" 
 
 " You will tell me all that afterwards, and I believe you will 
 explain many things to me ; for, accustomed by profession to study 
 the sensations of my patients, I am nearly always in advance of 
 what they wish to confide in me. Do you feel able to receive these 
 young people, or would it annoy you ? " 
 
 " Let them come in, Doctor. I wish to thank them myself for 
 their greetings and thei ■■: flowers." 
 
 Jenneval went to open the door of the room, where Agatha and 
 Jules, seated each in a corner, waited anxiously for news of M. 
 Guerreville. At a sign from the Doctor, they rose and ran towards 
 him. 
 
 " Ah, godfather ! how sad I was to see you unconscious ! " cried 
 Agatha, going to take M. Guerreville's hand, while Jules said, in a 
 trembling voice, — 
 
 " Are you better, sir ? How do you feel, sir ? Ah ! I am 
 greatly distressed ! " 
 
 ." Thanks, Jules ; thank you, dear Agatha ! " replied M. Guerreville, 
 trying to smile. " It was nothing — an indisposition, the cause of 
 which I do not know, but it has entirely passed away." 
 
 " Is it not that the myrtles were the cause of your illness, since 
 the Doctor ordered the pots to be taken out of the room ? " 
 
 " No, no, it was not your flowers ! " 
 
 " Mine is very pretty, it is that which is in bloom. If you like, 
 godfather, I shall go and get it." 
 
 " No, my dear god-daughter, leave it where you have put it ; I 
 am sensible of your attention — of your remembrance — " 
 
 " Oh, godfather, I shouldn't have known it was your fete day, 
 but mamma came to see me yesterday, saying, 'Although your 
 godfather scarcely comes to see you, and doesn't seem to care much 
 for you, to-morrow is his birthday, and you must go and wish him 
 happiness.' So it was mamma who bought the myrtle, and she 
 planted many little pansies round it — you see them — she said it 
 was quite an allegory ! " 
 
 Jenneval turned away his head, smiling, and M. Guerreville 
 hastened to put an end to his god-daughter's prattle, as he said, — 
 
 " My dear Agatha, you will thank your mother — you will excuse 
 
The Mo?ide and the Demi Monde. 139 
 
 my not being able to go to see you. Jules, you will also convey 
 my compliments to Madame Galet. My business — my health — do 
 not allow me to dispose of my time. Until I see you, I hope you 
 will in turn receive my flower, for I am very distrait, and I cannot 
 remember your birthday, and that is why I wish to give it you 
 to-day." 
 
 Jules was silent, and lowered his eyes. Something said to him 
 that it was another rouleau of napoleons that was to be slipped 
 into his hand, and since he had given his mother what M. Guerre ville 
 had bestowed on him, she never heard her son form a desire with- 
 out satisfying it at once ; so that the young man was able to please 
 his taste for the theatre without asking any money from his 
 father, and in this way, peace reigned in the perfumeress's shop. 
 
 But mademoiselle, who was not in the habit of keeping a long 
 silence, unless by compulsion, felt impelled to exclaim, as M. 
 Guerreville went to his secretaire, — 
 
 " Oh, godfather, I shall accept anything you wish to give me, 
 and I shall be so pleased that it will be before my birthday, for 
 you may easily forget it — you have so many things to think of. 
 Besides, mamma has told me that I am never to refuse anything 
 from you, and I don't wish to disobey her." 
 
 " Come, then, my dear daughter," said M. Guerreville, giving a 
 little portfolio to Agatha, " this is my flower. Go and be happy — 
 it is my sincere desire." 
 
 The young girl took the little portfolio, into which she wished 
 she could look already ; and she made a deep reverence as she 
 murmured, — 
 
 " Thanks, godfather." 
 
 M. Guerreville next approached Jules. He presented him 
 with an elegant souvenir shut with clasps of gold, as he said 
 to him, — 
 
 " This is my flower. I hope that you will remember that I am 
 an old friend of your family, and that you will not give me the 
 pain of refusing." 
 
 Jules took the souvenir, blushing, for something said to him 
 that the purse enclosed another present, and he murmured his 
 thanks while M. Guerreville shook hands with him. Jules wished 
 to embrace him, who, in spite of his cold air, showed himself so 
 generous to him ; but although he had a great desire to do so, he 
 did not feel courage enough to ask the favour ; and, heaving a deep 
 sigh, he bowed to M. Guerreville and took leave of him. 
 
 Mademoiselle Agatha felt she must do so also, for she was 
 anxious already to leave, in order to examine her purse. She ran 
 to embrace her godfather, made several courtesies to the Doctor, 
 and went off with Jeannette, jumping about and crying, — 
 
 " Happiness to you, godfather. Keep well, and come and see us 
 when you have time." 
 
 When she was scarcely in the middle of the staircase, Agatha 
 stopped, and pretended that she needed to tie her shoestring, to 
 allow Jules to pass, before Jules, who bowed to her went off 
 
140 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Remaining alone with her nurse, the young girl took the little case 
 from her bag, saying, — 
 
 "Certainly my godfather would not have given me only this 
 pretty little pocket-book, which has nothing special about it. I bet 
 there's something else within ; isn't it so, Jeaimette ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is very probable. Is it heavy ? " 
 
 " No, it is not heavy. It does not sound. Let us see ! " 
 
 The pocket - book was opened ; Agatha examined it, ran 
 through it with much haste, so that she did not see the pocket 
 which was at the opening. She turned it over, shook it, and 
 murmured, — 
 
 " It is singular ! there is nothing. My godfather's flower is not 
 magnificent. I should have liked the souvenir better." 
 
 But Jeannette, who was looking also, saw the little pocket, and 
 said to the young girl, — 
 
 " See here ; it appears to me that you have not looked into this 
 little pocket." 
 
 Agatha hurried to look into this part of the portfolio, and she 
 allowed a cry of joy to escape her. 
 
 " Ah ! Jeannette ! a bank-bill — a bank-bill for a thousand 
 francs ! " 
 
 " Is it possible, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Yes, Jeannette. Oh, I know bank-bills well ! Papa has made 
 me often look at them, saying, * These are the things which would 
 buy up Paris.' " 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle, let me then see how much it is ? " 
 
 " A thousand francs ; oh ! what a handsome present. How 
 amiable my godfather is ! Oh, I should like to rush upstairs again 
 to embrace him." 
 
 " Oh, no, mademoiselle ; he will see that we have stopped on 
 the stair." 
 
 " You are right ; let us get along quickly to show them at home 
 my beautiful thousand-franc note." 
 
 And Agatha went away quickly with her nurse, but the whole 
 way she held her hand upon her pocket-book, and when she had 
 taken a hundred steps, she opened it to assure herself that the bank- 
 note was there still. At last she got to her mother's, and her first 
 word was, — 
 
 " Mamma, my godfather has given me the present of a bank 
 note of a thousand francs." 
 
 And Madame Grillon replied, smiling, — 
 
 " I quite believe it. One has not a daughter like you every 
 day." 
 
 Jules was less impatient than Mademoiselle Agatha, while the 
 souvenir interested him. Many times as he went home he drew it 
 from his pocket, put it back again and admired it, but he did not 
 open it. He wished first to show it to his mother, to whom he had 
 promised to return at once, to tell her how her myrtle had been 
 received. 
 
 Maria was alone She impatiently waited the return of her son 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 14 1 
 
 Whenever she saw him she pressed him with questions. Jules 
 recounted to her all that had passed. 
 
 When she heard that M. Guerreville had lost consciousness, 
 Jules' mother was greatly moved, tears rolled from her eyes, and 
 she remained a moment absorbed in her reflections, then she 
 
 £XCicLlHlGCl - 
 
 "A young person, did you say, also came to congratulate M. 
 
 Guerreville ? 
 
 "Yes, mother, it was his god-daughter, for she called him 
 
 constantly godfather." 
 
 "His god-daughter? Ah, yes, I remember now, Madame 
 Grillon's daughter." -' 
 
 As she pronounced that name, a bitter smile wandered over the 
 lips of the perfumeress, who added, sighing, — 
 
 "And doubtless it was also a myrtle that this young person 
 also offered to M. Guerreville ? " 
 
 "Yes, mother, we both had the same plant. M. Guerreville 
 gave his god-daughter a little pocket-book, and to me these tablets, 
 which are very elegant. Come, look at them, mother ; I have not 
 opened them yet." . ; ' , 
 
 Maria took the tablets, removed the pencil which closed 
 them, and immediately a bank-note escaped and fell on the 
 
 counter. . . 
 
 " A thousand francs ! " cried Jules, examining the note, a 
 sentiment of pleasure illuminating his features. Then he looked 
 at his mother, and added, "but ought I to accept such a very large 
 
 present?" .•,'.", r -j 
 
 "Yes, my son," replied Maria, lowering her eyes, "yes, tor if 
 you refused you would annoy M. Guerreville, and you must keep 
 his friendship." , .. , • 
 
 Jules took the bank-note and put it into his tablets, which he 
 appeared as if he could not admire too much. A moment after 
 his mother said, in an agitated voice, — 
 
 "And did M. Guerreville embrace you?" 
 
 " No, mother, and I— I did not dare to embrace him, although I 
 desired to do so." 
 
 " Not a caress," said Maria, turning aside to conceal her tears ; 
 " that would have been better than money." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A NARRATIVE. 
 
 Scarcely had Agatha and Jules gone away from M. Guerreville's, 
 when he, calling his servant, ordered him to permit nobody else to 
 
142 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 enter, not wishing to be interrupted in the conversation he had 
 with the Doctor. 
 
 Remaining alone with Jenneval, M. Guerreville sat near him, 
 and began his story, — 
 
 "I shall pass rapidly over what has no connection with my 
 sorrows. I am the son of a distinguished magistrate, and had an 
 income of twenty thousand francs. Left early an orphan, thanks 
 to my name, I obtained easily an important office in an adminis- 
 tration ; but desirous of liberty, and not having any ambition, I 
 gave in my resignation at the end of some years. Besides, my 
 manner being a little abrupt, the frankness of my character made 
 me a bad courtier, and would have always prevented me from 
 rising to any great position. 
 
 " This is what concerns my position in the world ; we come now 
 to my sentiments. 
 
 " Young, love had for me many attractions ; born with an 
 affectionate heart and an ardent soul, I perhaps yielded myself too 
 quickly to the charms of a first impression, which soon another 
 made me, without forgetting it, somewhat neglect. In short, I had 
 certain relations which, as among most young people, are nothing 
 but caprices, but with me it was always love. I believed in them. 
 
 "I was only twenty years old as yet, when I met in society 
 Mademoiselle Demontfort. I fell desperately in love. I married 
 her, and felt quite persuaded that our love would be everlasting. 
 
 " My wife was sweet, good, and amiable ; but in spite of that, 
 after some time I was unfaithful to her. Doctor, I avow my culpa- 
 bility, but I have the habit of being frank, and I never profess to 
 have virtues which I have not. 
 
 " I possessed a very fine property near Orleans. My wife liked 
 to stay in the country, and she wished to settle there ; but I came 
 often to Paris, and enjoyed there all the liberty of a bachelor. 
 That was when I made the acquaintance of a young and pretty 
 woman called Maria. I became amorous of her, and I had the 
 misfortune to please her. Yet I employed no artifice ; I did not 
 conceal that I was not free ; in spite of that Maria confessed that 
 she loved me. Ah, Doctor, reason is very weak at the age when 
 love has such strength. "We became guilty. Soon Maria saw that 
 she carried in her person a pledge of our love. Fortunately I was 
 rich, and could secure the comfort of this young girl, and put her 
 beyond the reach of want ; but Maria was very pretty. Just when I 
 was about to purchase her an establishment, a man proposed for her 
 hand. Maria was incapable of wishing to deceive him. She did 
 not conceal from him her position. In spite of that, this man 
 persisted in his resolution to marry her. Maria came to consult 
 me — she would have preferred only to live for me ; but I advised 
 her to secure her infant's future, and she obeyed me." 
 
 " I would bet," said the Doctor, " that the young Jules is the 
 child of that gentle Maria." 
 
 M. Guerreville only replied by pressing his hand. Then he went 
 on with his narrative, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 143 
 
 " About this time also I met in society a woman, young and 
 pretty, married — against her will — to a man who never loved her 
 (at least so she told me). I have discovered since then that this is 
 what all women say, when they have any weakness with which to 
 reproach themselves. I consoled that lady in her ennui; her 
 husband was then absent, his travel was prolonged, and the situa- 
 tion of that lady became embarrassing. You understand, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Perfectly. At last the husband came back ; all was arranged, 
 for husbands are the best people in the world, and you became the 
 godfather of little Agatha, that is how your story finishes, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, Doctor; that is so. There, you have some faults of mine, 
 but I wished to make you a complete confession. Meanwhile, after 
 the first year of our marriage, my wife had made me the father of 
 a daughter, who came into the world so delicate that my wife was 
 advised to have her nursed in Franche-Comt^, where we had an 
 aunt who would watch over the child ; we followed that advice, 
 and every year we went to see our daughter. I cannot tell you 
 with what pleasure I embraced her 1 Each time I wished to take 
 her back with us, but I yielded to the doctor's advice. It was 
 only when she was six years of age that we took Pauline home. 
 Then — oh then, I began to absent myself less frequently. My 
 excursions to Paris became rarer, and I found myself so happy 
 beside my daughter. In pressing her to my heart, I tasted a bliss 
 so pure, so new to me ! Ah ! my dear Jenneval, I understood then 
 what that unchangeable feeling is which can make up for the loss 
 of everything else, that which one feels for their children. I had 
 the most sincere friendship for my wife, but my daughter made 
 her still dearer to me. Pauline, as she grew, became so lovable — 
 so fascinating. My ideas changed ; I became prudent and well- 
 behaved. To secure the happiness, the future of my daughter, was 
 my whole thought. If I still went sometimes to Paris, it was very 
 rarely. I hastened to return to my daughter. Yet at Paris there 
 were Jules and Agatha. Ah, Doctor, don't you think that the 
 sight of those children would not be more painful than pleasant to 
 me ? Sometimes, before their respective mothers, I could not 
 escape from embracing them, but it always seemed as if I were 
 giving them caresses that belonged to my daughter, and far from 
 my heart being in the embrace, it was always an annoyance to me. 
 Notwithstanding, following the laws of nature, Jules and Agatha 
 ought to have had as much right to my love as Pauline. Why was 
 it not so ? Doctor, explain to me this peculiarity, and upon which 
 others have remarked as well as I. How is that the fruits of love, 
 of intrigue and mystery, should not be looked on by us but with 
 indifference, while we love the children which marriage gives us, 
 although often love has had very little to do with their being 
 brought into the world ? Is it because they recall to us a fault, a 
 weakness which we would willingly forget ? " 
 
 " No, no, my dear Guerreville ; it is, I believe, because our heart 
 is open only to those who ^ive us the sweet name of father. Yes, 
 
1 44 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 my friend, that name, which asks at the same time love and protec- 
 tion, awakens in our souls the tenderest sentiments of nature, and 
 I can assure you our memory may also recall with pleasure an old 
 attachment, yet never can we feel the paternal bowels yearning for 
 a child which cannot claim us as its father." 
 
 M. Guerreville reflected for some time on Jenneval's words, bui 
 he went on with his narrative, — 
 
 " My daughter was only eleven when we lost her mother. 1 
 was doubly afflicted at this loss, which deprived me of a sincere and 
 good friend, who had always been indulgent to my faults ; and 
 because it deprived my Pauline of a guide, of a support at all 
 times. From that moment I swore to consecrate myself to my 
 daughter, and I kept my word. Having ceased to come to the 
 capital, to which nothing attracted me, I settled with my beloved 
 child, who possessed all my affections. I consecrated all my leisure 
 time to overlook her education ; I gave her all the masters she 
 seemed to desire ; I sought to provide her with all the pleasures 
 suitable to her age ; in short, I studied to replace her mother ; and 
 if occasionally my brusque style of speech seemed to frighten my 
 daughter, I hastened by a caress to bring back joy to her face and 
 a smile to her lips. 
 
 " My Pauline had attained her sixteenth year. Already I had 
 said to myself — It will be necessary to choose a husband who will 
 understand that sweet, sensitive, and timid heart, who shall conse- 
 crate himself, as I have done, to her happiness. For I could never 
 pardon the man who could make my daughter shed a tear. 
 
 "But this thought only passed vaguely through my mind. 
 Pauline was so young ! Happy near her, I enjoyed myself with 
 her — for my daughter loved me tenderly. Oh, yes, she loved hei 
 father, although my manner, sometimes severe, rendered her often 
 fearful and timid with me ! Fatal timidity, it was this which 
 prevented my daughter giving me her entire confidence." 
 
 M. Guerreville rested his head in his hands for a few moments. 
 It was plain that he had come to the most painful part of his 
 narrative ; but at length he took courage, and went on : — 
 
 " We often received society ; people who lived in Orleans, and 
 proprietors in the neighbourhood. I had no wish that my daughter 
 should live in solitude. Pauline was charming, everybody said ; as 
 for me, I knew my daughter should always be so in my eyes. 
 
 " One day, at a rich neighbouring proprietor's, we made acquaint- 
 ance with a young man named Daubray, who came from Paris, and 
 was travelling for information. Yery young still, for he was only 
 twenty-three, everybody was prepossessed in his favour ; face, 
 manners, conversation, it was difficult not to feel drawn to him. 
 He had a good style, and possessed fine talents ; he was, they said, 
 of a rich family ; in short, his company was everywhere sought. 
 He came to my house. I received him with pleasure. He drew 
 well ; he joined my daughter in her music, and I foresaw no danger 
 in this relationship. Besides, when I was absent, a woman, whom I 
 believed trustworthy, had my orders not to leave my daughter, 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 145 
 
 Some months passed away ; Pauline became pensive and melan- 
 choly ; and more than once, disquieted by the change I observed m 
 her manner, I asked her if she had anything to annoy her ; but a 
 kiss and a smile were her constant reply, and I was persuaded 
 she had no secret from her father. 
 
 " One evening she quitted me very sad, paler than usual, bne 
 seemed to tremble as she embraced me. I took one of her hands 
 and kept it in mine a long time ; and I said to her, 'Dear child, if 
 you have any griefs, it is very bad of you not to confide them to 
 me, for there is no sacrifice I would not make to assure your 
 happiness.' . . , 
 
 " She lowered her eyes, and ran off as if she feared to speak. 
 Left alone, I sought to discover whence my daughter's trouble 
 came, and for the first time I suspected that she loved this young 
 man 'who came to see us every day. But then why not confess her 
 love to me ; and if this M. Daubray loved my daughter, why did 
 he not ask her hand? This is what I thought, and I awaited the 
 next morning with impatience to force Pauline to open her heart to 
 me ; but that morning arrived, and I no longer saw my daughter. 
 She was gone— she had abandoned her father. Gone for ever. Oh ! 
 heavens, listen, my friend, but wait till I breathe ; the remembrance 
 of that fatal day is always cruel to me. ■ * ■ 
 
 " On awaking every morning, I had the habit of going to 
 embrace my daughter. I went to her room on this occasion. 
 Pauline was not there. I went downstairs and called Madame 
 Arniaud; this was the woman who was continually near my 
 daughter, and who, by her respectable age, I had believed worthy 
 of my confidence. I did not find her. I went into the garden, bui; 
 my search for her was useless. I interrogated the gardener, while 
 my faithful George ran through the neighbourhood seeking for the 
 ladies. The gardener had not seen them ; but he told me that in 
 the morning, when he went to his work, he found open a gate of the 
 garden which was towards the country, and which was usually 
 closed with a double lock. 
 
 "This circumstance surprised me; no one ever went out by 
 that gate, which led out to the highway. By what chance had my 
 governess and her companion conceived a preference for this way ? 
 Disquieted and vexed I returned to my daughter's room. In casting 
 my eyes through it, I perceived on a table a letter. It was addressed 
 to me, and I recognised my daughter's handwriting. Ah, then I 
 foresaw some horrible calamity— see, this is the fatal letter— read it, 
 
 my friend." . • 
 
 Jenneval took a letter which M. Guerreville removed from a 
 pocket-book, which he carried always with Mm. The characters 
 appeared traced by a trembling hand, and it boie still the trace of 
 tears shed while it was written. The Doctor read with a voice of 
 
 " Father, pardon me, oh ! pardon me if I have committed a fault 
 in not avowing my love for Daubray, but he told me you had 
 refused him my hand, and that you would not consent to our 
 
 K 
 
146 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 union. It was necessary to follow him absolutely, and to quit you 
 for some time. To quit you. It appears to me that that is wrong ; 
 but Madame Armaud, who is in the secret of our love, also thinks 
 that this plan is the only one which will secure your consent. 
 Daubray pressed me, begged of me. Oh ! heavens, I know that I am 
 causing you much grief, but I shall come back again. Oh yes, my 
 father, be sure that I shall return, and I am sure you will not drive 
 away your Pauline." 
 
 M. Guerreville, who had not been able to hear this letter read 
 without shedding tears, replaced it with care in his portfolio, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 " In reading that I understand all the extent of my misfortune. 
 I had been disgracefully abused and betrayed by this Daubray, and 
 by this woman charged with the care of my daughter. This young 
 man had also deceived my Pauline, telling her that I had refused 
 him her hand, when he had never said one word to me touching 
 that subject. Why this deception to get my daughter to go off 
 with him ? But if he really loved her, why had he not really asked 
 her hand from me ? "Was he then without fortune or any future, 
 that I should have been able to resist the prayers of my daughter ? 
 My conjectures were cruel, for I saw that my daughter had been 
 deceived as well as I. In the first moments of my despair, I wished 
 to call upon the authorities to set them upon the traces of the 
 fugitives, but soon I realised all the shame this would bring upon 
 my daughter. I to publish her fault, perhaps her dishonour ? Oh, 
 no ; on the contrary, I resolved to employ all my energies to conceal 
 it, and I said to myself, when my daughter shall return to me, I do 
 not wish that she shall have to blush before the whole world. 
 Then I began by going to the person in whose society I had met 
 Daubray for the first time ; and there, striving to master my 
 emotion, I said that having heard of the departure of this young 
 man, I should like to have his Paris address, or at least that of one 
 of his family, so that I might have news of him when I went there. 
 This friend then confessed to me that he didn't know anything 
 more about him than I did. Daubray had come to him presented 
 by a young man with whom they were intimately acquainted, but 
 he had gone off to Russia, where he had died on his arrival. Also 
 that he had no means of obtaining any positive information 
 regarding Daubray and his family, in regard to whom he had 
 probably deceived us, and it is thus that it happens very often with 
 unknown persons who connect themselves with people who would 
 blush if they knew their antecedents. I returned home and 
 reflected upon the means which I should take to conceal from 
 everyone my daughter's fault. I saw but one, and that was to go 
 away with my faithful George, to quit this house where I had long 
 lived so happily with my Pauline, and to make it appear as if 1 
 were away travelling with my daughter. My gardener received 
 his instructions. This honest man was devoted to me ; he swore 
 that no one should ever know that my daughter had left me, and 
 that I should write him from every place to which I went, and give 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 147 
 
 him my address, so that he might at once send on the letters he 
 received for me. 
 
 " I went away then, I quitted my property. I went first to Paris, 
 for it was there I hoped to find my daughter. I inquired every- 
 where if anyone was known of the name of Daubray — I discovered 
 nothing. Some days afterwards my gardener sent me a letter. It 
 was from my daughter, but they had taken the precaution to send 
 it by some traveller, for it bore the Orleans post-mark. My 
 Pauline anew implored my pardon for her fault. She wept with pain, 
 she said, because she could not embrace her father, but she flattered 
 herself with having soon the power to come with her husband to 
 solicit his favour. These letters gave me a little hope, and what- 
 ever was the fault of my daughter, I should soon be pressed within 
 her arms. I felt that I could even esteem this Daubray, who, to 
 oblige me to yield him the hand of my Pauline, had believed it 
 indispensable to drag her away from the parental roof, for in the 
 midst of all the errors of my youth, I had no such crimes with 
 which to reproach myself, and if I have seduced some women, at 
 least there was never a father or a mother whom I deprived of 
 their support, and the consolation of their old age ; but I said to 
 myself, 'For my daughter's sake I shall pardon her lover, and 
 perhaps in my presence he will not dare to be unkind to her.' 
 
 " I continued my searches. I went in disguise to Orleans — I 
 was no more fortunate. I returned to Paris. Six weeks rolled 
 away ; I received more news from my daughter. She again 
 promised to return to me ; but it appeared already as if there was 
 a more distinct element of sadness in her letters. I guessed it by 
 some words she had written. I know the heart — the mind of my 
 daughter so well, that timid and fearful soul, which I felt must 
 have been disgracefully abused when she was away from her father. 
 
 " I was very much distressed, but hope had not abandoned me. 
 Every morning I flattered myself that the day would not pass away 
 till my daughter should be in my arms. My gardener had received 
 my orders ; he would at once have sent on my Pauline to me, assur- 
 ing her that I was ready to pardon her. More than two months 
 passed away. At last I received a letter from Pauline. She 
 accused herself much. She reproached herself most bitterly for her 
 fault. I saw that her tears had fallen upon the writing, and I said 
 to myself, my daughter is unhappy ; but she ended by promising 
 me to return to throw herself at my feet, never more to leave me. 
 Alas ! that letter was the last. Yes, my friend, since that time I 
 have heard nothing of her. Eight years have passed away since I 
 received her last letter, and soon it will be eight years since she 
 promised to return to my arms. Ah, you may judge of my despair. 
 I began my searches again. For many years I have travelled. I 
 have passed through Italy, Switzerland, England, always inquiring 
 and making the most minute investigations, following upon the 
 track of people who have some similarity to her I am seeking ; and 
 always deceived in my hopes. Fatigued with my travels, I returned 
 to Chateau-Thierry. I fled the world. You will understand the 
 
148 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 world well enough . Not only did^nry grief prevent me from find- 
 ing any charm there, but if I met anyone whom I knew, I was 
 obliged always to speak falsely, for I wished always to conceal my 
 daughter's fault. When I was asked for news of her, I declared she 
 was married, but living at a great distance from me. Doctor, you 
 are the only man who knows all this ; you will never divulge it — 
 you hear me ? — never ; but for eight years back nothing, not a word 
 as to her fate. Can she be dead — dead, oh ! no, she is not dead ; far 
 from her father, without seeing him again or being embraced, with- 
 out having heard him assure her that he pardons her all the misery 
 she has caused him ? Dead ! oh, my God, that is too terrible ! Oh, 
 my poor daughter, if this be so, pray in heaven that I may be taken 
 soon beside thee." 
 
 As he pronounced these words with despairing accents, M. 
 Guerreville let his head fall upon his bosom. Jenneval approached 
 him, put his arms round him, and said to him, in a tone that came 
 from his heart, — 
 
 " Take courage, my friend, do not lose all hope ; we two shall 
 search together for your daughter, and discover the traces of the 
 vile ravisher ; and the brightest day of my life shall be that on 
 which I shall be able to dry your tears." 
 
 CHAPTEK XVI. 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 Emile did not allow more than a day to pass without calling at 
 Madame Dolbert's. The grandmamma received him as a man 
 whom she hoped soon to call her son ; and Stephanie, with that 
 enchanting smile which allowed everybody to see what were the 
 thoughts of her heart. But it was not only this, that Stephanie's 
 lover wished to be loved ; before society continuing to conduct 
 himself with an extreme reserve, it was only when removed from 
 the observation of her grandmother that Emile addressed the 
 young girl in words of love ; but then his words were burning, his 
 eyes had an expression which forced Stephanie to lower her own ; 
 nis caressing hands sought unceasingly to approach her, to touch 
 her robe, or the arm or knee of the young girl, who sometimes felt 
 herself caught and pressed wildly against a heart whose violent 
 beatings announced most ardent desires. 
 
 Stephanie replied with candour and love to the transports of 
 him who appeared so happy by her side. Yet when Emile, pro- 
 fiting by a moment when they were alone, pressed her tenderly iu 
 his arms, she felt a disquietude and agitation which resembled fear, 
 and she disengaged herself from the arms which would have held 
 her still, saying, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 149 
 
 « But, dear, as you love me so much, why don't you say so 
 before my mother ? When there are people here you scarcely look 
 at me. You have the appearance of being afraid lest they dis- 
 covered our love. You have said so yourself. What is the use ot 
 this concealment ? " 
 
 To these questions Emile replied,— 
 
 " I cannot yet avow my love. Family reasons prevent me from 
 doing so ; but, dear Stephanie, that ought not to prevent us from 
 loving each other. Yet, as society is wicked, and judges badly of 
 the actions of others, it is not necessary to give it the confidence ot 
 our secret feelings. Believe me, mystery gives far greater charm 
 to love Is it not a hundred times more satisfactory to have a 
 happiness of which all others are ignorant ? Dear Stephanie, let me 
 see you in secret, permit me to have with you some sweet inter- 
 views, during which we may be able to exchange those tender 
 caresses which society would blame, but which render me so 
 
 happy." 
 
 Stephanie sighed, and murmured,— 
 
 " Secret ? How ? I don't understand." 
 
 But when Delaberge was trying to explain to her, Zizme or the 
 good mamma would come in, and by their presence prevent him 
 from saying more. . , , , 
 
 Several months' residence with the Dolbert ladies had produced 
 a great change in Zizine's manners and language ; she was always 
 a delicate, pale, and serious girl, yet she was no longer a water- 
 carrier's daughter. Quick in discovering what would be pleasing 
 to her protectresses, Zizine had quickly lost whatever showed her 
 to be the child of a man of the people ; but her heart always 
 remained the same. It never forgot Jerome, and when a month 
 passed away without her seeing him, the little girl became sad, and 
 often hid herself to weep. _ 
 
 Without guessing the reason, Zizme saw quite well tnat 
 Stephanie was no longer the same to her. Her young protectress 
 embraced her still, but she did not speak to her so often. The 
 games, the dolls had been entirely set aside. Stephanie, nearly 
 always absent-minded or dreamy, sometimes did not hear the little 
 girl's word, so that she often asked, " What are you thinking about? 
 At last one day as Stephanie took a long time before answering, the 
 child began to weep. At sight of her tears Stephanie took her in 
 her arms, and said to her, — . 
 
 "Why are you crying, Zizine ? What have they been doing to 
 
 y<™ ? " • • \ i 
 
 " They have done nothing to me, it is because you no longer 
 
 love me — " 
 
 " I not love you ! And why do you say so, Zizme t 
 
 " Because I see it quite well. You don't speak to me now ; 
 
 you don't play with me ; you are always sad ; I see that I weary 
 
 you, so I shall go back now to my father the water-carrier." 
 
 "You would leave me! Oh, no! I cannot have that, for I 
 
 love you still— oh, yes— still, But you see it is the case that— 
 
150 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 when one is grown, one thinks of so many things — that in short I 
 cannot tell yon all at present, because you are too little, but all 
 this does not prevent me from loving you ; forgive me if sometimes 
 I seem cold, but do not leave me — never leave me — for in my heart 
 of hearts I love you always." 
 
 Zizine was easily comforted by these gentle words, and since 
 she was assured that her presence did not weary Stephanie, she did 
 not fear to remain on her side, although she was not conversed 
 with much. 
 
 Emile had more than once shown annoyance at finding the child 
 so constantly near Stephanie. One evening, he said, in a low 
 tone, — 
 
 " What misery it is to see you always with that little girl 
 beside you. One would say that she was commissioned to follow 
 you about, and to be a spy upon your smallest actions." 
 
 " Oh, she is not that," replied Stephanie ; " it is because she loves 
 me so much, that her greatest happiness is to be near me." 
 
 " She loves you ? That is possible, but I also love you, and it 
 appears to me that I ought to have the preference." 
 
 " My dear Emile, nobody keeps me from being near you when 
 you are here ; Zizine certainly does not prevent you." 
 
 " Pardon me, that girl annoys me and puts me out. When youi 
 mamma is occupied, I could be alone with you in this little room if 
 that — Zizine were not unceasingly at your side." 
 
 "But she does not prevent you from speaking to me or looking 
 at me when we are together." 
 
 " It is not the same thing. Eeally, Stephanie, I don't under 
 stand how you, well-educated and born in good society, can havi 
 taken an affection for the daughter of a water-carrier, who has 
 nothing to please you about her, for she is not even pretty." 
 
 " You deceive yourself, my friend. If you knew Zizine as well as 
 I do, you would see how she deserves to be loved, she is so good and 
 so clever. Oh, she is not like other children, poor little thing. She 
 needed almost everything when I took her." 
 
 " Do as you like about it, I shall be far from blaming you, but 
 Bend her to some boarding-school." 
 
 " Far away from me ? Oh, never, and if some day I should marry, 
 that will not keep me from having Zizine always with me." 
 
 Stephanie had blushed as she pronounced these last words ; but 
 however innocent a young girl may be, she is not ignorant that 
 some day the title of wife will belong to her, and if she loves she 
 will still more frequently dream of marriage. 
 
 Emile said nothing. The word marriage, which Stephanie had 
 used, seemed to embarrass him. He saw also that it was in vain to 
 seek to separate her from Zizine ; other means therefore must be 
 found for the attainment of his purpose. For some time back 
 Stephanie's grandmamma had been ailing, and soon a strong fever 
 supervened. The doctor feared for Madame Dolbert's life ; then 
 Stephanie established herself by her grandmother's bed, and did 
 not quit her a single minute. Aided by Zizine, who did everything 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 151 
 
 to help her, the young girl watched the patient with so much zeal 
 and care, that after some days the danger passed away. 
 
 But, during all this time, there had been no opportunity found 
 to speak of love to Emile ; besides, Stephanie would have believed 
 herself culpable if she had occupied herself in any other matter 
 than her grandmother's health. When M. Delaberge presented 
 himself at the door of the invalid's chamber, Stephanie contented 
 herself with looking at him in silence, or smiling upon him if her 
 grandmother were better. 
 
 Emile did not dare to complain. He waited and watched foi 
 the moment when he could act. 
 
 Madame Dolbert was out of danger, but her convalescence war 
 long-continued, and the doctor had recommended many alterations. 
 She specially began to rise late and to retire early, repose being 
 needed to complete her cure. Stephanie desired always to keep her 
 grandmother's company, but, touched by the exertions which her 
 grand-daughter had made, Madame Dolbert wished, on the contrary, 
 that Stephanie would allow herself some recreation, and often she 
 sent her from her bed, saying, " I am no longer sick, I only require 
 rest. But you, dear child, are not ordered to be seated continually 
 near my bed. At your age one should have an active life. Begin 
 to your piano and drawing again, go and laugh with your little 
 protegee, receive our friends ; in short, take some pleasure, and I shall 
 see that you obey me just as I do the doctor." Stephanie yielded 
 to her grandmother's request, and returned to the drawing-room, 
 where she received Emile's visits more frequently than ever. Some- 
 times other acquaintances of Madame Dolbert's came to pass an 
 hour with Stephanie, but, by prolonging his visits, Emile always 
 found means to be alone with Stephanie afterwards. 
 
 Notwithstanding this, Zizine was still there. If she went 
 out a minute from the drawing-room, she returned nearly as 
 quickly. Scarcely had Stephanie's lover been able to carry to 
 his lips a pretty hand, which was willingly yielded up to him, 
 when the child came back and ran to seat herself beside her 
 protectress. 
 
 " How annoying," murmured Emile, as he gave up Stephanie's 
 hand and threw an enraged glance at the child ; but Stephanie, 
 who did not appear to see the annoyance of her lover, drew Zizine's 
 head upon her knees, and played with her pretty hair. 
 
 Stephanie had observed for some days that the child was sad, 
 and she was anxious to know the reason. Zizine had not seen the 
 water-carrier for more than a month, for she never saw him with- 
 out Stephanie, and Madame Dolbert's illness had prevented her 
 grand-daughter from going out, and poor Zizine had not been able 
 to go to see her father. 
 
 " We shall soon go to see Jerome," said Stephanie to the child ; 
 " but I don't wish to go till my dear grandmother's health shall be 
 re-established." 
 
 M And if my father should be ill ?" said Zizine sighing. 
 
 "Why should you suppose that?" asked Stephanie. 
 
152 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Because it is so long since I have seen him. He no longer comes 
 here." 
 
 " You know well that he told us he had not the time." 
 
 " Yes, but he believes I think no more about him now." 
 
 Emile heard without interrupting this conversation. All at once 
 he said to Zizine, — 
 
 " Where does your father stay, little one ? " 
 
 "In the Rue St Honore, monsieur. Yes, here is his address, 
 with which I have been amusing myself writing." 
 
 " Give me it to-morrow. I shall be passing that address, and I 
 shall ask about your father. When I come here I shall be able to 
 give you some news of him." 
 
 " Ah, sir, you are too kind. How can I thank you ? " and Zizine 
 in her joy jumped on his neck, but turned her head quickly to look 
 at Stephanie, who held his hand and said to him, — 
 
 '' Ah, it is very amiable of you to do this, and it gives me much 
 pleasure to see you so obliging." 
 
 Emile soon took his leave of Stephanie, for he was distracted 
 and pre-occupied ; already he wished it were the morrow. He had 
 formed his plan, he had found at last the means of taking away 
 this girl whose presence alone retarded his victory. As he went 
 03*, he said to himself, — 
 
 " A few hours only, and Stephanie will be mine." 
 
 The next day had come, and M. Delaberge was waited for at 
 Madame Dolbert's with more impatience than usual. Zizine was 
 anxious to hear news of her father, and Stephanie did not doubt 
 that that would dissipate her little protegees sadness ; but the day 
 went on, and Emile did not appear. 
 
 " He is not coming," said Zizine sighing. 
 
 " He will come this evening," said Stephanie. " You know 
 that he very rarely fails to come to keep us company since my 
 grandmother has begun to retire early." 
 
 It was indeed then that Emile preferred to come, for in the 
 evening they had rarely any other visitors than himself, and this 
 special evening M. Delaberge had come later than usual, because 
 he wished to be sure that nothing should interfere with his plans. 
 
 Stephanie and Zizine were in the drawing-room. A slight ex- 
 clamation of joy escaped them as they saw Emile enter, and the 
 little girl cried, — 
 
 " Have you any news of my father, sir ? " 
 
 '• Forgive me being so late,'' replied Emile, wiping nis forehead 
 as one does when he is fatigued ; " but I have had some indispens- 
 able business which kept me, otherwise I should have been here 
 some time ago." 
 
 " And my father, sir ? " murmured Zizine ; " have you not been 
 able to go to see him ? " 
 
 '• Forgive me, child, I had promised you I should, and I never 
 break my word. I went to his house. I found it out easily." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! how good of you, and did you see him ?" 
 
 " No, I did not see him, but a neighbour was able to renly to 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 153 
 
 my questions. I am sorry to say, my dear, that your disquietude 
 was well grounded. Your father is ill — " 
 
 " 111 ! Oh, heavens ! You see I have thought it was so. But 
 what is the matter ? " 
 
 " I don't know much about it. That woman did not explain it 
 very well to me ; but he seems to be wearying to see his child." 
 
 " He wishes to see me ? My poor father. Oh, yes, and I do so 
 wish to see him — oh ! — immediately — at once. You will allow me, 
 will you not, my good friend, to go to see my father ? " 
 
 Zizine clasped her hands imploringly as she looked at Stephanie, 
 and already some big tears fell down her cheeks. On her side, her 
 young protectress embraced and consoled her. 
 
 " You will go to see him — certainly — but this evening, how can 
 you go — it is nine o'clock already — " 
 
 " That doesn't matter, my father is ill. I must go and take care 
 of him. You have attended on your grandmamma, and yet she 
 never was alone — she had servants around her — but my father is 
 quite alone — you see he has great need of me." 
 
 There was in this child's features an expression which announced 
 an energy little common at her age. It appeared that filial love 
 had all at once put a strong soul, a firm will, into that delicate 
 creature. 
 
 " But how can you do this?" asked Stephanie. "My good mother 
 sleeps now, and I cannot awake her to ask her permission to go 
 out—" 
 
 " It is very easy to arrange all that," said M. Emile. " My cab- 
 riolet is below with my servant. He will take Zizine to her father ; 
 he is perhaps not very ill — at least she will see — she will be able to 
 pass some time with him, and then my cab, which will wait for her 
 as long as she likes, will bring her back here." 
 
 " In this way it won't be necessary for me to go with you. You 
 are not afraid, Zizine ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, my good friend. Oh, sir, I thank you so much — " 
 
 "Your servant is very trustworthy ?" asked Stephanie, who felt 
 a little fear in letting the child go. 
 
 " I can answer for him as for myself. When do you wish the 
 little one to come back ? " 
 
 " Zizine, you will return ? " 
 
 " Yes, at least if my father is not too ill." 
 
 " It is probable that a sight of you only will cure h im — that 
 woman next door explained things so badly — " 
 
 " Adieu, my good friend." 
 
 " Wait, then, till I get a shawl for you, or something — you will 
 be cold." 
 
 " Oh, no, I am all right. Your servant will allow me to go into 
 the cab, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Come, little one, I shall go down with you and give him his 
 orders. But don't make any noise, in case of awakening Madame 
 Dolbert. All this might agitate her." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; take care lest you awake my mother." 
 
154 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Stephanie embraced Zizine, commended her once more to M. 
 Emile's care, while he went quickly down with the child. Zizine 
 followed the elegant young man as fast as her little legs could 
 carry her. When they got downstairs, Emile took the child up in 
 his arms and put her in the cabriolet, said some words to his 
 servant, and hastened back to Stephanie. 
 
 " Is she gone ? " asked the young girl, sighing. 
 
 " Yes, and as I have myself put her into the carriage, and given 
 my servant instructions about her, you need not be in the least 
 concerned about her." 
 
 " I believe you, and yet it is singular I am quite vexed and dis- 
 quieted. I am so accustomed to have that child near me." 
 
 " Can you not be a moment without seeing her ? Oh, you love 
 that child more than you love me. I can see it." 
 
 " Oh, no ; besides, that is friendship, and for you — " 
 
 "Oh, well, and for me?" 
 
 " You know well it is love." 
 
 " Dear Stephanie. Ah ! repeat that you love me. Tell it me 
 without ceasing." 
 
 " Do you doubt it ? Ah ! I cannot tell a falsehood, and I don't 
 know how to conceal what I feel." 
 
 " How happy I am, and what pleasure to be able without any 
 witness to exchange those charming confessions. Ah, Stephanie, 
 for a long time I have longed for this moment. I can then, at last^ 
 kiss at pleasure those sweet hands, that white neck, all thos* 
 charms which I have so long desired." 
 
 And as he said these words, Emile, who had brought his chaii 
 near Stephanie's, passed his arms round her figure, and drew her 
 tenderly towards him, as with his burning lips he pressed her neck, 
 her arms, her hands, and even her dress. Stephanie, quite agitated 
 by receiving for the first time such lively caresses, felt herself blush 
 and tremble at the same moment; she gently repulsed Emile, 
 saying, — 
 
 "Why do you press me so much ?" 
 
 "Dear Stephanie, because I am so near you, and it is so 
 pleasant." 
 
 " But it is perhaps wrong to embrace me as you are doing." 
 
 " What can be wrong when we love each other, and since we 
 shall love each other always ? " 
 
 " Always ? Oh, yes, it is true. And you will never change, 
 Emile ? " 
 
 " Never, I swear to you by this kiss." 
 
 It was upon the virgin lips of the young girl that the bold 
 Emile pressed his own. 
 
 Stephanie felt hers burn ; a prey to a new emotion, she yet had 
 the force to raise herself quickly as she disengaged herself from her 
 lover's arms. 
 
 Emile, quite surprised to see Stephanie escape him, remained on 
 his chair, from which he regarded the young girl, who had taken 
 i-efuge at the other end of the drawing-room. 
 
The Monde mid the Demi Monde. l55 
 
 "Stephanie, you are flying from me," said the young man, in a 
 
 verygentie tone^ ^^ ^ ^.^ gteph ; lowering her 
 
 eyes, " but it is because I do not know what I feel ; it is as it i 
 
 ear « Fear of me ? Ah, Stephanie, I am most unhappy if I have in- 
 spired you with such a sentiment, I who love you so much, and who 
 breathe only for you." . ,, 
 
 These words being said in a touching voice, Stephanie reproached 
 herself with having caused Emile pain ; she raised her beautiful 
 eyes towards him, and they did not express anger. The young man 
 left his chair, ran towards her, took one of her hands, which he 
 pressed in his own, and with his looks he sought to make all the 
 desires he felt, but Stephanie, quite ashamed, anew lowered her 
 
 eye « Do you call it a crime to love you ? " continued Emile, drawing 
 the charming girl upon a divan which was near them. 
 
 "No doubtless," replied Stephanie, sitting down quite agitated 
 beside her lover, "but it seems to me that there is no reason, no 
 
 86 Shame kept the young girl from saying more. She did not dare 
 to sav "you ought not to embrace me as you have done, but she 
 thought it, for there is always something within our hearts which 
 enables us to distinguish between the evil and the good. 
 
 Emile, who guessed what Stephanie did not dare to say to him 
 said, as he wound his arms about her,— 
 
 " But when one loves, is it not natural to show it ? Ihe caresses 
 which two lovers give each other are the greatest happiness which 
 it is possible to know. Stephanie, I tremble with pleasure when I 
 touch your hand, your arm, or in pressing you to my heart. It 
 you loved me as I love you, you would express it just as 1 do. 
 " Oh, I love you well ; but ah ! how you press me. 
 " Stephanie, am I not he to whom you have given your heart I 
 Allow me to hold you thus ; allow me to place a kiss upon that 
 mouth which has sworn that it will love only me." 
 
 Stephanie did not know how to reply, but Emile had not waited 
 for permission to embrace her anew. The young girl felt herself 
 burning. Her lover became more enterprising. She washed to re- 
 pulse him, but she had not the strength. 
 
 " Mercy, mercy," murmured Stephanie, who comprehended now 
 all the danger which she ran ; but Emile heard no more. Another 
 moment and he would have triumphed over the feeble resistance 
 which opposed him, when some steps were heard m the neighbour- 
 ing apartment. Someone approached, and in a second Emile had 
 drawn aside from Stephanie, and just then the door opened— it 
 was Zizine who had come back, and who rushed to throw herself 
 into Stephanie's arms. -. . . 
 
 " The little one back already," murmured Emile, thrusting his 
 fingers through each other with rage. " She is my evil genius, and 
 that miserable Dupre" has allowed her to come back." 
 
156 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Here I am, my good friend," said the child, passing her arms 
 round Stephanie's neck. " I have not been very long, have I, and 
 did you not expect me back so soon ? " 
 
 " Dear Zizine, it is heaven which has sent you. Now you will 
 not quit me — no, no, never. How fortunate that you have re- 
 turned." 
 
 And Stephanie embraced the little girl and pressed her in her 
 arms, concealing upon Zizine's cheek the blush on her forehead 
 and the tears which moistened her eyes, while Emile, seated at the 
 other end of the room, stamped his foot with impatience, and did 
 not seek to hide his annoyance and vexation. 
 
 " It surprises you to see me already," said Zizine, "and I shall 
 tell you how it happened." 
 
 " Oh, but first, I am so glad, for my father is not ill, indeed, has 
 not been ill. It was very bad of that woman who invented what she 
 said to you, sir, and made me very vexed. Listen, I was in the 
 cabriolet. We were passing along a street — I did not know any of 
 the roads, but your servant said to me, ' I know where I am to take 
 you.' All at once, in passing near a very bright shop, I perceived 
 my father. I recognised him at once, and cried, ' Papa, papa, it is 
 I.' And then I said to the servant, ' Stop me if you please, for I 
 was going to see my papa,' but although I said this to him he 
 would not stop, and went on still, so that I felt inclined to cry. 
 Fortunately my father had recognised my voice, and had run after 
 the cab ; so, at the risk of being run over, he seized the horse by 
 the reins and forced it to stop. Then I told my father where I 
 was going, but first I wanted to come out of the cab, but the 
 servant would not allow me, saying he was responsible for me. 
 My papa began by taking me in his arms, and then he said to the 
 servant, ' You must know that I am the person who must watch 
 over her.' My poor, good father, he did not know what to say to 
 me when he saw me thus at night alone in a cabriolet. When 
 he knew that I understood he was ill, he embraced me and 
 thanked me. Then he asked me if I wished to go back with him, 
 but I said you loved me still, and had made me promise to return 
 if he was not ill. Then the servant who was waiting proposed to 
 take me back ; but my father said, ' No, I shall take my daughter 
 myself to her protectresses,' and so he brought me here ; he only 
 left me at the door, and as he went away he told me I ought not 
 to go out alone in a cabriolet." 
 
 " Dear! ittle one ! " said Stephanie, embracing Zizine once more. 
 " Yes, your father was right. I shall not allow you to go out alone 
 again. And in the future that shall not happen, I promise you." 
 
 " But why, my dear friend, why is it that you are weeping ? 
 What has vexed you ? Why, jour fichu is all disarranged — " 
 
 " Oh ! it is because — just now — yes, I felt very warm. I did 
 not feel quite well, but it has passed off. You see — I am quite 
 well now. Sit down there near me." 
 
 Stephanie placed the child by her side. Since Zizine came 
 back, she had never raised her eyes to Emile. It was in the little 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 157 
 
 one's arms that she sought to calm her emotion and to escape from 
 her trouble, and Zizine, who observed something extraordinary in 
 Stephanie's face, looked at her also with an uneasy air. 
 
 For a long time there was silence. At length Emile resolved to 
 leave the corner into which he had withdrawn. He came near the 
 sofa on which Stephanie remained seated. She was not able to 
 control a feeling of terror, and, clasping Zizine in her arms, she 
 pressed her against her heart, as if to make the child serve for a 
 shield. 
 
 Emile stopped, murmuring, — 
 
 " What is the matter with you, mademoiselle ? You seem 
 frightened — trembling. What causes your fear ? " 
 
 Stephanie made no reply. She continued to hold Zizine in her 
 arms, and bending over towards Stephanie's ear, he said in a low 
 voice, — 
 
 " What have I done that you should treat me so ? Ah — won't 
 you even raise your eyes to me — Stephanie, do you love me no 
 longer ? You see nothing more can be explained, as the little one is 
 here. Oh, allow me to speak to you still for a moment alone, to 
 justify my conduct — to ask your pardon. It is late — you ought to 
 — send this child to bed." 
 
 Stephanie, who had been silent till now, raised her head, and 
 turning from Emile's side, threw on him a look which made the 
 words die on his lips ; but she was no longer the timid, loving 
 young girl, but an outraged woman, a girl proud of her virtue 
 who had seen the abyss into which he had sought to drag her, but 
 who now appeared to refuse the apologies he would tender her. 
 Her look said all that, for Emile was unable to endure it ; and this 
 man, so presumptuous, so accustomed to deceive women, lowered his 
 head, and remained quite rebuked before a young girl whom he 
 had been unable to dishonour. 
 
 Stephanie soon cast her glance on Zizine ; for she appeared to pity 
 her lover's confusion. He made many turns round the room ; he 
 began some phrases he did not finish, stopped before Stephanie, 
 wished to take a hand which was drawn away, and at last resolved 
 to say good-bye. 
 
 It was with a comfortless air and a trembling voice that 
 Emile said adieu to Mademoiselle Dolbert ; but he murmured in 
 such a way that she alone could hear, — 
 
 " If you will not deign to give me even one look, I shall 
 think my presence odious to you, and shall not dare to come to you 
 again." 
 
 Stephanie hesitated and wavered, but her heart was so good. She 
 believed in Emile's regret and despair, and, raising her sweet eyes, 
 she bent on him a gentle look, in which there was as much love as 
 vexation. It would have been much for an ordinary lover, but it was 
 very little for the man who had flattered himself that that evening 
 would have witnessed his triumph. 
 
 Leaving Stephanie, and no longer compelled to restrain himself, 
 Delaberge gave free course to his anger ; for never had he been so 
 
158 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 cruelly deceived in his hopes ; and the annoyance of seeing 
 brought to not] ling a plan which he had conceived and so well 
 schemed, exasperated him and made him furious. 
 
 He got into his cab, and his trembling servant sought to justify 
 himself in vain. 
 
 " You are a fool and an imbecile," said Emile. " I had given 
 you my instructions, and you ought to have retained the little one, 
 no matter by what excuses or lies. You ought not to have brought 
 her back for two hours, at least, to the Dolbert ladies, and twenty 
 minutes had scarcely gone when the child reappeared." 
 
 " Sir, is it my fault, then ? We met the father of — " 
 
 " You ought not to have stopped." 
 
 " Then I must have run down the man who was hanging on to 
 my horse." 
 
 " The first thing was to obey me." 
 
 " But, sir—" 
 
 " That is enough. I discharge you — you are no longer in my 
 service." 
 
 When he got home, Emile retired to his apartments, and aban- 
 doned himself to his temper. He knocked about and broke every- 
 thing that came to his hands. Some valuable furniture, some 
 charming vases, a lot of pretty things which are only invented to 
 ornament the apartments of the rich, were smashed and trodden 
 under foot by this man, who had never experienced resistance to his 
 desires, and who for the first time had been unable to satisfy them. 
 He was like a spoiled child who is in a temper, and breaks his 
 playthings because he cannot have his own way. Emile acted 
 thus towards everything around him ; for men are big children, 
 especially when they are spoiled by fortune. 
 
 " If that little one had not returned, Stephanie would have 
 been mine," said Emile to himself, as he threw himself on a sofa. 
 " She would have been mine. That girl, so pretty, artless and loving. 
 How beautiful she was as she implored me ! And it is a child who 
 has destroyed all my hopes, who has placed an obstacle to my hap- 
 piness, a child — a water-carrier's daughter ! She has come and 
 placed herself in my way — in mine — Emile Delaberge — I who have 
 gold enough to satisfy my passions — I, who since I was of an age 
 to experience it, have never found any resistance by sowing it with 
 profusion on this side and that, or by being prodigal with oaths to 
 others. It is a child who stops me, who keeps me from being 
 fortunate, for now, what is to be done ? Stephanie understands hei 
 danger ; she will be henceforth upon her guard. Curse that Zizine ! 
 I detested her before, but now I hate her more, if possible. Would 
 that I could break her like this glass." 
 
 And Emile's hand struck with violence a glass which was on a 
 table near him. The glass was broken, but his hand received a 
 deep cut, from which the blood flowed. Then Emile stopped, ashamed 
 of himself, bound his hand up with a handkerchief, and looking 
 around him, said to himself, — 
 
 " What a fool I am ! What nonsense ! Shall I never know how to 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 159 
 
 control myself? I am thirty years past, and since I was twelve, 
 what follies, what mistakes ! Is it not time to stop ? ,., 
 
 Emile remained a long time plunged m his reflections. Iney did 
 not appear to be gay, for his forehead was gloomy his eyes had 
 become fixed, his respiration was short and hurried. One would not 
 now have recognised this brilliant and handsome man, who was the 
 admiration of the salons, who was the idol of the women, and whom 
 
 all men envied. , . . „ , , ,, , 
 
 At last M. Delaberge passed his hand over his forehead, then ne 
 
 rose, made some turns round his room, assumed his ordinary look, 
 
 and said to himself, — . T , ,, 
 
 " There are a thousand women as pretty as btephanie. ± snan 
 
 forget her. I shall take myself up with another— that is easy 
 
 en °rlr'four days Emile did not return to Madame Dolbert's. He 
 tried to forget Stephanie ; he returned to his old acquaintances and 
 made new ones ; but in the society of the prettiest women and 
 sparkling coquettes, Stephanie's image pursued him unceasingly. 
 He discovered that to forget is not so easy when love is not satisfied. 
 
 The fifth day he could endure it no longer. He got into his cab- 
 riolet and drove to Madame Dolbert's. *■ , 
 
 Since her tSte-d-tete with Emile, Stephanie was sad and silent, 
 while Zizine's gentle words were unable to bring a smile to her 
 lies She felt that the conduct of her lover was very reprehensible, 
 but' she loved him still, and regretted that he should have acted so. 
 She sighed and wept in secret because she did not see him again 
 In her heart she did not believe that Emile loved her, since he had 
 sought to make her guilty, instead of asking her hand from her 
 grandmother. . , , ,j 
 
 But because a lover has faults, that is no reason why one should 
 love him the less. Often, indeed, it produces a contrary ettect. 
 Jealousy, disquiet and tears are necessary to love, without which, 
 in place of being a flame, it would be nothing but a smoke. 
 
 Thus Stephanie felt herself overcome with pleasure when M. 
 Delaberge reappeared at her grandmother's. She was seated near 
 the good lady, whose health improved every day, and who passed 
 less time now in bed. _ . 
 
 Emile was quite struck by Stephanie's pallor. She seemed to him 
 beautiful still. They only exchanged a brief glance, but that said 
 manv things which both could understand. On one side there was 
 love, hope, and penitence, on the other constancy, vexation, and 
 
 OT The n good mamma slightly reproached M. Delaberge for having 
 neglected them a little. Stephanie said nothing. She believed that, 
 from the tone of her voice, he could perceive her emotion. 
 
 Emile profited by a brief moment when the young girl passed 
 into another room, to say to her in a low tone,— 
 
 "Do you love me still?" e ' 
 
 Stephanie did not reply, but two large tears escaped from her 
 eyes, and she tried in vain to conceal them from her lover. 
 
160 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 Yet it was useless for Emile to seek occasions to be alone with 
 Stephanie. She took care to make that impossible. 
 
 Many weeks went past in this way. Sometimes Emile was three 
 or four days without going to see Stephanie, but the following days 
 he could not leave her. Wishing to forget her or to abandon him- 
 self to his passion, hoping still to obtain a tete-a-tete, but despairing 
 more than ever of succeeding, Emile did not know what part to 
 take. 
 
 At last, one evening, seizing a moment when Zizine was occupied 
 at the piano, Emile took Stephanie's hand, and, pressing it forcibly 
 within his own, said to her with a passionate accent, — 
 
 " I am not able to live thus, Stephanie. People refuse nothing to 
 the man whom they love. You assure me that I am still dear to you, 
 and I cannot obtain the least favour from you. Give me a meeting, 
 a moment's interview. If you refuse me, it is because you do not 
 love me, and you shall see me no more." 
 
 " I shall not see you any more then, sir," said Stephanie, drawing 
 her hand out of Emile's, " for I love rather to weep for your love 
 then over my own dishonour." 
 
 Emile was taken aback by this reply, and the tone in which it 
 was made proved that he need not retain the smallest hope in his 
 wicked devices. 
 
 He went away furious and desperate, swearing never to see 
 again the woman who had been able to resist him. 
 
 Some days went past, and M. Delaberge did not return to Madame 
 Dolbert's. Some weeks passed, and nothing more was heard about 
 him. 
 
 The grandmamma did not understand M. Delaberge's conduct. 
 She had no doubt whatever about his love for her grand-daughter. 
 Each day she expected that he would declare it, but she thought 
 that before addressing himself to her, he only wished to assure 
 himself that he was not unpleasing to Stephanie ; and since he had 
 not obtained this assurance, he had ceased to visit. This conduct 
 became inexplicable to Madame Dolbert. 
 
 Stephanie suffered in silence, but the name of Emile never passed 
 her lips, and when her grandmamma spoke of him, the young girl 
 always contrived to change the conversation. 
 
 " It is indeed very singular," said Madame Dolbert to her grand- 
 daughter. " Have you had some discussion with M. Delaberge — have 
 you quarrelled ? For there must be some reason to prevent him 
 coming here." 
 
 " We have not quarrelled at all," replied Stephanie, " and I do 
 not know, dear mamma, why Emile no longer comes." 
 
 The good mamma shook her head, for she presumed that her 
 grand-daughter had not told her everything. 
 
 Then Stephanie began to ween in secret, and as Zizine often 
 surprised her with tears in her eyes, her young protectress said to 
 her, " If you wish me to love you still, you will not tell my good 
 mamma that you have seen me weeping." 
 
 Six weeks passed away, and this time appeared very long to the 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 161 
 
 young girl, who counted the hours and days, weeping much, but 
 hoping still. 
 
 In the middle of a day which began as sadly as the others, a 
 visitor was announced. It was M. Delaberge, who came to Madame 
 Dolbert, and reappeared before Stephanie, who was seated by the 
 side of her grandmother, and who scarcely dared to believe her 
 eyes when she once more saw the man who had bidden her an 
 eternal adieu. 
 
 At first Emile seemed grave and solemn. After some ordinary 
 compliments, he went towards Madame Dolbert and said, — 
 
 " You have not seen me for a long time, madame. I wished to 
 bring to a close some family matters before making the request 
 which I have to address to you to-day, madame. I love Mademoiselle 
 Stephanie. You know my family ; my fortune amounts to an income 
 of about a hundred thousand francs. I wish to ask your grand- 
 daughter's hand, if she indeed should be willing to accept me as her 
 husband — " 
 
 It would be difficult to express the effect of these words upon 
 Stephanie. Agitated, trembling, transported with joy and love, she 
 wept and smiled. 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes, I wish indeed that you should be my husband ! " 
 
 The grandmamma smiled, for this scene had nothing in it extra- 
 ordinary to her mind. It was a long time since she had expected 
 this demand. She took the hand of her grand-daughter and that 
 of Emile, then placing them in each other, said, — 
 
 " Be happy, be united, my dear children ; without your having 
 said anything I had divined this love. M. Delaberge, I *give you 
 the hand of my Stephanie." 
 
 Emile kissed respectfully the hand that was placed in his 
 own, and Stephanie, who feared no longer to let him see her whole 
 affections, said to him in a low voice, — 
 
 " Bad man ; six weeks without coming to see me. Oh I I have 
 been most unhappy, but I don't wish to think more about that. 
 Dear Emile, ah ! what happiness is in store for us. I shall then 
 be your wife." 
 
 " Yes," replied Emile. " Yes," he added to himself in a low tone ; 
 " and it must be so indeed, for it is the only means to possess her." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 EVENTS. 
 
 The confidence which M. Guerreville had made to Doctor Jenneval 
 had still more increased the friendship which had united them. 
 Now there was between these two men a secret thought, now they 
 understood each other so well, that they often divined each other's 
 
162 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 intentions. M. Guerreville experienced the sweet effects of confi- 
 dence. He was able every day to speak of his daughter, and he 
 was less unhappy since he was not obliged to confine to his own 
 bosom his recollections and annoyances. 
 
 He who receives the confidence of a great sorrow often shows a 
 greater proof of friendship than he who makes it, for the one who 
 has need of comfort has his heart consoled, while the other engages 
 to share the sorrows which the other feels. 
 
 Almost every day M. Guerreville and the Doctor went out to- 
 gether, and when walking, they neglected nothing which could help 
 them to find traces of those for whom they sought. When by 
 chance a day had gone by without the two friends having been able 
 to be together, the next day, when they met, they interrogated each 
 other with their eyes, and their first word always was, " Anything 
 new ? " 
 
 George said one day to his master, — 
 
 " During your absence, sir, a lady came to ask for you ; it was 
 Madame Grillon, your god-daughter's mother. She complained 
 that you had not been to see her, for she much wished to speak to 
 you. She had important things upon which she wished to consult 
 you, and things which concerned the young lady." 
 
 M. Guerreville listened to George with indifference ; he made 
 a slight motion of the head as if to reply, " very well," and a moment 
 afterwards he forgot what his servant had said to him. A few 
 days afterwards George said again to his master, — 
 
 " Another lady has come to ask for you, sir. She said to me she 
 was M. Jules' mother. She begged you to have the goodness to call 
 and see her." 
 
 "Maria called for me?" said M. Guerreville. "That is most 
 astonishing ; but no doubt it is to speak about her son. I shall go 
 and see her." 
 
 "Perhaps, as you have gone to see Madame Grillon," said 
 Jenneval, smiling. 
 
 " Ah ! you are right, Doctor. I had entirely forgotten that." 
 "My friend, allow me to say to you that this is not right. 
 There are old acquaintances to whom one is not at liberty to show 
 complete indifference. You are in that position in regard to 
 Mesdames Grillon and Gallet." 
 
 " You think so, Doctor ? Now it produces quite the opposite 
 effect on me. But possibly I am wrong. I shall go to these 
 ladies to know what they want." 
 
 Eight days passed without M. Guerreville having thought 
 of fulfilling his promise, when one afternoon, as he looked out of 
 the window, watching for the Doctor's arrival, George abruptly 
 opened the door and announced, — 
 " M. Jules' mother." 
 
 M. Guerreville allowed a movement of impatience to escape 
 him ; but nearly at the same moment, Madame Gallet entered the 
 room, and the sight of her paleness, the profound alteration in her 
 features, he felt quite agitated, and hastened towards her, saying, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 163 
 
 " It is you, Maria ! Good heavens, how troubled you seem ! 
 You have been before to see me, I was told. Excuse me if I have 
 not gone to see you before, but some business affairs — " 
 
 " Ah, sir, I have no right to complain ! I know well that I in- 
 terest you very little now ; but I had hoped that for my son — in 
 short, if you had come — if you had spoken to him, perhaps what brings 
 me to-day might not have happened." 
 
 "Be seated first, and then tell me what vexes you. If I can 
 put an end to your annoyances and render you happy, do not 
 doubt that I shall do so." 
 
 " Happy ! Ah ! I have no longer any but one happiness on 
 earth — that is my son — he alone gives me joy and some charm to 
 my existence. Well, what should I do if my son were to leave 
 me?" 
 
 " What do you say, Jules ? " 
 
 " He has gone to be an actor. He is engaged for the provinces. 
 He is about to leave — to abandon his mother. Already he has left 
 our home. Ah, sir, I had counted so much on you, on the good 
 counsels you could have given, on the friendship you would have 
 shown him ! I had hoped that you would have watched over my 
 son. Ah, I have been so much deceived ! " 
 
 Maria could not say more. Her tears choked her speech. She 
 covered her face with her handkerchief, and tried in vain to keep 
 back her sobs. M. Guerreville could find no words to reply. He 
 turned his eyes fixedly to the ground. Something in his inmost 
 soul told him that Maria's reproaches were just, and that he ought 
 to have taken a more tender interest in Jules. 
 
 Maria wept still, and M. Guerreville, having no consolation to 
 give, kept a sad silence by her side, when all at once a woman's 
 voice was heard in the ante-chamber. 
 
 It was Madame Grillon, whom George wished to announce, 
 but who insisted on going in at once, saying, — 
 
 " I know that your master is at home — I know it, and I must 
 see him. I am intimately enough related to him not to need any 
 announcement." 
 
 And without waiting for the reply of the servant, the tender 
 Euphemia ran to the door, and coming up to M. Guerreville 
 crying,— . 
 
 "Help me to get back my daughter. Edward, they have 
 taken away my daughter, my Agatha, your god-daughter, your — 
 oh, heavens ! I don't know what I say, I am so distressed — but I 
 want my daughter. Ah ! you will find her, will you not ? And you 
 will punish her infamous ravisher ? " 
 
 When she had uttered these words with an extreme volu- 
 bility, Madame Grillon let herself sink into an arm-chair, and 
 then only she perceived Maria, who had still her handker- 
 chief at her eyes. Madame Grillon smiled ironically, and mur- 
 mured, — 
 
 " Ah ! I understand why that servant did not wish to allow 
 me to enter." 
 
164 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 The arrival of Agatha's mother disagreeably surprised M. 
 Guerreville. He rose, however, and approached her, saying, — 
 
 " What is it, madame ? Why those complaints and sorrows ? " 
 
 "Have you not then heard what it was? It seems to me 
 that I have indeed a right to complain. I tell you they have 
 carried off Agatha, my daughter, your god-daughter. It seems 
 to me that that ought to affect you — to interest you also." 
 
 " Who, madame, has dared ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, they have dared — oh ! men dare anything now-a-days. 
 We live in such a polished age — the men are so highly educated. 
 When they permit themselves to smoke or dance as they do 
 now before women, it is very plain that they respect them very 
 little." 
 
 " But, indeed, madame — " 
 
 " It is that bad rascal Adalgis who has carried off my daughter." 
 
 " Rascal indeed — but it appears to me that you made a grand 
 eulogium on this young man." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I had believed — what can one say, appearances ? — he 
 acted so well. First, when Agatha confessed thas she adored him, 
 I wished to consult you on this marriage — but you did not come." 
 
 " Madame, I—" 
 
 " It is very bad of you — you ought to have come. Agatha is 
 not a stranger to you. In short, I had the weakness to receive 
 this Adalgis still ; and this night — this very night — the wretch, 
 after having taken us to hear the monster concert in the Turkish 
 Gardens, took her off. I am sure that it was during the quadrille 
 in the 'Huguenots' that they carried out their plot. I — I was 
 stupefied by the sound of bells, cannon, and tambourine. How 
 can one look after her daughter when her tympan is broken? 
 Since Agatha possessed this billet of a thousand francs, of which 
 you made her a present, this M. Adalgis has never quitted her. 
 In short, that night she fled, and she took her thousand francs 
 with her ; they are her own, — I have nothing to say against that ; 
 but I am sure that this monster Adalgis will spend them, and 
 then he will leave her; but I have sent information to his 
 house. He is a scoundrel, a blackguard who hasn't a sou. He owes 
 eight hundred francs to his tailor, and fifty -five sous to his washer- 
 woman. I found out all that this morning. Ah ! Edouard, 
 Edouard ! I beg you, in the name of — your old recollections — give 
 me back my Agatha — " 
 
 " Madame, I shall do everything that may depend on me. But 
 doubtless your husband has already got on the track of the 
 ravisher." 
 
 " My husband ! Ah, truly, if I were to count upon him, he 
 would bring back my daughter like the mother Gigogne. Edouard, 
 I look only to you." 
 
 While saying these words, Madame Grillon had risen, and 
 approaching M. Guerreville, she took him by the hands, which she 
 pressed with energy, as if she would magnetise him. 
 
 Since the arrival of a stranger, poor Maria had not uttered a 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 165 
 
 word ; she had not moved ; she listened in silence, and waited to 
 speak when Madame Grillon had finished. But Madame Grillon was 
 not done. Then, when she saw the latter clasping M. Guerreville's 
 hands, and press him earnestly to bring back her Agatha, Maria 
 appeared to recover her courage, and rising in turn, she cried, — 
 
 " And I, sir ? Will you do nothing for me, sir ? Won't you have 
 pity on my grief ? Will you condescend to think of my son, who 
 abandons his mother to embrace a career in which he will find 
 neither success nor fortune 1 " 
 
 M. Guerreville could not reply. Pressed by those two women 
 who surrounded him, who besought him, he took refuge in his 
 window, and to escape the looks they cast on him, he turned his 
 head and fixed his eyes on the street. 
 
 Madame Grillon had appeared surprised and almost shocked that 
 another woman should permit herself to address a request to M. 
 Guerreville. Throwing upon Maria a look which had nothing 
 gentle in it, she appeared to wish to ask her by what right she 
 came to mix up her requests with hers ; but in spite of her habitual 
 timidity, Jules' mother only appeared slightly agitated by this look, 
 and there was in her glance something ironical all the time it waa 
 bent upon Madame Grillon. 
 
 This situation lasted for some considerable time. These ladies 
 waited in silence, and neither one nor other of them took a step or 
 backward movement to announce that she for a moment yielded 
 her place to the other. But all at once M. Guerreville gave an ex- 
 clamation of surprise and joy as he perceived someone pass along 
 the street. Soon brushing abruptly past the two ladies who were 
 before him, he hurried towards the door, and without taking time 
 to lift his hat, went out quickly. 
 
 "Edouard, Edouard, where are you going?" cried Agatha's 
 mamma, trying in vain to detain M. Guerreville. 
 
 Maria contented herself with looking at him passing out. When 
 he was gone, she fell back in her chair, murmuring, — 
 
 " So he has gone, and he has not promised to bring me back my 
 son." 
 
 " Oh, he would not have gone out so if I had been alone with 
 him," said Madame Grillon, walking with an angry air through the 
 room ; " but there are some people so indiscreet." 
 
 " Indiscreet ! " replied Maria, casting upon Madame Grillon a 
 look of disdain and anger. " It appears to me that the person who 
 deserves this epithet is she who, braving all the appearances, allows 
 herself to enter in spite of a servant telling her that his master is 
 not alone." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure I have broken in upon a" very interesting inter- 
 view for him — for Edouard. My poor friend, he was breathing like 
 a carp when I came in." 
 
 " I do not know, madame, if I wearied M. Guerreville, but in 
 any case I had not made him fly from the room." 
 
 " Made him fly, made him fly, madame ? Control your expres- 
 sions, if you please." 
 
166 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 These ladies had become so animated that they did not wish to 
 allow anything to pass, when the presence of a stranger put an end 
 to this scene. 
 
 It was Jenneval who came to see his friend, and whom George 
 had in a few words caused to comprehend everything. When he 
 entered the drawing-room, he knew that he should find there the 
 mothers of Agatha and Jules. He saluted these respectfully, and 
 approaching them, with a tone which inspired confidence, said, — 
 
 " You see in me, mesdames, Doctor Jenneval, the intimate friend 
 of M. Guerreville. George, his servant, had told me that he quitted 
 you a little abruptly. Kindly excuse my friend. Doubtless some 
 motive which we do not understand has obliged him to leave thus. 
 But if I can, ladies, do you any good on his behalf, I am quite at 
 your service." 
 
 There are some people who inspire confidence, seize upon our 
 interest at once. Jenneval was of that number, and those ladies 
 asked for nothing else than to speak. Each one hastened to repeat 
 to the Doctor what she had said to M. Guerreville, depending upon 
 the interest which he would have in Jules and Agatha. The 
 Doctor, who understood them perfectly, promised to cause M. 
 Guerreville to act, and if his friend could not be induced to do so, 
 that he would himself do what was necessary to bring back Agatha 
 to her mother's arms, and to withdraw Jules from the theatre, for 
 which he knew very well that the young man had no talent what- 
 ever. 
 
 Jenneval's words calmed the two mothers, and they returned 
 him thanks ; they went away more tranquil, but casting upon one 
 another looks which were far from being kindly. 
 
 " Poor women," said Jenneval, when the two women had gone. 
 " If they count upon the remembrance of sentiments which they 
 once inspired in M. Guerreville, they are much deceived, for he 
 has only one recollection, only one thought. But I shall act as 
 if I were he. I shall pursue M. Jules and Mademoiselle Agatha. 
 I shall have the trouble without having had the pleasures ; this is 
 the privilege of friendship. Now it is after him that I must run. 
 Why did he go away like a fool ! He must be found in order to 
 explain his conduct." 
 
 Jenneval was going out when the drawing-room door abruptly 
 opened. It was M. Guerreville, supporting a woman who appeared 
 less aged by years than by sufferings. This woman seemed to 
 be about fifty, and was covered with rags. Her face was thin and 
 frightfully pale, and at that moment one could read in her eyes an 
 expression of terror and disquiet, which gave to her whole person 
 a most miserable appearance. 
 
 M. Guerreville, whose features announced a lively anxiety, 
 mingled, however, with some hope, caused this woman, who ap- 
 peared to have difficulty in walking, to enter and sit down. 
 
 On perceiving Jenneval, he only said these words, — 
 
 " This is Madame Armand, who was with my daughter — who 
 ded with her." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 167 
 
 Jenneval understood, and approaching this woman, he listened 
 with as much anxiety as his friend to what she should say. 
 
 When she saw herself alone between the Doctor and M. 
 Guerreville, she joined her hands and fell on her knees, crying, — 
 
 " Mercy, mercy, I beg of you." 
 
 " Madame, fear nothing," replied M. Guerreville quickly. " You 
 have done me harm enough, but do you think I would revenge 
 myself by maltreating you ? Come, recall your recollections, which 
 appear to you troubled, but first of all tell me in one word, one 
 only — my daughter, what has become of my daughter ? " 
 
 " Alas ! sir, I am entirely ignorant." 
 
 " You don't know ? Oh, heavens, through you, at least, I hoped 
 to know what had become of her. But speak now, tell me all that 
 you have done ; forget nothing, not even the smallest circumstance ; 
 I listen." 
 
 " I am most culpable, sir," replied the poor woman in a trembling 
 voice. " Oh, yes, I know that I have unworthily betrayed your con- 
 fidence, but heaven has punished me. One does not prosper who 
 does a wicked action, and you see the proof of that in the sad posi- 
 tion in which you find me." 
 
 " To the facts, madame, to the facts. It is of my daughter and of 
 that miserable Daubray that you are to speak to me." 
 
 "You are right, sir. Excuse me, I shall recall my remem- 
 brances. Mademoiselle Pauline was an angel of goodness and 
 sensibility, and she was so pretty. She had such grace. This M. 
 Daubray fell desperately in love with her, and in spite of my care, 
 he found means to make Mademoiselle love him. Ah, sir, it needs 
 often but one word or a glance to make love arise. But Made- 
 moiselle Pauline did not believe that she was doing harm in loving 
 this young man. I myself at first believed that this marriage 
 might be, and your daughter would often have confided her secret 
 feelings to you if M. Daubray had not opposed it. One day he 
 came to me and said, — ' M. Guerreville has refused me his daughter, 
 and I have but one means of becoming her husband, and it is to carry 
 her off, and after that, her father will pardon us.' I rejected at 
 first this proposition ; but he offered me five thousand francs, and 
 I consented to serve him. Ah, sir, I knew that with you I wanted 
 nothing, but five thousand francs — I had never possessed such a 
 sum, and it appeared to me considerable. And then this M 
 Daubray never ceased to repeat to me, — ' Once Pauline's husband, 
 I shall return at once with her to go on my knees before her father, 
 who will pardon us.' What could I say ? I consented. There 
 only remained your daughter's decision. Poor thing, she did not 
 wish it at first. She never ceased repeating, — ' Let us go to my 
 father. For he loves me so much, he will consent to our mar- 
 riage.' But M. Daubray replied always, — • Confide in my tender- 
 ness and love. This means is the only one which will unite us.' 
 At last she consented. Then, without leaving her time for reflec- 
 tion, our flight was determined on for the following night. M. 
 Daubray had everything arranged and foreseen. A post-chaise 
 
168 The Monde and tJie Demi Monde. 
 
 and horses waited us behind the garden walls. Ah, sir, if in that 
 moment you had been witness to your daughter's grief — she called 
 upon you. She did not wish to go then. We had to carry her 
 off." 
 
 M. Guerreville made a sign to Madame Armand to stop for a 
 moment, and laying his head on his friend's breast, he gave a free 
 course to the tears which were choking him. Some minutes passed 
 thus, and then he made a sign to the woman to go on. 
 
 " We went off, sir. After having gone many leagues, we 
 stopped at dawn at an inn. There M. Daubray gave me the sum 
 which he had promised. ' It is useless,' he said, ' for you to con- 
 tinue with us. Your presence is no longer necessary to Pauline, 
 whose husband I am to be ; and I don't think you have any desire 
 to return to her father with us, as he will receive you very badly.' 
 As he said these words, he quitted me, without allowing me to 
 embrace your daughter once ; and since that day, sir, I have never 
 seen the dear child. But I heard privately of you, sir, and I came 
 to understand that my fault was greater than I had believed, since 
 your daughter did not return to you. As to what happened after- 
 wards, I feel that that would interest you little. But I must con- 
 fess that I soon felt great remorse for my fault. I came to Paris 
 with the sum I had. I wished to establish myself in a little busi- 
 ness, but this money brought me no good fortune. Nothing 
 succeeded with me. At the end of three years, not a sou remained 
 to me of that unlucky five thousand francs. Then I tried to obtain 
 a situation, but I fell ill and had to sell all I had. I had now very 
 little strength as well as means left. At length, having fallen into 
 frightful misery, and subsisting on alms, which I asked secretly, 
 I stopped in your street. I supported myself against a pillar, 
 because I seemed to be fainting. You see, sir, heaven has well 
 avenged you upon me." 
 
 " Ah, it is not vengeance ; it is my daughter 1 ask for ! In 
 perceiving you, I believed for a moment that you would aid me to 
 recover my Pauline ; and that hope has now been deceived. You 
 know nothing more ? " 
 
 " Alas ! sir, that I cannot at the expense of my life give you back 
 your child to-day ! Ah, it seems to me as if this crime would 
 weigh me down for ever ! " 
 
 At the moment when the beggar terminated her story, Jenneval 
 went out of the room. He returned soon with a bottle and a glass, 
 and presented some wine to the woman, saying, — 
 
 "Drink. This wine will give you strength. It will do you 
 good." 
 
 The poor woman did not know if she ought to accept, and 
 looked at M. Guerreville with a trembling air. Then need re- 
 moved her fear, and she accepted the glass of wine. After hav- 
 ing drunk of it, she bowed deeply and went towards the door, 
 murmuring, — 
 
 " I suppose you have nothing more to say to me, and that my 
 presence must be disagreeable to you ? " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 169 
 
 u One moment ! " exclaimed M. Guerreville. The beggar re- 
 turned, and remained motionless. Jenneval looked at his friend. 
 M. Guerreville approached Madame Armand. 
 
 " You. have done me great harm, madame ; but I do not wish 
 that she who has been the governess and the companion of my 
 daughter should be obliged to beg for her livelihood. Here, take 
 this purse. When it is empty, let me know, and I shall allow you 
 to want for nothing. Go, for the present." 
 
 " Ah, sir, such goodness, when I was so culpable ! " 
 
 And the poor woman wished to throw herself at M. Guerreville's 
 feet ; but he prevented her, and made her a sign to go. She went 
 to the door of the salon, then returning, she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah, sir, I remember ! perhaps this circumstance may interest 
 you." 
 
 " What is it, then ? Speak, madame." 
 
 M. Guerreville and the Doctor drew near to her as she con- 
 tinued, — 
 
 " Six months ago — yes, it is about six months — I passed along 
 the boulevards, and was crossing the street ; an elegant tilbury 
 passed in front of me. I stopped and looked. A man was in the 
 carriage. Ah, I recognised him well ! It was M. Daubray." 
 
 " Daubray, the ravisher of my daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; although eight years had passed since I had seen 
 him, I was certain. I could not be deceived." 
 
 " And my daughter, was she with him 1 " 
 
 " No, sir, he was alone." 
 
 " The scoundrel ! Then he has abandoned her ! " 
 
 " My dear Guerreville," said the Doctor, " what we have dis- 
 covered is most important. The meeting of this man in Paris in a 
 tilbury seems to prove that he resides habitually in this town." 
 
 " Yes, my friend, yes ; he is here, the traitor. I have more 
 peace now since I have discovered this, for I shall also meet him. 
 Go, madame, go. What you have told us now will, I trust, serve 
 us. If you should discover still anything more about that man, do 
 not fail to let me hear of it at once. Help me to know what this 
 wretch has done with my daughter. That will be the best way of 
 atoning for your fault." 
 
 " He is in Paris ! " cried M. Guerreville, walking with agitation 
 through the apartment. " And still rich, still happy, no doubt. 
 And my daughter, my poor daughter ! No one has seen her, no one 
 can give me any news of her. But what has he done with her, this 
 wretch ? Has he snatched her from her father's arms to abandon 
 her at once ? Has he killed her, this monster ? Oh, yes, she must 
 be dead ! If she had not been, she would have returned ere now 
 to weep on her father's bosom. Dead ! My daughter ! And this 
 man lives and enjoys in peace what his fortune procures for him ! 
 Ah, all his blood will not make up for my despair ! " 
 
 "My friend, calm yourself," said Jenneval, laying his arm on 
 M. Guerreville. " This Daubray is in Paris. We shall find him, I 
 am thoroughly persuaded. But nothing proves yet that your 
 
170 The Monde and the Demi Monde, 
 
 daughter has ceased to live. Let us hope, on the contrary, that we 
 shall find her." 
 
 " Ah ! Jenneval, I need to believe you, so that I may not 
 abandon myself to despair. Ah ! well, if this man will give me 
 back my daughter, I will spare his life, and I shall let him alone 
 for ever ; but he must give me my Pauline. Ah ! what a long time 
 have I mourned her." 
 
 M. Guerreville let himself fall into a chair. He was overcome 
 by the sensations he experienced. The Doctor tried to calm him. 
 When he saw his friend more tranquil, he approached him, and said 
 in a low voice, — 
 
 " You left these two ladies whom I found here, Madame Grillon 
 and Jules' mother. They came to implore your help. You know 
 that your god-daughter Agatha has gone off with M. Adalgis, I 
 know not whither, and that M. Jules has signed an engagement as 
 a jeune premier in some travelling troupe. The two mothers are in 
 distress. They think that you ought to take some interest in their 
 children." 
 
 M. Guerreville, who seemed to listen very attentively to his 
 friend, rose up all at once, and took his hat, exclaiming, — 
 
 " There is a tilbury ; it is going along the promenades and the 
 Bois Boulogne ; I shall go and meet it. Come, Jenneval, let us go." 
 
 " Certainly," said the Doctor, following his friend ; " but I see 
 that it is necessary for me to run after Mademoiselle Agatha and 
 M. Jules." 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 THE COMEDIANS' CAE& 
 
 M. Guerreville spent his days in wandering through the most 
 fashionable promenades of the capital. Sometimes he rode and pur- 
 sued his investigations in the suburbs. A tilbury, a cabriolet, any 
 equipage was often followed by him, when he imagined he saw 
 the man he longed to discover. He came back in the evening 
 fatigued, and on retiring to rest promised himself to begin again 
 next day. 
 
 As the Doctor had foreseen, M Guerreville, occupied only with 
 his daughter's ravisher, thought nothing more of Maria nor her 
 son. But while he raced after all these equipages, Jenneval did 
 what he could do to recover Jules and Agatha. 
 
 There was in Paris a certain caf6, or rather a wine shop called 
 the Comedians' Cafe. While the greater number of establishments 
 of this sort rivalled each other in luxuriousness, mirrors, gilding, 
 paintings, and elegance, the Comedians' Cafe^ which was situated 
 in the Rue des Deux-Ecus, remained faithful to its old oily 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 171 
 
 appearance and smoky tints. It had nothing modern or graceful ; 
 it is true that people did not go there to admire each others 
 dress, or take ices. They played pool, and smoked ; often indeed 
 the larger number of those who went took nothing, but only spoke 
 of their business. 
 
 This gloomy cafe, which no one would have remarked from the 
 outside, is yet one of the most frequented in Paris. About the 
 last fortnight of Easter especially, which is the time when actors 
 and actresses make their engagements, the Comedians' Cafe 
 receives so many that it becomes rather crowded. Then numerous 
 groups are found in the street, before the door ; often the crowd 
 which stands and talks there only allows vehicles to pass them 
 with difficulty. You would believe that they arranged these, as be- 
 fore Tortoni's, bourse matters, and commercial operations generally. 
 They arrange affairs, indeed, but those only which are dramatic. 
 It is the theatre which gives them a livelihood, or at least which 
 ought to do so, to all those persons whom you see come and go, and 
 accost and talk to and with each other. There engagements are 
 made for the provinces, sometimes even for abroad. There those 
 come who have ceased to be employed ; those who seek for them, as 
 well as some who wish to break their engagements ; and all these 
 people you see there have talents of the first order, or at least they 
 think so. 
 
 Jenneval resolved to go to the Comedians' Cafe to seek news of 
 Jules, who had not returned to his parents. One afternoon the 
 Doctor went to the Eue des Deux-Ecus. He saw some groups of 
 talkers reaching over the pavement; this indicated to him the 
 direction in which he should search. 
 
 He wound his way among many individuals who were lighting 
 each other's pipes or cigars. The Doctor then went inside the cafe, 
 and the picture which met his eyes was far from what he had ex- 
 pected to see in the Cafe" des Comediens. 
 
 When one is not initiated in the mysteries of the theatre and 
 the affairs of the coulisses, this name Comedians' Cafe appears to 
 promise a gay, amiable, and seductive gathering, in which you 
 think you will discover some portion of all that has pleased you at 
 the theatre. You imagine you are going to see that young premikre 
 as she was in her favourite parts ; you reckon on finding the piquant 
 soubrette, the ingenious young woman with her artless graces, the 
 elegant lover, the marquis of good society. But how are you 
 surprised on entering the Comedians' Cafe ! You don't see any- 
 thing of what has charmed you — in those gentlemen who smoke or 
 play pool. You do not discover those graces and elegant forms 
 which have delighted you at the theatre, and you are tempted to 
 say to them, " Ah, heavens ! gentlemen, why have you not the air 
 of artistes ? " You seek for the actresses ; they are in small numbers, 
 and keep the inner part of the cafe ; but now they remain like the 
 men near the billiard table. That young woman you see seated 
 at a table, where she eats a cherry salad, is a Gavandan who came 
 from Nantes, and is going to Montpellier ; she who eats apples 
 
172 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 near her, and appears to be discussing with her neighbour, is an 
 ingenue who has thrice changed her travelling companion since she 
 left Paris. Having gone away with a young premier, she quitted 
 him for a colin, who in turn gave way to a basso. Now she has re- 
 turned with a second comic. It results from this, that these ladies 
 having the habit of taking the name of the lover with whom they 
 live, are known in Paris as Madame A., at Rouen as Madame B., 
 and you find them elsewhere as Madame C. The wisest thing to 
 do, when you see one of these ladies, is to say, " How is she named 
 at present ? " 
 
 Besides, these changes are nearly always voluntary on both 
 sides ; they associate, they quit, and they return to each other, and 
 are not the less good friends. It often happens that the lover who 
 is in hand, meeting some time afterwards his lady's old lover, says 
 to him, — 
 
 " My friend, would you oblige me by giving your arm to my 
 wife for a moment ? " 
 
 The arm is at once offered, and madame, who is now another's 
 wife, walks along with him whose name she formerly bore, and 
 who is no longer her comrade. 
 
 Accordingly we see that, among the people attached to the 
 theatre, there are many usages which resemble those of St Simon's 
 followers. 
 
 But I don't need to tell you that such things are rare among 
 the first-class artists, and among our highly talented and renowned 
 actresses ; some of these do not even know the Comedians' Cafe, it 
 having been established only for the dramatic democracy. 
 
 Jenneval placed himself in a corner of the caf6, and looked 
 around him with observation. 
 
 A gentleman of a certain age, whose wig came considerably over 
 his ears, and who concealed his chin and the half of his mouth in 
 an enormous cravat, approached the stove, giving out deep sounds 
 which imitated those of a " church serpent." He interrupted him- 
 self frequently to cough, which he did with a force which seemed 
 to be affected. One could see that in coughing this gentleman 
 could easily make as much noise as a cannon. 
 
 " According to all appearance, this gentleman plays bass," said 
 Jenneval to himself. 
 
 And drawing near the man with the deep voice, he offered him 
 a pinch of snuff, which was accepted with much ceremony ; the 
 Doctor at the same time remarking that, in place of taking it with 
 his fingers, this gentleman filled half his hand with snuff, which 
 he quietly emptied into his waistcoat pocket, carrying only a little 
 pinch to his nose. But without seeming to remark this f oresigb t 
 in managing his snuff, the Doctor began conversation. 
 " You are an artist, no doubt ? " 
 
 " First bass . . . hum ! hum ! . . . baritone if necessary, hum ! A 
 musician to the points of the fingers, hum ! hum ! I have a hoarse- 
 ness in my throat. Possessing a fine instrument, hum ! whuh 
 has never left me in th delighted all the Southern 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 175 
 
 towns — pouach ! pouach ! Ah ! ah ! it is a c-c-cold I have caught 
 
 behind the scenes. 
 
 • Thy love, sweet girl 
 Has consoled me for It all I ' 
 
 Hum !hum!" 
 
 " Monsieur comes from the provinces ? " 
 
 " I come from Bordeaux ... I was engaged for a year, hum ! 
 hum ! I only remained a fortnight. I broke my engagement ; I dis- 
 liked it. At Bordeaux they don't care for anything but dancing. 
 I made them some superb organ points. They were enchanted. 
 But they whistled to play a trick on the manager, who did not 
 give them ballets enough. I said to the director, your public adore 
 me, I know that well enough ; but it annoys me that you should 
 have enemies who whistle while I sing. I wish to go ; and you shall 
 give ten thousand francs per representation, for which I do not re- 
 main. The manager had tears in his eyes. He wished with all his 
 heart to keep me, . . . hum ! hum ! but I would not, and I am 
 going to finish the theatrical year at Beaugency, hum ! They were 
 very pleased to have me in that country. Ah ! f . . . they have 
 not yet a voice of my calibre. I make my debut in the '"Deserter! " 
 
 %i Ah ! you play the part of deserter ? " 
 
 " What do you say ? a puling fellow who has nothing to sing ? 
 I am Courchemin ! I sing that fine air Le roi Passait . . . hum ! 
 hum ! . . . and Le Tambour Battait, hum ! hum ! . . . Battait aux 
 Champs ... a superb air ; it is in such as that one can show his 
 powers. Might I ask a pinch — " 
 
 "Willingly." 
 
 " It is excellent, your snuff." 
 
 The basso thrust his hand into the Doctor's snuff-box, and 
 executed the same manoeuvre as before. 
 
 A gentleman of forty, who had a fair boyish wig, cotton in his 
 ears, two pinchbeck chains passed round his neck, a hair chain on 
 his waistcoat, some big trinkets at his watch, rings with false bril- 
 liants on all his fingers, a shabby blue coat, a worn pair of trousers, 
 with strings for straps, shoes, blue stockings, and frills, came up 
 jumping, and brought his hand down on the basso's shoulder. 
 
 " Good-day, old man." 
 
 " Good-day, good-day, hum ! hum ! " 
 
 " Well, look here, this is done. I have signed this morning — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Ah, parbleu ! my engagement for Perpignan. The premier 
 lovers and the premier parts, and the marquises, and the premier 
 comics — without exception." 
 
 " Then you play everything that resembles * utilities ' — you go 
 to act there ? " 
 
 " Utilities ! — you don't understand, then — a splendid engag- 
 ment ! I chose the rdles I wished ; the salary is four thousand 
 francs, without rehearsing, a benefit — hum ! hum ! They are 
 fine, those benefits, at Perpignan ! I played some time there. 
 It is a town where there is nothing done for artists." 
 
1 74 The Mo?ide and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Bah ! you are joking — the theatre is, on the contrary, well 
 patronised. They would have given me twenty thousand if I would 
 have taken it." 
 
 " You are very particular. I regretted to hear that you had a 
 disagreement at Bordeaux." 
 
 " A disagreement, I — Who told you this nonsense % " 
 
 " To-day — it is at Daudel's I saw it — to-day at the Boreau some 
 one who said that you had been hissed." 
 
 " Hissed ! I, on the contrary, I have been overwhelmed with 
 applauses, my dear fellow, so that in my grand airs they would 
 not allow me to finish, hum ! hum ! Ah, good heavens, it was 
 a wonderful sound which greeted me as I went on the stage." 
 
 " Why have you left it, then 1 " 
 
 " Ah, why has the director enemies ? That is quite another 
 thing — special affairs ; and then I took cold too often at Bor- 
 deaux. I said I don't see how to give pleasure to these scoundrels. 
 I should leave my instrument. I am asking for another pinch 
 from you." 
 
 "With great pleasure." 
 
 Jenneval presented his snuff-box. After the third pinch, there 
 remained nothing inside it." 
 
 " Are you going to Perpignan," asked the Doctor, addressing 
 a second person." 
 
 " Yes, sir. In ten days I am bound to be there. I have re- 
 ceived five hundred francs in advance." 
 
 " Hum, hum — pouach ! " 
 
 This time the basso seemed to cough with a mocking air, making 
 a slight movement of his shoulders, which announced that he did 
 not put much faith in what was said by his companion. Jenneval 
 himself thought it singular enough that the colin, having received 
 five hundred francs in advance, should not be able to purchase a 
 pair of straps to replace his strings. But that did not hinder him 
 from carrying on the conversation. 
 
 " You must know many managers in the provinces ? " 
 
 " Nearly all. I have wandered from town to town. I like to 
 change, for I am not sedentary. And then that allowed me to see 
 the country. It is amusing and instructive. I have some taste, 
 and a very complete wardrobe. I would not give it for six thou- 
 sand francs. Ah, I believe I see my wife ! " 
 
 The tenor rushed off, and the old cougher went off, saying to the 
 Doctor, — 
 
 " There is a fellow who is a hoaxer of the first quality, that is, 
 very fine. His wardrobe, well, you can see a specimen of it on 
 him. He is all made up from his voice to his calves, hum! Just think 
 that in order to make a fuss in the towns to which he goes, he goes 
 with two or three empty portmanteaus. But what would my 
 tenor do in order to obtain credit from his host ! He has scarcely 
 got to his inn, when he nails his boxes down, and fixes them with 
 care to the ground, and then locks them. Now, the first thing an 
 inn-keeper does, when he lodges an actor, is to go and feel hia 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 175 
 
 boxeSj so as to judge by their weight whether he may be able to 
 pay his expenses while staying with him. They do this with the 
 tenor's mails, too ; but when they try to lift them, it is impossible. 
 They cannot move them. Then the silly inn-keeper is quite easy. 
 He says to himself, ' Oh, there is here a good guarantee for my 
 expenses,' and he continues to give credit. This is only one of the 
 thousand games of this fellow, hum ! hum ! A good enough fellow 
 otherwise, and passable in the Trial; but he can't help bordering 
 on the amorous. Oh, I cannot stand him ! I must ask you for 
 another pinch." 
 
 " I am so sorry, but there is no more." 
 
 " Oh, it does not matter. It is just habit. 
 
 A little thin man, yellow, ugly, marked with small-pox, ap- 
 proached them, declaiming, his hands in his surtout pockets, and 
 rollirig his eyes round him like a conspirator. The basso nodded 
 to him, and the gentleman replied, murmuring in a hollow voice, — 
 
 " Oh, this uncertainty is cruel torment." 
 
 " An hour of waiting still to expire." 
 
 " Superb ! " said the basso. 
 
 " Are you going to Lyons ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How do they treat you there ? " 
 
 " They crown me." 
 
 " You have received a wreath ? " 
 
 " Every time I have played — crowned." 
 
 " Ah, that is like me at Bordeaux, hum ! hum ! Have you 
 given any representations at Chalons ? " 
 
 " Three in succession ; that is to say, three pieces in the same 
 evening." 
 
 " With success ? " 
 
 " Crowned." 
 
 " Plague take it, it appears that tragedy is taking in the pro- 
 vinces this year, and yet I have been told that there was a greater 
 demand for opera comique and vaudeville" 
 
 " Ah, yes, they don't make a sou with their opera." 
 
 " Because they have no basso." 
 
 " That is possible. I am looking for the manager of the Douai 
 Theatre — that is to say, his secretary, who is in Paris, and who is 
 trying with all his might to find me." 
 
 "If he wishes so much to find you, it seems as if it should.be 
 his place to seek for you." 
 
 " But I tell you, he told me to wait for him here." 
 
 " Who are those serpents who hiss around my head ? " 
 
 " Have you played at Douai before ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, that is the reason they are so anxious for me to re- 
 turn. I have played Hamlet, Nero, Agamemnon, The Misanthrope, 
 Antoni, The Thirty Years" 
 
 " Ah, they like the drama there." 
 
 u They devour it. They come to seek me in my box, and they 
 carry me off in triumph. I was crowned every evening." 
 
176 The Monde and tlie Demi Monde. 
 
 " Hum ! hum ! my throat is as dry as an almond." 
 
 " Would you accept a glass of beer ? " said Jenneval, approach- 
 ing a table. 
 
 The opera player seemed much touched by this proposal, and 
 delighted. He said, — 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure." 
 
 The tragedian followed these gentlemen, saying, " My faith, 
 yes ; a glass of beer will not be disagreeable." 
 
 They sat down at a table. This had many occupants, but most 
 of them were only playing at dominoes. All their looks were turned 
 towards the direction from which a bottle was coming. 
 
 Jenneval had called for three glasses, and he was just helping 
 the two artists when the tenor took a stool and seated himself at 
 the table saying, — 
 
 " Come, you are drinking beer ; well, I shall follow you, waiter, 
 — a glass." 
 
 " This gentleman has done us the honour to invite us," said the 
 tragedian, casting a severe glance upon the newcomer." 
 
 " What does it matter ? " said the Doctor ; " this gentleman is 
 not too many — waiter, a glass and some beer." The tenor did not 
 make any objection, but held out his glass, singing — 
 
 1 The greater fools they are, the more they laugh. 
 The greater fools—' " 
 
 " Do not make it froth, if you please." 
 
 " Excellent beer," said the basso. 
 
 " I shall drink better at Douai," said the tragedian. 
 
 " Ah ! you are going to Douai, are you," said the tenor. " Ah ! 
 some strange adventures once happened to me there. I was a little 
 hard up ; I had eaten up all my ' advances ' when I arrived. I 
 recollected that I played a marquis' part. I was obliged to take 
 the screens off my window, and make a cravat and handkerchief 
 for myself. Ah, ha ! we did laugh so at this ! " 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Doctor, " the whole three of you are artists, 
 and widely known for your talents. I see — " 
 
 The men bowed, the basso coughed. 
 
 " Well," said Jenneval, " you may possibly be able to do me a 
 great service." 
 
 "Ask what you will," answered the tenor, slapping himself, 
 " provided there is no money in the matter." 
 
 " Oh, there is nothing about money in it," said Jenneval, smiling. 
 
 " I was only joking." 
 
 " Besides, you ought not be short just now, as you have got five 
 thousand francs advanced to you," said the basso to the tenor. 
 
 " I have given them to my wife, for the expenses of her confine- 
 ment." 
 
 "To your wife! And she had an infant about three months 
 ago ?" 
 
 " Well, if she should be going to have another, what objection 
 have you "" " 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 177 
 
 " Silence, gentlemen, yon are keeping this gentleman from 
 speaking." 
 
 " We are ready to listen, sir." 
 
 The Doctor went on, — 
 
 " A young man, son of a lady in whom I am interested, took a 
 great fancy for the stage ; his parents are in trade, and they werfe 
 anxious to see their son continue their business. Now, if this 
 young man had any theatrical talent, I should have advised them 
 to allow him to follow a career which offers so many attractions. 
 But, far from that, I believe he of whom I speak will never be any- 
 thing but a very poor actor ; and in that case, do you not think 
 that it would be better that he should renounce the stage ? " 
 
 " Yes ; no doubt, sir." 
 
 "Poor boy, if he only knew what the theatre is in the pro- 
 vinces ! " 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" 
 
 " Three-fourths of the time unpaid ! " 
 
 "What fatigues, injustices, disgusts, and nothing to supper — 
 that's what's before him ! " 
 
 " Ah, sir, if you have any control over him, keep him away 
 from the stage ! " 
 
 Jenneval saw with surprise those three men who, some moments 
 before, spoke only of their success and triumphs, so agreed in 
 advising one to avoid their career ; he thought that actors preserved 
 almost always in society the habit of playing comedy, but that there 
 are some moments when they speak from the heart, and cease to be 
 comedians. 
 
 " And what has your young man done ? " asked the tragedian. 
 
 " What has he done ? Good heavens ! he has left his parents 
 eight days ago, saying to them that he was engaged for the pro- 
 vinces." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! a fine piece of wisdom ! That is in my style," said 
 the tenor ; " for I panted to enter the profession." 
 
 " And what part will he take ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I think he will play anything they wish him to — but he 
 is fine lad, not yet twenty years of age. They will doubtless make 
 him a lover — " 
 
 " Or a queue rouge" said the basso, " which signifies John 
 Thomas or an awkward footman. Still, if he has any voice, hum ! 
 hum — " 
 
 " He has none at all — " 
 
 " He goes on the stage without a voice ! These young people 
 are amazing; they stick at nothing — and he is really engaged for 
 the opera ? " 
 
 " It is possible." 
 
 " And for what town is he booked 1 " 
 
 " That is exactly what I want to know myself." 
 
 " What is his name ? " 
 
 " Jules Gallet." 
 
 " Oh! he will without doubt assume a stage-name ? " 
 
 U a 
 
178 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " His description ? " 
 
 " Not yet twenty, fair, tall, high coloured — a fine-looking fellow, 
 but a little delicate." 
 
 " Listen, we must make inquires. Here is the second Lais, who 
 Aas all the news — he is always running about the theatrical agents. 
 Hallo, there, Gros- Amour ! " 
 
 The artist whom his comrades called Gros- Amour was a pretty 
 stout man, about fifty, but still fine-looking, dressed with consider- 
 able pretensions, and extremely correct as to his garments ; his 
 accent announced him a child of the Garonne. He came up 
 smiling, showed all his thirty-two teeth, and placed his hand on his 
 hips. 
 
 " ' When one waits for his belle, 
 What a cruel waiting it is 1* 
 
 Good-day, my children. Sir, I have the honour — ah, you here, 
 tragedy. I heard of you at Lyons." 
 
 " Crowned ! " murmured the thin, yellow little man, as he 
 quaffed his beer. 
 
 " That is like me at Toulouse, 
 
 • 0, Eichard ! 0, mon roi 1 ' 
 
 Come, do you wish some wreaths ? My pockets are full of them." 
 
 And M. Gros- Amour drew forth a packet of foliage, some twigs 
 of which fell on the basso's head. 
 
 " She is at her address — my old — " 
 
 " Hum ! hum ! Thanks, Gros- Amour." 
 
 " "We have an inquiry to make of you," said the tenor. 
 
 " An inquiry ? Speak. I am like the solitary ' I see — I know 
 everything, I ' — and you are having some beer ? " 
 
 " If you, sir, will do me the favour to accept a glass," said 
 Jenneval, bowing with a pleasant air to M. Gros- Am our. 
 
 " A glass ! You are very good. Yet I like something else 
 better. Beer is too cold for a fellow from the South." 
 
 " Waiter, a bowl of punch 1 " cried the Doctor immediately. 
 
 Then M. Gros- Amour sat down at the table, nearly overturning 
 the basso and tenor. But the announcement of a bowl of punch 
 had produced a general commotion in the cafe\ The waiter was 
 afraid he had badly understood. He made the Doctor thrice 
 repeat the order, and he had a surprised look as he was asked for a 
 bowl at one order. He ran to the counter and announced this 
 great news to his mistress. 
 
 Then the last comer was questioned as to news of Jules. After 
 having reflected for some time, M. Gros- Amour slapped his fore- 
 head, and cried, — 
 
 " The little Dagazon of Limoges has spoken to me of a fine-look- 
 ing fellow she has known at— I don't know which dramatic agency. 
 "Wait, we can question her. Do you wish that I should call her ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Jenneval, who had resolved to treat the whole 
 troupe, & ifc were necessary, to get upon Jules' track. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 179 
 
 " Ho ! he ! ho 1 Minnie . . . he I he ! . . . Minnie, ho ! " 
 
 This call was made in roulades by M. Gros- Amour, and a young, 
 very nice-looking woman, but whose toilette was extremely worn, 
 came from the end of the cafe, eating an enormous cake, and said to 
 the Southern artist in a contralto voice, — 
 
 " Well, what does he mean by always calling me, that animal ? 
 Is it to pay for my cider ? " 
 
 " This gentleman offers us a glass of punch. I believe, madame, 
 that will be better than cider. 
 
 1 All her pleasures were mine, 
 I remember it well I 
 I remember it well J ' " 
 
 At that moment a bowl of punch was brought in, and its bluish 
 flame produced a considerable commotion among all the people in 
 the cafe\ The Dagazon did not need to be pressed. She took a seat 
 next Jenneval, and said to the waiter, — 
 
 " Another glass, please." 
 
 "Where are you this year, Minnie?" asked the tenor of the 
 young woman who joined them. 
 
 " Oh — I am — I don't know where — I walk about and give my- 
 Belf the air — all the managers hate me. One of them proposed an 
 engagement of me as first lover, on condition that I should also 
 sing in the chorus when they needed a member, and then that 
 I should dance when necessary. I said, I thank you ; you ought 
 to ask me also to beat the drum before your door, crying, ' Come 
 in, ladies and gentlemen ; take your tickets, t-t-take your tickets ! 
 We are about to begin ! ' " 
 
 " All the artists began to laugh, and the Doctor could not help 
 imitating them, because the Dagazon had finished her discourse by 
 imitating in a quite orginal manner the gestures and voice of 
 a doorkeeper. She took her glass of punch off at a draught, then 
 she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah ! how hot it is — but I like it the better for that. This 
 will cure my headache." 
 
 While Jenneval was taking his punch, a woman of about fifty, 
 covered with rouge and patches, and affecting to speak and walk 
 very quickly, to let it be seen that she played soubrettes and such 
 parts, stopped in front of the table, saying to the tragedian, — 
 
 " Plague take it, what luxury you indulge in ! Is this the 
 manager at Perou who is with you ? " 
 
 The tragedian, who was half -intoxicated by the punch he had 
 drank, contrary to his custom, raised his head, murmuring, — 
 
 " Crowned ! " 
 
 " Who is this who talks about bring crowned ? Do you think 
 I am speaking of the horse" which has taken fourteen of us in a car 
 from Moulins? Ah ! he was funnily crowned, indeed — poor 
 Troupe-la-Mort ! he would have played Kosinante well." 
 
 During this conversation they had questioned the Dagazon 
 about the young man she had seen sign an agreement, and the 
 Dagazon listened, and held out her glass, saying, — 
 
180 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Wait a moment — another glass of punch. I must recall the 
 circumstances — pour on yet. A light blonde and not very strong, 
 but well enough looking — there ought to be a little more brandy in 
 this. Yes ! I have it ; he is engaged for Moulins." 
 
 " For Moulins ! you think so ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it. He will have to play the young premiers of 
 all kinds, and the noble fathers if need be." 
 
 " What name did he sign ? " 
 
 " He called himself Jules — Gale — Gagor — ° 
 
 "Gallet?" 
 
 " Yes ; Gallet, or Galette. They asked him if he would lake 
 a stage name, and they gave him the name, and he signed Jules 
 Galette dit St Florival." 
 
 " That is all right ; and he is going to Moulins. Has he gone ? " 
 
 " I don't know — I believe he does not go till to-morrow ; you 
 can know from the diligences — he ought to take the Lafitte and 
 Caillard coach." 
 
 " Infinitely obliged ; madame, gentlemen, enchanted to have 
 made your acquaintance." 
 
 " We equally so, sir." 
 
 Four hands were presented to press those of the Doctor, who 
 shook them all cordially ; then, having paid the bill, he left the 
 cafe, followed by the bows of the waiter and the glances of the 
 Dagazon and the soubrette. 
 
 " To Moulins ! " said Jenneval, hurrying towards the omnibua 
 office. " It was for that town that Jules was engaged. He haa 
 probably not gone yet. I shall wait and speak to him. I shall try 
 to cure him of his theatrical mania. I shall see the agent, and 
 pay him a forfeit on the engagement, and bring this young man 
 back to his mother. I shall then only have to concern myself 
 with Mademoiselle Agatha Grill on, whom I shall perhaps have 
 more difficulty in bringing back, or keeping from flight." 
 
 The Doctor arrived in the court of the public conveyances ; 
 it was night, but the lights placed about the court enabled the 
 travellers to be distinguished still. 
 
 In looking for the "Moulins coaches, Jenneval found himself 
 surrounded by many passengers of both sexes, who were dismount- 
 ing, and seeking to recognise those about them. 
 
 A gentleman, who had a jersey above his under-coat and a 
 surtout above his jersey, then a cloak above his surtout, and a silk 
 handkerchief on his head, a cotton cap and a hood, threw about the 
 packets, portmanteaus, and valises, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Well, no one to wait on me, and no one to receive me as I 
 come from the coach. How nice that is, having a wife, a - sister, 
 and a servant. For a trifle, I would go back again to Lyons. And 
 I, who have been kind enough to bring them an enormous sausage, 
 of which my wife is so fond, and some of the biggest chestnuts for 
 my sister — " 
 
 "The Eue de Kevol6?" asked a tall traveller, whose accent 
 showed him to be English. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 181 
 
 "The best hotel and the cheapest?" asked a young man, ad- 
 dressing a commissionaire. ,■„. ■»•., ,* 
 « I want to go to an hotel in the Eue de Revole, where the 
 
 fashionable English go—" 
 
 " AJiacre, if you please. Bring a Jiacref" said two old ladies, 
 hidden in big hats and green veils. 
 
 " I want to go at once to the Palais-Royal," said a little gentle- 
 man, stumbling about among the packets, and looking all around 
 him as if he hoped to find the Palais-Royal in the court of the 
 diligences. 
 
 The Doctor entered into the midst of this company. He asked 
 about the Moulins coach. They told him it had gone an hour ago. 
 He made them give the names of the travellers who were in it, and 
 he saw in the list Jules Gallet dit Florival. 
 
 " I have come too late," said Jenneval. " He is gone, and I 
 can't run after him to Moulins. Besides, there he would not listen 
 to me. He would not break his engagement. Let him play, then. 
 Let him be an actor. But he has no talent. And they will hiss 
 him so much that he will soon come back to his mother." 
 
 And the Doctor was leaving the diligence court, when he found 
 himself face to face with a little gentleman, who, by his manner, he 
 at once saw to be his friend Yadevant. 
 
 " Ah, it is you, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, myself. But what are you doing in this court 1 You 
 seem to be laughing." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is very funny. I am delighted with the chance 
 which has allowed me to see — oh, it is delicious, he, he ! " 
 
 " May one not share your amusement ? " 
 
 " That is easy enough. And I engage that you will laugh as I 
 did when you know the persons. You must know, first, that I came 
 here to put my cousins Devaux into the diligence. You know 
 them — your patients ? " 
 
 " How, are they leaving Paris ? " 
 
 " At present. But mamma Devaux has had a letter to say that 
 at Coulommiers there are two young men marriageable who would 
 suit her girls perfectly. So my cousin said to me, ' Let us go for a 
 trip to Coulommiers. "V^ have relations there. My daughters 
 will show their talents and graces. And it is probable they will 
 return with the title of married ladies.' " 
 
 " I thought they were to be married in Paris ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. There were some preliminaries, some proposals on the 
 part of a M. Delaberge, a young fashionable rake. But I have 
 broken off all that. I had some information. I found out that he 
 was a bad rascal. He would have made my young cousins miser- 
 able. I went to him, and said, * I forbid you, sir, to think any more 
 of my young cousins.' " 
 
 " Did he want to marry both ? " 
 
 " No ; but he wavered between them quite undecided. What 
 an abominable young man that Delaberge is ! A little, impertinent 
 fellow, who wished to try to take high ground with me ; but I 
 
182 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 quickly took him down. I don't believe he ever wishes to see me 
 again. In spite of that, it is to distract my young cousins a little 
 that their mother has taken them to Coulommiers. But I must 
 come to what made me laugh. After having put my cousins in the 
 diligence, I went about the court a little. I observed — you know I 
 am a great observer — I saw a coach which was going off I didn't 
 know where. It's all the same. I drew near to look at the 
 travellers. I saw in a corner, on a bench, a woman seated by 
 a gentleman. They were quite near each other, and the young 
 woman had the appearance of concealing herself, turning her head 
 away when people passed. All this piqued my curiosity. I con- 
 cealed myself behind the coach. I examined my young couple. 
 Judge of my surprise. I recognised Mademoiselle Agatha Grillon. 
 Ah, but, by-the-way, you don't know her." 
 
 " Pardon me, I know her a great deal, on the contrary." 
 
 " Then you will laugh with me." 
 
 " And the young man — " 
 
 " The young man ! Faith, I don't his name, but I am pretty 
 certain that I saw him at Madame Grillon's on the day my cousin 
 introduced me there — a smart fellow." 
 
 " Well, where are they now ? Ah, they got into a conveyance 
 where there were two seats left, and off went the team ! The affaif 
 has the appearance of an elopement to me." 
 
 " And you allowed them to go ? " 
 
 " Why not ? I neither know their mother nor their aunt. 1 
 had no mission to stop the young couple — but I laughed — I did 
 laugh very much. I was only annoyed because they hadn't got 
 into the same coach with my cousins, for that would have, been 
 very funny." 
 
 " And what coach have they gone by ? " 
 
 " These have been so many coming and going this evening that 
 I really don't know which." 
 
 Jenneval went to the office to ask concerning M. Adalgis and 
 Mademoiselle Agatha, but the clerk had written down those names, 
 which doubtless the fugitives had offered to give on going off. 
 
 " My faith," said the Doctor, " let Mademoiselle Agatha travel 
 about a little with M. Adalgis. I believa it is too late to stop them 
 now. They will return when they have no more money. I have 
 done everything I could, and my efforts have been useless. Let us 
 return to Guerreville, and be happy with him." 
 
 Jenneval then left the diligence court, while Yadevant went 
 and hid under a carriage to observe some new couple. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 18 8 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 , THE CEREMONY. 
 
 Jenneval went to relate to M. Guerre ville what he had done, 
 and the result of his efforts to recover Jules and Agatha. He closed 
 his narrative by saying, — 
 
 " Is it necessary to go to Moulins to bring back Madame Gallet's 
 son ? Is it necessary to send emissaries and couriers along all the 
 roads, so as to bring back Mademoiselle Agatha and her lover ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville heaved a deep sigh, and murmured, — 
 
 " I don't know — I don't know how it can be done. They wish to 
 quit their parents, and Jules only dreams of the theatre. That 
 young Agatha, it is of her own free will she goes, and, without 
 shedding a tear she leaves her mother. Ah ! it is not after people 
 like that that we must run — " 
 
 " And you," said the Doctor, sitting down near his friend, " and 
 have you heard nothing ? You have not yet met this Daubray % " 
 
 " I have heard nothing, and I do not know what demon pro- 
 tects that man from my vengeance. I rush everywhere about, 
 sometimes going over several districts of Paris in one day, and all 
 in vain. This Daubray seems invisible and unrecoverable." 
 
 " It is most inconceivable." 
 
 M. Guerreville and his friend were plunged in their reflections. 
 Both seated in front of the fire, they conversed no longer, but 
 the same thought occupied them. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Doctor was 
 about to leave him, worn out as M. Guerreville was of his hurrying 
 about all day, when a bell was heard. 
 
 " Who can come here so late to see me, who scarcely sees any- 
 body at any time but you ? " 
 
 "Perhaps it is that Madame Armand," said Jenneval. "She 
 may have something new — " 
 
 " Ah, can it be possible ? " 
 
 M. Guerreville waited with anxiety till the door at last was 
 opened. 
 
 " Sir," said George, " it is a man, an Auvergnat, whom monsieur 
 knows, who wishes to speak to him." 
 
 " An Auvergnat ? Jerome, no doubt." 
 
 " Yes, Jerome ; that is the name he gave me." 
 
 " Bid him come in." 
 
 " Poor Jerome," said M. Guerreville. " I had entirely forgotten 
 him as well as his daughter. I shall be very pleased to see him." 
 
 The water-carrier appeared at the door, but seemed afraid to 
 advance. He held his hat in his hand, and bowed nearly to the 
 ground as he murmured, — 
 
 " Pardon me — excuse me for the liberty I have taken in coming 
 to you." 
 
 u Come in, my good Jerome ; I am much pleased by your visit. 
 
184 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 I thank you for not having forgotten me. Come and sit down 
 near us. This gentleman is my second self. His presence need 
 not disconcert you." 
 
 Jerome bowed in turn to the Doctor and M. Guerreville, stand- 
 ing in the middle of the room as if he had no power to sit down. 
 It was only on an express request by M. Guerreville that he at last 
 took a position on the corner of a chair. 
 
 " What has brought you to me^Jerome ? " asked M. Guerreville, 
 bringing his chair near that of the Auvergnat, who remained 
 obstinately fixed in the middle of the room. " If it is only to see 
 me, I am quite pleased, and thank you, my friend. If it is to ask 
 something from me, speak, I shall be very glad to be useful to 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, heavens, you are too good, sir ! " replied Jerome, twirling 
 his hat about on his knee. " I am glad I have come to you to-day ; 
 for some days past I was anxious to consult you. And, 'faith, 
 this evening, when my work was over, I delayed no longer. You 
 had given me your address, and I had not forgotten it." 
 
 " Ah, well, my friend, tell me what has brought you." 
 
 " It is on the subject of my little one, my Zizinette. Monsieur 
 remembers the little Zizine ? " 
 
 " Yes, your daughter." 
 
 " A child who would have at once interested you, Doctor. Such 
 a sweet little face, and already so sensible." 
 
 " I recall now, Jerome, that she found rich protectresses. I was 
 going to make inquiries about them, indeed. Ah, I was so much 
 put about by so many things. I had forgotten all I had promised." 
 
 " Ah, sir, you have so many things to think of ! But I am only 
 taken up with my Zizinette's happiness — and I will tell you what 
 annoys me. Some weeks ago — it was in the evening, and I was 
 passing quietly along the street when I heard myself called — the 
 voice came from a cabriolet, and I recognised it at once as that of 
 my Zizine. I ran — I stopped the horse. My little one was in the 
 carriage with a finely-dressed coachman. She had been told at her 
 protectresses' that I was ill ; and the child had insisted on going to 
 see me at once. I reassured her, and took her back myself to 
 Madame Dolbert's. Now, it appeared to me strange that they 
 should have sent out my little one alone with that coachman. I 
 said to myself, ' Formerly Mademoiselle Stephanie would not leave 
 her for a moment ; how does it come about, then, that she did not 
 aecompany her this evening when Zizine thought I was ill ? ' All 
 this ran through my brain. I said to myself, ' Perhaps these fine 
 ladies have got tired already of my poor little one.' Then, some 
 days afterwards, I went to Madame Dolbert, and asked for my 
 Zizinette. The child ran to me. Oh ! she embraced me as warmly 
 as ever, notwithstanding her line cbthes ; but it seemed to me as 
 if she were not so happy or contented as usual. She assured me 
 that her protectresses loved her as much as ever ; but she told me 
 also that Mademoiselle Sophie, Madame Dolbert's grand-daughter, 
 was going to marry— and as she was telling me that, the intended 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 185 
 
 husband passed by us. Such a fine-looking man he is — a grand 
 appearance, but not possessed of an amiable expression ; and then, 
 in passing near us, he threw on my Zizine a look ! One would have 
 said it was of anger. The child said to him, c Good morning, sir ! ' 
 but he did not answer her by a single word. All this made me 
 reflect. I fear for the future. I fear that my little one will not be 
 happy if this gentleman marries Mademoiselle Stephanie. And — 
 dame ! — then the child must come back to me. This is what has 
 vexed me for some days past, and 'faith I resolved to come to-night 
 and ask your advice — " 
 
 " My good Jerome, you only think of your daughter — at every 
 moment — ah, I understand that ! " 
 
 "And do you hear the name of this gentleman who is going 
 to marry Mademoiselle Dolbert?" said Jenneval, addressing the 
 water-carrier. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; my little one told me. It is — ah ! can I have for- 
 gotten it ? — ah ! it is M. Emile de la — Delaberge — that's it ! " 
 
 " Delaberge ! " said the Doctor ; " the name is not unknown. 
 Who then spoke of it last to me ? Ah ! it was Yadevant, when 
 talking about his cousins. But, if he told me the truth, this Dela- 
 berge is a great scoundrel." 
 
 " You think so ? My faith, he has not a good expression, and I 
 have thought that if M. Guerreville would have the goodness to 
 see these ladies, he might find out. As for me, I don't know how 
 I can say to them, ' If my child wearies you, give her me back.' " 
 
 " I understand you, Jerome. Well, I shall charge myself with 
 that commission. I shall go to Madame Dolbert. I shall not 
 present myself as coming in your name. I shall find out whether 
 your daughter is not as much loved as she deserves to be ; and, in 
 that case, I shall bring you back your child, and we shall seek to 
 secure her future — " 
 
 " Ah, sir, many thanks ! Ah, I was quite sure that I should 
 find you. When there is any service to be rendered, you are 
 ready." 
 
 " How long is it since you were with these ladies ? " 
 - " About ten days ago." 
 
 " The young protectress of your child is perhaps already married ; 
 but that will be only a stronger reason for you to take back your 
 Zizine, if these newly married people treat her with coldness." 
 
 " And when will monsieur have the goodness to call for Madame 
 Dolbert?" 
 
 " To-morrow, Jerome ; in the afternoon, I promise you, I shall 
 execute your commission." 
 
 " Ah, sir, how much goodness 1 Then, if you will allow me, I 
 shall return to-morrow and see what they have said to you." 
 
 " Yes, come back to-morrow, Jerome, and I shall give you some 
 news of your daughter." 
 
 The water-carrier rose, bowed several times to M. Guerreville 
 and the Doctor, then went off quite confounded by the kindness he 
 had received. 
 
186 The Monde And the Demi Monde. 
 
 " That is a good father," said M. Guerreville, when the Auver- 
 gnat had gone ; " in the hope that his daughter would be happier, 
 he deprived himself of her company. He did not say, ' By living in 
 opulence, by assuming other manners, she will perhaps forget me ; ' 
 he had but one desire, to see his child happy. Oh, to-morrow I 
 shall go and see those people who have taken the little one, and it 
 will be easy for me to see if it is only out of pity they still keep 
 Jerome's child. In that case, you may believe I sha'n't leave her 
 with them." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are doing quite correctly," said Jenneval. " I 
 am thinking of this Delaberge of whom Yadevant has told me — but 
 he is such a liar ! — and I shall find out about him." 
 
 "If Mademoiselle Dolbert is married, and if he whom she mar- 
 ries does not like children — yes, I believe that Jerome is right — ■ 
 his little Zizine must not be left with Madame Delaberge ; that's 
 the name, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, my friend." 
 
 " Then I shall find out this. I shall go, determined to know if 
 what I have been told about this man is correct. To-morrow I 
 shall try to forget Daubray and my daughter, and occupy my mind 
 with Jerome's daughter. Poor Jerome ! Ah, he doesn't know 
 what a mark of friendship I am showing him. But his little 
 Zizine is so pretty. I cannot tell you how much she interested me 
 the moment I saw her." 
 
 " You know Madame Dolbert's address ? " 
 
 " Yes ; Jerome gave it to me." 
 
 " To-morrow, after dinner, I shall call to see you. I am curious 
 to know the result of your visit to these ladies. To-morrow, my 
 friend." 
 
 "To-morrow, Doctor." 
 
 M. Guerreville remained alone. Soon the remembrance of his 
 daughter, and of her ravisher, came anew to take possession of his 
 miDd. He went to bed, and tried to take some repose ; but 
 Daubray's image pursued him still in his dreams, and all night 
 long he thought he had got the seducer of his child, and was 
 demanding of him what he had done with her. 
 
 The next day, on awakening, M. Guerreville felt very unwell. 
 He stretched himself on the sofa, and buried his head in his hands. 
 The dreams of the night pursued him still ; he thought he saw 
 Daubray and his daughter ; his Pauline was unhappy, she wept ; 
 she seemed to be imploring pity of her father. 
 
 The recollection of Jerome was effaced. M. Guerreville had 
 forgotten the water-carrier and his own promise. 
 
 Noon struck. M. Guerreville rose from the sofa, and ap- 
 proached the window, to see if the open air would do him good. 
 The first object that struck his glance as he looked out into the 
 street was an Auvergnat carrying pitchers, and crying " water" 
 in a piercing voice. 
 
 The sight of this man recalled at once to M. Guerreville every- 
 thing he had promised. He struck his forehead, exclaiming, — 
 
The Monde and the 2>emi Monde. 187 
 
 " My God ! I had forgotten everything — noon — there is im 
 yet. George, give me my coat and things." 
 
 In recovering his memory, and in recalling what he ought to 
 do, it seemed as if M. Guerreville had found all his energy again. 
 He did not feel his weakness, and he soon finished dressing. Such 
 sudden changes are common among nervous people, and the vexa- 
 tions of the mind seem to abate, while the least hope suffices to 
 reanimate them. 
 
 M. Guerreville soon arrived at the house which had been 
 pointed out to him. Several carriages were standing in front of 
 the door, and he asked to see the concierge. 
 
 " Madame Dolbert's ? » 
 
 " Yes, sir ; it is here." 
 
 "Is she within?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly, sir." 
 
 " And may I go up ? " 
 
 "Doubtless monsieur can go up like everybody else. Second 
 floor." 
 
 " Like everybody else ! " said M. Guereville, mounting the stair, 
 " what does the concierge mean by that ? It doesn't matter ; we 
 shall see." 
 
 Having reached the second floor, Guerreville went into a 
 large ante-chamber, whose door was wide open ; a servant stood 
 by it. 
 
 " Madame Dolbert ? " asked M. Guerreville. 
 
 The valet opened the drawing-room door, saying, — 
 
 " Be good enough to go in, sir." 
 
 M. Guerreville walked into a very fine salon, and was quite 
 surprised to see about thirty persons gathered together. The 
 ladies were in full dress ; the men, although most of them were in 
 boots, had also a " party " air about them. Different groups were 
 formed ; they talked and walked about the drawing-room. On 
 M. Guerreville's entrance, they saluted him and resumed their 
 conversation. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" thought M. Guerreville, as he 
 threw a glance around him. " Something is going on here. Can 
 it be the marriage? They have allowed me to enter, because, 
 probably, they think I am one of those invited. I rather think I 
 have chosen a very bad time to come to speak about the little 
 Zizine, and that I had much better go." 
 
 M. Guerreville had already gone towards the door, when he 
 perceived in a corner of the salon a little girl, dressed with elegant 
 simplicity, but to whom no one appeared to give any attention. In 
 her modest and serious air, in the paleness of her face, whose 
 expression was more melancholy than usual, M. Guerreville at once 
 recognised Jerome's daughter, and, going towards her, he took her 
 hand, saying, — 
 
 " You are little Zizine, aren't you ?" 
 
 The child looked at him. Soon a lively colour overspread her 
 face, her eyes sparkled and grew humid, then she murmured, — 
 
188 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Ah, sir, you are the good gentleman who gave money to my 
 papa when he was ill." 
 
 " You remember me, my dear child ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I recognise you quite well. I know even your name 
 now ; for my father has told me that he has met you, and that you 
 had permitted him to go and see you." 
 
 " It is about you I am here, my little one." 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 "Yes. I saw your father yesterday, and he charged me to 
 speak to Madame Dolbert ; but I am afraid I have chosen a bad 
 time. What is going o% here, my child ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, it is my good friend, Stephanie, who is going to be 
 married ; they are just going to the Mairie, that is why so many 
 people are here. Stephanie is with her mother just now ; they are 
 finishing dressing her." 
 
 " I shall slip away before these ladies come, for really I do not 
 know what to say to them." 
 
 " Oh, remain a little, and see my dear Stephanie. She will be 
 such a lovely bride ! " 
 
 " I don't doubt it, my child, but I ought to go away from here, 
 because my presence to these ladies, who have never seen me, will 
 appear very singular. I shall come back a few days hence. Adieu." 
 
 M. Guerreville drew his hand from the little girl, who tried to 
 keep hold of it. He was moving towards the door, when a great 
 commotion was made in the salon. 
 
 " Ah ! here is the bridegroom ! " was repeated on all sides, and 
 at the same moment Emile Delaberge entered the drawing-room. 
 
 M. Guerreville, whose look was turned towards the door, was 
 one of the first to perceive him. Then a quick revolutiou took 
 place in all his features ; his eyes became fixed, his legs could not 
 advance, his fist was closed tightly, and he articulated in a choking 
 voice, — 
 
 " It is he ! it is Daubray 1 " 
 
 Now Emile could not see M. Guerreville, who was hidden by 
 so many people, and he advanced into the drawing-room, saluting 
 everybody with an amiable air, and smiling to the ladies, shaking 
 hands with the men, and replying to the felicitations they addressed 
 to him. 
 
 Nearly at the same moment, Stephanie and her grandmother 
 arrived by another door. Emile hastened to go towards the ladies. 
 
 Stephanie, whose toilette was in the best taste, appeared prettier 
 than usual. An extreme paleness, spread over her features, gave 
 to her countenance an indefinable charm of expression. She smiled 
 as she raised her eyes to Emile, who took one of her hands and 
 raised it to his lips. 
 
 " We are late," said Madame Dolbert, " but I wished Stephanie 
 to be nice ; and on her marriage-day she must be allowed a little 
 coquettishness. I think, ladies and gentlemen, we shall go at 
 once." 
 
 Every one approved of the proposal ; a general movement took 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 189 
 
 place in the drawing-room. Emile presented his hand to Stephanie; 
 he was about to lead, and all the others to follow. But a man had 
 placed himself at the door of the salon, and instead of going into 
 line with the others, and giving places to the young couple, he re- 
 mained motionless and barred their passage ; then, placing his 
 arm before Emile, he fixed on him a look of fierceness, and cried 
 in a voice of thunder, — 
 
 " Where are you going, sir ? " 
 
 This interpolation, and the tone in which it was spoken, pro- 
 duced a lively sensation on the whole assembly. Everybody 
 stopped, and looked alternately at M. Guerre ville and the bride- 
 groom ; the latter, who appeared at first only taken by surprise, 
 trembled a3 he examined more carefully the features of the person 
 who barred his passage. 
 
 Stephanie, agitated and disquieted, looked at him who was 
 about to be her husband, and seemed astonished that he had not 
 repulsed this man who wished to oppose their going out. Emile 
 soon recalled his wits, and trying to smile, he cried, — 
 
 " This is a jest which I scarcely understand. Come, sir, do not 
 delay us longer." 
 
 " "Wretch ! " cried M. Guerreville, seizing Emile by the arm, 
 " you pretend not to recognise the voice of a father who comes to 
 you to demand his child. Madame, this man cannot be your 
 daughter's husband. You, no doubt, wish to secure your 
 Stephanie's happiness. He to whom you were about to marry 
 her is a monster— a suborned liar. Under the name of Daubray, 
 he was introduced to my house, and carried off my daughter — my 
 only child — by making her believe that I had refused him her 
 hand. What have you done with my daughter % Wretch, answer, 
 answer !" 
 
 These words caused a sudden revolution in the assembly. 
 Stephanie felt an icy trembling run through her whole being, then 
 her eyes closed, and she fell unconscious into the arms of some 
 ladies around her. They placed her on a sofa. Zizine and Madame 
 Dolbert ran to her ; everyone wished to give her attention ; but, 
 at the same time, they looked at the stranger whose features and 
 whole appearance inspired respect, and they waited with anxiety 
 for what the bridegroom would reply. 
 
 After having in vain sought to disengage his arms, Emile cried, 
 as he turned towards the company, — 
 
 " In truth, I am distressed at what has happened ; but what am 
 I to do ? This gentleman is doubtless mad, certainly, for this is the 
 first time that I have seen him, and I don't know what he means 
 by talking about his daughter." 
 
 " Wretch, there was nothing wanted but to add insult to out- 
 rage ! " cried M. Guerreville, whom Emile's coolness exasperated 
 still more. " Ah ! you don't wish to recognise me — well, perhaps I 
 shall find means to compel you." 
 
 At the same moment M. Guerreville's hand struck Emile on 
 the cheek. 
 
1 90 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 A general cry arose in the salon, and some young men wished 
 to throw themselves on M. Guerreville and put him outside ; but 
 his imposing look stopped them ; while Emile, pale and motionless 
 after the buffet he had received, contented himself with rolling his 
 eyes, which had the expression of a tiger, on M. Guerreville, 
 murmuring, — 
 
 " Ah, you wish then that I should kill you ? " 
 
 "Yes ; after having stolen my child, take my life from me, or 
 give me yours. All your blood will not be enough to wash away 
 your crime." 
 
 " "Well, sir, to-morrow morning." 
 
 " No, to-day ; within an hour, at the gate of St Maude." 
 
 " To-day be it." 
 
 " I shall go for my second and be with you. But do not attempt 
 to escape me; I know your name now. I know you are called 
 Delaberge, and I shall know where to find you — " 
 
 " In an hour I shall be at the meeting-place. 
 
 M. Guerreville listened to no more. He went off at once without 
 anyone seeking to detain him ; he quitted this house to which he 
 had brought trouble and fear ; he hastened towards his own, burn- 
 ing with revenge, but still quite bewildered by all that had thus 
 'ed to his discovery of his daughter's seducer. 
 
 Jenneval was at his friend's house, where he awaited his return. 
 When he saw M. Guerreville, he divined that some great event had 
 occurred ; he ran to him. 
 
 " What is it ? what has happened ? " 
 
 " Ah, my friend, I have found him ! I have seen him again at 
 last ! This monster — this Daubray — he is Emile Delaberge — he 
 who was going to marry Mademoiselle Dolbert." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 " The marriage was to be to-day ; he was about to conduct the 
 young girl to the altar. At the sight of that man, ah ! I had no 
 longer the mastery of myself. I stopped him. I asked him what 
 he had done with my daughter. The scoundrel, he pretended not 
 to know me. Then, in my anger — " 
 
 " You struck him." 
 
 "Yes. Ah, it is the first moment of happiness I have had 
 for a long time — " 
 
 " But, my friend, was there in this any means of making him say 
 what he had done with your daughter ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I was wrong, perhaps ; but could I remain master of my- 
 self, or control my fury, before that wretch, who pretended I was 
 mad ? The scoundrel ! Ah ! but we are going to fight now — at once 
 — at St Maude. Doctor, you will be my second ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, certainly. But this duel. If you kill that man, how 
 will he tell you what has become of your Pauline ? " 
 
 " Do you think, then, that in the moment of death a sentiment 
 of remorse will not speak to his soul ? But, Doctor, the fight is 
 mortal. Perhaps I ought to have acted otherwise — used subtilty 
 to compel him to speak ; but when I saw him enter that salon, where 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 191 
 
 I saw his hand clasped in that of the woman he was about to lead 
 to the altar, then, you see, I do not know what passed within me. 
 This Emile is a wretch, and before the whole universe I must re- 
 proach him with his crime. My friend, in my place, I am sure you 
 would have done as I have." 
 
 " It is possible. Now we must think of your fight. What arms 
 are you to use ? " 
 
 "Swords or pistols — he shall choose. George, George, call a 
 carriage ; we have no time to lose ! " 
 
 "And he can mount behind — his presence may be necessary 
 to us." 
 
 Jenneval made all his preparations for the duel. M. Guerreville 
 was not in a state to occupy himself with anything ; he could only 
 take long strides through the room, looking at his watch and the 
 timepiece one after the other, as he repeated, — 
 
 " Let us go — let us go — the time is passing." 
 
 At length the preparations were made. M. Guerreville went 
 quickly downstairs. A carriage waited in the street ; the Doctor, 
 who took the weapons, went into it with him, while George mounted 
 behind, and the coachman drove off to St Maude. 
 
 Jenneval appeared anxious, and kept silence beside his friend, 
 who took his hand, saying, — 
 
 "My friend, you don't seem to share my happiness? I have dis- 
 covered the wretch who carried off my daughter ; I am going to 
 fight him — to punish him — to revenge myself. Ah ! do you not 
 understand my joy ?" 
 
 " I understand thoroughly that you should be satisfied to fight 
 with the man who has insulted you ; but I fear that this may not 
 lead to the result you hope for. If you kill that man, you will not 
 know what he has done with your daughter ; if he triumphs — " 
 
 " Then, my friend, I shall go to rejoin my Pauline ; for my 
 daughter lives no more, I have no doubt of it, otherwise she would 
 long ago have returned to conceal her shame on her father's breast. 
 Besides, if there is justice in heaven, do you think that in this duel 
 it is I who should be overcome ? " 
 
 "Yes; but the justice of heaven sometimes resembles the 
 justice of men. We cannot understand all its sentences." 
 
 M. Guerreville contented himself with pressing his friend's 
 hand, and they continued to advance. The carriage halted at the 
 gate of St Maude, there they stopped, the two friends came down 
 and entered the wood. George had orders to follow them at a 
 little distance. 
 
 M. Guerreville's glances were bent on all sides to discover his 
 adversary. Emile Delaberge had not yet arrived. 
 
 " The scoundrel keeps us waiting ; he wishes to insult me to the 
 end," said M. Guerreville, walking with impatience under the trees. 
 
 "Be calm, my friend; try to govern yourself — one does not fight 
 so well when one is agitated. 
 
 " Ah, Jenneval, how long it is since I desired this moment — the 
 moments appear now to me to be centuries." 
 
192 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 At length, at the end of about five minutes, Emile Delaberge 
 arrived with two young men who belonged to the party which had 
 been assembled at Madame Dolbert's. 
 
 " Here he comes," cried M. Guerreville ; " I breathe again, I 
 feared he would not come." 
 
 The three young men advanced. Emile had a cool and impas- 
 sible air. They went towards a solitary part of the woods. Soon 
 M. Guerreville stopped, saying, — 
 
 " We shall do well enough here." 
 
 "I have brought pistols," said Emile. "But if you prefer 
 swords, it is a matter of indifference to me." 
 
 " Well, then, the swords," said M. Guerreville. " We can get 
 nearer with that." 
 
 Jenneval presented to the two combatants the swords he held 
 under his surtout ; both having taken off their coats and waiscoats, 
 each lifted one of these to examine them without looking at the other. 
 
 " Monsieur," cried M. Guerreville, putting himself on guard, " I 
 fight for my daughter you have carried off. One of us must find 
 death in this duel. Before crossing arms, I ask you to tell me what 
 you have done with my child." 
 
 " Sir," replied Delaberge, with an impertinent air, " I have told 
 you already that I neither know you nor your daughter. I could 
 not understand the scene which you made in connection with me at 
 Madame Dolbert's, and these gentlemen are witnesses that I only 
 fight because of the blow you gave me." 
 
 " Wretch," said M. Guerrville, " do you deny it still ?" 
 
 At the same instant the swords crossed, and the combatants 
 attacked each other with vivacity ; but M. Guerreville displayed 
 more rage, more passion than prudence, while Emile, very expert in 
 handling his sword, did nothing at first but parry his adversary's 
 blows, and sought to fatigue him. 
 
 The fight lasted for a long time, with equal success on both 
 sides, when M. Guerreville, in seeking to ward off one of his 
 adversary's thrusts, received a sword thrust which cut him across 
 his body. 
 
 He grew pale, he staggered, and wished to continue the fight, 
 but his sword fell from his hands. 
 
 " Pistols now," murmured M. Guerreville, as he fell upon the 
 grass ; " let us have pistols now." 
 
 " You are not in a state to fire, sir," said Emile as he threw his 
 sword upon the ground. " As for myself, I have washed out my 
 insult ; I have nothing more to do here. I shall send you the car- 
 riage and the servant who waits for you. Let us go, gentlemen. 
 I am going to be married immediately." 
 
 As he said these words, the three young men went off with great 
 strides. Jenneval was on his knees near his friend, held him up 
 and gave him help. M. Guerreville, in losing consciousness, mur- 
 mured, — 
 
 " Pistols, give us pistols — " 
 
 George ran up to them. When he saw his master wounded and 
 
The Monde end the Demi Monde. 193 
 
 lying on the grass, the faithful servant uttered a cry of despair, 
 and asked the Doctor if his master was about to die. 
 
 "Alas," said Jenneval, " the wound appears to me to t>e very deep, 
 very dangerous. I cannot say anything. Poor Guerreville, wounded, 
 vanquished, when he was fighting for his daughter, to avenge his 
 honour, and the miserable wretch who had insulted him left con- 
 queror on the field. Ah ! I had good reason to say Heaven's justice 
 sometimes resembles that of men." 
 
 The Doctor and George took M. Guerreville in their arms, and 
 bore him to the carriage. 
 
 Jenneval placed himself close to his friend, and the coachman 
 drove back as gently as possible to Paris. 
 
 Jenneval placed himself at the foot of M. Guerreville's bed. 
 He would not leave him a minute so long as he was in danger, so 
 that if he could not recover, he might at least hear his last words 
 and close his eyes. 
 
 In the evening at eight o'clock a person called for the wounded 
 man ; it was Jerome, who came to know the result of the interview 
 which M. Guerreville was to have with the Dolbert ladies. The 
 Doctor pointed out M. Guerreville to the water-carrier, he was still 
 without consciousness on his bed, and said to him, — 
 
 " That is the result of his visit to Madame Dolbert. In that 
 Emile Delaberge, who was about to marry the young Stephanie, my 
 friend recognised a friend who had disgracefully insulted him — a 
 wretch whom he had sought for a long time. He struck him, and he 
 who was in the wrong has triumphed. That often occurs." 
 
 " Good heavens !" murmured the Auvergnat, "it is I who have 
 been the cause of this." 
 
 " You don't make any reproaches to yourself, Jerome. My poor 
 friend blessed you, on the contrary, because you had been the means 
 of his discovering again the man whom he had sought for such a 
 long time." 
 
 " And this wound, oh, sir, is it possible that he can be going 
 to die?" 
 
 " I am afraid of it ; but if I can save him, his convalescence will 
 soon come." 
 
 " Such a brave man, and the ruffian who has given this wound 
 has received none. Good heavens ! it is not just that." 
 
 " M. Guerreville, my benefactor, such a good and generous man, 
 good-bye. Doctor, adieu ; I shall come every day to hear news of 
 him." 
 
 And Jerome went away, murmuring between his teeth, — 
 
 " Yes, there can be no doubt of it, it is I who have been the 
 2ause of his fighting, that brave man ; but matters will not end 
 like that." 
 
194 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 THE TUTELARY ANGEL. 
 
 The water-carrier went home thinking what he could, do to avenge 
 his benefactor, for M. Guerreville had given back health, work, 
 probably life, and he was not one of those people who forget what 
 has been done for them. 
 
 The Auvergnat was revolted by the thought that he who had 
 insulted M. Guerreville should have given him a wound which 
 might cause his death. He passed the night without enjoying a 
 moment's sleep, and exclaimed every moment, — 
 
 " I must put things into their natural state — the scoundrel 
 triumphs, and the honest man is conquered. I know well that in 
 society that is thought natural enough, but I do not understand 
 that kind of justice. This M. Emile Delaberge is a wretch, as the 
 Doctor, who is M. Guerreville's faithful friend, calls him. Now, 
 since he is a wretch, I shall not allow my Zizine to be near him ; and 
 if he married Mademoiselle Dolbert, I shall take back my little one. 
 Poor child, it is her happiness that I seek. It was in the hope that 
 site would be more happy that I parted from her, but to leave hei 
 with him who has killed my benefactor, ah, that must never be ; 
 besides, I shall say two words to this M. Delaberge. I am not 
 wounded, and I want to square his account. I don't know what kind 
 of insult he has already committed towards M. Guerreville, but I 
 don't need to know that in order to take vengeance on him." 
 
 Jerome rose early, and went first to see how the wounded man 
 was. The position of the invalid was still the same. The Doctor 
 had used numerous remedies, but M. Guerreville was in a state of 
 weakness such as made it likely that he might succumb. Jerome 
 went off after he had discovered this ; he directed his steps to 
 Madame Dolbert's house. 
 
 But it was too early yet for the Auvergnat to present himself 
 before these ladies. He walked on the boulevard until they should 
 be up. Jerome examined all the people who entered Madame 
 Dolbert's house ; he didn't recognise Emile Delaberge, but he be- 
 lieved that he would not pass before him without his knowing 
 who he was. 
 
 As nine o'clock sounded, Jerome resolved to present himself at 
 Madame Dolbert's. He entered the house and approached the 
 concierge^ bowing as he said, — 
 
 " Can one go up to Madame Dolbert's ? " 
 
 " To Madame Dolbert's, you would go up for nothing. The ladies 
 have gone since yesterday." 
 
 " Gone ! how — what's that you say — gone ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly, to their country house." 
 
 " To their country house — and my Zizinette ? Ah, morbleu ! 
 my little one who stayed with these ladies, whom Mademoiselle 
 Stephanie loved so much." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 195 
 
 " Yes, I know a little girl. She is gone with these ladies into 
 the country." 
 
 " But I don't understand this. Mademoiselle Stephanie was 
 about to be married." 
 
 " Ah, no doubt ; but yesterday something happened. A gentle- 
 man sought a quarrel with the bridegroom. It was a terrible 
 scene. Mademoiselle Stephanie became very ill, her grandmamma 
 wept ; there was a blow, then a duel, oh ! it appears it was very 
 hot." 
 
 " So that the marriage did not take place ? " 
 
 " No, it was delayed ; it was put off. These ladies have gone to 
 their country house." 
 
 " And where is this country house — in which direction ? " 
 
 " Not very far from here, at Beaumont — near St Denis de 
 Montmorency — out there." 
 
 " Good, I shall find it out." 
 
 Jerome went away, saying to himself, — 
 
 " Good. The marriage is put off, but that is not enough. It 
 is necessary, besides, that I should see my Zizine, and should know 
 if it will please her to be in the country. I am going to return to 
 see how M. Guerreville is, and to-morrow morning I shall go to 
 Beaumont." 
 
 Before following the water-carrier, who appeared already to 
 have a plan of action thought out, let us return to Madame 
 Dolbert's, and see what has occurred since the unexpected event 
 prhich put a stop to Stephanie's marriage ceremony. 
 
 After M. Guerreville had gone out, everybody pressed around 
 Madame Dolbert and the lovely fiancee. Stephanie had become 
 unconscious; the good woman shed tears as she kissed her grand- 
 daughter's forehead. Emile never ceased repeating to everybody 
 around him, " I don't know this man ; I don't know what he is 
 talking about — he is mad ; but I shall wash out the insult he has 
 put on me in his blood." 
 
 And after having repeated this several times, he chose two 
 seconds from the party, and went out to fight. 
 
 Confusion and turmoil, and in the midst of all this, curiosity 
 reigned over the whole party. They divided into groups ; they 
 spoke in a low tone, and those who before M. Delaberge had the 
 air of believing that he did not know M. Guerreville, said in a 
 whisper, " Yet, it is very singular ; that stranger looked most 
 respectable, and appeared quite sure as to what he asserted." 
 
 At length Stephanie re-opened her eyes; her first movement 
 was to embrace her mother, then she said to her in a low voice, — 
 
 " Send away everybody. After what has passed, I could not — 
 I do not wish to be married to-day. Oh, I beg of you, send every- 
 one away ; I wish to be alone, to weep at will." 
 
 Madame Dolbert was impelled to satisfy her grand-daughter's 
 desire. She began to understand that, after what had occurred, the 
 marriage must be put off ; for Emile was going to fight, and even 
 in the event of his being the victor, one could not think of pleasure 
 
196 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 and love when a man came from shedding the blood of one in hia 
 own image. 
 
 The company understood Madame Dolbert's reasons, and each 
 retired, intending to ask at Emile Delaberge's house as to the result 
 of his duel with the stranger. 
 
 "When left alone, the ladies gave themselves up to their conjec- 
 tures. The good mamma did not dare to tell her daughter all her 
 fears, all the suspicions which passed through her mind ; she began 
 to tremble for Stephanie's happiness in marrying Emile. 
 
 On her own side, Stephanie could not resist a secret feeling of 
 terror. She had looked at her fiance at the moment when the 
 stranger had called him Daubray ; his features had contracted, and 
 their expression had carried fear to the young girl's heart. 
 
 Yet love spoke to Stephanie's heart, and disquietude added 
 to her grief ; for it could not be concealed from her that Emile 
 had gone to fight with the man who had insulted him so grievously. 
 
 The young girl and her grandmother counted the minutes, and 
 even moments. They dared not question each other ; they feared 
 to tell each other their thoughts, when a footmen at length made 
 his appearance. He brought a letter from Emile ; it was addressed 
 to Madame Dolbert, and contained only these words, — 
 
 " Madame, I come from chastising the insolent person who had 
 insulted me; he will be a long time before he is able to recommence 
 his absurdities. As for myself, I have not received a scratch ; please 
 reassure my dear Stephanie. I feel that it would be out of place 
 to present myself to her j ust on having returned from fighting ; 
 but to-morrow I shall have the honour of going to see you, and I 
 hope that my happiness will not be deferred for any length of time." 
 
 " He is the victor," explained Stephanie, with a joyful expression. 
 
 "And it appears that this unknown person is seriously wounded," 
 said Madame Dolbert, with a slight sigh. 
 
 "Oh, mamma, is it not better that it should be Emile who 
 triumphs, for you know he has never seen this man who had come 
 to insult him without cause ? " 
 
 The good mamma was silent, and seemed sad. At that moment 
 they heard some stifled sobs, which came from the end of the apart- 
 ment ; they turned and perceived Zizine, the poor little thing who 
 had been entirely forgotten in the midst of this disorder, but who 
 had not lost sight of her young protectress, but was always only a 
 few steps from her, and who now, reassured as to Stephanie's health, 
 waited in a corner for the moment when she might come forward 
 to embrace her. 
 
 " Zizine, dear Zizine," said Stephanie, running towards the little 
 one. " Good heavens ! in my vexation I had forgotten you ; but 
 why are you weeping now you see that I am better ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the little one, trying to keep back her sobs, but 
 I am vexed because M. Guerreville is wounded." 
 
 " How, what do you say ? Who, then, is this M. Guerreville ? " 
 
 " It is the gentleman who has fought with M. Emile. I should 
 not have wished that either one or the other of them should suffer." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 197 
 
 " And really, Zizine, do you know the name of this stranger ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, for I know him well, this stranger. I have never dared 
 to tell you about it. I was afraid." 
 
 " Oh, speak, speak ; tell us what you know ; tell us every- 
 thing." 
 
 The grandmamma and her grand-daughter placed Zizine be- 
 tween them, and waited with impatience for the child's explanation. 
 The little one hastened to satisfy them. 
 
 " This gentleman whom you have seen is my father's saviour. 
 "When I was yet with him at Montmartre, in a little garret, my poor 
 father was for a long time ill, unable to work, and we were very 
 unhappy. Well, one day, this gentleman came ; I believe he was 
 seeking for lodgings. He saw me pass ; he came up into our garret 
 and comforted my father. He made me a sign to follow him as he 
 went out, and filled my apron with silver, saying to me, ' There, 
 little one, take that to your father, that he may be cared, and 
 not vex any more.' Oh, madame, when one is so good, when one 
 loves to do so much good, how can they be mad." 
 
 Madame Dolbert and Stephanie appeared much moved, and said 
 to the little one, — 
 
 " Go on ; do you know any more ? " 
 
 " Yes ; my father would have liked much to thank my benefactor, 
 but he knew neither his name nor address. About that time you 
 had the goodness to love me, and I came to stay with you. But at 
 length, one day, my father met this gentleman in the street ; he 
 thanked him much, as you may imagine. Then this gentleman told 
 my father his name and address, making him promise to come and 
 see him, and my father told me all that the night he met me in the 
 cabriolet, when I went to see him, believing he was ill ; and now, to- 
 day, M. Guerreville came here — oh, I am so vexed, but it was for 
 me he came." 
 
 "For you?" 
 
 "Yes, my good friend, M. Guerreville had yesterday seen my 
 father, who had asked him to speak to you, madame. "When M. 
 Guerreville saw himself in the drawing-room with the company, 
 he was surprised, and said to me, ' I wished to see Madame Dolbert, 
 but since there is a marriage here, I have chosen a bad time, and I 
 shall return.' Then, as he said that, he shook me by the hand, and 
 was going away, when — when M. Emile entered the salon, and — 
 and — you know what passed afterwards." 
 
 Zizine's artless story did not admit of any doubt that she spoke 
 the truth. Yet how to believe that M. Guerreville was mad, or 
 that he had designed to hurt M. Emile ; they recalled his respect- 
 able appearance, the noble style of M. Guerreville, and said to them- 
 selves, " If he should not have been wrong — Emile is then a wretch 
 who has taken away his daughter, and who, rather than avow his 
 crime, now goes to give him a sword-thrust." 
 
 These reflections Stephanie and her mother made in silence, 
 but they comprehended each other's looks. At last Madame Dolbert 
 exclaimed, — 
 
198 The Monde and the Utmi Monde, 
 
 " My Stephanie, after all that passed here this morning — after 
 the annoying exposure of this affiair — do you not think we should 
 leave Paris, and pass some time at my country house ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, my dear mamma ; but will Zizine go with us ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And you, Zizine, would you like to go ? " 
 
 The child hesitated, murmuring, — 
 
 " But my father—" 
 
 " Your father — do you think he would like you to leave us in 
 our sorrow, when I am unhappy ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; you are right, I shall not leave you," said Zizine, 
 throwing herself upon Stephanie's neck. 
 
 The same evening Madame Dolbert and her grand-daughter, 
 with Zizine, left their house for their country seat at Beaumont. 
 
 As he presented himself next morning at the house of her whom 
 he had hoped to marry the day before, Emile Delaberge was much 
 astonished to discover that the ladies had gone to their house in the 
 country. But, without losing time, or stopping to make vain con- 
 jectures, Emile mounted his cabriolet again, whipped up his horse, 
 and went off at once to Beaumont. 
 
 In less than two hours the swift steed had covered the distance, 
 and soon M. Delaberge was at Madame Dolbert's house. 
 
 Stephanie was at that time in the drawing-room with her grand- 
 mother, when Emile presented himself, abruptly exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah, heavens, ladies, why then this precipitate departure ? One 
 would think you had actually fled from Paris, and this without 
 telling me beforehand, or without condescending to warn me. It 
 appears to me that nothing has happened to cause you any alarm, 
 and the manner in which all has ended ought to reassure you 
 thoroughly." 
 
 While Emile spoke thus, Madame Dolbert looked at him closely 
 — she would have liked to be able to read to the bottom of this 
 man's heart ere she confided to him her daughter's future. 
 Stephanie, on the contrary, kept her looks fixed on the ground, and 
 seemed to avoid meeting the eyes of her intended. 
 
 The coldness and the embarrassment of these ladies did not 
 escape Emile, who threw himself into a chair, saying, — 
 
 " What is the matter, then, my dear Stephanie, that you receive 
 your bridegroom this way, for I was about to be so, when an inex- 
 plicable occurrence came to keep back my happiness ? " 
 
 "Pardon me, said Stephanie, "but I am still so put out, so 
 astonished by everything that has occurred." 
 
 " I can understand that, but that is not a reason why you should 
 avoid my look. Dear Stephanie, let us forget all this ; it is a dream, 
 a cloud which had come for a moment to trouble a day of joy, but 
 it is past ; and because a man whom I don't know, who is a madman, 
 or who takes me for one, makes an absurd scene, it seems to me 
 as if this should not change your sentiments towards me. I 
 am certain that your respected mother would be the first to tell 
 you so." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 199 
 
 " I confess to you. M. Delaberge ," said the good mamma, " that 1 
 cannot explain this scene, how you have never seen him. You do 
 not know this man who declares that you have carried away his 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " He is entirely unknown to me ; probably he has mistaken me 
 for some other person, which often occurs. You observe that he 
 called me Daubray. Am I ever called Daubray ? " 
 
 " Certainly we have never known you by that name. This man, 
 however, had a most respectable appearance." 
 
 " Eespectable ! a man who acts like a fool, and brings trouble into 
 a house, and acts in the most violent manner. Ah, madame, is it so, 
 that one is asked to give a reason for his offences when one is even 
 insulted themselves ? But I repeat to you that I think my word 
 should be sufficient. I do not know him. I have never seen that 
 gentleman who barred my passage at the moment I was about to 
 lead your daughter to the altar." 
 
 " Ah, well, sir, we know more than you, for we know that this 
 stranger is named Guerreville." 
 
 As he heard his name pronounced by Madame Dolbert, a livid 
 paleness spread across Emile's face, and he tried in vain to master 
 the emotion he felt, he even tried to smile ; but then the expression 
 of his face had something in it so false that Stephanie turned her 
 eyes quickly away, and trembled all over, for in this man who was 
 before her she recognised no longer the man who had been able to 
 touch her heart. 
 
 " Ah, you know who this man is — this gentleman called Guerre- 
 ville ?." said Emile ; " and how do you know that, pray ?" 
 
 " It was a singular chance — Zizine knew this gentleman." 
 
 " Zizine, ah, it is through her." 
 
 Emile turned and cast a withering glance upon the little one, 
 who was a few steps from him. 
 
 "This M. Guerreville," replied Madame Dolbert, "has been 
 Jerome's benefactor — Zizine's father. The little one knew his name 
 through her father, to whom this gentleman had given it when he 
 gave him his address. Indeed it was on Jerome's part, and to speak 
 to us about the little one, that he had come here. You see that 
 there was nothing premeditated in the scene which took place." 
 
 " Ah, it is very singular. I repeat to you that it must have been 
 an unfortunate resemblance which deceived him ; but we have 
 ■occupied ourselves sufficiently with this man, and with this affair, 
 vrhich has ended. You may imagine that my love for Stephanie 
 has already suffered much from this delay. Would you therefore tell 
 me, madame, on what day we may celebrate our marriage ? If you 
 prefer that our marriage should take place in the country, I consent 
 to that ; but let Stephanie be my wife in any case, and, it seems to 
 me, that to-morrow, or at least two or three days later." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you must allow us some time to think of this ; and 
 after all that Stephanie has passed through, you must allow us to 
 wait some weeks to consider about this marriage." 
 
 'Weeks ! " cried Emile, rising with an angry air ; " and why this 
 
200 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 delay to my happiness ? Think, madame ; in what way have I offended 
 you % You appear to have given credence to absurd calumnies which 
 have been raised in regard to me. Indeed it is very extraordinary 
 that one should give any faith to the stories of a child, or to the 
 word of a madman whom I — Because the daughter of a water- 
 carrier has told you that he who has insulted me once gave a few 
 francs to her father, it seems that this gentleman, this M. Guerre- 
 ville, at once becomes very respectable, and that one ought to be 
 afraid of offending him. Madame, such cannot really be your idea ; 
 you could not punish me for the faults of another. I have con- 
 ducted myself like a man of honour, and I have overcome him who 
 insulted me. Now I claim Stephanie's hand ; she has promised it to 
 me. I do not think, madame, that you can have any intention to 
 fail in the word which you have given me." 
 
 " M. Delaberge," said Madame Dolbert, " you do not know how 
 the extreme prudence of a grandmother makes her fear. The happi- 
 ness of my Stephanie is not a thing to be lightly compromised. 
 The person whom you have fought, I hope, he must explain, and 
 without doubt he will recognise that he has been deceived in 
 accusing you, and nothing then shall oppose your union with my 
 daughter." 
 
 " That is sufficient, madame," replied Emile, striving to conceal 
 his wrath. " I see that I try in vain to alter your resolution. I shall 
 go now. I shall wait until wiser reflections have dissipated your 
 suspicions, and you do me the justice which is due to me. I shall 
 return in some days ; then I hope that the impression you have will 
 disappear, and that you will listen to me more favourably." 
 
 As he said these words, Emile made a deep bow to Stephanie 
 and her grandmother, then he quitted the salon, affecting a sad 
 but resigned air. 
 
 On going from the house, he was no longer the same man. He 
 stormed, he tore his hat through his hands, and cast himself into 
 his cabriolet, saying to himself, — 
 
 " It is again this little girl who has done this to me ; from 
 all she has said to these ladies about M. Guerreville, she has quite 
 changed her disposition about me. Ah, that child has placed her- 
 self in my way, to prevent me gaining the object I had in view. She 
 seems to be my evil genius. They wish to wait till M. Guerreville 
 has recovered, to ask explanations from him. But they will wait 
 in vain, I hope ; he is not likely to recover from the wound I gave 
 him." 
 
 " He has gone away annoyed," said Stephanie, throwing herself 
 into her grandmother's arms after Emile's departure. 
 
 "My dear child, there is nothing to reproach yourself with. 
 You may be sure that he will pardon me for having kept back 
 your marriage. If it were otherwise, should I not then have had 
 good reason, Stephanie, for having refused to give you to him as his 
 wife?" 
 
 Stephanie dared not plead Emile's cause ; she had found in his 
 eyes an expression which she could not define, and which fright- 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 201 
 
 ened her. She contented herself with sighing and embracing Zizine,. 
 pressing herself against her heart. 
 
 The little girl was vexed at being the cause of all that had 
 happened. 
 
 " You will love me no longer," said she to Stephanie ; " for if it 
 had not been me, M. Guerre ville would not have come to the house, 
 and he would not have disputed with M. Emile." 
 
 " Dear little one," said the good mamma, as she also embraced 
 Zizine, " far from that ; we ought to thank you, perhaps— for it is 
 possible that you have preserved my Stephanie from a great mis- 
 fortune. But how shall Ave get news of this M. Guerreville ? " 
 
 " Through my father, madame. Oh, if he knew that his bene- 
 factor is wounded, I am sure he would not allow a day to pass with- 
 out going to see him." 
 
 _ " She is right," said Stephanie. " Jerome can give us news of 
 this gentleman ; let us wait some days. Doubtless he will come 
 back to see his daughter. If he does not come, dear mamma, we 
 will go to Paris, and ask him to come to see us." 
 
 " Oh, yes, my dear friend, and my father will come at once, I am 
 sure." 
 
 Two days passed away. Jerome did not come to Beaumont, and 
 the next day they resolved that a servant should go to Paris to ask 
 the water-carrier to come to Madame Dolbert's country house. But 
 on the morning of the third day, as Zizine was going down to Ste- 
 phanie's room, she saw a man walking with long steps towards the 
 house. The little girl recognised him, and ran down to him. Before 
 he could ascend the steps, Jerome was holding the child in his arms. 
 
 " My dear little one, what a long time it is since I have em- 
 braced you," said the Auvergnat, as he pressed Zizine against his 
 heart. " Ah, heavens ! who w-ould have thought you would have 
 gone away so far from Paris — " 
 
 " Father, Mademoiselle Stephanie has been so vexed ; she has 
 been weeping. Could I refuse to go with her ? " 
 
 " Yes, my child, yes, you have done rightly." 
 
 " You know, doubtless, all that has passed between M. Guerre- 
 ville and my dear friend's intended ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know that they have fought." 
 
 " But come, my father, come ; these ladies are very anxious to- 
 see you — to question you." 
 
 And the child drew Jerome, who allowed her to conduct him 
 where he found Madame Dolbert and Stephanie. They received 
 the Auvergnat very kindly, and made him sit down, when the good 
 mamma repeated to him all that Zizine had said on the subject of 
 M. Guerreville, and asked him if it was true. 
 
 " Yes, madame," said Jerome ; " this M. Guerreville is the noblest 
 man I know. I went to find him in the evening of the day in 
 which this wretched affair happened, and I told him honestly that 
 if Mademoiselle Stephanie married this handsome gentleman, who 
 did not appear to care for my Zizinette, I feared that my little one 
 would be no longer happy with you." 
 
202 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 " Oh, Jerome ! " 
 
 " Excuse me, madame, but that was my idea ; and this gentleman 
 obliged me by consenting to come to see you. It appears that 
 the sight of this M. Delaberge threw him into a passion. Ah, 
 heavens ! I do not know what he did. I have not been told that, 
 but M. Guerre ville assured me that he was a villain, and that was 
 sufficient for me. I could not doubt him. M. Guerre ville is not 
 capable of telling falsehoods." 
 
 "Jerome, do you know that M. Delaberge is a man who is 
 respected in society, and — " 
 
 " Ah ! Well, but what does that prove ? That he is rich and 
 powerful, that is possible enough, but beyond that nothing more ; 
 but, besides, sometime or other you can interrogate M. Guerreville 
 himself." 
 
 " We can. Is he better, then ? " 
 
 " Ah, morbleu ! if he were not better, I should not be here ; but, 
 thanks to Heaven, he is saved. Yesterday evening his doctor, his 
 friengl rather — for he is a true friend — gave me this assurance as he 
 shook me by the hand. Oh, then, as I said to this good doctor, 
 and when I come back to see M. Guerreville, I can bring him some 
 news which will complete his cure." 
 
 " How — what news ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing — it is an idea, a plan I have in my head — and now 
 I am come to embrace my Zizine. Ah, I am content now, and I can 
 return to Paris ; but, believe me, madame, do not let your daughter 
 be married before you see M. Guerreville — for you would do a 
 thing of which you would repent all your life. Pardon me for 
 speaking thus ... it is the interest I feel in you which makes me 
 speak so . . . and when you know M. Guerreville . . . and then 
 his friend, Doctor Jenneval . . . for I shall bring them both to you, 
 oh, then, madame, you will see that they are fine fellows, who 
 would not speak ill of a man without being sure of their facts." 
 
 Jerome bowed and took his leave ; but on reaching the court- 
 yard, he again embraced Zizine, who conducted him to the door, 
 and whispered to her, — 
 
 " Farewell, my Zizine ; farewell, my dear little one ... In tell- 
 ing Mademoiselle Stephanie all you knew, you have saved me from a 
 great misfortune . . . and it is, I think, very lucky for these ladies 
 that M. Guerreville should be there when everything is going to 
 come to an end . . . But, as my poor wife said, you are the tutelary 
 angel of everyone . . . You saved me from being roasted alive ; you 
 prevent your benefactor from becoming the wife of a scoundrel . . . 
 and who knows all the good you will yet do ? . . . Good-bye, my 
 dear child." 
 
 And the water-carrier departed at full speed, but not without 
 often turning to smile at the little girl, who remained before the 
 house, and only re-entered it when she could no longer see Jerome. 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde, 203 
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 WHAT JEROME DID. 
 
 On arriving in Paris, Jerome's first care was to go to M. Guerreville 
 to learn how he was. The Doctor received him, and shook him 
 cordially by the hand, saying, — 
 
 " The improvement continues ; I shall save my friend, I an 
 answer for it now . . ." 
 
 " Ah, Doctor . . . what a man you are ! " 
 
 " But the period of convalescence will be long ... all the more 
 because my poor friend has at the bottom of his heart bitter grief 
 at not being able to take vengeance on this wretch Delaberge . . . 
 To be overcome by the man who has outraged us ! ... it is to be 
 doubly injured ! . . . Scarcely was my friend able to speak, when 
 his first words were an oath to resume the fight as soon as he had 
 strength enough . . . However, I shall perhaps succeed in calming 
 him ..." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ... I am sure M. Guerreville is not satisfied . . . 
 but patience ... all that will be changed, I hope . . ." 
 
 " This Emile Delaberge has then injured M. Guerreville?" 
 
 " He has outraged him in what he holds dearest . . . it is he who 
 has deprived him of happiness, who has condemned him to eternal 
 grief . . . My dear Jerome, I have no doubt my friend will tell you 
 all his troubles ... he will have no secrets from you." 
 
 "Oh, I do not require to be told to be certain then this M. 
 Delaberge is a wretch . . ." 
 
 " But you can see M. Guerreville ; he is not asleep at present, 
 and your presence cannot help pleasing him. . ." 
 
 " No, no, Doctor. I thank you ... I do not wish to see M. 
 Guerreville bef ore . . . before . . . enough ! I have my ideas, you 
 know ... it is an oath I have made to myself . . . and I wish to 
 keep it." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Jerome." 
 
 " Possibly, Doctor, but you will understand later . . . meanwhile 
 take care of my respected benefactor . . . and for the rest, trust to 
 me. Good-bye, sir." 
 
 And Jerome went away, leaving Jenneval trying to discover 
 the meaning of the Auvergnat's mysterious words. 
 
 " Now," said the water-carrier to himself, when he got to the 
 street, " the next thing to be done is to find out the house of this 
 M. Emile Delaberge. I did not like to ask the Doctor, lest he 
 should guess my design . . . besides, he may not know it . . . 
 I have not dared either to ask at Madame Dolbert's . . . Well, I 
 shall find it ... a rich man does not live in mouse-hole . . . Oh, 
 I shall soon find this gentleman . . . Paris is large, but I have good 
 legs, and I am not afraid of being fatigued ! " 
 
 Jerome set out, scoured the whole city, making inquiries, and 
 begged several commissionaires of his acquaintance to help him in 
 his researches. For three days there was no result ; but at last, on 
 
204 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 en the fourth, the water-carrier found what he wanted. He was shown 
 a mansion inhabited by M. Emile Delaberge in the Kue de Clichy. 
 
 Jerome immediately directed his steps to this house ; he knocked 
 at the porte cochtre, and on entering said to the porter, — 
 
 " Is it here that M. Emile Delaberge lives ? " 
 
 11 Yes," replied the porter, throwing a contemptuous glance at 
 the Auvergnat. 
 
 " Is he at home ? " 
 
 " What business is that of yours ? " 
 
 "How? what business is it of mine? Apparently it is, since 
 I ask you." 
 
 " M. Delaberge is not here." 
 
 "Ah, that is different . . . now you answer one . . . WelL 
 then, I shall return." 
 
 And Jerome took his departure, satisfied with having at last 
 found where the man he wanted to see lived, and never doubting 
 that he should soon meet him. 
 
 The next day, about nine in the morning, the Auvergnat returned 
 to M. Delaberge's house. 
 
 " He is not here," said the impassible porter, as soon as he saw 
 Jerome. 
 
 " How ? already gone out ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " "When will he return ?" 
 
 " I know nothing about it ; he has no fixed hour for returning, 
 ... he comes when he pleases." 
 
 Jerome went off in a bad temper. He returned in the evening, 
 he returned the next day, and the porter always said,— 
 
 " M. Delaberge has gone out." 
 _ Eight days thus passed without any better luck ; at last, not 
 being able to stand it any more, he one morning entered the 
 porter's box, and looking him straight in the face, said to him in 
 an angry tone, — 
 
 " Mr Porter, I really think you are making game of me ! " 
 
 Jerome was a big, strong man ; the porter was frightened, and 
 answered more politely, — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir . . . but I must execute the orders I 
 receive." 
 
 " And what are these orders ? " 
 
 " M. Delaberge instructs me always to say he is gone out, or is 
 not visible, when the visitors are not persons whom he expects." 
 
 " I understand ! and assuredly he does not expect me ! But 
 I must see him, I must speak to 'him, do you hear? I must . . . 
 I do not leave this house till I have seen its master. I am resolved. 
 Do you want me to smash everything here ? or will you tell me 
 where I shall find M. Delaberge ? " 
 
 " Sir, I assure you, he is not here." 
 
 " You are lying again." 
 
 " No, sir ; this time it is the very truth. My master has gone 
 to-day to the country with Dupr6 his valet." 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 205 
 
 * To the country ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I believe the place is called Beaumont." 
 " That is enough. I shall go to him there ; but if you have lied, 
 I shall come back here and thrash you._ 
 " I have told you the exact truth, sir." 
 
 Jerome left the hotel, and returned to his house to take with 
 him what he thought necessary ; then he took his way on foot, with 
 his staff in his hand. 
 
 But the Auvergnat walked with such a firm and rapid step, that 
 before the day fell he arrived in front of Madame Dolbert's house. 
 
 Jerome stopped, uncertain what he ought to do ; but he saw a 
 gardener at the gate and approached him. 
 
 " You are in the service of Madame Dolbert ? " 
 " Yes, sir," said the peasant, saluting him. 
 
 " Do you know if a gentleman from Paris has come here since 
 yesterday ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, not since yesterday ; and these ladies have not 
 received any visit. I am quite certain of this, for I work just 
 before the gate." 
 
 " Thanks, my friend." 
 Jerome went away, saying to himself, — 
 
 " The gentleman has not been to see these ladies. Now, it was 
 not for nothing that he came into this part of the country. Oh, 
 hang it all ! this time I shall have been very stupid if I do not find 
 him." 
 
 Jerome entered the village. He made inquiries at the best inn ; 
 those places are not numerous in the country. While he talked to 
 a peasant, a gentleman passed in front of him. His style, face, and 
 appearance quite struck the Auvergnat, who said to himself, — 
 " Oh, this ought to be my man." 
 
 It was in fact M. Delaberge, who, after having passed several 
 days at Paris in irresolution, sometimes wishing to forget Steph- 
 anie, sometimes swearing that she would be his, had at last heard 
 with terror that M. Guerreville's wound was not mortal, and that 
 he who he had believed would no more trouble him would not 
 be long until he was cured. 
 
 Emile foresaw that his marriage was broken off if M. Guerreville 
 should see Madame Dolbert again. But how was this to be pre- 
 vented, since the ladies did not conceal their desire to meet him once 
 more ? 
 
 " They will refuse me Stephanie," said Emile to himself, as he 
 shook with anger. " Ah, well, if they don't wish she shall be my 
 wife, I shall employ other means ; but she shall be mine. I shall 
 go to Beaumont ; there will be no difficulty in introducing myself 
 into the house where these ladies live. Oh, I shall succeed; I have 
 always succeeded in everything I have firmly wished to ac- 
 complish." 
 
 And M. Delaberge had gone off with his valet-de-chambre 
 Dupre\ He went to lodge at a quiet inn at the end of the village, 
 and had come to examine at a distance Madame Dolbert's dwelling 
 
206 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 when Jerome had perceived him. Emile went back to his room; ha 
 called his servant and said to him, — 
 
 " Nothing is so easy as to let oneself into that house ; it is quite 
 child's play. You have told me that Stephanie's room is that at the 
 angle, and looks out upon the road." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am quite sure of it." 
 
 " It will be enough for me to get up upon the wall of the garden, 
 and I shall easily gain the window. Your shoulders will serve to let 
 me mount ; the rest will be simple. It is very odd to have to go to 
 introduce oneself by a ladder to a woman whom one was going to 
 marry. But faith I have been forced to it. And after that, it will 
 be they who will beg me to marry her ; but I am not sure that I 
 shall want that then. So this evening at ten o'clock I shall go out 
 a little before you, so as not to appear to have made an arrangement. 
 At ten o'clock precisely you will be at the spot I point out to you." 
 
 " That is understood, sir. But is ten o'clock not too soon ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; in the country you must be aware that Madame Dolbert 
 will go to bed at nine o'clock, and at ten everybody has gone to 
 sleep." 
 
 These arrangements completed, Emile Delaberge ordered the 
 best dinner that he could get in that village inn ; and when he had 
 finished his repast, he went out into the country. But a man had 
 waited until the traveller should leave the inn ; this man was 
 Jerome, who had placed himself in ambush so that Emile Delaberge 
 could not go out without his seeing him ; and he followed him out 
 into the country. He waited till the night was darker, to go nearer 
 him, for he did not wish that any of his plans should be disarranged. 
 At length Emile entered a deserted path far removed from any 
 dwelling. The Auvergnat doubled his steps, and by making a cross 
 cut soon found himself beside Emile, to whom he presented him- 
 self, stepping over a hedge which separated him from him. 
 
 " A word, sir," said Jerome, placing himself before Emile, and 
 barring his entrance to the path. 
 
 "What do you want with me ?" said the young man, to whom 
 the sudden appearance of a man at night, and in lonely road, inspired 
 an instinctive fear. 
 
 " Oh, certainly ; reassure yourself. I am not a robber, and I 
 don't wish your purse. 
 
 " What do you wish of me, then ? " 
 
 " You are M. Emile Delaberge, are you not ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then I wish to fight with you." 
 
 " You fight with me ! " replied Emile, smiling disdainfully. '* I 
 don't fight with everybody." 
 
 " That is possible ; but you shall fight with me." 
 
 " For what purpose, and from what motive ? I don't know you. 
 I have never seen you." 
 
 " Ah, well I am Jerome — water-carrier — and, I flatter myself, an 
 honest man. I know you. I know that you fought some time ago 
 with M. Guerreville. I don't know what insult you had inflicted on 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 207 
 
 him, but he tells me that you are a wretch ; and when a man of 
 honour says that, it must be true. Then you gave him a deep 
 sword-thrust, which almost killed him. This M. Guerreville is my 
 benefactor, and I have come to avenge him. You understand now." 
 
 " Ah, M. Guerreville has selected you as his defender." 
 
 " M. Guerreville has not chosen me. M. Guerreville knows 
 nothing of what I am doing to-night, for he would probably have 
 forbidden me, since he was hoping to fight with you again when he 
 regains his strength. But it is I who have come of my own accord 
 to find you, and to gain the victory which a brave man has lost. 
 Come, I hope that will be reason enough for you. Let us fight now." 
 
 "No ; I shall not fight with you whom I don't know. Once 
 more, allow me to pass, sir." 
 
 " Ah, none of that nonsense ; you will not pass." 
 
 " You will understand that a man of my rank does not fight 
 with those whom he does not know." 
 
 " One you don't know ! " cried Jerome, approaching nearer 
 Emile, and looking closely at him. 
 
 " Ah, it is true I am ' I don't know whom ! ' because I wear a 
 waistcoat, because I lodge in a garret, and because I gain my bread 
 by the sweat of my brow ; but you, oh, you are not ' I don'f 
 know whom ! ' for you have a fortune, and you don't know what 
 to do with yourself, and you are insolent, and you are a scoundrel, 
 too." 
 
 " Fool ! " cried Emile ; " you shall pay me for this insult." 
 
 " Ah, immediately ; now that you are heated, it is all right ; go 
 on quickly." 
 
 And taking two enormous sticks, which he had left behind the 
 hedge, Jerome presented them to Emile, saying, " Choose." 
 
 " I do not light with cudgels," replied Emile, shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " And why not, my fine gentleman ? " 
 
 " Because I am not accustomed to such arms." 
 
 " Ah, well, you shall begin to-day. Ah ! they are solid ; I 
 warrant you they will not bend." 
 
 "You see that you would abuse your privileges in proposing 
 this fight to me. You are accustomed to work with a cudgel, and 
 I have never touched one ; the fight would not be equal." 
 
 "And what prevents you, mister coxcomb, from handling a 
 cudgel like me ? . . . I am fifty years old ; you are only thirty. 
 It seems to me that that makes up for my being accustomed to 
 it . . . Come, morbleu! take one . . ." 
 
 " Here are the arms which I am accustomed to use," said Emile, 
 drawing a pair of pistols from his pocket ; " these really equalise 
 matters . . . for there is no need for a hand of Hercules to fire 
 a pistol . . . "Well, my fine fellow, this puts you out a bit ... It 
 doesn't please you as well as your cudgels . . ." 
 
 " Ah, you shall see if I shrink from any arms ! " cried Jerome. 
 " If I treated you as you deserve, I should begin by taking your 
 pistols from you, and beat you to death with my cudgel ... but 
 
~208 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 i am not a coward like you, and I accept those arms ... If only I 
 kill you, and avenge M. Guerreville ! . . . What do I care what 
 I do it with ? . . . Come, give me one of your little pocket 
 toys . . ." 
 
 Throwing aside the two cudgels, Jerome did not wait for Emile 
 to present the pistols to him, but snatched one from his hands, and, 
 placing himself at three paces distance, took aim, saying, — 
 
 " Are we ready ? " 
 
 "People don't usually fight quite so close !" replied Emile, 
 whose courage seemed to grow weaker before the expedition of the 
 Auvergnat. 
 
 " Oh ! we must not miss ... it grows very dark, and I have no 
 wish to fire at random . . . Come on, morbleu! . . . make haste 
 I shall stamp my foot — the second time, we fire together . . ." 
 
 Jerome took his weapon, and gave the first signal. Emile hast- 
 ened to arm himself with his pistol ; the Auvergnat had scarcely 
 raised his foot to give the second and last signal, when Emile pulled 
 the trigger . . . the cap only exploded. 
 
 " Ah, mine will not miss fire, I hope," cried Jerome, and at 
 the same moment his pistol spoke. Emile received the ball in his 
 breast, and fell almost on his adversary. 
 
 " I think he has got his due ! " said Jerome, throwing his pistol 
 •on the ground ; " but, morbleu ! if his pistol had not missed fire, I 
 think it would have been my turn . . . Sir, I shall send you your 
 servant ; he will convey you to your inn." 
 
 " For pity's sake," said Emile, in a feeble voice, and trying to raise 
 himself, " for pity's sake, carry me yourself . . . my servant is not 
 at the inn ... I feel I am mortally wounded ... I should like to 
 write some lines to M. Guerreville . . . whom I have so unjustly 
 offended . . . You will say at the inn that you found me in this 
 footpath . . . and I promise you not to say it was with you I 
 fought." 
 
 " Be it so ! ... I agree. Besides, I have no fear if I am found 
 out . . . but if you repent, that is the principal thing, and I will 
 not refuse to help you." 
 
 Jerome at once stooped, and taking the wounded man in his 
 arms, succeeded in hoisting him on his shoulders ; then, thus laden, 
 he set out for the village, while Emile tried with his handkerchief 
 ■to staunch the blood which streamed from his wound. 
 
 The Auvergnat at last reached the inn. On seeing the traveller 
 bathed in his blood, everyone overwhelmed Jerome with questions. 
 Emile had still strength to reply, — 
 
 " I have been fighting a duel . . . my antagonist has fled . . . 
 this brave fellow found me . . . and has had the strength to bring 
 me here." 
 
 They bore the wounded man to his bed, and sent for a doctor ; 
 but Emile demanded, first of all, ink and paper. He wished to 
 profit by the small remaining strength he had to trace a few lines ; 
 he succeeded in overcoming his sufferings ; then he gave the letter 
 to Jerome, saying, in a low voice, — 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 209 
 
 "Take this to M. Guerreville; you have avenged him, and you 
 have also saved Stephanie Dolbert, for I should have introduced 
 myself to-night into her chamber, in the hope of dishonouring her 
 . . . However, before I die ... I should have wished ... to bid 
 her a last adieu ... to see her again . . ." 
 
 " I am going to these ladies," said Jerome ; "they will learn what 
 has happened to you . . . what is your wish ? I have no doubt 
 they will come to look after you. Adieu, sir ; try to get better, if it 
 is possible . . . As for me, I return to Paris, where I hope to see 
 M. Guerreville quickly restored to health." 
 
 "With these words, Jerome took the letter which Emile presented 
 to him, and left the inn just as the Doctor entered. 
 
 The water-carrier went as he had promised to Madame Dol- 
 bert's ; but, as he entered, he perceived M. Delaberge's servant, who, 
 by his master's orders, awaited him under Stephanie's window. 
 
 "You will wait in vain for your master," said Jerome, ad- 
 dressing Dupre\ " He has just been fighting a duel with pistols, 
 and has only a few moments to live. Carry this news to Madame 
 Dolbert's. M. Emile Delaberge wishes to see them before he dies." 
 
 The valet remained thunderstruck by what he had just heard ; 
 before he had recovered from his astonishment, Jerome was already 
 on his way to Paris, for the Auvergnat was in such a hurry to reach 
 M. Guerreville that he tripled his steps, and soon left far behind 
 him most of the vehicles going to Paris. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the haste Jerome could make, it was one 
 o'clock in the morning before he reached Paris. The Auvergnat 
 hesitated as to what he should do. At an hour so advanced, how could 
 he call at M. Guerre ville's ? He would perhaps need to call up the 
 whole house to make them open, and he would thus disturb the 
 repose of the person who was only convalescent, and regarding 
 whom the Doctor had given such particular instructions. Jerome 
 felt that, in spite of his desire to see M. Guerreville again, he must 
 defer his visit to the next day. 
 
 The water-carrier re-entered his modest dwelling, but he did 
 not close an eye the whole night. He had the note which M. 
 Delaberge had given him for M. Guerreville ; but although this 
 letter was not sealed, Jerome did not cast his eyes upon it, as he 
 believed he would have committed a blameable action. 
 
 At last the day broke ; Jerome counted the moments. At six 
 o'clock he went out and directed his steps towards M. Guerreville's 
 house, saying to himself, — 
 
 " If he is still asleep, good and well ... I shall be ready to 
 await his awakening." 
 
 It was George who opened the door to him, and he could not 
 but say, " You are here in good time this morning, M. Jerome. " 
 
 " It is true, M. George. You see when one has good news to 
 bring, I believe one never arrives too soon ; above all, how is M. 
 Guerreville ? " 
 
 "Very well ; oh, there is no more danger now. He rose a little 
 yesterday, but at this moment he sleeps still profoundly." 
 
 o 
 
210 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 "He sleeps, then I shall respect his sleep. I shall wait until he 
 awakes ; but whenever he opens his eyes, you will let me know, 
 George ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I promise you." 
 
 Jerome seated himself in a corner of the dining-room. More than 
 an hour went by, but M. Guerreville was still in a deep and sweet 
 slumber. 
 
 "Morbleu/" said Jerome, "I am pleased that he sleeps so well, and 
 yet I shall not be vexed when he awakes ; but I shall wait, oh, I 
 shall wait, for rest will hasten his cure." 
 
 Half -an-hour went past, someone arrived ; it was Doctor Jenneval, 
 who came to know how his friend had passed the night. When lie 
 saw Jerome, he held out his hand, saying to him, — 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " 
 
 " I am waiting till M. Guerreville awakes." 
 
 " You wish, then, to see him to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes; for I have done what I promised, and I have come to tell 
 him something which will please him. That can't do him any harm, 
 can it, Doctor ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 At that moment M. Guerreville's bell rang, and George came in 
 soon to announce that his master was awake. 
 
 " Let us go in," said M. Jenneval, and he walked into his friend's 
 bedroom followed by the Auvergnat, who was much agitated and 
 trembling like a child about to experience a great pleasure. 
 
 " Good-day, M. Jenneval," said M. Guerreville, stretching out his 
 hand to the Doctor, who advanced on tip-toe. 
 
 " Ah, it is you, my dear Jerome ; come then, my friend. I am very 
 glad to see you. I know that you have come often to ask for my 
 health, but I did not understand why you never would come in. 
 Were you afraid of being troublesome ? Did you think of me so 
 badly as to believe that I should so little enjoy your visit ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, my dear sir, it was not that at all ; but, you see, I had 
 made an oath, and I wished to keep to it." 
 
 " An oath, Jerome ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir j for indeed, if you were beaten, if you had been wounded, 
 and because you might have died, I said to myself that I was the 
 cause of it, because all this would not have happened if I had not 
 asked you to go to Madame Dolbert's." 
 
 " Jerome, do not reproach yourself with that ; it is a service 
 which you have rendered me. You have enabled me again to find 
 one for whom I had been looking for a long time. The fortune of 
 arms had not been favourable at this time, but I hope for another." 
 " It is useless, M. Guerreville ; you have no longer any need to 
 fight with Emile Delaberge. I charged myself with avenging you, 
 and, thank heaven, I have thoroughly succeeded." 
 
 " What is that you are saying ? " exclaimed M. Guerreville, as he 
 half -rose from his bed. 
 
 " I mean that I swore not to see you again before I had taken ven- 
 geance on the man who, they said, had injured you. Oh, for fifteen 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 211 
 
 days I ran after him, and it was not without trouble that I fouDd 
 the opportunity I sought . . . but at last, yesterday evening, it 
 came. I fell in with M. Emile in the country, near the house of these 
 ladies, in a solitary path. I began the conversation. He was un- 
 willing to fight with me at first, but I forced him to it ... I pro- 
 posed the cudgel, he declined ; he produced pistols, I accepted ; we 
 fired ... he got a ball in his breast. If he is still alive this 
 morning, I shall be much surprised." 
 
 " Jerome, Jerome, can it be ? . . . You have, indeed, avenged 
 me ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; pardon me for having acted without your permission 
 . . . but I could not help myself . . ." 
 
 " Ah, you are a fine fellow ! " said Jenneval, taking the hand of 
 the Auvergnat. 
 
 "Ah, my God ! Doctor, I find a chance of repaying what one 
 has done for me formerly . . . could I help taking advantage 
 of it?" 
 
 " My good Jerome," said M. Guerreville, " this Emile Delaberge 
 was, indeed, most culpable . . . But, however, before he died, I 
 should have liked . . . Oh, if he could have confessed his faults ! " 
 
 " He has done so ! ... his first words were that he had been to 
 blame towards you . , . Then he wished to write some lines . . . 
 and he requested me earnestly to give them to you ... I have the 
 paper here ..." 
 
 " Can it be ? Emile has at length confessed . . . Quick, give it 
 me, Jerome." 
 
 " My friend," said the Doctor, approaching the bed, " I tear that 
 too much excitement ..." 
 
 " No, Jenneval . . . no, fear nothing. I shall be strong enough ; 
 for a long time I have been prepared for all ; but uncertainty is 
 the cruellest of torments." 
 
 Jerome produced from his pocket the paper, which he had 
 wrapped up with great care, and gave it to M. Guerreville. The 
 latter took it trembling, and hastened to read it ; then large tears 
 fell from his eyes, and he could only cry out, — 
 
 " Oh, the wretch ! I had, indeed, divined his odious conduct." 
 
 " What has he written to you, then ? " said Jenneval. 
 
 " I shall read to you what he has written with a trembling hand ; 
 but first, my friend, I wish Jerome to know how culpable Emile 
 was, and all his conduct towards me . . . Listen, Jerome, and judge 
 if my hatred was just. I had a daughter whom I adored \ she 
 was the hope of my old age . . . she was my future, my happiness 
 ... in my daughter I had placed all my existence. She was young, 
 beautiful, impressionable . . . This Emile introduced himself into 
 my house under a false name ... he succeeded in seducing my 
 daughter . . . deceiving her by making her believe that I would 
 never consent to her happiness. The villain ! ... he did not wish 
 to marry her ... he only wished to dishonour her ! At last he 
 carried her off from me . . . and all my search for her was in vain. 
 I could not discover what he had done with my child. At first my 
 
212 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 child wrote ; she promised to return . . . with her husband . . 
 Ah, doubtless she still flatttered herself that her seducer would 
 marry her ; but soon the letters ceased . . . and for nine years 
 ... I have had no news of my child . . ." 
 
 " Nine years ! " cried Jerome, who seemed every moment more 
 and more interested in M. Guerreville's story, " nine years ! ... It 
 is strange." 
 
 Without paying any attention to Jerome's exclamation, M. 
 Guerreville continued, — 
 
 " You may judge of my grief, of my despair ... I ran every- 
 where ... no news of my child nor of herravisher . . . but pdge 
 of my surprise ... of my indignation in recognising in that Emile 
 Delaberge him who, under the name of Daubray, had introduced 
 himself into my house . . . The wretch ! he was going to be 
 married . . . Ah, my first movement was to demand my child . . . 
 The infamous scoundrel ! he pretended not to know me. I forced 
 him to light; you know with what result. Now ... at the 
 moment of death, remorse has at length entered his heart . . . But 
 he does not restore my daughter . . . Listen, this is what he has 
 written . . . Listen carefully." 
 
 M. Guerreville again took the paper, and read in a voice inter- 
 rupt d by tears, — 
 
 "-* I have been much to blame ; but at the moment of death I 
 recognise my fault . . . Yes, I carried off your dear daughter, and I 
 brought her secretly to Paris . . . but I never intended to marry her. 
 At the end of six months . . . tired of her complaints ... I left 
 her. But what made my conduct worse, she was then about to 
 become a mother.' " 
 
 " A mother ! " cried Jerome, striking his forehead. 
 
 " ' And this sacred title did not touch my heart. Ah, I am a 
 monster ! Since then I know not what has become of your daughter. 
 I have never seen her again . . . Now she has been avenged . . . 
 I am about to die, and I feel I am unworthy of pardon ! ' " 
 
 " My poor daughter ! . . . my dear child ! " cried M. Guerre- 
 ville, after finishing the letter. " Oh, without doubt, she will have 
 died of despair . . . but she was about to become a mother . . . 
 Oh, my God ! I shall not have lost everything if at least you have 
 left me her child ! " 
 
 " My friend, my friend, do calm yourself," said the Doctor, 
 taking M. Guerreville's hands. " Yes, the conduct of this Dela- 
 berge was horrible . . . but, at least, Jerome has avenged you ; 
 and . . . but see how he is agitated, this brave fellow . . . your 
 story has made a very strong impression on him." 
 
 In fact Jerome could not keep his position. He came and went, 
 spoke broken words, looking at M. Guerreville with emotion ; then 
 wiping the perspiration from his brow, he tried in vain to keep 
 back the tears which obstructed his vision. 
 
 " Jerome, my friend, what is the matter ?" said M. Guerreville, 
 gazing doubtfully at the Auvergnat. " You are crying, are you 
 not ? " 
 
4» 
 
 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 213 
 
 " Ah, my dear sir ... do not mind about them . . . they are 
 sweet . . . they are tears of joy ... of happiness . . . Ah, my 
 G-od ! if it is possible ... oh, I should be too happy ... I can 
 still hardly believe it . . ." 
 
 " Explain yourself, my friend." 
 
 " Ah, that is what I cannot do ... I am suffocating . . . but 
 before speaking ... I must run home ... to get some papers . . . 
 letters which will prove . . . Thank God ! I have always kept 
 everything with care . . . Wait for me . . . wait for me ; I shall 
 not be long." 
 
 Jerome ran off like a madman. M. Guerreville and the Doctor 
 looked at one another ; they could make nothing of the water- 
 carrier's conduct, and waited impatiently for his return. 
 
 Ten minutes had not elapsed when Jerome returned breathless, 
 covered with sweat and dust ; he ran and seated himself opposite 
 M. Guerreville's bed, saying, — 
 
 " Now, sir, listen to me ; I am going to explain my conduct. 
 It is nearly nine years now — yes ... it was in the month of 
 October, my poor wife was still alive ; we had just hired a little 
 attic in a house in the Eue St Martin. One day, on entering, my 
 wife said to me, ' We have as neighbour below us a very pretty 
 young woman ; but she seems very sad and unhappy . . . She is 
 about to become a mother ... I feel sure she is some young girl 
 whom a scoundrel has seduced, and then abandoned . . .' " 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " cried M. Guerreville, interrupting Jerome, 
 " this poor woman ... it was perhaps ..." 
 
 " Wait . . . wait, and take courage, sir ... I said to my wife, 
 ' Go and see this poor lady ; do not hesitate to offer her your services 
 if she requires them ; neighbours should help one another . . .' My 
 wife asked for nothing better. She then went to offer and help our 
 young neighbour, and get things for her. The latter appreciated 
 the good offices of my wife, and in talking together she always said, 
 ' As soon as my child is born, and I have recovered my strength, 
 I shall return to my father . . . my father whom I abandoned ! 
 . . . but who will forgive me, for he is good . . . Oh, near him I 
 shall be no longer unhappy.' " 
 
 " Ah, Jerome ... it was she . . . my Pauline . . . my daughter 
 . . . Oh ! Oh, yes, it was she who spoke thus." 
 
 " My friend, courage," said the Doctor ; "so much excitement 
 I fear ..." 
 
 " Oh, Doctor, let him speak . . . finish, Jerome." 
 
 " Well, my wife consoled this young lady as well as she could 
 . . . She easily saw that she was also weeping for an ungrateful 
 wretch who had deserted her, but whose name, however, she 
 never pronounced. Some days passed . . . Then one night the 
 lady was in great pain . . . she was about to become a mother . . . 
 I ran to find a midwife . . . At last, after cruel pangs, our young 
 neighbour was delivered of a little girl . . . very puny, very weak, 
 and already apparently suffering like its mother ; my wife would 
 not quit the poor young lady. The day after, not feeling well, the 
 
214 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 lady wished to write to her father. Fearing that she would be for a 
 long time feeble, she wished to confide her child to him, to recom- 
 mend her to his care. She commenced a letter . . . but she wept 
 while writing . . . Finally, she had not strength to finish it . . . 
 her sufferings increased, soon she became delirious . . . and the 
 next day . . ." 
 
 " Oh, my God ! my poor child ! . . . But this letter . . . this 
 letter, Jerome." 
 
 " Oh, I have it ... It is it I went home for . . . Unhappily 
 the young lady had not strength enough to put the address on it, 
 otherwise I should at once have taken it to her father . . . Here 
 it is . . ." 
 
 Jerome handed to M. Guerreville a letter just begun, and the 
 latter had no sooner cast his eyes on it, when he uttered a cry and 
 carried it to his lips, — 
 
 "My child . . . my child ... It was indeed she ... It was 
 your cherished hand which traced these lines . . ." 
 
 M. Guerreville then read in a voice interrupted by sobs, — 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear father ; your Pauline was indeed to blame, 
 but Heaven has already punished her ... I am a mother ... I 
 am a mother ... I have just borne a daughter . . . Love her as 
 you loved me, and ... if I may not see you again . . ." 
 
 " Poor child, her hand could write no more . . . She is dead . . . 
 dead without my being able to embrace her . . ." 
 
 M. Guerreville was again abandoning himself to despair, when 
 Jerome took him by the arm, and said, — 
 
 " Sir . . . sir . . . are you forgetting that your Pauline is not 
 altogether dead? that she has left a daughter — another self ?" 
 
 " True, Jerome . . . but this child . . ." 
 
 " This child ? Well, morbleu, I have taken care of her ... I have 
 treated her as if she were my daughter, her mother being dead, with- 
 out leaving any indication of her family . . . The poor child! . . . 
 what would have become of her ? But Jerome was there ... do 
 you not guess that this little Zizinette . . ." 
 
 "Can it be?" 
 
 " Yes, sir . . . yes, she is the daughter of your poor Pauline 
 ... I told no one I was not her father . . . why speak of a good 
 action one has done ? . . . But it was for that reason I consented to 
 separate myself from her . . . For I thought it was for her happi- 
 ness, and that I had no right to refuse." 
 
 " Jerome, my dear Jerome . . . you are as it were the Deity 
 to me ! " 
 
 M. Guerreville opened his arms to the Auvergnat, who embraced 
 him warmly, and for some moments they remained thus. 
 
 At last, this first transport over, they endeavoured to calm 
 themselves. M. Guerreville wished to get up to go at once to 
 Zizine ; but the Doctor opposed this. The invalid consented to re- 
 main tranquil only after Jerome had promised to go at once with 
 a cab to Beaumont to fetch Zizine. 
 
 " But," said M. Guerreville, " if this Emile still exists, see you do 
 
The Monde and the Demi Monde. 215 
 
 not tell him this child is his daughter ! ... The villian ! he de- 
 serted the mother ; he is unworthy ever to press her daughter m 
 
 his arms." . , ' _ ... _ , 
 
 " Oh, be easy," said Jerome. " It is not to him I will connde 
 my dear little one ! It is not for him I have brought her up and 
 taken care of her for nine years." 
 
 The brave Auvergnat did not delay longer. George went tor a 
 cab and by his master's orders went with Jerome. The driver 
 knew he would get what he pleased, provided he arrived quickly. 
 They dashed along ; at eleven they were at Beaumont. 
 
 Jerome stopped before the house of Madame Dolbert. He was 
 going to enter, when the porter stopped him with the remark,— 
 
 " These ladies are at the inn in the village where M. Emile Dela- 
 berge, who "fought the duel, is ... He is very ill . . . so ill they 
 cannot bring him here . . . These ladies are attending to him. 
 
 " And Zizine ? " 
 
 " She is with them." 
 
 Jerome immediately went towards the inn and entered. By the 
 sad appearance of everyone, he supposed that the wounded man 
 was at the last gasp ; a servant pointed out to him the room in 
 which Emile was, saying, — _ 
 
 " If you wish to see him again, make haste ... for the Doctor 
 is sure he will not last the day." 
 
 Jerome noiselessly entered the room. Near a window Madame 
 Dolbert tried to console Stephanie, who was in tears ; for, by mak- 
 ing to her whom he was to have married the avowal of all his past 
 faults, and even of the crime he had also meditated, Emile had 
 by his repentance reawakened the love she had felt for him ; but 
 what most moved the Auvergnat was to see the little Zizine on 
 her knees before the wounded man's couch. 
 
 " Approach, little one," said Emile in a feeble voice. " I did not 
 love you ... I have never addressed a friendly word to you . . . 
 To-day, I know not why . . . but I feel pleased to see you . . . 
 Zizine . . . fcrgive me also . . . and pray Heaven to have mercy on 
 
 me ..." T 
 
 The child wept as she prayed. At this moment Jerome advanced ; 
 he signed to Madame Dolbert to remove Stephanie. It was not 
 without trouble that she succeeded in getting her daughter away 
 from the inn, and from the sad spectacle of the death of the man 
 who was to have been her husband. 
 
 When Madame Dolbert and her daughter had gone, Jerome ap- 
 proached Emile, and, pointing to Zizine, who was still on her knees, 
 said in a low voice, — 
 
 " May Heaven in its mercy pardon you all the evil you did to 
 her mother ! " 
 
 "Her mother !" murmured Emile. "Oh, my God ! ... can it 
 be that child ? . . ." 
 
 He was unable to say any more ; he seized one of Zizme s hands 
 and carried it to his lips, but immediately his eyes closed, never again 
 to open. 
 
216 The Monde and the Demi Moyide. 
 
 Jerome then took Zizine in his arms, and hastened to quit the 
 inn. He repaired to Madame Dolbert's, and informed her of Emile s 
 death. 
 
 " Now," said Jerome with an air of triumph, " I go to conduct 
 Zizine to her father . . ." 
 
 " To her father ! " cried Madame Dolbert and Stephanie together, 
 while the child passed her arms round the neck of the Auvergnat, 
 saying — 
 
 " It is you who are my father . . . Do you wish me to be no 
 longer your daughter ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, my dear little one, I love you as if you were my own child 
 . . . but now you must know the truth ... I am not your father 
 ... I took charge of you in infancy . . . You have repaid me well 
 by your caresses and your love . . . Poor Zizine ! . . . I saw your 
 mother die . . . and I had no information to help me to find your 
 relations ... it was then quite natural to call myself your father 
 . . . But now Heaven has permitted me to discover him . . . Your 
 mother, my dear . . . your mother was the daughter of this good 
 M. Guerreville . . . who was our benefactor ; for nine years he 
 searched for her, he wept for her ; but he has not lost all, since he 
 he has found you . . . You will take the place of his dear Pauline 
 . . . for you are his daughter also ! . . . and you will love him, 
 will you not ? . . . You will try, by tenderness, to restore to him at 
 last the happiness of which he has been deprived so long . . ." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I do indeed love M. Guerreville," said Zizine, weeping, 
 " but I wish also that you could always be my papa ! . . ." 
 
 Stephanie, who had heard all, pressed the child to her heart, 
 saying,— 
 
 " I lose all at once . . . love, friendship ... all that was to 
 have charmed my life . . . my hopes for the future ! " 
 
 " Oh, console yourself, my good friend," said Zizine. " M. 
 Guerreville also is very good ... he knows all you have done for 
 me, and he will permit me to see you often ... Is it not so, 
 Jerome ? " 
 
 "Yes, without doubt. I answer for it . . . We shall all be 
 happy now . . . But you grandpapa awaits you, my Zizinette . . . 
 For nine years he has mourned, this good man, and it is quite time 
 to console him." 
 
 Jerome would not hear any more. He hurried the child off, and 
 entered the cab with her ; there he placed her on his knee, for the 
 good Auvergnat wished to profit by the last moment in which he 
 could still treat Zizine as his daughter ; but all the road he did not 
 cease to repeat to the child, — 
 
 "You will at once call M. Guerreville your father — always 
 your father . . . Oh, how it will please him to hear himself called 
 so ! . . . that will soon cure him ! " 
 
 At last they reached Paris, and stopped before the house of M. 
 Guerreville. He had risen and gone to the window ; the Doctor 
 had not been able to refuse him that. On seeing Zizine descend from 
 the vehicle, his sight became obscured, tears filled his eyes, and he fell 
 
The Monde and the DeMi Monde. 217 
 
 almost senseless on the sofa. But he came to himself on hearing 
 a sweet voice say, — 
 
 " My father, will you not embrace your daughter ! 
 
 Who shall describe the happiness, the delight of that man, 
 who for nine years had not heard this name 1 He pressed Zizine 
 in his arms, and covered her with caresses ; he could not stop 
 gazing at her, for in that child he again saw his Pauline. 
 
 "My good Jerome," said M. Guerreville, when he found 
 strength to sneak, " I owe all my happiness to you ! Ah, my 
 friend, do not leave me any more ... I wish you to give up 
 your occupation, and to pass the rest of your days in repose and 
 
 wealth." 
 
 "I ... I rest ! " said Jerome ; " why should I ? I am not ill ! 
 Give iip my occupation ... Oh, no, M. Guerreville ; permit 
 me always to remain a water-carrier, and nothing else . . .You 
 will not receive me with less pleasure, and I shall be more satisfied 
 Ah, when I have not strength to carry my jars ... then I 
 shail not refuse ... I shall come and ask you for a small lodging— 
 in a corner . . . You will always permit me to embrace my 
 Zizinette . . . That is all I require to make me happy ! " 
 
 In reply, M. Guerreville pressed the Auvergnat in his arms, and 
 the girl hung on his neck. 
 
 They say that great emotions are dangerous, but those produced 
 by pleasure rarely do harm. Eight days after this event, M. 
 Guerreville had entirely recovered ; his grand-daughter had not 
 left him an instant; and she was so pretty, so sweet, and so lovmg, 
 that he could not help saying to her,— 
 
 " Dear child, you have restored to me all I have lost ! 
 
 Madame Dolbert had taken Stephanie back to Paris. Good 
 people soon love one another. M. Guerreville took pleasure in 
 being able to show to Madame Dolbert and Stephanie his gratitude 
 for all they had done for Zizine. A pleasant intimacy was estab- 
 lished between them, and by this means Zizine continued to see her 
 young protectress constantly. _ ; 
 
 Jerome often came to embrace her whom he had called his 
 daughter, and the sight of Zizine's happiness recompensed him for 
 all he had done for her. 
 
 Doctor Jenneval, that sincere and devoted friend, seemed also to 
 be one of the family ; and after some time, his amiable character and 
 the liveliness of his disposition made Stephanie lose the recollection 
 of her first love. 
 
 Yadevant left Paris one fine morning for Algiers, to assist at 
 the marriage of the cousins Devaux, who had at last captivated 
 two Bedouins. 
 
 One day Jenneval sought out his friend, then taking him apart, 
 
 he said, — 
 
 " Your god-daughter, the runaway, has returned without M. 
 Adalgis ; but Madame Grillon assures me there is a certain M. 
 Zelan who is inclined to marry her. Finally, our young artist 
 Jules, after having played without success in several provincial 
 
218 The Monde and the Demi Monde. 
 
 cities, has returned to Paris to be near his mother, whose husband, 
 however, is not inclined to pardon his escapade." 
 
 " My friend," said M. Guerreville, " help yourself from my 
 purse ; do all you think proper . . I shall give Agatha a dowry, 
 and I shall give Jules enough to set him up ... I wish their happi- 
 ness ; but that I should love them . . . that I should cherish them 
 as my children. Ah, that is impossible ! Believe me, Doctor, we 
 only experience the feelings of a father for those who give us this 
 so sweet a title, and whom we are not ourselves afraid to call our 
 children." 
 
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THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 A STOBY OF LOVE AND PASSION; 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 A STORY OF LOVE AND PASSION. 
 
 BY 
 
 C. PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 NOW FIRST TRANSLATED. 
 
 Umiftmi ; 
 
 MATHIESON & COMPANY. 
 
. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 i. 
 
 ONE evening last winter, Theodore Spindler and I found 
 ourselves in the orchestral stalls of the Gaite', at Paris. 
 There, as the curtain fell in the second act of the drama 
 I saw two people enter the stage box on the dress circle 
 tier, whose faces and appearance at once attracted my 
 attention. 
 
 The man appeared to be from twenty-eight to thirty 
 years of age. He was of medium height, and handsome 
 rather than plain, but what struck me most of all was 
 the sickly pallor of his countenance. To use a common, 
 but expressive phrase, there was "death in his face." 
 Strangely enough the woman who was with him was as 
 fresh, as rosy, and as magnificently healthy and vigorous 
 as he was pale, enervated, and apparently worn out with 
 suffering. Seeing them together, these two personages so 
 different from each other and yet so like, irresistibly re- 
 called those Indian traditions of women of exquisite 
 beauty,who suck the blood of their lovers from their veins 
 to preserve their own beauty — their own sempiternal 
 youth. The ghoul and her victim were clearly before 
 me, and to make my fantastic fancy more real they put 
 on an air which confirmed my idea. The man had 
 such a broken and downcast air; the woman was so 
 obviously at ease with herself — was ev^en proud of her 
 triumph. Whilst the man's smile said sadly enough to 
 
 B 
 
2 THE VAMPIRE, 
 
 those who watched him, " I have not long to live, alas ! 
 I know it but too well, and you may rightly pity me." 
 The woman, on the other hand, seemed to say to every- 
 one in the flush of her savage and even impious happi- 
 ness—" There you are . . he will soon be dead, and his 
 death will be my work. Yes by — you may see how I 
 kill my lovers — I do ! " 
 
 It was the first time of my meeting this strangely 
 assorted couple, and instinctively feeling that I was in 
 the presence of the actors in some mysterious, perhaps 
 terrible drama, I became at once very curious about 
 them. Spindler was, I think, the only person in the 
 stalls who had not perceived the arrival of these two 
 personages— a fact which ma* easily be explained by 
 his absorption in the play bill. I leaned over to him : 
 
 " I say," said I, " look in the box on the dress circle 
 tier to the right, there ! Do you know that man and 
 woman ? " 
 
 Spindler raised his head and looked in the direction 
 I had indicated. As soon as he caught sight of the 
 pair he started, apparently half m disgust and half in 
 terror. 
 
 " It is she once more," said he, " always that woman !" 
 
 At the same moment he left his seat and hurried 
 up the exit stairs, and, stopping at the door, motioned 
 eagerly for me to follow him. 
 
 I was greatly puzzled by the startling effect which 
 the appearance of these people in the box had produced 
 upon Spindler, and hastily obeyed his signal. 
 
 He was already twenty paces ahead of me when I 
 reached the corridor, and I had to hurry to catch 
 him up. 
 
 " Hallo !" said I, with a laugh, " What fly has stung 
 you now, my dear Theodore ? Where are we going 
 now f 
 
 " Where are we going ? Why out of this to be sure ! 
 — not to return — at least I shan't go back to that 
 frightful theatre." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 8 
 
 " Frightful — but why frightful ? Is it the play or 
 the spectators that you mean V 
 
 " The spectators." 
 
 " Bah ! Then that man and woman that I pointed 
 out to you " 
 
 " That man and woman are objects of terror to me, 
 and of a terror sufficient to cause me, as you see, to 
 flee from them without looking behind me. Oh ! the 
 notion of staying a whole evening in the same house 
 with that coward and that wretch ! No indeed ! I 
 couldn't endure it. And now, my friend, you have not 
 the same motive that I have for leaving a theatre 
 where you were being amused, and if you choose to say 
 1 Good night ' now, I won't keep you." 
 
 " Good night ? Thank you, but I don't care to go 
 back to the Gaietd alone. And, frankly, that terror 
 which seized you when those people come into the 
 box, appears to me so extraordinary " 
 
 " That you want to know what it's all about, eh ? " 
 
 " Well, yes. That is if I am not too inquisitive !" 
 
 Spindler shut his eyes, reflected a second, as if he 
 were debating the propriety of my request, then having 
 looked at his watch — 
 
 " Half-past nine," said he, " My wife is at an evening 
 party with her father. They won't be home until two 
 in the morning ; we shall have plenty of time. Besides, 
 my friend, I owe you some compensation for the pleasure 
 I have robbed you of. That compensation I will give 
 you by telling you a story, which I am sure will please 
 you at least as much as the melodrama we were listening 
 to just now." 
 
 " And the story is that of ? " 
 
 Spindler put his finger to his lips. . 
 
 " Hush," said he, " allow me, like an experienced story 
 teller, to arrange my own effects. You have just seen 
 a portion of the epilogue of the drama which I am 
 about to explain to you. Not to destroy its interest, I 
 must ask you to let me begin at the lr ginning." 
 
 b2 
 
4 THE YAMPIRE. 
 
 We went to Spindler's chambers, and there he seated 
 me in a large easy chair, which certainly gave me no 
 reason for regretting the stall I had left at the Gaietd 
 I wonder, by the way, why the stalls of a theatre are 
 always stuffed with shavings. 
 
 Before me, on the mantel piece, was a box of first-rate 
 Havannah cigars, and on a table by my side a little 
 decanter of undeniable brandy and a siphon of eau de 
 seltz. 
 
 " Are you all right ?" asked my host 
 
 " All right, !" said I, " Fire away " 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 II. 
 
 "I think you will remember, my dear fellow," said 
 Spindler, "that it is just about three years since I 
 lost my father. 
 
 " I was really extremely attached to him ; his death 
 left me alone in the world, for I was not married in 
 1867 and my mother had been dead for some years. 
 Two months after the funeral I determined to leave 
 Paris and to travel, not to forget the dead, for one 
 never forgets those whom he has really loved, but to 
 try to obtain a little distraction from my overwhelming 
 grief. I had never been in Italy, and determined, 
 therefore, to go thither. But I had scarcely landed 
 on the classic land of the arts — ahem ! the true 
 academical style you will observe — when a discomfort 
 of some sort, an uneasiness — I know not what — seized 
 me, and do what I would I could not shake off this 
 home-sickness. I hurried down to the harbour; a 
 steamer was lying there with her steam up and on the 
 point of sailing for France. I took my passage ; three 
 days later I was at Marseilles which I had left a week 
 before, and at noon I was ensconced in a railway carriage 
 on my way to Paris. 
 
 " You will say, and you won't be far wrong, that this 
 story of my journey to Italy might be told by a lunatic. 
 To go to Naples, to stay for twelve hours shut up in a 
 back room at an hotel, and to return immediately with 
 as much hurry as if one had all the police of the 
 kingdom at his heels — that's one of the eccentricities 
 which are only pardoned in an hypochondriacal 
 Englishman. What is more remarkable in my case 
 is that the thought of finding myself in Paris, whither 
 the express was carrying me at full speed, was so 
 
6 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 exceedingly disagreeable. I had left Naples to escape 
 the ennui which I expected to suffer from — though it 
 had not attacked me as yet — but was there not an 
 ennui yet more painful and profound awaiting me in 
 Paris ? What was I to do in Paris ? The answer, of 
 course, was to work there. But it was precisely 
 because for some time past I had felt that I could 
 not touch a brush, that I had abandoned my studio. 
 Was I to try to dissipate my grief in the society of my 
 friends ? But it was because I had guessed that my 
 friends hardly loved me sufficiently to sacrifice their 
 business and their pleasures in order to console me ; 
 that rather than impose upon them a task which they 
 would have thrown up, that I had said good-bye to 
 theip 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 III. 
 
 *In proportion to the lessening distance between 
 myself and Paris — a distance devoured mile after mile 
 by our good locomotive — my perplexity at the idea of 
 returning to the capital increased. 
 
 " I confess that I began to regret the ridiculous 
 haste with which I had left Naples. I will even admit 
 that if the engine driver had suddenly taken it into his 
 head to return to Marseilles I, for one, would not have 
 made the smallest complaint. 
 
 "But railway trains are a collection of reasonable 
 machines, whose business it is to carry sensible people, 
 so, you see, there was not the smallest chance that my 
 fantastic desire could be granted. 
 
 " I was then only a few miles from Lyons, where, as 
 you know, there is a stoppage of an hour for the 
 passengers to dine and change trains. Tired of 
 dreaming about what I might or might not do in 
 Paris, I looked through the carriage window and 
 examined the country. Wishing to know the name 
 of a village perched like an eagle's nest at the top of a 
 steep hill, I took my portfolio in which there was, I 
 knew, an itinerary sufficiently exact for all practical 
 purposes. In turning over the papers it contained, I 
 came upon a letter which I took up and examined 
 with that languid curiosity which the sight of a half 
 remembered paper excites. From whom could it be ? 
 My memory failed me. Yet the seal was broken and I 
 must have read it. But what was in it ? I was 
 obliged to look at the signature before I could 
 recollect. 
 
 " This letter had been sent to me whilst in Paris 
 from Provins very shortly after the death of my father. 
 
8 THE VAMPIRE 
 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 "Monsieur, — You have doubtless forgotten me, for you 
 were scarcely more than a child fifteen years ago when 
 I had the pleasure of meeting you from time to time at 
 the house of your excellent father, but I dare to hope 
 that you will not, at the moment when you are over- 
 whelmed with a terrible misfortune, require me to say 
 how thoroughly and sincerely I sympathise with you in 
 your affliction. 
 
 " I have learned your grief from the newspapers only, 
 and I repeat to you that my own sorrow has been very 
 great. I formerly had the honour of being very 
 intimately connected with M. Leopold Spindler, and 
 since I have lived in retirement in this little town my 
 worthy and excellent friend has condescended to prove 
 to me by an affectionate correspondence that he 
 continued to interest himself in my good fortune as I 
 interested myself in his. 
 
 " You must have shed many tears, monsieur, and you 
 will shed yet more ; the death of a father is one of 
 those sorrows which never pass away. _ Permit me, 
 whilst hoping that you will find courage, to offer you a 
 hand which has often pressed that which was so dear to 
 you. If by chance you have a few moments to spare, 
 I hope you will remember one of these days that within 
 eighty miles of Paris there exists a modest little house 
 which the sun sometimes condescends to shine upon — 
 a house where you will find an entire family enchanted 
 to bestow upon you all the esteem and all the friendship 
 that they have given to your much regretted father. 
 " Receive the assurance, etc., 
 
 Etienne Atjclerc. 
 
 " Landowner at Provins. 
 " Rue des Comtes de Champagne, 
 
 " No. 7, Lower Town (Seine and Marne).*' 
 
THE YAMPITtE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Why after reading this letter a second time should an 
 exclamation of joy have escaped my lips ? I will 
 tell you. I am of a rather superstitious tempera- 
 ment. I believe in presentiments and inspirations. I 
 daresay it is very absurd, but you see I am built that 
 way, and I am not likely to change, for so far I have 
 never had any reason to repent obeying my fatalistic 
 tendencies. In that letter which had so unexpectedly 
 come under my notice I had seen traced out for me a 
 line of conduct which I felt compelled to follow. Hence 
 my outbreak of satisfaction. I had not been able to 
 rest in Italy ; the notion of returning to Paris had 
 been growing more and more disagreeable. Well, then, 
 I would go to Provins and see this old friend of my 
 father, M. Etienne Auclerc. Thank Heaven ! There 
 was something for me to do. Perhaps I should be so 
 comfortable in that unknown house, whose hospitality 
 was offered to me, that I should stay there for a month 
 or two. Perhaps, on the other hand, I should dislike it 
 so much that I should not stay for more than a day. 
 In any case there was but one thing to do, and that 
 thing offered to me, as it was by Fortune, I intended to 
 do in spite of all temptations. 
 
 The train stopped. I was at Lyons. I hurried to 
 the refreshment room and dined, with the best appetite 
 in the world. When the time for starting came I 
 returned to the carriage and slept the sleep of the 
 just until day-break. At five o'clock in the morning I 
 was at Melun. From Melun to Provins it is about six 
 and thirty miles. The driver of a nondescript vehicle, 
 half diligence, half fly, engaged to carry me over that 
 distance, with some other passengers, at the rate of four 
 
10 THE VAMPIRE 
 
 francs and a half per head. At nine o'clock I alighted 
 at the " White Horse " inn, at Provins. 
 
 Provins is situate at the foot of a lofty hill, and is 
 divided into an upper and a lower town. The upper 
 town, which has a very small population, consists chiefly 
 of the ruins of a strong castle, which in 1122 served as 
 an asylum to Abelard, who was then persecuted on 
 account of his religious opinions. At its south-western 
 extremity rises an ancient building, about a hundred 
 and fifty feet in height, called the Great Tower, or 
 Caesar's Tower, tradition ascribing its erection to 
 Caesar. The lower town is built in an open country, 
 watered by the twin streams of the Durfcein and the 
 Voulzie. 
 
 This lower town has also its ruined walls, its ditches, 
 and its groves of ancient trees, which form the most 
 charming walks. The look of the place pleased me. 
 Its picturesque situation between these two threads of 
 water, which the inhabitants will persist in speaking of 
 as rivers, the . ruins overlooking it, the woods over- 
 shadowing it — all alike pleased me. I had only to see 
 if the reception accorded to me in the town would be 
 as agreeable as the aspect of ths place. 
 
 I inquired of a lad who was playing at ball at the 
 door of the " White Horse " Inn, for the Rue des Comtes 
 de Champagne — a rather pompously-named street, by 
 the way. But all the world knows that Provins was 
 formerly the capital of the States of the Counts of 
 Champagne, under whose rule it grew to be a place of 
 importance. From that point of view it is not strange 
 that a grateful town should have given to one of its 
 streets the name of its former master, in memory of 
 their glory, and of the benefits they had conferred 
 upon it. 
 
 The boy to whom I spoke was very civil — a sure 
 proof of the urbanity of the inhabitants of the town. I 
 am not joking. In a place where the boys take off their 
 caps the men take off their hats. 
 
TEE VAMPIRE. 11 
 
 ^ " The Rue des Comptes de Champagne, sir," said he 
 " is the second to the right and the first to the left. 
 Shall I shiaw you, sir ? " 
 
 " I shanViJtet you to do that, my friend," said 1 
 "only, tell me — do you know M. Etienne Auclerc who 
 lives in that street ? " 
 
 "Do I know M. Auclerc ? Why, yes, sir ! My uncle 
 is his gardener. And I know his wife and daughter, 
 too ! Ma'amzelle Louise ! A very handsome young 
 lady. At blackberry time I often go to look for them 
 in the woods— for she is very fond of blackberries, is 
 Ma'amzelle Louise — and every time I take her some 
 she gives me a ten sou piece for my trouble." 
 
 " Good — then there's a ten sou piece for your inform- 
 ation." 
 
 The boy jumped for joy at receiving the little silver 
 coin and I, well satisfied with what I had learned, walked 
 quickly off in the direction pointed out. So ! I thought 
 to myself, M. Auclerc has a daughter who is called 
 Louise and who is very pretty. Humph ! very pretty 
 for a child perhaps. After all, why shouldn't a child 
 like nice things. For the present, however, I would 
 believe what my cicerone had told me. The thought 
 of seeing a pretty face lent an attraction the more to 
 my visit to M. Auclerc. 
 
 As well as I could judge by the streets through which 
 I passed to reach that of the Comtes de Champagne, I 
 was in the best quarter of the town. M. Auclerc's 
 house was, too, of rather imposing exterior, two stories 
 high, like most of the upper middle-class houses in 
 provincial towns, and attractive to the eyes with its 
 green Venetian blinds and roof of tiles. I rang the 
 bell and the door was answered by a tall peasant woman 
 fresh-coloured and cheerful. 
 
 " M. Etienne Auclerc, if you please ? " said I. 
 
 " It is here, sir." 
 
 "Is he at home?" 
 
 " No, sir ; he has gone for a walk with my mistress 
 
12 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 before luncheon. But Ma'amzelle is here. And if you 
 will give me your name " 
 
 " Oh my name- Mdlle. hardly knows it, I daresay. 
 
 However, tell her that M. Theodore Spindler wishes to 
 pay his respects." 
 
 " M. Theodore Spindler. Right, sir. If you will 
 have the goodness to follow me to the drawing-room I 
 I -will tell Ma'amzelle." 
 
 Preceded by the servant, I crossed a court in the 
 midst of which a magnificent English spaniel non- 
 chalantly lying in the sun saluted me with two or three 
 barks, which I took as a matter of course, and not as 
 any indication of ill temper. 
 
 "Be quiet, Pyramus. Hold your noise," said the 
 servant. 
 
 And addressing herself to me she added : — 
 
 " He is vexed because his master would not take him 
 with him. As a rule he barks only at the charcoal 
 man. Oh, he's as gentle as a lamb is our Pyramus." 
 
 " Except to the charcoal man." 
 
 " Well, yes, sir. But beasts, you know, have their 
 ideas like other people, and this dog does not like black 
 things, poor fellow ! There, sir if you will be good 
 enough to sit down I will tell Ma'amzelle at once." 
 
 The servant departed. I examined the room in 
 which I found myself, and the result of the inspection 
 was in every way favourable to my host. The drawing- 
 room was furnished in a fashion at once simple and 
 slegant. I remarked chiefly a chimney ornament in 
 Florentine bronze of a very chaste design, and above an 
 Erard's piano a magnificent engraving by Henriquel- 
 Dupont — a reproduction of the fresco by Delaroche 
 which adorns the hemicycle of the School of Fine Art. 
 " Tell me what pictures you have and I will tell you 
 what you are," is a maxim which, if it sounds a little 
 paradoxical, has at its base a really philosophical foun- 
 dation. It is certain that the man who hangs upon his 
 walls, and who admires the Memory and regret of 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 13 
 
 Dubufe,or some of the hunting sketches of Victor Adam 
 can have nothing in common with the man who give? 
 the place of honour within his house to engravings by- 
 masters after masters — such amongst the ancient 
 engravers as Edelinck, Morghen, and Tardieu, and 
 Henriquel-Dupont, and Forster, amongst the moderns. 
 Raphael, Rembrandt, and Titian amongst the old 
 masters; Delaroche, Delacroix, Ingres, and Decamps 
 amongst the modern painters. 
 
 The drawing room faced the south and opened upon a 
 garden which seemed to me sufficiently large and well 
 laid out. I was standing near the window admiring a 
 basket filled with rare and beautiful roses when a door 
 suddenly opened behind me. I turned round in some 
 haste and found myself face to face with a young girl 
 who saluted me very gracefully. She appeared to be 
 about seventeen ; she was not very tall but she had an 
 exceedingly good figure. Her face showed some natural 
 constraint but the features were of remarkable distinction 
 and delicacy of outline. 
 
 "Monsieur," said she, in a voice which harmonised with 
 the charm of her face, " I am exceedingly sorry that my 
 father should have gone out, and he will, I am sure, be 
 yet more sorry than I, that he was not here to receive 
 you. But he will not be very long and whilst you are 
 awaiting his return I shall have great pleasure in 
 showing you our garden." 
 
 So saying, Mdlle. Auclerc moved towards the door 
 opening upon the garden. I stopped her with a 
 gesture. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mademoiselle," said I, " before we leave 
 this room let me be certain that I am not wasting your 
 time. If I am, pray say so, and I will wait alone for 
 your father's return." 
 
 The young girl smiled. " No, indeed," said she, " I 
 was just about to go into the garden when they told 
 me of your arrival." 
 
 " Very good ! Now then, if you will permit me, I will 
 
14 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 ask you one question. You said just now M. Auclerc 
 would be sorry he was out when I arrived. I suppose 
 you know who I am then ? " 
 
 " Yes ... at least I think I know. You are the 
 son of that M. Ludovic Spindler, who died about two 
 months ago." 
 
 " You are right, Mademoiselle." 
 
 " Ah well, Monsieur ! My father has often spoken to 
 my mother and me of M. Ludovic Spindler, who used 
 to be, as he has often said, one of his best friends when 
 he lived in Paris. And when we learned the misfortune 
 which had befallen you, my mother and I went the 
 same day to pray for the repose of the soul of him for 
 whom you wept, and for you also that God would give 
 you strength and resignation." 
 
 " Can it be possible, Mademoiselle. What .... 
 Without knowing me you . . ." 
 
 I could not finish, my emotion was too great, but 
 Louise Auclerc understood me, and read in my 
 moistened eyes all the gratitude that I felt for her 
 pious and adorable conduct. She replied with modest 
 grace — 
 
 "Good heavens, Monsieur! Without knowing you 
 personally, it is true, any more than we knew your 
 father. But we had so often heard my father speak of 
 you both that you were no strangers to us. And then 
 was it not our duty, though we had never seen you, to 
 pray for those whom God has taken to himself as well 
 as for all who suffer ? 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 15 
 
 V. 
 
 It is said that laughing together makes people 
 friends ; it is quite certain that those who have wept 
 together have a stronger bond. I had shed tears in the 
 presence of Mdlle. Auclerc, and I had seen her face 
 overspread with a sweet light of pity at witnessing my 
 emotion. 
 
 We were already friends; I might almost say old 
 friends. 
 
 " iShall we visit your garden, Mademoiselle V s I asked 
 after a moment of silence. 
 
 Without hesitation she took the arm which I offered 
 to her 
 
 " Let us go !" said she. 
 
 Yes, in truth, I defy anyone who might have met us 
 then, as side by side we slowly paced along, to believe 
 that our relations were a matter of only a few minutes. 
 And yet there are people who deny that there is such 
 a thing as sympathy. It is true that such people 
 quote in support of their opinion a number of cases ii 
 which lovers have begun by cursing what they after- 
 wards came to worship. But that sort of thing is the 
 exception; as a rule, affection is the instantaneous 
 result of the instincts. And, for my part, I prefer the 
 rule to the exception. When you love the person you 
 ought to love at once, you have the advantage of loving 
 longer. 
 
 But what did we talk about, Louise and I, during our 
 stroll ? Well, I should find it rather difficult to tell 
 you. As well as I remember, she talked about the 
 flowers, and I listened to her. I know it was very 
 dleasant to listen to her, and the walk might have gone 
 
16 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 on indefinitely had there not been a sudden ring at the 
 bell. 
 
 " My father has returned. Come this way, and come 
 quickly, please." 
 
 And we ran together down a path which led us to the 
 house. Half way I saw running towards us a man of 
 about fifty years of age. 
 
 " My father ! that is my father," said Louise. " How 
 pleased he looks !" 
 
 " I am glad, too, Mademoiselle," said I, " I am indeed 
 happy to be received with so much cordiality." 
 
 When we were at but a few paces from each other, 
 both M. Auclerc and I halted simultaneously — I to 
 salute him, he to consider me with polite and affable 
 curiosity. Louise stood by on our right without 
 speaking, and laughingly regarded us, knowing well 
 what was about to happen. 
 
 What did happen was that M. Auclerc cried, " I 
 recognise him at once. Upon my word, I recognise 
 him." And he opened his arms, adding " Embrace me, 
 Theodore ! embrace me, my friend ! I am not surprised 
 that you do not recognise me, but that is no reason why 
 you should not give me my due." 
 
 M. Auclerc was still speaking while I kissed his 
 cheeks. He returned my kisses with usury. I 
 embraced him as I should have embraced my father — 
 when I had a father — finding in his close embrace 
 something which recalled the warm caresses of the 
 tender and devoted friend I had lost. 
 
 The first cordial welcome over, M. Auclerc went on, 
 looking at me afresh with a radiant glance, " It is really 
 true that I should have known you anywhere, my dear 
 Theodore. I call you Theodore without the Monsieur 
 in right of having done so when you were a boy of 
 twelve. You are not offended, I hope ?" 
 
 " By no means, Monsieur !" said I. 
 
 " Because you were not more than twelve years old 
 the last time I saw you in your father's house — your 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 17 
 
 worbhy, honest, good, estimable father ! Oh, we must 
 talk of him — we will talk much of him, won't we ? But 
 first of all, I want to thank you for having accepted my 
 invitation. Between ourselves, as I had received no 
 answer to my letter which was written two months ago, 
 I scarcely dared hope for a visit from you." 
 
 " It is true, monsieur, that I must have seemed very 
 rude to you, but — " 
 
 " But that is not what I wanted to say. You were in 
 too much grief to think about writing — that was 
 natural enough — and now that you are here it is 
 evident you have not been insensible to my letter. 
 Well, then, you must stay here at least for five or six 
 weeks. One does not make a journey of eighty miles 
 to go back the next day." 
 
 " But, monsieur ..." 
 
 " But what ? You are afraid you will be bored, I 
 suppose ? Or is it that you fear you will bore us ? 
 Bore us indeed ! You will render us a service, my dear 
 boy, if you will consent to take up your abode with us 
 for a month or two. In the country, the visit of a 
 Parisian is a perfect godsend, and when one drops upon 
 us from the sky we profit by its bounty. So my 
 daughter has done the honours of the Park for you ? 
 Quite right, Louise, my dear, quite right ! I daresay 
 that she has told you that I often speak of your father. 
 All the same, when Catherine, our housemaid, men- 
 tioned your name to me, I could not believe my ears. 
 And my wife, too, my dear Eugenie. ; . . To tell the 
 truth, I had forgotten that my wife is most anxious to 
 see you, and is keeping breakfast back on your account. 
 Shall we join her ? We can talk at table just as well 
 as here. You have not yet had breakfast, I hope, and 
 you must be hungry. Come along. Take my arm, and 
 let my daughter go on in front. She has had enough 
 of you, and it is my turn now. It was nice of you, my 
 dear Theodore, to have conceived the idea of coming 
 like this to surprise an old friend — for you can't deny 
 
18 THE VAMPIRK. 
 
 that I am an old friend of yours — although I might 
 have passed you a hundred times without your 
 recognising me. But we shan't be ungrateful, be 
 sure. . . . Make your mind easy. We will try and 
 arrange that you shall not be bored too much in our 
 town. Of course, Provins is not Paris, but for two or 
 three months it is no bad substitute for it. Some of us 
 stay a bit longer than that. Look at me for example. 
 I have lived here for fifteen years, and would not leave 
 the place for an empire. Now, Louise, get on, little one ! 
 You are dawdling terribly, and mamma will be getting 
 quite impatient." 
 
 The fact was that Louise was, like myself, so com- 
 pletely occupied in listening to the amiable chattering 
 of her father, that she was perpetually turning round 
 and stopping. I did not complain of these stoppages, 
 which brought me from time to time into contact with 
 the young girl, but it was evident from the way in 
 which the three of us were sauntering on, that we ran a 
 great risk of arriving at the house in time, not for 
 breakfast, but for dinner. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 19 
 
 VI. 
 
 I shall not dwell upon the opening of my relations 
 with the family of Auclerc — relations which were soon to 
 become so intimate — it is not my own story that I have 
 to tell, but that of the two persons whom we saw at the 
 theatre ; that, above all and before all, of a man whose 
 name I have not yet had occasion to utter, of a man of 
 talent, an artist of no common order, whom you know 
 and admire, and upon certain episodes of whose life, 
 which I think you will find both interesting and in- 
 structive. 
 
 Now, if I have spent so much time in carrying you 
 with me to the house of M. Auclerc, now my honoured 
 father-in-law, and have told you in detail what brought 
 about that visit, it has not been without a reason. 
 That reason is that the fact of my stay in Provins and 
 what followed — that is to say, my love for Louise and 
 my asking her father for her hand, constitute, as it were, 
 the prologue to my drama, just as our meeting at the 
 Gaiete' Theatre to-night with Marianne Philippeaux 
 and Lucien Chastel represents the denouement — a de- 
 nouement sad, painful and even revolting, I warn you 
 beforehand. 
 
 But when you are dealing with the realities of this 
 jrorld you must not be afraid to soil your fingers some- 
 times. 
 
 These preliminaries settled, and passing rapidly over 
 an interval of two months, I arrive at what connects it 
 by a slight though golden thread with the events I 
 am about to relate. 
 
 * * * * - * 
 
 It was at the end of the month of July. The scene 
 was as before — in Auclerc's house at Provins, we had 
 dined and dined well. M. Auclerc and I were together 
 
20 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 in the dining-room, while Louise and her mother saun- 
 tered in the garden, in accordance with an arrangement 
 which I had entered into with the two ladies to leave 
 me alone with the husband and father, so that I might 
 open my heart to him on a subject on which I had 
 already come to an understanding with them. 
 
 It was the usual custom of an evening on rising from 
 the dinner table to play a game of backgammon with 
 M. Amclerc — a difficult game, I may say in passing, and 
 one which, in order to make myself agreeable to my 
 future father-in-law, I had conquered in two lessons. 
 
 Catherine, the servant, had just placed the back- 
 gammon table in its usual place in the verandah under 
 the shadow of a vine. M. Auclere had just ranged the 
 draughts in the order of battle. 
 
 " Come, Theodore," he cried, " how about this game ? 
 You beat mv yesterday ; I must have my revenge to- 
 day. Let us see which is the best man," holding out 
 the dice-box as he spoke. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said I ; "but if you will allow 
 me, my dear sir, I should like to have a little serious 
 talk with you before we begin our game." 
 
 M. Auclere looked at me with affected surprise. 
 
 "The deuce you do ! " he exclaimed. "You want to 
 talk seriously to me, my dear boy ? Well, I am at your 
 orders. But tell me first, is our conversation likely to 
 be long ? " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " Because if it is, we will adjourn to my study and 
 put ourselves under lock and key. You understand, 
 here we are not quite sure of being free from interrup- 
 tion, and servants are not invariably discreet. Perhaps 
 it would be as well to take precautions." 
 
 The tone of raillery which M. Auclere adopted 
 troubled me in spite of myself. 
 
 " You are chaffing me, my dear friend," said I, " and 
 that is not quite fair ; for I have no doubt that you 
 have guessed what I want to say to you, and if you do 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 21 
 
 you must know very well that the avowal — the reqsest 
 I am about to make to you do not require sudh exces- 
 sive precautions." 
 
 M. Auclerc smiled and stre.tched out his hand. 
 
 " You are right, Theodore," he replied. " I own I was 
 quizzing you a bit. I know very well what you want 
 to say to me, of course. The fact of the matter is I 
 had a long talk on the subject this morning with my 
 wife." 
 
 " Ah ! I see ! Madame Auclerc has told you " 
 
 " That you have allowed yourself to confide your love 
 for our daughter to her, master reprobate ! Well ! can 
 you be surprised that a good woman has no secrets 
 whatever from her husband ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! no ! no ! That does not displease me — 
 quite the reverse ! — but " 
 
 " But, since without calling upon you to expend any 
 great amount of eloquence, you find me perfectly well 
 acquainted with the whole matter, you feel without 
 doubt, that it would be more pleasant for you if I gave 
 my decision at once — isn't it so ? And if, nevertheless, 
 I ask to be informed on the subject by yourself, I — 
 hang it — when the future of my daughter is at stake, a 
 father may be pardoned if he asks to have the " dot " 
 put on the " i," as we used to say in the Courts. My 
 wife may have been mistaken, after all, as to your 
 intentions, and " 
 
 " Mistaken ? mistaken ? how can she be when I have 
 repeated a thousand times to her that I adore Mdlle. 
 Louise, and that the dearest wish of my heart is to 
 marry her ?" 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! tut ! All in good time, my boy ! After 
 such a beginning I am almost ready to think that my 
 wife was not mistaken. So you love Louise ?" 
 
 " Love her — indeed I do." 
 
 " And you want to marry her ?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " And Louise — does she love you ?" 
 
22 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 ft I hope so !" 
 
 *' Hope— you hypocritical rascal !" 
 
 " My dear sir !" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. If you were not an unspeakable hum- 
 bug why should you not have said frankly that you were 
 certain — perfectly certain — that you are beloved. Per- 
 haps you fancy I have not seen what has been going on 
 under my eyes since you have been here. Before you 
 came my daughter was perfectly unsophisticated, 
 always gay, always full of affection for her poor old dad. 
 Now I am perpetually finding her dreaming in a corner. 
 For three days running — three days, for I kept account 
 of them — she forget to kiss me when she said "good 
 night." And then, after having sown trouble and dis- 
 comfort in the house, you come to me with the demurest 
 air in the world, and tell me you think that there is 
 something out of its usual course in my house. Then 
 when I ask you if you are loved, you calmly say, ' 1 
 think so !' Now don't you think, M. Theodore Spindler, 
 that the proper reward for such a breach of good faith 
 is that I should kick you out of doors. Eh ? kick you 
 out at once." 
 
 " What ? How ? you think " 
 
 " Now listen ! if like an indulgent old goose, as I an^ 
 and persuaded besides that you will make an excellent 
 husband — in spite of your tendency to duplicity — if I 
 were to say to you — embrace me, my son, Louise is 
 yours ? " 
 
 I threw myself into M. Auclerc's arms. 
 
 " Now let us talk seriously," he went on, pointing to 
 a chair and sitting down opposite me. 
 
 I smiled, thinking I detected another jest in his half 
 solemn countenance. 
 
 " I am not joking, Theodore," he went on ; " no, I am 
 not joking now in any way. I like you and I give you 
 my daughter's hand with pleasure and with confidence 
 — that is understood — I give you my child whose dowry 
 you know is composed . . . ." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 23 
 
 " My dear, sir ! " I exclaimed, to cut short this un- 
 pleasant topic. 
 
 " Very well ! very well ! perhaps it will be as well not 
 to talk about money matters just at present. Let 
 francs and centimes slumber. Besides, I am somewhat 
 of your opinion — between people like ourselves there is 
 always plenty of time for questions of account. But 
 there is another about which I must speak, and, it is one 
 of importance, and there is no time like the present." 
 
 "Pray go on," said I. " I am all attention." 
 
 "I warn you," M. Auclerc continued, "that in all 
 probability you will not want me to raise this point, as 
 we used to say in the law." 
 
 " I hardly understand." 
 
 ■' Well, then, the point is neither more nor less than a 
 condition which I must impose on your marriage with 
 Louise." 
 
 " A condition ?" 
 
 "An absolute condition, a sine qua non, decided 
 upon last night by wife and myself." 
 
 " Pray explain it " 
 
 " That is soon done. Let us see now : About what 
 time do you wish your marriage to take? place ?" 
 
 " Well, I had thought, and Madame Auclerc and 
 Louise had thought with me, that in about two months 
 — when my time of mourning is over, that is to say . ." 
 
 " Good ! very good, my dear boy I I am glad to see 
 that although you are very obviously in love you have 
 not forgotten the respect which you owe to your father's 
 memory. I expected nothing less of you, though, and 
 I hope for the best in a marriage where the husband 
 has proved himself a good and affectionate son. On 
 this point, therefore, we may consider that we have 
 arrived at an agreement. To-day is the 27th of July, 
 so somewhere between the 1st and 15th of October, 
 Mademoiselle Louise Auclerc will become Madame 
 Theodore Spindler." 
 
 We shook hands by way of clenching the bargain. 
 
24 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " But," he went on, " tell me now ! There are two 
 months which must be got rid of before we need order 
 the wedding breakfast — the two months of August and 
 September. Now have you thought — you who think 
 of everything — how you are going to spend them, and 
 where ? 
 
 " How ? Where ?" I stammered. " My dear sir, to 
 tell you the truth, the days I have spent in this house 
 have been so very pleasant that I really never thought 
 of occupying myself in any other way until my 
 marriage." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! that means, you rascal, that you expected 
 to stay here billing and cooing in the shade until you 
 were allowed to parade yourself in full sunshine with 
 your dove." 
 
 M. Auclerc laughed as he spoke, and I was about to 
 answer him in the same tone, but becoming suddenly 
 grave, he said : — 
 
 " I laughed ! I was wrong, I confess it ; I was wrong ; 
 for I must repeat I meant precisely what I said about 
 your way of employing the two months of August and 
 September. I daresay you will be somewhat vexed, my 
 dear Theodore, and my daughter also ; so that I feel it 
 was a mistake to laugh." 
 
 " Well," said I, after a pause, * what is your absolute 
 determination ? " 
 
 " Come, come ! " said he ; " don't be frightened. It 
 is not so terrible as it looks. What I expect from you, 
 my boy, is — " and he paused. 
 
 "Is?" I asked. 
 
 " Is — that from now to the end of September you will 
 return to Paris — that is all." 
 
 " Return to Paris ? but what for ? what is the 
 object?" 
 
 " The object is to convince you that a flame so 
 quickly lighted up as yours has been may be extin- 
 guished as quickly." 
 
 " Do 3^011 suppose it possible ? 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 25 
 
 M. Auclerc again interrupted me with a nod of his 
 head. 
 
 "I suppose nothing," he continued; "but if you 
 want the explanation of my conduct in this matter, 
 here it is — and I may tell you, my dear boy, that my 
 w if e — who is by no means a fool — thoroughly approves 
 it. I think you are an honest fellow, Theodore — if I 
 had not should I have received you into my house as I 
 have done? Or should I have allowed you and my 
 daughter to fall in love with each other ? ^ You are the 
 son of one of my oldest friends ; your position in society 
 is a brilliant one ; you have, as an artist, talent enough 
 to rise very high. Everything about you, physically 
 and morally, contributes then to make you a very 
 eligible son-in-law." 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 " But let us be reasonable, ■ he continued. " How 
 long have you known us : us to whom you propose to 
 unite yourself by an indissoluble tie ? A few weeks — 
 certainly not more. Now, I had seen you several times 
 when you were a child, or little more ; and I had a very 
 kindly memory of you. But as to yourself, you con- 
 fessed to me one day — and I took your frankness in 
 good part — that it was to a caprice alone that we have 
 been indebted for the visit of yours. You were bored ; 
 you did not know what to do, and you said to yourself, 
 I will go and see someone who loved my father — a 
 happy inspiration, since it is through it that I call you 
 my son to-day. But, my dear Theodore, if a few weeks 
 of intimacy are enough to enable me, as a man, to 
 recognize you as worthy of my esteem and affection, as 
 a father, you must admit that I am obliged to show 
 myself more exigent. Now, I do not in the least with- 
 draw what I have said, understand that — from this 
 moment I swear to you that I look upon you as my 
 daughter's husband. Only before I give you that title 
 for ever, I require you to submit without hesitation to 
 a test which I think it wise to impose, and that test is 
 
26 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 your immediate departure — our separation for the next 
 two months. Apart from all the laws of etiquette — 
 and I am sure you will agree with me that it would 
 not be quite the right thing for an expectant bride- 
 groom to live under the same roof with his future wife 
 until he could conduct her to the altar — apart from all 
 considerations of this sort, I say the test which I have 
 decided on will be useful, in my opinion, inasmuch as it 
 will afford us all a guarantee of the future. Separation 
 is the touchstone of friendship, as it is of love. If, as I 
 believe you do, you really love Louise, and if Louise 
 loves you, these two months of separation will only 
 serve to multiply many times over your tenderness and 
 affection — they will certainly not tend to weaken 
 either. But if, unhappily, things should turn out 
 otherwise — if what you have both taken for love should 
 turn out to be mere passing caprice — — " 
 
 "A passing caprice, monsieur!" I exclaimed with 
 emotion. 
 
 " Let me finish — I am supposing at this moment — I 
 don't prophesy — God forbid ! under those circum- 
 stances " 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Impossible, you say ! so do I. But supposing them 
 to come about,youwouldbothhave to thank me for an act 
 of prudence, which would simply have had the effect of 
 opening your eyes." 
 
 I was about to speak, but he stopped me with a 
 gesture. 
 
 " Now, my dear Theodore, I have explained my desire 
 — nay, if I must put it so, my will in this matter. Right 
 or wrong, I adhere to what I have said — my will must 
 be fulfilled. It is too much, that a father who has 
 watched for seventeen years over the happiness of his 
 child, should ask the man to whom he transfers the care 
 of that happiness some few weeks, not for reflection, but 
 of expectation ? Answer me that ! " 
 
 My heart was torn with the idea of leaving Louise, 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 27 
 
 but my reason told me that M. Auclerc was but doing 
 his duty. 
 
 " My dear sir, I will start to-morrow morning," said L 
 
28 THE VAMPIRS. 
 
 VIT. 
 
 Louise and her mother appeared in the footpath facing 
 the house just as M. Auclerc energetically squeezed my 
 hand in his. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " said he in a low voice — a stage whisper in 
 fact — " look at Louise's face. How red her eyes are, 
 poor child ! " 
 
 " Oh ! she knows already then, does she ? " 
 
 " That you are going to-morrow ? Of course, and a 
 nice business it has been to prepare her for that catas- 
 trophe. We had to share the duty, my wife*and I ; she 
 took the girl, and I the impatient young lover. For- 
 tunately Louise has been as reasonable as you were, I 
 am sure, and to reward you both you shall see — what 
 you shall see." 
 
 As M. Auclerc uttered these words, his wife and 
 daughter were only a few paces off. 
 
 " Where the dickens have you been, ladies ? " cried the 
 worthy man in a scolding voice, which belied the happy 
 expression of his countenance. " Here, we have been 
 waiting an hour for you ! " 
 
 " But, my dear," began Madame Auclerc, who heard 
 the voice, but did not understand its meaning ; " we 
 were only ..." 
 
 "You were only . . . you were only! It was 
 you above all that I wanted, Eugenie. I received a 
 letter only just now from your brother, which it is most 
 important that you should read. You will excuse me, 
 Theodore, if I leave you for the present ? Now Eugenie, 
 when you are ready, my dear — I am waiting." 
 
 M. Auclerc drew his wife away towards the interior 
 of the house, and I suspect they had a hearty laugh 
 over the sudden outburst of ill-temper, by which she 
 had allowed herself to be taken in. 
 
 My poor dear Louise ! how she had been crying 1 I 
 
THE VAMPIRE, 29 
 
 went towards her ; our eyes met ; we understood each 
 other without a word having been spoken. She had 
 guessed at all that had passed between her father and 
 myself ; that I had yielded to his will ; that his bad 
 temper was all a pretence, and that the letter was only 
 an innocent deception to give us a few moments to- 
 gether. 
 
 " So then, you are going ?" said she, breaking the 
 somewhat embarrassing silence. 
 
 " Yes. Your father orders it and I must obey. But 
 I shall return in a couple of months — in two months to 
 the day, Louise, you understand — and then I shall 
 never leave you again." 
 
 A glimpse of happiness lifted for a moment the cloud 
 of sadness which darkened the brow of the young 
 creature. 
 
 " Oh !" I went on, " Don't you think, Louise, that this 
 test to which your father thinks it wise to submit us is 
 wholly unnecessary ? 
 
 She blushed. 
 
 " We could not be married until your months of 
 mourning have passed, could we ?" said she shyly. 
 
 " Of course not. But what is there to prevent us 
 from living near to one another as we have been living 
 until to-day ? Nothing but an over nice scruple ! Is 
 not your opinion the same as mine ?" 
 
 She did not answer, or rather her silence was an 
 answer. 
 
 "Now to-morrow morning," I went on, "we shall 
 separate, as I have promised. But during my exile I 
 hope I shall not be forbidden to write to you often — 
 very often. Lovers have a right to write to each other ; 
 besides, I will send my letters through your mother. 
 And you will answer me sometimes, won't you ? Your 
 mother will not prevent you?" 
 
 She turned her head away with a deep blush. 
 
 "I will answer you once a week," she murmured. 
 " Mamma says that she will allow me." 
 
80 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Really ? Oh you are good to have thought of that. 
 Then I will write to you twice. Twice a week is not 
 too much is it ?" 
 
 " No ! No ! It does not seem too much. But -" 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon — 1 am afraid I was going to be 
 indiscreet." 
 
 " Indiscreet ! My thoughts and my life are alike yours, 
 Louise. Speak — tell me what you were going to ask." 
 
 " What are you going to do during these two months ?" 
 
 " Well, upon my word, I hardly know. I might 
 travel, but I hardly feel tempted, for I shall not see 
 what I look at. The simplest thing would, I think, be 
 to go to Paris. In any case I must go there sometime 
 to arrange certain formalities, and to make certain 
 preparations, for you know we do not intend to live in 
 Provins after we are married." 
 
 " But these formalities, these preparations, would not 
 take you two months ?" 
 
 " Alas, no ! I shall have only too much time to 
 spare. Have you, perchance, any advice to offer me to 
 prevent my dying of dullness during these two months ?" 
 
 "Advice? not precisely advice. Yet, in thinking 
 just now over the separation, I said to myself . . . 
 
 " You said to yourself — what ?" 
 
 " The time seems less long when you are at work. 
 For my own part, I have already set myself my own 
 task during your absence. You know that great piece 
 of embroidery in wool and silk which I have begun for 
 the drawing room table ? It would take four months 
 to finish it if I worked at it leisurely. Well, I intend 
 to have it finished completely by the time of your 
 return. On your side — but this is childishness, and 
 you will laugh at me and my attempts to teach you 
 what you ought to do !" 
 
 " Laugh at you ? at you, my dearest Louise ? What 
 can you be thinking about ? Go on, go on, please ! 
 On my side ? Stay, I think I can guess what ?" 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 31 
 
 " Very likely. Well, since you have been here you 
 have never touched a brush or a pencil. Now painting 
 is your profession — a noble profession — and it is, I 
 know, dear to you. Why, during your stay in Paris, 
 should you not undertake some great picture ? In the 
 first place, it would help to pass the time, and then I 
 should love the picture, knowing that you had painted 
 it whilst thinking of me — for I suppose painting does 
 not prevent you from thinking ? And then ..." 
 
 " And then, say — say, Louise, whilst I am working at 
 my great picture in my studio, I should not risk dis- 
 tractions. I shall be yours just as much when I am 
 distant from you as when I am by your side. That is 
 what you wish — I mean what you advise ?" 
 
 Louise blushed afresh — she murmured and turned 
 down her beautiful eyes. I had not deceived myself 
 then as to her wishes. The purest, the most innocent 
 love is not exempt from a shade of jealousy. When she 
 said to me, " Work ! work will help you to find our 
 separation less cruel." In other words she said to me, 
 " I am uneasy about your going back into this world of 
 Paris. I am afraid I may be forgotten for a day or two ; 
 I am afraid of being less loved." 
 
 I had taken her hand, and carried it respectfully to 
 my lips, kneeling on one knee before her. 
 
 " Louise," said I, " you remember that when walking 
 with you and your father, the day before yesterday, in 
 the Upper Town, by the side of Ca3sar's Tower, I ex- 
 claimed, struck with admiration by the magnificent 
 landscape which then offered itself to my view, that I 
 would return some day and make a sketch of it for 
 a picture which should be my chef d'ceuvre t " 
 
 " Well, yes ; I remember something of the words." 
 
 " Then, Louise, that picture, the sketch of which I 
 have in my brain, I promise you shall have completely 
 finished when I return to Provins. It shall be my 
 wedding present — would you like it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I should prefer it to everything- else. 
 
S2 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Thank, you, thank you a thousand times for your 
 promise. I shall reckon upon it ! " 
 
 " As I shall reckon upon seeing on my return the 
 great piece of embroidery in wool and silk completely 
 finished." 
 
 She tossed her head with a mocking air, as if she 
 meant me to understand that if it were not finished I 
 must understand that it was not because someone had 
 prevented her from working. 
 
 But she said aloud : — 
 
 " That is agreed then, the embroidery against the 
 picture." 
 
THE VAMPIRB. 83 
 
 vm. 
 
 There was certainly something very original and very 
 sensible in this idea of M. Auclerc, of sending me about 
 my business for two months, as a way of testing the 
 reality of my affection for his daughter. In comparing 
 on this subject my fate with that of the gallant knights 
 of the good old times, who had to spend ten years in 
 crusading in the Holy Land before they were allowed to 
 lead to the altar the lady of their choice — a sort of test, 
 hy the way, which would have led to a good many mis- 
 understandings amongst us — I certainly had nothing 
 to complain of. What are two months ? — sixty days 
 and no more ; sixty days to be lost to gain years of 
 happiness. That is a bargain which I think no man in 
 his senses would refuse to enter into. We often waste 
 more time with no other prospect than that of wasting 
 more. 
 
 Yet still, if at the first moment when M. Auclerc 
 announced his resolution to me, and even when the 
 moment had come to carry it out — that is to say, the 
 time for saying good bye to Louise — I had shown my 
 self courageous, resolute, heroic. I must confess that I 
 was scarcely out of that dear house which I had already 
 begun to look upon as mine, I was scarcely installed in 
 the horrible box upon wheels which carried me and my 
 portmanteau to the railway, when my strength, or my 
 resolution, whichever you may please to call it, com- 
 pletely vanished. The diligence jolted me as if it had a 
 spite against me ; the day was feverishly hot ; physical 
 irritation, united with moral uneasiness to make me 
 miserable, so that by the time I reached the station I 
 was in a wretched condition. Glancing first at the road 
 I had just traversed and then at the interminable rail- 
 way before me, I grumbled : — " The idea of exiling a 
 
34 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 man to Paris in the dog days, when there is not a soul 
 in Paris, who is not compelled to be there, in order to 
 earn his bread ! Really, M. Auclerc's fancy is as dis- 
 agreeable as it is eccentric. And when I was so com- 
 fortable at Provins, along with Louise under the trees 
 in the garden. So comfortable too — always with her, 
 of course — in that charming little boudoir, where the 
 sun never intrudes ! And supposing I get to Paris 
 alive — which, in this weather, I doubt — what on earth 
 shall I do ? I have promised Louise that I will set to 
 work, but, in order to work, one must be able to 
 breathe, and Louise does not know that no one can 
 breathe in Paris at this season." 
 
 The approach of the train aroused me from my re- 
 flections without getting me out of my ill-temper. I 
 looked for an empty compartment where I might curse 
 the gods at my ease. There was not one. I was 
 obliged to sit between an old lady, who took snuff every 
 other minute, and a young one, encumbered with a 
 monstrous nosegay of roses and tuberoses. The sight 
 of the old woman's snuff box sickened me ; the smell of 
 the tuberoses made my head ache. And for two mortal 
 hours I had to submit to this torture without daring to 
 invite one to leave her nose and her snuff box alone, or 
 the other to put her flowers under the seat, or, better 
 still, to throw them out of the window. Oh, those laws 
 of gallantry, or merely of politeness — how absurd they 
 seem when women abuse them to torture man. lam 
 not ill-natured, but if my two travelling companions 
 had suddenly dropped down dead from apoplexy from 
 too much tobacco, or too many flowers, I think I should 
 have been disposed to cry " Hurrah ! " 
 
 At last my martyrdom ceased — not before it was 
 time — five minutes more of it and I should have gone 
 mad. I was in Paris. But there was still the quarter 
 of an hour to be spent in getting my luggage — still that 
 amusing fifteen minutes. At last it was over, and I 
 was fairly in a cab on my way to my lodgings. I do not 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 35 
 
 know if the same cause produces the same effect on 
 everybody, but when I come back to Paris after a long 
 absence, the place never looks as it did when I left it. 
 The sky seems to have taken a new colour, and the 
 houses and streets look as if they had changed places. 
 The people even seem altered. I no longer recognize 
 my fellow citizens. They seem to speak another 
 language, and I am hardly surprised. 
 
 The state of mind in which I was in on that day was 
 not of the kind to alter my usual temper. Never in 
 my life had I seen so many ugly people — men and 
 women — in Paris. "Can it be possible," I asked 
 myself, "that some dreadful epidemic, some cruel 
 scourge has Mien upon the people of Paris ? Or has 
 there been some new and fantastic decree of fashion ? 
 All the good looking people seem to have been ordered 
 out of the capital ! 
 
 Pardon this rambling! perhaps these grumblings 
 were excusable in a man who had just made a journey 
 of some eighty miles under the most unpleasant 
 conditions. If I have mentioned them to you it is to 
 explain my gratification at finding my excellent 
 servant, Joseph, waiting at the door to receive me. I 
 had had no time to warn him of my sudden return, and 
 consequently I had no idea that I should find him at 
 home when I arrived. It is true that I might have 
 telegraphed from Provins, but only an Englishman 
 would have thought of spending five francs in that 
 way. 
 
 " You, Monsieur? you ? " he cried out, in a stupified 
 way. " And I just going to breakfast with my uncles 
 at Ternes. I should have been sorry all my life if I 
 had not been at home to wait upon you." 
 
 " Yes, Joseph, you would have had plenty of reason 
 for reproaching yourself, for I am half dead with fatigue 
 and the heat, my good fellow." 
 
 " I hope Monsieur is not ill ? " 
 
 " No, but it is much the same thing." 
 
 02 
 

 36 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Well, if monsieur will take my advice he will at 
 once go to bed and let me go and fetch him a bowl of 
 good soup," 
 
 " To bed — well upon my word bed is hardly tempting 
 just now, Joseph." 
 
 " Well, after changing your linen, monsieur, for you 
 are in a dreadful perspiration, you might lie down on 
 the sofa in your studio where it is very cool, and rest 
 for an hour or two." 
 
 ' Get out with your sofa and yourself, too — stay, 
 instead of soup, you might as well bring me some 
 lemonade — if you have no objection." 
 
 " But a glass of lemonade is a very bad thing when 
 you are so hot, monsieur." 
 
 " Bah ! soup, when one is not hungry, is a much 
 worse. Go." 
 
 " Of course, I am at your orders, monsieur, but what 
 I was saying " 
 
 " Was for my good, Joseph — I know that quite well," 
 said I, as we entered the studio. " Thank you for your 
 thoughtfulness. It is really pleasant here — it reminds 
 me . ." 
 
 " Reminds you, monsieur ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! Go and fetch my lemonade, my good 
 fellow — on the whole I am disposed to think as you do, 
 that an hour or two's sleep will set me up." 
 
 The silence, the calm and the coolness which pre- 
 vailed in my studio reminded me of that dear little 
 room at Pro vins,where Louise would be, without question, 
 at this moment. I felt almost restored at once. I had 
 thrown off my coat and waistcoat, and had dropped 
 upon the sofa, when Joseph returned carrying on a tr&y 
 a glass of the fluid I had asked for. 
 
 " The devil !" said I. " This is your stuff, Joseph. I 
 suppose you had a bottle all ready." 
 
 Joseph looked both modest and sly at the same time. 
 
 " No, monsieur, no !" he replied. " You must not 
 imagine that I amuse myself by making such things 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 37 
 
 for my own use. It's very good though, monsieur, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Very good indeed, Joseph," I said, as I sat down 
 the glass. " But where did you steal it from ?" 
 
 " I did not steal it, monsieur — it was given to me, and 
 the person who gave it was very proud to do so." 
 
 " Proud ? why proud ?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle Pauline, — a new neighbour of mon- 
 sieur . ." 
 
 " A neighbour ? Mdlle. Pauline. Some chambermaid, 
 I suppose ? Why, you rascal, do you mean to say that 
 you go fetching refreshments for me from your mistress ?" 
 
 "My mistress? You are altogether wrong there, 
 monsieur. Mdlle. Pauline is by no means what you 
 imagine. She is a young lady who came to live in the 
 house only last quarter. And as to paying my addresses 
 to her — why I have never thought of such a thing for 
 an instant. She is far too high in the world for me." 
 
 " Well, then, what excuse could you make for asking 
 for a glass of lemonade from this lady ?" 
 
 " Well, monsieur, in the first place I met her maid 
 going up stairs with a basket full of lemons . ." 
 
 " So she keeps a maid, does she ? Well, then, I was 
 not so far wrong, after all." 
 
 " Not at all — the maid is fifty-five if she is a day." 
 
 " Come — that's another pair of shoes. Go on !" 
 
 " Then if I may be allowed to beg for a small service 
 — not from the maid, if you please, but from Mdlle. 
 Pauline — it is because about two months ago, just after 
 monsieur went away, I had the pleasure of talking 
 with her about you every time that we met, monsieur." 
 
 " About me ? well, what tale did you tell her about me ?" 
 
 "There were no tales. It appears that our new 
 neighbour knows you very well, and her . . her . 
 her . . how shall I say it? . . her gentleman 
 knows you very well, too." 
 
 " Her ' gentleman,' eh ? So this neighbour of ours 
 is a kept woman, then ?" 
 
88 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Well, monsieur, it looks like it, and yet . , ** 
 
 «Yet— what V 
 
 " You will understand me, monsieur. If the lady is 
 kept, she is not one of the common sort. None of your 
 trollops, I can swear." 
 
 " What is her lover's name ?" 
 
 " M. Edward Mansion." 
 
 f Edward Mansion f 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 39 
 
 Spindler stopped at this point for another drink. 
 
 "Ah, ha!" said I, struck by the name he had just 
 uttered. " Then, if I am not mistaken, the principal 
 hero of your drama is about to come on the stage, isn't 
 he, my dear Theodore? This man you are talking 
 about, this Edward Mansion, is, in your own words, the 
 artist out of the common line, whom I know and 
 admire and, you might say, whom all the world knows 
 and admires, and upon certain passages of whose life 
 you could give me some useful information." 
 
 Spindler nodded. " You have sometimes met Ed- 
 ward Mansion in society, haven't you ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Sometimes, but I have never had much opportunity 
 of talking to him." 
 
 " Do you know anything else about him — otherwise 
 than as an artist ? that is, have you ever heard anything 
 about his character, his habits, his manner of living, in 
 a word?" 
 
 " No ! I know that Edward Mansion, as a composer, 
 is one of our representative men, but I know nothing 
 whatever of his private life." 
 
 Spindler nodded his head with the air of satisfaction 
 peculiar to every story teller who is anxious that the 
 bloom should not be taken off his tale through some 
 preliminary chattering. Then, having emptied his glass, 
 he went on as follows : — 
 
 " A year, or rather about fifteen months before the 
 time when I left off my tale just now, I, like you, knew 
 Edward Mansion only from having from time to time 
 applauded his delightful works at the Opera or Opera 
 Comique, and through having met him from time to time 
 at some soiree or other in a friend's studio. 
 
 "One evening in autumn, however, I became more 
 
46 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 intimately acquainted with him. I was smoking a cigar 
 in the Passage del'Horloge — the gallery by the Boulevard, 
 you know — waiting for the time of opening the doors, 
 when I heard a shriek behind me. The cry was uttered 
 by a young woman who was looking in at the window of 
 a clockmaker's shop. A blackguard in a blouse, passing 
 close behind her had insulted her in some way — by 
 word, or gesture, or action — and when I turned round 
 there he was jeering at the poor girl, who was standing 
 face to face with him, blushing and trembling. 
 
 " I had my stick in my hand and I went for that 
 blackguard. Before he had had time to see what I 
 meant, I had given him one for himself over the 
 shoulders. 
 
 lie aiso cried out, but with rage. I thought he was 
 going to fall upon me, and so, stick in hand, I awaited 
 his attack. 
 
 Not at all ! Some passers by, who had seen what had 
 happened, had already stopped. The blackguard in the 
 blouse thought that the struggle was going to be 
 unpleasant — for him, anyway — and instead of dropping 
 upon me as I had thought he would, he recoiled, slowly 
 at first and then running off at speed, amidst the 
 laughter and hisses of the spectators. 
 
 Then I turned to the young woman, who seemed as 
 if she were glued to the place. 
 
 " Madame," said I, taking off my hat, "I am sorry 
 not to have been able to save you from the insults of this 
 scoundrel. He is far enough off now, I think, but if 
 you have the smallest fear of meeting him again I shall 
 be happy to offer you my arm." 
 
 I had hardly finished speaking, when a man, 
 coming from the side of the Galerie du Barometre, 
 hurried forward on seeing the circle of idlers by whom 
 we were surrounded. 
 
 That man was Edward Mansion. 
 
 The young woman, on seeing him, rushed to him 
 and caught him by the arm, whereupon Mansion, who 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 41 
 
 had also recognised me and bowed, asked me, with an 
 air of surprise, the cause of the crowd around us. 
 
 " It's nothing," said I. " Come along ! " and, leading 
 the way to the Boulevard, I told him, as briefly as 
 possible, what had happened. 
 
 Edward Mansion began by shaking hands with me, 
 then, turning towards the young woman, he said to her 
 in a tone of commiseration at once tender and comic : 
 
 " Poor Pauline ! now you see what comes of not 
 going into the tobacco shop with me, whilst I lighted 
 my cigar." 
 
 She began to exclaim at his reproach. 
 
 " I was only joking ! only joking ! " replied Edward 
 Mansion hastily, " It is I who ought to be scolded and 
 not you, dear one. I, who was stupid enough to 
 leave you alone for a moment in this passage, for that 
 brute of a man to frighten you. I suppose he 
 talked some beastliness to you ? " 
 
 " I don't remember what he said or did, but " 
 
 " But — I am sorry I wasn't there to settle accounts 
 with the cad as he deserved — though perhaps I should 
 not have done the work better than you have done, 
 M. Spindler." 
 
 "I am sure you would not! The gentleman gave 
 him such a blow with his stick that I thought the 
 fellow would have gone down." 
 
 " But he didn't, you see. These blackguards have 
 very tough hides. He bolted instead, and by this time 
 I expect he is beginning his politenesses to the ladies 
 once more. Oh, this Paris ! frightful city that it is, 
 where a woman cannot walk ten yards without an 
 ins alt of this kind. Happily, in your case, my dear 
 Pauline, though I was in fault, you have found a 
 defender. I have to thank you for your valuable and 
 courageous assistance, M. Spindler. I thank you from 
 the bottom of my heart, believe me. But now I think 
 of it — perhaps you were expecting some one in the 
 Opera passage, and here we are at the Boulevard 
 
42 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Montmartre. I am afraid we have made you miss your 
 appointment." 
 
 "Not at all. I had no appointment. I was merely 
 waiting for the house to open to go in and hear an act 
 or two of Guillaume Tell." 
 
 " Bah ! Gmllaume Tell is played to-night by the 
 understudies. I suppose you don't want to have your 
 ears skinned ? " 
 
 " Good heavens, no ! I only want to kill time as 
 pleasantly as I can — that's all." 
 
 " Yes ? then I will make a proposal to you. I am 
 going home with madame — come with us. We will 
 leave her at the door — nay, on the other side of it, so 
 as to make sure that she is safe from these ruffians in 
 blouses, and then we can stroll about for two or three 
 hours on the Boulevards. How will that suit you ? 
 I flatter myself that my conversation will be more 
 amusing than the braying of a baritone with a cold in 
 his head, and the mewing of a tenor who is past his 
 work. I am, like you, in a lounging humour — let us 
 lounge together. You will put me under two obliga- 
 tions in the same evening." 
 
 The proposal was made in terms too graceful for me 
 to hesitate for a moment about accepting it. At heart, 
 too, I did not care two straws about going to the Opera. 
 
 " Accepted ! " I replied therefore. 
 
 " Bravo ! " 
 
 By this time we had reached the Boulevard Bonne 
 Nouvelle, up which we had gone as far as No. 12. It 
 was there that Mdlle. Pauline then lived. 
 
 " Farewell, monsieur," said she to me, with an 
 amiable smile, " and for myself, let me thank you once 
 again for the service you have rendered to me this 
 evening." 
 
 Faithful to his promise, Edward Mansion did not 
 leave the young woman until he had seen the great 
 door of the house close behind her. Then passing his 
 arm familiarly under mine : — 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 43 
 
 Now I am at your service, my dear Spindler," he 
 cried. "And first of all, allow me to congratulate 
 myself on an adventure which affords me the oppor- 
 tunity of becoming more intimately acquainted with 
 you. That is certainly true. You are a man of genius 
 and I have met you in all kinds of places, but I have 
 never been able to get a hearty shake of the hand from 
 you. I do not know if you desire my friendship, but I 
 certainly want yours — upon my honour I do ! Amongst 
 artists esteem does not count — we must love ! Is not 
 that your opinion V 
 
 " Certainly — and I am flattered ! " 
 
 " Flattered ? Take care ! take care ! if you begin to 
 talk in that sort of tone you will make me think you 
 are regretting your sacrifice of William Tell — I am a 
 queer fellow, you see. You cannot imagine how grate- 
 ful I am for what you did this evening for my dear 
 Pauline ! » 
 
 "What I did was the most natural thing in the 
 world, and " 
 
 " And say no more about it, you would say. Very 
 likely ! To take up the defence of a woman you don't 
 know in the street ! No, no ! that is not natural at all. 
 And then, my dear Pauline ! I am so fond of her ! Stay ! 
 you would rather talk of that than of anything else, 
 wouldn't you ? If you will allow me, I will tell of all 
 there is between Pauline and myself. Do you agree ? v 
 
 " Most certainly ! delighted I'm sure." 
 
 " Well, then, my dear Spindler, you have, without 
 doubt, already guessed that Pauline is my mistress, but 
 what you do not know is that she is of the number of 
 those mistresses — really very small — who are truly loved, 
 and who deserve to be, to whom it is our duty to give, 
 sooner or later, our names, to recompense them for all 
 the misery we have caused them, in exchange for an 
 unbounded devotion, for a tenderness beyond all proof." 
 
 "Ah!" I interjected. 
 
 * I was four-and-twenty when I first met Pauline, 
 
44 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 and then she was seventeen. Ah, that happy time, and 
 how long ago it seems !" 
 
 " Long ago ? how ?" 
 
 " Why, I am thirty-two to-day, my dear fellow. Are 
 eight years nothing in your opinion ? Well, Pauline 
 was then apprenticed to an artificial flower maker in 
 the Rue St. Denis, and I was giving lessons on the 
 piano, at thirty sous the ticket, twenty sous to sub- 
 scribers. I wrote airs and romances, for which the 
 publishers never paid me. They were kind enough to 
 say that it was quite enough for them to go to the 
 expense of engraving them. Pauline was an orphan 
 living with her aunt — an excellent woman, now dead — 
 who was ready to weep when she heard that her niece 
 had a lover, but who gradually calmed down when she 
 saw that I really loved Pauline, and who finished by 
 receiving me into her home, and accepting the little 
 presents which I sometimes carried to her. Sometimes 
 I say, for I repeat my purse was a very light one in 
 those days. When the good aunt died, and I found 
 myself under the necessity of providing for the 
 necessities of Pauline, the poor child often had to 
 content herself with little — very little. I had made 
 her leave the workshop — I could not bear to think of 
 her all day alone with strangers. She worked at home, 
 therefore, and in the evenings I composed by her side 
 on a worn-out spinet which I had picked up for five- 
 and-twenty francs to adorn my garret withal. Dear 
 old spinet, with a tone like a harmonicon ; I have it now 
 at home in my drawing room, opposite a grand piano 
 by Erard, as a sort of contrast. And — don't imagine 
 that I am joking, for it often happens — when inspira- 
 tion fails me, I sit down to the worn-out old instrument, 
 with its yellow keys, in preference to the more brilliant 
 instrument. Then, too, its aspect recalls to me a 
 thousand comical memories. Pauline took it into her 
 head one day to turn the spinet into a cash box, and 
 had hidden some pieces of silver, the results of her 
 
THE VAMPIRE, 45 
 
 savings — under the sounding board, but she had not 
 counted upon the inevitable jarring which the con- 
 tact of the pieces with the wires must produce. I 
 found out the hoard with the first air that I played, 
 and poor Pauline was terribly distressed, for the coin 
 was intended — when there was enough of it — to buy 
 me a score, which I wanted immensely. Another time 
 I went in, sat down to the spinet, and, to my surprise, 
 there was not a sound when I struck the keys. What 
 could be the reason for this sudden rebellion amongst 
 slaves usually so obedient — too obedient, perhaps. 
 Pauline, in consternation, explained that she had, with 
 the best intentions in the world, but with the most 
 grievous results, washed the finger-board of the spinet 
 with soap and water. Fancy washing a musical instru- 
 ment as people wash the face of a boy who has been 
 smearing his face with jam. I roared when I heard her 
 simple explanation of the enforced silence of the unfor- 
 tunate piano, and Pauline, looking at me in grave 
 confusion, asked : — " 
 
 " But since it was all full of dust, surely it was right 
 for me to wash it ? " 
 
 " However — days, weeks, months, and years rolled on, 
 and by slow degrees I made my way. At last I suc- 
 ceeded in getting a one-act piece represented at the 
 Opera Comique. The evening of the representation of 
 my first opera was a sort of intoxication for Pauline. 
 Early in the morning she went to church to burn a 
 candle for my success. Did God hear the prayer of the 
 poor child ? Why not ? God surely hears all prayers 
 that come from the heart. What is certain, is that my 
 opera could not have been more favourably received 
 That first evening was the starting-point of my reputa- 
 tion and of my fortune. Both are very modest even 
 now, it is true, but the future is open to me, and until I 
 can take the position which has always been the goal of 
 my ambition, I can live as I wish : without counting 
 the sous, that is to say, and I am able — which is the 
 
46 THE VAMPIRE, 
 
 pleasantest of all — to give my dear Pauline the chance 
 of a happy and peaceable existence." 
 
 " Happy ! " Edward Mansion had repeated the word 
 with a sigh. I was silent, surprised by the sudden 
 transition. 
 
 "I am boring you, I am afraid, with these confi- 
 dences which I have forced upon you ? " he went on, 
 turning towards me. 
 
 " Not at all," was my answer ; " on the contrary, if I 
 were not afraid of being indiscreet, I should ask you 
 why these confidences, which began in so joyous a tone, 
 are so suddenly interrupted with such a melancholy 
 exclamation ? " 
 
 Edward Mansion looked me full in the eyes. 
 
 " Then you really are interested," said he, " in the 
 history of my amours with my good Pauline ? " 
 
 "Why, certainly)" 
 
 " You do not think me a fool because the first time I 
 have the pleasure of talking to you, I have taken this 
 history as the subject of conversation ? Well, can you 
 promise me that you will not laugh at me to-morrow 
 when you remember this evening ? " 
 
 " What need have I to make such a promise ? I 
 think I have said nothing since I have been listening to 
 you, which could lead you to suppose that the subject 
 of conversation you have chosen appeared to me ridicu- 
 lous or even tiresome. You are telling me your amours. 
 Some other day I will tell you mine. As you said be- 
 sides, when you began, we may as well talk of them as 
 of anything else." 
 
 " Certainly, you are a charming fellow," cried Edward 
 Mansion, * and I am more than ever enchanted to have 
 met you. You please me, you agree with me, I wish to 
 be your friend as you will be mine, I hope. And to 
 testify to you at this moment my confidence in your 
 present sympathy and your future affection, I will finish 
 my confidences in the form of a quasi confession, and 
 will ask you, when you know the cause of my chagrin, of 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 47 
 
 my remorse, to be frank, to give me your sober advice, 
 which I shall strive to follow." 
 
 Edward Mansion had become grave. 
 
 " Ah ! " I continued, " we are coming to the dark 
 side of things, I am afraid. What fault, what crime 
 have you to reproach yourself with in your relations with 
 your dear Pauline, which can make it necessary that you 
 
 should prepare your ahem ! confessor with so 
 
 much care ?" 
 
 Edward Mansion shook his head. 
 
 " Don't laugh," said he. " I am more guilty than 
 you can think, and I have so much less right to your 
 indulgence, as every time that I have committed some 
 folly I have always been conscious of the evil that I 
 have done without being able to prevent myself from 
 doing it." 
 
 " No doubt this is a sign of extreme weakness," said 
 I, " but it is no proof of your wanting heart. Come, 
 now, after the repentance that you manifest, I think ii 
 needs no extraordinary perspicacity to discover that the 
 tendency to inconstancy — the taste foi; stray amours, 
 according to the phrase of an amiable writer of my 
 acquaintance — is the cause of three-fourths of these 
 misdeeds." 
 
 Edward Mansion sighed again. 
 
 " You have guessed it," he replied, in a lugubrious 
 tone. " I am the very embodiment of inconstancy. I 
 cannot see a woman without desiring her, and as I see 
 many . . ." 
 
 " You often betray your mistress." 
 
 " Yes, and it is that which afflicts me, which desolates 
 me — I repeat to you — because it is difficult enough to 
 admit whafc I have just told you, but it is truth never- 
 theless, because whilst I am loving all women I really 
 love only one." 
 
 " Your Pauline, naturally ? " 
 
 " Yes, my Pauline, for whom I would give my life, 
 and who, despite all my good intentions, has to suffer 
 
48 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 every day through my neglect, my ingratitude, my 
 cowardice." 
 
 Edward Mansion grew animated as he uttered those 
 words ; he went on in the same tone — 
 
 "You spoke of my heart a minute ago, my dear 
 Spindler. Well, without doubt, I have a heart, and 
 without doubt I have shown it a hundred times by my 
 compassion for great griefs, my enthusiasm for great 
 ideas, my applause for great works; but apart from 
 that, what is this strange organisation of mine, incap- 
 able of struggling against the first fancy, the first 
 caprice ? I adore Pauline, who has eaten the dry bread 
 of poverty with me — I do more than adore her. I 
 esteem and respect her, and I have made everyone else 
 esteem and respect her also. My friends, even my 
 father and mother, receive her. And yet that woman — 
 for whom once more I would shed my blood, I would 
 give my life — I do not know how to spare her a sorrow. 
 I sacrifice her incessantly to creatures who are not 
 worth — all of them put together — a hair of her head. 
 Why, even just now when she was insulted, and you so 
 generously took up the defence, do you know what I 
 was doing ? I was talking with a little she devil — a girl 
 named Marianne Philippeaux. You know her — all 
 Paris knows her." 
 
 " Marianne Philippeaux — a rider at the circus." 
 
 " Yes — a ' bare-backed rider.' Pretty enough but a 
 wretch, I'll wager< This evening was the second time 
 of my speaking to her. Now, by a single example, you 
 may judge my character — ab uno disce omnes as we used 
 to say at school. My mistress is at a few paces from 
 me, she waits for me, and I stop chattering wfth a 
 jumping girl. It is the same every day. Have I 
 promised to take Pauline to the theatre ?« I reach her 
 rooms at midnight. Have we agreed to walk together ? 
 I leave her alone the whole day without even writing 
 her a note. Last summer we had projected a tour in 
 Switzerland ; my portmanteaus were packed when I fell 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 49 
 
 In love with an actress of the Folics Dramatiques, and 
 there I was, spending my days in the boudoir of my 
 actress, and my evenings behind the scenes of her 
 theatre." 
 
 " But what does Pauline say to all this ? " 
 " What does she say ? Ah ! I waited for that to 
 give you a complete idea of the odiousness of my con- 
 duct. Pauline, whatever I may do, never says anything. 
 Never ; never a word of reproach ; never a complaint 
 of any sort comes out of her lips. When I have re- 
 mained sometimes eight or ten days away from her, 
 the most that she permits herself when she sees me 
 again is to allow her eyes, red with tears and sleepless • 
 ness, to cast upon me a furtive and rapid glance of 
 sadness. Seized with remorse, often in the presence of 
 so much resignation and goodness, have I been on the 
 point of begging her pardon on my knees, though I 
 knew myself to be unworthy of it. But before I could 
 open my mouth to express my thoughts, Pauline, as if 
 she had divined it, has forced it back with a kiss or a 
 caress. And thai kiss, that caress has appeared to me 
 as if she meant to say : ' Hold your tongue. To pardon 
 you would be the same thing as saying that you had 
 been guilty. Be quiet ! you are near me ; I forget all. 
 Be quiet ! I love you ! I know nothing and I wish to 
 know nothing.' " 
 
 Thus conversing we arrived, without being aware of 
 where we were, at the top of the Champs Elyse'es, near 
 the Arc de Triomphe. 
 
 It was growing late ; the sky had clouded over 
 during our walk, and it would have been imprudent to 
 go any farther. 
 
 " You are right," said Edward, on seeing me lift up 
 my head. " It is going to rain, and it is getting late. 
 It is by no means necessary that you should either 
 catch cold or spend the night out of doors for the sake 
 of listening to my nonsense." 
 
50 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Well, I am not afraid of the rain, and I am not in a 
 hurry to return, only " 
 
 " Only where do you live ? ' 
 
 " Rue Richer." 
 
 " Is that so ? I live in the Rue d'Eughien, so we are 
 almost neighbours. Perhaps we had better return. 
 Shall we take a cab ? " 
 
 " What is the use ? it does not rain. Besides in a 
 carriage it is not so easy to talk." 
 
 " Oh, then I suppose I may assume that you are not 
 unwilling to continue our conversation ?" 
 
 " Once more I ask you — why should it be disagree- 
 able ? Besides at the end of the story of your amours 
 with Pauline I understood you to say that you wanted 
 my advice." 
 
 " So I do, certainly. Speak ; speak ! My chattering 
 has told you clearly enough what sort of a man I am, 
 my dear Spiudler, and what sort of a woman my 
 Pauline is. Tell me then what way do you see of cut- 
 ting short a situation, which is at the same time, 
 stupid and cruel ? " 
 
 " But the means are most simple — so simple that 1 
 should certainly never have expected that you would 
 want any advice to follow it." 
 
 " How is that ? " 
 
 " You love Pauline with all your heart you say — nay 
 more, you esteem and respect her, and you have made 
 other people do the same — even your father and mother, 
 which is a great proof of the real value of the young 
 woman. Well, if you are compelled to admit that your 
 mistress is of that rare class, to whom it is our duty one 
 day to give our name in recompense for a boundless 
 devotion and an infinite tenderness — sacrifice yourself 
 then. Who prevents you ? You are free ; your pro- 
 fession as an artist puts you above certain prejudices, 
 certain laws of society. Marry your mistress ; marry 
 her to-morrow. From the moment of your giving her 
 the right to live with you, you will think twice before 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 51 
 
 deceiving her. You have a fiery disposition ; quench 
 that fire with the holy water of matrimony. The thirst 
 after pleasure leads you astray ; restrain it by duty. 
 What I advise you to-day you will do sooner or later. 
 Why wait when the happiness of the woman you love 
 is in question ? You told me just now that Pauline 
 grieves over your inconstancies, and she must suffer the 
 more since she has the courage in your presence to 
 silence her grief. Must this poor child some day sink 
 dying at your feet exhausted by her heroism before you 
 can make up your mind to obey the voice of your own 
 heart ? Reflect. You are in the singular position of 
 a man who possesses masterpieces which he keeps in 
 the garret while he covers his walls with common 
 place and vulgar daubs. The day when, yielding to 
 reason, that man restores his real treasures to the place 
 occupied by his wretched copies, he saves himself from 
 all need of longer deploring his already protracted error. 
 Besides, there are always thieves in search of valuable 
 spoil" 
 
 Edward Mansion trembled violently. 
 " Enough," said he. " enough. I understand you, my 
 friend. You mean that Pauline may some day get 
 tired of weeping — alone — don't you ? " 
 
 "Just so. One must get tired sometimes also of 
 smiling for two ! " 
 
 " Oh ! to lose her . . and to lose her through my 
 own fault ! For if — if some one robbed me of her I 
 should be able to accuse myself only of my misfortune. 
 It would be frightful, and I should kill myself." 
 
 " Well, rather than that — take your courage in both 
 hands and live with her." 
 
 " That would be the best course undoubtedly — 
 but . . " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " You will charge me with egotism, I know, my friend, 
 but I must tell you again that independently of my 
 fatal passion for ' wandering pleasures ' I have alwayr 
 
52 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 been accustomed to the greatest freedom of action, 
 Now, once married, good-bye to liberty. Of course I 
 am not one of those who believe that marriage annihil- 
 ates intelligence, but I cannot conceal from you that if 
 I were compelled to live like the rest of the world, I 
 should not be what I am. I must have air and space. 
 The smell of the kitchen would make me sick — the 
 sight of my wife brushing my shoes would do away 
 with all my inspiration." 
 
 " Then you were not absolutely honest with me 
 just now when you said to me that you intended to 
 marry Pauline some day." 
 
 " Oh, yes I was — perfectly sincere— only I wished, 
 nay, I desired, that this marriage should take place only 
 in, say ten years, when my reputation, my position 
 should be altogether established." 
 
 " Yes, and when, as the proverb says, you are tired 
 of cracking nuts, you will put up with roasted apples." 
 
 # * if 3? 
 
 We were in the Faubourg Poissonniere at the corner 
 of the Rue d'Eughien. 
 
 " Now, then," said I, offering my hand to my com- 
 panion, u the clearest result of this conversation for me 
 is that I now have the pleasure of reckoning myself 
 amongst your friends, and that in that capacity, 
 with your permission, I may call upon you from time 
 to time." 
 
 Half laughing, half disconcerted by the somewhat 
 rallying tone in which I broke off a conversation which 
 threatened to become serious, Edward Mansion squeezed 
 my hand without answering. 
 
 "Come," said I, touched with his embarrassment, 
 " don't be angry with me, my dear Edward. As the 
 good folk say, Rome wasn't built in a day. Hardened 
 sinner though you are, you are already touched by 
 grace, though you refuse to be converted the first time. 
 I shall try again I promise you." 
 
 Edward drew closer to me. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 53 
 
 -Then it is true," said he, "really true that you 
 Jon't consider me an absolute madman, whom it is not 
 worth while to spend any time upon ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, or I should not make that promise." 
 
 " And you will come and see me soon?" 
 
 " Of course I will." 
 
 " The day alter to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Good ! I'll be there and we will talk of Pauline." 
 
 " We will—and fully too." 
 
 " Yery well — until the day after to-morrow then ! 
 You will see I shall have had time to reflect on what 
 you have said this evening and, perhaps — perhaps I 
 may come to the conclusion that the domestic hearth 
 is not without its charm and that those who despise 
 it — 
 
 " Are those who, forced to dine every day at a club 
 
 or a restaurant and have not sufficiently good taste tc 
 
 appreciate simple food." 
 
 * * # # 
 
 Edward Mansion left me and I returned to my rooms 
 thinking over the eccentricity of the character of this 
 man who really loved but one woman yet deceived her 
 incessantly ; who was ready at a word to give his life 
 for a mistress, respected, lovable, and incapable of 
 bestowing upon him aught save happiness. Jealous of 
 her, wretched at the mere thought of losing her, and 
 yet continually abandoning her himself for others. 
 
 Two days afterwards I fulfilled my promise and 
 presented myself at the house of Edward Mansion, only 
 to find him " not at home." 
 
 I left my name and a promise to return, since one is 
 apt to be indulgent to those whom one likes. 
 
 Three days later I paid a second visit — he was still 
 absent. This time I rather lost my temper. I said to 
 myself, and I think not altogether unreasonably, that 
 Edward Mansion somewhat abused the privileges of a 
 giddy brain, and that, even though he might indulge 
 an inveterate passion for the sex, he ought still to 
 
54 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 remain a gentleman and know how to subordinate his 
 pleasures to the laws of good society. 
 
 Eight days went by. I had sworn not to call on 
 Mansion again without some sort of apology from him. 
 
 One evening I was talking in the crush-room of the 
 Gymnase-with some painters of my acquaintance, when 
 one of them uttered the name of our charming composer. 
 
 " Oh ! " said I, " Edward Mansion ? And what is he 
 doing ? Is he working up a new opera, or what ?" 
 
 " A new opera ? Oh, yes ! a new opera, of course — 
 he is so great on masic just now. Which means, I 
 suppose, that you have not beard the news V* 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 " Why, that he has picked up with that little slut 
 Irma, who dances at the Porte St. Martin, and that thev 
 have been inseparable for the last fortnight." 
 
 The last fortnight ! So then it was on the very day 
 after our conversation that Edward Mansion had con- 
 tracted this new connection. 
 
 " Come," said I to myself, " the poor wretch is afflicted 
 with the disease of inconstancy in a most virulent and 
 chronic form. Neither the advice of a friend, nor the 
 tears of the woman he loves will suffice to cure him. He 
 must work out his own destiny — I hope it will not be too 
 hard for hiim" 
 
 x 
 
THE VAMPIEE. 55 
 
 X. 
 
 I told you, I think, that my meeting with Edward 
 Mansion and the conversation which followed it took 
 place a year or thereabouts before the time when 1 
 paused in my own story — that is to say, the day of nry 
 return from Provins to Paris, and, since that meeting, I 
 had not again seen Edward Mansion. 
 
 When, therefore, I heard Joseph mention that name, 
 and learned that Pauline was the lady who had come to 
 take up her abode in my house, I could not repress an 
 exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried I, " Mdlle. Pauline Didier is my neigh- 
 bour then ! How long has that been the case ?" 
 
 " Since the week you started for Italy, Monsieur. 
 Since the beginning of June. There was a set of rooms 
 in the house then, to be let. She came to see them with 
 M. Edward Mansion and the business was settled at 
 once. That gentleman is not one who takes long to 
 decide, it seems, when anything pleases him !" 
 
 " Yes ; he certainly has that reputation. And, since 
 you have been talking to Mdlle. Pauline, you would soon 
 learn as much as that at least. But tell me, when M. 
 Mansion took those rooms did he know that I lived' in 
 the same house ?" 
 
 " No, monsieur ; oh, no ! It is scarcely three weeks 
 since he learned the fact — through the young lady, who 
 herself heard of it quite by accident. The postman 
 left one of your newspapers at her door and she brought 
 it here. When I opened the door she asked me if you 
 were M. Theodore Spindler, the painter, and as she is 
 as polite as she is pretty, I did not think " 
 
 " Never mind what you thought or did not think — 
 what did you say ?" 
 
 "Well, monsieur, she said she had the honour of 
 
56 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 knowing you slightly, and then she asked if you were 
 likely to be travelling for any length of time, and so on. 
 And she said it all so prettily, not as if she were merely 
 curious, but as if she was really interested. I told her 
 that you were dreadfully cut up about your father's 
 death, and that it had been because of it that you had 
 left Paris, and really, it was on that matter that she 
 pleased me most. ' Poor young fellow !' she cried, when 
 I told her of your loss, in such a pathetic voice that it 
 quite upset me. So you see, monsieur, in a few words 
 how I made acquaintance with that young lady. From 
 that day to this we have never met on the stairs 
 without her returning my salute and asking me for the 
 last news of you — because I had told her that you 
 sometimes wrote to me." 
 
 " And M. Mansion — what about him ? Have you 
 seen him too, and has he ever spoken of me to you ?" 
 
 " I have often seen him, monsieur ; yes, very often. 
 Indeed, there is hardly a day when M. Mansion does 
 not call upon his lady. They say he is a musician — a 
 famous musician — don't they, monsieur ? But he has 
 never spoken to me — never. He always looks so 
 pre-occupied, so hurried, when he goes up or comes 
 down — one might think the bailiffs were after him." 
 
 " Very well, Joseph. Thank you. Now you may 
 leave me to rest after my journey." 
 
 " Certainly, monsieur. But perhaps you will tell me 
 ff I did wrong in going to borrow a glass of lemonade 
 from your neighbour ? " 
 
 " No — oh, no ! it is all right. What time is it f ' 
 
 " Three o'clock, monsieur — -just struck." 
 
 " Then come back to dress me at five." 
 
 Joseph left the room quietly, and I stretched myself 
 on the couch. Fatigue and the heat of the day over- 
 came me, and inUve minutes I was asleep. Probably 
 it was because on closing my eyes, my mind was pre- 
 occupied with what my servant had just told me, but, 
 whatever the reason may have been, my dreams were of 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 57 
 
 her and of Louise. By a strange fantasy, which struck 
 me on awaking, Pauline was in my dream, the intimate 
 friend of Louise. They passed before my mental vision 
 hand in hand, both in bridal costume, both radiant with 
 happiness. 
 
 " Dreams go by contraries," says the proverb. But 
 is not the proverb a mistake ? Why, when the soul 
 alone is awake while the brain is asleep, should not the 
 higher powers send us some useful warnings in the form 
 of visions ? 
 
 Whatever the reason may have been, when I awoke 
 at the sound of the opening of the studio door, under the 
 hand of Joseph, I smiled at the thought of these two 
 women saying to me, with an affectionate glance, " He 
 must love both of us ! " 
 
 And I am still persuaded — even now — that the im- 
 pression which this dream left had a great influence on 
 the manner in which I conducted myself in the course 
 
 of the events which I am now about to relate to you, 
 
 ***** 
 
 These two hours of sleep had completely restored me. 
 I dressed myself in a twinkling, as willing now, as I had 
 been unwilling when I left the station, to bear with 
 patience my enforced stay of two months in Paris in the 
 dog-days. 
 
 It had long been my habit on leaving my studio and 
 before presenting myself for dinner at my usual 
 restaurant, in the Rue de Richelieu, to stroll up the 
 Boulevards as far as the smaller theatres ; an exercise 
 which, besides sharpening one's appetite, had, I found, 
 the additional advantage of occasionally procuring me a 
 meeting with a friend, or of some brother artist willing 
 to be my companion at dinner. 
 
 I had reached on this occasion the corner of the Rue 
 Mazagran, in the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, when I 
 heard myself called from the edge of the pavement. 
 
 The person who hailed me so familiarly was a tall and 
 well-dressed man, who was getting out of a carriage in 
 
58 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 front of the Bazaar. I could not see his face as he was 
 occupied in paying the coachman, yet his figure was 
 perfectly well known to me. When he turned I saw it 
 was Edward Mansion. 
 
 Before I could utter a word he had caught me by 
 the arm, and was dragging me towards a neighbouring 
 cafe. 
 
 " Yes, it is I, I myself, my dear Theodore ! " he cried. 
 ' I am a shabby fellow, am I not ? Worse than shabby 
 — a blackguard, an idiot, if you like, who refused to 
 profit by your good intentions with regard to me, and 
 who deserves to have you turn your back on him. But 
 I have you now, and I shan't let you go. Abuse me ! 
 Punch my head, if you like — I shan't complain. But 
 when your wrath is appeased you will listen to me for a 
 while — only a little while, and lam sure you are too good 
 a fellow to bear malice. Waiter, ho ! waiter ! What 
 will you take, Theodore ? Absinthe and bitter ? or 
 bitter with curacao, the same as I do ? It's much 
 better than that execrable stuff they make up out of 
 the verdegris scraped off the copper saucepans of 
 Bicetre and the Salpetriere. Eh? Two bitters waiter! 
 I think I could drink a pint of absinthe this morning 
 without getting drunk. Such things happen sometimes 
 you know.. Theodore — there are times when you feel so 
 happy. You dear old fellow, what an age it is since we 
 met. It must be a year — yes, quite a year ! But I 
 have often thought of you, especially since Pauline went 
 to live in the same house with you — so you have been 
 travelling ? Were you amused in Italy ? You will tell 
 me all about it after dinner this evening, won't you ? 
 For, of course, we dine together, we must — and, if it 
 won't be disagreeable to you, we will dine — guess 
 where — patriarchally at the house of my father and 
 mother. Poor dear good folks — I owe them at least so 
 much, besides, I have neglected them a long time. 
 That's agreed then — ribs of beef and boiled potatoes — 
 that will strengthen the stomach, eh ? and then — well 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 59 
 
 then, oh, most amiable Mentor — then we will go and 
 finish the evening with Pauline — my dear little Pauline, 
 who, seeing you with me, will easily understand that 
 the evil days are over — over, never to begin again." 
 
 Edward Mansion rattled on in this fashion, putting, so 
 to speak, double phrases to get on faster, while I looked 
 at him smiling, and not yet understanding the reason 
 for his joy, but, at the same time, feeling certain that 
 there could be nothing praiseworthy in it even though 
 he exalted two sacred things — the joys of home and the 
 repose of the woman he loved. 
 
 " There is nothing, my dear Edward," said I, "that I 
 ask more than to draw a veil over the year that has 
 gone by since you last gave me a token of your exist- 
 ence. But I cannot forget your oath — your solemn, 
 spontaneous promise — to treat me as your friend, your 
 confidant, your adviser. But if I am to forget the past 
 I must know how far you deserve to be forgiven. What 
 fatal and immense edifice of follies you have been build- 
 ing up of late ? " 
 
 Mansion's face became suddenly overcast. 
 
 " It is true, my dear Theodore," said he, " my duty 
 is to confess my faults to you if I am to have any claim 
 upon your generosity, and that was what I intended to 
 do when I ran after you just now. But when I come 
 to begin the chapter of explanations something seems 
 to turn me to ice. Is it that I am afraid I am not com- 
 pletely cured of my malady? No! it is shame for 
 having been sick for so long. It is utter disgust at 
 remembering the various phases of my miserable 
 passion ! " 
 
 "Your passion? Surely that is a rather violent 
 phrase to describe some naughty little amourette." 
 
 " The word is no exaggeration — it is perfectly correct." 
 
 "Well — if it costs you so much to go into this subject, 
 my dear fellow, let us leave it. I am not a priest to 
 whom one is compelled to open his heart — it is sufficient 
 to know that you are cured." 
 
60 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Edward Mansion pressed my hand. His countenance 
 had regained its serenity. 
 
 "After all," said he, "without dwelling upon the 
 details, I may as well sketch my existence since the 
 night when we had that sage conversation— which did 
 me so little good. In the first place, on the day when I 
 made that appointment with you I allowed myself to be 
 seduced to a breakfast, where I made the acquaintance 
 of a little ballet-girl ..." 
 
 " Irma, of the Porte St. Martin, was it not ?" 
 
 " That's the girl, and a comical one she was, too ! 
 Pretty as a fairy, and as gay as a lark. They tell you 
 that ballet girls are stupid ; that's a report that the 
 chorus girls set afloat; Irma is one of the brightest 
 girls I know — in a certain world, you understand." 
 
 " In brief, then, you took up with Mdlle. Irma, the 
 Sevigne' of tho ballet. Your love assumed gigantie 
 proportions. You sacrificed everything to her, and it 
 is only to-day that you begin to find out that you have 
 squandered a great deal too much time and money on a 
 girl who would have been quite contented with a fort- 
 night and twenty Napoleons." 
 
 * Eh ? no, you are not quite right there, Theodore. 
 I left Irma at the end of a fortnight, but, as the deuce 
 would have it, Irma had a friend, and that friend was 
 Marianne Philippoteaux, with whom you may remem- 
 ber I was talking on the day when you thrashed the 
 ruffian who insulted Pauline in the Passage de l'Opera." 
 
 " So from the ballet girl you went to the bare-backed 
 rider ! Hum ! rather a falling off, was it not ? As a 
 rule, the ladies of the Cirque are only tolerable at the 
 Cirque. Well, after that ?" 
 
 " After that ! my dear fellow — after that comes the 
 part that I am really ashamed of. Tell me — you are 
 like the rest of the world, aren't you ? As far as you 
 are concerned, Marianne Philippoteaux is a woman like 
 any other ?" 
 
 " What else should she be ? Would you have her a 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 61 
 
 Marion Delorme or a Ninon de l'Enclos ? By Jove ! 
 You have rather too great a knack of finding hidden 
 treasures, my poor friend, and I am really beginning to 
 pity rather than accuse you !" 
 
 " Alas, Theodore ! it was neither by her wit, nor her 
 gaiety, nor even by her beauty, that Marianne seduced 
 me. Her wit is almost nil— mere slang, as with all 
 those creatures. Her gaiety is melancholy. As for 
 her beauty, you know all about it. The best part of 
 her is her figure, and the best part of her figure her 
 leg." 
 
 " Bah ! And so she has tied you to that leg with her 
 garter for a whole year." 
 
 " Wait a bit. This Marianne Philippoteaux, without 
 wit, or beauty, or gaiety, is a mistress from whom it is 
 impossible to separate — when she chooses to keep you 
 She is ..." 
 
 Edward Mansion appeared to think for a moment, 
 then he continued : — 
 
 "No — wait, my friend. All things considered, I 
 should blush — nay, I do blush — to explain to you in 
 broad daylight the whole myatery of this strange con- 
 nection. It must be sufficient for you to know that 
 Marianne has succeeded in obtaining such an ascen- 
 dency over me that, for the last eleven months, I have 
 consented by her and for her to act like the most 
 stupid and ridiculous of men. Marianne associated 
 herself with me everywhere, proclaiming in every con- 
 ceivable tone the insane affection with which she had 
 inspired me — as she said — and which had made me her 
 slave. And I have never had the courage to take 
 offence at the idiotic part which she made me play, nor 
 the strength to say to her as I say to others, and as I 
 say to myself, that her domination was an insupport- 
 able nuisance. And remark with what address this 
 she-devil, this Vampire — yes, that is the only proper 
 name for her — note with what rare ability she has 
 prevented me from escaping her clutches. Marianne 
 
62 THE VAMPIEE. 
 
 kr,ows quite well that for the last eight years I have 
 had a mistress, who is now a friend and something more, 
 and who always occupies a place in my inmost heart, 
 though my body is too often absent from her. Well, 
 what does Marianne do in the first days of our 
 intimacy ? 
 
 " ' You shall never abandon your Pauline/ said she ; 
 ' you cannot abandon her. Pauline is your wife in fact, 
 if not in law, and it is only justice that the world should 
 appreciate her devotion and fidelity. Well then ! I can 
 understand that your affection for an object so worthy 
 can suffer in no way from an amourette, which the first 
 puff of wind would blow away. Yet I love you with all 
 my soul, Edward. I love you as much as you love your 
 Pauline. But I don't delude myself as to my value or 
 my position. It is enough for me — harlot, as I am — to 
 have a few moments of happiness, and it is my dut^ in 
 exchange for that happiness to submit to certain priva- 
 tions. So do not fear that I shall ever attempt to 
 separate you from Paulina Still less have you any 
 reason to fear that I shall attempt to set up as her rival. 
 I am caprice : she is serious love. The day when you 
 shall say to me, ' Get out ! ' I shall go, and that same 
 day — I shall die. No one, not even you — not even she, 
 shall see me weep.' 
 
 " Oh, my friend ! " Mansion went on, " to think that 
 there are times in one's life when we can listen to words 
 like these without shrugging our shoulders or upsetting 
 the furniture ! To think that one is even such a fool as 
 to imagine these great swelling words the poetry of 
 passion, and that one is actually grateful for things that 
 deserve only to be laughed at ! It is quite true that 
 Marianne has never said a word against Pauline. She 
 knew better. She knew that if she touched my idol 
 with the point of her little finger, all would be over be- 
 tween us. But if she allowed me to see my mistress 
 every day, she took good care to arrange that I should 
 never pass four-and-twenty hours away from her. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 63 
 
 Pauline might have the days — Marianne would have 
 the evenings and the nights. The evenings were spent 
 in exhibiting me everywhere with her — in restaurants, 
 concerts, theatres, what not ? as a showman exhibits a 
 beast he has tamed. The nights — ah ! the nights were 
 spent in quenching in her arms all the nobler aspirations 
 of the soul. For it is a melancholy thing to say, Theo- 
 dore, but it is true, that during the whole of the yeaj 
 that I have been the lover of Marianne, I have nofe 
 written a line, not a note. I have fallen into such a condi- 
 tion of degradation that the glory and the success of my 
 confreres seems the most natural thing in the world. 
 When I ceased to be jealous, I ceased to be an artist. 
 My friends demonstrated, my enemies held their 
 tongues ; I was indifferent to both. Besides, by dint of 
 scattering gold by handfulls to satisfy the smallest 
 caprices of Marianne, I had formed a little circle of inti- 
 mates — fellows I should not notice to-morrow — who, 
 prompted by my Vampire, were never tired of vaunting 
 my merits and talking about my future — my future ! as 
 if Marianne's lover could ever have a future ! " 
 
 Mansion paused for a moment, looked up at the sky, 
 and sighed most deeply. 
 
 " At last," he resumed, " an occasion presented itself, 
 the day before yesterday, to break with a state of things 
 which could not last much longer without annihilating 
 me or worse — without completely dishonouring me. I 
 confess, I should not have been capable of bringing 
 about this event of my own accord, but things turned 
 out conveniently. Two days ago, Marianne begged me 
 to buy her a certain shawl. I told her that I should 
 not, at least at that moment, for the simple reason that 
 I had not the money by me. There was some pouting, 
 followed by a scene of quite sufficient violence, in which 
 I proved mathematically that if she prevented me from 
 working I could not give her new shawls and new 
 dresses every day. She spent yesterday in finding out 
 whether it was true that I had neither money, credit, 
 
64 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 nor expectations, and the people to whom she applied 
 did me the signal service of saying that I was at the 
 end of my tether. And to-day — I was coming away 
 from her when I met you — she declared with tears (her 
 tears come at will, I may tell you) that rather than con- 
 tinue to be a burden to me, rather than blast my career, 
 she preferred to bid me an eternal farewell. I squeezed 
 her hand, she squeezed mine ; everything had been said 
 — everything — and we have parted as easily as we came 
 together. I must confess I had not expected quite so 
 much cynicism on that part of that woman, but it is 
 good in one way. It proves that she never had any 
 affection for me. Still I thought she would have used 
 more forms— displayed a little more diplomacy ! " 
 
 Edward Mansion paused here, pensive and melancholy 
 * * % * 
 
 " It would seem,'* I said, " as though you were grieved 
 that Marianne did not at least weep a little at parting 
 with, you." 
 
 He blushed to the roots of his hair. 
 
 1 Go on, old fellow, you're chaffing," said he. 
 
 ft dh, dear no, I'm not. Only it seems to me that the 
 song of triumph with which you began ends in something 
 very like a dirge/' 
 
 This time Edward Mansion drew himself up. 
 
 " Regret Marianne ? I ?" said he. " Ah, my dear 
 Theodore, you think very poorly of me. Why, here am 
 I like a convict escaped from the galleys. I come to 
 you ravished, transported with joy, and you think I am 
 not sincere in the expression of my happiness." 
 
 I might have answered that Mansion's comparison 
 was a vicious one at the base, and that very often a 
 convict escapes only that he may be recaptured and 
 reinstated, with an increase of his term of punishment, 
 in the prison to which he is accustomed, like a rat in its 
 hole. But I held my tongue. The truth need not 
 always be spoken, eOn to the galley slaves of love. 
 
 " No !" continued Edward Mansion, who had put a 
 
THE VAMPIKE. 65 
 
 favourable construction on my silence. " No, I am not 
 quite such a lunatic, believe me, as to cherish the 
 smallest shadow of regret at a separation which I have 
 hoped — almost prayed for — for the last ten months. If, 
 in spite of myself, I was astonished at the way in which 
 Marianne left me, it is because " 
 
 " Because of what?" 
 
 Mansion burst into a fit of laughing. 
 
 " Why," said he, " we are all the same — always — vain 
 when we ought to be humble. I had imagined that 
 Marianne loved me — even more than loved me — do you 
 understand ? For a woman may be the most abandoned 
 creature in the world, and yet have a little heart left. 
 Now, after what has just happened, I know better. I 
 was nothing more to Marianne than a money bag." 
 
 " And that conviction humiliates you, I suppose !" 
 
 " Yes. I do not disguise the fact, it is a humiliation 
 the more to find that I have not had at least a shadow 
 of superiority over my predecessors in the good graces 
 of Mdlle. Marianne. Bah ! It is disgusting to be put 
 on a level with a stock broking cad or some fellow from 
 Tattersall's !" 
 
 Edward Mansion rose as he spoke. 
 
 "It's striking half-past five," said he. "Let us get 
 under way for dinner. The farce is about played out — 
 now let us return to clean and decent comedy — the 
 comedy where honest folks applaud — the comedy which 
 has honour for its base and glory for its denouement — 
 and, you know, I count upon you, Theodore, to help me 
 to resume my part in it." 
 
 " To help you as I did a year ago." 
 
 " No, my friend, not quite — a year ago I had" not just 
 escaped from the claws of the Yampiee." 
 
 " Just so ! But, my dear Edward, has not the 
 moment arrived for giving me an explanation of the 
 singular nickname with which you have decorated 
 Marianne Philippoteaux ?" 
 
 He shook his head with a smile, 
 
66 
 
 THE VAMPlIiE. 
 
 " Not yet," said he. " The explanation enters into the 
 category of those which can only be given at certain 
 times and places — the fireside, for example, when the 
 candles are put out." 
 
THE VAMPIKB. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Edward Mansion's father, a merchant who hadi:etired 
 from business for some time with an ample fortune, 
 was a man of sixty years of age with affable and 
 gracious manners. 
 
 Madame Mansion was ten years younger than her 
 husband, and was, like him, thoroughly amiable. 
 
 Although it was almost a month since Edward had 
 dined at the paternal table, he was received as if they 
 saw him every day. As for me, it was sufficient that I 
 should be the friend of their son to ensure me the 
 warmest reception from M. and Mdme. Mansion, 
 
 I was placed at table between my hosts, and whilst I 
 
 was eating I amused myself with observing them. 
 
 There could be no doubt that Monsieur Mansion was 
 
 enchanted at the presence of his son. Nevertheless, I 
 
 could discern, in spite of the gentleness of his accent, a 
 
 shadow of particular gravity whenever he addressed 
 
 him. Evidently the father of the family could not 
 
 forget all at once the iniquities of his son for some time 
 
 past, and if he refrained from reproaching him, he, none 
 
 the less, thought it a duty to show to the ingrate that 
 
 he was not wholly forgiven. Thus on various occasions, 
 
 he addressed him ceremoniously, and when Edward 
 
 spoke, he was careful to appear indifferent and 
 
 abstracted. Edward amused himself exceedingly with 
 
 these airs of his father, and the more reserve the latter 
 
 showed, the more affectionate and expansive did the 
 
 former become. Every time that he succeeded in 
 
 smoothing his father's forehead, on which the old man 
 
 vainly tried to keep a frown, a smile of private 
 
 satisfaction might been seen, which contrasted in the 
 
 most charming way in the world with the countenance 
 
 of the victim. 
 
 D2 
 
68 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 As for Madame Mansion, she did not take quite so 
 much pains to conceal her satisfaction. It was a month 
 since her son had sat at her table. Now he was there 
 sitting face to face with her, and it seems as though 
 her eyes, ears and hands existed for no other purpose 
 than to watch, to listen and to wait upon him. In all 
 my life I had never seen so perfect a resemblance as 
 that which existed between Edward and his mother. 
 There were not merely the same features, the same 
 curves, but even the same expression. He who looked 
 at one saw the other. Now every one knows that usually 
 people who are physically like each other possess a 
 moral resemblance. I am far from saying, to be sure, 
 that Mdme. Mansion might be on an absolute level 
 with her son in point of inconstancy of sentiment and 
 levity of tastes, but, at the same time, it is probable 
 that that feminine nature so closely allied to the 
 masculine showed its affinity by a boundless indul- 
 gence. In the discussions between her husband and 
 her son, Mdme. Mansion, I would wager, would always 
 take the part of the latter, though she might admit in 
 confidence afterwards that the former was right. 
 
 At dessert the conversation turned upon foreign 
 travel. 
 
 " I think," said Edward to me, " that you went away 
 from Paris two months ago. Where did you go ? I 
 heard through some one — perhaps your servant — that, 
 after having started for Italy, you changed your mind, 
 and simply retired to some town in the provinces. Is 
 my information correct ?" 
 
 " Almost ; I went to Naples in the first instance, but 
 I did not stay for more thar a few hours." 
 
 " A few hours ? what an idea ! And pray why did 
 you do nothing more than just appear and disappear in 
 Naples ? " 
 
 " Because I was bored." 
 
 " That is a reason, certainly. And so you returned 
 to France. "Which way did you come ? " 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 69 
 
 " By the Department of Seine and Marne. By 
 Provins, about eighty miles from Paris." 
 
 " But that's a hole of a place, Provins, they say. 
 What were you doing at Provins ? * 
 
 " I went to pay a visit to an old friend of my 
 father." v J 
 
 Guided by an instinct, which told me that it would 
 be better not to utter the word " marriage " before his 
 father and mother, I intended to have said no more to 
 Edward Mansion as to the way I had spent my time at 
 Provins. He was foolish enough to press me. 
 
 "Ah! you were visiting an old friend," said he 
 "that alters matters. Did you work, then, in the 
 house of this old friend, or was there some lovely fair 
 one in the environs that captivated you ? You will 
 never make me believe that you settled down for all 
 this long time at Provins for nothing else but to 
 breath the perfume of the roses. One of my friends, 
 who passed through the place not long ago, assures 
 me that it is the very ugliest and the very dullest 
 town in France." 
 
 I began to get impatient. Lovers bear with 
 difficulty attacks on the place, however innocently 
 they may be intended, which contains the object of 
 their affections. 
 
 " Your friend was probably out of sorts when he 
 passed through Provins, my dear Edward," I replied, 
 " for I can assure you the little town is exceedingly 
 pleasant in all respects." 
 
 Edward looked at me in some astonishment, no 
 doubt at the rather dry fashion in which I expressed 
 myself. 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear Theodore," said he. "I am 
 sorry to have hurt your feelings. I assure you, I had 
 no such intention. But what's to be done ? I am Parisian 
 from the sole of my foot to the crown of my head, and I 
 don't think I could live eight days away from Paris 
 without getting the jaundice. However, perhaps I shall 
 
70 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 be equally awkward if I ask you, apropos to your stay in 
 Provins, for any information about the place that you 
 are disposed to give us." 
 
 " Of course," said M. Mansion, casting a glance upon 
 his son, which he vainly tried to render severe. " You 
 are there to torment M. Spindler with your questions, 
 your observations, and it is at least not good manners 
 on your part. Surely people may live where they 
 please, and because you have never found the way to 
 enjoy yourself anywhere out of your Paris, it does not 
 prove that all reasonable people are bound to do as you 
 do." 
 
 I noticed that the excellent M. Mansion emphasized 
 somewhat the formal " you," which he used instead of 
 the more affectionate " thou " of family life. From the 
 moment that my answer to Edward had afforded pretext 
 for his father to find fault with him, I should have been 
 much in fault if I had not done my best to put matters 
 on a pleasanter footing. Besides, Madame Mansion, with 
 her lips drawn together, was looking down on me with 
 an air that seemed to say : — 
 
 " So, for the first time of your coming here you do your 
 best to get my son scolded by his father ! You're a nice 
 fellow now, are you not ? 
 
 " Oh !" said I, turning towards M. Mansion, " The 
 matter is really not so important as you imagine, 
 monsieur. If there were any bad manners, I am afraid 
 it was I who was in fault. I have a tender memory for 
 Provins, which Edward's innocent raillery called up. 
 There is nothing surprising in anyone thinking it strange 
 that one should speak affectionately of a town, even 
 though it be of the second order, where one has spent a 
 couple of happy months. As for Paris, I am quite of 
 your opinion, Edward. There is but one Paris in the 
 world. But it is hardly in Paris that one meets with 
 charming women — so charming, that is to say, that one 
 wants to marry them." 
 
 " What," cried Edward, more and more surprised 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 71 
 
 " What are you telling me, Theodore ? Is it possible 
 that you are thinking of marrying ? " 
 
 "I do not think: I have thought, and thought so 
 well, that my marriage is all resolved upon, settled and 
 concluded." 
 
 " And you found your wife at Provins ? " 
 " Yes, certainly ! But reassure yourself. When once 
 she is my wife, Mdlle. Louise Auclerc will come to live 
 in Paris with me. I marry Mdlle. Louise Auclerc ; I 
 do not marry Provins." 
 
 " But really you ought not to excuse yourself, M. Theo- 
 dore," said the elder M. Mansion. " Even though to 
 please the parents of your future wife, _ you may pass 
 some months of the year with them in their native 
 town, you would do nothing but what is perfectly right. 
 There are indeed some ill-regulated persons who think 
 the reverse; persons who hate matrimony, and who 
 think that no one can be a great artist and yet have a 
 home like a good honest citizen." 
 
 A dead silence followed these words of M. Mansion. 
 No sorcerer was needed to discover their interpretation. 
 Edward, not a little disconcerted, chipped a cork 
 mechanically with his knife, whilst with my knee I 
 made him a sign which I wished him to interpret as 
 implying :— " It is your fault, not mine ! Why did you 
 cross question me about what I was doing down 
 there?" . . , , 
 
 M. Mansion, however, as I have already said, had 
 two much real affection for his son to leave him long in 
 an embarrassing position — above all in the presence of 
 a third party. 
 
 Coffee was brought in. 
 
 " Parbleu ! " cried the old gentleman gaily, as he un- 
 corked with great care a bottle covered with a thick 
 coating of dust. " Now is the opportunity for opening 
 some fine champagne (brandy), of which I should like 
 your opinion, M. Theodore. Do you like champagne ? 
 " Why, certainly, monsieur ! " 
 
72 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Ah ! Well that has been twenty years in bottle. 
 Do you remember, Edward ? You were going to school 
 when I bought a little cask of that brandy. Will you 
 have _ a drop, Madeleine ? (Madeleine was Madam 
 Mansion). Bah ! an extra — you won't die of it. Well 
 it is rococo ; bad form and all the rest of it, but we are 
 going to drink together to your approaching marriage 
 
 " Yery gladly, monsieur." 
 
 "And you, Edward — does my idea suit you of 
 drinking to the happiness of your friend ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, my father, certainly." 
 
 Perhaps there was a tincture of irony in the tone of 
 the old gentleman as he asked his son whether he did 
 not fall in with the idea of drinking to the prosperity 
 of a future husband — but the tincture was so slight, so 
 gentle ! 
 
 " And what are you going to do with yourselves this 
 evening, young gentlemen ? " asked M. Mansion, when 
 the glasses had been emptied, and the guests had shown 
 their respect for the excellent liqueur which they had 
 contained. Are you going to the theatre ? " 
 
 Edward made a superb gesture of contempt. 
 
 " To the theatre ! " he cried. " What do you take us 
 for ? It is all very well for grocers and tailors to shut 
 themselves up in a theatre in the dog days. We are 
 going out for the evening, Theodore and I." 
 
 "To a soiree." 
 
 " Yes, at the house of a ' little lady ' — of your 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Indeed." 
 
 " The little lady in question has long asked me to 
 take Theodore — I am going to present him this evening. 
 Not that my friend is an absolute stranger to her — he 
 once did her a great service. You remember } don't you, 
 the story I told you last summer of the young man who 
 took up the cudgel for Pauline against a ruffian in the 
 Passage de l'Opera ? Well, that young man— the 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 73 
 
 avenger of outraged innocence — is M. Theodore Spind- 
 ler." 
 
 On learning that it was to Pauline that we intended 
 to go when we left them, Monsieur and Madame Man- 
 sion became literally radiant. Edward saw the joy 
 which sparkled in the eyes of his father and mother, 
 and approaching each in turn, while I rose to find my 
 hat, he contrived to say in their ears as he embraced 
 them : — 
 
 "It is all over ; quite finished now, I swear to you 
 Don't torment yourselves any more about it." 
 
74 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 XII 
 
 " Well," said Edward as soon as we were in the street, 
 " what do you think of my father and mother ? ' 
 
 " The most amiable old couple I ever saw in my life." 
 
 " Are they not ? They are happy now. I have 
 given them to understand that I have broken with 
 Marianne." 
 
 " How ? They are aware then." 
 
 " Of my absurdities ? Alas, yes ! " 
 
 " And who has told them ? " 
 
 " How can I possibly tell ? One of my so-called 
 friends, I suppose — my good comrades whom I have 
 been fool enough to take to their house. Are there 
 not plenty of hypocrites in the world like that, who, 
 under the appearance of solicitude for their welfare, go 
 about sowing discord in families ? " 
 
 " Have they spoken to you then ? " 
 
 " Never. Neither my father nor my mother has ever 
 uttered a word to me on the subject, either directly or 
 indirectly. But I am certain they know of my 
 mad conduct, and have been miserable about it. So 
 without pronouncing a name that should not be men- 
 tioned in any decent household, I made all haste to 
 restore peace of mind and confidence to them." 
 
 " Then I am sure you have pleased them, my dear 
 fellow. You have conquered their hearts afresh. On 
 my next visit I shall be bombarded with your praises. 
 A young man who is thinking about marrying, and 
 above all a young man who is the friend of Pauline ! " 
 
 « Apropos of my marriage — are you not sorry you 
 started a certain hare ? " 
 
 " Why should I be, since it was I who, like a fool, 
 forced you to start it ? But you must know that my 
 marriage with Pauline is the favourite idea, the pet 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 75 
 
 scheme of my parents. There are some people who 
 would think it the height of absurdity that a father 
 and mother should cling so strenuously to the idea of a 
 son marrying his mistress. But my father and mother 
 are not like the rest of the world. They first learned 
 to appreciate Pauline when I had an illness some six 
 years ago," which nearly carried me off. It followed 
 naturally that Pauline should have the entry of their 
 house ; then that they grew little by little to consider 
 her as their own daughter, and to take account of her 
 qualities without considering her rank." 
 
 " And after all, what is there improper in the affection 
 of these good people for an honourable girl, who certainly 
 deserves in every way to become some day an honoured 
 wife T 
 
 " Some day ! You persist then in sheltering yourself 
 behind a network of chances, Edward, when it only 
 depends upon you to take a resolution which shall satisfy 
 everybody ?" 
 
 " No, no ! my dear friend. You deceive yourself. 
 Now, above all time, when I have just gone through so 
 sharp a trial, I am more disposed than ever to bring 
 matters to a close with Pauline by marrying her. Your 
 example is contagious. You are going to be married ? 
 When? 
 
 " In two months." 
 
 " In two months ? Excellent. There is nothing impos- 
 sible in the idea that in two months M. and Madame 
 Edward Mansion may have the honour of assisting at 
 the marriage of M. Theodore Spindler." 
 
 " Really 1 But reflect for a moment, Edward ! This is 
 almost a promise that you are making/' 
 
 " Promise is it ? Well, let it be so — I shan't retract. 
 Only " 
 
 " Only ! Confound it, man, you have always some 
 ' only ' to make me shiver withal." 
 
 " That is childish. Shiver if you like, but you must 
 understand that before I can settle matters as a citizen 
 
76 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 I must do so as an artist. Talking of marriage is all 
 very nice — I don't say it isn't — and very moral too, but, 
 in order to get married, one must have a little money, 
 and I must set to work to earn some. Look here, my 
 dear Theodore, let me get steadily to work for a fort- 
 night. I hope the delay is not too long — I only say you 
 shall see. One of these fine mornings I shall drop upon 
 you with a bunch of orange flowers in my coat !" 
 
 We were at Pauline's door, and were obliged to cut 
 short our conversation. Pauline had recognised Edward's 
 ring and was at the door as soon as her servant. The 
 poor child had been so little accustomed of late to such 
 pleasant surprises that she seemed almost stunned at 
 seeing her lover. 
 
 " What is the matter, madame ?" cried Edward gaily. 
 " Why do you receive me thus when I present myself 
 with a friend and neighbour — M. Theodore Spindler — 
 your preserver." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, dear friend," stammered 
 Pauline; "certainly, of course, I am much flattered 
 —but— but " 
 
 " But," I interrupted with a smile, " the lady is 
 afraid, perhaps, lest the friend, the neighbour, the 
 preserver, should be indiscreet enough to ask for 
 another glass of that delicious lemonade which he 
 tasted yesterday ?" 
 
 " Hallo ! what's that," cried Edward, on seeing 
 Pauline blush. " What's this story about the 
 lemonade ?" 
 
 In two words I told him how, on my arrival after 
 my journey of the previous day, a gracious fairy, who 
 lived twenty stairs below me, had had the goodness to 
 take my fatigue and my thirst into her pitying con- 
 sideration. 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" cried Edward, as he banteringly shook 
 his finger at the young woman. " So this is how you 
 carry on with my friends when I am away ! You make 
 acquaintances with their servants, and send refresh- 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 77 
 
 ments to their lodgings ! Well, perhaps I don't risk 
 much at present, now that Theodore is installed in his 
 quarters. ^ What makes me most indifferent is the little 
 fact that if you had entertained any naughty notions 
 about him, you would only have been losing your time. 
 I am sorry to have to tell you, but our excellent friend, 
 Theodore, is no longer his own master. He has dis- 
 covered a treasure at Provins, it seems, and in two 
 months he intends to marry her." 
 
 "You are going to be married, said Pauline, in 
 bewilderment." 
 
 " Yes, married ! Is there anything very strange in 
 that ?" 
 
 " Good heavens, yes !" Edward went on, tipping me, 
 as he spoke, a furtive wink. " But, strange as it is, the 
 unfortunate, poor devil is really going to get married. 
 Everything is arranged between ourselves, and, if you 
 are very good, you shall dance at the wedding." 
 
 Pauline, from a lily, turned at once to a peony. 
 
 " At the wedding of monsieur," she murmured ; 
 " I — oh, quite impossible." 
 
 " Why so, madame ?" I asked, in my turn. " Don't 
 you know that it is a good many years since a great 
 man said that there was no such word as impossible in 
 the French dictionary ?" 
 
 " In the meanwhile," said Edward, " what can we do 
 to amuse ourselves ? Stay : just now, while we were at 
 dinner, an idea for a barcarolle came into my head, 
 I will try to recall it — will a little music suit vou, 
 Theodore ?" 
 
 " Why, certainly," said I. 
 
 " Then tell your servant to have some boiling water 
 Pauline — and let us have a cup of tea. Lemonade in 
 the morning: tea in the evening— hey, that's how 
 Theodore is treated, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I don't complain," said I. 
 
 " I can easily believe you." 
 
 Pauline returned. "There, dear me," said she, I" 
 
78 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 have told the woman and you can begin, We are ready 
 to listen." 
 
 " Oh I can begin, can I ? Then you won't be 
 bored if I set to work at the piano." 
 
 " Oh ! " from Pauline. That " oh ! " was a poem in 
 itself. It seemed to say — " is it possible that I can be 
 bored when you are with me? Am I not always only 
 too happy by your side ? Are you not the man I love 
 as well as the artist I admire ? " 
 
 Pauline placed herself close to the piano, so as not to 
 lose a note, and above all so as to be able whilst listen- 
 ing to look at him. I was seated on a sofa, and, as at 
 the house of M. and Mdme. Mansion, I amused myself 
 with studying their countenances. Yes, I was quite 
 right, Pauline was certainly very happy in Edward's 
 presence, and the expression of her joy was the more 
 touching from its obvious frankness and purity. Find 
 me, if you can, many women like Pauline, who, after 
 being deserted and neglected for a year, have only 
 smiles for their lovers on their return. Certainly 
 Pauline had the heart of an angel, and at the bottom of 
 my own I vowed that that heart should not break under 
 fresh outrages if I could prevent it. The promise made 
 by Edward to assist with his wife at my marriage must 
 not be broken. I had to encourage me to persevere in 
 bringing about its accomplishment the avowed support 
 of Edward's father and mother ; that — tacit but not less 
 certain — of Pauline, besides I was supported by the 
 thought of my own approaching happiness. Under 
 such circumstances the task which I had undertaken 
 ought to be crowned with success, or the stars in their 
 courses must be fighting against me. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Edward was still at the piano. He 
 has found his barcarolle complete — that delicious little 
 thing, which you will remember in his King of the 
 Forest, at the Lyrique. He finished by a brilliant im- 
 provisation, a sort of Polka Mazurka, which was enough 
 to set a convent of Capuchin friars dancing. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 79 
 
 " What a charming polka, Edward ! " cried Pauline. 
 ' What do you call it ? " 
 
 " I haven't christened it yet," said the musician, 
 laughingly, " since it is only just born ; but if you like, 
 Pauline, we will give it a name, which should bring good 
 fortune with it." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " The ' Betrothed '—the ' Betrothed Polka '—a pretty 
 name, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Then, I suppose, you will dedicate it to M. 
 Spindler." 
 
 " To M. Spindler ? Yes, or to someone else. No, 
 by Jove, Spindler is not the only engaged man in France 
 to-night." 
 
 And Edward pressed his lips to the forehead of the 
 young woman. 
 
 " With all that," he went on, turning to me, " I must 
 have given you a surfeit of music, my poor friend — it is 
 only Pauline's tea that will set you right. How hot it 
 is this evening ! I don't know if you are like me, but I 
 am stifling. Suppose we go out into the open air, walk 
 as far as the Variete's, hey, and smoke a cigar. Oh, 
 don't make faces, little one — we shall be back by the 
 time you have put the cups and saucers out." 
 
 " I, too, must return, if you will allow me, madame," 
 said I. " I shall be most unhappy to incommode you, 
 but I have lost the key of my rooms, and am compelled 
 to ask for hospitality for the evening." 
 
 The walk scarcely tempted me, but Edward had 
 already lighted his cigar, and I was compelled to follow. 
 
 " Ail revoir, neighbour," said Pauline, gaily, and I 
 returned her salutation. 
 
 " Was there ever such a windfall ? " cried Edward, as 
 we walked arm in arm along the Faubourg Poissoniere. 
 Tell me frankly, Theodore, does it make you mere happy 
 to see two people whom you love, happy also ? " 
 
 " But, since you were so happy with Pauline, why did 
 you leave her so abruptly ? " 
 
80 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 u Oh, my dear fellow — fate and habit are stronger 
 than I am. If I did not take a turn before going to bed 
 I should not sleep all night. And you will under- 
 stand, I must, in common kindness, offer to Pauline 
 an act — or two — perhaps three, of — hem — contrition to 
 Pauline. But I must sleep also. Besides — I am speaking 
 the truth — my head was splitting in that drawing room 
 It is pretty that room, by the way, isn't it ? w 
 
 " Very pretty." 
 
 " Did you observe the clock." 
 
 " Yes, it was in the most perfect taste." 
 
 " It is three weeks since I gave it to her, and a 
 month before I gave her a complete set of furniture for 
 her dining room. That's a matter you know nothing 
 about, but it will prove to you that, absurdly as I have 
 gone astray, I had still some sense of decency left in me. 
 You must understand that whenever I bought any- 
 thing for Marianne, a dress, a jewel, or an ornament, I 
 immediately bought precisely the same thing to send 
 to the little one — to Pauline. Rather odd, isn't it, that 
 way of punishing one's purse for the follies of the heart? 
 but it is really true that, under certain circumstances, I 
 could not prevent myself from giving to one more than 
 to the other. I wanted, at least — so far as money is 
 concerned — that the woman I esteemed should not be 
 worse off than the woman I . . . . " 
 
 " Did not esteem ! The process is original, certainly, 
 and it has even its delicate side, on which I congratu- 
 late you. But, in thus burning the candle at both ends, 
 I begin to understand that there was really some 
 danger that you would not see clearly." 
 
 " Bah ! I tell you, you exaggerate the figure of the 
 debts which I have contracted through my connexion 
 with Marianne. I have really spent in the year about 
 twenty or twenty -five thousand francs, and half of that 
 I keep, or rather it is kept for me, in good hands." 
 
 " Just so — I understand you have given as much in 
 presents to your honest mistress as to your . . . 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 81 
 
 " Dishonest one." 
 
 " But the dinners, the theatres, the drives — twenty 
 franc pieces go fast in those matters, and since you went 
 to spend an hour or two every day with Pauline, you 
 only prove to me that you must have spent as much 
 with her as with Madamoiselle Philippoteaux." 
 
 " True, true ! one does not think of everything at once. 
 Yet I owe much in the way of pleasure to Pauline, but 
 I will discharge my debt, yes, my friend, I will, I swear 
 to you. After to-night I will take her out to dinner, 
 and to the theatre every evening or as often as she 
 likes. To the theatre though — hardly the season for 
 that, I think. Never mind, if she likes to swallow all 
 the melodramas and all the vaudevilles they are 
 playing in Paris, I will go with her. I should go mad 
 I think, but she would be amused; and my conscience 
 would be clear." 
 
 "We had arrived before the Cafd of the Varidte's. 
 
 " A glass of ale, Theodore," said Edward. " Just to 
 finish our cigar, you know. Then we can go back to 
 bed." 
 
 " Well a glass of ale, if you like." 
 
 We sat down at a table outside the Cafe'. A waiter 
 brought us a bottle of that clear, strong, pleasantly bitter 
 beer which the English like so much. 
 
 Edward carried his glass to his lips, when suddenly 
 he trembled and replaced it on the table. 
 
 A woman approached. 
 
 That woman was Marianne Philippoteaux. 
 
82 !THE VAMPIJtE,. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Marianne wore a dark dress and a black veil, but 
 Edward had no need to see her features in order to 
 recognize her. When one has lived with a woman for 
 a year he knows her even by the creaking of her boots. 
 She stopped before our table and glanced through her 
 veil at her lover, then turning towards me said with a 
 slight bow : — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur, but will you have the 
 kindness to let me say a word to Edward ? " 
 
 Before I could answer even by a gesture — and what 
 could I answer, seeing that my companion was a free 
 agent ? — Edward had arisen and said to me in an agitated 
 voice : — 
 
 " I will be back in a moment, my dear fellow." 
 Then to Marianne : — " I follow you, madame." 
 Marianne again bowed — very slightly, as one bows to 
 a person of no importance — and turned towards the 
 pavement along which she walked, followed, rather than 
 accompanied, by Edward Mansion. Arrived on the other 
 side of the Boulevard, however, the equestrienne came 
 to a standstill in front of the passage Joufroy, and 
 Edward, coming up with her, they made their way- 
 together towards the Madeleine. 
 
 I avow it with all humility, but I saw nothing in this 
 incident to make me uneasy. It is an everyday thing, 
 I said to myself, for the woman whom one has left in 
 the morning to want to speak to one in the evening. 
 Perhaps Marianne wants money for a game of vingt-et- 
 un to-night, and she has thought it the simplest way of 
 getting it to borrow it from her last lover. Or perhaps 
 her dressmaker or milliner has called for her bill, and 
 she wants Edward to settle it, under the pretence that 
 such and such dresses, or bonnets, were used up whilst 
 they were in love with each other. It would not be 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 88 
 
 fair to leave the settlement of accounts after they had 
 said goodbye to each other. 
 
 I said all this to myself whilst I smoked, drank my 
 ale, and read my newspaper. But my glass, which I 
 had filled for a second time, was again empty ; my cigar, 
 already three parts smoked, was all but finished, and I 
 had read all the newspaper except the advertisements. 
 
 Half-past twelve struck. The boulevard was growing 
 deserted, and the Cafe' of the Varie'te's imitated the 
 boulevard. I began to lose my confidence, yet it seemed 
 to me so impossible that Edward, in contempt, not 
 merely of his solemn promise to Pauline, but of the 
 commonest civility towards me, should have gone off 
 with Marianne, that I tried to struggle against the 
 weariness which came over me. 
 
 " A cigar," I cried to the waiter, " and a newspaper." 
 
 Oh, sweet illusions of an innocent heart ! I had hoped 
 by giving food to my impatience to render it less 
 imperious. As if when one is bored, or melancholy, one 
 were free to say to sadness or boredom : — Let me settle 
 matters so as to leave you out of the question for a 
 moment. The cigar — a delicious Londres, of the kind 
 which only state factories can turn out — appeared 
 detestable to me: The journal, the Figaro, with an 
 article, " Behind the scenes," by Aurelien Scholl, was 
 idiotic. 
 
 To crown my misery they began to shut up the Cafe\ 
 The noise of the chairs being ranged against the walls, 
 and the stools and tables being put away, irritated me 
 inexpressibly. 
 
 " When do you shut up ? " I asked the waiter. 
 
 " Now," said the fellow, in a tone which implied, " It is 
 easy to see that you have not been all day on your legs." 
 And then : " It is past one o'clock monsieur." 
 
 " One o'clock .? Here, take my money." 
 
 One o'clock, and it was not midnight when Edward 
 left me. He was certainly making a fool of me, as he 
 had made a fool of Pauline. 
 
84 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Poor Pauline ! I could not but think of her misery 
 when she found that her lover did not return after he 
 had told her to expect him As I walked home I kept 
 turning round every minute to see if Edward was not 
 following, and I cudgelled my brains to find some 
 excuse to Pauline for his infidelity. But what possible 
 thing could I pitch upon in such a business ? Should I 
 tell Pauline that Edward had suddenly fallen ill and 
 had gone home ? Pauline would never believe me. 
 Should I say that he had met some friends and had 
 gone to sup with them ? That was too stupid a tale. 
 Then again, I knew myself. I was not in the habit of 
 telling lies even with a good object. I should stammer 
 and hesitate in speaking to the young woman — I should 
 mumble and stutter in my attempt to gloss over the 
 base doings of my friend — I should make her as uncom- 
 fortable as myself. 
 
 All things considered, the wisest course for me to 
 adopt seemed to me to get into my rooms without 
 seeing Pauline. But I had reckoned without my 
 host. 
 
 As I mounted the stairs on tiptoe, just as I passed 
 the girl's door, it suddenly opened, and Pauline appeared 
 in her dressing gown with a candle in her hand. The 
 dear little thing had not gone to bed. She had been 
 waiting at the window for the return of her lover. 
 
 And from her window naturally she had seen me 
 return — without him. 
 
 I felt as if I were turned to stone. 
 
 Pauline was pale, tired out, her breath came and 
 went irregularly, yet still she tried to smile. 
 
 " What is it ? " said she. " How — why — why are you 
 alone, M. Theodore ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle," I mumbled. " I . . ah . . 
 Edward." 
 
 "At least say that he is not ill? That is not the 
 reason for him not coming back with you ? " 
 
 *' Oh, dear no ! no Mademoiselle — by no means. . • 
 
THE VAMPIRE 85 
 
 he is perfectly well, but two of his friends . . . who 
 were in the Caf^ of the Varie'te's .... have taken 
 him off to play." 
 
 "Thank you, M. Theodore, thank you very much. 
 Now that I know that no mischance has befallen him, 
 I am all right. I shall see him to-morrow — that's all. 
 Good night, M. Theodore — forgive my having stopped 
 you — good night." 
 
 And bowing to me with a smile that was more 
 piteous than any tears, Pauline hastily retreated into 
 her rooms. 
 
 " Ah " said I to myself, as I in turn went into my 
 chambers, and in a gust of rage flung down my hat, 
 stick, and gloves, without noticing Joseph, who was 
 staring at me with wide open eyes. "Ah, it is too 
 much ! Poor little woman ! So charming, so gentle, so 
 good ! And for a wretched dancing woman to take her 
 lover away from her like that ! But I'm on, I am. And 
 since this misbegotten heartless fool has not the 
 strength to break his chains, by Jove I will break it for 
 him, yes, I'll break it ! By Jove I will. 
 
86 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It was ten o'clock in the morning and I was still 
 asleep — a little detail which hardly need be apologized 
 for, I think, when you remember what a day of emotions 
 of all sorts I had gone through. Suddenly a violent 
 ring at the bell made me jump up. 
 
 I was rubbing my eyes when Joseph said through the 
 half-opened door of my bedroom : — 
 
 " M. Edward Mansion wishes to know if you are yet 
 visible?" 
 
 " M. Edward Mansion ! " said I, now quite awake. I 
 called out ! " Yes, yes, let him come in," 
 
 Edward entered. 
 
 I was lying back on my bed with my forehead 
 knitted, and my arms crossed much in the same way as 
 the attitude as Louis XIV — Louis the Great — might 
 have adopted when some courtier, who had made a 
 blunder, presented himself at the hour of rising. 
 
 But I had scarcely glanced at the artist, When my 
 desire to take the place of Jupiter Tonans at once dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 Edward was standing in the middle of the room in 
 an attitude so humble and so penitent, that even an 
 Arab of the Desert would have been moved to pity. 
 
 " Well," said I, without preliminary compliments, " I 
 suppose that even you will admit that your conduct is 
 without excuse — unpardonable, in fact ? " 
 
 " I admit all that," said he, as he took the chair I 
 had pointed out to him. 
 
 " Well then, what do you want with me ? What 
 have you to say to me ? Have you been to see Pauline 
 before coming here ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! I wanted to see you first — to excuse 
 myself to you." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 87 
 
 " Of course ; of course ! " you come to the harshest 
 critic of your conduct first. Cleverly done, very ! Poor 
 Pauline would forgive you at once — she is sweetness 
 and tenderness incarnate. But I am a different sort of 
 person. You will please to understand that I am not 
 disposed to accept your windy excuses — not I ! What 
 did you do with yourself last night, eh ? " 
 
 " I went. I went '. . . . " 
 
 "Mddle. Marianne went home and slept with you, 
 didn't she ? " 
 
 Edward bent his head in sign of assent. 
 
 " Consequently she has got her claws into you once 
 more, and all your grand speeches about work, marriage, 
 morality, and the rest of it, are flung to the winds. Mari- 
 anne has shown you that she adores you more than 
 ever, that she can't live without you, and that you can't 
 live without her, aDd all that has been mixed up with 
 flourishes ot her own sort, so that she has actually got 
 you to come here and say to me, " My dear fellow, I was 
 in too great a hurry about breaking off with that 
 woman, who . . . after all . . after all . . has 
 very fine qualities. Don't be astonished, if to please 
 that woman I persist in making another miserable, and 
 not only so, but in making myself and my father and 
 mother also. Don't be astonished if I go on running 
 in debt, if I leave my genius inactive, if I allow my 
 name and myself to be the butt of every reasonable 
 being, that's what you were going to say to me, 
 Edward, now, wasn't it ? " 
 
 Irritated by the certainty at which I had arrived of 
 this new act of weakness on the part of Pauline's lover, 
 I had unconsciously raised my voice, and I did not perceive 
 that I had carried my resentment too far until I saw 
 Edward grew very pale. 
 
 " You are severe, Theodore," said he, " very severe ; 
 and if I had known when I confessed my follies to you 
 yesterday that I was placing myself in the hands of a 
 judge, and not of an adviser — that instead of the counsel 
 
88 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 and support that I sought , . . I should ceitainly have 
 thought twice before making you the recipient of my 
 confession." 
 
 I stretched out my hand to Edward at once. 
 
 " Forgive me," I said, " I am very foolish — a beast to 
 say such things. There is nothing to be gained by 
 scolding. Besides, as you have just said, I ought to be 
 your adviser and not your judge. Pardon me, then" 
 
 Edward squeezed my hand rather forcibly. 
 
 " Don't reverse the part," said he, smiling. " I am the 
 only one that is guilty — the only one who ought to ask 
 for pardon. And after all, I can quite understand that 
 you are not in a very indulgent vein after what 
 happened last night. Yet if I swore to you — if I 
 proved to you that my crime is not so immense as it 
 seems — at first sight ? of course it was very wrong to 
 leave you planted there in the Cafe . . ." 
 
 " Until one o'clock in the morning." 
 
 " Until one in the morning ? my dear fellow ! And it 
 was very bad — worse still, in fact, after having 
 promised Pauline that I would return ; to leave her ex- 
 pecting me all night." 
 
 " Don't distress yourself. Fortunately she did not sit 
 up all night — though it was pretty nearly coming to that " 
 
 " I suppose you saw her when you came in, then ? " 
 
 '*' Just so." 
 
 " What did you say to her ? " 
 
 " I told her nothing — nothing more, that is to say, 
 than it was necessary that she should know — only — 
 when she quite understood that you were not ill, she 
 seemed to me disposed, if not to forget her annoyance, 
 at least, not to cherish a futile hope." 
 
 Edward allowed a sigh of compassion to escape him. 
 
 " Dear little thing," said he. 
 
 " Now," I went on, " tell me what on earth could 
 have brought about a reconciliation with that mistress 
 whom you were so glad to break with, and whom you 
 never intended to see again." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 89 
 
 " Reconciliation ? By jove, my dear fellow, what you 
 call a reconciliation is no reconciliation at all ! " 
 
 " Then didn't you pass the night with Marianne ? ** 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then I don't understand you." 
 
 "You may do so very easily. We slept together, 
 Marianne and I, but it was for the last time. It would 
 have been infinitely better if, when Marianne came to 
 me in the cafe, I had turned my back upon her and 
 refused to speak. But which of us is strong enough to 
 be fair and square under such circumstances ? Right 
 or wrong, when one has once been the lover of a woman, 
 there is a sort of magnetism between the pair that 
 cannot be got rid of at the first go off. I really 
 intended, when I went away with Marianne, to return 
 to you in a few minutes — if not, I should not have 
 followed her ; but when once we began talking — well, 
 we did not know when to stop. Well, she is leaving 
 Paris, she has an engagement in London. The step is 
 one which she decided upon in our common interest. 
 Could I repulse her when she came of her own accord 
 to tell me of her departure ?" 
 
 " When is she going ?" I asked, coolly enough. 
 
 " Oh, in about a fortnight. The day is not definitely 
 fixed. And then . . I daresay you will think I am 
 a lunatic, but, really, I am not in love with Marianne, 
 though I won't disguise it from you that it would have 
 cost me a good deal to leave her under a false impres- 
 sion. I could not bear to think that a woman who I 
 had reason to know had once loved me — a little — and 
 for whom I had, without doubt, made great sacrifices, 
 should put me on a level with those lovers of a day 
 who are forgotten an hour after parting from them. It 
 is a mere matter of self love, I daresay, but still, it is 
 only one weakness the more to add to my many other 
 weaknesses. I am sorry, but, you see, I am built 
 that way. Marianne wept — I assure you, she wept 
 real tears !" 
 
90 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Real tears — Marianne wept real tears — you are 
 sure of that ?" 
 
 " I think . . I think she would not have told me 
 all she did, if she had not been compelled by some 
 movement of the heart. Besides, it is absurd to deny 
 every quality to a woman because necessity — or duty — 
 compels one to separate from her. And there is one 
 thing in favour of Marianne, and that is her fidelity to 
 me so long as our connexion lasted. So long as she was 
 with me, I defy anyone to prove that she — harlot as 
 people choose to make her out — ever allowed another 
 man to touch her so much as with the tip of his finger. 
 The tip of his — ' finger/ you understand, Theodore ? 
 Marianne may have had a hundred lovers before me, 
 but, as soon as she became my mistress, she gave no 
 one the right to laugh at me — and that is a proof of 
 affection, I think, as well as of dignity." 
 
 " And yet," said I, " if my memory serves me, you 
 complained yesterday that Mddle. Marianne had made 
 you ridiculous in the eyes of all the world. Now that 
 reproach scarcely accords with the sentiment of respect 
 for the convenances of which you make so much to-day." 
 
 " Ah, well. I daresay sometimes in her pride at being 
 attached to a man who is somewhat above her former 
 lovers she has not taken sufficient care of my position. 
 I do not deny anything I have said. I have sometimes 
 had to put a stopper on her mania for talking about me 
 everywhere, and to everybody as if the amours of M. 
 Edward Mansion and Mdlle. Marianne Philippoteaux 
 were matters of universal interest But that mania, 
 prejudicial as it may have been to me in certain aspects, 
 in no way contradicts what I had to say about Marianne's 
 fidelity. Since she was only concerned for me — since 
 she only talked about me, it is quite evident that she 
 never had any intention of betraying me." 
 
 " Well, my dear Edward, and now may I ask what is 
 the meaning of all this enthusiastic panegyric in the 
 virtues of Mdlle. Marianne ? The Yampire, as you 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 91 
 
 yourself have called her — it is not I who invented that 
 pretty name — The Vampire, I see, has learned how to 
 profit by her last night of authority — see if she does not 
 make you repent it ! But now — now that you are quite 
 certain thaiMdlle. Marianne adores you, that she has 
 never adored anybody before you and is never likely to 
 adore anybody else, it is not less a fact that there is 
 another woman who loves and who has never — never in 
 her life — loved anybody but you. What are you going 
 to do about her ? I suppose you did not come here at 
 this time of day to entertain me with a dissertation on 
 the virtues of your bare-backed circus- wench. Surely 
 you have something to say to me about Pauline — the 
 poor child who I expect has been crying all night, while 
 you were enjoying yourself voluptuously in the arms of 
 her rival/ 
 
 In spite of my efforts to keep cool, I was getting 
 animated again, but this time Edward bore my explosion 
 of impatience without a murmur. 
 
 " Come, come," said he, " don't get in a temper my 
 dear Mentor, I am here for Pauline's sake, and for no 
 other reason. Besides, everything is over now between 
 me and Marianne." 
 
 " Thank heaven for that." 
 
 " You will understand that my only desire now is to 
 make Pauline forget the last annoyance, which I ever 
 intend to cause her." 
 
 " So you have come here to me, to get me to go and 
 intercede for you with her." 
 
 "Really, I wanted your advice, first of all as to a 
 project which I have in my mind to render the little 
 woman completely happy." 
 
 " And what is your project, may T ask." 
 
 11 It is beautiful weather, — let us take a carriage, all 
 three of us, and go to breakfast in the country some- 
 where — at Meudon, or Ville d'Avray say. By four 
 o'clock we can be back again in Paris, and we will dine 
 at Vachettes o$ the Trois Freres. Then in the evening 
 
92 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 we will go to the theatre — the theatre which Pauline 
 shall choose. What do you say to my programme — it 
 is complete, I hope." 
 
 " Yes, but I consent, but I will be of the party, only 
 on one condition." 
 
 " And what is that ?" 
 
 " That I may pay for the carriage and the box at the 
 theatre." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " No ' ohs ' if you please. I don't think that when 
 Mentor went out for a day's pleasure with Telemachus, 
 he left him to pay all the expenses." 
 
 Very good then. You shall pay for the carriage and 
 the theatre. Send your man to get a carriage, and a 
 good one too, mind, and do you get dressed. Meanwhile 
 I will go and talk to Pauline. I'll wager I shall be 
 ready before you are." 
 
 " I should not be astonished if you were." 
 
 " Why shouldn't you be astonished ? " 
 
 I smiled. Edward thought for a moment in search 
 of an explanation of my smile, and then shrugging his 
 shoulders, he left the room saying : — 
 
 "Oh, I understand, I'm all there. I suppose you 
 think that because I was very naughty last night I 
 shall not be able to make my peace — properly — this 
 morning. You are mistaken my dear fellow, I can 
 always make peace when I want with the woman I love, 
 Ah, we don't always call it by that name. Au revoir. 
 You have an hour to dress in. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 93 
 
 XV. 
 
 We had a good pair of horses, and instead of driving 
 to Meudon or Ville d'Avray where everybody goes, I 
 gave orders to our coachman to take us to Gournay 
 — a sweet little place on the banks of the Marne, which 
 no one ever visits. 
 
 Pauline strutted along as happy as a queen — a queen 
 in a fairy tale — parading her lover. The sight of the 
 smallest bit of woodland, a field of wheat, of a patch of 
 buttercups and daisies, of a flock of sheep on the road, 
 made her break out into exclamations of admiration 
 and pleasure. I was very sure that when Mdlle. Mari- 
 anne went for a holiday with Master Edward, she 
 wanted a good deal more than such things to content her. 
 
 Gournay being very little frequented by Parisians, 
 has hardly a single decent house of enter taiment. The 
 only one belongs to a peasant named Bilan, who com- 
 bines the trades of fisherman and restaurant keeper. 
 Arrived at our destination at one o'clock — it is almost 
 fifteen miles from Paris to Gournay — we began by 
 ordering breakfast, and in truth we did not breakfast 
 badly. The victuals were not very splendid, but they 
 were good of their kind, and there was plenty of them ; 
 the wine was fairly good, and the table linen was 
 exquisitely clean — what more can one ask when one is 
 hungry ? At dessert we inquired about a boat for a 
 little excursion on the Marne. 
 
 " A boat," said M. Bilan, " I will lend you one of mine 
 if you like, gentlemen — one in which you won't risk a 
 capsize as you would in those cockle- shells, which they 
 let out at Nogent and Petit Bry." 
 
 " All right. That will do, father Bilan," cried Edward. 
 " As we don't want to drown ourselves, we shall be quite 
 content with your boat, no matter how ugly it is — pro- 
 
94 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 vided of course, that it is not too heavy for us to 
 manage." 
 
 " 'Gad, sir, there is no need for two of you to pull a 
 little skiff like that. The river is not rough at this time 
 of year — you can pull up against the stream at your ease 
 to Noisielle, and then you can drift down." 
 
 In spite of what the fisherman said, after half-an-hour, 
 Edward and I were forced to give up rowing on account 
 of nascent blisters, which were not very pleasant on 
 hands accustomed to use only a pencil or a pen. Yet 
 we were not more than three or four gun shots off, and 
 we were really sorry to return so quickly. Pauline was 
 in despair at having to renounce the idea of a journey 
 which promised so much pleasure. 
 
 A sudden thought struck me. A little lad of fifteen 
 or so was on the left bank, and grinned with a fiendish 
 delight as he saw our ineffectual effects to extricate our 
 boat from a cluster of water-lilies in which it was entan- 
 gled. We were, as an English critic has said of 
 Parisians generally, the most utter " Cockneys " under 
 heaven. We know nothing of those manly sports in 
 which Englishmen take so much pride, and our be- 
 haviour on the water was the sort of thing which is seen 
 near London, only when a pack of shop boys go out on 
 a " Bank Holiday." 
 
 " Now, my boy," said I, " would you like to earn a 
 couple of francs." 
 
 " Of course I should, Monsieur." 
 
 " Well — take the tow-line and tow us for an hour or 
 two." 
 
 " Oh, one hour will be quite sufficient," said Pauline, 
 who was frightened at the notion of turning a human 
 being into a beast of burden. 
 
 " One hour, two or three," said the boy as he caught 
 the tow-line — "it is all the same to me, I shan't get 
 tired — I have towed a good many other people, heavier 
 than you are, and longer for less money. When you 
 have had enough tell me — that's all." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 95 
 
 " All right — when we have had enough, well tell you." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Pauline, her eyes fixed on the 
 little peasant, who, in reality was not put to a task 
 which over- taxed his strength. " Poor child ! he is 
 courageous." 
 
 "Rather say he is well employed," said Edward. 
 " He marches along with us as though we were but 
 feather weights." 
 
 " I daresay, but we must not fatigue him too much, 
 must we ? Oh, he is so hot ! he is wiping his fore- 
 head ! " 
 
 , " Well, well ! we are very warm too, and yet we are 
 sitting still ! " 
 
 " You will give him an extra twenty sous, M. Theo- 
 dore, won't you — 'pour boire." 
 
 " Very willingly, Madame, but you must allow me to 
 remark, that to give a young gentleman of those ex- 
 tremely tender years a whole franc ' to drink/ is simply 
 to encourage him in vice." 
 
 f Oh, he shall have his extra franc— don't be afraid," 
 cried Edward, " and over and above that, since Pauline 
 interests herself so much in this young citizen of Gour- 
 nay, I will, if she likes, when he has finished his task, 
 let her give him a kiss by way of supplement to his 
 pay." 
 
 " Eh ? not for me thank you ! " 
 
 " Then you cannot really pity our ' tug.' " 
 
 " But I do— only my pity will not take me so far as 
 to make me want to kiss him." 
 
 " You hear, Theodore. She sees that he is ugly and 
 common, and so because he is ugflv . . . . " 
 
 "Ah!" BJ 
 
 ~ What ? " 
 
 " Look, Edward — see that beautiful blue bird in the 
 branch of that willow 1 " 
 
 " I see the willow, but I don't see the blue bird." 
 
 " But I do," said I, " he is just going \o fly away. It 
 is a kingfisher." 
 
96 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " How beautiful he is, and how quickly he flies. How 
 unfortunate ! " 
 
 " Unfortunate ? Did you think to catch him then ? 
 Kingfishers are not so easily caught as that comes to. 
 Besides, a bird which lives only on live gudgeon cannot 
 be kept in a cage — you must have at least a pond for 
 his delectation." 
 
 " Is that so ? But what is that ? another kingfisher ? " 
 
 K Oh, dear no ! You mean that place where the 
 water is bubbling — some beast has just sunk himself 
 there." 
 
 ft A beast has sunk ? So much the better. There is 
 a divine compensation for all things then ! " 
 
 " I assure you I saw something black come out of 
 the bank in front of the boat, and disappear under the 
 boat." 
 
 " A water rat, no doubt, madame ! " 
 
 " A water rat ? Are there rats that live in the water 
 then ? " 
 
 " They don't exactly live in it, but they are able to 
 stay under it lor almost a minute, which allows them, 
 like the kingfisher, to make war upon the fish." 
 
 " Oh, the poor fish ! they seem to have enemies 
 everywhere — kingfishers and water rats ! " 
 
 " And men besides, whom you seem to forget, Pauline. 
 Men who serve them fried, or en matelotte, for the 
 benefit of young women who come from Paris, with an 
 appetite to devour everything that is set before them." 
 
 " No matter — only I am sorry those rascally rats 
 should go after the poor fish." 
 
 " You may make your mind easy — there are plenty 
 of people to eat them in their turn." 
 
 " Oh, how dreadful ! eat rats ? " 
 
 " Why not, when rats live on the fat of the land ? 
 They are really no worse than any other kind of meat. 
 If you like, you shall taste one some day." 
 
 " Will you hold your tongue ! Oh, what a pretty 
 flower — will you gather it for me, M. Theodore ? " 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 97 
 
 " There you are, Madame ! " 
 
 " What do you call it ? " 
 
 " I don't know its exact name, but it is, I suppose, 
 some species of water lily/' 
 
 " Tis very pretty — I will take it home in memory of 
 to-day. Look at your hands, dearest, they are all 
 blistered, I declare. You will not be able ta touch the 
 piano for a week. And yours, M. Theodore . . not 
 quite so bad, but bad enough." 
 
 " I should think they are not quite so bad indeed — 
 why, I rowed six times as much as he did." 
 
 " Well, our boy is stopping — he is tired evidently." 
 
 " Tired ? he has no business to be tired until I give 
 him leave." 
 
 " What time is it now ? " 
 
 " Half-past four, madame ! " 
 
 " Half-past four ? Then we had better return. We 
 have to get back to Paris, remember, Edward ! " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Then you know you promised to take me to the 
 theatre this evening." 
 
 " So I did — so I did ! I had forgotten the theatre. 
 Well, what theatre will your ladyship be pleased to go 
 to. Have you settled that in your wisdom ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! They are giving the Wandering Jew at 
 the Ambigu — it's very amusing. Let us go and see the 
 Wandering Jew." 
 
 " You understand, Theodore. We are to go and see 
 the Wandering Jew in six acts and thirty-eight scenes, 
 my poor friend — so prepare yourself, my poor friend. 
 But I say, Pauline, they begin your Wandering Jew early 
 — how -about dinner ?" 
 
 " Can we dine after such a breakfast as we have just 
 had ? Surely you cannot say you want to dine now, 
 M. Theodore." 
 
 " Certainly not, madame." 
 
 " I say, Theodore, it seems to me that you always echo 
 what she says. It may be quite true that we don't want 
 
 G 
 
98 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 to dine now, but between now and midnight we shall get 
 hungry." 
 
 " Very well, then, let us say when we come out of th? 
 theatre." 
 
 " M. Theodore is quite right, dear ! We will go to 
 iupper when we leave the theatre if we are hungry. 
 But, I say, Theodore, you may as well tell the boy he 
 has tugged us far enough. We have a long way to go, 
 I am sure. Half-past four — and it will take us two hours 
 to return to Park We shall miss the prologue/' 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 99 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A Parisienne to the tips of her nails/ Pauline adored 
 the theatre. For some time, moreover, the poor little 
 thing had had few opportunities of enjoying her 
 favourite amusement. Her delight was therefore 
 immense when arrived at the Ambigu, she found herself 
 installed' in a stage box — one of those with an ante-room 
 if you please — the last in the house that was at liberty. 
 The heat was stifling ; the house was crammed as if it 
 were the depth of winter — which proves that theatrical 
 success is not a matter of season — and Edward and I 
 had enough to do to wipe our faces. Pauline, who 
 never removed her eyes from the stage, and was all 
 attention, appeared to suffer in no way from the 
 heat. 
 
 " Lend me your fan, at least, since you are not using 
 it," said Edward to her. 
 
 She glanced at Edward and said as she gave it, " why 
 you seem to be hot, while I am quite cool and comfort- 
 able." 
 
 " Hot ! Yes ! Why it is hot enough Co cook eggs," 
 replied Edward. "Oh, you women! You are always 
 talking about your delicacy; why when you take a 
 fancy to anything you would endure the labours of 
 Hercules to get it ! " 
 
 " Be quiet — I cannot hear if you talk — it is Mdlle de 
 Cardeville who is talking." 
 
 I will dry up out of deference to Mdlle. de Cardeville 
 if you like, but I persist in what I say nevertheless — 
 We must have been mad to come to the theatre on 
 such a night as this. Ouf ! — But Theodore, look at all 
 those people in the orchestra, the dress circle, the boxes, 
 and the pit, are they really men and women of fles 
 and blood like us ? I am sure at least half of them 
 must be of wood or wax. The manager must put a fe^ 
 
100 THE VAMPIRK. 
 
 hundred dummies about to create the impression that 
 his piece is a success." 
 
 " Edward, do listen. Mdlle. de Cardeville is sending 
 her servants to help some people who have been wrecked." 
 
 " She is wrong. The shipwrecked people are in the 
 w T ater, and so have less to complain of than we have. I 
 wish I was at Gournay in father Bilan's little boat." 
 
 "Hush! hush!" 
 
 " That's right ! Edward, it was you the people were 
 calling upon to shut up." 
 
 " I ? not a bit of it ! It was that lady who just came 
 into the dress circle and upset a chair. Somebody else 
 who has been guilty of some crime, and who is con- 
 demned to sit out the ' Wandering Jew.' Look at her 
 face, Pauline — I will wager anything it bears upon it 
 the marks of all the crimes in the ah ! " 
 
 " As he uttered this exclamation by which he cut 
 short his facetiousness, Edward threw himself back in 
 his chair : placed as I was immediately behind him, his 
 movement could not escape me, and my eyes falling at 
 once on the woman of whom he spoke, I at once under- 
 stood everything." 
 
 The newly arrived spectator was Marianne Philippo- 
 teaux. She had evidently come to the theatre, knowing 
 that Edward was to be there, as was evident from her 
 manner of staring round the house without looking at our 
 box. How she had learned that he was to be at the Am- 
 bigu was a matter concerning which I was not curious — 
 what disquieted me was the possible effect of the sight of 
 her rival upon Pauline. Profiting by a round of applause, 
 I leaned over to Edward, and whispered in his ear : — 
 
 " Does Pauline know her ? " 
 
 " No " — he replied in the same tone. 
 
 Pauline appeared indeed as attentive to the business 
 of the stage as before. Yet, on looking at her carefully, 
 I fancied I could see in her face a certain paleness, 
 which made me feel uneasy. 
 
 The curtain fell. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. * 101 
 
 " Let us go and get some oranges," said I, offering hia 
 hat to Edward. 
 
 " All right/' said he, and we went. 
 
 " Don't be very long I beg, gentlemen ! " said Pauline. 
 
 " Five minutes, madame. Five minutes at most." 
 
 Now I doubted no longer. Pauline's accent as she 
 said " Don't be very long," had enlightened me. How- 
 ever, we went out into the corridor. 
 
 " Then Pauline knows Marianne quite well ? " said I 
 to Edward. 
 
 " Not at all — I can answer for that." 
 
 " And I can answer that she does ! " 
 
 " How can that be ? She has never seen her with me." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Well, what makes you suppose she knows her ? " 
 
 " I cannot explain why, but I know it." 
 
 " How do you know it ! " 
 
 " Why, by Jove ! by everything. Didn't you notice 
 how her voice trembled when she begged us not to leave 
 her long alone ? " 
 
 " No ! I didn't ! " 
 
 " Then you must have been thinking of your Marianne. 
 None are so deaf as those who won't hear." 
 
 " Thinking of Marianne ? I ? Yes, perhaps I was, but 
 not in the way you mean. I was furious at her coming : 
 furious, do you understand ? But it is just like her ! I 
 suppose she met someone on the Boulevard, who told her 
 where we had gone." 
 
 "And she had not the heart to release you for a single 
 night of tranquility with your mistress — your serious 
 mistress ! Certainly, she is a most pleasant person, this 
 Mdlle. Marianne — most pleasant." 
 
 " After all, my friend, you must admit it was not my 
 fault." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, it is your fault and yours only. 
 If after having broken off with Marianne yesterday 
 morning you had not gone back to amuse yourself with 
 her last night." 
 
102 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to begin the chapter of re- 
 crimination over again, my dear Theodore, we shall 
 never get to the end of it. Marianne has simply found 
 out that I was at the Ambigu and she had chosen to 
 come too. What then ? " 
 
 " What then ? Why it is disgusting, I repeat, that 
 she should rush after you in this way, without the 
 smallest care for Pauline." 
 
 " Well, I am quite of your opinion, that Marianne has 
 behaved ill, and of course it is very disagreeable for me 
 to see her at a few paces from Pauline, although for my 
 part I am quite certain that Pauline did not know 
 her. But then you are not afraid I hope that I 
 shall leave Pauline to go and take up with Marianne 
 again ? 
 
 " TJmph ? if Marianne pressed the matter I am not 
 so sure ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Well, it is for you to prove the value of your resent- 
 ment against Marianne under the circumstances." 
 
 " Whatever you please, my dear fellow." 
 
 "In your opinion what was her object in coming here 
 to-night." 
 
 " Well, my opinion . . " 
 
 " Now be frank. You know quite as well as I do, 
 that Marianne is not the person to content herself with 
 looking at you from a distance — above all, when you 
 have another woman with you. Sooner or later, in the 
 course of this evening, she will display her authority by 
 ordering you with a glance, a look, or a sign to join her 
 in some caft on the Boulevard." 
 
 " Well, I can only say she may telegraph with her 
 eyes, or her hands, or her feet even, if she likes, and I 
 shan't obey her signal. That's all." 
 
 " Bravo ! I observe lhat answer, but I want some- 
 thing more." 
 
 " What else ? " 
 
 44 Well, it will cost you something, I warn you." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 103 
 
 " No ! No ! I accept your terms at once, without 
 bargaining." 
 
 " On your honour ? " 
 
 " On my honour ! " 
 
 " Very well, then. If Mdlle. Marianne wants to talk 
 with anybody to-night, she may talk to me not to you !" 
 
 " How ? You are anxious to . . ." 
 
 " I want to have five minutes private conversation 
 with that young woman. Does that displease you ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. On the contrary, it will be a 
 real service that you will render me, my dear 
 fellow, a genuine service. Only take care! She is 
 not always very easy to get on with, and it may 
 happen that . . ." 
 
 " That she will try to scratch my eyes out to punish 
 me for having taken sides with a charming woman 
 whom I greatly esteem and regard." 
 
 " Scratch your eyes out ? Hardly that ! but she will 
 make a row, cry a good deal, and that sort of thing." 
 
 " Let her cry ! I have seen a good many women cry " 
 
 " But she may make a scene — a scandal." 
 
 " What scandal can she make ? " 
 
 " Well, if in her anger she took it into her head to 
 follow me when I go out of the theatre with Pauline, 
 and scream and shout at me on the pavement." 
 
 " Make your mind easy on that score. Since you 
 ajlmit that Mdlle. Marianne is a woman of that sort, I 
 shall find it all the easier to put a spoke in her wheel." 
 
 " But really though — althoughshe maybealittle lively, 
 even a little mad, even — I think that Marianne would 
 think twice before risking such a scandal as that is, yet 
 still ..." 
 
 " See, the entr'acte is over. Do you give me — yes or 
 no — do you give me carte blanche to free you for to- 
 night, and perhaps for ever from Mdlle. Marianne ? I 
 warn you, that if you refuse me — supposing that is that 
 you still hanker after your bare-backed horse-woman — 
 you have only to say so, I will abandon you for good 
 
104 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 and all to your fate, beginning, by not returning with 
 you to the theatre." 
 
 " What a temper you are in ! I think, I could settle 
 with Marianne, but you may talk to her if you 
 like, scold her, beat her even— send her off to 
 the Islands like Manon Lescaut — I don't care! Of 
 course people will say that I am still in love with her. 
 Come, let us go in again." 
 
 " Then it is agreed, and whatsoever I do, you will not 
 disavow it ? " 
 
 " No ! No ! a thousand times No ! You have a clear 
 stage : I shall not leave Pauline, and if Marianne wants 
 me to talk to her ; you take my place and explain to her 
 that she is a fool — that she bores me —that I cannot 
 endure her !" 
 
 The second act had just begun when we rejoined 
 Pauline. 
 
 " Your five minutes has lasted a long time," said she, 
 " and where are my oranges ? " 
 
 " They are here, madame. There were none good 
 enough to be had outside the theatre, so we walked on 
 to the Boulevard du Temple." 
 
 Pauline smiled, in a way which showed me that she 
 was not the dupe of that excuse. Then addressing 
 Edward : — " Are you better now, dear ? are you less 
 hot ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! oh, yes ! " said Edward, in a somewhat 
 irritated tone, " I'm all right, thank you ! " 
 
 " If you had not been I should have voted for going 
 home at once ! " 
 
 " Going home ? why, I thought you were very 
 anxious to see this piece — weren't you ? " 
 
 Poor Pauline ! it was painful to see her good nature 
 received in this fashion, but it was only natural, per- 
 haps. Edward was in a bad temper, and must vent it 
 on somebody. 
 
 Hearing him scold the girl in this fashion, I was only 
 the more del ermined to avenge her if I could. 
 
THE VAMPIKE. 105 
 
 Marianne was still in her box, and appeared to be 
 paying great attention to the play. 
 
 It was too good to last. 
 
 As the curtain fell for the second time, Marianne, of 
 whom I had not lost sight, rose, and making a sign as 
 if she were answering another from a person in the 
 orchestra stalls, she made with her hand a gesture, 
 which signified " I am going," and hurried out. 
 
 Edward, as well as I, had watched these movements 
 and gestures, but I must do him the justice to say that 
 he made no attempt to move from his place. I, how- 
 ever, had already left mine. 
 
 " Are you going out again, M. Theodore," inquired 
 Pauline. 
 
 " Yes — pray excuse me, madame ! the oranges have 
 disagreed with me — I will get & glass of water, and 
 return at once." 
 
106 THE VAMPIBE. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Maeianne was walking about opposite to the Theatre 
 on the other side of the Boulevard. I crossed imme- 
 diately to her and bowed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame," said I, " you are 
 waiting for M. Edward Mansion, are you not ? M. 
 Edward Mansion will not come, but in his place I am 
 here as his friend, to talk with you, if you will allow 
 me." 
 
 If I should live an hundred years I should never 
 forget the expression of Marianne's countenance as I 
 addressed those words to her. Now, there was so much 
 of rage, then so much of hatred in her glance, in the 
 compression of her lips, and the knitting of her fore- 
 head, that I instinctively recoiled a pace." 
 
 " Talk with me, monsieur ! " said she, in a grating 
 voice. " What would be the good of that ? I know 
 nothing about you ? " 
 
 " That is quite possible, madame ! But I know you 
 -well" 
 
 " Ah ! how is that ? " 
 
 " Only since yesterday, madame. It is possible that 
 you forget that I was last night at the cafe* of the 
 Varie'te's, with M. Edward Mansion, when it pleased 
 you to deprive me of his society ? " 
 
 " Then, monsieur, I suppose he has sent you to me ? 
 He has told you to say . . . ' 
 
 " Not at all, madame ! M. Mansion has told me to 
 say nothing. I am my own master on this occasion." 
 
 " "Well, what is your object ? " 
 
 " Must I repeat that I wish for a few minutes con- 
 versation with you. I know that you are expecting to 
 see M. Mansion. I also know that M. Mansion will not 
 abandon the lady with whom he now is in the Theatre 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 107 
 
 Well, since M. Mansion has failed you, accept me as 
 your escort in his name and place. Take my arm, and 
 we will walk gently aUng the Boulevards . . unless 
 you prefer that we should take a cab as far as the Bois 
 de Boulogne. The evening is very fine — there is a 
 Victoria, which will suit us perfectly. Come, madame, 
 shall we go on foot or in a carriage ? " 
 
 Marianne stared at me, a little disconcerted by my 
 coolness. Then she broke out into a loud laugh — a little 
 forced perhaps. 
 
 " Certainly this must be a wager, monsieur," said she. 
 " You want me to go for a walk or a drive with a man 
 whose very name I do not know." 
 
 I opened my mouth to answer her with a jest, but, 
 reflecting that joking is never out of place so much as 
 in matters of business, I simply replied, " My name is 
 Theodore Spindler, madame — an artist, a painter." 
 
 " Well, M. Theodore Spindler, supposing I accept 
 your offer, what is likely to be the result of any conver- 
 sation we may have ?" 
 
 " Allow me to beg, madame, that I cannot undertake 
 to read the future in this way. I do not disguise from 
 you that I trust somewhat to my eloquence, but much 
 more in your own good sense to make good use of the 
 few minutes conversation which I ask of your politeness." 
 
 Marianne reflected. Suddenly she placed herself 
 directly in front of me, and, looking me straight in the 
 eyes : — 
 
 ■■' Swear to me," said she, " swear by all you hold most 
 sacred, that M. Edward Mansion did not send you to 
 me. 
 
 " I swear it, madame." 
 
 She hesitated for another moment, then, passing her 
 arm through mine, and leading me towards the open 
 carriage, " Come then ! monsieur," she went on, " I am 
 sent to hear you !" 
 
 In taking my place by the side of Marianne on the 
 cushions of the Victoria, I said to myself — seeing how 
 
108 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 much appearances were against me at that hour of the 
 evening : — " Oh ! if Louise were to see me." 
 
 But Louise was far away ! very far ! and I could rely 
 on the purity of my intentions. 
 
 " To the Bois de Boulogne!" I cried to the coachman. 
 
 Between the Ambigu and theGymnase,or thereabouts, 
 we did not exchange a word. Marianne studied me 
 furtively ; and I studied my part — my part as advocate 
 of the feeble and oppressed, 
 
 " Well now, monsieur," said the equestrienne suddenly, 
 " I am waiting, you know : What have you to say to 
 me?" 
 
 " Madame," said I, "What I have to say is exceedingly 
 simple, and I shall not encumber it with long prelimin- 
 aries. I am much attached to Edward Mansion ; he is 
 an excellent artist, and has a noble heart. Yesterday, 
 in a moment of confidence, he explained his position to 
 me. That position is a false one — false in the extreme — I 
 want to extricate him from it, and I count on your 
 help in the matter." 
 
 Marianne had listened attentively to me so far. 
 
 " Monsieur," she replied, " I might, without much 
 difficulty, revenge myself fsr the cavalier way in which 
 you took possession of me just now, pretend not to 
 understand you, and so oblige you to go into a host of 
 explanatory details. But I have never been in 
 the habit of amusing myself at the expense of anyone — 
 even of my enemies — and you know you are one of 
 them, monsieur, since you are the friend of Mdlle.Pauline. 
 
 " One may be the friend of one woman, without being 
 necessarily the enemy of her rival. So far from being 
 yours, there is nothing that would give me greater 
 pleasure than to hear that you were going to earn a 
 hundred thousand francs in London." 
 
 " Ah ! then Edward has told you of my London 
 engagement." 
 
 " I may be allowed to tell you, madame, that since 
 yesterday, Edward has had no secrets from me," 
 
THE VAMPIR3. 
 
 109 
 
 " Well, I don't dispute what you say, you are certainly 
 well informed; I wanted to go to London : I wanted to 
 break altogether with Edward. But if I chose to go 
 back on what I said yesterday, what should you think 
 
 " I should think you were wrong, madam— extremely 
 
 wrong." 
 
 " And why, may I ask." m . 
 
 " Because, in not breaking off a connection which has 
 already lasted only too long, you would make Edward 
 
 extremely unhappy, as well as " 
 
 " As well as Mdlle. Pauline. Well, go on ! 
 " I am going on, madame— it is useless to bid me. 
 Yes ; in resolving to remain Edward's mistress^ you 
 would plunge once more into the profoundest grief— 
 a woman who is worthy on every ground of the 
 sympathy and good will of honest folk. And that is 
 not all, madame, your obstinacy on this subject would 
 have grievous results with regard to two other persons, 
 who also deserve consideration." 
 
 " Who are those persons, monsieur ?" 
 " Edward's father and mother, madame ; to whom he 
 announced yesterday that he was free at last— to their 
 infinite gratification— and who, on learning that Edward 
 has deceived them, and that he is now and ja likely to 
 continue to be your lover, will be in despair. ^ 
 
 " In despair ? Edward's father and mother in despair 
 because he is still my lover ?" said Maiianne, stamping 
 her foot violently on the front of the carnage. " Bah 
 what do you take me for ; you, with your tales ? and 
 how long is it since a man of the age of Edward 
 Mansion has not been free to love whomsoever he 
 pleased, without his relations having anything to do 
 with the matter ? I can quite understand that Pauline 
 should object to my connection with Edward Mansion 
 —though, after all, if the young lady knows all about 
 it she ought to have got accustomed to the idea ot it 
 by this time. Oh ! I'm not the first to whom he ha3 
 
110 THE VAMPIEE. 
 
 sacrificed her. All the world knows that! Well, I 
 confess that Mdlle. Pauline has a right to complain of 
 me — I admit that she desires that my acquaintance 
 with Edward should come to an end — but as for Edward's 
 father and mother, what on earth have they to do 
 with the matter ? Explain that to me, I beg. Do I 
 prevent Edward from going to see them ? He may go 
 and see them every day if he likes ! I am not jealous 
 of them. Perhaps it is because of the money which 
 Edward spends on me that these good folks are in 
 rebellion ? Well, if it were not I, it would be somebody 
 else who would spend their coin. Women always cost 
 money in Paris, and everywhere else too, I suppose." 
 
 "Perfectly true, madame. All women in Paris, as 
 elsewhere, cost their lovers more or less money — but 
 all women do not cost them also the loss of their 
 reputation, of their intelligence." 
 
 " What are you saying, monsieur ? of what do you 
 accuse me by that ? Have I been the cause of the 
 loss of Edward's reputation and intelligence ? I ? I, 
 who am proud of his success, and who love in him the 
 artist even more than the man ? " 
 
 " If you love the artist so much, madame, why have 
 you killed him ?" 
 
 " You are wandering from the subject, monsieur ! 
 You are wandering! I have killed the artist? Let 
 me tell you once more, Edward Mansion's glory is a 
 religion for me." 
 
 " A strange religion, madame, since it consists to all 
 appearance in reducing the object of its worship to 
 steility, instead of increasing its power. No, madame ; 
 you are sincere, perhaps. Yes, I should like to believe 
 in the sincerity of your passion for Edward, and, as 
 passion blinds people, I should like to believe also in 
 your surprise at the reproaches which I have just 
 addressed to you. But answer me this : ' What has 
 Edward produced as a composer during the year he 
 has been with you ? Without doubt, before knowing 
 
.THE VAMPIRE. Ill 
 
 you, he was not always faithful to Pauline — he may, 
 perhaps, have had ten, twenty, or thirty mistresses 
 before knowing you. But not one of them did he 
 ever keep as long as he has kept you — so that Pauline 
 has never suspected the existence of more than three 
 or four. Besides, the principal point is that, although 
 he had these mistresses, and though he spent, from 
 time to time, some hours in the boudoir of each of 
 them, Edward still found time to practise his art. But 
 since he has been your lover, what has happened ? 
 Prove to me that I am wrong, and I will ask your 
 pardon without murmuring. Since Edward has been 
 your lover, all the fire in him, save that which you 
 have kindled, has been extinguished in him. He 
 himself said so to me yesterday. In a whole year, 
 he has not written a line — not a note ! His friends 
 are in consternation — his rivals rejoice. ]Ie is deaf to 
 the lamentations of the former; the banter of the 
 latter. And how could it be otherwise ? He has no 
 ears for anything, save your words of love ; those words 
 which set his blood circulating, and his heart beating ; 
 those words, by a singular opposition, stifle the thought 
 in his brain. In your arms he is the tenderest and 
 most charming of lovers ; away from them he is a man 
 of the most saddening kind — one of those men who 
 content themselves with living on their past, at an age 
 when all the present and all the future ought to be too 
 small for their ambition. And now, madame, do you 
 understand why Edward's father and mother have, like 
 Pauline, the sad right of veiling their faces, in knowing 
 that their son is in the power of a woman who — in 
 spite of you, I am compelled to believe it — has reduced 
 him to such a deplorable situation. Can you under- 
 stand what a friend of Edward wishes to say to you ? 
 Have compassion, not merely on those who love him 
 but also on those who admire him! Give back his 
 talent to the artist in separating yourself from the 
 man. It will cost you much, perhaps, to deny yourself 
 
112 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 the tenderness of Edward Mansion, but what consolation 
 for your unhappiness will you not find when you shall 
 hear some master-piece of his applauded, which, but for 
 your self-sacrifice, would have remained for ever hidden 
 in the bosom of its creator ! " 
 
 I was silent. Marianne dropped the hands with 
 which she had covered her face during the latter part 
 of my speech, and allowed me to see her face, bathed in 
 tears. 
 
 " I thank you, monsieur," said she, gently. " You 
 have shown me the path of duty — I will follow it ! I 
 am not, really, a bad sort after all ! no, I am not ! and I 
 was really in love with Edward, only — I see it now — I 
 loved him in the wrong way." 
 
 " Just so ! What genius wants are the amours of a day." 
 
 " That's true enough. In order that it may last with- 
 out being injurious to both parties it should be an 
 affection like that of Edward for Mdlle Didier — an 
 affection more of friendship than of passion." 
 
 " Well, I repeat to you, monsieur, that I will profit by 
 your counsels. I should be a wretch if I were to 
 despise them. Edward shall never see me again. To- 
 morrow I will start for London. I . . I . . I promise 
 
 you." 
 
 Marianne was sobbing. Although I remember that 
 Edward had told me that his bare-backed rider could 
 weep at will — a talent which by the way she possesses 
 with the majority of women — it would have been sheer 
 bungling on my part to have played the sceptic. So 
 assuming a very tender air I tried to offer a few words 
 of consolation. 
 
 " Not a word more I beg of you, monsieur," she inter- 
 rupted. It is growing very late. Will you have the 
 goodness to tell the coachman to drive me home ! " 
 
 The carriage trundled rapidly down the Champ3 
 Elyse'es. Silent and unmoved, each of us in our corner ; 
 Marianne and I must have had the look of lovers who 
 had quarrelled. Of what was Marianne thinking ? I 
 
THE VAMPIKE. 118 
 
 do not know. What I do know is that I congratu- 
 lated myself on having at the first attempt succeeded 
 so well in breaking the chain which I had solemnly 
 sworn to break. 
 
 Vanitas vanitatum ; omnia vanitas ! 
 
 •9J6- ^ "3SS - ^ "5S - 
 
 Midnight struck as I set down Marianne at her door 
 in the Rue Neuve St. Georges. As she said good-bye to 
 me she renewed her promise to leave Paris the next 
 morning. 
 
 Half an hour later I was at home. 
 
 " M. Edward Mansion is waiting for you in the 
 drawing-room, Monsieur," said Joseph. 
 
 I entered the room. 
 
 " Well? " said Edward interrogatively. 
 
 " Well, it's all over." 
 
 " Good — then she has consented ! " 
 
 " To renounce you at once — yes ! " 
 
 " What did you say to her to bring her to that, 
 point ? ' 
 
 " Well, upon my word, I can hardly remember. I 
 spoke of Pauline, of your father and mother, of your 
 fortune, of your future." 
 
 " And she did not send you to the right about ? " 
 
 " No, she is sending herself to London — she starts to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow? she starts to-morrow." And Edward 
 looked at the carpet in a melancholy sort of way. 
 
 " Now, my dear fellow ! " said I, somewhat vexed, " is 
 it possible that this news which I had hoped was the 
 most welcome I could bring, is in any way a source of 
 annoyance to you ? Do you by any chance regret 
 Mdlle. Marianne ? or are you disposed, like Sganarelle's 
 wife, to ask me what business it was of mine to help you 
 to get rid of a mistress who did worse than beat you — 
 who dishonoured you ? " 
 
 Edward shivered ; blushed to the roots of his hair; 
 his eyes sparkled. 
 
 H 
 
114 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 4i My dear, Theodore," said he, " I should be the 
 basest of men if I answered what you have just said of 
 what you have done for me, otherwise than with ex- 
 pressions of the deepest gratitude. Free ! yes I am 
 free ! I will never again see that woman, who, for a 
 whole year past has robbed me of rest, of self-respect, of 
 the love of work — of the respect of the people I love ! 
 And you — would you carry your contempt for me so far 
 as to imagine that the shadow of regret could for an 
 instant eclipse my gratitude and happiness at this 
 moment ? Surely not ! If it were not so, you ought to 
 send me to a lunatic asylum If anything has checked 
 an outburst of my gratitude and joy, my friend, it is its 
 immensity. As soon as I am more calm, I will thank 
 you as I ought — from the bottom of my heart, Theo- 
 dore ! You have done me what a friend of twenty years 
 standing would hardly have done, I will never forget 
 it. My life and soul belong to you. Yes, tell me to 
 kill myself to-morrow, and I will do it." 
 
 I have always been rather suspicious of phrases, when 
 they are very emphatic, for the best of all possible 
 reasons. There is a very sensible proverb to the effect, 
 that he who proves too much, proves nothing. Edward 
 had once started and he would probably have gone on 
 for a long time in this tone, but I clapped him gaily on 
 the shoulder to bring him down from the clouds to the 
 earth. 
 
 " Half of that will be quite enough, my dear fellow," 
 said I. " Marianne is to start to-morrow ; you are satis- 
 fied, and so am I. Very well „then, let us leave this 
 subject to deal with one much more important. You 
 are going to set to work again ? " 
 
 " Yes ; to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Good ! and your promise ? * 
 
 " What promise ? " 
 
 " Your promise about Pauline." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! of course ! Well, of course my promise 
 holds good. She holds to it more than ever. In a 
 
THE VAMPIKE. US 
 
 fortnight the banns shall be put up ; in a month we 
 shall be married. It is just as if the notary had been called 
 in. Yes, certainly I shall put my relations with Pauline 
 upon a proper footing. Living as we have been is not 
 living at all, and I have had enough — too much I think 
 of those " vagrant amours " as your friend calls them." 
 
 " Continue in this sensible frame of mind, my dear 
 Edward, and see what may happen—Meantime it is one 
 o'clock, you know." 
 
 " One o'clock ? Already ! " 
 
 « Yes — one o'clock. Time to go to bed." 
 
 " That's true. But after all, look here, Theodore. 
 We have neither dined nor supped. Shall I tell Pauline 
 to dress herself again so that we may go to the 
 Maison d'Or ? " 
 
 " Thank you ! In the first place I am not hungry, and, 
 
 in the second " 
 
 " Well, in the second ?" 
 
 " In the second one meets too many people at the 
 Maison d'Or." 
 
 " Bah ! What an idea ! One might suppose 
 
 ' I suppose, my dear Edward, that if you were wise — 
 really wise, I mean — you would lock yourself up with 
 your Pauline, until you were absolutely certain that 
 Marianne was on her way to England. That is the 
 advice I have to offer you." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " But ! You will follow it, or you won't— that's your 
 business. Good night." 
 
116 THE VAMPIKE. 
 
 XYIII. 
 
 Two days slipped by without my seeing Edward Mansion 
 again, and I must confess that I was not a little 
 astonished to find that he had so completely abandoned 
 me after such burning protestations of gratitude. Still 
 held back by a sentiment of discretion, I had not wished 
 during these two days to go into Pauline's room for 
 information. Besides, though I was much interested in 
 their business, I could not be always mixing myself up 
 in other people's love affairs. My own, too ! The picture 
 represented a view of Provins — the famous picture 
 which, was to be one of my wedding presents — was 
 already sketched out. I had written my first letter to 
 Louise — a letter of four pages with lines as fine and 
 close as those of a column of the Journal pour Tous 
 — and I was impatiently expecting her reply. 
 
 The evening of the third day after our excursion to 
 Gournay, I had just sat myself down before my easel, 
 when, under pretence of looking for a stray brush, 
 Joseph came into the studio. He talked to himself 
 whilst rummaging the room, in a way obviously designed 
 to draw me into conversation. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ?" said I at last. 
 " What are you grumbling about ?"- 
 
 " I am not grumbling, monsieur," he replied, " only I 
 am annoyed — very much annoyed. That poor little 
 lady down there. She is not happy — and I'm very fond 
 of that little lady — I am ' " 
 
 "What little lady? 
 
 " Why your neighbour, monsieur — Mdlle. Pauline 
 Didier." 
 
 I stopped suddenly, pencil in hand, at hearing the 
 name of Pauline. 
 
 " What makes you think that my little neighbour is 
 not happy ? " I enquired. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 117 
 
 "What? Good God, sir— nothing and everything. 
 Only I am certain she has been wretched for the last 
 
 two days." „ 
 
 " Wretched— and who has told you that pray ? 
 "Her servant, monsieur, old Jeanne, whom I met 
 only a few minutes ago on the staircase, and she said to 
 to me as she showed me her basket of provisions 'My 
 word, I don't know why I have brought all these things 
 in, for madam has not eaten enough to keep a sparrow 
 alive these last few days ! She does nothing but cry !" ^ 
 " And why should she cry ? did Jeanne tell you ? " 
 " Well, monsieur. You won't scold me for having a 
 bit of a chat now and then with Jeanne, will you ? I 
 assure vou it is interest and not curiosity that led to it 
 
 .—it is— . . 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know all that ! interest, of course. .But 
 tell me, did she let out to you the reason of Mdlle. 
 Pauline's grief ? " . 
 
 " Pretty nearly ! I am tolerably certain about it, 
 monsieur. It seems that for two days— since she went 
 with you for your country excursion she has not seen 
 M. Edward Mansion. 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 "Perfectly sure, monsieur, since I have it from 
 Jeanne. That good woman, who has been long in 
 Mdlle. Pauline's service, is altogether overcome by 
 seeing her mistress in such a frightful state. She told 
 me that last night "Mdlle. Pauline sat at her window 
 until one o'clock watching for M. Edward's arrival, and 
 when she at last determined to go to bed, shejooked so 
 frightfully ill that it fairly made her shudder." 
 
 " Give me my frock coat and my hat." 
 
 " Ah ! you are going to call on Mdlle. Pauline, are 
 you, monsieur ? It's a very kind thing you are going 
 
 to do. But please don't say that Jeanne that 
 
 Jeanne . . . 
 
 " I shall say nothing — don't be afraid." 
 
 " Because Mdlle. Pauline is anxious that nobody 
 
118 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 should know of her weeping — she even hides it from her 
 old servant." 
 
 " I will say nothing about it I repeat, Joseph. Clean 
 my palette and my brushes for me — I shall paint no 
 more to-day." 
 
 " I descended the staircase at speed, and rang at 
 Pauline's door. The old Jeanne, in perceiving me as 
 the issue of her gossip with Joseph, looked so fright- 
 ened that I should have laughed at any other moment." 
 
 " Is madame visible ? I asked. 
 
 " Yes ! at least, I think she is, monsieur." 
 
 " Announce me then." 
 
 " At once, monsieur." 
 
 In her perturbation, the old woman went to her 
 kitchen, instead of turning towards the door of the 
 room where Pauline was ; but Pauline had recognised 
 my voice, without doubt, for she appeared at the 
 moment on the threshold of her room. 
 
 " You, M. Theodore ? " she cried. 
 
 " Yes, madame, it is. Am I indiscreet ? " 
 
 " Indiscreet ? how can that be ? On the contrary, 
 I am inclined to ask why you have neglected me these 
 last two days." 
 
 " I have been hard at work." 
 
 " Ah ! at your new picture ? " 
 
 " Yes, at my new picture, which I shall ask you to 
 admire when it has got into shape. And you, what 
 have you been doing ? " 
 
 " I — I have been hard at work also — at my tapestry. 
 Oh, I am never without something to do. See, it is a 
 piano stool, which I am embroidering for Edward. Do 
 you think it pretty." 
 
 " Very pretty. But, by the way, what has become of 
 Edward, I have not seen him since our excursion to 
 Gournay." 
 
 " Why, hasn't he been to see you all this time ? It is 
 very wrong of him, but he has been very busy with an 
 opera which he is preparing for the winter." 
 
THE VAMPIEE. 119 
 
 " That is very good ! Then you have seen him I 
 suppose, yesterday and the day before ! " 
 
 " Of course ! He never lets a day pass without coming 
 to pay me at least one short visit. And when he comes 
 I will scold him for his rudeness to you — I promise you, 
 I will scold him severely." 
 
 Pauline was sitting in front of me with her head bent 
 low over her tapestry, whilst she told me those adorable 
 falsehoods. But as I kept silence, she slowly lifted her 
 head and looked at me. Very pale before, she now 
 became paler still, and, my eyes meeting hers said to 
 her: — 
 
 " I know everything. You have not seen Edward 
 since the day before yesterday, and you will not see him 
 to-night. I know all. Edward has abandoned you 
 once more, and has done so more cruelly than ever 
 before ! " 
 
 The tapestry dropped from the girl's fingers. Two 
 big tears ran slowly down her cheeks in a straight line, 
 like tears that find a channel ready traced for them. 
 My hand was stretched out to hers, and pressed it gently, 
 and we remained thus for several seconds silent. 
 
 " And has he not written at least a line to you in the 
 last two days ? " I asked in a low voice. 
 
 " No," she murmured. 
 
 " No ? then of course you have been to see him." 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He was not there." 
 
 " Where is he then ? " 
 
 An undefinable smile hovered round the lips of Pauline. 
 
 " Where do you expect him to be except at the house 
 of that woman ? " 
 
 " But what did they say to you at his house ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " How nothing ? " 
 
 " No, his man-servant knows me quite well, without 
 doubt, but could he speak when his master had given 
 
120 THE VAMPIRK 
 
 him orders to hold his tongue ? Besides, I did not press 
 him. Edward would scold me if I had, as he has 
 already done under similar circumstances." 
 
 " Ah ! Then this is not the first time he has kept 
 himself altogether away from you for several days to- 
 gether ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Five months ago he stayed away for three 
 weeks — three whole weeks without letting me have any 
 news of him. Happily I knew then where he was, just 
 as I do now, for in a word, M. Theodore, one is always 
 ready to suspect some misfortune — perhaps greater 
 than that which has really happened — and then you 
 know I am quite sure that if he were ill or wounded — 
 if he were — he would not be at that woman's house — he 
 would be here." 
 
 I rose suddenly : I felt half choked. 
 
 " Are you going already ?" asked Pauline. 
 
 " No, but I can hardly breathe. Don't disturb your- 
 self, I know quite well how to open that window." 
 
 I leaned out dreamily upon the balcony. 
 
 " So," thought I, " this is the end of my conversation 
 the other evening with that infamous Marianne. 
 Infamous ! I hardly know which is the worst, he or she, 
 and who shall say whether she has gone back to him or 
 he to her. What is to be done now ? Find out where 
 Marianne lives and go and tear this madman from her 
 arms. He will ruin himself with these shameful love 
 affairs if I don't. But can I get so far as that ? Am I 
 his brother that I should order him to follow me ? Such 
 a step must have the saddest insults. The weakest, the 
 most cowardly, will never admit that he is either one 
 or the other. Edward would receive me ill. Perhaps 
 he would answer my reproaching with results, and then 
 I should lose my temper. And, under the pretext of 
 wishing to give back a lover to his mistress, a son to 
 his parents, an artist to his art, I should probably be 
 absurd enough to risk getting my throat cut by this 
 artist, this son, this lover." 
 
THE VAMPIKE. 121 
 
 I Tsaid all this to myself, and a good deal besides. 
 
 Pauline gathered up her tapestry work and mechani- 
 cally began to embroider. " M. Theodore," said she 
 suddenly, and I turned around. 
 
 '* Madame," said I. 
 
 " What are you dreaming about." 
 
 " I was dreaming " 
 
 " How to get Edward back, were you not ?" 
 
 " Just so, madame. I was seeking " 
 
 " Ah, well ! Seek no more — it is quite useless. I 
 have not loved Edward for eight years without having 
 learned to know him. Edward is tender and kind at 
 the bottom, but his nature is before all things eaten up 
 with pride. To induce him to renounce that woman 
 who has acquired such an extraordinary ascendency over 
 him, some sudden circumstance must happen, something 
 totally unexpected, which will constrain him to blush for 
 her. Until then, he will promise — he will swear to leave 
 her, and he will never do so, because all the world 
 advises him to." 
 
 " But he loves the woman no more — he has said so to 
 me in the most emphatic terms, and without my having 
 asked him." 
 
 " If he did not love, he would never have said so — he 
 would have contented himself with not loving her." 
 
 " But, in a word, that sudden unforeseen circum- 
 stance which is to constrain him to cease to love her 
 and to flee from her — of what kind can it be in your 
 opinion ?" 
 
 Pauline dropped her eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! I see ! " I cried. " Yes ! yes ! if we could 
 prove to Edward that woman deceives him, or has 
 deceived him." 
 
 " But neither you nor I can attempt that. Besides, 
 who can say that that woman may have deceived him, 
 whilst his connexion with her has continued ?" 
 
 " Who is to say it ? Why, I, of course ! I am per- 
 fectly certain that Marianne Philippoteaux, the eques- 
 
122 THE VAMPTRE. 
 
 trienne, has never remained faithful to one lover for 
 twelve whole months together." 
 
 " In any case, if she has been unfaithful to him, she 
 has surely had wit enough to keep it to herself." 
 
 " But her lovers may not, and I will find it out." 
 
 " And you will reveal it to Edward. I hardly think 
 you are capable of that. To denounce a woman, 
 whatever she may be, is what a man like you could 
 never do." 
 
 " Perhaps you are partly right, but since you admit 
 that no one can unseal Edward's eyes, even supposing 
 there has been treason — upon what, or upon whom, 
 do you reckon to make him some day ashamed of 
 having been the lover of that woman ?" 
 
 " Upon the woman herself, on the day when angry 
 at some refusal, tired, perhaps, of a happiness of which 
 she is not worthy — she will let Edward see that she 
 loves him no more, and that she is ready to love 
 someone else." 
 
 I sighed, and a sigh from Pauline echoed mine. 
 
 " I understand you," said she, " my hope must rest 
 on some very distant event — perhaps a very improbable 
 one. But what would you have ? Unless I throw 
 myself out of a window one of these days, I must resign 
 myself to the hope that God will have pity on me, and 
 will force that woman to leave Edward — otherwise, I 
 am sure she will never leave him." 
 
THE YAMPIKE. 123 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I WENT out from Pauline with a promise to call on the 
 morrow. My heart was torn with what I had seen and 
 heard. Further, I felt humiliated — furious at my 
 impotence to restore that poor little woman to peace 
 and happiness. 
 
 Four o'clock was striking as I remounted to my 
 rooms. I was not in much of a vein for work, and, 
 whilst waiting for the dinner hour, I took a book — the 
 first which came to hand — a romance of Walter Scott, 
 
 Joseph, judging from my air when I returned, 
 thought I was not in a great humour for talking, 
 and beat a prudent retreat. 
 
 To read Walter Scott when one is out of temper is 
 not a diversion which I would recommend to my 
 bitterest enemy. He is certainly one of the greatest 
 of moralists, but, without detracting from bis glory, I 
 think I might say that if Sauternil had lived in the 
 days of Peveril of the Peak, he would not have offered 
 him to serve as epigraph fco his work his famous 
 castigat ridendo mores. 
 
 It is only right to say that in the temper in which 
 I was at the moment, I should have felt much the 
 same if I had taken up Moliere, instead of Scott. 
 
 I had been keeping my eyes fixed on the same page 
 for about ten minutes, when a violent ringing at the 
 bell made me jump off my chair. 
 
 " What brute can be ringing like that VI cried. 
 
 The "brute " was a commissionaire — an Auvergnat 
 naturally ; and the Auvergnats are not celebrated for 
 the lightness of their hands — who brought me a letter, 
 which he was charged to deliver into my own hands, 
 and for an answer to which he was to wait. 
 
124 THE VAMPTK!* 
 
 I began my reading of the letter by examining the 
 signature. It was Edward Mansion who wrote to me, 
 and the substance of his letter was this : — 
 
 " My dear Theodore, — I must no longer inspire you 
 with contempt, but with disgust. I know it, yet I 
 have such confidence in your generosity, that I venture 
 to have recourse to it once more. There is only one 
 way of breaking off this fatal connection. Marianne 
 will not go — she simply refuses. Well, then, it is I 
 who must fly. But to fly alone — I know myself ; I 
 should no sooner get out of Paris, than my courage 
 would fail me. One last proof of friendship, Theodore. 
 Come with me on the little journey I have sketched 
 out. This evening I shall be free ; will you be. at mid- 
 night at the Western Railway Station in the Rue 
 d' Amsterdam. I will wait for you there. We will go to 
 Havre or to Dieppe — we will stay there a fortnight, or 
 three weeks — a month perhaps, and at the end of that 
 time, unused to enervating pleasures, distracted by new 
 images, I shall, I hope, have completely recovered my 
 reason. 
 
 " Do not refuse me, I beg of you. It is a trouble- 
 some sacrifice which I ask you to make, and you would 
 be more than justified if you answered me that you are 
 not prepared to neglect for me your work, your duties, 
 or your pleasures. But remember also, my friend, that I 
 consider this journey my only chance of salvation, and 
 that without you, I should not have strength to put it 
 into execution. I at first thought of going with Pauline. 
 But a woman — even the one we love best in the world — ■ 
 is not quite the same thing as a friend on certain occa- 
 sions. What I want now is a firm and vigorous support 
 and a man's voice to bring me up to time when I am 
 growing weak. Pauline would only know how to weep 
 over me and to pity me when she saw me sad ; you 
 would laugh at and ridicule me. Besides, I have left so 
 much for Pauline to pardon me, that I have made a 
 vow that I will never appear before her again until I 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 125 
 
 can formally offer her my hand — after which we shall 
 not again be separated from each other. 
 
 " Come, my friend, one supreme effort. Only say 
 * yes ' to the man who carries you this letter, and I will 
 meet you to night as I have written. And if you consent 
 to accompany me to-night, as I hope you will, do not 
 breathe a word of this journey even to Pauline, We 
 must suspect everybody. Marianne is so clever, so 
 adroit she would extract the secret from the grave itself. 
 This evening, then — at midnight. I have made in- 
 quiries and I find there is a train at fifteen minutes 
 after the hour for Havre and Dieppe. Don't trouble 
 yourself about luggage — we will buy all we want down 
 there, and, as is only just and equitable, I will defray all 
 the expenses. You will not dispute my right to do so. 
 Good-bye, and thank you in advance. 
 
 " Edward." 
 
 When I had read this singular epistle, I remained 
 thoughtful, and for some time, I confess, sufficiently 
 irresolute. 
 
 " Well, sir ?" asked the commissionaire, after having 
 allowed me, as a man who knows his business should do, 
 two or three minutes for reflection. " Well, sir, what 
 answer am I to take back to the gentleman who sent 
 me. He told me I was to take him a ' yes ' or a ' no ' — 
 which is it to be ?" 
 
 " It is, yes." 
 
 " Yes ?" 
 
 " Yes ; you quite understand ?" 
 
 " Do I understand ? I should be a fool if I didn't ! 
 Yes is hardly like no. Much obliged, monsieur. Now, 
 I am off to find my customer." 
 
 The commissionaire had hardly gone, when I went 
 downstairs to find Pauline. 
 
 " What has happened now," she asked, on seeing me 
 come in with a sufficiently joyous air. 
 
 " Well, my dear neighbour, I have come to tell you 
 that I leave this place to-night ?" 
 
126 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Ah, you are going back to Provins, so as to be near 
 your future bride ?" 
 
 " No, I am going with a friend who finds the air of 
 Paris unhealthy, and who intends to recover in the 
 country." 
 
 Pauline trembled. " Edward has written to you ?" 
 She murmured. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you are going to travel with him V 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Alone ?" 
 
 " Well, as you are not coming with us, alone, of 
 course." 
 
 " Now tell me — is this journey an idea of his own ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " An idea . . to separate himself from this 
 woman." 
 
 * Of course." 
 
 " That's all right then ! that's very good ! My poor 
 Edward ! And that letter which he has written to 
 you — may I not see it ? You have it with you, hav'nt 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes, but . ." 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 I drew the letter from my pocket with a smile. 
 " Edward is afraid you will not know how to keep his 
 secret." 
 
 " What ? can he possibly think . . . n 
 
 " He thinks that Mdlle. Marianne, if she thought you 
 knew it, would find means to extort it from you. But, 
 as I have not the same fear — see, there is Edward's 
 letter — read it ! " 
 
 Pauline hesitated about taking the letter for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Come ! " said I, putting the paper between her 
 fingers — " I suppose Edward, finding he cannot trust 
 himself, thinks himself bound to distrust everybody. 
 But you should hardly be spitefu) on that account." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 127 
 
 Pauline read and re-read the letter from end to end 
 . . . . " Oh ! " she murmured as she did so, " to 
 think he should fancy that that woman could force me 
 to speak. She should cut me to pieces first." And, 
 turning her dimned eyes towards me, she returned the 
 paper. " Thank you," said she simply, " perhaps it 
 would be better after all if you did not tell Edward that 
 you had shown me that letter." 
 
 " I shan't tell him—don't be afraid, poor little 
 lamb ! " 
 
 " And how long shall you stay at Havre or Dieppe ? " 
 
 " Well, you saw what he said — a fortnight, three 
 weeks, a month — whatever time is necessary for the 
 complete cure of our patient." 
 
 " I feel quite certain that that cannot be accom- 
 plished in a fortnight. Still, though I am more calm 
 now, I should have been very glad "... 
 
 " To hear of, or from him ? He shall write to you, I 
 promise, and shall write often." 
 
 " But then he will have to tell me where he is." 
 
 " Well, he shall tell you — that's alL We will bring 
 him to that, without too much urging. Let me do it." 
 
 " I trust entirely to you. You are so good, M. 
 Theodore. Oh, yes. You are very good — for I am 
 sure this journey will upset all your arrangements." 
 
 " Frankly, I should be very glad if I could escape it. 
 But if you would paint on my picture during my 
 absence "... 
 
 " If I only could ! That is just what you told us 
 about ; that picture you are doing is for your future 
 bride, and she will be grieved if you do not give it to 
 her on the day you promised it." 
 
 " No, she will not be grieved — for she loves me, I 
 think, as you love Edward, and when I explain to her 
 
 n 
 • • . • 
 
 " When you explain to her . . . ." 
 " We will talk of that by-and-bye. I am going to 
 dinner now — good bye. This evening, in passing, I 
 
128 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 will look in to say Adieu, and take your commissions.*' 
 
 " My commissions ? " 
 
 " I won't guarantee that if you should give me two 
 good kisses for Edward I should pass them on to him as 
 ardently as you could wish, but the intention should be 
 there all the same, if it would not be unpleasant to 
 take me as your messenger." 
 
 I had hardly finished, when she caught me in her 
 arms, and gave me two kisses on my cheeks — for 
 Edward, But I swear to you, my dear fellow, that 
 although Pauline is a pretty — an extremely pretty 
 woman, her kisses produced no more effect on me than 
 they ought — they were too chaste and pure. But she, 
 a little confused with her eagerness, dropped her eyes, 
 and blushed. 
 
 " Must I give them back if you reproach yourself 
 with having given them ? " said I, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, I don't reproach myself at all ! " said she, 
 innocently. 
 
 " And you are right, Pauline, for you have done no 
 harm. See here— surely a brother, in order to make 
 himself agreeable to his sister, has a right to embrace 
 her husband ? " 
 
 " Her husband ! " repeated Pauline in a low voice. 
 
THE VAMPIRE, 129 
 
 XX. 
 
 Whatever Edward might say, I told my man to pack 
 my travelling bag. Obliging one's friends is all very 
 well, but I like to be able to change my shirt when I 
 get to my journey's end, without having to go to the 
 shop to buy one first. 
 
 At a quarter of an hour before midnight, I got out of 
 my cab at the station in the Rue d' Amsterdam. As 
 I stepped out, Edward Mansion, who was waiting for me 
 a few paces off, with his face hidden by the peak of a 
 hideous travelling cap, hurried towards me. 
 
 " Here you are," said he in an agitated voice. " How 
 good of you ! Ah ! my friend, ask of me one day, my 
 life, my blood." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know all that ! You said the same thing 
 three days ago, and the very next day. . 
 
 " Don't begin to scold, Theodore ! When you come 
 to know." 
 
 " I hope to know all soon, but not here I think. 
 And our places ? " 
 
 " I have the tickets in my pocket — first class— I just 
 took them. We can go into the waiting-room. Look 
 here, Theodore, we are going to Dieppe if you don't 
 mind. I have never seen Dieppe — have you ? " 
 
 " I know Dieppe very well, but that is of no conse- 
 quence. We are not making a pleasure trip, but a 
 journey of serious business." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That wo'jian who is just behind us ? * 
 
 " Well— what of her ? " 
 
 " Don't you imagine she is very like Marianne f 
 
 M Not the least in the world. Besides — did you warn 
 
 I 
 
130 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Marianne that you were going to Dieppe by any 
 chance ? " 
 
 "Am I a fool?" 
 
 "Well, then, how can you believe anything of the 
 kind ? " 
 
 " I believe nothing, my friend — but what would you 
 have—it is stronger than I — every woman I meet skives 
 me goose flesh— I shall never be easy until the train 
 is under way. Have you told Pauline ? " 
 
 " I have told her everything." 
 
 " Everything ? " 
 
 " Everything I ought to tell her." 
 
 " Well, well ! I suppose she has been crying for the 
 last three days." 
 
 " She had certainly very good reason for doing so, it 
 seems to me." 
 
 " Of course she had ! Poor little thing ! Who is 
 that veiled woman in front of us who keeps staring at 
 us?" 
 
 "Eh ? that veiled woman ? She is hump-backed — 
 it cannot be Marianne." 
 
 " My dear fellow, you cannot imagine the singular 
 tone that Marianne put on when I left her this even- 
 ing, saying that I was going to hear an act of the play 
 at the Opera Comique. She was unwell in the morn- 
 ing, so that I was able to get out to cafe and write to 
 you. This evening, after dinner, I felt, and I daresay 
 looked, uncomfortable, and she was the first to propose 
 that I should go out. But when I took my hat, she 
 said, ' Don't be long away ! ' in the drollest fashion." 
 
 " Well, you are quite sure that she does not know of 
 your project." 
 
 " I cannot possibly see how she can have guessed it. 
 I have spoken of it to no one but yourself." 
 
 " And you are sure also of the commissionaire whom 
 you sent to me." <* 
 
 " Well, unless he had opened my letter, your answer 
 would not have compromised me^ even if she had ques- 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 131 
 
 tioned him. Confound it, why don't they start the 
 train ? It is past midnight — By the way, I me you 
 have brought a bag : for myself I have been content to 
 invest in this travelling cap, which I think disguises me 
 sufficiently, doesn't it." 
 
 " You hardly intend to walk about Dieppe in that 
 cap for a fortnight I should hope." 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! I shall buy myself a hat down there, 
 of course. I have brought plenty of money, so make 
 your mind easy — a thousand francs — is that enough for 
 the two of us ? " 
 
 " For the two of us ? My dear Edward, you can 
 hardly think I allow my friends to pay for me if I do 
 them a service ? " 
 
 " You make me pay ? that is childish. But . . * 
 
 " Each pays his own expenses— that must be under- 
 stood, or I leave you here. Take it or leave it." 
 
 " Oh, then, if that's to be it, I take it, of course. Ah 
 - — they are getting into the train, Theodore ! " 
 
 " Yery well, let us get in too ! ' 
 
 " 'Gad, there's that hump-backed woman who bores 
 me so, waiting to see who goes by the train. I hope 
 she does not intend to travel in the same compartment 
 with us ! " 
 
 " Well, you can't put her out if she does ! What can 
 you have to fear from that woman ? " 
 
 " One of Marianne's friends is hump-backed, I know, 
 and you may guess ..." 
 
 " Well, suppose the woman is a friend of Marianne. 
 She is hardly likely to hide herself in her hump, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 We were sitting at the far side of a carriage, and 
 Edward had drawn the curtains, partly as a measure of 
 prudence, and partly also to avoid the danger of com- 
 panions on the journey. As there were very few pas- 
 sengers for Dieppe that evening, Edward's hope was 
 readily realized. The tickets had been inspected ; the 
 whistle sounded 
 
132 THE VAMPIRE, 
 
 " At last ! " said Edward, springing up in his corner. 
 And the train steamed rapidly out from Paris. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 138 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Now, my dear friend," said Edward to me after 
 having lighted a cigarette, " let us go on with the nar- 
 rative of what has happened in the last three days ? " 
 
 " All right. But as we are travelling not merely to 
 get away from Mdlle. Marianne, bub to occupy ourselves 
 with her as little as possible, I ask, that when you have 
 once told your story we shall not go into it again." 
 
 " Agreed, my dear fellow, agreed ! Now, I must tell 
 you of my latest folly." 
 
 " And then we will let them rest until you commit 
 another ! " 
 
 " You are not very indulgent, Theodore. Am I not 
 proving to you that from this moment, I am absolutely 
 determined to break with Marianne ? " 
 
 " That is a question which will take at least a fort- 
 night to solve." 
 
 " Just so. In a fortnight I shall, I hope, have found 
 sufficient moral courage to resist temptation. In a fort- 
 night you will see, my dear fellow, I shall be able to 
 meet Marianne and cut her dead." 
 
 " Especially, if whilst we are away, she has the grace 
 to catch some malignant form of small pox, which may 
 utterly disfigure her." 
 
 " You're joking ! But when she told me this morn- 
 ing that she was ill, I could not but think that a toler- 
 ably severe illness would seem like a punishment from 
 God." 
 
 " You unhappy fellow ! If God is likely to mix him- 
 self in this wretched business at all, it will be you with 
 whom he will begin." 
 
 " With me t You are under a mistake, Theodore. 
 The worst criminal during the last three days has cer- 
 tainly not been mysel£ I cannot pretend to the Mon* 
 
134) THE VAMPIRE 
 
 thyon Prize, yet if I fell, it was through weakness— 
 whilst she ... " 
 
 " Well, well ! come to the story. You shall bleach it 
 afterwards if you like." 
 
 " I will bleach it as I go on, if you please, Theodore. 
 You remember how overjoyed I was when I told you of 
 my rupture with Marianne ? " 
 
 " Let us take your joy for granted. Go on ! *' 
 
 " Well — you remember that you thought I felt a cer- 
 tain regret at Marianne's departure for London ? You 
 were quite deceived on that point. I was really de- 
 lighted, and it is a proof of the truth of what I say, that 
 when I saw her, I was almost knocked over." 
 
 " Yes ; but you tumbled into her arms." 
 
 " I wish you had been there to see, Cato ! Look here, 
 Theodore, if I were not entirely persuaded that 
 thanks to your natural perspicacity, you have long ago 
 guessed why I call Marianne The Vampire, the present 
 would be the time to give you a detailed explanation on 
 this topic, for never more than on that day did Marianne 
 better deserve that infernal title. She came into my 
 rooms calm, cool, almost icy. ' Edward,' said she, ' for- 
 give me if I am false to my oath — I wanted to go into 
 exile without shaking hands with you once more. But 
 I had reckoned too much upon my courage yesterday. 
 Your hand — your hand, one second, Edward — and 
 adieu ! — adieu ! ' My hand ! When a weeping woman 
 asks for the hand of him she loves, the man must be 
 marble who does not fulfil her request — must he not ? 
 Unfortunately, I am not marble. A kiss, a last kiss, 
 pledges one to nothing, I thought in my pity. Another 
 — it should be the last ! 
 
 " The last ! Ah, my dear fellow, my lips had scarcely 
 touched Marianne's, when I understood the mistake I 
 had made, But it was too late. Marianne on touching 
 me, like Antaeus in touching the earth his mother, had 
 obtained a fresh strength. Terrible — almost horrible, 
 but beautiful— ah, too beautiful in the transports of her 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 135 
 
 passion. Marianne was no longer a woman then, sh<a 
 was a goddess, the most dangerous of all the goddesses : 
 Venus Astarte, that Venus whose mysteries the Greeks 
 celebrated under the flowering myrtles of Cyprus, and 
 to whom it is said that Solomon sacrificed when he was 
 abandoned of God. 
 
 " What shall I tell you, my friend ? When, after two 
 hours of an indescribable voluptuousness, when Mari- 
 anne again began to speak to me of going, I pressed 
 her to my bosom, crying out, ' You shall not go ! I love 
 you ! You shall not go ! Perish my talent, my reputa- 
 tion, my fortune ! Do not go ! ' ' 
 
 " And at that delirious cry, Marianne, ashamed of you 
 and of herself, did not push you away and hurry off ? " 
 " I should die to-day if I had to leave you," said she. 
 " I will go to-morrow ! " 
 " And on the morrow ? " 
 
 " On the morrow," she said, " I will go in a week." 
 " Well, in this way, if you had stayed the whole week 
 with her ? " . t '. 
 
 " I should have stayed for the rest of my life. 
 " The wretch ! And she has dared to tell me that 
 she was not malicious. But the creature is a perfect 
 monster — a monster, for she knows from my mouth that 
 when she appropriates you, the man, she robs the world 
 of a great artist." . 
 
 " Oh ! she explained to me very well and sufficiently 
 her despair on this subject, but as I was to stay only 
 eight days with her, she consoled herself by appearing 
 to believe that at the end of the week I might go back 
 again to my work." 
 
 " Now shortly— tell me by what happy adventure in 
 the very midst of that new period of possession, the 
 thought of escaping from your Vampire came to you ?" 
 " Last night I was sitting near a window in Marianne's 
 chamber whilst she was dressing— we were going to- 
 gether to the Cirque in the Champs Elysees— an organ 
 grinder in the street just under our window began to 
 
136 , THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 play the Miserere out of the Trovatore. What passed 
 through my mind when I heard that sublime com- 
 position? It was wonderful. Silent and immovable 
 my forehead pressed against the bar of the window. I 
 listened in a sort of ecstacy. The notes were false and 
 broken — they seemed to me as harmonious as those of 
 one of Sebastian Erard's harps. 
 
 " Throw a couple of sous to the beggar, and send him 
 away," said Marianne. " He skins our ears with his 
 ballads." 
 
 " His ballads ! Marianne called Verdi's chef d'ozuvre 
 a ballad ! Ah, my dear fellow, you laugh ; but I swear 
 to you at that blasphemy of my equestrienne I shud- 
 dered as if someone had grossly insulted me. I thought 
 to myself, ' And this is the woman who boasts of loving 
 me — me, a musician — and she does not even know the 
 Miserere from the Trovatore' 
 
 " All this that I am telling you, Theodore, is very 
 childish, isn't it ? A lover falling out with his mistress 
 because she does not go into rapture over the groans of 
 a wheezy organ ! " 
 
 " Not at all ! The circumstance is, on the contrary, 
 very significant to me ; it shows that every pure senti- 
 ment is not extinct in you. All the same, I suppose, 
 you threw the sous to the organ grinder, as Marianne 
 had told you ? " 
 
 " No ; for I threw him a five franc piece by way of 
 thanking him for reminding me that I had something 
 else to do in life besides making a brute of myself in 
 the arms of a fool who . . I " 
 
 "Who did not even know the Miserere from the 
 Trovatore. % Well, do you know what I should do in 
 your place when we get back from our pilgrimage to 
 Dieppe? I would find out that organ, the false but 
 blessed chords of which have brought you back into the 
 straight path ; I would hang it up as an ex voto in some 
 chapel, and I would get some librettist to write me 
 words which I could set to music with the title of "The 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 137 
 
 Organ — The Liberator." Joking apart, though, your 
 narrative is completed for the present in two words, I 
 hope The incideD*, of the Miserere opened, I will not 
 say your eyes, hv', your heart." 
 
 " Yes, opened t so completely, that for the rest of the 
 evening I die* not address ten words to Marianne." 
 
 " That was not a very clever thing to do. Women 
 are always defiant when we are angry with them." 
 
 " It was an excellent plan with Marianne. When 
 she is scolded a little, she scolds a great deal in return, 
 and then always has an attack of nerves. She did not 
 close her eyes all night ; this morning she was ill, and 
 when I went to the doctor for her I was able to write 
 my letter to you." 
 
 " And you think that when you left her this evening, 
 Marianne was not without some vague suspicions of 
 your intentions ? " 
 
 "Ah, you know the dread I have of her, nothing 
 more ! Not having left her bed all day, it is evident — " 
 
 " But she has a servant ? " 
 
 "The servant is a coarse country girl — a rough 
 diamond, who would have told me at once if her 
 mistress had ordered her to spy on me. Besides, we 
 have no longer anything to fear, have we ? We must be 
 safe now, surely ? How I intend to amuse myself at 
 Dieppe, my dear fellow — I intend to enjoy myself — you 
 shall see. When I have taken a resolution I know how 
 to keep it. It was rather troublesome to arrive at it, 
 but when I did . . ! By way of a beginning, let us 
 agree that from this moment I am never to open my 
 mouth to you about Marianne." 
 
 " That will greatly oblige me ! " 
 
 " Look here, Theodore, what a charming night it 
 is. The weather seems expressly made for us. We 
 ' will bathe in the sea, shan't we — down there ? Do you 
 swim ?" 
 
 " A little." 
 
 " Well, as for me, I could give points to a dolphin ! 
 
138 «fHE VAMPIRE. 
 
 Then we will go wandering about in boats and 
 carriages. Is the country about Dieppe pretty ?" 
 
 " Very pretty indeed." 
 
 u And there is a theatre in the town, I think ?" 
 
 "Yes — there is everything to amuse you in the town. 
 So make your mind easy." 
 
 " To amuse us. But I should be quite content to 
 go into some hole — some fisherman's village, I think. 
 Ah well !" 
 
 Edward sighed. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, now I am sorry that we did not bring 
 Pauline. Poor little thing ! I promise you the year 
 shall not go by without my taking her somewhere — 
 Italy or Switzerland. What do you say, Theodore ? 
 If, when we are married,I took her to Rome or to Geneva, 
 she would be thoroughly happy. My mother, too, 
 wants to see London, and I intend to take her there 
 next year. Hallo ! We're stopping. Where are we 
 now?" 
 
 "At Rouen." 
 
 " Ah ! Can we get down for a bit ?" 
 
 "We have half an hour for refreshment and for 
 change of carriage." 
 
 " Well, then, let us go and get something. I dined 
 very badly to-day, or rather yesterday. The wing of a 
 fowl and a glass or two of Bordeaux will do neither of 
 us any harm, I think," 
 
THE VAMPIRE 139 
 
 XXII 
 
 Edward ate his half fowl and drank his bottle of 
 wine. He was as gay as a lark when we got back into 
 the train. The day broke whilst we were in the buffet 
 at Kouen. Leaning against the carriage windows, my 
 companion saluted, with exclamations of joy, every 
 village, every little hill, every picturesque site which he 
 saw. Cme might have thought him a boy fresh from 
 schooi 
 
 I was careful not to spoil his pleasure by the smallest 
 raillery. Besides, I see nothing so very ridiculous when 
 a man, who has travelled little, if at all, manifests his 
 satisfaction at the sight of a new spectacle. More than 
 all, while Edward admired the country he was not 
 thinking of Marianne, and that was something gained. 
 
 We arrived at Dieppe at half-past six, and went at 
 once to the Hotel of the Armes de France. 
 
 "What shall we do," said I to Edward, who had 
 began to renew his exclamations at the sight of the 
 sea. " If you are tired, we can rest in the hotel until 
 breakfast time." 
 
 "Tired, indeed ! Are you ?" 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 « Yery well, then. Let us leave your bag and go at 
 once to have a look at the town. Then " 
 
 " Excuse me ! — first of all, you will let me get shaved, 
 I hope ? 
 
 "Just so !just so ! And while you are doing that, 1 
 will employ the time in getting what things I have 
 need of." 
 
 " That is really indispensable, of course. But while 
 the manager of the hotel is sending for the tradespeople, 
 there is nothing to prevent your using my things." 
 
( THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 " Yes, yes, that will do it. I will put off making my 
 purchases until the evening, and in that way we may, 
 without any further delay, take a little stroll by the sea 
 to get up our appetites. Oh, what a delightful country, 
 my dear fellow ! What a delightful country ! What is 
 that place down there by the side of the cliff ?" 
 
 " That is Le Pollet, a suburb of Dieppe." 
 
 " Ah ! I know, I know. I read about it in a book, 
 somewhere. The Polletais — fishermen, sailors, form 
 a population apart — people who have preserved all the 
 purity and simplicity of ancient manners out of fear 
 least they should be corrupted by luxury, who have 
 never wanted to change the costume which has come 
 down to them even from before the time of Louis XIV." 
 
 " I won't promise that your information is not a little 
 exaggerated with poetical colouring ; nevertheless, it is 
 certain that the Polletais are in the present day an 
 altogether peculiar people as to manners and customs." 
 
 '' Well, we can go and pay them a visit, can't we, 
 Theodore ?" 
 
 '• Of course we can. We might even begin by going 
 there." 
 
 " Bravo ! We'll make haste over our toilette, then, and 
 go. First of all, you will easily understand that I did not 
 come to Dieppe on purpose to shut myself up. Ah — my 
 dear fellow — simply with breathing this fine air I seem 
 to be made over again. And the sea ! the sea ! how 
 beautiful it is." 
 
 c ' Have you never seen it before f* 
 
 " Never ! Shameful, isn't it, hey ?" 
 
 " Hardly shameful, perhaps, but strange on the part 
 of an artist." 
 
 " How could it be otherwise ? Since I grew to man- 
 hood my life has been so strangely laid out that I have 
 never been able to give myself the pleasures of other 
 men. But things will be altered in the future, I can 
 assure you. It is too absurd to sacrifice everything to 
 women. I'll give it up, be sure ! What good do mistresses 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 141 
 
 do one, after all ? They waste our time and money and 
 turn us into ridicule ! Ah, here we are ! " 
 
 " Yes ! here we are ! " 
 
 "This is a good hotel— very good. We will take 
 rooms with a view over the port, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Certainly " 
 
 " Oh, I shall pass my nights at the window — dream- 
 ing, working. What should you think, Theodore, if I 
 thought out an opera at Dieppe ? " 
 
 "I should think you had had a double reason for 
 
 coming ! 
 
 " Well — you shall see, my friend, you shall see. 
 
 That's all I have to say." 
 
 # * # # 
 
 As you may well imagine, I shall not tell you hour by 
 hour how the first day at Dieppe passed with Edward 
 Mansion. I will content myself with saying that it was 
 as charming for me as for him. When we came out 
 from the hotel — where we passed, I suppose, about 
 twenty minutes — so great was Edward's haste to regain 
 the open air, which, as he said, revivified him, we went 
 first, as we had settled, to Le Pollet, and soon after 
 having examined the costume of the natives, Edward 
 was able to verify what he had read in his little book 
 about the glories of the place. Thus, distributing sous 
 to the boys and eying the women of the port — most of 
 whom were shockingly ugly — we attained the height of 
 the hill on which Le Pollet is built. From that point a 
 splendid panorama unrolls itself : sky and sea are con- 
 fused in the distant horizon. I had almost to use force 
 to tear Edward away from the sight, and when at last 
 he yielded, it was only on condition that we should re- 
 turn there every morning during our stay. By ten 
 o'clock, however, I, who had not supped quite so 
 luxuriously as he at Rouen, found myself quite ready for 
 breakfast. To please my companion — who assured me 
 that it would be more amusing to breakfast we know 
 not where, than to go back to our hotel — we went into 
 
14# THE YAMPIBK 
 
 the first restaurant we saw, when we reached the port. 
 And there I had no reason to regret my good Dature. 
 Our breakfast was of the best — the freshest fish 
 moistened with excellent cider. Greatly refreshed, we 
 started for the chateau on the top of the West Cliff — a 
 little excursion which lasted us for three hours. 
 Leaving the chateau we went to make acquaintance with 
 Etablissement — the Bath House — then made the tour 
 of the Church of St. Jaques, said to be one of the most 
 magnificent religious monuments in France. 
 
 Six o'clock struck as we came out from the church. 
 
 " Six o'clock, already ! Impossible ! " cried Edward 
 with a comic surprise. " It seems only ten minutes 
 since we got out of the cab ! Well ? Where shall we 
 go now, Theodore ? " 
 
 " It is dinner time ! let us go and dine." 
 
 " Dine ? Why, we have only just had breakfast ? Are 
 you hungry ? " 
 
 " Aren't you ? " 
 
 " Well — as a matter of fact, I must confess that a few 
 potatoes, with a good many slices of good roast beef, 
 would not be altogether disagreeable." 
 
 " And, when we have dined, what shall we do ? Go 
 on the sea, I should say. We cannot go to bed without 
 a sail." 
 
 " I should ask no better. Only— there is something 
 which says that we should do better to put off our sail 
 until to-morrow ? ' And I showed the rising tide to 
 Edward. 
 
 It was not easy to answer all the naive questions he 
 put to me concerning the theory of the tides, and 
 similar wonders, but at last I made him understand. 
 
 " Well ! well ! " said he. " Let us make haste over 
 our dinner, Theodore, and then, if we cannot go for a 
 sail, we can at least go on the jetty to watch the 
 rising tide,* 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 143 
 
 xxin. 
 
 It was eight o'clock in the evening. The sun was 
 just setting, and the evening was creeping on. Plenty 
 of curious and idle people had come out on the jetty to 
 see the rising tide, and Edward and I remained until 
 almost the last. Although we had been there for 
 nearly an hour, we were still there, not yet thinking of 
 retiring. We had talked much. Now, sitting side by 
 side, we were dreaming. 
 
 I dreamed of Louise ? Was he dreaming about 
 Pauline ? Suddenly a voice close behind us pronounced 
 these words : — 
 
 " Good evening, gentlemen ! Well, are you both 
 asleep ? " 
 
 At the first accents of that strident, metallic voice, 
 we both involuntarily shuddered, and, at the same 
 moment, turned towards the person from whom it had 
 come, both uttering an acclamation. We had both re- 
 cognized the voice, but both of us hoped that we might 
 have been mistaken. We were not. It was, indeed, 
 Marianne who had spoken : Marianne — smiling, with a 
 smile in harmony with her words — rallying, insolent. 
 Marianne had prepared this theatrical move to spoil its 
 effect by an awkward precipitation. She gave us time 
 to look at her — then turning her smile into a laugh of 
 the same character : — 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! My God, yes, gentlemen, it is I ! 
 You scarcely expected to see me here, did you ? Oh, I 
 can easily believe it. It is annoying, isn't it ? You 
 run away to salute the red sky and the blue sea at 
 Dieppe — and pop ! just as it is in a pantomime, in 
 comes the very person you were running away from — 
 the Vampire, as M. Edward Mansion wittily calls me— 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! laugh, gentlemen, instead of pulling that 
 
144 . THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 piteous face at me. Vampire as I am, I am a good sort 
 of girl at bottom, and I want nothing more of you, 
 Edward, or of you, M. Spindler, who have lent your aid 
 to this amorous caprice, than that you should escort me 
 back to my hotel — or rather to ours ; for perhaps you 
 didn't know it, but I am lodged at the same hotel with 
 you — the Armes de France — a very comfortable house 
 — very comfortable indeed. Now, listen ! it was quite 
 enough travelling with you, that I should be con- 
 demned to the martyrdom of a second class carriage, 
 whilst you were swaggering like sultans in a first. Not 
 to frighten you too much at once, I consented to de- 
 prive myself of your society on the journey. But now 
 we have arrived, things are different. I have no inten- 
 tion of separating myself from you, gentlemen. Isola- 
 tion for a woman is sometimes dangerous, as well you 
 know. But it seems to me, that you are scarcely in a 
 hurry, either of you, to give me the arm I ask for, gen- 
 tlemen. And yet we can hardly go to bed on the jetty, 
 I suppose. M. Spindler evidently hates me too much 
 to consent to be my escort ; but you, Edward, though I 
 daresay you have learned to hate me also, can hardly 
 refuse the small favour which I beg of you." 
 
 So saying she walked briskly up to Edward, who 
 suddenly recoiled. 
 
 " Hey ? " said the equestrienne, biting her lips. " Do 
 I really make you so much afraid as all that, Edward ? 
 Decidedly, M. Spindler has dressed you over so well 
 since this morning, that you are capable of anything — 
 even of an insult—to the woman to whom you said only 
 yesterday, ' I love you.' " 
 
 In recoiling before Marianne, Edward had approached 
 me. He took my hand. His was cold and trembling ; 
 he was pale, but upon his face, from which my glance 
 had not detached itself for a second during the strange 
 speech of Marianne, I read both anger and shame. At 
 the last words of the equestrienne those emotions broke 
 out. 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 145 
 
 " Madame/' said ho, in a tone harsh but firm, r ' T am 
 really much surprised, as you have said, to see you here ; 
 but what surprises me still more is that when you see 
 in what manner I have received you, you have not 
 sufficient heart to understand that this persecution has 
 already lasted too long, and that it must now come to 
 an end. I came to Dieppe with M. Theodore Spindler 
 to escape you — you pursue me to Dieppe. Well, then, 
 to-morrow M. Spindler and I will seek some other 
 place where you cannot follow us. In the meantime, 
 I beg you, and in case of need I am prepared to order you, 
 to leave me. Was it necessary to show to you that I 
 have ceased to love you — that I am tired of you — that 
 I should say so to your face ? Well, I say so now — I 
 love you no longer ; I am tired of you. Do not try 
 then to degrade me farther in the eyes of an honourable 
 man by parading your power over me. M. Spindler 
 has not drilled me — it is I who have rebelled against 
 the power with which you have oppressed me. It is I 
 who, without there being any necessity for his dicta- 
 ting the words, repeat to you that I will not be your 
 lover, that I am so no longer, and that I will never be 
 so again. After that, Marianne, you had better leave me, 
 believe me. Or, by the God who hears me, if you want 
 my life, after having robbed me for so long of mind 
 and heart, I will throw myself forthwith into the sea." 
 
 There was such resolution in Edward's accent as he 
 uttered this threat, that, in order to prevent him from 
 perpetrating any act of madness, I caught him by the 
 arm. Marianne could not avoid a movement of terror. 
 Silence followed. Marianne was apparently in doubt 
 as to which part she would take. It was evidently 
 repugnant to her to admit herself vanquished in my 
 presence ; she waited ; she hoped, perhaps, for a sign 
 from her lover which might encourage her to renew the 
 combat with some chance of success. But Edward did 
 not move, and his face, turned towards the ocean 
 remained fixed and sombre. 
 
 K 
 
146 THE VAMFIBB. 
 
 Marianne, whose head remained bent down like a 
 cat's as she watches a mouse, suddenly turned. 
 
 " That's enough !" said she, dropping her veil over her 
 face with a gesture of rage. " You may be quite sure, 
 M. Edward Mansion, that I have not the slightest desire 
 to keep a lover against his will — still less to expose him, 
 out of hatred to my person, to put an end, in so tragic a 
 fashion, to an existence so precious to the rest of the 
 world. You drive me away ! I am going, and don't be 
 afraid that I shall ever want to pursue you again. To- 
 day is the last day on which I shall speak to you. 
 That I swear ? Adieu ! " 
 
 With a " right about face " Marianne rushed away, 
 and wa,s soon lost in the increasing darkness. 
 
 " Are you satisfied with me, Theodore ? " said 
 Edward. 
 
 " Well satisfied indeed — except for the notion that 
 you were to throw. yourself into the sea for that woman ! 
 The idea was rather exaggerated, I am glad to think, 
 and one which there was but little chance of your put- 
 ting into execution." 
 
 " Who knows, my dear fellow, who knows ? I was so 
 dreadfully upset when I saw Marianne. You see the 
 idea was successful, for Marianne is gone." 
 
 " Gone, is she ? We must first of all find out if she 
 really will go." 
 
 " Well, what should she do in Dieppe now ? " 
 
 " That I don't know — only it is my opinion that if 
 she has this evening left the Armes de France, it is 
 only to find a shelter elsewhere — and if she has not 
 quitted Dieppe in a week, she will be at Trouville or 
 Havre or Etretat to catch us." 
 
 " Let it be so ! Let us go to the end of the world 
 rather than risk another meeting with Marianne. I 
 ask for nothing better." 
 
 "Oh, you may be sure I have no wish to fall into her 
 clutches again. Certainly not i The idea of her tracking 
 us here — it is too much ! " 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 147 
 
 " But how can she have found out that we were here ? 
 That is what puzzles me !" 
 
 " And me also. But when I told you that she had 
 her suspicions when I left her last night !" 
 
 " Suspicions ! Suspicions ! Something better than 
 suspicions is wanted — certainties !" 
 
 " Possibly. Perhaps she had me followed during the 
 day. In Paris everything can be done by those who 
 have money, and that letter which I sent you may have 
 been read by someone else before you saw it." 
 
 " Humph ! Although I have not absolute confidence 
 in the discretion of commissionaires, I confess that the 
 corruption of your Auvergnat is not what I can quite 
 readily admit." 
 
 " An}^how — in whatever way the news may have 
 reached her, it has certainly not profited her much, has 
 it r 
 
 " Let us go on to the hotel and find out if she has 
 gone." 
 
 " Let her, at least, have time to go." 
 
 " You are right — it is ten o'clock. Let us walk about 
 for an hour." 
 
 At eleven we went back to the hotel. The mana- 
 ger was standing on the doorstep ; we took him aside. 
 
 " Haven't you a lady here who arrived by the same 
 train that we did ?" I asked him. 
 
 " Madame Marianne Philippoteaux, perhaps ! " 
 
 " That is she ! So she gave you her name ?" 
 
 " To put it in the register, of course. It is the rule 
 in all well-managed houses — and I would ask you, 
 gentlemen, since you are here " 
 
 " Of course, we ask nothing better than to submit to 
 the rule. But that lady, Mdlle. Marianne Philippoteaux 
 — we know her a little, and " 
 
 " And you wish to speak with her — eh, gentlemen ? 
 In that case you will have to apply at the Hotel 
 d'Angleterre, for an hour ago the lady left this house." 
 
 " What do you say ? " 
 
148 THE VAMPIRE, 
 
 " Well, I don't know what fancy took her. She spent 
 the whole day in her room, where she had breakfast and 
 dinner served to her. In the evening she went out 
 apparently in the best of tempers. Just now she came 
 back, looking completely upset, and said to me, in the 
 driest of tones, ■ Give me my bill at once, monsieur, 
 and have the goodness to cause my trunks to be taken 
 over to the Hotel d'Angleterre.' As it is not my habit 
 to keep my customers against their will, thank God, I 
 did as the lady wished at once. Only if you gentlemen 
 know her, I shall be glad if you will ask her why . . " 
 
 " Oh, we only know her by sight. We do not 
 speak." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I thought . . ' 
 
 " No — but thank you none the less for your informa- 
 tion." 
 
 " There is nothing to thank me for, gentlemen. But 
 I hope you do not find things so bad in my house." 
 
 " Quite the other way," said Edward, who had become 
 quite radiant during the conversation. " So we reckon 
 on rather a long stay, my dear sir ! " 
 
 " So much the better. Then if I shall not bore you, 
 gentlemen, while you are here . . . 
 
 The manager of the Armes de France, who was 
 evidently determined to keep us, went in search of his 
 famous register for us to inscribe our names, "according 
 to the invariable custom of all well-managed houses." 
 
 " There ! " cried Edward. " You see, my dear fellow, 
 the victory remains to us. Her sublime retreat from 
 this house is significant. Marianne has gone to pass 
 the night at the Hotel d'Angleterre ; to-morrow morning 
 she will be on her way back to Paris, and then, good- 
 bye ! When I return to Paris in a fortnight's time, my 
 Vampire will have taken flight to England — Theodore, 
 my dear Theodore, I am saved, and saved completely ! 
 Oh, why is my little Pauline not here? I should embrace 
 her with such joy at this moment. My dear little 
 Pauline." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 149 
 
 I smiled at Edward's transports of joy — for his joy, this 
 time at least, appeared to me sincere. 
 
 Nevertheless, something within me whispered that it 
 was not very wise to sing " victory " so very loud and so 
 verv high 
 
150 THE VAMPIRE, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Eight days had slipped by since the famous scene of the 
 jetty, and from the conduct of my companion during 
 that time I hoped there was no reason for fearing 
 another downfall on his part. One need not be a great 
 philosopher to know that fatigue of body distracts the 
 mind. Sharing this belief, I was careful never to leave 
 Edward inactive, and I ought to say that he seconded 
 my efforts with the best possible grace. Every day we 
 had fresh excursions, sometimes to sea, sometimes on 
 horseback to the little ports or the neighbouring 
 villages. Often leaving before sunrise, we did not 
 return until late at night. In this way, if Marianne had 
 remained in Dieppe — which to me seemed hardly 
 probable — in the hope of meeting her lover, she would 
 have lost both her time and her hope. Besides, for eight 
 days her name had never been uttered by either her 
 lover or myself. Instead, I talked to him of Louise and 
 he to me of Pauline — a manner of conversation which 
 could not but have for him, at least, any but the best 
 results. Without my inviting him also, when I had 
 written to Louise, Edward would write to his mistress, 
 and his letters, which he compelled me to listen to, 
 breathed, from the first line to the last, nothing but 
 tenderness and repentance. 
 
 Towards the end of the first week of our stay in 
 Dieppe, we projected a visit to the Chateau d'Eu, a 
 little distance from the village of that name on the road 
 to Treport, and for the little journey we hired a vehicle 
 half cabriolet, half char-a-bancs, with orders to stop ab 
 an hotel at six in the morning of the following day. At 
 half-past five I was astir. I went to Edward's door to 
 knock him up. Contrary to his usual custom on such 
 occasions, Edward remained for a long time deaf to my 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 151 
 
 calls. When at last he opened, I found him with such 
 a dolorous face that I could not help remarking it. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " said I, whilst he 
 scrambled back into bed and drew the clothing up to his 
 nose. " You look like a debtor surprised by a creditor. 
 The carriage is downstairs, you know." 
 
 " Ah ! the carriage is downstairs, is it ?" said Edward, 
 in an undecided tone of voice. " Then I suppose it 
 would amuse you very much to go to Eu to-day, 
 Theodore ? " 
 
 " It would amuse me ? Well, I don't know that I 
 would give ten years of my life, but since it was agreed 
 that we should go to Eu to-day I don't see why ..." 
 
 " Of course ! of course ! it was agreed. I don't deny 
 it, but — but — it is not that . . ." 
 
 " Not what ? " 
 
 " Why, I have passed a wretched night, my dear 
 fellow. I am not absolutely ill, but I feel such a weari- 
 ness in all my limbs — we walked an enormous distance 
 yesterday, Theodore ! " 
 
 " An enormous distance ? Not more than on other 
 days, I think." 
 
 " Oh yes, we did — much more. We went on foot to 
 Arques, yesterday, then to . . ." 
 
 " In short, you don't want to go to-day — that's all." 
 
 " Well, frankly, no ! my dear fellow. I am not made 
 of iron, and this life that we have been living for the 
 last few days — always on the trot — always running 
 about, or else in a boat in the brightest of sunshine — 
 crushes me." 
 
 " Yery well then, I will go and send away the 
 carriage." 
 
 " I wish you would, Theodore, unless you would like to 
 go alone. I wasn't joking about my bad sleeping last 
 night — I think I have a little fever about me this 
 morning." 
 
 " Then I had better send for a doctor." 
 
 " A doctor — perfectly useless. I know my constitu- 
 
152 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 fclon — I only want rest. I will stay in bed for a part of 
 the day, and this evening at dinner I shall be as strong 
 and as fresh as any of you. Make your mind easy about 
 me !" 
 
 " All right ! good luck to you ! " and I went out. 
 
 " Stay," said Edward, " if you will really be greatly 
 disappointed at giving up this excursion, my dear 
 fellow " . . . 
 
 " Disagreeable ! Eubbish ! You are not well — you 
 want rest — take your rest. We shall have plenty of 
 time to go to Eu some other day." 
 
 " Oh, we shall have plenty of time. Then good-bye, 
 my friend, I shall be glad if you will give orders that I 
 am not to be disturbed ? You will see me about four 
 o'clock ! " 
 
 I returned to my room in a somewhat thoughtful 
 mood. Certainly, there was nothing very strange in the 
 fact that Edward was indisposed, yet, at the same time, 
 putting together the suddenness with which the indis- 
 position had come on, and the equal suddenness with 
 which he promised that it should disappear, I could not 
 avoid a certain amount of suspicion. 
 
 " After all," said I to myself, when I was tired of 
 hunting for reasons for Edward's keeping his room for 
 a part of the day, " after all, we shall soon see." 
 
 And in order to see, I determined to behave as if I 
 expected absolutely nothing. 
 
 Our coachman dismissed, I went to read the papers 
 in a neighbouring cafe. 
 
 At eleven o'clock, on returning to the hotel, I asked 
 the waiter who attended to us if my companion had risen. 
 
 " Not yet," was the answer. 
 
 " And he has not rung T 
 
 " Oh, yes, he has, monsieur. He rang for a cup of tea, 
 and when I went up with what he wanted he begged 
 me to make as little noise as possible. It seems he is 
 not very well." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 158 
 
 XXV. 
 
 I HAVE said that my tactics were in appearance at 
 least to leave Edward perfectly free, so as to be the 
 better able to surprise him in case his sudden indis- 
 position concealed some trick. With this object, 
 towards noon,and after beakfast,I went out again from the 
 hotel ostensibly for the beach. If he were watching me 
 through the Venetian blinds, he might easily be per- 
 suaded that I had gone out for at least three or four 
 hours, in which case he would fall into my trap, and I 
 should prove to him that at least I was not his dupe. 
 
 At the same time, if anyone had asked me what my 
 suspicions were, and on what they were founded, I 
 should have been puzzled to tell them. The one thing 
 certain is that I felt sure the day would not pass over 
 without some incident, and that I was not deceived 
 will at once appear. 
 
 There were few promenaders on the beach — amongst 
 others a few whom I recognised, one of whom was the 
 painter, Victor Bonton, an amiable bachelor, with a 
 fortune of a thousand a year in the funds, who, for that 
 reason, had the right to paint to please himself rather 
 than the public. At first I contented myself with 
 saying a few words of politeness to Victor Bonton, 
 who was, besides, fully occupied with talking to a tall 
 young man, who was a stranger to me. It was already 
 more than an hour since I had left my hotel, and it 
 was growing time for me to return to see what had 
 become of my invalid. 
 
 I was, therefore, when suddenly, just in front of me, at 
 some fifty paces in advance, by the side of the quay, I 
 saw a woman, at the sight of whom I could not repress 
 the involuntary movement which one makes, when, by 
 accident, he treads upon a viper. You will easily 
 guess who the woman was. 
 
154 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 My first idea — to avoid passing near to Marianne, was 
 to retrace my steps. On the other hand.. I felt re- 
 assured, by certain signs of vague disgust, and by her 
 presence in the place, that it would be childish on my 
 part to give way before this creature. I continued my 
 walk, therefore, only when I found myself six or seven 
 paces from her I went to the right, leaving her to the 
 left, and I turned my head. 
 
 But Marianne had no intention of letting me escape. 
 Divining my tactics, she imitated them, so that in a 
 moment we met face to face. There was upon her lips 
 a certain smile of raillery when my glance encountered 
 hers, and, spite of myself, I could not help a momentary 
 frown. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur," said she, " I am 
 sorry to be perhaps disagreeable in interrupting your 
 pleasant walk, but it is for your sake, and for yours 
 alone, that I have come to this place, after having seen 
 you pass only just now beneath my window. I should 
 be infinitely grateful if you would condescend to listen 
 to me." 
 
 I bowed, very slightly. "What do you want, 
 madame ? " said I. 
 
 " What I want, monsieur," said Marianne, " is to tell 
 you, first, that I hate you, since I am sure that it is to 
 you that I am indebted for Edward's desertion of me." 
 
 " The next thing, madame." 
 
 "The next ? The hatred of a woman like me 
 frightens you very little, doesn't it ? Very well, then, 
 we will go on to something which will strike you more 
 nearly :— M. Theodore Spindler, I have always loved 
 Edward Mansion. I love him now more than ever, and, 
 in spite of you, and in spite of all the Paulines in the 
 world, this day shall not pass over without seeing 
 Edward Mansion, my lover, once more. You are 
 warned. You see lama generous adversary : I warn 
 my foes before I strike them. And now, good morning, 
 M. Theodore Spindler ! " 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 155 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 As she uttered these last words, Marianne, suddenly 
 turning upon her heel, returned to the quay, while, 
 stupified by so much impudent audacity, I followed her 
 with a vacant eye, wishing to run after her, but, 
 nevertheless, unable to move a step. I stood there 
 almost stupified : — 
 
 " Well, my poor Theodore," said suddenly a penetra- 
 ting voice in my ear, whilst a hand was gently placed 
 upon my shoulder, " so you have been quarrelling 
 with the lady, have you ? We saw it all from the 
 distance, and the quarrel must have been a hot one, to 
 judge from Marianne's animation. Poor old Theodore ! 
 Keally though, look at him, Lucien, he is as grieved as 
 if he had broken with an old mistress. But it can't be 
 possible, my good fellow, that you can be so much in 
 love with Marianne Philippoteaux — or can you be going 
 to marry her ? In that case, it would be a kindness to 
 cure you of that infatuation ! " 
 
 It was Victor Bonton who addressed me thus ; near 
 to him, and looking at me attentively, was a young 
 fellow in a sort of comic astonishment, whom I had seen 
 shortly before. 
 
 " Look here," Victor went on, passing his arm through 
 mine, " what's up ? tell me all about it. First of all, you 
 are Marianne Philippoteaux's lover, I suppose ? I thought 
 it had been Edward Mansion, the composer ? " 
 
 "Marianne has never been my mistress, and is no 
 longer Edward Mansion's." 
 
 " So much the better, and since the opportunity offers 
 I should like to talk to you about it. If you know 
 Edward Mansion, Theodore " 
 
 " If I know him — why, I am his best friend ! " 
 
 " Are you ? Well, then, so much the greater reason for 
 congratulating you if he has really broken with Mar- 
 
156 THE VAMPIRE 
 
 ianne. At any cost, you must make him hear season, if 
 he should ever take up with that girl again ." 
 
 My heart began to beat as I listened to Victor 
 Bonton. 
 
 " Why should I, ' at any cost,' make him hear reason 
 if he wishes to take up with her again ? " I cried, looking 
 Bonton full in the face. " Because she prevents him from 
 working, isn't it.?" 
 
 "If it were only that! but there is always time to 
 work." 
 
 " Because she has already cost him too much money ?" 
 
 " Nor that either! Besides, after the fashion she goes 
 on when she wants money — true, isn't it, Lucien ? — she 
 ought not to cost her real lover much." 
 
 " What are you talking about ?" 
 
 " I was going to tell you — by Jove, Theodore, where 
 have you been living that you don't know what all the 
 rest of the world knows ? I was going to tell you — for 
 the last year or thereabouts, since she has been Mansion's 
 mistress, she has never hesitated about betraying him — 
 when it served her purpose." 
 
 I seized Bonton by the arms with an impetuosity 
 which semed to fairly astonish him. 
 
 " Are you certain of what you are saying, Yictor ?" 
 I cried. " Can you give me the name — now, at once — 
 of any one of those with whom Marianne has betrayed 
 Edward Mansion V 
 
 " I could give you not one name, my dear fellow, but 
 ten, if you want them. But, without going any further 
 — here is one at this moment, our friend Lucien Chastel, 
 — who, a fortnight ago, received a visit from Marianne,, 
 which, by the way, cost him a hundred louis. My dear 
 Lucien, it is no use making signs to me to shut up ! I 
 shall go on ! It is really true. I never yet had the 
 honour of meeting M. Edward Mansion, but he is a man 
 of talent, and they tell me a man of genius, and I am 
 sorry to see him hook himself on to a woman who is not 
 worthy to brush his boots. After all, if the women of 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 157 
 
 ihe demi monde form an offensive league against us, 
 why should we not form a league of the same sort to 
 defend ourselves against them ? This is how the matter 
 stands. We came here to Dieppe last night, and found 
 Mdlle. Marianne at the theatre — she did not condescend 
 even to answer our salutations. As far as I am con- 
 cerned, that would have been excusable. I knew her 
 six years ago when she was a boot-sewer, which, per- 
 haps, gives her the right to detest me. But, with 
 Lucien Chastel — one of her morganatic bankers — it is 
 rather too much to see her play the part of the great 
 lady. Yes, my dear Theodore — a thousand times, yes — 
 when you see your friend, Edward Mansion, you may 
 tell him that Marianne is a slut who laughs at him, 
 and, if it is necessary — if Lucien Chastel should refuse, 
 out of excessive good nature or delicacy with regard to 
 Marianne, to help you in releasing him from the toils of 
 this siren — I am here to witness, not merely to this 
 business of the hundred louis, but to a dozen other jokes 
 of the same kind, each as comic as the other." 
 
 Yictor Bonton had been making a long speech, but 
 I had hardly heard him during the latter part of it. I 
 had conceived a scheme, and this scheme, which was as 
 yet in embryo, must be put at once into execution. 
 
 " Yictor," said I, in a grave voice, " I am going to 
 act upon your information. So if I asked you before 
 Marianne . . . " 
 
 " Eh ? before Marianne ? I should think so ! Before 
 Mansion, before the devil himself, if need be, I am 
 ready to maintain, with all necessary proofs, everything I 
 have advanced. And Lucien Chastel will do the same 
 thing — I will see to that l " 
 
 Lucien Chastel murmured some unintelligible words. 
 From the beginning of this scene it was evident to me 
 that he thought his friend taking rather too active a 
 part in this struggle against Marianne Philippoteaux. 
 But under the circumstances, his opinion was not of 
 much consequence. 
 
158 THE VAMPIKE. 
 
 " Where are you staying ? " I asked Victor Bonton. 
 
 "At the Hotel de Londres." 
 
 " Very good ! Now you must forgive me if I leave 
 you in a hurry. We shall meet again. Thank you a 
 thousand times for the valuable information you have 
 given me. Bye, bye ! " 
 
 And having saluted the two gentlemen, I hurried 
 away. 
 
 <? 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 159 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Ten minute afterwards I entered the" Hotel d'Angle- 
 terre. 
 
 "Madame Marianne Philippoteaux ? " I asked of a 
 waiter. 
 
 " Second floor.— No. 17." 
 
 " All right— is she in ? " 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 I ran up the stairs four at a time, and knocked at the 
 door of Marianne's rooms, for it was really a set which 
 she occupied at the Hotel d'Angleterre, composed of 
 three rooms — a sort of ante-chamber, a little drawing- 
 room and a bedroom. 
 
 A good minute went by before the door was opened. 
 At last she made up her mind. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, M. Spindler, is it ? " said the eques- 
 trienne, as she opened the door. " And pray, may I ask 
 what procures me the honour of this visit ? " She spoke 
 very loudly, and on her lips there was always that in- 
 solent smile with which she had come across me half 
 an hour ago on the beach. 
 
 " Madame," said I very calmly, " I wish to have five 
 minutes conversation with you." 
 
 " Well, here I am. On the subject of which I was 
 just speaking, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Exactly so." 
 
 " Well, then, please to sit down. I am ready to hear 
 
 you." 
 
 We were in the little drawing-room. 
 
 " Madame," said I, without accepting her invitation, 
 " I ask but for five minutes, and that I think will be 
 sufficient." 
 
 " I am sorry, monsieur," said she, " it is always plea- 
 sant to talk with a clever man." 
 
160 THE YAMPIEE. 
 
 " You told me just now that this day would not go 
 by without your having once more regained your power 
 over Edward Mansion." 
 
 "Quite true, monsieur, that is just what I said." 
 
 " Which implies, if I have correctly understood, that 
 after having exercised your talents for several days to 
 this end you have at last succeeded — I do not know, arid 
 I don't care how — in obtaining something like a recon- 
 ciliation with Edward ? " 
 
 " Possibly, monsieur." 
 
 " So that at this moment, even whilst I am talking 
 to you, you are perhaps awaiting the effect of this new 
 weakness of Edward's ? " 
 
 " Also quite possible." 
 
 " And that you would not be long — own it — that the 
 rendezvous at which he has promised to appear should 
 coincide with my visit, so that you may rejoice at the 
 same moment over your own success, and the shame 
 and despair which I should feel at seeing a man whom 
 I love again becoming your slave — in contempt of rny 
 exhortations and of his oaths ? " 
 
 "Admirably reasoned! mousieur, admirably! Al- 
 though, as I have already told you half of what you say 
 it wanted no great wit to guess at the rest. Yes. M. 
 Theodore Spindler, I am expecting Edward Mansion 
 every moment, and I'll swear it is not you who will pre- 
 vent him from coming." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " You deceive yourself, madame," I replied, " I shall 
 prevent it." 
 
 Marianne burst into a fit of laughing. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Really ! " said she. " Well, I shall 
 be curious to know how you will set about it." 
 
 " Simply by telling you to write to Edward definitely, 
 breaking off with him." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! ordering me ? " 
 
 Marianne rose. She laughed no more, but she still 
 affected to look at me with an ironical contempt. 
 
THE VAMPIBB. 161 
 
 '• Yes, madame ! ordering you, and you will obey. Oh, 
 yes ! you will obey. At least, unless you prefer that I 
 should fetch M. Lucien Ohastel — you know M. Lucien 
 Chastel, with whom you breakfasted a fortnight ago ? — 
 so that he may say, in his own name, and in the names 
 of a good many others, to Edward Mansion what he 
 ought to think of your love and fidelity." 
 
 At the name of Lucien Chastel, Marianne became 
 livid ; her hands were extended in front of her as though 
 she would choke the words down my throat ; her eyes 
 were staring ; her whole body was agitated with a con- 
 vulsive trembling — she looked as if she wanted to speak, 
 to cry out, to tear herself, yet she remained still rooted 
 to the spot. 
 
 " Come, madame," I continued, " you are convinced, 
 
 are you, that I possess a weapon — and a terrible one 
 
 — to free Edward for ever from his infatuation — his 
 
 madness. Save me from the necessity of employing a 
 
 weapon so thoroughly distasteful. Write to Edward ! 
 
 write to him without delay, all that you please ; tell him 
 
 that 3 ou love him no more, that you love another ! tell 
 
 him . . . . " 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The sound of a door opening behind me, interrupted 
 me. I turned suddenly, and uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise, almost of terror. 
 
 There was Edward ! Edward, who had heard all, 
 hidden in Marianne's bedroom. 
 
 Marianne was taken in her own trap. The scene, 
 which she had prepared with a denouement altogether 
 to her own advantage, had turned against her One 
 word, and one word only, had been sufficient to bring 
 about the catastrophe — the name of Lucien Chastel. 
 
 Edward was pale also, but his pallor was that of 
 shame and disgust. 
 
 "Come, my friend," said he, holding out his hand. 
 
 Marianne had fallen senseless on the carpet. It was 
 the best thing she could do. 
 
162 THE VAMPIRE. 
 
 XXYIII 
 
 Spindler rose. " My story may now end in a very few 
 words, my dear fellow," said he. 
 
 The day after what I have just told you, Edward 
 and I left Dieppe. He needed no further distraction 
 to forget his fatal passion — it was dead — very dead 
 indeed. What the tears of an amiable mistress, the 
 reproaches of a father, the counsels of friendship, had 
 failed to do for a whole year, manly pride and outraged 
 love had done in an instant. 
 
 Three weeks after his return to Paris, Edward 
 Mansion married Pauline Didier, and naturally took me 
 as one of his groomsmen. A month later he came to 
 render me the same good office at Proving where I 
 presented him, as well as his wife, to my new family. 
 
 " And the piece of silk and woollen embroidery — had 
 your Louise finished it ? " 
 
 " I should think so." 
 
 " And your picture ? " 
 
 " My picture was not finished, it is true, but Louise 
 forgave me, when — become my wife — I told her how, 
 instead of painting, I had spent my time in bringing a 
 strayed soul back to pure and honourable love." 
 
 " And Marianne Philippoteaux ? All this does not 
 explain why she is with Lucien Chastel." 
 
 " Ah ! You have not guessed that ? Listen. In 
 the week which followed my last interview with Mari- 
 anne Philippoteaux, I received one evening a note, with- 
 out signature, in these terms : — 
 
 " You are forgiven. You acted only in his interest. 
 But the coward who revealed all to you, only to destroy 
 me, shall be punished. Remember and judge what a 
 woman's hate can do." 
 
 " Well, I suppose Marianne Philippoteaux wrote that 
 
THE VAMPIRE. 163 
 
 note, but who is the coward she speaks of ? No one 
 revealed anything, unless it was the painter, Victor 
 Bonton ? " 
 
 " That's true. But Marianne did not know, and in 
 her ignorance she thought of Lucien ChasteL" 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 " And then, my dear fellow, you saw to-night, with 
 your own eyes, what the hate of a woman can do — 
 especially the hate of a woman like Marianne Philippo- 
 teaux. Marianne swore not merely the ruin of Lucien 
 Chastel, but his death, and her oath was taken barely 
 two years ago. To-day Lucien Chastel, who was very 
 rich, has but a few scraps of his fortune left, and before 
 six months are over he will be dead." 
 
 Before six months were over he was dead. Yet good 
 advice was not wanting, if good advice could have saved 
 him. 
 
 Unfortunately he had not, like Edward Mansion, a 
 good angel to save him from the claws of the Vampire 
 — the Vampire which kills every day so many of our 
 best loved writers, bravest soldiers, most amiable artists. 
 Through all time this cursed one has ravaged the earth, 
 and even kings have not escaped her. 
 
 Once more, my dear friend, God preserve you and 
 your sons, and your son's sons, from the Vampire. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE 
 
 COU RTESAN 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL D E KOCK. 
 
 XonDon: 
 
 MATHIESON & CO.. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 Ah ! Tiennette ; if my looking glass were 
 more truthful, it would already show me some 
 little wrinkles ; but mirrors are like men : they 
 only tell the truth when it would answer no 
 purpose to tell a lie.' 
 
 ' You surely do not despair yet, Madame ? A 
 line nicely marked enhances the charm of an 
 otherwise beautiful visage.' 
 
 * I was twenty-nine years old on the 25th 
 March, of the year of grace 18 — . 
 
 ' Twenty-nine years old ! That is not exactly 
 what can be called old age.' 
 
 1 True, but it is no longer what can be quite 
 regarded as youth. Yes ! I am twenty-nine ! ' 
 
 - You would not like it, however, if anyone 
 were to say you were thirty.' 
 
 * A woman ought to know how to grow old ; 
 I want three months of being thirty. 
 
 A 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 'How I do regret the folly with which I have 
 thrown away the ten best years of my life — tossed 
 them at any object which has crossed my path — 
 without taking any account of the future, without 
 thinking that each day has a morrow, and that 
 the morrow often brings in its train disillusions, 
 sickness, and creditors. At any moment, that 
 sad cortege may enter the gate, whilst pleasures, 
 amours, and other dreams fly off through the 
 windows ! Adolphine is at least twenty operatic 
 seasons younger than I, and she has a residence 
 in the Rue Bremontier, a veritable Spanish castle, 
 and some woods in Artois, peopled by secular 
 trees, which have their vigorous roots in the 
 strong coffers of an American banker, who has 
 been enriched by seven sensible failures. 
 
 'Amanda is as vacant as an empty bottle; but 
 there is a chapter in the great book of Society 
 which is devoted entirely to her. 
 
 ' Rosalie has neither my round arm nor my high- 
 arched foot. Yet her residence is quoted amongst 
 the most sumptuous, her horses eat from marble 
 mangers, and her guests dine from silver and 
 gold plate. Her footmen are powdered like 
 marquises of the good old times, and to com- 
 plete her splendour, her coachman has false 
 calves, which are rounder than those of her 
 iovers. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 Such luxury must give her ten years of retro- 
 spective youth. 
 
 ' But, to resume, I am certainly better dowered 
 than any one of my three most intimate rivals, 
 and while their respective fortunes are all but 
 exhausted, mine has not even been touched. It 
 is probably a little too late now to seek to repair 
 the errors of time wasted on the bagatelle of 
 forgotten loves.' 
 
 ' But is it actually too late? ' suggests Tiennette. 
 
 * Ah, that is the question ! ' 
 
 ' Bah ! the question is already solved. Never 
 before has Madame been more enviable nor 
 more envied.' 
 
 This conversation took place in a lovely boudoir, 
 between Dolores Bigornet and Tiennette Valpin- 
 son, her maid, her nurse, her friend, and her 
 minister of state. 
 
 Dolores was truly charming at this period. An 
 Eastern poet had said of Tiennette's mistress that 
 she had eyes of azure, teeth of pearls, lips of coral, 
 a complexion of ivory, a bosom of alabaster, and 
 hair of ebony, which would have been at least 
 singular. 
 
 We, who have been born in a temperate climate, 
 beg the reader to create an ideal of her to suit his 
 or herself, for she never appeared twice alike. 
 She belonged to that class of women who were 
 
4 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 blonde yesterday, who are golden to-day, and 
 who would be brown the day following, if fashion 
 demanded it. 
 
 The child of an unknown father, and of a 
 mother who occupied herself more with her 
 pleasures than her duties, Dolores had been 
 brought up by her god-father, a brave corporal 
 of the ioist Regiment of the Line, who had 
 achieved glory at Trocadero in 1825, an d who 
 as a souvenir of that memorable past, had given 
 his god-daughter that Spanish baptismal name, 
 which sounded a little strange before a family 
 name essentially French. On quitting the colours ; 
 the worthy soldier had gone to live upon his 
 meagre pension in a retreat at Saint Denis, his 
 native town, in the little dwelling of his ancestors, 
 a few yards from the celebrated school, which was 
 wrongly reputed to have furnished so many of 
 the remarkable elements to the gallant world. 
 Dolores had profited, like many others, by this 
 vicinage, and was made laureate of the Legion of 
 Honour. 
 
 Having become an orphan for the second time, 
 and still young, poor, without guides, without 
 friends, loving luxury, detesting work, and not 
 knowing to what to devote herself, she became 
 what is called a .rentier e, a qualification which 
 ladies of the easy world give themselves when 
 
THE COURTESAN. 5 
 
 they are called before the magistrate, and con- 
 demned to pay the coachbuilder, the dressmaker, 
 and the upholsterer, who have supplied them with 
 objects of first necessity. 
 
 We have seen, or rather she has told us herself, 
 that for some years now Dolores could not be 
 called young ; yet the most evil-intentioned sceptic 
 could hardly have put her down for more than 
 eighteen, so well had she preserved that velvety 
 freshness which is alike an attribute of the peach 
 and of feminine adolescence, if ©ne had not seen 
 continually by her side a little creature of six, 
 who clung to the pretty repentant sinner. 
 
 This precocious fruit of a dangerous liaison 
 between Dolores Bigornet and Robert Birot, a 
 poor creature who had on her account quarrelled 
 with the penal code, answered at the time 
 to the pet name of Po-Pol, a diminutive of 
 Paul. Whether it was from remorse at having 
 caused the ruin of her lover, or from some other 
 motive, Dolores had for that young fellow such an 
 extravagant affection that it was easy to see she 
 would make of him what we picturesquely call a 
 gaol bird. 
 
 Having mentioned the name of Robert Birot, 
 let us at once add that he was born at Javerny, a 
 pretty village in the department of Le Nord, of verv 
 poor parents, who were burning with the desire 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 to make their son a gentleman, who would one 
 day blush for them. Going to Paris, he obtained, 
 through some good recommendations, at the age 
 of twelve, a situation in a respectable wholesale 
 lace house, in the Place des Victoires. By his 
 intelligence, zeal, and activity, he quickly passed 
 through all the grades of the establishment — so 
 rapidly, indeed, that at the age of eighteen his 
 superior had given over to him the conduct of all 
 business, and had promised him that in less than 
 two more seasons he would make him a partner. 
 It was at this moment, unhappily, that Robert 
 met Dolores at one of the annual balls given in 
 the saloon of the Opera Comique for the benefit 
 of the Society of Dramatic Artists. These fetes are 
 an irresistible attraction for all people who do not 
 either directly or indirectly engage in Art. With 
 their lorgnettes, they can, for the trifle of ten 
 francs, rub against the rougish nose of Lasouche, 
 and touch the cheek of their favourite actress. 
 There, bowing to the deceitful mirage, which seems 
 to say to the regards of the public what God said 
 to the sea : ' Hitherto shalt thou go, but no 
 farther.' There, no more swan necks as bright 
 as cerise ; no more eyebrows finely arched with 
 China ink ; no more cheeks fresh and rosy with 
 vegetable rouge. 
 
 A little rice powder, no more I 
 
THE COURTESAN. 7 
 
 Robert danced with Dolores during the greater 
 part of the night, which was more than was 
 required to make the unsophisticated lace-seller 
 fall hopelessly in love. He was passionate, 
 impressionable, almost spiritual. Dolores was 
 melancholic, sentimental, and sweetly excitable, 
 like every virgin who sees implanted in her soul a 
 sentiment that she ignores, or affects to ignore. 
 
 Robert, in the interval between a waltz and a 
 polka, found an opportunity of making her under- 
 stand, without actually saying it flatly, that he 
 was rich and of good family. Dolores, by the 
 same process, informed him that her heart was 
 still disengaged. She was then sixteen years old. 
 
 A few days after this first interview, she occupied 
 a fine flat in the Rue de la Victoire, under the 
 name of Madame the Baroness de Javerny, 
 for Robert would rather have died than avow to 
 his mistress that he was a lace-seller, and that his 
 name was Birot. His barony had, like so many 
 other baronies, not cost him more than the price of 
 a few dozens of visiting cards, engraved by an 
 artist expert in the art of inventing fictitious arms. 
 Dolores was one of those daughters of Eve whom 
 you must not let taste a dish if you cannot serve 
 it up to her always. She had tasted luxury, and 
 had found the dish to her liking; and the more 
 she had taken of it, the more she hungered for it. 
 
g THE COURTESAN 
 
 She soon became acquainted with a world — a 
 world, it is true, rather confused, but it was, after 
 all, a world. She required distraction, for the 
 Baron was absent almost the whole day long, 
 looking after the business of the family. But what 
 is the good of rich toilettes, if one cannot have 
 them admired by men and envied by women ? 
 However, it was necessary to return politenesses 
 received. The flat was found to be too low in 
 the ceiling, and the first floor was taken instead. 
 The domestics were tripled in number; the 
 carriage and horses changed ; and Madame the 
 Baroness, who had seen one evening, upon the 
 shoulders of a choregraphic celebrity, a magnifi- 
 cent set of diamonds, expressed a wish to have 
 one like it. For the first time, she met resistance. 
 
 Baron Javerny was grumpy. 
 
 The following day she threw her arms about 
 his neck, blushing. ' The doctor who has been 
 here,' said she, 'has informed me of my condition; 
 I am about to be a mother.' 
 
 How could he refuse such a bagatelle to the 
 woman who carried in her loins the hope of a 
 noble race ? That evening Dolores had the set of 
 diamonds. 
 
 Eight days after there was a great commotion 
 in the house. An inspector of police, accompanied 
 by several constables, came to apprehend the body 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 of Baron Javerny ; and six months later, M. 
 Robert Birot was sentenced, for forging bills of 
 commerce, to five years' imprisonment, with hard 
 labour, in virtue of articles 147 and 148 of the 
 penal code, which he had probably neglected to 
 read. 
 
 On the 25th of March, 18—, Dolores Bigornet 
 had for protector, Prince Maurice Laval de Bois- 
 gerard, a real prince, whose ancestors had won 
 renown in the days of those pious and sublime 
 follies, which are called the Crusades. Maurice was 
 what might be termed an accomplished gentleman. 
 He was twenty-eight years of age, and was neither 
 handsome, stupid, gay, sad, spirituel, nor a fool. 
 He was one of those people of whom nothing can 
 be said further than that he was an accomplished 
 gentleman. For him, a man sufficiently well-born 
 had only to eat, drink, sleep, and to love. In his 
 eyes, all other occupations should be relegated to 
 usurers, fools, or lacqueys. But when Dolores 
 poured her griefs into the bosom of her confidante, 
 Tiennette, Maurice on his part made bitter 
 reflections on leaving the Rue Navarin, and 
 munched his cigar. ' Come, come,' he said to him- 
 self, 'I am a man, and ought to know how to 
 make a resolution. Dolores is a girl who knows 
 how to live ; she can understand a hint. We can 
 break off the amiable as easily as two students 
 
£ THE COURTESAN. 
 
 can exchange coats. I will make her a pretty 
 present of a few hundred crowns at least, or a few 
 thousand francs at most. I am embarrassed by 
 her presence, and I will drive off ! Adieu to Paris, 
 with its pomps and all its works. I will go and bury 
 myself in the feudal domains of my fathers, and 
 there finish my days in the odour of sanctity at 
 the patriarchal age of fourscore and ten, eleven 
 months, and thirty days. I shall be buried within 
 the hundred, so as not to give an opportunity to 
 the authors whose business it is to supply divers 
 facts to the journals.' 
 
 1 Good morning, Lola, said the Prince on enter- 
 ing the abode of his mistress, like a man who had 
 come to accomplish a fixed purpose. 
 
 ' Good morning, Maurice. You have come to 
 breakfast with me; that is charming.' 
 
 ' I thank you, my dear ; but I have already 
 breakfasted.' 
 
 ' Well, I see I have made a bad beginning. So 
 much the worse: I have to ask a service of you.' 
 
 ' Speak out boldly, Lolita.' (Lolita, as we know, 
 is the pet name for Lola, in like manner as 
 Lola is that of Dolores). ' I present myself at your 
 house this morning imbued with the very best 
 intentions m the world.' 
 
 3 Why do you say this morning ? Are not your 
 intentions good every day ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. II 
 
 ' To be sure they are, in one sense ; but there 
 are days in which one feels oneself more or less 
 well disposed.' 
 
 'Yes, truly; that depends on the flavour of 
 your cigar, does it not? But reassure yourself, 
 my dear ; what I want to ask you is only a trifle. 
 I have improperly made use of the word service ; 
 I ought to have said favour. The weather is 
 delightful ; I want you to accompany me to the 
 Madeline flower market. I have ordered the 
 brougham.' 
 
 f Let us go, then ; but, if you please, ask me for 
 something else. I mean to make you a present for 
 your birthday.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you are four months in advance ! ' 
 
 'That does not matter; one might die mean- 
 while.' 
 
 ' Will you be silent, my dear ? I do not like those 
 horrid pleasantries ; but I do not wish to be ever 
 so little contrary to you. Since you are in a 
 generous mood, I will accept the two flower-stands 
 I have seen at Taban's; we will put in them the 
 flowers we are going to buy.' 
 
 ' Decidedly, dearest Lola ; you are not at all 
 exacting.' 
 
 * He is right,' thought she ; 'lama great fool to 
 be contented with so little, when he left me free to 
 choose.' 
 
12 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 ' Come,' said Maurice, lifting his hat and cane ; 
 1 1 hear that your horse is growing impatient ; do 
 not increase his restiveness.' 
 
 'Wait a moment, my dear,' cried Dolores, whose 
 regrets had already taken gigantic proportions ; 
 4 wait a moment. Good heavens ! You are in a 
 great hurry ' 
 
 'That is because I am happy to be able to make 
 myself agreeable to you ; and then, if you intend to 
 go to the flower market, it is quite time we started.' 
 
 ' Thanks ; you are the best of men ; thanks,' 
 continued Dolores, taking both his hands, and 
 compelling him to sit down near her ; • only fancy, 
 I have one remark to make.' 
 
 ' Let us hear it,' muttered the Prince, taking 
 off his hat. 
 
 ' Of course, two flower-stands would do very 
 well here between these windows ; but to make 
 them presentable, it would be neccessary to expend 
 ridiculous sums, while the flowers would require 
 to be so often renewed that there would be no end 
 to it. When I come to think of it, I have not a 
 small otter paletot. I have seen some charming 
 ones in the Rue Richelieu. The latter would be 
 infinitely more useful and probably less expensive, 
 for I shall only accept a cheap one. I do not wish 
 to ruin you ; women well brought up do not ruin 
 stingy fellows,' added she, laughing. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 13 
 
 * I would go for your little otter paletot, only, my 
 dear, you understand that I could not buy such an 
 article without your assistance. Throw something 
 over your shoulders and come; then we can go 
 and fetch your flowers; otherwise, I might displease 
 you.' 
 
 Dolores did not need to be asked a second 
 time ; she was ready in a few seconds, and the 
 happy couple started off. In passing a fashionable 
 fur shop, the eyes of Lola were instinctively carried 
 to the fine display presented by that charming 
 shop. 
 
 'Since you seem to be so well disposed,' she 
 said, ' I repent now for not having asked for a nice 
 pellisse. It is good for a woman to have several of 
 them ; a new fur can only be regarded as a 
 superfluity. ' 
 
 Maurice, who from the corner of his eye followed 
 every look of his mistress, and seemed to read her 
 thoughts, remarked to her in pointing with his 
 finger to a magnificent pellisse of fox blue, the 
 bright gloss of which fascinated passers by around 
 the windows : 
 
 ' Is not that over there, dear Dolores, what you 
 call a small otter paletot ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' responded she, blushing ; • but 
 I did not know that you were so well up w rne 
 names of articles of fashion.' 
 
14 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 ' May we get out ? ' said the Prince, interro- 
 gating the looks of his companion, who, ensconced 
 in the corner of the carriage, appeared to be 
 solving a problem capable of reanimating the 
 fire of Archimedes. 
 
 It was on seeing Maurice so well disposed to 
 commit a folly that she again repented. 
 
 1 What are you thinking about ? ' added the 
 Prince, surprised at her almost sullen silence. 
 
 ' I was thinking, Maurice — I was thinking — no, 
 nothing. You were mocking me; you were 
 calling me a weather-cock.' 
 
 ' Say on, now that you suspect me.' 
 
 ' Since you are so exacting — I think it is a 
 little too late for buying furs. The spring is 
 already quite advanced ' 
 
 ' The twenty-fifth of March ? It is only about 
 four days longer it will have to live this year.' 
 
 ' You are of my opinion, are you not ? ' 
 exclaimed the angel of repentance. - 
 
 ' I am always of your opinion. It is settled, 
 then, that spring is over on the twenty-fifth of 
 March? 5 
 
 1 "When I speak you always mock me.' 
 
 * Not at all. I merely take note of a singular 
 fact, that is all ; an exceptional fact that would 
 astonish the savants. You were thinking, my 
 dear Lolita ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 15 
 
 - 1 was thinking that in adding something to 
 the present you have designed for me, it would be 
 infinitely more reasonable and economical to buy 
 me a little house by the sea-shore. We could 
 pass the summer there, alone, like turtle-doves 
 in a little love nest. What do you say to this 
 idea, dear?' continued Dolores, looking Maurice 
 straight in the eyes. 
 
 'I say, dear Lola, that I am delighted to see 
 you have so proper ideas. You know that I have 
 always loved you very dearly, and I am pleased 
 at anything which contributes to your happiness. 
 I accede, then, gladly to your wishes. There is a 
 mail train this evening at eleven o'clock, if I am 
 not mistaken. On returning, you will get ready 
 your boxes, and to-morrow morning we shall be 
 at Havre at break of day. After breakfast we 
 will embark for Trouville or for Honfleur, and 
 there will be the devil to pay if we cannot find 
 at the coast some resting-place for a matter 
 of twenty thousand francs.' 
 
 ' Kiss me, my good, big dog. Really, I have 
 never loved anyone as I love you.' 
 
 The two arms of Dolores were entwined grace- 
 fully, like two serpents, around the neck of 
 Maurice, and there was heard the sweet sound 
 of several kisses given and taken. 
 
 ' It is lucky, said the Prince, after the ardour 
 
g THE COURTESAN. 
 
 of their mutual embrace was over, 'that 1 
 named Havre, as I might have named Dieppe, 
 Etretal, Boulogne, or Biarritz, and that your 
 choice agrees with mine.' 
 
 ' Not at all ; it is your choice which determines 
 mine. Are you not my lord and master ? ' And 
 fresh kisses were heard joyfully to resound. 
 
 ' Monsieur,' said the coachman, 'ami to con- 
 tinue straight on ? ' 
 
 ' Go to the devil!' exclaimed Maurice. 
 
 * No, not to the devil,' rejoined Dolores, laugh- 
 ing, 'but to my house, which is not exactly tfce 
 
 same thing.' 
 
 ' We are not going, then, to the flower market?' 
 'No; I have no more than time to make my 
 preparations for going off; 5 and, putting her head 
 out of the window, she screamed to the coachman 
 these words, which always produce a certain 
 effect upon the booby, who listens with his ears 
 and mouth open : ' To the hotel.' 
 
 Dolores descended in front of her gate, and 
 Maurice conducted her inside. 
 
 * I shall be back in an hour, and we will dine 
 together,' said he, throwing a last kiss through 
 the window to his dear Lolita. 
 
 The carriage rolled rapidly along that rambling 
 mountain which commences at Montmartre and 
 finishes at Notre Dame de Lorrette. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 17 
 
 When Dolores was alone, she extended herself 
 idly upon a soft divan ; she closed her eyes, and 
 let fall, one by one, with the deliberateness of a 
 Mussulman, who counts a bead to each of the 
 ninety-nine attributes of the Prophet, these words : 
 * I repent of having asked for that cottage. A 
 cottage, the sea, and he ; he, the sea, and a 
 cottage. It is very seductive; but, after that ? 
 What will become of me if he abandons me ? 
 which is sure to happen one day, sooner or later ; 
 unless it should happen that I abandon him, 
 which, financially speaking, would amount to 
 the same thing. Supposing I had that cottage 
 and nothing to live upon, I should be like a bird 
 in a gilded cage without seed. I regret not 
 having asked for a farm surrounded with green 
 fields.' 
 
 When Maurice returned, about six o'clock, in a 
 tourist's dress, Dolores had not quitted her 
 horizontal position. She dreamed of bleating 
 lambs, neighing horses, pasturing heifers, golden 
 sheaves falling under the sickle, and especially a 
 countryman managing a large farm. 
 
 ' I am not late ? ' said the Prince as he entered. 
 
 1 We dine at half-past six,' replied Dolores, with- 
 out budging from her position. 
 
 1 You have already finished your preparations ? ' 
 
 ' I have not made any preparation.' 
 
X8 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 * But, unhappy child, your boxes will never be 
 ready.' 
 
 ' Ready for what, my friend ? ' murmured the 
 repentant angel, opening one eye. 
 
 * How, for what ? It is not arranged, then, that 
 we go this evening to Havre, to enter on the 
 possession of some Thebaid on the sea-shore?* 
 
 ' We have arranged that, have we ? You are 
 sure of this, my good Maurice ? ' 
 
 ' You have, then, changed your idea, have you ? ' 
 said the Prince, whose nerves began to feel very 
 shaky. 
 
 ' Perhaps.' 
 
 1 Ah, well ! since my patience is not entirely 
 exhausted, let me share this new caprice; but, 
 in the name of heaven, let it be the last!' 
 
 ' I take you at your word ! ' said Dolores, 
 opening her other eye. ' But here comes Tien- 
 nette to announce that dinner is served. Give 
 me your arm ; we shall talk better at table.' 
 
 While the Prince was dining, Dolores was 
 meditating. 
 
 She thought she would repent very soon if she 
 demanded a farm in Normandy, where the land 
 brings scarcely two or three per cent., and that it 
 would be much better to make him give her State 
 debentures or titles easy to negotiate. 
 
 ' My well-beloved Maurice,' said she at dessert, 
 
THE COURTESAN. T g 
 
 ' it is not only night which brings counsel ; solitude 
 likewise fills that estimable office. I must tell you, 
 then, that after you left, finding myself alone, I 
 reflected from A to Z. I have concluded that it 
 is absurd to wish for a country house when I have 
 not the means necessary to live in a sweet far 
 niente, like my proprietor, who respects himself 
 and wishes to be respected.' 
 
 ' What do you want then ? ' cried the Prince ; 
 ■ the Bank of France, the coffers of the first 
 Jewish baron, or the moon ? ' 
 
 ' Look here ! ' continued Dolores, with imper- 
 turbable coolness. ' You had decided, thoroughly 
 decided, to consecrate from twenty to twenty-five 
 thousand francs to the purchase of this cottage. 
 Ah, well! add some little to that sum and buy me, 
 like a fool as you are, a hundred shares in the 
 Northern Railway. That will bring me eight or 
 nine thousand francs, good years and bad years 
 together ; it is not quite a fortune, but it is an 
 honourable mediocrity for the winter of life. You 
 will observe that this ingenious combination will save 
 you the expenses of travelling, which are enormous.' 
 
 ' Divine Lolita ! ' replied Maurice, sipping his 
 coffee, ' I don't wish to hide anything from you. 
 You have been sincere ; I will be frank even to 
 brutality. You know book-keeping, don't you ? ' 
 
 ' A very little.' 
 
2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 ' You know at least how a merchant disposes 
 of his bills ? * 
 
 * I shall not reply to that,' said Dolores, who 
 found this preamble much too long, and, above 
 all, much too solemn. 
 
 1 My dear Lola, mine is nothing else than the 
 case of a man who can't carry on business any 
 longer, and who is obliged to commit to the hands 
 of sworn experts the real condition of his assets 
 and debts — that is to say, what he has received 
 and what he has disbursed.' 
 
 ' But, my dear friend, I don't see what connec- 
 tion this has with us.' 
 
 'An unmistakable connection, on the contrary, 
 To-day, at this very hour, as I am in the position 
 of the merchant we speak of, I hasten to lay my 
 accounts at your pretty little feet I ' 
 
 'You!' 
 
 I I!' 
 
 ' You want to laugh at me ! ' 
 
 I I swear to you, Dolores, that I have never had 
 less desire to do so. Listen further : 
 
 1 In the month of July, 18 — , when I had the 
 good fortune to meet you, I obtained possession 
 of my mother's property — a neat half million : 
 
 1 These are the assets. 
 
 c From July, 18-— , to this day, I have disbursed 
 in your adorable society a hundred thousand 
 
THE COURTESAN. 21 
 
 francs a year ; say, for four years and nine 
 months, four hundred and seventy-five thousand 
 francs — I put aside the fractions : 
 
 ' These are the disbursements. 
 
 ' In striking the balance, we find there remains 
 of assets twenty-five thousand francs. Why, we 
 have a whole quarter's allowance yet ! ' 
 
 'And,' said Dolores, with a voice slightly 
 altered, ' when these twenty-five thousand francs 
 shall be eaten up ? ' 
 
 ' 1 shall not have a sou remaining,' replied the 
 Prince, quietly turning round a glass of yellow 
 Chartreuse. 
 
 ' Ruined ! ' 
 
 ' Ruined utterly,' continued Maurice, swallow- 
 ing at a gulp the liquor of the good father Gamier. 
 
 ' My god ! my god ! ' cried Dolores; 'you know, 
 Maurice, this you tell me is fearful, without any 
 warning ; for if you have no more resources, we 
 of course must part — and at once, too. The very 
 idea breaks my heart.' 
 
 1 Dear Lola ! you are always so good.' 
 
 ' Why, how can it be otherwise when people 
 love? My poor Prince! How I do reproach 
 myself with having reduced you to this absurd 
 condition ; I say absurd, because no one feels 
 this so much as he who has nothing, after having 
 been rich — isn't it so ? ' 
 
22 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 It is perfectly true.' 
 
 ' I would say readily to you : Let us marry. 
 But you know the proverb — When poverty comes 
 in at the door ' 
 
 ' More and more true ! ' replied the Prince, 
 bowing. 
 
 ' But,' continued Dolores, ' you are surely not 
 without some plan ; for I don't suppose you mean 
 to blow your brains out. Your death would be 
 very disagreeable. It would be a hindrance to 
 my future.' 
 
 - And to mine also. But reassure yourself, my 
 dearest Lolita. I have no longer the means of 
 playing the smallest folly. I did think once of going 
 off to Africa ; but — I confess it in all humility 
 — although I am young yet, still I don't feel the 
 energy of youth. I am henceforth fit for nothing 
 but a quiet and contemplative life. Therefore, 
 most decidedly, I shall retire to the crumbling old 
 castle of my ancestors, as they say in the tragedies. 
 By pulling down the turret which remains, by 
 filling up the ditches, I should be able, with good 
 management, to make out of that old rubbish a 
 very presentable little farm.' 
 
 • Is your pigeon-hole far from here ? demanded 
 Dolores with an impertinent little air, putting in 
 order a lock of hair which had gone without 
 permission out of the line of symmetry. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 23 
 
 ' Eight leagues from Amiens.' 
 
 'Ah, you axe a Picard, dear Maurice. And 
 when do you leave ? ' 
 
 ' You have given up the idea of spending the 
 summer with me at the sea-side ? ' 
 
 ' What good would it be to lose my — I mean to 
 say, your — time ? ' 
 
 'That's quite true. I shall go to-morrow.' 
 
 ' And you will do rightly. When a person has 
 a wise resolution, one should carry it out 
 immediately— delays soften the heart and double 
 
 regrets.' 
 
 'Shall you think sometimes of me when 
 I shall be no longer here ? ' asked Maurice, with a 
 voice whose emotion he tried to hide. 
 
 ' Always, my friend, I promise you. You have 
 made me too happy for me to forget you like 
 the first comer. But let us speak of something 
 else. What would you have? Life has its 
 necessities, and we are no longer childre ; 
 together we should do each other harm ; separately 
 we can each carry on our own affairs. Come, 
 come ! ' continued Dolores, tapping her little hands 
 one against the other. ' Enough of annoyances 
 like that. What shall we do this evening before 
 saying adieu ? ' 
 
 ' Anything you like.' 
 
 1 Take me to the theatre, then ! We will try 
 
2i i THE COURTESAN. 
 
 to enliven ourselves a little. By the way, we shall 
 cancel the engagement of my two gardeners, and 
 I shall dream only of my white sheep.' 
 
 ' Tiennette, the carriage ! ' 
 
 An hour after this melancholy meeting, Maurice 
 and Dolores were seated in the stalls of the 
 Theatre des Variet6s ; and seeing them laugh till 
 the tears came, the public remarked : 
 
 * Aren't they happy.' 
 
 At eleven o'clock next morning Dolores was 
 still in bed. 
 
 The sun's rays were discreetly filtered through 
 the thick curtains of her bed-chamber. 
 
 She sleeps you say. No ; she reflects ! 
 
 ' In five years,' she thinks, 'we have devoured 
 half- a- million. What now remains to us ? 
 
 ' The remembrance ! — a dream. 
 
 ' If it were to begin over again, I should con- 
 duct myself quite otherwise. 
 
 ' Life is, then, nothing but an eternal 
 apprenticeship! I know well that I have 
 only a single word to say to become a princess. 
 Maurice is a soft paste, which I can mould 
 to my taste. But, once his wife, I should 
 not have courage left to deceive him, or I 
 should deceive him badly. 
 
 ' What is necessary to me is an entire freedom 
 of action. The heart and love ought to act no 
 
THE COURTESAN. 2 c 
 
 more in my life henceforth, if I wish to make my 
 fortune like other people. 
 
 ' Yesterday, after the theatre, I said an eternal 
 farewell to this dear friend. The more he appeared 
 sad, the more I forced myself to appear gay. 
 
 ' I shall not see him again. He goes in an hour 
 — let me think no more of the matter. I have 
 renounced the honour of being a princess, while 
 he keeps his name — it is necessary to leave 
 something to the poor boy.' 
 
 Dolores turned round on her pillows, as she 
 pronounced this new style of funeral prayer ! 
 
 ' Ah ! my God ! ' she said suddenly, bounding 
 up like a wounded panther, ' this title, this name 
 which I have refused for myself, I ought, bad 
 mother though I am, to have accepted for Po-Pol. 
 Dear child ! I shall make him a prince, reserving to 
 myself the task of making him rich by all the 
 means invented or inventable ! Ah ! how I do 
 repent that I have not kept Maurice! Where 
 shall I find him now, if he is gone,' continued she, 
 scribbling in haste, with a frightfully illegible little 
 scrawl, the following autograph : 
 
 ■ My Darling Boy ! 
 
 ' Yesterday, you found me very naughty — 
 confess it! impertinent even, since I seemed to 
 laugh at your vexation. Alas! you have not 
 
2 6 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 understood — men never do understand — you have 
 not understood that I played a melancholy comedy 
 to give you courage, and that under this icy mask 
 I concealed a river of bitter tears. I have passed 
 a horrible night. Come quickly to see me, my 
 dear love ! I long now to embrace you. 
 
 ' From her who will love you always, 
 
 ' LOLITA. 
 
 ' P.S. — It is quite arranged that you shall have 
 the appearance of not perceiving that I have red 
 eyes.' 
 
 After having folded and sealed this model of 
 epistolary style, the repentant angel rang. 
 
 Tiennette appeared. 
 
 'This letter to the Prince! Let it be placed 
 in his own hands,' said Lola, in a tone which 
 admitted of no reply. 
 
 The chambermaid, without replying, whirled 
 round with the automatic regularity of a Prussian 
 soldier, and went out. 
 
 Less than a quarter of an hour after the 
 departure of Tiennette, Maurice was at the feet 
 of Dolores. 
 
 *■ I wished to see you again, my dear friend,' 
 said she, ' because one cannot root out from one's 
 heart with impunity a five years' affection. But 
 at present it is necessary to part ; your position 
 
THE COURTESAN. 2 « 
 
 and mine demand it. If you are very good, 
 perhaps I will consent to accompany you as far 
 as Creil, or even Amiens — at least, unless you 
 absolutely forbid me.' 
 
 ' You are adorable, Lolita ! But, at least, con- 
 sent to take those twenty-five thousand francs.' 
 
 ' No, no. You must have some money to 
 make a figure when you arrive in your own 
 country. To land denuded of everything, like 
 the Prodigal Son, is contrary to our manners.' 
 
 1 So, my well-beloved Lola,' replied Maurice, 
 sighing, ' it will be said that when I left you I 
 did nothing for you.' 
 
 * Perhaps.' 
 
 ' Speak quickly, and, if it is possible, it is done.' 
 
 * It depends on you to make me the happiest of 
 women and of mothers.' 
 
 ■ You are that now — or you will be.' 
 ' Prince, were not your ancestors covered with 
 glory in Palestine ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; when the first Crusade was preached by 
 Peter the Hermit, in 1095, at the Council of 
 Claremont, Guy Laval de Boisgerard received the 
 red cloth cross from the hands of Pope Urban II. 
 himself. . At the second Crusade, in 1152, 
 Norbert Laval de Boisgerard was wounded 
 before the town of Dames, besieged by Louis VII. 
 of France.' 
 
28 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 - That is what I call a true nobility,' cried 
 Dolores, with admiration. 
 
 * But for what reason, sweet Lola, do you 
 make me go through this little course of history ? ' 
 
 ■ My adored Maurice, you have been good and 
 generous to me, even to excess. To satisfy my 
 most frivolous caprices you have squandered, 
 with a light heart, nearly five hundred thousand 
 francs ; but you have never done anything for 
 Po-Pol. During four years and nine months this 
 child has lived near you, and you have never 
 thought of giving him anything.' 
 
 ' But what would you like me to give him ? ' 
 
 - Your name i ' 
 
 1 My name ! ' cried Maurice, making a sudden 
 start. 
 
 i Recognise poor little Paul ; become the father 
 of my son, and my gratitude shall be eternal.' 
 
 ' One moment, my good friend. I should 
 willingly give Master Paul a wooden sword, or a 
 Punch ; but my name — that is quite another matter.' 
 
 ' Maurice, your Dolores, your Lola, your beloved 
 Lolita begs this from you on her knees.' 
 
 < You must not think of it. I, Prince Maurice 
 Laval de Boisgerard — I consent to recog- 
 nise the son of a Birot, who even now may 
 be in the galleys for half-a-dozen crimes — 
 enamelled with thefts and abuse of confidence ! ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 20 
 
 ' For love, my dear Maurice, for the sake of 
 love. Robert was honour itself. He ruined 
 himself to supply my ridiculous extravagances. 
 You know, passion never reasons. He loved me 
 so — poor Robert. It is I who am to blame ; it is 
 my accursed coquetry which is alone to be con- 
 demned.' 
 
 * On that principle,' said the Prince, ' the most 
 fearful convicts are merely passionate men ? ' 
 
 ' Everyone doesn't go to prison for love ! ' 
 replied Dolores, giving Maurice his cane and his 
 hat, which he had not asked for, and conducting 
 him, without his having shown any intention of 
 leaving, to the door of her apartments. 
 
 Maurice was gone. 
 
 But he was not yet ripe for the contemplative life. 
 
 He returned to Paris, and went to knock at 
 the door of Dolores. 
 
 He was coldly received. 
 
 He made a second visit. 
 
 He was badly received. 
 
 He called a third time. 
 
 He was not received at all. 
 
 He was astonished ; he was annoyed ; he was 
 in despair, and ended by becoming desperately 
 amorous of his old mistress, whom he had not 
 been in love with while he was ruining himself 
 for her. 
 
30 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 He followed her shadow, and almost died with 
 jealousy when he met her hanging on another's 
 arm, which happened sometimes. 
 
 To try to forget this ungrateful woman, he 
 drank, and his passion slept in the mire with him ; 
 but when he reopened his eyes he found her 
 seated at his bedside. 
 
 Dolores spied, with the ferocity of a woman 
 who pursues an object, the progress of Maurice's 
 degradation. 
 
 When she believed herself certain of triumph- 
 ing over his final resistance, she made him a call, 
 and proposed for the second time that he should 
 recognise the young Paul. 
 
 He had still power to refuse, and he went back 
 to the drink. 
 
 Later on, she went to seek him at his rooms. 
 
 ' Maurice,' said she to him, with the calmest 
 voice, ■ if you would be reasonable now, we could 
 take up our romance where we left it. You have 
 never wished to understand me. When I asked 
 you to recognise Paul, I had but one idea — to 
 "make the past live again without restraint. If 
 you were the father of my child, no one — do you 
 understand me rightly? — would have the right to 
 think it wrong of me to receive you every day.' 
 
 ' Every day ? ' 
 
 * At all hours.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. ?j 
 
 * As formerly ? ' 
 
 ' As formerly,' repeated Dolores, giving him a 
 long kiss on the brow. 
 
 ' To begin, my good Maurice/ added she ; ' I 
 am entertaining this morning some friends ; join 
 them. I wish you to taste a certain Margaux- 
 Lascombe, on which you will pronounce a good 
 opinion, I am sure.' 
 She rose. 
 Maurice rose also. 
 She went out. 
 
 Maurice walked behind her as if led by an 
 invincible power. Arrived in the street, she 
 jumped lightly into her carriage. 
 Maurice hesitated to follow her. 
 She looked at him with tenderness, and then he 
 came and seated himself beside her. 
 
 ' Drive on, coachman ! ' she cried ; ' the first 
 step is gained/ she added to herself. 
 
 Dolores had spoken truly — she gave a lun- 
 cheon to her friends. 
 
 These friends were Pierre Claude Joseph Picot 
 and Eustache Matthew Jerome Laurazon, two 
 of her licensed tradesmen, who enjoyed all the 
 qualities demanded by law to make them perfect 
 witnesses. 
 
 The luncheon went on with mournful gaiety. 
 Dolores had the wit not to say a single word as 
 
32 THE COURTESAtfo 
 
 to the recognition of the young Paul, and after 
 coffee, between a glass of rum and a glass of fine 
 champagne, she caused a carriage of a roomy 
 kind to be driven up, and this took all her party 
 to the mayoralty of the ninth ward, where, by 
 her care, the act of recognition was prepared on 
 the margin of the extract of the birth of her 
 beloved son. 
 
 The officer for that purpose read in a high and 
 intelligible voice these few lines, which made the 
 offspring of an imprisoned lace-maker into a 
 prince ! 
 
 Had Maurice been too drunk to understand ? 
 
 Dolores could not affirm that ; what she did 
 know was that he signed the document. 
 
 The two witnesses signed also, without observ- 
 ing that they affirmed that the gentleman whom 
 they patronised was indeed the Prince Maurice 
 Laval de Boisgerard and that the young Paul was 
 his son, two things of which they were perfectly 
 ignorant. 
 
 So long as the law will only accept licensed 
 witnesses these good people v/ill never have any 
 
 others. 
 
 Maurice had no sooner accepted this shameful 
 exchange, than, in spite of the weakness of his 
 faculties, he conceived a perfect horror of himself, 
 and went and shut himself up in his pigeon-hole. 
 
THE COURTESAN. , . 
 
 Dolores was somewhat annoyed at this pre- 
 cipitate departure; the deed which introduced 
 the child of the convict, Robert Birot, into the 
 family of the Laval de Boisgerards being signed, 
 she would henceforth live on good terms with the 
 Civil Code ! 
 
 Eleven years have passed away, and we again 
 find Prince Maurice Laval de Boisgerard dining 
 with two of his friends on the ground floor of a 
 large, brick house, called in the country the 
 chateau, doubtless because Maurice was called 
 the * seigneur.' 
 
 The chateau to which this pompous name was 
 given, is situated about three hundred yards from 
 the highway, surrounded by ruins of the ancient 
 seigneurial keep; it much more resembled a 
 barracks than a dwelling for pleasure. 
 
 During the past seven or eight years, Maurice 
 lost successively three uncles, two aunts, and a 
 cousin, ali very rich, and he inherited money from 
 this batch of relatives with the same listlessness 
 with which he would have received a farm deep 
 in arrears. His territorial property was immense, 
 and his numberless collateral relations cultivated 
 him already, with a look of envy. 
 
 Pie had only one preoccupation — to drink ! 
 In the morning he rose about eleven o'clock, 
 and swallowed two big glasses of white wine, 
 
34 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 under the pretext that the second would balance 
 the first. After his luncheon, which lasted three 
 hours, he smoked while he drank, and drank 
 while he smoked. When he had dined as Gor- 
 gantua dined, pots of beer succeeded pots of beer 
 till supper-time. When he was as full as a 
 hogshead, his gardener and cook carried him off 
 to bed. 
 
 The next day he began again. 
 
 Three times a week he received at his table an 
 old sailor, called Simmonis, and Mr. Clayrinet, 
 an assistant at the mayoralty, two drunkards 
 worthy of their amphytryon. These days, which 
 were feast days, the servants lifted up our three 
 silenuses dead drunk ; they laid the Prince in his 
 bed, and placed the other two upon the bank; of 
 the avenue, where they slept off at their leisure 
 their wine, their beer, and their liqueurs. 
 
 It was eight o'clock one evening; our three 
 drinkers began not to know what they said, and 
 still less what they did. 
 
 • Prince,' cried Simmonis, with a hoarse voice ; 
 ' there is no more wine.' 
 
 ' Well then, ring, animal ! ' 
 
 ' Don't trouble yourself,' vociferated Clayrinet ; 
 * I have the bell beside me.' 
 
 And he threw on the ground two piles of plates, 
 which broke wHh a smash. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 35 
 
 'Bring in six bottles of Chambertin,' cried 
 Simmonis, to a servant who entered, without 
 moving. 
 
 'Twelve bottles!' cried the assistant at the 
 mayoralty, who had all the difficulty in the world 
 in recovering his centre of gravity, after his effort 
 to ring the new kind of bell ! 
 
 ' Fifteen bottles ! ' roared the Prince. ' I wish 
 to swallow up twelve for my part, under the nose 
 and the beard of those milk drinkers.' 
 
 'You!— you drink a dozen bottles of Cham- 
 bertin ? ' said Simmonis, chuckling. 
 
 'Never ! ' murmured Clayrinet, who seemed, 
 and felt too, as if he were being rolled about in a 
 ship. 
 
 ■ If you add a word, I shall drink fourteen; and 
 drink after that too ! ' yelled out Maurice, giving 
 the table a bang with his hand, which made four 
 or five glasses roll on to the carpet. 
 
 ' I bet two hundred francs you don't ! ' cried 
 Simmonis, the least drunk of the three. 
 
 ' Done ! it's a bet. A thousand millions of wine 
 cakes ! ' screamed Maurice. ' Well, and this 
 wine bout — is it to be to-day ? ' 
 
 The servants brought in, trembling and in 
 disorder, the fifteen bottles of Chambertin, and 
 the Prince began his task, which was worthy of 
 Falstaff, 
 
3§ THE COURTESAN. 
 
 •j 
 
 All went well until the sixth bottle, inclusive, 
 but at the seventh, the face of Maurice became 
 purple; at the eighth, a heavy perspiration 
 trickled over his forehead; his eyes closed; his 
 neck swelled as if it would burst ; then he turned 
 round, let the bottle slip from his hands, and fell 
 without a groan. 
 
 1 Jesu, Maria ! ' cried the cook, running to the 
 help of her master ; ' Monsieur is dead ! ' 
 
 * Struck by apoplexy ! ' said the gardener ; 
 ' there will, perhaps, be some hope if blood be 
 freely drawn. 5 
 
 * Let us run for the doctors ! ' 
 
 And the two faithful servants set off right across 
 the fields, notwithstanding the advanced hour. 
 
 ' What is that they are saying ? ' asked 
 Clayrinet, between two hiccoughs — "that the 
 Prince is dead ? ' 
 
 * Dead drunk, like you, stupid ! ' replied Sim- 
 monis ; ' he fell at the eighth bottle. That is two 
 hundred francs he owes me. Good job it is ! I 
 shall purchase a little tun of old cognac ! But, 
 friend Clayrinet, if you will believe me, it would 
 be better for you to spend the evening at my 
 place ; I can't stand those doctors, who make you 
 drink gruel.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! champagne gruel ought to be good ! ' 
 said Clayrinet, laughing noisily. 
 
THE COURTESAN. on 
 
 And the two drunkards went out arm-in-arm, 
 knocking against the walls. 
 
 'It's all right,' said Simmonis, with admiration; 
 ' if our friend dies, no one shall prevent me from 
 proclaiming in the style of a funeral oration : 
 " Guy Norbert Maurice Laval, Prince of Bois- 
 gerard, was a splendid sponge ! " ' 
 
 At the news of Maurice's death, his greedy 
 relatives precipitated themselves like a cloud of 
 vultures on the inheritance, which they had 
 coveted so long ; but they ran against a deed 
 drawn up in good form, well and duly signed, 
 flourished and registered, which completely 
 alienated from them all the lands of Boisgerard 
 and the whole fortune of their dear cousin. 
 
 Po-pol, who had attained his majority only a 
 few days before, and whom we shall call Paul, 
 has kept, while he grew, the promise of his 
 childhood : he is the most depraved and vicious 
 fellow in creation. 
 
 If you would promenade sometimes on the 
 Boulevard des Italiens between nine o'clock in 
 the evening and midnight, you would meet him, 
 with his glance bent forward, his moustache 
 waxed, his head in the air, the happy appearance 
 of continuing the line of the princes of Boisgerard, 
 who distinguished themselves at the period of the 
 Crusades ; he would light his cigar at yours, you 
 
38 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 would put your arm through his— no, he would 
 put his arm through yours — . 
 
 This is how he announced to one of his bosom 
 friends the sad loss he had experienced. This 
 talk will give a perfect idea of his elevation of 
 soul : 
 
 * My dear friend, the turn of the wheel is taken ; 
 I am definitely, and beyond recall, Prince de 
 Boisgerard, owner of an incalculable number of 
 houses, of farms, and fine unburdened properties, 
 by the fortunate death of my dishonoured father. 
 Decidedly, the good man has died at a time which 
 will suit admirably for my getting out of a trouble- 
 some mess. It is the only bright thing this 
 used up drunkard has done. Please send 
 quickly by your page the enclosed letter to the 
 woman Dolores Bigornet, who would like to act 
 like the Prince. As long as she shall live I will 
 keep her outside my door, for to my enemies I 
 shall be the son of a woman of the demi-monde, 
 which is not a peculiarly pleasant thought 
 to me. 
 
 ■ Make them unwire the champagne. I shall 
 be at the Cafe Anglais at seven o'clock. 
 
 ' Intimate this to the Stork, Piedebiche, the 
 Queen of Shrimps, and all our little female 
 menageries. 
 
 1 A clasp of your hand ! ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. ™ 
 
 ' Prince Paul de Boisgerard.' 
 
 When Dolores, whom they now called the 
 Lola, presented herself at her son's apartments, in 
 spite of his prohibition, she was distinctly told 
 that he would never acknowledge her, but that 
 his business man would manage, as they 
 separated that day, to pay her a little life annuity 
 of two thousand crowns a year, on condition that 
 she would consent to live at a distance from 
 Paris. 
 
 Dolores is very poor, nevertheless she refuses, 
 because to quit Paris would be to renounce 
 living near this ungrateful boy! 
 
 Each day of her life she regrets many things, 
 but never having secured the good fortune of her 
 son, who despises her ! 
 
 FIVE MINUTES. 
 
 About one hour after luncheon, a brougham 
 .stopped on the Boulevard Montmartre, before the 
 Passage of the Panoramas, at the corner of the 
 Rue Vivienne, one of the most noisy corners of 
 Paris. 
 
 The promenaders see, without remarking him, 
 a young man of about thirty- five, with a weary- 
 looking air, quietly seated in this carriage, which 
 is not even distinguishable from the others by its 
 
4 o 
 
 THE COURTESAN, 
 
 dirtiness; they do not suppose for a single moment 
 that he waits for a woman who is not his own 
 wife. She has a reason for not giving her 
 gallants their rendezvous in a retired spot, as is 
 generally done to Don juans of the first year. If 
 he were stationed on the Place de l'Estrapade, 
 for example, he could not fail to be an object of 
 view for the passers by, and for the residents, 
 who would soon know, by an inquisition which 
 would seek out anything in the world, his name, 
 that of the lady, the adjacent lands, houses, etc., 
 and the motives which keep them from getting 
 married at once. Such as she like their admirers 
 rather to risk a chill in a carriage open to all 
 weathers. 
 
 FIRST MINUTE. 
 
 (The young man, consulting his watch) : 
 I have come in time — unless Regine means 
 me to wait here till the last judgment ! She is as 
 inaccurate as good news ! When one hasn't a 
 mistress, one passes his time in conquering one, 
 and when the conquest is made, he doesn't know 
 what small lie to invent to get a little liberty to 
 himself. If she is quite free, one says of her : 
 'Augusta, or Blanche, or Flora, or Regine does 
 
 not leave me to breathe I could wish she 
 
 were a little tied up ;' if she is tied up by some- 
 
THE COURTESAN. 4I 
 
 thing or by someone, one is sure then to write 
 always : ' Dear friend, I could give you some 
 minutes to-day ; meet me at one o'clock at the 
 Boulevard Montmartre, etc., etc.,' when you 
 ought to be at the Bois de Bologne. 
 
 That is my case. 
 
 I ought to go to the pigeon match with Flavian 
 and Maxime ; and I have had to give up this 
 pleasure party. The gun is not the thing I love 
 best in the world — it is true. Maxime and Flavian 
 are not thoroughly amusing, I am forced to admit 
 that; but when Regine shall have gone back to her 
 aunt's I shall find myself alone, and I can still 
 avow that I am not amused in my own society. 
 I have nothing but disagreeable things to say to 
 myself. 
 
 Decidedly, she is late ; if there was a chance 
 that she should be really detained altogether I 
 should be able to go to the pigeon match yet ; 
 but her maid will surely come now to relieve me 
 acting here as sentinel. I would not go away — 
 no not for an empire — if I did not see at the angle 
 of the Rue Vivienne the retrousse phiz of Miss 
 Florence. - * 
 
 Regine can't be playing me false ? 
 
 No! 
 
 She has never made any complaint to me, even 
 when she has had a grievance. She raises her big 
 
42 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 4 
 
 blue eyes to mine, and I remain like a boy caught 
 in a fault, and I ask her forgiveness. 
 
 I should like a thousand times better to serve 
 under the orders of one of those women who 
 make scenes. I would reply to her : 
 
 ' My dear, do you take me for a servant, or, 
 better still, for a sentinel, and is this carriage a 
 sentry-box ? ' 
 
 We should not agree like people who love each 
 other seriously, and everything would be finished, 
 to begin again the next day. There's Mortimer 
 passing just now ; he's not the man to allow him- 
 self to be bustled about in that way. One has 
 never known him with mistresses. He is perhaps 
 in the right. That is Leon with him ; there's a 
 man now who knows life. He never looks on 
 women seriously ; yet they all adore him. 
 
 1 Ah, here you are ! ' he says to Gabrielle, ' will 
 you come with me to the Cascade in the Bois de 
 Bologne ? ' 
 
 ' Thanks ! I have a solemn dinner party to go to 
 to meet some foreign princes.' 
 
 'Then let it be to-morrow, or the week after.' 
 
 And he addresses himself to Clara, who accepts 
 for the present day. 
 
 It is not that he is not of a very tender 
 nature, but he always carries his love with' him, 
 and he trusts in the first woman who says 
 
THE COURTESAN. 43 
 
 1 Yes ' to him without vexing himself about those 
 who say 'No.' 
 
 They seek adventures — I cannot follow them. 
 
 Gh ! my liberty, beautiful chimera with golden 
 wings, what has become of thee ? 
 
 No one is less free than a bachelor who is in they 
 power of a woman. 
 
 SECOND MINUTE. 
 
 I wish I had the courage to break with her ! 
 If I were to say that I am going to Canada or 
 l'lsle Adam ? Why, she wouldn't believe me. So 
 much the better — I know her, she would avoid all 
 explanation ; and if, as is impossible, she should 
 write me a reproachful letter, I should reply to 
 
 her by a little bitter-sweet word, and No, 
 
 that would be unworthy of you and me, for 
 Regine is a woman of the real world ; she has 
 only one fault, she loves me too much. When 
 she comes, I shall say to her : * My dear child, it 
 is necessary to write the words : The curtain falls, 
 at the end of the last act of our little private 
 drama.' 
 
 She will weep. 
 
 I shall be granite. 
 
 One of my eyes may perhaps be looking at her, 
 but I shall guard the other to conduct me into 
 the path of liberty. 
 
44 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 We shall be annoyed to death ; but, at the end 
 of six weeks, or three days, she will be prepared to 
 admit that I have done well to show this character. 
 Her husband was twenty-five years older than 
 she ; he was an invalid of a kind incapable of 
 rendering her happy or unhappy. She ought to 
 marry again, and as her aunt is very rich, she 
 would be able to choose in the army of wooers 
 who bow at her feet the husband who will suit 
 her — should he be ruined like me. 
 
 On my side, I shall make a reasonable enough 
 conclusion. I shall marry a million, should it be 
 forty years old, a catarrh and rheumatism. One 
 must be up to the century. In our days, marriage 
 is the cordial agreement between two dowries 
 which agree together, uniting and assisting coldly 
 at the procreation of some children, whose birth 
 has no other objects than the re-arrangement of 
 new dowries, like those of their parents, for the 
 regeneration of our old worm-eaten society. 
 
 I shall meet Regine in the world ; no one shall 
 ever know that she has crossed my Aubusson 
 carpet and that the same stone-coloured brougham 
 has sheltered us. 
 
 I shall call her ' Madame.' 
 
 She will call me ' Sir.' 
 
 Ah well! this plan is as bad as the other. I 
 know her, and I know myself also. She will look 
 
THE COURTESAN. 4* 
 
 at me as she alone knows how to look at me, a 
 tear will show the tip of its nose at the window'of 
 her eyes, I shall kiss it and I shall fall at her knees, 
 crying to her like a great fool as I am : < Forgive 
 me, my beloved Regine.' 
 
 She will forgive me, and we shall be as we were 
 before. 
 
 If I should compromise the little beauty very 
 much ? She will leave me. 
 
 Who knows ? Women, even the best of people, 
 have such strangely constructed characters. She 
 would be capable of loving me more, and I should 
 have one wicked action more upon my conscience. 
 
 What a labyrinth ! 
 
 THIRD MINUTE. 
 
 It is decided on principle that I make a rupture. 
 After having maturely weighed the thousand ways 
 of breaking a chain, I believe that the surest is a 
 good letter. 
 
 What if I made a rough draft, as when I studied 
 rhetoric, and I wrote to the little girls of the 
 pension which was near our college ? (He writes 
 rapidly on a leaf of his note-book) : 
 
 ' My dear Regine, 
 
 ' For a long time past we have worn a mask 
 on our faces : it burns us : let us throw it away 
 
4 6 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 and say resolutely these words, which always 
 appear terrible when we speak them for the first 
 time : 
 
 * " Let us separate ! 
 
 1 Let us say them without bitterness or anger ; 
 let us separate, so long as we do not yet hate each 
 other. Who knows ? To-morrow I shall perhaps 
 conduct myself like a street-porter, and you will 
 blush because you have loved a man who will 
 appear to you contemptible. While I write with 
 pain this letter which distresses me, I believe, 
 dear Regine, you will be thinking, doubtless, of 
 the cock-and-bull story, you will tell me to excuse 
 your lateness. Be frank once by chance : do not 
 fear to reduce me to despair, or to break my heart. 
 I have lived long enough to know that in this 
 world all things correct themselves, even the 
 most incorrigible. 
 
 ' Adieu for ever!' 
 
 Bad, pitiable, impossible, and, above all, too 
 long 
 
 Let us begin again. 
 
 second draft. 
 
 ' My dear Regine, 
 
 ' Perhaps we are destined to meet again ; 
 perhaps we shall see each other no more. 
 If we should meet again, we shall have for- 
 
THE COURTESAN. .* 
 
 gotten each other. People always forget : is it a 
 misfortune ? 
 
 ' Is it a good thing ? 
 
 ' But I observe that I am making phrases 
 whilst a single word, the saddest and most 
 sorrowful in the French language, could say every- 
 thing : Adieu, be happy, dear Regine, and I for- 
 give you the harm you have done me.' 
 
 Detestable ! 
 
 It is the letter coming forth as the dry fruit of 
 the bachelordom which has closed its studies in 
 the circulating library. 
 
 THIRD DRAFT. 
 
 ' You have often said to me, dear Regine, in 
 our long talks by the fire-side : " What I wish is 
 yr;ur good — your good, should it cost me my peace 
 or my life." 
 
 (She has never said anything like this to 
 me.) 
 
 * Good Regine, the moment has come to prove 
 your love by accepting the rupture which I pro- 
 pose to you, without attempting to throw myself 
 at your knees : your complaints would be useless 
 and your tears vain,' (addressing himself to a 
 gentleman who is passing and who cannot hear) 
 — ' If you would believe me, dear sir, never send 
 such lucubrations, or your mistress will deceive 
 
48 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 you, and read them with the eyes of your rival 
 and you are thus made ridiculous.' 
 
 This is sad : 
 
 Or, she loves you, and you make her suffer : 
 
 This is sadder still. 
 
 There was a good old formula : 
 
 1 1 know everything, Madame : you shall not see 
 me again.' 
 
 But, addressed to Regine who is an angel, such 
 a letter would seem like a jest. 
 
 Two most significant lines must be found. 
 
 FOURTH AND LAST DRAFT. 
 
 ' I love you, but I must think of my future. 
 
 1 He who will make superhuman efforts to for- 
 get you.' 
 
 It is vague and yet it is clear. When she 
 arrives, I shall slip this little love-letter into her 
 little hand. I shall beg her to get into the 
 carriage. I shall say to the coachman : ' Trevise 
 city, No. 1 ' — that's where she lives — and I shall 
 rush off as if I had all the bailiffs in creation at 
 my heels. 
 
 I breathe freely: If I were not in public I 
 should sing a hymn to liberty. 
 
 She does not come yet ! So much the 
 better. 
 See what a long time I have waited. Is that not 
 
THE COURTESAN. 4g 
 
 she who walks along the boulevard ? . . . No, she 
 has a more Parisian foot. Nothing is so pretty 
 as a pretty foot neatly joined to a good leg— 
 Regine's is a miracle ! 
 
 Ha ! here I am, free ! Free ! What a heavenly 
 word ! 
 
 But what can I do with my time ? 
 
 FOURTH MINUTE. 
 
 I have directed my gaze intently on all sides — 
 I do not see her coming . . . Ah ! here she is at 
 last! 
 
 No : it is not she ! 
 
 Where were my eyes ! Regine never wears 
 so many colours mixed : red, blue, mauve, 
 yellow, green; this lady is a signboard for a 
 painter. What will the manufacturers invent 
 next ? — 
 
 Decidedly, if the hours have wings, they have 
 feathers attached to them. Where can she be ? 
 Perhaps she is not here ? 
 
 I know well that she is not coming. 
 
 For six months we have loved each other; 
 these six months have not been longer for her 
 than for me. 
 
 Perhaps at the moment when she was leaving 
 she received a visit, and could not get away. 
 Regine has one great defect ; she has been too 
 
50 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 well brought up; she is too much the slave of 
 fashion. I like women of whom people say : 
 1 She is not loveable ' ; and I like also those dogs 
 which bite everybody, except me ! 
 
 She will have gone to her dressmaker, and a 
 woman who talks of frippery may well forget her 
 lover. 
 
 She said to me, just three days ago, smiling : 
 ' Don't you know, dear angel, my cousin 
 Theobald has asked my aunt for my hand ? ' 
 
 Perhaps this was a trial shot ! Women are very 
 violent when they no longer love, and certainly 
 Regine loves me less since I have adored her. 
 
 This Theobald is of a proverbial silliness, 
 which is a fine quality m the eyes of a young 
 widow. Regine's aunt receives him with pleasure. 
 He has his great and his little receptions at her 
 house, The good lady does not desire to see her 
 niece marry again, but Regine can conquer her 
 opposition, when it is a question as to Theobald, 
 who has everything on his side; he doesn't con- 
 tent himself with being poor in mind, he is like- 
 wise as rich as a Dutchman returned from India. 
 If she should be ill ! If she should be dead ! 
 .... No, she lives, and very well, too — of that 
 I am sure; her heart alone is dead. 
 
 Why does she not allow me to go to her house? 
 She pretends that her aunt would read in my 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 51 
 
 eyes in a moment that I love her; it would appear 
 that my eyes are two great fools ! 
 
 Is my reign over already ? I am afraid it 
 is. This morning, in bringing in the note from 
 her mistress (kissing the letter) Miss Florence 
 was a little more than cold ; that is a certain sign 
 of my downfall. Miss Florence is a reflection of 
 her mistress. 
 
 No one yet ? 
 
 I have a fearful headache. Decidedly I hate 
 her, I detest her, I execrate her ! I know well 
 that the force of these words is a little blunted, 
 since one uses them only to mean ' I love her.' 
 It is all the same. I execrate her, I detest her, 
 I hate her ! I shall return home and go to 
 bed. And besides, I shall give my letter 
 breaking up our relations to Regine's concierge ; 
 that will, no doubt, be rude; but since I don't 
 wish for anything but a rupture .... No, I 
 have some regrets ! 
 
 No one yet ? 
 
 Why does she not come ? 
 
 Because she has said that she would come ! 
 
 FIFTH MINUTF 
 
 If she deceived me that would be bad indeed ; 
 I feel that I should die of it ! To make me wait 
 thus — I, who am capable of committing a crime 
 
e 2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 to fulfil one of her spoiled-child caprices ! I don't 
 wish to think of it any more. Ah ! how can I 
 forget her ? Oh, the ungrateful one ! I should 
 have made her so happy ! I should have found 
 on the borders of a silver lake a little house 
 carpeted with mystery, with a bit of garden round 
 it, small enough to make us knock against each 
 other. 
 
 If I knew to whom she has sacrificed me, with 
 what joy should I bathe myself in his blood. 
 
 Regine, you will never understand how much 
 I love you, or with what solicitude I think 
 of our future, while you make me wait for 
 you here. 
 
 Life is not possible thus. It is necessary that 
 it should settle things between us. (Bounding on 
 his cushion.) How ? between us. 
 
 If I knew that I had a rival, I would do him 
 an injury .... 
 
 I am losing my head ! . . . . 
 
 I should love another! No; one loves but 
 once with a love like that which Regine inspires. 
 J, adore all women in one alone — in one alone I 
 hate them all ! 
 
 Perfidious one ! 
 
 When one loves as I love Regine, there is but 
 one issue of it, marriage. But I should not be 
 so much the enemy of my own peace as to marry 
 
THE COURTESAN. „ 
 
 a woman who treats me like Cassandra before the 
 wedding. 
 
 One might be late some seconds, some minutes, 
 an hour even, but, to make me lose a whole blessed 
 day — that passes all permission ! 
 
 What o'clock is it ? I don't wish to consult 
 my watch, lest my rage should be doubled when I 
 see the hour. 
 
 Ungrateful ! 
 
 Coquette ! 
 
 Bad-hearted one ! 
 
 It is she ? No ; not yet. 
 
 It appears to me that she could quite well have 
 sent Miss Florence ; but does she ever think of 
 me when Theobald is there ? 
 
 For he is at her house. I can hear him giving 
 forth his asthmatic madrigals: 'Beautiful lady, 
 you have this morning a complexion fresher than 
 the rose. — Your cheeks are as velvety as a peach. 
 — Your hands, white as milk, make me think of the 
 spindle of Queen Bertha, who spun so exquisitely.' 
 He flies at the lovers of the ancient Gymnasium 
 for his inspiration, and one ought to see the mouth 
 he opens to let pass this very refined trash. I 
 will go to her house. She may say what she 
 likes. Coachman, Rue de la Bruyere, number 24! 
 (The driver wipes his nose, and gets ready to set 
 off.) A little quicker ; you shall have a tip. (In 
 
za THE COURTESAN. 
 
 a low voice) : I don't want Regine to find me 
 here. (The carriage is on the point of moving.) 
 Stop, coachman ! stop. (In a low voice) : I ought 
 not to do her the shadow of the least harm. I 
 shall not move from here till midnight. (The driver 
 of the brougham makes a movement with his 
 shoulders, which one could translate thus) : ' The 
 human race is a foolish species ! ' 
 
 If she were with this Theobald in a private 
 room of the cafe which is over there, they would 
 see me, and laugh at my pitiful look. Women 
 who love are no longer pitiless. Let me go ! — 
 Coachman, Rue de la Bruge, number 24. (The 
 driver whips his horse, which decides to take a 
 step forward, after a moment of hesitation.) I am 
 not dissatisfied with my little piece of policy, yet, 
 if she should be very ill, Miss Florence could not 
 leave her. Yesterday, she had terrible palpitation. 
 I believe I should do well not to leave my usual 
 position. If she should be hidden somewhere 
 here about with a lover ? So much the worse for 
 her. I should, in that case, have all honest people 
 on my side. (The young man pulls the coachman's 
 check-string, and cries to him with the voice of a 
 stentor) : Do not move ! ' 
 
 The owner speaks in a low tone to his horse, 
 which makes a step backward with the non- 
 chalance of an intelligent animal which has 
 
THE COURTESAN, 55 
 
 worked in Paris long enough to know that the 
 signal to start, given by his master for the time 
 being, is nothing serious. 
 
 (Scarcely had the young man resumed his seat 
 in the brougham when its right-hand door opened, 
 and a veiled lady tumbled in beside him.) 
 
 ' I thought I was followed,' she said. ' I made 
 a detour, but it was a false alarm. Am I a little 
 late, my friend ? ' 
 
 ' A little ! late enough! much too late, madame!' 
 replied the young man with a scolding voice. ' I 
 v/ould willingly give you a quarter-of-an-hour's 
 grace, but nine is too much ! ' 
 
 < I shall return then in ten minutes, sir ; your 
 bad temper may, perhaps, have disappeared then.' 
 
 ' What do you say ? ' 
 
 • That I am late by five minutes.' 
 
 ' Five minutes ! ' 
 
 1 Five minutes. See ! ' 
 
 (She put her watch under his nose.) 
 
 ' It is true. Ah! Regine, what a touchstone ! 
 How I love you ! ' 
 
 ' Enough to marry me ? ' 
 
 ' Enough to commit all the follies in the world ! ' 
 
 " Five minutes ! 
 
 Who can speak how many centuries five 
 minutes represent when one waits for the woman 
 he loves ? 
 
e£ THE COURTESAN. 
 
 WAS HE NOT MAD? 
 
 After having taken a pinch of Spanish snufl 
 from a tortoise-shell box, and reached a fine white 
 hand in the direction in which formerly he would 
 formerly have found a frill ; after having wiped the 
 glasses of his spectacles, and thrown a complacent 
 look on his auditory, Dr. X — spoke thus : 
 
 i In 18 — (I like better not to assign the precise 
 period to my tale ; one's twentieth year passed, it 
 is prudent to lose the memory of dates, if one 
 cannot remain for eternity at his true age, arid 
 obtain thus, at pleasure, the benefits of this second 
 youth, which Heaven accords willingly to every 
 human creature who looks after himself.)— I 
 resume, therefore, by employing on this occasion 
 a formula which can compromise me neither 
 to-day nor at any future time. 
 
 * When I was a student of medicine, I lived in 
 a house in the Rue St. Jacques, which was 
 distinguished neither by its age nor dilapidation 
 from the other houses of that sad and black- 
 looking district. 
 
 * My rooms — they were very small rooms, but 
 freshly papered and ornamented with mirrors : a 
 little too near the blue heavens, a little too low in 
 the ceiling, but furnished with elegance and 
 finicalness, which made the delight, or the 
 
THE COURTESAN. m 
 
 annoyance, according to their good or bad 
 character, of the few student companions I con- 
 descended to receive. 
 
 ' Without being quite a phoenix, it must be said 
 to my praise that I never had any liking for the 
 " Latin " quarter. I only knew by reputation 
 the Grand Chartreuse and its prohibited dances. 
 I eschewed the " brasseries " and their bitter 
 smoke. Add to this, that ladies of easy virtue 
 did not inspire me with any sympathy, and you 
 have my complete confession of faith. I studied 
 with passion. I looked with seriousness upon 
 the dry, but noble profession I wished to embrace. 
 
 ' A solitary walk after the evening meal was my 
 sole distraction. Every week I received a letter 
 from my mother, with a postscript (impatiently 
 waited for) from a beloved cousin, whom I was to 
 marry when I became a doctor, and who was 
 being brought up by an old cavalry officer. Poor 
 dear Herminie ! She was very unfortunate with 
 the husband of her choice. 
 
 * I see you smile, gentlemen,' said the good 
 doctor, wiping away a tear. ' You think it strange 
 that I should pity a woman who has betrayed me 
 so vilely. Can I forget, however, that I loved her 
 with the most tender love, that during three years 
 I had not had a thought which was not of her ? 
 Ah ! gentlemen, believe my old experience ; 
 
g THE COURTESAN. 
 
 " To love is sweeter than to be loved ! " 
 
 ! But it is not my history, nor that of Herminie, 
 which I wish to relate to you. 
 
 I had as a* neighbour, on the same landing, a 
 good old German, originally from Munich, but 
 with all his heart a naturalised Frenchman. 
 
 He called himself Miiller, as all Germans do 
 who are not called Mayer. 
 
 He was a tailor, as all Germans are who are not 
 shoemakers. 
 
 Clever, industrious, intelligent, he gained a 
 thoroughly good living by selling goods new and 
 old at a just price. Every year he lost some 
 hundred francs in bad debts, as all little shop- 
 keepers do. 
 
 The money was lost, but Miiller gained the 
 time he might have spent drinking at the cabaret. 
 His heart in his hand, and a song ever on his lips, 
 he gladdened the solemn house, whose inhabitants 
 sur named him ' the nightingale.' 
 
 One day the songs ceased. Death had knocked 
 at the door of the poor man, and had carried off 
 his dear Therese, the companion of his good and 
 bad fortunes. . 
 
 It was at this time that, finding myself invited, 
 against my inclination, to the house of one of our 
 learned professors, a luminary of the faculty, who 
 gave a ball to celebrate I don't know what 
 
THE COURTESAN. 50 
 
 anniversary, I began, like a man of foresight, to 
 look out my black coat, which lay quietly with its 
 arms folded in a drawer of my wardrobe. The 
 precaution was not useless; the poor devil was 
 nearly done for — it had great need of the needle 
 and thimble of the tailor. I went over to my 
 neighbour's rooms, having lived on good terms 
 with him for some time. I found him at work, 
 his legs crossed on his board, stitching away 
 mechanically ; his thoughts were elsewhere. 
 ' Good day, M. Miiller,' I said to him. 
 ' Sir,' replied he, ' of what service can I be to 
 you?' 
 
 *You can do me a very pleasant service by 
 making a little more presentable this old servant 
 of mine.' 
 
 ' I will willingly do it for you,' he said to me 
 with volubility. * I will even put aside the 
 pressing work I am engaged on now, because I 
 esteem you, young man; you are industrious 
 sober, steady, and an excellent neighbour; you 
 have nothing in common with the students who do 
 not study. . . . Ah, how afraid I was when the 
 concierge said to me: " Miiller, it is a disciple of 
 ^Esculapius who lodges alongside of you." I was 
 on the point of taking my leave, sir. I hate all 
 blustering, noisy fellows. That will explain the 
 rest, for my poor Therese was already ill of the 
 
6q THE COURTESAN. 
 
 malady which had attacked her when you came 
 t* the house.' 
 
 1 1 did not dare to touch on this subject lest I 
 should vex you,' replied I ; ' but believe me I under- 
 stand the extent of the loss you have sustained, 
 and that I sympathise with your sorrow.' 
 
 1 Yes, yes,' sighed the good man ; 'it is very 
 sad to be forced to break with one's good habits— 
 to have no longer one's dear companion here to 
 share one's pleasures and sorrows.' 
 
 ' There is always a little egotism in the sorrows 
 of old men ! ' thought I to myself, aside. 
 
 ' It is horrible to be alone in the world at 
 my age,' continued he, drying his eyes, which 
 were bathed in tears.' 
 
 * Alone in the world, do you say ? But 1 
 thought you had children.' 
 
 ' I have my daughter Charlotte, who herself has 
 a charming child, my little Margaret, an angel, 
 sir, an angel of heaven.' 
 
 I understood from these words that Mliller, 
 like nearly all grand-parents, had cast his entire 
 affection on his grand-daughter. 
 
 ' What is Miss Margaret's age ? ' I asked. 
 
 1 A little more than twelve.' 
 
 1 Well, why .... pardon me this indiscretion, 
 which is not dictated except by the interest I take 
 in you — why is Miss Margaret not with you ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. fa 
 
 • Because she takes care of her mother,' said 
 the old man with a sob. 
 
 ' Your daughter, then, is ill ? ' 
 'If my daughter Charlotte were not ill, she 
 would not leave me alone ! ' replied the good man. 
 1 Stay (and he showed me an envelope with the 
 postmark of Marseilles), I received this letter this 
 morning; it is Margaret who has written me! 
 Her mother is very anxious to come back here, 
 but the doctors are opposed to it. It is very 
 serious ; very ! ' 
 
 "' What is your daughter's disease?' I asked him. 
 
 ' Consumption. This horrible affection is 
 hereditary in the family. My poor Therese, thanks 
 to her quiet life, was able to reach the age of 
 forty; but she succumbed to exhaustion in the 
 long-run. May God preserve my dear little 
 Margaret from this frightful disease, which is 
 so seldom merciful ! ' 
 
 Then, after a silence which I dared not break, 
 he continued : 
 
 1 It was for that reason I allowed Charlotte to 
 go to Marseilles ; the air there is good, the sky 
 nearly always blue. She is a singer ; first singer 
 at the Grand Theatre ; you know it ? ' 
 
 I made a sign that I did not. 
 
 'Ah, sir! what a voice! what method! They 
 adore her there. She is the idol of the public; or 
 
6 2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 at least she was,' sighed the old man, ■ because, 
 for two months back she has not sung; she 
 cannot sing more ! ' 
 
 ' Do you intend Miss Margaret also for the 
 theatre? 5 I said to the tailor, only with the object 
 of turning the conversation. 
 
 'Yes, yes, f he replied, his eye on fire, and his 
 face animated. ' She will be a Sontag, a Mali- 
 bran. Your stars of yesterday could not stand 
 beside her. My dear little girl has, it seems, 
 already some talent. Before leaving us, three 
 years ago, she was an excellent musician, and what 
 a voice, sir ! She will have the first place at the 
 Grand Opera, where my Charlotte would have 
 been a long time ago, unless by bad luck ' 
 
 Poor Miiller breathed a dolorous sigh, pressed his 
 hands over his eyes, and said nothing more. I 
 respected his silence. Evidently a moral suffering 
 tortured him ; I shook his hand, and went off 
 without saying a word. 
 
 This is the history of Charlotte, history most 
 heart-breaking, but unfortunately too common. 
 It was told me by an intimate friend of one of 
 my school companions, who had passed some time 
 at the Conservatory before going to live on his 
 property. 
 
 Charlotte Miiller, sent at an early age to the 
 Conservatory, made rapid progress. Intelligent 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 63 
 
 to the last degree, and a ravishing vocalist, she 
 stood, with a good right, as the best scholar in 
 her class, and her professor predicted for her a 
 brilliant future. 
 
 Young, pretty, and distinguished, she was the 
 pink of admiration for all lovers of u new fruit" 
 to be found in the Conservatory, and other places, 
 where early flowers abound. They each offered 
 her, in prose or in verse, the expression of their 
 most profound — contempt ! accompanied by fine 
 horses and C spring carriages, of Binder's make ; 
 while others sent her fine furniture and paper from 
 the house of Garat and Co. 
 
 All of them lost their time and their trouble. 
 
 Charlotte read the burning epistles of her 
 adorers aloud to her class companions during 
 the hours of recreation. 
 
 She was virtuous without affectation ; when 
 her evil star willed that she should meet on her 
 way one of those Don Juans who make game of 
 ruining these poor creatures without energy and 
 without experience, who in turn revenge them- 
 selves later on upon those who are innocent of 
 the evil which has been done them. 
 
 Like Charlotte, a student in the Conservatory, 
 but only a mediocre student, Valentine was 
 neither handsome nor witty, but he had grasped 
 the fact that in the eyes of a young girl who has 
 
6 4 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 virtuous instincts all the satins in the world will 
 not equal the rumpled silk of the mayor's scarf. 
 
 He cleverly pronounced that magical word : 
 
 ' Marriage.' 
 
 And Charlotte, who had remained deaf hitherto, 
 listened. She did more; she reflected on the 
 honourable proposals of M. Valentine. 
 
 In a matter like this a girl who reflects finds a 
 hundred reasons for committing a folly. 
 
 Soon Valentine was never seen without Char- 
 lotte or Charlotte without Valentin * they called 
 them Hero and Leander, Romeo and Juliet, Paul 
 and Virginia. 
 
 Charlotte laughed at the thousand little scandals 
 which were talked about them. Had not Valen- 
 tine uttered that grand word : 
 
 * Marriage ? ' 
 
 Some months went on thus — the most exquisite 
 in the life of the young girl. When Valentine was 
 certain he was loved, he played one of those little 
 comedies which always succeed, for the sole reason 
 that they have the habit of succeeding, being as 
 old as the old world! He made it to be over- 
 heard through one of his pleasure companions, 
 that there was a report that he was about to be 
 
 married to Madame Z , a singer of the opera, 
 
 and both rich and distinguished. 
 
 Charlotte's companions pitied her aloud, fearing 
 
THE COURTESAN. 65 
 
 that she might not soon enough hear of her bad 
 fortune. 
 
 They hypocritically sought to comfort her. 
 
 ' What does it matter ? ' said one to her ; 
 ' Valentine does not love you ; it is better to find 
 that out now than afterwards.' 
 
 Another went on : 
 
 * Valentine is too strong for you, my little one ; 
 and you don't suit him at all. You are beautiful 
 and good, it is true, but what is beauty whan 
 united to goodness ? 
 
 ' Of no value.' 
 
 A third proceeded : 
 
 ' You cannot desire to have this poor Valen- 
 tine ; a fellow would need to be very green not 
 to profit by such a splendid chance ! Madame 
 
 Z is still pretty, young, and almost virtuous. 
 
 She has a voice which gives sleepless nights to all 
 her rivals, and pocket-books full to bursting, so 
 full are they of things of good value on the Bourse.' 
 
 Galled in her self-esteem, her heart broken, 
 Charlotte was unskilful enough to make some 
 reproaches to her betrothed, who knew thoroughly 
 how to play his part in the circumstances. He 
 threw himself at the poor girl's knees, murmured 
 some unconnected words — feebly denied, then at 
 once avowed that he had been for a moment 
 1 by the brilliant position which had been 
 
66 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 offered to him, and finished by swearing that he 
 loved only her ; and, to prove his sincerity, he sent 
 at that very moment a letter breaking off with 
 
 Madame Z , whom he did not know even by 
 
 sight. 
 
 The letter naturally went to its address. 
 
 ' I lose an engagement at the opera and a future, 
 but: 
 
 * If thy love remains to me 
 
 What regrets, then, can there be ?' 
 
 Added he, humming a passionate stanza from La 
 Juive. 
 
 Poor Charlotte, little knowing the trickiness of 
 the theatre, 9aw nothing in the conduct of Valen- 
 tine but devotion, sacrifice, love without bounds, 
 and, not wishing to let him bear all the self-denial, 
 she gave herself up to him, body and soul. 
 
 Remorse soon assailed the poor girl ; Valentine 
 had sworn that he was going to throw himself at 
 the M tillers' feet to obtain their consent to their 
 marriage, but he took good care to do nothing, 
 and Charlotte, who for the first time had a secret 
 to hide, passed some days full of anxiety and 
 nights without sleep. 
 
 It was another thing when she discovered that 
 she bore in her body the undoubted proof of her 
 fault. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 6 7 
 
 What was she to do ? 
 
 Confess everything to her mother? Rather 
 than make this sad confession she would die of 
 shame ! 
 
 In these circumstances Valentine obtained a 
 hearing, with a promise of a debut at the Opera 
 Comique. 
 
 He was heard, and was disliked. 
 
 He never for a moment thought of attributing his 
 non-success to his idleness. He accounted for it by 
 the preoccupations of every kind which surrounded 
 him, and, indeed, laid the blame on Charlotte, 
 who suffered his reproaches without complaint. 
 
 He was unjust and bad, like all men without 
 strength or energy. 
 
 Since his rebuff, he associated with dramatic 
 agents, wishing, as he said, to confer upon the 
 public of the province his incontestable talent, to 
 the detriment of the dilettanti Parisians. 
 
 At last the director of the theatre of Ram- 
 bouillet, who had seen all his company fall away 
 like a house of cards, wanted a tenor to do every- 
 thing. 
 
 They sent Valentine to him. 
 He sang falsely, more falsely, perhaps, than his 
 predecessors. He was received, however, without 
 any difficulty. The hisses of the public had no 
 more power to attack him. 
 
53 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The position of Charlotte grew worse every 
 day ; her interesting condition was no longer hid 
 from anyone ; despair made her mad ; she thought 
 seriously of suicide. 
 
 ' Ah ! if I could die without killing my child,' 
 she said, ' with what joy would I die ! ' 
 
 She lied without knowing it, the poor, dear 
 soul, for at the idea of this sacrifice she had 
 thought of Valentine, and she would not have 
 killed herself, for she still loved the wretch. 
 
 One morning, in a courageous fit, after having 
 written to her parents a letter wet with tears, in 
 which she swore that they would once more 
 see her worthy of them — that is to say, 
 married — she went to meet her seducer, who 
 received her badly, although he did receive her ; 
 that was nothing but what one might have 
 expected from the kind of man he was. 
 
 The wretch was restrained by the fear of dis- 
 pleasing his companions. 
 
 Much has been spoken and written against 
 comedians, but few people feel more quickly and 
 are more indignant over a bad deed. 
 
 About a month after his arrival at Ram- 
 bouillet, Charlotte brought into the world her 
 little Margaret, an angel of beauty and gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 She hoped for a moment that the sight of his 
 
THE COURTESAN. 6g 
 
 infant would turn Valentine's heart; it did 
 nothing of the kind. 
 
 He went out in the early morning and came 
 back very late, on the pretext that the cries of 
 the little girl hurt his nerves. 
 
 In short, one day he did not come back at all. 
 Charlotte was in misery; she had the ingenuousness 
 to believe in misfortune; but soon she understood 
 that her seducer had flown with the wife of a decent 
 shopkeeper, and that this wretch, who was neither 
 young nor beautiful, had robbed her husband, 
 besides. 
 
 The poor man, not being able after this blow 
 to carry on his business properly, went and blew 
 out his brains. 
 
 The scandal was great, it may easily be 
 imagined, in a small town. 
 
 Will Heaven not avenge the victims by punish- 
 ing the criminals ? I don't know. What I do 
 know is that nothing more was ever heard of the 
 adulteress, or of Valentine. 
 
 Charlotte, in despair, without money, without 
 resources, without credit, broken down by her 
 sorrows, was to be pitied ! From that moment, 
 a little frequent dry cough declared itself, and 
 would not leave her. The Mailers' daughter, 
 proud still in her misfortune, would have 
 endured, without a murmur, all privations; but 
 
70 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 could she allow her dear little Margaret, this frail 
 and innocent creature, to suffer ? 
 
 She asked for and obtained a place in the 
 chorus, thus renouncing all her dreams of glory. 
 
 She had her daily bread, but, in place of con- 
 tinuing her studies, she was obliged to consecrate 
 the hours she did not pass at the theatre with 
 needlework in order to pay some old debts. Her 
 companions, touched by her misery, made a little 
 subscription among themselves, which the trea- 
 surer of the company brought her, not as an 
 alms, but as the expression of the sincere esteem 
 in which everyone held her. 
 
 * You have not the right to refuse this money,' 
 said the honest fellow, ' for it is not addressed to 
 you — read that ! ' 
 
 Charlotte took the paper which enclosed the 
 sum, and read with emotion the following words : 
 'To our little companion, Margaret.' She 
 pressed the hand of the manager and accepted 
 the gift. 
 
 The young actress saw that despondency could 
 lead to nothing ; she wished to do her duty as a 
 mother. 
 
 She took courage afresh ; her health and 
 beauty came back. 
 
 Soon a small part was given to her, then a 
 greater ; at last the principal songstress found her- 
 
THE COURTESAN. 7 1 
 
 self suddenly taken with a loss of voice, arising 
 from a mixture of caprice and bad temper, a kind 
 of malady of which first-class performers alone 
 have the secret. Charlotte replaced her at a 
 moment's notice, and had an immense success. 
 
 The Lovelaces of the coulissas and the frequenters 
 of the theatre, young and old, sent her flowers, 
 real and artificial, declarations in prose and verse, 
 in French and in Iroquois, in Iroquois especially ! 
 
 She knew how to preserve the good graces of 
 all by not giving preference to anyone. The 
 poor girl had paid too dearly for a first and sole 
 fault to commit a second. 
 
 The theatrical year was nearing its end, and 
 the Miillers' daughter took a heroic resolution : 
 she was anxious to be reinstated in the good 
 opinion of her parents. 
 
 1 1 know how culpable I was,' she wrote to 
 them, ' but God has punished me severely ; if you 
 believe I am worthy of a little pity, pardon me ! 
 not for my sake but for my child's.' 
 
 The reply was not long in coming; she 
 received, almost immediately, her pardon and 
 the money nectosary for the complete payment 
 of the debts contracted during her time of 
 trouble. 
 
 Everything was forgotten ! Miiller and Therese 
 were dying with impatience; they counted the 
 
72 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 hours and minutes. At last this day, so longed 
 for, arrived. 
 
 Both of them rushed to the Western Station, 
 at which they arrived two hours too soon ; but 
 they had no idea of complaining ; for through 
 an open door, from time to time, did they not see 
 the rails along which their two treasures were to 
 come ? 
 
 When the train was signalled they could no 
 longer stand still : they danced, they laughed, they 
 wept, they were mad. 
 
 The gates opened ; at last the crowd commenced 
 to pour through the two wooden barriers ; three 
 cries went up at the same moment — cries of joy, 
 of love, of felicity. 
 
 Charlotte was in her parents' arms. 
 
 Some days after this unhoped-for return, the 
 tailor's house was not to be recognised. The 
 good man sang from morning till night. 
 
 Therese and he argued as to who should most 
 quickly and best meet all the caprices of Miss 
 Margaret, who had become their idol. 
 
 If the beloved child granted a caress to one of 
 the old people, the other was quite jealous, and 
 made a thousand little comic entreaties to obtain 
 one. 
 
 Pure home joys ! Alas ! you were to be of short 
 duration. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 73 
 
 Charlotte recommenced her studies ; she wished 
 to acquire a thorough talent to enrich her 
 daughter ; yet that obstinate cough often distressed 
 her. So as not to be far away from Margaret, 
 whom the Miillers resolved to bring up, the young 
 singer entered the Opera Comique, taking small 
 parts ; in this way she was no burden to her 
 parents, and she was able to work diligently, 
 under the eyes of excellent masters. 
 
 Margaret grew up under loving eyes, without 
 care for the future; they taught her music, in 
 which her success was surprising. 
 
 Her sympathetic, brilliant voice was the perfect 
 admiration of the old tailor. 
 
 Good fortune seemed to have visited the whole 
 district of the Miillers. Charlotte alone was 
 preoccupied ; she saw with disquietude the 
 expenses increasing and her emoluments remain- 
 ing stationary. 
 
 She thought vaguely of taking an engagement 
 in the provinces, where an artiste of a certain 
 merit gains perhaps more money than at Paris, 
 doing, it is true, harder work — when the doctors 
 silenced her last scruples by ordering her to try 
 the air of the south ; she went, therefore, to Mar- 
 seilles, and made a successful debut at the Grand 
 Theatre. 
 
 When Margaret had reached her twelfth year, 
 
74 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 her mother, whose malady had increased in spite 
 of the kisses of the sun, wished to have her beside 
 her ; the old people dared not refuse her. They 
 understood the condition of their daughter well 
 enough to know that the little Margaret would 
 return to them too soon. 
 
 The fatigues of the theatre still further increased 
 Charlotte's disease ; but she had an end in view. 
 Margaret must have a dowry. 
 
 It was at this point that the good Therese had 
 died. 
 
 Old Muller found himself alone; he begged 
 Charlotte to come back to him. She would have 
 satisfied him in this, doubtless, for she knew that 
 all climates are equally good, or equally bad, for 
 the consumptive who has reached the last stage 
 of the disease ; but the least fatigue was now 
 forbidden her. 
 
 A journey of two hundred leagues would have 
 been folly; it was not to be dreamt of. 
 
 Muller, devoured by disquietude and grief, 
 always hoped for better news. 
 
 One day he received a letter sealed with black. 
 Charlotte had died in her daughter's arms. 
 
 This was a blow so terrible for the old man, 
 that he had not even the strength, or the weakness, 
 to weep. 
 
 Without saying a word, he took some clothes, 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 75 
 
 wrapped them inside a handkerchief, and left for 
 Marseilles. 
 
 When again installed in his lodging in the Rue 
 St. Jacques, the poor old man took his treasure 
 upon his knee, embraced her, and dissolved in 
 tears as he said : 
 
 ' Love me well, dear little one ! I have no one 
 but you in the whole world.' 
 
 When I saw Margaret with her grandfather she 
 was a pale and delicate child, of superhuman 
 beauty. 
 
 Her figure was straight, and supple as a 
 palm-tree ; her skin had the whiteness and 
 transparency of wax ; her fair hair, golden, fine 
 and silky, crowned a brow of irreproachable 
 purity. Before closing this rapid sketch, let me 
 add that her soul shone in eyes shaded by long 
 black lashes. Her voice was in harmony with 
 her beautiful face : she was like the echo of the 
 breeze sighing among the tall trees. 
 
 Margaret had but one passion — music ! 
 
 We passed some whole hours talking together 
 of the great masters. She loved Mozart. As for 
 me, I was madly fond of Weber. 
 
 To be pleasant to my little companion, I wrote 
 some pieces in a musical review. I had always 
 my pockets stuffed with orders. I gave these to 
 Margaret. What joy for the dear child to taste 
 
76 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 the chefs d'ceuvres of the Opera at the Theatre- 
 Italien ! What delight to hear our finest singers 
 and most celebrated songstresses ! 
 
 My examinations were passed successfully ; I 
 had the right to kill or cure my fellow- creatures. 
 I returned to my family and married. 
 
 When I came back to Paris, two years had 
 rolled away, the month of October had closed, 
 And, I can yet remember, the first cold was 
 already being felt. 
 
 In visiting my former district, I remembered 
 the old tailor and the pretty Margaret. Miiller's 
 signboard was still in the old spot, therefore 
 my old neighbour yet lived ; but I do not know 
 what sad presentiment seized my heart as I 
 mounted the stairs of the house. 
 
 A distressing sight awaited me. 
 
 I opened Miiller's door and remained rooted to 
 the threshold. 
 
 Margaret, that charming child whom I had 
 left full of life and a future, was there — stretched 
 upon an easy chair. Her face was pale, her eyes 
 encircled with rings and half closed ; the poor 
 girl was dying, consumed by the horrible malady 
 which had carried off her mother. 
 
 The old tailor, standing up, his arms hanging 
 down, leaned against his board, his eyes dry, but 
 red with weeping, and his head slowly turning 
 
THE COURTESAN. 77 
 
 round at the sound I made in entering ! . . . 
 Without uttering a word, he showed me this 
 ghost of Margaret, raised his glassy look to 
 heaven, while his head fell back exhausted on his 
 bosom ! . . . 
 
 I was pale, silenced, terrified ! . . . 
 
 I drew near the young girl ; in a single glance I 
 comprehended everything ! . . . She was 
 hardly fourteen, and already the poor flower was 
 decayed ! What fearful ravages this cruel disease 
 had made upon that frail and sweet organism ! 
 . . . Margaret recognised me and reached out 
 her hand, trying to smile ! . . . But the smile 
 was so sad, that, physician though I was, I felt my 
 heart beat, and two rills of tears course down my 
 cheeks ! 
 
 I recovered myself soon, and taking the thin 
 hand of the child, I gave in my turn a smile, but 
 I could not help feeling that it was really a 
 grimace. 
 
 I spoke of my family; I promised my little friend 
 to introduce her to my wife. 
 
 * Then be quick,' she said to me. 
 
 In my capacity as a physician, I ordered her 
 exercise — distraction ! ... I touched the 
 once vibrating chord as to theatres, concerts — 
 nothing would do, nothing would bring a sparkle 
 of life into that dull look I . . . The poor 
 
78 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 invalid bending her head gently, placed her hand 
 on her chest, the seat of the disease. 
 
 ' There is no remedy for my trouble,' she seemed 
 to say. 
 
 * But the weather is splendid,' I exclaimed, 
 \ and by taking a cab . . .' 
 
 I drew her attention to the warm and pale 
 autumn, the sun brightening part of the chamber 
 with its warm rays. 
 
 She followed my movement with her eyes. 
 
 At that moment the wind made the yellow big 
 leaves of the trees in a neighbouring garden leap 
 against the panes of glass. 
 
 Margaret, in her turn, pointed to them with her 
 fingers. 
 
 Alas ! yes ! the leaves were falling ! For her, 
 poor victim, it was a fatal presage ! 
 
 She gave a sorrowful sigh, while a dry cough 
 made her frame shake ; she carried to her lips her 
 handkerchief, which was marked with some drops 
 of blood. . . . There was no hope now ! 
 
 I went out with a feeling of death in my 
 
 soul. 
 
 A month afterwards, I followed the remains of 
 my little friend to the cemetery of Montparnasses ! 
 When the funeral ceremony was over, when the 
 man of God had blessed the coffin on which 
 twenty shovelfuls of earth fell with a dull and 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 79 
 
 sinister sound, I sought to withdraw the wretched 
 father from this place of desolation. . . . 
 
 All my efforts were powerless ! . . . 
 
 He sat down on the stone which covered his 
 well-beloved Margaret, and, holding me by the 
 hand with gratitude, made me a sign that he 
 wished to be alone in his despair. 
 
 His pale face was livid, his hands were icy, and 
 his eyes fixed and haggard. A convulsive trembling 
 shook all his limbs. 
 
 I dared not insist. I quietly withdrew. Then 
 he appeared to me to hear the voice of a bird 
 warbling its song in the branches of the funeral 
 tree which shadowed the tomb of Charlotte's 
 daughter. 
 
 At the end of some days, I could not resist the 
 desire to have some news of old Miiller. I went 
 through the doors of the black house of the Rue 
 St. Jacques. 
 
 ' Where are you going, sir ? ' enquired a harsh 
 voice. 
 
 ' To M. MullerV 
 
 1 The old madman is in. Go up.' 
 
 I raised my eyes, and saw leaning on a broom 
 the meagre creature who had replaced my old 
 concierge. 
 
 She laughed through all the teeth that remained 
 to her. 
 
g THE COURTESAN. 
 
 'What are you laughing at ? ' said I, impatiently. 
 
 1 Go up, go up, and we shall see if the old fool 
 will not make you split your sides about his bird!' 
 
 I went on, grumbling against those gross- 
 minded people who can see in a great misfortune 
 nothing but an amusing side. 
 
 As soon as I began to ascend the staircase, I 
 heard the still sonorous voice of the good man. 
 
 He sang his gay refrains as at other times. 
 
 On entering, I found him seated on his board. 
 He worked away with a will. • 
 
 ( Good-day, neighbour ! ' said he to me. ' I was 
 just waiting for you. Margaret has told me of 
 your visit -' 
 
 ' Margaret ! ' exclaimed I, trembling. 
 
 ' Yes, my grand-daughter, my treasure ! . . . 
 You don't see how she is moving about to be 
 polite to her old friend ? Come then, she shall 
 sing her grand piece you liked so well : ah ! what 
 a voice ! ' 
 
 I had followed the gaze of the old tailor, seeking 
 mechanically for what could, for him, replace his 
 dear Margaret, when I discovered in an elegant 
 cage a pretty warbler with a black head, as it 
 leaped from bar to bar, making me listen to a 
 joyous concert, while passing before my notice ali 
 its gracious repertoire ! 
 
 I understood then the words of the concierge. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 8i 
 
 The good Muller was really mad, as mad as 
 could be. 
 
 He observed my preoccupation and embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I understand,' he murmured in a low voice ; 
 ' they have said to you in the neighbourhood, " the 
 decent man Muller is crazy." That is how those 
 fools speak! They do not know that folly is 
 reason pushed further on than the limits assigned 
 to sorrowful humanity. Poor people, they laugh 
 at me because I don't wish to initiate them into 
 the mysterious secret which enables me still 
 to live and be happy! What good is it to 
 instruct these imbeciles who would laugh in my 
 face? But to you, who are my friend, and the 
 friend of my pretty Margaret, I will tell all. 
 Listen ! ' 
 
 He came down from his board, went to draw 
 the key from the door, which he closed behind 
 him, and handed me a chair. 
 
 During this time, the little warbler sang the 
 most tender melodies. 
 
 1 Ha ! the coquette, see how she receives you — 
 how she makes this a holiday ! . . . You 
 recognise, don't you, the cavatina from William 
 Tell, Sombres forets, which she sang so well, and 
 which you always asked for ? ' 
 And the old man went near the cage to chat 
 
g 2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 gaily with his songstress, as if she could under- 
 stand him and reply to him. 
 
 This folly was so sweet, that I almost allowed 
 myself to participate in it. 
 
 ' Let us talk,' said he, at last, sitting down near 
 me. ' You remember the sad day when, seated on 
 the tombstone which covered the remains of my 
 poor Margaret, I did not wish to follow you, not- 
 withstanding your persuasions? I knew well, 
 that all was not over, as the common herd would 
 imagine. I knew well, that heaven, just and good, 
 would work a miracle for me ! I was then 
 drowned in my grief, when I heard, in the 
 branches of a neighbouring tree, above my head, 
 the sweet song of a warbler with a black head. At 
 first I paid little attention ; but, little by little, my 
 spirit became, initiated into the meaning of this 
 singing, and 1 was taken quite by surprise, not 
 only to hear, but to comprehend, what the little 
 bird sang ! It said to me : 
 
 ' " I am not a simple bird! God, touched by thy 
 grief, has permitted a miracle ; not willing to give 
 ne back to thee in my earthly covering, he has 
 sent me under the form of a gentle warbler, that 
 1 may comfort thee by my songs and my gaiety !" 
 
 ' Listen,' cried the poor lunatic, 'how that bird 
 sings to me ! 
 
 1 While incredulous, like ordinary mortals, I did 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 83 
 
 not wish to disturb such a happiness, and I went 
 out. 
 
 ' The night fell ; I was chilled ! When I came 
 back into this little room, my grief was a thou- 
 sand times more horrible ; every object recalled 
 the remembrance of the angel I had lost ! 
 
 ' I sat down in this arm-chair, sir, with the fixed 
 determination to allow myself to die of hunger ! 
 Fate would not suffer it. God is good ; ah, yes ! 
 God is good ! The night passed thus ; then I saw 
 the dawn, and I heard the thousand sounds of the 
 street. I fell insensibly into a kind of prostration, 
 of somnolence, forgetfulness of everything, which 
 was not without its charms. 
 
 * The day had advanced, the wind blew in strong 
 gusts, and wept mournfully along the lobbies and 
 through the badly-jointed doors. All at once, 
 I heard — at first feebly, then more strongly — a dry 
 and jerky voice, which seemed to come from the 
 window ; impatiently I turned my head, and I 
 perceived, my dear sir — what a surprise ! — I per- 
 ceived my pretty warbler which, benumbed and 
 beating with its wings, struck with its little beak 
 against the glass ! I forgot my plan of suicide. 
 I ran to open the window, I drew in the poor 
 little creature, and warmed it in my bosom! 
 Then, sir, it warbled with a heavenly voice the 
 air from William Tell, without missing a note ! 
 
84 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 There was no doubt that the words which it 
 had sang in the cemetery were true ! God had 
 given me back my daughter!' 
 
 The old man looked at me, right into my eyes, 
 searching for the impression which his recital had 
 made on me. 
 
 As I did not wish, at any price, to cause him a 
 shadow of annoyance, I went over to the cage, 
 and said to the bird : 
 
 ' Good day, Margaret ; good day, my little 
 friend !' 
 
 The good man was intoxicated with delight ; 
 he would have embraced me ! 
 
 1 1 well knew,' cried he, ' that you recognised her.' 
 
 It was long ere I returned to the Rue St. Jacques. 
 
 The old man was crazed, but he was happy ! 
 
 One day, however, chance made me visit my old 
 district. 
 
 Was it really chance ? 
 
 ' Let me go and see old M tiller !' I said to my- 
 self ; ' I shall pass a pleasant hour !' 
 
 I approached the house, when I thought I could 
 observe a gathering before the door ; and I was 
 not deceived. 
 
 A crowd of curious people and idlers surrounded 
 one of those melancholy black conveyances, with- 
 out draperies or ornaments, which they call the 
 poor folks' hearse. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 85 
 
 1 Ah !' cried the same thin concierge, with her 
 snuffy nose, whom I had seen before ; ■ you have 
 come to see our old lunatic. He died yesterday, 
 and we are going to put him into the hole.' 
 
 I cannot tell the grief this news caused me. 
 
 Thus, in a few years, death had pitilessly swept 
 away four creatures who asked nothing but to live 
 that they might love ! 
 
 Soon I thought of the little warbler, and, 
 addressing myself to the old witch, I said : 
 
 ' Who has taken care of the bird which Miiller 
 loved so much ?' 
 
 \ No one,' replied she; 'and, if you wish it, take 
 it away with its cage : that would gladden the 
 heart of the old lunatic ! Go up ; you'll find the 
 key under the mattress.' 
 
 I quickly went upstairs, lest another might take 
 away my treasure. 
 
 I entered that room which I had seen inhabited 
 time about by good fortune and disappointment, 
 to-day deserted and silent. I ran to the little 
 cage ... it was empty. What neighbour had 
 taken the bird ? 
 
 I did not know what to think. 
 
 As I went towards the open window the funeral 
 procession started. I descended rapidly, and fol- 
 lowed the hearse of my poor old friend to his last 
 dwelling-place. 
 
86 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 He was buried near the remains of his dear 
 little Margaret. 
 
 When the crowd of idlers who had followed the 
 procession, as much for distraction as for duty, had 
 departed, I remained alone. It was indeed the 
 place where I had left, some months before, the 
 desolate old man . . . and now I sat down sorrow- 
 fully upon the funeral stone. 
 
 I was sunk in a deep reverie, when a warbler 
 with a black crest drew my attention. The 
 elegant and charming bird, perched on one of 
 the branches of the tree which overshadowed 
 the tombs of father and daughter, began to sing 
 its sweetest melodies. 
 
 Was it an aberration of my mind and an illusion 
 of my senses ? I thought I recognised in one of 
 those pieces the famous cavatina of William Tell, 
 
 'Margaret! Margaret!' cried I, and I seemed 
 to faint. When I came to myself, I saw near 
 the little wooden cross a warbler which expired 
 as it sent its last notes into the air. 
 
 I sought vainly to bring it to life. 
 
 As it gave forth its last sigh it raised its eyes 
 to me. It had indeed the very look of Margaret. 
 
 I hastened away, murmuring: 
 
 1 Had M tiller then spoken the truth ? Had the 
 soul of his daughter fled into the body of his little 
 bird ? Was he mad, cr are mad people those 
 
THE COURTESAN. 87 
 
 seers to whom heaven has given the faculty of 
 understanding that which we, who believe our- 
 selves to be reasonable beings, cannot compre- 
 hend ? ' 
 
 THE MORNING AFTER A SUCCESS. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S MAIL-BAG. 
 
 Darnetal rings. Bob, his servant, enters with 
 a measured step ; he brings his master's letters 
 on a plate from Delft, or from the neighbourhood 
 of Delft. Every morning Bob came in running, 
 asking familiarly for news of his master's health, 
 and gave him into his own hands his papers and 
 letters. 
 
 Wherefore this sudden change ? 
 
 Because Darnetal, who had written thirty pieces 
 without much success, had obtained a wonderful 
 victory with his comedy, The Citizen Gentleman, 
 and because Bob had assisted at this victory. 
 
 Darnetal read his letters, and, let us say it, the 
 most mischievous were not those which gave him 
 the most pleasure, for they confirmed more 
 certainly than the others the solidity of his success. 
 
 ' Dear Friend, 
 
 ' It is with eyes bathed still in sweet 
 tears that I write you to congratulate you 
 
83 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 on your great and legitimate success. But trust to 
 my long experience : cut out your first act, which 
 is poor, and your piece will gain a great deal. In 
 giving you this advice I prove to you my great 
 candour and my unchangeable friendship. 
 
 ' I clasp your hand, 
 
 <M . . . 
 
 ' P.S. — On mature reflection, I think it would be 
 better to cut out the second act, which is extravagant, 
 and to arrive at once at your admirable denouement. 
 
 ' P. P.S. — Suppose you were to cut out the 
 third act ? It is useless, since your piece is 
 really finished with the second.' 
 
 ' Dear Sir, 
 
 ' I have not closed an eye the whole night, 
 
 and this morning I am still much moved as I write 
 
 to you. Yes, it is a success, and a grand success. 
 
 It i« only regrettable that the director has thought 
 
 he should give you some decorations and superb 
 
 dresses, which serve to distract the public, and 
 
 prejudice even your beautiful prose — so beautiful, 
 
 indeed, that one asks often if it is not intended for 
 
 poetry. 
 
 1 Your passionate admirer, 
 
 'YOLANDE DE VALROSA, 
 
 ' Author of 
 
 1 The Woman Freed by Love. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 89 
 
 < P.S. — Come then to dinner without ceremony 
 on Thursday ; I have some friends with me, and 
 it will not vex me to introduce them to the 
 wonder of the day.' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' I have heard it often said : " It is 
 better to be on the side of those who give, 
 than on the side of those who ask." 
 
 ' I remain, at your orders, 
 
 ' A Confrere, 
 
 * Who is on the wrong side, since he is obliged 
 to ask you for some sovereigns to celebrate your 
 magnificent success.' 
 
 ' Dear Sir, 
 
 ' It took God seven days to create the 
 world, which is not a very remarkable thing. 
 You have taken six days to create your piece, 
 and it is a splendid effort. To whom should 
 the palm be given, I ask you? 
 
 ' Truly yours, 
 
 A • • • 
 
 'P.S. — If you have a box too many send it to 
 me. I shall offer it to my divisional officer, who 
 is very rich, and who dotes upon the theatre, but 
 only when he can go there for nothing.' 
 
go THE COURTESAN, 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' I am about to open a bootmaker's shop 
 ... I was seeking for a good name. Your grand 
 success has furnished me with it. If you will 
 allow me, I shall write upon my signboard, The 
 Citizen Gentleman. That will look well I think. 
 1 Hoping for a favourable reply, 
 
 ' I remain, 
 
 'Franz Muller, 
 ' Shoemaker for men, ladies, 
 children, and sportsmen.' 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' As I like distinct understandings, I now 
 ask you why I should no longer have the honour 
 of saluting you when I meet you? Yesterday 
 I said to you: "I shall go to assist at your first 
 appearance ; place me anywhere — it shall be 
 paradise." You gave me, excusing yourself, a stall 
 in the second gallery. I thanked you for it 
 with effusion, I confess. But how could I guess 
 that my tailor should be seated in the orchestra 
 fauteuils, and my wife's dressmaker in a box in 
 the first tier? At this unexpected sight I 
 bounded with rage, and not wishing to hiss, for a 
 man of my rank does not hiss in the theatre, I 
 contented myself with leaving the house, banging 
 the doors after me ! 
 
THE COURTESAN. gi 
 
 * You have so often given me good places that 
 I have the right, after such an outrage, to cease 
 calling myself your devoted 
 
 'R. De O . . .'■ 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' Everybody is speaking well of your 
 piece ; but there will always be one who will 
 think more of it than everybody else. That is 
 yourself. 
 
 ' While your friends, known and unknown, sing 
 your praises, I alone will tell you the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Your 
 dialogue is as gay as an Englishman in a merry 
 mood. Your hyperborean action would give chil- 
 blains to a sick man's wooden leg, and your 
 piquant words resemble serpents — they don't 
 sting ! Excuse me if I should mingle these drops 
 of vinegar with the milk other people have served 
 you with since yesterday. 
 
 ■ A Friend of your Family. 
 
 ' P.S. — The animals and vegetables are more 
 reasonable than certain men. Have you seen an 
 ass which pretended to produce elephants, or an 
 apple tree which thought of bearing pines ? Is 
 that not so ? Well, why is it, then, that you seem 
 determined to write comedies, when your Maker 
 
92 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 has manifestly entrusted to you the delicate 
 mission of making boots ? ' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 1 You have had the kindness to send me 
 
 the box which I asked of you, but I dined in 
 
 town. I hoped indeed to go to applaud you 
 
 about eleven o'clock. . . . Alas! I could not 
 
 make my escape. Paul arrived very late, and 
 
 you can understand how I was detained listening 
 
 to him. It is not, therefore, my fault that the 
 
 box remained unoccupied. Send me another 
 
 to-morrow; I have nothing to do. Accept my 
 
 best compliments. 
 
 ' Sabine de B . . .' 
 
 ' Dear Friend, 
 
 'For some years I have met you very 
 little. I have looked at you, however, and I 
 have said to myself : Why that is Darnetal . . . 
 my college companion. ... It was only 
 yesterday that I heard your name proclaimed 
 before three thousand spectators in ecstasy — I 
 am sure I was not deceived. Come, then, and 
 dine with me on Sunday. I shall present you 
 to my wife's family; that will place me well 
 with my mother-in-law. 
 
 ' Yours ever, 
 
 '■ Baron De Vilpinte.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 93 
 
 'My old Comrade, 
 
 'The road which leads to glory and 
 fortune is so crowded that one cannot walk there 
 without knocking against somebody else. That 
 someone whom you have knocked against is 
 myself. This is the way of it : When I had read 
 in my Figaro that the director of the Folies 
 Panoramiques had accepted, and was going to 
 put on the stage, a piece of yours, I was going 
 to take him one of my own with which I was 
 much pleased. I refrained from doing so from 
 the idea that he might regret his precipitation ; 
 that was polite, wasn't it? I hope that you 
 will reward me for my good action by making 
 them play before your Citizen Gentleman the^ 
 little farce which I enclose— it is sprightly, 
 piquant, and original, but of a quiet gaiety which 
 will do no harm to the piece of the evening, 
 1 Your old companion, 
 
 ' Brijounet.' 
 
 'Dear Sir, 
 
 * I was unable to assist at your success, 
 which has been a triumph. Could you send me 
 a box for some evening of next week ? 
 
 'You will oblige one who calls himself with 
 pride, your friend, 
 
 (Sixty-four copies of this letter, a little varied.) 
 
q 4 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 * My Dear Darnetal, 
 
 ' I wish to be the first to congratulate 
 you on the success of your piece, which places 
 you decidedly on a pedestal without an equal ; 
 while I do not regret having refused it, for it 
 would have been hissed in my place. 
 
 ' I grasp your hand, 
 
 'Q • • • 
 
 ' Director of the Bouffes du Sud. 
 
 1 P.S. — I hope you will not regard me with any 
 disfavour, and that soon you will give me the 
 opportunity of showing you how much my theatre 
 and its director are at your service.' 
 
 ' Dear Friend, 
 
 ' Some divergences of ideas have made 
 us abandon a comedy which we began together. 
 I have thought over it since yesterday. You are 
 right on all the points we spoke of; to-morrow, if 
 you are agreeable, we will recommence our work 
 where we left it, and it will be finished a month 
 hence ; it will follow your che£ d'&uvre (not for a 
 good long time yet, of course), but it is as well to 
 be prepared ! 
 
 'Your co-worker and devoted 
 
 'M . . .' 
 
THE COURTESAN. gc 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' You have made an immense success, 
 but, allow me to say it without spleen, your work 
 has not done you much harm ; what you have 
 taken for invention is only an effort of memory. 
 I will explain. In 1869, I sent you a work .... 
 which began with a domestic scene and finished with a 
 marriage ! . . . It is plain enough ; should I say 
 more ? Do you dare to maintain that your 
 Citizen Gentleman has not the same beginning and 
 the same ending ? Then it is a plagiarism ! 
 Once more, without any spleen, 
 
 ' Very truly yours, 
 
 <A . . .' 
 ' Member of many academies of the 
 provinces and outskirts. 
 
 1 P.S. — If you desire it, we shall name arbiters 
 who shall decide what part of the author's right 
 belongs to me. Whatever may be their judg- 
 ment, from this moment I declare that, under no 
 pretext whatever, will I consent to be named 
 with you on the play-bill or in the play ; many 
 phrases of your dialogue express opinions which 
 are not mine . . . ' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 : I have an idea of making a provincial 
 and foreign tour with your splendid comedy, The 
 
9 6 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 Citizen Gentleman. If you will condescend to 
 author** a me, I promise you, sir, to put the work 
 on the r if ge as well, and even better, than your 
 manager has done in Paris. I shall engage for 
 this purpose, and specially, MM. Alphonse, Pierre, 
 and Alfred . . . Mmes. Adele, Brigitte, and 
 Amanda ... If we can work together, as I have 
 every hope we may, I shall do my best to prove 
 to you that artistes 'beyond the line,' whom I 
 shall have the honour to submit to your notice, 
 are infinitely superior to those who have, by 
 habit, spent all their time in Paris. 
 
 * Waiting your decision, I am, with admiration, 
 
 'Yours devotedly, 
 
 ' Saint-Phar, 
 
 ' Ex-artiste of the principal theatres 
 of the capitals.' 
 
 'Dear Master, 
 
 1 Enclosed is a comedy in five acts, in 
 which there is one theme ; it is badly written — by 
 a young man without experience. I thought of 
 sending it to you at once ! If the work suits you, 
 please send a word of reply. 
 ' Yours, 
 
 <N . . . 
 * Manager of the Bouffes de l'Ouest. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 97 
 
 ' P-S. — Your piece of yesterday is superb; my 
 sincere compliments. Played in my theatre, it 
 should have five hundred representations ; where 
 it is, it will go a long time, no doubt, in spite of 
 an interpretation which I shall only call defective, 
 in order not to murder a confrere ! ' 
 
 ' My Little Darnetal, 
 
 ■ You have had a strange idea, when you 
 entrusted the part of the Princess to that goose of 
 a Sylvia, when you had only to speak the word to 
 have me ; but what is done, is done ; let us say 
 nothing more about that. Let us talk about 
 something else. If Sylvia, who has a ruined con- 
 stitution, like the person she has honoured with 
 her friendship, should fall ill, I am ready to be her 
 " double." Mme. Chotel, my manageress, who 
 is a delightful woman, will give me my freedom 
 when I desire it ; she will give it me all the more 
 willingly, inasmuch as her public have me " on 
 the hip " just now, because I am a woman too 
 much of the higher order ! 
 
 ' Yours truly, 
 
 ' Rosaline, 
 1 Grand coquette of all sorts at the theatres of 
 Montmartre and Batignolles.' 
 1 My Dear M. Darnetal, 
 
 ' It is a great success — there can be no 
 
98 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 doubt about it. Scarcely a day has gone, and I 
 have already many demands from the provinces 
 and abroad. You will probably this morning have 
 a visit of M . . . and of Z . . . . Do not sign 
 anything. These men are fellows who like to deal 
 directly with the authors, because they know that 
 they can humbug you easily, by giving you some 
 flattering blows full in the face ! 
 
 ' Yours devotedly, 
 
 1 Gu stave Roger, 
 ' Agent-general for authors and 
 composers of music' 
 
 1 D^ar Master, 
 
 ' Have you still got the piece I refused a 
 month ago ? I think I must have read it care- 
 lessly ; I was much pre-occupied at the time, with 
 things I shall speak of to you when you come to 
 talk with me as to your " cast." 
 ' Hoping to see you soon, 
 
 <Z . . . 
 
 ' Manager of the Bouffes de PEst.' 
 
 ' My Good Darnetal, 
 
 ' Since you are in vogue, you ought to 
 give me a role. You understand me; you know 
 that I make my toilette with marvellous taste, 
 and that I can, without fear, appear in a dress and 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 99 
 
 undress on the stage. Disguise also suits me 
 well. Although I am not thin, I don't exactly 
 burst through swaddling-clothes, but I have 
 nothing to apprehend on that score. This is 
 what I wish : no singing, a little prose, and a 
 good deal of moving about ... A scene of 
 English or French boxing, some dancing, and an 
 assault-at-arms. If the part goes well I shall be 
 grateful — everyone will tell you what I mean by 
 being grateful. 
 
 1 Rose Mosseuse. 
 
 ' P.S. — One word more : I can do the knife 
 business like George Sand in her lifetime, or like 
 a Chinese ; I can ride like Eliza (of Vienna), and 
 I can juggle like Oceana ; but it is quite unneces- 
 sary to say anything more as to what I can do.' 
 
 * Dear Friend, 
 
 ' I was bewitched, transported, enchanted ; 
 you have never done anything better. Your 
 Citizen Gentleman is the Vere Prodiguz, of Dumas ; 
 your girl, plain and yet charming, she is Angi6r's 
 Philiberte; your little princess, she is la petite 
 Marquise, of Meilhac and Halevy ; your seducing 
 and shabby lover, that is Radolphe, of VHonneur 
 et V Argent, who takes no dinner that he may buy 
 gloves. I don't speak of your action ... it is 
 puerile, but it is an intentional puerility ; you are 
 
XOO THE COURTESAN. 
 
 not the man to tread in the track beaten by 
 d'Ennery or Cormon. Once more, dear friend, all 
 my compliments : you alone have talent enough 
 to obtain a grand success with a piece in which 
 there are neither mind, nor characters, nor 
 invention. 
 
 'Your devoted confrere, 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' It is when one is happy that the heart 
 opens to pity ; and you are very happy, owing to 
 your splendid success of yesterday. I am the 
 father of seven children of tender age, and my 
 wife has died of consumption in an hospital. A 
 little help will sweeten the cruellest of sufferings. 
 Hear the little red and white angels saying to you : 
 " I am hungry," and can you not weep with them ? 
 1 It is with the most profound respect that I am, 
 sir, your very humble servant, 
 
 ' A Modest Poor Man. 
 
 ' P.S. — I shall call at midday, on your concierge, 
 to see if you have had any compassion for us.' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' I have seen your comedy, The Citizen 
 Gentleman; it has had some success, it ought to have 
 it ; for it contains some good scenes and some new 
 
THE COURTESAN. 101 
 
 ones; unhappily, the new scenes are not good, 
 and the good are not new. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 ' Anonymous. 
 1 P.S. — There are good things in Moliere, if you 
 know his works.' 
 
 ' Dear Sir, 
 
 * It is because your play is a good one 
 that I permit myself to criticise it a little. First, 
 your characters do not live ; and then in what a 
 world are we, gracious goodness ! Where have 
 you seen a woman, legally married, who paid the 
 bills of her dressmakers and bootmakers through 
 another man than her husband? In what fabled 
 country will you find a real marquis who becomes 
 a democrat to reach the lofty position of a deputy ? 
 Where will you meet a princess, who is chronicled 
 in the Almanac de Gotha, so shameless as to 
 marry a student enriched only three days before 
 by a lucky hit at cards ? And this notary, who 
 loses his clients' money at baccarat, where are 
 you to find him? And that young girl, who 
 calculates better than the late Bareme, and that 
 son of the family who, after being stripped by 
 gay women, strips in his turn the impassioned old 
 women whom he can influence — where have you 
 met them ? If I allow myself these observations, 
 
102 
 
 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 dear sir, it is simply because your play is a 
 good one ! 
 
 * Yours, 
 
 'Inglebert de Champbertin. 
 
 ' P.S. — You know well, dear sir, that I have a 
 right to speak to you in this way. I belong to a 
 world which you do not understand. One of my 
 ancestors was ennobled by the Duke of Burgundy 
 about 1407 for having helped in the murder of 
 Gaston, of Orleans, and my great great grand- 
 mother had the honour to be the mistress of 
 Louis XV.' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 1 Enclosed is a comedy, which I beg you 
 will read ; it is only in a state of embryo ; but with 
 your proved talent and Parisian mind, you will 
 easily make it a chef d'czuvre. 
 
 4 Of all your humble adorers, the most sincere, 
 
 'X . . . 
 
 1 P.S. — If you render me the service I beg of 
 you, I will astonish you by the singularity of my 
 conduct. I shall be grateful!' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' I have read in the Figaro an announce- 
 ment which, no doubt, comes from you ; it declares 
 that your play was written with amazing rapidity. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 103 
 
 I would not do you the honour of not believing 
 you ; I shall only quote a sentence which a philo- 
 sopher, whose name I forget, has published in a 
 work, whose title I don't remember : " Time has 
 no respect for that which has been done without 
 
 it." 
 
 ' Yours very devoted, 
 
 'Anonymous (Elder Son).' 
 ' Sir, 
 
 ' M. Alex. Dumas has a splendid astrachan 
 fur coat, M. Sardou a sable, M. Meilhac an otter. 
 M. d'Arnetal would be dishonoured if one were to 
 see him still with a simple great-coat after the 
 magnificent success of his Citizen Gentleman. 
 Would M. d'Arnetal permit me then to send him, 
 with my respectful compliments, a pelisse of blue 
 fox, which will make him, I daresay, the equal, 
 or, indeed the superior, of these distinguished 
 authors ? 
 
 ' BlRMANN, 
 
 ' Tailor. 
 1 P.S. — On the opposite page is the account of 
 M. d'Arnetal from 18 — till this date. The cost 
 of the pelisse is 1,200 francs, which I take the 
 liberty of adding to the same.' 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' It is long since Madame la Comtesse de 
 Primivere, nee d'Arnetal, my wife, said to me: 
 
j CM THE COURTESAN. 
 
 " My dear, I am convinced that M. d'Arnetal, the 
 
 celebrated dramatic author, is a relative of mine : 
 
 find out if this is so." I have found out that you 
 
 are from the North. The family of the Countess 
 
 is from the South ; but, about 830, a Sire Romauld 
 
 d'Arnetal disappeared, and we have every reason 
 
 to believe that he took up his abode in the borders 
 
 of Flanders ; are you not a descendant of this 
 
 Romauld ? In any case, if you would do us the 
 
 honour to come to our ball of the 13th April, 
 
 Madame the Countess de Primivere, nee d'Arnetal, 
 
 will be happy to make the acquaintance of a 
 
 relative who has shed such lustre on her name ! 
 
 • Accept, sir, the assurances of my distinguished 
 
 sentiments, 
 
 ' Comte de Primivere.' 
 
 1 My Big Little Man, 
 
 * Your play is exceedingly pretty. More 
 than a hundred people, and even many intimate 
 friends, have complimented me — I am very proud. 
 On leaving the theatre I met one of my dress- 
 makers, with whom I have a heavy unsettled 
 account. You know her; the one who has so 
 often laughed when I have offered her bills signed 
 by you. Well, she will accept them since your 
 success. That is an honour, isn't it ? 
 
 ' Thine, 
 
 * Tata.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. IOf 
 
 4 My Dear Client, 
 
 • I have applauded with both hands your) 
 brilliant success. . . Yet I must allow myself 
 to make a criticism. Your notary is ridiculous ; 
 and there are some ridiculous notaries. Oh ! if 
 Maitre Dunand had approved . . acknowledged 
 . . . or anything else, your comedy would 
 have been perfect. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 'Jean Dunand, 
 
 ' Notary.' 
 ' Dear Friend, 
 
 ' I assisted at your success. I did not 
 know whose play it was, and I have only now 
 heard this with pleasure. When you were named 
 I was charmed, and, I must confess, astonished. 
 I have known you for a long time, and I could 
 not have believed you capable of writing such a 
 fine work. Once more accept my compliments. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 ' C 
 
 ' P.S. — You have no collaborates, I suppose ? 
 For I am told that authors do not often give their 
 names, and that sometimes the best remain in 
 retirement.' 
 
I0 5 THE COURTESAN- 
 
 THE MORNING AFTER A FAILURE. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S MAIL BAG. 
 
 A true copy! C. N, 
 
 THE LITTLE DONKEY. 
 
 (Dedicated to the Society for the Protection of 
 Animals.) 
 
 I had met on the Place de la Madeleine cne o*" 
 those intimate friends whom one sees only oiK,e 
 in five years, and whose name and address are 
 utterly unknown to you. He held out his hand to 
 me, saying: 
 
 ' Here ! at this season. You are still the same 
 immovable Parisian whom I formerly knew. As 
 for me, I pass my time at Montriel, a little retired 
 town in the country. You have grown stout ! no ; 
 I believe you have become rather thinner; but 
 you are looking very well indeed. You must find 
 me changed, however, for a great misfortune has 
 befallen me. I have lost Junot, my little 
 donkey.' 
 
 I raise my eyes to my friend, who goes on with 
 the same volubility : 
 
 'You think I am mad. I know that; but when 
 
THE COURTESAN. 1Q y 
 
 you know what my little ass was, you will pity me 
 in my grief. Have you got a quarter of an hour 
 to spare ? ' 
 
 'Yes/ 
 
 ■ Will you come into Durand's ? ' 
 
 ' No ; let us walk to the turning-point of the 
 Champs- Elys6es, and you shall tell me your 
 story.' 
 
 I have always thought that to listen to a story 
 which a friend, should he be an intimate one, 
 is longing to tell, is to render him a signal 
 service. 
 
 After a considerable silence, X . . . began 
 his narrative. 
 
 * You may remember, I dare say,' he said, 
 ' little Lydia, of the Opera.' 
 
 ' She who danced so beautifully in the ballet of 
 the Prophete ? ' 
 1 The same.' 
 
 * Poor girl ; she is dead.' 
 < Ah ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I can recall everything to my mind now. 
 Her foreseeing mother had entrusted to you the 
 good fortune of her beloved daughter.' 
 
 ' Madame Baru still lives on the income which 
 was agreed upon then.' 
 
 ' Did you lodge your mistress in a small house 
 in the Rue de Prony ? ' 
 
108 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 'In a very comfortable mansion, my word ! 
 which would have belonged to her three years 
 after the signature of our little contract, if Lydia 
 had lived a little longer.' 
 
 ' You took your precautions.' 
 
 ' As I had frequented the ballet green room a 
 good deal, I distrusted myself a little. This time 
 I was wrong. Lydia was an angel. After two 
 years and a half of a happiness without the least 
 shadow of a cloud, she died. But we will come 
 to Junot, my little donkey. 
 
 One day, on leaving a rehearsal, hurrying to 
 see me, Lydia took an open cab and caught 
 inflammation of the lungs. Her doctor sent her 
 to Ems, and I accompanied her. You know Ems ; 
 it is a charming town lying at the base of a 
 beautiful mountain, on the banks of a sweet river, 
 the Lahu, all the guides will tell you, for when one 
 guide says a thing all the others repeat it word 
 for word. 
 
 I had a letter from my illustrious and lamented 
 friend Ambroise Tardieu for Dr. Doering, and I 
 took it to him on the day of my arrival. He 
 received us in a little drawing-room on the ground 
 floor, which looked on the grand and almost only 
 street in Ems. He laid down his pipe, a large 
 porcelain pipe, to sound Lydia; and without 
 saying a word, without his countenance showing 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 iog 
 
 the least expression, he wrote a prescription in 
 the following terms : 
 
 ' The Waters of Ems. 
 
 '* For the first six days — regularly. 
 
 ■ At six o'clock a.m., a bath of twenty-six 
 degrees, for fifteen minutes. 
 
 ' At seven o'clock a.m., a four-ounce glass of 
 kessel-brunnen ; from mid-day till four o'clock, a 
 promenade, neither on foot, nor in a carriage, nor 
 on horseback, but on donkey-back ; and at six 
 p.m., a glass of kroenchen.' 
 
 While Lydia was re-adjusting her dress, 1 
 asked the doctor, in a low voice, what he thought 
 of her. He did not reply to my question. I knew 
 later, that when he had nothing good to say, he 
 made it appear as if he did not very well under- 
 stand French, which, however, he spoke as well as 
 you or I do. 
 
 When we left the doctor's house, it struck two. 
 
 * If you take my advice,' said he, ' you will 
 begin the cure from to-day, by a good promenade, 
 and at six o'clock you will go to the Kurhaus, you 
 will present your little piece of paper, and they will 
 give you, without your asking it, a glass of kroen- 
 chen — it is very good — you will think you are drink- 
 ing veal soup ; ' and he added : ' you will find the 
 depot for donkeys on the right bank of the Lahn, 
 
HO THE COURTESAN. 
 
 near a little bridge, at the side of the old gate , 
 you will ask for Junot — he is the best one in the 
 place — unfortunately for him, he has been the 
 best beast there for a long time now. If he is 
 engaged, you will say that you have come from 
 me ; my name is law ; yet, if you promise a good 
 tip, you are still more sure of success. To-morrow 
 in the Trinkhall, I shall be there from dawn to 
 inspect the faces of my patients.' 
 
 We went along the main street up to the little 
 bridge, and we made the acquaintance of Junot. 
 All passed as the doctor had predicted ; the little 
 ass was hired to a rich Brazilian, who was going 
 to take it for three hours, but a * white piece' 
 transferred it to us at once. 
 
 Without being possessed of the elegance of 
 Tafur, the favourite of the prophet, or the style of 
 walking peculiar to the Egyptian donkeys, which 
 are worth two or three thousand francs, Junot 
 was a fine animal, in a country where the ass is a 
 personage of no great importance. 
 
 Our first promenade was charming. As I did 
 not know the country, I allowed myself to be 
 guided by the donkey-boy, who led us to the ruins 
 of the chateau of Nassau. At six o'clock we 
 returned; we made our entrance into the grand 
 saloon of the Kurhaus, and Lydia took her glass of 
 kroenchen. As I had been very pleased with 
 
THE COURTESAN. XII 
 
 junot, I gave five francs to the donkey-boy, on 
 condition that he would not beat the poor brute. 
 He pocketed the money, and said to me, senten- 
 tiously : 
 
 * The ass is a stupid animal, which needs to be 
 beaten.' 
 
 * As eels require to be skinned alive ! ' I replied. 
 He looked at me with his open mouth, and 
 
 instead of answering, dealt a vigorous blow with 
 his stick at Junot, who did not seem willing to 
 leave us. This last act of brutality decided the 
 future of the poor long-suffering creature. In due 
 course I engaged the donkey for the whole season, 
 and I obtained the right to go with him alone, 
 thanks to my good appearance and a payment of 
 two hundred francs, double its value. Every day we 
 took our promenade regularly, and I say it to his 
 praise, the donkey never required either a correc- 
 tion or a reproach. Whenever he saw us coming, 
 he ran at full trot towards us, giving out a joyous 
 ' hee haw ! ' 
 
 Dr. Doering had ordered Lydia to continue the 
 treatment till the month of September ; at last the 
 final day of our departure arrived; if the poor 
 Junot had been able to speak, like Balaam's ass, he 
 would have made a speech with an exordium and a 
 peroration on the vexation which one who has a poor 
 life of it feels when deprived of one's protectors. 
 
[12 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The winter had passed a little better, and in 
 the month of May, we were re-installed at Ems. 
 Junot recognised us from a distance, saw as 
 coming, and fawned on us a thousand times. 
 
 During the whole season we were to be seen on 
 all the roads ; from the silver foundry at Stolzen- 
 fels, from the convent of Marienberg to the 
 chateau of Lahneck, Lydia on her donkey and I 
 on horseback. I had found for my own use an old 
 mare which was as cross-grained as Junot was 
 good-tempered. 
 
 About the end of the month of July, the condi- 
 tion of Lydia became so alarming that Dr. Doering 
 ordered her to cease the treatment and to go of} 
 without a minute's delay to the South. 
 
 After we had taken farewell of Junot, who was 
 our only friend in the place, we went to stay at 
 Mentone, the most healthy country in the whole 
 world, and on the 15th of June we had re-taken 
 possession of our little suite of rooms in the Hotel 
 d'Angleterre at Ems. Our first visit was to Dr. 
 Doering, our second was to Junot — poor little 
 creature, he was much changed. He came to us, 
 but instead of running he walked; in place of 
 seeming to smile at us, he cast on Lydia a look 
 which might have been thus translated : 
 
 ' Dear child, if you are ill, I also 
 suffered.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 11^ 
 
 The obsequious donkey-boy, with his empty 
 guffaw, said : 
 
 ' You won't recognise your donkey now — isn't 
 that so? — he is done, quite done. Formerly, I 
 used to recommend him to my best customers ; 
 now I am obliged to advise them not to take him. 
 Look at him! he is perfectly comical — with his 
 belly like a big drum ; when one knocks on it, it 
 goes " bomm bomm." It is very amusing.' And 
 the fellow must now give us a representation of 
 his comedy. 
 
 I stopped his stick as it was coming down, and 
 cried : 
 
 * You are an abominable man !' 
 
 Tarn not so bad,' he answered, 'as my com- 
 panion, Fritz ; when his donkey won't go, he 
 smashes one of his nostrils, and if he is not 
 satisfied with that he strikes the other, and 
 at last he cuts at his tail, and makes it like a 
 Frankfort sausage. As to me, I am content with 
 making a hole in Junot's hindquarters, and when 
 I wish to stimulate his energies, I prick him with 
 a little knife in the wound, which I leave raw ; but 
 this scarcely suits me now, for I have always on 
 my stick some blood which might stain my 
 customers.' 
 
 While the donkey-boy was speaking, Junot 
 was looking at us with a melancholy aspect ; 
 
114 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 he knew very well that we were speaking about 
 him. 
 
 ■ It's all the same,' I said at last to the boy ; ' I 
 engage your donkey for the season, as in former 
 years.' 
 
 1 1 cannot just answer you at once,' he replied ; 
 ' I am on terms for his sale to a butcher in the 
 main street ; I have asked twenty-five florins — he 
 has offered me twenty, you understand, and if he 
 gives the price I have demanded, I must deliver 
 him at once — after the season he would be worth 
 nothing, and I should be obliged to kill him to 
 get his skin.' 
 
 ' I will buy him from you.' 
 
 1 1 must wait the reply of the butcher, who has 
 my word, and who may give me twenty-five 
 florins.' 
 
 * I will give you thirty.' 
 
 ' That is quite another thing. Junot is yours. 
 But the stick is not included in the bargain.' 
 
 * I will leave that to you.' 
 
 To return to the hotel, we required to go 
 through the whole town ; on the way we met Dr. 
 Doering, who burst into a fit of laughter on seeing 
 me lead an ass along the way. 
 
 I told him the story, and he said : 
 
 ' You mustn't insinuate with your wicked French 
 tongue that all the inhabitants of Ems have been 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 115 
 
 bad to your protege ; I will cure him, although I 
 am not in the way of healing asses.' 
 
 The fact is that, eight days after, Junot's 
 wound was cicatrised. 
 
 When we went out to walk, he followed us like 
 a dog: they chaffed us a little, but we didn't 
 mind it; on no consideration would Lydia 
 have fatigued the poor beast, whom she still 
 looked on as a convalescent. 
 
 One morning, during his visit to the Trinkhall, 
 the doctor, observing that Lydia coughed more 
 than usual, hastened our departure. 
 
 What were we to do with Junot ? We could 
 not take him with us. When we mentioned our 
 difficulty to the man who brought daily the milk 
 which was Lydia's sole nourishment, he said : 
 
 ' You ought to sell him to me :■ I have a little 
 girl suffering like Madame; she would quite adore 
 him, and she would not be too heavy for him.' 
 
 After having consulted together, we decided 
 not to sell him, but to pay his ' board ' for a year 
 at the milkseller's ; and we went off quite easy as 
 to the fate of our friend Junot. 
 
 Dr. Doering was an excellent man, but he was, 
 before everything, the physician of the Ems 
 waters; if he pressed our departure, it was 
 because he saw clearly that, if we lost some days, 
 Lydia could not be removed, and he did not wish 
 
Il6 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 to see her die at Ems, as this would have done 
 the greatest harm to those whom he called his 
 * dear Naiads.' 
 
 We were going to Madeira ; but when she 
 arrived in Paris, Lydia was so weak that she 
 wished to rest for a few days. 
 
 The next day she died in the small house 
 in which she had lived for two years and eleven 
 months with her mother and younger sister. 
 
 On coming back from the cemetery, Madame 
 Baru took me apart, and said to me very calmly : 
 
 ' Dear sir, we have sustained a great loss.' 
 
 1 Very great. Our consolation is that Lydia 
 has been well cared for.' 
 
 * Ah yes ! very well, indeed.' 
 
 ' If she could have been saved, Dr. Doering 
 would have saved her.' 
 
 ' It is, above all, unfortunate that she didn't 
 live a month longer.' 
 
 I began to understand. She continued, in the 
 same phlegmatic tone : 
 
 * I know your agreements : the house was to 
 belong to her on the 15th September, and this is 
 now only the 16th August. Business is business, 
 you know. If Lydia had been proprietor of the 
 house, her younger sister would have inherited 
 her means, and would at once be able to be 
 virtuous.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. II7 
 
 I was about to reply in a ' green ' sort of way 
 to this mother who had the courage to think of 
 business at such a moment, when the little 
 Blanche threw herself weeping into my arms, 
 and said: 
 
 ' Pardon my mother ! She loves me so much 
 and has such a fear of seeing me turn out 
 badly ' 
 
 The next morning my solicitor sold the house, 
 and invested eighty thousand francs in the name 
 of Mdlle. Blanche. 
 
 To finish with the Baru family, let me say that 
 Lydia's little sister married a shopkeeper, and 
 was perfectly virtuous. 
 
 Was this what her mother had dreamed of ? I 
 shall not dare to affirm that ; but let us return to 
 Junot, the real hero of this story. 
 
 After a very sad winter, I went to Ems in the 
 month of June. I wished to live for some days 
 in the ■ past,' and if it must be confessed, I was 
 specially anxious to see Junot, who had become 
 Lydia's devoted friend. The morning of my 
 arrival, I went to the farm, where I believed I 
 should find him. When I asked news of him, 
 they told me that the man to whom I had 
 intrusted him was only a servant of the farmer ; 
 he had neither wife nor child, and he had stolen 
 my ass and the price I had allowed for his 
 
tI 3 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 * keep.' After some fruitless searches to find 
 either the man or the animal, I was about to 
 return to Paris, when I was stopped by a com- 
 pact crowd which was admiring the prowess of a 
 new kind of magician. 
 
 He was a learned donkey. He had a red robe 
 sewn with red-winged dragons and improbable 
 reptiles, a peaked bonnet and large green 
 spectacles. He could discover the " double six " 
 in a game of dominoes, could tell young girls 
 their secrets, pointed out the stupidest man in 
 the gathering, without his saying a word he 
 thought witty, which is the acme of clear vision ! 
 
 I found myself soon in the front rank of the 
 gaping boobies. 
 
 * Now, Master Aliboron,' said the mountebank, 
 'point out the most amorous person in this 
 honourable company.' 
 
 The good creature twice made the tour of the 
 circle, waiting with absolute indifference for a 
 signal which should oblige him to stop. All at 
 once he raised his head and came to me. 
 
 The crowd burst out laughing, and the young 
 girls examined me with a malicious curiosity. 
 
 ' Very good, Master Aliboron ! Now, point 
 out the most coquettish woman in this honourable 
 company.' 
 
 The magician came near me. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 II 9 
 
 * Master Aliboron, rub the glasses of your 
 spectacles, and continue your researches ; I have 
 asked for the woman who is the greatest coquette 
 in this honourable society.' 
 
 The ass never budged. 
 
 * Ah ! this gentleman is infatuated,' growled 
 the mountebank. 
 
 But the donkey did not budge. 
 
 The ' Barnum,' furious, called him a dirty beast, 
 and gave him a blow with a truculent stick, so 
 that the blood began to flow; the poor animal 
 gave a long sigh, and made an effort so violent 
 that his bonnet and spectacles fell off. 
 
 I recognised Junot ! 
 
 - This donkey belongs to me — he has been 
 stolen from me,' I cried. 
 
 The brutality of the mountebank had turned the 
 crowd against him. They conducted us to the 
 presence of M. de Bismark, the principal magis- 
 trate of Ems. 
 
 Twenty voices were raised to relate the touch- 
 ing scene which had passed. 
 
 I do not know if M. de Bismark is a relative of 
 the iron chancellor, but he is a very courteous 
 man, with whom right is better than force. 
 
 After having heard the two parties, as it seemed 
 to him proved that the Barnum had stolen Junot, 
 he ordered me to reimburse the price he had paid 
 
120 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 for him, leaving me a free course against the thief 
 to recover the sum. 
 
 I did what I had been ordered to do with joy, 
 and I re-entered the hotel triumphantly, fol- 
 lowed by the crowd. 
 
 Junot walked alongside of me, proud and grand, 
 like an ass who knows that modesty is the 
 strength of the powerless. . 
 
 Two days after, I returned to Montreuil with 
 Junot, who, during ten years, has been the joy of 
 the house. 
 
 A month after his arrival in France, no one 
 would have recognised the little donkey. He had 
 grown fat, gay, and smart, as in the time of his 
 early youth. During the first few days, he had 
 been a little astonished at being well fed and not 
 receiving any blows ; but he soon got accustomed 
 to it. One does so to anything. 
 
 From his condition as a learned ass, he had 
 preserved an extraordinary perspicacity. He 
 knew the time, like the ass of the coal-seller, of 
 whom Louis XI. made an astrologer, and he 
 could divine at first sight whether a person was 
 good or bad. Twice he proved to me that he 
 had truly the gift of second sight. 
 
 When my heart began to become cicatrised, 
 when I could look into myself and around me, 
 I began to feel that, if the death of Lydia had 
 
THE COURTESAN. 121 
 
 made me old before the time, I was not so old 
 that I ought to live eternally as a hermit. I 
 resolved to marry. 
 
 I had no need to run to the end of the world to 
 find my ideal. A retired notary from Paris, my 
 country neighbour, had three daughters and a 
 niece. His three daughters were charming; the 
 eldest especially appeared to me to be of super- 
 human beauty. Twice my project had taken 
 possession of my brain ; my park had become the 
 recreation ground of my young neighbours. My 
 preference for the eldest was evident, and every- 
 body in our own circle saluted her already as 
 lady and mistress of my mansion. Junot alone 
 did not share in the general enthusiasm ; when 
 she sought to caress him, he flung his legs up in 
 the air, and when she wished to mount him, he 
 gave a growl which was quite unusual in an animal 
 so good-tempered. I sometimes endeavoured 
 to conquer his resistance, but then he looked at 
 me with eyes so supplicating that I had not the 
 heart to scold him. 
 
 At last, perplexed, I set myself to study more 
 attentively the young lady I thought I loved. I 
 came to realise that her voice was hard and dry ; 
 that her eyes were splendid, but that they did not 
 think a single word they said ; that her teeth were 
 white, but sharp like those of a young wolf — in a 
 
I2 2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 word, that her features were remarkably fine, but 
 that they did not call forth sympathy. 
 
 One day the young girls came over to my place. 
 Junot went to seek his bridle, and placed it at the 
 feet of the notary's niece, whom he specially 
 admired. She was sickly, thin, and pale. I said 
 to myself at first : 
 
 ' This Junot is mad.' 
 
 Then I examined the young girl, and I dis- 
 covered that she had a pretty little foot with a 
 nice ankle, and beautiful blue eyes, which looked 
 one full in the face. To the great astonishment 
 of everybody, I asked her hand, and for ten years 
 past I have been the happiest of men — thanks to 
 my little donkey, who had been more clear- 
 sighted than I. 
 
 Junot's ' aversion ' married her father's suc- 
 cessor some months after I had espoused her 
 cousin. She deceived him, and finished off 
 by administering to him as much arsenic as 
 would have poisoned all the notaries on the 
 rolls ! 
 
 My wife is no longer thin, nor pale, nor sickly. 
 We have a child five years of age, who became at 
 once Junot's friend. You ought to have seen 
 them rolling together on the grass : and we could 
 not help admiring the precautions which the little 
 donkey took not to hurt the child. To come to 
 
THE COURTESAN. I2 o 
 
 an end of my story. About eight days ago, I saw 
 Junot come towards me breathing hard. He 
 threw on me a look which I shall never forget all 
 my life long, and then turned to rush back in the 
 direction of the piece of water. I followed him 
 running, and found my son, who would have been 
 drowned without Junot's help. Nothing could 
 give an idea of the joy of the good beast when it 
 saw that the child was saved. Then, for the first 
 time, I observed that Junot was covered with 
 blood. My gardener told me what had 
 happened. The little donkey, in his hurried 
 rush, had struck himself on the point of a scythe 
 which a labourer carried in his hand, and received 
 a terrible wound. After some hours of suffering, 
 he died licking the hand of the child whose life he 
 had saved. 
 
 Without sharing blindly all the admiration of 
 my friend for the ass in general, and for Junot in 
 particular, I must say that I could understand his 
 vexation; he had lost a sincere friend. How- 
 ever, one could not help coming to the conclusion 
 that, if he did a good action in bringing Junot 
 home, he at the same time did a good thing 
 for himself, which happens always when one 
 treats his servants well, whether they are beasts 
 or men. 
 
124 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY, 
 
 To Madame L. M. 
 Madame, 
 
 You ask me for some news of Monte Carlo, 
 which you have quitted to resume the reins of your 
 own government. I won't speak of your house, 
 where, instead of your friends full of affection 
 and esteem, you have under your orders only a 
 husband, coarse, brutal, jealous. I stop here, lest 
 I should speak evil of a man who has taken some 
 oaths very difficult to keep, but which you keep 
 only too well. 
 
 I think your curiosity very natural, Madame, 
 and I, therefore, at once lay my pen at your feet. 
 
 I could inform you that the great Albert has 
 won 26,000 francs at trente et quarante, because he 
 has forgotten to retire his first gains, when I had 
 told him that you had condescended to think of 
 your four devoted friends. 
 
 That the fair, sweet, and timid Miss Betsy, 
 who let her eyes fall as she blushed so modestly 
 while one of us kissed the points of your rosy 
 little fingers, has got hold of a captain of 
 dragoons. But I have better than that on my 
 tablets. I have a story, true, and yet improbable, 
 which doubles the value of a story. 
 
 It is impossible that you can have forgotten 
 
THE COURTESAN. 125 
 
 a tall young man, with hair of audacious fairness, 
 eyes pale, and a fixed and bilious complexion, with 
 a peculiar walk, like that of a person feeling 
 very cold and seeking to create a reaction. I 
 called him the vampire Polchinello, because of 
 the manner which he has of his wearing (as if it 
 were a fetish) a large pin, which represents the 
 celebrated Neapolitan buffoon, always as he plays 
 roulette. You, Madame, who are more poetical, 
 compared him to Lord Ruthven, Byron's hero. 
 
 Maxime was certain that he had the evil eye. 
 He was terribly afraid of him. 
 
 Wherever he saw him at a pigeon match he 
 was sure to blow his powder among the sparrows, 
 but, like children who become brave so soon as 
 the light dissipates the phantoms of their creation, 
 he made quite a jest of the man with the evil eye 
 when he was at a distance. One morning, about 
 a fortnight ago, a fancy took us to visit Mentone 
 on foot by -way of Mont Agel. Five hours' 
 walking for Parisians who imagine the Odeon is 
 as far away as Kamtschatka, this was no small 
 affair. So when we had got about half-way we 
 began to be like the little horses who resemble 
 big donkeys, or the big donkeys who resemble 
 little horses which we found at Ems, and we sat 
 down on a grassy knoll. After having admired 
 the magnificent panorama which unrolled under 
 
126 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 our eyes, one of us, whom I shall call Maxime, 
 for short (so as not to have to argue with him 
 about the de which he has added to the ' citizen ' 
 name of his father, a rich bonnet-maker, who 
 came originally to Paris in wooden shoes), cried: 
 
 ' I would willingly give the crumbling keep of 
 my ancestors to the man who would bring me a 
 glass of chablis, whether from Argenteuil or from 
 Suresnes.' 
 
 * I shall devote my services to the party,' said 
 T, rising. ' I shall explore the neighbourhood.' 
 
 I took one of the thousand pathways which 
 furrow the Mont Agel, whose ascent we had 
 valiantly attempted, to see if I could discover, like 
 Tom Thumb, the house of some good ogre. 
 
 At about a hundred steps distant from where 
 we had been seated, in a thicket of verdure, I 
 perceived a charming dwelling with red tiles, 
 green blinds, and overhung with young vines and 
 myrtles— in short, the most adorable Thebaid a 
 philosopher could dream of. 
 
 ' I much deceive myself,' said I, - or good luck 
 will be found here !' and I struck with the back of 
 my hand a light blow against one of the blinds. 
 
 I heard a step approach slowly and gravely. It 
 was that of the hermit proprietor- 
 
 I do not know why this noise should have 
 made me tremble. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 127 
 
 The door opened 
 
 What was my stupefaction, I might almost say 
 my terror, when I saw before me my — my 
 Polchinello Vampire, the man with the evil eye 
 of Maxime, and your Lord Ruthven, Madame! 
 
 'What can I do for you, sir?' he asked me, in a 
 tone almost malevolent. 
 
 1 1 beg pardon, sir/ said I, very much put out. 
 ' I am sent as pioneer of some friends, whom I 
 have left a few steps from this, very thirsty, if 
 they are not dead of thirst ' 
 
 'You would like to get them a jug of milk,' 
 replied he, with a forced smile ; • there are some 
 ladies, no doubt ?' 
 
 ' No, certainly not ! There are three boil 
 vivants, who await my return as the shipwrecked 
 mariners of the Medusa watched for a ship on 
 the horizon. Their anxiety is like that!' 
 
 ' Ah! that at once changes the whole question!' 
 cried my solitary, with a warmth which I had 
 not dared to suspect he was capable of. ' If 
 your friends will, in place of milk, accept a glass 
 of the wine of Asti, believe me I shall be truly 
 happy to offer it to them, as well as to you, sir.' 
 
 'A thousand thanks! But we fear to break- 
 in upon your solitude, which seems to be very 
 pleasant.' 
 
 ' What is the use of such apologies ? If it be 
 
128 THE COURTESAK. 
 
 not from a desire to oblige on my part, let it be then 
 from humanity for your friends ! Do not forget 
 that thirst has its dangers ! Hasten to prevent 
 these ! Bring your friends here. As to me, I 
 shall go down to the cellar !' 
 
 I saw there was no way of refusing. I saluted 
 your Lord Ruthven, and took my departure to 
 call the others. 
 
 * Victory!' I cried, when I thought my voice 
 could reach my three unfortunate companions. 
 
 'You have found the chablis of my dreams?' 
 murmured Maxime, turning over on the grass like 
 a cayman in the sun. 
 
 As to the other two, they never moved. 
 
 They were asleep ! 
 
 ' I have found better than that,' replied 1, 
 proudly. ' What would you say to a flood of the 
 wine of Asti ?' 
 
 ' Oh, the devil, the devil ! the wine of Asti ! 
 I honour and revere that precious beverage, 
 which descends in a straight line from those 
 Burgundy vine stocks Charlemagne planted 
 (they say) himself before doing homage to his 
 friend, Count Lorius. And you have discovered 
 a vein of this nectar ? You know if it was 
 put in bottle by Charles the Great, the con- 
 quering vine dresser, it ought to be like velvet 
 by this time V 
 
THE courtesan. 129 
 
 While Maxime talked thus, I was awakening 
 the sleepers. 
 
 When everybody was up and ready to go : 
 
 ' My friends,' said I, assuming a grave air, 
 ' listen to me. Before embarking on an 
 expedition which you will perhaps find to be 
 ill-advised, it is my duty ' 
 
 ' What is the meaning of this rigmarole of an 
 exordium ?' interrupted Maxime ; ' you first promise 
 us good wine, and then you give reasons why wt 
 should not take it !' 
 
 ' Would you desire, like Madame Louis XIV., 
 when she was still Scarron's wife, to replace your 
 piece de resistance by a story ?' added Albert, 
 laughing at the piteous look on Maxime's face. 
 
 ' For my part,' cried Henri, ' I shall drink 
 none of this wine if it comes from an impure 
 source.' 
 
 ' Wine which comes from a source ! ' replied 
 Maxime. ' No more shall I drink it.' 
 
 ' He who offers you the wine and salt of 
 hospitality may with good reason come under 
 your suspicion ! Before taking a step further, 
 there is still time to tell you ' 
 
 * Is it, then, to the devil we are to be indebted ? ' 
 cried Maxime. 
 
 'No; it is only to the cacodainion, as the 
 Corsicans say; to the jettatore, as the Italians 
 
130 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 say ... in short, to the man with the evil 
 eye whom we laugh at so much at the Casino.' 
 
 ' I breathe again,' cried Maxime, with a sigh 
 of satisfaction which did honour to the play of 
 his lungs, ' and do not believe in those stories of 
 good women when I am thirsty, and I am ready 
 to do good honour to the wine of this gentleman. 
 It is all right enough,' added he, between his 
 teeth, 'but it is a bad acquaintanceship we are 
 about to make here ! ' 
 
 We began to go through the little wood of 
 olive trees, and soon we found ourselves, Madame, 
 face to face with the Vampire. 
 
 ' You see, sir,' I said to him when I had 
 presented my three friends, * we have come with- 
 out any ceremony.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to you, gentlemen ; besides, 
 if my memory serves me right, this is not the 
 first time we have met. With a little goodwill 
 infused into the matter we may suppose that we 
 are old acquaintances.' 
 
 He took us into a small saloon where the 
 persiennes, hermetically closed, allowed nothing to 
 enter but the fresh air. 
 
 On a table, admirably served, were placed the 
 most beautiful fruits of the season. 
 
 1 If I had foreseen your visit, gentlemen,' said our 
 host, graciously, ' I would have had something 
 
THE COURTESAN. 131 
 
 better prepared for you ; but as we are here two 
 steps from the town, and a thousand leagues from 
 civilisation, accept then your share of this frugal 
 repast. You know it, alas! the poorest hermit 
 can give only what he has ! ' 
 
 The luncheon was charming, and I have long 
 preserved its memory. 
 
 Our amphitrion was sparkling with wit ! It was 
 easy to see that he had lived in the grand world. 
 H is conversation, by turns grave and j esting, j ocular 
 and severe, kept us under its charm for two hours. 
 
 In the fire of discussion his cold eyes lit up with 
 a strange gleam. 
 
 He was almost handsome ! 
 
 We rose from table enchanted with our host, 
 and when our cigars were lit, proposed that we 
 should visit the hermitage in all its details. 
 
 After having examined religiously the cellar, 
 where Maxime wished to make his choice of a 
 residence, up to the attics, from which we could 
 see the greatest part of the Corniche, the Italian 
 Terraces of La Bordighera, and the rock of 
 Monaco, whose brown shadow was cast on the 
 blue sky, we entered a little drawing-room, into 
 which the light penetrated with as much discretion 
 as into the boudoir of a pretty woman. 
 
 Among many remarkable pictures, one portrait, 
 painted by Jacquet, struck us. 
 
132 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 It was that of a woman of about twenty-five, in 
 the full zenith of her beauty. ... A strange 
 but striking beauty : blonde, with green eyes. 
 
 1 How lovely she is ! ' we cried, the whole four 
 of us at once. * It is an angel i ' 
 
 'Nay, a demon,' replied our host, in a grave 
 voice ; ' a demon who, by rendering herself an 
 accomplice in a sacrilege, has lost me my life in 
 this world, and perhaps my soul in the next ! ' 
 
 Then after a silence he added, smiling sadly : 
 
 \ Pardon me, gentlemen, for not being able to 
 control my emotion before you. I must appear 
 supremely ludicrous, but when I look at that 
 infernal likeness I lose my reason.' 
 
 ' Then the portrait of this woman recalls to 
 you only remembrances which are sorrowful, 
 and which compel you to preserve it ? ' I said to 
 him. 
 
 ' Who compels me ? ' replied he, energetically. 
 ' Myself ! In imposing on myself the chastise- 
 ment of its presence I hope to expiate my fault ! 
 And every day, as I come to pass an hour tete-a-tete 
 with Jeanne, I do not murmur — like the Trappist : 
 
 ' " Brother, we must die ! " ' 
 
 ' But : " Maurice we must suffer ! " ' 
 
 Our embarrassment increased every minute. 
 
 Not one of us found a word to break the icy 
 silence which had fallen upon us. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 133 
 
 Our position was no longer tenable ! I resolved 
 to get out of it quickly. 
 
 ' Sir,' I said, holding out my hand to our host, 
 * we have already had the honour of meeting you 
 at Monte Carlo. Let us hope that this meeting 
 will be renewed soon.' 
 
 'Yes,' added Henri, 'come often and take 
 luncheon with us, and I promise you we shall 
 give chase to your black butterflies.' 
 
 ' I accept your gracious invitation,' replied the 
 young man ; ' and if you promise not to laugh too 
 much in my face I will give you a history of my 
 misfortunes.' 
 
 Some days after our expedition we had the 
 pleasure of receiving this poor solitary at the 
 Hotel de Paris, where we had established our head 
 
 quarters. 
 
 This repast was as gay as, and much more noisy 
 than the one which preceded it. 
 
 Our guest was far ahead of us in his information ; 
 he was au courant with the thousand Parisian 
 frivolities. Light literature, races, behind the 
 scenes, were all familiar to him. 
 
 We could well imagine that he had led a joyous 
 life, but if one spoke to him of adventures of 
 gallantry, his face was overcast, and he became 
 mute at once. 
 
 Maxime, whose wits the champagne had some- 
 
134 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 what unsettled, rose to his feet ail at once, and 
 filling up the glasses, exclaimed : 
 
 * I drink to pretty women, who make the good 
 or evil future of our lives.' 
 
 The young man pushed back his glass, saying : 
 
 1 Pardon me, gentlemen, but I cannot accept 
 this toast. A woman has been the cause of my 
 miseries. I have sworn eternal hatred to all 
 women. I am, perhaps, not logical, but he who 
 can boast of being always logical let him cast at 
 me the first stone ! ' 
 
 ' By Jove,' replied Maxime, 'our guest promised 
 us the history of the adventure which decided 
 him to retire from the world. I hope he will keep 
 his word.' 
 
 'Willingly, gentlemen, while I am quite sure 
 that the history of my misfortunes will be a lesson 
 for no one/ 
 
 He emptied, at a draught, his glass of 
 champagne, and commenced thus : 
 
 I am called Maurice de Traney. I am 
 descended from an ancient family of Lower 
 Normandy, represented on the other side of the 
 Channel by a celebrated Parliamentary orator, 
 whose ancestor followed William the Bastard. 
 
 An only son, from my tenderest childhood I 
 was abominably spoiled. A crowd of servants 
 
THE COURTESAN. 135 
 
 day and night waited my orders. At the smallest 
 cry, at the least impatience of M. le Vicomte, the 
 chateau was turned topsy-turvy. 
 
 They knelt at my knees when I deserved the 
 whip. 
 
 At length I became the most frightful little 
 despot one can imagine. I became wilful, 
 passionate, almost malicious — sad consequences of 
 the bad education given in these days to children. 
 Accustomed from my earliest year to see every- 
 thing bend beneath me, I represented naively to 
 my mind that the world seemed to have been 
 created for my pleasure and personal satisfaction ; 
 my faults later on became vices, and were the 
 cause of all my troubles. 
 
 At twenty-two years of age, when my father 
 died, I found myself in possession of an income of 
 150,000 francs! — a mediocre fortune only when 
 compared with the enormous heritage which 
 would be left me by my mother's sister. 
 
 * Spend, spend ! ' said this good old aunt to me 
 unceasingly. * Throw the money through the 
 thousand windows of your fancy without annoying 
 yourself about the rest. I am here, and do not 
 forget that a Vicomte de Traney ought to live in 
 another way than a parvenu. If I ever see you 
 saving money,' added she, ' I shall disinherit you 
 at once.' 
 
136 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 You may well believe that I obeyed blindly 
 such orders as these. 
 
 I became soon one of those little easy-going 
 fellows whom they call M. Tout-Paris. I rushed 
 about, I had a box at the Opera, and at the Folies 
 B£rgere. My extravagances rendered me famous 
 — in a certain world which has nothing in common 
 with the world. 
 
 A Sultan on a small scale, I kept publicly five 
 or six of those pretty worldlings who are red to- 
 day and green to-morrow, if fashion demands it. 
 My seraglio and my prodigalities brought me some 
 flatterers. Poets sang my praises in bad verse. 
 If I had seriously wished it, I could have had 
 white eunuchs ! 
 
 In my senseless pride I did not believe even in 
 God ! I was atheistical with the best faith in the 
 world ! 
 
 One evening, jaded, hipped, devoured by 
 ennui, I had thrown myself into an arm-chair. 
 
 For the first time there appeared to me the 
 emptiness of this existence for pleasure, so 
 charming at other times. 
 
 For the first time, also, there took shape in my 
 brain some ideas of a voyage to the end of the 
 earth, or of a retreat into some convent, in which, 
 on account of my austere life, I should become 
 the superior. 
 
THE COURTESAN. x 37 
 
 You see how vanity, the natural result of my 
 bad education, did not leave me even in these 
 moments of despondency. 
 
 Soon I began to think seriously of suicide. 
 
 At twenty-three years of age I had already 
 lived too much, because I had lived badly. 
 
 The night had fallen. 
 
 I rang. . 
 
 Lights were brought. I made them bring 
 near me a little round rosewood table, in the 
 midst of the scattered papers on which lay the 
 romance of the day, which I was reading at the 
 
 time. 
 
 It is not without a purpose, gentlemen, that 
 I enter upon all these details, which may appear 
 to you insignificant. You will see later on 
 what occult influence they were to have on my 
 
 On re-opening the book a paper, which I had 
 placed as a mark, fell on the carpet. 
 
 I picked it up mechanically, and mechanically 
 also I read, or rather re-read, it. 
 
 It was a note written by one of my best 
 friends, who was on the eve of marrying his 
 mistress, in order to recover some scraps of his 
 
 fortune. 
 
 Here it is as it was actually written— I neither 
 
 add nor subtract a single word : 
 
138 the courtesan. 
 
 ' My Dear Maurice, 
 
 ' Come and meet us to-night at Evelina's ; 
 the dear child is burying her spinster life, and 
 the company will be first-class. 
 
 ' The beautiful Jeanne will be among us. 
 
 ' Happy mortal ! ' 
 
 Why, then, happy mortal ? 
 
 I threw aside this letter thoughtlessly, as I 
 wished to read a page of the romance open before 
 me ; but I might read the printed lines well 
 enough, yet no meaning came into my thoughts, 
 and this phrase resounded without ceasing in my 
 ear, pronounced by an invisible spirit : 
 
 ' The beautiful Jeanne will be of our party ; 
 happy mortal ! ' 
 
 At last, tormented, irritated by the persistence 
 with which this idea pursued me, I called my 
 carriage, and hastened to my club. 
 
 To kill the time, I played. 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye I had lost 10,000 francs. 
 
 ' Let this console you,' said Lord Artus, my 
 opponent, as he placed in his pockets my ten 
 bank notes, ' the French proverb : Unlucky at 
 play, lucky in love ! I would give twenty 
 thousand guineas to have lost what I have won 
 to-night. Let us sup together to-night at 
 Evelina's, and the beautiful Jeanne will be of 
 our party — happy mortal ! ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. I39 
 
 These words, which my evil genius had 
 repeated unceasingly in my ears for some hours 
 back, made me jump up in spite of myself. 
 
 I went out : I needed a breath of air. 
 
 • Can Loral Artus be a lover of this Jeanne ? ' 
 I said to myself, with vexation. And, without 
 knowing this woman otherwise than by having 
 met her sometimes in the Bois de Boulogne, at 
 the theatre, or at the races, I experienced a 
 violent attack of jealousy. 
 
 At last the hour so impatiently waited for 
 arrived. 
 
 When Jeanne appeared, Lord Artus offered her 
 his arm to conduct her to the boudoir where the 
 lady of the house received the compliments of 
 condolence. 
 
 She flatly refused it, and crossed the drawing- 
 room alone, looking at me the while. 
 
 That look decided my life. 
 
 At midnight supper was served. 
 
 We were thirteen at table, I can remember. 
 
 Lord Artus trotted out some old stories of 
 childhood as to the horror of the figure thirteen. 
 
 Jeanne smiled at me with her lips, as she only 
 knew how to smile. 
 
 I pass rapidly over the commencement of this 
 passion. Let it be sufficient to know that after 
 fights, skirmishings, and even battles of all sorts, 
 
I40 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 I distanced Lord Artus, and became the cavalier 
 by right of the beautiful sinner whose blonde hair 
 and large green eyes you have admired. 
 
 Gentlemen, take care of blonde beauties with 
 such sweet looks ! 
 
 Jeanne was a singer. She had a name, and 
 that name she had made for herself, for nobody 
 in Paris had ever heard her sing. 
 
 In France, she spoke of the success she had 
 obtained abroad ; abroad, she showed wreaths she 
 had brought from France. As she was handsome, 
 young, and witty, no one suspected that this 
 success belonged to the region of fable, and that 
 those crowns of fame had been mysteriously 
 purchased by herself. 
 
 Jeanne had a suite of apartments splendidly 
 furnished, and a stable well filled ; but as those 
 treasures came to her from many benefactors, with 
 whom she had never had anything but a passing 
 acquaintance, she converted them into consols. 
 She loved me so ardently that she did not wish to 
 be surrounded by anything but presents coming 
 from myself. I gave her a mansion in the 
 Champs Elysees, some carriages made by 
 Binder, some powdered lacqueys, and some 
 thoroughbred horses ; in short, the establish- 
 ment of a Russian Princess or of an English 
 Courtesan. 
 
THE COURTESAN. I 4 I 
 
 People spoke of nothing but my eccentricities. 
 My aunt was enchanted. As to Jeanne, she 
 accepted my royal presents and the homage of 
 the whole of elegant Paris with an icy serenity, 
 as if she had been born on the steps of a throne. 
 
 This is, perhaps, not the place to say that 
 Jeanne really began life as a dealer in ladies' cast- 
 off clothes in the Rue de Buffault, and that her 
 husband was a poor devil who served without 
 honour in a regiment, and who died without 
 
 children. 
 
 We passed three months in the ethereal regions 
 
 of the seventh heaven. 
 
 Jeanne was the fashion ; my self-love ought to 
 have been satisfied. I had thus found myself the 
 happiest of men, when I received from Rome a 
 letter which announced to me the death of a 
 relative. The affairs connected with the suc- 
 cession were much involved, and my presence 
 in the Eternal City seemed indispensable. 
 
 This journey which, in other circumstances, 
 would have enchanted me, was very disagreeable 
 to me at that time. Jeanne, who had an anti- 
 pathy to moving about, wished to remain at Pans, 
 and Lord Artus had perhaps really never 
 renounced his pretensions. 
 
 I hesitated to go, but a second letter, more 
 pressing than the first, made me reflect seriously. 
 
I42 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 It was a matter of a good round sum to be saved 
 from the claws of greedy co-heirs, and my solici- 
 tor wrote to show me what an enormous gap it 
 would make in my fortune. 
 
 ' But,' I said to him, ' shall I not one day have 
 the twenty millions from my aunt ? ' 
 
 ' The good lady has excellent health,' replied 
 the legal luminary, ' and she may live fifteen years 
 yet.' 
 
 This reply gave me room for reflection. Full 
 of confidence, besides, in the love and fidelity of 
 Jeanne, I made my preparations for departure ; 
 and I went to embrace my aunt, who lives at St. 
 Germain. 
 
 ' Go, my child,' she said to me, ' and bring me 
 back from Rome a chaplet blessed by our Holy 
 Father the Pope. Blessed in your presence — 
 you understand me ? I put such a value on this 
 relic that, if I were not unable, I should accom- 
 pany you. You are very fortunate,' added the 
 good woman, sighing, 'to see his Holiness. I 
 would give for the opportunity all the days I may 
 have to live yet.' 
 
 The next morning I went off to Marseilles. 
 
 Five days later I was in Rome. I made a stay 
 of two months, during which I received eyery day 
 a letter of four pages from my adored Jeanne. 
 She had retired to Auteuil, far from the world. 
 
THE COURTESAN. I43 
 
 She did not wish to see anybody. Her only 
 happiness was to read and re-read my letters ! 
 
 Two days before my departure from Rome, T 
 made the purchase of a pretty chaplet with a 
 cross of blood-jasper. I went to St. Peter's, 
 taking my relic carefully with me, when it 
 received the Papal benediction. 
 
 On my return, my darling Jeanne received me 
 with transports of joy. It would have needed 
 the hardened heart of a pessimist not to believe 
 that I was the happiest and most beloved man in 
 creation. 
 
 After a thousand kisses given and received, she 
 wished to know what I had brought her from 
 Italy. 
 
 A woman is always a woman. 
 
 She clapped her hands when I brought out 
 before her astonished eyes big silver hair-arrows, 
 antique cameos, bracelets of lapis lazuli, collars 
 rose coral, combs of gold filagree work — in short, 
 the thousand knick-knacks one brings back neces- 
 sarily from Italy when one is 'somewhat married.' 
 
 In removing with haste some things from my 
 travelling-case, a little box fell out and rolled at 
 my feet. In a moment Jeanne dashed after it 
 with the agility and the grace of a young cat. 
 This was, she declared, a last surprise I had in 
 store for her. In the twinkling of an eye the 
 
144 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 chaplet and cross of blood-jasper was in her hands. 
 She turned it round and round with much 
 wonder. 
 
 ' What is there about this chaplet, then, so 
 curious that it should be so carefully wrapped 
 up ? ' said she, at last. 
 
 'It is blessed by the Pope,' I replied, 'and I 
 intend it for my aunt, who, indeed, asked me to 
 procure it. Don't let us mix up the sacred and 
 the profane,' added I, laughing, as I took back the 
 relic. 
 
 Immediately Jeanne's face grew dark, and her 
 eyebrows lowered — yellow flames darted from her 
 eyes ; then, repulsing with disdain the presents I 
 had spread before her, she cried : 
 
 'Take them all! Give all these gifts to your 
 aunt; as for myself, I only wish that rosary.' 
 
 I refused. 
 
 She insisted. 
 
 I held to my point. 
 
 She began to pout. 
 
 I took up my hat and went to the club. 
 
 I found Lord Artus there. 
 
 After the usual compliments : 
 
 'My dear Maurice,' said he, 'I would suggest 
 giving you your revenge, but that, perhaps, would 
 be an imprudence ; you would win my fortune.' 
 
 ' Why ; what do you mean ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 
 
 *45 
 
 ' Because you seem to me unhappy in love ! ' 
 
 I contented myself with turning my back on 
 Lord Artus, and went back to the house. 
 
 Jeanne was not to be seen. 
 
 The pouting lasted for three days. 
 
 At last I forced my way to her, and asked her to 
 hear reason. 
 
 She replied to me calmly : 
 
 ' I can only repeat to you what I have said. 
 Take back all those things you have given me. I 
 shall not give them either a regret or a remem- 
 brance. But leave me this chaplet. Give it to 
 me, if you love me ! ' 
 
 * Keep it — it is yours/ I said to her, at last. ' I 
 risk being disinherited by my aunt; but between 
 her fortune and your love, can I hesitate a single 
 instant ? ' 
 
 The reaction was immediate. 
 
 The next morning Jeanne had risen an hour 
 before her sun — that is to say, mid-day. 
 
 'What are you thinking of?' she exclaimed, 
 seeing me look pensive. 
 
 ' I am thinking of my aunt,' replied I. 'What 
 shall I say to her ? ' 
 
 ' Are you such a baby as to vex yourself for 
 such a trifle as this? Are there not, near St. 
 Sulpice, some thousands of chaplets as pretty as 
 this ? ' 
 
146 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 * Yes ; but at Paris there is no Pope to bless 
 them ! ' 
 
 ' Don't let that put you about,' she said, kiss- 
 ing me fondly. ' It is noon ; let us go to the Rue 
 Servadoni. In an hour we shall have returned, 
 and you will be able to go to your aunt as soon as 
 you like. Come ! ' she continued. 
 
 I took up my hat and followed her, half sad, 
 half laughing. 
 
 An hour afterwards we returned to the house, 
 furnished with a chaplet in every point like that I 
 had bought in Rome. 
 
 We dined gaily. 
 
 ' Now,' said Jeanne, ' I hope you have no more 
 scruples ? You can offer without fear this chaplet 
 to your aunt, as it fulfils all the expressed condi- 
 tions. I can assure you that our Holy Father will 
 not quit the Vatican to prove you are deceiving her.' 
 
 ' But this deception is unworthy of the trust 
 reposed in me by a relative whom I love, and 
 whose sole heir I am.' 
 
 ■ Your only trouble is that this chaplet has not 
 been blessed. Indeed it shall be,' said she, and 
 left the room with a slow, grave step. 
 
 A moment afterwards, she returned dressed up 
 ridiculously in some tinselled robe, took the rosary 
 from my hands, threw it on a console, and cried, 
 as she sprinkled it with Bordeaux : 
 
THE COURTESAN. 1 47 
 
 ' Little chaplet — I am Pope Joan ! 
 
 * I bless thee in the name of the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen !' 
 
 Tne hour of one struck on the timepiece in the 
 dining-room. A dry, dull sound followed almost 
 immediately. 
 
 The spring was broken ! 
 
 ' Wretch !' I said to Jeanne. ' You have com- 
 mitted an act of sacrilege ! We shall be accursed 
 of God !' 
 
 The calendar marked : 
 
 The 13th of January. 
 
 The pretty atheist, in fits of laughter, threw 
 herself on my neck and covered me with kisses. 
 I readily pardoned her folly. To resist such a 
 sweet sinner, I had not the virtues of the blessed 
 Saint Hilary. 
 
 The same evening I presented to my aunt the 
 chaplet, which had been blessed by Pope Joan ! 
 
 My aunt was enchanted. 
 
 She made me describe the ceremony of the 
 benediction, and I related it to her in all the 
 details as it had taken place at St. Peter's in 
 Rome! 
 
 I told her how the face of the Holy Father 
 seemed to be sympathetic. 
 
 Everything went as Jeanne had foreseen. My 
 
I48 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 aunt was duped by my falsehood, and soon even I 
 forgot my little sin. 
 
 Jeanne occupied me during the hours which 
 play and dissipation left me. 
 
 I had always believed myself to be a million- 
 aire. 
 
 At Paris, where one lives in a certain world, he 
 is rich, up to the very day he is ruined completely 
 — if one is honourable ! 
 
 If one is only so with restrictions, he survives 
 three or four years in his discomfiture. 
 
 Credit gives you a second fortune. 
 
 For more than a year all went well with me ; 
 except one little scene of jealousy which I had 
 with Jeanne, on the subject of Lord Artus, whom 
 she had permitted to accompany her carriage, 
 riding alongside her in the Bois — not a cloud 
 obscured our heaven. 
 
 One evening, my valet de chambre brought me 
 a message from my solicitor. He informed me of 
 the death of my aunt, who had been attacked by 
 apoplexy, and had died the same day. 
 
 I hastened to St. Germain — I had sinister 
 presentiments. 
 
 The papers of the deceased were opened. 
 
 Her property must amount to about twenty 
 millions. It was a solemn moment ! 
 
 Alas ! I was completely disinherited, and more 
 
THE COURTESAN. 149 
 
 than that — my poor old aunt had given me her 
 curse and called out to me : ' Sacrilege !' 
 
 How had she known this thing that Jeanne and 
 I had not spoken of to a living soul ? 
 
 The will, which so cruelly disinherited me in 
 death, bore this date : 
 
 The 13th of January, at one o'clock in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 Broken-hearted and vexed, I returned to Paris. 
 
 Jeanne tried to console me, but in vain. 
 
 She declared with her usual incredulity that 
 my aunt had known nothing — that the coin- 
 cidence of the hour and day was a mere accident. 
 
 The next day the solicitor sent a little box to 
 my address, which had been found in one of my 
 aunt's drawers. 
 
 The box enclosed the fragments of the chaplet 
 broken into a thousand pieces ! Could there be 
 any doubt after that ? My aunt had been 
 thoroughly acquainted with our little comedy. 
 
 The finger of God was there ! 
 
 I could not find a word for my suffering. I 
 followed, with the most bitter grief, the remains 
 of my aunt to the family vault. 
 
 The tears which ran down from my eyes were 
 not those of a hypocrite. 
 
 I returned home with a bursting heart. 
 
150 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The ceremony had taken place at the hour 
 indicated, and, thanks to the haste of the relatives, 
 I was two hours sooner in coming back than I 
 had expected. 
 
 I went into the little boudoir where Jeanne 
 usually sat. 
 
 She was not there ; she had doubtless thought 
 that, not being able to accompany me, she 
 would go and kill time by taking a walk in 
 the Bois. 
 
 All at once, I heard the voice of Angeline, her 
 maid, talking in the ante-chamber. 
 
 The demon of curiosity impelled me to listen. 
 
 I opened the door a little, and I heard : 
 
 'How! she has gone without waiting for me?* 
 said someone, whom I recognised easily, on 
 account of his English accent — it was Lord 
 Artus. 
 
 ' Madame was afraid of the servants watching 
 her,' replied Angeline. 
 
 ' Bah !' said the Englishman ; ' Maurice has a 
 weak confidence which honours him !' And he 
 accompanied this sentiment with a chuckling 
 laughter which made me tremble with anger ; 
 but I restrained myself — I wished to hear all ! 
 
 ' Madame is waiting for you at the Porte 
 Maillot,' said Angeline. ' You have three hours 
 to yourself; the Viscount will not return till six 
 
THE COURTESAN. 151 
 
 o'clock. You may be quite easy; he is burying 
 his aunt to-day, and they are taking the funeral 
 from St. Germain to Montmartre.' 
 
 ' Ah ! by the way,' said Lord Artus, ' here is a 
 bracelet which you will give to your mistress with 
 your own hands to-night. It is a surprise I have 
 long intended for her. I know I can count on 
 your devotion, can I not ?' added the Englishman, 
 slipping some pieces of gold into the chamber- 
 maid's hand. 
 
 1 1 am devoted to milord — milord knows that 
 well !' said Angeline, putting the money into her 
 pocket. ' But there is a secret about this bracelet V 
 
 'Your mistress knows well enough how to 
 discover it !' 
 
 I heard him then descending the staircase, 
 whistling an air from Carmen. 
 
 I appeared all at once before the eyes of the 
 maid, who was coquettishly trying the bracelet 
 which she had placed on her arm. 
 
 1 You here, sir !' she cried, with a half sob, and 
 trying to hide Lord Artus's present. 
 
 'Give me that bracelet!' I cried, my eyes 
 flaming with rage ; ■ give it me at once, or I shall 
 tear it from you !' In a moment the trinket was 
 in my hands. I pressed a little opening, and 
 read these very significant words, engraved in a 
 mosaic of precious stones : 
 
152 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 'The 13th of January, one hour after noon.' 
 
 So, at the same hour, on the same day as that 
 on which my aunt signed the paper which com- 
 pleted my ruin, Jeanne had given herself to Lord 
 Artus, and covered me with ridicule ! 
 I left these words to the faithless one : 
 ' I leave you this house for your entire property. 
 
 You are paid off. 
 
 ' Maurice.' 
 
 Some hours after, the Lyons express was taking 
 me on the way to Italy. 
 
 I visited Genoa, Milan, Rome, Naples, Venice, 
 pleased with the noise and the rushing about, in 
 the hope of forgetting — but the memory of Jeanne 
 would not leave me. 
 
 At length, wearied of this nomadic life, I 
 approached France again, traversing the routes 
 which connect Piedmont and Valois, if one can 
 call ' routes ' hills and passages which a mule can 
 manage with difficulty. 
 
 Between St. Gothard and the Sinnplon I was 
 seized, all at once, by an ungovernable feeling of 
 
 anger. 
 
 It was necessary that I should at any price 
 make a halt, if I did not wish to be carried away 
 all at once by an impetuous torrent. 
 
 My guide knew an inn about three musket- 
 shots' length from Duomo d'Orsola, and I went 
 
THE COURTESAN. 153 
 
 there in all haste ! When I entered the lower 
 part, it was crowded with drivers and pedlars 
 — in short, with all sorts of people who live at 
 the expense of the tourists. 
 
 Everyone smoked, drank, roared, and sang. 
 It was enough to drive one mad ! 
 ■ I cannot remain here/ I said to the innkeeper. 
 * Have you not a private room ? I will pay for it 
 without haggling over the price you fix.' 
 
 ' Sir,' he replied, ' I have not a free corner 
 from the cellar to the attic. I have even made 
 them prepare some tables in my own bedroom. 
 An English milord and his lady are dining there 
 at this moment ; they have begged to be alone, 
 and I have promised not to trouble their tete-a-tete 
 unless circumstances absolutely compel me. I 
 could have wished to be able to satisfy them, for 
 they are handsome, and they have the appearance 
 of having good things to say to each other ! But 
 as you are half dead with hunger, and you promise 
 to pay me handsomely, it appears to me that the 
 circumstances have arisen which constrain me 
 absolutely to interrupt them — otherwise I cer- 
 tainly should not do so.' 
 
 I wished to stop my host, but he was already 
 gone. 
 
 At the end of five minutes he returned, with his 
 face radiant. 
 
154 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 Milord and milady made a little grimace,' said 
 he; 'but they have consented to let me place 
 your cover on a table near theirs. Between this 
 and night we shall find beds for you all. For 
 you are going to stay here, aren't you ? Yes, 
 very good. You have the more reason, since you 
 cannot well do anything else. Come. You have 
 good legs ; so much the better, for the staircase is 
 steep; one would think it was constructed for 
 chamois instead of human beings.' 
 
 The innkeeper walked before me, and spoke 
 with an extraordinary volubility. I had some 
 difficulty in following him, and it would have been 
 absolutely impossible to interrupt his monologue ; 
 he understood it himself, no doubt, for he both 
 asked and answered his own questions. 
 
 When we reached the first landing, he gave a 
 vigorous blow with his fist against a roughly-made 
 door, which opened with considerable creaking. 
 
 I found myself face to face with Jeanne and 
 Lord Artus ! 
 
 Jeanne gave a cry, and fell fainting on the floor. 
 
 ' What the devil brings you here ? ' said Lord 
 Artus, with British phlegm, going with a slow and 
 measured step to the help of Jeanne, whom he 
 laid on the innkeeper's bed ; ' we were so 
 peaceful.' 
 
 1 Sir,' I replied to him ; - I bless the chance 
 
THE COURTESAN. 155 
 
 which has brought us together. If I left Paris with 
 so much precipitation, it was because I feared my 
 own weakness ; I was afraid I might be easy 
 enough to pardon this unfortunate one. But, 
 between you and me, it remains, I believe, to 
 carry out a certain matter ! ' 
 
 * Ah, what then ? ' said he. ' Indeed, my dear 
 Maurice, what has passed between us is fair war ! 
 And if one of us had to complain of the other, 
 assuredly it would be I. 
 
 * I knew Jeanne before you. I paid my court 
 to her for six months when we found ourselves 
 all gathered at Evelina's, and you carried her off 
 from me ; I don't know in honour of what saint. 
 
 '"It was written," as the Mussulmans say.' 
 
 ' Why all these useless words ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Good heavens,' said Lord Artu,s, without 
 moving a muscle, ' if you are anxious to exchange 
 a few pistol bullets, I am quite at your service.' , 
 
 ' Do you know the country ? ' 
 
 'Not too well, but when I arrived here, I 
 observed a little delicious plateau on turning the 
 corner of the hill of Gries — it would suit 
 admirably. 
 
 ' Go for this delicious plateau. 
 
 'Your guide will lead you there with closed 
 eyes. 
 
 'To-morrow at midday I shall await you.' 
 
156 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 We shall know later on who shall wait for the 
 other,' replied I, going off, not because I feared 
 the provocation which might arise, but because 
 Jeanne had made a motion, and I did not care 
 to meet her look. 
 
 The next day, at ten o'clock in the morning, I 
 met Lord Artus in the court of the inn. He came 
 to me and said, as he stretched out his hand : 
 
 1 Maurice, has the night not brought counsel to 
 you ? Do you still hold to this duel ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' replied I, laconically ; and I went 
 off, not having the good taste to touch the loyal 
 hand he offered me. 
 
 Four young men, two of them French, and the 
 other two Russian, who had arrived the night 
 before, readily consented to act as seconds. 
 
 At midday we went off all together, followed by 
 our guides, like simple travellers who are about to 
 make an ascent of the mountain. 
 
 When we arrived at the rendezvous, which was 
 indeed chosen with the best taste, our weapons 
 were charged. 
 
 It was arranged that, when the signal was 
 given, we should be at liberty to fire at once, 
 turning towards each other. 
 
 Lord Artus fired first ; his ball grazed my fore- 
 head. 
 
 Immediately I replied. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 157 
 
 The young Englishman threw both his arms 
 in the air, his pistol slipped from his fingers, and 
 he fell heavily with his face to the ground. 
 
 He was dead ! I had killed a gallant man, full 
 of youth and future hope ! And for whom ? For 
 a woman who had deceived me ! I looked at my 
 watch, the hand was pointing to One o'clock, and 
 
 it was 
 
 The 13th of January. 
 
 Scarcely conscious of my own existence, truly 
 a body without a soul, I went to Turin, from 
 Turin to Genoa, from Genoa to Monte Carlo. 
 I played, I played again, I played always, under 
 the idea that perhaps the excitement of gambling 
 would make me forget ! 
 
 It was all lost, though ! 
 
 It was at that time, in one of my first walks, 
 that I was struck with the peaceful and poetical 
 position of the little wood you visited lately. That 
 wild nature, the noise of the little stream which 
 comes down from the mountains, running over 
 a thousand natural obstacles, quite charmed me. 
 
 I resolved to build a house there, and to make 
 it my Paraclete. You have seen it, gentlemen ; I 
 have kept my word, since I have had the pleasure 
 of receiving you there. 
 
 * And Jeanne ?' we all cried ; 'what has become 
 of Jeanne ?' 
 
158 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 ' I am about to tell you,' said M. de Traney ; 
 1 for a long time I lived in my retreat, forgetting 
 and forgotten, when I received a letter covered 
 over with postal marks.' 
 
 * And this letter came from her ?' 
 ' I am still asking that of myself. Here it is.' 
 And he drew from a handsome pocket-book a 
 letter quite covered with little marks of different 
 colours, such as would gladden the heart of a col- 
 lector of such things. 
 
 1 Read !' said he, handing the paper over to us. 
 I took the letter, and read : 
 ' My Dear Maurice, 
 
 It is from my deathbed I write you to 
 pardon me for the harm I have done you ; 
 so do not refuse me this petition. A terrible 
 calamity has befallen us both. We must bear the 
 punishment of our sacrilege ! My friend, do not 
 let us play — I ought to say, never do you play 
 again with sacred things ! I was more to blame 
 than you ; thus my punishment is, I hope, more 
 cruel than yours. After the death of Lord Artus, 
 I resolved never again to be at the mercy of any- 
 one. I wished to live honestly by my own work. 
 I obtained a modest engagement at a theatre in 
 Milan. I was happy enough in my new position. 
 I believed that God had forgotten me. I was 
 deceived. We were rehearsing an unedited opera. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 159 
 
 The author, ajettatore celebrated throughout all 
 
 Italy, had wished to entrust me with the part of a 
 
 spirit very nearly mute. At the third act I came down 
 
 from, or rather through the ceiling, in a glory, when 
 
 the flame of the lamp, driven against my side by 
 
 a current of air, set my gauze dress on fire, and 
 
 in a moment I was doomed. Ah, my friend ! the 
 
 terrible sufferings I endured! Death itself is 
 
 preferable to those torments of hell ! The doctor 
 
 has left ; he has forbidden me to fatigue myself. 
 
 To-morrow, my dear Maurice, I shall tell you how 
 
 I have passed the night ' 
 
 Here Jeanne's letter was interrupted. These 
 
 lines in another handwriting brought it to a close. 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' Madame died to-day, 
 
 'The 13th of January, at one o'clock afternoon.' 
 'You see,' said M. Traney, quietly; 'poor 
 Jeanne has paid her debt. I shall soon pay mine. 
 I have a presentiment to that effect ! Do not 
 smile, gentlemen. Presentiments are the pro- 
 phecies of the heart!' he added, in a sententious 
 tone, raising his eyes to heaven. 
 
 ' We have promised a visit to M. de Traney ; 
 it is time now to keep our word and drink a little 
 of his vin d'Asti,' said Maurice, to us, one morning, 
 when the sun had concealed some of his rays, 
 and the heat was not great. 
 
l60 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 Let us go,' I replied ; ' all the more so, that 
 to-day is the 13th of January. The poor fellow will 
 be among his black butterflies.' 
 
 We all four of us set off, this time having horses, 
 which we had had sent from Nice ; but I cannot tell 
 what presentiment rendered us sad and silent. 
 
 We soon came in sight of the pretty villa. The 
 green blinds were closed. 
 
 * Can he have left ?' asked Henri. 
 
 ' For the other world, perhaps !' added Albert. 
 
 A strange trembling seized us. 
 
 ' Let us break open the door !' cried Maxime ; 
 and without waiting for us to agree, with a blow 
 of his athlete's shoulder, he burst the lock. 
 
 We entered. 
 
 Maurice was in bed, and already quite cold. He 
 appeared to sleep. At his feet, where he could see 
 it when alive, was Jeanne's portrait — the portrait 
 of the woman who must thus have received his 
 last regard ! 
 
 On a Venetian glass, one could see these 
 words, which he had cut on it with a diamond : 
 
 ' My friends — to-day — 
 
 ' The 13th of January, at one o'clock afternoon. 
 
 ' I shall be dead ! 
 
 •' Pray for me !' 
 
 ' Poor madman !' said Albert ; 'he was expecting 
 us!' 
 
THE COURTESAN. l6l 
 
 THREE GLASSES OF ABSINTHE. 
 
 The scene is in Paris, on the Boulevard des 
 Italiens, between the Rue Lafitte and the Rue 
 de la Chansee-d'Autin. 
 
 Everybody knows that this little tongue of 
 asphalte belongs by right of conquest to a hun- 
 dred and fifty non-workers, who style themselves 
 modestly ' all Paris.' 
 
 The day was drawing to a close ; a great number 
 of walkers of the ' irregular ' world came and 
 went, smoking, chatting, dreaming, waiting till 
 their stomachs (which would be soon enough) 
 should strike the hour for. taking some green 
 poison — that is to say, absinthe. 
 
 Don't let us disturb them ; smoking is so 
 pleasant after a long day passed — in smoking. 
 Let us be content with drawing out of this little 
 crowd the two personages who interest us. 
 
 We shall call them, if you will allow it, the First 
 and the Second Gentlemen (as they say in the cast of 
 a comedy) till the moment when they can present 
 themselves as gallantly as gentlemen of the ' West 
 End ' can do 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 The First and Second Gentlemen. 
 The First Gentleman, knocking against the 
 
162 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 Second Gentleman, and grumbling between his 
 teeth, 'Awkward fool!' (the Second Gentleman con- 
 tinues his walk without turning round) : ' Here is a 
 person who is somewhat absorbed. He knocks 
 up against one without ever giving himself the 
 trouble of saying : "Look out!" He is one of 
 those people who would have the appearance of 
 thinking deeply' (moving his overcoat, which he carries 
 across his arm). * Beastly climate, this ! It is too 
 hot for three minutes, and the next three it is 
 too cold !' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (taking off his overcoat 
 and throwing it across his arm) : '■ Most unquestion- 
 ably in France there are seven months of summer 
 and five months of winter only ; the air is full of 
 songs !' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' What a horrid crowd ! 
 Paris is becoming uninhabitable.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (improvising words and 
 music) . 
 
 The First Gentleman (he here elbows the Second 
 Gentleman so that the latter let his cigar fall) : 
 ' Take care, then !' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (lifting up his eyes 
 quickly) : 'Am I quick enough ! ' (He burns his fingers, 
 and the cigar rolls into the gutter) ' Bah ! my cigar 
 was bad ; this gentleman has saved me the trouble 
 of throwing it away.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 163 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' I don't know what evil 
 genius has brought me to this boulevard, where 
 one breathes nothing but black smoke and dust.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (with an eyeglass) : 
 * There are some days and months and even years 
 when all the women appear pretty. I am this 
 evening in one of those years, in one of those 
 months, in one of those days.' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' We shall have a storm. 
 This is stifling.' (He takes off his overcoat and 
 rubs against the Second Gentleman — with bad tem- 
 per.) ' What a crowd ! ' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (smiling) : ' I wish to 
 remark, sir, that this is the third rib of mine you 
 have broken ; fortunately nine still remain ; I 
 dare not offer them to you. Besides, I wish a light.' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' Sir, I have no need of 
 anyone's ribs. If my own are not sufficient for 
 me, believe me, I should be incapable of procuring 
 them for myself at the price of such a slight 
 service. Here is a light.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (lights his cigar at that of 
 the other) : ' You are really too good ! ' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' No, sir, I am not too 
 much so ; only as much as one ought to be—that 
 is all ! ' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : ' It is the maxim of a 
 sage.' 
 
164 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The First Gentleman : - I am one.' 
 The Second Gentleman : * I congratulate you.' 
 The First Gentleman : ' There is nothing in it.' 
 The Second Gentleman : ' But if — a surplus, as 
 
 you would wish?' — (between two puffs of tobacco). 
 
 1 But the more I look at you, it appears to me as 
 
 if I recognised an old school-fellow — Adrien 
 
 Guilbert ? ' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' I am not he. My 
 
 name is Maurice de Lestange.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : • One politeness de- 
 serves another. I am called Paul Bois-Aubry.' 
 The First Gentleman : ' I did not ask you that.' 
 The Second Gentleman : ' I am a sub-inspector 
 
 of finances.' 
 
 The First Gentleman (with bad temper) : * Again ! ' 
 The Second Gentleman : * Quite so. You are 
 
 right, sir, it is an injustice. I was about to tell 
 
 you what paralyses my advancement. It is my 
 
 director who ' 
 
 The First Gentleman (interrupting) : ' Your 
 
 grievances against your director do not concern 
 
 me.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : ' You are not anxious ? ' 
 The First Gentleman : ' No.' 
 The Second Gentleman : 'So much the worse.' 
 The First Gentleman : * Why so. much the 
 
 worse ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 165 
 
 The Second Gentleman : ' I don't dine till seven 
 o'clock, and I would have said something of my 
 history to have you relate yours to me. It ought 
 to be full of interest if the distrait look in your 
 eyes do not prove them to be great comedians.' 
 
 The First Gentleman (quickly) : ' Ah ! Monsieur 
 Bois-Aubry, I am the most unfortunate of men ! 
 . . . And I asked myself seriously, when I 
 knocked against you for the third time, if it would 
 not be worth while to strangle you to obtain the 
 favour of being guillotined afterwards.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : ' I know your business, 
 I understand it, I guess it. Come quickly and 
 take a glass of absinthe at Tortoni's ; nothing is 
 worse for the health, but nothing is better for 
 changing the direction of the ideas. When I am 
 sad, which is rare, I drink a glass of it, sometimes 
 two, and often three. You shall tell me every- 
 thing, and if I can do you good in any way, dispose 
 of me.' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' My misfortune is irre- 
 parable.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman (smiling) : * That is the 
 moment to make another and a good fortune.' 
 
 The First Gentleman : * I loved and was be- 
 loved. I am beloved no longer, and yet I love 
 still.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : * Is this about a 
 
l66 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 woman whom you wish to kill ? Come, then ! 
 your watch is slow by thirty years.' 
 
 The First Gentleman : ' It would probably be 
 better that I should seek to know my rival, to 
 provoke him and put him out of existence.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman : ' Is it the case that 
 we actually suffer for a woman ? Henri IV. is 
 dead ! ' 
 
 The First Gentleman (dreamily) : ' That is a 
 misfortune for France. He was a just and 
 gracious monarch.' 
 
 The Second Gentleman took the arm of the 
 First Gentleman, and they sat down before the 
 door of the Cafe" Tortoni, between a fashionable 
 man and a rich man in disrepute, who had 
 instinctively left many seats empty between them, 
 proving also that extremes do not always touch. 
 
 The presentation being made as I have an- 
 nounced above, I give henceforward to my 
 personages the names which they had from their 
 father and godfather. 
 
 FIRST GLASS. 
 
 Paul Bois-Aubry. Maurice de Lestange, 
 
 Paul : ' Waiter, waiter, two glasses of absinthe.' 
 (Taking the hand of M. de Lestange.) 'How have I 
 not met you sooner, my dear M. de Lestange ? 
 You live, then, far from civilised Paris ? ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 167 
 
 Maurice : ' Yes, for three years back. I was 
 amorous, and I am of those who restrict them- 
 selves in their love ! ' (Roughly to the waiter): ' Your 
 absinthe is muddy ! ' 
 
 Paul : ' Muddy ! Come, then, these are som#. 
 emeralds brought from the East. Allow me the 
 task of changing them into opals of the finest 
 water, and commence your story ; I am impatient 
 to console you.' 
 
 Maurice (with a sigh) : l You can do nothing for 
 me.' 
 
 Paul : ' Who knows ? Good fortune is a con- 
 tagious disease, like measles. I am happy ; in 
 touching your hand I can communicate my 
 distemper and give you an attack of my terrible 
 good luck. But commence ; I am ears from head 
 to foot.' 
 
 Maurice : ' About three years ago, I was auditor 
 to the State Council ' 
 
 Paul: 'Pass.' 
 
 Maurice : ' When I made the acquaintance of a 
 woman of the higher world. I shall ask your 
 permission not to name her, for I have nothing 
 but ill to say of her.' 
 
 Paul : ' By Jove, if she had done you nothing 
 but good, you would not put yourself about to 
 compromise her. Do not name her, therefore, I 
 beg of you ; put a stopper on your curses, for you 
 
l68 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 know this, if you know life : a gentleman ought 
 never to forget that he remains eternally obliged 
 to a woman who has wished him well, even when 
 the rupture is not made without severe wrenches. 
 It is a pity, I agree with you ; when one has been 
 villainously betrayed, one ought to be able to tell 
 his friends about it without forfeiting his honour. 
 People put a parapet along a quay, a balustrade 
 along the sides of a bridge, a lamp before a heap 
 of stones ; and why should there not be traced, in 
 red ink, on the forehead of a dangerous woman, 
 an ineffaceable mark which would read : " Break- 
 neck ! " ' 
 
 Maurice : ' I shall content myself with making 
 the relation of my misadventure as succinctly as 
 possible, and I authorise you to call me to order, 
 if there should escape me, in spite of myself, some 
 badly sounding epithets in speaking of my faithless 
 one, whom I shall call Juliet, if you have no aversion 
 to the name.' 
 
 Paul: 'I? None whatever. Without speaking 
 of Romeo's mistress, I have known two Juliets ; 
 the one made me suffer cruelly, but I had my 
 revenge on the other ; so this name and I, you see, 
 are " quits " and good friends ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' From the time that Juliet loved me, 
 as she was not a woman to do things by halves, 
 she left her own home.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. l6g 
 
 Paul: 'Ah, ah!' 
 
 Maurice : ' And she came and installed herself 
 at my house.' 
 
 Paul : ' Oh, ho ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' Her husband was annoyed about it? 
 
 Paul : * Good ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' He annoyed me.' 
 
 Paul : ' Very good ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' I wounded him.' 
 
 Paul : ' Better still ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' The affair made a tremendous noise ; 
 I was obliged to send in my resignation.' 
 
 Paul : ' The devil ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' I had a little capital of 300,000 
 francs, of which barely half was left.' 
 
 Paul : ' And you grumbled very much ? - 
 
 Maurice : ' I was twenty-nine years of age.' 
 
 Paul : ' You are now thirty-two. You have 
 gained on one side what you have lost on the 
 other.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I had no longer a career before me ; 
 I was very nearly ruined ; I had few white hairs, 
 and notwithstanding that I was happy, for I had 
 placed in Juliet my present and my future ; and 
 after three years she left me, leaving me as adieu 
 four pages embellished in this well-known style : 
 
 ' " She only thought of me in quitting me , . . 
 
170 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 She wished for nothing but my good future. . . . 
 She did not wish to bring about my ruin — she was 
 sacrificing herself. . . . She had recognised, a 
 little late in the day, that she had no right to 
 confiscate for her own advantage a love which I 
 owed to my family." Was the reasoning not 
 specious ? ' 
 
 Paul : [ No doubt about that. But still there 
 are many who, in her place, would have remained 
 up to the beginning of the hunger, and, once 
 thoroughly ruined, what would have become of 
 you?' 
 
 Maurice : ' I should have worked for her, and if] 
 she had not ceased to love me, I should have 
 found in myself resources enough to make her 
 rich. But her abandonment of me has broken 
 the last bond which attached me to youth.' 
 
 Paul (gaily) : ■ Too much of the lyrical about all 
 that, my dear sir ! You have made the mistake 
 of building your life on dreams. Women are 
 delicious creatures ; only it doesn't do to ask 
 them for more than they are able to give. They 
 are big children, capable of the most splendid 
 actions and the greatest infamies. With a single 
 hour's interval, the same woman is ignoble and 
 sublime, according to circumstances. I knew a 
 young girl who had married, to save her family 
 from ruin (it is as common as barley-bread), 
 
THE COURTESAN. 171 
 
 an old man not at all tempting. . . . She took 
 care of him, as if he had been her father, for three 
 years, and when his last agony arrived, she sat up 
 twelve nights by his bed side. She was so pale 
 and fatigued that, on the day of the funeral, the 
 undertakers did not know which of them they 
 ought to take away ! Everybody sang her praises, 
 even those to whom she had done some good ; 
 but it appeared they sang falsely, and brought 
 unhappiness to her. For she re-married — for love, 
 this time — with a man of her choice ; and she left 
 him without saying " Look out ! " — abandoning her 
 little pink and white angels, whose tears could 
 have softened a saint — to follow a scoundrel who 
 half-killed her with blows ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' What do you wish to prove ? ' 
 Paul : ' I have said that women are capable of 
 the grandest acts of devotion and sacrifice ; but 
 that their sacrifices are wanting in breath and 
 that their devotion is asthmatic ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' You are preaching to a convert.' 
 Paul : ' You must be distracted. Let us see 
 now. If you were to travel ? ' 
 
 Maurice : ' To travel ? . . . Are you one 
 of those who believe that people amuse themselves 
 when they are travelling ? To run from deception 
 to deception ; to sleep in damp beds ; to be bitten by 
 insects whom trie hotel-keepers send to commence 
 
172 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 their business ; to endure dust and adders ; to 
 meet ruddy Englishmen, fair Germans, and dark 
 Spaniards ; to return foundered, emaciated, and 
 with one's purse empty! ... Be thoroughly 
 convinced of this truth, which has at first sight 
 the appearance of a paradox, but is none the less 
 true : two-thirds of the people travel only to see 
 if M. Hachette's Guides don't lie too much ! As 
 for me, I prefer to take their word for it all.' 
 
 Paul : ' Become ambitious, push yourself in 
 business, and business will push you forward.' 
 
 Maurice : ' To be a servant without livery.' 
 
 Paul : * Throw yourself body and soul into 
 science.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I know too much already. What is 
 science ? Nothing but disillusion. Do you think I 
 should quench my thirst more agreeably at a 
 running brook, because I knew that in drinking 
 one drop of its limpid water, I should swallow 
 many thousands of monsters ? Am I likely to be 
 more loving because I know that in embracing 
 my mistress I derange some myriads of insects 
 who disport themselves on her skin as velvety as 
 the peach ?' 
 
 Paul : ' My dear friend, you speak like a lunatic, 
 or like a baby. Indeed, if you continue, I shall 
 place you with Dr. Blanche, or to " a tailor 
 for young gentlemen," and I shall buy you a 
 
THE COURTESAN. I73 
 
 five -year- old baby's complete costume, ... a 
 small red Solferino blouse, caught at the waist by 
 a belt of varnished leather, a small pair of trousers 
 in muslin edged with Valenciennes, and a little 
 sailor hat. Unless you would prefer to be dressed 
 like a Zouave in fancy style, with a small gun and 
 a little wooden sabre ? ' 
 
 Maurice : * You are cruel.' 
 
 Paul (smiling) : ' Come, you prefer to go to Dr. 
 Blanche ? ' 
 
 Maurice : ' Do not laugh, my friend ; a bad joke 
 would make me ill.' 
 
 Paul (biting his lips so as to keep from bursting out 
 laughing) : If the desire of suicide should return to 
 you, do not trouble yourself on my account, and 
 remember that I am always at your service. I 
 shall undertake with the greatest pleasure the 
 arrangements for your funeral. Be quite com- 
 fortable in your own mind. You shall have a 
 musical mass and an everlasting indulgence. I 
 shall find some singers who won't hurt people's 
 ears with your last concert, and I shall choose in 
 Pere Lachaise a smiling spot, a trifle high so that 
 the breeze may caress you, and shaded enough 
 to keep you from being incommoded by the sun. 
 I should be careful, besides, to leave some clear 
 passages; . . . the stars of the night shall 
 indicate your mausoleum to the passers-by; I 
 
174 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 shall order it to be executed in malachite ; 
 the green will agree very well with the white, for 
 your bust shall be in white marble, I promise you, 
 and on the pedestal these words shall be read in 
 relief : — 
 
 Here lies 
 
 A man who wished to die in his spring-time, 
 
 Because that she whom he loved passed into the arms 
 
 of another. 
 
 The other remains well ! * 
 
 Maurice: 'You are not serious, my friend; you 
 don't know what it is to have lost everything.' 
 
 Paul : ' I ? I have often lost all thrice in eight 
 days. An idea ! Suppose, in place of killing 
 yourself, you were to enter la Trappe ? ' 
 
 Maurice : ' What good would that do V 
 
 Paul : ' You would work out your salvation 
 without leaving us for ever.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I no longer believe in anything, since 
 Juliet has deceived me.' 
 
 Paul : ' It was before that that you ought to 
 have believed in nothing. You should have 
 believed afterwards, having seen. Waiter, waiter I 
 Two other glasses of absinthe !' 
 
 THE SECOND GLASS. 
 
 Maurice {after having emptied the half of his 
 second glass) : ' Now, supposing I consent to live, 
 into what society should I be received ? I have 
 broken my lance in the face of all my old friends.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 175 
 
 Paul : ' True friends easily forgive the sins of 
 
 youth.' 
 
 Maurice : ' For three years back I have exalted 
 in my own mind a woman who is not my wife. I 
 should have to live in society as an interloper 
 whom men meet everywhere, except in fashion- 
 able circles, and I haven't the sort of disposition 
 which could set me at my ease among people of 
 
 that kind.' 
 
 Paul : ' A great philosopher among my friends, 
 who sweetens vaudevilles for the Palais-Royal 
 theatre, declares that to succeed in love, one must 
 treat great ladies as if they were " gay women," 
 and "gay women" as if ■ they were great ladies.' 
 
 Maurice: 'Your great philosopher is a very 
 impertinent man.' 
 
 Paul {after a silence) : ' Let us see, then. Do 
 you really wish that I should prescribe the only 
 remedy for your evil ?' 
 
 Maurice : ' Speak it out !' 
 
 Paul: 'Promise to follow blindly my instruc- 
 tions ?' 
 
 Maurice : ' I promise nothing.' 
 
 Paul : ' I ought to have foreseen your reply ; 
 for I know that there are certain maladies of 
 which people don't wish to be cured — of which 
 they don't wish to be cured at once. There is 
 such a thing as suffering which causes in itself a 
 
I76 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 bitter savour which makes it pleasanter than the 
 most robust health.' 
 
 Maurice : ' That is not my case. I ask nothing 
 but to forget.' 
 
 Paul : ' Promise, then, only to examine my 
 proposal carefully, and I will speak.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I promise to do so.' 
 
 Paul : ' Well, then, here it is : Get another 
 mistress !' 
 
 Maurice {springing up) : ' Where shall I find a 
 woman so bold as to be willing to replace Juliet ? ' 
 {With enthusiasm) : 'Who else than she would have 
 hair fairer than wheat, and which falls over her 
 shoulders like a mantle of gold ?' 
 
 Paul : ' There are still some blondes on the face 
 of the earth; and, besides, all brunettes are not to 
 be despised.' 
 
 Maurice {with volubility) : * Ah, my friend, if you 
 knew how small her feet were, how large her eyes, 
 how supple and undulating her figure, how long 
 her eye-lashes, and what aristocratic hands she 
 had, and what a pretty mouth, and what a trans- 
 parent skin, and what smiles, what dimples — and 
 real nests of love ! and eyebrows darker than her 
 hair, and the little down almost black on her upper 
 lip, which gives to her face a somewhat rebellious 
 air ; and what a mind ! Come, I have by chance 
 about me some of her last letters — {Reading) : 
 
the courtesan. 177 
 
 ' " Dear Maurice, 
 
 ' " You went out at eleven o'clock, 
 and noon is striking. How long the time 
 has appeared since your departure — a whole hour 
 without seeing you ; it is like eternity ! Come 
 back, quickly, quickly ! For you know that I am 
 attached to you as the hare to its form. 
 
 1 " Your little plump quail, 
 
 ' "Juliet. 
 
 ' " P.S. — Remember to bring some rouge for my 
 lips, some henna for my eyes, some hesperides 
 water, some tricogene pomade, some superfine 
 soap, rose-scented ; and the dressing-case we saw 
 yesterday at the Viennese August Klair's shop. 
 It is such a small thing to ask, this, but it will 
 please me so much !" 
 
 ' And this other — (Reading) : 
 
 ' " Big Doggie-doggie, 
 
 * " I am at Belle Vue, all alone, far 
 from human beings (which is a small matter 
 to me) — but far from you, which fills me 
 with despair. What will become of me if you 
 should come back late, and if robbers were to 
 poison Azor, my dog, the only man in the house. 
 
 ' " Your white cat, 
 
 * " Juliet. 
 
178 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 i " P.S.— If, perchance, you are not able to come, 
 
 send me some sugar, coffee and chocolate, and a 
 
 work table from Tahon's, in cedarwood or purple 
 
 ebony — I am not particular about the wood ; I 
 
 ' only love you ! " 
 
 ' And this other : 
 
 ■ " Dear Adored Angel, 
 
 ' " I am distressed. Your eyes always 
 say charming words to me ; but do they mean 
 what they say ? If you were to deceive me, 
 I should die 1 If, one day, you were to love me 
 less, you will be generous, won't you ? and you 
 will kill me ! I place in you all my confidence ; 
 can I possibly have put my trust in a tub without 
 a bottom ? 
 
 ' " Adieu, my little red rabbit. 
 
 ' " Your beloved 
 
 ' " Juliet. 
 
 '"P.S. — Bring me some pear-tasted bonbons, 
 from Bossier's, some hot novels, containing 
 accounts of monstrous crimes : a dozen pairs of 
 gloves from Bertin's — 5J- easy, or 6 tight, grey, 
 pearl, or maize-coloured, with seven buttons ; and 
 two pates defoie gras, as lean as possible." 
 
 Paul : ' These love-letters, which ycu have read 
 
 me with much affection ' 
 
 Maurice : ' Well, what of them V 
 
THE COURTESAN. 179 
 
 Paul : ' They are business letters, written by a 
 merchant to her correspondent, with the sole 
 purpose of being able to add a postscript : 
 
 * " . . . Send me, or bring me, some chocolate, 
 some pates, a dressing-case, and no end of other 
 
 things." 
 
 'That's the whole purpose of these letters; 
 the rest is only there to obscure the matter.' 
 
 Maurice : ' But ' 
 
 Paul : ' As to the clever sayings of which you 
 have boasted so much, all that I can see is that 
 your blonde angel appears to have a good 
 memory.' 
 
 Maurice (drinking) : * Then, you really believe 
 that my old friends will pardon me if I fall into 
 their midst like a thunderbolt ?' 
 
 Paul : ' How could I deny that — I who have 
 known you only for a short time ? In an hour I 
 shall not know you any longer, that is all !' 
 
 Maurice (taking him by the hand) : ' I am most 
 ungrateful.' (He empties his glass.) 'I see very 
 well that this existence, outside of society, has in 
 it something most unusual.' 
 
 Paul : ' To live with impunity in the demi- 
 monde, it is necessary to have a splendid constitu- 
 tion — like myself, for example. I have had all 
 sorts of adventures for ten years past, but I have 
 taken good care never to be caught. I have 
 
l8o THE COURTESAN. 
 
 pillaged a little to the right, or a little to the left, 
 leaving some shreds of my heart on all the bushes 
 by the way, without its losing an atom of its 
 vigour native to the battle of love and play. 
 Indeed, since this morning, I am fixed for ever ; 
 . . . some would say for three weeks ! ' 
 
 Maurice : ' You are in love ? ' 
 
 Paul : ' Like a madman, with an ideal woman, 
 of whom I could continue to talk in the same 
 strain as you have in the fireworks you have just 
 let off in honour of your pretty runaway.' (A 
 movement on Maurice's part.) ' Be quiet, I beg of 
 you ! She has left everything for me ; but I am 
 quite convinced of it. In some weeks she will 
 abandon me as she has abandoned my 
 predecessor, and I shall console myself for her 
 loss, if I do not even rejoice at it. Never mind ; 
 already you are less sad than you were, and if you 
 are not afraid to drink a third glass of this 
 atrocious liquor, you will soon be as gay as a 
 lark.' 
 
 Maurice (resolutely) : ■ Waiter, waiter ! Two 
 glasses of absinthe !' 
 
 THE THIRD GLASS. 
 
 Maurice (gaily emptying two-thirds of his glass) : 
 ' Unquestionably, my dear friend, your remedy is 
 sovereign. I can look at. my misfortunes already 
 
THE COURTESAN. l8l 
 
 with a dryer eye ! After all, since Juliet has left 
 me, it has been because she doesn't love me. 
 It would be a very bad use to which to put my 
 eyes, to weep for an ungrateful creature, who 
 knows perfectly what she has done, for she has a 
 clear mind ! . . . Arithmetic is her only art of 
 pleasing, but she plays on it as other women do 
 on the piano. She is the pupil of Liszt and of 
 Gobsee ; knowing what we were spending on 
 the average yearly, and valuing at about twenty 
 centimes what remains in my treasury, she will 
 make her calculation by A plus B with proof and 
 counter proof. Then she will say — as she 
 delivers judgment on the question — in her own 
 ear : In three years I must seek for another 
 settlement, and she who seeks ... doesn't find. 
 . . . This is the exordium of her discourse. You 
 may guess the peroration.' (In a low voice) : 'Between 
 ourselves, her conduct may be wanting a little in 
 loyalty, but it is quite logical. In three years, 
 the poor girl will not be in her first, nor even her 
 second youth, and as there is no third ... for I 
 haven't told you this, she is really six months older 
 than I. Six months — well, it isn't quite eighteen 
 years, you know, but it always counts. Her pass- 
 port gives her age at twenty-five; that is rubbish. 
 Her certificate of birth, which sets out these 
 things more accurately, makes her thirty-three.' 
 
l82 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 Paul (distrait, in a hollow tone) : * Ah ! ' 
 Maurice : ' She has splendid hair, which is all 
 her own. I know something about that ! For 
 it was I who bought it at Lecomte's, and pre- 
 sented it to her on her birthday.' 
 
 Paul (in the same cavernous voice) : ' Oh ! ' 
 Maurice (smiling) : ' Her teeth are white, it is 
 true ; but I know that two of ttiem come from 
 the workshop of MM. Evans, uncle and nephew. 
 Who knows if those are the only false ones ? . . . 
 Before my appearance on the scene, she may 
 have had dealings with other artists on this 
 subject — these dentists are so prudent.' 
 Paul (still sad looking) : ' Yes.' 
 Maurice (gaily): * Unquestionably, Juliet's 
 abandonment of me is not such a great mis- 
 fortune as I had thought it at first. In three 
 years I should have been reduced to poverty, or 
 obliged to return to my family, who know the 
 story of the Prodigal Son ! H'm ! would it not 
 be better for me to return before I am absolutely 
 obliged to ? ' 
 
 Paul (whose forehead was grave yet) : ' Yes.' 
 Maurice : ' I am thirty- two and a-half years old. 
 Devil take it ! I am not quite yet a Methuselah. 
 I have some teeth and hair left. . . . There 
 remain still 150,000 francs. Everybody doesn't 
 begin life on a sum as large.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 1 83 
 
 Paul: 'No.' 
 
 Maurice: ? Why, Juliet's going off is very nearly 
 a piece of good fortune ! It is true my career ; 
 but I have sown my wild oats, and I must put 
 some lead into my head, . . . that is indispen- 
 sable.' 
 
 Paul (all at once, startled) : ' How indispensable ! 
 . . . Some lead ? ' 
 
 Maurice : ' I see I have made you laugh. I am 
 ruined in such an original style, by deceiving my- 
 self; for I am not a basket with holes in it, 
 although one might think it. Three years ago I had 
 three hundred shares in the Lyons Railway, which 
 are valued at 400,000 francs. At the first pressing 
 demand I replaced them by Orleans shares ! At 
 the second demand my Orleans became Austrians, 
 then my Austrians became Lombards, and at last 
 my Lombards became Egyptians I have still 
 the same number of little papers ornamented by 
 a face nearly identical 1 When I go back to my 
 mother's house, she will begin to rummage in my 
 drawers, and when she finds three hundred little 
 papers, she will be satisfied, and her forgiveness 
 will be complete.' 
 
 Paul: 'Yes.' 
 
 Maurice : * Ah ! who knows ? When Egypt 
 shall no longer seek for the disinterested (?) pro- 
 tection of England, her finances will probably 
 
184 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 re-establish themselves, and my shares will 
 improve with those. Come, then, Juliet's flight is 
 a hand from heaven co save me from the abyss ; 
 it is the greatest good fortune which can happen 
 to me.' 
 
 Paul (more sad looking than ever) : * Yes.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I am an honourable man. I never 
 would have quitted her — my existence was bound 
 up with hers. What a future ! The isolation of 
 two ! From recriminations to recriminations, we 
 should have fatally ended by holding each other 
 in hatred.' 
 
 Paul : ' It is true.' 
 
 Maurice : ' I know well that a man intentionally 
 magnifies the woman who holds him under her 
 control, so as not to appear too small ! . . . 
 However, I scarcely understand how the curtain 
 did not fall at once on my illusions, after having 
 received such a letter as this. I shall read it to 
 you, taking care to conceal the signature— (Read- 
 ing) : 
 
 ' " My Good Maurice, 
 
 ' (Good here replaces an adjective less polite.) 
 
 "'My Good Maurice, 
 
 1 " For a long time I have been 
 convinced that it is necessary to write the 
 words ' The End ' below our little romance ; I 
 am ruining you little by little ; lam closing every 
 
THE COURTESAN. 185 
 
 opening in life to you — in short, we are in a blind 
 alley " 
 
 Paul : ' She is right.' 
 
 Maurice {continuing) : ' " Therefore, I must go. 
 I don't believe in the chains that bind people. 
 Let us be strong enough to break ours, at least. 
 Reassure yourself; the wounds will cicatrise 
 rapidly. You will begin by cursing me, I know, 
 but you will pardon me when you shall have 
 appreciated my conduct better " 
 
 ' I have pardoned her already. 
 
 * "You will pardon me, especially when you know 
 to what point I shall sacrifice myself for your good, 
 and when you know that he who is to be your 
 successor is no longer young and is very ugly." 
 
 Paul (in a lively tone) : ' It seems to me that I 
 recognise that handwriting. The woman whom 
 you call Juliet, because she is named Camille 
 ... is Mme. de Marcillac' 
 
 Maurice : ' Yes.' 
 
 Paul (explosively) : - My dear friend, I am the 
 person no longer young, and very ugly.' 
 
 Mauflce (laughing) : ' Ah ! bah ! you are not very 
 handsome, it is true ; but you are by no means so 
 plain-looking as she says.' 
 
 Paul : ' Am I not ? ' 
 
 Maurice : ' If you had larger eyes, a nose a little 
 smaller, the mouth better shaped, your moustache 
 
l86 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 less stubbly, and your expression more smiling, 
 you would do very well, indeed.' 
 
 Paul (after having emptied his glass) : ' Thanks. 
 It is heaven which has brought us together to 
 avenge ourselves on a coquette. Let us write her 
 a joint letter.' 
 
 Maurice : ' A good idea.' 
 
 (At a sign from Paul, a waiter brings pen, ink, etc.) 
 
 Paul (taking the pen) : 
 
 • Dear Madame, 
 
 ' Permit us to give you a disinterested 
 advice ; go back to the conjugal domicile. Your 
 husband, M. de Marcillac, is an honest man, 
 capable of receiving you again with open arms. 
 If, to give himself some kind of excuse, he should 
 ask any indiscreet questions, you shall say that you 
 have had an attack of horrible fever, which has 
 lasted three years. If he doesn't believe it, he 
 will appear to do so. 
 
 ' I sign myself, 
 
 ' Your new friend, 
 
 1 Paul . . . 
 ' who is no longer young, and who is very^igly.' 
 Maurice : ' I sign in my turn : 
 
 ' Your old friend, 
 
 * Maurice . . , 
 ' whose wounds are cicatrised, and who, not 
 content with forgiving you, thanks you.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 187 
 
 Paul: 'Good.* 
 
 Maurice : ' Come, my dear Paul, be gayer ; you 
 have the patibulary look which I had when we 
 sat down here together. It is seven o'clock. I 
 feel as hungry as a dog ; come and dine with me 
 at the Cafe Anglais, and we shall celebrate your 
 deliverance.' 
 
 Paul : ' I accept your invitation ; but allow me 
 first to make a short visit to Madame de Marcillac ; 
 I wish to tell her what I think of her letter.' 
 
 Maurice : ' Take my advice, and give up the idea 
 of such a thing ; I know the siren she is ; she will 
 prove to you that you are all in the wrong. How ? 
 I can't tell you that, but she will prove it to you. 
 You will weep, she will weep ; you will weep 
 together, apostrophising me in the finest manner, 
 and finally she will keep possession of you ! ' 
 
 Paul (hurrying off) : ' You surely can't insult 
 me so ! In twenty minutes I shall return here.' 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Maurice de Lestange unbent, stretched out his 
 legs ; smoked away dreamily ; his eye softening, 
 his mouth smiling. 
 
 He reads a pleasing future in the clouds which 
 capriciously escape from his cigar. 
 
 He sees himself already in the arms of his 
 mother; he does not understand how he has 
 
1 88 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 been three whole years without seeing her — it 
 is a bad dream, which is over. 
 
 An hour passes, and Paul Bois-Audrey dreams 
 no longer. At last a servant brings him a 
 letter, which he reads : 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 ' Mme. de Marcillac has told me every- 
 thing, and I understand how in this note which 
 she has written you it would have been uncivil 
 for you to say: 
 
 '"My dear friend, I leave you to follow Adonis, 
 Narcissus, or Alcibiades." 
 
 1 Her excuse is in the enormity of her epithets, 
 for, without being handsome as one of the three 
 whom I have mentioned, I have no pretension to 
 be positively ugly. 
 
 ' In short, the truth is that Camille loves me, 
 and I take leave of you definitely. 
 
 ' You know this, that when love comes in, 
 friendship loses its rights, even when it is quite 
 new. 
 
 * If you have the weakness to wish it of me, I 
 shall place myself at your orders, and I confess to 
 you without scruple, I should have a ferocious joy 
 in slitting your throat a little. Camille has dis- 
 closed to me by what a concurrence of romantic 
 circumstances she became the mistress of an 
 artificial man, and with what bitter tears she 
 
THE COURTESAN. 1 89 
 
 has repented that mistake, already paid for by 
 a liaison of three years with a being whom she 
 could never love. The word is coarse, but it has 
 the merit of being true. 
 
 ' I shall be at your disposal up till midnight ; 
 that hour past, I shall look upon myself as free, 
 and after having given in my resignation, I shall 
 go off to Italy with a woman who will one day 
 bear my name — an honourable name, which will 
 serve as the palladium against your calumnies. 
 
 Paul (bursting into laughter and emptying his 
 glass) : ' Another man gone overboard.' 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL MENUS. 
 
 All people who dine out know ihat the master 
 and mistress of the house occupy the middle of 
 the table, facing each Gther, to preside over the 
 serving of the guests, and to lead, as far as 
 possible, the conversation. 
 
 Madame knows that she ought to have on her 
 right hand the most important married gentleman 
 of the party, and on her left he who occupies the 
 second place in her estimation. 
 
 Monsieur is well aware that the places to the 
 n%%X and left of him belong to the ladies who 
 hold the best position in society. 
 
igo THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The tact of amphitryons therefore lies in 
 placing their guests according to the importance 
 they really have, not according to that they 
 believe themselves to hold. 
 
 This matter of places — better or worse — is a 
 grave one, no doubt, since it certainly indicates 
 better than the grandest phrases could do the 
 consideration which the guests enjoy in the 
 house; but the question of partners appears to 
 me graver still. 
 
 Each diner has two neighbours ; he often 
 doesn't know them, and is in danger of making 
 some irreparably foolish remark. To avoid for 
 the future a multitude of little errors and great 
 blunders, this is what I propose : 
 
 A card in the shape of a folding- card, such as 
 these we get at a stationer's. At the top, the 
 name and title of the guest ; below, the dinner 
 menu; and within, a short biography of the lady 
 or gentleman neighbours, which one may consult 
 before opening the conversation. 
 
 EXAMPLE. 
 
 ' On your right hand : 
 
 ' Madame la Baronne de T . . . 
 
 ' It is well to say " Madame la Baronne." for her 
 title is somewhat disputed. Be very cautious, 
 for her virtue is like her title. Say what you 
 like of the Baron (husband), but don't touch 
 
THE COURTESAN. igi 
 
 upon M. Brigonnet, the friend of her choice. 
 He is a young landscape painter, without talent, 
 who thinks himself superior to Jules Dupres. He 
 has a " plate of daubs " in the Salon. You can 
 speak of it without having seen it, for it resembles 
 nothing— and everything ; only do not ask if the 
 animal which is asleep in the middle of the lawn 
 is a calf. It has the appearance of one, but it is 
 
 a rabbit. 
 
 'Do not speak in praise of women who have 
 white teeth, thinking you are paying a compli- 
 ment to Madame la Baronne. She has a set of 
 false teeth. If you wish to be agreeable to her, 
 touch her little feet with yours. Hers are very 
 pretty, and they are all her own. 
 
 ' On your left : 
 
 Madame la Countesse de B . . . 
 
 « Say " Madame " quite simply, for her title is 
 authentic. You can speak freely of everything ; 
 of the last case of scandal ; of the piece at the 
 "Palais Royal; of the conjugal miseries of M. 
 X . . . ; and even of the high flights of 
 Madlle. Z ... If you are witty, she will 
 give you a witty reply ; if you are not, be easy; 
 she will know well enough how to guide you 
 by a pleasant sk>pe to ground less slippery. 
 
 'She married when very young a very old 
 husband, who made her very happy. She takes 
 
192 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 her good fortune quietly, as is becoming in a 
 woman who respects herself, and wishes to be 
 respected.' 
 
 When the dinner is not laid with more than 
 a dozen covers, the conversation often becomes 
 general ; then the information as to the neigh- 
 bours on the left and right is not sufficient. It 
 will be necessary in that case to give a succinct 
 biography of all the guests, who should have each 
 a number in order, beginning from the rght hand 
 of the master of the house. 
 
 Thus you are placed next a gentleman you 
 don't know, and who begins to speak to you. 
 You at once open your little card, and read : 
 
 ' No. 9, 
 * Monsieur L . . . 
 
 ' Ultra-radical deputy. Formerly a Legitimist, 
 next Republican, then Bonapartist. Has never 
 changed his party except when the party was 
 out in the cold. Little wit, little talent, little 
 eloquence, tremendous self-esteem ! As he 
 never speaks in the Chamber, he makes 
 amends for that in society. To make him 
 silent there is one means, but it is terrible. 
 Ask him for news of his wife, Madame 
 L . . . , who adores horses and grooms. 
 Left her husband to follow a travelling circus.' 
 
 The guest who aspires to be the first speaker 
 
THE COURTESAN. I93 
 
 ought to be a high and potent gentleman, who 
 occupies the first place of honour at the right 
 hand of the mistress of the house. You consult 
 your menu and you see — 
 
 ' No. 5, 
 ' Monsieur de V . . . 
 ' Landed proprietor, very rich and much 
 esteemed ; has a horror of all political changes, 
 because a revolution would sweep away his piles 
 of dollars. A devoted rearer of stock, he takes 
 regularly all the first prizes in provincial shows. 
 A good man, and an excellent husband. After 
 his horses, his sheep, his bulls, and his pigs, 
 Madame de V . . ., his wife, is the person he 
 loves most in the whole world.' 
 
 One can see by the simple imaginary speci- 
 mens I have given how easy it would be to 
 prepare these little biographies. If my idea 
 should meet with favour, we shall soon find at 
 all the stationers' shops Biographical Menus with 
 blanks only to be filled in. 
 
 Perfection in this idea will follow soon. Every 
 one will be able to place a stone in the building. 
 
 I have not taken out ' a patent ' for it I 
 
194 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 PRIMROSE. 
 
 To Madame X. Y. Z. . . . 
 
 You go off this evening, Madame, and to- 
 morrow yon will be crossing that portion of 
 Burgundy where the railways have not yet 
 brought what is called civilisation. On your 
 way, I know a little hill which you go up with 
 the horses at the gallop ; and I would ask you 
 to make them stop your postchaise, and to put 
 your pretty head out at the window. 
 
 Believe me, give the town which sleeps just 
 behind the hill any time you can spend, and you 
 will enjoy a fairy spectacle 
 
 If I were your husband, Madame, or only your 
 brother, I would take you in my arms not to have 
 you tear your pretty feet with the pebbles on the 
 road, and I would carry you to the summit of the 
 hill, in the midst of the rocks and the vines. 
 From there, I would show you, quite at the 
 bottom of the valley, by the side of a narrow 
 and sinuous river, some white houses around a 
 church. These humble dwellings and the church, 
 with its clock, form a little hamlet which I call 
 Primrose, but which the geographies name other- 
 wise. Among the trees there, and shaded by 
 myrtles and flowers, there is a dwelling — it is 
 the presbytery. 
 
THE COURTESAN. I95 
 
 This exordium will doubtless interest you 
 little, Madame, and you will pass without 
 condescending to lift your eyes from the book 
 whose work it is to distract you on the way, if I 
 had not in reserve to awaken your sympathies a 
 rather sad story, which I shall tell you. 
 
 I described just now the house of the cur6, 
 hidden like a nightingale's nest in the trees. In 
 visiting this tranquil dwelling place, white and 
 perfumed outside, poor and severe within, one 
 dreams of a happiness without alloy, an existence 
 of a priest or a poet — at once pious and contem- 
 plative. Every object speaks of sweet ideas, 
 across which a painful thought does not appear 
 to pass. 
 
 If you penetrated one day into that holy retreat, 
 you would hardly believe that a man had been 
 able to suffer so much as that he could not there 
 forget all his griefs. 
 
 It is nearly ten years ago to-day since the cure 
 of this village was a young man named Gilbert, a 
 poor child found upon the threshold of a church 
 and rescued by kind hearts. He was devoted to 
 the service of God, without any other ambition 
 than to do good. His mission appeared to him 
 sweet and sacred on the earth ; he asked nothing 
 from Heaven but that he might worthily carry 
 out his life work. Otherwise, he was removed 
 
I96 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 without regret and without hatred from a world 
 of whose miseries and splendours he knew 
 nothing. Humble as at the foot of the altar, 
 modest and good to everyone, he gave thanks to 
 the Creator that he was able, in spite of his 
 poverty, to assuage some sufferings here below. 
 Such was this excellent priest ; thus was he loved 
 Mid respected by all, in this little hamlet of 
 Primrose. 
 
 The children kissed his hands, and called him 
 their father. 
 
 Good women thought him handsomer than St. 
 John, and leaned on their brooms as they looked 
 at him passing by. 
 
 As the village had not as yet either a doctor or 
 a schoolmaster, he himself taught the little ones 
 and tended the poor sick people. 
 
 Every day, after having made his morning 
 prayer, he went out, going from house to house, 
 knocking at all the doors, like the good angel. 
 You may judge if he was not much beloved. He 
 brought to each a comfort or some help — honey 
 to the sick, food to the poor, the word of God to 
 all. This worthy pastor divided his portion 
 among his flock, and the least mark of joy 
 made him happy. 
 
 In the evening, he would call the little children 
 under the trees of his garden, and read to them 
 
THE COURTESAN. I97 
 
 some sacred pages ; or he would go and sit in the 
 valley, looking at the sun setting behind the 
 mountain ; then he would go back through his 
 little garden gate, and retire to sleep, giving 
 thanks to God. 
 
 This is how the life of the priest Gilbert was 
 passed. An old mendicant woman, half deaf and 
 half paralytic, sufficed for the necessities of his 
 humble establishment ; a black dog with long 
 hair, a present from a friend of whom we shall 
 speak anon, were, with himself,' the only inhabi- 
 tants of the presbytery. 
 
 Gilbert had been educated at college. There 
 you may imagine that, as in the village, everyone 
 loved him ; but we have always some special 
 friend, a friend whom our heart selects out of all 
 the others ; and by a preference which might appear 
 strange, if one did not know that odd tendency of 
 nature to make extremes meet, Gilbert's friend 
 was at heart perhaps the least pious in that 
 sacred house to which his life had been dedicated. 
 Maurice de Mercy was a son of one of the noblest 
 and richest families in the country. His mother 
 (it was so believed, at least) sought to expiate the 
 scandal of her life by offering to God her only son, 
 and brought him to the seminary while quite a 
 child. The ardent soul of Maurice had taken, 
 little by little, a perfect disgust at this monkish 
 
I98 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 and quiet existence, which harmonised so well 
 with the pious and devoted soul of Gilbert. The 
 indifference of his family,- who would not listen to 
 his complaints, his forsaking by his mother, who 
 preferred not to hear his weeping, filled his mind 
 with grief and bitterness. Gilbert, who loved 
 him, sought to comfort him ; perhaps he thought 
 he might lead him to God. Maurice felt himself 
 less miserable when he could weep in the arms of 
 a brother and a friend. But the hatred of the 
 cloister soon awoke in his heart ; he resolved to 
 escape from what he called his prison. Gilbert 
 knew his project ; they had nothing concealed 
 from each other. Knowing all the sufferings and 
 despondency of his friend, he did not seek to stop 
 him. Maurice disappeared from the seminary, 
 and some months afterwards he wrote Gilbert a 
 long letter full of poetry and youth. His mother 
 died in a fit of anger when she heard of his 
 flight, and he, master at once of a considerable 
 fortune and free as the eagle, as he expressed it, 
 studied medicine to distract his mind, made 
 verses to keep himself from wearying, and 
 plunged headlong into society. 
 
 ' My poor friend,' he wrote to Gilbert, ' how 
 I regret that you are so far away from me. If 
 you only knew — but you ought to know nothing, 
 and I shall be silent, so as not to awaken desires 
 
THE COURTESANo 199 
 
 which would only make you unhappy. Dear 
 Gilbert, all my dreams are realised. I exist ; life 
 has opened to me since I left my prison.' 
 
 Then he spoke of fetes, of pleasures, of glory. 
 He sent his friend some verses in this style — 
 
 'Yesterday, at 8.30 a.m., I awoke a poet,' he 
 said. * Henceforth, I feel it, I shall produce verses 
 as an apple-tree produces apples.' 
 
 Gilbert smiled as he thought that his friend was 
 very happy while he wrote that lively letter ; but 
 all the pleasures of which Maurice spoke left no 
 troubled thought in his soul. He thought only : 
 1 He smiles on life, and life smiles on him ; it is 
 well.' He went no further than that. 
 
 Maurice's joy was that of a child which is 
 astonished, and marvels at everything. His 
 speech was unreflecting and fresh like himself ; 
 his disillusion was terrible. 
 
 Gilbert quitted college to become cure* of Prim- 
 rose. Before leaving he wished to see Maurice 
 once more. He found him much changed. His 
 gaiety was no longer that of his first letter. His 
 sadness was not even like that of former times ; 
 tears rarely softened his eyes, and the smile which 
 for a moment crossed his pale lips was not 
 pleasant to see. Gilbert questioned him ; he 
 kept silence. Yet his friendship, and it alone, 
 
 had not changed ; he was happy as he pressed 
 
 - 
 
200 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 his brother to his bosom, and spoke of the past ; 
 but of the present life — not a word ! When 
 Gilbert asked him : ' Are you happy at all 
 events ?' he smiled. Then he took his friend's 
 hand and pressed it convulsively. The poor 
 priest could make nothing of all this, except 
 that Maurice suffered and would not be consoled. 
 He stopped questioning him; only, in glancing 
 by chance at some of the books scattered here 
 and there about his room, he stopped somewhat 
 astonished, and, not being able to understand, 
 he called his friend to his side. But Maurice 
 closed the book and flung it into a corner, 
 saying: ' Don't read that, if you take my advice.' 
 Gilbert went away, struck by vexation which 
 refused all consolation. 
 
 ' Trust in God,' he said to Maurice, as he left 
 him. ' He alone can give you happiness, since I 
 am powerless to comfort you.' 
 
 And, as Gilbert's eyes were full of tears : ' You 
 have a good heart,' replied Maurice, in a shaking 
 voice ; ■ you deserve to be happy.' 
 
 ' Do you deserve it less than I do ?' asked 
 Gilbert. * I cannot believe it.' 
 
 ' Come, come; I shall write you soon, my friend.' 
 Then, patting his dog, he said : ' Would you not 
 like to take Pluto with you ? I am sure he only 
 waits to follow you. See how he looks at you. I 
 
THE COURTESAN. 201 
 
 don't pet him enough : I am only an egotist who 
 ought to be left alone in his corner.' 
 
 The dog raised towards his master his big black 
 eyes, and appeared to listen. 
 
 ' I don't wish to keep him, although he is a 
 good dog,' added Maurice, giving him some 
 little slaps on his back ; * but he is dying of 
 sadness and weariness in my company. Take 
 him.' 
 
 ' No,' said Gilbert ; ' you love him still.' 
 
 ' Yes, no doubt ; but one doesn't give you what 
 one has ceased to love ! Besides, I love you 
 better than him,' added he, laughing. 
 
 The young priest embraced his friend for the 
 last time, and went on his way. Maurice made a 
 sign to Pluto that he could go also ; the dog 
 hesitated an instant, then at the moment when 
 Gilbert disappeared he went after him like a flash, 
 and rejoined him. 
 
 Some days sufficed for Gilbert to become 
 acquainted with all his new friends, and to 
 plan his future life. His white house in the 
 middle of the trees appeared to him charming ; 
 his garden, which he could run through in a few 
 seconds ; the brook which flowed murmuring 
 beneath the hedge of beach ; his fruits and his 
 flowers, all realised his most splendid, dreams. 
 His ambition never had gone further than this 
 
K>2 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 little possession. You can imagine with what 
 touching cares the days rolled onwards. 
 
 It was only two months after he had arrived at 
 Primrose that he received the letter from Maurice, 
 so impatiently waited for. 
 
 letter from maurice to gilbert. 
 
 1 Gilbert, 
 
 1 Pardon me for having kept silence 
 while your restless mind was questioning mine. 
 In any case, I am indeed changed since our first 
 separation. I was good and trusting before ; 
 grief has rendered me bad and taciturn. Gilbert, 
 you shall hear some strange words, and )^our 
 friend will appear to you most unworthy of that 
 Maurice whom you formerly consoled. You are 
 blessed by God. You who believe, you who have 
 never quitted his sanctuary, and who breathe 
 only the pure incense of his altars — do not 
 leave at any time your pious cell ; the air which 
 is beyond it is corrupted, it will kill ! Never open 
 any other book than your holy books ; what men 
 have written is poisoned, and will kill you also. 
 Do you remember that letter which was sent 
 secretly to the college some months after my 
 flight ? Did I not appear happy then ? 
 
 1 Then my mother died cursing me. But I was 
 drunk with liberty; I had insensate dreams of 
 what I should meet in society. You have, perhaps, 
 
THE COURTESAN. 203 
 
 thought me mad, Gilbert ; I was so, indeed, if 
 madmen are the only happy people in the world, 
 for I believed myself happy for some time. I 
 believed myself a poet ; I believed I was born for a 
 mission as sublime as yours. My friends began to 
 laugh when they heard me say so, and my beauti- 
 ful dreams disappeared one by one at each of their 
 cold speeches. Some books, which they flung to 
 me in leaving, achieved the work. The poison of 
 unbelief glided into my soul. Gilbert, you don't 
 know what doubt is ! After having blessed and 
 praised God, to stop oneself all at once to demand 
 who God is, and if he really exists ; after having 
 seen heaven peopled with radiant archangels, to 
 look up into it to ask if it be vacant, and then to 
 meet nothing but a blue impenetrable veil ! To 
 doubt everything, my friend — to doubt love, to 
 doubt God, to doubt one's own soul — is it not 
 horrible ? Do you believe that it could be possible 
 for one to be good in anything here below, when 
 one has arrived at that point ? Do you believe 
 that it would not be better to die ? To die ! Yes, 
 Gilbert, that idea has nothing in it which terrifies 
 me. "To die — to die!" says Hamlet. The sleep 
 of the soul is the highest happiness. Have I not 
 insulted the most sacred things in the world ? I 
 also brave death, and I shall die mocking it. My 
 poor Gilbert, your friendship is the only thing in 
 
204 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 the world that remains sacred to me; my last 
 thought, my last vow before returning to nothing- 
 ness, is that you may live happy in the bosom of 
 your humble retreat. 
 
 * Adieu, brother, adieu ! Never forget your 
 unhappy friend ! ' 
 
 A manuscript was attached to this letter ; it was 
 the history of Maurice since his disappearance 
 from the seminary — a lamentable history, which 
 Gilbert perused trembling. One day, perhaps, 
 Madame, I shall open for you that book of which I 
 am the sole depositary. More than once your eyes 
 . will fill with tears at the recital of so much 
 suffering and so many miseries ; indeed, some of 
 the pages will appear to you pages torn from the 
 history of those pallid young people whom you 
 have seen pass into the midst of your entertain- 
 ments like phantoms, and you will recognise 
 throughout all the impress of that malady of the 
 century which tortures our swaggerers in vice, 
 who would be freethinkers if they had the faculty 
 of thinking at all ! 
 
 Gilbert had scarcely believed in such sufferings ; 
 he saw nothing outside of his own peaceful happi- 
 ness, and could not believe that the world 
 concealed such deceptions and such terrible 
 anguish. Only the despair of his friend appeared 
 
THE COURTESAN. 205 
 
 to him real and moving. Here is the letter he 
 wrote with a trembling hand : — 
 
 from gilbert to maurice. 
 
 'My Dear Maurice, 
 
 ' Are you so ill, and are your wounds so 
 deep, that the hand of a friend cannot cure or 
 console you a little ? I have told you to hope in 
 God. Poor boy ! Why have you not done so ? 
 Do not doubt his mercy — it is a fever which blinds 
 you to that. Why do you speak of dying? You 
 are young, and many years remain to you to act 
 well, and to raise yourself in his eyes and your 
 own. Reside no longer in towns where you 
 suffer ; come and breathe the pure air of my 
 hermitage. My dear friend, live ! Have you not 
 some sufferings to be appeased, some wounds tl 
 be cured here below ? What are you going to do 
 with the understanding and knowledge which 
 God has given you ? Come here, Maurice ; you 
 shall be the physician of the body, as I am the 
 physician of the soul.' 
 
 Gilbert closed his letter by a charming picture 
 of his present life. He related to M. Mercy in 
 what pious and beneficent cares he passed every 
 one of his days ; he described his little house to 
 him, his old moss-covered church, and his village 
 lying among the roses. He mixed up a little 
 
206 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 gaiety with the rest of the letter, and pretended 
 not to take as serious the sad resolution of his 
 friend. ' I am waiting for you,' he said to him, 
 ' to show you all the wonders of my little domain, 
 and to present you to the sheep whose shepherd 
 I am. You shall be welcome here, and everybody 
 will love you.' 
 
 As night was beginning to fall when he closed 
 his letter, he resolved to take it himself to the 
 neighbouring village. It was the first time he had 
 left the village. In returning, he sat down on the 
 summit of the hill to look at the sun setting ; the 
 evening was magnificent. He thought of Maurice 
 and hoped. As he rose to go on his homeward 
 way, a postchaise which had been heard 
 approaching for some moments, stopped all at 
 once, a lacquey covered with dust approached 
 from the door, whence he appeared to be receiving 
 some orders, and then ran over to the cure. 
 
 ' Sir,' said he, taking off his cockaded hat, 'the 
 fellow who is guiding us is new to this part of the 
 country, and we risk being thrown into a ditch, if 
 you will not have the kindness to put us on the 
 right road.' 
 
 ' My friend,' replied Gilbert, ' I have been here 
 such a short time myself that I fear that I shall 
 not be able to come to your help.' 
 
 1 Sir,' said a young lady, who showed a 
 
TME COURTESAN. 20J 
 
 ravishing little head at the carriage window, 
 1 perhaps you could tell us if we can reach the 
 chateau Valtravers before night.' 
 
 Gilbert was moved by this womanly voice, and 
 confessed blushingly his ignorance on that point. 
 
 The lacquey stifled an oath, and the pretty 
 traveller said, with a smile : 
 
 ' Well, then, it is all the same ; we can go on.' 
 
 Then, addressing herself to Gilbert, who did not 
 dare to raise his eyes, she added, smiling with all 
 her white teeth : 
 
 ' It is all right, sir; we thank you as much as if 
 you could have done us this favour — the will is as 
 good as the deed.' 
 
 And the carriage drove off. 
 
 Gilbert entered the presbytery quite pensive. 
 
 ' Do you know the chateau of Valtravers ? ' 
 asked he of his servant. 
 
 The good old woman went out immediately and 
 served his supper. 
 
 'You did not hear, surely, when I spoke to 
 you ? ' cried Gilbert, impatiently. 
 
 Gertrude raised her astonished eyes to his. It 
 was the first time that he had ever allowed a sign 
 of impatience to escape him. 
 
 ' You don't hear me, my good Gertrude,' said 
 Gilbert, in a gentler voice. ' I was asking you if 
 you knew the chateau of Valtravers.' 
 
208 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 The servant approached the window, and 
 pointed out with her finger a black point on the 
 side of the mountain, half lost in a forest of 
 chestnut trees. 
 
 * Very well,' said the young priest ; ' I thank 
 you. . . . What have I done?' added he to 
 himself. ' Why have I spoken roughly to this good 
 woman ? Have I not actually reproached her for 
 her infirmity ? O my God, forgive me ! ' 
 
 He fell on his knees and prayed for a long time ; 
 but, for the first time in his life, he felt his mind 
 distracted in the midst of his prayers. 
 
 You will now see who the beautiful traveller 
 was : 
 
 LETTER FROM CESARINE TO SYLVIA. 
 
 1 Well, Sylvia, have I not kept my word ? Do 
 you still doubt my courage, you unbelieving child ? 
 - You see that I am not yet dead of ennui in my 
 desert, since I think of you and write to you. 
 Perhaps you are only tolerably pleased to discover 
 that I am still alive. I have sometimes thought, 
 Sylvia, since I came here, that the challenge of 
 Count Arthur, or rather your own challenge, has 
 been an infernal ruse to disembarrass yourselves 
 of me. Do you know that this little work would 
 be Macchiavellian enough ? . . . Happily, I do 
 not look upon myself as old or ugly enough to quit 
 
THE COURTESAN. 200, 
 
 the world already ; besides, I hope to torment you 
 yet for a little — that encourages me to live. 
 Nothing more remains for you than to form a 
 prayer, and that is that I may not be able to 
 remain here for a month, and so lose the wager ! 
 * But, do you know, my dear friend, that I find 
 myself very comfortable in the old chateau, in 
 spite of dreams and mice. It is true that the rats 
 come in without ceremony to my boudoir, but 
 they also give me the pleasant amusement of 
 killing them with blows from the poker. You see 
 that, like a true lady of the castle, I dispense 
 justice high and low. One of the inappreciable 
 advantages of solitude is that complete liberty of 
 action which you find no longer permitted in the 
 world. I defy you, dear Sylvia, to treat, as I 
 treat my guests, the much more inconvenient 
 animals who visit you every day. Let it be 
 remembered, my friend, that a jealous or inoppor- 
 tune love might be thrown out by the window 
 without more inconvenience than a little gnawing 
 mammifer ! 
 
 ' But I am running away from my subject. Let 
 us return, please, to my old castle. Four sides 
 of walls, whose every crevice looks on you 
 with the eyes of lizards, where each grain of dust 
 becomes an insect flying off at your approach ; so 
 much for the outside. Inside are some grand 
 
210 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 darkened saloons where each step awakes an echo 
 which has slept for twenty-one years at least, and 
 some tapestries in shreds ; some furniture black 
 and staggering like drunken men, and every 
 moment a bat which passes nearly touching your 
 cheek. What do you say to that ? Do you 
 believe it possible for one to get wearied here ? 
 That is not all. The park is admirable, some 
 hundred-year-old trees, my dear — quite a forest. 
 Yesterday, in walking about in it I lost myself, 
 and my presence merely astonished the hares and 
 fc deer, without frightening them ; they had never 
 seen a human being in their quiet retreat. 
 
 * I am sure that the good people of the neigh- 
 bouring village take me for a new edition of 
 the "White Lady," when they see me pass the 
 evening between the trees of my terrace. But I 
 have not told you that we were nearly wandered 
 before arriving at the mysterious chateau. The 
 fool who guided us would infallibly have led us 
 over some precipice, when I ordered a halt at the 
 summit of a hill to consider our route. There 
 was there a priest who seemed in an ecstacy 
 before the sun. Baptiste got down to question 
 him. He replied that he had only lately come- 
 into the country, and that the chateau of which 
 we spoke was quite unknown to him. I heard 
 him from the middle of my cushions in the 
 
THE COURTESAN. 211 
 
 carriage — half asleep as I was ; but his voice 
 appeared so sweet to me that I put my head out 
 of the window to look at him. 
 
 1 Do you know, dear Sylvia, that he is very 
 young and very handsome ? The rays of the 
 setting sun which shone on his somewhat pale 
 face gave him a transparent and misty appearance 
 which would have made me take him for an 
 angel, if I had believed in other angels than those 
 of the opera. He has large blue eyes such as you 
 love so much, with long fair hair curling over his 
 shoulders. Poor boy ! so handsome, so young, 
 to bury himself thus in that sad black dress 1 Yet 
 he is happy, Sylvia. I have spoken of him to 
 some old women of his village ; everybody loves 
 him. What would you say if this good priest 
 were to convert me and I were to shut myself up 
 always in this old manor, to do penance for my 
 past faults, like another Magdalene ? Truly, I 
 am not laughing : beware lest you don t see 
 your friend again ! ' 
 
 Why should I read on to the end of this long 
 letter ? You knew a long time since who this 
 person was, you, Madame, so pure and modest ; 
 you have recognised in the first words one of those 
 women whose glory it is to 1*¥<3 outside of the 
 common laws. 
 
212 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 More than once, in your walks in the woods, 
 you have seen passing near you, in a cloud of 
 dust, this superb Amazon, or from the depths 
 of your box at the Opera your eyes have met the 
 mocking glance of this woman. I say nothing 
 to you of her family. Her name no one has ever 
 
 a 
 
 known. These ladies appear to be born, like the 
 ancient Venus, one morning, in beautiful sunshine, 
 no one knowing where or how ; it is said they 
 only appear in this world bereft of all their 
 charming celestial treasures, foolishly flung to 
 pleasure, and some night they disappear without 
 anyone having been able to penetrate the mystery 
 of their origin or of their premature end. 
 
 After orgies, which I shall not attempt to describe 
 to you, and I know not what dissertation on the 
 uselessness of man in modern society and the 
 instinctive timidity of woman, Count Arthur — 
 the younger son of a family which believed him 
 to be a poet — rose, with his glass in hand, and 
 said : 
 
 ' O woman, remain always beautiful, and love us 
 till the consummation of the ages ! You are like 
 this flagon, which will delight our lips up to the 
 last drop. But the crimson liquor is not soft and 
 sparkling, and you besides have in heart nothing 
 but irresolutions and weakness ! ' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 213 
 
 Then, having emptied his glass, he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 * Come, now ; I have, down in a corner of 
 Burgundy, something like an old chateau even 
 more ruined than I am myself. My steward, who 
 is the most accommodating man in the world 
 when his own affairs are not interfered with, has 
 lived there in peace for twenty years, with all the 
 owls and bats in the country. The spectre of an 
 ancestor of mine walks there, they say, every 
 night.' 
 
 'Well,' cried the women, 'what is all this 
 description for ? ' 
 
 After having filled up the glasses and supplied 
 his own again, Count Arthur replied : 
 
 ■ I have said this, because I wish to prove that 
 although you declare us men to be so useless, not 
 one of you would have the courage to go and stay 
 alone in my chateau for one month.' 
 
 Cesarine went up to the young man, and holding 
 out her hand she said : 
 
 ' Your English horse, which has never failed 
 you, against my Arab mare, which is as quiet as 
 a sheep ; and I leave in one hour ! ' 
 
 1 Be it so,' replied the Count. 
 
 And he gave her his hand. 
 
 Cesarine left almost immediately. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Sylvia,' said the Count in a low 
 
214 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 voice to a young woman who sat laughing at his 
 side, ■ confess that I have found a successful means 
 to disembarrass ourselves of her ! ' 
 
 A single word will explain all this. 
 
 The Count had loved Cesarine madly, then 
 at the end of a few weeks he had loved Sylvia to 
 desperation. Knowing the power of absence on 
 hearts a little smitten, not doubting that eight 
 days would be sufficient to efface everything on 
 both sides, he was not deceived in counting on 
 the romantic character of C6sarine. At the least 
 challenge, she was ready to rise and take up the 
 gauntlet. Two or three hours after this scene, 
 she set off indeed for the mysterious chateau. 
 Perhaps some idea of adventures, some sudden 
 fancy to travel, weariness, disgust, one can't say 
 what, had taken hold of her. This is how it 
 happened that she met the young cure of Primrose 
 on the hill, and that, two days after her arrival, 
 she wrote that letter to her intimate enemy. 
 
 Since this fatal meeting a change had taken 
 place in Gilbert's life. An unknown trouble 
 agitated his soul ; his prayers, formerly so sweet 
 and fresh, became ardent and passionate. Per- 
 haps he was imploring the help of Heaven against 
 a danger he did not realise ! The face of that 
 woman followed him everywhere; he endeavoured 
 
THE COURTESAN. 215 
 
 in vain to escape from it. At night, he forsook 
 his couch, trembling in his dreams, and threw 
 himself on his knees sobbing ; but his eyes, fixed 
 on the Holy Madonna, still invoked that profane 
 image, which he could not drive away. 
 
 One evening, he found himself under the walls 
 of the chateau, astonished at his having gone so 
 far, and believing that he dreamt ; he accused 
 chance with having led him there, and wished to 
 fly, but a mysterious power held him. All at 
 once, a little gate in the wall a few steps from him 
 opened ; he trembled, but never raised his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' You here ! ' said a voice he recognised at once; 
 ' you know now the way to this old chateau ? ' 
 
 Gilbert's whole body trembled, and his book 
 fell from his fingers. 
 
 ' What is the matter? ' asked Cesarine, touching 
 his arm, ' are you ill ? ' 
 
 Then, as he did not reply : 
 
 ' Come,' added she gaily, ' I must show more 
 frankness than you ; I am quite charmed that 
 you have come to dream under my trees. For a 
 long time I have been anxious for this meeting, 
 and if you had not come, perhaps I should have 
 myself visited your parsonage. Yes, sir, I should 
 have had the courage to disturb your pious 
 meditations. I have so much need of advice, 
 
2l6 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 and you are so good, that you would have 
 pardoned the poor sinner — wouldn't you ? ' 
 
 These words reassured the young priest. 
 
 ' Speak,' said he in a pleasant voice, but which 
 trembled with emotion. 
 
 ' Monsieur Gilbert,' replied Cesarine, with a 
 reserved air to which her lascivious eyes gave the 
 lie, ' you understand my position. I have come to 
 live in this solitude to merit absolution for my 
 sins.' 
 
 Gilbert was deceived by these hypocritical 
 words. 
 
 1 The mercy of God is infinite,' he said. 
 
 i Our Father,' answered Cesarine, with deep 
 emotion. ' I have so much need of this sweet 
 assurance ! ' 
 
 This sacrilegious comedy lasted more than an 
 hour, and the night had fallen when Gilbert 
 took his leave of her. Cesarine thought it better 
 not to keep him longer — she was afraid of 
 frightening him. Only she made him promise 
 that he would come on the morrow to instruct 
 her in her duties towards God, and receive the 
 confession of her whole life. 
 
 Gilbert went home without any doubts as to 
 the pledge he had given. While Cesarine was 
 relating, in fits of laughter, this scene to her maid, 
 who was her confidante and factotum, he entered 
 
THE COURTESAN. 217 
 
 the village with slow steps, happy to have the 
 opportunity of putting such a great sinner in the 
 right path. 
 
 When he had passed into his little garden, his 
 dog, which accompanied him in all his walks, went 
 on in front and disappeared. 
 
 Gilbert smiled as he thought that Pluto was 
 hungry, and that he was attracted by the odour 
 of the supper. As he passed into the little dining 
 room, he saw that two covers were placed on the 
 table. 
 
 * Ah ! what is the meaning of this ? ' asked he 
 of old Gertrude. 
 
 The sound of a door opening at the moment 
 made him turn his head round, and he saw before 
 him M. de Mercy. 
 
 The two friends fell into each other's 
 arms. 
 
 ' You see, Gilbert,' said Maurice, as he petted 
 his dog, which bounded all around him, ' he 
 guessed my arrival before you did.' 
 
 Gilbert recovered all his gaiety in having 
 restored to him the friend of his childhood. 
 
 ' You will live here with us ? ' he asked. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Maurice ; ' have you not promised 
 me that I should be happy here ? ' 
 
 * You shall be happy in doing good.' 
 
 ' I believe it : besides, I have said an eternal 
 
2l8 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 farewell to that world which has made me suffer 
 so much.' 
 
 Gilbert took his hand and pressed it. 
 
 ' I want to die,' replied Maurice sadly, after a 
 moment's silence ; ' you must understand that I 
 have not yet lived. All my past existence is but 
 a painful dream, which must be forgotten.' 
 
 - Let it be so,' said Gilbert, joyfully; 'but 
 don't let us speak about that, to-night at least ; 
 it is time to sit down to table; I will relate the 
 circumstances which have kept me late this 
 morning. Have you looked about here while 
 you were waiting for me ? What do you think 
 of my hermitage ? You are a poet, Maurice, you 
 ought to love flowers; is my garden not charming ? 
 Take care of my bees — they don't know you yet. 
 Have you seen my brook ? I shall 
 permit you to fish sometimes, if you promise me 
 not to take my fish.' 
 
 Maurice smiled as he heard this flow of words; 
 his friend's gaiety chased for a little from his face 
 the last traces of his habitual sadness. All that 
 evening passed in sweet confidences ; in beautiful 
 dreams of the future. 
 
 The next day Gilbert took his friend to many of 
 the cottages, and introduced him to all the people 
 by name — showed him the little children to be 
 
THE COURTESAN. 210, 
 
 instructed; and the sick people to be cured. 
 Maurice had brought with him his instruments 
 and his medical books, and he now returned with 
 ardour to his old habits ; and as, unknown to 
 himself, his soul had remained good and generous, 
 and his mind had been more corrupted than his 
 heart, he found himself happy in being useful to 
 some suffering creatures and in assuaging their 
 sufferings. The benedictions of these good people 
 were a balm which closed all his wounds. 
 
 Gilbert one evening received a letter which a 
 child brought him at the entrance to the village. 
 It was a note from Cesarine reproaching him for 
 his forgetfulness and breaking his word. Maurice 
 saw the blush on his friend's face and questioned 
 him. Gilbert concealed nothing ; he related that 
 strange meeting on the hill, and that interview 
 under the chestnuts of the chateau of which I 
 have spoken ; then he handed his friend the letter 
 he had just received. 
 
 Maurice trembled when he saw the writing, and 
 the signature to the note. 
 
 ' Gilbert,' said he, with emotion, to the young 
 priest, 'beware of this woman .' 
 
 ' You know her ? ' asked Gilbert. 
 
 ' As everybody does,' replied Maurice ; ' beware 
 of her tongue.' 
 
220 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 1 1 shall do what you advise me,' said Gilbert. 
 
 They returned to the parsonage, both pensive, 
 and each afraid to question the other. 
 
 Maurice observed the young priest silently, 
 and he trembled to think that this woman, whose 
 arts he knew, had already perhaps brought dis- 
 quiet into that innocent soul; he believed that 
 if he would relate to him her scandalous amours, 
 he could prevent all danger, and render vain any 
 efforts she might make to seduce him. 
 
 Gilbert heard with terror the recital of that life 
 of disorders, and covered his face to conceal his 
 tears ; he despaired of being ever able to bring 
 back to God a soul so corrupted and perverse. 
 
 One day, the two friends were called to 
 the death-bed of an old man; science was 
 powerless, and the poor creature expired in 
 Maurice's arms. The young priest knelt down, 
 surrounded by the weeping family, and recited the 
 prayer for the dead. At this moment the door of 
 the cottage opened, but none raised a head; 
 Gilbert was praying; the children were sobbing 
 near their mother. Maurice alone, standing near 
 the dead and concealed in the shadow, saw a 
 young woman enter and look upon the scene of 
 desolation, then disappear after she had laid on 
 the table a purse full of gold. He went out 
 
THE COURTESAN. 221 
 
 immediately and rejoined her at some distance 
 from the cottage. At the sound of steps, Cesarine 
 turned her head and gave a cry of surprise. 
 
 ' If you are astonished to see me here,' said 
 Maurice, ' I am not the less so to meet you. How 
 does it happen, Madame, that you have quitted 
 your gay friends in Paris. What do you want in 
 this poor village ? ' 
 
 ' Do I require to confide my plans to you ? ' said 
 Cesarine. ' By what right, I pray, do you 
 interrogate me ? ' 
 
 ' By the right of a man whom you astonish 
 greatly, Madame. You are no doubt in penitence 
 in this desert for some fault committed against 
 your last lover.' 
 
 * Perhaps.' 
 
 ' Ah, well ! You are weary of your perfumed 
 passions, and you come here to seek some fresh and 
 sentimental love in the village — to amuse 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' Who knows ? ' 
 
 * Seriously ? ' 
 
 ' Seriously, it is not you I seek.' 
 
 ■ Be frank for once in your life.' 
 
 ' My dear M. de Mercy, I have come into this 
 retirement because I am fatigued with society. 
 And then I make some people happy here ; you 
 will not say it can be for ostentation, for these 
 
222 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 good people don't know who has thrown down 
 that purse to them.' 
 
 1 Come, Madame,' said Maurice, gaily, ' don't 
 let us play any longer ; I know your plans. Confess 
 that there is here a fine young man with a pale 
 forehead — a little fresh, it is true — and clad in the 
 cassock of a priest, but who pleases you the better 
 for that. Confess that you came here to see him, 
 and above all that he should see you, and that 
 impatience only led you to fling that purse to these 
 poor people, hoping that the report of it might 
 reach him.' 
 
 'You are the very devil himself!' cried Cesarine. 
 ' I am afraid of you.' 
 
 • ' But you are losing your time and your trouble,' 
 replied Maurice, changing his tone suddenly, ' for 
 I shall always be here to watch over my friend.' 
 
 ' You will ! ' interrupted Cesarine shamelessly. 
 ' You do not know me, my dear sir, if you think 
 you can frighten me with your big words. War ! 
 war ! if that is what you wish ; you have come so 
 as to make the time less dreary ; I have become 
 fearfully bored in this desert. Ah ! you challenge 
 me ! We shall see ! 
 
 1 We shall see, Madame ! ' coldly replied Maurice. 
 
 And they separated. 
 
 You may guess, Madame, that M. de Mercy 
 
THE COURTESAN. 223 
 
 said nothing of this meeting to his friend; he 
 hoped that the impression produced by that 
 woman on the heart of the young priest would be 
 effaced little by little. Besides, he believed that 
 Cesarine would soon quit the chateau to return to 
 Paris, whither the season of balls and fetes would 
 recall her. He therefore waited with solicitude 
 on Gilbert, surrounding him like a guardian, with 
 a mysterious and sacred protection. It was thus 
 he intercepted two notes of which he recognised 
 the writing. He contented himself with returning 
 them to Cesarine. 
 
 The physician of the body became in his turn 
 the physican of the soul ; but he tried to cure his 
 patient without questioning him as to his disease, 
 and before he himself had perhaps become 
 conscious of it. 
 
 Maurice received at length a letter from 
 C6sarine, which announced to him her departure 
 for Paris. 
 
 'You are a watchful friend,' wrote she, 'and I 
 confess myself conquered, lay down my arms, 
 and quit the field of battle.' 
 
 This feigned indifference did not deceive M. de 
 Mercy ; he knew that woman too well not to fear 
 some new scheme, and he put himself on the 
 defensive. 
 
 Eight days passed thus. Autumn was closing, 
 
224 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 the trees were throwing their leaves about in the 
 wind ; the discoloured flowers died one by one ; 
 the grey mantle of winter would soon be stretched 
 across the fields. One evening, the heavens were 
 covered with thick clouds, some lightning was 
 seen in the sky, and the rain came down into the 
 valley in torrents. Gilbert and Maurice, seated 
 in the shade, listened to the tempest. 
 
 ' Do you not observe, Gilbert, how much I am 
 changed ? ' said Maurice, all of a sudden, breaking 
 silence ; ' is it not to you I owe my happiness : 
 Why do you not see it ? ' 
 
 ' My friend,' replied Gilbert, ' let us thank God 
 — God alone has done it.' 
 
 ' Do I owe nothing to the wise counsels which 
 have served me ? ' 
 
 ' Maurice,' interrupted the young priest, taking 
 his hand, 'you speak of counsels and of wisdom. 
 Do you not believe that I do you justice ? You are 
 the only wise man here. Come, I know well that 
 you have read my heart ; we have no need to 
 speak to each other on such subjects — we 
 understand. You know that I have suffered, and 
 you have not wished to make me blush at my 
 weakness. I thank you. I have seen that you 
 counted on me to chase away the evil spirit from 
 you, and your trust has given me courage. God, 
 no doubt, has heard your prayer and mine, since 
 
THE COURTESAN. 22^ 
 
 he has caused this woman to go ; my head became 
 bewildered, Maurice, when I felt her near me ; I 
 became mad ! God will forgive nie, will He not ? 
 It is a terrible trial, out of which I shall come a 
 conqueror.' 
 
 'That is right/ said Maurice. 'I hope that 
 hereafter we shall live in peace in our solitude.' 
 Then turning towards the old servant and raising 
 his voice, he added : ' My poor Gertrude, what a 
 furious storm this is ! ' 
 
 ' The storms of autumn are often more terrible, 
 sir,' replied the good old woman. ' One must 
 pity those who have no shelter — the nights are 
 already beginning to be much colder.' 
 
 ' Listen,' interrupted Gilbert, rising ; ' is not 
 that someone knocking at the door ? ' 
 
 ■ It is no doubt some traveller surprised by 
 the tempest,' said Maurice. 
 
 ' It is perhaps a mendicant who asks assistance,' 
 murmured Gertrude. 
 
 ' In any case, it is a guest whom God sends 
 us, my friend. We will open ! ' said Gilbert, 
 advancing to the door. 
 
 He drew the bolts and the door turned on its 
 hinges. A man on horseback, enveloped in a 
 large cloak, was at the threshold. 
 
 'I have come to seek for M. de Mercy,' said 
 he ; * four leagues from this there is a woman who 
 
226 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 solicits his help ; if he delay a moment, she may 
 be dead before we return.' 
 
 ' All right,' said Maurice, ' I will go with you. 
 Come in a moment and warm yourself ; you are 
 quite wet.' 
 
 ' Thanks ; water and I have been acquainted 
 for long.' 
 
 ' As you will,' replied Maurice. 
 
 And he went out to saddle his horse. He came 
 back a moment later. 
 
 1 Sir,' he said, ' I am at your service.' 
 
 * It is I who am at yours,' exclaimed the 
 unknown, as he spurred his animal. 
 
 And they disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 Gertrude retired to her chamber, and Gilbert 
 took up his position near the fire ; he wished to 
 wait for his friend, and began turning over some 
 sacred pages. 
 
 An hour had barely passed after M. de Mercy's 
 departure when there was a fresh knock at the 
 door; but this time it was at the garden gate. 
 Astonished at the speedy return of his friend, 
 Gilbert ran to open. 
 
 The wind, which came into the corridor sud- 
 denly, extinguished his lamp. 
 
 ' Is it you, Maurice ? ' asked the young 
 priest. 
 
THE COURTESAN. 227 
 
 ' It is a poor woman who asks a refuge,' said a 
 voice which made him tremble. 
 
 ' Why do you come here ? ' asked the man of 
 God, shaking. 
 
 ' I have been surprised by the storm, and my 
 horse is frightened.' 
 
 ' Are you hurt ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, but I am suffering much ! ' 
 
 Gilbert felt a little hand laid in his to seek 
 protection. 
 
 ■ Follow me, Madame,' said he, in a low voice. 
 
 And he conducted her to his own room across 
 the darkness. 
 
 He hastened to relight his lamp, and turning 
 towards the young woman : 
 
 'You are very pale,' said he; 'this rain has 
 chilled you ! ' 
 
 ' It is true — the cold is piercing to my bones,' 
 replied Cesarine. 
 
 Gilbert covered her shoulders with his cloak. 
 His hands were trembling. . . . All the austeri- 
 ties of penitence cannot entirely extinguish in us 
 our fallen nature ! 
 
 He remained a long time quite still ; the per- 
 fumes of that beautiful head of hair, unrolled by 
 the wind, rose to his brain ; he scarcely could 
 contain himself. 
 
 ' I ask you for shelter for an hour,' said the 
 
228 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 young woman, with a child-like grace, as she let 
 fall at her feet the mantle which concealed too 
 much her supple figure. ' I was afraid of knock- 
 ing at one of the peasants doors, but Heaven has 
 guided me well this terrible night, since it has led 
 me under your roof.' 
 
 ' Permit me,' said Gilbert, ' to leave you alone 
 for one moment. I will go and awaken Gertrude.' 
 
 'You were far from thinking of me,' replied 
 Cesarine, holding him back. ' You thought I was 
 gone, and you were no doubt rejoiced at my 
 departure. Your friend has told you much that 
 is bad concerning me, he has made me vile in 
 your eyes. Is that not so ? And you have 
 believed him too. I came to you trusting and 
 penitent. Why have you repulsed me ? Does 
 your conscience not reproach you at all ? ' 
 
 ■ Are you speaking the truth ? ' murmured 
 Gilbert, raising his large blue eyes to hers. 
 
 ' Why do you doubt my words ? Have I the 
 appearance of a bad woman ? Look at me.' 
 
 ' You are beautiful as the angels,' cried Gilbert ; 
 'but Maurice would not lie to me,' he added, sadly. 
 
 ' I see it; you despise me. That man has told 
 you that you ought to flee from me.' 
 
 ' The society in which you move, Madame, has 
 caused him to suffer much ; but he has forgotten 
 all. As for me, I don't despise you, I pity you.' 
 
THE COURTESAN. 220, 
 
 ' You are good and generous,' cried Cesarine, 
 her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Hope in God,' said Gilbert ; ' the treasures of 
 His goodness are inexhaustible.' 
 
 Then, after some moments of silence, inter- 
 rupted by the rolling of thunder and the whistling 
 of the wind in the trees, he added : 
 
 ' You cannot pursue your way to-night ! ' 
 
 'No, no ! ' cried Cesarine, throwing on Gilbert 
 a lqok which made him lower his eyes. 
 
 ' I shall take you,' continued he, when he was a 
 little recovered, * to some peasants a few steps 
 from this ; they are good people, who will think it 
 quite an honour to receive you.' 
 
 ? You are right,' said Cesarine, rising, ' I must 
 go ; if they knew that you had received under your 
 roof a woman lost in the night, that you have had 
 pity on her, and that, not to leave her to die of 
 cold and terror in the midst of this tempest, you 
 had opened your door to her, what would they 
 think ? ' 
 
 'I do not understand you,' murmured Gilbert, 
 blushing ; ' what could they think ? ' 
 
 1 What do I know ? ' replied Cesarine, quickly. 
 ' The peasants are bad even in Primrose. Don't 
 they already declare that you are too young for 
 your serious mission, and do they not explain your 
 sadness in a thousand different ways ? ' 
 
230 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 * No, no ! You have not heard them speak so ! 
 They love me, they respect me. What am I to be 
 blamed for ? ' 
 
 1 Have you not already repented in the core of 
 your heart that you have buried yourself and your 
 youth in this shroud ? ' 
 
 ' Hold your peace ! Be silent ! ' cried Gilbert, 
 pale with fear. 
 
 ' You are not happy ; you suffer,' replied the 
 siren, seizing his hand ; ' you love — you love me ! ' 
 
 ' My God ! my God ! protect me ! ' cried the 
 unhappy priest, falling on his knees at the foot of 
 a crucifix. 
 
 ' Gilbert, I am young, I am beautiful, and I 
 adore you ! ' cried Cesarine, throwing away from 
 her the lace kerchief which had covered her 
 shoulders, whiter than snow. 
 
 At this moment a flash of lightning crossed the 
 room, and the thunder rolled in the valley ; the 
 trees groaned, and the rain beat against the 
 windows with fury. 
 
 ■ Vade retro Satanas S ' cried the young priest, rising 
 to his feet, his face flushed and his arm extended. 
 
 Cesarine fled before this piercing look as before 
 the flaming sword of St. Michael. 
 
 Gilbert took a few steps, and fell motionless in 
 the midst of the chamber. 
 
 When Maurice appeared at the garden gate his 
 
THE COURTESAN. 231 
 
 head was bare, and his face was paler than \ the 
 host ' ; his limbs were trembling under his clothes, 
 which were saturated with rain and soiled with 
 mud. His horse breathed heavily, and Pluto had 
 lain down exhausted on the road. 
 
 As Maurice approached to open the garden gate, 
 he stopped all at once, motionless and seized with 
 stupor. By the light of a flash he saw a woman 
 on horseback leap the horse across the brook at a 
 bound, and then she was lost in the night. 
 
 His heart beating, he entered the parsonage. 
 
 Gilbert lay senseless on the floor. He brought 
 him round, but did not dare to ask him any 
 questions. 
 
 Recovered, Gilbert told his friend everything. 
 When Maurice congratulated him on his victory, 
 he carried his hand to his heart, and was silent. 
 Maurice concealed his tears so as to give some 
 courage to the priest ; but he saw from the first 
 moment that it was useless, and a presentiment 
 shook his heart. 
 
 A note was handed to him some hours after 
 this scene. It was worded thus : 
 
 * Dear Sir, 
 
 ' My mission being fulfilled, I leave for 
 Paris, where I shall receive you with pleasure, if 
 you will bring me news of the happy Joseph 
 Gilbert, whose cloak I have carried away. You 
 
232 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 will find it at my house, seeing that I have the 
 habit of not leaving a garment of that kind in the 
 
 hands of anyone ' 
 
 M. de Mercy crumpled up this letter, signed 
 Cesarine, without reading it to the end. 
 
 The poor priest did not breathe a complaint. 
 Yet day by day his strength failed him, and he died 
 a month after that night in the arms of Maurice. 
 
 ' Pray to God to pardon me. I, up yonder, will 
 pray for her ! ' said he, just before expiring. His 
 last words were the summary of his life. 
 
 The children of the hamlet of Primrose long 
 mourned their benefactor. 
 
 As to the beautiful Cesarine, at the hour that 
 Gilbert expired, she was trying the good horse 
 that Count Arthur had loyally lost, and whose 
 reins she handled well. 
 
 It is for such sinners that punishment seems to 
 be long in coming. Heaven seems to protect 
 them, because it has need of them for the mysteri- 
 ous proofs by which it is pleased to make trial 
 of us. 
 
 Maurice did not leave the village again ; the 
 missing of his friend, and his disgust with the 
 world, kept him always in that peaceable retreat. 
 
 You see, Madame, that this is a sad story. 
 Will you not, then, give in passing a glance at 
 
THE COURTESAN. 233 
 
 that humble parsonage, and a thought to the poor 
 Gilbert, who sleeps to-day under the shadow of 
 the old church at Primrose ? 
 
 PRUDENCE COMPELS. 
 
 A PARISIAN FANCY. 
 
 The conversation of the wise man would be 
 absolutely captivating if he were to turn, as it is 
 said, his tongue seven times in his mouth before 
 speaking. 
 
 Thus he lives by himself, and talks with no man 
 more frequently than with himself. 
 
 Here is the situation : 
 
 Baltimore had paid court to Celine Blandin for 
 nine mortal weeks. He thought at first that he 
 would easily overcome her final resistance, but 
 he was met by obstacles totally unforeseen. First, 
 there was virtue — the virtue peculiar to a student 
 of the Conservatoire singing-class ! 
 
 Awkward ! 
 
 Then a father who was a coneidrge and a shoe- 
 maker, and who preferred honour to a'bsiathe. 
 
 Strange ! 
 
 In the third place, a mother who was a singer, 
 who was fond of diamonds, if they were placed on 
 the left hand ! 
 
 Curious I 
 
234 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 And, last of all, two brothers who, not taking 
 kindly to leather, had become unlicensed brokers ; 
 dissipated, sceptical and reckless, they laughed 
 at everything, without forgetting to turn one 
 watchful eye on the affairs of their suspicious 
 clients, and the other on their young sister. 
 
 Quite unheard of! 
 
 I do not class among the obstacles an elder 
 sister of Celine, who daily made the round of the 
 lake in a basket phaeton, which she owed to the 
 munificence of a young Russian prince, of whom 
 women spoke so many bad things, because they 
 thought so much good of him. 
 
 But let us return to our sage. 
 
 Baltimore had carried off Celine, a little in spite 
 of himself, a little in spite of her ; and in the 
 middle of the night, on a deserted part of the 
 road, he found the carriage which bore his love 
 and himself stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' Will you marry my sister ? ' cried a brother 
 of Celine, with Mamma Blandin on the one side, 
 and a revolver on the other. 
 
 ' Will you marry my sister ? ' continued the 
 second brother, escorted by Papa Blandin, and 
 with a couple of pistols at his saddle bow. 
 
 Baltimore remained as stupid as Corneille's 
 hero. 
 
 When he recovered his senses, he thought he 
 
THE COURTESAN. 235 
 
 had always been a wise man, although he was 
 taken flagrante delicto in an act of folly. 
 
 Prudence should guide — he knows that ; so the 
 number and the character of his enemies cannot 
 keep him from turning his tongue seven times 
 round in his mouth before replying ' Yes ' or 
 1 No ' to this question of Damocles : 
 
 ' Will you marry my sister ? ' 
 
 Baltimore quite understood that Solon had 
 invented those seven turns of the tongue for no 
 other reason than to permit him to give seven 
 solid reasons. 
 
 He began this little work, which would give 
 him time to weigh the weakness and the strength 
 of the difficult situation which the seduction of 
 his passions had created for him. 
 
 FIRST REASONING. 
 
 ' Must I marry Celine ? Or is it more prudent 
 to refuse the offer of her hand made to me so 
 courteously ? 
 
 1 1 am 39 years of age. . . . Should I leave a 
 few shreds of my heart still upon the thorns of 
 easy loves ? or ought I, on the contrary, to sing 
 resolutely the De Profundus over my bachelorhood ? 
 I have yet twelve thousand livres a year; it is 
 little on which to live alone, but is quite enough 
 for two of us to live on. If any children should 
 
236 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 appear on the scene, to myself or my wife, we 
 should not be millionaires with a thousand francs 
 a month. But in marrying according to my own 
 taste, what great expenses I save ! I believe I 
 
 shall say : 
 1 " Yes ! " ' 
 (He takes from his pocket a pair of white gloves^ 
 which he slowly unfolds.) 
 
 SECOND REASONING. 
 
 * Celine is an admirable creature, of a very 
 distinguished appearance, and quite above her 
 condition in life. Certainly she is much better 
 than the affected women who would have 
 devoured 30,000 francs a year out of me, under 
 the pretext that their august father was giving 
 me a thousand crowns at my marriage. 
 
 * The expenses of a woman are always in 
 proportion to the dowry she brings with her. 
 
 (He commences to put on his glove.) 
 'But Celine's family! Let us see the reverse 
 of the medal. With my little fortune I cannot 
 make a position for the whole tribe of Blandins ! 
 No more can I leave the father of my wife to 
 hang by his own bell-pull ! 
 
 ' Son-in-law of a doorkeeper of a concierge 
 even — it is impossible ! By pronouncing that 
 word of three letters, "Yes," I give myself a 
 
THE COURTESAN. 237 
 
 father-in-law, a mother-in-law, two brothers-in- 
 law, and a sister-in-law. ... A sister-in-law 
 surnamed Mexico, because that town has been 
 taken without a blow being struck ! If I " cut " 
 her, she will avenge herself by taking away my 
 wife ; and if I don't " cut " her, she will lose me 
 my wife all the same. What shall I do ? I 
 have only one resource ; it is to say : 
 
 '"No!" ' 
 
 (He takes off his white glove.) 
 
 THIRD REASONING. 
 
 ' Now, Celine is the argument in person here. 
 She has said to me often : "I shall soon be 
 engaged at the opera. I shall never see my 
 sister again." After all, when a woman wishes 
 to ruin herself, she always finds someone to give 
 her bad advice ; but I know Celine's principles 
 — they are solid ; she knows that for one Mexico 
 who lays hold of fortune in her carriage and pair, 
 there are a hundred who go to the hospital on 
 foot, with boots full of holes ! 
 
 ' What moves me, considerably, is the con- 
 siderable number of bachelors who conspire 
 incessantly against the happiness of husbands. 
 . . . Sh ! am I not a bachelor ? And have I 
 not paid attentions to women whose husbands 
 have been odious and ridiculous? Have I 
 always succeeded ? 
 
238 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 'No. 
 
 ' Sometimes I have been disappointed — rarely, 
 
 but sometimes. 
 
 1 Decidedly I shall say : 
 t « Yes 1 » ' 
 
 (He puts on his white glove.) 
 FOURTH REASONING. 
 
 ' But is marriage not a condition somewhat 
 monotonous ? Do I not, perhaps, love Celine 
 too desperately for my love to be durable ? Few 
 violent passions stand out marriage. 
 
 'But, to be happy, passion is useless; I say 
 more, it is hurtful. 
 
 ' How many times have I heard it affirmed 
 that to find happiness in a household it is 
 absolutely necessary that people should not love 
 each other, and yet we love each other. 
 
 ' Do we love each other ? 
 
 ' Again, I have been assured that in love there 
 is never more than one of the two sufferers who 
 loves. 
 
 ' But then why does she allow herself to be 
 carried off? 
 
 ' Is it then a scheme ? 
 
 ' Perhaps she is in league with her family ? 
 
 ' Who knows if she is not the head of all those 
 arms which present revolvers against my breast ? 
 
THE COURTESAN. 239 
 
 'To be Madame Baltimore; that would be 
 nothing for the daughter of a duchess— it is 
 enormous for the daughter of a concierge. 
 
 ' But, Mademoiselle Blandin, you have not yet 
 arrived at your end in view— for I shall now say : 
 
 (He takes the white glove off quickly.) 
 
 FIFTH ARGUMENT. 
 
 • If Celine had not loved me, would she for my 
 sake have refused Prince Mathusalam and Saint 
 Perpetue, who has everything to satisfy a young 
 woman whom he wishes to make his heiress — 
 heiress to a great name, and a great fortune, and 
 a great age ? 
 
 ' But, if I should decide to marry Celine, would 
 not the instinct of the woman tell her that the 
 happiness promised by the lover is not the same 
 as that which the husband gives. Who then will 
 hinder me from being at the same time the 
 husband and the lover of my wife ? I have quite 
 force enough to love for two ; but if it should be 
 necessary to love for three. . . . And the 
 world— society? Could I take my wife into it? 
 Why not? I certainly could not take my 
 sister-in-law, that's all. If no one had been 
 here, I certainly would demolish the Guillontet 
 wall, which is already well shattered, and I would 
 
24O THE COURTESAN. 
 
 confess that I had had my first attack of gout. 
 Away with dancing pumps and balls ! I shall 
 pass my evenings at home with my children. . . . 
 Children ! ah, what an everlasting source of terror 
 they are ! When they are ill, one is worse than 
 they are ; but when they have recovered, what 
 joy to make them leap on one's knees while 
 dreaming for them of crowns and all manner of 
 ambitious schemes, while their mother plays the 
 piano ! She is a very good musician, my wife. 
 My wife ! these two words are sweet to pronounce : 
 My wife ! my wife ! Certainly, I shall say : 
 "'Yes!'" 
 
 (He puts on his white glove again.) 
 
 SIXTH ARGUMENT. 
 
 * Yes, Celine has everything that is necessary to 
 become a great artist like Patti, and she will 
 renounce all the triumphs she has dreamed of. 
 
 1 During the first threequarters of the honeymoon 
 she will not suffer much from her sacrifice, but 
 later on ! To chase away her ennui, to divert her 
 thoughts, she will run from ball to ball, from fete 
 to fete ; our little fortune will not stand it ; she 
 will spend the more money because she had none 
 when she married me ! 
 
 ' The expenditure of a woman is always in the 
 inverse ratio of the dowry she brings ! 
 
THE COURTESAN. 24I 
 
 'And if she absolutely determine to go on the 
 stage -would I really have the courage to fight 
 against her will ? 
 
 ' Perhaps. 
 
 ' But against her tears ? 
 
 ' Never ! 
 
 ' I shall be the most miserable of men ; for I 
 should be jealous of everyone ; of the public who 
 permitted themselves to admire her, of the foot- 
 lights which would double the brightness of her 
 beauty— of the bouquet which I should throw to 
 her myself, of the bashful tenor who would kiss 
 her hand while thinking of his re-appearance in 
 id major or in si minor, and even the head of the 
 " claque " who should applaud her without looking 
 at her ! 
 
 ' That would be hell ! Better to give up a few 
 days of happiness, and shall I say : 
 
 '"No"?' 
 
 (He pulls his white glove off.) 
 
 SEVENTH ARGUMENT. 
 
 ' I am most absurd. First, nothing tells me that 
 Celine would wish to go on the boards ; and if she 
 did go, is it the case that there are no virtuous 
 women in the theatre ? 
 
 ' I could quote ten, twenty even ! 
 
 1 1 shall not give their names, however, because 
 the others could prosecute me for libel. 
 
242 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 ' Let us resume. 
 
 ' First, let us answer this question : 
 
 ' Why does one marry at all ? 
 
 ' Because his father did it ! 
 
 ' To preserve oneself from solitude. 
 
 1 To take care of one when he is ill. 
 
 ' To disinherit his relatives. 
 
 ' Not to be killed like a rabbit in a warren. 
 
 ' That is my case. 
 
 * Napoleon I. said : " If the man does not 
 watch well, I would not advise him to have a 
 wife." 
 
 I But the man does watch, and sharply too ; 
 therefore, he ought to marry. 
 
 'This being admitted, there is no question except 
 to inquire if I am ready for marrying. 
 
 ' I must give an affirmative answer to that. 
 
 I I have studied women a good deal, and I can 
 boast with pride of having lost my time less than 
 anyone — for I know that I don't know them yet ! 
 
 1 It is convincing ! I can say then : 
 '"Yes!"' 
 
 (He puts both his white gloves on.) 
 His transcendant soliloquy over, Baltimore 
 expressed himself thus, audibly : 
 
 * Before replying, gentlemen, to your double 
 question, I determined, according to the sage's 
 precept, to turn my tongue seven times round in 
 
THE COURTESAN. 243 
 
 my mouth. I have finished the operation, and am 
 now ready to obey you. 
 
 'Yes, I wish to marry your sister, Miss Blandin. 
 But believe me, it is argument which has led me 
 to accept your amicable proposal, and not your 
 arsenal.' 
 
 ' Well, let us return to Paris, we have nothing 
 more to do here,' said Celine from the seat of the 
 carriage, where she awaited with perfect tran- 
 quillity the denouement of the adventure. 
 
 She was very young, but she already knew 
 enough men to know that when they reason as to 
 a passion, they can easily find seven pretexts to 
 commit crimes. 
 
 Three weeks after that memorable night, Celine 
 became Madame Baltimore, and M. and Madame 
 Blandin were no longer concierges. 
 
 HONEYMOON. 
 
 First Quarter. 
 
 Madame Baltimore thinks of nothing but to 
 love her husband; she neglects her family, and 
 loses the key of her piano. 
 
 Second Quarter. 
 
 Celine mends her spouse's linen, and calls him 
 'my husband.' He introduces her to some 
 
244 THE COURTESAN. 
 
 citizens' families ; she admires desperately the 
 little girls who sing badly, lest they should dis- 
 cover that she sings well. 
 
 Third Quarter. 
 
 Some of Madame Baltimore's friends, who are 
 not worthy to carry her music roll, made their 
 debut at the theatre of the Opera Comique, with 
 a certain success ; she became dreary, went a 
 little more about her family, and found the key of 
 her piano. 
 
 Fourth Quarter. 
 
 Celine sings, sings again, sings always ! and 
 after having sung a great deal before her glass, 
 she demands permission to sing a little before the 
 public. Baltimore refuses, as he presses on her 
 shoulders a kiss and a mantle of sable marten 
 worth 2000 crowns. The demon of the theatre 
 flies before this powerful weapon — I don't speak 
 of the kiss ; but he appeared again soon, and 
 Celine returned to the charge. Baltimore made 
 her silent again by attaching to her neck a collar 
 of pearls worthy of a queen. Each time as the 
 passion for the boards awoke in Madame's bosom, 
 her husband hushed it to sleep with precious 
 trinkets. It awoke so often that one day, after 
 two years of family life, when his wife cried for 
 
THE COURTESAN. 245 
 
 the hundredth time, ' I wish to go on the stage ! ' 
 the poor man, at the end of arguments of the kind 
 he had employed, was obliged to bow his head 
 and say, ' So be it ! ' 
 
 April Moon. 
 
 Baltimore is the husband of a singer in the 
 saddest acceptation of the word ; that is to say, 
 that his little patrimony had gone to the land of 
 the monkeys — he lived on his wife's earnings ! 
 
 Appendix. 
 
 I had this history from Baltimore himself; he 
 laughed as he related it to me, perhaps because 
 he had a desire to weep. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Reason has been given to man in order to help 
 him to do foolish things 1 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was 
 taken out on the day indicated below: 
 
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THE GIRL 
 
 W1TE 
 
 THE THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. 
 
THE GIEL 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 LONDON: 
 MATHIESON & 00. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VILLAGE OF S. JOHN-IN-THE-WOOD. 
 
 Do you know the little village of S. John-in-the- 
 Wood, situate a,bout two leagues from Compiegne. 
 It is hardly probable that you do ; for it is not near 
 the high road and is little known ; — it produces no- 
 thing to make it famous ; it has no celebrated ruins ; 
 nor has it been the birthplace of any remarkable 
 man. But it matters not, for I am writing as though 
 you knew nothing of it. My description will be very 
 brief; indeed you have already noticed elsewhere 
 how I abhor a long description; as a rule they are 
 terribly dull, for how seldom you find a description 
 which is really humorous ! We go on then to relate 
 that the little village of S. John-in-the-Wood is situ- 
 ated like a bird's nest among the trees, putting one 
 in mind of the castle in the "Lady in the Sleeping 
 Wood," a castle I have never seen, I admit, nor in- 
 deed have you, yet that does not prevent me from 
 believing it to be there; for how enjoyable it is to 
 imagine your fables and fictions are all true, and 
 what are more charming than the Tales of Perrault. 
 But I am straying from S. John-in-the-Wood ; let 
 . us return at once. It is, indeed, a charming village. 
 ^ There are a great many more cottages than preten- 
 — tious villas, and the dwellings of the villagers are 
 .Uj pretty, tidy, and clean ; moreover, there is no sign 
 ' of poverty, which always casts a gloom over the 
 prettiest landscape. It is said that S. John-in-the- 
 
2 THE VILLAGE OF S. JOHN-IN-THE-WOOD. 
 
 "Wood served the early monarchs of this country as 
 a resting place in the chase. A grand castle once 
 stood there, known as the Castle of Cuise, bnt the 
 kings very rarely stayed there. Afterwards Queen 
 Adelaide converted it into a nunnery; but to-day, of 
 castle and monastery alike, not even the ruins re- 
 main. Time, the pitiless destroyer, has swept them 
 ail away, and gnarled old trees now occupy the site. 
 Sic transit gloria mundi. Now my description is 
 finished, and I do not think it has been tediously 
 long. 
 
 In this little village dwelt Madame Mont in and 
 her niece. The old lady was somewhat decrepit and 
 a trifle deaf; she possessed nothing beyond the little 
 cottage in which she lived, and it was not one of the 
 best at that. It had simply one floor surmounted by 
 a loft or two ; but this ground floor contained three 
 apartments of convenient proportions, and a stable 
 at the rear in which she kept her cow — an animal 
 nurtured with the greatest care by its two mistresses. 
 Moreover, behind the cottage was a small garden 
 furnished with a few fruit trees, a vine, and some 
 vegetables. As for flowers, Madame Montin would 
 not tolerate them ; they were unprofitable, she said ; 
 but her niece was hardly of the same opinion. 
 
 I have not yet told you anything about this niece, 
 though were it not for her I should never have men- 
 tioned the aunt. We will, therefore, at once make 
 our acquaintance with her, and I do not think you 
 will be disappointed. Her name is Violet; she is 
 eighteen years of age, and a brunette; her hair 
 possesses that blue tint which one only finds asso- 
 ciated with the purest and most brilliant black ; her 
 eyes are not so dark, partaking more of the blue ; 
 they are large without being too open, and fringed 
 with the longest and softest of lashes. Their ex- 
 pression is soft and loveable ; at times, tender and 
 dreaming, at others gay and sparkling, clearly show- 
 
THE VILLAGE OE S. JOHN-IN-THE-WOOD. S 
 
 ing they do not always express tlie same feelings. I 
 do not think M. de la Palisse could have described 
 them better. Violet also possesses a sweet little 
 mouth, adorned with teeth like pearls ; a small, well- 
 rounded chin, with the choicest little dimple in the 
 midst, and a nose just the slightest bit retrousse. 
 Now, you know as well as I that a retrousse nose 
 always gives a woman a certain mischievous, non- 
 chalant air — I do not like to say naughty, yet per- 
 haps that would 'be the better word. You already 
 see that Yiolet possesses a very pretty face ; add to 
 this a graceful figure, neither too large nor too 
 small, shapely, and well set up upon the hips, a leg 
 made to be admired, a calf superbly rounded, hands 
 and feet delicately small, and altogether a vision of 
 beauty that needs must fascinate the most obdurate. 
 
 But alas! there is one thing lacking in all this 
 beauty, which proves again that nothing in this 
 world is perfect. That which is wanting is — is — . I 
 hardly know how to express it; it is that with which 
 devoted moUh* '& nourish their uew-born babes. You 
 understand! Violet has none, or, at any rate, none 
 worth mentis - rig. But after all, they are not in- 
 dispensabi&j n >d may be passed over, for a too great 
 abundance 4j{ mese charms is often a disadvantage 
 rather than an attraction. And will you tell me 
 that with so many graces, so many charms, to live 
 in a poor village and pass her time in making cheeses 
 (which people take away to Compiegne, where they 
 are in great demand) ought to be the lot of one so 
 exquisitely charming ! And why not, if in this se- 
 cluded spot happiness be found ? The flower which 
 bears the same name as our young friend is always 
 hidden by other plants ; it lives quietly and modestly, 
 knowing nought of evil, and keeps its freshness 
 longer hidden in the grass than on the bosom of 
 some society belle. 
 
 Yiolet whilst yet a mere child lost both her parents 
 
4 THE VILLAGE OP S» JOHN-IN-THE -WOOBa 
 
 and had since lived with her aunt, Madame Montin^ 
 a very good woman, but who never saw farther than 
 the end of her nose ; so there was nothing to prevent 
 this pretty niece involving herself in questionable in- 
 trigues had such promptings filled her breast. But 
 happily, in spite of her blue eyes and retrousse nose, 
 she knew nothing of love ; her heart was at rest, 
 save at the sight of a pretty gown or a dainty bonnet 
 worn by some lady from Oompiegne ; then she would 
 sigh and murmur, " Oh, how happy they must be 
 who wear such lovely things ! " 
 
 Was then this girl a coquette* a vain and am- 
 bitious girl? We shall probably learn from what 
 follows. • 
 
 She certainly possessed some personal'pride, which 
 is often rather a good quality than a defect. She 
 had no desire to remain ignorant, and was anxious to 
 attend the village school. In a very short time she 
 could read and write, and soon outstripped all her 
 schoolfellows. Then she taught herself to embroider 
 and scallop, so that as soon as she had finished her 
 little cheeses she has turned to resume her needle 
 and embroideries. It was not so much to please the 
 young men of the place as to outshine the other 
 village girls by her taste and elegance; decidedly 
 she was somewhat vain. 
 
 Wherever there are pretty girls there will always 
 be young men to court them (sometimes even the 
 old ones tamper with it too) . It may seem ridiculous 
 to you, yet I think one can never love a woman 
 too long. Laugh at the ridicule if it makes you 
 happy ; never ask your friends for advice when do- 
 ing that which pleases you ; ever keeping in memory 
 the fable of La Fontaine : ' ' The Miller, his Son, and 
 the Ass." Well, the young men of the village 
 courted Yiolet. You know how the country bump- 
 kin pays his court ; he pushes her about, squeezes 
 her, makes her dance and pirouette till out of breath, 
 
THE VILLAGE Off S. JOHN-IN-THE-WOGD. 5 
 
 or lie tickles her till she screams. These methods of 
 courtship, enjoyed well enough by the village louts 
 and wenches, did not suffice for Violet ; her educa- 
 tion and ready wit made her prefer a pretty word or 
 well-turned phrase to such rough horseplay. One 
 lad alone had succeeded in approaching Yiolet. This 
 was Francois Girone. It is true that Girone was 
 only an uncultured rustic ; he came from Compiegne 
 where his elder brother was schoolmaster ; he had, 
 therefore, received some little education, but it did 
 not deter him 1rom accepting the duties of a gar- 
 dener. He was a handsome fellow, about twenty- 
 two years of age, well-built, without, perhaps, being 
 so handsome as Antinous, whom the Emperor Adrian 
 numbered with the gods on account of his great 
 beauty. Girone had a pleasant face, and his eyes 
 assumed a gentleness which his character un- 
 doubtedly contradicted, and when he spoke to Violet 
 his voice had as much sweetness as his eyes. Sent 
 oue day to Madame Montin's to buy cheeses he had 
 seen Violet, and at once his heart was gone ; not like 
 those of our young Parisians who are enamoured at 
 the sight of every pretty face they meet. Girone, who 
 hitherto had not known what it was to love, was 
 completely conquered, fascinated by the charming 
 little face and alluring manners of this pretty village 
 maiden. He returned again and again to buy those 
 little cheeses, which he ate morning, noon, and 
 iright. One day, on returning to Compiegne, he 
 called on his elder brother Benoit, the schoolmaster, 
 and said to him : "I am going to leave Compiegne 
 and live at S. John-in-the-Wood." . . . "What 
 for ? " exclaimed his brother, opening his diminutive 
 eyes and enormous mouth. ... " To be near Violet, 
 the niece of Madame Montin, where I buy the little 
 cheeses." . . . "And why do you wish to be near 
 this young lady? Are you anxious to acquire the 
 art of making cheeses ?",,." No, it is not quite 
 
6 THE VILLAGE OF S. JOHN-IN-THE-WOOD, 
 
 that ; Yiolet lias turned my head ; in a word 1 am in 
 love; I feel that I cannot live without her." ... "I 
 suppose this accounts for so many little cheeses from 
 S. Jolm-in-the-Wood ? If you continue to live in 
 this way, you will soon be ill; a lad of your age 
 ought not to diet himself on cream-cheeses, even 
 when they are so good, they are too refrigerative."... 
 " But when I am living in the same village as Yiolet 
 I shall be able to eat other things, because then I 
 shall see Yiolet everyday, and that will restore my 
 appetite. " . . . "My friend, if you love this girl as 
 much as you say, and she is virtuous, why not marry 
 her, and bring her over to Compiegne, where you can 
 continue your work as a gardener." . . . "Ah, 
 brother, I have already proposed all that to Yiolet, 
 but. she has refused me ! " . . . " Then she does not 
 love you ; so it seems to me that it would be very 
 foolhardy on your part to take up your residence in 
 her village." ..." She has not said j)ositively that 
 she does not love me ; she is anxious to remain with 
 her old aunt." ..." Then why not take the aunt 
 with the niece ?"..." Again she says she would be 
 very sorry to leave her cow behind." . . . "You could 
 bring the cow with the aunt ; you would then have 
 plenty of milk, and your wife could continue her 
 cheese making." ..." Finally, Yiolet thinks that the 
 occupation of a gardener leads to little promotion 
 and is unremunerative; that such an existence would 
 be too mean and restricted." . . . "Ah! so this young 
 lady has ambition 9 Then I may as well tell you at 
 once, my poor Francois, that this girl will never 
 marry you, which, perhaps, is all the better for you, 
 for it is very certain that an ambitious wife is not 
 your mark. Listen to me, you leave Yiolet and her 
 little cheeses religiously aloue ; arrange for 3 r ourself 
 some other diet, and you will soon get over it ; above 
 all, do not think of burying yourself in a little village 
 where probably you would never find sufficient occu. 
 
THE CORNET, 
 
 pation to supply you with means for the humblest 
 subsistence." . . . " In point of fact, brother, you are 
 probably quite right in your surmises and advice." 
 
 Yet, two days later, Francois Girofle was installed 
 in S. Joha-in-the-Wood. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CORNET. 
 
 Lovers have ever been deaf to the admonitions of 
 the wise. It is an old saying, aye, as old as the 
 world : nor had I any idea of giving it you as a new 
 one. Girofle, therefore, scorned the advice of his 
 brother, Benoit, who was the elder, and as such 
 ought perhaps to have exercised some influence over 
 him, but it was not so. Benoit Girofle came off 
 badly enough in the matter of physique, and the 
 Emperor Adrian would not have placed him among 
 the gods, for he was ill-shaped, knock-kneed, with 
 small eyes, an enormous mouth, and a great fat 
 nose, while his hair, well, it was -a trifle red, and had 
 a remarkable resemblance to cotton; otherwise, he 
 was a capital fellow, obliging and respectful. He 
 adored his brother, whom he felt called upon to 
 protect as he was ten years his senior ; but this pro- 
 tector had never yet known his wishes to be obeyed. 
 It was, in fact, Benoit himself who performed all the 
 wishes of him whom he fancied he protected. Suf- 
 ficiently educated for a country schoolmaster, he had 
 not ventured to teach his brother, for Francois had 
 often remarked that to work on the land was much 
 more useful than learning Latin and history. Benoit 
 had even discovered that his brother was right here, 
 and said to himself: " Actually the patriarchs of old 
 
$ # THE CORNET. 
 
 were labourers, and if men had never done anything 
 but cultivate their fields, it is very probable that 
 Sodom and Gomorrah would not have been destroyed 
 by the fire of heaven. Every time the young Girofie 
 did anything contrary to the wish of his brother, 
 Benoit hastened to discover reasons to prove that 
 Francois had acted rightly after all in refusing to 
 listen to him. Thus in leaving Compiegne to live at 
 S. John-in-the-Wood, Girofie was very certain that 
 his elder brother would bear him no malice for having 
 left him ; in fact, three days after he was installed in 
 his new house, his brother arrived, carrying a bundle 
 on iihe end of his stick, which contained his little 
 modicum of wordly goods. 
 
 "What! you here?" cried the younger on per- 
 ceiving his brother ; "and what are you doing in 
 this village? "..."A nice question! since you are 
 here must not I be here also ? Do you think I could 
 leave you to exist here alone, with no one to take 
 care of you? that would be nice !"..." My poor 
 Benoit, what about your class ?"..." I have left it."... 
 "And your pupils ?"..." They have found other in- 
 structors.". . ." But what will you do? ". . ."I shall teach 
 the village children to read."..." You will not earn 
 much at that."..." Then I shall do anything that 
 comes in my way, make cheeses even, if it is neces- 
 sary." Girofie threw himself on his brother's neck 
 and exclaimed : " Ah, Benoit, you are too good to 
 me. You excuse all my foolish actions."..." Not at 
 all ! this village is very picturesque ; it is more 
 interesting than Compiegne; line upon line of houses 
 become very monotonous. Here, the cottages are 
 sometimes large, sometimes small, and the variety is 
 all the more agreeable.". . ." And are you indeed going 
 to fret yourself away in this village ?"..." You know 
 I can never fret when I am with you. "..."But I 
 ought to prevent you, for I shall be more often with 
 Violet than with you ; I shall pass every moment I 
 
THE COKNET. 9 
 
 have to spare in her company."..." Well, have I not 
 my books, my favourite authors, Moliere, La Fon- 
 taine, Labruyere, Voltaire ? If I am dull in their 
 society, I must be hard to amuse."..." However, sup- 
 pose you should not earn enough here ? One must 
 live — and I am not desirous that you should live on 
 cheeses."..." Ah, see what a selfish fellow you are, 
 wanting to keep all the good things for yourself. 
 But do not be alarmed. Have you forgotten that we 
 have three hundred francs in the Consols, left us by 
 our poor uncle, our mother's brother? "..."You 
 mean that you have this little fortune, and not I 
 whom he scarcely cared for at all."..." You and I ! 
 is it not the same thing ? It would be a nice thing 
 for me to have this income and you nothing! "... 
 " Bub I am younger, stronger than you, I ought to 
 work harder, and it is not right that you should ever 
 part with any of your little income."..." Say our 
 income."..." Yes, yes, it is right; but say, what do 
 you intend doing here ?"..." I have already found 
 some gardens to keep in order at some of the large 
 nouses round about the village. Oh, I shall never 
 lack work ; and then, as a final resource, I can keep 
 Yiolet to make her cheeses." 
 
 The two brothers were therefore installed in S. 
 John-in-the-Wood. Girofle tended the gardens, but 
 he earned very little, for instead of going punctually 
 and regularly to his work, he passed most of his 
 mornings with Yiolet, who did not encourage his 
 advances. Yet like all women, she was not averse 
 to a little flirtation. For his part, Benoit taught 
 such children as came to him to read and write, and 
 whether he was paid for it or not, he took as much 
 pains with those -whom he instructed freely as with 
 those for whom he received some slight remunera- 
 tion. Still, this did not provide him with sufficient 
 to*- live decently upon; and Benoit, who had blamed 
 his younger brother for living on cream cheeses, 
 
10 THE CORNET. 
 
 existed himself on stale bread or potatoes roasted in 
 ashes ; yet he was not discontented, for his brother 
 seemed satisfied and happy. 
 
 One day, however, Girofle ran to Benoit, exclaim- 
 ing : " Brother, she loves music, she has just con- 
 fessed so much to me. Since Sunday there have 
 been some travelling musicians in the village, there 
 are three of them — a violin, a tambourine, and a 
 cornet.',..." I have not noticed them," said Benoit... 
 " Oh, Violet has noticed them, the cornet in par- 
 ticular, and she is constantly exclaiming, 'What a 
 delightful instrument ! How nice to dance to ! If I 
 were a man I would play that instrument. 5 You see 
 it is exactly as if she had said, ' If you want me to 
 love you, you must play the cornet.'"... "So you 
 think that is what she means ? "..."That is under- 
 stood, of course. Benoit, you know so many things, 
 teach me the cornet."..."! should be quite willing, 
 but there is one little difficulty. I do not know it, 
 and I have always understood that before one can 
 teach it is necessary to learn. Although there are 
 men who know nothing, yet have many pupils. I 
 have some elementary knowledge of music, and I 
 could teach you the notes and their value."..." Then 
 I shall learn the cornet alone. You have told me 
 yourself, Benoit, that with a determined will a man 
 can succeed in anything he undertakes."..." That is 
 true ; only to make a rabbit-stew, you must first get 
 the rabbit."... "Exactly; to learn the cornet we must 
 first get one. I will run over to Compiegne. There 
 is a music-seller's there, who often has some second- 
 hand instruments. It would be a devil of a nuisance 
 should he not happen to have a cornet ! "..."And the 
 money ? You know it would be considerably more 
 expensive than a reed pipe.". . ." Money ? Ah ! let me 
 see,; I fancy I shall have enough; for the past two 
 years I have been tolerably economical. I have 
 about thirty francs ; I should think that would suf = 
 
THE CORNET. 11 
 
 fice."..." And if it does not, you may have mine; I 
 have about forty francs, which, as a matter of fact, I 
 had put on one side. I remembered on one occasion 
 you remarked that you were anxious to possess a 
 good gun, so I was going to make you a New Year's 
 present of one ; but now, I suppose, you would prefer 
 a cornet, so this money will do to buy you one, 
 together with a manual of instruction ; you then 
 may learn the instrument by yourself ." 
 
 Girone obtained a cornet and manual. The sav- 
 ings of the two brothers were now exhausted, but 
 the young lover practised so perseveriiigly that at the 
 end of two months he could play a polka very well. 
 So one evening he took up a position about thirty 
 paces from Madame Montin's cottage, and com- 
 menced to play his cornet, and he reckoned upon 
 startling Violet pretty considerably, to whom he had 
 said nothing of his musical studies. At the sound of 
 his instrument, which the surrounding trees rendered 
 still more sonorous, Violet came from her cottage 
 and listened. She looked about her on all sides, her 
 eyes expressing the pleasure which she felt ; then she 
 advanced towards the place whence the sound pro- 
 ceeded, and soon perceived Girofli blowing his in- 
 strument. 
 
 " What, Girone, do you play the cornet ? " cried 
 Violet, stopping in front of the young fellow..., 
 "Yes, miss— yes — I do."..." But you never told me 
 you were a musician, and that you could play this 
 instrument."..." I could not tell you when I did not 
 know it."... "And how long have you been learn- 
 ing? "..."Ever since I heard you say that this was 
 your favourite in str anient."..." And have you done 
 all this to please me ? "..."Indeed I have. Do you 
 not know, Violet, that to please you there is nothing 
 I would not undertake? "..."It is very kind of you/" 
 ..."Kind! kind!" murmured Giroffe; "am I only 
 that to you ? Alas, Violet, you know that I love you$ 
 
12 THE CORNET. 
 
 that night and day I think of you, that I am burning 
 to marry you, and that it rests with you alone to 
 make me the happiest of men."..." The happiest? 
 possibly so ; but what about me ? Should I be the 
 happiest of women? "..." Miss Yiolet, I would obey 
 your every wish; I would satisfy each and all of your 
 desires. You see how I have learnt this cornet 
 simply because you said that its music pleased you." 
 ..." No doubt ; it is very thoughtful of you ; but you 
 could not buy me silk dresses and lace bonnets by 
 playing the cornet! "..."Miss Yiolet, I will work — 
 work with all the energy I possess to earn money 
 that you may have all you desire."..." Oh, it is not 
 by cutting trees or tending plants that people get 
 rich. Never mind ; it is all the same ; play me 
 something else.". . ."Yes — yes ! ". . ."Oh, not that tune, 
 you have played that already."..." But I don't know- 
 any other."..." I suppose that alters the case; com- 
 mence again then." 
 
 Girofle commenced his tune again, then again and 
 again, till at last he had played it through six times ; 
 then Yiolet said to him : " That will do ; it is very 
 pretty, but you ought to learn another tune." 
 
 Our lover then returned to Benoit, who said to 
 him : " Well, is your beautiful Yiolet satisfied ? ". . . 
 " Oh, yes ; she was charmed with my playing, and 
 was most famously surprised. There ! "..." And 
 does she consent to marry you? "..."No, not yet; 
 but she has begged me to learn another tune, and 
 not always to play the same thing."..." And when 
 you know another tune will she marry you?"... 
 " Forsooth \ she has not said so yet ; but by dint of 
 perseverance I must succeed." 
 
 Girofle learnt another tune, then several ; he went 
 every day as soon as he had finished his work to sit 
 before Madame Montin's cottage and play his cornet. 
 On the first occasion Yiolet came out that she might 
 hear the music more distinctly ; afterwards she only 
 
A BARREL. ORGAN* 13 
 
 otood on the threshold of her cottage* next she 
 tailed to appear at all, till one day she tripped up to 
 the amorous musician and said : " Girofle, your in- 
 strument is becoming too much for my ears : you 
 know always listening to the cornet gets somewhat 
 monotonous; do you not think you ought to rest 
 awhile ? 
 
 m The poor fellow removed the mouthpiece from his 
 instrument, and returned sadly crestfallen to his 
 elder brother, who met 'him with: "Well what 
 about this marriage ? You know a good many tunes 
 
 n °^r n if ° Ugllt t0 be able to satisf J ^r precocity." 
 ... well— yes— but she does not care for the cornet 
 now^she says it deafens her; I shall not play it any 
 
 wf^R^ 1118 ^ and mutter ed between his 
 teeth : Ah ! these women again ! Cato has well said 
 tnat reason and wisdom are incompatible with a 
 woman s mmd. Origen calls her the key to all sin j 
 and Catullus avers that the declarations of a woman 
 are written on the breath of the winds and on the 
 lace of the waters ! whilst Virgil exclaims: « Varum 
 et rnutabile perfemina. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A BARREL ORGAN, 
 
 t Some time after the events recorded in the pre- 
 vious chapter an organ-grinder came with his instru- 
 ment to S. John-in-the-Wood. It was a fine Sunday, 
 and a village fete day. This itinerant musician, who 
 had not been to S. John-in-the-Wood for some years, 
 took up his position on the village green, a*d there 
 
14 A BARREL OROAtf. 
 
 for more than five hours, he played to the dancing of 
 the inhabitants. 
 
 Violet, who was anxious to dance with Girofle, 
 could not help constantly exclaiming: "What -a 
 beautiful instrument ! What melodious notes ! One 
 would think there were half-a-dozen musicians inside 
 of it. One has only to turn that little handle to 
 obtain such beautiful music ! Oh, it does not seem 
 possible ! there must be some trick in it."..." Indeed 
 there is not, Miss Violet; come a little nearer to the 
 musician, where you can see for yourself." 
 
 Girofle led Violet up to the organ-grinder, who 
 allowed her to turn the handle for a few moments. 
 She was delighted with the music she produced, and 
 withdrew from the organ with the greatest reluc- 
 tance, wanting every moment to resume her place at 
 the handle. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty it is ! We can play without 
 having learnt our notes ! It is capital ! It is indeed 
 a splendid instrument, so very different from that 
 cornet of yours, and it is only necessary to push a 
 little spring in order to completely change the tune ; 
 it plays eight different airs, which are ail equally 
 easy to play ; it is indeed a grand invention ! If I 
 could I would buy myself an organ tomorrow. I 
 should never go out of my house again, but would 
 play the whole day through." 
 
 These wcrds were not lost upon the poor lover, who 
 when he met his brother in the evening, remarked : 
 "Violet 5 has another passion. "..."What, does she 
 love another villager ?"..." No, thank heaven, it is 
 not quite «o bad as that ; that would be the death of 
 me."..." That would be a poov way of getting loved 
 in return."..." An organ-grinder has come to the 
 village, and his instrument has bewitched Violet; 
 she had no idea that it was possible to play without 
 having learnt. I showed her how to turn the handle ; 
 she was enchanted, and forsooth ! it is quite true 
 
A BARREL ORGAN. 15 
 
 that it does produce some excellent music ; in fact, it 
 sounds as though one were listening to a number of 
 instruments.". . ."Well, and what then ? ". . ." Why, 
 Violet remarked how happy she would be if she had 
 an organ at home, because then she would have 
 music all day. I would give her an organ very soon 
 if I had the money, but I have none left."..." And if 
 she had one, she would probably soon get tired of it, 
 as she did of your cornet."..." Oh, but this is dif- 
 ferent, she could play this herself ; that is why she is 
 so taken up with it. I am quite sure she would not 
 let any of the other girls touch it. But there, it is 
 no use thinking about it, for all my money's gone." 
 
 And the poor «niorous youth sighed and fretted 
 day after day because he felt he could not satisfy 
 this new whim of her whom he loved so much. See- 
 ing the grief of his brother, Benoit set off one day for 
 Compiegne ; betook himself to a notary's, and 
 showed him his stock certificate, said : " Sir, I want 
 a hundred crowns, lend them to me on that, so that 1 
 can restore my brother to cheerfulness and content- 
 ment," 
 
 In a few days Benoit ordered a complete organ 
 from Paris which he presented to his brother, say- 
 ing : " Take it, Francois, give it to her whom you 
 adore so much ; satisfy her desire, and see if you_ 
 cannot make her satisfy your own by becoming your 
 wife." 
 
 Girofle leapt for joy ; he fell on his brother's neck ; 
 he would have leapt on the organ had he not been 
 afraid of spoiling it. Then, glancing at Benoit with 
 a saddened look, he stammered : "You have broken 
 into your funds in order to afford me this pleasure. 
 Ah ! my brother, it is too kind of you.".. ." What do 
 you say? I have not touched my funds ; they are 
 yours, at least half of them are, and you are quite a/fc 
 liberty to do what you like with them. If it is neces- 
 sary for you to procure an organ in order to acquire 
 
16 A BAKfeEL ORGAN. 
 
 Violet's love, there is one. Take it to her as quickly 
 as you can. It plays eight tunes." 
 
 Girofle needed no second bidding ; he put the 
 organ on his shoulders, and although it must have 
 "been a pretty heavy load, he ran all the way to 
 Violet's house, where he arrived breathless and 
 speechless. He placed the organ at Violet's feet, 
 and said: "There is the instrument you were so 
 eager to possess. I am very happy at being able to 
 provide it for you." 
 
 Violet could scarcely believe her eyes. She skipped 
 round and round the organ, yet daring not to touch 
 it ; until perceiving the handle which Girofle has just 
 put in its place she uttered a low cry of joy. " Is it 
 one — is it really and truly one? "..."Indeed, miss, 
 do you think I would deceive you, and give you a 
 counterfeit thing? "..." Oh, but, Mr. Girofle, I am 
 so astonished that you could have thought of giving 
 me an organ ! Do you really make me a present of 
 it? ". . ." Most certainly I do.". . ." How very generous 
 of you."... "It is not generosity, Violet, it is love — 
 love for ever, and if it can make you love me also — " 
 ..."Oh, let me play it again and learn the tunes." 
 
 The pretty village maiden placed the organ on the 
 table, seated herself by the side of it, and com- 
 menced to play. All the inhabitants of the place 
 flocked to her cottage to hear the music ; the girls 
 and boys danced right merrily when the organ 
 played a polka. In fact, Girofle's present put the 
 whole village in commotion. This state of affairs 
 lasted several days ; after that they paid but little 
 attention to the music, as it distracted them so much 
 from their work. When Violet knew the eight 
 tunes by heart, whieh the cylinder of the instrument 
 contained, she played it less often, and finally she 
 left off playing it altogether. Then Girofle, sur- 
 prised at not hearing the music, came to Violet and 
 exclaimed: "You do not play your organ now, 
 
A BARREL ORGAN. 17 
 
 "Violet ?"..." The music,*' said she, "worries my cow, 
 which grows thinner and thinner every day, and it 
 does not give nearly so much milk. Of course, you 
 know I should not like it to be ill ; take your organ 
 away again, Mr. Girofle, I shall not play it any 
 more ; it's in the way too, it takes up such a lot of 
 room." 
 
 Benoit, who saw his brother returning with the 
 organ on his back, asked him if anything had hap- 
 pened to the instrument, which he had not heard for 
 some time, and Girofle muttered ; " No ; the instru- 
 ment is all right, but the music displeases Madame 
 Montin's cow, and Violet does not like it. "..."But at 
 least the young girl shows herself sensible to your 
 love ? "..."Not much ; she always says she will see." 
 ..."She will never find a young fellow to love her 
 better than you do."..." Oh, I will answer for that." 
 ..."My poor Francois, I am seriously afraid you are 
 enamoured of a coquette."..." I never see Violet 
 flirt with anyone ; only she speaks to me sometimes 
 of going to Paris."..." Of Paris? Perchance she 
 has expressed a wish to go there ?"..." I am afraid 
 it is so."..." Then, my boy, she does not love you." 
 ..."Oh, but these are only fleeting fancies of the 
 girl ; mey will not last. When she is my wife, and 
 is occupied in attending to our brats, she will forget 
 all about Paris." ..." That is quite true; endeavour 
 then to bring her to a decision quickly."..." And 
 how are your lessons progressing ? Have you a suf- 
 ficient number of pupils, and do you earn enough to 
 live upon? "..." Oh, yes, they are beginning to 
 come in." 
 
 Benoit did not care to tell his brother that three- 
 fourths of his pupils paid him nothing at all, and 
 that he had scarcely earned enough to provide him- 
 self with food since he had been living in S. John-in- 
 the-Wood, for he felt that Girofle would only say to 
 him: "Why did you leave Compiegne and follow 
 
 2 
 
18 A BARREL ORGAN, 
 
 me 9 " He preferred to eat dry bread than live at a 
 distance from his brother. 
 
 Some weeks after Violet had made Francois take 
 away the organ, which she had first so ardently 
 desired, one of her village friends received a pretty 
 little watch from her sweetheart, which she did not 
 fail to show all over the village, and which she 
 proudly suspended round her neck. This piece of 
 jewellery dazzled Yiolet. She never ceased talking 
 of Madeleine's watch, and every time she saw Girofle 
 she did not fail to exclaim : Have you seen Made- 
 leine's watch ? . . . " Yes, miss, indeed I have, for 
 she shows it to everybody. 5 '..." Forso'oth ! she ought 
 to be proud, for it is a beautiful little watch, such a 
 delightful present ! It is just the sort of present to 
 make ; one can always wear it round the neck, not 
 like your stupid barrel organ."..." I never expected, 
 Miss Yiolet, that you would wear the barrel organ 
 round your neck ; but you certainly seemed to like 
 the music at one time."..." Oh, the music! that came 
 to nothing. It's like your fancy for the cornet. Do 
 you play it still? "..." Sometimes, so as not to forget 
 it altogether. "..."You don't earn much money by all 
 these stupid fancies ; besides it is only with money 
 that you can obtain pretty things, like Madeleine's 
 watch, for example. Oh, I should indeed be happy 
 if I had a watch like that." 
 
 Francois did not fail to tell his brother of what 
 Yiolet had said, and asked Benoit whether he had 
 seen Madeleine's watch. "ISTo, indeed, I haven't, 
 and I don't know Madeleine either. What does she 
 want? Does she want to learn writing? "..." ISTo, 
 she fJ a fine girl, who is going to be married soon." 
 ..." And is that why she has a watch ?"..." Yes ; her 
 future husband has made her a present of it; he 
 bought it for her in Paris."..." Well, what has that 
 iq do with us ?"..." Oh, nothing at all ; only Yiolet 
 ^as gone crazy over this watch — she cannot get it 
 
A BARREL ORGAN. 19 
 
 out of her head. She keeps on saying : " c Oh, how 
 lucky ! There is a fellow that makes something like 
 a present to his intended ! Madeleine ought indeed 
 to he proud of it. A gold watch 1 That ought to 
 keep good time.' " 
 
 Benoit, who soon saw what his brother was driv- 
 ing at, scratched his head, and thought for some 
 time in silence. Girone saw his opportunity in a 
 moment. " If I gave Yiolet a watch, she certainly 
 could not refuse to be my wife, especially if it were a 
 gold one."..." If you are persuaded that such is the 
 case, you must give Yiolet a gold watch."..." But, 
 Benoit, you know very well that I have no money." 
 ...'•Well, we can raise some on our consols."... 
 "Dear Benoit, I shall finish by ruining you." "It is 
 not my property, but yours that you are disposing 
 of."..." A very small watch ought not to cost very 
 much money. "..."The small ones sometimes cost 
 more than the large ones. I will go over to Com- 
 piegne; I shall find you one there."..." Mind it must 
 be a gold one, and keep good time." It does not 
 follow that it will keep good time because i,t is- gold, 
 but the present would be the more acceptable. Do 
 not fear, it shall be a gold one. "..."My dear Benoit, 
 you are too good to me. I should like it to have an 
 enamelled face like Madeleine's, and Violet's initials 
 on it; but perhaps I am asking too mueh? "..." Not 
 at all, you are going to get married, so you must 
 procure your wedding present." 
 
 On the day following this conversation Girone 
 offered Yiolet a charming little gold watch, the 
 workmanship of which greatly surpassed that of 
 Madeleine's, and Yiolet's initials were engraved 
 upon the case. On receiving the present Yiolet 
 blushed with pleasure. For the first time she held 
 out her cheek to her admirer and said : " Embrace 
 me ; you deserve it. My dear Girone, you are indeed 
 land ;-I will adorn myself with your present at once." 
 
20 THE GOOD PRIEHDS OP PARIS. 
 
 The young gardener who heard himself called 
 "My dear Girone " for the first time, was intoxicated 
 with delight, and wished he had more presents to 
 oifer her, " At last, then, I have found the way to 
 your heart ! I have indeed tried hard, but I have 
 succeeded at last. So you will be my wife ? It is 
 your own dear wish, is it not ? "..."Well, since you 
 wish it so much, I suppose I must be."..." And when 
 shall it be — when ? — wheu ? Fix the time now ; do 
 not delay."..." Just now my aunt is ill; we must 
 wait till she is better."..." Oh, nurse her up well; 
 give her plenty of medicine every day so that she 
 may recover the more quickly."..." Plenty of medi- 
 cine ! I do not think she wants very much of that ; 
 but rest easy, we have a doctor, and we shall do 
 everything he orders."... "Is he a good doctor?"... 
 "Forsooth! he is the only one in the place."... 
 "Would you like me to send for the horse-doctor 
 and dentist at Oompiegne?"..."Oh, no, I do not 
 think that would be at all advantageous."..." You 
 never know; sometimes what one doctor has not 
 ordered another will. 1 will send over the corn- 
 cutter and bone-setter, and there will be the devil to 
 do if all these cannot manage to cure poor old 
 Madame Montin " 
 
 , s " CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE GOOD PRIENDS OP PARIS* 
 
 In spite of the physician, the horse-doctor, the 
 dentist, and the chiropodist, or, probably, thanks 
 to the services of all of them, it was not long before 
 Madame Montin died. Then Yiolet found herself 
 her own misti\ ss, free to do as she pleased, and to 
 
THE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS. 21 
 
 think of the beautiful dresses which the ladies wore 
 in and around Paris. Girofle, who was always most 
 assiduous in his attendance upon Violet, begged her 
 once again to appoint a day for their marriage ; but 
 Violet, who did not feel particularly anxious to 
 marry a gardener, answered him somewhat curtly : 
 " Mr. Girofle, I cannot think of these things with 
 my aunt only just dead." However, the aunt had 
 now been dead some three months, and still her 
 answer was the same. 
 
 In order to console his brother in his disappoint- 
 ments, Benoit suggested that these delays only 
 proved in what estimation Madame Montin had been 
 held by her niece ; how the latter regretted her loss ; 
 and that it did her heart credit. 
 
 One morning a very elegantly-dressed lady entered 
 the cottage where Violet was busy making her little 
 cheeses. This lady at once embraced the young vil- 
 lager, and exclaimed : " Good morning, my dear. I 
 am so pleased to see you again. What ! don't you 
 know me ? Why, look at me again."..." Ah ! yes! 
 Is it possible? Are you indeed Marjoleine? "... 
 " Yes, that's who I am ; your old friend, with whom 
 you used to go to school, and who left this village 
 some three years ago to take a situation at Com- 
 piegiie."..."But you did not stay there long; for 
 about five months afterwards you had disappeared, 
 and no one knew where you had gone."..." But I 
 knew well enough. I was carried off to Paris."... 
 "What— by thieves? "..."No, you little silly; but 
 by a fine young fellow — a soldier, a dragoon — who 
 told me he would marry me."..." Then you are his 
 wife now? "...No, my soldier-lover was obliged to go 
 to barracks in a very dull town, whilst I remained in 
 Paris, where a wealthy sugar-merchant offered me 
 his heart."..." Then you are in the sugar business 
 now ?"..." I am not there now, sugar is too low. My 
 sugar-dealer did not take me to the theatre, nor to 
 
22 THE GOOD FRIENDS OF PARIS. 
 
 dine at the restaurants. No, I left him to listen to 
 the wooing of a champagne merchant."..." People 
 say it is very good, but I have never tasted it. You 
 are in the wine trade now then? "..."Not at present ; 
 for my merchant, who made his wine himself, was 
 one day deceived by a drug, and instead of cham- 
 pagne he made vinegar ; that did for him. But 
 happily I had been spotted by a stockbroker."... 
 "What is a stockbroker? "..."It is a man who jobs 
 in the public funds, and who gains a great deal of 
 money by purse-cutting*"..." That is very funny; 
 then has your purse-cutter married you? "..." Not 
 yet, but it is the same thing. What does it matter 
 so long as one is in the world of fashion."..." How 
 well dressed you are ! — that fine hat, and silk dress. 
 Yes, it is real silk too ! "•. . . " I have many dresses 
 much more beautiful than this one. "..."More beau- 
 tiful! What are they like then? And that little 
 hat, and those ribbons ! Why, had I been out for a 
 walk I should not have recognised you, Marjoleine." 
 . . ."I am not Marjoleine now ; I am Madame Trafal- 
 gar."..." What, is your stockbroker named Trafal- 
 gar? "..."No, but he asked me to adopt that name, 
 because one lias to keep up good style among the 
 domestics, and Marjoleine has too rural a sound."... 
 " I cannot bring myself to admire you enough. You 
 really must be happy under these circumstances ? ". . . 
 " Certainly I am happy. M. Bichetont gives me 
 everything I ask for.". . ." Who is M. Bichetont ? ". . . 
 "Oh, he is my gentleman. "..."Your husband?"... 
 " It is the same thing.". . ." What do you do all day?" 
 ..."Why, I enjoy myself a great deal, only some- 
 times I can hardly think of anything to amuse 
 myself with for a change. Then I am in a bad 
 humour. I have my 6 nerves.' "..."Nerves ! What 
 are they? Pleas ?"..." No, one's nerves — means va- 
 pours."..." Oh, yes, I know — the wind ?"..." No, 
 that is not it. When I have my 6 nerves,' M. Biche- 
 
THE GOOD FRIENDS OF PARIS. 23 
 
 tont thinks of nothing but what may perhaps amuse 
 me and drive away my distemper, and it always ends 
 in a present, a bracelet or a shawl. 5 '... "Ah, well, you 
 see what opportunities you have !"..." Yes, but not so 
 many as Madame Boucherose."..." Who is Madame 
 Boucherose?"..." She is Toinon. You do not re- 
 member Toinon, do you, who was such a glutton, 
 who used to steal the cherries and apples ?"..." Oh, 
 I remember, the fat Toinon who went to service at 
 Compiegne as a cook to a bachelor there."... "It 
 appears that she turned out such a good cook that 
 her master took her to Paris. He is dead now, but 
 he left her a nice little round sum. You see, she is 
 well-dressed, and pretty enough ; only she is some- 
 what too fat for my fancy. But there are plenty of 
 men who like quantity : in fact, she has caught the 
 eye of a wealthy foreigner, a Turk, and they say he 
 has given her a house^ my dear."..." And is she his 
 cook? "..."His cook! You silly girl. It is she 
 now who has a cook, and other servants to wait upon 
 her, even a yellow negro ! Moreovor, this Turk has 
 given her a carriage."..." Fancy the fat Toinon 
 having a carriage of her own !"..." Yes, Violet, and 
 I shall not be happy till I have one too. I have already 
 hinted to M. Bichetont that I should like a carriage 
 of my own, with horses of my own, and a yellow 
 negro to stand behind, but he turns a deaf ear to all 
 my appeals. Never mind, I shall have one yet."... 
 " You will have your ' nerves/ I suppose ? ". . ." Ah ! 
 I shall have something else; but let me speak to you, 
 Yiolet. Do you wish to pass your whole life in this 
 village?"..." Indeed, I' hardly know ; but I think I 
 should like to see other places."..." What do you do 
 here ?"..." As you see — make these little cheeses and 
 sell them."..." It is not much of a prospect, is it, 
 Violet ? Young and pretty as you are, to pass your 
 life away making cheeses in this out of the way 
 place, is not the way to live."..." Oh, it does not 
 
24 THE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS. 
 
 afford nie much enjoyment, I assure you. There is 
 Girofle now, who actually wants to marry me at this 
 moment. "..." What is this Girofle ?"..." He is a 
 gardener ; he works for the gentry round about 
 wherever he can get work."..." That would be a nice 
 look-out for a pretty girl like you ! You are not a 
 mere stupid rustic ; you know how to read and write, 
 embroider and sow. Oh, you must come with me to 
 Paris, and find a situation in some shop there. Once 
 in Paris I am quite certain you would get a good 
 place."..." Do you think so? If I only could, espe- 
 cially as my aunt is dead. I am my own mistress ; I 
 can go where I like, only what about poor Girofle ? " 
 ..." Surely you need not put yourself out about one 
 man. Your gardener will marry some other village 
 girlj; men soon console themselves."..." Do you think 
 so ? ". . ." Do you love this young fellow ?". . ." I don't 
 think so — I might a little."..." If you don't think so 
 it is very certain that you do not at all.". . ." You see, 
 he has given me this watch."..." Well, what then? 
 It is not such a wonderful present ! In Paris they 
 will give you watches and clocks galore. I repeat 
 you must really come with me."..." But where shall 
 I go when I get to Paris ? I know nobody there — 
 can I go to your house? ". . ." Oh, no ! the devil! not 
 there. You are too pretty; you would turn old 
 Bichetont's head. Truly he might find you too sub- 
 stantially built — he likes very slim figures ; you see 
 how I am squeezed in. "..."Indeed you are; you have 
 failen away a good deal too,"..." Not much, but I 
 pull myself in to please him. But all the same I do 
 not want you to come and live with me, for I know 
 what men are ; their faithfulness is only held by a 
 hair. Listen, I will set to work to find you a situa- 
 tion. Once settled, you will get on all right."... 
 "Will you really see to it for me ?"..." I promise 
 you, and I will speak to Toinon about you — Madame 
 de Boucherose,"..," Do you see her often? "..." Veiv 
 
THE GOOD EEIENDS OF PAEIS. 25 
 
 often ; she takes me for a drive in her carriage some- 
 times, but it vexes me to have to ride in her carriage, 
 although I go just the same. I told Boucherose that 
 I was going to take a journey to Compiegne, and 
 that I should come over here to see you, and she told 
 me that one of these days she should come over and 
 see you too. It will be capital if we can find you a 
 good place in a first-class shop, and in a rich neigh- 
 bourhood. It is very important that the quarter 
 should be a rich one, for it is no use to settle down 
 in a street where only dusty workmen pass. As soon 
 as we have found you a place, I will let you know. 
 Don't whisper a word to anyone. Get money from 
 everybody you can ; take your bag and baggage and 
 go one fine morning, without saying a word to any- 
 body. Get in the train, and in a few hours you will 
 be in Paris."..." Oh, I shall be so pleased, my dear 
 Marjoleine ;— pardon me, I should have said Madame 
 Trafalgar."..." Between ourselves always call me 
 Marjoleine ; it does not annoy me, in fact, quite the 
 contrary."..." Ah, you are a capital girl; fortune has 
 not changed you much."... "You must be very careful 
 not to call me Marjoleine in Paris."..." Oh, I should 
 not be so stupid as that. You will really' get me a 
 place, won't you? You will not forget all about me 
 when you are back in Paris, will you ? "..."Best 
 easy, you will have proof of it before long. Are these 
 cheeses good ? " . ." Very good ; taste them.". . ." Cer- 
 tainly ; and I will have some milk ; that will be a 
 change after so much champagne."..." After that or 
 vinegar ?"..." Oh, no ; I drink very good wine now. 
 M. Bichetont knows what good wine is. Still, it is 
 always the same thing, always champagne; this is 
 indeed a pleasant change." 
 
 Madame Trafalgar set upon the cheeses with a 
 good appetite ; she ate several, drank a great bowl of 
 milk, then she embraced Violet, remarking that she 
 must hurry to catch the train, 
 
26 THE GOOD FRIENDS OF PARIS. 
 
 " Are yon going alone ? " said Yiolet. " May not 
 I accompany yon to the station? "..."No; I have 
 someone waiting for me near at hand."..." Ah! M. 
 Bichetoat ? "../'Not so stupid as that — what do yon 
 take me for ? Good-bye, Yiolet. Yon will get some 
 news from us soon ; yon must not get musty here, 
 my dear, you are too pretty to stay in a village." 
 
 The gay lady had gone, and Yiolet was so pre- 
 occupied with all that she had said, that she forgot 
 to finish her cheeses, and Girofle, following his usual 
 custom, brought his customary bouquet, and found 
 her seated pensively before her bowls of cream. 
 
 " Are you asleep, Yiolet ? " asked the young lover, 
 surprised at what he saw. Yiolet, recalled to herself 
 by Girofle's voice, answered him in a pet: "No, sir, I 
 am not asleep ; what made you think I was ?"..." I 
 am very sorry, but I thought you were asleep, seeing 
 all your cream there before you."... "Well, can it not 
 remain there awhile ? Must I always be at work ? 
 Do you think making cheeses is only fun ? For two 
 pins I would upset all this cream on the floor." 
 
 Girofle, distressed at receiving this rebuff, stam- 
 mered out: "When you are my wife, Yiolet, you 
 will not have to make any more cheeses, I assure you. 
 You will have other things to do, more agreeable 
 and more amusing. You will water my flowers."... 
 "Ah, yes! tire myself out with a water-can."... 
 "Well, you shall not water them then. You shall 
 sew, and make me some shirts."..." That's a very 
 interesting amusement! If that is all you have to 
 offer me it will not tempt me very much." 
 
 The young gardener did all he could to restore 
 Yiolet to a good humour, but he failed utterly in all 
 his attempts. Benoit, noticing his brother's dejected 
 countenance, remarked in a kindly tone : " I suppose 
 your fiance has not yet fixed a day for the wedding?" 
 ..."I am very much afraid that she is not altogether 
 pleased with me. and that she will not many me."... 
 
THE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS. 27 
 
 " Then she had no right to delude you with false 
 hopes. "..."I don't think she has done that to-day; 
 she was in a terribly bad temper."..." Women have 
 never an equable temper, my friend. You remember 
 what Virgil says : " Varium et mutabile — ." ... "I 
 don't care a straw about Virgil, but when a girl 
 receives a watch from a young fellow the least she 
 can do is to allow him to court her."... " Come, con- 
 sole yourself, brother; have patience. This pretty 
 Violet does not wish to remain a maid for ever, and 
 if you are the only one in the village who caresses 
 her she is bound to give you the preference." 
 
 Eight days elapsed. Violet had received no letters 
 from Paris. She had already made up her mind 
 that her old friends had forgotten her, when one 
 morning a gay equipage drove up and stopped before 
 her cottage door. A lady, loudly dressed and very 
 fat, descended from the carriage, assisted by a little 
 mulatto, who had stood at the back of the vehicle. 
 Violet gave a little shout of joy, as, in spite of her 
 finery, she recognised Toinon, her old companion. 
 " Yes, yes, it is Toinon, with her yellow negro, her 
 carriage and diamonds. It is Madame Boucherose — 
 Boucherose as Marjoleine described her to me ! " 
 The gay lady stretched out her arms to Violet, and 
 in a somewhat raucous voiedf which no amount of 
 finery could disguise, exclaimed : " Come to me, 
 darling ; let me embrace you. You recognised me at 
 once, did you not ? ". . ." Yes, indeed, I did. You are 
 a good deal stouter, but your face is about the 
 same.". . ." So much the better ; it would suit me very 
 well if it remained the same for another forty 
 years. "..."Marjoleine told me all about you; she 
 said you were quite in luck's way.'"..." Yes, my 
 love, I have a carriage, but there is nothing in that, 
 only it makes Trafalgar terribly jealous. It is not 
 everybody's luck to make a conquest of a Grand 
 Turk,"..." Is your husband the Grand Turk then ? " 
 
28 THE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS. 
 
 ,. ."He has been very near it—sultan, pacha, bashaw 
 — these I Miow he has been. In fact, he has held 
 ever important appointment in his country. He has 
 even had a seraglio, the rascal! At anyrate, he 
 gave me to understand so ; but, thank God, he has 
 given up that luxury now, for it would be of very 
 little use to him now, poor Sidi Aboukir ! People 
 say ? as strong as a Turk.' Good God ! Our proverbs 
 lie like dentists. But Sidi Aboukir has diamonds 
 and money by the shovelful, and that's the chief 
 point after all."... " My dear Toinon, how beautifully 
 you are dressed ! ". . ." Tut ! my dear; but do not call 
 me Toinon. If my people in Paris heard it — that 
 rascally little mulatto of mine is as artful as a 
 monkey; in fact, I have an idea now that he has 
 been — ."..."I beg your pardon, you are called 
 Madame Boucherose now, are you not?"..,"De 
 Boucherose, my dear. You must not forget the De, 
 because that gives a finishing touch to it, and im- 
 poses on the vulgar; it pleases my Sidi for instance." 
 ..."How stout you are — what a corporation you 
 you have."..." Ah ! thank heaven, it was my plump- 
 ness and rotundity that conquered the poor sultan. 
 A Turk turns up^his nose at a thin bust; charms 
 must be substantial to beguile him. It was my 
 plump — array of charfc that caught the eye of Sidi 
 Aboukir."..." And are you very happy with this 
 man ?"..." Oh, yes; with the exception of certain 
 little Turkish habits which I cannot quite accustom 
 myself to ; they displeased me very much at first. 
 For example, he eats his food sitting on the floor 
 with his legs crossed like a tailor. "..."How incon- 
 venient that must be ! "..." Oh, he is quite used to 
 it, and he eats rice at every meal.". . ." That ought to 
 make him fat."..." It has certainly done that. Is 
 this your hovel? It is not very showy, is it?"... 
 "Will you come in ?"..." It is not worth while. 
 That smell of cheese inside is a little too much for 
 
THE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS* 29 
 
 me. Hi ! Here, boy ! " The little mulatto* ran to 
 his mistress holding two forefingers in the air like a 
 Chinaman. " Sidi Aboukir taught him to hold his 
 fingers like that. I think it makes him look a know- 
 ing little dog. Domino, you will find m the carriage 
 a bottle and some cakes ; bring them here. Quick, 
 slave ! Presto ! subito ! Domino." 
 
 The little jockey ran to the carriage, and the 
 corpulent Toinon, alias De Boucherose, turned to 
 Violet and exclaimed : " You see, my dear, I never 
 engage in an undertaking without having the things 
 necessary to succeed, for, you know, I have always 
 been a bit — . Bring a table and two chairs and 
 some glasses ; we will have them under these trees. 
 Ah ! the trees ; they are the only things I regret 
 leaving the country for." 
 
 Violet brought the necessary things, and they 
 seated themselves at the table, on which the little 
 mulatto had placed some small cakes and a bottle of 
 champagne with its capsule still on. 
 
 "mere ! Double Six, what are you thinking 
 about not to open this bottle for us ; I trust you have 
 brought everything, or you had better look out for 
 yourself. The artful monkey knows very well that I 
 never make a long journey without taking some 
 champagne with me; it is my favourite wine, and 
 Sidi Aboukir has taught me well how to drink it."... 
 "I thought the Turks never drank wine. "..."Oh, 
 yes, they do my dear ; it is the same as the Jews 
 never eating pork. Now then, boy, pour out the 
 wine for us." 
 
 Domino, who thoroughly understood how to open 
 a bottle of champagne, cleverly drew the cork, which 
 almost made as (much noise as the discharge of a 
 pistol. Violet gave a slight scream, the fat lady 
 laughed, and the little mulatto, highly amused at 
 having frightened the young girl, scattered some of 
 the fizz over his mistress' face. She jumped up, 
 
30 THE GOOD FRIENDS OE PARTS. 
 
 gave him a good sound kick in the rear, and poured 
 -Out the wine herself. 
 
 " That is the way to cure those little games," said 
 Madame de Boucherose, whose manners and lan- 
 guage did not indicate that the Turk looked for 
 much delicacy or refinement in his mistresses. 
 Yiolet ate several of the little cakes, her old friend 
 eating three to her one. " Drink," said Toinon ; 
 " why don't you drink ? Isn't the champagne good?" 
 ..."Oh, it is delicious, but it is very strong; I am 
 afraid of its getting into my head."..." Oh, don't be 
 afiaid of that; it is part of a woman's education 
 now to learn how to drink champagne."..." Is it 
 really ? "..."Yes, indeed, it is thought a great deal 
 of. I get fuddled myself sometimes, and sometimes 
 I make the Turk drunk. Then he is enchanted with 
 me, and calls me his Full Moon, and gives me his 
 handkerchief.*'..." What for ?"..." Oh, that is a 
 mystery known only to the women of the East ; but 
 this is by the way. I want to speak to you about 
 other matters. Trafalgar has told me that you are 
 dying to see Paris ? "..." Indeed I should like it very 
 much, if I could only find some occupation there." 
 " Well, my dear, I have taken upon myself to find 
 you a situation in a large warehouse in a well-to-do 
 neighbourhood." ... "Can it be possible ? "..."Mere 
 than possible. Drink now. Tour health ! You are 
 going to be a shop assistant at Madame Repique's, a 
 marker of stays in the Rue de Rivoli. Here is the 
 address; mind you do not lose it. "..."At a stay- 
 maker's ? But I know nothing about such a business 
 as that. "..."That does not matter, you can soon 
 learn it; you can sew very well, can you not?"... 
 "Oh, very fairly."..." That's all right then, the rest 
 will come of itself. Your health !"..," And do you 
 bhink they will care to take me in this house you 
 speak of ?"..." I do not think; I am sure. They 
 would not think of refusing a customer like me $ 
 
flHE GOOD FRIENDS OP PARIS. 31 
 
 besides, I get them crowds of others, all of whom 
 pay up to the last farthing. In fact, it is all ar- 
 ranged and settled; yon must get there as soon as 
 possible."..." My dear Toinon — I mean de Bouche-' 
 rose — how happy I feel ! I will set about selling my 
 cow this day, and I shall take myself off without 
 saying a word to Girofle."..." Who is this Girofle?" 
 ..." Oh, he is an admirer who is mad for me to marry 
 him."..." Send him about his business. Speaking of 
 admirers, you will perhaps get more than you want 
 when you are in* Paris. But you must only listen to 
 those men whose intentions are honourable, because, 
 you see, Violet — your health ! Love affairs and in- 
 trigues are very stupid ; you have to make a living 
 and think of the future. At first I will help you as 
 much as I can with my advice. Ah ! all the cakes 
 are gone. Come, embrace me, I must get back to 
 my carriage."..." What! already? "..." What the 
 devil is the use of my stopping here ! Domino, take 
 that bottle away; share what is left with the coach-* 
 
 man." 
 
 The little mulatto picked up the bottle and ex- 
 amined it critically. " Madame," said h?, " there is 
 nothing in it! "..."Well, so much the better, it is 
 quite enough for you too." "My dear Violet, I 
 shall often see you at Madame Repique's, where I 
 frequently have to go on business. I use so many 
 corsets that it is quite disheartening; I split them all 
 as fast as I get them on."..." Oh, do come and see 
 me, I shall be so thankful."..." Very well, that's 
 understood. Now, lose no time ; sell your cow and 
 get off at once. You never ought to stay in a village 
 with a pretty face like yours ; you must get to Paris 
 without delay. Good-bye, my dear, for a time. I 
 am sure Sidi Aboukir is pining for me ; he is saying : 
 ' Where is my Little Moon gone ? ' Good-bye, my 
 dear," 
 
 Madame de Bofccherose re-entered her carriage, 
 
32 THE GOOD FRIENDS OF PARIS* 
 
 which she accomplished with some difficulty oh ac- 
 count of her obesity. In order to enable her to enter 
 Domino had to push her well in from behind. At 
 last she was safely packed away, and the carriage 
 rolled away. Violet, somewhat dizzy after her un- 
 wonted indulgence, remained a few moments looking 
 down the road where the carriage had just dis- 
 appeared. Then, suddenly recovering herself, she 
 said: "Old Thomas has often expressed a wish to 
 have a cow like mine ; I will ask him to buy it, I am 
 sure he will. I shall ask him to take it away to- 
 morrow morning, for Girofle must not know I am 
 going away. What would he say if he knew ? Would 
 he confound me with reproaches ? Would he pine 
 with grief? Would he shed any tears? It would 
 distress me sorely if he did ; but if he knows nothing 
 about it I shall escape all that. If only out of polite- 
 ness I ought to let him haie a little note begging 
 him not to be uneasy about me. My poor cow, 
 Eozo ! It pains me to have to lose her ; but it must 
 be, I cannot take her with me to Paris." 
 
 Everything turned out as desired. The cow was 
 sold to old Thomas, and in the evening, when 
 Girofle made his customary call, he found Violet as 
 usual occupied with her little cheeses. She was even 
 in a better humour than she had been during the 
 past few days, and was more attentive to her per- 
 severing admirer. It is always the same way when 
 a woman is meditating some false move, some 
 treacherous action. Then she assumes her mos* 
 pleasant mien, her sweetest smile. But Girofle has 
 yet had no experience, so he returned to his brother 
 more cheereful than usual,, and said : " I think I 
 am beginning to make an impression and that she 
 will soon be my wife." 
 
 Instead of that, Violet, having received the money 
 for her cow, put her savings in he& pocket, made up 
 
MADAME REPIQUE ? 8 ESTABLISHMENT. 33 
 
 a small parcel of her effects, and wrote the following 
 letter to Girofle :— 
 
 "My dear Girofle, — I am going to Paris; yeu 
 must not bear me any ill-will ; I am tired of this 
 place, and I am quite sure that I should not be able 
 to make you happy. Forget me, marry another, and 
 bear no malice towards me. As for my cottage, the 
 sqle inheritance of my poor aunt, sell it for what you 
 can get, and some time or other you can give me the 
 money." 
 
 After signing this, she closed the door, left the tey 
 and letter with a neighbour asking her to give them 
 to Girofle, then hastened to the station and took her 
 seat in the train for Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MADAME EEPIQUE*S ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 It was a fine shop, or warehouse if you prefer the 
 term, in which they only made and sold stays. But 
 they were in every variety of shape, quality and cut ; 
 there were even those which had the happy privilege 
 of re-modelliug the figure or at least of masking its 
 defects. They made them to order, or ladies in a 
 hurry could be provided with ready-made articles ; 
 they sent their goods into the provinces and exported 
 them abroad, for there is scarcely any country where 
 women do not wear corsets, and this establishment 
 being the rage no lady had need to fear the comeli- 
 ness of her bust if her corset came from Madame 
 Repique's, who had for her sign " The White Hen." 
 The firm at first consisted of Madame Repique and 
 her husband ; I put the woman first because in this 
 case, at any rate, she was first, for she ordered, 
 
34 MADAME REPIQTJE'S ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 superintended and directed everything ; the husband 
 only carried out these orders. He kept the books 
 and the cash box, but he was forbidden to touch any- 
 thing without the consent of his wife, and Madame 
 always knew, even to a halfpenny, what was in the 
 cash box, for every evening she balanced the ac- 
 counts. M. Repique had the general superintend- 
 ance of the warehouse. When his wife was busy 
 with a customer he had to see that the hands were 
 not idle and that the work went on as usual. But 
 M^ Repique was very indulgent to his employes, and 
 dia not fulfil his duties very thoroughly ; these 
 duties were of the simplest description, either to 
 receive the money or to go out on various errands. 
 But he was never allowed to deliver corsets when 
 they were ordered to be sent, for Madame Repique 
 was jealous, jealous as an Italian, or an Andalusian ; 
 in fact, like most women who are born and bred 
 under a southern sky. Yet Madame Repique came 
 from Pontoise, where the temperature is not higher 
 than that of Paris, but there are exceptions to every 
 rule. This lady was now forty-five years of age. 
 This is the age when jealousy turns to ferocity, be- 
 cause* it is no longer able to revenge. She was a 
 very stout little woman, who had been pretty enough 
 in her youth, but was now too highly coloured, and 
 seemed to be always verging on suffocation; she 
 laced herself in so tightly that, notwithstanding her 
 robust figure, she managed to present a waist of 
 slim -proportions. She still retained a pretty hand 
 an J arm which she always took care should attract 
 notice, whenever opportunity occurred. In fact, 
 this lady, always very careful in her dress, wore 
 some extremely pretty bonnets, under which her 
 hair was dressed in bands still beautifully black ; 
 for M. Repique for some years now had been com- 
 pelled to search daily for the appearance of any 
 white hairs and to pull them out at once, a eluty 
 
MADAME REPIQUE's ESTABLISHMENT 35 
 
 which he performed with considerable ability, but 
 in which he was at times a trifle negligent. 
 
 Let us turn to M. Repique: he is two years 
 younger than his wife. It is always a mistake for 
 the husband to be younger than the wife ; it is worse 
 when the wife is inclined to be jealous. There was 
 nothing, however, about M. Repique which could lead 
 him to hope for conquests ; he was a thin, dried up 
 little man, who was always waddling about on his 
 legs, with a hatchet face and light yellow hair, a 
 squint in his eye, a monstrous nose and mouth, and 
 when the latter was open a row of long teeth 
 appeared, each placed some distance from its neigh- 
 bour ; but these defects did not prevent him from 
 laughing, for good humour was characteristic of 
 him. He was a very good fellow, always disposed 
 to laugh, that is, if his wife was not in the way. M. 
 Repique would have been a model husband had he 
 not had a propensity for the fair sex, which had 
 caused many a scene in his home. Greatly disposed 
 to be unfaithful to his wife, the poor fellow was 
 always looking for opportunities, but he never found 
 any ; firstly, because he was so little attractive in 
 himself ; and, secondly, because Lucrece, that is his 
 wife's name, keenly followed up every petty thing he 
 did. 
 
 There were three young lady assistants, the first 
 and oldest, Miss Magloise was thirty years of age ; 
 she was horribly pock-marked, had one shoulder 
 higher than the other, and might have been called a 
 hunchback without much exaggeration. Miss Magloise 
 had been with Madame Repique now for some time, 
 for she was the sort of shop girl Madame liked ; she 
 had no need to be jealous of her ; she treated her 
 with considerable respect and deigned sometimes 
 even to consult her on the cut of a corset. The 
 second young lady was named Ursula, and twenty- 
 five veaa's a£ age. She was a great broom-stick .'of a. 
 
3d MADAME REMOVE'S ESTABLISHMEHT* 
 
 girl, bony, angular, and sulky ; her face, always cross 
 and crabbed, did not present a single attraction. 
 She constantly complained of the work she had to 
 do, saying she was always made to work more than 
 the others. She was extremely slow, bub she made 
 the eyelet holes to perfection. Possessing not a 
 single attraction — even for M. Repique, Madame 
 easily overlooked her bad temper and retained her 
 on the staff. The third young lady was named 
 Babiola ; she was only twenty. She was small, 
 lively, frisky, and, without being positively pretty, 
 was far from disagreeable. She only needed to be 
 asked to langh, and she would for the least word, for 
 the slightest cause, burst out with natural gaiety 
 and fun. These were traits absolutely displeasing 
 to Madame Repique, but Babiola worked quickly 
 and well. She went on her errands quickly, she 
 took out the corsets, and so well did she please the 
 customers when she tried them on that many ladies 
 would see no one else when they came to Madame 
 Repique's. " Too. will please send my corset by 
 your little Babiola ; she is the only one who knows 
 how to lace me. I do not want to see your terrible 
 Magloise, she frightens me ! nor that great gun- 
 barrel you call Ursula, who is always like a bear 
 with a sore head." These remarks compelled the 
 jealous Lucreee in some degree to retain the services 
 of the little Babiola, who, indeed, laughed at the 
 ogles which Repique stealthily darted towards her 
 and the sisrhs he heaved when he found himself near 
 her. Nothing would prevent Madame from con- 
 stantly watching her fickle spouse, nor losing sight 
 of him for one instant. When she saw him approach 
 near Babiola she would recall him in the most per- 
 emtory tones, especially should he attempt to speak 
 to her. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon. A lady on 
 the point of leaving the warehouse said to Madame 
 
MADAME fcEPIQTTE'6 ESTABLISHMENT? . 37 
 
 Eepique : " I count upon having my corset to- 
 morrow afternoon ; send them by Miss Babiola ; I 
 will not allow anyone else to try them on." The 
 lady went away. Madame Eepique muttered be- 
 tween her teeth several indistinct words. The long- 
 Ursula was pouting, Miss Magloise maintained the 
 most passive demeanour, whilst M. Eepique wadd- 
 ling up the shop cutting a pencil approached the 
 counter near which Babiola was seated and said: 
 " Did you hear Babiola that you are to go to- 
 morrow afternoon with an elastic corset to Madame 
 Perdrinot ?"..." Yes, sir. I shall be pleased to go, 
 that lady is so very kind."..." Do you know the ad- 
 dress? It is Joubost street — number — number — 
 ..." What are you meddling with, sir ; what are you 
 meddling with!" cried out Lucrece,who was quickly 
 at the counter and darted some furious glances at 
 her husband. "How long have you wanted to know 
 the address of a customer? Miss, you will goto 
 Madame Perdrinot's if it is convenient to me to send 
 you there ; it does not otherwise concern you in the 
 leaet."... Excnse me, dear, but the lady herself said 
 that Babiola must go."..." That will do, sir, that 
 will do I tell you ; what are you idling about here 
 for sir instead of being at your account books ? "... 
 "My dear, I am not idling— I am sharpening my 
 pencil — "..."You have been two hours sharpening 
 that pencil. When do you think you will get to the 
 end of it ? ". . ." It is not my fault ! it keeps breaking 
 — it's a bad pencil — Mangin's are much better- 
 Poor Mangin — he's dead — I don't know who is in 
 his shoes now." 
 
 Miss Babiola roared with laughter, and Eepique 
 answered with a smile. Madame looked at them, 
 and frowned; then she exclaimed: "It is apparently 
 to make Miss Babiola laugh and say pretty things 
 to her that keeps you two hours sharpening a pencil." 
 "How do I— ."..."Sir, I have forbidden you to 
 r 
 
38 MADAME REPIQUE'S ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 speak to Babiola at all ; I will not have these fami- 
 liarities with the young ladies. It is very bad form, 
 and I think you are making yourself very ridiculous 
 to stand there laughing at what he says."... 
 " Madame, M. Repique spoke of Mangin's shoes — I 
 thought it very funny ."..." Imitate your colleagues, 
 miss ; they never laugh."..." Everybody is not alike, 
 Madame ; there are some people who look as if they 
 are always ready to cry. 1 would rather laugh, and 
 surely that does no harm to anybody."..." And it 
 seems to me, miss, that it is in very bad taste in a 
 shop so frequented as mine not to know how to be- 
 have yourself. You as*e not at a milliner's!"... 
 " Madame, there are some milliners who have very 
 good manners and behave themselves as well as 
 other people."..." That's quite true, miss, and I also 
 know very well that you will have the last word. 
 You think you can do as you like because my hus- 
 band protects you, but I'll let you see that I am 
 mistress here ! "..."M. Repique protect me ! I have 
 not seen anything of it yet. Fancy being under the 
 protection of M. Repique, who hasn't the right to 
 look at a worm without permission." 
 
 The inconstant husband had left the counter some 
 time, and returned to his desk. Madame passed out 
 at the back of the shop, and muttered: "If this 
 garrulous girl were not so necessary — but patience ! 
 — patience ! " Then stopping before a mirror on her 
 way, the jealous Lucrece looked at, admired, and 
 examined herself, saying : "I am still very good 
 looking ! " But all of a sudden she saw something 
 which made her utter a loud cry, and call for Mores- 
 tan several times. Morestan was the nick-name of, 
 M. Repique, who ran to his wife's assistance. "What 
 is it, my dear? Did you call? "..."Indeed I did! 
 What is that — that, sir. Are you destitute of affec- 
 tion, without attention, and absolutely negligent 
 when your wife is in trouble ? Come, sir, take me 
 
MADAME REPXQTTE S ESTABLISHMENT. 89 
 
 awa y — quick! hide me ! "..."You want me to hide 
 you? "..."Hurry yourself, you ought to have done 
 it already,"..." But, first of all. explain what it is all 
 about. I know nothing at all about it. Where shall 
 I hide you ?"..." A white hair, sir, a white hair, 
 and exposed to view too ! There ! in my bands ; 
 there, to the left."..." Ah! by Jove, so there is! I 
 cannot understand how it could have escaped me 
 this morning."..." That shows how badly you do 
 your work. Ah ! Morestan, how you neglect me." 
 ..."Indeed, I do not, my dear. I give you every 
 attention. That hair must have been hidden under 
 the others this morning ; you see you have so many 
 of them."..." What! how many? What do you 
 mean by so many? Do you think I am already 
 getting bajd?"..."Oh, no; I did not mean that; 
 you always take matters in a wrong light. I said: 
 ' You have so much black hair; such a great abun- 
 dance, that this wicked little white hair was able to 
 insinuate itself without being seen.'"..." Look and 
 see if there are any more."..." More ! Oh, no ; I am 
 sure of it. If there had been one ever so little, I 
 would have rooted it out.".., "Show me that one 
 then; what do I see? With that white hair you 
 have pulled out two beautiful black ones."..." They 
 have come out by themselves apparently, I certainly 
 didn't touch them."..." Come out by themselves! 
 You pulled them out right enough, because you like 
 to do me as much harm as possible. You pull my 
 black hair out. Now, I am really surprised that^ I 
 have any hair left at all. It is scandalous, sir, 
 scandalous."..." I assure you, my dear, that I do not 
 know how it was done."..." You were probably 
 thinking of Miss Babiola."..."]Srow, dear, we've had 
 enough of Miss Babiola."..."Do you think I don't 
 see the eyes you make at her ; I should have to be 
 blind. Whenever you are in the shop it is simply to 
 ogle and leer — ."..."Excuse me, my dear Lucrece, 
 
40 MADAME REPIQTTe's ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 you are in error ; you know I squint a little ; it is not 
 my fault if I have an eye a bit towards Babiola 
 whilst with the other I look out into the street."... 
 " That will do, sir, you need not excuse yourself in 
 this way. And pray, what is this babbling creature 
 that you should make eyes at her?"..." Come, I 
 don't make eyes at her."..." She isn't at all pretty — 
 gimlet eyes, a great mouth, a broad pug nose, and a 
 low forehead."..." Quite true — it is she — it is a 
 speaking likeness.". . ." But she has a jaunty bearing ; 
 she laughs when you look at her ; that is why men 
 notice her."..." It makes no impression on me, I 
 assure you."..." Ah ! if that great fool of an Ursula 
 only knew how to fit corsets ; if she hadn't such a 
 sour temper, I would have got rid of Babiola long 
 ago."..." Then you would have to take another, for 
 we cannot get on with less than three. Our business 
 increases every day ; you know very well that you 
 have consented to take another person who has been 
 recommended by Madame de Boucherose ; in fact, 
 she ought to arrive here shortly from the country." 
 ..."Yes, sir, I am taking this young country girl — . 
 This lady has certified as to her character and her 
 intelligence."..." Ah ! this lady. Ah ! Eh ! Eh ! " 
 ..."Well, what are you laughing at, sir?"..." My 
 dear, between ourselves, this lady — . Well, I do not 
 wish to say anything harsh ; she is one of our best 
 customers, but — ."..."Hold your tongue, Elorastan, 
 you are a worthless fellow ; this young Violet who is 
 coming from the country will not have her cha- 
 racter debased by the trickeries of Miss Babiola ; 
 she has never been in Paris."..." Then she will not 
 be able to go on errands.".. ."I am no£ taking her 
 for that ; but I have wanted somebody who is really 
 indispensable in this kind of business, and all my 
 rivals."..." Certainly, I have said so a hundred 
 times. You ought to have a well developed girl to 
 try on the new corsets which vou invent ; a snip of a 
 
VIOLET ITS PARIS. 41 
 
 girl like that. Ladies can judge of the fit and style 
 when the corset is worn by a model, and they are so 
 much more satisfied."..." I know all abont it, sir; I 
 am taking this young girl because she is well-built, 
 and sharp. Ton understand, sir? wideawake?"... 
 " Yes, yes, but there is no need for you to lay so 
 much stress on it. I am not going to seduce her.". . . 
 "At any rate, I shall watch you ;I don't know whether 
 she is pretty; but it is a matter of indifference to 
 me."... "And to me also."..." All I want is that her 
 figure should be perfect to show off the corsets 
 before the customers ; I cannot try them on Mag- 
 loire."..." I should think not, she is hump-backed." 
 ..."No, not hump-backed, sir, but a little on one 
 side. TTrsula is so long that nothing looks graceful 
 on her. As for Babiola, your protege, she is only fit 
 to go the rounds, and I do not wish any one to go 
 round with my new plastic corset. So I shall be 
 able to get along without that little minx of a 
 Babiola. I repeat, Florestan, that you must keep 
 your distance from this new apprentice."..." That 
 will be all right." 
 
 M. Repiqu& returned to his desk, muttering : " If 
 this girl turns out to be pretty, I will make eyes at 
 her; that will make Babiola jealous, and, perhaps, 
 then — . One never knows." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 VIOLET IN PARIS. 
 
 The young girl destined to play the part of lay- 
 figure arrived in Paris somewhat sooner than was 
 expected, for we have already seen that Violet lost 
 
42 VIOLET IN PABIS. 
 
 no time after Toinon's visit in selling her cow and 
 } repairing for her journey to Paris. 
 
 Madame Repique was considerably surprised when 
 she saw what a handsome girl Yiolet was ; and, 
 moreover, she soon saw that none of her beauty was 
 artificial. She was neither awkward nor embar- 
 rassed, and looked more like a grisette than a 
 country wench, She was extremely pretty, nicely 
 made, and well proportioned ; she carried under her 
 arm a somewhat cumbersome parcel. [Gracefully 
 bowing to Madame Repique, she said : 
 
 " Have I the honour of addressing Madame 
 Repique ? ">.." Yes, miss — and you are ? ". . ." Yiolet 
 Montin, from the village of S. John-in-the-Wood. 
 Madame Toi — I mean Madame de Boucherose sent 
 m% here with a view to being employed at your 
 establishment."..." Ah, you are the village girl that 
 was recommended to me by those ladies ? I have 
 been expecting you daily, but you hardly have the 
 appearance of a peasant girl. In fact, since these 
 railways have sprung up all round us it strikes me 
 that the peasantry have disappeared altogether." 
 
 Madame Repique inspected Yiolet with an in- 
 finitely greater minuteness than Plorestan was wont 
 to exercise when searching for the white hairs. The 
 result of this inspection was not all favourable to 
 Yiolet, simply because she was pretty, and would un- 
 doubtedly set passion and desire aflame ; but she had 
 given her word, and there was no ineans of getting 
 out of the difiiculty. In fact, to set her corsets off 
 to an advantage, and to give style to her shop, 
 Yiolet was just the sort of girl she ought to have ; 
 so that Madame Repique felt compelled to welcome 
 her new arrival. 
 
 "I am quite satisfied," said Madame Repique 
 after her inspection ; " and am willing to employ 
 you in my establishment. My house is conducted 
 on excellent principles. I have no doubt you will 
 
VIOLET IN PARIS. 43 
 
 understand how to comply with them. I am not 
 going to advise you to be virtuous and discreet, as I 
 understand there is no necessity for that."..." Cer- 
 tainly, Madame."..." You will not learn anything 
 improper here ; if you are attentive to your work and 
 do not gossip with those who try to distract you 
 from your duties, all will go on well." 
 
 "Bah! caught again! Those remarks refer to 
 me," thought Babiola, who was closely regarding the 
 new arrival. "Ah! you will not stay here long, 
 my dear, you are a great deal too pretty for that." 
 
 " I am given to understand, Madame, that I am 
 to sleep in the house '? " replied Yiolet, putting her 
 bundle down on the counter, whilst the other two 
 shop girls were closely scanning her, and pulling all 
 sorts of grimaces as they thought how her pretty 
 face would show up their ugliness and deformities. 
 "Yes, miss, yes. You will board and lodge here, 
 that will be much better for you than taking sleep- 
 ing apartments in some lodging-house ; young girls 
 are seldom safe in those places. I presume you have 
 brought no furniture with you ? " ... " Oh, no, 
 Madame, that is all my luggage."..."! have a spare 
 bedroom upstairs, it is very small, but you will find 
 it quite large enough to sleep in. You will be close 
 to two of your colleagues, Miss Magloire and Miss 
 Ursula, who have a room on the same floor. As for 
 Babiola she does not live here — that's all the better 
 both for you and me too ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Madame, I am quite satisfied with 
 having a place of my own," cried Babiola ; " besides 
 I am not in a lodging-house. I have rooms and my 
 own furniture."..." That will do, miss; you were 
 not asked to explain your affairs. It might be more 
 interesting if you told us where you got your fur- 
 niture from.". . ." Not further than the upholsterer's, 
 Madame, and I pay for it by instalments." 
 i Just at this moment, Florestan, who had heard a 
 
44 violet m Paris. 
 
 strange voice, ran into the shop, and perceiving 
 "Violet, was at once dazzled by her great beauty, 
 with which he could hardly help being smitten, and 
 said: "Ah! by Jove, its the new girl."..." What 
 did you say, sir?" said Lucrece, turning towards 
 her husband. " You swore, I think. What do you 
 mean by that ? ". . ." My dear, I only said 'By Jove ! ' 
 because I hurt my foot just here ; there must be a 
 nail in the floor, I have actually torn my shoe."... 
 "And pray, what are you doing here at all ? You 
 are not wanted here. I did not call you."... "I 
 came because I heard that the girl had arrived 
 whom we had been waiting for. It seems to me 
 that I should at least know whom I employ ."..." You 
 are in a great hurry. You have plenty of time to 
 see the girl."..." Then you said something about her 
 living here. If you wish it I will show her to her 
 room, where she can put her things and rest awhile 
 if she is tired after her long journey."..." No, sir, 
 you will not show her to her room. You are cer- 
 tainly not the one I shall appoint for such a duty as 
 that. Go back to your office ; I have already told 
 you that your place is not here, where I usually 
 meet my lady customers, and where you are in the 
 way instead of being useful."..." In the way ! in the 
 way ! It is quite ridiculous for you to talk like 
 that. Another time I shall not come when I am 
 called, when, perhaps, I should be of service." 
 
 M. Eepique left the shop muttering to himself. 
 Madame took no notice, but said to the long pole of 
 a girl at the counter : 
 
 "Miss Ursula, take this to Miss Yiolet to the 
 apartment on your floor, to the left of your room." 
 ..."To the room— which room? I don't know of 
 any room there," replied Ursula with her usual ill- 
 temper...." What ! you do not know the door next 
 to your own ? ". . ."Ah ! you mean the box room.". . . 
 4t It is a room, miss, there is a window—"..." Yes, a 
 
* VIOLET IN PARIS. 45 
 
 window indeed — in the roof."..." In the roof or not, 
 it is a window," said Madame.. . ." I thought Madame 
 only put her soiled linen there ?". . ." You can only 
 say very stupid things miss. The portress will take 
 up everything necessary for the new apprentice ; do 
 what I tell you without making any, remarks of your 
 own, which we can very easily dispense with. You, 
 miss, take up your parcel, and follow this young 
 lady ; arrange your things in your room, and rest 
 there awhile, if you are tired, before you come down 
 to the shop again." 
 
 Violet profusely acknowledged Kepique's kindness, 
 whose sharp voice and severe looks did not promise 
 a very agreeable time of it. She followed Miss 
 Ursula, who crossed the room behind the shop and 
 opened a door which exposed to view two flights of 
 stairs, one large and commodious, the other narrow 
 and dark called the servants' staircase. The long 
 Ursula led Yiolet towards the latter flight, and said : 
 
 "You had better stay a moment now to take 
 breath ; you have to go up six flights !"..." What ! 
 six flights ! ". .." And they are not short ones either ; 
 you just wait and see ! "..."In the country houses 
 never have more than two flights."..." The country 
 and Paris are two very different places."..." I have 
 already found that out whilst looking for this street; 
 what a large place it is ! What a number of people 
 going and coming ! what fine shops ! and carriages ! 
 I was quite dazed at the sight of so many fine 
 things !"..." Yes, there are accidents in the streets 
 every day ; pedestrians are run over by the carriages, 
 or maltreated by pickpockets. These seize hold of 
 you and rob you, whilst you are bewildered to know 
 what has happened.". . ." Ah, that is not what I have 
 been told about Paris ; I was given to understand 
 that it was very different from that ; in fact, quite a 
 charming place.".. ." Ah! that depends upon the kind 
 f life you lead— — Phew ! another two flights yet ! " 
 
46 VIOLET IN PARIS. 
 
 ..." Have you ever been seized and robbed miss ?"... 
 " No, because I never go out to give them the chance ; 
 you would not catch me out alone at night for all 
 the money in the world. Here we are at last. — 
 There are no more stairs above this floor, so they 
 poke us in here. Here you are, this is your door ; 
 the key is in it, which shows pretty clearly that 
 there is not much fear of thieves coming there. Go 
 in and see your beautiful room." 
 
 Violet opened the door and beheld a tiny little 
 apartment. A folding bed occupied the greater part 
 of the room, the remainder of which was filled by a 
 small table and chair. This would-be bedroom was 
 lighted by a window in the roof just over the bed, 
 and which was opened by a rod suspended near the 
 Only mattress with which the bed was furnished. 
 
 " My God ! what a miserable little room," cried 
 Violet, standing at the threshold of the door. 
 " And Madame dares to call this a room ! " said 
 Ursula. "You see I was not so far out wjien I 
 called it a soiled linen cupboard."..." And I, who 
 had so much air in the country, to come to such a 
 place as this !"..." Then why did you leave your 
 village?" 
 
 Violet did not answer, nor did she wish to. She 
 determined to enter the room, and, in doing so, 
 said : 
 
 " After all I shall scarcely ever be here except to 
 sleep ; I ought not to complain."..." And if you did 
 complain it would make no difference. Madame de 
 Repique never listens to anybody here; she is sole 
 mistress of the whole place ; you have seen how she 
 treats her husband. My God ! if I were a man, do 
 you think I would suffer myself to be treated in that 
 fashion ! It is disgraceful — a man reduced to the 
 condition of a slave."..." Then the man I saw just 
 now is Madame's husband? "..."Yes, that is M. 
 Repique.".." He is very ugly." .." He is not handsome, 
 
VIOLET IN PARIS. 47 
 
 it is true ; but that does not hinder him from trying 
 to make love, if anyone would listen to him, but 
 girls never do.". .."I can easily believe that ; he looks 
 like a monkey !"..." There is only one* girl in the 
 shop, Miss Babiola, who is not afraid to joke with 
 him ; she encourages him a little."..." Do you really 
 mean it f That young person who is nice looking ?" 
 ..."Nice looking! Babiola! Ah, you have not seen 
 her properly yet. Why, she has a head like a rat ; 
 her hands are always red, and she smells of onions 
 when she comes in the morning. She is a good-for- 
 nothing girl ; a bold flirt. We know what to think 
 of her ! I am very certain Madame will not keep her 
 here long ; she has caught her several times up to 
 her tricks with M. Eepique. She is only retained now 
 because she is useful to go the rounds."..." Then she 
 is not leaving the business? "..." She plays her 
 game very well ; she has other intentions ; she hopes 
 some day to make a good catch ; then good-bye to 
 the shop. But the good catch never comes ; she has 
 too bad a style for any man who has any self-respect ! 
 As for yourself, do you know what they are going to 
 do with youP"..."I think I am going to learn the 
 business like yourself."..." No, tyey have not taken 
 you for that ; you are to try the corsets on to show 
 the customers how they fit. Some, you know, are 
 very stout, whilst others are very spare in figure. 
 With the former you will have to pad your breasts, 
 whilst with the latter you will have to lace in as 
 slim as a girl of twelve. You will hardly be at your 
 ease in some of those corsets, but you see it flatters 
 the ladies who wish to show a fine figure. They will 
 put you against the shop windows ; you will be com- 
 pelled to keep yourself very straight and stiff whilst 
 they force the corset on you. That will be your 
 chief wcrk here ! "..."Thai will not amuse me very 
 much ; so that is what they are going to do with 
 me ?"..."! am quite sure of it. I heard them talking 
 
48 VIOLET IN PARIS. 
 
 about it before you came. I beard all tbey said, for 
 I listened on purpose."..." But I tbougbt lay figures 
 were made of straw?"..." So they are sometimes, 
 but natural figures bave better effect. The customers 
 come in, they make you walk backwards and for- 
 wards, they make you bend and stoop so that they 
 can see whether the corsets give at all, or whether 
 they interfere with the natural movements of the 
 body. These stay-makers know what they are 
 about. But I must be going down now ; they are 
 sure to grumble at me for being such a long time ; 
 but as she always grumbles, sometimes more, some- 
 times less, it makes very little difference to me. 
 Good-bye Miss Yiolet ; you can stay in your room ; 
 you have everything to hand. Ah, they have put a 
 basin and water jug on your table, and I see they 
 have put a box of some kind underneath for you to 
 use, a box, fancy ; what luxury. It is very easy to 
 see that ycu have been recommended by seme of our 
 largest customers." 
 
 The long Ursula went downstairs. Violet looked 
 round her, and sighed as she said, "Lay figure! I 
 am to be a lay figure ! Toinon did not tell me that. 
 But that tall girl, who was such a babbler, ^ was not 
 much to look at, and perhaps she was making game 
 of me. However, to put on a corset which sets you 
 off to advantage anct which makes people admire 
 your figure or your charms is not so very disagree- 
 able after all. " And they will put me near the shop 
 windows. So much the better! I shall see the 
 people passing ; that will amuse me, and they will 
 look at me and see how pretty I am. I do not think 
 I shall be greatly disappointed at being a lay figure 
 after all." 
 
THE LAY FIGURE. 49 
 
 OHAPTEE VII 
 
 THE LAY FIGURE. 
 
 It was not long before Violet returned to the 
 shop ; she was anxious to learn what they would ask 
 her to do. Madame Repique placed her to the right 
 of little Babiola, who no longer had her position 
 near the window ; but the latter gave up the privilege 
 without a murmur, and remarked in a low whisper 
 to her new neighbour : " They are quite right in 
 placing you where you can be seen. They will at 
 least see one pretty face in the shop, and, to speak 
 candidly, it wants it badly enough." 
 
 Violet made no reply, but satisfied herself with a 
 smile, for she already found Babiola infinitely more 
 amiable than the tall Ursula. She felt very much 
 inclined to make a friend of her, although she had 
 been told what a good-for-nothing girl she was. 
 
 Madame Repique gave her new apprentice some 
 sewing to do, and some eyelet holes to make in a few 
 corsets ; she was anxious to know her capabilities, 
 and at first gave her only those things to do which 
 required little knowledge and experience, being fully 
 convinced that no work of any merit could be ex- 
 pected from a country girl, and that she would be 
 of little other use than a model for trying on the 
 corsets. She was, therefore, considerably surprised 
 when she saw Violet's dexterity with the needle, 
 and that the eyelet holes were executed to perfec- 
 tion ; in fact, her work was quite on a par with that 
 of her best workpeople. But, like all employers, she 
 refrained from complimenting Violet on her work, 
 simply remarking that it was not badly done, and 
 
50 THE LAY FIGURE. 
 
 that with a few lessons she would turn out some 
 work fit to use. 
 
 The first clay passed away sadly enough ; she was 
 the object of every one's gaze aud inspection. When 
 M. Repique and his wife were at dinner (they always 
 dined before their employes), Babiola began to chat 
 with her new neighbour, who was very glad to find 
 some one to talk to. When it came to the girls' 
 turn to go to dinner so little time was allowed them 
 that they hadn't a moment for gossip. In the even- 
 ing, about six o'clock, Babiola prepared to leave. 
 
 "You do not sleep here then?" said Violet.... 
 "No, I have my own rooms ; I like it much better." 
 ..."It is very certain," thought Yiolet, when going 
 up to her box room; "it must be more pleasant to 
 sleep in a decent room ! Never mind, I will get to 
 sleep at once. Poor Girofle ! I wonder what he is 
 doing just now ? I expect he is in a rare state of 
 mind ; but he will soon get over it ; but then both 
 Toinon and Marjoleine insisted that I was far too 
 pretty to pass away my life in an unknown village." 
 
 Violet was no sooner in bed than she was fast 
 asleep. She was now twenty years old, and had 
 never yet loved. The next day she was the first 
 downstairs in the shop. She soon found out, how- 
 ever, that in Paris early-rising is not a characteristic 
 of the place. The day passed like the first : Violet 
 sewed, quilted, stitched the eyelet holes, and so day 
 after day slipped by without anyone asking her to 
 try on a corset. Plorestan could restrain himself 
 less than ever from roaming about the shop since 
 the pretty villager had taken her place at the 
 counter. He was constantly finding some })retext 
 for having business in the shop ; he forgot his hand- 
 kerchief, or he lost his pen, or he had put his knife 
 down somewhere ; and, on each occasion, as he 
 wandered about pretending to be searching for 
 them, he would throw sly glances at the girl^ hoping 
 
THE LAY FIGURE. 51 
 
 to make a favourable impression in that quarter. 
 Unfortunately, one of his eyes would insist upon 
 parting company with its colleague, and as M. 
 Repique had in each eye the same expression, the 
 same passion, it followed that he often expressed his 
 admiration not only for Violet, but sometimes for 
 Babiola, and sometimes for Ursula, nay, on some 
 occasions his wandering eye would fix itself upon the 
 hump of Miss Magloire. The jealous Lucrece had 
 already noticed these passionate wanderings of her 
 spouse. He could not deceive her with the pretext 
 of having lost his pen or his knife, seeing that he 
 invariably wandered in search of them towards the 
 new apprentice. She had already on more than one 
 occasion remarked to him : 
 
 " My God, sir, you seem to spend the whole of 
 your time in losing your things and coming here to 
 look for them! "..."My dear, you know I have 
 always been rather forgetful."..." Yes, oh yes! of 
 course ; I also know what it is that makes you so 
 forgetful/' 
 
 However, Madame Repique did not wish to let her 
 new apprentice see that she was jealous; yet she 
 could not stand her husband making eyes at the girl. 
 One morning the enamoured Florestan, no longer 
 able to find an excuse for staying in the shop, where 
 his wife continually told him he had no business, 
 yet burning with a desire to ogle the charming 
 Violet, he decided upon taking a most heroic step, 
 an action worthy of the cavaliers of romance, who 
 never hesitated to shed their blood for their lady- 
 loves ; he pricked, or rather lightly cut the tip of 
 his left forefinger, whence several drops of blood 
 soon welled forth; then he rushed into the shop 
 crying out with a terrified air : " Oh ! oh ! I am 
 wounded. I am hurt ; my blood is running forth ! 
 I believe I have done myself a serious injury ! I 
 cannot stand the sight of my blood ! Tt is to^ much 
 
52 THE LAY FIGURE, 
 
 for me ; the blood of another I do not heed, but my 
 own; it cuts me to the heart!" And Florestan 
 threw himself into a chair which chanced to be just 
 in front of Violet's counter. Everybody crowded 
 round him to see where he was hurt, and his wife 
 was one of the first to put in an appearance* 
 
 " Let me see ; what is it ? Wounded !..,"Ah,I can 
 hardly [breathe. 5 '..." Where is it? Where are you 
 hurt? — where? — where? Show me your wounds." 
 M. Repique had wrapped his left hand in his 
 handkerchief. It was some time before he could be 
 prevailed upon to show his wound, and he continued 
 to moan : " I cannot bear to see my blood ; it is too 
 much for me." 
 
 But Madame Repique did not lose her self posses- 
 sion. She unfolded the handkerchief from his 
 hand, and on it she discovered two tiny drops of 
 blood ; as for the wound, it was already closed, the 
 wrapper had bound up the place so well that Madame 
 after looking all over the hand, cried out : " What 
 do you mean, sir ? I , can see nothing wrong with 
 your hand, not the least scratch ! You are making 
 game of us, or you are trying to obtain sympathy by 
 pretending to be injured."..." What ! pretending! 
 Pretending whilst my blood is still oozing out ? Is 
 that nothing? It is my finger, the forefinger of the 
 left hand."..." What ! are you making all this' fuss 
 about that little puncture? Eancy, calling your- 
 self wounded, with a scratch like that, which, in 
 fact, is already healed."..." Do you think it is 
 healed? I know better."..." Well, we will j>ut a 
 pie:e of waxed taffeta round it, that will piflfc it 
 right." ..." Yes, if Miss Violet would have the 
 • kindness to arrange it for me." 
 
 Florestan stretched out his arm on the counter 
 before Yiolet, gazing at her with ogling, languishing 
 eyes. But Madame Repique very soon changed the 
 position of the arm, which she pulled roughly tq* 
 
^HE LAY ^IGtJftE. S3 
 
 wards her, exclaiming ; " Pray, why do you ask this 
 young lady to bind your wound ? Do you think, 
 perchance, she has some English taffeta in her 
 pocket? "..." My dear, I did not say so, but it would 
 not be very astounding if she had. People cut 
 themselves in the country as well as in the town ; in 
 fact, more so, for they are so often trimming and 
 
 cutting the trees and shrubs, and "../'That is 
 
 quite enough, sir. There is your enormous wound 
 closed for you ; and now, pray, tell me how did you 
 cut your finger ?"..." How ! Why, quite naturally, 
 I was simply sharpening my pen, and my knife 
 slipped. "..."Tour pen? Why, three days ago you 
 threw away the last of your quill pens, and said that 
 for the future you would use steel nibs."..." That is 
 quite true, so I do."... "Then do you cut steel pens?" 
 ..."I was trying to, but, as you see, I did not 
 succeed." 
 
 Lucrece became silent. She made a si^n for her 
 husband to follow her into the apartment at the 
 back of the shop, which he could only do after he 
 had again tried to catch Violet's eye. Then he had 
 a discussion with his wife, who stood before him as 
 though she were going to jump on his corns, and in 
 a severe tone, she muttered : " And do you think I 
 am your dupe, sir? "'..." My dupe ! How, my dear? 
 I do not understand you."..." Monsieur Eepique, 
 learn now that you are an unmitigated scoundrel ! 
 Tour deceptions are only worthy of a Cartouche or a 
 Mandarin."..." What ! I practise thievish decep- 
 tions upon you ? Pray, mention when I have done 
 such a thing. Why, I have never taken so much as 
 a pin from anyone."..." Oh, no, it isn't a pin that 
 you are after. Tou cut your finger simply to obtain 
 a pretext for coming into the shop to make eyes at 
 any new apprentice. Tou seem to be done with 
 Babiola now, and you are simply mad after this 
 Violet.. Devil take you, sir ! Tou are so terribly 
 
54 THE LAY FIGURE. 
 
 anxious to get near her that you even stoop to 
 wounding yourself to gain your ends. You are a 
 scoundrel, sir. You have never cut your finger for 
 me."..." My dear, it is only your fancy. Jealousy is 
 
 simply leading you astray. I swear "..." That 
 
 will do, sir. Please listen to what I have to say. 
 This young Violet does her work well. She is, in 
 fact, very useful to me, and I do not wish to hide it 
 from you ; but, mark me, if I see the least sign of 
 any intrigue between her and you. — the very sligh- 
 test familiarity — off she goes at a moment's notice." 
 ..."My God! What ideas you do get into your 
 head."..." Did you hear what I have just said? 
 Nevertheless, in my own mind I think this young 
 girl is very discreet. In fact, she told Ursula that 
 you look more like a monkey than a man. That 
 amused me considerably ; I am delighted that she 
 has such an opinion of you."..." She said I had the 
 
 appearance of a "..."Yes, sir, yes; go and cut 
 
 your finger again. Go on, my dear old ape. They 
 will laugh at you, and serve you out right." 
 
 Plorestan made no reply, but returned to his desk 
 quite persuaded that his wife was not telling the 
 truth, and that Yiolet had made no such remark as 
 he had just heard. 
 
 Whilst this conversation had been going on behind 
 the shop, the girls had been chattering to one 
 another. Babiola had whispered to Yiolet : "I am 
 quite certain Madame is having it oat with her 
 husband now."... What do you think it is about? 
 Because he cut his finger? "..."That cut was only a 
 fraud ; it was only to get in the shop and leer at us — • 
 to squint at you, Yiolet, for you have completely 
 turned his head, poor fellow!". . ."Do you think so? " 
 ..." It is as plain as a pike-staff. I am very glad of 
 it, for it gives me a little peace ; I am really under 
 an obligation to you. "..."He annoys me extremely 
 by so constantly hanging round me. If he only 
 
THE LAY FIGURE. 55 
 
 knew what an ugly beast I consider him.". . ."Madame 
 knows that, and that is why she submits to your 
 presence here at all.* 3 
 
 In the course of the day Madames Boucherose and 
 Trafalgar came into the shop, and were delighted at 
 seeing their old village companion comfortably in- 
 stalled in the place." 
 
 " I trust, Madame Repiqu6, that we have sent you 
 a pretty girl/' said the ponderous Toinon, touching 
 "Violet on the chin, and that you are going to help 
 her along while she is with you."..." Yes, Madame, 
 most certainly, provided she conducts herself con- 
 sistently with her position in the shop; for, you 
 know, proper behaviour comes before everything. I 
 insist upon that, for I do not think so much of 
 beauty as I do of prudence and common sense." 
 
 Whilst making these remarks she looked hard at 
 her husband, who had left his desk to make his 
 obeisance to two such important customers. Madame 
 Trafalgar laughed outright at the remarks of 
 Madame Repique. " Ah ! prndence. I think it 
 superb. Repique, you ought only to have vestal 
 virgins in your establishment."..." Well, 1 don't 
 actually say so, but "..."But let the young en- 
 joy something of their spring-time. M. Bichetont 
 says that a pretty women who does not show herself 
 to the world is like a miser who buries his treasures." 
 ..."Ah, so M. Bichetont says that; he is not such a 
 stupid as he looks then."..." Stupid ! M. Biche- 
 tont ! The only man in Paris who properly under- 
 stands the fluctuations of the Stock Exchange. 
 The only one who knows over a week beforehand 
 which stocks will be high and which low. But even 
 when he puts on a stupid look it is simply an artifice 
 to take somebody in."..." The Turks are the greatest 
 stupids one can meet with ; they prefer coarseness to 
 wit. Give a Turk a fat lump of a woman, and he is 
 satisfied 5 he asks for nothing more." 
 
&$ TEE LAY FIGURE, 
 
 "I say Trafalgar I trust you are not referring to 
 Sidi in your remarks. If so take the beam out of 
 your own eye before you look for the mote in mine* 
 I am not in the humour to put up with such remarks 
 my dear ; I am very good-tempered, but when any 
 one offends me I sometimes forget myself.'-..." Then 
 why did you say Bichetont looked such a stupid ?" 
 ..."Oh! all men are fools more or less. I should 
 think it proves it when we can make them see stars 
 in mid-day. Ah ! that remark makes M. Bepique 
 laugh. Good morning, sir; how are you?" 
 
 Morestan saluted the ladies, smiled and tried to 
 give himself a free and easy air, as he said : " People 
 often say more than they mean, ladies. Neverthe- 
 less, I do not conceal my admiration for the fair sex. 
 Beauty has always been my favourite study."... 
 " Yon are quite right, and it is a very pleasant 
 study too. And you have excellent opportunities, 
 for you can make eyes at two ladies at once. Ah ! 
 ah ! ah ! " 
 
 This little joke made everybody laugh, even M. 
 Eepique himself, who rolled his eyes about as if he 
 wanted to ogle the bird in Trafalgar's bonnet. 
 Madame Boucherose then took Trafalgar by the 
 hand, and said : " Come on ; I trust we are no 
 longer dissatisfied with Mimi ? I am quick — I would 
 kill anybody when I am angry, but the instant 
 after I forget all about it. Come in my carriage, I 
 am going to the park. Will you do so? "..."I have 
 no more anger than a linnet. Good-bye, Yiolet. 
 Good day, my dear. Yon are very pretty, but yon 
 are not dressed very stylishly. Madame Repiqne, 
 this young lady is wearing ill-fitting stays, yon ought 
 not to allow that."..." Oh, that will soon be put 
 right. To-morrow, she is going to put some of my 
 corsets on. I warrant yon she will be all right 
 then."... "Well, good-bye, my dear, and good luck to 
 you. We shall always look after you." 
 
THE LAY fclGTJEE. 5 7 
 
 The two ladies re-entered the carriage which was 
 at the door. Whilst Madame Repique was conduct- 
 ing the ladies to the door, Florestan found time to 
 lean over the counter, and whisper to Violet : " You 
 are a pearl ! I adore you ! I worship you ! Love 
 and mystery ! " 
 
 Then, fearing his wife's return, he hid himself in 
 his office. Yiolet wes completely taken aback, and 
 Babiola, screaming with laughter, exclaimed : " I 
 fcold^you so; his declaration of love was bound to 
 come ; but never fear, his wife will look after him." 
 
 The next day Madame Repique called Yiolet into 
 a small private apartment where the ladies tried on 
 the corsets. There Yiolet had to try on a plastic 
 corset of new design, and which would render any 
 , one who wore it considerably slimmer. Yiolet tried 
 it on ; it fitted her splendidly, and made her appear 
 more graceful still, her figure showed to so much 
 greater advantage. Luc,rece admired her handiwork, 
 in which, however, she made some slight alterations. 
 Then, Yiolet, dressed in her new corset, returned to 
 her place in the shop, where the three other girls 
 could not help giving vent to little cries of admira- 
 tion, when they saw the change in Violet's figure, 
 thanks to the talent of Madame Repique and the 
 happy cut of the corset. 
 
 The jealous Lucrece felt compelled to admire 
 Violet, if only from the fact that the change was^her 
 own work, and that her new apprentice would greatly 
 enhance the value of her goods. 
 
 Several ladies, when passing the shop, noticed 
 Violet, and entered the establishment with a view to 
 purchasing a corset which would give them such a 
 graceful figure ; at which times the young girl was 
 called to the private room where the ladies examined 
 the corset, and would give their orders for similar 
 ones. 
 
 Several times that day Violet was called by Madame 
 
58 THE LAY FIGURE. 
 
 Repique ; nay, sometimes she had scarcely got back 
 to her place when a lady would rush into the shop, 
 and ask to see the corset which was so much 
 admired and sought after. 
 
 For several days Violet' wore the corset, though it 
 pinched very considerably. Ladies nocked in in 
 crowds to examine and admire it. Some days after 
 Yiolet wore another corset which also gave consider- 
 able grace to her figure. It had considerably more 
 room at the breasts, being fictitious charms, per- 
 fectly imitated in cotton. 
 
 Then the spare and thin ladies flocked to see the 
 new corset. It was not a fashion only, it was a rage, 
 a delight ! Violet passed nearly all her time in the 
 private room, whilst Madame Repique explained the 
 method of using the corsets so as to get the greatest 
 advantage from their artificial charms. 
 
 " Do you know it is extremely fatiguing, this 
 trying-on business," remarl^d Violet one day to 
 Babiola. " To-day I have been half-undressed 
 nearly the whole time. These ladies examine me, 
 turn me about, and twist me absolutely as if I were 
 some doll. If I only came to Paris to help others 
 at their toilet I might as well have stayed in my own 
 village."..." Oh, do not be alarmed," said Babiola, 
 with a sly look ; "your lot will soon change. There 
 are others besides ladies interested in you. I sup- 
 pose you haven't noticed all the gay young fellows 
 staring in at the shop windows lately, have you ? " . . . 
 " Indeed ! Do you think they stop to look at me ? I 
 thought they stopped to look at the corsets. "..."Men 
 don't make such fools of themselves as to stop and 
 look at corsets ! He, it is you they leer at, and ad- 
 mire ; and if you went out I am quite persuaded you 
 would receive at least a dozen decarations of love in 
 no time."..." A dozen declarations ! That would be 
 fun ! But I never go out. Ah ! Babiola, you ought 
 to be verv happy, you, who have your own rooms. 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 59 
 
 You go the rounds, and you don't have to try on 
 these miserable corsets/ 5 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 Let us return awhile to S. John-in-the-Wood. 
 Poor Grirofle and kind Benoit do not deserve that we 
 should forget them. Arriving at Violet's cottage 
 on the evening of her departure, Grirofle was 
 astonished to find the door closed. He was about to 
 knock when a little girl stopped him and said : 
 " There is nobody in. She has gone out.". . .'■" Gone 
 out — when — gone out this evening ! She must have 
 gone to buy something she wanted in a hurry." 
 
 The only answer the little girl gave was to present 
 him with the key of the house and the note, re- 
 marking : " I don't know, but she gave me these to 
 give to you." 
 
 Grirofle took them with a trembling hand, for 
 they seemed to presage some misfortune. He 
 opened tjie letter and read it with quivering lips. 
 He could not at first believe what he read, and tried 
 to make sure by reading it again ; whereupon his 
 eyes became obscured by tears and he could read no 
 more. He went into the house, looked around him, 
 and shouted several times — "Violet! Violet!" but 
 no voice responded to his call. It was then that he 
 felt that she whom he so fondly loved had indeed 
 gone away, and he sat on a stool weeping and moan- 
 ing. " She has left me ; I shall never see her again ! 
 Gone ! — without so much as bidding me farewell ! 
 
60 TfiE TWO BttOTHEKg. 
 
 Ah! what will become of me !" Having remained 
 some time in the cottage, he hastily left and sought 
 out his brother. He fell weeping upon his breast, 
 and poor Benoit seeing the despair of his brother 
 was so profound at once conjectured that Violet was 
 the cause. So his first words were : "Has she told 
 you she will not marry you?"... "Ah ! brother, if it 
 were only that I could submit. I would be content 
 if only to see her every day as her friend, as her 
 brother, but she has gone away ! gone to Paris, 
 without telling me, without informing me, without 
 saying a word." u .." Violet has gone to Paris did you 
 say ?"..." See this is what she has written. Eead 
 her letter, read it out loud that I may hear it again. 
 I may perchance have misunderstood it ! " 
 
 Benoit in a loud voice read the letter left by 
 Violet. " She is tired of this place," murmured 
 Girone. " I did all I could to satisfy her desires. 
 She begs me to forget her. I shall never be able to 
 do that. I am not like her. When I love it is for 
 ever."..." My dear brother I do not think that girl 
 ever loved you ! All that you have said has gone 
 in at one ear and out at the other. What can you 
 do ? Love is a sentiment that can never be con- 
 trolled. It must come of itself.". . ." Gone to Paris ! 
 And pray, what can she be going to do there?"... 
 " Fortune ! shine there ! Such is the dream of every 
 prettv girl."..." But — what is to become of me now? 
 I used to see her every day. When I was away 
 from her at my work I used to say myself — c This 
 evening you will see her again, you will speak to her, 
 you will hear her sweet voice/ And this gave me 
 courage. Now I shall have nothing to say. I shall 
 have no more courage for anything. Ah ! my 
 brother ! I am very unhappy !" 
 
 Benoit was almost as unhappy as Girone, for he 
 felt for his brother most keenly. He embraced him, 
 pressed his hands, and said : " Come, do not give 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS 
 
 61 
 
 way to grief. You must be a man; you will^ have 
 many misfortunes to support through life !"..." 1 
 could support anything except this. Oh ! never ^to 
 see Yiolet again ! I cannot support that blow !"... 
 « You must wait ! We shall see ; perhaps she will 
 get tired of Paris, and she may return."..." Oh no, 
 she will never return!",.." Well, it is not so far to 
 Paris, and if you are tired of this place too, we can 
 go to Paris also 9 " 
 
 ' Girofle could not answer, but threw himself on his 
 brother's neck, and embraced him with eagerness 
 and fervour ; a gleam of happiuess passed over his 
 countenance, and when he had the strength to 
 speak he replied : " Ah ! you are good Benoit, so 
 good ! Would you consent to come to Paris with 
 me? For I must go if she is there."..." I do not see 
 why I should not, for I am not doing much in this 
 village. My pupils pay badly, and more often than 
 not pay me nothing at all. In Paris, where every- 
 body is anxious to learn, I shall be able to use the 
 little I know. I shall give lessons and endeavour to 
 get some copying to do."..." Yes Benoit you will find 
 plenty to do. You will earn much more in Paris 
 than you do here ! I do not suppose I shall be able 
 to find any gardens to tend, but I shall do something 
 else. I am strong, and have stout arms. I shall 
 find something or other I am sure. I can go on 
 errands, carry letters or parcels. You have often 
 said there is no such thing as ignoble."... " Ah ! 
 that indeed is true ! Why should we fear humility, 
 seeing that Saul guarded his father's flocks; that 
 Jacob laboured on Laban's farm; that ^Esop, the 
 Phrygian philosopher, was a slave at Samos, and 
 that Apollo, the god of the day, of arts, letters, and 
 medicine, became shepherd to Admetias."..." Ah! 
 brother, what a lot you know ! ". . ."It is reading my 
 friend, which enables one to learn these things."... 
 <* Well, Benoit ; 1 suppose it is decided that we go 
 
62 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 to Paris ?"..." Yes; but first of all we must sell 
 Violet's house."..." Ah ! of course; poor little cot- 
 tage ! Where I expected to live Avith her, where I 
 have been so happy when watching her make her 
 little cheeses. It is a great pity to see it !"..." rTo 
 doubt, but it does not appear that Yiolet set much 
 store by it."..." Some day perhaps she will repent of 
 having sold it ; it will not bring much, the garden is 
 small."..." Indeed, I must have a good look at it, 
 and see what it is worth ; for it may be that Yiolet 
 wants to sell it once as she may be short of money." 
 ..."You see to it at once, my dear Benoit, and as 
 soon as we can we will set out for Paris, and see if 
 we cannot find out where Yiolet is staying.". . ." Yes 
 my friend, for, by the bye, Yiolet has left no address 
 where one might write to her. Did she tell you 
 where she was going to stay, for, if not, how shall 
 we be able to find her in Paris?"..." We will ask 
 the porters and the town postmen. They say that 
 these people know the addresses of everybody in 
 Paris.". . ." Yes, the addresses of notable persons, but 
 not of such as Yiolet."..." But remember brother 
 that Yiolet is pretty enough to soon become a 
 celebrity. We shall find her despite every obstacle, 
 for I will ask at every house in the town ! Besides, 
 do you not think my passion will guide me ? For 
 when I approached her dwelling here in the village, 
 when I saw her in the distance, my heart would b e at 
 as though it would leave my very breast to get to 
 her ! In Paris it would be the same, for when I get 
 into the street where Yiolet lives my heart will warn 
 me of her presence." 
 
 Benoit did not participate in his brother's con- 
 fidence, yet he did not wish to crush his hopes. He 
 undertook to discover on the following day the cir- 
 cumstances which preceeded and accompanied the 
 departure of the young girl, remarking to Girone 
 that this action of Yiolet, although so hasty and un- 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 63 
 
 foreseeen, could not be the result of some caprice, 
 but that she had been persuaded by some one to set 
 out for Paris, where she knew no one, and perhaps 
 she had left an address with the villagers. The 
 next day, on enquiring in the village, the poor lover 
 learnt that Violet had received a visit from two 
 finely-ciressed ladies, and an old villager who passed 
 for the sharpest person in the place, added ; " As for 
 these fine ladies, I recognised them at once ; one was 
 Marjoleine, who used to look after Pierre Leblanc's 
 geese ; and the other was Toinon, who was a servant 
 at Compiegne. * They did not deceive me, I can tell 
 you ! Indeed, as I passed, I said to Marjoleine : 
 * Good morning, mother of geese; how proud you've 
 got ! ' You should have seen how she turned her 
 face away, which flushed up as red as a cherry." 
 
 "There is no doubt," said Girofle, "that Violet has 
 been led away by these two upstarts, who have 
 enticed her to Paris ! But this will not help me to 
 find her there." 
 
 He questioned the child who gave him the key 
 and note, but she could tell him nothing. " Violet 
 said to me, ( You give these to Francise Girofle as 
 soon as you see him,' that is all; she said nothing 
 more than that." 
 
 Girofle hastened to apprise his brother of what he 
 had learnt. Benoit muttered : " Yes ! no doubt 
 these two women have given her some bad advice. 
 Yet all this scarcely puts us in the way of finding 
 her ; still, we can make enquiries when we get there." 
 ..." Yes" brother, rest assured we shall find her! 
 When shall we start ? Do you think we might do 
 so this evening?"..." This evening? That is im- 
 possible ! We cannot go to Paris without money. 
 I have been to Compiegne, and given the notary 
 authority to sell our stocks."..." Ah! Benoit you 
 are robbing yourself for my sake ! "..."Come now! 
 4q§s not this money^belong to us both ? Besides^ 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 we must not spend all our money ; we must be care- 
 ful with it, and perhaps we may even earn some — ." 
 ..." Yes, yes, I shall get work ; you see if I don't." 
 ..."But it is always wiser to be in a position to 
 await events.". . ." Then may we set out to-morrow ? " 
 ..."Yes — to-morrow evening."../' Ah ! but what 
 about the house Yiolet has requested me to sell ? " 
 ..."It is sold. I found that it is worth about a 
 thousand francs, so I sold it at that price."..." And 
 will you have the money to-morrow?"..." Yes, I 
 shall have it to-morrow ; you will be. able to give it 
 to Yiolet when you find her."... "Ah! my dear 
 Benoit, what a trouble and embarrassment I am 
 causing you !"..." Oh ! never mind that ! Make all 
 your preparations for the journey; I will see the 
 organ despatched to the railway. We shall not 
 want it here any more, and I shall try and sell it 
 again in Paris.". . ." Yes, you are right ; why should 
 we keep it since she no longer cares to hear it ? I 
 shall sell my cornet as well."..." Why should you 
 do that ? You can already play it very well ; one 
 can never know too much, and music is often a help 
 in gaining one's livelihood. lastead of selling the 
 instrument endeavour to become more proficient in 
 playing it. It may possibly serve you some day a 
 good turn ; who knows ? " 
 
 The next day Benoit received the money; and, 
 Griiofle having packed up his luggage, the two 
 brothers set out for the railway station, whence they 
 started for Paris. 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAT, 65 
 
 CHAPTEB IX. 
 
 A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OP HAY, 
 
 On arriving in Paris Grirone opened his eyes wide and 
 gave vent to heavy sighs, and kept exclaiming: "My 
 God ! I believe it is twice as large as Compiegne ! 
 There seems no end to the streets and promenades." 
 Benoit set about finding a cheap hotel. A porter,' 
 who was carrying the organ, conducted him to the 
 Paubourg Saint Martin, where the hotels do not 
 exactly resemble those of the Louvre, or the Rue 
 Saint Honore. " But never mind," said Benoit, 
 " fifon licet adire Corinthum. 
 
 On seeing two travellers arrive very humbly at- 
 tired and carrying an organ, the hotel-keeper pre- 
 sumed they were travelling musicians, and gave 
 them the most miserable room in the establishment. 
 Still, as the price of this accommodation was very 
 modest, the two brothers were very well satisfied, 
 and took the room. Benoit then asked the host 
 whether he knew of any parents who wished their 
 children to learn writing, arithmetic, orthography, 
 and a little history. If so, to think of him, for he 
 gave lessons at a very cheap rate. 
 
 " So you are not street singers then ? "..." No, sir. 
 Why, did you suppose that we were? "..."Because 
 *you have an organ. What, in Jnpiter, are you 
 doing with that then ?"..." We have brought it here 
 to sell. If you know anybody who wants to buy 
 
 one "...' % 'Does anyone play an organ? If it 
 
 were a piano or violin, you might get rid of it. It 
 would have paid you better to bring a piano; my 
 daughter wants to learn that."..." Sir, we have not 
 brought a piano; we only have this organ."... "Do 
 you reckon upon playing that villanous music here ? 
 
60 A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAT. 
 
 Because, if so, T may as well tell you at once that 
 you cannot stay ; you would drive away all my 
 customers."..." Do not alarm 3 r ourself; we have no 
 intention of playing the instrument at all."..." That 
 is all right. So you give lessons in writing? It 
 would pay you better to give lessons on the piano ; 
 you would earn a great deal more. See you would at 
 once have my daughter for your first pupil."..." I do 
 not give lessons on the piano, for the simple reason 
 that I do not know the slightest thing about the 
 instrument." ..." Ah ! I see. But what are you 
 going to do with that organ? " 
 
 Girofle, who found the cross-examination of their 
 host very annoying, interrupted him with the re- 
 mark : " Sir, it is not necessary to discuss these 
 matters. My brother and I have come to Paris to 
 look for a young girl who has just left the country 
 almost at the moment that she was to be married to 
 me ; for I was her fiance. I gave her a beautiful 
 watch. I gave it to her to get at her heart ; but 
 Yiolet — Violet Montin she is called — went off a few 
 days afterwards to Paris. And we must now find 
 her, and take her back again. Where do country 
 girls usually stay when they come to Paris ? " First 
 of all, you must tell me what she has come to Paris 
 for. Does she intend giving lessons on the piano?" 
 ..." Oh, no ; Violet is no musician ; she understands 
 sewing and embroidery."..." So much the worse! 
 If she had known how to play the piano we could 
 have obtained some information from the other pro- 
 fessors of that instrument."..." My good sir, do they 
 do nothing else in Paris but play the piano ?"..."! did 
 not say that. I suppose this "young girl of yours has 
 decamped with your watch — in short,has robbed you." 
 ..."Robbed! Violet a thief! Look you here, sir, 
 you know nothing at all of what you are talking 
 about. Please understand that Violet is an honest 
 young girl, incapable of doing an injury to anyone. 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAY. 67 
 
 To prove it I may tell you that she gave as instruc- 
 tions to sell her house, and we have now brought the 
 money with us. Is it not so, brother ?"..." Cer- 
 tainly, I have it here in my pocket — a draft for a 
 thousand francs, the price her house fetched. You 
 take it, Francois ; it would be much better for you 
 to have it when we meet Violet." 
 
 Girofle took the bank draft, carefully placed it in an 
 old purse, which also served the purpose of pocket- 
 book, and addressed himself again to the host, who 
 removed his cap directly he saw that his new cus- 
 tomers had bank-notes in their possession i 
 
 " ~Now, sir, as you can easily perceive, this young 
 girl is an honest person, so, perhaps, you can tell us 
 where we ought to look for her.".,." An honest girl ! 
 My faith, sir ! Such a condition must be very em- 
 barrassing. Undoubtedly such can be found in 
 every neighbourhood ; but the difficulty is for you to 
 put your hand on the right one.". . ." I did not say I 
 wanted to £>ut my hand on her ; I simply want to 
 find her, aud to discover whether she is contented to 
 stay in Paris."..." So your fiance came to Paris for 
 amusement? Then you must look in the Breda 
 quarter. Young girls who come to Paris for amuse- 
 ment generally stay in that neighbourhood,"..." The 
 Breda quarter ? I will go there at once. Is it far 
 from here? "..."Not very far. If you go through 
 several streets, in a direct line from here, you will 
 arrive at it."..." Besides, I have a tongue. So there 
 is nothing to prevent me asking my way. Benoit, 
 you can take one road and I another, can we not ? " 
 ..."Yes, Francois. I will get all the information I 
 can ; at the same time, I may be able to obtain some 
 pupils. As soon as night comes on we will return 
 here. I cannot have you running about at night in 
 a town you know nothing of. Moreover, we must 
 dine somewhere, so we may as well return here to- 
 gether and dine at this place."..." Very well, Benoit, 
 
 e 2 
 
68 a NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OP HAT. 
 
 let that be the arrangement, at any rate for to- 
 night." 
 
 The two brothers separated. G-irone directed his 
 steps towards the Breda quarter, where he flattered 
 himself he would easily find the lost girl. Benoit 
 walked along in a hap-hazard sort of a way. From 
 time to time he would stop at a house and say to the 
 porter : " Excuse me, I trust I am not troubling 
 you; but could you tell me whether a young girl is 
 staying in this house. She has lately come to Paris 
 from the country, and she is called Violet Montin ? " 
 Benoit wa,s extremely polite. Indeed, he addressed 
 himself to the porters in such a respectful manner 
 that they always vouchsafed him a reply. In answer 
 they would say : " No, no ; we know nothing of her. 
 What does she do?"..." Why, she works with her 
 needle; she embroiders, and all that sort of thing." 
 ..."Then I|expect she is in some shop. Enquire at 
 some of the drapers."..." Yes, to be sure; your ad- 
 vice is sound. I will make enquiries at the linen- 
 drapers. Excuse me mentioning it, but do you 
 happen to know of any one wishing to take lessons 
 in writing, orthography, and elementary Latin ? I 
 do not charge very much."... "I am afraid we do not 
 know of any one in want of such things. There are 
 several children in the house, but they go to a day- 
 school."..." WeU, so long as they attend a day- 
 school my services are obviously of no •avail. I thank 
 you very much for your kindly assistance." 
 
 Benoit thus continued his travels. At short in- 
 tervals he would make similar enquiries, but did not 
 meet with any marked success. Sometimes after 
 having offered lessons in writing, he would remark 
 that he had an organ to sell and solicit offers for the 
 instrument. 
 
 Sometimes he offered so many things as to make 
 himself something of a nuisance, when the porters 
 would send him about his business, with the remark; 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAT* 69 
 
 u Be off witli you. Don't come here annoying us 
 with your trumpery wares and questions ! What is 
 the use of coming to private houses to sell organs! 
 Clear fllTi rom here sharp." 
 
 Then poor Benoit would slink away abashed and 
 mutter to himself : " T shall not offer to sell my 
 organ again. It appears they are not thought much 
 of in Paris." 
 
 After the advice the first hall-porter had given 
 him, Benoit concluded to prosecute his investigations 
 in the various linen drapers' shops ; but in these 
 places he received a worse reception than from the 
 hall-porters. They would answer him in mono- 
 syllables, and start him off about his business with- 
 out much ceremony. Night now came on. The 
 elder brother had returned some time ago to their 
 modestly-furnished apartments, where he was im- 
 patiently waiting Girofle. He was already becom- 
 ing somewhat anxious when Girofle came in, pale, 
 and exhausted with fatigue. 
 
 "Good heavens ! What a state you are in, 
 Girofle ! " cried Benoit.... "Ah ! brother, I have been 
 walking about such a time, and all to no purpose ! I 
 have called at every house in the Breda neighbour- 
 hood. In fact, I knocked at over a hundred houses. 
 Instead of answering my questions, th y, as a rule, 
 shut the door in my face ; or, if they deigned to 
 reply, would say : " Yiolet ! Of course, that is your 
 young lady's assumed name. By whom is she kept ?" 
 Then I would get into a temper, and be pushed out 
 of the house. Once, however, when the hall-keeper, 
 being a woman, she replied : ' Yiolet ? Oh, yes! we 
 have a new lodger, who has about thirty-six names. 
 She is called Rose, Jacinte, Muguette, and so forth ; 
 and I have no doubt she calls herself Violet as well. 
 Go up to the fourth floor, and you will find the 
 young woman you are looking for.' You may be 
 oure I was not long in getting there ; but when I 
 
70 A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OP HAY. 
 
 knocked at the door of the room she had pointed out 
 to me, a man with a large moustache opened the 
 door, and examined me from head to foot with a 
 furious glare. * What do you want ?' said he. I 
 answered him very politely : ( Sir I am looking for a 
 young lady who came to lodge here a few days since, 
 and I am engaged to be married to her.' The man, 
 frowned, and exclaimed : 'Ah ! so you are her fiance ? 
 Ah ! so she already knew some people in Paris. 
 Muguette ! Hallo, there ! Come here a moment. 5 
 Thereupon a young girl came to the door. She was 
 pretty enough, but had a very dissolute appearance. 
 She looked at me a moment, and then burst out into 
 a hearty laugh. When her mirth had somewhat 
 subsided, she exclaimed : 6 What is it that this 
 booby wants ?'.,.' What does he want ? Why, to see 
 you, of course. He says you are engaged to be 
 married to him.'. . / What ! I engaged to be married 
 to him. Nonsense ! Why, it is the first time I 
 have ever set eyes on him. 5 Then the man turned Lo 
 me, still rolling his eyes in a ferocious manner : 
 'What do you mean by telling me you were engaged 
 to her? ' Of course, I soon saw that Muguette was 
 not Violet, so I naturally answered him : c Sir, I 
 have made a mistake, I thought I knew the young 
 person lodging here, but I see I do not. 5 Instead of 
 being satisfied with my answer, he swore, and kicked 
 and shouted : c Ah ! so you thought to get in here 
 and make game of me, did you ? You are a dirty 
 blackguard, and she is a hussy. Look here, Mu- 
 guette, that is for you — bang! And as for you, I 
 will soon teach you to come here after her. 5 Saying 
 which, after boxing the girl 5 s ears, he gave me as 
 hard a kick in the behind as he could muster energy 
 for. Then he shut the door on me. I called him a 
 scoundrel through the door, but he made no further 
 reply. 
 
 " When I got down stairs again the ■wumsui at the 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAY. 71 
 
 door said : c Well, have you done your business ? ' 
 So I told her what had taken place upstairs. This 
 is the result of my day's work. And now you might 
 tell me how you have got on." 
 
 " Well, brother, like you, I have learnt nothing, 
 but, thank heaven, I did not get treated like you.'*. . . 
 " What misery it is to know that Yiolet is m this 
 very town and yet we cannot find her ! "..." Never 
 mind, Gdrofle ; perhaps, to-morrow, we shall be more 
 fortunate. Now let us have some dinner. You 
 must want something to eat."..." No, I am not the 
 least bit hungry. "..."Hungry or not, you must eat 
 and keep your strength up ; for how can you look for 
 Yiolet when you are too weak to walk. "..."I suppose, 
 you are right ; let us go to dinner." 
 
 The proprietor pointed out an establishment where 
 they could dine cheaply, provided they did not want 
 plat trieffe or charlotte russe. 
 
 The two brothers went as directed. Benoit did 
 full justice to the repast, and found it quite excel- 
 lent. Grirofle pestered the waiter by asking whether 
 he had seen Yiolet, whose appearance he endeavoured 
 to fix in the man's mind. The waiter, who was pro- 
 bably thinking of other things, responded : " Sir, 
 you will find what you want in the Belle Jardiniere." 
 . . ," Indeed ? And where is the Belle Jardiniere ?". . . 
 " On the quai aux flewrs ; anyone will point out the 
 house to you." 
 
 After dinner, Girofle wanted to be off at once to 
 the Belle Jardinilere, but Benoit suggested :'" My 
 dear brother, it has gone nine o'clock ; you are tired 
 out', and I can hardly keep myself awake, let us get 
 off to bed and set out for this house first thing in 
 the morning."..." But if Yiolet is at this place we 
 ought to know it at once, and then we shall nc fc have 
 to look for her to-morrow."..." My dear Francois, I 
 do not believe that waiter Jhad the least idea 
 
72 A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OP HAY. 
 
 what you were asking hini. "We shall see to-morrow ; 
 let ns get to bed now." 
 
 The next morning Girofle hastened to the Belle 
 Jardiniere, He conld not, of course, go in without 
 buying something, so he purchased a great coat ; 
 but no one named Violet was on the premises. In 
 the evening he traversed the whole of the suburb of 
 Saint Germain, but received no assistance from the 
 surly hall porters. On his part, Benoit was no 
 happier. He could find neither Yiolet nor pupils to 
 instruct. As for his organ, he no longer dared to 
 mention it, for it always gave rise to unpleasant 
 interchanges. 
 
 Three weeks passed in fruitless search after this 
 missing girl. At the end of this time fatigue and 
 disappointment has so altered Girofle that he was 
 but the shadow of his former self. In vain his 
 brother tempted him to eat and rest, to postpone any 
 further search, and to take care of his health.... 
 " No, no ! " answered the poor lover, whose eyes 
 were always filled with tears. "No, I shall never 
 rest till I have found her ! And then, all my fatigues 
 will be forgotten." 
 
 But nature is stronger than human wishes, and 
 one morning Girofle endeavoured, without success, 
 to rise from his bed. He was struck down with a 
 strong fever, and in a short time he was at the gates 
 of death. One can easily conceive the grief and 
 despair of Benoit at the thought of losing his 
 brother, the only object of his affections. He was 
 sorely harrassed. The best doctors were called in, 
 and, for a time, every remedy tried was in vain. 
 But, finally, after many nights of anxious watching, 
 the doctor pronounced the joyful words : " The crisis 
 is past." Hearing these words, Benoit threw him- 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OE HAY. 78 
 
 self upon the doctor's breast, embraced the pro- 
 prietor and servants of the house ; he even embraced 
 the passers by. The doctor said that the period of 
 convalescence would be very long, and that the 
 greatest care would be necessary for many days 
 to come. But what did this matter ? Would not 
 Benoit be constantly at his brother's side to guard 
 against any imprudent act, and to see that he 
 received his proper food and at the right times. 
 And all this cost, a great deal of money, it could not 
 be helped. The little capital raised by selling the 
 investment was fast ebbing away ; but what was 
 money when life was at stake ? Would all the gold 
 of Peru ever make up for the loss of those we 
 love? 
 
 When Girofle had sufficiently recovered to look 
 about him a little, he saw his brother at his side, 
 constantly ministering to his every wish. Poor 
 Benoit soon showed the effects of this anxious 
 watching. His cheeks became hollow and his lips 
 pale, but good humour shone so clearly in his eyes 
 as to completely efface these signs of fatigue. 
 Girofle held out his hand to his brother and mur- 
 mured : "Have I been very ill? ."..." Yes ! very ill, 
 but you are getting better now."..." How long have 
 I been in bed? "..." Twenty -two days. "..."And 
 during all that time you have not left me?"... 
 " Would you have left me had you seen me in 
 danger ?"..." My dear Benoit, I am always bringing 
 trouble to you! ' f ..."That can go for nothing, pro- 
 vided you are now more disposed to act with reason 
 and promise to listen to me."..." Yes, brother, I 
 will listen to you; for, during my illness, I have 
 heard you sigh and groan, and weep and pray for me. 
 At such times I said to myself : ' He loves me, 
 whilst she whom I seek without ceasing has aban- 
 doned me, without troubling herself in the least as 
 to the pain she has given me.' I felt then that I was 
 
^4 a NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OP HAY 
 
 wrong in hoping to marry her."..." We do not know, 
 Francois, we do not know ! Women themselves do 
 not always know what they want."..." Benoit, if it 
 were not that we had to take this money to Violet, 
 I would not look for her another day."..." First of 
 all, brother, you mnst get back yonr strength ; and 
 that, unhappily, will be a long time ; the doctor 
 told me so himself."..." And what about the money? 
 I am sure that you must have spent a great deal 
 over me."..." Yes, but our little hoard is not yet ex- 
 hausted."..." And what about your pupils?"..."! 
 haven't had any yet, but I have been promised some, 
 So rest yourself and take what good you can, and, 
 above all, do not give way to grief. Be a man, and 
 remember swum eniqiie tributo. Eemember that we 
 all have our troubles, and that we must do what we 
 can to bear up under them." 
 
 A few days after, Benoit came in full of glee aud 
 said to his brother : " I have found one, brother, I 
 have found one; at last I have got one. This is at 
 least a commencement !"..." You have found what, 
 Benoit?"...^ Why, a pupil for writing and ortho- 
 graphy. It is a grocer's boy; he said to me: "I 
 will come to you at ten o'clock each night, as soon as 
 the shop is closed.' The poor boy is not well off ; he 
 said he could only pay me in prunes and raisins ; so 
 I accepted that. Prunes are very good for sick 
 people, and, after all, it is better than nothing." 
 
 The grocer boy came in the evening and took his 
 first lesson. He was a tall young fellow, about 
 seventeen years of age, who could not pronounce the 
 words he saw in the book ; in fact, when reading, 
 " Ges femmes sont bonnes qnand elles dorment" he 
 would say 6 les femmaisses sont bonnaisses quand 
 ellaisses dormant." But Benoit had plenty of patience 
 and perseverance ; and Givofle, still forced to remain 
 in bed or in an old armchair, admired the long- 
 suffering of his brother; though, ever and" anon, ho 
 
A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OF HAT, 75 
 
 gave vent to a pent-up sigh, when he thought of her 
 whom he had so long sought after. 
 
 One day Girofle, who was asleep after partaking of 
 a hearty meal, woke up and saw his brother at the 
 further end of the room making his dinner of dry 
 bread and prunes. He looked for some moments to 
 assure himself that Benoit was really eating these . 
 things for his dinner, when he called out : "Brother, 
 what have you there ? What is it you are eating? " 
 Benoit, who thought his brother was asleep, was 
 somewhat embarrassed at being discovered. He 
 tried to hide his bread, and stammered out : " No, I 
 am not having my dinner. I was tasting my fruits ; 
 they are very good, I assure yon."..." No, it is your 
 dinner you are taking. I have been watching you 
 for some time. You were munching a great piece of 
 dry bread.". . ." Well, what about it ? What does it 
 matter if I eat bread with my filberts ?"..." Ah ! you 
 are eating these things in order to furnish me with 
 delicacies. You spend all the money on me, whilst 
 you live as poorly as possible. Now, I do not wish 
 you to do this, and understand that I shall not 
 touch these nice things you bring me unless you par- 
 take of some at the same time.". . ." My dear brother, 
 you forget that you have just had innamation of the 
 lungs, and that even now you need every possible 
 care, and must have as much nourishing food as 
 possible."..." And what about you? You will be ill 
 soon if you live on nuts and raisins."..." I do not 
 live on nuts, sir, I feed well enough, and often 
 enough.' Why, yesterday I ate a whole pennyworth 
 of Italian cheese. It was delicious, I can tell you. 
 Now, remember, you have promised to obey me — to 
 do what I wish — and my wish is that you make 
 every effort to regain your health, and get some 
 colour on your cheeks. Now, what is the matter? 
 Why, you are crying. What are you crying for?" 
 ..." Because I am of no iise here. I can earn no 
 
76 A NEEDLE IN A BOTTLE OE HAY« 
 
 money, and you are depriving yourself to keep me . ' 
 ..."That will do; I want to hear nothing more of 
 that nonsense. If you give way to grief you will 
 soon be ill again, just because you see me eating 
 almonds. To-morrow I shall buy a goose, and eat 
 the lot myself, and see whether then you will say I 
 do not feed myself." 
 
 The two brothers thereupon affectionately em- 
 braced each other. They always finished their 
 quarrels in this fashion. The convalescence of 
 Grirofle was indeed very protracted, and Benoit's 
 pupils were still confined to the grocer's boy. One 
 morning the elder brother, who was generally up be- 
 times, was sleeping profoundly, when Grirofle awoke. 
 
 The young man rose quietly from his bed, and 
 assured himself that his brother was sleeping 
 soundly; next, hearing the proprietor moving about 
 on the staircase, he went to him and asked whether 
 his brother had been out early that morning and 
 returned later on. 
 
 "Later!" answered the man, laughing. "In- 
 deed he came in at daybreak, he and his organ." 
 ..."What! Did he bring his organ with him?" 
 ..."Yes! he was playing at a dance, at the wed- 
 ding of a neighbouring baker; I procured him the 
 place, and a God-send he said it was. Your brother 
 is a very contented fellow. He thanked me very 
 much for the little service I did him."..." What ! 
 do you mean that my brother spent the night play- 
 ing the organ ?". . ." Ay ! yes indeed he did ! " cried 
 Benoit, who had just woke up, and was in a jovial 
 mood...." Yes, I did not want you to know anything 
 about it last night, and as I was not wanted till ten 
 o'clock I did not go out till you were asleep. I sat 
 at the wedding table ; they made me eat and drink 
 to my heart's content. They are capital people; 
 afterwards I played the organ throughout the nighty 
 and they danced, galloped, and waltzed the night 
 
THE FROLICS OF M. REPIQTJE. 77 
 
 through, only stopping to refresh themselves, and 
 always made me drink with them. At length, 
 when five o'clock in the morning came, they betook 
 themselves to bed and gave me ten francs for my 
 trouble. "..."Ten francs! It is more than I have 
 earned since I have been in Paris.". .-." Moreover, they 
 told me that they could often procure me similar 
 engagements. So, now, I am very glad I did not 
 sell the organ ; for it may be the means of earning 
 a great deal of money ; it appears there is an enor- 
 mous amount of dancing always going on in Paris." 
 ..."Poor Benoit ! that you should be organ playing 
 now !"..." Ah ! well ! why not 9 Making everybody 
 dance is not so very disagreeable after all!"... 
 " Well ! since they seem to think such a great deal 
 of music in Paris, I shall apply myself to my cornet 
 again." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FROLICS OF M. REPIQTJE. 
 
 Three months had elapsed since Violet had be- 
 come established in the corset warehouse of Madame 
 Repique, where she still played the part of lay figure. 
 What with at times being enveloped in a corset 
 which squeezed and distressed her, at others having 
 to wear one which gave her an unnatural protuber- 
 ance and bulk, she brought her patroness consider- 
 able increase of business. Madames de Boucherose 
 and Trafalgar were among the first to come and 
 admire her, and each had whispered in her ear? 
 " You are on the way to fortune ! but mind, oil no 
 
78 THE FROLICS Of M. REP1QUE. 
 
 account have any little love intrigues ! You must 
 have a man who is quiet, respectable, and. a mil- 
 lionaire." 
 
 " And where then do they thiuk I can do either a 
 little flirtation or get a millionaire ? " remarked 
 Yiolet to Bahiola one day. " I never go out of the 
 shop except to go to bed ; it is beginning to get a 
 trifle monotouous ! After all this time, I know 
 nothing of this great city, besides this house and 
 those opposite. I came to Paris to enjoy myself, 
 and I haven't enjoyed myself a bit. Do you think 
 I shall pass the winter in this manner? Miss 
 Babiola, you get a little fun sometimes, according to 
 what you have told me. Do you think I might go 
 with you sometimes, to a dance, or to some of those 
 places where you say they are so jolly ?"..." Have 
 patience ! I have already thought about it," responded 
 Babiola, " but you would have to get another dress, 
 a fashionable little bonnet, and so on."..." But I 
 have only my little country bonnets."..." Well, you 
 had better wait till the carnival ; it will be here soon, 
 and you can go as a country girl. "..."But how can 
 I get away if Madame does not give her consent? " 
 ..." You must be very careful what you say to her ; 
 no one hardly ever goes to the ball till about mid- 
 night. You are always in your room by eleven, so, 
 about a quarter of an hour after, go down again as 
 quietly as you can, until you get into the court ; 
 when there, cut away as quickly as possible. I will 
 wait for you in the street, and you can dress at my 
 place. "..." Oh ! my dear Babiola! what a splendid 
 idea ! But how about getting back again."... 
 "Why, the same way. The people in the house will 
 not be about till eight. We shall be back between 
 five and six ; you can get into the court yard, and 
 climb up before anybody is astir."..." Yes, but the 
 porter must be awake to let me out ! And supposing 
 he should report that I went out after eleven at 
 
THE FROLICS OF M. REPIQTJE. 79 
 
 night P "..." Oh ! you can easily blind him with a 
 shilling or two ! Porters, my dear Violet, can be 
 made to do anything you like with a little money. ". . . 
 "Ah! that is all very well when you have the 
 money ; I have hardly any left.". . ." I am afraid that 
 puts a different face on the matter altogether, for I 
 haven't any money either." 
 
 Whilst waiting for the time to come when she 
 hoped to have a little amusement, Violet was com- 
 pelled to listen to the sighs and vapourings of M. 
 Repique, for he pestered her with his addresses as 
 scon as ever he saw his wife engaged with a customer. 
 Violet was extremely annoyed at these advances and 
 proposals of her employer, but all her endeavours to 
 get rid of him were futile. She became so angry 
 that she was often on the point of doing or saying 
 something imprudent. On more than one occasion, 
 the amoring Mores tan, taking advantage of his wife's 
 disposition to lie in bed somewhat late in the morn- 
 ing, rose very early, and with as little noise as 
 possible ascended to the fifth floor, where he placed 
 his eye to the keyhole of the little room in which 
 Violet slept ; but he could never see anything, for 
 Violet always left the key in the lock. Then M. 
 Repique would give a slight cough, knock gently at 
 the door, and, placing his face close to the door, say, 
 in a low voice : 
 
 " Violet ! My darling Violet ! Open for a moment, 
 I have something very interesting to tell you." 
 
 But the young girl, who always heard all he had to 
 say, was by no means disposed to grant his request. 
 So after vainly beseeching her to open the door, the 
 unhappy Morestan, who was afraid to knock very 
 loud for fear of waking Ursula or Magloire, would 
 creep back to his room. 
 
 One morning, just as he had got down to the 
 floor on which he slept, the door of his room was 
 suddenly opened., and Madame Repique appeared on 
 
80 THE FROLICS OP M. REPIQTJE. 
 
 the threshold, clothed simply in her chemise and 
 night-dress. Lucrece had awoke earlier than usual, 
 and not finding her husband by her side, she was 
 filled with the most horrible fears and suspicions. 
 In a moment she was out of bed and at the door, 
 just in time to see her husband coming down the 
 stairs. In a voice of thunder, and with a scowling 
 Pace, she screamed: "Where have you been, si'rP" 
 Florestan, frightened by the sudden appearance of 
 his wife, let the skirt of his nightshirt flap on one 
 side, when she saw that he had not even his drawers 
 on. He then spluttered and stammered : 
 
 " Where have I been, my dear ? Why, can't you 
 see? I have just come from this passage, haven't 
 I ?"..." You lie, sir. You lie like a mountebank! 
 What do you say, sir ?"..." What do I say ? Why — 
 why — just now I heard a noise on the first floor. 
 You know where M. Postulant's rooms are ; I thought 
 I heard quarrelling ; so out of curiousity I went up 
 quietly and listened. You know M. Postulant is 
 always Quarrelling with his wife, so I was curious to 
 know what it was all about.". . ." You know very well, 
 sir, that I do not believe a word you say. You are 
 a licentious wretch ! You are after that girl, Yiolet ! 
 You are simply cracked on her, you idiot that you 
 a re. "..."Now, that's too bad of you, Lucrece; it is 
 really. ' ; ..." No, sir, it is quite obvious to everybody. 
 You have been prowling about near her room just 
 now, sir !"..." I ? Never !"..." Hold your tongue, 
 you blackguard ! If I thought there was the least 
 connivance between you and this girl I would put her 
 out of the house at once. But I do not think she 
 takes the slightest notice of you. For the future, 
 mark you, I shall watch you much more closely ; and. 
 on the very first occasion you — well, you shall see, 
 You idiot ! Fancy going about before daylight like 
 this ! And without your clothes! "..."Why, my dear, 
 I have my nightshirt on. "..."Do you call that being 
 
$HE FROLICS OP M. REPIQTJE. 81 
 
 dressed ? ". . ." I do not see what I wanted with more 
 clothes than I have considering where I was going." 
 ..." That will do ! Go in and dress yourslf, and hold 
 your tongue ! " 
 
 Morestan went into the bedroom considerably 
 annoyed at having been discovered on the stairs by 
 his wife. For some days he did not dare to make the 
 least approach towards Yiolet. He tried even not 
 to look over in her direction. This gave the girl a 
 most agreeable respite from his unpleasant attentions 
 and she did not fail to let Babiola know all about 
 Repique coming to her door and asking to be let in. 
 ..."He will soon be there again," said Babiola, 
 "and then there will be a nice iumpus between 
 them." 
 
 But the fire still smouldered under the ashes. 
 After about a fortnight of exemplary behaviour, the 
 passionate Morestan believed that his wife's sus- 
 picions had been entirely dissipated. Several times, 
 he rose early and walked about the room watching 
 his wife. Observing that the noise did not disturb 
 her, nor that she did not wake when he snored or 
 sneezed loudly : 
 
 " What a fool I am," said Morestan to himself ; 
 " I could have gone up and down stairs five or six 
 times without Lucrece knowing anything about it ! " 
 
 One morning, Morestan, knowing that his wife 
 did not get to bed till after midnight, owing to press 
 of business, and believing that she would sleep more 
 soundly than usual, rose, noiselessly, and taking up 
 his dressing gown, in the pocket of which he had 
 placed a gimlet, he took the tool out and placed. the 
 garment back on the bed, and skipped up to the 
 fifth floor like a bird. This time he did not knock 
 but, with the gimlet in his hand, muttered to him- 
 self : " Now, my dear, it will not be necessary for 
 you to open the door ; we will make a hole in it in- 
 stead ; your bed is opposite the door, so at least I 
 
82 THE FROLICS OF M. REPIQUE. 
 
 shall see you in very simple attire, and when yon get 
 up what a lot of pretty things I shall see ! What 
 a picture you will present ! Surely it was Cupid 
 himself who suggested this gimlet to me." 
 
 Then M. B-epique, gimlet in hand, examined the 
 door in order to find the most convenient place to 
 drill a hole. Deciding on a spot, he put in the 
 gimlet, and commenced turning it with an energy 
 that must soon have found the other side. All of a 
 sudden, just as he was warming to his work, he re- 
 ceived a couple of kicks in the extreme lower part 
 of the back, which made him bang his head against 
 the door, and the gimlet flew out of his hand. You 
 can easily guess where the kicks came from. 
 Morestan knew so well, that he did not even turn 
 round to see, but remained with his nose stuck in the 
 hole he had just made. But the infuriated Lucrece 
 did not allow him to stay there long. She pulled 
 him round, and addressed him in ber most vigorous 
 style : " Dog that you are ! It was not enougli then 
 to try and take familiarities with this girl, but you 
 must make a hole in her door ! Your lascivious eyes 
 would see things which you know very well are for- 
 bidden ! Let me tell you that what you have done 
 is sufficient to get you committed at the assizes for 
 an offence against chastity ! I shall take time to 
 consider what I shall do ! I have a great mind to 
 get you committed by the court." 
 
 Florestan remained with his face up against the 
 door, thinking what he should say to satisfy his con- 
 duct, and presently stammered out: "Indeed, my 
 
 dear "..."I forbid you calling me "'My dear. 5 "... 
 
 " Well, my friend."... "I am not your friend; I am 
 your judge, sir."..." Well, my dear — my judge, be- 
 fore accusing people perhaps you will first hear 
 what they have to say. It is a very old axiom of 
 law that you cannot judge without hearing what 
 the accused have to say."..." Well, what can you say 
 
THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTK. 83 
 
 when I find, yon drilling a hole through this girl's 
 door."... "I was about to say that my motive is quite 
 explicable. In fact, 1 think you will find it a praise- 
 worthy one. Yes, I had my suspicions about this 
 girl. 1 heard something pass between her and 
 Babiola which apprised me that they were engaging 
 in some intrigue. Moreover, I had an idea that 
 Violet — that she received lovers in her room at 
 night, and I was anxious to discover for myself the 
 true state of the facts. To have knocked at the 
 door would have served no useful purpose, for she 
 would not have opened it, so I thought to myself : "I 
 will make a hole in the door, and see whether there 
 is a man in there or not. 5 '..." You cannot impose on 
 me in that way, sir. You did not do all this to see 
 whether she had a man in the room ; you had some 
 very different motive in your mind. You are an in- 
 corrigible, wicked scoundrel, sir. Lovelace and 
 Eichelieu were children compared with you. But 
 listen to this ! If I catch you on this landing again, 
 you shall not go down by the stairs, but by a flight 
 over the balusters instead! Now come downstairs 
 with me, you monster of duplicity ! " 
 
 Florestan did not answer a word, but went down- 
 stairs almost as nimbly as he went up. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE THOUSAND EKANC NOTE. 
 
 One fine winter's day Girofle, who had found em- 
 ployment on several occasions in the orchestras at 
 inns and tea-gardens (for he could play his cornet 
 
 » 2 
 
84 THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE, 
 
 sufficiently well for a quadrille or a polka) went into 
 an eating-house where the workpeople were wont to 
 celebrate their weddings, the leader of the band 
 having offered him an engagement. 
 
 The young man was strolling along the Rue de 
 Rivoli, in fact, he had traversed the same road many 
 times without suspecting that Yiolet might be living 
 there, but he could not stop at all the houses or look 
 into all the shops, for a whole day would not suffice 
 to examine so long an array of commercial palaces. 
 But on this particular day it chanced that he glanced 
 in the shop known as the " White Hen." He cast 
 his eyes on the corsets exposed for sale in the 
 window, when, at a short distance from the door, he 
 saw a beautiful young girl seated at a counter. It 
 was Yiolet, who was wearing a corset which o^ave her 
 a magnificent bust. Girofle gazed for some moments 
 at this beautiful girl, yet did not for one instant 
 suspect that he was looking at her whom he was 
 searching the whole of Paris for. Her fully-developed 
 bust deceived him ; for it was just this that Yiolet 
 was deficient in; then the cap she wore did not at J all 
 resemble the one she wore in the village. However, 
 he continued to gaze at her for some moment? 
 longer. Then he murmured to himself : " Yes, it 
 does indeed look like her ; her eyes, her bearing, 
 everything, in fact, except that she can hardly have 
 developed in less than six months the breasts of a 
 wet-nurse." Just then Yiolet happened to talk and 
 laugh ■jgjth Babiola. Then the poor boy's doubts 
 were all expelled. He recognised the smile he Si 
 often adored ; he hesitated no longer, but rushed at 
 the door, which he flung opeu, and practically threw 
 himself into the shop, and ran up to the counter, 
 exclaiming : " Violet ! Yiolet ! Oh, Miss Yiolet ! 
 Is it possible that I have found you ? " 
 
 Yiolet's companions were all astonished ; Madame 
 Repique was terribly alarmed at seeing a man drop 
 
THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE. 85 
 
 into her shop like a bomb-shell. Yiolet, who was 
 the cause of the commotion, was the only one who 
 retained her self-possession; with a smile, she an- 
 swered: "Ah! it is Grirone."..."Yes, it is I, miss, 
 and I have been searching all Paris for you the last 
 six months. My word, how you have filled out ! It 
 seems Paris agrees with you pretty well." 
 
 The workpeople commenced to laugh, but Madame 
 Bepique resented the intrusion, for he had already 
 considerably upset the whole establishment. "Violet," 
 said she, " who is this fellow ? What does he want 
 here ? Now then, tell me who it is Miss ! It is 
 against our rules for my workpeople to receive 
 visitors in the shop. It is very inconvenient." 
 ../'Well! Madame, it is Francois G-irofie, a young 
 man from my village, and whom I was on the point 
 of marrying when I came here. I did not tell him 
 to come ; in fact, I thought he was still in the 
 country."..." No Miss," said Girofle, "I could not 
 stay in the village after you had gone ! I was much 
 too sad at heart. Certainly you did not tell me to 
 come ; indeed, you did not leave me your address. 
 My brother and I have been looking for you for six 
 months past ! It was just by chance that I happened 
 to be passing this shop and saw you seated at the 
 counter. In fact, I wanted a pair of braces, and 
 thought perhaps I might get them here."..." That's 
 quite right ! " responded Madame Kepiqe, "your 
 explanation is quite satisfactory; we do not sell 
 braces, but when you go into a shop to buy them 
 you need not enter like a thunderbolt. I repeat, my 
 young ladies cannot receive visitors in the shop. 
 You understand me, I trust ? "..."Yes, madame, and 
 I beg your pardon. I did not know that in Paris 
 one was forbidden to see their friends from the 
 country, above all when it happens to be a fiance ; 
 but as it is prohibited I will take care not to enter 
 your shop again,"..." Yery well! I thank you! 
 
86 THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE. 
 
 Good day, sir ! "..."Allow me, ma dame, before 
 leaving to fulfil a duty with which I have been en- 
 trusted. I have here some money for Yiolet. My 
 brother has sold your house, Yiolet, as you desired 
 him to do, and I have brought you the proceeds, 
 which I have carried with me constantly in the hope 
 of meeting you. It is a thousand francs."..." A 
 thousand francs ! Is it as much as that Girofle ? ". . . 
 " Oh ! it is not very much, miss ; I wish I could have 
 brought you more. Here is the bank note. I have 
 been terribly afraid of having it stolen, and have 
 constantly examined it in my pocket-book. 5 ' 
 
 Girofle took the note from his purse and gave it 
 to Yiolet. This made the workpeople open their 
 eyes pretty wide, and Madame Eepique herself lost 
 a little of her arrogance. Yiolet took the note and 
 thrust it in her bosom. 
 
 " Thank you, Girofle," said she, " I am Yerj much 
 obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken to 
 bring me this."... "Trouble ! My only trouble was 
 that I could not find you ; I was so anxious to know 
 where you were and whether you were happy and 
 contented."..." Yes ! yes ! Girofle ; I am very happy; 
 good-bye ! "..."Now I know where you are perhaps 
 I can see you in the street as I may not come in 
 here ; there is always something."..." Good-bye, 
 Girofle ! ". . ." Good-bye, miss ! I am glad to see the 
 place agrees with you so well. Madame and ladies, 
 I bid you good day ! " 
 
 The poor fellow glanced again at Yiolet. It 
 seemed as though he were waiting for one of her 
 sweet smiles ; but her mind was too full of the bank 
 note in her bosom. Girofle heaved a great sigh and 
 left the shop. 
 
 " He has a very simple appearance," said Madame 
 Repique, when the young fellow had gone."-. .."Yes ! 
 madame, he is a kind honest young man."..." And 
 why did you not marry him, as it seems you had 
 
THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE. 87 
 
 arranged between you? "..." Madame ! I did not 
 want to get married ; and I was very tired of the 
 quiet village life I led. 5 '. . ." Ah ! that is different, but 
 you will have great difficulty in saving your money 
 in Paris, although this young fellow appears to be 
 of saving and economical habits." 
 
 Yiolet did not answer, but Babiola whispered in 
 her year : "A thousand francs ! What a God-send ! 
 ~Now we shall be able to bribe the porter ! " 
 
 Morestan had not dared to come in the shop 
 so long as Gircfle was there ; but he was listening 
 at the door. He had not heard all that passed, 
 but he was very artful. As soon as an opportunity 
 served he came into the shop and commenced making 
 eyes at Yiolet, of which she took not the slightest 
 notice. Then assuming an indifferent demeanour 
 he remarked to his wife : 
 
 "Did I not hear a man's voice here just now? 
 Is it a new customer my dear ? or has he brought 
 you a good order? "..."No sir, it is nothing of the 
 kind, but a young man who wanted to speak to 
 Yiolet, and who had something to give her."..." A 
 young man did you say ? " then leaning over towards 
 his wife he whispered : " You see my suspicions were 
 only too well founded when I made that hole in the 
 door*". . ." Hold your tongue, sir ! you know nothing 
 about it ! and there is not the slightest necessity for 
 you to play the spy over my workpeople !"..." But, 
 dearest ". . ." Go to your desk at once ! " 
 
 Girofle hurried along, happy at having \t length 
 discovered his cherished one. His heart was too full 
 to think of the . cold manner in which she had re- 
 ceived him. His first care was to communicate the 
 good news to his brother. 
 
 " I have found her," said he excitedly ; " I know 
 where she is ! I have spoken to her ! " ..." Indeed ! 
 Have you really found out where Yiolet is?"... 
 (C Yes, I have spoken to her 9 I tell you. She is in a 
 
88 THE THOUSAN FRANC NOTE. 
 
 grand shop in that long street called the Rue de 
 
 Rivoli. I was passing and saw her there. I have 
 
 passed the shop many times before, but did not 
 
 dream of looking for her there. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
 
 My lucky star must have made me look in that shop 
 
 this morning. It is sure a fine shop, where they 
 
 sell corsets and various other things that make up a 
 
 lady's toilet. Yes, I could not believe my eyes, she 
 
 has grown so stout. I tell you she is as full-breasted 
 
 as a wet-nurse. "..."Impossible ! "..."Well, at first, I 
 
 was somewhat doubtful, but when she spoke and 
 
 smiled at one of her companions I could doubt no 
 
 longer. I rushed into the shop where there were 
 
 none but women, and spoke to her. I declared how 
 
 happy I felt to have found her after my long search." 
 
 "Well, and did she seem pleased to see you?"... 
 
 ..."Why, to be sure — of course — a little, not very 
 
 much. I gave her the money for her house, which 
 
 she thought was a great deal, and she thanked me 
 
 very much indeed."... "Have yon arranged to see her 
 
 again? "..."No ; her mistress, who does not seem to 
 
 be a very amiable woman, said she did not permit 
 
 her assistants to receive visitors in the shop, and 
 
 then she showed me the door."..." That proves Violet 
 
 is in a very respectable establishment, otherwise the 
 
 rules would not be so strict, and it is a guarantee of 
 
 Violet's virtue."..." Yes, you are right, Benoit. If 
 
 they permitted a single man to enter the shop, he 
 
 would want to court Violet at once. She was always 
 
 very discreet, although it is very difficult to be so in 
 
 Paris. I do not think my Violet would misconduct 
 
 herself anywhere."..." Then you still look upon her 
 
 as your fiance? "..." Why not? As no man is 
 
 allowed to speak to her, I think I have every reason 
 
 to hope. Anyhow, if I cannot speak to her I can at 
 
 least see her through the windows of the shop — they 
 
 cannot prevent me doing that. Benoit, will you 
 
 come with me to-night and see her ?"..." No, my 
 
THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE. 89 
 
 friend, I am not in love with Violet, and I have 
 some exercises to get ready for my pupil, the grocer's 
 hoy. And as for yourself ought you not to practise 
 those quadrilles this evening? "..."Yes, but I have 
 plenty of time ; I shall practise by-and-by, but 1 
 must have a peep at Yiolet first." 
 
 In the evening Girofle did not fail to put in an 
 appearance at the Rue de Rivoli, and stand before 
 Repique's shop, but he was terribly disappointed to 
 find all the windows covered with thick heavy cur- 
 tains, so that it was impossible to get a glimpse 
 inside the shop. Madame Re{ ique did not care to 
 have her girls stared at during the evening by every 
 passer-by. Having walked up and down for about 
 three quarters of an hour, Girofle determined to 
 return, muttering to himself : 
 
 "It seems that this lady does not care for people 
 to look in her shop at night. Never mind ; to- 
 morrow I will be here early." 
 
 The next morning at ten o'clock Girofle planted 
 himself like a sentry before the shop. Miss 
 Babiola, who saw almost everything that took place 
 outside, was not long in relating to Violet what she 
 had seen. 
 
 " Tour lover," said she, " the young man who 
 came here yerterday, is outside. He has been there 
 sometime already. He has not budged more than a 
 milestone ; no doubt he is waiting for you to look at 
 him.". . ." Well, he can wait a long time. If I looked 
 at him he might think I wanted him to come, and I 
 am sure I do not wish that." 
 
 Presently, however, Violet was called away to the 
 fitting room, and Girofle went away, sadly mur- 
 muring : 
 
 •*Ah! she has not seen me. She would surely 
 have made a friendly sign if she had." 
 
 For several days Girofle returned regularly at 
 mid-day to the same place. This singular conduct 
 
90 THE THOUSAND FRANC NOTE. 
 
 attracted the attention of one of the porters, who, 
 one morning went up to the young fellow, and said 
 to him : " I saj ! what are you awaiting about here 
 for ?"..."I am not waiting for anything! "..." Then 
 what are you doing in this place every morning 
 blocking up my gateway? "..." I block up your 
 gateway? I am surely not fat enough for that!" 
 .»" Well you interfere with the traffic ; besides it is 
 not a yevj sensible thing to do loitering about here 
 for seven or eight days, if you have no reason for 
 it. Perhaps you are a detective ?"..." ISTo sir ; I am 
 simply a lover who comes here to see the object of 
 his affections ; she is employed there, at that shop 
 opposite. "..."At the corset makers? I can tell at 
 once then that you are wasting your time. Madame 
 Bepique's young ladies will not take any notice of 
 you ! You are not nearly smart enough for them ! " 
 
 The porter then returned to the house shrugging 
 his shoulders and muttering : 
 
 " Fancy him thinking to make an impression on 
 those girls ! and what a hat he wears ! and his 
 coat looks more like a vest. I suppose he looks well- 
 dressed in his own village / " 
 
 Girone having missed one day, took up his accus- 
 tomed place on the following, and saw Violet wear- 
 ing a corset which pinched in the figure and gave 
 her a very flat appearance. 
 
 "My God ! how thin she has got ! " said Girofle, 
 who could scarcely believe his eyes, " what a change 
 in a couple of days ; she must surely have been very 
 ill ; they may grumble at me as much as they like, 
 I. mean to know the rights of it." 
 
 Bushing- over the road, he pushed open the door 
 and entered almost as suddenly as he had done on 
 the first occasion, and addressed Violet in a trending 
 voice : 
 
 " Excuse me, miss, if I put you to any incon- 
 venience, but you are so changed since the day 
 
THE BALL, 91 
 
 "before yesterday ; it grieved me terribly this morn- 
 ing to see you so thin. How ill you must have been 
 to get so thin in so short time ? " 
 
 All the girls burst out into a loud laugh, Violet, 
 alone, retaining a calm countenance, as she answered 
 him $ryly: 
 
 " Ko, I have not been ill ; but since you are here 
 M. Girofle I may take the opportunity of telling you 
 before Madame Eepique that I have no desire to see 
 you loitering about the shop every day ; it is very 
 disagreeable to me ; in fact, I hope you will not come 
 near this place again." 
 
 "You hear, young man?" exclaimed Madame 
 Eepique. " Your conduct compromises my establish- 
 ment, and if you do not cease haunting my doors I 
 shall complain to the police, who will soon set you 
 about your business. "..."Pardon! as it seems dis- 
 agreeable to everybody, and, above all, to Violet, 
 you may count upon my not coming here again. 
 Rest assured you shall not see me again." 
 
 And Girofle" went away brushing the tears from 
 his eyes, and saying to himself : "It is all very well 
 to be discreet and virtuous, but not to this extent ! 
 This is propriety with a vengeance." 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 Madame Eepique continued, thanks to her lay 
 figure, to receive crowds of customers for her corsets, 
 so made Violet a present of two pairs, which she 
 wore alternatelv,and an ordinarv pair which she wore 
 
92 THE BATiL. 
 
 on those days when she did not serve as a model. 
 But this pretty girl was far from satisfied with 
 presents of corsets ; she wanted to taste the pleasures 
 of Paris and was getting terribJy tired of the mono- 
 tonous life at Madame Eepique, when oue day whilst 
 madam e was at breakfast with her giddy spouse, 
 Babiola quietly told Violet that the carnival had 
 commenced and with it dances, suppers, and pleasures 
 without limit. " Now, do you not want to taste a 
 little of this pleasure?" said Babiola...." I should 
 like to taste a great deal, and I am looking to you 
 to procure me some. I thought when I came to 
 Paris that Marjoleine and Toinon would have pro- 
 vided some pleasure for me, but I seel was deceived, 
 and that they are troubling themselves no more 
 about me. "..."Who are these people Marjoleine and 
 Toinon ?"..." Why, Madame Trafalgar and Madame 
 de Boucherose ; they used to live in our village before 
 they were such great swells. "..."Very fine ladies, 
 they are ! Why neither of them can read or write ! 
 That one who lives with a Turk took an hour to put 
 down the name of a street, and M. Eepique has 
 never been able to find that street yet ! But you 
 don't want these ladies to find you amusement, you 
 can provide yourself with all the pleasures and 
 fancies of Paris, for you have money. I suppose 
 you have not spent your thousand francs ? ". . ." Oh ! 
 I have them all untouched. I always carry the note 
 about with me for fear of losing it."... "Give it 
 to me ; whilst they are at breakfast I will run out 
 and get it changed ; there is a money changer a 
 few doors from here. You must have some money 
 to bribe the porters with. I will keep enough to 
 provide us both with pretty dresses. We will have 
 a debardeur costume."..," What sort of a costume is 
 that 9 ". . ." Oh ! it is a very pretty one ! It is half 
 man and half woman. You wear trousers, but have 
 the shoulders bare. Best assured you will look 
 
$HL BALL. 93 
 
 charming as a debar deur. "..." And. when shall we 
 go to the ball?"..." This evening; there is a ball 
 at the Opera, and we will go there let happen what 
 will.". . ." This evening ! At the Opera ! Oh ! that 
 will be pleasure indeed! "..." At eleven yon come 
 down from your room, and get on the right side of 
 the hall porter. You will find me at the door. 
 Presently they will send me out on the rounds. I 
 shall take that opportunity of getting our costumes, 
 and will take them lo my place, where we can dress." 
 ..."And shall we go to the dance alone? "..." Oh ! 
 no! we must have an escort; Gratinet will look 
 after me."..." Who is Gratinet? "..."Oh ! he is a 
 young clerk in a lawyer's office, who has been court- 
 ing me for the past two years ; he will marry me 
 when he has passed his examinations. He is a 
 capital fellow, and so jolly. He is always thirsty. 
 It is extraordinary what half -pints and bottles he 
 puts away ! And he smokes ! About fifteen cigars 
 a day ! Why, it is enough to ruin him ! I believe 
 he would rather buy a cigar than a pair of trousers. 
 I often grumble at him for that !"..." So he will be 
 your escort? "..."Oh ! you will have yours also; he 
 will bring one of his friends. I have already told 
 him you are coming. He is going to bring Grisgris ; 
 if he does we shall laugh the whole time; he is such 
 a nice fellow ! He knows all the dances — he is 
 acquainted with all the actors and actresses in Paris ; 
 he intends building a theatre of his own, where he 
 will only present his own pieces. It is not bad, is 
 it Violet ?"..." I suppose this Grisgris is very rich 
 then ?"..." I don't think so, but he has wealthy 
 friends. He could find millions if he wanted them ! 
 At least he says so ! But whilst I am prattling 
 away here the time is getting on. Give me your 
 bank note ! " 
 
 Violet gave her the paper, which Babiola ran out 
 $o change; she brought back some gold which she 
 
94 THE BALI,. 
 
 handed over to her friend. " I have kept a hundred 
 francs," said she, " because besides our costumes we 
 may have to pay for refreshments ; Gratinet's funds 
 are a bit low at times."..." But what about the 
 other one — the one who has millions ? " ..." Yes, 
 but he does not spend much. Now, don't forget to 
 come down as soon as the others are in bed."... 
 " There is not much danger of my forgetting that ! " 
 
 Eleven o'clock struck, the shop was closed, and 
 the young ladies had gone up to the fifth floor. 
 Yiolet waited some time till her neighbours had 
 retired, then she gently opened her door, closed it 
 after her, and went down the stairs as lightly as a 
 fairy. Arrived at the porter's lodge, she put her 
 head inside and whispered: "M. Pieard !"..." Ah ! 
 is that Miss Yiolet? What is the matter now? 
 Are yon ill ?"..." No ! but I am going to a dance ! " 
 . . ." A dance ? The devil you are ! What about — ? " 
 ..." They will know nothing about it if you will let 
 me in when I knock about five to-morrow morning." 
 ..."Ah! but I cannot do that! You see there is 
 my character. I cannot help you to deceive them !" 
 . . . " M. Picard, will you accept this ? " And the 
 young girl gave him a twenty-franc piece. He 
 opened his eyes as wide as possible ; he took the gold 
 piece, examined it, smiled as if he wished to kiss it, 
 then exclaimed: "And is all this for me?"... 
 " Certainly, if you do not mind accepting it."..." Oh 
 I don't mind accepting it. You go to the ball, my 
 dear; go when you like, enjoy yourself, you are just 
 the age ! ". . ." You will not forget me when I return 
 in the morning, will you? "..."At any hour you 
 wish, I will not f o.iget you : I am too^accustomed to 
 it ; all the girls in the house do the same as you."... 
 "I don't know where they go but they seldom 
 sleep in their rooms."..." Open the door!" 
 
 Yiolet was in the street ; she looked round for 
 Babiola. Instead of her companion she saw coming 
 
THE BALL. 95 
 
 towards her a young fellow wearing one of those new 
 hats which look exactly like a basin, and a coat 
 whjch scarcely covered his behind. This young man 
 accosted Violet, and said : " Miss, I am waiting for 
 you ; I am Gratinet, of whom Babiola has already 
 spoken to you. You ought to have found your 
 friend here, but in trying on her trousers she found 
 they were much too large for what sh had to put in 
 them, so she is taking them in a bit. As that would 
 take some time, she sent me in her stead. Take my 
 arm, and we will go now to Babiola's."... "Is it far 
 sir? "..."Not very far."..." But it rains ? "..."Oh ! I 
 
 have an old umbrella. 1 will open it.". s ." But if 
 
 we took a carriage we could get there much more 
 quickly ! ". . ." Yes, but we cannot get one about here ; 
 in Paris, you can never get a carriage when it rains. 
 We will walk. Allow me to light a cigar, I pre- 
 sume you do not object to smoking? "..." Not at 
 all, on the contrary, I like the smell of it very much." 
 ..."You like the smell of tobacco? Miss Yiolet, 
 will you take my arm ? " 
 
 Yiolet put her arm through his ; they walked as 
 quickly as the open umbrella would allow ; it was 
 supposed to shelter them, but it was smothered with 
 holes. 
 
 " My rascally porter told me he had mended my 
 umbrella," cried Gratinet ; " but I see that he has 
 forgotten it."..." I am certainly getting wet."... 
 » c Fortunately, you are going to change at Babiola's" 
 ..."What disguise do you propose to take, sir?"... 
 " Oh, I have a costume of my own — a pierrot. It is 
 a very good one, and spares me the expense of hiring 
 one. Ah ! there is a cafe ; let us go in and have 
 half-a-pint."..."lSro, sir; I am wet. Lst us hurry 
 •on to Babiola's."..." Oh, let us have a small bottle; 
 we can drink it very quickly."... "No, thanks ; be- 
 sides, I do not like beer."..," You do not like beer? 
 
96 THE BALL, 
 
 Why, you astonish me ! "..."Let us hurry, sir, yout 
 umbrella is more like a rain spout." 
 
 The couple hurried along, and soon arrived at 
 Babiola's. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Violet. How well you are ! " cried 
 Babiola. " Why didn't you bring your umbrella? " 
 ..."This gentleman's is more like a potato-strainer." 
 ..."Gratinet, why didn't you take a carriage for 
 Violet ? ". . ." Why ? Because there wasn't one in the 
 place."..." That's very curious, you can never find a 
 carriage. How is it? "..."I offered Miss Violet a 
 half-pint, and she refused it."..." She was quite 
 right. You go and dress yourself, and be here at 
 midnight with Grisgris."..." We shall be here to 
 time."..." What dress are you going to wear?"... 
 i( Oh, I am coming as a pierrot."..."How infatuated 
 you are with that dress; it is not so becoming 
 after all." 
 
 M. Gratinet went off singing the march from the 
 " Tartars," '• Come on, my pretty girls, follow me." 
 
 " What do you think of Gratinet ? M said Babiola, 
 as soon as he had left. " He is very amiable, is he 
 not ? ". . ." That depends upon taste. But what about 
 my costume ? Can I see it ? I am dyiug to put it 
 on."..." There it is on my bed. I hope you will be 
 satisfied with it; I think it is delightful." Violet 
 examined the costume. " Ah ! so this is it. Why, 
 it is a man's dress! "..."But it is only worn by 
 women ; look at the velvet breeches, with bands of 
 silver, and the little bells and embroideries."..." Ah ! 
 dress me quickly. I long to see myself in it." 
 
 Babiola dressed the young girl, who had never 
 before worn a fancy costume, or been to a masked 
 ball. She looked charming in her new dress. " Some 
 people put powder on their hair,* but as you have 
 such beautiful black hair, it would be a pity to put 
 any on yours. Tou look most bewitching ! Only 
 you must bare your bosom a little more. In this 
 
THE BALL. 97 
 
 costume it is always necessary to leave the breasts 
 bare. "..."Oh, I cannot uncover myself more than 
 that; besides I shall catch cold."..." You will not be 
 cold at the dance."..."! am afraid I shall feel un- 
 comfortable there."... "Not at all; walk, ,and dance, 
 pirouette and ship about ; send your leg into the air 
 as high as you can."... "What for?"..." Why, that 
 shows you know all the fashionable dances, and it is 
 good form. Now, I must dress myself, or T shall not 
 be ready when Gratinet and his friend get-here." 
 
 In about half-an-hour Babiola was ready, and the 
 two girls impatiently awaited their escort; to the 
 dance. Babiola, stamping her little foot with rage, 
 exclaimed : " It is a quarter past -twelve now, and 
 they are not here. That scamp of a Gratinet has 
 stopped somewhere to drink. Come on, Violet, let 
 us have a polka. It will be a little practice for 
 you." 
 
 Singing and laughing as they ascended the stairs, 
 the two clowns arrived on the scene. 
 
 Grisgris was a very nice-looking fellow, but with a 
 somewhat rakish air. When laughing he showed a 
 splendid set of teeth, and his eyes seemed to pene- 
 trate their beholder. 
 
 As he entered the room he made a low bow, em- 
 braced Babiola, and then stopped before Violet. " So 
 this is our new young friend," said he, " and she is 
 going to the ball for the first time.". . ." Yes, indeed, 
 I am.". . ." Charming ! upon my honour you are ! and 
 pray what shall we call you?"..." Violet, sir."... 
 " Violet ! the most delicious flower and type of 
 modesty. Ah ! my pretty Violet, I wonder how 
 many conquests you will make to-night. You have 
 already made one of me, I assure you.". . ." What, sir, 
 already ? "..."In carnival time, my dear, we fall in 
 love very quickly; we do away wilh all the pre- 
 liminary sighs and compliments. Do you follow me, 
 my angel ?"..." Ah, sir, you are very impudent.". . . 
 
98 THE BALL. 
 
 -• .111, all ! Did you hear that, you others ? Yiolet 
 says 1 am impudent because T flatter her. Oh, what 
 country innocence]! But the ball will put all that to 
 rights. Let us have a polka ? " 
 
 And Grisgris put his arm round Violet's waist, 
 and polka'd round the room. 
 
 " Not bad. You have a good ear, and keep good 
 time. You will get along capitally, for you are as 
 light as a feather." 
 
 " Let us go now, gentlemen. I hope you have 
 brought a carriage? "..."Oh, certainly, a splendid 
 one. We shall be a bit crowded when we all four 
 get in, but that does not matter, it will keep us 
 warm. While I think of it, Babiola, take some 
 money with you. I haven't very much with me, and 
 Grisgris has forgotten his purse." — "Yes, I am so 
 very thoughtless, you know," -said Grisgris. "But 
 never mind, Gratinet and I can go in free, and there 
 are tickets for you two girls."..." Besides," said 
 Yiolet, " if you had no tickets it would not matter. 
 I have brought a hundred francs with me, I suppose 
 that will be enough ?"..." A hundred francs ! " 
 cried the two clowns, capering round the room. 
 " Did you hear what she said ? She has a hundred 
 francs ! "..."Ah, she isn't a woman, she must be 
 some angel from heaven." 
 
 " Miss, if that little familiarity I took just now 
 was displeasing to you I will carefully desist in 
 future.".. ."Not at all, sir: if it is the custom at 
 fancy dress balls to act in that manner I suppose I 
 shall soon get used to it.". . ." I trust, my dear young 
 lady," said Gratinet, " that you will thoroughly 
 understand that if we allow you to pay for supper 
 to-night we shall take the first opportunity of return- 
 ing you anything you may have to spend."... "Oh, 
 that does not matter. I shall be only too pleased to 
 pay for the supper. In fact, I hardly know what to 
 do with my money.". . ." She says she does not know 
 
THE BALL, 99 
 
 what to do with her money! Did yon hear that 
 Babiola? Ton never said anything like that, did 
 you, my dear? Suppose we go to supper at once? " 
 ..."'No, no ! Let ns go to the dance first; we know 
 you too well, Gratinet ; once at the table we shall 
 never be able to get you away."..." Yes 1 " said 
 Grisgris, taking Violet's arm, " let us go to the ball 
 first, it gives one an appetite." 
 
 The two couples set out without move ado, and 
 soon arrived at the Opera. As soon as she got 
 inside Yiolet was overcome by all the noise and 
 tumult, the crowd, the music, and the heat made 
 her giddy, yet they caused a glow of pleasure of 
 which she had never hitherto dreamed. As soon as 
 she entered the dancing saloon she held tightly on 
 to Grisgris' arm. Then the orchestra started a 
 polka, and Grisgris took her by the waist and com- 
 menced to dance. " Hold firm," said he, " and do 
 not mind being knocked against or knocking others ; 
 nothing gives one self-possession like a dance." 
 
 After the dance Yiolet was in a terrible prespira- 
 tion, but she had lost all her doubts and fears. 
 After the quadrille she lost her timidity, and after 
 the galop she felt like putting her toe on the nose of 
 her vis-a-vis. 
 
 Grisgris was delighted with his pupil and partner, 
 and spent the intervals between the dances whisper- 
 ing tender words in her ear. Yiolet received his 
 declarations with a smile, but she was by no means 
 averse to them, for he had a way of looking at her 
 whicji made her heart beat very fast. Babiola and 
 Gratinet danced on their own account. The crowd 
 often separated the two couples, but the young clerk 
 kept his eye on Yiolet, for he had not forgotten the 
 supper she had promised to pay for. 
 
 The time passed quickly by, as it always does 
 when we are enjoying onrselves; the two assistants 
 of Madame Repique adored dancing, and did not 
 
100 AN OECHESTRA IN DISORDER. 
 
 miss a single one. Gratinet had already made 
 seveial attempts to get supper, but the girls kept 
 replying : " Not yet." 
 
 But as Violet had to get back by six o'clock, the 
 two clowns took their partners to a small dining- 
 room in the Maison-Doree. There they had a daintj 
 little supper, everybody was delighted except Gratinet, 
 who missed his beer terribly. At last, at half-past 
 five, Yiolet, who was afraid of being seen, said that 
 she must really be getting away, for she had to go 
 to Babiola's house "first to change her dress, so they 
 jumpod into a cab; Yiolet went to Babiola's and 
 changed, then the cab took her to within a few 
 paces of the house, where she said good-bye to 
 Grisgris, and promised to meet him again on the 
 following Saturday evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 
 
 The three following Saturday evenings were em- 
 ployed in the same way. Yiolet had been persuaded 
 by Babiola to purchase a Columbine's costume, so 
 that now she could change in her own little room 
 before going to her friend's house, and after snapper, 
 could return home straight from the dance. This 
 arrangement was very gratifying to Gratinet, as it 
 permitted a considerably longer stay at the supper- 
 table. 
 
 Grisgris always escorted Yiolet to and from the 
 ballroom ; the future millionaire was more tender 
 and amorous than ever, but somehow he was always 
 
AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 101 
 
 forgetting his purse, and Gratinet could not offer the 
 ladies anything besides drinks and cigars. The 
 fascinating glances, slight pressures of the hand, and 
 burning declarations of Grisgris commenced tc make 
 an impression upon Violet, who, however, had not 
 .yet granted him a tete-a-tete ; but the good tempered 
 pierrot, who did not wish this new conquest to slip 
 from his grasp, had made his plans. 
 
 One Saturday, as they were walking round the 
 room, Grisgris remarked to the charming Columbine : 
 " My dear little friend, do you not find a week rather 
 a long time for us to be apart ; you see how happy 
 we are when we are together."..." Indeed, I am 
 quite of your way of thinking. The week seems 
 terribly long to me ; but are there no dances at the 
 opera except on Saturdays ? " ..." There are only 
 dances at the opera on Saturdays, but there are 
 others elsewhere on other evenings : on Thursdays at 
 Montmartre I know they have a little masked ball. 
 It is not such a brilliant affair as this, but you can 
 often find a great deal more enjoyment there. Will 
 you come next Thursday ?"..." Yes, with pleasure; 
 now I have managed the hall-porter I shall tiy and 
 go to a dance every evening."... "Every night! 
 Why, it would soon tire you out ; twice a week is 
 quite often enough."..." I must run over and tell 
 Babiola we are going on Thursday."..." What for? 
 There is no need to have Babiola with us every time 
 we go to a dance. What necessity is there to take 
 Gratinet and his mistress when we always lose sight 
 of them as soon as the dancing commences, and only 
 find them again when supper time comes ? This 
 Gratinet thinks of nothing but eating and drinking ; 
 he never has any money. I have none myself just 
 at present, it is true, but I shall have some soon — ■ 
 millions. I am going to build a theatre as soon as I 
 can find a suitable position ; you know the site is so 
 very important ! Just now I am undecided between 
 
102 AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 
 
 Maubert Place and Cairo Place.".,. "Oh ! bother! 
 let ns go to the dance next Thursday; I don't want 
 fco hear anything about theatres.". . ." You are right ; 
 let us return to what we were discussing before I 
 mentioned the theatres. I was saying it is quite 
 unnecessary to take Babiola and Gratinet with us. 
 Why do you want to stand supper to them every 
 lime ? It will ruin you ; and we two could enjoy 
 ourselves ever so much better without them."... 
 " Very well, we will go next Thursday without 
 Babiola. Now I have my costume I can leave the 
 house ready dressed ; you can wait for me a short 
 distance off with a carriage, and you can bring me 
 back in the same way."..." That's capital; now, 
 mind, not a word to Babiola."..." Not a word! 
 Thursday at a quarter past eleven you will be ready 
 for me with a carriage ? " It is agreed ! You are 
 a darling ! "..."Ah ! you flatter me again! "..."I 
 will go as Pierrot and you as Columbine. They are 
 commencing another dance ; come, let us join in." 
 
 That night finished as the others had done. 
 They took Yiolet back to her door, and she went up 
 to her little room already thinking of the fun she 
 would have on Thursday. The pleasure seemed all 
 the greater when she remembered Babiola knew 
 nothing of it. A woman always seems to find 
 greater pleasure in anything when a little mystery 
 enshrouds it. 
 
 The day, or rather the night arrived in due course, 
 as everything arrives here below, whether it be 
 pleasure or pain, and often those days which we look 
 forward to so eagerly arrive too soon, for they pass 
 so quickly and remembrance of the past is never so 
 enjoyable as anticipation. On this Thursday Yiolet 
 \iad donned her pretty costume and passed quietly 
 down to the outer door. The porter let her out 3 and 
 there she found Grisgris enveloped in a cloak that 
 only partly covered his costume, A cab stood a few 
 
AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 103 
 
 paces off; they jumped in and were soon off to 
 Montmartre. Grisgris stole several kisses and em- 
 braced her again and again, but she soon repulsed 
 him declaring that he was tumbling her dress. 
 
 There is nothing so virtuous as a woman afraid o£ 
 having her dress tumbled. They arrived at Mont- 
 martre ; the ball room was crowded but it was a very 
 mixed company. The dance was very lively, and the 
 can-can was much more indecorous than at the 
 Opera. Amidst the noise of the band and dancers 
 the pound of a cornet prevailed over all ; at times it 
 played a solo, and received the applause of the 
 dancers — Bravo cornet ! What a fine instrument ! 
 Hurrah for the cornet ! 
 
 The musician who was playing this instrument 
 was no other than poor Girofle who, anxious like his 
 brother to earn a little money, had taken a place in 
 this orchestra, and since the commencement of the 
 carnival had held the position of solo cornet to the 
 great satisfaction of the dancers and conductor of 
 the band. Yiolet, who was mad for the dance, and 
 who, thanks to the instruction of Grisgris, had be- 
 come quite proficient in the can-can, did not miss a 
 single quadrille, polka, or valse. She had already 
 passed close to Girofle several times, but he was too 
 much occupied with his playing to notice the dancers. 
 But a new quadrille was commencing ; Yiolet and 
 her pierrot found themselves placed before the 
 orchestra close beside the cornet. The dance went 
 on when the big drum, close behind Girofle, shouted 
 all of a sudden, as he watched the Columbine : 
 " What a pretty girl 1 Now that is what I call 
 pretty indeed ! Look ! cornet, right in front of you, 
 disguised as a Columbine ! " Girofle answered : "It 
 does not interest me ! " and prepared himself for the 
 Bolo, but the big drum repeated : " Oh ! do look for 
 a moment ; just to show that I have good taste." 
 
 Girofle glanced up; he remained uninterested 
 
104 AN ORCHESTRA IP DISORDER. 
 
 until he saw in the Columbine a resemblance to 
 Violet, then he forgot his solo, and the conductor, 
 turning to him, cried out : " Now then, cornet ; come 
 on* What's the matter? Is he asleep?" The big 
 drum gave Girofle a push, and said : " Ah ! now you 
 have looked at her too long ; you have forgotten your 
 place ; come, blow away ! " 
 
 Just at that moment Girofle saw the Columbine 
 put her toe on the nose of her vis-a-vis. The move- 
 ment called him to himself as he said : " Fancy being 
 such a fool as to think that creature could be my 
 Violet ! Could she lift her foot like that and come 
 from a house where everything is so proper and 
 strict." He went on playing his instrument. When 
 the figure was ended, it was not Violet's turn to 
 dance and she smiled at Grisgris Then Girofle 
 muttered: "Well, that looks very much like her 
 laugh ! My God ! and she laughed at that clown ! " 
 
 The bandmaster was furious ; he frowned terribly 
 at the musician and said : " Now then, damn you, 
 what aie you doing now! That's not the place, you 
 fool ! You are a disgrace to the whole orchestra ! " 
 
 Girofle in fact played on in spite of ear and sense ; 
 "he had no idea of what he was doing, blowing at 
 random and cracking on his notes, playing in three 
 time when the measure was four, then he played so 
 loudly that the dancers commeced calling out " Oh ! 
 oh ! cornet ! Get in tune my friend ! Enough ! 
 enough ! you are deafening us ! You've had a drop 
 too much to-night, go to sleep ! " 
 
 When the quadrille was finished, Girofle did not 
 wait for the bandmaster to speak to him ; he had 
 already disappeared into the ball-room. He pushed 
 and thrust everybody on one side ; he looked at the 
 Columbine, who was dancing before him ; he noticed 
 she was arm-in-arm with the pier rot. He ran up 
 close to her ; he could doubt no longer, it was 
 Violet. He stopped her and said : " Is it possible P 
 
AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 105 
 
 Is it you Violet? You! in this dog-kennel too! 
 You ! at a ball? You ! and dancing ? You ! with 
 jour leg in the air? " 
 
 Violet was somewhat upset at seeing her old lover, 
 but she did not hesitate to answer: " Well, yes sir, 
 it is I. What is there surprising in that ? Did you 
 think I came to Paris to pass my life in Madame 
 Repique's shop? I wanted to enjoy myself, and, 
 you see, I am. Do you think you are going to pre- 
 vent me ? ".-.." Prevent you ! you ! my princess ? " 
 cried Grisgris, examining Girofle with a supercilious 
 leer. " I should just like to see him try, swine of a 
 cornet. What do you mean by calling this a dog- 
 kennel ? You repeat it sir, and I'll make you swal- 
 low your cornet. I'll batter you with your instru- 
 ment !"..." Pierrot, I am not speaking to you. I 
 have nothing to say to you, but don't you commence 
 threatening me in that way or I will thrash you ; I 
 will flatten you, I will break you like a candle ! " 
 
 Whilst speaking, he seized Grisgris by the arm, 
 and held him with such strength that Grisgris be- 
 came purple in his efforts to get free. Then Violet 
 set upon her old lover and exclaimed in an irritated 
 tone : " M. Girofle, I command you to release this 
 gentleman ; I forbid you to say another word to him, 
 and for the future I shall have nothing to do with 
 you. I shall not even recognise you. I forbid you 
 to speak to me." 
 
 The poor fellow turned pale, he released his hold 
 upon the pierrot, he lowered his eyes towards the 
 ground, and muttered : " That will do, miss, it is 
 suflicient ; I will obey you." Then parting the crowd, 
 which had already gathered round, he left the hall as 
 quickly as he had entered it, but he did not go back 
 to the orchestra, his heart broken he went away 
 fully determined never to play again at a dance. 
 
 " The scamp ! what a hound ! " cried Grisgris. re- 
 covering his arrogance, which he had lost whilst in 
 
106 AN ORCHESTRA IN DISORDER. 
 
 the grip of Girofle. " He has done wisely to go 
 away quietly, I would have made his blood answer 
 for it. Wherever did you know that fellow my 
 dear ?"..." Oh ! in our village; he was the young 
 fellow who wanted to marry me."..." Why does he 
 not keep in his village. But, let us forget this un- 
 pleasant incident. They are commencing a valse; 
 let us dance. 55 
 
 However, the absence of the cornet disorganised 
 the orchestra, which had lost its chief support. 
 The dancers complained, but there was no means of 
 getting Girofle back again. The dance lost its ani- 
 mation, and at three o'clock everybody went away. 
 Yiolet and her sweetheart did as everybody else. 
 They looked for a cab, but there was none about, so 
 they had to return on foot. Yiolet, who was a little 
 disconcerted, declared that she did not want any 
 supper, and Grisgris said he felt the same. 
 
 Throughout the long walk Grisgris was tender, 
 passionate, and pressing. He employed every gal- 
 lant phrase he knew, but the young girl from S. 
 John-in-the-Wood was not so accustomed to these 
 as the Parisian grisettes. They then arrived at the 
 courtyard door, which was open ready for the young 
 girl. " It is very early," said Grisgris, " I do not 
 want to leave you yet, let me come upstairs with you 
 a little while.". . ."Oh, what are you thinking about." 
 ..."I will go away before daylight; nobody wHl see 
 me.". . ." ISTo, it must not be ; I cannot receive you in 
 my bedroom — it is so small.". . ."It will be quite large 
 enough for us two, my dear Yiolet; you are your 
 own mistress, and no one will know it."..." If you 
 promise me only to remain a few moments."..." Oh, 
 I promise you." 
 
 The door was opened, Grisgris passed through very 
 quickly in case Yiolet shoiild alter her mind. The 
 porter called out, without rising from his bed i 
 
AN IMPRUDENT PIERROT. 107 
 
 "Is that you, Miss Yiolet? "..." Yes."..." Do you 
 want a light ?"..." No, thank you." 
 
 The pierrot followed the Columbine. As soon as 
 they saw their way clear they hastened to the fifth 
 floor, and Yiolet opened her door. The happy 
 Grisgris entered the little room with her — -— , 
 
 Poor Girofle ! you were quite right not to play at 
 another dance. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 AN IMPRUDENT PIERROT. 
 
 M. Grisgris craved hard to remain till half-past- 
 seven. There are moments in one's life one would 
 never wish, to see vanish. 
 
 At half-past-seven the pierrot, wrapped in his 
 cloak, descended the staircase, humming to himself; 
 lie was very happy. Indeed, he had reason to be 
 well satisfied. But in passing before a window he 
 saw M. Bepique, who no longer dared go up to the 
 fifth floor, but passed his early mornings in the 
 courtyard, under the pretext of continued indis- 
 position. 
 
 Plorestan passed the young man, whose disguise 
 was not completely hidden by the cloak, for one 
 could see his cap, his collar, and the lower part of 
 his trousers. The corset-maker examined him with 
 great curiosity, but Grisgris passed without saluting, 
 and even gazed upon him with a supercilious grin, 
 and then continued slowly to descend the stairs. 
 Mc-restan stopped upon the staircase ; he continued 
 to follow Grisgris with curious eyes, and betook him- 
 
108 AN IMPRUDENT FIERROT. 
 
 eelf at once to the porter's lodge. " Monsieur 
 Picard," said he, excitedly, " has there been a 
 masked ball in the house last night? "..."A masked 
 tall — to-night — in the honse ? No, sir, no ! none has 
 given a ball in the house to-night. "..." Then, where 
 did that young fellow come from who went out just 
 now, disguised as a pierrot ?"..." A pierrot ? You 
 saw a pierrot go out ? I saw no one pass, I assure 
 you. "../'That only shows how*carefully you perform 
 your duties. Yes, a young man disguised as a 
 pierrot. He had a sort of cloak which partly covered 
 his costume ; but that did not prevent me seeing his 
 head and legs. Why, I even saw his waistcoat." 
 ..."Then it is evidently one of the people in the 
 house amusing himself."..." People don't put fancy 
 dress at seven o'clock in the morning."..." Well, sir, 
 what do you want me to do? Don't look at me like 
 that; let me read my paper. "..."I tell vou what it 
 is, you have no business to allow people in the house 
 without knowing who they are. I must find out 
 which part of the house he came from, the impudent 
 rascal."..." Well, go and ask the various lodgers; 
 they will tell you perhaps." 
 
 M. Picard left M. Repique, and went on reading 
 his La Patrie. Plorestan returned to his room in a 
 thoroughly bad humour, and hastened to relate to 
 his wife what he had seen. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Lucrece, " after all, what does it 
 matter to you ? May not the other lodgers disguise 
 themselves if they like ?"..." But, my dear, if it had 
 been anyone from the house I should have recog- 
 nised him. I know everybody here. It was a 
 stranger, I tell you — an intruder !"..." Some client 
 of M. Postulant perhaps ?"..." Do clients come on 
 business in the disguise of a pierrot, and at seven in 
 the morning?"..." Enough, sir; do you suspect the 
 virtue of any of your employes ? Pie, sir ! Pie ! 
 They are quite discreet. You have found that out 
 
AN IMPRUBENT PlERRO^. 109 
 
 already. *'..." Ver y well, Lucrece, I shall not say an- 
 other word, but if 1 see the pierrot again I shall 
 certainly let him know my suspicions." 
 
 As soon as everybody was down in the shop, 
 Florestan did not fail to remark ; 
 
 " Ladies, if you would like to see some masks, I 
 may inform you that there has been one in the 
 house. This morning at half -past-seven I met a 
 pierrot od the stairs." 
 
 " A pierrot ? " cried all the young ladies except 
 Violet, who became as red as a cherry, and lowered 
 her eyes to her work. 
 
 "Really, sir?" said Babiola. "You are not 
 having a game with us, are you? Did you see a 
 pierrot on the stairs just now ?"..." No, not just 
 now, but early this morning before anybody was 
 up." 
 
 Babiola cast a glance at Violet which said a good 
 many things ; then she remarked : " Was he good 
 looking, sir 9 "..."He was young, yes; and a bit of 
 a spark. He hadn't any powder on his face ; he had 
 probably washed his face." 
 
 " That is quite enough ! " cried Madame Eepique ; 
 " there is no need for you to talk to these young 
 ladies about your visions. Let us hear no more 
 about your masks, and return at once to your desk ; 
 there is an error of twenty-five centimes in the 
 accounts. You must find it out, it is much more 
 important than all your pierrots." 
 
 Florestan went off, casting an artful glance at 
 Violet as he passed. As for Babiola, she sulked 
 with her friend, for she saw that Violet had been to 
 a dance without her knowing it. 
 
 But Violet felt that she did not need Babiola now 
 to procure pleasure for her, and she thought with 
 GTrisgris that there was no necessity to supply Grati- 
 net and Babiola with a supper every time : and that 
 
110 AN IMPRUDENT PIERROT. 
 
 she would go to the opera the following Saturday 
 without waiting for Babiola. 
 
 Is it necessary to say that on returning from the 
 dance Grisgris glided quickly into Violet's room, nor 
 did he need to ask permission. We all know that in 
 love it is only the first time which costs the trouble. 
 The next time the pierrot was more prudent; he 
 stole away sooner, and met no one on his way. But 
 at the following dance, on the Thursday, Grisgris, 
 tired by the exertions of the dance, slept soundly till 
 it was time to go. Yiolet tried iu vain to wake her 
 lover, and begged of him to depart, but he only 
 muttered: "Let me sleep, I am very tired. I want 
 to sleep. I shall sleep all day ; I will get out of the 
 way in the evening — no one will see me." 
 
 Seeing that her efforts were in vain, and that 
 Grisgris seemed determined not to hear, Violet de- 
 termined to leave him in her room, and went down 
 into the shop, and tried hard not to appear confused. 
 The pierrot slept on till about three in the afternoon, 
 then he roused himself and had a look round. Sud- 
 denly he remembered where he was, and felt a keen 
 desire for something to eat. He recalled the promise 
 he had made to his mistress, but he pondered in his 
 mind : " If I stay here till the evening I must go 
 another three hours without anything to eat, for 
 there is nothing here to have a bite at, not even a 
 bit of sugar. I cannot possibly wait all that time. 
 I am just as likely to be met on the stairs this even- 
 ing as now ; confound it! I am absolutely deserted, 
 but I must really refresh myself somehow ! Besides, 
 five flights of stairs are soon skipped over, and, after 
 all, no one knows where I come from." 
 
 This being the state of affairs, our young hero 
 donned his costume and covered it with his cloak, 
 and descended with the least possible noise. He got 
 to the bottom without meeting anyone, but just as 
 he was turning round at the last step he knocked up 
 
AN IMPRUDENT PIERROT. Ill 
 
 against M. Repique, who had during the day re- 
 marked some embarrassment in Violet's behaviour ; 
 in fact, he found her outside in the courtyard several 
 times, and, thinking something was awry, had taken 
 every opportunity of strolling about the yard instead 
 of remaining at his desk. He suddenly caught sight 
 of Grisgris, and cried out : " Ah ! there is my pierrot. 
 Sir, where do you come from ? Did you come out of 
 the house in that disguise ? " 
 
 Grisgris looked at him from head to foot, and, 
 feeling a great inclination to laugh, said, with a 
 grimace : " What is that to do with you, you old 
 baked apple ! Are you the hall porter of this estab- 
 lishment? I shall not tell you my dear fellow. 
 Come now, do you intend to stop me going out !"... 
 " Tes, sir. You do not leave here till I know who 
 you are ! "..."If you get fooling about with me I 
 
 shall box your ears .",.." Hi! here! porter! 
 
 what, ho there ! " 
 
 A good sound punch on the jaw prevented 
 Florestan completing his sentence. In the midst of 
 all the noise his wife and several other people 
 appeared on the scene. As for Grisgris, after giving 
 Lucrece's husband a parting blow, he slipped out by 
 the gate, which was always open during the day, 
 and disap reared. The porter then came up with his 
 broom just as the pierrot vanished. "What is all 
 this noise about 9 " cried he. " What is it ? Why 
 do you call the guard ? Ah, it is M. Repique again ! 
 He has been playing the devil about here for some 
 time ! "..."Porter, you are an old oyster," cried 
 Florestan, holding his jaw. "You come when the 
 scroundel has gone, but my wife saw him ; she will 
 not say that I am dreaming this time. You saw the 
 pierrot, did you not Lucrece ? ". . ." Indeed I certainly 
 saw a man give you a smack in the jaw. However 
 could you let him strike you like that ? You must 
 have done him some injury sir ! "..."Ah, I simply 
 
112 Aft IMPRUDENT PIERROT* 
 
 asked where lie came from. I suppose I had a right 
 to do that. Masqueraders have no right to walk 
 about our house, especially when we know nothing 
 about them. We have a fool of a porter here, who 
 would allow cattle to come wandering about our 
 yard without taking the slightest notice; but I dare- 
 say he can tell you more than I," 
 
 Several of the inhabitants declared that the pierrot 
 could not possibly have come from the house. 
 Morestan glanced at his wife, as though he would 
 say : " Yon see my suspicions were not so ridiculous 
 after all ! " They returned to the shop. All the 
 young ladies were in their places, but Yiolet was 
 very red and kept her eyes cast down upon her work, 
 whilst her companions turned up their noses at her 
 and laughed mockingly whenever an opportunity 
 occurred. Madame Kepique said nothing, but looked 
 closely at her work-girls, whose faces were very 
 significant. 
 
 Morestan entered the shop several times, on each 
 occasion holding his face in his hands and trying his 
 hardest to get a glimpse of Yiolet's face. Then 
 Lucrece exclaimed : " Ladies, some very peculiar 
 incidents have happened in this house lately ; this 
 pierrot, whom my husband has met several times 
 lately, has again appeared on our staircase. I do 
 not attach much importance to it, but I must say I 
 have seen him myself."..." Ah, and I felt him!" 
 said Morestan, still holding his jaw. " The fool fell 
 upon me with great violence. I can feel the effect 
 of his blows now. ~No one among the residents of 
 the house knew anything of this pierrot, or knew 
 from whence he came."..." Has no one seen or hear 
 anything which might afford us some information 
 about this jackanapes ? " 
 
 The lalh-like Ursula, who was on thorns to say 
 something, burst out with : " My God, madame, you 
 must address your questions to Miss Yiolet here ; 
 
AN IMPRUDENT PIERROT. 113 
 
 she can tell you, for we heard him this - morning in 
 her room, and she said to him: 'Now, mind you 
 do not go down before it is dark,' and when she 
 came in at five o'clock in the morning she was 
 certainly not alone, nor was it she playing a reed- 
 pipe ! "..." What do I hear?" cried Madame 
 Eepique. " Do you mean to say you have been be- 
 having in this manner ? ". . ." I was not so far wrong, 
 you see, when I made that hole in the door," said 
 M. Eepique, still holding his face. "I knew very 
 well there was something wcrth seeing."... "Hold 
 your tongue sir, aud do not meddle with what you do 
 not understand !"..." But, my dear, I do understand 
 something about this, seeing that I have received a 
 blow in the face from the pierrot himself — ■ — .". .. 
 " That's enough ! go back to your desk. I know 
 what I shall do— — ." 
 
 Florestan hastened back to his desk, but on his 
 way passed as near to Violet as possible and mur- 
 mured : " With a pierrot, eh ? And so bashful too ! 
 Oh ! these villagers — these country maidens — these 
 girls that like to play in the fields— you have de- 
 ceived me, my dear." 
 
 Madame Eepique addressed herself again to the 
 young girl, who, for some moments, had not raised 
 her eyes from the floor : 
 
 " Miss, you have heard these accusations? What 
 have you to say in answer to them ?"..." Nothing, 
 madame; 'besides, I do not care to tell you a he. 
 And since these young ladies seem to have been 
 playing the spy upon me, and have heard me speak- 
 ing to some one, I may as well tell you at once that 
 this pierrot was in my room'"... "Is it possible? 
 And you dare to admit it? "..."I suppose I must 
 since everybody seems to have seen him."..." What 
 cynicism! What audacity! Miss, I cannot keep 
 young ladies here who -run out at night to balls and 
 dances — and it appears that you are in the habit of 
 
ll4 THE &IRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STAYS, 
 
 doing so — and bring back with you . But 1 do 
 
 not care to enter into the odious details, you must 
 leave my house at once. "..."My God! Madame, 
 you need not get into such a temper about it. I 
 hadn't the slightest intention of staying here. I 
 have had quite enough of your shop. I do not 
 intend any longer to play the stupid part of lay figure 
 to you."..." You shall go to-day ! "..."At once, 
 Madame. I will go upstairs now and get whatever 
 belongs to me, so I bid you good-day. 
 
 So saying, Violet ran from the counter, leaving 
 Madame Repique thunderstruck at her audacity, and 
 the three other girls delighted that she was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STATS. 
 
 Violet made a small parcel of her belongings ; as it 
 contained her Columbine costume it was quite large 
 enough for her to conveniently carry. She asked 
 the porter to get her a cab, telling him at the same 
 time that she was leaving the Louse for good. 
 
 M. Picard, on whom the young girl had fre- 
 quently lavished a considerable amount of money in 
 tips of one sort and another, put down his news- 
 paper, and exclaimed: "That is a very distressing 
 piece of news, miss; you say you are leaving here 
 for .good? I am quite sure it is that wicked old 
 Repique who is the cause."..," Eo doubt he met my 
 lover, he found out the secret."..." What an ill- 
 tempered man he is ! What business was it of his ? 
 
THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. 115 
 
 He wandered about my stairs or in the yard all day 
 long just to see who was about. He interferes with 
 my rights. One of these days I will kick him out of 
 the door. And where are you going, my dear young 
 lady? "..."To my lover's house. He told me he 
 lived in the Rue de Taitbont. Is it far. from here ?" 
 ..." Not far ; 1 will run and get you a decent-looking 
 cab." 
 
 The cab came up. Violet jumped in with her 
 parcel, bad adieu to the porter, who was drying 
 his eyes, and said to the driver : "42, Rue Taitbont." 
 
 Fortunately she had retained Grisgiis' address. 
 Several times he had said that he occupied a charm- 
 ing apartment in the Chaussee d'Antin, on the first 
 floor. Yiolet determined to go and live with Gris- 
 gris. "He will be very pleased," thought she, "for 
 he told me last night lie would never leave me, and 
 that he was only happy when I was by. By Jove, 
 I would rather live with him in. a pretty room than 
 in that dingy apartment where Madame Repique 
 stowed me away." 
 
 The cab stopped before a superior-looking house 
 in the Rue Taitbont. Yiolet entered and asked the 
 hall-keeper for M. Grisgris. The hall-keeper was a 
 tall, thin woman, whose appearance was not by any 
 means inviting ; she looked the young woman up and 
 down, and said: "Yes, it is here."..." Is he at 
 home?" said Yiolet...." At home! at home! M. 
 Grisgris at home ! He is never at home in the day, 
 and very seldom at night. He sleeps out nearly 
 every night. What do you want with him?"... 
 "Well, madame, I have come to live A\ith him."... 
 " To live with him ! Ah ! well, that is good. I 
 should like to see that. Fancy these gentlemen 
 bringing their mistresses home to live with them! 
 Our house would soon get a fine reputation ! We let 
 rooms to single men, not to single women. They 
 cannot come and fix themselves up here. We want 
 
110 THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STATS, 
 
 no street-walkers lodging here! "..."But, madame, 
 I am not a street- walker. I was in a corset ware- 
 house for six months — —"..." What made jou leave 
 it. ? "..." Because I was tired of it, and had to sleep 
 in too small a room, I hadn't room to turn round.". . . 
 "If you think you will have much here with M. 
 Grisgris, you are making a very great mistake."... 
 "Does he not occupy a handsome apartment on the 
 ground floor ? ". . ." Ah ! ah ! Did he tell you that ? 
 He has a room on the sixth floor which is so small 
 that he has to open the door while he is putting on 
 his coat. As for decorations, well, he had a little 
 looking glass which is broken in two. "..."Is it pos- 
 sible. Why, then, did he tell me that he lived on 
 the first floor? ". . ." If you believe all young men tell 
 you, you had better get back to your little village." 
 
 Yiolet was very disappointed. She muttered : 
 " Madame, can I go up into M. Grisgris' room and 
 wait for him ?"..." No, miss, certainly not. First of 
 all, I haven't the key of his room; and, secondly, if I 
 had it, I should not give it to you. Do you think we 
 allow strangers to go and instal themselves in the 
 rooms of other lodgers ? We should soon be 
 stripped.". . ." Do you think I am a thief, Madame ? " 
 ..."Oh, no; nor did I say so. But it is the first 
 time I have seen you, you and your parcel, and I 
 cannot take you for an upright girl when you come 
 to live with a fast young fellow, who owes three 
 quarters' rent, and who will be ejected at the end of 
 this. All I can do is to let you wait for your young 
 man in my room."..." Do you think he will be long, 
 Madame ?"..." I never know when he comes or when 
 he goes, but he came in at three this morning in a 
 clown's costume, he went upstairs and changed 
 them, he went out again. I am afraid he will not be 
 for some time yet ! " 
 
 Yiolet hesitated ; she did not know what to do. 
 "But just then a young man came in; it was Grisgris, 
 
THE atRti WITH THREE PAIRS Oft STATS* 117 
 
 He uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing his 
 Violet there, and she a cry of joy. 
 
 " What, is it you, Yiolet ?"..." Yes, I am so glad 
 you have come in. Your hall-keeper would not let 
 me go up to your room. She does not seem \ery 
 agreeable, does she ? But what have you come here 
 for ?"..." Can't you guess ? M. Bepique met you on 
 the stairs."..." Yes, I know, and I gave him one for 
 himself."..." You did a fine thing then. Madame 
 discharged me on the spot, so I have packed up my 
 belongings and am come to stay with you for ever . 
 You will like that, will you not. my dear friend ? 
 Fancy, you will always have me at your side ! If I 
 sannot stay here, we will go and live somewhere 
 else." 
 
 As a rule, there is nothing very curious or amusing 
 to see in the face of a young man whose mistress has 
 just told him she has left all to live with him. It 
 works an alteration in his features in which there is 
 not the least appearance of pleasure, but one of pro- 
 found stupefaction and embarrassment, and should 
 he smile, it resembles so nearly a sort of grimace 
 that there is scarcely any further need for him to 
 conceal his feelings. 
 
 After all it is very natural. You get into an 
 intrigue with a girl, and think you can break it off 
 at any moment, when all of a sudden a woman falls 
 into your arms, who makes you change your resi- 
 dence, ruins your fortune, and robs you of your 
 liberty. It is a tile which falls upon your head, and 
 in falling dashes your love to pieces. 
 
 When the tile happens to be a married women, the 
 consequences are terrible. You never know where it 
 is going to stop. I would give you a word of advice : 
 never adore a girl to such an extent that she wants 
 to leave everything and live with you. 
 
 You see what a hole Grisgris had made for him- 
 self, but as he knew he had only to deal with an 
 
118 IKE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. 
 
 inexperienced country girl, he was not greatly em- 
 barrassed, and said to her : 
 
 " My dear friend, I am indeed very lonely, but we 
 conld not live together; it is absolutely impossible !" 
 ..." And pray why is it impossible ? ". . ."Because of 
 my family. 5 '. . ." Your family ? " You didn't tell me 
 you had any !"..." Not here in Paris, but my father, 
 who is in the country comes every now and then to 
 Paris; he goes into my lodging without any warning 
 to me, so you see, he would find you there and 
 that would be a fine kettle of fish. I should be dis- 
 inherited, and two hundred thousand francs would 
 be the price I would have to pay ! You mis- 
 understood me ; I have no mother, but my father is 
 still alive."... "My God ! then what is to become of 
 me? "..."Do not alarm yourself. I will look after 
 you. First of all let us see to the most important 
 matter, how much money have you left ? "..."Five 
 hundred and twenty francs."..." Victory ! we are 
 rich ! With money, you can get anything you want 
 in Paris. I will take you to some furnished lodg- 
 ings ; they are very respectable, and very comfort- 
 able, where, for about sixty francs a month, of 
 which you must pay a fifth part in advance, you 
 can have most comfortable apartments."..." And 
 furnished ? ". . ." Of course ; I will see to it for you. 
 It is in the Rue Montmartre; I have apartments 
 
 there for Anna ."..."Who is Anna? "..."Oh! 
 
 she is a young comedienne, who was about to make 
 her debut at the Odeon, but who preferred to stop 
 at the little theatre of St. Pierre. We will lose no 
 time ; there is a cab stand a few paces away ; pick 
 up your parcel and let us be off." 
 
 Violet took up her parcel, at which Grisgris did 
 not offer to carry for her ; nor did he give his arm 
 to his mistress, lest he should compromise himself, 
 for she only had her cap on. They soon found a 
 cab, which took them at once to the furnished lodg- 
 
THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OP STAYS. 119 
 
 ings. Grisgris presented Violet as a young widow 
 and his cousin, who had just arrived from the 
 country, For sixty francs a month, Violet obtained 
 a very pretty apartment, to which was attached a 
 small dressing room. Then the hostess asked what 
 was probably a most natural question, but to which 
 neither Grisgris nor Violet had given a thought. 
 
 " Your name, Madame ? " Violet looked at Gris- 
 gris. She was about to give her name when Grisgris 
 interrupted her, and exclaimed : "Madame Man- 
 fredonia." . . . " Manfredonia ? Very well ; is the lady 
 an Italian ?"..." She belongs to an Italian family, 
 but she was bom in Brie."... " If Madame wishes to 
 eat anything there is a restaurant attached to the 
 house." — "So mnch the better; I have not dined 
 yet. Will you be kind enough to show me the dining 
 room at once, Madame ? ?5 ..."For one or two, 
 Madame ? " Violet looked at Grisgris, who res* 
 ponded : " I have dined already, but to keep my 
 cousin company I will make a second effort, lay for 
 two ; besides it is getting late, it will do for my 
 supper." 
 
 When Violet found herself tete-d-tete with her 
 lover, she remarked : " Why did you give a name 
 which is not mine ?"..." Because the name of Montin 
 is not very elegant, it grates on the ear, whilst 
 Manfredonia — it is beautiful, it fills the mouth well, 
 and it is not common."..." Why did you say I was a 
 widow ?"..." Because a single young lady, living 
 alone in furnished apartments, does not exactly in- 
 spire confidence, whilst with a widow it is quite 
 different."..." Supposing they asked me who my 
 husband was?"..." Say he was a general; you must 
 always remember to be a general's widow. But they 
 will not ask you that ; Parisians are not curious 
 about that sort of thing ; so long as appearances are 
 all right everybody is quite satisfied."..." Why did 
 you say I was your cousin? "..." Because I could not 
 
120 TEE GIRL WITH TBKEE PAIRS OV STAY?!. 
 
 very well say I was your lover. My dear friend, you 
 leave it to me to say and do everything that is 
 necessary, and above all never be astonished at 
 anything I may chanoj to say. Out in the world, 
 people only get onbyl^mg; it is the custom, you 
 will soon get used to it. 
 
 They brought in a dinner for two. Grisgris ate as 
 much as four ordinary people, although he said he 
 had dined already, then he remarked to Violet : 
 " Now, my pretty one, you must go to a milliner's 
 and get two or three hats — one for the morning, 
 one for the evening, and one for grand occasions." 
 ..." Oh ! I could not do better I am sure.". . ." How 
 many dresses have you? "..."I have only bought one 
 pretty dress since I have been in Paris, the others 
 are not up to much."...£' Well, you had better buy a 
 couple of dresses. You see, when you are out with 
 me, you ought to be well dressed. I cannot com- 
 promise myself by giving my arm to a badly-dressed 
 woman."..." All right. I will make myself as beau- 
 tiful as possible."..." Your shawl isn't bad, but it is 
 not good enough. You must buy a coat — a saute en 
 barque.."... "What sort of coat is that? "..."What 
 sort of a coat is that ?"..." Oh it is a little short 
 coat, which is worn over the dress ; it is very fetch- 
 ing and very original; you will find it just the thing 
 and you can get it ready-made, the dresses also. In 
 Paris man or woman can change their dress from 
 head to foot in an hour or two ; but it is too late to 
 make all your purchases this evening. You must be 
 be tired, I know I am, and I am going to bed. To- 
 morrow at three in the afternoon I shall come round 
 and take you for another walk, and I hope I shall 
 find you dressed up to the fashion."..." You shall 
 see; I shall be superb ! "..."Now don't go spending 
 all your money, just remember you've got to live ! " 
 ..."What about your millions ?"..." Ah ! they are 
 slow coming in, I suppose there is some unforeseen 
 
THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STATS. 121 
 
 obstacle."..." And jour theatre? "..."Oh ! I keep 
 looking for a place to build it but cannot find one." 
 ..."You told nie you had a charming room on the 
 first floor, and your hall-keeper tells me you have 
 only a very small apartment on the sixth floor."... 
 " She told you that out of pure devilment, because I 
 never give her a tip. But to-morrow, don't forget, I 
 am going to bed now."..." Ah, are you going away? 
 
 I thought that "..."How imprudent you are! 
 
 You cannot think what you are saying. Have you 
 no thought of appearances? And then what about 
 my family ? " 
 
 M. Grisgris went off, and Violet determined to 
 take possession of her new bed without delay. " It 
 is very singular," though she, "he was not afraid of 
 his family when he asked to stay in my little room." 
 
 Thj next day Yiolet made all the purchases 
 Grisgris had recommended, and she only spent two 
 hundred francs. But, thanks to Babiola, she knew 
 where to go for bargains; her hats did not come 
 from the Eue Yiorenne, but from Saumon Passage ; 
 her coat, her cloak, and her dresses came from a 
 ready-made outfitters, yet for all that she looked 
 very well, and when Grisgris arrived in the course of 
 the day he was enchanted with the new rig-out his 
 charmer had secured. She appeared more beautiful 
 than ever, with a pretty little rose-pink bonnet and 
 a pearl-grey jacket, which she wore over her pretty, 
 yet most simple dress. The young man offered 
 Yiolet his arm, and, as it was a fine day, he took her 
 for a walk to the Champs Eliyees, after which they 
 dined at a restaurant, and then went to the theatre. 
 The girl found this style of living much more agree- 
 able than that which prevailed at M. Bepique's. On 
 the following day when Grisgris arrived at Yiolet's 
 lodgingshe found her dressed quite differently from 
 the previous day. She had on a green bonnet, an- 
 other dress, and a shawl instead of the jacket, and, 
 
122 THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. 
 
 taking advantage of the presents Madame Repique 
 had givan her, she put on the corset which rendered 
 her figure slim and her respiration difficult. Grisgris 
 gave a little cry of delight, he was completely 
 ravished: "It is charming!" cried he "you are 
 only about half the girfch you were yesterday. How 
 do you manage that?"..." Yery simply! I change 
 my corset.". . ." What a charming corset. You were 
 always very pretty, but this corset makes another 
 woman of you."..." Well, to-morrow I will manage 
 another surprise.". . ." Really ?"..." You shall see 1 " 
 So on the morrow Yiolet put on the corset which 
 gave her the fully developed breasts, and with it her 
 third costume — a white hat, another dress and a 
 pretty mantle. Grisgris remained some moments 
 contemplating the girl who was so slender the day 
 before and who now had become a fully developed 
 woman; he turned her round and round, he examined 
 her waist and her dress, then he cried : " There is 
 nothing to say ; it is a most clever deception, it is 
 beautiful. It gives me three mistresses instead of 
 one."..." What do you say my dear ? "..." I say you 
 have a real talent for transforming yourself."... 
 '■' Which style do you like the best, tell me, and I 
 will adopt that corset, I will always put that one 
 on."..."$sTo, not at all, there is a Latin axiom which 
 says In varietate Voluptas, which means variety is 
 charming, and this maxim is a grand truth. You 
 must change about, one day having an ordinary 
 figure, then an extremely slender one, and then a 
 superbly developed qreast. In that way you will be 
 threefold, and I will call you Mnnie, Yiolet, and 
 Madame de Manfredonia."..." Ah, I shall have three 
 names !"..." Yes, one for each corset.". . ." And will 
 you love me just a much under each of these names ? " 
 . . ." I shall love you more, as each time I shall think 
 you are another mistress ! "..."I do not quite under- 
 stand you."..." That doesn't matter! To-day we 
 
THE GIRL WITH THREE PAIRS OP STATS. 123 
 
 will take a carriage, T want you to see all my 
 friends." 
 
 Violet could not have wished anything better. On 
 their return they dined at Very's, in the dining 
 saloon, not in the small rooms. Grisgris, who knew 
 a great many young sparks, was enchanted when he 
 saw that some of them had seen him with his 
 mistress. 
 
 The next day, with her tight corset on, she walked 
 along the Italian Promenade. When she had her 
 ordinary corset on she went to the small theatres, 
 always taking care to go in when there were a 
 number of Grisgris' acquaintances about. This 
 nattered his vanity, for- he dearly loved to be com- 
 plimented on his mistresses by his friends. They 
 thought him a sort of Don Juan, and often envied 
 him. 
 
 "I met you with a very pretty girl," one would 
 remark, " and what a figure ! she is a perfect sylph ! " 
 "What a handsome woman you had with you the 
 other day/' another would say. "What a lovely 
 bosom ! " a third would exclaim. " You had a nice 
 little girl with you yesterday ; a very ordinary figure, 
 but a charming face ! " 
 
 " Ah ! my dear, you are three mistresses rolled 
 into one ! " "Yes, I have three of them," I make 
 answer, "they are so charming, I cannot resist 
 them." 
 
 " What a devil you are Grisgris, you are another 
 Richelieu ! " they exclaim. " They must cost you a 
 pretty penny, these three girls ! ". . ." Yes, a good deal 
 I can assure you. They ruin me ; but what does it 
 matter, money is made to spend." 
 
 " What a lovely figure that girl had I met you 
 with ; by gad, you are a lucky fellow ! " 
 
 Grisgris was beside himself with joy, never in his 
 life before had he been so happy, his pride was so 
 extremely flattered. As for Yiolet, this life of 
 
124 THE GIRL WITH THBEE PAIftS 0% STAYS* 
 
 pleasure was just the acme of her ambition, she 
 simply revelled in it. Her money, however, was 
 rapidly melting away, for her lover was constantly 
 drawing upon her to pay the day's expenses, in fact, 
 Yiolet was actually ignorant of what things cost or 
 what she paid for. Each time Grisgris borrowed he 
 would say : " I will return all this to you in a lump 
 sum as soon as my theatre is opened, and Yiolet 
 placed implicit confidence in her lover's promises. 
 One day a young fellow who had met Grisgris with 
 Yiolet in her various phases, asked him whether he 
 was still complimented on his conquests ; " for," he 
 said, "I should like to stand a dinner to all our 
 friends ; we could have it in Yiolet's rooms, and you 
 can bring all your three mistresses. "..."Impossible, 
 my dear fellow, impossible ! " responded Grisgris. 
 "I could not let them meet each other; it would 
 simply expose me to them all, and I should get my 
 eyes scratched out."... "Ah ! ah! ah! Your eyes 
 will not run the least danger ; you are a thorough 
 humbug ; your three mistresses could come together 
 much more easily than they could apart. I fancy 
 the three would hardly make more than one!"... 
 "What do you say ? "..." Why, I say that it is 
 always the same, and that you dress her and trick 
 her out differently each time ; she is very pretty, my 
 dear fellow, but you cannot change her face ! " 
 
 Grisgris was furious ; he left the cafe, where this 
 conversation had taken place, saying : "It is finished, 
 my game is up ! After all, I was beginning to get 
 tired of all this walking out with Yiolet." 
 
MADAME TRAFALGAR, 125 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MADAME TRAFALGAR 
 
 One complete day passed without Violet seeing 
 her lover; Grisgris had not come as usual to take 
 hee for the customary walk; she stayed at home 
 thinking he would explain himself on the next day. 
 But a letter came addressed to Madame de Man- 
 fredonia, Violet, who had never received any 
 letters was very much astonished that anyone should 
 know the name which she had assumed at the hotel ; 
 she quickly tore the note open, and saw that it was 
 signed by Grisgris, and read : 
 
 " My dear Violet, do not wait for me any more. 
 The intrigues of lovers are not eternal; ours has 
 lasted three months, I think that is long enough. 
 I give you hack your liberty and take my own. You 
 are far too pretty to lack a sympathising friend, it 
 at any time you should be in want of consolation. 
 Good-bye then ! and let there be no ill-feeling. I 
 have not forgotten that I owe you some money. As 
 soon as I have built my theatre I will hasten to re- 
 pay you." 
 
 The reading of this letter caused Violet consider 
 able emotions ; her heart beat fast and her eyes were 
 filled with tears. She could not understand how 
 anyone could cease to love her so suddenly, alter 
 having made so many amorous declarations, bhe 
 remained for some time half stupefied, holding the 
 note in her haad and striving not to believe what it 
 contained. She read it again to convince herselt that 
 she net been deceived, then she threw it upon a 
 couch, and muttered to herself : "He could not 
 have loved me very much tbree months I it i: 
 
126 MADAME TRAFALGAR. 
 
 long enough lie says! Ah! that was not the way 
 Girofle loved me ! " 
 
 It was the first time since the miserable dance 
 that Girofle had entered her mind, for it was the 
 first time she had felt sad and lonely. She suddenly 
 jumped np, put on a hat, threw on her jacket, and 
 went out exclaiming : " I will go* to his house. I 
 will know why he has left me in this way, why he 
 has lost his love for me, and what I have done that 
 he should abandon me in this way." 
 
 She arrived at the Rue Taitbout; the hall-keeper, 
 who looked as sour as ever, seeing Violet's dress ex- 
 claimed : " The <}evil ! so you have made your footing 
 have you ?"..." Madame," said Violet, "is M. 
 Grisgris at home ? It is absolutely necessary for 
 me to see him."..." M. Grisgris? Thank God, we 
 haven't got him here now ! He was turned out more 
 than a month ago ! "..." Then where does he live 
 now? I suppose he left you his new address? "... 
 "Just so, I can fancy him doing so; what a merry 
 time he would have with his creditors ! Do you 
 think he was the sort of man to leave his address? 
 If he did leave one it would be false, but he left 
 nothing." 
 
 Violet went away sad and completely crestfallen. 
 " What can I do," she murmured ; " what is to be- 
 come of me ? I always reckoned upon his fidelity, and 
 I have hardly any money left — only about twenty 
 francs. And money goes terribly fast in Paris ! I 
 dare not go and see Babiola, she is angry with me 
 because I went to a dance without telling her. Ah ! 
 if I could only find Marjoleine, whom I have not 
 seen since I left the shop. I know her address, she 
 told it me so often when we had to send there — Rue 
 de Provence. Yes, that's it : yes, I will go and see 
 her, and ask her what I ought to do." 
 
 Violet easily found her old friend's house. She 
 went in and asked for Madame Trafalgar, ascended 
 
MADAME TEAEAEGAB. 127 
 
 a magnificent flight of stairs, stopped on the second 
 floor, and knocked at the door which had been 
 pointed out to her. A chamher-maid, dirty and fat, 
 with some plain indication of a beard, opened the 
 door. " Madame Trafalgar §* ". . . " Yes, it is here." . . . 
 "Can I speak to her? "..."Wait a moment. I do 
 not know whether she can be seen. What name 
 shall I give ?"...-" Madame de Manfredonia, or per- 
 haps yon had better say Violet."..." Jnst as yon like, 
 it is all the same to me."..." Then simply announce 
 Miss Violet. 
 
 The ugly cat led Yiolet into a small ante-room, 
 where everything was polished and glittering, and 
 indicated a well-kept house. She did not have to 
 wait long. The corpnlent BJarjoleine came in her- 
 self, enveloped in a beautiful dressing-gown, and ran 
 up to her, 
 
 " What ! Is it you, Yiolet ? Oh, you dear little 
 pet ! I am so happy to see you ; but come in." 
 Yiolet followed her old friend across a beautifully- 
 marbled hall, and found herself in a charming 
 boudoir, decorated in Louis XY. style ; on every side 
 you could see yourself reflected in beautiful mirrors, 
 and couches inviting you to rest. 
 
 "Oh ! this is indeed handsome," exelaimed Yiolet 
 as she entered the boudoir. "Yes. We are begin- 
 ning to get a bit ship-shape, but we want a lot of 
 things yet. M. Boucherose is hard to tap some- 
 times, but if he refuses me one day I get it the next. 
 NoWj sit down, Yiolet, close beside me, and tell me 
 your adventures. I do not think Boucherose is 
 coming this morning, and I shall have time to listen 
 to you ; for if he was here I could not have seen you, 
 he does not like being interrupted. So it seems you 
 have been up to some little games ? Having a youno- 
 man in your room, eh, Yiolet ? It was not bad for a 
 beginning ; Repique told me all about it. It was a 
 pieirot you went to dance with, wasn't it ? ' \ . ." Yes. 
 
128 MADAME TRAFALGAR. 
 
 I went several times with him. What else could I 
 do ? I was sick and tired of the corsets I had to 
 keep putting on."..." Oh, I do not blame you, my 
 dear ; besides, sooner or later, it was bound to come 
 to this. So you followed your pierrot 9 Is he rich, 
 this young fellow ? What have you done with him? 
 Has he acted well towards you? Has he put you in 
 furnished apartments ? Why, your eyes are red, 
 have you been crying ? Have you been quarrelling? 
 But, my dear, never weep over a man, they are not 
 worth it. Come, don't cry, but tell me all about it." 
 Yiolet told her friend all that had taken place 
 between herself and Grisgris, and how he had just 
 left her in the lurch, and finished up by sli owing 
 Trafalgar the letter. 
 
 She examined the letter closely, and exclaimed : 
 " Grisgris ! Oh, yes ! I know the scamp ! I know 
 this writing ; I had a letter from him once after a 
 dance where he fell in love with me. A nice enough 
 little fellow, with small black moustache."..." Yes, 
 that's he; it is indeed."..." But I soon sent him 
 about his business. Why, he hadn't a sou. The 
 rat ! Fancy wanting to make a woman pay for him." 
 ..."Yes, he said he would have millions soon, and 
 that he was going to build a theatre."..." And you 
 took it all in, you pcor innocent little dear."..." Do 
 you think he will bring me back my money? "... 
 " What ! bring you back your money ? These men 
 never bring back anything ; you may consider your 
 money gone for ever. Ah ! my dear, you did not 
 f ollow my advice ; you know I said to you : c Never 
 listen to young men. If you have an intrigue, let it 
 be with a respectable, serious man.' Mind, when I 
 say serious, I do not mean some half -dead old crock. 
 I mean a man who has made a good position for 
 himself, who will pay your rent for you, buy your 
 dresses, and so on — one that will let you want for 
 nothing. Look at Bichetont,.he is not young, he is 
 
MADAME TKAFALGAE. 129 
 
 not good looking, lie is not lively or witty ; but he 
 puts me down to the ground."... "And do you like 
 that kind of man? "... " Like him? What for? 
 Why should I ? It is his money I like ; it is 
 his fortune which keeps me and this place going."... 
 " What then is to become of me ? I have hardly 
 any money left, and in three days I shall have to pay 
 fifteen francs' rent, and I owe thirty at the hotel."... 
 " Well you have a nice watch, pawn that ; it will 
 bring you in something to help you along."..." My 
 watch ! Oh, I do not want to sell that. You know 
 Girofle gave me that, and he loved me very much. 
 Poor Girofle ! How badly I treated him at the 
 dance, and only to protect that scapegrace of a 
 Grisgris."..." Whether your watch came from a 
 Girofle or a Girofla, it is always a means of raising 
 money, and I must tell you at once that is uo use 
 coming to me for money, I never lend to anybody. 
 It is a rule I never vary. I say to myself : " If I 
 lend money to my friends, and after some time ask 
 for it, they do not pay me, but keep away, and so we 
 fall out ; but if instead of that I refuse to lend, then 
 they keep away also, and we fall out just the same. 
 Well, since we must fall out either way, I prefer 
 not to lose my money. "..."But I had no intention of 
 asking you for money. I came simply for your 
 advice."..." Oh, that's different; you can have as 
 much as you like. I flatter myself ." 
 
 Madame Trafalgar did not finish her sentence, for 
 a gentleman slipped quietly into the room, and made 
 her break off in a moment. This person, who was 
 about fifty years of age, was dressed like a young 
 man of twenty. He was short, and very thin, and 
 his legs formed a sort of hoop ; his face was ugly 
 and common, but he tried to make himself agree- 
 able by constantly smiling. 
 
 "Hallo! is that you, Bichetont?" cried Madame 
 Trafalgar. " You, this morning ; you were not 
 
130 MADAME TRAFALGAR. 
 
 coming back till this evening; you had some 
 business at Charllot to-day."..." Yes, but it is 
 postponed till another time, so I thought I would 
 drop in and surprise* you. Eh ! eh ! had you been 
 with a young fop I would have let you had it, I can 
 tell you. Eh ! eh ! " 
 
 Whilst speaking he caught sight of Yiolet, and his 
 eyes expressed the pleasure he felt at seeing her. It 
 happened that Violet had put on the corset which 
 gave her such a slim and slender figure, and it was 
 just that which Bichetont always looked for amongst 
 women. And when a slender figure was coupled 
 with a pretty face, he could not help being overcome. 
 So he continued to gaze on the pretty girl whom he 
 saw for the first time. But Marjoleine was very 
 much upset that her lover should find Yiolet with 
 her, and she saw at once what an impression the girl 
 had made upon him, answered with a little temper ; 
 " My djear, I hate surprises, at least when they are 
 not presents. If I had been tete-a-tete with a gay 
 young spark, as you suggest, you may be very sure 
 that you would not have been allowed to come in. 
 But you see, I am engaged with an old friend, 
 who is telling me her troubles. She has finished 
 now, and is on the point of going away."..." Why 
 need you send her away so quickly, madame? " said 
 Bichetont, trying to make himself agreeable. Surely 
 my arrival need not do that ? I should be very sorry 
 to interrupt your little chat; go on as if I were 
 not here."..." We have a little business to do, my 
 dear, and that does not interest you. Good-bye, 
 Yiolet ; good-bye, my dear. Now remember what I 
 have told you." 
 
 Yiolet, almost ashamed of the way in which Biche- 
 tont was eying her since he came in, took up her 
 cloak and said : " Good-bye, Madame Trafalgar. I 
 will not forget your advice. I shall try and find a 
 man as you suggest, but really I do not know what 
 
M. BICHETONT. 131 
 
 will become of me. I am indeed very sad."... "Oh, 
 that will pass off — that will not last long. Go for a 
 walk, it is a beautiful day. "..."If it should happen 
 that you want to see me, you might remember that I 
 am staying in the Rue Montmartre, near the Rue 
 Croissant. You must ask for Madame de Man- 
 fredonia."..."Yes, yes; good-bye, now." 
 
 Marjoleine hurried Yiolet away so quickly that 
 she could not bid good-bye to Bichetont, who, how- 
 ever, threw her a kiss whilst Madame Trafalgar had 
 her back towards him. 
 
 CHAPTER XY1I. 
 
 M. BICHETONT. 
 
 Violet returned to her rooms quite distressed at 
 the haste with* which Madame Trafalgar had hurried 
 her away, and thought it very singular that the 
 gentleman, whom she had seen for the first time that 
 day, should take upon himself to throw kisses to her 
 as she left the room. She made enquiries as to 
 whether her pretended cousin, Grisgris, had called to 
 see her, but found that he had not been near the 
 place. The whole day passed without any event, and 
 Yiolet began to be seriously alarmed about her 
 future. She glanced sadly at her watch, the present 
 which recalled to her mind the young man who loved 
 her so sincerely. It would be very painful for her to 
 part with it, yet she felt that she would undoubtedly 
 have to do so be fore long. 
 
 The next day passed in tha same uneventful 
 
132 M. BICHETONT. 
 
 manner; but on the following day, just as Violet 
 was setting out for a jeweller's to find out what she 
 could get for the watch, the servant brought in a 
 letter addressed to Madame de Manfredonia. 
 
 Yiolet did not doubt but that the note was from 
 Grisgris, although it did not appear to be much like 
 his writing. Sue hastily tore it open, and read : 
 
 " Beautiful girl, when one is so very pretty, when 
 one possesses a figure like yours, one ought never to 
 abandon oneself to grief. Someone has just taken 
 and furnished some nice rooms for you on the second 
 floor at 43, Rue Chariot. Will you please come and 
 take possession of them at once ; you will find them 
 pleasant and agreeable, and soon after you get there 
 the writer of these lLies will come and pay his 
 homage to you. The rooms are taken in the name of 
 Madame de Manfredonia ; the hall-keeper will give 
 you the key. The rent is paid in advance." 
 
 There was no signature to the letter, but Yiolet 
 murmured to herself ; " I suppose it is Grisgris who 
 has made up this little surprise for me. I felt con- 
 vinced he would not abandon me altogether. He 
 certainly had no money, but, perhaps, he has 
 received those millions he was always talking about, 
 and has hastened to dispel the grief which his con- 
 duct has caused me. Ah ! I shall 'be quite happy 
 again. I will hurry away to my new apartments, for 
 there is nothing to keep me here." 
 
 She hastily packed up a few of her effects, and 
 taking her hat-boxes, she bid adieu to the pro- 
 prietress, jumped into a cab, and told the driver to 
 hasten to the address which was contained in the 
 note. 
 
 The house was attractively built and decorated, 
 and the portress was very polite, especially when 
 Violet informed her that she was Madame de Man- 
 fredonia, 
 
M. BICHETOXT. 
 
 133 
 
 <• I have been waiting for yon, madame," said the 
 portress; "vour apartments are quite ready. Allow 
 me to have "the 'honour of taking your parcels and 
 boxes. Baloche, pay attention here at once." • 
 
 Baloche was a little boy abont seven, who was 
 amusing himself with his dog. The apartments 
 were on the second floor ; they consisted of three 
 small rooms— a dining room, drawing room, and a 
 bedroom. All three were very nicely furnished, and 
 the bedroom contained a cabinet fitted with choice 
 pieces of china, which looked as if they had been 
 brought straight from Madame Trafalgar s. Ine 
 portress put down her parcels. Yiolet picked them 
 ftp and said : "Madame, when were thesea partments 
 taken for me?" ..."The day before yesterday, 
 madame, and they brought the furniture in yester- 
 day " " Did you see who it was who took the place 
 and furnished it in this way?"..." Yes, madame, I 
 saw the gentleman who took the rooms and furnished 
 them, and he actually paid the rent in advance, 
 which is a very unusual thing here." "I presume 
 he was a young man, was he not ? "..."Hum ! ahem! 
 Not quite ; he was getting on in years, but dressed 
 quite like a young man."..." Was he called Gris- 
 sris?" "He did not leave his name, he gave yours, 
 madame -Violet de Manfredonia," ." Did he say 
 when he should come back? "..." fco, madame. ... 
 " That will do ; thank you very much." 
 
 Left to herself, Yiolet examined everything arouna 
 her She opened a pretty secretoire, and found 
 inside a small roll of paper on which was written : 
 " For Madame Manfredonia." She broke open the 
 roll as quickly as possible,and found inside twenty-five 
 napoleons. She uttered a cry of joy, counted the 
 coins, and said : 
 
 " Five hundred francs ! It comes to five hundred 
 francs ! They have evidently been left by Grisgns ; 
 lie has returned me the money he had borrowed. In 
 
134 II. BICHETONT. 
 
 fact, he liad sent a little more than that. Marjoleme 
 declared that men never returned the money they 
 borrowed. I suppose she was jealous at my having 
 such a nice-looking lover whilst hers was old and 
 ugly." 
 
 Violet was joyous and happy ; no more tears, no 
 more trouble for the future ; Grisgris would never 
 let her want for anything. She admired her new 
 apartment, she walked from room to room, for she 
 had never been so luxuriously lodged before. After 
 inspecting everything she called the portress, who 
 had already stated that Violet was to command her 
 services, and who was to perform all the domestic 
 duties should Violet desire it, the woman hurried 
 upstairs. Violet ordered her to get dinner, giving 
 her a piece of gold, and telling her that when she 
 spent that she could have some more. This gave the 
 woman a very high opinion of her new lodger. 
 Money is a devil that can always throw dust in one's 
 eyes ; it often makes fools of the wisest, how then 
 will it turn a fool's head. 
 
 Violet dined well, and then prepared herself to 
 receive Grisgris. She said to herself : " He will be 
 here this evening, and will excuse himself for having 
 caused me such anxiety and grief, but I shall forgive 
 him at once." But the evening passed away and no 
 one came. Violet went to bed, remarking : " Pro- 
 bably business at his new theatre detains him. IsTow 
 he is rich he is sure to have found a site for it. I 
 expect he will be here to-morrow." 
 
 The next day, about two o'clock, instead of M. 
 Grisgris, in walked M. Bichetont still more elegantly 
 dressed than he was at Madame Trafalgar, but just 
 as ugly. Violet gazed in astonishment on recog- 
 nising her new visitor, and was terribly disconcerted 
 when the portress announced him as the gentleman 
 who had taken the apartments for her. 
 
 Bichetont approached the pretty girl with proi'u?e 
 
M. BICHBTOKT 135 
 
 bows and smiles. Violet, terrified and dismayed, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Is it indeed you sir who have taken these rooms 
 for me ?"..." Yes, charming young lady ; did you not 
 guess who it was ? "..." No, indeed I did not. And 
 
 this letter I received did ?"..." Yes, it came 
 
 from me ; I did not sign it, for one must be very dis- 
 creet in these matters."..." But this money — these 
 five hundred francs I found in the drawer ?"..." Ah, 
 well ! that is only a small matter ; I only offered you 
 that to defray your daily expenses.". . ." But sir, why 
 do you make me these presents? You have only 
 seen me once, and then only for a moment ! "..." It 
 was quite long enough to estimate your value, my 
 pretty Violet. I saw your divine figure ; I was 
 charmed. The little that I heard enabled me to 
 understand your position. Poor little puss, and not 
 to know what was to become of her ! You mentioned 
 your address, so I easily found you, and I hastened 
 to get you away from your hotel, so that others 
 should not find you. Eh ! eh ! I know how to 
 manage these intrigues, you bet ! ° 
 
 The intentions of this gentleman began to dawn 
 upon Violet, and she did not feel altogether pleased 
 with the new turn her fortune had taken. M. 
 Bichetont lead her to an easy chair, and begged her 
 to be seated, then he placed his chair by her side 
 and, with profound politeness, seated himself as near 
 to her as possible. Violet remained silent, she could 
 not bring herself to speak to him, for she disliked 
 him intensely. He, seeing she had not a word to 
 say, endeavoured after a moment's pause to renew 
 the conversation : 
 
 " I bought this furniture and curtains in crimson 
 
 because I think it is such a beautiful colour. Would 
 
 you have preferred orange? Why do you not 
 
 answer? "..." Excuse me, sir, what did you say? "... 
 
 * I asked you if the colour of this furniture pleased 
 
136 K. BICHETONT. 
 
 you."..." It is a matter -of indifference to me sir ! " 
 ..." These little vases, these little china curios, are 
 they not to your taste ?"..." Yes sir !"..." Then do 
 the apartments please you? "..." They are a great 
 deal too large for me alone.". . ." Oh ! that is a matter 
 soon put straight ; I shall come and keep you com- 
 pany very often."..." Oh ! there is no need for you 
 to trouble sir."..." Oh! she is ravishing ! Trouble 
 
 me, my dear, on the contrary ." Yiolet did not 
 
 answer, but heard a deep sigh. M. Bichetont took 
 a pinch of snuff and said: "Do you like cats?"... 
 "Cats! Oh yes, pretty well sir."..."I will bring 
 you one, a beautiful white augora cat ; it will amuse 
 you, and be company for. you. And do you like 
 birds— canaries ?"..."! never had one sir." ..." And 
 pierrots, do you like them?" At the word "pierrot" 
 Yiolet put her handerchief to her face to hide her 
 tears. Bichetont alarmed at seeing her weep ex- 
 claimed : "What is the matter? have you lost a 
 * pierrot ' that you loved very much? "..."Oh ! yes 
 sir ! "...Calm yourself my dear, I will biing you an- 
 other. I am only anxious for you to be comfortable 
 and happy." 
 
 Whilst making these remarks, Bichetont attempted 
 to place Yiolet 's hand in his; she drew it back 
 quickly, and exclaimed: "Sir! does Marjoleine — 
 Madame Trafalgar I should say — does she know 
 what you are doing for me? "..."Oh! she is as 
 jealous as a panther ! but there is no fear of her 
 hearing anything about it. That is why I took you 
 these apartments. You are very far from one an- 
 other ; you are not at all likely ever to meet each 
 other ! Ah! I think I have managed it very well ! " 
 ..."But, sir, I do not wish to cause any sorrow or 
 grief to your mistress. I do not wish you to leave 
 her for me !*"... "You need not trouble about that 
 my beautiful angel ; I know how to steer my boat. 
 It is not the first little infidelity on my part. But 
 
M. BICHETONT. 137 
 
 how yon sigh ! Have you a pain in yon stomach? " 
 ..."No sir, hut I have a had headache, and I feel 
 very sick."..." Then have a cup of tea, and rest 
 awhile ; I will leave you. I cannot see you to- 
 morrow, because I am going away to Chaillot, where 
 I have a factory, and I must not neglect my business 
 or how should I get on for money, eh ! eh ! and with 
 money you know we can do anything. Good-bye, 
 my dear ; I hope after to-morrow to find you have 
 completely got rid of that nasty headache." M. 
 Bichetont made a gracious bow, and smiled all the 
 way to the door, then disappeared. 
 
 " Good heavens ! is that what they call a serious 
 man," said Yiolet. " I could never love a man like 
 that! oh! never! And I thought all the time that 
 it was Grisgris who had done this. Ah ! how dis- 
 appointed I am ! " 
 
 The young girl neither laughed nor sang ; she be- 
 came sad and pensive. The portress astonished at 
 the change in her demeanour, asked her new tenant 
 whether she wanted anything, as she would go to the 
 other end of Paris to oblige her. Yiolet simply re- 
 marked that she desired nothing, but that she felt 
 tired and weary, which was a great deal worse than 
 wanting anything. 
 
 The next day, to alleviate her distress, Violet went 
 for a walk on the promenades. When she got to 
 the Place de la Bastille she heard some music and 
 saw a great crowd gathered. The music, which 
 sounded somewhat familiarly to her ear, consisted 
 only of an organ and a cornet; the cornet was 
 played very loudly, whilst the organ simply accom- 
 panied. Each of these instruments brought back 
 to Yiolet thoughts of the past. She fancied the 
 organ sounded very much like the one she had had 
 given her, and from the manner in which the cornet 
 was played she seemed to recognise the playing of 
 her old lover Girofle. Something seemed to say to 
 
138 M. BICHETONT. 
 
 her that her lover was there. She approached the 
 musicians, and hid herself amongst the crowd ; she 
 had guessed rightly : there were Girofle* and his 
 brother. Girofle, pale, altered, and thin, was play- 
 ing his cornet, whilst Benoit supporting his organ 
 with great difficulty, was turning the handle and 
 smiling at his brother to give him courage. Violet 
 felt considerably alarmed nt the sight, for she felt 
 that it was her fault that these two poor brothers 
 had come to this. She feared they might perceive 
 her, so she slipped away as quickly as possible and 
 hastened home, sadder and more distressed than 
 when she went out. 
 
 As a matter of fact the condition of the two 
 brothers was not very satisfactory. After the ball 
 at which Girofle had seen Violet as a columbine in 
 the arms of a young man, he felt his last hope gone, 
 and for a long time could do nothing. So long as 
 he had believed that she whom he loved was modest 
 his hopes were buoyed up, trusting that in time his 
 love would triumph, but now all his illusions were 
 destroyed. Violet loved another, she gadded about 
 at balls, and no longer set any store by her modesty 
 and prudence. All his hopes had fled. Poor Benoit 
 vainly strove to console him, Girofle wished but to 
 die, then he wanted to hasten from the city in which 
 Violet had so degraded herself in his eyes. Benoit 
 asked for nothing better than to leave Paris, where 
 he found no pupils — not even among the grocers — 
 so he said to his brother : " Come, let us, leave this 
 city, where you are so unhappy ; let us return to S. 
 John-in-the-Wood. You can take up your occupa- 
 tion as gardener asrain, and I will get my classes 
 once more. We will live quietly without being com- 
 pelled to run the street all day to get a living. 
 Oome, let us get away, we shall be happier there 
 than here." 
 
 But Girofle was undecided, he had changed his 
 
THE FELINE PROTECTOR. 189 
 
 opinion. He felt that his brother was right, yet 
 something made him cling to Paris. " Yes," he 
 said to Benoit, "I think we will get away from 
 here in a few days, awd if I do leave Paris I am 
 certain I shall never come back again.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE FELINE PROTECTOR. 
 
 Throughout the entire evening Violet imagined 
 she could hear the strains of the organ and the 
 cornet, which she had seen at the Place de la Bas- 
 tille. This music called back to her memory her 
 village life and the profound love of poor Girofle, and 
 for the first time she felt the pangs of remorse. She 
 deemed that Girofle would certainly cease to love her 
 after the scene with Grisgris at the ball, and al- 
 though she always repulsed his advances she felt 
 sorry at having lost his love at last. Women always 
 grieve at the loss of an admirer, even when there is 
 no reciprocative feeling on their part. 
 
 M. Bichetont had arranged to call the next day, 
 and this fact alone was sufficient to increase her 
 grief and annoyance. She had more than once been 
 on the point of saying to the portress : " When that 
 gentleman returns tell him that I am not at home." 
 Then she reflected that it would be very ungrateful 
 on her prrt not to receive the visits of the man who 
 had provided her with such luxurious apartments, 
 and had done everything in his power to render her 
 happy and comfortable. "Yet," said she, "what- 
 
14.0 THE FELINE PKOTECTOK. 
 
 ever he does lie can never induce me to love him ; I 
 could never be his mistress. But if he is content to 
 call and pass a few hours with me, I shall not turn 
 him away/' 
 
 M. Bichetont came in the evening, as he had 
 arranged, still dressed like a young spark, and ever 
 with soft words and smiles upon his lips : but the 
 sight of him always made Violet feel glum and 
 miserable. She could scarcely hide the annoyance 
 his presence caused her, and she fell at once into a 
 state of morbid indifference, or pretended she had 
 had a continuous headache for the past two days. 
 M. Bichetont was evidently considerably disconcerted 
 to find his new acquaintance so much out of sorts ; 
 he mentioned every remedy for the headache he 
 could think of without Yiolet evincing any desire to 
 try them. He rose to depart, remarking as he went: 
 U T trust I shall find you better to-morrow." 
 
 The next day he brought a pretty little white cat 
 under his coat, which he placed at Violet's feet, 
 saying: "I beg to offer you this little slave — see 
 how pretty it is ! It is named Philocles — it is an 
 Egyptian name. The Egyptians adored cats ; but 
 you can give it any name you please. It is very docile 
 with people it knows, and does not scratch unless it 
 is teased." 
 
 Violet carressed the animal, which made itself 
 comfortable on her lap. M. Bichetont enquired 
 after the young girl's health, and asked her again 
 if she was satisfied with her surroundings, or 
 whether she would like anything altered. Violet 
 thanked him and was not at all sorry to have the 
 cat to fondle. It enabled her to dissimulate her 
 feelings, and hide the annoyance which his presence 
 caused. Every now and then the conversation would 
 cease. Bichetont was constantly at a loss what to 
 say, and tried again to take Violet's hands in his 
 own. But she drew them away instantly. Once, 
 
THE FELINE PROTECTOB. 141 
 
 however, lie managed to retain one, but Philocles 
 dug its claws in his arm, and otir wily enticer 
 quickly let the hand drop, exclaiming: u Ah! the 
 beast! They told me it never scratched." ... "Ap< 
 parently it does not like yon," responded Violet, 
 laughing. M. Bichetont muttered : " But why are 
 you so cross ? Why may I not touch you ? You are 
 really too unkind."..." Why do you wish to take my 
 hand? "..." Why ? Because — you ought to think 
 kindly of me; but I suppose I shall have to tame 
 you." 
 
 He did not dare to renew his attentions, for his 
 arm pained him considerably, and he took his leave of 
 Yiolet, remarking to himself : " I made a mistake 
 to giv3 her that cat. I wonder what put the idea in 
 my 1 eid." 
 
 Se^e.'al days passed in this way. Bichetont came 
 in the mornings, and whenever she heard him coming 
 she hastened to get the cat up on her lap. Bichetont 
 annoyed at making so little progress with his new 
 protege, whom he quite looked upon as a new mis- 
 tress, attempted on one occasion to steal a kiss, but 
 this time the cat fixed its talons in his jaw. He got 
 into a furious rage, and wanted to kick the animal 
 out of the house, but Yiolet would not hear of it, and 
 said : " You gave it to me sir, and I think too niuch 
 of it to let you do such a thing as that." 
 
 However wealthy a man may be he does not 
 generally care to spend his money to no purpose, and 
 Bichetont, who had received no return for his but 
 cat-scratches, muttered to himself one day : " This 
 girl seems always to have that cat dangling about 
 on her knees when I come in ; she knows it is always 
 about two o'clock when I arrive. I will alter the 
 time, and I will wager she will not have this Philocles 
 in her arms then." 
 
 The next clay about noon, Bichetont arrived, and 
 the cat was not there. Seeing him so much sooner 
 
142 THE FELINE PROTECTOR. 
 
 than she had expected, Violet was considerably 
 vexed, and commenced hunting for the cat ever\ r - 
 where. But her customary protector had gone for a 
 run outside, and Bichetont, happy at the success of 
 his stratagem, hurriedly took Violet's hand, and led 
 her to a couch, where he made her sit down, and 
 placed himself at her side, saying : " Ah ! this time, 
 my little one, that damned cat will not be here tc 
 
 scratch me about and I shall got' what I came 
 
 for!"..." What is it you want sir? "..." Why, to 
 embrace you, my pet, and then — afterwards — well, 
 we shall see — ."..."But I do not wish you to em- 
 brace me sir ! "..." Oh, my angel you are really too 
 cross. When you receive presents from a man you 
 have no right to keep him at arm's length."..." I 
 asked you for nothing ! Take back your presents. 
 
 I do not like you sir; in fact ."..."Come, come, 
 
 do not be so naughty. I tell you I adore you ! " 
 
 Saying which Bichetont, who had become reckless, 
 seized Violet and clasped her in his arms, but the 
 girl was strong and vigorous ; she remembered some- 
 thing of the village wrestling matches, so, exerting 
 her full force, she threw Bichetont head over heels 
 across the room. Before he had time to get up the 
 room door was opened by a kick, and in walked a 
 woman, furious and bursting with rage, who cried 
 out on seeing the state of affairs before her : 
 " Violet ! So it was for Violet that you deserted 
 me. Ah ! the traitress ! Ah ! the villain ! Ah, my 
 
 little ; you come to to my house and then steal 
 
 my lover, do you think I will put up witli that ! You 
 shall see what sort of woman I am ! " 
 
 Recognising Madame Trafalgar, Violet hastened 
 to explain that she had done nothing to lead 
 Bichetont away from her, in fact, she had repulsed 
 his advances on every occasion. But Marjoleine 
 would not give her time to speak, she seized a chair, 
 and, swinging it to the right and left, smashed into 
 
THE FELINE PROTECTOR. 143 
 
 atoms all tli e furniture, china, and mirrors within 
 her reach. "Ha ! " cried she, "I will teach you to 
 receive presents from Bichetont. Ha ! I will arrange 
 your furniture for you. So he gave you these apart- 
 ments, did he ! You ugly old scoundrel ! When I 
 saw the scratches on your face I did not doubt but 
 that yon had some little game on somewhere, but 
 you did not think I should discover my rival did 
 you ! But I wonld have found her if I had had to go 
 to hell for her ! So you must have another mistress ! 
 You are not satisfied with me now eh ! It is a great 
 pity, upon my word it is ! And you, miss, you 
 simply come to my house to wheedle away my man. 
 Do you think I brought you away from your village 
 for that ! Villain, put on jj^ur hat ! You shall hear 
 more of this ! " 
 
 Madame Trafalgar continued to brandish her 
 chair, and made several attempts to strike Yiolet 
 with it, but the glass of the dressing table, which 
 she had just broken, flew into a thousand pieces, 
 and one fragment struck the young girl in the eye. 
 The blood flowed freely from the wound, and this 
 stopped Marjoleine, who threw the chair down and 
 exclaimed : " Well, I think I've done enough for the 
 present ! Her account is settled." Then, looking 
 round the room, she sought in vain for Bichetont; 
 he, as soon as he saw the war-like attitude of his 
 mistress, saved himself by flight and sacrificed his 
 furniture. 
 
 " Ah ! he has fled, the coward ! " cried Madame 
 Trafalgar, after assuring herself that Bichetont was 
 no longer in the room ; " but I shall soon find him, 
 and I reckon he shall dance well for this," 
 
144 MADAME DE BOUCHEROSE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MADAME DE EOTTCHEROSE. 
 
 Tlie portress, who had heard all the tumult and 
 commotion in Madame Manfred on ia's room, hastened 
 upstairs as soon as Trafalgar had gone. She stopped 
 amazed when she saw the furniture and china 
 scattered in pieces around, and Yiolet crying, with 
 her face covered with blood. 
 
 " My God ! what has happened 9 " cried the 
 woman, "everthing* smashed, and you injured 
 madame; you have your face cut ! "..."Yes, I feel 
 very ill.".. ." It was that woman — that fury who tried 
 to assassinate you, but you should have called the 
 police or your neighbours."../*' Oh! it was not worth 
 the trouble. She would have listened to no one, for 
 she would not listen to me !"..." I suppose this 
 woman is your mortal enemy ?"..." No, she is an 
 old friend ; in fact, it was she who brought me to 
 Paris i ". . ." And she has stabbed you in the face ! " 
 :.."No, it was a piece of glass which struck me in 
 the eye. "..."You must put some sticking plaster on 
 it. I will make haste and get some; your poor eye 
 is terribly cut."..." Yes, make haste, and mind if M. 
 Bichetont comes here again to see me do not let him 
 come up.". . ." All right, madame, but I do not think 
 he will return after the manner in which he went 
 out. Ah, poor man ! he went down the stairs four 
 at a time, and leapt over Baloche as though he were 
 playing leap-frog. "..."And, madame, I shall not 
 retain these rooms ; you can put up a bill as soon 
 as you like."..."l shall be very sorry to lose you 
 madame."..." I suppose tnis furniture is paid for? " 
 ..." Oh ! you need not let that worry you, I saw him 
 pay the bill myself."..." Ah ! do please try and find 
 
MADAME DE BOUCHEROSE. 
 
 145 
 
 me my eat; it : is the only present which I am 
 anxious to retain."..." Yes inadame, but it will be 
 very difficult ; cats, you see cannot bear a commotion, 
 as soon as they see any fighting they save themselves 
 and never return." 
 
 Violet paced up and down in a distressed state of 
 mind, and her wound, which ought to have healed in 
 three or four days, fathered and took three weeks 
 to close ; as soon as she removed the plaster she saw 
 that a scar would form right across the cheek, and 
 would probably stay there. Violet wept bitterly as 
 she gazed at it in what remained of the looking- 
 glass, then she exclaimed : 
 
 "There is a scar, and it will disfigure me!"... 
 "No madame," said the portress, "I assure you 
 that from one side you cannot see it at all,"..." But 
 on the other side you can, and in front — "..."It 
 does not spoil your face madame, on the contrary, it 
 gives it rather a pleasant look." 
 
 It was now necessaiy for Violet to set about ar- 
 ranging for the future, so she left the apartments 
 with the intention of finding some remunerative ^ em- 
 ployment. She dressed herself as tastily as possible, 
 for she had lost none cf her vanity, and if she could 
 no longer charm with her face she must try with her 
 figure. The miserable time she had just gone 
 through had made her somewhat thinner, so she took 
 care to wear the corset which supplied the loss of 
 those charms which she had always lacked. One 
 day wandering, she knew not where, her thoughts 
 suddenly turned to the fat and cumbersome Toinon.. 
 She felt that Madame de Boucherose would not 
 think worse of her on account of the way in which 
 Trafalgar had treated her, especially when she learnt 
 that there was no justification for it. So she decided 
 to call on her other friend without delay. She felt 
 glad to be able to relate her adventures to Toinon, 
 
146 MADAME DE BOUCHEEOSE. 
 
 who would, no doubt, offer her some protection and 
 advice. 
 
 The mistress of Sidi occupied a charming set of 
 rooms in the Ohamps Elysees, near the Bois de 
 Boulogne. A beautiful row of lime trees was planted 
 in front of the house, and a wall, surmounted with 
 gilt railings, surrounded it all. 
 
 Violet, who had taken a cab, got out at the gate, 
 sent the vehicle away, and strolled up the avenue of 
 limes, admiring the distinguished appearance of the 
 house. Presently she saw a servant whom she asked 
 for Madame de Boucherose. 
 
 " Madame is at breakfast, but it does not matter, 1 
 will conduct you to her."..." Oh, I will not put her 
 to any inconvenience, I will wait."..." You will have 
 to wait a long time ; she has only just commenced, 
 and she always stays at the table a couple of hours. 
 But it will not inconvenience her, she always re- 
 ceives visitors while at the table, because after 
 breakfast she has a little lunch, and then she dines ; 
 after which she has her supper, and I am afraid it 
 would be very difficult to call without finding her at 
 the table." 
 
 Yiolet followed the domestic across a vestibule, and 
 found herself in a handsomely furnished dining- 
 room, in the middle of which was a sumptuously 
 filled dining table, at which the fat Toinon was 
 seated on the point of attacking a magnificent 
 capon. 
 
 " What ! is it Yiolet ? " cried Madame de Bouche- 
 rose, without moving, and putting an enormous piece 
 of fowl in her mouth. " Ah ! it is good of you to 
 come and see me. You have just come in time : sit 
 down at the table, you must breakfast with me."... 
 " Oh, thanks, Toinon — thanks, Madame de Bouche- 
 rose, I have already breakfasted."..." What does 
 that matter ? Have another. Why, I breakfast all 
 
MADAME DE BOTJCHEROSE. 147 
 
 the morning, and dine soon after. Lisette ! Lisette ! 
 lay for madame." • : . ;t^ 
 
 Violet, seeing that tliere was no way out of it sat 
 down at the table. The corpulent Toinon filled her 
 plate with fowl, and tunnies, and anchovies, passed 
 a bottle of Bordeaux, and said: "Now eat, and at 
 the same time tell me what has happened since you 
 left the corset war-house. I think you did quite 
 right to leave ; you could never have passed all your 
 young days there. You ought to have had a crowd 
 of admirers. You are beautifully dressed ; you have a 
 bust like Mother Gigogne-but I know. What 
 about the corset, eh? Good heavens! I dont want 
 one do I, my dear ? But whatis that on your right 
 cheek * Has one of your admirers done that t> ±ie 
 must have loved you very hard ; I should have got 
 rid of him " " Oh, no, it was not a lover who did 
 that. It seems that you have not seen Marjolenie 
 lately 9 " "No, we quarrelled more than a month 
 ago. 'She had the audacity to say that Sidi Aboukir 
 was like a pumpkin, and all because my Turk would 
 take no notice of her. I told her thai ; Bichetoiit re- 
 minded me of a canary with all its feathers pulled 
 out ! But what has that scar to do with Madame 
 
 Trafalgar ? " 
 
 Violet told Toinon exactly what had taken place. 
 The fat lady continued to eat during the first part of 
 the story, but she had to laugh so much that she was 
 compelled to desist from eating. She jumped upon 
 a chair, and clapped her hands with delight; then 
 she exclaimed : "Is it possible 3 Dd you really 
 make a conquest of old Bichetont P What a splendid 
 adventure ! So he put you in furnished apartments, 
 and Trafalgar discovered it. How I should like to 
 have seen it ; but I am quite pleased enough to hear 
 it Phew I I feel stifled ! 1 must have some Mar- 
 sala ; take a glass, it will do you good Ah ! Mar- 
 seille, what a face she must have had ! bo she 
 
148 MADAME i»E BOUCIIEKOSE. 
 
 smashed up all join* furniture, poor little one."... 
 " It is the more scandalous from the fact that I did 
 nothing to cause M. Bichetont to pay me any atten- 
 tion."..." What ! did you not give him a sly glance 
 now and then?" ... "No; I swear I did nothing 
 to attract his attention."..." Well, I cannot blame 
 you. I suppose Trafalgar thinks Bichetont admires 
 her to such an extent that he will marry her one of 
 these days. So everything is broken up at your 
 place ! What a dreadlful state of affairs ; it was 
 very bad form on her part and extremely childish.". . . 
 ..." You would have done just the same, my dear old 
 ponderous Toinon — Boucherose, I should say."..." I? 
 Certainly not. If any one tried to rob me of my 
 Sidi, well, I do not quite know what I should do. 
 But I certainly would not make a fool of myself. The 
 most unfortunate part of your affair is that nasty 
 wound on your cheek. It s oils one side of youi 
 fa>ce. Who was the ass that attended to it? "... 
 " Oh, it was the hall keejDer.". . ." Oh, then I am not 
 greatly surprised What do you intend doing now, 
 my dear? ". . ." Well, I don't know — what would you 
 advice? "..." If you follow my advice you will get a 
 situation at some dressmaker's. It will be a little 
 more pleasant than at Eepique's, and you will have 
 plenty of opportunities there, for dressmakers are 
 greatly sought after by men about town. I will give 
 you some addresses where to try. Lisette ! Lisette ! " 
 ..."So you have got rid of your little mulatto? "... 
 " Oh, no, but for the past few days he has been with 
 Sidi — we lend each other our servants. Lisette, give 
 me those addresses; yes, they're the ones I mean. 
 Violet, there are two fashionable establishments 
 which I patronise, you might call there, and say you 
 came from me. Good heavens ! how that scar dis- 
 figures this side of you 'face. What a wretch that 
 Marjoleine must have been to do a thing like that I 
 Now, my dear, you cut aw a* because my Turk wifl 
 
MADAME DE BOUCHEROSE. 149 
 
 be lieie soon. I am not jealous of you, my dear, but 
 I would rather lie did not find you here. _ I am not 
 such a beast as Marjoleine."..." So your Turk does 
 not live with you, Toinon ?"..." Oh, we could not 
 have that, it would be such bad form. Besides, he 
 requires such a large establishment, he has at least 
 six carriages. Moreover, I should be very sorry to 
 have him always about me."..." Good-bye, Madame ! 
 I thank you very much for your advice. I will go 
 and see your dressmakers at once."..." That's right, 
 my dear, you cannot do better. Good-bye ; you do 
 not want me to let yon out, do you, my dear, as I 
 have not yet finished my breakfast." 
 
 Violet shook hands with Toinon, who had just 
 filled her mouth with pie ; then she left the sump- 
 tuous abode of the quondam cook, and traversed 
 again the beautiful avenue of limes. 
 
 Violet was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she 
 did not notice a handsome carriage standing a short 
 distance from the railings which surroundedthe house. 
 From it descended a little man, about sixty years of 
 age, round as a ball, with short arms and stumpy 
 legs. He rolled about as he walked, and seeming to 
 have some difficulty in supporting the weight of his 
 stomach. A strong odour of attar of roses pervaded 
 the atmosphere surrounding him. He had per- 
 ceived Violet as she passed down the walk by the 
 lime trees, and scanned her with eager eyes. He 
 stood in admiration at her beautiful figure and well- 
 developed bosom. He muttered to himself : "What 
 an angel ! What a bust ! " 
 
 Then turning towards the mulatto, who was fol- 
 lowing him, pointed out the young girl, and said: 
 Double Six, follow that pretty girl. Do you hear? " 
 ..."Yes, master."..." Find out her name and where 
 she lives, and tell me on the quiet — you understand ? 
 Mind on the quiet."..." Yes, master."..." Go, and if 
 
150 SIDI ABOUKIR. 
 
 you "breathe a word to anyone I will smash you."... 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 Having given these instructions Sidi Aboukirwent 
 in to Toinon ; whilst Violet went on her way never 
 dreaming that she was being followed by Madame de 
 Boucherose's little mulatto. 
 
 CHAPTER XX, 
 
 SIDI ABOUKIR. 
 
 Yiolet called at two shops which Toinon had men- 
 tioned. She was received with great politeness, but 
 did not succeed in getting a situation. "Just 
 now," tl;ey said, "we are not in want of anyone ; 
 call again in a fortnight, then perhaps we may." 
 " A fortnight ! " thought Violet, " that is a long- 
 time, what shall I do in the meanwhile ? My apart- 
 ments are no use now all the thino-s are broken. I 
 feel thoroughly miserable ! I am constantly afraid of 
 meeting M. Bichetont or that terrible Marjoleine ! 
 If only I had my poor Philocles ; but it never came 
 back after Trafalgar kicked my door in. I dare not 
 walk about. I feel that everybody is looking at my 
 right cheek. I shall soon have no more money. 
 The portress told me I could sell my furniture, but 
 I never dare do that ; I should be afraid of M. 
 Bichetont asking for it back ; besides, most of it is 
 destroyed. Ah! this was not the life I was pro- 
 mised if I came to Paris. Where is this life of 
 pleasure, of joy, of fetes, which I heard so much 
 about. Rather than be fondled by such men as 
 
SIDI ABOUKIE. 151 
 
 Bichetont I would stay at Repique's for the rest of 
 my life." 
 
 Three days after her visit to Madame de Bouche- 
 rose Violet saw a servant in gorgeous livery arrive 
 at the door with a letter, and heard him say: "From 
 my master to Madame Manfredonia." When he 
 handed her the letter, she exclaimed in astonish- 
 ment : '*Your master? Who is your master? "... 
 "He told me not to mention his name, madame."... 
 " Ah ! I suppose it is another M. Bichetont ! " The 
 servant smiled and exclaimed : " No ! it is not from 
 M. Bichetont.". . ." Well ! and what does your master 
 want with me? "..." Will you please read the note, 
 madame." Yiolet broke the seal and read : 
 
 " Most adored lady ! I am not a prig, who wants 
 to amuse himself at your expense ; I am a serious 
 man, and I am anxious for your good esteem. I 
 have taken some apartments for you ; in fact, it is a 
 charming little villa at S. Maude just outside Paris. 
 Take possession at once, and convey all your little 
 treasures there without delay. My carriage is at 
 your service, also my valet. Before long, I hope to 
 have the honour of calling upon you." 
 
 The letter was not signed ; but the writing had n«. 
 resemblance to that of M. Bichetont, so Yiolet, 
 turning to the valet, who was waiting, said : " Why 
 did not your master sign this note?"..." I am sure I 
 don't know, madame.". .." Did he write it himself ? " 
 ..."My master never writes, he dictates his letters to 
 his secretary." 
 
 A man who has a secretary should be a person of 
 some consequence. Yiolet went to the window and 
 looked out into the street, where, she saw a handsome 
 carriage standing at her own door. The coachman 
 was in splendid livery. The sight of this gorgeous 
 equipage caused Yiolet some emotion, so she asked 
 the valet whether it was his master's carriage. 
 
152 SIDI ABOTJKIE. 
 
 "Yes, madame," said lie. "He ordered me to say 
 tli at it was at jour absolute service.'' 
 
 A carriage for lier own use ! Where is the young 
 girl who would not be flattered by such a compli- 
 ment. Yiolet was getting more and more troubled 
 in her mind, and stammered out : " But, where did 
 your master make my acquaintance ? "..."I am 
 afraid I know nothing about it madame/'..." Where 
 has he seen me? "..."No doubt he will tell you that 
 himself madame.". . ." Is your master a young man ? " 
 ..."He has never told me his age madame."... 
 •" Well, is he rich ?"..." A millionaire, madame." 
 
 " Grisgris had also said he was a millionaire," 
 thought Violet, "but he certainly had no carnage. 
 After all what do I risk? I am tired of being here, 
 where I am always in terror of meeting Trafalgar. 
 — A villa! Why, I understand that is what they 
 term a pretty little house in the country. Surely 
 my good luck is returning. I will go." And, ad- 
 dressing the liveried servant, she said : " Sir, I will 
 put up a few of my things, and follow you."..." As 
 you will madame, and if I can be of any assistance 
 to you, I am at your service." 
 
 The young woman soon collected a few things to- 
 gether. The valet took the parcels and put them 
 in the carriage. Yiolet soon followed, and said to 
 the portress as she left : *" I am going away. Good- 
 bye ; I shall not come back again.". . ." Is it possible ! 
 What about the broken things upstairs ?"..." Oh! 
 do what you like with them; I don't want them. 
 Make them a present ;o Baloche."..." Ah ! how good 
 of you ! ". . ." I have now a carriage at my service." 
 ..."What! that magnificent equipage which is 
 standing outside ?"..." It is at my service ! ". . ." Ah ! 
 well, you really deserve it after having been so badly 
 treated by that furious woman !"..." Good-bje, 
 madame ; if you should happen to find Philocles I 
 trust you will make it comfortable. 
 
SIDI ATCOUKIR. 153 
 
 The servant opened the door of the carriage and 
 assisted Violet to enter, then he jumped up behind. 
 T^e coachman touched up his horses, which set off 
 at a grand pace. Never before had Violet travelled 
 in such luxury, the air of the carriage was loaded 
 with the perfume of roses. The brilliant turn-out 
 stopped at S. Maude, before a pretty little villa 
 built in the Italian style. The walls were mounted 
 with flower vases, which also lined the long flight of 
 steps and vestibule. Violet was charmed, she felt 
 she was in fairyland. A young girl, with a very 
 knowing air and dressed very coquettishly, came 
 forward and saluted, her : " Madame," she said, " I 
 am your maid, that is, provided you will allow me 
 to be. I am sent here to wait upon you." 
 
 Violet was extremely astonished that this young 
 girl, who was much better dressed than herself, was 
 nothing more than a servant ; so she thanked her 
 and expressed her delight at the arrangements. The 
 valet asked her whether she would require the car- 
 riage again that day, as otherwise he was to return 
 to his master. " Go," said Violet, " but tell me first 
 whether you think your master will be here to-day." 
 ..."Oh! no madame, do not expect him to-day or 
 to-morrow ; he is a little indisposed through taking 
 too much sherbet, and as he is always in great fear 
 cf being ill, he takes a tremendous amount of care." 
 ..." Oh ! very well, he need not hurry so far as I am 
 concerned ."..." Excuse me, madame; I forgot to 
 give you this key; it belongs to the little cabinet 
 which madame will find in her private apartment." 
 
 Violet took the key; the valet departed with the 
 carriage. The first thing the young girl did was to 
 ask to be shown to her room. She was on thorns to 
 know what was in the little cabinet, of which she 
 had just received the key, and which happily she 
 had not been forbidden to make use of. For all 
 women are more or less like Madame Bluebeard. 
 
154 SIDI AB€>UKIR. 
 
 The house consisted only of two storeys. Every- 
 thing was small, yefc furnished with an elegance 
 which completely eclipsed her modest apartments in 
 Rue Chariot. Violet's rooms were on the upper 
 floor; she had a charming bedroom, and next it a 
 most delicious little boudoir, and on all sides were 
 divans, couches, and cushions. She saw also a kind 
 of table with a drawer, so she tried the key in it at 
 once; she opened the drawer and found inside a 
 necklace, some topaz ear-rings, several rings, and a 
 large silk purse containing two hundred napoleons. 
 Violet was rooted to the spot with astonishment, 
 she snatched them up, examined them closely, tried 
 on the jewels, counted out the money, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Four thousand francs ! and rings ! a necklace ! 
 It must indeed be some great lord that I have 
 smitten. I shall stay here. I wonder where he has 
 seen me ? In spite of my disfigurement it seems 
 there is some fascination yet in my face and figure. 
 Oh ! if only he turns out to be a handsome young 
 fellow ! " 
 
 Miss Lizida, for such was the name of her maid, 
 offered to take her mistress over the house and 
 grounds. Violet wa3 delighted to accept. Every- 
 thing was elegant and comfortable ; the garden was 
 small, but it was simply one whole bouquet of 
 flowers. The doorkeeper, who was both gardener 
 and cook, saluted the new tenant and asked whether 
 mad am e was pleased with the house and garden. 
 "Yes, I am charmed," said Violet. ..." At first," said 
 the doorkeeper, " all the ladies who have stayed here 
 have been delighted with the place. Madame is an 
 artist I presume? "..."Not at all," said Violet. 
 "Have you had any artists here? "..."I should 
 think so ! Artists and actresses and dancers from 
 the opera. I have to get the suppers ready when 
 they come here at night after the play — and such 
 
SIM ABOTTKIR. 
 
 155 
 
 suppers ! Will madame allow nie to fill the office of 
 cook for her? "..." Willingly."..." The-i I will make 
 you some lovely dishes, never fear." 
 
 Violet soon saw that she would be able to learn very 
 little about the mysterious person whom it appeared 
 she had smitten. So she decided upon the sensible 
 course of awaiting events. On the morrow the same 
 carriage and the same servants waited upon Madame 
 de Manfredonia. She entered the carriage, and gave 
 orders to drive round the most elegant shops. She 
 spent about twelve hundred francs in dresses, shawls 
 and hats. Five days passed away. Her unknown 
 protector had not yet put in an appearance. The 
 servant said his master was better, and that it would 
 not be long before he paid his first visit. In fact, on 
 the seventh day, Violet, who heard an equipage stop 
 in front of th# house, ran to the window. This time 
 there was someone in the carriage, because the valet 
 had' opened the door, and someone or something had 
 got out, but what it was she had great difficulty to 
 distinguish. It was a great, fat mass, round as a 
 pall, °which leant heavily upon the servant, who 
 waited for him with his foot firmly planted on the 
 ground. Then this ball — this mass — entered the 
 house. Violet stood completely stu pitied at seeing 
 the curious thing walk into the house, and exclaimed, 
 c < My God ! surely this is not the man ! It must be 
 some monstrosity ! " 
 
 She had not the slightest desire to go downstairs. 
 But Lizida ran up, and announced that someone was 
 waiting to see her in the little drawing room down- 
 stairs. There was no chance of avoiding it, she 
 must nerve herself to receive this serious man. 
 
 Sidi Aboukir, who was not such a beast as he 
 looked, had learnt from his mistress, Toinon, all 
 about Violet, and what had taken place with Madame 
 Trafalgar. That was why the ex-pacha wished to 
 preserve the strictest incognito with the young girl, 
 
156 SIDI ABOTTKLR. 
 
 being thoroughly convinced that she would repel all 
 his advances if she knew she was entertaining 
 Madame Boncherose's protector. Violet, almost 
 trembling, entered the drawing room where Sidi 
 was waiting, and whom she saluted without daring 
 to look at him. But he came to her, and led her to 
 a comfortable divan, and said in his weak treble 
 voice, and with an accent that partook of every lan- 
 guage under the sun : "Good morning, my darling, 
 good morning. How do you do ?"..." I am very 
 well, sir, thank you.". . ." I have been very ill indeed," 
 said Sidi ; " and I still have an occasional pain in my 
 stomach. I take three clysters in the morning and 
 two at night. They have done me a lot of good ; 
 but I have got terribly thin."..." Great Scott ! What 
 were you like before your illness then ? " cried Yiolet 
 who was somewhat reassured after the remarks of 
 Sidi Aboukir.". . ."Are you happy here," he remarked. 
 ..."Yes," said Yiolet, "I am indeed."... "It is very 
 pretty. A friend of mine used to keep his mistress 
 here. Have you everything you want ? ". . ." Yes, sir, 
 and I used your carriage the other day to make some 
 small purchases."..." That's right. I have several 
 carriages for your especial use."..." Sir, may I ask 
 you where you first saw me ? And how you knew 
 my name?"..." I saw you out walking. You see, I 
 am always on the look out for pretty women. So I 
 followed you, and the door-keeper told me your 
 name."..." Oh, I see now how it was. ISTow may I 
 ask you what your name is ? ". . ." Mine ? Oh, I am 
 a foreigner — an American. My name is too difficult 
 to pronounce. You couldn't possibly say it. You 
 roust call mo Arthur, it is a very pretty name."... 
 " Do you really wish me to call you Arthur ?"..." Yes, 
 all the actresses at the theatres have a little lover 
 they call Arthur."..." But if you take that name 
 
 I ". . ." Never mind. Will you please walk about 
 
 the room so that I can admire vour beautiful hVure. 
 
SIDI ABOUKIE. 157 
 
 There ! that's the way. Ah ! you are a pretty girl. 
 That will do ; I am quite satisfied with you." 
 
 The fat Turk, who had remained seated on the 
 divan, suddenly glanced at the timepiece on the 
 mantel, and exclaimed : "Dear me ! it is time for my 
 second clyster. I had quite forgotten it. Good-bye, 
 little one, I shall come again soon — think of your 
 Arthur. He will give you all that your heart can 
 wish for." 
 
 Sidi Aboukir took his departure, and Yiolet re- 
 marked to herself, as she saw him ascend into his 
 carriage : " Call that thing, Arthur ? I could never 
 do it. I never saw such an ugly lot as these so- 
 called serious men are ! But if this one is content to 
 see me walk round him, — well, at least, it is not 
 very fatiguing." 
 
 Three days later the Turk paid another visit to his 
 new passion. He always held his stomach in his 
 hands as he walked. However, he declared he was 
 much better than on the occasion of his former visit, 
 but the details of his clystering had little charm foi 
 Violet, although it gave a serious turn to the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " Laugh, my dear," said Sidi, after a little while. 
 ..."Why do you wish me to laugh, sir? "..."Oh, 
 call me Arthur."..." I dare not do such a thing, sir." 
 ..." Why not ? ". . ." Oh, it is too familiar, sir, and I 
 respect you too much to do such a thing.". .." I don't 
 want you to respect me — I want you to love me. I 
 would give everything I possess to be adored. Dance 
 to me, my darling Yiolet."..." Do you really wish 
 me to dance before you?"..." Yes, dance the can- 
 can." 
 
 The great fat ball of humanity nursed his stomach, 
 made a grimace, and roe hastily, saying: " Oa ! 
 I've got those pains again, I must go. Good-bye, 
 my dear." Yielet thanked heaven for sending him 
 this colic, for the more she saw of him, the more 
 
158 SIDI ABOTJKIB. 
 
 terror lie inspired. " To-day," said she, " lie wanted 
 me to dance before him. I wonder what he will ask 
 me the next time. If he asks me to embrace him I 
 think I shall punch him." 
 
 Eight days went by, and the Turk did not call 
 again. Yiolet was delighted. She was very happy 
 so long as he sent his carriage without coming in it 
 himself. But on the ninth day she heard the sound 
 of a carriage outside. She went to the window as 
 usual to see whether anyone got out. But this time 
 she uttered a cry of terror. It was not the ordinary 
 footman who opened the door, but a little mulatto. 
 Violet recognised him ; it was the one who accom- 
 panied Toinon when she came to s.)e her in the 
 country, and whom she called Double Six. In an 
 instant the whole state of affairs dawned upon Yiolet. 
 The man who was protecting her, and who had 
 lodged her so sumptuously, was none other than Sidi 
 Aboukir, the protector of Madame de Boucherose ! 
 
 However, the fat Turk came in ; he was in a 
 sprightly mood; he rubbed his hands, smiled, and 
 said to Yiolet : "I am quite recovered ! I can laugh 
 like you now. Now we can talk of love." And Sidi 
 took Yiolet by the hand. But she repulsed him 
 violently, and said : "Sir, you have deceived me, I 
 know who you are. You are no American, but a 
 Turk. Your name is Sidi Aboukir, and you are the 
 lover of Madame de Boucherose." 
 
 The Turk looked greatly surprised, then he mut- 
 tered : " Who has betrayed me ? Who dared to tell 
 you in spite of my orders ? I will find out at once ! " 
 ..." No one has betrayed you sir, but to-day you had 
 with you a little Mulatto, whom I recognise as 
 having seen with Toinon — I mean Madame de 
 Boucherose when she came to see me in the country." 
 ..."Ah ! so you know Domingo ! Well! yes, I am 
 Sidi Aboukir. That's no reason why you should drive 
 me away. I will cover you with pearls and with dia- 
 
SIDI ABOTTKIR. 159 
 
 monds as I have already covered the fat Boucherose." 
 . . ."I want nothing from you ; you are Toinon' s lover. 
 She will kill me if she finds you here ! ".. ." Have no 
 fear of that, she will never know it. Come, little 
 one, do not tremble and shake like that. Have 
 something to drink. I will come back this evening, 
 and we'll pass the whole night together. We will 
 drink punch, and you call me Arthur. Oh ! it will 
 be V( ry jolly. Now pull yourself together — do not 
 tremll} any more. To-night ! Be ready for me, 
 my beautiful angel." 
 
 Sidi Aboukir took out a beautiful handkerchief, 
 which he threw to Violet, and repeated : " To-night ! 
 Take plenty to drink, it will stop your trembling." 
 The fat Turk left the room and waddled out to his 
 carriage. Yiolet remained on the couch thoughful 
 and full of trouble, She thought it cruel to have to 
 leave such a beautiful house and all the pleasant 
 things she received there, but she trembled when 
 she thought of Toinon. She felt certain that sooner 
 or later this intrigue would be discovered ; in fact, 
 she was somewhat surprised that it had lasted so 
 long already, for she had been there three weeks 
 already. 
 
 It was about two o'clock when Sidi left. Violet, 
 alone in her little room, felt more and more that she 
 was in great peril. A foreboding of coming evil 
 seemed to haunt her continually. All of a sudden 
 someone entered the room ; Violet did not raise her 
 head, for she thought it was Lizida who had just 
 come in. But when at last she did look up whom 
 should she see standing before her but the fat and 
 ugly Toinon, with a pale terrible look upon her face. 
 She addressed Violet in these words : "Ah! so you 
 will take my lover also, thanks to padded corset ! 
 Well ! I am sorry to make sure that you shall rob 
 no one else of their lovers ! " 
 
160 ADVERSITY. 
 
 Then taking from, her cloak a small wide-mouthed 
 "bottle she threw the contents in Yiolet's face, and 
 saying as she went away : " You will make no more 
 conquests now ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXI, 
 
 ADVERSITY. 
 
 It was some acrid fluid which Madame de Bouche- 
 rose had dashed in the face of her old friend. This 
 villanous woman had taken care to throw it on the 
 left cheek, as the poor girl already had a scar on the 
 other side. The corrosive liquid burnt into the 
 flesh and left permanent traces of its power where- 
 ever it touched. At the first instant Yiolet felt 
 nothing ; terror had numbed her senses, but in a few 
 moments she felt the liquid burning into her face, 
 and her agony became so intense that she was com- 
 pelled to call for assistance. The maid rushed in 
 followed by the doorkeeper ; the two women screamed 
 when they beheld their poor mistress 5 features ; one 
 threw some clean water over her face, whilst the 
 other ran for a doctor. The latter did not arrive for 
 about a quarter of an hour ; he ordered a number of 
 things, but the damage was already irreparable. 
 
 " Who has done this ? " asked the doctor. " It is 
 a criminal offence ; in fact, it is attempted assassina- 
 tion. You ought to lay information with the police." 
 ..." I have only seen one lady come into the place," 
 said the portress ; " she asked for Madame Man- 
 fredonia and came into the house. Do you know 
 

 ADVEESITT. 
 
 her, madame?"... Violet hesitated a mcment, 
 she murmured : " No, I do not know her." 
 
 They put the poor injured girl to bed, and took 
 every care of her they possibly could. It was with 
 the greatest difficulty that the docter managed to 
 save the sight of the left eye, but he could not pre- 
 vent that side of the face from being horribly 
 lacerated and scarred. This time Violet had com- 
 pletely lost all her beauty, and it could never return. 
 
 By a singular coincidence after the day Violet 
 had been to cruelly treated by the vindictive Toinon, 
 Sidi AbouMr ceased calling at the pretty villa of 
 Saint Maude\ This conduct greatly astonished the 
 maid and the portress, for how could he knov/ what 
 had happened to Madame Manfredonia. Of course, 
 Violet was not at all surprised, for she presumed that 
 Madame Boucherose would not fail to relate to the 
 Turk what she had done to disfigure his new 
 passion. 
 
 During the first few days of her suffering Vio et, 
 who had remained in bed, did not see her face, but 
 the sad looks of Lizida enabled her to guess some- 
 thing of the truth. However, she asked for a hand 
 mirror that she might see for herself. " Not yet, 
 madame ! You are too red, it would frighten you, 
 but the redness will pass away only wait a little." 
 The poor girl waited several days, then she asked 
 again for a glass, but Lizida refused to accede to 
 her request and made several excuses to avoid it. 
 But one day, feeling strong enough to get up, Violet 
 left her bed and walked over to the glass. When 
 she saw the reflection she uttered a loud scream, for 
 she could hardly recognise herself. Lizida, hearing 
 her mistress' cry, ran to her assistance, and found 
 she had fainted before the looking-glass, where she 
 had. seen for the first time the vengeance wreaked by 
 Toinon. When Violet came to she gave way to tears 
 and sobs, then she tried hard to sustain her failing 
 
 LI 
 
jS£ adversity. 
 
 courage, and said : " All these misfortunes I owe to 
 rny beantj. It was the cause of niy coming to 
 Paris. Why should I regret the loss of it?" She 
 continued for three months to live at S. Maude, and 
 each day she saw her litttle pile of gold grow less, 
 till at last but a small sum was left. She then dis-" 
 missed her maid and told the doorkeeper to put up 
 a bill, for she intended to leave the house very 
 shortly. 
 
 "Poor girl," murmured the doorkeeper, as she 
 gazed at Violet. "And do you not really know who 
 perpetrated this horrible assault ?" ...-"No," an- 
 swered Violet, " besides, if I did know, what would 
 be the use of punishing her now? It would not 
 give me my beauty back ! "-..."No, but it would 
 enable you to be revenged upon her to some extent. 
 It wou'd do that at least !"..." Yes ! but it is just this 
 sort of vengeance which has reduced me to this 
 horrible state. Yet I was not to blame. I did 
 nothing to draw the vengeance of these women upon 
 my head 1 " 
 
 Violet returned to Paris, and took some humble 
 lodgings. She was still well dressed, so she wore a 
 thick veil over her face. Her figure was still grace- 
 ful, she still preserved her tiny foot and well-made 
 leg, so that more than one gay spark followed her 
 step, but once they caught sight of her face they 
 were off like a shot. What was the use of a young 
 girl in Paris without an occupation and without a 
 lover. This was Violet's plight, and to break the 
 monotony* of her life sh© went for a walk every day 
 §3id to the threatre every evening. 
 
 After some weeks of this existence, she had no 
 Honey left, but she still had her jewels, the presents 
 of Sidi Aboukir. She set little store by them and 
 hastened to sell them. She was very much surprised 
 at the small sum they realised. But it enabled her 
 to go on for another few weeks till she found herself 
 
ADVERSITY. lOu 
 
 again without money. Then she began to ieel 
 alarmed at her position, she had now to get rid of 
 some of her dresses, which she had bought when 
 money seemed no object to her. But when she had 
 sold them all what could she do ? She trembled to 
 think what would become of her. There was only one 
 way out of the difficulty: she must find work. She com- 
 menced by leaving her apartments, which were now 
 too dear for her, and she took a room not much 
 larger than the soiled-linen cupboard at Madame 
 Eepique's, and from there she went out every day 
 to find work. But she had now no recommenda- 
 tion, and her face was at first sight so disagreeable 
 that people would rot wait to listen to her requests. 
 The world was ever.tlie same ; it is moved to pity at 
 the sight of a pretty face, but it soon turns it back 
 upon an uncomely countenance. It is unjust, but 
 it is true. 
 
 Yiolet could find nothing anywhere, so she deter- 
 mined to go again to the dressmakers who had 
 offered her employment before she went to S. 
 Maude. They would not recognise her, and when 
 she told them that she had been the victim of a bad 
 accident which had disfigured her, they would say : 
 " Miss, we are very sorry, but we could not possibly 
 take you in our establishment.. flour face would 
 drive away all our customers.' 9 
 
 Violet returned one day in a %jtj sad state of 
 mind. She ha,d been to a draper's, without being 
 able to procure employment, when, at the corner of 
 the street, a young man passed her, elegantly dressed, 
 and humming a popular tune. A single glance en- 
 abled her to recognise him— it. was Grisgris. She 
 ran after him, took his arm, and said : " Do not run 
 away like that, I want to speak to you." Grisgris 
 stopped, turned round, and looked at the humbly- 
 dressed woman by his side, who still held his arm, 
 and said : " What do you want, madame I do not 
 
1C4. ADVERSITY. 
 
 know you. You have surely made some mistake ; 
 jou are taking me for someone else. "..." No, sir, no, 
 Grisgris, I am not making a mistake ; but I am 
 Violet, whom you abandoned. Ah ! my face is no 
 longer the same, I know; a terrible accident has 
 changed that, but I am none the less the girl you 
 promised always to love." 
 
 Grisgris considered for some moments ; then he 
 said : " Is it possible ? Are you really that pretty 
 Violet ? Well, those who have kept you have had 
 their money's worth. Ah ! ah ! What a face ! "... 
 "Yes, sir, I. have lost my beauty, but I am still 
 Violet. If I am unfortunate, is that any reason why 
 you should drive me away ?"..." ]STot at all, my dear, 
 but I haven't time to hear you — I am in a hurry."... 
 "Grisgris, for God's sake, hear me. You seem happy 
 now to judge from your manner.". . ." Well, and what 
 then? ". . ." I am in trouble ; I can find no work any- 
 where. I have sold everything I possess."..." Well, 
 that's no business of mine."..." But she whom you 
 see before you is the one from whom you borrowed 
 money, and you ought to return it. I want it badly 
 now." ..." Well, that is good. What nonsense ! 
 Understand, my dear, that I have never been in the 
 habit of paying my debts, and I shall certainly not 
 commence with you. Good-bye." Whilst finishing 
 these remarks Grisgris hastened away. " Ah ! poor 
 miserable wretch ! " murmured Violet, as she saw the 
 young man take to his heels, for she at least had 
 hoped to get a little sympathy from him. "And 
 there is the man I allowed to seduce me — whom I 
 preferred to '' 
 
 She did not finish. She hastened home, and for a 
 fortnight did not go outside the door except to get 
 the very necessaries of life. She no longer had 
 courage to ask for work, and she had only a shawl 
 left to sell that she might live a day or two longer. 
 
 Most depressing and sinister thoughts oppressed 
 
ADVERSITY. l6fc 
 
 ihe mind of the poor girl, who had not a friend in 
 her misery to console her or to sustain her for- 
 titude. She had already muttered to herself on 
 more than one occasion : " As I am ugly, and cannot 
 find work, I must die of hunger. Oh, no — I will not 
 wait for that ." 
 
 The shawl was gone. Its value enabled Violet to 
 live on a short time longer. She had tried again and 
 again to get into some shop without success, and, at 
 last, when nothing more was left, she cried : " It is 
 all over now, since Providence no longer has pity on 
 me. 1 have but one resource 7 — this watch that 
 Grirofle gave me. I have kept it — it is there — in my 
 bosom. But when I have sold that, it will be the 
 same thing over again, I shall find myself in the 
 same plight. I had better finish it at once, and at 
 least let us finish together — we will not separate 
 now. Poor fellow ! if he only knew — but he will 
 never know that I wished to die with what he gave 
 me." 
 
 Yiolet waited till the evening before leaving her 
 garret, and she directed her steps towards the river, 
 at the Bridge of Austerlitz. It was the end of 
 summer. It had been a beautiful day, but towards 
 evening a sort of misty rain began to fall and drove 
 the pedestrians indoors. The poor girl walked 
 slowly on, she passed the bridge, and went along the 
 edge of the stream towards Bercy. Having arrived 
 at a secluded spot, she looked languidly round, but 
 no one was in sight ; she was on the point of plung- 
 ing into the water when she heard the distant strains 
 of an organ . She stopped ; the music gave her heart. 
 She listened, the music was coming nearer; soon she 
 could distinguish the notes of a cornet accompanied 
 by the organ. 
 
 Yiolet swooned; all her strength abandoned her; 
 she could only murmur, " Oh ! my God ! " and she 
 fell fainting on the water's edge. 
 
1€(> THE LITTLE WATCH. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXII. 
 
 THE LITTLE WATCH. 
 
 The music continued to approach, but when about 
 a hundred paces from the spot where Violet was lay- 
 ing it stopped, and the following dialogue took place 
 between the two musicians : 
 
 " That's enough for to-day ; it is no use playing 
 here where no one can hear. Besides, it is time to 
 go to bed, we have done very well to-day. Bercy is 
 some little distance off, you know."../' My poor 
 Benoifc, it is indeed a long way when one has to 
 carry an organ like that, but you will never give me 
 the big instrument ; it is simply pulling you to 
 pieces. "..." You ought not to carry the organ if you 
 play the cornet. Indeed the day has not been bad. 
 But if you are anxious to return to the country we 
 shall be much happier there, but you do not seem to 
 care much about the idea.". . ."Let us return, brother, 
 for it is useless staying here in this city. I shall 
 never meet her again, for, no doubt, she always rides 
 in a carriage, and only appears in elegant circles/'... 
 " My poor Girofle, what is the use of thinking any 
 more about her? "..."Ah! you are right — nothing. 
 But if I could only see her." 
 
 The two brothers then walked on till they arrived 
 at the spot where Violet was lying unconscious still. 
 Casting his eyes towards the river Girofle remarked : 
 " Look ! I can see something white — down there on 
 the ground. It looks like someone asleep there ! "... 
 " Some drunkard fallen down and gone to sleep 
 probably."..." But it may be someone in want of 
 help! "..." Yes, you are right; let us go and see." 
 
 The two brothers approached. "Why, it is a 
 woman," said Girofle.. . ."Yes, a woman asleep — some 
 
THE LITTLE WATCH. 167 
 
 bad woman in her cups, no doubt. We had better 
 wake her."..." Wake her! Why, she isn't asleep. 
 She is unconscious ! "..."Do you think so? Poor 
 woman ! Let us carry her to the lamp and see. We 
 must help her, and see whether she is hurt."..." Oh, 
 I will carry her ; you stand on one side." 
 
 Girofle had already taken Yiolet in his arms ; he 
 placed her on a bank in front of some houses. There 
 was considerable light from the gas lamps, so that 
 they could see the features of the poor girl. " It is 
 a young woman."..." Yes, and she has had her face 
 burnt."..." She does not seem to recover, it is very 
 singular. I wish she would open her eyes!"... 
 " Wait ! I will look in my pocket, I think I have a 
 little brandy in a flask."... "Benoit! Look at this 
 woman ! Benoit ! Benoit ! isn't she like Yiolet ? ". . . 
 " Hardly ! Why, she is quite ugly. Yiolet, what- 
 ever her faults, was certainly pretty ! Ah ! here is 
 my flask. I will rub her temples with a little 
 brandy."..." I wish 1 could see her eyes ! Look, she 
 has something round her neck. It is a watch — Ah, 
 Benoit ! look ! look ! This watch ! it is the one I 
 gave Yiolet! Look at the initials !".,." Indeed it 
 is ! What a remarkable thing !"..." But this woman 
 — something seems to tell me I know her." 
 
 At this moment Yiolet recovered a trifle, she 
 opened her eyes and saw a young man leaning over 
 her and gazing at her with anxious eyes, then her 
 lips muttered : " Girofle ! Benoit ! Was it indeed 
 you I heard just now ! " 
 
 " Yiolet ! it is Yiolet ! " cried Girofle, who was 
 almost beside himself as he kissed and kissed again 
 the hands of the poor girl. "It is indeed she, 
 Benoit ; you see my heart had recognised her, even 
 before I had seen the watch, and yet I could not 
 
 believe "..." But how did you get here, miss?" 
 
 said Benoit, " how was it you fainted so near the 
 river?"..." The river? I was going to look for the 
 
168 THE LITTLE WATCH. 
 
 end of nay troubles, when the sounds of your music 
 stopped me. I was then so overcome that I fainted." 
 ..."She was anxious* to die! could it be possible! 
 Violet, why did you wish to die ! Was it sorrow at 
 having your face burnt that made you make this 
 terrible resolution? ". . ." Oh ! not that alone. I had 
 nothing left in the world. I could find no woik, 
 and I had no friends/*'..." No friends ! Violet, had 
 you forgotten us? "..."No, but I had treated you 
 so badly Girofle that I could not count upon your 
 friendship."..." Ah ! miss — ah — you ought never to 
 have doubted me ! "..."But," said Benoit, "you 
 were not entirely without resources, you had your 
 watch. "..."The watch — that is true— but I could 
 not tear it from me — it was all that was left of him 
 
 who truly loved me — I wanted to die with it "... 
 
 " Ah ! Benoit, do you hear her ! She would not 
 part with the watch I had given her ! Violet, my 
 dear Violet ; do you think anything of me ? Since I 
 have been in Paris this is the first moment's happi- 
 ness I have tasted."..." You must not stay there," 
 said Benoit, " Violet is very ill ; she must want some- 
 thing. Let us take her with us to our lodgings, 
 
 where we can find her a room "..."How good 
 
 you are! Will yon really take care of me?"... 
 , " Benoit ! she asks if we will take care of her. As 
 if we are not too happy at having found her again ! " 
 ..."Yes, but so different from what I was once. 
 Ah ! I have done well to keep my watch — without it 
 you would never have known me."..." That shows, 
 Violet, that good thoughts have always their reward. 
 But I will get a carriage. You cannot possibly 
 walk.". . ." I can walk if you let me lean on your arm, 
 Girofle." 
 
 The two brothers took the poor girl to their humble 
 lodgings, and found a room for her. They got her 
 some soup and a bottle of wine. Then, after Violet 
 had thoroughly recovered, they gazed- at her, yet 
 
THE LITTLE WATCH. 169 
 
 dared not question ; but their eyes showed how 
 curious they were to know what events had wrought 
 such a wonderful change in her. 
 
 Violet guessed what they wanted to ask, so told 
 them to sit down and she would tell thein. She told 
 them all, hiding neither her faults or misfortunes. 
 When Girofle had heard all, he wanted to be off at 
 once to thrash Toinon, but Violet stopped him and 
 said : 
 
 " No, no, let the woman alone, she and Marjoleine 
 have done enough evil; and perhaps it is a just 
 ♦punishment for my ingratitude to you."..." Violet is 
 right," said Benoit, "for she has indeed been to 
 blame, and has been well punished. And now my 
 child, are you still desirous to live in Paris?"... 
 "Ah! as far from it as I can get. I should have 
 left long ago if I had known where to go. I hoped 
 to find shelter somewhere."..." Then you would not 
 mind going back to S. John-in-the-Wood 9 " said 
 Girofle, as he pressed her hand in his...." Would I 
 like to ! I should only be too happy to see my vil- 
 lage again ! "..."Well then, to-morrow we'll return. 
 Shall we not Beqoit ?"..." You know very well that 
 it has been my most ardent desire for a long time." 
 ..."What a pity I sold my aunt's house," said 
 Violet, " we could all have lived there.". . ." You need 
 not be sorry for that," said Benoit, " I will see to 
 that." 
 
 The next day the two brothers and Violet set out 
 far Compiegne, taking the organ with them. During 
 the journey, Girofle did not cease to testify the plea- 
 sure it gave him to be with Violet again. 
 
 " Ah ! you cannot love me now," said Violet, " I 
 am too ugly."..." What do you say, Violet?" said 
 Girofle. "Ah! you are just as hands6me to me! 
 Your eyes have just the same tender expression — 
 what matters to me a few so^rs — your voice is stil 
 
170 THE LITTLE WATCH. 
 
 as sweet — and yon do not repulse me now, Ah ! ah ! 
 yon are a hundred times better so." 
 
 As they left the railway at Compiegne, Benoit 
 parted from Violet and Lis brother, saying : "I am 
 going to look for a house or lodging. Yon two go 
 on quietly. I shall catch you presently, or you will 
 meet me when you get to the village. " 
 
 Girofle aud Violet went along arm in arm. The 
 poor girl breathed again the delicious air of the 
 country, and her lover pressed her tenderly to his 
 arm. When she saw the village, she stopped and 
 cried : " Oh, what joy it is to see it again, and to* 
 think that ever I wished to leave it. It has taken 
 but a short time to change my way of thinking, for it 
 is hardly a year since I set out for Paris.". . ." Ah ! " 
 said Girofle, " that year has seemed a very long one 
 to me." 
 
 When they got to the village they perceived 
 Benoit waiting for them. "Come in," he said, 
 "follow me. "..."Have you found us a lodging al- 
 ready, brother?"..." Yes, yes. "..."For all three of 
 us ? "..."Certainly, and I trust we shall not be sepa- 
 rated again." 
 
 They followed Benoit, who led Violet and his 
 brother to the house that once belonged to Madame 
 Montin, and opened the door. 
 
 "Why, this is my aunt's house ! " cried Violet.... 
 " Yes, my child, but it is yours now, for I bought it 
 myself. You see, it is just as if you hadn't sold it." 
 ..." Ah ! Benoit, how good of you. But what is that 
 noise I hear in the stable? "..."It is Zozo, your good 
 cow, which you sold to old Thomas. I have bought 
 it back again." 
 
 Violet wept as she extended her hand to Benoit. 
 As for Girofle he fell on his brother'e neck, and 
 hugged him with all his might. 
 
 Several days after, Girofle said to Violet: "Now 
 when shall we get married?" And she answered, 
 
THE LITTLE WATCH". 171 
 
 with downcast eyes : " Bo you really wish to have me 
 for your poor wife ?"..." Yes, yes, Yiolet ; your past 
 faults will guarantee your fidelity for the future. 55 
 
 Several days after, Violet became indeed the wife 
 of Girofle. Good air, peace, and happiness soon had 
 their effect on Violet's face, and it was not long 
 before the worst traces of Toinon's vengeance dis- 
 appeared. Soon a little girl made its appearance in 
 the little household, and, should anyone happen to 
 say to Violet : " Your little girl is very pretty, 5 ' she 
 would always respond : " Let us rather teach her to 
 be good; it is much better, and lasts much longer. 55 
 
 FINIS. 
 
FIRST TIME IN ENGLISH. 
 
 A FAST 
 
 YOUNG MAN 
 
 B? 
 
 "-PATJL BE KOCE.~* 
 
 -:o :- 
 
 LONDON: 
 MATHIESON & COMPANY. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 .i CriG IN A C±iOSS k,OA1». 
 
 I wonder whether we shall soon get to this con- 
 founded country house, where we are to have such 
 fun — where, as you say, there are such pretty 
 women, such a capital table and good wines, delight- 
 ful society, an easy-going- host, and all sorts of 
 games. You promised me so much that I made up 
 my mind to come, though I am not very fond of the 
 country, except it be at the Tivoli, and admire no 
 pleasant women unless it be those at the opera — 
 where they are roue el and wear short petticoats. 
 
 u Ah ! Monsieur TlieophiJe, you are certainly very 
 wicked ; you are a roue, and take after the Chevalier 
 de Faublas ! Because you happen to have a cabriolet 
 and an income of fifteen thousand francs you as- 
 sume the airs and manners of a dandy ! You seem 
 to think of nothing but conquests, and, if I do not 
 take care, you will outdo me altogether. Poor 
 Minot, fancy wanting absolutely to be a, man of 
 fashion ! "..."Well! why should I not be one? 
 What is there in the idea to make you laugh so ?"... 
 ■" My dear fellow, when I look at you and see your 
 great, staring eyes, which seem to wish to express so 
 much and yet say absolutely nothing at all; when I 
 look at your big nose — for your nose is very big, 
 Theophile — and your mouth, which you always keep 
 
Z A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 half open, your square chin, rosy cheeks, and curlv 
 hair, — well, I say to myself that you certainly de- 
 serve great praise when you succeed in seducing a 
 woman."... "I know ail that, and, of course, I de- 
 serve great praise — but I really believe you are 
 making fun of me, for you have drawn a portrait 
 which is not at all like me; just fancy saying that 
 my eyes have no expression ! What the deuce would 
 you have them like ? If you had only heard what ;i 
 very nice girl, who is a chorus girl at the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin Theatre, said of me the other day ! . " 
 ..." Oh ! so you have taken up with chorus girls now ? 
 Poor Minot ! That is just about the finishing 
 touch ! "..."I take up with anybody I please . . . 
 I am of age, and master of my own fortune and of 
 my heart ! "..." Quite right, and you are even at 
 liberty to lose it if you like."... "I do that very 
 often."..." Well, what does your interesting chorus 
 girl say to you? "..."To begin with, I must tell you . 
 that I was behind the scenes ; I can go where I like. 
 for I have taken three subscription tickets for my- 
 self alone.". . ." The devil you have ! But you canin >t 
 use three boxes at the same time !"..." ~No, but , a 
 man who has several tickets immediately becomes a 
 person of some importance, they carry weight, and 
 one is allowed to go upon the stage."..." Oh ! you 
 libertine ! So you subscribed in order to be able to 
 see all the actresses close at hand?"..." Well, I 
 cannot deny it ; but to come back to my chorus girl 
 — she is a very pretty little blonde ; was brought up, 
 so to say, in the prompter's box (he is her uncle), 
 and she assumes pretty little teasing ways towards 
 me. The other day, just as she was going on, she 
 said to me : ' Monsieur Theopile — I am only known 
 by my Christian name tihere — Morasieur Theopile y 
 please do not look at me whilst I am on ! ' When I 
 asked the reason why, she said that I had such ex- 
 1 pressive eyes, that they prevented her from lifting 
 
A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 6 
 
 up her legs as high, as usual."..." That was a very 
 ■flattering avowal ! "..."Certainly it was, but you 
 seem to think, Arthur, that nobody can make an im- 
 pression except yourself. I must acknowledge that 
 you are a very good-looking fellow, and I am not 
 going to dispute any of your advantages. You are 
 tall, well made, have beautiful black hair, and your 
 look — well, it is one of those bold looks, which seem 
 sure of victory.". . ." That will do, my dear Theophile, 
 I will dispense with your compliments. When I 
 listen to you I begin to think that I was wrong in 
 laughing at your looks, for I really believe that men 
 are no more fit to judge each other than women are, 
 though I think that men are more just towards each 
 other. The chief thing is for us to please those 
 women whom we like. Up till the present time I 
 have had nothing to complain about . . . but I 
 am afraid ... I do not venture to hope, yet, 
 and now more than ever, I should like to feel assured 
 of my means of seduction."..." Ah ! I understand. 
 Some new passion, some new intrigue. What a 
 dreadful road! Where are we? I cannot see a 
 yard in front of me, for there is no moon, and suppose 
 you have lost your way? "..."Pray don't be alarmed, 
 but you are always in a fright ! Did not I ask a 
 peasant a few minutes ago whether this was the 
 road to Draveil? "..." What is the good of trusting 
 to peasants ? They take a delight in misdirecting 
 people who come from Paris. It is night, pitch 
 dark, and I should have the strongest objection to 
 p-.issing it in the woods here. When I was a child 
 they used to tell me a lot of stories about robbers, 
 and they always took place in the forest of Senart, 
 where Ave are now."... "Ah! my dear Minot, I 
 clearly see that courage is not your strong point."...- 
 * ; What courage is there in spending the night in a 
 wood, so as to be plundered by robbers ? That is 
 ■.mere temerity and folly.". ..** Well, as you are so fond 
 
4 A GIG IN A CEOSS ROAD. 
 
 of captivating the ladies, sucli an adventure would be 
 a capital means of doing so. What a delightful 
 ■story it would be to have to tell when we get to 
 Draveil that we had been attacked and had a fight 
 with robbers ; what an effect it would have upon 
 them ! "..."Ah ! yes, and especially if we get there 
 stripped, and as naked as little Saint John's ; but I 
 do not at all wish to produce an effect at such a cost- 
 Legris ! Legris ! are you still behind us ? " 
 
 This question was addressed to the man servant. 
 who was hanging on behind the gig. He was a 
 tall, strong fellow, built like Spartacus, and quite 
 able to defend his master against the attacks of 
 several men. He had one fault, however, he was too 
 fond of wine, and hardly a day passed without his 
 getting completely drunk. He had succeeded in- 
 doing so at their last stopping place, but that did 
 not prevent him from holding on behind. He was 
 so used to the position that, when once his hands 
 were firmly fixed in the leather straps which were 
 put there for that purpose, he would close his eyes 
 and sleep profoundly whilst still holding on behind 
 the carriage as it continued to roll on. 
 
 Arthur Gervillier was twenty-six years old, and his- 
 friend had not flattered him when he called him a 
 very good-looking fellow. He was tall and well 
 made, with an easy and well-bred air about him. 
 His regular and well-cut features made a favourable 
 impression at first sight ; his large black eyes were 
 full of fire and expression, too much so at times, and 
 when he fixed them on a young and pretty woman 
 she was almost sure to feel agitated and embar- 
 rassed, and would, perhaps, blush under his earnest 
 gaze. Add to this a set of beautiful teeth, a straight 
 and well-proportioned nose, and jet black Curly hair 
 ovpr a high forehead, and you will have the portrait 
 of Monsieur Arthur Gervillier, whom everybody 
 called a charming young felloiv. 
 
A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 ft. 
 
 But were his morals equal to his physical quali- 
 ties? You shall judge for yourself. Arthur was 
 witty, but his wit was of that sardonic cutting km<l 
 which will shine at any price, and does not the least ' 
 mind paining others. In a drawing-room, his con- 
 versation delighted his hearers by a continual fire ot 
 sallies and jokes, and everybody laughed and ap- 
 plauded him, for everyone likes to be amused ; but it 
 is doubtful whether there was any deep foundation of: 
 superior genius under this brilliant exterior. People 
 who are endowed with solid mental qualities are m 
 the habit of thinking before they speak, and for 
 this reason they are sometimes not so ready or so- 
 prompt with their replies as others who are much 
 inferior to them in merit. But as in the world; 
 people are in the habit of judging superficially,, 
 without taking the trouble of going below the sur- 
 face, so Arthur pleased the ladies by his dress, his 
 elegance and his gallantry, and the men by Ins wit,,, 
 his jokes, and his happy temper, and so morally, as 
 well as physically, he was called a charming yombo/ 
 
 fellow. 
 
 He had a great amount of self-confidence ; he was 
 fully aware of his own physical advantages, and he 
 took no pains to hide the fact. He was ardently 
 fond of pleasure, and his successes amongst women 
 caused him to treat love very lightly, and whether 
 you would have called him good-hearted depends 
 upon how you look at it. Those young ladies whom 
 one meets out by themselves at night m the streets 
 of Paris are always said to be kind hearted, and 
 after that just consider whether you ought to trust- 
 such sort of people! He had lost his father and 
 mother whilst he was still quite young, and his only- 
 remaining relative was an uncle, who had been a 
 captain in the army and who had never troubled 
 himself much about his nephew. Having an income 
 of seven or eight thousand francs a year, when he 
 
£> A rtJG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 was eighteen years of age, he felt an inclination 
 1'or a soldier's career, and he joined a hussar regi- 
 ment because the uniform pleased him, and when 
 lie had got on his jacket with its bright buttons, and 
 with the sabretache at his side, he thought that no 
 woman could resist him. As a hussar he had fought 
 several duels, and after the affair of the Trocadero 
 he was made sub-lieutenant. Soon afterwards the 
 revolution of 1830 took place, and the young man 
 seized that occasion of leaving the army, of which he 
 had grown tired, and of returning to civil life. This 
 was about a year before we have first made his ac- 
 quaintance, which will make it clear to you that it 
 was in the summer of 1831 that the two young men 
 were driving in the cabriolet to Draveil, a village 
 about seven leagues from Paris, and quite close to 
 the forest of Senart. 
 
 And now for his companion. Theophile Minot 
 was a big young fellow of twenty-six or twenty- 
 seven ; he was ugly, and looked decidedly stupid, 
 which, however, did not prevent him from laying 
 great claims to smartness. To this must be added 
 that importance which wealth bestows, and then you 
 will have an idea of Monsieur Minot, the son of a 
 rich manufacturer, who had given up business after 
 the death of his father, in order to have full enjoy- 
 ment of his fortune, and was now trying to get 
 launched into good society, where his jokes, his 
 bearing, and his dress caused many a laugh at his 
 expense. 
 
 ^ow that we have made the acquaintance of our 
 travellers, let us proceed on their journey with 
 them. 
 
 " Legris ! Legris ! . . Why doesn't the fellow 
 answer? " Theophile said, leaning out of the gig. 
 "Is he not there, or has he fallen out into the 
 road? "..." Oh! no, he would have called out if he 
 had; he is there, but cannot have heard you."... 
 
A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. / 
 
 " That is surprising . . supposing lie lias gone! 
 Please stop a minute, whilst I make sure. I want 
 to see whether they have -stolen my servant." 
 
 Arthur, who was driving, stopped the horse, and 
 Minot, after looking anxiously at the trees by the 
 road side, got half out of the carriage, and called 
 out in an angry tone of voice : 
 
 " Legris, are you there ? Why don't you answer ? 
 
 A dull, prolonged noise was the only reply that 
 Theophile got ; far from being re-assured by it, he 
 got very pale and cowered trembling under the hood 
 of the carriage, and said in a low voice : " My dear 
 friend, did you hear that . . that subdued groan 
 which was uttered quite close here ? It is somebody 
 who has been attacked, perhaps wounded; perhaps 
 it is my poor servant who is trying to call us ? I 
 told you that something would happen; these woods 
 are full of bad characters." 
 
 " You are mad," Arthur said, getting up in a 
 temper, " at any rate, I shall go and see what it is." 
 Saying this, he jumped out of the cabriolet, although 
 his companion called out : 
 
 " Where are you going to? Do not leave me ! I 
 will not be left alone in this wood ! I don't know 
 where I am ! " 
 
 But Arthur was alieady in the road, and the next 
 moment he rapidly disappeared in a narrow path 
 which could scarcely be seen, as the" night was very 
 dark, and soon his footsteps could no longer be 
 heard. Theophile Minot cowered at the back of the 
 cabriolet, the apron of which was thrown back, and 
 said again: "Arthur, don't go away, do not be so 
 imprudent I beseech you. Get in again, and I will 
 whip up the hoise, and we will go off at a gallop." 
 Some moments passed, Theophile received no reply, 
 and did not hear the other's footsteps any longer ; he 
 was seized by fresh terror, and anxiously waited for 
 
3 A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 his friend's return, but several minutes passed, and' 
 nobody came. 
 
 " Good heavens ! whatever shall I do ? "Now 
 Arthur is lost as well ! " Theophile said, eagerly lis- 
 tening in the hopes of hearing his friend. " It is 
 certainly very strange ; he could not be so long 
 looking for Legris. He must have been stopped and 
 attached, and it will be my turn directly. They 
 will come and cut my throat in the gig, but I will 
 not wait till they come. I will whip up the horse 7 
 and, if he will only take the bit between his teeth, I 
 shall be very glad." 
 
 As he said this, Monsieur Minot put out his hand 
 to try and find the reins and the whip, but he 
 trembled so violently that he could not find any- 
 thing. At last he managed to find the whip, but 
 the reins had fallen out when the apron had been 
 opened, and he could not get hold of them without 
 getting out. The big young fellow did not know 
 what to do ; he listened intently, cast timid glances 
 amongst the trees, and the slightest rustle which the 
 wind caused amongst the leaves made him cowei 
 back in the carriage every time he was about to* 
 leave it. 
 
 "I must do something or other, however, 55 he said 
 to himself, making an effort. " The longer I wait 
 the more dangerous my position will become. It is 
 getting late, it must be nine o 5 clock at least, and I 
 must get out of this confounded cross road into 
 which Arthur would come. 1 do not know the 
 different roads, but if I drive hard, I must get to* 
 some houses at last. 55 
 
 Having armed himself with courage, Theophile 
 got out of the carriage, and when he was once on 
 the ground he groped about and succeeded in find- 
 ing the reins. Delighted with himself, he was just 
 about to get in again when the dull sound which he 
 had already heard struck his ears again, and this 
 
A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD, if' 
 
 time more strongly. He uttered a cry, and was 
 answered by a sneeze ; in his terror lie shook the 
 reins, the horse started suddenly and a heavy mass 
 fell into the road by the side of poor Minot, who had 
 fallen out on to the ground at the moment when the 
 horse started. 
 
 Cries and oaths were heard, and Theophile thought 
 that a band of robbers were on him, so he covered 
 his face with his hands and cried out : " I will give 
 you my purse, it no use to do me an injury. I will: 
 not make the least resistance ; you may rob me, and 
 I shall make no opposition." 
 
 " Whatever possessed that brute of a Bibi to start 
 off all of a sudden like that ? It gave me such a 
 shake that as I woke up I fell off, as I was not ex- 
 pecting it ! Confound it, I have got a r.ice bump on 
 my left ear ! " 
 
 In spite of his terror, Monsieur Minot was struck 
 by the accents of the voice which uttered those 
 words, and he looked up and stammered : " Who is 
 there?"..,." Well, for the matter of that, who are 
 you yourself, lying there on the ground like a mole ? " 
 ..." God forgive me, why it is Legris, that scamp of 
 a Legris, who I thought was lost or murdered!"... 
 "Why, monsieur, are you amusing yourself by lying 
 full length in the road ? " Legris said, coming up to 
 his master. ..." Yes, you scamp, it is I," Theophile 
 said, getting up. " Where have you come from ?' 
 I have been calling you for the last hour.".. ." But, 
 monsieur, I have not left the back of the cabriolet, 
 though I must confess that I went to sleep and 
 snored as we drove along, but- that did not prevent 
 me from keeping firmly to my post. I certainly 
 should not have fallen if the horse hail not started 
 suddenly. But, where is the cabriolet, monsieur?"* 
 ..."Where is it? Why, it has gone off; your con- 
 founded snoring was the cause of it all. "..."And 
 your friend, Mr. Arthur, leaves you all alone in the- 
 
HO A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 'middle of the road, and goes off with the carriage? 
 'That is rather unceremonious ! "..."Oh ! no, Arthur 
 is not in the carriage; he went to lcok for you a 
 quarter of an hour ago, and has not come back jet ; 
 he will have been set upon and carried off into the 
 wood, and . . Well, Legris ! Legris ! where are 
 you off to again ? " 
 
 Legris did not wait for his nmstev to finish ; as 
 soon as he heard that the carriage had gone off 
 without a driver he rushed after it, for they could 
 still hear it rumbling in the distance. It was no 
 good for Theophile to call out to him to stop; he 
 thought he was telling him to stop the horse, and 
 lie ran all the more eagerly so as to catch Bibi 
 before he should have smashed the carriage in some 
 quagmire. 
 
 Theopiiile was furious; there he was again alone, 
 in the middle of a by-road, and in a part of the 
 •country he did not know. Now he had not even got 
 the carriage in which to sleep, or the horse to carry 
 liim off full gallop. He shook with rage ; he kicked 
 -the trees, he swore, and finally, in despair, threw 
 himself down on the first knoll he came to. But 
 what he had taken for a bank of turf was a good- 
 : sized clump of stinging nettles and thistles, and 
 what he felt when he sat down on them was not of a 
 nature to calm his ill-temper, and he jumped up 
 hastily, exclaiming : 
 
 iC Just my luck ! It seems as if everything were 
 .combining this evening to vex me. Oh ! oh ! how it 
 pricks me! A thistle must have got stuck m my 
 trousers. . . It just serves me right. . . What 
 did I want to leave Paris for, where I was so com- 
 fortable . . where I had free admission to several 
 theatres, made love to the actresses, and was free to 
 go behind the scenes ? And all, just to go into the 
 .country with Arthur, who alwa} r s seems to be making 
 iun of me, and who is perhaps taking me to a house 
 
A GIG IN A CEOSS EOAD. 11' 
 
 where I shall be bored to death. ! But if I had only 
 got to that said house ! I lose my travelling com- 
 panion, my cabriolet, rny servant, and even my halt, 
 for I am hatless. It was on the carriage cushions;, 
 and, to cap it all, I sit down on some stinging 
 nettles! And who knows what heaven may still 
 have in store for me if I have to pass the night in 
 this wood ! " 
 
 By and by he left off complaining, but he stood 
 in the middle of the road, for he would not venture 
 to sit down. From time to time he put his hand 
 underneath the skirt of his coat and rubbed himself, 
 exclaiming : " Good heavens, how it itches ! " Soon^ 
 however, he heard a voice, humming an air from La 
 Fiances, an opera which was quite new then, and the 
 echoes of the wood repeated : 
 
 Troubador and shepherd, 
 Your lot may change ; 
 You should enlist 
 In the guard with me. 
 
 Theophile started with pleasure, for he recognised 
 the melodious voice which was making the woods re- 
 echo, and at the same time a horse's steps and the 
 rumbling of wheels drew nearer every moment. 
 
 "I am saved ! " Minot cried, and, in fact, in a few 
 moments his friend, his cabriolet, and his servant 
 appeared. 
 
 "Where the devil do you come from? " Theophile 
 said, on seeing Arthur...." I will explain it all to 
 you, my dear fellow. When I got down to look for 
 Legris, the first thing that met my eyes was a small 
 light sparkling in the distance. As I was not quite 
 sure whether I was on the right road for Draveil, I 
 said to myself : ' A light is a sure sign of a habita- 
 tion ; let us try and reach it. I will get them to 
 show me my way.' That was why I went away so 
 suddenly ; the light seemed to flee before me. Some- 
 times it disappeared altogether."..." It was a Will o r 
 
"12 A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 -the Wisp ? "..."No, it was simply a lantern, which a 
 rural policeman was carrying. When I got up to 
 hiin, he first of all took me for some bad character 
 and drew his sword, but a five-franc piece which I 
 gave him convinced him that he had made a mistake. 
 He gave me the directions I wanted, and even his 
 lantern, which he will come and fetch to-morrow at 
 •Colonel de Melleval's, for we are close to our destina- 
 tion. Ten minutes more along this road then we 
 turn to the right, and we shall see Draveil just in 
 front of us, and get to Monsieur de Melleval's, who 
 will give us a most kind reception. Well ! are you 
 still woe begone? "..." No. What pleases me most 
 »of all is that lantern which you have brought." 
 
 "I caught Bibi," Legris said, "just as he was 
 <roin£ into a vinevard ! . . That would have been 
 very nice; he would have wounded himself, the 
 poor brute, and have smashed his harness."... "Well, 
 as no aacident has happened, let us get in again and 
 make haste to get to our destination. Go on, Bibi, 
 irot away. And Legris, mind you don't go to sleep 
 again behind there. 55 ..." Oh ! no, monsieur, no more 
 of that now."... "Before we get there," Theophile 
 went on, speaking* to his friend, "tell me some- 
 thing about the persons to whom you are taking 
 me. I know we are going to see a retired colonel, 
 but whom shall I meet besides? I should like to 
 "know something of the people. "..."Naturally, so 
 listen. Monsieur de Melleval served for a long time 
 under Napoleon. He is a mau of fifty-five, grave 
 and rather stern, not particularly amiable, and who 
 always thinks that he is amongst his soldiers, even 
 when he is at home. He has preserved all the tone 
 .of command, and wants all who come near him to 
 obey him and to march as if they belonged to his 
 regiment."..." Well, if that is the agreeable society 
 which you promised me . . "..."No! no! What 
 do I care for Monsieur de Melleval? I let him 
 
A GIG IN A CROSS EOAD. 13 
 
 -speak gravely about his campaigns and domineer 
 over his friends and neighbours, who compose his 
 society; I do not go to see him, but his daughter, 
 the charming Caroline."... "Oh ! there is a daughter, 
 is there? Now I understand."..." Yes, a girl of 
 seventeen or eighteen. Picture to yourself every 
 attraction and grace united — an angel whom one 
 cannot see without loving ! "..." Oh ! then I am to 
 love her also ? "..."As you like, it is all the same to 
 ine ! She has been perfectly brought up, is timid 
 and reserve, but lost her mother whilst she was 
 quite young, which had made her dream of that love 
 of which we read in romances, like at the time of 
 Amadis and of Roland. In addition to this, she has 
 a friend who possesses a very high-flown imagination, 
 and is most romantic. She is one of those women 
 who create an inrpossible world and impossible men 
 for themselves. She has great pretensions, and uses 
 unintelligible phrases. Oh ! you will get on very 
 well with her, and you may easily shine in her sight. 
 You need only go in for the vague, go up into the 
 clouds, and envelope your phrases in such a manner 
 that they cannct be understood, for her to think 
 you delightful. I will leave Ophelia to yon. I only 
 want Caroline. "..."He will leave Ophelia to me! 
 He is really surprising. It seems as if he had only 
 to take the girls like you do cards at piquet! He 
 leaves one, but looks at her beforehand, eh?"... 
 ^ Ah ! my dear Minot, I am in love — madly in 
 love with the charming Caroline."..." Have you any 
 hopes that she likes you? "..." Oh ! Oh ! any hopes 
 . He is delightful. Is not a man like myself 
 certain to succeed when he wishes to be loved? "... 
 "'Well, certain? Suppose this young lady had a 
 secret inclination for anyone else? "..'." I should 
 have driven it away, and supplanted my rival, but 
 I shall not have this trouble, for I Repeat that 
 Oaroline is as yet free from any impressions of love. 
 
14 A GIG IN A CROSS ROAD. 
 
 lier heart is perfectly untouched, but it feels the 
 need of love, and is seeking for one which will be 
 responsive to her own. What happiness to hear a 
 tender avowal from that pretty mouth — to gather 
 the first words of love pronounced by that touching 
 voice, whose accents cause me such delightful emo- 
 tions ! You will see Caroline, and shall acknowledge 
 that you have never yet seen anything more en- 
 chanting."..." Still, since I have been regularly in 
 the habit of going behind the scenes at the Port— 
 Saint-Martin Theatre, I have seen many . . "... 
 " Caroline is fair, not one of those exceedingly fair 
 persons who glisten like snow, nor one of those who 
 approach red or auburn . . "..."Yes, I under- 
 stand; she is a real blonde, and so ought to have 
 blue eyes."..." Not at all, her eyes are quite black r 
 and that is divine, beceuse it is so rare !"..." Oh I 
 rare, not so much so as you think ; I have often seen 
 dark eyes with light hair. It is true that they 
 were women who wore false plaits."..." Really, 
 Minot, you need not interrupt me to talk such non- 
 sense. But after all, I am very kind to give you a 
 portrait of Caroline. Will you be able to under- 
 stand everything that is contained in that beautiful 
 face ? ". . ." Is Colonel Melleval rich ?"..." Yes ; that 
 is to say, very comfortably off. I suppose an in- 
 come of about ten thousand francs. "..."If the 
 young lady is an only child, she would not be a bad 
 catch."..." What does that matter? That is not 
 the question. Poor Minot, he always thinks of 
 marriage as soon as love is mentioned. As 1 have 
 already loved fifty times, I should have fifty wives 7 
 therefore ?"..." ISTo, not fifty, that would be too 
 many, but one — one with a good dowry. "..."Hold 
 your tongue ; you are foolish. At my age, at twenty- 
 six, the possession of a good income, blessed with- 
 all the advantages which enable a man to get on 
 in the world, do you think I am going to get 
 
A GIG 1ST A CROSS ROAD. 15- 
 
 married, to "bury myself in a household ; perhaps to 
 nurse the children, and play qiquet with my father- 
 in-law ! That would indeed be touching . 
 cannot you see me taking a child out for a walk,. 
 and sitting 1 at the corner of the fire by the side of ' 
 my wife?"..." There are some people who call that 
 happiness."..." It is possible, but it would not con- 
 stitute mine. What I want is movement, noise, a 
 stirring life, constant change of pleasures, passions, . 
 obstacles to be overcome — that is, at this moment, , 
 Caroline's love ! And I shall have it ; she will give 
 me her heart, that I am determined on, and I have- 
 not yet met with any resistance which I have not 
 been able to overcome. The only thing that vexes 
 me is that Monsieur de Melleval has left Paris al- 
 together and gone to live on his property at Draveih .. 
 Formerly he used to spend his winters in Paris with 
 his daughter, and there it was that I saw Caroline 
 for the first time, now six months ago. But he has 
 altogetner given up Paris, and one must go to 
 Draveil to see the colonel's daughter. He has a 
 very nice place, the house is delightful, and he enter- 
 tains very well, and if one overlooks his mania for 
 ordering people about one can enjoy oneself very 
 well there. But it is a great way from Paris, seven 
 long leagues ; but Caroline is quite worth taking the 
 trouble about. This is the third time this summer 
 that I have come here, and, as my uncle is staying 
 here at this very moment, it will be an opportunity 
 for me to remain longer, and I hope . . But see, 
 there is the village, and that is Monsieur MellevaTs 
 house down there on the right,"..." Oh ! so here we 
 are at last," Theophile exclaimed. "Upon my word 
 it has cost us some trouble ; I was beginning to 
 ihkils: that we should never get here=" 
 
16 THE COMPANY AT DEAVEIIi. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE COMPANY AT DHAVEIL. 
 
 Before taking tlie two young men into the colonel's 
 house, let us make the acquaintance of the fresh 
 personages whom we shall meet there. 
 
 We may begin by saying that Monsieur de Mel- 
 leval's residence was in very good taste ; that the 
 house, built in the modern style, offered everything 
 which can please the eye and satisfy its inhabitants. 
 • Good taste and comfort were combined in it, and it 
 was clearly the abode of a well-to-do individual, who 
 liked to receive much company, for there are some 
 .rich i eople who live like wolves, and in their houses 
 an air of sadness and of solitude is generally 
 apparent, which is reflected in the choice of fur- 
 niture, in the colour of the wall papers, and even 
 the arrangement of the rooms. 
 
 Again, there are people who like to receive com- 
 pany in their country houses, who invite you and 
 press you to come, and when there let you want for 
 everything. If you arrive tired out and overcome 
 by the heat, they will never offer you any refresh- 
 ment before dinner; you are taken over a garden 
 containing beautiful fruit, but you are given to 
 understand that you must not touch it, and that it 
 is going to be kept. You see a plot of tall, delight- 
 fully fresh-looking grass; you feel inclined to roll in 
 it, but you are told that you must not put foot upon 
 it because it would spoil the hay, which is to be sold 
 to the neighbouring farmer, and you are shown a 
 bedroom where the washing accommodation is of 
 the scantiest, whilst you are only given one candle, 
 which is so short that it will not burn for more than 
 half-an-hour, which is intended as a hint for you to 
 
THE COMPANY AT DRAVEIj,. ]? 
 
 -get into bed quickly, and not to read when once you 
 are there. 
 
 It was not like that in Monsieur de Melleval's. 
 With the exception of his habit of commanding 
 which he had retained and which imparted some- 
 thing strict and imposing into his manners, the 
 colonel was an excellent host. He took care that his 
 guests should have all they wanted, and, above all, 
 he wished them to find plenty of amusement whilst 
 .with him, and he would have forced them to it had 
 "he been able. He was a brave soldier, a strict ob- 
 server of his duties as he was of discipline, and he 
 could not remember that he had once been put 
 under arrest during the whole course of his long 
 military career. But as the colonel was as just to- 
 wards others as he wished others to be towards him, 
 lie had managed to gain the esteem of all his com- 
 panions in arms, and the friendship of all those who 
 were capable of seeing that under his brusque and 
 stern exterior Monsieur de Melleval had a kind, 
 noble and generous heart. 
 
 His daughter you know already ; Arthur has drawn 
 her portrait for you, and has exaggerated nothing of 
 "her grace and charm. We will only add that 
 Caroline loved her father dearly, but trembled before 
 him; that being accustomed to a passive obedience 
 which had no limits, when by chance she wished to 
 give way to some reflection or some slight observa- 
 tion about any orders she might have received from 
 the colonel, the words died on her lips, her cheeks 
 grew scarlet, and she went away without uttering a 
 word. 
 
 Caroline had lost her mother whilst she was still 
 very young, but she had an excellent woman called 
 Marianne to wait on her. She was one of those ser- 
 vants who have brought up children, who have 
 never left them, who love them, spoil them, comfort 
 ■them in all their little troubles, and share their joys 
 
18 THE COMPANY AT DEAVEIL. 
 
 and their pleasures, who play at ball with them, and., 
 later on, are the recipients of their first confidences 
 and divine their secret sighs. She was, in a word, 
 one of those servants whom one conld not dismiss 
 without committing a bad action, and in whom one 
 overlooks a thousand little faults, knowing that they 
 are really attached to our children. 
 
 Such was Marianne, a good creature, who was 
 then about forty, who had known Caroline from her 
 birth, and who had been one of the first to carry and 
 to nurse her, who knew nothing in the world more- 
 beautiful or amiable than her young lady, and who 
 would have thrown herself into the water to please 
 her or to save her any annoyance or distress, and 
 who hoped she would help to dress her for her wed- 
 ding and afterwards dandle her first baby. 
 
 Caroline, for her part, thoroughly reciprocated - 
 Marianne's affection ; she went to her nurse and 
 cried to her when her father had spoken to her 
 rather severely, and she told her her slightest griefs 
 and her little secrets — very innocent secrets thev 
 were, for Caroline was innocent and pure, and her 
 thoughts were as chaste as her brow. Marianne 
 laughed or cried with her young lady according to 
 circumstances, and never had affection towards a- 
 nurse been better merited, 
 
 We must next make the acquaintance of Monsieur 
 de Yienssec, a retired magistrate, who had become 
 nearly blind as he grew older, who was almost deaf,, 
 and quite asthmatical, so that his company was not 
 by any means desirable. 
 
 Monsieur de Yienssec had a niece. Mademoiselle 
 Ophelia, that romantic and pretentious young lady 
 whose picture Arthur had drawn for his friend. She 
 was very tall and thin, could not give herself any- 
 thing of a figure, although she squeezed herself into 
 her stays till she hurt herself. She had regular, 
 though rather strongly marked features; she had 
 
THE COMPANY AT DRAVEIL. 19 
 
 been pretty, but her thin, yellow face, with its pro- 
 minent cheek bones, had no longer anything youth- 
 ful about it, and yet she was only seven and twenty, 
 but, unhappily or otherwise, she looked as if she 
 were thirty. Unkind people said that her regrets at 
 not getting married had helped to make her yellow 
 and thin, but when she was only eighteen, and 
 naturally still looked very youthful, her pretensions 
 were so ridiculous and her conversation so unintel- 
 ligible that many would-be lovers withdrew, because 
 they could not understand her fine language, and 
 .^he, for her part, had refused several good offers be- 
 cause the suitors for her hand had not expressed 
 themselves in language refined enough to please her 
 taste, or else did not know how to arrange their 
 hair fashionably. 
 
 Arthur's uncle. Captain Grervilliev was also one of 
 Monsieur de Melleval's guests ; he had retained all 
 liis old habits of obedience towards his former chief, 
 and thought himself highly honoured at being in- 
 wited to his house, for his ambition had been limited 
 to obtaining his present rank, as he felt that he 
 could never hope to rise above it. He Avas just as 
 readv to bow before his chief now in a drawing-room 
 :as he had been formerly in barracks, and would 
 xather have remained standing the whole day loiif 
 than have taken a seat before the colonel invited 
 him to do so ; and it was just the same with regard 
 to other matters. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of Monsieur de Melleval's 
 house there were several nice houses, whose owners 
 were in the habit of visiting him. There were a 
 retired banker and his wife ; the lattjr had been 
 very pretty and a great flirt. She had lost the 
 greater part of her good looks, but her coquetry had 
 increased in proportion as she had lest her charms. 
 "We all of us naturally try and preserve something. 
 ^Monsieur Dugrandet, that was the .banker's name. 
 
20 THE COMPANY AT DRAVEIL. 
 
 was nearly sixty, but as lie had been a very handsome- 
 man and toh rably fortunate with the fair sex, lie- 
 had made up his mind not to grow old ; his mania? 
 was to prove that he still retained all his youthful 
 faculties, and he prided himself upon never being- 
 ill, and, above all, on being an indefatigable walker, 
 though his wife occasionally gave a mocking smile- 
 when he spoke of his vigour and of his excellent 
 constitution. 
 
 There was another family of shopkeepers, very 
 wealthy people, but who were foolish enough to 
 despise the business which had enriched them, and 
 to wish to pass for genteel people ; that was a great 
 source of amusement to Miss Ophelia, who declared- 
 that with such a name as theirs — Troussard — it was 
 quite impossible to receive any consideration in 
 good society. The husband was a man of fifty, who- 
 flattered himself that he had received a very good 
 education, and who spent his life in his cellar chiefly 
 counting and re-counting his bottles of wine, because 
 he was very suspicious and was always afraid lest 
 his servants should rob him. Suspicion is almost 
 always accompanied by avarice, and Monsieur- 
 Troussard was more than economical, and scrajjed 
 and pinched m the smallest details, which was not 
 at all in keeping with Madame Troussard's grand 
 airs. As, however, we all have our little weaknesses, 
 Monsieur Troussard had his vulnerable point. The- 
 table, and, above all, good wine, had an irresistable 
 attraction for the ex-merchant, and ^ after a good 
 dinner, when he would almost always have drunk 
 enough to put him into a good humour, he would 
 become extremely lavish and generous. Whatever- 
 he had was at your service, and he would put his 
 hti.isG and his purse at your disposal, and invited all 
 tl.o company, even those whom he had never seen 
 before, to dinner; but as soon as he was quite- 
 
THE COMPANY AT DRAVEIL. 21 
 
 himself again lie made haste to withdraw all his in- 
 vitations. 
 
 Madame Troussard was ten years younger than 
 her husband; she was always smiling, and, as soon 
 as she had asked you how you were, she began a 
 long story to you, which brought up another and. 
 and another, till it became just like The Arabian* 
 Nights, and she would generally get somebody into- 
 a corner of the room who would be obliged, however- 
 unwillingly, to listen to her. 
 
 Then there was Mademoiselle Troussard and 
 several little Troussards. She was eighteen, with a 
 round, ruddy, good-natured face ; with bright eyes,. 
 always smiling and happy, with no airs about her, 
 as she had not inherited the foolish pretensions of' 
 her parents. Her name was Therese, and, though 
 there was nothing distinguished about her, she was 
 nice-looking and very pleasant and would be sure to 
 find adorers and a husband. Her only fault was 
 that she sang badly and would sing often, though 
 her mother thought her voice beautiful, and that 
 one could not have too much of it. 
 
 As to the little Troussards, there were three of' 
 them, between five and nine years old, who spen tr 
 their time between sleeping and eating. 
 
 We shall meet other characters in the course of 
 the story, and now let us go into the colonel's 
 drawing-room on the evening of the arrival of 
 Arthur and his friend Theophile Minot, a few- 
 minutes before they made their appearance. 
 
22 AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'?. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 
 
 " I hive been more than five leagues to-day ! . . 
 I have been to Montgeron and back, and went out 
 of my way to see some property which I was told 
 was for sale. . . Oh ! yes, I must have gone six 
 leagues, and thought nothing of it ; I am not the 
 least tired. 
 
 Monsieur Dugrandet was sitting on a couch, and 
 was saying this to the colonel, whilst Captain Ger- 
 villier was standing in front of them. Madame 
 Troussard was talking to Monsieur Vienssec in a 
 corner of the room, for the ex-president was almost 
 always handed over to her, but, as he was nearly 
 deaf, he suffered less than anyone else would have 
 done from her ceaseless tongue. 
 
 Caroline was doing some embroidery and talking 
 to Ophelia, who had a book in her hand, but was 
 not reading. Therese was standing by the piano 
 : and looking over some music, whilst Madame Du- 
 grandet was playing at draughts with Monsieur 
 Troussard, whose boys w re sleeping in different 
 parts of the room. 
 
 •< I am no longer a great walker," the colonel said, 
 
 turning to the captain ; " perhaps because I got 
 
 . over so much ground in years gone by. . . _ Oh ! 
 
 the Emperor did not give us much rest did he, 
 
 Gervillier ?"..." No, colonel ; he often made us take 
 
 forced marches, but we never complained about it." 
 
 " I have lost again ! " Monsieur Troussard ex- 
 
 . claimed. " I certainly am most unlucky ! " 
 
 "What an insupportable talker Madame Trous- 
 sard is," Ophelia said to Caroline. " It is lucky for 
 my uncle that he is deaf; I congratulate him when 
 
AS EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 23 
 
 I see Madame Troussard sitting beside him. And 
 her husband ! a delightful man in society ! Why, 
 he almost cries when he loses threepence at draughts. 
 But, by the way, are you not expecting some more 
 visitors, some young men frcm Paris? "...Caroline 
 bent over her work, and said : " Yes, that is to say, 
 I think that Captain Grervillier's nephew has promised 
 my father, or, rather his uncle, to come one of these 
 days."..." Oh! that Monsieur Arthur, who spent a 
 week here a short time ago? "..."Yes."..." A good- 
 looking young man, with flashing eyes. _ He said 
 some pretty things to me, but I think him rather 
 dull and a materialist, and I wish he would put 
 rather more poetry into his converation. What do 
 . you think of him, Caroline ?"..." I ? What do you 
 expect me to think ? " she replied, apparently very 
 much taken up by a knot in her wool. " He is very 
 polite, and . . Dear, dear, I shall never be able 
 to undo this knot !"..." How happy you are, 
 Caroline," her friend said, with a sigh, not to feel 
 that void, that melancholy, which for years have 
 been spoiling my life and sapping my existence ! ' 
 
 Caroline did not reply ; perhaps she did not under- 
 stand what Ophelia meant by that long phrase. 
 
 " The day before yesterday," Monsieur Dugrandet 
 said, stroking his legs, " I took up and transplanted 
 more than thirty trees in my garden, single-handed, 
 and I was not the least tired ; there are many 
 gardeners who could not do as much." 
 
 "I thought your nephew was coming to see us 
 one of these days, captain ? " Monsieur de Melleval 
 said, without replying to the indefatigable Du- 
 grandet. What is he doing now that he has left 
 the army ?"..." He will soon come and pay his re- 
 spects to you, but I think he is not doing anything 
 just at present.". . ." Oh ! He has money then ? "... 
 ■" Only about six or seven thousand francs a year."... 
 " That is not enough to live on without doing some- 
 
24 AN EVENING- AT THE COLONEL'S,, 
 
 thing, when one is only twenty-six years old. 
 Young men should have soirie profession or employ- 
 ment, otherwise they commit all sorts of follies and 
 get into debt."... ""You are quite right, colonel."... 
 " Then why don't you tell your nephew to do some- 
 thing?"..." I might tell him, colonel, but it would 
 be exactly the same if I were to say nothing, because - 
 he is not at all in the habit of listening to me, and 
 then, everybody tells me what a charming young 
 fellow he is, so I think that I should be wrong not 
 to think like everybody else does." 
 
 " You don't seem able to undo that knot," Ophelia- 
 said to Caroline, who seemed very much agitated 
 and whose pretty fingers were entangling and break- 
 ing the wool, whilst her father was talking about 
 the charming young fellow."..."]S[o, I am very awk- 
 ward this evening . . " 
 
 Mademoiselle Therese had begun to sing, and, ac- 
 cording to her custom, was singing all wrong ; but a 
 ring was heard at the garden gate, and there was a 
 general movement in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Here is more company coining," Monsieur de- 
 Melleval said. "No doubt it is your nephew^, 
 captain." 
 
 As a matter of fact, it was Arthur and his travel- 
 ling companion, Theophile Minot, who had just 
 arrived, and soon appeared in the drawing-room, 
 Arthur introduced his friend to the colonel, saying : 
 
 " I have taken the liberty of bringing Monsieur 
 Theophile Minot with me. He is a young capitalist, 
 and very fond of the country, of shooting, fishing, 
 and horticulture. I have often praised your charm- 
 ing place to him, colonel, and he has frequently 
 asked me as a favour to introduce him to you." 
 
 "He is lying like a dentist," Theophile said to- 
 himself, as he listened to his friend. I do not like- 
 ~ither shooting, fishing, or gardening, and he- 
 
AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 25- 
 
 brought me here nearly by force ! Well, never 
 mind, as long as I -manage to amuse myself." 
 
 Monsieur cle Melleval received the young men 
 very kindly, and asked them v/h ether they would 
 take anything before supper, for in that house they 
 dined at four and supped at ten o'clock precisely. 
 He had adopted that habit, and it suited him 
 exactly. Nobody who came to stay with him was 
 bound to follow his example, but nearly all did so. 
 
 The young men declined his offer. Arthur tapped 
 the captain on the shoulder, nodded at Dugrandet, 
 smiled at Therese, bowed to Ophelia, and went up- 
 to Caroline, saying : 
 
 " May I be allowed to present my respects to you 7 
 mademoiselle? " 
 
 She raised her eyes timidly to the young man and 
 stammered a few polite words, whilst Arthur added r 
 lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone : 
 " At last I see you again ! If you only knew how 
 long the time seems when I am away from you I 
 But your image is always here . . " 
 
 And as Ophelia came up to her friend, he hastily 
 turned to her, and said in his usual easy voice : 
 " Well, Mademoiselle Ophelia, do you still govern 
 romances, poetry, moonlight and sun-rise, and do 
 you play as much as ever ?"..." I go on just about 
 the same as usual, but I prefer dancing. Do you 
 think that the gentleman you have brought with 
 vou will dance with us at the village ball on Sun- 
 day ?"..." He will be delighted. My friend Theo- 
 phile Minot is an excellent fellow, always ready to*- 
 make himself useful, and I certainly should not 
 have brought him if I had not thought he would be 
 good for something. "...And, ben din o- down toward s- 
 Caroline, he said in a low voice : " Whilst he is talk- 
 ing to them and taking up their attention, I sball 
 find more opportunities of talking with you ; Vnat is 
 the reason why I brought him."..." What is h»©.- 
 
2C AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 
 
 name ? What did yon call him P Theopliile will do. 
 But Minot ! How can anyone be called Minot ? 
 There is no sense in it."..." That is quite true, and 
 my friend ought to have said so to his father at his 
 baptism, but probably he did not think about it 
 then. . . Well, Theopliile, what are you doing* 
 sit --he card table? Just come here and make the 
 acquaintance of the charming young ladies, who 
 are the ornaments of the house." 
 
 The young man came up. doing his best to assume 
 ;a knowing and an elegant look at the same time, 
 which only resulted, however, in producing an ugly 
 grimace, which made Therese inclined to laugh, 
 whilst Ophelia, looking at the new coiner from head 
 to foot, seemed to wish to magnetise him by the 
 power of her glance. But that fat young man 
 seemed ouly very slightly charmed by the attention 
 with which the young lady looked at him, and he 
 evidently preferred to keep his eyes fixed on the 
 round and happy face of Mademoiselle Troussard. 
 
 "I was looking to see what game they were play- 
 ing at," Minot said at length, as he could not find 
 
 any other subject for beginning the conversation 
 
 "It is backgammon," Mademoiselle Therese replied ; 
 "my father is playing with Madame Dugrandet, the 
 wife of that gentleman who is sitting down on the 
 couch yonder. My father is in a bad temper because 
 he has lost ; I can see that immediately."..." That 
 does credit to your perspicacity, mademoiselle. I 
 am a very good player, and never lose my temper, 
 especially when I win." 
 
 " You have come very 7 ate, gentlemen," Ophelia 
 said ; "the road must be very pleasant at this time 
 of night! "..."I ma}- tell yon, mademoiselle, that I 
 ■thought it very long. My friend took across road." 
 
 " Oh ! I adore cross loads ! " Madame Troussard 
 
 • cried, who came to join in the conversation, because 
 
 Monsieur de Yienssec had gone home, as he had a 
 
AX EVENING AT THE COLOXEl/s. 27 
 
 sick neadache. " What are yon talking about, 
 young ladies ? Was Monsieur Minot telling you 
 something amusing? I should like to hear it ! Well, 
 Therese, are you not going to sing any more, my 
 dear girl? When people have such a good voice 
 they ought to use it, and here we make no preten- 
 sions. Just look at my three rascals, all asleep 
 yonder. How nice they look when they are asleep. 
 My eldest has a fine profile, quite Roman in outline 
 — pretty little cherubs. My husband is losing again ; 
 1 can see that plainly, as he is biting his lips so- 
 hard ! I am not fond of games, J prefer intellectual 
 conversation . . " 
 
 Minot opened his eyes wide whilst Madame Trous- 
 sard was uttering this torrent of words, but Arthur" 
 had found a seat behind Caroline, and managed to 
 exchange a ie^ words with her, unseen and unheard. 
 
 " Have you thought of me much since my depar- 
 ture? Will you not give me an answer? Do you 
 wish to make me unhappy ?"..." No, but 1 ought 
 not to tell you, and then, what can my thoughts 
 matter to you ? . . I do not suppose that when 
 you are in Paris you think much about the inhabit- 
 ants of Draveil !"...-' Oh ! mademoiselle, how can 
 you think so badly of me ? Do not my eyes tell you 
 all that I feel, all my love for you ? " 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Arthur, is there anything fresh 
 In Paris ? " the colonel asked the captain's nephew, 
 Arthur quickly leant back, so that he might not 
 seem to be talking to Caroline in a low voice, and 
 replied: "Nothing that I know of colonel, that 
 merits the telling."..." Has not there been a bet be- 
 tween two famous pedestrians ? " Monsieur Du- 
 grandet said...." Oh ! yes. It was an Englishman 
 against a Belgian, and it was twice round the Champ— 
 de-Mars; the Englishman won. "..."I am sorry I 
 was not there," the old banker said. " I should 
 liave liked to follow them in the distance. I do not 
 
28 AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL^. 
 
 lay any claim to being able to go as quickly as they 
 dvJ; bufeyet I am a very good walker."..." You ought 
 to turn professional runner, Madame Dugrandet said 
 laughing. 
 
 " I have lost again ; I shall leave off," Monsieur 
 Troussard exclaimed, getting up. 
 
 " Captain, go and play a game with Madame Du- 
 grandet," the colonel said, and the captain, who 
 hated cards, got np immediately and said i " With 
 the greatest pleasure, colonel." 
 
 Arthur, seeing that nobody was paying any atten- 
 tion to him, went np to Caroline and said in a low 
 voice: "Will you go into the garden to-morrow 
 morning, near the plantation ?"..." Well, I take a 
 walk every morning, so most likely I shall go out if 
 it is fine."..." Yes, but you are often with your 
 maid; Marianne hardly ever leaves you. It is quite 
 unbearable; one cannot say all one wishes in the 
 presence of a third person."..." Marianne is so 
 fond of me that it is hardly surprising that she is 
 often with me ; she could not bear to see me in any 
 grief or sighing."..." Have you any grief? If I 
 only knew its cause, or if I could believe that your 
 sighs . . " 
 
 The approach of the colonel prevented Arthur 
 from finishing what he was going to say, and Mon- 
 sieur de Melleval came towards Caroline and said to 
 her : " Wei], are we going to have any music this 
 evening?"..." Yes, father . . 1 will do what- 
 ever you wish."..." Yes," said Madame Troussard, 
 " long live music and singing! That is what I am 
 continually saying to Therese. My daughter, you 
 have a splendid voice, but you must cultivate it. 
 Ah ! colonel, just look at my three boys how nice 
 they are — how soundly they are sleeping ! "..."It 
 strikes me that is what they generally do," the 
 colonel replied...." Yes, I brought them up to that; 
 it is better than that they should make a noise." 
 

 AN EVEXING AT THE COLONEL'S. 29 
 
 ■** How many bottles were left open on the table 
 to-day ? " Monsieur Troussard asked his wife, in a 
 low voice...." How many bottles! I don't know 
 •anything at all about it; you worry me with your 
 "bottles! Do I ever interfere with your cellar?"... 
 £C Well, I brought up three, and I can only see one 
 in the basket, but two cannot have been opened."... 
 "Really, monsieur, you do choose a fitting time to 
 speak about your bottles! . . Go clown into the 
 cellar again if you like, and stop there all day, even 
 sleep there all night; I assure you I shall have nothing 
 to say against it." 
 
 Monsieur Troussard went off grumbling: "1 shall 
 certainly go down as soon as we get home; I will 
 not let my servants steal my wine." 
 
 In the meanwhile the youifg ladies had gone up 
 to the piano, and Therese looked through the music 
 and said to Caroline : " You will play my accompani- 
 ment for me, will you not ?"..." Certainly," the 
 colonel's daughter replied, whilst he went up to 
 Theophile, and said : " Are you musical, monsieur? " 
 ../'Yes, monsieur; that is to say . . I do not 
 linow music, but I sing very loud."..." At any rate, 
 you know your notes ? ". . ." Yes, monsieur . . that 
 is to say, I do not know the notes, but I know when 
 it ascends or descends, and that guides me sufficient- 
 ly."..." It is the same with me," Madame Troussard 
 said; "I never learnt music, and yet I have a 
 wonderfully good ear ; a false note makes me 
 shudder."..." She must have hysterical fits when her 
 daughter sings, in that case," Ophelia said to Arthur, 
 who was close to her ; but he did not pay any atten- 
 tion to her, as he was fully taken up in watching* 
 Caroline, who was sitting in front of a looking"- 
 glass in front of the piano, and so could constantly 
 see Arthur's eves looking into hers. 
 
 Therese did not wait to be as feed to sing; she 
 screamed out an air from Little Red Hiding Hood, 
 
30 AX EVENING AT THE COLOXEL's. 
 
 which the company present listened to with that 
 politeness and attention which is always shown in 
 o-ood society towards those even who are not worth 
 it. Jnst at the moment when the youthful singer's 
 voice was piercing the ears of her auditors in a most 
 disagreeable fashion, her mother said to her : 
 
 " Rather louder ; my dear child, do sing louder. 
 Don't be afraid to give full scope to your voice."... 
 ..." Whatever can she want more P " Ophelia said to 
 Monsieur Dugranclet. He was standing close to the 
 piano, and only said, with an approving smile: "If 
 it is fine to-morrow, I intend to Wiilk half-a-dozen 
 miles before lunch." 
 
 At last Mademoiselle Therese finished her song, 
 and Minot exclaimed enthusiastically: "Upon my 
 word, that is such a voice as I have never yet heard ! 
 It is most striking." ..." Is it not, monsieur?" 
 Mamma, who seemed delighted at the eifect her 
 daughter had produced, replied, whilst Monsieur - 
 Troussaid went and sat down in a corner of the 
 drawing-room, and said to himself : " There were a 
 hundred and forty-two bottles in the first pile on the 
 right, and two hundred and twenty-one in the pile 
 on the left. I must go and count them over before 
 going to bed to-night." 
 
 After the song from Red Riding Hood, Caroline 
 sang a simple ballad. Her voice had no grea/fc com- 
 pass, but it was sweet, ilexible, expressive, and al- 
 ways correct. It was like soothing oil poured into 
 wounds which had been dressed with vinegar, to the 
 ears of those who had just been listening to Made- 
 moiselle Troussard; the audience breathed again 
 and recovered themselves when they listened to 
 Caroline ; it was a calm after a storm. 
 
 Arthur also sang a ballad with much taste and ex- 
 pression, for a ballad necessarily speaks of love. 
 Ophelia refused to sing ; she had not sung for a long- 
 time ; whilst Theophile began two operatic airs- 
 
AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 61 
 
 which, however, he had forgotten ; he was trying to 
 recollect a third, fortunately without success, when 
 the drawing-room door was opened, and a footman 
 announced supper. 
 
 " What ! ten o'clock already ! " said Madame Du- 
 grandet;"we must go."... "I really did not think 
 it was so Lite," said the old banker ; " I am not the 
 least tired."... "I can quite believe that, as you have 
 spent your evening sitting on the couch."..." We 
 must go home also," said Madame Troussard; 
 "those little darlings are asleep, and we have re- 
 mained very late this evening. But, when one is 
 talking and listening to singing, the time passes so 
 quickly ! "..."I hope you are not going without 
 having any supper ; there can be no reason to hurry % 
 you have not got far to go, and there is no danger 
 of your being attacked on the way, for there are no 
 robbers in this neighbourhood. Besides, if you are 
 •frightened, the captain and I will see you safely 
 home. Come to supper ; we have two new guests, 
 and we must welcome them in a bottle of cham- 
 pagne!"..."! am always at my colonel's orders," 
 said the old captain, delighted at the chance of leav- 
 ing off his game.. . ." But we never eat supper, colonel ; 
 it does not agree with me if I eat late at night."... 
 " Very well then, you can look on and talk to us. 
 As for me, I think that supper is one of those good 
 old customs which our fathers were very wrong to 
 give up, especially in the country, where one always 
 has some time to spare, and, I think I deserve 
 great praise for having taken up this habit."... 
 " Weil, we really cannot refuse," Monsieur Troussard 
 said, who had already recovered his good temper at 
 the announcement of supper. " I have no intention 
 of going away.". . ." Very well Therese, as your father 
 insists upon stopping, put away your roll of music ; 
 jou can take it later." 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Dugrandet also agreed to 
 
-132 AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 
 
 stop to supper, whilst, as for the captain, he was 
 living at the colonel's, and Monsieur de Vienssec and 
 liis niece Ophelia also, but the old magistrate always 
 retired early to his room, and was never present at 
 
 .sujDper. 
 
 They all went into the dining-room, and Arthur 
 sat down by the side of Caroline, whilst Theophile 
 
 ,Minot took his seat by the side of the madcap 
 Therese. When everyone had taken their places, 
 
 JMadarne Troussard exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh ! good heavens ! fancy, I have forgotten my 
 three little rascals !"..." But does it not seem a pity 
 to disturb them when they are fast asleep ? " Colonel 
 Melleval said...." Oh! excuse me, colonel; I should 
 he obliged to wake them up to take them home, and 
 if they knew that we had had supper without them 
 they would make a pretty outcry! I will go and 
 
 ".fetch them — the little angels." 
 
 She left the room and soon came back with her 
 i:hree boys, one of whom was yawning, the other 
 rubbing his eyes, whilst the youngest began to cry 
 "because he had been awakened. Th.3 si^-ht of the 
 table, however, soon woke up the young gentlemen 
 
 -and dried their tears, so all three were put close to 
 their father, and no more notice was taken of them. 
 
 'The supper went off very well, for the colonel care- 
 fully looked to see that his guests had all they 
 wanted, and he was especially pleased when no one 
 refused any of the dishes which he sent to them. 
 Eager to make himself agreeable to his former 
 
 ; superior officer, the captain would rather have had 
 a, tit of indignation than refuse anything, and he 
 was constantly on the look-out to see whether he 
 
 ■ ought to offer his neighbours anything to eat or 
 
 ■ drink. Mademoiselle Ophelia ate next to nothing; 
 her body, like her soul, wished to be nourished on 
 
 ■ etherial and immaterial substances, whilst Madame 
 Dugrandet, although supper did not agree with her, 
 
AN EVENING AT THE COLONEL'S. 33 
 
 yet did honour to everthing that was on the table. 
 Monsieur Theophile paid great attention to her and 
 to her pretty neighbour, but Monsieur Troussard 
 seemed the most pleased of anyone at being at table. 
 He helped himself to everything and drank a great 
 deal, but he never spoke during the commencement 
 of a meal ; later on, however, he got animated by 
 degrees and became merry and chatty ; he hummed 
 • every time that he raised his glass, and, in a word, 
 was no longer the same man, and a few bumpers 
 were quite enough to operate this change. Two 
 people, however, ate very little, and hardly spoke at 
 all, and they were Caroline and Arthur. The 
 former was quite absorbed by the new sentiment 
 which bad sprung up in her soul, and the other,, 
 foreseeing his victory, sought only to increase the 
 empire which he had already possessed over her 
 young heart. Theophile, on the otber hand, whilst 
 looking after his fair neighbour, wished to be ami- 
 able and to shine in conversation, but when he began 
 to relate a story or some adventure it happened to 
 him as it had done such a short time previously 
 when he had attempted to sing, he could not re- 
 member the end. Then Miss Ophelia, who was- 
 vexed ;ilready because the stout young man had not 
 felt the influence of her looks, said in a mocking 
 voice: "Monsieur Theophile will perhaps tell us the 
 conclusion another time." 
 
 When supper was over, Monsieur Troussard, whom, 
 a glass of champagne had put into a thoroughly 
 happy frame of mind, said to the assembled com- 
 pany : " Well, we are all enjoying ourselves very 
 much this evening, and that is quite right ; but we 
 must all meet again to-morrow. I have some excel- 
 lent wine at my house, which I want you to taste, so 
 you must come and dine with me. Monsieur de Mel- 
 leval and his guests, Monsieur and Madame Du- 
 grandet. I expect you all to dimmer to-morrow; 
 
34 AX EVENING AT THE COLOXEL's. 
 
 that is a bargain, is it not?"..." We will see," said 
 Madame Dugrandet with a smile; "I do not tiling 
 that we shall be able to."..." She knows what Mon- 
 sieur Troussard's invitations are worth," Made- 
 moiselle Ophelia said to the old captain; "but one; 
 can accept without being compromised; to-moi row 
 he will send and put us all off."..." Do you really 
 think so," the captain replied, looking at the colonel 
 to see whether the moment had come to help his 
 neighbours to some more wine...." Yes, I shall ex- 
 pect you all to-morrow, that is an understood thing, 
 that is settled," Monsieur Troussard continued : 
 " Let us drink to our host's health ! . . What 
 delicious champagne ! . . Flon, fion, flon, lari- 
 raclonclaine ! Gai, gai, gai, lariradonde ! ". ..." What- 
 ever are you singing ? " Madame Troussard said, 
 lookino- at her husband. "Those are not the sort 
 of songs to be sung in the presence of young ladies. 
 Oh ! my children have gone to sleep over their plates ; 
 they are not hungry any more. We must go home ; 
 it is quite time, it appears to me." 
 
 Monsieur de Melleval got up, and they all fol- 
 lowed his example. Monsieur and Madame Du- 
 grandet took their leave, and whilst saying that he 
 never got tired, the old banker seemed to hud spine 
 difficulty in setting his legs in motion. Madame 
 Troussard had roused her sons, who could not make 
 up their minds to walk except grumbling and crying. 
 At last the neighbours took their leave, and the 
 colonel's guests retired to their rooms. Theophile 
 Minot's room communicated with Arthur's. " Well, 
 what do you think of the inhabitants of the house, 
 and of the company which you have met here P ' 
 Arthur asked his friend when they were m then- 
 rooms... ." The inhabitants? They are not so bad. 
 Monsieur Melleval has rather a stiff manner with 
 him, certainly, but at table he is a perfect host."... 
 "And his daughter, what rui angel? "..." Yes, she 
 
THE DANGER OP MORNING WALKS. 35 
 
 is very pretty, but I prefer the young lady who 
 sang, Mademoiselle Therese; what an expressive, 
 piquant face ! "..."What blasphemy, to prefer such 
 stout, vulgar beauties to a noble, distinguished, ele- 
 gant face ! "..."Anything that you please, but I 
 prefer the other ; everyone to his taste ! And then, 
 what a beautiful voice ! Good heavens, how it 
 sounded in the drawing-room ! I am sure I shall 
 dream of that handsome dark girl."..." And I shall 
 dream of that charming one with the light hair. 
 You are mad, Theophile, to venture to compare that 
 fat Therese to her."..." There, leave me alone pray; 
 to begin with, I like stout women myself. At any 
 r.ite, one knows whom he has to deal with, and I 
 think I shall manage it. . . Good-night, Arthur; 
 I am off to bed. I will try and think of something 
 really good to sing to-morrow." 
 
 Theophile went into his room, and as Arthur got 
 into bed he said to himself: " To-moriow morning- 1 
 will be in the plantation at the bottom of the garden, 
 the first thing in the morning, for I am sure that 
 she will come ! " 
 
 CHAPTEB IV. 
 
 THE DANGER OF MORNING WALKS. 
 
 Marianne was in Caroline's room when she went 
 to it, after having wished her father good-night. 
 Something in the girl's face showed that she was 
 much agitated, and the servant, who knew her dear 
 eliilcl so well, perceived it at once. 
 
 " So something fresh has happened," the servant 
 said, whilst she helped Caroline to undress 
 
36 THE DAKGER OP MORXESTG WALKS. 
 
 " Something fresh ? Ah, jou mean that there have 
 been some new arrivals. Yes, this evening Mon- 
 sieur Arthur, Captain Gervillier's nephew arrived 
 with one of his friends, a fat young man with a very 
 funny face."..." Has their arrival worried you, my 
 dear child, for there is something the matter with 
 you ; you are not in such good spirits as usual."... 
 " Nothing, nurse ; I assure you there is nothing the 
 matter with me; you are quite mistaken."., .'"'lias 
 your father been finding fault with you? Or has 
 anybody been teasing you? I will not let anybody 
 vex my child in the slightest degree ! "..."Nothing- 
 whatever has vexed me, Marianne ; no one here, so 
 I think at least, would wish to give me pain." 
 
 Saying this, she took one of Marianne's hands, 
 which she gently pressed in both her own, as if to 
 convince her of the truth of her words; and, never- 
 theless, that action had the contrary effect, for in 
 her voice, in her looks, and, even in the pressure of" 
 hor hand, there was something sad, which gave the 
 lie to the happy tranquility which CaroLne tried to 
 assume. But a mother's heart is rarely mistaken, 
 and Marianne was like a mother to the girl who for 
 so long had only had her for her confidante ; so she 
 looked at her sadly and shook her head, saying : 
 
 " Ah ! it is all very well to talk ! There is some- 
 thing the matter, and I have not noticed it for the 
 first time to-night, but . . You will not trust 
 me entirely any longer, it seems, and yet it would 
 be very wrong to keep any secrets from your poor- 
 Marianne.".. ."I have none, I assure you nurse,"' 
 Caroline said, trying to smile...." I see how it is; 
 jou prefer to tell Mademoiselle Ophelia all your 
 secrets, vrho always speaks so that one cannot under- 
 stand her ! That is a strange way of being 1 amiable, 
 and certainly does not make her p-et fat. Don't 
 imitate her, my child ; you speak so nicely, all you 
 say is so natural and easy to understand ! You don't 
 
THE DANGER OE MORNING WALKS. 37 
 
 try and find your words in the stars and in the 
 clouds, and it is far better so, for most of us don't 
 live in the skies."..." Be quiet, nurse; I shall al- 
 ways be the same, and shall always be as fond of 
 you as I am now."..." That is all right, and there is- 
 more sense in what you have just said than in all 
 Mademoiselle Yienssec's fine phrases." ..." Well, 
 good-night, Marianne; go to bed."..." You don t 
 want anything more? "..." Nothing, thank yon. 
 ..."And will you get up early; shall we take a 
 walk before breakfast ? " m 
 
 Caroline hesitated a moment before replying ; her 
 cheeks flushed slight, and then she said: 
 
 "I don't know about to-morrow, I am not sure 
 that we shall have time, there are so many people 
 in the house."..." Quite right; very likely you will 
 be taking a walk during the day, and so you must 
 not get tired beforehand, child. Well, I hope yoi* 
 will sleep well." And Marianne went to her room > 
 which was quite close to Caroline's. 
 
 When she was alone, she remained buried in her 
 own thoughts for a long time ; she felt sad and was; 
 angry with herself for not having been more candid 
 with Marianne. Why had she not ventured to> 
 acknowledge the secret for which her old nurse had:, 
 asked her ? Why had she not told her that Arthur 
 had already spoken to her of love, and that his. 
 words had agitated her heart, which till then had 
 been so calm and so happy ? Could she guess that 
 this love was a fault 9 But is it wrong to respond: 
 to the love which we inspire? Had not Arthur 
 sworn a hundred times that he would cherish her 
 all his life? And must he not be worthy of her 
 love, as all women found him so charming? Such 
 were the thoughts and reflections which filled the 
 head of this girl of seventeen. At that age young- 
 people do not reason very much, and it is hardly- 
 fair to expect them to do so when they are only just 
 
33 THE DANGER OF -MORNING WALKS. 
 
 entering on life, whilst so many people get to the 
 very end of their earthly career without having had 
 -enough common sense to last them for a single day. 
 
 Caroline went to bed and tried to get to sleep, 
 hut Arthui's image pursued her, and the thought 
 that they were to meet the next day left her but 
 little repose. Youthful love is wakeful, but the 
 night came to an end at last, and the dav light 
 began to show through the blinds of Caroline's win- 
 dows. The birds began to make themselves heard, 
 happy as they always are in a garden where they are 
 never disturbed, and where they come quite fear- 
 lessly close to those persons who they know will not 
 hurt them. 
 
 Caroline listened, then got up and looked through 
 the blinds. It was going to be a beautiful day, but 
 in the height of summer the most -pleasant time to 
 -enjoy the country is before the sun has acquired any 
 considerable power. She looked at the flowers in 
 the beds on the lawn ; she had never felt so great an 
 inclination to smell them, and so she dressed quickly, 
 saying to herself that she could go into the garden 
 and walk about in front of the house; she certainly 
 would not go any further or try to meet Arthur, but 
 the weather was too lovely for her not to go and get 
 a breath of morning air. In a few minutes she was 
 1© the garden, and, as she went past Marianne's 
 • door, she walked very gently for fear of waking her, 
 for she would have insisted upon getting up and 
 going with her, and would have been very much in 
 her way; most likely because her maid's company 
 would have prevented her from inhaling the scent of 
 the flowers so well. After walking round the pasture 
 for a few minutes, Caroline involuntarily went a 
 few steps further, and suddenly uttered a little cry, 
 for j nst then Arthur came out from behind a hedge 
 and hastened towards her. 
 
 ■" Here you are at last," he said, taking one of the 
 
THE DANGER OF MORNING WALKS. 
 
 39 
 
 liands of the girl, who was trembling with fear and 
 pleasure. "I have been waiting a long time for you 
 down yonder by the plantation."..." I was not going 
 there ; I was only going on to the garden terrace to 
 look at my flowers."..." Oh I understand what you 
 ure in, mademoiselle • you wish to avoid me, you do 
 not want to m et me."..." I was not trying to avoid 
 you, but I do not think I ought to run after you.". . . 
 : 'Is this all the return you have to give me for the 
 sincere love with which you have inspired me?"... 
 " You said you love, Monsieur Arthur, and I believed 
 you, but I do not think there ought to_ be any 
 mystery in our love. . . One does not hide any- 
 thing that is not criminal, so why should you not 
 mention it to my father ? You must, in any case, 
 tell him some time or other."..." Oh! of course, 
 certainly ? . . but the moment for doing so has 
 not come yet. M. de Melleval has only known me 
 for such a short time, that before informing him of 
 my feelings for you, I should like to gain his friend- 
 ship, otherwise I should run the sisk of making him 
 ano-ry ; perhaps I should not be allowed to come here 
 so°often or to see you so frequently, and that would 
 be more than I could bear! Believe me, let us 
 enjoy our present happiness; a little mystery en- 
 hances the charms of love; do not deprive me of 
 these delightful meetings, at which I can constantly 
 repeat my promise to you, that I shall never love 
 any woman except yourself ! ' 
 
 A man who is loved is very eloquent, and Arthur 
 liad quite gained Caroline's heart. But that pure 
 love, for which so many men would have envied him, 
 was not enough for him; Arthur wanted a more 
 -complete triumph, and that was the reason why he 
 had asked her to meet him in the little wood, where 
 the confiding and loving girl had been persuaded to 
 go by the man whom she already looked upon as her 
 i'uture husband. 
 
40 THE DANGER OE MORNING WALKS. 
 
 The two lovers had been walking for some time ; 
 Arthur kept wishing to sit down, whilst Caroline 
 thought they could talk of love just as well whilst 
 they were walking, and so, as he was afraid of 
 alarming her sensitive nature, he was satisfied with 
 kissing her hand, and putting his arm round her 
 waist, with drawing the girl, who trusted to his- 
 vows and smiled with pleasure at his words of love, 
 to his heart from time to time. Suddenly, at a turn 
 in a shady walk, a man appeared in front of the 
 lovers ; Arthur trembled, for suppose it were the 
 colonel! His cosecience told him that Caroline's 
 father would have the right to think this walk in 
 the little wood very improper, but almost imme- 
 diately an exclamation re-assured him, for it was 
 Theophile Minot. Caroline blushed and felt very- 
 embarrassed, whilst the stout young manexclaimed : 
 
 " What ! out for a walk already? Like me 
 Mademoiselle, allow me to wish you a good morning ; 
 I hope you slept well. 5 '../'' Very well indeed, mon- 
 sieur, thank you."../ 6 1 had a capital night, but I 
 woke up early, for when one is in the habit of hear- 
 ing a great deal of noise in the streets, and then 
 hears nothing at all . . it wakes one up; at least 
 that is the effect which the country has upon me."... 
 "What are you doing here so early P " Arthur 
 asked, looking at his friend as much as to say : " You 
 fool ! What on earth do you want to come here 
 for ? ". !.." What am I doing here ? I was trying to 
 recollect that air out of Joseph . . you know it .. „- 
 
 " Vainement Pliaraon dans sa reconnaissance." 
 ..."But, monsieur, you need not have taken all that 
 trouble; you will find it in the drawing-room."... 
 " Mademoiselle, it is all very well for you to have it 
 here, but that will not teach it me, if I have for- 
 gotten it ! As I do not know music, I can only sing 
 what I remember perfectly. You could not prompt 
 
THE DANGER OF MORNING WALKS. 41 
 
 me in everv passage, and it would be no good for 
 me to look at the notes. I should be none the 
 wiser' Of course, however, I can see when the 
 music ascends or descends."..." What a clumsy fel- 
 low you are, to come jnst when I was alone with 
 this delightful girl," Arthur whispered to Theo- 
 phile- "do yon not see that you are in the way 
 here 9'" " I will go and see whether I can remem- 
 ber, a little further off," Minot said, trying, to get 
 away, but at that moment the voices of Ophelia and 
 the captain were heard, so Arthur seized his com- 
 panion by his coat and said: "Where are you off 
 to 9 You must stop now." So the unhappy fellow 
 remained where he was, and said : "I am to stop— 1 
 am to go ; do try and let me know what you really 
 
 want me to do ! ,J . . 
 
 When they met, Ophelia complained of her nerves, 
 she had slept badly and did not feel well, and, seeing" 
 that Theophne did not offer her his arm, she asked 
 him to give it her, and leant upon it as if she ex- 
 pected him to carry her. Arthur had already taken 
 Caroline's, and the old captain walked behind them, 
 smoking his cigar. Thus they went round the 
 garden several times, Arthur and Caroline always m 
 front and the captain behind, whilst Ophelia, find- 
 ing herself alone with her cavalier, tried to give suck 
 a turn to the conversation that she might give tuil 
 play to her thoughts. 
 
 "Do you not always feel some gentle emoiion at 
 seeing the top of a tree swaying gently backwards 
 and forwards at the impetuous gusts of the wind if 
 Don't you like walking beneath the poplar trees 
 when their leaves are rustling? The sound has a 
 melancholy effect on the mind." " Well," rheo- 
 phile said, "I prefer to walk under the apricot 
 trees, especially when they are full of ^\\™ e r 
 always put me in mind of apricot fritters Good 
 
 heavens! one cannot be always eating fruit! the- 
 
42 THE DAXGEE OF MOUSING WALKS. 
 
 tall young lady replied, with a look of vexation : 
 fruit trees grow in orchards or kitchen gardens. I 
 -was speaking of majestic and graceful trees; I am 
 fond of weeping willows, of ebony trees with their 
 long yellow flowers, of pine trees, whose verdure has 
 something severe about it ; I am fond of the plantain 
 which rises up towards the skies, the mountain 
 •ash, the catalpa with its thin smooth rind, but 
 apricots . . Oh! really, fie !"...'• I ktiow the 
 whole of the recitative," Theophile said, who had 
 not been listening to Ophelia in the least, "but I 
 ■cannot remember the song which, comes affter it. 
 Wait a moment, it is . . "...Ophelia suddenly 
 let go his arm and cried: "This is really too bad, I 
 must say that I prefer my uncle." At that moment 
 the breakfast bell was heard, and the captain hur- 
 ried on, exclaiming: "That is for brtak fast ; the 
 colonel will be waiting for us ; let us make haste in." 
 
 Monsieur de Melleval was always the first in the 
 dining-room, for he made it a point of setting his 
 guests an example of punctuality. The former 
 •magistrate, on the other hand, usually came in last, 
 and the colonel always found fault with him for it, 
 which did not prevent Monsieur de Yienssec from 
 ibeing late for the next meal. 
 
 During breakfast, Arthur praised the neighbour- 
 hood of Draveil, because he hoped that they would 
 -take a walk, so that he might have an opportunity 
 .of o-iving his arm to Caroline again. Ophelia de- 
 clared that they were going to have a thunderstorm. 
 Monsieur de Yienssec shook his head, so that people 
 might think he heard what was said. The colonel 
 was already talking of a four-handed game of bil- 
 liards, whilst the old captain was waiting to hear 
 what the wishes of his superior officer were, so that 
 he might back them up, when a little peasant lad 
 came into the dining-room and handed a letter to 
 the master of the house. 
 
THE DANGER OP MORNING WALKS. 45 
 
 "It is Troussard's gardener's boy," Ophelia said, 
 with a smile; "I can guess what is it about." The 
 colonel took the letter, opened it, and read out aloud : 
 
 " Monsieur and Madame Troussard are extremely 
 sorry that they cannot receive Monsieur de Melleval 
 and his friends to-day, as was arranged yesterday • 
 one of their boys is very unwell, so they must 
 put off the pleasure which they hoped to have to- 
 day to a future occasion." 
 
 " That will do," the colonel said to the gardener • 
 "we understand."..." It is very strange," the old 
 captain observed, " but every time they invite people 
 to dinner one of their children falls ill."..." What 
 is the matter with the little boy ? " Ophelia asked 
 the lad who had brought the letter; " is it anything 
 dangerous? Have they sent for the doctor?"... 
 "The doctor? What for, miss?" the youngster 
 replied in astonishment...." For the little boy who is 
 ill, I suppose."..." There is* no boy ill that I know 
 of; where is it? "..." At your master's, of course, so 
 this letter says."..." Well, miss, I know nothing 
 about it. If the little boys are ill, they must have 
 been taken bad just this minute, for a short time 
 ago they were all three stuffing themselves with 
 plums, so that it was really a treat to see them."... 
 "That will do," said the colonel; "you can go. 
 How wicked you are, Mademoiselle Ophelia," Mon- 
 sieur de Melleval said, with a smile."..." Really, 
 sir, I think it is too kind to pretend to believe other 
 people's lies. There are numbers of people who 
 spend their lives in giving you invitations or offering 
 to assist you in various ways, and who would be 
 very sorry if they were taken at their word. Not 
 that I am sorry about the Troussard's dinner, for I 
 should not have gone."..." It is quite pleasant 
 enough at the colonel's, without going elsewhere," 
 said the captain, helping himself to some wine, and 
 Monsieur Melleval, nattered at that slight compli- 
 
.44 THE DANGER OF MOUNING WALKS. 
 
 ment, tapped the old soldier on the shoulder, and 
 said: "Ah! captain, yon area flatterer, but never 
 mind, I will take you with me, to defend me against 
 these gentlemen ; come, let us go to the billiard 
 room." 
 
 It was impossible to refuse, and so Arthur gave 
 Caroline a regretful look and followed them. They 
 spent part of the day there, as the weather was too 
 bad fcr outdoor exercise. The colonel swore at the 
 captain when the latter missed, and every time that 
 liis superior officer played, the former exclaimed : 
 " What a capital stroke ! I could never have done 
 it." In the evening they all met in the drawing- 
 I'oom, and their neighbours came, with the except- 
 tion of Monsieur Troussard, who was supposed to be 
 staying at home with his boys, but Ophelia declared 
 -that he must be in his cellar. They played cards, 
 talked, and had some music, but there were two 
 people present who, almost without saying a word to 
 each other, yet spoke together more than all the 
 rest. Several days passed ; Arthur cursed the rain, 
 which prevented their morning walks. Theophile 
 learnt his part of a duet, which he was to sing with 
 Mademoiselle Troussard, with whom he was still 
 very much smitten, by heart, and Ophelia felt herself 
 isolated amongst all those people who did not under- 
 stand her, and so managed to have a sick headache 
 every morning, and was in a bad temper ever even- 
 ing. But the weather grew fine again; the sun 
 shone once more in a cloudless sky, the birds sang 
 their best under Caroline's windows, and the plea- 
 sant shade, the green turf, and the leafy walks had 
 acquired a further charm, as for some days they 
 liad not been able to enjoy Liiem. 
 
 Caroline continued to get up very early, and still 
 went to look out of the window at her flowers. A 
 violent struggle was going on in her mind, but it 
 nlways ended in her going downstairs very softly 
 
THE DANGER OF MORNING WALKS. 45 
 
 -iind saying : " Oil ! I shall not go near the planta- 
 tion." But she was always certain of meeting the 
 inan who had sworn that he would triumph over her 
 innocence. The poor child had no idea of all the 
 dangers which she ran in listening to Arthur, whilst 
 he constantly vowed that he only cared for her 
 happiness, — and then, he was so handsome, so 
 charming, that she was proud of his love. In spite 
 of all this, however, Caroline became more thought- 
 ful every day, and more uneasy at her walks with 
 Arthur. Without divinino" the danger which threa- 
 tened her, a secret presentiment warned her that she 
 ought at least to make Marianne go with her, and 
 to tell her of her love for the captain's nephew, but 
 the young man begged her continually not to take 
 anyone into- their confidence; he said that the time 
 had not come yet for them to avow their love openly. 
 One morning, however, on coining out of the plan- 
 tation, Caroline was no longer the same ; her eyes 
 were red with crying, and she insisted almost on 
 throwing herself at her father's knees, on going to. 
 weep on Marinne's shoulder, and Arthur had the 
 greatest trouble in consoling her, though he called 
 her by the most tender and sweetest names. But 
 she was inconsolable ; she could not rest or sleep, 
 and when Marianne asked her to confide the cause 
 of her distress to her, the girl threw herself into her 
 arms, and cried out : " You shall know . . I will 
 tell you everything . . Oh ! if only my father 
 does not notice that 1 have been crying." 
 
46 A father's opixiox. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 a father's opinion. 
 
 Some days passed, and Arthur declared that he 
 was obliged to return to Paris. " Besides/' he said 7 
 looking at Monsieur de Melleval, " we have stayed 
 quite long enough; why, we have been your guests 
 for three weeks. Instead of asking thern to remain 
 longer, the colonel replied, rather curtly : " If you. 
 have anything to do in Paris, you ought to go back; 
 business before everything."... "As the colonel says 7 
 above everything one must keep up with the regi- 
 ment," added the old captain, bowing to his superior 
 officer. Caroline had grown pale at Arthur's words, 
 and yet he had already told her that he was going 
 to return to Paris, but at the same time he had 
 promised her that he would soon return to Draveil. 
 " And then, you promise me that you will speak to 
 my father ? " she said, giving Arthur a beseeching^ 
 look. Arthur kissed her, and replied : " Yes, yes T 
 do not distress yourself; I will speak to him at the 
 right moment." 
 
 One morning Arthur and his friend had the horse- 
 pit into the gig in which they had come. Theo— 
 phile was very glad to return to Paris, as' he had 
 free entries to several theatres, but still he regretted- 
 the society of Therese, who used to give him music 
 lessons and with whom he used to sing duets out of 
 William Tell, but the Troussards, who* knew that 
 the young man was rich, had invited him to be sure 
 and come to have some music with their daughter in- 
 Paris. The two friends made their adieux, and- 
 Ophelia, who saw everything, noticed that Colonel 
 Melleval did not say to the young men, as he usually 
 did to his guests : " Come again as soon as you can.' y 
 
a father's opinion. 47" 
 
 Caroline noticed it also, and felt a secret pain at her 
 heart, but she was obliged to hide her grief and not 
 let her. father see what agony Arthur's departure 
 caused her. 
 
 " I do not think the country will be any duller 
 when those two gentlemen are no no longer here," 
 Mademoiselle de Vienssec said • " for now young men- 
 are so careless and offhand with ladies, that really 
 their presence has nothing very attractive about it. 
 They are not the gentlemen that diey were former- 
 ly ! " Caroline did not rejidy; she even tried to smile,, 
 but dici net succeed. The neighbours, however, 
 came as usual ; the Troussards with their little boys, 
 Therese with her roll of music, and then Monsieur 
 and Madame Dugrandet and some other people who 
 lived in the neighbourhood, who made up their 
 nsual society and who got up games of cards and bil- 
 liards and related any anecdotes which they might 
 have picked up in the course of the morning ; for in 
 the country the smallest matter becomes an affair of 
 importance, and people are amused at what they 
 would not even listen to in town. But for Caroline 
 everything was changed ; the house was monotonous 
 and dull, the garden had no more attractions for 
 her, and she did not care for her favourite flowers, 
 the green foliage and the grass seemed less beauti- 
 ful, the sky less bright, whilst all nature seemed clad 
 in mourning for her who would no more meet the 
 eyes of the man to whom she had given herself. 
 One spot still had its charms for the girl, and she 
 nsed to get up early in the morning to go into the 
 little wood, where she would sit down under the 
 tree beneath which Arthur had vowed eternal fidelity 
 to her, and say to herself: "Patience! He is sure 
 to return, he cannot forget me ! He knows how 
 xmhappy I am during his absence, and that I can- 
 not exist without him! " 
 
 A fortnight passed, which seemed a century ta 
 
A I'ATHET&'S OPINION. 
 
 her, devoured as she was by her secret love. If she 
 could only have spoken to Arthur, or have heard 
 from him, she would have been happier, but nobody 
 mentioned his name, not even his uncle, old Ger- 
 villier. She used frequently to lie in wait for the 
 captain, and when they were alone she would begin 
 a converation which she tried to lead up to Arthur, 
 but the old soldier spoke very little, he was always 
 smoking 1 , and, after a few words, used to escape into 
 the garden. At last, after having been absent for 
 three weeks, Arthur came to Monsieur Melleval's 
 one afternoon ; he received him politely but some- 
 what coldly, for which, however, the young man 
 seemed to care but little. This time he came by 
 himself, for Theophile did not accompany him. 
 
 " You have not brought your friend with you?" 
 Caroline said, looking at Arthur with an expression 
 which revealed the very depths of her soul...." ISTo, 
 mademoiselle, he could not come with me, he is too 
 much taken up with some business or other ; I think 
 he is going to get married . . "..."To get mar- 
 ried ! " Madame Troussard said, looking very much 
 surprised, whilst her daughter coughed and went on 
 
 playing with an air of well-affected indifference 
 
 " Why not ?" Madame Dugrandet said ; " the young 
 man is old enough to have a wife; it is best to marry 
 young, far the best."..." That is to say, it lasts 
 longer ! " Monsieur Dugrandet murmured. " How- 
 ever, it is all the same to me ; I have walked my ten 
 miles to-day, and am quite satisfied with myself. I 
 came back from Corbiel by the longest road ; I could 
 have taken the shortest, but I prefer the longest."... 
 "I do not regret Monsieur Theophile Minot's com- 
 pany the least," Ophelia said ; " that tall gentleman 
 did not appear to me -to possess any high and in- 
 sive thoughts! I should not like to be his wife." 
 iWhilst they were talking of marriage, Arthur 
 seemed embarrassed ; he looked away, so as not to 
 
A FATHER'S opinion. 49 
 
 meet Caroline's eyes, began to talk eagerly about 
 music, and asked Therese what new song she had 
 learnt. As she never required any pressing to sing, 
 she was at the piano even before answering Arthur, 
 and during the whole evening Caroline could not find 
 an opportunity for speaking a few words to her 
 lover in private. It is true that he did not seem to 
 wish it, and, anxious as he had been to exchange 
 even a single word with her at his last visit, he now 
 showed much less eagerness to seek her out. 
 
 The next morning, although it was a dull, cheer- 
 less day, Caroline was in the little wood very early, 
 and she felt a pain at her heart when she saw that 
 she was the first at the rendezevous, which had not 
 happened to her before. However, Arthur shortly 
 after made his appearance, and as soon as he saw 
 her, he cried : " What, are you here already ? It 
 is very early still."..." Yes, I know I have come too 
 soon ! "..."Too soon! not at all . . I did not 
 mean that. But you must have slept badly to get 
 up so early ? "..."Oh ! I have not slept well for a 
 long time ! " 
 
 And the girl turned away her head to hide the 
 tears which filled her eves. Her lover, however, 
 made haste to console her, and easily succeeded, for 
 she believed his vows and promises, and a smile re- 
 turned to her lips and joy to her heart, for in the 
 arms of love the greatest troubles are soon forgotten. 
 
 " You will stop with us a long time, I hope ? " 
 Caroline said. " You will not return to Paris again 
 immediately ?"..." In eight or ten days; besides, 
 your father is very distant towards me, and, but for 
 you, I should have gone back to-day."..." Oh ! don't 
 do that ! You know my father is always a grave, 
 rather stern man. He must like you, because you 
 are the nephew of his friend, of his brother-in-arms."* 
 ..."I do not think my uncle cares much about me. 
 He would send all his nephews to the devil if that 
 
50 A FATHEK'S OPINION. 
 
 would give his old friend any pleasure."... "But why 
 do you not speak to my father of your love for me,. 
 and of your wish to obtain my hand ? "..."I think 
 the moment would be very ill-chosen, as Morisieur* 
 de Melleval is very cool towards me ; it would be 
 much better to wait till he has recovered his good 
 temper. Again, let me beg you not to worry your- 
 self; I am not used to these sort of . . I mean 
 to. say, I will manage the matter very well." 
 
 Caroline was silent, and left off crying. Arthur 
 was amiable and loving, though he could not hel[> 
 showing that he was bored at those little evening- 
 gatherings, which grew longer in proportion as the 
 days grew shorter. The dandy from Paris shrugged 
 his shoulders at the conversation of Monsieur Du- 
 grandet and Madame Troussard ; he often made fun 
 of Mademoiselle Therese's singing, and could scarcely 
 conceal his yawns when Monsieur de Melleval re- 
 lated his campaigns, and, worst of all, he began to- 
 come late to the rendezvous in the wood. Sometimes 
 he had overslept himself, at others the weather had 
 looked so uncertain that he thought that Caroline 
 would not venture out, and each time that he was 
 late the girl did not find fault with him, but said 
 with a sigh : " When you are late, I am not vexed 
 at having to wait, but I am sorry because we have so 
 much less time for talking" together." 
 
 On the ninth morning after his return to DraveiL 
 Arthur did not come to the little wood where the 
 girl was waiting for him. Yet, it was a fine day. 
 and the sky was bright; everything ought to have 
 invited him to love, under the thick foliage beneath 
 which Caroline was sitting, and the poor child saw 
 the time pass and her lover did not appear, and she ' 
 was obliged to leave that spot, where he had sworn 
 that he loved her, and where she thought that he was 
 going to swear it again, alone. Her heart was very 
 full when she went back to the house, but she was 
 
a father's opinion. 51 
 
 obliged to hide her unhappiness when in her father's 
 presence, and appear bright and cheerful. It is not 
 -sill pleasure in love. To increase her wretchedness, 
 at lunch Arthur said he must return to Paris that 
 • day. Monsieur de Melleval did not say a word, and 
 the old captain took care to immitate his superior 
 officer. Caroline tried to get a few words of love 
 and conversation from Arthur, but he seemed to 
 avoid being aloue with her. However, just as he 
 was leaving the drawing-room, in order to go and 
 see whether his horse was being saddled, lie met 
 her on the steps. She stopped in front of him, and 
 said in a trembling voice : 
 
 "Are you going? "..."I must; urgent business. " 
 . . ." And you did not come this morning ! " ..." I really 
 was not able to ; I had a, very bad night, and did not 
 get to sleep till morning. 5 '..." When shall you come 
 again? "..." Before long ; as soon as ever I can."... 
 "" To part thus, without even being able to clasp each 
 ■ other's hands ! Oh ! my heart is full of tears, and yet 
 I dare not weep! "..."Come, you are no better than 
 a child ! I have told you a hundred times that one 
 should never be sorrowful in love. . . Here are 
 some people coming . . take care ! ' 3 
 
 It was Monsieur Yienssec who was crossing the 
 .-courtyard to go into the garden. The presence of 
 •the former magistrate, who was nearly blind and 
 deaf, need not have prevented the lovers from talk- 
 ing, but Arthur made it a pretext leave Caroline 
 suddenly, and she returned to the drawing-room 
 utterly crushed, saying to herself : " He is going 
 .away, and did not come to our try sting-place this 
 morning ! " A few minutes later, Arthur had taken 
 leave of all the company, and was galloping along 
 the road to Paris. That evening, poor Caroline was 
 obliged to sing because her father wished it. To 
 have to sing when one is in grief, when the heart 
 
52 A father's opinion. 
 
 and the thoughts are occupied with something totally 
 different ! 
 
 "My dear," Madame Troussard said, when Caroline 
 had done; "I think your voice is losing its power; 
 one can scarhely hear you. Monsieur de Melleval 
 should tell you to sing louder, like I am continually 
 saying to my daughter. There is nothing like it for 
 the voice ; sing as loud as you can, that is the great 
 principle. Just look at Therese in a part song : 
 people always notice her, because she is heard above 
 all the others." Caroline let them say what they 
 liked ; she was insensible to all outward distractions, 
 and her greatest happiness was to go to her own 
 room and alone there, to think freely of her love. 
 Marianne no longer ventured to interrogate her dear 
 young lady, because she thought she had noticed 
 that her questions increased Caroline's sadness, but 
 she followed her with her eyes ; her looks were con- 
 stantly fixed on her, and from time to time she would 
 press the girl's hands and say : "You will confide in 
 me some day, you have promised me." 
 
 It was not very late in t}ie season, it was only 
 September, when the Troussards announced that 
 they were going back to Paris. "You are going to 
 leave us already ! " Monsieur de Melleval said, when 
 his neighbours came there to bid him good-bye. 
 " Why, it is just the time of the year when the 
 country is most delightful." ..." That is true,' r 
 Madame Troussard replied; "but here my daughter 
 rather neglects her music, she does not practice 
 enough, my little boys are going to school, and I 
 have a thousand friends who are expecting me."... 
 "I have received some claret, and I am going to 
 bottle it myself, because I will not trust the bottlers." 
 ..."But you will come sometimes during the winter, 
 when it is fine, and have dinner with as ?"..." I hope 
 so."..." I shall come to lay down the bottles again,, 
 which I have stood upright, in order that they may 
 

 a father's opinion. 53 
 
 not break."... "I shall learn some new songs, and 
 come and sing them to yon," said Therese."..." I 
 only hope I shall not be here," the tall Ophelia said 
 to herself. 
 
 The neighbours took their leave after an exchange 
 of compliments, of protestations of friendship, and 
 of assurances of the pleasure they would feel at 
 meeting again; mere words, which certainly do not 
 constitute one of the smallest worries of life. Three 
 weeks had passed since Arthur had again left Dra- 
 veil. Caroline grew more and more depressed every 
 day, and she received no letter, no message from 
 him to console her, and yet, when a man really 
 wishes it, there are always means of giving the 
 woman he loves some news of himself, and Arthur 
 knew quite well that she had neither a Duenna or 
 Argus to watch over her. A short time after the 
 departure of the Troussard, Monsieur and Madame 
 Dugrandet announced that they were also going to 
 Paris shortly. 
 
 " I cannot understand anyone leaving the country 
 already," the colonel said to the old banker ; " during 
 the shooting season too, and you ought to be fond 
 of shooting, great walker that you are."..." I must 
 acknowledge that I do not care for it," Monsieur 
 Dugrandet said ; " not that it would tire me, for I 
 am sure I should wear out my dogs, but I have not 
 a correct eye — I cannot aim straight, and so miss 
 everything. I prefer a walk on the boulevards. I 
 go from the Madeleine to the Bastille without think- 
 ing anything of it."..." In the omnibus?" Ophelia 
 asked...." No, on foot; always on foot, and without 
 dirtying my boots.". . ." That is better and better ! " 
 Madame Dugrandet said, looking at her husband 
 with a mocking smile. " The next thing, you will 
 dancing on the tight rope . . don't you think so, 
 monsieur ?"..." My dear, if I had learnt it, I am 
 sure that I should have succeeded admirably ; all 
 
54 a father's opinion. 
 
 J? 
 
 bodily exercises come nearly naturally to me . 
 
 Madame Dugrandet pinched her lips, and looked 
 at her husband in a comical manner ; and the next 
 day they left their country house in order to pass the 
 winter in Paris. 
 
 " Those people do not understand the pleasures of 
 the country i " said Monsieur de Melleval, when he 
 saw his neighbours leaving"; "there are always a 
 thousand ways of amusing' oneself and spending one's 
 time in the country. "..."Certainly," said the old 
 captain; "there are a thousand ways . . to begin 
 with, one always has a very good appetite . . " 
 ..."And then, one has such walks, for there are al- 
 ways some fine days, even in winter."..." Certainly, 
 colonel; it is much pleasanter in winter than in 
 summer."..." And the pleasure of coming back to a 
 good fire, a game of billiards, and then, supper ; they 
 do not know how to sup in Pris."..." They know 
 nothing at all. colonel."..." And the pleasures of re- 
 calling one's campaigns — Jena, Wapam, and our 
 bivouacs, where we often slept on a gun carriage."... 
 "Like Turenne, colonel.".. ."However, I am sorry 
 our neighbours have gone, for I am afraid my 
 daughter will find it very dull now, especially since 
 Monsieur Vienssec and his niece have also left us."... 
 "Oh! do not trouble about me, father," Caroline 
 . said ; " I assure you that I do not require company 
 in oider to make me happy ; on the contrary, for 
 some time past, I have preferred solitude."..." I 
 know that you are a very good girl!" Monsieur de 
 .Melleval said, " and that you would never like to 
 vex me ; that vou would always say you were happy 
 wherever I might choose to live; I know all that, 
 but then I hope some day to be able to recompense 
 your affection and obedience by finding you a good 
 husband, who will love you as you deserve, and will 
 , assure your happiness." 
 
 Saying this, Monsieur de Melleval put one of his 
 
a father's opinion. 55 
 
 hands under his daughter's chin, and gently patted 
 her cheek ; that was a great caress for the colonel, 
 for he was very chary of them. Caroline, who was 
 happy at what her father had just said to her, was 
 .still more so at his promise of finding her a husband 
 who would make her happy ; it seemed to her that 
 he could only be thinking of Arthur, and that even- 
 ing she went to her room as light-hearted and happy 
 as she had been before she knew what love meant. 
 
 But several days passed, and no news came to 
 Draveil. Only Monsieur Vienssec and his niece 
 Ophelia remained at Monsieur deMelleval's, and they 
 would not be leaving before November. As for 
 Captain G-ervillier, he spent nearly his whole time 
 at the colonel's ; when he went to Paris, it was only 
 to receive his pension and to buy tobacco, but he 
 rarely remained there for more than twenty-four 
 hours. Caroline had relapsed into a state of deep 
 melancholy ; she did not sing any more, did not care 
 for walks, seemed to shun society, and spent whole 
 days in her own room. Ophelia,, for her part, quite 
 given up to her romantic reveries, preferred wander- 
 ing alone by the side of a brook to Caroline's simple 
 talk; and in the evening they all met together, as 
 they had only seen each other at meal times. 
 
 One evening, which had been very dull, during the 
 whole of which Caroline had been absorbed in her 
 own thoughts, only Monsieur de Melleval, his daugh- 
 ter, and the old captain remained in the drawing- 
 room; Ophelia had gone to her own room almost as 
 soon as her uncle, in order to read a new novel which 
 she had received from Paris. According to her 
 •custom, Caroline was busy with some embroidery, 
 and did not speak. The old captain had just taken 
 a cigar out of his case and was waiting respectfully 
 for the colonel to light his before he did the same 
 himself, when Monsieur de Melleval exclaimed : 
 
 " By the by, captain, have you heard from your 
 
56 a father's opinion. 
 
 nepliew lately ?"..." No, colonel ; I am not surprised^ 
 for lie never writes to me."..." Well then, I have 
 heard about him from someone whom I met this 
 morning', who had come from Paris." 
 
 At that moment Caroline, who was all ears and 
 trembling with impatience, appeared to be intent 
 on her work, but for that she did not lose a word of 
 the conversation. 
 
 "Yes," the colonel continued, "Monsieur Arthur 
 was mentioned to me, and I must tell you, my dear 
 Gervillier, that what I heard was certainly not in 
 praise of your charming nephew! "..."I am not all 
 surprised at that," the captain said, wetting his 
 cigar with the tip of his tongue... ." If I come to be- 
 lieve the person whom I saw, and who seemed very 
 well informed, Monsieur Arthur's conduct is very 
 bad — gambling, women, duels, scandalous intrigues ; 
 nothing' is wanting to make his reputation."..." I 
 always thought he was a bit of a scamp," the cap- 
 tain said, emitting a cloud of tobacco smoke.... 
 " Well, then, my old friend, I think you might have 
 told me, and I should not have invited him here." 
 ..."Colonel, I did not wish to deprive my nephew 
 of such an honour. After all, he is a brave young* 
 fellow and fights well, and then — boys will be boys, 
 and everybody said to me : £ He is a charming young* 
 fellow !"'..." Yes, no doubt, you mean to say that 
 young men will commit follies, but I think there 
 are limits which even youth ought not to overstep. 
 I must tell you that already people have spoken to 
 me about Monsieur Arthur, and not at all to his 
 advantage, and that was the reason why I received 
 him so coldly on the occasion of his last visit."... 
 "I think you received him very well, colonel."... 
 " Then you thought wrong, and certainly had I 
 known what 1 know now . . I should most likely 
 have told him that his visits did not suit me."... 
 "And you would have been quite right, colonel."... 
 
a father's opinion. 57 
 
 a 
 
 I am sorry, for he is a good-looking fellow, and 
 may have plenty of brains, but between ourselves, 
 I think he makes bad use of them. 5 '..." I think so, 
 also, colonel."..." Certainly I would not trust my 
 daughter's happiness to such a young man as be is, 
 for a man like your nephew is incapable of appre- 
 ciating all the good qualities of my child — he is in- 
 capable of making any woman happy."..." I will 
 defy him to do it, colonel."..." And then, when it is 
 a question of my daughter's happiness, you may be 
 sure that I shall not act without much consideration. 
 The choice of a son-in-law is one of the most im- 
 portant actions in a man's life, and I cannot under- 
 stand those parents who, after having given their 
 daughter a good education, and taken the most 
 tender interest in her, carelessly give her at last to a 
 man whose fortune and position flatter their vanity, 
 without having carefully beforehand studied the 
 moral and mental qualities and the tastes and pas- 
 sions of the man who is to become the arbiter of 
 their child's destiny. Is the happiness of a lifetime 
 such a small matter? When you have carefully 
 reared a young plant, will you expose it to all the 
 inclemencies of the weather? No, you will find a 
 suitable soil and a sheltered spot for it, where the 
 rays of the sun will invigorate it. Well, then, take 
 the same care of your daughter, whose existence 
 will be prolonged for more than one spring, as you 
 would of a flower."..." There is not the slightest 
 doubt about that ! When one has a daughter . . " 
 ..."As for the rest," the colonel said, getting np, 
 " I have an idea that we shall not see Monsieur 
 Arthur for a long time again. . . To begin with, 
 I did not ask him to come ; then, I do not think 
 that he could have enjoyed himself very much the 
 last time he was here, and I can quite understand it. 
 Our habits are too simple and quiet for gentlemen of 
 his stamp, and it is not our society they want."... 
 
58 a father's opinion. 
 
 " That is to say, that our . . your society . * 
 I quite agree with you, colonel," the captain said, 
 getting up also. And Monsieur de Melleval, going 
 •up to his daughter, whose head was still bent over 
 her embroidery, kissed her on her forehead and said : 
 •" Good night, my child, go to bed ; you are working 
 ,too late and it will tire you." 
 
 Then the colonel took his candle and left the room, 
 followed by his old companion-in-arms, who took 
 care to keep step with his superior. But Caroline 
 remained there, cold, immovable from the conversa- 
 tion which she had just heard, and, as her father 
 kissed her brow, he had not preceived that his words 
 had caused despair to her soul. A quarter of an 
 hour had passed since Monsieur de Melleval had re- 
 tired to his room, but Caroline had not altered her 
 position ; she was still in the drawing-room, and had 
 ; no thought of going to bed. She hardly knew 
 where she was, and deep despair showed itself in her 
 tearless eyes. At last somebody came in ; it was 
 Marianne, who, surprised at not seeing Caroline go 
 to her room like everybody else had done, was going 
 over the house to. look for her. She went up to the 
 girl, and was going to scold her for the uneasiness 
 she had caused her, when her dear child's state 
 :Struck her with alarm, so she ran to her and took her 
 into her arms, exclaiming : 
 
 "Heavens! my dear child, what is the matter? 
 What has happened to you ? " 
 
 Marianne's voice reached her heart, and, without 
 speaking, the girl found vent for tears, and throw- 
 ing herself into her nurse's arms, she sobbed out : 
 
 "Oh! Marianne, I am done for ! "..."Done for! 
 You, my child ! Collect yourself . . what fresh 
 trouble . . what misfortune has happened?"... 
 " Marianne, the secret that I was hiding from you 
 was my love for Arthur, it was . . the vows 
 which we had exchanged."..." Love ! poor child, I 
 
A FATHER'S OPINION. 5^ 
 
 thought that had something to do with your 
 troubles."../' Arthur swore that he would many 
 Hie, that he would never love anyone bnt me — that 
 he would love me al ways."... " Well ! I do not 
 think that would be very difficult ! ". .." But you do 
 not know, Marianne . . ■ Just now my father and 
 the captain were speaking of him, and they said that 
 he was unsteady, that he carried on intrigues and 
 had mistresses. Oh ! I am sure it is not true, and 
 that he thinks of no one but me, but my father be- 
 lieves it all, and Will not let him here any more ! 
 He says that a man like he is shall never marry his 
 daughter. Never ! . . Oh ! those words nearly 
 broke my heart."... 4 " Come, my child, be calm, be- 
 cause if this man really . . "..."Oh! Marianne,, 
 you must see that I am lost unless he marries me. 
 Marianne, forgive me . . I am . , I shall be 
 a mother ! " 
 
 And, stammering out these woids, the girl fell on. 
 her knees befor the kind woman who had brouo-ht 
 her up. Poor Marianne was thunderstruck and 
 could only repeat : "A mother ! you ! Oh, good 
 heavens ! " But soon she noticed the girl, who was 
 still on her knees, and then great tears fell from her 
 eyes, and she hastened to raise up her dear child, to 
 press her in her arms and to embrace her tenderly, 
 saying : " Oh ! my child, you are not guilty ; it is I, 
 I alone, for I ought never to have left you; I ought 
 to have watched over you constantly, and not have 
 left you exposed to seduction for a single moment, 
 and that I did not do. You see, it is I who ought 
 to be at your feet, I who ought to ask pardon of 
 yon ! But then, who could have thought it ! Oh ! 
 if your father shonld know it, he will turn me away, 
 and be quite right ! " 
 
 And Marianne wept more than ever, so that 
 Caroline was obliged to console her. But suddenly 
 the girl and her nurse heard someone coughing; it 
 
•60 A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 was the colonel going along the passage, and so, 
 fearing lest they might be surprised there, they 
 hastily blew out their candle and went to their room. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 A fortnight later, Monsieur de Yienssec and his 
 niece Ophelia took leave of their host at Draveil. 
 Caroline and Marianne were very glad to see the 
 last strangers who had been staying there (for 
 old Captain Gervillier was not looked upon as a 
 stranger) take their departure, and besides, no one 
 was less in the way or less curious than the old 
 .soldier, who was always absorbed in his respect for 
 L's superior. When one has any fault or weakness 
 to conceal, when one is in Caroline's position, it is 
 natural to seek solitude and to avoid the looks of 
 other people. She had no need to fear at present 
 that anyone would guess her condition from her ap- 
 pearance, and yet, when her father looked at her 
 rather longer than usual, she blushed and then grew 
 pale, whilst she was shaken by a nervous trembling, 
 and the poor child thought that Monsieur de Melle- 
 val hnd discovered her secret. But, in addition to 
 this disquietude and these terrors, which would in- 
 crease every day, the girl was tormented by another 
 1 rouble : Arthur did not write, nor did they ever 
 hear him mentioned. " Oh ! " Caroline said to her- 
 self ; " if lie only knew that I am about to become a 
 mother, I am sure he would come immediately and 
 console me, and lose no time in asking iny father 
 
A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 61 
 
 ■for my hand — that he would expose himself to the 
 full outburst of his anger rather than not obtain it. 
 But he does not know the consequences of mj fault, 
 and jet, the time is passing . . and he must 
 •-come and speak, otherwise my father must know all, 
 -and perhaps he will curse me." 
 
 Marianne, who was a witness of the girl's tears, 
 iDegan to share her fears for the future. After 
 laving attempted to console Caroline for some time, 
 after hoping, like she did, that Arthur would come, 
 one day she said to her young lady : 
 
 " My dear child, as Monsieur Arthur does not 
 come, I will go after him and inform him of your 
 condition.". . ." You, Marianne? " Caroline exclaimed, 
 looking at her maid with a gleam of hope in her 
 eyes...." Yes, I . . I will go to Paris ; I can easily 
 find some pretext, and the great difficulty will be 
 to find out where he lives."..." Oh! perhaps his uncle 
 can tell you."..." Yes, you are right."..." But he 
 must not guess that you are going to him."..." Don't 
 be alarmed about that. I will find some means; 
 "the captain is not at all sharp, and I shall get his 
 nephew's address, if he knows it himself, and even 
 if he should not, I will find him for all that, even if 
 I have to ask in every street, and at every house, 
 and then I shall say to him : c Come immediately and 
 console the poor child, and put and end to her 
 trouble.' ". . ." Oh ! Marianne, I shall owe you my life 
 and my happiness."..." Well, and are not your 
 liappiness and your existence my life also ? When 
 you weep, do not I cry also ? If you were unhappy, 
 should I have an instant's repose? So you see, 
 there is no reason to thank me." 
 
 During the day Marianne waited till she found 
 Ca.pt ain Gervillier alone for a moment, and then she 
 went up to him and said, in an indifferent tone : 
 
 " Sir, your nephew's friend, you know that young 
 man whom he brought here with him . . I think 
 
62 A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 his name was Theophile Minot, well . . lie left 
 n pocket handkerchief behind him . . "..." What 
 
 has that got to do with me ? " the captain replied 
 
 " Why, monsieur, I only wished to ask you whether 
 you knew his address, because, as I must go to Paris 
 to make some purchases, I could at the same time 
 take his handkerchief back. "..."How am I to know 
 my nephew's friends or their various addresses ? "... 
 "Oh ! of course not, but if I knew your nephew's, I 
 could easily get him to return it ; but perhaps you do 
 not know Monsieur Arthur's address either ?"..." It 
 is as much as I do, but I think he was living in 
 the Rue Saint Georges, close to the Rue de la Vic- 
 toire, somewhere about there ; but I don't bother 
 myself much about it, for I have never breakfasted 
 with him ! And after all, it is hardly worth while 
 taking any trouble about a pocket handkerchief ; I 
 suppose that he has got more." 
 
 With these words, the old captain half turned on 
 his heels and went off whistling, but Marianne knew 
 enough; she was satisfied, and only thought of her 
 approaching expedition to Paris. The very first 
 pretext she could find was sufficient for Monsieur de 
 Melleval, who thought it quite natural that Marianne 
 should have some purchases to make in the capital, 
 and the next morning the kind servant started for 
 Paris, after having kissed Caroline and promised her 
 not to come back without having seen Arthur. As 
 soon as she got out of the conveyance, which had. 
 brought her to Paris, Marianne asked for the Rue 
 Saint Georges, and she went in the direction of the 
 Chaussee-d'Autin, saying to herself: "I do not 
 know the number, but I will ask ; he may have 
 moved since, but they will give me his new address, 
 and, if he has moved again, I must go there . 
 Oh ! I will find him ! I will not leave Paris with- 
 out having spoken to him . . My poor Caroline I 
 Her honour and all her future are at stake. Oh ! I 
 
A BREAKFAST AT ARTHURS. 63 • 
 
 am not afraid of getting tired!" Marianne got to 
 the Rue Saint Georges, and remembered that the 
 old captain had said to her that it was close to the 
 Rue de la Yictoire, so she went into the first gate- 
 way that she came to, and asked the porter : " Does 
 Monsieur Arthnr Gerviller live here?"... "It is 
 here," was the reply, and Marianne almost danced 
 for joy, and said to herself : " My good luck has 
 led me well! He is here now? "she said aloud.... 
 " Of course he is."..." Is he at home now? "..." Yes." 
 ..."'That is all right, so I can go upstairs ?"..." I 
 cannot say that }^ou will be able to see him, for he 
 has several friends to breakfast."..." Oh ! if they 
 were princes, I am sure that he would leave them 
 when he knows from whom I come !"..." Well, go on 
 to the second floor, and speak to his man."..." Second, 
 flocr? Thank you, monsieur." 
 
 The day that Marianne arrived in Paris to see 
 Arthur, he had ivited several friends to a splendid 
 breakfast, at which nothing had been spared to 
 rival those feasts of Lucullus, a description of which 
 gives us such a high idea of Roman gluttony. Since 
 his last visit to Draveil, it need scarcely be said 
 that Caroline's seducer had entirely forgotten the 
 young girl who passed her nights without rest, and 
 her days in tears. As soon as his desires were satis- 
 fied, Arthur felt his love die out, and his only ob- 
 ject was to make some fresh conquest, so as to feel 
 those sensations afresh, which his used-up heart was 
 incapable of tasting for any length of time with the 
 same woman. Accustomed to look upon love as an 
 amusement, Arthur did not reflect what consequences 
 his conduct might have ; when he no longer loved a 
 woman, he felt sure that she would not be long in 
 imitating him and in consoling herself with a fresh 
 lover. He did not wish to think, because doing so 
 worried him ; he would have been ashamed of being 
 constant, for fear of seeming ridiculous, and did 
 
64 -A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 not think himself culpable, because lie blinded 
 himself as to his own conduct, and never saw the 
 tears which he caused to flow. Many a charming 
 young fellow reasons like that. Three months had 
 passed sinee he hrd bidden Caroline good-bye and 
 .had promised to go and see her again soon ; since 
 then he had entered on to and broken off several 
 intrigues, so that the recollection of Mademoiselle 
 de Melleval had almost faded from his memory. At 
 the present moment we find him in the midst of the 
 companions of his pleasures and debauchery, dressed 
 -in a splendid velvet dressing gown, which was fas- 
 tened round his waist by a gold tassel. On his 
 head he had a cap, likewise of ' velvet and the shape 
 called The Middle Ages, and which very much re- 
 sembled a small shell turned upside down, and in 
 that costume, seated in an armchair, which he could 
 lengthen or shorten by a mere push of his foot, the 
 magnificent Amphytrion was enteitaining his guests. 
 A dozen young men were seated round a table 
 covered with the choicest dishes and wines ; nearly 
 all had long hair, moustaches and pointed beards, 
 because that belonged to the Middle Ages, and it 
 pleased those young men when they went into the 
 streets if they looked liked painters' models or 
 sappers in mufti. They were not all wearing velvet 
 dressing gowns like their host, but each of them 
 tried to have something original or extravagant in 
 his get-up, so as not to resemble the vulgar herd. 
 Lastly, all were sipping iced Malvoisie or champagne 
 and smoking cigars ; of course, the elegant dining- 
 room was full of a dense cloud, which got into the 
 eyes, whilst the smell of tcbacco immediately im- 
 pregnated the clothes, so that one cor.ld have 
 imagined oneself in a guard room. 
 
 Monsieur TheophileMinot was conspicuous amongst 
 Arthur's guests, because he had neither beard nor 
 moustache, nor long hair, which gave rise to m° 
 
A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 65 
 
 jokes at his expense on the part of his neighbours, 
 but the stout young man had his revenge by drink- 
 ing draught upon draught of iced champagne, and 
 putting away the liquor very cleverly into his 
 stomach. 
 
 " Come gentlemen, you are not drinking ! " Arthur 
 said, raising his glass. " Why, there are ten of us, 
 and I only see twenty-six empty bottles on the 
 ground; my dear fellows, I do not know you again ! 
 Can we have lost those inestimable qualities which 
 enabled us to defy the English ? " 
 
 " A moment, my dear Arthur ! You are pressing 
 us to drink, and we have only just begun." These 
 words were uttered by a pimply gentleman, whose 
 face, habitually high coloured, was at that moment 
 of an alarming purple. The difficulty which he al- 
 ready experienced in expressing his ideas seemed to 
 announce that, if he were only beginning to drink, 
 the wine very soon took effect upon hint...." Oh ! I 
 am not pressing you at all," Arthur replied, " drink 
 at your leisure, Lovelay ; you have already a splen- 
 did colour."..." Yes," a tall thin man said, whose 
 pale face had something death-like about it, thanks 
 to a thick beard ; " yes, Lovelay might act the part 
 of the devil if he were dressed up, and not require 
 any mask . . he is already the colour of the in- 
 habitants of the infernal regions — regular lobster 
 colour."..." And you might very well do for an in- 
 habitant of a lunatic asylum with your long beard." 
 ...The tall young man did not seem to relish this 
 answer at all, but, as every one else laughed at it, 
 he felt obliged to force a smile, and said : " Oh I 
 good, very good, and quite original! "..."Darozel 
 does not seem to think it quite original," said a 
 short young man, stroking his moustache ; "it is 
 not the first time that he has had that compliment 
 paid him." 
 
 This sort of banter went on for a long time, till 
 
<)6 A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 something occurred which occasioned a diversion; a 
 very young* nian whom they called Edmund had been 
 feeling uncomfortable for a long time, but, instead 
 of leaving off smoking, he had got hold of a Jong 
 Turkish pipe,*from which he managed, with great 
 difficulty, to extract some whiffs of smoke, the 
 greater portion of which he swallowed. Suddenly 
 he changed colour, let his pipe fall, and followed it 
 himself under the table, where they left him to 
 sleep off his indisposition. At that moment Arthur's 
 servant entered the room, and, going up to his- master, 
 said in a whisper : 
 
 " Monsier, there is come one here who insists upon 
 seeing you."..." On seeing me? lam not going to 
 be disturbed just now ; nobody but a creditor would 
 venture to do such a thing; but if there are twenty 
 of them drive them all out with a broomstick. That 
 is the way to treat such fellows.". . ." Yes, yes ; show 
 them the door, or throw them out of the window if 
 they argue the point ! ".."." But, monsieur, it is not 
 a creditor, it is a woman."..." A woman!" said 
 Arthur.;.. "If she is pretty, bring her in/' said Saint 
 Geran, "we will offer her a glass of wine and ;i 
 cigar."..." Who is it?" Arthur continued; "you 
 ought to know her name, for you know all who come 
 here; don't be frightened, I have no secrets from my 
 friends."..." Well, monsieur, it is a woman of a 
 certain age, who looks like a servant."..."' Well then. 
 be off with your woman, and tell her to leave us 
 alone ! You do not suppose that I am going to put 
 myself out for such a woman? "..." But, monsieur, 
 she has come from . . from a young lady . . ; 
 ..." From a young lady? I do not care a straw, I 
 have no time to listen to her at present, I am busy. 
 Tell her to come again to-morrow or the day after : 
 I am not going to leave my pipe and my friends for 
 this lady."..." She said to me : - If your master hesi- 
 tates, tell him mv vouno- mistress 1 name, and he 
 
A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR^. Q7 
 
 will come imniedietery.' "..."Oh ! indeed! So she 
 thinks the name will act as a talisman ? Well, who 
 has sent her ? Speak ont loud, yon fool ! "..."It is 
 Mademoiselle Caroline Melle — "...Arthur hastily in- 
 terrupted his servant and prevented him from finish- 
 ing ; for, in spite of the excitement caused by the 
 wine which he had been drinking, he was agitated at 
 hearing her name, so he jumped up from the table, 
 and said : " As it must be done, let us get rid of this 
 woman. Gentlemen, I will be back in a moment." 
 
 Marianne was waiting for him anxiously in the 
 next room ; she could not understand Arthur's delay, 
 for she thought that at the name alone of Caroline 
 he would come to her immediately. At last a door 
 opened, and he stood before her, his face in a glow, 
 a Turkish pipe in his mouth, his smoking cap on one 
 side of his head, and, above all, looking like a man 
 who was very much put out at having been dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 "Oh ! it is you, Marianne," said the young man; 
 " well, what is the matter ? What does Mademoiselle 
 de Melleval want of me, and why am I forced to 
 leave everything to speak with you ? You country 
 people seem to think that one has nothing better to 
 do than to listen to you . . Make haste, Marianne ; 
 I have company, and am in a hurry. "...The good 
 woman was dumb from astonishment ; this reception, 
 pained her greatly, and she hardly ventured to 
 reply: "Monsieur, after what I have done, you. 
 must guess that Mademoiselle Caroline has confided 
 her love for you to me. Poor child, I love her like 
 my own daughter ; I saw her born, and I reared her. 
 Oh ! why did she not trust me more ?". . ." All that 
 is very well, my good woman ; love your young mis- 
 tres, I have not the slightest wish to prevent you, 
 but, if that is all you have to say to me, it was 
 hardly worth while to disturb me."..." Monsieur ! " 
 "Marianne cried, and her indignation restored her 
 
68 A BREAKFAST AT ARTHUR'S. 
 
 courage, " do you mean to treat me, when I come to- 
 speak to yon about the poor child whom yon have 
 seduced, like this ? Have yon forgotten your vows 
 and promises ? You must, however, remember them 
 now ! "..."Oh ! my good woman, if you have come 
 to preach to me about morals, you will only lose your 
 time. I will go to see Caroline when I can ; next 
 month, or the month after. Good-bye.".. .Marianne • 
 threw herself in Arthur's way as he was in the act 
 of leaving the room, and, seizing him by the arm, 
 she cried : " But, monsieur, you cannot have under- 
 stood me ! You must immediately come and ask 
 the colonel for his daughter's hand, for you must 
 save my poor Caroline's honour . . she is . 
 she is . . pregnant, monsieur . . Well ! are 
 you going to send me away, now? "...Arthur for a 
 moment stood speechless ; he looked grave, but soon 
 assumed his habitual careless air, and replied : " Oh ! 
 the devil . . Caroline is . . That is very un- 
 fortunate ; but after all, what do you want me to- 
 do ? ". . ." Oh dear ! Oh dear ! have I heard aright ? " 
 Marianne said, looking at the young man in despair. 
 "You ask me what I want you to do, whea the pcor 
 child is weeping in despair : when she has no rest or 
 peace day or night . . when her father will verjr 
 likely curse her, and when it is all your doing? 
 And then you hesitate and don't know what to do ! 
 Why, you must marry her monsieur, marry her im- 
 mediately; it is your duty, even though you do not 
 love my poor Caroline any more. "..."My good 
 woman, I am not in the habit of being told what T 
 ought to do by anyone, so I object to the way in 
 which you speak to me, so that will do. I do not 
 feel inclined to remain here till to-morrow. I am 
 very sorry for what has happened to Mademoiselle 
 Caroline, but I certainly have no intention of marry- 
 ing her, especially at this present moment. I do 
 not feel the slightest inclination to put fetters upon 
 

 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 69 
 
 myself at my age. Besides that, a young man can- 
 not be expected to marry all the women who have 
 been his mistresses. If you know the world at all,, 
 you will understand that immediately. I do not 
 wish to renounce my future career and to go and 
 bury myself at Colonel MellevaPs. That is quite - 
 settled, so do not come and see me again, for you. 
 would only be wasting your time. And then again, 
 I intend to travel and see the world. Good-bye;, 
 give my compliments to your mistress, whom I shall 
 always adore, but whom I cannot marry at present.. 
 Later on, in a few years, perhaps ; we shall see." 
 
 With these words, Arthur withdrew his arm, 
 which Marianne was still holding, and quickly dis- 
 appeared, shutting the little door by which he had 
 entered behind him. Poor Marianne remained' 
 motionless for some moments, and could not even 
 cry, but at last she rushed out of the room exclaim- 
 ing : "Oh! heavens have pity on my poor Caroline ! ' ; 
 
 CHAPTEE YIL 
 
 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 
 
 Marianne went back to Draveil the same evening,, 
 for she was in a hurry to see her dear young lady 
 again. On the way back, Marianne had been think- 
 ing it over, and said to herself: "My poor Caroline 
 will die of grief if I tell her the truth, so I must de- 
 ceive her for a time. Having arranged her plan,, 
 she went back to the girl, whom she did not intend 
 to leave a^ain. Her news was not calculated to 
 make Caroline happy, but the longer she delayed her 
 
70 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 
 
 return, the more she would buoy herself up with 
 false hopes. Caroline trembled when she saw her 
 old nurse return, but as her father was there, she 
 was obliged to restrain herself. When at last she 
 was able to meet Marianne alone, her first question 
 was : 
 
 " Well ! have you seen him and spoken to him? " 
 ..."No, mademoiselle," Marianne said, with an 
 effort ; " but it was no use waiting any longer ; Mon- 
 sieur Arthur has left Paris. I asked at the house 
 where he lives, and I was told that Monsieur Ger- 
 villier has left Paris, and nobody knows when he will 
 come back."..." Gone away without trying to see me 
 or writing to me ! Oh ! Marianne, I am lost ; when 
 my father learns my misconduct, as he soon must, 
 he will drive me from his house perhaps, and, even 
 should he pardon me, I shall never be able to pardon 
 myself for the grief and shame I have caused him. 
 Oh ! nurse, I would sooner die than make my father 
 unhappy ! " 
 
 The girl wept bitterly, with her arms round 
 Marianne's neck. It would certainly have been far 
 better to have thought of all this before taking 
 
 CD C? 
 
 those earl}' morning walks in the plantation with 
 . Arthur, but we ought to be glad that there are some 
 people who repent after having done wrong ; for 
 there are too many who do not even do that. 
 
 "My dear child," Marianne said; "you must not 
 : give way like this ; Monsieur Arthur will come when 
 we least expect him, and then, Providence is power- 
 ful and will watch over you ! But you must not 
 despair, and, least of all, talk about dying. Por 
 shame child ! Get rid of all such foolish ideas, and 
 remember that you will in due time be a mother, 
 and that, therefore, your existence is not your own 
 any longer. 
 
 Caroline was deeply moved by Marianne's words, 
 -for her old nurse had found the best means to cheer 
 

 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 71 
 
 her drooping spirits, but she herself did not at all 
 share the hopes with which she tried to inspire her, 
 and as she thought of her interview with Arthur, 
 she almost cursed the man who had led her dear 
 child astray. 
 
 " To seduce such a pure and innocent girl ! " she 
 said to herself ; " to make her believe that he loved 
 her and do all he could to make her return his affec- 
 tion — to turn her head b y his vows till he made her 
 forget her duty ! A nice occupation for these fine 
 popinjays, who, unhappily are just rich enough not 
 to be obliged to do anything. Ah well ! it is all verv 
 nice ! If he is what they call a young man who has 
 been well brought up, I wonder what one who has 
 been badly brought up would be like ? " Sometimes 
 again, she would say to herself again : J' Perhaps he 
 was drunk, and did not think of what he was sayino- 
 to me ! " But reflection destroyed this last hope, 
 for if he had spoken to her under the influence of 
 drink he would have come the next day when he was 
 himself again, and recalled his words. Day after 
 day passed by without their hearing any thin & of 
 him. Caroline could not, however, believe that he 
 had deserted her ; she invented a thousand reasons 
 which might have kept him away from Paris. At 
 one time she said to herself : "At Arthur's age 
 young men have not much method ; they run into 
 debt, and perhaps that is the reason why he has been 
 obliged to go away, or some accident has delayed 
 him . . he may be, and oh ! suppose that he 
 were to die far from me ! " 
 
 The girl naturally hazarded all these conjectures 
 rather than think Arthur could be inconstant, be- 
 cause her own love was still the same as it had been 
 on that day when she went to the little wood — on 
 that fatal morning. She was very anxious to ques- 
 tion the old captain, and so one evening, when her 
 father had gone to see a neighbour, Caroline went 
 
72 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 
 
 and sat down by the old soldier, and, trying to hide 
 her anxiety, she said: "It is a long time since we 
 have seen your nephew, captain ? ". . ." That is true,, 
 mademoiselle."... She waited, hoping in vain that he- 
 would say something more, but seeing that the old 
 soldier was silent, she went on : "But I fancy that 
 I heard him say once that he was going to leave 
 Paris for sometime."..." That is quite possible, but 
 I might not know it, even if he were a thousand 
 miles away."..." What a man you are!" Caroline- 
 said to herself, looking at Marianne, who was listen- 
 ing" to the conversation in fear and trembling; "I 
 suppose we cannot ex}3ect to learn anything from 
 him ?" The old servant inwardly congratulated her- 
 self on the captain's peculiarities. 
 
 The winter was drawing to a close, for it was the 
 beginning of March, and for nearly seven months the 
 girl had been obliged to conceal the consequences of 
 her fault. Thanks to Marianne's precautions, and 
 to her way of dressing herself, Caroline had up to 
 that time been able to deceive her father's eyes, 
 which were more observant than most men's are in 
 such matters ; but every day might bring about the 
 discovery of her frailty, and this the girl felt.. 
 Marianne trembled also, and both were seeking to 
 find some means to avoid a terrible catastrophe,, 
 when, one morning, after kissing his daughter as 
 usual, Monsieur de Melleval said to her : 
 
 " My dear, I have something to tell you, of which 
 I had no idea yesterday." Caroline trembled, but 
 bnt he went on : " Yes, my dear, I must leave you 
 for some time. You have heard me mention that 
 property which I have just inherited near Bordeaux, 
 and which I mean to sell as soon as possible, for I 
 should never go and live there. I gave instructions 
 to an agent to have all the necessary repairs carried 
 out, so as to make it more saleable, but it appears 
 that that gentleman has carried out my instructions 
 
A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 
 
 73 
 
 very badly. A lawyer has written to me to say that 
 my presence there is absolutely necessary, and so I 
 must go there. I shall not take you with me ; in 
 the first place, because for some time you have been 
 complaining of not feeling well ; and then, I must 
 confess that I do not care to travel with a woman. 
 You will, therefore, remain here with Marianne, the 
 cook, and the gardener. I am quite easy about you, 
 as everything is quite qniet in the neighbourhood. 
 I have no time to lose, as I see from this letter ; I 
 am going to Paris this very morning, and I shall 
 start for Bordeaux to-night, if possible." 
 
 Under any other circumstances, Caroline would 
 have been grieved at being separated from her 
 father for any length of time, but at that moment 
 it seemed to her as if heaven itself had brought 
 about this event, which would enable her to conceal 
 her shame from him. She did not, therefore, feel 
 that amount of grief which the colonel feared that 
 he should cause her, but he could not take any 
 notice of it just then, because another person en- 
 gaged his attention. From the moment that 
 Monsieur de Melleval had announced that he was 
 about to go to Bordeaux, the captain had seemed 
 thunderstruck, and kept a pinch of snuff, which he 
 had been about to convey to his nose, between his 
 thumb and first finger. But when the colonel had 
 said to his daughter that he should leave Marianne, 
 a, servant, and the gardener with her, the old sol- 
 dier had looked uneasily at his superior, as if to say : 
 " Well, and what is to become of me ? You do not 
 mention me. Am I to go?" But Monsieur de 
 Melleval, who probably guessed the secret thoughts 
 of his old companion-in-arms, looked at him with a 
 smile for a few moments, and then said to him : 
 
 " Well captain, you sit there very quietly ! Have 
 you nothing to do? You heard what I have just 
 said to my daughter?"..." Yes, colonel," replied the 
 
74 A FORTUNATE CHANCE. 
 
 old soldier, with a slight frown ; "as you are goino-, 
 it would not be proper for me to stop here during 
 jour absence, and so I shall go to Paris till your re- 
 turn."..." ISTo, my old comrade, that is not at all 
 what I meant ; you must get ready to go with me to 
 Bordeaux."..." What, colonel! do you really intend 
 to do me the honour of taking me with you ? " said 
 
 the captain, with a beaming countenance "I am 
 
 glad to take you, for when I am away from my 
 daughter I must at least have some friend with me r 
 with whom I can chat at night whilst I smoke my 
 cigar. Don't you think, Caroline, that I am right 
 to take Gervillier with me? "..."Oh! yes father," 
 Caroline exclaimed ; " at least you will not be alone, 
 and I shall feel much easier."..." Ah ! colonel, how 
 delighted I am ! By George if . . " The old 
 soldier stopped suddenly, in confusion at having 
 sworn before Mademoiselle de Melleval; then raising 
 the back of his hand to his forehead, he made a half 
 iyurn on his heels, and went out, exclaiming : " I 
 shall go and pack up." 
 
 Iu two hours the colonel, who had retained the 
 habit of doing immediately all that he intended to 
 do, said good-bye to his daughter, whilst the captain 
 stood behind him and respectfully saluted her. 
 
 "Do you think you will be gone a long time, 
 father?" Caroline said, affectionately pressing his 
 hand...." My dear child, you may guess that the re- 
 pairs and alterations will not be finished as quickly 
 as I should wish, and, if I could sell the property, I 
 would rather remain away a few weeks longe, so as 
 to have the business altogether done with. But you 
 may be sure that I shall return as soon as ever I can ; 
 you must not expect to see me for six weeks or more." 
 
 " Oh ! " Marianne said to herself ; "I only hope 
 that he may not return too soon." 
 
A SON. 75 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII* 
 
 A SON". 
 
 When Colonel de Melleval had gone, they no longer 
 were in that state of terror, for they were alone now 
 and need fear no curious look. The cook was a 
 great, fat girl, who only went into the rooms at 
 dinner time ; and the gardener was an old peasant, 
 who saw nothing but his flowers, looked at nothing- 
 hut his trees, and admired nothing but what he him- 
 self had planted. As for the neighbours, she would 
 not go to see them, and if any called they would al- 
 ways be told that she was oat or was not well. In 
 a word, it was quite settled that no one should be 
 allowed to come near Caroline, and, during the 
 colonel's absence, such an order would appear quite 
 natural. Marianne never left her dear child ; she 
 surrounded her with precautions, and spoke to *her 
 of her child when she saw that she had been weep- 
 ing, and often said to her : 
 
 " You see that God has taken pity on you, be- 
 cause he has allowed this business which has ob- 
 liged your father to go away. Then, do not lose 
 courage at the very moment when you are relieved 
 of all anxiety."..." But I shall not be able to keep 
 my child with me ! Oh ! Marianne, Iioav sad ! for I 
 feel that I shall love it so dearly ! "..."Of course, 
 you will not be able to keep it here. That would be 
 a nice idea! But do not worry yourself, for I have 
 thought of everything. I shall take the dear little 
 creature to Champrozay, and I have already engaged 
 a wet nurse, a very resj)ectable, clean, healthy 
 peasant woman, Oh ! the child will be well fed and 
 looked after, 1 will guarantee ! And then, besides, 
 I shall be able to go and see it constantly."..." But 
 
76 A SON. . 
 
 what sliall you say to the woman, Marianne, if she 
 asks you who are the child's parents ?"..." Don't 
 trouble yourself about that ! I have told her that I 
 have a neice in Paris who has been seduced, that I 
 am going to adopt her child and be responsible for 
 everything. That was all she cared about, for with 
 peasants if you give them money that is all they re- 
 quire, and then, they will bow at every word you 
 say."..." But surely, Marianne, I shall also be able 
 to go and see my child frequently ? "..."Yes, yes, 
 we will manage all that; it is a nice walk from 
 here to Champrozay ! ". . ." Dear child ! if your father 
 abandons you, at least you shall never want a 
 mother's love."... "My Arthur will come back to me 
 . he dees not know my condition, otherwise I 
 am sure he would not have gone awav. Arthur can- 
 not have forgotten me ; he could never be false to 
 all his vows. "...Marianne looked down, and replied : 
 " Oh ! mademoiselle, I do not know what to say, for 
 men, you see, are very tricky." And the good 
 woman said to herself : " Poor child, it is a pity that 
 she still believes in her seducer's love ; for he has 
 abandoned her, and thinks no more of her. Fancy, 
 being so handsome and so unfeeling! Oh! trust 
 good-looking young men ! And yet, if the ugly ones 
 are not so inconstant, it is only because they find 
 fewer women to listen to them." 
 
 Caroline soon had a letter from her father ; she 
 had been expecting it impatiently, to learn whether 
 he talked of returning. However, Monsieur de 
 Melleval told his daughter she must be patient, for 
 lie had found his property in a very bad condition, 
 and he thought he should have a great deal of worry 
 and annoyance before he could think of returning. 
 Marianne almost jumped for joy when she heard 
 this, whilst Caroline could hardly restrain her tears 
 and cried : " Oh ! nurse, one must be very culpable 
 when one can rejoice at a father's absence ! " 
 
a son. 77 
 
 The time was approaching when Caroline was to 
 (bring into the world a child, whose birth was to re- 
 main a secret. For some days she had not left her 
 room, and a slight indisposition had served as the 
 pretext; the weather was warm and fine. April 
 brought the return of spring, and those who lived in 
 the country were beginning to have the full enjoy- 
 ment of their gardens. Another letter from the 
 colonel had kept his daughter and Marianne free 
 from anxiety ; he did not think it likely that he 
 should be back before the end of May, and long be- 
 fore that Caroline ought to be in a condition to ap- 
 pear before her father, so that there was nothing to 
 alarm them, when one day a handsome cabriolet 
 drew up before the colonel's house. At that moment 
 Caroline was in her room alone, as Marianne had 
 just gone down into the garden. The girl heard 
 the rattling of the wheels, and was alarmed to hear 
 that their noise stopped before their house, so she 
 hastily got up from the easy chair, in which she had 
 been sitting, and went to the window. A young 
 man got out slowly, but she could not see his face, 
 because he went into the honse just as she looked 
 out. As she had only one thought, one hope, she 
 felt certain that it must be Arthur, and, hastily 
 leaving her room, she hurried to the top of the 
 stairs to meet him. Just as she got there, the per- 
 son who was coming up reached the landing, and 
 immediately the colonel's daughter dropped into a 
 chair which was close to her, and murnmred : " Good 
 heavens, it is not him ! " 
 
 The young man, whom she had at first taken for 
 the captain's nephew, was about the same age and 
 h ight, but though it was possible, only looking at 
 his back, to mistake the one for the other, nobody 
 could find the least likeness between them on seeing 
 his face. The new arrival's hair was much lighter 
 iUan Arthur's ; his face was pale and serious, and 
 
78 A SON. 
 
 his strongly-niarked features and his eyes had a, 
 pleasant look, and his voice at times assumed a 
 gentle expression, which inspired confidence. Caroline 
 did not notice anything of all this ; it was not Arthur, 
 and consequently it was merely a stranger, whose 
 presence at that moment might cause her the greatest 
 embarrassment, so she remained sitting, and assumed 
 a position which was best calculated to conceal her 
 condition. The young man came into the room, 
 and said with a bow : 
 
 " Have I the honour of speaking to Mademoiselle 
 de Melleval? "..." Yes, monsieur," she replied, with 
 a slight inclination of the head, and secretly praying 
 to heaven to send Marianne to help her out of her 
 difficuly...." Mademoiselle, I have perhaps no right 
 to introduce myself to you thus, but my name is 
 Charles Daverny. I am the son of an old friend of 
 your father's, and I think that perhaps my name 
 is not altogether unknown to you. "..."I have 
 heard my father speak of Major Daverny, monsieur," 
 Caroline said, taking up a large book and putting it 
 on her knees ; " who I believe went to live at Lyons, 
 and died there a year ago."..." And since then 
 Lvons has become unbearable to me, so I made up 
 my mind to come and live in Paris, and I have been 
 there now for six weeks. My father spoke to me so 
 frequently of his friend Colonel de Melleval, that I 
 have for a long time wished to make his acquaint- 
 ance. I knew that he was living at Draveil, and so 
 I came, looking forward to the pleasure of seeing 
 someone who had been a friend of my father."..." I 
 am sorry that you will be disappointed to-day, for 
 my father is away from home."... "Tour gardener 
 told me so when I arrived, but I hoped that I might 
 be allowed to pay my respects to his daughter. I 
 was told that you had not been well for some time, 
 and that perhaps I might not be able to see you, but 
 1 came in on the chance . • "..."And you see r 
 
A SON. 
 
 79- 
 
 
 monsieur, that you were correctly informed," Ma- 
 rianne said, who had come in hastily and threw a 
 large shawl over Caroline, m which she wrapped her 
 up, & saying : " Mademoiselle, why have you left your 
 room, unwell as you are? It is really foolish . .- 
 If I had been here it would not have happened, and 
 certainly the gardener knew . . for I had told: 
 him that mademoiselle was not fit to see anyone."... 
 "It is all my fault," Daverny said, with a slight 
 bow to Caroline. " Excuse me for having broken in 
 upon your solitude ; my desire to make your acquaint- 
 ance must be my excuse . . but I will leave you,' 
 "..."You must excuse me, monsieur, for re- 
 ceiving you thus, and for not being able to ask yoiii 
 to stay, because for some time past I have been very 
 far from well."..." Airy one can see that you are ill ! ' 3 
 Marianne said, " and you need not tell people that. 
 The gentleman cannot be vexed at what is not your 
 fault?"... diaries Daverny's glance had rested on 
 Caroline, and be seemed to be looking at her atten- 
 tively, whilst Marianne had been speaking, but 
 suddenly, thinking that he saw her blush, he went 
 back a little, and said: "Adieu, mademoiselle;, 
 another time, when your father has returned,^ I will 
 come again. Do you expect him back soon ?"..."' In 
 about a month, I think.". . ." Oh ! no ; in two months 
 at the soonest! " Marianne said hastily. " There is 
 a lot of building to be done, and who ever knows 
 when they will get rid of the builders? Workmen. 
 always hang about so long, and Monsieur de Melle- 
 val has written to say that he shall not return till 
 everything is finished." 
 
 Whilst Marianne was speaking he looked at 
 Caroline, but, when she raised her eyes to him, he 
 hastily looked away, as if he feared that he was 
 annoying her. When the servant had done^ speak- 
 ing, the young man bowed to Caroline and said : 
 "Adieu, mademoiselle . . another time, when: 
 
SO A SOX. 
 
 your father is at home, I shall have the honour of 
 seeing you again ; I hope that by that time your 
 health will be completely restored. 5 '..." Oh ! yes," 
 .Marianne said, when she saw that Caroline was 
 hesitating. " She will get better in the spring, when 
 the fine weather comes . . The doctor said that 
 it was nothing dangerous ; she only wants rest and 
 •quietness." 
 
 Charles Daverny did not seem to hear Marianne ; 
 he was looking at Mademoiselle de Melleval's pale, 
 charming face, and, as she remained silent, with 
 another bow, he turned to leave the room. Caroline, 
 from an instinct of politeness, was going to rise, but 
 a look from Marianne checked her, and so she fell 
 back into her chair, and said : 
 
 " Excuse me, monsieur, if I do not go to the door 
 with you, but just now I am not very strong . . " 
 ..."Oh! mademoiselle, you do not owe me any ex- 
 cuse ; I, on the contrary, must again beg you to 
 pardon me for the indiscretion of which I have been 
 guilty, and to believe that I shall feel the greatest 
 pleasure in coming to pay my respects to you another 
 time." He then left the room, and in a few moments 
 they heard him drive off towards Paris. 
 
 "At last he has gone, luckily," Marianne ex- 
 claimed. " What were you thinking of in coming 
 here to meet him? " ..." Oh! Marianne, when I 
 heard the carriage stop in front of the house, I went 
 to the window just as a young man was coming in, 
 and, from his height and make, I thought it was 
 Arthur, and I was so transported with joy that I 
 ran to meet him, and I cnly recognised my mistake 
 when I opened the door into the hall. And then ! 
 If you only knew how unhappy I felt ; I was inclined 
 to cry, and so I sat down on the first chair near me." 
 ..."Poor child ! And that fool of a gardener to let 
 him in, in spite of my prohibition !"..." Oh ! Ma- 
 rianne, if only he did not remark . . if only he 
 
A SON. 
 
 81 
 
 -did not notice my condition , . "..."Oh! no; 
 -yon have a large blonse on, and were sitting down; 
 but, I declare I will not leave yon again for a minnte 
 until the fatal moment, and I will take good care 
 that' no one comes near yon ! " 
 
 Marianne had scarcely nttered those words, when 
 a confused noise of voices was heard in the yard, 
 and, on looking ont of the window, she exclaimed : 
 " Why, it is the whole Troussard family ! Go to 
 yonr room as qnickly as possible, and get into bed ; 
 the rest is my affair. Go away, and don't be afraid." 
 Caroline made haste to her room ; luckily, she had 
 not got to go near the staircase, for already they 
 were all coming up, and one heard madame talking, 
 mademoiselle singing, and the children shouting, 
 and soon they were in the room, where Marianne 
 was waiting to receive them. 
 
 " Good day, Marianne," Madame Troussard said, 
 coming in with two of her boys, whilst the third 
 was walking on her dress ; " here we all are ; we 
 have chosen a fine day for coming ; it is rather cold, 
 but that does not matter, it is healthy. Alphonse, 
 you are treading on my feet. We have been wish- 
 ing to spend the day here for a long time, and at 
 the same time to give a look at our own house — to 
 open the windows and air it a little . . "..."And 
 to look after the bottles," Monsieur Troussard said. 
 "I found five of them broken."..." But we are al- 
 ways so much engaged, that we can never find a 
 moment. Therese's singing has improved wonder- 
 fully, and you shall hear her Marianne, and my 
 little boys go to school, and their master says they 
 are so clever; perhaps they will get prizes next year. 
 .Dear little fellows, one must amuse them a little, 
 and so we started early ; we have already been here 
 :an hour, for we have been to our house to see that 
 all was safe."..." Yes, I found my straw hat gnawed 
 by the rats," Mademoiselle Therese said; ''that is 
 
82 a sos-. 
 
 very pleasant. Just leave any tiling in the country l 9y 
 ..."I will have a cap made out of it for one of your 
 brothers, and I will give you my big one. Fanfan, 
 don't be always picking your nose; you will mate it 
 as big as a turnip. They learn those nasty tricks- 
 at school, and they make faces and look quite ugly ; 
 the' masters are not strict enough in such matters. 
 Are they all well here ? " 
 
 Marianne had allowed Madame Troussard to run 
 on without interrupting her, for she was not sorry 
 to give Caroline time to get into bed ; but, when she 
 stopped to take breath, Marianne said : 
 
 " You do not know, madame, that the colonel has 
 gone to Bordeaux, and that he will not be back 
 directly ?"..." Oh ! yes 3 we knew that, we were told 
 it just now ; but it does not matter, so we came on, 
 for we thought that Miss Caroline could entertain us 
 just as well as her father, and that she would be 
 very glad to see us, dear child, for she must be very 
 lonely here, all by herself ! "..."I will sing her some 
 new songs," Therese said; "I have brought a great 
 roll of music, for we shall sleep here, shall we not. 
 mamma? "..." That was my intention, for I know 
 that the colonel has several spare rooms, and that it 
 will not put him out at all, whilst at our house there 
 is no linen, no bedclothes. When one spends the 
 winter in Paris, it is not worth while to leave one's 
 linen in the country, "..."For the rats to eat, like 
 they did Therese's straw hat," said Monsieur Trous- 
 sard...." Come, Monsieur Troussard, are you going 
 to make a fuss ever that wretched straw hat? I be- 
 lieve it cost fifteen pence !"..." At any rate, it was 
 quite good, and would have lasted for another three 
 summers ! " 
 
 Marianne was not listening to the Troussards. for 
 when she heard that they intended to sleep there, 
 she was so thunderstruck that she scarcely knew 
 
a sox. 83 
 
 'Ilow to collect herself. However, profiting by a 
 moment when their mother was blowing the three 
 little boys' noses, she said : 
 
 " But, madame . . don't you know . . did 
 not the gardener tell you that Mademoiselle Caroline 
 has been ill for several days? "..." Oh ! yes, he told 
 us," Mademoiselle Therese replied ; " and he would 
 scarcely let us in."..." Yes," Madame Troussard 
 went on, " but we observed to him that we were friends 
 and neighbours, and that we bad come without cere- 
 mony to take up our quarters here for a day or two ; 
 it all depends upon the weather to-morrow, and poor 
 Caroline will be very glad of company. What is the 
 matter with her? A cold, slight inflammation of 
 the chest? Well, we will not allow her to talk, so 
 let us go and see the dear child . . "..."One 
 moment, if you please," Marianne said, standing in 
 front of them ; " my young mistress is more seriously 
 ill than you think, and very likely at this moment 
 she is asleep, so I must go and see before letting 
 yon into her room.". . ." Very well, Marianne ; mean- 
 while we will take off our bonnets and shawls, and 
 then you can show us our rooms, and can give us 
 something to eat before dinner, for my little boys are 
 hungry."..." Yes, we want some jam . . "... 
 " Give them some jam, Marianne ; they are not at all 
 dainty. As for ourselves, a little bit of pie, some 
 poultry, the smallest thing, for we will reserve our- 
 selves for dinner."..." Yes ! I shall be very glad of 
 some dinner," Monsieur Troussard said ; " and I am 
 very fond of the colonel's small wines ! "..." Oh ! I 
 should like to see you take up your quarters here ! " 
 Marianne said to herself, leaving them where they 
 were, " We will see whether I shall not find means 
 of getting rid of you ! " 
 
 Marianne found Caroline in bed, so that she could 
 meet any looks quite fearlessly. " Well ? " she said, 
 looking at the old nurse...." Oh ! thev want to come 
 
84 a son. 
 
 and see yon for a minute ; there would be no great 
 harm in that, but they wish to dine and sleep here, 
 and perhaps stay for two or three days, if it keeps 
 fine ! ". . ." Oh ! Marianne, how unfortunate we are ! 
 And suppose that . . the moment arrived during 
 their stay here ! I do not know whether all these 
 events have upset me, but I think I feel some symp- 
 toms . . I am afraid! . . "..." Oh ! heavens ! 
 then everthing would be lost. Well, it shall never 
 be said that these people stayed here in spite of us. 
 Wait a moment, mademoiselle, I have an idea. 
 Complain of a violent headache, and of itching all 
 over.". . ." What is your idea ?"..." You will see. I 
 hear them ! Don't put the tip of your nose outside 
 you bed clothes." 
 
 Marianne ran towards the Troussards, who were 
 coming towards her room...." Well,"' said Madame 
 Troussard, "may we come in ?"..." She is not 
 asleep and will be very glad to see you ! " The 
 whole family went in ; she was in bed, with the cur- 
 tains closely drawn, so that she could scarcely be 
 seen. However, Therese and her mother went up 
 to the bed, whilst Monsieur Troussard sat down in 
 an easy chair near the fire, and the two boys began 
 to roll on the carpet and scramble on to the 
 furniture. 
 
 " Well, my dear Caroline, so you are ill? " Madame 
 Troussard said, sitting down by the bed. " We 
 were told of it as soon as we arrived here ; we came 
 intending to spend a few days with you. But it is all 
 the same; here we are, and we will keep you company 
 and cheer you up a bit ! "..." We will drink to your 
 recovery, mademoiselle," Monsieur Troussard said, 
 
 poking the fire " I will sing you some new songs, 
 
 which are all the rage," Therese went on, leaning 
 over her ; " I am taking lessons from an Italian at 
 present, a Signer Adagelli ! . . "..."I do not 
 know whether this poor child is able to understand 
 
a. sor 85- 
 
 you ! " Marianne said, shaking her head.. . ." Ah ! by 
 the by, yes, that is true, you are ill, my dear," 
 Madame Troussard went on ; " where is the pain ? 
 What is the matter with you!"... "My head is 
 very bad," Caroline replied in a feeble voice ; " and 
 then I itch all over."..." That is very strange!' 
 Could not your doctor tell you what it is ? ". . ." Yes,. 
 certainly ; he told us positively this morning that it 
 was the smallpox," Marianne replied. "Of course,, 
 my young lady is rather frightened, but still, with 
 i good doctor and gqod nursing, one rarely dies of it,, 
 and especially if one is kept very warm . . "... 
 ct What ! What is the matter with her? " Madame 
 Troussard asked very uneasily...." Why, madame, 
 she has got the smallpox." ..." The smallpox ! " 
 Therese said, making one jump to the other side of 
 the room.. . ." Were you never vaccinated ? " Monsieur 
 Troussard asked...." It appears not," Marianne re- 
 plied, " and then, it is said, people catch it even in 
 spite of that. As for me, 1 have had it once! "... 
 "My dear Caroline," Madame Troussard said, push- 
 ing her boys towards the door; "as you have the 
 smallpox, we will not stay in your house any longer 
 . . In the first place, we should only be in the 
 way, and then . . I must confess that I am very 
 much afraid of it ; I am not sure that I ever had it 
 . . and then, it would be very imprudent for 
 my children . . they have been vaccinated, but 
 as one often has it twice . . "..."Oh, yes; let us 
 go mamma ! " Therese, who was already in another 
 room, exclaimed ; " let us go, for I have no wish to 
 become ugly and pitted by it . . people would 
 think that I no longer sang well . . Good-bye,. 
 Caroline ; we shall see you again next summer."... 
 " Good-bye, my dear," Madame Troussard said, push- 
 ing her three boys ont of the room so hurriedly that 
 two of them stumbled and fell on their noses; "we- 
 leave you in good hands ; take great care of yourself,. 
 
86 a son. 
 
 and keep yourself warm . . Now, Monsieur Trous- 
 sard, are you coming ? Why are you stopping be- 
 hind like that? You ought to be in the yard by 
 this time." 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye they had all left 
 'Caroline's room, taken their hats, bonnets, and 
 shawls, and gone downstairs, so that three minutes 
 later nothing remained in the colonel's house to re- 
 mind them of the rapid passage of the Troussard 
 family. As soon as they were gone, Marianne be- 
 gan to laugh at the success of her trick, but Caroline 
 asked what they should do if they mentioned the 
 matter to her father. 
 
 " Why, mademoiselle, I shall tell him that you 
 did not care to receive the whole Troussard family 
 during his absence, and that I thought of that means 
 for getting rid of them, and I am sure that the 
 colonel will be the lirst to laugh at my idea, but I 
 will speak to the gardener in case of fresh accidents." 
 
 The remainder of the day passed without any- 
 thing happening, but, towards evening, Caroline, 
 felt fresh pains ; Marianne did not leave her, and 
 sustained her courage. Towards midnight, the 
 colonel's daughter gave birth to a son. It would be 
 difficult to depict the joy of the young mother when 
 she heard the first cry of her child ; as for Marianne, 
 who had to act in the two-fold capacity of mid-wife 
 and nurse, she thanked heaven that Caroline had 
 not been delivered earlier, for at twelve o'clock at 
 night the gardener and his wife were sound asleep, 
 and there was no fear of the cries of the newly-born 
 i infant reaching their ears. 
 
 " Providence has protected us hitherto," Ma- 
 ; rianne said ; " kiss your son, my child ; take him in 
 your arms, and then go to sleep, and depend upon 
 me for everything else."..." But, Marianne, you will 
 take great care of my child ; shall you know exactly 
 vehat to do with him? "..."Don't be alarmed • * 
 
a son. 87 
 
 Dear little creature, of course you love him as much 
 •^as I love you, and that is saying a good deal ! To- 
 morrow I must wrapp him up well and take him to 
 his wet nurse before it is broad daylight, for she is 
 -expecting him, and will be delighted to have him." 
 ..."To-morrow! are you going to take my child 
 away as soon as that? "..."My dear child, do you 
 wish to lose all the fruits of our trouble? To- 
 morrow, as soon as anybody is about, a single cry of 
 the child might betray us! . . and then . 
 think of your father !"..." My father! Yes, you 
 are right, Marianne ; take my son away before it is 
 light, but, as soon as I can go out, you and I shall 
 go and see the dear child."..." Of course, we shall 
 both of us go and see him, for you know that it is 
 quite near here, and, whilst your father is away, we 
 can go as often as you like."..." Every day, Ma- 
 rianne, I shall go and see him every day . . Just 
 see how pretty he is . . don't you think he will 
 be like his father ? "..."In a year's time we shall be 
 able to tell, but be quiet and go to sleep, otherwise 
 you will be a long time before you get well, and then 
 we shall not be able to go."..." Oh! you are right, 
 Marianne, but put my child close to me, so that I 
 may see him, and feel him near me, even whilst I am 
 asleep." 
 
 Marianne put the child close to his mother, who 
 did not tire of looking at him, kissing and caressing 
 him. After a short time, however, nature gained 
 the upper hand; Caroline's eyes closed, and she 
 went to sleep with her lips on the child's forehead. 
 Marianne looked at this picture with delight. Three 
 hours passed, during which the faithful servant did 
 not close her eyes, so taken up was she with those 
 two beings who were so dear to her and whose 
 slightest movements she watched. At last, towards 
 four o'clock in the morning, Maria an e, taking ad- 
 vantage of Caroline's profound sleep, gently took the 
 
• 
 
 88 HIDDEN HAPPINESS 
 
 child from her side, and it did not utter a sound £ 
 one might almost have said that it already respected 
 its mother's slumbers. The kind woman took it on 
 her knees and swathed it up carefully, and then 
 threw a large pelisse over her shoulders, and thus 
 concealed the child which she held in her arms. 
 
 Marianne walked very carefully, in order not to 
 awake anyone, so that she might get out of the 
 house without being heard. She went gently 
 through the corridors, and down the stairs on tiptoe 
 — just as Caroline used to do when she went to meet 
 Arthur in the plantation. 
 
 Poor children ! too often love intrigues are carried 
 on stealthily, and when the inevitable result comes, . 
 it has also to be as stealthily concealed ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HIDDEN HAPPINESS THE COLONEL'S RETURN. 
 
 On opening her eyes, Caroline's first movement- 
 was to turn over and kiss her child, but her lips did 
 not encounter that tiny new-born face ; she stretched 
 out her arms and half raised herself in bed ; it was 
 broad daylight, and she saw that her son had gone V. 
 "Already!" Caroline said, with a sigh. "Unkind 
 Marianne, why did she take him away without wak- 
 ing me ? How sorry I am that I slept so long ! " ' 
 The young mother nearly wept with grief at not 
 having* said good-bye to her son, for she was little 
 more than a child herself. However, she grew calm 
 on reflexion, and waited anxiously for Marianne's 
 return. 
 
THE COLONEL'S RETURN. 89' 
 
 She came back at last quite out of breath, but de- 
 lighted to think that her young mistress was at 
 length secure from her father's anger, for she had 
 told the wet nurse that the child was her grandson, 
 so that no one could guess that it was Mademoiselle 
 de Melleval's son. 
 
 " All is going on quite well ! " Marianne said, 
 hastening to Caroline's bedside ; " I got out of the 
 house here before anyone was awake, and, on the 
 way, I only met peasants, who did not know me. 
 I arrived at Chamrozay with the darling treasure, 
 who was as good as a little angel all the way, and 
 I gave him to his nurse, who is quite proud of 
 having such a pretty child."..." She. will take great 
 care of him, Marianne ?"..." What a question! 
 Isn't it her interest to do so? And then, I shall 
 often go and see him."..." And I also, I hope."... 
 " Yes, as soon as you are able to walk so far ; but if 
 you want to get well quickly, you must do as I tell 
 you, be sensible and not worry yourself."..." Yes, 
 yes, nurse; you shall have no cause for complaint. 
 You will go and see baby again to-morrow?"... 
 " Yes, mademoiselle.". . ." My cLild ! . . Oh ! Ma- 
 rianne . . if you only knew what I feel when I 
 pronounce that word, how proud and happy I am! 
 I should like to be able to say to everyone : 'I have 
 a son — a beautiful baby !' "..."Yes, it would be 
 very nice to go and tell everybody that." ... "Of 
 course, I know I cannot do it, but I am only telling 
 you what I feel ; I can tell you, at any rate, what I 
 think. But oh ! I did not think of it in my first 
 joy . . I suppose you gave him a name ? You 
 told his nurse that he was to be called Arthur like 
 his father? "..."No, mademoiselle," Marianne re~ 
 plied, shaking her head ; "I did not give that name 
 to the nurse.". . ." Why Marianne ?"..." Mademois- 
 elle, it is no use to think of the future . . later, 
 when the child is three or four years old . . if 
 
DO HIDDEN HAPPINESS 
 
 we can contrive means to have liini here, the name of 
 Arthur would give rise to surmises and make your 
 father suspicious ; it would be much better to give 
 the child another name."..." But, don't you think 
 that long before that my child's father will have 
 made his fault good by marrying me ? " Caroline 
 asked sadly "I do not know, mademoiselle, al- 
 though I begin to think that your seducer . • 
 Well ! I do not wish to say anthing bad of him, but 
 if I had to choose a name for your boy I should 
 call him Paul."..." Paul ! " Caroline said, making a 
 slight grimace; "Paul is not nearly so pretty as 
 Arthur !"..." Oh ! yes it is, mademoiselle; you will 
 get used to it, and be very fond of the name."... 
 " Of course I shall if it is my boy's name. Oh ! Ma- 
 rianne, when shall I be able to go to Champrozay ? 
 How I wish I was a week older, so as to be able to 
 go and see my child, or a year even, for then he 
 would be so much stronger, and would begin to 
 smile when I caressed him ! Oh ! I wish he were al- 
 ready two or three years old, for he would be able to 
 walk and talk to me, and, when he is bigger, he shall 
 give his arm."..." Goodness me, child! A little 
 more and you will be wishing to be old yourself, so 
 that you might see your son quite grown up. Be 
 quite easy on that score, the time will pass quickly 
 enough ! If some folks could do as they wished, 
 they would stride over months and years in an in- 
 stant ! Be still and go to sleep ; take care of your- 
 self, and then in a few days we will go to Champ- 
 rozay." 
 
 Caroline felt that she must do as she was told, so 
 that she might all the sooner be fit to go and see her 
 child, so she imposed silence on her own impatience, 
 and laid her head on the pillow, murmuring: " Paul ! 
 
 . . it is a pity, but since it is his name I must 
 get to like it." The next day Marianne went to 
 Champrozay as soon as it was light, so that she 
 
THE COLONEL'S RETURN. 91 
 
 might be back when Caroline woke, who was already 
 impatiently waiting for news of her child. 
 
 " Everything is going on as well as possible," 
 Marianne said, coming into the room of her youno- 
 mistress ; " he is a splendid child, and as well as he 
 possibly can be ! "..." Oh ! nurse, how happy I am ! 
 But, tell me, do you think he has grown at all since 
 yesterday? Does he seem happy?"..." Well, do 
 you really think that he is already a big boy and 
 able to walk alone? Make your mind quite easy, all 
 that will come in time."..." When I am able to go 
 and see him I shall have more patience, but you will 
 go and see him again to-morrow morning, will you 
 not, Marianne? "..."Yes, mademoiselle; I will go 
 every day until you can go out yourself. "...Caroline 
 gave her nurse her hand, and said affectionately: 
 " I give you a great deal of trouble, I know ; I am 
 very exacting! . . "...Marianne would not let 
 her finish her sentence ; she took Caroline's hand be- 
 tween both hers and said : " Trouble ! Well, I 
 should like to know ! What am I here for except 
 for you?" 
 
 At the end of a few days, Caroline was able to 
 get up, and a few days later to go downstairs into 
 the garden, leaning on her nurse's arm. Already 
 she was anxious to go to Champrozay, but Marianne 
 said to her firmly : 
 
 " Send me to Champrozay two or three times a 
 day if you like ; I am quite ready to go, for I am 
 quite strong enough, but I will never let you take 
 such a long walk, when- you can scarcely yet get 
 about at all, for I do not wish you to be obliged to 
 keep your room for ever so long in consequence." 
 
 Caroline did not get strong as quickly as she 
 could have wished, but at last, one morning Marianne 
 came to her with a radiant look, and said : 
 
 " I have found means for getting you to Champ- 
 rozay to-day." ..." Oh ! nurse, how delightful ! Have 
 
92 HIDDEN HAPPINESS 
 
 you found a conveyance?"..."]^), that would jolt 
 you, and do you no good, but I have found a donkey 
 — a strong, handsome donkey, that will carry you 
 and not throw you. I have been looking for one 
 for a long time, but donkeys are scarce in this neigh- 
 bourhood, and those who possess them don't care 
 about lending them, sol just bought this one."... 
 " That is capital, Marianne, but you ought to have 
 bought one for yourself also."..." No, my legs are 
 strong enough. But dress yourself very warmly, 
 and we will start directly, for I really believe that 
 unless you see the child soon you will get ill." 
 
 Caroline was ready directly, and, after Marianne 
 had made sure that she was wrapped up warmly, 
 they went downstairs. The donkey was in the yard, 
 ready saddled and bridled ; Caroline mounted, and 
 Marianne walked by her side carrying a basket of 
 provisions, and so they started off. They were 
 scarcely out of the village of Draveil, when they 
 turned to the right, and got into a pretty road with 
 a hedge of hazel and blackberry bushes on one side, 
 and on the other fields, slopes, clumps of trees, and 
 a wide expanse of country dotted with handsome 
 country houses ; that was the road to the little vil- 
 liage of Champrozay. It was the beginning of May, 
 and the leaves were still small and with but little 
 colour, but that fresh young verdure made the 
 country look very beautiful. Caroline was armed 
 with a switch, with which she kept her animal go- 
 ing, although it went very well already, so that poor 
 Marianne could scarcely follow the donkey, and kept 
 calling out to her mistress : 
 
 " Mademoiselle, if you go at that pace, I shall be 
 quite out of breath long before we get there ; you 
 are going much too fast, it is most unreasonable of 
 you; you will break his back and mine- also!"... 
 Then Caroline checked her courser for a few moments 
 and said : " I assure you, nurse, he would go on of 
 
THE COLOXEL S RETURN. 
 
 's ■R.FTTT-R.-N'- 93 
 
 liis own accord," and, immediately afterwards, a 
 How with the switch on the crupper again left Ma- 
 rianne far behind. Happily for her, they soon pre- 
 ceived the village of Champrozay, and then Caroline, 
 ■of her own accord, slackened her pace, for her emotion 
 was so great that her hand conld not hold the reins. 
 Marianne ran up to her and said : " What is the 
 matter, my dear child ? You have grown quite pale ; 
 do you feel ill? "..." No, Marianne, it is only joy at 
 the thought of seeing my child ; for even happiness 
 o-ives us pain occasionally."..." Come, he calm; if 
 The sight of the village overcomes you, what will it be 
 vdien you see your child ? " 
 
 Caroline did not say any more, but let Marianne 
 take her donkey's bridle, and at every moment she 
 was obliged to wipe away the tears which obscured 
 her sight. At length they arrived at a peasant's 
 cottage, and Marianne said: "This is it." Caroline 
 jumped off quickly and went into the yard; she 
 looked all round, hoping to see her child there. And, 
 in fact, a stout peasant woman was sitting on a stone 
 bench in the sun, with a child, which she was try- 
 ing to get to sleep, in her arms. " There he is," 
 Caroline exclaimed, and, running up to the woman, 
 she took the child and pressed it to her bosom." 
 
 The peasant woman was much astonished at the 
 girl's behaviour, but Marianne, who had just come 
 into the yard, went up to her immediately and said: 
 " Here we are nurse : I have brought a, lady to see 
 you."..."Js she the baby's mother?" the woman 
 asked, pointing to Caroline...." Oh ! no ; that is my 
 young mistress, and, as she was very fond of my 
 niece, who is her foster-sister, she has promised her 
 to look after the child." 
 
 In order to draw off her attention, Marianne took 
 a number of articles out of her bag for the baby, and 
 nice things to eat for the nurse's children. Country 
 people are very fond of presents, and already four 
 
94 HIDDEN HAPPINESS — ■ 
 
 little brats, the eldest not six years old, came runn- 
 ing up at their mother's call, and surrounded Ma- 
 rianne, who gave them cakes and sweets, during 
 which time Caroline, who was sitting on the stone 
 bench, held her child on her knees and never tired of 
 looking at him, and talked to him as if he could al- 
 ready understand her, He soon, however, began to 
 cry, and Marianne was obliged to take him and give 
 him to the peasant woman, who gave him thebreast r 
 when his cries immediately ceased. Just then, Ma- 
 rianne looked at Caroline, who turned away her head 
 to hide the great tears which stood in her eyes. 
 
 "Why! What is the matter? What are you 
 crying" for?'" Marianne said to her mistress, in a 
 
 low voice " Because I am jealous of this peasant 
 
 woman, who is nursing my child, whilst I, his 
 mother, cannot still his cries. Oh ! if I had been 
 able, I would have nursed him myself ! Nature has 
 given me the means, and yet I must yield this happi- 
 ness to somebody else ! "..."Well, it* that is the way 
 you show your sense, I declare we will not come to 
 Champrozay often."..." What do you mean, Ma- 
 rianne ? Don't you think it must give me pain to 
 see my child drawing in his life from the breast of 
 this woman? I also have what he requires; could 
 not I also have given him what, she does every time 
 we come here? "..."Why, you are talking like a 
 child ! Do you think one can be a wet nurse like 
 that — once in a while, by chance? Come 5 don't 
 cry; you do not want to get ill, or let your father 
 know this secret through your imprudence?" 
 
 As soon as her father at as mentioned to her, Caro- 
 line immediately became reasonable ; she would 
 have been grieved to have caused the colonel an}" 
 pain, for she loved her father almost as much as she 
 did her child. I say almost, because filial is never so 
 strong as maternal love. When the child did not 
 require the nurse any more, Caroline took him again. 
 
THE COLONEL'S RETURN. 95 
 
 and went into the cottage garden, whilst Marianne 
 went on talking with the peasant woman. Caroline 
 would have liked to have been far, far away, with 
 the treasure she was carrying in her arms ; it seemed: 
 to her as if the world were nothing more to her— 
 with her child, she would have been happy in a. 
 desert. She went, therefore, quite to the bottom of 
 the garden, and, sitting down there under the trees, - 
 she looked lovingly at her child, and said: "You 
 are my son ; I cannot say it aloud to all the world, 
 but I will tell it all to you in secret, even when you. 
 are grown up — when you are old enough to under- 
 stand me— I say to you : < You are my son ; ' for L 
 want to hear you call me mother." 
 
 Caroline had been at the bottom of the garden for 
 a long time, though it seemed to her that she had 
 only been there for a moment, but at last Marianne 
 came to fetch her, and said: "Mademoiselle, it is- 
 time to go."..." What! already? Why, we have 
 only just come."..." We have been here two hours 
 at least; if we remain any longer, people might 
 begin to talk, so let us be careful, if we want to • 
 come back often." 
 
 Caroline felt the prudence of this advice; she 
 kissed her child once more, and then, with a sigh, 
 gave him back into his nurse's arms, and, getting on 
 to her donkey, she took the road for Draveil. But 
 now Marianne had to beat the animal, for Caroline 
 forgot all about trying to make him goon. There 
 is no need to say that the visits to Champrozay re- 
 curred frequently, and every time Caroline took the 
 child away with her alone to enjoy the happiness 
 which she had come to seek, and also, perhaps, to 
 avoid seeing the nurse dandle her baby, take it on 
 her knees, and give it the breast. Such singular be- 
 haviour, the extreme love which she showed for the 
 child, might perhaps have given rise to some sus- 
 picion in the wet nurse's mind, but she was well 
 
"96 HIDDEN HAPPINESS THE COLONEL^ RETURN. 
 
 paid, she Lad many presents for herself and her chil- 
 dren, and thai was all she caied for ; it did not the 
 least matter to her what rights Caroline really had 
 over little Paul. 
 
 It was the. beginning of Jnne, and for some time 
 Caroline had had no news of her father, when, one 
 morning a fly from Paris stopped before the house, 
 and soon Monsienr de Melleval was in his daughter's 
 arms. 
 
 " My father, my dear father ! how glad I am to 
 see you again ! " Caroline said, embracing him 
 tenderly. "Oh! how happy I am; now I want 
 nothing more."..." The time seemed veiy long to 
 me also," the colonel said, looking at his daughter 
 affectionately ; " do you know that I have been away 
 more than three months? "..." Oh yes, father, I 
 inow it well . . "..."I am so delighted, Caro- 
 line, to find you so much better than you were when 
 I left ; you are fresh and rosy, and I can see that 
 you are quite well again."..." Oh ! yes father, I am 
 very well now."..." That is, thanks to the exercise I 
 get her to take," Marianne said; " I have persuaded 
 her to take to riding a donkey, and it is surprising 
 the good it has done her; and so, monsieur, you 
 will find one animal more in the establishment — a 
 beautiful donkey, which I have bought for my young 
 lady."..." You did quite right, Marianne; anything 
 that my daughter likes or wants is a necessity in 
 the house."... "But you have come back alone, 
 father ! " Caroline said after a few moments ; " what 
 has become of Captain Gervillier? "...The colonel 
 \ looked sad for a moment, and passed his hand over 
 his eyes, as he replied : " My old comrade ? . . 
 Ah ! my dear child, he will never again smoke his 
 pipe near me. A week before I left Bordeaux the 
 poor Captain answered his last roll-call ; in one night, 
 : after a good supper . . it must have been an 
 . apoplectic fit . . at any rate, the next day he 
 
SUMMER BEINGS THEIR NEIGHBOURS BACK AGAIN. 97 
 
 was dead."..." Poor captain ! " Marianne said; "at 
 any rate, I am sure that lie would be happy in dy- 
 ing near his colonel."..." Alas ! " Caroline said to 
 herself, with a sigh; "now I shall have no one 
 here with whom I can talk of Arthur, and from 
 whom I can hope to get any news of him ! " 
 
 The fact was that Captain Gervillier died from an 
 excess of deference towards his superior. One even- 
 ing, when the colonel happened to be very hungry, 
 he had ordered an excellent supper for himself and 
 his companion, who on that evening had not forgot- 
 ten his dinner ; but, as the colonel ate heartily, the 
 captain thought he would be guilty of insubordina- 
 tion if he had not joined him, and he threw so 
 much zeal into his service that he died in the night 
 from a fit, brought on by over-eating. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SUMMER BRINGS THEIR NEIGHBOURS BACK AGAIN. 
 
 A week after Monsieur de Melleval's return, the 
 Troussards, as well as Monsieur and Madame Du- 
 grandet, returned to Draveil. Monsieur de Viens- 
 sec and his niece had gone to Italy ; Ophelia had , 
 persuaded, her uncle that a warm climate would re- 
 store his sight and hearing, because that romantic 
 voung lady had a decided taste for travelling. She 
 always hoped that she would meet with some ad- 
 ventures, and her greatest desire when travelling in 
 Italy was to be stopped by brigands and carried off 
 by another Fra Diavolo, not caring the least for what 
 might be the results of the affair. 
 
98 SUMMER BEINGS THEIR 
 
 The colonel was walking in the garden with his 
 daughter. Whilst listening to her father, Caroline 
 was thinking of her child, and sighed, for she had not 
 been able to go to Champrozay for three days; the 
 presence of Monsieur de Melleval did not allow her 
 to take such frequent donkey rides. Besides, when 
 it rained, they could find no pretext for going out r 
 whereas, before the colonel's return, they had faced 
 wind and storms to go and see little Paul. Suddenly 
 several people appeared at the end of a walk ; it was 
 the whole Troussard family, who had come to call 
 on the colonel; madame, holding one of her sons by 
 the hand, who held his two brothers, the last of" 
 whom was clinging on to his sister's dress, who was 
 hanging on to her father's arm. They formed a 
 chain over which it would have been necessary to 
 jump if one wished to get to the other side, for no 
 member of the family seemed to wish to let go of 
 the other. 
 
 " Well, colonel, how do you do ? " Madame Trous- 
 sard exclaimed from a distance, as soon as she saw 
 Monsieur de Melleval. " Here we are ! It is we — 
 your neighbours of last summer. We have come 
 into the country late this summer, but my daughter 
 was so sought after in Paris — she was such a success 
 with her voice ! Do you think that my boys have 
 grown? The eldest had a very bad nose in the 
 winter, and I really began to think that he would 
 lose it ! It would have Deen a great misfortune, for 
 what is a man without a nose? He would not be 
 able to show himself anywhere ! My husband has 
 had three very bad colds, coughing continually. We 
 will certainly have separate beds next winter, for I 
 do not wish to pass my life in giving him herb tea ! 
 
 . . And you, my dear Caroline, how have you 
 got over" it? Are you pitted? "..."Not at all," 
 Mademoiselle Therese said, who had left her father 
 and brothers to go up to Caroline. " She is not 
 
NEIGHBOURS BACK AGAIN. 99 
 
 anarked the least ; how lucky ! I was afraid that 
 you would be ugly, and that I should not dare to 
 look at you for fear of giving you pain." 
 
 Caroline had got as red as a cherry, and looked 
 down, for her father looked at her and exclaimed : 
 
 " What do you mean, not marked, not fitted ? 
 What has been the matter with you whilst I was 
 away? "..."Oh! it appears that she has not told 
 you," Madame Troussard replied ; " I understand, 
 she was afraid lest you should be anxious, and it 
 certainly is a dreadful illness; but now that it is all 
 over, you may be told . . "..."What in the 
 name of goodness ? "..."Well! your daughter had 
 the smallpox in the winter, whilst you were at Bor- 
 deaux."... "The smallpox! Is it possible? "..."Look 
 here, there are two little marks here, close to the 
 nose; don't you see them, Therese? "..."Yes, mam- 
 ma ; and another close 'to the mouth — that is very 
 distinct, and as big as a lentil." 
 
 Monsieur de Melleval examined his daughter's 
 face, and looked in vain for those smallpox marks 
 .which the female Troussards said they saw there, 
 and during the whole time Caroline felt very much 
 -embarrassed. She was not at all used to lying, and 
 it was very difficult for her to deceive her father ; 
 luckily for her, Madame Troussard, who never left 
 off talking, did not give her time to reply. 
 
 " Yes, colonel, we came to see you in April — the 
 weather was lovely. We hoped to have spent 
 several days with you, but poor Caroline was ill— 
 the attack was at its height . . She was purple, 
 and, when we heard what was the matter with her, 
 I will not conceal from you that we all ran away 
 like so many thieves ! Good heavens ! I am terribly 
 afraid of the smallpox, especially for my children ! 
 Suppose the pretty darlings were to be marked, what 
 a pity it would be ! Close here I bought a quantity 
 of garlic, and we all ate some and rubbed ourselves 
 
100 SUMMER BEINGS THEIR 
 
 with it, because it dispels the bad air, and for w 
 week my husband and nay sons carried a clove of it 
 about with them in their pocket — one could smell 
 them a mile off."..." Really, I cannot get over it ! " 
 the colonel said, kissing his daughter ; " that your 
 life should have been in danger and I know nothing 
 about it ! I should have returned immediately — 
 left everything — my child." 
 
 Caroline was about to stammer out a few words,, 
 when Madame Troussard replied for her: 
 
 " She wished to save you any anxiety; you ought 
 to thank her for it . . it was very nice of her 
 
 . . Shall you have much fruit this year, colonel ?' 
 Our trees are covered with plums ; if they do not 
 fall, we shall be able to give you plenty. "..."Yes,. 
 if our young rascals do not eat them all whilst they 
 are green," Monsieur Troussard said. "That re- 
 minds me that I have some" bottles to look after. 
 My wine works so, that it is enough to disgust any- 
 one."..." We will come .and see you again this even- 
 ing," Therese said, " and I will bring some new bal- 
 lads . . Monsieur Theophile Minot has given me- 
 a number . . You know, that young man who 
 came last year with Monsieur Arthur? ". . ." Yes . .. 
 yes . . " Caroline said, who began to tremble at 
 Arthur's name ; "do you see that gentleman still?' 
 
 . . does he go to your house ?"..." Of course he 
 does, he came often last winter ! " Madame Trous- 
 sard said; "he plays and sings a great deal with 
 Therese, and once he took us to the Porte-Saint- 
 Martin Theatre. He is a very polite young man, 
 and always most elegantly dressed ; I am sure that 
 he must set the fashions in his neighbourhood."... 
 " Yes, mamma, he told me that it was he who re- 
 introduced quite tight trousers."..." He was quite 
 right ; men ought never to wear anything else. But 
 we must go back, for we have a thousand things to 
 do at home, and the little boys are hungry ; we will 
 
NEIGHBOURS BACK AGAIN. 101 : 
 
 come again this evening, so good-bye for the present, . 
 colonel; good-bye, Caroline . . " 
 
 And Madame Tronssard pushed her daughter,, 
 who pushed her brothers, who pushed their father,, 
 so that the whole family disappeared down the 
 garden, with their arms working like railway signals. - 
 The colonel, still holding one of his daughter's 
 hands and pressing it in both his own, he said : 
 
 " What ! You have been ill, and you did not let 
 me know? I am angry with Marianne. "...Caroline 
 could bear it no longer; she threw herself into her 
 father's arms, and said : • - No, no, it is not true ; I 
 will not deceive you . . Marianne pretended that 
 I was ill, in order to get rid of the Troussards, who 
 came intending to spend several days . . I was 
 not very strong, and Marianne thought it would tire 
 me too much, and so she told them I had the small- 
 pox . . and they took to flight immediately . „ 
 Were we wrong, father ? ". . ." ~No, my child, it seems 
 a funny expedient to get rid of annoying visitors, 
 only you should have told me sooner, for you ought 
 not to keep any secrets from your father. ''...Caroline 
 was silent for a few moments, and then, in order to 
 change the conversation, she said : " Oh ! another 
 visitor came during your absence, a young gentle- 
 man, Monsieur Charles Daverny." ..." Daverny ! 
 What, the son of my old friend, Major Daverny ? "" 
 ..."Yes, father."..." What ! his son has been, and 
 you did not mention it to me? "..."I quite forgot it, 
 father . . since your return, I have been able to 
 think of nothing but you."..." Thank you, my 
 child, but I liked Major Daverny very much; I heard 
 of his death a year ago, and since then, thinking 
 that his son would not, most likely, remain at Lyons, 
 I wrote and asked him to come and see me, and to 
 look upon my house as his own. Poor fellow! The 
 last time I saw him was twelve years ago ; he will 
 have altered very much, and very likely I should not 
 
102 SUMMER BRINGS THEIR 
 
 know him again ; but lie was a very good lad, fond 
 of work and devoted to his father, who was full of 
 his son's praises . . I hope you received him 
 tvell, my child, and that yon remembered that he 
 was the son of one of my best friends? "..." Yes, 
 father — yes, of course ; but as I was alone here why 
 . I could not ask him to stay . . "... 
 "Why? Daverny's son! He is a young man of 
 honour, I will undertake to say."..." But, father, in 
 your absence, I did not know . . I did not dare 
 
 . . He himself at once said that he would come 
 again when you returned."..." Did he leave his 
 address ?"..." No, father."... "Well, you ought to 
 have asked him for it. He is not living at Lyons 
 any more ?"..." No, father; he is Paris."..." In 
 Paris . . well, we must hope that he will come 
 again soon, but I am leally vexed that you did not 
 make him stay here ; the son of my old friend ought 
 to feel as much at home here as if he were in his 
 father's house." 
 
 The colonel left his daughter, and she went and 
 told Marianne all that had happened. 
 
 " What do yon think of those Troussards, who 
 noticed that yon were marked with smallpox?" 
 Marianne said ; " that just shows what imagination 
 will do, and that is how people almost always find a 
 likeness between children and their fathers!"... 
 " But that is not all, nurse ; Mademoiselle Troussard 
 told me that she often saw Monsieur Minot, a friend 
 of Arthur's . . If I could only find out through 
 him what has become of Arthur ! " Marianne 
 slightly tossed her head, but did not reply, and after 
 a moment, Caroline continued : " And I have not 
 seen my son for several days . . I must ab- 
 solutely go to Champrozay to-morrow, nurse."... 
 " But, mademoiselle, suppose your father wants you 
 to take a walk with him? "..."We will go without 
 saying a word to him.". . ." And suppose he is angry ? n 
 
NEIGHBOURS BACK AGAIN. 103 
 
 ..."Never mind, I shall have seen my child!"... 
 '"But suppose it rains? "..." Oh! don't talk about 
 -the weather, Marianne ; if you refuse to go with me. 
 I shall go by myself.". . ." By yourself ! You naughty 
 child, that would be nice, and then your father 
 would find fault with me and perhaps dismiss me ! " 
 ..." Oh ! no, never, and besides, you will come with 
 me."' 
 
 That evening, the whole Troussard family, came to 
 the colonel's; and,* whilst Madame Troussard was 
 blowing the noses of her three boys and her husband 
 was telling his neighbours about his plums, Caroline 
 went up to stout Therese and said : 
 
 " Have you seen Monsieur Minot this winter?"... 
 " Yes, my dear, we have seen a great deal of him ; 
 he is very fond of singing with me. Of course, he 
 is a dandy, and follows the fashions rigidly; if it 
 were the correct thing for men to change their 
 trousers six times a day, he would do it seven times." 
 ..."And his friend, Monsieur Arthur G-ervillier . 
 with whom he came here?"..." Oh ! we never saw 
 him in Paris."..." But did not Monsieur Theophile 
 ever mention him? "..." Never, by any chance; he 
 is not of the slightest interest to me. Monsieur 
 Theophile never spoke to me of anything except my- 
 self, and he is so polite and attentive that mamma 
 declares that he is in love with me and wants to 
 marry me!".. ." Really ?"..." Well, we shall see. If 
 he wants to, he need only ask for me; I should not 
 refuse him, for I should like to have a husband who 
 dressed well. I would not marry the richest man in 
 ihe world who did not wear straps to his trousers." 
 
 Caroline had scarcely been listening to Therese ; 
 she was thinking of Arthur, and said to herself : 
 " They see him or hear of him ! Can I not find any- 
 body to tell me where he is, or what has become of 
 Mm ? " 
 
104 GYMNASTIC EXERCISES — 
 
 " Besides that," Therese continued ; " I think we- 
 shall have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur Theophile 
 this summer at our country house . . Mamma 
 begged him to come and spend a few days with us, 
 'and he agreed to do so." 
 
 These words gave Caroline a little hope, as she 
 thought she might get news of her lover from Mon- 
 sieur Minot, and so, the next day, she started for 
 Champrozay with a somewhat lighter heart, and the 
 donkey soon covered the distance, though poor Ma- 
 rianne had to trot the whole way. Caroline took 
 little Paul from his nurse's arms, but, although it 
 was several days since she had seen him, at the 
 end of half-an-hour Marianne said to her young" 
 mistress, in a low voice : 
 
 "We must start now, if you do not wish your 
 father to think that you have been absent too long 
 for a mere walk.". . .Caroline kissed her chiM, saying : 
 " What would I not give for a whole day atj Lh him ! " " 
 ..."Courage, mademoiselle," Marianne said; "we- 
 must hope that a day will come when this dear 
 little one will be always with us."..." A day, do you 
 say? Alas! my good Marianne, we pass our lives s 
 in waiting for happy days." 
 
 CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 GYMNASTIC EXEECISES. A FAITHFUL DOG. 
 
 The colonel often spoke of Charles Daverny, and 
 was sorry not to see him at his house again. "If 
 you had only asked his address in Paris," he used to> 
 say to his daughter, " I would write and tell him- 
 
A FAITHFUL DOG. 105 
 
 that I have come back, or rather, I would have gone 
 and seen him . . I suppose you did not tell him 
 how glad I should be to see him ? " and Caroline 
 merely replied : "Yes, father," with downcast eyes. 
 Sometimes, Monsieur de Melleval, whilst talking 
 with his daughter on indifferent subjects, brought the 
 conversation back to his old friend's son, and then, 
 looking at her steadily, he would say: "What did 
 you think of the major's son? "...And Caroline 
 would reply very calmly : " What did I think of 
 him ? . . Why, father, he is very much like all 
 the rest of the world. He did not stay long, but he 
 spoke a good deal and was very polite."..." This is 
 delightful ! Of course, I suppose that a man who 
 has been well brought up is polite; but I want to 
 know what he is like, whether his face prepossessed 
 you in his favour? "..." Well, father, I thought he 
 looked rather stern . . "..."Stern? Then he is 
 like his father, but, under a cold exterior, the major 
 hid an affectionate and generous heart . . His 
 son takes after him, I have no doubt. Well, at any 
 rate, he is not ugly or unpleasant looking ?"..." Oh ! 
 no . . but I must confess that I only looked at 
 him very little." 
 
 Thereupon the colonel left his daughter, with an 
 impatient shrug of the shoulders, and she went to 
 tell Marianne about her conversation with her 
 father, and said to her : 
 
 " Why should he ask me so many questions about 
 Monsieur Daverny ? Does he know that I did not 
 receive him politely — that I did not even ask him to 
 sit down for a minute?"..." No, mademoiselle," Ma- 
 rianne said, " it is not that . . I have quite an- 
 other idea. This Monsieur Daverny is the son of a 
 man whom your father liked and esteemed greatly, 
 and he seems inclined to transfer to the son all the 
 friendship which he felt for the father . . and 
 then, as you are at the age when . , as it is- 
 
106 GYMNASTIC EXEEC1SES. 
 
 probable that Monsieur de Melleval thinks of . . " 
 ..."Oh! Marianne, do not go on! I understand; 
 my father wishes me to marry this gentleman? 
 What are you saying? I shal' hate him before I 
 know him. I shall tremble at the very thought of 
 Iris return ! I marry anyone but Arthur ! . . It 
 •can never be, Marianne, you know it can never be ! 
 And then, have I not a child ? Am I not a mother? 
 If it must be, I would rather take my Paul and, 
 with him in my arms, throw myself at my father's 
 feet, rather than consent to this marriage."..." Well, 
 if he comes, and you behave the same as you did 
 before, he will certainly not wish to marry you." 
 
 The Troussards were very much surprised at see- 
 ing nothing of Monsieur Theophile Minot, who had 
 promised to spend a few days with them. Made- 
 moiselle Therese had practised several songs, Madame 
 Troussard had had new sailor suits made for her sons, 
 the head of the family had made up his mind to buy 
 a hogshead of wine at which no one could possibly 
 make wry faces, and all this in order to receive Mon- 
 sieur Minot with becoming honour. And then, the 
 plum trees were covered with ripe fruit, and they 
 wished Theophile to be able to enjoy himself at as 
 little cost to themselves as possible. On one of the 
 last days in July, a fly from Paris drove through the 
 village, and the whole Troussard family ran to the 
 door in hopes of seeing that stout young man get 
 out, but it stopped at the colonel's house, and Mon- 
 sieur Yienssec and Ophelia got out. Caroline was 
 not at all pleased to see company, for she thought 
 that their coming would interfere with her visits to 
 Champrozay, but she tried to hide her vexation and 
 was agreeably surprised when Ophelia said, as s 1 
 kissed her : 
 
 " Oh ! my dear, don't speak to me any more of 
 your country and your neighbourhood ! When one 
 has seen Rome, one does not want to see anything 
 
A FAITHFUL DOG. 107 
 
 else ; it all looks so small and insignificant. I en- 
 joyed a purely intellectual existence there; I was 
 transported, intoxicated with delight . . The 
 Capitre, the Basilica, and those magnificent build- 
 ings, which recall to our memory the famous Romans 
 of other days ! I cannot understand anyone being 
 elsewhere ! "..."Then why did you come back?" 
 Madame Dugrandet said, in a mocking voice."... 
 "Because my uncle does not like maccaroni or the 
 Italian cookery, though he was very well in Rome. 
 He certainly does not know any Italian, and is rather 
 blind and deaf, but I used to go with him every- 
 where, and kept saying to him : ' Here is a monu- 
 ment, there is a nun ; it is grand, superb . . ' I 
 don't think I could do any more, and I cannot under- 
 stand his wishing to come back. But then, my 
 uncle never was obliging." 
 
 Caroline let Ophelia talk about Rome, and her 
 old uncle declared that nothing would induce him 
 to travel again, and went to Marianne to talk about 
 her child, for she had but few opportunities of doing 
 so now with company in the house. A week aft r 
 the arrival of Ophelia and her uncle, Madame Trous- 
 sard and her daughter came to the colonel's one 
 morning in a delighted frame of mind, and said : 
 
 " He has come ; he arrived this morning, and is 
 going to stay several days ; he drove here in his gig, 
 with his servant and a huge dog. "..."Perhaps," said 
 the colonel, with a smile, " you would tell us what 
 you are so delighted at ? First of all, who has ar- 
 rived? Some great artist? A virtuoso, or a near 
 relation ?"...." Oh! a relation! Thank God, some- 
 body much better than that ; it is Monsieur Theo- 
 phile Mi not, that young man who came here last 
 summer, who was introduced to you by poor Captain 
 Gervillier's nephew, Monsieur Arthur." 
 
 At his name, the colonel frowned slightly, whilst 
 
108 GYMNASTIC EXERCISES. 
 
 Caroline felt all the blood rush to her heart, but the 
 former replied immediately : 
 
 " Well, as far as I can remember, he was a very 
 commonplace sort of young fellow, and I certainly 
 did not perceive that he possessed any extraordinary 
 talents. "..."I would make a bet that he has never 
 been to Eome," Ophelia said, with a shrug...." Oh! 
 you will see, colonel, you will see ! He is a most 
 agreeable young man, very witty and amiable, and 
 very talented."..." I must say, then, that whilst he 
 • was staying with us he succeeded very well in hiding 
 all that.". . ." That was most probably from timidity." 
 ..." He did not give me at all the impression of being 
 timid, either ! "..." Well, I hope you will judge more 
 favourably of him when he comes to stay with us, 
 for he is not coming for a day only . . and, in 
 fact, I have every reason to believe — to hope . . " 
 
 Here, Madame Troussard went close to the colonel 
 and whispered to him, but not so low that the 
 names of her daughter and Theophile Minot could 
 not be heard every moment. During her mother's 
 aside, Therese tried to look embarrassed, whilst 
 Ophelia whispered to Caroline : 
 
 " No doubt he owes his development of intellect 
 to his visits to the Troussards ! The companionship 
 of the the three little boys has brought it out." 
 
 When Madame Troussard had finished her con- 
 lid ences with the colonel, she continued aloud : 
 
 "In order to celebrate our guest's arrival, we shall 
 .give a small party this evening, without any cere- 
 mony, only in anticipation of our great fete."..." So 
 you are going to give a fete? " the colonel said.... 
 "Yes, a fete champetre in our garden. We have 
 to beg you to give us the pleasure of your company 
 on that evening. There will be plenty of music, 
 and we have asked a number of people in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and Ophelia, we reckon on you, even if 
 your uncle will not come." 
 
A FAITHFUL DOG. 
 
 109 
 
 The invitation was accepted, as there was no pos- 
 sibility of refusal, and Caroline wondered how she 
 could make Monsieur Theophile speak to her about 
 Arthur. In the evening they went to Monsieur 
 Troussard, who, contrary to his custom, had not put 
 them off. The whole family were dressed in their 
 best. The little boys had on their new sailor suits, 
 and Madame and Mademoiselle wore nearly white 
 dresses, whilst, what was more remarkable still, 
 there were plates of plums and gooseberries on a 
 table for the guests to help themselves to as they 
 pleased. The colonel found Minot just what he had 
 found him at his own house — a foolish and conceited 
 individual, and Caroline blushed when he bowed to 
 her, for she remembered that she had met him in 
 ^the little wood with Arthur. 
 
 The evening fell rather flat, and so Minot thought 
 he would divert them by showing them a gymnastic 
 trick. He asked for a broomstick and two chairs, 
 and, as no broomstick could be found, for Monsieur 
 Troussard used them all as supports for his dahlias, 
 Therese fetched the pole of her bed curtains, and 
 brought it to Theophile and asked him whether that 
 would do as well. " Perfectly well," he replied, " and 
 now watch what I do." He put the pole behind his 
 back, held it with both his hands, and had a chair 
 balanced at either end, and then, raising his arms 
 he brought the pole over his head without the chairs 
 losing their balance; naturally, all the company ap- 
 plauded him. Therese, however, thought she would 
 like to try it, . and succeeded pretty well, when an 
 unforeseen incident heightened its effect. The pole, 
 which she held behind her, close to her dress, had a 
 nail in the middle which was required to fasten the 
 curtains on to it, and that nail caught in her clothes, 
 so that when she lifted her arms to lift the pole over 
 her head, her dress, petticoats, and the indispensible 
 garment caught in the confounded nail, and also 
 
110 GYMNASTIC EXERCISES.— 
 
 went up, and exposed to all the company two half- 
 moons close together. 
 
 "Very nice, very good; you will manage it ! "' 
 Madame Troussard exclaimed, for as she was sitting 
 on the other side she did not see that her dress was 
 being pulled up, whilst the farmers nudged each 
 other in the ribs and wanted to know whether it was 
 usual in Paris to show that in public? Monsieur de 
 Melleval, who was talking with Madame Dugrandet r 
 did not notice what had happened ; Caroline was 
 buried in thought, and saw nothing that was going 
 on round her ; Monsieur Dugrandet was looking at 
 his feet and Theophile at the chair, whilst the not- 
 ables of the neighbourhood were struck with the 
 sight which met their eyes, and did not think of in- 
 terfering, when suddenly Ophelia exclaimed : 
 
 " Lower your arm ! . . drop the pole at once ! " 
 ..."No, no!" Madame Troussard said, "let her 
 finish showing her skill ; don't you think so, Mon- 
 sieur Theophile ?"..." But, marl ame, she is showing- 
 something more, a great deal more, thnn her skill ! '*" 
 Ophelia said angrily. " Just turn round and look 
 at your daughter's dress ! "..."Oh ! good heavens !" 
 Madame Troussard exclaimed, when she saw what 
 Therese was exposing to the view of the company. 
 " Oh ! oh ! I had no idea of it ! . . My child, 
 lower your arms, drop the pole — everything.". . ." But 
 why, mamma ? " Therese asked. " Let me go through 
 with it, for I know I can do it. "..."I tell you to let 
 everything drop ! . . You are showing your petti- 
 coats and . . accessories ! " 
 
 Theophile, who saw what was the matter, tried 
 to take fhe curtain pole from the girl's hands ; she 
 resisted, and a struggle ensued between her, her- 
 mother, and Theophile Minot, but during it the 
 chairs fell, and Monsieur Troussard returned to the- 
 room just at the moment when the curtain fell on 
 the most curious part of the entertaiment. 
 
A. FAITHFUL DOG. I 
 
 That event put an end to the evening, for when* 
 Therese heard from her mother what had happened,, 
 she went and sat down in a corner of the room, ancL 
 would not leave it ; their neighbours did not think, 
 it worth while to wait for a second gymnastic dis- 
 play, as the first seemed enough for them, and so ■ 
 they all took their leave. Thus ended the Trous- 
 sard's evening party, and everyone laughed at the 
 recollection of it. Caroline was the only one who was- 
 sad, for what she had heard about Arthur was 
 scarcely calculated to console her ; he had gone away, 
 nobody knew what had become of him, and his b:idl 
 conduct in Paris was known everywhere; could she- 
 then hope that her father would allow her to marry 
 him? Ophelia thought that the Trous Bards would 
 have had enough of parties, and that the fete cliam— 
 jpetre would not take place, but she was wrong*. 
 Theophile had become more and more devoted since 
 that famous evening, and Madame Troussard thought 
 that the accident which had happened to her daughter ■ 
 might have its advantages after all, as it increased 
 the young Parisian's ardour, and sometimes she- 
 even went so far as to fancy that Theophile had 
 himself put the nail into the curtain pole, in order ■ 
 to bring about the incident, and she said to herself :. 
 " It really would be very clever . . no doubt he 
 did not want to buy a cat in a bag . . there is 
 no harm in wanting to know with what we have 
 to do." 
 
 Accordingly, far from giving up the fete champetre,. 
 they had invited all their neighbours, and even some 
 landed proprietors in the vicinity, but it was settled 
 that the fair Therese should not try and emulate 
 Monsieur Theophile's gymnastic tricks. A Sunday- 
 was the day fixed, and it was fine; the sun was hot. 
 They met on a nice lawn surrounded with trees, 
 which was in the middle of Monsieur Troussard's- 
 garden, and where various amusements had been 
 
~ l£ GYMNASTIC EXEa^i^.5. 
 
 provided, such as swings, kites, hoops, and so forth. 
 Theophile Minot, who appeared to be the king of 
 the show, was very elegantly dressed, for he wore a 
 very short shooting jacket of a light, thin material, 
 and an extremely tight trousers to match, which set 
 off all his natural advantages most effectively. 
 Therese, who wore a very short dress, which showed 
 a tolerably good leg, was in the highest spirits, and 
 capered about on the lawn so recklessly that Ophelia 
 could not help saying : " I think she intends to show 
 us something more ! " Lastly, Monsieur Troussard, 
 followed by his three sons, walked about with plates 
 full of plums and offered them to everyone, for the 
 crop had been so plentiful that they did not know 
 what to do with them. " No more, thank you," 
 Theophile said, when Monsieur Troussard came up 
 to him ; "this morning I climbed one of your plum 
 trees to pick some for your daughter, and I ate more 
 than I have ever done in my life." Monsieur Trous- 
 sard did not press him, and Theophile called his 
 dog and threw his handkerchief, his gloves, and 
 even a penny piece as far as he could, and the dog 
 brought everything back with the greatest prompti- 
 tude; they all complimented ihe young man on the 
 admirable manner in which he had trained the ani- 
 mal. He declined, however, to make him exhibit 
 any more tricks, but said that he would show them 
 something else. 
 
 " I should like to see that trick of the other even- 
 ing again, with the chairs and the pole," one of the 
 notables said. Therese pinched in her Lps and 
 blushed a little, but no one thought fit to reply to 
 the indiscreet request of ihe young man. 
 
 Theophile, meanwhile, was trying to find the most 
 level spot on the lawn to show his skill, which con- 
 sisted in sitting and getting up with his legs crossed 
 and without touching the ground with his hands. 
 Suddenly a slight pain in his stomach gave him a.i 
 
11 3 
 
 A FAITHFUL 3jOG. *+* 
 
 -uneasy twinge ; but, as it did not return and as all 
 the company were looking at liim with curiosity to 
 see what he was going to do, he crossed his legs and 
 let himself right down to the ground very dexterously. 
 « Very good, thai is very well done ! " Madame 
 Troussard said, "but now we want to see how you 
 will get up without using your hands ! It seems 
 very difficult to me . . " But, instead of making 
 the slightest attempt to get up, he remained glued 
 to the earth; he had grown very pale, and his face 
 expressed the greatest discomfort. At last he got 
 up suddenly, but by using his hands like all the rest 
 of the world, and disappeared like a flash ol light- 
 ning into the most secluded part of the garden. 
 
 " Where has he gone ? . . What is the matter 
 with him? . . "..."Oh! I can guess," Madame 
 Troussard said, " he has most likely forgotten some- 
 thing that he wants for one of his tricks and has 
 o-one to fetch it. I will wager that he is preparing 
 some surprise for us ! We must all allow thaUie is 
 a most amiable and pleasant young man in society. 
 
 Theophile had ran away from a very different 
 motive to that which they imputed to him ; the 
 plums which he had that morning eaten to excess 
 had caused an altogether unexpected sensation, to 
 which he could not give way in company, so he 
 wisely retired. He soon came back, however, for 
 he had obtained some brandy in the house, which 
 enabled him to go through all the rest of his per- 
 formances with great applause. 
 
 The fete champetre, however, was on the whole a 
 rather flat affair ; when are they anything else? And 
 when the event, which had been so pompously an- 
 nounced, was over, they all felt inclined to say : 
 Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas. 
 
1.14 THE FOREST OF SENAET. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE FOREST OF SENAET. 
 
 A fortnight afterwards, the Troussards left Dra- 
 veil without even bidding their neighbours good-bye. 
 They were angry with Theophile Minot, who had 
 returned to Paris, and Madame Troussard thought 
 it necessary to follow thither with Therese, who was 
 languishing and not singing so loudly since her - 
 pupil had abandoned her. 
 
 Caroline was very glad when her neighbours left r 
 for the fewer people she saw the more time she had 
 to go to Champrozay to embrace her child, who was 
 thriving wonderfully, for a nurse always takes great 
 care of a child when it is frequently visited. The- 
 summer was long over, when at the beginning of 
 October a carriage, which stopped at the gate, an- 
 nounced a visitor, and soon Monsieur Daverny ap- 
 peared in the drawing-room, where Caroline and 
 her father, as well as Ophelia and her uncle, were. 
 Caroline was very much surpris°d at seeing the- 
 young man whom she had only met once before, but 
 at a period which she could never forget ; as for the 
 colonel, even before Chailes had spoken a word, he- 
 uttered an exclamation of joy and cried : 
 
 " Your name, monsieur; your name, if you please ? "' 
 
 ..."Charles Daverny,*' the young man replied 
 
 " Oh ! I guessed it . . I recognised you, my dear 
 Daverny ; you are the son of my old friend," and 
 with these words Monsieur de Melleval went up 
 to the young man, whom he had only seen when he- 
 was a child, and pressed him to his heart. "Oh! 
 my dear friend," the colonel continued, "will you 
 explain to me why you have been so long before 
 coming back to see us? You leave a very long 
 
THE FOREST OF SENAET. 115 
 
 interval between your visits ! You came here whilst 
 I was away, but my daughter received you and told 
 you I should soon be back, and you let six months 
 pass without coming again! "..."I will tell you what 
 has so long prevented me from having the pleasure 
 of seeing you," Charles replied. " Some time ago, I 
 formed the project of seeing England and Scot- 
 land, and when I had the chance, I profited by it. 
 I did not intend to stay so long with our neighbours 
 on the other side of the channel, but I liked their 
 •country, and Scotland especially. I never got tired 
 of wandering over that country which Sir Walter 
 Scott has so well described, and when I saw the 
 scenery I could almost imagine that I had the 
 heroes of those delightful works before me. So my 
 imagination and the beauty of the country made me 
 prolong my stay in the home of that great master 
 -Of romance, and that is why I only now do myself 
 the pleasure of calling upon you." ... "Well, my 
 friend, we will excuse you in favour of Sir Walter 
 Scott, but now that we have got you, we shall, I 
 hope, keep you for some time ; you will spend the 
 .autumn with us, and we will go shooting . . and 
 play billiards in wet weather, and at night . . 
 Are you fond of shooting?"..." Yes, monsieur."... 
 " That is all right, so we will have some shooting 
 excursions in the neighbourhood . . that is all 
 settled, eh ? You shall stay with us for a month or 
 two ; as long as you can? " 
 
 Daverny seemed to hesitate ; he cast furtive glances 
 at Caroline, and one might almost have tliouo-ht that 
 before promising to stay he wished to make sure 
 -that she would have no objection, but she did not 
 look up, so he replied : 
 
 " Monsieur, I am touched at your kind reception 
 of me, and I shall have the greatest pleasure in stay- 
 ing with you, if my presence does not put you out 
 •.at all."..." Come, come, my friend," the colonel 
 
116 THE FOREST OF SEN ART. 
 
 replied; "I presume you are joking* ! I am glad to 
 say my house is large enough. Listen to me Charles 
 — for I hope you will allow me to call you by your 
 Christian name, an old soldier does not understand 
 the meaning of the word. I was your father's best 
 friend, and for the future you must look upon your- 
 self as one of the family. Caroline, go and tell Ma- 
 rianne to get a room ready for Charles, and, if you 
 will come into the garden with me, we will talk 
 about your father." 
 
 The colonel took the young man's arm and went 
 off with him, whilst Ophelia made an impatient 
 gesture and said : 
 
 " Monsieur de Melleval is really surprising ! As 
 soon as anyone comes, he monopolises him, and does 
 not even give him time to look at us. Uncle, what 
 do you think of this gentleman? . . Not a word ! 
 I might as well talk to a wall !" 
 
 Caroline ran off to Marianne, and said to her, al- 
 most with a frightened look : 
 
 " He has come, nurse ! "..."I know, mademoiselle, 
 I saw him get out of the carriage, and recognised 
 him immediately. "..."My father seemed so pleased 
 to see him ! He has already invited him to stay 
 with us for some time, some months perhaps . . 
 Oh ! Marianne, I think I hate the man ! ". . ." Come, 
 my child, you must not distress yourself like this be- 
 forehand. First of all, we are not sure that this 
 gentleman will enjoy himself here very much, or 
 that he will stay for any length of time."..." Oh ! I 
 shall try to make it very slow for him ; I shall do 
 nothing to amuse him. I will be very polite to him, 
 but that will be all ; nobody can force me to be 
 amiable, and then, I never' am, now! Another 
 stranger here, and somebody else in the way!"... 
 " We will go to Champrozay all the same. I do not 
 suppose that he has come to play the spy ; when he 
 came the first time he did not notice anything, and 
 
THE FOREST OF SENAET. 117 
 
 since then nothing has happened to betray your 
 position."..." Yo a reassure me, Marianne, and yet 
 . I do not know whether it comes from the 
 remembrance of the time, but I cannot look at him. 
 Don't you think he looks very cross ? "..."Well, 1 
 should not fancy he was a very lively gentleman. 
 However, I must go and get his room ready." 
 
 When Caroline returned to the drawing-room, as 
 late as possible, she found that Daverny had gone 
 for a walk with the colonel, and they did not return 
 till dinner time. Monsieur de Melleval made Charles 
 sit beside his daughter at tab'ie, and this arrange- 
 ment again made Caroline nneasy, but she soon 
 became reassured ; he spoke very little, and only paid' 
 her such attentions as ordinary politeness required. 
 He listened to Ophelia, who was sitting opposite to 
 him, and who was delighted to have someone with 
 whom she could talk about Rome and Italy, so that 
 he was a very convenient neighbour for Caroline, for 
 he seemed almost as afraid of speaking to her as 
 she was of listening to him. Of an evening the 
 colonel used to play billiards with Charles and Mon- 
 sieur Dugrandet, and, when the old banker did not 
 come, Monsieur de Melleval, who was very fond of 
 chess, used to sit down afc the chess board with 
 Charles, and did not move ?again during the whole 
 evening. Caroline was very grateful to the game, . 
 whilst Ophelia kept constantly saying : 
 
 "It appears that Monsieur de Melleval only wishes 
 to keep this gentleman here for his own sake ! 
 Really, Monsieur Daverny does not seem to me to 
 care much for ladies' society. He speaks very little, 
 though I think he has had a very good education^ 
 but he is not sociable. I fancy he looks very thought- 
 ful for a young man, and there is not a scrap of 
 poety in his composition !"..." You would prefer 
 Monsieur Theophile Minot?" Caroline said, with a 
 smile...." Oh ! my dear, do not speak to me of that 
 
118 THE FOREST OF SEXART. 
 
 man, or you will make me sick ! And fancy, those 
 Troussards going away in the middle of the summer 
 to run after him ! It is really too funny, for he 
 will certainly never marry fat Therese! ..." Why 
 not, if he loves her? "'..." Well, he is absolutely 
 stupid enough even for that ! " 
 
 During the first days which followed Charles' ar- 
 
 rrival, Caroline had been more serious than usual, 
 but by degrees she got used to the presence of their 
 new guest, and, as he did not seem to seek her out, 
 she thought that her fears had no foundation, for 
 
 .Monsieur Daverny did not seem to wish to pay his 
 addresses to her. Sometimes Caroline would notice 
 his peculiar behaviour in almost avoiding her, and 
 said to herself: 
 
 " Well, all the better if he does not like me ; I 
 
 ; am very glad. What a difference between him and 
 Arthur ! He carries himself so well, has such 
 charming manners, and is so cheerful and amiable, 
 but this other man ! I hardly know what he is like, 
 for I never look at him, but I know he looks very 
 serious and hardly ever speaks, and has nothing 
 pleasing about him, whilst Arthur . . I wonder 
 what can have become of him ? " 
 
 After remaining at the colonel's for six weeks, 
 Monsieur Dazerny announced that he must return 
 
 - to Paris, as he had important business to settle. 
 
 "Go," Monsieur de Melleval said, " bnt remember 
 
 - that you will always be welcome here, that I shall 
 ] look for you impatiently, for I have got accustomed 
 
 to your society, and that I am now at an age when 
 "happiness is almost entirely made up of habits."... 
 ■ " I will come again in the winter, for I should be 
 
 - very ungrateful if I were insensible to all the interest 
 "which you take in me." With these words, the 
 
 ung man bowed to Caroline, and was about to 
 
 ve her in that formal manner, when the colonel 
 
 to hioi : " Well ! are you not going to give my 
 
THE FOREST OF SENAET. 119 
 
 -daughter a kiss ? Is that the way to take leave of 
 one's real friends ? " 
 
 Charles went up to Caroline; he was very pale, 
 and appeared to tremble on approaching her, but 
 his lips just touched the girl's cheek, and he abrupt- 
 ly left the room. 
 
 " What a strange lad ! " Monsieur de Melleval 
 said, with a smile ; " why he is as timid as a girl ! 
 Charles is not at all like the young men of the these 
 days," and, turning to his daughter, he said : 
 " Well, you know the major's son now, and what 
 do you think of him ?"..." Well father, I think just 
 the same of him as I did the first time I saw him 
 
 . . "..."But you told me that you scarcely 
 looked at him then, so I want to know whether 
 you like him any better now ?"..." I like all your 
 friends, father. "...The colonel turned away with an 
 impatient movement, and Caroline said to herself : 
 " Could Marianne have been right ? " 
 
 Winter had come, so it was not easy to go to 
 Champrozay, for Monsieur de Melleval went out but 
 little, and when his daughter talked about going 
 out for a walk with her old nurse he used to say : 
 " It is much too cold, I do not wish you to go out, 
 to catch cold, and get ill like you were last winter ! 
 ^No, no, stop at home with me, or go into the 
 garden; that will be quite enough." 
 
 Of course, she was obliged to obey, but she would 
 find some errand or other for Marianne, who went 
 and saw the child and would come and assure his 
 mother that he was very well, and growing as quickly 
 as a mushroom. At length the winter came to an 
 end, the trees put out their leaves, and the country 
 became bright and smiling once more ; Caroline 
 could again, under the pretence of a walk, go as far 
 as the village where her child was. Paul was nearly 
 a year old; he was not fat and red-cheeked, like 
 peasant children usually are, but slight and delicate 
 
120 THE FOREST OP SENART. 
 
 like liis mother, but his clear skin and bright eyes" 
 showed that he was in good health. 
 
 "The dear child will never be strong," Caroline 
 said, looking at her son...." Why, mademoiselle, it 
 is not always the fattest who get on best ; on the 
 contrary, they are freqnently ill. One need not be a 
 Turk in order to be in good health." 
 
 When he began to try and talk, Caroline declared 
 that he mnst learn to call her Mamma; Marianne, 
 however, advised her to do no such thing, but 
 thought they might find some pretext for bringing 
 the child to the colonel's house, and then perhaps he 
 might of his own accord call her " mother " before 
 people, but that they must not be guilty of any im- 
 prudence. Caroline, however, said to herself : " At 
 any rate, I must hear him call me mamma, if it be 
 only once . . I shall not be happy until he has 
 done so." 
 
 That summer Ophelia and her uncle did not come 
 to them, as they had gone to the Pyrenees, nor did 
 the Troussards come to their country house, but at 
 the beginning of summer all the notable of Draveil 
 received a notice of the approaching marriage of 
 Mademoiselle Therese Troussard with Monsieur 
 Theophile Minot. When he received the letter and 
 showed it to his daughter, Monsieur de Melleval 
 said, with an almost vexed expression on his face : 
 " You see, Caroline, all girls get married, for after 
 all it must end in that ; only you . . when I 
 speak to you of it you begin to cry and will not 
 listen to me." 
 
 Caroline tried to look indifferent, and replied : 
 " But I am quite happy as I am, and then, how do 
 you know that anybody wants to marry me ?"..." I 
 know someone who loves you."..." Who is that., 
 father ?"..." Chn rles Daverny." ..." Monsieur Da- 
 verny ! I am sure you are mistaken ; lie has never 
 said a word which could make me believe . . " 
 
THE FOREST OF SE.NART. 121 
 
 a 
 
 Because you have always treated hiin so coldly." 
 ..." Do you mean to say that he complained of my 
 behaviour towards him?"...' 'No, he has not even 
 told me that he loved you, and yet I am sure of it, 
 for once, when I asked him if he would like to be 
 my son, he took my hand, shook it heartily and said : 
 ' It would be a great happiness for me, but then, it 
 must be for your daughter's happiness as well.' That 
 was enough to make me feel sure that he wishes to 
 marry you." 
 
 Caroline said nothing, but she began to cry, for 
 her father had never yet spoken to her so plainly 
 about his views for her. When the colonel saw her 
 tears, lie could not continue his severe tone, but he 
 took her into his arms and kissed her, saying : 
 
 "There! now you are beginning to cry . . 
 Well, good heavens ! don't fret and get ill because 
 I talk about your getting married ! Come, don't 
 cry; perhaps later, you yourself will do Charles 
 justice. . . I want you to be happy, but I don't 
 want you to cry." 
 
 Caroline kissed her father, but from that moment 
 she seemed to fear Daverny's presence more than 
 ever, and to think that she must hate anyone who 
 thought of marrying her, so she told her confidante 
 her conversation with the colonel, and Marianne ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " You see I was not mistaken ; Monsieur Daverny 
 is in love with you! "..." That is quite impossible, 
 nurse ! He hardly ever speaks to me and never 
 looks at me ; when he sees me in one of the garden 
 walks he invariably takes another, and that is 
 scarcely the way a man would behave were he in 
 love ! But I know my father would like to have him 
 for his son-in-law, and Monsieur Daverny has, per- 
 haps, out of politeness, said that he would be de- 
 lighted, and that is how he would like to bring us- 
 together. But then, you know Marianne, that could 
 
122 THE FOREST OP SENAET. 
 
 never be ! Have I not my son, my darling Paul ? 
 And, if it must be, I will throw myself at my father's 
 feet and acknowledge my fault."..." Oh ! mademoi- 
 selle, you must not go so far as that, unless there 
 are absolutely no other means."..." Meanwhile, now 
 that I know that Monsieur Daverny has spoken of 
 marrying me, I shall never dare to stop in his com- 
 pany ; I think my father expects him soon. And 
 now that all our neighbours have gone back to Paris 
 how shall I manage not to be very often alone with 
 him ?"..." As you say that he avoids you, and as 
 you for your part do not care for him, it is probable 
 that you will not meet often."..." Oh ! it is all the 
 isaiue thing, nurse ; I foresee that I am going to be 
 very unhappy ! " 
 
 Charles Daverny came to stay with Monsieur de 
 Melleval very soon, but his behaviour towards 
 Caroline was always the same. He had several 
 times noticed her embarrassment when the colonel 
 had remarked what a long time she was out in the 
 morning, and had asked her where she had been. 
 He saw that she preferred going out alone with 
 Marianne to any walk which her father might pro- 
 pose, and so he had always taken care to get the 
 colonel to go out with him, or to engage him in 
 •a game of chess, when he might, perhaps, have 
 noticed his daughter's absence. Monsieur Trous- 
 sard came to Draveil towards the end of July, but 
 he was alone, and it was soon known in the neigh- 
 bourhood that he had only come for the purpose of 
 selling his country house; he himself told the 
 .colonel so, when he went to see him one day and 
 stayed to dinner, as Monsieur and Madame Du- 
 grandet had been invited. 
 
 " What ! you are going to sell that house which 
 you liked so much? " Monsieur de. Melleval said to 
 Monsieur Troussard...." Yes, we are going to sell it, 
 because my son-in-law, Minot, does not care for the 
 
THE FOREST OF SENAET. 12& 
 
 country, especially just this neighbourhood ! He 
 he has positively declared that he will never set foot 
 in it again, and so my wife said: 'If our children 
 will not come to our house in the country, I shall be 
 dreadfull dull there myself, so the best thing we 
 can do w.ll be to sell it !'"..." I should like to know 
 what is the reason of your son's dislike for this 
 part?" Madame Dugrandet said, looking at Mod- 
 sieur Troussard with a mischievous glance, and the 
 retired merchant said in a jovial manner: "I can- 
 not comprehend it . . but whenever Drayeil is 
 mentioned to my son-in-law Minot, he gets into a 
 bad temper directly, and looks terribly glum."... 
 " Has he still got his dog Castor, who used to fetch 
 and carry so well?" Madame Dugrandet contiued, 
 with a smile.... "No, he has got rid of him . . he 
 gave him away I think, and I cannot imagine why, 
 for he was a very clever animal."..." And per- 
 formed some very funny tricks with his master ! ' ; 
 
 Monsieur Troussard said good-bye to his neigh- 
 bours and wished them all to come and see him in 
 Paris; and then, in a fright, he came back for a 
 moment and said: "If you come and see us in 
 Paris, come early, for we are never at home in the 
 afternoon; we dine at my son-in-law's . . my 
 wife prefers that to housekeeping, and I . . "... 
 The colonel smiled, whilst Madame Dugrandet ex- 
 claimed: "He can be quite easy, for we shall 
 certainly not go and see him in Paris ; it is quite 
 enough to have to put up with hi in in the country." 
 
 The return of winter brought with it dull, short, 
 cold days, and Caroline was often obliged to deprive 
 herself of the pleasure of going to Champrozay. The 
 colonel's health, also, was becoming uncertain, and 
 his greatest pleasure was to have his daughter near 
 him. She made maternal yield to filial love, and 
 moreover, Marianne had said to her : " Little Paul 
 
 getting on and beginning to walk alone, and 
 
"124 THE FOREST OF SEXAET. 
 
 next summer I will make up a story ; I will manage 
 to show liim to the colonel, and tell him that he is 
 the son of a relation of mine who is dead, and he 
 will think it quite natural that I should take care of 
 him, and so he will allow me to keep him here. 
 Then you will be able to see him daily and hourly • 
 you can play with him as much as you like, that 
 will only be natural, but you must not tell him to 
 call you Mamma, for that would upset my whole 
 story." 
 
 Caroline was silent, but her longing to hear that 
 name which is so dear to a mother's heart was 
 stronger than all Marianne's arguments, and whilst 
 she busied herself in secret with making clothes for 
 her child, she said to herself : " I will try this sum- 
 mer to go to Champrozay alone for once, and then 
 I will teach my boy to call me mother . . tut I 
 shall tell him he must only call me so when we are 
 alone together, and he will do so if I tell him." 
 
 The time which she so longed for arrived at last. 
 They were in the month of July and Marianne was 
 going to Paris, as the colonel had entrusted her with 
 various commissions which would detain her there 
 for a couple of days, and it was arranged that on her 
 return she was to speak about the child, which she 
 was to say was the son of one of her relations. Charles 
 Daveruy had been at her father's for several days, 
 and, as he was always with the colonel, Caroline 
 seized the opportunity to go and see her boy by her- 
 self without Marianne. The weather was lovely, 
 and so Caroline went out immediatelv after lunch, 
 and she almost seemed to fly instead of to walk, and 
 never had she been so happy as at that moment. In 
 ^ess than an hour she got to the nurse's house; the 
 latter had long since guessed Caroline's secret from 
 the intense affection she showed for little Paul, but 
 she pretended to know nothing*, and she was far too 
 well paid not to be discreet and well satisfied at 
 
THE FOREST OF SENART. 125 
 
 'being the child's nurse. She found the boy playing 
 with his foster-brothers and sisters, and very proud, 
 for within the last few days he had been breeched, 
 and so she took him by the hand and went towards 
 the forest, which is not far from, the village. Caro- 
 line was never tired of looking at her son, who 
 seemed to her prettier than ever in his little sailor 
 suit ; he smiled at his mother, whom he now knew 
 well, and whom he always called his hind lady. 
 Sometimes he would let go her hand to run on in 
 front of her and to pick a flower, and then come 
 back and show it to her, for which he was sure to 
 he rewarded with another kiss. When they reached 
 the forest they were glad to seek the dense shade, 
 and so, when they got to a path where the sun did 
 not penetrate, the young mother sat down on the 
 grass, and said to him : 
 
 " Here we are alone — nobody can hear us — so listen 
 to me, my dear child ; if you love me, you must call 
 me mamma, for I am your mother, although they do 
 not wish you to know it. You are my son . . my 
 son . . do you understand me ? And now, say 
 mamma! dear mamma /".. .The child looked at her 
 and smiled, and then said: "Yes, kind lady."... 
 " But that is not what I want ; you must say mamma. 
 My darling child, you are all that remains to me ; 
 you will supply the place of everything to me. Come, 
 say to me: 'Mamma, I love you very much. 5 "... 
 Little Paul gave his mother his cheek and said : 
 "Yes, kind lady, I love you very much ! "..." Good 
 heavens ! don't you understand me? You are not to 
 say hind lady, but mamma ; say it after me : Mam- 
 ma."..." Mam-ma /"..." That's it ; say it again ! "... 
 "Mam-ma! "..."My darling child, how happy you 
 make me." 
 
 Little Paul repeated the phrase which his mothei 
 had just taught, and she pressed the child to hei 
 heart and covered him with kisses ; but just then she 
 
126 THE FOREST OP SENART. 
 
 heard a voice in the forest ; it was Monsieur de Mel- 
 leval who was calling Charles Daverny, and Caioline 
 heard these word ; "Come here, Charles, this path 
 will lead us into Champrozay ; perhaps we shall meet 
 her there." These words agitated Caroline extremely 
 and, not knowing what to do, she completely lost 
 her head, and, trembling with fright lest her father 
 should suddenly appear before her, she seated the 
 child at the foot of a tree and said : 
 
 " Stop here, my darling ; do not move, I shall 
 come back soon. I shall easily find a pretext. There, 
 take this pocket handkerchief, and I will say I have- 
 lost it, and come back for it, so stay quietly there 
 like a good little boy ! " 
 
 She kissed her child's forehead, and hurriedly 
 went away in the opposite direction to that in which 
 she had heard the colonel. The little boy remained 
 seated at the foot of the tree for a moment, but, as 
 he was used to playing and running about, he soon 
 got up to pick a flower which he saw, and then an- 
 other. He wished to make a nosegay, but as he- 
 went from flower to flower he did not notice that he 
 was getting far from the spot where his mother had 
 left him. At last, when he was tired of running 
 about, he indeed saw great trees all round him, but 
 no longer the green knoll on which he had been sit- 
 ting. The child began to be frightened, for t he- 
 more he walked the denser and darker the forest got, 
 and at last, with eyes full of tears, he cried out i 
 " Mamma, mamma, I love you very much ! " No 
 answer came, but he thought he heard steps in the 
 distance, and so he began to run again, but he was 
 mistaken and met nobody. Tired of walking, he sat 
 down under a tree, and with his little breast very 
 full, and in a trembling voice, he lisped out again : 
 "Mamma, mamma, I love you very much; do come,. 
 you hear that I am saying* mamma ! " But the 
 most profound silence continued to reign in the 
 
AN ATTACK OP DELIRIUM. 127" 
 
 forest. The child commenced again to walk at 
 random, but soon he began to feel tired and hungry, 
 and the paths in the woods grew more gloomy, for 
 it was getting towards evening. Then little Paul 
 asrain sat down under a tree : he cried and called for 
 his mother, but soon fatigue made him sleepy and 
 his eyes closed, whilst he still kept saying: "Mam- 
 ma, I love you very much ! " 
 
 CHAPTEB XIII. 
 
 AN ATTACK OF DELIRIUM. 
 
 When Caroline left her son at the foot of the 
 tree she had hurried on, and soon found herself in 
 the presence of her father and Charles Daverny. 
 The colonel uttered an exclamation of pleasure when 
 he saw his daughter ; he put on a serious look, how- 
 ever, because he intended to scold her for being so 
 far away from Draveil. 
 
 " Caroline," he said, " I think you go out quite 
 often enough with Marianne, and that 3 r ou might 
 have stopped with us to-day, or, at any rate, have 
 asked us to accompany yon. But no ! mademoiselle 
 goes off all by herself without a word, and scours the 
 country like a heroine of romance ; and I must tell 
 you again that a girl who has been properly brought 
 up does not go running all over the country by her- 
 self, it is not at all becoming, and I hope it will not 
 happen again. And then, to go so far ! Unless it 
 had been for some peasants who told us in what 
 direction you had gone, I should never have come to 
 look for you here ! " 
 
128 AN ATTACK OF DELIEIUM. 
 
 Whilst her father was scolding- her, Caroline did 
 all she could to conceal her agitation and impatience. 
 Charles, who had noticed the alteration in her fea- 
 tures, said to the colonel : " Now that we have found 
 your daughter, I do not think it will be worth while 
 to continue our walk any further. What do you 
 think, colonel? "..." You do not care to go to 
 Chaniprozay ?"..." What would be the good. How- 
 ever, it must be as mademoiselle wishes. "..."I shall 
 return home," Caroline replied,..." Very well then, 
 so be it." Colonel Melleval said. " After all, Cham- 
 prozay is nothing very wonderful; it is a village 
 just like any other. Let us go home." 
 
 The colonel set off again, whilst Charles waited 
 for Caroline, but, struck by her paleness and agi- 
 tated looks, he said : " What is the matter, made- 
 moiselle? "..."Nothing, monsieur; but I see that I 
 have dropped my pocket handkerchief near here, at 
 the place where I was sitting ! Go on, and I will 
 overtake you in a moment . . " Charles did not 
 reply, but he went on walking at some distance from 
 the colonel, so that he might not immediately see 
 that his daughter was not following him. 
 
 Caroline ran back to the spot where she had left 
 her child, but how can we depict the } r oung mother's 
 horror when she no longer found little Paul on the 
 spot where she had left him ? She looked at the 
 turf and at the trees which surrounded her, and said 
 to herself: "I certainly left him here, yes 
 this is the spot where we were b~th of us sitting. 
 What can have become of him ? Paul ! Paul ! 
 Where are you ? Why don't you answer me ? " But 
 ' there was no response to the mother's voice, and 
 Caroline, trembling and in despair, went on at 
 random, calling to him; and then went back the 
 same way, saying to herself: "I am not, surely 5 
 going to be deprived of my child ! " 
 
 Suddenly the thought struck her that he might 
 
AN ATTACK OF DELIRIUM* 129 
 
 have left the forest and gone back to the village, or 
 "that some peasant had taken him home. That hope 
 gave her fresh courage, and, taking a short cut, she 
 flew rather than ran to Chauiprozay, rushed into the 
 nurse's house, and cried : 
 
 " He is here, is he not ? He has returned ? They 
 have brought him back?" ... "Whom, mademoi- 
 selle ? " the peasant whom asked, struck by Caroline's 
 agitated manner. . . . " Why, little Paul ! . . my 
 son, for you know perfectly well that he is my son ; 
 you must have guessed that I am his mother ! "... 
 ■" Good heavens ! madame, he is not here ; you know 
 that you took him out for a walk with you."..." Not 
 .here ! . . Oh ! . . he is lost in the forest. 
 But I shall find him again ! I must find him." And 
 without replying to the nurse's questions, she started 
 ■off again, and hastened into the forest, walking at 
 random and making the air resound with her child's 
 name. Every moment her terror increased ; she no 
 longer knew where she was, and often returned to 
 the very spot which she had just left ; she lost her 
 head, she seemed to be able to distinguish nothing, 
 her voice failed her, till at length she fell to the 
 ground unconscious. 
 
 Charles, however, had remarked her terror and 
 anxiety, and, after walking for some time, he stopped 
 to wait for her, letting the colonel go on. Uneasy 
 at not seeing her come back, he made up his mind 
 to return, and so he took the path which she had 
 followed. After a little while an object in the dis- 
 tance struck his view, and, on reaching it, he found 
 that it was the colonel's daughter, lying senseless at 
 the foot of the tree. He knelt down by her and 
 tried to restore her to life again, but she remained 
 in the same state. In vain he shouted for help, but 
 no one came, and, as he feared that the girl might 
 be dying, he took her up in his arms and carried 
 his precious burden out of the wood. He soon met 
 
130 AN ATTACK OF DELIRIUM. 
 
 a peasant's cart going along the road. " I will give 
 yon anything you ask," Charles said to the young 
 fellow who was driving, " if you. will only help me 
 to lift this young lady into your cart and drive her 
 to Draveil . . " The peasant agreed ; he put 
 down some sacks and straw for her to rest upon, 
 and soon Caroline was lying in the cart, whilst 
 Daverny, sitting close to her, sustained her head, 
 and at every moment felt whether her heart was 
 still beating. They got to Draveil just as the colcnel 
 was going into his house ; he was very much alarmed 
 at seeins:his daughter unconscious and Charles hold- 
 ing: her in his arms. 
 
 " What has happened to my poor Caroline? " he 
 asked, trying to warm his daughter's icy hands in 
 his own...." I do not know, colonel . . Your 
 daughter left me again, as she had lost a pocket 
 handkerchief just at the entrance to the forest, I 
 waited a considerable time, and then, not knowing 
 to what to attribute her long absence, I went back 
 to look for her, and found her lying unconscious at 
 the foot of a tree."..." Daverny, go for the nearest 
 doctor, and meanwhile I will look after her. And 
 Marianne not here! But, make haste my dear 
 fellow ! " 
 
 There was no need to say this to him twice, and 
 he Avas already at some distance, whilst the colonel, 
 who had had Caroline placed on a bed, was trying 
 to restore her to consciousness by means of smelling- 
 salts. For a long time all his efforts were in vain, 
 but at last Caroline came to herself ; she uttered a 
 deep-drawn sigh, and, in a clear, abrupt voice, she 
 said : " Lost ! lost ! . . the dear child ! But no ! 
 
 . . you will bring him back to me, though he 
 has been carried off . . "..."Poor child," said 
 the colonel to himself, "she is wandering, and is 
 talking of a lost child. What can have brought 
 
AN ATTACK OP DELIRIUM'. 
 
 131 
 
 lier to this state ? Can it be fear ? The result of 
 : some accident ? " 
 
 Charles returned with a physician, who examined 
 the girl, and said she was suffering from a violent 
 attack of brain fever, ordered that she was not to be 
 left alone for a moment, wrote a prescription, and 
 promised to come again during the course of the 
 evening. " Monsieur de Melleval," Charles said, 
 when the doctor had gone, " let me stop up with 
 jour daughter all night. Marianne is a way, you are 
 not strong enough to endure the fatigue, so permit 
 rne to watch your Caroline ; you can depend upon 
 me, for her health is as precious to me as it is to 
 yourself." The colonel pressed the young man's 
 hand and said : " Yes, I know I can rely upon you, 
 l)ut if my daughter is in danger I shall not leave 
 her."..." No, the doctor has no doubt of saving her." 
 ..." Well, he is coming back this evening, so we will 
 and see what he says." 
 
 When the doctor came again, he noticed no 
 change for the worse in her state, and repeated : " It 
 is brain fever, which is always a serious matter, but 
 if no accident intervenes, patients generally get over 
 it. "..."My daughter was quite well this morning," 
 the colonel said, " for she would go out for a walk, 
 and when we met her she was not complaining of 
 Toeing ill ; but when my young friend found her she 
 was lying on the ground unconscious. I do no think, 
 doctor, that as a rule illnesses begin in such a 
 manrjer."..." Certainly not; probably this fainting 
 fit was the result of some sudden fright, and we must 
 - cure her first, and then we shall know the cause." 
 
 The doctor left, and Monsieur de Melleval stopped 
 till late in his daughter's room with Charles. Caro- 
 line had relapsed into a state of great depression ; 
 she did not speak a word, and the colonel thought 
 that her delirious attack was over, Towards one 
 -o'clock in the morning, Charles had persuaded the 
 
132 AN ATTACK OF DELIKITJUI. 
 
 colonel to go and get a little rest ; lie went to look at~ 
 his daughter once more, pnt his lips to her brow, 
 which was covered with perspiration, and went away 
 walking very quietly, so as not to make the slightest 
 noise. Just as he got to the door, she said: "My 
 bov ! my boy ! Where is he ? Give him to me . »- 
 lost! lost in the forest! Oh! what shall I do?' 5 ' 
 The colonel stopped and turned to Charles, who was 
 close to her bed. 
 
 " Did not my daughter speak? " he said...." Yes,, 
 some incoherent words," Charles said, in great per- 
 turbation ; but it is past, and she is much calmer ; 
 pray colonel, go and get a little rest. 55 ... "I will; but 
 pray Charles, if she speaks again, listen carefully,, 
 and try to catch a few words ; that will, I hope,, 
 enable us to discover the cause of the terrible state 
 in which we found her. 55 . . ." Yes, colonel, I will listen 
 attentively, I promise you. But the night is passing 
 by, and you must be very tired after such a day ; 
 you must not fall ill as well. 55 
 
 Overcome by the young man's persistency, Mon- 
 sieur de Melleval yielded at length ; he left Caroline 5 s 
 room, and Charles, who seemed easier when the 
 colonel was not there, came and sat down again near 
 the bed. During the whole night he remained in 
 the same place, and did not for a single moment 
 feel any desire to sleep. Daybreak found him watch- 
 ing over the young patient, and Monsieur de Melle- 
 val soon came to see how his daughter was. 
 
 " Did she have many delirious attacks during the 
 night ? 55 ..." Yes, monsieur,' 5 ..." Did she speak 
 much ? 55 . . ." Yes, she spoke, but always incoherently, . 
 so that it would be very difficult to form any opinion 
 of what she meant. 5 '..." Poor child! What can 
 have caused her to faint ? 55 
 
 Marianne returned from Paris in the course of the 
 morning, and, finding Caroline in bed and that she 
 did not know her, the kind creature wept with grief y 
 
AN ATTACK OF DELIRIUM. 
 
 133 
 
 and wanted to know what had happened to her 
 " dear child." The colonel told her the events of 
 the evening before : Caroline's walk, the spot where 
 he had met her, her second disappearance, and then 
 the state in which Charles had found her in the 
 Senart forest. Whilst listening to Monsieur de 
 Melloval, she grew red and pale by turns, for she 
 had no doubt that something had happened to little- 
 Paul, and that that was the cause of her young mis- 
 tress' fainting fit. After having kissed the invalid. 
 affectionately, she went out, saying tha.t she had 
 heard of a famous doctor in the neighbourhood and. 
 that she would try and find him. But instead of 
 that, she went to Champrozay to see the nurse and, 
 ask for little Paul. The woman told her, with many 
 tears, what had happened the evening before, and: 
 said that she had not seen the child again; that 
 the youno- lady had first of all taken him away, and 
 then came back and asked for him. Marianne was 
 in despair and begged the nurse to make inquiries 
 in the neighbourhood, promising her a handsome re- 
 ward if she could find the child, as he had, perhaps,, 
 been forcibly taken away; then she returned to 
 Draveil, crying all the way, and saying to herself:: 
 " My poor young mistress ! If they have taken her 
 son, I am not at all surprised that she has fallen 
 into this delirious state. But who can have taken 
 the child?" When she returned, she took up her 
 post at Caroline's bedside, declaring that she would 
 not leave it again till her young mistress was quite 
 restored to health. 
 
 "What about the doctor of whom you spoke r> 
 the colonel asked her.... "No one can tell me what 
 has become of him," she replied; "but trust ine 
 monsieur, to nurse your daughter carefully. 1 will- 
 not leave her for a moment, and I will take sucli 
 care of her, that she be restored to us.' ..."Yes, 
 said the colonel, pressing Marianne's hand ; " I know 
 
5 "3 4 AN ATTACK OF DELIRIUM. 
 
 liow dear my daughter is to you . . Oh ! if our 
 love could save her, she would soou be well, for we 
 .all love her here ! And, last night, Charles ab- 
 solutely insisted on sitting up with her. Let us 
 hope that our care and love will preserve her life, 
 for I feel that I could not support her loss. I can- 
 not even think of the possibility of such an event ! " 
 Daverny did bis best to calm and to reassure 
 Monsieur de Melleval. The doctor came to see her 
 again and found her still in the same state of pros- 
 tration, from which she emerged only to fall into 
 rfresh attacks of delirium. The doctor shook his 
 head sadly and murmured: "There must have been 
 some very violent shock to have brought about such 
 .results." Marianne scarcely left her bedside for a 
 moment. In the middle of the night Caroline sud- 
 ■ denly half rose up in bed, looked round her, and 
 then gazed earnestly at Marianne. She hoped that 
 'ner young mistress was about to recognise her, so 
 : she spoke to her, kissed her, and took her hands in 
 her own ; Caroline did not respond to these marks 
 of affection, and suddenly cried out: 
 
 " Don't you know ? I had a son, a son by Arthur, 
 whom I was bringing up in secret at Champrozay 
 . . for my father would, perhaps, have cursed 
 me if he had known . . Well ! I have lost him — 
 . lost him in the forest ; I called him, I ran about, but 
 he gave me no answer . . Oh ! what will Ma- 
 rianne say when she learns that I no longer have my 
 son ! Let us go and look for him — return to the 
 forest." 
 
 And the girl made an effort to get up, but Ma- 
 rianne took her into her arms, held her back, and 
 : succeeded in calming her. Soon she fell back on 
 her bed, and profound weakness succeeded her at- 
 tack of delirium. 
 
 " Poor child," Marianne said to herself ; " she has 
 ~ lost her son — lost him in the forest ! Why was I 
 
A WEDDING. 135 
 
 obliged to leave her, even for one day? Had I been 
 liere, this wonld not have happened. Poor child ! what 
 can have become of him? Has anyone fonnd him 
 and taken care of him." Soon other thoughts came 
 into her mind, and she trembled to think that, in her 
 delirium, Caroline had divulged the secret which she 
 was so carefully hiding. " The other night," Ma- 
 rianne said to herself, " Monsieur Daverny sat up 
 with her . . Gracious heavens ! only suppose she 
 said the same things ! What must the young man 
 think? And, if Monsieur de Melleval heard his 
 daughter talking like that, everything would be lost 
 . . poor Caroline ! Oh ! if only these delirious 
 attacks would not come except at night when I am 
 alone with her, for then her words would not put 
 lier father to shame ! " And Marianne threw herself 
 down by the bed on her knees, and spent the night 
 in praying to heaven to spare her young mistress's 
 life. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 A WEDDING. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and Caroline had not yet re- 
 covered her senses ; her paroxysms of delirium had 
 been succeeded by complete exhaustion and pros- 
 tration. However, she rarely let drop any words 
 which might have betrayed her secret, except at 
 night, and the faithful servant thanked heaven for 
 having heard her prayers. At last, one night, after 
 a whole week passed in complete exhaustion, Caro- 
 line opened her eyes ; she seemed to wake up out of 
 
136 A WEDDING. 
 
 a dream. She recognised Marianne, called her, and" 
 asked her what had happened. The kind woman 
 ran and kissed her young mistress, and shed tears 
 of jo j, exclaiming : 
 
 " So you know me again at last ! Ah ! now you 
 will get over it ! "...Whilst Marianne was speaking, 
 Caroline regained her memory, and she put her 
 hand to her forehead, and said : " So it was not a>> 
 dream? That terrible event which happened . „- 
 my child . . I have lost my boy ? "...Marianne 
 felt that at this moment any caution would be use- 
 less, and, therefore, she did not try to deceive her 
 mistress, but pressed her hands in her own, and 
 said : " You are now well enough to tell me how the 
 misfortune happened. Tell me everything, and I 
 have no doubt that we shall find the dear child 
 again. "...Caroliiie shed many tears before she was 
 able to speak, but they relieved her, and so she was* 
 able to give Marianne an exact account of what had 
 happened, and, when she had finished, she said : 
 " Your child must have been taken away by some- 
 one ; if he had remained in the forest he would have 
 been found, for it is very much frequented. And 
 then, if yon only knew how thoroughly I have had 
 it searched by the peasants ! Somebody has taken 
 off little Paul — he is so pretty — someone found him, 
 and he could not exj^lain properly where he lived, 
 and so, no doubt, they thought they were doing a 
 kind action in taking- charge of him. You need not 
 be the least alarmed for his life. It may be rather 
 difficult to find him again, but you will not succeed- 
 any the more easily by nearly killing yourself with 
 grief. Be brave and try to bear this misfortune . .. 
 think of your poor father ! If you only knew how 
 your illness has grieved him ! You can see how he 
 has altered since, and, if you were to die, I am sure' 
 that he would not long survive you." 
 
A WEDDING. 137 
 
 Marianne's simple but true words touched Caro- 
 line's heart, and so she put out her hand to the 
 servant, and said : " I will he brave, Marianne, and 
 bear my sufferings. Besides, something at the 
 bottom of my heart tells me that I shall find my boy 
 again ! But go and tell my father that I have re- 
 covered my senses, and that I want to kiss him." 
 
 Marianne scarcely heard Caroline's last words. 
 She went to the colonel and called to him from a 
 distance : " Come, monsieur, our dear child is saved ; 
 come, for she will recognise you now ; she knew me 
 when she woke." The colonel could scarcely believe 
 the good news. However, he rose from his chair 
 and followed Marianne, and soon was in his 
 daughter's arms. He mingled his tears with her's y 
 and heard her dear voice calling him by the most 
 affectionate names ; in a word, he had found his 
 child again. When Monsieur de Melleval could 
 look about him, he noticed Charles in a corner of 
 the room ; he seemed afraid to move, lest that 
 charming picture should fall before his eyes. 
 
 " Come here, my dear young friend ! " the colonel 
 cried. "My daughter is restored to us, and you 
 must share our joy, just as you shared our sorrow. 
 You are no longer a stranger to us ! Caroline, 
 Charles watched beside you whilst Marianne was 
 absent. . . Oh ! he is indeed a true friend, and 
 those whose devotion increases two-fold in the time 
 of our troubles are scarce." 
 
 Charles went up to her in an embarrassed manner, 
 and stammered out a few words, without venturing 
 to look at Caroline, whilst she merely gave him her 
 hand, which he took and raised to his lips, but he 
 scarcely touched it, for he fancied that Caroline 
 made a movement to withdraw it. 
 
 " Cannot you tell us now what happened in the 
 wood? When Charles found you, you had fainted. 
 What made yo do that? "...Caroline grew pale and 
 
138 A WEDDING. 
 
 her eyes filled with tears, bat Charles said : " Colonel, 
 your questions evidently are not doing your daughter 
 any good ; perhaps it is scarcely wise to recall to her 
 memory just now what it was that had such an 
 effect upon her ; it will be better to wait till she has 
 quite regained her health."..." You are right, my 
 young friend," the colonel replied ; " you are more 
 rational than I am; my daughter has recovered and 
 that is the chief thing, and now we must do all that 
 we can to hasten her entire convalescence." 
 
 From that day, Caroline lost her fever, and she was 
 soon able to get up and walk about the garden, 
 leaning on her father's arm. But her returning 
 strength brought no returning smile to her lips ; she 
 was still pale and anxious looking, and often sue 
 turned her head away to hide the tears which rose 
 to her eyes. To all Monsieur de Melleval's questions 
 as to what had caused her to faint, she only replied 
 that she could not remember anything at all about 
 the matter. The time went on; Caroline herself 
 went to Champrozay, but could learn nothing, and 
 consequently she was always sad and thoughtful ; 
 but in her father's presence she tried to smile, for 
 his daughter's illness had given him a shock which 
 he couldn't get over ; a few months had aged him as 
 If they had been so many years, and Caroline was 
 frightened at the change which she saw in his 
 features. 
 
 It was winter again, but Charles scarcely left the 
 colonel's country house, for when he talked of re- 
 turning to Paris, the old soldier was angry with him. 
 One day, when Daverny again seemed to wish to 
 leave, the colonel took his hand, and said : " You 
 want to leave, and I have no friend left now but 
 you . . and you know that I have centred all 
 my fondest hopes in you !"..." They will never be 
 
 ealized,' Charles replied, with a sigh "But why 
 
 r e you so determined not to speak to my daughter ? ,: 
 
A WEDDING. 139 1 
 
 ..."Because I know I shall not be fortunate enough 
 to please her, and so I must ask you never to use 
 jour authority to make your daughter marry me."... 
 " I cannot understand your obstinacy," the colonel 
 said; "your marriage would have fulfilled my 
 greatest wish, and yet it is not to be, because you 
 will not speak to my daughter, whom you love and 
 wish to marry, as you think she does not care for 
 you. I do not think you could tell me why you are 
 pcs^efesed by this idea, but it is quite certain that 
 you have a very peculiar way of paying you addresses 
 to her . . Perhaps you expect my daughter to 
 tell you that she would like to marry you ? " Charles 
 did not reply, and the colonel sulked all day. In the 
 evening, when Caroline happened to be alone with 
 her father, she said : 
 
 " Are you not well to-day, father? "..." No, I am 
 not," he said, " but what does it matter to you 
 whether your father is well or not ? I feel that I 
 shall not live much longer, and it grieves me that 
 my daughter should let me leave this world un- 
 happy and dissatisfied. "..."How can you say such 
 things ? " Caroline cried, throwing herself into his 
 arms ; " I, who love you so dearly — who would give 
 my life to prolong yours ! "..." My dear child, words 
 prove veij little ! We show our affection by our 
 actions, and my happiness would be to see you the 
 wife of Charles Daverny ; I am sure that he is worthy 
 of you. Besides that, you are twenty-one, and I do 
 not suppose that you wish to be an old maid. They 
 are refractory conscripts who did not answer the 
 roll-call at twenty years of age, and so have pre- 
 served a false position in society their whole life 
 long. If I die without leaving you under a hus- 
 band's guardianship, I should feel as if not able to 
 rest in peace in my grave."..." My dear father!" 
 Caroline cried, " I do not wish you to be unhappy . . 
 *■■ is better that I alone should be the one to suffer. 
 
"140 A WEDDING. 
 
 I will not let yon die or doubt my love for yon, and 
 so I will . . many Monsieur Daverny." 
 
 Overcome by the effort which she had made, Caro- 
 line let her head droop on to her breast, bnt the 
 colonel was so happy at what he had heard, that he 
 took her into his arms and kissed and thanked her, 
 and then, fearful lest she should nns.iv it, he left 
 lur hastily, exclaiming : "I will go and find Charles, 
 -and inform him of his good luck ! At last we shall 
 all be happy." For some time Caroline remained al- 
 together overwhelmed at the resolution which she 
 had arrived at, and only Marianne's appearance dis- 
 pelled her stupor. She went up to her old nurse, 
 and said : 
 
 "Do you know what I have just done? I have 
 promised to marry Monsieur Daverny. My father 
 accused me of not loving him any more . . he is 
 not well, and I saw tears in his eyes; he said that 
 my refusal would shorten his life, so how could I 
 resist his entreaties, Marianne?"... "No, mademoi- 
 selle, yon could not ; and then, I think that heaven 
 itself wishes this marriage. Tour lover has cruePy 
 -abandoned yon, and yon have lost yonr son ! 
 Marry Monsieur Daverny ; yon will not be deceiving 
 him, for he sees that you do not love him. I will 
 not venture to say that you will be happy, but you 
 will have satisfied your father, and perhaps pro- 
 longed his life, and that thought should repay you 
 for your own distaste for this match. And then, if 
 later you should find your child again there will be 
 nothing to hinder you from constantly watching over 
 him, without saying that you are his mother." 
 
 The next day, Caroline was alone in the drawing- 
 room, when Charles, whom she had not seen since 
 the previous day, suddenly entered and came up to 
 her chair. He seemed almost as much embarrassed 
 as she was, and remained standing before her, but at 
 last, with an effort, he determined to speak. 
 
A WEDDING. 141 
 
 " Mademoiselle, your father lias told me — lie lias 
 led me to hope for happiness of which I did not 
 venture to dream — that you will consent to bestow 
 your hand upon me."..." Yes, monsieur," Caroline 
 replied, in a low voice, so as hardly to be heard, and 
 ■Charles looked at her in a very different manner to 
 :to what he had ever ventured upon before, and ex- 
 claimed : " To be your husband, and to be constantly 
 thinking of your slightest wishes would indeed be 
 delightful for me, but should this marriage be too 
 great a sacrifice for you, I would nol . . I should 
 never accept my happiness at the expense of your 
 own ! "..."Monsieur, I promised my father . . 
 but I must tell you that I should be deceiving you 
 were 1 to promise you love."... "I will be satisfied 
 with your friendship, and, perhaps, later on, my 
 affectionate devotion will be repaid by a more tender 
 feeling." 
 
 Caroline was going to reply, and, carried away by 
 .Iris open-heartedness, she was about to say more 
 than, he might care to hear, but just then the colonel 
 -came into the drawing-room, and his appearance 
 checked the words which were on his daughter's lips, 
 so she resigned herself to being guilty so as not to 
 make her father blush. Monsieur de Melleval wished 
 to hasten on the moment of the wedding; he seemed 
 "to have recovered all his strength and vivacity. He 
 sent Charles to Paris to procure the necessary papers, 
 commissioned him to make all the purchases, and to 
 T)uy all the wedding presents, and to make haste 
 about it. Charles, who shared the colonel's im- 
 patience, soon returned to Draveil. The day was 
 fixed and the moment had come, but Caroline still 
 thought she had some time before her, when one 
 day her father kissed her and said : " To-morrow 
 vou will be Madame Daverny." ..." To-morrow ! " 
 Caroline said, and then grew pale, tottered, and 
 nearly fainted; but the colonel was looking at his 
 
142 A WEDDING. 
 
 daughter as if lie wished to read to tlie bottom of her 
 heart, and in that look there was something so stern 
 and imposing that it made Caroline tremble, so she- 
 looked down and said : " To-morrow . . I shall 
 be ready to obey you." 
 
 And so the next day, dressed in white and with a 
 white bouquet in her hand, whilst she blushed in- 
 wardly at these emblems of innocence and purity, 
 she walked to the altar with trembling steps and 
 gave her hand to Charles Daverny. Only a few 
 guests had been invited to the ceremony ; Monsieur 
 Dugrandet and his wife and one or two other neigh- 
 bours had been asked to be present, but all the in- 
 habitants of the village came to see it. 
 
 " The bride is very pale, and her eyes are very red,'* 
 the peasant girls said...." Getting married produces 
 an effect upon her," the lads replied. ..." Well, you 
 see, with town girls it is not the same as with us, 
 who take a husband just as we should take a plate 
 of soup."..." Some of them are stupid . . why. 
 some husbands are actually not worth so much ! " 
 
 Whilst the peasants were talking about the newly- 
 married couple, they had returned home ; Charles 
 with looks full of love at Caroline, whilst she 
 lowered her eyes, so as not to meet those of the man 
 to whom she had just united her lot. That mar- 
 riage did not resemble those which are usually cele- 
 brated, for they generally begin very merrily, and 
 do not terminate quite the same. Was Caroline'^ 
 to be just the contrary to others ? " 
 
IN PAEI8 4 143 » 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 IN PARIS. 
 
 Six months had passed since Caroline had become 
 Madame Daverny, and the married couple were just 
 as cold and silent towards each other as they were 
 on their wedding day. Charles, however, had made 
 several efforts to overcome his wife's indifference 
 and coldness towards him, but, as he saw that all 
 his attentions were useless and seemed to worry 
 Caroline, he soon ceased to speak to her of his love,, 
 and, confining- himself to such acts of courtesy as are 
 usual amongst well-bred people, he appeared resigned ! 
 to his lot and not to wish to change it. The colonel 
 thought that his daughter was happy, -for, as he had 
 never made love except in the military fashion, he 
 did not think it necessary that married people should 
 love each other. He saw that Daverny was very at- 
 tentive to his wife, and that she met his slightest 
 wishes, and so he said to himself : " They are an ex- 
 cellently-mated couple ! They suit each other 
 capitally, for they are both rather serious and do not 
 speak much, but I am sure that they love each other 
 very dearly. 
 
 For a short time his daughter's marriage had im- 
 proved the colonel's failing health, but it was only 
 the flickering of an expiring lamp. Day by day he 
 grew weaker and weaker, and his daughter's tender 
 care and his son-in-law's assiduities could not pro- 
 long his existence ; but, at any rate, they soothed 
 his end, and often Monsieur de Melleval, taking the 
 hands of Caroline and her husband in his own, 
 would say to them : " My children, do not grieve; I feel 
 that I must soon leave you, but I shall depart happy 
 and tranquil, because I see that you are an united 
 
144 IX PARIS. 
 
 • 
 couple, and that you Trill always love each other ! " 
 Caroline pressed her father's hand and whispered: 
 * c Yes, I shall be very happy if only you regain your 
 health." In spite of Caroline's prayers, the colonel 
 soon expired in her arms, to her inexpressible grief. 
 Although they had clearly foreseen that sad event 
 i*or some time, Caroline had always repelled the 
 thought and buoyed herself up with the hope that 
 her father would recover, and in vain Charles tried 
 to soothe his wife's grief by his love and attention ; 
 it rather seemed as if, since the colonel's death, she 
 repelled her husband more and more, for she avoided 
 as much as possible being alone with him, and she 
 only gave vent to her complaints to Marianne. As 
 Daverny could not dissipate his wife's constant sad- 
 ness, he thought that living at Draveil and the sight 
 of the place where she had lost her father kept her 
 grief fresh, and he could think of no better means to 
 afford her a little distraction than to take her to 
 Paris, and so one morning before Caroline went to 
 her own sitting room, he said : 
 
 " I have been thinking of going to live in Paris, 
 
 - for this house must continually cause you sad recol- 
 lections, and another residence might, perhaps, dis- 
 tract your thoughts somewhat. Do you approve of 
 niy plan? "..."I am ready to go wherever you wish, 
 monsieur," she said coldly, and quickly left her hus- 
 band. Daverny looked after his wife, and his face 
 expressed the sadness and vexation which he felt, 
 and, in his agitation, he crumpled up a newspaper 
 which he was holding in his hands, but he soon 
 grew calmer and more master of himself, and only 
 said : " I will try again, perhaps at length my efforts 
 may succeed." 
 
 A week later, Caroline and her husband were in- 
 
 - stalled in very handsome apartments in the Rue da 
 la Paix, and Marianne, a cook, and a footman made 
 up their establishment. Daverny 's income, together 
 
IN PARIS. 
 
 145 
 
 ■with his wife's, would have allowed them to spend a 
 •very happy existence, and many people in their posi- 
 tion would have had their carriage and livery ser- 
 vants, and lived in luxurious style; but Caroline's 
 husband did not care for show, and his wife had 
 never been given to those pleasures which necessi- 
 tate grand toilettes and great expense, and she 
 • certainly had not altered in that respect since her 
 marriage. But in the apartments which he had 
 taken, Charles had not a bedroom to himself, as he 
 "had in the country ; and had only one room, which 
 -was his study, so he slept with his wife, which 
 seemed to increase Caroline's sadness, though she 
 had not ventured to oppose the arrangement. Da- 
 -verny, however, did all he could to make her life 
 agreeable, and tried to find some fresh amusements 
 for her every day. He took her to theatres and 
 -concerts, and showed her all the sights of Paris, and 
 tried to discover any impression of pleasure on her 
 face, but she remained indifferent and sad, and 
 nothing moved her — nothing amused her. 
 
 One evening, when they came back from the play, 
 where Caroline had been in even lower spirits than 
 usual, Charles, who seemed much agitated, waited 
 till the servants had retired, and, standing in front 
 -of his wife, who could not avoid the tete-a-tete, he 
 looked at her for some time and then said : " Caro- 
 line, you are very unhappy? "..." I do not complain," 
 she replied, carefully avoiding his looks.... "No, it is 
 -true that you do not complain, but this existence is 
 a continual torture to me!" Charles had uttered 
 -these last words so forcibly, and he had struck the 
 table near him so violently, that Caroline started in 
 terror and hastily pushed back her chair. A bitter 
 smile passed over his lips ; he walked up and down 
 the room once or twice, and then stopped before his 
 wife and said to her : " You are afraid of me now ? 
 That alone was wanting . . "..."I did not say 
 
146 IN PARIS. 
 
 that," Caroline replied in a trembling voice. A few 
 minutes passed without either of them breaking the- 
 silence, but at last Charles again addressed his wife : 
 "If you do not like Peris and wish to return to- 
 Draveil, only say so and we will go backto-morrow.' , 
 ..." No, the house where my father died can have no 
 charm for me now; however . . "..."However? 
 
 . . Well, finish what you were going to say."... 
 " It seems to me that in the country we were more 
 comfortable than we are here, for we each of us had 
 our own apartments . and . "..."I understand 
 you ; you do not wish me to sleep with you ? That 
 is what you are aiming at ? Well, you are right ; it 
 is no happiness for me to hold a statue in my arms, 
 a body whose soul is somewhere else, and for you it 
 must be torture, and I ought to have spared you it. 
 This very night you shall be alone, madame, and you, 
 shall no longer be annoyed by my presence . . 
 and during the daytime you shall also be free not to 
 see me, and to remain in yoor own rooms as long as- 
 you like, and for the future you shall be your own. 
 mistress to do whatever you please ; I know you well 
 enough to be sure that your conduct will always be- 
 irreproachable. Nobody shall ever know that you 
 are really separated from me, and if some day . . 
 but no, I must give up all hope of that." 
 
 With these words, Charles looked at his wife, and 
 then, taking up a candlestick, he hastily left the 
 bedroom. Caroline remained speechless and motion- 
 less ; for a moment, she had even felt some inclina- 
 tion to address her husband affectionately, but she 
 could not summon up courage ; the words died away 
 on her lips, and Daverny had gone out long before 
 she asked herself whether she should detain him. 
 The next day, husband and wife met at meal times ; 
 he was always equally attentive to her, but it was 
 evidently merely cold politeness, and it was clear 
 that he had given up all hopes of gaining her heart. 
 
THEY JIEEr AGAIN. 147 
 
 However, when we no longer seek to please, we often 
 succeed in doing so, but it was not thus with Caro- 
 line and her husband. She congratulated herelf on 
 :no longer receiving any marks of his affection, to 
 which she conld not respond, and was happier, be- 
 cause she was frequently alone and could think of 
 her son at leisure, and of Arthur, who had gained 
 her heart, whom she pictured to herself as being as 
 handsome, as amiable, and as seductive as he was on 
 ■that day when she saw him for the first time. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 One fine day in winter, Madame Daverny was sit- 
 ting at her piano, when suddenly the footman 
 • opened the door and announced two ladies, who were 
 asking for her. Caroline, who had received no com- 
 pany during the three years that she had been in 
 Paris, was wondering who they could be, but before 
 she could say whether she would see them or not, 
 the door opened and Madame Troussard and her 
 daughter came in. 
 
 '•Here is our dear friend . . it is she indeed," 
 -exclaimed Madame Troussard, going up and kissing 
 her, as did her daughter also, with every demonstra- 
 tion of affection. " Oh ! what a pleasure to see you 
 again, my dear Caroline ! We did not know you 
 were living in Paris, or we should have been to see 
 you a long time ago. I often said to Therese : 6 There 
 is that poor, dear little Caroline ! When shall we 
 goto Draveil to have a chat with her?' But we 
 
148 THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 never could find the time. You know, we have not 
 got our house at Draveil any longer. We knew 
 that you were married, for we received the announce- 
 ment of it, but I do not think we know your hus- 
 band at all . . That is strange, but I suppose he 
 did not come to your house in our time P "..." Is he 
 young and good-looking? Is he good tempered? 
 Is he very fond of you, and are you very happy ? , . 
 Men are so deceptive, I know that from experience,, 
 now that I have been keeping house for six years, 
 and a half ; good heavens ! Six years and a half ! 
 It is a long time. And how long have you been 
 married, Caroline ? " 
 
 Caroline had not yet been able to get in a word,, 
 because Madame Troussard still had the bad habit 
 of talking continually, of asking questions without 
 giving anyone time to reply, but at last she managed 
 to say : 
 
 "I have been married nearly five years. "../'Five 
 years ! That is exactly what I said to Therese. It 
 must be nearly five years. How time flies! And 
 the poor colonel ! We heard . . But my deaiy 
 it must come to us all, though that does not make 
 it any more pleasant. After all, it is better to die 
 than to get into Monsieur Troussard's state!"... 
 " Oh ! you do not know that, Caroline ; my father 
 has gone imbecile ! ". . , " Imbecile ?"..." Yes, my 
 dear, imbecile or nearly so. It was the result of an 
 accident in the cellar. You know that he spent 
 three-quarters of his time there, seeing that none of 
 his bottles were missing. Well, one day on going 
 in he saw that a whole pile had fallen down, and 
 that over a hundsed bottles were broken ! When 
 he saw this, he was so overcome and distressed that 
 he had a paralytic seizure; he fainted in the cellar, 
 and, unfortunately, we had gone out to dine, and so 
 we did not notice anything. When we came back 
 we were anxious to get to bed, and, making sure- 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN. 149 
 
 that Monsieur Troussard was snoring already, we 
 did not go to his room, and so it was not till break- 
 fast next morning tliat I began to get uneasy, when. 
 I did not see liim. I sent down into the cellar, and, 
 there they found my husband, who had spent nearly 
 twenty-four hours lying on the broken bottles. T 
 sent for the doctor immediately, but it was no good ; . 
 ever since then he has been cracked, and it is very 
 dreadful to be the wife of a man who is not in pos- 
 session of all his faculties. Have you been ill since 
 your marriage, Caroline ? You have grown very- 
 pale and altered."... "No, but I ani . . "..."My 
 daughter has also grown very thin since she mar- 
 ried; just look how pinched in her nose is. Poor 
 Therese, who used to be so fat and ruddy. It grieves 
 me to look at her.'' 1 ..." But mamma, to listen to you. 
 one might think that I am nothing but a skeleton." 
 ..."Well, not quite that, but if you go on as you 
 are doing . . Take care, for as a rule husbands 
 are not fond of bones ! And monsieur is already 
 not as amiable towards you as he used to be.".., 
 " Ah ! you do not know that I have a child, Caroline 
 — a boy of four ; he goes to school already, and just 
 missed getting the first prize for something or other, 
 but his masters declare that he will gain two next 
 year, if we make him have his chocolate in school in- 
 stead of having it at home. And have you a child, 
 Caroline?" 
 
 Caroline did not reply, but her eyes filled with 
 tears, and she hid her face in her pocket handker- 
 chief. 
 
 " There now, you have made her cry ! " Madame 
 Troussard said; "really Therese, you are very in- 
 discreet, and chatter too much ! You see that our 
 dear Caroline has no child, and that grieves her. 
 But, take comfort, my dear, it may come still ; there 
 is not much time lost as yet. I knew a lady who 
 got in the family way after twenty-two years of 
 
150 THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 married life; it is true that it came to nothing, and 
 -was preserved in spirits of wine. But, shall we not 
 ■see your husband, my dear Caroline ? Will you not 
 introduce us to him?"..."! should so much like to 
 know him," Therese said ; " you must bring him to 
 see us. If he is fond of music, we will get him to 
 sing, and then we have a number of games, for we 
 -often give evening parties, where all enjoy them- 
 selves very much."..." My husband does not sing," 
 Caroline replied ; " he is of a very serious disposi- 
 tion, and we never go out anywhere."..." You live 
 just like bears then, and you are very wrong, for a 
 young woman ought to go into society. Monsieur 
 Minot also wished to keep his wife in seclusion and 
 to deprive her of all pleasures, and to leave her at 
 home, whilst he went gadding about and amusing 
 himself. That was what first made Therese get thin, 
 but I soon settled that. 1 said to my son-in-law : 
 'If you want to enjoy yourself without your wife, 
 she will amuse herself without you ! ' And so I in- 
 vited a lot of people. And then Monsieur Minot 
 amended his ways rather. He began to sing duets 
 with his wife again ; his voice is not so strong, but 
 that does not matter. If once you let your husband 
 interefere with you, he will knead you till you be- 
 come as soft as a lump of dough. Ah ! you must 
 really come and see us, my dear Caroline, and if 
 your husband will not accompany you, you must 
 come without, that is all, unless he is a regular 
 ■tyrant."... "No, on the contrary, my husband lets 
 me do exactly what I please, but I do not abuse my 
 liberty. However, I shall be very pleased to go and 
 see you. But, a woman cannot go into society by 
 herself, and suppose Monsieur Daverny refuses to 
 accompany me ?"..." Why should he refuse ? What 
 reason could he have ? " Madame Troussard asked ; 
 " we are old neighbours, and my daughter is a f ne^ud 
 of yours • • Talking about friends, what have 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN. 151 
 
 tou done with that tall Ophelia, Monsieur de Viens- 
 sec's niece? What has become of her ?"..." I do 
 not know, but I believe . she is travelling with hei 
 Tincle ; I have not heard anything of her for a long 
 time, however."..." No doubt, she has gone back to 
 Rome ; she dreamt of nothing but Romans, of Italy, 
 of Vesuvius ! If ever she marries she ought to 
 marry a volcano ! But that proves nothing. Just 
 look at Monsieur Minot, for instance. It is true 
 that my daughter has got very much thinner, and 
 that she can absolutely jump about in her stays 
 now." Really mamma, you are always saying the 
 same thing ; it gets quite monotonous at last. Is it 
 my fault if I have grown thin or if I have altered ? " 
 
 But whilst Madame Troussard and her daughter 
 were getting excited by talking, the door of the 
 drawing-room opened, and someone came in. Ma- 
 dame Minot looked round, saw a gentleman, and 
 said: "No doubt, it is Monsieur Daverny!" It 
 was, as a matter of fact, Charles, who was going into 
 his study, and who had stopped in the drawing- 
 room, surprised at hearing several voices in his wife's 
 room. " Yes, it is my husband," Caroline replied, 
 after looking into the drawing-room. Madame 
 Troussard and her daughter immediately got up and 
 hastened into the next room, where they made low 
 curtsies to Daverny, even before Caroline had intro- 
 duced them to him, an d Charles looked with surprise 
 at the two ladies, whom he did not know, and who 
 did not give him time to say a word in reply to all 
 their polite speeches. 
 
 " Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur," 
 Madame Troussard said ; " we were speaking of you 
 just now to your wife, and begging to be introduced 
 to you. We told her that we should be delighted 
 to see you sometimes at our little musical evenings, 
 and we are always at home on Saturdays. We chose 
 "that day because, as the next day is Sunday, people 
 
152 THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 can stay a little longer, and lie in bed next day, se- 
 we hope to see you next Saturday; no ceremony, just 
 like at artists' parties. Come Therese, we must go, 
 for we have several more calls to mate, and the 
 time passes I don't know how." 
 
 Madame Troussard made Daverny a low curtsey 
 and kissed Caroline ; her daughter followed her 
 example, and they took their leave, after saying 
 again : " We shall reckon on you for next Satarday."" 
 When the day arrived, Caroline had not yet made up' 
 her mind what to do, but during: the day her husband 
 came to her room, and said : " Do you wish me to go 
 with you to Madame Troussard's ?"..." Yes, I have 
 no objection."..." Very well then, at eight o'clock T 
 shall be at your orders. That evening when Charles 
 went into his wife's room, he found that she had 
 paid more attention than usual to her toilette, and,, 
 when he looked at her charming but sad face, he- 
 could scarcely conceal the emotion that he felt. The* 
 carriage was waiting, and during the drive they did 
 not exchange a word ; he was absorbed by his re- 
 collections of the past, and the present made her feel 
 sad, and neither would break the silence. 
 
 Madame Troussard's apartments were on the same 
 floor as her daughter's, and their parties were al- 
 ways given in her rooms, so that if Theophile was- 
 in a bad temper, or came home drunk, which he did 
 occasionally, he could go to bed without going near 
 his mother-in-law, or interrupting the concert. Ma- 
 dame Troussard's company was assembled in a hand- 
 some drawing-room, in which an immense piano was^ 
 Daverny and his wife were the last arrivals. It was 
 a strange medley, and music was the principal 
 entertainment provided for the guests, all of whom 
 wished to pass either for music-mad or for great 
 connaisseurs. There were also some people present 
 who knew nothing, but who, in order to be some- 
 thing, were, or rather said they were, the patrons o§ 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN. 153 
 
 artists. Such people are always easily recognised • 
 they are never young, and they have a loud voice, an 
 impertintent manner, and a very old hat. Whilst 
 some young lady is singing, they exclaim : " She will 
 do, she has already improved very much, thanks to 
 my advice. . . I told her to take lessons of so 
 and so, and not to open her mouth so wide during 
 her pauses. I will get her on, and make her sing 
 constantly at musical matinees, for that will form 
 her and give her self-confidence. I taught nearly 
 all the opera singers. She will do ; I will get her 
 on." The arrival of Daverny and his wife created 
 no little sensation in the drawing-room. The per- 
 formers feared that they were rivals, whilst their 
 patrons feared that they would encroach on the rights 
 which they arrogated to themselves, and everybody 
 looked at the new-comers with curiosity. 
 
 Madame Troussard and her daughter hastened up 
 to them, and said : " Oh ! how kind of you to have 
 come ; let us find you seats near the piano . . " 
 ..."Pray do not disturb anybody on my account, 
 madame; I can find a seat anywhere," Caroline re- 
 plied, trying to resist Madame Troussard's entrea- 
 ties ; but she would take no denial, and, taking her 
 by the hand, she led her through the drawing-room, 
 and stopped suddenly before an old man with a black 
 silk skull cap on his head, who was sitting in a 
 corner of the room and looking at everybody in a 
 bewildered manner, and playing with his fingers, 
 she said to Caroline: "Here he is, the poor dear 
 man ; this is Troussard. Has not his paralytic at- 
 tack aged him very much ? But he is rather better, 
 and so we bring him into the drawing-room, and I 
 think he enjoys the music. T wonder if he will 
 recognise you ? " 
 
 Madame Troussard went up to him with Caroline, 
 and said to her husband : " Troussard, do you know 
 this lady again ? " He, however, Avent on playin g. 
 
154 THET MEET AGAIN. 
 
 with his fingers, and suddenly called out, in a shrill 
 voice : " Three, six, ten bottles broken — broken — 
 broken !"..." His head is quite turned, and the 
 sight of that broken heap of bottles haunts him con- 
 tinually. Come and sit down, my dear." 
 
 Daverny did not follow his wife, but stood near 
 the door, where he could look at the people at his 
 ease. In a few moments Madame Minot came and 
 sat down by her old friend. 
 
 " Will you sing, Caroline, or will you play us 
 .something?" Therese said, taking her hand.... "No, 
 my dear Therese, I don't know anything ; 1 have 
 forgotten all my music since I have been married." 
 ..."Nonsense! Well then, you are very wrong. 
 Does not your husband like you to sing ?"..." He 
 lets me do just what I like, but I do not care ab^ut 
 -singing now."..." Your husband looks very nice, 
 though very grave ; but then, those men who are al- 
 ways smiling are not always the nicest at home; I 
 know that, Caroline, Between ourselves, Monsieur 
 Minot made me very unhappy when we were first 
 married, but luckily, I got the upper hand. He 
 made fun of me, of my father and of my mother, so 
 when I saw that, I said to myself : 6 Wait a bit, and 
 I will give you something to think about,' and I 
 began to play the flirt, and he, naturally, got jealous 
 and went out less. But what troubles me is that he 
 is very much given to getting drunk, and when he is 
 •drunk he i^ very bad and. wants to murder every- 
 body ; and he is so quiet when he is sober ! "..." He 
 is not here this evening? "..." No, he has gone to 
 •dine at Vefour's with some friends, but he promised 
 to come home early. I only hope he will not be 
 drunk ! But, after all, he generally goes to bed 
 directly then. Just look at that girl who is going 
 to sing ! She has a beautiful voice ; you would 
 think she was eighteen, and she is only thirteen ; she 
 is very precocious for her age." 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN". \h^ 
 
 The young lady began to sing a ballad, but sud- 
 denly, whilst she was on a very high note and 
 everybody was listening most attentively. Monsieur 
 Troussard began to jump about on his chair and 
 call out : " Three bottles, six bottles, ten bottles 
 broken! broken! broken!" Everybody was very 
 indignant, and some of the gentlemen who patro- 
 nized the singers and who, probably, did not know 
 the master of the house, exclaimed : " Who is that 
 old man ? Silence ! turn him out, he is interrupting 
 the singers! Who brought him here? "..." Why, 
 he is Madame Minot's father," some of them said 
 "Very well then, just tell him to go to bed. When 
 people have a father like that they ought to let 
 their guests know it."... Madame Tioussard was ob- 
 liged to make the best excuses she could for her hus- 
 band, and she had just made up her mind to take 
 him off to his room, when her son-in-law suddenly 
 burst into the room. 
 
 We have lost sight of Theophile Minot since the 
 fete champetre at Draveil, and since then he had 
 srown fatter than he was when he tried his gym- 
 nastic performances ; he was decidedly getting a 
 stomach. His fondness for good-living and his 
 drinking habits had made his face red and pimply, 
 and, though he was still young, he had lost every 
 characteristic of youth. Anyone who saw his broad 
 fat face, and his great, expressionless eyes, would be 
 sure beforehand that he would only talk nonsense, 
 and Minot did not belie his looks. He came into 
 the drawing-room with a vicious look on his face, 
 his hat on his head, his hands in his pockets, and 
 with dirty boots ; he jostled everybody, trod on the 
 men's toes and the ladies' dresses, and, when he 
 got into the middle of the drawing-room, he ex- 
 claimed in a jeering voice : 
 
 " Well ! What are you doing here ? How is the 
 concert going on? Do they sing pretty well, for 
 
156 THEY MEET AGAIX. 
 
 that is not the case here every day ! If my mother- 
 in-law has anything to do with it, it mnst be un- 
 commonly nice ! I will sizjg you something "by and 
 by ; something jolly, rather smutty, and very funny ! 
 Oh ! what a capital dinner we had, and such wines ; 
 there were six of us, and we drank enough for 
 twenty-four ! Upon my word, I must say that life 
 is very jolly ! " 
 
 " Why, I do believe that my husband is drunk," 
 Therese said, in a low voice. " Why has he come 
 inhere? As a rule, he goes to bed; but, perhaps 
 he is only a little elevated. If only he does not 
 begin to quarrel with mamma ; they are just like 
 cat and dog . . now! Minot ! Minot! come here ; 
 I want ycu to speak to somebody whom you have 
 not seen for a long time."... He did not listen to his 
 wife, but remained standing in the middle of the 
 room, and said : " Come on, let's have some music ; 
 doesn't it go well? Are the performers frozen? 
 Oh ! what a delicious Matelote a la Normande, and 
 Poniard in a Burgundy basket, so as not to shake 
 the bottle; when I see wine in one of these little 
 cradles I say : e That is a good sign ! ' and, upon my 
 word, I must say that life is very jolly ! Well, if 
 nobody will sing, I shall go to bed • • lSo, I 
 won't; I am expecting a friend who is coming for 
 me. I told him that there was going to be a kind of 
 a concert at my mother-in-law's, and so he said to 
 me : ' That will be something very funny ! ' and I re- 
 plied : i I believe you my boy ! It will just be 
 funny ! ' and so he said : ' Very well then, I will 
 come after you diiectly ! ' " 
 
 Nobody seemed particularly enchanted at his talk ; 
 the singers compressed their lips with vexation, the 
 instrumentalists put their flutes and violins into 
 their cases, and some ladies were already asking for 
 their bonnets and cloaks, when Madame Troussard 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN". 157 
 
 <3&tn^ back, and going up to her son-in-law, she said 
 to liim in a low voice : 
 
 " Monsieur, when anyone is in your present state 
 they do not come into the company of artistes and 
 ^amateurs. Generally when you are drunk, you go 
 io bed immediately without coming to my apart- 
 ments, so I must beg you to leave us ; you know 
 •where your room is."..." My dear mother-in-law!" 
 31inot said, shouting as if she were deaf; "you 
 -speak like one of The Three Graces, but I am very 
 r fond of music, and I am not at all in the way here, 
 ■iind I will take my share in it ; if I don't know my 
 part in any song perfeetly, why, I must be prompted, 
 ^that is all! "..."It is horrible, abominable to behave 
 like this before other people ! " Madame Troussard 
 said, pushing Theophile towards Therese and beckon- 
 ing her to take charge of her husband ; but Minot 
 ^did not seem at all inclined to obey his mother-in- 
 law, and laughed in her face, saying: "Most respec- 
 ted ma.mma-in-law, go and look after that old dar- 
 ling whose brain you Lave turned; that would be 
 far better than bothering us with your senseless 
 chatter, for which I do not care the least ! '* 
 
 Madame Troussard was choking ; her son-in-law 
 had never been guilty of such conduct before people 
 "till then, and, not knowing what to do, or what 
 means to employ to make him hold his tongue, or at 
 least to prevent his being heard, she took a desperate 
 resolution. She went up to a gentleman of sixty, 
 whose colossal stature seemed to promise great 
 strength of lungs. He had formerly sung in a 
 •cathedral choir, but his voice was so strong that he 
 was never asked to sing in drawing-rooms, so that he 
 was obliged to be satisfied with listening to and ap- 
 plauding others, so that he was both surprised and 
 pleased when Madame Troussard said to him : " Will 
 you not sing us something, Monsieur Groscanon ? " 
 ..."Anything to please you, madaine," lie replied, 
 
158 THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 and, declining to be accompanied on the piano, lie- 
 began to sing a song from Orphee. Scarcely, how- 
 ever, had he got through a few bars, when there 
 was a general movement; some of the company 
 shifted about uneasily on their chairs, others put 
 their hands to their ears, whilst others took refuge- 
 in the ante-room. But he went on, and his voice, 
 on the principle of vires acquiereundo, became more 
 deafening every moment ; even Minot felt its effects, 
 and said to his wife : " What is it ? Is a wago-on 
 rumbling through the room ? It is enough to knock 
 one down ! " 
 
 Madame Troussard was delighted ; Monsieur Gros- 
 canon's voice had made people forget her son-in-law, 
 and very soon most of the company had left the 
 room, declaring that they could not bear it, arid 
 feared lest he should break the drums of their ears. 
 Only about a dozen intrepid souls remained, who 
 probably had been in the habit of being present at 
 dog fights or target practice. More than once Caro- 
 line had attempted to get up, but Therese held her 
 back, saying in a beseeching voice: '"'Just one 
 moment more. I want to introduce you to my hus- 
 band, and see whether he will recognise you/ 5 As 
 for Daverny, who had remained near the door, he 
 was surprised at what went on, and seemed amused 
 at a scene which was altogether new to him, and so 
 he remained where he was out of curiousity, but with 
 the full determination never to come again. 
 
 At last, Monsieur Groscanon stopped, and, whilst 
 he was wiping the p respiration from his forehead, 
 Thecphile, who was partially sobered by the choir- 
 man's voice, said to his wife : " I must say that you. 
 have some very powerful singers here; I don't think 
 I ever heard anything to beat that ! Where the 
 devil does my mother-in-law get her artistes from f 
 The slaughter-houses, I presume."..." Theophile,' 5 
 Therese replied, taking her husband by the arm, 
 
THEY MEET AGAIN. 
 
 159 
 
 " come and speak to a lady whom you have not seen. 
 for a long time, and who has given us the pleasure of 
 her company this evening."... Minot looked at Caro- 
 line, and exclaimed: "Well! I recollect you per- 
 fectly, mademoiselle. Iliad the pleasure of seeing - 
 you at Draveil, when I was at your father's house." 
 ...Caroline bowed, and Therese said: "My friend is 
 married now . . there is her husband, yonder . . 
 ..."It is very strange, how one meets again! Do 
 you know why I came so late to-day? I met an okl. 
 friend, who has dined with us once or twice and 1 
 whom I have not seen for ages — I really thought he • 
 was dead, and you know him also, mademoiselle— 
 I mean madame. It was Arthur Gervillier." 
 " When Caroline heard his name, she grew pale • 
 and trembled, and then all the blood rushed to her 
 heart; however, she listened anxiously to Theophile.. 
 "Yes," he continued, "'I found him devilishly al- 
 tered. It seems his travels' did him no good, but he- 
 is still just the same — a good companion and a man 
 who enjoys life ! He is a fast liver, if ever there • 
 was one ; but I am surp ised that he has not come 
 yet, for he told me that lie should follow me imme- 
 diately."..."' You do not mean to say that you have- 
 asked your friend to come to our concert, when you 
 know that mamma will have nothing but artistes ? " 
 ..."Ah ! my dear, how delightful your concerts are, 
 and your artistes ! That old fellow yonder, who has • 
 been bellowing out that he has lost his Eurydice, 
 ought to be shut up with some bulls to bellow him. 
 down. But did you not hear ? It is not a stranger, 
 but Arthur Greiwillier who is coming ; you have seen 
 him a hundred times at Colonel's Melleval's. You, 
 Mademoiselle Caroline— I mean, madame— you must 
 sursly remember hiin? " 
 
 These last words were accompanied by a smile, 
 which would have made Caroline blush had she 
 noticed it ; but since she had heard that Arthur was 
 
"160 THEY 3IEET AGAIN 
 
 coming, her head seemed to be going round, her 
 sight grew dim, and her legs trembled ; she tried to 
 leave the drawing room, but she had not the strength 
 to do so. However, she turned her head to look for 
 her husband, who had come up whilst Minot was 
 speaking, and she met Daverny's eyes fixed on her 
 with an expression which she could not define, but 
 which seemed to her to be that of a judge. She, 
 therefore, gathered herself together and said: "I 
 should like to go home, monsieur." 
 
 Before Daverny had time to reply, somebody came 
 hastily into the room, laughing boisterously. It was 
 :a man who was still young, but whose features were 
 prematurely old from evil passions and debauchery; 
 a young man who had been cited as a model of 
 fashion, but who now had contracted a carelessness 
 in his dress and manners, which was in very bad 
 taste. It was a man who, after having been very 
 successful with women, had come to believe that 
 .none of them had any virtue, and now treated them 
 all in that familiar fashion which is habitual to men 
 who frequent disreputable haunts. That personage 
 was Arthur Gervillier, who had formerly always 
 been mentioned as : A charming young fellow. 
 
 He came into the drawing-room laughing like a 
 madman, because he had jostled an old lady and her 
 daughter, who had been put to flight by Goscanon's 
 voice, in the vestibule, and who, in their haste to get 
 away, had picked up anything that came to hand to 
 throw over their shoulders, so that the mamma had 
 on a man's overcoat, and the daughter an old box- 
 coat with a cape. 
 
 "Is it a masked ball?" Arthur asked, looking 
 round the drawing-room; " I think I have just met 
 some people in disguises."... "Come along, you 
 dawdler ! " Minot cried, going towards his friend. 
 "You are too late . . you have lost such a treat, 
 for you would have heard this gentleman, who has 
 
THEY 3IEET AGAIN. 
 
 161 
 
 -produced a wonderful effect with his voice."..." Per- 
 haps the gentleman will be kind enough to begin 
 again for me," Arthur said, with a mocking look. 
 "But pray introduce me to your wife, my dear Theo- 
 phile ; you promised me that I should renew my ac- 
 quaintance with her."... "Yes, yes, here she is." 
 
 But as he went through the room, Arthur had to 
 pass a lady who was endeavouring to go out, leaning 
 ■on her husband's arm. Arthur stopped, looked at 
 rfche lady, who seemed to wish to avoid him, and then 
 ■ exclaimed : " Well ! . . surely I am not mistaken ! 
 No, upon my word, it is she ! It is Caroline Melle- 
 •val! "... "No, monsieur," Daverny said very dryly, 
 •and looking at Arthur sternly ; " she is no longer 
 'Caroline de Melleval ; she is Madame Daverny, my 
 wife."..." Your wife! " Arthur replied in a jocular 
 manner ; " then really, monsieur, allow me to con- 
 gratulate you ! . ." 
 
 Daverny was about to reply, when he heard a 
 deep si^h, and on looking round he saw that Caro- 
 line was about to faint, and she would have fallen to 
 the ground if her husband had not supported her^ in 
 his arms. Charles lifted her up and hastily carried 
 her out of the room, without listening to Therese or 
 her mother, who wished to look after her, and so 
 descended the stairs, called his carriage, and, getting 
 into it with his wife, who had not regained con- 
 sciousness, he ordered the coachman to drive home 
 .as quickly as possible. 
 
162 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 CHAPTER XV1T. 
 
 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 Assisted by Marianne, Daverny succeeded, after a 
 time in restoring his wife to consciousness, where- 
 upon he left the room, saying to Marianne : " Do not 
 leave her alone." 
 
 "What has happened, my dear mistress ? " Ma- 
 rianne exclaimed, as soon as she was alone with 
 Caroline, who was looking anxiously about her.".. . 
 " Oh ! Marianne ! I wonder that the emotion did 
 not kill me ! I have seen him, and he spoke to rne ! ' : 
 ..." Whom do you mean ?"..." What ! cannot you 
 guess ? Arthur ! Arthur — my boy's father . . 
 I have seen him again ; he is back in Paris, here . . 
 and I am married ! Now that I know that Arthur 
 is alive — that he is breathing the same air as my- 
 self . . Oh ! Marianne ! I feel that this wedded 
 tie is more insupportable than ever ! "..." Let us see, 
 my dear child; be calm, try and recover yourself n 
 little, and tell me how it all happened."..." But, Ma- 
 rianne, I scarcely know myself ! It seems like a 
 dream ! I was in the Troussards' drawing-room. 
 Therese was speaking to me, when suddenly her 
 husband came in and pronounced Arthur's name ! 
 I was preparing to go home, when suddenly I heard 
 that dear voice, which has not sounded in my ears 
 for so long ; it was Arthur coming into the drawing- 
 room! I did not see him, for I could distinguish 
 nothing clearly — there was a mist before my eyes. I 
 got up ; Monsieur Daverny took me by the arm to 
 support me, and we were going to leave, when Arthur 
 saw and recognised me. I heard him exclaim : 
 ' Why, it is Caroline de Melleval ! ' Monsieur Da- 
 verny replied : ' No, she is my wife ! ' and then I 
 
A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 16$ 
 
 heard nothing more, for I had fainted."..." And 
 your husband brought you home, and, thanks to 
 -our care, you recovered consciousness ; when he saw 
 that you were coming to yourself, he went away, as 
 if he guessed that the sight of him would not be 
 -very agreeable to you !"..." What did he say about 
 it? Do you think he guessed the reason why I 
 -fainted? "... u Oh! dear no . . He said that it 
 /was the heat and the crowd, and that it did not 
 agree with you, as you were not used to going out 
 so much."..." He did not suspect anything then? 
 JBut whether or not, I will not go to that house 
 again, for I might meet Arthur there another time. 
 I must not see him now that he has returned to 
 ."France ! Oh, father ! father ! what sacrifices I have 
 made for you ! "..." And what did Monsieur Arthur 
 look like? Was he as handsome and elegant as 
 -ever ? "..." I don't know ; I tell you again, I did not 
 see him ; I only heard his voice. . . At the words 
 - — ' It is Mademoiselle Caroline de Melleval.' What 
 his grief must have been to hear that I was mar- 
 ried ! "..."Well, yes, if he took it so much to heart," 
 Marianne said, shaking her head. " But I do not 
 think he would have been seven years without letting 
 you hear from him if he had been the gentleman 
 you take him to be.". . ." I suppose he could not ; but 
 that is no matter. I am married. I will not see 
 Arthur again, nor go to the Minots. If Therese or 
 her mother come to see me, they will always be told 
 I am out, for they might speak to me about him. 
 1 shall avoid every place where I might meet him; 
 indeed, I will not go out at all, that will be the 
 .surest means to avoid seeing him. At any rate, I 
 .shall not hear him reproach me for having forgotten 
 my vows. I shall not witness his grief, for I am 
 sure that he must be very much pained now he 
 Jmows that I am married." Caroline put her hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, whilst Marianne said to her- 
 
164 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 self : " I am not so sure of that ! But it pleases this- 
 dear child to think that he loves her still, and I 
 must not rob her of that happiness." 
 
 From that moment Caroline did not go out any- 
 more, or receive any visits ; she even deprived her- 
 self of the pleasure of talking with Marianne about 
 the man whom she was trying to forget, but whose 
 memory constantly occupied her thoughts. The re- 
 lations between the husband and wife had, too, 
 undergone a change since that evening which they 
 spent at the Troussards ; Daverny had not said a 
 word, or addressed a question to Caroline on the 
 subject of Arthur, only he seemed more thoughtful 
 than formerly, and his wife was with him as little as 
 possible.... Nearly two months had passed since Caro- 
 line had met Arthur, when one morning, whilst 
 Caroline was still in bed, Marianne came softly into 
 her room, followed by a little chimney sweep. "Do 
 not disturb yourself, madame," Marianne said ; " I 
 have only brought the sweep, for I am always 
 frightened of fire, and yesterday some soot fell down 
 your chimney. It is better to pay a franc than to 
 have the house on fire. Now, my little man, come 
 along, but leave your shoes outside. 5 ' 
 
 The sweep was a little boy of seven, at most ; he 
 had large, beautiful eyes, and an interesting little 
 face. It was not round and chubby like those of 
 most little Savoyards, but small and delicate, and 
 through the soot which covered it there was no trace 
 of that ruddy colour which tells of health and 
 strength. The child took off his heavy hobnailed 
 shoes, and then came into the room, and walked up 
 to the chimney barefooted. 
 
 "Poor little fellow," Caroline said, when she saw 
 the sweep; "so young, and to have to undertake 
 such work! But, Marianne, he will never be strong 
 enough to sweep this chimney, which is very high ! " 
 ..."Bah! madame ; the Savoyards are made on. 
 
A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 165 
 
 purpose for that ; they scramble up them like so 
 many niarmots ! I say my little man, you can climb 
 up to the top, cannot you? "...The child replied 
 with a resolute shake of the head : " Oh ! yes, ma- 
 dame ! I have often climbed much higher chimneys 
 than this one. I have been working like the other 
 lads for more than a year now, and the master says 
 that he is very well satisfied with me."... "Poor 
 child," Caroline said, " you look very young to have 
 been at work for a year already ; how old are you,, 
 my boy? "..."Well, I hardly know myself ; seven or 
 eight, I suppose."..." And where do you come from? 
 You have not the Savoy accent."..." My master says 
 that I come from a long distance."..." How long ago 
 did you leave your parents? "..."I have none; my- 
 father and mother died when I was quite small."... 
 Saying this, the little lad took off his jacket and 
 prepared to climb up the chimney, and whilst he 
 was getting ready Caroline, who had been looking: 
 at him closely, exclaimed: 
 
 " Marianne ! Marianne ! just look what good eyes 
 and good features he has got ! Doesn't he remind 
 you of . . don't you think he is like . . "...Caro- 
 line could not finish; her sobs choked her voice. 
 Marianne was vexed at the impression which the 
 sight of the little boy had produced on her mistress, 
 and replied crossly : " JSTo, madame ; he is not the 
 least like him. Now, my little man, get to work 
 quickly !"..." Yes, madame. Oh! the fire dogs 
 must be taken away before I come down again."... 
 "Never mind about them, they shall be moved."... 
 The little sweep climbed up the chimney, and soon 
 disappeared, and nothing was heard but the noise of 
 the scraper. Marianne said to Caroline : 
 
 " You are not reasonable. If the sight of a little 
 boy of that age pains you so, turn over and go to 
 sleep again; you must not look at him any more."... 
 " Oh ! but Marianne, my son would have been just 
 
166 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 about that age ! "..-." Your son would have been over- 
 eight, and much bigger and stronger than this boy 
 is, who is very small. I would lay a wager that he 
 is not seven yet."..." But what a nice voice he has ! 
 Do you hear him singing poor child? "..."I will tell 
 him to stop if it pains you."..." Oh! no, let him. 
 sing . . I believe he has done, and is coming 
 down." 
 
 The little sweep had, in fact, finished his job and 
 rapidly descended the chimney, but when he was a 
 short distance from the ground he slipped and fell 
 on the fire dogs, which. Marianne had forgotten to 
 remove. A cry escaped the child, and Marianne ran 
 up to him ; he tried to get up, but great tears 
 gathered in his ey°s. 
 
 " Poor child ! " Marianne said, " you have had a 
 bad fall, and perhaps hurt yourself. To think that 
 I forgot to take away the fire dogs !"..." It is 
 nothing ; it will soon go away," the child replied, 
 but, when he tried to walk, the pain was too great, 
 and he had to stop. Meanwhile Caroline got up, 
 quickly threw on a dress, and went up to the child 
 and said: "Where does it hurt you, my child?"... 
 "In my knee, but it will soon go away! "..."In your 
 "knee ; let me see. Oh ! I do believe it is bleeding." 
 ...Marianne had uncovered the child's knee, and 
 found a tolerably deep cut, which he had received 
 -when be fell on the angle of one of the irons. 
 Poor child ! He has hurt himself, and it is my 
 fault for not having taken them away."... The child 
 -again tried to walk, and kept saying: "It will soon 
 . go away ! " but the pain was stronger than his 
 courage ; his knee was already beginning to swell, 
 and he could not use it. 
 
 " The child is seriously hurt," Caroline said ; 
 
 "" he cannot possibly walk ; we must look after him 
 
 here till he is cured . . Marianne, will you let 
 
 him sleep in your room ?"..." Yes, madame, poor 
 
A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 167 
 
 little fellow ! Besides, it is my fault that he is hurt. 
 Oh ! you may rely upon me to take great care of 
 him."..." No, no! I must go," the boy said ; " my 
 master will be very angry if I do not go back imme- 
 diately."..." Your master will know that you are 
 here, because your comrades saw you come in ; he 
 will come and inquire for you, no doubt, and he 
 shall be told that we want to look after you and to 
 get you well again. What is your name?"... 
 " Petithomme, kind lady." ..." Very well, Petithomme, 
 if your master finds fault with you I will make ex- 
 cuses for you, and then, he must see that you can- 
 not possibly walk at present. If we sent you back 
 to your master, he would take you to the hospital. 
 Poor child ! I suppose you would rather be here ? '' 
 ..."But, madame, I must get well soon, to earn 
 money. "..."You must let us look after you; poor 
 little fellow ! How pale he is ! Marianne, put him 
 into your bed at once." 
 
 Marianne took the child into her arms, and car- 
 ried him into her room. There she undressed him, 
 washed the soot off him, and put him to bed, and, 
 at Caroline's request, went for a doctor to examine 
 his wound. When he had seen it, he said that it 
 was nothing dangerous, but that the child must 
 stop in bed for a fortnight at least, otherwise serious 
 results might ensue. The boy cried when he heard 
 this. " What will my master say if I do not go to 
 work? He will be very angry, as he depended a 
 great deal on what I earned."... "Don't distress 
 yourself," Caroline said ; " your master shall lose 
 nothing ; I will give him as much as you could have 
 earned in a fortnight, so don't cry, and let us look 
 after you." He smiled and thanked her, and re- 
 signed himself to remaining in bed. 
 
 Caroline took such an interest in him that she 
 would scarcely leave Marianne's room, and she only 
 •did sc after making her promise not to leave him for 
 
168 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 a minute. The same evening a man of about fiftjy 
 whose accent showed that he was a Savoyard, came 
 to the honse to ask about the little chimney sweep, 
 and he was referred to Marianne. 
 
 " Did not a little boy come here this morning to 
 sweep your chimney? "he asked politely.../' Yes, a 
 quite little boy, called Petithomme."..." That's the 
 one ! Could you tell me what has become of him ? 
 Nothing has been seen of him since this morning, 
 and one of my youngsters told me that he saw him 
 come in here."..." And here he is still, for he hurt 
 himself through falling on to the fire dogs, and cut 
 his knee so that he cannot walk. My mistress is 
 very kind, and she wants to keep him till he is quite 
 well again. I suppose you are his master ? ". . ." Yes, 
 I make him work, and find him in bread and lodg- 
 ing."..." Would you like to seethe poor child?"... 
 "If it is not troubling you too much."..." Very well, 
 come along with me." Marianne took the man to 
 Petithomme's bedside, and he smiled when he saw 
 his master, who said to him : " Why ! my lad, you 
 are in a bed fit for a little prince ! You have been 
 lucky to find such kind friends to take care of yon.. 
 Well ! keep quiet and coddle yourself; I shall come 
 and see you sometimes when I have a minute to 
 spare, and in about three weeks you will be able to 
 come back with me. Good-bye, youngster; take 
 care of yourself." And the Savoyard went out, 
 after giving the boy a friendly tap on the cheek. 
 
 Marianne noticed that her mistress could never 
 look at the child without thinking- of her own son. 
 and also that the recollection of her child always 
 brought tears to her eyes, and so the good-hearted 
 servant did not want Caroline to go to his room toa 
 often ; she always accompanied her, and never failed 
 to find some pretext for making her visits as short 
 as possible. Mare than once, however, Caroline- 
 evaded Marianne's vigilance, when she had gone on 
 
A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 169 
 
 an errand, and, running upstairs, she would sit down 
 by the wounded boy's bedside. 
 
 At last, Petithomme was nearly well, and Caroline 
 knew it, and so she wished to profit by the short 
 time which still remained to her, by seeing as much 
 as possible of the child, to whom she was daily be- 
 coming more and more attached. One day, when 
 Marianne was out, she went up quickly to her room. 
 The child was asleep ; he was not feverish nor in 
 pain, and Caroline looked at him for a long time, 
 and, the more she looked at him, the more she 
 thought how like he was to little Paul. " He would 
 have been about that age," she said to herself. 
 " Oh ! how I should love and kiss him ! " And, 
 yielding to her feelings, she put her lips to the 
 child's forehead, who, however, did not wake up. 
 "How different my lot would have been if I had not 
 lost my son ! I should never have consented to 
 have married Monsieur Daverny; I should still be 
 free, and now that Arthur has returned . . But 
 oh ! I must not think of all that . . " But it 
 was in vain for her to try and get rid of her 
 thoughts ; she yielded to her grief, and alone, 
 leaning over the child's bed, she gave free course to 
 her tears, for Marianne was not by to scold her. But 
 suddenly the child woke, and seeing her crying, to 
 whom he owed so much, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh ! madame, have I broken anything in my 
 sleep? "..."!N"o, my child, but I was thinking of 
 someone whom I loved very dearly, and whom I 
 have lost ; but you will come and see me sometimes, 
 after you leave here, will jou not, Petithomme ?"'... 
 " Yes, madame, if my master will let me ; but I 
 think we are going to leave Paris soon and wander 
 through Prance ; at least, so he says."..." What! on 
 foot, and you so young? "..." Oh ! that is all right ; 
 it makes one grow."..." But, suppose I asked you to 
 stop with me altogether?"..."! could not do that, 
 
.170 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEE. 
 
 madame; I must work, and take some money to 
 "Father Jacques.". . ." Father Jacques ! That is your 
 master's name, I suppose? "..," Yes, madame."... 
 "And was your father's name also Petithomme?"... 
 "Yes, hut I never saw him; he is dead and my 
 mother also, and Father Jacques brought me up." 
 Just then the door opened, and Marianne came in; 
 seeing Caroline's rjd eyes she exclaimed: "I was 
 sure I should find him here . . But it is time 
 for this child to go, for since you have seen him 
 every day you are sadder, and looking worse than 
 ever. You would get really ill if he were to stay 
 much longer, so in two or three days more, good-bye ! 
 He shall go back to his master."..." But, Marianne, 
 what has the poor child done? To listen to you 
 and see how auxious you are to get rid him, one 
 might think that you hate him !"..." No! on the 
 contrary, I am very fond of him, but I care more for 
 your health and quietness than I do for anything 
 else." 
 
 So Marianne carried her mistress off ; she, how- 
 ,ever, insisted that, before the child was sent away, 
 he should be properly dressed and brought to her 
 room. On the day that he was to go, Jacques came 
 to fetch him, and Marianne, who was afraid lest 
 Oaroline should be too much affected at saying 
 " good-bye" to the child, made Jacques go into the 
 Jiitchen, and waited till dinner time, when Daverny 
 would be with his wife, to bring in the child to 
 make his adieux and to thank them for their kind- 
 ness. The boy was dressed in a new sailor suit, and 
 held the parcel containing his chimney sweep's 
 -clothes under his arm. He looked very nice in his 
 new dress, and Daverny, who had only seen him 
 once, and then by accident, seemed struck by his 
 intelligence. He looked timidly at the gentleman 
 who was sitting near the lady whom he liked so 
 much, and then he went, with an awkward bow, 
 
A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 171 
 
 and thanked Caroline for all her kindness. She 
 could hardly restrain her tears, but, as Marianne 
 had surmised, her husband's presence prevented her 
 from yielding to the movements of her heart. She 
 kissed the child, and gave Marianne a purse, saying : 
 4 * Has his master come for him ?"..." Yes, madame ; 
 he is waiting in the kitchen. If you want to see 
 him, I will bring him in."../' No, it is not worth 
 while. Give this money to your master, Petithom- 
 nie, arid tell him that I beg him not to make you 
 work too hard."..." Oh! Father Jacques does not 
 treat me at all badly ; he is very fond of me."..." So- 
 much the better, my dear child. When you have 
 been through France, as you say he intends, come 
 and see me again. Will you promise me ?"..." Yes,, 
 niadame ; but it will very likely be a very long time, 
 for people like us do not travel very fast ! " He 
 thanked Caroline again, and then went out, with a 
 timid bow to the gentleman, who had not said a 
 word to him; but as he went past him, Charles took 
 him by the hand, drew him towards himself, kissed 
 him, and slipped some money into his pocket. The 
 child looked at him in astonishment, whilst Caroline 
 could hardly account to herself for what she felt,, 
 but it seemed to her as if she no longer hated her 
 husband. 
 
 One morning, about a week later, Daverny was 
 reading the paper and Caroline was talking with 
 Marianne as usual about Petithomme, whilst the 
 cook was bringing in the breakfast. When she 
 heard her mistress talking of the little sweep, she 
 stopped and said: "I fancy you would have teen 
 still fonder of the child if you had heard what the 
 old Savoyard told me!"..." What do you mean, 
 Catherine?" Caroline asked the servant...." Well, 
 madame, the day that the old Savoyard came to 
 fetch the boy, he waited in the kitchen for some 
 time till the child was readv, and I gave him some- 
 
172 A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP. 
 
 thing to drink, as you had told me to take care of 
 him . . "..."All right, go on !"..." The poor, 
 dear man was evidently not used to wine, for after 
 he had drank only two glasses he became so chatty ! 
 He never ceased talking, and then he told me the 
 child's history : how he found Petithomme — for he 
 found him, and does not know who his parents are. 
 About six years ago, he was going through the 
 woods near Senart, on his way to Paris . . "... 
 66 Senart ! " Caroline exclaimed, getting up almost 
 involuntarily, and looking anxiously at Catherine, 
 whilst Marianne, who was almost as agitated as her 
 mistress, nevertheless put her finger on her lips as a 
 sign to Caroline to be careful, and pointing to 
 Charles, who was not reading any longer, but was 
 listening attentively ...." Welf! go on . . do go 
 on, Catherine! "..."Well! madame, Jacques found 
 a very pretty, well-dressed little boy in the wood 
 near Senart, who way crying for his mamma ! . . 
 Jacques tried to find out from him where he lived 
 and where he came from, but the child was too 
 small; he could only say mamma, and I love you 
 very much! So, after having made inquiries in the 
 neighbourhood without success, Jacques decided 
 upon taking him with him. And that child, ma- 
 dame, is the same who got hurt here and whom 
 Jacques called Petithomme, whom you nursed so 
 carefully . . " 
 
 " It was he ! " Caroline murmured, and a low cry 
 escaped her; she grew deadly pale and her eyes 
 closed, whilst she stretched out her arms towards 
 her husband, as if in entreaty. Daverny rushed up 
 to his wife and carried her to her room, placed her 
 on her bed, and hastily left the apartment, after 
 telling Marianne to take great care of her ; but she 
 seenied to have utterly lost her head at what she 
 had just heard, and, whilst attending to her mistress, 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 173 
 
 ^she 'kept jumping about the room and exclaiming : 
 ^ We have found the dear child again ! " 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 Caroline's first words, on coming to herself, were : 
 " My son ! Marianne ! It was my son, and I must 
 lave him. I will not part with him again ! Why, 
 instead of attending to me, did you not go to look 
 for him ?"..." Why, this discovery has so upset me 
 that I hardly know what I am doing. If Monsieur 
 Daverny were to discover the truth, that you are 
 the mother of this little chimney sweep, he might 
 make you most wretched! "..." Ho, Marianne; I 
 could not be unhappy if I had my son with me ! 
 And besides, Monsieur Daverny cannot know or 
 guess anything ; if necessary, we will keep the child 
 out of his sight — he shall not go out of my apart- 
 ments; we will not show him to anybody."..." Poor 
 child, to live shut up like that ! He would very soon 
 fall ill."..." Very well, then I will tell Monsieur Da- 
 verny that I take an interest in the child — that I 
 intend to adopt him and take care of him, and, as 
 my husband lets me do as I please, he will have no 
 objection to my keeping this child. But oh ! I 
 want to see again. So, Marianne, run and bring 
 him back with you."... Yes, madame, yes . . "... 
 4( But," Marianne said, " where shall we find Jacques, 
 who has charge of our dear little boy? "..."Oh! 
 suppose he has already started ! Oh ! Marianne, if 
 
174 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 after having found hiin again, I were once more to- 
 lose him immediately ! " 
 
 Marianne set off on her errand. The day slowly 
 passed, and she did not return. Caroline was dy- 
 ing with impatience, and was often inclined to go 
 out at random and ask every Savo} r ard she met 
 whether he knew where her son was. Marianne 
 came back in the evening, tired out with walking* 
 and unhappy at not bringing any good news. " I 
 have been nearly all over Paris," she said. "I be- 
 lieve that I have spoken to nearly every chimney 
 sweep in the place ! Some did not know Jacques ; 
 others knew him, but did not know where he lived. 
 At last, after a great deal of trouble, I found the- 
 house, or, rather the hole, where the Savoyard was- 
 in the habit of staying with our dear child and two 
 other little chimney sweeps . . "..." Well ! well ! "~ 
 ..."Well! your fears were only too well founded^ 
 Jacques started three days ago with the three child- 
 ren to go wandering through France, and no one 
 could say in which direction they had gone."..." So, 
 I have again lost my boy ! Oh ! Marianne, I feel as 
 if I could never bear this fresh blow ! To think- 
 that my dear Paul is gaining his bread with hard- 
 ships, that he has to travel on foot, sleep on straw 
 sometimes, and eat black bread ! The thought of it 
 is enough to kill me ! " 
 
 Caroline began to sob, and Marianne mingled her 
 tears with hers. Suddenly, Caroline seemed to be 
 struck by an idea ; she seized the servant's hand and 
 said : " Marianne, a woman cannot travel on horse- 
 back, but a man, who should take almost as muck 
 interest in the child as we do, could no doubt find 
 him. Arthur is here in Paris ; he is Paul's father, 
 and so ought he not to take as much interest in him- 
 as I do? ". . ."Oh ! Monsieur Arthur ! Yes, madame, 
 it is possible — if he will consent to give up his plea- 
 sures for a time . . "..."Marianne, you are- 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 175 
 
 judging Arthur wrongly, as you always did. You 
 think he has every fault. But I will see him again, 
 for I must speak with him and tell him that I can 
 no longer exist without my son ; I am sure that he 
 will share my feelings, and that he will immediately 
 leave Paris to go in search of our child."..." Well, 
 madame, if you have made up your mind to see 
 Monsieur Arthur, you must make haste, because 
 the sooner he sets out the more chance lie will have 
 of finding Jacques. Do you know where he lives ? '* 
 ..." No, but you must go to Therese, and beg her to 
 ask her husband, for his friend's address. You will 
 find some excuse."..." Yes, but when I have got his. 
 address you cannot go and see him,"..." Oh ! no,. 
 Marianne, I certainly should not go and see him, but 
 I could write to him immediately, and make an ap- 
 pointment for to-morrow morning, near the Barrieie 
 de l'Etoile, and you can find out his address this 
 evening, so that he may have the letter without 
 fail." 
 
 Caroline took a pen, and quickly wrote as follows : 
 
 " Monsieur, — I do not know whether you still remember 
 me, but I beg you to give me a moment's interview to- 
 morrow, for I have something of the highest importance 
 to say to you. I shall be in the Champs-Elysecs, near 
 the Barriere de l'Etoile, at ten o'clock, to-morrow 
 morning ; pray do not fail to come. — CAROLINE." 
 
 When the letter was written, she fastened it and 
 gave it to Marianne, who went out, declaring that 
 she would not come back without having given it to 
 Arthur. It was nearly midnight before Marianne 
 returned. 
 
 "I have succeeded," said Marianne, dropping into 
 a chair; "but not without great difficulty ! Madame 
 could not give me any information ; her husband was 
 out, so I waited till he returned. He told me that 
 he saw nothing of Monsieur Arthur now, but he 
 gave me his address, and so I went there. They 
 were fresh lodgings, but he had left already, so I 
 
176 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 -went to his new address, but lie had moved again ! 
 _He seems to do that pretty frequently ! Three 
 different lodging's in six weeks ! At last, I found 
 the place where he happens to be at present, but if 
 it had not been pointed out to me, I declare I 'should 
 never have looked for Monsieur Arthur there ! "... 
 " Why, Marianne ? ". .." Oh ! madame ! Monsieur 
 Arthur, who used to be so grand, who had such 
 beautiful rooms in the Chausee-d'Antin, is now 
 lodging on the fifth floor in a miserable house in 
 the Eue des Filles-Dieu ! Well, I looked for the 
 porter ; and at last I found a sort of cobbler at the 
 end of a passage and asked him whether he could 
 deliver a very important letter I had for Monsieur 
 Arthur. ' Yes, of course,' said he ; e I do all his er- 
 rands and clean his boots ; he shall have the letter 
 before nine o'clock to-morrow morning,' and so I 
 gave it him. I felt inclined to wait for Monsieur 
 Arthur to deliver it into his own hands myself, but 
 the cobbler told me that I might have to wait there 
 half the night, and so I made up my mind to come 
 home." 
 
 After a restless night, Caroline, who was up be- 
 times, took a coupe and drove to the place of ren- 
 dezvous. After waiting for ten minutes, she begau 
 to despair, when at last she saw a man in the dis- 
 tance who appeared to be coming towards her. He 
 was certainly like Arthur in figure, but, the nearer 
 he came, the less she thought that it could be he. 
 He was dressed in a long frock coat, with a greasy 
 collar and muddy skirts, and his trousers were as 
 dirty as bis boots. ~ A red handkerchief supplied the 
 place of a necktie, and his hat, which was rather too 
 shiny, was cocked on one side ; he had a cigar in his 
 mouth and a thick stick in his right hand, , on which 
 he leant as he walked. However, this individual 
 came on towards Caroline, and suddenly took her by 
 the arm and cried : 
 
A. RENDEZVOUS. 177 
 
 " Here I am, most charming woman. I am afraid 
 1 have kept you waiting a little, hut it is very 
 slippery walking, and you have chosen a rather dis- 
 tant spot for our meeting, and I could not get a 
 light for a cigar . . " 
 
 Caroline looked at Arthur, for it was he, but she 
 .could scarcely recognise him with his debauched 
 looks, his wrinkled forehead and dull eyes. When 
 she looked at his dress and manner, and even when 
 she iieard his voice, which had become hoarse and 
 hollow, she asked herself again whether that could 
 possibly be the man to whom she had given her 
 heart. 
 
 " You are looking at me, my dear friend," Arthur 
 continued; "perhaps you find me rather changed? 
 Well ! what can you expect ? Eight years is some- 
 thing, especially when one leads the life that I have 
 been doing ! But I must say, you are very pretty 
 still, a little pale perhaps, and you look rather sad, 
 but that suits you very well . . "..."Monsieur 
 Arthur," Caroline said, in a trembling voice ; " I 
 wanted to see you because of . . about . . " 
 ..." Yes, yes, very well ; you have a thousand things 
 to say to me ! But we cannot stop in the open air 
 like this, it is cold this morning, and I am not fond 
 of swallowing the fog; here is a restaurant close by, 
 let us go in there . . "..."I would rather not," 
 Caroline replied, trying to release her arm, which 
 Arthur had already placed within his own ; " we can 
 talk here perfectly well."..." I see, you are just the 
 same as ever ; timid, nervous, suspicious. Marriage 
 has not rubbed the rust off you ; that is very 
 astonishing ! But pray let me show the way, for I 
 declare that I am not going to talk in the open air, 
 for I do not wish to catch a cold, and I should have 
 no objection to some lunch."..." But I beseech you, 
 monsieur . . I have a coupe waiting for me."... 
 
178 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 " Very well, let liini wait, that is part of his busi- 
 ness, and he is paid for it ! Come, charming- 
 woman! Upon my word, I think yon are prettier - 
 than you were eight years ago, when we used to go 
 and talk in the plantation. You know ! ; . It is 
 all very well, but you must come into the restaurant ; 
 one can talk very comfortably during lunch. 55 
 
 As Caroline saw that she could not make him 
 listen to her where they were, she determined to go 
 with him, for, as she knew that she would not be 
 more culpable in the restaurant than in the middle 
 of the Champs-Elysees, she did not see any great 
 harm in having her interview with him in a place 
 where they could not be seen. 
 
 " A private room for two, 55 Arthur cried as soon 
 as they got into the restaurant, and a good fire, for 
 the lady is frozen and so am I ! 55 ... Caroline really 
 was trembling, but not with cold; she had scarcely 
 srot into the restaurant when she wanted to leave 
 again. New ideas came into her mind, and then, 
 Arthur 5 s manner and whole bearing were so dif- 
 ferent to what they had formerly been, that at 
 times she thought she was dreaming, and she would 
 have lost all power over herself if the recollection 
 of her child had not given her fresh strength. But 
 Arthur did not let go her hand ; he made her go up 
 before him, and the waiter showed them into a room 
 where, in addition to the chairs, there was a kind of 
 couch. She looked timidly about her, whilst her 
 companion said to the waiter : " Let us have a fire 
 immediately, and then see about lunch. Are the 
 oysters fresh ? 55 . . ." Yes, monsieur. 55 . . ." Of course, 
 you would say that if they were just theopposite ; buL. 
 let us have six dozen, and bring me the bill of fare 
 so that 1 may see what we will have. 55 ..." But, mon- 
 sieur, we are not going to stay here long, I hope? 5 ' 
 Caroline said in a trembling voice...." Why not, my 
 dear friend ? I am in no hurry ; the whole day, the 
 
A HUNDEZVOUS. 179 
 
 -whole night, all my time is my own ! Before now, 
 I have stayed in a restaurant a whole week at a 
 "time, though it is true that I had good reasons for 
 not going out. Ah ! the fire is burning up at last, 
 so now we will see about lunch. Waiter, don't bring 
 it up until I ring."..." Very well, monsieur," the 
 waiter said, with a knowing smile, and then he went 
 out, carefully shutting the door after him. Caroline 
 remained standing, and her anxiety increased every 
 moment ; Arthur's manner of speaking was so new 
 to her that she said to herself every moment : " Can 
 this possibly be the man whom 1 loved so dearly?" 
 ..."So here we are alone at last! We can talk at 
 our ease," 'Arthur said, coming close to Caroline. 
 " Oh ! my dear friend, we have many things to say 
 to each other, as we have not met for eight years, so 
 let us sit down here." 
 
 Arthur tried to draw Caroline towards the sofa, 
 but she forcibly released her hand, which he was 
 holding, and exclaimed: "jSTo, monsieur, no; I do 
 not wish to sit down."..." You are not sroinsr to sit 
 down? Well, I am going to, myself. That is really 
 anew fashion! Do you eat your lunch standing 
 up ?"..." I am not hungry, and shall eat nothing."... 
 " Well, you are not obliged to eat any lunch, and as 
 I have a very good appetite, I will eat for two. But 
 all this is no reason why you should look so cross ! 
 I don't suppose you asked me to meet you in order to 
 treat me with cruelty? Come, Caroline, come and 
 sit on my knee, and don't look so cross." 
 
 Arthur tried to take her hand, and to draw her on 
 to his knees, but the young woman repulsed him, and 
 ran to the other end of the room, saying beseech- 
 ingly : " Oh, monsieur, have pity on me, and do not 
 treat me like this. Oh ! heavens ! how you must 
 despise me !"..." I should like to know what the 
 meaning of all this is ? " Arthur said, stretching 
 himself at full length on the couch ; " are we acting 
 
180 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 a comedy or a drama ? I cannot understand it at alV 
 for generally when a woman writes to a man and 
 asks him to meet her, she has no intention of playing- 
 the Lncretia afterwards, more especially when the- 
 man has already been her lover "..."If you had 
 listened to me, if you would have given me time to 
 have told you why I so much wished to see you, yon 
 would not have imagined anything so insulting to 
 me."..." Insulting ! Fine words, all these! Look 
 here, Caroline, I can see why you are treating me 
 like this. You still owe me a grudge for the way in 
 which I behaved towards you. Perhaps yon are 
 right in this. I acknowledge that I did not behave 
 well, but what would you have ? We are the slaves 
 of our passions, and life is so seductive when one is- 
 young, rich and good looking, and you know that I 
 was not so bad. I am rather gone off now. Look 
 here, I can tell you my whole life since my liaison 
 with you, in a few words. Sit down, don't be ner- 
 vous, I am not going to take you by force ! I had 
 enough of it, willingly ! And then you don't want 
 me any more, so that is done with, for you will guess 
 that I do not wish to make love to you over again ! " 
 
 Overwhelmed by all that he said, Caroline took a 
 chair, and sat down as far from him as possible; 
 whilst he, having again poked the fire and sworn at 
 the bellows, threw himself into a chair, and con- 
 tinned : 
 
 "I have been through a great deal; when I was 
 six-and-twenty I had eight thousand francs a year, 
 and all the women adored me, or pretended to ; but 
 soon, tired of venal charms, I songht for an innocent 
 heart, and met you ; yon know the rest. I could not 
 marry you, so I left off seeing you, and went to 
 England with a woman who made me spend money 
 as if I had been a millionaire, but she ran away with 
 a Eussian Prince, and I went to Italy, where I totally- 
 ruined myself, and so I came back to Paris, where I_ 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 Iffi 
 
 had led such such a joyous existence. I had friends 
 here some of whom owed me money, for I was always 
 ready to lend. Some of my debtors paid me, whilst 
 others declared that they owed me nothing 1 , so I dealt 
 out a few boxes on the ear here and there, and so 
 squared my accounts. But there was one man on 
 whom I certainly depended, and that was Minot, but 
 he is a scurvy wretch, and refused me, and now, 
 whenever he sees me, he turns his back on me ; he 
 had better take care, however, for if I find any op- 
 portunity of avenging myself, I shall certainly not 
 let it slip." 
 
 With these words, Arthur let his head fall on to 
 his breast, and seemed absorbed in reflection, and 
 Caroline looked at this man, who was so different 
 now to what he had been formerly ; she felt op- 
 pressed at heart, and sorry at losing all those 
 illusions in which she had been indulging so long. 
 
 Suddenly, however, Arthur raised his head, and 
 striking his thigh with his hand, he exclaimed : 
 
 " The devil take sadness and all reflections which 
 are of no earthly use. One cau talk very well whilst, 
 eating, especially when one does not want to do any- 
 thing else, and a hungry belly has no ears. Here^ 
 waiter, bring in lunch \" 
 
 The waiter soon made his appearance, and brought 
 it in his hand. Arthur sat down, and whilst eating the 
 oysters and drinking white wine, he said to Caroline: 
 
 " Go on talking ; I am listening to you ! " 
 
 She did not speak till the waiter had left the room, 
 then, without venturing to look at Arthur, she said t 
 
 "Monsieur, our liaison, my fault, for I was very 
 much to blame, had serious consequences, for I be- 
 came pregnant ! Oh ! if you had known, you surely 
 would not have abandoned me, but you would have 
 restored my honour and have legitimised our child $*■' 
 
 * In France, a ehild, even if born out of wedlock, can be legiti- 
 mised by the subsequent marriage of the parents. — Translator. 
 
IP' 
 
 A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 Ae that, monsieur ; tell uie so to repay ine for 
 all uAe tears I have shed- 
 As she said this, Caroline looked at Arthur with, 
 perhaps, some of his love of former days, but with- 
 out leaving off eating his oysters, he replied : 
 
 " I cannot say that, for I should be telling a lie. 
 In the first place, I knew you were pregnant."... 
 "You knew it! "..."Yes, Marianne told me so when 
 she came to see me in Paris once."..." You saw her ! 
 Poor Marianne ! She did not tell me this, for fear 
 of breaking my heart. She told me that you were 
 no longer in Paris, and so you knew that I was about 
 to become a mother, and yet you abandoned me ? " 
 "What then? What could I have done ? Here is 
 . an oyster which is not fresh. Do you think that I 
 should have taken charge of the child ? Can a young 
 man undertake the care of all the children which he 
 may happen to be the father of. What nonsense ! 
 Why, I'm sure I have a whole colony of them in 
 Paris, who have not the slightest idea that I am 
 their father. One of them plays a big instrument 
 in the orchestra at one of the theatres ; a good- 
 looking lad, and like me. Good heavens ! what a 
 number of them owe their existence to me ! Here, 
 waiter ! bring me some black pepper ! " 
 
 Caroline was overwhelmed, and did not speak; 
 but great tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Why ! what are you crying about, Caroline ? 
 What is the matter with you ?"..." I hoped that in 
 you I should have found a support and a protector 
 for a being who is very dear to me."..."' Whom are 
 you talking about? "..." Of my son, monsieur."... 
 " Oh ! so we had a son ! Well, well ! if he is at all 
 like us, the little chap cannot be ugly, by any means. 
 And where is the youngster?" ... "Thanks to 
 Marianne, I succeeded in concealing my fault from 
 my father. He was away from home when my child 
 ^was born, and I confided him to the care of a peasant 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 183 
 
 woman who lived at Champrozay, which is only a 
 league from our house. I very often went to see my 
 little Paul."..." Ah ! so you called him Paul. It is 
 rather a vulgar name, but that does not matter 
 much. These fools always broil the kidneys too 
 much. Go on, I am listening."..." My son was two 
 years old ; he was all my happiness, and I hoped 
 with Marianne's help to be able to bring him to my 
 father's house, when one day — oh ! that fatal day ! — 
 I was walking with him m the forest of Senart, and 
 suddenly heard my father's voice. Frightened and 
 trembling, I left the poor child for a moment to go 
 to my father, but soon found means to return and 
 fetch my son; but judge of my horror, monsieur, 
 when on returning to the plaee where I had left him, 
 he was no longer there : in vain I called him and 
 looked for him; he had disappeared. Well, the 
 child was lost. All Marianne's inquiries were fruit- 
 less, and we could not learn what had become of the 
 child. Time went on, and my father begged me to 
 marry Monsieur Daverny. I had lost my child, you 
 had abandoned me, and go I made up my mind to 
 obey my father."..." And you were quite right ! I 
 do not blame you in the least for getting married ! 
 All girls end in that, except actresses and ballet 
 girls. Well, from all this I see we have had a child, 
 that we have not got him any longer, and that conse- 
 quently it is just the same as if we had not had him, 
 and as jou will not let me try and . . "..."Oh! 
 monsieur, for pity's sake, listen to me. The thoughts 
 of my boy are always present to my memory, but I 
 had lost all hope of finding him again, when a few 
 days ago a little chimney sweep came to our house ; 
 he hurt himself coming down the chimney, and we 
 nursed him. When he was better his master came 
 or him, and you may judge of my joy and grief at 
 he same time, when I learnt from my cook that this 
 child had been found six years ago in the forest of 
 
184 A. UENDEZVOTTS. 
 
 Senart by this Jacques, who made a chimney sweep 
 of him. That child is my son, I have not the slightest 
 doubt of it. I was struck by his looks, and my heart 
 could not deceive me !"..." Tour son a chimney 
 sweep ! Confound it, it appears to me that we are 
 rather coming down in the world. Waiter, a chicken 
 salad."..." Marianne went everywhere to try and 
 find this Jacques and the child; but you may 
 imagine my despair when I learnt that the Savoyard 
 had gone away four days ago, taking my child with 
 him, and I cannot find out in which direction he has 
 gone ! I want to see him again, and make him for- 
 get all the privations he has endured by my affection. 
 Help me to find him. I do not ask this in the name 
 of the love which you pretended to bear me, but on 
 my knees I beg you to have pity on a woman whose 
 existence you have made miserable. Help me to- 
 find my son ! " 
 
 Caroline had fallen down at Arthur's knees, but 
 he raised her quickly, and said : 
 
 "Why, what are you doing? It is not at all 
 necessary to fall at my feet* for I ask nothing better 
 than to find the little fellow and send him to you, 
 but how am I to manage it ? "..."How? Cannot 
 you go everywhere, on all the roads which lead out 
 of Paris? This Jacques cannot have got very far 
 yet ; and by driving, you can get over a great deal of 
 ground, and make inquiries, and you are sure to find 
 him at last."..." Driving means horses and carriages, 
 and unfortunately they cost money, and that is just 
 what I have not got ! If I had any, I should have 
 afforded myself a new coat, for it is about time that 
 this one was thrown away."..." Do not let that stop 
 you ; I remembered that it would be necessary to 
 spend money to find my son. In this pocket you 
 will find six thousand francs (£240), and if you will 
 allow me to offer them to vou." 
 
A. RENDEZVOUS. 185 
 
 As she said this, Caroline took a small pocket 
 hook out of her bosom, and offered it to Arthur with a 
 trembling hand, like one who feared a refusal ; but 
 Arthur, whose face had become radiant, eagerly 
 seized it, and exclaimed : 
 
 « This shows what an excellent, thoughtful mother 
 you are ! Now that we have the money, you may be 
 quite easy, for we will set to work and soon find the- 
 dear child; I will take that upon myself. ..-Take 
 this paper also; it contains particulars which may 
 assist you : the date when my child was lost how he- 
 was dressed, that he had a pockethandkerchief 
 marked with my name in his hands, the name ot the 
 Savoyard who found my son, the name which he 
 o-ave him."..." Very well, give it to me ; I will learn 
 ft all by heart."..." And then, in case you have any 
 news to ask me, here is my address; write to me 
 under cover to Marianne, and then there can b^ no- 
 risk, and I shall have your letter immediately. . 
 « Very well, that is all settled ! The business will 
 go as if on wheels."..." I must go home now, for 1 
 have already been away a long time, and I should 
 not like anybody to notice it. "..."Quite right ; but 
 will you not give me a kiss before you go? 
 
 Arthur made a movement to put his arm round 
 Caroline's waist, but she started back and quickly 
 left the room, whilst Arthur sat down and ordered a 
 bottle of Champagne, saying to himseli : Inat will 
 keep for another time." 
 
 When Caroline left the restaurant, she walked 
 very quickly, without venturing to look about her, 
 and went to the spot where she had left the carriage, 
 but at the moment when she was going to shut the 
 ' door, a man hastily jumped in and sat down beside 
 her, and she was thunderstruck at recognising her 
 husband. 
 
186 SEPARATION. 
 
 " Well, where to now ? " the coachman said, 
 looking at the gentleman who had jumped in so 
 nimbly in surprise.". . . " Onto the boulevard," Daverny 
 replied, "to -the same place where you took up 
 joiadame." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 SEPARATION. 
 
 Caroline did not know how she got from the 
 Barriere de l'Etoile to iheir house ; during the drive 
 Daverny was pale and agitated, but he did not speak 
 a word to his wife, and when the driver was going 
 to put them down on the boulevard, seeing Caroline's 
 state, he made him drive them home. He was ob- 
 liged almost to carry his wife upstairs, and Marianne, 
 nearly frozen with terror at seeing Daverny bring 
 her back, ran to her mistress's assistance ; but a 
 gesture of Daverny's checked her, and, in a voice 
 which there was no disobeying, he said to her: 
 " Leave the room." 
 
 When he was alone with his wife, Charles walked 
 up and down with long strides ; sometimes he stopped 
 iu front of her, as if about to speak, but he seemed not 
 to be able to make up his mind to do so. By degrees 
 Caroline's terror was allayed ; she remembered what 
 she had done, reflected on what her husband must 
 think of her, and, overwhelmed at the idea that he 
 must consider her more guilty than she really was, 
 she stretched out her arms to him, exclaiming : " Do 
 not judge me by appearances ; I am not so culpable 
 as you think I am. "..."Madame," Charles replied, 
 stopping in front of his wife again, without, how- 
 
SEPARATION. 
 
 187 
 
 ever, looking at her, " you are mistaken if you think 
 that I am going to complain or to reproach you. 
 In marrying you I staked my happiness against the 
 hope that I might succeed in winning your affection 
 and in making yon forget your lover. I had mis- 
 calculated, and I soon noticed that my attentions 
 were a burden to you, and that my presence annoyed 
 you. I then resolved that I would spare you that 
 as much as possible; we were still married in the 
 eyes of the world, but not so in fact, and we lived 
 quite apart in our own rooms. I thought I could do 
 no more for your happiness, but I was wrong. I can 
 do still more. Chance made you meet the man in 
 society again, who had succeeded in pleasing you, 
 and whose name I hoped you would never hear again. 
 I thought he was dead or had left Paris for good. 
 However, you saw him again, and, from the effect 
 his presence had upon you, I ought to have guessed 
 what would happen — what has happened, but I 
 flattered myself that, still faithful to your duties, 
 you would not forget what you owed to yourself . . 
 ..."Oh! monsieur, I repeat it ; I swear to you ! I 
 am not so culpable as you imagine ! " Caroline cried, 
 with a supplicating look at her husband.... A bitter 
 smile came over Daverny's lips. " I do not suppose, 
 madame, that you intend to make fun of me ; what 
 has just occurred is altogether without justification. 
 You granted Monsieur Arthur Gervillier a meeting, 
 he met you in the Champs-Elysees, you went with 
 him to a restaurant. "..." Yes, monsieur; I wished to 
 speak with him in the open air, but he forced me to 
 go with him."..." Allow me to speak. I should 
 have been justified in going in and tearing you from 
 his arms, when you were alone with that man, and 
 in avenging the insult ; but a stronger feeling re- 
 strained me — a feeling which has been the motive of 
 all my actions since I have known you, and that was 
 your happiness. Now. we must separate in order 
 
188 SEPARATION. 
 
 that you may be happy. Yon will then be free to 
 see him every day — at any hour ; you have your own 
 fortune, which you can dispose of as you please ; if 
 it is not enough for your requirements, let me know, 
 and mine shall be at your disposal, but, with that 
 exception, you will never hear my name mentioned. 
 And I leave this house to-dav, never to return to it. 
 Adieu, madame," and he turned to leave the room, 
 but his looks met Caroline's, who, for the first time 
 since their marriage, seemed to be trying to meet 
 his eyes, and so he stopped, as he saw that she wished 
 to speak to him. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, in a trembling voice, " I 
 feel that I deserve to be treated as you are treating 
 me ; you are too generous to me, but if you knew 
 all my wrongs — if I dared to tell you . . "..."I 
 do not ask for any confession," Charles replied, in- 
 terrupting Caroline ; " I repeat it, that when I mar- 
 ried you I made it a point of honour never to men- 
 tion the past to you. But what avails the posses- 
 sion of a woman who has no heart? In married 
 life, love on one side only is not enough to insure 
 happiness ; either love or indifference must be 
 mutual. Now that you have found — that you have 
 again seen the man to whom you have given your 
 love, enjoy it. I have been an obstacle to your 
 happiness long enough ; for the future, you are free. 
 Adieu, madame." 
 
 With these words, Daverny hastily left the room, 
 and Caroline, throwing herself into an easy chair 
 wrth an air of consternation, said to herself: "Oh ! 
 He has left me for ever ! M 
 
 A few minutes after Daverny had left his wife's 
 room, Marianne came to her mistress. " Well, ma- 
 ^iame," said the faithful woman, " what has taken 
 place between your husband and you? When I saw 
 you come back with him, I trembled for you — he 
 looked so stern ! I said to myself : e I wonder if he 
 
ISO. 
 SEPARATION. ■ LOJ ' 
 
 found out that madame lias seen Monsieur Arthur? 
 "Yes Marianne, lie has found out everything 
 Monsieur Arthur forced me to go into a restaurant 
 Shim; and so that I might speak to him about 
 -my child and heg him to go in search of him, 1 
 foLot that such a thing was not at aU decorous! 
 When I left Arthur, just as I was getting into a cab, 
 1 met Monsieur Daverny; he was waiting tor me 
 there and knew everthing."..." His anger must have 
 been terrible! "..."No, he did not even reproach 
 -me. He merely said, that as he did not wish to 
 prevent me from seeing the man 1 loved, he would 
 leave me and separate from me altogether ! And he 
 haTeone for good and all.".. ."Well madame I 
 -think after all you ought to be pleased; you could 
 mot bear Monsieur Daverny, and you will be much 
 Sappier away from him."..."Ho d your tongue, Ma- 
 rianne ! Monsieur Daverny tried every means of 
 pleasing me, but, when I repaid his love with unjust 
 aversion, could he smile and be cheerful whilst I was 
 making him so unhappy ? "...Marianne was so as- 
 tonished at hearing her mistress speak like that that 
 she did not know what to think or believe ; however, 
 she went on, almost immediately : "You have seen 
 Monsieur Arthur, madame? Of course, he shares 
 your impatience, and is going to start immediately 
 fn search of our dear child? " .." Yes ; I have seen 
 Monsieur Arthur," Caroline replied with some hesi- 
 tation. "Oh! Marianne, if you only knew how lie 
 has changed! He is no longer that delightful 
 young man who was bound to please at first sight by 
 his manner and everything about him ! Oh ! no, he is 
 no lono-er the same. And Marianne, you knew well 
 enough that he did not love me any longer, when 
 you saw him in Paris and he rejected your request! 
 Whv did you not tell me this ? You would, perhaps, 
 have snared me many sighs 1 But if he only restores 
 
190 HOW AETHUE TEIED 
 
 my son to me, I will forget all the mischief he has 
 done me ! " 
 
 The noise of a carriage stopping before the house 
 attracted Caroline's looks ; it was a postchaise. 
 Daverny's servant was fastening a portmanteau and 
 various bags and other articles of luggage on behind, 
 and almost immediately a gentleman got in ; the 
 postillion whipped up his horses, and they started. 
 "It is your husband going away ! " Marianne said. 
 And Caroline, overwhelmed by her feelings, fell into 
 a chair and said : " He has gone from me for ever ! " 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 HOW AETHUE TEIED TO FIND HIS SON. 
 
 " We will leave these apartments," Caroline said 
 to Marianne the next day ; "I will try and 
 find something simpler in some more retired 
 district. Besides, here I was known as Monsieur 
 Daverny's wife, and I am that no longer. He has 
 left me, because he does not think me worthy to be 
 his wife, and he is right. I ought never to have 
 married him, but I will relinquish his name and take 
 my father's name again, and then Monsieur Daverny 
 certainly cannot think that I shall dishonour his." 
 
 Marianne approved of all her mistress's plans, 
 Caroline's choice of rooms was soon made ; she went 
 to live in a retired street in the Marais, and called 
 herself Madame Melleval, but when she left the 
 Eue de la Paix, Marianne took care to leave their 
 address, so that any letters might be sent on to 
 them. 
 
TO FIND HIS SON. 
 
 !N> 
 
 r early a fortnight had elapsed since the interview- 
 between Arthur and Caroline, and she counted the 
 hours and minutes, for she was expecting news from- 
 the man who, she believed, had gone in search of 
 her son. The slightest indication as to what direc- 
 tion the Savoyards had taken would have been a 
 source of hope and happiness to her, and so with a 
 cry of joy she perceived Marianne coming to her one 
 morning with a letter in her hand. 
 
 " News, madame, news ! " Marianne exclaimed- 
 " A letter for me, I mean for you, for I never have 
 any letters, and you will guess whom this one is-? 
 from.". . ." It must be from Arthur ! " 
 
 And as soon as she had broken the seal, she read', 
 out in a trembling voice : 
 
 "My dear and ever-adored Caroline, — Man pro- 
 poses, but God disposes ; the proverb is old, but 
 essentially true. I had made all my preparations for 
 going in search of the dear child, this new Cyrus or 
 Odipus, or Joash or Dunois, for there is something 
 of all this in the little boy, and I am sure that one 
 day he will do something extraordinary. I bought a 
 capital horse and a pair of pistols. I started alone, 
 without a servant, in order to travel more expe- 
 ditiously, when whilst going through the forest of 
 Bondy I was attacked by four fellows, who made me 
 dismount, and my pistols missed fire. After sub- 
 jecting me to a considerable amount of ill usage, they 
 robbed me of everything that I possessed — my pocket 
 book, my horse, and my pistols, and I got back to 
 Paris lame and penniless. If you still wish me to go 
 in search of your son, please send me more funds im- 
 mediately ; this time I will take precautions, so that 
 a similar thing shall not occur again. Robbsrs are 
 a disgrace to our country, and the Chamber of Depu- 
 ties does not pay enough attention to the matter. 
 
192 HOW AETHUE TRIED 
 
 " I shall expect jour reply witli the greatest im- 
 patience, for I am eager to begin my search. Send 
 Marianne to me, or let me know where to meet you. 
 " Yours devotedly till death, 
 
 " Aethue GrERVILEIER." 
 
 The letter fell from Caroline's hands, and she sank 
 into a chair, exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh ! how unfortunate I am ! Nearly a fortnight 
 lost ! What a misfortune ! Robbed ! Ill used ! 
 Luckily he was not wounded ! " 
 
 Marianne made a peculiar face ; she picked up the 
 letter and shook her head, saying : 
 
 " Robbed, hum ! Strange ! Robbed and stripped 
 in the forest of Bondy ! I thought that now it was 
 quite safe for travellers there."..." Well, you see 
 Marianne that you were wrong !"..." Of course I 
 know that there are robbers on the high roads ; they 
 are to be met with everywhere, and Monsieur Ger- 
 villier was not more secure from them than anyone 
 else, but it is nearly a fortnight since you saw him, 
 so how is it that he has not yet got further than the 
 forest of Bondy, which is only about six miles off ? " 
 ..."Yes, that is strange, but perhaps he went in 
 another direction first, and perhaps he discovered 
 something which induced him to return. You must 
 ask him that, when you see him, for you must go 
 and take him the money he requires."..." You will 
 not see him again yourself, madame ? And yet, now 
 there is nothing to prevent you meeting him, as you 
 have no longer a husband,"... "Never mind, Ma- 
 rianne, but I feel that I ought not to be alone with 
 him again; and I will not commit the same offence 
 again a second time. I will go to the bank imme- 
 diately, and get some money, and you shall take it 
 to Monsieur Gervillier." 
 
 Caroline was not long in coming back, and gave 
 Mariannea pocket-book, saying : 
 
TO FIXD HIS SON. 193 
 
 " Go to Arthur ; you know liis address now, give 
 hini this, and beg him to start directly, so as to make 
 up for loss time, and to write to me as soon as lie lias 
 discovered anything, and say that he must find my 
 .son and restore him to my arms. My son ! I can 
 never find any happiness again, except in him S " 
 
 When Marianne got to the Eue des Filles-Dieu, 
 the cobbler who had acled as Arthur's servant knew 
 her again, and said : 
 
 " Where are you going to, my little mother?"... 
 " I am going to the gentleman's whom I asked for 
 the other day.". . ." Oh ! I remember. Monsieur 
 ■Gervillier."..." That's it."..." Yery well, my little 
 mother, you would have gone up five storeys high for 
 nothing, for the gentleman is not there, for he has 
 moved, but I have his address ; he took care to leave 
 it with me, telling me to forward on anything that 
 might come for him. My word! he seems to be 
 getting on very well now ; he is quite fat.". . ."What 
 -do you mean by your fat? ". . ." I mean to say that he 
 is in funds, and the proof of it is that he paid me 
 what he owed me. To do him justice, he is generous 
 enough when he has any money, and he has gone to 
 live in a very nice hotel in the Rae Montmartre, very 
 different to these furnished lodgings ; and he was so 
 well dressed that I scarcely recognised him; he was 
 dressed in new clothes from top to toe. There is his 
 card."..." Thank you, monsieur." 
 
 On her way to Arthur's new abode, Marianne 
 thought to herself, "Why has he moved? and what 
 has brought about this change of fortune? It must 
 have occurred before he set out for Paul, and was 
 robbed ! However, we will hear what he has to say 
 to me ! " 
 
 When Marianne got to the address which had 
 been given her, she asked for Monsieur Gervillier, 
 and was told what his number was on the second 
 iloor. When she entered she found him sitting 1 
 
194 HOW ARTHUK TRIED 
 
 opposite a woman who was still young, and who was - ' 
 very stout, with a very white skin, a very full shape. 
 She was rather good looking- than otherwise, but 
 there was a look of effrontery and recklessness about 
 her which never deceives. Her large black eyes 
 looked like those of an Andalusian ; she had a large 
 mouth, and showed her white teeth ; taking her alto- 
 gether, men who did not set too great value on 
 modesty of demeanour would have found her very 
 much to their taste. 
 
 When Arthur saw Marianne come in, he seemed 
 rather embarrassed, and put a bottle from which he 
 was just going to help himself, down on the table 
 again ; but the lady who was lunching with him did- 
 not suspend operations for a moment, and made her 
 fork and jaws work without appearing to pay the 
 slightest attention to the person who had just 
 come in. 
 
 " Why, is that you, my dear Marianne ! " Arthur 
 exclaimed, getting up ; " I did not expect you so- 
 soon, but how glad I am to see you again ! You. 
 have not altered the least, or you look younger if 
 anything. But allow me to introduce one of my 
 neighbours to you — Madame Dedelle Passelacet>- 
 who was left a widow at sixteen by an old general,, 
 who had brought her nothing but two wooden legs, 
 which is very little in these days. Fortunately, - 
 madame has talents which she knows how to utilise ;- 
 she dances to perfection, and is attached to several 
 young ladies' schools as dancing mistress; she is ; - 
 moreover, kind enough to come occasionally and 
 overhaul my linen for me, and to-day she consented 
 to have some lunch with me, for which favour I am 
 very grateful. But you want to speak to me, Ma- 
 rianne? "..." Yes, monsieur," the servant replied;. 
 " my mistress received your letter, and I came from 
 her, but I should like . . . " 
 
TO FIXD HIS SON. 195 
 
 Arthur understood that Caroline's confidante was 
 - embarrassed by the presence of a stranger, and gave 
 her a nod of intelligence, and then, addressing his 
 opposite neighbour, who had not left off eating for 
 : a moment, he said to her, trying to assume an im- 
 posing manner : " Makame Passelacet, I am intimate 
 ■enough with you to tell you that this worthy woman 
 has something very particular to tell her in private, 
 r so if you would be so extremely kind as to go and 
 get a mouthful of fresh air for a moment or to go 
 and look at the paper hangings in my ante-room."... 
 " What do you mean ? " Dedelle replied, helping her- 
 self to another piece of pie. " Certainly not, I am 
 not going to leave the room ; besides, I have not 
 done yet. I never go before I have had my coffee 
 and a small glass of cognac. Oh ! it is no good 
 treading on my toes, I am not going ; you know that 
 I can be obstinate if I like ! Why cannot you 
 speak to this good woman ? I shall not even listen 
 to you."... As Arthur saw that he should not suc- 
 ceed in getting rid of Dedelle, he got up and took 
 Marianne into the other room, and said to her : " I 
 remember now that Madame Passelacet has just re- 
 covered from an attack of gastritis, and that she 
 must not be interrupted at meal times. Let us leave 
 her to enjoy her lunch ; we can talk quite comfort- 
 ably here. So your mistress received my letter? "... 
 •" Yes, monsieur," Marianne replied, "and we were 
 very sorry to hear that you had been attacked and 
 robbed, for my mistress thought that you would al- 
 ready be on her child's traces . . "..."Oh! Ma- 
 rianne, my grief is quite as great as yours; I do not 
 so much regret the money as the time which has 
 been lost ; for after all, what is money when one has 
 it? It is coined in order that it may circulate. 
 But this dear child ! I am as anxious to see him as 
 ,his mother is. I know, Marianne, that I have be- 
 liaved badly to Caroline. As a young man I was 
 
196 HOW ARTHUR TRIED 
 
 thoughtless and foolish — no one conld check me, but 
 my heart was always sensitive, and the recollection 
 of my conduct towards your mistress caused me the 
 most bitter regrets — even now . . '? He blinked 
 his eyes, took out his pocket handkerchief and buried 
 his face in it for a few moments and uttered such 
 i;>rofound sighs that Marianne was quite deceived by 
 this pretended grief and laid her hand gently on his 
 arm and said : " Come, monsieur, you must not take 
 it so much to heart ; what is past is past — only find 
 the child again and my mistress may still be happy." 
 ..."I will find him, Marianne, even if I had to go • 
 down to the infernal regions as Orpheus did. But 
 it is hardly likely that the Savoyard will have taken 
 him as far as that ; however, I will go to the end of 
 the Avorld if necessary. But travelling quickly costs 
 a great deal of money, and I wrote to your mis- 
 tress to tell her how I was circumstanced. I do not 
 mind telling you, Marianne, that at this moment, if 
 it had not been for Madame Passelacet, who has 
 been kind enough to offer me her purse, I should be 
 very awkwardly circumstanced.' 5 ..." Well, monsieur,, 
 here is something to make good the misfortune which 
 has happened to you." 
 
 With these words, Marianne took out the pocket 
 book and gave it to Arthur, who took it eagerly, opened i 
 it and counted its contents. Caroline had encosed 
 ten thousand francs (about 400L) in bank notes in 
 it, for no sacrifice would have been too heavy for 
 her as long as she could have her son in her arms 
 again. Arthur almost jumped for joy after count- 
 ing the notes ; however, he tried to restrain himself, 
 and said to Marianne : 
 
 "I will start to-morrow — this very evening. I 
 will take some trustworthy man with me, and we 
 will explore the whole of France if necessary, but 
 we will find Paul — the child of love ; we have as 
 good as got him already."../' But, monsieur, how 
 
TO FIND HIS SON. 197 
 
 was it tliat you had not got any further than Bondy 
 when you were attacked ? " 
 
 For a moment Arthur seemed rather embarrassed, 
 but almost immediately he exclaimed : " Yes, I had 
 already been a long way ; I had been as far as 
 Metz, but I could discover nothing in that direction, 
 and in coming home through Bondy I was attacked." 
 ..."That was just what my mistress thought; but 
 as soon as you think you have discovered anything, 
 pray write to us immediately, monsieur."..."'! pro- 
 mise you I will. Am I still to write under cover to 
 you ?"..." You need not do that, monsieur ! Many 
 things have happened since you saw my mistress. 
 Monsieur Daverny saw your meeting in the Champs- 
 Ely sees . . ". . ." Oh ! ah ! that is very funny ! ". . . 
 "And so, without making a scene, he left madame, 
 saying that he did not wish to stand in the way of 
 her happiness.". . ." Really, a most obliging husband ! 
 So Caroline . . "..."Is not living with her hus- 
 band any longer ; she has apartments in the Marais 
 and lives a very retired life, seeing nobody. "..."And 
 her fortune?"..." As far as I understood, Monsieur 
 Daverny has left her full control over everything 
 that she brought him when she married him."... 
 "That was very good of him; but as your mistress 
 is alone and free to do as she likes now, why did she 
 not write and ask me to go and see her instead of 
 sending you here ?"..." Madame thought that she 
 would be wrong in receiving you, monsieur, and al^ 
 though when she left her husband, he gave her per- 
 fect liberty to do whatever she pleased, she says she 
 ought always to act as if he were still with her."... 
 " Ah ! there I recognise Caroline — always high 
 principled, but I am very glad to find that she is 
 not with her husband any longer. What is your 
 address ?"..." Here it is, monsieur; madame has 
 taken her maiden name of Melleval."..." That is all 
 right. Tell Caroline that she shall hear from me 
 
198 HOW ARTHUR TRIED 
 
 in a day or two. "..."Oh! monsieur, she will indeed 
 be pleased. "..." But it sounds as if Madame Passe- 
 lacet has just smashed a plate. The fact is, she gets 
 terribly bored when she is by herself. Grood-bye, 
 Marianne ; go home to your mistress, and do not 
 leave her again ; look after her well. I intrust her 
 to your care, and you shall be responsible for her to 
 me, with your head ! " 
 
 He hurried Marianne out, and, somewhat hastily, 
 shut the door in her face, and she returned to her 
 mistress, not knowing exactly what to think of Mons. 
 Gervillier, but she made up her mind not to tell her 
 any of her suspicions about Arthur. So all Caroline 
 learnt was that Marianne had seen him, and that Le 
 had promised to do all he could to make up for lost 
 time. She asked for nothing more, and she and Ma- 
 rianne waited for the result of Arthur's investiga- 
 tions with impatience, but without suspicion. Caro- 
 line, at any rate, was certain that the man who had 
 seduced her must naturally wish to dry her tears by 
 bringing her son back to her arms. Marianne, on 
 -the other hand, did not feel quite so confident ; but 
 then, the remembrance of Madame Passelacet was 
 often mingled with her reflexions. 
 
 A fortnight passed and they heard nothing ; Caro- 
 line was in despair, and could only say : " He has 
 :not found him ! " Marianne said little a nd did not 
 -venture to say all that she thought ; whenever she 
 went down to the porter's lodge to ask whether there 
 was not a letter, she always received the same reply: 
 " There is nothing for Madame Melleval." 
 
 One day there was a violent ring, and Caroline, 
 trembling with joy, said : "It must be news from 
 Arthur, for nobody comes to see me now."... Ma- 
 rianne hastened to the door, and was thunderstruck 
 ■ on seeing Arthur himself, dressed with some at- 
 tempt at elegance, but his clothes were unbrushed, 
 iris boots covered with dust, his necktie carelessly 
 
TO FIND HIS SON. 199 
 
 put on, and lie looked like a man who had been 
 
 travelling days and nights "Monsieur Arthur! 55 
 
 Marianne exclaimed...." Yes, it is really I. Is your 
 mistress in ? ". . ."Yes, monsieur. Oh ! we have been 
 - expecting news from you with the greatest im- 
 patience, but I suppose now you have come to tell 
 us . . " Arthur did not listen to Marianne ; ha 
 was already in Caroline's room. When she saw him 
 she uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then 
 said : " You are alone? You have not found him?" 
 ..."Yes, for the moment." Arthur replied, throwing 
 himself into an easy chair, " but reassure yourself, I 
 have good news."..." Then you have found him?" 
 
 Caroline and Marianne asked simultaneously 
 
 " Well, almost. But I have a great deal to tell you, 
 and I am almost knocked up. I should like some- 
 thing. Let me have a glass of Madeira."..." Oh ! 
 monsieur, for pity's sake, tell me whether I shall 
 soon see my child again ! "..."Pray, madame, give 
 me a minute; let me recover a little first of all. 
 Well, Marianne, did you not hear what I asked 
 for ?"..." Monsieur," Marianne replied, " we ha,ve no 
 Madeira, but I can get yon a bottle of Malaga."... 
 " This is a nice sort of house ; but give me that, as 
 you have nothing better." 
 
 Caroline could scarcely restrain her impatience, 
 whilst he leisurely sipped his wine and munched a 
 "biscuit; at last he had finished, and at his request, 
 Caroline told Marianne to leave the room. The 
 faithful woman was very much astonished at being 
 sent away when they were going to talk about her 
 mistress's son, but Caroline gave her a beseeching 
 look, and she went out, saying to herself: "Well, I 
 have not the slightest confidence in that man now." 
 
 As soon as they were alone, Arthur drew up his 
 • chair closer to Caroline, and said : 
 
 " My dear friend, as 1 could hear nothing in tlip 
 -neighbourhood of St. Germain, Poisse and Meulun 
 
200 HOW AETHUE TEIED 
 
 I returned and made my way South., towards Tou- 
 louse. That is a fine country, and the truffles and 
 the wine which they grow about Nerai are excellent, 
 and there I scattered money by handfuls in order to 
 obtain some information, but I could learn nothing, 
 and so I said to myself : ' I will not go any further 
 south, but I will turn my steps towards Auvergne,' 
 and in the neighbourhood of Clermont I heard that a 
 man had recently arrived from Paris with three little 
 chimney sweepers ; it was our man, and when I told 
 him that you had sent me to bring back your child, 
 giving him full details of the when f where and how 
 he had found him, he was obliged to acknowledge 
 that it was your son ; but when I asked him to let 
 me have him, the insolent fellow said : 6 Well, you 
 say that you have been sent by the child's mother, 
 but you have nothing to prove it. Tou cannot pro- 
 duce the register of his birth, or any newspapers in 
 which the child was advertised for, and generally if 
 a child is lost and the parents wish to get it back, 
 they advertise for it extensively.' This, of course, 
 rather staggered me, as I had r no proofs that the 
 child belonged to you, and the Savoyard argued like 
 an attorney general ! Of course, I saw that there 
 was something beneath all this, but Jacques at last 
 said, that if you would send him twenty-five thou- 
 sand francs he would give up the child, but not 
 otherwise."..." Twenty-five thousand francs ! "..."It 
 is a large sum, but he naturally wishes to profit by 
 his position, and so . . ."..."Well, monsieur, as 
 he demanded this sum, he must have it."..." You are 
 a model mother, and as I felt sure that you would 
 not refuse, I agreed that Jacques should wait for me 
 at Clermont ; the child, when I saw him, was very 
 well, and playing with his marmot, and though he 
 looked rather delicate, yet he seemed healthy. As 
 for the money, I had better go to the banker's with 
 jou, and you can then give it me immediately." 
 
TO FIND HIS SO^. 201 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, Caroline said, looking 
 down : 
 
 " I must not go out with you, monsieur; what 
 would people think of me if we were seen together ? " 
 ..." Very well then, I will wait here, whilst you go to 
 the bank ; will that suit you?"..." Yes, monsieur; 
 I shall not be long."..." Oh ! pray do not hurry 
 yourself, and with your permission I will have some 
 lunch meanwhile." 
 
 Caroline hurried off, and Arthur stretched himself 
 out comfortably in an easy chair, and examined the 
 room. 
 
 According to her mistress's order, Marianne laid 
 the table and brought in the lunch, whilst Arthur 
 critically examined what was put before him. 
 "Hum! chicken and ham and a bit of cheese! 
 rather a poor meal that, but I suppose it must do ; 
 later on, however, things must be put on a different 
 footing here."..." Good heavens !" Marianne said to 
 herself, " what does he mean P He certainly makes 
 himself quite at home ! " 
 
 Arthur finished his breakfast, and soon afterwards 
 Caroline came in. She said : "Here are twenty-five 
 thousand francs in this pocket-book; take them and 
 give them to Jacques, so that he may give me back 
 my little Paul." 
 
 Arthur carefully examined the bank notes, and 
 said : 
 
 " It is very pleasant to be able to get money like 
 that, just whenever one likes.". . ." If I go on drawing 
 on my capital as I have done lately, my fortune will 
 soon be all gone," Caroline said. " I do not care for 
 riches ; as long as I have enough to bring up my son, 
 that is all that I require."..." Such sentiments do- 
 you honour, my dear Caroline. But now, I must 
 really go. "..."How long will it take you to reach 
 Jacques ? How soon do you think you will be back 
 here with my child.".,." Well, I cannot exactly tell,. 
 
:202 HE DERIVES ADVANTAGES 
 
 but I will be back as soon as possible."..." Oh ! re- 
 member that I shall count the minutes till you 
 return."..." Adieu, then. I hope that you will allow 
 me to kiss you? "..."Certainly not, monsieur!" 
 Caroline replied, hastily drawing- back; " neither to- 
 day nor at any other time ; pi ay remember that I 
 am married !"..." Very well, madame ! " Arthur 
 said, with a mocking smile ; "as you object to it, I 
 will be good! Adieu! You will see me again."... 
 " Soon ?"..." Oh ! I will not forget you." 
 
 Arthur was gone, and Caroline was buoyed up 
 with hopes, for she had no doubt that this time he 
 would bring back her son, and when Marianne came 
 into the room again, she said to her : " We shall 
 soon see the dear child again. He has gone to look 
 for him, and now he knows where he is."..."H he 
 knows where he is, why did he not bring him back 
 before?"..." Why, Jacques would not give up the 
 child without receiving a large sum of money first." 
 ..."Money? Jacques wanted money? I am sur- 
 prised at that, for he seemed to be such an honest, 
 worthy man, and, as a rule, the Savoyards are not 
 selfish."..." Well, at any rate, that is how it is, Ma- 
 rianne ; but what does a little money more or less 
 matter, since I shall soon have my child in my arms 
 again ? " 
 
 Marianne did not venture to reply, but she looked 
 .away; for she feared that her mistress would read 
 her suspicions in her face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 HE DERIVES ADVANTAGES FROM EVERYTHING. 
 
 A week passed, and Caroline could neither sleep 
 ■■nor eat ; as long as it was daylight she sat at the 
 
FROM EVERYTHING. 203- 
 
 window in the hopes of seeing them come, and 
 every carriage that came that way made her heart 
 beat, for she thought that her son was inside it, but 
 when it went past the house without stopping, the 
 poor mother felt an oppression at her breast, and she 
 said: "It is not he yet ! " Every morning when she 
 got up she said : " I shall see him to-day, he cannot 
 be any longer." But the day passed, like the day 
 before, without Caroline's hopes being realised, and 
 so happiness and smiles once more disappeared and 
 gave place to anxiety and tears. 
 
 As the days went by without her receiving any 
 news, anxiety began to give way to despair, for she 
 did not know what to think, whilst Marianne shook 
 her head and said : " I was quite sure of it." One 
 day, Madame Daverny said to her : " We must go- 
 to Arthur's lodgings ; perhaps they may have heard 
 something. You shall go with me, for I will ask 
 them myself, and try and find out." So the servant 
 went with her mistress, and took her to the hotel in 
 the Rue Montmartre, where she had found Arthur 
 having lunch with Madame Passelacet. Caroline 
 asked for Monsieur Gervillier, and was told that he 
 had given up his rooms a long time ago; that they 
 did not know where he was, as he had refused to 
 give his address when he left. 
 
 "Well then, I suppose I must give up all hope ! " 
 Caroline exclaimed. " I do not know where to find 
 Arthur, and he alone knows where my boy is. What 
 can have happened to him? He must have met 
 with some accident, for he told me that he left 
 Jacques in a village close to Clermont. Well, Ma- 
 rianne, we will set off and go to all the villages in 
 that neighbourhood and look for him till we find 
 him."..." I am quite ready, madame, I will go to 
 the end of the world with you." 
 
 As Caroline went home with Marianne, she was 
 full of their coming journey; but, suddenly, as they 
 
204 HE DERIVES ADVANTAGES 
 
 turned a corner, she felt herself seized by the arm, 
 and, turning round, she recognised Madame Trous- 
 sard. " Why ! Is it you, my dear Caroline? " she 
 exclaimed. " Oh ! how delighted I am to meet 
 you ! But how you have altered, and how thin you 
 are! Have you been ill, my dear? "..."No," Caro- 
 line replied, as she wished to get rid of Madame 
 Troussard ; " but I must go home, for I am in a 
 hurry; I am going on a journey."..." Well, I will 
 accompany you a little way, for I am delighted to see 
 you, and I have so much to tell you ! Since I saw 
 you last, I have had a great many troubles ; first of 
 all, my husband is more crazy than ever. I have 
 been obliged to put him into a lunatic asylum, for 
 it was quite impossible to keep him at home, as he 
 did not mind what he did in company; anything 
 and everything, my dear; it was quite unbearable! 
 And then, Minot behaves towards his wife in a 
 manner which affects me very much, and which may 
 have disagreeable results for both. Therese is very 
 excitable — you understand, and she is quite capable 
 of committing any folly, so as to have her revenge, 
 and I shall say to Minot : ' Tu Vas voulu, Georges 
 JDandin I* Because your wife's nose has become 
 pinched in, that is no reason why you should neglect 
 her as you do, especially as she sings so well in spite 
 of everything ! ' However, my dear Caroline, I need 
 not tell you what husbauds are capable of! You 
 have no particular reason to be satisfied, from all 
 I have seen. Minot heard it from his friend Mon- 
 sieur Gervillier, with whom he is on good terms 
 again.". ...," Arthur Gervillier ? " Caroline exclaimed ; 
 " has your son-in-law seen him lately ? ". . .'" He saw 
 him only yesterday, I believe ; they are most inti- 
 mate, in fact, nearly always together. Minot had 
 
 * " You would have it, George Dandin "—is a constant ex- 
 elamation of the hero in Moliere's well-known eomedy of 
 that name, whenever anything unpleasant happens to him. 
 
FROM EVERYTHING. 
 
 205 
 
 given up his foormer friend, and I was very glad of 
 it, for he came to ns in the most unceremonious 
 manner, rushed in like a robber, and in fact behaved 
 most rudely. He always wanted my son-in-law to 
 lend him money, and he is like the ant in the fable 
 —he cannot bear lending. So in short, they , had 
 very nearly quarrelled, but for some time past Arthur 
 has become quite a dandy, a swell in fact again, and 
 brings my daughter beautiful bouquets, and so 
 jVEinot, who never bears malice, has made it up with 
 him again ; it appears that he has just inherited 
 some money. At any rate, it is quite certain that 
 he and my son-in-law are together every day, and 
 that Theoidiile neglects his wife shamefully." 
 
 Caroline and Marianne had listened attentively, 
 and when she had done speaking the former ex- 
 claimed : " But, in heaven's name, madame, are you 
 quite sure of what you are saying? "..." What do 
 you mean? Do you wish to imply that I do not 
 know what I am talking about ? " Madame [Troussard 
 said, evidently somewhat offended. " Do you think 
 1 have grown idiotic like my husband ?"..." No, ma- 
 dame, I did not mean to say that. But here we 
 are, at our house ; please come in, for I must talk 
 with you; the happiness of my life depends upon it." 
 ..."1 will come with you, my dear, I will come with 
 you. I shall be delighted to receive your con- 
 lid ences, for women must hold together; union is 
 strength, you know ! " 
 
 As soon as they were in Caroline's apartments, 
 she took Madame Troussard's hands in her own, 
 and said : " You have not been misinformed ; Mon- 
 sieur Daverny has left me, but I cannot reproach 
 him ; it is I rather, who am to blame, and yet, pray 
 do not despise me, for I have not yet forfeited all 
 claims to your esteem."..." I despise you, my dear 
 child ! What are you thinking of, and even if you 
 liad made your husband • . Well, I mean, 
 
20O' HE DERIVES ADVANTAGES 
 
 amongst women, we all know what that is ! "... a But 
 please listen to me. The happiness of my life now 
 depends on Monsieur Arthur Gervillier. He under- 
 took to find someone . . to get me news of . 
 Well, he promised me to follow him up, for the 
 person has gone quite away, on a long journey, and 
 you tell me that Arthur is in Paris . . "..."Three 
 days ago, Minot spent the day with him. They 
 went to Saint Cloud together, and my son-in-law 
 came home drunk and tried to assault the porter- 
 It is astonishing how violent he gets when he has a 
 little wine in him; and he such a coward when 
 sober ! "..." Could you not get me Monsiour Gervil- 
 lier's address P I must see him and speak to hiin." 
 ...."I am sure to be able to get it from my son-in- 
 law, but I might see him himself ; he often comes 
 and brings my daughter splendid bouquets. I am 
 not quite satisfied. I do not doubt Therese's virtue 
 in the least, but yet, we all know that the devil is 
 very clever.". . ." Well, madame, if you should happen 
 to see Monsieur Arthur to-day, please tell him that 
 you have met me; that you have told me that he is 
 in Paris, and that I am expecting him ; pray do not 
 forget that !"..." Be quite easy, my dear; I will send 
 him to you, or let you know his address ; you may 
 rely upon me. Women must mutually help and pro- 
 tect each other. Oh ! if all our sex thought like 
 that, we should be very strong — all these gentlemen 
 would be — -uncommonly nicely — taken in ! They are 
 that already, eh! Good-bye, my dear Caroline; 
 rely upon me, between now and to-morrow you shall 
 either see Monsieur Arthur or have his address." 
 
 Towards evening there was a violent ring at the 
 bell, and, when Marianne opened the door, Arthur 
 appeared. He was tolerably well dressed, but there 
 was a certain amount of carelessness about his 
 attire which now seemed habitual to him. He was 
 pale and wore a gloomy look, whilst his face and 
 
FROM EVERYTHING. 207" 
 
 manners showed that he was in rather a bad temper. 
 He came into Caroline's room without removing his 
 hat, and threw himself into a chair, exclaiming : 
 
 "You wished to see me, so here I ami".... 
 " What, monsieur ? Yon had come back and did' 
 not come near me ! " Caroline exclaimed ; " and, my* 
 Paul! "..."Will you kindly tell your old nurse to 
 leave us alone, madarue," Arthur replied ; " she has 
 the bad habit of always remaining in the room when 
 anybody comes." 
 
 Caroline signed to Marianne to leave the room,, 
 and she went out, saying: " Oh ! my poor mistress ! " 
 
 " Now we are alone, monsieur ; " Caroline said, 
 with an anxious look at Arthur, " and I hope you. 
 are going to tell me the result of your journey ? Yom 
 promised to bring me back my son in a week, and. 
 you have been away a month . . ". . ." I promised 
 to do so certainly ; but then, one makes so many 
 promises in this world — that is never difficult ! ".., 
 " Was not Jacques able to keep his word ? Or was 
 my child ill ? What bad news am I going to hear ? " ' 
 ..."Pray, madame, be calm! Madame Troussard 
 told me that you wished to see me, and that was 
 rather indiscreet of you ; but it does not matter, 
 as I should have come in any case, and as to your 
 son, or rather our son, for I had something to do 
 with his birth, he is very well."..." But where is 
 he ? Have you brought him back ?"..." Yes, I have 
 brought bim back; Jacques kept his promise, when he 
 received the twenty-five thousand francs, and gave 
 me the child. He is of course very dirty, but that 
 does not matter, for he can very easily be washed." 
 ..." And you brought him back, and actually did not 
 come and tell me ! But where is he ? Take me to 
 him ! " 
 
 Caroline had already risen, but Arthur, who had 
 not moved, made a sign to her to sit down again,. 
 and said: 
 
2Ub' HE BEIUVES ADVANTAGES 
 
 " One minute, madame, one minute. You are so 
 very energetic ! Yes, I have brought him back with, 
 me, and I must say that I found him a very nice 
 little fellow ; my heart felt a sensation of paternal 
 love, which it had never yet experienced, at seeing 
 him."..." I can quite believe that, monsieur, and 
 then . . ."..." Well, I am really fond of my son, 
 and so I said to myself : 6 Well, why should I not 
 keep biin? His mother has married, and can never 
 recognise him as her child, whilst I am untrammelled, 
 and nothing prevents me from doing so."..." What ! 
 will you really ? But then, that need not prevent 
 you from letting me have him, so that I may look 
 upon him with all a mother's love."..." That is quite 
 . another matter. Why should I let you have him ? 
 What right have you to claim him ? Have you been 
 faithful to me ? You promised to love nobody else, 
 and I find you married to another man! "..."How 
 can you reproach me, after your conduct in forsaking 
 me? And if I married, you know I did it out of 
 obedience to my father ! Oh ! you will surely re- 
 ; store the child to me ! I know you will, and not 
 deprive me of him any longer." 
 
 As she said this, Caroline could not retrain the 
 tears that choked her voice. 
 
 " Pray do not cry," Arthur said, puffing a mouth- 
 ful of smoke into the room. Crying really means 
 nothing at all ! I am speaking quite seriously ; little 
 Paul is my son. I do not suppose that you will deny 
 that ? I am free, whilst you are married to another 
 man. Some day I shall recognise him as my child, 
 and give him my name. I do not say that it will be 
 to-morrow or next day, but it must be done sooner or 
 later. Very well then, it is I, and not you, who 
 ought to have charge of him, and bring him up or 
 have him brought up, so as to give him an education 
 worthy of the name which he will bear some day or 
 another."..." But you surely cannot believe that if 
 
FROM EVERYTHING. 209 
 
 1 he were under my charge lie would not receive every 
 care and attention ? "..."Perhaps, later, I may tell 
 you where he is, but I do not wish you to know just 
 now ; some time hence, if I am satisfied with your 
 conduct, I may, perhaps, restore him to you."..." If 
 you are satisfied with my conduct ! I' Caroline ex- 
 claimed, with a horrified look at Arthur. " What 
 do you mean ? What do you wish me to do, so that 
 you may put an end to my sufferings ?"..." A great 
 many things. You r.re perfectly free now, since 
 your husband has left you ; so I claim to be, and in- 
 tend to be, perfectly at home here. I shall come 
 whenever I please. I shall breakfast and dine here 
 -when it suits me, and bring a friend with me occa- 
 sionally, and I see no reason why I should not sleep 
 here as well ! "..." What a dreadful idea ! " Caroline 
 exclaimed, getting as far away from Arthur as 
 possible. He merely looked at her for a moment, 
 and then went on, with a shrug of his shoulders : 
 
 " You see how ridiculous you are ! However, as 
 the idea alarms you so, I will not sleep here, but as 
 70U have plenty of money, add I hape spent all mine, 
 we will have a common purse. That is only natural, 
 so to begin with, I shall beg you to give me a little 
 cheque for three or four thousand francs on your 
 banker, for I am cleared out, and have not a half- 
 penny." 
 
 Without saying a word, Caroline went to her 
 writing-table, and drew a cheque for the amount he 
 demanded, and gave it to him, saying, in an almost 
 inaudible vocie : 
 
 "Are you satisfied, monsieur? "..."Oh ! yes," 
 Arthur replied, taking the paper which she handed 
 to him; "You are very docile, and if you go on be- 
 having like this, you will make me forget your infi- 
 delity, and I will restore your son to you. I must 
 leave you now, but if you are very obedient to my 
 wishes, you shall have your son again." 
 
210 AN INTERVIEW IN THE 
 
 Arthur took his leave, and Caroline neither said 
 a word nor made a movement to stop him ; she was 
 thunderstruck at his conduct, and when Marianne ■ 
 came into the room to look after her, she could only 
 stretch out her hand and say : 
 
 "Marianne, this Arthur is an infamous fellow! 
 He has broken all his promises. My child is in his 
 hands, and he will not restore him to me ; he even, 
 refuses to let me have the joy of seeing and kissing 
 him. And that is the man I used to love, for whose 
 sake I slighted my husband's purse and true affec- 
 tion! How I blush for my own self! and how I 
 execrate my youthful fault ! " 
 
 Marianne tried to console her mistress by en- 
 deavouring to make her hope that Arthur would not 
 persist in his resolution of keeping the child ; and 
 Caroline did not, just then, venture to tell her confi- 
 dante the full extent of her seducer's base conduct. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 AN INTERVIEW IN THE FOREST OE VINCENNES. 
 
 Several months had passed, during which Caroline 
 received frequent visits from Arthur, and as he 
 generally came when his pockets had been absolutely 
 emptied through gambling, he always looked sullen 
 and untidy when he called. He used to curse his 
 luck as soon as he saw her, and when she asked for 
 news of her son, he smiled ironically, and would 
 scsrcely deign to give her a.n answer, 
 
 In spite of all this, Caroline allowed this man, who 
 was passing his life in gambling and debauchery, to 
 dissipate her fortune; she still nattered herself that 
 
FOREST OF VIXCENNE3. 211 
 
 Ther submissive behaviour would induce Arthur to 
 restore her son to her, but all this suffering and 
 
 •anxiety told very much upon her health. Every day 
 Marianne tried to persuade her mistress to go and 
 spend the fine weather in the country, but Caroline 
 refused : she feared to vex Arthur by going away, 
 and thought that, as her son was at school in Paris, 
 she would not leave the spot near which he was, nor 
 
 Hose the fruits of all the sacrifices which she had made. 
 
 -Sometimes she would go into the less frequented 
 suburbs for the sake of exercise, and occasionally a 
 
 little way into the country in search of pure air and 
 .greater quietness. Caroline always went out 
 
 -quite early in the morning, and in consequence 
 of this habit she met scarcely anyone, and re- 
 turned to Paris just as that city was beginning 
 
 -to assume its busy and rosy aspect. One 
 
 Hovely July day, Caroline, whose nights were 
 generally sleepless, left home early, and, with her 
 i'ace hidden under a large straw hat, and wrapped 
 
 mp in a great shawl, she walkel quickly through the 
 streets, passed the barrier, and at six o'clock in the 
 morning found herself in the middle of the pretty 
 
 ■village of Saint Maude. 
 
 She enjoyed her walk, and kept on without meet- 
 ing anyone, so' that she could g^ve way to her 
 
 -thoughts without fearing that anybody would come 
 and distract them. 
 
 At last, however, she began to think of returning 
 
 -to Paris, but felt that she must rest awhile before 
 doing so ; and whilst she was looking for some con- 
 
 -venient spot, she saw a gentleman sitting on the 
 
 ; grass a few yards from her. 
 
 Her first movement was to turn round and go 
 away, but an irresistible impulse made her look 
 
 .again; as he was, however, sitting against a tree 
 with his back almost towards her, she could not see 
 
 Jris face. Most likely he had not heard her approach, 
 
212 AN INTERVIEW IN THE 
 
 for he did not turn round, and seemed absorbed in.- 
 thought ; but she trembled, and her heart beat 
 violently, for she thought that she recognised her - 
 husband in the man who was sitting there, and as 
 she turned to hurry away, her feet caught in some 
 fallen twigs, and he turned his head. Caroline had 
 not been mistaken, for it was he. 
 
 Seeing that she was so overcome that she was 
 about to fall — for she was deadly pale and trembling 
 all over — he got up quickly to go to her assistance, 
 but when he was near her, his emotion was almost 
 as strong as hers, and, standing a few yards from 
 her, he felt as if he had not the power to go away 
 from her. 
 
 Thus they stood for some minutes without speak- 
 ing ; Caroline leaning against a tree for support, 
 whilst Daverny was scanning his wife's face, and 
 trying to read in her pale and suffering features 
 what her feelings were on seeing him; but at last he 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " You do not seem well," hs said, going up to her, 
 " Do you require anything ? If I can be of any use 
 to you, pray tell me."..." No, thank you," she re- 
 plied, in a weak and trembling voice. " I intended 
 to return to Paris, but at this moment I feel it 
 would be impossible for me to do so; I feel too 
 weak."..." And yet you are standing ! Why do you 
 not sit down ? " 
 
 As he said this, Charles took her by the arm, and 
 led her to a mound, where he made her take a seat. 
 
 " I suppose your faithful Marianne is somewhere 
 near ? Tell me where you left her, and I will bring 
 her to you."..." No, Marianne is not with me," she 
 replied ; " I came by myself.". . ." Alone ! so far from 
 where you are living, and at this time of the morn- 
 ing ? "..."Yes, quite alone; always alone! Must 
 not that be my lot for the future ? Solitude suits 
 me, and when I do go out, which is but rarely, it is - 
 
FOREST OF VINCEKNES. 21& 
 
 always quite early in the morning, so as not to meet 
 anyone. I come out here into the country, for here 
 at least no one can see my tears. 
 
 As she said this, Caroline felt that she could no 
 longer restrain herself ; and hiding her face in her 
 pocket-handkerchief, she breahed more freely when 
 she let her grief have its own way. When Daverny 
 saw that she had grown rather calmer, he said,, 
 trying to master his emotion : "You are weeping !' 
 You have some further sorrow. I hoped that you. 
 would have been happy since I left you." 
 
 Caroline did not reply, but turning her head round 
 gently, she looked at her husband, and in her glance 
 there was something that went straight to Charles 5 
 heart. He took a few steps, went away, came back, 
 and at length sat a few yards away from his wife. 
 
 "No," she said, when he was seated, "no, I am 
 not happy, and I never shall be again ; I know that 
 I do not deserve it!"..." Why so? Perhaps you 
 judge yourself too severely. You only married me 
 from obedience to your father's wishes; you did not 
 love me, and told me so candidly. The laws of 
 nature are stronger than those of man ! I was an 
 obstacle to your happiness. I ought to have left you 
 and given you back your liberty." 
 
 Whilst Daverny was speaking, Caroline seemed to 
 feel a movement of vexation and impatience, and she 
 replied with animation : " You were very much de- 
 ceived if you thought me capable of making use of 
 the liberty which you have given me ; Although I 
 have seen Monsieur Gervillier again, although I am 
 still obliged to see him at times, I have never for- 
 gotten that I am your wife. That love which you 
 think I feel for another does not exist any longer. 
 I have never forgotten my duty as a wife, never. 
 But you do not believe me ; you despise me ! " 
 
 Fresh tears started into Caroline's eyes, and she 
 turned away her head and sobbed; but Daverny 
 
214 AN INTERVIEW IX THE 
 
 came up to her, took lier hand, and said : " I believe 
 you ; indeed I believe you. But do not think that I 
 despise you ! If I have not been able to obtain your 
 love, I surely cannot look upon that as a crime ? It 
 is a feeling which we cannot force, especially when 
 the heart has once been given ! " 
 
 Caroline seemed much agitated ; her bosom rose 
 and fell rapidly, but she did not withdraw herh and 
 which was in her husband's. 
 
 " So you come here for a walk by yourself some- 
 times?" Daverny said, breaking the silence.... "Yes, 
 it is my only distraction since I have gone to live in 
 the Marsais, for I have given up the apartments 
 where we were when you left me, and am in the 
 Eue Saint Louis."..." Yes, I knew that."..." You 
 Iknew it ? " 
 
 Caroline's brow grew brighter, and she turned 
 :round to look at Charles, and felt strongly moved 
 when she saw her husband's great black eyes fixed 
 upon her ; she dropped hers with a blush, and, for 
 the first time since she had known him, she noticed 
 that he had very handsome eyes. 
 
 " Do you often come for a walk in the countvy ? " 
 she went on, after a minute.". . . " This is the first time 
 since my return to Paris."..." You have been travel- 
 ling ?"..." Yes, not very far, however, though I have 
 been to many places ; but I never stopped longer 
 than was necessary for the object I had in view, in 
 which, however, I am sorry to say, I have not suc- 
 ceeded: but I am going to start again in a few 
 days. '..." Then you are very fond of travelling 
 now ? "..."I can only repeat that I have a motive for 
 it."..." I beg your pardon; I did not intend to ask 
 you questions. I know I have no right to do so."... 
 There was again a fresh silence between them, and 
 again it was Caroline who resumed the conversation. 
 "How did you know that I had gone to live in the 
 Eue Saint Louis-au-Marais ? "...Daverny seemed to 
 
FOREST OF VIXCEXNES. 215 
 
 hesitate, but at last replied: "I tlionglit that per- 
 haps you might wish to speak to ine, and for my 
 part, I wished to know what had become of you."... 
 " I thought that you would be quite indifferent as 
 to what might happen to me! "..."You were quite 
 wrong there."..." But yet, I have not seen you once 
 since our separation."..."! never saw you when I 
 looked out of the window, and yet I looked out very 
 often."..." Were you trying to see me?" 
 
 Caroline did not reply, but her hand grasped her 
 husband's more tightly, and Daverny came closer to 
 his wife ; he had never before been so happy in her 
 presence ; never before had her voice sounded so 
 sweet to him, or her glance appeared so affectionate, 
 whilst for her part, Caroline was much moved ; her 
 hand trembled in Charles's, and she longed, though 
 she did not venture to press it in her own. They 
 felt so contented, thus close together, that they for- 
 got the time, and did not even feel the sun, which 
 was by this time shining on the place where they were 
 sitting. The Forest of Yincennes began to show 
 signs of life, and people out for a walk looked at 
 them curiously, and this put a stop to their pleasant 
 dream. Caroline had forgotten her troubles and 
 her position, but these people brought them back to 
 her mind again, and so, with a sigh, she withdrew 
 lier hand from her husband, who was still holding 
 it, and said: "It is getting late, and people are be- 
 ginning to come, so I shall return to Paris."..." On 
 foot? "..." I always do, but to-day I shall take a 
 conveyance at the barrier, for there are too many 
 people in the streets." 
 
 Daverny had risen, and Caroline did the same ; 
 she walked a few steps, and then stopped and said: 
 " I feel so strange and giddy, as if I were going to 
 fall."..." If you will take my arm, I will go with 
 you to the place where you will find a cab."... 
 " Thank you, monsieur, if it does not inconvenience 
 
216 AN INTERVIEW IN THE FOREST OF VINCENNESv 
 
 you." Charles's only answer was to take Ms wife's^ 
 arm, put it within his own, and then they set off, 
 but, instead of taking the road, they penetrated. 
 into the wood ; they did not speak, bifb they walked, 
 arm in arm, and Caroline, who no doubt felt weak,, 
 hung very heavily on to her husband. 
 
 After walking for a long time through the least' 
 frequented paths, they found themselves at last in 
 the middle of the pretty wood of Beaute, close to the 
 Pate de Cogent, which is certainly not the nearest 
 way back to Paris. 
 
 " How long we have been, and we have taken the 
 wrong road; Marianne will be very uneasy about 
 me, as she will not know where I have got to. I 
 hope I am not tiring you by leaning so heavily on 
 your arm ? " 
 
 Charles's only answer was to gently squeeze the 
 hand which rested there; some actions are more 
 eloquent than words ; and so they returned to Paris 
 very slowly ; but they got there at last, and when 
 they got near the barrier they each experienced a 
 most dismal oppression of the heart, a vivid regret at 
 arriving so soon at the spot where Daverny must 
 leave her. He, however, took her to a cab, and 
 sadly said : "Adieu ! " But before getting in, Caro- 
 line slopped, and, looking up at her husband in a 
 manner she had never done when they were living 
 together, she said to him : " Shall I never see you 
 again? "..."Ceitainly you will, when I come back 
 from my journey ; you shall see me, and perhaps I 
 shall be able to prove to you that I am always 
 thinking of your happiness." And Charles left her 
 suddenly, as if he feared that he might not have 
 courage to go away at all if he remained any longer. 
 
 Caroline got into the carriage which was to con- 
 vey her home, and during the whole drive she kept 
 repeating to herself: "How unjust I have been!/ 
 
WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN. 217 
 
 How I have misunderstood liiin ! How worthy he is 
 of a woman's love ! But will he come and see as he 
 promised ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN. 
 
 Marianne was very uneasy about her mistress, as 
 she was not in the habit of being out so long, but 
 as soon as she saw her she guessed from the expres- 
 sion of her face that something extraordinary had 
 taken place, but Caroline did not give her time to- 
 ask questions, but told her all about their meeting, 
 of their conversation, and of her long walk with her 
 husband, at the end of which she gave a deep sigh 
 and said : " Oh ! well, the only consolation I can hope 
 for now is to have my son in my arms as soon as- 
 possible ! " 
 
 The time went on, and Arthur came to see her 
 very often, in order to get cheques on her bankers 
 from her ; however, he merely told the poor mother 
 that her son was very well and that he was profiting 
 by the education which he was receiving. But 
 when she urgently asked to see him, the only reply 
 she received was : " You must wait a little longer ; it 
 is not time yet." ' Caroline, whose heart was deeply 
 wounded, and who now felt as much contempt for 
 Arthur as she formerly felt love, sometimes was 
 tempted to refuse him the money which he wasted 
 as if it had been his own ; but the thought of her 
 child and the fear of losing him altogether soon 
 changed her resolution, and the young mother 
 allowed the man who had seduced her to consum- 
 
.218 WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN, 
 
 mate her ruin, preparing herself beforehand for any 
 privations, and fully resigned to suffer any misery, if 
 it must be, as she looked upon all those evils as the 
 just punishment for her first fault. 
 
 At about eleven o'clock one night, after a gloomy 
 autumn day, which had been followed by a cold and 
 rainy evening, just as Caroline and Marianne were 
 getting ready to go to bed, a violent ring announced 
 a visitor. "Who can it be so late?" the former 
 said, looking at her maid with something akin to 
 terror.../' You need scarcely ask that question, ma- 
 dame. I know Monsieur Arthur by his ring."... 
 " Arthur ! Oh ! no — he came the day before yester- 
 day, and I gave him . . and he cannot want any- 
 thing of me to-day." Well, at any rate . . just 
 listen, what a peal ! I suppose he is getting im- 
 patient."..." What can have brought him at this 
 time of night? Suppose he has found my boy? 
 Run and see, Marianne, and come and tell me what 
 it is." 
 
 She went to the door, and there she found that it 
 really was Arthur, very much the worst for punch 
 and other liquors, and extremely irritated at a con- 
 siderable loss which he had sustained at cards during 
 the evening; but on this occasion he was not alone. 
 A man and a woman were with him, and Marianne 
 was horrified at recognising Tbeophile Minot and 
 Madame Passelacet. 
 
 "You are a confoundedly long time in opening 
 the door !" Arthur said, as she came; " were you 
 asleep already? You go to bed with the chickens 
 here! Come along, Minot; come in, and give your 
 arm to our Odalisque !"..." But, monsieur, it is 
 eleven o'clock, and I think it is time to go to bed," 
 Marianne replied, trembling. " My mistress never 
 receives visitors as late as this, and . . "..."If 
 it were one or two o'clock in the morning, I should 
 come in. I come when I please, and always expect 
 
WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN, 219 
 
 a friendly reception. Do you understand nie, yon 
 old Sibyl? "..."Yes, monsieur, but do you want to 
 speak to inadame ? Is it anything of inipovtan.ee.' 5 
 ..."Nothing of that sort; we have only come for 
 some supper. We had no money to go to a res- 
 taurant, and Minot did not dare to go home for any, 
 and I should not have found any even if I had gone 
 to my place to look for it. But I said to my friend : 
 ' Never mind ! I will pay for supper, for I know a 
 place where we shall be well received, and where 
 they will be only too happy to entertain us ! On the 
 way, we met Madame Passelacet, who was just 
 coming out of the theatre, where she is engaged, and 
 so 1 brought her with us, in order that the meal 
 might be more cheerful."..." What! monsieur!" Ma- 
 rianne exclaimed, "you are bringing a woman here, 
 to mistress's apartments ! Why, I thought that she 
 was a general's widow, and gave dancing lessons in 
 ladies schools ? " 
 
 With these words, Arthur took the candlestick 
 from Marianne's hands, opened the drawing-room 
 door, and went in with his friends. She went to 
 her mistress, for Caroline, hearing several voices, 
 had remained in her bedroom, and was anxiously 
 awaiting her old nurse's return, and when she saw 
 her, pale and agitated, she immediately said : 
 
 " What is the matter, Marianne ?■ I heard Ar- 
 thur's voice."..." Yes, madame, but he is not by 
 himself ; he has brought his friend Theophile Minot 
 and a woman, and such a woman! and they have 
 come to have supper here.". . ." What ! Has Arthur 
 dared ? Grood heavens ! does he want to ruin me 
 altogether ?"..." Yet, I suppose we must submit to 
 necessity ; here is some money. Make as much 
 haste as you can, and try and get all he wants. We 
 must have courage a little longer, for all this cannot 
 last for ever. But before you go out, ask him not to 
 mention my name, and not to tell Therese's husband 
 
220 WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIX. 
 
 that lie brought him. to my house."..." Do not dis- 
 tress yourself, madame, for he cannot eat. me after 
 all. You must remain in your own room, and do 
 not leave it on any account. If he asks to see you, 
 I shall say that you are ill."..." You are quite right, 
 Marianne, for I am not safe here. Now go, and 
 when they have all they want, come back to me, and 
 I shall not open the door until I hear your voice. 
 
 Marianne left the room, and Caroline double- 
 locked the door, which opened onto a passage leading 
 to the dining-room. 
 
 Marianne went straight into the drawing-room, 
 and going up to Arthur, she said in a low voice : 
 "Monsieur, did you tell this gentleman to whose 
 louse you were going to bring him ? ".. ." No ; what 
 do you want to know for? "..." Because I will get 
 you some supper, I will give you everything that you 
 ask for, on one condition."..." A condition! You 
 are really amusing, old Marianne, to wish to impose 
 conditions upon me ! Bring in the supper quickly, 
 or I shall smash everything in the place."..." Break 
 it all, if you like, I am sure my mistress will forgive 
 you, but do not dishonour her before other people." 
 ..."What do you mean by all that nonsense? "..." I 
 say, monsieur, that my mistress begs you not to let 
 Monsieur Minot know in whose house he is ; she 
 will remain in her own room, and you can have 
 supper here, in the drawing-room, at your leisure ; 
 but for heaven's sake, do not mention her name."... 
 " Let your mistress remain in her own room if she 
 likes. All I care about is, for you to get us a good 
 supper, and lots of champagne, and then you can go 
 to bed whenever you like ; we shall not require you 
 any more ! " 
 
 " What were you whispering to that old servant 
 about ? " Dedelle asked, coming up to Arthur. 
 " Does she happen to be a friend of yours ? Of one 
 of your mistresses, T suppose, you wretched mon- 
 
WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN. 221 
 
 ster !"..." What business is that of yours Dedelle, 
 as long as you have a good supper, and no bill to pay 
 afterwards. 3 ' 
 
 Whilst Marianne was going backwards and for- 
 wards and laying the table for three, Arthur whis- 
 l^ered to Madame Passelacet : " .Remember that I 
 only brought you here so that you might turn 
 Minot's head."..." Indeed! And suppose he does 
 not take a fancy to me ? Of course if he does not, it 
 would show very bad taste on his part. 
 
 Supper was served, for Marianne had managed in 
 a very short time, to put a very fair spread before 
 them. A basket of champagne was placed on the 
 table, aud Marianne said to Arthur : " Here is every- 
 thing that you asked for, monsieur."..." Yery well, 
 Marianne ; you can go to bed now, for we shall not 
 want you any more." 
 
 "Now then, come and sit down," Arthur said, as 
 soon as she had gone ; " long live pleasure, and the 
 devil take sense !"..." Hear ! hear!" Madame 
 Passelacet said. " Long live jo'ity, champagne and 
 sweethearts ! " 
 
 When they had eaten and drunk their fill, Ar- 
 thur, leaving Minot and Madame Passelacet together 
 asleep, got up from the table. The fumes of the 
 champagne had given rise to other desires, and so 
 lie took a candle and went towards Caroline's room. 
 
 Marianne had remained with her mistress. After 
 telling her what she had seen in the drawing-room, 
 she had tried to console her, by making her hope 
 that she would be able to get rid of Arthur and his 
 companions before daylight. But Caroline was a 
 prey to profound grief, and would not listen to any 
 consolation ; she made up her mind to stay up all 
 night, and Marianne settled herself in an easy chair 
 near her mistress ; but in a short time fatigue over- 
 came her, and she fell asleep. At about three 
 o'clock in the morning Caroline heard footsteps out- 
 
222 WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN!. 
 
 side her door, wliicli was then tried ; but she had 
 carefully locked it. "Who is there ? " she asked, in 
 a trembling voice.... "It is I, Arthur, my love. Let 
 me in, dearest. It is very ridiculous to be here, 
 outside, when I might pass the night near you ! "... 
 " Go away, monsieur ! I command you to leave 
 me ! " Caroline said firmly, for her indignation had 
 restored her courage....". What ! But I am de- 
 termined to come in."..." Marianne is here, mon- 
 sieur; do not wake her up by your noise."..." Let 
 me in, I say ; let me in, or I will break open the 
 door," and as the lock seemed to be yielding to Ar- 
 thur's violence, Caroline opened her window, and 
 called out in accents of despair : " If you force open 
 the door, monsieur, I shall throw myself out of the 
 window." Arthur grumbled out something which 
 Caroline could not understand, and then, in a mo- 
 ment or two he went away, returned to the drawing- 
 room, and throwing himself into an easy chair, he 
 was soon fast asleep, and she heard no more noise. 
 
 After waiting for some time to see that everything 
 was quiet, Caroline awoke Marianne, and said to her 
 in a low voice : " Nurse, you must not go to sleep 
 again. We have no time to lose, for we must get 
 ready to start* we must escape from this infamous 
 man! We must go away before he wakes up."... 
 "What is the matter, madame? What has he 
 done?" Marianne asked, rubbing her eyes.... "Pack 
 up as many of our valuables as you can, as quickly 
 as possible; I will put my jewels together, and 
 everything else that I want to take with me. Oh ! 
 Marianne, I must escape from that man ; he wants 
 to dishonour me, and even the hope of seeing my son 
 again must not allow me to fall into the state of de- 
 gradation to which he would reduce me ! ISTo, I will 
 never see him again; out of respect to Monsieur 
 Daverny and for myself also. He only wants my 
 money, so I will leave him all that remains of it, and 
 
WE MEET MADAME PASSELACET AGAIN. 223 
 
 I will merely keep nay father's house, for I think it 
 would be a crime to let him have that ! ". ..*/ You do 
 not mean to say, my dear mistress, that you are 
 going to strip yourself of your fortune for Monsieur 
 Arthur? You cannot surely be thinking of such a 
 thin «•? "..."Yes, I will give him all that remains, 
 but I will not let him persecute me any longer with- 
 his presence. I will not allow him to turn my house 
 into a place of debauchery, and as he will not give; 
 me back my son, perhaps he will take better care of 
 the dear child, in return for what I give up to him.'* 
 Marianne did not try to remonstrate with her mis- 
 tress any more, and so whilst she was hastily packing; 
 up, Caroline wrote the following letter to Arthur : 
 
 Sir, — For some time past I have consented to receive 
 you, in the hope of having my son restored to me ; II 
 ought not to have done this, or to have .spoken to you,, 
 since I bear the name of Monsieur Dayerny's wife. Al- 
 though our meetings were not criminal, I feel that I 
 should be culpable were I to meet a man who does not 
 blush to bring the companions of his debaucheries to 
 my house. I see that I can no longer rely on bhe pro- 
 mise which you made me, Jto restore my son, but I 
 leave you all that remains of my fortune in favour of 
 that son. Dispose of it, sir ; but I beseech you, at any 
 rate, not to allow my son to want for anything. This 
 is the last request of her whose unhappiness you haye 
 caused: 
 
 She signed the letter, and enclosed a power of 
 attorney in it, so that Arthur might be able to dis- 
 pose of any funds that might remain at her banker's. 
 When all was finished, Caroline and her maid pre- 
 pared to start. The day was just breaking, and they 
 walked carefully, so as not to make any noise. As 
 they went through the entrance hall, they were 
 obliged to pass the drawing-room, and they were- 
 terrified to see that it was open, but Marianne 
 cautiously peeped in, and by the lights on the sup- 
 per table she could clearly distinguish everything. 
 Minot was asleep with his head on Madame Passe- 
 lacet's shoulder, and she kept up a capital imita- 
 
'224 THE SEDUCEK AND THE HUSBAND. 
 
 tion of the trombone by her snores, whilst a little 
 further on Arthur was lying sound asleep on a, 
 sofa. Marianne gave her mistress a sign that she 
 had nothing to fear, and so Caroline quickly opened 
 
 ~the door, and they both went downstairs. " Let us 
 go to a cabstand," she said, " and as soon as a 
 cab arrives we will take it, and go to Draveil, 
 since that house is all that is left out of my 
 whole fortune. We must live alone without any 
 servants. The garden produce will suffice for our 
 wants."..." And then, madame, if there is any. work 
 to be done, I shall always be there to do it."... 
 
 -*' My dear Marianne ! Oh ! your feelings towards 
 me have never altered." 
 
 They soon found a cab, into which they both 
 
 . got, and by promising to give the driver whatever 
 he asked, they persuaded him to take them as far 
 
 "Draveil. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND, 
 
 We must let six months pass by, let winter give 
 way to spring, and then return to Draveil in order 
 to learn what Caroline svnd her faithful Marianne 
 are doing. 
 
 Madame Daverny dismissed the gardener, as she 
 -could no longer afford to keep him, and she and 
 Marianne cultivated and kept the garden in order. 
 The first thing in the morning Caroline was at 
 -work, for it was only by continually busying her- 
 self about something or another that she could 
 ^dispel her sorrow. She had not forgotten her 
 
THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND. 225 
 
 . child, but she submitted to her destiny, and hoped 
 ^fchat some day Arthur, remembering all the sacri- 
 fices which she had made for him, would at last 
 restore her son to her. 
 
 One beautiful spring morning, whilst Caroline 
 and Marianne were looking in a room downstairs, 
 they heard a violent ring at the outer gate. " A 
 visitor ! " Marianne exclaimed ; who can have come 
 to see us ? This is the first visit we have received 
 since our return here." Caroline started ; she had, 
 however, always preserved the hope at the bottom 
 ■of her heart, that her husband would come back 
 and see her, and moreover he had himself promised 
 i;o do so at their last interview. She therefore ran 
 i;o a window which looked onto the road, and a cry 
 of horror escaped her, from their unexpected visitor 
 T)eing Arthur. 
 
 What is it, madame ? " Marianne said, noticing 
 
 her mistress's agitation...." It is Monsieur Arthur." 
 
 ...Can it be he again ! Will that man never leave 
 
 us in peace? What are we to do, madame? 5 '... 
 
 ""No doubt he has come to speak to me about my 
 
 son, and I cannot refuse to see him. You must let 
 
 "him in." 
 
 Marianne ran to the gate, but before she opened 
 -it, she asked him through the grating what he 
 wanted. Arthur, who looked very sombre and 
 angry, gave her a fierce glance, and said: " I like 
 you and your questions ! At any rate, I have not 
 come here to see you, so just open the gate im- 
 mediately, and take me to your mistress, for I know 
 she is living here, and I want to speak to her-"... 
 _A soon as Marianne had let him in, Arthur went 
 -up to the house, and the old servant followed him 
 without closing the gate, because she hoped he 
 ^would be going home again directly. Arthur went 
 into the room on the ground floor wh re Caroline 
 ~was, and without speaking to her, without even 
 
225 THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND. 
 
 taking off his hat, he threw himself into a chair,, 
 and exclaimed : " Well ! I have found you at last ! "' 
 ..."Indeed, monsieur !" Caroline replied with dig- 
 nity. " What do you want with me ? I did not 
 expect to receive another visit from you."..." What 
 do I want? I will tell you ; but first of all, send 
 away the servant."..." Marianne is my friend and- 
 confidante ; I have no secrets from her now; you- 
 can say anything you wish in her presence."..." I do 
 not intend to tell you anything, as long as she is 
 here, at any rate, so just clear out, old girl ! " At 
 a sign from her mistress, Marianne did as she was 
 requested, but she only went into a neighbouring 
 room, where she could hear all that they said. 
 
 " Now, monsieur, you can speak," Caroline said, 
 
 standing as faraway from Arthur as possible "I 
 
 did not come here to make love to you, but about 
 something much more important."..." What, about 
 my son, monsieur?"..." He is very well, and grow- 
 ing like a mushroom ! Love children are always so 
 strong and healthy, but I must have some money if 
 I am to continue looking after him, and that is 
 exactly what I have not got !"..." What do you 
 mean, monsieur ? I have given you all that I had 
 left, very nearly sixty thousand francs (£2,600) ! "... 
 " Yes, yes, I know all that ; I have had it and used 
 it, or rather I have lost it all at cards ! What the 
 devil do you expect ! It is not my fault ; I have 
 had the most infernal luck lately ! At any rate, I 
 have nothing left, and so I thought of you. I 
 hunted for you in Paris, for I thought this house 
 had been sold, when someone told me accidentally 
 that you had gone back to live at Draveil."..." And 
 what do you want of me now, monsieur? "..."Well, 
 re all}-, only a little money !"..." I have no money 
 nor fortune left, nothing whatever."..." Excuse me, 
 you are going too far. It is very possible that you 
 may have no more invested money left, but you have 
 
THE SfctfUCE*. .aD THE HUSBAND. 22? 
 
 this house, which is a very nice property.". . ." Do you 
 really wish me to sell this house, where my lather 
 died, my last place of refuge ; where I can, at any rate, 
 live without attracting the attention of anyone? ... 
 "There are thousands of places where people can live 
 in solitude, and besides, this house is certainly too 
 large for you and Marianne. I know also that you 
 are far too tender-hearted to allow your child to be re- 
 duced to absolute want, and so I have had a power 
 of attorney drawn up, by which you give me the full 
 right to sell this property. Sign it, and as soon as I 
 have sold it, I will give vou half— three-quarters of 
 it. I certainly should not think of keeping any 
 portion of it that I do not absolutely require ! " 
 
 As he said this, Arthur took a paper out of his 
 pocket and handed it to Caroline, who trembled as 
 she took it. She went up to her writing table to 
 bign it, when Marianne, who had — servant-like — 
 been listening in the next room to all that was 
 o-oing on, rushed out, and, going up to her mistress, 
 said 7 " What are you going to do ? Do you intend 
 to deprive yourself of your last place of refuge? 
 3Iadame, you must not sign it ! " 
 
 Caroline seemed undecided, but Arthur stamped 
 his foot with rage, and cried : " What are you doing 
 here ? Since when have servants taken upon them- 
 selves to interfere in their masters' affairs?''... 
 # Monsieur," Marianne replied, looking at him with 
 a certain amount of pride, "I am more than ma- 
 . dame's mere servant, for I was present when she 
 was born, and I have never left her for a single day ; 
 , but my mistress shall not wear herself out and con- 
 sume her days in watching — only in order to pay 
 for your follies and your vices ! "..."Hold your 
 tongue! How dare you talk like that?" Arthur 
 said, with a menacing look at Marianne...." Oh! 
 you cannot frighten me," she continued; "lam 
 bound to speak and to undeceive, madame."..."Ma- 
 
228 THE SEDECEE AXD THE HUSBAXD. 
 
 dame," Arthur replied, "I did not come here to be- 
 questioned by your servant ; if you refuse to sell the- 
 property, I shall go away, and as for your son, I. 
 shall send him to the workhouse." [There is nothing 
 which corresponds exactly to our workhouse in 
 France; the phrase in the original is : ( A place of 
 confinement for vagrants.']..." Oh! never, never!"' 
 Caroline cried, and, hastening to her writing table,, 
 she was in the act of signing the deed which would, 
 deprive her of her last asylum, when the door sud- 
 denly opened and Daverny appeared ; he remained 
 standing on the threshold and looked at the three - 
 persons in the room. 
 
 "My husband!" Caroline exclaimed, motionless 
 from astonishment, and divided between hope and 
 fear, whilst Marianne uttered a cry of joy and saidr 
 " Why, all the better, for certainly heaven has sent 
 him." Arthur had grown very pale, and his brow 
 lowered when he saw Daverny; however, he soon 
 managed to assume an air of pretended callousness, 
 and said : "Pray, madame, sign this ; your husband's 
 presence need not prevent us from finishing this 
 business ! "..."Excuse me, monsieur," Daverny re- 
 plied, coming forward and standing between Arthur 
 and his wife, " you are much mistaken if you think 
 that my presence will not make any difference here. 
 To begin with, my wife will not sign this document, 
 and so totally ruin herself for you, because she thinks 
 that thereby she may benefit her son ; I know 
 exactly how she has acted, and that she only con- 
 sented to receive you here because she hoped that 
 you could restore her child to her — that child which, 
 she had before she was married, the fruit of your 
 infamous seduction." ..." Monsieur ! " Arthur ex- 
 claimed with an angry look...." Please do not inter- 
 rupt me," Daverny went on, with the utmost cool- 
 ness, " Yes, I was aware of my wife's fault, and I 
 knew that it had its ccnsequences. I knew all that 
 
THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND. 229^ 
 
 before I married her, and that did not prevent me 
 from wishing to become her husband." ..." That 
 proves that you were a great philosopher ! " Arthur - 
 said derisively...." I can quite conceive that yon are- 
 altogether unable to comprehend my conduct. Now, 
 monsieur, I have told you that I was aware of my 
 wife's conduct, but that is not all; I am also fully 
 acquainted with yours."..." With mine!" Arthur re- 
 plied, trying to overcome his rising uneasiness. - 
 " What do you mean? "..."I mean to let my wife 
 know that you are a miserable hound, that ever 
 since she consented to meet you again, in order to 
 beseech you to go and try to find her son and to 
 follow up Jacques and the little chimney sweepers,, 
 you have been abusing her credulity and maternal 
 tenderdess shamefully, in order that you might 
 obtain from her that money without which you can- 
 not satisfy your beastly passions. I wish to let 
 Madame Daverny know that whilst she thought you 
 were all the time in Paris amongst friends worthy of 
 you in gambling hells, in those haunts where you 
 spend your life; that you were constantly inventing 
 fresh lies in order to keep the unhappy mothei 
 still longer in ignorance ; that you have not the least 
 idea of what has become of this child, for you nevei 
 made the slightest effort to find him."..." Oh t. 
 heavens ! can it be true ! " Caroline exclaimed ; 
 " Has he been deceiving me ? Has he not found my 
 son? "..."Your husband is lying ! " Arthur shouted' 
 furiously.... "You miserable wretch," Charles said,, 
 restraining himself with difficulty, " before I chas- 
 tise your insolence, I will confound you still more 
 utterly." 
 
 With these words, Daverny left the room, and 
 came back almost immediately, holding a little boy 
 who was very carefully dressed, and although his 
 face was no longer covered with soot, and his clathes 
 were not those of a chimney sweep, yet Caroline 
 
230 THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND. 
 
 recognised in him the child in whom she had taken 
 such care of, whom she had become so much attached 
 to, without knowing what ties bound her to him ; 
 and now, running up to him, she took him in her 
 arms, pressed him to her heart, and covering his face 
 with tears and kisses, she said : " Oh ! yes, this is 
 he, I know him ; he is really my son ! " 
 
 Arthur stood dumbfounded at the child's appear- 
 ance, but he soon recovered himself, and cocking his 
 hat on one side of his head, he said, carelessly: 
 "You have been much cleverer than I gave you 
 credit for, but all is not over between us yet. I think 
 there is a little matter to settle ? "..." Yes," Daverny 
 replied in a low voice, " I have been hoping for that 
 moment for a long while ; in an hour I will meet you 
 with weapons and a friend at the entrance to the 
 forest."..." I shall depend upon you," Arthur said, 
 and with a semi-pirouette, he quickly left the draw- 
 ing-room and the house, without looking either at 
 Caroline or the child. 
 
 Absorbed in her happiness at having her son 
 again, Caroline had not heard the last words that 
 had passed between her husband and Arthur ; Ma- 
 rianne shared her mistress's joy, and never seemed 
 tired of looking at the little lad at whose birth she 
 had been present, and whose loss she had so long 
 deplored. When, however, these first transports had 
 somewhat subsided, Caroline holding her child by 
 the hand, went to Daverny, and was going to throw 
 herself at his feet, but he checked her and said: 
 4 f What are you doing, madame? "..."My duty," 
 she replied, lifting her eyes, in which affection and 
 . gratitude were mingled, to Daverny. " I ought to 
 throw myself at the feet of a man who has sacrificed 
 his life to my happiness, who loved me enough to 
 marry me, though he knew of my fault. "...Daverny 
 replied by folding her in his arms, whilst Marianne 
 shed tears of joy : " But where did you find my 
 
THE SEDUCER AND THE HUSBAND. 
 
 231 
 
 son?" Caroline asked, kissing her child again.... 
 " Some thirty miles from here, near Chantilly. I 
 had travelled far- and wide, and all in vain, but at 
 last, ten days ago, I happened to meet Jacques and 
 this dear child in an out-of-the-way village. The 
 worthy fellow who had your son in his charge was 
 overjoyed when he heard that the child was about to 
 be restored to his mother, and so that there be no 
 doubt about the boy's identity, we consulted together 
 and compared dates and events. I remembered the 
 day on which I had found you in a fainting fit in the 
 forest of Senart only too well, and I could have no 
 doubt that it was then that you had lost your child. 
 Jacques had kept the clothes which he was wearing 
 at the time he found him, and gave them to me, as 
 well as a pocket handkerchief which the little boy 
 was holding, and which I believe is yours."..." Oh ! 
 yes, that it is," Marianne exclaimed, after she had 
 looked at it. As for Caroline, she only pressed the 
 child to her bosom, and said : " I require no proofs ; 
 he is my little Paul ; I feel something in my heart 
 which tells me so, and a mother's heart can never be 
 deceived."..." So at last you are happy!" Daverny 
 said, looking at Caroline with a gentle smile, in 
 which, however, there was a touch of sadness. "All 
 my wishes are accomplished, and now I will leave 
 you," _ 
 
 Raising Caroline's hand to his lips, Daverny hastily 
 left the room, as though he feared to give way to the 
 emotion which he felt. She Watched him as he went 
 out, and then came back to her son, for it seemed as 
 if she would never tire of looking at him and kissing 
 him. 
 
232 CONCLUSION. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 On leaving Caroline Arthur went to the village 
 square, where he had left his companion, for Theophile 
 had accompanied him. When he left Mi ot, he askel< 
 him to order a good lunch at the best restaurant in 
 the place, for he hoped that he should soon have 
 terminated the business which brought him to 
 Draveil. 
 
 " Here I am," Arthur said, coming up suddenly 
 and addressing Theeophile ; "you were getting im- 
 patient, I suppose. They went and sat down, and 
 Arthur immediately ordered some champagne, and 
 drank glass after glass ; but he did not grow cheer- 
 ful in spite of it all, and was pre-occupied and 
 thoughtful, and Minot noticed this, and said : " Has 
 not your business turned out as you expected?"... 
 « Why do you ask ? ". . ." Because you seem put out."' 
 ..."Well, chance, luck, anything you will, has frus- 
 trated my hopes. I went ts Draveil to have a talk 
 with Madame Daverny, and in an hour I am 
 going to fight a duel with her husband. You must 
 act as my second, now that you are here. There... 
 drink, that will put you all right. You know how 
 quarrelsome you get when you have drunk a little.. 
 Your good health !"..." But what is this duel about? 
 Does Daverny know that his wife deceived him for 
 you ?"..." Deceived him for me ; Never ! but it is 
 possible that he thinks so, and I shall not disabuse 
 him. By the way, I have a letter from his wife in 
 my pocket, which shows that since her marriage she 
 has nothing to reproach herself with. If I should 
 happen to be killed, that letter might be found, and 
 I do not wish Daverny to have that satisfaction. 
 
CONCLUSION. 233 
 
 Here, just take it and keep it, and yon can give it 
 "back to me if I am victorious ; if not., burn it." 
 
 With these words, Arthur gave Minot an unsealed 
 letter which he took out of his pocket, and then, 
 striking his forehead, he got up from the table 
 suddenly and said : " There ! I have forgotten all 
 about the pistols, and I always like to try my weapons 
 beforehand. I must ask the landlord, and he is 
 sure to know somebody in the place who has a pair 
 to lend me ; just wait for me here." 
 
 Arthur left the room, and Minot remained where 
 he was, and went on eating and drinking, but as he 
 happened mechanically to glance at the letter which 
 was lying by the side of his plate, something induced 
 him to look at it more closely, and he said to himself: 
 "It is very strange; I know that writing; I cannot 
 possibly mistake it. Yes, it is Madame Passelacet's. 
 I have several love-letters from her in my possession. 
 Of course it is her writing ; Arthur has given me 
 the wrong one ; let us have a look at the signature ! 
 ' Dedelle Passelacet.' What can she be writing to 
 Arthur about? I am very curious to know." And 
 Minot opened the letter, and read as follows : 
 
 "My little Arthur, — You don't love me any more ; I plainly see 
 that I am only a tool in your hands, and I am beginning to be tired 
 of that fool of a Theophile Minot. It suits you for me to be his 
 mistress, because during that time you make love to his wife, but it 
 bores me, especially as the fat fellow is a niggardly cur, who will 
 not give me a muff. I must have one, and if you don't give it me 
 before the end of the week, I shall tell your stout friend that you are 
 his wife's lover. You can choose between a muff and my hatred ; 
 you can get one of imitation fox skin for sixty francc. 
 
 Your DEDELLE." 
 
 Whilst reading this, Minot grew pale and trembled, 
 and, long after he had finished reading, he kept his 
 eyes fixed on the letter which he was holding in his 
 hand. Arthur now came in, holding a pair of pistols. 
 "Here I am," he said, putting them on the table 
 and sitting down. They belong to the innkeeper,, 
 and I have tried them; they are very good. We- 
 
"234 CONCLUSION. 
 
 have five minutes to spare ; let's have another last 
 bottle." When the waiter had brought it, Arthur 
 helped Minot, and now, for the first time, noticed 
 how pale he was. " Why, what is the matter ? " 
 Arthur said ; " you seem quite upset. Because you 
 are going to be second in a duel ? Good heavens ! 
 my dear friend, I really am sorry for you."..." No, 
 it is not that," Minot replied in a gloomy voice ; 
 " but look here — that is the letter which you just 
 gave me. "...Arthur looked at the open note which 
 Theophile handed him, and then he burst into a 
 laugh and said : " Why ! I made a mistake and 
 gave you Dedelle's love letter ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! that is 
 very funny. If I had done it on purpose — Oh ! it is 
 too amusing ! Well, you know what to think now, 
 as you have read it."..." I know that you are a 
 scoundrel ! " Minot replied, clenching his fists with 
 rage...." Oh! my dear Theophile! Just one mo- 
 ment ! Don't get into a rage ; take care, you are 
 not in your usual frame of mind ; that is the fault 
 of the champagne !"..." You are insulting me still 
 further," Minot said, getting up and taking his 
 glass in his hand ; " take care yourself — I am not in 
 a humour to put up with your insults."..." Come 
 Minot, drink ; empty your glass again — that will 
 make you quite courageous."..." There, take that, to 
 show you that I have drunk enough. 
 
 With these words, Minot threw the contents of 
 his glass into Arthur's face, and he, in a rage, 
 rushed to where the pistols were lying and said : " If 
 you were not a coward. ! . . ". . ." I will show you 
 the contrary," Minot said, hastening to the door; 
 "come, let us go out quickly."..." After I have 
 fought Daverny, I shall be at your orders."..." No, 
 no ! now immediately. I will fight you on the spot ! ' 
 ..."Oh! really, you are afraid lest your courage 
 should evaporate ; very well, as you please. Go on 
 I will follow." Arthur walked quickly along the 
 
CONCLUSION. 235« 
 
 rend which led to the forest, and, when they reached 
 a secluded spot, Minot stopped and said : "It is not 
 worth while to go any further."..." Very well," 
 Arthur replied, offering hiui the pistols ; "take one, 
 and go ten paces back ; I will let you have first shot 
 for I am sure you will be awkward with your 
 weapon. 
 
 Theophile took one of the pistols, stepped back, 
 cocked and then, almost without looking at him or 
 aiming, he fired at Arthur, who staggered for a 
 moment and then fell ; the bullet had struck him 
 full in the chest. No antagonist is more dangerous 
 in a duel than an awkward one. Theophile stood 
 motionless ; he was thunderstruck, and the sight of 
 his fallen enemy had sobered him suddenly and com- 
 pletely, when at that very moment Daverny came 
 up ; he was soon followed by some peasants who hud 
 been attracted to the spot by the report of the 
 fire arms. He ran up to Arthur, who opened his 
 eyes and gave him his hand, saying, in an almost 
 inaudible voice : " No assistance can be of the 
 slightest use. I die by Theophile's hand. Beg 
 Caroline to forgive . . and adopt my son. Take 
 this letter of your wife's; you will see that she has 
 never forgotten her duties and obligations as a wife 
 since her marriage." 
 
 Whilst he was speaking, Arthur had succeeded in 
 taking Caroline's letter out of liis pocket, and he 
 now gave it to Charles, but this last effort had quite 
 exhausted his strength, and he closed his eyes, never 
 to open them again. Whilst the peasants were 
 carrying the body to the inn, Minot returned to 
 Paris as quickly as possible, and, on getting home, 
 he showed his wife Dedelle's note and tried to pull 
 her hair out by the roots ; Madame Troussard, how- 
 ever, came in on hearing her daughter's screams, 
 boxed her son-in-law's ears and turned him out of 
 doors, telling him that he had got no more than he 
 
286 CONCLUSION. 
 
 deserved. In his rage, Minot set off for Toulouse — 
 he did not much care where he went — and spent a 
 week there ; but, finding it extremely dull, he re- 
 turned home, begged his wife's pardon for having 
 tried to pull her hair, and turned out an excellent 
 husband in the end. 
 
 But we must return to Daverny. On leaving 
 the inn, to which Arthur had been carried, he saw 
 two women and a child hurrying through the fields, 
 and, on recognising them, he made haste to meet 
 them, so as to spare them the sight of the sad 
 spectacle, which otherwise might have met their 
 view. On seeing her husband, Caroline uttered a cry 
 -of joy, and taking hold of his arm she said; "Oh! 
 so you have not been fighting a duel ; promise me 
 that you will not do so ! "..." Vengeance is no longer 
 in my power," Charles said, looking down ; " another 
 man undertook ths task of punishing him who has 
 caused you so much suffering."..." What do you 
 mean? "..."I mean to say that Arthur is dead. 
 Therese's husband has shot him in a duel."... On 
 hearing this, Caroline buried her face in her hands, 
 and then, taking her boy up in her arms, she covered 
 him with tears and kisses. 
 
 "Dearest Caroline," Daverny said, taking her 
 hand in his; "let the past be from henceforth 
 nothing to you but a dream. I will be a father to 
 your child, and I shall love you as much as 1 did on 
 our wedding day. The letter which you wrote to 
 Arthur proves to me that you have been virtuous 
 ^ince our marriage; I did not, indeed, need that 
 proof in order to love you always, but it may assure 
 -you that no word of reproach shall ever escape my 
 lips."..." And you will love this poor child also, will 
 you not ? " Caroline said, holding out her child to 
 Charles."..." I will swear to you that I will devote 
 my whole time to him, and we will bring him up 
 
CONCLUSION. 237 
 
 very carefully, in order to make up for all the time 
 which he has lost," 
 
 " Yes I " Marianne now chimed in, " but we must 
 ,all try and not let him grow up to become : 
 
 "A Fast Young Man," 
 
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 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
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 Petite Lise 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 LONDON: 
 MATHIESON & Co. 
 
 PBTNTED IN HOLLAND. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 A Gossiping Preface ." 
 
 I. A Nursemaid's Day Out ... 
 II. At the Chemist's 
 
 III. A Young Man Entertained 
 
 IV. A Friendly Breakfast 
 
 V. The Handsome Rouflard ... 
 
 VI. The Proh Family 
 
 VII. La Petite Lise 
 
 VIII. They make Acquaintance 
 
 IX. A Silver Spoon 
 
 X. The Servants Again 
 
 XI. Quinine 
 
 XII. The First Sitting 
 
 XIII. An Enfant Terrible ... ... 
 
 XIV. The Lady on the First Floor 
 XV. Mademoiselle Proh Malade 
 
 XVI. Another Extraordinary Occurrence 
 
 XVII. What it Was 
 
 XVIII. Another Discovery 
 
 i PAGE 
 
 1. 
 
 5. 
 
 16. 
 
 30. 
 
 41. 
 
 56. 
 
 64. 
 
 71. 
 
 79. 
 
 88. 
 
 95. 
 
 . ... 100. 
 
 106 
 
 . ... 114, 
 
 122. 
 
 . ... 127. 
 
 ice ... 136. 
 
 143. 
 
 150. 
 
La Petite Lise, 
 
 A GOSSIPING PKEFACE. 
 
 Some time ago a new illness made its appearance in 
 Paris, in the outskirts of the city, and eventually 
 throughout the whole of France. In fact, I might 
 go further, and say that it extended even into other 
 countries. But do not alarm yourselves, my dear 
 readers, especially the charming ladies amongst you 
 (for I invariably find that a lady reader is charming), 
 this sickness was not unto death, nor was it capable 
 of wrecking your ravishing charms (I always flatter 
 myself that you really possess ravishing charms). 
 It was simply a mania for autographs, which always 
 draws after it another mania for albums. 
 
 When a man has the good fortune — I think I ought 
 to say misfortune — when a man has the good fortune 
 to become a celebrity, he scarcely passes through a 
 single day without receiving requests for autographs, 
 or is waited upon by some individual absolutely 
 unknown to him, but who carries under his arm a 
 ponderous looking object carefully wrapped in paper, 
 or stuffed in a pasteboard box. This gentleman, after 
 a preliminary salutation and all those characteristic 
 gestures which announce the solicitation of some 
 special favour, unswathes the article he bears beneath 
 
2 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 his arm, opens the paper, or the box, and displays 
 an album more or less well bound, but in which 
 there is yet a great number of blank pages, then he 
 commences to speak in the most insinuating of voices : 
 
 "Sir, I already possess in my album some justly 
 celebrated names, but yours is yet missing, yours, I 
 say, sir, which is indispensable is still missing. I beg 
 of you, sir, not to refuse me this favour, but please 
 write a few lines on one of the blank pages . . . what- 
 ever you wish, the slightest trifle ... I would like to 
 suggest a few verses. . . for I assure you verses have 
 a special charm, and are easier to remember; should 
 you not have time just now — if you would prefer to 
 think over what you will write, I will leave my 
 album with you, and call again in three or four 
 days — whenever you like ! " 
 
 You are already in a bad temper owing to the 
 importunity of this man, who interferes with you in 
 your work, and without the slightest claim upon 
 your time, no recommendation, no introduction, he 
 drops upon you with his requests as though he were 
 one of your friends, and no acquaintance would dare 
 to trouble you with such questions. A beggar would 
 annoy you less, for you could put him out of the 
 house at once. But the Album-man comes to you as 
 though he is asking your vote for the Academy. 
 Looking at the album you hardly relish a second 
 visit from this individual, so you fume and fret and 
 clearly show the annoyance the interview affords you ; 
 you open the album at a blank page and take up 
 your pen .... The man is delighted ; he will prob- 
 ably be less pleased when he reads what you have 
 written; but, since he only wants your writing and 
 your signature he will most likely be satisfied. 
 
 You write the first thing that comes into your 
 head; you try to think of something silly — which is 
 not such an easy task as some people imagine. It 
 
A GOSSIPING PREFACE. 3 
 
 is said that Scribe, wearied by these albummongers, 
 
 always wrote thus : " I have lost my umbrella ! " 
 
 it invariably gave satisfaction. 
 
 I ought to say, however, that these albums are 
 not so often presented as simple requests for the 
 bare autograph. This almost always takes place by 
 correspondence. 
 
 You receive letters by every post; not only from 
 Paris, but from all parts of the country and even 
 from abroad. Sometimes you imagine that you 
 recognise the handwriting of someone you have 
 known and who longs for news concerning you; 
 you open it with alacrity . . . but no ! It is another 
 request for your autograph from someone you have 
 never seen, and whom probably you will never see, 
 and who finds it quite a simple matter to trouble 
 you with his petty wants, as though you were at 
 his beck and call. 
 
 Just recently I received a letter from a gentleman 
 who sent me some verses of which I am the 
 author and which probably he had read and copied 
 from an album. That taught me what to do another 
 time with my verses. 
 
 If like Scribe, I had written: "I have lost my 
 umbrella", or that I had lost my walking stick; 
 you can lay a wager that that gentleman would not 
 have copied that, nor have sent it to me. This 
 gentleman continues to request a few lines for his 
 album. 
 
 If I had answered his letter, which, of course 
 I took especial care not to do, I should have said 
 to him: "You are anxious for me to write you 
 something, well, what shall it be about? Have I ever 
 had anything of yours?" 
 
 It is said that Lablache, a famous Italian singer, 
 received from his admirers such a vast quantity of 
 snuff-boxes that he could have paved his rooms 
 
4 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 with them, and walked about on nothing but snuff- 
 boxes, and some of them were very pretty and even 
 valuable. Certainly I have never sung like Lablache ! 
 But, then, considering the enormous number of 
 requests I receive, and the numerous compliments 
 paid to me on my novels, I ought really to think 
 that I have as many admirers. Well, since I first 
 began to write — and that is a long time ago, as 
 you know, I have never received anything beyond 
 requests for my autograph. 
 
 I do not ask for anything, I never have asked 
 for anything, and I never shall ask for anything. 
 Thank God, I have made my way through the world 
 alone, without intrigues and without deceit. But 
 please leave me alone and do not pester me with 
 your begging requests for my autograph .... I do 
 not want Lablache's snuff-boxes ... I never take 
 snuff . . . and that would spoil my admiration for 
 snuff-boxes although they may be worth a great deal. 
 
 "What the devil could one offer you?" asked 
 a gentleman one day, and he was always pestering 
 me for a copy of my novels . . . that's worse than 
 asking for an autograph. 
 
 "Sir," I replied, "if anyone is anxious to send a 
 present it is the simplest thing in the world to 
 arrange it : If I lived in Tours I should send prunes ; 
 in Mans, I should send a capon; from Strasburg 
 I should send a sausage ; and from Eheims I should 
 send Champagne . . . Every district has its speciality, 
 and it would be very necessary for him to acknow- 
 ledge the receipt of my present." 
 
 This gentleman seemed very much astonished at 
 the simplicity of my method. 
 
 Whilst speaking of autographs, I cannot refrain 
 from relating to you a short incident concerning a 
 gentleman who wrote to me from Nice, and after 
 having set forth his request he begged me to for- 
 
A nursemaid's day OUT. 5 
 
 ward my answer to Nice, poste restante, addressed to 
 the name lie indicated in his letter. 
 
 If I had answered that gentleman, which again 
 I was careful not to do, I should have said to him : 
 " Sir, the poste restante is only employed under two 
 circumstances: love and politics. You are not my 
 lover, I am glad to say; and as for politics I never 
 have nor ever shall bother my head about them. 
 Why then instead of honestly giving me your ad- 
 dress, do you want me to answer poste restante ? Are 
 you afraid that I should know who you are or 
 where you live? And yet you ask me for my 
 signature . . . indeed, sir, you are scarcely logical." 
 
 Whilst I am in the humour to chat with you, 
 my dear and adorable readers, I will confide in you 
 another of these little annoyances from which it is 
 sometimes difficult for us celebrated but miserable 
 individuals to liberate ourselves. But I am afraid 
 I am abusing your patience, so I will leave it for 
 another occasion. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A NURSEMAID'S DAT OUT. 
 
 " Adrienne ! . . . Adrienne ! . . . but see what little 
 notice she takes ! . . . Adrienne ! . . . Ah ! that girl 
 is insupportable . . . Never there when she is 
 wanted . . . and no bell here . . . there ought al- 
 ways to be -one at hand . . . Adrienne! . . ." 
 
 A great girl, fresh coloured and buxom looking 
 at last made her appearance ; her face was plebeian, 
 her nose was as broad as it was long ; her hair was 
 
6 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 red and smelt like Russian leather. She entered the 
 room which served the purpose of a boudoir and in 
 which a lady was lying down as though fainting 
 upon a couch, whilst another, much younger but 
 not very pretty, was repeatedly striking her open 
 hands, and calling in the shrillest tones for the 
 maid. 
 
 " What is the matter, madame ? " asked Adrienne, 
 who did not seem at all in a hurry to arrive. " You 
 call out as though the house were on fire." 
 
 "What is the matter did you say? Cannot you 
 see your mistress here, suddenly fallen ill after that 
 heartrending scream? Look how she is shaking . . . 
 and now she is getting rigid . . ." 
 
 "Ah! yes ... I see . . . Madame has an attack 
 of nerves . . . One of her crises ... It always takes 
 her like that when she is contrary ... or when 
 she quarrels with M. Casimir . . ." 
 
 "It seized her suddenly directly she read that 
 letter you just brought her . . .' When Ambroisine 
 has one of these attacks you give her something to 
 take I presume . . . you surely do not leave her to 
 recover without assistance?" 
 
 " Most assuredly, madame, I always make her take 
 a draught ... a draught the doctor ordered . . . 
 and that brings her to in a very few minutes . . ." 
 
 "Well, Adrienne, give her the draught . . . make 
 haste, for she appears to be in great pain . . . Do 
 you know where this draught is kept?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, yes . . . certainly I know . . . 
 Ah! but I just remember . . ." 
 
 "Remember what?" 
 
 " Ah ! Madame told me to get another bottle 
 yesterday ... yes ... I just remembered it." 
 
 "What, is there none of the medicine left?" 
 
 The servant opened a small cupboard and took 
 out a white glass bottle which was quite empty and 
 
A nursemaid's day out. 1 
 
 handed it to her mistress' friend remarking as she 
 did so: "Look . . . you see I was quite right, 
 there is not a drop left." "So you did not order 
 it yesterday . . ." "I forgot all about it ... it 
 was the housekeeper's fault, she stopped me at the 
 door to talk about her eat . . . her cat disappeared 
 a couple of days ago." 
 
 " It is not a question of the housekeeper's cat . . . 
 it is your mistress who is in need of your atten- 
 tion . . . Have you got the prescription for the 
 draught?" "Yes, madame, I had it with me yester- 
 day ... so it ought to be in my pocket now." 
 
 So Adrienne rummaged out her pocket, and pulled 
 out a number of dried raisins. She laughed and 
 muttered. "It's that fool of a grocer, he is always 
 putting something in my pocket ... I am always 
 telling him to leave me alone . . ." 
 
 "This prescription, Adrienne, I do not want to 
 hear anything about the grocer now." 
 
 "Ah, of course." Adrienne unfolded the paper and 
 read the address of a store where they offer their 
 goods at eighty per cent below cost; she threw the 
 paper on one side and said : " I have been there, 
 madame, but they are liars ; they do not sell new 
 goods . . . they sold me a pair of cloth pantaloons 
 that were secondhand, I am sure." 
 
 "Ah! and do you wear cloth pantaloons yourself?" 
 "~No, they were for a neighbour's brother." "But 
 you have lost that prescription you stupid!" "No, 
 madame, there it is ! There it is ! It is mixed up 
 with some sugar that the boy at the coffeehouse 
 gave me." 
 
 "Now, run to the chemist's ... Is it far?" "No, 
 madame, quite close at the end of the Rue Meslee . . . 
 It is a splendid shop, close to the Rue du Temple. 
 Ah! it is one of the best in Paris." 
 
 "I trust this draught does not take long to make 
 
8 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 up." " Oh ! no, madame, I shall tell them that it is 
 urgent, and they will see to it at once. They are 
 very obliging and polite." 
 
 "Well, you run along at once." "Yes, madame; 
 I will just put on a bonnet and go at once." " Why 
 must you put on a bonnet? Cannot you go as you 
 are ? " " Surely you do not wish me to go out like 
 this, madame ; it is such bad form ; besides my mistress 
 would not like it." 
 
 " But your mistress will not know anything about 
 it." "I beg your pardon, madame, but someone is 
 sure to tell her that I have been in the street 
 without my bonnet ! and I should hear of it at once. 
 But never mind, it will be alright." 
 
 The girl ran up to her room which was in the 
 garret. She took down her bonnet and placed it 
 upon her head ; then she stood in front of the glass, 
 to be sure that it was on straight; then she took 
 it off again and looked for another at the bottom of 
 an old box. She tried that one, then after a moment's 
 hesitation she took it off again and tried the first 
 one. She. then went downstairs on her way to 
 the chemist's for her mistress who was all this time 
 lying very ill. But just as she was passing the 
 door the hall keeper cried out: "Ah! Miss Adrienne, 
 Miss Adrienne. Ah ! good news ! good news ! . . ." 
 
 "What is it, madame Bedon?" "My cat has come 
 back . . . poor Pagnole ... he has returned . . . 
 Look there it is." 
 
 "Ah! so it is; where has it been?" "Why, I 
 was just going to tell you, it , is quite a long 
 story, come in a moment." 
 
 " I must not come in now, I am just going to the 
 chemist's to get some medicine for my mistress 
 who is very ill . . . she has another attack of 
 nerves." 
 
 "You know she is subject to them. Do you think 
 
a nursemaid's day out. 9 
 
 it is that rascal, that scamp on the fifth floor . . . 
 that make believe literary man . . . ? " " Ah ! M. 
 Noirci." "Yes, it is that scoundrel, M. Noirci, who 
 vowed vengeance upon me because I would not get 
 up and open the door at two o'clock in the morning ; 
 what do you think of a man who lodges in a garret 
 at a hundred and sixty francs and comes home at 
 two in the morning? Well, it was he who has 
 shut Pagnole up in his room, and I am certain he 
 did not give it anything to eat, the poor thing has 
 been starving for two whole days. Happily the 
 servant on the second floor heard the poor creature's 
 cries and told me about it. 'I think your cat is 
 shut up in the literary man's room,' she said. I was 
 not long in getting to the fifth floor . . . and 
 I recognised the voice of my dear pet ... I 
 knocked ... I would have forced the door if he had 
 not opened it . . . and he called out ... 'I am 
 not up.' ' Get up,' I said, ' I want to speak to you.' 
 'I am not dressed,' he responded. 'Do you think 
 I want to photograph you,' I answered. At last he 
 got up and opened the door and my dear cat threw 
 herself into my arms . . . and I declare to you that 
 M. Noirci shall have notice to quit at the end of 
 the quarter . . . besides he never pays . . . we had 
 no intention of letting him stay." 
 
 "Good-bye, Madame Bedon." 
 
 "I will tell you when you return what the 
 scoundrel said in excuse for shutting up my cat, 
 Pagnole, in his room. Fancy what . . ." "Yes, 
 yes, when I return." 
 
 Adrienne was at last in the street. Then she 
 passed the grocer's shop; a boy who appeared to 
 be lying in wait barred her passage and said. 
 " Where are you running off to now ? Anyone would 
 think you were on a tricycle!" "Ah! you are 
 stupid! as if women could go about like that . . 
 
40 La petite lise. 
 
 It is a pity however, for then we could run on our 
 errands so quickly." 
 
 "Women can if they like . . . they have only to 
 put on a pair of . . ." 
 
 "Let me pass, Ciboulette, I cannot stop to gossip 
 with you now." 
 
 "Oh! you have never time for me . . . why, 
 yesterday evening at six o'clock I saw you chatting 
 with that boy at the coffeehouse on the boulevard . . . 
 the houses on the left side of the boulevard St. Martin 
 open also on to the Rue Meslee, so you see it is very 
 convenient ..." 
 
 "Well! what then ... I certainly remember 
 speaking to M. Alexander . . . My mistress fancied 
 a bavaroise before going to bed, because she had a 
 slight cough and thought she might sleep it away . . . 
 and I was going to the cafe when I met Mr. 
 Alexander in the street." 
 
 "Ah! bavaroise and milk is good ... I like it 
 very sweet." "Why? What do you mean? what 
 are you jeering at?" 
 
 "I mean that if your mistress waited for you she 
 had time to sleep before she could take it . . . you 
 were a good half-hour talking with that boy in the 
 street." 
 
 "Well, he had such a lot of things to tell me." 
 
 " If that is the way he attends to his business he 
 will soon have to leave." " He doesn't care a straw ; 
 he is not going to stay; he is going to take a cafe 
 on his own account." 
 
 " Oh ! that makes a difference. Are you going to 
 serve for him?" 
 
 " Ah ! no one knows yet ; more astonishing things 
 than that have happened before now." 
 
 " Alexander going to buy a coffeehouse. Ah ! ah ! 
 ah ! that's capital ! then she can get her bavaroise ! " 
 
 "M. Ciboulette, you are exceedingly annoying, 
 
A nursemaid's day out. 11 
 
 you speak ill of everybody, you disparage the whole 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 " Everybody knows that . . . Why, some assistant or 
 other starts on his own account every day ... 
 anyone can see that ! " 
 
 "Yes, but it is those who have saved, who have 
 put on one side all they have earned . . . they are 
 not gossips, not gluttons like you. Alexander. 
 What do you say: my Alexander? He is no more 
 mine than yours ! He owes you something, I suppose, 
 this boy you treat so badly." 
 
 "Yes, he owes me for a pound of honey I sold 
 him to sweeten his liquor with, when he was ill, 
 and as I was forbidden to give credit I have to 
 stand the loss myself." 
 
 "Dear me! You will have to pay for it? Ah! 
 someone is calling you, run back to your prunes." 
 "Are you coming back?" 
 
 "No! you have too much to say." The girl 
 continued her errand; but a hundred paces further 
 on she met another girl about her own age and very 
 coquettishly dressed. The girls met. "Ah! it is 
 you, Rose." "Good evening, Adrienne, where are you 
 going in such a hurry?" "I am going to the 
 chemist's; to ask him to prepare a draught for my 
 mistress who has one of her nervous attacks on." 
 "Are you still with Madame Montemolly?" "Yes, 
 still." "Do you like it?" "Hum! . . . not much, I 
 get very little pleasure; but there is plenty of 
 money; and I go out and in as I like, so that I 
 am not so badly situated." 
 
 "Your mistress is supported by someone; is she 
 not?" "Goodness knows, people say all sorts of 
 things; she passes herself off as a widow." 
 
 "Of a general, no doubt? They are all widows 
 of generals ... it is one of their weaknesses. . . " 
 
 "J[q, my mistress says she is the widow of a 
 
12 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 banker. At any rate he has left her a nice little 
 fortune, she has at least £ 700 a year . . . perhaps 
 more . . . and she has no debts , . . we pay cash 
 for everything. We have a very good system I 
 assure you." "What age is this Madame Monte- 
 molly?" 
 
 "She is thirty-four, so she says, I should think 
 she is about thirty-eight, not more; she is very 
 pretty and carries her age well." " She has a whole 
 crowd of admirers, I suppose ? " " No ! Unfortunately 
 she has not ... If that were the case we should 
 have a little more fun in the house and the tips 
 would be a trifle more numerous." 
 
 " What ? . . . . beautiful and yet despises lovers ! " 
 " No ! that is not it ... . my mistress has not 
 renounced love, on the contrary, she loves, oh! she 
 loves most passionately, she loves a young man, M. 
 Casimir Dernold, who comes almost everyday to 
 keep her company .... he is a musician and he 
 paints too .... indeed he does all sorts of things, 
 but he does nothing except for amusement ! Madame 
 is made after this M. Casimir, she thinks of nothing 
 but him, dreams of nothing but him, and talks of 
 nothing but him. That is why she will never listen 
 to those who pay their addresses to her . . . she is 
 really faithful to him she loves . . . even to the 
 extent of being ill, for she gives way to the greatest 
 excitement if he does not come at his usual hour . . . 
 Ah ! my dear Rose ! it is horrible to love a man 
 like that ... it is much better not to be in love at 
 all . . . what is your opinion?" 
 
 " I think the same . . . but I listen to all who speak 
 to me ; so that I have not a moment to myself . . . 
 When I am not gossiping with this one I am chat- 
 ting with that ! ah ! ah ! it is very enjoyable ; and 
 what age is this M. Casimir, whom your mistress 
 loves so much?" "Oh! about twenty-six or twenty- 
 
A nursemaid's day out. 43 
 
 seven at most." "And she is thirty-eight ! he ought 
 to make things pleasant for her ! " 
 
 "I don't know I am sure ... At any rate, she 
 watches him closely, she is as jealous of him as a 
 tigress! she makes him follow her; he must render 
 an account of all he does everyday, hour by hour." 
 
 " Poor fellow, what an existence ! I would rather 
 be in prison ! . . ." " Sometimes he kicks against it, 
 he complains, and sends her out for a walk ... Oh ! 
 then there are such terrible scenes! Madame weeps. . . 
 and takes out a little dagger she keeps in her belt 
 and declares that she is about to kill herself . . ." 
 
 " Good ! we know all about that ! but she never 
 kills herself!" "Indeed, about a month ago when 
 she heard that M. Casimir had been to Mabille she 
 tried to wound herself in the breast with the dag- 
 ger . . . but apparently she took bad aim for she 
 only scratched her ear which bled a trifle." 
 
 "Ah! ah! ah! so she wants to stab herself in the 
 ear ! Your mistress is a booby . . . And is this young 
 Casimir rich? " "Rich ! ... he! ... on the contrary. . . 
 he hasn't a sou . . . And so now you cannot under- 
 stand the situation and see why my mistress should 
 be so enamoured of him?" 
 
 "I follow you . . . she finances him . . ." "Just 
 so . . . she holds him because she holds the purse 
 strings ... if he had money I do not think she 
 would have him long . . ." 
 
 " Well, Adrienne, I do not know whether you are 
 like me, but men who have not a sou do not trouble 
 my head in the slightest. Oh! as for me, I never 
 consider men at all ! but for a man to be supported 
 by a woman is the world turned upside down. Is it 
 not man's duty to earn the money and woman's duty 
 to spend it?" 
 
 " Well, my dear, there are plenty of women quite 
 foolish enough to let their husbands live upon them. 
 
44 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 Ah! there is the massive Maflee, you know the 
 doughty Maflee, do you not?" "What — she — Louis- 
 ette?" "Yes, but she is called the massive Maflee 
 because she has such' a great red pair of cheeks. 
 Well, some time ago, she met such a handsome 
 fellow, at a Pilodo ball, who assured her that he 
 was a native of her particular village ... he danced 
 all the best dances with her, even those which she 
 did not know. Then he asked her out to dinner 
 for the following Sunday. Well, she accepted, and 
 went to dine with her new acquaintance, who drank 
 like a fish, then just as the waiter brought the bill 
 he remembered that he had not received a certain 
 remittance upon which he had reckoned and asked 
 Louisette to lend him sufficient to pay the bill. 
 Fortunately she had brought her purse. She lent him a 
 twenty franc piece, he paid for the dinner and kept 
 the change. The dinner only cost nine francs ten sous. 
 He left her soon after dinner under the pretext of 
 having to do some writing for a grocer. Maflee, 
 who was not very happy at the idea of going home 
 so early on a Sunday so she put on a fresh bonnet 
 and went to the Pilodo ball with a neighbour. And 
 whom do you think she saw there? Why, her new 
 acquaintance courting another woman and spending 
 the money she had lent him on punch." 
 
 " Ah ! that was capital fun, and what did Louisette 
 do?" "Why, like a fool, she went off snivelling 
 and crying. But the most curious part of the whole 
 story is that, on the following Sunday her new 
 friend played her the same trick. They went to 
 dinner and when the time came for paying he had 
 no money." " Oh ! that is too much ! and so she 
 had to pay again?" "Yes, she paid. . . she paid 
 herself, and kept the change. And since then she 
 has never set eyes upon her new friend." "Poor 
 Louisette ! but I cannot blame her, she is too easily 
 
A NURSEMAIDS DAY OUT. i5 
 
 imposed upon. And you, Rose, are you still with 
 the same people?" "The Duponts? Oh, no, thank 
 goodness, I am not! I left them some time ago! 
 They were very inferior people, did not suit me at 
 all. Madame always went to market, she bought 
 everything. The master always attended to the wine 
 cellar himself. He knew all that was there down 
 to a single bottle. They were a beggarly lot, my 
 dear, they locked up the sugar and the liqueurs, that 
 did not suit me, I assure you. I soon saw that 1 
 should not stay there long." "Well, and are you 
 better off now?" "Ah! my dear, I am m a splendid 
 place ! I am at a bachelor's . I , rich, generous and 
 not the least bit fussy. He goes to business simply 
 for pleasure and to occupy his time. We have a 
 very nice suite of apartments in the rue Beranger . . . 
 six rooms on the second floor." 
 
 "And have you good wages?" 
 
 "Six hundred francs without counting extras and 
 
 presents." 
 
 "Does your master give you presents r iou are 
 
 indeed in luck's way." 
 
 " Why only just lately he gave me a magnificent 
 handkerchief of china silk." "How old is this master 
 of yours?" "Oh! he is bordering on sixty . . . 
 but he does not look it ... he is still goodlook- 
 ing . . ." "Ah! I understand . . . you are there 
 to do everything ... Ah! they are capital places." 
 
 "Ah! you're thinking about some thing or other. . . 
 well, you're quite wrong I assure you." " Now look 
 here, explain this: why does your master make you 
 thpse uresents . 
 
 "Ah! I don't say that sometimes he does not like 
 to romp a little ... to laugh, and put his arm 
 round my waist, but not what you are thinking 
 about." 
 
 "Well, after all you have perfect right to do as 
 
16 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 you like and so has your master. Did you say he 
 was a bachelor or a widower?" 
 
 "I don't know, I've not asked him yet ... I 
 must find that out." 
 
 "Ah! but what about my medicine . . . here am 
 I still chatting with you . . ." 
 
 "Well, we must talk a little when we meet, we 
 do not see each other every day." 
 
 "That's quite true — now I must be off to the 
 chemist's . . . good-bye ! " 
 
 "Au revoir, Adrienne." 
 
 CHAPTER Ii. 
 
 AT THE CHEMIST'S. 
 
 When Adrienne at last arrived at the chemist's shop 
 at the corner of the Rue Meslee and the Rue du 
 Temple, there were so many people inside that the 
 assistants hardly knew which way to turn. It is in 
 fact a very rare occurrence indeed to find a chemist's 
 shop empty. People of all sorts crowd in hoping to 
 find some remedy or other to assuage their own 
 sufferings or those of their friends. If that proves 
 the business is good it also shows that we are all 
 individually capable of improvement and that none 
 of us are perfect: a fact of which we have been 
 convinced for some time. 
 
 There is a great fat woman, in a round bonnet, 
 holding by the hand a boy of four or five years, 
 who is so swathed up in his clothes that it is 
 difficult to tell whether it is a boy or a girl, his 
 mother addresses one of the assistants: "My little 
 boy has had a bad cough for the last few days that 
 
AT THE CHEMIST S. 
 
 >S. H 
 
 he almost splits my head in two when he coughs, 
 and the fits of coughing are much like those his 
 late father was subject to, so violent were they that 
 I could never sleep at night; but what actually 
 carried him off was a fit of indigestion brought on 
 by a hot vapour bath, because—" "Madame, I 
 cannot discuss your late husband's maladies, but 
 what about your little child who has this cold; it 
 is concerning that, I believe, that you have called?" 
 "Assuredly it is, sir, look there he is, the little 
 jewel." "Is it a little boy?" "Yes, sir." "I 
 should have taken it for a little girl." "Is that on 
 account of his delicate appearance ? _ Ah ! yes, he 
 is very delicate; but see how red he is." "That is 
 not to be wondered at! You cover him up too 
 much! he is too hot." "But, sir, he coughs so.^ 
 "That is no reason why you should suffocate him." 
 "What ought he to take, sir?" "Oh, a soothing 
 mixture, madame, some sweet mallow and honey— and 
 you may add a little milk." "Cow's milk, sir?" 
 "Certainly." "Some one told me to give him ass's 
 milk." "No, no, he is too young— besides he does 
 not look at all consumptive." "Do you think he 
 has a fever, sir?" The young man took the child's 
 hand who quickly withdrew it and uttered a series 
 of loud screams. "Now, Dodore, why do you not 
 let the gentleman take your hand? give it to him 
 nicely; there's a good boy." 
 
 "I don't want to, booh! booh!" "He is as frolic- 
 some as a monkey . . . show the gentleman your 
 tongue." "No, no, I won't!" "He is a very droll 
 child, is he not?" "He scarcely shows you proper 
 respect, madame." "Ah! he is very young, and he 
 inherits those faults from his father, who always 
 answered me in that manner . . . but what about 
 my dear child . . . will you give me the mallow and 
 honey, please?" 
 
18 LA PETITE LISfi. 
 
 "Yes, madame, at once." "And you think there 
 would be no advantage in giying him ass's milk ? " 
 "None whatever, madame, I assure you the child 
 does not need it. But if you are absolutely anxious 
 to give him some it will do him no harm." "Is 
 that so, sir? Have you an ass here?" "Oh! no, 
 madame, we do "not keep ass's milk." "What a pity! 
 A neighbour of mine has a goat ; do you think that 
 would do as well?" "Any milk you like, no kind 
 of milk can do him harm . . . There is your mallow 
 and honey, madame." "Thank you ... is he to 
 take it warm?" "As warm as possible, it is always 
 preferable to taking it cold." "Dodore, throw a 
 kiss to the gentleman." 
 
 Instead of a kiss the youngster made a grimace, 
 put out his tongue and muttered, " he is a bother," 
 and his mother led him crying from the shop. 
 
 Another lady, of uncertain age, was addressing 
 one of the assistants, and whimpered and smiled, 
 exposing to view a complete set of false teeth, but 
 which she imagined everyone took to be natural. 
 "Sir," she exclaimed. "I have had the misfortune 
 to meet with a most disagreeable accident and I 
 must beg of you to take it out as quickly as 
 possible." "What is it I am to take out, ma- 
 dame? If it is a tooth we are not dentists . . ." 
 " Oh ! it is not a tooth ... it hurts me on this 
 side, ah ! sir, you ought to see it . . . but look 
 above my mouth and tell me what you see." " Your 
 nose, madame, and that is where I should expect to 
 see it." "Yes, my nose is there, and I am bold to 
 say that it is a shapely one . . . but on my nose . . . 
 to the left . . . there . . . can you see nothing?" 
 " Ah ! well, I fancy I can discern a pimple ... it 
 is really only a slight redness of the skin . . ." 
 " Is it really red, sir, oh ! what shall I do ? " " It is 
 not yet ripe, madame." "Ripe? what does that 
 
AT THE CHEMIST'S, 49 
 
 mean? and do you think it ought to ripen, sir?" 
 
 "Most certainly, madame,* it is only a pimple at 
 present but even a pimple should follow its proper 
 course ... to ripen, whiten, break, and disappear." 
 "Ripen and whiten! I have a white pimple on 
 my nose! oh! what a horror! I cannot endure that! 
 I have never had such a thing before. Whatever has 
 made this come on my nose . . . whatever is the 
 cause of it?" "I haven't the slightest idea, madame, 
 but pimples often come without us knowing the 
 reason wiry . . . but that happens to everybody." 
 " Oh ! no, sir, if one is cleanly to the minutest detail 
 such things should not happen ... I have not been 
 putting my nose into unhealthy places, I assure 
 you ! " "I quite believe you, madame." 
 
 "I wash my face twenty times a day! I anoint 
 myself with cold cream, with Bully vinegar, with 
 Portugal water, with essence of jasmine . . ." "Too 
 many, madame, you must not abuse the use of cos- 
 metics, for that only produces effects quite contrary 
 to expectation." " Well, sir, you must give me some- 
 thing that will make this disappear from my nose . . . 
 I really cannot let people see it there . . ." "Madame, 
 that is very difficult ... in fact it would be dan- 
 gerous . . . with the nose it is necessary to act 
 with great caution . . . have you seen your doctor ? " 
 
 " A doctor . . . for a pimple . . . what next ! First 
 of all I have no wish to see doctors. I execrate 
 them . . . they are always wanting to purge me . . . 
 i" want none of their purging ! " 
 
 "You are wrong, madame, for if you were purged 
 you would very probably not have that pimple on 
 the nose." " Well, what can I bathe this pimple with 
 to make it disappear at once ? There must be some 
 means of doing so." "Madame, I assure you it 
 would be dangerous ; if you drive the pimple in- 
 wards it will only cause others to appear." " Others ? 
 
20 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 very well, I do not mind so long as they are not 
 on the face." "Then that is what you desire, 
 madame? " "Yes, I am going to a party to-morrow . . . 
 and I must go without this on my face." " There is 
 cerat saturne, madame, that will dry up the eruption." 
 "Oh! thanks, I will cover my nose with it!" 
 " The spot only . . . but I warn you that it will 
 cause others." "Very well, sir, very well . . . 
 we can drive them all inwards." 
 
 The lady took her little pot of cerat, paid for it, 
 and left the shop joyous at having obtained some- 
 thing to cure the pimple or at least to hide it. 
 
 Her place at the counter was taken by a young 
 man, heavily clad, but looking very ill, and he ap- 
 proached the assistant with a somewhat embarrassed 
 demeanour. The shopmen understood the cause of 
 this embarrassment and were cognisant of the reason 
 for the visit. He whispered to one of the attendants 
 and they showed him into a small apartment con- 
 tiguous to the shop. There, in an undertone, he 
 explained his case. They gave him a box of pills, 
 and a bottle of syrup prepared from the roots of 
 the strawberry plant which the patient plunged into 
 his pocket and then heaved a great sigh. 
 
 The young men regarded him with a smile and 
 one of them muttered: 
 
 Ita dis placitum voluptatem ut moeror Comes consequatur! 
 
 "The gods!" responded another, "Mercury is the 
 god to admit that expression! He is the god of 
 commerce and intercourse." " Gentlemen ! gentle- 
 men ! be careful what you are saying," said a young 
 man at the desk. " Oh ! there is no danger the 
 ladies do not know latin." 
 
 A great fat father was the next to arrive and he 
 
At THE CHEMIST'S. 21 
 
 threw himself down upon a settee and exclaimed: 
 "Ah! gentlemen, what a calamity . . . sapristi, what 
 grief! " "Have you fallen, sir?" "No, oh! I have 
 not fallen ; it is much worse than that ; it is a pain 
 that hurts me from the haunch to the knee, on 
 the right side . . ." "And has the pain just caught 
 you as you were walking?" "Just caught me? Why 
 I have suffered continuously for the past three weeks. 
 I have not done anything yet as I have constantly 
 said to myself, 'It will pass away'; but it does 
 not pass away . . . that is why I have decided to 
 come here." "You ought to have come here sooner." 
 " Ah ! but I hate taking medicines ! Order me 
 truffles, and lobsters, and champagne and by Jove, 
 I will follow your prescription immediately." "You 
 have perhaps been abusing the use of those things, 
 and that is why you are now indisposed. Have you 
 consulted a doctor? " "I have consulted ten, — twelve — 
 twenty. Every time I find myself near a doctor I 
 consult him." " What have they told you concerning 
 your malady?" " One says it is rheumatism; another 
 that it is sciatica; whilst a third declares that it is 
 gout and a fourth ascribes it all to weariness; but 
 they have all ordered me to rub the seat of pain." 
 "With what?" "With opodeldoc balm, with 
 Tranquille balm, and with the balm of Firraventi . . . 
 and a whole crowd of other balms ... I have some excel- 
 lent rum, real Jamaica, and I had an idea of rubbing 
 myself with that . . ." "It is not bad." "It is 
 not. Having no servant I asked the hall porter to 
 come in and rub me, he was delighted. I gave him 
 my rum, and I stretched myself upon the bed on 
 that side which was not bad. The man rubbed me 
 with all the power of his arms ... It nearly broiled 
 me! I noticed that he rested at short intervals. I 
 bethought myself of casting a glance at the fellow 
 and there I saw him drinking my rum out of the 
 
22 tA PETITE USE. 
 
 bottle and then rubbed me with his dry hand! I 
 have not been rubbed since. Could you find me a 
 girl who could rub me, and feel sure she could do 
 it better than a man? . . ." "We could recommend 
 you a woman who would apply leeches or cup you . . . 
 she also might rub you if necessary." " Is she young?" 
 "Between fifty and sixty." "I should prefer one 
 between twenty-five and thirty." "What does it 
 matter provided she rubs well? ... A young woman 
 would only worry you and that should be avoided." 
 "So you think that would act detrimental to my 
 malady?" "Assuredly. You would also do well to 
 apply a leech or two, and a blister now and then." 
 " Oh ! I am quite willing to do anything which is 
 likely to cure me quickly. There is my address; 
 send me a woman to-morrow with some leeches, a 
 cupping glass and some blisters." "But you do not 
 have use for them all at the same time.' J "But they 
 may cure me all the more quickly ! You see I 
 never take drugs ! Give me some sort of balm ; I 
 will act as my own rubber in the meantime." 
 
 Whilst they were serving this gentleman, a woman 
 with a handkerchief round her head, rushed into 
 the shop weeping, and ran up to the man at the 
 desk. "Ah my dear M. Narcisse," she exclaimed, 
 "what a misfortune! what a calamity I have just 
 had! Scarcely is my little girl recovered from her 
 influenza and my little boy from his measles and 
 there is now my husband unable to work ! It is the 
 last straw!" "What i3 the matter with your hus- 
 band?" "Ah! it is some peculiar malady . . . and 
 it seems to be dangerous . . . Do you think he had 
 caught tha entracte?" "An entracte? what do you 
 mean by that?" "I simply tell you what the doctor 
 said, and he is a very clever man ... he has just 
 been in and said, * Ah ! it is an entracte.'* Ah ! after 
 all, Andre loves the theatre, he wanted to enroll 
 
AT THE CHEMIST'S. 23 
 
 himself in the orchestra ... he spends half his 
 money buying tickets; so that it is not astonishing 
 that he has caught an entracte and it catches him in 
 the hack . . ." "Ah! I understand now ... it is 
 anthrax that your husband has." "Well, that is 
 just what I said ! an entracte in the back ! It is a 
 sort of cold on the chest, is it not?" "Not 
 quite, but it is very serious . . . you ought to 
 have a prescription." "Yes, of course, I know 
 that . . . the doctor wrote all that . . . would 
 it take long to make up?" "No, I can give you 
 all you want in five minutes." " Then I will wait . . . 
 but, after all, when his entracte is cured he will go 
 on talking about the theatre, so I shall say to him : 
 Andre, you have had enough of that in your back ! " 
 
 An old lady next came in with a most perturbed 
 air. She had a dog on a chain and exclaimed : " Is 
 it . true, sir . . . is it already devastating Paris . . . 
 is it very violent?" "Excuse me, madame, to what 
 do you refer?" "Why, the cholera, sir, they tell me 
 that it is all over Paris and has broken out in the 
 neighbourhood of St. Antoine." "This is the first 
 I have heard of it ! " " Then you have not had 
 patients in?" "Not one, madame." "What confirms 
 my suspicions is that in passing the public urinals 
 I noticed that they had cleansed them with disin- 
 fectants." "Oh! they often do that, it is to destroy 
 any noxious odours." "Do you think that is the 
 sole reason ? I must also tell you that the husband of 
 one of my friends has just died very suddenly." 
 " Apoplexy, probably." " Oh ! no, sir, it was not 
 anything like that; he brought in a lobster and a 
 sausage in the evening, it is his favourite dish, and 
 he washed it down with beer. He did not eat too 
 much, the next morning he was dead and the colour 
 of his sausage." 
 
 " He probably had indigestion, madame." " But, sir, 
 
24 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 he had often eaten as much before and did not die." 
 " These events never happen twice, madame." " Then 
 there is the little son of my housekeeper, a child 
 who was fresh and rosy — for three days he has been 
 bad in the stomach and has not left his night 
 utensil. . ." " That is very common among children." 
 "Then, I have just met a gentleman who dined at 
 my house about a fortnight ago and who seemed 
 quite well then . . . now he is quite sallow . . . 
 his eyes are sunken ... in fact so changed that I 
 could not help remarking how ill he looked. He 
 replied that he did not know what was the matter 
 with him, but that he felt ill all over ... is that 
 the way it seizes upon one, sir?" "No, madame, 
 this gentleman has probably lumbago, that's all." 
 " Oh ! I assure you there is something unnatural in 
 the air . . . why, this mornirg I was nearly frozen 
 to death when I got up and now I am quite hot." 
 "Perhaps you have been walking quickly." "No, 
 Zozor made me stop every moment or two . . . the 
 poor little creature is not quite right in its inside . . . 
 give me some camphor, for I understand it is a good 
 preventive to infectious diseases." "Yes, madame, 
 I will give you some at once." "I shall put a 
 piece in my bosom, that I may come to no harm." 
 " Certainly, madame." " Then give me some disinfect- 
 ant . . . that is another preventive." "Liquid or 
 solid, madame ? " "I do not understand." "Madame, 
 the solid is a powder, the liquid is in a bottle, 
 it is a prepared water." "Ah! I did not 
 know the solid. Give me both, I will use them 
 equally; I will wash with one and carry the other. 
 Ah! have, you any bent-grass?" "Yes, madame." 
 " That is another preventive." " That is for insects, 
 moths." "Oh! they are also in the air, give me a 
 packet ... I will carry it in my corset." "Very 
 good, madame." "Then there is lavender which also 
 
AT THE CHEMIST'S. 25 
 
 has well-known properties." " Yes, madame, it is an 
 aromatic." "Give me some, I will put it in my 
 pocket. Can you give me something to counteract 
 the impure air? Ah, patchouli. Have you any 
 patchouli?" "No, madame, you will get that at the 
 perfumery stores, it smells very nice, but it does 
 not act upon the impure air, and it attacks the 
 nervous system if used too freely." "Ah, I must 
 not allow my system to he attacked . . . the least 
 thing upsets my nerves!" "Then, madame, take a 
 little valerian, it is a root with which you must 
 make an infusion . . . like tea. But I must tell 
 you that it is not at all agreeable to drink, and it 
 smells very offensive; but it is very salutary to the 
 nerves." " Oh, give me some, give me some quickly . . . 
 I will drink some often ... I will carry it about 
 with me." 
 
 They gave the good lady all she required. She 
 loaded her pockets and corset with camphor, disin- 
 fectant, lavender, valerian, and a bottle of chlorated 
 water. She radiated as she passed along, quite a 
 variety of odours the mixture of which was far 
 from agreeable. "If that lady has not a headache 
 this evening she will be very fortunate," said one 
 of the attendants. 
 
 Cats without number ran after her attracted by 
 the odour of the valerian, which sent them almost 
 mad. If this lady was not fond of cats she was likely 
 to pass rather a bad time. 
 
 A mason then entered the shop and bared his left 
 arm which was cut and bleeding; a piece of wood 
 had fallen upon him, and had gashed his forearm. 
 They bathed it and bandaged the wound, and gave 
 him a bottle of brandy and camphor with which to 
 moisten the bandage. He tendered the money in 
 payment when they returned it to him saying: 
 " We do not take payment from the poor when they 
 
26 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 meet with accidents. Gro to your work and if you 
 want anything do not be afraid to come and ask 
 for it, it shall cost you nothing." When we see 
 the chemists so considerate as to freely help the 
 wounded we ought not to allow them to be called 
 apothecaries. 
 
 Several young girls next came in, all talking at 
 once : 
 
 " Sir, please attend to me at once ; I am in a great 
 hurry." 
 
 "Sir, I have a bad cough . . . give me some 
 marsh mallow ... I like marsh mallow ... it is 
 the best remedy I can have." 
 
 "Sir, I have got a sore throat . . ." 
 
 " Gargle it with water and honey." " Please, 
 madame has sent me for the ointment for her lips . . . 
 she uses this stuff for her lips ... I never touch 
 it, but my lips are fresher than hers." "I have had 
 a knock on the head . . .it makes me feel very bad." 
 " What did you knock it against." " Damn it ! 
 against a door . . . I was quite still and some one 
 opened it suddenly ... I didn't expect it." "You 
 were listening probably." "Perhaps I did for a 
 moment or two, because the magnetizer had come." 
 " W'hat is a magnetizer?" "It is a gentleman who 
 teaches madame somnambulism so that she can perform 
 in public." " So your mistress is anxious to become 
 a somnambulist?" "Yes, she has got that stupid 
 notion into her head. Her husband is always telling 
 her that she will make herself ill. But madame still 
 continues. When the magnetizer comes they send 
 me out of the room." " And the husband ? " " The 
 husband? Oh! he is at the office; he goes out at 
 nine and returns at five; he is very punctual; so 
 that matters are easily arranged." "I understand, 
 where is your bump?" "There, in front . . . feel 
 it . . ." "Ah, yes, I feel it." "My master told me 
 
At THE CHEMISES. %1 
 
 it was of no consequence, that it was not dangerous . . . 
 and he ought to know." "Drink some vulnerary, 
 it will at least be prudent." " Give me some then." 
 
 The door was again opened; and a strong odour 
 made itself manifest through the establishment. 
 It was the lady with the disinfectants returned. " I 
 had forgotten," she exclaimed, "to take some Carmelite 
 water. It is invaluable when one is indisposed . . . 
 it is so useful to bathe the temples with . . . give 
 me a bottle, please." " There you are, madame." " It 
 is genuine ; is it not ? You would not deceive me ! 
 True Carmelite from Taranne ? " " Madame, I do not 
 know of two kinds in Paris." "Thank you." The 
 lady went out with her bottle which she placed in 
 her pocket. Just then Adrienne rushed into the 
 shop and exclaimed: "Ah! here we are! . . . that's 
 fortunate ... I never thought I should get here." 
 " Is there some one ill at your house, Miss Adrienne ? " 
 " Eh? yes, madame has another attack of her nerves !. . . 
 her crisis, she calls it . . . There is the prescription, 
 make it up as quickly as possible ... I have been 
 some time coming ; make it up quickly . . ." " Sit 
 down, we will attend to you at onee." "Ah, you 
 are very kind! It gives me great pain to see my 
 poor mistress suffer." 
 
 They were in the act of preparing the medicine 
 for madame Montemolly when the door was again 
 opened, and a peculiar odour at once pervaded the 
 whole establishment, for the lady who was in such 
 dread of the cholera had returned, and advancing 
 towards an attendant at the counter, exclaimed: 
 " Ah ! you cannot imagine what an obnoxious effluvia 
 arises in the rue Meslee ! . . ." "I am extremely 
 sorry, madame, but I quite fail to see what I can do 
 in the matter." " There is something in the air . . . 
 the atmosphere is certainly in a very bad condition 
 just now. . ." " Perhaps there is a storm threatening ! . . ." 
 
2& LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 " No, indeed, it is something else which is threat- 
 ening . . . would you kindly uncork this bottle of 
 balm-mint ... if you do not mind I will just moisten 
 my nose and temples, then I shall be able to contend 
 against the foul vapours of the streets with less 
 dread." " Certainly, madame, would you like a small 
 cup?" "The corner of my hankerchief will do . . . 
 I will moisten it." 
 
 Thereupon the lady inverted the bottle upon her 
 handkerchief and dabbed her temples, and bathed 
 her nose, pushing the corner of the handkerchief as 
 far up her nostrils as she could. Then she poured 
 some of the liquid into the hollow of her hand and 
 sniffed it with all her might, so that she sneezed 
 eight times in succession. This performance being 
 over, she recorked the bottle, placed it in her 
 pocket, and turning to depart, remarked that she 
 considered herself well protected against any foul 
 air she might encounter. , "Yes, madame, you are 
 well protected," responded the shopman. "I only 
 wish that we may see you again." "Why, she is 
 poisoning herself," said Adrienne; "what did you 
 give her?" "Just what she asked for!" "What is 
 the matter with her?" "Why, her special malady 
 is fear, it is one of the most common maladies in 
 the world. This lady's special fear is cholera; 
 others also fear maladies of which they do not show 
 the slightest symptoms . . . but they insist upon 
 expecting the malady . . . fear never reasons . . . 
 You may rely upon it that she will send no other 
 customers." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed one of the shopmen, "there she 
 comes again," "Who?" "Why the lady with the 
 disinfectants," 
 
 And there she was at the door again . . . surely 
 she did not want to use the stuff again. She opened 
 the door, stood upon the threshold and called, 
 
At THE CHEMIST'S. . 29 
 
 " Excuse me, gentlemen, but might I take snuff . . . ? 
 that ought to act as a preventive, I should think." 
 
 " Yes, madame, certainly, take snuff . . . take as 
 much as you like . . . you will not smell anything 
 then!" "Will you kindly let me have some . . .?" 
 "We do not sell snuff, madame, nor tobacco; but 
 you can get it quite close at hand on the boule- 
 vard." "I will run and buy some. I will take 
 some snuff first . . . and then perhaps I may ven- # 
 ture upon a cigarette . . . ladies often smoke now, 
 do they not ? " " Yes, madame, ladies smoke, in fact, 
 they imitate the men as much as ever they can . . . 
 if it amuses them, it does not improve them ..." 
 " Oh ! it was not from any idea of embellishment . . . 
 but to encounter the foul air . . . that I thought of 
 using tobacco . . ." "Alright, madame, certainly," 
 said the chemist as he closed the door upon the 
 lady, "snuff, smoke, — chew, if you like, but for 
 gracious sake give us a little respite . . . Here, 
 Adrienne, is the medicine for your mistress." "Thank 
 you, I must run back with it quickly ... it pains 
 me so to see her suffer ; good evening, sir . . ." 
 The young woman hurried away; she arrived home 
 without any further adventures, and as she passed 
 the housekeeper she exclaimed. "Here I am . . . 
 I've got the medicine ... I thought they would 
 never serve me . . . there was such a crowd in the 
 shop." 
 
 "Well, there is no further need for hurry." 
 "How is that, madame Bedon?" "Because your 
 mistress has gone out for a drive with her friend 
 some time ago." " Madame, gone out ! . . . there ! . . . 
 I was sure of it ! . . . that's all one gets for hur- 
 rying . . . and avoiding one's acquaintances ... I 
 shall just remember this for the future." 
 
30 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. 
 
 Young Casmxir Dernold occupied very comfortable 
 bachelor apartments on tlie third floor of a hand- 
 some dwelling in the rue de Paradis-Poissonniere. 
 He had a small sitting-room, a drawing-room, and 
 a bed-room. Everything was neat and comfortable. 
 The furniture was in good taste without being 
 ostentatious, and the whole establishment clearly 
 portrayed that the owner, was not, as they sometimes 
 vulgarly assert, a pan4. 
 
 He who occupied these apartments was a young 
 man of about twenty-six, with a handsome face and 
 a well-built figure. His countenance always bore a 
 very thoughtful expression, and at this moment he 
 was pacing his drawing-room with a dejected air, 
 striking now and then upon the furniture with a 
 small cane, or rumpling up his gloves with angry 
 gestures. He was talking aloud, as is often the case 
 when one is excited, and we often say things under 
 such circumstances, which we are least anxious for 
 others to hear. 
 
 "No, no, ... I cannot endure it . . . there must 
 be an end to it all," exclaimed the young man as 
 he struck a chair with his cane, causing a cloud of 
 dust to rise. This caused him to stop and consider 
 how little his servant must fatigue herself in dusting 
 his furniture. "It's all the same," he went on, "I 
 am the slave of Ambroisine, but I am nevertheless 
 quite tired of being her slave! ... I cannot go a 
 single ■ step without she knows it . . . I am sure she 
 keeps a spy to watch all my movements ; it is all 
 out of love, so she says ; that she does love me I 
 
A YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. 31 
 
 am quite certain, and I suppose I ought to return 
 it, for I cost her enough . . . Everything I want, 
 she buys me ; she pays my tailor, my bootmaker, 
 in fact, all my tradesmen . . . Yet how could I pay 
 them, for I do nothing, I earn nothing and I am 
 fit for nothing. But on the other hand if I do 
 nothing it is her fault. Every time I attempt to 
 look for employment, she opposes it tooth and nail. 
 When I thought of applying myself to painting, and 
 had succeeded in producing some very moderate 
 portraits of my friends, Ambroisine found means to 
 prevent my working, by taking me away from the 
 country or the wood and compelling me constantly 
 to wait upon her in her walks and entertainments. 
 In fact, she is always thinking of something by 
 means of which she can monopolise more and more 
 of my time. I believe it would- quite distress her 
 if I were to earn any money, for then I should be 
 in some measure independent, and not quite sc 
 subservient to her whims and fancies. But here I 
 am — idle — gluttonous, — fond of pleasure and good 
 cheer — and tied to the apron strings of this woman 
 whom I hardly care for. At first I was somewhat 
 smitten and scarcely liked to refuse my time and 
 attention — but once upon that declivity it is hard 
 to stop, above all when one is, as I am, an idler, 
 a gourmand, and a lover of pleasure and ease. Ah! 
 young men ought to be very careful what connections 
 they form in their youth . . . they will influence the 
 whole of their future existence. Have two, three, 
 aye, a dozen mistresses if your capacity permit it, 
 but do not become attached to any one of them, 
 for you will make a fool of yourself and lose your hopes 
 and prospects. They whom we call free-lances are really 
 most rational ; they do not allow themselves to be 
 put up in cotton wool . . . and they preserve their 
 liberty of action. No ... no . . . for two years 
 
32 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 I have been the cicisbeo of Madame Montemolly . . ♦ 
 sapristi! . . . I've had enough of it." 
 
 M. Casimir gave another of his chairs a swish 
 with his cane, whence there arose such a cloud ol 
 dust that he was almost blinded and took refuge in 
 another corner of the room. "That blackguard of 
 a porter," he muttered ; " is it possible they can take 
 so little care of my furniture . . . and he pretends 
 that it takes him half a day to see to my apart- 
 ments — Ah! if Ambroisine only knew that I gave 
 lessons in drawing to a young girl in this house, 
 how she would storm and rage ! It is however quite 
 an innocent affair. Miss Angelina Proh is neither 
 ugly nor beautiful, more fleshy than spiritual ; but 
 I think that is a family characteristic. She lives 
 with her father, mother, and little brother, in the 
 suite opposite mine. The family of the Prohs is 
 characterised by its extreme politeness ; the mother, 
 who is still coquettish, is everlastingly talking to 
 me in the following strain : ' You paint, I under- 
 stand ; oh ! I should so much like to have my portrait 
 painted, and if you are not very expensive I should 
 be so glad if you would paint it . . . but it must 
 be in oils and colours, for I detest photographs ; 
 they only make people look more ugly than they 
 are.' 'Madame,' I respond, 'I am very sorry, but 
 I fear I am not sufficiently competent to paint from 
 nature.' ' Oh ! you are too modest,' she replies ; 
 1 you must try, sir, we are" neighbours and I will sit 
 for you when you have time . . .' 
 
 " Time ! I've always got time . . . when Ambroisine 
 permits it however ! Then the father who is, I think, 
 an old professor of Greek and Latin asked me to give 
 his daughter some lessons in drawing, and his son 
 also, if he is capable of taking them, and, by Jove, 
 I accepted . . . Twenty-five francs a month, it is 
 not very much, but I shall be able to flatter myself 
 
A YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. 33 
 
 that I have touched some money, and money that 
 I have earned by my own industry ... I already 
 begin to feel quite proud — ah ! those twenty-five 
 francs gave me more pleasure than the rolls of notes 
 that Ambroisine placed in my pockets . . . the more 
 so as I had to render an exact account of the work 
 that I did for the money. 
 
 " To-day I ought to take her to a cafe-concert . . . 
 but, my faith — I have long been envious to go to 
 Mabille to see the ladies who dance with so much 
 chie ... so I wrote to say that my friend Miflaud 
 had an affair of honour for to-morrow morning, and 
 that he counted upon me for his second, so that it 
 was absolutely necessary for me to attend this evening 
 to hear the cause and conditions of the duel. Is it 
 likely she will fall into the snare? hum! it is not 
 very likely. It is now eight o'clock . . . that fool 
 of a Miflaud ought to have been here at half-past 
 seven. Happily I sent my letter to Ambroisine 
 somewhat late . . . she will not get it before eight 
 o'clock ... I must expect a nice little scene to- 
 morrow . . . but when she sees that I really am 
 annoyed at being unable to see her she will soon 
 come round . . . she is not at all bad at heart, only 
 she is too jealous, infinitely too jealous! a veritable 
 Andalusian . . . Thank goodness she does not carry 
 a dagger in her bosom . . . Ah! there is the bell. 
 M. Miflaud, I expect . . ." 
 
 Casimir ran and opened the door, but instead of 
 the young man whom he expected, he found himself 
 confronted with a little fellow about six years of 
 age who said: "M. Casimir, I come from mamma 
 to see if you were in." "You can see I am, 
 Alphonse, and what does your mamma, Madame Proh, 
 want ? " " The dressmaker has just brought her a new 
 dress, such a beautiful one, all red and green; mamma 
 has put it on; and she wants you to see her in it, 
 
34 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 to see whether you would like to paint her in that 
 dress." "But, my little fellow, I am not ready to 
 paint your mamma's picture ... I shall have just 
 time to see the dress." "Very well, mamma told 
 me to ask you if only to spare a moment, she is 
 so anxious for you to see her in her new dress." 
 "You see I am expecting someone here. Ah! I 
 will leave my door open. Gro on, Alphonse. Isn't 
 your father in ? " "No, he has just gone out remark- 
 ing to mamma that she put him in mind of a giraffe 
 with this new dress." " Ah ! but that was only out 
 of fun." "Well, mamma answered him by saying 
 that there was no need for him to be dressed to 
 resemble a mandril? M. Casimir, what is a mandril?" 
 " Oh ! ah . . . ah . . . it is a sort of wooden man . . . 
 but it is quadrumanous." "And what does quadru- 
 manous mean?" "Oh! it means using the feet like 
 hands." The appearance of madame Proh put an 
 end to her son's questions. She had just come to 
 her neighbour's door. 
 
 Celeste Proh was a woman of about forty-seven, 
 blonde, stout, and with light blue eyes and scarcely 
 the apparition of an eyebrow : she is obliged to use 
 a pencil to make up for the deficiency, but the 
 result is not always altogether a success. She lines 
 above her eyes a few streaks which are a mixture 
 of black, yellow, and red and she imagines that it 
 gives a certain piquancy to her appearance. She 
 considers herself wonderfully pretty and pretends to 
 be as young as her daughter who is sixteen. She 
 often declares in conversation that she cannot under- 
 stand her husband, who has never trouble^ to pos- 
 sess a portrait of his wife with which lie m ght 
 adorn the apartments. 
 
 Madame Proh had indeed a wonderful new dress 
 with large stripes of bright red and brilliant green. 
 She advanced towards her neighbour with a sweet 
 
A YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. $5 
 
 smile. "A thousand pardons, M. Casimir, I am 
 afraid I have been somewhat indiscreet, I sent Phon- 
 phonse to you; in fact I wanted your opinion on 
 this dress . . . how do you like it?" "I like it 
 very much, it is original and gives a striking effect . . . 
 and moreover it can be well seen from a distance." 
 " That's what I like ... I like to attract attention . . . 
 do you think it suits me?" "Like an angel! it fits 
 you perfectly." " I like a dress to fit very closely . . . 
 then you will paint me in this dress, eh?" "You 
 still insist then, that I must paint your portrait?" 
 " Most assuredly." " I tell you I do not think I am 
 capable of painting from nature." " You have painted 
 the porter's cat ... I have seen it in his room." 
 " Oh ! that was only a trial . . . just for amusement." 
 "Very well, you can paint me also for amusement, 
 you are too modest, M. Casimir, you depreciate your 
 own talent too much, the porter's cat is a speaking 
 likeness, and I am sure it did not sit long." "It 
 did not sit at all, in fact, I painted it from memory." 
 "/will sit as long as you wish . . . M. Proh wants 
 me to be photographed but I will not have it; I 
 detest photography ... it makes one look plain and 
 old . . . but it is cheap, that is why it is so popular. 
 Grive me painting ! that has life, expression, and 
 colour . . ." " I am entirely of your opinion, madame." 
 "Come in and sit down a little while .. ." "Thanks, 
 but I am waiting for a friend so I must really get 
 back." "So you think you would like to paint me 
 in this dress?" "I will paint you in the costume 
 of Diana the huntress if you like." " Ah ! that is a good 
 idea . . . Diana the huntress ... Oh ! that would be very 
 high class." " Good-evening, madame." " One mo- 
 ment, where can I find the costume of this goddess 
 of the chase ? " But Casimir did not answer for he 
 had already closed his door. "This madame Proh 
 is a thorough bore . . , if I did not give her children 
 
38 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 lessons I would send her to the devil with h«r 
 portrait ... I wonder whether this Miflaud is 
 coming ... it is nearly half past eight ... I shall 
 go without him directly. But it is not very amusing 
 to go to Mabille alone." 
 
 Five minutes passed and then the bell was sounded 
 with great violence ; the young man ran to open 
 the door, when Madame Montemolly entered with a 
 determined air, puffing and blowing, for she had run 
 up the stairs very quickly. You already know through 
 Adrienne that her mistress gave herself out to be 
 thirty-four when she was really over thirty-eight. 
 We will add to this that she was tall and beautiful, 
 graceful and well-shaped. She was dark with large 
 eyes which not invariably looked forth sweetness; 
 her mouth sometimes portraj^ed disdain and pride ; 
 but when she wished to be amiable, then she was 
 a capital woman, a veritable Andalusian ; to complete 
 her Spanish appearance she needed a comb high up 
 under a black veil and castanets in her hands. 
 
 The lady entered without ceremony, without 
 saying a word to the person who opened the door, 
 she quickly crossed the hall, went through the 
 drawing-room and then to the bed-room, and looked 
 about to see if any one was in hiding; it was only 
 when she had terminated this inspection that she 
 returned to the drawing-room and threw herself 
 down upon a couch. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "it is 
 not me that you are expecting . . . No, it is not." 
 "Indeed!" responded Casimir, seating himself with 
 the air of a person who had just received a chimney 
 pot on his head, "it is quite by chance that you 
 found me here ... I should have already gone to 
 my friend Miflaud, if he had not written to say that 
 he would come here instead . * . he prefers that, 
 because he lives with his mother and he was afraid 
 she might get to hear something about the duel and 
 
A. YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. 37 
 
 then . ] ." "M. Casimir, are you going to continue 
 with this nonsense, very long? Do you think I 
 believe everything you tell me and . . ." "But, 
 I assure you, there is not the least nonsense here . . . 
 Is it so astonishing that one of my friends has an 
 affair of honour? That sort of thing happens every 
 day . . . He begged me to be his second, and, of 
 course I could not refuse." "First of all it is a 
 long time since you have spoken of Miflaud ... I 
 thought you had ceased to see him . . ." " Ceased . . . 
 because, being constantly with you it was impossible 
 for me to be with him, but we had not fallen out." 
 "You ought to pass the evening with me." "I do 
 that every evening." "Well, and with whom else 
 should you wish to be? You wrote to me not to 
 expect you . . . that is a nice way to treat me; is 
 it not?" "Well it was to oblige Miflaud . . . but 
 so much the worse ... I will not wait any longer . . . 
 Come, let us go for a walk." " Ah ! you are in a 
 hurry to go out now . . . You are afraid lest some 
 one should come in . . . that is how you hide your 
 perfidy ... it is not Miflaud you are waiting for!" 
 "Yes it is. But since you have taken the trouble 
 to come, let him go to the devil. Come, Ambroisine, 
 I am at your service. I hope you are not, cross 
 with me. Come, let us go down." "Oh you are 
 in too much of a hurry to go out ... it is not 
 natural; you are betraying mo." 
 
 Casimir arose angrily and paced up and down the 
 room. "It is too much!" he exclaimed. "To the 
 devil with women and their infernal suspicion. If 
 you want to go without them they cry; if you 
 want to stay with them they cry again. It matters 
 not what you do, they always start off weeping . . . 
 ah ! I have had enough of these scenes ! Good-bye, 
 madame, do what you like; I'm off." 
 
 The young man had already taken some steps 
 
38 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 towards the door; but Ambroisine darted after him 
 with the alacrity of a cat; she brought him back, 
 and embraced him in her arms and lovingly caressed 
 him. "And where are you going, you ungrateful 
 fellow?" she asked. " Do you want to abandon me? . . . 
 You know very well I cannot live without you . . . 
 that you are my very life and soul ... Is it a 
 crime for me to come here? Was it not very natural 
 that I should wish to assure myself that you were 
 not receiving another woman here, or going to take 
 one somewhere?" 
 
 " Well, you see I have not hidden another woman 
 here ... it would be somewhat difficult ! You have 
 looked everywhere." "No, but you may be expecting 
 somebody!" "Ah! there you are again! you are 
 indeed most exasperating!" "No, no, I am wrong, 
 my friend, I am unjust, I will not say it again ..." 
 "Well, come on, let us go for a walk." 
 
 Casimir was in a hurry to get out, for he feared 
 now that the arrival of his friend Miflaud would 
 expose his falsehoods. And, although promising to 
 be no longer suspicious, Ambroisine, who still had 
 her doubts, found the means to delay leaving the 
 house; her hat would not sit properly; then she 
 had to readjust her hair; her lover was on thorns 
 all this time; he had put his hat on and held his 
 cane in his hand, but his mistress still had pins to 
 ~pTrtHhx-eo33i©wli©re or other. Then he whom he so 
 much feared arrived; the door bell rang again. 
 
 It took but a moment to get from the drawing- 
 room to the door with a view to forewarning his 
 friend; but, quick as he had been, Ambroisine was 
 there as soon, throwing to the four winds the pins 
 she held in her hand. It was indeed Miflaud, a 
 young stockbroker about the same age as Casimir. 
 You could not call him handsome, but he had a 
 very original face, and was very fond of ballet girls. 
 
A YOUNG MAN ENTERTAINED. 39 
 
 dancing, white wine and prawns ; he was not greatly 
 favoured in the matter of brains, but he was always 
 ready for amusement, laughter, and fun, provided he 
 was not expected to produce it. 
 
 44 Good-evening, Miflaud, so you have come about 
 the duel . . . for you fight to-morrow morning and 
 I am your second . . . but I am sorry to say that I 
 have an important engagement, you must procure 
 someone else ... I have a special matter of 
 business to-morrow ... do you understand?" 
 
 Casimir had uttered all this in a single breath; 
 he could not pause for respiration. Any other than 
 Miflaud, one of the biggest fools that ever breathed, 
 would have taken in the situation at a glance ; 
 especially when he noticed the winks and facial 
 gestures that his friend continued to make. But 
 Miflaud was far from shrewd, and whilst Madame 
 Montemolly watched him with extreme anxiety, he 
 assumed an air of the greatest astonishment. 
 
 44 1 ! I fight to-morrow morning ! Ah ! that's a 
 capital story ! But I certainly fail to see the joke!" 
 44 Come, Miflaud, it is no use pretending to hide it; 
 madame knows all about it, I have related the whole 
 ftory to her; but I trust your mother will hear 
 nothing of it. I must say good-evening now . . . 
 we are just going out . . ." 
 
 44 But I want to know a little more about this 
 duel? . . ." 44 M. Casimir has done his best to 
 explain it," replied Ambroisine, glancing at her 
 lover one of her most piercing looks; 44 he has just 
 attempted to prepare you in order to assist him in 
 hiding the falsehoods he has just told me . . . but 
 his labour has been in vain; I am not caught so 
 easily! Come, M. Miflaud, you need not crack your 
 head trying to devine the reasons for these grimaces 
 that Casimir is pulling . . . You've got no duel . . . 
 you are not going to fight to-morrow and I am 
 
40 LA PETITE LtSE. 
 
 delighted to be able to say so." " You are extremely 
 kind, madame ; I certainly had no idea of fighting 
 a duel to-morrow, nor after to-morrow either . . ." 
 "And so you came to take M. Casimir out with 
 you ... to some public-house ball, no doubt ! " 
 "Oh! madame . . . not so bad as that! ... I had 
 just ... we were going . . . Casimir, where is it 
 we were going?" 
 
 Casimir shrugged his shoulders and threw himself 
 into a chair. 
 
 "Ah! don't trouble yourself," he exclaimed. "It 
 is impossible to stir a step without madame, or to 
 enjoy a single pleasure without her permission . . . 
 Well, we are going, or at least we were going to 
 Mabille to pass an hour or two ... I suppose it 
 is no crime! but you are so ridiculous, so jealous, 
 you see eyil in everything ! and you force me to lie 
 in order to avoid these scenes of jealousy . . . but 
 with you it seems that nothing can ever be avoided!" 
 " To Mabille, so you were going to Mabille . . . 
 what a disgraceful place to go to ! the pathway to 
 perdition! Everybody knows what men go there 
 for!" "But, madame, you are in error," exclaimed 
 Miflaud; "Mabille is a place frequented by the best 
 society, by distinguished foreigners, and by very 
 pretty women . . ." "By fast women! You may 
 as well say so at once." "But there are others 
 there besides. And at least all that go are dressed 
 in the latest fashion, and they dance with great 
 grace . . . easy in gait and gesture ... I assure 
 you it is very enjoyable." " Oh ! I have not the 
 least doubt what you were going to see . . ." 
 "But as it appears that Casimir has now an engage- 
 ment with you, I think we had better not go, 
 and I will . . ." " Oh ! we will go together, I want 
 to go myself!" said Casimir rising quickly from 
 his chair. "It shall never be said that I cannot do 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 44 
 
 as I please . . . Come, Miflaud, we will take a carriage." 
 " So you are absolutely going to Mabille ? " said Madame 
 Montemolly, taking up her wrap. " Well, gentlemen, I 
 will accompany you ... I do not think M. Miflaud 
 will refuse to give me his arm." "No, madame, 
 I shall be most happy to escort you." " Ah ! I have 
 forgotten my gloves. . ." said Ambroisine. Whilst she 
 had gone downstairs to look for her gloves Miflaud 
 whispered to Casimir that half the fun would be 
 gone if she accompanied them. " Well," said Casimir, 
 " it is your fault, you fool, if you understood my signs, 
 she would have believed in the duel and allowed me 
 to accompany you . . ." " Oh ! damn it ... I am 
 not used to interpreting pantomime . . ." Ambroisine 
 returned with her gloves and set out with the two 
 young men. Casimir did all he could to hide his 
 ruffled temper; his mistress glanced at him with a 
 look half ironical, half threatening. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 A FBLENDLY BBEAKFAST. 
 
 The next day, about noon, Casimir was at his 
 mistress house, seated before a table on which a late 
 breakfast was served; opposite him sat Madame 
 Montemolly with whom he was reconciled after the 
 visit to Mabille, which was passed without any fresh 
 scene. Miflaud being impassioned with the dance 
 was anxious to release the arm of Ambroisine, who 
 thereupon took Casimir's. Casimir had no wish either 
 to dance or even to witness those saltatory feats, so 
 reconciled himself as well as possible to • watch 
 Miflaud execute wonderful passes and steps, and 
 
42 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 perform tlie "fluttering tulip" and other eccentric 
 dances then in vogue. Then attracted by the sighing 
 of Ambroisine, and her glittering eyes, he looked 
 more closely into her face. "So you do not love 
 me any longer?" she murmured in an almost sup- 
 plicating tone ; he responded by gently pressing her 
 arm, and smiled as sweetly as he could, and then 
 peace was made. It was not perhaps a very solid 
 compact, nor very durable, but it was at least a 
 reconciliation. 
 
 Madame Montemolly had donned a charming 
 morning gown, which made the outlines of her 
 graceful figure very evident; on her head she had 
 only her own hair, but it was very beautiful and 
 very black, and she knew very well how to arrange 
 it to suit her special form of beauty, a talent which 
 even few of the best hairdressers possess, for they 
 arrange the hair after some special idea of their 
 own, without c6nsidering whether it suits the face. 
 Ambroisine was always a very seductive woman and 
 many men would have been only too glad to make 
 such a conquest. But just at this moment she seemed 
 to be going out of her way to please her lover, and 
 to enthrall him with new bonds, and so make more 
 sure of him. The parts are inverted. It is the lady 
 who shows the little courtesies, and pays the atten- 
 tions; it is the gentleman who accepts them and is 
 waiting to be courted. 
 
 "My dear, take some of this foie gras" said Am- 
 broisine as she served Casimir with the delicacy. 
 "Do you not care for it this morning?" "It is 
 delicious, perfect! but I have already taken some." 
 "What does that matter! . . . take some more . . . 
 have you lost your appetite?" 
 
 " I have an enormous appetite, and I think I have 
 already done honour to your breakfast." "Come, how 
 do you like this Chambertin?" "Excellent , , , 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 43 
 
 I feel tempted to sing from the " Nouveau seigneur 
 du village." "It is the most excellent of wines I . . . its 
 age is ten — aye, a dozen years!" 
 
 "I have some Madeira there, from the Indies, my 
 wine merchant specially recommended it to me ; tell 
 me what you think of it." 
 
 "I am sure before I taste it, that I shall find it 
 most excellent . . . You have always the most deli- 
 cious wines." "Yes, I am very satisfied with my 
 merchant . . . take some of this lobster and mayon- 
 naise ..." " Yes, I think I will take a little." 
 "Have some olives ... or some of those Spanish 
 tunny fish." "Presently, presently, we have plenty 
 of time, we are not going out this morning, are we ? " 
 " Where should I want to be going when I am with 
 you? When I have you near me, I am quite 
 happy ... I want nothing more ... I could remain 
 ever thus . . ." 
 
 " Taste a little of this famous Madeira . . . ahem ! 
 What a beautiful colour . . . 'and it is quite nif . . ." 
 "What do you mean by nif?" "Oh! it is a pro- 
 vincial word which signifies, clear, pure, and a 
 handsome bouquet . . . You cannot taste the spirit 
 in it as you can in all false Madeiras . . . Your 
 health, my dear . . ." " And yours, you rascal, now 
 mind you tell me no more lies like you did yester- 
 day." "Now, are you going to return to that? 
 After all the crime was not so very great . . . 
 Everybody goes to Mabille, if only to gain a little 
 knowledge of the world." " Yes, but it is not neces- 
 sary to dance like your friend Miflaud, I should 
 imagine all the fellow's joints are dislocated." 
 "Do you think so? He aspires to a reputation akin 
 to that of the famous Chicard ! " " Fortunately you 
 are not so fond of dancing." " If I were fond of it, 
 I should beg of you to not to see in that any reason 
 for participating in the cancan or other unseemly 
 
44 LA PETITE LISE." 
 
 dances." " My dear, there is some grilled salmon, 
 which is delicious with that Geneva sauce." "The 
 devil ! what, more salmon ! . . . I have already eaten 
 too much . . . Indeed I have, I assure you . . ." 
 "You are not drinking much!" "Oh! I think I 
 am . . ." " There is some Champagne, you are fond 
 of that I believe?" "By Jove, I like all wines 
 when they are good ... it is like women." "What! 
 do you like all women?" "Excuse me, I said 
 when they are good . . . and I assure you I have 
 not seen many." "Ah! you rascal, do you mean to 
 say that women are naughty!" "Yes, generally, 
 but of course there are exceptions." " Oh ! That's 
 fortunate, and am I an exception ? " " You take 
 advantage of my position . . . you make me drink 
 a variety of wines and then ask me insidious 
 questions." "Come, sir, answer; am I good?" 
 "Ah! ah! ah!" "It is no laughing matter; I want 
 you to tell me whether you consider me a good 
 woman." " Seeing the manner in which you ask 
 me, one might naturally think the contrary ; m but 
 reassure yourself . . . you are very good, you are 
 a sheep, a lamb . . . you never get out of temper . . ." 
 "My friend, you are mocking me." "No, no, really, 
 I think you are very good, when you are not under 
 the thraldom of some jealous feeling, which com- 
 pletely changes your character." "Is it my fault? 
 I should not be jealous did I not love you so 
 deeply . . ." "Yes, you always say that . . . and 
 I do not doubt your feelings . . . you have given 
 quite enough proofs of your affection ... in fact 
 you give me too many . . . and how can I ever 
 repay you ? . . ." " Hold your tongue ! you are 
 going to say some foolish things now ... drink, 
 ah ! that's better. The Champagne awaits you. 
 Come tell me your opinion ... it is my favourite 
 wine ..." " Your health, dearest Ambroisine ; yes 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 45 
 
 I drink to your health, but that will not prevent 
 me from telling you that I am far from satisfied 
 with myself ... I do nothing ... I want for 
 nothing; you forestall every one of my desires . . . 
 you pay for all I have; it is most odious ... I 
 really cannot allow it any longer ! " " Indeed, 
 Casimir, I do not know what is the matter with 
 you to-day, but you give me a great deal of pain . . . 
 I tell you that between two friends who love each 
 other well, everything should be in common, pleasure 
 and unhappiness, misery and riches! If I had not 
 a sou do you think I should blush to partake of 
 your fortune, and to live on your benefaction? 
 " Oh ! with a woman it is different ! With a woman 
 it is her place and her lot ; she is born to be pro- 
 tected, helped, and supported by man . . . You are 
 made out of our sides, therefore you are a part of 
 ourselves. But man is born to work, to earn 
 money ... or to lose it when he does not succeed 
 in his enterprises . . . But when he passes his 
 time in idling, in doing nothing . . . and amusing 
 himself at the expense of a woman . . . well, it is 
 the world turned upside down ! " " Ah ! you are 
 too cruel ... so all those who are born with for- 
 tunes, with estates, with castles . . . are they born 
 to work?" "No, but they do not pay their trades- 
 people by means of the woman whom they love." 
 " But, my friend, everyday we find men without a 
 sou marrying women who bring with them a handsome 
 dowry . . . and he does not blush to accept it . . . 
 you see then it is to his wife that he owes his 
 wealth, his fortune, and we often find that they 
 dissipate this wealth with mistresses . . . Why 
 then should you blame yourself when this man is 
 well received in society?" "Ah! my dear, there is 
 a great difference: this man becomes the husband 
 pf a rich lady, she has judged him worthy to b@ 
 
46 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 linked to her with indissoluble ties . . . and she 
 takes his name . . . The husband becomes the 
 master of the house, that is very different ! Then 
 he can act for himself; he can command and even 
 dispose of a fortune which has become his own . . ." 
 
 The beautiful Monteniolly did not respond to this 
 explanation. She listened to the last words of her 
 lover with great attention, and her brow became 
 overcast as Casimir drank a glass of Champagne. 
 
 However, astonished at the silence of his mistress 
 and the serious aspect of her countenance, which 
 only a few moments before was joyful and pleasant, 
 Casimir remarked. " My dear friend, whatever is the 
 matter with you? You look very sad, are you 
 unwell?" "No, no, my friend, it is not that . . ." 
 " Then it is something else ? just now you were quite 
 gay and cheerful. . ." "Ah! Casimir! ... it is what 
 you were just remarking that made me feel so sad . .." 
 " Whatever did I say to make you feel thus ? . . ." 
 "Nothing but what was most just and truth- 
 ful. . . but I quite understood you, and what you said 
 was quite natural." " Whatever was it I wanted you 
 to understand ? I assure you I meant nothing at all ! " 
 
 " You are pretending not to understand me now ! 
 In speaking about women who make men rich by 
 marrying them you meant to convey: 'Why do 
 you not do the same if you wish to see me enjoy 
 your fortune without remorse?'" "I assure you I 
 had no such idea. I swear you have misunderstood 
 me . . . What I said was without the slightest 
 intention of conveying the idea you suppose." 
 
 "Well, my friend, supposing you had that inten- 
 tion, where would have been the harm? Believe me, 
 that for a long time past I have thought how happy 
 I should be as your wife . . . how happy I should 
 be to bear your name! and if it were possible I 
 should have already asked you to bind yourself tg 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 4* 
 
 me with unbreakable bonds ! If I have not done 
 so, it is, alas, because it is impossible! My friend, 
 I wisb to have no secrets bidden from you. I have 
 told you that I am a widow. It is false; I am not, 
 I am married and more than that, my husband is 
 still alive!" 
 
 " Ah ! bah ! it is quite possible ! Stop ! I will 
 drink some more Champagne ; then . . . Ah ! so dear 
 M. Montemolly is living . . .?" "My dear, that is 
 not the name of my husband, but in separating 
 myself from a man whom I never loved, with whom 
 it was impossible for me to live, I got rid of his 
 name also, that it might help me to forget that I 
 am his wife." "You did right, and what is this 
 man — your husband? Oh! if you are anxious to 
 say no more on the topic we will cease. I beg of 
 you not to distress yourself, we will change the 
 subject." 
 
 "No, my dear, since I have commenced, I shall 
 be pleased to relate to you the whole affair ; how 
 I came to be married, and why it was broken off." 
 "Go on . . . your Champagne is excellent ... I 
 am all ears." "I am about to tell you, what no 
 one else has ever heard. But I no longer wish to 
 have any secrets from you." 
 
 "Do not tell me more than you wish me to know; 
 I ask you to tell me nothing." "That is just the 
 reason why I am going to tell you. At eighteen 
 I was very pretty." " I can quite believe that ! you 
 are now, and you always will be . . ." " Hold your 
 tongue ! you flatterer. I had no one to look after 
 me except a disagreeable old aunt, who grumbled 
 at me without ceasing but watched me with but 
 little care. A young man saw me at the window 
 and fell in love with me ... I gained the ear of 
 my maid, who brought him into the house when my 
 aunt was out . . . This young man was a very hand- 
 
48 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 some fellow, in short . . ." " Very well, I ca» guess 
 the rest, pass over the details." " Well, this young 
 man was in the army, and was on the point of 
 going away to rejoin his regiment . . . we were at 
 war then. After he was gone my mistake brought 
 its consequences . . ." " I wrote and told my lover 
 of my position ; he answered that on his return he 
 would hasten to make reparation by marrying me. 
 But, alas, he never returned! he was killed in the 
 first action . . ." "Poor fellow! ... so you were 
 considerably embarrassed . . . and how about the 
 aunt?" "It was impossible for me to hide my 
 position; she cried a great deal. But as the fortune 
 which I possessed came from my mother, and as I 
 was richer than my aunt, and had I left her she would 
 have been compelled to curtail her expenses ; she 
 allowed herself to be appeased. I went out into the 
 country and took a small cottage in the suburbs of 
 Montmorency . . . and there I brought into the 
 world a little daughter . . . which I placed in the 
 care of a peasant woman of Pierrefitte." "Well, 
 I have heard nothing of your husband yet!" "Wait 
 a little . . . you shall hear of him soon enough . . . 
 after my return to Paris I often ran down to Pierre- 
 fitte to see my little girl. This greatly displeased 
 my aunt, who was constantly reminding me that by 
 doing so I was seriously compromising myself, and 
 that it would prevent me from finding a husband, 
 if I did not act with more prudence. I never listened 
 to her, but continued as often as possible to see my 
 little daughter who was a rather delicate child, but 
 she improved in health considerably and became 
 quite strong. Unfortunately, it was not the same 
 with me; my health broke down more and more 
 every day, so that the doctors ordered me to go on 
 a voyage to Italy, or at least to make a long stay 
 at Nice. I set out with my aunt after having seen 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 49 
 
 my child in the hands of a good nurse. I remained 
 some months at Nice but my health did not mate- 
 rially improve. They advised me to go on to Naples. 
 I stayed there some time, but my aunt having 
 business in Paris left me for some time. I begged 
 her to go and see my child and see that she wanted 
 for nothing. When my aunt returned she informed 
 me that my little one was dead and that the peasant 
 woman to whom I had entrusted it, was so distressed 
 at the death of the child that she had left Pierre- 
 fitte, and no one knew where she had gone. I was 
 greatly affected at the loss of my child. I was so 
 happy in the possession of a little daughter of my 
 own that I had settled upon her the whole of my 
 fortune. My aunt did all she could to assuage my 
 grief. We travelled about for a long time. I visited 
 most of Italy and a part of Switzerland. Then my 
 health became reestablished and we resolved to return 
 to Paris. There, a rich gentleman ... a fairly 
 amiable man ... at least, he appeared to be so 
 then, came and paid his attentions to me. He was 
 an old friend of my aunt, and for a long time she 
 did all she" could to make me accept him as my 
 husband. He was much older than I; my aunt 
 pretended that it would make me all the happier, 
 as a young man would be sure to leave his wife and 
 run after mistresses, whilst a husband of reasonable 
 years would be sure to pay more attention to his 
 wife. What could I say ... I could never love 
 any one now I had lost my little child ... so I 
 allowed myself to be married to this man if only 
 that I might have a home of my own and not live 
 with my aunt any longer ; for my future husband had 
 presented my aunt with a pretty little house in 
 the environs of Paris. But it was not long 
 before I perceived that I had acted very foolishly 
 and had tied myself to a man who never studied me 
 
56 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 or my welfare for a single moment. My husband 
 was a busy-body, inquisitive and jealous. So far as 
 means went I bad no cause to rely upon bim as I 
 bad my own private fortune. Tbat also made bim 
 angry ; be was always wanting to know bow I 
 spent my money: I told bim not to meddle witb 
 my affairs. Tbat was tbe commencement of our 
 quarrels. But tbis man wbo wanted to know all 
 I did, rummaged into everything whenever I was 
 out, and I believe be had duplicate keys to all my 
 drawers. One thing is very certain, that one day 
 he found in a small box at the bottom of my 
 secretaire, tbe letters that I had received from poor 
 Auguste whilst he was in the army, and in which 
 he spoke of our child. Would you believe that my 
 husband got into a terrible passion and said that I 
 had disgracefully deceived him in allowing him to 
 believe that I was Joan of Arc! ... I responded 
 that although I had consented to be his wife I 
 should live no longer witb a man who rummaged 
 into my desks and read letters that I received before 
 I married him. Tbe next day I put my threat into 
 execution; I took apartments and took with me all 
 my belongings. My husband tried to oppose my 
 departure, but I showed him a revolver I had just 
 bought, and told him that I would not only leave 
 him, but forbade him ever showing his face to me 
 again. I also reminded him that I was quite aware 
 that the law would permit him to visit me as we 
 were not legally separated, but tbat I was willing to 
 be so separated the next day, if he cared to. But I 
 also told him tbat if he ever dared to come to my 
 apartments I would receive him with the revolver 
 which I showed him . . . My husband was a great 
 coward ... I have never heard or seen him from 
 that day." "Bravo! You are a woman of some 
 strength of mind! and so you went back to your 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 51 
 
 aunt?" "To my aunt? oh! never! I had had 
 enough of my aunt who had forced me into that 
 odious marriage. I was also angry with her; and 
 knew very well that she would endeavour to persuade 
 me to go back to my husband ! But I had responded 
 to him in a tone that allowed him to see once for 
 all that I was not a little girl sent to him for 
 protection. As for the rest, my aunt died soon after 
 this separation ... A sudden illness seized her 
 one day. She wrote and asked me to go and see 
 her, as she had something important to tell me. I 
 hesitated, as I thought she would only endeavour to 
 bring me to terms with my husband. At last I 
 decided to go. When I arrived at her house she 
 was already dead. These, my dear Casimir, are all 
 the events of my life . . . You know now, why, 
 to my great regret, that I cannot offer you myself 
 in marriage." "Oh! my dear Ambroisine, as for 
 me, I frankly assure you, that I never thought of 
 such a thing. Marriage has no temptations for 
 me ... in fact I am afraid of it . . . You know 
 it is pictured as the tomb of love . . ." 
 
 " Oh ! not always . . . but I suppose you do not 
 consider me young enough to be your wife?" "I 
 am sure I think nothing of the kind! No, I am 
 thinking, well, of doing something . . . of working . . ." 
 "Working? Whatever for ? " "Why, to earn money." 
 "Am I not your treasurer?" "That is just why 
 I prefer to be my own treasurer ... I had made 
 some progress in painting ... I had executed some 
 very satisfactory portraits . . ." "Portraits! . . . 
 now just remember . . . you will have to get 
 models ... to look at women ... to study their 
 smiles . . . their looks ... I cannot have you do 
 that ... in fact, I forbid it." "And the country, 
 landscapes and so on? The country is very harm- 
 less . . ," " There is nothing innocent with painters , , . 
 
52 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 When they go to the country to look for scenery . . » 
 or sheep . . . they ask the shepherdesses to point 
 them out . . ." "Well, the shepherdesses around 
 the environs of Paris are pretty and graceful, and — " 
 "Let me hear no more about your painting . , ." 
 "Would you like it better if I tried to write for 
 the stage? Ah! there ought to be a good chance 
 there . . ." "To write plays! what a horrible 
 idea! an author passes his life in the theatres, and 
 behind the scenes, with actresses . . . and they make 
 love to them all . . . and promise them parts . . . 
 if you once go behind the scenes you will pass your 
 life there. Ah ! my dear Casimir, I beg of you, not 
 to think of writing for the theatre." "Well, sup- 
 posing I write a novel? One can do that quietly 
 at home ... I have some very original ideas . . . 
 I might perhaps be able to write an amusing story . . . 
 a moral story . . ." 
 
 " A novel ! . . . a novel ! I have heard say a 
 hundred times that to write a novel one must see. . . 
 that it is necessary to have gone through ... to 
 have been in the places one has to describe . . . 
 above all is this the case with a moral story . . . 
 but if you write some extravaganza — " " No, I 
 prefer the ordinary to the extraordinary." " Then 
 my friend; you see you could not write the story 
 quietly in your study. You would have to go into 
 very risky places ... to those dances where they 
 dance all possible dances . . . under the pretext of 
 seeing how they work you would have to visit 
 florists, dressmakers, and milliners . . . that would 
 not complete it . . . you would have to study the 
 manners and customs of all classes of society . . . 
 God only knows what you would see in your study 
 of morals ! No, do not write a novel ! besides I do 
 not believe that it is your right vocation." "If I 
 could only invent something good . . . something 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 53 
 
 useful . . . something that would bring me glory 
 and fortune . . ." "Well you have the right to 
 look for that . . ." "What a pity it is that the 
 potato is known.. . I might have discovered that ! " 
 " Yes, but it is very well known, my friend ; you 
 had better not crack your skull trying to look for 
 something new." " I repeat again, that I insist upon 
 doing something." "Well, if you are absolutely 
 determined to do something, I will try and find you a 
 situation." "You? and where, pray?" "In a public 
 office . . . you will not have to go very early or leave 
 late. . . so that you will have the evenings to your- 
 self. . . and that will not be very fatiguing." " Ah ! 
 I shall be delighted with that ! but how do you hope 
 to get me that?" "I shall look up my friends; there 
 is no special need of haste. There is Florentine, 
 she has a cousin who is head of a department; she 
 will be pleased to speak to her cousin. Poor Flo- 
 rentine! how ungrateful one gets. When anyone 
 loves another deeply we forget everyone else! but 
 you turn my head. . . you make me talk foolishly." 
 
 "What is it this time?" 
 
 "Why, Florentine had just called upon me yesterday 
 evening when your letter came ; she wanted me to 
 go to the Opera with her, but when I saw your 
 letter telling me that you were not going to call, I 
 had a terrible attack of the nerves. Poor Florentine 
 did what she could but she did not know what to 
 give me ; she sent my maid for the medicine I usually 
 take in such circumstances; but my maid was so 
 long gone that I determined to wait no longer and 
 went straight to your apartments, Florentine accom- 
 panying me to your door. . . she wished even to 
 wait for me. . . to sacrifice for me the pleasure of 
 going to the Opera. . . but I would not have it. . . 
 I sent her away. . . but she is a true friend. . . and 
 I really have a great affection for her." 
 
5-4 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I dare say you have . . . she is very 
 much attached to you . . . but she is devilishly 
 
 ugly..." 
 
 " Ah ! that's just like the men! what does it matter 
 if she is ugly? she possesses every good quality of 
 the heart ! but you men think of nothing but good 
 looks." 
 
 " And you women only see these good qualities 
 in a fellow woman when she is not pretty. . . when 
 she is pretty you find her faults out very quickly . . . 
 it is then no question of good qualities." 
 
 "Ah! fie! what nonsense you do talk! why do 
 you talk like that?" "All your intimate friends are 
 as ugly as mortal sin." 
 
 " It is not necessary, in order to be agreeable to 
 you that I should have a bevy of rare beauties here 
 for you to pay your attentions to under my very eyes." 
 
 " No, I do not ask for rare beauties . . . but you 
 prefer the rarest specimens of ugliness. . . I suppose 
 it is your taste. . . after all it is just the same to me." 
 
 Ambroisine shrugged her shoulders with a gesture 
 of impatience and rang the bell, which her maid 
 answered at once. 
 
 "Adrienne, is the coffee ready?" "Yes, Madame." 
 " Bring it in." " And let it be very hot," said 
 Casimir. "You hear, miss, or I shall not take it, I 
 shall not take it." 
 
 Adrienne left the room laughing. "I do not like my 
 visitors to be jocular with the servants," said Ambroisine, 
 "it makes them too familiar." "Was I jocular with 
 your maid?" "Undoubtedly... you made some re- 
 marks about the coffee." " My dear Ambroisine, with 
 you one never knows how to speak to a woman... 
 you see evil in everything. You do not, I trust, 
 suppose that I am making eyes at your maid . . . ' 
 " I did not say that . . . but you do not say that she 
 is too ugly." "And would you make me believe that 
 
A FRIENDLY BREAKFAST. 55 
 
 she is pretty ! a flat nose and red hair . . . she would 
 just about suit a foot soldier!" 
 
 "She is a very good girl... she is very much 
 attached to me when I am ill, she would run to the 
 four corners of the world to help me." 
 
 Adrienne brought in the coffee; as she placed the 
 cups on the table her mistress questioned her about 
 her illness. "I was very ill yesterday was I not?" 
 " Yes, niadame . . . it grieved me very much to see 
 you. . . Madame Florentine sent me for your medi- 
 cine. . . I ran with all my might. . . but there were 
 so many people in the shop, I could not get served 
 for a long time. . . I kept telling them that it was 
 for my mistress, and that she was very ill but they 
 are so used to suffering, that they appeared to take 
 no notice of my appeals." "My poor Adrienne... 
 take that little bonnet on the couch. . . you may 
 have that for yourself." "Oh! madame is very good." 
 "I delight to recompense those who serve me well." 
 The girl took the bonnet, and tripped gaily out 
 of the room. Casimir swallowed his coffee, and 
 took a small glass of divine Benedictine liqueur and 
 rose saying, that he thought he might say that he 
 really had breakfasted. 
 
 "Will you dine with me?" "Oh! my dear, it is 
 nearly three o'clock, and having breakfasted as I have 
 done, I cannot think even of dinner. . . I could not get 
 hungry in the time." "But you know you are going 
 to take me to the Opera Comique." " Yes, yes, that 
 we have arranged." 
 
 "Do not go off like you did yesterday." "Have no 
 fear of that. . . I am just going for a little fresh 
 air, and perhaps a game at billiards at the cafe 
 Porte-Saint-Martin." 
 
 "Go on, you rascal... embrace me." 
 
 Ta-ta! 
 
56 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE HANDSOME EOTXFLAKD. 
 
 On leaving Madame Montemolly's house, Casimir 
 walked for some time along the boulevard; he felt 
 inclined to enjoy the open air, which is a great aid 
 to digestion after a hearty repast. He lighted a 
 cigar, the artificial resource of the idler. 
 
 Suddenly, on putting his hand into his pocket he 
 felt something in the shape of a ring. It was in 
 fact one of those little morocco cases bound in copper, 
 and made expressly to hold gold. The young man 
 took the case from his pocket and counted its con- 
 tents; he made it twenty-five louis. He closed the 
 purse and put it back into his pocket saying : " Five 
 hundred francs ! she has slipped this into my 
 coat, she probably guessed that I wanted some money, 
 and she was right. . . I had barely twenty francs 
 left . . . but always receiving money from this woman . . . 
 bah ! it is humiliating, shameful ; yet if she were to 
 put a thousand francs into my pocket, at least I 
 could manage for some time without being short of 
 money. But she takes very good care not to give 
 me such a sum, she- knows only' too well how to 
 keep me dependent upon her. . . and yet she does 
 not want me to work . . . she would die with grief 
 if I were to leave her. She says that she loves 
 me . . . yes for her own purpose, that is all. Un- 
 fortunately, among women, this system of loving is 
 much too common. Ah ! they are not as the Spar- 
 tan women were who said to their husbands on 
 going to the wars: 'return conquerors or die.' You 
 may perhaps think that a singular way to show 
 their love in advising them to do or die . . . ne quid 
 
THE HANDSOME ROUFLARD. 57 
 
 nimis! Excess in all things is wrong; now I shall 
 go and play billiards, this is about the time to find 
 Miflaud. Oh! the devil of it! I just recollect, it is 
 the day to give Miss Proh her lesson. . . shall I 
 go?. . . I am scarcely in the trim to give a lesson 
 in drawing. Ambroisine made me drink so many 
 kinds of wine. . . I am sure to smell of it. . . I am 
 not in a fit state to present myself in a respectable 
 household. . . no it would be inconvenient. . . Oh 
 the delicacies of Capoue! these are the results! Am- 
 broisine has done her best to destroy in me any 
 taste for work. Bah ! so much the worse, after all 
 I will have an hour at billiards." 
 
 When we have once got into the habit of living 
 only for pleasure it is very difficult to vanquish the 
 feeling. This is just how Casimir felt at that mo- 
 ment. The young man was not entirely devoid of 
 good sentiments; he had shown that in undertaking 
 to give lessons in drawing to his neighbour's 
 daughter, he was anxious to earn money by his own 
 industry, but his mistress continually put something 
 in the way. She is rich, and anxious to monopolise 
 her lover. When a woman who is still attractive 
 is bent upon dominating a man she brings into play 
 all the resources of her power, and she has many. 
 
 Casimir did not give his lesson to Angelina Proh; 
 he went to his favourite cafe, where he found other 
 young men-idlers like himself; in fact, they were 
 far worse than he ; you could see them waiting for 
 the cafe to open, when they would seat themselves 
 at a table and play dominoes till dinner time. 
 This repast over they return to their favourite resort 
 and play again till time to close. You may prob- 
 ably call them players instead of idlers; but I call 
 idlers those who pass their lives in the cafes. 
 
 After several hours consecrated to making cannons, 
 Casimir remembered that his mistress wanted to take 
 
58 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 a Neapolitan ice before going to the Opera, so that 
 he would have to hurry in order to get back before 
 the time for opening the theatre. 
 
 He returned to Madame Montemolly's. His mistress 
 had put on a most exquisite dress and received him 
 with one of those gracious gestures that women 
 only are capable of performing; and even they are 
 sometimes too free or too prim and severe. 
 
 "Have you dined, Casimir?" "Indeed, I have not 
 given it a thought ; I am not at all hungry." " Well, 
 neither am I but I tell you what we will do ; after 
 the theatre we will go to the Cafe Anglais and have 
 some supper. Would you like that ? " " Oh ! cer- 
 tainly! your ideas are always most excellent." 
 
 Adrienne had been for a little victoria, nor was 
 she long gone, for she had the evening to herself 
 when her mistress was out. Ambroisine and her 
 lover proceeded to the Cafe renowned for its ices, its 
 sherbets and its sweets; then they went to the 
 Opera Comique where Madame Montemolly had re- 
 tained a box. 
 
 There was a piece by Auber, by that celebrated 
 composer to whom we owe so many masterpieces, 
 and so many operas that it is difficult to hear them 
 all ; he is old, they say, but he does not fail, his 
 melodies are always fresh and new ; with Auber 
 time is brought to a standstill. 
 
 Casimir listened to the music, whilst Ambroisine 
 occupied herself in making sure that her lover was 
 not casting surreptitious glances at some woman or 
 other in the house. But everything passed off well, 
 the young man kept his eyes but a very short time 
 in one place. The opera over, the loving couple 
 wended their way to the Cafe Anglais, which is 
 only a few paces from the Opera Comique. There 
 they engaged a small room and ordered a late supper 
 to which both did full justice. I might say that this 
 
THE HANDSOME ROUFLARD. 59 
 
 excellent supper was intermingled with fond caresses 
 and loving words ; but I leave that to your own 
 inventive minds. What is quite certain is, that it 
 was two in the morning when Madame Montemolly 
 exclaimed: "I think it is time to go back now. My 
 dear, tell the waiter to order a carriage at the door." 
 It was never difficult to obtain a carriage in this 
 rich and brilliant quarter night or morning ; in 
 fact, at two in the morning, it is often more brilliant 
 than at any other time. Casimir escorted Ambroisine 
 home ; then he returned to his apartments in the rue 
 de Paradis-Poissonniere. 
 
 "By Jove," he muttered on the way, "this has 
 been a day well spent. She has been perfect." 
 
 But in this remark the young man had been perfect 
 also, for he had iiot been more frugal at supper than 
 he had at breakfast; Champagne had taken an im- 
 portant part in the day's proceedings; he was not 
 drunk, for a well-bred man does not get drunk, but 
 he was in that state of inebriety which is a mean 
 between drunkenness and sobriety. The carriage 
 stopped, and Casimir found himself at his own door. 
 He paid the coachman and was about to pull the 
 bell with which to awaken the porter when it struck 
 him that the man might be too soundly asleep as 
 he probably did not know that he was out. Just 
 then he noticed something stretched before the door; 
 he stooped that he might the better see what it was, 
 when the mass moved ; it was a man asleep there. 
 
 Casimir took a few steps back, thinking perhaps 
 it was a thief who was pretending to be asleep, and 
 he had not even a walking stick to protect himself 
 with; but it did not move again, so he decided a 
 second time to pull the bell. No one opened, so 
 Casimir, becoming impatient, pushed the sleeping 
 mass with his foot; a surly growl was heard and 
 a head with the face turned towards the door rose 
 
60 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 a trifle and muttered: "Well, what is it? What*s 
 the matter?" "What are you doing there in the 
 street?" "Couldn't you see that I was asleep ... it 
 is impossible to sleep in peace now." "You ought 
 not to sleep on a doorstep." "Bah! I belong to the 
 house ... it is my domicile ... up in the garret." 
 " If you live there why do you not go in, instead 
 of sleeping there, you would be better in your bed." 
 "My bed! that's nice, that is, my bed ... a straw 
 mattress and some bugs . . . there's a bed for you." 
 "But you should not sleep in the street, the police 
 will take you to the station." "Nothing I should 
 like better . . . that's what I'm waiting for . . . 
 besides it's the fault of that scoundrel Chausson 
 who will not open the door." "Ah! Chausson the 
 porter, do you say he will not open the door?" 
 "Yes, Chausson, my servant." "The porter, you 
 mean." "Porter if you like ... he was my servant 
 for a long time ... it may astonish you . . . When 
 I was his master I often had to correct him ... he 
 drank my wines . . . and to-day, out of vengeance, 
 my servant, become my porter, lets me sleep in the 
 street." "Oh! it will be alright if he opens." And 
 Casimir tugged at the bell-pull with all his force. 
 A hubbub succeeded the ringing of the bell. 
 
 "Rouflard! if you do not desist pulling that bell 
 I will turn you out to-morrow." "It is not Rouflard 
 who is ringing; it is I . . . Open at once, porter, I 
 command you to do so." "What is it you, M 
 Casimir! Oh! I beg your pardon, I thought you 
 were in a long time ago. Ah! had I known it 
 was you . . . you know I would never keep you 
 waiting." 
 
 The door was opened. Casimir entered, at the 
 same time telling the man stretched on the step, 
 that he had better come in now. 
 
 The individual whom the porter called Rouflard, 
 
THE HANDSOME ROUFLARD. 61 
 
 seemed averse to disturbing his horizontal position, 
 but he decided at last to enter, so rolled into the 
 hall. Chausson, as he closed the door offered Casimir 
 a light to assist him in ascending the stairs. 
 
 Casimir was occupied in examining the man who 
 had fallen asleep against the wall, for he was 
 absolutely drunk. " If you will take this candlestick 
 with you ... I am sorry to have kept you waiting, 
 sir. . . I heard the bell but I thought it was Rou- 
 flard, that is why I did not open sooner.. ." 
 
 "You see that rascal. . . who wanted to leave his 
 master in the street. . . he is an old valet of mine." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Rouflard: you should come 
 in before midnight or not at all." 
 
 "If I wish to come in later it is no business of 
 yours, it is your place to open the door." "I am 
 not your servant any longed I am glad to say. . . 
 thank God that was a long time ago." " Yes, when 
 you used to drink my wines." " Well, you did not 
 pay me my wages ; I had to take something to keep 
 me alive . . . but you had plenty to eat ; in fact you 
 ate up everything." " I forbid you to chatter to me, 
 do you hear that." "And I forbid you to call me 
 your servant ... go to bed, you drunken wretch." 
 
 "Bah! go to your room, dog... you shall hear 
 more about this to-morrow." Having uttered this 
 threat, Rouflard staggered towards the stairs. Cas- 
 imir had stayed below in order to hear the dialogue 
 between the porter and the drunkard; he also felt 
 some curiosity in the man so badly clothed, and 
 who appeared so miserable, and yet had been able 
 to have Chausson for his servant. 
 
 When Rouflard disappeared on the landing Cas- 
 imir spoke to the porter: "This drunkard pretends 
 that you were his servant?" "Ah! yes, sir, I do 
 not deny it, but it seems difficult to believe that 
 this miserable wretch ever had a servant. It was 
 
 3 
 
62 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 twenty-five years ago, lie was then a man of fashion 
 and all the ladies were after him, and they called 
 him the handsome Eouflard!. . . the charming Eou- 
 flard! and he was indeed a handsome man, and he 
 knew how to fascinate the ladies and he did it too, 
 it was his occupation." "His occupation what do 
 you mean by that?" 
 
 "Why, it is very easy to understand; Eouflard 
 did nothing else but court ladies, and for preference 
 he chose rich ladies. Sometimes it was one, some- 
 times another! The presents of this one, the pre- 
 sents of that ! When his tradesmen, or his creditors 
 came for money, he never paid them. I knew all that 
 went on, I was his valet, his factotum, his confidential 
 man; he gave me my instructions something after 
 this manner : c Chausson, send my tailor to Eleonore's 
 house, my bootmaker to Ernestine's, they will pay 
 these gentlemen ... I do not intend to pay my 
 creditors myself if I can help it . . . it is bad form . . . 
 Ah ! just go to madame so and so . . . I won a 
 hundred louis at ecarte... go and ask for it... 
 that was the arrangement, besides these debts are 
 debts of honour. You will also have to pass the 
 baroness's or the little countess's. I won a thousand 
 crowns from one and a thousand francs from the 
 other. . . You must call for them.' Well, I used 
 to go on these commissions and for a long time 
 these ladies paid. . . paid without hesitation. Some- 
 times on such occasions I could get something on 
 account of my wages, and I drank his wine for the 
 remainder. Oh ! those wines ! they were my weakness. 
 But little by little things went not so well. Eouflard 
 drank like a sow, till his nose began to show 
 indications of a beetroot hue . . . that made all go 
 wrong with the mistresses. . . as a rule women do 
 not like red noses. When my master sent me to 
 collect his winnings these ladies would sometimes 
 
THE HANDSOME ROUFLARD. 63 
 
 remark that they believed Rouflard was a cheat, or 
 that they had had enough of the drunkard; when I 
 returned and reported these answers to Rouflard, he 
 would get into a rage, and belabour me with his 
 stick ; finally he had to sell one by one the presents 
 and jewellery he had received from these ladies. 
 When I saw he had little more to sell and the wine 
 was getting low I thought it was about time for 
 me to leave . .- . he owed me six months wages but 
 I never saw anything of them. So I left him. I 
 had managed to put bj a little. So I married and 
 obtained the situation as porter at this house where 
 I have been for eight years. My wife is dead, so that 
 I cannot feel very happy. But judge of my surprise, sir, 
 when about nine months ago 1 saw this very 
 man arrive, shabby and actually a beggar, and asked 
 me for a small coin, or a hayloft to sleep in. I 
 could scarcely believe my eyes; there is, however, 
 always something in the face by which you recog- 
 nise those you have once known so I exclaimed: 
 'Good God, you are Rouflardl' 'That is so,' he 
 answered, 'I am the once renowned handsome Rou- 
 flard. . . You are Chausson. . . you were my servant. . . 
 well give me a lodging and be my porter. . . I have 
 become very wise now ... I always go to bed at nine 
 o'clock, and I only drink water — when I cannot buy 
 wine.' The sight of this man's misery once so 
 brilliant, so fashionable, caused me considerable 
 grief, so I told him he might sleep in a small garret 
 under the roof, and asked him what he was doing. 
 He frowned for a moment and then told me that he 
 did anything that came into his way : commissions, 
 bottle wines, crop dogs, educate parrots, or sit as a 
 model to painters. So I told him he might stay 
 here as long as he behaved himself, as it was a very 
 respectable house. He promised he would. God 
 knows how he has kept his word ! I got him a com- 
 
64 LA PETITE USE. 
 
 mission for one of the gentlemen in the house, but 
 as soon as he touched a few sous, he was drunk as 
 long as they lasted. I told him that it would not 
 do and that he would have to go, so he promised to 
 amend ; that was last June, so you can see what his 
 word is worth and I assure you that but for your 
 arrival he would have had to sleep in the street. 
 This Rouflard is certainly an out-and-out rascal. But 
 men, who, in their youth live at the expense of 
 women must necessarily finish up like that, because 
 their face is their only means of livelihood and once 
 that begins to change then good-bye to the ladies . . . 
 they are on the shelf for the rest of their days." 
 
 Casimir did not answer, the history of the hand- 
 some Houflard had sobered him, and he went up- 
 stairs in a very pensive mood. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PEOH FAMILY. 
 
 The Proh family were assembled in the drawing 
 room. You already know madame Celeste Proh, of 
 whom we have sketched a portrait; her husband, 
 M. Castor Proh was an old professor of the dead 
 languages. He was a great dry yellow man, and as 
 ugly as he was yellow, and he. certainly did not 
 improve as he got older. He had a great flat nose 
 and so indented that it was impossible for him to 
 wear eyeglasses. He walked about with the air of 
 a preceptor always ready to grind away at his pupils ; 
 his voice was always rough and disagreeable and his 
 wife declared that she had never seen him laugh ; 
 
THE PROH FAMILY. 65 
 
 but there are some people who can be amused 
 without showing it. A fortune, upon which he had 
 not counted had permitted the professor to retire 
 and live at his ease, so he devoted his time to the 
 education of his children, but his daughter preferred 
 the fine arts to the study of history, and little 
 Alphonse put out his tongue at his father when he 
 spoke about the dead languages ; he was a true enfant 
 terrible, greedy, inquisitive, idle, noisy and impudent. 
 His father thought he showed considerable promise. 
 Miss Angelina Proh was approaching her sixteenth 
 year; at that age, the girl was crooked, round- 
 shouldered, flat-nosed and blear-eyed. Yet even that 
 form of beauty makes its conquests. There are some 
 men who take to that style. At any rate Miss Proh 
 had no other ; at this moment Madame Proh was in 
 the act of embroidering a collarette and Miss Ange- 
 lina was trying to draw some eyes and ears; little 
 Alphonse was cutting out an image and the professor 
 was walking about the room, rubbing his chin and 
 meditating. All of a sudden he stopped. "Now, 
 Alphonse, I am going to put you a very simple 
 question..." "What is it?" "Do not say * what is 
 it'; it is an abrupt and ungainly phrase." "Ungainly! 
 what's that?" "My son, I am questioning; you listen, 
 and answer me illico; what was the first man called?" 
 "Elic&" "What? my son, pay attention... I ask 
 you again, what was the first man called." 
 
 "Well, illico! You told me to answer you: illico, 
 and I did, and now you are not satisfied." |'My 
 little fellow, you are too funny. I mean by illico, 
 sharp, at once." 
 
 "The child is right; why employ barbarous 
 expressions that he does not understand . . . you 
 only puzzle him with such nonsense." 
 
 "Madame, mind your own affairs and allow me 
 to direct my son's education ... he has the talent; 
 
66 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 but he wants constant reprimanding." "Thank 
 goodness he has plenty of time before him." 
 
 " He can never have enough, madame, look at me, 
 I consider I know something, but another hundred 
 years would not suffice to complete my education 
 and make my knowledge full." 
 
 "Like an omnibus." "Phonphonse tu castigaberis" 
 f "Papa, you know the conductor of an omnibus 
 calls out 'full'." "I see your sister is drawing ears and 
 eyes, and she is right. But that reminds me, she 
 should have had a lesson yesterday . . . Did 
 M. Casimir come?" "Yes, papa." "No he didn't; 
 Angelina is telling fibs. He didn't come here yesterday 
 to give the lesson." "Is your brother right my 
 girl?" "I don't know; I can't remember... You 
 are making me spoil this ear." 
 
 "I do not pay twenty-five francs a month for 
 this young man to neglect you . . . Madame Proh, 
 you ought to see to this..." 
 
 "Well, sir, do not excite yourself. M. Casimir 
 will not omit the lesson and ..." " Papa, draw me 
 a man." "Alright, have you some paper and a 
 pencil?" "There you are, but draw one with your 
 feet." "With my feet? how can I draw with my 
 feet?" "Why, papa, you can use your feet as 
 hands if you are a quadrumane." " Quadrumane ! 
 Aye a quadrumane! who told you that? Do you know 
 what a quadrumane is?" "Yes, it is a mandril, 
 and you know mamma called you a mandril the 
 other day ; I asked M. Casimir what it was, and he 
 told me it was a man of the woods who uses his 
 feet like hands." 
 
 " Do you hear that, madame ? Your son compares 
 me to a monkey because the other day you thought 
 fit to qualify me with that epithet." 
 
 "Well, sir, you called me a giraffe! was that 
 polite?" 
 
THE PROH FAMILY. 67 
 
 "Papa Mandril, draw me a man on this paper." 
 
 "If you call me mandril again, I will give you 
 something to remember it by. Go and study your 
 grammar lesson and then come and repeat it to me." 
 
 "Oh! I'm tired of grammar. . . I like cutting out 
 pictures much better." 
 
 " Do as I tell you, idiot, and do not murmur. 
 Angelina when you have finished your ears, I wish 
 you would give a little attention to my shirts, they 
 are in a terribly bad state. I have complained to 
 your mother several times about them but ..." " Your 
 shirts, papa, I never touch them." "Well, I do not 
 know what you all think about — or perhaps I know 
 too well... it is your dress, your hair, your... 
 anything ; whilst my linen is in a horrible condition . . . 
 my flannels have no buttons, and my drawers are 
 full of holes, but provided madame has a dress in 
 the fashion, anything else may go to the dogs." 
 "That's not true, sir, I have always got your drawers 
 in my head... oh! dear! I am very sad." "It is 
 very sad to find the holes, just as I am putting 
 them on." "Well, say no more about it, your linen 
 shall be seen to, but there is so much work to do 
 here that our daughter and myself cannot possibly 
 do it all ; I shall give it out to a woman to see to." 
 "To a woman! and are you sure about this woman; 
 they sometimes change the things entrusted to their 
 care." "Ah! you may be sure she will not change 
 your shirts . . . You are always afraid of them being 
 stolen. . . besides, it is a young girl who lives in 
 the house... it is little Lise." "Little Lise ! I do 
 not know her... so she works, does she?" "She 
 sews like a fairy ; I have already employed her, and 
 I am very well satisfied ; besides she is not at all 
 expensive, she takes just what we like to give her." 
 "Oh! then you had better often employ her; and 
 does this young girl live alone at the top of this 
 
6S LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 house?" "No, she is with her grandmother, an old 
 nurse, who is a trifle paralytic and can do nothing; 
 and this young girl works day and night that the 
 poor old woman may want for nothing. Oh! this 
 young girl is very respectable, as all are in this 
 house." "Hum! I am not so sure... no doubt this 
 girl has her lovers." " Sir ! what an idea ! how can 
 you say such things before your daughter." " Madame, 
 our daughter understands drawing, and in copying 
 the antique statues I presume she has learned what 
 it is to have a lover. I dare say this little Lise is 
 what you say, and I ask for nothing more." "Fancy! 
 Lise having a lover!" cried out little Phonphonse. 
 "So she has! I know him. . ." "What do you say 
 my boy? Where have you learned these things?" 
 "Ah! well I do know. I say, sister, hasn't the 
 little work-girl a lover?" "Leave me alone, you 
 make me spoil my drawing." "My daughter," said 
 the mother in her turn, " I am asking you a question : 
 leave your ears for a moment and answer. Do you 
 know that this little Lise has a lover?" "If you 
 believe all the stupid things that my brother says, 
 you will have all your work cut out." 
 
 "It is you who are the stupid; you know you 
 heard the drunkard, who lives in the attic call out 
 on the landing : * Vive Lise, she is my own ! . . . ' and 
 then he added. * She is my mistress, my pet.' And 
 you said that the girl's lover was very nice looking.'' 
 " It is not true ; I never said anything of the kind." 
 "Yes you did." "No, no, no." "Yes, yes, yes." 
 "That will do; satis, satis!" cried out M. Castor Proh, 
 "these children remind me of Cain and Abel... 
 why, I do not know but their quarrels are sure to 
 have evil consequences." "The fact of the attic 
 drunkard being mixed up in the affair shows how 
 much reliance can be placed upon what the 
 boy says." "Yes, madame, this drunkard, this 
 
THE PROH FAMILY. 69 
 
 Rouflard, for that I believe is his name, ought to 
 be turned out of the house . . . the porter told m@ 
 that he is a well educated man, but that he was in 
 sad need of employment. . . Well, I employed him 
 although I abhor such people. I wanted some Jamaica 
 rum, you do not like it, madame, you prefer aniseed 
 cordial, but I like rum. Well, it was one day when 
 you dined out with the children. So I gave this 
 Rouflard some money to go to the American Cafe 
 where you can always get it good. My commision- 
 naire left at four in the afternoon. At six he had 
 not returned. I complained to the porter. . . Seven 
 o'clock, eight, and ten struck when I saw the man 
 coming along drunk, so drunk he could scarcely 
 keep his balance, and he gave me a bottle about three 
 parts empty, and told me in a hiccoughy dialect 
 that he had spilt it en route. *What,' I exclaimed, 
 'you must have opened it, you have been drinking 
 my rum! You are a wretch! a fool!' Instead of 
 apologizing or asking pardon, this fellow went on 
 to say that if I was not satisfied he would drink 
 the rest. As a matter of fact, I gave him the re- 
 mainder, but I told the porter that such a drunkard 
 ought not to be allowed to live in the house." 
 
 " Ah ! well ! this Rouflard isn't afraid of you, papa 
 Mandril. . . no, no, not a bit of it, Mandril. . . papa 
 Castor. . ." 
 
 " Do you speak to that man, Phonphonse ? I forbid 
 you to speak to him ; his society is most objectionable." 
 
 " / don't speak to him. It is he who speaks to me 
 when he passes." 
 
 "Do not answer him, go indoors when he passes 
 close jour for interieur" " My '•for interieur ' / I haven't 
 one... buy me one, papa." 
 
 " My son, you are never satisfied ... I repeat, you 
 must not converse with this drunkard." "Oh! but 
 k© amuses me; he makes me laugh. . . he said to 
 
70 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 me yesterday morning. ' Why does your father not 
 put his name on his door? that's what all artists 
 do . . . '." " What, Phonphonse, you allow this man to 
 question you... it is very wrong of you." "How 
 can I prevent it ? " " Say to him : ' Sir, we have nothing 
 in common.' " " Why should I ? " " So, this Rouflard 
 wonders why I do not have my name on the door ! " 
 "Yes, and he said it was very necessary to know 
 where to find the Proh family." 
 
 "Ah! he said that, did he? mere pleasantry I 
 hope. . ." 
 
 "Ah," cried Angelina, "that reminds me of what 
 I saw yesterday; that man went up stairs with a 
 great lump of chalk in his hand." " Was it he who 
 dared to write those ridiculous characters on my 
 door?" "If you associate with a drunkard, you must 
 expect anything, . . we have not been out to-day. . . 
 so that he could have done so without us knowing 
 anything about it." 
 
 M. Proh left the room, and soon he was heard to 
 utter a cry of indignation, so loud, that the whole 
 family ran out on to the landing curious to know what 
 was on the door. 
 
 " Come, madame," cried M. Castor. " Come and 
 
 see what this rascal has had the audacity to write 
 
 upon our door. And for everybody to read too ! " 
 
 There, on the door, written in large letters, with 
 
 chalk, were. 
 
 Madame Pro -fane. 
 
 Miss Pro nobis. 
 
 M. Pro fessor. 
 
 Little Pro pice. 
 
LA PETITE LISE. 71 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 After his enjoyable day Casimir somehow passed 
 a far from agreeable night: he could not sleep, the 
 story of the curious individual whom he found 
 asleep in the street, and who called the porter his 
 valet kept him awake and thoughtful throughout 
 the rest of the night. And his reflexions were cer- 
 tainly not of the brightest. The sum total was a 
 determined resolution to work for his living, and as 
 painting constituted his sole accomplishment in this 
 direction, he resolved to take up his pencils and 
 brushes again and, by hard work, to acquire a know- 
 ledge of painting from nature; he also determined 
 to say nothing to Ambroisine of his new resolution. 
 
 Now an indispensable addition to the studio of a 
 painter from nature is a model. Casimir knew that 
 Madame Proh would only be too glad to become 
 his assistant in this respect. But before painting 
 that good dame, Casimir determined to try his 
 hand on someone else. He pondered on what the 
 porter had said with reference to Rouflard, and after 
 taking the cup of coffee that Chausson brought him 
 regularly every morning, Casimir ascended to the 
 top of the house with a view to seeing that curious 
 individual. 
 
 The house was a very lofty one. On the fifteenth 
 floor which is inhabited chiefly by the servants of 
 the house, Casimir stopped to take breath; then he 
 looked around him and saw that the staircase fin- 
 ished there; however, the porter had told him that 
 his old master lodged in an attic, on the sixteenth 
 
72 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 floor, but he could perceive not the slightest trace 
 of a staircase. 
 
 But he heard a voice, the sweet voice of a young 
 woman ; she was singing apparently to a baby asleep 
 in its cradle. The key was in the door of the room 
 whence the voice proceeded. Casimir determined to 
 open the door and enquire for the sixteenth floor. 
 The room was very modestly furnished, in fact, very 
 poorly furnished. At one end was a comfortable 
 bed with great serge curtains ; by the side of it was 
 a small couch, without curtains, and it supported a 
 thin mattress and palliasse ; there was also a table, 
 some chairs, and a mirror over the chimney-piece, 
 which, of course, was indispensable ; there was 
 nothing unnecessary in the room, but everything 
 there seemed to be doing its best to hide a self 
 assertive poverty. 
 
 An old woman was asleep in the bed, and a young 
 girl was sitting at the table working with her needle. 
 Casimir was struck with astonishment at the sight 
 of this young girl, whose dress was simple and 
 modest, but whose face bore a sweet and gentle 
 expression. " Excuse me, miss,' 5 said Casimir holding 
 the door he had just opened. "I am afraid I am 
 intruding. . . I am inconveniencing you I fear. . . 
 but although I have been living in this house for 
 some months I know very little about it. I am 
 looking for a person who lives on the sixteenth 
 floor. . . but I cannot find the sixteenth. . . . may I 
 ask you where it is?" 
 
 The young girl smiled and answered: "Indeed, 
 sir, it is very difficult to find it. . . but you see that 
 angle in the wall. Well, behind that you will find the 
 staircase. . . or rather, a sort of ladder which leads 
 to the sixteenth floor. . . it is so narrow that a stout 
 person could not possibly ascend." "Probably the 
 landlord does not wish the tenants of the sixteenth 
 
LA PETITE LISEi ?3 
 
 floor to burden his house to too great an extent," 
 responded Casimir, smiling. " Oh ! there is only 
 one tenant. . . a man who is somewhat peculiar in 
 his head!" "As he seems to be almost always 
 drunk, possibly he takes his garret for a palace." 
 "Do you think so, sir?... Poor Rouflard! he 
 isn't always drunk. . . and he is as cheerful when 
 he is hungry as when he is drunk . . . Ah ! excuse 
 me, sir, my grandmother is moving . . . probably she 
 wants something . . . excuse me ..." 
 
 The young girl bowed. . . Casimir perceived that 
 he was desired to leave. He thanked the girl again 
 and closed the door. " Ah ! " he murmured, " Fancy 
 having such a charming neighbour and not knowing 
 it! In Paris one might live for years in the same 
 house and not know the people who live on the 
 floor above you . . . you never seem to meet them. 
 This is a truly ravishing maiden . . . She has such 
 sweet manners, and what beautiful eyes ! . . . her hair 
 is as black as ebony. . . her mouth is pleasing. . . 
 what a delicious model she would make ! . . . and 
 she lives with her grandmother. . . she does not 
 seem to be very well off. . . I must make enquiries. . . 
 Now I must go and see this M. Rouflard. . Ah! I 
 think I can see the place ... it is indeed very 
 narrow — it is simply a ladder. . . No crinoline cer- 
 tainly ever went up there!" 
 
 Casimir held the wall at the side, for there was 
 no handrail, and supported himself by the sides. 
 He soon arrived at a kind of landing on which 
 were three doors; two were wide open, whilst that 
 in the middle was closed, but it was simply fastened 
 by a latch. Casimir considered that this must be 
 the room occupied by the individual he had found 
 asleep in the street. He raised the latch and opened 
 the door. He was struck with amazement at the 
 sight which met his view ; but delight was certainly 
 
74 LA PETITE LiSE. 
 
 not the characteristic feature of his expression this 
 time. 
 
 In a garret about twelve feet wide and lighted 
 by a small window in the roof was a man stretched 
 upon a heap of straw which supported a sort of 
 mattress filled with shavings ; a cotton coverlet, 
 black, dirty and torn was all that covered him ; 
 there was otherwise a total absence of bedclothes ; 
 a log of wood served him for a pillow, and, that 
 it might be less hard to the head, it was covered 
 with a number of theatrical placards that had prob 
 ably been torn from the pillars outside the theatres. 
 He who was asleep upon the bed was not completely 
 undressed; he had simply removed his coat and 
 waistcoat; upon his head was an old tin saucepan 
 with its handle removed: this served the purpose of 
 a nightcap. A wooden chair was near the bed, and 
 on it was placed an old broken soup basin. This 
 vessel had, no doubt, contained many a savoury pot- 
 age, but was now reduced to a very humiliating 
 employment ! . . . Sic transit gloria muncli ! 
 
 Old clothes were scattered about the dirty hovel 
 on all sides. On a shelf fixed to the wooden parti 
 tion were several pots of pomade, a comb, a large 
 beer glass, a bottle, a pipe and a piece of looking 
 glass. 
 
 When Casimir opened the door of this retreat the 
 man on the bed was asleep, his face turned to the 
 wall, and the entrance of his visitor did not seem 
 to have awakened him. Casimir took the opportunity 
 of more closely examining the apartment and at once 
 perceived that it formed a good subject for an 
 original and interesting picture. Having examined 
 all that there was to be seen, which did not take 
 long, Casimir decided to wake the sleeper, " Hallo ! 
 sir ! Hallo ! sir ! neighbour ! Do you not hear me 
 calling you?" Rouflard turned half round and mut- 
 
LA PETITE LISE. 75 
 
 tered : " What's the matter now ? . . . What do you 
 want?... I am not here! leave me alone! why do 
 you disturb me!... in this paltry hovel!..." "Ex- 
 cuse me, M. Rouflard, for having disturbed you. . . 
 but it is already past ten, and I expected to find 
 you awake ..." "I always rise late . . . because it 
 pleases me . . . and I have nothing better to do than 
 to sleep . . . but if you're going to pay for breakfast, 
 that's very different ! " 
 
 " Well, my friend, if I am not going to ask you to 
 breakfast, I may perhaps give you something which 
 is quite equivalent." At these words Rouflard 
 jumped completely out of bed, took off the saucepan 
 and rubbed his eyes. " Oh ! that's different," he 
 cried,... "they are sensible words, they are!... 
 Come now, I fancy I have seen you before, you are 
 M. Casimir Dernold.. . . and you live on the third 
 floor, I believe ? " " Quite so, and how do you know 
 my name ? " " Oh ! my servant told me the details, . . . 
 Chausson, our porter, who was once my handyman ! 
 and who tried last night to keep me out in the 
 street. . . and I recollect, that, had it not been for 
 you, my honourable neighbour, the doorstep would 
 have been my bed! That scoundrel of a Chausson." 
 "Allow me, M. Rouflard, it was not last night, it 
 was this morning, about two o'clock when I came 
 in." " Oh ! it might have been four for all I knew ! 
 You see, distinguished people, people of fashion 
 always go to bed when the cock begins to crow. . . 
 True, I can no longer dine at the Maison d'Or, or 
 walk the Boulevard des Italiens as I used to do. . . 
 but that Chausson is a scoundrel! he is taking re- 
 venge for the thrashings I have given him . . . Ah ! 
 that is the world all over ! To get at their vices give 
 them money. I think it was Larochefoucauld who 
 said that, or something very much like it." 
 
 "Sir, you seem to be well educated... how is it 
 
76 LA PETITE LISEJ 
 
 that you have not been able to use your education 
 more profitably?" " Use my education ? Use my educa- 
 tion more profitably P Ah ! that's capital, neighbour, 
 that's capital ! It is because I never worked that I now 
 sleep upon straw ! But do not let us despair ! You spoke 
 about giving me something for breakfast; that is 
 of greatest moment to me just now, for I haven't 
 a sou and yet I have an enormous appetite ; and added 
 to that I have no credit in the place." "But if 
 you never work, perhaps you will refuse my proposi- 
 tion?" "It all depends... is it very fatiguing?" 
 "Oh! not at all, I simply want you to pose for me 
 as a model, for four or five hours. . ." " To sit. . . for 
 my head?" "Yes, I only want your bust, head, and 
 hands." "Bravo! that suits me, that is just to my 
 fancy! to sit to a painter is to be in my element. . . 
 Once I used to make others pose. . . now, it is vice 
 versa! when will you commence?" "To-day, this 
 morning, if you can." "I am ready at once... 
 only..." "Ah! you want your breakfast, I under- 
 stand ! Here is ten francs in advance for your sitting ; 
 now go to breakfast, then come back to my rooms. 
 I will prepare my materials in the meantime ..." 
 Rouflard seized the ten francs with avidity and hastily 
 dressed himself. "It is a long time," he said, 
 "since I had such a pleasant awakening. . . I will put 
 on a little vanilla pomade ... if only out of honour 
 to you, sir," " Oh ! do not put yourself out for me, 
 you look very nice as you are." " Ah ! if you had 
 only known me in my prosperous days ! Then people 
 quarrelled for my portrait and my person; but other 
 times, other cares. . ." "Excuse me, M. Rouflard, one 
 question, it may perhaps be somewhat indiscreet 
 but — " " Go on, no ceremony with me, sir ! " " You 
 told me just now that you hadn't a sou, neither had 
 you any credit. . . had I not called here, how would 
 you have managed about your breakfast?" "How? 
 
LA PETITE LISE. 77 
 
 Ah ! you think that is difficult to answer ! You see, 
 you did not know that an angel lived in the house ..." 
 "An angel?" "Yes, sir." "In this house?" "Yes, 
 almost on this floor... on the fifteenth... in a 
 modest little apartment. . . but which looks like a 
 palace after this hovel... there lives a young girl 
 about eighteen years of age and an old woman who 
 is said to be the girl's grandmother. The young 
 girl is named Lise. . . la petite Lise. . . that's what 
 everybody calls her; she is very small, it is true, 
 but so pretty, so gracious. . . and such a face. . . to 
 make a picture of! Ah I have seen all colours in 
 my time . . . and women who were at the tiptop of 
 fashion. . . but I tell you frankly that la petite 
 Lise is better than them all!" "I just now saw 
 this young girl ; in fact, I asked her the way to your 
 room . . . she seems to be very fascinating ..." 
 " Fascinating ! . . . Oh ! it is not sufficient . . . she is 
 more. . . and such a heart. . . such kindness. . . 
 When I am spent she comes to my aid. One day, 
 I stopped before her door, which was open, and I 
 was hungry: 'Neighbour,' I said, 'have you a 
 crust of bread to give me ... I have not a morsel . . . ' 
 'Are you hungry?' she replied, and at the same 
 time she ran to her cupboard and obtained a crust 
 of bread and a piece of cheese, which she gave me, 
 saying: 'Take it, I am sorry it is not better, and 
 as for wine, I have none.' I told her that I was 
 very thankful and that she was a thousand times 
 too good. 'When you want bread,' she responded, 
 'come and ask for it, we have not much, but you 
 can always share it.' There, sir, that is why I 
 call her an angel. Do you not think I am right? I take 
 care not to abuse her goodness. . . but sometimes. . . 
 too often, I am afraid. . . I have to appeal to her. . . 
 I am afraid it is my destiny to be a heartbreaker. . . 
 go I call la petite Lise my little lover. , , but thig 
 
78 LA. PETITE LISE. 
 
 time it is quite in an honourable sort of way. . . I 
 respect this young girl as much as I love her; in 
 fact, I do more, I listen to her advice . . . she com- 
 plains to me when I come home drunk " 
 
 "But you do not follow her advice^L "No, it is 
 true, for I was drunk, yesterday, as you know ; it is 
 the force of habit! But when I am drunk I never 
 stop and speak to Lise . . . Poor little girl, her in- 
 terest in me is much more than I merit, and she 
 works without ceasing in order to support her para- 
 lytic grandmother. . . sometimes till midnight, and 
 one in the morning I hear her at work. . . then I 
 beg her to rest. . . to cease working for the night. . . 
 But she answers cheerfully that she is not tired, 
 that she is so very fond of sewing. . . and so on. It 
 is very curious that there should be more pluck 
 and courage in that little girl, than in half a dozen 
 blades like me!" 
 
 Casimir listened very attentively to all that Rou- 
 flard said concerning la petite Lise. It made him 
 reflect very seriously. But Eouflard, who had fin- 
 ished his toilet was rattling the ten francs in his 
 hand. "Excuse me, sir, but hunger calls me... I 
 do not ask you to go . . . you are welcome to stay 
 in this garret if it interests you, but I must ask 
 your permission to get my breakfast." 
 
 And without waiting for an answer, Rouflard 
 skipped briskly down his ladder and heard Casimir 
 call out as he reached the foot. "In an hour... 
 in my apartments ... do not forget." 
 
^9 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THEY MAKE ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Casimie went down the narrow descent after the 
 tenant of the garret. He descended slowly, not that 
 he was afraid of falling, but he was so preoccupied 
 with all that Rouflard had related to him concerning 
 this young girl who lived on the fifteenth floor, and 
 who worked all night to support her grandmother, 
 and yet found the opportunity of being useful to a 
 fellow creature in want of bread. 
 
 Having reached the landing of the fifteenth floor, 
 Casimir stopped before the door of la petite Lise; 
 he wished that it had been open, but it was not. 
 true the key was still in the door, which clearly 
 showed that she had no fear of being disturbed. 
 . Casimir was dying with anxiety to see this young 
 cirl again; then he recollected that he had not 
 sufficiently thanked her for directing him to 
 Roufiard's, and thought that between neighbours 
 there was no necessity for so much ceremony, be- 
 sides this young girl must find it very difficult to 
 earn sufficient money with her needle, and he might 
 be able to assist her by finding her employment. 
 At last, after collecting together a thousand reasons 
 why he should open the door he finished up by 
 
 doing so. ■ n , _ . 
 
 La petite Lise was at work, but she was not 
 singing, and her pretty face was very sad. She 
 glanced towards the door as she heard it open and 
 then towards the bed and heaved a great sigh On 
 seeing Casimir enter again, her face expressed the 
 greatest surprise, and as he was about to speak, she 
 
80 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 put her finger to her lips and whispered : "Quiet... 
 do not speak load, if you please. . . my grandmother 
 is asleep. . . do not wake her. . . she has had a 
 very bad night." Casimir entered as quietly as possible, 
 and murmured as he approached the young girl : 
 "It is very wrong of me to come and disturb you 
 a second time . . . but I did not know I was your 
 neighbour. . . " 
 
 " Yes, sir, it is quite true. . . I knew it. . . I have 
 seen you in the house several times . . " " You 
 have seen me ? but I have not seen you . . . what 
 could I have been doing with my eyes ! " " Ah ! I 
 was in the porter's room... besides I take up so 
 little room. . . one could easily miss seeing me." 
 "But if anyone sees you once it is impossible not 
 to desire to see you again." 
 
 La petite Lise did not answer that, but she looked 
 towards the bed. Casimir understood that the time 
 was ill chosen to pay compliments ; and, moreover, he 
 had not called to court the young girl, but to see 
 whether he could not be useful to her ; but was 
 that really his only object? He continued to speak 
 in a low tone and seated himself upon a chair near the 
 girl. "Excuse me, I want to speak to you very 
 frankly, and I trust you will see nothing in my 
 remarks to take offence at. I have learnt from the 
 individual who lives above you, with what industry 
 you labour in order that your grandmother may 
 want for nothing. . . but the work of a woman is 
 often badly paid. . . I should be very happy if I 
 could offer you the means of earning more . . . and 
 with less fatigue to yourself." 
 
 " As for other work, sir, I can do nothing besides 
 sewing, and embroidery and mending." 
 
 "I am about to explain. . . I am a painter. . . I 
 have already done several small pictures, but we can 
 earn much more money by painting portraits ... I 
 
THEY MAKE ACQUAINTANCE. 81 
 
 am not yet very competent at that branch of my 
 art ... so that I am desirous of working very hard 
 at it. . . but in painting from nature it is most 
 necessary to have models. . . that is why I came to 
 see Rouflard this morning, as I noticed what a char- 
 acteristic head he possessed. He is coming to pose 
 in my rooms this morning. . . he accepted my pro- 
 position with delight and I shall be able to work 
 at him for some time . . . But my little neighbour, 
 you have a most charming head. . . pardon the com- 
 pliment, it is as an artist that I address you '. . . I 
 should be so very happy if I could be allowed to 
 put your pretty face on the canvas ... I am certain 
 it would be a great success. . . we can work much 
 better when we have an interesting and pretty 
 model ... I will only ask you to sit when you have 
 nothing else important to do . . . I will take your 
 own time. . . and I could never sufficiently repay 
 you for the sittings you give me . . . This is why 
 I took upon myself to open your door a second 
 time ... If my proposition displeases you, I trust 
 at least that you will allow that it has been made 
 without any bad intention." 
 
 La petite Lise listened with great attention . . . 
 then she responded: "No, sir, I do not take your 
 proposition with any bad intention. You have learned 
 from M. Rouflard that I work for my living in 
 order that my grandmother may want for nothing, 
 and that you are desirous of being useful to me ; nor 
 can I thank you enough for the interest you have 
 thought fit to take in me ; but I cannot accept your 
 offer. To pose for painters is not for such as me . . . and 
 I have heard say — from my neighbour upstairs — 
 that they who serve as models are not thought much 
 of by the world at large — I am a poor girL without 
 means, and without , friends — I have therefore all the 
 more reason to be careful _ of my reputation, and I 
 
82 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 ought to take every precaution to preserve it. . . 
 am I not right, sir?" 
 
 These words, so simple and yet so just made a 
 great impression upon Casimir, who had not been in 
 the habit of hearing a woman talk reason. However, 
 he tried to convince Lise. " I quite understand that 
 the profession of an artist's model does not carry with 
 it any great reputation, although one can lead a proper 
 life in any profession with a little firmness and 
 determination. Indeed I have not come to ask yOu 
 to renounce your laborious occupation for the new 
 career that I have suggested. I ask you to sit for me 
 alone, to allow me to transfer your beauties to the 
 canvas ; it is quite as a favour that I ask it . . . and 
 for you it will be a short distraction from your daily 
 toils. If it is inconvenient for you to sit in my 
 rooms I can come here and paint, so that you would 
 not have to leave her for whom you toil so diligently. 
 Models are well paid. . . excuse me mentioning the 
 matter. . . but in this life so much depends upon 
 money. . . but I should be very happy to pay you 
 fifty francs..." "Oh! so much as that, for only 
 showing my face!" "Yes, the prettier the model is, 
 the more we have to pay, do you see? It is very 
 difficult to find one like you, so you see that it is 
 necessary for me to offer a good price. . . but my 
 means do not allow of my offering what I should 
 like to. In accepting my offer it is I whom you 
 oblige, and I have to thank you very much for it. . . 
 but if it displeases you, do not think anything more 
 about it. . ." 
 
 Lise hesitated this time before responding; then 
 she murmured: "I regret very much that I cannot 
 agree to your request. It seems to me that it ought not 
 to be very difficult to find a face which will serve 
 your purpose as well as mine. I know very little 
 of the world, but I think heaven has given me power 
 
THEY MAKE ACQUAINTANCE. 83 
 
 to read the thoughts of others. You desire to be 
 useful to me and yet you try to persuade me that 
 I am rendering a service to you . . . Ah ! it is very 
 generous of you. . . . now have I not guessed it?" 
 
 Casimir was astounded at the keenness of the young 
 girl's perception; he could not help smiling and 
 stammered out : " I declare I am quite astonished ; 
 your remark certainly denotes a far higher education 
 than is to be expected from one in your position. . . 
 You have no other relatives than that poor sick 
 woman, you say ; but those you have lost must 
 have occupied a very different position. . . excuse me, 
 perhaps I am too inquisitive?" 
 
 " Oh ! sir, I have no need to surround myselt 
 with mysteries. . . I do not remember ever having 
 seen my parents . . . they left me to the tender care of 
 a nurse, and since then they have forgotten all about 
 me." "Indeed!... poor little thing! but this old 
 woman, who is she?" 
 
 "I call her my grandmother, but she is really 
 nothing of the kind ; she is simply the mother of my 
 old nurse. She was called Catherine Vauger. She 
 loved me sincerely, and constantly feared the time 
 when she might be called upon to return me to my 
 parents ; but she was very pleased one day to receive 
 a message accompanied with a substantial sum of 
 money telling her to leave the village, take me with 
 her, and lodge in Paris at an address given in the 
 note, and, if she cared for it, to take some small busi- 
 ness. My nurse had just lost her husband. She 
 left for Paris, taking her mother with her. . . there 
 she is, in the bed. For some considerable time she 
 continued to receive money for my support, but all 
 of a sudden it ceased, and we have heard nothing 
 since!" "But surely your nurse knew the name of 
 the person who wrote to her." "No the letters were 
 not signed . . . ! I have never heard the name of my 
 
1 
 
 84 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 mother. . ." "It is quite a romance !" "My nurse 
 was a little disconcerted, as she had taken a small dairy 
 business, which was doing well. When I was six 
 years old she sent me to school, then, a little later, 
 to a day establishment, for she could never reconcile 
 herself to parting with me for two days together. 
 Dear old nurse. . . she loved me very much. . . more 
 than a mother, for mine had abandoned me. We 
 lived very happily thus for several years. But four 
 years ago poor Catherine was taken ill, and in spite 
 of all my care she died. . . I was barely fourteen 
 years old. My nurse recommended her old mother 
 to me, for she knew me, she knew that I had courage 
 and sufficient determination to earn my own living. 
 For some time we were able to live on the proceeds 
 of the dairy which at last we were compelled to 
 dispose of. I looked for work but I could obtain 
 none. Everybody said I was too young, and when 
 my grandmother asked for it they said she was 
 too old. . . At last heaven came to our aid and I 
 was able to earn something to help sustain us. But 
 that was a year ago, and my poor old companion 
 has since then become paralysed ... so that you see, 
 sir, I must work without ceasing and watch without 
 ceasing on behalf of her who has only me in the 
 world to look after her." 
 
 "What you have told me has only augmented my 
 interest in your welfare . . . and . . . pardon me for 
 returning to it again . . . the desire to be useful to 
 you... Poor little creature, abandoned and left to 
 battle with the world! Who perhaps ought to be 
 living in ease and enjoying all that fortune can 
 procure, whilst. . ." "Oh! sir, I assure you, I never 
 think of that! I only regret losing my nurse, 
 my only mother, and she loved me so very, 
 very much ; my parents could have left me with no 
 one who could have been kinder," 
 
THEY MAKE ACQUAINTANCE. $5 
 
 "Well, you are very philosophical, and I compli- 
 ment you upon it; most young girls in your position 
 would have their heads full of dreamiest fancies." 
 "Oh! I never think of anything but my work." "And 
 so you refuse to lend me your pretty face, although 
 I offer to come here and paint your picture." "It 
 certainly would be more proper for you to come 
 here . . . but I have made up my mind ... I cannot 
 pose for you ..." 
 
 Casimir sighed and rose to depart. "Well," he 
 exclaimed, "I can very well see that it is no use 
 my trying to overcome your repugnance. I ought 
 not to have insisted so much ; but if by chance, you 
 should change your mind I shall always be ready, 
 and you will only have to say the word and I will 
 run to you immediately." "I thank you, sir," she 
 responded. " Besides, if you will permit it, I should 
 like to call and inquire after the condition of the 
 poor invalid; you will allow that, miss, will you not?" 
 
 La petite Lise blushed, and hesitated, but the 
 request was made in so gentle a tone. . . and the 
 young man had evinced such an interest in her, and 
 had been so respectful and polite , . . and he was 
 not a new tenant, whilst the porter had always 
 spoken so well of him. All this decided the young 
 girl to reply favourably. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she responded simply. Then Casimir 
 thanked the girl for her kind permission, and took 
 his leave as quietly as possible lest he should wake 
 the invalid. . 
 
 Casimir returned to his rooms and applied himself 
 to his work with renewed vigour; he arranged his 
 canvas and prepared his palette. Good examples are 
 always better than advice ; there is all the difference 
 between theory and practice. We often listen to 
 advice with indifference and soon forget what we 
 have heard. But we never forget what we have 
 
! 
 
 86 LA PETITE LISfi. 
 
 seen. The old proverb is very true: "An eye ia 
 worth a dozen ears." 
 
 The young painter impatiently awaited the arrival 
 of M. Rouflard, so that he might set to work ; but 
 the time passed and the model did not come. Casimir 
 began to think that he had made a great mistake 
 in paying the occupier of the lofty garret in advance, 
 who would probably eat as long as his money 
 lasted, without any thought of his promise. 
 
 Presently Casimir heard a great deal of commotion 
 and loud and angry talking. Some one was disputing 
 on the landing and the voice of Rouflard sounded 
 high above the others. Casimir rose to discover 
 the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door 
 and found the whole Proh family at high words 
 with his new model. M. and Madame Proh were very 
 excited ; whilst Rouflard was little less than drunk. 
 
 "Yes, sir," screamed the dry old professor, which 
 really did somewhat resemble a mandril, " I have a 
 great mind to give you in charge for writing on 
 my door." '-Ah! ah! ah!" responded Rouflard, 
 "you make me laugh... give me in charge! what 
 an amusing proposal!" 
 
 " And have you up before a justice of the peace," 
 chimed in Celeste Proh. "You have insulted me, 
 Madame Profane ..." 
 
 "Insulted! the devil of it! you must be hard to 
 please! I compared you to a flower... When a 
 flower has lost its freshness, we say that it is fane. . . 
 so I described, so I compared you with a faded rose . . . 
 but I should have said Madame Probleme or Madame 
 Profile ..." " Hold your tongue ! You insolent fellow ! 
 Neighbour I ask you to interfere ; you have doubtless 
 read what this man wrote on our door with chalk." 
 
 "Indeed, madame, I have not noticed it," said 
 Casimir. 
 
 Then the lad Proh cried out: "There was Miss 
 
THEY MAKE ACQUAINTANCE. 87 
 
 Pronobis, Madame Profane. . ." "Be quiet, Alphonse, 
 there is no necessity to repeat the scandalous 
 expressions, since M. Casimir has not read them- . ." 
 "M. Professor... and I am Master Propice." 
 "Silence, Phonphonse ; let us return to our apartment." 
 "No, no," said M. Proh, "why did you call me 
 M. Professor? What do you mean by that expres- 
 sion? "What do I mean? Ah! that's good, that 
 is! Parbleu, it is not very difficult to guess... 
 try and think it out for yourself. . ." 
 
 "Sir, I will have satisfaction for these insults!" 
 "You will have satisfaction, do you say? delighted, 
 I assure you... a duel! I will send my valet, you 
 can arrange with him the terms of the combat... 
 You may have choice of weapons. . . it is all the 
 same to me, I can fight with anything ... but the 
 sword is the weapon of gentlemen. . ." "What does 
 he say? A duel!... this man propose a duel!... 
 what insolence ! . . to think that I should measure 
 swords with such a creature ! " 
 
 "Measure with you! how can I measure with 
 you?... You walking rushlight! of course you 
 will have the advantage . . . Chausson, my old valet 
 will obtain two military swords ... or two brown 
 handles... you can choose for yourself... there 
 you are M. Pro . . . rata ! " 
 
 "M. Casimir, I beg of you to tell this man to 
 hold his tongue... if not I will not answer for 
 what may occur." 
 
 " None of your bullying, professor," shouted Rou- 
 
 flard, "or I will—" 
 
 " Come Rouflard," said Casimir, "you have break- 
 fasted too heartily... and you have not kept your 
 promise to me; have you forgotten that you were 
 to come and pose for me? and I have been waiting 
 no end of a time for you. . ." "Ah! that's true. . . 
 of course . . . pardon . . . excuse me . . . I was just 
 
88 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 going to your rooms . . . when I found these people 
 barring the passage..." 
 
 "M. and Madame Proh I trust you will not take 
 seriously what this man has just said. He sometimes 
 drinks to drown his misery, we must be indulgent 
 to the poor beggar ... I promise you that it shall 
 not Occur again ..." 
 
 " Ah ! M. Casimir, it is very kind of you to 
 interfere ..." 
 
 "Come on, Rouflard..." 
 
 " I am yours, my Michael Angelo . . . my Raphael . . . 
 my dear Prohs we shall meet again." 
 
 "Come Rouflard, do come on." 
 
 " To pose ... for God and country ! . . . Ah ! it is 
 capital . . . for God and ..." 
 
 Casimir pulled the model into his room, and the 
 Prohs left the landing, after effacing the remainder 
 of the chalk which still appeared on the door. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A SILVEE SPOON. 
 
 It was not without considerable trouble that 
 Casimir succeeded in making his model assume a 
 proper attitude. At last Rouflard calmed down and 
 Casimir gave him permission to talk, which consider- 
 ably aided in bringing about a satisfactory state of 
 discipline. The old roue had become very loquacious 
 in his old age; he delighted to talk over his old 
 triumphs, and he intermingled with his reflections 
 certain remarks which were sometimes very piquant. 
 
A SILVER SPOON. 89 
 
 Rouflard was almost invariably in good spirits, and 
 he possessed those talents which enable a man to 
 make his way in the world, but notwithstanding 
 these advantages he had allowed every opportunity 
 to slip by. 
 
 Casimir listened for some time to the history of 
 his model's triumphs among the ladies, but he soon 
 turned the conversation to a matter of much more 
 interest. It " was the young girl on the fifteenth 
 floor. "M. Rouflard, have you lived in this house 
 long?" "It is very kind of you to say 'live' you 
 should say wasted . . . but it's all the same ... I have 
 been here about six months . . . but I assure you I 
 have no wish to sing ' Dans ce grenier^ qu'on est bien 
 a vingt ans ' ! It is true that I am over twenty . . . 
 but if I were not, I should never agree with 
 -Beranger. But hang the poets ! " " When you came 
 to live on the top of this house did la petite Lise 
 live there with her grandmother?" "Yes, she was 
 there when I came, but she had only been here a 
 short time then." 
 
 "Do you happen to know when this young girl 
 receives her visitors?" "Visitors! La petite Lise?. . . 
 Oh ! never ! No one to my knowledge ever comes to 
 see her. Once or twice Madame Proh wriggled her 
 ' way up to take Lise some work. That little jack- 
 anapes went with her and commenced teasing the 
 old grandmother and Lise put him outside the door. 
 As for Madame Pro-tocol, she would say that she 
 could not pay twelve sous. . . it was too much. . . 
 she thought ten sous was quite enough. Then 
 Lise would say that she was content to receive what- 
 ever Madame thought fit to give. Poor little thing ! 
 Fancy bargaining for two sous, and with a poor 
 girl who worked day and night to support the old 
 woman ! it is quite worthy of madame Profane ! " 
 
 " Turn your head a little to the left . . . very 
 
90 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 little . . . now try and keep that position." " Are 
 you satisfied with me, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, you pose very well." "Do you intend 
 sending the picture to one of the exhibitions?" 
 "Perhaps. . . if it turns out all right." "In any 
 case you will let me know, will you not, and I 
 should like to go and see it." "Yes, yes, but we 
 are not there yet. . . Rouflard, do you know whom 
 I should like to get for a model?" "By Jove, I can 
 make a very good guess. . . you would like to paint 
 la petite Lise ! " " You have guessed it first time ; I 
 should be delighted to trace the charming features 
 of that young girl." 
 
 "Well, what is there to prevent you?" "I asked 
 her if she would allow me to paint her portrait and 
 she refused me." "Ah! she refused you! I bet it 
 was because she would not leave her grandmother, 
 so long!" "I thought that at first, so I proposed 
 taking my canvas and palette up to her room, but 
 she still refused." "It was very kind of you; I 
 cannot understand her still refusing." "Yes, she 
 refused again, and it surprised me all the more, be- 
 cause she works so hard to earn so little ..." "I 
 should rather think she did! above all when she 
 works for the Prohs ... I must remember this ..." 
 "You see, in consenting to sit, she would have been 
 able to earn a considerable competence without in- 
 terfering with her usual work. . . it would have 
 procured her some little dainties. . . she could have 
 purchased things for the poor old woman which 
 lack of means now forbids. . . do you not think I 
 was right, Rouflard?" "You were a hundred times, 
 a thousand times right. . . and I cannot understand 
 why she refused you." "You see, she is afraid of 
 compromising herself, and she has heard say that 
 girls who pose for painters have often a very poor 
 reputation ..." 
 
A SILVER SPOON. 91 
 
 " They certainly are not often Vestals ! but there is 
 no need to worry over that, especially when one 
 works for a living. . . Lise carries her susceptibility 
 too far. . . you only wished to render service to the 
 young girl . . . and in offering to work in the pres- 
 ence of her grandmother, you used the means to 
 silence any malicious tongues . . . but you leave it 
 to me, I am quite persuaded that I can prevail 
 where you have failed." "Do you really think you 
 can overcome her scruples?" "Yes, certainly, I have 
 conquered more stubborn cases than that . . . cer- 
 tainly I employed means that I should never think 
 of using with la petite Lise, but there still remains 
 my eloquence and a true desire to be useful to her 
 who never refused me a crust of bread ... It will 
 perhaps be the first time I have ever rendered a 
 useful service to a woman ... it will be a change 
 for me." Casimir did not wish to tire his model at 
 the first sitting, so, after about a couple of hours, 
 noticing that Rouflard was beginning to show signs 
 of impatience, he remarked that it would suffice for 
 the first sitting. "Ah! so you have finished with 
 me for to-day. . . well, I certainly begin to feel a 
 bit cramped. . . want of practice, you, you. . . shall 
 you want me to-morrow." "Yes, certainly, does 
 that frighten you ? " " Oh ! certainly not, I am quite 
 beginning to like it. It is such an easy way of 
 earning money. That little neighbour of ours must 
 certainly come . . . besides it is sure to please her 
 grandmother; I wonder she did not think of that. . ." 
 
 "How? explain yourself more clearly, Rouflard. 
 How would it please the poor old paralytic?" "Well, 
 you see, I like to chat with pretty women ... it is 
 a relic of my youth . . . desenit in piscem ... ah ! you 
 see I know Latin also . . . but I had forgotten — 
 women do not like the dead languages ..." " But let 
 us return to Lise..." "Certainly... I think I 
 
92 LA PETITE LISE. 1 
 
 should have made a good lawyer. . . I always master 
 the details quickly. . . well, in talking with the girl 
 she has often expressed a wish to save, to put a 
 little on one side. . . it would please her grand- 
 mother. . . they had often tried, but could never 
 earn sufficient. . . it was to buy something for the 
 old woman, and what do you think it is ? Why, a 
 silver spoon, because the old woman had one once, 
 but during their distress they had to sell it. Now, 
 she says, they can live but cannot save, for the med- 
 icines the doctor orders are so expensive ... * but 
 health before all/ says Lise, 'it is better than a 
 silver spoon \" 
 
 "You are quite right, Rouflard, in posing for me 
 she would soon earn enough to buy a silver spoon 
 for her grandmother." "Unless the doctor orders 
 some ruinous decoction... then it would be no 
 use — but I will speak to her. . . shall I come to- 
 morrow at the same time?" 
 
 " Earlier, at ten precisely." " Any time you wish . . . 
 I am as free as a cockchafer. . . may I look at 
 what you have done?" "Yes, certainly." "Ah! it 
 is not bad ! . . , I understand painting ... I have the 
 reputation of being a very good judge ... In the 
 zenith of my success I used to buy very valuable 
 pictures ..." " Look at this little sketch made at 
 Bougival. . . I have not quite finished it." "Oh! 
 that is very pretty. . . you have great talent for 
 colour. . . I have paid three hundred francs for a 
 picture like that." 
 
 "As that seems so good I shall hasten to finish it. . . 
 perhaps I can paint landscapes better than portraits— 
 but I shall try both . . . now, to-morrow, Rouflard." 
 
 "Yes, sir, and I will breakfast after the sitting 
 that I may pose with greater dignity." 
 
 The model left. Casimir once more applied himself 
 to his labours, and worked with an ardour which 
 
A. SILVER SPOON. §3 
 
 quite astonished himself, and the time passed so 
 quickly that Casimir found himself still at work 
 when it struck four. "Surely it cannot be so 
 late," he exclaimed, "and I ought to have taken 
 Ambroisine for a walk at three ... but why should 
 I let this woman use up my time . . . why ? Because 
 
 I have been an idler because the thought of 
 
 work frightened me... and to-day I have found 
 infinitely more pleasure in working at that picture 
 than in walking in the park. . . I suppose it is the 
 same with Lise ; she works without a single distraction, 
 with no one for a companion beyond a paralysed 
 old woman. . . And then look at Rouflard. . . a man 
 who has been feted and fondled by women 
 he has lived at their expense... and I can 
 plainly see where that leads... his example shall 
 not be lost upon me... Madame Montemolly may 
 say what she likes, but in spite of all I am determined 
 to work. . . I am quite decided." Casimir proceeded 
 to the superb Ambroisine's. She was in a very bad 
 temper ; for more than an hour she had been dressed 
 waiting for her lover. She walked up and down 
 the room, looked every now and then at her watch, 
 and then called her maid. "I am sure I am too 
 early... this watch must be fast; go and see what 
 the right time is." 
 
 Adrienne ran down to the porter's room and 
 returned telling her mistress that instead of her 
 watch being fast it was six minutes slow. 
 
 " You are a fool, Adrienne ! " exclaimed Ambroisine, 
 throwing her gloves at the girl. "You are cross- 
 eyed, you cannot see. . ." "But, madame,. . . I. . ." 
 "That will do! I will not believe that it is nearly 
 five o'clock, it is impossible. . ." "If madame believes 
 it is only midday, it is all the same to me." " Hold 
 your tongue! You are mocking me! A word more 
 and I will thrash you ! e . . " 
 
 4 
 
94- LA PETITE LISfe. 
 
 Adrienne disappeared. " Her young man has a 
 nice treat in store for him," she muttered, as she 
 closed the door. 
 
 At last Casimir arrived; he expected a scene, and 
 had already prepared his part ; and fully resolved to 
 persist in changing his mode of life. 
 
 " Ah ! so there you are, sir ! " said Ambroisine 
 biting her lips in her rage. "Do you know what 
 time it is ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame, ten minutes to five." "And pray, 
 what time ought you to have been here." " A little 
 earlier, it is true, but I was hard at work painting, 
 and the time passed by before I realised it." " You 
 do not suppose, sir, that I will pay regard to 
 such thin veiled excuses . . . You surely could 
 invent something better than that. . . tell me you 
 were waiting for your friend Miflaud and that he 
 detained you. . ." 
 
 " Madame, I have told you the truth, and you are 
 wrong not to believe me ... I was at work, and that 
 only is the cause of my lateness." "You were at 
 work ! . . . and how long if you please, have you been 
 inspired with this remarkable zeal for work! ah! I 
 know you too well ! " 
 
 " Madame, you have no right to speak to me like 
 that ; for we have discussed the same matter several 
 times recently. Yes, madame, I am determined to 
 work. . . my resolution is taken, and I do not 
 intend to change it . . . I am ashamed of the life I 
 have led up to now, and it must end to-day. I have 
 often mentioned my desire to profitably employ my 
 time, but instead of assisting me, you have put every 
 obstacle in the way ... I do not say it as a 
 reproach ! . . . God forbid it ! . . . Let every one lead 
 the life he likes best ! I possess only one resource . . . 
 painting and I shall endeavour by study and practice 
 to become proficient in the art. I do not see that 
 
THE SERVANTS AGAIN. 95 
 
 it should set us at variance ; for pleasure is much 
 sweeter when it arrives after hours of labour." 
 
 Casimir had stated his case in so decided a tone, 
 that Madame Montemolly soon perceived that she 
 would not be able to triumph over this new reso- 
 lution of her lover. Then also her ruffled temper 
 subsided. She knew enough of Casimir to understand 
 that it would be useless to try just now to over- 
 throw his projects. So she reassumed her usual 
 graceful manner and offered him her arm. "Excuse 
 me, Casimir, I was wrong, I will not reproach you 
 for working, but that ought not to prevent you 
 taking me for a walk sometimes." 
 
 " Ah ! I am at your service . . . and delighted, to 
 find you so reasonable ..." 
 
 " Well, let us go for a stroll in the park, and we 
 will dine at Ledoyen's on our way back." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Servants Again. 
 
 A fortnight passed by. Casimir worked with 
 assiduity at the head of the dissolute Rouflard, who 
 posed regularly to his patron, especially when he 
 sat first and breakfasted afterwards. But he had 
 as yet been unsuccessful in overcoming Lise's 
 repugnance to sitting as a model. This distressed 
 the young painter, and he several times ascended 
 to the fifteenth floor; but he could never stay long, 
 for Lise always seemed to fear that the sight of the 
 young man would be distasteful to her grandmother, 
 and only by being discreet did Casimir hope to gain 
 
96 LA PETITE L1SE. 
 
 the confidence of the young girl and triumph over 
 her obstinacy. 
 
 Casimir continued to give the lessons in drawing 
 to Miss Proh, who made not the slightest progress 
 and would continue for a week at a time on 
 one ear. He also commenced the picture of Madame 
 Proh, but did not work very hard at it, for he 
 preferred infinitely to have Rouflard as his model. At 
 last Casimir completed his first work and sent it to 
 a picture dealer, whose place was greatly frequented 
 by amateurs, for he frequently had on view very 
 rare and choice paintings. 
 
 You can easily imagine that the jealous Ambroisine 
 did not accept the new condition of things without 
 fear and trembling, but she felt the necessity of 
 making some concession lest she should lose all 
 control over her lover. She saw much less of 
 Casimir. Instead of passing his mornings at her house, 
 idling away his time as had been his custom, he 
 breakfasted at home and sometimes worked till five 
 in the evening. He was quite surprised to see with 
 what rapidity the time passed when he was hard 
 at work, whilst hitherto he had found the day 
 hang so long that he scarcely knew what to do to 
 escape the consequent ennui. 
 
 Ambroisine in order to assure herself that he was 
 not deceiving her would often call unexpectedly upon 
 him. She always found him at work with Rouflard 
 sitting to him. Once also she found Madame Proh 
 in the model's chair, but the wife of the dry old 
 professor was hardly likely to excite any feelings of 
 jealousy. She had not, therefore, any real cause for 
 complaint and yet her mind was not at rest ; it seemed 
 as though her lover was not the same to her; and 
 she seemed to miss very much the undivided attention 
 she had hitherto received. She did not know what 
 was passing in the mind of her lover, but she felt 
 
THE SERVANTS AGAIN. 97 
 
 a presentiment that there was something which wo aid 
 eventually destroy the feeling existing between them. 
 In these matters women seem to be possessed of a 
 kind of second sight. 
 
 It necessarily followed that the nervous crises were 
 more frequent, and Adrienne was often sent to the 
 druggists of which we have already heard. 
 
 In going there one day (you know how Adrienne 
 usually went, stopping to speak to every acquaint- 
 ance she met), the girl found herself face to face 
 with her friend Rose, who had a comfortable place 
 with an old bachelor, who made her presents and 
 who had obtained a rubber that she should not 
 fatigue herself too much. 
 
 " Good-day, Adrienne." "Ah! Rose, where are you 
 going?" "To the confectioner's for a vol-au-vent. . . 
 he makes them so delicious ..." " Ah, I know, 
 he serves us also ... he is the best in the neigh- 
 bourhood ..." " Are you still with the nervous lady ? " 
 "Ah! don't talk about it! For some time she has 
 been in a dog's temper! because love does not fly 
 with more than one wing! He comes now much 
 less often ... in fact, I believe he is anxious to 
 get rid of her." "Well, she can get another, that's 
 all." " Oh ! is that what you think goes on at our 
 house ! But she adores her painter, my dear, and ..." 
 "So her lover is a painter... some poor dauber I 
 suppose." "He appears to have acquired some degree 
 of merit. . . he is going to paint madame's portrait, 
 at her own request. . . I shall get him to do mine 
 whilst he is in the humour. . . And you, Rose, I sup- 
 pose you are still with the bachelor?" "Yes, at 
 M. Loursain's . . . more than ever, my dear. I am his 
 companion more than his maid. . . he does nothing 
 without consulting me . . . To-day I wanted a vol-au- 
 vent for dinner. . . so he told me to go and order 
 one ..." " Ah ! it seems to me you live in clover. . . " 
 
98 ' LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 "I tell you lie does nothing without consulting m©. 
 When his friends bore me, I tell him that such a 
 one pinched me yesterday in such a place . . . then 
 Ms business is soon settled and he is packed off faster 
 than he came." " Ah ! that is not bad ; it is a means 
 of getting rid of those who annoy you." "It is an 
 old trick that never fails in its effect. But, fancy, 
 Adrienne, what you said to me the other day actually 
 happened the other evening; one day after dinner, 
 I said to M. Loursain who seemed more affectionate 
 than usual, that if he desired it, I should be very 
 pleased to marry him. Directly I had spoken, he 
 burst out into a roar of laughter like a clown. So 
 I asked him what there was so droll in my proposal ; 
 then he laughed again and again. At last he asked 
 me what the devil had put such an idea into my 
 head, and that I was an ass to think about marriage. 
 4 But,' I replied, 'I see nothing foolish in thinking 
 of marriage.' 'Ah,' he answered, 'it is a very fine 
 thing; but I shall not marry you, my dear; I shall 
 not make such a blunder as that ! And even if I had 
 any wish to marry you, I could not, for I am already 
 married'. Adrienne, I could have died when I heard 
 him say that. ' You are married.' I cried, ' and your 
 wife living?' 'Yes,' he responded, 'my wife is living, 
 very much living, and I do not think that she is at 
 all likely to die, for she is much younger than I 
 am. ' Then why do you not live with her ? ' I asked. 
 He pulled a sour face and told me that it was no 
 business of mine, and that if he had left his wife 
 it was probably to please himself, and certainly 
 nothing to do with me. He also told me never to 
 mention the matter again. You guess I never men- 
 tioned the subject again. I saw that I had gone 
 too far, and I have not breathed a word about it 
 since. But all the same for that, I am dying to 
 see this wife of his and to find out why he left her." 
 
THE SERVANTS AGAIN. 99 
 
 " All ! I expect she made a cuckold of liini ! and the 
 gentleman didn't like it. . . some men are so ridicu- 
 lous. . . But I must hurry away after this medicine, 
 good-bye, Rose, adieu." "And what about that 
 young man at the lemonade makers, are you still in 
 love with him?" 
 
 "Ah! it is another now... I never stick to one 
 long. . . I dearly love a change." 
 
 When she returned to her mistress Adrienne 
 was asked why she had been so long. "Madame it 
 is not my fault," she responded, "I met a friend. . . 
 one whom I had not seen for a long time . . . and 
 we had a chat. . . I asked her all the news about 
 her family and friends." "I should like to know what 
 there is in that to interest you..." 
 
 "Madame, Rose has a brother who would die 
 for me." 
 
 "Love?" "No, madame, but by carrying me 
 a long distance in his arms ... he is a hunch- 
 back." 
 
 " And what is your friend ? " " Oh ! she has a fine 
 place, with a bachelor. . . she does just as she likes. . . 
 she orders vol-au-vent when she pleases . . . her 
 master lets her do so. . ." " He must be rich then?" 
 "Yes, madame, it appears that M. Loursain is very 
 rich ! " At the name Loursain, Ambroisine displayed 
 considerable commotion, which she endeavoured to 
 suppress. "What did you say the man's name was?" 
 "M. Loursain... Do you know him, madame?" 
 " No, I thought you said some other name . . . Did 
 you say this man was a bachelor." " Well, madame, 
 he lives as though he were ; but in reality he is not. 
 He has a wife and she is alive. I have just heard 
 that from Rose, with whom he is madly in love, and 
 whom he would willingly marry; but he told her 
 in confidence that he could not marry her because 
 of the existence of his wife; but if she died, Rose 
 
100 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 should take her place . . . But it appears that this 
 wife of his is much younger than he . . . but people 
 die at all ages, do they not, madame?" 
 
 "Certainly; and does this man live near here?" 
 " Yes, madame, in the Rue Beranger. It appears that he 
 has magnificent apartments there on the second floor. 
 Rose's room is in the same suite, which is very 
 convenient, because . . . you understand, madame, 
 Rose did not actually tell me, but in her conversation, 
 she betrayed herself. . . " 
 
 "Enough, enough, I want to know nothing of the 
 intrigues of this friend of yours ; take care that next 
 time you are not so long gone on your errand." 
 
 Left to herself, Ambroisine sat for some time in 
 deep reflection; then she rose and muttered: "this 
 man lives too near; I should not dare to meet him. . . 
 I must move away." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Quinine. 
 
 One morning Casimir was agreeably surprised at 
 receiving a call from the dealer with whom he had 
 left his little work. "We have," said the visitor, 
 " obtained four hundred and fifty francs, will it do?" 
 The young painter thought that he had misunder- 
 stood; he opened his eyes wide to assure himself 
 tLat it was really the picture dealer who stood 
 be/ore him. "Four hundred and fifty francs did 
 you say? It is my view of Bougival to which you 
 rsfer?" "Yes, if the price suits you, it is sold, 
 and you may call at the shop as soon as you like 
 and receive the money." 
 
QUININE. 101 
 
 "I should never have hoped that it would bring 
 so much." "I asked five hundred, and I am sure, sir, 
 if you care to wait we can get it." "ISTo, no, I will 
 not wait. . . sell at once. . . I think it quite enough, 
 beside I shall soon have some others for you." 
 "Ah!" M. Casimir, "work as hard as you can, 
 especially at these landscapes. I think they will be 
 more remunerative than portraits. You have a talent 
 for colour ; it is a gift of nature ; I know several 
 painters of considerable fame who have but small 
 talent for colour; they have a face to paint, and 
 they employ the first thing that comes to their 
 brush; it is perfectly drawn, beautifully posed, but 
 it lacks colour. Work, and we will push you 
 forward." 
 
 The dealer left. Casimir jumped up and danced 
 round the room. It was not the idea of possessing 
 four hundred and fifty francs which made him so 
 cheerful; thanks to the generosity of his mistress, 
 he had many a time received much larger sums; 
 but it was the thought that this sum was the direct 
 fruit of his labour, that he had earned it himself, 
 and that he could put it in his pocket without blushing. 
 Nothing seemed wanting now to ensure him success, 
 if only his little neighbour on the fifteenth floor 
 would consent to sit to him. He had not yet suc- 
 ceeded; but Rouflard had told him on the previous 
 day that there was now some hope of success. 
 "The doctor," said Rouflard, "thinks his old 
 patient has come to see her last days; he has or- 
 dered a new medicine and I think it is quinine. 
 The old woman has to take it every day, and, 
 forsooth, it is very dear ; the bottles are very small 
 and are soon emptied. The girl sits up later still 
 and works harder to get the quinine... but I do 
 not think she can ever earn enough ... It woul i be 
 a hundred times better if she would only let you 
 
102 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 paint her." Then Rouflard only yesterday had said. 
 "Go up now, sir... now is the time... I under- 
 stand women. . . with them, everything depends on 
 the occasion. . . when the opportunity occurs, seize it." 
 
 Casimir did not want telling a second time. He 
 hurried up to the apartment of la petite Lise. 
 Every time he sought the apartment he felt a curi- 
 ously fluttering agitation in the region of the heart. 
 However he had several times declared that he ought 
 not to think of courting Lise; this little girl was 
 very virtuous, and it would be very bad on his part 
 to do anything that would lead her astray; to trouble 
 her or make her leave that path of honour which, 
 as the poet says, it is so difficult to regain once we 
 have lost it. Casimir pondered on all this and much 
 else besides, but it did not prevent him gazing at 
 the girl with loving eyes, whilst her face bore an 
 expression which could in no way be interpreted 
 indifferent. In fact Lise had felt quite another 
 being since she had known her neighbour on the 
 third floor. He was so polite and so respectful that 
 she began to ask herself why she hesitated to grant 
 him the favour he asked. But she asked herself 
 that question too often. The whole day she thought 
 of Casimir ; she could not help it, and in spite of 
 all her innocence, a young girl of eighteen knows 
 that it is very dangerous to be always thinking 
 about a young man; and although this young man 
 had not breathed a single word of love, although 
 he had only seen her in the presence of her grand- 
 mother, she should guard herself against that senti- 
 ment that glides into the soul so secretly and suddenly. 
 
 It was from the fear of finding too much pleasure 
 in the company of Casimir that the young girl 
 refused to be painted by him. 
 
 But in the midst of all this the order for quinine 
 in Malaga wine arrived. These devils of doctors 
 
QUININE. 403 
 
 are totally indifferent to the position of their patients. 
 They order what is best for the reestablishment of 
 health, and so much the worse for you if you cannot 
 get it. They have fulfilled their mission. 
 
 Lise bought a little bottle of the wine ordered. 
 She made the patient drink it, and it seemed to do 
 her a deal of good. But in six days the bottle was 
 gone, and there was no money to buy more. 
 
 This cursed quinine now occupied almost as much 
 Lise's thoughts as Casimir himself, and as every 
 thing in life has its ricochet she could not help 
 saying! "And if I consent to pose, I can soon get 
 the quinine." 
 
 Rouflard was not deceived in his conjectures, for 
 on seeing Casimir enter the apartment Lise felt a 
 wave of pleasure which she had considerable difficulty 
 in hiding. 
 
 "Ah! my friend," said Casimir; "you see a man 
 who is extremely happy." "Indeed, sir, I am de- 
 lighted... and what has happened to give you so 
 much joy?" "What has happened?... ah... you 
 cannot understand perhaps... for only an artist can 
 appreciate such joy. . . Miss, fancy to yourself the 
 joy of an author who witnesses the success of his 
 first piece on the stage ... the composer who hears 
 his latest melody sung in the streets... and the 
 painter who sells his first picture . . . they are the 
 happiest men on earth... and I am one of them... 
 I have just sold my first picture." 
 
 "Your first? Why is that all you have done?" 
 ^ This reflection made Casimir blush, for he felt 
 that she would wonder what he had been doing 
 with his time. 
 
 "You see," he replied, "I am very slow in 
 painting landscapes. I much prefer to paint por- 
 traits; I take so much more interest in them." 
 "And are you now going to give up portraits for 
 
104. LA PETITE USE. 
 
 landscapes?" "Oh! no! renounce portraits!. . . never! 
 But I was so glad at the sale of my picture this 
 morning, that I could not resist coming here to tell 
 you of my success. . . and I am so anxious to paint 
 your portrait that. . ." " And would it add anything 
 to your happiness if I allowed you to paint my por- 
 trait?" "Ah! it would be the acme of my desire. . . 
 I would put all my care — all my talent into the work ! 
 audi am sure that I should succeed." "And would 
 you sell this portrait, sir?" "Sell your portrait! 
 Oh ! never, I should guard and keep it all my life . . . 
 but I will make a copy . . . and offer it to you . . . 
 or if you like it better I will give you the original 
 and keep the copy." 
 
 "But what will you do with my portrait? it will 
 only annoy you!" 
 
 "Annoy me! it will be the most beautiful orna- 
 ment in my chambers ... I will look at it every 
 day. . please consent, and say that you will allow 
 me to paint you." 
 
 Lise hesitated again for Casimir's eyes contained 
 an expression which caused her considerable agitation ; 
 but just then the invalid old woman woke up. "Lise," 
 she murmured, "give me a little of that wine, it 
 does me such a deal of good." 
 
 " Yes, yes, in a moment ... we have no more, I 
 am just going to get some," then turning to Casimir 
 she whispered: "Yes... I consent... I will sit to- 
 morrow." "Oh! you are good... and I am very, 
 very happy. . . I will run to the druggist's and get 
 you the quinine." " No, no, I cannot have that, I 
 will go myself." 
 
 "You cannot leave your patient... allow me to 
 perform so slight a service... I understand it is 
 taken with Malaga." 
 
 " Ah ! M. Casimir I beg of you ..." " Let me do 
 vou a favour in my turn... you consent to sit.., 
 
(HJINTNE. 405 
 
 I am so pleased... An Malaga! You shall have it 
 in a moment." 
 
 And without more ado Casimir left. He went 
 down the stairs four at a time, and upset young 
 Proh who was sliding down the handrail, and flew 
 like an arrow past the porter; nor did he stop run- 
 ning till he arrived at the chemist's, where he bought 
 three bottles and returned to Lise as quickly as he 
 could. 
 
 " Oh ! . . . You have bought three bottles," cried the 
 young girl. "Yes, it will last you longer." "But 
 sir, it costs three francs ten sous a bottle." " Well, 
 two sittings will put it straight." 
 
 " Ah ! sir, it is not possible ! " "I assure you that 
 a model such as you should not be paid a sou less 
 and that I shall only be too pleased to arrange it 
 thus. . . But at what time shall I come to-morrow?" 
 
 " In the morning my grandmother is always asleep 
 and does not need my attention. . . Can you come 
 at eight o'clock?... but perhaps that is too early 
 for you?" 
 
 "Not at all... it will suit me admirably..." 
 " From eight till ten if you like, for I do not wish to 
 fatigue you, and two hours will perhaps be quite 
 long enough." 
 
 " Oh ! no, sir, and you said that I might sew whilst 
 sitting..." "Yes, yes, you can do what you like 
 so long as I can look at you. . . that is all I want. . . " 
 
 " I thought the model was obliged to look at you ? " 
 
 " Sometimes, no doubt, that is also necessary : but 
 we have plenty of time, and when it is necessary 
 you will not mind raising your eyes from your work 
 for a few moments. . . at eight I shall be here. . ." 
 
 "I shall be ready, sir." 
 
 Casimir left and Lise approached the invalid: 
 
 " Grandmother there is your quinine ! V 
 
406 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The First Sitting. 
 
 Casimir was enchanted with his work. On leav- 
 ing the modest apartment of the young girl he pro- 
 ceeded to Ambroisine, to whom he was anxious to 
 announce the sale of his picture. He was not so 
 certain that she would participate in his joy, but he 
 was anxious for her to know that by his work he 
 was at last becoming independent of others. 
 
 As for what he had just obtained from Lise, he 
 would take very good care not to breathe a word 
 to his mistress about it, for he knew her jealousy 
 only too well. He trusted that she would remain 
 ignorant of his relations with his little neighbour; 
 and with this end in view was delighted with the 
 proposal of holding the sittings at eight in the morn- 
 ing; at that hour he had no fear of receiving a 
 visit from Ambroisine, who habitually rose very 
 late, and if by chance she called before he had come 
 down from the fifteenth, he could always say that 
 he had been to breakfast at the cafe. 
 
 As he went out he met Rouflard; the gentleman 
 from the garret was struck with the joyous air of 
 the young painter. 
 
 "I bet," he cried, "I know what it is." "Yes, 
 Rouflard, yes, la petite Lise has consented to allow 
 me to make a study of her head.. . I am delighted 
 to have succeeded at last." " I knew very well how 
 it would finish! but women always make you beg 
 and pray. . ." "To-morrow morning at eight o'clock, 
 she gives me the first sitting." "When a woman 
 has given one, she will give as many as you want. . . 
 it is the first which is so difficult to obtain." 
 
 "But, Rouflard, this is between ourselves... if 
 
THE FIRST SITTING. 107 
 
 this lady . . . you know . . . the pretty brunette, whom 
 I call Ambroisine . , . if she comes . . . " " Yes, yes, 
 madame number one, . . . the Sultana Valide . . . yes ..." 
 " Well, I do not want you to say anything about my 
 visits to Lise ... or her portrait that I am going to do." 
 
 " What next ! Is it to me, an old roue devoted 
 to the service of amours, that you speak thus? I do 
 not think I have the appearance of a raw recruit! 
 I should be extremely grieved to cause the least 
 annoyance to my little benefactress." "You are 
 right, Rouflard, I ought to have known better to ask 
 you such a favour." "As for Chausson, he is not 
 bad at heart. . . if you wish I will speak to him. . ." 
 "No, no, that is useless. . ." 
 
 " Ah ! there are the Proh-Prohs ! You had better 
 be careful of them . . . they are tattlers, jackasses, 
 scandalmongers . . . who are delighted to discover 
 anything that goes on in their neighbours' rooms, and 
 find the means to make a mountain out of a molehill." 
 
 "I shall take great care that they know nothing 
 of my visits to Lise. I shall hurry on with Madame 
 Proh's portrait, after which I trust she will cease to 
 call on me." " That is a portrait I should not care 
 to have in my anglaises / . . . it would certainly act 
 as a laxative. . ." 
 
 "Rouflard I have sold my little landscape. . . here 
 take this, and get a little diversion ... I am happy 
 to-day, and I want everybody to be the same." 
 " That is spoken like a Buckingham ! You were 
 born to scatter pearls on your way. . . and I to 
 gather them." 
 
 Casimir found his mistress dressed and ready to 
 go out with him. 
 
 " Ah ! there you are ! how very fortunate ! fancy 
 coming at all!" exclaimed Ambroisine. "You come 
 later and later every day. . . I suppose I need not 
 expect you at all soon." "My dear Ambroisine, pray 
 
108 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 excuse me, but to-day I have had a great deal to 
 do ... " " Have you been painting your old drunk- 
 ard . . . very interesting I am sure ! " " No I have 
 not been painting Rouflard, but I have had a call 
 from my picture dealer; congratulate me, my first 
 picture is sold." Ambroisine frowned and bit her 
 lip. "Ah! your picture is sold..." "Yes, and sold 
 well, more than I should have dared to ask." 
 "Because you are too modest. . . you are wrong. . . 
 in art modesty is foolishness, because it is a virtue 
 which will not help you to earn money . . . However, 
 what did you obtain for your picture ? " 
 
 "Four hundred and fifty francs." "What a paltry 
 sum ; is that what you call selling well ! I thought 
 you were going to say two or three thousand francs." 
 "Ah! you are mocking me! You know very well 
 that such a picture was not worth so much. The 
 price I got is very good for a first attempt. . . it 
 will encourage me to go on, and those I do later 
 may bring more." 
 
 " Ah ! you reckon now to do landscapes ; are you 
 going to give up portraits? You will probably not 
 do mine... for which you seem to possess so 
 little ardour." "You are very unfair. . . I am always 
 asking you to pose, but when you have sat for a 
 quarter of an hour, you've had enough..." "Ah! 
 that's on account of my nerves ! . . . I was wrc ig. 
 I admit. . .never mind, I will be more reasonable 
 in future. I am coming to visit you to-morrow 
 morning, and do not mean to budge out so that you 
 will have plenty of time to make me pose as much as 
 you like." 
 
 This time it was Casimir who bit his lip and 
 frowned. Ambroisine expressed a desire to go for 
 a walk. Casimir gleefully accepted ; he had brought 
 his notebook; he would take some notes, and mark 
 some places of special interest. 
 
THE FIRST SITTING. 109 
 
 "Shall we go to Switzerland?" said the brunette. 
 "There you could find some admirable views and 
 provide ample supply of sketches for your landscapes." 
 
 But the young painter was not at all disposed to 
 travel.^ "There is no need to go so far; there are 
 charming views in the environs of Paris, but no 
 one thinks of painting them because they are at the 
 very doors of Paris and people seem to value things 
 in proportion to the distance from which they come. 
 For example, close here, behind the Romainville fort 
 there are some very magnificent views. There is 
 Platin at your feet, and the canal which crosses the 
 road, then St. Denis, Montmorency, Pierrefitte are 
 a little in front. On the left is Montmartre, and 
 Mont Valerien. And all this intermingled with 
 woods and forest, with pretty villas dotted here and 
 there. I assure you it is a most delightful panorama. 
 Shall we go there?" 
 
 Madame Montemolly allowed herself to be taken 
 to the Romainville woods where she gathered a few 
 flowers whilst Casimir made a few hurried sketches, 
 but the land which supplies the potter's clay is mean 
 in its supply of flowers. And after all Ambroisine 
 is always the woman of the world. " My dear," she 
 said, "your beautiful views are not worth the lake 
 and cascade in the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 # "For you, perhaps not, but for a painter it is very 
 different." 
 
 "Let us go back to our victoria, I keep on falling 
 into holes, and slipping in the mud! Let us dine at 
 Le Doyen's on the Champs Elysees, that will be an 
 agreeable change after this." 
 
 "Just like the women, and you spoke of going 
 to Switzerland. . . you will find the roads and paths 
 somewhat more difficult than these!" 
 
 "Yes, my friend, but when you are in Switzerland 
 you can write your names on the hotel registers. 
 
410 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 and people can see that so and so has been there 
 and have climbed the Righi." 
 
 The day passed very slowly for the young painter, 
 who eagerly awaited the time when he might com- 
 mence the portrait of la petite Lise, and although 
 he tried his best to be as amiable as possible, yet, 
 with Ambroisine, he frequently found himself pre- 
 occupied with his thoughts, which did not escape 
 the jealous eye of his mistress. 
 
 "What are you thinking about?" she asked sud- 
 denly. "I. . . oh! nothing. . . I was listening to you." 
 
 "You were listening to me? What have I just 
 been saying to you?" "What did you just say to 
 me ? Why ... I am sure I don't know . . . was it 
 anything interesting?" 
 
 "You see that you were not listening to me... 
 now look here, Casimir; I do not know what has 
 happened to you, but you certainly have something . . . 
 you are constantly thinking. . . and you answer my 
 questions with 'no' when you ought to say 'yes.' 
 There is some intrigue at the bottom of all this." " I 
 have sold my picture and I was thinking what I 
 should do next. That's all." " You lie ! . . . You 
 were not thinking of that at all . . . I know better . . . 
 you are deceiving me!" "So much the worse for 
 you, for the most happy people are those who allow 
 themselves to be most easily deceived." "Possibly 
 so, but I have no especial desire to be deceived." 
 
 At last the day passed and the night also. Casimir 
 rose early in the morning and prepared his materials. 
 He looked at his watch every moment. He was 
 anxious not to be so indiscreet as to go before the 
 time arranged. Eight o'clock struck. Casimir opened 
 his door to make sure no one was about, and then 
 taking up his easel and palette he lightly mounted 
 the stairs. The key was in the door, but Lise 
 opened it herself, for she heard him coming up the 
 
THE FIRST SITTING. Ill 
 
 stairs. "How you are laden," she cried. "All this 
 is very light; may I come in?" "Certainly. Grand- 
 mother is asleep, I think, but if she wakes it does 
 not matter. I told her yesterday that you were 
 coming to take my portrait, and she was quite 
 willing. She only asked me to sit so that she could 
 see me, for she loves me very much." "So you 
 see, that in allowing me to paint your portrait you 
 are already rendering two people happy." "That is 
 true. Had I known it I would have accepted sooner. 
 I think she is asleep ... we will not make a noise." 
 "There is no necessity for any noise whilst I am 
 working. There is my easel, I am at your service." 
 " It is for you to command . . . how shall I sit ? " 
 "In your usual, natural way... take your work." 
 "May I really do my work?" "Certainly, especially 
 at the first sitting, as I shall only take the general 
 outline." "And there is no need for me to look at 
 you?" "Now and then, but not always." Lise sat 
 down and did some hemming, as this work required 
 but little attention. From time to time Casimir would 
 ask her to look at him, but she quickly lowered her 
 eyes when they met those of the young painter. 
 "But you do not look long enough... I want to 
 get the tint of your eyes." 
 
 " But you look too hard at me . . . it frightens me." 
 "You see I must look with attention so as to 
 convey the proper characteristics of your features to 
 the canvas . . . that ought not to frighten you . . . 
 think of me only as an artist— as a workman at his 
 work . . . and then it will not trouble you." " Ah ! 
 you are not a workman ! " " Indeed ! we all are, each 
 in his own sphere. There are some professions 
 which demand a great deal of study, and much more 
 intelligence than others . . . now look at me for a 
 moment." Lise raised her eyes and this time she 
 lowered them less quickly when they met those of 
 
412 La petite lise. 
 
 Casimir; lie liked to hear lier talk, it gave such 
 an interesting expression to her features. Lise also 
 was glad to be able to talk: during the lifetime of 
 her nurse, when she was at the dairy, she had 
 been three times to the theatre, and she always re- 
 membered these visits with a great deal of pleasure. 
 
 This amusement and reading were the only ones 
 she cared for. Dancing, promenades and fetes cham- 
 petres had little attraction for her. Before falling 
 ill the old woman was anxious that Lise should 
 procure these distractions, but instead of going to 
 the questionable dances which are held in the out- 
 skirts of Paris, Lise would take her old companion 
 to the fields and there read some interesting tale 
 that she had been able to buy out of her small 
 savings. She read aloud and the old lady was soon 
 asleep ; but Lise read on aloud and both were very 
 happy. 
 
 "If you like to read," said Casimir, "I can lend 
 you some books, I have all Dumas' novels, and I 
 am certain you will be charmed with them." "Ah! 
 sir, you are very good, but since my grandmother 
 has been ill, I have had no time to read, I have to 
 work instead." 
 
 " But it is very necessary for you to have a little 
 repose." 
 
 "The work I do is not very fatiguing." 
 
 For the first sitting Casimir did not want to keep 
 his model too long; so he rose and told Lise that 
 he had finished for that day. " Is it finished ? " she 
 asked. " Finished for this sitting ; may I leave this 
 easel here ? " " Oh ! certainly . . . will you leave the 
 other things here ? You will not want them without me." 
 
 "Oh! I can do a great deal to a picture when 
 the model is not before me." "May I see it?" 
 " Not yet. It is not sufficiently advanced ; after three 
 or four sittings you shall see it. It is ten o'clock; 
 
THE FIRST SITTING. 413 
 
 I am going to breakfast." "Ten o'clock already! 
 It is very singular how quickly the time passes. 
 Are you coming to-morrow ? " " Certainly, if it 
 is convenient." "Quite." The next day Casimir 
 did not fail to return to his charming model, who 
 awaited his arrival with considerable pleasure. 
 On this occasion Lise felt more confidence when she 
 looked up to the painter, but sometimes a slight 
 blush would spread over her face. "You pose 
 well," said Casimir, "you will make a charming 
 picture. . . Your traits are becoming engraved upon 
 my memory." "Then there is no need for me to 
 look up to you?" "I cannot possibly see too much 
 of you." " How nice it must be to know how to paint ! " 
 "Yes, I find it so now. . . there were times when 
 I had my doubts about it. Ah! if ever I acquire 
 distinction, I shall owe a great deal of it to you." 
 "To me! how? It was not by looking at me that you 
 painted the pretty landscape you have just sold." 
 " No, but it was seeing you work without relaxation, 
 in this modest abode, and in knowing that you 
 managed to support yourself and this poor paralytic 
 woman that made me ashamed of my existence, of 
 my idleness ... I regretted that I had employed my 
 young days so unprofitably. . . and now I have made 
 a strong resolution to change my mode of life . . . 
 so that you see in a great measure I am indebted 
 to you." Lise did not respond, but she looked at 
 Casimir with an expression so full of tenderness 
 that it was the painter this time who ceased to 
 work. 
 
 These little confidences were renewed every day, 
 and the friendly intimacy between painter and model 
 grew closer and closer every day. Little by little, 
 an amiable confidence took the place of studied 
 politeness. However, not a word of krve had been 
 spoken at these meetings, but there are many things 
 
444 LA PETITE LTSE. « 
 
 which there is no need to say in order to make 
 one understood, and love is one of them. 
 
 The "portrait advanced. As Casimir was anxious 
 that the sittings should last as long as possible, he 
 always found something to alter and do over again, 
 or to retouch. Lise did not complain, very far from 
 it, when Casimir said that there was enough done 
 for the day. "Already?" she would sometimes 
 exclaim ; " I do not seem to have been posing long 
 this morning." Then Casimir would smile and they 
 would chat together for a time. The young girl had 
 seen the picture and was enraptured with it. " Oh ! 
 you have nattered me," she cried. " I am not . . . 
 like that!" 
 
 She did not dare to say " so pretty as that " but 
 women often stop at the moment of declaring the 
 very foundation of their thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 An Enfant Teeeible. 
 
 The portrait of Lise was often the cause of 
 negligence of that of Ambroisine, and it was not 
 only in painting that the beautiful brunette found 
 herself neglected. Every day Casimir came later. 
 When she reproached him, he found some excuse or 
 other about his painting; the sittings which he gave 
 to Madame Proh or Rouflard. " When are you going 
 to finish those heads?" she muttered one day, "and 
 when I ask you to go on with mine you say you 
 do not want to tire me. You have some intrigue, 
 some new liaison that you have formed. . . but take 
 care! I shall find it out." One morning Madame 
 
AN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 445 
 
 Monteniolly rose much earlier than usual, hastily 
 dressed, and arrived at Casimir's rooms about ten 
 o'clock. She asked the porter if the young man was 
 in. Chausson told her that he had not seen him 
 go out. She ascended to his room, saw the key in 
 the door and entered without knocking. "Now," she 
 said, " I shall take him by surprise and find out why 
 he works so assiduously." Ambroisine entered the 
 small drawing-room which led to Casimir's studio; 
 she found Rouflard there alone, who was posing for 
 his own amusement before a glass. "Is M. Casimir 
 not in?" said Ambroisine casting her eyes around 
 the room. Rouflard, who recognised the lady and 
 guessed the situation saluted profoundly. " No, 
 madame, M. Dernold is out." In spite of this 
 answer she went to the bedroom and searched. " Yes," 
 she exclaimed on returning, "he is not there." 
 " Madame has assured herself," murmured Rouflard 
 with an ironical smile. "But where is he?... will 
 he be back soon?" 
 
 " Oh, I do not think so, madame, he told me that 
 he was going out to breakfast, and that he should 
 afterwards have a turn or two round the Louvre." 
 
 " That's very singular, the porter told me that 
 Casimir had not gone out." "Oh! madame, that 
 miserable Chausson never sees anyone pass ... he 
 was just as bad when he was my servant. I would 
 tell him to fasten the door and say that I was not 
 at home if any of my creditors called ; I only was at 
 home to receive ladies. . . the fool did just the 
 opposite. . . I believe he has had a sunstroke." 
 
 "But what are you doing here, sir?" "Oh! M. 
 Casimir asked me to prepare myself as a model to 
 one of his friends who wants to paint a Roman 
 picture . . . and I have to represent Romulus ... I 
 was just practising before the glass when you came 
 in." 
 
116 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 Ambroisine did not seem to put much faith in 
 this Roman history. She walked into the studio, 
 stopped for a moment, seemed to reflect, and said : 
 " I do not know whether I ought to wait ..." 
 "Madame may do as she likes certainly, but I am 
 afraid you will have to wait sometime, when a 
 painter goes to the Louvre, he never knows when to 
 come away." "Do you often come to this studio?" 
 "I have a standing order to come whenever I am 
 wanted." "And do you see many women come here?. . . 
 now I want no lies..." "Madame, I assure you 
 that I have seen no other woman here but you, and 
 the lady who lives opposite; I do not know her 
 name . . . her husband calls her a giraffe, and I 
 suppose he ought to know." 
 
 "Well, I believe you. . . I am going. . . tell him 
 I came. . . and that I am waiting at home for him, 
 will you, please?" 
 
 " Madame, I am at your service, I will inform 
 M. Dernold." Ambroisine left the apartment; Rouflard 
 conducted her to the landing. There they came face 
 to face with Madame Proh, and her son. Ambroisine 
 had called twice whilst Madame Proh was sitting for 
 Casimir, so that they knew each other a little. 
 They saluted and exchanged a few simple words. 
 "Madame, I have the honour to bid you good 
 morning; your health seems always perfect." 
 
 " Very well, thank you, madame, did you want M. 
 Casimir?" "No, I was going to buy a calf's head 
 for my husband, who likes it for his breakfast. Have 
 you come to call upon our neighbour, M. Casimir?" 
 "Yes, I had intended to give him a sitting for my 
 portrait." "Mine is finished, quite finished; and 
 I am very well satisfied with it . . . some people say 
 that it resembles the late madame Saqui . . . she was 
 a very pretty woman. . . So you have finished your 
 sitting, madame ? " "I have not been able to take a 
 
AN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 417 
 
 sitting; M. Casimir is not in it is always my 
 
 luck.°." "Ah! my neighbour already out!" "No, 
 no, no, he is not out! oh! oh! hi! hi! hi!" cried 
 out little Phonphonse, striding oyer the balustrade. 
 "Phonphonse, you will hurt yourself." "I know 
 how to balance myself." 
 
 "Excuse me, but your son says that M. Casimir 
 is not out." " Oh ! madame, he does not know what 
 he says." "Oh, yes I do! and I know where the 
 painter is... he is where he goes every morning 
 ah! oh! oh! hi! hi! hi!" 
 
 "Where does he go every morning?" "Why! 
 he goes up to the top of the house, up to la petite 
 Lise ... he has even carried his easel and colours 
 up there... oh! oh! hi! hi!" 
 
 Ambroisine changed colour; Madame Proh opened 
 her eyes as wide as she could. "What," she ex- 
 claimed, "my neighbour gone to paint on the fifteenth 
 floor! That's the first I've heard of it; but this boy is 
 extraordinary, madame; he knows everything, he sees 
 everything that goes on..." "Who is this petite 
 Lise that receives M. Casimir?" "She is a young 
 girl living with her grandmother, who is ill, paralysed ; 
 Lise works to keep them both... she is honest... 
 very honest... at least I think so." "Is she 
 pretty?" Hum! that all depends upon taste... a 
 small face ... a . . . " 
 
 " Excuse me, madame, but as it is absolutely necessary 
 for me to see M. Casimir I will go up to him now. 
 Did you say the fifteenth, madame?" "Yes, the 
 door on the right. The key is always in the 
 door." Ambroisine mounted the stairs like a brave 
 soldier scaling the walls of a besieged city. She 
 soon reached her destination. She found the key in 
 the door, which she opened brusquely and saw 
 Lise seated before Casimir holding her work in 
 her hands, but idle. Opposite to her sat the young 
 
148 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 painter at his easel, but he was not painting. At 
 the sight of this person who opened the door both 
 were struck dumb with amazement. Lise was the 
 first to recover her self-possession. " Do you want me, 
 madame?" she asked. "No!" answered Ambroisine 
 in an arrogant tone, "it is not you that I want, it 
 is you, sir, it is you I have come to look for. . . he 
 has not a moment for me now — not even to finish my 
 portrait . . . Ah ! this is the cause of all the change . . . 
 I knew there was some intrigue under it all . . . the 
 falseness of men again." 
 
 The voice of the jealous woman was very shrill 
 and her eyes gleamed fire. Lise was trembling, with 
 her eyes obscured with tears and a broken voice 
 emerged from the bed: "Lise! Lise! what is the 
 matter... who is that calling out... are you 
 quarrelling with any one?" "ISTo, it is nothing... 
 it is nothing ! " 
 
 And the young girl sent a beseeching look towards 
 Ambroisine and pointed to the bed, as though she 
 would say, "please do not speak so loud." Casimir 
 had already risen and proceeded towards the door. 
 " Madame," he said, " I will leave with you, to spare 
 this young lady any unnecessary noise, and any 
 unwarrantable scene ... it is not for you, Madame 
 Montemolly, but for her that I do this ; Mademoiselle 
 Lise excuse me having been the cause of this noise, 
 which has awakened your invalid, I promise that 
 it shall not occur again." Casimir was soon upon 
 the landing. Ambroisine, furious with jealousy and 
 spite, hesitated; she looked at Lise, who still seemed 
 to beg of her to be silent and pointed to the invalid 
 in bed. At last Ambroisine decided; she left the 
 room, after throwing a menacing glance at the young 
 girl and followed Casimir downstairs. She there glanced 
 round furiously and cast her eyes upon E-ouflard, 
 who shrugged his shoulders as much as to say, 
 
AN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 419 
 
 "It was not my fault. . . you have not been sufficiently 
 prudent." 
 
 Ambroisine went into the study and threw herself 
 into an armchair. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "how long 
 has this intrigue lasted?" Casimir who had recovered 
 his wonted calmness responded: "Madame, jealousy 
 blinds you and makes you do things unworthy of a 
 woman. I am painting the portrait of this young 
 girl who lives in the house, and there is nothing 
 very startling in that. I found a charming head and 
 was anxious to reproduce it upon canvas, which was 
 quite natural; I asked the girl to pose and she 
 refused because she could not quit the invalid in 
 the bed. I then offered to paint her in her own 
 room; at first she refused again, but afterwards 
 consented, as her consent would materially assist her 
 in providing the invalid with comforts and medicines. 
 You ask me how long, I have been this girl's lover. . . 
 Ah! if you knew her, you would hot ask that 
 question ... to a girl so simple and so prudent I should, 
 under the circumstances, have blushed to address a 
 single word of love." 
 
 Madame Montemolly listened with impatience, 
 striking her foot constantly upon the floor. As soon 
 as Casimir had finished, she continued : " And do you 
 think, sir, that I pay any attention to your tales and 
 fables? Do you take me for a simpleton? You have 
 not said a word of love to this young girl ? You were 
 both looking as if you would like to eat each other. . . 
 there is no need to talk of love when you can look 
 like that ! If you had not thought of becoming the 
 lover of this girl why did you keep this portrait 
 such a mystery?. . . and what do you think you will 
 get for the portrait?" 
 
 " It is a study and I shall hang it in my studio." 
 "You know very well I shall break it in pieces. Then, 
 this rascal Rouflard, whom you had prepared in this 
 
120 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 lesson, and who told me you had gone to the Louvre ! 
 Everybody is poking fun at me." "I have given 
 Rouflard no lesson; he told you what he liked." 
 "That's enough. . . so that this does not occur again; 
 you shall leave this house at once, and you shall 
 not put your foot inside it again. . . so that you 
 will lose the exercise of tramping up to the fifteenth 
 floor every morning. . . Come with me and I 
 will find you other rooms, and will send for your 
 furniture." Casimir shrugged his shoulders and went 
 on with his painting : " You are foolish, madame." 
 "What do you say, sir!" "That you have no 
 common sense, and that I have not the slightest 
 intention of moving..." "You will not move in 
 order to leave the girl in the garret?" "The girl 
 in the garret as you are pleased to call her has 
 nothing to do with my determination; I do not 
 wish to leave these apartments, because they please 
 me, and also because I do not intend to do just as 
 you like . . . that I am tired of being your slave, 
 and that it is time there was an end to it." "Ah! 
 so that is what you want. . . You desire to break 
 it off! Is that what you propose?" "Just so, if 
 you care to call it so, madame ; at any rate, I repeat 
 that I will no longer submit to your caprices, and 
 that I will not move from here." " Casimir ! . . . take 
 care. . . if you remain in this house I will never 
 forgive you." "I shall stay here." 
 
 " And it is that little affected woman for whom 
 you sacrifice me. Ah ! it is terrible ! it is infamous ! " 
 "I want no grand words, madame, they have failed 
 to have any effect upon me. I sacrifice you to no 
 one. I tell you that I will no longer be your slave, 
 that I have already been so a great deal too long, 
 and that for the future I shall be my own master, 
 and if that does not suit you, so much the worse 
 for you ! " 
 
AN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 121 
 
 " All this is because you have ceased to love me ! " 
 
 "That will do, Ambroisine, be frank; if I did as 
 you order me you would despise me, and you would 
 be right." "Ah! you are a traitor... you are tired 
 of me . . . but I will not be your dupe ! . . . after all 
 I have done for you ! " " Ah ! I was waiting for 
 that ! . . . it was wanting to complete the situation ! . . . 
 As a matter of fact you have indeed done a great 
 deal for me. . . and I have not forgotten it. . . permit 
 me only to say that it was always against my own 
 will. . . and that for a long time I have endeavoured 
 to avoid your benefiction by the produce of my own 
 labour. This you have unceasingly endeavoured 
 to prevent because you wished to constantly hold 
 me in your toils. Should fortune ever smile on my 
 efforts, rest assured, madame, that I will cry quits 
 with you ! " 
 
 "Casimir, forget what I have just said. . . jealousy 
 sent me mad . . . see . . . yield to me this time, I beg 
 of you . . . come with me . . . leave this house . . . 
 and I will never speak again of that girl up in the 
 garret." "Your insistence is useless. . . my resolution 
 is impregnable... I remain in this house." 
 
 Ambroisine arose in a furious passion, took several 
 steps across the room, stopped before Gasimir and 
 exclaimed : " Then, sir, all is finished between us ! " 
 "Just as you please, madame." "Yes, sir, all is 
 finished, and I will never see you again for the rest 
 of my life." 
 
 Having said this, Ambroisine quickly left the 
 room, slammed the door and rushed down the stairs, 
 across the court yard, and went several steps down the 
 street. But there she stopped, turned round, looked 
 at the house she had just left, and saw some writing 
 pasted on the door. She returned and spoke to the 
 porter. "You have some apartments to let here, 
 have you not?" 
 
422 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 "Yes, madame,. a beautiful suite, on the first floor, 
 seyen rooms, freshly papered throughout." 
 
 " When are they free ? " " In ten days time, 
 madame." 
 
 "I will take them." "The rent is two thousand 
 two hundred francs." "Never mind, I take them." 
 "But madame has not seen them. . . if she will come 
 up... the tenants have just gone out." "Never 
 mind, I tell you I take them. Here porter, this is 
 for yourself." And she put a twenty franc piece in 
 Chausson's hand. "Take this..." she added, "only 
 I shall be greatly obliged if you do not say a word 
 to M. Casimir about my taking the rooms. Here 
 is my name and address ... if you want any other 
 information..." "Oh, madame, quite unnecessary 
 with a lady like yourself. . . Besides, madame is 
 an acquaintance of M. Casimir." "Here, come, my 
 majj, is another twenty francs ... be discreet and I 
 will not withhold my hand ..." 
 
 "I will serve madame day and night.. ." 
 
 Ambroisine went on her way and Chausson muttered 
 as he gazed at the two gold coins. "This surely 
 is the cream of tenants!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Lady on the First Floob. 
 
 Ten minutes after the departure of Ambroisine 
 Casimir went up to the fifteenth floor and called upon 
 his young model. Lise was at work, but great tears 
 were coursing down her cheeks and fell upon her 
 work. Her pretty face seemed more attractive under 
 this cloud of sadness. On perceiving Casimir, her 
 
THE LADY OK THE FlRST FLOOR. 423 
 
 first effort was to dry her tears and pretend to smile. 
 But the young man had already seen those tears, 
 and he hastened to her side. " Lise," he exclaimed, 
 "you are weeping... and I have been the cause 
 of it . . . pardon me, if you know how really sorry I 
 am that all this disturbance has occurred. . ." 
 
 " Oh ! sir, I do not need to pardon you ... I 
 was not weeping." "Ah! it was in vain that you 
 tried to hide those tears..." "It was only because 
 I was the cause of that lady chiding you. . . she 
 appeared to be in a terrible temper. . . she said that 
 you were not doing her portrait and that it was 
 my fault. . . I shall not pose again. . . you go on 
 with that lady's portrait and I will not make you 
 lose any more time." 
 
 " Do not say that, Lise, I shall continue with yours 
 as usual." "Oh! no, that lady will not have it... 
 if she returned and found you here there would be 
 another scene ... it frightens my grandmother and 
 I do not like it ... " 
 
 " That lady will not return here . . . besides, she had 
 no right to prevent me doing as I wish ... I have 
 known her a long time . . . and have been in the habit 
 of listening to her advice ... as one listens to an 
 old friend..." "Is the lady much older than you ? " 
 " Yes ! that is why I showed her so much deference . . . 
 but it is no reason why she should treat me like 
 a child." 
 
 "She is a fine looking lady... but she glared at 
 me with a terrible look and it quite frightened me.,." 
 
 "Do not think any more about her. . . you will not 
 see her again. . ." "I should not have minded seeing 
 her again had she not made those terrible eyes . . . you 
 must take away your easel and not paint here again." 
 
 " I trust you will give me those sittings necessary 
 to finish the picture . . . your head is a study that 
 will bring -me much credit. . ." Casimir put thirty 
 
424 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 francs on the table in part payment of the sittings 
 already given, and took the hand of the young girl 
 in his : he pressed it tenderly and said : " Do not 
 weep any more . . . forget this morning's scene and 
 yon will give me another sitting, will you not?" 
 
 Lise smiled and answered : " Very well, since you 
 wish it ! " and Casimir left satisfied. 
 
 On the next day, Rounard called upon Casimir 
 every morning to get his orders. "I have just seen 
 my good angel and she is as happy as a queen, 
 thanks to you, sir. " " Thanks to me, what for, 
 Rounard?" " Because with the money you gave her 
 yesterday she has bought a silver spoon for her 
 grandmother, a very pretty spoon and it cost twenty- 
 two francs. The old invalid was enchanted." 
 
 "I am pleased," said Casimir, "to be the means 
 of assisting the lot of Lise, who is killing herself 
 with work . . . and you, Rouflard have you been to 
 the painter to whom I sent you?" "Yes, sir, but 
 it is not to represent a Roman but a mountebank; 
 but it does not matter; it is all the same whether 
 I pose as a hero or a thief." 
 
 Several days passed away. Casimir did not let 
 one go by without seeing la petite Lise who showed 
 him the silver spoon. 
 
 "I am very happy," she said, "only, would you 
 believe it, I dream every night that somebody has 
 stolen it." 
 
 "You will soon get over that; one gets used to 
 everything, even silver spoons." 
 
 Casimir did not return to Madame Montemolly's 
 and to his great surprise he did not hear a word 
 from her. He began to congratulate himself on 
 having broken a chain he could no longer bear. His 
 little picture came in very handy, for the dealer 
 called in the evening and offered him the money iu 
 advance if he wanted it. 
 
the Lady on the first floor. 425 
 
 " The devil, Chausson," said rlouflard one day to 
 the porter, " what a lot of care you take over these 
 first floor rooms. You don't look after mine like 
 that!" "Ah! even in your palmy days, you never 
 had rooms like these." "And who is going to take 
 these apartments?" "Oh! they are let... I expect 
 they will be tenanted to-morrow ..." " Is it a dentist 
 who is going to take them?" "A dentist! oh dear 
 no! it is certainly not a dentist! it is a lady. . . and 
 a very pretty lady too ..." "Ah ! a cocotte of the first 
 water. I suppose." "No, sir, we do not let our 
 rooms to cocottes; the whole house is respectably 
 tenanted. . . except for you." 
 
 " Chausson, do not insult me, . . . you would find it 
 very hard to get another tenant of my class to take 
 your garret." 
 
 "Yes, when you are not drunk, you have still a 
 fairly good presence." "And has this fine lady a 
 husband ? " 
 
 "No. . . at least I think not. . . but as she comes 
 in to-morrow I can tell you better then." 
 
 "Do I know her?" "You have seen her with 
 M. Casimir; it is she who used to come and see 
 him so often . . . but she has not been here since 
 she took those rooms." 
 
 "What! Madame Montemolly taken the first floor!" 
 "That's it. Madame Montemolly; that was the name 
 on the card she gave me." "Ah! curse it!" 
 
 Rouflard hurried upstairs to the artist. "I have 
 some news to tell you . . . the first floor has been 
 taken by x Madame Montemolly, and she comes in to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Casimir was considerably disconcerted at the news, 
 for he thought that he was free of Ambroisine for 
 ever, and now she had come to live in the same 
 house. He had no doubt that it was to play the spy 
 upon him and to watch his conduct in connection 
 
 5 
 
426 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 with the young girl upstairs. Although these con- 
 nections were of an absolutely innocent nature, the 
 world always looks for evil, and never sees good 
 in anything. What he feared most was a repetition of 
 the disagreeable scene already enacted in Lise's 
 humble apartment. He thought at first of telling 
 Lise, but he finally considered that there was no 
 necessity to increase her terror and alarm. 
 
 The next day all doubt was set at rest; his old 
 mistress moved into the rooms on the first floor ; he 
 had already heard Adrienne's voice on the stairs. 
 She was very cross at having to quit the Rue 
 Meslee for the Rue Paradis Poissonniere, for now 
 her room was under the same key as those of her 
 mistress. 
 
 The young painter ascended to his model's apart- 
 ment. His embarrassed air was quickly perceived 
 by the young girl: "What has happened?" she asked, 
 "has that lady come to see you again? is she here 
 now?" "No, no, it is not that. . . nothing, I assure 
 you... but..." "Come tell me, what is it?" "Oh! 
 this lady. . . well. . . to tell the truth. . . you know 
 the first floor was to let?..." 
 
 "No! I know nothing of what goes on in the 
 house. . . well?" 
 
 "It is let... to that lady..." "Has she come 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes." "Oh! dear, she will be here soon!" 
 "She came in to-day." "Then she is in the house 
 now. . . Oh! do go away, M. Casimir. . . go quickly. . . 
 if she finds you here /. . oh ! I am terribly afraid .of 
 that lady!" "Compose yourself, Lise, I am quite 
 sure she will not come here . . . why should she 
 come here again?" "To look for you." "No! I 
 told you I should not see her again. . . we have fallen 
 out... If she wants to speak to me, she must come 
 to mv own rooms." "Ah! you only say that to 
 
MADEMOISELLE PROH MALADE. 127 
 
 calm my fears . . . nevertheless, I shall always be 
 afraid to go downstairs . . . Fortunately, I go down 
 very little . . . just once, early in the morning to 
 procure our little stock of provisions. . . however, 
 my portrait is finished. . . so you have no need to 
 come here again." "Ah! Lise... then am I no 
 longer your friend?" 
 
 "I did not say that... but that lady must not 
 come and find you here." 
 
 "Ah! Rouflard will look out for that... I can 
 trust him." 
 
 "Yes! he is a good fellow... but I wish he did 
 not get so drunk. . . Hark! is that someone coming?" 
 
 "No it is on the fourth floor... some men are 
 at work there." 
 
 "M. Casimir, you must take your easel away... 
 no one must see that here now." "Very well, I 
 will take it away . . . but that must not prevent my 
 coming to see you ... I shall always be able to 
 work hard all day after seeing you in the morning." 
 Lise did not answer but heaved a heavy sigh. The 
 young painter pressed her hand, then took away his 
 easel. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PEOH MALADE, 
 
 All that day Casimir was in a kind of fever. . . 
 he remained at home and left his door open that 
 he might hear when anyone ascended the stairs. 
 Then he heard young Phonphonse singing: 
 
128 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 A great giraffe 
 Rhymes with carafe 
 But Mandril sapajou 
 That rhymes with cuckoo. 
 
 "What is that infamous song?" called out Madame 
 Proh. " Oh ! Rouflard often sings it as he comes 
 down from his cabin." "What a monster that 
 Rouflard is ! I cannot understand why M. Casimir 
 employs such a man. Phonphonse, if you sing that 
 again you shall be put on dry bread." 
 
 " All right, give me the dry crusts, and I will tell 
 people that you cannot eat them because of your 
 false teeth ! " " Hold your tongue, Lucifer ! . . . Dear 
 me, how can people ever want to have children!" 
 
 Casimir went out to dinner... He passed the 
 rooms on the first floor very quickly, and did not 
 raise his head till he was in the street. He went 
 to the theatre after dinner and returned about mid- 
 night ; he saw a light still burning on the first floor 
 and imagined that Madame Montemolly was arranging 
 the furniture in her new abode. He took the custom- 
 ary candle from the porter, and remarked in as 
 disinterested a tone as possible, that he noticed the 
 first floor was let. "Yes, sir, and a friend... an 
 intimate friend of yours, sir..." "No, you mix up 
 friends and acquaintances. . . besides we have had a 
 slight discussion. . . I shall not see her again. Give 
 me my candle, and please do not mention the subject 
 again." 
 
 "Ah!" muttered the porter, "so he has fallen out 
 with the lady; what changeable creatures men are! 
 and women too! I suppose it is only human nature." 
 
 The next morning Casimir went up to call upon 
 Lise, having posted Rouflard as sentinel on the stairs, 
 with an order to sing an air from the Lampions, 
 should he see Ambroisine on the stairs. Should this 
 
MADEMOISELLE PROH MALADE. 129 
 
 lady appear, the arranged warning would give him 
 time to get down to his room before she reached him. 
 
 Lise trembled again when she saw Casimir enter. 
 But when she learned that Rouflard was acting as 
 sentinel she felt reassured. Casimir repeated that 
 she was simply an acquaintance who wanted to 
 patronize him, and she had abused the privilege by 
 trying to make a slave of him. 
 
 "Hark! there is someone singing," cried Lise. 
 "It is not Rouflard; it is that cursed little Proh." 
 " Oh ! there is such a noise in the house . . . you 
 really must leave." "That is Adrienne whom you 
 can hear, she is Madame Montemolly's maid. . . 
 when she is doing anything, you can never hear 
 anything else." " She will see Rouflard on the stairs." 
 "First of all she will have to look up in the air 
 and she is not likely to do that. Calm yourself, 
 Lise, I am going now. . . but to-morrow. . ." "Oh. . . 
 yes . . . to-morrow ... I will try and get rid of this 
 nervous terror." 
 
 A week thus passed by. Casimir went to see Lise 
 every morning, always placing Rouflard as sentinel 
 on the stairs. As yet he had not met Ambroisine, 
 he had not even seen her. . . However, he was quite 
 certain that she had some special motive in coming 
 to the house. She was very proud, cruel, and vin- 
 dictive, and no doubt was meditating some scheme 
 to revenge herself upon Casimir and the innocent 
 Lise. On the ninth day after her arrival, about mid- 
 day, Ambroisine ascended the stairs that led to 
 Lise's apartment. 
 
 This time the beautiful brunette showed nothing 
 of that vengeful look that Lise perceived on the 
 previous occasion. She was, on the contrary, smiling 
 and gracious. " Excuse me," she exclaimed, " if I 
 disturb you . . . but I have been your neighbour now 
 for some days... I live on the first floor... Ma- 
 
130 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 dame Proh tells me that you sew for her, may I 
 ask you to do a little work for me?" Lise was so 
 terribly disconcerted that she with difficulty splut- 
 tered out: "Madame... but... will you take a 
 chair. . . I beg your pardon but. . . I did not quite hear 
 what you said." "What is the matter, my girl... 
 are you afraid of me ? " " Oh ! yes, madame . . . that. . . 
 I mean no, madame... not now... but I was 
 afraid..." "That I had come to have another 
 quarrel with M Casimir?... Ah! never mind that, 
 I was wrong the other day . . . but I am very quick- 
 tempered. . . this gentleman had failed to complete 
 my portrait. . . and it put me out of t3mper to find 
 him finishing another instead." "Indeed, madame?" 
 "DoesM. Casimir come to see you often?" "Some 
 times." "Well, I suppose he has a right to if he 
 likes. But you have not answered the question 
 which was the object of my call; will you work for 
 me ? " " Certainly, madame, with pleasure." " Very 
 well, can you embroider?" " Yes, madame." "There 
 are some handkerchiefs . . . embroider my monogram 
 on them. . . like this one. . . can you?" "Certainly, 
 madame." "Then I will leave you these six and 
 the pattern. . . but do them at your ease. I am in 
 no hurry ... as for the price you can fix that 
 yourself." " Oh, madame, I shall be quite satisfied 
 to receive whatever you think proper." "Adieu, 
 mademoiselle, or rather au revoir, for if you will 
 allow it, I will call and see you again." " Whenever 
 madame wishes." " I have not frightened you this 
 time, I trust." No, madame... on the contrary... 
 I am very happy to have seen you." These words 
 seemed to surprise Ambroisine, who however made 
 a gracious bow and departed. The next day Lise 
 did not fail to relate all that had occurred to Casimir. 
 He was not at all pleased; he shook his head and 
 murmured : " Ambroisine wants you to work for her. 
 
Mademoiselle proh malade. 4 31 
 
 Ambroisine amiable and gracious . . . bum . . . that is 
 not natural. . . take care Lise, do not trust this 
 lady... she is contemplating some treachery." 
 
 "Oh, I think you are wrong and unjust towards 
 the lady ; I haven't the least fear now . * . in fact, it 
 seems very strange that I already begin really to 
 like her..." "Ah! you are so simple; you must 
 be careful; there is some trap being set for you. .." 
 "Trap?... why the lady smiled most sweetly... 
 surely that could not hide anything like treachery ! " 
 " One can easily see that you know nothing of the 
 world." "Then it must be a very villainous place 
 if treachery is always hidden with a smile!" "And 
 have you promised to work for this lady?" "Yes. . . 
 here are some handkerchiefs she has brought me to 
 embroider." " And are you going to take them to 
 her when you have finished them ? " " Yes . . . that 
 is what I do when I work for Madame Proh. . . 
 why should I be less polite to this lady?" Casimir 
 said nothing; but when he left Lise he felt very 
 troubled at the visit she had received. 
 
 Some days after Mademoiselle Angelina Proh fell 
 ill; her mother thought it was inflammation of the 
 lungs; her father said it was malarial fever, whilst 
 her young brother declared that she had eaten too 
 much jam. The Prohs had no servant. The old 
 professor was wont to declare that in a house where 
 there were two women there was no need of a third. 
 Madame Proh had therefore to attend to her daughter, 
 for the professor could not lower his dignity to tend 
 a sick girl, and as Phonphonse broke everything he 
 touched, he was of no use. The sick girl had to 
 have someone to sit by her all night; so one morning 
 Madame Proh told her husband that she could sit 
 up at night no longer. "You will have me ill 
 next," she declared, " I have already sat up for two 
 nights; I am not made of iron..." "Madame, I 
 
132 LA PETITE USE. 
 
 have never pretended that you were made of iron. . . 
 if women were made of iron, it would be very 
 inconvenient for many of the relations which nature 
 has arranged for us to have with them." "Now, 
 Castor, why can we not have a servant... our 
 position will permit ? " " Our position is very correct 
 as it is ; we are four, a perfect square, one more in 
 the family would derange the equilibrium and the 
 rectitude... I should say the rectangle." "Ah! 
 sir, you are always pestering me with your squares 
 and your combinations. Do you want me to fall 
 ill?" "No, madame, that would mean a double lot 
 of medicine, and consequently double expense ... I 
 am sure I do not want that." " Well, I certainly shall 
 be ill if I sit up another night . . . will you sit up ? " 
 "I? why you know very well that when my bed- 
 time comes I can never keep awake ... I should 
 not be of the slightest use. . ." "Then we must hire 
 some one." "What! introduce a stranger into the 
 house! how stupid and dangerous too!" "I tell you 
 I shall not sit up to-night ... it would kill me . . . 
 Ah! a good thought!... la petite Lise... yes, she 
 is very obliging . . . she will not refuse to relieve 
 me... you do not call her a stranger, I suppose?" 
 " La petite Lise ... Oh ! she lives in the house . . . 
 under the circumstances you can employ her." 
 
 "I will go up to her at once, for I must be sure 
 of having someone to sit up with our daughter to- 
 night." Lise was not greatly surprised at the visit 
 of her patron from the third floor. Madame Proh 
 explained at once the motive of her visit, but the 
 young girl, anxious as she was to oblige, could not 
 be prevailed upon to leave her grandmother for the 
 night. 
 
 "You will only have to leave her whilst she is 
 asleep . . . she will not want you then . . . you can 
 come down to us at ten to-night and return at half 
 
MADEMOISELLE PRCH MALADE. 133 
 
 past six or seven in the morning." Just then the 
 old woman raised her head. " My girl," she mur- 
 mured, "I am much better, and as you gave me that 
 silver spoon... go with madame." Lise showed 
 Madame Proh the silver spoon, who remarked that 
 considerable economy was necessary to get such a luxury 
 as that. Then Madame Proh approached the invalid and 
 asked whether she could not spare her daughter for 
 the night. " Yes, yes, she can go . . . go, Lise, 
 just to oblige madame ... I shall be asleep . . . besides, 
 I am very much better." " Yery well, madame, I will 
 come at ten this evening." "Ah! thanks, you are 
 very kind." 
 
 At ten precisely, being certain that her old patient 
 was sound asleep, Lise descended to Madame Proh's 
 apartments. "Angelina is better to-day and I think 
 she will have a better night. . . at any rate, there is 
 everything needful on that table. That on the spirit 
 lamp is for her when she is thirsty. . . a little spoon 
 for the sugar. . . and the large spoon for the syrup 
 in this bottle. . . but you are only to give it to her 
 if she is restless and cannot sleep. . . you understand?" 
 "Yes, madame, it is quite simple." "If anything 
 occurs which you may deem necessary for me to be 
 called, I sleep in the room next to this... but I 
 hope it will not be necessary. . . There is an easy- 
 chair for you . . . and some books ... do you like 
 reading?" "Oh! very much, madame." "There is 
 a novel which will enthrall you. . . it is full of 
 crimes, murders, assassinations, tortures ... it is very 
 amusing . . . Angelina has read it twice . . . now I am 
 going to bed for I am very sleepy. . . my daughter 
 is asleep, so we had better not talk lest we awake 
 her..." "She will be alright with me, madame." 
 "Do not forget my instructions. . . a large spoon of 
 syrup, only if she is restless." "Yes, madame." 
 Madame Proh left. Lise who had brought her work, 
 
4 34 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 sat down to her embroidery. Later on the invalid 
 asked for something to drink, and Lise hurried to 
 give her some. Angelina recognised Lise and said : ' 
 "So it is you who have come to sit by me... 
 Mamma told me you were coming..." "How are 
 you now, mademoiselle?" "Much better." "Will 
 you have a spoonful of syrup ? " " No, I am going 
 to sleep again; thanks." Mademoiselle Proh was 
 soon sound asleep again. Lise put her embroidery on 
 one side, for it fatigued her eyes. She took up the 
 book madame has pointed out and made herself com- 
 fortable in the easy-chair. But in a very short 
 time she was fast asleep. It was six o'clock when 
 madame Proh came into the room, and Lise was 
 still rubbing her eyes. 
 
 "Well, what sort of a night has she had?" " Oh! 
 she has been very calm, madame; she only asked me 
 for something to drink once." " Very well, did she 
 take any of her syrup ? " " No, madame." " Ah ! I think 
 Mademoiselle Angelina is well on the way to con- 
 valescence now." "Madame, may I return now to 
 my grandmother?" "Oh certainly, go, my dear... 
 we will arrange about the payment for your serv- 
 ices..." "Oh! madame, do not mention it... I 
 am only too happy to have been of service to you." 
 And the young nurse hurried to return to her own 
 apartment. She had reached the door when she 
 heard Madame Proh's voice. "Lise! Lise!" "What 
 is it, madame?" 
 
 "Where have you put the large spoon for the 
 syrup? I cannot find it." 
 
 "The large spoon, madame, it ought to be in the 
 same place. I have had no need to use it." "You 
 have not used it! well it is not on the table! look 
 for it yourself. . . " 
 
 Lise looked everywhere, so did madame Proh, but 
 it could not be found. "It is very singular," said 
 
Mademoiselle proh malade. 135 
 
 Lise. " It is more than singular," said Celeste, whose 
 face already bore a very serious expression. "You 
 know very well I left you two silver spoons on that 
 table; here is the little one, where is the large one? 
 You must find it ! I must have it ! . . . You must 
 answer for it... and quickly, too." 
 
 "Madame, you surely do not think I have taken 
 your spoon ! search me, madame ... oh ! Good God ! 
 suspected of stealing ! " "I did not say so, my girl . . . 
 but sometimes from thoughtlessness . . . inatten- 
 tion..." "I beg of you, madame, to search me." 
 Madame Proh turned out all the girl's pockets, searched 
 everywhere and even examined her shoes, although 
 they would not have concealed the small spoon, 
 much less the large one. 
 
 " Well, madame, are you satisfied that I have not 
 taken your spoon ?" " It certainly is not upon you. . . 
 but what have you done with it? Come, look for 
 it. . . perhaps you emptied it out of the window with 
 some water..." "No, madame, I have not thrown 
 anything out of the window. You are sure to 
 find it presently, madame." "But where the devil 
 have you hidden it ? " " Why do you say that I have 
 hidden it? What object could I have in doing so? 
 I am going back to my grandmother now. She 
 will be awake and waiting for me. You are sure I 
 have not got your spoon, are you not, madame?" "I 
 am sure it is not upon you. . . but what the devil 
 have you done with it ? " " Madame, I will pay for 
 the value of it . . . if you do not find it . . . but do 
 not mention the matter to grandmother ; it will make 
 her ill." 
 
 "Very well. I will talk the matter over with 
 M. Proh." " Lise returned with her eyes full of tears." 
 " Suspected of stealing ! . . . it is frightful . . . Casimir 
 was right when he said, trust nobody. . . but whatever 
 became of that unfortunate spoon?".. , 
 
436 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Another Extraordinary Occurrence. 
 
 Madame Proh did not fail to relate the matter 
 to her husband. " There yon are !" he responded, " that 
 comes of having strangers in the house ; I forewarned 
 you, madame ; it is all your own fault ! " 
 
 "But this petite Lise is not a stranger. . . besides, 
 I am quite sure she did not take the spoon away." 
 "Then I suppose it has gone by itself!" "I 
 searched the girl ; I looked everywhere, and she 
 had nothing whatever about her." " You looked 
 everywhere, did you ? . . . there are some very 
 mysterious places where things might be hidden. . . 
 ask the thieves where they put the diamonds they 
 steal..." "Ah, sir, a great spoon is not like 
 a diamond . . . and even if it had been a small one ! " 
 " Madame, some people have very great facilities ..." 
 
 The history of the loss of the silver spoon was 
 soon all over the house. Adrienne heard from the 
 porter and she told her mistress, who listened without 
 making a single remark. 
 
 "You have given some work to that girl," said 
 Adrienne, "I should be very careful to keep an 
 eye on her. I know I shall when she comes here." 
 " When she comes here you will please keep in your 
 room till you are called." 
 
 Adrienne left the room scowling. Young Proh was 
 on the stairs singing at the top of his voice : " We 
 have lost a silver spoon whilst Lise was nursing my 
 sister." liouflard heard it, took the youngster by the 
 collar and held him up in the air. " It is you, you 
 fool, who have done this . . . you took the spoon." 
 "Ah I I sleep with papa... I did not get up all 
 
ANOTHER EXTRAORDINARY OCCURRENCE. 437 
 
 night... that's good enough for you!" "What do 
 you mean, you saucy urchin ! " The boy's cries soon 
 brought the Prohs out, and Casimir also. On learning 
 the cause of the disturbance Casimir was furious. He 
 turned to madame Proh: "I trust, madame, you do 
 not suspect this girl of having stolen the piece 
 of plate you say you have missed?" "I do not 
 say she has taken it, but I say she has lost it; 
 which is very unpleasant." "Madame, I caution 
 you to be careful what you say concerning this young 
 girl." " And I too," cried Rouflard, " I declare that la 
 petite Lise is incapable of a dishonest action ! . . . 
 She is a model of probity, wisdom and goodness. 
 She works without cessation to support an old 
 paralytic, and must not be suspected for one moment." 
 "But it appears that the old woman has a great 
 love for silver spoons," responded madame Proh, 
 " and she showed me one that Lise had bought her." 
 " That does not prove that she wanted yours." " Wealth 
 should not cause prejudice," said the professor. 
 
 " That is a very worthy remark, M. Pro-rata." 
 
 Proh went indoors in a temper. Casimir hastened 
 up to Lise. 
 
 He found her eyes red with weeping; she put her 
 finger to her lips and pointed to the bed. Casimir 
 saw that she wished to conceal the story of the 
 spoon. He seated himself at her side and took her 
 hand: "You have more trouble, I hear, Lise, and 
 yet you deserve to be so happy." "Ah! sir, you 
 have heard about the spoon! I heard that boy 
 singing it out on the stairs." " Yes ... I heard 
 something about..." "But you do not believe I 
 took the spoon, do you?" "How can you ask me 
 that question? Why, I know full well your soul 
 is as pure as your face ..." 
 
 " And Madame Montemolly . . . have you seen her ! 
 do you know what she thinks of it?" 
 
138 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 "I have not seen that lady.., I never meet 
 her. . . I expect she thinks the same as everybody 
 else . . . that it is a plot of that urchin, young 
 Proh." "But he did not come into the room." 
 "Did you go to sleep at all in the night?" "Yes. . . 
 a little while." "Then some one may have come 
 in and taken the spoon. . . you may rest assured it 
 will be found before long." Six days passed by and 
 the Prohs had not found the spoon. Ambroisine 
 had taken her friend Florentine's daughter to live 
 with her, whilst her mother had gone for a course 
 of sea bathing. The little girl was eight years old 
 and very pretty. But she was stricken down with 
 the measles ; Adrienne was terribly afraid of catching 
 them and would not approach the sick child's bed. 
 
 One morning Ambroisine went up to Lise, who 
 was again momentarily frightened, but a sweet smile 
 soon reassured her. "Mademoiselle, I have come to 
 ask you another favour. I have a little daughter 
 of one of my dearest friends staying with me. And 
 the poor little thing is down with measles. My 
 servant will not go near her. Would you mind 
 passing the night with the child. I flattered myself 
 by thinking that what you would do for Madame 
 Proh you would not refuse me." 
 
 "Yes, madame, but you ought to know what 
 happened when I was at the Prohs; a silver spoon 
 was missed and has not been found. . . and no doubt 
 most people suspect me." 
 
 "My coming here, ought to prove that I am not 
 one of those people... in fact, I thought that by 
 asking you to come it would help to close some of 
 the scandalmongering mouths." 
 
 "But, madame." "I do not ask you to come 
 before ten, or even about midnight. . . I go to bed 
 late . . . and you can come back here very early . . . 
 now you consent, do you not." "I dare not refuse 
 
ANOTHER EXTRAORDINARY OCCURRENCE. 139 
 
 you, madame . . . but I was so upset after my visit 
 to madame Proh." "Forget all about that. . . This 
 evening now, a little before twelve ... or as early 
 as you like." 
 
 Ambroisine left. Lise ardently longed to see 
 Casimir, and tell him what had occurred. " Have I 
 done wrong?" she asked after relating the matter 
 to him. "I quite see that you could scarcely refuse 
 her. . . especially after having gone to madame Proh." 
 
 "This lady seems very kindly disposed towards 
 me... You see, she does not believe that story 
 about the spoon." 
 
 " Yes, yes, and I dare say it is all as you 
 
 say . . . but I cannot see that this lady can feel very 
 well disposed towards you." "Why not?" "Because. . . 
 oh ! you go to little Adeline to-night and to-morrow 
 I will tell you." " Oh ! I shall get back as early as 
 possible." 
 
 At a few minutes to twelve Lise went down to 
 the first floor. The bulky Adrienne opened the 
 door, and led her to her mistress who received the 
 girl with a smile which was perhaps not altogether 
 frank. She led Lise into a pretty little room where 
 the little invalid was lying. "I have put Adeline 
 in the little room I usually keep for her mother 
 when she visits Paris... I think you will be very 
 comfortable there . . . There is a couch where you 
 can rest if the little one sleeps . . . and there are 
 some books... Ah! will you have some supper?" 
 "Oh! no, madame, thank you, I never take supper." 
 "Well, if you are hungry there are some cakes, 
 some biscuits and some wine . . . This is the 
 medicine for the little invalid. Ah! that fool of 
 an Adrienne has put no spoon. Adrienne ! . . . 
 Adrienne ! . . . " The girl came in rubbing her eyes. 
 "Adrienne bring me a spoon... and some small 
 pnes , , . Mademoiselle might like a little sweet 
 
140 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 wine . . . jshe cannot use the same spoon as she does 
 for the medicine." 
 
 The girl returned with a large spoon and two 
 small ones which she placed on, the table, saying: 
 " There is a large spoon and three small ones . . . 
 for there is one here already." "Alright girl, alright, 
 I did not ask you to count them. Go to bed." 
 
 "Now, mademoiselle Lise. . . I will retire. . . you 
 have everything you need ... is there anything 
 else?" "No, madame, thank you." 
 
 "When the little one wakes_ give her some of 
 this to drink . . . and if she coughs give her the 
 medicine." "Yes, madame, I will be sure to do as 
 you say." "Good night... I shall be here early 
 in the morning to see how poor little Adeline is." 
 
 Lise was alone. She gazed round the room with 
 eyes filled with wonder, everything was so beautifal. 
 She soon settled down to her embroidery... but 
 Adeline woke . . . she gave her something to drink ; 
 presently the child coughed and she gave her a 
 dose of the medicine. About three o'clock sleep 
 overcame la petite Lise, and she continued to sleep 
 till about seven. Almost the instant she awoke 
 Madame Montemolly appeared in a beautifal robe 
 de chambre. " Well, how is the little one ? has she 
 had a good night?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, very good; she coughed a little, 
 once, but she has slept well. . . I am afraid, I dropped 
 off to sleep this morning." "That does not matter 
 if the child wanted nothing. Ah! she is awake. 
 Well, Adeline, how are you this morning ! The child 
 said that she felt better, but she began to cough. 
 
 "Give her the medicine, Lise, that will stop the 
 cough." Lise ran to the table for the bottle and 
 spoon. "Come give me the medicine..." "Yes, 
 madame, yes,. . . but. . . I cannot find the spoon. . ." 
 "Where have you put it. . . look for it. . ," "My 
 
ANOTHER EXTRAORDINARY OCCURRENCE. 141 
 
 God ! madame ... I cannot see it." " You had 
 one, did you not?" Certainly, madame, I used it 
 twice in the night." 
 
 "Then you have mislaid it. . . Adrienne! Adrienne!" 
 "What is it, madame?" "We cannot find the 
 spoon which was here last night." " Ah ! I remember, 
 there was one large one and three small ones . . . ' 
 "There are the three small ones," said Lise, "but 
 I cannot understand where the large one has got to." 
 "Ah!" cried Adrienne, "perhaps it has gone to 
 join that of Madame Proh's." "You were here alone 
 all night," said Ambroisine; "it is yery strange; 
 who could have taken it if it is not you?" "Oh! 
 madame, search me, please . . . you will see that I 
 have not got it." " I'll search her," cried Adrienne, 
 "for I am not going to have any silver lost while 
 I am here." 
 
 The girl turned out Lise's pockets, and searched 
 the girl high and low. "Nothing!" she exclaimed as 
 she finished the search. Lise burst into tears. 
 Adrienne searched the whole room over, but the 
 spoon could not be found. Ambroisine approached 
 the girl and said : " Never mind, I will take no notice 
 of it. . . except perhaps to tell M. Casimir that he 
 is not very happy in the choice of his new friends." 
 Lise heard no more, she rushed from the room that 
 she had thought so pretty. On the second floor she 
 found Casimir waiting for her; seeing her in tears, 
 he asked what had happened. Lise told him what 
 had occurred, together with the remark made by 
 Ambroisine. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked. 
 " Yes about three o'clock this morning I fell asleep." 
 " Ah ! how unfortunate, for during your sleep some- 
 one may have entered the room." "I do not think 
 so, they would have disturbed me. That servant of 
 the lady made a remark about the spoon having 
 gone to look for Madame Proh's," " It is scandalous. 
 
142 LA PETITE LISfi. 
 
 but calm yourself. . . Lise there is some mystery at 
 the bottom of all this. . . I will not rest till your 
 innocence is absolutely established." 
 
 First of all, Casimir determined to call on Ambroisine 
 and ask whether she really believed that the girl was 
 guilty. But the affair was already known all over 
 the house. Adrienne told the porter, and then told 
 Rouflard. "You are a fool and a gabbler!" said 
 Rouflard ; "do you think that if the girl had stolen 
 Proh's spoon she would be such an imbecile as to 
 repeat the same thing in the very same house ? " 
 " Well, where is the spoon ? " "How do I know?. . . 
 under your seat, perhaps!" 
 
 " Sir ! you insult me ... I am an honest girl, as 
 everybody knows, and I am proud of it." "There 
 is no need to be proud of being honest; it is a 
 simple duty. . ." "You ought to talk about honesty! 
 when you drink the rum people send you for! 
 Ah ! I know that little story. The porter tells me 
 all your little doings." " Has he told you his, when he 
 was my servant?" "You had a servant? what, you?" 
 
 "You need not believe it unless you like; but 
 what about la petite Lise? I intend to defend her from 
 the charge of stealing ; I forbid you mentioning it." 
 
 "You forbid me! Ah! I will laugh in your face! 
 Yes! La petite Lise stole the spoon... two spoons 
 even. . ." 
 
 Adrienne shouted with all her power. Rouflard 
 was furious. Nearly everybody came out to see 
 what the noise was about. Casimir arrived just as 
 Ambroisine was telling Adrienne to be quiet and 
 go in. 
 
443 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 WHAT IT WAS. 
 
 Casimir stopped before Ambroisine and asked her 
 whether she believed that the young girl had robbed 
 her of a spoon. "Well, sir," she responded in an 
 ironical tone ; "I am very sorry for what has happened, 
 especially for your sake . . . but it seems irrefutable* . . " 
 "But, madame, this young girl has always been a 
 model of probity and good conduct... you know 
 how she works for that poor paralytic..." "Yes, 
 certainly. . . perhaps it is all as you say. . . but find 
 the spoon." " Someone must have entered the room 
 whilst Lise was asleep." " What ! thieves ? but the 
 porter would know who entered the house.. . Does 
 she say she was asleep?... who can prove it?" 
 "Besides," joined in Madame Proh, who had 
 stood listening, "her old grandmother has a passion 
 for silver spoons... this girl bought her one only 
 recently." " Madame, you calumniate honest people . . . 
 I will not suffer it." "I simply say what is the 
 case... it is easy to say she is innocent! but 
 where are the spoons ? " 
 
 A lady who lived over Ambroisine's rooms, who 
 was about fifty years of age, with a cold and severe 
 face, and who never spoke a word to any one in 
 the house, was attracted by the noise and hubbub, 
 came towards Casimir and said: "Sir, you do not 
 think the girl is guilty, neither do I; but there is 
 considerable mystery around the whole affair; I 
 nave an idea . . ." " Ah ! madame . . . you will restore 
 the poor creature to life . . . for she will die if her 
 innocence is not established . . . speak . . . what do 
 you think?..." "Well, it will be necessary for the 
 
144 LA PETITE LtSfi. 
 
 girl to pass a night with me . . . I will tell her that 
 my sister who lives with me is ill . . . and that I 
 want her to come and sit by her..." "Ah, ma- 
 dame, she will not come . . . after what has happened 
 how can you expect her to?" "You beg her to 
 do so, sir, and if you tell her that it is to find out 
 for certain whether she is innocent or not . . . she 
 will come . . ." " Oh ! madame, if that is so, I can 
 persuade her to come." "Very well, send her to 
 me at midnight ... I will get these two ladies to 
 be with me at the same time." "What for?" "To 
 witness what takes place ... I have no doubt but 
 that I shall be able to establish the girl's innocence." 
 " Oh ! madame, I cannot watch ; it will give me 
 lumbago," said madame Proh. "I will come, ma- 
 dame," said Ambroisine, " I shall be pleased to assist 
 in establishing the girl's innocence." "Very well, 
 with M. Casimir and myself it will suffice. You 
 will be good enough, sir, to find out during the day 
 whether the girl consents, will you not, sir?" 
 
 "I will go up to her at once, and return with 
 her answer immediately." Madame Durmont, for that 
 was the lady's name, gravely bowed, and Casimir 
 hastened to la petite Lise. 
 
 "After all I don't think she will discover much," 
 said madame Proh. 
 
 "There is what I call a respectable lady," said 
 Rouflard, looking towards the second floor; "she 
 dances no cancans, she says the girl has not taken 
 the spoons; that there is a mystery somewhere; and 
 that it must be unravelled." "And how will she 
 do it?" asked the porter. "That is above your 
 comprehension, my good Chausson." "And yours 
 too..." 
 
 Casimir lost not an instant ... he found the girl 
 very sad and quiet. "I have good news for you .. . 
 Madame Durmont is interested in you and will help 
 
WiLYT IT WAS. Hb 
 
 to prove your innocence." "Ah! I am very thank- 
 ful. . . that lady has always shown me great kind- 
 ness. . ." 
 
 " But she wants to find out the truth . . . and dis- 
 cover what has become of those two spoons." "I 
 should be very happy if she could do so. . . but 
 how can she do that?" "Well, it may appear some- 
 what singular to you. . . but you must consent to 
 watch at the bedside of her invalid sister to-night. . ." 
 " Watch ? to-night ? . . . oh ! no, you know I cannot do 
 that again." " But it is to justify you, Lise ... do 
 consent to go ; I beg of you to do so . . . I have con- 
 fidence in Madame Durniont. . . and I am sure she 
 will discover the mystery surrounding the disappear- 
 ance of those spoons." 
 
 "Well, I will do as you wish... but I shall take 
 great care not to go to sleep." 
 
 "Yes, that's right, then you will see what hap- 
 pens. . . At twelve I will call and take you down to 
 the lady's apartments." 
 
 Casimir hurried down to announce the result of 
 his interview, and said that Lise would be there at 
 twelve. He mentioned that Lise had determined not 
 to fall asleep. " Oh, you are wrong, sir," said Ma- 
 dame Durmont, "that is just what I am depending 
 upon." 
 
 " I do not understand you, madame." " You will 
 understand to-night ; I will prepare a gentle sleeping 
 draught... and I must get you to make her drink 
 it. . . tell her it is to keep her awake." 
 
 Madame Durmont showed Casimir the room in 
 which it was intended that Lise should watch. 
 "We can sit behind this screen," said she, "and 
 watch: do you think that we shall be able to see 
 all that she does ? " " Yes, madame, . . . but still I 
 do not understand." "Wait, sir, wait, to-night you 
 will understand. You take Lise in, and return by 
 
146 LA. PETITE LlSE. 
 
 the other door.. ." "Yes, madame, I will do as you 
 wish." 
 
 Casimir for the life of him could not think what 
 the old lady's plan was ... he met Rouflard and con- 
 fided in him. " I have not the slightest idea," said 
 the old roue, "but you may be sure I shall pass the 
 whole night on the stairs, and if any spoon-thief 
 makes his appearance whilst I am there, I shall 
 commence by sitting on his head." 
 
 At midnight Casimir called for his little neigh- 
 bour. He found her trembling and sad, but quite 
 ready to follow him. She picked up her work and 
 took the arm which Casimir offered. After a few 
 steps, Casimir stopped. "You are trembling, are you 
 cold?" "Oh no, I am very warm but I am shaking 
 for I fear more misfortune." 
 
 " Why this lady is going to establish your innocence 
 to everybody." 
 
 " And how will she do that ? " " That is her secret . . . 
 we shall see ; have confidence." 
 
 Madame Durmont came to the door herself and 
 led the young people into the room where her sister 
 had been in bed some time. "It is here that I 
 want you to watch, have a cup of tea, it will keep 
 you awake." 
 
 " Thank you, madame, I will not take anything." 
 
 "Lise," said Casimir, "take what madame offers 
 you . . . do, it will refresh you ..." "If you desire 
 it..." And the young girl drank the contents of 
 the cup they gave her. "Now good night," said 
 Casimir, " I shall come up and see you to-morrow." 
 " There is everything you want," said madame Dur- 
 mont, "medicine for my sister when she wakes and 
 a spoon for the syrup if she coughs; now do you 
 want anything else?" 
 
 "No, madame, nothing whatever." "In that case, I 
 will leave you; my sister seems a trifle better this 
 
WHAT IT WAS. 147 
 
 evening ... I think she will give you very little to 
 do . . . there is a comfortable chair so that if my sister 
 sleeps on you may get a little rest for yourself." "No, 
 madame, I will not sleep ... I shall watch all night." 
 
 Lise took out her work. "No," she muttered to 
 herself, " I shall not sleep . . . for in my sleep some 
 one may come in and take the spoon. . . if I had only 
 kept awake before . . . besides with this clear light I can 
 see to embroider." 
 
 When Casimir entered the adjacent room he gave 
 Ambroisine a cold salute and said : " Thank you, 
 madame, for having come here ... to assist in proving 
 the innocence of this girl." "I desire it, because I 
 am not quite so bad as you think . . . but I assure 
 you, that I do not think we shall succeed." 
 
 Ambroisine looked through the screen and saw 
 the girl at her work. " Yes, we shall have to possess 
 ourselves with patience till she is asleep." 
 
 " But she does not look like going to sleep." 
 " Oh, yes, she will ; thanks to a light narcotic which 
 I mixed in the tea. . . but it may not take effect 
 for an hour or two . . . would you like to rest on 
 this couch, madame ? " " No thank you, madame, I 
 have no wish to sleep, I am too curious to learn 
 what you are going to do." 
 
 The conversation" took place in whispers, which 
 added to the mysterious aspect of the surroundings. 
 The sister, according to arrangement woke up and 
 asked for something to drink. The young girl 
 hastened to attend. Then she offered her some syrup 
 which was also accepted. Lise put the spoon back 
 on the table with great care and sat down by the 
 side of it. The pretended invalid went to sleep and 
 the nurse resumed her work. One hour passed by 
 and then another. Casimir's anxiety augmented. 
 Ambroisine did not breathe a word or close an eye. 
 Madame Durmont kept a constant watch through tji§ 
 
448 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 screen. "Ah! she is asleep at last... no doubt 
 it was the narcotic." Several minutes, which seemed 
 like years passed by. " Ah ! she struggles in vain . . . 
 her work has fallen from her hands. . . she is 
 sound off." 
 
 " Yes, yes, she is asleep," said Casimir, " see her 
 head is fallen back." " Now," said Ambroisine, " let 
 us see what will happen." "Wait, madame. . . sleep 
 must be profound ; at present we could not move this 
 curtain without perhaps being seen." Presently the 
 curtain was moved away. And the three sat watching 
 the sleeping girl . . . Presently the girl moved, her 
 sleep seemed painful. " She seems greatly oppressed," 
 said Casimir, " she surely is dreaming." " Ah ! she 
 is waking up . . .look she is standing with her eyes 
 open," said Ambroisine. " Silence, madame, silence," 
 said Madame Durmont, "she is still asleep... you 
 see she is a somnambulist..." "Somnambulist?" 
 " Sth ! listen, she is speaking..." Lise, who was 
 still asleep, had her eyes wide open; she left her 
 chair and said : " Ah ! good grandmother, yes ... I 
 will get you your silver spoons . . , you love them so 
 much . . . and you are so afraid of having them 
 stolen . . . but I will hide them for you in the same 
 old place . . . you know, under the mattress ..." 
 
 Then Lise took the spoon and knelt down by the 
 side of the bed and put it between the mattress and 
 the bed. As she rose to her feet she murmured : 
 "Ah ! that is well hidden ... no one will find that . . . 
 my dear grandmother." 
 
 Lise returned to her place, sat down and closed 
 her eyes. The three watchers missed nothing of 
 what occurred. Casimir was transported with joy. 
 "Justified," he cried, "she is justified, for the 
 other spoons ought to be hidden in a similar place, 
 ought they not, madame?" 
 
 "Certainly," responded Madame Durmont, "this 
 
^VHAt If WA§. 449 
 
 young girl is a somnambulist, and it is just what I 
 guessed! It is just what I expected you would 
 see . . . come, we will go in to her, she will wake up 
 in a moment." 
 
 "Somnambulist!" said Ambroisine, who had 
 scarcely recovered from her astonishment, "I am 
 very anxious to examine her more closely." 
 
 Lise sat in the chair with her head slightly thrown 
 back, and in the agitation of her sleep she had 
 broken the small collarette round her neck so that 
 a small medallion could be seen suspended by a black 
 ribbon, which she always wore hidden under her 
 dress. 
 
 Ambroisine, who still had her doubts, approached 
 the girl to examine her more closely. " Come, ma- 
 dame, come, the spoon ought to be hidden under 
 your little invalid's bed. Come and find it. . . let 
 us set the matter at rest." 
 
 But Ambroisine was dumb with astonishment; 
 she had just seen the small medallion, suspended 
 round the girl's neck ; it was peculiar in shape 
 and curiously enamelled . . . She could not take 
 her eyes off the girl . . . but answered Casimir with- 
 out moving her head. "Go. . . go with madame. . . 
 you do not need me . . .my girl will get a light. . . 
 here is my key." 
 
 " But why will you not come ? " " Because something 
 more important keeps me here, you shall know 
 presently what it is . . . go ... " 
 
 Casimir did not resist; on the stairs they found 
 Roufiard who was still standing sentinel. " Justified," 
 cried Casimir, " she is a somnambulist, even in sleeping 
 she thinks of her mother's spoons ... so she hides them 
 under the bed." "Ah! let me come with you," cried 
 Roufiard. "Come, Roufiard, come..." They all 
 go into Ambroisine's apartments where they find 
 Adrienne asleep in the drawing-room instead of 
 
150 lA PETITE LlS& 
 
 watching the sick child; but Casimir awoke her and 
 told her to follow. "Show us the room where Lise 
 sat last night. . . we have come for the lost spoon. . . " 
 "The spoon? Ah! you will not find that. . . I have 
 looked everywhere." 
 
 Casimir ran to the bed, put his hand under the 
 mattress and was not long before he pulled out the 
 spoon and uttered another exclamation of joy. 
 
 Then Rouflard danced round the room and turned 
 to Adrienne. 
 
 "Now, evil-tongue! it appears, after all, that you 
 did not look everywhere." 
 
 " But who would have thought of finding a spoon 
 there!" "A somnambulist hides things in most won- 
 derful places." "A somnambulist?" "Yes, that's 
 all the mystery ... I will go up to madame Proh and 
 tell her where her spoon is." 
 
 " But they are asleep, Rouflard." 
 
 " All the better, friend, it will have all the greater 
 effect; I want the justification of my angel to cause as 
 much noise and sensation as did the false accusations 
 which were spread around." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 
 
 Casimir and Madame Durmont returned and found 
 Ambroisine still close to Lise, who was not yet 
 awake. Ambroisine was devouring with her eyes the 
 medallion attached to the girl's neck, but dared not 
 touch it for fear of waking her up. 
 
 "Madame! Madame! here is your spoon," cried 
 
ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 1 51 
 
 Casimir, " it was hidden in the same place . . . thanks 
 to this lady, the poor little girl is completely justified." 
 
 "Yes, sir, yes,. . . I do not doubt it. . . but some- 
 thing I cannot understand makes me hover near this 
 girl. . . it is this medallion. . . for I had attached one 
 very like it to my own little girl's neck. Mine opened, 
 and inside were engraved two letters A and G ; they 
 were the initials of her mother and father. . . I am 
 burning with a desire to know whether this one will 
 open . . . but I dare not touch it for fear of waking 
 her." " Oh ! there is no danger," said madame Durmont, 
 "her sleep is very profound just now... wait... 
 wait . . I will get it. . . or unfasten the ribbon." 
 
 The good lady untied the ribbon and gave the 
 medallion to Ambroisine ; she trembled as she seized 
 it,. . . she opened it.". . Ambroisine uttered a loud cry 
 as she saw the two letters. . . "Look. . . look. . . an 
 A. . . a G. It is indeed the medallion I placed round 
 my little daughter's neck when I sent her to her 
 nurse . . . however could it get here ? " 
 
 However, the cry of Ambroisine awoke the pretty 
 sleeper, and as she looked around she" muttered : 
 " Dear me, what have I been doing? " 
 
 "Do not. be afraid, my child, your innocence is 
 proved... it shall be explained to you directly." 
 
 " But tell me," said Ambroisine, " do tell me . . . 
 this medallion ... it was round your neck . . . and 
 I have taken it off to examine it more closely . . . 
 Where did it come from? where did you get it?" 
 " Where did I get it . . . why I have always had 
 it . . . my mother put it round my neck when she 
 sent me to my nurse." "Tour mother . . . my God . . . 
 what was her name?" "I never heard her name .. . 
 she never mentioned her name when she came to 
 see me." "What! you do not know?... and you 
 have your grandmother with you?" 
 
 "Ah! madame, the poor old paralytic is not my 
 
452 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 grandmother. She is really the mother of my old 
 nurse . . . when my nurse died she recommended hes 
 mother to my care; and the nurse who had been 
 so kind to me when my mother abandoned me . . . 
 so I have always taken care of her mother." 
 
 "My God! what do I hear... my own child... 
 where were you brought up." " Pierrefitte, niadaine." 
 
 "Pierrefitte! it is the same. And the name of 
 your nurse . . ." " Catherine Vauger." " Ah ! no doubt, 
 you are my daughter!" 
 
 Ambroisine took Lise in her arms and covered 
 her with kisses. "Yes, you are my daughter, but 
 do not think that I ever wished to abandon you . . . 
 no I was too happy to possess you . . . You have 
 been . . . we both have been terribly deceived . . . 
 an old aunt who sent me to Italy wrote and told 
 me that you were dead ! " 
 
 "Ah that must have been the same person who 
 wrote and told my nurse to take me to Paris and 
 to call me Lise instead of Leontine, the name my 
 mother gave me." 
 
 "Leontine! ah that's it. . . will you forgive me. 
 the evil that I have done you?" 
 
 " Oh ! madame . . . mother ... I remember nothing 
 of it." 
 
 "Come, Lise, with your mother and never leave 
 her again." 
 
 Lise was embarrassed; she smiled to her mother 
 and murmured: "And what about the poor old 
 woman? " "Ah ! I understand, she shall not be taken 
 from you, I will taken her with us . . . I will find 
 her a room, she shall want for nothing, and you 
 shall look after her as you always have done." 
 
 Ambroisine was very happy, she took Casimir by 
 the hand and said: "Now, we are friends, I hope; 
 you see in me, nothing more than the mother of 
 Lise . . . and I thank you for the interest and kind- 
 
ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 153 
 
 ness you have displayed towards my daughter. . . 
 and who will never oppose what is for the good of 
 her child." Casimir pressed her hand with a good 
 heart for he felt they were now friends. 
 
 On leaving Madame Durmont's apartments, Lise went 
 up to her room accompanied by her mother. On 
 the stairs they met Rouflard, who was coming out 
 of the Proh's apartments. "They've found their 
 spoon. . . but sapristi, I did have a trouble. . . they 
 would not open the door." 
 
 "'Who is there?' they cried, and on recognising 
 my voice the professor told me I was a fool and 
 that he would have me up before the magistrate 
 to-morrow." 
 
 To this Rouflard responded: "I am not playing 
 with you ; I am in earnest . . . you are playing, you 
 family of cucumbers. . . I tell you I can find your 
 spoon. . . I will ring this bell till to-morrow if 
 necessary." 
 
 Madame Proh decided at last to open the door. 
 
 " Take me to the room where Lise sat that night," 
 said Rouflard, "she has hidden your spoon under the 
 mattress." 
 
 " It is not possible," said Angelina ; "I should have 
 noticed it." "How could you if you were asleep? 
 Take me there now." 
 
 They went to the young lady's room ; " I will feel 
 under the mattress," shouted young Proh. "No, 
 no, your arm is not long enough, let the illustrious pro- 
 fessor feel if he will ..." " I ! . . . stoop to such a dis- 
 graceful thing ! never! " 
 
 However, Madame Proh who was all impatience 
 knelt down by the side of the bed, and pushed her 
 arm under the mattress and soon pulled out the spoon. 
 " Ah! here it is indeed ! " " There, professor, did I tell 
 you a lie ! what do you think of that ? " 
 
 "You see that teaches us that the women of our 
 
154 LA PETITE LISE. 
 
 establishments should devote more time to turning 
 over our mattresses and make our bed more thor- 
 oughly." "Yes! said madame, "women have such a 
 little to do ! " Ambroisine accompanied by her 
 daughter, sought out the poor old paralytic who on 
 being told the events of the previous night looked 
 closely at the lady. 
 
 " Ah ! yes. . . yes. . . I recognise you now. . . you 
 brought the little one to us . . . and you came to see 
 her several times at Pierrefltte." 
 
 Then Lise showed her the letter her nurse had 
 received and Ambroisine recognised her aunt's writing; 
 and if she still had any doubt about the identity of her 
 daughter this last proof set it at rest. On her side 
 she showed Lise the letter announcing her death, in 
 order to prove that she had no thought of abandoning 
 her. The day after the night so full of strange events 
 saw a great change in the house. Florentine having 
 taken her daughter away Ambroisine installed Lise in 
 the pretty blue room. Another room was arranged 
 for the paralytic, who was carried down from her 
 humble lodging and was delighted to find that she 
 was not to be separated from Lise. Casimir was 
 greatly surprised when he heard the secret of Lise's 
 birth. The dread which he at first felt was soon 
 dispelled, for he was allowed to visit Lise in her 
 mother's apartments. 
 
 But during the first few months little was done, 
 as time was necessary to allow of the results set- 
 tling down. Casimir continued with his painting 
 and met with marked success. In all arts a success 
 will often turn a man of mediocre power into a 
 celebrity, because it puts so much ardour into 
 his soul. 
 
 Six months after these events M. Loursain died 
 of indigestion. Ambroisine discovered that she was 
 a widow, bat what surprised her more was a letter, 
 
Another discovery. 455 
 
 announcing that her husband had left her all his 
 fortune, about three hundred thousand francs. Rose 
 had a legacy of only six hundred francs and a 
 portrait of M. Loursain. In her anger she added 
 a pair of horns to the picture, to serve as she 
 said for a signboard to a butcher and wrote underneath 
 "beef a la mode." 
 
 Ambroisine bought a charming little house for 
 Lise in the environs of Paris, ready for her when 
 she should marry M. Casimir. This event was not 
 long delayed. Ambroisine established the happy couple 
 in the handsome house she had provided for them. 
 And little Lise did not forget the old paralytic whom 
 she also called mother. In fact, Casimir infinitely 
 preferred her to be with this one than the other. 
 
 When young Proh heard about the discovery of the 
 lost spoons, he ran round the house crying : " Lise is a 
 funambulist... and a funambulist is one that hides 
 everything ! " 
 
 In vain M. Proh endeavoured to impress upon 
 his son the difference between a funambulist and a 
 somnambulist. "Somnambulism," said the professor, 
 " is an infirmity, funambulism is an accomplishment." 
 "Yes, but if I were a somnambulist I could hide 
 all the bottles of sweets." 
 
 "And what use would that be, Alphonse, for you 
 would remember nothing when you awoke." 
 
 " Ah ! but I should only be a somnambulist in one 
 eye!" The professor shook his head and muttered: 
 "that boy knows too much." 
 
 Thanks to the recommendation of Casimir, Rouflard 
 was able to earn a living, and able to live in 
 more respectable quarters, but still in the same 
 house. Chausson let him sleep outside sometimes 
 if he were very drunk. 'Casimir would often say 
 to him : " Cannot you correct this terrible weakness, 
 Rouflard? If you try you can conquer anything, 
 
156 La petite lisE. 
 
 look at me : I was an idler, to-day I love work with 
 all my heart." 
 
 "It is all very well," said Rouflard, "but I want 
 consolation ... I had a little angel near me, you have 
 taken her away . . . when I am drunk I fancy she 
 is near me again ... so that is why I drink." 
 
 FINIS. 
 
THE BRIDE 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST NIGHT 
 
 {LA MARIES BE FONTENA Y-A UX-ROSES). 
 TRANSLATED FEOM THE FRENCH 
 
 OF 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. II. UKQUHART. 
 
 HortTron: 
 
 MATHIESON & COMPAQ V 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP TEH L 
 
 asm 
 
 A HU3J3AND WHO IS A SPORTSMAN, . . . . 1 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 Another House, and Other Sportsmen, • . 7 
 
 CHAPTEE IIL 
 The Wind, ....... 19 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Return oe the Sportsmen, . . « ,28 
 
 ^ CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Stort of a Dinner, . . , .37 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The God-Daughter, . . . « , 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 1^4DET FOUILLAGPOT, . . . , , &4 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 Hostilities begin. . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 mum 
 
 he Wedding : The Swing, . . « .81 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Garterf, ... • . 57 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Different Expedients, . . • .04 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 What was Missing in the House of the Nbwly- 
 
 Married Couple, . . . . 106 
 
 CHAPTER XI II. 
 The First Night, ...... 113 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Day after the Wedding, .... 120 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 The Cap, ....... 130 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 The Snare laid for the Widow, . . . „ 140 
 
 CHAPTERXVIL 
 Cadet's Employer, . • • • 152 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE FIRST NIGHT, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A HUSBAND WHO IS A SPORTSMAN. 
 
 <f Jeannette ! " 
 
 " Madame ? " 
 
 " What sort of weather is it this morning ? I must 
 know what to put on, as we are going to dine at 
 Madame Dartinelle's, for there are certain to be a lot 
 of people there. All the gentlemen in the neighbour- 
 hood have been asked to go out shooting, and then 
 we are to eat the game that they have killed." 
 
 " If you eat nc game but what Monsieur Rocaille 
 has killed, the chances are that you will not have 
 much, for he is not very lucky most days." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Jeannette ; just suppose my 
 husband were to hear you, who sets up for being a 
 great sportsman I " 
 
 " Great sportsman, indeed ! Why, he has already 
 killed two of his dogs, which, I suppose, he mistook 
 for hares." 
 
 " Not at all, it was a pure accident ; one was killed 
 by a poacher-*" 
 
 " Whom nobody could ever find ! " 
 
 " And the other was cowering in a thicket when t* 
 wolf attacked him — " 
 
2 A HUSBAND WTO IS 
 
 " That's what Monsieur Rocaille save, out tbera 
 have not been any wolves in this neighbourhood, and 
 that wolf has never been found, any more than the 
 poacher. Now, whenever I see Monsieur taking out 
 Moufflard, who is such a good dog, and does every- 
 thing that he is told, I am always afraid that some- 
 thing will happen to him." 
 
 " To mv husband 1" 
 
 " No, Madame, to the dog I n 
 
 " Now, Jeannette, I asked you what sort of weather 
 it was, and you have given me no answer." 
 
 ■ ■ It is tolerably fine, Madame, but there is wind 
 enough to blow a cow's horns off." 
 
 " Good heavens, and my husband is going out ! " 
 
 " Well, Monsieur is pretty substantially built, and 
 if the wind tried to carry him away he would hold 
 on to Moufflard, who is substantial also, and as big 
 as a donkey. But as for being a sporting dog, why,. 
 he never was a sporting dog." 
 
 " But Monsieur Rocaille said he would break him." 
 
 " If he breaks him in as he did the other two, poor 
 Moufflard will not last long." 
 
 ." Be quiet, Jeannette, here is my husband coming." 
 
 The preceding conversation took place at Fon- 
 tenay-aux-Roses, in the house of M. Rocaille, who 
 had retired from business with a nice fortune and a 
 very pretty wife, who was, however, a great flirt. 
 L6ocadie was fifteen years younger than her husband* 
 and was then getting on for thirty -five; but, with 
 her light brown hair, her large blue eyes, her good 
 complexion, pretty mouth and dimpled cheeks, she 
 was far from looking her age. She would have been 
 still nicer if she had not often spoilt the gifts with 
 which nature had graced her by her pretensions and 
 coquetry. Certainly her fresh rosy lips had no need 
 of the red lip salve which she often thought fit to 
 put upon them, nor did her naturally delicate skin 
 require the violet or the rose powder with which sha» 
 
A SPORTSMAN. tf 
 
 would insist upon covering it. But women never 
 will learn that very often the best is the enemy of 
 what is really good in itself, and that painting the 
 face is never the best, but rather the contrary. 
 
 But let us leave L6ocadie and her coquetry alone, 
 for we cannot cure her of it, and it is, after all, ex- 
 cusable in a woman, for they are only coquettish in 
 order to please us, which is very kind of them. Let 
 us pass on to her husband. 
 
 We have already said that he is fifteen years older 
 than Leocadie, which would make him about fifty, 
 but he is still as brisk and as lively as any young 
 man. Ernest Rocaille is of middle height, and not 
 too stout; his round face is very like one of those 
 heads which we see so beautifully curled and dressed 
 in the windows of hairdressers' shops. He has very 
 bright eyes, which he fancies are very sly ; his nose, 
 which is rather thick, spoils the symmetry of his 
 features, but it, like his eyes, seems to wish to find 
 out everything, and, as a matter of fact, the senses of 
 smell and hearing are two very powerful auxiliaries, 
 and it is very difficult to keep anything concealed 
 from them for any length of time. 
 
 Though M. Rocaille was not so vain as his wife, he 
 still thought himself captivating, and was delighted 
 when his wife called to him : Ernest I 
 
 He was, besides, a great eater, a tremendous liar, 
 and a great lover of the fair sex. Greedy as a cat, 
 boastful as a dentist, with great pretensions to 
 shrewdness and sagacity ; such was the man who 
 now came into his wife's room in full shooting 
 costume — that is to say, having everything about 
 nim that is supposed to be necessary for the slaughter 
 of game. 
 
 "Here I am," he said, letting the stock of his 
 .gun down on to the floor with a crash. " How do you 
 think I look ? Am I not just like Meleager ? " 
 
 " Good heavens, my dear, you actually frighten me 
 
4 A HUSBAND WHO 13 
 
 with all that equipment, and then I have not the> 
 least idea who this Meleager is, whom you say you* 
 resemble." 
 
 " He was the son of Oeneus and Althcea, and killed 
 the wild boar whom Diana had sent to ravage the 
 country of Calydon. He married Atalanta, who had 
 also wounded the boar — " 
 
 " That will do ; how should I know all thesfr 
 people f " 
 
 " I think your game bag is big enough, sir," 
 Jeannette said, slyly. 
 
 "Very likely it will not be big enough to hold 
 everything I hope to shoot, my girl." 
 
 " Where is Moufflard ? I don't see him." 
 
 " He is down below ; at least I hope so. He cer- 
 tainly does not seem very eager after sport, but 
 I will break him to it. But I must make haste, or 
 I shall be late, for I am sure the other gentlemen 
 have all assembled by this time." 
 
 " Where are you to meet ? " 
 
 "At Madame Dartinelle's, the beautiful Hortens© 
 Dartinelle's — " 
 
 " I wish you would break yourself of the habit of 
 saying *■ the beautiful ' every time you speak of that 
 lady, who, after all, is not such an extraordinary 
 beauty. I really think it is silly, pitiable, unbearable, 
 and very rude towards the other ladies who may 
 hear you." 
 
 " My dear, I only say it because all the other gentle- 
 men call her so when they speak of the fair widow, so 
 I am only following their example." 
 
 " Well, it only shows that all those gentlemen are 
 idiots, that's all !" 
 
 "Well, L6ocadie, I must say you are very unfair 
 towards our neighbours. I will make you a present 
 of Gateau, the sportsman, or rather the man who 
 fancies himself a sportsman ; as for him, ever since the 
 dinner he gave us at his house I owe him a grudge r 
 
A SPORTSMAN. 5 
 
 and I will pay him out. But George Varicourt, 
 Madame Dartinelle's brother, he is a thorough good 
 jolly fellow, who enjoys life, and Brochenbiche, the 
 barrister, he is very agreeable when he does not 
 fancy himself ill ; he certainly has not got much to 
 say, but I hate men who are so fond of chatting that 
 one can never get in a word even edgeways. And 
 then there is Gontran Dalby, George's intimate 
 friend ; why, I heard you say yourself that he was 
 a charming young man." 
 
 " I said so of M. Gontran ? Nothing of the sort, 
 I am sure, never I " 
 
 " What, never? Why, only three days ago, when 
 we were coming back from spending the evening at 
 Madame Dartinelle's, you said to me : * What a nice 
 fellow M. Gontran is ; how well he sings, and how 
 charming he is in society.' I don't know what he 
 may have done to you since for you to talk of him so 
 differently now." 
 
 "What he has done to me? What do yon think 
 he has done to me, I should like to know ? I think 
 it is extremely nice of you to speak to me like that. 
 Do you fancy that he troubles his head about me, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 " I did not mean to make you angry ; you seem to 
 take everything amiss this morning. Surely a man 
 can be polite and attentive to ladies without there 
 being any harm in it ? " 
 
 "If M. Gontran is paying attentions to anybody, 
 one can easily see who is the object of them. Hor- 
 tense Dartinelle knows all about that." 
 
 " What, do you really think that he is in love with 
 the handsome — no, no, I won't call her the handsome 
 uridow, as you don't like it ; I will say the pretty — " 
 
 "Call her handsome, pretty, frightful, anything 
 you like ; what on earth do I care ? " 
 
 " Well, it is very strange, for I think I can always 
 £nd out the most secret love affairs, and yet I never 
 
6 A HUSBAND WHO IS A SPORTSMAN. 
 
 noticed that Gontran who was in love with his friend's 
 sister." 
 
 " There are a good many more things that escape- 
 your notice ! " 
 
 " Do you think so ? But, bless me I am talking 
 and keeping them waiting for me. Jeanette, just 
 look whether Moufflard is in the yard." 
 
 " He is not there, sir." 
 
 " Call him, will you, he always comes for you." 
 
 "I hope you are not going to bring your great bigp 
 dog up into my room; he is sure to break some- 
 thing—" 
 
 "Yes, you are quite right, L6ocadie, I will go 
 downstairs after him. Good-bye, my dear, I shall 
 see you again at the handsome widow's. Oh, con- 
 found it ! I said ' handsome ' again ; it slipped out 
 unawares. Dinner is at six o'clock ; be sure not to 
 keep us waiting." 
 
 " That's a thing I never do." 
 
 " Well, I'm off — something tells me that I am 
 going to have a capital day's sport." 
 
 "Be sure and take great care of Moufflard, sir, so 
 that he may not come across a wolf or a poacher." 
 
 " Just stick to your pots and kettles, Jeannette, if 
 you please ! " 
 
 M. Rocaille took leave of his wife, and went to 
 look after his dog in the yard, in the garden, and in 
 the street, and at last he found him and called him. 
 Moufflard, who did not seem to have the slightest 
 taste for sport, did not follow his master, but kept 
 going under a window where Jeannette and another 
 young servant were ; and, as she delighted in play- 
 ing her master a trick, she kept calling and enticing; 
 the dog to her. 
 
 M. Rocaille, who fancied that he could see every- 
 thing, did not notice these goings on, and, at last,, 
 to put an end to the matter, he made up his mind 
 to resort to strong measures, and so put a string 
 
ANOTHER HOUSE, AND OTHER SPORTSMEN. 7 
 
 f nn^rj Monfflard's neck, and started to go shooting, 
 ^dragging his dog after him by a leash. 
 
 CHAPTER IL I 
 
 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND OTHER SPORTSMEN. \ 
 
 THE place of meeting was at the house of Madame 
 Hortense Dartinelle, whom the men (you must notice 
 that it was the men, and not the women) called the 
 handsome widow, for it is very rare for the stronger 
 sex to make a mistake when they praise the weaker. 
 Whatever ladies may say, a man is much more capable 
 of appreciating their pleasing and charming qualities 
 than they are in each other, and though he may 
 sometimes be the dupe of appearances, he very soon 
 discovers any good qualities where they exist ; whilst 
 amongst women there is always a feeling of jealousy 
 which prevents them from being just towards each 
 other. 
 
 Madame Dartinelle is twenty-eight years old. She 
 has a little, elegant, well-made figure, and is dark, 
 with eyes that are almost as black as her hair. Her 
 features are regular, though her face generally has 
 a serious and often almost a stern look. She rarely 
 *miles, though she has magnificent teeth ; her com- 
 plexion is pale, and she has, altogether, a somewhat 
 melancholy expression which seems fitted to inspire, 
 and to feel, real love. 
 
 Married very young, she was not happy in her re- 
 lations, for her husband was a thoroughly debauched 
 fellow, who, luckily for her, died before having time 
 to squander all his fortune, and at twenty-four years 
 of age Hortense was left a widow with an income 
 
8 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND 
 
 of fifteen thousand francs a year. She had many 
 aspirants for her hand, and many a man hoped to be 
 fortunate enough to persuade Madame Dartinelle to 
 put a term to here widowhood, but the lady put of! 
 all her suitors by declaring that she did not intend 
 to marry again, for she found herself far too comfort- 
 able to wish to change her condition. They were 
 obliged, therefore, to give up all hopes of winning 
 the lady, for her impassive face and conversation 
 gave no other kind of hope to the would-be lovers 
 whom she refused as husbands. 
 
 George Varicourt is Madame Dartinelle's brother, 
 He is about forty years of age, and not at all like 
 his sister, either in appearance or in character. He is 
 a stout, jovial fellow, always merry, with a continual 
 smile on his lips and a joke on his tongue. He is 
 what may be called rather " fast," and having been 
 in the habit of indulging rather too much in his 
 fondness for the table, he is now obliged, for the 
 sake i>f his stomach, to impose some restraint on his 
 appetite ; he has even been advised to follow some 
 strict rules of diet, but he declares that he would 
 rather not live at all than not live well. Having 
 run through half his property, and only having 
 between seven and eight thousand francs* a year 
 left, he now passes part of the summer with his 
 sister in the country, where he saves money and 
 drinks less champagne. 
 
 Hortense is constantly giving her brother sermon® 
 of prudence, and says to him, — 
 
 " George, you have already had gastric fever once^ 
 and if you are not careful you will have it again, and 
 the doctor warned you that people very rarely get 
 over a second attack." 
 
 And George answers,— 
 
 " My dear sister, your medical man is very wrong; 
 to say that one cannot recover from such and such 
 * A. thousand franca are just about £40. 
 
OTHER SPORTSMEN. 9 
 
 an illness ! Now, if I were a doctor, I should say 
 just the opposite, and should keep repeating, even to 
 a patient who was most seriously ill : ' It is nothing 
 at all ; you will be out and about in a few days, and 
 meanwhile eat and drink whatever you like/ I will 
 bet that, with such a system, I should effect a great 
 many more cures than other physicians." 
 
 Madame Dartinelle's country house was one of the 
 prettiest and most comfortable in Fontenay-aux- 
 Koses. It was large, and' could accommodate at 
 least half-a-dozen friends, if necessary. Of course 
 there was a billiard-room for the men, and a 
 bagatelle table for the ladies, and all other games 
 which are indispensable in the country. It had a 
 large, well laid-out garden ; there was water and 
 a large fountain in which one could have taken 
 a bath, and a cool, dark grotto which seemed to have 
 been made expressly for lovers' meetings. It was, 
 in fact, altogether a most agreeable residence, and 
 there were plenty of roses about it, for it is well 
 known that they are the principal produce and chief 
 ornament of that part of the country, and no one 
 would be worthy of living at Fontenay-aux-Roses 
 who did not cultivate the flower from which it takes 
 its name. 
 
 George Varicourt often took several friends with 
 him when he went to see his sister in the country. 
 For some time he had been on very intimate 
 terms with Gontran Dalby, whose character was 
 much like his own. He was, however, ten years the 
 younger than stout George, but, like him, he was 
 rather fast, and an excellent companion ; and if he 
 was not so fond of good living as his friend, he was 
 much more addicted to women. His gallant adven- 
 tures had made a great sensation, and at thirty he 
 was mentioned as a most dangerous seducer, a 
 veritable Don Juan t whom no woman could resist. 
 
 He was good-looking, amiable, merry and witty, 
 
10 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND 
 
 and he was a general favourite because he never 
 showed off, and seemed to be quite ignorant of his 
 own good qualities, — so much so, that he often 
 seemed timid and embarrassed when in a lady's com- 
 pany ; and these clever tactics always succeeded. 
 When George said to his sister, — 
 " I shall bring Gontram Dalby with me," she 
 replied, — 
 
 "My dear brother, I do not see why you should 
 wish to bring this gentleman, who has by no means 
 a good reputation, to my house. He does nothing 
 but deceive women and fight duels with their 
 husbands, and everybody says that he is rather a 
 disreputable fellow." 
 
 u But you must not believe all tbv, silly things that 
 people say. I assure you that Gontran is a very 
 amiable, witty man, and such are rare, — this you 
 know as well as I do, — and when one happens to 
 meet with one, it is only right to get hold of him. 
 Besides, what does it matter to you if Gontran has 
 had some intrigues and deceived some women ; are 
 you frightened of him, and afraid that he should 
 seduce you t " 
 
 " Well, I am hardly afraid of that, George ! " 
 
 " You may be quite easy, for he will not even pay 
 you any attentions, for I told him that he would 
 be only wasting his time, as you were not in the 
 habit of receiving lovers welL" 
 
 « What !— you told him that 1 n 
 
 " Certainly I did. Was there any harm in it ? " 
 
 "It seems to me that you need not have taken 
 upon yourself to say that, for that is one of those 
 things which a woman likes to do or to say herself" 
 
 " I have no patience with you. One can never do 
 anything right for a woman." 
 
 Sometime after this conversation, Gontran had 
 accepted George's invitation, who had introduced 
 him to his sister. She had expected to see a sense- 
 
OTHER SPORY3MEN. 11 
 
 lees, noisy, hair-brained fellow, and was very much 
 surprised to see a young man of admirably correct 
 manners, who paid his respects to her almost without 
 looking at her, and who was much more reserved in 
 his language than her brother was. From that time 
 he was always welcome at Fontenay-aux-Roses ; 
 first of all he spent the day there, then he returned 
 and spent several days, till at last he became one 
 of the most regular guests at the pleasant country 
 house. Their intercourse, however, was always cool, 
 though friendly. When they happened to be alone, 
 Gontran spoke but little, and one might have 
 thought that he feared to express his thoughts ; and 
 on her part, the beautiful widow was more serious 
 and pensive than usuaL They would often be to- 
 gether for several minutes, apparently studying each 
 others' characters, but as soon as a third person 
 arrived Gontran regained all his cheerfulness; he 
 grew animated, kept up the conversation, and Hor- 
 tense herself was obliged to smile at the smart and 
 witty things that he introduced into his conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 What reason, then, could Madame Rocaille, who 
 did not like to hear her called the handsome widow, 
 have for alleging that Gontran Dalby was in love 
 with her when he was so reserved and almost timid 
 in her presence ? The reason most likely was, that 
 women often see things clearly which we cannot 
 even see through a microscope. 
 
 George had got up the shooting party to which 
 we saw M. Rocaille dragging his dog Moufflard by 
 main force. Gontran is a tolerably bad shot, but, 
 nevertheless, he wished to make one of them. Nine 
 o'clock at Madame Dartinelle's was the appointed 
 time of meeting, and though, as has been said, 
 Gontran was not much of a sportsman, he said to 
 his friend, — 
 
 " Nine o'clock is xather late to meet for a shooting 
 
12 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND 
 
 party. We ought to start at sunrise, or even before 
 
 for the fields to find partridges." 
 
 But his stout friend answered, — 
 
 " I am very fond of shooting, but I like to do it 
 comfortably, without disturbing myself. I generally 
 get up late, and I don't want to curtail my sleep to 
 go and hunt after game, for we shall find it just as 
 well at nine o'clock as at four o'clock in the morning. 
 After all, when I go out shooting it is more to get 
 an appetite than for anything else, for I don't reckon 
 much on the game that we shall kill. I am not a 
 good shot, you don't care for the sport, Rocaille 
 generally shoots nothing except the dogs, so that 
 there is nobody left except our neighbour Brochen- 
 biche, who says that he never comes home without 
 having killed some game, but we shall see." 
 
 This neighbour Brochenbiche is a tall, thin man, 
 with a rather original sort of face, and who always 
 thinks himself ill — in fact, he is never out of pain, 
 according to his own account : now he has a pain in 
 his head, then in his stomach, and next in his back ; 
 his heart or his liver is attacked; he is suffering 
 from rheumatism or the gout ; and one never sees 
 him without his dragging his legs after him, or hold- 
 ing his side. When asked how he is, he shakes his 
 head, and replies: "H'm, I am not at all well; I 
 shall not last much longer now." But he has been 
 saying the same thing for the last twenty years, and 
 yet he has never been confined to his bed, and his 
 ailments do not prevent him from having an excel- 
 lent appetite, and he very often goes out shooting 
 because his doctor has ordered him to do so. 
 
 Madame Rosina Brochenbiche is a decidedly stout, 
 very cheerful and friendly dame, who does not appear 
 to be the least anxious about her husband's ailments 
 — in fact, she declares that he fancies he is ill without 
 really being so, but that he likes to be coddled, and 
 is very fond of different sorts of herb teas, as long 
 
)THEB SPORTSMEN. L3 
 
 as they are made nice and sweet, so that whilst 
 M. Brochenbiche is feeling himself all over to find 
 out where he has a pain, his wife often begins to 
 laugh, and says : " You see, he does not even know 
 whether it is on the right or the left side; he has 
 quite forgotten where it was this morning." 
 
 M. Brochenbiche gets very angry at her jokes, and 
 says to his wife : " I suppose you will never believe 
 that I am ill till I die, and you will not be sorry for 
 having made fun of all my sufferings till it is too 
 late," and she generally replies : " My dear, if I were 
 to shed tears for all your aches and pains every 
 time you complain, my eyes would be so red that I 
 should frighten you, and I do not wish to do that." 
 
 The sportsmen met in a large room on the ground 
 floor of Madame Dartinelle's house. Gontran, who 
 has on a very elegant shooting suit, which he very 
 seldom wears, has on this occasion taken care that 
 nothing shall be wanting in his appointments, and 
 he carries his gun, game bag, powder flask, and all 
 a sportsman's requisites with graceful ease. Fat 
 George Varicourt has buckled in his waistband very 
 tightly, so that his stomach may not be in his way 
 when he wants to run ; neighbour Rocaille has just 
 arrived, still holding his dog in the leash, and 
 Moufllard does not seem at all inclined to hunt after 
 partridges. Last of all, Brochenbiche appears with 
 his head covered with two skull caps, one of cotton 
 and the other of black silk, over which he has put 
 a huge travelling cap with flaps fastened down over 
 the ears. He comes up coughing and limping a 
 little, and, when he is asked how he is, he shakes 
 his head and grumbles out, — 
 
 " H'm, I am not well ; I keep coughing and have 
 a pain in my back. It wants a lot of pluck to 
 go out shooting in my state of health." 
 
 "But you are not obliged to come; you had 
 better have stopped in bed. " 
 
14 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND 
 
 "I am perfectly aware that I was not obliged 
 to go out shooting, but it is as well to take a 
 little exercise, and then there is the pleasure of 
 your society, besides which I am passionately 
 fond of partridges." 
 
 "Gentlemen" George said, "I propose that we 
 drink a glass of Madeira before starting, as a pre- 
 ventative against the ill effects of the morning fog." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," Gontran replied m t 
 " one ought never to go out without having taken 
 something." 
 
 " I have already had my cup of chocolate, " Rocaille 
 said, " but that makes no difference, and the Madeira 
 will do instead of the glass of water after it, which, 
 by the way, I never take." 
 
 M. Brochenbiche blew his nose, and said, — 
 
 " Madeira in the morning I h'm, I think it is rather 
 heating, it might get into one's head." 
 
 " You are not obliged to take it," George observed 
 to him. 
 
 "I know that perfectly well, but I like to do a» 
 others do, and so I will venture on a thimblefuL ' 
 
 The wine is brought, poured out, and tasted. M. 
 Brochenbiche, who only took it that he might do 
 as others did, does a great deal better, for he haa 
 his glass filled twice more, and says, — 
 
 "It is very strange, but I think it is doing my 
 cold good ; I must buy some." 
 
 "Is there plenty of game about here?" Gontran 
 asked. 
 
 " Upon my word I don't know. This is the first 
 time since I have been staying with my sister that I 
 thought about going out shooting ; but you, Rocaille, 
 who have lived here for some time, you can tell u& 
 all about this." 
 
 " I have not been out snooting very often," was his 
 answer, " and I have always had an accident witb 
 my dog." 
 
OTHER SPORTSMEN. 15 
 
 "To-day you don't appear to be very fortunate 
 
 in the matter of dogs. Why are you keeping him 
 
 tied up?" 
 
 "Because otherwise he would bolt and run off 
 
 home." 
 
 " Then what is the good of him for shooting ; you 
 
 surely cannot scamper along with him ? " 
 
 " When we are in the open country, away from 
 
 the village, I can let him go, for he will not think 
 
 about running home then ; but shall we not have 
 
 the pleasure of seeing Madame Dartinelle before we 
 
 start?" 
 
 " I hardly think so, for ladies are not generally 
 visible so early in the morning." 
 
 " But Madame Dartinelle is not like others, for I 
 
 see her in the garden, and she is coming towards us." 
 
 The handsome widow, who liked to get up early to 
 
 go into the garden and attend to her flowers, was 
 
 just coming into the room where the sportsmen were 
 assembled. She was not one of those ladies who do 
 not venture to show themselves in the morning be- 
 cause they have not yet painted their faces ; Hortense 
 was always charming, even immediately on getting 
 out of bed — perhaps even most so at that moment. 
 It must not, however, be imagined that she had 
 neglected her toilette, and it is only natural, when 
 gentlemen going out shooting meet at a lady's house, 
 that she should bestow some pains upon it. It was 
 the beginning of September, and the weather was 
 fine, although already rather cool. Hortense had on 
 a light blue dress buttoned up to the neck in front, a 
 small straight collar came down on to her shoulders, 
 and a black silk band round her waist set off its 
 slimness. Her beautiful hair required no head-dress, 
 and her small arched feet were shod in little boots of 
 the same colour as her dress. Everything was well 
 cut, well made, and well put on and worn, and, in 
 spite of Leocadie Rocaille, one might certainly say 
 
16 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND 
 
 "the handsome Madame Dartinelle," without being 
 taxed with flattery. 
 
 " Why, gentlemen," she said, greeting them, " not 
 started yet f " 
 
 " My dog detained me," Rocaille said. 
 
 " I am in pain again," Brochenbiche observed. 
 
 " We must congratulate ourselves on being late," 
 Gontran continued, " as it has procured us the 
 pleasure of seeing you before starting, Madame." 
 
 She smiled slightly at this compliment, and asked, — 
 
 "At what time shall you be in to luncheon, 
 gentlemen ? " 
 
 " We shall not lunch here," George answered, " but 
 shall eat a morsel wherever we happen to be, and 
 reserve all our appetite for dinner, so you may reckon 
 on us by half-past six at the latest." 
 
 " That is right, and I hope M. Rocaille and M. 
 Brochenbiche have told their wives ? " 
 
 *' Certainly, they are coming to spend the day 
 with you ; and now, gentlemen, let us start." 
 
 But at the very moment when they were going to 
 do so, a fresh individual, also with a gun and in 
 shooting dress, came into the room. 
 
 " Why, here is Oswald Lambert ! " George cried* 
 ** Upon my word, my dear fellow, you come just in 
 time, for we were on the point of setting out." 
 
 " So I see ; but let me first of all pay my respects 
 to Madame Dartinelle." 
 
 The new-comer was a young, well-made man, with 
 a very good head ; his features were correct, and no 
 fault was to be found with his nose, mouth, or eyes, 
 only the latter were rather too wanting in expres- 
 sion, which gave him a rather sombre look that he 
 tried to hide by smiling frequently, looking amiable, 
 and, in a word, by doing the agreeable, as it is 
 called. 
 
 The handsome widow did not appear particularly 
 delighted at his arrival, but she received him politely, 
 
OTHER SPORTSMEN. 17 
 
 as a mistress of the house who always wishes to 
 seem pleased when anyone comes to see her; but 
 when she found an opportunity of getting near to 
 her brother, and speaking to him without being heard 
 by the others, she whispered into his ear, — 
 
 " It really was not necessary to ask M. Lambert 
 to come here : you know how I dislike the man, 
 who is always showing me marked attentions. I 
 have told him that I will never marry him, and in 
 spite of that he is continually overwhelming me 
 with compliments and ogling me : I cannot endure 
 him." 
 
 " Good heavens ! Hortense, you said just the same 
 about Gontran the first time I brought him here, and 
 now he amuses you, and you find him very pleasant." 
 
 M Who told you that I thought so, or what makes 
 you think so ? " 
 
 But George did not give her an answer, but went 
 and drank some more Madeira to keep M. Brochen- 
 biche company, who was eagerly trying to cure his 
 cold. 
 
 After paying his respects to the lady of the house, 
 M. Oswald Lambert looked at the rest of the com- 
 pany; he smiled at M. Brochenbiche, shook hands 
 with M. Rocaille, but when he recognised Gontran 
 the smile forsook his lips, and he merely bowed 
 coldly to George's friend, who returned his salute 
 equally coldly, and it was easy to see immediately 
 that those two gentlemen were not very fond of 
 each other. Gontran was a general favourite on 
 account of his natural cheerfulness, whilst M. Lam- 
 bert's was forced, and neither carried you away nor 
 made you join in it. Besides that, Gontran'a good 
 Fortune in love affairs was often mentioned, and 
 though Lambert also set up for being a favourite 
 with ladies, he was altogether distanced by Gontran; 
 but, above all, he was much in love with Madame 
 Dartinolle, and hoped that his perseverance would 
 
 B 
 
18 ANOTHER HOUSE, AND OTHER SPORTSMEN. 
 
 triumph over her coldness, ao that, when he found 
 friend George installed in the fair widow's country- 
 house, something immediately seemed to tell him 
 that he had a rival 
 
 " Which way are we going ? " the new-comer asked. 
 
 "I really don't know; you must ask M. Broch- 
 ^enbiche, who never comes home empty-handed/' 
 Oeorge replied ; " he will show us." 
 
 " I am quite willing, gentlemen, and if I am vigorous 
 enough I will take you as far as Sceaux, for there are 
 plenty of partridges there." 
 
 " I don't agree with you," Rocaille said ; " if we 
 want game we must go into the woods at Vernieres." 
 
 " I think we had better go to the open country to- 
 wards Chatenay." 
 
 " Gentlemen," Gontran suggested, " I propose that 
 each of us goes where he pleases, and so much the 
 better for him who has made a lucky choice." 
 
 " Gontran is right," George exclaimed ; " we need 
 not all keep together. Let us be off, gentlemen." 
 
 "Madame will not come with us?" M. Lambert 
 ^sked, throwing an ardent look at Hortense. 
 
 '* No, sir ; I am not given to field sports. I leave 
 that sort of thing to ladies who smoke." 
 
 " You are quite right, Madame ; be true to your sex, 
 for a gun frightens the Graces." 
 
 " Come along, Oswald ; we shall get nothing if we 
 wait much longer." 
 
 " I am coming." 
 
 They started at last, but M. Rocaille was soon left 
 behind, because Moufllard refused to go shooting with 
 his master, who was obliged to keep continually 
 pulling at the leash to get him along, besides stopping 
 now and then to bestow a good kick on his dog. 
 
THE WIND. 1& 
 
 CHAPTER 1IJL 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 The sportsmen soon separated, some to the rights 
 others to the left. It was tolerably fine, but there 
 was a very strong wind, which occasionally blew so 
 violently as to break off large branches of trees, and 
 to carry off hats unless they were tied on or pulled 
 well on to the head. 
 
 Gontran, who had not expected this whirlwind, 
 had already twice been obliged to run after his cap, 
 which had been carried off, and thus he kept M. 
 Rocaille company, who had to run after his dog aa 
 soon as he had let him go, for Moufllard did not evince- 
 the smallest disposition to follow his master, and 
 kept on trying to run off, which put the latter into a 
 very bad temper, and caused him to swear at his dog y 
 whilst Gontran only laughed at the tricks the wind 
 was playing on him. 
 
 " Tie your cap on," Rocaille shouted out to him,, 
 "or vou will have nothing to do but to run after 
 it." ; 
 
 " Tie up your dog, else you will spend your whole* 
 day in trying to catch Moufllard." 
 
 " If I tie him up he will not come to a point when 
 there is any game." 
 
 " I have no strap to my cap, so I cannot fasten it 
 tinder my chin." 
 
 "Curse the wind I It quite stuns one, and 
 prevents one from hearing the game." 
 
 " I certainly do not hear any hares running about,, 
 but I don't think there are many of them here." 
 
 "All the others have disappeared, and I do not 
 expect they will be much more lucky than we are." 
 
 " But at any rate they have good dogs, and their 
 caps are not being continually blown off." 
 
20 THE WIND. 
 
 " Upon my word," Rocaille said, "if I were obliged 
 to tie up my head like Brochenbiche, to avoid 
 catching cold, I should prefer to have my cough." 
 
 " You are vain, M. Rocaille." 
 
 " Without being vain, there is no need to make a 
 sight of one's self, especially when there are pretty 
 women about." 
 
 " You are quite right ; there is your wife, who is 
 very pretty." 
 
 " Oh, she does not count." 
 
 " If not with you, you will allow her to count with 
 others; she quite deserves to have attentions paid 
 her." 
 
 "You are quite welcome to do so, for I am not 
 at all jealous. But it would be a grand thing to 
 subdue Madame Dartinelle's coldness. Do not you 
 intend to try to do so, you who are so well known 
 for your successes amongst the fair sex 1 " 
 
 " I ? Why, I have never thought of such a thing, 
 for she always puts on such a severe look when one 
 pays her any compliments, that it is not very en- 
 couraging. She certainly is very charming, and, 
 when she deigns to smile, her face is positively 
 delightful; but then she only smiles at indifferent 
 topics, and I do not think it is possible to animate 
 her, and that is a pity. Hullo ! there's a rabbit out 
 there." 
 
 " I see him." 
 
 41 Well, why don't you shoot? " 
 
 M. Rocaille shoots, misses, and exclaims, — 
 
 "I think it was a hare." 
 
 "And that's the reason that you missed, I 
 suppose f " 
 
 " That's nonsense ; but where is your dog ? " 
 
 "I did not bring one, as I depended on my 
 friends." 
 
 " How like a Parisian, to go out shooting without 
 a dog!" 
 
THE WIND. 21 
 
 " I see that I made a great mistake to reckon on 
 yours." 
 
 The report of the gun had so terrified Moufflard 
 that he bolted as fast as he could, and his master 
 after him. The two men happened just then to be 
 on a large tract of level ground, with a few walnut 
 trees here and there, whose branches creaked in the 
 wind, which blew down the walnuts which still 
 remained on them. A young peasant girl was under 
 one of the trees busy picking up the nuts, when sud- 
 denly a violent puff of wind blew under her petticoats 
 and threw them over her head, thus exposing a cer- 
 tain part of her which was unprotected by "ladies' 
 underwear." The girl tried to disembarrass herself 
 from her petticoats, but she was doubtless hindered 
 by the walnuts which she had got in her apron, for 
 she could not succeed in pulling them down. 
 
 Gontran, who was only about twenty yards from 
 her, seeing what the wind had done, ran up to 
 her, and, pulling down her petticoats, let her face 
 appear. 
 
 And it was a face worth looking at, for what one 
 saw fully corresponded to what ought not to be 
 seen. It was a pretty, fresh face, with a rather high 
 colour, perhaps, but bright and mischievous. Black 
 eyes which sparkled like diamonds, a little snub 
 nose, a pretty, rather full mouth, showing perfectly 
 white teeth ; in fact, she was a very pretty little girl 
 whom the wind had just treated so cavalierly. 
 
 She thanked Gontran, with a blush, for having 
 rescued her from her awkward position, and said,— 
 
 " I am sure I am very much obliged to you, sir ; 
 it was very kind of you to pull my clothes down." 
 
 "But, my dear child, I only did what I ought; 
 you were in an unpleasant fix, and could not see, 
 and so I helped you as quickly as I could." 
 
 " Why, of course, that wat* the first thing to do ; 
 but if any of the village lads had come along, they 
 
32 THE WIND. 
 
 are so fond of playing us stupid tricks that they cer- 
 tainly would have been in no hurry to release me." 
 
 " I assure you that I was not at all sorry to be of 
 service to you in such untoward circumstances." 
 
 "Please, sir, don't talk like that. Just fancy if 
 Fouillaupot knew what you have done, who is already 
 so jealous. What a face he would make ! " 
 
 " Who is he ? Your sweetheart f " 
 
 " He is more than that, he is my intended, and we 
 are going to get married in a week." 
 
 " Well, all I can say is that he is a very happy 
 mortal, and I cannot help envying his good fortune." 
 
 "Do be quiet, you make me feel quite ashamed. 
 "Good day, sir, and thank you ; I shall not go picking 
 up walnuts again in such a wind." 
 
 The girl went off, and Gontran looked after her 
 and said to himself: "Upon my word, she is a very 
 nice, jolly little thing, and her husband need only — " 
 
 But he did not finish, for whilst he had been talk- 
 ing to the village girl he had heard Rocaille shouting : 
 " Wait for me. That is better than a hare." 
 
 Whilst running after Moufflard, who had taken 
 him some distance from his companion, he had never- 
 theless seen what the wind had done, and so he had 
 left his dog in order to hasten towards the walnut 
 tree, but all m vain, for the girl had gone before he 
 got there. 
 
 "By Jove! what bad luck I have," Rocaille said; 
 " but, my dear M. Gontran, why were you in such a 
 hurry ? I saw it all from the distance, and called out 
 to you to wait for me, but there, you would not 
 listen, and put everything straight before I came up." 
 
 "Why, M. Rocaille, you did not think that I should 
 really allow the poor child to struggle under her 
 petticoats without being able to see t ,; 
 
 "Where would have been the harm? It is the 
 «ort of thing that happens every day in Paris when 
 it is a stormy wind, and women are crossing the 
 
THE WIND. 2S 
 
 bridges. Puff! and up go their petticoats into the 
 
 air." 
 
 " Yes, but in Paris nearly all the ladies wear light 
 underclothing." 
 
 "Oh! not all. But you saw the girl; is she pretty? " 
 
 " She is very nice," with a mischievous look and 
 pleasant smile. 
 
 " I think everything about her is nice. It is that 
 brute Moufflard's fault that I was not near the walnut 
 tree; I am dreadfully sorry for it. Where is that 
 confounded dog ? If I catch him I will tie him up 
 and not let him go again." 
 
 M. Rocaille ran off to try to catch the dog, and 
 Gontran went in another direction, saying to him- 
 self : " That fellow is getting a nuisance, and I cer- 
 tainly do not mean to waste my time in running 
 after his dog with him. I certainly have not got one,, 
 but, for all the game I see, I think it would be an 
 unnecessary luxury," and, very likely without thinking 
 what he was doing, the young man went in the direc- 
 tion which the girl had taken, for there is something 
 like a magnet which attracts men to pretty women. 
 You may say that it is the effect of magnetism, of 
 spiritualism, or fanaticism, but I think it is merely 
 the effect of naturalism. 
 
 Gontran went on at haphazard, without thinking 
 that he was supposed to be out shooting, but dream- 
 ing of the handsome widow whose guest he was, for, 
 although he pretended not to care much about her 
 when Rocaille spoke to him, he was far from being 
 insensible to her attractions. He would be too happy 
 to gain Hortense's love, but he knows enough about 
 women to feel sure that he must not act as he would 
 under ordinary circumstances towards a strict and 
 serious, though beautiful, woman, who does not regard 
 love as a light matter, and in whose eyes his reputa- 
 tion has already injured him ; in fact, he hopes to 
 make the lady think more about him by pretending; 
 
24 THE WIND. 
 
 not to think of her. A woman who is in the habit of 
 receiving the homage of nearly all men will much 
 more easily remark the man who does not pay her 
 ^any attention than all those who strive to please her. 
 
 The means which Gontran employed were not at 
 all bad, and that was why he never spoke to Hortense 
 of love. He could not, however, always prevent him- 
 self from looking at her anything but indifferently, 
 for no one is always master of his feelings, and at such 
 times she would look at him as though she expected 
 something further from him, but he would resume 
 his cheerful and easy manners, and the lady would 
 bite her lips with vexation. 
 
 Meanwhile the wind, which had gone down for a 
 moment, suddenly grew as violent as ever again, and 
 Oontran, absorbed in his thoughts, all at once found 
 that he had lost his headgear, for the wind had carried 
 off his cap so suddenly that he had not even seen it go. 
 He put his hand to his head, looked up into the air, 
 3,nd then all about him, but no signs of his cap ! The 
 wind, however, was still blowing violently, so he went 
 on at a venture, saying to himself : " It is very un- 
 pleasant, for I shall catch a cold in my head. If I 
 had only seen it fly away, I should know in what 
 direction to look for it. I don't care about catching 
 cold, but I shall look such a fool to go home from 
 shooting bareheaded, and everybody will make fun of 
 me, especially that Oswald Lambert, whom I cannot 
 bear, and who is continually looking at George's sister. 
 If I were to meet a peasant I would buy his hat of 
 him, A king once exclaimed, 'My kingdom for a 
 horse!' and 1 would willingly say, 'My purse for a 
 hat ! ' I have had enough of shooting, and I don't 
 even know where I am, or what road to take to get 
 to Madame Dartinelle's, and perhaps I am going 
 farther and farther aw^ . I have never been about 
 here before. It is a funny position to be in, and the 
 wind is enough to blow one's head off" 
 
THE WIND. 25 
 
 Gontran walked on, looking on the ground in the 
 hope of seeing his cap, -which might have been carried 
 to some distance, when suddenly the girl who had 
 been picking up the walnuts a few minutes before 
 placed herself before him, holding in her hand a shoot- 
 ing cap, which she gave him with a smile. 
 
 "I expect this belongs to you, sir ; I found it over 
 yonder, close to Claude's field." 
 
 " Yes, that's my head covering, and for you to bring 
 it me are two strokes of good luck at once." 
 
 " You were civil to me just now, and I am glad to 
 be able to return it." 
 
 " You are very kind, and I am inclined to thank the 
 wind, whose tricks always turn out to my profit." 
 
 " But if you do not tie your cap on you will lose it 
 again, and I may not always be on the spot to find it." 
 
 " How am I to fasten it on ? The strap is gone, there 
 is a buttonhole and a buckle, but I have neither string 
 nor ribbon to fasten on." 
 
 " Have not you got a bit of string ? " 
 
 " I told you I had not." 
 
 She thought for a moment, and said, — 
 
 " Wait an instant, I will give you something ; turn 
 your back and don't look ! " 
 
 Gontran did as he was told, and the girl pulled up 
 her petticoats, quickly undid one of her garters, which 
 ■was fastened above the knee, and said , — 
 
 " Here you are ; give me your cap and I will put 
 a strap on." 
 
 Gontran gave it to her, and looked at what she 
 was fastening on. 
 
 "What have you got there! It has a buckle; 
 where did you get it? " 
 
 " Off my knee, of course." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that it is one of your garters?" 
 
 " Yes, and it will do beautifully." 
 
 " But you are too kind to rob yourself of your 
 garters for me." 
 
26 THE WIND. 
 
 " I am going to get married, and Fouillaupot will 
 give me another pair; he gave me these not very 
 I >ng ago, and they are tolerably new still." 
 
 " Your garter ! Do you know that it is a very 
 precious gift? Where do you garter t 
 
 " Be quiet, and don't talk such nonsense." 
 
 " What's your name ? " 
 
 " What has that to do with you t " 
 
 " I should like to know the name of the girl whose 
 garter I have got." 
 
 " Well, there is no mystery about it, if you want 
 to know it. My name is F61icit6 Boulafour ; I am a 
 clear-starcher, live at Fontenay-aux-Roses, and in 
 a week I am going to marry Cadet Fouillaupot, a 
 laundryman, whose master is going to give up his 
 business to him. There, is that enough for you ? " 
 
 " Quite, thank you ; you are very kind. So you 
 are going to unite clear-starching with ordinary 
 laundry work." 
 
 " Yes, it is the best thing to do." 
 
 " Why, you almost sighed as you said that. I fancy 
 that you are not very much in love with your intended." 
 
 " In love with him ? Not at all ! Cadet is a very 
 good fellow, and a capital workman, but I am not the 
 least in love with him." 
 
 44 Then why are you going to marry him! A 
 pretty girl like you ought to love her husband." 
 
 " My mother says it is not at all necessary, for she 
 did not at all care for her husband when she married 
 him, and yet they were very happy. I don't dislike 
 him, and, though he is rather stupid, my mother says 
 that a stupid husband is better than a very sensible 
 one ; but he is too jealous, and that I do not like at 
 alL I told him so, and said, 'Cadet, don't quarrel 
 with me and have a scene because I joke with any- 
 body, for if you do I shall only do it all the more/ 
 and then he swore that he would alter, and marry 
 me with his eyes shut." 
 
THE WIND. 27 
 
 " I think he had better keep them wide open to 
 look at yon." 
 
 *' But I am chatting to yon as if I had known you 
 for a long time, and now I must go and see my 
 cousin Giroux. Good-bye, sir." 
 
 " Good-bye, pretty Felicity." 
 
 " You have remembered my name? " 
 
 " I shall remember something else when I think of 
 you. Oh, will you tell me my way to Fontenay t " 
 
 " There it is, along that path, and keep continually 
 to the right." 
 
 "If you are going back there, I can go with you." 
 
 " No, I must go as far as Sceaux, to my cousin's ; 
 and besides, if anybody saw me returning to the 
 village with a fine gentleman, what a talk it would 
 cause. Good-bye, sir." 
 
 " Perhaps I may meet you again by chance ; mean- 
 while, I will never part with your garter." 
 
 " What nonsense you do talk ! " 
 
 * Will you give me a kiss ? " 
 
 " I should like to see myself ! " 
 
 " Just to thank you for the present you made me." 
 
 " It is not worth while." 
 
 * Just one little kiss * " . 
 
 w No, I don't trust you ; another time, perhaps." 
 
 " Will you promise ? " 
 
 "Yes. I am running no risk in giving you the 
 promise, for I shall never see you again." 
 
 " How do you know 1 " 
 
 " Good-bye, sir." 
 
 The girl then ran off, and Gontran Wont on ufo 
 way towards Fontenay-aux-Roses. 
 
28 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 When Gontran got back to Madame Dartinelle's, he 
 found that M. Oswald Lambert had already returned, 
 for he did not care about shooting, though he had 
 eagerly accepted George's invitation, as it gave him 
 an opportunity of seeing his sister. He had, there- 
 fore, left his fellow sportsmen as soon as he could, 
 hoping to have a tete-a-tete with Hortense, and was 
 very much disappointed at finding three ladies 
 instead of one, for Madame Rocaille and Madame 
 Brochenbiche were already there, well-dressed and 
 with their hair very carefully done, ready to criticise 
 all the ladies of the neighbourhood. As soon as 
 they saw M. Lambert, who had all the graces and 
 manners of a Paris dandy, and whom they had not 
 met at Madame Dartinelle's before, the two neigh- 
 bours hastily looked at their toilettes to assure them- 
 selves that they were quite correct, and assumed a 
 very gracious look. 
 
 " What, have you come back from shooting so 
 soon, M. Lambert?" Hortense asked, as she re- 
 ceived him with a slightly ironical smile. " I suppose 
 you have killed enough game, and want to leave 
 some for the others ? " 
 
 Oswald bore her attack boldly, and bowing with 
 a contrite look he answered,— 
 
 " Alas ! Madame, I have brought nothing home. I 
 have seen nothing and shot nothing, and so I said to 
 myself: jj Instead of going after game which cannot 
 be found, I shall pass my time much more pleasantly 
 in Madame Dartinelle's society.' I am glad that 
 1 have been unfortunate in my sport, as it has given 
 me the opportunity of joining this delightful com- 
 pany all the sooner." 
 
RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 2$ 
 
 This compliment pleased Madame Rocaille very 
 much, and she turned up her eyes and pursed up her 
 mouth, and Rosina Brochenbiche, who was always 
 laughing, cried, — 
 
 "So you have come back empty-handed! If my 
 husband were not to bring any game home, he would 
 nearly get the jaundice. But I don't bother myself, 
 for he would rather kill all the cats in the neigh- 
 bourhood than come back with an empty game-bag." 
 
 Oswald had scarcely finished paying his pretty 
 compliments when Gontran appeared before the tria 
 of ladies. 
 
 "Another nought, I will bet," Madame Brochen- 
 biche exclaimed. 
 
 "You would win your bet, Madame, for I have 
 come back just as I set out, but really the wind is so- 
 deafening that one can hardly stand against it." 
 
 " I hope to goodness it will not blow our husbands 
 away ! " 
 
 "I am quite easy on that score, for M. Rocaille is 
 far too heavy." 
 
 "So you have not been more fortunate than M.. 
 Lambert, Monsieur ? " Hortense asked. 
 
 "If he has come back empty, that is precisely 
 my case." 
 
 " Luckily we did not depend altogether upon your 
 shooting for dinner." 
 
 "Wait a little, Madame," Rosina said; "all the 
 gentlemen have not come back yet, and one can 
 always rely upon my husband for an animal of some 
 sort or other." 
 
 " I will not be answerable for mine," Leocadie 
 said, " for his gun very often misses fire, and when 
 I say to him, ' My dear, why do you keep a gun that 
 misses fire % ' he says that he is used to it," 
 
 " Where are your companions, gentlemen ; hava 
 they been more fortunate than you % " 
 
 "I really do not know, Madame, for I left M, 
 
20 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 Rocaille running after his dog, who has not the 
 slightest taste for sport." 
 
 " When I saw that the other gentlemen were pre- 
 pared to go a long way — for they talked of the woods 
 of Vernieres and of La Croix-de-Berny — I felt that 
 I had not sufficient courage to go all that distance 
 with them/' 
 
 " You certainly are not very enthusiastic sports- 
 men, gentlemen, though this is not a day to give 
 anyone much inclination to go out shooting." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Madame," Gontran exclaimed, 
 
 ~" for I have had a most delightful day, and I assure 
 
 you I shall always remember it with great pleasure." 
 
 "You must have found our neighbourhood very 
 pretty, sir ? " 
 
 " It is very pretty, but I knew it already ; whereas 
 to-day I have seen something that I never saw before.** 
 
 " Have you discovered any fresh spot from which 
 to see the landscape?" said Madame Brochenbiche. 
 "Where is it? do tell me where it is, for I want 
 to see it, I am most curious ! " 
 
 "Madame, I do not think you will see it as I did, 
 and besides, I do not suppose that it would afford 
 you the same pleasure." 
 
 "Monsieur Dalby says this in such a strange 
 manner that one might fancy there is some mystery 
 in it all," Hortense said. 
 
 "You are quite right, Madame, for what I have 
 3>een saying relates to a very charming adventure 
 which happened to me whilst I was trying to get 
 some shooting." 
 
 " An adventure ! oh, do tell it us, for I am so fond 
 of hearing adventures." 
 
 " Well, really, ladies, it is rather a difficult matter 
 to tell it you, for it is rather — " 
 
 "If it is one that ladies ought not to hear," 
 Hortense said, drawing in her lips, " please do not 
 tell it us, Monsieur." 
 
RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 81 
 
 u Yes, do ! do ! " the other two ladies cried. " We 
 are not girls, Madame Dartinelle is a widow, so we 
 can very well listen to anything rather difficult. In 
 the country, people are not so particular." 
 
 " Well, as these ladies wish it, you can tell it." 
 
 Gontran was just going to begin when the other 
 sportsmen returned. M. Brochenbiche has shot two 
 partridges, and George three sparrows. Rocaille i& 
 the last to arrive, and proudly pulls a hare out of his 
 game bag, which he lays at Madame Dartinelle's- 
 feet, at which all the others utter an exclamation of 
 astonishment. 
 
 " A hare ! he has killed a hare ! " 
 
 "It is incredible," Brochenbiche said; "I could 
 have sworn that there were none about here." 
 
 " My husband has never had a better day's sport,'* 
 Madame Rocaille declared. 
 
 "You see, Madame, I wished to distinguish my- 
 self," her husband said, swaggering about in front of 
 his game. 
 
 But very soon the hare distributed such a strong- 
 smell through the whole drawing-room that every 
 lady was obliged to take out her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " Leocadie exclaimed, " whatever- 
 smells so horribly ? " 
 
 "I think it is M. Rocaille's hare," Hortense- 
 murmured. 
 
 "0 Lord!" Gontran says, "is it as high as that: 
 already ? That fellow must have been very ill ! " 
 
 "Come now, Rocaille," fat George said, "just con- 
 fess that the hare was already dead when you 
 shot it." 
 
 "Nothing of the sort, quite impossible: it wa& 
 merely asleep on its form when I saw it — " 
 
 " And did not wake up when you fired ! I can 
 quite believe it, and that you had no need to be in a, 
 hurry." 
 
32 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 "How like men! they are jealous because they 
 iiave brought nothing back, and they will not allow 
 that I have killed a hare." 
 
 "My dear Rocaille, newly-killed game does not 
 smell quite so strongly as this, and, to punish you, 
 you shall eat some of it at dinner. Here, take away 
 this gentleman's hare, and don't let us see it any 
 more." 
 
 "Don't let us smell it any more," Brochenbiche 
 said, " for it is very unhealthy to inhale this smelL 
 Bosina, have you any eau-de-cologne about you ? " 
 
 " Yes, plenty." 
 
 " Then just rub my temples, for there is no time to 
 lose; I was feeling poisoned up to my very eyes." 
 
 The servant carried the hare away, and, to avenge 
 Mmself for what had been said about it, Rocaille went 
 on, rubbing his hands, — 
 
 "Ha, ha! These gentlemen do not like the idea of 
 my having had good sport, but if they only knew 
 what M. Gontran and I have seen, they would regret 
 more than ever not having been with us ! " 
 
 " What did you see that was so wonderful, gentle- 
 men ? " 
 
 " Oh, only a bird that is rather rare about here." 
 
 " What bird was it ? " 
 
 " The cul-blanc* and we really saw one ! " 
 
 "M. Rocaille," Hortense said, "I think you are 
 forgetting yourself." 
 
 "My dear sister," George replied, "you have no 
 reason to be angry, but I suppose you do not know 
 that there is a bird that goes by that name, and 
 a very fat and good bird it is." 
 
 "I had no idea that there was any bird of that 
 name," she said; "had you, ladies ? " 
 
 "My husband has ofte^ mentioned them to me," 
 
 * The wheatear, a delicious little bird, found on the Sussex 
 Downs, esteemed a great delicacy, something like an ortolan* 
 The French name signifies white rump. 
 
 1 
 
RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 33 
 
 Leocadie answered, " but I was mistaking one thing 
 for the other." 
 
 " Well, Rocaille, finish your story ; you saw one of 
 these birds and did not shoot at it ? " 
 
 He began to laugh furiously, and murmured, — 
 
 " Nothing I should have liked better, but I was too 
 far off; ask M. Dalby, who was quite close, and saw 
 everything better than I did." 
 
 "Ladies," Gontran said, "you remember that I 
 was just going to tell you what had happened to 
 me this morning when these gentlemen returned, and 
 M. Rocaille is alluding to that, so I will try to tell 
 you what it was without shocking your ears in the 
 least. When we started to go shooting this morning 
 there was a tremendous wind — " 
 
 " Yes, it hindered me very much in coming here," 
 Leocadie observed. 
 
 "We were in the level country, with a few old 
 walnut trees scattered about. M. Rocaille was very 
 busy trying to catch his dog, who refused to follow 
 us, when suddenly I saw just in front of me a young 
 girl, who was engaged in picking up the walnuts, and 
 upon whom the wind had played a most perfidious 
 trick, for it had got under her petticoats and blown 
 them up so as to hide her head entirely, whilst 
 another part of her person was — well, was quite 
 exposed to the air." 
 
 "Ah! very good," said George; "you mean the 
 name of the bird that was mentioned just now." 
 
 " Exactly so. You may be sure I ran immediately 
 to the girl's assistance, and put things into their 
 proper place again ; just then M. Rocaille came up, 
 and found fault with me for having been in too great 
 a hurry to conceal what the wind had uncovered." 
 
 " You libertine I you shocking man ! " Leocadie 
 cried; "it is just like you to profit by an accident 
 'which had happened to the poor girl." 
 
 " Really, Monsieur, it was too bad ! " 
 
 
 
34 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 " Good gracious, ladies ! why, we go nearly every- 
 day to see statues, which are often full length naked 
 figures, and that is much worse." 
 
 " Those are works of art, and it is not at all the 
 same thing." 
 
 " But, M. Dalby, you must have seen her ; was 
 she pretty?" 
 
 " She was very nice, a mischievous, striking face,, 
 good eyes — " 
 
 " Why, here is Gontran in love with a little village 
 girl ; what a pity the adventure finished so quickly ! " 
 
 " But it did not end there ; it had a sequel." 
 
 " Oh, there was a sequel to it ; let us hear it,, 
 please." 
 
 " What ! there was something more, and I was not 
 there ! " Rocaille exclaimed. 
 
 Hortense, who appeared to take a great interest in 
 the end of this adventure, looked steadily at Gontran 
 and said, — 
 
 "I am glad to find, Monsieur,, that you have told 
 us what happened in a very proper manner, far more 
 so than M. Rocaille began to relate it, and I hope 
 that this will also be the case with the sequel." 
 
 " Indeed, Madame, there is nothing in it to offend 
 even the chastest ears. I left M. Rocaille, whom hi& 
 dog was taking farther and farther away from me, 
 and I was walking without any definite aim, whilst 
 the wind continued to blow just as violently as before. 
 Suddenly I felt that my head was very cold, and found 
 that a violent puff of wind had carried off my cap." 
 
 " It was not fastened on t ' 
 
 " No, I had lost the strap, and it happened so sud- 
 denly that I had not even seen which way it went. 
 I looked in all directions — on the ground, in the clover r 
 but could find nothing. After hunting about in vain 
 for a long time, I made up my mind to go on, when 
 a girl came in front of me and gave me, with a smile, 
 the very thing 1 was looking for. You may guess my 
 
RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 35 
 
 surprise, for it was the same girl to whom I had, just 
 a, few minutes previously, done a slight service." 
 
 " Was it really," Rocaille asked, " the young woman 
 whose petticoats the wind — " 
 
 " The very same. I thanked her, and put my cap 
 on my head again, but she saw that it had no strap, 
 -and said to me, ' It will be blown away again ; you 
 had better tie it on with a bit of string or something/ 
 That was very easily said, but I had nothing to tie it 
 with, and then — this is the most amusing part of the 
 adventure — she turned her back to me, took off one of 
 her garters, and used it to make a strap for my cap." 
 
 " Surely not I " 
 
 " Just look, ladies and gentlemen, you can see." 
 
 Gontran took his cap, which he had put upon a 
 table on coming m, and showed to those who were 
 present, who examined the garter with much curiosity. 
 
 " Well, ladies, did I speak the truth ? " 
 
 " No ; it is certainly a woman's garter, not a very 
 splendid affair, but good enough for a villager. A 
 little Cupid, and the motto, No farther" 
 
 " It is really very charming of the little peasant," 
 George said. " It seems that Gontran has made a 
 conquest." 
 
 " Not that ; she was only grateful and glad to do 
 me a service, and you may suppose that I duly 
 thanked her." 
 
 "And what next? for I suppose that there was 
 a, further sequel," Oswald said, in a mocking manner. 
 "When a girl takes off her garter, that is as much as 
 to encourage you to ask for something more." 
 
 " You are mistaken, sir," Gontran replied coldly ; 
 M there is nothing more ; the adventure ends there." 
 
 "That's a pity," George replied; "I should have 
 carried the matter farther." 
 
 "Perhaps M. Dalby has not told us everything," 
 murmured Hortense, who was examining the garter 
 very closely. 
 
36 RETURN OF THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 " Well, never mind," Oswald exclaimed ; " this cer- 
 tainly is a very privileged part of the country ; roses* 
 in all directions, and girls who take off their garters; 
 as a present for you. I shall certainly buy a villa at 
 Fontenay-aux-Roses." 
 
 "It is a delightful part of the country," George 
 observed. v The Abbot Ghaulien, that amiable poet, 
 who reminds us of Horace and Tibullus, was born 
 at Fontenay-aux-Roses, and Scarron, the buffoon. 
 Scarron, seized whilst still quite young by an incur- 
 able disease, owned a pretty house in this village,, 
 and the charms of his intellect attracted the best 
 people of the town and court hither." 
 
 " But why is it called aua-Roses ? " Leoeadie asked*. 
 " My husband could never explain that to me." 
 
 " Yes, I have ! It is very simple. I told you that 
 this village is called Fontenay-aux-Roses because 
 roses are so abundantly grown here." 
 
 '* This place," George interrupted him, " was for- 
 merly called Fontenay-les-Bagneux, probably because 
 it was so close to the latter village. But it seems 
 that for a very long time the inhabitants have de- 
 voted themselves to the culture of roses, for we can 
 read in the Acts of Parliament that the makers of the 
 wreaths and bouquets of roses for that Court provided 
 themselves with roses here. It was an ancient 
 custom, and in early ages dukes and peers were 
 obliged, every year on days of ceremony, to wear 
 roses in Parliament, and the King himself paid 
 tribute of roses to that Supreme Court." 
 
 "Roses are very delightful," Brochenbiche said,, 
 "but they give one the headache, and their scent 
 affects the nerves, so I have had them all removed 
 from my garden." 
 
 "Do you really mean to say that you have done that! "' 
 
 "Madame, I have put sorrel in their place, a ad 
 it is far more wholesome, more useful, and does not 
 affect the head." 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 87 
 
 "Yes," said Rosina, laughing, "my husband has 
 made a large bed of sorrel and spinach ; just try and 
 make a nosegay out of that ! I have told him that 
 now all he need do would be to sow flax." 
 
 Here dinner was announced, and everybody went 
 into the dining-room. Oswald was the first to offer 
 his arm to the handsome widow, who could not refuse 
 it, but she gave Gontran a look of vexation, whilst 
 lie pretended to be closely examining the strange 
 *strap to his cap. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE STORY OP A DINNER. 
 
 They all took their seats; Hortense had placed 
 Gontran and M. Brochenbiche on either side of her ; 
 whilst George sat between the two married ladies, 
 and Lambert seemed annoyed at not having a place 
 beside the mistress of the house as well as Gontran, 
 so after the soup he said, by way of retaliation, — 
 
 " I think I already smell M. Rocaille's hare coming." 
 
 "No, my dear fellow, you are quite mistaken," 
 ^George replied; "you will not taste that hare, for 
 the cook told me she should not venture to dress it." 
 
 " Your cook is a fool ! " Rocaille exclaimed. " The 
 hare woulcf have been delicious." 
 
 "Well, I fancy it would have been almost too tender." 
 
 " What has become of it % " 
 
 "Don't alarm yourself; you will find it at your 
 -own house." 
 
 "Good heavens!" Leocadie exclaimed; "I only 
 hope Jeannette will not put it anywhere near my 
 foom." 
 
 "As for me," Rocaille said, "I am not like our 
 neighbour Gateau, for I like to eat the game that I 
 iiave shot, and to offer some of it to my friends." 
 
38 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 "Who is this M. Gateau of whom you are con- 
 stantly talking?" 
 
 " A queer sort of individual, who has made a lot 
 of money in business." 
 
 " What sort of business ? " 
 
 "I really do not know exactly, but he invented 
 a soap." 
 
 " To make negroes white f " 
 
 " No, to dye the hair. But that has nothing to da 
 with it ; he has grown rich, and that is all very well, 
 but since he has become rich he has a mania for 
 inviting you to luncheon." 
 
 "A good sort of mania, if he gives you a good one!" 
 
 "But he does not, for he gives you a very bad 
 one ; in fact, one might almost say that he gives you 
 nothing at all. Just ask my wife what sort of a 
 dinner we had at his house when at last I consented 
 to go, as he was continually bothering me with his 
 invitations." 
 
 "My dear, please tell the story yourself; I think 
 it will amuse the company." 
 
 " I know that it did not amuse me in the least." 
 
 " Go on, Rocaille ; tell us all about your dinner at 
 Gateau's. He is said to be a very good shot." 
 
 " So he is ; he always brings home a lot of game, 
 and it was that which induced me to accept his 
 pressing invitation. As I am very fond of game, 
 I said to myself: 'He will give us a treat/ The- 
 wretch ! but listen to what I am going to tell you. 
 We were to go and dine at this neighbour's, who has 
 a great deal of property about here and elsewhere. 
 I do not see much of him, as I am not much given 
 to paying calls, although we have not always been- 
 on very friendly terms. He is a young man still, 
 with a young and very pleasant wife, two small 
 children, and, I think, some sisters and other rela- 
 tions, but that is neither here nor there. He does 
 a very large business, and makes a great deal of* 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 39 
 
 money, for which I certainly do not blame him, and 
 he has just lately built a very beautiful new house 
 near here — nothing but mouldings, sculpture, and 
 wainscots. On going into the drawing-rooms you 
 might fancy yourself in the palace at Versailles, only 
 they are more cheerful. 
 
 " When a man has such a fine house, one may natur- 
 ally expect a good dinner also ; it was the shooting 
 season, my neighbour is a great sportsman, I am very 
 fond of game — there, I had a whole heap of reasons 
 for accepting this oft-repeated invitation to dinner, 
 ~and the day and the hour was fixed ; so far, good. 
 
 "On the appointed day they sent me word at 
 eleven o'clock in the morning that I was expected to 
 dinner at twelve, punctually. I told the messenger 
 "that I was not in the habit of dining at mid-day like 
 our ancestors had done, and that I had been asked 
 for six o'clock ; that if now my neighbour wished me 
 to go to lunch instead of to dinner, that would not 
 ^suit me at all, as lunch upset the whole day, and so 
 it was no good for them to expect me at twelve 
 o'clock, for I should not go. With that answer the 
 messenger went off. 
 
 " Three-quarters of an hour later he returned, and 
 iold me that they would expect us to dinner at 
 six precisely. That was all right, but they need not 
 have sent anybody to tell ri%, as the matter had 
 been settled beforehand, though I believe my neigh- 
 bour hoped that I should accept his invitation to 
 lunch ; but if so, why the devil did he keep asking 
 me to dinner? 
 
 " I was as punctual as a clock, for I never miss an 
 appointment, nor keep anyone waiting for me, 
 though I find that very few other people possess 
 that virtue; but excuse me for paying myself that 
 compliment, by the way, for it is not my habit to do 
 iso. My wife and I, therefore, arrived at a few 
 minutes to six o'clock, expecting to meet a few of 
 
40 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 our neighbours there. In the garden and in the* 
 entrance hall we met nothing but a dog, who barked 
 at us as if he took us for thieves, and was commis- 
 sioned to prevent us from entering. However, we 
 braved his menaces, and at last two little boys- 
 appeared, and came and hugged us, as if they already 
 adored us, but then children are much given to 
 hugging and kissing I They were nice children, one- 
 four, the other eight years old, and, as is often tha 
 case, the youngest seemed to be the master. After- 
 kissing the children, I looked all about, for I did not 
 suppose that we were going to dine with them only;, 
 however, a servant came through, but she seemed 
 very busy, and did not stop. Next, another young 
 woman came in, who was kind enough to tell us that 
 her mistress would come directly, as she was finish- 
 ing dressing, and then she disappeared also. Every- 
 body seemed in a hurry in that house. At last 
 I heard our neighbour's voice ; he came in with 
 another gentleman, whom I took for a guest like 
 ourselves, but it was only some one on business, and 
 my neighbour took him into his study and called out 
 to me • ' You are very kind to have come ; I will be 
 with you in a moment, so sit down without waiting; 
 for me ; ' and then he also disappeared. 
 
 "My wife and I were certainly not going to sit 
 down to table with only two little boys, and his 
 words, * You are very -kind to have come/ struck me 
 as rather strange ; perhaps he thought that we 
 really should not come. However, the children, who 
 were no doubt hungry, took us into the dining-room,, 
 where the table was already laid. I saw, with some 
 surprise, that the dessert was already put on the- 
 table, which was very elegantly laid out between the 
 hors d'cenvre* and the decanters, and that it con- 
 sisted of grapes, pears, cheese and biscuits, which 
 
 * Radishes, butter, olives, sardines, slices of melon, etc.^ 
 served up as whets for the appetite. 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 4t 
 
 must already havts figured at more than one previous 
 repast. I know that sometimes at lunch everything; 
 is put on the table at the same time, but it is not 
 usual at dinner to put the dessert on the table till 
 the sweets are served,* and it is only allowable for 
 the keeper of a restaurant to cover his table with; 
 epergnes that take up a large amount of room, and 
 ouly serve as decorations. Certainly our neighbour 
 intended this for a luncheon, but that did not matter 
 to me, as long as it was good. 
 
 " At last Madame appeared. She was very pleas- 
 ant, and received us very kindly, made her excuses- 
 for not having been ready, and then said, — 
 
 " ■ Let us make haste and sit down.' 
 
 11 ' But your husband ? ' 
 
 " * Oh ! he will come directly ; he has to get rid of 
 a customer. One never has any peace here ; never a 
 moment to one's self; but Arthur will soon dispose of 
 him.' 
 
 " ' But surely we must wait for your husband ? ' 
 
 " ' No, no ; we must have dinner/ 
 
 "Fortunately Arthur came in, having got rid of 
 his customer, and said to us, — 
 
 " ' Why have you not sat down yet t ' 
 
 " • We were waiting for you/ 
 
 " ' Oh ! we never stand on ceremony here. My* 
 dear, show M. and Madame Rocaille where to sit.' 
 
 " * That is very easily done.' 
 
 " Whereupon he made me sit between the two 
 little boys, and sat down between my wife and higu 
 own. There were two other places for her sister 
 and another young person. It certainly was very 
 easily done, but very badly, for all that. When you. 
 ask a gentleman to dinner, he is generally placed 
 next to the lady of the house, and not between two 
 children ; but he wished to keep his wife by his side, 
 
 * This was written before the present system of the diner 
 d la Rime. 
 
42 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 If I were a young man it would be rather flattering 
 to my vanity, but as I am not, it seemed to me to be 
 very ridiculous ; but perhaps they thought I was fond 
 of children, and so gave me a dose of them. 
 
 "The sister came in and took her seat, and he 
 called out : * Where is Celestine % Why doesn't she 
 appear f Does she mean to keep us waiting ? ' 
 
 " ' She will be here directly ; let us have dinner." 
 
 " That was decidedly my opinion, for I began to be 
 very hungry ; but the soup was not on the table yet, 
 and our neighbour exclaimed : * Do go and see what 
 'Celestine is doing. This is too absurd. If she doesn't 
 «ome soon we shall dine without her/ 
 
 "His sister got up and left the room, and it ap- 
 peared to me that we were like omnibuses — that we 
 found some difficulty in getting full. 
 
 "'Is the lady one of your friends, who is staying 
 with you here in the country ? ' 
 
 "'Celestine? Oh, dear, no; she is a seamstress 
 who comes and works by the day, and mends and 
 does up my wife's dresses.' 
 
 " I really thought it was hardly necessary to wait 
 for her, especially as the housemaid had just brought 
 in the soup. I hoped that my Amphitryon was goin^ 
 to help it, but he only took up the soup ladle and 
 worked it up and down in his hands like a drum- 
 major's staff, and still kept looking at the door. 
 
 " I looked at my wife, who looked at the way the 
 soup ladle was being manipulated ; our hostess 
 looked into her plate, the youngest child looked at 
 the soup, and the other looked at the dog, and we all 
 looked as if we were sitting for a picture — but we 
 got no dinner. Luckily, the soup ladle, being jerked 
 up too high, fell down on a glass, which it broke. I 
 m,y luckily, for I verily believe that if that had not 
 happened he would be working it up and down stilL 
 
 " ' If you had helped the soup that would not have 
 happened,' his wife said. 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 4& 
 
 M< You are quite right, but I was waiting for your 
 sister. Why does she not come back ? Do go and 
 see what she is about.' 
 
 " His wife got up from the table and disappeared. 
 ' By Jove,' I said to myself, ' do they intend to spend* 
 all their time playing at hide and seek, appearing and 
 disappearing like Chinese shadows t I wonder whafe 
 will be the end of it ? * 
 
 " Just then the youngest child cried out : * Papa, B 
 want some soup. Are we not going to have any* 
 dinner to-day ? ' 
 
 " ' You are quite right ; I beg your pardon ; I don't 
 know .vhat I was thinking about, and now neither 
 my wife nor her sister have come back. Whatever 
 can they be doing ? ' 
 
 " Here Arthur got up, and I thought he was goings 
 to look for them also, and if he had done that I had' 
 made up my mind for a grand coup. I was deter- 
 mined to give my wife my arm, and to go away and 
 dine at home. But at length his wife returned, a» 
 did her sister a moment later, for which I thanked 
 heaven, as we were full at last. 
 
 " The soup was helped, but it had bread in it, and 
 I never did like soup with bread in it. I daresay 
 you will think me too particular, but there are so- 
 many sorts of pastes which can be used that I did 
 not see why I should stuff myself with bread at the* 
 beginning of dinner; that, however, is a minor 
 matter. Everyone to his own taste, and I suppose my 
 neighbours are fond of bread, but in soups of that 
 kind I am always afraid of getting bits of stale breads 
 all the old dry crusts which have been put on one side 
 for that purpose, for careful people waste nothing. 
 
 " After the soup I naturally thought that we should: 
 get something to drink, but nobody seemed to think. 
 of that ; the sister, however, got up and went away. 
 
 " ' Now you shall have something delicious,' said my 
 host, rubbing his hands with an air of great satisfaction,,. 
 
-44 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 " ' I am sure of that,' I replied, looking at the two 
 bottles which were on the table, and which nobody 
 seemed to think of uncorking, and as I thought that 
 was rather too much, and having no reason for being 
 shy, I continued, — 
 
 " ' But before eating anything delicious, I can assure 
 you that I should very much like to have a drink of 
 something tolerable. Are you in the habit of dining 
 without drinking anything, like so many camels ? ' 
 
 " ' What I haven't you had wine yet ? I really beg 
 your pardon ; it was quite an oversight. Where is 
 the servant to uncork the bottles ? ' 
 
 * * If we had a corkscrew here we could easily draw 
 the corks ourselves.' 
 
 " ' There is not one here. Celestine, go and ask the 
 maid for the corkscrew/ 
 
 " Celestine went after the corkscrew, whilst I asked 
 myself whether they had, on purpose, put the bottles 
 on the table so hermetically corked that it was quite 
 impossible to get the corks out with the hands alone. 
 
 "They offered us butter and radishes, which I refused, 
 saying that I could eat nothing till I had drank some- 
 thing, and Arthur rubbed his hands again, saying, — 
 
 " ' I am going to give you something delicious, and 
 you will never guess what it is.' 
 
 '"Well, I suppose you are going to give me some of 
 your game, for only two days ago you said to me : "I 
 lave just killed seventeen head — six hares, four brace 
 and a half of partridges, and a couple of landrails.' 
 
 " ' No ; it is not that. I am not going to give you 
 any of my game, for my wife gave away the part- 
 ridges, and the hare that we had remaining was too 
 high ; it was not fit to eat ! ' 
 
 " No game ; and I had only accepted his invitation 
 on that account. What a lesson for me ! And then 
 the corkscrew did not come, and I began to get in 
 a rage. There was some mystery in all this that I 
 did not try to penetrate, but either my neighbour was 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 45 
 
 a terrible liar, and never brought anything back when 
 lie went out shooting, or else he sold his game, and 
 liad not thought fit to keep any for one, but then — 
 ■why the devil did he ask one to dinner ? 
 
 " When her sister came back, his wife asked where 
 i;he corkscrew was. 
 
 "'What do you want? I don't know anything 
 about the corkscrew.' 
 
 " ' But we want one to uncork the bottles.' 
 
 * ■ I heard nothing about it.' 
 
 41 * Have you not seen Celestine ? ' 
 
 ** * No ; why should I have seen her ? ' 
 
 44 * She was told to ask for the corkscrew.' 
 
 " During this dialogue my Amphitryon said to me, — 
 
 " • I have all the finest Spanish wines : Alicante, 
 Malaga, Rota Tent. I got some small casks of them, 
 and you shall taste them.' 
 
 " ' Just now I would rather try your vin ordinaire.' 
 
 "'Ah! here is Celestine at last. Where is the 
 •corkscrew ? ' 
 
 " Celestine, however, came in perfectly calm, and 
 «aid, — 
 
 " ' The housemaid does not know where she has 
 §>ut it.' 
 
 " At this my patience was exhausted, and Ijumped up. 
 
 M * Where are you going ? ' Arthur asked me. 
 
 ** ' I am going home to get a corkscrew.' 
 
 w * Please stop where you are, for it must be found.' 
 
 " At that moment the servant came in with the air 
 of a conqueror, brandishing the corkscrew in her 
 iiand, and exclaiming, — 
 
 " * Here it is, I have found it ; it was at the bottom 
 of the saucepan, with the rest of the soup.' 
 
 "That confirmed me in my ideas about soup with 
 bread in it. Of course, if the corkscrew was found 
 in the soup, it must have been thrown into it with 
 a lot of old crusts of bread without being noticed. 
 Mow things hang together, and the truth is revealed 
 
46 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 in the end ! At last the bottles are drawn, and I get 
 some wine, but I take care to seize one of the bottles 
 and put it by the side of my plate, and I intend to 
 defend it with my life, for it is no use standing on 
 ceremony with people of this sort, who do not know 
 how to live, 
 
 " I waited for the wonderful dish which my neigh- 
 bour had been vaunting so much, that was to follow 
 the soup, with great curiosity, for I hoped to see 
 a beautiful, fresh, well-cooked fish ; but instead of 
 that there was brought in a round tin box like those 
 that contain sardines or preserved vegetables. It 
 was put on to a deep plate, and the whole was placed 
 before our host, who poured spirits of wine into the 
 plate and then set fire to it, so that the tin box was 
 in the midst of the flames. What was going to happen, 
 heaven only knew ; it was very like a phantasmagoria 
 but not like a dinner, and the flames of the spirits of 
 wine gave us all a bluish tint which reminded me of 
 the nuns' scene in Robert the Devil. The elder of 
 my two little neighbours began to cry, and hi& 
 younger brother said to him, — 
 
 " ' What is the matter with you, Coco ? • 
 " ' I am frightened at what papa is doing.' 
 " ' How silly you are ; it is the same sort of thing- 
 as he did the other day. Surely you remember when 
 mamma said, " Oh ! how nasty it is, I will never eat 
 it again?"' 
 
 " Here my wife burst out laughing, and I did the 
 same, so the lady of the house thought the best thing 
 she could do would be to follow our example. Papa was 
 the only one who kept serious, and said to his son, — 
 « « Why, you little idiot, you don't suppose I should 
 give M. and Madame Roeaille anything nasty to eat ! 
 The other day it was tinned lobster, and my wife is 
 not fond of lobsters, and that is why she said it was 
 not nice. But I will answer for your liking this, for 
 it is mackerel, and you shall have it properly cooked 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 47 
 
 and quite hot, just as if it had at that moment come 
 out of the oven.' 
 
 " * As I have never seen mackerel just fresh from 
 the oven, I do not know what it may be like ; but 
 I am surprised that at this time of the year, when 
 it is so easy to get fresh fish, you should prefer to 
 have it tinned.' 
 
 " * I will tell you how that is ; I got a lot of boxes 
 of preserved provisions from a man who owed me 
 money, and I took them in payment, as I could not 
 .get anything else.' 
 
 "'And you want to get rid of them? Now I 
 understand/ 
 
 " * Besides that, to-day there was no fish in the 
 market ; none to be had here/ 
 
 "My dear neighbour did not exactly speak the 
 truth, for we are too near Paris not to be able to 
 procure anything we want in a very short time ; but 
 I can quite understand that he preferred to get rid 
 of his tinned provisions. 
 
 " ' Do your culinary preparations take long ? ' I 
 &sked him, after watching the flames for some time. 
 
 " 8 No, seven or eight minutes — ten at the outside. 
 
 "'If one should happen to be very hungry, it 
 would not be very pleasant to have to depend on 
 those tins for one's dinner f ' 
 
 " ' Well, one can talk while one is waiting. Take 
 ^ome radishes/ 
 
 " ' Thank you, I am not very fond of them/ 
 
 u * They are very wholesome/ 
 
 li ' That is very likely, and so are watercresses ; 
 but, nevertheless, I should not care to dine off no- 
 thing but radishes and watercresses.' 
 
 "Nobody had got up for a long time, but now 
 Madame Gateau disappeared, and the spirits of 
 wine went on burning. Arthur looked at the flame 
 with delight, and said, — 
 
 " ' It will be delicious, and cooked to a turn.' 
 
48 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 " I felt sure that he wanted me to take some of hie* 
 tins off his hands, but it was no good, for I am not 
 fond of preserved provisions. 
 
 "'Celestine, will you go and ask the maid to bring In 
 the bottles of Spanish wine that I brought up out of tbe 
 cellar, and tell her to be sure and not to shake them?' 
 
 " Celestine went out, and the sister very soon 
 followed her example, and if only our neighbour ha<& 
 done the same I know that my wife and I should 
 have disappeared likewise; but he kept his seat,, 
 and continued to look at the bluish flames which 
 enveloped the tin box. One of his little hoj& 
 began to eat a biscuit, and the other took a grap© 
 or two, and I was strongly inclined to do the same,, 
 and go on at once to the dessert, and I could not 
 help saying, — 
 
 " * I shall be much obliged if you will not ask me> 
 to dinner again when you have the contents of one 
 of those tins to follow the soup/ 
 
 a ' I assure you that you will be amply recom- 
 pensed for the delay immediately. Ten minutes T 
 That is just the right time, and now I will blow out 
 the flames. Where are the ladies t ' 
 
 " * Perhaps they have gone to look for another- 
 corkscrew I ' 
 
 u ' Here they come/ 
 
 " His wife and her sister came back and sat down,, 
 and he helped us to some of the famous fish, saying, — 
 
 « * It is quite hot/ 
 
 " ' By Jove, I should be astonished if it were not/ 
 
 " ' Just taste it, and tell me what you think of it/ 
 
 "It was a mackerel which had been boned ancfc 
 cooked in butter. It was not absolutely nasty, but. 
 it had a slight taste of lead, which I have always 
 found in tinned provisions. 
 
 " ' Well, how do you like it ? ' 
 
 " ' It is not bad, but I prefer fresh fish/ 
 
 " ' Let me give you some more ? ' 
 
THE STORY OF A DINNER. 48* 
 
 " * No, thank you, I had rather not ; I should lika 
 something that is not preserved food/ 
 
 "Our neighbour seemed to be surprised that my 
 wife and I would not have anything more to da- 
 with the tin, but he helped the three ladies and the 
 two little boys abundantly, and said, — 
 
 " * It must not be left, for it will not be goods 
 to-morrow/ 
 
 "I could quite believe that, as it was not good 
 then. The servant put some small Spanish bottles 
 on the table, which were no bigger than those in 
 which wine merchants' travellers carry about their 
 samples, and he helped us to some. The Alicante- 
 was very good, but the Malaga was rather bitter,,, 
 and then, one cannot drink Spanish wines at dinner, 
 at least so I think, for they are too sweet and too* 
 much like liqueurs ; and, besides that, I prefer French, 
 wines. At last the servant put a splendid roast fowk 
 on the table. Bravo ! We are going to have some- 
 thing to eat that will not taste of lead. M. Gateau 
 took the dish, which had been placed in front of 
 him, and turned it round and round. Was he going: 
 to set fire to it as well? I was really quite in 
 a state of trepidation till he seized a poultry knife 6 . 
 and attacked one of the legs, which he cut off, and 
 then uttered an exclamation. 
 
 " ' What is the matter, my dear? ' his wife asked;, 
 * have you found a diamond in its inside ? ' 
 
 " * Why, that wretched cook, she is always doing 
 something or other stupid. This capon is not half 
 done ; it is bleeding, absolutely bleeding, and it is - 
 impossible to eat it like this ; just look at that leg 
 and that wing. Rosalie ! Rosalie I ' 
 
 " The cook came in, looking quite complacent. 
 
 " * What do you want, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' Rosalie, did you take this capon for a beefsteak!* 
 
 " ' How could I do that, sir, when they are not the 
 least alike ? ' 
 
 D 
 
450 THE STORY OF A DINNER. 
 
 " ' Then why did you send it up nearly raw ? 
 Nothing is so bad as underdone poultry. Just look 
 at that wing ; it is impossible to eat it.' 
 
 « < Why, sir, you told me to be sure and not roast 
 it too much.' 
 
 " * Too much ! Why, of course I did ; too much is 
 bad, but raw is still worse.' 
 
 " ' Suppose she puts it to the fire again ? ' his wife 
 suggested. 
 
 " * No, that would never do now. Rosalie, you must 
 cook it again to-morrow a la Marengo; cut it into 
 pieces, and put some superfine oil, some mushrooms, 
 and just an idea of garlic to it. You understand ? ' 
 
 " * Yes, sir.' 
 
 " ' Add some slices of lemon, and it will be delicious ; 
 you will remember all I have told you ? ' 
 
 " ' Certainly, sir/ 
 
 " The cook carried off the capon, of which we had 
 had nothing but the savoury odour ; but we know 
 that it will be delicious the next day a la Marengo, 
 and that is highly satisfactory. 
 
 " Our host, who I suppose wants to make up to us 
 for our loss of the capon by his little Spanish flasks, 
 wishes to give us some more wine, but we refuse, and 
 I am curious to see what will come next. A dish of 
 white haricot beans is brought in, but they are so 
 burnt that they look like red haricots, white as they 
 naturally are. Perhaps to make up for the capon not 
 being done enough, the haricots are done so much as 
 to be quite bitter. I pretend to eat a few, but, think- 
 ing that the joke has been carried far enough, I get 
 up, put my hands to my stomach, and say: 'Your 
 Malaga has had the same effect on me as limonade- 
 Jtoge 1 * so you must excuse me if I go.' 
 
 « 4 What, going already, without waiting for dessert t 
 But at least Madame will stay ? ' 
 
 " But my wife did not wish to stay any more than 
 * A sort of Seidlitz powtJ^r 
 
THE GOD-D 1UGHTER. 51 ; 
 
 I did, for we were both dying of hunger ; so we took- 
 our leave, and our host called after us, — 
 
 " * The next time we will have some of my game/ 
 " But this time was quite enough for me. I must 
 confess that the whole affair was very funny, and we 
 laughed about it after we had dined. But these are 
 the sort of things to which one is exposed when one 
 vields to the importunities of people whom one know® 
 but little of, for it is a great mark of confidence to 
 dine with anybody, and the person who gives you a 
 bad dinner abuses your confidence, for I maintain that 
 you ought either not to invite people, or to treat them 
 really well if you do." <* 
 
 CHAPTER Vi 
 
 THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 
 
 M. Rooadlle's tale amused them all very much, th©^ 
 more so as Leocadie declared that her husband had! 
 neither exaggerated nor added anything, and that it 
 had happened just as he had related it. 
 
 " I am very glad you have told me," M. Brochenbiche 
 said, " fpr M. Gateau has often asked me to lunch j. 
 but I never go to houses where I am not sure that 
 they treat you well." 
 
 " Is that meant as a compliment for me? " Madam© 
 Dartinelle asked. 
 
 " No ; it is only a matter of fact. I do not meam 
 to say that I am a greedy man ; I eat very little — M 
 
 "Hetook twice of that macaroni," Rocaille whispered 
 to his neighbour. 
 
 " Have a glass of Pomard, Brochenbiche ? ' 
 
 " No, thank you, I will stick to claret ; I never mix: 
 my wines." 
 
52 THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 
 
 " This Pomard is nectar," M. Lambert observed. 
 
 " Well, then, I will risk just a very small drop to 
 taste it." 
 
 After fat George had filled Brochenbiche's glass, 
 who pretended not to notice it, he said to his 
 intimate friend, — 
 
 " Well, Gontran, what are yon thinking of? You 
 seem to have lost all yonr usual cheerfulness." 
 
 "I suppose he is thinking of the garters he had 
 given him," Hortense said, jokingly. 
 
 " You appear to find fault with what the girl did, 
 Madame, but, without her, I should certainly have 
 caught a cold in my head, at least." 
 
 " I do not find fault with her at all ; I only think 
 the wind was very kind to you this morning." 
 
 "Dear me," Rocaille said, "I only wish such an 
 adventure would happen to me." 
 
 " What are you daring to say ! " 
 
 " Nothing, Leocadie ; I was only joking." 
 
 "Gentlemen," Madame Dartinelle said, "I hope 
 during dessert, or in the course of the evening, to 
 procure you a little pleasant distraction." 
 
 "Madame," Oswald said, "in your society one 
 cannot wish for it — quite the contrary." 
 
 "You know, M. Lambert, that I am not fond of 
 compliments, but this is what I mean. I have a god- 
 daughter — a very pretty god-daughter — for whom 
 I stood sponsor when I was ten years old, and now 
 •she is eighteen." 
 
 " Take care, my dear," Madame Rocaille said ; " you 
 .are letting us know that you are twenty- eight." 
 
 " That is my age, and I have no reason for hiding 
 it. But to return to my god-daughter. She is 
 eighteen, a pretty girl, dark — but you shall judge 
 for yourselves this evening, for she is going to be 
 married in a week, and her future husband is a decent 
 young fellow-^i laundryman. I have not seen him 
 yet, but this evening the mamma is to introduce her 
 
THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 5& 
 
 son-in-law to me, as she lias been recommending him 
 to me for my custom, and, at the same time, she is going 
 to invite us to do her the honour of coming to her 
 daughter's wedding — my god-daughter, you under- 
 stand — and, of course, I cannot refuse." 
 
 " Why should you refuse ? " George said ; " a 
 village wedding will be very amusing and funny,... 
 and very different from all those ceremonious wed- 
 dings, entertainments at which one yawns fit to crack 
 one's jaws. I shall enjoy going to it, and you must 
 come with us, Gontran." 
 
 Ever since Madame Dartinelle has been giving 
 them these details about her god-daughter, Gontran 
 has been thinking about the girl whom he met that 
 morning, and who had also told him that she was 
 going to be married in a week. The description which \ 
 the handsome widow gave of the bride also tallied ex- 
 actly with Felicite's appearance, but he took care not 
 to mention this, and merely said to his friend, — 
 
 " I shall be ve,ry glad to go with you to this wedding 
 in the village if I am invited, which I am not." 
 
 "That makes no difference, for we can take any- 
 body we know who would like to go with us, and 
 we are quite certain that our friends will be well 
 received ; am I not right, sister % " 
 
 "Certainly; especially as I think, George, you do 
 not intend to go to the dinner, but only to the ball 
 in the evening, and we can take anyone who wishes 
 to go to the ball with us." 
 
 " If that is so," Oswald said, " let me put my name- 
 down to accompany you to this wedding ; as I have 
 never been to a similar entertainment, it will be a. 
 double pleasure for me—" 
 "As you please, Monsieur.'' 
 
 " We will go also, Rocaille ? I know Mother Bou- 
 lafour a little ; she is a clear-starcher, and used to do 
 fox me, but she charged too much ; it is her daughter 
 wno is going to be married, is it not, my dear ? " 
 
:54 THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Yes, Madame, Felicite Boulafour is my god- 
 daughter." 
 
 "Why is not her name Hortense, like her god- 
 mother's ? " 
 
 "Because her mother was so fond of the name 
 Felicity ; but Hortense is also one of her names, 
 though she is never called by it." 
 
 " I should like nothing better than to go to that 
 wedding," Rocaille said, "especially if the bride is 
 pretty, as Madame Dartinelle says she is." 
 
 " Yes, my god-daughter has none of that loutish, 
 embarrassed manner about her which one finds so 
 often in country girls. Her eyes are mischievous and 
 clever, and I am sure you will be pleased with her. 
 However, you will be able to judge for yourselves 
 very soon, and M. Gontran will tell you whether she 
 4s nicer than his girl of the garter." 
 He smiled, and said, — 
 
 " You are still thinking about her, Madame." 
 " And you V 
 
 " 1 1 You know very well that, when I am with 
 you, I do not dare to sigh after — " 
 
 "That is all very fine; you are in the habit of 
 masking permission, I should think ? " 
 
 These last words were uttered in a low tone, so 
 -3W not to be heard by anyone but themselves. 
 
 " I should not go to the wedding, even were we 
 to be asked. One gets very tired, and comes home 
 late, and when anyone is in pain like I am — now it 
 is between my shoulders." 
 
 " I am glad to see that it is not in your jaws, for 
 you are employing them very well" 
 
 "I suppose you are going to tell me that I am 
 eating too much? " 
 
 "Where is this wedding entertainment going to 
 take place ! " 
 
 " I don't know, but most likely at the best inn in 
 the neighbourhood." 
 
THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 55- 
 
 " I really do not know that I shall not go to the 
 dinner," George observed ; " the country feasts are 
 very original sometimes." 
 
 " You will only embarrass the good folks, and they 
 will be quite satisfied if we go to the ball." 
 
 " My dear sister, there is one way by which one need 
 never embarrass them, and that is, to do as they do * . 
 your laundrymen will dine in their shirt sleeves ; very 
 well, I will take off my coat on my arrival." 
 
 "Good gracious ! and if the women dance without 
 their stays, shall we be expected to do the same ? " 
 
 " You need not be at all uneasy, as I am sure that 
 everything will be done very properly at my god- 
 daughter's wedding, unless these gentlemen choose 
 to make a disturbance." 
 
 " I hope you have not got such a bad opinion of 
 us, my dear sister ; we will make your peasant girls 
 dance very properly, not jump them too high, but 
 we will be guided in that by these gentlemen" 
 
 " At such sort of balls they ought to dance The Little- 
 Milk Girl, and dances where kissing goes on in the 
 old-fashioned manner; our fathers were very well 
 off." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, for there is nothing more ob- 
 jectionable than those figures. Fancy being obliged 
 to kiss anybody you did not know, or disliked; How 
 very disagreeable! I think that our grandfathers 
 were too fond of kissing, and that we have much im- 
 proved matters." 
 
 " Well, yes ; you are right, there is a good deal 
 less kissing in public, but I do not think the devil 
 loses much on that account." 
 
 " At least appearances are respected." 
 
 " Appearances, yes ; they are the curtain behind 
 which everything is permissible ; but the curtain 
 must be carefully drawn." 
 
 The dessert had just been put on the table when the 
 footman announced that Madame Boulafour and her 
 
56 THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 
 
 daughter wished to know whether they might have the 
 honour of paying their respects to Madame Dartinelle. 
 
 "Of course, show them in; but is not there a 
 .gentleman with them ? " 
 
 " No, Madame, only the mother and daughter." 
 
 "Never mind, let them come in. You will not 
 miud my receiving them here, at table 1 " 
 
 " We shall be very pleased, on the contrary." 
 
 "By Jove," said George, "we will make Mother Bou- 
 lafour and her daughter drink a glass of champagne." 
 
 The two villagers were shown in. The old one 
 ^was an enormous woman, as broad as she was long ; 
 she had no waist, and was merely like a cask on two 
 legs. She may have been pretty, and even graceful, 
 once upon a time ; as it was, however, nothing re- 
 mained of it except a fat, blotchy face, two eyes 
 hidden by her huge cheeks, and a nose like a cork- 
 screw, which was covered with pimples. As for her 
 daughter — Madame Dartinelle's god-daughter— we 
 -will not draw her portrait, as you know her already, 
 but will only say that she had paid great attention to 
 tier dress, in order to pay this visit, and that at first 
 «ight, under her little cap, which was so neatly plaited, 
 and so jauntily put on, in her well-fitting dress of a stuff 
 which was a mixture of silk and cotton, with her eyes 
 %hich she kept fixed on the ground, and her modest 
 look, one would not have immediately recognised the 
 little village girl, with her rustic attractions, who had 
 heen picking up walnuts in the morning. 
 
 But Gontran could not be mistaken, and besides, he 
 had not felt the slightest doubt since Hortense had 
 mentioned the name of her god-daughter, and the 
 only thing that he is now afraid of is that, when she 
 seea him, she may utter some exclamation which 
 may betray the fact that she is the heroine of the 
 adventure in which the wind played such an import- 
 ant part, and he thought that it was as well, for her 
 mke, that the company which was present there 
 
THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 should not know anything about it, for, otherwise, 
 poor Felicite" would be exposed to a number of jokes 
 which the other gentlemen, and especially her god- 
 mother's brother, would plague her with. 
 
 So, when the two women were shown into the 
 dining-room, Gontran was careful to keep his head 
 down, that he might not be seen. The washerwoman 
 made curtsey upon curtsey, and, seeing so many 
 people, did not know whether to come forward or not, 
 <mi& when Felicite had made her bow, she had to push 
 •iier mother on to prevent her from remaining against 
 the door, whilst Madame Boulafour murmured, — 
 
 ¥ I beg your pardon, Madame, and the company's, 
 4S I am disturbing you ; I have come at the wrong 
 tirae ; please excuse me." 
 
 * Do not stop there, Madame Boulafour, for these 
 ladies and gentlemen are very anxious to see my 
 god-daughter. Come here, Felicite, and let one look 
 .at you, for I have told them that I am proud of my 
 
 god-daughter, and I do not wish you to put me in 
 ■the wrong." 
 
 The girl and her mother came towards Madame 
 
 Dartinelle, and luckily Brochenbiche was on the side 
 
 of the table by which they came round, so Gontran, 
 
 hidden behind the lady of the house, could not at 
 
 first be seen by the new-comers. On her way up 
 
 the room, Felicite had heard murmurs of approval, 
 
 -and when her god-mother took her by the hand and 
 
 introduced her to her guests, saying, "Ladies and 
 
 gentlemen, let me introduce my god-daughter to 
 
 jroU, who is going to be married in a week," they all 
 
 exclaimed how pretty she was, and paid her various 
 
 compliments. But, as Hortense had not heard Gon- 
 
 4ran's voice amongst those of the gentlemen who were 
 
 praising her god-daughter, she turned to him, saying, — 
 
 * Well, sir, have you no word for the bride f " 
 Gontran is very much embarrassed; ks cannot 
 
 -©scape her notice, and is obliged to turn towards the 
 
58 THE GOD- DAUGHTER. 
 
 young person who is close to Hortense, but he 
 manages it so that he meets Felicite's looks almost 
 behind the handsome widow's back. When she recog- 
 nises the handsome gentleman to whom she gave 
 the garter in the morning, the pretty girl cannot 
 
 Erevent a movement and exclamation of surprise, 
 ut nobody noticed it, and only Hortense heard the 
 exclamation, and turning round she asked,— 
 " What is the matter, my dear child % " 
 " Nothing, god-mother," she replied ; " but I trod on 
 something that made me slip, and I was afraid of 
 falling." 
 
 Whilst saying this in a troubled voice, Felicite 
 looked at Gontran, and gave him a little sign to say 
 that she understood it all, so he said immediately, — 
 "Madame, I congratulate you on having such a 
 god-daughter, and I am delighted to make her ac- 
 quaintance. If she will allow me to come to the ball 
 at her wedding, I shall be very proud if she will per- 
 mit me to dance a quadrille with her." 
 Felicite bowed, and stammered, — 
 "Oh, sir it would ... be a great honour ... I 
 assure you ... for me." 
 
 "Yes, sir," Madame Boulafour replied, "we shall be 
 highly flattered if you will come to the wedding, you and 
 all the present company, and all Madame Dartinelle's 
 friends and acquaintances, as she is my daughter's 
 god-mother, and has given her a very nice dowry." 
 
 " Be quiet, Madame Boulafour ; you must not speak 
 about that." 
 
 " I should like to know why I am not to mention 
 it ! There are so many people who are fond of doing 
 harm, that it is pleasant to be able to mention those 
 who do good." 
 
 " But I thought, Madame Boulafour, that you were 
 to introduce me to your future son-in-law this evening, 
 Monsieur Cadet Fouillaupot,* whom I do not know 1 K 
 * Fouillaupot literally means Saucepan rummager. 
 
THE GOD -DAUGHTER, 5& 
 
 Everybody burst out laughing at the future hus- 
 band's name, and cried out, " Fouillaupot ! " 
 
 " What," said George, " is the name of this charm- 
 ing young lady's husband really Fouillaupot ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, with your permission, that is my son-in- 
 law's name ; and why should it not be 1 It is a name 
 like any other, and besides, what does a name signify- 
 as long as he is an honest man and a good worker ; 
 that's the chief thing, isn't it? " 
 
 "Certainly, Madame Boulafour," Hoi tense replied; 
 * don't pay aDy attention to my brother's jokes; as 
 long as my god-daughter is happy, it does not 
 matter about the name." 
 
 " Oh," Felicite said, " my intended always calls him- 
 self Cadet, and I shall never call him anything else." 
 
 "You will be quite right, my dear; Cadet is much 
 more simple, and everybody will envy his good 
 fortune." 
 
 " But, now, you have not answered my question," 
 Hortense resumed, " why Monsieur Cadet did not come 
 with you t " 
 
 " Well, Madame, I am sure it was not his fault. He 
 was to have called for us at eight o'clock, and we 
 waited till nearly nine, and my daughter, who was 
 impatient, would not wait any longer, for she was 
 determined to see her god-mother to-day, and said, 
 J If he comes now, it will be a lesson for him how he 
 keeps me waiting another time.' " 
 
 " Well done ! She is quite right, George ex- 
 claimed; " she is not made to be kept waiting." 
 
 "But I am quite sure," the laundress contiuued, 
 f that it was not Cadet's fault that he did not come. 
 He must have been detained at Monsieur Poupard's r 
 who is a man that is very well off, and is giving 
 up his business to my son-in-law ; so lie, of course, 
 must show him some consideration. Do you know 
 Monsieur Poupard, Madame t" 
 
 " Only by name." 
 
60 THE GOD-DAUGHTER. 
 
 " And what is the business of this man who is so 
 well off? " asked George, laughing. 
 
 " He is a master laundryman, and the cream of men. 
 He is sure to come to the wedding, and you shail 
 see him." 
 
 " 1 should like to see this cream of men, for I have* 
 hitherto only known the milk of the species." 
 
 Whilst her mother was talking, Felicite" threw 
 several stolen glances at Gontran, who did his best to- 
 keep his countenance, but although the girl leaned 
 against her god-mother and bent behind her when she^ 
 looked at the man to whom she had given her garter^ 
 Hortense, turning round suddenly, intercepted one 
 of those furtive glances, and that roused her sus- 
 picions. 
 
 "Mndame Boulafour, will there be a supper at this 
 pretty bride's wedding ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, I cannot exactly say that ; in fact, I 
 know that during the evening there will be only light 
 refreshments. But, then, the wedding dinner will be 
 good and copious ; we shall sit do wn at three o'clock, 
 and not rise from the table till nine, so as to have 
 plenty of time for eating. I hope that you, sir, and 
 all the ladies and gentlemen who are here, will do us 
 the honour of coming to it." 
 
 " Thank you ; you are very kind, but the ladies say 
 we shall come to the ball." 
 
 " I am sorry for that, for I hoped that you would 
 do us the honour to have joined us at dinner." 
 
 "Listen to me, Madame Boulafour," George said:. 
 " I will arrange matters so as to satisfy everybody. 
 I will provide the wedding supper, and I will take 
 care that it shall be worthy of the bride." 
 
 " A supper ! Really, Monsieur, you are too good. 
 Upon my word, I am really very much inclined -to 
 accept your offer ; what do you say, Felicite ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, I say iiat it would make the 
 evening extremely merry, and since this gentleman: 
 
THE dOD-DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 10 so polite, we ought to accept his offer, I am sure 
 that Cadet would not refuse it." 
 
 " Then we accept your supper, Monsieur Varicourt, 
 and we will take care not to stuff ourselves too full 
 at dinner, so as to leave room for the supper." 
 
 "That's right; but, by -the -bye, where is the 
 wedding dinner to be held? I want to know, so 
 that I may order my supper there/ 
 
 " At the Horn of Plenty, Monsieur. The landlord is 
 an excellent caterer, and there are handsome rooms, 
 a garden, and shrubberies." 
 
 "Very well, at the Horn of Plenty, then. I like that 
 eign for a house; did your daughter choose the place?" 
 
 " No, Monsieur, it was Cadet Fouillaupot." 
 
 " That shows his intelligence." 
 
 "I think your idea of a supper is delightful," 
 Gontran said. 
 
 "Yes," Rocaille added; "and I can assure you, 
 Madame Boulafour, that you may depend on us." 
 
 " Oh I we will come also," Rosina Brochenbiche said; 
 "suppers are always amusing, are they Dot, my dear?" 
 
 " We will go ! Be good enough to speak for yourself. 
 Suffering as I do, do you wish me to go and sit up the 
 whole night ? I should be a nice object the next day." 
 
 "You would not be any different to what you 
 always are, as you are always ill ; but if you will not 
 go, I shall go with Madame Dartinelle." 
 
 " Now that we have had the honour of seeing your 
 god-mother and her company," the laundress said, 
 "we will go home, Felicite." 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " Wait a moment," George exclaimed ; " you must 
 drink a glass of champagne first, so that we may clink 
 our glasses together, and drink to the bride'a health." 
 
 "That is indeed an honour; well, we don't object to the 
 champagne. What an idiot Cadet was not to come!" 
 
 " You may be quite easy, Madame Boulafour ; if her 
 intended comes later, there will be some left for him." 
 
6i THE GOD-DAUGHTEB. 
 
 The laundress and her daughter had a glass of 
 champagne, and the health of the future married 
 couple was drunk, and, whilst the mother was taking 
 another glass, Rortense rose and made a sign to 
 Felicite to follow her, which she obeyed, after look- 
 ing at Gontran again. Madame Dartinelle took her 
 god-daughter into the next room, where they were 
 alone, and, looking at her steadily, she said, — 
 
 " Where did you go to this morning, Felicity t M 
 
 "This morning, god-mother? I went to see my 
 cousin, the dressmaker, who is making my wedding 
 dress." 
 
 " Does she live far from here t * 
 
 " Yes, very near Sceaux." 
 
 " And on the way to her house you amused your- 
 self by picking up the walnuts which the wind had 
 blown down?" 
 
 Felicite* was embarrassed; she blushed and 
 stammered, — 
 
 " Oh, god-mother, how do you know — " 
 
 "What happened to you this morning with that 
 gentleman who was sitting on my right t Yes, I know 
 all about it, for M. Gontran told us his adventure." 
 
 " Well, then, god-mother, you know that it was not 
 my fault, but that the wind was the cause of it alL" 
 
 " Certainly, $he wind in the first place ; but, then, 
 one does not generally amuse one's self by picking 
 up walnuts in such weather." 
 
 " Yes, one does, god-mother, for the wind knocks 
 them down." 
 
 " Well, never mind about that part of the adven- 
 ture. Afterwards, you found M. Dalby's cap and 
 gave it back to him." 
 
 " Ought not I to have done that ? " 
 
 " Yes, but you need not have done anything more, 
 and certainly you ought not to have taken off one of 
 your garters to give to this gentleman." 
 
 "I had nothing else for a strap to his cap, and 
 
THE GOD-DAUGHTER 63 
 
 without that, blowing as it was, it wouJr* not have 
 remained on his head very long — " 
 
 " That was no business of yours ; you ought to have 
 given him his cap, and gone on." 
 
 " He had been so polite to me when the wind blew 
 my petticoats over my head ... when I could 
 not see anything — ' 
 
 « Why, anybody would have done the same for you." 
 
 *' Many would have taken a long time about it." 
 
 " Well, my dear child, remember that it is not at all 
 proper to give your garters to a young man ; and how 
 do you think your intended husband would like it 
 were he to know it % " 
 
 " Oh, dear ! not at all, for he is dreadfully jealous. 
 But the gentleman will not tell him about it, I hopet 
 You will ask him not to, god-mother ? " 
 
 " There is no need for me to do that ; didn't you 
 see just now that M. Gontran pretended not to know 
 you when he was paying you those compliments ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but how did you guess that I was the 
 heroine of this morning's adventure? " 
 
 " Do you imagine that I did not see your signs and 
 the stolen glances that you gave him f You are not 
 clever enough, my dear, to deceive me, though that 
 may come. Meanwhile, be very prudent, and do not 
 talk with M. Dalby alone, for he has the reputation of 
 being a seducer; and if you do so, it might bring about 
 disagreeable scenes between your husband and you." 
 
 " I will be sure and follow your advice, god-mother." 
 
 "And now, come, we will go back to the rest of 
 the company." 
 
 Hortense took Felicite back to her mother, and said 
 to her, — 
 
 " I wanted to ask Felicite about a number of things, 
 that is why I took the liberty of carrying her off." 
 
 "Why, Madame, you are quite right to do that, she 
 is nearly as much your child as mine; but during your 
 absence they have made me drink so much that I am 
 
64 CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 
 
 beginning to see double Let us go, Felicite". Good 
 evening, ladies and gentlemen, till next Saturday at 
 the Horn of Plenty ', and at church in the morning — " 
 
 " You may rely upon us, Madame Bovlafour." 
 
 The laundress went away with her daughter, who 
 curtseyed to everybody, but without turning to look 
 at Gontran, and when Hortense sat down again she 
 looked at him with a mocking smile, and said, in a 
 low voice, — 
 
 " I guessed it . . . That was the girl — " 
 
 Gontran smiled back, and replied, — 
 
 " I was quite sure, Madame, that it would be im- 
 possible to try and hide anything from you." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 
 
 After Felicity and her mother had gone, they all 
 gave their various opinions of the bride-elect. 
 
 " She is very pretty," Oswald Lambert said, "but she 
 put on a little timid air which I do not think is at all 
 natural to her, for she looks thoroughly wide-awake." 
 
 " She is all very well for a laundress," Leocadie 
 observed ; " but she is certainly not beautiful." 
 
 " I think she is very attractive," Rosina said, " and 
 her black eyes are very bright ; don't you think so, 
 Brochenbiche ? " 
 
 The fancied invalid shook his head, and replied, — 
 
 " She has too much colour, and her cheeks are 
 pink, which is a bad sign ; it denotes a weak chest." 
 
 "Well," George exclaimed, "if she is ever con- 
 sumptive, I will become transparent; and what do 
 you think of her, Gontran t " 
 
 " I think she is very nice; a p'etty little peasant girl." 
 
 " Is not she as good as your girl with the garter ? " 
 
CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 65 
 
 " Not at all the same style ; she is far superior." 
 
 " That is very strange," Roeaille said ; " it seemed 
 to me that she was just about the same, but no, 
 1 think Madame Dartinelle's god-daughter was taller ; 
 don't you think so ? " 
 
 " Much taller and slimmer," Gontran replied, look- 
 ing at the handsome widow, who murmured, almost 
 inaudibly, — 
 
 "You certainly can tell a fib in a most perfect 
 manner ; one can easily see that you are used to it." 
 
 Mother Boulafour and her daughter had hardly 
 been gone a quarter of an hour, and the others were 
 atill at table enjoying the dessert, when the servant 
 oame in and said, — 
 
 " Here is M. Cadet Fouillaupot, who wishes to pay 
 his respects to the god-mother of his future wife." 
 
 " Well, the son-in-law is late, but of course you 
 can show him in." 
 
 "I am very curious to see this M. Fouillaupot," 
 George said, after the servant had left the room; 
 "for if his looks at all correspond to his name, he 
 must be a queer-looking object." 
 
 "You must wait, gentlemen, wait and see, for 
 names are very often deceptive." 
 
 The servant came again, alone. 
 
 " Why does not the gentleman come in ? " Horteiise 
 asked. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Madame, but there is another 
 man with him, and he begs that you will allow him to 
 introduce his employer to you." 
 
 " There seems to be no end to this ; it is a regular 
 evening of introductions. But, of course, he is very 
 welcome to introduce his superior to us." 
 
 " Upon my word," George said ; " that is the man 
 of whom Mother Boulafour spoke to us. . . . The 
 cream of men. . . . Attention, gentlemen, attention ' 
 Let us hope that this cream which we are going U 
 eee to-nignt will do us honour." 
 
 B 
 
66 CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 
 
 The two men appeared in the door of the dining- 
 room. Cadet Fouillaupot is a tall young fellow, a» 
 long and thin as a stick of asparagus, with a pointed 
 head and nose, light blue eyes, which he is continually 
 rolling about from right to left, as if he were always 
 looking for somebody, and with a generally stupid air,, 
 whilst trying to look knowing, but without success. 
 
 His employer, M. Poupard, is a little man of about 
 fifty-five, fat and podgy, who looks like a ball, smile* 
 continually, and never speaks without bowing all 
 round. The two together have a very queer effect,, 
 standing still, as they are doing, in the doorway* 
 Neither of them wishes to be the first to enter ; thV 
 ball pushes the asparagus, who in turn retreats, in 
 order to make way for the ball, and this polite strife 
 lasts so long that George cries out,— 
 
 " Come in together, that will be the best thing you 
 can do ! " 
 
 The bridegroom and his employer follow his ad- 
 vice ; and when they have come in, Cadet, holding the 
 short man by the hand, goes up to Madame Dartinelie, 
 and stammers out, — 
 
 " Madame, may I be allowed to introduce my em- 
 ployer, M. Poupard, to you, who is going to give up 
 his business to me on the occasion of my marriage with 
 Felicite Boulafour, whom I am about to marry, and 
 also wished to pay his respects to the god-mother of 
 Felicite, whom I am going to marry, and it will all 
 go on wheels, as I have all his customers." 
 
 Whilst his late assistant was expressing himself 
 thus, M. Poupard had never left oft' bowing to the 
 lady of the house, and Hortense, wishing to put an 
 end to all this bending, which must be terribly 
 fatiguing to such a stout man, answered, — 
 
 " I am delighted to make your employer's acquaint- 
 ance, and I am much obliged to him for his visit." 
 
 Here M. Poupard tried to speak. 
 
 " Yes, Madame, certainly, oh ! certainly, Madame— * 
 
CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 67 
 
 He cotild not get out the rest, and so Hortense 
 
 continued, — 
 
 "But, M. Fonillaupot, we have just seen your in- 
 tended and her mother, who expected you. Why 
 •did not you come with them, as Madame Boulafoar 
 wished to introduce her son-in-law to me herself! " 
 
 "Well, Madame, let me tell you something. In 
 business, as my employer told you so clearlv just 
 now, one is not always free, like a bird in the air, for, 
 If the bird were a laundryman, it certainly would not 
 have time to fly about so much." 
 
 "That is, indeed, a very profound reflection/* 
 Oeorge observed, " and I wonder how M. Fonillaupot 
 came by such deep thoughts S " 
 
 "The fact is . . . I will tell you something. I nave 
 read a good deal,and,I can assure you, withmuch profit " 
 
 " That is evident to anyone who listens to you, and 
 I am sure your employer must be proud of his pupil ,._ 
 
 M. Poupard bowed, and stammered out, — 
 
 " Sir, as far as reg irds me ... I assure you . . . 
 ^nd then ... I have a great regard for Cadet." 
 
 " Thank you, master, and I am sure I reciprocate 
 
 the feeling.' 
 
 " Gentlemen, let us drink a glass of champagne to 
 the happiness of the future married couple." 
 
 "We shall be happy, for — let me tell you some- 
 thing. . . . Drinking champagne is one of my fixed 
 ideas, especially as I have never tasted it" 
 
 The champagne gave M. Poupard a little more 
 assurance, and he thought that he ought to hob and 
 nob with everybody present, and as for Cadet Fouil- 
 laupot, who Avished to show off as a fine speaker, he 
 became very talkative, and kept continually repeating 
 his favourite phrase, il I want to tell you something" 
 
 " Do you know, M. Fouillaupot, that you will have 
 a very pretty wife? " Rocaille said 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur, I know that ; I am convinced of 
 it r but it was my fixed idea to have a natty wife." 
 
63 OADET FOUILLAUPOT. 
 
 " She has a pair of very expressive black eyea,* 
 George observed. 
 
 " Yes, they are very bright, Monsieur. But I will 
 tell you something ; she must keep straight, or else 
 ... I beg your pardon, I was going to say something 
 stupid." 
 
 " Go on, whilst you are about it." 
 
 " Well, I was going to say that, if Felicite kicked 
 over the traces, things would go badly." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say that you are jealous?'* 
 Leocadie asked him. " That's very ridiculous." 
 
 " Madame, I will tell you something. I had rather 
 be ridiculous than . . . You know what I mean ! " 
 
 " But the one does not obviate the other." 
 
 " That is not all, however. I shall go straight, 
 and my. wife must go straight also ; and I mean to 
 make her do as I please." 
 
 " Take care, M. Fouillaupot," Hortense said ; " my 
 god-daughter is rather hot-headed ; I know her and 
 have studied her, and you will never do anything 
 with her by trying to lord it over her, though you 
 can always bring her over by kindness." 
 
 " Oh, Madame, you need not be at all alarmed, for 
 I will tell you something ; I am as gentle as a lamb 
 as long as I am not thwarted, but in married life I 
 expect only virtue and faithfulness, like turtle-doves; 
 is not that so, master? and when it is a question of 
 one's honour, it is not the proper time for joking." 
 
 " Certainly," the great ball replied, bowing to the 
 servant who went past him. " Of course, faithful- 
 ness in married life is a necessity. My late wife left 
 me several times, but it was from good motives. 
 When she had a friend or relative who was ill, she 
 would say to me, *Just look here, friendship calls 
 me; I fly in answer to its summons, but do not 
 trouble yourself, I will come back to you/ And, 
 as a matter of fact, she always did come back, look- 
 ing uncommonly well" 
 
CAO£T FOUILLAUPOT. 69 
 
 "That proves, M.Poupard, that you were not jealous," 
 Leoeadie said, " and that is much to your credit." 
 
 " Well, as for me," Cadet exclaimed, " I shall not 
 be so accommodating as my master. My wife might 
 aay to me, * Friendship calls me/ as much as ever she 
 pleased, but my answer would be, ' Let it call you as 
 much as it likes, but I forbid you to answer, or to 
 leave your hymeneal hearth/ because — I will tell 
 you something ; when a woman is away from her 
 husband, and another man tries to cajole her, well — 
 you may be told 'once is not always ; ' that is all 
 very well, but I shall know the proverb, • When one 
 has seen the wolf, one returns to it.' " 
 
 Everybody burst out laughing, and Gontran said, — 
 
 "Upon my word, I never heard that proverb 
 before ; but it is uncommonly good." 
 
 " It is quite true, isn't it, sir ? " 
 
 "Like all proverbs, which have been called the 
 wisdom of nations, and yet they lie sometimes." 
 
 " Shall you and your wife live with your mother- 
 in-law ? " Hortense asked the future husband. 
 
 " No, Madame, we shall have our own little place 
 to ourselves, for one does not always agree with one's 
 mother-in-law; they always take their daughter's 
 part. I have taken Lucas's cottage, and they are 
 -going to furnish it, and I am sure nothing will be 
 wanting. My old aunt, who is rather blind and deaf, 
 Answers the door ; she makes capital onion soup." 
 
 Madame Dartinelle now got up, and said, — 
 
 " I have been working a little present which I want 
 to give your wife at her wedding ; come with me for 
 & moment, and I will show it to you." 
 
 "I am quite at your disposal, Madame, as soon as there 
 is any question of a present — and even without that — " 
 
 " M. Poupard can come with us ; he shall be in the 
 secret." 
 
 " Master, do you hear ; come along, you are to be 
 m the secret." 
 
70 CADET FOU1LLAUPOT, 
 
 Hortense took the two men into her bedroom,, 
 where she opened a cupboard and took out a charm- 
 ing muslin dressing-jacket, covered with embroidery, 
 and, showing it to Cadet, she said, — 
 
 "That is what I am going to give to my god- 
 daughter, and I want her to find it in her room when 
 you take her home after the ball" 
 
 " That is pretty, indeed ; just look at it, master." 
 
 " Yes ; what is it — a chemise ? " 
 
 "No; it is a dressing-jacket." 
 
 44 Oh! a dressing-jacket; and when will she wear it?" 
 
 'Before going to bed, or on getting up, like «► 
 dressing-gown." 
 
 "Oh, of course, a dressing-gown ; how nice Felicity 
 will look in it. If you will give it to me, Madame, I 
 will take care of it until the grand day." 
 
 " No, you cannot have it yet, for it is not quit* 
 finished, as I must put some lace on for trimmings 
 and I can only get that in Paris. My present must 
 be taken to her new home without my god-daughter 
 knowing anything about it." 
 
 " I will teil you something ; I will come and fetch 
 it before the dinner." 
 
 "On the wedding day! You will have no time, 
 and your wife would be very much surprised if you 
 were to leave her ; but I think it can be managed. 
 Of course M. Poupard will be at the dinner ? " 
 
 "Certainly, Madame," he said with a bow, "and 
 twice rather than once." 
 
 "Now, he could come and go without anyone 
 noticing his absence, so perhaps you will be kind 
 enough to come here for the dressing-jacket, and 
 take it secretly to their house ? No doubt you 
 know the house; but what will the aunt say to 
 letting you in?" 
 
 " That will be all right. I am sure you will not 
 mind coming here before dinner, fetching the present, 
 and then taking it to our house. You can put it on 
 
CADET FOUILLAL POT. 71 
 
 the bridal bed, where Felicite will be surprised to 
 iind it on coming in." 
 
 "Of course I will come for it, but you must tell 
 the old woman who has charge of the house to let 
 ^ne in." 
 
 "I will tell you something; my aunt is looking 
 -after it, she is nearly blind, and then she knows you; 
 «o all you need say on going in is : 'I am Fouillau- 
 pot's master.' That will be quite enough, and she will 
 let you go anywhere you like in the house." 
 
 " That is settled, then." 
 
 "And now, gentlemen, I must beg you to keep my 
 secret." 
 
 " You can be quite easy, Madame ; it shall be just 
 as if we had never heard it." 
 
 "And besides, I will tell you something; if we 
 were to talk about it, there would not be any sur- 
 prise, and I am very anxious to surprise my wife on 
 our wedding day." 
 
 Madame Dartinelle returned to her guests, and the 
 bridegroom and his master are just taking leave of 
 everybody, when George stops Cadet, and says to 
 him,— 
 
 " M. Fouillaupot, I told your two ladies that I should 
 invite all the guests at your wedding to supper, and 
 I hope that you will accept my invitation f " 
 
 " A supper ! I shall be delighted to accept, sir ; no 
 one ever thinks of refusing a supper, don't you think 
 so, master ? " 
 
 The round ball bows, and says, — 
 
 " Never, especially as I am always hungry at night. 
 It is very polite of the gentleman, and I propose, Cadet, 
 that you allow him to take your wife's garters." 
 
 " I am quite willing, and I will tell you something ; 
 I gave Felicity a very pretty pair a short time ago, 
 and they ought to be quite presentable still." 
 
 Hortense looked at Gontran, who tries not to 
 laugh, and George replies, — 
 
72 CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 
 
 " But to take htr garters I should have to come to 
 the dinner, which I cannot do." 
 
 "Oh! that can be managed, Monsieur; that part 
 of the ceremony can be put off till supper time to suit 
 you." 
 
 " That is all right, then, and I will go and hunt for 
 the garter." 
 
 "Oh, I did not mean you yourself; little Baiot 
 shall be your deputy." 
 
 " And pray why should I not get it for myself, M. 
 Fouillaupot? it is the most delightful part of the 
 ceremony." * 
 
 " Why, Monsieur, don't you see you are too old to 
 go and crawl under the table — " 
 
 "What the devil are you making a fuss about t 
 I intend to crawl under the table, and shall do the 
 business very well." , 
 
 " If you really wish it — you can crawl, on all fours. 
 But I must tell you that I do not intend to spend 
 the whole night in dancing ; it would be too tiring 
 for my wife. It is only reasonable that I should take 
 her home at two o'clock in the morning, though the 
 others can go on dancing as long as they like." 
 
 " But, M. Fouillaupot, it would be very unkind to 
 deprive us of your wife's company so soon." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I am not going to marry her 
 for other people, but for myself. And now, master 
 let us say good-bye^ and regain our Lares, as the 
 story in the supplement says ; and a very good story 
 it was, only it was never finished. Good evening,, 
 ladies and gentlemen, till we meet again." 
 
 As soon as the two villagers had left, the ladies, 
 who thought they had been a long time over dinner, 
 rose from the table, and went into the drawing-room ; 
 
 * In France, amongst the lo*<er classes, it was, and is still, 
 customary for a boy or youth to creep under the table during 
 the wedding dinner and take off the bride's garters, which then 
 belong to the best man. 
 
CADET FOUILLAUPOT. 78 
 
 but the gentlemen did not follow them, for they re- 
 mained smoking and drinking more champagne. 
 
 " What do you think of the future husband, gentle- 
 men?" George said. " Don't you think as I do, that 
 it is a great pity that such a head of asparagus should 
 marry such a pretty girl as Felicite ? My sister's god- 
 daughter has very expressive eyes, whilst M. Fouillau- 
 pot's express nothing but stupidity and mistrust; for 
 one easily sees that the fellow will be absurdly jealous. 
 Just think of his already talking about taking his wife 
 off early ! What are you laughing at, Gontran ? " 
 
 " Because he did not wish you yourself to go and 
 take the bride's garters, and, though he gave way, he 
 made a grimace about it, and I think by this time 
 he is sorry that you have invited them to supper." 
 
 " What an idiot he is ! Does he imagine that he 
 can always keep his wife under his eyes ? " 
 
 " I will try and persuade my wife to give Fouillau- 
 pot our washing to do, for the wives often bring the 
 linen, and then I will watch for her coming." 
 
 " Gentlemen," Brochenbiche said, " if I had not such 
 a pain in my side as prevents me thinking about love 
 matters, I should have liked to have played the hus- 
 band a lot of tricks on his wedding day." 
 
 " It would be capital fun," Lambert said, " to have 
 a joke with the fellow." 
 
 " The best trick to play him/" Gontraii observed, 
 " would bs to prevent him from passing his wedding 
 light with his wife." 
 
 "What an excellent idea!" George exclaimed. 
 *If you like, we will all vow to assist A ach other, 
 should it be necessary, in any enterprise to prevent 
 M. Fouillaupot from passing the first night after his 
 wedding with the charming Felicite." 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! yes ! capital; we will all agree." 
 
 "Let us do something more. Let us make a bet, 
 and the man who succeeds best shall stand the others 
 a dinner." 
 
74 HOSTILITIES BEGIK. 
 
 " So the one who wins loses 1 " 
 
 " That will make it all the more amusing.**" 
 
 " Very well, we will all agree." 
 
 "That is settled.. then ; but not a word of our plan 
 to the ladies, for they would make a noise, and tell 
 the husband." 
 
 " We will not mention it to them ; surely we men 
 can hold our tongues." 
 
 " That is all right ; and now, let us go and join the 
 ladies." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 
 
 The gentlemen kept their word, and said nothing 
 about their plans for pretty Felicite's wedding day. 
 But ever since Madame Dartinelle knew that her 
 god-daughter was the heroine of that adventure in 
 which the wind had played so great a part, she often 
 looks at Gontran in a peculiar manner, and tries to 
 find out how he spends the intervening days before 
 the wedding. One might almost think that she ia 
 afraid lest that accomplished seducer should find 
 another opportunity of meeting the girl; and when 
 Mamma Boulafour came to tell her one morning that 
 her daughter was coming to show her wedding drees 
 to Madame, Hortense said, — 
 
 " I do not wish F^licite to put herself out to come 
 and show it to me. When she is on the eve of being 
 married, she must be very busy, so I will go myself to 
 your house to see the dress ; it will be an object for 
 a walk for me, and on my return she shall take me 
 and show me the house where she and her husbnad 
 are going to live." 
 
 So the next morning the handsome widow went out 
 alone, leaving Gontran and her brother to play billi- 
 
HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 75 
 
 ards, and went to Madame Boulafour's to see the pretty- 
 dress, and everything else that was required to com- 
 plete the bride's toilet; and then she said to Felicite, — 
 
 " Now you must take me to see where you are 
 going to live when you get married. I suppose you 
 have already the right to go into the house ? " 
 
 " 1 should rather think so I " the laundress ex- 
 claimed. " It would indeed be queer if we could not 
 go in, when I furnished the house for the children* 
 You shall see how nice it all is, Madame." 
 
 Hortense and her god-daughter started together, 
 and, as they were going, the former said, — 
 
 " Felicite, have you seen M. Gontran since you and 
 your mother came to my house the other evening I " 
 
 " No, god-mother, I have not seen the gentleman 
 again — that is to say, I saw him in the distance 
 yesterday, but I did not speak to him." 
 
 "Oh! so you saw him in the distance; where 
 was it f " 
 
 " I was coming out of our cottage, where we are 
 going now, and the gentleman was in the path 
 opposite— for we have a little house all to ourselves, 
 which is very delightful." 
 
 " Yes, yes I M. Gontran was in the path opposite ; 
 and what was he doing there ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; he was looking up into the air, and 
 I believe he was admiring our cottage." 
 
 u And did he come to you when he saw you ? " 
 
 ■* I should rather think he was comingj but he 
 stopped quite suddenly, because Cadet, who was in 
 the house, came out to join me." 
 
 " Ah ! I understand. Felicite, if this young man 
 tries to talk to you, you must avoid him. Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 " Yes, god-mother. Hau he mentioned what hap- 
 pened to me under the walnut tree, and my garter *? 
 You were sure to ask him not to speak about it, 
 I hope!" 
 
76 HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 
 
 " You may be quite easy on that score ; he has not 
 mentioned it, and will not mention it, but nevertheless 
 he must not speak to you again." 
 
 " What could he say to me ? " 
 
 " Oh ! don't be silly, for you know quite well what 
 a polite, well-bred man can say to a woman from 
 whom he hopes to obtain some favours ; and I tell you 
 again that this M. Gontran is one of those men who 
 like to deceive and seduce every woman they meet." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you think he is in love 
 with me, god-mother ! " 
 
 " Not at all — not the least in the world ; you surely 
 do not fancy that such gentlemen are ever in love ? 
 He would only amuse himself at your expense, and 
 then make fun of you ; and, now I have warned you, 
 be on your guard." 
 
 " Yes, god-mother; but here we are." 
 
 In villages there are still to be found small houses 
 inhabited by only one family; and that in which Cadet 
 and Felicity were to live was one of those. It con- 
 sisted of only a ground and first floor. Below, the 
 front door opened into a small passage, on the right 
 of which was the room destined for the old aunt, 
 who was to live with the young couple and open the 
 door ; and on the other side there was a large room 
 which was to serve for laundry purposes. At the end 
 of the passage a narrow staircase led upstairs to the 
 storey above, which consisted of two rooms, one of 
 which was the dining-room, and the other the bed- 
 room for husband and wife, and all the elegance and 
 comfort which a village can imagine was reserved 
 for it. Everything was fresh and new — wall paper, 
 ceiling, furniture ; and though it contained neither 
 a bookcase nor china vases, it had an excellent bed, 
 a handsome chest of drawers, two easy and some 
 pretty common chairs, a work table, and on the 
 mantelpiece a handsome looking-glass and a porcelain 
 clock between two large candlesticks. 
 
HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 77 
 
 Felicite" took her god-mother into her future home, 
 where the old aunt was already installed on the ground 
 floor. She had not heard the doors go because she 
 was deaf, and, as she could hardly see, she smiled at 
 Hortense, and said, — 
 
 " Good day, Mother Boulafour. Have you come to 
 have a look round upstairs with your daughter ? You 
 will see how clean everything is ; I swept it all over 
 this very morning. 
 
 The handsome widow could not help bursting out 
 laughing, while Felicity exclaimed, — 
 
 " No, Aunt Nicoud, my mother is not with me ; it 
 is my god-mother, Madame Dartinelle." 
 
 11 Oh ! it is a woman who sells crockery ware, is it * 
 Very well, transact your business, for I am going to 
 make my soup." 
 
 " My god-daughter, if you are going to depend on 
 this woman to tell you who your customers are 
 that come and ask for you, I think that you will very 
 often make mistakes." 
 
 "No, god-mother, I am not going to depend on 
 her. I took Aunt Nicoud because Cadet likes to 
 have somebody to answer the door, but I am quite 
 sure she will never see who comes in or goes out ; 
 luckily I shall always be here." 
 
 Madame Dartinelle duly admired the new abode, 
 and then took leave of her god-daughter, without 
 saying a word about the present she intended to 
 give her; but on returning home, when she hap- 
 pened to be alone with Gontran, she could not help 
 saying to him, — 
 
 " How do you like the house where Felieite and 
 her husband are going to live ? " 
 
 Gontran smiled, and then, without appearing to 
 be the least embarrassed at her question, he replied, — 
 
 " How do you know, Madame, that I know where 
 your pretty little god-daughter is going to live 1 " 
 
 " I ask you a question, and you answer me with an- 
 
78 HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 
 
 other. You are very clever, Monsieur, and it is a very- 
 successful way of getting out of giving an answer." 
 
 " I assure you, Madame, that I had no such intention 
 when I said that to you, and to prove this to you, I will 
 tell you without hesitation that I think the future 
 dwelling-place of the happy couple is very nicely situ- 
 ated, and looks very pretty. It seems to me an alto- 
 gether suitable abode — as far as I can judge from the 
 outside, that is, for I have not seen the interior." 
 
 " And it was, I presume, in the hope of seeing what it 
 was like inside that you were taking a walk yesterday 
 along the path which is just opposite that cottage? " 
 
 " Exactly so, for I said to myself, c Upon my word, 
 if that charming Felicite comes this way, I shall ask 
 her to show me the inside of her house.' " 
 
 " M. Gontran, your conduct is really disgraceful." 
 
 " You natter me, Madame." 
 
 "You are trying to profit by your accidental 
 meeting with my god-daughter, by the folly she was 
 guilty of when she gave you her garter." 
 
 " You really call such a meritorious action, such a 
 charming inspiration, which saved my cap for me, 
 folly I You are uncharitable, Madame." 
 
 " What you are doing is very wrong. I certainly 
 never particularly liked you, but now I hate you." 
 
 " A proof that I have, at all events, made some pro- 
 gress in your feelings towards me." 
 
 " But you shall not succeed in your wicked designs ; 
 I will watch over her till she is married." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be more to the purpose, Madame, 
 if you were to watch over her afterwards." 
 
 Hortense was just going to reply, when visitors 
 arrived. They were Madame Rocaille, who had come 
 to consult her neighbour about what head-dress she 
 would wear at this village wedding, and Madam© 
 Brochenbiche, who had also come to consult her 
 about her toilet ; for it was to take place the next 
 day but one after, and so they had no time to lose. 
 
HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 79 
 
 Gontran bowed to the three ladies, and left them 
 to their weighty deliberations ; but, as he bowed to 
 the widow, he said in a low voice, — 
 
 "Are you still angry with met " 
 
 And she replied immediately, — 
 
 " I detest you I " and therefore the young man went 
 away, saying to himself, — 
 
 "That is all right; so, so, Madame, you do not 
 wish anyone to speak to you of love ! Formerly, all 
 men were indifferent to you, and now you detest me ! 
 Hatred is much more akin to love than indifference." 
 
 Gontran then went to look for fat George, who 
 called out as soon as he saw him, — 
 
 " I say, have you given up the idea of playing the 
 husband a trick ? " 
 
 " Not by any means ; but I don't see the necessity 
 for thinking about it beforehand ; there will be plenty 
 of time on the day itself, when there will be no lack 
 of opportunities." 
 
 " I do not agree with you ; I have formed my plan 
 beforehand, and I think I have discovered an excel- 
 lent way for making this jealous husband allow me 
 to dance with his wife." 
 
 " What are the means t " 
 
 " Why, to make him drunk, of course, and nothing 
 will be easier than that at supper. He took very 
 kindly to champagne, and I will take care to give 
 him enough ! " 
 
 " I should advise you to take care, for these country 
 fellows can drink a great lot without getting drunk." 
 
 "But then they do not drink champagne very 
 often ; and when M. Fouillaupot is quite tipsy, I will 
 bet that his pretty little wife will not go home with 
 him. Oswald has gone back to Paris, but he will be 
 here the day after to-morrow, and will most likely 
 have some good idea in his head. As for Brochen- 
 biche, he does not count, unless he manages to give 
 the bridegroom a dose of medicine, so that there is 
 
80 HOSTILITIES BEGIN. 
 
 only Rocaille remaining, and here he is ; he has com© 
 to tell us, no doubt, what his projects are." 
 
 Their facetious neighbour came up to them with 
 a radiant air, and shook hands with the two friends. 
 
 "Good-day, gentlemen; are you alone? That is 
 all right; I am delighted to meet you together, so 
 let us talk over our little plans with regard to the 
 charming bride, for the day after to-morrow is the 
 day, and that will soon be here." 
 
 " Well, we know it is the day after to-morrow ; but 
 tell us, Rocaille, have you thought of any expedient 
 to prevent the husband from carrying off his wife 
 before daylight ? " 
 
 "Of course I have thought of one ; I have not been 
 asleep, by Jove! and I think I have a very bright idea." 
 
 " Let us hear it." 
 
 "At supper I will manage to get up a quarrel 
 between the bridegroom and some rustic who is at 
 the wedding, and whom I will tell that M. Fouillaupot 
 has been making fun of him. Now, these country 
 fellows have plenty of pride, and do not like to be 
 made fun of, and, with the aid of the wine, my two 
 game cocks will soon come to blows. Whilst they 
 are fighting I shall slip a five- franc piece into the 
 hands of a lad, who must pretend to have been 
 wounded whilst trying to separate the opponents; 
 he will make a terrible noise, the police will be sent 
 for, and when the gendarmes arrive they will arrest 
 the brawlers, lock them up, and the husband will 
 spend the night in a cell instead of with his wife. 
 Well ! what do you say to that? " 
 
 The two friends shake their heads, and do not 
 seem particularly taken with M. Rocaille's plan. 
 
 " It strikes me that it will be very difficult to carry 
 it out," George said. 
 
 " 1 don't like the idea of arresting the husband," 
 Gontran observed ; " he must be got rid of by some 
 other means." 
 
THE WEDDING : THE SWING. 81 
 
 " I really see no other, and this seems to me to be 
 perfectly simple and natural A dispute amongst 
 peasants is not such a rare occurrence, and then blows 
 are exchanged and the police appear on the scene ; 
 that is seen every day." 
 
 " That is possible, but I think it is a dangerous ex- 
 pedient ; but you can try it if you like. I shall merely 
 try and make the husband drunk. Gontran will, 
 I suppose, try and have an assignation with the 
 pretty bride, and we shall see what our friend 
 Oswald Lambert will have thought of." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING: THE SWING. 
 
 The great day had arrived; the great day is the 
 wedding day, on which one stakes one's liberty, ones 
 heart, one's person, all one's future. It requires 
 a good deal of thinking about before taking such 
 a step, and Beaumarchais said, " One ought to think 
 of it all one's life ; " but then, probably, Beau- 
 marchais was not happy in his married life ; neither 
 was MolieYe, nor La Fontaine, nor Jean Jacques 
 Kosseau ; Voltaire was clever, and never married. 
 
 The wedding festivities took place at an inn where 
 there was a large room for dancing, a large dining- 
 room for meals, and a large garden for those persons 
 who might wish to walk about ; and in the garden 
 there were shrubberies, which were quite thick 
 enough for those who were fond of being Ute-a-tete ; 
 and then there was a swing, ninepins, and bowls, but 
 the swing had the preference, and the girls quarrelled 
 about who should use it, for, as a rule, women like 
 being swung The spot was between the dwelling 
 
£2 THE WEDDING : THE SWING. 
 
 of the newly-married couple and Mamma Boulafour's, 
 and pretty Felicite* started from the latter house; 
 and very charming she looks in her white dress with 
 her bouquet of orange flowers, and she does not in- 
 tend to change her dress all day, for in villages 
 brides do not make their toilettes twice over, and are 
 not afraid of rumpling their wedding dress by wear- 
 ing it at the ball ; besides this, there is also very 
 often another reason, which is, that they have not 
 anything prettier to put on for the evening. 
 
 They nad gone to church. Madame Dartinelle is 
 there, with her brother and Gontran. The Rocfiilles 
 and the Brochenbiches are also present at the cere- 
 mony, which, however, M. Poupard, Cadet's employer, 
 could not attend, as he had been obliged to go to Paris 
 in the morning after somebody who owed him money. 
 He promised, however, to be back for the dinner, 
 and they were to sit down at four o'clock sharp, so 
 as to have plenty of time before the ball. Every- 
 body admired the bride, who carried her white 
 bouquet in a certain easy manner, which perhaps 
 might suggest that she did not exactly deserve it, 
 but it is always well to look at the best side of things, 
 and all said, " How pretty she is ; how well she 
 wears her fine clothes. She does not seem the least 
 nervous. She does not look down like brides gener- 
 ally do. Why should she? When one has such 
 pretty eyes as she has, one ought to let them be seen." 
 
 As she passed by her god-mother and the gentry of 
 the neighbourhood, Felicity blushed with pleasure, 
 for she could read in every look the pretty things 
 that were said about her. When Bhe noticed Gontran 
 a mischievous smile came over her face, and the young 
 man gave her a very expre^ve look; but Cadet 
 Fouillaupot is there, never taking his eyes off her, 
 watching her slightest movement, and then looking 
 proudly at all the people who are assembled there, as 
 if to say : " She is my wife, my property, so let no- 
 
THK WEDDING : TH1 SWING. 8$ 
 
 body think of touching her ; I should not look upon 
 it as a joke, and I should hit hard." 
 
 After she had received the congratulations of her 
 god-mother and the rest, and they had promised not 
 to forget the ball in the evening, the bride is escorted 
 to the inn, and whilst waiting for dinner they amuse- 
 themselves in different ways. The new wife can then 
 still behave like a girl and amuse herself with her 
 friends. Fouillaupot would indeed have liked, before 
 dinner, to take his wife to their new dwelling for 
 a few minutes ; but Felicite turned a deaf ear to hm 
 hints, and, besides that, the groomsmen do not leave 
 the bride alone for an instant, and Mamma Boulafour 
 says to her son-in-law, — 
 
 " My lad, your wife belongs to you, and will not 
 escape you; but let her act the young girl to-day 
 still. You must not rush upon her like a wolf upon 
 a lamb; you will always find her at hand, so 
 moderate your ardour a little, and keep a little of it 
 for next year." And he, seeing that he could not 
 forestall the time for the enjoyment of his married 
 rights, resigned himself patiently, and went on playing 
 billiards with the men, naying, — 
 
 " How tiresome that M. Poupard was obliged to go 
 to Paris this morning ; but he will come in time for 
 dinner, and he promised me that, before coming, he 
 would be sure and call at Madame Dartinelle's to 
 fetch her present for Felicite, which he will im- 
 mediately take to our new house. My wife does not 
 suspect anything, and it will surprise her very much 
 when we get home to-night." 
 
 Felicite had gone to amuse herself with her girt 
 friends in the garden of the establishment, and they 
 made haste to get to the swing. Some young 
 fellows had remained with them to swing them, and 
 every moment one can hear the usual peasant girl's 
 laughter, enough to frighten an ox ; but, in spite of 
 this merry noise, the village lads always keep their 
 
S4 THE WEDDING : THE SWING. 
 
 eyes upwards, trying to catch eight of the calves of the 
 girls. Every moment you hear : " 1 saw Genevieve's 
 calves ! " " It isn't true, and besides, I have not got 
 any." "Oh, Toinette has a hole in her stocking!" 
 " Put your nose in it to stop it ; I don't mind." 
 
 When it is Felicity's turn to swing, she bravely 
 stands up on the seat, and one of the groomsmen 
 is swinging her very high, because she says she is 
 not afraid. By-and-by he cries out, — 
 
 " Hallo ! I saw something ; I saw something I " 
 
 " What did you see, Bouchard 1 " 
 
 " I saw the bride's garter, but I could only see one." 
 
 "Who dares to say that he saw my wife's garters! " 
 Cadet exclaims, who has just left the billiard-room 
 to see what she was doing. 
 
 " I did, whilst I was swinging her ; but I did not 
 say I had seen her garters, for I only saw one." 
 
 " Bouchard, it is lucky for you that you are my best 
 man to-day, otherwise I should give you a thrashing." 
 
 "What an ass he is; why, he is actually angry." 
 
 " I don't choose anybody to see my wife's garters. 
 Felicity, as when you are on the swing you run the 
 risk of showing what your husband alone has the right 
 of seeing, I beg that you will at once leave off this 
 indecent amusement." 
 
 " Oh I the jealous fool, who does not want us to 
 amuse ourselves." 
 
 All the women find fault with the husband, and 
 Felicity, who does not show any inclination to obey 
 him, remains standing on the board of the swing, 
 and calls out, — 
 
 " Why should I come down, when I like to stop 
 here 1 What is the matter with you, Cadet ? Just 
 leave us alone ; Bouchard, go on swinging me." 
 
 " Bouchard, I forbid you to swing my wife — " 
 
 " Cadet, I will be swung ; all these girls have been." 
 
 " But you are not a girl ; you are my half, my other 
 half — " 
 
THE WEDDINGK THE SWING, 85 
 
 "What of that?" 
 
 " And then you have not been swinging like the 
 other girls ; they were sitting, and you stand up 
 in the swing." 
 
 "Standing up or sitting down, what is the 
 difference ? " 
 
 "Felicite", your innocence carries you too far. I 
 must explain the danger to you later on." 
 
 "But Genevieve was standing up." 
 
 "Yes, but I did not remain so long, for I wu 
 too much afraid of falling out." 
 
 "Well, I am not afraid, and I think it is much 
 nicer; so, therefore, just give me a little push, 
 Bouchard, and then I can manage it myself." 
 
 " Bouchard, I forbid you to push my wife." 
 
 "Don't listen to him; send him away. Go and 
 play billiards, and leave us alone ! " 
 
 However, instead of going, Cadet caught hold of 
 the swing, and seemed as if he were about to pull 
 his wife off, at which all who were there called out, — 
 
 "Don't give way, Felicite", don't let go the rope; your 
 husband is a regular tyrant." And the young wife, 
 half laughing, half angry, manages to resist her hus- 
 band till Mother Boulafour comes and shouts out, — 
 
 " What is the matter ? Quarrelling already ? and 
 nobody there to receive M. Poupard, who has just 
 come, and wants some refreshment." 
 
 "My employer has arrived !" Cadet exclaimed, letting 
 his wife go ; "I must be civil to him and get him some." 
 
 When her husband does not wish to pull her down 
 any longer, Felicite gets out of the swing and says to 
 her mother, — 
 
 " My husband does not set to work very well at 
 first; he actually objects to my amusing myself 
 like the rest ; but he is nicely mistaken if he thinks 
 I am going to do just as he pleases, for I am going 
 to do as I please." 
 
 " Be quiet, Felicite ; be quiet, my child. You shall 
 
&$ THE WEDDING : THE SWING. 
 
 be mistress, but you must not do anything suddenly ; 
 pretend to listen to him, and you can do what you 
 like all the same." 
 
 "I did not give way, mother, because 1 want to 
 be on a proper footing with my husband Did 
 you give way to my father yourself? " 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 u Very well, then, bo I suppose I am right." 
 
 Cadet found his employer, who was already 
 fitting before a bottle of wine. 
 
 " How are you, my dear M. Poupard f I am very 
 glad that you have come." 
 
 "I made haste, for I did not want to be late 
 for dinner." 
 
 " We should have waited for you, for I would not 
 nave had a potato put on the table till you came; 
 but I hope you have been to Madame Dartinelle's V* 
 
 " Your wife's god-mother f I should think so, as 
 I agreed to go, for when I say a thing I do it." 
 
 y I know that ; and did she give you that pretty 
 present, the dressing-jacket, which she showed us t " 
 
 " Of course she did ; she gave it me wrapped up 
 in paper, and I have just left it at your new house." 
 
 "That is all right; and Aunt Nicoud let you go in?" 
 
 •' Yes ; she did not speak, but only smiled pleasantly, 
 for she was just going to make her soup." 
 
 "Poor old aunt, she is always making soup. I 
 asked her to come and dine with us, but she re- 
 fused, and said: 'No, I had rather stop at home 
 and keep house and make some good soup.' But, 
 I say, where did you put my wife's present from 
 her god-mother ? " 
 
 " I put it on the bed, as I promised, so that she 
 cannot help seeing it when she is going to bed." 
 
 " That's all right ; what a joke, and how surprised 
 *he will be! How do you like the wine, M. Poupard? " 
 
 "It is not bad; I have drunk better, but it is not bad." 
 
 H That is the sort of wine we shall have at dinner, 
 
THE GARTERS. 
 
 87 
 
 and we shall have the same at dessert ; but I will 
 tell yon something. At supper, yon know, Madame 
 Dartinelle's brother has promised to give us 
 champagne." 
 
 " You must take care, Cadet, for don't you see, on 
 your wedding-day — You understand what I meant" 
 
 " Oh, you need not be alarmed ; 1 have a strong 
 head, and don't easily get drunk." 
 
 "Where is your wife? You must take me to her, 
 so that I may congratulate her and give her a kiss." 
 
 " I will take you immediately, and you may kiss 
 her as much as ever you like; but I told the grooms- 
 men that I was not going to have them shoving 
 their noses up against my wife's soft cheeks. But, 
 hang it ! I left Felicite in the swing." 
 
 " Well, where is the harm % " 
 
 "Well, I will tell you something; my wife will 
 swing standing up." 
 
 " Well, that shows that she is not frightened." 
 
 " Yes, but I am afraid. In swinging, petticoats 
 are apt to fly up, and Bouchard has already seen her 
 
 garters, and I don't want him to see anything else, 
 ome along; I would not have had the wedding 
 entertainment here if I had known that there was 
 a swing," 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE GARTERS. 
 
 F^lioit^ was not in the swing any more, which re- 
 stored her husband's good temper; but everybody 
 was hungry and in a hurry for dinner ; the men, that 
 they might eat and drink, and the women, that they 
 might dance as soon as it was over; and so, when the 
 innkeeper came to announce that he was quite ready 
 to send it up, he was greeted with shouts of applause. 
 
S8 THE GARTERS. 
 
 A long table was laid in the largest room of the 
 establishment. Over hie door the landlord has put 
 the announcement, A room in which a hundred people 
 tan dine y and though there are only forty-two guests 
 at the wedding dinner, they can hardly all find room. 
 
 "Why did you not put us into your room which 
 holds a hundred people ? " the husband asked him. 
 
 " This is it." 
 
 " Then why are we packed together like herrings 
 in a barrel when there are only Forty-two of us, and 
 three of them children ? " 
 
 " You are all so fat ; and then just look at the ladies' 
 Presses and their crinolines; they take up double room." 
 
 " I like being squeezed," Bouchard, the best man, 
 says, who is seated on the left hand of the bride. 
 
 M. Fouillaupot at first insists on sitting by his wife, 
 but is told that that is never done, and that he must 
 be satisfied with sitting opposite to her; so he has 
 his mother-in-law and one of F&icite's cousins on 
 either side of him, whilst her neighbours are the best 
 man, Bouchard, and M. Poupard, her husband's em- 
 ployer. Bouchard, who is one of the village wags, 
 tries to make her laugh at his jokes, which are not 
 always of the most innocent kind ; and M. Poupard, 
 whilst doing ample justice to the repast, keeps saying 
 to Felicite,— 
 
 M My dear child, this is the happiest day of your life." 
 
 "Do you think so, Monsieur I " she asked him, with 
 a mischievous smile. 
 
 "It is well known, my dear girl, that anybody's 
 wedding day is the happiest day of their life." 
 
 " Then the other days are not so nice ? " 
 
 "Of course not; for just look here, to-day you 
 nave an excellent, I might say a magnificent, dinner, 
 but you will not have such a good dinner every day 
 when you are in housekeeping." 
 
 " But, Monsieur, do you think the only thing I got 
 married for was to eat t " 
 
THE GAKTERS. 89 
 
 "A woman gets married for something very dif- 
 ferent than merely to eat," Bouchard interrupted 
 her, with his loud, stupid laughter. "Don't you 
 know, Papa Poupard, that girls guess very well that 
 there is something much more interesting in the 
 pleasures of matrimony than a good leg of mutton. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! And then the pretty little bride has 
 a pair of eyes which seem to say that she is not 
 frightened to stand up on the swing. Ho ! ho ! ho ! " 
 
 "Bouchard, I will not have you talking nonsense 
 to my wife," Fouillaupot says, looking furiously at 
 the groomsman. 
 
 "You will not have it! I suppose I must not 
 speak at all! How very disagreeable Cadet has 
 grown since he has been enrolled in the regiment ©f 
 married men. It is a regiment that I shall not be in 
 * hurry to enlist in." 
 
 " They would not have you," a fat dame says to 
 Bouchard ; " you are too nighty." 
 
 "Not have me? If I were to put myself into a 
 lottery, all the young ladies would take tickets." 
 
 "Well, all I can say," a fat wine-grower, with 
 a very red face, and who is already doing his best to 
 get tipsy, observes, "is, that I have been married 
 for a year, and I am very glad of it, and would do it 
 over again if necessary." 
 
 " Ah, you, Rustaud — you have a model wife ; such 
 women are scarce, for she stammers and takes five 
 minutes to say my husband, so she cannot quarrel 
 with you; and if you are so fond of her, why did 
 you not bring her to Cadet's wedding ? " 
 
 Rustaud swallows a great glass of wine, and then 
 answers,— 
 
 " She ^ras so terribly long in dressing, and putting 
 on her stockings, that I got tired of waiting, and 
 came away without her." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that she stammers in 
 putting on her stockings t That is very charming." 
 
I 
 
 90 THE GARTERS. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I drink the bride's health," M. 
 Poupard said, elevating his glass. 
 
 " Hear, hear ; the bride's health I " 
 
 " And that of her children that are to come," says 
 the best man. 
 
 " Bouchard, you were not asked for that ; you go 
 too far." 
 
 " Don't you expect to have any children ? " 
 
 "Possibly; but that is my business, and no affair o: 
 yours, and I do not want you to take any trouble 
 about my children, You are making my wife blush.' 
 
 "Well, meanwhile, I want to have my bridal 
 perquisite from your wife." 
 
 " W hat do you want from my wife ? " 
 
 " Why, her garter ; as best man I have a right to 
 her garter. I ask all the company r* it is not so 1 " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; he has the right to go and take her 
 garter." 
 
 " Just let him try it on ! Here, little Justin, you 
 creep under the table and take one of my wife's 
 garters, for, as you are only seven years old, you will 
 not understand anything about it." 
 
 " No, no ; it is not worth while," Felicite said ; rt I 
 am not fond of that ceremony." 
 
 " My dear daughter, it is always done," the laun- 
 dress said ; " it is a regular wedding custom." 
 
 But little Justin had not waited for the husband's 
 order to be repeated, and got under the table in an in- 
 stant, when Felicite's cousin screamed out suddenly, — 
 " Justin, you have made a mistake in the legs. I 
 am not the bride ; go to the other side of the table." 
 The little boy executed his manoeuvre under the 
 table, and soon reappeared holding a garter, which 
 was very like the one that Felicite had put on 
 Gontran's cap, in his h&!id. The facetious Bouchard 
 tried to seize it, but before he could do so the bride- 
 groom got hold of it, and fastened it to his button- 
 hole, saying to his best man, — 
 
THE GARTERS. 91 
 
 *• Come and take it if you dare ! Nobody but my 
 employer and I have the right to wear a garter that 
 has been round my wife's knee." 
 
 ** Cadet, that is not at all right," the laundress said. 
 " Bouchard had a right to the garter, poor fellow. 
 Wait a moment, Bouchard; I will make it up to you." 
 
 With these words Madame Boulafour stooped 
 down, pulled up her dress under the table, and 
 took off one of her garters, which she handed to 
 Bouchard, saying, — 
 
 " Here is one of mine ; put it in your buttonhole, 
 and it will have just the same effect." 
 
 The best man received this present with a sort of 
 grimace, that seemed to say that this second garter 
 had not by any means the same effect upon him as 
 the other ; but, of course, he was obliged to put it 
 into his buttonhole, at which all the guests laughed, 
 whilst the girls looked at him mockingly, and said, 
 u Just look at Madame Boulafour's cavalier ! " 
 
 At dessert they sang, as is still customary at vil- 
 lage weddings, for amongst the guests there is always 
 some man with a good voice who likes to make him- 
 self heard, and some girls who like to be asked. At 
 Cadet Fouillaupot's, Rustaud is the man with the good 
 voice, and he, who is so glad that he is married, and 
 who leaves his wife at home, sings ribald songs, in 
 which husbands whose wives make them wear horns 
 are made great fun of. This makes the women laugh 
 very much, but Cadet does not like it, and calls out, — 
 
 " Rustaud, you choose a funny sort of song for a 
 wedding 1 M 
 
 "Aren't they very funny ? One likes to laugh a little." 
 
 "But I don't like to have all husbands made to 
 look like a pack of old donkeys. Give us another 
 song, and not on the same subject." 
 
 " Come, Bouchard," the cousin flays, " you know a 
 lot of songs ; let us hear one." 
 
 But the best man refuses to sing, for he is in a 
 
92 THE CARTERS. 
 
 bad temper ever *izice he has been obliged to wear 
 Madame Boulafour's garter. 
 
 " Master," Cadet observes, " do not you, who know 
 so many things, and are so gallant towards the 
 ladies, know some ancient refrains, like those old 
 fellows used to sing in the time of the Greeks and 
 Romans f " 
 
 "My dear friend," M. Poupard replied, "I know 
 nothing at all about the Romans ; and as to songs, 
 I only know the Complaint of the Wandering Jew, in 
 fifty couplets, but I know the whole of it." 
 
 " Very well, sing it us ; it will be very nice during 
 dessert." 
 
 Thereupon M. Poupard starts off with the Com- 
 plaint, but at the sixth couplet nearly all the women 
 have already left the table, whilst the men sing in 
 
 chorus, — 
 
 44 Never, never had been heard 
 Of a man with such a beard." 
 
 The girls dance with each other till the wretched 
 violinist of the neighbourhood arrives, with the bass 
 viol and clarion ette, which constitutes the whole 
 band ; and the men of the party are obliged to leave 
 the table to dance with the ladies, although some 
 insist on remaining seated, as they find themselves 
 very comfortable, and some, who are already heated 
 by drink, come and dance in their shirt sleeves. 
 
 Cadet opens the ball with his wife, who dances 
 very nicely, whilst he does nothing but jump about, 
 like a fool, as high as he can, kicking all those who 
 are unlucky enough to come near him ; his wife her- 
 self receives one, and is obliged to be on her guard 
 against her husband, to whom she says, — 
 
 " Cadet, do put some restraint on your legs ; you 
 throw them up much too high." 
 
 " Why, dear wife, when one dances on one's 
 wedding day, one "mght to do it with all one's 
 heart," 
 
THE GARTERS. 9& 
 
 "But that is no reason why you should kick 
 everybody." 
 
 After the husband had had his turn, everyone 
 wished to dance with the wife, and he is obliged, in 
 spite of his jealousy, to allow other men to act as 
 her partner, but to console himself he goes and 
 drinks with M. Poupard, to whom he says, — 
 
 " Is the present on the bed ? " 
 
 " Yes, my friend." 
 
 " Will she see it easily ? " 
 
 " It is all right in the middle, on the outside." 
 
 " How surprised she will be ! I wish it were time/ 5 
 
 The ball is at its height, for in the evening many 
 people who have not been at the wedding dinner 
 have come in, when about eight o'clock Madame 
 Dartinelle and her party arrive, for all the neigh- 
 bours have met at her house, so that they may go- 
 to the ball together. Oswald Lambert is with them 3 . 
 having arrived at Madame Dartinelle's after dinner* 
 and the others who are in the bet have taken him 
 aside to ask him what plan he has thought of for 
 preventing Fouillaupot from taking his wife home 
 before the end of the ball ; but the only answer he 
 gives them, with a self-satisfied air, is, — 
 
 " Gentlemen, I have not asked you by what means 
 you hope to succeed in your enterprise, so please to 
 allow me to keep my own secret, and we shall see 
 in the end who has been the cleverest." 
 
 " The devil ! " said fat George ; " it seems to be 
 something very ingenious, and Oswald is afraid that 
 somebody will steal his idea from him. Well 9 , 
 gentlemen, let each of us do as he pleases, and he 
 who wins shall treat all the others to a dinner at 
 Brebant's." 
 
$4 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 The entrance of Hortense and of her party of five 
 ladies and gentlemen naturally created a sensation 
 at .this country wedding. Some of those who were 
 dancing in their shirt sleeves ran off to put on their 
 coats, and the women, whose dresses were already 
 tumbled, went in search of looking-glasses to arrange 
 their toilettes; but whilst Felicity hastened to receive 
 her god-mother, George called out to the dancers, — 
 
 "Gentlemen, pray do not disturb yourselves, for 
 we know that etiquette is banished from this ball, so 
 that it will be all the more amusing, and by way of a 
 beginning I should like to drink the bride's health." 
 
 As soon as anyone mentions the word drinking 
 to a peasant, he is sure to get on, and so the words 
 of Hortense's brother were received with a storm 
 of bravos. Everyone was eager to clink glasses 
 with him, and some old fellows went so far as to 
 tap him on the stomach, to let him see with what 
 esteem his words inspired them. 
 
 The dancing begins afresh. George dances with 
 the bride, and Fouillaupot has his wife's orders to 
 ask her god-mother, and not to kick her; and al- 
 though he obeys F61icite, he hopes that the beautiful 
 lady will not accept him for a partner. He is mis- 
 taken, however, for Hortense wishes to show her 
 xespect for her god-daughter by dancing with her 
 husband. A quadrille is formed, which is made up 
 of the bride and George Varicourt, with her god- 
 mother and Cadet for their vis-d-wis, whilst on the 
 aides Madame Rocaille is dancing with Oswald, and 
 Madame Brochenbiche with M, Rocaille. Gontran 
 has not asked anybody, but is satisfied with watch- 
 ing the quadrille, and '# especially the bride, ^ko 
 
\ 
 
 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 95 
 
 would like, now and then, to give him a furtive 
 look ; but Hortense never takes her eyes off her 
 god-daughter, aod as the latter remembers her god- 
 mother's advice, she does not venture to look at 
 the young man too much, who is standing near 
 her, laughing in his sleeve when he sees the garter 
 in the husband's buttonhole. 
 
 The handsome widow also perceives the peculiar 
 decoration that Cadet is wearing, and asks him 
 what he has got there. 
 
 " It is one of my wife's garters," he replies, " which 
 was taken off her leg duriug dinner." 
 
 " But I always thought that the garter was the 
 property of the groomsman who took it off." 
 
 " I have altered all that, Madame, for I did not want 
 Bouchard, who is my best man, to go fiddling about 
 my wife's legs, and so I told little Justin, a child of 
 seven, to take off* my wife's garter; that was soon done, 
 and then I got hold of the bit of elastic which Bouch- 
 ard wished to prevent me from having. But I will tell 
 you something, — I am not going to let a joker like him* 
 wear that emblem of the diameter* of my wife's leg." 
 
 " You are jealous, Monsieur Fouillaupot." 
 
 " Yes, Madame, I will not deny it ; I am a regular- 
 tiger in the matter of fidelity. As to the other garter^ 
 which is going to be taken off after supper, I intend 
 that for my employer, who is certain not to make a 
 bad use of it." 
 
 " You are surely not going to take the bride's garter 
 again ! I thought it was only done once." 
 
 " Well, we are going to do it at supper also, as my^ 
 employer would like to have the other garter." 
 
 " Do you think he will care about it ? I can hardly^ 
 believe it." 
 
 " Yes, 1 am sure he will put it on the glass by the 
 side of his clock." 
 
 * Sic. M. Cadet is fond of using words of whose meaning he is 
 uncertain. 
 
$6 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 Madame Dartinelle cannot persist, but when the 
 
 quadrille is oyer she goes and takes her god-daughter's 
 
 arm, and whispers to her, — 
 
 " Your husband wants to have your other garter 
 
 ^taken off after supper." 
 
 " Are you sure, god-mother t n 
 
 " Quite sure ; but have you another I " 
 
 " Of course not ; you know I gave it to that 
 
 gentleman ; suppose I ask him to give it me back ? " 
 " What is the good of that ? You do not suppose 
 
 lie has got it here ? M. Gontran did not come to your 
 
 i>all in his cap." 
 
 " Naturally he did not ; well, so much the worse, 
 
 for they will not find the other, and I shall say that 
 
 J. have lost it." 
 
 " Has M. Gontran asked you to dance with him ? " 
 " Yes, god-mother ; I am going to dance with him 
 
 aext. I had promised to dance with Rustaud, but, of 
 
 course, in order to dance with a gentleman of your 
 
 party I told Rustaud that I would dance with him 
 
 another time." 
 
 " Take care, Felicite, for that gentleman of my party is 
 
 an accomplished seducer, so do not talk with him too 
 
 much; he is quite capable of asking you to meet him." 
 " If he did, I should just laugh at him." 
 "Remember that your husband is very jealous, 
 
 and never loses sight of you." 
 ; " Yes, but Cadet must not worry me too much with 
 
 Ms jealousy. He was very silly about the swing, 
 
 mnd I begin to think I was wrong in marrying 
 
 liim." 
 
 "Don't speak like that; your husband is very fond 
 of you, so you must forgive him ; he will soon get 
 over that sort of thing." 
 
 The band gave the signal, the different sets in the 
 quadrille were formed, and this time Gontran takes 
 the bride's hand to dance with her. Bouchard and 
 m young girl are already opposite to them, but soon 
 
THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 97 
 
 Hortense arrives with Rocaille, and Cadet forces the 
 groomsman to give up his place, and says to him, — 
 
 " Look here, Bouchard, you can get out of this as 
 quick as you like when my wife's god-mother wants 
 to dance, for she has a right to dance, with every- 
 body, or alone if she pleases. ' 
 
 The best man makes a grimace, but goes and takes 
 up his position somewhere else. Gontran smiles at 
 seeing that the handsome widow wishes t6 dance in 
 his set in the quadrille, so as to watch his conduct 
 with the bride, and evinces the most lively pleasure 
 at being Felicity's partner, to whom he whispers all 
 the foolish things that come into his head. The 
 bride is as ruddy as a cherry, for though her partner's 
 -compliments flatter her, yet her god-mother's looks 
 disturb her, and she is too embarrassed to laugh; 
 but she says to him, in a low voice, — 
 
 " What have you done with my garter f " 
 
 11 1 have it still ; I am wearing it next my heart." 
 
 " Oh ! what a story-teller." 
 
 " You may ascertain for yourself, if you like." 
 
 " A nice idea, that ! Will you give it me back ? " 
 
 " Yes, in return for a kiss — which you owe me, by 
 $he way, for you promised me one." 
 
 '■ When I promised it you I was not married, and 
 you ought to have taken it." 
 
 "You are quite right; I was foolish, but I will 
 make up for it." 
 
 " Please do be kind, for I will tell you how you can 
 give me back my garter without anybody knowing 
 that you had it." 
 
 " Tell me how." 
 
 " You know the cottage where I am going to live 
 with my husband?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly I do." 
 
 " Well, it is not far from here, and you go past it 
 to go back to my god-mother's house." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 o 
 
98 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 " By-and-by, when you leave, you can go into our 
 house for a moment, for the door is only latched ' y 
 Aunt Nicoud will not say anything to you, for per- 
 haps she will not even see you ; and you can throw 
 my garter on to the staircase, or wherever you like y 
 and he will think I lost it there." 
 " This is a very good idea of yours." 
 " Why are you laughing f Doesn't it suit you 1 " 
 " Certainly not ; in the first place, I have no wish 
 whatever to leave, and then I do not intend to give- 
 up the garter except in return for a kiss ; and that 
 is all that I have got to say." 
 
 " How unkind you are ! And where am I to give 
 you the kiss ? Everybody is looking at us." 
 
 " Not here, certainly; but just come for a moment ta 
 the place where you wish me to deposit the garter. 
 You surely have the right to go home for a minute ? " 
 " Hold your tongue, Monsieur ; you have no busi- 
 ness to make such a proposition to me, for I shall go 
 home with nobody but my husband." 
 " Then I shall keep the garter." 
 "My god-mother was quite right; you are a cajoler.* 
 "Oh! your god-mother told you that, did she? 
 How charming you look I your head-dress gives you 
 such a knowing look." 
 
 "Don't talk so much, my god-mother is looking at us." 
 " What do I care t She must see that I think you 
 are charming." 
 
 "I do not want her to think so; and suppose 
 Cadet notices it also ! " 
 
 " It does not matter ; you must let him know hi® 
 proper place." 
 
 u I will not dance with you any longer." 
 u Very well then, we will try the next waltz." 
 "Waltz! I should like to see Cadet letting me 
 waltz! And besides that, I cannot do it, for it 
 turns me giddy directly." 
 
 As soon as the quadrille is finished, Cadet, who 
 
THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 99 
 
 lias not lost sight of his wife during the whole time, 
 goes and takes her by the arm, and whispers, — 
 
 "You shall not dance with that fine gentleman 
 .any more ; do you hear, wife? " 
 
 " Why should not I, if he asks me again ? " 
 
 "Because he talks to you too much, and comes 
 too close to you when he is dancing with you, and 
 does nothing but look at you. What did he say to 
 you? You were as red as a crawfish whilst you 
 were listening to him." 
 
 "He said pretty things to me, like all gentlemen from 
 Paris do ; and if I was red, the reason was that I was 
 very hot. I am sure I dance enough to make me so." 
 
 " You were hot when you were dancing with me, 
 but you did not look like a crawfish." 
 
 " What a nuisance you are I " 
 
 " I am much obliged to you ; that is a very pretty 
 compliment to pay me on our wedding day." 
 
 " Then why on earth do you let everybody see how 
 jealous you are? Do you think that that elegant 
 gentleman is in love with me ? " 
 
 "Felicity it is all very well lor him to think you pretty; 
 I allow him to do so, for I am of the same opinion, but 
 I do not choose to let him dance with you again." 
 
 Dancing goes on for some time longer, but George 
 Varicourt has given his orders to the innkeeper, 
 and soon supper is announced, and all the company 
 are invited to it. They receive the announcement 
 with exclamations of delight, for those who have 
 dined well have digested their dinner by dancing, 
 -and those who were not at the wedding dinner are 
 very hungry ; so tbey all make haste to sit down. 
 Cadet showed a great inclination to carry his wife 
 off home, but she goes and sits down by her god- 
 mother, whilst fat George takes possession of the 
 husband, and says to him, — 
 
 " Come and sit by me, for I want to see whether 
 you are able to hold your own against me, and have* 
 
100 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 a strong head. As you are fond of champagne, w& 
 will not drink anything else, for it is a wine that 
 never makes you drunk." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that, Fouillaupot," Rustaud 
 calls out, " for it gets into your head very soon." 
 
 "All right; that is my business, and you can be quiet.'* 
 
 " What did he say ? " the peasant asks Rocaille, who 
 is sitting next to him, and he answers immediately, — 
 
 " He said that you were a fool." 
 
 Rustaud knits his brows and bites his lips, but 
 does not say a word, whilst Madame Dartinelle, who 
 has put her god-daughter between herself and 
 Madame Brochenbiche, looks at Gontran with a 
 mocking smile, as much as to say, " Come and attack 
 her now if you can, well guarded as she is." 
 
 M. Lambert, who has danced very little, and who 
 has gone out several times during the ball, comes 
 back when they are at supper, and says, — 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, you seem very secure 
 here, but I suppose you do not know that there are 
 thieves in your neighbourhood ? " 
 
 " Thieves ! " everybody exclaims in a chorus. 
 
 "Who ever saw any thieves about here?" Cadet asks. 
 
 "I did not see them myself, but just now, when 1 had 
 gone into the garden to get a mouthful of fresh air, I 
 distinctly heard cries of ' Thieves f Thieves/' in the road." 
 
 " Well," Bouchard says, " I am not at all frightened 
 of being robbed, for I have not a penny in my house." 
 
 "I have only my wife," Rustaud says, "and no- 
 body will steal her." 
 
 "But there have never been any thieves in the 
 village," Mamma Boulafour observes. 
 
 Felicite is very uneasy, and says, — 
 
 "Our door is only latched; AuntNicoud is very deaf; 
 just suppose they went to us I I have a great mind 
 to go with my mother and lock the house up." 
 
 But Madame Dartinelle reassures her god- 
 daughter, and says to her, — 
 
THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 101 
 
 u You need not be th6 least alarmed ; don't you 
 •gee that these pretended thieves are nothing but 
 an invention of that gentleman to play some trick 
 upon your husband? From some words that my 
 t brother let fall, I gathered that he and his friends 
 had entered into some plot to keep you here very 
 late, and to get rid of poor Cadet" 
 
 " You don't mean that, god-mother ? Well, then, 
 I need not be frightened, but I am much amused, on 
 the contrary." 
 
 In the meanwhile, the bridegroom gets up from 
 supper and goes to an open window, saying, — 
 
 "Let us see if they are calling out Thieves! any 
 more ; for, of course, if they were to attack anybody 
 we should go to their assistance—shouldn't we, you 
 other fellows ? " 
 
 " Why, naturally we should all go ; but there is 
 nothing to be heard or seen." 
 
 M. Oswald had brought two street boys with him 
 from Paris, whom he had paid to cry Thieves ! in the 
 village, when he thought the proper moment had 
 arrived to throw the wedding party into confusion. 
 The two boys had shouted out a little before 
 the company had sat down to supper, but in 
 the midst of the general uproar, the noise of the 
 plates, the clinking of glasses, and the shouts of 
 laughter of the company — and country people laugh 
 very loud — their cries had not been heard, and this 
 was why the inventor of the trick had thought it 
 necessary to tell the guests that thieves were about. 
 But, vexed at the ill success of his ruse, and very 
 angry with the young rascals whom he had paid, 
 and who were not shouting whilst Cadet is listening 
 at the window, the young man goes out again to 
 give the boys a good scolding, and to order them 
 to do something for their money. 
 
 When he is outside the village, he looks all about, 
 t>ut sees nothing of the youngsters; so he strikes 
 
102 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 into a path on the right, where he thought he saw 
 somebody. He goes on, he hears footsteps and calls 
 out, and in the distance he hears cries of Thieves t 
 Thieves I He runs in that direction, muttering to 
 himself: " Where the devil are they shouting, the 
 young fools? They are going away from the inn, 
 instead of coming nearer to it. Hullo there ! stop ! " 
 
 But his shouts are not heard, and those of 
 Thieves I get more and more distant, when suddenly 
 two gendarmes emerge from a path and stand in 
 front of Oswald, saying, — 
 
 "Where are you running to like that in the 
 middle of the night ? " 
 
 "I running? I was not running. That is to say* 
 I was—" 
 
 " That is to say, you don't know what answer to 
 give us, and down there there were cries of Thieves t 
 You are the thief, for you were running away." 
 
 "la thief ! You are joking, I suppose ? " 
 
 "To show you that we are not joking, we shall 
 take you to the police-station with us." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you are going to 
 arrest me?" 
 
 " Of course we are ; it is our duty to ! v 
 
 " But I am one of M. Fouillaupot's wedding guests 
 at the inn yonder." 
 
 " If you were one of the wedding party you would 
 not be out here in the fields in the middle of the 
 night. Somebody has just been shouting out 
 Thieves ! and they are shouting after you ; that is as 
 clear as that two and two are four. Come on." 
 
 " But, gendarme, do take me to Fouillaupot's wed- 
 ding, and you will see that they will recognise me." 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course, so that you may have a 
 chance of escaping in the darkness ! We are not so 
 stupid. You will have to pass the night at the 
 station, and to-morrow morning we will see whether 
 you are innocent or not." 
 
THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 103 
 
 " It's terrible, abominable ; and you shall pay 
 for this.'; 
 
 " All right, all right ; we know all about that. To- 
 morrow is another day." 
 
 And, in spite of his protestations and resistance, the 
 iine gentleman is taken off and put into the lock-up. 
 
 Whilst this was going on, Cadet Fouillaupot, who 
 was tired of looking out of the window for nothing, 
 goes and sits down at the table again by the side of 
 his host, who fills his glass with champagne, saying, — 
 
 "Well, what about the thieves ? I did not hear the 
 slightest noise. It is a joke of our friend Lambert's." 
 
 " I do believe you are right, but it is a very poor 
 joke. Why ! he is not here any longer ; I wonder 
 where he has got to ? " 
 
 "Don't bother yourself about that, but let us drink." 
 
 " Yes, let us drink by all means ; your champagne 
 is capital. You must not spare it. Well, you know, 
 I must take my wife home soon." 
 
 "There is no hurry about that; you have plenty 
 of time to be with her." 
 
 " Yes, but to-night ! This is the grand day." 
 
 "Have some more to drink; love is for all time, 
 tout you do not get this wine every day." 
 
 Several others, who have not, like the bride- 
 groom, had champagne, get up and hold out their 
 glasses to Hortense's brother, and say, — 
 
 " Please give us a drop of that wine, Monsieur, if 
 there is any to spare, so that we may have the 
 honour of drinking and clinking glasses with you" 
 
 George refuses no one; he keeps pouring out 
 .champagne, and every moment he is being asked to 
 hob-nob, so that he drinks a great deal more than 
 dadet, and in a short tirr>^ he is drunk, whilst the 
 husband is still sober. 
 
 M. Rustaud, meanwhile, has held out his glass very 
 frequently for champagne, and begins to feel rather 
 tipsy ; that wine, which he has never drunk before, 
 
104 THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS. 
 
 gets into his head, and ne begins to get quarrelsome 
 in his cups. Rocaille told him that the bridegroom 
 had called him a fool, and he has not forgotten this,, 
 so he suddenly calls out to Cadet, — 
 
 " You like to be treated to champagne, but that 
 is no reason why you should call other people fools ; 
 if this were not your wedding day, I would give you; 
 a sound thrashing." 
 
 Cadet opens his eyes wide, looks at Rustaud, and 
 says,— 
 
 " Whatever is the matter with the fellow f What 
 have you got hold of, Rustaud? Whom are you 
 talking to?" 
 
 " To you, who called me a fool." 
 
 " I never called you a fool ; I don't know what 
 you mean." 
 
 " What ! not just now, when I said, ' Take care of 
 the champagne, for it gets into your head/ you did 
 not tell me that I was a fool ? " 
 
 " I tell you again that it is not true, and that any- 
 one who told you so was trying to make fun of you." 
 
 Thereupon the peasant turned to Rocaille, wha 
 was on his left, and said, — 
 
 " Look here, I say, it was you who told me, and I 
 suppose you wanted to poke your fun at me, and 
 you treated me like a fool." 
 
 " I ? But I only said, / thought I heard — Perhaps 
 I was mistaken — " 
 
 " I thought, I thought ; all that is no reason. What 
 right had you, I should like to know, to call me a fool!" 
 
 " Oh ! don't bother me, you peasant fellow ; I said that 
 just like I may say anything else ; do leave me alone ! '* 
 
 "Indeed! You think, because you wear a dress* 
 coat, and have gold studs in your shirt, that you can 
 make fun of me with impunity ; but let me tell you 
 I am just as good as you are, in spite of my jacket^ 
 and a man is a man, and you shall beg my pardon 
 for having insulted ma" 
 
THE DIFFERENT EXPEDIENTS, 105 
 
 " Get along, my good fellow ; you are drunk, and 
 don't know what you are talking about." 
 
 " Oh, I am drunk, am I ? I don't know what I am 
 talking about, don't I? Well, I will just let yon 
 know that I know very well what I am doing." 
 
 With these words Rustaud rushed at M. Rocail^ 
 and gave him a tremendous blow in the face with his 
 fist. At his cries the others rise and get between 
 the two men, but they have great difficulty in pulling 
 the peasant off, who keeps hammering away at hi® 
 opponent, and saying, — 
 
 "Hit me back, you coward! Why don't you 
 defend yourself, you lazy brute ? Just look at this 
 fellow, who does not even choose to fight I " 
 
 At last they manage to get hold of Rustaud, who 
 wishes to fight everybody in his drunkenness, and lock 
 him up in a closet. As for the wretched Rocaille, h& 
 has a terribly black eye, and his nose is damaged ; so 
 he gets up in a rage, puts his pocket handkerchief to 
 his face, and calls out to his wife, — 
 
 "Let us go, L6ocadie; I have had enough of village 
 weddings ; you will never catch me at another." 
 
 But his wife, who is enjoying herself very wel! 5 
 because Bouchard, the best man, is very attentive to 
 her, replied, — 
 
 "My dear, I have just been asked for another 
 quadrille ; so you can go if you like, and I will go 
 home when Madame Brochenbiche does, whose hus- 
 band has gone to bed. What poor sort of men 
 these husbands are ! " 
 
 Rocaille hesitates, but, as thieves had been men- 
 tioned, he does not care about going home alone; so 
 he goes and sits in a corner, bathing his eye. When, 
 quiet is restored, after Rustaud has been turned out s 
 George says to the husband, in an insinuating voice, — 
 
 " My dear Fouillaupot, we have forgotten one thing; 
 by which I set great store." 
 
 " What can it be, Monsieur ! " 
 
106 WHAT WAS MISSING IN THE HOUSE 
 
 " The bride's garter, which has not been taken off, 
 and which I should like to wear in my buttonhole ; 
 and, though you have one already, 1, at least, ought 
 to have the other." 
 
 "You, Monsieur ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; why not f " 
 
 "Well, I have already promised the other to M« 
 Toupard, my employer. Did not I promise you the 
 bride's other garter, M. Poupard?" 
 
 " Yes, you did ; but I shall feel glad and honoured 
 i;o give it up to the gentleman who has given us the 
 champagne." 
 
 Cadet cannot refuse, but bites his lips with rage. 
 
 " Very well ; but who will take the garter? If I were 
 not so stout, I would already be under the table." 
 
 " It would hardly be worth your while, Monsieur," 
 Felicity said, blushing ; " for you will not find any- 
 thing, as I have lost my other garter." 
 
 " Lost it ! Oh, dear, I am very sorry for that." 
 
 Cadet, who thinks that his wife said that in order 
 to be left alone, smiles, rubs his hands, and says, — 
 
 " After all, that is a very small misfortune. Your 
 .good health, M. George. Felicite, I will buy you 
 another pair of elastic garters." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 WHAT WAS MISSING IN THE HOUSE OF THE NEWLY- 
 MARRIED COUPLE. 
 
 'OONTRAN could not help smiling when Felicity declared 
 that she had lost her garter, and said to himself, — 
 
 " The other men have not succeeded very well in 
 their attempts. M. Lambert's 'thieves' were a 
 failure. I wonder what has become of him? He 
 Aias evidently given it up. That unhappy Roeaille, 
 
OF THE NEWLY-MARRIED COUPLE. 107 
 
 who wanted to make others fight, has himself got. 
 a thrashing; and George, who intended to make* 
 the husband drunk — who, however, has kept quite 
 gober — will soon be asleep under the table. I am- 
 the only one left, capable of acting as I please c . 
 The handsome widow never takes her eyes off me; I 
 can see that clearly ; she is waiting for what I shall 
 do to get rid of this fierce husband- Ah ! Madame,., 
 you have made up your mind not to love me, or to 
 receive my attentions; you have even declared that 
 I shall always be quite indifferent to you ; but, if that 
 is so, I should like to know why you are continually 
 watching my slightest actions ; or why you fear lest 
 I should talk nonsense to your god-daughter, or that 
 I should speak with her alone? I should like to 
 know whether Felicite is not old enough, and wide 
 awake enough — in a word, enough of a woman — to 
 take care of herself? By Jove, her god-mother must 
 have great fears for her virtue ! " 
 
 All at once, however, the bride, as if struck by 
 a sudden idea, gets up and beckons to her mother 
 to leave the table and come and speak with her. 
 The laundress immediately goes to her daughter^, 
 and asks her what she wants ; but, before answer- 
 ing, Felicite takes her into a corner, where nobody 
 can hear them. 
 
 " Good gracious ! what is all this mystery about? " 
 Madame Boulafour asks, as she was getting uneasy 
 at all these precautions. 
 
 " Why, mother, it is something that I do not 
 wish the others to hear." 
 
 "Do tell me what it is, for you are frightening me." 
 
 " It is nothing to be frightened at, but it is some- 
 thing very necessary. Very soon my husband will 
 be taking me to our new home — " 
 
 " Of course he will ; it is his right, my child ; h& 
 married you for that." 
 
 "I am. not talking about that at all; but when 
 
108 WHAT WAS MISSING IN THE HOUSE 
 
 we furnished the house we undertook to provide 
 everything that was necessary for housekeeping." 
 
 " Of course we did, and we put everything in that 
 was wanted." 
 
 " No, we did not, mother ; for there was one thing 
 that we forgot." 
 
 "Are you sure? but then it must have been 
 something that was not of much importance." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, it is most useful, I may say 
 Indispensable." 
 
 " Nonsense ! What can it be f " 
 
 " Cannot you guess f " 
 
 " Of course I cannot, or I should say what it was." 
 
 " Well, mother, it is a chamber vase, if I must say it." 
 
 " A chamber vase ! We must surely have put one 
 into the house I " 
 
 " I am sure we did not ; we entirely forgot it." 
 
 " Upon my word, that is very annoying." 
 
 "What can we do! for I don't suppose we can 
 manage without one to-night, and I don't know 
 what Fouillaupot will do if he cannot find one." 
 
 "Of course you must have one; it is a most 
 necessary article. But never mind, dear, I shall get 
 one at the shop, and will go for it at once." 
 
 "But the shop will be closed for the night, and 
 everybody will be asleep." 
 
 "I don't care for that, for I will knock so loud 
 that he is bound to wake up and see what I want. 
 He knows me, so as soon as I tell him who I am and 
 what I want, he will let me have it at once, for he is 
 a very good sort of fellow, and I will take it to your 
 Jnouse immediately." 
 
 "Poor mother! I am sorry to give you all this 
 trouble." 
 
 " Why, that is not worth mentioning ; don't say a 
 "word about it, but go and sit down by your god- 
 mother again, and by the time I get back the matter 
 will be set right" 
 
OF THE NEWLY-MARRIED COUPLE. 109 
 
 Felicite did as her mother told her, and Gontran, 
 who had followed her with his eyes, asked himself 
 what the important matter could be about which she 
 had been talking with Madame Boulafour. 
 
 The laundress leaves the room as soon as she can, 
 and, going out of the inn, she goes to Mathieu's the 
 grocer's, who does not live far off, and the mother of 
 the bride is a big, strong woman, who is no more 
 afraid in the middle of the night than she is in broad 
 day. Everything" is closed at the grocer's, but 
 Madame Boulafour knocks at the shutters as hard as 
 she can, and calls out, — 
 
 " It is I, M. Mathieu; please open the door for me; 1 
 want something that you sell, and am in a great hurry." 
 
 After some delay, a window on the first floor 10 
 opened, and a head, enveloped in a nightcap, is put 
 out of the window a little, and asks, — 
 
 "What is the matter! Is there a fire in the village? 
 But you have made a mistake, for I am not a fireman." 
 
 "No, M. Mathieu, there is no fire; but it is I— 
 Madame Boulafour." 
 
 " What, you, my dear lady, in the middle ot the 
 night! Is your daughter ill? Do you want some 
 linseed, some honey or orange flower water ? " 
 
 "No, I do not want anything of that sort ; I only 
 want a chamber vase, and as I know that you keep 
 
 *them — " . _ , 
 
 " And you have disturbed me in the middle of the 
 night, making all that noise, for such a thing as 
 that ? Confound you ! " 
 
 "But, M. Mathieu, you do not evidently under- 
 stand that I want it for the newly-married couple, 
 who are going to their new house to-night, and 
 without a chamber vase. Why, it would be as bad 
 .as a sapper without his axe, for they could not 
 manage without it. Please, M. Mathieu, give me a 
 nice one— I will leave the choice to you— -and let me 
 liave it as quickly as possible." 
 
110 WHAT WAS MISSING IN THE HOUSE 
 
 " Oh ! Madame Boulafour if I had known it was for 
 the newly -married couple ! But I will look you out 
 a nice one, and bring it to you ; I shall not be long." 
 
 " Make haste, and I will wait for you here." 
 
 The shopkeeper was as quick as he could be ; he 
 put on his dressing-gown, looked out the article in 
 question, wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and 
 carried it out to the laundress. 
 
 " Here is what you asked for, Madame Boulafour ; 
 it is a handsome and a strong one, for I have given 
 you one of the best quality." 
 
 " Thank you, M. Mathieu ; I knew you would do 
 the best you could for me." 
 
 " I have wrapped it carefully in candle paper, so 
 that nobody can guess what it is, should you happen 
 to be going back to the ball with it." 
 
 " No ; I shall take it to their house at once, and 
 I will pay you for it to-morrow." 
 
 " That is all right, there is no hurry about that ; 
 but now I want to go to bed." 
 
 " Good-night, M. Mathieu ; I am sorry for having 
 disturbed you, but, you see, I could not help it." 
 
 " I understand that ; it was a case of necessity. 
 Good-night, Madame Boulafour." 
 
 The shopkeeper goes indoors, and Felicity's mother 
 goes immediately towards the young people's house^ 
 holding the nocturnal vase which she had just bought 
 carefully in both hands, but she has not got fifty 
 yards when somebody takes her by the arm, and 
 a well-known voice says, — 
 
 "Where are you going to, Madame Boulafour? 
 This is not the way to the inn where the wedding 
 festivities are going on." 
 
 "Why, if it is not M. Poupard ! But have you left 
 the party already ? I left you still at the table." 
 
 "Yes, but I remained quite long enough; they 
 were still drinking, and M. Varicourt kept on pouring: 
 out more champagne ; one might get led away ; in 
 
OF THE NEWLY-MAF 1IED COUPLE. HI 
 
 fact, as it is, I have been led away too much, for my 
 head feels quite silly." 
 
 "Not a bit of it! you are perfectly steady on your 
 
 " That may be, but I am a little screwed, and I felt 
 it was time to stop and go to bed, especially as I 
 have to go to Paris to-morrow to sue my confounded 
 debtor. That is why I got up from the table, and 
 went off without saying a word to anyone. But 
 why did you leave the wedding? Where are you 
 going to, and what have you got there, so carefully 
 wrapped up in paper? " 
 
 "Why, it is something that I forgot to take to 
 their house ; in fact, it is a soup tureen, which they 
 will be sure to want, and, as I remembered it, I am 
 going to take it there before they come." 
 * "Oh! a soup tureen, is it? And I suppose to- 
 morrow you will serve up their usual next morning's 
 toast in wine and sugar for them ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't exactly know what they will put 
 into it, but in any case they will want it." 
 
 " And you are going to take it to their house ? 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, give it me, for their cottage is some 
 distance ' off, and as I must pass it on my way 
 tome, I will leave the tureen there." 
 
 "You shall do nothing of the sort, Monsieur; I 
 would not give you the trouble." 
 
 "It is no trouble to me, as I pass their house; 
 ^so just give it to me." n 
 
 " No! no! it would only put you out and delay you. 
 
 " Not in the least, for I shall open the door as I pass 
 by. Aunt Nicoud knows me, and, besides that, I be- 
 lieve she is nearly always asleep, so I shall put down 
 -the tureen and go out again; whilst, if you went it 
 -would keep you from your children too long; somake 
 ;haste back, and do not let us have all this fuss." 
 
 So saying, M. Poupard took the article, which was 
 
112 WHAT WAS MISSING IN THS HOUSE, ETC. 
 
 wrapped up in brown paper, which the laundress 
 at last gave up, as she feared it might get broken 
 in his attempts to get it from her ; but as she did 
 so she said, — 
 
 " I am letting you have it, M. Poupard, because you 
 insist on it, and now I only do it on one condition^ 
 and that is that you do not take it out of its covering : 
 I particularly wish it to remain wrapped up in paper." 
 
 "You may be quite easy on that score, dear 
 lady ; I promise you that I will not take it out, and 
 that I will respect its covering. Oh, I see, there is 
 some surprise in it : a bouquet, or something of that 
 sort, as a surprise for Cadet." 
 
 " No, indeed, there are no flowers in it ; it is not the 
 sort of thing one puts them into." 
 
 " Whatever it may be, the paper shall be respected. 
 Good night, Madame Boulafour ; go back to the ball, 
 and I will leave this at the house of the married 
 couple, and then go to bed." 
 
 " Good night, M. Poupard ; I beg your pardon for 
 troubling you." 
 
 He goes off holding the chamber vase, wrapped up 
 in paper, carefully in his hand, whilst the laundress re- 
 turns to the wedding, where some are dancing, whilst 
 others are still at the table ; but, as soon as she see& 
 her mother come in, Felicite runs up to her and says, — 
 
 "Well, mother!" 
 
 " All right, my child ; I woke up M. Mathieu, who 
 gave it me immediately." 
 
 "And you have already taken it to our house f 
 You have not been long." 
 
 " I was going, dear, but as I left the shop I met 
 M. Poupard, who was going home, and when he 
 knew that I was going to take my purchase to your 
 house, he would take charge of it, as he had to pass 
 by your new home, and it would not put him out 
 the least. I did not like to give him the trouble* 
 but he insisted so." 
 
THE FIRST NIGHT. llg * 
 
 " Oh, mother, you do not mean to say that you let 
 M. Poupard carry home our chamber vase?" 
 
 " He does not know what it is, for M. Matbieu hac! 
 wrapped it up so well in coarse paper that it was** 
 impossible to guess what was inside. I told him it 
 was a soup tureen ! You need not worry about it, . 
 for M. Poupard is a very sensible man, and the- 
 article will be carried to your house without his>.- 
 ever guessing what it is." 
 
 u Well, it is very funny, all the same." 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE FIRST NIGHT. 
 
 M. Poupard acquits himself very faithfully of „he 
 commission which he has undertaken ; he goes into 
 the newly-married couple's house, sees Aunt Nicoud 
 asleep in a large armchair, and, as there is no neces- 
 sity for waking the good woman to give the article 
 that he brought, he takes hold of a lamp which is 
 burning there, and goes into the passage leading to 
 the staircase. There he looks for a table or a shelf 
 on which to put the tureen, but seeing nothing, he 
 makes up his mind to go upstairs. When he has 
 got there he alters his determination, and comes 
 down again, places the article on the ground in the 
 passage, so that anybody can see it, and then goes 
 to replace the lamp where he took it from, in the 
 room where Aunt Nicoud is dozing ; but as he holds 
 it very awkwardly it goes out before he can do so, 
 He therefore puts it on to the ground, in a corner* 
 and says : " Never mind, she does not want a light 
 when she is asleep, and they will know where to 
 get one from. * They will find their soup tureen, an<i~ 
 
 H 
 
114 TEE FIRST NIGHT. 
 
 I will go to bed, for I feel quite stupid and have a head- 
 ache ; I must have drunk too much champagne." 
 
 M. Poupard started off home again, but someone 
 i iad seen him go into the cottage, and waited most 
 impatiently for him to come out again. This was 
 Oontran, who had left the party almost at the same 
 time as M. Poupard, and gone towards the abode of 
 i:he bride and bridegroom, without having any fixed 
 project ; but he said to himself, — 
 
 "Pretty Felicity asked me to take her garter to 
 her house, so I suppose she wants me to see the 
 interior of her domicile. Perhaps she intends to 
 .come before her husband, accompanied only by her 
 bridesmaids, whom she will send back. The devil I 
 that would be a capital arrangement, '~and a very 
 favourable moment for obtaining that kiss which she 
 owes me, and does not seem inclined to pay." 
 
 Thus it happened that Gontran, who had arrived 
 at the house almost simultaneously with M. Poupard, 
 saw him go in with a tolerable-sized packet which 
 he held carefully in his hands, and come out without it 
 and go on his way; so the young man said to himself, — 
 
 " Old Poupard has just taken something into their 
 -house; I wonder what it can be? Perhaps some 
 nice pie which he wants them to enjoy to-morrow 
 .morning. Suppose I go and take it? But that 
 would not trouble them, if the present is to be 
 & surprise, and it would be better to take something 
 that they will want to-night. I don't see any light 
 in the house, but I will go in, and luck may favour 
 me, for I must play M. Fouillaupot a trick, or I shall 
 -be a laughing-stock ; and as all the rest have failed, 
 I must try and be more clever or more lucky. 
 Hortense never took her eyes off me during supper, 
 .and I couldn't get near her god-daughter ; but she 
 must be leaving soon now." 
 
 He went up to the cottage, raised the latch, opened 
 vthe door, and, going on a couple of steps, listened, 
 
THE FIRST NIGHT, 115' 
 
 but heard nothing except Aunt Nicoud's loud snores, 
 He went on in the passage, and said: "Upon my 
 word, this house is very well protected! Perhaps 
 there is nothing to steal except the heavy furniture, 
 and no thieves could very well carry off that ! Hullo*, 
 here is the staircase ; suppose I go up." 
 
 He felt his way upstairs, and when he had got 
 there he saw rather more clearly, because the moon: 
 was shining through the open window. " Here I am 
 in the nuptial chamber," he thought to himself;. 
 " yes, here is the recess and the bed ; what can 
 I take away that the young people will miss ? TW 
 best trick I could play them would be to carry off 
 the bed, but it is rather too heavy." 
 
 He examined it, however, and saw something- 
 carefully wrapped up in paper, lying on the outside 
 of the bed. It is the pretty dressing-jacket which 
 is the god-mother's present, which Cadet's employer 
 had just put there. 
 
 "What can this be?" Gontran said to himself,, 
 seizing the little parcel. " It certainly is not what 
 M. Poupard was carrying just now ; I will take it to* 
 the window and see what is inside it." 
 
 When he had done so, he tears open the paper in- 
 which the jacket is wrapped, a little, and when he 
 sees the fine cambric and the lace, he exclaims, — 
 
 " Why, if it is not the bride's nightgown ! What a- 
 find! I have no doubt it is a present from her 
 husband, and I will abstract it, for its disappearance 
 will be certain to cause a scene. But, by Jove ! I 
 hear something in the distance, Can they be coming 
 back already ? If so, I must make baste off with it." 
 
 He ran downstairs quickly, but the passage was 
 quite dark, and so he kicked over the lamp which 
 M. Poupard had put there, and stumbled, so that he 
 had to lean against the wall to save himself from 
 falling, but dropped the article he had taken off the;: 
 bed. The dressing-jacket fell into the oil which had 
 
116 THE FIRST NIGHT. 
 
 run out of the overturned lamp, and Gontran, stoop- 
 ing down to try and pick it up, swore like mad on 
 getting his hands covered with oil, though he suc- 
 ceeded at last in finding what he had lost, which 
 ■was also all over with oil. Nevertheless, he put it 
 under his arm and made for the door ; but his feet 
 knocked against something else, which rolled along 
 in front of him, and this was the soup tureen which 
 M. Poupard had put there 
 
 "I wonder whether this is another lamp, or a can of 
 oil," he exclaimed ; " but it shall not soil me this time." 
 
 So saying, he bestowed a hearty kick on the 
 Isrown paper in which the nocturnal vase was wrapped, 
 and sent it flying out' of doors, where it broke into 
 several pieces against a great stone. 
 
 " I think I must have broken something," he said, 
 mb he came out. And it was high time he took his 
 departure, for the bridal party were coming — Cadet 
 with his little wife on his arm leading the way, fol- 
 lowed by the girls and young men who had been to 
 the ball. They were all singing, laughing, and shout- 
 ing, and all the men vied with each other in joking 
 the husband for having carried off his wife too soon. 
 
 " Too soon ? " Cadet said ; " why, it is three o'clock 
 in the morning, and I think it is much too late." 
 
 "Cadet!" Bouchard, the best man, called out, 
 48 you still owe me one of your wife's garters, and 
 she must give me one." 
 
 "No danger of that; Felicite* will only give her 
 -garters to her husband, and I just advise you to try 
 it on. You would give him a smack in the face, 
 wouldn't you, Felicity ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I should give him a box on the 
 «ar, but 1 should certainly not give him a garter." 
 
 " You hear that, Bouchard ? My wife would give 
 you a very bad reception." 
 
 " Very well, then, we will give them a nice serenade 
 i>y-and-by — won't we, you other fellows ? " 
 
THE FIRST NIGHT. 117' 
 
 u Of course we will." 
 
 " Just you dare to do it, and see with what I will 
 drench you. Come along, wife, let us go in, for it is 
 quite time that I enjoyed my husband's rights." 
 
 He opens the door, pushes his wife in before hinv 
 and, as soon as he is inside himself, he carefully bolts 
 it, so that nobody else may come in. 
 
 " Why, it is quite dark," Felicity says ; " I wonder 
 why Aunt Nicoud has put out her lamp, for I told her- 
 to be sure and keep it alight." 
 
 " I suppose she went to sleep over her soup. Here,, 
 Aunt Nicoud ! Don't you see that she is asleep and 
 snoring ? Luckily, I always have matches about me- 
 to light my pipe, for I have no intention of getting 
 married in the dark ; when one has a nice little wife>. 
 one likes to see a little bit ; eh, Felicite" ? " 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, but light a match." 
 
 " I say, that was a capital idea of yours to say at 
 supper that you had lost your other garter, because 
 after that your god-mother's brother left us in peace.* 5 " 
 
 " I said so because it was true ; I did not tell a He/' 
 
 " You have really lost your other garter ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Where did you lose it ? " 
 
 "How stupid you are ! If I knew where, I should 
 have found it again." 
 
 " Of course you would ; how clever you are 1 " 
 
 As soon as there was a light, she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Why, there is the lamp, upset on the ground." 
 
 " I. wonder if Aunt Nicoud has taken to walking in 
 her sleep ? " 
 
 " There ought to be two candlesticks with candles 
 in them in her room. Here they are ; make haste and 
 light them. She is as fast asleep as a top in her 
 easy-chair. Poor woman, she ought to have gone to 
 bed." 
 
 " Never mind ; don't disturb her, and do come along,, 
 for it is no good wasting any more time here. Let us 
 
"115 THE FIRST NIGHT. 
 
 go upstairs, for I am longing to see how surprised you 
 will be." 
 
 " Surprised ? At what? " 
 
 "You shall see." 
 
 They go upstairs and into the bedroom. Felicite" 
 looks about, for she is surprised at not seeing what 
 her mother had given M. Poupard to take there. As 
 for Cadet, he goes straight to the bed, pulls the 
 curtains, and stands thunderstruck when he per- 
 ceives that Madame Dartinelle's present is not there, 
 and murmurs, — 
 
 " That is very strange ; it is not there ! " - 
 
 " What are you looking for ? " 
 
 " Something that my master was to have brought." 
 
 "Do you know about itf Did he mention it to 
 ^you ? So he did not go home at once ? " 
 
 "Never mind about that; I do know about it, 
 and that is enough. But how did you hear of it? " 
 
 "Well, I suppose it is my business to look after 
 those sort of things. I wonder wherever he can 
 Jiave put it ? " 
 
 " He told me he had put it on the bed." 
 
 " On the bed ! I suppose you mean under the bed?" 
 
 "No, on the bed." 
 
 " Well, it is the sort of thing that is generally put 
 "under, and not on, the bed ! " 
 
 "Well, on or under, at any rate I do not see it. 
 How tiresome, when I wanted to see you use it." 
 
 " Use it before you? That would be a pretty thing." 
 
 "Why not? What do you mean? Surely one 
 need not stand upon ceremony between husband 
 and wife, and it would have suited you so well." 
 
 " I will tell you what, Cadet ; if vou go on talking 
 such nonsense I shall get angry." 
 
 " Well, you seem to be quarrelsome to-night. But 
 "where the devil can it be ? Where can he have hidden 
 it? I cannot make it out ; it was wrapped up in paper." 
 
 "Yes, so M. Poupard told me. After all, if we 
 
THE FIRST NIGHT. 119* 
 
 cannot find it, ?t, is no great misfortune. Do you 
 want to use it just now t " 
 
 " It is not for myself ; I want to find it for you." 
 
 " I do not want it in the least." 
 
 *That may be; but I want all who were at the- 
 wedding to see you with it to-morrow." 
 
 Felicite begins to tap with her foot, and exclaims, — 
 
 " How abominable ! You must be mad, Cadet, to 
 wish all our guests to see me on it ! " 
 
 "Not on it, but in it. You do not know how 
 beautiful and big it is." 
 
 " No matter how beautiful and big it is, one doe& 
 not make use of such things before people, and if* 
 you married me to talk such nonsense I am sorry you 
 took the trouble to do so." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I will not have you say such things- 
 to me. I married you so that you might do what I 
 wished, and it is you that are stupid. First of all 
 you lose your garter, which strikes me as very 
 awkward, for a respectable woman does not lose a 
 garter without finding it again ; and then you abso- 
 lutely refuse to use, before other people, a thing 
 which you ought to look at with affection ; but I 
 insist upon it." 
 
 "When, I should like to know? I have had 
 enough of your stupidity, M. Cadet, so good-bye,, 
 for I am going back to my mother, and I do not 
 intend to leave her till you have begged my pardon 
 for all the nonsense that you have talked here." 
 
 " I forbid you to go away." 
 
 " Take that for your forbidding" 
 
 Saying this, she gave her husband a sound slap in 
 the face, and, going quickly downstairs, she opened 
 the street door and ran to her mother's house, which 
 she reached before Fouillaupot had recovered from 
 the astonishment which the box on the ear had 
 caused him. , 
 
120 THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE DAT AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 The next morning at half-past eight, Felicite, wba 
 had very red eyes, because she had been crying a 
 great deal (probably from a mixed feeling of regret 
 at not having spent the wedding-night with her 
 Irasband, and at having married Cadet), accompanied 
 by her mother, to whom she had told everything that 
 tiad happened between her and her husband, started 
 to go to Madame Dartinelle's, as they are anxious to 
 tell her god-mother how M. Fouillaupot had behaved. 
 
 Hortense was still asleep when her maid came in 
 ^to tell her that the bride and her mother particularly 
 wished to see her. 
 
 " What ! my god-daughter is up already after 
 going to bed so late 1 " the handsome widow ex- 
 claimed, half opening her eyes. "That is a very 
 unusual thing, and something out of the way must 
 have taken place with the young couple. Very well, 
 show them m, and I will receive them in bed, as they 
 are in such a hurry." 
 
 Felicite and her mother make haste into the room, 
 and, after curtseying, are both in such a hurry to tell 
 tier what has happened that they both speak at once 
 without stopping. 
 
 "Oh, god-mother— " 
 
 * Oh, Madame—" 
 
 ** If you only knew. My wretch of a son-in-law — * 
 
 ** I never could have beSeved it of Cadet — " 
 
 <l If the late M. Boulafour had made such a proposal 
 ^to me, I should have broken the utensil over his head — " 
 
 ** And before people ! before the wedding guests ! 
 Wanting me to get on to it before—" 
 
 ** I said to my daughter, l Never agree to it ; the 
 wiiole neighbourhood will make fun of you I ' " 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 121 
 
 " Agree to it ! I would rather have a separation 
 at once." 
 
 Madame Dartinelle, who has not understood a 
 word of all that they have been dinning into her 
 ears, signs to the women to be quiet, and, half 
 sitting up in bed, says, — 
 
 " First of all, please, do me one favour, and that 
 is, not to talk both at once, for I have not understood 
 a single word of what you want to tell me, except 
 that I fancy my god-daughter has some complaint 
 to make against her husband. Well, Felicite, let ub 
 hear all about it ; but do explain yourself better, pray." 
 
 " God-mother, this is it. When we got home, there 
 was no light, and Aunt Nicoud had upset the lamp 
 in the passage ; but that did not matter, as we 
 lighted some candles ; but I must tell you that 
 Cadet's master, M. Poupard, had undertaken to carry 
 a very necessary article to our house." 
 
 Hortense smiled, and said, — 
 
 " Yes, I know all about that, since I gave it to him/' 
 
 Mother and daughter looked at each other in as- 
 tonishment, but at lastMadame Boulafour exclaimed, — 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Madame, but I think you 
 are mistaken, as I myself bought it at the shop, and 
 made M. Mathieu get up at night and give it me, as 
 we had forgotten it ; but as I met M. Poupard, who 
 was going home and had to pass the children's house, 
 he would insist upon taking it himself ; so you see, 
 Madame, you could not have given it to him." 
 
 " Please tell me, Madame Boulafour, what are you 
 talking about, to begin with ? " 
 
 " Good heavens, Madame ! I hardly know how to 
 tell you, but it is something very necessary." 
 
 Felicite, who is growing impatient at all her 
 mother's hesitation, exclaims, — 
 
 "Are you afraid to mention it? There is no 
 harm in using it! Well, god-mother, it was a 
 chamber utensil" 
 
122 THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 Hortense laughed heartily, and said, — 
 
 " I certainly did not give that to M. Poupard ; but 
 before going to your wedding, my dear, he came 
 here, as I had settled with your husband, as I wanted 
 to give you a little surprise, and the two gentlemen 
 kept their secret very well. It is a very pretty 
 embroidered dressing-jacket, trimmed with lace, and 
 I gave it to M. Poupard to put on your bed ; that 
 was what your husband could not find." 
 
 u A pretty dressing-jacket I " Felicite* exclaimed ; " a 
 present from you, which he was to put on our bed, and 
 Cadet knew about it ? It was that, mother, that my 
 husband wished to see me in, and to show me to all our 
 guests. Poor Cadet, and I boxed his ears for that ! " 
 
 " My dear child,! begin to think you were too hasty." 
 
 "What, Felicity? You struck your husband be- 
 cause he wanted to see you in the dressing-jacket 1 " 
 
 " Yes, god -mother, but I could not guess that ; I 
 thought it was something else, for M. Poupard had 
 also undertaken to carry the — the utensil to our 
 house, and so I thought that Cadet was talking 
 of that, and so we were at cross purposes, both of us." 
 
 " That comes of not calling things by their right 
 names ; then, at any rate, one knows what one is about." 
 
 " Yes, god-mother ; and after slapping my hus- 
 band's face I returned home and spent the night 
 at my mother's." 
 
 "That is a very serious matter, Felicite" ; your 
 husband must be furious." 
 
 "You will make it up between us, god-mother, 
 will you not ? I am sure Cadet will come and see 
 you this morning, and you must tell him all." 
 
 " But how about the dressing-jacket 1 What have 
 you done with it ? " 
 
 "We could not find it; and, but for those cross 
 purposes, we could have explained the whole matter 
 immediately." 
 
 "You could not find it?" 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING- 123 
 
 " No, Madame, neither the jacket nor the chamber 
 utensil," the laundress exclaimed ; " a nice thing to 
 give old Poupard commissions to execute, if he does it 
 like that ! " 
 
 "You must go and ask him what has become of 
 the things which he took charge of." 
 
 M But we have just been to his house, and he has 
 already gone to Paris." 
 
 "I cannot understand it all," Hortense said; 
 " there must really have been thieves in the village 
 last night." 
 
 At that moment a noise of talking in the yard 
 attracted Madame Dartinelle's attention, so she rang 
 for the maid. 
 
 "What is the matter downstairs?" she asked. 
 41 Are there strangers in the yard ? " 
 
 " It is the brigadier of the gendarmes, and this is 
 the third time he has been here this morning. He 
 wants to speak with M. Varicourt, because he arrested 
 a man last night." 
 
 " That must be the thief," the laundress cried. 
 
 " The man appeals to M. Varicourt, and wants him 
 to come and have him released." 
 
 " Go and tell my brother." 
 
 " We have called him several times, Madame, and 
 he tells us to go — I cannot tell you what he said, 
 Madame; and then he declared that he would not 
 get up before dinner, and told us to let him go to 
 sleep again." 
 
 " That is just like him ! But did the man who is 
 in custody give his name ? " 
 
 " Here is his card, Madame." 
 
 " Why, it is M. Oswald Lambert, and he has spent 
 the night in the lock-up! I quite thought he had 
 gone back to Paris. Madame Boulafour, go as 
 quickly as you can and have the poor fellow set at 
 liberty ; you will know him again, for he was at the 
 wedding, and in any case they will believe you belong 
 
124 THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 to the place. I have still something to say to F^liciteV 
 and you will find her here on your return." 
 
 "I will go and see the gendarmes, Madame, but 
 you must make it up between the two children." 
 
 "You need not be uneasy about that; it will be- 
 very easily managed; but I want the dressing- 
 jacket found also." 
 
 "Oh, yes, god-mother, I should so like to wear 
 your pretty present." 
 
 When Madame Boulafour had gone, Hortense made 
 her god-daughter take a seat near her bed, and said 
 to her, — 
 
 "And now I want to speak to you a moment; 
 whom do you suspect of having taken the dressing- 
 jacket from the house ? for it is quite impossible that 
 M. Poupard did not take it there ; he is a very good 
 sort of man, and would be quite incapable of playing 
 you a practical joke. He is very fond of Cadet, and 
 gladly undertook the commission." 
 
 " And he also took the utensil from mother, and 
 insisted on taking it to our house." 
 
 " Well, that article is much more commonplace." 
 
 " At any rate, we have not found it either, so the 
 same person must have carried them both ofE" 
 
 " I cannot believe that. Whoever took the jacket, 
 no doubt was playing the bride a trick ; but the — 
 the other thing — " 
 
 " That certainly was playing us a trick also." 
 
 "Look here, Felicite, answer me candidly; you 
 danced with M. Gontran, and he spoke a great deal 
 with you whilst you were dancing together ; you 
 were blushing and laughing — " 
 
 " Did you see it all, god-mother ? " 
 
 " Nothing escapes me, and, besides, I kept my eyes 
 on you, and I fancy I guess what he said to you ; he 
 made love to you, and asked you to meet him f " 
 
 "Oh! god-mother!" 
 
 " Don't tell stories about it, for if you do not tell 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 125 
 
 me the whole truth, I will not undertake to make it 
 up between you and your husband." 
 
 " Well, first of all, M. Gontran told me that I was 
 pretty, and had very nice black eyes — " 
 
 " J/Vell, go on ! go on ! " 
 
 "And I begged him to give me back my garter, 
 and he refused, except on one condition," 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " That I would give him a kiss." 
 
 " I thought as much." 
 
 " You may be sure that I refused ; so then he said, 
 * Very well, I shall keep your garter.' Naturally that 
 vexed me, so I said, ■ It would be very easy for you 
 to put it somewhere in our cottage as you go past, 
 and Cadet will believe that I lost it there.' " 
 
 " You do not mean to say that you told him to go 
 to your house ? How imprudent of you I " 
 
 " And he immediately replied, — 
 
 " ' I will go there gladly, but on the condition that 
 you meet me there for a moment quite alone.' " 
 
 " What a wretch. What a shameful thing to do I " 
 
 " But of course I refused, god-mother." 
 
 "A good thing you did; that would have been the 
 only thing wanting, to have an assignation with a 
 gallant on your wedding night ! " 
 
 " Well, there is no danger of my giving him one. 
 I am fond of a little bit of fun, but it must not 
 go too far." 
 
 " My dear child, when a woman is fond of a joke 
 it very often carries her much farther than she 
 intends, and then she cannot stop when she 
 would like to. However, you evidently told M. 
 Gontran that he could easily get into your house, 
 and you see that he made use of your information, 
 for I am sure that he took your dressing-jacket." 
 
 " And the chamber utensil also ? " 
 
 " How you do worry me with that utensil I ± am 
 talking about the little jacket and as I embroidered 
 
126 THE DAY AFTF*> THE WEDDING. 
 
 it myself I think we muj as -well take the trouble of 
 trying to find it." 
 
 " If you are certain that he took it, the only thing 
 would be to ask him for it, for he surely cannot want 
 to keep it; men do not wear dressing-jackets." 
 
 "Of course not; but you do not think he will 
 confess that he played you such a trick, so we must 
 find some other means." 
 
 "What can we do, god-mother? " 
 
 " Don't be in a hurry ; let me think a moment. 
 Yes, if we could only — " 
 
 " Do what ? " 
 
 " Just listen, Felicite" ; the first time you meet M. 
 Oontran again — and you are sure to meet him soon, 
 as he is going to stay here for some days longer — " 
 
 " Well, god-mother, you may be sure I shall take 
 good care to avoid him — " 
 
 " Quite the contrary, for I want you to allow him 
 to come and talk with you alone for a moment; I 
 can easily find an opportunity for you. During that 
 interview he will be sure to ask you to meet him so 
 that he may return your garter." 
 
 " I should send him flying." 
 
 " Not at all ; you will take a certain amount of 
 pressing, but will yield in the end, and give him an 
 assignation." 
 
 " Oh ! god-mother, you cannot wish me to run 
 such a risk ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do ; but you will impose one condition, and 
 tell him that if he will restore your dressing-jacket 
 you will give him a kiss, but, if he will not, you will 
 give him nothing at all." 
 
 w Oh ! now I understand." 
 
 " You will appoint that little grotto on the left- 
 hand side, on coming into the garden, as the place of 
 meeting — " 
 
 "I know where you mean; but that is at your 
 tiouse, god-mother." 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 12T 
 
 " Just so. It will seem quite natural for you to go 
 into the grotto for a moment as you leave, when you 
 have been to see me." 
 
 " Of course it is quite easy, but — " 
 
 "You must appoint evening, when it is almost 
 night, for this meeting." 
 
 "But, god-mother, at night, in the grotto, alone 
 with that gentleman, it surely will expose me to — " 
 
 " You need not be the least ashamed, for you will 
 not keep the appointment." 
 
 " Not I ? who, then ? ■ 
 
 "Be quiet, and do not mention it; here is your 
 mother." 
 
 The laundress returned, saying, — 
 
 " Yes, Madame, it is one of those fine gentlemen 
 who has spent the night in the lock-up, beoause they 
 took him for a thief ; but I soon told them that I had 
 seen him here, and that he was one of your friends, 
 and so they released him immediately." 
 
 " Did he come back with you ? " 
 
 "Not exactly, for he was much foo angry with 
 your brother, to whom he sent three times, and who 
 would not put himself out of the way to go and 
 identify him. He said, « I am off to Paris as quick 
 as possible, for I have had enough of your village of 
 Fontenay-aux-Roses, and your country weddings. 
 Give my compliments to Madame Dartinelle, but tell 
 her brother that he need not reckon me amongst the 
 number of his friends for the future/ " 
 
 "Poor M. Oswald! It will be a lesson for him 
 not to pretend that there are thieves about again." 
 
 " I met M. Rocaille as I was coming back, and he 
 has a terrible eye from the blow that that idiot 
 Rustaud gave him, who was as drunk as the late 
 Boulafour used to get sometimes. I told M. Rocaille 
 how sorry I was that he had got that little souvenir 
 at my daughter's wedding." 
 
 " You need not feel the least sorry, Madame Boula- 
 
128 THE DAT AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 four; for all those gentleman have only been duly 
 punished for the tricks they wished to play you. 
 You see that my brother, who wished to make every- 
 body drunk, cannot himself get up to-day. And 
 now, go home with your daughter and wait till you 
 hear from me, for I am sure that poor Fouillaupot 
 will soon come and confide his woes to me." 
 
 "But oh! god-mother, you will make it all right 
 between us ? for, after all, I think I was wrong." 
 
 "I think you were, a little; but we will try and 
 persuade him that he was in fault" 
 
 " And what about the dressing-jacket and the — the 
 utensil, begging your pardon? Surely M. Poupard 
 will be obliged to give them up ? " 
 
 "It is possible that it may not be he who has 
 them." 
 
 " Well, they told me that he would be back from 
 Paris to-night, so I shall go and see him again." 
 
 "God-mother, ought I now to go home with 
 mother, or return to my husband's house? I would 
 rather go to Cadet" 
 
 "My dear child, you must, for all that, go with 
 your mother, for, as you have slapped his face you 
 cannot go back to him till he comes after you; but 
 you need not be frightened, for I am quite certain he 
 is very eager to be reconciled to you ; and now go. 
 But, Felicity, you must come and see me again by- 
 and-by, to hear if I have any news of the dressing- 
 jacket." 
 
 " Yes, god-mother, yes ; I understand ; I will come 
 back." 
 
 At last Mamma Boulafour and her daughter go, 
 and Hortense does not feel the least inclination to 
 sleep any longer ; and, seeing that it is ten o'clock, 
 she rings for her maid, and says to herself, — 
 
 "So, so, M. Gontran, you wished to make love to 
 me, and to gain my affections, and then you try to 
 seduce my god-daughter, and to make her forget 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 129 
 
 her duty. How disgraceful ! But I will expose you, 
 and let you see how I value your vows." 
 
 When her maid came into the room, she asked her 
 mistress what she required. 
 
 " I want to get up and dress," was the reply. 
 
 "You are going to get up so early the morning 
 after a ball, instead of sleeping a little longer! " 
 
 11 I am not sleepy now. Is M. Gontran in bed still, 
 like my brother ? " 
 
 " Oh no, Madame, he left his room quite early." 
 
 " Early 1 after spending the night at a ball ? I 
 suppose he did not sleep; it is very strange, but 
 dress me, and do my hair." 
 
 " I suppose you will put on quite a plain dress, 
 being the day after the ball ? " 
 
 "What has that got to do with it? Ought one 
 not always to be careful about one's dress ? " 
 
 " Here is your dress, Madame." 
 
 " It is the same I wore yesterday morning, and I 
 will not put it on again to-day." 
 
 " Will you have the grey ? " 
 
 " It is too wide." 
 
 "Or the black one?" 
 
 " It does not fit well." 
 
 " Then there is nothing left but the rose-coloured 
 one, and that is too elegant, if you are not going 
 out, and the day after a ball one is not much 
 inclined — " 
 
 " How you worry me with your day after a ball ! 
 Give me the rose-coloured dress, and do my hair 
 better than you did Yesterday, for I was a perfect 
 sight." 
 
 " Oh, Madame ! I—" 
 
 " I tell you my hair did not suit me at all ; I know 
 -that better than you, and, besides that, all the 
 ladies told me I looked charming, and when one 
 woman says that to another, you may be sure that 
 your hair is not done becomingly; for, when you 
 
 I 
 
130 THE CAP. 
 
 look very nice, they are so vexed that they never 
 mention it." 
 
 The lady's maid, however, did her best to satisfy 
 her mistress, who was much more particular about 
 her toilette than usual, and just as the handsome widow 
 had put the finishing touches to her dress, a servant 
 came to tell her that a young peasant called 
 Fouillaupot wished to have the honour of speaking 
 to her. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; show him upstairs, poor fellow," Hor- 
 tense said. " He certainly deserves to be consoled ; 
 but I think I shall succeed in making his peace with 
 his wife." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE CAP. 
 
 W E left Cadet Fouillaupot dumb with astonishment 
 at the slap in the face which his wife had given him„ 
 and certainly there was good reason for it. It is 
 surely enough to demoralise any man to receive 
 a cuff on the head on his wedding night, when at 
 last he is alone with the girl whom he has chosen to 
 be his companion for life, instead of the loving kiss 
 which he expected from her. However, when he 
 had recovered from his stupefaction, Cadet felt very 
 much inclined to run after his wife and bring her home; 
 he went downstairs and walked a short distance along 
 the passage, but then he stopped, for Cadet is rather 
 proud, and his vanity has been deeply wounded by 
 Felicite's conduct ; so he says to himsehV - 
 
 " No, I will not run after her, or ask ^ woman who 
 has smacked my face to return to me. I know per- 
 fectly well that, if I chose, I could force her to come 
 
* / 
 
 THE CAP. 131 
 
 hsLok to her home, for I am her husband, and a wife 
 is bound to follow her husband wherever he goes. 
 I know that, for it is law and in the Code, and I read 
 it carefully before I was married, as a husband ought 
 to be acquainted with it, to bring his wife to book if 
 she does anything foolish. It certainly was not much 
 good to me just now ; but that is no matter, for it 
 will be useful later on. It seems that the dressing- 
 iacket has disappeared ; I wonder if the thieves have 
 ; >een here t I will go and ask Aunt Nicoud." 
 
 With some difficulty he manages to wake her up, 
 &nd bawls into her ear, — 
 
 "Aunt Nicoud, how did you upset your lamp in 
 the passage there ? Have you been in the dark *? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, smiling; "I ate it all, it was 
 «o good." 
 
 "I am talking of your lamp, which I have just 
 picked up ; here it is." 
 
 " My lamp ! why, so it is, and there is no more oil in it." 
 
 " 1 suppose not, as it has been upset ; and so, 
 seeing no light, the robbers have been in — " 
 
 "Who has been in? Your master, M. Poupard; 
 I recognised him at once ; he went upstairs with 
 -a small parcel under his arm — " 
 
 "Well, what then f" o 
 
 " Men ? . There were no men — " 
 
 " Lord ! what a lot of patience one wants with her. 
 Just listen, Aunt Nicoud, and open your ears a bit. 
 Thieves have been in here; have you seen them, 
 .and should you know them again 1 " 
 
 But he could not make her understand what he 
 wanted, and so he made up his mind to go to bed, 
 or rather to throw himself on to his bed, dressed 
 just as he was, for the night was nearly gone. He 
 meant to get up at daybreak, and could not make 
 up his mind to occupy the bed all by himself, when 
 he intended to have inaugurated it with Felicite. 
 
 Fatigue, however, asserted its rights, and he slept 
 
132 THE CAP. 
 
 for several hours ; but he got up when it was broad 
 day, and got ready to go to his employer's, when he 
 heard laughter and talking beneath his window ; and 
 when he opened the casement he was greeted with 
 loud Hurrahs and roars of laughter from all the- 
 village lads, with Bouchard at their head, and the 
 latter called out, — 
 
 " Bravo I for the bridegroom who has riot slept 
 with his wife ! Poor, unfortunate husband I How 
 do you feel, poor fellow f " 
 
 " How do you know that I did not sleep with my 
 wife 1 " Fouillaupot asks in a rage. " Who told 
 you so ? n 
 
 " What a question ! When your wife returned to 
 her mother's last night, she had to knock at Madame 
 Boulafour's door for a long time before it was opened, 
 and in waking the laundress she also woke up all 
 the neighbours, and they heard your wife's mother 
 say to her daughter, — 
 
 " * What do you want here ? Your place is beside 
 your husband/ 
 
 " And then the little woman answered : * My hus- 
 band wants me to do things — which one does not 
 do in public Open the door, mother, and I will tell 
 you all about it.' 
 
 " Thereupon her mother opened the door, and the 
 first thing in the morning the neighbours told their 
 friends, who passed it on, so that now all the village 
 knows it. But what did you want to do to your 
 wife, Cadet! for she ran away from you as if you 
 had been an ogre." 
 
 Instead of answering, Cadet ^hut the window 
 violently ; and, when he heard nobody outside hie 
 house, he went as quickly as he could to 51 Poupard's, 
 who, however, had already gone to Paris. In despair, 
 and not knowing what to do, the unhappy husband 
 went and sat down under a tree for some time ; &nd P 
 though he thought of going to his wife's god-motheiv 
 
THE CAP. 133 
 
 lie did not dare to go so soon ; but, somewhat later 
 in the morning, Cadet arrived at Madame Dartinelle's, 
 at the moment she had finished dressing. 
 
 When he was shown into her room, the young 
 villager was so embarrassed that he would hardly 
 come in, but Hortense quickly reassured him. 
 
 " Gome in, M. Fouillaupot, come in. I am not the 
 least surprised at your visit ; indeed, I expected you." 
 
 "Why should you expect me, Madame ?" 
 
 " Because your wife and her mother have already 
 been to see me." 
 
 "I suppose they came to complain about me? 
 when F61icit6 has made me the mock and laughing- 
 stock of all the village. I will tell you something : 
 they all know I have not slept with my wife, and so 
 I am a dishonoured man, for everybody will be 
 pointing the finger of scorn at me, and I know I shall 
 die of vexation." 
 
 " Come, come, M. Cadet, calm yourself, for matters 
 are not so bad as you make out. In the first place, 
 no one is dishonoured because he has not made use 
 of his conjugal rights on his wedding night ; on the 
 contrary, it is a great proof of delicacy, and very 
 common amongst the upper classes." 
 
 " But in the lower classes, Madame, we do not get 
 married to show our delicacy." 
 
 "Then all your quarrel with Felicity arises from 
 a misunderstanding. If you had only mutually ex- 
 plained yourselves, this would not have happened." 
 
 "A misunderstanding? That means taking one 
 thing for something else, does it not, Madame ? " 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "And so, when^Felicite" caught me a smack in the 
 face, she took me for somebody else ? " 
 
 " She thought you were asking her to do something 
 absurd and impossible ; but listen to me." 
 
 " Gladlv, Madame." 
 
 "I had worked a dressing-jacket for my god- 
 
134 THE CAP. 
 
 daughter, which M. Poupard, your employer, took to 
 your house, and the secret was only too well kept, as 
 it is the cause of your quarrel." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Madame; but it seems that 
 Felicite knew all about it as soon as we got home, 
 for she said, 'I cannot see it; I wonder where 
 M. Poupard has put it ? " 
 
 " But you are mistaken, for my god-daughter was 
 not looking for the dressing-jacket, and I tell you 
 again that she had not the slightest idea that I had 
 sent her one." 
 
 " Then what was she looking for ? " 
 
 "Well, a very necessary article — a chamber vase, 
 if I must tell you. During supper she remembered 
 that there was none in the house, and told her mother, 
 who immediately went out to buy one, and, as she 
 was going to your new home, she met M. Poupard, 
 who insisted on taking it there for her, not knowing 
 what it was, as it was so well wrapped up in paper." 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Madame, that she was really 
 speaking of a — " 
 
 ** Your wife thought you knew it when you said., 
 * Where can he have put it ? ' " 
 
 " I certainly said that." 
 
 "Then you told Felicity that you wished her to- 
 use it before you and before your guests. I suppose, 
 now, you will understand why she was angry ? At 
 first she thought that you were only joking, but when 
 she saw that you were in earnest — " 
 
 " She boxed my ears, and she was right ; she was 
 quite right. To think that I wished her to — My 
 poor little wife! I, who would not even let her 
 show her legs in the swing. How foolish we were 
 not to explain ourselves ! " * 
 
 " I hope you are not angry with her any longer, 
 and that you will make it up ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame ; I will go and beg her pardon, and 
 tell her I was speaking of the dressing-jacket" 
 
THE CAP. 135 
 
 u l think, M. Cadet, that you are rather inclined to 
 t>e jealous, but if you wish to be happy in your 
 married life, you must trust in your wife's virtue." 
 
 " I will, Madame ; but I was so teased at the ball 
 yesterday tecause — I will tell you something, that 
 fine gentleman, your friend, kept speaking to Felicite 
 in a low voice whilst he was dancing with her — " 
 "M. Gontran?" 
 " I think that is his name." 
 
 " M. Gontran is very lively, and likes to have his 
 fun with every woman he meets, and so he naturally 
 wished to do the same with your wife." 
 " But he carried it too far." 
 
 "Do not imagine that he was thinking of Felicity ; 
 lie has very different thoughts in his head." 
 
 " I don't say that he was thinking of my wife, but 
 he joked with her too much, and I must tell you also, 
 Madame, that she has lost one of her garters. I 
 thought at first, at supper, that she had said so in 
 order that they might leave her legs alone ; but it is 
 true, she has really lost it." 
 
 " Well, really, you need not worry yourself about 
 that, for women are constantly losing their garters." 
 " Do you really think that ladies often lose them ? " 
 " You must not attach any importance to that." 
 " I think you are right, and I have the other in my 
 buttonhole. Last night, when Felicite left me, I felt 
 inclined to pitch it to the devil ; but now I am glad 
 I kept it. My poor wife, who thought—- Well, I 
 will go and make it up with her immediately, and 
 as for the dressing-jacket and the — the other thing, 
 M. Poupard must tell us what has become of them." 
 "Let us hope so." 
 " Madame, your servant." 
 
 " Good-bye, M. Cadet ; go to your wife at once." 
 " I will, Madame." 
 
 And the young husband ran downstairs, and was 
 just going to cross the yard on leaving, when 
 
136 THE CAP. 
 
 Gontran, who was leaving the garden, met him, and 
 accosted Fouillaupot in a very friendly manner. 
 
 " Why, here is the husband ! Up already and with- 
 out your wife ? I hope you had a pleasant night ? " 
 
 Cadet did not know what answer to give to the 
 question which Gontran put to him, in an almost 
 mocking voice; but, in trying to think of what to 
 say, his eyes fell upon the young man's cap, and on 
 it he saw a garter fastened, which he recognised 
 immediately as the one which his wife said she had 
 lost ; so he got red in the face, and remained, with- 
 out saying a word, in front of the man who was 
 wearing his wife's garter on his cap. 
 
 Hortense happened to be at the window, and 
 when she heard Gontran's voice, she saw the peasant 
 in front of him looking very much upset, and on 
 looking at Gontran rather more closely, she saw the 
 unlucky garter which was still fastened to his cap, 
 and immediately understood why Cadet was standing 
 there motionless and making such a queer face; so she 
 made haste downstairs and went up to the two men. 
 
 Gontran bowed and took off his cap, whilst Hor- 
 tense gave him an angry look, and said to Cadet, — 
 
 " What ! not gone yet ? I thought you were in 
 such a hurry to go to your wife % " 
 
 " I was going, Madame," he replied, with some em- 
 barrassment ; " but I have just seen something 
 which has quite taken me aback." 
 
 " What can you have seen to delay you any 
 longer? It appears to me as if you were never 
 going to do what you intended." 
 
 " But listen, Madame ; I think 1 may well be sur- 
 prised at seeing a garter exactly like the one I have 
 in my buttonhole on this gentleman's cap." 
 
 " What do you mean ? You surely do not think — '* 
 
 " Well, it is its twin sister ' I know them well, as I 
 bought them and gave them to Felicite a short time 
 before we were married," 
 
THE CAP. 137 
 
 " What ! M. Fouillaupot, is it possible ? " Goutran 
 exclaimed, as he now understood why Hortense had 
 looked at him so angrily ; "-does this garter belong 
 to your wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur, it is off my wife's leg ; she told 
 me she had lost it, but — " 
 
 "Of course, I remember now," Hortense cried; 
 " when Felicite came to see me the other day with 
 her mother, she said, as she was going away : ' Oh ! 
 I have lost one of my garters,' so I suppose you 
 found this one indoors, M. Gontran ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame, I picked it up on the staircase, and 
 used it as a strap for my cap." 
 
 " Well, give it back to M. Cadet immediately, for it 
 belongs to his wife, and he ought to take it to her." 
 
 " You are quite right, Madame ; let us render unto 
 Csesar — the thing which is M. Cadet's." 
 
 While saying this, Gontran was trying to take the 
 garter off his cap, but he found great difficulty in suc- 
 ceeding, for, in order to fasten the elastic on, Felicite 
 employed one of those big yellow pins which laun- 
 dresses use, but which one never sees anywhere else* 
 
 Cadet, who had been listening rather incredulously 
 to what had been said about the lost garter, looked 
 at the young man, who was pricking his fingers in 
 trying to get the pin out, and asked him, slyly, — 
 
 " I suppose you found the pin as well as the garter? " 
 
 "Why, M. Fouillaupot?" 
 
 " Because laundresses use them ; I know them well 
 enough, they are as strong as nails." 
 
 " You are quite mistaken, M. Cadet, if you think 
 that nobody but laundresses use these pins, for I 
 have all sorts of them ; in the country one has all 
 kinds of things which one never sees in Paris, and 
 M. Dalby might very easily find one of these pins in 
 my house. Good morning, M, Fouillaupot ; your wife 
 is waiting for you." 
 
 The tall husband felt that this was a dismissal, and 
 
188 THE CAP. 
 
 so he took the garter, and murmured : " Thank you, 
 Madame ; " adding, as he went off: "I hope, Monsieur, 
 you will not find it a second time." 
 
 As soon as he was some distance off, Gontran gave 
 vent to his laughter ; but Hortense, who did not seem 
 to approve of his merriment, exclaimed, — 
 
 " You must own, Monsieur, that you like to do harm." 
 
 " I, Madame f What made you think that ? " 
 
 " Well, you see this newly-married man here, and 
 you come and flaunt your cap, with his wife's garter 
 fastened to it, under nis very nose ! " 
 
 " I assure you that I quite forgot about that when 
 I came forward to wish him good morning. If I had 
 remembered that unfortunate garter, I should not 
 have come near him, or would have hidden my cap" 
 
 " Don't say that, Monsieur, for you delight in making 
 this poor husband jealous ; you want to bring discord 
 into their early married life, and you hope that that 
 will enable you more easily to triumph over my god- 
 daughter's virtue." 
 
 " Really, I do not think you ought to accuse me of 
 %hat." 
 
 "Don't you suppose that everyone saw that you 
 *were paying her marked attentions when you were 
 ^dancing with her last night ? " 
 
 " Indeed ! Did everyone notice that f I am aston- 
 ished, for I thought I had taken every precaution — " 
 
 "So you acknowledge that you are in love with 
 F£licit6, and that you want to seduce her ? " 
 
 " What would you have, Madame *? I must devote 
 myself to some object; you repelled me when I tried 
 to please you, and would not take pity on me, and it 
 is only natural that I should seek some distraction." 
 
 " What you are saying is outrageous and abomin- 
 able! You pretend to love me, and the feelings 
 with which I inspired you are at once dispelled by 
 the sight of a pretty, irregular face which the wind 
 liappens te uncover." 
 
THE CAP. 130 
 
 "Ohl I assure you, Madame, that not all those 
 features were irregular.' 
 
 " You are a monster ! To try and turn a married 
 woman's head, to try and upset domestic happiness — * 
 
 "I never had any intention of doing so, Madame, so 
 pray do not impute motives to me which are not mine." 
 
 " And this morning, Monsieur, you went out the 
 very first thing, as I am told. Can you tell me what 
 you were doing out of doors when you must have 
 wanted rest ? " 
 
 " No, Madame, I must acknowledge that I cannot 
 tell you why I went out so early." 
 
 " Very likely because you hoped to meet my god- 
 daughter. It is no good for you to try and deceive me e 
 You surely have not asked Felicite to meet you?" 
 
 " I wanted to give her back her garter." 
 
 " Well, now you do not want to see her, as she ha®< 
 her garter back again." 
 
 " Well, I have not that pretext any longer." 
 
 " And you have not any other for meeting her ? " 
 
 "Why? How should I ?" 
 
 " Do not pretend to be ignorant of my meanings 
 And what about the dressing-jacket, Monsieur, which 
 has disappeared — a present which I sent to my 
 god-daughter — for I suppose you have found it ? " 
 
 " The dressing-jacket ? Was it a dressing-jacket ? n 
 
 " Ah ! you have acknowledged taking it." 
 
 Gontran saw that he had said something silly, and 
 tried to repair his fault. 
 
 " Well, Madame, I did say : ' Was it a dressing 
 jacket?' because I did not know what you were 
 talking about. I do not understand what you mean." 
 
 "M. Gontran, do not tell falsehoods — they will 
 never succeed with me. You took the jacket which 
 I gave to my god-daughter, so give it her back* 
 Monsieur, and do not think about Felicity any more^ 
 and then I will see whether I can forgive you." 
 
 " I am to give back the bride's dressing-jacket ? " 
 
140 THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur ; give re me and I will return it to 
 her, and I will teil her that I took it to make some 
 slight alterations. She is sure to believe me, and all 
 will be right." 
 
 " But, Madame, I cannot give it to you, for I have 
 not got it." 
 
 " You have not got it ! Do you mean to say that 
 you did not take it ? " 
 
 " I acknowledge taking it, but I did not know what 
 it was ; I thought it was something of use in house- 
 keeping." 
 
 " Well, it is a good thing that you acknowledge it ; 
 let me have it." 
 
 " But I cannot give it you, as I have not got it any 
 longer. I do not know how it happened, but it must 
 have slipped from under my arm, causing me to lose 
 it in the road." 
 
 "I do not believe it; you are not speaking the 
 truth. You have it still, and wish to give it to 
 Felicite herself, so that you may be able to meet her." 
 
 " I swear to you, Madame — " 
 
 • Oh ! I know you, Monsieur ; but you shall not 
 succeed. I will watch over my god-daughter and 
 spoil your plans." 
 
 " You will be quite right in watching over her, 
 Madame; but you should remember that virtue 
 continually watched is not worth the sentinel." 
 
 Hortense went away with her handkerchief to her 
 eyes. Was she trying to hide her tears of rage 1 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 Gontran, however, had not lied when he said he had 
 not got the dressing-jacket any longer. 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 141 
 
 After he had possessed himself of it in the nuptial 
 chamber, it will be remembered that he was dis- 
 turbed by the noise of the bridal party, and hastened 
 to leave the cottage. In his hurry he had put the 
 jacket, wrapped up in paper, under his arm ; but as 
 it was dark in the passage he had knocked over the 
 lamp, kicked the chamber utensil out of doors, and 
 had stumbled himself, nearly losing what he was 
 carrying under his arm ; but, picking it up again, he 
 had promptly returned to Madame Dartinelle's villa. 
 On his arrival there he noticed that he had dropped 
 it, for, covered with oil as it was, the paper with its 
 contents had slipped from under his arm. 
 
 Gontran was in despair, and so angry with himself 
 that he felt inclined to go out again and retrace his 
 «teps to try and find the parcel ; but at that moment 
 all the company were returning from the wedding, 
 and just coming in. He heard Hortense's voice tell- 
 ing the porter to be sure and fasten the garden gate 
 carefully, and he could give no valid reason for going 
 out now and running about the village at night. He 
 was, therefore, obliged to make up his mind to wait ; 
 but the first thing in the morning he started off, and 
 carefully examined the road which he had followed 
 the night before on his way back from Cadet's house. 
 He hunted in every bush and ditch, but could not 
 find what he was looking for. 
 
 Knowing now that it was a dressing-jacket that 
 Madame Dartinelle had given to her god-daughter, 
 lie was sorry for what he had done, and, if it could 
 not be found, he was determined to go to Paris and 
 buy another. But a man always finds some difficulty 
 in buying female garments, and especially garments 
 of that particular kind ; and he could not well ask 
 any of the ladies to replace the article that he had 
 abstracted. For a moment he was on the point of 
 telling Madame Dartinelle everything, but she looked 
 «o vexed and angry that he felt more determined 
 
142 THK SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 than ever to continue the plan which he had formed 
 for triumphing over the handsome ividow's indifference. 
 
 On leaving Madame Dartinelle's, Cadet Fouillaupot 
 went towards Madame Boulafour's house; but he was 
 thoughtful and suspicious. Since seeing that con- 
 founded garter on the fine gentleman's cap who had 
 danced so nicely with his wife, the bridegroom had 
 felt all his former jealousy redoubled. He wished to 
 make it up with Felicite, but beforehand he wished 
 to ascertain whether there was any intrigue going 
 on between his wife and Gontran. 
 
 Feeling thus, he arrived at his mother-in-law's, who 
 was alone, and she received him coldly, saying, — 
 
 " Oh ! here you are, Monsieur. Do you expect me 
 to compliment you on your behaviour last night t 
 It was disgraceful to force your wife to take refuge 
 with her mother." 
 
 " But I did not force her to it at all ; she went of 
 her own accord, after giving me a tremendous slap 
 in the face." 
 
 " And you thoroughly deserved it for proposing to 
 your wife to — " 
 
 "It was all a mistake, mother-in-law; did not 
 Madame Dartinelle explain it all to you ? " 
 
 "I know you were at cross purposes; but when 
 anybody has a nice little wife, one ought not to 
 quarrel about trifles." 
 
 " You are quite right, and it was my fault ; I allow 
 that ; but where is Felicite ? " 
 
 " She has gone out, for you may imagine that the 
 poor child required a little distraction the day after 
 such an unhappy wedding night." 
 
 " And where has she gone to ? " 
 
 " Well, to see one and the other friend, and then 
 she is going back to her god-mother's." 
 
 " I have just come from there." 
 
 "Well, I suppose she went another way. Has* 
 M. Poupard got back from Paris f " 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 143 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " Because I want to see him as soon as possible. 
 You know that we found the fragments of the 
 chamber vase outside your door ? " 
 
 "I did not know it." 
 
 " Yes ; the broken bits of a beautiful utensil, which 
 M. Matthieu had wrapped up so carefully in paper, 
 are scattered in front of your door. M. Poupard 
 must have let it fall as he was going in." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 " The dear man had drunk too much champagne, 
 for he staggered. It was my fault, for I ought not 
 to have trusted him with it ; but he almost took it 
 out of my hands." 
 
 " He may have broken that, but a dressing-jacket 
 is not breakable, and I should like to know what he 
 has done with that ? " 
 
 " That is the very reason why I am impatient for 
 his return." 
 
 u I should like to know where my wife is, for if we 
 .are goiug to spend all our time in running about after 
 <each other, it was hardly worth while to get married." 
 
 "You should not have let her escape when you 
 had her at home, in your own room, yesterday." 
 
 "Confound M. Poupard! if he had not broken it 
 that would not have happened. Where can I go 
 and look for my wife ? " 
 
 " The best thing is to wait here for her." 
 
 " Perhaps she has gone back to our house, which 
 we have not yet occupied together." 
 
 " No, she said she was coming back here, so you 
 had better wait." 
 
 Cadet heaves a great sigh, and sits down on a heap 
 of linen, without daring to say anything more, but he 
 never takes his eyes off the door. At last F61icite 
 returns, seeming rather agitated, and with a laurel 
 twig in her hand. When she sees her husband she 
 utters a little cry, but he gets up, runs to meet her, 
 
144 THE SNARE L ilD FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 and kisses her several times without allowing her to 
 speak, and she does not resist much, but only says, — 
 
 " Just look, mother ; he does not even ask my leave I " 
 
 " I suppose not," the laundress says ; " his revenge 
 is still to come, and he is going to take something on 
 account." 
 
 " My dear little wife, I was wrong, and I beg your 
 pardon," Cadet says. 
 
 " No," Felicite replies, " I was too hasty ; but we 
 misunderstood each other, and it is all M. Poupard's 
 fault," 
 
 " Just what I said a moment ago to your mother." 
 
 "What can he have done with my god-mother's 
 present ? I wish he had come back from Paris, and 
 he is not expected back till evening." 
 
 " Where have vou come from now! " 
 
 a/ 
 
 " From my god-mother's." 
 
 " Why, you were there this morning." 
 
 " That makes no difference, for she had something 
 to say to me." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " You are too curious." 
 
 " Have you been amusing yourself by breaking the 
 branches of her laurel trees? What are you going to do 
 with the one you have there ? You ought not to break 
 off or pick anything in other people's gardens." 
 
 " Madame told me I might take it." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "My dear Cadet, you want to know too much* 
 but I will tell you all about it this evening." 
 
 "This evening?" 
 
 " Yes, when I come back from my god-mother's." 
 
 "I say, there is rather too much of your god-mother; 
 one meets gentlemen there with whom I do not wish 
 you to talk." 
 
 " Are you going to begin with that absurd jealousy 
 again? Well, only keep quiet, for you shall come 
 with me this evening." 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 145 
 
 "In that case I have no objection; but do you 
 know that I have found the garter which you lost ? * 
 
 " Yes ; my god-mother just told me about it." 
 
 " It was on M. Gontran's cap, who was swaggering 
 about with it. I should like to know why he should 
 fasten your garter to his cap ? " 
 
 " However should I know ? For his own amuse- 
 ment, I suppose." 
 
 " Felicite, one does not amuse one's self with ob- 
 jects of such importance as garters ; but I can guess 
 why he wore it — because he is in love with you." 
 
 "In love with me? — that handsome gentleman 
 from Paris ? Why, you must be mad ! " 
 
 " Not the least ; he whispered too much to you 
 whilst you were dancing." 
 
 " My poor Cadet, if you only had rather more per- 
 ception, you would not really believe what you have 
 just said." 
 
 "I see it quite clearly." 
 
 "No, you doi)\ for you suspect something which 
 is not a fact, and you do not see something that 
 really exists." 
 
 " What is that, I should like to know? " 
 
 " You do not see that M. Gontran is in love with 
 my god-mother ; that he has remained in this village 
 all this time in the hope of gaining her affections, 
 and that my god-mother, who affects the most per- 
 fect indifference towards him, is, nevertheless, sensi- 
 ble of his love." 
 
 " It is quite impossible ! Do you expect me to be- 
 lieve that this gentleman is in love with your god- 
 mother, and for that reason is so attentive to you, 
 and wears your garter like a plume in his cap? " 
 
 " Yes, of course ; it is a regular scheme — a bit of 
 his cunning to tease Madame Dartinelle." 
 
 " Oh ! it is a scheme, is it ? I should never have 
 guessed it. You are very clever to have guessed all 
 that, but before I believe that this fine spark is not 
 
 E 
 
146 THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 trying to seduce you, I must be convinced that he is 
 in love with your god-mother." 
 
 " You shall be convinced this very evening." 
 
 " Keally and truly ? Very well, little wife ; let us 
 he off, and settle down in our home." 
 
 " No, not yet ; you must wait till this evening." 
 
 "Why wait till this evening? Why not go 
 directly?" 
 
 " Because, before making it up with you altogether, 
 I want you to get quite rid of your jealous suspi- 
 cions, and not believe «*iiy longer that M. Gontran is 
 making love to me. My god-mother herself said 
 to me, 'Do not go back to yoiir husband till he is 
 fully convinced that M. Gontran never gave you 
 & thought.' " 
 
 " Well, I clearly see that my second weddii g night 
 will be my first." 
 
 Felicite had exactly followed out her god-mother's 
 orders, and when she had gone back in the course of 
 the day, the latter said to her, — 
 
 " Go and stroll about in the garden a little, for 
 1 am sure that M. Gontran is there. He will come 
 .and speak to you, and ask you to meet him, so do as 
 I told you : promise to meet him at half-past eight, 
 in the grotto which is on the left-hand side as you 
 <;ome into the garden. I need not tell you that I 
 shall go there instead of you, so you see, my dear 
 .girl, to what I am exposing myself for your sake I " 
 
 " Oh ! god-mother, you are a widow, and will know 
 very well how to defend yourself." 
 
 "You must tell M. Gontran that he must bring 
 %ack your dressing-jacket." 
 
 "Did he take it?" 
 
 "Who else do you think did? Well, then, this 
 evening you will come back here at about nine 
 ^o'clock with your husband." 
 
 "And I shall have my dressing-jacket? " 
 
 " I hope so, certainly. Go into the garden and say 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 147" 
 
 I have a sick headache, and that I have asked you to 
 come again this evening; and when you go out I 
 will be standing at this window. If you have pro- 
 mised to meet him, hold a twig of arbutus in your 
 left hand ; you understand me ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, god-mother; I shall not forget any- 
 thing." 
 
 And Felicite ran into the garden, where she met 
 Gontran, and did exactly as her god-mother had told 
 her, for on leaving she had a twig of laurel in her 
 hand, which she flourished in the air as she passed 
 before the handsome widow's window. 
 
 It is half-past eight at night, and as it is September 
 it has been dark for some time ; but the weather is 
 fine and warm, and very pleasant for walking. How- 
 ever, after dinner, which is over a little before eight, . 
 Hortense retires to her own room under the pretext 
 of a violent sick headache; fat George, who has not 
 yet recovered from his excesses of yesterday, does 
 not feel inclined to leave his couch, on which he is 
 lounging and smoking, so that Gontran is at perfect 
 liberty to do as he pleases ; and, after going and 
 writing a note in his own room, he goes into the 
 garden, and into the grotto where Felicity has pro- 
 mised to meet him. 
 
 This artificial grotto is not very deep, but yet deep 
 enough for anybody to be able to conceal themselves 
 in it, and the entrance is almost concealed by lilacs, 
 seringas, and Bengal roses. At the extreme end 
 there is a bench of turf, and even in the daytime 
 hardly a ray of light can penetrate in, so it may be 
 guessed that on a September evening it was im- 
 possible to distinguish anything at all. 
 
 Gontran goes into this delightful retreat, which 
 seemed made expressly for lovers' meetings. Advanc- 
 ing a few steps, he stops to listen, and, hearing a^ 
 gentle respiration, goes in the direction from which it: 
 comes, whispering, — 
 
148 THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 "Are you here, charming F&icite? I thought I 
 should be the first at the place of meeting, and even 
 feared that you would not come." 
 
 " Why did you fear that ? " said an agitated and 
 almost inaudible voice. 
 
 Before answering, Gontran has reached the seat on 
 which the person who has spoken to him is sitting, 
 and immediately sits down by her side. He puts his 
 arm round a small yielding waist, which he presses 
 tenderly; but the lady tries to disengage herself, 
 and says, — 
 
 "Why are you holding me so tight? " 
 
 " How happy I am to hold you thus, against my 
 heart." 
 
 "And what about my dressing-jacket! " 
 
 " We will talk of that later." 
 
 " I want k immediately." 
 
 "And I, beforehand, want that kiss which you 
 have owed me for so long." 
 
 41 Why do you want to kiss me ? " 
 
 " What a delightful question I Why should one 
 wish to kiss a pretty woman? Because it gives a 
 man an intense pleasure." 
 
 " Yes, when one loves ; but you do not love me." 
 
 " What blasphemy are you uttering there ? I not 
 love you % Why, I adore you, and to prove it to you 
 let me tell you that, whilst waiting for the hour of 
 our meeting, I wrote a short poem, which was in- 
 spired by you." 
 
 " You wrote a poem on me ? w 
 
 " Here it is, on this paper." 
 
 " Do give it me, for I am most anxious to read it; 
 a poem made on a wife of one day — I mean on me." 
 
 "Here it is; don't lose the piece of paper, for if it 
 were found it might compromise me in your god- 
 mother's eyes." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I forgot about my god-mother. Are 
 you in love with my god-mother as well 1 " 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW. 149 
 
 "The fair Hortense? Not the least; she is too 
 cold, too indifferent, a mere statue which it is im- 
 possible to animate; whilst, as for you, your eyes are 
 foil of fire— " 
 
 " Leave me alone." 
 
 "No; I want a kiss." 
 
 " Let me go ; I will not have it ! " 
 
 " I will have it in spite of you." 
 
 "I hate you!" 
 
 " That shall not stop me from kissing you." 
 
 " You will be sorry for it directly." 
 
 "I don't believe it." 
 
 Gontran overcomes her resistance ; he takes one 
 kiss, and tries to take another; but Hortense (of 
 course it is she who is in the grotto) gets up suddenly 
 and pushes him away, exclaiming, — 
 
 " You are a wretch, and you shall not try to de- 
 ceive me any more ; for it is not Felicite, it is her 
 god-mother whom you have just embraced — that 
 cold statue which it is impossible to animate. Ah! 
 you may well be dumbfounded ! What do I hear ? 
 Why, I do believe he is laughing ! " 
 
 And, in fact, Gontran is in fits of laughter. Hor- 
 tense is furious, goes out of the grotto and into the 
 house, where she throws herself into a low chair in 
 the drawing-room, followed by Gontran, who, as 
 soon as she has sat down, comes and kneels down 
 by her side, and half laughing, half serious, looks at 
 her with folded hands. 
 
 " No, I will never forgive you," Hortense exclaimed, 
 in her irritation, " so it is no good for you to ask me." 
 
 " But I am not asking you to forgive me, Madame, 
 and I am not kneeling to you as a culprit." 
 
 " You are not here to ask my pardon f ' 
 
 "No, Madame." 
 
 " That is too much ! Then why are you here ? " 
 
 "In order to ask you to read the small piece of 
 paper that I gave you." 
 
150 THE SNARE LAIP> TOR THE WIDOW. 
 
 "The verses that you made about Felioite? Per- 
 iiaps you would like me to sing them as well? Really, 
 Monsieur, you carry your assurance rather far ! I do 
 not know, but it may be allowable to seduce a woman 
 by pretending to entertain feelings towards her which 
 one does not really have ; but to add insult to false- 
 hood — I really did not think that you could have 
 gone so far as that ! " 
 
 "Will you be so kind as to read my little 
 note?" 
 
 " So that I may see what pretty things you have 
 said to my god-daughter ? I heard quite enough of 
 them in the grotto, I assure you. And so I am a 
 statue? But F61ieite has turned your head. You 
 thought just now that you were holding her in your 
 arms and embracing her, and in such an ardent 
 manner — " 
 
 "I can declare that I never experienced so much 
 pleasure." 
 
 " This is too insolent ! Leave me, Monsieur, for I 
 never wish to see you or speak with you again." 
 
 "I will certainly go, if you order me to do so, 
 Madame; but not till you have read my note." 
 
 " So you are determined to torment me ? Well, 
 Monsieur, as it seems that I must do as you wish, let 
 ■me see your verses, but let me know what tune they 
 go to." 
 
 " It will be quite enough to read them, Madame." 
 
 Hortense, who was crumpling the paper up in her 
 hands, at last made up her mind to open it, and read 
 as follows, — 
 
 " Will you forgive me, Madame, for having turned 
 the snare which you laid for me to my own advan- 
 tage ? and, having guessed that it was you who 
 would come to the grotto, for having profited by the 
 darkness, and pretended to feel towards your god- 
 daughter what I have felt only for you ? I have held 
 jrou in my arms and kissed you, and, should you still 
 
THE SNARE LAID FOR THE WIDOW, 151 
 
 repel me, I shall retain the memory of that kiss as 
 long as I live/' 
 
 As she read, Hortense's voice altered, and from 
 having been dry and harsh it became soft and tender ; 
 she could hardly finish reading the letter before it 
 fell from her hand, which, however, Gontran seized 
 and covered with kisses without her trying to with- 
 draw it, and she looked at him without any signs of 
 anger, but murmured softly, — 
 
 " He knew it was I ! Why, really, some men have 
 as much wit as women." 
 
 " Not very often," Gontran replied ; " but it does 
 happen so occasionally. Dearest Hortense, you will 
 let me love you at last ? " 
 
 "I suppose I must, for I do not like being com- 
 pared to a statue ! " 
 
 This scene took place in the drawing-room on the 
 ground floor, the windows of which looked out into 
 the courtyard ; one of the windows were left open, 
 so that Felicity and her husband, who had just come 
 into the yard, stopped on hearing Madame Dartinelle's 
 voice; but immediately the young wife, who was 
 curious, like all women are, went up to the half-open 
 window and looked in; then she gave her husband 
 a push, and said, — 
 
 "Just look, Cadet, at what is going on in the 
 drawing-room ; I should like to know now whether 
 you still think that M. Gontran is in love with me f " 
 
 Cadet looks in and sees the grand gentleman from 
 Paris on his knees before the handsome widow, holding 
 her hand and covering it with kisses ; whereupon the 
 delighted husband turns to his little wife, kisses her 
 also, and exclaims, — 
 
 " You are quite right. But I will tell you some- 
 thing — I was an idiot I " 
 
152 CADET'S EMPLOYER. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 cadet's employer. 
 
 * Ought we to go in and disturb them f " Cadet asks 
 bis wife. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; it cannot be helped. My god-mother 
 told me to come and see her this evening, and I 
 want her to see that I obey her orders." 
 
 *' Well, I think you are right ; and I shall be very 
 glad to be civil to the gentleman at whom I looked 
 «o fiercely when I was jealous of him." 
 
 The young couple went into the house, but before 
 going into the drawing-room Felicite stopped, and 
 said, — 
 
 " It is I, god-mother. I have brought you my hus- 
 band. May we come in ? " 
 
 " Of course you may," Hortense replied, " for I am 
 very anxious to be quite sure that peace has been 
 restored between you." 
 
 Cadet bowed to the ground, and smiled at Gontran, 
 saying,— 
 
 " Yes, Madame, we have made it up. I am quite 
 4sure now that I was jealous without any cause ; but 
 it shall not happen again. All we want now is to 
 know what M. Poupard has done with the pretty 
 present which you gave him for Felicite, for he can- 
 not have broken it like he did the other thing." 
 
 Felicite looks at her god-mother, who looks at 
 Gontran, who looks up at the ceiling as if in search 
 of an inspiration, and at that moment the maid comes 
 in and announces that M. Poupard wants to know if 
 he may have the honour of speaking to Madame. 
 
 "On! he has got back from Paris," Cadet cries 
 out ; " he has come just in time to tell us what he 
 4id with it." 
 
 "Show him in," Hortense said; "and, M. Fouill- 
 
cadet's employer. 153 
 
 aupot, be kind enough to let me question your 
 employer, for I shall do it better than you will." 
 
 "Do you understand, Cadet? " Felicite asked him. 
 "You will let Madame speak, for she will be able to 
 find it all out cleverly, whilst you would only make 
 a hash of it." 
 
 M. Poupard is shown in, and the old laundryman 
 begins by excusing himself for coming in his blouse ; 
 but, as soon as he sees Cadet and his wife, he 
 exclaims, — 
 
 " Oh ! here you are. That is very lucky, for you 
 must have been worrying about something of yours 
 that I have got for you." 
 
 " So he has it ! he has it I " Cadet cries out. "You 
 see what a joker he is, and what a trick he played 
 ue." 
 
 " A trick I What are you talking about, Cadet ? " 
 
 "M. Fouillaupot," Hortense said, "I asked you to 
 allow me to question M. Poupard, so be good enough 
 to hold your toDgue. You were, Monsieur, entrusted 
 with two articles which you were requested to take 
 to the newly-married couple's house ; but they could 
 not be found. Will you kindly tell us what became 
 of them t" 
 
 "I discharged my two commissions faithfully, 
 Madame. In the morning I took the dressing-jacket, 
 and the soup tureen in the evening, as I was return- 
 ing home from supper at the wedding, and I was 
 rather overcome by the champagne which your brother 
 gave us so hberally." 
 
 " Oh! so you were rather tipsy ? You allow that 1 " 
 
 " Well, yes ; one does not go to a wedding every 
 day, and when one does, one does not always get 
 champagne ; but it is all the same, as I carried in 
 the soup tureen." 
 
 " It was not a soup tureen," Cadet murmurs, but 
 his wife makes him keep quiet. 
 
 " Only," M. Poupard continues, " I did not know 
 
154 CADET'S employer. 
 
 where to put it. I went upstairs, then came down 
 again, and I remember that the lamp went out ; in 
 fact, I am not quite sure whether I did not let it fall. 
 Then I put the soup tureen — I am really not quite 
 sure where I did put it, but at any rate I went home 
 to bed. This morning I got up as soon as it was 
 light, as I had some business in Paris very early, and 
 so I started directly ; but on going through the vil- 
 lage the same way which I had taken the night 
 before, what did I find lying in the road but the 
 very dressing-jacket that I had carried home to the 
 young people's house. On picking it up I found it 
 was all covered with oil, but that was not of much 
 consequence, and if I had not been in such a hurry I 
 should have taken it to Cadet's immediately; but 
 I had no time. When I got back from Paris, as I 
 was passing by your house, I said to myself, * I will 
 at once take my find to her,' and here it is, Madame. 
 But how it got into the road, and all covered with 
 oil, too, is more than I can guess. " 
 
 " Yes," Cadet exclaimed, " how could it get there 
 when you took it to our house? It is very extra- 
 ordinary. What do you think, Felicite ? " 
 
 " It is nothing at all extraordinary," she replied at 
 once. " M. Poupard was tipsy when he went to our 
 house the second time ; he upset and broke the lamp, 
 and broke the — the thing he was carrying, without 
 even noticing it, and most likely put the dressing- 
 jacket into his pocket again, mistaking it for his 
 pocket-handkerchief." 
 
 " That is it, of course," Hortense observed, with an 
 admiring look at her god-daughter. 
 
 "Once outside, M. Poupard, on putting his hand 
 into his pocket, no doubt let it fall, as he does not 
 even remember putting it in. Do not you think so, 
 M. Gontran?" 
 
 " I think, Madame, that the explanation is perfectly 
 clear ; it must have happened so." 
 
 V 
 
cadet's employer. 155 
 
 "Well, master/' Cadet asked him, "do you hear? 
 You are the cause of all this, it is quite clear, as this 
 .gentleman said." 
 
 " Well, my lad, I must say I cannot understand it. 
 Do you mean that I put the dressing-jacket into my 
 pocket again ? " 
 
 " That is proved by its being well covered with oil ; 
 you must have knocked it against the lamp." 
 
 " How the devil could I have done all that without 
 remembering anything about it ? " 
 
 " It was the champagne, Monsieur." 
 
 " It was the champagne, master." 
 
 " And I broke the soup tureen as well ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is in bits, outside the door." 
 
 "But I never heard it fall." 
 
 "It was the champagne, Monsieur." 
 
 " If that is the case, I will never drink it again." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you will, master; only do not under- 
 take any commissions when you have done so. 
 Well, Felicity, we will go home at last. You are 
 satisfied, now that you have got your dressing-jacket, 
 I hope?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! thank you, god-mother ; now I am quite 
 happy." 
 
 "I hope Madame will continue to give us her 
 eustom," Cadet says; "and, if M. Gontran marries, I 
 shall be very much flattered if he will let my wife be 
 his laundress." 
 
 " I shall be quite agreeable/ 5 he replied, taking Hor- 
 tense's hand ; " but that depends on Madame, for she 
 will find that I am the most submissive of husbands." 
 
 "But I shall always be obliged to do what you 
 wish," she replied, allowing him to retain her hand. 
 " Only, when we are married you will have nothing to 
 do with the washing." 
 
 F61icit6 gave a knowing smile ; then, bowing 
 politely, she took her departure with her husband. 
 
 M. Poupard followed them, exclaiming, — 
 
1.56 cadet's employer. 
 
 " I could never have thought that wine could make 
 us commit such mistakes." 
 
 " Well, you wicked man," Hortense says, "you have 
 made up for all your faults; but just think of his 
 making love to another woman in order to force me 
 to confess that I loved him ! " 
 
 " What would you have ? It is a certain means of 
 success." 
 
 Perhaps you would like to know about the other 
 characters that have figured in this veracious history* 
 
 I may tell you that fat George grows fatter in a 
 most alarming fashion ; that M. Rocaille still goes on 
 buying game, which he gives to his wife, pretending 
 that he has shot it ; that his wife is still a flirt ; and 
 that M. Brochenbiche goes on feeling himself all over, 
 to find out whereabouts his pains are. 
 
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 843 
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 This BOOK may be kept out TWO 
 WEEKS ONLY, and is subject to a fine 
 of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was 
 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
 #v 
 
 ll0ct'3lDA 
 
 16Jan'32C 
 [28Feb'33f 
 
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THAT RASCAL 
 GUSTAVE. 
 
 m 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 Hanfrtftt: 
 
 MATHIESON & 0. 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER X, 
 
 SSAB, fBIGETj MIS70RTtJNS, . » 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 UNCLE AND NEPHEW, . 
 AUNT AND NIECE, 
 A CAME OF BILLIARDS, 
 THE CATASTROPHE, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE D1VIL AND THE BLACK COW, , , 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ERMENONVILLS — MARIE- JEANNE — SUSAN, . . . 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CLEVER WOMAN CAN MAKE A MAN BELIEVE LN MIRACLES, . 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A WEDDING AT LA VILLETTE, , . 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MISTAKE — THE PATROIi — THE LITTLE LAUNDRESS, . . 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GUBTAVE MAKES MADAME DUBOURG'S ACQUAINTANCE. . 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL #AM 
 
 A YOUNG MEN'S DINNER PARTY, . , . ,99 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 AHOTHEB FOOLISH TBIOK, , . , * « 112 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WHICH IS EITHER TOO LONG OR TOO SHORT, . e » 120 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 REAL LOVE, . , „ 1SS 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A DAT 07 OONTRARITIES, . , , , o 12? 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER, . . . „ . » 139 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HOW A MARRIED COUPLE PASSED THE NIGHT, . , 154 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JULIA LOSES HER BEAUTY, AND GUSTAVB HIS TROUSERS, . 166 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A SCENE AT LA COURTILLE, . . . g , 174 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A MISTAKE—DISAPPEARANCE OF SUSAN, . . . 184 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MARRLA.GE PROJECTS, . . ... 191 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A WOMAN'S INTRIGUES — JEALOUSY — AN UNFORTUNATE MEETING, 196 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE DUEL — THE LITTLE SAVOYARD, .... 20? 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 COMPRISING A PERIOD OF THREE YEARS, . , . 218 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SHOULD YOU HAVE GUESSED IT ? . • • 228 
 
THAT RASCAL GUSTAVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FEAE, FRIGHT, MISFORTUNE. 
 
 " Go on, Zephyr, go on, old fellow, only three mile& 
 more, and we shall be at home. Ah ! there you go ; 
 that's a good job, you are smelling your stable 
 already, I expect." 
 
 Thus it was that Daddy Lucas, as he was called,, 
 spoke to his horse, and endeavoured, on the road 
 between Louvres and Ermenonville, by his words, 
 which were often accompanied by expressive move- 
 ments, to encourage Zephyr, who, however, did not 
 trot any the faster for all that. 
 
 All of a sudden a fresh weight, which fell on his 
 back, without the slightest warning, made the poor 
 beast start, and then go off at full gallop, a thing 
 which he did not do twice a year, but the violent 
 shock seemed to have given him wings. Lucas tried 
 to cry out, but he was encircled and pressed by two 
 strong arms, so that he, wretched man, began to 
 think that he had the devil on his crupper, and lost 
 
 A 
 
2 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 all power of speech, and, abandoning himself to his 
 destiny, he gave the reins to his horse, and closed 
 his eyes, so that he might not see who was his travel 
 ling companion. 
 
 Zephyr, however, had neither the power nor the 
 inclination to gallop any distance, besides which the 
 road was sandy, and tried his strength, so he very 
 soon took to his former pace again, and, at the same 
 time, the arms which had been round Lucas relaxed 
 their hold, and enabled him to breathe again. He 
 heard a burst of laughter behind him, and, re- 
 covering his senses, and regaining courage, it struck 
 iiim that it would not be difficult, even without being 
 an evil spirit, to jump on Zephyr's crupper, so he 
 turned his head round a little, and, opening one eye, 
 lie saw, instead of Beelzebub or Asmodeus, a good- 
 looking young man, who, in spite of his somewhat 
 disordered attire, had nothing at all terrible in his 
 appearance. 
 
 " Well, I declare, monsieur, you gave me a nice 
 fright." 
 
 " I believe I did, old fellow, and you rode nearly 
 half a mile without moving, and I absolutely believe, 
 without breathing." 
 
 " You may laugh, monsieur, but I do not see why 
 you should. I wonder what my wife would have 
 said if she had seen me come back home, dead ? " 
 
 " Oh ! she would soon have consoled herself." 
 
 "That may be, but I should not have been so 
 easily consoled, and then my daughter, my little 
 Susan, who is so fond of Daddy Lucas ! . . ." 
 
 " Never mind, Papa Lucas, you are not dead, and 
 I hope your fears are calmed down, so we will not 
 say any more about it. You see I am neither the 
 devil nor a robber. . . ." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. A man who falls on to 
 ^ny horse behind me like . . ." 
 
 " I had been calling to you for several minutes, but 
 
Fear, Fright, Misfortune. 3 
 
 you did not hear me, and so I took a run, and having 
 had lessons of Franconi, I got on to your horse with- 
 out stopping you." 
 
 " You are very active, that is quite certain, but 
 you surely do not think that I am going to take you 
 much further like this ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose you are going to take me as far 
 as your house, at any rate" 
 
 " As far as my house ? And what for, I should 
 like to know ? " 
 
 " To put me up for the night." 
 
 " To put you up, a man who has fallen from the 
 clouds ? " 
 
 " What doe$ it matter where I have fallen from as 
 long as I pay you well ? I say, Daddy Lucas, are 
 you fond of money ? " 
 
 " Of course I am, when I make it honestly." 
 
 " Very well, and as there can be no harm in giving 
 .0, traveller some supper and a bed, you shall take me 
 in to-night. Here are twenty francs on account be- 
 forehand, so now stick in your knees, clap your heels 
 into Zephyr, and let us make haste and get back to 
 Madame Lucas." 
 
 The young man's voice was so persuasive and 
 decided, his manners were so frank and pleasant, that 
 the peasant did not know what answer to give him 
 to his proposal. Besides, Father Lucas was very 
 fond of money, and in a village twenty francs is a 
 large sum, so he urged on his horse and went on 
 trotting, but on their road Lucas put more questions 
 -£o his fellow-traveller. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " that you belong to this 
 neighbourhood, as you are out without your hat ? " 
 
 " Well, upon my word, I had not got any time to 
 look for it, and was lucky to be able to put on my 
 eoat." 
 
 "The deuce! I suppose you were bathing in 
 «ome place where it was prohibited ? " 
 
4 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " I was not bathing exactly, but I certainly was- 
 where I had no right to be." 
 
 " That is just like you young men, caring for 
 nothing." 
 
 " But I say, Father Lucas, it seems to me that 
 Zephyr is not getting on at all." 
 
 " Well, he is not in the habit of carrying two." 
 
 " I am terribly hungry ; where do you live ? " 
 
 "At Ermenonville." 
 
 " Is that the village, there ? " 
 
 " No, that is Mortf ontaine, we have about three 
 miles further to go, and I do not like it, for it is 
 getting late, and I am frightened^of robbers and 
 wolves." 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, I will take care of you." 
 
 Just as they had. finished their conversation, they 
 heard horses galloping behind them, and it was too 
 dark to see at any distance. The noise came nearer 
 and the riders seemed to be coming up with them 
 rapidly. All at once Lucas's young companion 
 seemed to be seized with a sudden terror. 
 
 " They are after me," he cried ; " get on, my good 
 fellow, we must escape them." 
 
 Without waiting for the peasant's consent, the 
 young man urged on and kicked the unfortunate 
 horse till he made him go at full gallop. It was no 
 good for Lucas to complain, swear, or cry out that 
 his steed would be killed, for his companion listened 
 to nothing but the noise of the horses behind them, 
 which seemed to be on the point of overtaking them 7 
 and thus they went through Mortf ontaine. There 
 was no holding Zephyr ; not being used to such 
 treatment, he gave way to a noble fury, reared, 
 kicked, plunged, and broke his bridle, carrying his 
 riders towards a pond, where some dozen ducks 
 were quietly feeding. Lucas cried out to his horse : 
 " Stop ! stop ! " and behind them came the cries of 
 " Stop ! stop ! " The young man laughed and swore 
 
Uncle and Nephew. 5 
 
 4h one breath, but finally Zephyr rushed into the 
 pond, stuck in the mud, and fell on to his side, his 
 riders tumbling off, rolled on to the ducks, crushing 
 four of them, and there they were, wet, dirty, shout- 
 ing, hardly knowing what they were about. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 
 
 "* What do you mean, sir ? more follies ! Another 
 bet of six hundred francs, which I have to pay for 
 you!" 
 
 " It is a debt of honour, uncle." 
 
 " All debts are sacred obligations, but that is no 
 reason for incurring them, when I am able to supply 
 .all your requirements. Do you know, nephew, that 
 I think you are a bit of a scamp ? " 
 
 " I, my dear uncle ? I really do not see how I 
 Iiave deserved such an appellation." 
 
 " You do not see it ? Very well, then I will just 
 tell you how. Sit down there, Gustave, opposite to 
 me, and keep quiet, if you can, and don't interrupt 
 :me. 
 
 " My dear uncle, I know far too well what I owe 
 you." 
 
 " Hold your tongue. Your mother, my sister, 
 Hortense Moranval, was a very good, amiable, quiet, 
 ^economical woman — " 
 
 " She had every quality . . ." 
 
 " Will you be quiet ? I know perfectly well what 
 -my sister was, but I know also that she was so 
 Minded by her love for her precious son, that she 
 did not see that he was passionate, impatient of 
 control, untruthful, a gambler . ." 
 
 " Uncle ! " 
 
That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " Will you hold your tongue ? Your father was sr 
 clever man, and his talents, his merit, and his amiable 
 character made him welcome into whatever society 
 he went. He would have made himself a name in 
 his profession at the bar, which he adorned, but death 
 took him suddenly from his wife and friends. You 
 were too young at the time to feel your loss, and you 
 cannot remember my dear St Real." 
 
 " At any rate, uncle, I can always cherish and 
 reverence his memory." 
 
 "If you really reverenced it, you would not com- 
 mit so many follies. But to return to our subject/ 
 I passed part of my life in the army, and when I 
 went to see my sister in Paris at rare intervals, you 
 used to take my sword and spit the meat with it ; 
 you gave my plume to the cat to play with, my 
 cocked hat was knocked all out of shape; you played 
 the mischief with my epaulettes and pistols, but all 
 those were mere trifles. I found, however, that you 
 were learning nothing, for you would not pay the 
 slightest attention to your tutors ; you played the 
 fool with your Latin and history master, you let off- 
 crackers under the nose of your music master, and 
 filled your drawing master's pockets with candle 
 ends ; in fact you acted like a young demon, and 
 when I asked my sister to punish you, she seemed 
 to think that you would grow wiser as you grew 
 older. Poor woman, she thought you charming." 
 
 " But, my dear uncle, all the ladies thought with 
 my mother." 
 
 " Well, and the reason for that was that you loved* 
 them all alike." 
 
 " That was from gratitude, uncle." 
 
 " And did you deceive them out of gratitude ? Was- 
 that the reason that you seduced young girls, de- 
 bauched respectable women, and ornamented their 
 husbands with horns ? Well, your mother is dead, 
 and you were deeply grieved at her loss, for I must 
 
Uncle and Nephew. 7 
 
 say that you loved your mother sincerely, as was 
 natural, and you only did your duty in grieving for 
 her death. She entrusted you to me ; I promised to 
 watch over you, and God knows what a trouble you 
 have been to me ever since. I put you to school 
 when you were twelve, and for a year or two you be- 
 haved pretty well, and I was informed, to my great 
 joy, that you were making rapid progress. At last I 
 returned to Paris when you were about sixteen, and 
 went to your school, looking forward to seeing my 
 nephew, but when I asked for Gustave St Real, they 
 made long faces, looked very blank, and began to 
 stammer out something. I got impatient, I got into 
 a rage, I shouted out at last, they told me that my 
 young gentleman had disappeared a week previously, 
 as had also a girl of fifteen, who was the schoolboys* 
 laundress, and lived opposite to the school." 
 "But, uncle, it was not my fault if love . . ." 
 " Devil take it, sir, an elopement at sixteen ! " 
 " Lizzie was so pretty, so funny." 
 " And you a young libertine. However, I found 
 my M. Gustave and his Dulcinea in a little room on 
 the fourth floor in the Rue du Fauconnier. I took 
 the young person back to her mother, though I can- 
 not speak as to her condition, but that is the parents* 
 look out, who do not pay sufficient attention to their 
 children ; but as for you, you have not given me a 
 moment's peace since that time." 
 
 " My dear uncle, a few youthful follies . . ." 
 " If I leave you in town, you frequent the public 
 balls, you become intimate with doubtful characters, 
 and bring them to my house ; you drink my best 
 wine, ruin my horses, smash my cab, and, worst of 
 all, make a lot of debts. If I tell you to stop at my 
 country house, you make havoc of my garden, kill 
 my rabbits, wound my pointers, fight with the 
 peasants, and get their wives in the family way, and 
 it is time to put a stop to this sort of thing. I can. 
 
£ That Rascal Guslave. 
 
 quite well understand that you do not wish to enter 
 the army, for you have not the habit of obedience, 
 so I shall not press the matter, for I should be afraid 
 of hearing, in a short time, that you had been con- 
 demned to be shot for insolence to your superior 
 officers, and as we are at peace now, it would not be 
 good for you to pass all your youth in garrison towns. 
 But you are twenty years of age, I am getting old, 
 and the occupation which you impose upon me is too 
 fatiguing, and so I wish to have a little rest, and as 
 I intend to make you become different, I am going 
 to get you married." 
 
 " Me, uncle, married ! " 
 
 " Yes, Gustave, you married." 
 
 " To make me different ? * 
 
 " Will you not be able to be satisfied with your 
 Tvife?" 
 
 "That depends upon circumstances, for she must 
 please me, in the first place, and then she must love 
 me." 
 
 " Do you take me for a fool, nephew ? Do you 
 think that I have not considered all that ? The 
 young lady will please you, because a girl who has 
 been well brought up always loves the man who is 
 destined to become her husband, and besides that, 
 you are a good-looking young fellow, and women, as 
 a rule, rather prefer rakes, and then this marriage 
 will cause me great pleasure, and I hope you reckon 
 that as something." 
 
 " My dear uncle, my most ardent wish is to prove 
 my attachment for you." 
 
 "If that is so, Gustave, you will go to M. de 
 Berly's country house, which is situated about eight 
 leagues from here, between Louvres and Senlis, 
 where you will see his niece, Aurelia, whom I have 
 destined for your wife." 
 
 " But, uncle, I know neither M. de Berly nor his 
 <nieee." 
 
Uncle ana Nephew. 9 
 
 " Yotr will soon get to know them, and de Berly 
 Is a very good sort of man, whom I knew formerly 
 when he was an army contractor, and as he expects 
 you, you will be very well received." 
 
 " And what about you, uncle ? " 
 
 " You see I cannot move just now ; this infernal 
 ; gout keeps one in Paris, but as soon as I get rid of 
 it I shall come and join you. Meanwhile you will be 
 able to get on without me, and amuse yourself very 
 well out shooting ; for de Berly is mad on that." 
 
 " Very well uncle, I will go and see this Mdlle. 
 Aurelia, as you wish it." 
 
 " You will not repent it, you . . . you rogue, and as 
 you have been reasonable, I will overlook your past 
 follies, and here are a hundred louis to pay for your 
 journey, and as pocket money whilst you are at de 
 Berly's." 
 
 " How kind you are, uncle ! " 
 
 "But mind, no nonsense, no elopements, no duels or 
 disguises. You must break altogether with milliners 
 and opera dancers, and above all, have nothing more 
 i*> do with little Lizzie, the object of your first love, 
 ^or I am sure that she is at the bottom of all your 
 disobedience." 
 
 " I can assure you that she is not." 
 
 " At any rate, you must turn over a new leaf, or I 
 can tell you I shall get seriously angry and take 
 strong measures to make you alter your conduct." 
 
 "That is all over, uncle, and I am a different 
 character." 
 
 " Take the grey ; it is ten o'clock, and you will 
 be at the chateau before dinner time. I have told 
 Benoit to get your portmanteau ready, and he shall 
 jgo with you as your valet, instead of that scamp 
 Dubois whom I have just dismissed." 
 
 " What, uncle, Benoit, your porter's son ? why he 
 is as stupid as an owl." 
 
 " So much the better, for you will not be able to 
 
10 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 employ him to carry on any intrigues for you, sa 
 now be off and do as I tell you." 
 
 Gustave embraced his uncle, mounted the grey 
 horse, and, followed by Benolt, started for M. de 
 Berly's country-house. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 AUNT AND NIECE, 
 
 On his way through La Villette, le Bourget and 
 Vauderland, a road, by the way, which does not offer 
 any great attractions to the traveller, Gustave was 
 meditating, and he thought that, before marrying^ 
 people must know each other and find out that they 
 are suitable to each other, and this was a very sensible 
 reflection for such a harebrained young fellow to 
 make. He had quite made up his mind not to take 
 Mdlle. Aurelia unless she were pretty, amiable, 
 gentle, modest, sensible and constant, in a word, such 
 a woman as he had not yet met with ; and at twenty r 
 Gustave had all the experience of a man of much 
 maturer years, as he had begun his follies very 
 young, which has its good and its bad side ; its good 
 side, because it gives a man the knowledge of the 
 female heart ; and its bad side, because a young man 
 is apt to believe that he knows it thoroughly, and 
 so is often deceived, when he thinks he cannot 
 possibly be so. 
 
 Gustave had an inexhaustible fund of gaiety, and 
 when in addition to that his purse was well lined, he 
 saw everything in a rosy hue. In this happy frame 
 of mind our hero passed through Louvres and 
 went on towards Senlis, near which place de Berly'a 
 stable was situated. The nearer he got to it, however, 
 the more curious he became to know M. de Berly 
 
Aunt and Niece. 1* 
 
 and his niece, whom he did not remember to have 
 seen at his uncle's, which was, indeed, nothing ex- 
 traordinary, as he was nearly always from home, 
 and in order to avoid Colonel Moranval's sermons 
 he very scarcely went into society with him. 
 
 Remembering that Benoit, his new servant, who 
 was the porter's son, sometimes helped to wait at 
 table, he thought that he might know something 
 about the people to whom he was going, and so he 
 made up his mind to ask him. 
 
 Gustave's new footman was a young fellow of 
 eighteen, as long as a hop-pole, fat as a Turk, fresh 
 as a rose, ruddy as a cherry, awkward as a peasant 
 wench, stupid, and just about as stubborn as a 
 donkey usually is. 
 
 On looking at him, for he had forgotten all about 
 him whilst they were on the road, Gustave burst out 
 laughing, and certainly his whole appearance was 
 enough to provoke it. Benoit had never been on 
 horseback before, but he was afraid to tell Colonel 
 Moranval this, for he was as frightened of him as fire, 
 and so he had bravely made up his mind, and had got 
 across the smallest horse, on which he sat as stiff as 
 a pikestaff, and as serious as a beadle. 
 
 Gustave stopped his horse so that Benoit might 
 overtake him, but as the latter had got his papa to 
 give him a detailed lesson on the duties of a servant 
 towards his master, and had vowed never to deviate 
 from them, he remembered that he ought always to 
 keep at a respectful distance from M. Gustave, and 
 so, firm in his principles, he stopped as soon as he 
 saw his master do so. 
 
 " Come on," Gustave cried out impatiently. 
 
 " No, sir, I am not so stupid." 
 
 " What do you mean by not so stupid ? Come* 
 here, I say." 
 
 " I know my duty too well, sir, and shall do 
 nothing of the sort." 
 
12 That Rascal Uustave. 
 
 " But, you idiot, when I order you to ? " 
 
 " That makes no difference, sir ; I know the 
 respect due from a servant to his master, and I 
 shall not come nearer." 
 
 " You confounded idiot ; so I suppose I must go 
 and fetch you." 
 
 Gustave rides towards Benoit,and the latter's horse 
 starting aside, throws his rider into the ditch. The 
 long fellow picks himself up, crying, and very much 
 dissatisfied at the results of his respect for his duty, 
 and Gustave pulls his ears to make him mount his 
 horse again, and forces him to stay by him. 
 
 " Well, Benoit, I hope you intend to listen to me 
 now?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes, hi ! hi ! hi ! . . ." 
 
 " Why, you great baby, you are actually crying." 
 
 " Well, sir, I think I have damaged myself." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Well, sir, it is . . . it is . . ." 
 
 " Cannot you speak ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, it is somewhere about the bottom of 
 my back and the top of my thighs." 
 
 "You idiot! could you not say it was your 
 stern?" 
 
 " Well, sir, I hope I know my duty . . ." 
 
 " You will make me swear with your continual 
 duty. You can bathe the place when we get to the 
 house to which we are going. But now just tell me 
 if you know M. de Berly ? Did you ever see him at 
 my uncle's ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " What sort of a man is he ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, he is a man, neither tall nor short, 
 neither good-looking nor ugly." 
 
 " How old is he % " 
 
 " Neither old nor young, sir." 
 
 "I am very much the wiser, certainly; and his 
 niece, how old is she, and what is she like ? " 
 
Aunt and Niece, Yd 
 
 " WeL, sir, as for that, I do not remember ever 
 having seen her." 
 
 " Come along, you are not the least use. There 
 is a house of some pretensions yonder, and it will 
 be M. de Berly's, so let us go on." 
 
 They had arrived at the end of their journey, and 
 on asking a villager, and finding that he was not 
 mistaken, he went into a large courtyard, followed 
 by Benoit, dismounted, and asked for M. de Berry. 
 The lodge-keeper asked him to walk into the garden, 
 where he would be sure of finding his master, unless- 
 ne preferred to wait for him in the drawing-rooni r 
 and Gustave, who was impatient to see his host, 
 chose the former, and so leaving Benoit behind, anal 
 recommending him to the care of the lodge-keeper, 
 he went across a terrace and into the garden. 
 
 He went through several walks of lilac and honey- 
 suckle, admiring the way in which the garden wa& 
 kept, and the taste with which it was laid out ; thick 
 shrubberies, the entrance to which was almost 
 entirely hidden by roses, seemed to invite to repose 
 or love ; statues adorned the spot, and these were 
 not the sorrowful Danaides, unhappy Tantalus r 
 hideous Polyphemus or the Centaur, or revolting 
 Philocetes, which presented themselves to the eye, 
 but they were Yenus undoing her girdle, Cupid with 
 his darts, and the Graces, and if Vulcan was to be 
 seen at the bottom of the grotto, the figure of the poor 
 lame god did not bring up any unhappy thoughts. 
 
 Gustave was admiring everything, and thinking 
 that the master of the house must be a man of taste, 
 when, at the turn of a walk, he saw a young lady 
 sitting reading under a tree, and, not doubting thaf 
 it was Aurelia, M. de Berly's niece, his destined bride, 
 he stopped to look at her. Happy Gustave ! With 
 what pleasure did he admire a charming mouth, a. 
 fair complexion, a well-shaped nose, a good fore- 
 head, shaded by light brown locks, a slender waist r . 
 
14 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 and curved and rounded outlines, a small foot, which 
 scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and a bosom, 
 every movement of which made our hero's heart beat 
 violently. He could not see her eyes, as they were 
 bent on to her book, but he could guess what they 
 were like, and imagine beforehand their expressions 
 of softness and of voluptuous languor. Not being 
 able to resist his agitation any longer, Gustave went 
 towards her, and on hearing him, the young lady 
 looked up from her book and straight at him. 
 
 " I was sure of it," Gustave thought, " the most 
 lovely eyes in the world." 
 
 " What do you want, monsieur," said a voice that 
 went straight to the young man's heart (whose heart, 
 as you know, was of very inflammable material). 
 
 •' I beg your pardon, mademoiselle ... I wanted 
 . . I came . . . but really, I do not want any- 
 thing now I have met you." 
 
 The young lady who had smiled at hearing herself 
 addressed as mademoiselle, seemed flattered at the 
 effect the sight of her had produced on the good- 
 looking young fellow, who, in spite of his emotion, 
 did not appear either awkward or shy. Whatever 
 may be said, the heart, good qualities, and amiability 
 are 7 the chief thing, though good looks and a good 
 carriage are not to be despised. Ask girls, and even 
 married ladies, whether they are not in the first place 
 attracted by that. I am quite aware, that if a man 
 is possessed of nothing but physical advantages, he 
 soon ceases to please, and it is only right that it 
 should be so, and is a great compensation for nice 
 people, who are not good-looking. 
 
 " May I ask, monsieur," said the lady, after look- 
 ing at Gustave, "whether you happen to be the 
 young gentleman we are expecting, M. Gustave St 
 Keal?" e 
 
 " That is my name, mademoiselle, and I take it 
 that you are Mdlle. Aurelia, M. de Berly's niece ? " 
 
Aunt and Niece. 15 
 
 " Oh ! dear no, monsieur, I am M. de Berly's wife." 
 
 " His wife ! M. de Berly is married, and you are 
 •his wife." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 Gustave could hardly get over it ; he did not know 
 that M. de Berly was married, and married to a 
 woman who was not yet twenty years of age. So 
 this pretty young person was Mdlle. Aurelia's aunt, 
 •and no possible niece could have any attractions by 
 the side of such an aunt as Madame de Berly. 
 However, Gustave said to himself, " I will wait be- 
 fore deciding; this house seems to me to be the 
 abode of the graces, and no doubt I shall see another 
 miracle of beauty." 
 
 Madame de Berly now suggested that she should 
 take Gustave to her husband, who was impatiently 
 waiting for him. " He will be delighted to see you," 
 she said, " and so will my niece, Aurelia." 
 
 These latter words Madame de Berly said with a 
 smile and an arch glance at Gustave, who, for his part 
 also, tried to read the eyes of his charming guide, 
 and thus they went on a little distance, preoccupied, 
 ■exchanging looks, sighing, and silent. The words, 
 u Here is my husband," at last roused Gustave from 
 his thoughts. Let me have a look at the husband, 
 the fortunate mortal who is the possessor of so many 
 charms, he said to himself. He must indeed have 
 many good qualities of mind and body, to have 
 captivated such a charming woman. 
 
 On looking at him, however, he saw a little, fat, 
 red-faced, pimply man of about fifty, with small, 
 stupid eyes, and a mouth from ear to ear. 
 
 Another surprise ! the young man said to himself, 
 with difficulty suppressing the laughter which the 
 sight of M. de Berly excited in him, and this latter 
 surprise, though not so pleasant as the former, yet 
 caused him an amount of secret pleasure, the reason 
 for which the intelligent reader will easily guess. 
 
16 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " My dear," the young lady said, " allow me to in- 
 troduce M. Gustave St Real to you."' 
 
 " I am delighted to see you, young gentleman ; I 
 have been expecting you for the last fortnight. Your 
 uncle, my old friend, has often spoken to me about 
 you, and tells me that you are a sad dog. Well, 
 never mind, I was the same myself, and when we 
 are young our passions are strong, and so it is only 
 natural. This is my wife, my young friend, and I 
 flatter myself that she is as good as most of them 7 
 and I hope you will be good friends." 
 
 Meanwhile Gustave was having his hand shaken r 
 was being embraced, and made much of, without a 
 moment's time to reply to M. de Berry's civilities, for 
 it was impossible to get in a word with him when 
 once he began (and this is the case with many people)^ 
 so Gustave seeing this, had to be satisfied with 
 bowing and smiling, and looking at madame, whcr 
 smiled. 
 
 " My dear wife, has Aurelia been told that out 
 young friend has arrived ? " 
 
 " I do not know whether ..." 
 
 " Never mind, all the better if she does not know 
 anything about it, as we will surprise her, for she 
 does not expect to see you to-day, and she will be- 
 very delighted. Upon my word, I am not at all sur- 
 prised that you have had some nice little adventures 
 in Paris ; it is just like me, and I was very well off 
 in that way. I was the darling of the ladies, but 
 now I am very virtuous ; you had better ask my wife. 
 But are you fond of shooting ? I am very fond of it 
 myself, passionately, I might say. I pass whole 
 days in the woods in tracking roe, deer, and hares, 
 but, then, I am a very good shot ; you had better 
 ask my wife." 
 
 ■ • Well, monsieur, I only . ." 
 
 " Oh ! you do ? That is all right, so we will have 
 famous sport, and you shall see how full of game 
 
Aunt and Niece. IT 
 
 my preserves are, and I have some capital dogs and 
 splendid guns. But I think it must be dinner time,, 
 for my stomach never deceives me, so come along, 
 and let us sit down, and we shall get better friends 
 at dinner, and be able to have a good talk with a 
 glass of wine in our hands, that's the best way. I 
 can see that you are a clever young fellow, and I 
 shall be very glad to have a long chat with you." 
 
 On reaching the house, whilst M. de Berly gave 
 his orders to the servants, and, according to his 
 custom, went to have a look into the kitchen, Gus- 
 tave gave his arm to madame, and went with her 
 into the drawing-room, where a young lady was 
 sitting at the piano. 
 
 " This is Mademoiselle Aurelia/' Madame de Berly 
 said. 
 
 Good heavens ! What a difference between the 
 aunt and the niece, and Gustave's looks soon 
 showed Madame de Berly what he thought, though 
 she pretended not to notice his silent avowal, but 
 he fancied he perceived that she did not seem at 
 all displeased at his evident preference. 
 
 Mdlle. Aurelia was tall, straight, and certainly 
 weighed a good deal, and though she was not abso- 
 lutely ugly, there was nothing very agreeable in her 
 appearance ; her eyes were large, but seemed start- 
 ing out of her head ; she had a thin mouth, a long 
 aquiline nose, and her complexion was more yellow 
 than white, and this, with a general air of prudery,, 
 gave to Mdlle. Aurelia a certain appearance which 
 was not calculated to inspire either love or friend- 
 ship. 
 
 The young lady got up, when Madame de Berly 
 spoke to her, bowed very stiffly to Gustave, and re- 
 sumed her place at the piano. 
 
 "And this," Gustave said to himself, "is the 
 woman that they want me to marry ! Upon my 
 word, my dear uncle is too kind ; however, I am very 
 
 B 
 
18 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 glad to nave come to this house, for I shall 
 certainly not marry the niece, if the aunt is at all 
 impressionable. . . ." 
 
 Madame de Berly begged Gustave to consider 
 {himself quite at home in their house. " You see," 
 she said, " that my husband does not make any 
 ceremony, and so pray do the same, and I will try 
 and make your abode here as little irksome to you 
 as possible." 
 
 " Oh ! madame, to be near you must indeed be 
 delightful," and saying this he seized her hand in a 
 transport of pleasure, whilst the niece continued to 
 run her hands up and down the keys of the piano, 
 and though the aunt instantly withdrew her hand, 
 yet the look she gave Gustave was anything but a 
 severe one. 
 
 " Come, come, let us have dinner," M. de Berly ex- 
 claimed, coming into the drawing-room ; " what on 
 earth are you doing here instead of coming into 
 the dining-room ? Oh ! I see how it was ; you were 
 looking at each other with tender glances and 
 sighs, was not that so, my wife ? they have already 
 begun to sigh for each other ? " 
 
 " Well, I cannot exactly . . ." 
 
 " Oh ! that is all right, but you do not like to 
 speak of such things, you are too cold and reticent, 
 and cannot believe that people may be in love like 
 that, quite suddenly. You do not know, Gustave, 
 how strange my wife is ! She only laughs and 
 makes fun when I tell her of the passions I inspired 
 in days gone by. But come, dinner is getting cold. 
 Give your arm to Aurelia, my young friend, and my 
 dear niece, do try and smile a little pleasantly. The 
 fact is she is very shy," — adding in a whisper to 
 Gustave — " innocence itself, but the devil will not 
 lose anything on that score." 
 
 At dinner Gustave was placed between Madame 
 <ie Berly and Mdile. Aurelia and he thought to him- 
 
Aunt and Niece. 19 
 
 self, — " At any rate if my left-hand neighbour bores 
 me, my neighbour on my right will make it up to 
 me." 
 
 During the first course M. de Berly,who was nearly 
 as great an eater as he was sportsman, gave his 
 listeners a little peace, so that his wife could talk 
 with Gustave, who was delighted with her sense, 
 her brightness, and her evident amiability, but 
 when the niece, who spoke rarely, made an observa- 
 tion, she did so with an amount of deliberation and 
 affectation, which evinced great pretension under 
 the veil of false modesty. 
 
 " By-the-bye," said M. de Berly, who found time 
 to speak whilst his wife was cutting up a magnifi- 
 cent fowl, " I suppose that tall young fellow I saw 
 picking sorrel just inside the vegetable garden, was 
 your servant ? " 
 
 " Yes, I forgot to mention him to you, but I am 
 very sorry he has taken the liberty . . ." 
 
 " Well, there is no harm in picking sorrel, and 
 1 hope he will make my servants give him all he 
 wants." 
 
 " I am afraid, monsieur, that he is sure to be 
 guilty of some stupidity or other, for he is an 
 .awful fool, whom my uncle thinks a great deal of." 
 
 " Weil, never mind, he will soon rub off the rust 
 here, and all my servants have all their wits about 
 them, which is what I want, but then, as people 
 say : Like master, like man" 
 
 Gustave could not help laughing to himself at 
 M. de Berly's awkwardness, who whilst intending 
 to pay him a compliment did quite the reverse, but 
 he had made up his mind to find all that his host 
 might say or do quite perfect. Without saying a 
 word, he had already begun to make himself under- 
 stood on his right by putting out his knee and his 
 foot, and though at first the knee and foot that he 
 encountered had been withdrawn, at last the lady 
 
E ! J 
 
 That Rascal Ghustave. 
 
 was obliged to yield to necessity, and though she 
 did not look at Gustave any more, she seemed 
 much agitated, and her heart beat violently, though 
 there was nothing to express either indifference 
 or anger. 
 
 He may be thought to have been very rashly 
 enterprising at having already set to work with 
 knees, feet "and hands, but then these sad dogs da 
 not lose much time, and they cannot be blamed for 
 it, as it is just as well to find out as soon as possible 
 whether one pleases the adored object and is likely 
 to be loved by her. You may think that a woman's 
 natural modesty will be alarmed, and no doubt you 
 are right ; modesty ought to be respected, but my 
 near reader, if you only could, some day or other, 
 quietly, without being seen, get under the table 
 where pretty women and nice men are sitting side 
 by side, you would certainly notice some very funny 
 things ; but on coming up again you would see eyes- 
 cast down, and modest, calm, and ingenuous looks, so 
 you may be sure that, very often, what is not seen 
 does not alarm modesty. 
 
 At dessert M. de Berly was quite his talkative 
 self again, and he gave a full and true account of 
 the particularly skilful manner in which he had 
 killed a roebuck, that he had wounded a week pre- 
 viously, and of the courage which he had shown in 
 firing, almost point-blank, at a blind wolf that had 
 been ravaging the neighbourhood for days past. 
 
 When they retired to the drawing-room, after 1 
 dinner, some neighbours came in, and M. de Berly 
 played backgammon, at which he fancied he was 
 particularly good. Madame de Berly sang with 
 great taste, and played her own accompaniments 
 charmingly, and Aurelia hammered away on the 
 piano like a horse on the pavement, whilst her 
 uncle called out from his game, — 
 
 "Just listen to mv niece, what nerves, what 
 
Aunt and Niece. 1 
 
 vigour ! If she is not a first-class player, I do not 
 know who is." 
 
 They separated for the night at an early hour, and 
 as Madame de Berly had told Gustave exactly what 
 the habits of the house were, thev again begged him 
 not to stand upon ceremony, but to make himself 
 quite at home. On seeing her retiring with her hus- 
 band, the young man could not suppress a sigh, 
 thinking of Venus and Vulcan, and the recollection 
 of the statues which ornamented the garden made 
 him feel certain that Madame de Berly had selected 
 the gods and goddesses, and so, inspired by hope, he 
 made a low bow to the magnificent Aurelia and fol- 
 lowed a footman, who showed him to his room, 
 but on his way thither, he met Benoit limping. 
 
 " Here you are at last, you fool, why did you not 
 come sooner ? " 
 
 " Oh ! dear, sir, I can hardly move, since using 
 the specific of which cook told me." 
 
 "Did you happen to put sorrel on your posteriors." 
 
 " Yes, sir, for they told me in the kitchen that it 
 was the very best in the world for broken skin, and 
 so I went and picked some, and they chopped it up 
 for me, and I made a poultice of it, but it stings me 
 terribly, and I begin to think that they have been 
 playing me a trick." 
 
 " My poor fellow, I see that M, de Berly's servants 
 know a thing or two, but that is all the better, as 
 your stay in this house will teach you something." 
 
 " Well, sir, if they often teach me in that way, I 
 shall not get over it." 
 
 " Go to bed, you idiot, and try and not be taken in 
 another time." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; here is my room, and if you want me, 
 you will only have to call me." 
 
 " You can go to sleep quite quietly, for I certainly 
 will not disturb you to help me in any of my projects." 
 
 Whilst Gustave was undressing, he thought about 
 
22 That ftascac Gustave, 
 
 the young lady with whom he felt very much in love, 
 Benoit got into bed, anathematising the cook and her 
 sorrel, and while the master was sighing with lova 
 and hope, the man was groaning and making faces. 
 Our hero dreamt of Madame de Berly, who appeared 
 to him more kind, beautiful, and seductive than ever; 
 it seemed to him that he was in a rose and myrtle 
 grove with her, and that, far from curious eyes, he 
 had his arm round her slender waist and her volup- 
 tuous form, and from her lips he stole a kiss which 
 filled him with the delirium and intoxication of 
 bliss, whilst his servant only dreamt that he was- 
 bathing his unfortunate hide. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A GAME OF BILLIARDS. 
 
 The next day Gustave was in the garden the first 
 thing in the morning, and I do not know how it 
 happened, but Madame de Berly also was there, and 
 so, of course, they met. 
 
 " Up already, madame ! " he said. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, in the country I like to be up 
 early." 
 
 " I am very glad to have met you." 
 
 " Well, I suppose it is very probable that whilst 
 you are staying here we shall meet often." 
 
 " Oh ! mLclame, what would I not . . ." 
 
 " My husband has gone shooting, and wished to- 
 have you called to go with him; but I told him that 
 he ought to let you rest to-day, at any rate ; but. 
 perhaps, I have been the means of depriving you of 
 a pleasure." 
 
 " Certainly not, madame ; I can find no pleasure 
 in anything when you are not present." 
 
A Game of Billiards. 2& 
 
 " Really, M. St Real, you are too polite ! " 
 
 " Not at all, I am only saying what I feel." 
 
 " You are very foolish, and I think you are mak- 
 ing a mistake, and forgetting that you ought to 
 devote all your attentions to my niece, as you are 
 going to marry her." 
 
 "I certainly have no intention of marrying her, 
 madame, and though my uncle wishes it, I certainly 
 shall never marry a woman whom I can never 
 love." 
 
 " Who knows ? Perhaps when you know Aurelia 
 better, for at present you know nothing of her, your 
 feelings may change, for I am sure she is very 
 charming . . ." 
 
 " It seems to me, madame, that you wish to force 
 me to love her ? " 
 
 "I ought to do so, monsieur, as this marriage 
 would please your uncle, who is so fond of you." 
 
 "So I suppose my own happiness counts for 
 nothing ? " 
 
 "Well, M. St Real, from all I hear, up to this 
 time, your happiness has consisted only in incon- 
 stancy, and I believe that gallantry has been your 
 chief amusement, and, though I know that nearly all 
 men are changeable, and young men especially . . ." 
 
 " I have altered all that." 
 
 " You, when you are only twenty ? " 
 
 " But, madame, you who are pleading so prettiljr 
 to me are even younger." 
 
 " But I am married, monsieur." 
 
 " Alas ! you are, madame." 
 
 "And so you intend to leave us? for, of course,. 
 as you feel that you can never love Aurelia you 
 will not care to stay here long ? " 
 
 " Oh ! madame, I shall only leave you when you 
 tell me to go." 
 
 " What an idea ! We shall be delighted to have 
 you here, and I am sure your stay here will be the 
 
*24. That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 cause of the greatest pleasure to ... to all of us 
 and I hope that in seeing more of Aurelia . . ." 
 
 " Pray, madame, do not speak any more about that 
 subject." 
 
 " Very well, I will leave it alone for to-day, and 
 will show you all over the grounds." 
 
 Gustave offered his arm, which she took, and they 
 went through the grounds, which were about three 
 acres in extent, in which there was a thick shrub- 
 bery, where the heat of the sun could not penetrate, 
 and also a moss-covered grotto where Madame de 
 Berly went nearly every day to read or work. They 
 mounted a rock whence there was a fine view, and 
 then passed some thick hedges. 
 
 "Madame," Gustave said, "what is that place 
 which we have not been into ? " 
 
 " Oh, that is a labyrinth." 
 
 " A labyrinth ? Let us go and see it, for I am 
 very fond of places where one might lose oneself." 
 
 " But, monsieur, I do not know whether I ought, 
 ... . . however, if you wish to see it, we may as 
 well go in." 
 
 She rightly thought that to refuse to enter the 
 labyrinth would be an exhibition of fear, and that 
 fear is a sign of weakness, and so, not wishing to let 
 Gustave guess what she, perhaps, was afraid to 
 acknowledge to herself, she yielded to his request. 
 Besides this, the young man had really said nothing 
 to her that is not said to all women, and certainly 
 nothing to alarm her. His eyes certainly were very 
 expressive, and constantly looking into hers ; they 
 were tender, ardent, eloquent, but perhaps M. de 
 "St Real's eyes were always like that, and then 
 he had only come the day before and there could 
 surely be nothing to fear yet, so certainly she ought 
 to take him into the labyrinth. 
 
 You must not imagine, dear reader, that anything 
 occurred that I dare not mention ; no, they walked 
 
A Game of Billiards. 25 
 
 labout in it, and that was all. Gustave, indeed, 
 seized her hand and tried to kiss it, but she quickly 
 withdrew it ; he tried to lose his way, but she soon 
 made him find it again, and so he was obliged to 
 leave the labyrinth, as much in love as ever, but 
 without having made any progress. 
 
 " By-the-bye," Madame de Berly said, " I had 
 nearly forgotten to show you our billiard-room, 
 and as we only spend the summer here, it is in the 
 garden." 
 
 The billiard-room was close to the ground-floor 
 drawing-room, and only separated from it by a few 
 trees. Surrounded by hedges, honeysuckles and 
 lilacs, it was lighted only from the top, and within 
 there were handsome shrubs, whilst turf benches 
 all around made it look like a natural grove. 
 
 " What a delightful spot ! " Gustave observed. 
 
 " Do you play billiards, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Then I reckon on you kindly to teach me. My 
 husband plays very little, for he cares for nothing 
 but backgammon, and besides that, a husband so 
 rarely has the patience to teach his wife anything." 
 
 " Madame, I shall be delighted to teach you, and 
 if you like we can begin at once." 
 
 " No, we have no time now, for breakfast will be 
 waiting for us." 
 
 " Well, then, I shall remind you of your promis: 
 to-night." 
 
 They left the billiard-room and went into the 
 house. 
 
 How pleasant it is to be with a pretty wumun 
 whose husband is fond of shooting, for one can be 
 with her alone for the whole day. " My dear uncle," 
 -Gustave said to himself, " how very kind of you to 
 have sent me to keep Madame de Berly company! " 
 
 In order to deceive Colonel Moranval the better, 
 lie wrote and told him that he was enjoying himself 
 
26 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 very much at the de Berlys', that they were all very 
 kind to him, and that he meant to stay as long as 
 they would keep him. 
 
 Although he had said nothing about Aurelia, the 
 Colonel was delighted with his letter, as he did not 
 suspect that he would not get to love the girl whom 
 he had destined for him, and so, quite reassured on 
 his account, as he seemed disposed to do all that his 
 uncle wished, the Colonel wrote to M. de Berly tell- 
 ing him that all was going on as they hoped, and 
 he also sent Gustave further supplies of money. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, the nephew was advancing 
 his own matters. Julia (that was Madame de Berry's 
 name) could not help liking Gustave. In the coun- 
 try one gets rid of the distant manners of the town ? 
 and intimacies are soon struck up, and so, in the 
 course of conversation our young man discovered 
 that Julia, whose stern parents had married her 
 without, in the least, consulting her wishes, had 
 never seen her intended husband till the marriage 
 contract was signed. She did not indeed complain- 
 of M. de Berly, who was a complaisant husband, and 
 let his wife do as she pleased, but love in such an 
 unsuitable union was out of the question. He was 
 more than twice his wife's age, stupid, and a silly 
 chatterer, whilst she was clever and affectionate; he 
 was ugly, she was charming ; he called love nothing 
 but the requirements of the senses, but Julia was 
 made to appreciate all the refinements of the passion, 
 so really the most she could do was to esteem her 
 husband. Thus parents, who give their daughters 
 to men whom they do not love, condemn them never 
 to experience the sweetest feelings of nature. Poor 
 women! they indeed require a large amount of 
 virtue; they are the weaker sex, the constant object 
 of our devotion and our seductive arts, whereas we 
 ought to show more strength, more insensibility, 
 more firmness. The whole matter is very badly 
 
A Game of Billiards. 2 f 
 
 arranged, and these gentlemen who drew up the civil 
 code, ought rather to have consulted the code of 
 
 nature. 
 
 That rascal Gustave had such thoughts as these 
 when looking at Julia sitting at her embroidery 
 frame, whilst Mdlle. Aurelia was thumping the 
 melody of Beniouski, which she sang with the vigour 
 of a cathedral chorister, on the piano. After dinner 
 they went into the billiard-room, where Gustave gave 
 Julia lessons, and what a charming pleasure it was to 
 have so charming a scholar ! He would always put 
 the balls on the middle of the table, so as to force 
 Madame de Berly to stretch out into it a little, and 
 then he could admire her lovely form, which a thin 
 muslin dress covered without concealing. To guide 
 his pupil's hand, he would put his arm round her 
 slender waist, he sometimes almost touched her 
 alabaster neck, and his eyes looked into a bosom 
 which he longed to kiss. Julia, indeed, complained, 
 sometimes that he made her do the same stroke ovei 
 too many times, but Gustave was such a pleasant 
 master that it was impossible to be vexed with 
 
 him. 
 
 Mdlle. Aurelia did not play billiards ; she thought- 
 it beneath her dignity to learn such a masculine 
 game. Her eyes expressed surprise, mingled with 
 annoyance, every time that Julia and Gustave went 
 into the garden, but she did not dare to make any 
 observations on what she caller* to herself her 
 aunt's folly. 
 
 Every morning M. de Berly wished to take Gus- 
 tave out shooting with him ; but under the pretext of 
 having hurt his knee, and of a slight limp, he had 
 hitherto escaped going out in his host's company. 
 Colonel Moranval's letter had pleased M. de Berly 
 very much, for, as he knew nothing about love, he 
 Selt quite certain that Gustave adored his niece, and 
 lie even went so far as to attribute the young man's 
 
%8 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 refusal to go after hares with him to his passion, 
 and to his desire of remaining near Aurelia. 
 
 A certain M. Desjardins had arrived at M. de 
 Berly's three days after Gustave. He was a tall, 
 thin man, of about fifty, a great eater, a great player 
 .of backgammon and billiards, and a great liar. As 
 he only had a small income, he managed not to touch 
 it by habitually staying with other people, and he 
 had all the requisite qualities for a parasite ; he was 
 complaisant, a flatterer, and, when his entertainers 
 liked it, a backbiter. He could do a little of every- 
 thing; he played the violin well enough to take his 
 part in one of Pleyel's sonatas, he drew fairly well, 
 and could make silhouette portraits, he danced when 
 necessary, and could play nearly all games. Every 
 .evening M. de Berly and he played backgammon, 
 and, whilst doing so, he found an opportunity of 
 addressing compliments to Madame de Berly, of 
 praising Mdlle. Aurelia, of stroking the cat, and 
 giving small cakes to the dog. 
 
 For a fortnight Gustave had been at the house, 
 daily getting more in love, but obtaining no encour- 
 agement from Julia. He had declared his passion, 
 and she had listened and made fun of him, for though 
 she wished to please him, she did not intend to forget 
 her duties as a wife; tie billiard lessons continued, 
 however, and were becoming very dangerous, as they 
 were always alone whilst they were going on. The 
 thick hedges which surrounded the room screened 
 them from view on the outside ; the master was 
 tender, amiable, and enterprising, and the pupil, who 
 was only too feeling, felt that her courage was failing, 
 and so she refused at last to go on taking lessons. 
 
 " I can see," Gustave thought to himself, " that she 
 does not love me, — she is a mere coquette who is 
 amusing herself at my expense, and I am a fool to 
 think about her, but it is ail over, and I will not 
 .speak to her or even look at her again." 
 
A Game of Billiards. 29 
 
 Having made this resolution, Gustave tried to 
 make love to Aurelia, but the task was too painful. 
 
 The days no longer passed in the same pleasant 
 manner ; Madame de Berly remained at her em- 
 broidery frame and never left the drawing-room, and 
 in the evening she watched the backgammon play- 
 ers or listened to the indefatigable Aurelia. She 
 appeared sad and dreamy, but was always kind and 
 agreeable towards her husband's friends, and did not 
 seem to notice Gustave's ill-humour or his pretended 
 preference for her tall niece, or his smart sayings 
 about the coquetry of women. The young man got 
 into a rage and did not know what to do ; in despair 
 he went out shooting with M. de Berly, and shot at 
 the dogs instead of at the hares, and mistook mag- 
 pies for woodcocks, and a great pig for a wild boar 
 In the evening he tried to play backgammon, but he 
 got pegged time after time, and let the dice and dice- 
 box fall ; he tried to sing, and found he had no voice r 
 he tried to play the violin, and his hand trembled 
 so that he played all wrong and out of time ; in fact 
 he did not know what he was doing, so that M. de 
 Berly joked him, M. Desjardins laughed at him, 
 Aurelia opened her eyes wide, and Julia sighed. 
 
 " Well," M. de Berly thought, " the young fellow 
 is madly in love with my niece, that is quite clear, I 
 think." 
 
 The precious uncle spoke about the matter to 
 Desjardins, who always agreed with him on prin- 
 ciple, and with his wife, who merely said she hoped 
 it was so. 
 
 " Just look, my dear wife, there is Gustave sitting 
 alone in a corner ; just see how melancholy and 
 thoughtful he looks. Of course, love is the cause of 
 all that, I know all about it. Just remember how 
 different he was when he first came here ; why, he 
 did nothing but laugh, chatter, and sing, and now 
 jg does nothing but sigh and look up to the ceiling,. 
 
30 That Rascal (hx stave. 
 
 and you know what terrible mistakes he makes out 
 shooting ; the whole thing is enough to make any- 
 body die of laughter. Upon my word, he is hard hit, 
 and so I intend to write to his uncle, the Colonel, to 
 hurry matters on, for we must not let the poor 
 fellow languish like this ; don't you think so, Des-' 
 jardins?" 
 
 " You are quite right, for . . ." 
 
 " As for my niece, she does not say a word, but I 
 am quite sure the little baggage does not think the 
 less. If the Colonel only had not got his confounded 
 gout, he would have been here a long time ago, and 
 I long to let him see what a reformed character his 
 nephew is." 
 
 " But, my dear, are you quite sure? . . ." 
 
 " Yes, my dear wife, I am quite certain that their 
 marriage will be as happy as ours is ; but, look 
 here, why don't you play billiards as you used to 
 do ? " 
 
 " Why, because . . ." 
 
 " At any rate it used to amuse the ULiE«ppy lover, 
 and we must try and liven him ud a little, and 
 he will find plenty of time for reflection after he 
 is married. Gustave, my wife has been complain- 
 ing that you will not give her any more billiard 
 lessons . . ." 
 
 " But, my dear, I never said anything of the sort.'' 
 
 " Do hold your tongue, and let me do as I like." 
 
 "I shall be ready," Gustave replied, "to go on 
 with them whenever madame likes, and I am at her 
 orders now," he continued, rising from his seat. 
 
 "That is a good job ; don't be quite so mopish as 
 you have been lately, young gentleman. I am going 
 to have a game at backgammon with Desjardins, and 
 so have the billiard-room lighted up ; you will have 
 plenty of time for several games before supper ; and 
 now, Julia, go with M. Gustave, for you see he is 
 waiting for you." 
 
A Game of Billiards. 31 
 
 She could not possibly refuse as M. de Berly 
 wished it, and, when Gustave offered her his arm, 
 lie could feel that her hand trembled violently, at 
 which he experienced a vague presentiment of pleas- 
 tire and of hope. 
 
 The footman left the billiard-room as soon as he 
 had lighted the Argand lamps, and they were left 
 Altogether alone. Madame was very silent, but she 
 seemed much agitated, and Gustave seemed so un- 
 happy, that she must indeed have been stony- 
 hearted not to have pitied him. 
 
 M What has been the matter with you for the last 
 few days, monsieur ? " Madame de Berly asked at 
 length, in a weak voice ; " you never even deign to 
 speak to me." 
 
 " What is the matter with me, madame ? I surely 
 need not tell you that I adore you, whilst you hate 
 me." 
 
 " I detest you ! How unjust you are, for if that 
 were so, should I fear to listen to your words ? " 
 
 But Julia had said too much. Gustave seized 
 her hand and placed it on his heart. 
 
 u Leave me," Madame de Berly said, " you will be 
 the cause of my unhappiness ... Oh ! Gustave, 
 don't, don't take advantage of my weakness." 
 
 But a lover, who is told that his love is returned, 
 pays no attention to anything but his own ardour. 
 Julia, indeed, shed tears, but Gustave pressed her to 
 his bosom and dried them away with his kisses. 
 
 " Wife ! wife ! " M. de Berly cried, who, as the 
 reader knows, was separated from the billiard-room 
 only by a few trees and a hedge which, indeed, pre- 
 vented anybody seeing from one room to the other, 
 but were no obstacle to hearing ; " my dear Julia, I 
 say, I have just been gammoned twice following, 
 which I never remember happening to me before ; 
 M,nd how are you two getting on ? " 
 
 ' : Oh ! very well, monsieur," Gustave replied^ 
 
32 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " your wife's progress this evening is very satis- 
 factory." 
 
 "So much the better, and, at any rate, when I 
 play with her she will play better, but be sure and 
 try to teach her the double, for that is a capital 
 stroke." 
 
 " I am just going to do it, monsieur." 
 
 It must have been a very long game, for Gustave 
 and Julia did not come back to the drawing-room 
 till it was supper-time. 
 
 " Well," said M. de Berly, " have you had a good 
 tussle ? Who won most games ? n 
 
 " Well, I think madame has," Gustave replied. 
 
 " Of course you let her do so out of politeness, for 
 she cannot possibly be as strong as you, who have 
 such a capital stroke, and who can bring the ball& 
 into block almost as well as I can myself. I say, my 
 dear wife, don't I block very nicely when I try ? " 
 
 " Certainly you do, but not so well as M. Gustave. 
 I think." 
 
 " Oh ! you are flattering your billiard master, but 
 you look very tired, and billiards are a very fatigu- 
 ing game, for you are always on your legs at it." 
 
 " All I can say," Desjardins observed, " is that I 
 once played for three days consecutively ; we were 
 mad about it, and they brought us our meals, and 
 then when ..." 
 
 " All right, Desjardins, you shall tell us the rest 
 of the story at supper, and you know I am still very 
 much vexed at your having gammoned me twice in 
 succession. I once gave a man . . ." 
 
 But they were in the dining-room, and so M. de 
 Berly had to put off his anecdote till another time. 
 
 During supper Madame de Berly did not speak, 
 and kept her eyes constantly cast down, and Aurelia 
 did nothing but look at Gustave and her aunt, for 
 these prudes are very often wonderfully far-sighted. 
 M. Desjardins did nothing but eat and agree with 
 
The Catastrophe. 3& 
 
 everything that anybody said, whilst M. de Berly- 
 related what a wonderful billiard player he was, and 
 what wonderful strokes he could make. Gustave 
 was very merry, and extremely polite towards M. 
 de Berly, whom he extolled as a sportsman, whilst 
 praising his gallantry towards ladies and his cour- 
 age in dangers when he met a blind wolf. 
 
 The unfortunate husband was delighted with the 
 young man, and when they got up from supper he 
 shook him heartily by the hand, and assured him that 
 his uncle should know how well he was going on. 
 
 Will anybody, after that, venture to affirm that 
 there is any such a thing as presentiment ? 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 Julia's tears soon dried up ; a woman's love is 
 augmented by the sacrifices which she makes for her 
 lover, though it is not the same thing with men, as- 
 in their case the very continuance of their happi- 
 ness bores them. 
 
 Love for Gustave had calmed Julia's fears, sighs, 
 tears, and remorse. They played billiards every day, 
 morning and evening. Certainly billiard playing 
 is no crime, but when you want to make such pas- 
 time only an excuse, you ought to take proper pre- 
 cautions ; and thus it happened one evening that r 
 his game of backgammon being over sooner than 
 usual, M. de Berly went into the garden to see his 
 wife and Gustave playing at billiards, at which he 
 expected to find them. 
 
 The happy husband went up to the little hedge, but 
 was much surprised at not seeing the room lighted. 
 " They must have changed their minds," he said to 
 
 o 
 
34 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 himself, " and I suppose they have gone into the 
 music-room," and he was on the point of returning 
 when he heard a voice, which he knew very well. 
 ** The devil ! it is my wife," and he went into the 
 billiard-room. 
 
 •■ How on earth can you manage to play in such a 
 light, I should like to know ? " he asked, and as he 
 could not see well he caught his feet in some 
 obstacle, fell over Gustave, who, for some reason or 
 other was sitting on one of the benches of turf with 
 his legs stretched out. 
 
 ■' Is that you, monsieur ? I was just going to meet 
 you ; allow me to help you up." 
 
 " Why, is that you, my dear ? " Madame de Berly 
 said, quickly going away from the bank of turf. 
 
 " Of course it is I, and confound your idea of play- 
 ing in the dark, for I believe I have given myself a 
 bump on the forehead." 
 
 " But, monsieur, it is only just dark, and we were 
 going to have the lamps lighted." 
 
 " Well you must be very clever to be able to play 
 like that, for you would not be able to find the 
 pockets." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur." 
 
 "I should not have come in only I heard my wife's 
 voice, uttering as it seemed to me an exclamation of 
 delight." 
 
 " Oh S yes, she had just succeeded in a good shot." 
 
 « Very well, then, let us have the lamps lighted, 
 and I will see how you both play, and play against 
 jou two." 
 
 The lamps are lighted, and M. de Berly played 
 against the two as he wished ; Gustave took care 
 to play badly, and Julia was very excited, and so 
 her husband won all the games, at which he was 
 d elighted, and that was, at any rate, some compen- 
 sation. 
 
 Mdlle. Aurelia, however, did not appear to share 
 
The Catastrophe, 35 
 
 tier uncle's pleasure, for the way that Gustave went 
 on with Julia seemed to her far too familiar, and the 
 young man's coldness whilst she was singing mon 
 eceur sowpire seemed to her very extraordinary, and 
 though she did not dare to say anything to her uncle, 
 she began to watch the two, and without exactly 
 knowing why, she wished to find out something or 
 -other. 
 
 Benoit had recovered his loss of leather, but he had 
 not got any sharper in other respects ; however, in 
 order that he might not fall off again, if he had to go 
 with his master, he used to ride every morning, and 
 began to stick on rather better. 
 
 M. de Berly had written a long letter to Colonel 
 Moranval, in which he told him of his nephew's ex- 
 cellent conduct, of his virtuous love for Aurelia, his 
 attentions towards his wife, and his friendship for 
 himself, and the Colonel wrote in reply to express 
 his satisfaction, and stating that, as his gout was 
 rather better, he would come and hasten on the mar- 
 riage, begging him, at the same time, not to mention 
 it to his nephew, as he wished to surprise him by his 
 unexoected arrival. 
 
 E 
 
 Matters were in that condition when one morning 
 M. de Berly was told that it was thought that the 
 marks of a wolf had been seen about three leagues 
 off, near Montaigny, and this news immediately put 
 him on the alert, for what a feather it would be in 
 his cap to kill a brute that might devastate the 
 neighbourhood, 
 
 On the whole, however, he did not seem inclined 
 to measure himself with the wolf, but Gustave ani- 
 mated and excited him by calling him beforehand the 
 liberator of the country, and, Desjardins saying that 
 he had once killed four in one day, M. de Berly de- 
 clared that he should go with him to show whether 
 now he could kill even one. 
 
 Desjardins had gone too far to retract, but Gustave 
 
36 Thai Rascal Gustave. 
 
 had fallen in the shrubbery the day before, and hurt 
 his side, so he said, and so he could not go with them, 
 and besides that, he was not enough of a sportsman 
 to be able to cope with them. 
 
 " Well," said M. de Berly, "it is very possible that 
 we shall not find out the whereabouts of the brute 
 to-day, and I do not want to go for nothing, so we 
 will go and sleep at a small farm which I have at 
 Montaigny, so as to be on the spot at daybreak to- 
 morrow morning, and I can assure you, my dear wife r 
 that I shall not come back without bringing you 
 something of the creature to show." 
 
 Madame de Berly fully approved of her husband's 
 idea ; Gustave looked upon it as a project full of 
 noble and heroic devotion, and so it was agreed that- 
 M. de Berly would not come home at night, and 
 everybody was satisfied. 
 
 After the sportsmen had gone, fully equipped foi 
 the expedition, Gustave and Julia, in their delight a£ 
 being alone together, determined to make the most 
 of their opportunity. Mdlie. Aurelia did not feel 
 very well, and was confined to her room, and so they 
 were all the more secure. Madame de Berly said 
 that she also felt rather out of sorts, and went and 
 shut herself up in her room, telling the servants to 
 say to anybody who might call that she was not at 
 home, and matters being arranged thus, at six o'clock 
 in the evening madaine had retired to her bedroom r 
 which was closed to all intruders. Most likely 
 Gustave also did not feel very well, for he told 
 Benoit not to come and disturb him. 
 
 It was in summer, when it does not get dark till 
 about nine o'clock, and about eight a stranger 
 arrived at M. de Berly's and was told that he could 
 see nobody, for madame was not well, and monsieur 
 had gone on a shooting expedition for two days. 
 
 " Well," Colonel Moranval exclaimed, for it was 
 he, " I have not come in order to go away again 
 
The Catastrophe. '67 
 
 ^directly, and if M. de Berly is not in, I will wait, and 
 go indoors without ceremony." 
 
 As the Colonel spoke in a manner which allowed 
 of no reply, the servants permitted him to go in- 
 doors, and he caught sight of Benoit. 
 
 " Oh ! you have come, sir ? 
 
 "Yes, my lad; and I was not expected ? w 
 
 T No, sir." 
 
 " Where is my nephew ? " 
 
 " He told me this morning that he was not very 
 well, and should keep his room, and I expect he is 
 asleep, as he told me not to disturb him." 
 
 " And Madame de Berly ? " 
 
 a She is not well either, and has given orders that 
 no one is to go near her room." 
 
 "Well I suppose I shall be able to see Mdlle. 
 Aurelia, for I hope she is neither ill nor out shoot- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, she has a slight feverish 
 attack, and has been in bed all day." 
 
 " Why, I declare the house is a regular hospital, 
 bo I must wait by myself, I presume." 
 
 Just as the Colonel said this a loud trampling of 
 horses was heard, and on going to see what it was 
 the servants saw M. de Berly and Desjardins, whose 
 sport had already come to an end. 
 
 " Here you are," the Colonel said, shaking hands 
 with his friend ; " your servants told me that you 
 would not be home for two days." 
 
 " I thought so, my dear Colonel, but fate decided 
 otherwise, for when we got to the spot where the 
 wolf's tracks had been seen, we found that the 
 brute had just been killed, and I was very sorry, for 
 I felt so bold, so excited. But have you seen your 
 nephew ? " 
 
 ? No, I have only just come ; but everybody seems 
 io be ill in your house ; your wife and my nephew 
 Are lying down ..." 
 
38 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " That can be nothing, for they did not mention 
 it this morning ; but I am delighted with your 
 nephew, he is a charming young fellow. Fancy 
 your writing to me that I should find him a young 
 scamp ? He is a very quiet, orderly lad, and his 
 only amusement seems to be in playing billiards 
 with my wife, for he never leaves the house, and i& 
 kindness and attention itself." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear that, for certainly this 
 part of the country must work wonders, and I am 
 anxious to see him." 
 
 " Go to his room ; he will be very surprised to see 
 you as he does not expect you, for I did not mention 
 the matter to him." 
 
 " Here, Benoit, show me the way to your master's 
 room." 
 
 " But if you please, sir, he told me not to let any- 
 body in." 
 
 " Well, you idiot, that cannot apply to me, so just 
 show me where it is." 
 
 The Colonel followed Benoit, who went with him 
 in fear and trembling, and, on his part, M. de Berly 
 made up his mind to surprise his wife, who did not 
 expect him till next day. He was told that she was 
 in bed, not feeling very well, but nothing stopped 
 him, and being sure he should cause her an 
 agreeable surprise, he ran up as quickly as he could 
 to the room. Her bedroom was on the first floor, and 
 looked out on to the garden, and M. de Berly went 
 into the ante-room, but could not get any further 
 as the door was locked on the inside. M. de Berly, 
 however, had a duplicate key, for he and his wife did 
 not occupy the same room, so as to be able to come 
 and share his wife's bed when he felt so inclined. 
 
 A duplicate key is a terrible thing, and the cause 
 of many surprises. There certainly was a bolt to 
 the door, but it had not been shot. Unfortunate- 
 carelessness ! 
 
The Devil and the Black Cow. 3$ 
 
 M. de Berly went straight up to his wife's bed,, 
 drew aside the curtain, and he found himself stand- 
 ing face to face with Gustave. Medusa's head, the 
 eyes of the basilisk, the teeth of Cerberus, the claws 
 of Ashdroth, would have produced less effect on the 
 unfortunate spouse than did Gustave's presence, 
 He remained motionless, with his eyes fixed, his 
 mouth open, and his arms stretched out. Julia 
 rolled herself up in the bed-clothes, but Gustave, 
 without losing his head, opened the window and 
 jumped out into the garden, right on to his uncle's 
 back, who, after looking for him in vain in hi3 
 room, was just then hunting after him, with 
 Benolt's assistance, in the garden. 
 
 The Colonel fell on his nose, and Gustave, on re- 
 cognising his uncle, only ran away all the more 
 quickly, and the uncle, in his turn, recognising his 
 nephew, got up and ran after him. Benoit stood 
 mute with astonishment at seeing his master run- 
 ning about as he was, and the latter, as soon as he 
 got clear of the grounds, and had jumped over all 
 obstacles, ran along till he overtook Lucas and 
 Zephyr, as I had the pleasure of telling you at the 
 beginning of this story. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DEVIL AND THE BLACK COW. 
 
 " Why ! Benoit, is that you ? " Gustave said, as soon 
 as he had got his head out of the pond, and could 
 see who the rider was that had been after them for 
 so long, and had just got up with them when Zephyr 
 got stuck in the mud. 
 
 " Yes, sir, it is I, and I have been galloping after 
 you with this other horse that I took from precau- 
 
-40 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 tion. But it is very unpleasant yonder ; your uncle 
 is in a terrible rage, and swearing and making 
 more noise than usual, and so when I found out 
 that . . ." 
 
 "All right, you shall tell me that some other 
 time, but just now help me to pick up this good 
 man here, who, I hope, is not wounded." 
 . Father Lucas was more frightened than hurt, and 
 Gustave had some difficulty in assuring him that 
 he had no bones broken. They got him on to 
 Zephyr again, whose ardour had quite abated; 
 Gustave mounted the horse that Benolt had been 
 leading, and they started off again. 
 
 Gustave could not help laughing at the fright 
 that Benoit had caused him, whom he had taken 
 for his uncle ; but when he thought of what had 
 happened, and of the critical position in which he 
 had left Julia, he could not help becoming serious, 
 and wondering what she had done. He felt sure 
 that women, who have always plenty of presence of 
 mind, can extricate themselves from the most diffi- 
 cult positions; but there were some cases in which 
 even a woman's wit is of no avail, and Madame de 
 Berly was exactly in one of these positions. 
 
 Our hero, however, was not one of those who 
 take troubles seriously, and reflecting that no grief 
 on his part could change the past, he left it to his 
 good star to arrange matters. 
 
 At last they got to Ermenonville, and after cross- 
 ing several small bridges, for there is a great deal of 
 water about there, they got to a small farm-house, 
 which indeed would be called a hut in Paris. Lucas 
 regained his powers of speech when he saw his 
 bouse, and Zephyr found his legs on getting near 
 bis stable. 
 
 " Here we are at last ; for I had begun to think 
 that I should never get back. And now, Daddy 
 Lucas, we must wake them up indoors." 
 
The Devil and the Black Cow. 41 
 
 They got off their horses, and whilst Gustave 
 ^and Benoit were knocking as loud as they could 
 at the door, Lucas shouted out at the top of his 
 voice, — 
 
 " Marie- Jeanne ! Susan ! . . . Nicholas Toupet ! 
 
 " Are not you going to call your wife ? " Gustave 
 .asked him. 
 
 "I am not so stupid as that," he replied, "she 
 would be in a rage. I say there ! Marie- Jeanne ! 
 Nicholas ! " 
 
 At last a garret window was opened, and a gruff 
 voice asked, — 
 
 " Is that you ? " 
 
 " Yes, Nicholas, come down and let us in, there is 
 a good fellow, but take care not to wake up the 
 wife." 
 
 After keeping them waiting for about ten min- 
 utes, for peasants never hurry themselves, Nicholas 
 opened the yard gate, and seemed much surprised 
 at seeing Gustave and Benoit. 
 
 " They are two men from Paris, whom we must 
 put up for to-night," Lucas said, taking the horses 
 into the stable, " and you must give them the room 
 where my cousin Pierre Ledru sleeps when he comes 
 to see us, and to-morrow my wife will say whether 
 that will do or not." 
 
 Nicholas was just going to do as he was told, 
 when Gustave stopped him. 
 
 "I say, Father Lucas, you do not intend to send 
 me to bed without any supper, I hope ? I have had 
 nothing to eat since three o'clock this afternoon, and 
 I am so hungry by this time, that I tell you plainly 
 that, unless you give me an omelette at the very 
 least, I shall turn the whole house upside down." 
 
 Father Lucas was in a great state of embarrass- 
 ment, for his wife had the keys of the sideboard and 
 larder; but whilst he was considering what was to be 
 
42 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 done, the most infernal din was heard from a room 
 on the first floor, and the good man recognising his 
 wife's voice, hid himself behind some wine-casks, 
 Nicholas took refuge in the stable, and Benoit, who 
 felt very uncomfortable, ran into the cow-house, 
 Gustave alone remained to brave the storm. 
 
 A little fat red-faced woman, her eyes flashing 
 with anger, came running down the stairs. 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this noise in the 
 middle of the night ? Does that old Lucas imagine 
 that I shall put up with this sort of thing ? Why 
 did he not stop at Louvres for the night ? Drunken 
 wretch ! to come and wake me up when I was 
 asleep ! Of course, he has been up to some mischief 
 again." 
 
 Just as Madame Lucas finished speaking, she saw 
 Gustave, who was standing quietly in the middle o£ 
 the yard, waiting till her anger had cooled down a 
 little. Frightened at the sight of a man who did not 
 belong to the place, and whose looks were decidedly 
 very suspicious (for his clothes were covered with 
 green slime from the pond, and his face was bleed- 
 ing from the effects of his fall amongst the ducks) r 
 Madame Lucas had not the slightest doubt that 
 thieves had got into the house, and so she uttered 
 piercing yells, and threw a pitchfork, a spade, and a 
 broom at Gustave's head, and whilst he jumped 
 aside to avoid being struck, she ran down the village^ 
 calling out, " Thieves ! Murder ! " 
 
 Peasants are very heavy sleepers, and so the in- 
 habitants of Ermenonville took no notice of Madame 
 Lucas's cries, till she began to throw stones at the 
 windows, and shout out "Fire/" At that word, 
 which must interest everybody, for a village is easily 
 burnt down, the villagers woke up, and came running 
 out, showing how true it is that we always hear what 
 affects us personally, whilst for other people's troubles, 
 . . . But I will not make any reflections on this- 
 
The Devil and the Black Cow. 43 
 
 circumstance, or leave Madame Lucas in her night- 
 dress and sleeping-jacket in the village street. 
 
 "Where is the fire? . . . Where is the fire?' 
 the villagers asked her. 
 
 "Well, I think it is even worse than that! 1 
 believe the Prussians are in the village." 
 " The Prussians ? " 
 
 "Yes, I am sure of it, for they have already 
 attacked our house, and, perhaps, by this timejny 
 little Susan and Marie-Jeanne are already . . , 
 
 " We must go to their assistance ! " all the women 
 said, who did not at all fear such war risks, but the 
 men were not nearly in such a hurry. They pro- 
 posed that they should barricade themselves in their 
 own houses, and await the enemy there, whilst one of 
 the sharpest of them observed that there was no talk 
 of war just then, and that Madame Lucas could not 
 possibly have seen any Prussians. 
 
 " Then, at any rate, they are thieves," she replied, 
 " for they made a diabolical noise, and broke open 
 the door. I thought it was my husband coming back 
 from Louvres, and went down to give him a good 
 dressing, when I found myself face to face with a 
 great red and black man." 
 
 ' "Why, that must be the devil himself!" the women 
 all exclaimed. 
 
 " Did you see his claws and his tail ? " 
 " I cannot say for certain about his tail, but I am 
 quite sure that he had one, and his eyes were as 
 bright as two live coals." 
 
 " We must go and look after him," the men said, 
 who were not nearly so much afraid of the devil 
 as they were of the Prussians, whilst the women 
 thought that they ought to go and call the priest 
 to get rid of the devil. 
 
 The villagers armed themselves with pitchforks, 
 hoes, mattocks, anything they could find, and formed 
 themselves into a very compact body. Madame 
 
.44 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 Lucas went in the middle, the other women brought 
 up the rear, and so they went to encounter the devil, 
 who had disturbed the repose of the inhabitants of 
 Ermenonville. 
 
 Meanwhile Gustave, after escaping Madame Lucas's 
 broom, made up his mind to go indoors and to help 
 himself to some supper, without taking any more 
 notice of the good woman's cries or of her husband's 
 fears, who did not dare to come from amongst the 
 .casks, Benoit remained in the cow-house, where he 
 had seized a cow's udder and was helping himself, 
 whilst the noise was going on all around. As for 
 Nicholas, his mistress's cries had so terrified him that 
 he also made sure that robbers were in the house, and 
 so he lay down on his stomach by the side of Zephyr. 
 
 Our hero mounted the staircase ; he went up two 
 storeys, listened, and heard a noise ; he opened a half- 
 open door, when he heard a woman call out, and, 
 walking in, he reached a bed, and, putting out his 
 hands, he was assured that there was somebody in it, 
 so, no doubt, it was some peasant girl. As she did 
 not seem to object to his presence, Gustave thought 
 to himself that he might as well try and appease 
 her, as the means of obtaining an omelette ; and so, 
 forgetting Julia, who, no doubt, was unhappy and 
 longing for him, he passed some time chatting with 
 Marie- Jeanne ! but that is just like men, and so 
 niuch for their fidelity. 
 
 The peasants arrived in arms at the house just at 
 the moment that old Lucas had made up his mind to 
 leave his casks, and the poor man, terribly frightened 
 at all the noise that he heard, rushed into the middle 
 of the crowd. 
 
 " Here is one of them," Mother Lucas exclaimed ; 
 £l go at him ! look how red and black he is ! " 
 
 In fact, Lucas, who was black with mud from the 
 pond had then been rubbing himself against the 
 Ireshly-emptied wine casks, which were still stained 
 
The Devil and the Black Cow. 45? 
 
 with wine lees, and so he was absolutely unrecognis- 
 able. They rushed at him to give him a thrashing,- 
 but he ran away, calling out at the top of his voice, 
 and whilst some were pursuing him, his wife went 
 into the yard followed by the bravest of the rest, 
 calling out for their daughter Susan, as she was 
 afraid that the devil had already carried her off. 
 
 The girl opened her window and asked what all 
 the noise was about ; she was told that the arch- 
 fiend had got into her parents' house, and so she 
 certainly had no intention of remaining alone in 
 her room when she already fancied that Satan was 
 under her bed. As the windows were not high 
 from the ground, she put out first one leg and then 
 another, and began to let herself down, but the skirt 
 of her nightgown caught in a nail, and poor Susan 
 was left in a pretty plight. 
 
 " Mother ! I am sure that the devil has got hold 
 of the skirt of my nightdress, for the schoolmaster 
 says that he always attacks girls in that way." 
 
 " Wait a moment, child, there is a ladder in the 
 cow-house and I will undo you. Father Thomas r 
 will you go and get it for me ? " 
 
 He went to the cow-house door, which was ajar, 
 but as soon as he opened it, a black cow rushed out, 
 knocked Thomas down, and ran furiously through 
 the villagers, bellowing loudly. 
 
 It must be remembered that Benoit had taken 
 refuge there, and as he was fond of warm milk, he 
 had been amusing himself with trying a cow's udder, 
 which certainly could not contain much milk, as she 
 had been milked, as usual, at night, and so she soon 
 got tired of such treatment, and gave evident signs 
 of her feelings, but as he did not know much about 
 such matters, he still went on, and might have fallen 
 a victim to his gluttony, when Thomas, by opening 
 the door, changed the course of events. 
 
 The peasants, terribly frightened at seeing a furi- 
 
46 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 ous cow in their midst, when they were hunting 
 for the devil, did not the least doubt that the poor 
 beast was possessed, for you may know it or not, 
 but it is quite certain that evil spirits are very fond 
 of black, though now-a-days they, as well as sor- 
 cerers, have gone out of fashion. 
 
 The villagers hustled each other, upset one another, 
 let their lights fall, whilst the cow kept on down the 
 street, and Susan remained exposed on the window 
 ledge, divided between her fears of the devil and of 
 the black cow. 
 
 Their inability to see only augmented the peasants' 
 terror, but Mother Lucas reassured them by telling 
 them that the cow had gone, and that, no doubt, the 
 devil had taken his departure inside the animal, and 
 that now nothing remained to be done but to restore 
 quiet to the house. But to do that they must see, 
 and so, to get a light, they went to Marie-Jeanne's 
 room, who had the tinder box ; and Madame Lucas 
 was one of the bolder ones, who ventured to go up 
 to the garret. 
 
 On arriving outside her door, they heard conver- 
 sation and suppressed murmurs. " There ! " ex- 
 claimed Mother Lucas, " the devil has got hold of 
 Marie-Jeanne," and the peasants did not venture to 
 open the door, but remained all huddled up together. 
 
 " I say, Marie- Jeanne," the old woman asked, " has 
 the devil been into your room ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes; but leave me alone; "he is no devil 
 a.t all." 
 
 The villagers, who expected to see Satan come out 
 of the room, and make at them with his claws, 
 rushed downstairs, and went into the yard in their 
 fear, where another fright awaited them. The 
 women, who had remained near the cow-house, being 
 fully persuaded that the devil had taken his leave in 
 the shape of a black cow, wished, so that they might 
 be quite assured of the truth of the matter, to see 
 
Ermenonville — Marie- Jeanne — Susan. 4 7 
 
 whether the black cow had really gone. The day was 
 beginning to break, but it was impossible to dis- 
 tinguish objects clearly, and so whilst some made a 
 mistake, and went into the stable, others went into 
 the cow-house, and going on, without looking down, 
 ^they stumbled over Benoit and Nicholas, who were 
 both asleep on the straw, and who yelled out when 
 they felt themselves being trodden on. 
 
 The women rushed out, screaming out louder than 
 aver, for they thought they had been walking on 
 demons, and at that moment the men, frightened at 
 what Marie- Jeanne had said, came rushing out of the 
 house as fast as they could. " The house is full of 
 witches," the women said. " The devil is in Marie- 
 Jeanne's room," the men replied, " so we will not 
 stop here, but run away at once." 
 
 Susan, on hearing this, put both her legs out of 
 the window, and this time she reached the ground, 
 but she stumbled against Thomas, who knocked up 
 against Mother Lucas, who fell over the greengrocer, 
 who fell over the grocer, and so on. Pushing each 
 4>ther along, they got as far as the chateau, and then 
 they did not push each other any more, and it was 
 just as well, as they might otherwise have fallen 
 into the moat which surrounds it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ERMENONVILLE— MARIE-JEANNE — SUSAN. 
 
 If people would only reason before abandoning 
 themselves to terror and panic ; if they would listen 
 before quarrelling, think before committing an act 
 of folly ; if they knew each other well before getting 
 married, their children would no longer be frightened 
 ,&t hobgoblins, girls would not be frightened at hav- 
 
48 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 ing to go down into the cellar, villagers would 
 pass the churchyard at night without shutting their 
 eyes ; there would be fewer wars, and men who 
 had been dining together would not suddenly be- 
 come game-cocks because politics were mentioned \. 
 a young man would not try to ruin a respectable 
 girl whom he has no intention of marrying ; a 
 married man would not toy with courtesans in 
 preference to his wife; and a man would not ruin 
 himself with gambling ; an old man would not 
 marry a young girl, a jealous man a coquette, a 
 sensible woman a drunkard, or a man of broad views- 
 a bigot ; there would be many more happy house- 
 holds, and children would not so often bear such a 
 striking resemblance to some friend of the family. 
 
 In fact, if Madame Lucas had gone downstairs 
 quietly, her husband would not have hidden himself 
 behind the wine casks, Benoit in the cow-shed, 
 Nicholas in the stable, she would not have taken 
 Gustave for a thief or the devil ; and all the inhabit- 
 ants of Ermenonville would have spent the night 
 quietly in their beds. 
 
 When the peasants had left the room, Gustave- 
 went downstairs with Marie-Jeanne, who was not 
 at all afraid of him. In the yard he found Benoit 
 and Nicholas, who were coming out of their respec- 
 tive bed/rooms, and they all talked the whole matter 
 over. Stout Marie-Jeanne laughed very much at 
 her mistress's fright ; Gustave washed his face,, 
 whilst Benoit cleaned his clothes as well as he could,, 
 and Nicholas seemed verv uneasv about his master 
 and little Susan. Soon they heard loud cries m the 
 street from the returning villagers, but as it was by 
 that time broad daylight, and Marie- Jeanne assured 
 Gustave that he was far too nice-looking to alarm 
 the women, he quietly waited for the good folk 
 whom he had so frightened. 
 
 The day restored their courage, and they had 
 
Ermenonville — Marie- Jeanne — Susan, 49= 
 
 already made up their minds to go and search the 
 house, which was certainly bewitched, when they 
 saw a peasant leading a black cow. 
 
 " Why, there is the black beast I " the peasant 
 women said. 
 
 " Why, there is my husband ! " Madame Lucas 
 added. 
 
 It was, indeed, Daddy Lucas, who, having washed 
 himself in one of the castle ditches, so that he might 
 not be taken for a thief again, was returning home 
 with the black cow that he had found wandering 
 about all by herself in the streets of Ermenonville. 
 
 As soon as they met they explained matters* 
 Lucas complained of the blows that he had received, 
 and told his wife how he had met the young gentle- 
 man, how they had tumbled into the pond, and got 
 home in the middle of the night, and so they all 
 began to see that the devil had nothing at all to do 
 with the matter. Mother Lucas scolded her husbanci 
 for bringing a young man home with him who began 
 by upsetting everybody ; but when she heard that he 
 was rich, and had a footman and two horses, and was 
 liberal and inclined to pay his entertainers well, her 
 anger calmed down, and she got into a very good 
 humour, even allowing her husband to kiss her to 
 make up for the blows he had received. 
 
 When they got into the house, which was the 
 theatre of the events of the preceding night, 
 Gustave's voice, looks, and manners fully satisfied 
 Madame Lucas. Luckily he had plenty of money, 
 for Benoit had brought away some of his master's 
 clothes, and in one of the waistscoats there luckily 
 was the purse containing the two hundred napoleons 
 which his uncle had sent him, and which he had not 
 spent, and as he saw that it was necessary, above all 
 things, to please Madame Lucas, he put one of them 
 into her hand, to make her forget the fright he had 
 involuntarily caused her. 
 
 D 
 
450 That Rascal Ghistave. 
 
 Immediately the whole house was upset in the 
 endeavours to treat the same man well whom they 
 had, not long before, tried to do for with pitchforks 
 .and brooms. He had the best room given to him, 
 breakfast was prepared for him, and Benoit was told 
 that he might milk the cows himself, and drink the 
 milk from morning till night, if he pleased. 
 
 There was only one thing that still rather troubled 
 the peasant women, and even Madame Lucas herself, 
 and that was what could Marie-Jeanne have meant 
 by saying the devil was in her room. Something 
 ^ery extraordinary must have happened in the house, 
 so she was sent for, and they asked her. 
 
 "I remember, now," she replied, "that I was 
 dreaming, and had the nightmare, when you came 
 upstairs and woke me so suddenly, and then, I 
 suppose, that I just told you my dream." 
 
 The villagers laughed till their sides ached at 
 their fright and at the dream of Marie- Jeanne, who 
 laughed also at what she had said, and perhaps also 
 at what she had done, and so calm was re-established, 
 and they all returned to their daily occupations. 
 
 After having had a good breakfast, Gustave retired 
 to his own room with Benoit, and ordered him to- 
 relate, as well as he could, all that had happened at 
 M. de Berly's after his flight. 
 
 " Well, sir," Benoit replied, " I will tell you exactly 
 what I saw and heard. At first your uncle, whom 
 you had knocked down when you jumped upon him 
 out of the window, was going to run after you, but 
 you went so fast, that he soon saw he had not a 
 chance of overtaking you, so he came up to me, and 
 asked me how long it was since you had taken leave 
 of your senses, for when he saw you jumping over 
 hedges and ditches in sheer fright, he thought you 
 had gone mad. At that moment M. de Berly came 
 up in a terrible way, and shouted out to your uncle 
 as soon as he saw him, ' Your nephew has cuckolded 
 
Ermenonville — Marie-Jeanne — Susan. 5 1 
 
 •me ; I have just this moment found him in my wife's 
 bedroom.' 'I was sure of it,' the Colonel replied 
 immediately ; ' I would have made a bet that the 
 rascal was making fools of you, of your niece, and of 
 me.' And then he began to swear, like he can swear 
 when he is in a rage, and M. de Berly kept saying 
 something, in which he mixed up his wife, marriage, 
 and the billiard-room. I was going back to the 
 house when I met the cook, you remember, sir, she 
 who advised me to put sorrel on my ... on my 
 graze, but she is a good woman at bottom, and likes 
 you very much, and so she said to me, ' Well, you 
 idiot, are you going to let your master run about 
 the country without his hat ? Go to his room at 
 once, and take his things and his money, then go to 
 the stable and mount your horse, and lead your 
 master's, and gallop after him ; you will easily find 
 out which way he has gone, for a half -dressed man 
 running about the country is rather a remarkable 
 object!' I did as the cook told me, sir, and you know 
 where I overtook you." 
 
 " That will do, Benoit ; and now leave me, but 
 never venture, as long as we stay here, to milk the 
 cows without my permission." 
 
 " You may be quite sure of that, sir ; I am too 
 frightened, and would not even milk a sheep." 
 
 When Gustave was alone, he reflected on what he 
 ought to do. There were no means by which he 
 could correspond with Julia, who besides would be 
 very closely watched, but he longed to tell her that 
 he adored her as much as ever, for that assurance 
 would be some consolation for her, now she had 
 sacrificed her repose and her reputation for his 
 sake. 
 
 " I must write to her," Gustave said to himself, 
 u and perhaps by the kind cook's help I may manage 
 to get the letter to her. But I cannot charge Benoit 
 with this commission, he is too stupid, and would 
 
52 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 make some mistake, and peasants are not exactly 
 fitted to carry on an intrigue. Well, I must go my- 
 self — go disguised — but I must wait a little, till the 
 husband's watchfulness has abated, and then I shall 
 succeed more easily. I must spend a week here, at 
 Ermenonville ... a whole week . . . poor Julia ! 
 it is a long time, but I must do it. By that time 
 my uncle will have returned to Paris, and I shall 
 not run the risk of meeting him." 
 
 As soon as he had settled this, he began to think 
 what he could do with himself for a whole week in 
 this village, but then the village was Ermenonville. 
 and its name alone is full of touching recollections, 
 whilst its situation would delight anybody, no matter 
 how indifferent to the country. Joseph II. dined in 
 a cottage here. Gustave III. was here, Jean-Jacques 
 Rousseau spe it the last days of his life here, and sc 
 M. de St R _-al can surely pass a few days there. 
 And then there was Marie- Jeanne and little Susan, 
 whose pretty face might distract his thoughts from 
 his unfortunate love affair, so he need not be bored 
 at Ermenonville, and he made up his mind to see 
 what the country was like. He went to look for 
 Madame Lucas, whom he found plucking some 
 pigeons, whilst her husband was feeding the fowls. 
 
 " I should like, Madame Lucas, to have a look at 
 the. village, and see something of the country." 
 
 " Don't you know our neighbourhood, monsieur ? " 
 
 " No ; but I have come on purpose to do so, and I 
 would rather stop in a quiet private house than at an 
 inn, where one is often very uncomfortable." 
 
 " You are quite right, monsieur, and you can stay 
 here as long as you like ; it will not put us out at all,, 
 on the contrary." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, Madame Lucas." 
 
 " You will be delighted with the country ; you will 
 see some beautiful sights." 
 
 " I have seen some already." 
 
JZrmenonville—Mane- Jeanne — Susan. 5 3 
 
 " You cannot have seen anything, as you came at 
 slight ; but the park of the chateau is beautiful." 
 
 " Can I go in ? " 
 
 " Yes, my daughter shall go with you, and just at 
 present there is nobody there but the porter . . . 
 Susan, Susan ! " 
 
 '-' I will go with monsieur," Marie-Jeanne said, 
 coming forward. 
 
 " Oh ! dear no, you must look after the butter and 
 cheese." 
 
 Marie-Jeanne did not seem at all pleased at the 
 preference which was shown to Susan, and she set 
 to work at her cheese-making in a very bad temper. 
 
 The younger girl put on her pretty cap and her 
 Sunday apron, and got ready very gladly to go with 
 this fine gentleman, but the mother, thinking to 
 please her guest by going with him, ordered her 
 husband to pluck the pigeons and look after the 
 dinner, and got ready to go with her daughter ; 
 the child, she thought, might not be safe with a 
 young gentleman from town, and then what would 
 Nicholas Toupet say, on his return from the fields, 
 if he heard that Susan had been out for a walk by 
 herself with a stranger, for you must know that 
 Nicholas Toupet was Mdlle. Lucas's intended, so they 
 had to put up with the mother's company. Susan 
 would have preferred to be alone with the young 
 man, though she could hardly tell why, whilst Marie- 
 Jeanne, on the contrary, was very well pleased with 
 the new arrangement. As for Gustave, he looked 
 at Susan, who was sixteen, had blue eyes, pretty 
 teeth, a charming mouth, and beautiful black hair, 
 and sighed when he saw Madame Lucas putting on 
 her apron. 
 
 They started and went through part of the village, 
 and as he went, Gustave noticed that all the inhabit- 
 ants had good teeth, which he set down to the 
 purity of the water 
 
54 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 They went into the park, which was a delightful 
 spot ; splendid shade, beautiful turf, brooks, cas- 
 cades, lonely grottoes, meadows spangled with 
 flowers, a lake which bathes the walls of the chateau^ 
 and on the sides of which is an old tower covered 
 with ivy and honeysuckle. From a rotunda in 
 front of the tower, which is called the Tower of 
 Gabrielle, there is a splendid view. In the rotunda 
 is an old suit of armour, and everything recalls the 
 knights of old, and the times of chivalry and tour- 
 naments. What a pity that such a monument of 
 antiquity should be threatening to decay. 
 
 In that part which is called the Desert can be- 
 seen Jean-Jacques Rousseau's cottage, situated on 
 an eminence, from which one can see the whole 
 surrounding landscape ; but this cottage, also, is 
 going to ruin, though surely it ought to be pre- 
 served as a memento of a great man. 
 
 " If only Julia were with me," Gustave thought to 
 himself, " I should send away Susan and her mother, 
 and sit down on this mossy bank, where so many 
 others have been happy, if one may judge from the 
 inscriptions with which the stone is covered ! Lovers 
 are very indiscreet, and it surely cannot be requisite 
 for strangers, and for all who come here, to be 
 
 informed that M. and Madame came here to 
 
 make love; it would certainly be more prudent 
 to put only the Christian names." 
 
 On leaving the park they went on the other side 
 of the chateau, and there is Poplar Island, where 
 Jean- Jacques is laid. To get at that part of the 
 lake, one must go through an old building that was 
 formerly an old water-mill, but is now no longer 
 habitable. There you are on a walk bordered by 
 willows, and surrounded by water on all sides, and 
 you will see a little boat which enables you to go 
 and see the tomb of the Man of Nature, as he is 
 called on the simple tomb which contains his ashes. 
 
Ermenonville — Marie-Jeanne — Susan. 5 5 
 
 An inscription on a stake requests those who visit 
 Poplar Island not to write anything on Jean- 
 Jacques' tomb, but this request has not been com- 
 plied with, for the mania for inscribing one's name 
 on interesting monuments is insatiable. 
 
 In Germany, England, and Switzerland there are- 
 books kept at the inns near remarkable spots, in 
 which travellers can inscribe their thoughts in prose 
 or verse, and these books last a very long time, for 
 it is far easier to write your name than your 
 thoughts. 
 
 After rowing about a little, Gustave and his com- 
 panions returned home, where a good dinner awaited 
 them, and they sat down without ceremony or con- 
 straint, Susan, her parents, Gustave, Marie-Jeanne, 
 and Nicholas Toupet, all at the same table. As for 
 Benoit, who was always full of his duties, he wished 
 to remain standing behind his master's chair, to wait 
 upon him, and it was not without much difficulty 
 that Gustave persuaded him to sit down at a corner 
 of the table, where he had his dinner. 
 
 Mother Lucas, who was rather fond of scandals^ 
 told Gustave during the meal all that went on, and 
 the history of all her neighbours, and never stopped, 
 except to tell her husband to pour out the wine, or 
 to tell Susan to sit upright, and, as the latter sat on 
 Gustave's right, he continually looked at her and 
 smiled, which made her blush, for people are not so 
 used to that kind of thing in the country as they 
 are in towns. 
 
 Madame Lucas was telling him the story of the 
 carpenter's daughter, whose mother sent her to Paris 
 lo make a fine lady of her. " I must tell you," she 
 said, filling up Gustave's plate, who was already un- 
 able to eat a morsel more, " that the girl thought 
 she was cocksure of gettirg on in Paris . . . Yoa 
 are drinking nothing, monsieur ! Your good health,. 
 if I may take the liberty. Very well, then, but with- 
 
-56 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 out anybody exactly knowing how it happened, she 
 suddenly had a carriage and pair . . . Lucas, do 
 give monsieur something to drink, instead of sitting 
 there, doing nothing. Susan, don't stoop so. Well, 
 the funniest thing, to finish my story — you are 
 •eating nothing, monsieur — is that she came out 
 here in her carriage, and did not stop with her 
 parents, and acted like a princess, and they were 
 well laughed at for wishing to make a fine lady of 
 their daughter. Your good health, monsieur, and 
 your mother's and father's, and that of all your 
 friends and relations . . . And you will allow 
 that these were right, for . . ." 
 
 Here she was interrupted by Nicholas Toupet, 
 who called out and swore because some one had 
 trodden on his bunion. Daddy Lucas, who was just 
 pouring out some wine, let the bottle fall on to the 
 table, and the wine all ran into a dish of rabbit 
 stew ; Marie-Jeanne bit her lips to prevent herself 
 from laughing, and Benoit nearly choked himself 
 by bolting a large morsel. 
 
 They got up from dinner, and Madame Lucas 
 began to scold her husband for his awkwardness, 
 whilst Gustave talked with Susan; but Marie- Jeanne 
 did not lose sight of them, for a peasant girl's 
 passions are as strong as a town lady's, and passions 
 sometimes make foolish people clever, and clever 
 people very foolish. In the afternoon Gustave went 
 for a walk by himself in the woods, thinking of 
 Julia, and of what means he could employ to get a 
 letter to her. The sight of the shady groves and 
 of the carpet of turf reminded him of the pretty 
 billiard-room and the delightful lessons which his 
 pupil was so fond of having, and, above all things, 
 Tie cursed his imprudence. If he had only bolted 
 the door. 
 
 On returning to the village he thought of Susan, 
 of her timid airs and innocent manners. " Certainly," 
 
Ermenonville — Marie-Jeanne — Susan. 57 
 
 lie said, u I was very wrong to touch her knees and 
 tread on her foot, for she is modesty itself, and I 
 shall be giving her ideas . . . for I have made her 
 blush, and I am sorry for it. I am very fond of 
 women, and that is only natural ; I am inconstant, 
 but that is not my fault ; I cuckold husbands, but 
 then if I did not do it somebody else would. I might 
 almost say it was doing husbands a service to put 
 their wives to the test, for she who only keeps 
 straight because she has no chance of doing other- 
 wise is not worth much ; but I must not seduce an 
 innocent girl, and risk ruining her life, and although 
 I may be called a rake, I have no such faults to 
 reproach myself with hitherto. As for girls who 
 desire nothing better than being seduced, and who 
 know, when they leave school, in theory what they 
 do not in practice, it is quite allowable to attack 
 them, for they know what a lover wishes for, and 
 what they have to do." 
 
 So Gustave returned to the Lucas's with the firm 
 resolution not to make Susan blush any more, as it 
 might offend Nicholas Toupet, and it was quite 
 enough to have trodden on his toes. 
 
 They were waiting for supper, for villagers, during 
 the week, know of nothing but of three things, and 
 those are eating, drinking, and sleeping. Gustave 
 ate his supper, as he had nothing else to do, and then 
 he went up to his room, to recover from the fatigues 
 of the preceding days by a good sound sleep. Marie- 
 Jeanne looked at him as he was going upstairs, and 
 tried to read his eyes, but the young man, who really 
 required rest, paid no attention to the village girl's 
 glances, but went in and locked his door. 
 
 Benoit was sent to a room under the roof, near 
 where Nicholas slept, and all enjoyed that sleep 
 which had been disturbed by the events of the 
 preceding night. 
 
 Marie-Jeanne alone felt no inclination to do as 
 
58 That Rascal Grustave. 
 
 they did ; she got into bed, however, but could not 
 sleep. 
 
 The poor girl, after tossing to and fro for hours, 
 at last jumped out of bed. She was sorry and 
 annoyed, and had become jealous,; one idea gave 
 rise to another. She remembered how Gustave 
 had looked at Susan, and how attentive he had been 
 to her; how she had blushed, and the kick thai 
 Nicholas Toupet had received under the table. ** I 
 am quite sure," she said, " that they have come to 
 an understanding . . . But suppose she is with him 
 now ? I must find that out." 
 
 Marie- Jeanne having proceeded to Gustave's room, 
 put her ear to the keyhole, and stooped down to 
 look under the door ; she persuaded herself that she 
 heard them talking, moving, and sighing, and sc- 
 at last, in order to make quite sure, she determined 
 to go and knock at Susan's door, and if she did not 
 answer, there would be no doubt that she was in 
 the gentleman's room, and in that case Marie- Jeanne 
 made up her mind that she would wake the whole 
 house, and Toupet first of all, so that the girl should 
 be punished for daring to go to a man's room, lot 
 such a thing is horrible, shocking, abominable. 
 
 She went, therefore, and knocked at Susan's door,: 
 and when she got no answer, she knocked again, 
 and was going to make a disturbance, when a soft- 
 little voice asked, who was there ? As Marie- Jeanne 
 recognised Susan's voice, she saw she had made a 
 mistake, and so she turned to go, when somebody 
 gave her a tremendous smack, on which she 
 screamed out and ran away. 
 
 Nicholas Toupet loved Susan, whom he was to 
 marry, because he was a good workman, and was a 
 rich uncle's heir. He had also got jealous, for the 
 gentleman from Paris was very good-looking, and 
 had very nice manners, and Susan blushed and 
 looked at him shyly. All that made Nicholas fee!> 
 
J&rmenonville — Marie-Jeanne — Susan. 5d" 
 
 very uncomfortable, and so, suspecting something, 
 he could not sleep. He heard somebody walking 
 on the stairs (for the stout girl made a noise even 
 when she walked softly), so he went down and hid 
 himself near Susan's door ; he heard somebody com- 
 ing, and then that somebody knocked at her door, 
 and that must, of course, be a lover. Rage and 
 jealousy acknowledge no difference of rank, so 
 Toupet had slapped Marie- Jeanne as hard as he 
 could, imagining that it was his rival. Running 
 up her uneven staircase, Marie- Jeanne made a 
 false step and fell ; Nicholas followed her, and ox*- 
 reaching her, he at once found out his mistake. 
 
 "Why, is that you Nicholas?" said the girl, 
 getting up. 
 
 " Well, if it is not Marie-Jeanne ! If I had known 
 that, I should not have slapped so hard. I took you 
 for a thief; but what were you doing at Mdlle, 
 Susan's door ? " 
 
 " I went down because I thought I heard some- 
 body calling ; and you, Nicholas ? " 
 
 " I heard a noise, and so I came out of my room 
 to see what it was, but as it is nothing I will go to 
 bed again. Good-night, Marie-Jeanne." 
 
 " Good-night, Nicholas." 
 
 They both went back to their rooms, quite tran- 
 quillised. Nicholas knew that Susan was in her 
 room, and Marie-Jeanne had convinced herself that 
 the good-looking gentleman was alone in his, and 
 they both went to bed, very glad that they had 
 been mistaken. 
 
 Susan, as you remember, woke up when Marie- 
 Jeanne knocked the second time and asked who 
 was there ; she got no answer, but she heard some- 
 body scream out, and recognised Marie-Jeanne'a 
 voice, so she got up anxious about what it might 
 be, and fearing that one of her parents or the 
 strange gentleman were ill. 
 
60 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Gustave, who had also woke up, found some 
 difficulty in going to sleep again, and thought that 
 it was rather unkind of him to let the poor girl 
 who had come to him go away, for he had satisfied 
 himself that it was Marie-Jeanne. She was not so 
 pretty as Susan, but she was not so bad, and as he 
 intended to pass a few days at the villager's, it was 
 as well to humour her. 
 
 Our hero yielded to the temptation, to chance, to 
 destiny, to anything you like, so he got up, opened 
 ids door, went a few steps along the passage, and 
 found himself face to face with Susan, whom he 
 took for Marie- Jeanne ; he drew her towards his 
 room, and she let him do it ; he kissed her, and she 
 allowed him to ; she took so much pleasure in it 
 that she could not speak . . . 
 
 Susan uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and 
 Gustave one of surprise. " Good heavens! it is not 
 Marie- Jeanne ! " he said. 
 
 " No, it is I," Susan replied. 
 
 " Well, I am bound to commit stupid tricks con- 
 tinually," he thought, " but this time it is not my 
 fault, for Heaven knows I did not wish to injure 
 her." 
 
 Gustave sat d jwn by the girl and asked for an 
 explanation. "How did you come to be in the 
 passage in the middle of the night ? " 
 
 " Some one knocked at my door, and so I got up 
 to see what it was, for I thought you might be ill." 
 
 " Poor little girl, so you were thinking of me ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Are you vexed at what has happened ? " 
 
 " Well, I am vexed, and yet pleased. But I see 
 that vou took me for Marie-Jeanne, and were not 
 thinking of me." 
 
 " I was thinking of you very much, on the con- 
 trary, for I loved you, but did not venture to tell 
 jyou so, for I respected your innocence." 
 
Ermenonville — Marie-Jeanne — Susan. 61 
 
 " But do you really love me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but what about Nicholas Toupet ? " 
 
 " He will know nothing about it." 
 
 " Do you love him ? " 
 
 " Not particularly, and now I do not love him at 
 all." 
 
 " But you must marry him." 
 
 " Marry him ! Oh, dear, no ! I do not intend to 
 marry anybody now." 
 
 " Why, my dear child ? " 
 
 " Because I do not mean to deceive any one, and 
 then because I could not love my husband as I love 
 
 you." 
 
 " My dearest Susan, I love you with all my heart, 
 but I cannot marry you." 
 
 " I know that, monsieur." 
 
 "But why not Nicholas, as you said just now 
 that he would know nothing of what you have told 
 me?" 
 
 "But I should know it." 
 
 " What will your parents say if you refuse to 
 marry him ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You must be reasonable." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, but I shall never get married." 
 
 " Well," Gustave thought to himself, H she has- 
 great firmness of character, and I shall not be 
 able to bring her to reason just now, but when I 
 ani gone, she will forget me, and marry that idiot 
 Nicholas." 
 
 And Gustave, after having lectured the girl, who 
 was crying because he did not kiss her any more, and 
 wanted her to get married, took her into his arms, 
 pressed her to his heart, and consoled her with all 
 the eloquence that he was just then capable of. 
 
 Susan waited very impatiently downstairs for 
 the young man to wake up next morning, for him 
 who had said such nice things the previous night* 
 
S2 That Rascal Ghistave. 
 
 A girlish heart of sixteen soon becomes attached, 
 but this young girl was too sensitive to be happy. 
 
 Nicholas was quite cured of his suspicions, and 
 did not spy after his intended any more. Marie- 
 Jeanne, who felt ashamed when she was in Gustave's 
 presence, ran away whenever she saw him, and, as the 
 parents felt quite unsuspicious, they did not look 
 after their daughter. Besides that, they all had 
 quite enough to do with Benoit, who made himself 
 very comfortable now that he had forgotten the 
 fright which the cow had caused himself, and amused 
 himself all day by riding the donkeys, setting the 
 cocks to fight, going birds'-nesting and breaking the 
 branches of the trees, eating the hen's eggs, milking 
 the cows, and upsetting the cream in his attempts 
 at churning ; in chasing the fowls and shutting up 
 the ducks in the pigeon cots. 
 
 Whilst the others were repairing all the damage 
 that Benoit did, Gustave met Susan in the woods, 
 and in the evening as wel], when she would con- 
 stantly say : " I will never marry Nicholas ! " 
 
 A fortnight passed thus, though Gustave was to 
 have stayed only a week at Ermenonville, but 
 Susan's rustic charms had made him forget his vows 
 to Julia. At the end of that time, however, Gustave 
 found, after further vain attempts to persuade her to 
 marry Nicholas, that he should never cure her of her 
 love as long as he remained with her. He reproached 
 himself also for his neglect of Madame de Berly, and 
 as he never put off doing anything that he had 
 made up his mind to, he immediately bought some 
 countryman's clothes, ordered Benoit to saddle the 
 horses, paid Madame Lucas generously, kissed Susan 
 tenderly, put a napoleon into Marie- Jeanne's hand, 
 and announced his intention of starting for Paris 
 without further delay. 
 
 Susan, who had no idea that he meant to go, for 
 ihough she feared he would go, yet she hoped it 
 
A Clever Woman can make a Man believe, etc. 63 
 
 -would not be for a long time, as she felt as if she 
 .could not live without Gustave, gave a scream and 
 fell down at her mother's feet. Our hero grew pale 
 nad trembled, uncertain whether he ought to stay 
 .any longer or not ; but the peasants, who attributed 
 their daughter's fainting fit to a mere indisposition, 
 4Sarried her out into the open air immediately, where 
 .■she recovered, and looked at Gustave without saying 
 ,& word ; but he, feeling his courage fail him, jumped 
 >£sa to his horse, and left the village without daring to 
 dRirn round for fear of again meeting Susan's look. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CLEVER WOMAN CAN MAKE A MAN BELIEVE IN 
 MIRACLES. 
 
 After riding about a league, Gustave went into a 
 -thicket and made Benoit keep a sharp look-out, lest 
 tie might be seen and taken for a man whom the 
 gendarmes were after, disguising himself in the 
 midst of a wood, for he had not chosen to put on his 
 new clothes before leaving the village, as he did not 
 wish to be questioned. He put on a pair of wide grey 
 cotton trousers, a blue sleeve waistcoat, and a large 
 round hat, and returned to Benoit, who nearly ran 
 away as he did not know his master. 
 
 Gustave ordered him to go to Paris and wait for 
 him there at his friend Olivier's, whom he could 
 thoroughly trust, and with whom he could always 
 find a bed as long as his uncle was angry with him. 
 He thought the horses, which his uncle had given 
 Mm, had better be sold, as he should be wanting 
 money soon, and after telling Benoit to say to his 
 uncle, if he should happen to meet him, that he was 
 
64 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 ill, and had gone to stay with a friend, whose name*, 
 however, he had not told him, he dismissed him. 
 
 Whilst his servant started off to Paris, Gustave 
 took the road that led to M. de Berly's, and on 
 the way he wondered how he should get a letter 
 delivered to Julia. 
 
 He wondered whether his disguise was thorough 
 enough, and whether Julia was surrounded by spies, 
 who might intercept any letters to her. He did not 
 feel at all sure whether he ought to trust to a servant,, 
 who might indeed feel pity for a young man running 
 away as he did, but who, in spite of that, might not 
 feel inclined to be turned away by a good master. 
 Then, again, might not that compromise Julia, as no- 
 body was certain of her indiscretion except her hus- 
 band, who had seen it, for she might perhaps have 
 found means to justify herself in his eyes, which 
 indeed seemed a difficult matter, but which was not 
 impossible, for ladies have particular methods for 
 making something, that is quite evident, appear 
 doubtful, and so she might have persuaded her 
 husband that there was nothing wrong. 
 
 After thinking for a long time as to what he ought 
 to do, he made up his mind to leave the matter to 
 chance, which had so often favoured him, and so he 
 walked on without stopping till he saw the country 
 house where he had spent such happy moments, and 
 which he had left so unceremoniously, and then he 
 stopped to breathe freer, and to calm the emotion 
 which he felt. 
 
 At first he hid himself when he saw any villagers 
 coming, for he thought that everybody looked at him 
 attentively, and guessed that he was not what he 
 wished to appear; but when he saw that they all went 
 on without taking any notice of him, he got easier. 
 He went towards the house, and through the iron 
 garden gate he could see the spot where he had so 
 often walked, and he looked for the billiard-room r . 
 
A Clever Woman can make a Man believe, etc, 65- 
 
 but could not see it from where he was. All the 
 windows of the house were closed, and the place 
 looked like a desert, and he wondered wherever 
 they had gone. Seeing nobody at the gate of th& 
 yard, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and went up 
 to the porter whom he saw at the garden entrance. 
 On his inquiring whether the family were at home, 
 he was told in a gruff way that they were all in 
 Paris, and that he must go to the Rue Sentier if 
 he had any business with them, and with this the 
 porter turned his back on him. 
 
 He would not talk, and was evidently a coarse,, 
 rough, obstinate fellow ; certainly he would get no- 
 thing about Julia from him, and so he would have to 
 return without having seen anything of her. He was 
 just returning towards the gate when a woman came 
 out of a room on the ground floor and towards him, 
 and he was delighted to see that it was the cook who 
 had spoken to Benoit ; and just as he was wonder- 
 ing whether he dare venture to make himself known 
 to her, she passed close to him, and said, in a low 
 voice, — 
 
 " I recognised you, monsieur, and have something 
 to give you : please go and wait for me behind the 
 acacias, the other side of the road." 
 
 She went on and hung up some linen in the yard,, 
 and Gustave went out and walked towards the 
 acacias, thinking how much sharper women were 
 than men, as she had not seen him nearly as often 
 as the dolt of a porter, and yet recognised him with- 
 out hearing him. When she joined him, she said, — 
 
 " I have been expecting you for a long time, mon- 
 sieur. I only remained here to see you, and had to- 
 pretend to be ill, so as not to be obliged to go to 
 Paris with all the rest, as madam&told me she would 
 trust no one but me with a letter for you." 
 
 " Give it to me at once." 
 
 " Madame thought you would have come for it 
 
 E 
 
>8Q That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 much sooner, and I began to get very dull here by 
 
 myself ; but here it is." 
 
 " Will you take charge of this one for her ? " 
 " Yes, monsieur ; she shall have it to-day." 
 "Here, Margaret, take these two napoleons to 
 
 make up for your being detained here." 
 
 " Oh ! monsieur, I do not want any money for 
 
 being fond of madame, and wishing to help her, she 
 
 is so kind." 
 
 " But I wish you to take it." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, I will not disobey you." 
 
 " Good-bye, Margaret, and do not forget my 
 
 "letter." 
 
 "You need not be anxious, monsieur, she shall 
 
 have it this evening." 
 
 The good creature went away, and Gustave 
 
 thought, "I should not have heard from Julia but 
 
 for the cook, who is attached to her mistress, for I 
 
 suppose the lady's maid, to whom Madame de Berly 
 
 has shown many kindnesses, might have betrayed 
 
 her, but I must read the letter : — 
 
 " ' My Dear Friend, — I need not tell you what I 
 am suffering far from you, and I like to believe that 
 your heart shares my grief at our separation ; but 
 I must tell you what has happened since your 
 departure. 
 
 " 'Soon after you jumped out of the window, M. de 
 Berly left the room and went into the garden, but 
 he soon came up again ; I was nearly fainting, but 
 I wished to deceive him about my fault, not so 
 much for my sake as for his, to restore him to hap- 
 piness, by getting rid of an unpleasant thought out 
 of his head. I do not care myself for having 
 destroyed M. de Berly's happiness, and so just as he 
 was going to give vent to his rage, I pretended to be 
 terribly angry. I reproached him for not having 
 taken vengeance on a man who had come into my 
 
A Clever Woman can make a Man believe, etc. 67 
 
 room whilst I was asleep, and who, in spite of my 
 resistance, was on the point of triumphing over my 
 virtue if he had not come in suddenly and delivered 
 me from his insolent attempts. M. de Berly did not 
 know what to say or to believe ; he looked at me, 
 vtralked up and down the room, and did not knqw 
 what to make of it all. Seeing his indecision, I 
 began to weep bitterly, and I can declare to you that 
 my tears were not all feigned; and then, never 
 having seen me weep before, M. de Berly did not 
 doubt my innocence any longer, and begged my 
 pardon for his hastiness, which I willingly gave 
 him. He was grieved at having told the Colonel the 
 facts differently to what they really were, and I told 
 him to see him and get him not to mention the 
 matter. M. de Berly swore that he would be re- 
 venged on you, but I do not fear that threat, as 1 
 know that he would never attack anything but 
 game, so peace is re-established ; but I shall never 
 see you again. Ah! Gustave, this punishment is 
 so cruel that it ought to be an expiation for my 
 fault. My life must be spent in tears, and if people 
 only knew how cruel it is to pass one's life with 
 anybody whom it is impossible to love, a young girl's 
 heart would be consulted before she was married. 
 My parents sacrificed me, and M. de Berly never 
 tried to please me, and how could he ? Our ages, 
 our tastes, our characters are too opposed to each 
 other, and yet I am criminal for loving another. 
 " ' Farewell, be happy, but sometimes think of 
 
 ' Julia/ 
 
 "Dear Julia ! I shall see you again, for we are sure 
 to be favoured by chance," and Gustave kissed the 
 letter of the woman whom he had already deceived. 
 He could not help laughing at M. de Berly's credu- 
 lity, who, after finding a man in his wife's room, 
 still believed in her innocence. " Certainly," he said^ 
 
68 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " the text of Scripture must have been written for 
 them : Oculos habent et non videbwnt (Eyes have- 
 they and see not). 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A WEDDING AT LA VILLETTE. 
 
 " I shall go back to Paris," Gustave said to himself, 
 " for I have nothing to detain me here, and stop with 
 Olivier, and there I will consider how I can best 
 manage to see Julia again, without compromising 
 her, if possible. I am certain to succeed, as they say 
 that with perseverance one can do anything, though 
 it is only half true, for I have tried a hundred times 
 to become steady, and have not succeeded. How 
 many people pass their lives without attaining the 
 object they aim at, and I am afraid I shall be one 
 of them in this respect." 
 
 Thinking thus, he walked on towards Paris, but he 
 was only at Yauderland, and had still five leagues to 
 go, and was already tired. As he wished, however, 
 to get to Paris that evening, he looked out for some 
 conveyance with a spare place ; but this time chance 
 did not favour him, for all the vehicles from Louvres, 
 from Senlis, from Mortfontaine were full. 
 
 " Well," Gustave said, " I must go on foot, and get 
 there rather later. This confounded dress is, of 
 course, a hindrance, for I might see some private 
 carriage in which room could be found for the well- 
 dressed St Real, but into which a peasant would cer- 
 tainly not be taken up, and if I were to ask, I should 
 only be laughed at. I must look a queer figure." 
 
 As Gustave was trying to console himself by walk- 
 ing faster, he heard the noise of a carriage of some 
 sort, and looking round he saw a little two-wheeled 
 
A Wedding at La Villette. 69 
 
 ^trap, in which there sat a fat jolly-looking old fellow. 
 "" Upon my word," Gustave thought, " I may as well 
 try, for I daresay he will not refuse to give me a lift, 
 ^ind if he only goes a league my way, I shall have 
 saved that, so I will speak to him ; but I must not 
 forget that for the present I am a peasant," and so 
 he called out to the driver, " I say, monsieur ! " 
 
 " What do you want, my friend ? " 
 
 " I am very tired ; I left Ermenonville too late, 
 and so missed the public conveyance at Mortf ontaine, 
 and I must get to Paris to-day, and if I should not 
 be putting you out, I should be much obliged if you 
 would give me a lift." 
 
 " Of course I will, with pleasure ; get in, there is 
 plenty of room for two. There you are." 
 
 "Thank you very much; I was getting very 
 tired." 
 
 Gustave sat down by the jolly-looking old gentle- 
 man, and they began to talk. 
 
 " You have come from Ermenonville, you say ? I 
 know some people there, a farmer named Lucas." 
 
 " I was living with him." 
 
 " I am glad of that, for you will be able to tell me 
 something about them. Does Mother Lucas scold as 
 much as ever ? " 
 
 " More than ever, I should say." 
 
 "And I suppose little Susan is quite a young 
 woman by this time ? " 
 
 " She is, indeed, you might say she is quite formed." 
 
 " She promised to be pretty, but it is at least two 
 years since I was at Ermenonville, and in two years 
 a girl grows a great deal." 
 
 " She has indeed, and she has a pretty figure, and 
 is a fresh, charming girl" 
 
 " I say, young man, you speak very ardently ; do 
 you happen to be her intended, that Nicholas 
 Toupet whom Lucas mentioned to me, and whom 
 he was expecting the last time I was at his house ? " 
 
70 That Bascal Gustave. 
 
 " I am the very man, monsieur, Nicholas Toupet^ 
 Mdlle. Susan's future husband." 
 
 " I am delighted to meet you, M. Toupet. You 
 must have heard of me from the Lucas's. I am their 
 first cousin, Peter Ledru." 
 
 " What ! You are M. Ledru ? We spoke of you 
 very often." 
 
 " Let us embrace, M. Toupet." 
 
 " With pleasure, M. Ledru." 
 
 Whereupon the two men embraced, and Gustave 
 could hardly keep himself from laughing. There 
 was no great harm in taking Nicholas Toupet's name 
 for an hour or two, and as Gustave was fond of a bit 
 of fun, he hoped that the stout cousin's mistake 
 would give him some. 
 
 " I say, M. Toupet," Ledru said, after they had 
 settled down quietly, " are you in a great hurry to 
 get to Paris ? " 
 
 " Well I suppose it would do if I got there to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Very well, then, I have a proposal to make you; 
 I am going to La Viilette, to the wedding of a god- 
 daughter of mine, who has to-day married a grocer 
 in a large way of business in the neighbourhood. I 
 ought to have been there this morning for the mar- 
 riage ceremony, but was prevented by business, but I 
 shall be in time for dinner, which is the chief thing; 
 well, you must come as well. I will introduce you 
 to the company, and they will be all delighted to see 
 
 you." 
 
 " You are very kind, M. Ledru ; but will any of 
 Lucas's relations be there ? " 
 
 " None besides me ; but you may be quite easy. 
 they are all substantial people who will be present — 
 the tanner, the locksmith, the master-mason, the 
 contractor for emptying the cesspools — all highly 
 respectable people, and we shall enjoy ourselves very 
 much. We will eat and drink, and dance and joke.!* 
 
A Wedding at La VMette. 71 
 
 " Well, you look as if you enjoyed life." 
 
 " And let me tell you, also, that I am very fond o£ 
 a joke." 
 
 " Yes, they told me of some of your tricks." 
 
 " Are not they good ? And I intend to put the 
 bridegroom in a rage by-and-by, and to have my 
 share of the garter." 
 
 " Is the bride pretty ? " 
 
 " My god-daughter ? Yes, she is very nice. Her 
 hair is, perhaps, rather reddish, and her nose 
 rather big, but altogether she is a nice-looking 
 blonde, and strong ! She will hold up a man like 
 she would a kite, and goes through the gun-drill 
 like one of the National Guard. She is a woman t 
 Her husband will have something to do to tame 
 her." 
 
 Whilst they were talking they got to La Villette, 
 and Gustave felt sure that he should see something 
 quite new to him. There were no friends of the 
 Lucas' there, so nobody would suspect anything, 
 and then at a wedding all the guests think of 
 nothing but the festivities, and Gustave made up 
 his mind to play his part well, and if he were not 
 amused, to pick up his hat and go without being 
 noticed. Besides that, he was not sorry, dressed 
 as he was, to put off returning to Paris till night, 
 as he would run much less risk of being seen and 
 recognised by any of his acquaintances. 
 
 They got out at an inn whose sign was The- 
 Flourishing Bushel, with an announcement that 
 the dining-room would hold a hundred persons, and 
 hearing music, Ledru said, — 
 
 "They cannot have dined, for it is only three 
 o'clock." 
 
 "No, monsieur," a kitchen-maid replied, "they 
 have not dined, but the company are dancing, as, 
 dinner is not till four." 
 
 " That is all right, my dear ; I began to be afraid; 
 
72 That Rascal Gustave* 
 
 that I had lost my dinner. Let us go upstairs, M. 
 Toupet." 
 
 Upstairs they went, into the large room, and 
 found themselves amongst the dancers ; the gentle- 
 men were in their shirt sleeves, so that they might 
 be able to dance more gracefully; the wine was 
 already going round, and the more they drank, the 
 hotter and redder their faces became. 
 
 When Ledru entered, the dancing ceased, and they 
 all came round to shake hands and to embrace him 
 with noisy shouts of welcome. 
 
 " We were afraid you must have broken down on 
 the way, godfather," a large, stout woman said, in 
 rather a nice voice, and in whom, from M. Ledru's 
 description, Gustave recognised the bride. 
 
 " Come and kiss me, Lolotte," he said, opening his 
 arms to his god-daughter. "Ah! my dear little 
 girl, so this is the great day! You are dancing 
 this morning, you will dance this evening, and you 
 ■will dance to-night." 
 
 "My godfather always will have his joke," the 
 Ibride observed. 
 
 " M. Ledru," the bridgroom said to him, in rather 
 a portentous voice, "we should really have been 
 very sorry if you had played us false." 
 
 " I not come to your wedding, M. Detail ? Why, 
 rather than have missed it, I would have come on 
 my donkey. But wait a moment, there is some- 
 thing else ; I want to introduce some one to you." 
 
 Up till then nobody had paid any attention to 
 Gustave, who was standing in a corner, carefully 
 examining all the ladies present, and he was glad 
 to see that, amongst the twenty women, there were 
 three or four tolerably nice in their way; but he 
 was interrupted by Ledra, who took him by the 
 hand and introduced him to the bridegroom. 
 
 " M. Detail, let me introduce you to a friend ; 
 this is M. Nicholas Toupet, the intended of the 
 
A Wedding at Lu Villette. 73 
 
 daughter of my cousin Lucas, of Ermenonville. 
 He is a very clever fellow, and I hope he will not 
 lye one too many here." 
 
 " That would be quite impossible, godfather, and 
 I am sure, M. Toupet, you honour us very highly 
 lay coming." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, monsieur, the honour is 
 mine." 
 
 After this interchange of compliments, Gustave 
 -embraced the bride, her mother, her sister, her 
 aunts, her cousins, all the ladies present, in fact ; 
 his polite manners pleased them all, and everybody 
 thought M. Toupet charming. 
 
 The innkeeper just then came to say that dinner 
 was on the table, so they all went upstairs, and 
 after some little difficulty settled themselves. Gus- 
 tave sat between a stout dark lady and a little fair 
 one, and they were both prepossessing, so he 
 thought that he should have his choice, if they 
 ivere up to a little fun, and he made up his mind to 
 act very vigorously to keep up his assumed character. 
 
 Soup, boiled beef, pig's fry, cutlets were handed 
 round ; at the second course, veal, pork, rabbits, a 
 la mode beef, for there were no kickshaws; they 
 ate meat, and then meat again. 
 
 "Upon my word," Gustave thought, "this is 
 indeed an invigorating meal, and I suppose the 
 bride herself ordered it." 
 
 During dinner three musicians, who were placed 
 in one corner of the room, played some airs, which 
 they considered appropriate to the occasion, with all 
 their might, so that, in order to be heard, it was 
 necessary to speak very loud, and the result was 
 an infernal din. The wine soon took its usual 
 effect, and coarse jokes were bandied -about, and 
 received with shouts of laughter, enough to break 
 the windows. Cousin Ledru had stated his inten- 
 tion of having his joke, and he gave loose to a 
 
74 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 string of them which there was no misunderstand- 
 ing, as everything was put out perfectly clears 
 Meanwhile Gustave tried to make the nearer ac- 
 quaintance of his two neighbours, and addressed 
 himself first of all to the dark stout lady, and she 
 took his jokes very kindly, for she was fond of a 
 laugh. The false Toupet was very attentive, and 
 when he offered her wine, he was going to put 
 some water to it, which she, however, refused, on 
 the score of a slight inconvenience it caused her at 
 night, to which her husband especially objected. 
 
 On being told this, Gustave turned to the little 
 fair woman, as the other's confidential statement 
 had not particularly pleased him. 
 
 In five minutes Gustave learnt that the little 
 woman was a widow, cousin of the bridegroom ; that 
 she lived in the Eue aux Ours, and kept a draper's 
 shop ; that she was very fond of the play, and par- 
 ticularly melodramas; and that on Sundays she took 
 part in private theatricals, in a small hall which was 
 turned into a theatre, by permission of the Police 
 Commissaire, and that they acted almost as well as 
 at Doyen's. 
 
 "That is all right," he thought; "as she is a 
 widow, I shall neither disturb the peace of a house- 
 hold, nor can I be accused of seduction, for a woman- 
 who takes her part in private theatricals every 
 Sunday can hardly be looked upon as a novice in 
 intrigue. I will talk a little nonsense to her, just to 
 pass away the time; and a young man who wishes to 
 gain instruction ought to go through a course o£ 
 gallantry in all classes." 
 
 Madame Henri, that was the little widow's name r 
 opened her eyes wide, and sometimes seemed sur- 
 prised at Gustave's manners, for a woman who acts,, 
 even in private theatricals, must have some discern- 
 ment, and occasionally Gustave St Real forgot thai 
 he was supposed to be Nicholas Toupet. 
 
 >S 
 
A Wedding at La Villette. 75 
 
 Just as Madame Ratel, the stout dark lady, who 
 was put out by Gustave's neglect, as he now talked 
 only with his other neighbour, was trying to join, 
 in their conversation, she was interrupted by a 
 scream from the bride ; the great booby who had got 
 under the table to take off her garter, had seized 
 hold of it and pulled it vigorously, hoping to get it 
 off at once, but Lolotte, who thought it might come 
 off before the appointed time, had taken the precau- 
 tion to tie it very tightly, and then, listening only 
 to the compliments which were being paid her, she 
 had forgotten to loosen it. 
 
 The best man tugged so hard, that Lolotte slipped 
 from her chair with a scream ; everybody jumped up 
 and looked for the bride, and she was found under 
 the table. M. Detail was not strong enough to pick 
 his wife up, so her godfather helped him, and assured 
 him that it was a capital joke on the part of the best 
 man. The bridegroom did not seem to see it quite 
 in the same light, but Ledru remarked that it must 
 have been so dark under the table that the stupid 
 fellow could not possibly have seen what he was 
 doing, and this bright idea quite reassured him. " I 
 don't mind at all," he said, " as long as my wife is 
 not offended." 
 
 Lolotte resumed her place at table without appear- 
 ing at all disconcerted, and the best man took his place 
 by her side, red as a beetroot. The renowned garter 
 was cut up into little pieces and distributed ; the 
 dessert, coffee and liquors, were brought in, and the 
 mirth got so uproarious that one would not even 
 have heard a cannon fired off on the floor below. 
 
 At last it was time for the ball, and going down- 
 stairs they pushed and squeezed till some fell down, 
 amidst shouts of laughter. The ladies were wildly 
 excited, and the gentlemen were at liberty to handle^ 
 to pinch, and to squeeze anything they happened to- 
 come upon, for at a wedding such things are allows 
 
76 Thai Rascal Gustave. 
 
 able, and at La Villette certainly no one would 
 object to such trifles as those. 
 
 For a long time a journeyman cabinet-maker, of 
 the Faubourg St Antoine, had been looking at 
 Madame Henri, and casting angry glances at M. 
 Toupet, but Gustave did not pay the slightest atten- 
 tion to them, and went on joking with the lady. 
 He danced two country dances with her, and the 
 cabinet-maker asked her for the next, but Gustave, 
 somewhat excited by the noise and the heat, asked 
 her to go into the garden with him, to which she 
 agreed, and went down, quite forgetting her engage- 
 ment with the other. 
 
 They walked about the garden arm-in-arm, talk- 
 ing, ogling, squeezing hands and sighing, and at last 
 Gustave proposed that they should sit down in a 
 dark shrubbery — for the gardens of a country inn 
 are only lighted up on Sundays and Mondays — and 
 the little widow agreed. He snatched a kiss, and she 
 laughed; but when he attempted to take further 
 liberties, she got angry, and would not allow him. 
 
 She was perfectly virtuous ; she did not object to 
 a little fun, but then — it must not go too far, and 
 Gustave thought it strange that a little woman who 
 kept a draper's shop should object, in an inn garden 
 at La Villette, to what ladies in boudoirs in Paris 
 offered no objection. 
 
 He promised to behave better, and so she forgave 
 him, and sat down by his side again, and they spoke 
 ^bout love, marriage, faithfulness, and so on. Poor 
 woman, she wanted a husband, and had tried to catch 
 this one, so she must have forgotten that M. Nicholas 
 is the intended of Mdlle. Susan Lucas, of Ermenon- 
 v ille. But no ; she was pretty, M. Nicholas sighed 
 ^when he looked at her, and she hoped to supplant 
 Susan, for where is the woman who does not reckon 
 somewhat on the power of her charms ? 
 
 Their conversation was very tender, and Gustave 
 
A Wedding at La Villette. It 
 
 was trying to induce her not to be so rigorous, when 
 suddenly the cabinet-maker made his appearance 
 in a rage, with his eyes flashing like those of a cat 
 which has just had its tail cut off, and he came up to 
 Gustave with clenched fists and his head thrown 
 back. 
 
 "M. Toupet, I do not call it polite to prevent a 
 gentleman from dancing with a lady who has en- 
 gaged herself to him, and this lady here would now 
 be in the ball-room with me if you had not taken 
 her into the garden, to do I don't know what ? " 
 
 Gustave listened to his discourse quite calmly, and 
 then, forgetting the part he was playing, he burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 The journeyman, who saw that he was being made 
 fun of, got all the more angry, and hit Gustave a 
 blow on the nose, who jumped up in an instant and 
 seized him by the collar, and so a regular fight 
 began, and the little woman screamed, cried, and 
 called for help. 
 
 The waiters came running immediately, then the 
 master, then the maids, and at last the scullions, till 
 the alarm reached the ball-room, and the dancing 
 was interrupted. The bridegroom, who was danc- 
 ing with his wife for the first time, thought it was 
 his place to make peace between his guests, and so, 
 letting Lolotte's hand go, he rushed into the garden, 
 followed by the others, and on getting there they 
 found Gustave holding the cabinet-maker on to the 
 ground, and, with his knees on his stomach, he was 
 clutching him by the throat with one hand, and 
 pulling one of his ears with the other. The poor 
 wretch was nearly being choked, and tried to beg for 
 mercy, but Gustave, who was very angry at having 
 been obliged to come to fisticuffs, could not contain 
 himself; luckily, however, a number of dancers 
 came up, who seized M. Nicholas, and picked up the 
 half-dead cabinet-maker. 
 
°78 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 They tried to make it up between the anta- 
 gonists, and Gustave was quite willing, for he could 
 expect no satisfaction from people whom he hoped 
 never to see again. One of his eyes was rather 
 black, and he had lost a little skin off his nose ; but 
 he had wished to see a country wedding, and when 
 one wants to see everything, one must expect occa- 
 sionally to meet with slight unpleasantnesses. 
 
 The unfortunate cabinet-maker had had quite 
 enough, and declared that he would never quarrel 
 with M. Toupet again. The little draper cried, and 
 reproached herself for having been the cause of the 
 fight by her forgetfulness, whilst Madame Ratel 
 -made malicious remarks, and wanted to know why 
 Madame Henri and Gustave had gone into the 
 shrubbery, which was so far from the house, and 
 Gustave, who had had quite enough of that sort of 
 amusement, asked M. Detail where his hat was. 
 
 " What, M. Nicholas, you are going to leave us 
 already ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; I have business in Paris, and I 
 want to go to bed soon, so as to be up early in the 
 morning." 
 
 " But, at any rate, wait for supper.' 
 
 "I am much obliged to you, but I have had 
 such a good dinner that I could not eat anything 
 snore." 
 
 " Well, do have a glass of wine." 
 
 " Nothing whatever, thank you, M. Detail." 
 
 " Well, as you are determined, I will go and ask 
 Lolotte where the hats are." 
 
 M. Detail went up into the ball-room, where he 
 found only the musicians helping themselves to 
 the refreshments which had been- prepared for 
 the company. 
 
 a I wonder where my wife is ? " the husband said, 
 looking into all the rooms. 
 
 " I wonder where the devil my hat is ? " Gustave 
 
A Wedding at La Villette. 79 
 
 ■said, hunting in every corner; "hot as I am, I can- 
 not go to Paris without my hat. It is bad enough to 
 have a black eye and a damaged nose, without catch- 
 ing cold into the bargain." 
 
 Going through a passage they saw a little door, 
 ^nd a servant girl told them that all the coats and 
 hats of the gentlemen had been put there, but there 
 ^was no key in it. 
 
 "Wait a moment," the girl said, " my mistress has 
 a key that opens all these doors." 
 
 She went down and returned with a bunch of keys. 
 M. Detail opened the door and went in, with a candle 
 in his hand, followed by Gustave and the servant. 
 The husband uttered an exclamation, and recoiled ; 
 and Gustave, looking over his shoulder, saw Lolotte 
 reclining on a mattress, and the best man toying 
 with the bride. 
 
 At the first moment, the bridegroom could not 
 believe his eyes, he went nearer with the candle— 
 the great booby tried to creep under the mattress 
 — and the servant girl opened her eyes in horror, 
 whilst Gustave was curious to see how Lolotte would 
 get out of the difficulty. 
 
 " It is really my wife ! " M. Detail cried, and in his 
 consternation he let his candle fall. It fell on the 
 4ress of his wife, and the inflammable substance 
 caught fire. Lolotte jumped up, uttering loud yells, 
 rushed out holding up her clothes, and sat down in 
 a tub of water put in the supper-room to cool the 
 wine. All the guests came running to see what was 
 the matter ; the best man ran away as fast as his 
 legs could carry him ; th« servant related what she 
 had seen; the men tried to console the husband, and 
 M. Ledru tried to pass it off as a joke which had 
 l»een raised to test his love for his wife. The ladies 
 surrounded the tub and picked Lolotte out of it, who 
 was in despair at having been found in the position 
 she was by her husband ; but Madame Ratel soothed 
 
80 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 her somewhat by promising to buy her another 
 dress. 
 
 In the midst of all this confusion, Gustave picked 
 up the first hat he could find, and left The Flourish- 
 ing Bushel, vowing, though rather late in the day r 
 that nobody should ever catch him there again. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MISTAKE — THE PATROL — THE LITTLE LAUNDRESS. 
 
 " It is always the same thing," Gustave said to* 
 himself as he was going down the Faubourg St 
 Martin ; " I always act without reflection, and so I 
 am constantly doing something foolish. Had I 
 thought a little, I should not have gone to this 
 wedding, where I was very much out of place, and 
 I should not have upset The Flourishing Bushel ; 
 Madame Ratel would not have told me that her 
 husband has good reasons for not wishing her to 
 drink water ; the little widow would not have gone- 
 into the garden, and would have danced with any- 
 body who asked her ; I should not have had to fight 
 with that idiot of a cabinet-maker, or had a black 
 eye or a swollen nose ; the bridegroom would not 
 have gone into that little dark closet where his 
 charming better-half was shut up with that booby, 
 who would have had time to take off and put on 
 her garters three or four times ; and poor Lolotte 
 would not have been obliged to sit down in a tub of 
 water because the fire had caught the front of . . . 
 her dress. What the devil was I doing in that 
 galley ? * What would my uncle say if he were to- 
 see me in this dress, with my face all damaged T 
 
 * The question put by the father to the scampish valet of his sob 
 in Moliere's play, Les Fourleries de Scapin. 
 
Mistake — The Patrol — The Little Laundress. 81 
 
 But it's nearly one o'clock in the morning. Can I 
 go to Olivier's so late as this ? I should not mind 
 if I had only to put up with his making fun of me, 
 but I should have to wake up that confounded 
 porter, and perhaps other people besides, and to be 
 seen in this state, and covered with dirt — for that 
 brute of a cabinet-maker threw me three times — 
 would never do ; the hat I took in the dark has no- 
 shape whatever, and then just look at my nose and 
 my eye I For what should I be taken? I shall 
 have to spend the night in the streets. Devil take- 
 La Villette, the wedding, cabinet-makers, and little 
 linen-drapers I " 
 
 He was at the Porte St Martin, and there he 
 stood uncertain whether to turn to the right or 
 left, or to stop where he was, when suddenly an 
 idea struck him, at which he smiled, and set off 
 hastily towards the Rue Chariot. 
 
 The reader may or may not remember a little 
 clear-starcher called Lizzie, of whom Colonel Moran- 
 val spoke at the beginning of this story, and with 
 whom our hero ran away whilst at school, and went 
 to live with her in a little room in the Rue du Fau- 
 connier. His uncle found out young Hopeful, and 
 took the girl back to her mother; but as one cannot 
 keep a young man always locked up, and laun- 
 dresses must take the linen to their customers, the 
 two young people managed to meet, at first often 
 and very lovingly, but afterwards less frequently 
 and with less ardour, till at last Gustave altogether 
 neglected little Lizzie, who, for her part, had very 
 rightly consoled herself with somebody else. 
 
 However, a girl always retains a little kindly 
 feeling for a young fellow, who, although he may 
 be changeable, has yet many endearing qualities; 
 and a man likes to meet a pretty woman who has 
 made him taste all the sweets of love. It is cer- 
 tainly only a fleeting pleasure that we experience,, 
 
 F 
 
82 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 but even that is something, and so Gustave and 
 Lizzie always met with pleasure. 
 
 Four years had passed since he had carried off the 
 girl, and many things had happened since then. Her 
 mother had died, and she was working on her own 
 account, having taken a room in another neighbour- 
 hood to that in which she was born, because her ad- 
 ventures with Gustave had made a good deal of noise 
 in the Rue St Antoine, and the clerks at the Petit- 
 Saint-Antoine were rude enough to laugh whenever 
 she passed by the shop. Thenceforward Lizzie was 
 lier own mistress ; she wished to do as she pleased, 
 but she did not wish to be exposed to evil tongues, 
 and so she went and hired a room in the Rue Char- 
 lot. There she was near the minor theatres, and 
 might hope for the custom of some of the actors at 
 the Ambigu or of the Gait6, and by that means she 
 might perhaps get tickets (you see she was prudent); 
 she was very quiet, and kept herself as respectable 
 as any young girl can who earns twenty sous a day 
 and wishes to wear a bonnet. Gustave remembered 
 Lizzie, for she had given him her address the last 
 time they met, and he knew that girls who live in a 
 room by themselves never take it in a house where 
 there is a porter. 
 
 He went along the Boulevards till he got to the 
 Rue Chariot, when it suddenly struck him that he 
 "had forgotten the number of her house. What was 
 he to do ? There was nothing for it but to knock at 
 every entry, which would be so much the worse for 
 those who would be disturbed in their sleep ; so much 
 the worse for those who were ill; so much the worse 
 for those who were dreaming that they possessed 
 what they really had not got, and for the author who 
 dreamt that his book was a success ; so much the 
 worse for the coquette who fancied that she was re- 
 ducing twenty lovers to despair, and for an old woman 
 whose dream was that she had grown young again ; 
 
A Mistake— The Patrol— The Little Laundress. 83 
 
 t)ut so much the better for the woman who was in 
 the arms of the man whom she adored, or for him 
 ^whose happiness was perfect, and whose future ap- 
 peared to him in nothing but rosy colours. But, on 
 the whole, there are many more cases of go much 
 the worse than so much the better. 
 
 "Here is an entry, I will knock, and knock 
 loudly." 
 
 " Who is there ? What do you want ? " 
 
 " Would you kindly tell me whether Mdlle. Lizzie 
 clear-starcher, lives about here." 
 
 " Confound you and your clear-starcher ! Was 
 there ever such a thing heard of as to wake up a 
 whole house at one o'clock in the mornincr in order 
 to ask for an address ? " 
 
 " It is a very important matter." 
 
 "If the guard were to pass, I would have you 
 saken into custody." 
 
 " And I will tell you what, if you don't hold 
 your tongue, I will fling some stones through your 
 windows." 
 
 The gentleman retired and closed his window 
 heartily wishing Gustave at the devil. 
 
 Without being the least discouraged, he went on 
 a few yards and knocked at another entry. 
 
 " This time," he said, " I must knock more softly, 
 and try and wake up the inhabitants by degrees " ' 
 
 He knocked gently at a little green door, and im- 
 mediately a window on the first floor was opened. 
 
 " This time the people are not all asleep," he 
 inought, " or else some are very light sleepers." 
 
 "Is that you, my friend," a woman asked, in a soft 
 gentle voice. ' 
 
 " Another adventure ; just let us see how it will 
 turn out," and he replied with a low " Fes." 
 
 ' It is very unkind of you to have kept me wait- 
 ing so long, when you knew that my husband was on 
 guard at the Chateau d'Eau, and that he could not 
 
84 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 leave his post to come and sleep with his wife. If 
 you will wait a moment, I will throw you down 
 the latch-key, as I cannot come down, for I am 
 undressed." 
 
 The little woman went away from the window r 
 and Gustave scratched his head, being very unde- 
 cided what to do. The idea of a little woman with 
 a soft voice, and who is waiting for you in the middle 
 of the night, whilst her husband is on guard at the 
 Chateau d'Eau, was very seductive ; but then she 
 was not waiting for Gustave, and when she saw her 
 mistake, she would be confused and in despair ; and 
 then if the friend were to come, there would bo 
 another row, and another fight, upsetting the whole 
 house. It would be very foolish, and certainly he 
 would not take the latch-key. 
 
 Such was the result of Gustavo's reflections, and I 
 think it was very prudent conduct on the part of a 
 young man of his character ; but, between ourselves, 
 I think a little self-love had something to do with 
 this. A young fellow like Gustave would not care 
 to show himself, for the first time, to a woman dressed 
 in the way he was, and with a black eye and a 
 damaged nose, for the first impression could hardly 
 be an agreeable one ; and when one is accustomed to 
 conquer, one does not willingly expose oneself to 
 being laughed at to one's face. 
 
 The little woman re-appeared at the window?, 
 and tying a handkerchief to the key was going 
 to throw it to Gustave, when he said, in a distinct 
 voice, — z 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame, but I think we are 
 both of us mistaken." 
 
 " Good heavens, it is not he ! " 
 
 " Pray, madame, do not go away without listen- 
 ing to me." 
 
 " But, monsieur, you will be thinking all sorts of 
 things ; but I was expecting my brother and as h© 
 
A Mistake — The Patrol — The Little Laundress. 85 
 
 lias quarrelled with my husband, I chose this 
 moment to talk to him." 
 
 " Madame, I do not the least doubt what you have 
 told me, and you may rely on my discretion. You 
 -see that I am worthy of your confidence, as I would 
 not take the latch-key which you would have thrown 
 down to me if I had not made myself known." 
 
 "You are quite right, monsieur." 
 
 " Will you, therefore, be kind enough to tell me 
 whether you know a girl, a clear-starcher, in this 
 street ? " 
 
 " A little dark girl, slightly marked with small- 
 pox?" 
 
 " That is she, madame." 
 
 " That is Lizzie." 
 
 " That is the very girl I want ; do you know her, 
 madame ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, I am one of her customers . . . 
 I mean . . . that is to say, she does not know me, 
 but washes for one of my friends." 
 
 " All right," Gustave thought ; " she is afraid lest 
 I should find out her and her husband's name from 
 Lizzie. Madame, could you tell me the number of 
 her house ? I want to see her, for there is some- 
 thing I very particularly wish to tell her." 
 
 " I do not know the number, but I can point out 
 the house to you. There it is, monsieur, the first 
 house on the right after you have passed the Rue 
 St Foi. Oh gracious! there is a patrol, and my 
 husband is sure to be with them." 
 
 Here the lady, who had been leaning out of the 
 window to point out Lizzie's house to Gustave, 
 precipitately drew in her head and quickly shut 
 the window. 
 
 Gustave turned round and saw a patrol of the 
 ^National Guard, which had just turned out of the 
 Rue Boucherat, and was coming straight towards 
 ton. One of the soldiers of the patrol was the little 
 
8ft That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 woman's husband, and he had persuaded his corporal 
 to let the round pass through the Rue Chariot, 
 because it would be so nice to be able to say to 
 his neighbours next day, " I watched over you last 
 night." 
 
 But in the distance the husband had seen his wife 
 at the window talking to a suspicious-looking man, 
 and so he left the ranks and ran after Gustave r 
 shouting, "Follow me, corporal." 
 
 Gustave had been watching the patrol, uncertain 
 whether he should wait for it or not ; but before he 
 could make up his mind the husband got up to him, 
 seized him by the collar, and ordered him to go with 
 him to the guard-house. Our hero's reply was a 
 blow on the nose, which knocked the unfortunate 
 man into the gutter, and then he ran down the 
 street ; the corporal ordered his soldiers to pursue 
 the fugitive, but Gustave ran a great deal quicker 
 than men who had their musket, sword, and knap- 
 sack, and who were not used to carrying all this. 
 As he was not at all desirous of passing the night in 
 the guard-room, seeing the door of an entry which 
 was not closed, he ran in, closed it behind him, and 
 rushed, four steps at a time, up a winding staircase, 
 that he would not have gone up in broad daylight 
 without looking a dozen times to see where he was- 
 going to ; but to escape from the patrol he would have 
 scrambled on to the roofs and crawled along the 
 gutters, for in hot blood one often does things that- 
 one would not think of in calmer moments. 
 
 At last Gustave stopped, for he had got up as far 
 as the garrets, so he could not very well go any 
 higher. But what was he to do now ? Not having 
 the slightest idea, he tried a door which he could 
 just see in front of him; but as soon as it opened he 
 went out again, for there are certain places which 
 one recognises immediately even though one cannot 
 see very clearly. 
 
A Mistake — The Patrol — The Little Laundress. 8T 
 
 The patrol which was after Gustave had seen what 
 house he had gone into, and so they knocked at the 
 door, and called upon the inhabitants to give up the 
 culprit. From the sixth floor Gustave plainly heard, 
 the noise that was going on in the street, and so he 
 went down to the fifth, making up his mind to go 
 and parley at the door of the entry, when he heard a 
 voice which he seemed to know. 
 
 " Good heavens ! what a noise there is in the 
 street to-night, there is no sleeping for it." 
 
 "Here she is," Gustave said. " Hurrah ! I avi all 
 right now," and so he knocked at the door where the 
 voice came from. 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "It is I, Lizzie, Gustave; open the door as quick 
 as you can." 
 
 " Gustave ! " 
 
 The little laundress jumped out of bed at once,, 
 and ran to open the door, but screamed out when she 
 saw a young man whom she did not recognise in the- 
 dress which disguised him so completely. He, how- 
 ever, went in without any ceremony, threw himself 
 upon the bed, and cried out, — 
 
 " Here I am, and I will defy all husbands, guard- 
 rooms, and patrols." 
 
 Lizzie took her night-light and looked at him*. 
 
 " It really is he," she said. 
 
 " Of course it is I, though I know I am almost 
 unrecognisable at first sight." 
 
 "Good gracious! I should think so. In what a 
 state you are ; a black eye, blood on your face, 
 and then on your clothes ! . . . What a sight for a 
 young man like you ! " 
 
 " If you only knew all that has happened to me i 
 Just listen how they are knocking at the entrance 
 door." 
 
 " Are they making all that noise about you ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear child. I have upset La Villette ; I_ 
 
$8 that Rascal Gustave. 
 
 have sown the seed of jealousy in the heart of 
 •a journeyman cabinet-maker, brought despair to 
 the soul of a newly-married man, and been the 
 cause of the front of his wife's dress catching 
 fire." 
 
 " Dear, dear me, you are the same scamp as ever, 
 and so I suppose you had a fight." 
 
 " And, as you see, although I came off victorious, 
 I did not come off altogether unmarked." 
 
 " But what about those fellows who are knocking 
 at the door ? What do they want ? " 
 
 " They want to take me into custody. It is one of 
 the night rounds whom I altogether upset, because 
 . . . by-the-bye, do you know a married lady in this 
 street who lives about a couple of hundred yards 
 from here, on the first floor of a house with a little 
 green door ? " 
 
 " Of course I do ; it must be Madame Dubourg." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" 
 
 "Very pretty, a bright face, a knowing little 
 nose . . ." 
 
 "I only wish I had known that rather sooner. 
 And her husband ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he is a good sort of man, of about forty, 
 and wears shirt frills." 
 
 " He wears something besides that, unless I am 
 very much mistaken." 
 
 " How do you know Madame Dubourg, I should 
 like to know ? " 
 
 "I do not know her the least, and should not 
 recognise her were I to meet her in the street. But, 
 never mind that, are they knocking still? No ; just 
 as I thought, as nobody took any notice, they have 
 :gone away." 
 
 " What were they after you for ? " 
 
 "I will tell you all about it by-and-by." 
 
 " Now I must bathe your eye and your nose, for 
 ;you are in a terrible state." 
 
A Mistake — The Patrol — Tlie Little Laundress. 89 
 
 " Of course you did not expect to see me, Lizzie, 
 •so I am fortunate to have found you alone." 
 
 " Why should you be ? Don't I live by myself ? " 
 
 " Yes, but that makes a difference, for you might 
 have had a visitor who stayed late." 
 
 "I never receive such sort of visitors. Well, 
 why do you look so surprised ? " 
 
 " I suppose you are a very good girl now ? " 
 
 " Haven't I always been a good girl ? " 
 
 "Of course you have, but you might be very good, 
 and yet have a friend . . ." 
 
 " Thank you ; I would rather not have any more 
 of those sort of friends, men are much too false and 
 perfidious." 
 
 " You are quite right, my dear child . . . Take 
 care, you are letting the brandy and water go all 
 over my face." 
 
 " That will not hurt you, and you ought only to 
 
 oe too thankful to me for looking after you when 
 
 other women have been the cause. Ah ! ah ! you 
 
 wicked fellow! Your uncle was quite right to find 
 
 iault with you." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Poor little Lizzie ! So you do 
 not love me at all now ? " 
 
 " I only wish I did not, but I love you still, in 
 -spite of myself, for you do not deserve any one to 
 take the slightest interest in you. Now leave off; 
 leave me alone, do, or I shall throw all this in your 
 face ! " 
 
 "My face has had so much that it need not be 
 afraid of a little drop more. You look so charming 
 in your night-cap." 
 
 " There, that Will do. Gustave, I shall get angry 
 directly." 
 
 "Your eyes are brighter than usual." 
 
 " That is because I am so angry; but what are you 
 rgoing to do ? " 
 
 "Well, I am undressing, as you see." 
 
90 That Rascal ttustiave. 
 
 "What for, pray?" 
 
 "Well, to go to bed, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh! you are going to bed are you? Yow 
 certainly are very cool ! " 
 
 " You surely do not expect me to sit up all night? 
 Tired as I am, I should be nearly dead by morning." 
 
 " Now, I declare, if he has not actually got inta 
 bed! And what am I to do, I should like ta 
 know ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 GUSTAVE MAKES MADAME DUBOURG'S ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 When Gustave woke up next morning, he saw that 
 Lizzie was blowing the fire so as to get a cup of 
 coffee. 
 
 " My dear child, what are you doing ? " 
 
 " Well, you can see that I am making coffee for 
 breakfast." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, and I am very fond of 
 coffee, but when one has had a fright and a long 
 walk, had the patrol at one's heels, and a pretty 
 woman for one's hostess, one requires something 
 rather more reinvigorating than coffee. Just take 
 the purse which you will find in that coarse blue 
 waistcoat, and go to the butcher's, the grocer's, the 
 pork shop, and get some chitterlings, pork sausages., 
 mutton and veal cutlets, cheese, ham, and, above- 
 all things, some of the best wine that you can get.' r 
 
 " But, good heavens ! what a breakfast ! and 
 whilst I am out, my linen will not be ironed, and. 
 I must take it to my customers this morning." 
 
 "So much the worse for your customers, they 
 will have to wait a day longer, so just do as I tell 1 
 you." 
 
Gustave makes Madame Dubourtfs Acquaintance. 91 
 
 Whilst Lizzie was out Gustave thought over what 
 he had done, and what he was going to do. In the^ 
 first place, he quite made up his mind not to put on 
 the cotton trousers and the blue waistcoat again., 
 but then, how was he to get any other clothes ? He 
 must send Lizzie to Olivier's, and he would give her 
 or Benoit all he wanted to enable him to show him- 
 self properly in the streets of Paris. Olivier was- 
 about his size and make, so that his clothes might 
 fit him; but then came the question whether Olivier, 
 who was not very steady, would have a spare suit of 
 clothes ! In any case, surely Benoit must have 
 brought the things his master wore at Ermenonville" 
 to Paris with him, unless the idiot had lost them on 
 the way, and, if worst came to the worst, he had still 
 plenty of money, and in Paris anyone who knew 
 how to manage it could get dressed perfectly in 
 twenty minutes. 
 
 When Lizzie came back with a basketful of good 
 things, Gustave got up, and putting on a pair of 
 washing trousers (the first he happened to find) and 
 a dressing-jacket, which belonged to some fat old 
 woman, he set to work to help Lizzie get breakfast 
 ready. They cooked it all as best they could, amidst 
 much fun and laughter, and then proceeded to eat it r - 
 and pronounced it to be excellent. Lizzie was amused 
 at Gustave's appetite ; and, even whilst they were 
 eating, they could not help billing and cooing ; first 
 she slapped and then kissed him, was angry when 
 Gustave was too bold, and put out when he forgot 
 his rude manners too long. 
 
 " Well, now, my dear child," Gustave said, after 
 having satisfied all his wants, " for the present we 
 have enjoyed ourselves enough, and I want to talk 
 to you sensibly, for I must find means of getting 
 out of here." 
 
 " Well, there is no one to stop you from going 
 whenever you like." 
 
02 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " I suppose you have quite forgotten that I came 
 dressed as a peasant, which, by the way, did not turn 
 out particularly well for me, and that I should not 
 dress myself like that again for all the world." 
 
 " I did not think of that ; of course you want 
 some other clothes. Shall I go to your house to get 
 them for you ? " 
 
 " Well, I have not exactly a house to go to at this 
 moment, as I live with my uncle, and he happens to 
 be in a great rage with me just now. I want to give 
 his anger time to cool down a little." 
 
 " Poor old Colonel, what a trouble you must be to 
 Urn." 
 
 " I do it out of kindness to him, for a retired 
 officer must want something to distract him ; but 
 now you must go to Olivier." 
 
 " He is a nice sort of fellow, who goes to public 
 balls, frequents gambling-houses and cafes, and goes 
 after girls." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Really, my dearest Lizzie, 
 you have become very moral all of a sudden. If 
 my uncle were only to hear you, I am quite sure he 
 would make it up with you, although he thought 
 you a regular loose little wench." 
 
 " What ! Your uncle thought that of me ? Gouty 
 old monkey, to speak evil of others ! I'll scratch his 
 eyes out when I see him." 
 
 "My dear Lizzie, show a little respect for my 
 ancle." 
 
 "An old fox who has lost his tail! He never 
 caught his rheumatism in the wars." 
 
 " I say, I say, Lizzie ! " 
 
 " He called me a loose little wench, did he ? I'll 
 #nake him pay for it ! " 
 
 " Look here, remember what you are saying." 
 
 " I will not allow anybody to make reflections 
 ^on my conduct." 
 
 " Of course not, it would be terrible." 
 
Gustave makes Madame Dubourg's A cquaintance. 9& 
 
 " I ! who am so quiet, and never go out and never 
 see anybody here." 
 
 " Of course, everybody knows that you live just 
 like a vestal." 
 
 " And to say that I am . . ." 
 
 " Well, now, I have had enough of all that; when* 
 once one touches a woman on her tender point, there 
 is no end to it, so now go to Olivier's, please." 
 
 " Where is your nice friend Olivier living now f 
 may I ask ? " 
 
 "In the Rue des Petites-Ecuries, close to the 
 Faubourg Poissoniere." 
 
 " And am I to ask him for some clothes for you?" 
 
 " Yes ; tell him what has happened to me." 
 
 " You don't suppose that I am going to tell him 
 that you spent the night here ? " 
 
 " You had better say that I came this morning, 
 or tell him whatever you like, only remember thai 
 I want coat, trousers, waistcoat, hat, and boots." 
 
 " And am I to carry all that ? " 
 
 " Take a little commissionaire if you like, for I 
 am afraid that my fellow Benoit might be recog- 
 nised and followed." 
 
 " Then I will be off, but mind you do not open 
 the door to anybody during my absence, for it would 
 do me a great deal of harm if a young man, dressed 
 in a pair of trousers and dressing-jacket, both of 
 which belong to customers of mine, were seen here." 
 
 " Pray don't distress yourself. I will not open the 
 door to anybody ; but what am I to do whilst you 
 are away ? " 
 
 "You will find a few books in that cupboard: 
 Faublas, Mon Oncle Thomas, etc., etc., and they 
 will amuse you." 
 
 " All right, I will look at them ; and now, do make 
 haste, like a good girl." 
 
 " Very well, very well ; I will be as quick as I can, 
 only don't be impatient." 
 
.34 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Lizzie kissed Gustave, put the key in her pocket, 
 and went to the Rue des Petites-Ecuries. 
 
 Left to himself, he looked at the novels, read a 
 few pages of them, walked up and down the room, 
 and went to the window to see whether the girl 
 was coming back, but unfortunately it looked out 
 on to the back. He soon began to get impatient, 
 and found the time very long, forgetting that it was 
 a good way from the Rue Chariot to the Rue des 
 Petites-Ecuries, and that, besides, it would take 
 some time to get all he required together. 
 
 Just then there was a gentle knock at the door, 
 but Gustave, remembering what Lizzie had said, 
 did not make the least sound, and the knock was 
 repeated, and some one said, " Open the door, 
 mademoiselle, I want to see you; I am Madame 
 Dubourg." 
 
 " By George ! " Gustave exclaimed, " Madame 
 Dubourg. I must get to know her, and I certainly 
 don't intend to let this chance slip," and so he ran 
 to the door and let in the lady with whom he had 
 Jiad the nocturnal conversation, and whom he so 
 much wished to see more closely. 
 
 Madame Dubourg was rather afraid of what might 
 be the result of her overnight's adventure, and was 
 curious to know who the gentleman might be who 
 was so polite as to refuse a young woman's latch-key, 
 and so original as to want the address of a laundress 
 at one o'clock in the morning. It was only natural 
 that she should go to the young woman whom he 
 had asked for, to find out all she could about him, 
 especially as she really was her laundress ; women 
 may say many things to each other of which the 
 husband need know nothing, and so she hoped to 
 get something out of Miss Lizzie, and then vow her 
 to silence if the gentleman in question had spoken 
 of his conversation with the lady on the first floor 
 over the little green door 
 
<Gustai>e makes Madame Dubourg* Acquaintance. 95 
 
 Madame Dubourg seemed very much startled at 
 seeing Gustave, whom she, however, naturally did 
 not recognise, as she could not possibly have seen 
 his features at night, and she could have no idea 
 ihat the gentleman who wished to speak to Lizzie 
 .at one o'clock in the morning would be with her still 
 .at one o'clock in the afternoon. She really did not 
 know whether to go into the room, for a woman 
 thinks twice before trusting herself alone with a man 
 in a woman's sleeping-jacket ; * but Gustave very 
 politely, disguising his voice as well as he could, 
 ,asked her to wait for a few minutes, as Lizzie was 
 ^ure to be back very soon. 
 
 Madame Dubourg came in and sat down, and after 
 looking at her quietly for some time, he resumed his 
 natural voice, and asked her how her husband felt 
 after tumbling into the gutter, and whether her 
 brother had kept her waiting much longer. Madame 
 Dubourg seemed uncomfortable, and got rather pale, 
 looked at Gustave, and hid her face in her pocket- 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " I am sure, madame," Gustave said, " that I did 
 not intend to hurt your feelings, for I stand too much 
 in need of consideration myself to find fault with 
 the actions of others. What must you think of a 
 young man who knocks at every door in the middle 
 of the night, and who hides himself in the morning 
 at a little laundress's, and dressed like . . . Keally, 
 madame, I must beg you to overlook my folly, and 
 not to judge by appearances." 
 
 Madame Dubourg's uneasiness was allayed by 
 ^fchese words ; she took her handkerchief from her 
 lace, and looked at Gustave with a smile. Although 
 his face still bore evident traces of his fight the day 
 
 * The French word here is Camisole, which all English Dictionaries 
 render by an under jacket. As a matter of fact it is a little open 
 jacket, more or less fine and embroidered, according to the means 
 .and taste of the wearer, worn over the night dress. Experto crede. 
 --— (Translator.) 
 
96 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 before, she thought him very good-looking, and from 
 his way of expressing himself, she could perceive- 
 that he was a man of education, who knew life, was 
 used to love adventures, and attached no more 
 importance to them than they deserved. 
 
 " I see, monsieur," she said, " that we ought to be 
 acquainted. I did not think, however, that I should 
 meet you so soon, but I suppose you are here from 
 some folly, which is excusable in a young man. I 
 cannot possibly have a bad opinion of you, and I 
 hope that you will believe that it really was my 
 brother whom I was expecting last night." 
 
 " I am quite sure of it, madame, and I think he is 
 very lucky to have such a charming sister." 
 
 " I am very sorry that the patrol pursued you^ 
 but it was all my husband's fault ; he takes every- 
 body for a thief." 
 
 " All husbands are like that, I suppose." 
 
 " I think they will be coming here to-day to know 
 whether any one has seen you." 
 
 " You need not be the least alarmed, for they will 
 not find me." 
 
 " I told my husband that I had gone to the 
 window to get a little fresh air as I did not feel 
 very well, and that a man, whom I did not know,, 
 asked me his way. I hope that Lizzie does not know 
 that . . ." 
 
 " No, madame, she knows nothing about it." 
 
 " Then I need not wait, for to tell you plainly I 
 came here only to mention the matter to her." 
 
 "I thought as much, madame, and therefore I 
 wished to reassure you altogether." 
 
 " Good morning, monsieur, and if I can ever be 
 of any use to you, please think of me. ' 
 
 " You may be sure, madame, that I shall always 
 think of you." 
 
 Madame Dubourg bowed politely, and was going 
 out, when Lizzie came in with a marcel under her 
 
Gustave makes Madame Dubourg' s Acquaintance. 97 
 
 S?V . S v e sto PP ed short and looked at Gustave, who 
 bit his lips, and at Madame Dubourg, who got red 
 
 " What do you want, madame ? Whom do you 
 wish to see?" the little laundress asked, with a 
 mocking smile. 
 
 " I wanted to know whether my husband's shirt- 
 frills were ironed." 
 
 " Your husband's shirt-frills ! Why you know, 
 madame, that I never take them home before five 
 o'clock." 
 
 "I know that, but he is going to dine out and 
 has no clean ones, so I will take them if you have 
 no time . . Here they are, I think. Yes, that 
 is right. 
 
 With this, Madame Dubourg seized three shirt- 
 frills which she saw lying on the table, crumpled 
 themup inner hand, and ran away with them as fast 
 as she could without listening to Lizzie, who called 
 out after her down the stairs that she had got hold 
 of somebody else's instead of her husband's. 
 
 " Well," the girl said, when she came back, " I do 
 not know what you were doing to that lady, but she 
 seemed in a great flurry, and did not know what 
 she was about." 
 
 " How can you have such ideas, Lizzie ? " 
 ' Well, it really would not be very extraordinary, 
 but didn't I forbid you to open the door ? " 
 " I thought I heard your voice." 
 "What a story ! But I would bet that you knew 
 Madame Dubourg." 
 
 " This is the first time I have ever seen her." 
 "Do you think I have forgotten aU that you told 
 me last night ? But I will go to her house at four 
 o clock, when her husband is at home, and I shall 
 see if he is going to dine out, or whether she has- 
 been lying." 
 
 "Lizzie, you are always speaking ill of others, 
 and spare nobody's reputation, and yet you object 
 
98 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 if anybody says a word about you ; but I will just 
 tell you, that if you do anything to annoy this lady 
 whom I take to be highly respectable, 1 shall be 
 very angry with you, and never speak to 5 ou again 
 as long as I live." 
 
 " What a misfortune ! Perhaps I might manage 
 to exkt without you, however. Why he actually 
 expects to let me find him here making love to a 
 little prude who is not worth twopence, and not to 
 say a word! A pretty job that would be indeed! 
 I know, of course, that you have mistresses of all 
 shapes and sizes, but I do not choose them to come 
 and show their love for you here in my room. The 
 impudence of these married women ! they think 
 they may do just as they like, and they ought to 
 blush and die of shame for deceiving their good 
 louts of husbands as they do. At any rate, a girl is 
 her own mistress and can walk with her head erect." 
 
 Whilst Lizzie was talking, Gustave was dressing 
 himself, exclaiming all the time against Olivier's 
 carelessness and Benoit's stupidity, as they had 
 sent him a pair of evening trousers and top boots, 
 and, besides that, a cloth waistcoat, and it was 
 the middle of summer. 
 
 " Did Olivier pick out these things for me ? " 
 Gustave asked Lizzie at last. 
 
 " No, your friend was not at home, so I only saw 
 your servant, — Benoit is his name, I think. How 
 stupid he looks ! He gave me the-parcel ; but you 
 -do look funny got up like that." 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to get me a cab ? " 
 
 " Of course I will, and at the same time I shall 
 see whether Madame Dubourg is waiting for you 
 outside. " 
 
 She went out, and soon came back with the cab. 
 
 w Good-bye, Lizzie," he said. 
 
 " Good-bye, you scamp ; well I do declare if he 
 is not going away without kissing me ! " 
 
A Young Men's Dinner Party, 99 
 
 " I thought you were angry with me ; good-bye, 
 my dear child, come and see me at Olivier's. You 
 know his address." 
 
 " Fancy going like that to young men's lodgings ! 
 Pretty things people would say. But at what time 
 am I most likely to find you at home 1 " 
 
 " In the morning, of course ; you know I never 
 get up till late." 
 
 "All right, I will come and call on you some fine 
 morning." 
 
 And so Gustave went down, got into the cab that 
 was waiting for him, and was driven to Olivier's. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A YOUNG MEN'S DINNER PARTY. 
 
 Olivier was a young man of about Gustave's age, 
 and having lost his parents whilst he was very 
 young, he was left his own master too soon. He was 
 fond of play, wine, and women, and, though he was a 
 clerk in a Government office, he generally only went 
 there towards the end of the month, when his salary 
 became due, and as soon as he had received it he de- 
 camped, and was not seen for the next ten days. 
 His superiors often rebuked him, which had the 
 effect of making him better for twenty-four hours, 
 but as he worked well and quickly when he chose, 
 they were indulgent towards him. 
 
 Olivier laughed at him about his dress. Benoit 
 made his excuses for the mistake he had made in 
 sending the clothes, and was told to go and order a 
 good dinner for two, to be sent in from the nearest 
 restaurant, whilst Olivier told him that he had sold 
 the two horses fairly well, and would settle with 
 him about them later on. 
 
100 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 When they were alone, G-ustave related a por^ 
 tion of his adventures to him, but did not say 
 much about Madame de Berly, as he did not wish 
 to compromise her reputation ; he never boasted of 
 his successes in love affairs, and, in such matters, 
 it is well known that those who boast the most 
 have often the least to boast about. 
 
 It was not long before Benoit returned, fol- 
 lowed by a train of restaurant keepers' and wine 
 merchants' men. 
 
 " Upon my word," Gustave said, " I suppose 
 Benoit wished to make up for Madame Lucas's 
 plain cookery; however, we may as well enjoy this 
 excellent dinner, only another time we must take 
 care to order exactly what we require." 
 
 During dinner Olivier told his friend that he had 
 made the acquaintance of a girl living in the same 
 house, who was an embroideress, and to whom he 
 gave guitar lessons, and so after dinner he went to 
 solace himself with the young lady, and Gustave 
 went for a walk in the Rue Sentier. He asked 
 which was M. de Berly's house, and on it being 
 pointed out to him he walked up and down before 
 it for some time, hoping to see Julia, but he did 
 not succeed, and he did not dare to go in and ask 
 for her, or to send her a letter. 
 
 Several days passed in the same way ; Gustave 
 did not go out till evening, and then only to the 
 Rue Sentier ; Olivier went most mornings to hang 
 his hat up in his office for a few minutes, and then 
 went, in a neighbourly fashion, to make love to his 
 guitar pupil. They lived very well to make up for 
 their good conduct, but though money went out 
 very fast, none came in. Olivier only got a quarter 
 of his salary, as his creditors took the other three- 
 quarters, and Gustave saw that his purse was 
 rapidly getting empty, but he reckoned on the 
 money that Olivier had got for the horses. And 
 
A Young Men's Dinner Party, 101 
 
 ■then, the Colonel could not be angry with him al- 
 ways, and he had written him a very submissive, 
 respectful letter, in which he said that his passion 
 for Madame de Berly had carried him so far as to 
 lead him to venture into her bedroom, although 
 •she by no means reciprocated his guilty feeling. 
 <rustave certainly did not flatter himself that his 
 uncle would be the dupe of this story ; but he was 
 bound to try and excuse Madame de Berly, and to 
 bear out what she had said to her husband. 
 
 He was beginning to find the life that he was 
 leading very monotonous, when one morning, after 
 Olivier had gone out, there was a knock at the 
 door, and Benoit let Lizzie in. She was dressed in 
 her best, and nobody would have guessed, to look 
 at her, that she was only a little laundress ; but 
 nothing is so deceptive as appearances in Paris. 
 You may be sittiog in the theatre between two 
 men, dressed very much alike, and so you might 
 think that they are in the same position in life, 
 whereas one is perhaps the head of some depart- 
 ment in a public office, whilst the other is a man- 
 servant who brushes the clothes in a lodging-house, 
 and you will constantly find similar cases, and not 
 iill those who think that fine feathers necessarily 
 make fine birds open their mouths to speak is the 
 mistake discovered. 
 
 " Here I am, monsieur ; I promised to come and 
 Bee you, and I have kept my word." 
 
 " My dear child, you could not have come at a 
 better time, for I was feeling rather melancholy, and 
 you will make me feel rather more cheerful, for I 
 suppose you are going to spend the day here ? " 
 
 "I shall be delighted." 
 
 " Yo a must dine here — Olivier need not alarm 
 you." 
 
 " I would rather have been alone with you, but 
 ^,8 these are his rooms . . 
 
102 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " And this evening I will go home with you ; that 
 is settled, I suppose ? " 
 
 " You know I will do whatever vou wish." 
 
 " You are a dear little thing ; give me a kiss." 
 
 " Do be quiet, your servant is looking at us ; but 
 before dinner I must go and see an aunt of mine 
 who lives close here ; and I will go now, so that I 
 need not go out again." 
 
 " Mind and don't be long." 
 
 As soon as she had gone, Gustave called 
 Benoit. 
 
 " We must have a first-rate, delicate little dinner,, 
 and above all order plenty of little dainties, for 
 girls always like them, and I am very much of 
 their way of thinking." 
 
 " But, please sir, I am not at all sure that you. 
 will get any dinner at all." 
 
 " What do you mean, you idiot ? " 
 
 " Because five are already owing to the restaur- 
 ant-keeper, and he refuses to send any more till he 
 is paid." 
 
 " Five dinners are owing *? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, without counting the breakfasts which 
 were sent in from another place." 
 
 "Why did you not tell Olivier? — he must pay 
 for them." 
 
 " M. Olivier always sends me to you when it is 
 a question of money." 
 
 "I suppose he thinks my purse is inexhaustible ;. 
 but he must have plenty of money, for we have not 
 touched what he got by the sale of the horses ; but 
 here he comes down from his embroider ess." 
 
 " You have come just in the nick of time ; but 
 what's the matter with you that you look so de- 
 lighted and triumphant % Have you received your 
 whole month's salary intact ? " 
 
 " My month's salary ? I have not seen anything' 
 of it ; but I have just come down from my neigh- 
 
A Young Herts Dinner Party. 103- 
 
 hour's, and she is a lady who does not stand on 
 much ceremony ; you know what I mean I " 
 
 " Well, she is a grisette, and so I do not suppose 
 she does ! " 
 
 "I say just be quiet with your grisettes ; her 
 husband, who is dead, was captain of a ship." 
 
 " What else, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " Well, her aunt, the old lady with whom she 
 lives, has gone to spend the day at Belleville, and 
 so I persuaded her to come and dine with us." 
 
 " That is first-rate, for Lizzie is coming also, so 
 we shall be a party of four." 
 
 " I say, what fun we shall have ! " 
 
 "Yes, but we must find means to give these- 
 young ladies a good dinner." 
 
 " Of course, a first-rate dinner, and that is the 
 very reason why I came down to see you." 
 
 " And I was going to send after vou to vour 
 office." ' ^ 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "For some money, of course. The restaurant 
 keeper will not supply us any more till he is paid 
 what we owe him, so just go and do that and order 
 the dinner." 
 
 "How am I to pay him, I should like to 
 know ? " 
 
 " You surely have the money which you got by 
 the sale of the horses." 
 
 " My poor Gustave, I have not ventured to tell 
 you yet, but . . ." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean ? " 
 
 " I put your horses on the red, and they are gone 
 far enough by this time." 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that you gambled. 
 away that money at roulette ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear fellow, the very day I sold them I. 
 had a tailor's bill to meet, and I wanted to double 
 your money. I had invented a new martingale . . . ,ft 
 
104 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " The devil take your martingale ! You have 
 done a nice thing ! You are really incorrigible, to 
 go and lose my money like that." 
 
 " You would not have complained if I had won." 
 
 " Here we are in a nice fix, my purse is 
 empty . . ." .. 
 
 "And mine is never full . . . and this is the 
 ninth, so another three weeks to wait before I 
 get the wretched quarter of my salary which my 
 creditors have left me." 
 
 "But what about these girls whom we have 
 invited to dinner, and none to be got? Poor 
 Lizzie ! and I intended to give her a treat." 
 
 " And my neighbour ! who confided to me that 
 she was very fond of champagne." 
 
 "She will be very lucky if she gets the com- 
 monest vin ordinaire" 
 
 " My poor Gustave, I feel as if I should like to 
 tear my hair out." 
 
 " Don't make a fool of yourself, but try and 
 think of some way out of the difficulty. Benoit, 
 do you happen to have any money by you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have a little laid by." 
 
 " What a capital fellow you are. And how much 
 is it about, Benoit ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, it may be about thirty sous." 
 
 " Idiot I and he calls that having money laid by! 
 A nice dinner we should get with your thirty sous ; 
 but what can one do when one's servant is such 
 a fool as you are 1 " 
 
 Olivier walked up and down the room, stamping 
 and cursing his luck, and roulette ; Gustave was 
 cudgelling his brains to find out some means of 
 getting a dinner, and Benoit stood quite motionless, 
 waitingfor any further orders that they might please 
 io give him. Suddenly Gustavo's face lightened up. 
 
 "My dear Oliver," he said, "we will have our 
 dinner ; I don't, indeed, quite see how it is to be 
 
A Young Men's Dinner Party, 105 
 
 paid for, but the chief thing is — the dinner. Six 
 months ago whilst my uncle was in the country, 
 I was in Paris by myself, and used to go and dine 
 at a restaurant kept by a little charmer of about 
 sixty, as broad as she was long, with an arm like 
 Hercules. She was very fond of young men, and, 
 whenever I went to the pay-desk, she used to tell 
 me I could pay another time, but, as I had money 
 ihen, I did not make use of her kind offer ; now, 
 however, we must put her to the test. I will go 
 to her, and pretend that I have just come from the 
 country, that I have some friends who have come 
 to dine with me, and that I wish her to provide 
 me with a first-rate dinner. She will be so de- 
 lighted at my leaving the menu to her, that she 
 will do her very best for us, and time enough to 
 ihink about paying when we have eaten it." 
 
 " A capital idea ! It really seems like an inter- 
 position of Providence ; and I think I know a place 
 -where I can get some dessert on credit." 
 
 " That is all right, so let us make haste and go 
 and order what we want, though I am running a 
 great risk by going out like this in the middle of 
 day, for, suppose my dear uncle should see me and 
 recognise me ? " 
 
 Just as they were going out, Benoit stopped 
 him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I think you 
 have forgotten something that is very important." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Why, you have not got any wine ! " 
 
 " The idiot is quite right, we cannot possibly do 
 -without that ; but how are we to get it ? Olivier, 
 do you happen to know any wine merchant's wife, 
 or daughter, or niece % " 
 
 "My dear Gustave, I have always chosen my 
 .conquests in a higher station of life." 
 
 " Well, at this moment, an intrigue with some 
 
106 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 small shopkeeper would help us out of our diffi- 
 culty, for a dinner without any wine would not 
 be particularly jolly." 
 
 " The man oyer the way knows us, and might let 
 us have some beer." 
 
 " A nice sort of drink to cheer us up." 
 
 " We could tell them thatit'wasLacryma-Christi' r 
 
 " They would not be taken in." 
 
 " We might even raise a bowl or two of punch. n 
 
 " One does not generally drink punch at dinner. ,r 
 
 " I say, Gustave, I have a sublime idea, and we 
 shall have claret and champagne, if you will trust 
 Benoit to me." 
 
 " Oh I you may have him, and do whatever you 
 like with him." 
 
 Gustave went to the fat old dame who kept the 
 restaurant, and Olivier stopped behind with Benoit r 
 by whose means he hoped to get the wine. That 
 long fellow looked at his master's friend in aston- 
 ishment, as he put on a high neckcloth, a long coat y 
 a short waistcoat, straightened his hair, put rouge 
 on the tip of his nose, put on gaiters, a little hat, 
 and, taking a riding- whip in his hand, he stood be- 
 fore the looking-glass, trying to get up a stupid 
 and insolent look. 
 
 "Are you going to act, sir?" Benoit said at last 
 
 "Yes, something like that, and, now that I am 
 dressed, it is j o tir turn, Benoit." 
 
 " Am I to dress up also, sir f " 
 
 " Just do as you are told ; put on these old buck- 
 skin breeches ..." 
 
 " I shall never be able to get into them, sir." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will, they will give. Now put on 
 this red waistcoat, the nankeen jacket that I wear 
 in the morning, and put on this cap." 
 
 " It is all too tight for me, sir." 
 
 "So much the better, and you will look all the 
 more as if you had just come from the borders of 
 
A Young Metis Dinner Party. 107 
 
 the Thames. And now, listen to me. I am an 
 English lord, and you are my footman." 
 
 " What is a lord, monsieur ? " 
 
 " An Englishman who comes to Paris to see the 
 buildings, the theatres, and other sights, in order to 
 gamble and to go after the girls. They are easily re- 
 cognisable in the streets by their grotesque looks, at 
 the theatre by their astonishment, at the gambling- 
 table by their oaths, and, when they are with girls, 
 by the way they fling their guineas about." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, I saw two the other day, who were 
 almost crying for joy at seeing two cocks fighting 
 in the street, because they said it made them think 
 of their own country." 
 
 " Very well, Benoit, you must try and look like 
 an Englishman. We will go to a wine merchant^ 
 and remember, if you are spoken to, never to an- 
 swer anything but yes ; you can easily remembe? 
 that; nothing but yes." 
 
 " Yes ; is that all, monsieur, for that is easy 
 enough to remember." 
 
 " Not quite ; when I leave the shop, you must 
 remain there till Gustave or I come and fetch you, 
 and if you return here without our leave, you will 
 get a good thrashing ; do you heart " 
 
 " I will not come back, monsieur." 
 
 "Do you remember all I have told you? You 
 are not to mention our address, and only reply yes." 
 
 Olivier went out, followed by Benoit, who could 
 scarcely walk in his buckskin breeches, and kept 
 cramming his cap over his eyes, and repeating his 
 lesson to himself; he felt very uncomfortable, and 
 the threatened thrashing and the English manners 
 troubled him extremely, so that Olivier could hardly 
 keep from laughing, when he looked at his man's 
 unhappy countenance. 
 
 When they got to a cabstand, they got into a 
 cab, and Olivier, speaking a mixture of French and- 
 
108 That Rascal Ghustave. 
 
 English, ordered the driver to take him to one of 
 the best wine merchants in Paris. On getting to 
 the shop, Olivier descended and went in, still fol- 
 lowed by Benoit, who walked awkwardly, with his 
 ayes on the ground. The young scapegrace said 
 a, few words of English, and as tradesmen are very 
 fond of having dealings with foreigners, the shop- 
 keeper and his assistants were very attentive. 
 
 He gave them to understand that he wanted three 
 bottles of claret, three of burgundy, and three of 
 champagne, and did not object to the price, but say- 
 ing that he had left his purse behind him, he asked 
 the wine merchant to send a man with him to receive 
 the sixty francs the bill amounted to. Amidst many 
 thanks, and requests for future favours, he was bowed 
 out of the shop and into the cab with Benoit and the 
 shopman. After driving a little way, Olivier struck 
 himself on the forehead, and told the man that he 
 had forgotten half-a-dozen bottles of Spanish wine, 
 and that the shopman and Benoit must return to 
 ?the shop for it whilst he went on with the wine he 
 Jiad ; that Benoit would show him the way to the 
 milord's hoteL 
 
 Having the servant, no objection could be raised, 
 go he got out of the cab, and went with Benoit in 
 search of the Spanish wine. 
 
 Having got rid of the shopman, Olivier had himself 
 driven to the Porte-Saint-Martin, got out, called a 
 porter, to whom he gave his basket of wine, and 
 went and joined Gustave, to whom he showed it 
 triumphantly. 
 
 " How did you manage to get that ? M Gustave 
 asked; but when Olivier told him, he shook his head, 
 &nd did not seem at all pleased at his trick, for he 
 said it was not at all nice to buy wine for which he 
 could not pay, and did not see the value of Benoit, 
 who was left in pawn till such times as he could be 
 redeemed. 
 
A Young Men's Dinner Party. 10$ 
 
 " Well, but what about yourself? " Olivier asked 
 him, to put an end to his rebukes ; " you have not 
 told me what you have done." 
 
 " Oh ! we shall have a splendid dinner ; fish, roast ? 
 made dishes, sweets, nothing will be wanting." 
 
 " But, my dear friend, it is not very nice to order 
 a dinner for which you cannot pay." 
 
 " It is quite a different thing, for she gave me 
 credit of her own accord, and offered to supply me 
 against monthly payments." 
 
 " Why the fat old woman is a perfect treasure; we 
 only want eleven more kind-hearted purveyors, and 
 we are supplied for the whole year." 
 
 " A truce to your folly, and let us lay the cloth ; 
 the two girls will be here directly. How awkward 
 you are, you cannot even put a plate down properly I 
 What will our fair ladies think of there being no one 
 to wait on us ? " 
 
 " They will think that we have sent the servants 
 away so that we may be more at our ease, and 
 they will be much obliged to us for our thought- 
 fulness." 
 
 " You always look at things from the best side, but 
 I am afraid that great lout Benoitwillbe doing some- 
 thing stupid ; but there is somebody knocking ; just 
 look through the keyhole. Is it the dinner ? " 
 
 u No, it is my little neighbour." 
 
 As soon as she came in she blamed herself for her 
 thoughtlessness in going to dine with two young 
 men; but they promised her to be very good, and re- 
 assured her by telling her that she would not be 
 the only lady present, and in fact Lizzie appeared 
 almost immediately afterwards, and though at first 
 she made rather a wry face at seeing another 
 woman, her ill-humour soon passed away when she 
 saw that she had not come on Gustave's account. 
 
 At last the waiter from the restaurant arrived, 
 loaded with fish, fricandeau, beefsteaks, and other 
 
110 That Rascal Grustave. 
 
 good things : they soon helped him to set down 
 the dishes that he had brought, the table was im- 
 mediately covered with them, and they gave them- 
 selves up, without reserve, to their appetite and 
 their flow of spirits. 
 
 We will leave them at dinner for a little while, 
 .and see what the unfortunate Benoit, who was for 
 <ihe time being metamorphosed into Benoitson, an 
 English footman, was doing. 
 
 Francois, the wine merchant's man, walked along 
 with his companion, who took care not to utter a 
 word, but who was inwardly cursing Olivier, the 
 basket of wine, and the leather breeches. 
 
 Francois tried to talk with him, but could get 
 nothing except yes to all he said, and so he gave it 
 4ip. When they got to the shop, Benoit began to 
 get into a terrible fright, as he feared the matter 
 would turn out badly for him. 
 
 " Was not milord satisfied with the wine ? " the 
 wine merchant asked, when he saw Benoit. 
 
 " It is not that, sir/' the man replied, " for he 
 has not even tasted it, but he suddenly remembered 
 that he wanted six bottles of Spanish wine, and so 
 he sent us for it." 
 
 " Six bottles of Spanish wine ? But what sort 
 of Spanish wine ? Do you know what sort your 
 master wants ? Is it Madeira, sherry, Malaga 1 " 
 
 « Yes, yes." 
 
 " Oh ! I see, he wants Malaga. Here it is. Just 
 take this basket, Francois, and you will have to 
 receive ninety francs instead of sixty, Does milord 
 live far from here 1 " 
 
 " He told me it was at the Milord's Hdtel" 
 Francois replied ; " so go on, friend Benoitson, and 
 I will follow you." 
 
 But Benoit, who did not know what to do next, 
 &8 Olivier had forbidden him to give his address, or 
 to return home under the penalty of a thrashing, 
 
A Young Metis Dinner Party. Ill 
 
 did not reply, and stood stock still in the middle of 
 the yard. 
 
 "He must have forgotten his way," the wine 
 merchant at length said, getting impatient. " Where 
 is the Milord's Hdtel, my friend," and getting no 
 -answer but yes, he lost his temper, and exclaimed, — 
 
 " The devil take his yes } continually; how are we 
 to know where his master is staying; but I suppose 
 it is at Meurice's, where they all go. AhM thought 
 bo, and now, Francois, be as quick as you can." 
 
 They started off again, but Francois found some 
 difficulty in getting Benoit along. When they 
 arrived at Meurice's, the former made signs to him 
 to find out whether he recognised the hotel, and on 
 answering yes, Francois went in and asked for 
 milord's apartments. The porter asked him what 
 he meant, when Francois pushed Benoit forward, 
 and said that he wanted the long fellow's master, 
 and after looking at him the porter replied that he 
 had never seen him before, and that certainly no- 
 body who stayed at the hotel ever had their wine 
 Bent in from outside. 
 
 Francois got into a rage, and asked Benoit 
 whether his master was staying there or in any 
 other part of Paris, and as he gave no other answer 
 than yes, the porter burst out laughing, and Francois, 
 heartily sick of his useless walks, pushed Benoit in 
 front of him, and did not lose sight of him on the 
 way back to his master's. 
 
 He was very angry when he saw Francois return 
 with the footman; he began to suspect that he 
 had been duped, and to doubt milord's good faith. 
 There are thieves in England as well as elsewhere, 
 and this idea very much disturbed him, and so he 
 pressed Benoit to explain himself, and say where 
 Ms master lived. At last he hit upon a way to find 
 out the truth; he remembered that there was a 
 gentleman who spoke English living in the house, 
 
112 That Bascal Gustave. 
 
 and thus they could get an answer out of the foot- 
 man, and when the gentleman came he began to 
 question him. 
 
 But in vain was he questioned in French and 
 English ; he stuck to his yes, and would say nothing 
 about his master. The wine merchant saw that he 
 had been taken in, and, determined to find a victim^ 
 he made up his mind to give Benoit into custody, 
 Francois had already got him by the collar, when 
 an officer came into the shop, and as soon as he saw 
 him Benoit recovered his speech, and crying, shout- 
 ing, and struggling, he fell on his knees at Colonel 
 Moranval's feet. 
 
 The Colonel was just going into the wine mer- 
 chant's house to see an old comrade, when he heard 
 Benoit's cries, and asked him where his nephew 
 was. The wine merchant demanded his money, 
 and related what had happened to him, and the 
 Colonel, partly guessing the truth, paid the bill ? 
 became surety for Benoit, tipped Francois, and 
 asked him not to mention the matter, and went 
 away, taking Benoit with him, as he hoped by his 
 means at last to hear something of Gustave. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ANOTHER FOOLISH TRIOK. 
 
 Our two young friends had quite forgotten Benoit 
 and their creditors, and gave themselves up to the 
 pleasure they felt at being in the society of two- 
 young and pretty women. They laughed and 
 sang and said whatever happened to come into 
 their head, and now and then the young men 
 would snatch a kiss, but nothing further, and the 
 girls restrained their movements when they wished 
 
Another Foolish Trick 11& 
 
 to be too loving, and they were quite right, for 
 a feast ought never to degenerate into a debauch. 
 
 They were in the middle of dessert, and the 
 champagne was sparkling in their glasses, when a 
 loud knocking at the door interrupted Gustave in 
 the middle of a Bacchanalian song. 
 
 The young men looked at each other in doubt as 
 to whether they ought to open the door or not, and 
 the girls looked at them, trying to find out what 
 could be the reason for their uneasiness. Another 
 knock. 
 
 " Pray, gentlemen," Lizzie said, " are you deaf? " 
 
 " Oh ! we hear well enough," Gustave said, " but 
 are not quite sure whether we ought to open the 
 door ; it might be some disagreeable visitor.' 
 
 " Oh ! I can guess, somebody to see these gentle- 
 men, and they are afraid of her finding us here. 
 Well, I will just go and open the door myself^ 
 for I should like to see this beauty whose anger 
 they are so afraid of." 
 
 Lizzie, who never listened to anything that was 
 said to her when she wanted to satisfy her curiosity, 
 ran into the other room, and was just going to open 
 the outer door, in spite of Gustave and Olivier's pro- 
 testations, when they heard a tolerable amount of 
 loud swearing on the landing, which quite altered 
 her resolution, so that she came back to Gustave, 
 pale and trembling. 
 
 " I declare it is that terrible old Colonel ! " 
 
 " What ! my uncle ? " 
 
 " Yes, I recognised his voice." 
 
 " Good heavens ! he must have seen me in the 
 street this morning. What are we to do, Olivier? " 
 
 " Let him knock as much as ever he likes, we 
 will not open the door for him. ,, 
 
 "Is your uncle very disagreeable?" Olivier's little 
 neighbour asked." 
 
 "He is rather hasty, and is angry with me because 
 
 H 
 
^2.14 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 1 would not marry a prude whom he intended for 
 me. Just listen how he is knocking ! I think he 
 is saying something." 
 
 " Confound you," they could hear the Colonel 
 saying outside the door, " are you going to undo it, 
 for if you do not I will smash it in." 
 
 (i I do believe he will do as he says," Lizzie 
 cried, hunting all over the room to find some place 
 where she could hide out of the Colonel's sight, for 
 she feared him ]ike fire. 
 
 Gustave rubbed his head, and tried to think of 
 some means of avoiding his uncle ; the little neigh- 
 bour was trembling all over, whilst the Colonel was 
 storming outside, and Olivier drank several glasses 
 of champagne to collect his thoughts. 
 
 " There is only one thing to be done," Gustave 
 said, taking off his coat, waistcoat, and necktie. 
 
 " What are you going to dot" the ladies asked him. 
 
 " I am going to bed." 
 
 " Going to bed, before us f What a horror ! " 
 
 " Ladies, in a case of necessity one does not 
 ^tick at trifles, and, besides that, I will keep my 
 trousers on, so there will be no danger of your ex- 
 periencing what you are pleased to call a horror." 
 
 il Never mind talking, and tell me your plan." 
 
 " I am in bed, dangerously ill, since yesterday, 
 and you are nursing me." 
 
 " Now I understand ; but what about the young 
 ladies!" 
 
 " They must hide themselves for a few moments." 
 
 " That is all very well, but where ? " 
 
 " That is the question, for there is no press big 
 ^enough." 
 
 " They must go into that little closet, which will 
 liold two, and the Colonel is not likely to go hunt- 
 ing about." 
 
 '*. A nice sort of place to put us into," said the 
 neighbour. 
 
Another Foolish Trick. 115 
 
 " It will only be for a very short time, I hope, 
 ladies ; but let us try and appease my dear uncle.'* 
 " Well, as we must, let us go in, but, at any rate, 
 give us your bottle of eau de Cologne." 
 
 The two girls hid themselves in the little closet 
 which was by Gustavo's bed ; Olivier cleared away 
 ihe remains of the drink, knives, forks, plates, etc., 
 as quickly as he could, whilst Gustave pulled a 
 cotton night-cap over his eyes, and covered himself 
 up with the bed-clothes, and as soon as that was 
 done, he went with a pocket-handkerchief in his 
 hand, and a melancholy look on his face, to open 
 the door to Colonel Moranval. 
 
 The Colonel was getting extremely impatient, 
 and was just going to carry out his threat, and 
 break open the door, when Olivier appeared— 
 
 " So you have made up your mind to open the 
 door to me at last, young man," he said. " Do you 
 know that it is very rude to keep people knocking 
 at the door for such a long time ? 
 
 " But, monsieur, you were not obliged to wait," 
 "I expect you hoped that I should go away 
 again, but I said who I was, and you ought to 
 nave . . ." 
 
 "That is the very reason, Colonel, that I did not 
 open it, as I did not want you to be shocked." 
 
 "Pray do not talk such nonsense; where is my 
 nephew, for I insist upon seeing him ? " 
 
 " You shall see him, monsieur, if you will come 
 into the other room with me, but please walk on tip- 
 toe.' 
 
 "I think you are making run of me, M. Olivier." 
 " I assure you, monsieur, I am not the least 
 
 inclined to joke; pray come and see how ill the 
 
 poor fellow is." 
 
 So saying, Olivier led him to the bed where 
 
 (rustave had been rubbing his face with dried fige 
 
 whilst his friend had been keeping the Colonel 
 
116 TJiat Rascal Gustave. 
 
 entertained, bo as to make his complexion look 
 yellow, and his uncle looked at him in astonish- 
 ment, whilst Olivier turned away his head, and 
 could hardly restrain his laughter at Gustavo's 
 appearance. 
 
 -'What is the matter with him?" the Colonel 
 said at length, after looking at him rather incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 "I think it is brain fever, which threatens to 
 become putrid and malignant " 
 
 " Pray, since when has he had it t " 
 " Since — since yesterday." 
 
 " And, I suppose, in order to cure it, you went 
 disguised like an Englishman, this morning, to 
 swindle a wine merchant out of his liquors." 
 
 " Monsieur, that is rather a strong term to use r 
 and my friend was not so very ill, then." 
 
 "Look here, sir, I don't believe any of your 
 stories, for one does not usually cure an illness 
 by champagne." 
 
 " I only bought it, monsieur, to sustain myself 
 whilst I was nursing your nephew." 
 
 "And was that the reason that you left his 
 servant in pawn 1 " 
 
 " We had nothing else." 
 
 "Just fancy, exposing this poor fellow to the 
 risk of being imprisoned I " 
 
 " Monsieur, Patroclus was killed instead of 
 Achilles ; Pollux died six months in the year for 
 Castor ; Orpheus went, down to the infernal regions 
 to fetch his wife; St Vincent de Paul went to the 
 galleys for fellows who certainly were not worth it, 
 so surely Benoit could not object to being locked 
 up for a short time for his master's sake ? " 
 
 " We are not talking of Orpheus nor of Pollux, 
 but of my nephew, who is continually committing 
 some folly or other, thanks to you, M. Olivier." 
 " Monsieur le Colonel, you flatter me." 
 
Another Foolish Trick 117 
 
 " Is he insensible t " 
 
 " He is wandering at this moment, and what you 
 «ee on his skin is the effects of the fever." 
 
 " Have you been for a medical man t " 
 
 " Not yet, for we had no money to pay for the 
 medicine, which he would be sure to order." 
 
 " No money ! why you have a situation ; but I 
 am determined to know whether my nephew is as 
 ill as you make out, and in any case I shall not leave 
 him here. And what a state your room is in ; 
 olothes on the floor, plates under the table ! " 
 
 " That was done for the cat, monsieur." 
 
 " Corks all about the place, and I suppose you 
 put a woman's little hand-bag under the chair for 
 your cat likewise ? " 
 
 « Oh ! I have found it at last, it is my house- 
 keeper's work-bag, and she was hunting for it for a 
 couple of hours this morning ; poor Fanchette, and 
 she thought she must have lost it in the street." 
 
 '■ Does your housekeeper really carry a morocco 
 hand-bag with a steel lock! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Colonel, all women have them now, 
 they are very common." 
 
 "All right; all right, but now don't lose any 
 more time, and I will stop with my nephew whilst 
 you go for the doctor." 
 
 " It is hardly worth while, monsieur ; the por- 
 ter's wife will come and look after him, and I 
 think he is asleep." 
 
 " Will you do as you are told, monsieur, or I will 
 know the reason why f " 
 
 The Colonel was getting angry, and it was im- 
 possible to make him alter his determination." 
 
 "Upon my word," Olivier said to himself, 
 M Gustave and the two girls must get out of it as 
 i>est they can ! I am off." 
 
 Gustave had not felt at all comfortable during the 
 foregoing conversation, and he had nearly burst out 
 
118 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 laughing half-a-dozen times, but restrained himself 
 in the hope that his uncle would not stay, When r 
 however, he saw Olivier go out, and the Colonel 
 remain sitting by his bed, he lost courage, and was 
 on the point of kicking all the bed-clothes into the 
 air ; but then, besides, he was afraid that the girls 
 might make a noise in the closet, so to draw off his 
 uncle's attention he made up his mind to speak to 
 him, and in order to begin the conversation he 
 uttered a melancholy sigh. 
 
 " Ho ! ho I" said the Colonel, " so you are awake r 
 M. Gustave!" 
 
 "Is that you, uncle?" 
 
 " Yes ; you hardly expected me this evening, I 
 fancy 1 And I confess, that if it had not been for 
 Benoit I should not have come to look for you 
 here." 
 
 " What ! did Benoit tell you ..." 
 
 " Yes, after I had given him a thrashing because 
 he would not speak, and had promised him another 
 if he did not tell me the truth." 
 
 " Poor Benoit, those are the only wages he has 
 received since he has been in my service." 
 
 " You seem a great deal better, Gustave." 
 
 " I am just now, uncle, and I will come to your 
 house to-morrow, if I am strong enough to 
 walk." 
 
 " My dear boy, you will come this evening, either 
 on foot or in a cab. You do not suppose, for a 
 moment, that you have taken me in with your 
 pretended illness . . . But what can that noise be 
 that I hear close by 1 " 
 
 " It must be Olivier's cat, who feels ill because 
 it has drunk too much milk." 
 
 " But it seems to come from close to the bed, and 
 what a long time your friend is in coming back, so 
 just get up and dress, Gustave, and go with me ; 
 but what a noise there is again, and I am sure it is 
 
Another Foolish Trick. 11& 
 
 no cat, for it comes from that little closet by your 
 bed, and I shall go and see." 
 
 In his fear lest his uncle should do as he said, 
 Gustave sat up in bed, and tried to stop him, quite 
 forgetting that he was only half undressed, and the 
 latter, seeing his trousers, felt more sure than ever 
 that he had been taken in, and so he ran to open 
 the door, in spite of his nephew's entreaties ; but it 
 was fastened on the inside. 
 
 " I see," Colonel Moranval said, " I suppose it is 
 Olivier's housekeeper who is looking for her hand- 
 bag in that closet. But I want to see that poor 
 Fanchette, and she shall not come out without 
 my doing so, even if I have to stop here all 
 
 night." 
 
 This threat frightened the two girls terribly, as 
 they were nearly suffocated by the atmosphere in 
 which they were, and the embroideress had used all 
 the eau de Cologne, and had several times declared^ 
 that she would open the door, and was only kept 
 back by Lizzie, who gave her a terrific description 
 of the Colonel. Besides that, they would have 
 been ashamed at being found in such a place ; but 
 knowing how uncomfortable they must be, Gustave 
 sacrificed himself for them. 
 
 He got up, put on his coat, waistcoat and neck- 
 tie, and going up to his uncle, said he was ready to 
 go with him. 
 
 "Ah! my boy, you have got over your fever 
 pretty quickly." 
 
 " My dear uncle, I am exposing myself to your 
 anger, but I am doing it for the sake of two charm- 
 ing and innocent girls, who must be in a very 
 unpleasant position where they are." 
 
 " I ought to give these two charming little inno- 
 cents who hide themselves in a closet in two young: 
 scamps' rooms a good whipping before I leave, but I 
 will let them off this once. Now make haste out,. 
 
1.20 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 sir, for your sweethearts must be as yellow as 
 lemons, and smoked like a couple of herrings." 
 
 Gustave took his hat and left the rooms with 
 the Colonel, casting a last look at the closet in 
 which the two girls had locked themselves up. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WHICH IS EITHER TOO LONG OR TOO SHORT. 
 
 When Gustave got back to his uncle's, he of course 
 -expected, as you, dear reader, will do, a long lecture, 
 but he got nothing of the sort, for they went to 
 their respective rooms without exchanging a word. 
 Very likely the Colonel wished to avoid useless re- 
 proaches, but more likely still he was afraid, if he 
 got into a greater rage than usual, that the gout 
 might fly to his stomach. 
 
 Gustave did not know what to think of the 
 Colonel's moderation, but he made up his mind to 
 show himself worthy of it, and so he stopped at 
 home for a week, behaved uncommonly well, never 
 even left the house, worked hard for half the day, 
 and went to bed early. 
 
 The Colonel never said a word to him, for he 
 began to perceive that, with a young man of Gus- 
 tave's character, he might be brought to reason by 
 kindness and expostulation, but never by the 
 exercise of authority, "Very well," the Colonel 
 thought to himself, "I will not make any more 
 fuss ; he is very young, and, like I was at his age, 
 fond of women, and I really believe that I should 
 be fond of them still if my gout would only let me, 
 and so I must try and remember what I was myself. 
 All I want is for Gustave not to get into bad com- 
 pany, for that ruins young fellows, and then he 
 
Which is either too Long or too Short. 121 
 
 ^shall find a wife as soon as possible, for marriage is 
 the sepulchre of wildness, of love, and pleasure, 
 Gustave will become a respectable member of 
 society when his wife makes a scene, his servants 
 quarrel, his children scream, which, taken all in 
 all. will be quite enough to dispel all smiles and 
 all'love." 
 
 After these reflections, one evening the Colonel 
 told Benoit, to whom, by the way, his master had 
 given a slight licking, to teach him to play his part 
 as a footman better, to call Gustave to him, and he 
 went to his uncle with all that respectful manner 
 that a young man shows to a rich bachelor uncle 
 when he himself has not a penny in his pocket. 
 
 " Gustave," said his uncle, " I think you are get- 
 ting much steadier, and you must surely be tired of 
 the sort of life that you have been leading up to 
 now, and so that you may become really what I 
 wish you to be, I want you to get married." 
 
 " My dear uncle, surely not again I You cannot 
 have another wife in view for me f " 
 
 " No, I want you to choose a wife for yourself, but 
 not amongst the sort of girls whom you have met 
 hitherto with Olivier. I mean you to come with 
 me to houses where you will not only see pretty 
 women, but ladies, any one of whom would be fit to 
 be your wife." 
 
 " Very well, if it must be, it must be, but I do 
 not like the idea at all." 
 
 He went out with his uncle regularly, but nothing 
 would please him. The Colonel often thought that 
 he was taken with some lady or other, but he found 
 fault with all of them, till at last the former quite 
 lost his temper, and said that nothing would suit 
 him but to live like King Henry IV.,* in that age 
 of lovers, poisoners, rebellions, fanatics and civil 
 "wars. 
 
 * Of France. 
 
122 That Rascal Guttave. 
 
 " After that good king, who loved his people, anci 
 yet was murdered," he continued, " where could I 
 hope to find the golden age and perfection, that 
 continual discreet conduct, which does not exist, 
 and yet you look for it in a woman now." 
 
 * My dear uncle, you have forgotten Solomon^ 
 the wise man." 
 
 " Yes, wisdom and conduct like his would just 
 suit you ; three hundred wives and seven hundred 
 concubines. He was a nice sort of man ! But from 
 all I can see, you want a wife who is perfection^ 
 and, if so, you will never get married." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, uncle, all I want is to be 
 in love, for the woman a man loves always seem& 
 perfection to him." 
 
 " If you had only told me this sooner, you would 
 have saved me from talking about Henry IV. and 
 the age of gold and perfection. Do try and fall in 
 love ; you used to manage it very easily." 
 
 "It is easy enough to find a mistress, but a 
 wife ..." 
 
 " But a mistress is a woman, I suppose ? " 
 " Why, of course, she is, but . . ." 
 "Don't you sleep with one as well as the^ 
 other!" 
 
 " Of course, you do, but . . ." 
 " Don't you beget children with both f " 
 "Yes, I am afraid one does, but . . ." 
 "Confound your huts! I am afraid, my dear 
 Gustave, that you have very little common sense £ 
 You young fellows, who have turned so many 
 heads, deceived so many husbands, and caused the 
 unhappiness of so many girls, are extremely difficult 
 in the choice of a wife. My dear boy, although* 
 you may fancy yourself up to every trick of a 
 woman, yet your wife, if she chooses, will deceive- 
 you as easily as she would a man who knew nothing 
 at all about the matter." 
 
Real Love, 12*^ 
 
 "I never had the least doubt about that, my 
 dear uncle." 
 
 " Well, if that is the case, let us go to bed." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 REAL LOVE. 
 
 One evening, when Gustave was coming back from 
 the theatre by himself, he saw a woman sitting on 
 a bench by the side of the gate of the Colonel's 
 house. Gustave was going in without paying any 
 attention to her ; he had already got his hand on 
 the knocker, when a tender voice stopped him. 
 
 " Is that you, M. Gustave, and you don't take 
 any notice of me ? " 
 
 "Good heavens, I know the voice! Can it be 
 Susan!" 
 
 " It is indeed poor Susan." 
 
 " But what are you doing in Paris ? " 
 
 " I came to see you, and have been waiting for 
 you for the last two hours. They told me that 
 you had gone out, but would be certain to be back 
 to-night, and so I did not want to go far from the 
 house." 
 
 " My dear little Susan — but I cannot understands 
 With whom did you come to Paris f " 
 
 « With nobody." 
 
 " But what about your parents f n 
 
 " I did not tell them I was going." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you have left them t " 
 
 "They were always pressing me to marry 
 Nicholas, and I could not agree, as I could think 
 of nobody but you, and when they settled yester- 
 day that the wedding was to take place next 
 
124 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Sunday, I ran away this morning, so as not to be 
 forced to marry him." 
 
 "But how came yon to know my address!" 
 
 " Benoit gave it me, and I took care not to forget 
 it. Are yon sorry to see me ? " 
 
 " Sorry to see yon, poor little girl ! I am much 
 too fond of you for that ; but what are we going 
 iodo?" 
 
 " I shall stay with you." 
 
 "If I were living alone it would be very easy, 
 but I am living with my uncle, and so I am not 
 %n.y own master to do as I please." 
 
 " Ah ! M. Gustave, I see that you do not love 
 me any longer if you are going to drive me away 
 from you ; you still wish me to marry Nicholas 
 Toupet." 
 
 "Don't cry, Susan, don't cry; I certainly shall 
 not send you away. It was foolish of you to leave 
 your mother and father, but as I am the chief cause 
 of that, you may be quite sure that I shall not for- 
 sake you. But I do not wish my uncle to know 
 anything of this: if I only knew where to hide you." 
 
 " 1 will do anything you wish, and shall be quite 
 satisfied as long as I am with you." 
 
 " Look here, I will knock, and leave the door a 
 little open, and whilst I am talking to the porter, 
 you must manage to slip in and get into the court- 
 yard, and then we must see whether the servants 
 have gone to bed. You quite understand me ? " 
 
 " Yes, perfectly." 
 
 Gustave feared lest the porter, who was Benoit's 
 father, and as big a fool as he, should chatter, so he 
 knocked, went and stood in front of the porter's 
 window, who told him that a girl had been ask- 
 ing after him, and meanwhile Susan slipped into 
 the courtyard, whereupon Gustave shut the door 
 and joined her in the coach-house. 
 
 " Here you are inside," he said to Susan, " and 
 
Real Love. 125 
 
 now I must take you to my room. I only hope we 
 may meet no one on the stairs," and so taking her 
 by the hand, he went, as fast as he could, up the 
 staircase that led to his rooms. 
 
 On getting in the vestibule, he stopped outside 
 the door, for he saw a light in the anteroom, so he 
 made Susan go up on to the next floor, and going 
 in, found Benoit asleep in a chair, waiting for him, 
 Of course he woke up when his master came in and 
 asked him whether he wanted anything, and was 
 then about to go to his bedroom, which was at the 
 top of the house, but as he would be sure to meet 
 Susan, it was absolutely necessary to make him 
 go downstairs ; Gustave, therefore, told him to 
 go down to the kitchen and bring him up some 
 supper. 
 
 Whilst he was gone, Gustave took Susan into 
 his room, but just as Benoit was putting a fowl 
 and some wine on to the table on his return, she, 
 being quite in the dark upset a chair. Benoit 
 grew pale, and let the fowl fall off the dish on to 
 the floor in his fright, and Gustave did not know 
 what to say. 
 
 "Did you hear that, monsieur?" Benoit said r 
 trembling all over. 
 
 " Yes, I think I heard something." 
 
 " There must be thieves in your room, and here 
 I have been alone for a whole hour. Lord, if 
 I had had the least idea of that . . ." 
 
 " What a fool you are, Benoit ! " 
 
 " But, monsieur, the noise cannot come of itself" 
 
 "It is my uncle's dog, no doubt." 
 
 " Fidele has been in bed for a long time. It's 
 liiieves, I know, and I will go and rouse the whole 
 house." 
 
 " Just go to bed, and if you make a noise, I shall 
 dismiss you to-morrow." 
 
 " But, monsieur, do you want to be murdered ? " 
 
126 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 *' I am not the least afraid. You are an idiot, as 
 ■I have told you very often before, and so be quiet 
 .and go to bed." 
 
 " Very well, good-night, sir. I will go and load my 
 carbine ; you must call if you want me, and I will 
 iire into the air, and that will rouse everybody." 
 
 * You will be good enough to leave your car- 
 bine alone, unless you wish my stick to make the 
 acquaintance of your shoulders to-morrow. Go 
 to bed and to sleep." 
 
 At last Benoit left him to himself and he was 
 alone with Susan, and could look at her, talk to her, 
 and kiss her as much as he liked, and he found that 
 she had grown prettier and more womanly since he 
 had left the village. She let him kiss her and caress 
 her as much as he pleased ; she had him again ; he 
 promised not to send her away, and so she felt per- 
 fectly happy, and desired nothing more. 
 
 Whilst they were having supper, Susan told him 
 all about her journey ; how she had come the eleven 
 leagues, from Ermenonville to Paris, on foot, and 
 almost without stopping, so eager was she to get 
 to her lover, and so her feet were blistered and all 
 iier limbs ached, but she had not felt the fatigue 
 on the road, as love gave her double courage and 
 strength. 
 
 " Poor little girl," he said to himself, " she must 
 be very much in love with me." 
 
 He did not venture to speak to her about the 
 grief which she must be causing her parents ; he 
 felt how wrong she was to leave them for him, but 
 how could he reproach her for such a proof of her 
 love ? He looked upon it as fate, and thinking that 
 Susan was destined not to marry Nicholas Toupet, 
 because he had been to Ermenonville, he made up 
 his mind to enjoy the present without troubling 
 iiimself as to the future. 
 
 Susan could not help thinking what he should 
 
A Day of Contrarities. 127 
 
 rdo if his uncle found him out. The latter, how- 
 3ver, would be terribly angry if he found the little 
 peasant girl with his nephew, and if he were to 
 discover that Gustave had ruined her, and that 
 she had run away from her parents for his sake. 
 But how was he to avoid it ? He could not send 
 her back to her father and mother, for they would, 
 very probably, ill-treat her, and he could not make 
 up his mind to that, sensitive and pretty as she was. 
 Nobody, and certainly not a young man of twenty, 
 would voluntarily give up such a treasure, so he 
 determined to keep her by him, to hide her care- 
 fully and not excite his uncle's suspicions, trusting 
 to Providence to get him out of the difficulty. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A DAY OF CONTRARITIES. 
 
 It was late when Gustave woke up. He looked 
 at the poor child who had left her parents, friends, 
 and native village to follow him, and involuntarily 
 his thoughts took a melancholy turn, for Susan's 
 future disquieted him. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and Gustave got 
 u|) gently so as not to wake Susan, who was asleep 
 still, and asked who was there. 
 
 " It is I, monsieur," Benoit replied, " and as you 
 
 generally get up at eight o'clock, and it is now ten, 
 
 J began to be afraid that the thieves had killed you, 
 
 ^nd, then, your uncle is waiting breakfast for you." 
 
 " All right, I will be down very soon." 
 
 " Will you give me your clothes and your boots f " 
 
 " You shall have them by-and-by, but don't bother 
 
 me now." 
 
 He did not know what to do ; Susan was asleep 
 
128 That Rascal Gusiave. 
 
 still, and his uncle was waiting for him, so he must 
 go, but what could he do with her ? She could not 
 sleep all day, and she would want her breakfast 
 and dinner. And then, Benoit again, who did his 
 master's room every day, it would be almost im- 
 possible to hide Susan from him. If he had not 
 been such a fool he could have taken him into his 
 confidence, and he might have been of some use to 
 them, but, as it was, he was not the least good. 
 He was not only stupid but very indiscreet, and a 
 great talker ; he would be sure to tell his father,, 
 and if once the porter knew it, it might as well be 
 proclaimed from the house tops. 
 
 " Confound it 1 " Gustave said as he was dressing,. 
 " it is embarrassing, very embarrassing ; the only 
 thing will be to go to breakfast, lock my door, and 
 forbid Benoit to mention it, and see what I can do 
 with Susan later on." 
 
 As soon as he was dressed, he kissed the girl, who 
 was still in a profound sleep, went out, double- 
 locked the door of his bedroom, and put the key in 
 his pocket. On the landing outside his anteroom 
 he found Benoit waiting for him. 
 
 " Benoit, you are not to go into my room." 
 
 "What, sir t M 
 
 " I do not want you to put it into disorder, and I 
 have bought two doves which I want to tame, and 
 you will frighten them/' 
 
 "Oh! dear no, monsieur; I know all about 
 birds." 
 
 " However, I will not have you go there." 
 
 " But what about your bed, monsieur, are you 
 going to teach the doves to make that ? " 
 
 " I can make it myself, it will amuse me, and you 
 are not to speak about this before my uncle or any 
 one else ; for you know, Benoit, that your ears are 
 long and easily pulled." 
 
 " Of course I shall not mention it, monsieur, for 
 
A Day of Contrarities. 129* 
 
 you are quite at liberty to make you owd bed if you 
 like, and I shall have less to do, that is all, and if you 
 like to brush your clothes andblack your boots . . ." 
 
 " No, you can go into the anteroom, and I will 
 leave them out for you there." 
 
 Gustave went to his uncle's apartments, who wa& 
 waiting breakfast for him. He was elaborately got 
 up, of which he did not take much notice at first,, 
 but, after breakfast, he was surprised to hear him 
 ask whether the horse were put into his cab. 
 
 " You are going out, uncle? " 
 
 " Yes, and you are going with me." 
 
 « j 9 » . o 
 
 " Certainly, and I do not see why you should 
 look so astonished." 
 
 " But, uncle, I wanted to work this morning." 
 
 "How extraordinarily fond of work you have 
 got ; but you will have plenty of time for that 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Really, if you do not mind, I would rather . . ." 
 
 " Well, I do mind, and I want you to go with me, 
 and, as the horse is in, let us be off." 
 
 Gustave followed his uncle in rather a bad 
 temper, but he hoped to get off with a few visits^ 
 and, during that time, Susan would have plenty of 
 opportunity for resting, and, as she had had a very- 
 good supper the night before, she could easily wait 
 for his return. 
 
 They got in, and the Colonel drove, and Gustave 
 was very much vexed to see that they went through 
 Paris without stopping, and that they were going 
 towards the Barriere de PEtoile. 
 
 " Where are you going to, uncle ? You are surely 
 not going out of Paris ? " 
 
 " I know where I am going, my dear nephew. I 
 am going to take you to a delightful house, where, 
 I am sure, you will enjoy yourself very much." 
 
 " I don't suppose I shall." 
 
130 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " We shall see about that, and in any case, it is 
 not much for you to sacrifice one day for me." 
 "What! a whole day?" 
 " You will thank me for it this evening." 
 " You are going to keep me till evening ? " 
 " Possibly we may even spend the night at M. 
 de Grander e's." 
 
 Gustave was half wild with vexation, impatience, 
 and uneasiness ; he felt inclined to jump out and 
 leave his uncle, but on reflection he grew somewhat 
 ■calmer. He could not openly disoblige the Colonel, 
 xnd if he jumped out, he might hurt himself, and 
 not get back to Paris any the sooner, so the only 
 thing was to have patience, and to wait for a 
 favourable opportunity of escaping from M. de 
 Granciere's. 
 
 But what would poor little Susan think, and 
 
 -what would she do with herself all day? Of course, 
 
 he must tell her exactly what had happened, and 
 
 with his kisses, he thought he should easily make 
 
 her forget all she had undergone during his absence. 
 
 Thus Gustave tried to console himself and to 
 
 have patience. The Colonel told him about the 
 
 exploits of M. de Granciere, his old companion in 
 
 arms; but all M. de Moranval's eloquence, with which 
 
 he described the battles, assaults, and skirmishes 
 
 in which he had been with his friend, was thrown 
 
 away on Gustave, for he did not hear anything 
 
 of all that he had been saying to him, and only 
 
 thought of Susan, who would be obliged to go 
 
 without her dinner. 
 
 " Shall we be at the end of our journey soon? " 
 Gustave asked the Colonel, interrupting him in the 
 middle of an animated account. 
 
 " Is that all the interest you take in my dangers, 
 when I was telling you how I had been wounded 
 in the head and was surrounded by enemies ? " 
 " But, uncle, you are very well now, we are not 
 
A Day of Contranties. 131 
 
 on the field of battle, and we have already been 
 through Courbevoie." 
 
 " What on earth is the matter with you to-day I 
 I never saw you so impatient." 
 
 " My legs are cramped, and I am uncomfortable 
 in this carriage." 
 
 " If you had been lying wounded, like I have, for 
 a dozen hours on a battle-field, surrounded by dead 
 ■and dying, you would not complain of cramp in 
 -the legs. But here we are ; that handsome house 
 on the right is M. de Granciere's." 
 
 Gustave reckoned that they were about two and 
 a. half leagues * from Paris, but he could cover that 
 distance in less than an hour with a good horse. 
 
 They stopped at a pretty country house, and the 
 groom took the horse into the yard. 
 
 " Don't take the horse out," Gustave said. 
 
 " Of course you will take him out," the Colonel 
 replied ; " he will have plenty of time to rest." 
 
 Gustave bit his lips, and followed his uncle in a 
 rage. They went into the drawing-room, and the 
 Colonel introduced his nephew to his friend. M. 
 de Granciere was a very agreeable man, and very 
 polite to Gustave, but the latter only replied in an 
 incoherent and distracted manner. 
 
 " My dear friend," the Colonel said, " I must ask 
 you to excuse my nephew ; some days he hardly 
 seems to know what he is about, and, I suppose, 
 this is one of his bad days." 
 
 This joke made Gustave feel very uncomfortable, 
 and so he tried to moderate his impatience and not 
 to show how uneasy he felt. Just then an elegantly- 
 dressed and charming-looking young lady came 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 " This is my daughter," M. de Granciere said. 
 
 " My dear Eugenie, let me introduce M. St Keal 
 to you." 
 
 * A league is about two miles and a half. 
 
132 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 The Colonel had to nudge Gustave, who was 
 looking out into the garden, to make him reply to 
 the lady's bow. He turned round, and found him- 
 self face to face with a young and pretty woman, 
 and as he did not wish to appear silly or awkward 
 to a lady of such attractions, he at once became 
 polite and agreeable. The Colonel smiled, and went 
 up to his nephew. 
 
 " Well," he said, " are you still put out at having 
 come with me % " 
 
 Gustave did not reply, for he was looking at 
 Eugenie with admiration, but he turned round with 
 a sigh, thinking of poor Susan. 
 
 Several neighbours came in, and Gustave noticed 
 that they had bouquets, which they presented to 
 Eugenie. 
 
 " What is it % " he asked his uncle. 
 
 " It is Madame Fonbelle's birthday." 
 
 " Who is Madame Fonbelle ? " 
 
 " M. de Granciere's daughter." 
 
 "Oh! she is married?" 
 
 "No, she is a widow, and has an income of 
 fifteen thousand francs * a year, and she is not only 
 pretty, but good, kind, and talented. What do you 
 say to all that, Gustave ? " 
 
 "I say, uncle, that one ought to distrust the union 
 of all these good qualities in one person, and I fancy 
 you are making your picture rather too flattering.'* 
 
 " You will soon see that it is not up to the 
 original." 
 
 " Then why, my dear uncle, did not you intro- 
 duce me to Madame Fonbelle before this ? " 
 
 " Because she has been touring in Touraine, and 
 I did not want to send you there that you might 
 behave as you did towards that poor Madame de 
 Berly. I know quite well what you are capable o£" 
 
 Before dinner, they all went into the garden, and 
 
 * A thousand francs are £40. 
 
A Day of Contrarities. 133 
 
 Oustave tried to find some excuse for leaving, but 
 without success. It would have been a breach of 
 all good manners to have left a house in which he 
 was for the first time, without ceremony, and so he 
 =saw that it was absolutely necessary for him to 
 <line there, but he thought that afterwards he 
 could pretend that he did not feel well, or that he 
 had an engagement, or he might be able to get 
 away without being seen, and without saying any- 
 thing. Madame Fonbelle would think him rude, 
 and a man who did not know the usages of good 
 society; but to think of poor little Susan without 
 breakfast or dinner, and with nothing but the 
 remains of yesterday's fowl, which was indeed only 
 the skeleton ; no, he really must go. 
 
 Thinking thus, he went along one of the garden 
 walks, when he saw Madame Fonbelle, and went up 
 to her, for he hoped that the time would not ap- 
 pear so long to him while talking to this lady, of 
 whom his uncle gave such a flattering portrait. 
 He also wished to be polite and agreeable, and to 
 leave some regrets behind him, as he was going to 
 leave so unceremoniously in the evening ; there is 
 always a certain amount of vanity in such matters. 
 
 M. de Granciere's daughter was charming, and 
 Gustave gave her to understand how delighted he 
 should be to cultivate her nearer acquaintance, and 
 she told him they should always be glad to see him 
 either in the country or in Paris ; she accepted his 
 compliments with a smile, but would not hear of 
 his excuses for leaving very early. 
 
 "No, monsieur," she said, "we shall not let you 
 go like that ; no doubt you will miss some very 
 pleasant appointment for this evening, but I am 
 sure you will make this sacrifice for us, and I shall 
 be much obliged to you for doing so." 
 
 What can you say to a woman who tries to detain 
 you so pleasantly, and for whom you already feel . . . 
 
134 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 What ! love t What would you have, dear reader T 
 That rascal Gustave's heart was very inflammable,, 
 and Madame Fonbelle was very charming. But 
 poor little Susan, who had left everything for him t 
 He loved Susan still, he had not forgotten Julia 5 
 and was quite ready to have a little fun with Lizzie ; 
 and pray do not believe that our hero is a purely 
 imaginary being — men are nearly all like that. We 
 are no longer in that period (if it ever existed) when 
 meLi only loved one woman ; we have made great 
 progress in gallantry, and love the fair sex in 
 general. Long live the French for love-making f 
 Let Germans sigh in silence for their mistresses, or 
 Englishmen blow out their brains or hang themselves 
 with theirs ; let Dutchmen smoke under the ladies' 
 noses, and blow a cloud by way of a compliment, and 
 Turks keep the little darlings locked up under the 
 care of horrible eunuchs, always ready with tha 
 dagger or the bowstring ; let Spaniards spend half 
 their lives in strumming the guitar, serenading, and 
 Russians make love by means of the stick; let 
 Scotchmen sell their wives at market, and Hindoos 
 take one at ten years old ; let Hottentots paint 
 themselves to charm their ladies, and Malays flatten 
 their foreheads and lengthen their ears; let the 
 Italians bring down the fire which burnt Sodom and 
 Gomorrah, and which now, instead of coming down 
 from heaven, descends down the sides of Vesuvius 
 on to their delightful country. 
 
 Let, — let us leave all that, you will say, and 
 return to Gustave, whom we left with Eugenie. 
 and let us see what he was doing. 
 
 When dinner was announced, he gave his arm to 
 Madame Fonbelle, and went, with the rest of the 
 company, to a tent on the lawn, where they were to 
 dine. Either by accident or design, he was put next 
 to Eugenie, and dinner did not appear at all long^ 
 to him, though it lasted nearly three hours, and it 
 
A Day of Contrarities. 135- 
 
 was nearly dark when they went into the drawing- 
 room. Gustave looked at a clock, and was horrified- 
 to see that it was eight, and thinking how long it 
 would take him to get back to Paris, he thought ho w 
 miserable poor little Susan would be. He turned to 
 go, but Eugenie was close to him, and insisted on 
 his singing. "I know you sing very well," she 
 said, "and are fond of music; would you mind 
 trying a very pretty nocturne with met" 
 
 He could not possibly refuse, so he went with her 
 to the piano, and they sang the nocturne, another 
 duet, and another, amidst general applause. The 
 Colonel seemed very pleased, and Madame Fonbelle 
 thanked Gustave, with a certain amount of tender- 
 ness in her eyes — eyes that a man might well spend 
 his life in admiring. But the clock struck ten. 
 " Ten o'clock," he said to himself, " and the poor 
 child has been waiting for me since morning." 
 
 He got to the drawing-room door, rushed into the 
 yard, and asked for the Colonel's cab, but, of course, 
 the horse was still in the stable, so Gustave took him, 
 clapped the first bridle he happened to find into his 
 mouth, and got on his back, without a saddle, and 
 galloped off to Paris as fast as he could go. 
 
 In less than three-quarters of an hour he arrived 
 at his uncle's house, and in the yard the horse fell 
 against the porter's lodge ; old Benoit shouted out, 
 his son jumped on one side, while Gustave got free 
 of the horse ; he was not hurt, so, leaving him to the 
 servants, he pushed Benoit towards the domestic 
 offices. 
 
 " The poor horse," Benoit said, with a sigh, " he 
 will ne^ver get over it." 
 
 " Benoit, bring me up a pie, some poultry, jam,, 
 wine, at once." 
 
 "What, monsieur V* 
 
 u Didn't you hear what I said ? How slow you 
 are!" 
 
1S6 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Benoit could not make out why his master should 
 i>e so hungry, so he took up a fowl on a dish, quite 
 at his leisure, and found Gustave waiting for him 
 outside his door. 
 
 " Is that all you have brought ? " 
 
 " Well, monsieur, as I did not want to break any- 
 thing, I thought it best only to bring up one thing 
 at a time." 
 
 " You donkey, come along with you." 
 
 Gustave put down the fowl on the ground, and 
 went with Benoit to the larder, where he took 
 everything he could find, and made his man carry 
 something as welL Benoit looked at him in 
 surprise. 
 
 " You seem to be very hungry, monsieur." 
 
 "I don't think that is any business of yours. 
 Go on, you drone." 
 
 '« Take care, monsieur, you will make me break 
 something." 
 
 As they were going upstairs, a dog rushed down 
 past them with a fowl in his mouth ; it was Fiddle, 
 ^who had smelt it when Gustave had left the dish 
 outside his door. Gustave was furious, he shouted 
 out to the dog, and aimed a kick at him, and the 
 brute, in his fright, ran between Benoit's legs, who 
 fell down on the landing with all his dishes, and 
 bedaubed his face with cream cheese. 
 
 Gustave was beside himself, and hardly "knew 
 what he was doing, but at last he left Benoit and 
 the capon, and, taking only the pie and some fruit, 
 he went into his rooms, closed the door of the 
 anteroom and bolted it, and then went into his 
 bedroom. 
 
 The poor little peasant girl was sitting near the 
 bed, with her pocket-handkerchief on her knees, 
 and her eyes red and swollen with crying ; as 
 soon as she saw Gustave, she uttered a cry and 
 rushed into his arms. 
 
A Day of Contraritie*. 137 
 
 '" Here I am, Susan." 
 
 " Ah ! I thought you were never coming back." 
 
 s " Why, you have been crying." 
 
 '" Nearly all the day ; but I assure you that I did 
 not make any noise." 
 
 "Poor little darling! And you have had no 
 dinner ? " 
 
 " Dinner ! I don't want any now ; I was hungry 
 this morning, but my appetite is all gone." 
 
 " I suppose you began to think that I did not 
 love you any more * " 
 
 "What could I think when you did not come 
 back t — and you have been away so long." 
 
 "It was not my fault; my uncle would make 
 me go with him ; but if you only knew how long 
 rthe day seemed to me ! " 
 
 Perhaps this was not exactly the truth, but there 
 are circumstances in which a white lie is necessary 
 and even praiseworthy. It would have been cruel 
 to say to Susan, " I have seen a charming woman, 
 with whom I sang, and who quite made me forget 
 how time went." That was the truth, however ; 
 but then you know it is not well always to speak 
 the exact truth." 
 
 Gustave put the pie, wine, and fruit on the table 
 before Susan, and pressed her to eat ; she smiled 
 at him, for she could see by his eagerness and his 
 regrets that he loved her still, and so she forgot 
 all about the wretched day she had spent, and ate 
 to please him. 
 
 But all that time Gustave kept thinking, and 
 he said to himself, "What has happened to-day 
 may happen often again, and prove very unpleasant 
 and incenvenient ; it will never do to let Susan 
 pass all her life in one room, without daring to 
 speak loud, and hardly to move for fear of being 
 heard ; and if she never goes out she will get ill, 
 for nobody can change their whole manner of life 
 
138 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 with impunity. A girl of her age, who has beem 
 used to be about in the country, to get up at sun- 
 rise, to take a large amount of exercise, could 
 never endure the heavy and unwholesome atmo- 
 sphere of Paris, condensed into a space of twenty 
 square feet, which she cannot renew herself with- 
 out being seen by the servants in the mansion, 
 And then, of course, Benoit would suspect some- 
 thing from his master's extraordinary conduct, and 
 would speak about it, and so it might come to the 
 Colonel's ears, and if he were to find poor little 
 Susan I . . . She certainly could not remain where 
 she was ; he must take a little room and furnish it 
 nicely, where she could sing, talk, enjoy the fresh 
 air, and eat whenever she pleased, and Gustave 
 could go and see her every morning and evening." 
 
 "My dear child," he said to her, "I have found 
 a way by which we can meet without any danger; 
 to-morrow I will rent a pretty little room for you 
 on one of the Boulevards, and you shall go and 
 live there." 
 
 Susan let her knife and fork fall out of her 
 hands ; she listened to Gustave attentively when 
 he told her how nice it would be in her new abode, 
 and when he had finished, she did not speak, but 
 she burst into tears, and threw herself at Gustave's 
 knees with a supplicating look. 
 
 He was very much surprised at this, and begged 
 her to tell him what was the matter, and tried to 
 raise her up, but she persisted in kneeling, and 
 cried out, sobbing, — 
 
 "Pray do not send me away, M. Gustave. I 
 promise you not to make any noise or to cry 
 again ; you can go out as much as you like, but 
 don't drive me away." 
 
 " What are you thinking, dearest ; I am not 
 going to drive you away, I only want to make you 
 happier. You can go out with me . . ." 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 130" 
 
 " I would rather remain in your room." 
 
 " I will come and see you every day." 
 
 "But when you had gone, I should be so dread- 
 fully afraid that I should never see you again ; and 
 here, at all events, you must come back to sleep." 
 
 u But if my uncle finds you f 
 
 " It will be time enough to send me away then r 
 but in this Paris ! . . . I should be quite lost if I 
 did not remain with you." 
 
 Gustave could find no means of quieting the 
 girl but by promising that she should remain in 
 his room. 
 
 " If you wish it," he said, " you can remain here, 
 but I only hope that we shall not, both of us, have 
 cause to repent of this decision some day." 
 
 This promise made Susan quite happy and merry 
 again ; she kissed Gustave, ran about the room ? 
 jumped and did all sorts of foolish things, for she 
 thought that her happiness was now altogether 
 assured. Gustave by no means thought so, but 
 he did not wish to interfere with her joy, and so 
 he went to sleep in her arms, regretting, perhaps 
 for the first time, that reason had not triumphed 
 over love. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER. 
 
 BEFORE eight o'clock the next morning Benoit 
 knocked at his master's door, and so Gustave got 
 up, and, without opening, asked him what he 
 wanted. 
 
 " Monsieur le Colonel wants to see you," he re- 
 plied. Gustave was sure of getting a good scold- 
 ing, so he dressed himself, locked his bedroons 
 
140 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 door, and went to his uncle. Benoit was very 
 curious to know why his master had locked his 
 door, as he had done the day before, but he did 
 not dare to ask any more questions. 
 
 " Well, sir," the Colonel said, as soon as he saw 
 his nephew, " I should very much like to know 
 what possessed you last night ? You rushed out 
 of a pleasant house, where you had been very 
 kindly received, without even wishing the mistress 
 of it good-bye, and at the very moment you were 
 going to sing with her again ; you ran off as if the 
 devil himself were at your heels, and got on a 
 horse that had never been ridden, a horse that 
 cost me a thousand francs, and which you have 
 nearly done for, so that I shall have to buy a new 
 one ; you dashed into the yard like a shot out of a 
 forty-eight pounder, smashed the glass of the 
 porter's lodge, terrifying everybody; you fright- 
 ened my porter nearly out of his wits, when, God 
 knows, he has none to spare, and for nothing else 
 than to clear out the larder. A pretty reason for 
 upsetting everything ; and yet I fancy you ate a 
 pretty good dinner." 
 
 " The fact is, I got most terribly hungry all of a 
 sudden." 
 
 " Confound it all, eat as much as you like, but 
 there is no reason, because you happen to be 
 ravenous, to ruin my horses, and turn my house 
 upside down." 
 
 " I say, uncle, was Madame Fonbelle angry at 
 my leaving like I did % " 
 
 " She is much too kind ; she was the first to try 
 And appease me ; but you certainly owe her an ex- 
 cuse." 
 
 " I will go and call on her, and make my ex- 
 cuses." 
 
 " I told you I should have to buy another horse. 
 5 thought, naturally, that it was another love 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 141' 
 
 affair, and that you had left us like that to go and 
 pay your court to some little impudent-faced girl, 
 so I really was surprised to hear that you came 
 here, full gallop, only for the sake of supper. 
 Bless me I what an appetite you must have ; but 
 please, for the future, put something or other to 
 eat into your pocket, so that you need not play 
 any more such tricks." 
 
 On leaving his uncle and going back to his own 
 room Gustave boxed Benoit's ears, to teach him 
 to tell his uncle what he had done another time, 
 and Benoit howled, and declared that Fidele alone 
 was to blame, as he had jumped up on to the 
 Colonel with part of the fowl which he had stolen 
 still in his mouth. 
 
 After kissing Susan, Gustave took a cab, and 
 went to M. de Granciere's, and made his excuses 
 to Eugenie for his unceremonious departure, and, 
 though she accepted them kindly, she joked him 
 about the appointment he had been so anxious to 
 keep. He fancied that he could see that she was 
 vexed, and he felt a secret pleasure in it, for he 
 already nattered himself that he was not indifferent 
 to her ; but, in spite of the pleasure that he took in 
 talking to her, he cut his visit short, and was back 
 before four o'clock. 
 
 He did not leave Susan again during the whole 
 day, and had dinner brought upstairs. He had 
 punished Benoit enough to prevent him chattering 
 again, and besides that, he never went beyond the 
 anteroom. 
 
 Thus several days passed ; Gustave never went 
 out except to call on Madame Fonbelle, who had 
 returned to Paris with her father, as the summer 
 was over, and, besides that, he never left Susan, 
 unless it were to breakfast and dine with his uncle,, 
 when the latter did not, as often happened, take 
 his meals in his own room. 
 
142 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 The Colonel was very much astonished at Gus- 
 tavo's steady conduct, and would sometimes even 
 joke him on his inordinate love of study. 
 
 "My dear boy," he said to him one day, " you must 
 not go to extremes ; you used to be a madcap, never 
 at home, and playing the fool every day, and now 
 you lock yourself up in your room, and never stir 
 out. You are working too hard, and will get ill, 
 and the proof of this is that, in spite of your regular 
 life and excellent behaviour, your face looks pale 
 and long, and your eyes are hollow, with black rims 
 round them, and, to look at you, one might think 
 that you were spending all your nights at balls and 
 in love-making." 
 
 " But, uncle, studying hard is very fatiguing and 
 trying." 
 
 " Then, by George, don't do so much, as I have 
 just been trying to make you understand. Come 
 out with me sometimes, and don't keep yourself 
 shut up in your room to get dried up and withered 
 over books and papers." 
 
 Time was more efficacious than all the Colonel's 
 advice ; Gustave was still very often with Susan, 
 but in order to pass away those hours which could 
 not always be spent in love-making, much as women 
 may like it, he began to teach the girl to read and 
 write, for she had only had a few lessons from the 
 village schoolmaster, who himself did not know 
 much, and she, to please Gustave v worked hard 
 whenever she was alone. And these solitary 
 moments became longer every day, for though she 
 was very sweet, tender, and loving, Gustave could 
 see her whenever he wished, and was almost over- 
 whelmed with her caresses, and so, when with her, 
 he would often look at his watch and invent some 
 pretext to be able to leave her. Then he used to 
 go to Madame Fonbelle's, where the time appeared 
 -^ery short to him ; but Eugenie took all his atten- 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 143 
 
 iions with a smile and a joke, used to change the 
 conversation when he spoke of his sentiments, and 
 made fun of him when he appeared unhappy and 
 silent. But through all this Gustave noticed at 
 times that she was evidently not indifferent to him, 
 and though she tried to hide her feelings, such a 
 matter is not easily concealed from a lover's eye. 
 
 Susan never reproached Gustave for being away 
 from her so much ; she was unhappy when he went 
 away, and cried when he was long without coming 
 back, but as soon as she heard him in the outer 
 room she quickly dried her eyes and tried to show 
 him only a cheerful, happy face. 
 
 Of course the Colonel knew that his nephew 
 often went to M. de Granciere's, and he was glad 
 to see Gustave's rising love for Eugenie, for he had 
 no doubt that this passion was the cause of the 
 happy change that had taken place in his nephew's 
 conduct. He had mentioned his wishes and hopes 
 to his friend, and M. de Granci^re replied that his 
 daughter was entirely mistress of her own actions, 
 and could marry again whenever she pleased. 
 
 " If that is the case," the Colonel said, " matters 
 are sure to turn out as I wish, for Eugenie cannot 
 help liking Gustave, as he is such a thoroughly 
 nice fellow, and she will marry him, as she is far 
 too virtuous to give herself up to him without 
 being his wife, and it must be very tiresome con- 
 stantly to refuse what, after all, one would really 
 like oneself." 
 
 At Gustave's expressed wish Susan had written 
 to her parents, saying how sorry she was for the 
 grief her flight must have caused them, and said 
 the reason of it was her dislike for Nicholas ; she 
 added that she had a situation in Paris, but she 
 gave no address, as she was afraid they would 
 ^ome and forcibly separate her from Gustave. 
 
 One morning, when the Colonel was in the yard, 
 
144 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 which was a very unusual circumstance with him r 
 examining a horse he had just bought, he thought 
 he heard his nephew's name pronounced in the 
 coach-house. Going close up to it, without being 
 seen, he heard the following conversation between 
 Benoit and his father, who was cleaning the 
 Colonel's cab. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that M. Gustave has not let 
 you go into his room for a long time ? " 
 
 " No ; he has absolutely forbidden me to go^ 
 in." 
 
 " Who makes his bed and does his room ? " 
 
 " I don't know, but he told me he had bought two 
 doves and was going to tame them, and I suppose 
 he is amusing himself with those birds all day long, 
 whilst his uncle thinks he is working." 
 
 " Nonsense ; a young man like he is would not 
 amuse himself with a pair of doves ! I know what 
 it is, Benoit ; I sometimes see something passing: 
 by the curtain when he has gone out." 
 
 " I wonder what it can be, for those birds must 
 have wonderful appetites, and drink wine, for M. 
 Gustave consumes a great deal more food than he 
 used to do — pies, poultry, fruit, cakes, all sorts of 
 things." 
 
 " I expect, Benoit, that it is a monkey which he 
 is educating in secret as a present for the Colonel 
 at New Year." 
 
 "That is very likely; yes, it must be a monkey or 
 two, for sometimes I hear a noise in the room, and 
 you remember when I told you I thought there were 
 thieves ? Of course no birds could have made such 
 a noise. I should like to know what it really is." 
 
 "And so should L" 
 
 " I will find out, that is quite certain," the 
 Colonel said to himself as he walked quietly away 
 from the coach-house. " Funny sort of monkeys 
 that want wine and poultry ! There is something 
 
The Mysieiious Chamber. 145* 
 
 beneath all that, and then Gustave's extraordinary 
 love for work all of a sudden ? I wonder if he has 
 been taking me in again ? " 
 
 He was not at all the sort of man to put off 
 clearing up anything that he thought strange or 
 suspicious, and so he went upstairs to Gustave's 
 room and found the door locked, and seeing that 
 Benoit had spoken the truth, he made up his mind 
 to see what it was that Gustave wished to keep 
 concealed from everybody, so he went downstairs 
 and sent for his nephew's servant. 
 
 " Benoit, where is your master ? " 
 
 " He is not at home, monsieur." 
 
 " Have you the key of his room ? I want to go 
 and get something out of it." 
 
 " I, monsieur? No, monsieur, I have not got it." 
 
 Benoit got hot, and felt very uncomfortable. 
 " Don't be frightened," Colonel Moranval said ; " I 
 know you have nothing to do with any of my 
 nephew's follies, for he knows you are much too 
 stupid for him to take into his confidence." 
 
 " You are quite right, M. le Colonel" 
 
 " Go and get me a pair of pincers and a screw- 
 driver." 
 
 " Had not I better get a locksmith, monsieur." 
 
 " No, I can do without one, so do as you are told, 
 and hold your tongue." 
 
 Benoit soon brought the implements, and followed 
 M. de Moranval up to his nephew's apartments, but 
 when they got to the anteroom the Colonel turned 
 round and ordered Benoit to go downstairs, which 
 he did very unwillingly, for he was very curious 
 to see what was in his master's bedroom. 
 
 It was a much easier matter for the Colonel to 
 burst open the door than to pick a lock. However 
 he managed to undo the screws, the bolt gave way,. 
 and he was in the mysterious chamber. 
 
 But in vain he looked round for birds or monkeys^ 
 
 E 
 
146 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 though certainly there were some clothes that could 
 not possibly belong to Gustave, hanging at the end 
 of the bed, — 
 
 " Of course there is a woman here," the Colonel 
 said, " but where on earth can she be got to ? " 
 
 Just then his eyes fell on a recess beside the 
 fireplace, where Susan was cowering behind a 
 chair, and as soon as he saw her, he stood motion- 
 less before her, and she, for her part, did not dare 
 to lift up her eyes. 
 
 " Whatever are you doing here, my child 1 " the 
 Colonel said at last, recovering his power of speech; 
 but Susan shut her eyes and did not say a word, 
 so he moved the chair and took her, trembling like 
 a leaf, by the hand. 
 
 " There, come, you need not be frightened, for I 
 shall not eat you. Answer my questions, and, above 
 all, speak the truth. What are you doing in my 
 nephew's room ? " 
 
 " I am living with him." 
 
 " Oh ! you are living with him. But I only see 
 one bed in the room." 
 
 " I sleep with him, monsieur." 
 
 " That is very nice, upon my word ! and pray 
 liow long has this charming state of affairs been 
 going on?" 
 
 " About six weeks, monsieur." 
 
 "What! you have been in this room for six 
 weeks, and never go out ? " 
 
 "No, never, monsieur; I should be too much 
 frightened of being seen." 
 
 " What do you do all day long f " 
 
 " When he is here, I look at him, talk to him, 
 kiss him ; and when he is out, I practise reading 
 and writing." 
 
 " But you must be alone pretty often, for he has 
 been out very frequently of late, and you must get 
 verv tired of this sort of life." 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 147 
 
 " No, monsieur ; I am always thinking of him, 
 and expecting him, and I am sure that he will 
 come by-and-by." 
 
 The Colonel looked at Susan attentively; her 
 grace and innocence disarmed his anger, and so he 
 began to question her again. 
 
 " Where did you make my nephew's acquaint- 
 ance ? " 
 
 " At Ermenonville, monsieur ; he was staying at 
 our house." 
 
 " Oh I he was staying with your parents, and as 
 the price of their hospitality, he seduced and carried 
 off their daughter ? " 
 
 "He neither seduced me, nor carried me off, 
 monsieur, it came quite of itself; I happened to 
 go into his room, and we fell in love with each 
 other at once." 
 
 "Well it appears to me that these matters 
 are managed just as easily at Ermenonville as in 
 Paris. But why did you leave your village and 
 your parents ? " 
 
 "Because they wished me to marry Nicholas 
 Toupet, whom I did not love the least. I was very 
 unhappy; I was thinking of M. Gustave all the 
 day long, and almost dying of grief because I 
 could not see him." 
 
 " And suppose your mother were to die of grief 
 because her daughter has left her 1 Suppose your 
 conduct were to kill her ? " 
 
 " Pray, monsieur, do not say that." 
 
 Thereupon she began to sob, and the poor Colonel 
 was much affected ; he walked up and down the 
 room, stamped, looked at Susan, stopped short, be- 
 gan to swear at Gustave, and in a minute or 
 two he went up to the girl and took her by the 
 hand. 
 
 " Be quiet, my dear," he said ; " don't cry, and 
 listen to me. I am not going to reproach you for 
 
148 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 what you have done, for you yourself do not see 
 how inconsistent you have been ; you were guided 
 by heart, and although people say one should al- 
 ways do that, certainly in your case it has led to 
 nothing but folly. You cannot stop here, for you 
 have been here far too long already ; but for 
 Heaven's sake don't cry like that, or I shall get 
 angry ; of course you must leave this house." 
 
 " Oh ! monsieur, take me as a servant ; I will; 
 serve you well, and work . . ." 
 
 " No, by George, a servant like you would turn 
 the whole house upside down ; and then you do 
 not suppose that Gustave would like to see you 
 mixing with my servants? No, my child, you 
 must leave this house, that is quite certain ; but 
 the question is, would you rather remain in Paris 
 or return to your parents ? " 
 
 u Oh, monsieur, do not send me back to the 
 village, for they would make me many Nicholas 
 Toupet as a punishment ! " 
 
 " You seem to hate this Nicholas, and yet if you 
 were like our Parisian women, that would not at all 
 prevent you from . . . but that is not the question. . 
 I will consent to your not returning home, but I 
 will find you a respectable home somewhere else,. 
 and you must write to your mother and let her 
 know where you are ; but then the question is — 
 where on earth can I find such a place ? " 
 
 " It will be all the same to me, monsieur, for I> 
 can never be happy again as long as I am away 
 from him." 
 
 "Tut! tut! that is mere childish talk. Love 
 flies away, my dear child, and if you had a little 
 more experience, you would feel that Gustave's 
 . Well, you cannot live upon love, and we must 
 think of your future. My nephew is a young mad- 
 cap, who would have let your youth moulder awajr 
 in his room, whilst he , . . Upon my word, meni 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 149 
 
 <lon't deserve the tears that you women shed for 
 ^hem." 
 
 The Colonel did not know what to decide upon ; 
 he could not make up his mind what to do with 
 Susan, whom he could and would not keep in his 
 house, but whom he was determined to look after, 
 for he could plainly see that this little village girl, 
 although she had been living with a young man, 
 had really less experience than many girls who 
 live at home with their parents. Susan said no- 
 thing more, but looked timidly at M. Moranval, and 
 waited till he should have decided her fate ; and 
 the Colonel left the bedroom, and opened the door 
 of the anteroom to call Benoit ; but he might have 
 saved himself the trouble, for the porter and his 
 son were on the staircase waiting to see what 
 strange animals he would bring out of his nephew's 
 room. 
 
 He looked at them very angrily, and asked what 
 they were doing there. 
 
 " Monsieur," the porter stammered, " we . . . 
 we were waiting to see whether you wanted any- 
 thing." 
 
 " You had better say that you were waiting for 
 me to go out to go in yourselves and look at that 
 monkey which my nephew is keeping there." 
 
 " It is a monkey, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Go down to your lodge ; I do not like curious 
 people." 
 
 The Colonel gave the porter a push, who pushed 
 his son, and they both went downstairs, ashamed 
 at having been caught, and vexed at not having 
 found anything out. 
 
 M. Moranval then went to see Madame Duval, a 
 woman who looked after all the linen of the 
 mansion, and who was neither curious nor a 
 -chatterbox, and so she had been in the Colonel's 
 service for ten years, and had a room to herself. 
 
150 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 "Madame Duval," he said, going into the old 
 work- woman's room, " I want to find a sort of a 
 place for a young girl, so can you tell me of any 
 shop where the business will not oblige her to be 
 constantly running about the streets of Paris, and 
 where she will not be exposed to the doubtful 
 jokes of the customers! " 
 
 '* I only know Madame Henri, who keeps a linen- 
 draper's shop in the Rue aux Ours, monsieur/' she 
 replied, after thinking for a moment ; " she supplies 
 me with all we require here, and happened to ask 
 me the other day whether I knew of any one to 
 suit her." 
 
 " Is your Madame Henri a respectable woman t n 
 the Colonel asked. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur; she is a widow, and young, and 
 always in good spirits ; she goes to the theatre 
 every Sunday, but she is highly respectable, and 
 has no improper acquaintances." 
 
 "That is the very thing, for I do not wish to- 
 put this girl either into a convent or with some 
 ill-tempered prude ; I want her to be occupied and 
 amused at the same time, for that is just as it 
 should be. Madame Duval, would you be kind 
 enough to fetch me a fiacre, and get ready to go 
 with me to Madame Henri's? " 
 
 " But, monsieur, at least you ought to let her 
 know . . ." 
 
 "That is not necessary. You say she knows 
 you, and she certainly ought to know my name, 
 as she supplies my house with linen, and that will 
 surely be enough. Go on, madame, make the cab 
 drive into the yard, and tell the driver to draw up 
 close to the middle staircase." 
 
 As soon as Madame Duvai was gone, the Colonel 
 went up to Susan again, — 
 
 "Now, my dear child, put everything that belongs 
 to voq into a parcel, and get ready to go with me." 
 
The Mysterious Chamber, 15 Tz 
 
 " What, monsieur, to-day ? " 
 
 " Immediately." 
 
 "But I must say good-bye to him." 
 
 " Not at all ; that would never do j you must go 
 before he comes back." 
 
 "But what will he say when he finds that I 
 have left?" 
 
 " I shall tell him that I took you away." 
 
 " He will be very sorry . . ." 
 
 " He will feel that I was right." 
 
 " He will be dreadfully angry." 
 
 " By George, I should like to see him ! " 
 
 Poor Susan wept, and was in despair, and 
 begged to be allowed to wait till he came back, 
 but the Colonel was inexorable. 
 
 " But, at any rate, monsieur," she said, sobbing, 
 " he will come and see me. Shall you tell him 
 where I am ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear child," the Colonel replied, as he 
 did not wish to reduce her to despair altogether, 
 " yes, you shall see him if you are a sensible girl, 
 and behave yourself well." 
 
 This promise somewhat soothed Susan's grief; 
 she wiped her eyes, made all that Gustave had 
 bought for her since she had been living with him 
 into a parcel, and waited for M. de Moranval's 
 orders. 
 
 A carriage drove into the yard, and drew up 
 close to the staircase, so the Colonel took Susan's 
 hand ; she gave one more look round that room,, 
 which was the whole world to her, her bosom 
 heaved and her knees trembled, but she kept back 
 her tears, for fear of irritating him. 
 
 As soon as they had got downstairs he made her 
 get in, and sat down beside her, making Madame 
 Duval sit on the other side, and pulling up the win- 
 dows, he ordered the driver to go to the Rue aux 
 Ours. As the cab drove out of the gate, Benoit andi 
 
^152 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 his father were standing in the street opposite to it, 
 craning their necks to see what was in the fiacre, 
 but Susan was hidden by Madame Duval and the 
 '•Colonel, and so they got nothing except a splash- 
 ing for their trouble. 
 
 When they arrived at Madame Henri's, the linen- 
 draper was very much surprised to see Colonel 
 Moranval and Madame Duval come in, followed by 
 a girl, with red eyes, and who could hardly keep 
 on her feet. 
 
 " Madame," the Colonel said to her, * you asked 
 Madame Duval if she knew of a shop girl, and I have 
 brought you one now. She is, as you see, very un- 
 happy, but she will tell you all about her little 
 troubles, and you will be very sorry for her, and give 
 her good advice, I am sure, and so in time all will 
 come right. Let me recommend Mdlle. Susan, in 
 whom I take great interest, to your kind care, and 
 as she knows nothing at all, at present, and you 
 will have a good deal of trouble in teaching her, 
 allow me to give you five hundred francs for her 
 first year's board and lodging. Will you be good 
 enough to tell me, madame, whether you agree to 
 my terms t " 
 
 "Monsieur," Madame Henri said, rather aston- 
 ished at the Colonel's rapid way of settling mat- 
 ters, " certainly your recommendation and that of 
 Madame Duval are quite enough to induce me 
 -to take this young lady into my establishment^ 
 provided she agrees to come, and will remain 
 with me." 
 
 " Yes, madame," Susan said, with a sigh, " I will 
 do anything I am told." 
 
 " So that is settled," the Colonel replied ; u allow 
 me again to recommend this poor child to your 
 ^kindness, for her only fault is that she is too sensi- 
 tive. Good-bye, my dear ; Madame Henri will often 
 <iet me hear about you, and you may be sure that I 
 
The Mysterious Chamber. 155 
 
 shall always take care of you as long as you behave 
 well. Good-bye again, and to-morrow your parents 
 shall know that you are in a situation of which you 
 need not be ashamed." 
 
 With this the Colonel took his leave, and Susan 
 remained with Madame Henri. We shall meet the 
 little peasant girl again later on, but now we must 
 see what Gustave was doing whilst his sweetheart 
 was being taken from him. 
 
 He had spent part of the day at Madame Fon- 
 belle's, and on his return to his uncle's, Benoit and 
 his father were eagerly examining his room. When 
 they saw the cab drive off with the Colonel, they 
 calculated that they would have plenty of time to 
 go up to M. Gustave's apartments, and as they 
 found the door of the mysterious chamber open, they 
 rummaged in every corner, in the hopes of finding 
 out what he had kept hidden there. 
 
 When Gustave went upstairs he was surprised to 
 find the door of his room open, and thought he must 
 have forgotten to lock it, but on going in he found, 
 instead of Susan, the porter carefully searching a 
 large clothes press, and Benoit, on his knees, look- 
 ing under the bed. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? How did you get 
 in? Are you going to answer me, you black- 
 guards?" 
 
 The porter and his son had no excuse to make, 
 so Gustave took Benoit by one of his ears and 
 pulled it vigorously. 
 
 " Will you tell me, you fool, where she is ? " 
 
 " Where she is, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes ; what has become of her ? " 
 
 "What has become of what, monsieur? We 
 lhave seen nothing of your doves." 
 
 "I was only looking for them, monsieur," the 
 porter said, shaking all over. 
 
 " I want to know who opened this door." 
 
154 That Rascal Gfu&tave. 
 
 "Your uncle, monsieur, but he went into the 
 room by himself, and then he sent for & fiacre . . ! r 
 
 " So I suppose he took her away 1 " 
 
 " I suppose he took something away ; in fact, I 
 am sure he did, but we could not see what it was.' r 
 
 " Get out of the room, you ..." 
 
 But the father and son were only too glad to go r 
 and did not wait for the end of the sentence. Gus- 
 tavo looked about to see whether Susan had lefk 
 a note of any kind for Mm, l)ut he could find 
 nothing ; so it was all over, and she was lost to 
 him ! But you will say that he did not love her 
 any more, and that he even felt bored in her com- 
 pany, and left her for Eugenie. Certainly, when 
 he was with Susan, he no longer felt those trans- 
 ports which are so characteristic of love, and he 
 neglected her for part of the day, and as soon as 
 he got back to her, he wished to leave her again ; 
 but now, that she was no longer there, now that 
 she had been taken away from him, he felt all his 
 love revive, and he longed to see her, to speak to 
 her, and to take her into his arms. That is just 
 the contrariness of the human heart, and, as the 
 song says, very aptly, — 
 
 " Man wishes to have what he has not, 
 Whilst what he has no longer pleases." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HOW A MARRIED COUPLE PASSED THE NIGHT. 
 
 In despair at having lost Susan, with whom he was^ 
 in love again now, Gustave went out, and set to- 
 work to run all over the town to find the girV 
 whom the barbarous Colonel (for any one who- 
 
How a Married Couple passed the Night. 155" 
 
 crosses us in our desires is always barbarous) had 
 hidden. 
 
 But Paris is a large place, and when one has not 
 the least idea in which direction to go, no doubt a 
 great deal of useless trouble will be taken. Gus- 
 tave had not gone a hundred yards before he 
 looked about him, and wondered where on earth 
 he was going to, and as he could not answer that 
 question satisfactorily to himself, he stood in the 
 middle of the street in a state of perplexity, jostled 
 by the passers by, who had an objection to a tall 
 young fellow standing motionless on the pave- 
 ment. If he had stood there much longer, no doubt 
 he would have had a crowd round him, for in Paris- 
 most people are curious, and seem to have nothing 
 to do, so that two dogs fighting, a man whose nose 
 happens to be bleeding, a lady who shows her 
 garters when she pulls up her dress too high in 
 crossing the street, a drunken man who falls down, 
 or a squalling child, are each of them quite suffi-^ 
 cient to attract a crowd of a couple of hundred 
 people. 
 
 Suddenly Gustave was recalled to himself by 
 hearing his name pronounced, and the voice came 
 from a yellow cab which was going as fast as could 
 be expected when drawn by two old horses and 
 driven by a cabman engaged by the hour. 
 
 " That is it," Gustave said ; " a cab, and I fancy 
 Benoit said it was a yellow one ; some one calling 
 me by name, and I think I recognise the voice ; it 
 must be Susan, whom my uncle is taking away, so 
 I will follow the cab. If it were night, I would get 
 up behind, but I cannot do that in broad daylight, 
 but, never mind, I will not lose sight of it, only I 
 must not go too near the windows, for fear the 
 Colonel should recognise me." 
 
 The fiacre went through the Faubourg du 
 Temple and up the main street of Belleville, and- 
 
156 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 turning to the left, went into a street leading into 
 the country, and stopped in front of a pretty house. 
 Gustave also stopped about fifty yards off, and 
 got into a gateway, so that he might see without 
 being seen. 
 
 Two ladies and a young man got out and went 
 into the house. He could not see their faces, but 
 he began to think that he had made a mistake, for 
 neither of them was dressed like Susan, but still it 
 was possible that the Colonel might have made 
 her change hers so as to disguise her ; the Colonel, 
 however, was not in the cab, and who could the 
 young man be? He certainly could not be in charge 
 of the girl, so decidedly Susan could not be in the 
 fiacre, and our hero began to think that he had had 
 a useless walk from the Rue Montmartre to the 
 Pres-Saint-Genais. 
 
 Gustave felt very vexed at having lost his time 
 like that. The two ladies and the gentleman had 
 gone into the house, the cab had returned to Paris, 
 and Gustave stood still in the middle of the Rue 
 des Champs, not being able to make up his mind 
 what to do. 
 
 " I certainly heard somebody call out my name, 
 so one of 4 those two ladies must know me, though 
 there is nothing surprising in that, as I know so 
 many of them, if I have forgotten one of them 
 amongst so many; but I should like to know, all 
 the same, who those people are who have just 
 gone into that house." 
 
 Saying this to himself, Gustave went up to it 
 and looked at the house, trying to see any one he 
 =knew, when he suddenly heard a window open 
 and his name pronounced in a soft voice. It was 
 the same that he had heard a short time previously, 
 and now he was quite sure that one of the ladies 
 must know him, and he certainly did not intend to 
 v return to Paris without seeing her. He was on 
 
How a Married Couple passed the Night. 157 
 
 the point of going and knocking at the gate of 
 the courtyard, without, however, having the least 
 idea whom he should ask for, when the same voice 
 stopped him. 
 
 " Don't knock, but follow the wall and turn the 
 corner on the left, and wait for me at the little 
 garden door." 
 
 " A mystery," he said to himself; "a wall, a 
 little side door, why it is like the scene in a 
 melodrama I " 
 
 However, he went down the street, turned to the 
 left, and soon found the little side door, where he 
 stopped. He looked at the top of the wall, which 
 extended a good way, but saw nothing but the tops 
 of some fruit trees and lilac bushes; so he presumed 
 it was the garden belonging to the house ; he leant 
 therefore against the door, and waitedimpatiently tc 
 be let into the garden. At last he heard a woman's 
 footsteps, and could hear the rustling of a dress, and 
 hisheartbegantobeat violently, though he could not 
 explain to himself why he should feel such emotion, 
 She might be old and ugly, but then, again, she 
 might be young and pretty, and then the voice and 
 the mystery set his imagination going. In the most 
 important circumstances of life events only affect 
 us in proportion to the situation in which they find 
 us ; our fancies' dreams dispose our souls to love, 
 to joy, to grief; there are moments in which we 
 feel disposed only to shed tears, and others in which 
 we see everything in a rosy hue, and since, at a 
 masked ball, one often gets excited over a woman 
 in a domino whose features one cannot distinguish, 
 surely it was allowable for Gustavo's heart to beat 
 for the woman whose light feet he heard on the 
 gravel coming near the gate. 
 
 At last it was opened, Gustave went into the 
 garden, and took into his arms, not Susan, but— 
 Madame de Berly. 
 
158 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Love was their first impulse, but after remaining 
 
 -in a close embrace for some time they began to ask 
 
 .each other a hundred questions. Gustave could not 
 
 _get over his surprise at seeing Julia, and she said 
 
 with a sigh, — 
 
 " Ah ! Gustave, and so you really did not recog- 
 nise my voice ? Well, it is a long time since you 
 have seen me, and so I suppose you have forgotten 
 me. It is very ungrateful of you, and when I was 
 thinking of you every moment during the day, you 
 were thinking of some other woman and making 
 love whilst I was sighing. Are these the vows 
 which ought to be so sacred ? But what right have 
 I to reckon on yours ? " * 
 
 Of course she shed tears, and Gustave did not 
 know what excuse to make, for he felt that he was 
 in the wrong, and yet the sight of Julia rekindled 
 those feelings in his heart with which she had 
 formerly inspired him. But it is easy to console a 
 woman who loves us, and Madame de Berly was 
 the first to make it up. 
 
 " Forgive me for reproaching you," she said ; " I 
 know I am unreasonable for doing so, for how 
 could I hope that you could not love again when 
 you were far from met But you have nothing 
 to say to me, so I suppose you had really quite 
 forgotten me." 
 
 " No, but I feel I have been wrong and neglect- 
 ful ... " 
 
 "Do you love me still, Gustave?" 
 
 " More than ever." 
 
 "Then don't let us say any more about your 
 having been wrong, for self-reproach has much 
 more effect than the reproaches of others." 
 
 " My dear Julia, how good you are ! " 
 
 * Compare Lord Byron's "Don Juan," Canto 1, czcir. 
 
 11 Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 Tis woman's whole existence." 
 
How a Married Couple passed the Night. 159 
 
 " You owe me no thanks for that ; if I love 
 jrou, it is in spite of myself, for I have tried to 
 overcome the feeling, but love is like fortune, — 
 often those who deserve it the least are its spoilt 
 ohildren." 
 
 Gustave took Julia into his arms, and was about 
 to smother her with ardent kisses, when Julia 
 stopped him. 
 
 "What are you thinking about! " she said; "re- 
 member to what you are exposing me." 
 
 " Are you not alone ? " 
 
 "Did you not recognise the young lady who 
 was with me ? It was Aurelia, my husband's niece, 
 who married six weeks ago that tall young man 
 who was in the cab with us, and I am staying with 
 them ; this house belongs to them, and I come, out 
 of good nature, to stay a few days occasionally, for 
 it makes no difference to me where I am when I 
 am away from you. But 1 am afraid that Madame 
 Fremont or her husband will notice my absence, 
 and if I were to be seen with j on, I should be lost, 
 for Aurelia is very malicious." 
 
 " What are we to do, for I cannot make up my 
 mind to leave you like this ? Is M. de Berly com- 
 ing here to-night ! 
 
 "No, he is going to stay in Paris till Sunday. 
 My room is in that building in the garden ; I will 
 give you the key, and you can go in and wait for 
 me there ; but if Aurelia or her husband ..." 
 
 " You do not love me as much as you used to 
 do, Julia!" 
 
 " How cruel of you ! Here is the key, but take 
 care that nobody sees you, and I will return to the 
 drawing-room and leave them as soon as possible, 
 under pretence of a headache." 
 
 She went towards the house, and Gustave went 
 to the cottage which she had pointed out to him. 
 It stood quite by itself in the middle of the garden, 
 
160 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 and consisted of a ground -floor and one storey, witb 
 a perfectly flat roof, on which there was a telescope 
 fixed on a swivel, so that it could be brought to 
 bear on any part of the surrounding country. 
 
 When he reached it, he found he had no need to 
 use the key, for the door was open, and he found 
 himself in a little entrance-hall, with a staircase 
 that led to the upper floor and the roof facing the 
 entrance, whilst a door on the left opened into the- 
 ground-floor room. 
 
 "I wonder if her room is downstairs or up- 
 stairs? * Gustave said to himself; " but it does not 
 much matter, and I can wait for her, as I suppose- 
 she is the only occupant of the place, since she has 
 the key, so I will go in here and see whether the^ 
 room is ready for her." 
 
 The key was in the door, and Gustave went in r 
 and found himself in a handsomely -furnished and 
 newly-decorated room, and felt certain that it 
 was Madame de Berly's, which had been fitted up> 
 for her reception. Nothing was wanting in the 
 apartment ; an elegant bed, couch, looking-glasses r 
 lounging-chairs, double curtains at the windows ' r 
 nothing had been neglected to make it a most 
 charming abode. Gustave examined everything, 
 and was surprised to see a large mirror in the 
 recess at the foot of the bed. 
 
 M By George," he thought, " this is indeed luxury 
 and refinement. Julia used not to have anything 
 of all this formerly ; but a boudoir, as this might 
 almost be called, is the very place for a pretty 
 woman. Certainly Madame Fremont's room will 
 be nothing at all like it. A prude like Aurelia T 
 who never looked at a man, and who took offence 
 at the slightest joke, must be very amusing as a 
 married woman ! She will be sure to banish every- 
 thing from her room that can in the least appeal 
 to the senses or shock her modesty. Nothing so- 
 
How a Married Couple passed the Night. 161 
 
 dull as a prude, in company at least, but I should 
 like to know what sort of a wife she makes." 
 
 After admiring the room, Gustave closed the 
 door and threw himself into a lounge to wait for 
 Julia, and thought how strange it was that whilst 
 he had come out to look for Susan, he should now 
 be waiting for Madame de Berly. Not that he had 
 by any means forgotten the former, for he was- 
 determined to try and find out where the Colonel 
 had hidden her, but a day or two was of no great 
 consequence, and, in fact, might make matters 
 easier, for if Gustave was not observed to be look- 
 ing after her, nobody would keep a very close 
 watch upon the girl, and thus she might manage 
 to Jet him hear from her, so at least he thought 
 whilst he was sitting waiting for Madame de? 
 Berly. 
 
 It had been dark for some time, and Gustave 
 was almost tired of waiting, when he at last saw 
 a light in the garden, and he heard a confused 
 noise of voices, which made him jump up and 
 listen attentively. 
 
 He heard the voices of Aurelia and of a man,, 
 who were talking with Madame de Berly ; most 
 likely, he thought, the newly-married couple were 
 accompanying her as far as the garden pavilion ; 
 but, then, suppose they were so polite as to com& 
 as far as her room with her ! It was quite pos- 
 sible, and he did not dare to run any risk, so, see- 
 ing no other hiding place, Gustave crept under 
 the bed, hoping that he would not have to stay 
 there very long. 
 
 They soon came near enough for him to hear 
 what they were saying. 
 
 " My dear Aurelia, you do not mean to say that 
 you^re going to sleep in this garden house ? " 
 
 " Yes, aunt ; I had it fitted up on purpose last 
 week." r r 
 
TL62 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " How foolish you are, when you were so com- 
 fortable in that room that looks on to the street." 
 
 " My wife has funny ideas sometimes, and she did 
 ot take the trouble to consult me on the matter." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I can sleep where I please ! " 
 
 " Of course you can, my dear wife, but . . ." 
 
 "But, but; I tell you we shall be much more 
 comfortable here." 
 
 " Don't you think, Aurelia, that this pavilion is 
 rather damp f " 
 
 "But, aunt, you have no objection to sleeping 
 here." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but then I do not sleep on the 
 ground-floor." 
 
 " I am not afraid of the damp, and just come 
 and see how beautifully I have had the room 
 fitted up." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, Aurelia opened 
 the door, and went in. Julia followed her, trem- 
 bling all over, as she was afraid lest Gustave, 
 whom she had forgotten to tell that she was liv- 
 ing on the upper-floor, might be waiting for her 
 down below, but she was reassured as soon as she 
 looked in, — 
 
 " Well, you had better stop here, as you like 
 the place, and I shall go to bed, for I have a bad 
 headache, and I shall not get up early, I know." 
 
 With this Madame de Berly left Aurelia and 
 her husband to themselves, and went upstairs to 
 her room, where she hoped to find Gustave wait- 
 ing for her. He, however, poor fellow, was most 
 uncomfortable under the bed where he was hidden, 
 more especially as he found that he was in M. and 
 Madame Fremont's room. They fastened the door, 
 and prepared to retire, so there were no means of 
 escape for him, and he would be only too lucky if 
 he were not discovered, as he could not even be 
 taken for a thief since Aurelia knew him, and thus 
 
How a Married Couple passed the Night. 163 
 
 Julia must be compromised ; he made up his mind, 
 therefore, to stay under the bed, happy if no one 
 ehould turn him out of his hiding place. He lay 
 on his back, hoping that Providence would not 
 allow either monsieur or madame to look under 
 the bed, as timorous souls so frequently do, wait- 
 ing in perfect silence, without daring to move, 
 and hardly to breathe, trusting that love or chance 
 would enable him to escape. 
 
 Madame Fremont put her hair into curl-papers 
 and her husband began to undress himself. 
 
 The talk of husband and wife, however, was not 
 particularly tender, — 
 
 " Just unlace my stays. Make haste ; how awk- 
 ward you are I " 
 
 " But, my dear wife, there is a knot . . ." 
 
 " Cannot you cut it ? Well, at last I I thought 
 you would never have done. You are never going 
 to put on a cotton night-cap 1 What a fright you 
 look in it ! " 
 
 " It will keep my head warm, and I do not want 
 to catch cold in this damp room." 
 
 "You are just like an old man, and I only 
 wonder that you do not put on a flannel waist- 
 coat ! * 
 
 " That is just what I am going to do, for it is a 
 great preservative of health." 
 
 " I hope you will do nothing of the sort, for I 
 do not want to sleep with a bundle of flannel to 
 irritate my skin." 
 
 " But I shall not be covered with it all over, mv 
 dear." J 
 
 Madame Fremont got into bed, and Gustave 
 said to himself: "By Jove, what a woman! It 
 is very strange for a prude to object to a flannel 
 waistcoat! Just fancy a girl like that, who 
 would never even raise her eyes when a man 
 «poke to her ; so much for appearances I " 
 
m 
 164 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " I wonder how much longer you are going to* 
 walk about before coming to bed ! " 
 
 " I shall come directly ; I was only looking to 
 see whether the shutters were closed." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you are afraid oi 
 thieves." 
 
 " No, but I am of draughts, and it is very easy 
 to get a stiff neck or lumbago." 
 
 " Good heavens I if you had only told me before 
 we were married that you were afraid of draughts 
 and lumbago, that you wore flannel waistcoats and 
 cotton night-caps, I should have thought twice 
 before marrying you. How deceived I was, when 
 you used to pretend that you had been a roui t 
 and boast of your gallantries, and now look at 
 you ! But do come to bed." 
 
 Fremont blew out the candle and got in by the 
 side of his wife. 
 
 " "What have you blown the candle out for 1 " 
 
 " Well, I don't, as a rule, care to go to sleep with 
 a light burning." 
 
 "To go to sleep! You are quite right, you 
 don't as a rule ..." 
 
 "But, my dear wife, are you angry with 
 me . . M 
 
 " How utterly stupid you are ! I wonder what 
 was the good of my having a looking-glass put at 
 the foot of the bed?" 
 
 " I really do not know, for you surely cannot 
 want to use it at night."* 
 
 "I certainly see that it is of no use with 
 
 M. Fremont, however, as has been said, was in 
 bed by this time, and Gustave could hardly restrain 
 his laughter at this conjugal dialogue. For about 
 
 * The unimaginative reader may consult Casanova's M&moires r 
 and other writers of the last century, for the bedrooms lined with 
 mirrors. 
 
How a Married Couple passed ike Night. 165 
 
 iive minutes the silence was not broken, but they 
 did not go to sleep. 
 
 "Do you mean to go to sleep already I " said 
 
 Aurelia. 
 
 " Well, my dear, there would be nothing very 
 extraordinary if I were to go to sleep. 1 have 
 been running about Paris nearly all day, and I 
 am very tired." 
 
 " And that is all you have to say to me I I have 
 not been running about all day, and I am not the 
 least tired." 
 
 " But, my dear wife, you must remember that 
 yesterday I . . ." 
 
 " Yesterday ! That is a lot to be proud of ! " 
 
 " I really am surprised at your language, and I 
 never could have believed it of you when I married 
 you. You, who were always so reserved, so parti- 
 cular as to modesty and morals, and who sent away 
 two maids because they were rather too full- 
 figured, you now find fault with me because I am 
 tired and want to go to sleep ..." 
 
 " Of course I like modesty and decency in public ; 
 but the Bible tells us that when we are married 
 we must mutually meet each other's desires, and 
 even forestall them, and it allows us to enjoy the 
 pleasures of marriage by begetting children in our 
 own likeness." 
 
 " Do not be angry, my dear wife ; you know how 
 dearly I love you." 
 
 " Yes, you say so." 
 
 " But I have proved it to you so often I Give 
 me a kiss, darling, and let us make it up." 
 
 " Upon my word, I am too kind to you." 
 
 Gustave could not hear the rest of the conver- 
 sation, but what he had already heard opened his 
 eyes as to the real character of the " prude " he 
 had first met at the residence of H. de Berly. 
 
166 That Rascal (histave. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JULIA LOSES HER BEAUTY AND GUSTAVE HIS 
 TROUSERS. 
 
 The conversation of husband and wife having com© 
 to an end, and as nobody was moving in the bed r 
 Gustave thought they were both asleep ; he re- 
 solved, therefore, to profit by that moment to make 
 his escape, for if he were to wait for daylight, it 
 would be harder for him to escape the eyes of the 
 servants. 
 
 He crept very softly on his hands and knees from 
 underneath the bed, and so reached the middle of 
 the room, when he got up and walked towards the 
 door, feeling his way before him ; but just as he wa& 
 close to it, he knocked against a low stool on which 
 there was a basin, and sent it flying into the middle 
 of the room, and the noise woke up M. and Madame 
 Fremont. 
 
 " Who is there % " the former cried, and Gustave, 
 finding that it was no good to go on feeling his 
 way, thought it best to make his escape, so he 
 rushed out of the room, whilst Aurelia screamed 
 out " Thieves I help I " at the top of her voice, and 
 Fremont ran to get his gun. 
 
 Gustave gained the first-floor, knocked at the 
 door of the room, and softly called out Julia's name, 
 but there was no answer, and M. Fremont would 
 be coming upstairs directly, and very likely have 
 a shot at him, so the only thing for him to do 
 was to go up higher on to the terraced roof, and 
 close the door behind him. Thus he was in safetv, 
 for the time being, at any rate ; but Fremont knew 
 that he had gone on to the top of the house, and 
 ran to call his servants, whilst Aurelia made her 
 escape into the garden in her night-dress. 
 
Julia loses Her Beauty and Ghustave His Trousers. 16T 
 
 Now the reason that Julia had not opened her 
 bedroom door to Gustave was that she was not in 
 the room. On going upstairs, she thought she 
 should be sure to find him there, and was very 
 much surprised, on searching everywhere, even 
 in the bed, not to find any one. She wondered 
 where he was, and went up to look whether he 
 were on the terrace, but he was not there ; she had 
 been in to her niece's room, so he certainly could 
 not be there, so she could not understand the matter 
 at all. She opened the window, looked out into the 
 garden, and coughed loudly, but nobody appeared. 
 
 " I suppose," she thought, " he has got tired of 
 waiting, and has gone away ; but yet he would 
 hardly do that, and very likely he was afraid of 
 being seen in the pavilion, and has gone to wait 
 for me in the garden, for he must be somewhere 
 or other, so I will go and see." 
 
 She took a lamp, and going downstairs very 
 gently, so as not to wake up M. and Madame Fre- 
 mont, she began to search all the garden carefully, 
 calling out " Gustave " in a low tone, whilst he was 
 all the time hidden under Julia's bed. 
 
 The garden was a very large one, and she had 
 not searched it more than half through, when 
 Aurelia's and her husband's cries reached her ears, 
 and she stopped, trembling all over, for she thought 
 that he had been discovered, and that they were-, 
 lost, and, hastening back to the pavilion, she ran 
 against Aurelia at a turn in the garden walk. 
 
 " My dear aunt, we must run away, for there is 
 a thief in the house." 
 
 "A thief!" 
 
 " Yes ; did you not hear us calling out ? " 
 
 "Of course I did, and that was the reason why 
 I came downstairs." 
 
 " It is very lucky you did not meet him, for he w* 
 on the terrace at the top of the house now." 
 
168 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " Are you quite certain ? " 
 
 11 Yes, quite ; he was hidden under the bed, and, 
 good heavens I — oh, dear ! if I had known that he 
 was there. But, aunt, don't go near the pavilion, 
 for he might fire at us." 
 
 Madame de Berly did not listen to Aurelia, but 
 went on, ran upstairs, opened the door, uttered a 
 cry on seeing a black man in the middle of her 
 room, but her fears were soon dispelled on recog- 
 nising Gustave, whose only means of escape from 
 the terrace had been to go down her chimney. 
 
 " My poor Gustave, is that you f And what a 
 state you are in ! You are lucky to have escaped 
 as it is, but what will they think at not finding you 
 on the terrace ? " 
 
 " Think ! — why, that I have jumped into the 
 garden." 
 
 " I hear them coming, but I know what you 
 must do." 
 
 Madame de Berly opened her window, and saw 
 Fremont coming, followed by the footman and 
 gardener, and three or four neighbours, whom he 
 had roused to help him catch the thief, and who 
 now came armed with torches and guns. She 
 stopped them just as they were going up on to 
 ■the terrace. 
 
 " The thief has escaped," she said ; " I saw him 
 jump from the terrace into the garden, and climb 
 over the wall." 
 
 " Are you quite sure, aunt, for the wall is very 
 high?" 
 
 " Men like that are so active." 
 
 " Never mind," Aurelia said ; " examine the 
 pavilion and the terrace carefully nevertheless." 
 
 "By Jove ! " Gustave said, "they will not look 
 for me here, especially in your bed." 
 
 Saying this, he undressed and got in, and Julia 
 -was just going to do the same thing, when some 
 
^fulia loses Her Ltiauty and Grustave Jdis Trousers. 169 
 
 one came quickly down the stairs, and knocked 
 violently at her door. 
 
 " Open your door, aunt, open the door," M. 
 Fremont cried. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 " The thief must be in your room, or up the 
 chimney, for we are certain that he went down it, 
 as the chimney-pot is broken." 
 
 " There is no one in my room, or I should 
 ^certainly see him." 
 
 " He has hidden himself somewhere, so do make 
 haste and open the door." 
 
 " But I am nearly naked, so you must wait a 
 moment." 
 
 She was undressing herself as fast as she could ; 
 jshe stuffed Gustave's clothes between the mat- 
 tresses, and then went to the door. 
 
 "I am just going to open it," she said, "but 
 don't come at once ; please give me time to get 
 into bed first." 
 
 As soon as she had opened the door, she went and 
 laid herself down by the side of Gustave, who made 
 himself as small as possible, and got to a place where 
 nobody would certainly ever look for the thief.* 
 
 Fremont, the servants, and the neighbours came, 
 examined the room, looked up the chimney, and 
 fired two shots up it. 
 
 " You see he is not here," Madame de Berly said. 
 
 " But suppose," Aurelia, who had remained close 
 to the door, observed, " that he should be hidden 
 under the bed." 
 
 They looked under the bed,f but there was no 
 one there, and so Julia said, — 
 
 * See Byron's Don Juan, Canto 1, clxvi., — 
 
 " Young, slender, and packed easily, he lay, 
 No doubt in little compass, round or square." 
 •■+. See Don Juan, Canto 1, cxliv., — 
 
 " Under the bed they searched, and there they found- 
 No matter what — it was not what they sought.' 
 
170 That Rascal Grustave. 
 
 " I told you I saw him scramble over the wall, 
 
 "But, aunt, there might have been several of 
 them." 
 
 " At any rate, he is not here, so I hope that at 
 last you will all go, and let me go to sleep." 
 
 " To sleep, aunt, when we are surrounded by 
 thieves." 
 
 " As I am quite sure they are not in the house r 
 I am not at all afraid." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," Fremont said to his neigh- 
 bours, " let us go and search the gardens." 
 
 Just as they were going out, Aurelia stopped 
 them, — 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, are you going to leave me 
 by myself? I do not feel at all inclined to stop on 
 the ground-floor alone, for they would only have- 
 to force open the shutters . . ." 
 
 " You had better come with us, madame." 
 
 " Go out like this ? Good heavens ! I will re- 
 main with my aunt, who is very brave, and I shall 
 not be frightened as long as I am with her. Aunt* 
 will you let me sleep with you I " 
 
 " What nonsense ! " 
 
 11 Please let me, aunt. Now, gentlemen, you had 
 better go, but leave the gardener with us ; he can 
 stop downstairs as a sentry." 
 
 They went, and left the gardener as requested,, 
 giving him orders to fire on the first alarm, and 
 leaving Aurelia in Madame de Berly's room. Gus- 
 tave was in a most unpleasant position, and Julia's 
 was even more painful than his. She looked at 
 Aurelia in consternation, whilst she wrapped up 
 her head in a handkerchief and prepared to share 
 her aunt's bed; another moment and Madame- 
 Fremont would discover everything, for, as the bed 
 was close up against the wall, Gustave could not 
 get out on the other side, so what could she do T 
 She must resort to desperate means to save her- 
 
Julia loses Her Beauty and Ghistave His Trousers. 17 f 
 
 self, so she got out of bed just as Aurelia war 
 going to get in, and took the candle which Aurelia 
 had put down. 
 
 " What are you going to do, aunt 1 " 
 
 "I thought I heard a noise, and I think they 
 did not look in that large hanging cupboard." 
 
 " Oh ! how you do terrify me ; don't go near it ' r 
 just suppose there were anybody inside 1 * 
 
 " Well, the best way is to make sure." 
 
 " Wait a moment, and I will go and call the 
 gardener." 
 
 She opened the door to do so, and whilst her 
 back was turned, Julia set fire to some paper that 
 was at the back of the cupboard. The gardener 
 came quite prepared to fire at the thief, when 
 Madame Berly said, — 
 
 " I have not seen anything, and no doubt made 
 a mistake." 
 
 "Never mind, aunt, let him search carefully 
 everywhere." 
 
 As soon as he came into the room he noticed 
 thick clouds of smoke coming out of the press, and 9 
 of course, thought it was the thief s doing. 
 
 "Monsieur," Julia said, "I am afraid I must 
 have done it; no doubt a spark fell amongst the 
 papers whilst I was looking into the cupboard." 
 
 The smoke was filling the room, Aurelia rushed 
 downstairs uttering loud cries, the gardener left 
 his gun and ran to get some water, and, as soon 
 as they had gone, Gustave jumped out of bed and 
 took her into his arms. 
 
 " You must go away immediately, you have not 
 a moment to spare. Good heavens I what a night 
 this has been." 
 
 " Dearest Julia, it is my fault." 
 
 " Make haste, or we shall be stifled." 
 
 "I must, at any rate, take my clothes, for 1 
 cannot go away like this." 
 
172 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 u Make haste down ; here is the key of the little 
 side gate." 
 
 She pushed him out of the room, which was 
 already half-filled with smoke, but just at that 
 moment the gardener came upstairs with two 
 buckets of water, and seeing a young man trying 
 to escape with a bundle under his arm, he made 
 sure that it was the thief they were in search of, 
 and so, having no other weapons, he put down 
 one of his buckets, and dashed the contents of the 
 other one right over Gustave, and, wet to the skin, 
 the latter rushed at him ; the man lost his balance 
 and fell on to the stairs, and Gustave, jumping 
 over him, rushed out of the unfortunate pavilion. 
 Luckily Aurelia had left it already, so he took the 
 path to the little gate, opened it, and found him- 
 self in the open country, and for the second time, 
 almost in a state of nudity, he went over hedges 
 and ditches, and again it was for Julia's sake that 
 he was in that unpleasant predicament. 
 
 " That is the last of it," he muttered, shivering ; 
 " I will not expose myself to another such adven- 
 ture ; that woman is too dear at the price." 
 
 At a short distance from M. Fremont's house he 
 stopped and prepared to dress himself, but here 
 was another misadventure, for instead of a pair of 
 trousers he had a pair of stays, a petticoat instead 
 of a waistcoat, and a frock instead of his coat, and 
 a little lace cap. He had taken Julia's clothes in- 
 stead of his own, a not unnatural mistake, as she 
 had put his things under the mattress, and put her 
 own on the chair, and, half-blinded by the smoke, 
 Gustave had taken them without noticing the 
 vchange. 
 
 " They say there is a god to look after lovers," 
 Gustave said, fastening on the petticoat and dress 
 as well as he could, " but it seems to me to-night 
 that the devil himself has taken charge of our 
 
Julia loses Her Beauty and Gustave His Trousers. 173 
 
 affairs ; however, I must make the best of it, but 
 when one is wet through, a thin petticoat and 
 dress are not quite so useful as thick men's clothes 
 would be. What is the good of all these strings, I 
 wonder ? Why on earth did I follow that cab t 
 What a night ! ... If my dear uncle were to see 
 me like this, and Madame Fonbelle ! Devil take 
 all these laces and tapes, but I must make haste 
 to get to Paris before it is broad day, for if I were 
 seen like this, I should be taken to the police 
 station." 
 
 During this time Madame de Berly was exposed 
 to great dangers on his account. She was just 
 behind him when the gardener soused him with 
 water, and she saw him knock down his opponent, 
 and run into the garden. She was delighted to 
 think that he had escaped, but a moment's reflec- 
 tion moderated her joy; his clothes were under 
 the mattress, and so, unfortunately, he might have 
 made a mistake and taken her things instead of 
 his, and, wet as he was, he would be sure to catch 
 a severe cold if he could not clothe himself warmly 
 soon. She immediately took a bold resolution, for 
 women never think of the danger when they want 
 to save the object of their affection, and Madame 
 de Berly felt quite sure that Gustave would die if 
 he had nothing on but a dress and a petticoat. 
 
 She went upstairs again, and found that the 
 flames had already seized on a portion of the room, 
 though they had not yet reached the bed, so, shut- 
 ting her eyes, and holding her breath, she rushed 
 in, lifted up the mattress, and, seizing the clothes, 
 she made for the door, but the smoke was stifling 
 her, and a sudden burst of flame caught her hair, 
 which was hanging about in disorder, and would 
 naturally catch fire very easily, and she fell on the 
 staircase, exclaiming, " Poor Gustave I " 
 
 She would have perished if the gardener, pick- 
 
174 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 ing himself up, and recovering from the shock of 
 his fall, had not gone to her assistance. He ran 
 upstairs with his remaining bucketful of water, and 
 seeing Madame deBerly on the ground, he took her 
 up in his arms, carried her out in the garden, and 
 threw the water over her head to put out her 
 burning hair. Just then assistance came from all 
 sides ; Aurelia had called her husband, Fremont and 
 his servants had roused their neighbours, and all 
 came running with water, and gained the mastery 
 over the flames ; but all the furniture in the room 
 on the first-floor was burnt, and, with it, Gustavo's 
 clothes. 
 
 Madame de Berry recovered consciousness, but 
 she was in terrible pain ; her face was burnt all 
 over, and she would be scarred for life. Aurelia 
 screamed out when she saw her aunt, but the latter 
 was resigned. 
 
 " I shall be ugly," she thought, " and he will not 
 love me any longer, but my heart will always be 
 the same, and he will not run any more risks for 
 my sake, and I shall not, for the future, think of 
 breaking m^ marriage vows." 
 
 She indeed lost all her beauty, and was punished 
 by the means of that beauty which had caused 
 her to sin : a just retribution here below. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A SCENE AT LA OOURTILLE. 
 
 -CrUSTAVE, with the little lace cap on his head, the 
 stays put on like a waistcoat, and laced in front, 
 the petticoat all on one side, and the dress dragging 
 
A Scene at La Courtille. 175 
 
 in the mud, walked through the Grande Rue de 
 Belleville with long strides. The day was beginning 
 to break ; in such feminine disguise he must avoid 
 all adventures, especially in La Courtille quarter, 
 which was a great place for drunkards and bad 
 characters of all sorts, and he was glad when he 
 had passed the He d' Amour, so he quickened his 
 pace, holding up the petticoat with one hand as 
 best he could, and the dress with the other, though 
 he was frequently obliged to let one or the other 
 hang down, in order to hold on the little cap, which 
 the wind threatened to blow oiF. 
 
 As Gustave's ill-luck would have it, M. Favori, 
 "the savage from a neighbouring caf4 chantant, well 
 known in that part for his various accomplishments, 
 had had a slight difference with Jean-Jean Courte- 
 pointe, a drummer in the neighbouring barracks, on 
 the subject of Mdlle. Nanon, who sold coloured eggs 
 outside the cafS Grand St Morin, who, by the 
 brightness of her eyes, set the hearts of all M. 
 Desnoyer's customers in a flame, but who rode a 
 very high horse as to morals, and who was as firm 
 in her virtue as she was in her sabots. 
 
 M. Favori always used very fine language, and 
 being a great hand at cajoling the girls, found 
 many means of captivating those little innocent 
 beauties whom he thought worthy of his homage. 
 He sang the ballad of the Pied de Mouton, and 
 ihat plaintive song, The Sacrifice of Abraham, with 
 much seductive grace, and in a fine counter-tenor 
 voice; he excelled on the big drum, and every 
 week he went to the Funambules to study panto- 
 mime, and occasionally to the CafS des Aveugles to 
 pick up opera airs. 
 
 Nanon was fond of the fine arts, and especially 
 of music, and would beat time with her foot on 
 her foot -warmer when Favori was humming a 
 romantic tune, and would join in when he wafc 
 
176 That Rascal Grustave. 
 
 playing the overture of La Caravane on the big 
 drum. Favori took care to foster her inclinations - f 
 he would go and talk to her during the entr'actes, 
 sit by her stall and teach her pexator del ond' 
 infideli, till the melody almost turned her head, 
 and she would sing pexator whilst she was peel- 
 ing her hard-boiled eggs or broiling a herring. 
 
 M. Jean-Jean Courtepointe also cast his eyes 
 favourably on the fair stall-keeper; he certainly 
 neither sang pexator, nor the ballads of the 
 Boulevards, but he marched very elegantly whilst 
 carrying his drum, and his hands whirled the 
 drumsticks with wonderful agility. When they 
 were marching down La Courtille he would make 
 the little fifers strike up, and would often halt 
 opposite the hard-boiled red egg stall to play the 
 retreat. 
 
 Nanon was strictly virtuous, as I have already 
 told you, but then she was by no means insensible 
 to delicate attentions, and was rather proud of 
 having inspired two such men with love for her. 
 She smiled at the soldier, and kept eggs for him, 
 which she coloured yellow on purpose (which 
 shows all Nanon's candour and innocence). She 
 would stop whatever she was doing when he went 
 by with his drum, which was a fine opportunity 
 for him to show his skill with his sticks. Besides 
 that, the young drummer was as good a dancer 
 as Favori was a singer. Courtepointe had learnt 
 the Allemande from a clown in a circus, and on 
 Sundays and Mondays he danced it with such 
 grace in the large hall of M. Desnoyer's cafe* that 
 people flocked to see him do his steps, and the 
 very beadles were obliged to acknowledge his 
 talents. Now Mdlle. Nanon was very fond of the 
 Allemande, for her innocent soul could not guess 
 the dangers of that graceful dance. M. Courte- 
 pointe had offered to give her lessons, and she 
 
A Scene at La CourtUU. 17T 
 
 had accepted, and they practised together either 
 at Desnoyer's or at Calot's every evening till they 
 might venture to dance it at the He d 'Amour. 
 
 Naturally Favori was not at all pleased at 
 Courtepointe's assiduous attentions. He used to 
 look at his rival with furious eyes, and often felt 
 a strong inclination to kick hini; he longed to 
 break his drumsticks over his head; but Nanon 
 could check the impetuosity of her savage with a 
 majestic look, and by a word calm the fury of his 
 transports of jealousy. 
 
 "Favori," she would say, putting her arms 
 akimbo, " be kind enough not to throw any doubt 
 on my virtue, or I will break off all connection 
 with you, whether it be in talking or singing ; a 
 girl like me can certainly dance the Allemande 
 without going wrong." 
 
 And then Favori would look down, take Nanon's 
 hand and kiss it, and sometimes kiss her cheeks as 
 well, though he occasionally got his face slapped 
 for his boldness, and then ne would leave, with a 
 feeling of relief at his heart. 
 
 Jean-Jean also wished occasionally to take liber- 
 ties whilst he was going through his steps, but 
 Nanon had, so to speak, beak and claws, and one 
 day she scratched Courtepointe's nose so badly 
 that after that he kept within the bounds of re- 
 spect. This state of things, however, could not 
 go on ; the rivals never met without giving each 
 other threatening looks, and sometimes even they 
 would use language towards one another which 
 was the reverse of polite, and Nanon had much 
 trouble to restrain them ; in vain she reminded 
 them of her virtue and her strict morals ; these 
 gentlemen were by no means satisfied, for each 
 knew that the other was a terrible rake, who had 
 overcome the virtue of several girls who had till 
 then been thought quite insensible to love, so they 
 
 M 
 
178 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 did not put much trust in Nanon's protestations, 
 for the woman of the strictest virtue may have a 
 moment of weakness, and all a man has to do is 
 i;o seize that moment. 
 
 One evening whilst Favori, in his dress as the 
 savage, was entertaining the assembled company 
 in the large room at Calot's with a representation 
 called, The Grief of a Carib, fa?' from his Paternal 
 Moof Jean-Jean proposed to Nanon that they 
 should go and practise the Allemande in a room at 
 M. Desnoyer's. 
 
 Nanon agreed immediately ; she was getting on 
 very well, and hoped that she should be able to 
 show her graceful steps on the next Sunday before 
 a brilliant and select company. They went into 
 a room on the first floor, and, faithful to her 
 virtuous principles, she opened all the doors and 
 windows, so that Jean- Jean might not attempt 
 any liberties with her. 
 
 The drummer ordered up a bottle of white wine, 
 and Nanon, of course, took a glass, whilst Jean- 
 Jean had one at every new figure. 
 
 Now whether it was the effects of the wine, or 
 whether the drummer's passion had reached its 
 height, it is quite certain that he was burning 
 with irresistible ardour ; he invented charming 
 figures, danced them with infinite grace, and cast 
 amorous glances at his charmer, till Nanon, heated 
 by wine, electrified by her partner's talents, and, 
 wishing to do him honour, surpassed herself, and 
 ispun round like a tee-to-tum in the arms of her 
 drummer. 
 
 But the Tarpeian rock is near the Capitol, and 
 the large room at Calot's was opposite Desnoyer's ! 
 Favori, tormented by love and jealousy, even 
 on the scene of his triumph, saw Nanon and his 
 rival through the open window. At this sight he 
 .got furious, and, upsetting three stools which were 
 
A Scene at La Counille, 179 
 
 supposed to represent the hut of a Carihean, and a 
 broomstick with a bunch of feathers on the top, 
 which did duty as a palm tree, lie jumped over his 
 big drum, with his club in his hand, scrambled over 
 the benches and tables, smashing the glass, up- 
 setting an army pensioner who was drinking a 
 glass of beer, and two Auvergnats who were 
 eating bread and garlic, and aftiy thing and anybody 
 else whom he met on his road, and rushed down 
 the steps two at a time. He bounded across the 
 street and tore into Desnoyer's like a madman; 
 his false beard fell off, but he* did not notice it, and 
 his linen drawers, part of his costume as a savage, 
 got a tear in an awkward place, but nothing 
 stopped him, for he had made up his mind to take 
 vengeance on his hated rival. Upstairs and into 
 the room he dashed, and threw himself between 
 Nanon and Courtepointe, just as the latter was 
 showing her a figure in which they had to kiss ; 
 but the drummer only kissed Favori's chin, who 
 raised his redoubtable club and rolled his eyes like 
 the tyrant in a melodrama. 
 
 " Wretch ! what are you going to do f " Nanon 
 said, in a pathetic voice, seizing the savage, who 
 was about to strike his opponent, by the arm. 
 
 "You have been hopping about long enough 
 with this miserable drum-tapper. It must stop, 
 and he shall feel the weight of my club." 
 
 Courtepointe was plucky enough ; he cocked his 
 forage cap over his left ear, put his right hand 
 on the hilt of his little sword, retired a couple 
 of yards, and, standing on tip-toe, so as to bring 
 himself more on a level with his adversary, he 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Whom are you calling drum-tapper, you miser- 
 able savage of the Rue Coquenard f Do you think 
 to frighten me with your sham Indian get-up? 
 Did I ever interrupt you in your singing lessons % 
 
180 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 • ■ 
 I tell you I shall dance with the lady as long a» 
 she pleases." 
 
 " You shall not dance with her." 
 
 " I shall ; so there now ! " 
 
 Already the club was raised, and the sword 
 drawn ; blood would be shed, and Nanon began to 
 cry and to scream, but they did not pay any atten- 
 tion to her ; she tore her hair, but they let her do 
 it ; she fell into a chair in a faint, and they took 
 no notice ; the chair slipped, Nanon fell, and they 
 stopped spontaneously. 
 
 " We must not settle our quarrel here," Courte- 
 pointe said ; " before it is light to-morrow I will be 
 on the exterior Boulevard, outside the barrier." 
 
 " All right," Favori replied. 
 
 Then they went and picked up Nanon, and put 
 her on a bench, threw some vinegar in her face,, 
 and left the room as soon as she had recovered 
 consciousness. 
 
 Now, whether she had not really altogether done 
 so, or whether she guessed her two admirers' in- 
 tentions, at any rate she appeared at their place of 
 meeting, just as they, each armed with a cudgel^ 
 were about to begin the attack. 
 
 " Just listen to me," she said, going up to them, 
 " and afterwards you can fight if you absolutely 
 wish to. I am the cause of your quarrel, and my 
 innocence led me to act inconsistently, for I ought 
 neither to have jumped about with a drummer nor 
 sung with a savage. I know you are both of you 
 brave, and nobody doubts your reputation ; I mean 
 to regain mine, which I have compromised, and I 
 agree to marry one of you, if you will lay down 
 vour weapons 1 " 
 
 ' ""Oh ! choose between us ! " they both cried out 
 at the same moment, throwing away their cudgels,, 
 and placing themselves at her feet. 
 
 "Wait a moment, gentlemen," she said, "and 
 
A Scene at La Courtille. 181 
 
 iirst of all get up, for if you were seen like that, 
 people might draw improper conclusions. You are 
 t)oth good-looking, amiable, and attractive, and I 
 cannot decide between you; chance, therefore, 
 must do so for me. Here is a franc piece, take it 
 and toss heads or tails; the winner shall be re- 
 warded with my hand, and the loser, I know, wiJl 
 not bear me any ill-will." 
 
 Favori seized the coin, and his rival called 
 "Heads/ it is a hundred to a sou I shall win." 
 The money spun up into the air ; they both threw 
 themselves on to the ground, and looked eagerly 
 at it. " It is heads /" Courtepointe exclaimed, and 
 threw himself at Nanon's feet, whilst the other was 
 in despair, but he took his cue, went up to the 
 loving couple, and himself joined their hands. 
 
 After mutual embraces, they went to the Grand 
 St Martin to devote the morning to pleasure and 
 a good breakfast. It was barely daylight, but the 
 eating-houses of La Courtille are open at all hours, 
 and Courtepointe, who was going to stand treat, 
 ordered rabbits, pigeons, and wine. They gave 
 themselves up to enjoyment, and the future couple 
 began a little amorous dalliance. 
 
 Favori was determined to be true to his promise 
 not to bear ill-will, but yet he had a heart, and the 
 sight of their endearments, and of the kisses which 
 Jean-Jean lavished on the fair Nanon, made his 
 resolutions grow weaker and weaker. To divert 
 his thoughts and drown his sorrow, he drank 
 many bumpers, but the wine did not quench 
 his jealousy, but, on the contrary, increased and 
 doubled his ardour. At last it got so intolerable 
 i;hat he determined not to look at the happy 
 lovers any more, so he left the room, lighted his 
 pipe in the kitchen, and went to get a little 
 fresh air in the streets. 
 
 Just then he saw a woman coming down very fast 
 
182 That Rascal Ghistave. 
 
 from Belleville ; her somewhat masculine walk, her 
 cap on one side, and her clothes pulled up to her 
 garters, struck the admiration of the savage, who, a* 
 you know, happened to be in a very excited frame 
 of mind. He saw a leg which was rather big, 
 perhaps, but well shaped ; the woman was robustly 
 built, and her eyes certainly betrayed no timidity r 
 and the fumes of wine made him think everything 
 very attractive. "That is the very thing," the 
 savage said, and going up to Gustave (for you will- 
 have guessed that it was he), he said to him, — 
 " Will you have a glass of wine and a chat ? " 
 " Just get on and leave me alon e, will you." 
 " You are far too charming to walk by yourself.' 
 " Will you go and leave me in peace ; you are 
 bothering me." 
 
 " I have a crown which I can spend with you." 
 "Go to the devil!" 
 
 But Favori was not so easily shaken off; he 
 walked by Gustave's side, and gave him a pinch 
 * behind, to which he replied by turning round and 
 giving him a smack in the face. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " Favori said, " you are uncommonly 
 strong, but that makes no difference, for I will have 
 you ; I have set my mind upon it, and I do not 
 intend to toss heads and tails for you, and have it 
 said that I have lost another woman this morning, 
 so nothing remains for me but to carry you off." 
 
 Gustave tried to defend himself, but Favori, who 
 was a regular Hercules, could have taken up three 
 men of our hero's size, so he took up Gustave under 
 the arms and ran off with him. Gustave called for 
 help, but the streets were still deserted, and then, 
 besides that, in the La Courtille quarter, people are 
 so used to hearing cries that they never take any 
 notice of them. The savage, therefore, continued 
 running off with Gustave, without paying any 
 attention to his protestations that he was making 
 
A Scene at La Courtille. 18$*. 
 
 a mistake, and he was just going to turn into a 
 narrow lane, at the bottom of which he lived, when 
 two peasant women, riding on their donkeys, that 
 were loaded with eggs and milk for Paris, turned 
 out of the lane into which Favori was about to go, 
 As he did not see them in time, he stumbled heavily 
 against the first donkey, knocked the peasant 
 woman off, and sent all her milk-pails flying inta 
 the gutter. This accident enabled Gustave to- 
 escape out of the savage's arms for a moment, so 
 he got up and tried to run away, but the other 
 donkey was in the way, so, with Favori after him, 
 he took a spring, hoping to be able to clear the 
 baskets easily enough, but his dress got between 
 his legs, and he fell heavily on to the eggs, which 
 were destined for the inhabitants of the city. 
 The donkey fell on his knees in his fright, and the 
 woman rolled over with Gustave in a puddle of 
 milk and broken eggs. 
 
 You must remember that he had lost his trousers 
 in the pavilion, so whilst he was rolling about 
 Favori clearly saw that he had made a mistake, 
 so his ardour immediately cooled,and all he thought 
 about was to escape, so as to avoid paying for 
 the damage. 
 
 At last the peasant women picked themselves up 
 and began screaming : " Help I Thieves I " But the-, 
 savage was a long way off by this time, and so they 
 had only Gustave to look to for payment ; but Gus- 
 tave had also got up, and, wrapping his petticoats 
 round him, he rushed towards the barrier, whilst the 
 women, leaving donkeys, baskets, eggs and milk^ 
 rushed after him ; but he had the start of them, and 
 running through the barrier, he went down the 
 faubourg, whilst the peasants shouted, " Stop thief fc 
 she owes us for our eggs and milk." 
 
 The people began to congregate, looked at Gus- 
 tave, laughed, and did not stop him. The street; 
 
184 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 boys ran along with the two women, it was broad 
 daylight; the number of his pursuers increased, and 
 they were in Paris itself. Gustave, fearing to be 
 stopped by the low and brutal populace, and sub- 
 jected to universal ridicule and indignities, gathered 
 together all his courage and ran wonderfully quick. 
 He left the peasants and the idlers behind him, and 
 took a turning at a venture ; down the Rue du 
 Temple he went to the right, and made several 
 detours, till at last he stopped, utterly tired; a 
 young woman Was just opening her shop, so he 
 rushed in and threw himself into the first chair he 
 found, before the astonished shopkeeper had time 
 to ask him a question. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A MISTAKE — DISAPPEAKANOE OF SUSAN. 
 
 Be kind enough to assist me, madame, and hide 
 me from all those ragamuffins." 
 
 " But, madame . . . monsieur ... I really don't 
 know what to call you I . . ." 
 
 " I am a fool, madame, but nothing worse than 
 ihat, and you can safely take me in." 
 
 " Good heavens ! Why, I know the voice and the 
 face. Well I declare if it is not you, M. Toupet!" 
 
 " Why it is really Madame Henri, the pretty 
 linen-draper of the Rue aux Ours I " 
 
 " It is really I, monsieur. What a strange meet- 
 ing. Poor little girl, I must tell her immediately." 
 
 Madame Henri left Gustave in the shop and 
 
 went upstairs, where she slept with the girl who 
 
 had been confided to her keeping. Susan had only 
 
 been at Madame Henri's for a week, but two loving 
 
 ■hearts soon became intimate. The linen-draper 
 
A Mistake — Disappearance of Susan. 185 
 
 -was young and pretty enough to inspire love, and 
 >so she was sure to be indulgent to the faults which 
 love inspires. Susan had not indeed thought all 
 this, but after M. de Moranval and the housekeeper 
 had left, she had looked at Madame Henri, and 
 ihen she had begun to cry, and the little linen- 
 draper had consoled her by asking what her troubles 
 were. Her gentle voice inspired Susan with con- 
 fidence ; when a girl is away from her lover it is a 
 consolation to speak about him, and so she ingenu- 
 ously told her all her adventures. 
 
 Of course Madame Henri pitied her, but could 
 not repress an exclamation of surprise at hearing 
 her say that she had refused to marry M. Nicholas 
 Toupet. 
 
 « Why, I know him ; I met him at a wedding in 
 La Villette." 
 
 " Did you really t And is not he ugly, awkward, 
 and stupid f " 
 
 " Not the least ; on the contrary, I thought him 
 a good-looking, pleasant, clever fellow, and he 
 dances beautifully." 
 
 " Nicholas ? Why, he never could keep step, and 
 is too heavy for dancing." 
 
 " You must be joking, for he was the best dancer 
 at the wedding." 
 
 " And he is as timid as a hare." 
 
 " Timid ! He thrashed a journeyman cabinet- 
 maker, who picked a quarrel with him, and he 
 would have thrashed the whole lot, if he could 
 have had his own way." 
 
 " He must have changed very much ; but are you 
 quite sure that it was really Nicholas that you 
 •saw?" 
 
 " Certainly ; Nicholas Toupet, of Ermenonville, 
 who was to marry the daughter of M. Lucas." 
 
 " That certainly was he, but he shall never marry 
 tne, for I would rather die than be his wife." 
 
186 Thai iTascal Gustave. 
 
 " Well, I do not at all agree with you, and if he* 
 loved me I would marry him directly." 
 
 " Ah, madame, if you only knew M. Gustave, the 
 nephew of Colonel Moranval, you would see what 
 a difference there is between him and that horrid- 
 Nicholas!" 
 
 " But I have never seen the Colonel's nephew. I 
 daresay he is very nice, but I will never allow that 
 Nicholas is a horrid fellow." 
 
 Their opinions differed, though, as a matter of 
 fact, they really agreed, but then they were not up 
 to Gustave's tricks. Susan, who was rather calmer 
 now that she had related all that had happened to 
 her, had promised Madame Henri to follow her 
 advice, and to be good and obedient. Susan tried 
 to gain courage to endure her position by thinking: 
 of the Colonel's promise that she should see Gus- 
 tave, but she cried nearly the whole time. How 
 slowly the time passed when she was away from 
 her lover ! 
 
 Next morning Madame Henri, who had heard 
 Susan's sobs, got up very quietly, so as not to wake 
 the girl, who had at last fallen asleep, from sheer 
 fatigue, and went down by herself to open the shop, 
 into which Gustave burst so unceremoniously. Of 
 course she thought she ought to tell her that 
 Nicholas Toupet, as she thought, was there, so she 
 went upstairs and told her that the man she sc» 
 disliked was downstairs. 
 
 " Oh ! I beseech you, madame, do not tell him I 
 am with you, for, no doubt, he has come after me." 
 
 " I do not know yet, what he has come for, but 
 he is disguised as a woman." 
 
 "As a woman! no doubt that he might not 
 frighten me." 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, I will not tell him you are 
 here, and I only told you in order that you might 
 not come downstairs, so just stay where you are j, 
 
A Mistake — Disappearance of Susan. 1ST 
 
 and there is no need to tremble like that, when I 
 have told you that he shall know nothing at all 
 
 about it." 
 
 Madame Henri went down to Gustave again, 
 but Susan was by no means reassured. Nicholas's 
 arrival was a sure sign, she thought, that he still: 
 wished to marry her, and so she got up and dressed, 
 imagining every moment that she heard Nicholas 
 coming upstairs, and her terror increased. Hastily 
 making her things up into a bundle, she opened 
 the door very gently, went down a backstairs, 
 which led into a narrow lane opening out into the 
 street, and slipping off into an opposite direction 
 to the shop, she ran away with her little bundle 
 under her arm; she did not know where she was 
 going, all she thought about was to escape from 
 
 Nicholas. c 
 
 Gustave was resting in the shop, without, or 
 course, having the least suspicion that Susan was 
 so near, and was glad to perceive that the crowd 
 had lost all trace of him When Madame Henri 
 came back, he said,— 
 
 "Madame, I must beg you to do me a great 
 favour, and that is to give me some men's clothes, 
 for I cannot remain as I am now." 
 
 "I would do so gladly," she replied, "but I am a 
 young woman, and must be careful of my reputa- 
 tion. I wonder what would be said in the neigh- 
 bourhood if I were to buy or try to borrow men's 
 clothes, and, besides that, you could not change 
 your things here." 
 
 " Have you not a room behind the shop 7 
 "But you could be seen, so it would hardly 
 be decent, as customers might come in at any 
 
 moment." # 
 
 " You have some other rooms in which you sleep, 
 
 surely?" , T , 
 
 "You could not possibly go there, for 1 nave 
 
188 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 ■some very disagreeable neighbours on my landing, 
 Bnd what would they say if they saw you ? " 
 
 " Do you really expect me to go out in this ex- 
 traordinary costume, madame, for all the black- 
 guard street boys to run after, and perhaps be 
 arrested ? " 
 
 " Well, I might ask you, why did you disguise 
 yourself like that ? " 
 
 "Ah, madame, we are the slaves of circum- 
 stances ! A man goes out to dinner, and finds that 
 the friend who invited him is dead, and finds a 
 funeral instead of a dinner party ; another one is 
 going to a ball, when a tile from the roof falls on to 
 his head ; he is carried home, where he has to keep 
 his bed; or perhaps he is splashed from head to foot 
 by a passing carriage when on his way to spend 
 the evening with some male friends, and has to re- 
 turn home to change his clothes ; he finds his wife, 
 who naturally did not expect him, playing icarte 
 with a cousin, and the husband, who does not care 
 for dcarU, and dislikes the cousin, is put out, and 
 shows a great amount of bad temper ; the cousin 
 takes his leave, and the wife makes a scene — calls 
 her husband a monster, a tyrant, reproaches him 
 with being jealous, and finally has a fit of hysterics, 
 and the poor husband has to rush to the nearest 
 chemist, and get ether and orange flower water, 
 and pass the evening in attending to his wife, when 
 he hoped to spend it in playing vingt-et-un and 
 drinking punch. As for me, madame, I can assure 
 you that when I left home yesterday I did not the 
 least expect to come back dressed up as a woman; 
 but my clothes were burnt, and although I do not 
 look particularly well in these, I thought it better 
 to put on a frock than to go without anything on, 
 and so I sacrificed my vanity to mysense of decency, 
 and there you have the reason for my looking as ii 
 it were a carnival." 
 
A Mistake — Disappearance of Susan, 189* 
 
 " But you have never come from Ermenonville 
 like that!" 
 
 " Ermenonville ! What on earth should I be do- 
 ing there?" 
 
 " Don't you live with M. Lucas any more ? " 
 
 "With M. Lucas? Oh! I see your error, and 
 must clear it up. You will be angry with me, I 
 daresay, but I must tell you that I am not Nicholas 
 Toupet." 
 
 " What ! monsieur, you are not . . ." 
 
 " No, madame, I only took his name because I did 
 not wish my own to be known at the wedding to 
 which M. Ledru took me." 
 
 "You surely are not ... I mean poor little 
 Susan declared that Nicholas was . . ." 
 
 "Susan, Susan, do you know her, my dear 
 Madame Henri ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, I know her." 
 
 " Small, with a good figure, pretty, and with a 
 fair, fresh complexion ? Oh ! Madame Henri, where 
 is she ? Have you seen her ? Do you know where 
 she is?" 
 
 M What a string of questions, and how eager you 
 are ! But I should like to know who you really 
 (ire, if you are not Nicholas Toupet ? " 
 
 " I am the man for whom she sacrificed every- 
 thing, — for whom she left her parents, her friends, 
 and her home — Gustave, Colonel Moranval's 
 nephew." 
 
 " You Gustave ? Well, I ought to have guessed 
 it." 
 
 " Is she with you ? I am sure she is— I can see 
 it by your embarrassment. You need not be fright- 
 ened that my uncle will find fault with you if you 
 let me speak to her, for he will never know it. Only 
 let me see her for five minutes, and I will take 
 my leave." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must allow it, or you will b& 
 
190 Tfiat Jtiascal Gustave. 
 
 doing something else foolish, so wait a moment, 
 and I will tell her to come down." 
 
 Madame Henri went upstairs, and was very- 
 much surprised at not finding the girl there. She 
 hunted all over the house, and asked the neighbours 
 whether they had seen her, but it was all to no 
 purpose, for she was a long way off by that time. 
 The little linen-draper returned to Gustave in 
 despair. 
 
 " Good heavens ! here is a pretty thing ; Susan 
 has run away." 
 
 " Bun away ! since I have been here ? " 
 
 " I guess why she has done it ; I went upstairs 
 to tell her that Nicholas Toupet, as I believed you 
 to be, was here, and she, thinking that he had 
 come to look for her, ran away, so as not to be 
 obliged to return to a man whom she hates." 
 
 " Poor Susan, I am again the cause of your mis- 
 fortunes ! Where can she be f What can become 
 of her in a town of which she knows nothing, 
 without any money or any other resources ? " 
 
 " Do not distress yourself, M. Gustave. I hope 
 and expect she will return to me, and I will let 
 you know as soon as she does." 
 
 " I only hope you may be right ; but will you be 
 kind enough to get me a cab, and I will return 
 home ? " 
 
 " What will your uncle say when he sees you 
 dressed like that 1 " 
 
 " He will be very angry, shout, and make a great 
 noise, and end by being pacified. As soon as I 
 have changed my clothes, I will set to work to 
 hunt for Susan, and all the cabs in Paris will not 
 make me change my plans to follow them." 
 
Marriage Projects. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MARRIAGE PROJECTS. 
 
 Madame Henri went and fetched a cab ; Gustave 
 iiid himself on the back seat as well as he could, 
 ^and after thanking the compassionate linen-draper, 
 he had himself driven to the Colonel's house, got 
 s>ut in the yard, ordered the porter to pay the 
 -cabman, and ran up to his room. 
 
 Benoit and his father stood thunderstruck at 
 seeing Gustave, of whom nothing had been heard 
 since the previous day, return dressed as a woman. 
 Here was a new subject for conjecture on the ser- 
 vants' part, and whilst the porter was paying the 
 driver, Benoit made haste to go to the Colonel's 
 room, to tell him that his nephew had returned in 
 a muddy petticoat, a torn dress, and a lace cap, 
 covered with the yolk of eggs. 
 
 The Colonel had not seen Gustave since he had 
 had his interview with Susan, and did not doubt 
 that he had spent the night in looking for the girl, 
 and so he had prepared a very severe lecture for 
 him, hoping to bring him back to reason ; but he could 
 not the least understand why he should return 
 dressed up as a woman. He went up to Gustave's 
 room fully intending to scold him roundly for his 
 profligate conduct, but he found him in bed. He 
 had intended to devote the day to looking for 
 Susan, but fate decided on preventing him. The 
 gardener's bucket of water, his flight across country 
 in his shirt, then having nothing on but a dress and 
 petticoat, and his enforced race from the barrier of 
 Belleville to the Rue aux Ours, had altogether 
 upset him, so that our hero was a very unheroic 
 jhero, and had no strength to defend himself. 
 
 Gustave listened to his uncle's sermon without 
 
192 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 once interrupting him, for he was very feverish 
 and that made him low-spirited, as is frequently 
 the ease in illness; but the Colonel, seeing his 
 nephew's state, did not lecture him long, and, for- 
 getting his anger, sent for the doctor. He arrived 
 in about an hour's time, and examined Gustave r 
 sounded him, looked at his tongue, and at last said 
 very gravely that perhaps the next day he would 
 be able to say what the illness was, and he told 
 him then that it was inflammation of the chest. The 
 Colonel was in despair, for he loved his nephew, 
 although he had to find fault with him so oft en ,. 
 and he told the medical man that if Gustave died 
 he should certainlv shoot himself. The doctor 
 bowed politely to the Colonel, and did not come to 
 visit his patient again, as he was afraid of causing 
 a suicide. 
 
 M. de Moranval. called in other doctors, consulted 
 half the medical faculty, and at length, at the 
 end of six weeks, Gustave was pronounced out of 
 danger, but his convalescence was very slow. 
 When he was strong enough to remember all that 
 had happened, he looked round the room and 
 thought of Susan, and so he told Benoit to beg 
 his uncle, from him, to come and see him, and the 
 Colonel at once went upstairs. 
 
 " Well, you are out of danger at last," he said r 
 embracing him. 
 
 " Yes, but where is she ? What has become of 
 her?" 
 
 " Whom do you mean by she t " 
 
 " Susan, uncle, the poor little girl whom I kept 
 in this room, and whom you took away to Madame 
 Henri's, from whom she ran awav. as she took me 
 for Nicholas Toupet, What can have become of 
 her in an immense place like this ? " 
 
 " I have not the least idea ; the girl's disappear- 
 ance has caused me a great deal of trouble, but it 
 
Marriage Projects. 19& 
 
 is not my fault. Are you still in love with this 
 little country girl ? " 
 
 " Yes, uncle, more than ever." 
 
 " And what about Eugenie, Madame Fonbelle ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 she is very amiable, but she is not in love 
 with me. Has she sent to ask after me during my 
 illness ?" 
 
 " Yes, very often." 
 
 "Has she really? Well, if Susan had known, 
 she would have come to nurse me." 
 
 " Come, come, you must try and forget Susan, 
 who has no doubt quite forgotten you .by this 
 time, and think of Eugenie." 
 
 u Susan not think of me ! There you are indeed 
 mistaken, uncle ; she could not possibly be fickle." 
 
 " You have said yourself that absence kills love." 
 
 " Yes, when it is only slight, and women here 
 are so inconstant ; but Susan is not a Parisian." 
 
 " Did you dress up as a woman to try and find 
 her ? " 
 
 "With six weeks in bed, uncle, I have had 
 plenty of time for reflection, and I have com- 
 pared all the women I have known with each 
 other, and certainly Susan has the advantage 
 over them all." 
 
 " Nevertheless, even if you were married to 
 Susan, you would be unfaithful to her in a month." 
 
 " I do not think so, uncle." 
 
 " Well, I am sure of it ; but make haste and get 
 well, and then, if you are really a sensible fellow s 
 you will give up all your former follies and get 
 married, so that you may not be tempted to com- 
 mit any more . . ." 
 
 " Uncle, what a terrible man you are to get me 
 married ! " 
 
 Gustave got better, only very slowly, and 
 every day Madame Fonbelle sent to know how he 
 was. Gustave seemed to feel this attention very 
 
194 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 much, and, by degrees, Eugenie's image replaced 
 Susan's. 
 
 As soon as he was strong enough to go out, he 
 went to Madame Henri's. 
 
 " Have you seen anything of Susan ? " he asked 
 iier as soon as he got into the shop. 
 
 " How changed you are, M. Gustave ! " 
 
 " Do tell me, Madame Henri, whether you know 
 what has become of Susan 1 " 
 
 " No, monsieur, I have not seen her since the 
 day you came into my shop dressed like a woman." 
 
 " Poor child, where can she be I " 
 
 " At her parents', I hope." 
 
 " So do I ; but what did my uncle say to you ? " 
 
 " He was very angry, and scolded me, but I told 
 him the whole truth, and he saw it was not my 
 fault." 
 
 Gustave felt very unhappy when he left Madame 
 Henri's, and went to call on Madame Fonbelle, who 
 let him see how pleased she was to see him again, 
 and was so charming towards him that he went 
 home, thinking seriously about his uncle's favourite 
 project. 
 
 As he got out of the cab, he saw the porter 
 having a dispute with a little Savoyard of about 
 fourteen or fifteen, who had put his stool close to 
 the gate of the mansion. 
 
 " What has this lad been doing ?" Gustave asked. 
 
 " If you please, monsieur, he will put himself 
 here, with his shoeblack's box, close to my gate, 
 and it makes the pavement all dirty, and he looks 
 as if, besides cleaning boots, he swept chimneys, 
 he is so black." 
 
 The boy hung down his head, and did not 
 answer a word, and so Gustave felt sorry for him. 
 
 " Look here, there is not the least necessity for 
 driving him away from here if he can gain his 
 livelihood where he is ; the street is free to every- 
 
Marriage Projects. 195 
 
 body, and I do not mean to have him interfered 
 with." 
 
 " But, monsieur . . ." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, and here, my boy, is some- 
 thing for you, and I hope it may bring you good 
 luck," and saying this, Gustave threw him a crown 
 piece and went in, leaving the Savoyard very 
 happy and the porter looking like a foot 
 
 As he got better he regained his vivacity and 
 ardour with his strength. He fancied that he was 
 in love with Eugenie, and spent nearly all his time 
 with her, and she certainly responded to his love, 
 but she would not grant him a single favour, and 
 got very angry if he became in the slightest degree 
 enterprising. Besides that, to please her, he had 
 to break off with his old friends and acquaintances. 
 No more of Lizzie or Olivier, no more women or 
 folly, and though her conditions might appear 
 very natural to anybody else, Gustave thought 
 them extremely hard. However, as he was get- 
 ting more and more in "love, he swore that he 
 would keep his promises, and Eugenie had pro- 
 mised to marry Gustave. 
 
 " She is rather exacting," he said to himself one 
 day. " She was out of temper with me this even- 
 ing because I was talking to another lady whilst 
 she was playing, and I certainly do not mean to 
 be taken for a fool or a pedant because I do not 
 talk. She is jealous, there is no doubt about it ; 
 \>ut it is a sign of love, and so I must forgive her." 
 
 The Colonel was delighted at the idea of his 
 nephew's marriage ; the day was fixed, everybody 
 knew about it, and Gustave was seen with Madame 
 Fonbelle wherever she went, but whenever he came 
 in he was sure to find the little Savoyard at the 
 gate, who would always take off his cap to him, 
 but who never left his place till he had seen him 
 «orae home. 
 
198 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 Gustave and Eugenie were to be married in 
 three weeks, and the Colonel and M, de Granciere 
 were already forming all sorts of plans for the 
 happiness of the young couple ; Eugenie was buy- 
 ing her trousseau, and Gustave was thinking how 
 slowly the time passed. Three weeks more ! but 
 then, what a number of things can happen m 
 three weeks! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A WOMAN'S INTRIGUES — JEALOUSY — AN UNFOR- 
 TUNATE MEETING. 
 
 " I HOPE you will go with me to Madame St Clair 
 this evening/' Eugenie said to Gustave one morn- 
 ing ; " she has a musical party, and has often ex- 
 pressed a wish to hear you sing at her house." 
 
 " I don't like that Madame St Clair, for she over- 
 does all her protestations of friendship and affec- 
 tion, and overwhelms one with compliments. You 
 do not really believe that she means what she 
 says?" 
 
 "Of course I look upon Madame St Clair as a 
 mere acquaintance, and I take such things for what 
 they are worth, but her parties are very pleasant, 
 and not at all stiff and formal, so please come, as 
 your uncle and my father wish it." 
 
 " I will do whatever you wish, my dear Eugenie." 
 
 " Yes, I know you will, as long as we are lovers, 
 but when once we are married ... I am afraid 
 then I shall have always to do as you wish ! Do 
 you know that, when I consider how marriage 
 changes men's behaviour towards their wives, I 
 am really frightened; I almost think we ought 
 not to get married." 
 
Intrigues — Jealousy — An Unfortunate Meeting. 197 
 
 " You are very foolish ; you know how I love 
 you, and yet you think I might be fickle." 
 
 " I have not the least doubt of it, and I am so 
 happy now that I think it would be best for us to 
 remain as we are." 
 
 "Certainly not, unless you will accord me all 
 a husband's rights/' 
 
 "You surely do not mean what you say! and 
 often those very rights, which a husband can enjoy 
 whenever he pleases, are the cause of the diminu- 
 tion of love and of pleasure, whereas if a husband 
 had no more rights than a lover, married life would 
 always preserve all the charms of the first day." 
 
 " My dear Eugenie, you will never convert me, 
 and must be either my wife or my mistress." 
 
 " Sometimes a man loves neither, and keeps one 
 from habit and the other from necessity ; but a 
 woman with whom a man is on a footing of Platonic 
 friendship he always meets with pleasure. I wish 
 it were so with us ; but then, I am sorry to say, I 
 love you in a very different manner." 
 
 " Between two people of opposite sexes, what 
 you are thinking about is quite impossible, unless 
 it is brought about by long continuance of more 
 intimate relations." 
 
 " Very well, Gustave, I will marry you, but, re- 
 member, I am jealous, and I do not want your love 
 soon to become mere friendship. I am afraid I 
 shall make you unhappy, for, as the time draws 
 near, I feel that I am becoming more exacting and 
 uneasy, and fear at times that I shall love you too 
 much, and that in the eyes of some husbands is a 
 great fault." 
 
 As he was going home, Gustave did not feel 
 quite comfortable; he was going to take a very 
 important step ; he, who had so often made fun of 
 matrimony, and husbands especially, was about to 
 make one of the noble army of martyrs, and it 
 
198 That Rascal Gustave, 
 
 really seemed like the old lex talonis, an eye for an 
 eye, and he might be served as he had so often 
 served other husbands. Thinking thus, he got 
 to his uncle's house, and there he saw his little 
 Savoyard, with his pocket-handkerchief to his 
 eyes, and apparently in great trouble, and when 
 Gustave asked him what was the matter, he only 
 answered by sobs. 
 
 " Monsieur," Benoit said, coming up to his master, 
 " I will tell you exactly how it happened. Just now 
 father and I were talking about your approaching 
 marriage, about your wife, the children you might 
 have, what trousers you would wear for the occasion, 
 and so on, when this Savoyard came up to us, and 
 asked us what wedding we were talking about, and 
 when we told him, he began to cry, and has gone 
 on snivelling ever since, and I expect he is afraid 
 that the future Madame St Keal will think him so 
 ugly that she will not allow him to remain outside 
 the house. ,, 
 
 " That is what you have been talking about, is 
 itt Perhaps you will be good enough to go in 
 and to mind your own business." 
 
 Benoit went off, wishing the little Savoyard 
 at Jericho, as he got part of his perquisites, for 
 Gustave would often send him on an errand, which 
 the lad performed much better than Benoit did, 
 for he never made a mistake, though he received 
 both his orders and hi3 payment without ever rais- 
 ing his eyes from the ground. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, my man ? ,s 
 Gustave asked him ; " you need not be the least 
 afraid of being sent away, and when I am settled, 
 you shall come to me as a page; will that suit 
 you?" 
 
 The boy did not answer, but only seized Gus- 
 tave's hand and kissed it several times, and then 
 went away, and though Gustave could not in* 
 
Intrigues — Jealousy — An Unfortunate Meeting, 19$' 
 
 the least understand the Savoyard's griefj or his 
 attachment for himself, soon the thoughts of 
 Eugenie, and of his marriage, drove everything 
 else out of his head. 
 
 In the evening he went with Eugenie and his 
 father to Madame St Clair's; the Colonel could 
 not go as he had a slight attack of gout. It was 
 a tolerably large party, and Gustave thought that 
 he noticed a certain look of malicious pleasure in 
 his hostess's eyes which made him fear her re- 
 sentment ; she was not pretty, but yet had some 
 pretensions to good looks, and having made un- 
 mistable advances to Gustave, to which he had not 
 responded, she hated him accordingly. It was a 
 large party, and Gustave only hoped he might 
 meet no lady whom he knew sufficiently well to 
 rouse Eugenie's jealousy, and seeing none, whilst 
 she was at the piano, he went and sat down 
 between an old dowager and a lady who wore a 
 peculiar sort of head-dress that prevented her face 
 being seen. Eugenie looked round, and when 
 she saw where he was sitting she gave him a lov- 
 ing smile, whereupon he thought, of course, that 
 the lady with the head-dress must naturally be 
 ugly. m 
 
 Whilst Eugenie was singing, he spoke to his 
 neighbour in that meaningless sort of way as is 
 natural under such circumstances, but he could 
 get no answer, which struck him as rather peculiar, 
 as one usually expects a reply, so he thought she 
 must either be deaf or another old dowager ; but 
 on stooping forward a little he saw that she was 
 a young woman, but not pretty, as her face was 
 seamed and marked all over. He made up his^ 
 mind that the best thing for him to do was not 
 to try and talk to his silent neighbour any more^ 
 when a sweet voice, which he knew very well»„ 
 aid, — 
 
200 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 "Is it possible, Gustave, that you don't know 
 me again ? But take care not to exclaim, for I am 
 sure people will be looking at us." 
 
 " My dear Julia, then I am not mistaken, and it 
 is you ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is I, although I am hardly recognisable." 
 
 " How grieved I am ! But how did it happen f 
 Was it an illness or an accident ? " 
 
 " You remember the night that you were in the 
 pavilion, and you know what means I used to 
 enable you to escape ; but seeing that you had not 
 your own clothes, I went back to get them, and, 
 stifled by the smoke, I lost consciousness, my hair 
 caught fire, and though I was saved, you see how 
 terribly I am altered. But now I want to be as 
 happy as may be ; my husband may come at any 
 moment, and he has never met you since that 
 terrible evening . . . Pray go away before he 
 comes. Madame St Clair knows M. Desjardins, 
 and is quite aware that you were staying with us, 
 and so she has laid a trap for me." 
 
 " No doubt she wants to get up a scene, so I will 
 go, and I only hope that we may soon meet again, 
 and be able to speak more freely together," and 
 with these words he pressed her hand tenderly, 
 and went towards the drawing-room door. 
 
 Madame St Clair had been watching all his move- 
 ments, and she was beforehand with him. 
 
 " Why, monsieur," she said, loud enough to be 
 heard by Eugenie, " you surely do not mean to 
 leave us already? " 
 
 "No, madame," Gustave replied, managing to 
 conceal his anger; " I was just going out to get a 
 mouthful of fresh air." 
 
 " Oh ! I am not going to let you go out at all." 
 
 During this colloquy, Eugenie, who felt much 
 upset, was playing and singing all at sixes and 
 sevens, for she was altogether taken up with Gus- 
 
Intrigues — Jealousy — An Unfortunate Meeting. 201 
 
 tave. He was trying to get away from Madame 
 St Clair, when two new arrivals stopped his way, 
 much to the mutual surprise and embarrassment of 
 both parties, for the newcomers were M. de Berly 
 and M. Desjardins. Gustave stood stock-still, M. 
 de Berly uttered an exclamation which made every- 
 body look in his direction, Desjardins opened his 
 eyes wide in astonishment, whilst Madame St 
 Clair enjoyed Gustave's particularly uncomfort- 
 able position and Eugenie's wretchedness. 
 
 Julia had seen her husband come in before Gus- 
 tave could get out of the room, and fearing an ex- 
 planation, she fainted, falling against her neighbour, 
 the old dowager, who uttered piercing screams. 
 Everyone rushed to her assistance; only M. de 
 Berly was not quite decided whether he should 
 pay attention to Gustave or his wife ; but the 
 former, feeling that now his presence was more 
 dangerous than ever, went up to M. de Berly and 
 said, — 
 
 " If you wish to speak to me, monsieur, I am at 
 your service ; here is my address." 
 
 With these words he gave him his card, and 
 left the room without giving him time to reply. 
 
 "That young man is still rather mad," M. de 
 Berly exclaimed, going up to his wife, who was 
 recovering consciousness. 
 
 "What do you mean by mad?" Madame St. 
 -Clair asked. " He has never been anything of the 
 sort.'' 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame, he has been quite 
 mad ; I know all about it, and so does my wife. 
 l?oor little wife ! I am sure she fainted because she 
 feared that our meeting would cause a scene. You 
 know, Desjardins, I wanted to fight a duel with 
 St Real, and I told you I should have killed him, 
 but I am not going to fight with a fool ; it is not 
 worth while, and my wife would not hear of it." 
 
202 That Rascal Gritstave. 
 
 " But, monsieur, 1 am quite sure you are wrongs 
 My dear Eugenie, don't you think tnat M. Gustavo 
 has all his wits about him ? " 
 
 But she could hardly speak. Gustave's sudden 
 departure, Julia's fainting fit, and M. de Berry's 
 words had upset her very much, and so she looked 
 at Julia very uneasily, and could not under- 
 stand what it all meant, and, besides this, 
 Madame St Clair kept asking her questions, and 
 tried to increase her suspicions by her perfidious 
 sympathy. 
 
 The next day Gustave went to Madame Fon- 
 belle's rather early, and she did not reproach him r 
 though he fully expected it. But she was cold and 
 reserved, and hardly answered Gustave, who could 
 not understand why she should be so changed, and 
 when he demanded an explanation, she maintained 
 a sullen silence. 
 
 On getting up to go, which he did very soon, she 
 asked him to go with her to the Theatre Francaise 
 that evening, to which he assented. 
 
 After dinner he went to Madame Fonbelle's, who 
 was waiting for him, but whilst driving to the 
 theatre, she was silent and preoccupied, and Gus- 
 tave being very much vexed at her behaviour, did 
 not even try to start a conversation. 
 
 The box was not full, but soon Madame St 
 Clair and another lady, whom Gustave fancied he 
 had seen before, came in. She seemed surprised 
 at seeing him, and they could not help smiling 
 when they recognised each other, for the lady was 
 no other than Madame Dubourg, the lady who 
 had expected her brother whilst her husband was 
 on guard. 
 
 Eugenie was busy talking to Madame St Clair r 
 so Gustave thought he might venture to bow, and 
 Madame Dubourg, who did not seem to know that 
 Gustave was in Eugenie's company, was addressings 
 
Intrigues — Jealousy — An Unfortunate Meeting, 2 OS 
 
 a few words to him, when a gentleman came into 
 the box. By his manner of speaking to her, Gus- 
 tave recognised Madame Dubourg's husband, the 
 gentleman who always wore shirt frills, and whom 
 he had knocked into the gutter to escape from 
 the patrol. 
 
 M. Dubourg was a tall man, who evidently 
 thought a good deal of himself; he looked at the 
 ladies, and ostentatiously displayed a diamond ring 
 on his little finger, and expressed his opinions 
 about the play, the actors, and the audience in a 
 loud voice. Soon he and Gustave got into con- 
 versation ; Madame Dubourg did not look at the 
 latter any more, Eugenie was still very serious, and 
 Madame St Clair listened, and smiled at every- 
 thing that was said. 
 
 You will, perhaps, wonder how Madame St 
 Clair, who was apparently trying to foment a 
 quarrel between Eugenie and Gustave, should 
 know that Madame Dubourg was acquainted with 
 Gustave, but the matter was quite simple ; it was 
 through Lizzie, the little clear-stareher of the Rue 
 Chariot. 
 
 Now Lizzie was not exactly malicious, but she 
 was fond of chattering, and so Madame St Clair 
 had discovered that she was on very intimate 
 terms with M. St Real, and she easily induced her 
 to talk about the good-looking young fellow who 
 was a bit of a rascal, for girls of her class are 
 rather proud of their connection with young men 
 of higher rank. 
 
 She had therefore heard all about the adven- 
 tures of that night from Lizzie; Gustave's escape 
 from the patrol, and Madame Dubourg's morning 
 visit to the clear-starcher's. 
 
 From the knowledge thus gained, she directed 
 her batteries against Gustave, who had disdained 
 her love, and Eugenie whom she hated. She 
 
504 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 wrote anonymous letters to the latter, telling her 
 that Susan had been living with Gustave, which 
 fact she had guessed from what she heard from 
 Benoit's father, although he was not quite sure 
 about it, and thus she destroyed Eugenie's peace of 
 mind, and gave rise to suspicions in a heart which 
 was already much too inclined to jealousy. 
 
 On the present occasion she made up her mind 
 to get up a violent scene, and so she began to talk 
 to Gustave on indifferent subjects at first, but she 
 soon drifted into another topic. 
 
 "M. St Real/' she said, looking maliciously at 
 Madame Dubourg, " I hope that when you are 
 married you will not make the patrol run after 
 you any more ; oh yes ! I was told about one of 
 your tricks the other day, which, whilst it was 
 quite excusable in a young unmarried man . . . 
 well, it certainly made me laugh." 
 
 " What was it ? " Eugenie asked. 
 
 " A very amusing adventure. M. Gustave had 
 a midnight assignation with a lady in the Kue 
 Chariot, I believe." 
 
 " But, madame, this affair has nothing to do 
 with any one but myself," 
 
 " You really need not get angry, M. St Real, for 
 you are at perfect liberty to do as you please. 
 Well, whilst this young gentleman was talking to 
 the lady, who lived, I believe, on the first floor, a 
 patrol came past, and the husband, who was in 
 the National Guard, seeing a young man talking 
 to his wife, ran after him . . ." 
 
 " That will do, madame. I do not know what 
 your object is in bringing this story up, but I de- 
 clare it is altogether false." 
 
 "False! Why, I will appeal to M. Dubourg, 
 who lives in the Rue Chariot, whether he does not 
 remember the noise you made that night by 
 knocking at all the doors." 
 
Intrigues — Jealousy — An Unfortunate Meeting. 205 
 
 M. Dubourg had not said a word since Madame 
 St Clair began her anecdote, but he listened very 
 attentively, and seemed very much disturbed. He 
 had the greatest objection to appearing foolish or 
 ridiculous, and he thought Madame St Clair and 
 Gustave were trying to mystify him, so he vowed 
 to avenge himself for the affront, and after giving 
 his wife a furious look, he touched Gustave's arm, 
 and asked him to come outside. 
 
 Madame Dubourg cried and wrung her hands in 
 her grief when she saw her husband and Gustave 
 go out together ; Madame St Clare pretended to 
 be very much astonished, and wanted to know 
 what it all meant, whilst Eugenie did not say a 
 word, though it was quite plain that she was suf- 
 fering agonies of mind which she was trying to 
 conceal. 
 
 As soon as Gustave and M. Dubourg got outside 
 the theatre, the former said, — 
 
 " May I ask, monsieur, what you want to say to 
 me, and why you have brought me out here f " 
 
 " You know perfectly well, monsieur, that you 
 have done me the greatest injury it is possible to 
 do a man. I need not explain matters to you 
 which you know perfectly well yourself, but I will 
 teach you that you cannot make fun of me to my 
 face with impunity. It is bad enough to give a 
 husband a pair of horns, but when he does not 
 know it he cannot be put to shame by the fact, 
 but to tell him of it before other people . . . Good 
 God ! monsieur, that is too much, and I cannot put 
 up with it." 
 
 " Monsieur, allow me to draw your attention to 
 the fact that I did not mention the matter ; in the 
 first place, because it is not true, and then even if 
 it were so, I should not be such a cur as to com- 
 promise your wife. Surely I can knock at your 
 door at eight without any intention of going in y 
 
206 That Rascal (Tustave. 
 
 and certainly a favoured lover would not make 
 noise enough to wake up a whole street." 
 
 " So you acknowledge that it was you ? " 
 
 " Of course I do, but I did not even know your 
 wife." 
 
 " You may tell that to whom you like ; I shall 
 certainly never believe it. You have cuckolded 
 me, monsieur, that is quite evident, and you shall 
 give me satisfaction for it/' 
 
 " Good heavens, monsieur, you surely are not 
 going to believe a woman who is only trying to 
 disturb your domestic happiness." 
 
 " Madame St Clare is a highly-respectable lady, 
 and quite incapable of saying anything that is not 
 true. You may be quite sure that if she had 
 known I was the husband in the patrol whom she 
 was speaking about, she would never have men- 
 tioned your adventure in my presence ; but all 
 your denials will never convince me. I have been 
 deceived by my wife ; it is very unfortunate, but 
 it has happened to as good men as myself . . ." 
 
 " But, monsieur . . ." 
 
 " Monsieur, I am a cuckold, that is as clear as 
 the day . . ." 
 
 "I do not deny that by any means, and you 
 may be so as much and as often as you please, but 
 that is no affair of mine. 
 
 i " Monsieur, you are adding insult to injury, and 
 you must meet me." 
 
 " Very well ; anything to make an end of this." 
 
 Gustave and M. Dubourg settled their meeting 
 for the next morning, and the husband went back 
 to the theatre, whilst Gustave remained in the 
 street, uncertain whether to return to Eugenie or 
 not. He thought that if he were to go back he 
 should increase Madame Dubourg's embarrassment 
 and Madame St Clair's malicious pleasure, but it 
 would be a gross breach of what was due to her 
 
Tlie Duel— The Little Savoyard. 207 
 
 If he did not go and call for Eugenie, who had 
 .come to the theatre with him by herself. 
 
 "I must go back," he said to himself. "Poor 
 Madame Dubourg! Her husband is very funny, 
 and will insist upon being a cuckold, and will have 
 it that I am the man. I certainly am very un- 
 fortunate. I have deceived many "men who have 
 known nothing at all about it, and a man, whose 
 wife I scarcely know by sight, forces me to fight 
 a duel with him. Ah ! my dear Madame Dubourg, 
 if ever I get the chance, I will try and prove that 
 jour husband is not a liar." 
 
 He returned to the box, but nobody was there 
 except Madame St Clair, who turned round to look 
 at Gustave with a malicious smile, which was very 
 expressive of her feelings. Gustave was strongly 
 Inclined to rave and storm, but he restrained his 
 anger, as he thought the sight of it would only 
 increase that hollow woman's enjoyment, and so 
 lie went out again without giving way to his in- 
 dignation, remembering that he must respect her 
 jsex, utterly despicable though she herself might 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE DUEL — THE LITTLE SAVOYARD. 
 
 On leaving the theatre, Gustave at once went to 
 Madame Fonbelle's, in the hope of appeasing her 
 and justifying himself; but he was told she was 
 not at home to any one, not even to him, and he 
 could not help thinking that she was carrying 
 matters rather far in making a quarrel out of 
 
That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 at had taken place before they were engaged^ 
 He did not, however, mention what had hap- 
 pened to his uncle, and got up the next morning 
 at daybreak to keep his appointment with M. 
 Dubourg. 
 
 He would not take Benoit with him, as he could 
 not be trusted not to chatter ; but, in case any- 
 thing should happen to him, he made up his mind 
 to engage his little outside errand boy, who had 
 always served him so well, so taking his pistols he 
 left his room. 
 
 Everybody was still asleep in the mansion, and r 
 of course, the outside gate was closed, so Gustave 
 went and knocked at the window of the porter's 
 lodge, and asked to be let out. 
 
 Instead of merely pulling the string that lifted 
 the latch, the porter got up in his shirt and looked 
 out of his window to see who was going out at 
 that hour of the morning. 
 
 " Why, is that you, M. Gustave ? " 
 
 " Yes ; so please open the gate for me at once." 
 
 "You are going out very early, monsieur. Is 
 the Colonel ill? Has he had another attack of 
 gout? Has . . ." 
 
 " I hope my uncle is sound asleep, and I don't 
 want your questions, so make haste and let me 
 out." 
 
 " But you have not got Benoit with you ; Benoit f 
 Benoit ! " 
 
 " By Jove! if I had wanted your son I could have 1 
 called him myself. Open the gate, will you ! I am 
 tired of all your chatter." 
 
 Gustave's manner admitted of no reply, so the 
 porter opened the gate with many excuses. Gus- 
 tave thought, before getting outside, that the young 
 Savoyard might not have arrived yet ; but he was 
 already at his post, eating a morsel of dry bread r 
 and crying at the same time. Gustave went up to 
 
The Duel — The Little Savoyard. 20£ 
 
 bim gently, and touched him on the shoulder, and 
 the boy, who seemed upset at the sight of Gustave,. 
 quickly dried his eyes. 
 
 "What are you always crying about, my lad t 
 I wish you would tell me what is the matter with 
 you. If you are unhappy, and your parents are 
 poor, here is some money for you, for Heaven knows- 
 I have so often wasted it on my own follies that I 
 need not grudge it now to relieve misery." 
 
 *« I do not want anything," the little Savoyard 
 said, refusing Gustave's proffered gift. 
 
 Gustave had an indescribable feeling when he 
 heard the lad speak ; his voice was as soft as a 
 woman's, and Gustave tried to remember when a 
 very similar voice had made his heart palpitate 
 with emotion. 
 
 But time was getting on, and he must not keep 
 M. Dubourg. « Come with me," Gustave said to 
 him ; " I may want you." 
 
 The boy got up immediately, and followed him 
 towards the Allee des Veuves in the Champs Ely- 
 sees, where he was to meet M. Dubourg. Gustave 
 soon saw him, and ordered his young companion 
 to wait for him about a hundred yards off, till he 
 should come to him, or send for him, and then he 
 went to meet M. Dubourg. 
 
 " I am very sorry, monsieur, to have kept you 
 waiting." 
 
 " It is not of the least consequence, monsieur, I 
 have only just come. Have you your pistols with 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but would you mind going a little further 
 off? for I do not want that lad who has followed 
 me to see what we are about." 
 
 " As you please, monsieur." 
 
 They went alittle further, when Gustave stopped, 
 and they went a short distance from each other. 
 
 " Shoot first, monsieur," Gustave said; " you look 
 
 o 
 
210 That Rascal Grustave. 
 
 upon yourself as the offended party, and so you 
 ought to begin." * 
 
 M. Dubourg did not wait to be asked twice, but 
 taking a steady aim, he fired, and hit Gustave in 
 the right side ; he fell, and M. Dubourg ran up to 
 him. 
 
 " Well, monsieur, will you now acknowledge that 
 you have cuckolded me t " 
 
 " No, monsieur, certainly not ; I should certainly 
 not ; I should certainly never acknowledge what is 
 not true, and now that I may be dying, I assure 
 you that you are labouring under a mistake." 
 
 " If that is so, monsieur, I am extremely sorry 
 for what has happened, and I will go and send you 
 a cab and your little attendant." 
 
 M. Dubourg left him, and found the young Savoy- 
 ard in a state of great anxiety. He had heard the 
 report of the pistol, and he was going as fast as he 
 Kjould to look for Gustave, when M. Dubourg came 
 and told him that his master was wounded. The 
 poor lad ran immediately to the spot where Gus- 
 tave was lying, and seeing him there, bleeding from 
 his side, he tried to assist him, but he was not 
 strong enough, and he fell down fainting by the 
 side of the wounded man. 
 
 " By George ! " Gustave muttered, " it was a 
 bright idea of mine to bring this child with me, 
 who feels ill at the mere sight of a wound. If I 
 <?ould only do anything for him; but I have no 
 restorative of any kind about me. I know I cannot 
 walk, and there is nobody near. It is very early 
 still, and if M. Dubourg does not happen to find a 
 
 * The whole account of the challenge and the duel, M. Paul de 
 Kock must have intended as a greater burlesque than the rest of 
 the novel. No seconds, each apparently carrying his own pistols, 
 which must have either been ready loaded or not loaded at all ; 
 what would the shades of Gambetta, at thirty yards with saloon 
 pistols, of Bob Acres, of Sir Lucius O'Trigger, or the living spirit of 
 M. P. de Cassagnac, say to such enormities ? — {Translator.) 
 
The Duel— The Little Savoyard. 211 
 
 *cab, we are likely to wait here for a long time 
 without any assistance." 
 
 Gustave shouted out, but no one came ; he tried 
 to get up and go for help but his strength failed 
 him, and he fell fainting by the side of the little 
 Savoyard. 
 
 It was a good thing for him, in this case, that 
 ihe porter at his uncle's house was as curious as 
 he was fond of chattering. After opening the 
 gate he at once called his son, Benoit, who got up 
 and dressed at once. 
 
 " What is the matter, father! " he said. 
 
 " There is something very mysterious in M. Gus- 
 tavo's behaviour; he has just rushed out, almost 
 without speaking to me, and there he is now talk- 
 ing to that little errand boy ; and, just look ! they 
 are going off together, so you must follow your 
 master at a distance ; don't lose sight of him, and 
 tell me by-and-by what you have found out." 
 
 Benoit of course followed Gustave and the 
 young Savoyard ; he stood still when his master 
 told the latter to wait, and hearing the pistol-shot, 
 and seeing M. Dubourg hastening off, he asked 
 him whether his master was wounded, and on re- 
 ceiving an answer in the affirmative, he ran for a 
 cab, and arrived on the scene a few minutes after 
 Gustave had lost consciousness. 
 
 With the cabman's assistance, he put Gustave 
 into the cab, and took his place beside him, driving 
 off without paying the least attention to the poor 
 little man. Benoit was rather vindictive, and was 
 glad of this opportunity of taking his revenge, as 
 is very usual with people of his class and char- 
 acter. 
 
 By the time they got to the house, Gustave had 
 recovered his consciousness, and was met by his 
 uncle, who was hobbling up and down his room, 
 cursing the gout, which would not let him gro out, 
 
2 i 1 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 and swearing at the porter, who had made th# 
 most of the events of the morning to him. 
 
 Luckily Gustave's wound was only slight, and 
 there was no need for anxiety, and, when he was- 
 quite satisfied on that point, the Colonel gave hi& 
 nephew a very serious talking to. The latter was 
 just relating to him all that had happened, when a 
 letter from Madame Fonbelle was brought to him, 
 which Gustave handed to his uncle as soon as he 
 had read it. 
 
 " Have you made your quarrel up ? " the Colonel 
 asked him. 
 
 " You had better read the letter for yourself," he- 
 replied, " and you will see that everything is over 
 between us." 
 
 " I do not wish to cause either your unhappinese- 
 or my own by marrying you, Gustave, for I feet 
 that I love you too much to be happy with you. 
 Your flighty and fickle character would be a con- 
 stant source of torment to me ; and within the last 
 two days I have acquired such proofs of your in- 
 constancy that the past makes me tremble for the 
 future. Farewell ! With your Julias and Madame 
 Dubourgs, and your Lizzies and little village girls, 
 you will easily console yourself for the loss of 
 Eugenie." 
 
 "The devil take all women, lovers, intrigues, and 
 marriages ! " the Colonel exclaimed, throwing the 
 letter on to the ground ; " but it is all your fault, 
 for you are constantly doing something or other 
 foolish." 
 
 " My dear uncle, allow me to draw your attention 
 to the fact that I am in no way to blame in this 
 case, for that vile woman, Madame St Clair, got up 
 all the scenes that have taken place, and she has 
 succeeded in estranging Eugenie and me. But if 
 Madame Fonbelle is so ready to believe all that she 
 hears against me before we are married, I have no 
 
The Duel — The Little Savoyard. 213 
 
 reason to regret her loss, for if a husband and wife 
 wish to live happily together, they should have no 
 secrets from one another, and not pay attention to 
 those who wish to disturb their happiness." 
 
 " If you were really in love with Eugenie, you 
 would not speak in that cold, deliberate manner ; 
 but I suppose that it is your fate to live and die 
 unmarried." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I will marry ; I promise you that 
 ^satisfaction, and as soon as my wound is healed, I 
 will take a long journey and try if I cannot find a 
 woman who will have me in some other country. 
 Surely in Switzerland, in England, or in some other 
 .quarter of the globe, I shall find what I want, — a 
 woman who is not afraid to marry a bit of a rake. 
 But, by-the-bye, Benoit, you found me unconscious 
 in the Champs Elysees, and where was the little 
 .errand-boy 1 " 
 
 "Do you mean the little Savoyard at the corner ? " 
 
 " Of course I do ; what have you done with him ? " 
 
 "I, monsieur! Nothing, monsieur, for he ran 
 ,away as soon as he saw me." 
 
 "Why he fainted when he saw that I was 
 wounded." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur ; when I came 
 back with the cab, he was singing." 
 
 " Benoit, you are telling lies, and if the lad does 
 not come back to-day, I shall discharge you." 
 
 Benoit was trying to exculpate himself as best as 
 he could, when they heard a noise in the yard, and 
 a footman came in to say that the little Savoyard 
 had just come to the house, and insisted on seeing 
 ^Gustave. 
 
 As soon as he was admitted, he ran up to him, 
 and, falling down by his bedside, he seized his 
 hands, which he covered with tears and kisses. 
 
 " Oh, the little humbug ! " Benoit said aside, "how 
 lie is trying to wheedle himself into my master's 
 
214 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 service ; n but Gustave soon told the lad that he way- 
 going on very well, and then questioned him to find 
 out whether Benoit had been telling lies or not. 
 
 Whilst this was going on, and that great lout f» 
 was trying to find some excuse to get out of his 
 master's room, the Colonel was looking at the boy 
 very closely, and seemed sunk in thought ; and 
 after Benoit had been duly reprimanded, the- 
 Savoyard was rewarded for his attachment to Gus- 
 tave, and the invalid was left to his repose. 
 
 In about a fortnight Gustave's wound was pretty 
 „ well healed, and, meanwhile, the Colonel had ascer- 
 tained that Madame Fonbelle had gone into the- 
 country, which robbed him of all hope of renewing 
 the engagement between her and Gustave ; for he 
 was not at all the sort of man to run after a woman 
 who seemed to wish to avoid him. 
 
 As soon as Gustave had thoroughly recovered, he 
 determined to leave France for a while, as he had 
 nothing to keep him there. In order to please 
 Madame Fonbelle, he had broken with all his old 
 acquaintances ; Julia had given up all thoughts of 
 intrigue ; opera dancers had no more attractions for 
 him ; little Lizzie had just married a hatter, and was^ 
 satisfied with making him proverbially mad ; Susan 
 had disappeared ; Olivier had lost his appointment 
 because of his bad conduct, and, as Gustave always* 
 respected himself, he could not keep on intimate 
 terms with a man who did nothing but run after 
 women and frequent houses of bad repute, and so he 
 made up his mind to travel, a resolution which the 
 Colonel highly approved of, as he hoped change of 
 scene and habits might strengthen his character. 
 
 When all was settled, Gustave agreed to take 
 Benoit with him, to prove to his uncle that he had no 
 intention of having any fresh intrigues, for the fellow 
 was too great a fool to assist his master in any such 
 things, and was only good for waiting at table and 
 
The Duel — The Little Savoyard. 21& 
 
 grooming a horse. He was delighted at the idea of 
 going with Gustave, for he had been alarmed at first 
 at the idea that his master might take the little 
 shoe-black with him ; in his jqy he did nothing but 
 talk to his father about his approaching journey 
 and he dinned it into the lad's ears because he 
 saw that it distressed him. That was M. Benoit 
 all over. 
 
 At last the day came on which they were to set 
 out, and, as the Colonel intended to accompany 
 his nephew as far as St Germain, he ordered his 
 cabriolet, whilst Benoit was sent on with two 
 horses, for Gustave had determined to travel on 
 horseback, which is by far the best way, if one 
 wants to see the country thoroughly. 
 
 As they were getting into the carriage, Gustave 
 looked out for the little Savoyard, wishing to say 
 good-bye to him, and to leave him some substantial 
 mark of his kindness, but nothing was to be seen 
 of him, which vexed Gustave very much, for he 
 was sorry to leave without seeing him again. 
 
 A drive of about two hours brought them to St 
 Germain, and the Colonel was driving to the inn,, 
 where he had ordered Benoit to meet them, when 
 another vehicle, coming along at a furious pace, 
 dashed into them before M. de Moranval could get 
 out of the way, upset the light carriage, and the 
 driver, whipping up his horses, made off as fast as 
 he could, to avoid the Colonel's anger. 
 
 Of course, Gustave and his uncle were thrown 
 out ; the latter was unhurt, and got up swearing, 
 but the former had sprained his foot ; and plaintive 
 cries were heard behind them. A crowd imme- 
 diately surrounded the cabriolet, and the Colonel 
 was about to ask whether anybody had been injured 
 by the accident, when he perceived a little Savoyard, 
 whom they were picking up and carrying into the 
 inn. Gustave uttered an exclamation of astonish- 
 
516 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 ment, for he had recognised his young errand-boy 
 and was told by the bystanders that he was sitting 
 up behind the gig when it was upset. 
 
 Gustave begged his uncle to see to the boy, whilst 
 he himself went to have his foot attended to, and 
 the Colonel went to look after the lad, whilst his 
 nephew, whose foot was causing him great pain, was 
 shown into a room, and Benoit soon brought a 
 surgeon to him, who assured him that the sprain 
 would be all right in a couple of days. 
 
 As Gustave was forced to remain in his room 
 without moving, he was very anxious to see his 
 uncle, and to hear about the young Savoyard, and 
 he was just going to send Benoit after him, when 
 the Colonel came in, looking so pale and agitated, 
 that Gustave was quite frightened. 
 
 " What has happened, uncle ? " he asked. " Is 
 the boy much hurtt " 
 
 " No, the injury is only very slight, hardly any- 
 thing, in fact." 
 
 " Then, why do you seem so agitated ? * 
 
 " Well, I think to be thrown out of a carriage, 
 a-s we were, is enough to upset anybody's nerves." 
 
 " But you were not like this before you went to 
 look after the boy, and I am sure you are keeping 
 something from me ; do tell me what it is." 
 
 " I am keeping nothing from you. What do you 
 want me to tell youf The boy is hardly hurt at 
 all, but he fainted from the fright, and to-morrow 
 will be all right again." 
 
 " But why did he get up behind us ? " 
 
 " Because he had followed us." 
 
 "But what should he want to follow us fort " 
 
 " Confound it all, why, to have a ride, of course. 
 Don't you know that young scamps like that are 
 very fond of getting up behind carriages ? " 
 
 " But, uncle . . ." 
 
 " There, we have had enough of this child ; I tell 
 
The Duel— The Little Savoyard. 217 
 
 you there is hardly anything the matter with him, 
 and I have given him some money, so you may be 
 quite easy about him. A sprain is nothing danger- 
 ous, so to-morrow you will be able to start. Good- 
 bye ; I am going back to Paris." 
 
 "Why, you do not mean to say that you are 
 going to leave me here alone in this inn f You 
 can surely be in no hurry, and might just as well 
 return to Paris to-morrow." 
 
 " I tell you I must go back immediately ; you 
 will allow me to have my own reasons for re- 
 turning home, and I suppose you can manage to 
 exist for a single day at an inn without society, 
 for, as you are going to travel over a good part 
 of Europe, the chances are that it will happen to 
 you occasionally. Good-bye, Gustave ; you have 
 money and letters of introduction, and you can 
 draw on me ; I will honour your bills as long as 
 you behave yourself. Try not to commit any 
 more acts of folly, and, if you meet with a good, 
 gentle, and loving woman, bring her back as your 
 wife, but remember that 1 insist upon those three 
 qualities." 
 
 The Colonel embraced his nephew and left him, 
 and a few minutes later Gustave heard his uncle's 
 carriage drive out of the inn yard. 
 
 He could not help thinking his conduct very 
 extraordinary, for his evident emotion on returning 
 to speak to him, and his sudden resolution to go 
 back to Paris immediately when nothing absolutely 
 called him there, seemed, to say the least of it, 
 somewhat mysterious. He racked his brains in 
 vain to discover the reason for this sudden de- 
 parture, and could only hope that he might be 
 more fortunate next day when he could question 
 the shoeblack. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon he told Benoit to 
 rgo and ask how the boy was getting on, and he 
 
218 That Rascal Ghistave. 
 
 very soon returned to his master and told him that 
 he must be all right, as he had gone away. 
 
 " Gone away ! The boy who was hurt this 
 morning gone away ! It is not possible." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, I can only tell you what has 
 been told me, and I was very much astonished ;, 
 but the strangest part of it all is that the servant 
 girl assured me that he had gone away with your 
 uncle." 
 
 " My uncle taken the Savoyard away ! " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; he took the greatest care of 
 him, and would not allow anybody but himself to 
 help him into the carriage, and I really think that 
 the little black beggar must have bewitched M. de 
 Moranval for him to take so much notice of him," 
 
 Gustave was certainly much surprised at his 
 uncle's behaviour, but he attributed this last act 
 on his part to his natural kindness, for under his 
 rough exterior he concealed a kind and feeling 
 heart. 
 
 The next day but one our hero was well enough 
 to get on horseback, and he left St Germain to 
 begin his travels. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 COMPRISING A PERIOD OF THREE TEARS. 
 
 Instead of going straight on he turned aside an<£ 
 went towards Ermenonville, and Benoit, who did 
 not know the road, was very curious as to where 
 his master was going. He was not quite so timid 
 as he had been on his first journey, but though he 
 rode quite close to him, he did not dare to ask 
 him any questions. 
 
 When they arrived at the village, Benoit recog- 
 
Comprising a Period of Three Years, 21$* 
 
 nised the cMteau, the little bridge, and Daddy 
 Lucas's house, before which Gustave stopped, and 
 then his curiosity to know what they were going 
 to do there overcame every other feeling, so riding 
 up to his master, he said, — • 
 
 " Monsieur, are we going to stop here again I " 
 
 " You will see by-and-by." 
 
 " But, monsieur, are you going to turn the whole 
 house upside down again, make the cows run 
 away, and all the old women yell like mad ? " 
 
 " I will tell you what, Benoit ; I mean to do just 
 as I please, and if you dare to ask me any more- 
 questions, I shall send you back to Paris." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur, I will not speak' 
 again." 
 
 Gustave rode into the courtyard, and a peasant 
 girl who was there uttered an exclamation at see- 
 ing the young man ; it was Marie-Jeanne, who had 
 recognised Gustave immediately, and he was very 
 glad of the chance of finding out from her, before- 
 seeing M. or Madame Lucas, how he would be re- 
 ceived, so he beckoned to her to come and speak 
 to him. 
 
 " Is that you, monsieur ? I never expected to see 
 you again; why, it is nearly a year since you were 
 here, at any rate it was aoout the time when we 
 were picking the plums, and that is nine months 
 ago. 
 
 " Just tell me how they all are, Marie-Jeanne ;: 
 are they all as happy and well as ever ? " 
 
 ? Oh I monsieur, there has been a great change ; 
 but of course you have not heard of it ; Mdlle. 
 Susan has gone away ; but go in, monsieur, and- 
 my mistress will tell you all about it." 
 
 From what the girl said, Gustave perceived^ 
 plainly that nobody suspected him of being the 
 cause of Susan's flight, and so he went indoors, 
 where he found Father and Mother Lucas, wha 
 
220 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 received him very kindly. The old man did not, 
 perhaps, talk quite so much as formerly, but his 
 -wife was as voluble as ever, and told him all about 
 Susan's disappearance. She shed tears whilst 
 speaking about her, and these tears went to Gus- 
 tavo's heart, for he knew that he was the cause of 
 them, as if he had never been in that house the 
 girl would have remained in the village. Perfectly 
 happy and peaceful in her home, she would never 
 have thought of anything else, above all, of leaving 
 them ; but Gustavo's presence had changed every- 
 thing, though Mother Lucas never guessed that 
 she was talking to the very man who had turned 
 her little daughter's head. He was very much 
 surprised to hear that for the last two months she 
 had written to them frequently, though without 
 giving them her address in Paris, as she was afraid 
 "they might still be anxious to make her marry 
 Nicholas Toupet. 
 
 " The dear child is quite wrong," Madame Lucas 
 said, " for Nicholas is married, and has quite for- 
 gotten her. I was very grieved and very angry 
 at first when she left us, but now that she writes 
 us such nice letters, and begs our pardon so sweetly 
 for what she has done, we are quite ready to for- 
 give her, and only hope that she will come back 
 soon." 
 
 " She is still in Paris," Gustave said to himself, 
 H and she has never once tried to see me since she 
 ran away from Madame Henri's. She does not care 
 for me any more, and has done like so many 
 other's — listened to the flattery of some libertine, so 
 I shall think no more about her. I was a great 
 fool to think that such a pretty girl would remain 
 faithful to me, so I must try and forget her, and 
 only hope that she may be happy." 
 
 He left the cottage, after giving Marie-Jeanne 
 .substantial tokens of his liberality, and took his 
 
Comprising a Period of Three Tears. 221 
 
 leave of Ermenonville, though he fully made up his 
 mind to return there when he came hack from hi& 
 travels, to ascertain whether Susan had at last 
 gone back to her parents. 
 
 He travelled straight to Italy without any ad- 
 ventures on the road, and arrived in the city of the 
 Caesars ; he visited the Capitol, the Basilica of St 
 Peter's, the tombs of the popes, and found the 
 remains of the ancient Roman grandeur even 
 amongst the ruins of its temples and palaces ; but 
 in vain did he seek for traces of the proud and 
 warlike people whom he had imagined there ; and 
 its squalor and beggars,* its monks and macaroni, 
 made him leave it almost without regret, and after 
 travelling through the greater part of Italy, he 
 went to Spain and Portugal, and then to Ger- 
 many, Poland, and England. 
 
 He found adventures wherever he went, but the 
 recital of his good fortunes, which so much re- 
 semble each other, would not interest the reader, 
 and become monotonous when the heart plays no 
 part in them. Gustave found that there was 
 hardly any necessity to make a declaration to an 
 Italian woman, for the ladies saved him the trouble 
 of doing so ; and whatever may be said of the gal- 
 lantry and coquetry of Frenchwomen, and the 
 looseness of the morals of Parisian women especi- 
 ally, they cannot be compared to the facility with 
 which an Italian woman enters into an intrigue. 
 
 However, Gustave was lucky or unlucky enough 
 to inspire some violent passions, and he took away 
 with him the marks of several blows with the 
 stiletto as souvenirs, whilst Benoit carried off with 
 him many proposals and declarations, which he 
 made up his mind to ask his dear papa to explain 
 to him on his return home. 
 
 * This novel was written many years ago, before Italy was a king- 
 dom, and whilst Rome belonged absolutely to the Pope. — [Translator.)- 
 
222 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 In Spain he twanged the light guitar, and made 
 Jove through Venetian blinds ; he went to church 
 to admire the ladies, and to make eyes at them ; 
 at the door he offered them holy water ; and old 
 .hags who are called duennas in Spain, but who 
 would be called by a very different name else- 
 where, used to follow him to his lodgings, and 
 bring him love-letters, and he found more luxury 
 and more beggary than even in Italy, for extremes 
 nearly always meet. 
 
 Benoit, who did not know that in that country 
 beggary is a profession, and beggars people who 
 expect to be answered respectfully, was unfor- 
 tunate enough one day to repulse a senor who 
 was begging and asking for caristade* rather 
 roughly, and in a moment a crowd of beggars 
 surrounded him, and he was beaten, rolled in the 
 mud, and otherwise ill-used. Gustave seeing his 
 man at fisticuffs with a pack of ragamuffins, 
 rushed at them, hitting out right and left with 
 his stick, but the affair then immediately assumed 
 & very serious aspect. To thrash a beggar was 
 & direct attack on Spanish customs, usages, and 
 privileges, and they are not the sort of people to 
 put up with anything that wounds their pride, so 
 the alguazils arrived on the scene, and Gustave, 
 Benoit and the beggars were all taken before the 
 corregidor. He naturally decided that the proud 
 pack of beggars were quite in the right ; thought 
 it extremely wrong that one of them should have 
 received a thrashing, and took no notice of the 
 loss of two of Benoit's front teeth, nor of the fact 
 that one of his ears was half pulled off. Gustave 
 got into a terrible rage, and began to swear, and 
 the magistrate was just going to sentence him and 
 Iris valet to be imprisoned, when fortunately his 
 wife's duenna arrived, who recognised Gustave as 
 
 * Charity, alms. 
 
Comprising a Period of Three Years. 223 
 
 the good-looking young fellow to whom she had 
 rendered many a little service. She therefore 
 spoke for him and got him off, and he left Spain, 
 disgusted with the country, its magistrates, and 
 its beggars. 
 
 He found the German women very lovable, and 
 their husbands great smokers. He lodged in the 
 house of a handsome German lady, who was pas- 
 sionately fond of waltzing, and who never got 
 tired of it ; she was even worse than Jean-Jean 
 Oourtepointe. Whilst she danced her husband 
 played, and Benoit took lessons on the flute from 
 the cook, a great fat girl who could play on any 
 instrument, and take her part in a quartette. 
 
 But Gustave got tired of waltzing, and Benoit 
 grew thin from playing the flute too much, and so 
 he left Germany quite convinced that the women 
 were capital dancers, and Benoit very pleased at 
 having learnt to play the flute so well. 
 
 " It is a very nice country," the latter said to his 
 master ; " the women understand you at once, even 
 though you do not know German, and you have only 
 to say Haydn or Mozart to the men, and they will 
 go on talking to you for a couple of hours without 
 giving you the chance of answering them." 
 
 "Who told you that?" 
 
 " The fat girl who taught me to play the flute. 
 They are the only German words I learnt, and I 
 have not the least idea what they mean ; but when 
 you were waltzing with our hostess, the girl who 
 could play the flute so well would say, 'Haydn, 
 Mozart,' to the husband, and he would seize his 
 violin and play without stopping, except now and 
 then to have a drink. He was a terrible man for 
 music." 
 
 On going to England, Benoit insisted on being 
 tied to a plank, so that he might keep afloat in case 
 of shipwreck; but they arrived without any disaster, 
 
224 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 and Benoit got off with being violently sick for 
 several days till he declared his tongue had grown 
 two inches longer. 
 
 Nobody can care for England who does not find 
 his chief pleasure in horse-riding, cock-fighting,, 
 betting, punch, and plum-pudding, and it strikes a 
 Frenchman as very strange to see all the ladies 
 leave the room soon after the dessert is put on the 
 table, whilst the gentlemen remain for such mirth 
 as may be inspired by drinking burnt brandy r 
 without regretting the departure of the fair sex 
 the least, as it is the signal for giving themselves 
 up to folly (if it can be called folly to drink till you 
 fall under the table). 
 
 The young traveller thought their choice of walks 
 also very singular, for they generally went into the 
 cemeteries for recreation and to get fresh ah* ; but 
 their cemeteries are beautifully laid out, and there 
 are often very touching and original inscriptions on 
 the tomb-stones. Nobody but an Englishman, how- 
 ever, could walk in such a spot without feeling 
 profoundly melancholy, and though it may be occa- 
 sionally a pleasant sensation, it is dangerous to- 
 give way to it too often. 
 
 Besides this, Gustave noticed what attention that 
 reflective nation paid to minute details of behaviour 
 and conformity with the general usages of society. 
 
 At a brilliant reception he was laughed at because 
 he drank his hot tea out of the saucer, and did not 
 put his spoon into his cup when he did not want 
 any more. 
 
 " If great geniuses are remarkable for small 
 matters," Gustave thought, "then certainly the 
 English are a very profound race." 
 
 Benoit soon accustomed himself to English man- 
 ners ; he had five meals a day, drank tea all day y 
 and punch all night, and he was very sorry, see- 
 ing now stout he was getting, when his master 
 
Comprising a Period of Three Years. 225- 
 
 told him that he intended to leave a country where 
 people lived so well. 
 
 But Gustave had been away from France for 
 three years, and as his uncle evidently wished to 
 see him again, he would not put off his return any 
 longer, and he was tired of moving about from place 
 to place, and though he had had many love affairs, 
 yet he was quieting down, and was no longer thai 
 rascal Gustave who jumped out of windows, roused 
 a whole street, and fought with the patrol ; and 
 though he still loved pleasure and the fair sex, he 
 felt it was time to choose his acquaintances better, 
 and so began to look forward to the delights of 
 wedded love and the pure pleasures of esteem and 
 friendship. 
 
 " We will return to France/' he said to Benoit, 
 " and though I shall go back to my uncle without 
 bringing a wife with me, I must confess that I 
 have not taken much trouble to find one. I cer- 
 tainly prefer Frenchwomen to all others : the 
 Italians are too fiery, the Spanish too jealous, the 
 Germans too fond of waltzing, the Polish toe 
 cold, and the English too sentimental." 
 
 " You are quite right, monsieur, and I must 
 acknowledge that, except flutes, marionnettes, and 
 plum-pudding, we have not seen anything very 
 wonderful in our travels." 
 
 They bade farewell to the banks of the Thames,, 
 and taking the steamer, soon arrived at Calais. 
 Gustave felt very happy at once more setting foot 
 on his native soil, and was eager to see his uncle 
 and old friends again ; and Benoit was very im- 
 patient to tell his father all that he had heard, seen,, 
 and admired, and, most probably, something in 
 addition. 
 
^226 That Rascal Gustavo 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SHOULD YOU HAVE GUESSED IT? 
 
 GuSTAVE had told his uncle that he was about to 
 return, and on disembarking at Calais he saw a 
 tall, nice-looking fellow in postillion's dress hold- 
 ing a letter in his hand, — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, monsieur, but are you M. 
 Gustave St Real T' 
 
 " Yes, what do you want 1 n 
 
 " I was on the look-out for your arrival, monsieur, 
 for your uncle, Colonel Moranval, sent me, but, 
 first of all, I must give you this letter." 
 
 Gustave took it and read as follows : — 
 
 " My Dear Gustave, — You must be very tired 
 from your journey, and impatient to be in Paris, 
 and so that you may come all the quicker I send 
 you Germain, my new groom, with a comfortable 
 post-chaise. He will drive you, and I hope to 
 •embrace you soon. — Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 " Colonel Moranval." 
 
 "It is really very kind of my uncle," Gustave 
 «aid, " and I am sick of riding, and as my horse 
 died in Germany, I shall make my entry into Paris 
 like a lord. So, Germain, you have a post-chaise 
 with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, and it is quite ready." 
 
 " Very well, we will start as soon as we have 
 dined." 
 
 He went to the inn where the post-chaise was, 
 «iid after a good dinner he got into the carriage 
 with Benoit, and ordered Germain to go at a good 
 pace. 
 
 " Upon my word, monsieur*" Benoit said, sitting 
 
Should You have guessed Itt 227 
 
 down opposite his master, "it is very thoughtful of 
 your uncle to send us such a nice carriage and a 
 driver, and, at any rate, we shall get back to Paris 
 without any fatigue." 
 
 Gustave did not reply, for he was buried in 
 thought ; calling to mind all whom he had left in 
 France, and wondering what changes three years 
 might have produced in the situation. 
 
 The first day they only stopped for meals, and to 
 change horses, and Gustave was very satisfied with 
 Germain, who drove very fast ; and towards the 
 end of the second day, when it was already nearly 
 dark, Gustave began to think that they must be 
 getting near Paris, but on putting his head out of 
 the carriage window, he fancied that they had left 
 the high-road. 
 
 " Germain, where are we ? " 
 
 " About six leagues from Paris, monsieur, close 
 to Montmorency." 
 
 "Are you sure that you have taken the right 
 Toad?" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; I have taken a short cut which 
 saves us a long distance." 
 
 " Suppose he should make us lose our way, 
 monsieur," Benoit said anxiously. 
 
 " Why, you idiot, are you frightened ? " 
 
 " Well, monsieur, it is dark, and I do not see 
 any houses." 
 
 "Do you continually see houses by the road- 
 side?" 
 
 " But you said we were off the high-road." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, and go to sleep." 
 
 "I am much too frightened to go to sleep, 
 monsieur." 
 
 Germain drove slower, and soon stopped al- 
 together, to speak to his master. 
 
 " I think you are right, monsieur, I have lost my 
 way, and don't know where I am." 
 
6 
 228 Thai Rascal Gustave. 
 
 " I felt sure of it," Gustave answered. 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! " Benoit screamed out, " are we going: 
 to spend the night in the open air ? " 
 
 " Go on, Germain, and ask your way at the first 
 house we get to." 
 
 " The devil is in it, monsieur ; one of my horses^ 
 has lost a shoe and can hardly trot, and it would 
 injure him to gallop." 
 
 " By George I" Benoit grumbled to himse!f r 
 " what a fool he must be to let a horse lose one 
 of his shoes. We are in a nice fix." 
 
 Gustave did not know what to do, and Germain 
 proposed to go on a voyage of discovery, for he 
 fancied he had seen a light at a little distance off on 
 the left, and he would go and ask his way there. 
 
 " If it is a house where they will take us in, we- 
 will spend the night there, in case you cannot get 
 your horse shod," Gustave said. 
 
 Germain went away, and soon came back to say 
 that it was a very nice-looking house, and that they 
 would willingly take the travellers in for the night, 
 
 "Well," Gustave replied, "I must go and ask 
 for hospitality, but you, Germain, must try and 
 get as far as the nearest village, to see whether 
 you cannot get the horse shod, for I have not yet 
 given up all hopes of reaching Paris to-night." 
 
 Gustave and Benoit got out of the carriage, and 
 went towards the hospitable dwelling where they 
 were going to be kind enough to take them in r 
 which proved to be a handsome house, belonging, 
 no doubt, to wealthy people, so he knocked, and a 
 middle-aged woman opened the door. 
 
 "I have been told," Gustave said, "that the 
 owner of this house has offered to be kind enough 
 to allow me to stay here for a short time till one 
 of my horses can be shod." 
 
 "Please to come in, monsieur; I will show you 
 the wav" 
 
Should You have guessed It ? 22£ 
 
 She took Gustave and Benoit upstairs to the first 
 floor, and opened the door of an elegantly furnished 
 drawing-room, which, however, was without any 
 occupants, and, asking Gustave to sit down, and 
 placing a lamp on the table, she went out. 
 
 " Monsieur," Benoit said, examining the furniture 
 very carefully, " I think this house must belong to 
 people of distinction." 
 
 " I hope," Gustave replied, li we shall see the 
 owner soon, as I want to thank him ; " and when the 
 servant returned with refreshments, he said to her, 
 — " Shall I have the pleasure of seeing your 
 master % " 
 
 " A lady and her servants live here, monsieur, 
 and she is very glad to take you in, but she never 
 «ees any one." 
 
 " But surely she will give me an opportunity of 
 thanking her ? " 
 
 " There is no necessity for that, monsieur." 
 
 " There is some mystery in all this, monsieur," 
 Benoit said to his master in a whisper. 
 
 Gustave was just going to ask some more 
 questions, when he heard a great noise outside ; 
 Benoit started, and the servant went downstairs 
 to see what it was, and soon reappeared with 
 Germain, who seemed rather frightened. 
 
 " What is the matter, Germain ? " Gustave said. 
 
 (( Oh I monsieur, you will be very angry with me, 
 I know, and I am very awkward, but luckily it did 
 not happen whilst you were inside, and, after all, it 
 was not my fault." 
 
 " Whatever are you talking about." 
 
 ** There was a confounded elm tree by the side 
 of the road, which I did not see ; I was leading one 
 of the horses, when suddenly — crash, the carriage 
 was upset, with a wheel smashed and a spring 
 broken." ** 
 
 "WeU, we are in a pretty mess," Benoit said, 
 
230 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 stamping with rage, whilst Gustave burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 "I am glad to see that you can laugh at it, 
 monsieur." 
 
 "I was laughing at my uncle's lucky idea of 
 sending me a post-chaise so that I might get to 
 Paris the sooner, and at the fortunate way it has 
 turned out ; but now the question is, where shall 
 I spend the night ? " 
 
 " Here, monsieur," the old servant said ; " your 
 carriage must be repaired, and you cannot continue 
 your journey at present; but you will want for 
 nothing here, and will not put my mistress out in 
 the least, for she has asked me to tell you that you 
 can stay here as long as you please." 
 
 "Upon my word, your mistress is really too 
 kind, but as she wishes it, I will accept her kind 
 hospitality for to-night." 
 
 "I will get rooms ready for you and your 
 servants, and supper will be served very soon." 
 
 She left the room, and Germain went after her 
 to put his horses up, for it was too late to go to 
 the nearest village to look for workmen. 
 
 " I think, Benoit," Gustave said, throwing him- 
 self into an easy-chair, " that the lady of the house 
 must be very kind." 
 
 " I think, monsieur, that we are very fortunate 
 in finding any one so obliging, but I think there is 
 something mysterious about it." 
 
 "Yes, I must say I am rather curious, and I 
 should very much like to see this lady who receives 
 strangers into her house and will not see them. I 
 think there is something very romantic in it, and 
 were I in Italy still, I should expect that it would 
 turn out to be a love adventure. How strange we 
 are! we long to see anything that is kept con- 
 cealed from us, and I am most desirous to see this 
 mysterious lady." 
 
Should You have guessed It t 23 f 
 
 " Wait a moment, monsieur, somebody is comings 
 upstairs, I can see — oh I it is beautiful ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? A pretty woman ? " 
 
 " No, monsieur, the supper which has just been* 
 served in the dining-room." 
 
 " Confound your gluttony, with your supper." 
 
 The servant came in to tell Gustave that supper 
 was ready, and he went into the dining-room, and 
 sat down at a table that was very handsomely set 
 out, and during the meal he put several more 
 questions to the woman who, however, did not 
 seem at all inclined to talk, and all that he could 
 get out of her was that her mistress was young, 
 and had a child. 
 
 When it was over, she showed Gustave into a 
 very pretty bedroom, and told him that his 
 servants were sleeping just underneath him, and 
 that he could easily call them if he happened to 
 want them. 
 
 Mter spending two days in a post-chaise, it 
 might have been thought that he would be glad ta 
 rest, but he felt no inclination to sleep. It was a 
 beautiful evening, so he opened the window, and 
 as the moon was shining brightly, he could dis- 
 tinguish every object near him; and from his 
 window he could see part of the garden, and 
 on the right, a wing of the house in which lights 
 were still burning, where, no doubt, the apartments 
 of the lady were who would not even be thanked 
 for her kind hospitality. Whilst looking at the 
 windows that were lighted up, he wished that he 
 could see the interier of the rooms, but he soon 
 felt ashamed of his curiosity. 
 
 "Bah!" he said, "I get excited because a. 
 lady does not wish to see a stranger, and immedi- 
 ately picture her to myself as a marvel of beauty, 
 when most likely she is a very ordinary kind of 
 woman who likes to do a kindness, but does note 
 
232 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 choose to mix with the people whom chance brings 
 to her house. There is nothing very mysterious 
 about that, and certainly, for a man who has 
 been half over Europe, I am easily astonished, so I 
 •will go to bed, which will be much better than 
 looking at the moon and this lady's apartments." 
 
 Gustave had just closed his window, when he 
 heard the sound of a harp, and so, naturally, curi- 
 osity gained the upper hand, he went to the 
 window again an,d listened attentively. The lady, 
 for it was one presumably, played with much taste 
 and expression, and soon she began a ballad, to 
 which Gustave listened to with much pleasure. 
 Who could it be but the lady of the house, as the 
 servant had said that she was living there by her- 
 self? The voice ceased too soon ; it and the harp 
 both became mute, but Gustave listened still ; he 
 wished to hear more, for never had music given 
 Tise to such pleasant sensations in him. 
 
 After listening in vain for an hour, in the hope 
 of hearing her pleasing notes again, Gustave at 
 last went to bed, but he was quite determined to 
 make every attempt to get to know the person 
 who sang so well, and he went to sleep thinking 
 -of his mysterious hostess. 
 
 The next morning Gustave got up early, and 
 on going downstairs he met the servant and asked 
 her whether he might go into the garden. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, monsieur,'' she replied ; " you can go 
 wherever you like." 
 
 *' Is my carriage being repaired ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, but it will not be ready to-day." 
 
 " But I really cannot stop here any longer." 
 
 " Why not, monsieur? My mistress has told me 
 
 to say to you that she hopes you will stay here 
 
 till your carriage is thoroughly in order, and I 
 
 linow she will be only too glad if you will do so ; 
 
 -and now I will go and see about your breakfast." 
 
Should You have guessed It ? 233 
 
 " This is a strange sort of house," Gustave said 
 to himself, as he went into tho garden ; " the 
 mistress of it entertains me most hospitably, but 
 refuses to see me. Well, I may as well stay a day 
 longer, and I may happen to meet the lady." 
 
 Walking on a terrace with beds of beautiful 
 flowers, he saw a very pretty little girl hardly 
 three years old, who was running about alone, 
 picking flowers which she made up into a nose- 
 
 " What are you doing, my dear little girl ? " 
 -Gustave said, giving her a kiss. 
 
 "I am picking flowers for mamma," the child 
 replied, with a smile. 
 
 " Where is your mamma ? " 
 
 " Indoors." 
 
 u Do you love her very much 1 " 
 
 " Yes, and papa also." 
 
 " And her father also ! " Confound it, here was 
 .something that altogether upset Gustave's calcula- 
 tions ; her father was alive, so why was he not 
 with his wife? Perhaps her husband's absence 
 was the reason why the wife would see nobody, so 
 Gustave tried to make the little girl tell him more, 
 £>ut she was too young to express herself clearly, 
 and she struggled out of his arms, and ran into the 
 house, and he also went in to breakfast. 
 
 Whilst eating it he thought a great deal about 
 the child, whose features brought back confused 
 recollections to his mind, and then he wondered 
 why the mother's voice should have made such an 
 impression on him, and he became thoughtful and 
 almost sad, and hardly touched the dainty meal. 
 Benoit tried in vain to distract him and make him 
 talk, but, as he could not succeed, he made up 
 his mind to eat for two, which he managed very 
 ^easily, for he had brought back the habit of eating 
 sail day long from England. 
 
234 That Rascal Gustave. 
 
 "How can I manage to see her," Gustave ex- 
 claimed, leaving the table. 
 
 " To see whom, monsieur 1 " Benoit asked. 
 
 " Why, of course, the lady of the house." 
 
 " Oh ! 1 have seen her, monsieur." 
 
 "You saw her, you scoundrel, and never told 
 me of it V 
 
 "Well, when I say I saw her, I mean I saw 
 her back in the hall, and heard her telling the^ 
 servant to take her harp into the little garden 
 pavilion." 
 
 Gustave had seen a pavilion at the bottom of 
 the garden, consisting of only a ground-floor, and 
 through the outside Venetian blinds he ought to 
 be able to see the inside, so he went into the 
 garden immediately, and going up to the pavilion* 
 he listened, but nobody was there yet, and, in order 
 not to frighten the young lady, he went to a little 
 distance and sat down behind a thick hedge. 
 
 He soon heard footsteps, and saw a lady holding 
 a little girl by the hand, but her face was turned 
 from him, aud she went in without his being able 
 to distinguish her features. 
 
 However, he went up to the pavilion, but it 
 would have been impertinent to go in, as she did 
 not wish to see any one, but Gustave thought it 
 quite allowable to listen, and he did so. 
 
 After a rather melancholy prelude, she began a 
 ballad descriptive of the sufferings of the heart 
 when far from the object of its affections, and 
 Gustave listened attentively, trying to remember 
 where he had already heard the voice that was 
 charming him. He walked round the garden-house ? 
 and tried to look through the Venetians, but the 
 windows all had curtains; now the song ceased, 
 however, and one of the windows was opened^ 
 Gustave went gently up, and, pushing aside one 
 of the blinds, he could see into the room, but he 
 
Should You*have guessed It ? 235' 
 
 did not gain much, for the lady's back was towards 
 him, and he could only see her figure. 
 
 The little girl was on her mother's knees, play- 
 ing with her hair. 
 
 "Mamma," she said, "you are not singing any 
 more, and I know you are unhappy, for you are 
 continually crying." 
 
 The mother's only answer was to cover the little 
 girl's face with kisses, and put her handkerchief to 
 her eyes, whilst Gustave hardly breathed, for it 
 seemed to him that he was the cause of the young 
 lady's tears. 
 
 The little girl jumped off her mother's lap, and 
 said, " Wait a moment ; you know how I can 
 always stop you from crying." 
 
 The child went and took a large picture, almost 
 as big as herself, and which she could scarcely 
 carry, that Gustave had not noticed before, off a 
 chair ; however, she managed to put it in front of 
 her mother, and blew kisses to it. The mother 
 took her little girl into her arms, made her kneel 
 down before the portrait, and said, "Pray to 
 Heaven that your father may still love me, and 
 that some day he may return to us." 
 
 Gustave could no longer master his emotion; he 
 knew that voice, and got on to the window to look 
 at the portrait, and on seeing his own likeness he 
 could hardly restrain his tears. Who could this 
 woman and this child be ? He went into the 
 parlour and could scarcely believe his eyes, for 
 Susan was before him, and, throwing herself into 
 his arms, she gave him his child, whilst he, over- 
 whelmed with emotion, threw himself on to the 
 chair on which she had been sitting. 
 
 At that moment the door of a small adjoin- 
 ing room was opened, and Colonel Moranval 
 appeared. 
 
 My dear Gustave," he said, going up to hinv 
 
:236 That Rascal irustave. 
 
 M I am very glad that you have returned alone, for 
 I have been keeping your wife and child for you 
 here." 
 
 Gustave could not speak ; he was holding Susan 
 and his daughter in his arms, and covering them 
 with kisses. 
 
 "There, calm yourself," the Colonel said, with 
 a smile; "you must be very anxious to know 
 how your little peasant girl, whom you lost in 
 Paris, should have turned into this well-educated 
 lady, who has all the manners of good society. I 
 can tell you in a few words. The young Savoyard 
 who had taken up his post outside my house, 
 was- — Susan." 
 
 "Susan!" Gustave exclaimed, "and I did not 
 recognise you ! " 
 
 " Oh I I so disguised myself, and stained my face, 
 that you could not recognise me, and I took care to 
 speak very little in your presence." 
 
 " But why disguise yourself ? " 
 
 " So that I might see you every day, and be near 
 you constantly. On running away from Madame 
 Henri's I made up my mind to do so, and so I sold 
 all the few things I had, and bought that Savoyard's 
 dress. Unfortunately I was pregnant, and bore in 
 my bosom the fruit of our love, and when you came 
 close to me, I was very much inclined to throw my- 
 self into your arms and tell you all, but the fear of 
 being separated from you prevented me from doing 
 so. 
 
 "The poor child was frightened of me," the 
 ^Colonel said; "but I am not so bad as I seem. 
 Susan had followed us when we left Paris, and, 
 getting up behind the cabriolet, she was thrown off 
 at St Germain. You will remember, Gustave, that 
 I yielded to your wishes, and went to see how the 
 poor Savoyard was, and you may guess my surprise 
 -when I recognised in the child that young girl 
 
Should You have guessed It ? 23T 
 
 in whom I had taken such an interest. I calmed 
 Susan's grief, for she declared that she should die, 
 now that you had gone away and left her, but I 
 consoled her with the hope of seeing you again, 
 and promising never to abandon her, though I 
 took care not to tell you what had happened, and 
 I returned to Paris, taking the Savoyard with 
 me. 
 
 " I must confess that Susan's devotion, the force 
 and sincerity of her love, her open character and 
 her youth, all made me really attached to her, so I 
 took her to my house and watched over her educa- 
 tion. She learnt wonderfully quickly, and found 
 her only pleasure in sometimes talking to me about 
 you. When she gave birth to this little girl, I soon 
 got to love her as much as I did her mother, for 
 she showed the same beauty and gentleness of 
 character. Susan, however, hearing that her mother 
 was ill, left everything to fly to her mother's bed- 
 side, and I could not but approve of her conduct, 
 and Madame Lucas died soon afterwards, having 
 pardoned her daughter for the fault that love had 
 caused her to be guilty of. Susan still remained 
 at Ermenonville, as she did not wish to leave her 
 father, who had nothing but her to comfort him r 
 and she spent eight months in the village, at the 
 end of which time a fever carried off Father Lucas. 
 I went immediately to Ermenonville, and forced 
 Susan to return with me, though I had some diffi- 
 culty in doing so, for she did not wish to leave her 
 native place and her parents' tomb, but I spoke to 
 her of you, and love carried the day. 
 
 " Every day, my dear Gustave, I learnt to appre- 
 ciate her virtues and amiable qualities more and 
 more, and in a most dangerous illness that I had, I 
 believe I should have died without Susan's care and 
 attention, who nursed me day and night. I was 
 much toi^hed at her devotion and I began to hope 
 
238 That RascaC Grustave. 
 
 that you might not be entirly captivated by any 
 woman during your travels, and you may imagine 
 Susan's joy when I told her what my views for 
 her were. She begged me, however, not to men- 
 tion her to you, as she wished to leave you full 
 master of your own heart, and not to prevent 
 you from forming other ties should you wish to 
 do so, but she used to listen anxiously to all your 
 letters, as she feared to hear that your choice was 
 made. 
 
 " At last you announced your return, and I sent 
 Germain to meet you, having given him instruc- 
 tions to bring you here. I wished to excite your 
 curiosity, for though I knew your heart, I wished 
 ^o move it violently, so that you might appreciate 
 the happiness I had in store for you all the more r 
 I hope you may be happy, for I give you a charm- 
 ing child and an adorable wife, and I think that, 
 with them, you will not find the time long, for as 
 jshe possesses all the qualities to make your home 
 happy, and is highly cultivated, you can talk with 
 her about other things than love. No doubt it is a 
 delightful subject of conversation, but to be able 
 constantly to say something about the matter, you 
 must not exhaust it at once, as you used to do when 
 Susan first stayed with you at my house." 
 
 " My dear uncle," Gustave said, throwing his arms 
 round his uncle's neck, " for the future I shall be 
 quite satisfied, for with Susan, you, and my child * 
 I shall find that happiness which I sought in vain 
 in the storms of intrigues and folly." 
 
 " My dear boy, that is the way of young men, and 
 now that you have sown your wild oats, I feel con- 
 fident about your future." 
 
 " Ah ! Gustave," Susan said, taking his hand, " I 
 never thought that I could be so happy, and who 
 
 * According to French law, a bastard child becomes legitimate 
 t>j the subsequent marriage of the parents. — {Translator.) 
 
Should You have guessed It t 239 
 
 -would have said, when you came to our village, 
 that I should be your wife ? " 
 
 "My dear child," the Colonel observed, joining 
 iheir hands together, " you have proved that virtue, 
 gentleness, talent, and beauty can well replace birth 
 sand wealth," 
 
 TEB warn. 
 
FIRST TIME IN ENGLISH 
 
 TOMMY ATKINS 
 
 MAKY. 
 
 BV 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 LONDON: MATHIF.SON AND CO., LTD. 
 6, BOOKSELLER'S ROW, W.€. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 
 
 It was the height of summer, and after an oppresive- 
 ly hot day people could begin to breathe freely 
 again, and were standing at their doors or sitting 
 beneath the foliage of their arbours to enjoy the 
 evening breeze, though some of the peasants were 
 still working. A young peasant was walking slowly 
 up a path through the clover ; he was about twenty 
 and was a tall, good-looking young fellow; he had 
 black hair, and what is very uncommon amongst 
 his class, a high forehead. He had a dark com- 
 plexion and was, moreover, very much sunburnt,but 
 his features were decidedly much more refined than 
 those of the ordinary French peasant; his large eyes 
 wore a proud and yet gentle look, he had a Grecian 
 nose, and his mouth wore a serious expression which 
 it seldom lost, and which perfectly suited the rest of 
 his face. Pierre, for that was the young man's name, 
 followed the narrow path through the clover, but 
 when he got onto the road, by the side of 
 which several cottages stood, he stopped, turned 
 round and looked back towards the valley which he 
 had left. 
 
 Some peasant women were outside their doors ; 
 some were working and others were only resting and 
 chatting, and all were quite regardless of the half- 
 naked children playing in the road, who were oc- 
 casionally nearly run over by a passing vehicle, as 
 were also the ducks and geese which were waddling 
 
 A 
 
4 THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 
 
 home. At that moment the attention of all the 
 women was taken up with Pierre, although there 
 was nothing in his dress to distinguish him from the 
 other young men of his class, but he was young and 
 good-looking ; and then to his hat were fastened 
 several pieces of ribbon of different colours, an em- 
 bellishment with which all young men adorned them- 
 selves who had just been drawing for the conscrip- 
 tion.* Lastly there was a large square piece of 
 white paper stuck in front of his hat, with number 
 150 on it. 
 
 " Here is Pierre ! . . .Here is Pierre ! . . ." several 
 peasant girls said to each other, pointing to the 
 young villager. "Well, he has been drawn for this 
 year's conscription." — " Has he a good number ! " — " I 
 should rather think so : he has 150, and they only 
 take forty men from here ! " — " Ah ! that is lucky for 
 him ! . . . His uncle the miller will be very pleased ! " 
 — " Oh ! yes, his uncle ! Great brute ! ... He is fond 
 of his nephew, but he would not have forked out a 
 penny to have bought him off if he had been un- 
 lucky ... He thinks of nothing but his money." — 
 " That's all the same, for it would have been a great 
 pity if Pierre had gone, for he is a very good fellow." 
 — " And, I say, Lucas's son, who has been eating 
 nothing but bacon and pickled gherkins for a month, 
 so that he might appear to have a weak chest, has 
 been passed as perfectly sound and has to go." — " 1 
 am very glad of it, for he is too cunning by half . . . 
 But just look at Pierre ; he is standing there like a 
 post. 
 
 A peasant girl who had been looking at Pierre as 
 closely as any of them, and went up to the group of 
 women, and said with an air of vexation : — " Ah ! I 
 know why Pierre looks so vexed . . . Why, he is in 
 l ove ! »__« Bah ! Really ? . . . Pierre in love ! . . . 
 Who is she ? "— " Why, Marie, the servant at the 
 i nn .»_« Oh ! Nonsense."—" Yes he is ! Where do 
 you come from not to know that ? It's in everybody's 
 mouth..." — "Oh! I don't bother about anything 
 
 * This was written many years before compulsory, universal 
 service in France. (Translator). 
 
THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 5 
 
 ■except milking my cows and selling my milk, without 
 troubling myself with other people's affairs."— " That 
 is why you went and told Giroux's wife that her 
 husband had spent a shilling at the public-house, I 
 •suppose ... so that they had a fight in consequence ! 
 — " It is not true ; I never said it." 
 
 Whilst the women were disputing, the girl who 
 seemed so taken up with Pierre, went up to another 
 girl of her own age, and taking her to some little 
 distance from where the others were quarrelling, she 
 said with a deep sigh :— " Pierre never speaks to us 
 now ! ... He never takes any notice of us since he has 
 been so taken up with Marie. ... "— ''■ Well ! Helene, 
 if he is in love with the girl ... she is very pretty, is 
 Marie...." — " Do you think so? I don't see anything 
 extraordinary in her."—" She maybe pretty without 
 that."— " I don't deny that, but I think there are 
 many girls about here who are prettier than she is." 
 
 « Who are they, I should like to know ? They are 
 
 nearly all ugly about here, on the contrary." 
 
 Helene shrugged her shoulders slightly and pinched 
 her lips, muttering :— " It is strange that you should 
 despise us all like that. ... You are pretty, certainly, 
 but am I ugly? ... All the lads tell me I am very nice 
 looking"— " Well ! If you are going to believe all 
 that the lads say '....They always tell us we are 
 pretty, from fun. ... I know very well what I am like. 
 You are better looking than I ani Helene, but in 
 spite of all that, you are not so good-looking as 
 Marie ! ..."— " Don't you think so ? "— " Certainly 
 not ; she is much better looking than you ! "— " Oh ! 
 that is because she gives herself airs, and is a flirt, 
 and talks with everyone who stops at the inn ... but 
 for all that she is nothing much ! ... A servant at an 
 inn ...people ought not to make suc'h a fuss about 
 her ...and then a girl ...whom Monsieur Gobinard 
 brought up... out of charity ! ...and who never had a 
 father or mother ! ..."— " What nonsense ! ... As if 
 •one had not always a mother, or, at any rate, a 
 father ! ..." — " I mean to say nobody ever saw them ; 
 her so-called mother brought her here when she was a 
 few months old, and if Madame Gobinard, who was 
 alive then had not taken charge of the child, what 
 
6 THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 
 
 would have become of her?... She would have been 
 taken nobody knows where...." — " What has all tnat 
 got to do with it? ... It does not prevent Marie from 
 being pretty. ... It is no crime to be an orphan and 
 poor. ... Upon my word, Helene, you are very stuck 
 up, now...." — "I am not at all stuck up, but I say 
 that when anyone is the child of... nobody knows 
 who, one ought not to be such a coquette, and wear 
 a lot of ribbons like ladies from town."— " Oh ! dear, 
 there is my cow running all over Louis le Blond's 
 field; I suppose my fool of a brother has let her 
 out ... that young booby is good for nothing. ... I say, 
 just stop her, you fellows ! " 
 
 The peasant girl left Helene in order to run 
 after the cow, who had stopped in obedience to the 
 voice of her mistress. 
 
 Helene was a girl of eighteen, stout and high- 
 coloured ; her features were not distinguished, nor 
 was her bearing elegant, but" she was a tall, well- 
 made girl, with a smiling mouth, merry eyes and her 
 slightly snub nose imparted something original to 
 her face, which looked as if they were made more for 
 smiles than for sadness. After taking a few steps 
 first to the right and then to the left, she made up 
 her mind to go straight on towards the spot where 
 Pierre, the young conscript, had stopped and was 
 sitting at the "foot of a tree. There was something about 
 him which impelled the fat peasant girl towards the 
 good-looking voung fellow, although as she walked 
 and twisted her apron up in her fingers, she said to 
 herself : — " I will not go after Pierre, for I do not 
 w T ant him to think that I give him a thought... for he 
 is very rude ... he never asked me to dance last Sun- 
 day ! " But in spite of all this, Helene walked on, 
 for her heart no doubt spoke louder than her reason ; 
 at eighteen it is more natural to listen to the former 
 than to the latter, and it would -be very pleasant to 
 be able to act during one's whole life like one does 
 at eighteen. 
 
 Consequently Helene was soon by Pierre's side, 
 whilst she repeated to herself : " I will not go after 
 him," and when she had overtaken him, whilst the 
 young man was altogether absorbed in his own re-. 
 
THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 7 
 
 flections did not even notice her presence, she took 
 her pocket knife out and let it drop into the grass, 
 and then after walking a few steps she stopped and 
 exclaimed : — " Oh ! I have lost my knife ! " Pierre 
 looked up, nodded to her and was going on, 
 but Helene stopped him and said : — " Have you not 
 seen my knife which I dropped somewhere about 
 here. ... I don't want to lose it, as it cost me eight- 
 pence. ... would you help me to look for it, if it will 
 not hinder you?" 
 
 Pierre did not move, and Helene pretended to look 
 for it near him, and in doing so she stooped so much, 
 that when she had her back towards him, the girl, 
 whose petticoats were as short as those of a peasant 
 girl's at the opera, showed him rather thick, but very 
 well made legs, muscular calves, and a pair of little 
 red woollen garters above them, and if the young 
 fellow had tried... I really do not know.... or rather 1 
 know perfectly well, what he might have seen But 
 Pierre was not thinking of such a thing just then, 
 and besides, it is enough to give men the facilify for 
 seeing a thing, to cause them not to look at it, for 
 they are essentially contradictory beings. At last, 
 however, she got tired of looking for the knife and 
 came and sat down by Pierre and said :-— " That is 
 how you help me ! ... What are you thinking about, 
 not to say a word? ... Are you ill ? " — " No." — "You 
 do not seem very glad at having drawn such a good 
 number, and not having to join the army." 
 
 Pierre did not reply ; he was in a reverie again, 
 and seeing that she could not get a word out of him, 
 Helene got up and began to look for her knife again. 
 Her manner of seduction was peculiar, but in the 
 country people act differently to what they do in towns, 
 for they » do not know any refinements of .coquetry 
 and things go on much quicker because they go more 
 naturally. 
 
 Just then a peasant came along a cross road ; he 
 was a tall men with a clever face, and carefully 
 dressed. He was carrying a basket on his arm and 
 came in the direction where Pierre was sitting, and 
 where Helene would persist in looking for her knife. 
 "Well, well, so you are free, Pierre?" the new. 
 
8 THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS. 
 
 comer said, shaking hands with him heartily. fr l 
 have just heard it at Roche — Guyon, and I were so- 
 glad of it, that I went and drank a bottle of wine- 
 in honour of it with Maclon." — Whilst he was 
 speaking Pierre got up and said : — " Yes, Gaspard, 
 yes, I drew a lucky number ... and yet I had quite 
 made up my mind to go." — " That is foolish ; it is 
 far better to stay. What do you want to lose one 
 of your arms for ? Far better remain at home, es- 
 pecially as you are deeply in love enough for thirty 
 thousand men. Why, Helene, what are you doing 
 amongst our legs ? " — " I am looking for my knife 
 which I have lost." — " Well, go and look for it some- 
 where else." — " How rude you are, Gaspard ! ... But 
 I shall not go away unless I choose ! " — " Why, here 
 is your knife. ..just at my feet.... You were close 
 to it, and pretended not to see it ! We know all 
 about such tricks." 
 
 The girl picked up her knife, and looking angrily 
 at Gaspard, she said: — "You ought to have your 
 blouse mended instead of going about almost in rags. 
 I do not know what you will be showing us next, if 
 you go on like that ! " — " Never mind that ; if you 
 did not look at men, you would not notice their 
 short comings in dress." — " At any rate, nobody 
 looks at people like you ; so just go and sell your 
 plums, you sot, instead of stopping so long on your 
 road." — " Go and make your cheese, or your aunt 
 will give it you like she did the other day when you. 
 were talking to the game-keeper's son in the wood. ... 
 When you forget all about your work ; and lost 
 vour scissor case ... and perhaps something else, as 
 well '/ 
 
 The girl did not wait to hear any more, but ran 
 off blushing, and giving Gaspard a furious look. 
 When she was at a distance, he went up to Pierre 
 and said: — " What are you going to stand, this even- 
 ing-" 
 
 " Oh ! Gaspard, I do not feel at all in a drinking 
 humour ... I am very unhappy..." — "Ah! Some 
 nonsensical love affair, I suppose ?... Are you going- 
 to make yourself miserable for that?" — "You do 
 not know how I love Marie*" — "I see "that you love 
 
THE COUNTRY AND THE PEASANTS- 9 
 
 ber ; that is evident to anybody, but what is the use 
 ■of making yourself miserable about a woman? Is 
 not every woman... a woman ? Thank God there are 
 plenty of them, and if you wanted Helene I have no 
 doubt that she would not be deaf to you ! " — " I only 
 love Marie, and I shall never love any girl but her!" 
 " Ah ! that is like Cadet, who used to say that he 
 should never like oysters and now he will swallow 
 ten dozen ! ... However, be in love with Marie if it 
 suits you ; that is no reason for being miserable ... 
 Will she not have anything to say to you ? " — " She 
 has not said so, for I have never positively told her 
 that I love her... for I am afraid that she will give me 
 an unfavourable reception." — " Oh ! nonsense ; you 
 know that all'women are flirts... they pretend to re- 
 pel us ; but that is only to allure us all the more ; 
 and Marie is a terrible flirt !..." — " But, confound it! 
 She is so pretty I" — " That is no reason why you 
 should make such a fuss about her. Youi uncle, the 
 miller, will be sure to leave you something, and 
 meanwhile you are a good workman ... and neither a 
 drunkard nor quarrelsome ! Marie is an orphan 
 who has nothing,... and though Daddy Gobinard 
 means to leave her the inn, as he has no near rela- 
 tions, yet he does not seem to have any intention of 
 dying at present ; and then though the inn is all very 
 well, yet it is not a kingdom, and travellers do not 
 stop here every day." — "They come too often/' 
 Pierre replied with a sigh, "and the fine gentlemen 
 and the ladies in their beautiful dresses, turn Marie's 
 head by the nonsense they talk and the silly things 
 they say to her, about what a # success she would be 
 in Paris, and so on. Marie is already a coquette 
 and all this makes her worse, and when I come after- 
 wards and tell her how pretty she is without paying 
 her any compliments, she jus* laughs in my face. 
 Good-night." 
 
 Gaspard had already gone a few steps, when 
 Pierre called him back. — " Are you going to have a 
 drink anywhere, Gaspard ? " — " Yes, at Gobinard's, 
 at the Rising Sun, his wine is better/and no dearer 
 than anywhere else." — " Very well then, I will go 
 with you." — " Have you got thirsty all of a sudden ? 
 A 7 ery well then, come along." 
 
IO THE INN, 
 
 And the two peasants went down the path which 
 led to the inn that was situated two gunshots from 
 the village of Vethenil, together. 
 
 CHAPTER It. 
 
 THE INN. — PROFESSOR MARTINEAU. 
 
 THE inn was situated where two roads met, one of 
 which led to Nantes and the other to Roche-Guyon, 
 and abort forty miles from Paris, and in the neigh- 
 bourhood there were some old chateaux and several 
 very handsome country-houses. Coming from Paris, 
 people generally passed in front of the inn, jxom 
 which fact it was said to derive its name, though I 
 will not guarantee this etymology, though it seems 
 credible enough. 
 
 The inn was modest looking enough as it only 
 consisted of a ground and first floor and some attics. 
 Above the door was written in large letters: " The 
 Rising Sun ; Gobinarb Innkeeper, Sells wine undi- 
 luted, and between the shutters of each window the 
 village Teniers had painted poultry, game, fish, pies, 
 fruit and vegetables with so much skill, that the 
 peasants always stopped in admiration before the 
 paintings, and exclaimed that the pies were a speak- 
 ing likeness ! 
 
 At the present moment two men were in the lower 
 room. One of them was so bald that the back of his 
 head was as hairless as his forehead, in consequence 
 he almost always wore a cotton night-cap which 
 served him instead of a wig, and his face was so red 
 that it seemed as if he must have a fit of apoplexy 
 every moment. The wine seemed as if it wished ta 
 start out from his purple skin, and one could easily 
 believe that he was very fond of trying the undiluted 
 wines announced over the door. — This was Monsieur 
 Gobinard, the landlord. He had been a widower for 
 over ten years, a good man at bottom, but talkative 
 
PROFESSOR MARTINEAU. II 
 
 and inquisitive and consequently often making- other 
 people quarrel, and this defect had increased since 
 his wife's death, of whom he had stood in wholesome 
 dread. 
 
 Monsieur Martineau, the schoolmaster was sitting 
 with him. He had taught all the little village boys, 
 who left school as soon as they could read and write, 
 which distressed him very much as he wished to im- 
 part all those treasures of knowledge which he 
 had amassed, to them. But they would have nothing 
 to do with science, and when he spoke to them of Greek 
 roots they imagined that it had something to do 
 with carrots and turnips ; so that before very long 
 he made up his mind to leave his school, as his 
 scholars had left him. He was an old friend of 
 Gobinard's, and so he often* turned in at the " Rising 
 Sun," as it was close to the road, when he went to 
 give lessons at Roche — Guyon or at some houses in 
 the neighbourhood. He had taught Mane, the inn- 
 keeper's adopted daughter, to write, and in return 
 Gobinard consulted him whenever he had a big 
 dinner to prepare, for the schoolmaster knew many 
 of the receipts in the Royal Cookery Book by 
 heart. 
 
 Just at that moment, Monsieur Martineau was 
 sitting at one of the tables from which the table- 
 cloth and the cruet stand had been removed, and he 
 had paper, ink, pens and a penknife in front of him. 
 " Your young man does not come," Martineau said, 
 looking at his paper and pens impatiently . — " He 
 will be here almost immediately, my dear Mon- 
 sieur Martineau ; he will come directly ; do not be 
 impatient.... He is in the kitchen, drawing a fowl 
 which we shall have for supper, at which I hope you 
 will do me the honour of joining me. 
 
 The Professor's face beamed, and he replied very 
 amiably : — " I never refuse a friend's invitation... es- 
 pecially when I am hungry. ..Ah ! so he is drawing a 
 fowl? That is quite another matter !... Do not dis- 
 turb him... Everything at its proper time, that is my 
 maxim. How are you going to have this fowl 
 cooked ? " A la marengo> as I know you like them 
 like that. But, by tha way, do you think I am wise 
 
12 THE INN, 
 
 in having Petit-Jean taught to write ? " — " What do 
 you mean ? " the schoolmaster exclaimed; -"of course 
 you are." — " So I thought ; I said to myself : — he is 
 only eleven, but he has a liking for the kitchen, and. 
 he will be useful to me in writing out a bill of fare, 
 and in adding up a bill. I know that Marie does ail 
 that at present, but if she leaves me... I never intend 
 to send her away!... I promised my wife to adopt 
 her, and I look upon her as my child." — " Your wife- 
 was very fond of her ? " — " There is nothing surpris- 
 ing in that; as she had never had any children, 
 Madame Gobinard took an immense fancy to her 
 when her mother entrusted her to her care." — ■ 
 ' Who was Marie's mother ? " — "We never knew... 
 Unfortunately I was away at the time. Oh ! If I 
 had been here, you maybe sure I should have known 
 more about it, and obtained some certain facts... But 
 as I was saying to you, at that time I was far from 
 here ; one of my relations had died at Guadeloupe, 
 and I was his heir and so had to go there to look 
 after my property, so as to realize it to the best ad- 
 vantage, which took a long time, so that I was ab- 
 sent more than two years, and during that time 
 Marie's mother came here with her child." — ft Was 
 she a peasant ? " — " Oh ! no ; she seem to have 
 been a lady. ..If I had been here, I should have found 
 out what sort of a lady she was, but my wife was so- 
 absurdly discreet." 
 
 " Ana this woman asked your wife to take care 
 of her child?" — " Yes, she asked her... that is to- 
 say, she did not ask her, but went off the next morn- 
 ing leaving her child and a bag containing six hun- 
 dred francs behind her."— " And no letter? »— "No... 
 that is to say, she left the six hundred francs in five 
 franc pieces, so my wife told me." — And you heard 
 nothing of her since?" — " Not a word. ..Then my 
 wife said to herself : — " At any rate, I will take care 
 of the child ; and so she called her Marie, and grew 
 fond of her... and on my return she told me the whole- 
 story, and I thought that she had acted quite right- 
 ly." — " That is singular, very singular... but from all 
 the circumstances... the mystery and the desertion,, 
 the chances are that the child is adulter ino savguine- 
 
MARIE. 13 
 
 na t a "—" What does that mean, Monsieur Mar- 
 tineau ?...Oh, you need not tell me, for I think that 
 I can guess. * She is a love child; is not that 
 what you meant to say ? "—It may be translated 
 like that," the schoolmaster replied with a smile, 
 and perhaps that way of expressing it is the more 
 
 At that moment the latch was lifted, and Gaspard 
 and Pierre came in, who were almost immediately 
 followed by Mane. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 She was a girl, seventeen or eighteen, fresh coloured, 
 without being too red, rounded outlines, without being 
 too stout, and with very brownhair, without having 
 a brown skin. She had a charming face, at the same 
 time, piquante and amiable, modest and coquettish. 
 She had refined, though somewhat irregular fea- 
 tures, a small rosy mouth, dazzling white teeth, a 
 tiny nose, a round chin, small ears and black ex- 
 pressive eyes, which were shaded by long black 
 lashes, and which it was impossible to see once with- 
 out wishing to see them again. Add to this a me- 
 dium height, a voluptuous figure, a small foot 
 and perfectly modelled leg, and you will allow 
 that she was a pretty girl, whatever might be her 
 condition in life. * . : ' 
 
 Her dress was between that of a peasant girl and 
 a young lady. She wore a little white petticoat with 
 rose coloured stripes, of that material which I believe 
 ladies call gingham ; a bodice ornamented with vel- 
 vet ribbons which were crossed behind the back 
 held in her slender waist, whilst a black satin apron 
 was fastened on in front of her ; and, lastly, on her 
 head she had a little cap which partook more of the 
 peasant's dress than anything else she had on, but 
 
*4 MARIE. 
 
 which, placed on her black hair with a certain 
 amount of coquettishness, seemed to add fresh 
 charms to her face. 
 
 After that, nobody will be surprised that Pierre 
 was desperately in love with Marie, as he was only 
 twenty and had not known what love was until then. 
 As soon as he saw her, he felt a strong attachment 
 for her, which was shown in all his actions and in 
 all his looks when he was near her, and, although he 
 was silent when anyone spoke on a subject which 
 had no connection with the object of his affections, 
 he became all fire and animation as soon as her 
 name was mentioned. Thus his feelings were not a 
 secret for anybody except perhaps for her who in- 
 spired them, although most likely the simplest and 
 most innocent woman perceives the power of her 
 charms, sometimes even before the man whom she 
 has subjugated has acknowledged it to himself. 
 
 Just as she came into the room Petit- Jean began 
 to cry and to scream, for by way of having his writ- 
 ing lesson he had managed to cut his finger with the 
 professor's penknife, and to send a piece of the pen 
 into his eye, so Marie carefully looked into his eye 
 and with "the tip of her finger removed the morsel of 
 quill, and then wrapped up his finger in a piece of 
 linen rag, whereupon the little boy began to smile 
 and ran into the kitchen, saying: — "I shall not be 
 able to write for a week at least ; " — " The young 
 rascal!" ... Monsieur Martineau said. " He is de- 
 lighted now that he has cut his finger... Perhaps he 
 did it on purpose. But Mademoiselle Marie, how 
 skilfully you attended to his hurts." — " She would 
 make a capital field nurse," Gaspard said, helping 
 his guests and himself to wine. — Pierre said noti in^, 
 but he got up and went softly towards the girl, who 
 did not appear to notice him. However, after hav- 
 ing smiled amiably at the professor and at Gaspard, 
 she turned towards Pierre and said to him : — " Good 
 evening, Monsieur Pierre." — Cl Good evening, 
 Mademoiselle." — "Well, did you draw the conscrip- 
 tion to-day ? " — "Yes Mademoiselle." — " Have you 
 got to go as a soldier ? " — " No, I drew a higher 
 number, so I am not to serve." — "So much the 
 better ; I am very glad for your sake." 
 
MARIE, f£ 
 
 She said these words quite ineffusively and with- 
 out any feeling, just in the same tone of voice that 
 we may say to anybody : — t( You are quite well ? I 
 am delighted to hear it." 
 
 Pierre felt that, and his brow grew thoughtful ; he 
 did not feel that he had the courage to continue the 
 conversation and so he went and sat down at a table 
 with a sulky look, whilst Marie did not seem to no- 
 tice it, which still further increased the young 
 peasant's ill humour, and though he pretended to be 
 looking at his feet, he was watching her carefully ; 
 Gaspard thought only of drinking, but when she 
 came to set the table at which he was sitting, he 
 looked at her and said : — u The devil ; What a swell 
 you are, Marie ; Silk apron!... That is grand? Who 
 gave it you?" — Marie made a little grimace as she 
 replied : — " What an extraordinary man you are Gas- 
 pard ! One cannot wear the slightest thing new 
 without you think it strange !... Because I have on a 
 black satin apron..." — " Well, it is scarcely the dress 
 for a girl at an inn ! " 
 
 The blood mounted into her face, and she replied 
 angrily : — '* Girl at an inn ! I do not think that I am 
 regarded as a servant here... Monsieur Gobinard 
 calls me his daughter... but you never say anything 
 but nasty things to me Gaspard. Why do you want 
 to quarrel with me? Do I ever say anything to 
 you ? And all because I have got a satm apron 
 on, as if it were any business of yours. I don't see 
 any harm in being in the fashion..." — " Oh ! In the 
 fashion ! I did not know that the peasant girls ought 
 to be in the fashion... Do come and have a drink, 
 Pierre." — " Peasant girls ! Peasant girls indeed I 
 Apparently Madame de Stainville did not think that 
 I looked much like a peasant girl, because she gave 
 me this apron, and she is constantly giving me things 
 from Pans, and says that if I were dressed like a 
 lady I should look very nice. And then, those gen- 
 tlemen from Paris, who often come to see her told 
 me that I had all the making of a fashionable lady... 
 or else that I should make a very ...very ...wait a 
 moment until I remember the word ...a very com- 
 fortable... yes that is it, comfortable little laundress, 
 and that means pretty I am sure. 
 
l6 MARIE. 
 
 Pierre could not prevent himself from striking 
 his fist on the table in his rage, and calling out : — 
 " Oh ! those people from Paris ! ... All that they say 
 is quite true ! ... They never tell any lies ... because 
 they speak with refinement ... and use words which 
 we do not understand in our village." — " Ergo ! " 
 said Monsieur Martineau, who had finished arrang- 
 ing his pens, " I am not wrong in advising the in- 
 habitants of the country to get a little education, for 
 then they will be in a position to answer the people 
 from the towns, and to appreciate the truth of their 
 words. Studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem 
 oblectant ! * " — " So ! If you are going to talk 
 Chinese to us now," Gaspard said, " how do you ex- 
 pect me to understand you ? " 
 
 Pierre, who was vexed with himself for having 
 given way to an outburst of anger, got up and went 
 towards Marie who was laying the table for supper. 
 For some minutes he hovered about her without 
 saying anything, and then, seizing a moment when 
 she passed close by him, he took hold of her dress 
 and said in a low voice : — <f Mademoiselle Marie... I 
 certainly agree with those who say you are pretty ... 
 and then, who could think otherwise?... But if anyone 
 ventures to say that you are not the prettiest girl in 
 the whole district, he will have me to deal with ! " 
 
 The girl smiled and replied : — '' I am not angry, 
 Pierre ; I am not at all put out with you, I assure 
 you, not in the least." 
 
 She had called him Pierre without saying Monsieur, 
 and she had given him a kind smile... and that was 
 more than enough to transport the poor fellow with 
 joy. His heart was already not the same ; his eyes 
 were bright with pleasure, his brow had cleared, his 
 features were animated with happiness, and he 
 threw his hat into the air, and shouted out : 
 
 " I am hungry and thirsty, now!... I drew a good 
 number !...! have not got to go into the army. ..so we 
 must enjoy ourselves !... Gaspard, I will pay for any- 
 thing you like to drink ! " 
 
 * Study is the food of youth, the delight of old age. 
 
THE SUPPER. 17 
 
 Gaspard merely raised his head and looked at 
 Pierre, who was hopping and jumping about in the 
 room, and grumbled to himself : — " It looks as 
 if the wind had changed, and now love is at 
 Fair ! » 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SUPPER. 
 
 "Come; sit down! sit down ! " Gobinard ex- 
 claimed as he came into the room followed by Petit- 
 Jean, who was carrying a large dish whose smell 
 agreeably tickled the nostrils of the assembled com- 
 pany. " Recte diets" the Professor said, sniffing 
 with all his might, as if he wished to monopolise the 
 delicious smell of the fowl a la marengo. 
 
 " You shall tell me what you think of this dish," 
 the landlord said, " though I have put no truffles into 
 it ; but I think it will be good enough as it is !..." — 
 41 You shall join us at supper, Pierre... to-day ought 
 to be a feast day for you... and we must celebrate 
 it." — " Most willingly, Monsieur Gobinard," said the 
 young man, whose looks had become radiant since Marie 
 had given him a kind smile. " Of course, I accept 
 your invitation... but on the condition that I pay for 
 a bottle of your old wine. ..the best!" — "Anything 
 you like, Pierre... I am not the man to refuse such an 
 offer... Come, sit down ! " 
 ^ They all took their places in front of the supper ; 
 Gaspard alone remained where he was at the other 
 end of the room ; but the inn-keeper turned to him 
 and said : — " Well ! Gaspard, are you not coming to 
 eat a morsel with us ? " — u No ! I am not going to 
 
 fay for anything !..." — "Did anybody ask you to !... 
 )oes the bottle of old wine which Pierre has offered 
 to pay for, frighten you ? "— " Oh ! bottles never 
 frighten me !" — " Come along, then." — " Here I am, 
 
l8 THE SUPPER 
 
 and I will eat and drink just as mueh as if I had 
 paid ; I never sulk at table." 
 
 Pierre took care to sit by the side of Marie ; Go- 
 binard was in the centre of the table, opposite the 
 Professor ; Gaspard sat at the end and Petit-Jean 
 next to him, for in the country masters and servants 
 have their meals together, as there one finds a little 
 equality. It is true that often the masters are as 
 boorish as their servants, which brings them closer 
 together. An omelette and a salad accompanied the 
 fowl, and Monsieur Gobinard carved with the satis- 
 faction of a man who was expecting compliments. 
 " Perfect ! It is perfect ! " Monsieur Martineau said, 
 gloating over his plate. — "Yes, it is an excellent 
 fricassee ! " Gaspard said. — " Go to Roche-Guyon 
 and find anybody who can do one as well ! " the land- 
 lord replied, with a dignified smile. — " And yet it is 
 a largish place, with many well-to-do people in it... . 
 and people very often come from Paris to see the 
 castle which is built on the rock." — " Yes, it is a 
 very curipus place," the professor said ; " it is sup- 
 posed to have been the abode of tyrannical rulers in 
 the Feudal ages, and tradition says that part of the 
 tower dates from the time of the Romans ; but then 
 we know how apocryphal such traditions are."— 
 " There ! now he has got to the Romans and the 
 Middle Ages, and we shall not be able to get him 
 away from them ! " Gaspard said to Pierre, who was 
 sitting on his left. But he heard nothing and saw 
 nothing except Marie, whose knee he was touching 
 with his, without her drawing it away. Pierre was 
 no longer on this earth; he felt as if he were in 
 Paradise, and there is no pleasure amongst the 
 angels purer than a first love which obtains a first 
 favour. — " Lovers are deaf ! " Gaspard said to him- 
 self. " It is very funny... I have never been so stu- 
 pid as rbat ! " — " By the bye," Gobinard said, after 
 his appetite was somewhat appeased, "do you know 
 that Jacques Leroux was seen in the forest with 
 Blanchard's wife?. ..Ha! ha!. ..poor Blanchard...he 
 wanted to have a pretty wile, but I think he has got 
 it !...He wears the antlers!" — "Can anybody go 
 into the woods for an innocent purpose ? " Gaspard 
 
THF. SUPPER. 19 
 
 asked. — "Ah! yes. ..but don't think we are fools... 
 His wife has eyes which..." — " All women have 
 eyes... But you, Caddy Gqbinard, see horned cattle 
 everywhere ! " — " Thank God I never saw any at 
 home whilst my wife was alive!. ..And yet she was 
 very pretty, I flatter myself." — " Too, too...tu ) tu... 
 too...rt, too, too..." — "What are you singing there, 
 Gaspard?" — "Oh! nothing. ..a song I learnt in 
 Paris." 
 
 Just then, the professor held out his glass to 
 Pierre for some wine, and he starting from his 
 amorous ecstacy, seized hold of a water bottle and 
 filled up the professor's glass without his noticing it, 
 as he was intently looking at the omelette, but when 
 he carried his glass to his lips, Monsieur Martineau 
 stopped suddenly, and made such a face that Gas- 
 pard burst out laughing. i( My dear Pierre!... Do 
 you want to drown me?" the piofessor exclaimed, 
 watering the room with the contents of his glass. 
 " I am very fond of water but it does not agree with 
 me... If I had drunk all that I should have been very 
 ill." — " I beg your pardon, Monsieur Martineau," 
 Pierre replied. " I was thinking... I did not see..." — - 
 " In order to repair the mischief," the inn-keeper 
 said, " I will go and get two bottles of old wine 
 which I have got hidden away under some fagots, 
 and you shall tell me what you think of them." 
 
 He took a candle and left the room ; Marie ate 
 with a good appetite whilst listening to Pierre's 
 sighs and compliments, Gaspard drank and finished 
 his omelette, and the professor went on trying to in- 
 terest Petit-Jean in the history of Roche-Guyon in 
 the eleventh century, as he could get nobody else to 
 pay any attention to him ; but when he found that 
 he was confounding the story of Tom Thumb with 
 the history of the knights of Roche-Guyon, the 
 professor said in disgust : — Certainly you will never 
 be good for anything except to stir sauces." 
 
 The return of Gobinard with two bottles covered 
 with a Very respectable amount of dust soon put them 
 all in a very good humour, and this time Pierre took part 
 in their libations. The wine was good, and made 
 the professor still more friendly, the inn-keeper more 
 
20 THE SUPPER. 
 
 talkative, Gaspard more lively, Pierre more enter- 
 prising and even Marie seemed more affectionate. 
 Whilst they were most of them talking, Gaspard was 
 drinking, and Professor Martineau was repeating 
 some lines from Boilieu, Pierre looked at Marie and 
 said to her from time to time : — " How pretty you 
 are, Mam'selle ! What a charming face you have ! " 
 
 The supper lasted until nearly ten o'clock, which 
 is late for the country. When the bottles were emp- 
 ty, and there was no talk of fetching up any more, 
 Professor Martineau seemed to think it was time to 
 return to his hamlet ; Gobinard remembered that he 
 had a pie to make early in the morning, and that, 
 consequently, he had but very few hours for sleep, 
 and so he got up, and all the rest imitated his exam- 
 
 Ele, so they said good-night, and prepared to go 
 ome. 
 Pierre said good-night to Marie, but seemed in- 
 clined to linger, but Gaspard took him by the arm, 
 and as they both lived at Vethenil, they went to- 
 gether. It was a lovely night, and although it was 
 nearly ten o'clock it was still warm. All country 
 people do not go to bed with the sun, for it is the 
 time for chatting, and then, especially, the girls 
 chatter together and concoct plots, how they may 
 play tricks on their sweethearts. Pierre and Gas- 
 pard had just passed a group of peasant girls, and 
 they did not stop although they called out to them : — 
 " Good-night, Pierre, good night, Gaspard ! " They 
 merely replied, " Good-night/' and went on, because 
 Pierre was talking about Marie, and Gaspard was 
 advising him to put an end to his uncertainty, and 
 to ask her to marry him. But a girl left the group 
 and began to run as if somebody were pursuing her, 
 and after running backwards and forwards across the 
 road several times she ran up against Pierre 
 and caught hold of him, as if to prevent herself 
 from falling. 
 
 It was Helene, who had recognised the handsome 
 conscript, and seizing his arm, she exclaimed: — "Oh ! 
 dear, I nearly fell down. ..Why! is it you, Monsieur 
 Pierre ? " — " Well, of course, it is me, you can see 
 that, although the moon is not shining very bright- 
 
THE SUPPER. 2t 
 
 ly, and you pretend to be so astonished,,. You threw 
 yourself in our way on purpose/' — " Jacqueline was 
 running after me. ..and I ran away, and nearly fell 
 down... Pierre, do come and join us." — " No/not this 
 evening ; it is too late/' Pierre replied. " I must go 
 home ? " " What is the hurry ?... Your uncle is still 
 at the inn/ drinking..."—" That has nothing to do 
 with me... I have some work to do early in the morn- 
 ing..."— " Come, Helene, leave us alone," Gaspard 
 said; "You see that Pierre, is not inclined to run 
 about much and roam with you... so leave us in 
 peace..." — " I was not speaking to you!" the girl 
 replied, crossly; and reluctantly leaving go of 
 Pierre's arm, she went away a few steps, but she 
 stopped almost immediately, uttered shrieks of terror, 
 and called Pierre to come and help her. — Her ac- 
 cents were so heartrending, and she appeared so 
 frightened, that the young peasant left his com- 
 panion and ran up to her.— "What is the matter, 
 Mam'selle Helene ? What has happened to you ? " 
 Pierre asked the stout girl, who was standing 
 against a tree—" Oh ! Monsieur Pierre. ..Oh ! 
 ...ah! I know it is a.. .Oh !. ..I can feel it. ..Oh! Oh! 
 ...O-o-h ! And I am so frightened of them..." — 
 " Frightened of what ? ...What is the matter 
 with you?"—"! I have. ..oh !...yes it is one; I can 
 feel it crawling.. .Oh, please take it off me. ..I feel as 
 if I should die of fright..."—" Take what off ? "— " A 
 spider which has got down my back... Oh ; I am sure 
 it is one... Just put your hand down. ..from the top... 
 Oh; please Pierre take it off me. ..put your hand 
 down... don't be frightened." 
 
 Pierre, without quite understanding how a spider 
 could have crawled under the girl's neck hand- 
 kerchief, did not refuse to render her that ser- 
 vice, and as she presented her bare shoulder to him, 
 he obligingly put his hand all along it ; but he felt 
 nothing but very well developed charms, and was about 
 to withdraw his hand, but Helene, who was trembling 
 all over said to him :— " Go on trying to find it, I as- 
 sure you there is a spider crawling on my back... put 
 your hand down... further down. ..don't be afraid." 
 
 This game had been going on for some time, when 
 Gaspard, who had come up to them, said : — " I say, 
 
22 A DECLARATION OF LOVR. 
 
 Helene, why did you not at first ask Pierre to 
 tickle your loins ? It would have been over much 
 sooner ! " 
 
 These words put a stop to the search for the 
 spider. Helene ran away, calling Gaspard names, 
 and the two peasants, after a a good laugh at 
 the stout girl, went on their way and returned 
 home. 
 
 CHAPLER V. 
 
 A DECLARATION OF LOVE. — IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 The morning after Gobinard's supper, Pierre, who 
 had dreamt of Marie all night and who seemed to 
 feel her knee pressing against his, did not feel in- 
 clined to go to work at his uncle's mill ; he wanted 
 to see Marie again and talk to her and tell her how 
 he loved her. He had been hesitating about it for a 
 long time, but Gaspard told him he was ridiculous, 
 and so Pierre felt more courageous, and, besides, the 
 events of the last evening had inspired him with 
 hope and he would not be timid in Marie's presence. 
 So the young peasant went in the direction of The 
 Rising Sun, but he wished to see Marie alone, for 
 nobody ever makes a declaration of love before wit- 
 nesses, so Pierre lounged about the house till he saw 
 Marie busy in putting the room to rights where they 
 had had supper the night before, but the landlord 
 was there also, and then somebody might come at 
 any moment. -> He did not go in, therefore, but kept 
 a look out, and at last he saw Marie go into the gar- 
 den, as he had hoped she might, and so he went in, 
 and as it was large and with many bushes in it they 
 would be screened from curious eyes. He then went 
 in through a small gate which opened onto the fields, 
 and which was never shut in the davtime. — He ad- 
 vanced very gently, as he did not wish her too see 
 him coming. She was bending over a pond in the 
 
IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 2$ 
 
 garden, where they were in the habit of washing 
 linen, and he looked at her intently without her hav- 
 ing any idea that he was so near her, but as he 
 remembered that he had come for some other pur- 
 pose than merely to look at her, and so he went on, 
 and suddenly she uttered a cry. 
 
 "Is that you, Monsieur Pierre? Why did you 
 not speak?" — " Why?. ..Well, because I have so 
 much to say to you ! "— " And that is the reason 
 why you did not speak ? " — " Well, when one has 
 so much to say... one does not know how to begin... 
 one is afraid of getting muddled. .."' — "It is quite 
 certain that you cannot get muddled if you do not 
 say anything!"— "That is quite true, Mam'selle! " 
 " Good heavens, how stupid he is ! " Marie said to 
 herself, going on wfth her linen, and yet she judged 
 Pierre wrongly. The poor fellow was not stupid, 
 but love and timidity dulled his faculties, and al- 
 most robbed him of his senses, for the time being. 
 
 He had come close to Marie and began to throw 
 stones into the water, and tried to make ducks and 
 drakes. In a few minutes one of the stones which he 
 had thrown too violently, sent the water full into 
 Marie's face.— " What on earth are you thinking 
 about? " the girl exclaimed, wiping her face.— "Oh! 
 I beg your pardon... but I did not do it on purpose; 
 I did not intend to wet you; but it will soon get 
 dry .'"—"Meanwhile I am quite wet! Did you 
 
 come here only to throw stones into our pond ? " 
 
 " I came, because I have a great deal to say to you." 
 "Very well, then, say it then. ..what is there to hin- 
 der you?"— " Nothing; ...I am hindering myself... 
 because my heart is so ... I have something here 
 which nearly chokes me..." — - " Perhaps you ate too 
 much breakfast?"— "No, it is not that.. .for I have 
 hardly eaten anything for some time.., I am in love, 
 that is what is the matter."—" So you are in love,' 
 Pierre. . .and with whom ? "— " With whom ? Fancy 
 asking me that, Mam'selle; How could I be in love 
 with anybody except yourself? " 
 
 Pierre said this very earnestly, but Marie was so 
 busy with her linen that she hardly listened to him, 
 and the poor fellow was thunderstruck ; he had de- 
 
24 A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 clared his love and she had not even answered him, 
 and he did not not know what to think ; but in a 
 minute or two she looked at him and burst out laugh- 
 ing. " Oh, how funny you look, Pierre ;" — " Funny; 
 I look funny ! Is that all you have to say when I 
 tell you how I love you; you know I prefer you to any 
 other girl and I swear that I shall never love any- 
 body beside ? " — " You are quite at liberty to love 
 me if you like ; I cannot prevent you, and all the 
 young fellows tell me the same thing... but it makes 
 me laugh, that is all." — " But I really love you; only 
 tell me that you love me and will marry me and 1 
 will at once ask my uncle's consent, and I am sure 
 he will not refuse, and Monsieur Gobinard, your 
 adopted father, will not be sorry to see you well es- 
 tablished in life. ..Will you not marry me, Marie?" 
 
 And Pierre, who had overcome all his timidity, 
 took Marie's hand and gently pressed it in both his 
 own, but she withdrew it, and said : — " No, Mon- 
 sier Pierre, no'... I will not marry you," — The poor 
 fellow was stupified ; he stood motionless and looked 
 at Marie trembling, and said in a choking voice : — 
 " You will not marry me ?...Do not refuse me, Marie 
 ...I love you so dearly; nobody can possibly love 
 you more... You do not love any other young fellow 
 in the neighbourhood, so you will surely be my 
 wife ? " — " How obstinate he is ; — Because I do not 
 love anybody else, that is no reason why I should 
 love you. Once more, I will not marry you .... I do 
 not intend to marry in the village and spend.'my life 
 here ; I want to go to Paris, for people have told me 
 I am sure to get on there, and many country girls 
 have made their fortune there." — " Yes, by ceasing 
 to be respectable... Do you want to become like 
 them ? " — " I think a girl can go to Paris and yet 
 keep respectable... I am not such a fool as to be 
 caught by fine words. To hear you, it might be a 
 cave in which one cannot walk a step without falling 
 into something nasty... That's what you say, but 
 those who have been there say it is a beautiful, de- 
 lightful place, where people enjoy themselves from 
 morning till night, and at night as well." 
 
A GRAND PARTY, 
 
 25 
 
 Pierre was thunderstruck, and went up to her 
 with moist eyes, and said: — "That is not true... It 
 is not true... It cannot be. ..It would be too terrible if 
 you did not love me.. .and refused to marry me, after 
 leading me to believe that you returned my affec- 
 tion." — " What do you mean ? I never promised ! " 
 r— " Words ! Promises ! no, but in love there are a 
 thousand things which are worth as much as words. 
 Why, only last night, when I gave you a loving look, 
 you smiled at me like a girl who wants to turn a 
 man's head. ..and when I pressed your knee with mine 
 at supper, you did not draw yours away, but let me 
 go on doing it, and squeeze your hand also... it is very 
 bad to make fun of people like that." 
 
 Marie made no reply, but went on washing her 
 linen, and some minutes passed, until Pierre, tired 
 of waiting in vain, took a few steps round the pond, 
 and then, coming back to Marie, he said in a firmer 
 voice, and a more determined manner : — " Marie, is 
 that your final decision... You will not marry me ? " 
 — " No;., .no :. ..I will not!. ..How often must I tell 
 you the same thing? '—"That is enough— Do not 
 be afraid that I shall trouble you again with my love 
 ...No ; I have my feelings also, as you will not have 
 me... I know what I have to do... Adieu ! " 
 
 Pierre said this so energetically, and in such 
 profound and truthful accents, that Marie was quite 
 moved ; she gently raised her head, and she might, 
 perhaps, have given Pierre some words of hope, but 
 the young fellow was already at some distance, 
 and he left the garden and went away from the inn 
 with great strides. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A GRAND PARTY. — A DEPARTURE. 
 
 Two days had passed since that conversation, and 
 Pierre had not appeared at the inn again, and 
 
,26 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 Marie, thtmgh she occasionally gave him a thought, 
 yet did not wish for his return. It was the middle 
 of the day, when suddenly a carriage was heard 
 <x>ming from the direction of Paris, and soon Ma- 
 dame Stainville's carriage appeared and stopped at 
 the door of the inn, whose inhabitants went out to 
 receive the new-comers. 
 
 The first person to get down was a gentleman in 
 a velvet coat, nankeen trousers and a white hat, with 
 light curly hair, most carefully parted ; good- 
 looking, but with a conceited look, and an affecta- 
 tion of good manners which always betokens small- 
 ness of mind. 
 
 This was Monsieur Daulay, a young man of eight 
 and twenty, who wished to set up as a man of rank, 
 because his father had formerly been Farmer- 
 General, and had spent all his fortune upon ad- 
 dresses, which noble way of living had left his son . 
 with but very slender means, which he had soon 
 dissipated in trying to imitate those above him in 
 rank. Now, having nothing but debts, he still man- 
 aged to mix in good society, though without ever en- 
 tertaining guests himself, and this he did by attach- 
 ing himself to some rich lady of over forty, who was 
 glad to see young men in good society fluttering 
 round her. Thus he became the Cicisbeo of all the 
 rich dowagers, being in turn eager, complaisant 
 and officious. He it was who carried the countess' 
 little dog, or who played with the cat of the baroness. 
 He was always at their orders, ready to execute any 
 delicate commission or to arrange any matters 
 of difficulty ; in the summer he was carried off 
 into the country, and in winter no party was com- 
 plete without him. 
 
 He was at that time attached to the service of 
 Madame de Stainville, a widow of forty-eight, and 
 with a thousand pounds a year, besides a fine coun- 
 try house near Koche-Guyon. She had been very 
 pretty and was still very impressible, for a woman's 
 heart always requires something to fill it, and when 
 maternal love is not there to occupy the place of all 
 other love, how do you expect a woman to live, 
 breathe or feel her heart ? 
 
A GRAND PARTV. 27 
 
 Some women never grow old because they are 
 always in love, and Madame de Stainville was one of 
 those, and so she had chosen Monsieur Daulay to 
 fill the vacant place in her heart. The second to get 
 out was a man of about the same age as Monsieur 
 Daulay, but one did not require to look at him long 
 in order to see that there was a great difference in 
 temper and character between him and Daulay. He 
 was fashionably dressed, but his clothes had an 
 easy and comfortable look, and his manners corres- 
 ponded to his dress, for there was no stiffness or pre- 
 tension about him. He was very dark, with brave 
 yet gentle and merry eyes. He was the Count d' 
 Aubigny, whom people called a roue and a profligate, 
 because he neither hid his passions nor tried to dis- 
 guise v his faults. A great lover of the fair sex, fond 
 of very good living and of play, devoted to horses 
 and shooting, in a word, fond of pleasure, of which 
 he occasionally overdid the dose, such was Alfred 
 d' Aubigny, who possessed a large fortune, which he 
 was wise enough to have preserved intact amidst all 
 his follies. 
 
 The third person to get out was Monsieur Belle- 
 peche, who was by no means a young man, for he 
 was quite fifty, and so fat that he could not move 
 about quickly. He was most carefully dressed,~wore 
 a well-made, dark wig, and altogether looked like a 
 man who was careful of his person. His face was 
 red, he had large grey eyes, a snub nose, and whis- 
 kers which were dyed black, and altogether one 
 would not draw any very favourable conclusions 
 about his good sense, more especially when he spoke,, 
 for he always led up the conversation to the subject 
 of Switzerland, because he had once been there. 
 He was not particularly well off, and when he was 
 young he had been told so often how handsome he 
 was that he always thought that some rich lady would 
 fall in love with him, and consequently he was still 
 unmarried. 
 
 Whilst Count d' Aubigny went into the inn, Mon- 
 sieur Daulay and Monsieur Bellepeche remained be- 
 hind to assist Madame de Stainville to alight. — 
 u Come, landlord ; a bottle of your best wine..* 
 
2% A DEPARTURE. 
 
 Champagne if you have any... and a great tire in the 
 kitchen to cook our luncheon at... I am as hungry as 
 .a hunter... Ah ! there is the pretty girl of last year... 
 She is prettier than ever." — It was Count d'Aubigny 
 who had just gone into the kitchen, and who was 
 speaking to Marie. She blushed with pleasure, 
 curtsied and said: — "You are kind, Monsieur. " — 
 Master Gobinard did not know whether he was 
 standing on his head or his heels; he ran from 
 the count to the carriage, then back to the dining 
 room, dusted the table and said : — "Certainly, Mon- 
 sieur le Comte...I remember that 1 had the honour 
 ...to receive Monsieur de...de...I have forgotten Mon- 
 sieur le Comte's name...'' — " Nevermind about that, 
 Master Gobinard, but think of our lunch... dinner... 
 instead ; it does not matter what you call it, in the 
 country people eat when they are hungry." 
 
 Monsieur Daulay came in just then, and he was 
 almost immediately followed by Madame de Stain- 
 ville and Monsieur Bellepeche. " Good-day, my 
 friend," the elegant Parisian lady said, nodding 
 .affably at the assembled household of the inn. 
 "Well, how is everybody at Vethenil...and business 
 -and things in general ? Monsieur Gobinard, are 
 you doing well ? " — " You are very kind, Madame... 
 I have nothing to grumble at... I don't make my for- 
 tune, but I keep going !..."—" Ah ! Here is my 
 pretty Marie... come and kiss me, my dear... What a 
 charming girl!... I have something for you here in a 
 bandbox, which will make you more attractive still." 
 — " Oh ; Madame, you are really too kind to think of 
 me," Marie said, with a curtsey and looking down. 
 — "Yes;" Gobinard exclaimed, rolling his cap up 
 "between his fingers, "You are really too kind... far 
 too kind." — " Are you not going to get this pretty 
 child married, Monsieur Gobinard? I am quite 
 certain that there can be no lack of lovers." — " Oh ; 
 Madame, you are really too... no, there is no lack of 
 them... but Marie is in no hurry to get married."— 
 "She is quite right;" d'Aubigny said, throwing 
 himself into a chair. " W^hat folly it is to wish a 
 girl to get married as soon as she is old enough to 
 please men. Do let her enjoy that happy period for a 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 29 
 
 little while before burying her in household cares 
 and duties, with a lout of a peasant for her husband, 
 who wil soon beget a swarm of children, and whom 
 she will have to suckle,... dress and keep clean;... 
 Poor young woman ;... Just try and be coquettish 
 whilst you are looking after the saucepan and giving 
 your youngsters soup... Marriage... at any rate, in 
 villages, is the tomb of beauty." 
 
 " Oh; Count;... what are you saying? n Monsieur 
 Bellepeche exclaimed, wiping his face with his 
 pocket handkerchief. — " I am saying exactly what I 
 think... I generally do..." — u But what about morals 
 ... principles... and ..."—" Well ; I like this old 
 bachelor who comes and praises up matrimony to us 
 ...Why do you not get married yourself, if you 
 think it such a good thing ? " — Monsieur Bellepeche 
 made a decided grimace on hearing himself called 
 an old bachelor ; and he pulled up his shirt collar 
 and said: — " I think that I have plenty of time... A 
 man is not a young lady ; besides, I made some re- 
 marks on the matter which I carried rather far, per- 
 haps... and... and..." — " And I think at this moment 
 we had much better think about dinner than listen 
 to your opinions on marriage. We have had nothing 
 •since we left Paris, and Madame de Stanville's house 
 is still a long way off, and no dinner will be ready 
 for us when we get there ; only the gardner will pre- 
 sent you with a bouquet, and his wife, perhaps, offer 
 you a basket ot cherries. Nothing very restorative 
 in that, and the lady's maid and the coachman will 
 be obliged to go and buy provisions, but we shall 
 be nearly dead with hunger before they come back, 
 and so I think we had far better stop here and have 
 something to eat, so that we may arrive at Madame' s 
 ready to await the course of events." — " I quite 
 agree with the count," Monsieur Bellepeche said. 
 -" In* my opinion his arguments are irrefutable... I re- 
 member that when I was travelling in Switzerland, I 
 wanted to have a snack. I was on the top of a moun- 
 tain called... well... a mountain, and so I went into a 
 chalet. .." — "Come, Master Gobinard, set to work 
 and give us the very best that you have," the count 
 said, slapping the inn-keeper on the shoulder, and 
 
30 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 interrupting Monsieur Bellepeche in the middle of 
 his speech ; " Here is an opportunity for showing 
 your skill." — " Monsieur... I venture I hope. ..Petit- 
 Jean... come with me... call Catherine. ..I shall want 
 somebody to help me... Marie, you must stop here to 
 receive any orders of Madame or the gentlemen." 
 
 Marie wished for nothing better than to remain 
 with the grand people from Paris, and to listen to the 
 gentlemen who told her how pretty she was. Ma- 
 dame de Stainville deigned to give her a pat on 
 the cheek, and the slightest attention, the least fa- 
 vour, shown her by these grand people, gave the 
 girl much more pleasure than the praises of her 
 companions and the simple words of the peasants. 
 
 Presently, Monsieur Daulay, who had been walking 
 up and down the room, stopped close to Madame 
 Stainville and said : — " It is really very funny to 
 dine at an inn ! . . . But, of course, in the country, and as 
 you are all so hungry... but I am afraid we snail have 
 only a very poor meal here!..." — "My dear Daulay," 
 Madame de Stanville said, " I assure you that you 
 have much too low an opinion of this house The 
 landlord was, I believe, head cook to a minister, and 
 he is not so ignorant as you fancy, for everybody in 
 the neighbourhood sends for him when they give 
 grand entertainments." — "That alters the case!.., 
 and then, I am so easily satisfied, for I eat little !..." 
 " It is the same with me/' Monsieur Bellepeche said, 
 '■ because I am tall and... perfectly proportioned, peo- 
 ple might think that I eat a great deal... but it is not 
 so ; for I am a very small eater, but I will have every- 
 thing good... and I even carry this rather far, for at 
 home I will have nothing but the choicest dishes." — • 
 "Well! Marie," Madame de Stainville said, "has 
 any change taken place in your circumstances since 
 last year?... You have heard nothing... nothing with 
 regard to your parents ?"--" 1 have heard nothing more, 
 Madame," the girl replied with a sigh. > And then, a 
 moment afterwards, pretending not to think any 
 more of what had just been said to her, she said: — 
 " I will go into the garden and pick you a nosegay." 
 
 As soon as she had left the room, the count, who 
 had followed her with his eyes, said : — " What was 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 31 
 
 the meaning of the question you asked the girl ?...Is 
 there any mystery attached to her birth ?" — ° Well, 
 yes, ; Marie is a foundling, whom Gobinard's wife 
 had left on her hands some years ago, and they have 
 never been able to find out who her parents were. At 
 least that is what I have heard."—* 4 So she is some love- 
 child!..." Daulay said. — "Yes," Bellepeche replied, 
 dusting his boots, " she is the illicit fruit of some 
 clandestine intrigue... Most likely some servant girl 
 concealed her pregnancy from her master and mis- 
 tress... as is done only too frequently !... Morals are 
 so lax, now !...Then the child is left to public char- 
 ity... If I had any authority I would have them whip- 
 ped!..." — " Whom would you have whipped, Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche? " the count asked. — " The girls 
 who have children without being married." — " The 
 devil !... That would not increase the population. 
 But I suppose that you would be satisfied with 
 whipping them yourself ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! " — 
 " D'Aubigny, you are going to begin your nonsense 
 again i " — " Really, fair lady, as we are in the 
 country, we may be allowed to have a little fun . . .And 
 Monsieur Bellepeche always makes me inclined for 
 it when I see him affecting such severity of morals." 
 ■ — " I affect nothing, I assure you, Monsieur... I have 
 principles... and I have even pushed them tolerably 
 far..." — " I do not know w T hat your principles are, 
 but I must tell you that I believe very little in the 
 virtue and austerity of people who are offended at, a 
 light word, and who always wish to put themselves 
 forward as models of good conduct. I have seen 
 that these modest airs and austere manners often 
 concealed the most dissolute tastes, and sometimes 
 even the most shameful vices..." — " Monsieur !..."— 
 " Oh ; I did not say that with any intention of offend- 
 ing you... I attribute to you nothing but the most na- 
 tural tastes... I have seen you several times in Paris, 
 following the little shop girls at night when they left 
 work... There is no harm in that ! " — " It was not I, 
 Monsieur... You made a mistake. ..I never follow shop 
 girls."— "I have followed a great many, and I hope to 
 follow many more... But to return to Marie ; do you 
 know that 1 think this makes it all much more inter- 
 
2,2 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 esting...A pretty girl who does not know her 
 parents... Why, she is the heroine of a romance !..." 
 — " I told you how it was, and I will lay a wager 
 that I have guessed correctly... She is the child of 
 some servant... A servant who was deceived by her 
 lover, who refused to acknowledge the paternity ! n — 
 " I really do not see anything strange in that," Dau- 
 lay said, " and I assure you it does not in the least 
 matter to me whether Mademoiselle Marie has any 
 relations or not." 
 
 As Daulay finished speaking the girl returned 
 with a large nosegay in her hand. Her eagerness in 
 picking the flowers had heightened her colour, and 
 it would have been difficult not to have been struck 
 by her prettiness, and Monsieur Bellepeche nodded 
 his head and said : — " Good blood ! . . . Splendid health," 
 whilst the count hummed : — 
 
 The charming sin, the charming sin of love. 
 
 And Monsieur Daulay, who had given Marie 
 a look, deigned to murmur : — " Well, really, she is 
 pretty." 
 
 Marie gave Madame de Stainville the nosegay, 
 who kissed the girl as she took it, and said to her : — 
 " I have brought some delightful materials from Paris, 
 and I will give you a dress in which you will out- 
 shine all your companions." — " Oh ; Madame, how 
 kind you are..." — "That is how village girls are 
 spoilt ! " Bellepeche murmured : " Madame de Stain- 
 ville is too generous." — " Nobody can reproach you 
 with that, old fellow ! " the count said, slapping 
 Monsieur Bellepeche on the shoulder ; '• I do not 
 believe that in your whole life you ever offered a 
 lady anything except a pinch of snuff... and then you 
 knew they did not take it ! " — " Monsieur, the reason 
 is that I never had to give presents in order to be 
 liked." — " An .excellent answer; but you may be 
 sure, my dear sir, that presents would not have da- 
 maged your cause... Generous acts and gallantry go 
 very well together... A parsimonious lover is too 
 much like a husband, and women want to find out 
 the difference between them. Are they laying the 
 
 c 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 3J 
 
 cloth, Marie?"— " Oh; Monsieur, I had forgotten 
 all about it... Where would you like to dine, Ma- 
 dame ? Here or upstairs ?..." — " Ask the gentlemen, 
 Marie." — " It would be better to dine in a room 
 where we shall be all by ourselves/' Daulay said. — 
 "Eh! Why?" said the count..." Why go into a 
 room with a flowery pattern wall paper, where we 
 shall see nothing and be pinched for room ? What 
 is there to hinder us from stopping where we are ? . . . 
 It is much more cheerful... There is plenty of air, and 
 we can enjoy the garden." 
 
 Daulay did not venture to persist, and Marie was- 
 already beginning to lay the cloth, when Gaspard 
 opened the door and came in in his thick sabots*, a 
 blue striped cotton cap on his head, and holding a 
 great bundle of grass under his arm. The sight of 
 the fine company did not seem to intimidate the pea- 
 sant in the least; he merely raised his cap and 
 said :— "Good-day, all !... Marie, bring me a pint... my 
 throat is as dry as a limekiln." 
 
 The strangers from Paris looked at each other ; 
 Madame de Stainville seemed half frightened ; Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche opened his eyes as if he saw some- 
 thing extraordinary; Daulay smiled as he looked at 
 the peasant who had just come in. — The latter went 
 and sat down at a table ; and in a few moments, see- 
 ing that Marie was not serving him, he struck the 
 table with his fist and said:— "Well, Marie, have 
 you had your ears stopped since yesterday... or have 
 you grown too fine a lady to attend to me ? " — 
 " Good heavens ! I am going Gaspard... but you see 
 I am busy at this moment." — " You need not make- 
 such a fuss about bringing me a pint ; you can lay 
 the table afterwards !" — " And pray, why should she- 
 leave what she is doing for us ?" Daulay said, giving 
 Gaspard a contemptuous look. " My girl, you must 
 attend to us first of all ; I do not suppose that you 
 will fail in your duty to Madame de Stainville, tor 
 this man ! " 
 
 # Wooden clogi, much worn by the lower orders of France. 
 (Translator). 
 
«U A DEPARTURE. 
 
 Marie was confused and did not kuow what to do, 
 .and Gaspard looked steadily at Daulay and said : — 
 " This man;. ..This man\... Are you speaking to 
 me ? " — But Daulay thought it best not to make any 
 sreply, so he turned round and leant over Madame de 
 Stainville's chair ; but Gaspard went on : — " Well, I 
 say !... You man in the white hat ... I am talking to 
 you... You had better not pretend to despise me... 
 because I wear sabots and have a bundle of grass 
 for my rabbits under my arm. That does not pre- 
 vent me from being all right, all the same... and from 
 toeing as good as another. ..and perhaps as good as 
 two of you ! ..." — " This is really getting unbear- 
 able ! " Daulay said, still speaking to Madame de 
 .Stainville, and turning his back on Gaspard. /' This 
 is to what one exposes oneself by wishing to dine in 
 the public room of an inn ! V — " Marie ! "Madame de 
 Stainville said, "do not lay the cloth for us here ... 
 iind us a room ... anything will do as long as we are 
 3done...make haste, my child..." 
 
 Marie was only too glad to leave what she was do- 
 ing, and so she ran out of the room ; but Gaspard 
 g^ot up and went up to Daulay and continued to speak 
 to him. 
 
 " You see, although a man may be a peasant, yet 
 lie may know how to make himself respected... and 
 mot allow himself to be insulted... and you must not 
 :go and call me this w^w...What do you mean by this 
 'man?... This man is Gaspard, a hard-working man 
 ...who does not owe anybody a farthing... and I am 
 mot so sure you can say the same, you with your 
 tiair stuck up like a reel of cotton ? " 
 
 Daulay kept moving away from Gaspard and with 
 fiis back towards him. Count d'Aubigny seemed 
 •vastly amused at the scene, and did not move from 
 liis seat. Monsieur Bellepeche thought that he 
 icould put a stop to it by a few words, and so, getting 
 up he advanced slowly and got in front of the peas- 
 ant, who was almost treading on Daulay' s heels. ? 
 
 " Country fellow... of what are you complaing?... 
 Do we prevent you from drinking ?... We have come 
 ito this inn,... where we need not have stopped. ..but 
 &he Count has an excellent appetite... the country air 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 
 
 3$ 
 
 naturally ...When I was in Switzerland ... on the 
 mountains... not in a carriage on that occasion; there 
 was too much snow. .*. there are guides... I cannot 
 understand how they find their way... there are also 
 dogs !..."■—" There, there! What have you been 
 talking to me about for this last half hour?" Gas- 
 pard said, measuring Monsieur Bellepeche from 
 head to foot," with your snow and your dogs?... 
 You've got a funny sort of head piece, you have !" 
 
 Monsieur Bellepeche pinched in his lips, and 
 d Aubigny burst out laughing, when at that moment 
 (jrobmard came into the room, exclaiming :— "What* 
 you have not shown Madame de Stainville and her 
 friends upstairs.. .What is Marie thinking of?. ..The 
 other room is quite ready for you, ladies and gentle- 
 men, if you will kindly follow me..."- "Oh! yes, 
 immediately if you please, Monsieur Gobinard," 
 Madame de Stainville said, getting up, " for it is im- 
 possible to remain... Come, gentleman, come, pray- 
 
 Daulay did not keep her waiting, but hastened up 
 and offered her his arm and they went upstairs, 
 whnst Bellepeche and the count followed them, and 
 the latter said :-— " It is a pity to go, for Monsieur 
 
 Uaspards society amused me very much." "Just 
 
 look at them!..." Gaspard exclaimed, looking after 
 them and then, turning to Gobinard he said:— 
 Look here ! I have been asking tor something to 
 drink tor an hour... Cannot one get attended to, be- 
 cause you have got some people from Paris here ? 
 In that case, I will go..."—" No, no, just stop... Petit- 
 Jean, go and get some wine... But you must see r 
 Jjraspard, how busy I am... and they are people who 
 know what is what, and I wished to distinguish 
 myselt. .--"I know nothing about that, but I 
 know that they have very impertinent manners 
 which I do not like at all ..."—" Well, you al- 
 ways get angry at the mearest trifle ... here, this 
 is your wine. .." — "Your Madame de Stain- 
 ville looks to me like an old cat who has al- 
 ways got two or three toms after her."—" Will yoi* 
 hold your nasty tongue... Eh, eh !... It is certain... t 
 believe that one of those three gentlemen is her 
 
36 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 lover..." — " Very likely all three are ! These old- 
 young ladies are worse than the young ones, when 
 they take to it... At anyrate I took up that light 
 haired fellow, who seemed to look down on me so, 
 rather nicely." — " I must beg you not to use strong 
 language to people from Paris who come to my 
 house... You w r ill do me a great deal of harm."— 
 "Then why did he call me this man?" — " There, 
 that will do... I must go and see whether they wa 
 anything... Oh ! Why does not Daddy Martineau 
 turn up when one wants him." — " What do you want 
 with the writing master?... Does your fine company 
 want him to teach them how to mend quill pens ? " 
 — " No, no!... I want him... for a dish which I can 
 prepare very well myself, certainly,... but Martineau 
 knows the Royal Cookery Book by heart... and this is 
 a help to me sometimes... If you see him go by, just 
 beckon to him to come in ... I must go and see to my 
 guests." 
 
 Master Gobinard left Gaspard, and, after looking 
 at his stoves, went upstairs into a very tidy room in 
 which there was a four-poster with muslins curtains, 
 and where the cloth had been laid for Madame de 
 Stainville and her friends. 
 
 " Will this room suit you, ladies and gentlemen ? " 
 the inn-keeper asked, bowing profoundly. — "We 
 shall be much more comfortable here than in your 
 public room/' Daulay said, " where we should 
 be exposed to the fnsults of drunkards... If it had n<)t 
 been out of respect for Madame de Stainville... I 
 -should have pitched that fellow out of doors."—" I 
 think that you would have found some difficulty in 
 -doing it," the count said. — " You would only have 
 compromised yourself," Bellepeche remarked, "and 
 one ought never to do that... And then, these peasants 
 .are very malicious."— "This fellow is simply a brute, 
 -and says whatever comes into his head." — " I do not 
 think he is quite such a brute as you make him out," 
 he continued. " But, Monsieur Gobinard, would you 
 be kind enough to tell us what you do with this 
 ^handsome four-post bedstead? — Is this your bed- 
 room?... or is it here simply for the use of tra- 
 vellers?..."..." Monsieur le Comte, as this is the 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 
 
 37 
 
 best room in the house, I do not sleep in it... In fact 
 I keep it for travellers. ..but even then I should not 
 ^give it to everybody. ..Especially since I had the 
 honour of accomodating a duchess in this very 
 room..."— A duchess ! " Madame de Stainville said. 
 — " Yes, Madame. ..a real, live duchess... Wait a 
 moment... It was the Duchess of.„It was a foreign 
 name. ..The Duchess of Valousky...That was it." — 
 "The Duchess of Valousky;" Madame de Stain- 
 ville said. " Why, I knew her very well, formerly... 
 She was a charming woman... very fashionable... and 
 extremely witty... She intended to write her own 
 memoirs/'— " She is a very rich woman, I believe?" 
 Daulay said. — " Yes... that is to say, she was not so, 
 formerly, but she inherited an enormous fortune 
 about fifteen years^ ago, and then she took a fancy 
 for travelling... She is constantly moving about. ..now 
 in England, now in Italy, and then in Russia... But 
 she has not been in France for a long while, and she 
 rarely spends two years in the same country. She 
 used to write to me at first, but I was too lazy to 
 answer her letters, and so I suppose she was vexed, 
 and I have heard nothing of her for a long time. You 
 are quite certain that it was the Duchess of Va- 
 lousky who stayed here, Monsieur Gobinard?" — 
 *• Quite certain, Madame... I certainly was absent at 
 the time, as I had gone to Guadeloupe to take over 
 some property that I had inherited, and it was my 
 wife, who is now dead, who had the honour of re- 
 ceiving this great lady... Her name is correctly en- 
 tered in my books ...The Duchess of Valousky...She 
 remained here for five or six days... She was not 
 very well, my wife told me, and had this room... and 
 slept in that very bed with the baldachin, which you 
 see there... And she left traces of her passage behind 
 her. ..for she paid very generously... and even gave 
 my late wife a present. ..She gave her fifty francs 
 and a sweetmeat box of bergamot wood." — " Upon 
 my word ! That was indeed generous," the count 
 said.— " And how long ago is that, Monsieur Go- 
 binard?" — " Madame. ..it is seventeen years ago... 
 nearly seventeen and a half years ago." 
 
 " At that time, I did not yet possess my country 
 
38 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 house in the neighbourhood, otherwise, probably r 
 she would have come to see me there." — " One thing 
 is quite certain, and that is that a duchess stayed 
 here, and, consequently, we cannot possibly be un- 
 comfortable. Come, Master Gobinard, let us have 
 lunch, and treat us as well as your wife treated the 
 duchess." — "Certainly, Monsieur ... Halo ! Petit- 
 Jean... the soup... Come, Marie, bring it up, and be 
 very attentive to the ladies and gentlemen." 
 
 Gobinard went down to the kitchen again, en- 
 chanted at having to entertain such grand people, 
 but much troubled at the non-arrival of Professor 
 Martineau, because at that moment he wished ta 
 consult the Royal Cookery Book. Gaspard remained 
 alone in the large room and drank his thin wine r 
 whistled from time to time, and then looked out into 
 the road, through the window at which he was 
 sitting. — " He will not come ! " the inn-keeper said,, 
 coming in. "It might have been done on purpose... 
 because I have forgotten the filets a la chevalier e... 
 It is a delicious and very recherche dish, and I should 
 like to put it before my guests... I must cook them 
 au grattn, but that is much more common." — 
 " Daddy Gobinard," Gaspard said, " give me two- 
 pennyworth of bread and cheese... My stomach is 
 horribly empty... This thin wine makes one hungry." 
 — "Good heavens, Gaspard!... you actually ask me 
 for bread and cheese when I have lost my receipe 
 for soles a la Chevali&re>.. It would be much better 
 if you were to go and bring Professor Martineau 
 here..." — "How should I know where your prof essor 
 is ?... Besides, I came here to see if I could see 
 Pierre. ..I have seen nothing of him for three days... 
 and I thought I should be sure to meet him here... 
 Have any of the others seen him for the last three 
 days ? " — " I have got it ; I have got it ; " Gobinard. 
 exclaimed. "You cut your fillets... take off the skin 
 ...and stew in wine with sauce and crayfish... and 
 serve with pepper — sauce... That is it." And the 
 inn-keeper went back to his kitchen almost jumping 
 for joy, whilst Gaspard said : — " What a fuss to 
 make about a bit of cooking ; and he never gave me 
 my cheese... He does not know what he is doing... 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 39 
 
 Ah ; here comes Marie, luckily." 
 
 Marie had come down for a moment, leaving the 
 company enjoying Master Gobinard's ragouts ; she 
 was going to hurry on the servants, when Gaspard 
 called her. — " Marie, give me some bread and 
 cheese... " — The girl made an ill-tempered move- 
 ment, and replied :" I have no time ; you know I am 
 waiting on the ladies and gentlemen upstairs... and 
 that Madame de Stainville may want something... 
 Call Petit-Jean... " — " Marie ; " Gaspard replied in a 
 loud voice, and in a tone which made the girl trem- 
 ble, " you must find time to serve me when I ask for 
 something... and not answer me in such an imperti- 
 nent manner. ..That will not do with me, my girl... 
 So, take care. ..I might make you be sorry for it..." 
 Marie did not say another word, but went to the cup- 
 board and took out what Gaspard had asked for, and 
 and gave it to him, and then waited to see whether 
 he wanted anything else. — f * That will do," the pea- 
 sant said ; " now go and attend to your fine gentle- 
 men...! am hungry, as well as they, you see... and 
 though I am only eating bread and cheese, my sto- 
 mach cries cupboard, just the same as if I were eat- 
 ing ortolans." 
 
 Marie asked for nothing better than to get away, 
 and she was going to leave the room, when the door 
 opening on to the road was opened, and Pierre came 
 into the inn. On his head he had a felt hat and on 
 his back a leather bag, a soldier's bag, which immedi- 
 ately proclaimed the object of his journey. In his 
 Tight hand he held a thick stick, and his handsome 
 features and the expression of his eyes had such a 
 sorrowful and resigned expression at that moment, 
 that the mere sight of them oppressed the heart. 
 
 Marie stopped, struck by Pierre's looks and when 
 Gaspard raised his eyes and fixed them on the new 
 comer he thought no more about eating or drinking. 
 Pierre went up to the girl, and said to her in sor- 
 rowful accents: — "Mademoiselle Marie ... I have 
 come to say goodbye to you." — " Goodbye, Pierre?... 
 What do you mean? ... Are you going away?" — 
 *\ Yes, mademoiselle.. .yes, I am going away immedi- 
 ately...! am going to leave these parts. ..for a long 
 
40 A DEPARTURE. 
 
 time, tor ever, perhaps... In fact, I have become a. 
 soldier." — "A soldier !... You a soldier, Pierre?. ..But 
 you drew a high number and were free from the 
 conscription. " 
 
 "That is true, mam'selle ...At first, I was very 
 pleased... for I thought I should be able to stay here 
 ...and be happy. ..but I was mistaken... you did not 
 love me, Man'selle Marie, and refused to become my 
 wife, and so I felt there was only one thing left for 
 me to do... to go away from you... because, as you did 
 not love me, you would love some other man by and 
 bye, and the sight of that would have killed me. 
 There is now nothing to keep me here ; my uncle 
 can do without me, and so I have taken ClaudhVs 
 place, for his mother loves him and his sweetheart: 
 would have been inconsolable if he had been obliged^ 
 to go for a soldier, and so it was better for me to go, 
 as that will not trouble anybody and so I am going 
 to be his substitute, and I am off to join my new 
 comrades. So now, goodbye, mademoiselle... I will 
 not ask you to think of me sometimes, for I know 
 that would not be like you, but I came to tell you 
 that I should always think of you." 
 
 Pierre stopped speaking and Marie stood in silence 
 before him ; she kept her eyes to the ground, but 
 she was moved as was evident from her heaving 
 bosom. Pierre looked at her, and drew a step nearer 
 and seemed as if he were about to ask a favour ; a 
 kiss, no doubt, which he would have liked to obtain 
 before leaving, and which he neither ventured to ask 
 for, nor allowed himself to take. But just then steps 
 were heard and Gobinard's voice resounded through 
 the house calling loudly for Marie; he soon came 
 into the room himself and exclaimed : — " Marie, 
 Marie!. ..What are you doing here?...I have been 
 calling for you the last two hours. Madame de Stain- 
 ville has asked for pickled gherkins and you are not 
 there to give them to her ; What are you thinking 
 about ? Fancy making my grand guests wait when 
 they want gherkins."— " On ; you are right Mon~ 
 sieur Gobinard, " the girl replied, reassuming 
 her careless manner, " I will go immediately... Good- 
 bye Pierre ; a prosperous journey to you... I must go 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 41 
 
 .and take up Madame de Stainville's gherkins... How 
 funny to have forgotten the people upstairs." 
 
 And the girl ran out of the door at the other end 
 of the room, and went upstairs quickly, without giv- 
 ing another thought to the young fellow who had en- 
 listed for a soldier and was going to enter upon a 
 Tiew career, only because she did not love him. — 
 "Monsieur Martineau has not come?... Well, never 
 mind, it will be very good... I am sure that it will be 
 excellent." — And the innkeeper returned to his kit- 
 chen without even noticing that Pierre was still 
 there, and was standing stunned and miserable at 
 the abrupt manner in which Marie had left him. 
 However, the young man stopped Gobinard by 
 putting out his hand to him, and said, trying to 
 check the tears that rose to his eyes : — " Monsieur 
 Gobinard. ..I am off...I have enlisted and am a sol- 
 dier."-— " Nonsence, It is impossible ; " the inn-keep- 
 er cried, shaking hands vigorously with Pierre. 
 " Do you mean to say that you are going to leave 
 us, my lad?... Petit- Jean look after the stoves care- 
 fully... You see, my friend, I have some filets of sole 
 a la Chevalier e to-day... I have some grand company 
 upstairs ; Madame de Stainville and some gentle- 
 men in her company, counts and marquises. What; 
 are you really going, my poor Pierre? I thought 
 that. ..But after all, if it is your fancy... Oh Lord! 
 And I have not poured out the strained gravy which 
 is to be the crowning touch to... to colour my dish... 
 Petit-Jean will not know how to do it... Where the 
 devil is my head !... Goodbye Pierre, good J, ick to 
 you, my lad;..." 
 
 And Gobinard went back to his kitchen after shak- 
 ing hands with the young man. Pierre was over- 
 come at the indifference people displayed towards 
 him; so he passed the back of his hand over his 
 eyes and quickly left the inn, but he had not gone a 
 -dozen yards, before he felt himself siezed and taken 
 into someone's arms. — It was Gaspard who had 
 heard and seen everything with the feelings of a 
 man who thinks that he can scarcely believe his eyes 
 or his ears, and who, on seeing Pierre start, had 
 left the inn almost as soon as he, and had run after 
 him. 
 
42 A DEPARTURE, 
 
 "What, Pierre;. ..It is a shame ;.,. You have 
 really enlisted ?" Gaspard said, taking the young 
 conscript into his arms. — " Yes, Gaspard, it is quite 
 true, I have turned soldier..." — " And all because a 
 girl did not love you... Would -have nothing to do> 
 with you, or made a pretence of it... What, Pierre r 
 you have really been stupid enough to turn soldier... 
 and without saying a word to me, or consulting any- 
 one ?..." — " You would all have tried to prevent me 
 ...and I wanted to get away..." — " But I tell you it 
 is not common sense... Come with me to the Mayor... 
 to the Prefect, if necessary, and I will tell them that 
 it is an inconsiderate act on your part, through love. 
 They will cancel your enlistment, and there will be 
 no more question about the matter ."— " No, Gas- 
 pard, it could not be done like that... Besides, I want 
 to be a soldier... I could not remain in the village, as 
 Marie will have nothing to do with me." — "But she 
 would have wanted something to do with you, sly little 
 minx. ..She would have been only too glad to have 
 married you... She... refuse Pierre :... refuse the lad 
 whom all the girls in the neighbourhood would have 
 preferred;... Ah; she will be sorry for it. ..She is a 
 flirt... There, -...and it will bring her ill luck..." — 
 '• Oh ; no, Gaspard, on the contrary, I hope she will 
 be happy... For, after all, she was not obliged to be 
 in love with me." — " And you ought not to have en- 
 listed because she was hard towards you... There is 
 no reason to despair when a pretty girl refuses us. 
 Good heavens ! There is no lack of pretty girls, and 
 the cruel ones are the rarest... Do you think your 
 Marie is worth being unhappy about ? You come 
 to say good-bye to her, and she leaves you here to 
 go and get some gherkins... and by this time she is 
 not thinking about you any more. Ah ; my poor 
 Pierre, you have been very foolish." — " There is no- 
 use in reverting to the past... I am a soldier, now... 
 Good-bye, Gaspard."—" Where are you going to ? "' 
 — " To Givet, to join my regiment." — " Oh ; confound! 
 it, if ever I expected this. It has given me quite a 
 t urn ." — -<My poor Gaspard. ..I know that you are 
 fond of me, and you will be the only person who will 
 sometimes think of Pierre."—" The only one ; " a 
 
A GRAND PARTY. 43 
 
 ^voice said behind the hedge; "the only one... Oh; 
 no, indeed, he will not be the only one." 
 
 The two men turned round, and saw a peasant 
 girl coming towards them. It was Helene, who was 
 trying with all her might, because she had heard that 
 Pierre had enlisted. 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur Pierre, it is very wrong of you to 
 :go off and leave us like this... We others, we all like 
 you... Hi; hi; hi;... I would have married you, if 
 you had liked." — " Thank you, Helene, thank you," 
 Pierre said, squeezing the stout girl's hand, " but I 
 could not remain in the village... I preferred to en- 
 list. You will see me again some day, perhaps, 
 Helene." — "Well, at any rate, give me a kiss, 
 Pierre... Oh ! another ... and on the other cheek... 
 Very well, then, I will kiss you, and with all my 
 heart. ..Hi! hi! hi! Give me a nicer one than that... 
 And now it is my turn." 
 
 Helene seemed as if she were never going to stop 
 kissing him, but Gaspard put his arm round her 
 waist, and dragged her from Pierre's arms, and 
 -said to her: — "There, I think that is enough. ..un- 
 less you want to eat his cheeks... Go away, Helene, 
 ^o away ; Pierre will remember that he has friends 
 here." 
 
 The stout peasant lass heaved a deep sigh, threw 
 her arms round Pierre's neck once more, and at last 
 made up her mind to leave them, and the young 
 soldier and Gaspard started off again, but they 
 walked in silence, for both of them were too much 
 affected to be able to talk. After walking rather 
 more than a mile, Pierre stopped, as they had got 
 to a place where two roads divided. — " Do not come 
 any further," he said, turning towards Gaspard ; 
 "we must part in any case. ..and the way will 
 «eem longer to you, Gaspard, when you are alone 
 ...Good-bye... good-bye... Give me your hand and let 
 us part." 
 
 Gaspard had not the strength to reply ; he did 
 not wish to cry, and did all he could to restrain his 
 tears ; so he took Pierre's hand and pressed it be- 
 tween both his own, and stammered out : — " Very 
 well, then, good-bye.. .ah!. ..confound it. ..what a fool 
 
44 FILLETS OF SOLE. 
 
 I am !...If you want me. ..you must write to me... do* 
 you hear?... I cannot read. ..but that does not matter... 
 I will send you an answer ... There ... I must go 
 back... Good-bye ;... Oh! I shall not forget you... 
 never fear." 
 
 Pierre stretched out his arms to his friend, em- 
 braced him effusively, and then walked rapidly 
 away. As soon as he had gone, Gaspard had no- 
 more power to control his tears, and he returned to 
 the village, saying between his teeth :■ — 
 
 "Ah! Marie ! ... Marie! ...You are the cause 
 of Pierre's departure !.« To enlist because a girl 
 would not have him L..Oh ! confound it all ! What a_ 
 fool he is ! what a fool he is ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FILLETS OF SOLES.— A PROPOSITION. 
 
 We will let Pierre continue his journey to join his^ 
 regiment, with difficulty stifling the sobs which new- 
 ly chocked him, though he said to himself, in order 
 to revive his spirits: — "I am a man. ..and a soldier 
 as well ; What would people think of me if I were 
 to cry." 
 
 But his courage did not always avail against his 
 grief, and occasionally he would go aside from the 
 road and give free vent to his tears : — After all, be- 
 cause one is a man, that is no reason why one should 
 not listen to the dictates of the heart. 
 
 We will, however, leave the young peasant to his 
 soldiering and return to Marie, the pretty girl at the- 
 inn, whose eyes seemed bound to make so many con- 
 quests, and who had already forgotten the pain that 
 her coldness had given Pierre, whom she had left in 
 order to go and take pickled gherkins to Madame de 
 Stainville. 
 
 The company assembled at the inn were beginnings 
 to get lively. Count. d'Aubigny had asked for the 
 
A PROPOSITION. 45 
 
 best wines and Monsieur Bellepeche was getting 
 jovial, and even Daulay was becoming pleasanter 
 because he was more natural, and, after tasting one 
 or two'of dishes, he exclaimed : — " Upon my word, I 
 actually believe that one can dine at a village inn." 
 — " The gentlemen are satisfied, I hope ? " Marie 
 said, putting the gherkins onto the table. — " Up tilE 
 now, everything has been quite satisfactory," Belle- 
 peche replied. — " And the girl who is waiting on us 
 is especially charming ! " the count said, putting his- 
 arm round Marie's waist. — " Count, Count ! What 
 are you thinking about ?" Madame de Stainville said 
 putting on a half severe look. — " Upon my word 
 madame, I think nothing is more natural... I say that 
 this pretty girl is quite out of place here... she is- 
 much too attractive for a village... I will run away 
 with her, if she is agreeable!..." — "Oh! Fy, Fy I 
 d'Aubigny to say such things to my little Marie." — 
 "Oh, madame, I know that the gentleman only said 
 it for his own amusement," Marie said, blushing. — 
 " But he wouid be quite capable of doing as he 
 says ! " Bellepeche growled, looking at the girl like 
 he did at actresses when he was behind the scenes. 
 — " Oh ! I am quite easy about Marie," Madame de 
 Stainville replied, with a knowing smile. " D'Au- 
 bigny will find some occupation here,... for he cer- 
 tainly did not come into the countary for the sake of 
 being with us..." — "What, what!. ..Has the Count 
 got some love affair in this neighbourhood ? " Dau- 
 lay said. "Oh, do tell us all about it..."— " Upon, 
 my honour I do not know what Madame de Stain- 
 ville means," the Count replied, still trying to get 
 hold of Marie's hand. 
 
 *% You do not know?. ..Well then, I know all about 
 it... Do not think that I am finding fault with you... 
 for we were never conceited enough to think that 
 the attraction of our society was sufficient to bring 
 the most fashionable man in Paris into our quiet 
 part of the country... but we shall all be pleased if 
 agreeable neighbours procure us the pleasure of 
 keeping you with us." — "Agreeable neighbours?" 
 the Count said, continuing to play with Marie's 
 hand. " Really fair lady, I am at a loss to under- 
 
46 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 stand you." — " But if I were to tell you that 
 Madame Darmentiere's country house is only about a 
 mile away. ..would you understand me then ? " ... 
 The Court smiled, and Daulay exclaimed : — " Ma- 
 dame Damentiere ? Oh ! now I understand. She 
 is a very pretty woman, and has been a widow for 
 the last two years... They say she is very grieved at 
 her husband's loss, as she loved him very much, but 
 if the count will undertake to console her;... Oh! 
 "You are in love with Madame Darmentiere ? Well 
 you will see her, for she often comes to Madame de 
 Stainville's." — " Oh ! d'Aubigny knows that quite 
 well." 
 
 Without quite knowing why, Marie hastily 
 snatched away her hand which the count was hold- 
 ing, and went to the other end of the room. — " If it 
 can give you any pleasure," the count replied, " I 
 -will certainly fall in love with the lady ; but I must 
 draw your attention to the fact that I hardly know 
 her, and have only met her twice in society." — " Is 
 not that enough to enable you to be in love with 
 her?... Oh! I know all about it, my dear d'Au- 
 bigny," Madame de Stainville said ; " you cannot 
 deceive me ! " — (t It appears to me, that we are not 
 eating," Monsieur Bellepeche said, wiping his 
 mouth. " My child, are you not going to give us 
 anything more ? " — " Oh ! I beg your pardon, Mon- 
 sieur. I know that there is something more to 
 come, for Monsieur Gobinard said that he intended 
 to surpass himself." — " Well, I wish he would bring 
 it ! " — " Here he is, Monsieur." 
 
 Gobinard, in fact, came into the room just at that 
 moment with a large, nicely arranged dish, which he 
 placed upon the table with much ceremony. — 
 4i What is that, my dear Gobinard ? " Madame de 
 Stainville asked. — " Fillets of sole a la Ckevalierel" 
 the inn-keeper replied, with comic earnestness, 
 " and I hope that the dish will meet with your ap- 
 proval." — With these words, Gobinard raised his 
 cotton cap and left the room with the air of a man 
 perfectly well satisfied with himself, and who, from 
 modesty, did not wish to be present at his own tri- 
 umph. — Marie, however, remained and looked at the 
 
A PROPOSITION. 4^ 
 
 guests to see whether they wanted her. The count: 
 had drawn the dish of soles towards him and helped 
 everybody and lastly himself, and all attacked the 
 dish which Gobinard had just brought in with so* 
 much ceremony. But Bellepeche began to make a* 
 face ; Daulay stopped after the first mouthful, Ma^ 
 dame de Stainville began to tremble and said that 
 they were poisoned, and so the count gave the signal 
 for departure by getting up from the table and alE 
 followed his example. Mane, who was very vexed 
 at the want of success of Gobinard's last dish, had 
 gone on to the stairs, but the count said to her : — 
 " Well, my pretty child, if your cook's last dish did 
 not turn out well, you need not trouble yourself 
 about that... Your pretty eyes will be quite enough 
 to attract travellers ! I will come and see you again* 
 you may be sure, for you are charming and I am in 
 love with you already !..."— And profiting by a mo- 
 ment when the others were going downstairs, the 
 count kissed her several times, and she did not make 
 any show of resistance, for she thought that the 
 handsome gentleman was doing her a great honour. 
 
 Gobinard was downstairs waiting to take leave of 
 his guests, and expecting to be complimented on his, 
 fillets of sole, but they all passed him without a 
 word, and looking very dissatisfied. When the 
 count had paid him the amount of his bill, he could 
 not contain himself any longer, and said : — " I hope 
 that my last dish met with your approval, ladies and 
 gentlemen?"— "Your last dish;" D'Aubigny said 
 with a smile, " Ah ;...for the sake of your reputation 
 — I advise you never to cook them like that again.. ^ 
 It was impossible to eat them ...they tasted like 
 medicine..."— " Medicine!— My fillets of sole h la 
 Chevaliire/"... Gobinard exclaimed, letting his arms 
 drop in consternation.— " It is a pity," Madame de 
 Stainville said, " for Gobinard began so well ; how- 
 ever he will do better another time."— " It was 
 dreadful; horrible;..." Dauley cried, offering her 
 his arm to lead her to the carriage. — " It was enough 
 to poison us."— " That is to say," Monsier Belle- 
 peche remarked, stopping in front of the inn-keeper, 
 " that I am very much afraid it will make me ill... 
 
.48 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 I fancy it is beginning to act already ;... and I do not 
 know "how I shall manage to venture in the carriage, 
 
 akw." 
 
 They left the inn and got into the carriage, which 
 was waiting for them. Marie was the only one who 
 followed them, and she was still bowing when the 
 -carriage could no longer be seen for the dust in the 
 • distance... then she heaved a deep sigh, and made up 
 her mind to go back to the house, saying : — " I won- 
 der when they will come again." 
 
 But a new scene was being got up at the inn ; Go- 
 binard, who at first had stood thunderstruck on hear- 
 ing what was said to him, aroused himself from his 
 lethargy and walked up and down the room in great 
 strides, shouting out : — " Oh ! that is too much ; A 
 dish that I took such care over. ..of which I was so 
 proud. ..It is impossible !... nothing was burnt. ..and I 
 tasted it before it was coloured with my reduced 
 stock... Let me see it again?" 
 
 He rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, and went 
 into the room where they had dined. The dish of 
 fillited soles was still on the table, so he took a large 
 spoonful of it and swallowed it quite confidently, 
 but immediately he frowned, struck his forehead 
 .and fell into a chair, saying:—" Disgusting !... They 
 were quite right... I am ruined, dishonoured!" — 
 And the unfortunate cook took off his cotton cap, 
 threw it on to the ground and stamped upon it ; he 
 even tried to pull out 'his hair, but as he could not 
 find any he put his cap on again, and, seizing the 
 dish which was the cause of his despair, he went 
 down into the kitchen and called all his servants. — 
 u Marie, did you put anything into the dishes before 
 serving them ? " — " I, Monsieur? you know I should 
 never venture to do that." — " That is true, my child 
 ...I know that you would never meddle with any- 
 thing that comes from my hinds... and then yor do 
 not like cooking. Was it you, Catherine ? " 
 
 Fat Catherine was a girl who was employed for 
 
 rough work when any extra assistance was required, 
 
 .and she declared that she had never been near the 
 
 stewpans. " And you, Petit Jean ? " Gobinard said, 
 
 addressing the scullion. — " I ! " his little pupil re- 
 
 D 
 
A PROPOSITION. 49 
 
 plied, scratching his ear, " I put in what you told 
 me. ..the cullis...the stick to give it a colour... you 
 yourself said that it was a beautiful colour. — 
 " Quite right.. .and where did you get it from? —- 
 " Why there. ..look, out of that jar."— The scullion 
 went and fetched a pot which he gave to his master, 
 who dipped his finger in, tasted it, and then let the 
 pot fall, exclaiming :— " Oh ; you little wretch ! you 
 made a mistake. ..instead of stock, you put m some 
 molasses; Ah! I am not surprised that it tasted 
 like medicine ..."-" . . . - • • ] - " ^ tlt '\f- n 
 opened his eyes wide. "Yes Wretch ; .Mo- 
 lasses! " "Will it make them ill?" Mane asked. — 
 
 "No;. ..but, nevertheless, my reputation is gone... 
 A delicious dish has been made disgusting, thanks 
 to this young scamp... Petit- Jean, I order you to run 
 after Madame de Stainville's carriage ; I order you 
 to catch it up, and as soon as you get near it you 
 must shout out: — ** Madame ; It was molasses... It is 
 my fault, I made a mistake... Go, you young rascal ! 
 run and catch the carriage, or never show yourself 
 here again." 
 
 Petit-Jean, who had never before seen his master 
 in such a rage, got out of the house as quickly as 
 possible, and ran as fast as ever he could along the 
 road which the carriage had taken, shouting out :-— 
 "It was molasses '....But it will not make you ill. ..I 
 made a mistake in the jar." 
 
 When Petit-Jean had disappeared, (jrobinard 
 threw himself into a chair, for he wanted a rest 
 -after all he had gone through ; but from time to 
 time he struck the table with his fist and said :— 
 "Molasses! ...And reputations depend on such 
 things. I shall, perhaps, be taken for a mere cook- 
 shop keeper. . .It is dreadful !. . . Enough to make me 
 tear my hair out. . ." — Marie # went up to the inn- 
 keeper and tried to console him, but he pushed her 
 -away~ roughly, and said : — " Leave me alone, 
 Marie, leave me . . .You do not know what it is 
 to have a reputation to preserve . . . nor the time 
 .and labour it takes to gain it. . .Go and lie down, and 
 leave me alone." 
 
 The girl obeyed him, and she was rather glad to 
 
50 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 be alone in her room. Not that she was thinking of 
 Pierre . . .for a woman does not trouble about a 
 man who sheds tears about her, but she was thinking 
 of the libertine who had stolen kisses from her, 
 whilst her timid lover had never even ventured 
 to ask for one. So Marie left the room, and Go- 
 binard remained alone and continued to sigh, and 
 from time to time he struck the table with his fist, 
 for when a man is in a rage, it seems to do him good 
 to hurt himself. ■ 
 
 He had been alone for some time when the door 
 opened ; it was Gaspard, who, after having accom- 
 panied Pierre, had come back rather sadly to the 
 village, and, as usual, stopped at the inn. 
 
 Gobinard did not move as he recognised Gaspard, 
 but he merely struck the table w T ith his fist again, 
 and said : — "What a misfortune ! ..." — Gaspard, 
 however, went up to him, and, with a deep sigh, he 
 said : — " Yes, it is indeed a misfortune ! Who ever 
 could have believed it ? " — " Nobody ; nobody could 
 possibly have guessed it ;...One could never have ex- 
 pected such a thing to happen/' — " That is quite 
 true; but, confound it;. ..many things happen which 
 we do not foresee...' ' — u As for me, I feel as if a tile 
 from the housetop had fallen onto my head ... I am 
 still quite overcome.' ' — " Have you really taken it so 
 much to heart ? . . . That is all right, I am glad of it. 
 Poor fellow, I know you liked him, for you have 
 known him from a child." — *' Like him after what he 
 has done ?... Little wretch ! If he has not caught up 
 the carriage I shall send him away, that is certain/' 
 — "Drive him away... the carriage... What the deviL 
 are you talking about?" — "Why, about Petit-Jean, 
 by George, who put molasses into my filleted soles." 
 " Is that all ? " uaspard said, sitting down in a cor- 
 ner; "And you are in despair about that?" — "It 
 seems to me that I have good reason to be." — " I 
 fancied you w T ere thinking of Pierre... who has gone 
 for a soldier, poor fellow, because your Marie would 
 not marry him... I should have thought that more in- 
 teresting than your fricassees." — "They are my glory 
 ...You do not understand that, Gaspard; you do not 
 know that one may go down to posterity by means 
 
A PROPOSITION. 51 
 
 of a sauce or a new entree i n — " And what will you 
 <lo for posterity? Make pies?" — " Hold your tongue, 
 Gaspard, or I shall say to you as Professor Mar- 
 tineau says, that you are a stupidus !... Certainly, I 
 liked Pierre... He is a very good fellow... but as he 
 has chosen to turn soldier... What can I do?. ..How- 
 ever, I must declare that I am surprised that Marie 
 should have refused him... I thought the young peo- 
 ple were in love with each other... and I should not 
 nave opposed their happiness." — " I should think 
 not. Pierre would have been a good match for 
 Marie." — "Strange that she should have refused 
 him. ..It is very strange... Molasses instead of stock; 
 ...That would never do;. ..Poor Pierre;... Yes, he 
 was an excellent young fellow... But if he has not 
 caught up the carriage, I will beat him within an 
 inch of his life... I will strangle him... I will scratch 
 his face... And you say that he has gone for a soldier 
 ...One may rise. ..but to make a mistake in the jar... 
 It is unpardonable." — " Stupid old ass ; " Gaspard 
 murmured, with a shrug of the shoulders, " he cares 
 for nothing but his stewpans." 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and the inn- 
 keeper looked up, hoping to see Petit-Jean, but in- 
 stead of him, Martineau, the writing-master, came 
 in, and Gobinard gave him his hand, with a deep 
 sigh. — "What is the matter? ... What has hap- 
 pened," the professor asked. " Is Jerusalem des- 
 troyed?... Has fire from heaven fallen into your 
 stewpans?... In your looks I can read the abomination 
 of desolation /" — "Just think what has happened to 
 rae, Monsieur Martineau. Some grand people from 
 Paris came here... Madame de Stainville and some 
 counts.. .A carriage... the sort of people who will have 
 everything that is most expensive, and who pay 
 without a word.'' — " I do not see anything very dis- 
 tressing in that." — " Ah ! My dear Martineau, I am 
 a wretched common eating-house keeper. I have 
 poisoned them all ! " — " Poisoned them ! " the pro- 
 fessor exclaimed, starting back. " Good heavens ; 
 1 will make a bet it was with mushrooms... you must 
 have cooked some poisonous variety of them... I have 
 told you before that you put too much reliance in 
 
52 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 your own knowledge." — " No, it was not that... It 
 was with some molasses which that young scamp 
 Petit-Jean put into a dish which would have been 
 delicious ... fillets of sole a la Chevahere ! ..." — 
 " Molasses ; that is not hurtful... Many people use it 
 instead of sugar... but it certainly did not go welL 
 with fillets of sole... But, after al^ it was only a. 
 mistdke...Errare humanum est/" — "If you had 
 been here, Monsieur Martineau, all that would not 
 have happened... but I sent for you in vain." — " I was. 
 giving a writing lesson to a young carpenter, who 
 will write a very good hand some day... and I have- 
 come to give another to my pupil, Petit- Jean."- — 
 " Your pupil, Petit-Jean will have a lesson from the 
 toe of my boot, by-and-bye, if he has not caught up 
 the carriage." — " Anger is never of any use, my 
 dear Gobinard, and it puts us on a level with wild, 
 beasts... We ought to learn comprimere iras, to re- 
 press our anger... I am very warm and I should be 
 very glad of a glass of wine." 
 
 The inn-keeper got up, went for some wine, and 
 put a bottle in front of the professor, and then sat 
 down again, looking rather low-spirited ; then Gas- 
 pard got up in his turn, took a glass from the table, 
 and, going up to Martineau, he seized the bottle f 
 poured himself out a bumper, drank it off at a 
 draught, and then went and sat down again. The- 
 professor opened his eyes wide and looked at what 
 Gaspard was doing; then he exclaimed ; — * It seems 
 that the bottle is for us two." — And in his turn he- 
 quickly helped himself, and then presented a glass- 
 to the inn-keeper and said to him : — " Believe me, 
 do as we are doing... Bonum vinum latificatT — But 
 the landlord shook his head and murmured: — "I 
 must know first whether my young scoundrel has 
 caught up the carriage." — The professor, seeing that 
 his persuasions were useless, made up his mind to 
 drink by himself, and then, as Gobinard and Gas- 
 pard had relapsed into profound silence, Monsieur 
 Martineau took a bundle of pens and a penknife 
 out of his pocket, and began to cut some pens, so as~ 
 to utilize his time. His two neighbours were silent also,, 
 and Gaspard only moved when he got up to pour 
 
A PROPOSITION. 5J 
 
 himself out more wine, and then the professor always 
 speedily followed his example. But as the bottle- 
 was empty after a third visit from Gaspard, Monsieur 
 Martineau said said between his teeth : — " This 
 bumpkin has been much quicker than I have." 
 
 Suddenly Gobinard roused himself from his- 
 reverie, raised his head, struck his forehead and his 
 stomach, looked at Monsieur Martineau and said 
 with a laugh : — " Eh, eh ! that would be a very good 
 business." — The writing master looked at the inn- 
 keeper somewhat anxiously and said to himself :— 
 l( Has the molasses made him lose his head?" — "My 
 dear, Monsieur Martineau," the inn-keeper went on, 
 " I have just got an idea into my head. — " That is 
 not altogether impossible... What is it ? " — " First of 
 all you know that Pierre, the carpenter's nephew 
 has enlisted as a soldier and left the village this 
 morning ? " — " I was told so and very sorry I was to 
 hear it ; he was a very apt scholar and already 
 wrote a very good hand. ..but he will forget every- 
 thing in barracks..." — H It is no question of Pierre' s- 
 hand- writing ; but listen to me, Nlonsieur Martineau. 
 I always thought that the young fellow was in love 
 with Marie, my adopted daughter... As Pierre is a 
 good-looking lad, I thought also that Marie did not 
 Took upon him with an unfavourable eye... In fact, 
 I thought that the matter would end in their marry- 
 ing..." — " Like the vine with the elm : — Vites ulmis 
 adjungere /" — " Not at all !...It appears that Marie 
 does not love Pierre, and the young man was vexed 
 at this, and that was the reason why he has gone to 
 shoulder a musket, so that now Marie is free. ..and I 
 think that I could.. .Eh, eh!"../' Marry her yourself? 
 ...I understand; " — " No, that is not it at all!... I 
 marry a girl whom I have always looked upon as my 
 daughter !... No, oh no !...And then, my wile express- 
 ly forbade me.to do so, before she died... No, I have 
 another idea...Mv dear, Monsieur Martineau, you are 
 a bachelor... you are fifty, but you do not look more 
 than forty-nine... If you like, I will give you my little 
 Marie, and then we can live together, so that when 
 any fine company comes, you may be on the spot... 
 and I can consult you on the Royal Cookery Book, 
 
54 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 which you know by heart. Then everything will go 
 on capitally here, and no more accidents will happen 
 like was the case to-day ... That is my proposal... 
 What do you think of it ?..." 
 
 The writing master put his hand to his forehead 
 several times, and appeared to be thinking profound- 
 ly, but soon he assumed a dignified manner and 
 said : — " Monsieur Gobinard, your proposal does not 
 Suit me at all. You offer me your little Marie for 
 my wife... But my dear sir, who is your little Marie ? 
 ...I do not know, any more than you do... A child 
 whom her mother abandoned... An unknown mother, 
 whom nobody ever saw again ...some jade who is 
 perhaps in tne hospital now ! And you want me, 
 Martineau, to marry a. ..I don't know what?..." — "/ 
 don't know what, I don't know whatj And after 
 all, are you a pasha or a millionaire?... Is there any 
 reason for you to make such difficulties, because you 
 give writing lessons at three pence an hour ? " — 
 " Master Gobinard, I know who I am. ..My birth is 
 as well known as that two and two are four. My 
 family was highly respectable ; I had an uncle who 
 was Professor of Rhetoric, and a cousin who was 
 head of a Lycee.* Except for a number of unfortun- 
 ate circumstances, 1 myself should have now 
 been occupying some high post.... But I do not re- 
 nounce hope... I shall be distinguished some day... 
 It must come to me, and I will never marry a woman 
 who is not of my own rank in life... whom I shall be 
 able to introduce into society." — " And I say that 
 my little Marie is a present good enough for a 
 school-master." — " Schoolmaster ! ... I am not one 
 any longer, Monsieur, and then, you ought to say 
 Master of Arts; keep your present, I won't have 
 it!..." — "Good heavens !... Don't get so excited!" 
 Gaspard said, getting between the two men, whose 
 «yes were beginning to glisten with anger. "You 
 are taking a great deal of unnessary trouble !... Do 
 you, Daddy Martineau, who had refused Marie, 
 seriously think that she would marry?... That after 
 
 * French Public SchooL 
 
A PROPOSITION. 55 
 
 having refused a good looking voung fellow like 
 Pierre, she would accept an old wizened fellow like 
 you ?...Gobinard's soles must still be running in his 
 head, for him to propose such a thing to you..." — ► 
 " Gaspard is quite right/' the inn-keeper said ; 
 " Marie would never have consented to marry the 
 schoolmaster." — "And I repeat that I would have 
 nothing to do with her," Martineau replied, "be- 
 cause I care for birth before anything else... and to- 
 be well thought of ." 
 
 The dispute was about to begin anew, when they 
 heard a scratching at the door. It had been dark for 
 some time, and the inn-keeper called out :■ — u Who is 
 there?... Come in... Turn the handle." — Nobody came 
 in, however, though the noise continued, so Gaspard, 
 who was nearest the door, went and opened it, and 
 saw Petit-Jean cowering against the inn door, for 
 the poor little scullion did not dare to come in. He 
 was in a pitiable state, covered with thick mud and 
 black from head to foot and he exhaled a disgusting 
 smell. — " It is your scullery boy," Gaspard said. — 
 "Petit-Jean! Then why does not he come in? 
 Come in you young rascal... Come and tell me 
 whether you have executed your commission pro- 
 perly." 
 
 The child at last made up his mind to go into the 
 room. At the sight of the little fellow, whose white 
 clothes had become quite black and whose face 
 looked as if it were covered by a harlequin's mask, 
 neither Gaspard nor the writing master could keep 
 their countenance, and even Master Gobinard felt 
 his anger die out. However, he said in a severe 
 voice : — 
 
 '• Where have have you been, you young scoun- 
 drel ? Or, rather, where do you come from to be in 
 such a state ? Come, just tell us." — " I have come 
 from where you sent me, master... I ran to catch up 
 the carriage... it was a long way ahead of me, but as 
 I am a good runner I should perhaps have caught it 
 ...in fact I could see it in the distance, and shouted 
 with all my might: — 'It was molasses! Stop, 
 coachman ! I made a mistake in the jar !' But 
 there ; the carriage drove on, and, as I was looking 
 
56 FILLETS OF SOLES. 
 
 after it as I was running, I could not look at my feet 
 -as well... and, suddenly, I felt something hitting my 
 legs... I was amongst a lot of ducks and geese which 
 were waddling along the road. ..It seems that I had 
 trodden on two or three ducklings as I was running 
 ...A peasant ran after me with a stick, and declared 
 that I should pay for his ducks... 1 ran all the faster, 
 but he was on the point of catching me, when 1 
 threw myself on to the side of the road. Oh ! then I 
 <x>uld not run at all... I had fallen on to a muck heap 
 in front of Mathieu's cow house... It was up to my 
 neck, and in struggling to get out I only sunk in all 
 the deeper... If they had not held out a pole to me 
 I should have been there still... and then, when I got 
 out, he gave me a thrashing because of the ducks. 
 That is how I did my errand, master ! " — " That is 
 very nice," the inn-keeper said; "You have done 
 several nice things, to-day. You wretched boy; 
 you deserve..." — "Are you going to scold the boy 
 again ? " Gaspard asked. •' It seems to me that he 
 has had his dose, and that is quite enough about a 
 wretched dish of fish." — " Certainly," the professor 
 said, u if Petit- Jean has done wrong, he has been 
 punished for it... I should advise you to send him to 
 wash himself as quickly as possible, for he has fallen 
 into some very doubtful substance. I will go to 
 Madame de Stainville's house to-morrow; I am 
 giving her gardner writing lessons... he wants to be 
 able to write labels for his tulip bulbs. I will try to 
 see the mistress of the house, and I will explain to 
 her that you are perfectly innocent of the mistake 
 that was made in your kitchen." / 
 
 The inn-keeper was so touched at the professor's 
 proposal, that he took out his pocket handkerchief 
 and passed it over his eyes, as he replied: — 
 "Monsieur Martineau, such a proof of friendship... 
 Will you really be kind enough? Petit-Jean, I for- 
 give you... Go and wash yourself. Go, immediately. 
 Monsieur Martineau, your hand. ..let there no longer 
 be a shade of resentiment between us." — " Every- 
 thing forgotten, Monsieur Gobinard." — " Then," 
 Gaspard said, " We must have a good bottle on 
 the strength of it, to dry it all..." — " That is very 
 
A PROPOSITION. 57 
 
 true," the inn-keeper said, " and I will bring you a 
 bottle of old." 
 
 The bottle was brought, and emptied in two 
 rounds ; a second was fetched, which was dispatched 
 just as quicky, and then a third, so eagar were they 
 to show that they were reconciled, and then, after 
 that, Monsieur Martineau and the landlord shook 
 hands again, and parted good friends. Gaspard re- 
 turned to his cottage, and the professor, whose legs 
 were somewhat unsteady in consequence of the nu- 
 merous bumpers that he had drunk, took the road, 
 to his hamlet, saying to himself : — " Master Go- 
 binard's wine is very good, but to marry his adopted: 
 daughter. ..a woman without a name. ..the thing is 
 impossible. I must maintain my rank and my 
 social position. Some day, people will know that 
 there is a man of merit, a learned man in Chante- 
 merle...A village in which Boileau formerly lived... 
 
 Oh ; Lamoignon, I See the troubles of the town I 
 One.. .crac... hold your pen with three fingers... 
 And against them the country is my only ...thing. 
 
 It is very strange, but my memory is getting rather 
 confused ! " 
 
 Luckily for the professor there were neither 
 carts nor carriages on the way between the inn and ; 
 his house. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 SOME time had passed since the adventure of the 
 fillets of sole, and nobody from Madame de Stain- 
 ville's had been to the inn again. Monsieur Mar- 
 tineau, however, had kept the promise which he had. 
 
58 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 made to the inn-keeper ; he had been to her house 
 and given the gardner his writing lessons, and had 
 asked to see Madame de Stainville, but women like 
 she are rarely visible when they are on the decline 
 of life, and the schoolmaster always went when she 
 was busy with her toilette, which was a business of 
 too great importance to be easily left, especially 
 when it was only Monsieur Martineau, and he was 
 always told that she was not visible, until at last he 
 said to himself : — " Is this woman a species of human 
 cornet?" Tired at last of always receiving the 
 same answer, he gave up his project of seeing 
 Madame de Stainville, but he told the gardner the 
 whole story of the soles, and begged him to 
 tell it his mistress when she should be visible. 
 
 Gobinard got more uneasy every day when the fine 
 ladies and gentlemen did not return to the inn, and 
 he used frequently to stand outside the door and 
 look up the road which led to Madame de Stain- 
 ville's, and when he saw a cloud of dust, he used to 
 exclaim : — " Here they are. ..That is their carriage!" 
 But soon a hay cart or a milk-woman's donkey ap- 
 peared, and then Gobinard went into the house in a 
 bad temper, grumbled at everybody, and gave Petit- 
 Jean furious looks. Marie, also, seemed to share 
 her adopted father's impatience and was less merry. 
 But with her it was vexation and ruffled conceit ; 
 these gentlemen, and Count d'Aubigny, especially, 
 who had kissed her without giving her time to defend 
 herself, had [so often told her that she was pretty, 
 had evidently quite forgotten the girl at the inn. 
 
 Since Pierre's departure, Gaspard continued to go 
 to Gobinard's nearly every day, but he never spoke 
 to Marie, and he looked at her so sternly that she 
 always cast down her eyes under his gaze, and, after 
 looking at her for some time, Gaspard went away 
 without saying a single word to her. 
 
 Whilst the people at the inn were thinking every 
 day of Madame de Stainvitle and her friends, the 
 former was trying to make their stay with her as 
 pleasant as possible to her guests. The house was 
 not large, but stood in the middle of a tolerably large 
 garden, in which there was plenty of room for soli- 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. $g, 
 
 tary couples, and it possessed a labyrinth in which, 
 one might, with some difficulty, lose oneself. The 
 interior was elegant, and was amply provided with 
 everything to amuse those who did not care for the 
 country for its own sake. Pianos, a billiard room, 
 games of all kinds, pencils, brushes, and paints for 
 artists, a good library for poets, guns and dogs, 
 fishing-rods and nets for sportsmen, and a dining- 
 room for everybody ; in a word, perfect liberty was 
 the order of the day there ; everybody could do as he 
 or she liked and enjoy themselves in their own fashion,, 
 and she knew that the more freedom you give people 
 the less they abuse it. 
 
 But, of course, somebody ought to be there to give 
 Madame de Stainville his arm when she wanted to 
 walk in the plantation or lose herself in the laby- 
 rinth, and Daulay understood her looks when she 
 said to him : — " It is a delightful morning for a 
 walk ! ... It would be pleasant in the shade 
 in the garden ! ... " and so he felt obliged ta 
 offer his arm, as nobody seemed inclined to dispute 
 that honour with him ; but when they got there, he 
 carefully avoided the solitary walks, and always 
 found some pretext or other to go where he knew 
 they should meet some of the other guests, and 
 Madame de Stainville would sigh and say : — '* It is. 
 cruel !... One can never enjoy a moment of solitude 
 — I do not know how you manage it, Daulay, but 
 you always take me amongst the people... We are 
 constantly meeting Monsieur Bellepeche or the 
 count... and when they are not about, you take me 
 close to the gardner or his wife... We can never talk 
 ...confidentially ! " — " Fair lady ! You know that it 
 is only accident... It is not my fault if your guests 
 come after you and interrupt our delightful tete-a- 
 fetes." 
 
 As he feared nothing so much as being left alone 
 with her, he frequently advised her to invite her 
 neighbours to come in the evening, for the the com- 
 pany of Monsieur Bellepeche and Count d'Aubigny 
 was not enough to guarantee him against intimate 
 conversations, and he was beginning to find the house 
 intolerably dull, when, suddenly, one afternoon, the 
 
^ COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 door opened, and a lady came in and went up to 
 Madame de Stainville and kissed her. She was 
 elegantly dressed, and had a tall, but beautiful figure, 
 whilst her lovely but serious face had an indefinable 
 charm, and her toilette was in the most perfect taste ; 
 it was Madame Darmentiere. 
 
 Her arrival effected an immediate change in the 
 drawing-room. In an instant d'Aubigny had got off 
 the sofa and stood up against the piano, waiting 
 for her to look at him ; Daulay lost his bored look 
 and began to smile, Bellepeche assumed an easy 
 attitude, whilst Madame de Stainville went grace- 
 fully up to the new arrival and said : — -" Oh ! is^ it 
 you, my dear Madame Darmentiere?... I have been 
 washing to see you for a long time!" — "I only 
 arrived at my house yesterday, and you see my first 
 visit is to you." — " You are very kind... But yet I am 
 .going to "scold you for having stayed in Paris so 
 long... We have been here for nearly a fortnight, 
 and allow me to introduce these three gentlemen to 
 you, who have been kind enough to keep me com- 
 pany. ..Count de Aubigny." — "I have had the 
 pleasure of meeting you in Paris, Madame," the 
 count replied with a bow. — "Yes, I remember it... 
 At Madame Clarence's." — " This is Monsieur Dau- 
 lay. Oh ! I think you made his acquaintance last 
 summer." — " It is a great happiness for me to renew 
 it," he said, with a bow. 
 
 This compliment, to which Madame Darmentiere 
 only replied by a slight inclination of the head, 
 -caused the tender Stainville to make a slight grimace, 
 but she immediately recovered herself and continued: — 
 il And, lastly, this is Monsieur Bellepeche,, whom 
 you met, I think, at my house in Paris." 
 
 Madame Darmentiere bowed again, with a look 
 .as much as much as to say that she did not remem- 
 ber anything at all about it. — " And what do you 
 think of me, being here quite alone with three 
 men?" Madame de Stainville continued with a 
 mincing air." — "I think it is less dangerous than if 
 you were with only one." — " But your arrival will 
 -animate these gentlemen, for they were beginning 
 Xo get very dull ! " — *' Oh ! Madame. ..what a cruel 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. 6l 
 
 thing to say ! " Daulay replied. — " Well, at any rate, 
 here you are," Madame de Stainville continued, 
 " and I hope we shall see you very often... You will 
 come to us every day when you are disengaged." 
 — " Disengaged!... I am always that, here; you are 
 the only person in the neighbourhood whom I know 
 ...Some ladies came to see me, certainly, some ladies 
 from the neighbourhood, bat those sort of people 
 worry me, so I did not return their call, and they 
 did not come again, which was just what I wanted. 
 I prefer solitude to the society of stupid people ! " — 
 4 ' So that if you do not come to see us, we shall 
 know what to think." — ' l You will see quite as much 
 of me as you want... I only live a quarter of an hour 
 off." — " I think there is a little breeze, now," 
 <TAubigny said, going to the window. — "Yes," Dau- 
 lay replied, " it is much cooler." — " If we walk slow- 
 ly, I think we may venture out," Monsieur Belle- 
 peche said, " though I must say it would be very 
 nice for a drive." — " A drive... what are you thinking 
 about ? " Madame de Stainville replied, " that is all 
 very well when one wants to keep to the high road, 
 but when one wishes to go into the fields and woods, 
 one must make up one's mind to go on foot. Come, 
 gentlemen, give the ladies your arm." 
 
 The count had already offered his to Madame 
 Darmentiere, and Daulay, who was obliged to give 
 his to the lady whom he was bound to accompany 
 on her daily walks, called out : — " We must be sure 
 and keep together. ..so that we may be able to talk... 
 It is much pleasanter to be able to laugh and joke 
 together, than to miss each other and..." 
 
 A sharp pain in his arm prevented the young man 
 from continuing, for his companion had given him a 
 good pinch, in order to teach him not to be so fond 
 of company. 
 
 The count and Madame Darmentiere walked first; 
 Bellepeche, who had no lady, went from one couple 
 to the other making remarks on the various points of 
 view and always leading up the conversation to 
 Switzerland, which he was so proud of having 
 visited, though nobody paid much attention to what 
 he was saying, for d'Aubigny, who wished to please 
 
62 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 the pretty woman who was on his arm, was making 
 himself very pleasant and had even succeeded in mak- 
 ing Madame Darmentiere laugh several times. With 
 the second couple, however, it was the lady who 
 kept up all the conversation ; she seemed to be find- 
 ing fault with her cavalier for making her walk too 
 fast and for evidently wishing to be near their pretty 
 neighbour. Daulay begged her pardon and walked 
 slower, but in a few moments he pulled his com- 
 panion's arm violently and began to speak to those 
 in front of them. 
 
 They extended their walk for some time and no- 
 nobody had enjoyed it except the count and Madame 
 Darmentiere, and at last Bellepeche remarked that 
 it was getting near dinner-time and that they ought 
 to be going back. — " It seems to me as if we had 
 only just began our walk," d'Aubigny said, with a 
 tender glance at the lady on his arm. — " Ah ! But 
 you are such an indefatigable walker!..." Belle- 
 peche said, " I also used to walk a great deal 
 amongst the mountains when I was in Switzer- 
 land..." — "We are at the ladies' orders," Daulay 
 said, who had succeeded in making Madame de 
 Stainville join the rest. — " I am rather tired," that 
 lady said ; " Monsieur Daulay has made me walk so 
 fast... Could we not sit down and rest for a few min- 
 utes before returning home ? " — " Certainly ! " Ma- 
 dame Darmentiere said, letting go the count's arm. 
 " This seems a nice spot... A good view, shade and 
 nice turf ...a delightful drawing-room ready made for 
 us." 
 
 They all sat down on the grass ; Madame Dar- 
 mentiere sat by Madame de Stainvilte's side, but 
 stout Monsieur 'Bellepeche was longer in finding a 
 place, and he could not make up his mind to settle 
 himself before he had unfastened the buckle of his 
 trowsers without being noticed. — " How I love the 
 country ! " Madame Darmentiere said, giving a 
 pleased look around her. " How nice it is, and what 
 
 ?ure air!. ..Ah! can the finest drawing room m 
 'aris be compared to this flower bespangled turf... 
 to these majestic trees which afford us their shade, 
 and, above all, to the delightful freedom which we 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. 63 
 
 enjoy here ? " — " Yes, I am also very fond of the 
 country," Madame de Stainville observed, " and yet 
 it makes me give way to melancholy reveries." — 
 These words were accompanied by a prolonged sigh. 
 — " Some reveries are very pleasant/' d'Aubigny 
 said, " and one oftens likes to prolong them ! They 
 almost always precede or follow some fresh love 
 affair..." — " Some old recollections make us dream 
 more than any new feeling would do ! " Madame 
 Darmentiere said, turning aside her head with a sad 
 look..." but you, gentlemen, do not understand that ! 
 ...All your happiness consists in change, and so 
 your reveries are made up of hopes and scarcely 
 ever of recollections." — •* It would be necessary not 
 to know you, to think like that," d'Aubigny said in a 
 low voice. The pretty woman pretended not to hear 
 him, and Bellepeche stretched out his legs on the 
 grass and said: — " It is very warm to day." — " Yes," 
 Daulay replied, "and it is a pity that one has to put 
 up with so many privations in the country ; for in- 
 stance, at this moment I am extremely thirsty, and I 
 would give I do not know what for a glass of beer or 
 lemonade. ..but it is no use thinking of finding a cafe 
 about here." — "There might be a spring of water 
 in the neighbourhood," Daulay observed. — " Shall 
 you and I go and try to find one ? " Madame de 
 Stainville said eagerly — " No, thank you," he re- 
 plied, as he was not at_all anxious to risk being 
 alone with his fair friend. " You must be tired... 
 and then I know there are no springs about here !... 
 But I see a peasant who is coming in this direction 
 with a basket on his arm... perhaps he has some fruit, 
 .grapes... Hulloh ! hi ! my man... come here ! " 
 
 The peasant was Gaspard who was returning to 
 Vethenil with his donkey loaded with grass whilst 
 he was carrying a basket full of plums and grapes 
 which he had been picking on the small piece of land 
 which constituted his whole property. When he 
 heard their voices he turned aside off the road, and 
 making his donkey stop, he went up to them and 
 said: — "Were you calling me?" — "Yes, have you 
 any fruit in those baskets? " — " I have some plums 
 and grapes." — "Will you sell us some?" — "Why 
 
<5 4 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 not to you or to anyone else ? it is all the same to 
 me as long as I sell them ; "—And Gaspard took off 
 the leaves with which his baskets were covered and 
 showed them to them. — " Oh ! quite common blue 
 plums !... what an idea! Do you think I can eat 
 them ? " Daulay said. — " Why should you not eat 
 them?" Gaspard replied. " Do you think I am 
 o-oing to give my plums to the dogs ?"-— " First of 
 all my friend try to be a little more polite and re- 
 member to whom you are talking. ..At this moment 
 you are not amongst your equals." — " Not amongst 
 my equals !... Well, that's a good one!... Have not 
 you a mouth and ears like me?... Do you happen ta 
 think that I am a frog? "— " Oh, good heavens ! I 
 recognise this clod-hopper," Daulay said in a low 
 voice..." It is the man whom we met at the inn..." — 
 " Oh ! I know you well also," Gaspard replied who 
 had heard what the dandy had said in a low voice. 
 " It was you who the other day called me that man \ 
 Oh;. ..I remembered you immediately... but I don't 
 bear malice, you see, and I will sell my plums to you 
 as well as to anybody else ! " 
 
 And Gaspard added to himself : — " And you shall 
 just pay double price for them, that is quite cer- 
 tain." — " Why, really," d' Aubigny now said, " it is 
 Monsieur Gaspard, whom we have the pleasure of 
 seeing again ! " — "Gaspard, as yon say. ..Oh! we 
 do not change our names, we country people ! We 
 are not like you folks from Paris, who often have a 
 different one for each quarter of the town ! " — 
 "Always funny and sarcastic, Master Gaspard!..." 
 "Come, ladies... Here is the basket. ..Will you ven- 
 ture?" — "With pleasure," Madame Darmentiere 
 said, " and in the country it does not do to be par- 
 ticular.. .These plums are very good, certainly !..." — 
 •'By George, I should think they are," Gaspard said, 
 "they are purple greengages." — "Well, then, you 
 ought to have said so at once," Daulay contin- 
 ued, " instead of talking to me about dogs and 
 frogs..." — "Why did you seem to run down my 
 goods, then ?" — " The devil ! Why it seems as if one 
 dare not say a word to you peasants ! Just let us 
 see your plums..." — "I must tell you that I want a 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. 6$ 
 
 halfpennny a-pieee for them, because there are 
 hardly any left... plums are nearly all over... and 
 these are the last..." — " Will not your purple green- 
 gages give me the stomach ache ? " Bellepeche 
 said, looking at Gaspard. — " I don't think that 
 you look very consumptive ! " the peasant replied 
 with a grin. 
 
 They were getting amused at the sallies and rough 
 frankness of this man, who was no more embarassed 
 amongst the higher classes than he was at the inn.. 
 — " Now let us see the grapes," the count said. — 
 "Ah ! they are not like the plums, for they are only 
 just beginning to ripen, so they are not all sugar,but they 
 are good, all the same."--" No, they decidely are not alL 
 sugar ! " Daulay said, who had just taken a grape ; 
 " if they make wine out of these grapes in this 
 neighbourhood, it must be excellent for salad dress- 
 ing ! " — " Oh ! you have eaten something worse than 
 this before now/' Gaspard said, with a quizzical 
 look. — u I certainly have never eaten anything before 
 which made me make such a face as this," Daulay 
 said.— " Bah! bah !. ; . Just think a little..."— " Well, 
 really, this peasant is very amusing, wishing to tell 
 me what I have done..." — " And I can tell you that 
 you made a much sorrier face when they gave you 
 soles and molasses at old Gobinard's inn... when you 
 all thought that you were poisoned ! " — " Upon my 
 word, this worthy man is right," D'Aubigny said, 
 and I quite agree with him... These grapes , green 
 as they are, are preferable to Master Gobinard's 
 fiillets of sole ; but how did you come to know about 
 that business ? " 
 
 " Oh i that was quite simple, by George, as I was 
 at the inn whilst you were having dinner... I heard 
 you when you were complimenting Gobinard as- 
 you were leaving the inn, and he would have torn 
 out his hair if he had had any to tear out. How- 
 ever, I heard all about it... his kitchen-boy mistook. 
 one jar for another... molasses for broth... cullis r 
 stock ;... What do I know about it?. ..Well; they- 
 sent the youngster to run after your carriage, and 
 he fell into a muck heap, and came home covered in 
 filth, saving your presence... and then Daddy Mar- 
 
66 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 tineau, the writing-master, undertook to tell you all 
 about the mistake, but he was satisfied with telling 
 the gardner, who, as far as I can see, did not 
 tell his mistress again, and that's just all about 
 
 it," 
 
 They had listened to Gaspard' s tale very atten- 
 tively, and then Monsieur Bellepeche evclaimed ■ -— 
 "You see on what our life depends;. ..If that little 
 -scullion had taken a solution of chloride of po- 
 tassium, as he might have done, just as well, we 
 should all have been poisoned !..." — " That comes of 
 eating at a village inn ; " — " By the way,'' the count 
 said, " Is pretty Marie... that little, dear girl with the 
 bright eyes, still at the inn ? " — " Of course she is ! 
 ...Where do you think she should be? But, look 
 liere, I have no time to spare to stop here... I have 
 -some more work to do... Are you going to buy my 
 .grapes ?" — " No, they are not ripe enough." — "Well 
 -.then, pay me for my plums and there is an end of it 
 ...I don't want to spend my day like you do, lying 
 •on my back... That is all very well for people from 
 Paris. Who is going to pay for the lot ?..." — " Here, 
 my friend, take this," D'Aubigny said, giving him a 
 five franc piece, which he took and exclaimed : — 
 -*' Ah ; that is all right... You are not so close, you're 
 not;... When people treat me properly, I do the 
 same;... If you would like to have my donkey for 
 the ladies, to take them home, I will lend it to you, 
 and you shall not pay me anything extra for it." — • 
 "Will you ladies accept the mount that our friend 
 offers them ? " — " Not for me," Madame de Stain- 
 ville said, " when I am on a donkey, I am always 
 -afraid that it will lie down;..."— "Oh; I don't 
 think mine will want to do that with you, T cari 
 .assure you; " Gaspard replied. — " I prefer to walk,'* 
 Madame Darmentiere declared. — " As you please; 
 then I will be off. Good evening ladies and gentle- 
 :men." — " And Gaspard raised his cap and went back 
 to his donkey, which he drove on in front of him, and 
 -went on his road. - ■ 
 
 " That country fellow is no fool ;" D'Aubigny said) 
 watching the peasant as he went away. — "I think 
 he is very uncouth; " Daulay replied, "but for the 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. 6f 
 
 presence of these ladies, I should have taught him av 
 lesson in politeness." — " I think that )' r ou would have 
 found it a difficult matter, and that you would have- 
 lost your trouble." 
 
 " Pray, who is that pretty Marie, after whom 
 Count d'Aubigny asked ? " Madame Darmentiere 
 said, in an indifferent voice. — " A very nice, pretty 
 girl," Madame de Stainville replied, " who is a ser- 
 vant at the inn, and she really deserves something, 
 better... She has an attractive face... and then she 
 was left there, and the landlord took charge of her... 
 She never knew who her parents were, and all 
 that makes her interesting... If I had thought of 
 it, I would have asked the peasant to send her to- 
 me, for I have several half -worn dresses and so on r 
 which I will give her." 
 
 " You are really too kind, Madame," Daulay said; 
 " I do not see anything remarkable in the girl my- 
 self, she is a waitress at an inn... rather pretty like- 
 some of them are, and that is all." — "It is just com- 
 mon prettiness and nothing else ! " Bellepeche ob- 
 served : " she is fresh and animated, but she is no- 
 real type of beauty, and what a difference between 
 her and the Swiss girls, and then their dogs, the- 
 Saint Bernards ! I prefer them to Newfoundlands..." 
 — " I propose that we go home ;" Madame de Stain- 
 ville said, " I think that we have all rested sufficient- 
 ly..." — "We are at your orders, ladies..." — "Let us- 
 be off then ; Monsieur Daulay, please give me your 
 hand to help me up." 
 
 When she was up, howevei, Madame de Stain- 
 ville only let go his hand in order to take his arm, 
 so that he might not be able to walk with Madame 
 Darmentiere. On their return to Madame de Stain- 
 ville's they dined merrily and in the evening some 
 country neighbours came in and so the time passed 
 tolerably quickly, and when it was time for the 
 guests to go, d'Aubigny offered to see Madame Dar- 
 mentiere home, but she thanked him graciously and 
 said : — " I am very much obliged to you, monsieur, 
 but I do not wish to disturb anyone..." — "On the 
 contrary, madame, it would be a pleasure... You can- 
 not think we should allow you to walk home by 
 
^8 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 yourself..." — " No, but I could not come it some one 
 were obliged to see me home every evening, and my 
 
 fardener has just come for me." So after kissing 
 ladame de Stainville and bowing to the gentlemen, 
 she took her leave, declaring that she should not 
 come again, if they persisted in seeing her home. — 
 As soon as she had left the room, Madame de Stain- 
 ville burst out laughing, because the three gentlemen, 
 <and especially d'Aubigny, seemed in consternation, 
 at Madame Darmentiere's departure. 
 
 "Oh, gentlemen ;... Madame Darmentiere is very 
 firm," Madame de Stainville said, who seemed de- 
 lighted, because her neighbour had refused to carry 
 off any of her guests. " She will never give in when 
 once she has made up her mind... she will not be an 
 <easy conquest ;..."— " So much the better, madame, 
 so much the better/' the count said, rubbing his 
 ha»ds ; " there will all be the more glory in it."— 
 "' Ah ; " Daulay contiuued, " severe looks go for no- 
 thing in my mind. All women have their weak side 
 ...and it is only necessary to discover it." — "Cer- 
 tainly, certainly," Bellepeche said, looking at him- 
 self in a glass, '■ a conquest... if only a man likes to 
 take the trouble... and then, if one is good-looking... 
 Women are not made of stone. In Switzerland, I 
 sat one evening at table d'hote by the side of a lady 
 whose noble and proud beauty captivated all looks. 
 I offered her some game and partridges with a black 
 sauce ; they have a very peculiar manner of cooking 
 jgamein Switzerland... they put spices. ..and amongst 
 other things, a plant which they pick on the moun- 
 tains..." 
 
 Here Monsieur Bellepeche turned round and saw 
 that he was alone in the drawing-room ; everybody 
 had gone to bed, so he made up his mind to do the 
 same, and repeated the story to himself whilst he was 
 smdressing. 
 
COUNTRY LIFE. 69 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, AND A GRAND 
 DISCOVERY. 
 
 Madame Darmentiere had been at her country- 
 liouse for a fortnight, but she spent nearly all her 
 time at Madame de Stainville's, when one afternoon 
 they were all in the garden, the ladies occupied with 
 their embroidery whilst d'Aubigny and Daulay were 
 vying with each other in paying them attentions and 
 Bellepeche was admiring his left leg, when the gar- 
 dener brought his mistress a letter which had been 
 forwarded on to her from her Paris address. She 
 looked at the writing and tried to recall it, and then 
 saying : — " Will you allow me ? " she broke the seal 
 and began to read it, but almost immediately she 
 uttered such a loud exclamation of surprise that they 
 could not avoid asking her what it was. — "Really 
 gentlemen you are very curious ! " Madame Dar- 
 mentiere said, " and our hostess will be showing you 
 far too much kindness if she replies to all your 
 questions." — "I will do so however, and you will see 
 whether its contents do not give scope for all sorts of 
 conjectures. First of all, I must tell you that the letter 
 is from one of my oldest friends, the Duchess de 
 Valousky..,I do not know whether you ever heard 
 me mention her ? " — " Did not she stay at the inn in 
 the village and have the room where we dined? " 
 Daulay asked. — " Just so. She was as witty as she 
 was pretty, and although at first fortune treated her 
 very badly, fifteen years ago she inherited a con- 
 siderable fortune and since then she has been almost 
 constantly travelling. She has been a widow for a 
 long time, for she lost her husband when she was 
 twenty and now she must be more than twice that 
 :2igz. But now listen to what she says : — 
 
 "My Dear Friend, 
 It is so long since I wrote to you, that perhaps 
 you think I am dead; one thing is certain, that 
 
70 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 nobody thinks of me, for the absent are soon for- 
 gotten in Paris. I am rather vexed with you be- 
 cause yon have left several of my letters un- 
 answered, but my anger w T ill not hold out against 
 my wish to see my old friend. I have been tra- 
 velling a great deal ; I even managed to amuse 
 myself in Englandj to laugh, in Germany, and to 
 like Russia, but I am thinking of returning to- 
 France, for after all it is my native country, al- 
 though I have a Polish name. I intend to spend 
 some mouths in Italy and to see Rome, Florence,. 
 Genoa et coetera, and then I shall return to Paris 
 and probably not leave it again, as I am now rich 
 enough to live there according to my tastes and 
 fancies...' 
 
 " Now we come to the most interesting part," 
 Madame de Stainville said, glancing at her audience, 
 who had been quite unable to find anything surpris- 
 ing in the letter. 
 
 " I have been told that you possess a country 
 house in the neighbourhood of Nantes and of La 
 Roche-Guyon, and when I return to France, I 
 shall immediately come into that part, where im- 
 portant business calls me. I was in that neigh- 
 bourhood seventeen or eighteen years ago, and 
 i stopped in the village of Vethenil, where I 
 stayed at an inn called the " Swan," if I remem- 
 ber/' 
 
 " Certainly, Master Gobinard has not deceived 
 us ! " Daulay exclaimed. 
 
 " I must go to that inn first of all, because I 
 left the object of my fondest affections there... 
 and which it grieved me very much to leave be- 
 hind me then ! I ask myself every day, whether 
 1 shall find it on my return to France... and the 
 hope makes my heart beat. But the landlady 
 was a very worthy woman, so I hope that she 
 merited the confidence I placed in her, and that 
 when I go to the inn my wishes will be fulfilled. 
 All this will appear unintelligible to you, my dear 
 friend, but I wril explain it all to you when we 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 71 
 
 meet. Adieu. In five or six days I shall hope to 
 be with you, and I hope then you will approve of 
 my prudent conduct. Your friend, 
 
 Herminie, 
 Duchess de Valousky." 
 
 They all looked at each other, and Madame de 
 "Stainville exclaimed: — " Well, gentlemen! What 
 do you think of this letter ?..." — "It is a very pe- 
 culiar one," Daulay replied. — " Most mysterious ; " 
 Bellepeche said. — " It seems quite clear to me," 
 d'Aubigny continued, " that Madame Valousky left 
 something at the inn." — " There can be no doubt of 
 that; but what can be that object of her fondest affec- 
 tions, which it grieved her very much to leave be- 
 hind her ? for that is what she says." — " Those last 
 words are very tender, certainly," Madame Dar- 
 mentiere said, " and it almost seems as if she were 
 referring to some person who was dear to her. ..but a 
 person... that would be known... and the woman who 
 keeps the inn is certain to have spoken about it a 
 long time ago." — " That woman died years since, 
 and her husband keeps the inn, but he was absent 
 when the Duchess de Valousky stayed there; he 
 himself told us so a short time aga." — " But," 
 Bellepeche added, " he did not say that the duchess 
 left anything mysterious behind her... The whole 
 business is very complicated." — " Perhaps," Madame 
 -de Stainville said, " the object of her fondest affec- 
 tions, which she hopes to find on her return. ..The 
 more I think of it. ..But I think I see it!..."— "I will 
 lay a wager that I can guess what you think," Dau- 
 lay cried, " and that we both have the same idea ;... 
 that girl who was abandoned... whose parents no- 
 body knew. ..that little Marie..."— " Exactly !..."— 
 u Upon my word, I cannot understand it at all," 
 Bellepeche said. — " I can understand it perfectly," 
 Madame Darmentiere said, " but I cannot under- 
 stand how a mother could deprive herself for so long 
 of a child whom she must naturally love." — "There 
 may have been some important family reason... you 
 know she was a widow at that time, and would not 
 dare to mention her frailty... Then we have the terms 
 
J2 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 of her letter : — / hope that then you will approve of 
 my prudent conduct .. .There must have been some 
 strong motive, and you see how everything agrees with 
 our conjectures. .." — "Yes," the count observed, "but,, 
 after all, these are mere probabilities..." — "Which 
 seem to me very clear proofs," Daulay interrupted 
 him ; " and then, in order to make more certain 
 whether the dates agree, we need only go to the inn 
 and ask Gobinard." 
 
 " As for me," Madame de Stainvil.le continued, " I 
 must confess that I am burning to get hold of the 
 mystery... I should not sleep all night if I were 
 obliged to remain in this state of uncertainty... Can 
 Marie possibly be the natural daughter of my old 
 friend the Duchess de Valousky?" — " Of a woman 
 with an income of at least sixty thousand francs* a 
 year." — " Ah ! then little Marie is the thing... the ob- 
 ject... the packet which the duchess left at the inn," 
 Sellepeche said, who was just beginning to compre- 
 hend. — " The packet ! " Madame de Stainville ex- 
 claimed, shrugging her shoulders ; " please read 
 the letter over again, Monsieur, and see whether 
 there is any mention of a packet ! It is : — The object 
 of her fondest affections." — " So it is. But then,, 
 she may, say on her return from Switzerland...! 
 think you said she was in Switzerland at this mo- 
 ment, and she will have ascended the Rigi, like I 
 said.. .with an Alpenstock." — " Oh ! I cannot endure 
 it any longer !" Madame de Stainville said, getting 
 up, ■' and if you will be kind enough to come with us. 
 ...it is not late. ..and we will start immediately to 
 drive to the inn..." — "Bravo! A capital idea!" 
 Daulay exclaimed. — "Will you come, Madame Dar- 
 mentiere ? " — " Willingly ; you know I am always, 
 ready to do anything that people like. Besides, I 
 shall have the pleasure of seeing little Marie, of 
 whom I have heard so much, and whom I am verjr 
 curious to see." — " You will see a very pretty young 
 person ! " Madame de Stainville said. " A charming 
 face ! " Daulay added, " and then she is so graceful. 
 
 £2,400 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 73 
 
 It is quite evident that she was not born to the 
 station in life in which she now is." — Madame Dar- 
 mentiere said nothing, but she and d'Aubigny 
 looked at each other, and they exchanged a smile 
 which showed that they were both thinking of the 
 rsame thing at that moment. 
 
 They were all soon ready, and during their im- 
 promptu drive they spoke 01 nothing but Marie and 
 the Duchess de Valousky, and Madame de Stainville 
 ^remembered that her old friend had had an unhappy 
 love affair in her youth. 
 
 " Every woman has had at least one single pas- 
 sion ;" d'Aubigny said, with a smile, "and it would 
 have been very surprising if the beautiful duchess 
 had been an exception... From what I have heard you 
 say, I think that the Duchess de Valousky did not 
 confine herself to a single attachment... " — " Oh ; my 
 dear count, you are always so unkind;... you think 
 -very badly of our sex ; "Madame de Stainville replied, 
 ^very affectedly. — " On the contrary, 1 think very well 
 •of them, and that is why I think that a pretty wo- 
 man has most likely inspired more than one pas- 
 sion." — " We are digressing from the question," 
 Daulay said, " what we want to know is, whether 
 there was any issue of the Duchess de Valousky' s 
 marriage ? " — " No, she never had any children." — 
 " What a change for her, and how unfortunate that 
 -she has not married some boor..." 
 
 Gobinard was sitting in front of the house, for 
 whilst waiting for Gaspard and Martineau, with 
 whom he used to empty a few bottles every evening, 
 the inn-keeper was enjoying the fresh air, looking 
 up and down the road. — A little distance of, Petit- 
 Jean was washing out bottles, which he afterwards 
 ranged symmetrically in front of the house, ready to 
 be carried into the cellar, and Marie was in the lower 
 room arranging linen. She seemed to do her work 
 without dislike ; her cheeks were fresh and rosy, her 
 -eyes gentle, and her mouth smiling ; nevertheless, 
 .anybody who had looked at her attentively, would 
 have noticed that a feeling of sadness was hidden be- 
 neath her calm and indifferent manner. Suddenly 
 
74 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 Gobinard uttered an exclamation of pleasure ; 
 Marie ran to the door, and Petit-Jean suspended 
 his work. 
 
 " It is she... I can recognise her;" the landlord 
 said, looking down the road. — " Who is it ? ' 
 Marie asked. — " Yes, yes, it is she. ..it is Madame de 
 Stainville's carriage...'^— "So it is... it is the same 
 carriage as the other day... and there are a number of 
 people in it; I can distinguish ladies and gentle- 
 men." — " I suppose they are coming to have supper 
 here. Petit-Jean, I forbid you, unless you want to- 
 have a dozen kicks, you know where, to touch the 
 slightest thing in the kitchen." — " All right, master, 
 I will see the roasts burn, I will see a chicken turn 
 a cinder before I will touch a thing." — " They are- 
 certainly coming to have supper here... I will surpass 
 myself... Petit-Jean, run into the kitchen and light 
 all the stoves..." — "But you told me not to touch- 
 anything..." — "Light all the fires, you young fool!... 
 Here they are... Bow to them, Marie. ..Oh! Lord; 
 and all the bottles blocking up the door- way... Petit- 
 Jean; Petit-Jean, take the bottles away. ..and the 
 pails. ..and the water. ..you must not leave them in 
 front of the house like that. Marie, dust the dining- 
 room, whilst I go and put on a clean jacket. 
 
 Before doing anything else, however, Marie went 
 and looked at herself in the glass, and put her cap 
 straight, whilst the scullion carried as many bottles 
 as he could manage, and when they knocked together 
 he said : — If they get cracked, so much the worse.. - 
 Why does he hurry me like that ? " 
 
 Marie had arranged her eap and dress, Gobinard 
 had put on his clean jacket, the bottles were out of 
 the way, when the carriage drove up, and, as soon as 
 it had stopped, d'Aubigny assisted Madame Dar- 
 rnentiere out, whilst Daulay did the same for Madame 
 de Stainville, who immediately ran up. to the girl, 
 drew her to herself, and exclaimed, as she kissed 
 her: — " How are you, my dear Marie ?... This is the 
 charming girl whom I have spoken about so often to< 
 you, Madame Darmentiere...Do you think my 
 praise was excessive ? " — " The young lady is very 
 nice," Madame Darmentiere replied, looking at the- 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 75 
 
 rgirl. — "Allow me to offer you my respects, Made- 
 moiselle Marie/' Daulay said, bowing very politely 
 to the girl.— -" I beg you will accept the expression 
 of my devotion," Bellepeche said respectfully, w T hilst 
 Mane, who was utterly confused at finding herself 
 the object of so much attention, bowed to the right 
 and left, whilst she looked at them all to see whether 
 they were not making fun of her. But when she 
 turned to d'Aubigny, who was the only one who 
 maintained the same manner towards her as formerly, 
 he merely said to her : — " Good-day, Marie, good- 
 day, my pretty child." 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen/' Gobinard said, coming 
 up to them with his cotton cap in his hand, " I will 
 :get you a supper which, I hope, will make you for- 
 get my scullion's stupidity, for, of course, you know 
 that my fillets of sole..." 
 
 ' Yes, yes, Gobinard, we know all about that, and 
 we are sure that you are an excellent cook," Madame 
 de Stainville said, " but we are not thinking about 
 supper just now... We want to speak to you alone; 
 Marie, remain where you are ; we shall come back 
 very soon." — Gobinard opened his eyes wide, for he 
 was as much surprised as Marie was ; however, he 
 -made haste upstairs, as he was very curious to know 
 what they could have to say to him in secret. As 
 for Marie, she remained in the dining-room in a state 
 of great anxiety, and very impatient to know what it 
 all could mean. — When they were all in the room on 
 the first floor, the ladies sat down, and Gobinard 
 waited to hear what they had to say to him. Ma- 
 dame de Stainville was spokeswoman, and in her 
 hand she held the Duchess de Valousky's letter. — 
 " My dear Gobinard," she said, " seventeen and a 
 half years ago, the Duchess de Valousky stayed 
 here, I think ? "—" Yes, madame, I can certify to 
 the truth of that, for she slept in this very room." — 
 ' We are quite aware of that, but where were you 
 at that time ? " — " In Guadeloupe, to receive a 
 legacy, and my wife looked after the business during 
 my absence../' 
 
 " And when you came back, when speaking to you 
 of the duchess, did your wife mention something 
 
76 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 very precious which she had secretly confided to her 
 care ? Answer us frankly, Gobinard ; this letter 
 which I have just received from my friend Herminie 
 de Valousky, will show you that we possess her con- 
 fidence, and that you need not be afraid of telling us 
 everything." — "Upon my word, madame," Gobinard 
 said, looking much surprised, " I declare to you that 
 this is the first time that I heard that the duchess 
 left anything valuable here. 1 must ask you to be- 
 lieve that we are honest people, and that If anything,, 
 even of the smallest value, should be left here by acci- 
 dent, it would certainly be restored to the owner.' 7 
 ~"\Ve have not the slightest doubt about yourhonesty 
 ...I see that you were not in the secret... Now, listen to 
 this letter, which the duchess wrote to me, and weigh 
 each word carefully." 
 
 Madame de Stainville read the letter to the inn- 
 keeper, who was all ears, but when she had finished, 
 he exclained : — " It is no good for me to puzzle my 
 brains about it, for I do not understand a word of 
 it : — An object which is previous to me... My wife,... 
 merited the confidence which she placed in her... 
 May the devil take me it I can make it all out." — 
 " Perhaps you will soon understand now." Daulay 
 said. " When you returned from your long voyage, 
 what addition did you find to your household? " — ■ 
 "What did I find?. ..Why the house was just the 
 same... Oh, yes, I had forgotton it, I found little 
 Marie... who was then at most a year old. ..and of 
 whom my wife had taken charge." — " And who had 
 intrusted this child to your wife's care ? " — " Who ? 
 Upon my word. ..Mv wife told me that..." — And the 
 landlord stopped as if struck by a sudden idea, and 
 looking at all the assembled party, he exclaimed : — - 
 "Ah, good heavens!... Is it possible? ...Do you 
 mean that little Marie is that unknown child?..." — 
 " There, you understand now? " Madame de Stain- 
 ville said. — "Oh; but... I cannot get over it... How, 
 Marie. ..I don't know where I am ;..." — " Come ? 
 Gobinard, calm yourself and try and remember al 
 that your wife told you at the time." — "Yes, m - 
 dame... yes... She told me that a poor woman came 
 here with the child... and that she gave her Marie... 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 77 
 
 and left her a bag with six hundred francs in it..." — 
 "Six hundred francs ... A poor woman;" Daulay 
 said. "You see how unlikely it all is..." — " Yes, it 
 is not very probable... and I must confess that it 
 seemed very strange to me at the time." — " Did she 
 tell you the name of the woman who had intrusted 
 the child to her care ? " — " She did not know it 
 herself... but every time I mentioned it, she seemed 
 embarrassed and changed the conversation... But she 
 always had the greatest affection for the child and: 
 refused her nothing; she bought everything that 
 she seemed to wish for." 
 
 ft It is very probable," Bellepeche said, " that the 
 duchess left a large sum with your wife in order 
 that she might take great care of the child, and that 
 she mentioned six hundred francs so as not to 
 arouse your suspicions." — " Do you mean to say 
 that Marie is the daughter of a duchess, and that I 
 have made her wash the salad and chop parsley; "— " Be 
 calm, Gobinard, and in order to set our doubts at 
 rest tell* us whether you have not a maid or a man 
 who was employed here when these things took 
 pi.- ce. If it was any other woman than the duchess 
 who orought Marie here, she must have seen, for 
 she could not have made herself and her child invisi- 
 ble;..." — "Wait a moment... there is some one* 
 though the only servant we had then is dead... But 
 Gaspard who used to work in my garden and have 
 all his meals here, is the only person who could 
 clear this matter up..." — "Gaspard, the man who 
 sells plums ? " the count said with a smile..." Well, 
 we happen to have the honour of being amongst his 
 acquaintances." — "Ah; he is a joker, who is no 
 fool ; " the inn-kheper went on, ■" but it is as difficult 
 sometimes to get words out of him as if it were 
 pence." — " And where is this man ?... Cannot we see 
 him ? " Madame de Stainville asked.—" Oh ! there 
 is no difficulty about that for he comes every even- 
 ing. Perhaps he is already here and sitting down- 
 stairs." — And Gobinard opened the door, went to the 
 top of the stairs and called out in a stentorian 
 voice : — " Gaspard, are you there ? " — " Yes, here I 
 am," replied a gruff voice, which they had no diffi- 
 
78 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 culty in recognising. — "Very well then, come up 
 here, come immediately ; somebody wants to speak 
 to you ;" and in a few moments they heard the peas- 
 ant's heavy wooden shoes on the stairs. 
 
 " Come in, come in Monsieur Gaspard," Daulay 
 said, for the first time putting on a polite manner 
 towards the peasant. — " Do you want me ? " he 
 asked looking at them all. — " Yes, my good man," 
 Madame de Stainville replied, " we wish to obtain 
 -some important information from you." — "It is 
 .about Marie/' Gobinard explained, " about poor 
 Marie... who is a grand lady it seems... We have dis- 
 covered the secret;..." — "What the devil are you 
 talking about ? " Gaspard replied, looking at the 
 landlord in astonishment. — " Master Gobinard allow 
 me to explain the matter to this honest fellow," Ma- 
 dame de Stainville interposed ; " I only ask him to 
 listen to me attentively for a few minutes." — " Oh ! 
 .as attentively as you please ; that costs nothing." 
 — " Were you not working here whilst Monsieui 
 Gobinard was in America?" — "Yes;... I worked in 
 the garden every day for a month or six weeks."— 
 - Were you here when a lady who was called the 
 Duchess of Valousky stayed here for some time ?' 
 - — " Yes. ..yes.. .1 was here then. I remember your 
 duchess. She was a woman who was all bedizend and 
 foppish... but very pretty all the same!..." — "Very 
 well ; The duchess was ill whilst she was staying 
 here, I believe... Do you know what was the matter 
 with her ? " — " I know nothing about it, I am not a 
 medical man." — " She remained here for some 
 days?" — "Well; yes, she did." — "Who looked 
 after her?" — "The landlord's wife, Madame Go- 
 binard, was the only person who went into her 
 room." — " And had Mane, who came nobody knows 
 how, been brought here previously to the arrival of 
 the duchess ?" — " No, no," he said after some hesita- 
 tion ; " little Marie was not here then." 
 
 "There is no longer any doubt ! " Daulay cried ; 
 "she is the duchess' daughter." — " She is a duchess? 
 ,.. Marie is a princess!" Gobinard shouted, throw- 
 ing his cap up to the ceiling. — " What !... Marie ?... 
 J don't understand it all," Gaspard said. " What 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 79 
 
 makes you think that the child whose parents no- 
 body knew is the daughter of that great lady ? " — - 
 u This letter," Madame de Stainville said. " Listers 
 and I will read it to you." — Gaspard listened very at- 
 tentively whilst it was being read, and his looks 
 betokened the interest that he took in it. — When 
 Madame de Stainville had finished, Daulay went 
 and clapped Gaspard on the shoulder and said :— 
 11 Well, do you think there is any doubt as to what 
 this object of her fondest affections was, which the 
 duchess left here ? '■ — Gaspard thought for a moment 
 and then said : — " It is very funny all the same., 
 though, of course, Marie must be somebody's child ; 
 but where is the duchess who wrote to you ? " — " In 
 Italy still, but she will be back in a few months... 
 She longs to see her child and to take her in her 
 arms, of course, and so do I, now that there is no 
 longer any doubt... Come, gentlemen,|let us go to this 
 dear child, whom we will take away with us at once, 
 for of course she cannot remain here any longer as a 
 servant. You have been most kind to her, and the 
 duchess shall certainly be told all that, and on her 
 return she will be sure to recompense you. magnifi- 
 cently." — " Ah, ah ! ■" Gobinard said, whose nostrils 
 were swelling with pride and avarice, "you think 
 I shall be magnificently rewarded by this duchess 
 whom I do not know ? " — " Well," Gaspard said, " it 
 may happen to you, for more extraordinary things 
 have happened." — "Well, this is a devilishly extra- 
 Ordinary adventure, certainly ! " the count said 
 laughing. " What do you think of it, Madame ? " 
 
 This question was addressed to Madame Darmen- 
 tiere, who had taken no part in the conversation, 
 but had been a simple listener. — " What do I think ? 
 Well, it is like a romance. .Of course, I cannot but 
 approve of all that Madame de Stainville intends 
 to do for Marie, though it seems to me that if the 
 duchess left her child (always supposing that Marie 
 is her child), in this inn, it was because she thought 
 she was being well looked after, and happy here,! " 
 — " I have no doubt that Marie is a natural daughter 
 of my friend's... a child that she will recognise or 
 adopt on her return, and she will be very grateful 
 
$0 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 to me tor having Marie under my charge, so as to 
 fit her for her station. Of course, I shall not intro- 
 duce her into society as the duchess' daughter... this 
 secret must remain amongst ourselves, and I count 
 •on you gentlemen." — " We will all be mute ! " Dau- 
 lay said. — " Gobinard, you will be discreet until the 
 -duchess returns ! " — " You may be easy on that 
 score, Madame... I understand the importance... and 
 then Gaspard knows me, and..." — "He!" Gagpard 
 said, " why, he is the town crier, and takes the place 
 of the penny post." — "Well, gentlemen, we have 
 discussed this matter enough, so now let us find 
 Marie." 
 
 Madame de Stainville and her guest went down 
 into the large room where they had left Marie, who 
 was trying to guess what they could have to say to 
 Gobinard, and why they had all got so fond of hei 
 suddenly, but her astonishment was immensly in- 
 creased when Madame de Stainville returned, took 
 her into her arms, and called her by the most tender 
 names. Monsieur Daulay seemed to look at her 
 with ecstacy, Monsieur Bellepeche took out his 
 pocket handkerchief, and applied it to his eyes, and 
 Gobinard went up to her most respectfully, with his 
 white linen cap in his hand. — " What is the meaning 
 of all this ? " Marie said, in some agitation. — " My 
 ■dear child/' Madame de Stainville replied, " I have 
 discovered the secret of your birth ; I know your 
 mother, though I must not at present tell you who 
 she is, but she is rich and the possessor of a great 
 name, and so I am going to take you with me until 
 her return, and to treat you as my own daughter... 
 as my friend, I intended to say, and to malce you 
 worthy of the position that awaits you. So now, 
 •say good-bye to this good Monsieur Gobinard, who 
 has been so kind to you without knowing the secret 
 of your birth, and come with us. We shall have to 
 pack rather tightly in my carriage, but there will 
 always be room for you wherever 1 am." — "Oh! 
 Madame, howkind you are... but I am not ready... will 
 you allow me to go and get my things together... I 
 shall not be long." — " You need not do that, for you 
 must have all new things suitable to your change of 
 
 F 
 
AND A GRAND. DISCOVERY. 8l 
 
 position."— " Oh ! very well, Madame ; I am ready 
 whenever you wish to start." 
 
 She went to the door, and was about to jump into 
 the carriage without saying good-bye to Gobinard, 
 who was standing cap in hand, as if expecting a 
 friendly word from her. "Well, Marie, are you not 
 going to take leave of kind Monsieur Gobinard ? " 
 Madame de Stainville said, checking her. — " Oh ! 
 she is just about as grateful as a cat!" Gaspard 
 growled, playing with his knife. — " Oh ! I beg 
 your pardon, Madame... You are right, but I am so 
 excited... Good-bye, Monsieur Gobinard..." — "My 
 dear Marie... Miss, I meant to say... I am certainly 
 very much flattered ... If I had known ... I should not have 
 employed you in rough work, as I have sometimes 
 done... But I hope, Mademoiselle Marie, that you will 
 not altogether forget us..." 
 
 He seemed as if he were about to kiss her, but re- 
 collecting himself, he only took her hand, which he 
 kissed, which Marie allowed him to do, as if she 
 were used to it. — " How the girl already asserts her 
 dignity ! " Daulay said. "She will soon fall into the 
 manners of society." — " She will make a very pretty 
 like little duchess," Bellpeche observed. — "Come, 
 .gentlemen, let us start." 
 
 At these words they took their places, and Marie 
 nodded to Gobinard again, but when she saw Gas- 
 pard looking at her in a mocking manner, as usual, 
 ■she turned her head away, for she felt vexed because 
 he showed no respect for her change of fortune. — 
 The coachman whipped up his horses, and the inn- 
 keeper watched the carriage as long as he could see 
 it, and then returned to the inn, and throwing him- 
 self into a chairj he exclaimed :— " Oh ! who could 
 ever have imagined such a thing ? Oh ! Good 
 Lord ! "— " What is the matter ? Don't you feel 
 well? " Gaspard asked. — " No... I must confess that 
 this business has upset me... and then ... to see the 
 girl whom I looked upon as my own child, whom I 
 have seen grow up beneath my own eyes... to see her 
 .go away so suddenly... it..." — And Gobinard took 
 out his pocket handkerchief and passed it over his 
 eyes. 
 
$2 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 
 
 "Surely you are not going to cry?... Mane did not 
 cry when she left you ; she did not show the sligh- 
 test regret at going." — " No, that is true !...but the- 
 sudden change from servant at an inn to a grand 
 lady, is enough to turn the head of any girl !" — 
 "When anyone's head is turned so quickly, the- 
 heart is not very heavy, and she took no more notice 
 of you than if you were a worthless bundle. I am- 
 only a peasant. ..a great lout, according to Mar- 
 tineau...but I think that in this world we ought to- 
 love those who love us ; no difficult matter, either. 
 Here, let us have another bottle, that will blow away 
 the clouds." — "You are right, and then, perhaps, as- 
 Madame de Stainville said, I shall be handsomely- 
 rewarded." — At that moment Martineau came in, 
 and Gobinard immediately told him the great news, 
 "I thought she told you to keep it a secret." Gas- 
 pard said. — " From strangers, yes ; but it is different 
 with Monsieur Martineau... Yes, she has gone, and 
 with such grand people. ..Oh ! Martineau, what an 
 event!" — What '....Are you speaking seriously ? " 
 the professor asked. " Marie... your servant.. .Go 
 along, you are joking, surely ? " 
 
 Thereupon, of course, Gobinard told him all that had 
 happened, and added that some day Marie would have- 
 an income of a million francs # a year. Monsieur 
 Martineau listened with the greatest attention, and 
 when he saw that it was real, and that Marie's 
 mother would soon recognise her, the professor 
 stamped on the floor in despair and pulled at his 
 hair, exclaiming : .-— " Oh ! what an unfortunate 
 wretch I am ;...What a fool !...A duchess !...And to 
 think that I refused to marry her!" — "That is- 
 nice," Gaspard said, shouting with laughter. " You 
 yourself would be neither more nor less than a 
 duke ! That will teach you not to put too high a. 
 value upon yourself ! " — "Ah, how very fortunate it 
 is that she refused you ! " Gobinard observed. " I 
 should have given you the Duchess of Valousky's 
 daughter, and when her noble mother come to claim 
 
 £40,000. 
 
AND A GRAND DISCOVERY. 83 
 
 her, she would have found her a school-mistress ;... I 
 should have hanged myself in despair." 
 
 "What do you mean, Master Gobinard?...I think 
 you are very rude;... Is an alliance with me to be 
 despised? "— " An alliance with you ;...By George ! 
 You are a respectable man, I know that, but you are 
 not worthy of a duchess." — "I am worthy of, I am 
 worthy of . . .You are most impertinent and insulting to . 
 Hie;..." — " You are a fool, and don't know what you 
 are' talking about" — " And you don't know what 
 you are doing. When a man has a duchess in his 
 house he ought to know it, and not make her wash 
 up dirty dishes." — "Hold your tongue, Monsieur 
 Martineau, or I shall forget myself and say some- 
 thing you will not like. ..."—" Come, come;" Gas- 
 pard said, getting between the two men, " is pot that 
 enough?... You nearly fought about Marie once 
 before ...whom you, Martineau, refused to marry, 
 and now you want to fight because you are 
 angry at having refused her. Fancy two old friends 
 quarrelling about a little girl who has already for- 
 gotten this village. ...Whether she be a duchess, a 
 princess or a servant at a inn... let her go her way. 
 She would not have gone with any of us... and so 
 good-bye and good luck to you — We shall see the 
 sequel. Here are three full glasses, so let us drink... 
 and by George, if you will not hob and nob together, 
 I shall get angry as well." 
 
 The inn-keeper and the professor, who had grown 
 somewhat calmer, slowly put out their hands for the 
 glasses which he offered them, and when they had 
 taken them they touched glasses with Gaspard, but 
 without raising their eyes. — " Marie's good health ;" 
 -the landlord said, in a voice full of emotion. — " No, 
 no ; Pierre's good health first of all," Gaspard cried, 
 raising his glass. " The health of the poor fellow 
 who was in love with Marie, and who enlisted be- 
 cause she would have nothing to say to him..." — "if 
 is very lucky, as it is ; " the landlord said, but in 
 such a low tone of voice that nobody could hear him. 
 After several bumpers the quarrel seemed over, and 
 the professor clinked his glass against Gaspard's, 
 -but the sitting did not last long, for all the three 
 
84 A NEW POSITION, 
 
 men were too much preoccupied by the events of 
 the day to be inclined to talk. — Gaspard returned 
 home, and Monsieur Martineau also went to his 
 modest abode, but on this occasion he sighed as he 
 went, and from time to time he murmured: — 
 
 Yes, Lamoignon, I flee the pleasures of the town. 
 
 But he interrupted himself by saying : — " What a 
 pity I ! I should have had a little duchess for my 
 wife.'' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A NEW POSITION.— FRESH SEDUCTION, 
 
 When Marie arrived at Madame de Stainville's it 
 was already late, so she was not to alter her dress 
 till the next day. She had a pretty room which a 
 fashionable lady would have thought contained the 
 merest necessaries, but which appeared a sumptuous- 
 palace to her. The change in her position was so 
 great and so unexpected, that as she was undressing 
 in order to get into her soft bed with its silk and 
 muslin curtains, Marie exclaimed : — Oh ! If I am 
 only dreaming, I hope I may never wake again ! " 
 
 When she saw some dresses of Madame de Stain- 
 ville's by her bed side, next morning, which only 
 required very little alteration, she found it was no- 
 dream, and soon the lady's maid came to help her 
 to dress, and to try on the dresses, and one was soon 
 made to fit her perfectiy." — " I look very nice in- 
 deed ! " Marie said to herself, as she looked in the 
 glass, but then her hair had to be fashionably dressed 
 as well, and as she had beautiful hair, the maid as- 
 sured her that it was a real pleasure^ to arrange it 
 becomingly. — When Madame de Stainville came in 
 to kiss her new protegee, Marie said to her as she 
 kissed her hand. — " Ah ! madame, how kind you 
 
FRESH SEDUCTION. 85 
 
 are!. ..Such beautiful things for me" — "What are 
 you doing Marie ? I cannot allow such marks of 
 respect, but I require your love and confidence. 
 These dresses are only a make-shift until the dress- 
 maker brings you some new ones ... But you look 
 very nice, and in a week you will be quite at your 
 ease in your new position. But come, I must in- 
 troduce you to the gentlemen, for I am sure they 
 will think you charming." 
 
 Daulay and Bellepeche were in the drawing-room^ 
 and when they saw Marie they uttered a cry of ad- 
 miration. — " You are adorable ! divine-! " the latter 
 exclaimed. — " You look charming in your new 
 toilette," said Daulay, moderating his admiration, 
 because he saw that Madame de Stainville was look- 
 ing at him. — " Charming ! Rather say ravishing ! " 
 the old bachelor continued, " and one really might 
 fancy that you had been wearing such dresses all 
 your life ... You are so graceful ... so easy..." — Just 
 then, on the contrary, Marie felt very awkward, and 
 did not know what to do with her arms. — " Under 
 your tuition, Madame," Daulay said, "Mademoiselle 
 Marie cannot fail to become perfect..." — " I am 
 afraid you are a terrible flatterer ! " — " I think," 
 Bellepeche continued, " that in her features and in 
 her looks... in her nose... there is something which 
 denotes her illustrious origin... she has noble blood 
 in her veins !...that can never be lost... I have obser- 
 ved that very closely ! " 
 
 Marie only bowed rather awkwardly, and made no 
 reply to all the compliments that were paid her, and 
 it seemed as if they were looking for someone who 
 was not present, but soon d'Aubigny's arrival in- 
 terrupted their conversation, which had turned chiefly 
 on her education, not, however, before Daulay had ex- 
 pressed a wish to instruct her in something that he un- 
 derstood very well. As soon as d'Aubigny saw her, he 
 exclaimed: — "Very nice, upon my word!. ..Who would 
 recognize the little servant at the inn in her ? " — 
 " Oh ! my dear count," Madame de Stainville said, 
 " that is one of those things of which it is useless to 
 remind Marie ! " — '* One might even say that it is 
 unbecoming," Bellepeche said, in a low voice. — 
 
$6 A NEW POSITION. 
 
 "Why, pray?" d'Aubigny asked. "Is it Marie's... 
 I mean, is it this young lady's fault that her parents 
 have left her in a village inn up to the present time ? 
 J must acknowledge that I am selfish enough, when 
 I see how charming she is, to regret, occasionally, 
 the pleasant liberties which it was allowable to take 
 with a mere peasant girl... and which must give place 
 to the greatest respect for the young lady." — " Be 
 quiet, d'Aubigny, you think of nothing but bad 
 things ! " Madame de Stainville said, with a smile. 
 —"I beg your pardon, but, on the contrary, I think of 
 very nice things ! " 
 
 During this dialogue Marie had modestly kept her 
 eyes on the ground ; but now, when she looked at 
 the count, their gentle expression seemed to say to 
 him that the young lady was quite ready to tolerate 
 the same liberties as the peasant girl. 
 
 During the first few days they were all attentive 
 to Marie, and Madame de Stainville taught her how 
 to hold herself, behave, speak and reply in a drawing- 
 room, and Marie quickly learnt all these important 
 trifles, so that Madame de Stainville's prognosti- 
 cations were realized, and within a week she knew 
 perfectly how to behave, and come into and go out 
 of a drawing-room. 
 
 Bellepeche was constantly praising her and paying 
 her compliments, but his assiduous attentions had 
 quite a contrary effect on the girl to what her suitor 
 hoped ; she grew tired of his talk, and his continual 
 presence worried her. She was vexed when he 
 offered her his arm, but she did not dare to refuse, 
 and she soon felt something very like aversion to 
 him, and his continual talk made her pay very dear- 
 ly for the advantages of her new position. 
 
 Daulay did not pay her nearly so much attention, 
 for, from the first, he had noticed that scrutinizing 
 eyes watched his, noticed his slightest movements, 
 and spied out all his actions, but whilst he tried to 
 set Madame de Stainville's jealousy at rest, he was 
 far from giving up the hope of pleasing the girl ; on 
 the contrary, he had formed a plan which he decided 
 to put into execution. To possess a pretty girl, to' 
 become the husband of a rich heiress, and so shake 
 
FRESH SEDUCTION. 87 
 
 off a heavy yoke, to change a wearying, monotonous 
 life for one that would be pleasant and fortunate, 
 that was the end which Daulay had in view. But in 
 order to attain it, he knew that he must act prudent- 
 ly, and not let his designs appear, and when ne spoke 
 to her, and freed her from the importunities of Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche, she always greeted him with an 
 amiable smile, and the young man might have flat- 
 tered himself that he had made an impression on 
 Marie, if he had not not noticed her emotion and 
 blushes when d'Aubigny went near her. 
 
 " The girl has a fondness for the count," Daulay 
 said to himself, "but luckily d'Aubigny, who is- 
 still in love with Madame Darmentiere, pays no at- 
 tention to Marie's looks and emotion. But he is- 
 taken up with another woman, and, then, rich Count 
 d'Aubigny would not think of marrying the daughter,, 
 legitimate or illegitimate, of Madame de Valousky,. 
 and, after all, her liking for him may only be a girl's- 
 passing fancy, and she will soon forget him when 
 once she is away from him, and I must try to manage- 
 this. I am beginning to get tired of taking the ten- 
 der Stainville out for walks, and if it costs all the 
 money I have left, I must try and marry Madame de 
 Valousky 's heiress." 
 
 Marie would have been very happy if d'Aubigny 
 had taken more notice of her, and spoken to her- 
 more tenderly, and, perhaps, also, if he had still J 
 treated her as the little servant at the inn. 
 
 The count, who was always amiable and in good 
 spirits, but quite indifferent towards Marie, never 
 showed any desire to talk alone with her for a mo- 
 ment, though several times she had given him oppor- 
 tunity for it. She soon, however, found out the 
 reason why he took so little notice of her; it was 
 quite simple, and was because he was continually 
 taken up with another woman. A man who was 
 used to those sort of things, as he was, could easily 
 have carried on two intrigues at once, and he might 
 have noticed Marie's tender glances if Madame Dar- 
 mentiere had already yielded to his desires ; but the 
 beautiful widow, whilst showing the count a little 
 less indifference, did not grant him any favours, and 
 
£8 A NEW POSITION. 
 
 he was more in love than he had ever been before, as 
 he was not accustomed to such resistance ; most like- 
 ly because the ladies on whom he he had previously 
 bestowed his homage, had never given him time to 
 be very much in love. 
 
 Marie noticed that d'Aubigny constantly sought 
 Madame Darmentiere's society, whilst she, though 
 rendering full justice to her attractions and freshness 
 had not shown any enthusiasm for Madame de Stain- 
 ville's new protegee. Marie could not deny that 
 Madame Darmentiere was beautiful, and yet she 
 tried to find some defects in her features, and then 
 she sighed when she noticed her graceful manners, 
 or when she heard her speak or sing, and she used to 
 say to herself :— " Oh ! dear ! I am still a long way 
 behind her." 
 
 Marie had been at Madame de Stainville's for six 
 weeks, and her kindness towards her had not altered, 
 for Daulay's behaviour had dissipated any fears 
 which the presence of a young and pretty girl might 
 have aroused, and Marie's new protectress was 
 already forming her plans for the winter. 
 
 "I intend to give you all the masters you may re- 
 quire in Paris, and as you are intelligent, you will, in a 
 short time, know enough to be able to go into so- 
 ciety... I shall introduce you as a young rela- 
 tion who has been entrusted to my care to introduce 
 into society, and take you to to concerts, balls and 
 theatres, and then, in a few months, when your mo- 
 ther returns to Paris, instead of finding the peasant 
 girl she expected, she will clasp a graceful and ac- 
 complished young lady into her arms!. ..Oh! how 
 pleased she will be, and how she will thank me for 
 what I have done for you."— " My mother is a 
 duchess?" — "Hush!. ..You must not mention that 
 aloud. ..It is still a secret... But I love you so much 
 that I cannot keep it from you ! " — " I will not say a 
 word, I promise you... A duchess... And shall I be a 
 duchess, also? "— " I presume so. ..at least. ..you are 
 a love-child... whom the duchess cannot acknowledge 
 ...But, even then, she can adopt you, and so leave 
 you all her property, which is considerable; more 
 
FRESH SEDUCTION, 89 
 
 than sixty thousand francs* a year." — " Oh ! that is 
 delightful !... Is Madame Darmentiere richer than 
 that? " — " Madame Darmentiere ?... Certainly not ; 
 she has not much more than fifteen thousand francsf" 
 — " And she is not a duchess, is she?" — " No, of 
 course not ; her family is noble, but her husband 
 was not. ..Why do you ask? " — " Oh ! nothing, ma- 
 dame... And are you really going to take me with you 
 to Paris ? " — " Of course I am, for I do not mean to 
 part from you now." — ■' Oh ! how glad I am ! " 
 
 And Marie kissed her protectress, and went into 
 the garden, saying to herself : — " I shall be a. 
 duchess, I shall be very rich... richer than that Dar- 
 mentiere lady... I think that the count will speak to 
 me as much as he does to her ! " 
 
 And she hastened into a shaded alley, for <?he had 
 just seen Bellepeche in the garden, and she did not 
 wish to hear him talk about Switzerland, nor to have 
 to listen to his deep sighs She walked quickly, the 
 garden was large, with shady walks and thickets,, 
 and it was easy to escape from importunate looks- 
 But she suddenly stopped, for she had just seen. 
 d'Aubigny sitting under a large lilac bush, with his. 
 writing tablets in his hand, and he was writing in 
 them so busily, that he had not heard Marie coming. 
 He had been writing for some minutes, when, on 
 looking up, he saw Marie's pretty face before him. 
 He made a movement of surprise, and, hastily put 
 his tablets into his pocket, exclaiming: — "What! 
 have you been there all the time, Mademoiselle 
 Marie?" — " Yes, monsieur." — "What have you been 
 doing ? " — " I ?.., Nothing... I was only watching you 
 writing." — "Was it only by accident ?... Does your 
 faithful Bellepeche happen to have the gout ? " — 
 " Oh ! no, monsieur... I have just seen him in the gar- 
 den, and to avoid him I came in this direction... He 
 bores me dreadfully." — " Ah ! So he bores you ?... 
 But yet he tells you how charming you are, and a 
 woman always likes to hear that." — " Oh ! that de- 
 pends upon who..." 
 
 » £2,400, about. t £600. 
 
«K> A NEW POSITION. 
 
 " Upon my word, this little girl is quite right ! " he 
 said to himself ; and then aloud : — " Oh ! I beg your 
 pardon, Mademoiselle Marie... I am forgetting the 
 change in your circumstances... I keep thinking that 
 I am talking to the girl at the inn... You must excuse 
 me... I am terribly absent-minded.'' — "I do not mind 
 it in the least, monsieur ; indeed, I wish... that peo- 
 ple would remember it oftener." — " It is very right 
 to feel like that, ifor it shows that you are not 
 .ashamed of w r hat you have been, and that you are 
 vain of your new positions..." — [' I did not mean 
 that, monsieur ...I meant to say that you. ..only... 
 you were much nicer when I was only a peasant 
 ^irl." 
 
 She sighed as she said this, and d'Aubigny was 
 .struck by her emotion, and for the first time he re- 
 membered many circumstances which agreed with 
 what he thought he guessed at that moment, and 
 taking her hand, he drew her close to him and said 
 kindly: — "What is the matter with you, Marie?... 
 How I vexed -you?... Perhaps you are thinking of 
 the foolish things! said to you when I thought you 
 were a servant -at: the inn, and you are angry. For- 
 get and be sure that I shall always respect Madame 
 de StainvilleV protegee." 
 
 She was sitting by his side, and her left hand in 
 Iris ; her heart was beating violently, but she did not 
 venture to look at him. He waited for her answer, 
 but she neither replied nor moved, for she felt so 
 happy thus that she would have liked to pass the 
 -whole day in that position. 
 
 " Well, Marie," he said, " you are not angry with 
 me any longer, are you ?.,." — She replied in a trem- 
 bling voice: — " I liked it much better when you spoke 
 .tome like you used|to do formerly... when you'told me... 
 lhatyou were madly in love with me..."— "Poor child! 
 Do you remember that? But you must remember that 
 jiow you are a great lady!..." — "But why should 
 you act differently now, since I allow you to say the 
 same things to me ? Ah !...I know very well what 
 your reason is... I know why you never speak to me 
 here!" — (< Ah ! you know so many things. ..Well 
 little Marie, let me hear what you know ! " 
 
FRESH SEDUCTION. 91 
 
 D'Aubigny still had hold of the girl's hand which 
 he was squeezing rather affectionately in his own, 
 and whether from habit or distraction, he had put 
 his arm round Marie's waist and was holding her 
 nearly as unceremoniously as if she were still a ser- 
 vant at the inn, when suddenly somebody who ap- 
 peared in front of the lilac bush made them hastily 
 change thier position. 
 
 Itwas Madame Darmentiere:... She had just arrived 
 at Madame de Stainville's and was walking about 
 the garden by herself. On seeing her the count quick- 
 ly let go of Marie's hand,-rose and went toward her. 
 — " Why should you disturb yourself monsieur? " 
 Madame Darmentiere said ironically. " You were 
 very comfortable by Mademoiselle Marie's side... I 
 should be very sorry to interrupt your conversa- 
 tion," — " Oh, madame," d' Aubigny said in some 
 confusion, "I hope that you do not think. ..you know 
 that you can never be in the way..." — " I think that 
 you were having a very interesting conversation 
 with this young lady... Perhaps you were giving her 
 a lesson in the proprieties and in good manners... 
 Oh ! I am quite sure that she will make rapid pro- 
 gress under your tuition." — " And why should he 
 not speak to me, madame ? " Marie said, trembling 
 with vexation and jealousy/' As I am — a duchess, I 
 do not think that anybody need be ashamed of talk- 
 ing to me. ..And you, madame, who appear so proud 
 ...and who will hardly look at me. ..you are not a 
 duchess at any rate..." — "This is really too funny!" 
 Madame Darmentiere said with a laugh. " So you 
 want to give me a lesson in good manners!"..." It is a 
 pity that your behaviour and manners still smack of 
 of the little servant." — "What you are saying is 
 very insulting... madame ! " the girl, who was chok- 
 ing with rage, replied. — " Hush, hush, Marie ! " the 
 count interposed; "you are insulting Madame 
 Darmentiere " And pray, madame excuse this 
 child... she does not yet know how to express herself 
 properly." — "Oh, with all my heart!" Madame 
 Darmentiere replied. " Poor girl ! her head has 
 been turned here... I only hope that she may 
 never regret the quiet home from which she was 
 
<^2 A NEW POSITION. 
 
 taken." — And with these words Madame Darmen- 
 tiere left her, and d'Aubigny immediately followed 
 her without deigning even to give Marie a look. 
 
 She remained where she was, sad and confused ; 
 stung by what Madame Darmentiere had said to 
 her, and more irritated than ever against her, be- 
 cause Monsieur d'Aubigny had left her for her pat- 
 roness. — " How tiresome ! " Marie said to herself, 
 u Monsieur was holding my hand... and his arm 
 round my waist... and he was getting almost as nice 
 as he used to be formerly, when she upset every- 
 thing !... But patience ! She will not live long with 
 us in Paris, and not be able to disturb us at every 
 turn. And then, I shall learn the manners of fine 
 people when I am there... Oh! how I wish we were 
 there now... but it will not be long... Oh, I hate that 
 Madame Darmentiere ! " 
 
 Marie was back in the drawing room, and there 
 she was told by Madame de Stainville, that Daulay 
 had gone to shoot on the estate of one of his friends, 
 and that he would not be back for more than a week. 
 — "But," added Madame de Stainville, " that I have 
 been invited to a series of entertainments which one 
 of my friends are going to give at her country house 
 near Nantes. They will last five or six days, and 
 Madame Darmentiere will not go unless I do, and as 
 the count and Monsieur Bellepeche are going, you 
 will have to remain here by yourself, Marie, and 
 what will you do with yourself all the time ? I 
 would have taken you with me, only I fear that the 
 dresses which I have had made up for you would not 
 be fresh and elegant enough. I am really inclined, 
 after all to let a Aubigny and Madame Darmentiere 
 go without me, and Bellepeche cares so little for the 
 whole affair that he would remain here as well." — 
 ■" Oh ! no madame...no,...do not let them go without 
 you... I should be very sorry if you were to refuse on 
 my account." — "Very well then, I will go. ..And 
 then, I hope that as soon as you are in Paris you will 
 not find it dull any longer." 
 
 The next day, therefore, the horses were put in ; 
 Madame Darmentiere had arrived a long time before 
 -with a perfect arsenal of bandboxes ; Bellepeche was 
 
FRESH SEDUCTIONS. 93 
 
 there, buckled in and girthed up like a donkey who 
 was going to serve for a horse. The count was 
 ready, and his looks showed how pleased he was to 
 to accompany the handsome widow, who did not ap- 
 pear to bear him any ill will for his talk with Marie 
 in the garden. They both got into the carriage with 
 Madame de Stainville and Bellepeche, who said 
 good-bye to Marie, whom the count saluted careless- 
 ly, whilst Madame Darmentiere did not say a word 
 to her. 
 
 Marie was alone in the house, and did not know 
 what to do with herself ; she looked at the piano and 
 -drawing pencils which were not much good to her, 
 and she was too pre-occupied to notice what she read 
 when she took up a book, and so, finally, she admired 
 herself in the great looking-glasses, looked at her 
 own walk, and tried to assume graceful attitudes and 
 •a distinguished bearing. — But in spite of all the at- 
 tention that she gave to these serious occupations, 
 the time passed very slowly, and when she went to 
 bed, she said to herself : — " It is very strange how 
 long the day has seemed... they used to pass so quick- 
 ly at the inn !...But it will be different in Paris...! 
 shall have so much to see there ! " 
 
 The next day passed just as dull, and seemed quite 
 as long, but the day after, Marie was in the garden, 
 sitting in the shrubbery where she had talked with 
 <TAubigny, when, suddenly, Daulay came up to her 
 in travelling dress. 
 
 *' Ah ! I have found you at last, mademoiselle/' the 
 young man said, going eagerly up to Marie. — " I 
 have been looking for you everywhere !..." — "You 
 have come back from your shooting expedition, then, 
 monsieur?" — " Yes, but I went over the property of the 
 lady with whom Madame de Stainville and her friends 
 are at this moment, and I have to discharge a commis- 
 sion with which she has entrusted me, and which con- 
 cerns you..."— " What is it?"— " Well, it seems 
 there are to be private theatricals, balls, and so on, 
 and Madame de Stainville will not return for a fort- 
 night at the soonest, and so she said to me : — ' I do 
 not wish my dear Marie to remain in the country 
 alone, for she will bore herself to death ; she had 
 
94 A NEW POSITION, 
 
 far better be at my my house in Paris, where she 
 will be able to find many amusements.' " — " Oh ! " 
 that will be nice... Well, and then ?..." — "She begged 
 me to come here directly and to take you to her 
 house in Paris and then to rejoin her." — " I am so 
 glad ; I would much rather be in Paris than here ! " 
 — " Very well, then, Mademoiselle, let us start direct- 
 ly. ..they lent me a gig which is waiting for us. It is 
 now nearly eleven o'clock, and though we have about 
 eighteen leagues* to drive, I have a good horse, and 
 we shall get there in six hours." — " But I must go 
 back into the house to get my..."— " Nothing at all. 
 Madame de Stainville does not wish you to take away~ 
 the slightest thing from here. You will find all you 
 want at her house in Paris, and you will have a 
 maid to wait upon you... But come... We must make 
 haste... we have no time to lose, as I promised to be 
 back to-night" — " Well, I am quite ready... I want 
 nothing better than to go to Paris." 
 
 Marie followed Daulay with confidence, for she 
 had no reason to be suspicious of him. When they 
 got outside he led her to a cross road where a gig 
 was waiting, so he put Marie in, took his seat by her 
 side, and, touching the horse with his whip, they 
 started like the wind. — For some time Daulay 
 avoided the high road, but, after driving about eight 
 miles, they got into it again and drove through popu- 
 lous villages, in one of which they stopped to bait and 
 rest their horse, and to have some refreshment 
 themselves, but he never left Marie for a moment. 
 — •' Shall we be there, soon? " Marie asked. — " We 
 are half-way, and you see I am driving you quick- 
 ly..." — •' But it has just struck me. ..Monsieur Dau- 
 lay... If I am all by myself at Madame de Stainville's. 
 I shall be rather embarrased, as I do not know Paris." 
 — "Pray set your mind at rest, for you will find a ser- 
 vant to wait on you. She is a girl whom Madame 
 de Stainville took into her service a short time ago, 
 and who will be very attentive to you ; she is very- 
 intelligent, and will soon put you into the ways of 
 
 * Somewhat over forty miles. 
 
FRESH SEDUCTIONS. 95 
 
 Paris. Of course, you will understand that in a 
 large town, a young lady... like you... cannot go out by 
 herself ; it would not be proper, and might be dan- 
 gerous/' — " Oh ! I shall not go out ! " — " You can do 
 so, occasionally, with your maid... And, besides, if I 
 can escape from the chateau, I shall be sure to come 
 and see you. And now I think our horse must be 
 rested, and we will start again." 
 
 Marie was so pleased at the idea of going to Paris, 
 that the did not complain of the fatigue which she 
 felt at driving over forty miles almost without 
 stopping. At last, they perceived the buildings of 
 the great city; they passed the barriers, and Daulay 
 said to his travelling companion : — " Here we are in 
 Paris ! » 
 
 Marie looked everywhere to see the marvels which 
 she had been led to expect, but she did not see them 
 at first ; when, however, they reached the interior of 
 the city, and above all when they arrived at the 
 boulevards, Marie could not restain her admiration. 
 — Daulay stopped at a fine house on the Boulevard 
 Saint-Martin, opposite the Chateau-d'Eau. He 
 helped Marie, who was almost stunned by the move- 
 ment of the foot passengers and the noise of the 
 vehicles, to alight, made her go up three pairs of 
 stairs and rung at a door, which a young servant 
 with a coquettish manner and a knowing look, opened 
 almost immediately. 
 
 " Felicite," Daulay said, "this is a young lady 
 whom Madame de Stainville has sent to you... you 
 are to take every care of her and not to leave her for 
 a minute ; those are your mistress's orders, and she 
 will stay here until Madame de Stainville's return. 
 
 Mademoiselle Felicite gave Marie a graceful bow 
 and said : — " That is quite sufficient, Monsieur ; I 
 will wait upon the young lady with the greatest 
 pleasure...! will take care that she has everything 
 she wants." 
 
 Daulay showed Marie into the apartments which 
 were small, and consisted of four rooms, two of 
 which looked on to the boulevard, and which were 
 quite newly and elegantly furnished. — Marie looked 
 -all round her and exclaimed: — " What ! Are. these 
 
g6 A NEW POSITION. 
 
 Madame de Stainville' s apartments ? How funny ; 
 it is smaller than in the country... So in Paris people 
 live all huddled up close together ? " — "Oh! I will 
 explain that to you/' Daulay replied. "This is 
 merely a temporary arrangement, for when Madame 
 de Stainville went into the country she sold her 
 large house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and 
 took these small apartments merely to store some 
 furniture in ; but on her return she intends to rent 
 other apartments... She will take splendid ones." — 
 " When I said that, monsieur, I did not mean that I 
 thought I should not be comfortable here ; quite the 
 contrary.. .It is very pretty. ..and the view. ..Oh ! 
 how gay it is ! What a lot of people ! What a splen- 
 did street!" — "These are the boulevards ! ... I 
 thought this would please you, and that was why I... 
 why Madame de Stainville sent you on first. But I 
 must start off again immediately ; goodbye, Madem- 
 oiselle Marie ; do not go out by yourself and follow 
 Felicite's advice. In those wardrobes you will find 
 dresses... every thing that you require, and your ser- 
 vant has money to buy anything else that you may 
 want ; I hope, however, to come back to Paris very- 
 soon. " — " Goodbye, Monsieur Daulay ; I am much 
 obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken to 
 bring me here. Tell Madame de Stainville that I 
 will be very good, and that I beg her not to forget 
 me... and tnat I am very much obliged to her for 
 having sent me to Paris." 
 
 Daulay took Marie's hand, which he raised re- 
 spectfully to his lips, and went out accompanied by 
 the young servant, who followed him as far as the 
 stairs. There, Daulay said to her in a whisper: — 
 "You have money and my instructions !... do not 
 deviate from them, and never leave the girl to her- 
 self. If she wants to go out/accompany her. Never 
 take her in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
 main, and make her wear a large bonnet and a veil ; 
 if she objects, tell her it is good style; and, lastly, 
 remember that I reward people according as they 
 serve me." 
 
 "Oh; monsieur, you may be quite easy about 
 everything; I was not made last night;" — "I am 
 
NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 97^ 
 
 now going back to Madame de Stainville's, so that 
 I may not be suspected when Marie's flight is 
 known, but I shall return as soon as possible to make 
 love to my charming little duchess... for she belongs 
 to me now... and I do not fear that anybody else will 
 rob me of this precious treasure." 
 
 And Daulay quickly descended the stairs, jumped 
 into the gig, drove to the stables and left it there and 
 then, hiring a saddle horse, he started back for 
 Roche-Guy on. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 
 
 IT was a bright autumn day and the boulevards- 
 were crowded, for people wish to make the most of 
 the few remaining fine days, when three young sol- 
 diers came lounging alone and talking. 
 
 One of them, a somewhat stout fellow with pro- 
 truding eyes seemed as well satisfied with his per- 
 sonal appearance as he was with his wit; he was- 
 the chief spokesman and accompanied his words 
 with smiles and gestures, and was the first to laugta 
 at the jokes with which he indulged his companions. 
 — " When you other fellows have my assurance and. 
 eloquence you will find that it is not difficult to 
 make women attached to you, because women are 
 usually fond of soldiers... I have been in the army 
 for a year and a half aud if I had a stripe on my 
 sleeve for every heart that I have inflamed I should, 
 look like a zebra... Ha, ha ! that is a good joke, eh. 
 Carabine ? '— " Yes, it is all right, your joke. ..But 
 what is a zebra?" — "That is capital !... Carabine 
 thinks that zebras are men !...How stupid you are ; 
 ...Have you never been in the Zoological Gardens, 
 near the Pont d'Austerlitz? "— " No."— " Well then,, 
 a zebra is an animal between a horse and a donkey 
 with its body adorned with stripes, with a very cross, 
 
^8 NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 
 
 look and cunning marked in its very tail, eh Pierre ? 
 ...Of course he does not hear me... he is in one of his 
 unhappy dreams which will bring wrinkles onto his 
 f orehead . . . Look here, you are a well-made, good- 
 booking fellow and should follow in my steps, for all 
 tthe girls look at me." 
 
 The young fellow who was addressed as Pierre, 
 -was the same whom we saw leaving his village in 
 order to go to Givet, where his regiment was quar- 
 tered ; but it had been transferred to Paris, and he 
 had been in the great city for six weeks. — When 
 they learnt that their regiment was to be transferred 
 to Paris, all the soldiers had shown the greatest joy ; 
 Pierre alone, whose conduct had always been ex- 
 cellent, remained sad and silent, for he was constant- 
 ly thinking of Marie, and of the happy moments he 
 had spent in her society, and when his comrades 
 -drew his attention to a pretty face, he only sighed 
 .and said : — Ah ! It is'not Marie ! " — " But what were 
 you saying? " he continued, coming out of his reverie 
 .and looking at Flo wer-of- Love. — " There ! he never 
 listens, and answers all at random ! I think it is very 
 : stupid to give way to yonr sad thoughts like that... 
 Tou have left a girl behind you in the country!... 
 Well, we have done the same thing. ..As for me, I 
 Teft four of them behind me, and such nice ones, by 
 Jove ! But we must console ourselves. A soldier 
 -ought to devote himself to his comrades and to nurse 
 maids, or perhaps, better, to servants who are not 
 -nurse-maids, as the children are in the habit of put- 
 ting their sticky fingers on to your trousers." — "And 
 then, we generally find the girl we have left when 
 w r e go back home... They wait for us, for they like to 
 liave a husband who has been under fire." — " There 
 is no one waiting for me or thinking of me," Pierre 
 replied with a sigh... " I am sure that I am already 
 forgotten !...And when I go back, if ever I do go 
 i>ack...the girl 1 love will have married some other 
 rman." — " Well, then, you are all the more stupid 
 ^to grieve and to get wrinkles like an old man. Just 
 rgo and enjoy yourself !... Make conquests ... make 
 some girls miserable in your turn... Imitate me, I tell 
 _you... There is nothing nicer than a nice nurse-maid, 
 
NURSEMAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 99? 
 
 a house-maid, or a cook..." — " Ah ! Yes ; " Carabine 
 said; "a cook is a capital conquest to make for one's- 
 stomach. ..But you are not cunning, yet. ..Just fancy, 
 Pierre, that poor Carabine does not yet know how- 
 to carve a burning heart on a tree... which is thevery^ 
 infancy of gallantry..." — "Ah; Fleur-d' Amour, I 
 can tell you..." — "No; you do not knew how ta 
 carve burning hearts. The other day Carabine and 
 I had gone for a walk towards Vincennes, with two 
 girls who had fallen in love with me, though I was quite 
 willing to give up one to him, provided that he paid 
 tor refreshments for all of us... Well, when we got in- 
 to the forest of Vincennes, we began to coo about 
 love like so many doves, and my girl said to me :— 
 1 Carve two burning hearts on one of these trees, to- 
 show that our love will endure as long as the acorn 
 from this oak.' — Very well ; 1 carved as many burn- 
 ing hearts as she wanted, and so the girl who was 
 with Carabine wished * to be loved in the same 
 fashion, and she therefore asked him also to cut two 
 hearts on a tree. But he said that he did not like to? 
 be looked at whilst he carved them, and so he went 
 away, and in a quarter of an hour we began to get 
 impatient, and I said to myself : — ' Carabine has:- 
 gone away to do something else besides cutting, 
 hearts, and so went to look for him, and found hint 
 cutting away on a big tree with the point of his 
 sword. I went up, and do you know what he had 
 made ? Two half moons, back to back, which were- 
 like something quite dffferent to two hearts.. .And, into* 
 the bargain he had tried to carve a little jet of fire 
 in the middle... Of course, I began to laugh, and 
 when the two girls came and saw what he had done, 
 Carabine's girl got furious, for she thought that he- 
 wanted to make fun of her, and she went off without 
 listening to anything he had to say. Ho ! ho ! ho!.... 
 Carabine's hearts were splendid." — " Well, what did 
 that prove?... That she was ferociously virtuous,- 
 and would not be tamed, and that she ran away be- 
 cause she was in fear for her innocence." — " Her in- 
 nocence ? Oh, oh ! Carabine, how sorry I am for 
 you... You know nothing about the world... Why,, 
 the girl whom I handed over to you. had already car- 
 
300 NURSEMAID AND SOLDIERS. 
 
 Tied on to any length with several soldiers... amongst 
 others she was intimately acquainted with an ar- 
 tilleryman, whom I know... and the result of a con- 
 versation which she had with him was a swelling 
 which lasted nine months ;" — " I do not believe in ar- 
 tillerymen, and then, I had already grown tired of 
 the girl." — " Very well, here is a chance of making 
 a fresh acquaintance... There are some little servant 
 girls yonder, one of whom I know, and I am sure that 
 she has come here in the hope of meeting me... Come 
 along, Pierre." — " Oh; I do not want to make any 
 new acquaintances. I have nothing to do with 
 girls." — "That does not matter; at any rate, you 
 can talk to them... you must not be bearish when you 
 have the honour of serving your country. ..Just see 
 how cunning they are ; they are coming towards us 
 almost imperceptibly." 
 
 The two servant girls came along the boulevard ; 
 one was holding a little boy by the hand, whilst the 
 other had two little girls under her charge, but as 
 soon as they saw the soldiers, they let them go, 
 so that they might run and play by themselves, 
 further off, whilst they sat down on a bench and did 
 not pay the slightest regard to the children. — Fleur 
 d' Armour and Carabine went towards the bench, and 
 appeared to be contemplating the stars, although it 
 was full mid-day, and the former said indifferently,, 
 without even looking at the girls : — " Suppose we sit 
 down to look at at that Punch and Judy show there." 
 — And then he looked at the girls and said : — " I beg 
 your pardon, young ladies, should we be incon- 
 veniencing you if we sat down here." — " How should 
 you? The bench is for everybody, and there is 
 plenty of room." — '* Ah ; I think I have seen you be- 
 fore, mademoiselle ; did not I ask you to have some 
 lemonade the other day, outside Franchiconi's!" — 
 rU Yes, I think remember you again." — " Your name 
 is Josephine." — " It is." — " How frequently one 
 meets by ^cident J}1 hope you are well." — " Yes, 
 thank you, and I hope you are the same." 
 
 Carabine was not quite so advanced as his com- 
 rade ; he had sat down by the other servant girl, but 
 did not know how to begin the conversation. He 
 
NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. IOI 
 
 coughed, whistled, hummed and leered at his neigh- 
 bour, who was a stout peasant girl, who had not yet 
 acquired the free and easy manners of her compan- 
 ion. At that moment, however, they saw a number 
 of people all running in the same direction, and 
 Carabine went to see what it was. He soon re- 
 turned and said sitting down, that it was two chil- 
 dren who had nearly been killed by the fall of a 
 fishseller's flat basket near which they had been 
 playing. — " Two children," Josephine said looking 
 about her. " Good heavens ; just suppose it is my 
 brats ;... Were they two little girls?" — " Yes, but 
 keep quiet; they have only got great lumps on their 
 heads which have bled a little..." — ' Tljose con- 
 founded children... they are always giving me some 
 worry..." 
 
 Josephine got up, and followed by Fleur-d' Amour 
 went up to the knot of people where she found the 
 two little girls who had been confided to her care, 
 weeping bitterly, and both of them with their faces 
 cut and bruised. Some persons were trying to con- 
 sole them and asking them for their address. — " Oh ; 
 so here you are young ladies. ..it is very fortunate, 
 considering the time we have been looking for 
 you ;..." the servant said angrily, taking a little girl 
 in each hand. A nice mess you are in, with your 
 frocks all tumbled and dirty;" — "You should not 
 think about their dresses just now," an old gentleman 
 said, " but look to their heads which are hurt."— 
 :';' It will teach you to play the fool and act like sweet 
 little girls, you nasty little wretches ;" — " If you had 
 not left them, this accident would not have happened 
 to them," the old gentleman went on. — "What busi- 
 ness is that of yours, monsieur ? " Josephine replied, 
 giving him a furious look, " I like you and your ad- 
 vice ; Are you the childrens' father or mother, to 
 speak like that? " — "If I were any relation of theirs, 
 I can assure you that you would not be their nurse 
 long/' — "Just look at the old monkey !... I suppose 
 you would let them ride on camels... Go and scrape 
 your tobacco, old humbug." — " That is true ! " Fleur 
 d' Amour said, coming up with a menacing gesture. 
 "" I should like to know what right you have to speak 
 
102 NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 
 
 to the young lady, you old elephant driver." That 
 expression made all the loungers who had come to- 
 gether, laugh very much , and the old gentleman 
 went away hooted by the crowd because he had 
 wished to take the part of the children whom their 
 nurse was scolding instead of helping thenh But 
 the multitude almost always metes out justice in 
 that fashion, and Josephine returned to her seat with 
 the two little girls, to whom she said : — " There is no- 
 reason why you should cry like that... and I should, 
 advise you not to say that I left you, for if you do 1 
 shall whip you both, when your parents are out." — 
 " Yes, nurse,. ..hi, hi, hi..-." — "We must say that a 
 drunken man tumbled up against us and threw you 
 down, do you hear?" — "Yes, nurse, hi, hi."— 
 *' There, now be quiet, cry-babies... I am going to get 
 you some ginger - bread. " — " Ah ; yes," Fleur 
 d' Amour said, " there is nothing like ginger-bread- 
 for a bump on the head." 
 
 She went and got it for them and theyate it with, 
 sobs and holding their little hands to their heads and: 
 the conversation between the servants and the sol- 
 diers had been renewed, when Josephine, suddenly 
 exclaimed : — " Why, there is Felicite...Do come and. 
 speak to us, Felicite." 
 
 This was said to the young servant whom Mon- 
 sieur Daulay had put with Marie, and who was just 
 then going along the boulevards by herself, and on 
 recognising her friend's voice, she when up to the 
 stone bench. — " Well, Felicite in what situation 
 are you ? " — " Oh ; I am very comfortable... I have 
 no intention of leaving."—" That is very surprising. 
 Are you at the Grand Turk's ? "—" Oh, far better 
 than that ! I am in service with a young person who- 
 has just come from her own village and who knows 
 nothing about any thing... who lets me do as I please 
 and never does anything without consulting me, so 
 it is just as if I were the mistress."—" How did you 
 find such a good place ?"—" That is a long story, 
 and my only tear is that it will not last long, because- 
 when the girl finds out what it all means, she will 
 most likely be angry."— " So there is some mystery 
 about your mistress ? "— " I will tell you all about it 
 
NURSE MAIDS AND SOLDIERS. . 103 
 
 -some da) r when I have time... I cannot stop to-day, 
 for I am afraid that her gentleman will come, and he 
 will give me a good rowing if he finds that 1 leave 
 my lady alone..." — "Oh; so there is a gentleman... 
 now I begin to understand." — "Yes, and a gentleman 
 who is devilishly afraid lest anybody should go off 
 with her, that he has forbidden me ever to leave her 
 for a minute. But you may be sure that I disobey 
 -orders sometimes." 
 
 Felicite, who had been looking at them, said to her 
 friend : — " Are you with these soldiers ? " — " Yes, 
 one of them comes from my part of the country ; " 
 whereupon, Felicite began to laugh, and said : — 
 " Oh ! yes, one knows all about that. ..Which of 
 them is your lover?" — " How silly you are!... My 
 lover... We have just been chatting for the first 
 time." — "Well, if he spoke to you. ..it is easy to see 
 what he wanted. Is he the dark one ? " — " No, the 
 stout, light-haired one. ..He looks very merry, doesn't 
 he ? " — " Yes, but I should prefer the other one, my- 
 self. What a grand drum-major he would make ! " 
 — "I think he looks unhappy. ..and he hardly ever 
 speaks with his comrades, because he is pining after 
 -some girl whom he has left behind." — " Never mind 
 that ; I should like him well enough." 
 
 And Felicite coughed, sang, turned round, and did 
 all she could to attract Pierre's looks, who, how- 
 ever, did not raise his eyes. ^ At last, Felicite de- 
 clared that she must go home, and so she went off, 
 after making the soldiers a polite bow, accompanied 
 by a tender glance at Pierre. — " Is that one of your 
 friends?" Fleur d* Armour asked Josephine. — "Yes, 
 and she is a very good sort of girl ! " — And the young 
 servant bent over towards the soldier, w r ith whom 
 she elready seemed on perfectly easy terms of fa- 
 miliarity, and spoke to him in a whisper, and laughed 
 as she pointed to Pierre, and after they had made an 
 appointment to meet another day, Josephine got up 
 and said to her friend that it was time to go home. 
 — -" Yes, it is time to go," the stout servant said with 
 a look at Pierre, "or else we shall get a scolding... 
 We shll meet again, whenever the weather is fine." 
 r. — " I hope so, Mam'selle," he replied. 
 
104 NURSEMAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 
 
 Josephine took the two little girls by the hand,, 
 and said to her friend : — " Had not you a little bo)r 
 with you also?" — "Oh! dear, I had forgotten all 
 about him. ...Did I really bring him ? " — " I certainly 
 saw T a little boy with you," Carabine replied. — " Of 
 course, she had," Josephine observed. " What is his 
 name? " — " Auguste." — " Auguste ! Auguste ! Here. 
 Auguste." — But there was no reply, and so the 'ser- 
 vants and the soldiers set off in different directions, 
 and asked everyone whether they had seen a little 
 boy, giving a description of him ; though the fat 
 servant was not very frightened, for she said : — "Oh ! 
 Auguste is a young rogue who can look after him- 
 self very well, although he is only six. He is a per- 
 fect young wretch, and gets lost about three times a- 
 week, and I would bet that he is having his fun 
 somewhere, the young vagabond ! " 
 
 At last an orange-seller told Josephine that he had 
 seen a little boy like the one they were looking for, 
 who had broken a pane of glass with his iron, 
 hoop, and that they had taken him to the guard- 
 room, because he had no money, but that no doubt he 
 would be claimed. — "Just think of the little wretch!" 
 Adelaide said, " Now I must go and look for him at 
 the police-station... and I shall have to pay for the 
 pane of glass, and I have no money." — " They will 
 give him up to you without any money, perhaps. " 
 — So Adelaide went to the guard room at Chateau- 
 d'Eau, escorted by Carabine, and she soon returned, 
 holding the boy by the hand, as the officer of the Na- 
 tional Guard* had paid for the window which the 
 child, who seemed to be very happy, had broken ; 
 for he was shouting out with all his might: — " I have 
 had some brandy, I have; they gave me some to 
 drink; it is very nice, is a little drop !..." — "Oh! 
 you are a famous child ! " Fleur d' Amour said, " you 
 will turn out a regular jolly dog !... Good-bye, ladies, 
 ...Hope to meet you again, soon." — " Good-bye,, 
 
 * This was written many years before the Franco-Prussian 
 war of 1970-61 ; after which the National Guard was abolished. 
 They performed something like police duties. (Translator). 
 
> 
 
 ■ NURSEMAIDS AND SOLDIERS. 105 
 
 ^monsieur," Josephine replied, darting a look full of 
 meaning at him. — " I hope I shall also have the plea- 
 sure, Mademoiselle Adelaide/' Carabine said to the 
 fat servant, who replied, with a smile : — " Yes, mas- 
 ter soldier, I come here, sometimes. 
 
 And, thereupon, the three soldiers went in the 
 direction of their barracks, whilst the fat girl went 
 off with the little boy, saying to him : — " If you dare 
 to say that you have been drinking brandy, I shall 
 give you a good beating." — "And if I don't say 
 anything about it, will you give me some, nurse? " 
 — " Yes, I will give you some."—" Oh ! then I will 
 not say anything about it... I should like to have that 
 little drop again, it was so nice." 
 
 As for Mademoiselle Josephine, she went home 
 with the two little girls, to whom she kept say- 
 ing all the way : — " Don't you be unlucky enough to 
 say anything about me having been talking with the 
 soldiers, or I shall give you a regular good whip- 
 ping." — " Oh ! we will say nothing, nurse." — " That 
 is all right then... and, as for the lumps on your head, 
 you remember what I told you to say?" — "Yes, 
 nurse." — "Very well. ..If you are good, you shall 
 have some sweeties." 
 
 It is thus that nurses often bring up the children 
 ^who are entrusted to them. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 u ARE you coming for a walk with me, Pierre?" 
 Flo wer-of- Love said to his comrade, a few days later. 
 " Do come, I am going to meet a girl from my part 
 of the country, and she will have one of her friends 
 with her... pretty, well-made, and a very nice girl." 
 — " What does your girl's friend matter to me ? " 
 Pierre said, crossing his arms. — " Don't you under- 
 stand ? When a man like myself wants to talk with 
 
106 A FRIEND. 
 
 bis girl, and has a comrade with him, and she has & 
 friend, then there are two couples and all is comfort- 
 able. And, then, Josephine's friend would suit you 
 exactly, and we will go a little way out, where win,- 
 is cheaper."— " I have already told you/' Pierre- 
 said, " that I loved a girl, and so I cannot take up 
 with another mistress."—" And I told you that a sol- 
 dier should have at least one love affair in every 
 town where he is quartered. We Frenchmen ought: 
 to be as devoted to love-making as we are to our 
 country... and, then, Josephine's friend is a cook, and ; 
 can do as she likes with the meat and vegetables." 1 
 — " What does that matter to me?"-" One can do 
 nothing with him," Fleur d' Amour said to himself 
 as he went away..." But if Mademoiselle Felicite did 
 not mind, I could arrange matters with her friend as- 
 well, for I am good enough for it." 
 
 Pierre let Fleur d' Amour go away, for he preferred 
 solitude to the boulevards, so that he might think of 
 Marie, and he was walking along in front of the bar- 
 racks, when he suddenly felt a blow on his shoulder, 
 and, turning round, he saw Gaspard. 
 
 " Is that you, Gaspard ? " he exclaimed in delight, 
 and, for the first time since he had left his home, his 
 face expressed pleasure.— " Yes, by Jove ! It is I !... 
 I have been wanting to see you for a long time, and. 
 so I said to myself that I should be very stupid not 
 to come, as you would be very glad to see me... And, 
 when you wrote to me, and Daddy Martineau read 
 me your letter, I started off, and here I am."-" I 
 am delighted to see you... And did you come on pur- 
 pose to see me ? "— -" Well, I had a few things to do 
 which anybody else, almost could have done for me, 
 but I thought that I would come, and see ... 
 But, ouf! lam dying of thirst... Come and have a 
 drink ! I cannot talk when my mouth is dry." — 
 Pierre followed the peasant into a public-house. He 
 had not yet ventured to question him on what in- 
 terested him most, for he knew that Gaspard only 
 cared to talk when he was drinking, but after they 
 had clinked glasses and drunk, he asked Gaspard for 
 the news.—" Oh ! " he replied, " everybody is well, 
 except Jacques, who is dead, and Fancoise, who has 
 
A FRIEND. IO7 
 
 inflammation of the lungs. Your uncle drinks, and 
 gets drunk as usual... Old Martineau still quotes He- 
 brew words when he talks... Gobinard argues with 
 him about sauces, but they drink together in the 
 -evening, and think no more about it." — " And what 
 about Marie ? You have not mentioned her, Gas 
 pard...But you know that I want to hear about her 
 more than about anybody else." — " Oh ! I thought 
 you had forgotten her... She did not care for you, as 
 she refused to marry you, and she is a regular flirt, 
 an affected creature ; it would be a good thing if 
 you were to forget her." — " No, I cannot do that, 
 Gaspard, for I am constantly thinking about her. I 
 was so glad when I saw you, Gaspard... bat you must 
 iorgive me, for I only thought that I should hear 
 something of Marie." — " That is always the way ! " 
 Gaspard exclaimed. " The faithful man is always 
 rejected. When women come again and say to me : 
 * Ah! men are this and that !...' I shall reply: — 'They 
 are quite right, tor when, by chance, you meet with 
 one who is faithful and steady, one may be quite 
 sure that you will have nothing to do with him/" — 
 " Come, Gaspard, give me an answer... What is 
 Marie doing?... Of course, she is as pretty and as 
 nice as ever.. .and has she a lover?" — " A lover!... 
 She has got something very different to that... I will 
 just tell you, as you want to hear... Great changes 
 have taken place since you left..." — "What do you 
 mean? ...Has Marie got married ? " — " No, some- 
 thing else has happened to her. Just imagine that 
 Alarie is not Mane any more... I mean that she is 
 not the servant at the inn, but she is a great lady, 
 now... the daughter of a duchess, of a princess, of a 
 queen, perhaps ; what do we know ? " — " I do not 
 understand you, Gaspard." — "I dare say not... but 
 here are the facts Madame de Stainville and her 
 company came to Gobinard's... the lady had a letter 
 from a duchess who was a friend of hers, in which 
 she said that she had formerly stayed at the inn, and 
 had left something there which she valued very 
 much. Then, as the dates corresponded, and no one 
 ever knew who Marie's parents were, they said that 
 certainly she was that something which the grand 
 
108 A FRIEND. 
 
 lady had left at the inn, and that she was the daugh- 
 ter of this Duchess de...Ferousky...Tapousky... some- 
 name like that, and, as Madame de Stainville is a. 
 great friend of hers, she immediately took Marie 
 away with her, and I can tell you that Marie asked, 
 for nothing better than to go... she immediately put 
 on the airs of a princess, which was enough to make 
 anyone die of laughing." — " Well, what then ? ,; — 
 " Your good health... Marie had been at Madame de 
 Stainville's for some time, she was in clover, there.... 
 dressed like a lady, and giving herself airs the whole 
 day long... it was getting very funny. But, about a 
 month ago, Marie disappeared whilst Madame de 
 Stainville was away from home." — ,( Disappeared. . .. 
 Marie!. ..Good heavens!..." — " Don't take on so... 
 Have ajdrink..." — " But where is she?. ..Who has- 
 carried her off ?...' ' — "Ah! there is the difficulty... 
 When she came home and did not find Marie, Ma- 
 dame de Stainville made a terrible fuss ; her people 
 scoured the country, and went to the inn, as they 
 thought she might have returned there, to the place 
 of her childish recollections. Oh! yes, a fine lot she 
 cares for childish recollections.. Daddy Gobinard 
 had not seen anything of her, so that Madame de 
 Stainville went away disconsolate, and promised a. 
 handsome reward to anyone who should find her r 
 but no one has done so yet." — " And you say that 
 to me so coldly, Gaspard!...I will find her. ..I will 
 know what has become of her. ..who is her ravisher ? 
 ...I will avenge her ! " 
 
 Pierre had got up and was about to rush out of the 
 inn, when Gaspard took him by the arm and said : — 
 " Where are you going?... Do you forget that you 
 are a soldier and not free in your actions ?...Are vou 
 going to desert and to ruin yourself ? After having 
 sacrified your liberty for Marie, do you intend to 
 sacrifice your honour for her ? " 
 
 Tears streamed down Pierre's cheeks, who hid his 
 face in his hands so that his grief might not be no- 
 ticed, and he said: — " Alas ! yes, I am a soldier... 
 and because of her;. ..I left everything for her...but: 
 tofind her again... to save her... I would willingly give 
 my life ; Marie, Marie ! whom I love so dearly ! " — 
 
A FRIEND. IOg* 
 
 Gaspard who much moved at the young soldier's^ 
 grief made grimaces in order to hide his emotion, 
 and exclaimed : — " Confound it ! How stupid you 
 are to be so unhappy. ..A soldier to cry :...If your 
 comrades saw you, how they would laugh at you. 
 If I had thought that you were so weak, I should! 
 not have told you anything ...come :... be calm;... 
 Good heavens ! Do be quiet, she will be found, for a 
 woman cannot be lost like a knife !...And then... shall 
 I tell you what I think?... for I have some ideas of 
 my own about the matter." — " Oh, tell me what you? 
 know Gaspard. ..or what you think?" — "Well, I 
 think that Marie has disappeared on purpose, that- 
 is to sav, that she has been taken away by one of 
 those fine gentlemen who go to Madame de Stain- 
 yille's...No doubt they said to themselves : — ' As she- 
 is a rich heiress, we must have her to ourselves andl 
 not leave her to any one else. — It is quite certain 
 that as long as she was only a servant at the inn, no- 
 body ever thought of carrying her off, but as soon 
 as she is a duchess — crack ! she is found out and. 
 carried off very quickly. Ah ! some clever fellow 
 did that. But he will not be able to hide her for 
 long ; when Mother Bambocheky comes back, the 
 man who carried her off will come and show her 
 Marie and say : — " Here is your child ; we have got 
 married after a fashion without your permission, so 
 now the best thing, you can do is to give it us. The 
 only thing is to know what the mother who has all 
 the money say." — "Do you mean that Marie has 
 been carried off and is in someone else's power? "- — 
 "It is all a mere conjecture ; but Madame de Stain- 
 ville has been back in Paris for a fortnight, and 
 Marie has not returned to her, and she asked me to 
 take Marie back to her immediately if I could find 
 her ; but there is no trace of her. She was in the 
 country with the gardener and his wife... one fine 
 morning she went downstairs to breakfast ... went 
 into the garden... and, good-night ! she was not to be 
 seen, and they all declare # that they had not seen 
 her go out." — "The whole thing is incomprehensi- 
 ble^ — " But I remember that on the morning on 
 which Marie disappeared I met a gig which was- 
 
110 A FRIEND. 
 
 going like the wind in the direction of Paris by the 
 tross-road." — " And was Marie in it?" — " I cannot 
 say... for it was going so quickly that I could not dis- 
 tinguish anything." — "That does not signify any- 
 thing. ..One thing is certain, however; that carriage 
 was taking Mane off." — " Most likely. That is all 
 that I know, Pierre, and now that I have seen you, 
 I am going home again." — "What! Gaspard, going 
 already without having heard anything of Marie ?" — 
 t( I must, for I have a lot of work to do at home, but 
 if you hear anything of her write and let me know," 
 Martineau will read the letter to me." — " Yes... If I 
 rfind her, I will tell you directly, and of course you 
 will do the same." — " Naturally, and I will come and 
 see you again soon, for I don't mind how much I 
 walk; and Pierre, I say again, do not be down- 
 hearted ; Marie will turn up again, and you must 
 remember that she repelled your love. ..and that she 
 laughed at your love... and you will think like I do, 
 ■that she is not worth troubling about." 
 
 So saying, Gaspard emptied his glass, shook hands 
 cordially with Pierre, and started off back to his 
 village, whistling a country tune. 
 
 As for Pierre, he returned to barracks whither his 
 -duty called him, but he was sadder than usual, and 
 the thought that Marie had been carried off did not 
 leave him a moment's peace, and made him more 
 inaccessible than ever to .the proposals of Fleur- 
 <& Amour., 
 
 CHAPTER XIH. 
 
 A PARTY OF FOUR. 
 
 One morning Pierre was walking along the banks of 
 the canal thinking of Marie, when a well-known 
 voice said : — " Why ! What are you doing here all 
 by yourself ? " And on turning round, he saw his 
 
A PARTY OF PARTY. II r 
 
 % 
 
 comrade Fleur-d' Amour, walking with Josephine and' 
 Felicite. — He would willingly have avoided the meet- 
 ing, but his comrade was already by his side, and 
 the two girls bowed to him. — " There is no good in 
 trying to amuse oneself alone," Fleur d' Amour said f . 
 " and so I am walking with these two young ladies- 
 ...and we can talk and joke and eat nuts... But it is- 
 much jollier when there are four, especially as this 
 morning there are no brats, and so we are as free as- 
 the air; won't you come with us ? " 
 
 As he did not like to refuse, Pierre contented him- 
 self by walking at his comrade's side without speak- 
 ing or taking any notice of Felicite's oglings. 
 
 " Perhaps you have some trouble? " the little ser- 
 vant said, rattling the coppers in the pocket of her 
 apron. — "Yes," Fleur-d' Amour replied, "he is inr 
 love, and can obtain no satisfaction from it ! " — 
 " You ought surely not to have any reason to com-- 
 plain of the fair sex," Felicite remarked, " for he is- 
 not made to repel love," and Fleur-d' Amour said to* 
 Josephine in a low voice : — tl I really think my com- 
 rade's heart is made of papier machi, for nothing, 
 makes an impression on it !..." 
 
 After they had been walking for some time, Jose- 
 phine said to her friend :— -" How did you manage to* 
 be able to leave your mistress this morning ? " — 
 " Oh ! I am much freer just now. The gentleman> 
 has returned to Paris, and he comes to see Made- 
 moiselle Marie every day..." — " Marie ! " Pierre ex- 
 claimed ; " is her name Marie ? " — " Yes, and she 
 has only been in Paris since a month. ..She was 
 carried off from her village. ..It is quite a long story." 
 — "Your mistress was carried off! Will you taker 
 my arm, mademoiselle?" — "With pleasure, mon- 
 sieur." > 
 
 Felicite made haste to put her arm through the- 
 handsome soldier's, and Fleur d' Amour said to Jose- 
 phine in a whisper: — " I say, it looks as if he were 
 going to catch on... What a joke if we manage to 
 make him fall in love." — " You have constanly pro- 
 mised me to tell me about your mistress," Josepnine 
 said to her friend. " Let us hear it now, as we have- 
 plenty of time ; I promise you that when I know 
 
112 A PARTY OF FOUR. 
 
 anything about my master or mistress, I do not let it 
 grow mouldy on my tongue." — " I will tell you all 
 I know about her ; it is a secret, but I know that sol- 
 diers are men of honour." — " You may rely on us," 
 Fleur d' Amour said; " we will be like mutes in a 
 seraglio." 
 
 Pierre tried to conceal his agitation, and the girl 
 continued: — " Very well, then, I must tell you that 
 it appears that the young woman in whose service I 
 am, is the daughter of some great lady... but she 
 does not know her parents..." — " That is like me," 
 Fleur de Amour said, " I never knew my parents, 
 either..." — "I believe she was brought up in a vil- 
 lage. ..at an inn." — " At an inn? " Pierre, whose des- 
 pair was increasing every moment, exclaimed. — 
 " Yes, and a rich lady, who knows her family, took 
 her away with her a short time ago. This lady lived 
 in a country house near La Roche- Guyon..." — "It 
 is she ! It is Marie ! " Pierre said to himself, and in 
 his agitation he squeezed Felicite's arm so hard, that 
 she cried out, and Fleur d' Amour said: — "What is 
 the matter ? Have you trodden on a toad ? " — " It 
 is nothing," the girl, who thought she had made a 
 conquest of Pierre, replied, "it is nothing..." — "A 
 young man from Paris fell in love with Marie, at 
 that lady's house, but I suppose that she did not lis- 
 ten to him ; and so, profiting by the lady's absence 
 from home, he went to the young lady, and told her 
 he came from Madame de Stainville...that is the 
 lady's name, and took mademoiselle to Paris, to a 
 small lodging which he had rented, and took me as 
 her maid, and the young person thinksthat she is in 
 the house of her protectress, whose arrival she is ex- 
 pecting daily." — " The wretch," Pierre said to him- 
 self, and then he asked whether the gentleman had 
 (remained with her. 
 
 " No," Josephine replied, "tor it would not do for 
 it to be known that he had carried her off, so he re- 
 mained at Madame de Stainville's, and only returned 
 to Paris *a fortnight ago, and since then he has been 
 to see her every day, and has made believe that her 
 protectress was on a journey, and had charged him 
 •to look after her. Mademoiselle Marie fell into the 
 
A PARTY OF FOUR. II3 
 
 trap... and the young man has been making love to 
 .her ever since."--" And does she listen to him, willing- 
 ly ? " Pierre asked, pressing Felicite's arm, convul- 
 sively. — She^gave him a tender smile, and replied : — 
 "No, I do not think so... How you are squeezing me! 
 I fancy she is thinking of someone else... Ah! I shall 
 be black and blue, for she does not seem at all hap- 
 py in Monsieur Daulay' s society."—" Ah ! So it is 
 Monsieur Daulay who carried off... this young per-, 
 son ? " — " Yes ; do you know him ? " — " I ? Not in 
 the least." — "I am a great chatterbox, and I ought 
 -not to have mentioned names, but I adore soldiers, 
 and can hide nothing from them." — " They return 
 your affection with interest, mademoiselle ! " Fleur 
 d' Amour said, licking his lips. — " Well, this Monsieur 
 Daulay does his best to make himself agreeable to 
 Mademoiselle Marie... but he will not let her go out 
 without him, and this evening he is going to take 
 her to the theatre." — " How lucky you are, Felicite ! " 
 Josephine said, " Now you can have in whom ever 
 you like, this evening. " ■ — " Of course ' I can, 
 for the porter's wife is my friend, and I have 
 charge of everything, the eatables, wines, liquers, 
 for Monsieur Daulay takes care that she does not 
 want for anything, and I simply revel in good things, 
 and run up bills to any amount I like, though it is 
 not so jolly as you fancy, for, what can one do all by 
 oneself ? " — " You will find plenty of people to keep 
 you company, I should think," Fleur d' Amour said, 
 and though Pierre said nothing, he appeared to be 
 thinking, and continued to squeeze Felicite's arm, 
 w T ho said to herself : — " At any rate, he does not want 
 me to leave him." 
 
 Suddenly, however, the young soldier turned to- 
 wards the girl and said : — " Mademoiselle, you must 
 absolutely allow me to come and see you this 
 -evening..." — " Felicite, put on a little timid air, and 
 Fleur d' Amour exclaimed: — "Just look at him!... 
 It is only necessary to get him into trim, and then he 
 makes love as if he were on wheels... Ah ! Pierre, 
 you rogue ! you go straight to the point..." — " But 
 what have 1 said to give you such thoughts? " Pierre 
 asked. " I thought. ..I only wished ..."..." Well, 
 
114 A PARTY OF FOUR. 
 
 there, don't beat about the bush ! You wished... It 
 is quite simple.. .mademoiselle's eyes are quite black 
 enough for that, and then, besides, we soldiers are 
 never behind-hand in such matters." — " Oh ! I don't 
 mind/' F6licite said, putting on her demure manner,, 
 "but, if you like, I will propose something..." — 
 "Let us hear it, daughter of Cupids !... Josephine, I 
 rank you amongst the same family." — " I should hope 
 •so. Well, Felicite?" — "Listen to me. ..This even- 
 ing, my young lady is going to the theatre with 
 Monsieur Daulay, so that I shall be quite alone and 
 at liberty to do what I please until eleven o'clock ; 
 so if you will come, all three of you, I will give you 
 a nice little supper, charculier and punch, cakes and 
 liquers we will enjoy ourselves and joke and play at 
 innocent games. ..and others. ..and we shall not be 
 afraid of being disturbed... Well, what do you say ta 
 my proposal ? " 
 
 They all agreed, and Fleur-d' Amour said that if 
 they wished to remain out of barracks after tatoa 
 they must must get leave, and Pierre declared that 
 he could manage that he was sure, whilst Josephine 
 said that she would tell her mistress some cock-ancr 
 bull story that her aunt had drunk some vinegarin- 
 mistake for potash water, and she must stay witk 
 her all the evening. 
 
 " By the way," Pierre said at the last moment, 
 "we w r ere going off like a couple ot dolts without 
 settling where we are to meet this evening." — "At the 
 Chateau-d'Eau," Josephine replied : " I will be there- 
 and take you to Felicite's ; she lives just opposite." 
 — " Very well ; opposite the Chateau-d'Eau at a. 
 quarter to seven." 
 
 Fleur-d' Amour and Pierre returned to their bar- 
 racks, and as they went, the former dilated on the- 
 fun and enjoyment that they should have in the 
 evening, but Pierre scarcely spoke, for he was only- 
 thinking how he should get Marie out of the hands 
 of the man who had carried her off; he did not know 
 how he should succeed, but he had made up his mind 
 to risk everything to do so. — His excellent conduct 
 had procured him the esteem and confidence of his 
 officers and so he obtained the leave which he wanted, 
 but it was only until nine o'clock. 
 
A PARTY OF FOUR. 115 
 
 When then evening came, Pierre urged Fleur- 
 d' Amour to make haste, but he seemed as if he could 
 not finish furbishing up his accoutrements and brush- 
 ing his tunic. At last, however, Pierre got him off, 
 and when they got on to the Boulevard du Chateau 
 d'Eau it was only half past six, and they had to wait 
 till seven before Mademoiselle Josephine put in an 
 appearance.— " I am afraid I have kept you wait- 
 ing," she said, " but just fancy ! My brutes of a 
 master and mistress refused to let me go and see my 
 aunt because they said, they wanted to go to the 
 theatre, and so must stop at home and take care of 
 the children ; just think of such tyranny ! Oh, what 
 jl wretched race masters are!. ..I only wish there 
 were none left so that I might be waited on in my 
 turn."—" Well, my dear, how did you manage? ' 
 Fleur-d' Amour asked.—" I took the bit between my 
 teeth ; I let them go and then I put the children to 
 bed. They wanted to argue the point and said it was 
 not bed-time, but I gave them half a dozen good 
 -smacks, and they shut their eyes directly. Look 
 there, those are F&icite's windows... but one can 
 scarcely see..." 
 
 Almost whilst she was speaking, however, and 
 window on the third floor was opened and a hand- 
 kerchief was waved outside, and when they had 
 asked for Felicite at the porter's lodge, they went 
 upstairs and found that F£licite was waiting for 
 them, and had got everything ready for their recep- 
 tion. The apartments which Daulay had rented for 
 Marie consisted of a pretty dining-room, next to 
 which was a small kitchen and then came the ser- 
 vant's room, and another door opened from the din- 
 ing-room into the drawing-room which led into a bed 
 room. 
 
 F£licite thought that the dining-room would suf- 
 fice for her company, so she had made up a large 
 fire in the stove and lighted several lamps, whilst 
 part of the collation was already to be seen on the 
 side-board. F£licite had paid great attention to her 
 dress, as she wished to turn the head of the hand- 
 some young soldier who had squeezed her arm in the 
 corning. 
 
Il6 A PARTY OF FOUR. 
 
 " I hope we are punctual, " Josephine said. — "You 
 are very kind... my people went out late, but they* 
 have gone at last, and we are our own masters here." 
 " That is capital ! " Fleur-d' Amour replied. " It is 
 very nice here." — "Good evening, Monsieur Pierre/' 
 Felicite said. " I hope you are very well ? ■ - — " Yes, 
 thank you " he replied m an absent manner, looking* 
 round him curiously. " So ... Mademoiselle Marie, 
 your mistress, lives here?" — "Yes. ..oh! they are- 
 very nice apartments... My room is on this side, next 
 to the kitcken." — " So ! You are on the same floor?" 
 Josephine said. " That is a nuisance sometimes." — 
 " I assure you that if I wished to receive... any visi- 
 tors... that would not interfere with me the least. 
 My young mistress knows so little of the world..." — 
 " And where is her room ? " Pierre said. — " There, 
 next to the drawing-room ... Is the room warm 
 enough ? We are not going to spare the wood, and 
 if it is not light enough, I will light some more can- 
 dles... I do not pay for any of it ! " — " There is quite 
 enough light... But suppose we lay the table, for L 
 fancy we have come here to use our jaws." 
 
 Fleur d' Amour set out the table and put on the 
 plates, whilst Josephine and Felicite went into the 
 kitchen to see after the supper, and meanwhile 
 Pierre took up a candle and went softly through the 
 dining-room into Marie's bed-room. 
 
 "The devil ! " Fleur d' Amour said, when he saw 
 what was on the table, " Mademoiselle Felicite does 
 things in good style... Josephine, I expect you to find 
 a place as good as this." — "Don't fret yourself; I 
 am only waiting for the new year to get my presents 
 and tips, and then I shall throw up my two penny 
 half-penny place ! " — " Monsieur Pierre is not help- 
 ing us much," Felicite said. " Wherever is he ? " — 
 " He has gone in there/' Fleur d'Amour replied ; 
 " My comrade makes himself at home, apparently. 
 I suppose he wants to see the rooms... Perhaps he 
 thought that was the way into your bed-room, made- 
 moiselle.''' 
 
 Felicite smiled, and went to took for Pierre, whom 
 she found standing motionless, and looking at Marie's 
 bed. — " What are you doing here, Monsieur Pierre?" 
 
A PARTY OF FOUR. UJ 
 
 Felicite asked, tapping the young soldier on the 
 shoulder. — " I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but I 
 came in... I was looking..."—"! perfectly well see 
 that you were looking, but this is not my room, it 
 is my young lady's. My room is very pretty, also r 
 and I will show it you, if you promise not to be naugh- 
 ty ! " — And Felicite gave Pierre a knowing look. 
 He heaved a sigh, which the girl interpreted favour- 
 ably, and, so, taking Pierre by the hand, she pulled him 
 along with her and said : — " Come along, and do 
 not sigh like that; one must try and lessen your 
 sufferings.' ' 
 
 When she got back to the drawing-room with 
 Pierre, Felicite found Fleur d' Amour there, lyings 
 at full length on a sofa, and with a foot-bag on his 
 head by way of a night-cap. — " This is a famous lit- 
 tle camp bedstead... and this furred cotton cap. This 
 place seems to me like the abode of a bayardere ! " — 
 " That is not a bed, it is a couch, and what you have 
 on your head is intended to put your feet into." — 
 "Go along with you, do; it is impossible!... Put 
 your feet in a pretty morocco portfolio !..." — "Well, 
 are we not going to have any supper ? " Josephine 
 said. — " It you lounge about like that, we shall have 
 no time for eating." — "She is quite right; let us go 
 and sit down." — " Hear ! hear ! " 
 
 They all went back to the dining-oom and sat 
 down ; Fleur d' Amour by the side of his Josephine, 
 and Felicite next to Pierre, who did all he could 
 to appear merry and to take part in their conver- 
 sation, but his pre-occupatlon, and his absent and 
 agitated manner did not escape the notice of the 
 others. 
 
 " Suppose there should oe a ring whilst we are at 
 supper ? " Josephine said. — " So much the worse, for 
 I certainly should not go to the door!... I am supposed 
 to be out. Surely we all have the right to enjoy our- 
 selves. And, then, they will not come home before 
 the play is over, and after that..." — " Well, what 
 then?" Pierre asked, looking at her anxiously. — 
 " Ah ! I have an idea."— "What idea?... Please tell 
 us." — "Well, I may be mistaken. ..but I fancy that 
 Monsieur Daulay wishes to bring matters to a crisis 
 
Il8 A PARTY OF FOUR. 
 
 with Mademoiselle Marie. This young man spends a 
 lot of money heie on the young lady, and I do not 
 think that he is rich, and I fancy he intends something 
 this evening, for he said to me in a whisper, as they 
 were going out : — " When we come back from the 
 theatre this evening, instead of staying up to give 
 me a light when I leave, go to bed, immediately." — 
 Pierre started, and Fleur d' Amour said : — " I agree 
 with you, Mademoiselle Felicite, that this evening... 
 your mistress... hum ! Please give me a slice of 
 lean ? " — ■' It is no business of mine," Felicite said. 
 " But do take something, Monsieur Pierre. Just 
 try this Malaga, and then, will you not sing us some- 
 thing ? " — He, how T ever, was not paying any atten- 
 tion, and so Fleur d' Amour shouted to him : — ■ 
 " Pierre, you have been asked to sing : why don't 
 you reply? Be friendly, jolly, and a troubadour; 
 you are as silent as a spiked cannon!... Here, drink... 
 To your health, delightful sex!..." — " Now, Mon- 
 sieur Fleur d' Amour, your song." — " All right, but 
 I want you all to join vigorously in the chorus, and 
 imitate a drum." — " Never fear." 
 
 Fleur d' Amour wiped his mouth with the back of 
 3iis hand, and to shout out at the top of his voice : — 
 
 Lisette w T as a young girl, 
 
 Tr-ou-T-r-r-ou ! 
 The sight of her made men's hair curl, 
 
 Tr-ou-T-r-r-ou ! 
 All said to her : — " How sweet you are, 
 
 We all love you, near and far," 
 Tr-ou-T-r-r-r-ou ! 
 
 The two girls joined in the chorus, but Pierre 
 kept silent, so Fleur d' Amour said : — " Why don't 
 you join in the chorus ? " — " Ah ; Monsieur Pierre," 
 Felicite observed, laying her hand upon his arm, 
 "why don't you join in? It really is a very nice 
 song." — " I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. ..but I 
 was not listening..." — " I really think I have a re- 
 sounding voice," Fleur d' Amour said. " Now for 
 the second verse." — He was just going to begin, when 
 a clock in the drawing-room struck nine. 
 
A PARTY OF FOUR. 1 19? 
 
 " Did you hear that ? " Pierre said to his com- 
 rade. "It has just struck nine." — "Confound 
 it, and we have only leave until nine... Come, we 
 must scuttle like rabbits... Luckily the barracks are- 
 quite near." — "What; Are you going, already?" 
 Felicite asked. — " We must, most charming girls ; 
 duty before all, eh, Josephine ? " — " Ah ; I should 
 make a very bad soldier." — " One more glass of 
 Tralala, and off we go..." — " I will go with you," 
 Josephine said. — " Delighted, my dear ; but I am 
 afraid you cannot go go at our pace." 
 
 Fleur d' Amour emptied his glass and got up, toolc 
 his sword and got ready to go, but Pierre did not 
 move, so his comrade shook and said: — "Well, 
 Pierre, are you asleep ? It is time to go." — " You 
 can go... I shall remain here." 
 
 " What the devil do you mean? " Fleur d' Amour 
 cried, astonished at his friend's coolness, whilst 
 Felicite looked down, and Josephine said : — " Well, 
 after all, it is no business of yours, Fleur d' Amour... 
 If Monsieur Pierre has something to say to Felicite 
 in secret, surely they can do as they like ; " — " Oh ;" 
 Felicite said, pulling her apron. " I have no 
 reason to... I should certainly never turn anybody 
 out of doors... Perhaps Monsieur Pierre has some- 
 thing to say to me. ..but he will go immediately after- 
 wards." — " We are not talking about that, Fleur 
 d' Amour replied. " I am only saying to Pierre, that 
 if he does not return to the barracks, he will cer- 
 tainly be punished." — " That is all the same to me ; 
 I am going to stay." — " Well, it is your own affair ; 
 as you please." — " The man adores you, my dear ; " 
 Josephine said to her friend in a whisper." — " It is 
 really heroic !... But I can assure that nothing will 
 happen. ..We shall talk. ..that is, all."— " Oh, I say, 
 do you take me for a fool ?..." — " Come, one more 
 ^lass of liqueur and we must start." 
 
 Fleur d' Amour poured himself out a glass anp!: 
 drank with the girls, saying : — " To the health of 
 our love, and to another supper in the same style 
 very soon !...Come Pierre, join us, hang it all ! " — • 
 Pierre pretended to drink in order to satisfy his 
 comrade, and the latter then took Josephine's arm- 
 
120 HE WAS THERE. 
 
 and took her off with him, saying : — " Good night... 
 Much pleasure ! "-— " Wait till I show you a light," 
 Felicite said. — " Never mind about that ; there is a 
 
 moon." 
 
 And immediately afterwards they heard the front 
 <door close on Fleur d' Amour and his mistress. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HE WAS THERE. 
 
 Pierre remained on his chair, and with his eyes 
 fixed on the floor he seemed buried in thought. 
 
 Felicite closed the outer door and came and sat 
 down close to the young soldier, and tried to put on 
 a troubled and frightened manner ; but as she could 
 hot assume that bashful and embarrassed look which 
 did not agree with her face, she soon returned to her 
 usual manners. 
 
 " They have gone ! " she said at last, astonished 
 because her handsome guest did not say a word. 
 But Pierre only sighed, and did not reply. — "It is not 
 more than a quarter past nine, and my people will 
 .not be back until eleven, so we have plenty of time 
 ...to talk... 5 ' — Pierre sighed again, but said nothing. 
 
 " It was scarcely worth while for him to remain if 
 lie does not mean to say anything else to me," Fe- 
 licite thought, who was much astonished at Pierre's 
 silence since they had been alone. — The little 
 servant attributed it all to love and timidity, and so, 
 in order to inspire him — for he thought that he was 
 -smitten with her charms — with some degree of assur- 
 ance, she asked him to take a small glass of Cognac.' ' 
 — " I assure you, mademoiselle, that I would rather 
 not take anything more," the young soldier replied in 
 a serious voice; "I am thinking of something else, and 
 I did not come here for your supper." — " Ah ; Mon- 
 sieur Pierre, how polite you are. One can see plainly, 
 that it was not greediness that brought you here, 
 
HE WAS THERE. 121 
 
 and I am very pleased... Very well then, I will clear 
 the table/' 
 
 She got up and began to put the things away ; 
 Pierre remained where he was and did not pay any 
 attention to the little servant, though she kept on 
 chattering. — " In five minutes nothing will be no- 
 ticed and nobody would guess that we have been en- 
 joying ourselves here. Please give me that dish... 
 that dish just in front of you." — But Pierre, who was 
 absorbed in his own thoughts neither heard her, nor 
 replied. — " Upon my word ;" Felicite said to herself, 
 " I have had many sweethearts, but never one like 
 this before... has love turned him silly ?... It is really 
 getting very ridiculous... and then the time is getting 
 on... Is he asleep?.., No, his eyes are open...Tra, la, 
 la...deri, dera.... Ah ! how sweet love z>...tra, la, la,... 
 deri, dera...Do you know that song, Monsieur 
 Pierre?" And as he did not reply, Felicite got up 
 and shook him by the arm and said: — " Are you 
 asleep, Monsieur Pierre?" — " No, mademoiselle... 
 Oh;...I have no inclination to go to sleep, I assure 
 you." — " One would think that you were, at any 
 rate, as you do not speak... and don't even look at me 
 ...Then why. ..why did you want to stay?...I thought 
 that you had something interesting. ..to. ..to tell 
 me." 
 
 Pierre got up and walked quickly through the 
 room. The clock struck ten. — " Ten o'clock ; " the 
 young soldier exclaimed; "only just ten o'clock;" 
 — " Does that put you out ?... That is very kind of 
 you." — "How slowly the time passes;..." — "I 
 should think it does, considering how you employ it 
 ...Just come and look at my bed room... It will dis- 
 tract you." — "Your room?. ..Ah; yes; so that I 
 may see where I can hide myself." — "Hide yourself? 
 But I told you that nobody ever goes into my room 
 ...Come along... but you will promise to be very 
 good, won't you ? " 
 
 She said these words in a tone of voice which in- 
 vited him to be just the contrary. ..but Pierre paid 
 no attention to her. He followed Felicite who took 
 a candle and went through the kitchen which opened 
 into a small, rather untidy room, where the bed was not 
 
122 HE WAS THERE. 
 
 made. — " This is my room, Monsieur Pierre," F6- 
 licite said; "I have only one chair. ..but when any- 
 body comes to see me, I sit upon the bed ; it is very 
 -comfortable... The re ; I have forgotten to make it; 
 Well, never mind... it must remain as it is, ... I am 
 tired and would rather lie down..." 
 
 As she said this, Felicite threw herself on the bed, 
 laughing like mad, and then she hid her head under 
 the pillow, but when she raised it again, she saw that 
 Pierre had gone. — " Ah ; how dreadfully rude of 
 him;" the little servant said..." Fancy leaving me 
 like this ;...Does he want to make fun of me, or is he 
 "a Joseph?. ..I will go and see, for he must explain 
 why he wished to remain behind... and as he has 
 made a fool of me, I shall just show him the door." 
 
 Felicite set her cap straight, which had got 
 pushed on one side when she threw herself upon the 
 bed, and then she returned to the dining-rotm, 
 where she found Pierre, with his ear against the 
 door leading on to the landing, listening for the 
 slightest noise on the stairs. 
 
 "What are you doing by that door?" Felicite 
 asked him, crossly. 
 
 Pierre did not reply, but only gave her a sign 
 with his hand to be quiet. 
 
 " Monsieur," Felicite said, " I do not not at all un- 
 derstand your signs, and I don't know whether you 
 are acting a pantomime, but I can tell you that it 
 does not amuse me in the least. I like a lover who 
 • can talk and explain himself ; and if you have 
 nothing to say me, you may as w r ell go. Besides, it 
 is getting late ; my young mistress will be coming 
 back, and..." — " Oh ! I hope she will ! " Pierre said, 
 in an excited voice. — " You hope she will ! "— " Yes 
 ...because I am wa waiting for her..." — " Her...Ma- 
 damemoiselle Marie?..." — "Yes, Marie, whom I 
 love... for whom I would give my life, and whom I 
 mean to deliver from the hads of an infamous se- 
 ducer." — " Good heavens ! What do you say?... You 
 <lid not come here on my account ? ...You are not in 
 love with me ? Oh ! Monsieur Pierre, go away, 
 please do." — " No ;...no ;...I will not go without 
 Marie." — "Well, I have done a nice thing. ..Just re- 
 
HE WAS THERE. 12$ 
 
 member that Monsieur Daulay is coming back with 
 her..." — So much the better..." — "But if she sees- 
 you, I shall be ruined." — " Hush ! there is a knock 
 downstairs." — " Oh ; whatever shall I do ? " — 
 "Don't betray me. ..If you do I shall. ..I would do 
 anything to save Marie." 
 
 Pierre put his hand to his sword, and at that mo- 
 ment his looks terrified Felicite. She grew pale and 
 trembled, clasped her hands, and said : — " On ; Mon- 
 sieur Pierre... I will not say a word, but I..." — " Be 
 quiet... they are coming upstairs... I can hear her 
 voice. ..It is Marie."— " O-h ! I am all of a tremble." 
 — "I will hide in your room whilst they come in..* 
 But don't say a word or make a sign to the man 
 who is with her. If you do... you will pay dearly 
 for it."— " Oh ! I will not say anything. '— " Hush ;, 
 here they are." 
 
 There was a ring at the bell, and Pierre hid in the 
 kitchen and closed the door behind him, whilst Fe- 
 licite went to let them in. 
 
 It was Daulay bringing Marie back from the 
 theatre. It was the first time she had ever had that 
 pleasure, and she would have enjoyed it very much, 
 if Daulay^s behaviour, and Madame de Stainville's 
 prolonged absence had not caused her secret un- 
 easiness, whilst Daulay, who had spent a great deal 
 more than he could afford, to get Marie into his 
 power, did not intend that he should not reap his 
 reward, now that he had her in his power. He in- 
 tended to triumph over the girl's virtue,+which he did 
 not believe to be very strict, so that on the return of 
 the Duchess de Valousky, he might be able to say,, 
 when he restored her daughter to her : — " The 
 best thing you can do now, is to let me marry 
 her." 
 
 With such intentions, it will easily be understood 
 that Daulay had become not only very polite, but 
 also very affectionate towards Marie, and even at 
 the theatre he spoke of his love ; but she did 
 not seem to hear him. Absorbed in the play, she 
 made no answer to his protestations, and he made 
 up his mind to obtain complete victory on their re- 
 turn to her apartments. 
 
324 BE WAS THERE. 
 
 Felicity had taken a lamp into the drawing-room 
 as soon as she had let them in, and, at a look from 
 Daulay, she was about to leave them, when Marie 
 said : — " Felicite, show Monsieur Daulay a light, he 
 has been kind enough to see me home." — " May I 
 rest for a few minutes, before saying good-night to 
 you, mademoiselle? " 
 
 Marie appeared put out, but she did not like to 
 refuse, and so she went into the drawing-room, and 
 said to Felicite :-— " You are not going to bed yet, I 
 suppose? But what is the matter, with you, this, 
 evening? You are quite pale ; are you ill ? " — " No, 
 mademoiselle." — " She wants rest," Daulay said shut- 
 ting the door behind her, and Marie, after throwing 
 off her bonnet and cloak, sat down near the win- 
 dow, and Daulay followed her and took her hand. 
 
 " Well, Marie, have you enjoyed yourself ? " — 
 "" Yes, Monsieur, it was very amusing. But I wish 
 Madame de Stainville had not been absent ! Do you not 
 think she will return ?..." — "My dear Marie, you have 
 given me no answer to what I asked you at the 
 theatre." — " I was not listening to you..." — " Come 
 and sit down by me, Marie." 
 
 He took her hand, drew her to the couch, and sat 
 down by her side. She tried to master her fears, 
 and to appear reassured, but she looked at the door, 
 which was closed, and she would have to call 
 Felicite. 
 
 " Marie, I cannot hide my feelings any longer.. .1 
 love you, passionately... my views are honourable... I 
 hope to be your husband.. .It is mydearest wish, and 
 now I must tell you that it is useless to ask for 
 Madame de Stainville's consent, for I have taken 
 you from her care, and you are now here... in my 
 rooms."— " Oh ;...Good heavens ! can it be true." 
 
 And Marie made a movement to get up, but Daulay 
 held her fast and put his arm round her waist. — "Yes, 
 dear Marie, you are in my power... But look upon me 
 -as your most tender and sincere lover ... Tell 
 me that you accept my homage, and I will 
 fall on my knees." — " No, Monsieur, no," Marie 
 replied; "I do not require your homage... I do 
 aiot want your love, as I do not love you, and 
 
HE WAS THERE. 12$ 
 
 never shall love you." — " Oh ; very well then, pret- 
 ty one : you assume that tone, do you ? If you had 
 said to me : — ' I am touched by your love, and I con- 
 sent to be your wife/ perhaps I should have trusted to 
 your promise, and have asked for nothing more, but 
 as you repulse my love, I mean to have that by 
 force which you will not allow me to hope for." — Mon- 
 sieur Daulay ... would never act like that ... Fe- 
 licite ;...Felicite..." — " It is no use calling. ..she has 
 received my orders, and will not come." — "Good 
 heavens; Then I am lost. ..Leave me alone, Mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 Marie tried to escape from Daulay, but he held her, 
 put his arms round her, and was going to carry her 
 into her room, when the drawing-room was violently 
 opened, Pierre rushed in, tore Marie from her 
 would-be seducer's hands, and hurled him to the 
 other end of the room. — " A soldier ; " Daulay cried, 
 in a voice choking with rage and astonishment.— 
 " Pierre ! " Marie exclaimed in her turn, clinging to 
 tier defender ; " Oh \ yes. ..it is he. ..it is Pierre, who 
 has come to save me ! " — " Yes, mademoiselle," the 
 young soldier replied : " It is Pierre, your friend at 
 all times, and in all circumstances, and who will al- 
 ways be happy to lay down his life for you." — " Oh ; 
 so this gentleman is an acquaintance of yours, mader 
 moiselle? " Daulay said, trying to smile. "I am not 
 at all astonished that he undertakes the part of her 
 knight so warmly, but 1 want to know how he got in 
 lerc.what right had he to come, and by what ac- 
 cident a soldier has hidden in my apartments." — 
 " Oh ! I am not hidden here accidentally, at all ! " 
 Pierre replied. " As soon as I knew that Marie was 
 here, I determined to get her out of your power... for 
 you are nothing but a miserable wretch ! You have 
 drawn her into a snare, in the hopes of dishonouring 
 her."— ■" I think you are very bold to..."— "Oh! 
 you think I am very bold, do you ?... because I am 
 defending a woman... a mere girl... whom you wished 
 to ruin. Do you think one can only be bold in evil- 
 doing ? " — " Do you know that you are here in my 
 apartments ? " — " Don't alarm yourself, we are not 
 going to stay long. Come, Marie, let us leave the 
 gentlemen to himself." 
 
126 HE WAS THERE. 
 
 Pierre was going to take Marie away, when Dau- 
 lay hastened to get between them and the door, and 
 exclaimed: — "Take Marie away... And you think I 
 shall allow that!"—" I advise you not to interfere with 
 me." — And I order you to leave these premises, or I 
 will have you taken into custody." 
 
 Pierre laid his hand on his sword, drew it, and ex- 
 claimed : — " If you have any pluck, If you wish to dis- 
 pute the possession of Marie bravely, take a weapon 
 and defend yourself... But not you... Why you are 
 trembling already... Men who insult women are al- 
 ways cowards with men... Come along, Marie." — 
 " Felicite ! F61icite ! " Daulay shouted, running into 
 the dining-room. — " Oh ! It is no good calling," 
 Pierre said ; " she will not come, for I have locked 
 her into her room." 
 
 Daulay rushed to the door leading on to the 
 landing, opened it, and was just going out, when 
 Pierre, who guessed his object, ran after him, and, 
 taking him round the waist, carried him into the 
 drawing-room. There, with the aid of a large pocket- 
 handkerchief, he tied his hands tightly behind his 
 back, and Daulay trembled so that he did not even 
 try to defend himself. Pierre pushed him into the 
 drawing-room and double locked the door, and, af- 
 ter doing the same to the door of the landing, he took 
 Marie's hand, and made her go quickly downstairs; 
 the porter's wife pulled the string without asking 
 any question, and they were on the boulevard. 
 
 Marie took Pierre's arm, as she was trembling 
 violently, and could hardly walk. 
 
 " Lean on me," he said; " I will support you, and. 
 even carry you if you require it." 
 
 They had only gone about twenty yards, when* 
 they heard a noise and shouts. It was Daulay, who 
 had broken a pane of glass with his head, and was 
 shouting with all his might : — " Stop a soldier who is 
 carrying off a girl... Arrest him... he is a ravisher..." 
 " Good heavens ; " Marie exclaimed, " we are lost." 
 — " Fear nothing... Only let us walk on as quickly as- 
 possible... It is dark, and nobody is paying any at- 
 tention to us. 
 
 Daulay's cries had not produced any effect,, 
 
HE WAS THERE. 127 
 
 though some passengers had looked up, whilst some 
 said : — " What the devil is the matter with the gen- 
 tlemen ? " — " Is he mad ? " — " A soldier taking off a 
 girl ...There is nothing in that. ..If she goes with him, 
 it means that she wants to." 
 
 Thereupon, they all went on their way, which 
 would certainly not have been the case if Daulay 
 had cried fire ! fire ! because everybody likes to see 
 a great conflagration. Pierre and Marie gained on 
 their pursuers, and soon the young soldier said : — 
 *! We can walk slowly, now... No one is following 
 us." — " Oh !... Pierre. ..how glad I am that you hap- 
 pened to be there ! " Marie replied. " That 
 -gentlemen deceived me ; I thought I was at the 
 house of Madame de Stain ville, my protectress... for 
 a great change has taken place in my position 
 Pierre !...Do you know that I am the daughter of a 
 ■duchess ?...That I shall be very rich, some day? " — 
 *■*■ Yes, Mademoiselle Marie, 3 T es...I have been told 
 that ; but I should have delivered you from the 
 hands of that man, even if you had still only been 
 Monsieur Gobinard's adopted daughter " — " I am 
 sure of that, Pierre." 
 
 "Ah! that Monsieur Daulay.. .1 never expected 
 that of him... And I am so vexed at having forgotten 
 to bring away my bonnet and shawl. But where 
 -are you going to take me to, Pierre ? " — " We are 
 close to the barracks, but I cannot take you there, 
 and though I have not got leave, if you would like to 
 return to the country we will start immediately, and 
 we shall be sure to meet some village cart into which 
 you can get and I will follow on foot, and we shall 
 get there to-morrow morning." — " Thank you very 
 much Pierre, but I shall not return to the village... 
 Oh ! If only Madame de Stainville were in Paris I 
 would go back to her immediately." — " But she is in 
 Paris, mademoiselle ... Gaspard told me so, for he 
 went there to ask after you." — " How lucky ! In 
 that case, Pierre, take me to her house at once." — 
 44 Only there is this difficulty, mademoiselle, that I do- 
 not know where she lives... Gaspard did not tell me."" 
 — " How very unlucky !... And I do not know myself 
 ,..and Paris is such a big place, so that one cannot 
 
128 HE WAS THERE. 
 
 find anybody very easily." — " Unfortunately not... 
 and yet you must spend the night somewhere... I have 
 it!. ..I think I know what you can do." — "What is 
 it ?" — " I will take you to a kind woman I know who 
 lives close to here. She is a very good old lady who 
 takes in mending at home. I have met her very 
 often and as she saw that I was always alone and 
 unhappy, she took a fancy to me and gave me good 
 advice... Oh ! Mother Dumont is a very good old wo- 
 man ; I am sure that she will take you in, and 
 meanwhile I shall write to Gaspard and tell him that 
 I have found you, and ask him for Madame de Stain- 
 ville's address, and as soon as I have got it, I will- 
 take you to her." 
 
 Marie did not appear very delighted at Pierre's 
 proposal ; however, she said : — " Very well, take me 
 to your mender of old clothes ; of course it will be 
 terribly slow, but as I have nowhere else to go to... 
 If I had only brought my pretty bonnet and shawl... 
 At any rate, Pierre, you will promise to write to 
 Gaspard at once and find out Madame de Stainville's 
 address and then you will come and take me to her?" 
 — " Of course I shall, mademoiselle." — "Very well 
 then let us go to Mother Dumont' s." 
 
 Pierre made Marie turn back, and took her to the- 
 Rue Crussol, and as they went up the alley that led. 
 to the house, Marie said to herself with a sigh :— 
 " What an ugly house this old woman Jives in ! "-— 
 Pierre knocked and called out : — " It is I, Pierre, 
 Mother Dumont; I am bringing you the girl of 
 whom I have often spoken to you...Mademoislle 
 Marie... She wants you to give her a bed." 
 
 " You have spoken to her about me?" Marie said, 
 in some surprise. — "Yes, mademoiselle... Are you 
 astonished at it?... But you must remember that as- 
 I could not see you any more, my only remaining 
 happiness was in talking about you!" — u Ah ! Pierre 
 ...you never forget anybody ! " — " I could never for- 
 get you, Marie... I mean mademoiselle..." — ''What 
 a pity I have forgotten my bonnet and shawl... But 
 do knock again, for the old woman is still asleep." 
 
 So Pierre knocked again, and at last they heard 
 footsteps, and an old woman in a night cap, dressing 
 
 I 
 
HE WAS THERE. I2(£ 
 
 jacket and short petticoat opened the door to them. 
 Madame Dumont was a woman of over sixty, with a^ 
 kind face, and her manner inspired confidence. la 
 the humble position in which destiny had placed her,. 
 she had never envied the lot of the rich, and had. 
 even found means to help those who were poorer 
 than herself ; in fact, Mother Dumont was the man 
 whom Diogenes had tried in vain to find. 
 
 "What! my friend Pierre at this late hour. ..and 
 with a young lady ;" the good woman exclaimed an& 
 seeing the young people. — The first thing he did, 
 however, was to make Marie go in and sit down, and 
 then he explained to Mother Dumont what had hap- 
 pened to the girl on whose behalf he had come to ask. 
 for hospitality, until she could ascertain the address- 
 of her rich protectress. 
 
 "You were quite right to come to me, my child- 
 ren," the kind woman said ; " I am always glad to 
 be of any use !...And then, I am very fond of Pierre 
 who is an excellent fellow and who will get on... So 
 my pretty lady, you can stay with me as long as you 
 like... I happen to have a small bed which belongs to- 
 my niece who is in Brittany and you can have that. 
 ...or else you can take mine, just as you please... 
 You may take your choice ; I can make myself com- 
 fortable anywhere." — " What a kind woman you- 
 are ! "' Pierre said. " I was sure that you would not. 
 turn us away... although we have disturbed you in 
 your sleep." — " My dear children, I am always glad: 
 to be disturbed when I can show anybody a kindness; 
 but this pretty young lady must be in want of rest." 
 — " I will leave you," Pierre said, " and come and 
 see you again to-morrow... and shall come whenever 
 duty leaves me at liberty... You will allow me to do 
 so I hope, Mademoiselle Marie ? " — " Certainly, 
 Monsieur Pierre... But please write to Gaspard soon 
 ...so that he may give us Madame de Stainville's ad- 
 dress." — " You my rely upon me ;... Goodbye, Marie- 
 ...I beg your pardon, I always forget... Goodbye,, 
 mademoiselle, until to-morrow." — " I shall hope tx> 
 see you to-morrow, Monsieur Pierre." 
 
 Mother Dumont lighted the young soldier out, and. 
 when they were on the staircase, he said to ther 
 
ANOTHER. 
 
 good woman : — " Please,. Madam Dumont, do not 
 let Marie want tor anything whilst she is with you... 
 J will be responsible for every thing... You know that 
 you may rely upon my word ! " — " My dear Pierre," 
 she replied, " I do not like you to say that to me ! 
 Do you think that I require to be paid for my ser- 
 vices ?... There... there... go to bed... and to-morrow... 
 I will take care of your pretty Marie." 
 
 The soldier kissed the old woman's hands, and re- 
 lumed to his barracks at a run. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 MOTHER DUMONT had only two small rooms, and in 
 •one she put up another bed, and told Marie to take 
 her choice, and although she declared that it was all 
 the same to her, she, nevertheless, took the best. — 
 .She went to bed, raying to herself : — " It is not at 
 .all nice, here !...What a difference to my pretty room 
 on the boulevards... that is to say, Monsieur Dau- 
 lay's apartments, as everything belonged to him... 
 Ah ! the wretch !...Who would ever have guessed 
 it?... To carry me off in order to marry me... But I 
 will never marry him, for I do not like him at all... 
 How different if Count d'Aubigny had carried me 
 off ! But he never thirfks about anybody but Ma- 
 dame Darmentiere. How I hate that woman 1...I 
 .am sure she is delighted that I am not there any 
 longer... But, patience ! I shall return to Madame de 
 JStainville's...and then my mother, the duchess, will 
 -come... and then... we shall see !...I shall be very rich 
 ...but, meanwhile, I am very sorry that I have not 
 got that bonnet and shawl, which at once gave me 
 the appearance of a grand lady." 
 
 Marie went to sleep whilst thinking of all that had 
 happened to her, and of what she wished might 
 
ANOTHER. I3E 
 
 happen to her. She slept very well, because, as yet, 
 she had no reason to be disquieted about the future, 
 which, on the contrary, appeared to her under the 
 most smiling colours, which means, for a young girl, 
 the love of the man whom she loves, in addition 
 to grand toillettes, balls, plays, and nice things to 
 eat. 
 
 When she woke up the next morning, Marie saw 
 that her kind hostess was already preparing break* 
 fast. — " I have slept late ; I am very lazy ; •' Marie said, 
 "Pray excuse me, madame..." — "Why, my dear 
 child, I am delighted that you have slept well; " the 
 old woman said. " Besides, you will find nothing 
 better to do here. But here is breafast...It is 
 nothing very grand, but..." — "Oh! I am easily 
 satisfied, although I have been living amongst grand; 
 people for some time... But I have not been a 
 duchess long." — "What; you are a duchess, my 
 child?" — "Yes. Do you mean to say that Pierre 
 has not told you?" — " No. ..He has often said to 
 me : — * I have left a girl whom I love very much 
 behind me... Her name is Marie, and she is prettier 
 than the prettiest girl in Paris." — "Did he say that? 
 Poor Pierre." — " Yes, but he never said : — ' I am 
 thinking about a duchess.'" — "I will tell you my 
 history, whilst we are having breakfast." 
 
 Marie got up, breakfasted, and told Mother Du- 
 mont all that had happened to her. She was ver>r 
 fond of talking -about the singular manner in which 
 her birth had been discovered, and of the splendid: 
 destiny which awaited her when Madame de Va- 
 lousky returned. 
 
 The good woman listened to Marie, without in- 
 terrupting her, and when she had finished, she shook 
 her head and said : — " My dear child, I trust that 
 all your hopes may be realized... But though I am 
 only a poor old woman, and maybe mistaken... yet..."' 
 — " Well ? " — " Well, it seems to me that a mother 
 who loves her daughter does not forsake her for 
 seventeen years... eighteen years... and leave her on 
 the hands of a stranger, who might not have taken, 
 such care of you as Monsieur Gobinard did." — - 
 tl But you do not seem to understand that there- 
 
332 ANOTHER. 
 
 :is something mysterious in the whole affair." — " No 
 mystery can prevent a woman from loving her 
 children." — " But I am a love-child... Madame de 
 JStainvill even showed me, secretly, the letter which 
 she had received from my mother, in which she told 
 Jher things that prove... that it was not done on pur- 
 pose... that it was only out of prudence... Well, at 
 .any rate, Madame de Stainville told me that these 
 sort of things very often happen in high life." — " In 
 liigh life. ..it may be so, my child. ..no doubt they 
 Iiave a very different manner of loving to that of the 
 lower classes. I am only a poor old clothes-mender, 
 and know nothing of the manners of grand people. 
 I hope you will be rich... and above all things, happy. 
 J hope that, with all my heart." — And the good wo- 
 man added to herself : — " But I should have liked 
 Pierre to be happy as well." 
 
 After breakfast, Marie inspected Madame Du- 
 mont's lodging. The two rooms were very modest- 
 ly furnished in old walnut wood, but everything was 
 A^ery clean, and showed order, foresight and wise 
 •economy. A few months before, Marie would have 
 thought such a lodging quite sufficient, but since she 
 iiad lived in the great world, her tastes had changed 
 with her fortunes. She found the apartments of her 
 hostess ugly, dull, wanting a thousand things which 
 she had learnt to look upon as necessities, and her 
 greatest wish was, not to be obliged to stay at Ma- 
 dame Dumont's long. — She went to the window, but 
 the Rue Crussol is not a lively street, and so she 
 soon left the window, and said : — " What a horrid 
 street you live in, maname ...What a difference to 
 -the boulevards, which are so gay and animated. 
 Why do you not live there ?" — " My dear child, the 
 rents are much too high there, and this street only 
 seems dull to you because you are not used to it. I 
 like it very much, and I have lived here forty years." 
 — " Forty years... What a long time... However, 
 Pierre will come, for he promised me that he 
 would." — " And I am sure that he will keep his pro- 
 mise." y 
 
 However, the morning passed over, and Pierre 
 did not come. Marie kept going from her chair to 
 
ANOTHER. 133 
 
 -the window, whilst Madame Dumont was knitting 
 -stockings, until at last the girl grew impatient, and 
 said: — "Why does not Pierre come?... What does 
 it mean ?...Has he forgotten me?"- 'i-No, my child," 
 the kind old woman replied. " He cannot have for- 
 gotten 3^011, for the poor fellow was constantly talk- 
 ing to me about you. You must not believe that he has 
 iorgotten you.""—" Then, why does he not come and 
 keep me company, and tell me whether he has writ- 
 ten to Gaspard ? 7 — " Perhaps he has been unex- 
 pectedly prevented — A soldier is not always his 
 own master... But he is sure to come, and, mean- 
 while, we will have dinner ; one must dine, under 
 any circumstances. " 
 
 Marie made a grimace ; she sighed, and sat down 
 in a bad temper, and the frugal dinner of her hostess 
 did not restore her to good humour, because for some 
 time Marie had been used to very good cooking. At 
 Madame de Stainville's, there was always a recher- 
 che table, and as Mademoiselle Felicite had every- 
 thing sent in from a restaurant, she had lived very 
 •well there, also. We all like what is nice, and when 
 we have grown accustomed tojt, we find some diffi- 
 culty in getting used to privations. On that account, 
 therefore, Marie ate very little, and hardly spoke, 
 but went back to the window, and remained there 
 until it was dark, but Pierre did not come. 
 
 " Console yourself, my child," the old woman said. 
 •'Pierre will come, to-morrow. Meanwhile, I wish 
 ■I could find something to amuse you... I have two or 
 three old books u here... they are some volumes of 
 novels which my" niece left with me...I think they are 
 all odd volumes, but that does not matter, they will 
 amuse you." — "Thank you," Marie replied, "I am 
 not fond of reading.''— "What a pity. ..Well then, 
 will you play at dominoes ? I have them, and we 
 can have a game." — " I do not know how to play... 
 I have often seen them played when I was a peasant 
 girl, and I am sure I 'should not like it." — " Well, 
 we will not say any more about it ; I only wanted to 
 .amuse you. Can you not sing me something? " — 
 "No, I am sorry I cannot; I think I should like to 
 .go to bed." — " Very well, my dear." 
 
134 ANOTHER. 
 
 ». 
 So the girl went to bed, and soon fell asleep, 
 whilst the old woman worked, and the next day the 
 same waiting, the same impatience on Marie's part, 
 and yet Pierre did not come. — " He has forgotten 
 me," the girl said to her hostess, who replied : — 
 ''You must not think that. ..There is nothing extra- 
 ordinary in his not coming." 
 
 Marie was horribly bored at Madame Dumont's, 
 who did not fail to notice it, and said to her on the 
 third day :— " My dear child, I have nothing here to 
 amuse you..! But if you want something to do... there 
 is noteing that makes the time pass so quickly as 
 being occupied... I have some stockings that want 
 darning, some handkerchief s that want washing... But 
 perhaps you do not know how to mend or wash ? " — 
 " Indeed, I do, begging your pardon, but I do not 
 wish to do any such things again ; on the contrary, 
 I wish to forget them, for my protectress told me 
 that in my new position, it would never do to know 
 anything about work, like inferior people do. But, 
 if only I had my bonnet and shawl, I would go out 
 for a walk. ..that would amuse me..." — " Go out...By 
 yourself...Hum...My dear child, you do not know 
 "Paris ; when a girl is as pretty as you are, men ' no- 
 tice her, and follow her. ..and often speak to her... 
 There are many men in Paris who spend all their time 
 on the look out for pretty faces."— " Well, if anyone 
 paid me a compliment, I should not object, and if 
 anybody were to speak rudely to me, I should not 
 listen." — " Ah ; my child, young men are dangerous 
 in Paris... And, then, you might meet this Monsieur 
 Daulay, whom ) r ou wish to avoid... and who wanted 
 to take you to his lodgings."— " If I were to see him 
 in the distance, I should run away, very cjutckly /'— 
 " And what would Pierre say, if he were to come, 
 and not find you?" — " But, you see, he does not 
 come... He leaves me here ; Oh ; It is very unkind of 
 him." — t( My child, you must do as you please, for I 
 cannot claim the right of keeping you a prisoner 
 here, but I must tell you again, that you are far too 
 pretty not to be remarked."—'' Ah ; well, I will stop 
 indoors, as I have neither a shawl nor a bonnet to 
 put on my head." 
 
ANOTHER. 335 
 
 Six days passed, and nothing had been heard of 
 Pierre. Mother Dumont, who could not believe 
 that the young soldier had forgotten Marie, thought 
 that his regiment had left Paris suddenly, and so she 
 went out with the intention of ascertaining whether 
 it was so. In the neighbourhood of the barracks, 
 -she soon met some soldiers, and, from them, she 
 heard that no changes had taken place, and that 
 Pierre's regiment was still in the same quarters. 
 
 ■ ( In that case, I cannot understand it at all," the 
 •old woman said to herself, as she returned home ; 
 •and Marie, to whom she told what she had heard, 
 -exclaimed : — "There, you see that your Pierre is no 
 -better than any of the rest of them." 
 
 Marie had been at Mother Dumont* s for a fort- 
 night, which had seemed like a century to the girl. 
 At the risk ot anything that might happen to her, 
 she made up her mind to go out because she abso- 
 lutely wanted a change of position, and, strictly 
 •speaking, she would rather have returned to the inn, 
 than remain at Madame Dumont's. However, she 
 lioped it would not come to that. 
 
 Marie had borrowed a little coloured handkerchief 
 from her hostess, which she wore on her head, and 
 which made her look charming, and on her arm she had 
 a small basket (Mother Dumont had told her that that 
 would give her a more respectable appearance), and 
 ;so she went out, ventured into the streets by herself, 
 and went towards the canal, which is at the end of 
 the Rue de Crussol. She breathed freely when she 
 found herself out of doors ; the fresh air did her body 
 and her mind good, and she thought the canal bank 
 much nicer than the Rue de Crussol, and she gave 
 furtive looks at every soldier who passed her, as she 
 hoped to see Pierre in one of them. Some men 
 smiled at her, and others even paid her a compli- 
 ment as they passed her ; but it went no further, 
 and Marie thought that Mother Dumont had ex- 
 aggerated the dangers which a girl would incur in 
 the streets of Paris. Therefore, instead of confining 
 herself to the neighbourhood of the Rue de Crussol, 
 -she walked on straight ahead, till she got to the 
 Place St. Antoine, where she got on to the boule- 
 
136 ANOTHER. 
 
 vards again. — The sight of that beautiful street made 
 her heart beat ; she thought that she must be near 
 her old lodgings, and, fancying already that Daulay 
 crossed would see her and come running after her, she 
 the road, went into the first cross street, and walked 
 On quickly for some time. At last, however, she felt 
 inclined to rest ; she was then on the Place Royale, 
 and so she sat down on a stone bench, and, for the 
 first time, asked herself how she was going to find 
 her way back ; and then she sighed to think that she 
 would be obliged to return to Madame Dumont's, 
 and, thinking of everything that had happened to 
 her, she was unhappy at not knowing where Madame 
 de Stainville lived, as she had no doubt that her 
 presence there was wished for also. All at once, 
 yielding to a sudden thought, she went up to the first 
 passer-by, and said : — " Could you tell me where 
 Madame de Stainville lives ? " — " Who is she? " — 
 " A very rich lady." — " What does she do ? " — 
 * Nothing, of course.'' — " And in what quarter of 
 Paris does she live ? " — ■" I do not know, or I should 
 not ask you." — " And why do you think that should 
 know?" 
 
 And the individual left Marie after laughing in her 
 face, and several other attempts were not more 
 fortunate, and so the girl returned sadly to her 
 bench, and said to herself : — " It is very singular 
 that people do not seem to know each other in 
 Paris ! " 
 
 It was already getting towards evening when 
 Marie got up and said : — " I must return to Madame 
 Dumont's...I shall find her again; I know her ad- 
 dress, and anybody will direct me to the Rue de 
 Crussol." — So she set out walking again, but she 
 had not gone half a dozen yards when she ex- 
 claimed :-—" It is he;. ..Oh, yes, it is certainly he... 
 How lucky ; " — And running with all her might, she 
 soon caught up a gentleman who was crossing the 
 Place Royale, and so she stopped in front of him and 
 said : — " Ah ! Monsieur Bellepeche, how glad I am 
 to meet you." 
 
 It was indeed that ancient beau and old bachelor 
 whom Marie had just met, and whose presence had 
 
ANOTHER. I37 
 
 never pleased her so much before. Bellepeche was 
 struck with astonishment when he saw a girl stand 
 in front of him and bar his passage, for he did not 
 recognise Marie at first ; but when he saw the face 
 •of the girl to whom he had paid such assiduous court 
 under a modest coloured neck-handkerchief, he ut- 
 tered an exclamation of surprise in his turn. 
 
 "Good heavens! Can I believe my eyes... Made- 
 moiselle Marie?..." — " Yes, Monsieur Bellepeche, it 
 is I." — " Mademoiselle Marie, the Duchess de Val- 
 ousky's daughter, with a kerchief on her head." — 
 " Yes, and into the bargain one which I had to bor- 
 row. ..for I had nothing with me !..." — '' And a bas- 
 ket on your arm... poor young lady !...You put me in 
 mind of the little Swiss girls who make cheese in 
 the chalets... instead of a kerchief they wear a little 
 velvet cap. ..and their hair in long plaits which hangs 
 down behind... sometimes as far as the calf ot the 
 leg... The Swiss girls have generally very good legs." 
 — " Ah ! monsieur, so many things have happened to 
 me since I saw you last." — u I believe that. You 
 disappeared so suddenly. But do tell me why you... 
 who some day will inherit a large fortune are in 
 Paris with a hanc kerchief round your head ? It is ex- 
 tremely improper. " 
 
 Marie made haste to tell him all that had happened 
 to her since she had left Madame de Stainville's 
 country house. She omitted no detail, and Belle- 
 peche, who had listened to her with the greatest 
 attention, exclaimed when she had finished: — " It 
 was Daulay who carried you off?. ..Who the devil 
 would have guessed it!. ..I should rather have sus- 
 pected the Count d'Aubigny." — "Oh, no," Marie re- 
 plied, suppressing a sigh, " he would never think of 
 running away with me;" — " Upon my word, that 
 Daulay is a very clever fellow !... He acted his part 
 to perfection ; Just fancy, he came back to the chat- 
 eau where we all were, and stayed with us. Then, 
 when we got back to Madame de Stainville's, when 
 your flight was discovered, he was the first to set 
 -everything in motion in order to find you. Madame 
 de Stainville had not the slightest suspicion ot the 
 lruth...Ah, so he wished to force you to become... 
 
138 ANOTHER. 
 
 his wife ;... If was a very cleverly conceived plan... 
 because when once you had belonged to him, the 
 duchess could not marry you to anybody else... Very 
 clever indeed !...But Daulay could not flatter him- 
 self that he made any impression on you ; he is not 
 a handsome man... and he is too short../' 
 
 Whilst he was saying this, Bellepeche was looking 
 at the girl ; and then he scratched his ears "and 
 looked round him occasionally ; but it was getting 
 dark and the few people who went through the 
 Place Royale did not take any notice of them. — 
 " Monsieur Bellepeche/' Marie said. " I am very- 
 .glad to have met you, for you must surely know 
 where Madame de Stainville lives, and am sure that 
 you will take me to her house, and 1 shall not have 
 to go back to old Madame Dumont's again, for I am 
 nearly bored to death there." — " Certainly mademoi- 
 selle," Bellepeche replied, speaking very slowly, like 
 someone who is not quite sure of what he is going, 
 to say; "1 am at your orders. ..you know my. ..my 
 devotion to your charming self... I have more than 
 once let you see that devotion..." — " Well, Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche, do you know Madame de Stain- 
 ville's address any longer?" — " Yes, by Jove...L 
 know it well enough... I go to her house frequently ; 
 there is no difficulty about that..." — " In that case, I 
 should like to go there immediately if you please../' 
 — " I ask for nothing better ; but first of all I must 
 inform you of a very unfortunate circumstance ; Ma- 
 dame de Stainville is not in Paris at present ; she 
 has gone to take the waters at Pierrefouds." — 
 " Is she ill ? " — w She felt some pain in the dorsal 
 regions... and so her physician recommended her to 
 take the waters." — "How unfortunate. And will 
 she be away for a long time ? " — " I do not think so ; 
 three weeks perhaps. ..or a month..." — "That is a 
 long time, though I do not think that her absence 
 need prevent me from going and taking up my abode 
 in her house. She will certainly not think it wrong, 
 and it will be much pleasanter waiting for her there 
 than at old Madame Dumont's." 
 
 Bellepeche scratched his ear again, and shook his 
 head, murmuring : — " Certainly... you could go to her 
 
ANOTHER. 139 
 
 house... there would be no difficulty about that. ..but 
 I must tell you ot an unfortunate circumstance... for 
 you..." — " Do tell me what you mean, monsieur." — 
 " Madame de Stainville has left somebody to look 
 after her house in Paris during her absence, and to 
 manage her affairs... and that somebody is Monsieur 
 Daulay." — " Monsieur Daulay ; " — " Conseqeuntly, 
 if you go to Madame de Stainville's now, you will 
 find Monsieur Daulay there and fall into his power 
 ...because during her absence he is master in her 
 house." — "Return to Monsieur Daulay ... after his 
 infamous conduct towards me... oh, never, never !... 
 Besides, I hate him ; I detest the man. ..Oh ; no, no; 
 I will not fall into his power again... Good heavens ! 
 How unfortunate I am {...However, I will return to 
 Madame Dumont's, as there is nothing else for it. 
 And it is so terribly dull in that Rue de Crussol. 
 You will be kind enough to take me there, will you not 
 monsieur, for I shall not be able to find my way by 
 ■myself."— " My dear young lady," Bellepeche said 
 putting on a very pleasant manner, " if I might ven- 
 ture to make you an offer... You know my devotion 
 to you... I am really grieved to think that the Duch- 
 ess de Valousky's daughter is living with an old 
 seamstress, and goes out with a handkerchief over 
 her head. That is not allowable; it is even very 
 improper..." — " But, monsieur, it was only because 
 I was obliged to ;" — " Very well, Mademoiselle 
 Marie, will you accept a room in my house... I have 
 ^very nice apartments consisting of five rooms, one of 
 which is the spare room... which serves me for a 
 library ; you will be as comfortable there as at Ma- 
 dame de Stainville's, and I venture to flatter myself 
 that you will find everything you want there." 
 
 " Go and stay with you, Monsieur Bellepeche ? " 
 Marie said, looking at the old bachelor in surprise ; 
 " but would not that be very improper? " — " Made- 
 moiselle, I have a housekeeper, a very respectable 
 woman, who enjoys my fullest confidence. ..and she 
 is a perfect cook ; otherwise, I should not have pro- 
 posed such a thing to you."— ' ' Oh ! you have a lady 
 at your house ?... That, of course, makes all the 
 difference ! "— " I am living on the Quai des Lu- 
 
140 ANOTHER. 
 
 nettes, one of the best parts of Paris : one sees run- 
 ning water the whole day long." — " One sees the 
 river ? Oh ! that is very nice ! " — " And then, I 
 need not tell you that in my house you will find 
 everything that you may want, and that my house- 
 keeper will see that there is nothing wanting in your 
 toilette." — " Very well ; in that case, I will accept 
 your offer Monsieur Bellepeche, and I will stay in 
 your house until Madame de Stainville returns to- 
 Paris." — " Now, I call that very sensible, made- 
 moiselle ; please come with me... I will not offer you 
 my arm, because you have a kerchief on your head... 
 and that would cause us to be noticed ; but there is 
 a cab-stand close by ; and we will have one to drive 
 us to my house. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle 
 Marie... whilst I think of it, if you do not mind, I 
 shall call you my niece... and say that I am your un- 
 cle." — "Why, monsieur?" — "Because people are 
 very slanderous... and always ready to speak ill of 
 others. ..We cannot tell everybody your mysterious 
 birth and your adventures. But uncle and niece, 
 that is quite natural, and goes of itself." 
 
 " Just as you please, monsieur ; and, besides, it will- 
 only be for such a short time." — " That is settled, 
 then. ..Let us be off ...Ah ; I see a cab. ..Here, coach- 
 man ; Are you engaged ? " — " Get in, sir." 
 
 The driver stopped his cab; Bellepeche helped. 
 Marie in and sat down by her side, and said to him- 
 self : — " Ah ; the little duchess is mine." 
 We will let the cab drive to the Quai des Lunettes, and 
 see why Pierre did not return to Madame Dumont's, 
 after entrusting Marie to her care. — A very natural 
 circumstance, and one which anyone but a young 
 soldier would have foreseen, had put an obstacle in 
 the way of his projets. When he got back to bar- 
 racks, Pierre was ordered to the guard-room for a 
 fortnight, for not having having returned until after 
 midnight, when his leave only extended up till nine 
 o'clock. — He will be obliged to obey, any complaints 
 would have been useless, and as he went to the 
 guard-room, he said to himself : — " Poor Marie ; 
 What will she think of me?... A fortnight without- 
 seeing her... Luckily, I am sure that good old Mother 
 
ANOTHER. 
 
 Dumont will take care of her, and not let her want 
 for anything." 
 
 The next day, nevertheless, Pierre wrote to Gas- 
 pard to ask him for Madame de Stainville's address* 
 and begged him to send it as soon as possible, getting 
 Monsieur Martineau to write for him. Pierre 
 thought that Gaspard would make haste and send 
 him the address, and then he intended to ask his- 
 friend Fleur d Amour to take it to Mother Dumont's 
 and offer to take Marie to her protectress, unless she 
 preferred to wait until poor Pierre was free to take 
 her there himself.— But Gaspard was not at home 
 when the letter arrived ; he had gone to work on a. 
 farm at some distance off, and did not return to. Ve~ 
 theuil for a week, arid he had been back six days, 
 when he went to spend the evening at the inn as us- 
 ual one night, when Master Gobinard said to him, 
 after clinking glasses with the professor :— " Ah ; 
 by the bye, Gaspard, whilst I think of it. There is- 
 a letter here for you from Paris. It was brought 
 here for me to give to you... postage paid... It has 
 been here tor ten days at least."—-' It is very lucky 
 that you have happened to think of it... If there ii 
 anything urgent in it, you will be to blame for the 
 delay. — " I could not give it you when it came, as- 
 you were absent."— " And for nearly a week you 
 have seen me every evening... and you could not give it. 
 me then, eh ?...Let me have it quickly, and see what 
 is m it. I have an idea that it is from Pierre, for 
 there is hardly anybody else who would write to me. 
 Perhaps he has sent us news of Marie... Daddy Mar- 
 tmeau will translate it for us." 
 
 j- m he 7 looked for the letter, ana found it with some 
 difficulty at the bottom of a wooden mortar, and Gas- 
 pard gave it the schoolmaster, saying :— " Just read 
 us what is inside it, you learned man ! "— " Ah » 
 Gaspard ! " Martineau said, taking the letter in a 
 dignified manner, "at your age you ought to be- 
 ashamed at not being able to read ! "— " It is exactly 
 
 a u "K age that one learns nothing more ...Why 
 should I amuse myself by being ashamed of a thing 
 which is my parent's fault ?... Though I bear them 
 no grudge for that... for if I had known how to read 
 
142 ANOTHER. 
 
 ...I should not have known what I know..." — "You 
 would [not have known what you know if you had 
 been able to read?... I do not understand you, Gas- 
 pard." — " Well, never mind, as long as I under- 
 stand it, that is sufficient. Come, just read it tor 
 us." 
 
 The professor opened the letter, looked at the sig- 
 nature, and said: — "Yes, it is from my pupil, 
 Pierre." — "It is from Pierre ?... I was sure of it ! " 
 Gaspard said. " What does the poor fellow say ?... 
 Tell us quickly..." 
 
 Monsieur Martineau put his spectacles on to his 
 nose, and prepared to read, and, after looking care- 
 fully, and lamenting how much Pierre's hand-writ- 
 ing had fallen off since he had been a soldier, he read 
 out aloud : — " My dear Gaspard, I am very happy, be- 
 cause I have found Marie again..." — " He has found 
 Marie ! " Gaspard exclaimed. — " Poor little Marie !" 
 the inn -keeper said. " I am very glad that she has 
 been found, for I love her as much as if she were 
 my own child ! " — " I feel a very lively satisfaction," 
 Martineau said, " for Marie was my pupil, consilio 
 manuque." — " Go on Daddy Martineau ; let us hear 
 the rest of the letter."—" I will continue :— * I have found 
 Marie again... I have taken her out of the hands of 
 Tier infamous ravisher../' — " So it appears that there 
 was a ravisher, then ? " — " Confound it ! how stupid 
 you are ! The girl could not ravish herself. Go on." 
 — " Infamous ravisher... but I must immediately 
 have Madame de Stainville's address, so that Marie 
 may return to her. I cannot take her myself, as I am 
 confined to the guard-room for a fortnight, but never 
 mind about that ; send me the address, immediately, 
 it is a question of saving Marie, and I count on your 
 friendship. 
 
 Yours devoted, 
 
 Pierre." 
 
 " Oh ! he is quite right to count on my friendship/' 
 Gaspard said... But why the devil is he in prison for 
 a fortnight ? " — " Some fault or other... a trifle." Go- 
 binard said ; " but there is no joking in the army." — 
 " And he does not mention the name of Marie's 
 
ANOTHER. 143 
 
 m * 
 
 ravisher ?" — H It is not in the letter.— " Never mind, 
 he will tell it me..." — 'You, Gaspard ? Do you 
 mean to go back to Paris, again ? You could send 
 Pierre the address he asks for ; Monsieur Martineau 
 will be kind enough to write it down for you." — 
 " Gladly," the professor said. "In round hand, or in, 
 sloping writing, it is all the same to me." — "No, no; 
 thank you all the same ; I prefer to do my own com- 
 missions ; and, besides, 1 shall be very glad to see- 
 Pierre. If he is in prison, my presence will divert 
 his thoughts, and, then, I shall not be sorry either to 
 see Mane... and to find out what has happened her. 
 At any rate, I shall go."— " When ? "— " Why, im- 
 mediately. We will have one more drink, and then 
 I shall start... Oh ! I have no corns on my feet, 1 can 
 tell you." — "What? Start this evening.. .and it is- 
 just eight o'clock ? "— -" Well ? 1 shall walk gently, 
 and 1 shall get to Paris at sunrise to-morrow morn- 
 ing... Come, just a drink, and 1 am off. When it is a 
 question of obliging a friend, one must not be lazy." 
 — " But, have you got any money for your journey ?" 
 — " Yes, three francs, fifteen sous,* 1 hope 1 shall 
 not spend all that. Come, your good health, all of 
 you." 
 
 Gaspard touched glasses, drank, took his hat and 
 his stick, and started of for Paris, just as if he were- 
 going for a little walk in the neighbourhood. At 
 eight o'clock next morning, when Pierre, who had 
 done his fortnight, and had just been set at liberty-, 
 was just preparing to go to Mother Dumont's, he 
 suddenly saw Gaspard standing before him. — "Is 
 that really you ? " the soldier said, wringing the pea- 
 sant's hand. — " There is no doubt about that. Your 
 letter was only read to me yesterday, because it had 
 been forgotten, and left at the bottom of a mortar. And 
 so I said : — ' Pierre wants me," and so I started off 
 immediately, and here I am... But I thought you were 
 a prisoner ?"-+-" I was let out this morning." — "So 
 much the better, as we can go and have something 
 together..." — "Oh; Gaspard; Marie before every- 
 
 * About three shillings. 
 
144 ANOTHER. 
 
 thing else... What must she think of me?... She has 
 not seen me nor heard of me for a whole fortnight... A 
 whole fortnight. Can you imagine how long that is ? " 
 " No longer for her than for you, who were under 
 lock and key." — " But she did not know the reason 
 that prevented me from going to her. Perhaps she 
 has been accusing me, and thinking that I have for- 
 gotten her, and if I thought that I had caused her to 
 shed tears, I should never console myself." — " She 
 has consoled herself quickly enough for all the sor- 
 row she has caused you... Then you still love her? " 
 — " Love her... If only I could see her... She is pret- 
 tier than ever." — " And as great a flirt as ever, no 
 doubt ?... But what have you done with this pretty 
 girl ? " — I took her to Madame Dumont's, who is an 
 excellent kind woman... Come, let us make haste to 
 her house." 
 
 Gaspard followed Pierre, and, as they went, he 
 told him how he had found Marie again, and who 
 was her abductor. — " Oh ! it was Monsieur Daulay, 
 was it ? " Gaspard said, " that tom-tit who was such 
 a fop, and always gave his arm to the old painted 
 woman from Paris ... By George ! I felt sure that it 
 was one of those gentlemen who had done the trick. 
 ""No doubt he said to himself : — " She is a little 
 duchess, and I will appropriate her to myself... She 
 will enrich me, and she will help to pay my debts.' 
 ,..Oh; I guessed their roguery,.. And you say that 
 Marie followed you without any difficulty ? " — " She 
 thanked me a thousand times for having saved her... 
 and delivered her from that Daulay, whom she de- 
 tested... Poor child, heaven itself directed me there... 
 Without me, she would have been lost. ..That man 
 was not ashamed to use violence in order to triumph 
 over her virtue..." — "Ah! leave that alone. ..When 
 a woman does not want to, she has nails and teeth ; 
 and at the inn, the little girl knew very well how to 
 give the lads who wanted to kiss her, a good box on 
 the ear... The most fortunate thing of it all is, that 
 she did not like Monsieur Daulay." — " Here we are, 
 Gaspard; here kind Mother Dumont lives.' - ' — 
 u Here?. ..The devil;. ..it does not look very grand; 
 ...But never mind; the best people are not always 
 .housed the best." J 
 
ANOTHER, 145 
 
 Pierre went upstairs first, and ran up so quickly 
 that Gaspard was still on the first landing when 
 Pierre was knocking at the old seamstress' door ; 
 but as the old woman was some time in opening, the 
 peasant had time to join his friend, when he asked 
 him : — >■ Why, Pierre, have you suddenly turned into 
 a bird ? One wants wings to be able to follow you, 
 and I have hob-nailed boots, which is not the same 
 thing, by any means." 
 
 Pierre knocked with all his might, and at last they 
 heard the slow footsteps of the old woman. When 
 she opened the door, Pierre scarcely gave himself 
 time fo wish her good morning, before he rushed in- 
 to the other room, exclaiming : — " Here I am... Marie 
 must have lost her patience... but it was not my 
 fault, I have been confined to the guard- room... 
 Gaspard is with me... he has just come. ..he. ..Why ! 
 ...Where is Maaie?" — "After going through the 
 room, he returned to the firstone, for he saw that 
 Marie, whom he was so anxious to see, was not 
 there, so he went up to the kind old lady, and said to 
 her: — "Where can Marie be?" — Her only reply 
 was to hang her head, and now, for the first time, 
 Pierre noticed the look of deep distress on her face, 
 and so he said : — " Good heavens ! Something has 
 happened to Marie. " * 
 
 Gaspard, who had just come in, looked round him, 
 and threw himself into a chair, saying : — il It looks as 
 if the bird had flown."—" Marie !... Marie !... Where 
 is she ? What have you done with her, Mother Du- 
 mont ? " Pierre continued in a trembling voice. "I 
 entrusted her to your care, and )^ou ought to re- 
 store her to me." — " Oh ; good Heavens ! my dear 
 Pierre," the old woman replied, " it is not my fault ; 
 you certainly entrusted the girl to me, but you did 
 tell me to keep her here by force as a prisoner, and 
 that would, moreover, certainly not have suited me. 
 I did all I could to make her home agreeable to her, 
 but I could not succeed, for she found it dreadfully 
 slow here. She was always sighing... she was mis- 
 erable, and she would not do anything to distract 
 her thoughts, because she thought that a duchess 
 ought not to do anything," — "Ah! I recognise her 
 
146 ANOTHER. 
 
 there, perfectly," Gaspard said. — " You did not come 
 ...and so she thought that you had forgotten her...'" 
 "Itorget he?. ..She could not believe that."— " It 
 was useless for me to repeat that you would be sure 
 to come again... Every day she seemed to find her 
 stay here more and more dull... She thought this 
 street horrible. She wanted to go out. It was no 
 good for me to say to her : — ' In Paris, a pretty girl 
 cannot go out by herself.' At length, yesterday, 
 at about two o'clock, she insisted upon going out..." 
 — " Yesterday ? " — " I lent her a pretty handkerchief 
 to put on her head, for I had nothing else to offer 
 her except my straw bonnet, which she would not 
 have. ..it is about seven years old. She took a basket 
 on her arm and went out, saying to me : — \ I shall 
 not be long ; I shall find my way back easily enough/ 
 And away she went, and has not been back since..." 
 — " She has not been back since yesterday ? " — " No, 
 my dear lad. ..Ah! it has troubled me very much, 
 and it has made me cry, for I knew that you would 
 come again, and I was sure that you would be angry 
 with me at not finding her here ; and yet you must 
 see that it was not my fault." 
 
 And the kind old woman shed tears as she said 
 this, though Pierre did not notice it, for he seemed 
 overwhelmed by this new event. But Gaspard got 
 up, took the old seamstress by the hand, and said : — 
 " Come, mother, you must not put yourself out like 
 that... By Jove; anyone can see that it is not your 
 fault. She will turn up again... she wanted to have- 
 a walk.. . It was too confined for her here... Of 
 course, since she has been told that she is a duchess, 
 she has required a lot of fresh air... The worst of it 
 all is, that poor Pierre loves a girl who never gives 
 him a thought, whilst he thought that this time she 
 would stick to him. I always felt certain that the 
 girl would play him a trick, and that was why I 
 came to Paris myself, instead of sending him the ad- 
 dress that he asked me for. 
 
 " She went away yesterday ; " Pierre said again, 
 walking up and down the room in great strides. 
 "But what can have happened to her?. ..Can she 
 have fallen into that fellow Daulay's hands again?... 
 
ANOTHER. - 147 
 
 "We must find him, Gaspard, we must find him. Look 
 here, Mother Dumont, in what direction did she go?" 
 — " My dear friend, she told me that she was going 
 along the canal, which is quite close here." — " Along 
 the canal? Just fancy if anything... Come along, 
 Gaspard, come along; we must find Marie." 
 
 With these words, Pierre went out, without lis- 
 tening to his friend, who called out to him, and beg- 
 :ged him to wait for him. 
 
 " Very well, I suppose I must run after him now," 
 Gaspard said, taking up his stick." — M Poor Pierre. 
 love has turned his brain... I must try and quiet him 
 ...Good-bye, Mother Dumont, 1 will come and see 
 you when I come to Paris again, for you are a kind 
 worn an... Make your mind easy ; we shall be sure to 
 find that pretty girl... If not, you will have lost your 
 neck handkerchief and your basket." — " Oh ! that 
 is only a trifle ! And as long as nothing has hap- 
 pened to the poor girl..." — " Of course, nothing has 
 happened to her... Some lover... Perhaps somebody 
 has seduced her, but girls do not die of that sort of 
 thing... And they say that they even live on it in 
 Paris. Good-bye, Mother Dumont ; I will come and 
 see you again." 
 
 Gaspard shook the old woman's hand as if he were 
 bidding an old friend good-bye, and then he ran 
 downstairs and tore through the streets to try and 
 catch up Pierre. He found him by the side of the 
 canal, walking in a very excited state, looking round 
 him, and stopping everyone he met, to ask them 
 whether they had seen Marie, after describing her 
 to them. But he obtained no information, for 
 amongst the crowds that go backwards and forwards 
 in Paris, a chance passenger is not noticed, whereas 
 there are some country towns where a fresh face is 
 noticed immediately, and where a new fashion 
 makes all the inhabitants run to their windows, and 
 where a carriage is quite an event. 
 
 Gaspard had walked by the side of Pierre for 
 some time, and had allowed him to look in all direc- 
 tions, and to ask any questions that he pleased. 
 But when he saw that the young soldier was worn 
 out, and that he did not know which way to go, he 
 
148 ANOTHER. 
 
 took him by the arm and said to him : — " What 
 about the barracks ? Is it not time for you to re- 
 turn to them ? " — " Can I go back before I have 
 found Marie?" — "Yes, you ought to return, be- 
 cause you are a soldier before everything else. You 
 have already been in the cells for a fortnight on her 
 account, and you must not incur any further punish- 
 ment for her sake. You must not swerve from your duty 
 because she chooses to gad abOut. Come, Pierre, 
 you will find her, and I will go and hunt about for 
 her, and I promise you that I will give you news of 
 her as soon as I have any myself." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Gaspard, you will give me your 
 promise ? " — " Yes ; but do not neglect your duties ; 
 we ought never to do anything by halves. ..that is all 
 I know. When one begins a bottle, one ought to 
 finish it ; when one has a fight, one ought to fight it 
 out to the end ; and when a man goes in for a sol- 
 dier, he is bound to stick to it: Come along back. 
 to barracks." 
 
 Pierre allowed himself to be pursuaded, and al- 
 though his eyes constantly wandered in search of 
 Marie, he walked to his quarters without stopping. 
 When they got there, he embraced* Gaspard once 
 more and said to him : — 
 
 " You will look for her everywhere, will you not ? 
 And when you have any news... if you find out the 
 slightest thing, you will come and let me know..." 
 
 « Of course I shall... and tor God's sake don't you 
 
 give it up."— "No, Gaspard, I shall do my duty... 
 for I want to be worthy of Marie." — "That is the 
 way a man ought to talk... and I only hope that she 
 may always be worthy of you." 
 
 Gaspard took leave of his friend once more, and 
 when he saw that he had returned to the barracks, 
 he said to himself :—" Yes ; I rather see myself 
 wearing out my boots in looking for Marie. Not ex- 
 actly ! Girls are too capricious, and the more a fel- 
 
 * It must be remembered that foreigners (men), kiss and em- 
 brace where we, naturally, only shake hands. (Translator). 
 
AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 149^ 
 
 low runs after them, the less he catches them. I am 
 going home, and I shall wait for news from Paris. 
 And then, lam not at all alarmed; they will 
 never make Marie a duchess without letting me- 
 know." 
 
 And with this, Gaspard started off back to his- 
 village. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 
 
 The cab which conveyed Marie and Monsieur 
 Bellepeche, stopped before a fine house on the Quai 
 des Lunettes, and the girl said: — "This is already 
 better than at Mother Dumont's." — During their 
 drive, Bellepeche had been 'puzzling his brains how 
 he could manage to get a girl with a handkerchief 
 over her head into his house without exciting the 
 suspicion of the hall porter. The old bachelor 
 scratched his ears, his head, and everything else that 
 he thought might give him an idea, but when the 
 cab stopped he had not hit upon anything, and: 
 so he said to himself : — " Well, the porter and 
 his wife may think what they please; one must 
 not mind tittle-tattle, when one is going to marry a. 
 duchess." 
 
 He got out of the cab, paid the driver, gave Marie- 
 his arm, and knocked boldlv at the carriage entrance, 
 and as soon as it was opened, Bellepeche went in 
 with the girl, taking care to say very loudly : — 
 "Come, niece ... take hold of my arm, niece. ..Let 
 me show you the way." " And then he put his head 
 into the porter's lodge and said : — " It is I, Monsieur 
 Leveau...I am bringing my niece with me : she has 
 just arrived from the country... and will spend a few 
 days with me. Come along, ray dear; come up- 
 
150 AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 
 
 stairs. "—Marie followed him, trying to check the 
 inclination to laugh, which her new quality caused 
 her, whilst the porter looked at her as she went by, 
 and said to himself: — u So !... Monsieur Bellepeche 
 has a niece ? It is the first time I have heard her 
 mentioned... I should like to know what part of the 
 country she has come from with a basket on her arm 
 ...she has come from grape-picking, apparently." 
 
 When they reached the third storey, Bellepeche 
 rang, and said : — {t Marie, let me speak, and, above 
 all, do not contradict me." — When the door was 
 opened, a tall, thin, plain woman appeared, with a 
 neck very much like an ostrich, and eyes like an 
 owl ; she held a candle in her hand, and nearly let it 
 fall when she saw the pretty young girl who was 
 with her master ; but Bellepeche made Marie go in 
 first, and shouted with all his might : — Madame 
 Grosbec, this is my niece, who has just come from 
 the country... she will stay here some time... You 
 must get the spare room ready for her ... it is never 
 wanted. She has been robbed on her journey... the 
 diligence was stopped by highwaymen, and that is 
 why she has only that little handkerchief on her 
 head... but we mast send for a dressmaker or a mil- 
 liner to-morrow." — " Yes, yes, that is very urgent," 
 Marie replied, " for I should not dare to show myself 
 to Madame de Stainville like this." — Bellepeche 
 gave her a sign not to say any more, and showed her 
 into the drawing-room, where she sat on a sofa, and 
 looking round her, she said : — " Ah ! this is better : 
 it is, at any rate, rather like my pretty room on the 
 boulevard." 
 
 Meanwhile Madame Grosbec had followed her 
 master, with candle in her hand, and she gave Marie 
 occasional glances which did not show signs of any 
 good will towards her. — <f Go and get my niece's room 
 ready," Bellepeche said, putting his mouth close to 
 his housekeeper's ear, but she did not move. — " She 
 is very deaf,' he said to Marie, "but with that ex- 
 ception, she is a woman of excellent qualities... and 
 makes perfect coffee." 
 
 As the old bachelor say that his housekeeper was 
 in no hurry to execute his orders, he tried to make 
 
AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 151 
 
 her understand by signs ; he moved his hands, his 
 arms, his fingers, but when he thought that Madame 
 Grosbec had understood him perfectly, she said to 
 him with the utmost coolness : — " What has this 
 young person come here for ? " — " This is becoming 
 trying ! " Bellepeche exclaimed. " Her ears must 
 be stopped more hermetically than usual ; there is 
 only one other way to make myself understood 
 which I always employ when Madame Grosbec does 
 not comprehend me." — His way consisted in taking 
 his housekeeper by the arm and going with her ta 
 look for what he required ; which forced the old 
 bachelor to wait upon himself almost as much as if 
 he had no servant. This time also, he took Madame 
 Grosbec with him, and left the drawing-room in 
 order to do himself what he wanted his house-keeper 
 to do. 
 
 When she was alone Marie examined the rooms > 
 and then she opened the window to see what the 
 street was like, and although it was night, she could 
 distinguish the river and the quays. — " This is mucrr 
 nicer than the Rue de Crussol ! " Marie said to her- 
 self ; " it must be very lively here. ..and then I shall 
 only remain until Madame de Stainville's return... 
 How unfortunate that she has just gone out of 
 town : it will not be very lively, living here with 
 Monsieur Bellepeche and his housekeeper... Ah ! If 
 I had only met Count d'Aubigny...but I never see 
 him and I expect he does not think much about me 
 ...and yet in the garden... in the shrubbery he used 
 to look at me very tenderly ! " 
 
 She was so absorbed in her own reflections that 
 she altogether forget the present and she gave her- 
 self up so entirely to her recollections that she did 
 not notice that Bellepeche had returned ; he had 
 been to see after things himself so as to make sure 
 that Marie had everything she wanted, and on com- 
 ing into the drawing-room he exclaimed : — " My 
 orders have been executed .-...Madame Grosbec has 
 got your room ready. ..and I hope that, thanks to my 
 advice, you will find yourself comfortable, dear 
 Marie... That is the door of your room... there oppo- 
 site you..." — (l Really, monsieur, I am ashamed o£ 
 
152 AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 
 
 all the trouble I am giving you/' Marie replied, 
 giving Bellepeche an enchanting smile, and he. 
 thinking that he had already make conquest of her 
 lieart, sat down by her side, and kissing her hand 
 respectfully, he said : — " I am too happy... to be able 
 to prove my devotion to the charming daughter of 
 the Duchess de Valousky...do just as if you were at 
 home... everything I have is yours... even to that 
 beautiful stick in the corner ; it was cut from a dog- 
 wood tree and is very rare, and was given me in 
 Switzerland..." — " I beg your pardon, monsieur, but 
 as you allow me not to stand upon ceremony here, I 
 must tell you that I have not dined yet.. .and I am 
 beginning to feel hungry.' — u You have not dined ! 
 — and you never told me, mademoiselle !... Oh, how 
 •sorry I am... but that can soon be remedied... Madame 
 Grosbec!... Here, Madame Grosbec ! " — As, however, 
 the housekeeper did not come, he took a bell almost 
 as big as a church bell from the mantlepiece and 
 rang it vigorously. At that noise, which was enough 
 to rouse the whole parish, Madame Grosbec came in 
 looking frightened, and said : — 
 
 "What is it? What on earth is the matter? It is 
 absurd to make such a noise ; it frightens people." — 
 " Madame Grosbec, my niece has not dined yet and 
 she would like some refreshment. Kindly get her 
 some thing... " — "Eh! the young lady wants to go? 
 ...She is quite at liberty to. ..I am not keeping her I" 
 — " My niece wants some dinner... supper, whatever 
 you like to call it ! " Bellepeche shouted into the 
 house-keeper's ear." I do not think there is any- 
 Ihing left from dinner, so you will have to go to the 
 restaurant and bring something in." — Madame Gros- 
 bec, however, did not stir, but merely made a face 
 at Marie, and so Bellepeche made use of his parti- 
 cular method. He took his hat and dragged his 
 house-keeper with him, saying: — "Ah! by jove, 
 Madame Grosbec I will make you go to the restaur- 
 ant...! expect to be obeyed, and immediately. 
 
 When master and servant had gone out, Marie 
 took a candle and went to look at the room which 
 was intended for her. — It was a library which had 
 been turned into a bed room. The furniture was old 
 
AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 153; 
 
 fashioned and faded, and a few old pictures bore 
 witness to the respect which Bellepeche felt for ob- 
 jects which had belonged to his ancestors, and on 
 the mantlepiece there was an imitation grotto of 
 sea-shells and two small paste board rocks, so that 
 the whole had the appearance of some second hand 
 shop, whose owners proudly call themselves anti- 
 quaries, because they possess a few old rusty swords, 
 and a collection of stuffed birds. 
 
 Marie did not find this room as nice as the one- 
 she had on the boulevard, and she also regretted Fe- 
 licite, whose taste had assisted her in the choice of a 
 hat, whose chatter amused her and who knew ex- 
 actly how to dress her ; but she hoped that she- 
 would not make a long stay at Monsieur Bellepeche's,, 
 and she had already forgotten her old hostess of the. 
 Rue de Crussol. 
 
 Bellepeche soon returned with his house-keeper,, 
 and they were both of them carrying something. 
 The old bachelor helped her to lav the cloth so that 
 things might go on quickly, and Marie sat down, 
 and ate what her new host had got for her, with a. 
 very good appetite, and he waited on her very po- 
 litely, whilst Madame Grosbec went about the room 
 talking to herself, but low enough for nothing to be- 
 heard except a continual grumbling. 
 
 " I should like something to drink," Marie, said, 
 holding out her glass. — " Of course you would ! You 
 have drunk nothing," Bellepeche replied, look- 
 ing round| the table, " and I forgot to offer you 
 anything... I have grown very absent-minded since- 
 I have travelled so mnch...One has so many recol- 
 lections, so many things in one's head... especially 
 when one is a keen observer. I remember once in 
 Switzerland..." — " I beg your pardon, but you have 
 not given me anything to drink..." — " Really, I am 
 unpardonable... But Madame Grosbec has forgotten 
 to put the wine on the table ; what can she be think- 
 ing about?... Madame Grosbec, bring us some wine, 
 my niece is thirsty." 
 
 Although Bellepeche called out very loud, the 
 housekeeper gave no signs of obeying his order, so 
 he repeated it and made gestures, but Madame Gros- 
 
.154 AN OLD bachelor's lodgings. 
 
 bee looked at him, shook her head, and said : — 
 " There is no dessert." — " I tell you that I want 
 ?ome wine... Oh ! I will make you understand." — 
 And so he got up and went out of the room, pull- 
 ing Madame Grosbec after him, and he soon came 
 back looking satisfied with himself, followed by his 
 housekeeper, who was carrying a bottle of wine. — 
 M I knew she would end by understanding me," 
 Bellepeche said. fi She is hard of hearing, but, 
 •otherwise, she is a capital servant." 
 
 Marie finished her dinner, during which time 
 Bellepeche had got up at least four times to go with 
 "his housekeeper to fetch what he wanted, and, at 
 last, the girl took a candle and withdrew to her 
 room, where her host left her in a stentorian 
 voice: — "Good-night, niece; I hope you will sleep 
 ■well." 
 
 The next dav he sent for a dressmaker and a mil- 
 liner, and, though it cost him many a sigh when he 
 •thought of the money he was going to spend, yet he 
 luiew that such sacrifices were indispensible if a 
 man wished to be looked on favourably by a a girl 
 who was an arrant coquette, and, then, it would be 
 well worfh his while to spend a few hundred francs 
 in order to marry a girl who would be very rich 
 >ome day ; whilst Marie accepted all he did for her 
 as a matter of course, for she thought that Madame 
 de Stainville and the Duchess de Valousky would 
 settle everything with him, and she also thought 
 that as she was the daughter of a grand lady, it was 
 •only natural that he should make her presents. As 
 soon as she was provided with new dresses, she did 
 not wish to remain all day in Monsieur Bellepeche's 
 lodgings, for she wished to see what Paris was like, 
 -which she could not do by merely looking out of the 
 window, and so he took her out occasionally, care- 
 fully avoiding any place where there might be any 
 risk of meeting Madame de Stainville, and only 
 taking her into the unfrequented streets and boule- 
 vards, and into the outskirts. 
 
 " I thought Paris would have been much more 
 lively than this," she often remarked to him. — 
 "" Paris is a city of mud and smoke!" Bellepeche, 
 
AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 155 
 
 who had read Jean-Jacques Rousseau, replied, for 
 he wished to cure the little duchess of her taste for 
 going out, and so several days passed, and he be- 
 came more tender every day, whilst his old servant 
 grew more ill-humoured until her temper became 
 like that of a quarrelsome dog, and she was continu- 
 ally growling. — " His niece !...his niece !...a strange 
 soft of niece, I should think." 
 
 Marie, however, paid very little attention to Madame 
 Grosbec's bad temper, but she very frequently asked 
 Monsieur Bellepeche whether her protectress had. 
 not yet returned from taking the waters, and when 
 he gave her a negative reply, she sighed and said : — 
 M She is very long ! " 
 
 For his part, Bellepeche was very vexed to see 
 that he made no progress in his love-affair, for she 
 paid no attention to his vows, and he had no inten- 
 tion of boarding, lodging, clothing and driving about 
 a pretty girl, so that in the end she might marry 
 another man, and he had already spent nearly a 
 thousand francs* on her, which seemed a great deal 
 to a man who had never given women anything ex- 
 cept penny bunches of violets. — But as he decidedly 
 wished to get his interest for his money, he said to 
 himself : — " I must act and be enterprising. Women 
 like men to be bold... Marie is a woman, and the 
 matter ought to go of its own accord, whenever I 
 choose, and I mean to choose it to come off this 
 evening." 
 
 So Bellepeche told his housekeeper to prepare a 
 nice cold collation, which he intended to take with 
 her on their return from the theatre ; for he was go- 
 ing to take her to the play for the first time, 
 taking care, however, to take her to a small theatre, 
 where there would be no danger of meeting Madame 
 de Stainville's friends. 
 
 On their return, Marie was in high spirits, because 
 she had thoroughly enjoyed herself, and Bellepeche 
 was very good-tempered, because he had formed his. 
 
 £40. 
 
156 AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 
 
 projects. 
 
 Marie was hungry, and ate heartily, and Belle- 
 peche&rank muscatel to give him courage, and af- 
 ter he had drunk a few glasses, he breathed as heavily 
 as an ox, and his eyes rolled like small wheels. Oc- 
 casionally, he took one of Marie's hands and squeezed 
 it tenderly, which made the girl lau^h, and he 
 would have pushed his attempts even Further, but 
 for the presence of Madame Grosbec, who did not 
 leave the room, and watched his slightest move- 
 ments, and though he tried several times to get rid 
 of her, she did not hear him, or pretended not to 
 hear him, until at last, so that he might be alone 
 with Marie for a few moments, he told her to get 
 some four beggars* but she only stared at him and 
 made a grimace, and when he took her by the arm 
 and shouted his order into her ear, she simply re- 
 plied that she did not intend to go out at that hour, 
 and that all the grocers' shops would be closed. In 
 spite of her protests, however, he took her by the arm 
 and made her go with him, and he soon returned in 
 triumph, exclaiming : — " A man must insist on being 
 obeyed... I insist upon that. What is the use of 
 being a master, if one is not waited upon ? " — And 
 then he drank some more muscatel, and tried to re- 
 commence taking liberties, but Marie took up her 
 candle, wished him good-night, and left him with 
 Madame Grosbec and the four beggars. 
 
 Marie went to bed, but could not sleep ; she was 
 building castles in the air, which is a thing that all 
 girls like to do. She fancied herself a grand lady, 
 with a fine house, a carriage and footman, and a 
 man, whose image was present in her reveries, was 
 with her and shared her happiness. It was not poor 
 Pierre, to whom she owed so much, but it was the 
 seductive Count d'Aubigny, who had always treated 
 her very cavalierly. 
 
 Suddenly she thought that she heard something 
 scratching at her door ; she listened, but the noise 
 continued, and soon the key was turned gently in 
 
 •The Paxis Zoological Gardens. (Translator). 
 
AN OLD BACHELOR'S LODGINGS. 157 
 
 the lock, and the door opened noiselessly ; but 
 Marie had already jumped out of bed, and cried out 
 in terror: — "Who is there ? ...What do you want 
 here ? " — There was no reply for a few moments, 
 and then a voice murmured : — " It is I, my dear 
 Marie.. .Do not be alarmed." — "What? Is it you, 
 Monsieur Bellepeche?... What do you want at this 
 time of night, and without a light ?..." — But before 
 the old bachelor could reply, Madame Grosbec ap- 
 peared with a candle, and exclaimed : — " Ah ! so I 
 have caught you?... This very nice! You want to 
 speak to your niece in the middle of the night, ap- 
 parently ? " 
 
 Just then, Marie perceived Monsieur Bellepeche 
 with a red silk handkerchief tied round his head with 
 a certain attempt at elegance, and with a dressing- 
 gown on, which evidently left him quite free in his 
 movements. — " What do you want with me, mon- 
 sieur ? " the girl asked, putting on a shawl, whilst 
 Madame Grosbec put her candle almost under her 
 master's nose. 
 
 Bellepeche was very much confused, and so he 
 looked down and stammered: — "I came. ..I. ..I wan- 
 ted to ask you for. ..some cucumber ointment ... 
 there is some on the liftle round table... because my 
 calves itch..." — ■ ■ Take it, monsieur; take anything 
 you want, but, another time, I must beg you not to 
 come for anything in the middle of the night ; you 
 frightened me terribly." 
 
 Bellepeche went and took the first galley-pot 
 which he could find off the table, and then he re- 
 turned to his own room without another word, 
 taking great care to wrap himself well up in his 
 dressing-gown, whilst his housekeeper looked after 
 him, and did not leave the room, after muttering : — 
 " A nice sort of uncle, and a nice sort of niece... A 
 Tery pretty piece of work altogether ! " 
 
 As for Marie, that nocturnal visit roused her sus- 
 picions, and before getting into bed again, she took 
 the key out ot her door, so that nobody could come 
 into her room without her permission." 
 
158 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 BELLEPECHE remarked that Marie had not been 
 the same towards him ever since his nocturnal at- 
 tempt. She seemed to fear to be alone with him, 
 and withdrew her hand whenever he attempted to 
 kiss it, whilst she always interrupted him when he 
 began to speak to her of his love, and she always 
 withdrew to her own room early, and he noticed 
 that she always locked her room. 
 
 The housekeeper followed another course, but 
 which evidently had the same object. She was al- 
 ways after her master, and he could not take a step, 
 nor go from one room to the other, without Madame 
 Grosbec following him with her eyes, and she hard- 
 ly slept at night, so that she might be able to watch 
 his actions. However, the supper and the muscatel 
 had had a very good effect, and the seducer would 
 have been bold, and he would have felt himself ca- 
 pable of deeds of prowess, and he was consequently 
 very unhappy that the occasion of renewing the sup- 
 per, and especially the t$te-a-tete> did not present 
 itself again. To all her enquiries after Madame de 
 Stainville, Bellepeche replied that she was still ab- 
 sent, but he felt that Marie would soon have her 
 suspicions aroused, as she had only come to him 
 provisionally, and then she would most likely leave 
 him as she had left Daulay, and all that he would 
 get in return for his outlay, his sacrifices, Madame 
 Grosbec's remarks, and the knowing looks of the por- 
 ter, would be just nothing at all, and the old bache- 
 lor swore to himself that that should never be. 
 
 " 1 shall never succeed here," he said to himself 
 one morning, as he was admiring the bow of his 
 
A RESTAURANT ON TH*\ BOULEVARD NEUF. I59 
 
 necktie in the looking-glass, " but what is there to 
 prevent me from being more fortunate elsewhere !... 
 What a capital idea... why did it not strike me sooner? 
 ...I have certainly had a good many since my return 
 from Switzerland... But now I will put it into ex- 
 ecution." — And so, during lunch, he said to 
 Marie : — 
 
 " My dear young lady, I have never yet taken 
 you to the Jardin des Plants*, where there are all 
 sorts of animals ; bears, stags, lions, leopards, and 
 one can see them fed. It is a delightful place, and 
 one meets the best people in Paris there. If you 
 like, we will repair this oversight to-day. 
 
 Marie, who only cared for pleasure and distrac- 
 tion, gladly accepted her host's proposal, and soon 
 she appeared before Bellepeche, delightful in her 
 freshness, her charms and her coquettish looks, 
 though she certainly had not made herself look so 
 nice on his account, but as she was a woman, she 
 wished to please others. But Bellepeche felt more 
 intranced than ever at the sight of her thus, and he 
 hoped soon to be her fortunate conqueror, but he 
 dissembled his transports, so as not to arouse 
 Marie's suspicions. But Madame Grosbec, who 
 was in a corner of the room, looked angrily at 
 Marie's pretty toilette, and when her master told 
 her to go and fetch a cab, as^his niece could not go a 
 foot, because the pavement was slipppery, Madame 
 Grosbec went and took an easy chair, instead of 
 •doing as she was told. 
 
 " I want a cab, Madame Grosbec," Bellepeche re- 
 peated, twirling his fists round each other, to imitate 
 the rolling of a carriage. — " Yes, I see that you are 
 going out," she replied with a mocking look. — " Oh ! 
 you are going to take your niece out. Well, she 
 has plenty enjoyment, thank God ! " — Madame Gros- 
 bec, a cab... immediately ; he went on, putting his 
 lips close to the old woman's ears, and said : — " A 
 cab. ..and what for?" — "Well, I suppose so that 
 
 * Quatre mendiants ; i.e. — almonds, raisins, figs and nuts ; a 
 favourite dessert dish in France. (Translator). 
 
l6o A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 we may not have to go on foot." — " I don't know 
 where to find one." — " You must ask." — ? But it is 
 not raining." — "Ah!... I tell you that I want a cab... 
 and you must go and fetch one... When I give an or- 
 der, you know that you must obey me." 
 
 Madame Grosbec looked at her master and took a 
 pinch of snuff, and so he got anry, took her by the 
 arm and made her leave the room... going with her 
 himself the cab, and they soon came back in one, 
 though there was considerable difficulty in pur- 
 suading Madame Grosbec to get out, but at last 
 Marie was safely inside, and they drove off to the Jar- 
 din des Plantes, where they stopped for four hours, and. 
 at last Bellepeche said : — " All this walking has 
 made me very hungry... It is like when I was in 
 Switzerlad, I was always ravenously hungry..." — 
 " I am very hungry, also," Marie said. — " Very 
 well, that is just what I was thinking... By Jove I 
 instead of going home, as it is rather late for dinner,, 
 why should we not dine here ? " — " Can we dine away 
 from home ? " — " Of course we can. In Paris there 
 are restaurants in all directions... and close by here, 
 on the Boulevard Neuf, there are some excellent 
 ones ; would you like to go to one ? " — " As you 
 please, monsieur." — " Very well, then ; I will answer 
 for it that we shall have a good dinner. Oh ! 
 trust me for knowing the best places." 
 
 Bellepeche was radiant with pleasure, and Marie- 
 allowed herself to be taken without any suspicion, 
 for she thought that the restaurants in Paris were 
 ike inns in the country, and she had no idea that 
 her companion had any intentions besides giving her 
 a good dinner. 
 
 They soon reached a restaurant on outer boule- 
 vards, with a garden at the back. A little woman,, 
 who was very obliging to the public, came up to 
 them as soon as she saw them, calling out like the 
 clowns at small theatres : — " Come in, sir, and my 
 pretty young young lady ; you will be well served, 
 and find everything you want... I venture to flatter 
 myself that you will not be dissatisfied... I have a 
 capital cook... Pray take the trouble to come in." 
 
 Marie could not help smiling, for she remembered 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. l6l' 
 
 the inn where she used to be, and she said to her- 
 self : — " Monsieur Gobinard was very glad when 
 guests came, but he never said all that to passers- 
 by."— Bellepeche, however, went in, still with Marie 
 on his arm, and he gave the landlady a very signi- 
 ficant look and said : — " Madame, we should like a 
 very good dinner. ..never mind what it costs... and, 
 above all, the best wines you have ... Champagne 
 with the second course. .." — " You will be satisfied 
 with everything you have here, monsieur... Where 
 would you like to dine ? " — Bellepeche gave her 
 another look, but Marie replied : — " In the garden ; 
 I faney that will be more cheerful than indoors." — 
 " Oh ! madame, I should not advise it," the little- 
 woman cried, for she had understood Bellepeche's 
 nods and winks. In the first place, the weather is 
 not suitable... It is cold, and then there are a lot of 
 soldiers drinking in the garden, and I do not think. 
 you would like their company..." — " No, no; ,! 
 Bellepeche said, " those fellows say whatever comes 
 into their head... Lay our table." — " In the large 
 dining-room, then," Marie said. — Bellepeche was- 
 still winking, and so the little woman replied : — 
 " Ah ! now I come to think of it, there is no more 
 room in my public dining room... all the tables are 
 occupied. It is astonishing how many customers I 
 have had to-day ! My private rooms are taken, also... 
 Everything is taken." — " In that case, it was hardly 
 worth while to invite us in," Marie replied, turning 
 to leave, but the woman stopped her and said : — 
 "Allow me, a moment!. ..I always do my best to 
 oblige ladies and gentlemen. I will tell you what I 
 can do, I will give you my own room. It looks out 
 on to the garden, and you will be very comfortable 
 there... You may be sure I should not give it to 
 every body... But I can see whom I am dealing with." 
 — "Very well, then, let us have your room," Belle- 
 peche replied with a smile. — " It is all the same to 
 me," Marie said. •: 
 
 So the short landlady took them upstairs- and 
 showed them into a room with a bed in it, which did 
 not strike Marie as strange, as the inn-keeper's wife 
 had told them it was her room, and Bellepeche rub- 
 
il62 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 bed his hands and said to himself : — " This dinner 
 
 will cost me a lot of money, but I mean it to repay 
 
 it 
 me. 
 
 He ordered an excellent dinner, and did not stint the 
 landlady; oysters, truffles, the best wines. Misers 
 are extravagant on occasions, and then, the old 
 bachelor had his reasons for acting thus, and when 
 Marie said to him : — " But, monsieur, you are or- 
 dering too many things ! "—He kissed her hand and 
 replied : — " This is the first time that we are going 
 to dine together at a restaurant, and I wish it to be 
 an epoch in my life." — " But if you eat too much 
 you will do yourself an injury !...It will be a pleasure 
 to me!... I mean to commit a thousand follies. .." — 
 ' What ? monsieur..." — " But please do not mention 
 Switzerland. I cannot bear to hear it talked 
 about when I am dining, for it prevents me from 
 .•eating." 
 
 And Bellepeche emptied many bumpers, and did 
 liis best to enliven Marie, but she did not pay much 
 attention to him, though his assiduities appeared 
 .rather strange to her, and she thought him more ri- 
 diculous than usual. 
 
 Whilst in the upstairs room they were having the 
 .•finest wines and the most delicate dishes. It was 
 very different in the garden, where three soldiers 
 were sitting at a table, with a bottle, a loaf of bread, 
 some glasses, and an enormous omelette in front of 
 them. 
 
 It was Carabine, who had received some money 
 from home, and had made up his mind to spend it 
 with his comrades. It had not been a difficult mat- 
 ter for him to bring Fleur-d' Amour with him, but it 
 had not been so easy to persuade Pierre to come ; 
 he had succeeded in doing so, however, and after 
 going to the Jardin des Plantes, which was a 
 favourite place of Fleur d' Amour's, the three 
 soldiers had gone into the garden of the restaurant, 
 where Carabine intended to treat his two comrades. 
 'A capital omelette, this," Carabine said, cutting 
 Tiimself a huge slice of bread. " First-rate place, 
 this." — "Yes, they know how to make omelettes to 
 perfection in Paris." — ( ' Give me a bit more, Fleur 
 ,a' Amour." 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 163; 
 
 The latter gave a small portion to Carabine, a 
 mouthful to Pierre, and put the remaicler on to his 
 own plate, saying: — " It is no use leaving it to the 
 inn-keeper. Those fellows are too well fed already, 
 as it is/' — " But you have only given Pierre a tiny 
 morsel ! " — " I have given him too much already, as 
 he is not eating anything... You see he has re- 
 lapsed into his melancholy thoughts ... Come, 
 Pierre, do join us in a drink... confound it all ! " 
 
 Pierre passed his hand over his forehead, and 
 tried to smile as he replied : — " Your health, com- 
 rades ! " — " Yours... Hulloh ! there is no more wine..^ 
 Carabine, are you going to order another bottle ? " — - 
 " I should rather think so !...I have lots of money. ._ 
 Here ! Just bring us some more wine." — The order 
 was soon executed, and Fleur d' Amour always 
 poured it out, and did not neglect himself. The 
 omelette was all eaten ; there was not a trace of it 
 left on the dish, and Fleur d' Amour beat the retreat 
 with his fork and said : — " That omelette was very 
 good, but it was very small." — " Would you like- 
 another ? " Carabine said. — " Certainly I should, as 
 I know that it will give you pleasure." — " Waiter, 
 another omelette • the same thing, only better." — 
 "We are having a capital meal !" Fleur d' Amour 
 continued, " but it Is not so good as Mademoiselle 
 F61icite's...By Jove ! we did have a feast there!... 
 Dishes of ail colours, wines of all kinds [...Liquors to 
 make a man swallow his own moustachios...Do you 
 remember it, Pierre ? " — " Yes, I remember it," the 
 young soldier said, with a deep sigh. — " W'ell, we* 
 have never been there again... Your good health.... 
 There is no more wine... Do you feel inclined for 
 another bottle?" — " Certainly, for I have plenty 
 of money, as I have told you. Waiter, a bottle of 
 wine." 
 
 Another bottle was brought, and another omelette,, 
 which Fleur d' Amour made disappear in a very 
 short time, without thinking it necesssary to offer 
 Pierre any, as he had relapsed into hisown reflections. 
 — " And his sweetheart, will he get her ? What 
 about her ? " Carabine asked. — " Whose sweetheart? 
 Whom are you talking about ? "..." About Pierre's.'*' 
 
;i64 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 u Ah! no, I am afraid not. ..He found her, but he 
 has lost her again, and that is why he is so miser- 
 able... Your good health, Carabine. You are not 
 going to call for anything more?" — " Yes, suppose 
 we have another omelette." — " I am agreeable, as I 
 •see that you like them. Waiter, another omelette ! 
 ...Ah! Here it comes." he said in a few minutes. 
 " It smells better than the others."— " Shall I help 
 it ? " Carabine asked, sniffing in the savoury smell 
 greedily. — " No ; no; you don't know how!. ..You 
 would only burn your fingers ... I understand it 
 better." 
 
 And, as a matter of fact, Fleur d' Amour, who 
 seemed to do tricks of sleight of hand with the ome- 
 lettes, made that one disappear as well, whilst Cara- 
 bine was tasting the small sample which he had 
 given him. " Yes," Fleur d' Amour continued, half 
 lying on the table, so that his comrade might not 
 .see the dish ; " yes, I have given up Josephine, and 
 I am not sorry for it. She was an avaricious girl, 
 and never asked me to go and see her in her kitchen, 
 because, so she pretended, her master and mistress 
 iound fault with her if she did ; I don't care about 
 her soup, but I like to be properly treated. Your 
 health... and what have you done with your fat girl, 
 •Carabine ? "— " Which one ?... Adelaide ? "— " Yes, 
 I think that was her name." — " Well, we had a 
 quarrel, because one day when she wanted to go and 
 see a man-cousin, she gave me that boy to look af- 
 ter... You know, that little Auguste, who was always 
 losing himself.'' — " Oh ! that little chap who drank 
 the brandy... and wanted to smoke already! Good 
 Lord ! What a fine fellow that youngster will turn 
 •out." — "Well, have you lost her altogether?"— 
 -" No, on the contrary, I have got her still. *The 
 child was so fond of me, that two days afterwards, 
 Adelaide asked me to look after him whilst she went 
 to see an aunt, and the next day, whilst she went 
 -to see an uncle; so at last I said to myself: — u It 
 seems that I am not a soldier any longer ; I have 
 turned nurse. But I don't think that I shall become 
 an officer by taking brats out for walks, and so I 
 ■said to Adelaide : — '■ My dear girl, you can take the 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 165 
 
 child out yourself ; I have had enough of it ! ' And 
 she flew into a rage, and I gave her up." 
 
 " You were quite right, Carabine ; we must res- 
 pect and show regard for the fair sex, but a defender 
 of his country ought not to change himself into a 
 knitting needle... Your good health ! " — " Why !... 
 Where on earth is the omelette? " — " The omelette? 
 ...Finished... Swallowed!... You ate it, ever so long 
 ^go J » — « I have eaten it ?...You really mean. ..That 
 is very funny!... I don't remember it!" — " Because 
 3'ou were talking all the time, and when one does 
 that, one might eat an ox without noticing it." — 
 ■"Oh! That must have been it, then..."— " But if 
 you have not satisfied your hunger yet, and you 
 would like to have a fourth... you are the master and 
 we are here to obey you." — tl No, I think not, as I 
 ate it without noticing it, it is not worthwhile." — "I 
 think you are right, and that too much omelette 
 w^ould disagree with you, but I advise you to drink 
 -on the top of it." — " Yes, that's it. ..But, I say, there 
 is no more wine." — " If you want to order another 
 bottle, I will not check your wishes." — "Yes, I want 
 some more... As you said, that will wash down the 
 •omelette which I ate whilst I was talking... Here; 
 waiter ! Some more wine." — [ l Listen !...Do listen," 
 Pierre said, starting suddenly out of his reverie, a I 
 think I hear a woman's voice quite close to us..." 
 i4 There is nothing astonishing in women being at a 
 restaurant," Fleur d' Amour replied, helping himself 
 "to wine ; " they come here to dine with their lovers. 
 But it is getting dusk, so let us finish this bottle and 
 be off, for we are a long way from barracks... Do 
 drink, Pierre ! " 
 
 Carabine and Fleur d' Amour drank to each other, 
 but Pierre did not join them. He was listening 
 for the cry which he thought he had heard, and caused 
 him strange emotion. Almost immediately, however, 
 a. window was opened on the first floor where there 
 was a light, and a woman rushed to it, and said very 
 distinctly: — "Leave me alone, monsieur, leave me 
 alone, or my cries will soon bringpeople here... Your 
 behaviour is infamous, and I wish to go away im- 
 mediately." 
 
l66 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEUARD NEUF. 
 
 Pierre did not wait to hear it all, for, already, he- 
 was on the wall ; he caught hold of some trellis 
 work, but the wood broke under his weight, and he- 
 seized anything he could get, for he was determined 
 to reach the window, as he had recognised Marie's- 
 voice, Marie was in danger and asking for help, and 
 he was going to save her again. In fact, whilst 
 his two companions were looking at him ill aston- 
 ishment as he clambered up the wall, Pierre had 
 succeeded in reaching the first floor window, and he 
 jumped into the room just at the moment when Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche, who had again seized Marie, was- 
 endeavouring to commit the most culpable excess, 
 because the champagne which he had drunk very 
 freely, had made a profound villain of him. 
 
 At the sight of the soldier, who seemed as if he- 
 had dropped from the clouds in order to get in at 
 the window, Bellepeche stood as if he were petri- 
 fied, and the girl profited by his astonishment to es- 
 cape from his arms and to take refuge in Pierre's,, 
 whom she had immediately recognised. — " Pierre ! 
 Pierre!" she exclaimed. "Ah! 1 fear nothing 
 more, now." — "Yes, Marie, it is I. ..and I thank 
 heaven for having sent me to you when you required 
 a protector."—" Oh ! Whether it be Pierre or Paul," 
 Bellepeche stammered out, when he had recovered 
 from his first surprise. " I think it very strange that 
 you should have taken the liberty of coming in at the 
 window... when I am dining in the company of a 
 pretty young lady. ..In such a case, one ought not 
 even 'to come in at the door. ..It is highly indiscreet 
 ...Soldier, you will go out by the way you came in,. 
 or 1 shall proceed to extremities... Take care... My 
 blood is up... I could drive off an army! " 
 
 Bellepeche, who was as red as a lobster, and whose 
 eyes were rolling from the combined effects of wine, 
 love and rage, Vent towards Pierre, and signed 
 to Marie to remain by his side ; but at the same- 
 moment, the young soldier, with a blow of his fist, 
 which had still a great deal of the day labourer's 
 vigour in it, struck Bellepeche and sent him falling: 
 on to the table which was in the middle of the room,, 
 and which was covered with the remains of the des- 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 167 
 
 ■sert. Bellepeche was a collossal man, and bis 
 drunken state made him fall all the more heavily; 
 the table could not withstand such a shock, but it 
 fell over, the stout man fell on to it, and broke two 
 plates, a glass dish, a bottle, _ two glasses, three 
 pears, a pine-apple, and five Rheims biscuits beneath 
 jiim. — The fruit and biscuits were crushed without 
 doing Bellepeche much damage, but it was different 
 with the plates and the glass, and when he felt bits 
 of china and fragments of bottles going into various 
 parts of his body, the stout individual closed his 
 -eyes, and shouted out that he was dead. — "Good 
 Heavens ! " Marie exclaimed, " suppose you have 
 killed him... what will become ol us?" — u Nothing 
 of that sort... No doubt he has a few cuts and bruises 
 ...But we must certainly not remain here, but be off 
 .as fast as we can..." — " Oh ! yes, let us get away 
 immediately... for I am terribly afraid that something 
 unpleasant will happen to us." 
 
 Pierre could easily have climbed down through 
 the window, but he felt that Marie could not escape 
 that way, and she had already opened the door lead- 
 ing into the passage where she saw nobody. 
 
 " Come along, quickly," she said to Pierre, " let 
 His make haste... But what will they say downstairs, 
 when they see me go out with you ? " — " Take my 
 arm, and do not trouble so, Marie, and I will 
 answer for it that nobody will venture to say a word 
 to you." 
 
 She followed his advice, took his arm and went 
 out with him. In the hall, they met the obliging 
 lady who had been kind enough to offer them the use 
 of her room." The gentleman is asleep, " Marie said, 
 ** and so I am going to take a walk with my cousin, 
 .meanwhile." — " Your cousin ? " the short woman re- 
 plied with a laugh, f - Oh ; that is very good... all 
 right, I understand... Go out, only do not be too long, 
 for fear..." 
 
 Neither Pierre nor Marie made any reply, but 
 went out immediately and walked as quickly as 
 possible, only exchanging an occasional word. 
 
 " Dear Marie ; how glad I am that I have saved 
 you." — " Oh ! Pierre. How lucky that you happened 
 
l68 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 to be there." — " But why did you leave Madame- 
 Dumont, to whom I took you ? '■ — " Well, I went 
 out for a walk; it was dreadfully slow indoors... and. 
 you did not come." — " It was not my fault ; I was 
 confined to the guard-room." — " I met Monsieur 
 Bellepeche ; he is a friend of Madame de Stainville's,. 
 and I met him at her country house. I was very 
 glad to see him, for I thought that he would take 
 me to her, but he said that she was in the country, 
 and then that Monsieur Daulay was staying with 
 her... and at last he suggested that I should remain 
 till Madame de Stainville's return... and I accepted 
 his offer/'' — "Oh; mademoiselle, how imprudent of 
 you." — " But how could I imagine that that gen- 
 tlemen who might be my father. ..who looked so 
 staid and respectable, would behave just like Mon- 
 sieur Daulay did?... Are all men bad like that in 
 Paris ? " — " Ah ! Mademoiselle Marie, you are so 
 pretty... And then people say that you will be very 
 rich; that is the reason why men make love to you." 
 — " I shall take more care in the future, and mis- 
 trust everybody... But I cannot walk any further... 
 and now it is beginning to rain... How tiresome, for 
 
 I have on such a pretty bonnet, and it will be quite 
 spoilt..." — "All right, let us take shelter under this 
 gateway." — " Yes, for it would be a great pity to 
 have my bonnet done for." 
 
 The soldier and the girl went under the gateway- 
 of a fine house in front of which a private cab was 
 standing, in which a little groom was lounging at his 
 ease. It was dark by that time and it had begun to 
 rain heavily. 
 
 The soldier and the girl went under the gateway- 
 of a handsome house, in front of which a private cab,, 
 in which a small groom was lounging, was standing. 
 It was quite dark by that time and was beginning to 
 rain heavily and a very cold w 7 ind was blowing. — 
 
 II Where are you going to take me to ? " Marie 
 asked him. — "Why. ..to Mother Dumont's, for no 
 doubt I have been deceived, and she is in Paris." — 
 " I will gladly take you to her ; where does she 
 live ? " — " Of course not, that nasty fellow Belle- 
 peche would not tell me, and whenever I asked tor it, 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 169 
 
 1 
 
 lie merely replied :— " It is very far from here, a 
 -street you do not know, but I will take you there 
 myself." — " Well then, as you do not know where 
 -she lives, you see you must go to Mother Dumont's." 
 — " But you know... I... I find it dreadfully slow at 
 your old rendezvous."-—" But Gaspard has sent me 
 word that he will be in Paris to-morrow, and as he 
 knows Madame de Stainville's address, he will take 
 you to her immediately." — " Ah ! very well then; 
 let us go to Mother Dumont's...But it is very far 
 from here, and it is raining harder than ever, so that 
 my poor bonnet will be spoilt. ..and it is a very 
 pretty one." 
 
 "I do not want you to walk, the weather is too 
 bad ; we will have a cab ; I wonder whether this one 
 will take us." — And Pierre went up to the small 
 groom and said : — " Are you engaged?... We want to 
 goto..." — "What do you take me for," the groom 
 replied insolently. " Don't you see whom vou are 
 talking to? " — " Oh, I beg your pardon !... Don't be 
 angry ! " Pierre replied, and so he went back to 
 Marie and said : — " He cannot take us, for he is not 
 a cabman, but wait here a moment, Marie, and I 
 will go and find one." — Please do not be long, for it 
 is very cold, and not at all comfortable under this 
 gateway." — " I will make great haste, you may be 
 sure, and there must be plenty of cabs about here, so 
 that I shall be back almost immediately." 
 
 Pierre hurried off, looking right and left for a cab, 
 "but it was raining violently, and everybody knows 
 iihat cabs are not easily found then, and every cab 
 which he hailed seemed engaged. Pierre was in 
 despair, for he felt that the more he hastened on, 
 the further he went from Marie, who was alone 
 under the gateway, but as he did not wish' to return 
 without a cab he went on only stopping occasionally 
 to notice where he was, so that he might be able to 
 find his way back, for as he knew, very little about 
 Paris, he did not know the name of the street where 
 he had left Marie. — At last, however, he saw a cab 
 standing at the corner of a street, and he said to the 
 coachman, who was about to put their nosebags 
 onto his horses : — M Drive off directly, coachman ; I 
 
170 A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 
 
 have someone waiting for me." — " Drive off direct- 
 ly ;... And my horses have not had a feed since morn- 
 ing." — " But 1 tell you that she is waiting for me... 
 On we go, coachman. "— " But you know, my biave- 
 fellow, you know that in such weather, we drivers 
 make a bargin. ,, — " I will pay you anything you ask. 
 Will you have a five franc-piece beforehand ? Here- 
 it is. but for heaven's sake, drive quickly." — " Oh, 
 that is a diffenent matter ; I understand that sort of 
 lauguage, you see, weather like this is our harvest 
 time. Get in... We will drive along... Where do you~ 
 want to goto? " — " I want to go... F... upon my word, 
 I do not know the name of the street... but I know 
 where I left her.— "Where you left whom?"— " A lady 
 who is waiting for me under a gateway, "--"The devil; 
 She will be nice and wet by this time." — "Look here, I 
 will get on the box by your side, and then I can 
 point out the way to you." — " All right, but in this 
 weather you will be comfortable inside than on my 
 box. And then you have not an oilskin coat like I 
 have/' — "A little wet will not hurt me. ..How im- 
 patient she will be getting. Drive on." 
 
 Pierre mounted the box by the coachman's side 
 and they started. The rain came down in torrents 
 faster than ever, but he did not seem to notice it ; he 
 was only anxious not to miss the way, and he kept 
 pointing with his hand, and saving : — " To the right 
 ...that way, to the left,... there. — And the coachman 
 flogged his horses, swearing all the while at the rain 
 which was beating into his face. — When they^ ^ot: 
 to the street where Pierre had left Marie, he said to 
 the coachman : — " I shall easily recognise the gate- 
 way, for there was a private cab standing outside." 
 — " If that is all we have to go by, we have not much 
 chance of finding it, for most likely it will have gone 
 by this time." — " Very well, let me getdown; I shall 
 find it more easily on foot." — " Yes, if you stop at 
 every door. But get down, comrade. Shall I wait 
 for you here ? " 
 
 Pierre did not reply, but as soon as he was down he 
 ran off as if he were mad, until he reached the place 
 where he had left Marie, and so he knocked at; 
 
A RESTAURANT ON THE BOULEVARD NEUF. 171 
 
 i 
 
 •at several porte cocheres and asked for the young 
 lady he had left there some time before, when he 
 went to fetch a cab for her, but the only reply he 
 -got was that he had better leave them at peace, for 
 they certainly did not harbour girls who were wait- 
 ing for soldiers. — He got no other reply, and spent 
 three hours thus. Although he was wet to the skin, 
 but yet the perspiration poured from his face, he 
 could not make up his mind to return to the bar- 
 racks, and yet he saw that his attempts to find Marie 
 were in vain. As a last resource, he went to Ma- 
 dame Dumont's, but when he found that she had 
 not seen her, he returned to barracks, where he 
 would have been put into the cells, because he had 
 not returned at the reparte, but when it was seen 
 that he was in a high state ot fever and could scarce- 
 Ig stand, he was taken to the infirmary instead. 
 
 He was very ill for a week with fever, and in his 
 delirium he constantly called for Marie ; but at the 
 end of that time, nature gained the upper hand, 
 when he recovered his senses, the first person he saw 
 at his bed-side was Gaspard, who had obtained per- 
 mission to come and look after his friend. — " You 
 were near going to the other side ; " the peasant 
 said, squeezing the soldier's hand, but I always 
 said that you would get over it, for one makes a hard 
 tight for life at twenty." — " Have I been here long, 
 Gaspard ? " — " Nine days, my boy." — " Nine days? 
 ...Oh; Gaspard; what a pity... I found Marie again, 
 and I have lost her once more." — ■• Do not excite 
 yourself ; you will find her again ; the girl is playing 
 the fool, you may be sure." 
 
 Pierre told Gaspard all the circumstances of his 
 meeting with Marie, and the manner in which he 
 had lost her. — " Ah ! So Monsieur Bellepeche car- 
 ried her off, did he?,..I remember him well. He is 
 a tall, stout, elderly man, with puffy eyes. I told 
 you how it was... They all want the little duchess !... 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! " — " What are you laughing at, Gas- 
 pard, and when Marie is lost again ? — " I tell you 
 the girl will be found again, and I am laughing be- 
 cause you are not going to die, and will be on your 
 legs again, soon. Come, Pierre, you must not give 
 
172 A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 
 
 way to low spirits ; it leads to nothing, and then, you; 
 must be well in order to hunt for a woman who is 
 always gadding about." — "You are quite right, 
 Gaspard. I will show myself a man." — " I am going 
 back home as fast as I can, because I have some- 
 business to look after, but I shall soon come and see 
 you again, and we will have a bottle or two together, 
 to celebrate your recovery." 
 
 Gaspard embraced Pierre, and went away, and a. 
 few days afterwards the young soldier was able to- 
 return to his barracks, but every moment that he was 
 at liberty, he spent in walking up and down the 
 street where he had left Marie. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 
 
 AND what was the reason why Pierre did not find 
 Marie in the gateway where she was to have waited 
 for him, on his return ? You shall hear. 
 
 She was shivering as she looked at the snow, 
 and she was already thinking that Pierre was 
 a long time in coming back, when suddenly an ex- 
 tremely well-dressed gentleman came down the stairs. 
 He passed close to Marie without seeing her, for it 
 was already dark, and then he went up to the cab 
 and said:—" Now, Tony!"— The tiger undid the- 
 apron, and the gentleman was getting in, when 
 Marie, who had recognised his voice, exclaimed : — 
 " Oh ! Good heaven ! Monsieur d'Aubigny ! " 
 
 It really was that dandy Alfred, who had been 
 paying a visit to the house where Marie had taken 
 shelter, and when he heard his name mentioned he 
 stopped, and, seeing a woman, he went up to her.— 
 " Who is that, who seems to know me?"— "It is 
 
A DOUBLE ROMANCE. I7* 
 
 I, Monsieur le Comte."— "You ?...But that voice !..v 
 Is it possible ?... Is it really the charming Marie ? " — 
 " Yes, Monsieur, it is certainly I. " — "But what ort 
 earth are you doing here ? " — " Monsieur, it is rain- 
 ing so hard that I am waiting for a cab." — " Mine- 
 is quite at your service/' — "What?... Is that carriage 
 yours?" — "Certainly it is. ..But you are wet, and 
 trembling, I think/' — "I am so cold." — "You can- 
 not stop here. ..It would be extremely foolish... Get 
 into my cab..." — "But I was waiting. ..he was to 
 come back..." — "I tell you again, you cannot wait 
 here... It would not be at all proper, and you only 
 expose yourself to insults... and, then, the porter will 
 be closing the door immediately, and what would 
 you do in the streets in this weather ? " — " Oh I 
 very well, then, I will get in with you... and he has 
 not come back... and perhaps he is confined to the- 
 guard-room again." 
 
 Marie uttered these last words so low that 
 d'Aubigny could not hear them, and he made her 
 get into his cab, sat down beside her, whilst the- 
 diminutive Tony got up behind, and they started. 
 
 " I cannot get over my surprise," the count said, 
 flicking his horse. "Is it really you, mademoiselle, 
 whom everybody believed to be lost... carried off... 
 who disappeared so suddenly from Madame de- 
 Stain ville's ... Do you know that for several days 
 everybody believed that I was the author of it ! " — 
 " You, monsieur ?...Oh ! they were very much mis- 
 taken..." — " Of course they were, and nobody knew 
 it better than I did *.But you must have had many 
 adventures." -"Yes, monsieur, and I 7 will relate 
 them to you if you like." — " You will give me great, 
 pleasure... But this rain is beating in our faces.. » 
 Luckily, however, here we are..." — "Where, Mon- 
 sieur?" — "At my. ..Ah! You have just made me 
 think of it... I never asked you for your address, so 
 that I might take you home." — " My address ? Why, 
 I have no address." — "What!. ..Do you not live 
 anywhere ? " — " No, monsieur." — " That is very 
 strange... And where do you mean to go to-night? "' 
 — " I will tell you all about it, monsieur... If you. 
 would kindly take me to Madame de Stainville's."— 
 
374 A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 
 
 u With the greatest pleasure, but it is a long way 
 off, in the Rue Dominique." — " I do not know where 
 that is." — "And you are wet, this cab does not pro- 
 tect you... Look here, will you take refuge in my 
 house for a short time?. ..We shall find a good fire 
 ...and two of my friends who are coming to dine 
 with me... I asked them for six o'clock, and now it 
 is past seven... Whilst you are warming yourself, I 
 will send for a cab, and then I will take you to Ma- 
 dame de Stainville's, who will be delighted to see you 
 .again, for she thinks that you are lost, or even dead, 
 .and she is in great trouble about it ...Well, will 
 my plan meet your views ? " — " Yes, monsieur, per- 
 fectly." 
 
 The cab stopped at a handsome house in the Rue 
 d'Antin, and d Aubigny assisted Marie to alight, 
 and showed her up a handsome flight of stairs, to the 
 second floor, where a footman was standing with a 
 light, and, after going through several luxuriously fur- 
 nished rooms, he stopped in a smaller room hung with 
 white Cashmere. A small fire was burning brightly 
 in a Gothic fireplace, the carpet was thick, and as 
 soft as silk, shaded lamps hung from the ceiling, 
 and soft couches invited to repose, whilst looking- 
 glasses, fixed above them, reflected the persons who 
 came into that delicious retreat. 
 
 Marie sat down in an easy chair near the fire, 
 and looked round her, and her eyes expressed the 
 admiration which she felt for this elegant boudoir. 
 — " Warm yourself... sit close to the fire," d' Aubigny 
 said, throwing off his overcoat. " But your feet are 
 cmite wet." — " Yes... my pretty shoes are done for, I 
 am sorry to say." — " What does that matter... We 
 must think about you... I have no women's shoes here, 
 but I have some delightful fur-lined slippers, in w T hich 
 your little feet will get dry...Legris, bring Madame 
 a pair of slippers." 
 
 The footman made haste to execute his master's 
 orders, and Marie put on the slippers, whilst the 
 count said to his man : — " Well, where are the gen- 
 tlemen?... In the drawing-room?" — The gentlemen 
 got tired of waiting, Monsieur ; they said that you 
 .asked them for six o'clock, so they waited till seven, 
 
A DOUBLE ROMANCE. I75 
 
 and then went away."--" Really ! ...Well, how 
 am using... What do you think of this, Mademoiselle- 
 Marie?...! ask some gentlemen to dinner and forget 
 all about them and don't come home." — " I should 
 certainly have waited for you, monsieur." — " Yes, 
 but then you are a woman, and kind... Not that I 
 mean 
 woman 
 
 mon< 
 
 wise, I should have asked you to share mine, for I 
 forgot all about the time in the house where I was f 
 and such a thing is quite excusable when one is with, 
 the. ..woman..." 
 
 The count stopped, as if he did not think it right 
 to take Marie into his confidence, whilst she looked 
 at him as if she was waiting for him to finish his sen- 
 tence, and d'Aubigny continued :• — " I must confess- 
 that I am very hungry..." — "Then pray dine, mon- 
 sieur ; do not mind me, for I can very well wait now, 
 as I am no longer standing under a gateway." — 
 '• You are very kind, and I will profit by your per- 
 mission, and, if you will allow me, I will dine here,, 
 so as to be near you." — " Pray do so, monsieur." — - 
 " Ltgris, serve my dinner here, and only long lay the 
 table for one. Madame will not eat anything." 
 
 Legris soon executed his master's orders, and soon 
 a little, elegantly appointed table was brought in 
 and placed near the fire, whilst Marie looked round 
 her occasionally, as if to make sure that she was not 
 dreaming, for it did not seem at all like reality to- 
 her. But the emotion which she felt was anything 
 but unpleasant, and though her heart beat rapidly > 
 it was not from fear. 
 
 As soon as he had sat down, d'Aubigny said to 
 Marie : — " I have not forgotten your promise to telt 
 me your adventures, and if you will be so kind..." — 
 "1 shall be very glad to. ..and I will tell you 
 everything that has happened to me since you saw 
 me last." 
 
 D'Aubigny listened to Marie's narrative very at- 
 tentively, but he interrupted her to exclaim :— *■ 
 " Daulay {...Whoever would have thought that it 
 was he who abducted you?... The poor fellow dis- 
 
376 A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 
 
 -sembles like the hero of a melodrama... Poor Madame 
 <le Stainville, if she had known that... she would per- 
 haps have repented of having offered you her assis- 
 tance." 
 
 Marie continued her account of what had happen- 
 to her, and when she came to the episode with Belle- 
 peche, d'Aubigny could not control his amusement ; 
 Jie laughed till he cried, and exclaimed : — " What ? 
 Bellepeche also?. ..So the old bachelor has become 
 a roue, a Don Juan ! " — " Oh ! It is enough to kill 
 one... Poor Marie !... These are some of the unpleas- 
 ant consequences of greatness ; it is your future ti- 
 tle of duchess which has gained you those two con- 
 quests... for... you must pardon me for saying it. ..in 
 spite of your charming face... I do not think that 
 those two gentlemen would have thought of you, if 
 you had remained. „ what you were formerly." — 
 " That is just what Pierre said to me, also, mon- 
 sieur." — " I suppose that young man loves you very 
 much ? " — " He say he does, monsieur." — "He knew 
 you when you were a mere peasant girl" — " Yes, 
 and even then he wished to marry me... but I re- 
 fused him, because... because I did not feel any love 
 £or him."' 
 
 The count considered for some time, and then 
 said : — " If you will take my advice, mademoiselle, 
 when you are at Madame de Stainville's you 
 will not mention your adventures with Monsieur 
 Daulay and Monsieur Bellepeche." — "Why not, 
 monsieur ? "— " Because there are many things 
 which happen in society, which we learn to pardon. 
 Madame de Stainville would naturally not be pleased 
 to learn that Monsieur Daulay had carried you off... 
 you no doubt can understand his motive..." — " Ah ! 
 Ybu are right, monsieur... I should be very sorry to 
 cause him any unpleasantness, and so Twill not men- 
 tion Monsieur Daulay." — " Very well, then ; but if 
 you are generous towards one, why not be so to- 
 wards the other?... And, between ourselves, I think 
 "his fall amongst the plates and broken glasses 
 -will, have sufficiently cured Bellepeche of his 
 wish to be a seducer !... The poor man will not 
 forget the lesson." — "If you advise me not, monsieur, 
 
A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 177 
 
 I will not mention Monsieur Bellepeche's conduct 
 towards me... but whatever am I to say when Ma- 
 dame de Stainville asks me what has happened to 
 me... what I have been doing since I left her 
 house ?" 
 
 D'Aubigny smiled and said: — "Well, we have 
 have certainly not thought of that.. .You must of 
 course say something, for the first thing, Madame de 
 Stainville will do, will be to question you. Well, 
 upon my word, you must make up some tale or 
 other, no matter what, and I am perfectly certain 
 that both Monsieur Bellepeche and Monsieur Dau- 
 lay will take care not to contradict you." — " But 
 monsieur, I do not know how to invent tales," Marie 
 said, fixing her beautiful eyes on the count." — "That 
 is very strange, for it is a thing that most women 
 are adepts at ; but I will help you, and we will 
 think of something for you to tell Madame de Stain- 
 ville. Legris, clear away." 
 
 As soon as the footman had done and left the room, 
 the count sat down by Marie and said: — "Come, 
 let us make up a story between ourselves," and as 
 he said it, he looked at her intently, but she had kept 
 her eyes on the ground, since she had been alone 
 with him. — " It must be very nice to make up a story 
 in the company of a pretty woman," the count 
 continued with a smile. — " I do not know," Marie 
 replied timidly. "I do not even know what a 
 romance is. 
 
 " I will explain it to you. Imaginary adventures 
 which are made up and written in order to amuse 
 this poor world of ours, which stands so much in 
 need of it, are called romances. But sometimes, an 
 author relates in them what he has seen and ob- 
 served; his characters are drawn from actual life 
 and society ; he paints the manners and morals of 
 the period in the language of the period, and he tries 
 to be understood by everybody." 
 
 " But I do not understand what all that has to do 
 with me," Marie said, looking up at d'Aubigny. — " I 
 beg your pardon, mademoiselle... I was digressing in 
 a manner which could have no interest for you, so 
 let us return to our subject. A romance is often a 
 
178 A DOUBLE ROMANCE. 
 
 story, so let us make up a story for Madame de« 
 Stainville." — "A story? I understand that a great 
 deal better." — " It is quite permissible to tell a lie 
 to Madame de Stainville without hesitation."— 
 " Well, I have already told you that I will do exact- 
 ly as you advise me. — " You are very kind... But to 
 return to our romance. Generally, love forms the 
 chief ingredient in the plot." — " Love ; " Marie said, 
 looking down again. — " Certainly... What is more 
 natural than that feeling?... It can upset the world... 
 and it renews unceasingly... Wherever there are a 
 young man and a young woman, love will make a 
 third party... especially when the woman is as pretty 
 as you are." 
 
 Marie blushed, and replied in a low voice : — 
 ''Then you think that I might be loved ? "— " Can 
 you doubt it ? Does not what has happened to you 
 already also prove it ? " — " You told me that he only 
 carried me on because I shall be a duchess." — " But 
 that is no reason why other people should not love 
 you for yourself alone." — " Ah ! I believed so... when 
 I was nothing but a poor girl, but I doubt it now." — 
 " Yet that young soldier, Pierre, proved that he still 
 felt the same attachment for you." — " Pierre... yes, 
 Pierre remembers ; but there are others... who said 
 things to me, who have forgotten them since.' 
 
 Marie said no more, and d'Aubigny also was 
 silent, but he drew his chair nearer to the girl, and, 
 as if without thinking, took Marie's hand which he 
 pressed in both of his, and when he saw the pretty, 
 and still innocent girl crying, he felt much moved 
 and so he put his arms round her and said: — "Marie, 
 why are you crying like that?... What is the mat- 
 ter?"— "What is the matter?... You ask me that." 
 — " Am I unfortunate enough to have given you 
 pain?"; — "You? Oh, no, monsieur, I am in the 
 wrong for believing... Why did you kiss me so ten- 
 derly when I was at the inn... Why did you say that 
 you adored me?... I have never forgotten your 
 words..."— "What Marie; Is that the reason?" — 
 " Oh, no ; I am only telling you my own romance... 
 I known quite well it can never be. It is like it was 
 that day when you met me in the plantation in Ma- 
 
A DOUBLE ROMANCE. I79 
 
 dame de Stainville's garden... Then also you came 
 close to me and put your arms round me and held me 
 so for a long time." — "You remember everything 
 Marie." — " But I am merely telling you my romance 
 ...I fancied it all, for it never really happened... How 
 could you love me?. ..No, no, it is only a dream, and 
 I do not know why I am crying... Ah ! you see, I do 
 not know what I am saying." 
 
 The girl was still crying, so d'Aubigny clasped 
 her in his arms and exclaimed : — " No, it is not a 
 dream, dear Marie... I told you that I loved you... Ah! 
 and I tell you so again, for who could see so many 
 charms without falling in love with them ? Dear 
 Marie, do not cry any more." — " No, no, you cannot 
 love me! " the girl said, gently pushing him away. 
 = — " Marie, you do not think so !...Dear Marie... the 
 reason why I avoided so many opportunities of being 
 alone with you was, because I feared the power of 
 your eyes." — " Oh ! do not say that to me... I should 
 believe you again, and I should be too unhappy 
 afterwards." — "Ah! Marie how pretty you are!... 
 Oh ! do not repel me... you have acknowleged that 
 you love me..." — "But that is no reason... and that 
 romance... Oh, do let go of me please..." — "Marie, 
 will you not let me kiss you like I used to do ?...You 
 let me do it when you were a peasant girl... Will not 
 the little duchess be the same towards me ? " — " Oh, 
 yes, always the same but you did not kiss me like 
 this. ..Oh ! Good heavens. ..and that romance... Ah ! 
 If you would only love me always," and d'Aubigny had 
 lost all self control whilst kissing Marie, and soon the 
 romance was entirely ended and that time Pierre 
 was not there to prevent its termination. 
 
l8o RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLES. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 
 
 THUS it happened, that the next day Marie was 
 still in d'Aubigny's apartments, and I must leave 
 you to guess where she passed the night. 
 
 Marie was no longer the same ; her eyes, which 
 were filled with a sott languor, sparkled with 
 love and happiness whenever she looked at d'Aubig- 
 ny, and not a minute passed without her looking at 
 him. 
 
 The count seemed charmed by the love which the 
 girl showed for him ; he often looked at her tender- 
 ly, and pressed a kiss on to her lips ; but, imme- 
 diately afterwards, his brow grew dark, and he- 
 looked down as if to avoid Marie's eyes, and then a 
 feeling of uneasiness and sadness showed itself on 
 his face. 
 
 D'Aubigny had breakfast brought into his room, 
 which had become Marie's as well, since the previous 
 evening, but Legris was a discreet and trusty ser- 
 vant ; he saw everything and saw nothing, and he- 
 never looked at the ladies who came to his master's 
 apartments, for he was a servant who knew the world, 
 and whom one could trust. .% 
 
 During the whole of breakfast, Marie spoke to 
 d'Aubigny about nothing but her love; she did not 
 seem to think about Madame de Stainville any more, 
 for the new feeling that filled her soul made her for- 
 get everything else, and for her there existed nothing 
 in the whole world except the man to whom she had 
 given herself. But the count, who was used to con- 
 quests and triumphs, did not give way to these- 
 pleasant illusions ; present happiness was not every- 
 thing to him, and he thought of what might happen. 
 
RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. l8l 
 
 and so he reflected and sighed, and he reproached 
 himself for having yielded to a moment of pleasure- 
 and of seduction, which he had not calculated on be- 
 forehand, and which might have serious consequences- 
 for him. Generally, reflections do not so quickly 
 succeed a night of pleasure. Several times, under 
 similar circumstances, he had abandoned himself to 
 pleasure without troubling himself about the future, 
 and if now he was thoughtful and uneasy when he- 
 was with the woman who had given him such marks- 
 of her affection, it was because he had two motives- 
 for repenting of his fault. In the first place, he felt 
 no love for Marie, and then he was passonately in 
 love with another woman. But Madame Darmen- 
 tiere hesitated, wavered, before forming fresh ties ; 
 she wished to be quite assured of d'Aubigny's love, 
 and she wished him, also, quite to give up all those- 
 follies, all those love intrigues which had made him 
 so formidable with the ladies, and the count swore- 
 to her every day, that he had altogether reformed. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs when d'Aubigny had 
 found Marie when she had taken shelter under the- 
 gateway of the house where Madame Darmentiere 
 lived,, and that was why the count was so thought- 
 ful and uneasy, when he ought to have been think- 
 ing of the poor girl who had just given herself to- 
 him. — "What is the matter with you, my friend? " 
 Marie asked him, putting her hand in his. " You 
 scarely ever look at me, now."—" Oh ! I beg your 
 pardon. Marie ; I was thinking, reflecting..."— " Ah! 
 I think of nothing except of my happiness at being 
 with you, and of loving you... and at hearing you say 
 the same thing to me, for you will always love me, 
 will you not!" — " Yes, yes ; of course, I love you, 
 but that is no reason why I should not think of 
 what we had better do. ..of what you you must say 
 when you go back to Madame de Stainville's ..." 
 — "To Madame de Stainville's... Oh! I never thought 
 of that. ..So I must return to her ?.,.I thought I should 
 remain with you... I am to become your wifc.as^ 
 you say you will always love me... and I shall be a 
 duchess... Very well, then !...Why should we separ- 
 ate ? " — " Marie, you do not know the world, nor the 
 
l82 RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 
 
 duties which it imposes on us... We must carefully 
 conceal what there is between us... Your being here 
 must remain a secret ; remember that you are to be 
 restored to your mother, and were she to know..:" — 
 " Ah ! You are quite right... I should make her 
 blush for me !...Oh ! love made me forget all this... 
 Forget me, and tell me what I ought to do, and I 
 -will be guided by your advice." — " Poor little girl... 
 How I wish I could see you happy ! " the count 
 ^aid with a sigh. — " But I shall be. ..And, indeed, I 
 am, already, because you love me... Let us see what 
 lam to say to Madame de Stainville... I am to tell 
 her some romancing tale. ..Is it to be the story. ..we 
 -acted together... yesterday ? " 
 
 Marie looked down and blushed as she said these 
 last words, and at that moment she was so pretty 
 that a man must have been of marble not to have 
 rushed into her arms. I have never met a man of 
 •marble, and the count, who was only mortal, fell at 
 Marie's knees ...and their conversation was inter- 
 rupted for some time. 
 
 " Well, my friend, what am I to say to Madame 
 de Stainville ? " Marie said, when they resumed their 
 conversation. — " What are you to say to her ?...Ah ! 
 yes... that is true, we are constantly forgetting that ? 
 ...When I am with you, Marie, it is difficult for me 
 to listen only to my reason " — "I prefer you to lis- 
 ten to your heart." — " However, we must settle 
 something. ..In the first place, we have agreed that 
 you will not mention either Daulay, Bellepeche, 
 or me." — "Of course not... But what am I to tell 
 her?... For I must have been somewhere during the 
 time, and it is nearly four months that I have been 
 absent from Madame de Stainville's." — " Oh ! of 
 course."—" We must make up another romance be- 
 tween us two*" 
 
 The count smiled, but as a man cannot always be 
 acting romances, even with a pretty woman, 
 he exclaimed : — " After all, just say the first 
 thing that comes into your head... Madame de Stain- 
 ville will too be glad to have you back, to cavil at your 
 story. The poor lady is the more grieved at your 
 disappearance, because she took upon herself to re- 
 
RETURN TO MADAME DE STAfNVlLLE'S. 183-, 
 
 move you from Gobinard's, and your mother will de- 
 mand you from her." — " It is quite certain that I 
 should still be at the inn, if it had not been for Ma- 
 dame de Stainville." — " When you get to her house r . 
 you must throw yourself into her arms... she will kiss 
 you, and you must tell her in a trembling voice that 
 strange men carried you off from her house and put 
 you into a carriage and drove you off to a large 
 country house. ..where a gentleman... whom you had- 
 never seen before, declared-hislove to you. You did 
 not listen to him, but he kept you a prisoner, and 
 came every day and spoke to you of his passion, but 
 without success. At last, one morning, when they 
 had forgotten to lock you in, you went down into* 
 the garden, where you found a little gate. ..there is 
 one in all gardens — which you opened, and you 
 found yourself in the open country. Not knowing 
 where you were, you walked on for a long time, un- 
 til at last a peasant told you that you were not far 
 from Paris, and so you exerted all your remaining, 
 strength in order to get there, and to throw yourself 
 into the arms of your protectress. There is your ro- 
 mance ; what do you think of it ? " 
 
 "Oh! It is very good..." — "Shall you be able to 
 remember it?" — "Twill not forget a word... There 
 is only one thing that I cannot understand... As I did 
 not know Madame de Stainville's address, how could. 
 I go there by myself? " 
 
 "But she will think that you knew it... that you 
 heard her mention it... Good heavens !... When one is 
 carrying on an intrigue, one must not be afraid of 
 improbalities. You are not concocting a moral tale, 
 but something romantic or dramatic. I say to you 
 again, tell her that with an assured air, and no- 
 body will allow themselves to doubt that strange ad- 
 venture." — " I promised you that I will follow your 
 advice, and I swear that I will not alter a word of 
 your romance." — " Very well, then, so now there is 
 nothing to prevent you from returning to Madame- 
 de Stainville's." — Marie looked down, and said, with 
 a sigh, in a low voice :— " Yes, I will go back, but 
 it is very late... and to-day I teel extremely tired... 
 and no one will know anything more about it, evert 
 
184 RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 
 
 it I remain one day longer with you." 
 
 D'Aubigny had not the strength to resist such 
 words... and then, Marie looked at him so tenderly... 
 ^nd there was so much love in her pretty eyes... 
 And so they agreed that she should not return to 
 Madame de Stainville's until the next day.— But 
 when the next day came, Marie was still more tired, 
 so that she could scarcely stand, so it would have 
 been unconscionable to send her away in such a 
 state of weakness, and the count did not send her 
 away, accordingly. 
 
 The following day she had galled her foot, so that 
 she limped, and one cannot let a limping woman go 
 out, so Marie did not leave her retreat; and, in 
 short, she spent six days at d'Aubigny's, continually 
 finding some pretext for not leaving him. But the 
 count's position was becoming embarrassing, for he 
 scarcely ever went out, and could receive nobody at 
 home ; everyone who called was told that he was 
 out of town. Such a state of affairs could not last 
 long, and on the seventh day, d'Aubigny thought it 
 was allowable for him to have a little rest. He, 
 therefore, sent for a cab, put Marie into it, who 
 cried because she wanted to remain with him longer, 
 and after kissing her tenderly, he enjoined her to 
 be very discreet, and, after giving the address to 
 the coachman, he sent the girl to the woman who 
 had wished to be Marie's protectress, but whose 
 protection had brought some very strange adven- 
 tures upon her. 
 
 The cab stopped in the Rue Saint Dominique, be- 
 fore Madame de Stainville's house. At last, then, 
 she was in that house to which she had been so 
 eager to get... but no. ..since it depended only upon 
 herself to go there, you know that she delayed the 
 time as long as possible. 
 
 She mounted the stairs, and went into Madame de 
 Stainville's apartments ; it was the middle of the 
 afternoon, and the porter had told her that Madame 
 de Stainville was at home. She was in the drawing- 
 room almost as soon as the footman, who had recog- 
 nised her, and who hastened to announce her. — 
 4( Marie !...Is it possible that it is my dear Marie? " 
 
RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 185 
 
 Madame de Stain ville cried, rising from her easy chair 
 to meet the girl, and almost at the same moment, Marie 
 threw herself into her arms. "Oh! It is indeed the dear 
 child whom I thought lost altogether ! " Madame de 
 Stain ville continued, embracing Marie. " Oh ! 
 how delighted I am. Ah ! gentlemen, I hope you 
 will share my happiness... Marie is at last restored to 
 us ! " 
 
 The two gentlemen to whom she addressed these 
 words were Daulay and Bellepeche, who had hap- 
 pened to meet at Madame de Stainville's that after- 
 noon. But, far from sharing that lady's pleasure 
 when they heard Marie announced, they both looked 
 very peculiar when they saw her come in. Their 
 embarrassment and confusion would certainly have 
 betrayed them, if anybody had been looking at them, 
 but Madame de Stainville was wholly taken up with 
 Marie, and, as for the latter, when she saw Daulay 
 and Bellepeche in the drawing-room, she could not 
 restrain a movement of horror ; but soon, remem- 
 bering that she had promised the count the utmost 
 discretion, she concealed her feelings, and only ap- 
 peared moved by the pleasure which she felt at find- 
 ing herself with her protectress once more. 
 
 " Dear Marie ! " Madame de Stainville said, mak- 
 ing the girl sit down by her, " sit here and tell us 
 immediately all that has happened to you... You may 
 be sure that I am most anxious to know what can 
 have kept you away from me for so long." — " I will 
 tell you all about it, madame," she replied. — At 
 that moment, Daulay got up, and Bellepeche fol- 
 lowed his example. — "I have just remembered I 
 have something important to do at home," the 
 younger man said, seizing his hat. — " I am afraid 
 that I have an appointment which I must keep," 
 Bellepeche said, taking his walking stick. — "What, 
 gentleman ? Are you thinking of going when Marie 
 is going to tell us her adventures ? " Madame de 
 Stainville said, looking vexed. " Ah, that would 
 indeed show a great want of interest in our young 
 duchess... and I cannot believe that." 
 
 The tone of Madame de Stainville's voice showed 
 that she was getting angry, and the two men did not 
 
l86 RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 
 
 know what to do ; but in their indecision they 
 dropped into their chairs again, and Marie immedi- 
 ately began her recital. — As she went on, the gen- 
 tlemen's looks altered ; their faces brightened and 
 they smiled, and their embarrassment vanished. 
 They appeared to take the deepest interest in a 
 narrative to which at first they listened most unwill- 
 ingly, and from time to time they showed their 
 feelings by their exclamations which escaped 
 them. 
 
 " Poor young lady/' Daulay cried. " What an 
 adventure." — " It is most interesting/' Bellepeche 
 said, blowing his nose ; " it reminds me of some- 
 thing that I heard in Switzerland." — " Please be 
 quiet, gentlemen," Madame de Stainville exclaimed; 
 " please let our dear Marie speak." 
 
 The girl finished her narrative, which was exactly 
 •"what d'Aubigny had told her to say, and when she 
 had finished, her protectress kissed her again and 
 said: — " Ah ; My dear Marie, how fortunate that 
 you managed to escaped from that man... Your in- 
 nocence was in great peril, but thanks be to heaven 
 that you are still worthy of your illustrious mother's 
 affections... And you do not remember having seen 
 this man who carried you off, anywhere ? " — ''No, 
 madame." — "That is very strange."—" I do not see 
 anything extraordinary in it," Daulay observed. 
 ~ if It must have been somebody who had noticed 
 Mademoiselle Marie secretly... Struck by her beauty, 
 and perhaps knowing the secret of her birth, he em- 
 ployed those means to seduce her. Such adventures 
 occur frequently," — " It happens every day ! " Belle- 
 peche said immediately. — "Yes," Madame de Stain- 
 ville said, " I think that Monsieur Daulay has 
 guessed correctly; "this man probably knew about 
 your birth, perhaps he is even a secret enemy of 
 Madame Valousky's...Who knows whether this man 
 was not the cause formerly, of her being obliged to 
 conceal your birth, and of having you brought up 
 secretly at the inn?" — "Everything leads us to 
 suppose it," Daulay said. — " I would swear to it ! " 
 Bellepeche added. 
 
 Marie said nothing, for she was very much sur- 
 
RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 187 
 
 prised at the success which her romance had had. 
 with Madame de Stainville, for she did not yet know 
 that in society people always eagerly receive any- 
 thing that is fabulous, whilst the truth makes no im- 
 pression on them. 
 
 " And you could not learn the man's name ? " Ma- 
 dame de Stain ville asked Marie, presently. — " No, 
 madame. ,, — " Nor the name of the place to which he 
 took you ? " — " No, madame." — " It was a castle, I 
 presume?" — " I think so, madame."— " Oh ! there 
 can be no doubt about it. It was some powerful 
 personage. But your illustrious mother ought to> 
 know him, and she will fathom this mystery."— 
 li There is no doubt that she will be able to fathom, 
 it," Bellepeche said, burying his head as much as. 
 possible in his high neckcloth, in order to hide a 
 tolerably deep cut which he had in his right ear, 
 which he got on a certain day when he fell amongst 
 the bottles and glasses ; you will remember on what 
 occasion. 
 
 " Well dear Marie, at any rate, here you are with 
 me again," Madame de Stainville said, putting her 
 arms round the girl, " and for the future I will 
 answer for it, that nobody shall take you from me ! 
 Oh ! I will never leave you for a minute until the 
 time when I shall put you into most loving hands. 
 But you may imagine that I was in despair at your 
 disappearance, my dear child. I -have heard from 
 the Duchess of Valousky, and she will be here in 
 three weeks." — " In three weeks ?" Marie exclaimed. 
 " Oh, how delighted I am." — " I should have been 
 unable to give her, her daughter. But thanks be to. 
 heaven, that will not be the case, and I shall give 
 her back her charming daughter still pure and 
 w r orthy of her love/' 
 
 Bellepeche shook his head slightly, and said to 
 himself : — " Still pure ... hum, hum ! ... What the 
 devil has she been doing during the whole week 
 since she left me ?...If she has been in barracks with 
 her protector, the business becomes very shady ; 
 .however, that is no business of mine now. She has. 
 shown herself very generous towards me and Daulay, 
 and for the future I will believe anything she 
 likes." 
 
288 RETURN TO MAPAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 
 
 Daulay thought like Bellepeche did, and said to 
 himself : — " It is two months since Marie went off 
 with me, and she could quite easily have returned 
 to Madame de Stainville...Most likely she has been 
 devoting the time to proving her gratitude to the 
 young soldier !... This girl is much more cunning 
 than I thought, but she has concocted her romance 
 -very cleverly, and I do not intend to give her the 
 lie." 
 
 Madame de Stainville was eager to instal Marie 
 in her house again, and to load her with presents, 
 and gave her jewellery, and bought her everything 
 that was in fashion. Her friendship and her gener- 
 osity towards the girl seemed to have increased 
 since she had been separated from her, and Marie 
 was naturally pleased to put on the lovely dresses, 
 and to deck her hair with flowers and ribbons, as 
 she wished to appear beautiful in the eyes of the 
 man whose wife she hoped to become. Madame de 
 Stainville introduced her to her friends as a highly 
 born young lady, whose parents had entrusted her 
 to her care, and Marie was very well received, as 
 she was very pretty and well dressed, and began to 
 know how to comport herself gracefully. 
 
 A few days after she had taken up her abode at 
 Madame de Stain ville's, Madame Darmentiere 
 called, and Marie could not resist a painful feeling, 
 when she remembered that Count d'Aubigny had 
 been in love with her, whilst Madame Dar- 
 mentiere was much surprised at seeing her, — 
 ~ u Oh ! " she said, " so you have found the young 
 lady again ? " and her voice evinced anything but 
 pleasure. — " Yes, she has been restored 'to us, and if 
 you only knew what a victim to intrigue she has 
 been." — " I have no doubt that she has met with 
 many adventures/ Madame Darmentiere replied 
 with a significant smile, " and may I ask, without 
 being indiscreet, what they were? " — " Ah ! my dear 
 friend, as you know the secret of Marie's birth, I 
 will tell you everything." 
 
 And Madame de Stainville went on to relate the 
 whole storv that Marie had made up, whilst the fair 
 Hvidow listened with an incredulous smile, and when 
 
RETURN TO MADAME DE STAINVILLE'S. 189 
 
 it was finished, she said :— " Really, this might make 
 an additional chapter to The Arabian Nights \ she 
 is a veritable heroine of romance, and the most ex- 
 traordinary part of it is, that she has escaped with- 
 out losing a hair, where a woman of the world would 
 very likely have succumbed. — But seeing that Marie 
 blushed and looked embarrassed, she hastened to 
 add : — " However, you have got her back and that is 
 the principal thing, and I hope that you will soon 
 be able to assure her complete happiness." — " That 
 will not be long delayed," Madame de Stainville 
 said, " for the Duchess de Valousky is coming back 
 to Paris almost immediately, and, even if she should 
 ■not give her her name and title, she will be none 
 the less dear to me; my friendship will never fail 
 her." — ■' She may be sure that she is loved for her- 
 self," Daulay said,/' and that if she had been born 
 in a cottage, we should all equally appreciate her 
 beauty and good qualities." — "Certainly," Bellepeche 
 continued ; " for my part, I esteem people for their 
 prsonal merit, and not for their fortune ; in Switzer- 
 land fortunes are thought nothing of.. .especially on 
 the high glaciers." 
 
 When they left, Marie made d'Aubigny promise 
 to call on Madame de Stainville very often, but he 
 did not come for several days, much to her grief, 
 though she had to hide it. At last, however, he 
 came, and bowing respectfully to Marie, he said : — 
 " Madame Darmentiere told me that you had been 
 found, and I cannot tell you what pleasure it gave 
 me to hear it." 
 
 Marie was so overcome by emotion at the sight 
 of him, that she could scarcely speak, but the count 
 adroitly occupied Madame de Stainville's attention, 
 so that it was not noticed, for she was so unused to 
 the ways of the word, that it seemed cruel to her to 
 affect indifference to the man whom she longed to 
 press to her heart. When she was left alone with 
 him accidentally, for a moment, she pressed his 
 hand tenderly and said : — " You .will always love me, 
 >vill you not?" — " Yes, Marie, yes...I love you..."— 
 ;' But you hardly ever look at me..." — "You know 
 we must conceal our intimacy." — " Oh ! how painful 
 
190 THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 
 
 this constraint is ! ... But you promise to marry- 
 me? " — " Hush !...Be silent, Marie !... They are com- 
 ing back." 
 
 Just then Madame de Stainville came in again, 
 and d'Aubigny soon took his leave, but he came 
 again in a few days, when Madame Darmentiere also 
 happened to be there. At the sight of the handsome 
 widow, the count was rather embarrassed, and during 
 the whole of his visit he did not give Marie one ten- 
 der look, but on the contrary made a point of speak- 
 ing coldly to her, which pained her greatly, and 
 when he had left, she felt as if she hated society, as 
 it imposed such a continual constraint on people^ 
 and she said to herself : — " As I am a duchess, it is 
 very strange that he cannot declare his love for 
 me!' 1 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 
 
 ONE morning, about a month after Marie's return to> 
 Madame de Stainville's, the latter received a letter 
 which gave her great pleasure, and she ran to Marie's 
 room and said : — " My dear child, the duchess has 
 arrived, and she writes to say, that her first visit 
 will be to me... I am so happy. You will find a 
 mother... who will press you to her heart, and I shall 
 witness the happy sight." — " Ah, madame, I am 
 indeed happy... When my mother has recognized me 
 as her daughter. ..no one will be afraid. ..I mean, if 
 anybody wished to marry me, he would not be afraid 
 to say so." — " Somebody... You need not be afraid- 
 Marie ; you will have so many aspirants for your 
 hand, that you will be embarrassed to make a 
 choice ; " at which the girl said to herself, that her's 
 would soon be made, for she had nO doubt that the 
 
THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. IQI 
 
 count would immediately ask for her hand, when her 
 mother had recognized her. 
 
 At length the longed for day arrived ; neither 
 Marie nor Madame Darmentiere had slept much, 
 and they all got up early so as to be ready to receive 
 the duchess at whatever time she might come. 
 Bellepeche was the first to put in an appearance; he 
 had paid great attention to his dress, for he had not 
 .given up all hopes ; if the little duchess did not like 
 him, he might have better luck with her mother. 
 Daulay was not long after him, and a few moments 
 later, Madame Darmentiere was announced. The 
 count was the only absentee, for between Marie and 
 the handsome widow, the situation would have been 
 somewhat embrassing, and then, it did not matter to 
 him whether she w T ere a duchess or not. Of course 
 "he wished the girl who had given herself to him 
 every happiness, but he had no intention personally, 
 of making her happy ; it is the usual way of the 
 world. 
 
 One o'clock, and two o'clock came but no duchess, 
 and they were all in the highest state of excitement, 
 whilst Marie trembled at the slightest noise, but at 
 last an elegant carriage stopped at the door, and a 
 handsomely dressed lady got out, and almost im- 
 mediately a footman announced : — " The Duchess de 
 Valousky." 
 
 She was a woman of fifty, who had been very 
 "handsome, and who still retained traces of her former 
 beauty, but her looks were haughty and disdainful ; 
 there was always a mocking and pretentious smile 
 on her lips, and when Madame de Stainville went 
 to her to kiss her, she seemed afraid lest her rouge 
 should be rubbed off, or her feathers disarranged. 
 However, she bowed politely to the assembled com- 
 pany. — " So you have come back at last ! n Madame 
 -de Stainville said. " Ah ! you cannot guess how 
 impatiently we have been expecting you ... "-— 
 *' Thank you very much... I am very pleased to be 
 back in Paris and to see my old friends." — •" Of 
 ■course... but you have another powerful motive for 
 being glad to be back... from what you wrote to me 
 „.I have been rather indiscreet, my dear duchess... 
 
192 THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 
 
 but I read your letter to these gentlemen ..." — » 
 " What letter? " — u The one in which you said that 
 you had left the object of your dearest affections in 
 France, at the inn at Vethenil..." — f Oh, yes, I re- 
 member... Well, there is no harm in that, my dear, 
 for it is no longer a mystery, and I need not hide 
 anything now." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear that... for I have acted 
 somewhat without your permission in this matter..." 
 — " You have acted... I do not quite understand you." 
 — " I will explain myself, for I guessed what the ob- 
 ject was which you were so anxious to find again... 
 which you entrusted to the worthy woman who then 
 kept the inn where you stayed for a few days." — 
 " You guessed... I must confess that you surprise me, 
 for I thought it was a profound secret." — " It might 
 have been for others, but not for me, who know all 
 the circumstances of the case, and so as I wished to 
 cause you a surprise by restoring to you the obje ct 
 of your tenderest affections, and to show you the 
 interest I took in it, I have brought it here for you." 
 — " What a delightful surprise; I sent my man- 
 servant to Vethenil yesterday to claim my treasure 
 ...for it is my treasure. ..my offspring, in a word." 
 — " Your off spring... Ah, I was expecting that sweet 
 word. Well, that treasure is here ... before you. 
 Come, dear Marie, and throw yourself into your 
 mother's arms." 
 
 And Madame de Stainville took Marie by the 
 hand and pushed her almost onto the duchess, who 
 stepped back whilst she kept off the giil with her 
 right hand, and exclaimed, almost angrily : — " Her 
 mother. ..I have a daughter ?... Really, that is rather 
 too much... Madame de Stainville, I must say, this is 
 a very ill-timed joke." ^ 
 
 The change that came over all their faces was 
 worth seeing : — Daulay and Bellepeche stood open 
 mouthed, Madame de Stainville seemed thunder- 
 truck, Marie grew pale and confused, whilst Ma- 
 s dame Darmentiere was the only one who did not 
 c hange looks. 
 
 ".What! you have no daughter?" Madame de- 
 Sta^ville exclaimed, when she had recovered her 
 
 M 
 
THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. igj, 
 
 powers of speech. " But what was that precious; 
 object... which makes your heart beat... it was not a 
 child which you mysteriously left at Vethenil ? " — •• 
 " Certainly not... you really bestow children on your 
 friends very easily, and seem to have singular ideas 
 of virtue:" — " But your letter...' the dearest object 
 of my affections/ you say..." — "Well, madame what. 
 I left was the first volume of my memoirs which I 
 begun under the Empire and which I did not ven- 
 ture to publish under the Restoration, because I 
 frequently mentioned Napoleon in them, and so not 
 wishing to travel with the manuscript in my posses- 
 sion, I gave it to the landlady and made her promise 
 not to look at it. That is the child I spoke of, the 
 child of my brain and of my imagination, and I must 
 beg you to believe that I have never had any 
 other." 
 
 " A volume of memoirs..." Madame de Stainville- 
 said, dropping into an arm chair. " Oh ! I shall; 
 never forgive myself." — " A manuscript ! " Daulay 
 said, shouting with laughter. " Upon my word,, 
 what a delightful mistake ! " — " So she never was* 
 a little duchess!" Bellepeche said, biting his nails. 
 " Oh ! Good Lord !...To think that I spent nine hun- 
 dred francs on her:" 
 
 Poor Marie drooped her head without a word, and: 
 the duchess continued in a mocking voice : — " Well,, 
 my dear, you must confess that you are not 
 fortunate in your conjectures... I am sorry for the 
 young lady, but you must try and find her another 
 mother, and all I want, is to find someone to get my 
 real child... If my memoirs are lost I shall never 
 console myself." 
 
 Just then a footman came in and said that a pea- 
 sant and a man-servant were asking for Madame de 
 Valousky, and having obtained the permission of 
 Madame de Stainville, who seemed overwhelmed at. 
 her mistake, she told him to show them in : they all 
 recognised Gaspard, who said, without even taking 
 off his hat : — " 1 beg your pardon, ladies and gentle- 
 men, but this tall fellow in livery told me the mat- 
 ter was important, and so I came in my everyday- 
 clothes." 
 
394 THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 
 
 His everyday clothes consisted of a very dirty 
 blouse, muddy trousers and a battered hat, but just 
 then they thought less about his dress than about 
 him. The duchess' footman told his mistress 
 that he had been to the inn to claim what she had 
 left there eighteen years before, and the landlord 
 •said that it was a girl, and that she was to be brought 
 to her there.— " Very pleasant ! " Madame de Valousky 
 -said. " The joke is getting better and better ; I am 
 much obliged to you, Madame de Stainville." She, 
 however, seemed overwhelmed, and looked down 
 without saying a word, and the footman went on to 
 -say that it was not a girl, but a manuscript that his 
 mistress wanted, and when the landlord persisted 
 that he had made a mistake, a peasant who happened 
 to be present, exclaimed that he remembered a 
 packet of papers which Madame Gobinard would 
 not entrust to her husband, as he was too curious, 
 but that she gave them to him, as she knew he could 
 not read, and, as a proof of it, he pulled a thick 
 roll of paper from beneath his blouse, which Madame 
 «de Valousky seized, saying it was indeed her lost 
 treasure, and liberally rewarded Gaspard for return- 
 ing it to her. 
 
 Madame de Stainville, however, turned on him 
 with fury, and said : — "You knew that it was a man- 
 uscript which the duchess left at the inn, and you let us 
 Relieve it was a child ? " — ''Well, you all said it was a 
 3jirl... Marie... that she had left there, and I was not 
 -going to contradict you. And, alter all, it was quite 
 possible that she might have left two parcels instead 
 -of one !...It was no business of mine." — " He is quite 
 -a character ! " the duchess said with a smile, 
 but Daulay and Bellepeche thought him insolent, 
 :and said he deserved to be severely chastised. 
 
 " Do you think so ? * Gaspard said, looking at 
 ■them both with a mocking smile. " You think I 
 ought to be chastised because I let a little coquet- 
 tish, vain and proud girl believe that she was the 
 daughter of a duchess. ..And what ought to be done 
 -to you two?. ..To you, first of all, Monsieur Daulay, 
 -who carried off Marie from Madame de Stainville s, 
 
THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 195 
 
 -and who took her to apartments in Paris, making 
 her believe that she was at her protectress' house, 
 .and who then wished to treat her like a Turk would 
 have done, if one of my friends, a brave soldier, had 
 ciot happened to be there to defend her." 
 
 Daulay grew lived, and Madame de Stainville 
 -said : — " Is it possible?... Monsieur Daulay carried 
 off this girl... He was in love with her... How horri- 
 ble !...What an indignity ! " — " The fellow does not 
 know what he is saying/' Daulay stammered, 
 whereupon Gaspard threatened him with a good 
 thrashing if he gave him the lie, and said that they 
 only had to ask Marie. — " You took Marie to your 
 house," he said, " and made her believe that Ma- 
 dame de Stainville was from home ; then you took 
 her to dinner near the Jardin des Plantes...and no 
 doubt you had a sunstroke, for you tried to play the 
 young man, and, but for my friend, this soldier, I do 
 aiot know what might have happened. You thought 
 she was rich ; very well, marry her now that she has 
 nothing; that is the way to prove your lcve." — "I 
 should be very sorry to," Bellepeche cried, "and I 
 only regret the money I spent on her." — "You hear 
 this, Marie," Gaspard said, " and if you like to come 
 home, which is the best thing you can do, I will 
 wait for you until four o'clock in the afternoon on 
 rthe boulevard, by the Chateau d'Eau ... Good-day, 
 ladies and gentlemen." 
 
 When they had gone, Marie, who was over- 
 whelmed with grief and confusion, hid her face in 
 "her hands, and Madame de Stainville, who was glad 
 to give vent to her hatred and" jealousy, went up to 
 her and said: — u So, mademoiselle ; you were car- 
 ried off by two men... and did not tell me... but made 
 up a tale... which had no common sense... I do not 
 know how I could have believed it for a moment. 
 Why did you not tell me that Monsieur Daulay had 
 ...found you a room?.,." — " I was afraid... of causing 
 you pain, madame..." — " You are very impertinent, 
 mademoiselle, but as I should be ashamed to keep a 
 girl, whom men carry off, in my house any longer, 
 you will leave it immediately." — " You are surely not 
 .going to turn me out of doors, madame ? u she said, 
 
196 THE DUCHESS DE VALOUSKY. 
 
 bursting into tears. — " Do you suppose I should 
 keep you?. ..A pretty idea... a servant from an inn. ..in 
 my house... You have compromised me too much al- 
 ready... Let these gentlemen take you back, if they 
 like." — " You do not think I should do such a thing?"" 
 Daulay said. " I might commit a tolly for the sake 
 of a young duchess, but to love a peasant girl. ..Pray 
 do me more justice than that."— " I shall regret 
 what I have done on account of a village girl, as, 
 long as I live," Bellepeche added. 
 
 The duchess de Valousky said nothing, for she 
 was quite absorbed in her precious manuscript, 
 which she was turning over, and Madame Darmen- 
 tiere was silent, for since the arrival of the duchess,, 
 she had been satisfied with watching what was going 
 on round her, whilst Madame de Stainville, after 
 giving Daulay a look, in which he already read his 
 pardon, went up to Marie, and said, in a haughty 
 voice: — "Now, mademoiselle, kindly go... I do. 
 not wish to repeat this order. ..Your presence here, 
 makes me ill." 
 
 Marie put her handkerchief to her eyes, aridl 
 drooping her head sadly, she was about to leave the 
 drawing-room, when Madame Darmentiere went up. 
 to her, and, taking her hand, she said : — " Everybody 
 wishes to get rid of you, now that you are only a> 
 poor girl... but I offer you a home... Come, Marie ; do 
 riot refuse my offer... 1 did not flatter you when you 
 were supposed to be rich... and that is one reason 
 why you should count on my friendship." — " Oh ! 
 madame, is it possible ?... What ?... You ?"... Marie 
 murmured, hiding her head on Madame Darmen-. 
 tiere's breast. " You, whom I lately insulted by my 
 ridiculous pretensions..." — "I do not remember 
 them any longer, my dear, now that you are un- 
 happy." — " You are quite at liberty to do whatever 
 you please/* Madame de Stainville said, with an air 
 of great vexation , " and I do not think that at present 
 anyone will feel inclined to carry off the young lady 
 from you." — " So much the better, madame, for then 
 I may hope that Marie will remain with me for a 
 long time." 
 
 And with these words, Madame Darmentiere put 
 
A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 197 
 
 her arm through Marie's, and left Madame de Stain- 
 ville's house with her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 
 
 Madame Darmentiere took Marie to her house, 
 •and she recognised it as the house where Pierre had 
 left her when he went to fetch a cab, after having de- 
 livered her from the enterprising attempts of Mon- 
 sieur Bellepeche ; and, though she sighed when she 
 thought of him and his goodness towards her, yet 
 his memory was soon effaced, for she hoped to see 
 Count d'Aubigny at Madame Darmentiere's. 
 
 She was no longer the same towards Marie, for 
 the greatest kindness had taken the place of her for- 
 mer coldness, and she put her into a pretty room 
 next to her own, telling her to rest and calm herself 
 after the agitation of the day, adding that in a short 
 time they would consider what was best to be done, 
 and assuring her that she would always find a friend 
 and a support in her. — Marie thanked her, and when 
 she was left to herself, she began to think over all 
 that happened to her, and though at first she shed 
 tears at seeing all her dreams of greatness vanish, 
 yet the remembrance of d'Aubigny gave her hope, 
 tor she said to herself : — " He really loves me for 
 myself, and not for my fortune, and it must be the 
 same to him whether I am a duchess or not, as I 
 shall always be his little Marie. But, suppose he 
 were to refuse to marry me... because I am only an 
 orphan... a peasant girl... for I do not even know 
 w r hat I am. ..Oh! how terrible it would be. ..But no... 
 be will keep his promise. ..he must keep it. ..for I be- 
 
198 A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 
 
 lieve...Oh ! heavens !...I dare not even acknowledge- 
 it to myself as yet." 
 
 And Marie wept again and covered her face with 
 her hands ; one might have thought that she feared 
 that the fault which she had committed must be- 
 written on her features, as well as the consequences 
 which that fault w r ould have. Sometimes she re- 
 membered the last words that Gaspard had uttered 
 when he left her: — " If you like to come home., 
 which is the best thing you can do, I will wait for- 
 you until four o'clock.' 
 
 She looked at the clock ; there was still time- 
 enough to meet him, and she reflected... hesitated... 
 but soon her love for d'Aubigny and the recollection 
 of her position decided her on remaining in Paris, — 
 u I cannot return to Vethenil," she said to herself, 
 "for if I become a mother... everybody there. wilt 
 know my shame... and perhaps I shall be driven out 
 of the village... Oh, no... I cannot return there now. 
 But the count loves me ; he will not abandon me, 
 but will keep his promise. ..he will marry me. ..As 
 soon as he sees me, I am sure that he will console 
 me. 
 
 Thus Marie buoyed herself up with hopes, but 
 several days passed and d'Aubigny did not come, to 
 Madame Darmentiere's although he must have heard 
 what had happened at Madame de Stainville's. 
 Marie did not go out; she did not wish to leave 
 the house in which she had found an asylum, 
 and she refused, therefore, for Madame Darmen- 
 tiere to try and procure her any amusements ; 
 Marie objected to go to the theatre or for drives, and 
 every day she seemed to grow more low-spirited. 
 
 " My dear child," the beautiful widow said to her 
 one day, " why do you give w r ay to grief thus ? You 
 have lost the prospect of a noble name... and of 
 worldly rank... but at your age, these do not con- 
 stitute happiness. And then, I repeat to you that I 
 will look after your future... for I do not wish you 
 ever to have to dread poverty, after having known 
 the enjoyment of wealth. You are pretty... and will 
 easily find a husband... and we will try and choose 
 one who will make you very happy." 
 
A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. ro,^ 
 
 In reply ; Marie merely kissed Madame Darmen- 
 tiere's hand, for she did not dare to say to her z- — 
 " There is only one man now whom I wish to marry 
 ...the man who is the father of my child." 
 
 However, one day when Madame Darmentie re- 
 was again trying to bring a smile on to Marie's face r 
 the latter said to her in a trembling voice : — " Does- 
 Count d'Aubigny ever come to call on you now, ma- 
 dame ? "— -" I beg your pardon," Madame Darmen- 
 tiere replied looking at the girl anxiously, " but 
 why do you ask?" — " Because during the whole 
 fortnight that you have been kind enough to give me* 
 a home... I have never seen him once." — u Monsieur 
 Daulay has been away... he has been into his owiv 
 part of the country... he had family business to at- 
 tend to... but he has come back, for I saw him yester- 
 day." — " Does he know what has happened to me? " 
 Marie said, with some hesitation. — "Yes... I told 
 him myself." — " And... what did he say?" — He- 
 pitied you as much as I did. ..but he was not much 
 surprised, for he always doubted whether you were- 
 really the Duchess de Valousky's daughter, just as L 
 did." 
 
 Marie let her head droop, and seemed overcome- 
 by sorrow, so Madame Darmentiere went and sat 
 down by her, took her hand and said in a very kind 
 and gentle voice: — " Marie... you have not opened 
 your heart to me fully, but I can read into the depths- 
 of your soul. ..you love the count..." — " I. ..ma- 
 dame..." — " Yes, you love him... Perhaps he former- 
 ly said some pretty things to you, which you believed 
 ...Poor Marie ! Will you still be weak enough to 
 believe in him?... But even if you had been the 
 daughter of a duchess, I can assure you that 
 d'Aubigny would never have thought of marrying; 
 you... it would be quite easy for me to prove to you 
 what I am saying... What then have you to hope 
 for?... Come Marie, be sensible... banish a feeling": 
 'which can only be a passing sentiment, from your 
 heart... and then, I repeat it, you may still be 
 happy." 
 
 As soon as madame had left her, Marie returned 
 to her room, saying to herself : — " Does she expect 
 
:200 A DISCOVERY.— DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 
 
 me to forget the man I love? Never, never!... It 
 only depended on me to tell her what a bond united 
 me to the count... She says that he never thought of 
 poor Marie!. ..but I know the contra ry... and now 
 that he has returned from his journey and he knows 
 ;my position, I am sure that I shall hear from him. 
 But yet, Madame Darmentiere has seen him, so he 
 must come after I have retired to my own room... Is 
 he afraid of speaking to me before her?. ..Can he 
 still be in love with her?... Oh, I must find out the 
 truth... sts^posing he still loves Madame Darmen- 
 .tiree.,.1 shsill not remain in this house any longer." 
 
 Marie tried to hide her trouble, but as she was 
 restless and agitated, she retired to her own room 
 early, but shortly afterwards a footman came and 
 handed her a large sealed parcel, and said : — " This 
 was brought for you sometime ago, mademoiselle, 
 and I waited until you were alone to give it to 
 you." 
 
 She thanked him, and as soon as he had left the 
 room she broke the seal, for she felt no doubt that 
 it contained news of the count, and inside she found 
 a large document folded into four, and a note signed, 
 xPAubigny. Marie kissed it, and then read as fol- 
 io ws : — 
 
 " My Dear Marie, — 
 
 I have to tell you, that your hopes of fortune 
 have fallen to the ground, which is the unfortu- 
 nate result of your interview with the Duchess de 
 Valousky. Do not think that your new position is 
 the cause of my change of feeling towards you ; 
 no, Marie, you must not deceive yourself any lon- 
 ger ; our connection was the result of mere cnance, 
 .and could not be lasting... I have other ties now, 
 other vows bind me, and you could never be any- 
 thing more to me than a friend. In that name, 
 then, I beg you to accept what you will find en- 
 closed in this letter ; if you still love me, you will 
 not refuse to take it from me, for remember that 
 the gifts of a friend never give us offence. 
 
 Alfred d'Aubigny." 
 
A DISCOVERY.— DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 201 
 
 Enclosed there was a deed which secured an an- 
 nuity of two thousand francs* to Marie. 
 
 The girl looked at it mechanically, and then she 
 let the letter and the document fall, and remained 
 motionless and almost fainting, for she had only 
 one thought in her heart, and that was that d'Au- 
 bigny had never loved her. For a long time she 
 remained in that state of grief which almost 
 produces insensibility, that state in which one feels 
 that one is living, but in which one can find no relief 
 in tears, but gradually she collected her ideas, and 
 exclaimed : — " But he eannot reject me, for I am 
 likely to become a mother... Oh! If he had known 
 that, he would never have written me this dreadful 
 letter... but he shall know it... 1 do not want any 
 benefits froui him, but only his love... Madame Dar- 
 mentiere herself will approve of what I do... Yes... 
 I will tell her every thing... confess all to her..." 
 
 And Marie left her room to go to Madame Dar- 
 mentiere's. It was late, and she thought that every- 
 body would be gone to bed, but as she was going 
 through the library, she saw a light through a door 
 into the drawing-room. Marie went up to it, and 
 heard a voice that was very dear to her. D' Aubigny 
 was there, with Madame Darmentiere ; they were 
 both talking earnestly, and by putting her ear to the 
 door, Marie could hear all that was said, so, without 
 reflecting on the meanness of her action, she remain- 
 ed motionless, with her neck stretched out, for fear 
 of losing a single word that was said. 
 
 " I want you to speak to me frankly," Madame 
 Darmentiere said ; " J want you to tell me whether 
 Marie has the right to reproach you... Alfred, I be- 
 seech you not to deceive me... If you love another 
 woman, I am ready to release you from your vows... 
 The girl loves you... and I do not wish to be the 
 cause of her unhappiness..." — " Really, madame, I 
 fail to understand you," the count replied. " What ? 
 ...When you have consented to take me for your 
 
 £80. 
 
202 A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR.— CONSOLATION. 
 
 husband, when I bring, you all the necessary deeds^ 
 so that our marriage may not be delayed, at the last 
 moment you seem to doubt my love !... What have I 
 done to deserve this?... Is it my fault that Marie is 
 not a duchess, and if Madame de Stainville has made 
 her the victim of a a most stupid misunderstanding? ' r 
 — " Certainly not... but why does Marie love you ?.., 
 Her love for you must, in a measure, be your own 
 fault." 
 
 "Eh! How do I know ?... But, even supposing I 
 may have said to her that she was pretty and ador- 
 able when she was a servant at an inn, would that 
 be any reason for making me pay my addresses to 
 her now ? . . . Be j ust, madame ; I may have had my fun 
 with a. peasant girl, and anyone else would have done 
 the same in my place, but if this girl now fancies 
 that I really adore her... well she is quite mistaken... 
 I am sorry for her disappointment, and I will do all I 
 can to ameliorate her lot, but to give you up for her, 
 you, whom I love more than I ever loved a woman 
 before, and to whom I am proud to consecrate my 
 life !...No, you cannot really wish me to do it. ..be- 
 cause you also love me... for you have confessed it ; 
 you love me, because you have promised me this 
 dear hand, and because I shall be your husband in 
 three days." 
 
 Marie did not wait to hear any more ; she did not 
 wish to be the cause of the count's unhappiness, but 
 she knew that if she told Madame Darmentiere that 
 she bore within her the fruits of her departure from 
 the paths of virtue, she would place an obstacle in 
 the way of d'Aubigny's marriage ; but would he love 
 her, Marie, any more on that account?... No, on the 
 contrary, he would hate her, and the poor girl 
 would rather have died than inspire him with such 
 a feeling. 
 
 She went out of the apartments, and walked softly 
 to the door of the landing; then she went down- 
 stairs. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the lamps 
 were out, so when she got to the porter's lodge , 
 Marie knocked at the window; the string was 
 pulled and she left the house without having met 
 anyone. 
 
A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 20J 
 
 As soon as she was in the street ; she set off walk- 
 ing very quickly ; not that she was frightened, but 
 because she was anxious to accomplish her fatal de- 
 sign. She did not know which way to go in order 
 to attain her object, but she hoped that by walking, 
 on, she should soon get to her destination. It was a. 
 dark night, and from time to time she met some be- 
 lated foot-passengers, but she walked so quickly, and 
 with such determination, that no one thought of fol- 
 lowing her or of stopping her, and, after walking for 
 some time, Marie felt that the air was fresher, and 
 at a turn in the street, she saw the banks ofc the 
 canal. 
 
 " Ah ! Here I am ! " the girl said to herself. 
 " There, there everything will be over for me." — And; 
 poor Marie hurried on, and when she got to the bank 
 of the canal, she threw herself onto her knees, and- 
 looking up to heaven she cried : — " No doubt what I 
 am going to do is very wrong ! I must pray for 
 pardon,... but I see nothing except shame and des- 
 pair before me on earth... and I have not the courage- 
 to bear my troubles." — As soon as she had said 
 these words she rushed forward... A loud splash was- 
 heard in the water... and the river received the girl's* 
 body. 
 
 An infantiy patrol was just then passing at a 
 short distance, and one of the soldier's cried : — u Did 
 you hear that ? Somebody has thrown himself into- 
 the water." — The corporal halted his men and went 
 to the canal bank f something was floating, and oc- 
 casionally disappearing in the water. — ". One might 
 almost fancy it w T as a woman," a soldier said to his> 
 comrade." — " Yes. ..it is one, but I will save her... 
 Here, take my rifle, Carabine... and my schako also."" 
 ■ — " You are never going to risk your life for some- 
 body you do not know?—" What does that matter ?" 
 Somebody is drowning and I know how to swim... 
 Here goes." 
 
 It was Pierre, who formed one of the patrol which, 
 happened to pass by at the very moment when poor 
 Marie threw herself into the water ; without know- 
 ing it was she, and moved solely by that feeling 
 which prompts us to save our fellow creatures, 
 
■204 A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 
 
 Pierre jumped into the canal, and swimming vigor- 
 ously, he soon reached her and brought her near the 
 bank. A gun which they held out to him, helped 
 him to keep himself above water, whilst he held up 
 the girl so that his comrades could catch hold of her. 
 Soon they were both on land, and Pierre, forgetting 
 the water that his clothes had imbibed, thought only 
 of restoring the unconscious woman to life. 
 
 The corporal was just going to have her carried 
 to the nearest police station, when Pierre uttered a 
 cry of surprise and horror, for he had recognised 
 Marie in the woman he had just saved../' Marie... 
 My poor Marie ; " he cried, throwing himself 
 self on to the girl's body..." Oh, heavens ! ... is it 
 possible. It is she w T ho was nearly drowning... per- 
 haps she is dead. ..She neither sees nor hears me." — 
 ' No, she is not dead ; her heart is still beating," the 
 corporal said. — " Give her a small glass of brandy/ 1 
 Carabine suggested. — " Oh ! she is breathing... she 
 will not die, Pierre cried, trying to w T arm Marie's 
 hands in his own. " Oh, corporal, for pity's sake 
 ...allow me to carry the girl to a kind woman whom 
 I know.. .who lives close by. ..she will give her every 
 attention she wants..." — "So you know the girl, 
 Pierre?" — "Know her?... Why it is Marie. ..my 
 friend,... my companion from childhood... I have al- 
 ways loved her... Ah, corporal, you will not refuse 
 me this favour... 1 swear that Marie deserves being 
 looked after." 
 
 "Very well, off with you. ..you will rejoin us at 
 barracks." 
 
 Pierre had already taken Marie up in his arms, 
 he did not run, but rather flew to the Rue de Crus- 
 sol. He soon arrived at Mother Dumont's house; 
 Marie was breathing, and he felt her heart beating 
 against his, but she had not yet either opened her 
 eyes or spoken a word. Pierre opened the door 
 leading into the passage and went upstairs carefully, 
 and when he got to the old seamstress' room, he had 
 to knock several times, for it was one o'clock in the 
 morning and she was sleeping soundly ; but when 
 she woke and recognised his voice, she struck a light 
 .and opened the door. 
 
 " What is the matter? " she asked as she opened 
 
A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR.— CONSOLATION. 205 
 
 the door to the young- soldier ; and then seeing that 
 he had a woman in his arms, she exclaimed : — "Oh ! 
 Who is that? " — " It is she, Madame Dumont...it is 
 Marie. .."— " Marie in such a state. .."— " Yes, Marie 
 ...whom I have just saved from drowning... Marie, 
 who threw herselt into the canal, but fortunately I 
 happened to pass by at the moment... Ah ! our des- 
 tinies are linked together... for I should have died 
 also, if I had not saved Marie/' — "Poor girl. ..But 
 the first thing is, to attend to her." 
 
 They placed her on a bed, and then the kind old 
 woman got hot clothes and a little brandy, and 
 rubbed Marie's temples, forehead and nose with it. 
 — In a few moments she breathed more freely, and 
 at last she opened her eyes, and looking about her 
 in surprise, she said : — " Where am I ? Have I been 
 dreaming?... I. thought that I was bound to die? " — 
 "„Oh, but I happened to be there," Pierre cried ; 
 " I was there to bring you to land or else to die 
 with you." — " Pierre, it "is you, you again who have 
 saved me ; " Marie said, holding out her hand to the 
 young soldier. " Ah ! I know where I am now...I 
 have already lived in this room... I am..." 
 
 "With someone who is very fond of you," the old_ 
 woman said, " and who begs you not to give way to 
 despair." — "Oh, madame... Oh, Pierre ; you do not 
 know how unhappy I am ! how culpable I have 
 been." — " Culpable?... I do not believe it," Pierre 
 said, " and if you are unhappy, am not I here to con- 
 sole you... to devote my life to you?... Ah; Marie I 
 know your trouble, but if you feel any gratitude 
 towards me renounce your terrible project. Live- 
 Marie. ..live for me. ..who loves you so much. ..for 
 me, because I am ready to love you, to serve... and 
 to defend you. Oh! Marie... all I ask in return for 
 that, is one single word, a promise from your lips... 
 tell me that you will not again attempt vour own 
 life." 
 
 * "Come, to-morrow, Pierre, and I will tell you all 
 about my troubles... I will tell you every thing... for 
 you are a true friend, and I wish you also to be my 
 guide and judge. Come, to-morrow ... and then I 
 swear that I will do whatever you tell me." — " That 
 
i» 
 
 :2o6 A DISCOVERY.— DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 
 
 is right... I count on your promise. Till to-morrow, 
 then, Marie." 
 
 Pierre tenderly pressed the hand which the girl 
 gave him, and took his leave, but before going, he 
 aid to Mother Dumont : — " I need not ask you to 
 look after Marie, for I know how kind-hearted you 
 
 .are, and you know how I love her." 
 
 " Poor child ! " the old woman said, " how she has 
 
 -altered in a short time. She has lost all her colour 
 
 .and her fresh looks, that constituted one of her 
 greatest charms. She looks suffering and worn out... 
 
 .and to think to what her dreams of grandeur... 
 
 ,and of a fortune, have brought her!. ..To try and 
 
 -commit suicide at eighteen years old!... Good hea- 
 vens ! People grow tired of life at an age now, when 
 
 -we had scarcely yet begin to enjoy our existence." 
 The next morning Pierre was at Madame Du- 
 
 rmont's by ten o'clock. Marie looked down and 
 blushed when she saw him, and Madame Dumont 
 left them alone, as she thought that her presence 
 might interfere with their confidential talk.— As 
 
 -soon as she was alone with him, Marie buried her 
 face in her hands and began to cry bitterly, so the 
 young fellow went up to her and said : — " Dear 
 Marie... if you do not wish to confide your troubles 
 to me... if telling them will pain you too much, do 
 not say anything, and I shall still remain your best 
 
 friend." 
 
 " No, no, Pierre... I want you to know everything," 
 the girl replied, trying to check her sobs, " I will 
 keep my promise. You used to love me sincerely 
 when we were in the village...! see it now, and I 
 
 .ought to have been proud of it, but I was a flirt, and 
 I wanted to go to Paris... I do not know what ideas 
 I had not got into my head !... Matters soon grew 
 worse, for I was told that I was the daughter of a 
 
 ^duchess, and that I should be very rich some day. 
 
 Then I already saw myself as a fine lady... but it 
 
 was all wrong... Madame de Stainville had made a 
 
 mistake... the Duchess de Valousky had never had a 
 
 -child... she had merely left a manuscript at the inn at 
 Vethenil. It had been left in Gaspard's charge, so 
 he knew that I was no duchess... but he allowed me 
 
A DISCOVERY. — DESPAIR. — CONSOLATION. 207 
 
 to think I was, in order to punish me for having 
 despised your love." 
 
 "Is it possible ? " Pierre exclaimed. " You are not 
 a grand lady, and will not have a large fortune ? . . . How 
 glad I am !...But I beg your pardon, Marie... I must 
 not rejoice at what gives you pain... It is very wrong 
 of me, but I cannot help it. But did you really wish 
 to commit suicide from grief at not being a duchess ? 
 ...It surely cannot be possible ?... People do not die 
 •at your age, because they have lost a fortune." 
 
 u No, you are right, Pierre... it was not that which 
 reduced me to despair. Although I had been hu- 
 miliated and driven from the house of the lady who 
 Iiad taken charge of me, I could have borne it all... 
 there was another motive. Oh ! How you will des- 
 pise me when I tell you the truth." — " I shall never 
 despise you, Marie ; but tell me all." 
 
 " Twice you have saved me, Pierre... Once when 
 I fell into a trap, and was about to become the vic- 
 tim of my trustfulness... but, alas!...)'ou were not 
 always on the spot. ..and then. ..the next time there 
 was no trap set for me... it was chance... my own 
 weakness... Pierre, I cannot return to the village... 
 for I shall soon be a mother, and the man who is the 
 cause of my ruin will never marry me." — "A 
 mother? " Pierre said, growing pale and seemingly 
 overwhelmed at what she had told him, whilst the 
 girl buried her face in her hands and wept. But 
 soon his looks brightened, his eyes flashed, and he 
 said : — " Who is the coward who has deprived you 
 of your honour ?... Give me his name, Marie. ..He 
 shall marry you, or I will have his life..." 
 
 u I shall not tell you his name, Pierre, for I cannot 
 be his wife. ..and I do not wish you to shed his blood 
 ...No, I must not be avenged... for this time there 
 was no snare and no seduction... I thought he loved 
 me. ..because I loved him, and I sought him, though 
 he never thought of me. Do not ask me for his name, 
 Pierre, for I tell you again that I shall not give it 
 vou." — "You loved him," Pierre said with a sigh, 
 "' and he did not love you. ..whilst I..." — " You see 
 Pierre, that I was quite right in wishing to die. ..and 
 I can never return to the village... "7— " Dear Marie." 
 
2o3 A DISCOVERY.— DESPAIR.— CONSOLATION. 
 
 be replied, after a pause for reflection, " you said 
 that for the future I should dispose of your lot in 
 life. ..Do you still wish me to do so ? " — " Indeed I 
 do." — " Very well, then, Marie ; you can end all your 
 troubles by becoming my wife... I will be the father 
 of your child, and I swear that I will never mention 
 your fault to you." — " You cannot mean it." — " Lis- 
 ten to me. My wish is to consecrate my whole life 
 to you, though I also felt inclined to give way to des- 
 pair when you rejected my love. Shall my courage 
 be of no avail, and will you still reject me when I 
 can restore you to honour and peace... when I have 
 prevented you from committing a crime?" — And 
 Marie, overcome by his noble devotion and true, un- 
 selfish love, felt that happiness might yet be in 
 store for her, and so she gave Pierre her hand 
 and said: — "Dispose of me as you like ...My life 
 belongs to you." 
 
 Pierre covered her hands with kisses, for his love 
 for her had always been so respectful that even at 
 that moment he would not yield to the desire he felt 
 to take her into his arms. Having renewed his vows, 
 and recived a promise from her that she would not 
 mention the past to him again, he returned to bar- 
 racks, to obtain a week's furlough, so as to be able 
 to take Marie back to Vethenil. — His colonel gladly 
 gave him the required permission, and one morning, 
 very shortly after his last interview with Marie, 
 Pierre came into Madame Dumont's apartments- 
 with a small bundle on his back, and a stick in his. 
 
 hand. 
 
 " I have got three weeks' furlough," he cried. "Ah! 
 Marie, we will go back to the village immediately 
 and get married. I have the colonel's permission 
 for that also, for I told him I was going to marry the 
 girl whose life I had saved, and I have taken twa 
 places in the diligence for us. Come, Marie ; do not 
 let us lose any time. Good-bye, Mother Dumont ; 
 now you need only wish me joy." — " Good-bye, m\r 
 children," the old woman said, "and sometimes think 
 of her who will pray for you." 
 
 Pierre and Marie kissed her, and the young soldier 
 carried Marie off, for he was eager to take her back 
 
 N 
 
WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 2«>> 
 
 to the village, and, above all, to make her leave 
 Paris, which had proved such a baneful place to 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII, 
 
 WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 
 
 GASPARD had returned to Vethenil alone, as Marie 
 had not kept her appointment with him, and accord- 
 ing to his usual custom, he had gone into the inn, 
 where Professor Martineau was refreshing himself 
 with the inn-keeper, 
 
 "Well! What news ? " Gobinard cried, as soon 
 as he saw him. — " Quid novi? " Monsieur Mar- 
 tineau said, setting his glass down on the table. 
 " Have you just come from Paris, and have you seen 
 the Duchess de Valousky ? " — " Yes, I have seen 
 everybody... All the lot ! " Gaspard said, pouring 
 himself out a glass of wine, " and I hoped to bring 
 somebody back with me, but it seems that the girl 
 does not wish to leave Paris... She has made up her 
 mind to that." — " Of whom are you speaking, Gas- 
 pard ?-" — "Why, of Marie, naturally; I thought I 
 should bring her back to the village with me ; be- 
 cause she has discovered that she is not a duchess, 
 all her fine friends and acquaintances have quickly 
 turned their backs on her."^-" She is not a duchess ?" 
 the inn-keeper exclaimed. "So it is true ...that 
 this lady only left a worthless manuscript with my 
 late wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. How often must I repeat that Marie 
 never was the daughter of a grand lady... that all 
 these people were mistaken... and that I let them 
 imagine that they were right, because I was glad to 
 have a joke with them, and to have my revenge on 
 
210 WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 
 
 that flirt Marie, because she had refused Pierre.., 
 There, do you understand it now ? " 
 
 "j cannot get over it!" Gobinard said. — " Mon- 
 sieur Gaspard," the professor remarked, "you are a 
 sharp fellow!... I should never have thought you 
 capable of such a trick ! " — " I suppose you did not 
 think I was as clever as yourself ; but I must confess that 
 I did not mean to cause the girl so much trouble... I 
 intended to bring her back to the village, and there 
 I should have said to Pierre : — ' Marie is back again, 
 and waiting until you have left the army/ but as I 
 came back without her, I did not venture to tell 
 Pierre all that had happened." — " Marie is not a 
 duchess after all," Gobinard went on ; " that is all 
 right; but then, whose daughter is she?. ..that still 
 remains a mystery... Do you know it, Gaspard, you, 
 who know everything ? " 
 
 " Perhaps... it is possible... but as the girl is not 
 here... I mean to keep it to myself... However, I shall 
 go to Paris again to-morrow, and look for Marie... I 
 must find her, or else I can never look poor Pierre in 
 the face again." 
 
 Gaspard drank, and did not say a word, for, con- 
 trary to his usual custom, he was thoughtful and low- 
 spirited. Gobinard gave way to a hundred surmises 
 about Marie's birth, and Professor Martineau re- 
 turned home, feeling highly delighted that he had 
 not married the girl. Some weeks passed, and Gas- 
 pard, who still hoped to see Marie return, began to 
 lose heart, so he made up his mind to return to Paris, 
 to find out what she was doing. 
 
 Gaspard always started towards evening. He 
 went into the inn and had a glass with Master Go- 
 binard and the professor, and, after shaking hands 
 with them, he opened the door, ready to start... when 
 in the distance he saw two people coming from the 
 direction of Paris. He stopped... his looks expressed 
 ■astonishment and intense pleasure ; he rubbed his 
 eyes, as he thought he did not see plain, but he was 
 mistaken ; it was really Pierre and Marie, who were 
 Avalking arm and arm, talking and looking tenderly 
 at each other. Gaspard uttered a cry, threw his 
 stick aside, went back into the inn and cried:— 
 
WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 211 
 
 *' Here they are ! Here they are ! Both of them, 
 arm in arm'!... Ah! how glad I am !: M 
 
 He went back into the road, and ran to meet the 
 new-comers, leaving Gobinard and the professor 
 looking at each other, and saying :— " He must be 
 
 mad ! " 
 
 Gaspard met the young soldier and his companion, 
 and before they had time to speak to him, he em- 
 braced them both several times and cried :— " It is 
 you ! It is you ! Ah ! By Jove ! I knew that you 
 would end by coming together. Ha! ha! Here 
 they are... It is Pierre and Marie ! Oh ! what a 
 fine time we will have ! "—And he took an arm of 
 <±ach of them and dragged them to the inn, shouting 
 tor joy all the way. 
 
 " Marie. ..my poor little Marie!" the inn-keeper 
 said, running to kiss the girl. " My dear child, they 
 have made you believe many things which have no 
 foundation in fact ! "— " There is no question of that 
 now," Gaspard said. Marie has come back with us. 
 She knows quite well that this is her right place, and 
 not Paiis. But how did you manage to leave the 
 barracks, Pierre? "— " I have got three weeks' tor- 
 lough, and permission to marry Marie into the bar- 
 gam,. Marie has consented to become my wife!... 
 All ! Monsieur Gobinard, you, who have tilled a 
 father's place towards her... you will not refuse me 
 lver hand?" — "I refuse you, my lad ?... No, certain- 
 ly not... but... we do not know who Marie's parents 
 Avere..." — "I know them, Gaspard said," and as 
 Marie is to be married, I think this is the right mo- 
 ment to reveal the secret... Daddy Gobinard, it will 
 upset you a little, bur you are a good man, and I do 
 not think you will love the girl less on that account." 
 — "Good heavens! What is it?... He makes me 
 tremble... Come, explain yourself." — "Do you wish 
 Monsieur Martineau to hear what I am going to 
 tell you ? " — " Yes... he is my friend, and I have no 
 secrets from him..." 
 
 The professor bowed and said : — " I will try and 
 justify your confidence in me." 
 
 Gaspard went and shut the inn door, so as to 
 make sure that no stranger should hear him, and 
 
212 WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 
 
 then, turning to the inn-keeper, he said to him : — 
 *-■ You remember Guillaume, the veterinary surgeon 
 ...he was a bad lot, a libertine... who was in love 
 with your wife, and furious because she pre- 
 ferred you to him?" — "Yes, yes; 1 remember 
 him, perfectly," Gobinard replied. — " You had to 
 leave your inn, and go to Guadeloupe, where you had 
 inherited some property ? " — " Yes, that is about 
 eighteen years and a half ago." — " Exactly, your 
 wife remained here, and you went away quite easy 
 in your mind, for she was a prudent and virtuous 
 woman..." — " Most certainly... and if anyone were 
 to say the contrary..." — " Be quiet !...It is not that 
 ...your wife was always virtuous... and yet one night 
 ...that scoundrel Guillaume, who had concealed him- 
 self in the inn... managed to get into her room... 
 and in spite of her resistance... confound it. ..she was 
 the weaker..." 
 
 " Gaspard, you are lying !...It is impossible ! " the 
 inn-keeper cried, who was much upset at this reve- 
 lation.—" And then, my wife would never have en- 
 trusted you with such a secret." — " Nor did she... it 
 was Guillaume who told me, some years afterwards 
 ...One night when he was drunk, he told me every- 
 thing/' — " Guillaume told you a lie ! " — " That may 
 be possible, also... But now read this letter which 
 your wife entrusted to me to give to you, when you 
 shold be thinking of letting Marie marry ... You will 
 see what it is about... Well, Daddy Martineau, you 
 see I was quite right when I told you that if I had 
 been able to read, I should not have known so 
 
 much." 
 
 The inn-keeper took the letter, which was in his 
 wife's hand-w r riting, opened it, and read as follows : — 
 " Marie is my daughter; pardon me, for 1 was not 
 guilty, and for love of me, pray always love this 
 child"." 
 
 Poor Gobinard could no longer doubt that it was 
 the truth ; for some moments he was thunderstruck, 
 but soon he put out his arms to Marie, and ex- 
 claimed : — " Come, my child, come, I will be your 
 father. ..and from this moment I adopt you, and 1 
 will leave you everything I possess." — " Capital I 
 
WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 213 
 
 ...That is what I call talking sense !" Gaspard cried. 
 " Daddy Gobinard, you are an excellent man... and I 
 like you better and better... Shake hands... Why, he 
 is crying!... Well, never mind, this will go no fur- 
 ther, it must not go beyond these walls... You un- 
 derstand, Monsieur Martineau !...No jokes, or I shall 
 get angry." *" 
 
 " That' caution is quite unnecessary, Gaspard...I 
 like my friend Gobinard too much, ever to wish 
 to quarrel with him ..." — "And especially with 
 his kitchen ! " Gaspard added in alow voice. 
 
 It mattered very little to Pierre what Marie's 
 birth was ; all he cared for was, that she might not 
 become a fine lady again. But the landlord had 
 adopted her, and there was nothing to prevent the 
 young soldier from marrying the girl whom he had 
 loved so long. As for Marie, cured of her illusions 
 which had brought her no happiness, she asked for 
 nothing better than to live in her native village, and 
 to limit her desires to making the man who had been 
 generous enough to save her honour, happy. 
 
 Pierre hurried on the wedding, for his furlough 
 was only for three weeks, but the week after, he be- 
 came Marie's husband. The wedding was a very 
 quiet one, and the professor and Gaspard were the 
 only guests invited, but the purest pleasures are not 
 usually the noisiest. 
 
 At last, however, Pierre was obliged to leave his 
 wife and rejoin his regiment ; but a few months 
 later, his uncle, the miller, died and lett him all his 
 property, so Pierre could pay a substitute and re- 
 turn to live with his wife, for glory had few charms 
 for him, and his military career was limited to the 
 rank of Tommy Atkins. 
 
 Marie was pregnant, and she blushed when every- 
 body congratulated her on it. But five months af- 
 ter her marriage, she gave birth to a dead child. 
 Some people chattered about premature confine- 
 m ent, but as Pierre got all the honour of it, nobody 
 suspected the truth. 
 
 Madame de Stainville sold her country house, and 
 married Daulay, and d'Aubigny married Madame 
 Darmentiere. He heard that Marie had returned to 
 
214 WHO SHE REALLY WAS. 
 
 V^thenil, and married there, and he carefully avoided 
 ever going to that village, where his presence might 
 have caused her to blush. 
 
 Monsieur Bellepeche continued to dress himself 
 with the greatest care, and to tighten the buckle of 
 his trousers, but to no purpose ; he made no con- 
 quests, so he had to make up his mind to die an old 
 bachelor, and to keep Madame Grosbec, with whom, 
 in the end, he used to go to market. 
 
 Professor Martineau finished his career in the 
 hamlet to which he had retired, but he consoled 
 himself for the indifference of his contempories, by 
 remembering that he was living in the place which 
 had been made renowned by Boileau. 
 
 As for Gaspard, he continued to drink, to swear, 
 and to be devoted to Pierre, who was the happiest 
 man in the neighbourhood, for Marie had several 
 children, for whom she need not blush when she 
 presented her husband with them, and she ended 
 by loving him dearly ; and occasionally, when her 
 memory recalled the past to her, she was much 
 surprised that she could ever have loved anyone 
 but him. 
 
 It is often thus in love : — The Past is always in 
 the wrong; the Present alone in the right. 
 
 F1NJS. 
 
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 From the Pendleton King Library 
 Through Rush N. King, '04 
 
 843 
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 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
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 THE MAN 
 
 . WITH THE 
 
 THREE PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
THE MAN 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 THREE PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 LONDON: 
 MATHIESON & CO. 
 
THE MAN 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 THREE PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
 It was the month of Ventose, in the second year of the French 
 Kepublie, which many persons will understand better by the 
 month of March, 1794. . 
 
 The weather was dark, rainy, and dull ; a wooden clock m a 
 small room on the ground floor looking into the court-yard of a 
 house in the Eue Poissonnier had just struck four, and scarcely 
 could any object be perceived in the room at a few paces distant. 
 
 Near a chimney, in which was burning a widow's fire, a woman 
 of about fifty was seated and employed in mending a man's jacket. 
 The dress of the woman was plain and almost worn out, but was 
 set off a little by its extreme cleanness. It was a dark-coloured 
 muslin undress, a black and red striped apron ; with, for head- 
 dress, the high cap with falling lappets worn by almost all the 
 women at the epoch of the Eepublic. 
 
 The pale and wasted figure of the woman seemed to announce 
 her having just recovered from a serious illness ; her melancholy 
 looks also denoted that in her the pains of the heart were joined to 
 those of the body. She, however, every now and then endeavoured to 
 smile ; and her features recovered some serenity when she fixed her 
 looks upon a young man seated on the other side of the chimney. 
 
 He was in appearance one-and-twenty, tall, thin, and well 
 built ; but his whole person made him appear older than he was ; 
 the deep brown of his complexion, his very black hair and eyes, 
 gave at first sight something stern, even harsh, to his physiognomy, 
 but on considering his profile, formed " a-1'antique," and all his 
 features, the masculine expression of which did not exclude elegance, 
 one could not deny that the young man had in him some resemblance 
 to the portraits given us of the Eoman and Athenian heroes. 
 
 The handsome youth was reading a book ; his dress consisted of 
 Wide grey cloth trousers, a double-breasted waistcoat ; he wore 
 
 A 
 
2 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 blue stockings and strong shoes ; in short, he only wanted, to com- 
 plete his costume, the jacket, or rather the carmagnole, the female 
 opposite to him was patching. 
 
 The young man put the book on the mantelpiece — looked at the 
 good dame, and said to her, — 
 
 " You can't see any longer, my mother ; you are ruining your 
 eyes." 
 
 " Oh, I can still see well enough, my dear Maximus ; I want to 
 finish mending your jacket at once, for you have no other, and you 
 can't be very warm in your shirt-sleeves." 
 
 " Give yourself time ; I am not cold here. It's true I should 
 wish to go out this evening : but I have still another carmagnole, 
 though I believe it is still worse than this one." 
 
 "How, Maximus, you want to go out this evening. I was 
 hoping you would stay to keep me company." 
 
 "I can't, my mother ; I have business at the printing office, and 
 citizen Hebert would scold me to-morrow, if I didn't go. He relies 
 entirely upon me for correcting the proofs of his journal." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, his journal Le Pere Duchesne," replied the young man's 
 mother, shrugging up her shoulders ; "that truly is a fine journal, 
 which only preaches up murder, blood, and carnage ! " 
 
 "I beg you, mother, to be silent. Be silent— if you were to be 
 overheard you would be lost ! " 
 
 On saying these words the young man rose up, then, looking 
 round him, gently half-opened one of the casements that looked 
 into the court, to assure himself there was no one walking in it, for 
 it would have been easy to hear from the court what was saying in 
 the room on the ground floor. But the weather was too bad ; it 
 rained too hard to tempt any one to remain outside. Maximus, re- 
 assured, shut the window, and returned to seat himself opposite his 
 mother, to whom he said in a milder tone, — 
 
 " Besides, mother, you well know you understand nothing about 
 politics, and you had promised me to busy yourself no more about 
 those things ! " 
 
 "No, doubtless, my friend, I have no pretension to understand 
 anything concerning state affairs ; but there are things where to 
 form a right judgment, it requires us to consult only one's heart 
 and one's conscience. In the times we live in, how would you have 
 one not to meddle with politics, when everybody is talking politics 
 — when each around us is settling a government after his fashion — 
 when every minute brings the news of an arrest, or of a sentence 
 of death — when we tremble for our lives and for all those we love 
 — when we dare not go out of doors for fear of meeting some cart 
 dripping with blood, or some ferocious men carrying the heads of 
 their victims on the tops of pikes?" 
 
 " Mother, mother, you exaggerate ! " 
 
 "Alas, no, my friend ! I only speak the truth — what we have 
 all seen. Oh, 1 well know that you are a Kepublican, Maximus ; 
 I well know you would give your blood for your country, to see 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 3 
 
 France free, triumphant, independent ! I well know you have 
 wept for joy in '89 — and yet you were then but sixteen, but it's all 
 one, you wept with joy on learning the fine answer of Mirabeau 
 when they wanted to dissolve the assembly of the ' Etats Generaux/ 
 Ah ! if all the Republicans resembled you, none but the guilty would 
 tremble, and terrorism would not reign throughout Paris and the 
 whole of France. You know it well ; for you have latterly been so 
 downhearted and discontented, because you see that things are not 
 going on so well as you and many others had hoped for. " 
 
 " Without doubt, my mother, I have been grieved to see the 
 excesses people have given way to ; ideas of vengeance, sordid cal- 
 culations, replace the course of justice. Ferocious or foolish men 
 seize possession of power. But. what would you have ? A revolu- 
 tion was never accomplished without abuses being committed ! 
 Such was the case in all times." 
 
 "You ought to take warning and correct yourselves by the 
 example of others. The English have blushed at putting their 
 king to death, and you have made yours perish as if you had it at 
 heart to take the half of their shame upon yourselves." 
 
 "Hush, hush ! I beg of you to hold your tongue, and give me 
 my carmagnole that I may go and correct the proofs of the Pere 
 Duchesne. Ah, my mother, had it not been for remaining with 
 you, I feel that I should have had more pleasure in going to combat 
 the foreigners who are threatening our frontiers than in being 
 reader in a printing office ; all the men of my age have set out for 
 the requisition, and I — I have remained, through the protection of 
 Citizen Hebert. Ah, I am sometimes ashamed of it !" 
 
 " What are you saying ? You are ashamed of staying by your 
 mother to support her by your labour : for without you I should 
 eat nothing but bread, and not that every day. Your father, the 
 good Bertholin, had a place in the administration of the Marine 
 ihat was sufficient to maintain ^is and bring you up; for, thanks 
 to God ! you have received a good education. But your father 
 died six years ago, and the pension I was paid as his widow has 
 been suppressed since the revolution. But you are learned, you 
 know Greek, Latin, and history, and you have easily found a place 
 in the printing office, where you are beloved, respected even, for 
 they are acquainted with the purity of your principles ; they know 
 you to be a Republican, but not a terrorist. Oh ! as for that, there 
 is no fault to be found with your conduct ; and you would have 
 left me, given up your place, abandoned your mother, to go to the 
 wars and be killed ? Ah, Maximus, this is very bad ; and I don't 
 comprehend how anyone can be ashamed of serving as the support, 
 the protector of his mother." 
 
 On finishing these words, Madame Bertholin turned away her 
 head to hide a few tears that fell from her eyes ; but Maximus 
 started up and ran to embrace his mother, saying to her, — 
 
 " Well, I was wrong. Pardon ; pardon me. Forget that — " 
 
 "You will never again talk of leaving me— of going for a soldier V* 
 
4 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " No, no ; I will remain with you. But give me my carmagnole, 
 that I may go to the printing office." 
 
 Maximus had just put on his jacket, and was preparing to go 
 out, when a rat-tat-tat was heard at the door, and a female voice 
 called out, — 
 
 " Citoyenne Bertholin, it is I, Euphrasia Picotin, Horatius." 
 
 V The Citoyenne Picotin makes this quite her home, then," said 
 Maximus, slightly shaking his head ; " it seems to me that she 
 comes every day." 
 
 " She is fond of talking ; it appears she has nothing to do at 
 home ; and then she — " 
 
 Mamma Bertholin did not finish her observation ; but looked 
 with a smile at her son, who went to open the door ; and a woman 
 about nineteen, pretty, fat, ruddy, with a very lively eye and 
 knowing look, immediately entered the chamber. Her dress was 
 as elegant as the then existing fashion would allow ; but it was 
 consequently in bad taste — an exaggeration of all that the women 
 wore for the double purpose of making themselves look both as 
 patriots and as muscadines, at one and the same time. Thus, with 
 a bonnet-a-barb, she had large bows of -^ace ; then an enormous 
 cockade, placed, coquettishly enough, on one side ; the petticoat 
 was short, and showed a well-turned leg and a small foot ; lastly, 
 the upper part of her robe, cut down very deep both before and 
 behind, allowed you to admire a plump back and shoulders, and to 
 plunge your eyes between the alabaster globes that did not fear 
 displaying themselves in the open day. 
 
 The young woman tripped lightly into the room, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Good day, Citoyenne — glad to see you better. Good day, 
 Citizen Maximus ; 'tis long since I had the pleasure of seeing you." 
 
 These words were accompanied by a very gracious smile ad- 
 dressed to the young man, who, seeming not to notice it, contented 
 himself with replying, — 
 
 " But I believe you saw me the day before yesterday, Citoyenne." 
 
 " Before yesterday, you believe. It was Nonidi or Octidi — no, 
 I believe it was Decadi that I came, Citoyenne f" 
 
 " I have quite forgotten. Besides, I am perfectly puzzled by 
 all those names. I never know what day it is." 
 
 "Well then, Citoyenne, you are like my husband -poor Picotin. 
 Horatius is bothered with everything. Fortunately, he has me 
 with him to set him right. I have a head for us both ; that's lucky 
 Ah, Picotin wasn't born for trade. I am constantly puzzling my- 
 self in trying to discover why he was born." 
 
 " You will make my respects to him," said Maximus, putting on 
 his hat. 
 
 " What, Citizen Maximus, yor are going away," said the young 
 woman in a tone of vexation. "But is it I who make you run 
 away so soon ? My husband wanted to see you. He has something 
 to ask you concerning his sign, he wishes to change, he wants to 
 consult you, for he knows you never give any but good advice. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. § 
 
 And then I met your friend Eoger, he sets off to-morrow for the 
 army, and wants to bid you adieu, before he goes." 
 
 " I shall make haste then that I may return early. Mother, if 
 Eoger comes, tell him to wait. I should be very sorry for him to 
 go away, without my embracing him. Adieu, Citoyenne." 
 
 So saying, Maximus took a round hat, to which was fastened 
 the national cockade, and left the room, smiling another adieu to 
 his mother. 
 
 While the good Dame Bertholin opened the window of the next 
 room, which overlooked the street, that she might see her son as 
 he went away, Madame Picotin went to see how she looked, at a 
 little glass placed over the chimney-piece ; and said, rumpling her 
 bonnet all" the time, — 
 
 " Do you know, Citoyenne Bertholin, that your son is a very 
 fine youth— a handsome man, well built. 'Tis a pity he always 
 looks so grave, so stern. He never laughs. For a young man it is 
 astonishing." 
 
 "We don't live in laughing times," replied the mother, returning 
 to her seat. 
 
 "Ah, well, if we were always grieving, we should grow lean- 
 lose all our freshness. I set great store by my colour ; so much 
 the more, as I hope to make my appearance as the Goddess of 
 Liberty at the first national festival in honour of the Supreme Being. 
 Picotin— Augustus — is to make the demand for me at our section." 
 " How, you wish to act Liberty ?" said Madame Bertholin, look- 
 ing at the young woman with an air of surprise. 
 
 " Why not ? I am well enough made for that. I sha'n't be so 
 -ragged a Liberty. 5 ' 
 
 " And are you not frightened at the costume you must wear ? " 
 " The costume, on the contrary, is that which tempts me. It's 
 a Grecian costume, a light tunic, then a robe thrown over it. Oh ! 
 I know well that it shows the shape ; but must I strip myself 
 naked ? If it were for the good of the nation, I would do it. Oh ! 
 I am a real sans-culotte." 
 
 "I perceive it ! and your husband ? Does he approve of your 
 wishing to represent Liberty ? " 
 
 " I should like to see him not approve of it. Is it not an honour ? 
 And, besides, has that poor Picotin any other will than mine ? he 
 will be enchanted at seeing his wife wear the Phrygian cap and 
 drawn in a car ! Oh ! I wish I were already in it." 
 
 And the young wife began to skip round the chamber singing, 
 
 " Ah, ca ira, 9a ira, ca ira, 
 On m'applaudira, on me claquera 1 " 
 
 While Madame Picotin was dancing, the voice of the public crier 
 was heard in the street, announcing the fresh sentences of death 
 pronounced the preceding evening by the revolutionary tribunal 
 and which had been carried into execution in the day. 
 
6 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Madame Bertholin had returned to the window overlooking the 
 street, anxiously listening, when soon hearing the name of Francois 
 Dremont pronounced, she let herself fall in a chair, murmuring, — 
 
 " Frangois Dremont ! poor man ! and him also. Oh ! my God ! 
 at seventy-two, what can they have found him guilty of?" 
 
 Euphrasia Picotin had remained upon one leg ; she looked at 
 Maximus' mother, and perceiving she was weeping, ran to her, and 
 said affectionately, — 
 
 " Is this some one of your acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Yes, an old man, so worthy a man ; he had been the friend, 
 the protector of my husband, and they have condemned him." 
 
 " Oh ! certainly they do these things, but what would you have ? 
 We must never seem to pity the condemned, for then we ourselves 
 would pass for suspected, and from suspected to the guillotine — 
 it's not very far, and that's why Picotin affects so much zeal for 
 the Kepublic, that he puts on a red cap, that he wears a carmagnole, 
 that he has added Horatius to his name, that he cries out against 
 the aristocrats — he is so timorous, poor man." 
 
 " Ah, well and good ! I'm glad to hear it," said Mother Bertholin, 
 pressing the young wife's hand. "Own to me this, you do all that 
 through fear, and at least I shall not detest you." 
 
 At this moment a confused noise was heard in the street, of 
 cries, singing, vociferations. The voices soon came nearer, and about 
 a hundred persons ran up the street, howling, shouting exclama- 
 tions of joy that resembled the frantic screams of madmen. 
 
 The men who were making this tumult were for the greater 
 part ragged, their shirts and their carmagnoles open in front, with 
 red caps, and armed, some with pikes, the others with sabres, 
 muskets, or pistols ; but amongst them were some women, with 
 haggard eye, flushed and livid complexions ; these women, whose 
 dishevelled hair hung in disorder on their naked shoulders, which 
 gave them the aspect of furies, also brandished naked sabres, and 
 cried out still louder than the men, — 
 
 " A-la-Lanterne (to the lamp-post) with the aristocrat! A-la- 
 Lanterne ! " 
 
 Then in the midst of this frightful group was a little old man 
 in blue, his hair powdered, tied with a cadogan ; he was pale, 
 trembling, and endeavouring to make those who arrested him 
 understand that he was not an aristocrat, although he wore powder 
 and had a velvet collar to his coat, and that they ought not to hang 
 a man because he was suspected of being suspected. 
 
 While this mob was passing, the shopkeepers hastened behind 
 their counters, and the greater part of the open windows were 
 shut ; but Euphrasia Picotin remained at the casement, and while 
 the mother of Maximus fled into the first room, not to hear the 
 shouts that made her ill, the young wife leaned out of the window, 
 vehemently clapping her hands and crying out, — 
 
 " Yes, down with the aristocrats. Everybody A-la-Lanterne." 
 
 This exclamation, that might have been taken ill, enchanted, on 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 7 
 
 the contrary, one of the pikemen, and as the casement filled by 
 Euphrasia was only a foot above the level of the street, the sans- 
 culotte ran up and said to her, — 
 
 "Thou art a good b . Yes, that's right, you comprehend 
 
 the public good. Wilt thou embrace me ? " 
 
 " With pleasure, Citizen ! " replied Euphrasia, leaning out of the 
 window, while the sans-culotte on his side raised himself upon his 
 tip-toes that he might reach the fresh and rosy cheeks that were 
 presented to him, when, a loud kiss and a shake of the hand hav- 
 ing been given, the patriot ran to rejoin his companions, and the 
 Citoyenne Picotin shut the window, and went, wiping her cheeks, 
 to reseat herself by Madame Bertholin, with a look that announced 
 she was not very well pleased with the embrace she had just 
 received. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DUTCH FAMILY. 
 
 Half-an-hour had elapsed since the event of the casement ; 
 Madame Bertholin had resumed her work ; Euphrasia was no longer 
 dancing, but she every now and then wiped her cheek, muttering, — 
 " Picotin don't come back from the section. I had appointed to 
 meet him here ; your son is in no great hurry to return ; and that 
 Roger, who was to come to bid him farewell. Poor Roger, he says 
 he is quite satisfied to go. By'r lady, he was greatly enamoured 
 of me, and when I married Picotin two years ago, he quite took it 
 to heart, though he feigned such carelessness about it, I, for my 
 part, loved Roger well enough ; he certainly pleased me more than 
 Anarcharsis Picotin. In the first place, he is a better figure ; not 
 that my husband is ugly, but he has an air of stupidity about him, 
 and years only make him look worse ; but my aunt wanted me to 
 be Picotin's wife ; she said to me, he has got something, lie is a 
 man established in the world, while your Roger has nothing. I 
 obeyed my aunt ; besides, I said to myself, when I shall be married, 
 Roger will come and see us ; I'll often invite him to dinner. But 
 the gentleman bore me a grudge ; he was sulky for eighteen months, 
 and never came near us till six months ago ; and now he is setting 
 off for the army. It's very vexing ; I shall miss him, and my 
 husband as well, for he was very fond of Roger, who played at 
 dominoes with him every evening." 
 
 Madame Bertholin paid very little attention to her visitor's 
 discourse ; she seemed entirely plunged in thought ; but, every 
 now and then, she gave a deep sigh, murmured the name of Francois 
 Dremont, then wiped away the tears that fell from her eyes. 
 
 All at once the roll of a carriage was heard in the street ; it 
 
S The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 stopped before the house, and the coachman was heard calling to 
 the porter to open the gates of the coach entrance. 
 
 "It's the carriage of Mon of Citizen Derbrouck," said Madame 
 
 Bertholin ; " he is doubtless returning from Passy with his wife." 
 
 "What then is Citizen Derbrouck ? " asked Euphrasia, after going 
 to look at the pretty private carriage drawn up before the door. 
 
 " He's a Dutch banker settled in .France these some years ; ah, 
 he's a truly brave man, and as good, as obliging, as he is respectable." 
 
 " How does he dare to keep a carriage in a time when every 
 one is afraid of seeming rich, lest they be taken for aristocrats ? " 
 
 "It seems that Mons that the Citizen Derbrouck is not 
 
 afraid. He is an advocate of liberal ideas, who loves the people, 
 and detests oppression; he is intimate with several members of 
 the committee of public safety ; he is visited by Citizen Hebert, 
 General Eowsin, and many other influential personages of the epoch. 
 I own that it surprises me ! M. Derbrouck seems so mild, so ami- 
 able. How can he choose his society amongst men whose opinions 
 are so exalted ! But, as my son says, I understand nothing of 
 politics." 
 ' " How old is this banker ? " 
 
 " Thirty and odd ; he is a superb man, and of so remarkably 
 handsome a figure, that almost all the women and many men in the 
 quarter have named him the handsome Dutchman." 
 
 " Ah ! I am curious to see him. Is he married ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and his wife is young, pretty, and benevolent ; never 
 has she rejected the prayer of an unfortunate ; and now that bread 
 is so dear and scarce, I know more than one who, but for her, 
 would have wanted it ; but what is frightful and odious is, that 
 those they oblige are the first to speak ill of this brave M. 
 Derbrouck. But I must however except Prosper. Oh ! as for him, 
 he is a good youth, and, despite his frivolity, his habitual giddiness, 
 I am sure he would go — I don't know where he wouldn't go — to 
 be useful to the Derbroucks." 
 
 " What is he then, this Prosper ?" 
 
 "Quite a young man, somewhere about eighteen. Prosper 
 Bressange is the son of a silk mercer ; he early became an orphan ; 
 his father had amassed some money, but young Prosper soon made 
 away with it all ! At sixteen, my gentlemau gave dinners, treated 
 his friends at the first restaurateurs' ; then played the devil, broke 
 the windows of the houses, insulted the passengers, and sometimes 
 wasn't afraid to go to the committee of the section to laugh and 
 make game aloud at the orators when any blunder escaped them, 
 which often happens there to them." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, yes, Prosper Bressange — I recollect him. I have 
 seen him here ; he is a friend of your son ; he has even very fine 
 eyes, — a somewhat rakish look, but 1 like that in a man — one at 
 least expects something from him. What, he is only eighteen ! he 
 appears twenty-four ; he is quite a man. And what does he do 
 now?" 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. g 
 
 " After wasting what his father left him, he has been very for- 
 tunate in obtaining work at the printing office where Maximus is ; 
 but, however, he don't work often ; as soon as he earns an assignat, 
 he runs to' spend it, and then follow adventures, disputes, quarrels, 
 people beat, windows broken ; and, but for M. Derbrouck, who has 
 often released him by paying the expenses, Prosper would have been 
 in prison a long time ago." 
 
 "How can the Dutch banker be acquainted with him ?" 
 
 Prosper lives in the house in one of the attics ; and, when 
 Madame Derbrouck was put to bed, ten months ago, didn't Prosper 
 take it into his head to have fireworks in the court-yard ! He had 
 a battle that day with Goulard the porter, who pretended that a 
 rocket struck him on the face ; I don't know if it's true, but I own 
 that since that, his look, already bad and deceitful, is still more 
 hideous." 
 
 " Madame Derbrouck has several children ? " 
 
 " No, she has only her little girl ten months old, and whom she 
 suckles herself. Oh, it's quite a little angel ; but while we're talk- 
 ing, it seems the porter doesn't open the gates." 
 
 " No, for the carriage is still in the street." 
 
 " I'll go and open them then. Goulard is perhaps absent ; he don't 
 trouble himself much. Instead of keeping the gate, he goes to hold 
 forth at the section. He must say fine things ! so wicked a man ! " 
 
 On finishing these words, the good dame rose from her seat, 
 opened the room door, and hastened down the steps into the court, 
 where she ran to unbar the gates, when the . carriage drove into 
 
 the yard. 
 
 A man between thirty and forty alighted from it. The mother of 
 Maximus had not flattered in the protrait she had given Euphrasia ; 
 it was difficult to meet with finer features joined to so elegant and 
 a well-proportioned a shape ; an air, at the same time noble, mild 
 nd affable, added still more to the charm spread over the whole 
 person of the Dutch banker. 
 
 M. Derbrouck was dressed in black, and wore powder ; that 
 dress, though plain, was in too good taste for the epoch, and formed 
 a remarkable contrast with all the carmagnoles you met with. 
 
 The Dutchman hastened to give his hand to a female of about 
 twenty-six, who alighted from the carriage, followed by a femme- 
 de-chambre with an infant in her arms. Madame Derbrouck was 
 plainly but tastefully dressed ; you could see she did not desire to 
 be distinguished for her toilette. 
 
 She was a woman more pretty than handsome ; her features were 
 more agreeable than regular ; she was short, fair, and delicate ; you 
 were surprised that she had strength to suckle her infant ; yet 
 scarcely had she touched the ground, when she hastened to take 
 the child into her arms from the femme-de-chambre. 
 
 Euphrasia had placed herself against the window, and, though it 
 was dusk, she was endeavouring to examine the persons who had 
 just alighted ; but her curiosity was soon fully gratified, for instead 
 
10 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 of immediately going up to their apartments on the first floor, M. 
 and Madame Derbrouck entered the room on the ground floor, at 
 the moment when the widow placed a candle she had just lit upon 
 the chimney-piece. 
 
 "Receive my thanks, Citoyenne Bertholin," said the banker on 
 coming in ; " it is you who have had the complaisance to open the 
 gates to us. For it appears the porter is absent." 
 
 " Yes, Citizen ; but, my God, it wasn't worth the trouble of 
 stopping to thank me, and making Madame the Citoyenne come here, 
 where she will perhaps catch cold, and it's dangerous when giving 
 suck." 
 
 " Oh ! there is no danger," replied the lady, smiling ; "lam too 
 warmly clothed to feel the cold. I am very glad to avail myself of 
 this opportunity, Citoyenne, to show you my daughter, my little 
 Pauline. Here, how do you find her ? " 
 
 " Charming, the sweet little heart," said the widow, looking at 
 the infant. 
 
 Euphrasia also went up to it, and uttered a cry of admiration ; 
 she embraced the infant, saying, — 
 
 " Oh, yes, it's an angel. You permit me, Citoyenne ? I am very 
 fond of babies ; this is just such a one as I should like to have. I 
 have never ceased telling my husband so, since the two years we 
 have been conjoined. But bah ! Picotin is so stupid. I might as 
 well sing songs to a dead pig. But it will come at last, perhaps, 
 in time. I'm sure it's not my fault, however." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck smiled at Euphrasia's chattering, who, all 
 the while she was admiring the infant, turned her eyes every 
 moment towards the father. 
 
 " And your son, Citoyenne, does he still work at the printing 
 office?" said the Dutchman, when Madame Picotin had ceased 
 speaking. 
 
 " Yes, Citizen, always ; Maximus is not an idler, he is even gone 
 to his work this evening." 
 
 " Your son is a brave and worthy youth, Citoyenne, he is well 
 informed, he possesses talent and capacity ; if he was willing to put 
 himself forward, I am certain he wouldn't be long in obtaining an 
 honourable employment ; and it would be an advantage to the Re- 
 public. It is men like yonr son who ought to be seen in the tribune, 
 and in the convention ; things would go on the better for it." 
 
 " Citizen, I thank you for Maximus ; but my son is not ambi- 
 tious ; not enough so, perhaps. Finding that things don't go on as 
 he hoped, he has for some time been quite melancholy ; he flies 
 from company, and, his work finished, returns home and reads the 
 Roman and Grecian histories to me ; he inflames and animates his 
 mind, by identifying himself with the great men of antiquity." 
 
 "Well then, that's like my husband," exclaimed Euphrasia; 
 " he is mad to read or speak to me about the Romans ; for my part, 
 I own it don't much amuse me. I should like some funny stories 
 better— La Fontaine's tales, for example; and I say to Picotin, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 1 
 
 read to me ' The Villager in Search of his Calf,' that will be much 
 more useful ; but he replies to me, 'One must know the Eoman 
 history, since we at present bear Eoman surnames. I ought to 
 make myself acquainted with the adventures of my patron Horatius 
 Cock -Cuck'— Ah ! my God, what was it he called the name the 
 other day? Horatius Cuckolus. I even said to him, my friend, 
 that's a singular godfather you have taken ; but one mustn't dis- 
 pute about tastes." 
 
 " That's very just," replied M. Derbrouck, smiling ; then, draw- 
 ing his purse from his pocket, he took out several six-livres pieces, 
 and presented them to Maximus's mother, saying to her, " Citoyenne 
 Bertholin, you have already had the goodness to point out to me 
 the most necessitous pauvres honteux of this quarter ; but during 
 the few days I have remained at Passy, fresh misfortunes will have 
 occurred, they come upon us so quick and unexpected in these times 
 of trouble. The Eepublic wishes for the happiness of the people ; 
 but there are a thousand private sufferings it cannot be acquainted 
 with, or that it has not the faculty of attending to. Here, be kind 
 enough, Citoyenne, again to charge yourself with distributing this 
 on my part to those whose wants are the most urgent." 
 
 " Ah, Citizen Derbrouck, how good you are ! " replied the poor 
 widow, taking the money. "Yes, I shall with pride charge myself 
 with your commission. I shall be happy to fulfil it with zeal and 
 fidelity. Everybody ought to bless you, and yet—" 
 
 The good woman uttered these last words very low ; and 
 Euphrasia, besides, prevented their being noticed, by exclaiming, — 
 
 " Hard cash ; peste, that's becoming scarce. Picotin pretends 
 that the assignats are better — another of my husband's rigmaroles ; 
 he wanted to convert all we had into assignats — jewels, plate, fur- 
 niture—and I believe if I had let him alone, he would have made 
 me sleep upon assignats, but I opposed it ; I said to him, Horatius 
 Cuckold— Cockles— in short, no matter, the name has nothing to 
 do with it ; I said to him, dear husband, it seems to me that good 
 mattresses are articles of the first necessity in a decent house ; 
 your assignats are fine things, but one spends too many of them at 
 once. When I go to buy a sixty -franc pot-au-feu for my dinner, 
 or a pullet at eighty, I perceive they would much rather have a 
 twenty -four sous piece." 
 
 M. Derbrouck and his wife were bidding the widow Bertholin 
 adieu, and preparing to go up to their apartment, when all at once the 
 door was suddenly thrown open, and a fresh personage entered the 
 room. 
 
 It was a man of thirty and odd, whose short bow legs supported 
 a body almost as broad as it was high. The features of this person 
 were repulsively ugly ; for, besides a flat and stunted nose, red hair, 
 and an enormous mouth, there was in his little grey eyes, that he 
 kept constantly rolling about, an expression of ferocity, which by 
 times hid itself beneath a deceitful and Satanic smile. 
 
 That man wore the costume of the people who were pursuing 
 
12 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the little old man suspected of being suspected — short and wide 
 trousers, a carmagnole unbuttoned, a coarse shirt open in front v and 
 showing a naked breast loaded with long red hair ; lastly, on his 
 head an immense otter-skin cap, with a long tail of a fox hanging 
 down behind ; a large cockade in the cap, a pipe in the mouth, and 
 the sleeves of his jacket tucked up to the elbows. Such at that 
 moment appeared Goulard — called Leonidas, porter to the house. 
 
 " Who have permitted themselves to open my gates ?" cried the 
 porter, with stentorian voice, on entering the room, without saluting 
 anyone, or even putting his hand to his cap. 
 
 At the aspect of Goulard, Madame Derbrouck could not restrain 
 a start of dread and disgust ; then she turned her eyes to her hus- 
 band, as if to supplicate him to moderate himself and not to treat 
 that man as he deserved. A look from him re-assured his wife, 
 while the widow Bertholin quite coolly replied, — 
 
 " It's I who have opened the gate ; I was obliged to do it, since 
 you were not there." 
 
 " No, you were not obliged ; my gate is my department. I 
 won't have anybody interfere with it. I stick up for my rights 
 as I do for the rights of man." 
 
 " The devil, Citizen Goulard, but you are very despotic for a Ee- 
 publicau," said M. Derbrouck, trying to smile. 
 
 " In the first place, I am no longer Goulard — I no longer call 
 myself Goulard ; my name is Leonidas. Anyone who wants an 
 answer from me, must call me that." 
 
 " Leonidas — be it so. Well then, if you had been at your post, 
 others would not have been obliged to give themselves the trouble to 
 come and open the gates for me. You doubtless didn't wish me to 
 remain in the street with my carriage 1 " 
 
 " Have people any need of carriages or coaches ? Have not the 
 good patriots legs to walk with, under the Eepublic one and indi- 
 visible?" 
 
 '* I believe that men have had legs to walk with, under all forms 
 of government ; but when we have a long way to come, when we 
 don't like to fatigue ourselves, I don't see why we shouldn't make 
 use of a carriage when we have one. There is yet no law that for- 
 bids it. However, it's foolish of me to allege all these reasons, for 
 I have no account to give you. It is you who ought to apologise 
 for being away from your post." 
 
 The sound of M. Derbrouck's voice showed he was beginning to 
 lose patience, and that he with difficulty restrained his anger. 
 But his wife still looked at him with a supplicating air; and 
 while the widow Bertholin glanced contemptuously at the porter, 
 Euphrasia, pale and trembling, had entirely lost the use of speech. 
 "Apologise for being away from my gate," replied Goulard, 
 shrugging up his shoulders. "Very fine! I should have lots of 
 excuses to make then. Oughtn't I to be at the committee of my 
 section when I have reports to make, or motions to propose of 
 fraternity and equality, of indivisibility? And besides, I don't 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 13 
 
 like carriages, for my part, and don't intend putting myself out of 
 the way for aristocrats." 
 
 " Who has authorised you to call me this ? " exclaimed M. Der- 
 brouck. 
 
 The porter was going to reply, when the widow Bertholin 
 placed herself between him and the banker, and said to Goulard, — 
 
 "In truth, Citizen Leo — Leonidas, I don't comprehend your 
 conduct at all. How's this? You seem to wish to provoke the 
 Citizen Derbrouck ; but you forget then that this brave man has 
 been a benefactor to you and yours. When you were sick, three 
 months ago, who sent you broths and meat ? It was this good lady. 
 Then, when you complained of your clothes not being warm enough, 
 who gave you money to buy more, and to get wood and wine ? It 
 was the Citizen Derbrouck. It was always he who came to your 
 assistance." 
 
 " Well then, what does that prove, if he has given to me ? It 
 shows he has too much, that's all ! And if he has too much, it must 
 be taken away from him." 
 
 The porter said these last words between his teeth, while the 
 widow raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring, — 
 
 " Who would do good, to be thus recompensed for it ! " 
 
 " What I have done is not the question," resumed the banker ; 
 "and I require no thanks for that ; to oblige those who are in want, 
 is a duty we ought not to be vain of. But now, when I remark to 
 you that you are in the wrong for not being there to open the gates, 
 it seems to me, Citizen Goulard, that you ought to answer me 
 civilly." 
 
 " And I — I don't understand having lessons given me, nor my 
 social quality and my rights of man, equal for each at all lessened. 
 Take advice yourself, Citizen Derbrouck, and don't speak so high, 
 and don't give so much trouble, because your pride might be 
 brought down, and sooner than you think for." 
 
 " What's that you say, wretch ? You dare to threaten me, I 
 believe." 
 
 " Enough, enough ; we know what we know ; we are no strangers 
 to the understanding between the aristocrats and the foreigners. 
 The nation shall have its eyes open on the people who keep their 
 carriages." 
 
 "Ah S this is too much. I must chastise this vagabond !" 
 
 So saying, the banker raised his arm over the porter ; but 
 Madame Derbrouck instantly gave a shriek, and rushed to withhold 
 her husband. Mother Bertholin did the same. Euphrasia herself 
 forgot her terror, and threw her two arms around the handsome 
 Dutchman. 
 
 During this time, Goulard, stepping back with one foot, stretch- 
 ing out his arms and opening his hands, placed himself in an attitude 
 of defence. But a person who now ran into the room gave a new 
 turn to the scene. 
 
 The new comer was a tall, genteel, active young man ; he wore 
 
14 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 shabby pantaloons, with a rather elegant shooting- jacket, and a 
 kind of cap on his head, made of paper, placed rakishly over one ear ; 
 his features were pleasant and piquant ; his large blue eyes had a 
 bold, sometimes satirical, but always lively expression; and his high 
 and broad forehead announced a head capable of conceiving and 
 executing gre?vt thoughts. 
 
 On perceiving the attitude of Goulard, who seemed to want to 
 defy M. Derbrouck, Prosper Bressange, for he it was who had just 
 come in, placed himself before the porter, and tightly seizing his 
 two arms, spun him several times round in the room, saying, — 
 
 " What's all this ? Leonidas wants to practise gymnastics ; he 
 wants to have his fine shape admired, his turnspit legs. Well then, 
 let's see ; let us turn round, dance, show ourselves off before the 
 company ; let them see how genteel we are." 
 
 And the young man continued twirling round the porter, who 
 struggled and tried to disengage himself, exclaiming, almost mad 
 with passion, — 
 
 " Will you let me go, little blackguard ? It's no question either 
 of dancing or joking ; do you understand ; and a snotty-nose boy 
 has no business to come and meddle with things that concern the 
 safety of the Republic. 
 
 " A snotty -nose boy ! " replied Prosper, still pinioning the porter 
 by the wrists. "Oh, you must feel just now that this boy is your 
 master, and is able to give you a lesson you wouldn't soon forget, 
 if you dare to show the least impertinence to persons you ought 
 to honour, respect, and bless. To call me a boy ! But you forget, 
 Leonidas, that there are no more children in these times ; and then, 
 if you had been to the National Theatre, you would have retained 
 these lines, — 
 
 In souls by nature brave — 
 Valour waits not the number of their years. 
 
 It's Voltaire who has said that ; and Voltaire was no fool. Ah ! 
 you rascal, my poor Leonidas, if he had seen you just now in your 
 tine attitude, I am sure he would have engaged you to go on the 
 stage. You would have been superb with a helmet and a tunic. 
 Would be not, Citizen Derbrouck?" 
 
 During this conversation, the banker had time to calm himself, 
 and to listen to the prayers of his. wife. Recovering his habitual 
 air of affability, he clapped Prosper on the shoulder, saying, — 
 
 " Good evening, Prosper ; good evening, my boy, I am glad 
 you came in, you have restored me to myself, and I now feel how 
 ridiculous it was in me to give way to anger. But it is time to go 
 up home. My dear friend, you must be fatigued. Good evening, 
 Citoyenne." 
 
 M. Derbrouck took his wife's arm, making the widow a friendly 
 bow. His wife, enchanted at seeing this termination to a scene 
 that had alarmed her for its consequences, hastened to accompany 
 her husband ; but on going away, she pressed the good dame's hand, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 5 
 
 and gave Prosper a look of gratitude, as she half-whispered to 
 him, — 
 
 " Thank you, my friend, thank you." 
 
 Euphrasia made the handsome Dutchman a gracious reverence, 
 while following him with her eyes to the door; but the porter 
 muttered, with a scowl, — 
 
 " Go, aristocrat, you shall pay me for this." 
 
 " And now," said Prosper, seating himself before the fire, " now, 
 my little Goulard, tell me how it is that good Citizen Derbrouck 
 had offended you just now. Had he been hearing you hold forth 
 at the section, and was he complimenting you on the new ideas you 
 had emitted? Ah, ah, Mamma Bertholin, and you, my pretty 
 Citoyenne, what a pity you were not there when Leonidas was speak- 
 ing ! You would have heard some fine things." 
 
 " You are come from the committee, then % " said Euphrasia, 
 sitting down by Prosper. 
 
 " Yes, I have just come from it. I like to go and lounge there 
 sometimes — one hears such droll motions, as to-day, for example — " 
 
 " He likes that better than working," said Mamma Bertholin, 
 with a dissatisfied look. 
 
 " One must make oneself acquainted with the different orators 
 of the quarter. Figure to yourself, Citoyenne, that Leonidas 
 Goulard, or Goulard Leonidas, who is pacing there before you, look- 
 ing like a tiger cat, has in the first place proposed to transfer the 
 port of Havre to Gros-Caillou, that we might more easily procure 
 oysters at Paris ; next, probably wishing to render his situation 
 more lucrative, he has proposed to force all the tenants of a house 
 to give the fourth of their income to the porter, and the half, in case 
 of there being but two tenants in one house. You see the spark 
 don't forget himself, and that in his love for the country and his 
 zeal for equality, he wants, in the first place, to make the porters 
 richer than everybody ; for his third and last motion he has pre- 
 tended that the burthen of wives being not yet rendered suffi- 
 ciently easy by the law of divorce, a new law must be made permit- 
 ting men to marry for a month, a fortnight, or a week, at wilt I 
 have the regret of announcing to you that the Citizen Leonidas's 
 three propositions have had but little success." 
 
 " Marry for a week," said Euphrasia, smiling, " that would be 
 rather Turkish ; but it wouldn't be very disagreeable, perhaps." 
 
 " For my part," said Prosper, " it seems to me it would be quite 
 as well not to marry at all." 
 
 " You are making game of my motions," said Goulard, continuing 
 to pace along the further end of the room ; " but I say once more, 
 you understand nothing of political affairs. Do you see, they shall 
 no longer lead us along like beasts of burthen at present. At this 
 hour of the day the march of intellect has commenced ; and who 
 dares to cry halt ? Everybody is learned." 
 
 "Write me down, then, what you have just said." 
 
 "There's no need of knowing how to write to have ideas." 
 
16 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " That's true ; but we must have good ones, or else not meddle 
 with things we don't comprehend. You, and those like you, do 
 more harm than good to the Republic, by bawling in public, right 
 or wrong. By making absurd prosposals, you make us look ridi- 
 culous in the eyes of foreign nations." 
 
 " See then, this beardless boy, who is acting the man of learning." 
 
 "Have a care, Goulard, this beardless boy has shown he nips 
 tight." 
 
 "As for that Dutchman, let him beware, he's an aristocrat. 
 Besides, he was the friend of Dumourier — even the intimate friend ; 
 since he has travelled with the general in Belgium — was present at 
 the taking of Gertrudenberg — Dumourier had raised this Dutch- 
 man to the rank of colonel of dragoons in his army. Why make a 
 banker a colonel ? " 
 
 " Because the banker probably lent money to the general," said 
 the widow ; " besides, what does all that prove ? Dumourier, they 
 say, has gone over to the enemy. In the first place, that's not 
 proved. Others say he has only withdrawn into England, because 
 he no longer approved of the turn the Revolution was taking, and 
 wouldn't serve under the party of the Mountain. Moreover, the 
 Citizen Derbrouck has not followed him, but has come back into 
 France, at a time when the slightest fault is sufficient to be punished 
 with death." 
 
 " Ta, ta, ta — we know what we know," resumed Goulard, shak- 
 ing his head ; "and the suppers the banker gives in his house at 
 Passy, the Republic knows them to be meetings of the factious — 
 liberticide suppers." 
 
 " Liberticide ! " exclaimed Prosper. " Oh, the devil, Leonidas, 
 that's a word you ought to be proud of having retained. I am sure 
 you will often put it in your orations." 
 
 "But one must be as wicked as you are, Goulard," said the 
 widow, " to dare to suspect parties in which are found the warmest 
 patriots — the most zealous Republicans." 
 
 "Oh, there are some of 'em who only make pretence; but we 
 don't let that impose upon us, the sovereign people." 
 
 "Bravo, Leonidas! that's a touch of the tribune," exclaimed 
 Prosper, laughing. 
 
 " My God ! " whispered Euphrasia, " will this beast of a porter 
 never go away ? I have not been able to put in a word since he 
 came in ; he is unbearable — and so ugly — so dirty. At least he 
 could certainly button his shirt-front ; we don't want to know that 
 he's as hairy as a bear." 
 
 "It's not I who will detain him," replied Prosper; "and even, 
 if you wished it, I would turn him out." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," murmured the oid dame ; " he's so wicked — one 
 must take care." 
 
 Goulard continued stalking backward and forward, looking aside, 
 and trying to catch the meaning of every whisper. As everyone 
 remained silent, he, after a moment, resumed,— 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. if 
 
 " There is still a young aristocrat in the quarter I have my eye 
 upon. Her father has emigrated ; therefore the daughter ought to 
 be incarcerated ; if she isn't so yet, it's because they have forgot 
 her. I'll remind 'em of her." 
 
 "And whom are you speaking of then?" exclaimed Prosper, 
 who had for some instants become serious and attentive, while 
 listening to the porter. 
 
 " Whom am I speaking of ! Parbleu, of the Count de Trevilliers' 
 daughter, of little Camilla." 
 
 " Of that young girl who is not sixteen, and who is so pretty, so 
 well made— who has such fine black eyes, with long lashes, and 
 arched eyebrows, and teeth so white, and so sweet a smile ? " 
 
 " Peste, my spark, it seems you have looked hard at the young 
 Camilla ; but all that don't hinder- her being an emigrant's daughter, 
 and consequently a little aristocrat, that ought to be made sure of." 
 
 " You want to have the Count de Trevilliers' daughter arrested ? " 
 exclaimed Prosper, starting up ; " but before that happens, I shall 
 have smashed you to pieces." 
 
 And immediately rushing on the porter, the young man seized 
 him by the throat, threw him on the floor, and had already placed 
 one knee on his breast, before the latter had time to recollect himself. 
 
 Already the two women were supplicating Prosper to release 
 Goulard, who began to cry out murder, when several knocks at the 
 door and well-known voices were heard. The young man then left 
 the porter, who hastily rising, nearly knocked down the persons 
 who had just entered the room as he ran out of it, 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 THE P0UPARD0TS— A YOUNG SOLDIER — PICOTIN AND HIS SIGN. 
 
 First of all was a man, twenty-four years old, at the most, but wh 
 seemed by his dress and manners to wish to give himself the grave 
 and sedate look of a man of forty. His almost continual smile, his 
 half-open mouth and his turned-up nose, announced more good- 
 humoured simplicity and curiosity, than intellect and information. 
 His rigorously Republican, but clean and neat costume, denoted, 
 also, a man in easy circumstances, who adopted the popular uniform 
 through taste ; lastly, his habitual gesture when speaking was a 
 knowing shake of the head, intending to express many things, 
 when he would rub his hands together like one well satisfied with 
 himself. 
 
 This person's name was Poupardot, the son of a rich tradesman ; 
 he had found his fortune sufficient for his ambition, and, not 
 
 B 
 
i 8 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 judging it necessary to seek to augment it, had married very young, 
 that he might quietly enjoy his income, without any other care 
 than that of attending to his land and houses ; for Poupardot pos- 
 sessed, besides his income, a house at Paris, a farm in the environs 
 of Montereau, a country house at Clichv, and a box at the Barriere 
 d'Enfer. 
 
 Madame Poupardot was a little woman, genteel, mild, and a 
 good housekeeper, who had much more understanding than her 
 husband, whose wishes, on that account, she almost always complied 
 with ; for persons of sense prefer giving way to disputing. She, 
 however, rarely saw events in the same light as her husband, but 
 she did not wish to torment Poupardot, who was endowed with a 
 happy character, looked at everything on its best side, approved 
 everything that was done, and ne.ver anticipated evil. 
 
 With this couple came in a third person ; it was a young man 
 of prepossessing appearance ; his features, without being regular, 
 had an agreeable expression, and his eyes, though brown, became 
 very tender when he fixed them on a young and pretty woman. 
 It was Eoger, the same who had just been drawn for the Bequisition, 
 and who, to believe the lively Euphrasia, had been so deeply grieved 
 when she married Anach arsis Pico tin. 
 
 Maxim us, Eoger, and Poupardot, had been schoolfellows, and 
 their friendship still remained the same, though each was in different 
 circumstances, and though their political opinions also differed. It 
 is true they had never asked each other for anything, and you know 
 the best way of keeping your friends is to owe them nothing, and 
 never lend to them. 
 
 "What's the matter with that there fellow ? " said Poupardot, 
 whom Goulard had just run against — " he's in a devilish hurry. He 
 has nearly broke me a tooth. It's all one, that won't hinder my 
 wishing the company good evening. How goes it with your health, 
 Citoyenne Bertholin ? " 
 
 " Quite well, I thank you, Citizen Poupardot." 
 
 " As for me, I am as well as a charm, except a bad cold, that 
 almost stops my breath. And there's my wife getting as fat as a 
 quail. It's genteel, that fat, excepting that it tires one when walk- 
 ing." 
 
 "God be thanked, I'm not come to that yet," replied the young 
 wife, embracing Mamma Bertholin. 
 
 "It's very kind of you to come to see me," said the widow. 
 
 "Aye," returned Poupardot, "we have intended it this long 
 time, excepting I didn't think of it at all this evening. I was even 
 reckoning on taking my wife to the Faydeau theatre to see Picard's 
 Bape of the Sabines. , They say it's a good piece. He is a clever 
 fellow, that Citizen Picard ; he's an author who'll make his way. 
 But we met Eoger on our way to the play, and he said to us, ' I am 
 going to Maximus, to bid him and his respectable mother farewell,' 
 when my wife said to me, f We ought to accompany Eoger to your 
 friend's. I am always of my wife's opinion, because she never con- 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 19 
 
 tradicts me, and we have come along with Roger. Where then is 
 Maximus?" 
 
 " At the office ; but he won't be long before he's back ; for the 
 Citoyenne Picotin told him Roger would be here, and he has desired 
 me to tell him to wait for him." 
 
 On hearing the name of Euphrasia, who was a stranger to Pou- 
 pardot, he made her a low bow, and his wife examined her with 
 that minute curiosity women always look at each other with, and 
 which makes them perceive at the first glance every fault in their 
 dress, defect in their figure, awkwardness in their tournure. 
 
 As for Euphrasia, she had cast several sheep's eyes at Roger 
 since his arrival, which wicked tongues might interpret in a manner 
 by no means pleasant for the brow of Horatius-Cocles Picotin. 
 Prosper had gone and seated himself in a corner ; since his dispute 
 with Goulard he had become thoughtful, and seemed no longer to 
 pay any attention to what was saying around him. 
 
 " Ah, my poor Roger, you are going to the army, then ? " said 
 Madame Berth olin. 
 
 " Yes, my good mother, I am going to combat the enemies of 
 France, and faith, I am very glad of it ! " 
 
 " That's very kind of you, what you are saying, citizen," mut- 
 tered Euphrasia, pouting ; " it seems there's nobody you regret at 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, citoyenne, I leave friends, and persons that I love, 
 here ; but, on the other hand, I am tired of seeing executions and 
 scaffolds. At the army, at least, I shall not have to witness those 
 frightful sights ; if we there meet with death, it is in defending our- 
 selves, it is in triumphing over the enemies of our country ; glory 
 is to be acquired there, and, sacrebleu, that's what suits a French- 
 man." 
 
 " Oh, I would wager you will return a general, citizen," replied 
 Euphrasia, looking earnestly at Roger. 
 
 " I don't know what I shall come back, or whether I shall come 
 back at all, but one thing I'm sure of, to lose my life rather than 
 remain a private. Well then, Prosper, are not you of my opinion ? 
 What are you dreaming of by yourself all alone there ? Don't you 
 also long to enter the service 1 " 
 
 Prosper looked at Roger, rubbed his forehead, as if to recall his 
 ideas, then replied, — 
 
 " Yes, I shall join the army, but not yet ; I may be wanted here, 
 and if I was absent, who would keep watch over — " 
 
 "Over whom 1" asked Roger, smiling. 
 
 Prosper, looking down, muttered, — 
 
 " That's my business ! " 
 
 " One needn't be a witch to guess whom," said Euphrasia, " for 
 you just now betrayed yourself, when you were going to throttle 
 the porter." 
 
 "Citizens," said Poupardot, taking out a snuff-box, and offering 
 a pinch to the company, " Citizens, I am astonished at hearing you 
 
20 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 murmur against the march of the Government. It seems to me that 
 everything is going on well, yes, even very well. I am for the new 
 ideas, excepting I could wish all this to be accomplished without 
 killing anybody." 
 
 " I, for my part, don't like Revolutions," muttered his wife, shak- 
 ing her head. 
 
 "Oh, you, Elisa, you are an alarmist, the Eepublic only desires 
 our good." 
 
 " It's possible ; but we had such a pretty house in Eue des 
 Petites-Ecuries," resumed Poupardot's wife with a sigh ; "haven't 
 they taken it into their heads to visit it, to scrape the walls, to 
 taste them to know if they contained saltpetre ? and the result is, 
 that they are going to demolish our house." 
 
 " Yes," said Poupardot, " because I have sold it 'em, but they 
 pay me three times its value." 
 
 * " True, they pay you for it, in assignats." 
 "Well, what does that matter? The assignats are somewhat 
 depreciated in value, but they'll get up again, rely on it, and I 
 shall have made a very advantageous bargain." 
 " I like our house much better." 
 
 " I am of the Citoyenne's opinion," said Euphrasia ; " cash 
 appears to me more solid than your bits of paper ; and as I am 
 mistress at home, I have prevented Picotin from turning our move- 
 ables into assignats. But apropos of my husband, what can have 
 become of him ? I begin to be uneasy, though I know him to 
 be incapable of compromising himself, and of interfering in a 
 dispute." 
 
 " I hear some one singing in the courtyard," said Roger, " it's 
 Picotin's voice." 
 
 " He's singing," said Euphrasia, " then he's afraid ; something 
 has happened to him." 
 
 Euphrasia had scarcely finished her phrase, when her husband 
 opened the door, and entered the room. 
 
 Anacharsis Picotin was a tall but ill-built young man, with some- 
 thing of a limp in his walk ; whether he affected to rock himself to 
 assume an air of assurance, or whether it was owing to his confor- 
 mation, at every step he took Picotin threw himself on one side 
 like a man afraid of stepping into the kennel. His face was long 
 and meagre ; his hair, which was very thick, took root immediately 
 above the eyebrows ; lastly, he endeavoured with his carmagnole, 
 and above all, with the red cap pulled down over his ears, to give 
 himself a fierce look, by no means in conformity with his physiog- 
 nomy. 
 
 " Here I am," said Picotin on entering, " health and fraternity 
 or death. My wife, you didn't know what was become of me ? you 
 were horribly alarmed ? I am sure of it. You were saying, ' Is my 
 Horatius gone to combat the enemies of the country without warning 
 me?'" 
 
 " Oh, no, I certainly didn't think that," exclaimed Euphrasia, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 2 1 
 
 "Well, then, my worthy spouse, I have, nevertheless, run a 
 great danger, an immense danger." 
 
 " It's not possible ? " 
 
 "On the faith of a sans-culotte, as I am, and I am going to 
 explain to the company the situation I had placed myself in — 'twas 
 a serious one. This is the fact; I ought, in the first place, to say, 
 for the information of those who do not know me, that I am a 
 furrier, I sell skins— the skins of tigers, bears, foxes, and other 
 animals ; in short, I can say that I do everything I undertake in 
 the fur line to perfection. My wife is there to bear witness to it." 
 
 "To the point, Anacharsis," said the impatient Euphrasia; 
 " when you once begin, you never know when to end." 
 
 " I'm coming to it, my wife. I wanted a sign ; I hadn't one, 
 and a shop without a sign seems to me very stupid ; I well know 
 it has often been said, ' good wine needs no bush.' But it has never 
 been said, good furs need no sign. By dint of thinking of it, I had 
 found something that seemed to me very pretty, and, above all, 
 analogous to my business. I had said nothing of it to my better 
 half, because I wished to surprise her. I had ordered it of a cele- 
 brated sign painter ; he had given it me this morning, and I went 
 to submit it to the approbation of my section. You had no sus- 
 picion of that, Euphrasia ? " 
 
 "But, in short, what was there on the sign?" 
 
 " There was a very fine cat, a magnificent Angola, with a mag- 
 nificent coat of fur ; it was seated before a plate, on which there 
 remained nothing but the fragments of an enormous pie. The cat 
 had just finished its repast ; you could see that by its belly ; and be- 
 sides I had had written underneath, in big gilt letters, Au chat-plein 
 (to the f ull-bellied?cat). That was my sign ; it seems to me that the 
 idea was intolerably ingenious." 
 
 The company smiled instead of answering. Picotin continued. 
 
 " I go then to the committee of my section, with the sign under 
 my arm, but I no sooner exposed it to the view of the president, 
 than one of the members cried out, 'You are an aristocrat, you 
 want to bring back the priesthood, the black slugs, — we won't 
 have any more chaplains (chat-pleins)* Your sign is an insult to 
 the nation ! ' As for me, I stood quite stupified ; I so little ex- 
 pected this accusation, that I knew not what to answer. On which 
 several voices exclaimed, 'We must arrest this man; he is con- 
 spiring against the Republic.' Oh ! then I recovered the use of my 
 speech, and cried out, ' But, citizens, this is a cat upon my sign ; I 
 never had any idea of outraging the Republic, by having a big cat 
 painted, and only wanted its fur to be admired.' 'You have 
 put— To the chaplain !— you have taken for your sign, — To the 
 handsome chaplain, — vociferated a crowd of people. Above all, an 
 old woman— a fish woman,— Mother Gueuleton, who is almost always 
 
 * The sounds of the French words " chaplain " (a priest), and " chat- 
 plein," (a full-bellied cat), are nearly or quite similar. 
 
22 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 drunk, and now passes her time at the sections, or in the clubs, 
 where she makes herself be called the mother of the Cracks, and her 
 son Grattecus, because she once heard somebody mention Cornelia 
 the mother of the Gracchi, one of whose sons, Gracchus, perished 
 in defence of his country. I was then in a very perplexing 
 position, I will even say a dangerous one, when, fortunately for 
 me, the President who knows me, who appreciates my civism and 
 my principles, addressed the section as follows, — 
 
 "Citizens, I am acquainted with Horatius- Codes Picotin. I 
 believe him incapable of intentional disrepect to the Eepublic, or 
 of wishing to bring back the Capuchins amongst us. He has made 
 a mistake in having words put upon his sign that recall persons we 
 have proscribed ; he will efface them and put something else." 
 
 " With great pleasure ! " I exclaimed. " The President has per- 
 fectly comprehended my thought ; since you won't have the hand- 
 some Chat-plein, I propose to put Au beau Chat sans-culotte / Oh ! 
 scarcely bad I uttered these words, when applauses resounded from 
 every corner of the hall ; they shook me by the hand, they felicitated 
 me ; Mother Gueuleton would absolutely embrace me though she 
 had the hiccups ; and I left the assembly with my sign, but not 
 without having begun to efface the words inscribed upon it." 
 
 " That's a history which does no great honour to the members 
 of the committee," said Eoger, laughing ; " if they had known how 
 to spell, they would have seen that your sign had nothing to do 
 with the priesthood." 
 
 " Another time," said Euphrasia, " you will do nothing without 
 consulting me ; it will be much better ; we had done very well 
 without a sign till now, and it was quite useless to have one made. 
 Au Chat sans-culotte! how pretty that will look over my door; — you 
 are always doing some stupid thing or other, Picotin. And my 
 demand to act the Goddess of Liberty ? Am I accepted ? " 
 
 " Oh, faith, it wasn't the moment to make a demand, when every- 
 body was wanting to knock me on the head," replied poor Picotin, 
 sitting down in a corner quite confounded. 
 
 " How, you wish to represent Liberty, citoyenne ? " said Eoger, 
 looking at Euphrasia, somewhat ironically. 
 
 " Why not ? it seems to me I have every requisite for it." 
 
 "I," said Poupardot, "I should also have liked to have had 
 that honour, excepting I should have feared her catching cold, 
 clothed so lightly ; but the citoyenne my spouse is unwilling to 
 put herself forward ; she says she prefers attending to her house- 
 hold affairs. 
 
 " Your wife is right," said Eoger ; " it does not become her sex to 
 meddle with politics. The women who wish to encroach upon the 
 domain of the men, risk losing many of their means of attraction." 
 
 " Is it a man who ought to represent Liberty ? " said Euphrasia, 
 snappishly. 
 
 " No," said the young soldier ; " but T didn't expect it would be 
 you, citoyenne/ 1 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 23 
 
 Euphrasia seemed piqued, and said no more. Eoger had become 
 thoughtful ; Prosper still remained silent ; Picotin no longer dared 
 open his mouth since his wife had scolded him ; Madame Bertholin 
 seemed plunged in her reflections ; Poupardot's wife was not 
 talkative ; there then remained only her husband to keep up the 
 conversation ; and, despite all his efforts and the ifs and buts with 
 which he interspersed his discourse, he had been for some moments 
 talking all alone, when the door opened. It was Maximus, who 
 had returned. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 A COMEDIAN'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT — AN ARREST. 
 
 Maximus was more pale, his physiognomy was more stern and more 
 sad than when he went out. His first look on entering the room 
 was directed towards his mother : she comprehended it. He knew 
 of the execution of Francois Dremont, the good old man who had 
 been his father's friend and protector, and it made him answer but 
 coldly to the ' good evenings ' of the greater part of the persons pre- 
 sent. 
 
 Poupardot whispered to Picotin, — 
 
 "The devil! I fear something; all's not right. I'm always 
 uneasy when Maximus is dissatisfied, for Maximus is a man who 
 reads futurity, and he's a Republican to the backbone." 
 
 Picotin stared with all his eyes, pulled his cap over his ears, and 
 muttered, — 
 
 " I can still put, ' To the cat sans-culotte, or death.' * 
 Young Bertholin went up to Eoger, shook him affectionately by 
 the hand, and the following dialogue took place between them, — 
 
 "You are going, Eoger, you are going to combat the enemies of 
 your country ; you are very fortunate." 
 
 "That's what I think, my dear Maximus, and I go with joy. 
 Why don't you do the same?" 
 
 " You know well why ; my mother — " 
 
 " Ah, yes; you are right ; remain here. Besides, you are a Re- 
 publican, you approve all that is doing, all that is going on ; you 
 can't fail making your way." 
 
 " Eoger, you form a wrong opinion of me ; it's precisely because 
 I am a Eepublican, because I would have a free government, the 
 reform of the abuses under which we live, that I see with more pain 
 than another the deplorable excesses that are daily occurring, the 
 acts of injustice, the crimes that are committed, and which will 
 infallibly lead to the fall of that Eepublic I hoped to see great and 
 and durable. To-day, again, they have immolated an old man, an 
 ancient friend of my father's. What could be his crime ? Not any. 
 
24 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 He had been denounced, I have been told, because he wore on his 
 coat large buttons, on which there was a bouquet of flowers, and 
 amongst those flowers some lilies. Ah, my friend, so long as men 
 shall be mad or wicked enough to make the life of one of their 
 fellow creatures depend upon such wretched nonsense, they will 
 never be in a fit state to govern themselves." 
 
 " The citizens are whispering together," said Euphrasia, looking 
 at Maxim us and Eoger. 
 
 " That's amusing ; men in general are more amiable in a tete- 
 a-tete than in company. Don't you think so, citoyenne ? " 
 
 This question was addressed to Poupardot's wife, who quietly 
 answered, — 
 
 " My husband seems to me always so, wherever he is." 
 
 "What a loving wife," muttered Euphrasia, turning towards 
 Madame Bertholin ; " but she has not been married two years." 
 
 " I suppose," said Poupardot, again addressing himself to Picotin, 
 " I suppose Maximus knows something, some interesting news, that 
 we shall read to-morrow in the Pere Dutchesne, but then, instead of 
 whispering to Eoger, he might tell it us, unless it's of a nature to 
 frighten the women. — "What do you think of it, citizen ?" 
 
 "I think," replied Picotin, after a moment's reflection, "that 
 instead of a cat, if I had had a bear painted, I shouldn't have put 
 under it Au chat-plein, and I shouldn't have been in such a quandary 
 this morning at my section." 
 
 Maximus, having finished his conversation with Eoger, turned 
 round, and for the first time perceived Prosper sitting in a dark 
 corner of the chamber without uttering a word. 
 
 " What, are you there, Prosper ? " said Maximus, going up to 
 to him, " I didn't see you when I came in ; but since you are here, 
 let me give you a letter I have for you ; a countryman brought it, 
 to the printing office, thinking to find you there. He came from 
 Melun." 
 
 " From Melun," exclaimed Prosper ; " he doubtless came to bring 
 me news of my godfather. " 
 
 " Exactly so ; but your godfather has been dead this week." 
 
 " He is dead ; the poor papa Brillancourt. I am sorry for it ; 
 he was a good man, though he would frequently make game of me ; 
 for my dear godfather was satirical and even caustic ; but he was close 
 upon eighty ; at that age a man may pack up his awls. Is the 
 letter from him ? that would astonish me ; for it's years since he 
 would either write or read, for fear of fatiguing his eyes." 
 
 " The letter, as the peasant told me, is from a notary at Melun, 
 the defunct's executor." 
 
 " Eead quick then, citizen," cried Picotin, approaching with an 
 inquisitive look. 
 
 " Your godfather has perhaps named you his sole legatee." 
 
 " Sole legatee ! In the first place, my godfather Brillancourt 
 can't have left any fortune ; he was an ancient comedian. He has led 
 a gay life ; he took pleasure in saying that he had amused himself 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 25 
 
 as much as he could. He lived upon a trifling pension the theatre 
 allowed him, and the interest of his savings. Besides, he had a 
 housekeeper whom he called his Dulcinea, to whom he had lono- 
 since promised his moveables, and whatever money he might leave 
 behind ; and, in truth, Dulcinea has well earned it ; for she shewed 
 the greatest attention to the old comedian, who almost every even- 
 ing made her repeat with him scenes from ' Tartuffe ' or the ' Femmes 
 Savantes.' " 
 
 _ " However, the notary hasn't written to you for nothing, citizen," 
 said Poupardot, " excepting you may suppose it to be a mystery." 
 
 " A mystery ! " said Prosper. " Ah, I don't make a mystery of 
 anything ; and, as a proof of it, I am going to read the letter aloud, 
 if it can amuse you ? " 
 
 So saying, he unsealed the letter, and everyone was silent, 
 anxious to learn the last intentions of the old comedian in favour 
 of his godson. 
 
 Prosper then read as follows : — 
 " Citizen, health and fraternity ! 
 
 "An old man, named Brillancourt, an ancient comedian, has 
 just departed this life in our town. He has named me executor of 
 his last will, which will not give me much trouble, the Citizen 
 Brillancourt having left no fortune ; his income ceased with himself, 
 and as for his moveables, he has made a donation of them to his 
 housekeeper — " 
 
 " Didn't I tell you so ? " cried Prosper, interrupting himself to 
 turn towards Picotin. " My godfather probably leaves me nothing 
 but his blessing, and his good advice. As for that, he wasn't sparine 
 of it." ' 5 
 
 "Is that the whole of the notary's letter?" asked Euphrasia. 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 " Well then, finish it ; the most important is doubtless at the 
 end." 
 
 " I continue, — 
 
 " Made donation to his housekeeper. Nevertheless (ah, there's a 
 nevertheless) in the writing in which he charges me with the execu- 
 tion of his last will, there is a paragraph which concerns his godson, 
 and which I here transcribe word for word, 'I have never had a 
 child, or at least I don't believe I have ; -but I have a godson in 
 the world, who is now about eighteen years and some months old, 
 and his name is Prosper Bressange ; he's a wild extravagant youn^ 
 fellow ; he has wasted all his father left him in a very short tinie^ 
 and if I had a fortune I shouldn't leave it to him, for he would 
 waste it also.' 5 
 
 The company could not refrain from bursting into laughter, 
 which was heightened by the singular look put on by Prosper ; he 
 stopped, and, most comically lifting up his eyes to heaven, ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 "Give your children godfathers then, and reckon on their pro- 
 tection ! However, I must drain the cup to the very dregs. I go 
 
26 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 on— c for he would waste it also. But Prosper has wit and intellect ; 
 he is a lad that will come to something if he will ; and as it is the 
 duty of a good godfather to assist his godson in making his way in 
 the world, I bequeath to mine the sole property of what you will 
 find, Citizen Notary, in the bottom drawer of my commode— to 
 wit — three pair of breeches ! ' " 
 
 Here Prosper was interrupted by bursts of laughter ; but he 
 read on — 
 
 " Three pairs of breeches ; with the one pair, of magnificent 
 scarlet, I have performed the ' Mascarille ' of the ' Etourdi ' ; with 
 the second pair, of blue, I have represented a veteran in a military 
 piece ; and lastly, with the third pair, of satin and embroidered on 
 all the seams, I have played a marquis — a roue (A the regency. It 
 is with those three breeches I have obtained my most triumphant 
 success. It is my idea they will powerfully contribute to my god- 
 son's fortune, if he knows how to put them on at a proper time. 
 I charge you, therefore, Citizen Notary, to deliver them into the 
 hands of my godson himself, Prosper Bressange, who, I believe, is 
 employed in a printing-office at Paris. My housekeeper will give 
 you his address." 
 
 " Behold, citizen, the paragraph your godfather has written in 
 your favour. I have, in fact, found the objects specified in the 
 commode of the Citizen Brillancourt ; and whenever it may suit 
 you to come to Melun, the breeches are at your disposal. I shall 
 deliver them into your own hands ; since such is your godfather's 
 desire. Health and fraternity. Dumont, Notary." 
 
 "Ah ! for example, that's a droll legacy !" said Picotin, when 
 Prosper had ceased reading. " The godfather was fond of quizzing, 
 for it seems to me very like a quiz." 
 
 " That's also my opinion," said Poupardot ; " it's a joke ; except 
 it may be one of an old comedian's ideas. In that profession, I 
 have been told, they have manias, preferences ; they become en- 
 amoured of a costume — even of a wig — and then — you figure to 
 yourself — you comprehend? Is it not so, Eliza? You com- 
 prehend?" 
 
 The good-tempered Eliza gave an affirmative nod, as if she guessed 
 what her husband had intended to say ; but Picotin cried out, — 
 
 " No, I don't comprehend at all." 
 
 " One thing is certain," said Eoger, smiling, " that is, the god- 
 father of Citizen Prosper was no friend to the new ideas ; for he 
 didn't wish his godson to be a sans-culotte ! " 
 
 " That's evident," muttered Picotin ; " and if he wasn't dead 
 we must have denounced him." 
 
 " Well, citizen," said Euphrasia, addressing herself to Prosper, 
 " what do you intend doing ? Will you answer the notary ?" 
 
 "I shall do better, citoyenne ; I shall set off to-morrow for 
 Melun, and shall go and claim my legacy." 
 
 " Ah ! bah, really ! " said Picotin, " What ! take a journey to 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 27 
 
 Melun to fetch three breeches — and three old breeches, probably ; 
 for it seems they have done the old comedian some service." 
 
 " Yes, citizen ; I shall go to Melun to receive my godfather's 
 legacy. Eh ! who knows but it will bring me good luck ? I'm 
 "somewhat of a fatalist ; I have faith, above all, in the opinion of 
 men of wit, and Papa Brillancourt was not devoid of it. He has 
 left me these breeches, thinking they would make my way in the 
 world, as they made his on the stage ; for he knew that the world 
 is but a stage more vast, on which we are all of us destined to act 
 a part with more or less success ! Besides, my wardrobe is not 
 well enough furnished at this moment for me to disdain my god- 
 father's gift. I shall set off for Melun to-morrow. I shall go take 
 possession of my inheritance." 
 
 " You will even be able to 'bring it back upon you," said Picotin ; 
 " one can very well wear three pairs of breeches in winter." 
 
 " I would bet," said Roger, " that the inheritance is melted before 
 Prosper returns to Paris." 
 
 " You are mistaken, citizen," replied Prosper, sticking his paper 
 cap over his left ear. "If the old comedian had left me money, 
 you might be right : for money is made to be spent ; and to have 
 it and not to make use of it, is absolutely the same as if you hadn't 
 it : such at least is my way of thinking ; but breeches with which 
 my godfather has obtained such great success — Oh, 'tis very dif- 
 ferent ; I respect them. I have confidence in their virtue ; and I 
 wouldn't sell them even should I be offered a hundred crowns for 
 them." 
 
 " In assignats ? " asked Picotin. 
 
 " Neither in paper nor in money ; and yet a hundred crowns in 
 hard cash is a fortune at this moment." 
 
 After conversing some time longer on the legacy bequeathed to 
 Prosper, and the singular idea of the old comedian, the company 
 began to think of retiring. Besides, Maximus was low-spirited, 
 spoke little, and made no effort to detain his friends when they 
 announced their intention of taking leave. 
 
 "Come, my dear," said Poupardot, taking his wife's arm, "we 
 mustn't be too late home ; it's not I am afraid of anything, except- 
 ing robbers; but I must be up early to-morrow, to go and be 
 present at the first stroke with the pick-axe at my house in Rue des 
 Petites Ecuries." 
 
 " You are having your house repaired ? " inquired Maximus. 
 
 " No, it's the Republic that's going to have it pulled down, be- 
 cause the inspectors have certified the wall to contain a great deal 
 of saltpetre. I am a lucky fellow. I am to be paid three hundred 
 thousand francs for it in assignats. I've made a good bargain." 
 
 Maximus made no reply, and Poupardot's wife said to him with 
 a sigh, — 
 
 "Ah, revolutions ! Let us go home, my friends." 
 
 "Citoyenne Euphrasia, your husband Horatius Codes awaits 
 vour orders/' said Picotin, going up to his wife, and presenting his 
 
28 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 arm ; but she laid hold of Roger's, and contented herself with 
 answering her husband in an imperious tone, — 
 
 "Very well, walk first, and let us know when we come to the 
 kennels." 
 
 Picotin didn't wait for a repetition of the order, but hastened to 
 the door, saying, — 
 
 " Good evening to the company : health and fraternity, good 
 night or death." 
 
 Poupardot and his wife were already gone ; Roger had embraced 
 the good Mamma Bertholin, whose eyes were filled with tears on 
 bidding the young conscript farewell. 
 
 Maximus again pressed his friend's hand, who said to him, — 
 " I don't know when I shall see you again, Maximus ; but I 
 believe that many changes will have taken place by that time." 
 
 Prosper was the only one of the company now remaining ; but 
 he lodged in the house in one of the garrets. He, however, bid 
 the widow and her son good evening, saying, — 
 
 " I am now going to bed, for I intend to start for Melun early 
 in the morning, and there'll be no harm in getting a little sleep. 
 Farewell, Mamma Bertholin, good evening ; good evening, Maximus. 
 I am quite sure I shall dream of my godfather's three breeches." 
 
 "What a happy character," said Maximus, looking at young 
 Prosper going away ; " he laughs at everything ; he takes time as 
 it comes." 
 
 " Oh, he don't laugh at everything," returned Mamma Bertholin, 
 bringing her chair to the fire, "and this evening I have seen plain 
 enough that this young man, apparently so wild, and so giddy, 
 already feels in his heart a strong passion for some one. You don't 
 suspect, Maximus, that Prosper is in love ? " 
 
 " In love ! As men at his age are, when they believe themselves 
 in love with every woman ; when they fancy it will last for ever ; 
 while the first fresh face makes them turn round like a weather- 
 cock." 
 
 "No ; I believe that Prosper this time feels a real attachment. 
 But, as you say, my son; another will make him forget this one." 
 
 "And who then is the person you believe him to be taken 
 with?" 
 
 "It is Mademoiselle Camilla de Trevilliers, the daughter of the 
 Count de Trevilliers, who lives in this street, almost facing us." 
 
 " An emigrant's daughter ! A young person not yet sixteen, 
 but who is already as proud and as haughty as her father was ! Poor 
 Prosper, I believe his affections are ill placed, and I don't think 
 they will ever meet with any return. But what is it, my mother, 
 that makes you think Prosper captivated with mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Because, during your absence, Goulard, the porter, came in 
 here — " 
 
 " What for ? I detest, I despise that wicked man. I won't 
 have him come here. You should have turned him out." 
 
 "Ah, my friend, in these times the wicked are to be feared so,' 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 29 
 
 " I have nothing to fear, mother, and nothing can force me to 
 admit a man I despise." 
 
 " Alas ! my friend, how many men, as well as yourself, thought 
 they had nothing to fear, because they felt their conscience pure, 
 and who yet have perished ; and Dremont, that poor Dremont ! " 
 Maximus put his hand to his eyes, and then exclaimed,— 
 "Oh, let's say no more about him, my mother ; it pains me too 
 much. Well then, Prosper, you were going to say-" 
 
 " Goulard was hinting before him, that he intended to denounce 
 the Count de Trevilliers' daughter. Oh ! then you should have seen 
 Prosper rush on him, seize him by the throat, and if people hadn't 
 come in, I believe he would have strangled him, despite mine and 
 Euphrasia's prayers." 
 
 " He would have done well ; the wretch of a Goulard ! it's he, 
 and those like him, who will make our Revolution be hated. Ask 
 that man the meaning of country and liberty, he will tell you, 
 money and nothing to do. Ah, don't let me see him here again, for 
 I feel I shouldn't be able to restrain my rage. To denounce a young 
 girl of sixteen, because she's the daughter of a nobleman. How con- 
 clusive ! how equitable a reason ! And if her father is culpable, 
 ought then the faults of the fathers to be visited upon the children, 
 under a government that aims at being just and free ? " 
 
 The widow made no reply ; contenting herself with mournfully 
 shaking her head, and both were too low-spirited to have any desire 
 to talk. 
 
 The rain had again begun to pour down, and was driven by the 
 wind, rattling against the casement ; the night was dark and gloomy, 
 like the thoughts of those who inhabited the little room on the 
 ground floor. 
 
 It had long been midnight, and neither Maximus nor his mother 
 were yet in bed. The young man, however, started from his reflec- 
 tions, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Go, then, mother, and take some rest ; it is very late, and you 
 must be fatigued." 
 
 "Rest ! I don't hope for any this night ; my mind has suffered 
 too much to-day. But you, my friend, are not you going to bed 
 also?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, yes, in a moment. I don't know what's the 
 matter with me this evening. I feel as it were a dread of some 
 fresh misfortune. What you told me concerning Goulard is con- 
 tinually recurring to my mind." 
 
 " Yet I haven't told you all, for having met the good banker 
 and his wife here, to whom I opened the gates for their carriage, as 
 Goulard was absent ; he has dared to threaten that generous man, 
 who has relieved his necessities a hundred times. If his wife had 
 not been present, I believe the Citizen Derbrouck would have 
 chastised Goulard's insolence. Fortunately Prosper came in at the 
 moment; he's a brave youth that Prosper. And — but don't you 
 hear a noise in the street ?" 
 
30 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 "No, I hear nothing but the noise of the wind and rain." 
 
 " It's singular, I seemed to hear the sound of several voices ; 
 however, it's not the hour for stopping and talking in the street. 
 It will soon be one o'clock. I was mistaken — but listen, it's like 
 the noise of a carriage— it's coming this way." 
 
 It was in fact the roll of a carriage, which soon stopped before 
 the house. 
 
 Maximus looked at his mother, and said, — 
 
 " It's for here." 
 
 And the mother and son looked at each other with anxious alarm, 
 for both of them were well aware that at this time arrests fre- 
 quently took place in the middle of the night. 
 
 A loud knocking was heard at the gates. 
 
 " It is really here they are coming," muttered Madame Bertholin, 
 "but O my God whom are they come for?" 
 
 And already the poor mother threw her arms round her son, as 
 if to prevent him being taken away from her, while the young Ke- 
 publican endeavoured to reassure her, by answering, — 
 
 " Fear nothing. Besides, we are perhaps mistaken, they doubt- 
 less are not come for any ' sinister purpose.' " 
 
 But the gates were already open, for this time the porter was at 
 his post. One would have thought he was aware of the visit, and 
 had his ear on the watch. 
 
 Maximus and his mother went to the window looking into the 
 court, where they heard the steps of several men, then Derbrouck's 
 name was pronounced with a rough voice, and Goulard replied with 
 a carneying tone, — 
 
 " It's here, citizens, on the first storey, the staircase on the right." 
 
 The strangers, amongst whom were some gensdarmes, crossed 
 the court, and went upstairs ; there was no longer any doubt as to 
 the motive which had brought them. 
 
 "They are come to arrest the Dutch banker," cried Madame 
 Bertholin, hiding her face in her hands. " Oh, monster of a Goulard, 
 he has fulfilled his threats, he has denounced his benefactor. And 
 his wife, his poor wife, who is suckling her infant. "What an awaken- 
 ing, good heavens : how horrible will be her despair ; so happy a 
 family." 
 
 " No, no, it's not possible," cried Maximus. 
 
 He then darted to the door, crossed the court and also went up 
 the staircase, while his mother was calling out to him to remain, 
 and not uselessly compromise himself. 
 
 But the young man had reached the first storey, and before the 
 door of the apartments occupied by the banker and his family. 
 That door was guarded by three gensdarmes, but they let Maximus 
 go in, who crossed an ante- chamber, and entered a small saloon at 
 the moment when the person they came to arrest in the dead of night, 
 disturbed and startled from his sleep, presented himself before the 
 agents of authority, after hastily half-dressing himself. 
 
 The features of Derbrouck expressed no other feeling than sur- 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. %\ 
 
 prise, they were still noble and confiding, and he almost smiled as 
 he said to those he found in the saloon, — 
 
 " What's the matter, citizens, and what is it brings you here to 
 me, in the middle of the night?" 
 
 " We have orders to arrest you," gruffly replied a man with a 
 tri coloured scarf, and who seemed to command the others. 
 
 " To arrest me ! — me — and for what reason ? what have I done ? " 
 
 " Oh, you won't be told that here ; it will be explained to you 
 before the revolutionary tribunal, when you come to be tried." 
 
 " But, citizens, it must be some mistake, I have nothing to re- 
 proach myself with." 
 
 "Oh, no," exclaimed Maximus, running to take Derbrouck's 
 hand, which he pressed tightly in his own ; " No, Citizen Derbrouck 
 has done nothing to be arrested for. His conduct is as pure as his 
 principles. I will be responsible for them, and it is well known I 
 would not press the hand of a traitor. There must be some rascality, 
 some secret denunciation under all this." 
 
 " That's no business of ours," replied the committee's envoye ; 
 " we have orders to arrest the Citizen Derbrouck, a Dutch banker, 
 who has returned to France only a few months ago. You are the 
 person ? " 
 
 " Yes, citizen." 
 
 "Then you must follow us after the seals have been put on your 
 property in your presence." 
 
 "Do so, citizen ; but my wife is asleep, and if at least you could 
 avoid disturbing her." 
 
 At that instant a shriek in an adjoining room announced that 
 the banker's wife was awake, and that she knew the reason of her 
 sleep being interrupted; pale, dishevelled, trembling, and scarcely 
 covered with a robe and shawl which she had hastily thrown over 
 her, she rushed into her husband's arms, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Is it true they are come to arrest you ? Oh, my friend — but 
 I don't leave you then. I wish them to take me along with you. 
 Yes, I will share your fate." 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear friend," returned M. Derbrouck ; " they 
 have come to arrest me because some cowardly villain has denounced 
 me. But you well know I have nothing to reproach myself with, 
 and that my conscience is clear. I, then, have nothing to fear. I 
 have no doubt my judges will easily discover they have been 
 deceived, that I am innocent, and I shall soon be restored to 
 you." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck wept bitterly — the calm looks of her hus- 
 band could not allay her terrors ; Maximus also endeavoured to 
 inspire her with hope, by saying to her, — 
 
 "It can only arise from error, citoyenne, or is the result of 
 some private revenge, but I will go to the tribunal, and if, as I 
 hope, my testimony possesses any weight, the Citizen Derbrouck 
 will quickly recover his liberty." 
 
 These words were powerless to stop the tears that fell down 
 
32 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the cheeks of the poor wife. And her mouth did not cease murmur- 
 ing,— 
 
 "Arrest him, gracious heavens ! that is what I feared !" 
 
 In the meantime the agents of the tribunal had finished patting 
 on the seals, and the person who commanded said, while writing, — 
 
 "We name the Citizen Goulard Leonidas, porter of the said 
 house, and member of the section Bonne Nouvelle, guardian of the 
 seals." 
 
 At the name of Goulard the young wife shuddered, and a dark 
 cloud came over the forehead of the banker, who, leaning towards 
 his wife, whispered to her, — 
 
 " Return to Passy ; don't remain here, you would have too much 
 to suffer." 
 
 " Are we ready ? " said the envoy e, making the banker a sign to 
 follow the gensdarmes. 
 
 " Yes, citizen," replied Derbronck ; " lead on— yet, before I go, 
 permit me to embrace my infant." 
 
 Before he had finished these words, Madame Derbrouck was 
 already in the next room, whence she soon returned with her little 
 girl fast asleep in her arms. 
 
 _ The banker, for a few instants, contemplated his infant, then 
 said, so that Maximus alone heard him, — 
 
 " Poor child ! that has but a few months' existence, that yet 
 knows not its father. Perhaps she is destined never to see, never 
 to know him. But I leave her a name without a stain, and that 
 name, something tells me, she one day will be proud of bearing it ! " 
 
 Derbrouck, notwithstanding his firmness, felt the tears moisten 
 his eye-lids, but soon surmounting his weakness, he deposited a kiss 
 on the forehead of his little Pauline, tenderly embraced his wife, then 
 tore himself from her arms, and left the apartment, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Forward, citizens ! " 
 
 Madame Derbrouck would have fallen on the floor, had not 
 Maximus caught her in his arms. 
 
 When Derbrouck was crossing the court-yard in the midst of 
 the gensdarmes, Goulard stood leaning against the gate-post, and 
 gave an infernal smile on seeing the unfortunate banker pass 
 before him. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 an emigrant's daughter. 
 
 Prosper, plunged in deep sleep, had heard nothing during the 
 night, and when he went out at break of day next morning, he 
 didn't think of calling upon Maximus, whom he had taken leave of 
 the night before. He, therefore, had only seen the porter who 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 33 
 
 was already up and standing in a corner of the court, like a spy, 
 watching the windows of every lodger, endeavouring to surprise 
 some sign, to overhear some words. 
 
 On seeing the young man, who had been near strangling him, 
 go out, Goulard merely smiled, but there was an expression of 
 triumph, and of joy, in his repulsive features that Prosper re- 
 marked, and which had for a moment terrified him, but a sudden 
 reflection soon restored his tranquillity ; he remembered having 
 been told on the previous evening that Mademoiselle de Trevilliers 
 had gone into the country to a house that was situated quite 
 close to Melun. 
 
 And now let us relate the origin of that romantic passion, which 
 this young man, until then so giddy and so wild, had conceived for 
 a person, whom her birth and her fortune would have placed far 
 above him, if birth had not then been reckoned as nothing, and 
 fortune subject to daily mutations. 
 
 Camilla de Trevilliers was not yet sixteen, but she was already 
 handsome, tall, and well f 01 med ; already her tournure was grace- 
 ful and elegant, though in her haughty step, in her look, and in the 
 manner she carried her head, there was something that announced 
 the woman proud of her birth, and of her fortune, the woman who 
 knows she is handsome, and who thinks that everyone ought to be 
 too happy in offering her his homage. Her full black eyes, sur- 
 mounted by two eyebrows rather too thick to adorn the forehead of 
 a young girl, were frequently disdainful and ironical ; but when soft- 
 ened by a benevolent or tender expression, it was difficult to resist 
 their empire. 
 
 Camilla's father, the Count de Trevilliers, had been one of those 
 court roues who sacrificed everything to pleasure and favour. 
 Early a widower, the count had paid but little attention to his 
 daughter, whose education he had confided to the care of a governess, 
 ordering her never to contradict the will of Camilla, to whom he had 
 given masters in every fashionable accomplishment, but who, not- 
 withstanding, had permission to learn only what she chose. 
 
 Camilla had availed herself of the indulgence ; capricious and 
 fantastic, she would study assiduously during some weeks, then 
 pass others in doing nothing ; an enthusiast, for a moment, of 
 music, she had afterwards abandoned it to give herself up to paint- 
 ing, which she, in its turn, threw aside. From this had resulted 
 one of those educations you every day meet with ; she knew a little 
 of everything and nothing well. 
 
 In the meantime the Revolution took place. The Count de 
 Trevilliers, who possessed immense property in France, was one of 
 the first to emigrate, leaving his daughter with her governess at a 
 fine estate near Melun. 
 
 But at the end of a few months the count's whole property 
 was sequestered, and the young Camilla, forced to quit her father's 
 chateau, was obliged to take refuge in a small country-house her 
 governess had purchased in the environs. And as that country- 
 
 O 
 
34 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 house was only half a league distant from the estate on which the 
 count's daughter had been born, Camilla was fond of walking round 
 the chateau that had belonged to her father, the sight of which 
 reminded her of the early sports of her childhood. It was always 
 on that side she directed her steps when she went into the country ; 
 she stopped mournfully before the iron gates of the park, and con- 
 templated afar off those long and fine shady avenues where she had 
 so often run and played. Then would her bosom swell, and her 
 heart contract ; but she did not weep, for she possessed both courage 
 and pride, and would not have let the peasant see her tears flow. 
 Besides, her old governess was continually repeating to her, — 
 "Make yourself easy, mademoiselle, all this will last but for a 
 time, it is only a passing storm ; your father will come back, and 
 recover his property ; that fine domain will again be yours, as well 
 as many others, and you will be able to walk undisturbed in those 
 fine shrubberies and run through them as before." 
 
 Camilla sighed without answering; though still very young, 
 she did not let herself be led away by foolish hopes ; and her reason, 
 ripe before her age, made her see clearer than the governess with 
 her sixty years. 
 
 It was during one of her promenades round the park walls that 
 Camilla had, for the first time, been seen by Prosper, who often 
 went to Melun to visit his godfather the comedian, and who some- 
 times took a walk with him in the country. Camilla was then only 
 fifteen, but she was already remarkable for her beauty, her elegant 
 shape and her noble tournure. 
 
 " That's a very pretty girl," said Prosper to his godfather ; " do 
 you know her ? " 
 
 "Yes, she's the daughter of a ci-devant, or, if you like it better, 
 of the Count de Trevilliers." 
 
 " What fine eyes, what noble features ! " 
 
 " She would make an admirable princess or prima donna on the 
 stage." 
 
 « My godfather, you see nothing but the theatre everywhere." 
 " What is there so astonishing in that 1 I have passed my life 
 in the theatre, and since I have left it, it is my greatest happiness 
 still to think of it. Besides, my , little Prosper, everything here 
 below is comedy, unless it may be tragedy, as just now, for 
 example." 
 
 "That young person is very pretty — but she seems in low 
 spirits." 
 
 " She has reason to be so ; she has just been taking a walk 
 
 round the park of the chateau, which not long since belonged to 
 
 her father, but which has been sequestered since he emigrated." 
 
 "Poor young girl — what a charming shape ! " 
 
 "Ah, my spark, you would willingly act the inamorato with 
 
 her." 
 
 Camilla and her governess were at this moment on their way 
 back. The old comedian, who had some little acquaintance with 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 35 
 
 the governess, took off his hat to the ladies, who politely returned 
 his salute ; Prosper bowed and wanted to enter into conversation, 
 but they continued to walk on without either noticing or answering 
 him. 
 
 "You have not made a fortunate d6but," said old Brillancourt, 
 with a grin, " but then you are still too young for the part you wish 
 to assume." 
 
 "Well then, godfather, you are going to see that they will 
 speak to me," said Prosper, " and that I shall meet with success." 
 
 The young man then ran on and passed the ladies, when, reach- 
 ing a rather high tree, he dexterously climbed it, placed himself upon 
 a weak branch, balanced himself for a moment, and the branch 
 breaking, he fell to the ground. 
 
 The ladies gave a scream of terror, the old comedian shrugged 
 up his shoulders, muttering, — 
 
 " If this is what he calls success ! " 
 
 The whole three then ran up to the dismounted cavalier, who 
 had remained on the grass, rolling his eyes about and making faces 
 expressive of pain. Camilla was the youngest, also the nimblest, 
 and was the first to reach Prosper, when she held a smelling-bottle 
 to him, saying, — 
 
 " Are you hurt, monsieur ? " (Camilla wouldn't say citizen), where 
 do you feel pain ? " 
 
 Prosper felt himself all over, and then replied, — 
 
 " I believe I have only hurt my foot ; it will perhaps be nothing 
 but a sprain." 
 
 "But a sprain may be very serious. And why did you climb 
 up into that tree, and trust yourself to *o weak a branch ? " 
 
 " To hear you, to speak to you — to have the happiness I at this 
 moment enjoy. Oh! to give oneself a sprain is not too dear a price." 
 
 The lovely Camilla was quite thunderstruck, she so little ex- 
 pected that declaration on the part of quite a young man, whom she 
 for the first time saw ; she blushed, put on a stern look, and made 
 no reply, but in the bottom of her heart she was flattered at Prosper 
 having thus exposed his life to speak to her. There was a temerity 
 •which at the same time gave a proof of love, of imagination and of 
 courage, three things for which the ladies have a great weakness. 
 
 The governess and Brillancourt came up. Prosper hastened to 
 reassure them. He rose from the ground, tried to walk, but, in 
 treading on his left foot, he made as many grimaces as a demoniac. 
 They were not far from Melun, but still they must get there. It 
 would have been inhuman not to offer an arm to a person who could 
 scarcely stand. Papa Brillancourt offered to support his godson, 
 but an octogenarian's arm is but a feeble prop ; the governess then 
 took Prosper on the one side, and Camilla determined to take him 
 on the other ; she was the youngest and the strongest, and she said 
 to him, still sternly, — 
 
 "Lean upon my arm, monsieur ; don't be afraid of fatiguing me, 
 I am strong. 
 
36 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 The young man availed himself of this permission. He leant on 
 the left side, while he was scarcely felt on the right ; Mademoiselle 
 de Trevilliers could not be offended at his pressing her arm so tight, 
 since she was his chief support, but when Prosper endeavoured to 
 give a look, and meet the eye of Camilla, she quickly turned her 
 head, and said to him, dryly, — 
 
 " Take care where you set your foot, monsieur." 
 
 They at length reached the house of the old comedian, at Melun, 
 when the ladies went away, after receiving the thanks of Prosper 
 and his godfather. 
 
 Then old Brillancourt said, — 
 
 " Do you know that, for a ci-devant's daughter, that young person 
 has been very obliging. It's very fine on her part, for she is natur- 
 ally proud, and speaks to nobody." 
 
 " It's so much the finer as I have never had the least sprain," 
 answered the young man, making a pirouette before his godfather. 
 
 The old man stood a moment astounded, but he soon began to 
 laugh till he cried again, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Delicious ! perfect ! inimitably acted ! Oh, my friend, how 
 well you perform the lovers, the roues, the marquises. Well, I had 
 formed a wrong opinion of you at first, but I now see you have great 
 dispositions for comedy." 
 
 And this is how Prosper had made acquaintance with Made- 
 moiselle de Trevilliers, and every time he went down to his god- 
 father he tried to meet with the charming Camilla in her walks ; 
 but it was not easy, since the adventure of the sprain. She went 
 out less — one would have said she already divined the desires and 
 the anxieties she would give birth to, and that, far from wishing to 
 encourage the love she had inspired, she sought on the contrary to 
 make herself be forgotten. But at seventeen we do not forget the 
 woman who is the object of our first love. That sentiment is then 
 a worship, an idolatry, or rather a folly we are only cured of by 
 excess of pleasure. 
 
 Prosper was continually dreaming of Camilla ; he certainly sought 
 to divert his thoughts by running after some pretty grisettes when 
 he found them in his road, but the distraction was only temporary, 
 and his real passion was not extinguished. 
 
 Judge of the young lover's joy when, as he was one day return- 
 ing to his lodging at Paris, he perceived Camilla and her governess 
 entering a house a few doors distant from that where he resided. 
 Scarcely had those ladies gone in, than he ran after them and learnt 
 from the porteress that the daughter of the Count de Trevilliers had 
 for a long time lived at that house in ready furnished apartments, 
 where her father formerly lodged, and in which they had not thought 
 of coming to put the seals, because in those times there were so many 
 accused, suspected persons, so many prisoners and emigrants, that 
 they couldn't think of all. 
 
 Prosper had then no longer occasion to visit Melun. He every 
 day paced up and down the street before the house inhabited by 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 37 
 
 Camilla, and fixing his eyes upon the casements of the second floor, 
 endeavoured to catch a glimpse, through the panes, of her for whom 
 he had already nearly broke his neck. 
 
 But Camilla never showed herself at the street windows. See- 
 ing nothing but ferocious countenances around her, meetin'o- only 
 with sinister looks, which seemed to wish to find her guilty, because 
 she was the daughter of an emigrant, she kept herself shut up in 
 her governess's room, and let herself be seen by the neighbours as 
 seldom as possible. Prosper, however, wanted the lovely Camilla 
 to know he was her neighbour ; so he passed his time sighing while 
 looking at her windows, for when we pass whole hours contem- 
 plating the windows of a woman who never shews herself at them 
 we are still very glad to be able to say to ourselves,— 
 
 > " At least she knows that I am here, and perhaps looks at me 
 without shewing herself." 
 
 The young man wished above all to be able to say to the emi- 
 grant's daughter, — 
 
 "If you run any danger, if you are ever insulted, if they want 
 to arrest you, I am here facing you, in the garret ; make me a signal 
 send for me, and I'll fly to defend you. I am very young ; but I 
 have strength and courage— I fear no one ; I have nothing to lose. 
 and don't care a fig for anybody. One man in that mind is equal 
 to four, and sometimes more." 
 
 To say this to Camilla, it was requisite to get to her, to speak 
 to her. In vain did Prosper bite his nails, while looking' from his 
 little leaden casement on the sixth storey at the windows of the 
 apartment enclosing her he was enamoured of. When the count's 
 daughter by chance shewed herself at the window, while he was 
 looking out of his, he would cough, sing, and cry out. Vain efforts 
 —his voice lost itself in the air without reaching the young lady's 
 ear, or she at least paid no attention to it, and never once raised 
 her eyes to the opposite roofs. 
 
 _ Once Prosper had the thought to let himself slip from his garret 
 window into the street ; that was a sure enough means to make 
 her notice him. But he reflected that we don't recover ourselves 
 from a fall from a sixth storey as we do from a tumble off the branch 
 of a tree ; and to kill himself would not have been the best means 
 of protecting Camilla. 
 
 One day that Prosper had been a long time at his window, still 
 seeking an expedient to speak to the young lady who no longer 
 went to Melun, because it was the middle of winter, he perceived 
 opposite to him, in the house next to Camilla's, a young journey- 
 man printer, one of his friends, at the window of a small garret. 
 
 Suddenly a thousand thoughts arose and rushed across the brain 
 of Prosper. He for some time examined the roof of Camilla's house 
 which he thought it would be as easy for him to reach from his 
 friend's room as it would be for a cat. He then endeavoured to guess 
 which funnel of the chimney was likely to communicate with the 
 apartment he wanted to get into ; he made himself sure from his 
 
38 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 calculations that a wide funnel in the middle of the stack must 
 infallibly proceed from the chimneys on the second floor ; and, all 
 being duly weighed and fully decided in his brain, the young man 
 went down into the street, and climbed nimbly up to his fellow- 
 workman's dormitory. 
 
 " Good day, Binet," said Prosper to his friend, who was dining 
 on a roasted apple and a potato (bread at that time was very 
 dear), 
 
 " What, is this you, Prosper ? Ah, you didn't know I was your 
 neighbour ! I am only here since Nonidi. Will you dine with me 
 — pot luck — we will share my couple of fruit." 
 
 "No, Binet, I thank you, keep your dinner, you haven't too 
 much for yourself." 
 
 " Ah, by'r lady, when the end of the decade's at hand, the purse 
 is light— the pocket also — the sides touch." 
 
 " I'll pay for another dinner for you by and by ; and I presume 
 you won't refuse it ; the one you are getting now won't spoil your 
 appetite. I have still two twenty-four sous pieces in silver ; we'll 
 spend 'em, and they'll get us a rare blow out ; but you are first to 
 do me a favour, to let me get on your housetop ?" 
 
 " On the housetop ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 " No, but I'm in love, which is pretty nearly the same thing ! " 
 
 " And is that why you want to break your neck ? Are you in 
 love with a cat ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, far from it ! if it was a cat, I shouldn't run after my 
 belle this way, it's she who would run after me. In short, let it suf- 
 fice you to know that I hope to get to her I love by this road ; what 
 may happen after can be of no consequence to yon, I imagine." 
 
 "In God's name, climb away. I have no objection, though I 
 should be sorry to see you roll over into the street ; for you woul& 
 kill yourself." 
 
 " I sha'n't fall ; I am used to climbing, and walk well upon the 
 ice, which is quite as slippery. Go and wait for me at the traiteur's 
 at the corner of the Boulevard ; I shall soon be with you." 
 
 So saying, Prosper took off his shoes, which he put into his 
 jacket pocket, he then darted to the window, put his foot outside, 
 and turned to the left, creeping on all fours, while his friend called 
 out to him, — 
 
 " Take care, don't look down, it would make you dizzy." 
 
 Prosper heedless of his friend, still kept on till he came to a low 
 wall separating the two houses ; stepping over it, he found the way 
 less dangerous, the roof being nearly on a level. Looking about 
 him, in the middle of all the chimney funnels, he at length recog- 
 nised the one he had remarked from his window, reached it, and 
 getting inside, decided on descending, saying to himself, — 
 
 " I have never been a sweep, but it can't be very difficult to get 
 down a chimney." 
 
 But it was not so easy as Prosper had presumed ; and there was 
 more than one obstacle sweeps are not in the habit of meeting with ; 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 39 
 
 they always take care to put the fire out before going up; but 
 there was one in the chimney the young man was going down; 
 it was fortunately a very dull one, but nevertheless the amateur 
 sweep would have been stifled by the smoke, if he hadn't deter- 
 mined to make short work of it by letting himself fall to the 
 bottom. 
 
 But the young lover had deceived himself in his calculation. 
 Instead of landing in Mademoiselle Trevilliers's apartment on the 
 second floor, he came down on the third, into the apartment of a 
 lady about forty, who lodged there with one servant, and passed 
 two- thirds of her life in sleeping, and the other at her toilette in 
 devising means to preserve her freshness and plumpness, which 
 threatened to leave her with her embonpoint. 
 
 That lady had just gone into a bath where had been poured 
 three rouleaux of eau de cologne, a flask of lavender water, two pots 
 of almond paste, six cups of milk, some bran and essence of roses. 
 The lady was splashing away, rubbing herself all over, then feeling 
 her calves or something else, as she murmured with a well-pleased 
 look, — 
 
 " It's firm, it's still very firm ! and my skin is as smooth as satin. 
 I can't conceive why I fall away. I sleep sixteen hours out of the 
 twenty-four. The doctor tells me these baths will make me grow 
 fat, and he ought to know." 
 
 At this moment a great noise was heard in the chimney, and 
 something rolled from it close to the edge of the bath. It was 
 Prosper covered with soot, with a broken nose, a bump on his fore- 
 head, and part of his hair burnt, but who, enchanted at arriving 
 without being entirely stifled, immediately jumped up on his feet 
 and made a pirouette, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Sacredieu ! I won't turn sweep, it's too hot a berth I " 
 The lady in the bath, on seeing the hurried descent of Prosper, 
 shrieked aloud, and, persuaded he was a thief, she forgot her situa- 
 tion, her nudity, clambered out of the bath, hastily seized the first 
 garment that came to hand, put her arms into the sleeves, and 
 began to ran about the apartment, crying out, — 
 
 " Help ! guard ! guard I here's a man tumbled into my room — 
 Thieves I " 
 
 Unfortunately the garment the lady had laid hold of was only 
 a night-jacket, so that her bust only was covered, and the rest en- 
 tirely naked. 
 
 The maid, on seeing her mistress run about with nothing on but 
 a night-jacket, imagined she had been seized with a fit of delirium, 
 and cried out on her side, — 
 
 " Help ! my mistress has taken a bath with too many things in 
 it, that have got into her head ! she's running about stark naked." 
 "While the mistress and maid were thus giving the alarm, 
 Prosper, who had quickly perceived his mistake, hastened to the 
 door, gave the lady a twirl round, just as she reached the landing- 
 place, passed before her, and in a moment was on the next floor, 
 
40 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 where a young lady had just half opened a door to ascertain whence 
 proceeded the cries she heard. 
 
 It was Camilla. Prosper ran to her, saying, — 
 
 " Save me, I beg of you ; hide me for an instant ; they take me 
 for a thief, while I'm only a lover. Two minutes in your apartment, 
 time to brush myself, and then I'll go away quite quietly." 
 
 Notwithstanding the soot that covered part of his face, Camilla 
 recognised the young man who had let himself fall from the top of 
 a tree to speak to her ; young ^irls are sharp-sighted. She listened 
 for a moment, the shouts became louder and nearer ; the mistress 
 and the maid were on the landing-place, the people of the house were 
 beginning to open their doors ; Camilla no longer hesitated, and 
 though she was at that moment alone, she let Prosper in and care- 
 fully shut the door after them. 
 
 " Oh ! thanks, a thousand thanks, mademoiselle ; how happy 
 I am." 
 
 Camilla did not let him finish, but gravely interrupted him 
 with, — 
 
 " You have been up a chimney then, monsieur ? " 
 
 "I have come down one, mademoiselle." 
 
 " What's the meaning of that, monsieur % are you turned sweep ?" 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, for to-day only, to see you — to try to speak 
 to you again, I have climbed on the roofs — from thence into a 
 chimney — I hoped to fall into your apartment, but took the wrong 
 road, and nearly fell on a lady bathing, who was frightened and 
 took me for a thief." 
 
 " But, monsieur, if I had seen you arrive that way in my room 
 I should have been as frightened as the lady." 
 
 " Oh ! no, mademoiselle, for you would have recognised me, and 
 you well know I am not a thief, but that I love you — that I adore 
 you — I live there in that street almost facing you — I wanted to let 
 you know it — that if by chance you had wanted me, oh, I should 
 be so happy to do you a service — to be of any use to you, but you 
 never came to the window, you didn't go out — you no longer go to 
 Melun — and tired out, in despair, faith, I took on me to get on the 
 roof that I might get to you that way." 
 
 When accosted by a man who twice risks his life, by throwing 
 himself from the top of a tree, then climbing on the house-roof, it 
 would be difficult not to believe in the sincerity of the attachment we 
 inspire. The count's daughter seemed touched for a moment, but, 
 soon resuming her habitual look, she led Prosper to a fountain and 
 said to him, — 
 
 " Wash your face and hands — brush your clothes — that's all you 
 require — make haste." 
 
 Prosper obeyed : when he had finished, Camilla returned to him, 
 holding a piece of English court-plaster which she applied to the 
 cut on his nose. He wanted to thank her ; but, without giving 
 him time, she conducted him to the outer door, opened it and said 
 to him, — 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 41 
 
 " Go, monsieur, there's no one on the staircase ; they wouldn't 
 know you again." 
 
 Prosper wished to speak, return thanks, he stammered out some 
 words of love ; but he was outside, and the door was immediately 
 shut upon him. 
 
 He then went down, left the house without any one suspecting 
 him to be the person they were looking for, and ran to the traiteur's 
 to rejoin his friend, with whom he spent his two twenty-four sous 
 pieces, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah ! my friend, I am overwhelmed with joy. I have seen 
 her — I have spoken to her." 
 
 " And you have broken your nose." 
 
 " Well, what matter ! See, it's she who has put this on my 
 wound : oh ! it's on my heart I will wear this plaster, it shall never 
 leave me." 
 
 So saying, Prosper tore the plaster from his wound, and put it 
 in his bosom, while his companion contented himself with laughing, 
 with eating enough for both, and whispering to himself, — 
 
 " What fools people are when in love ! " 
 
 We are now acquainted with the whole history of Prosper's 
 amours. Let us follow him to Melun, where, he had learnt, Camilla 
 had returned the day before. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FIRST PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
 The first thing done by Prosper on his arrival at Melun was to call 
 upon the Notary who had written to him. He presented himself 
 to Citizen Dumont, holding the letter in his hand, and said to him, — 
 
 "Citizen Notary, is it really you who have written me this ? or 
 is it only a joke some one has played upon me ? " 
 
 The Notary cast his eyes upon the letter and replied, — 
 
 This letter is really from me, citizen, and contains nothing but 
 the truth ; you are doubtless Prosper Bressange, Brillancourt's god- 
 son?" 
 
 " The very same ; I have brought my papers with me, in case 
 you might not believe. My poor godfather's housekeeper knows 
 me well, and if it's necessary she will prove my identity." 
 
 "It's needless ; my letter in your hands is a sufficient warrant 
 for me to deliver you your inheritance which, besides, is not con- 
 siderable. Ah ! ah ! ah ! it seems to me the godfather might have 
 shewn himself more generous." 
 
 So saying, the Notary went to an old bureau, from which he 
 took Prosper's legacy, and presenting the three pair of breeches to 
 
42 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the young man, he again burst out into a loud fit of laughter which 
 he terminated by saying, — 
 
 " Since I was a Notary, never have I conveyed an inheritance 
 of this kind — yet, if a note of hand payable at sight, or a purse of 
 gold had been in the pocket of each breeches. I for a moment 
 thought it might be so, and I confess, citizen, that my first care 
 was to examine the pockets of these necessary garments. Ah ! ah ! 
 but they contained nothing, not a copper farthing, or you may be 
 assured the whole would have been faithfully delivered to you." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it ; but we must know how to content 
 ourselves with what the fates send us ; adieu, Citizen Notary, I am 
 off with my breeches ; health and fraternity." 
 
 Prosper left the house, carrying his inheritance, that he had tied 
 up in a handkerchief, over his shoulder suspended from a stick, and 
 saying to himself, — 
 
 "All these people seem to be making game of me, and that's not 
 pleasant ; after all, my godfather was no fool, p and I sha'n't turn up 
 my nose at his legacy ; as a beginning of doing it an honour, I am 
 going to put on one of the breeches he has left me ; my pantaloons 
 are just now dirty and threadbare, it will brighten me up a bit, but 
 where dress myself ? I can't change my breeches in the street, I 
 might certainly go to my late godfather's house but he is dead, and 
 I don't like the servant. I'll never again set foot where she is. 
 Yet if I don't find a resting-place at Melun, I can't remain there 
 very long. "What I have in my fob won't pay my expenses for more 
 than one day in a public-house, and if I remain but one day I shall 
 have no time to meet with Camilla, to follow her in her walks. 
 The devil ! I ought to have thought of all that before I set out, but 
 it would have been of no use thinking of it, I should not have found 
 a sons more in my garret, my friends are not rich ; there is but one 
 person who would have been able to oblige me, and I know he 
 wouldn't have refused me if I had addressed myself to him, that's 
 the kind-hearted Dutchman, Citizen Derbrouck ; but he has already 
 so often obliged me ; and it's mean to borrow when we know we 
 shall never be able to repay!" 
 
 All the while making these reflections, Prosper kept sauntering 
 through the streets of Melun, looking at the houses, the signs, the 
 wine-shops, then putting his hand to his fob, which contained only 
 four half -franc pieces that would not permit the owner to act the 
 great man, a hair-dresser's shop struck his eyes, over the door of 
 which was inscribed, — 
 
 "Here, we shave the patriots, and scrape the aristocrats." 
 
 Prosper as yet had no beard, but his hair was long behind, and 
 they were only tied with a ribband. He entered the shaver's shop 
 and called out in an arrogant tone, — 
 
 " Citizen ! I want you to dress my hair in the most revolutionary 
 manner you can imagine, and sacrebleu ! if I am not satisfied, I'll 
 make you swallow all the lather in your shop." 
 
 The hair-dresser though a little man was a great coward, who 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 43 
 
 believed he discovered extraordinary things in the most simple 
 events, and important personages in every person who entered his 
 shop. 
 
 He was at that time busy shaving a fat man, about sixty, whose 
 features were extremely common, his face red and carbuncled, but 
 who had little grey eyes where shone an expression of frankness 
 and good-natured simplicity. 
 
 At sight of Prosper, and after hearing him speak, Citron, the 
 barber, whispered the fat man he was shaving, — 
 
 "Ah ! fichtre, ah ! bigre, ah ! for example this time, I say yes, 
 I'm sure of it, what say you, Citizen Durouleau ? " 
 
 The fat man in the first place drew back his head, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Take care, Citron ! you are going to cut me, don't make so 
 many gestures then with the razor in your hand ! " 
 
 The barber, without answering his customer, took his nose be- 
 tween the two fingers of his left hand, as if going to continue the 
 operation, and bowed to Prosper, saying, — 
 
 "Citizen, health and fraternity, I can boast of being able to 
 dress your hair so as it has never been dressed. I have no doubt of 
 your comprehending the spirit of my sign, I scrape the aristocrats, 
 that is to say, that I treat them as they deserve ; that is to say — " 
 
 " Citron, let go my nose then, since you are not shaving me," 
 said the fat man, drawing back his head, but Citron still kept his 
 hold, and continued to address himself to Prosper. 
 
 " You are come from Paris, I bet, citizen, and you are perhaps 
 sent by the committee of public safety to inspect the state of the 
 country. I will be answerable for your being satisfied with it." 
 
 " Citron, I beg of you to let go my nose." 
 
 "Citizen," resumed the hair-dresser, "do you insist upon my 
 dressing your hair immediately, or will you permit me to finish the 
 Citizen Durouleau's beard ? He is one of the most zealous and 
 warmest sans-culottes of our place." 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed the fat man, who had at length succeeded in 
 releasing his nose from the shaver, " yes, warm for the public 
 good. Durouleau, late a brewer — I'm known. I have always been 
 warm. Vive la Eepublique ! " 
 
 " Finish the citizen's beard," said Prosper ; " during that time 
 I'll step into the back shop, and change my dress a little— you per- 
 mit it." 
 
 "My shop is at your disposal," replied Citron, with a low bow 
 — and Prosper passed into a little back room ; where, after tak- 
 ing off his old pantaloons, he selected the scarlet breeches from 
 amongst the three, and arrayed himself in them. 
 
 The godfather's nether garment was rather wide for the godson, 
 but Prosper tightened the buckle behind, and fastened the strap of 
 his top-boots to his knee buttons ; then admiring his breeches of 
 flaming red, and still pretty good, he began to think himself not 
 amiss in the comedian's legacy. 
 
 While the young man was changing his dress, the barber 
 
44 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 finished, somehow or other, shaving the ancient brewer, and said 
 to him, — 
 
 " I would bet, that the young spark just come, is sent by the 
 big caps of Paris, to our place, on a mission. 
 
 " You believe him to be a representative of the people \ " cried 
 Durouleau, with eyes aghast ; " but he is very young."' 
 
 "He conceals his age. However, I don't say he is a representa- 
 tive of the people, but I would put my irons into the fire — I mean 
 my hand in the fire — but he's an important personage. Oh ! I 
 have tact ! and the bold manner — the assurance with which he came 
 in — aye — you haven't remarked it, citizen ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have remarked that he spoke to you as if you were his 
 servant." 
 
 " I bet you, he's come to Melun on a secret mission. That can't 
 hurt me ; I am known ; I am a pure Jacobin. Everyone knows 
 me to detest the nobles — the aristocrats." 
 
 " And you have already denounced eleven persons ? " 
 
 " Fourteen ! " 
 
 "Fourteen ! that's still more meritorious." 
 
 " In short, it's not us who need be afraid ; but, nevertheless, it 
 will be as well to obtain the good opinion of that young patriot. 
 As for myself, I am enchanted at his having chosen me for his hair- 
 dresser." 
 
 As Citron finished speaking, Prosper came out of the back shop, 
 and presented himself strutting in his scarlet breeches. 
 
 The fat man and the barber seemed dazzled at the sight of the 
 new garment worn by the stranger ; they looked at each other, and 
 Citron gave a knowing wink, as if he would have said, "Well, 
 didn't I guess it ? " 
 
 "Have you finished shaving the citizen?" demanded Prosper, 
 in a very cavalier-like tone. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I've finished." 
 He has finished ! " said Durouleau ; " and if he had not finished, 
 I would give my place up to you, citizen — too happy to — you com- 
 prehend ? ' 
 
 " Perfectly," cried Prosper, throwing himself into the chair the 
 fat man had just quitted. "Come, dress my hair in the first 
 style." 
 
 "Make yourself easy, you shall be satisfied," said Citron, taking 
 a comb. " I am going to make you a tail, a la Brutus ; and I'll curl 
 your hair at the sides, en petite guillotine : that "will be charming." 
 
 "While Prosper abandoned his head to the hair-dresser, the ex- 
 brewer kept pacing the shop, puffing, smiling, and burning to 
 question the young man ; at length he determined upon opening 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Citizen, you have a very fine pair of breeches." 
 
 " Yes, they can be seen afar off." 
 
 " It seems to me, you hadn't them on when you came in here." 
 
 "No." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 45 
 
 " You perhaps didn't wish to be remarked immediately on arriv- 
 ing at Melun?" 
 
 "It's possible." 
 
 " Yon are perhaps come here upon business that mustn't be told 
 
 everybody ? " 
 
 " That might be the case." 
 
 " I have it. It is on business concerning the Republic." 
 
 " That don't concern you." 
 
 " Certainly not ; pardon me, citizen. I am still quite proud to 
 tell you, you may reckon upon me." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " I shall not permit myself to question the citizen," said Citron, 
 in his turn ; " I will merely take the liberty of asking him, if he 
 desires me, to shew him a good public-house, in case he shouldn't 
 have any other place to stay at." 
 
 " A public-house," replied Prosper. Ah ! yes — in fact, I don't 
 know any here. But, on the other hand, I don't much like public- 
 houses. They are houses — we don't know who we are with." 
 
 " Perfectly right," said the fat man, who seemed struck with a 
 sudden idea, and looking at Prosper, he exclaimed, " Citizen, if I 
 dared to make a proposal to you — " 
 
 " Dare on, citizen." 
 
 " You are come to Melun, and don't know where to get a lodging ; 
 that is to say, it is repugnant to your feelings to go to a public-house. 
 Well then, me, I am a bachelor ; I live alone with my woman cook, 
 my gardener, who looks after my horses, and a young girl of all 
 work. I have a great house. I have room, plenty of room. Will 
 you do me the honour of lodging in my house ? I am rich — you 
 shall want for nothing with me ; and as for civism, make all the 
 inquiries you like respecting Nicole Durouleau, named the old 
 Roman. I flatter myself you will be satisfied." 
 
 "Citizen," replied Prosper, assuming an air of importance, 
 because he perceived he had to deal with two credulous persons, 
 " your proposal affects me ; but to lodge me, you don't know who I 
 am. I well know it only depends upon myself to tell it you ; but 
 grave considerations prevent my doing so." 
 
 " Oh ! that's guessed at once," returned the ex-brewer ; " I can 
 see beyond my nose, and so can Citron ; a moment's look at you is 
 sufficient to make one discover you to be a true sans-culotte, though 
 you wear superb ones ; but their colour is the colour of the cap of 
 liberty ! " 
 
 "I am quite charmed that my breeches have made you guess 
 my opinions ; and faith, if I didn't fear being troublesome", I believe 
 I should accept your offer." 
 
 " Troublesome — between brothers and friends ! never. Besides, 
 do you see, I am pleased with you. Come, your hand — it's settled ; 
 you lodge with me so long as you remain at Melun ; in short, as 
 long as you shall think fit." 
 
 " Well, then, be it so. I accept your invitation." 
 
46 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " Citizen, your hair is dressed," said the perruquieur, taking off 
 the cloth that covered Prosper's shoulders ; then going up to 
 Durouleau, he whispered in his ear, — 
 
 "You have managed it famously, citizen. Don't forget to 
 recommend me to the representative — if he is one." 
 
 " What am I indebted to yon ?" said Prosper to the perruquieur, 
 putting his hand to his fob. 
 
 " I hope, citizen, you will be pleased to give me your custom," 
 replied Citron, bowing ; we'll reckon up altogether." 
 
 "Be it so." 
 
 " Let us go," said Durouleau, you must be fatigued and hungry." 
 
 " I own I could willingly take a mouthful of dinner. Let us go. 
 Ah ! my parcel, that I was going to forget." 
 
 "If you don't wish to trouble yourself with it, citizen," cried 
 Citron, " I will carry it to your host's." 
 
 "No, thank you," replied Prosper, hastily snatching up his 
 bundle; "its contents are too precious for me to leave it for a 
 moment behind me." 
 
 "They are papers — instructions ! state secrets !" whispered the 
 barber, winking at Durouleau ; who, taking Prosper's arm, left the 
 shop with him, looking all around with an air of triumph ; and 
 while on their road, the splendid breeches of the young man 
 attracted the looks of everyone, and often made the passengers turn 
 round to wonder at them. 
 
 The Citizen Durouleau's house was one of the best in the town ; 
 he had purchased it of a ci-devant, who, foreseeing the revolu- 
 tionary storms, had hastened to realise his fortune, when the 
 nobles were permitted to dispose of them . Durouleau had made 
 what many people call a good bargain ; and what others would not 
 make, because it would be repugnant to their delicacy. 
 
 The late brewer introduced Prosper into his residence with the 
 satisfaction of a person who feels himself honoured by the visit he 
 receives. He led him through several apartments encumbered with 
 furniture, that had been crowded together without taste, without 
 order, and which only proved the vanity and stupidity of the pro- 
 prietor. In a dining-room were placed a wide glazed bookcase, 
 three tea-tables, several garden-chairs, and three portable baths. In 
 the bedroom were two bureaus, two writing-desks, and three com- 
 modes. In an immense saloon was a complete set of red furniture, 
 then a half -set of yellow, and bergeres, arm-chairs, that had be- 
 longed to past generations. 
 
 Durouleau looked at his guest, to see the effect the sight of his 
 moveables would produce on him, but Prosper had thrown himself 
 on a canopy- couch, crying out, — 
 
 " Are you a furniture broker, citizen ? " 
 
 "No. Why?.' 
 
 " You have such a store by you." 
 
 "Ah ! I'll tell you ; I like to want for nothing. I wish to be 
 well furnished with furniture, and I think of everything. I have 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. „ 47 
 
 three inlaid writing-desks ; because, if one happens to be broken, we 
 can make use of the other." 
 
 " So we can — though a writing-desk is not broken like a plate. 
 But you, perhaps, write a great deal ? " 
 
 " Never. But I leave you for a moment — you permit ? " 
 
 " Are you not in your own house ? and besides, I abhor cere- 
 mony." 
 
 " Just like myself. I am going to have a bedroom made ready 
 for you, then give orders for dinner. Ah ! I have famous wines. 
 I had them from several ci-devants who wanted money. I had 'em 
 cheap — we'll make the corks fly. Do you drink hard ? " 
 
 " As a templar ! " 
 
 " I don't understand that." 
 
 " As a fish, if you like better." 
 
 " Bravo ! just like myself. I am going to invite some friends 
 to come and dine with us, but, good patriots, zealous, red-hot ; who, 
 I am sure, will please you." 
 
 " Your friends shall be my friends : go— I am about to take a 
 nap." 
 
 "Ah ! pardon me, citizen; is it imprudent to ask your name; 
 only, that when speaking, I may know what to call you ? " 
 
 " My family name is Prosper Bressange ; but those names do 
 not harmonise with the new Eepublican calendar, and I _ have had 
 myself called Carrot." 
 
 " Carrot — very good ; adieu for the present, Citizen Carrot." 
 
 Durouleau went away, and Prosper, left to himself, in the saloon 
 of his host, reflected on his situation. He had plainly perceived 
 that the fat man and the barber took him for a person sent by the 
 government upon a mission. His air of assurance, the arrogant 
 tone he had assumed, and his godfather's scarlet breeches, had 
 already done wonders. He thought of the advantages he might 
 derive from his novel position ; he thought above all upon Camilla, 
 whom he wished to be useful to, and determined to do everything 
 necessary to confirm his host and friends in the opinion that had 
 been conceived of him. 
 
 In order to act up to his part, Prosper stretched himself full 
 length upon a canopy of Utrecht velvet, he put his dirty boots on 
 the cushions, and leaning his pomatumed head against the back, 
 began whistling a patriotic air, and in that attitude awaited the 
 arrival of the company. 
 
 After some time had elapsed, Durouleau returned with two men ; 
 the one tall, thin, yellow-visaged, whose eyes had always an expres- 
 sion of alarm, was dressed in an old threadbare black suit, and wore 
 on his head an immense otter-skin bonnet, with a long tail. The 
 other, dressed en carmagnole, with a good jolly face and carbuncled 
 nose. 
 
 "Here's two of them, said Durouleau, on entering the saloon 
 with his friends. There'll be more come by-and-by ; and during 
 that time the pot is on the fire." 
 
48 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 The two men bowed to Prosper, who, without moving from his 
 place, contented himself with turning his head, and surveying them 
 with an impertinent stare. 
 
 " Don't disturb yourself, Citizen Carrot," resumed Durouleau ; 
 " my friends know the respect they owe you." 
 
 " I don't intend it," replied Prosper, and he began to whistle the 
 air of Malbrook. 
 
 Pointing to the tall, thin man, Durouleau resumed, — 
 
 " This is my friend, Ducornard. Ah, no ; you don't call your- 
 self like that now. What do you call yourself, then, Ducornard ? " 
 
 " I am Cornelius Nepos, at present." 
 
 " Ah, that's it — Nepos ; he's a savant, he writes ; he is doing 
 things to be printed for the good of the government. Isn't it true, 
 Nepos, that they'll put you in print ? " 
 
 " So I flatter myself. Besides, the citizen shall see my work \ I 
 will read him some extracts from it." 
 
 "And then this is Benoit, grocer; a good fellow, a brave 
 patriot." 
 
 " I salute you, citizen ; you are in good health, so am I ; give 
 me your hand, you have my esteem." 
 
 So saying, the grocer caught hold of Prosper's hand, which he 
 shook till he nearly dislocated it. 
 
 To respond to these amicable manners, the young man hastened 
 to give the grocer a smart tap on the belly. He seemed enchanted 
 with this politeness, and whispered Durouleau — "Famous, the 
 young spark ; he whistles beautifully." 
 
 In a moment after there came a little man in a cotton cap, leather 
 apron, shirt tucked up to his elbows, and wooden shoes ; the skin 
 of his face was the colour of a copper stew-pan, and his hands of 
 charcoal : tlT'is one made his entrance skipping ; and giving himself 
 a slap on the rump, he cried, — 
 
 " Health to the company, in lif e*and in death. I'm told we're 
 going to have a blow-out here ; that just suits me. The Eepublic 
 don't forbid our having an appetite ; does it, Durouleau, my old 
 Roman ? Where, then, is your young sans-culotte ? Is he a good 
 fellow ? If he is not a good fellow I deny him." 
 
 " You will not deny me, citizen," said Prosper, turning his head 
 towards the new comer. " Here, do you see this hand, it's that of 
 a man who's afraid of nothing ; and who would plunge his knife 
 into your belly, if he believed you to doubt his sentiments." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! " exclaimed the little man, giving himself a 
 fresh slap on the rump, "you speak like a right good 'un ! I must 
 embrace you ! in life, in death ! " 
 
 And Ducroquet, the individual in the wooden shoes, ran to em- 
 brace Prosper ; who could very well have dispensed with this mark 
 of affection, but was obliged to submit to it. 
 
 A fresh person came to complete the assembly : he had a crafty 
 and saturnine look, and wore a great coat which almost covered his 
 heels. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 49 
 
 This last comer, named the Trappeur, went, like the others, to 
 salute Prosper, but he did not embrace him, he contented himself 
 with a compliment better expressed than the phrases of his colleagues, 
 and Durouleau whispered his guest, — 
 
 " He's an ancient abbe" ; but he has thrown, as the saying is, his 
 frock to the devil, and is now one of the warmest partizans of the 
 Revolution ; he pretends to have adopted a law, which shall permit 
 the French to be bigamists, or polyga mists ; or — in short, you com- 
 prehend ? " 
 
 " Quite well ; and that individual in the leather apron who em- 
 braced me — " 
 
 "Ah, it's Ducroquet, a tanner; he has great influence in the 
 country, because he's a wit. Oh, he speaks a long time without 
 stopping, and then he's hot-headed — a rare one with his fists ; more- 
 over, a pure and devoted sans-culotte." 
 
 At this moment a young country, tall, brown girl, tolerably 
 pretty, and whose bright eyes announced a disposition for many 
 things, opened the saloon door, calling out, — 
 
 " When you want your dinners, it's all ready." 
 
 "Citizens," said Durouleau, "you hear — the dishes are hot. Let 
 us go to dinner, it's there we become the best acquainted." 
 
 " To table ! " exclaimed Benoit ; " I vote for our remaining there 
 a long time." 
 
 " Well spoken," said Ducroquet. " Benoit, you sometimes have 
 sublime thoughts. I want to drink. I want to tap some of the 
 old Roman's wine. O, old Roman, I venerate you ; you and your 
 cellar above all : in life and death ! " 
 
 Prosper at length rose from the canopy, and, passing before the 
 others, proceeded to the dining-room, leaning with an air of pro- 
 tection on his host's shoulder, who placed him by his side. The 
 other guests seated themselves as they thought fit, and then attacked 
 the pottage, and the bottles, and the meat, and the bread, with 
 admirable vigour and ensemble. For a long time no other noise 
 was heard but that of the knives and forks, of the wine they poured 
 out, of the glasses hob-nobbing, and of the jaws performing their 
 masticating functions. 
 
 " This begins to look well," said Benoit, after five times helping 
 himself to bread, and emptying two bottles. 
 
 " Ah, I'm not yet ready to give in," cried Ducroquet. 
 
 "So long as the stomach receives with pleasure, there's no 
 danger in supplying it with aliments," said Cornelius Nepos, 
 opening an enormous mouth, into which he thrust almost the 
 whole leg of a turkey ; which made the Citizen Trappeur reply with 
 a smile, — 
 
 " It seems your stomach still receives with pleasure." 
 
 Prosper said not a word, but he ate like four, and drank more 
 than the rest ; every moment he emptied his glass, then held it arm's 
 length, exclaiming with stentorian voice, — 
 
 " Drink — sacrebleu ! Drink ! " And the guests looked at each 
 
 D 
 
50 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 other with an air of admiration ; and Durouleau whispered to his 
 friends, — 
 
 " I haven't deceived you ; you see he's a zealous sans-culotte ! " 
 
 " By'r lady," said Benoit, " he don't unbutton himself too much 
 in conversation, but he drinks famously." 
 
 "He will unbutton himself at the dessert, we must see his 
 opinion then," muttered the Citizen Trappeur, presenting his 
 empty plate. 
 
 Prosper, who perceived them whispering, himself filled his glass 
 to the brim, and rose, saying, — 
 
 "Citizens, I drink to the health of the Eepublic, to the prosperity 
 of France, to the success of our arms; and he who will not drain 
 his glass to the bottom with me, I'll break mine over his face." 
 
 " Bravo ! " said Ducroquet ; " that's what I call speaking." 
 
 "And I hope you call that an opinion," said Durouleau, 
 proudly. 
 
 The glasses were filled, and carefully emptied ; above all by 
 Cornelius and the Trappeur, upon whom the words of Prosper 
 seemed to make a lively impression of terror. 
 
 The heads of the company began to be heated ; they talked 
 politics ; each person proposed laws to strengthen the Eepublic ; each 
 wished to arrange a government according to his own idea ; and soon 
 there was no hearing what was said, for everyone was speaking at 
 once. 
 
 In the midst of the tumult the voice of Prosper rose predomi- 
 nant over those of the rest ; he shouted the loudest of them all, for 
 he had perceived that, the man who makes the most noise, who has 
 the strongest lungs, the most sonorous organ, is the one to whom 
 many persons attribute the greatest merit. Having received from 
 nature excellent lungs, and one of those supple and clear voices 
 that swell and rise at will, he successfully availed himself of his ad- 
 vantages ; he astonished, he deafened, he stunned his hearers; 
 Ducroquet himself, when by his side, was but a child ; when the 
 tanner raised his voice a little, Prosper drowned his words in a 
 deluge of shouts, of oaths, songs, or bursts of laughter. Besides, the 
 wine had taken effect upon him as upon the others, he said every- 
 thing that came into his head ; but as his most trifling words were 
 pronounced in a tone of authority, and so as almost to break the 
 tympanum of those around him, his hearers laughed themselves 
 almost into convulsions at his jokes, they applauded all his proposals, 
 and they would have embraced him after every bumper, if he had 
 not declared he would embrace none but women. 
 
 However, in the midst of this flux of words, of these speeches 
 commenced and cut short by others, of these shouts and toasts, the 
 name of Camilla de Trevelliers had struck the ear of Prosper, when, 
 violently striking the table with his fist, he exclaimed in a voice 
 of thunder, — 
 
 " Who is it that has mentioned the young Camilla de Trevilliers ? " 
 
 " I," said the Trappeur, with a earneying look. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 5 1 
 
 " And what have you said of that young girl ? Let us hear ; 
 speak out, or I throw this plate at your head." 
 
 Terrified by the tone of Prosper, whose eyes darted fire, the 
 Citizen Trappeur replied, hesitatingly, " I have said that — that's to 
 say, I have thought, as she's the daughter of an emigrant, of a ci- 
 devant, she might be arrested." 
 
 " And, by God ! he is right," exclaimed Ducroquet. " There's 
 no occasion to cast your eyes down to say that — the little Camilla 
 ought to be arrested — I shall denounce her to-morrow." 
 
 "I forbid you to do it," said Prosper, rising, and casting a 
 threatening look at the tanner. 
 
 "You forbid me?" replied Ducroquet, also rising, and tucking 
 up his shirt sleeves still higher. " Very fine ; but, my young citizen, 
 you take on yourself an authority. And by what right do you 
 forbid me to have a ci-devant incarcerated ?" 
 
 " Because it's me, me alone, do you understand, whose duty it is 
 here to look after that young girl, because I am charged with 
 watching her proceedings, with noticing her most trivial actions, 
 because she is suspected of holding a criminal correspondence with 
 the foreigner ; and if she is arrested the correspondence will cease, 
 and nothing be discovered ! while that, by feigning not to suspect 
 her, but by watching all her actions, the threads of the conspiracy, 
 if there is one, will be found out. Now, are you awake ? " 
 
 " Bravo ! " cried out all the guests. 
 
 "Why, that's very different, and I approve of you," said 
 Ducroquet. 
 
 "He has unbuttoned himself at last," observed Benoit to 
 Durouleau. 
 
 " I had rightly guessed him ; he is sent here to keep an eye on 
 the aristocrats, the suspected." 
 
 " Now, let us drink," said Prosper. 
 
 Then, casting his eyes on a very fine sabre that was hanging 
 against the wall, he rose from the table, took the sabre from the 
 hook, examined it, and finished by fastening it to his waist-belt. 
 
 " Sacrebleu ! Citizen Durouleau, this is a fine sabre." 
 
 "Yes, I had it from a marquis, who pretended his ancestors had 
 brought it from Palestine." 
 
 "And these are also very handsome pistols, prettily inlaid," 
 resumed Prosper, taking possession of a pair of pistols that were 
 placed on a shelf in the bookcase. 
 
 "They come from the same house as the sabre." 
 
 Prosper had stuck the pistols in the waist-band of his breeches^ 
 and, after admiring them, he cried : " Citizen Durouleau, I borrow 
 this sabre and these pistols of you." 
 
 " I do better," returned the fat man, " I make you a present of 
 those weapons." 
 
 "And you do well, for I should not have returned them to you." 
 
 " I am charmed with your frankness, and am happy to oblige 
 you." 
 
§2 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Hold — here's a fine fur cap, which I believe would also fit me." 
 
 So saying, Prosper put on his head an immense cap, shaped like 
 the foraging cap of an hussar, with the tapelled point hanging on 
 the shoulder, and which, being somewhat too large for the young 
 man's head, nearly covered his eyes ! 
 
 " Accept that cap, it will keep you warm," said Durouleau. 
 
 " Thank you. And now, citizens, is there nothing to do this 
 evening in the town, for the safety of the state." 
 
 On saying these words Prosper had drawn his sabre, and 
 flourished it over his head, while rolling his sparkling eyes around 
 him, so terrifying, that Cornelius and the Trappeur dared no longer 
 look at him, while the rest considered him with admiration. 
 
 " Faith," said Benoit, " I don't very well see what we could do 
 this evening ; it is night at present. We are very well at table." 
 
 " Do you know," said Ducroquet, " that the wind has this morn- 
 ing blown down the tree of liberty that was planted in the square ? " 
 
 " The tree of liberty is blown down, and you remain there like 
 gluttons round that table ! Ah, sacrebleu ! I, I am going to set 
 up again the tree of liberty, and all true patriots will follow me." 
 
 "But it's night," muttered Cornelius, emptying his glass. 
 
 " It's never night when glory illuminates us ! Come, let torches 
 and flambeaux be lighted, and forward, march ! Liberty for ever ! " 
 
 "He has certainly unbuttoned himself," said Benoit. 
 
 The orders of Prosper were executed on the spot. Durouleau 
 sent for torches ; they were lit ; one was given to each guest, and 
 out they went, shouting, singing the " Marseillaise " and " (Ja ira ! " 
 
 Prosper marched at the head of the troop, shouting and bellow- 
 ing ; a lighted torch in one hand, his drawn sabre in the other, and 
 embracing all the women he met on his way. There was something 
 terrifying in his aspect ; the fumes of the wine gave an extra- 
 ordinary eclat to his eyes ; and the singularity of his costume, the 
 manner in which he was armed, his singing, his shouting, his ges- 
 tures, altogether made him an object well calculated to make an 
 impression. 
 
 A crowd was soon seen hurrying after Prosper — everyone 
 pointing to him ; and when a timid passer-by ventured to ask 
 what was the matter, he was answered, — 
 
 " It's the man with the red breeches who is going to plant the 
 tree of liberty." 
 
 Durouleau's guest had now reached the square where the civic 
 tree had been blown down. Prosper called aloud for a pickaxe and 
 a spade ; and in a moment a dozen of each were presented to him. 
 The people offered their assistance, but he brutally pushed them 
 back ; he alone will replant the tree of the revolution — he alone 
 will have the honour of terminating the opus magnum. With 
 vigorous arm he breaks the ground, and in a short time has finished 
 his work, when, shewing the tree to the assembled crowd, he 
 said, — 
 
 " This time I'll be answerable the wind don't uproot it*.* 
 
 » 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 53 
 
 On every side arose shouts of applause, mixed with cries of, 
 c< The man with the red pair of breeches for ever ! " then, taking each 
 other's hands, Prosper led the way, chaunted forth the famous air 
 of " Ca ira ! " and they danced around the replanted emblem of 
 liberty. 
 
 After dancing for a long time, they at length separated, and 
 Prosper returned to Durouleau's — not without having received the 
 felicitations of the crowd, and hearty shakes of the hand from those 
 he had dined with, and who now felt the utmost consideration for 
 him. 
 
 Next day Prosper left his host's house, and proceeded to that 
 where Mademoiselle de Trevilliers resided. He passed the day in 
 walking round and watching for the moment when she should come 
 out. But no Camilla made her appearance ; she had come for a 
 moment to the window, but on seeing that man in red breeches, 
 hairy cap, and armed up to the very teeth— she had not recog- 
 nised Prosper — she was afraid, and dared not venture herself 
 outside. 
 
 Prosper did not return to Durouleau's till dusk, greatly dis- 
 appointed at being unable to tell Camilla he was watching over 
 her, and having no suspicion that it was himself who prevented 
 the count's daughter from coming out. 
 
 Several days passed on in this manner ; but Durouleau knew 
 that his guest was continually prowling round the house inhabited 
 by the emigrant's daughter, and he said to his friends, — 
 
 "The Citizen Carrot has not told us a lie; he has his eye 
 continually on the emigrant's daughter." 
 
 And whenever he again found himself in company with 
 Durouleau's friends, and Prosper heard the name of a person pro- 
 nounced they believed to be suspected, and whom they intended to 
 denounce, he would grasp the handle of his sabre, and, knitting his 
 brows, exclaim, — 
 
 " I forbid anyone whatever to denounce that person ! I am 
 here to keep watch over the suspected ; it belongs to me alone to 
 have them incarcerated at the proper moment ; and the first man 
 who shall think fit to interfere with my functions, I run him 
 through with this sabre." 
 
 "Very proper," said Durouleau ; "since he is here to lay ho]d 
 of the guilty, we ought not to go in his track." 
 
 And Trappeur whispered in Cornelius's ear, — 
 
 "I don't know if he is here to arrest anyone, but it seems to me 
 that he arrests nobody." 
 
 A fortnight had elapsed. One very fine morning Camilla, having 
 perceived no one about the house, ventured to go out and take a 
 short walk in the country along with her governess. 
 
 Scarcely had the ladies proceeded three hundred paces, when 
 the man in the red breeches appeared before them and barred their 
 passage. Camilla gave a scream, and turned round to fly ; but a well- 
 known voice stopped her, by saying,—- 
 
54 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " My God ! Mademoiselle, won't you permit me to speak to you 
 any more ? " 
 
 " What do I hear ! Is it possible it's you, Monsieur Prosper ? 
 You in that dress — with those arms ? " 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 " But they talk of nobody but you in Melun — every one trembles 
 at sight of you — they designate you by the name of the man with 
 the red pair of breeches ! You are quoted as an outrageous ter- 
 rorist — as a Septembrist ! " 
 
 " That's exactly what I wanted, mademoiselle ; for I hope it will 
 furnish me with the means of saving you. They believe me to be 
 set as a spy upon your actions ; and, at least, they don't denounce 
 you while seeing me continually watching your steps." 
 
 " Could it be ? What ! Monsieur Prosper, it's for me ! — it's to be 
 useful to me, you do all this ?" 
 
 Saying which, Camilla gave Prosper a look full of gratitude ; 
 that look was so sweet that, to deserve such, the young man would 
 have thrown himself into the midst of the greatest dangers ; and, 
 looking tenderly at her, he stammered out, — 
 
 "You will, then, permit me to follow you when you go out? 
 It won't make you angry to see me continually about your dwelling?" 
 
 " Doubtless not, since I now know it to be you. I am no longer 
 afraid ; on the contrary, it gives me courage." 
 
 Prosper was intoxicated with joy, and the time of their pro- 
 menade seemed very short to him. On the next day he again saw 
 Camilla ; then the next day following, and the succeeding ones ; 
 and when he did not see her, he looked at her house, her windows, 
 remaining whole hours upon sentry. And Durouleau said to him 
 every evening, when they were drinking together, — 
 
 " Sacredie, Citizen Carrot, if the government pays you for watch- 
 ing the emigrant's daughter, I must own you don't rob it ®f it's 
 money." 
 
 And Jeannette, the servant with the sparkling eyes, was quite 
 astonished that the young man in the red breeches had not yet the 
 idea of embracing her, of laughing with her, and answering the 
 amorous glances she gave him. 
 
 Prosper had been nearly a month at Melun, when, one morning, 
 looking over the public papers his host had just received, he read 
 the names of the persons last executed at Paris, by sentence of the 
 revolutionary tribunal. 
 
 All at once he turned as pale as death, his eyes grew dim, and 
 he staggered, muttering, — 
 
 " Derbrouck ! is it possible — that worthy banker, my benefactor, 
 dead ! dead ! — guillotined the day before yesterday at Paris ! " 
 
 " What's the matter with you there, Citizen Carrot ? " said 
 Durouleau, quite astonished at his guest's paleness — his agitation. 
 
 Without answering, Prosper rose from his seat, put on his cap, 
 fastened his sabre, took his pistols, and, shaking his host by the 
 hand, said to him, — 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 55 
 
 " Adieu ; I'm off for Paris." 
 
 " For Paris 1 How ! all at once, like that ? You have just re- 
 ceived orders then — have read something that concerns you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I must go to Paris even this very instant — duty calls 
 me there." 
 
 " Ah ! If it's duty — but at least you'll come back ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Faith, now look you ; the fact is, I like you, you are a brave 
 sans-culotte — you are a hard drinker — I am attached to you — I am 
 pleased with your company." 
 
 " Thank you, citizen ; I will try to return very shortly." 
 
 "But in your absence — that ci-devant's daughter, that little 
 aristocrat ? " 
 
 " You will keep watch over her ; I make you responsible to me 
 for her with your head." 
 
 " With my head, but—" 
 
 " Yes, Citizen Durouleau, it is to you I confide her. Swear to 
 me I shall again find Camilla on my return — that I shall still be 
 master of her fate." 
 
 " I swear to you, on the faith of an old Roman." 
 
 "Farewell. You have a horse — I will put it in requisition 
 that I may reach Paris the quicker. But make yourself easy ; I'll 
 bring it back to you, unless it breaks down on the road." 
 
 The fat man looked at Prosper with astonishment ; but, without 
 another word, the latter rushed out of the room, mounted the horse 
 that was in the stable, and took the road to Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FIRST REPRESENTATION OF EPICHARIS AND NERO. 
 
 Prosper in a short time cleared the ten leagues that separated 
 Paris from Melun ; not a single gendarme presented himself on his 
 passage to a,sk him for his papers, for his singular costume, his look 
 of defiance, the manner in which he was armed, announced a man 
 disposed to cut down the first who should offer to stop him. He 
 was taken for an agent of government ; and when he called for a 
 small glass of brandy, while his horse was taking breath for a 
 few minutes, he was served with a zeal and promptitude that 
 announced the terror he inspired. 
 
 Prosper arrived at his lodging. On entering the courtyard 
 he looked around for Goulard, greatly longing to try upon him the 
 sabre he had been presented with by Durouleau. But the porter 
 was no longer in the lodge, where he had been replaced by an old 
 woman. Prosper recognised with disgust that old fish fag who 
 
$6 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 went to bawl at the sections, Mother Gueuleton, who made herself 
 be called the Mother of the Cracks. 
 
 The young man left his horse in the courtyard, he looked at the 
 windows of Maximus's room, they were shut, and, though night had 
 set in, he perceived no light. He returned towards the porter's 
 lodge, and resolved to speak to Mother Gueuleton. 
 
 "It's you, then, who have succeeded our porter, Mother 
 Gueuleton?" 
 
 " Ah ! what's this you, my son, my jewel ? my blackguard of a 
 Prosper!" replied the old harridan, opening her toothless mouth 
 and bedaubing her nose with an enormous pinch of snuff. '-'And 
 where then do you come from, you little scamp ? to play the devil 
 again ? to run after some young wench ? for you are a famous rake 
 for your age. But I love rakes. Ah ! fichtre ! if I had been a 
 man what mischief I would have wrought ! Sacredie ! do you know 
 you are famously harnessed ; I have never known you look so suit- 
 able ! Where then have you prigged all that — your breeches makes 
 my mouth water ! " 
 
 " Mother Gueuleton, never mind what I am ; I want some 
 information." 
 
 " I'll give it you, my little Messidor. Ah ! what fine breeches ! 
 God's Sabbath Day ! yet this isn't decadi to be so swellish." 
 
 " Ah ! morbleu ! will you answer me, old hag ? " 
 
 " Don't put yourself in a passion, muscadin. I'm listening to 
 you." 
 
 " Is it true that the worthy Hollander, the banker, Derbrouck, 
 has been — " 
 
 " Guillotined ; yes, my little one. I own he was a very fine 
 man ; but one must certainly do justice on traitors, conspirators !" 
 
 " Conspire ; he — he had never thought of it ! " 
 
 "Ah ! then, I suppose you know more than the tribunal ? And 
 that famous Fouquier Tinville, the public accuser, who cooks you 
 up an accusation in the turn of a hand. Ah ! what a purveyor for 
 the guillotine ! and they say he is going to have it set up in the 
 tribunal itself, because it loses time to take away the condemned ; 
 and he finds things don't go on quick enough yet." 
 
 " But who is it then can have denounced my benefactor ? " 
 
 " Pardi, it's Leonidas ; he has boasted of it more than once." 
 
 " Goulard ! the wretch ! Where is he at this moment ? " 
 
 "This evening?" 
 
 " Yes, this evening." 
 
 " He's at the theatre of the Eepublic. They tell me it's the first 
 night of a new tragedy, Epi— Epichat — Epi something, faith I don't 
 exactly know what, but there's Epi in it." 
 
 "And the Citoyenne Derbrouck, poor woman ! what must be 
 her grief ! She is doubtless acquainted with her husband's fate ?" 
 
 " I can't sa} r ; in the first place the banker's wife set out for Passy 
 the day after her husband's arrest." 
 
 " And she is still there ?" 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. $7 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but I presuppose she won't remain there long, if she 
 
 is there still." . 
 
 On saying these words, the old woman gave a significant shrug. 
 
 "What do you mean by these words? You know something, 
 Mother Gueuleton— let's hear, speak out." 
 
 "In the first place, my son, I don't know what makes you so 
 bent on calling me Mother Gueuleton, since I have a thousand 
 times told you I've made myself the Mother of the Cracks, the 
 famous Cornelia, who engendered Gratecus— Eomans, you know." 
 
 " But that's not the question. What do you know touching the 
 Citoyenne Derbrouck. Why do you think she won't remain long 
 at Passy, if she is there still ? Answer ! I insist upon it, if not—" 
 
 On pronouncing these words, Prosper half unsheathed his sabre, 
 and his air had become so terrible, his look so determined, that the 
 old woman, though not entirely frightened, hastened to reply,— { 
 
 " Well, then, it is because the Citoyenne Derbrouck is also going 
 to be arrested." 
 
 " Arrested ! who told you that ? " 
 
 " Why pardi ! Leonidas. It's him who has also denounced her ; 
 he holds the order to nab her in his pocket to-day j but he thought 
 it best not to go with it himself." . _ 
 
 " That man has sworn then to be the death of that unfortunate 
 
 " Because they have conspired ! Leonidas is become very prepon- 
 derant at the section." ■. 
 
 " And Maximus has suffered it. Maximus ! so pure— so esteemed 
 a Kepublican ! " ■■ "; ,. _ 
 
 " He's no longer here : he has set off along with his mother ; 1 
 don't know where he's gone. He was out of work." 
 
 " Out of work ! how ?— but Herbert, the Pere Duschenes ? 
 
 " Herbert was guillotined the same day as the Citizen Derbrouck." 
 
 " And Maximus is no longer here to instruct— to guide me ! No 
 matter ' I will save my benefactress ! And you say Goulard has 
 the order? and that he is this evening at the theatre of the 
 
 e *" Oh i as for that, I'm sure of it : he has had a ticket from the 
 servant of Citizen Legouve, the author of Epi— of Epichat, in short, 
 
 of the tragedy. " . , . 
 
 " That's enough. Mother Gueuleton, look to my horse— give it 
 
 some oats." , . - v 
 
 " Bah ! you've got a horse at present. But then, what trade have 
 
 you been after?" .,..-« • ^ 
 
 "I shall probably want it this night. Adieu ! I'm going to the 
 theatre of the Eepublic." . 
 
 Prosper concealed his pistols in the inside pockets of his jacket, 
 and hastened to the Palais Egalite, where they were performing the 
 new tragedy. He was told that Goulard was in the theatre, and he 
 determined to find him, should he be obliged to search the house 
 through, to disturb the spectators, and even to interrupt the piece. 
 
58 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Fortunately for Prosper, who never thought he might have 
 occasion for money, his generous host had thought of it for him, 
 and had slipped a rouleau of crown pieces in his jacket-pocket, 
 which he with joy discovered on being asked for his ticket. Happy 
 at having no obstacle on that head, he took one of the front seats 
 in the boxes, and entered the theatre at the moment when the piece 
 began. 
 
 The theatre was full ; for even in the midst of those days of 
 terror, when everyone had reason to tremble for himself and his, 
 the French still preserved their taste for theatrical representations 
 — they must have spectacles after scaffolds ; they had shuddered in 
 the morning, they went to amuse themselves in the evening ; they 
 were still able to laugh at the jokes that were permitted on the 
 abuses of the day. Piis, Barre, Eadet, were commencing their 
 reputation and fortunate triumvirate ; in short, the great calamities 
 did not prevent the great successes at the theatre: for "Eobert, 
 Chef de Brigands," had an immense run ; and " Nicodemus in the 
 Moon," went through more than two hundred representations. 
 
 Prosper demanded a box to be opened for him. 
 
 " There's no room," said the box-openers. 
 
 " No room ! I must have room, sacrebleu ! for I have my ticket ; 
 and if you don't find me a place I don't let the piece begin." 
 
 At the noise Prosper was making in the lobby, up came a 
 controleur. The arrogant tone of the young man awed him, his 
 sabre frightened, his whole appearance intimidated him. The 
 controleur saw a bespoke box, in which there were only three 
 ladies ; he went and asked their permission to admit an important 
 personage attached to the government. 
 
 The ladies dared not refuse ; and they shuddered on seeing a 
 young man so strangely accoutred enter their box, his face covered 
 with dust and perspiration — for he had not given himself time to 
 wash — and grasping the handle of his sabre. 
 
 All intent upon the purpose which had brought him to the 
 theatre, Prosper did not think of even thanking the ladies who 
 had given him a place in their box ; already his looks were directed 
 on every side, in the hope of seeing Goulard, and caring but little 
 at being the object of universal attention, he every instant laid his 
 arm on the balustrade of the box — at the risk of weighing upon the 
 shoulders of the two ladies who occupied the first seat— and leant 
 with the half of his body outside, to try to see the better below, 
 above, and around him. 
 
 In the meantime, the tragedy had commenced ; the audience 
 wanted to hear Talma, whose reputation was then beginning, and 
 Monvel, who deserved his. Prosper was continually making a noise, 
 by moving about, by leaning over, first at one corner then at the 
 other. A few hushes, some cries of silence, had already been heard, 
 but Prosper paid no attention to them, continuing to move from 
 one corner to the other, and looking everywhere instead of on the 
 stage. At length, some one bolder than the rest called out, — 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 59 
 
 " Won't red breeches up there soon have finished his row ? " 
 
 The voice came from the pit. Prosper, who had heard it, leant 
 forward, and looked insolently at the mass of men beneath him. 
 
 " Yes, it's you we mean, citizen ! " resumed another ; " keep your- 
 self quiet a little, and let us hear and judge the tragedy ! — that's 
 what we came for." 
 
 " And I am come for something else," replied Prosper, with a 
 threatening look, "and, sacre Dieu! the first amongst you who 
 would like to make me keep quiet, has only to come up, and I'm 
 ready to try it on with him." 
 
 This challenge, addressed to the whole public, overawed the 
 multitude : we have often had the proof of one resolute man being 
 sufficient to stop, to make head against whole masses ; here, again, 
 all this pit, full of men, remained scared by the defiance given them 
 by a single one ; they looked with astonishment at the singular 
 person who had just given law to the whole audience ; and, with- 
 out answering him, let the new piece go on, which they endeavoured 
 to hear, notwithstanding the noise made by the man in the red 
 breeches. 
 
 Unable, from the place he occupied, to discover the person he 
 was in search of, Prosper quitted the box, slamming the door after 
 him. 
 
 The three ladies were enchanted at being rid of so troublesome 
 a neighbour ; the public believed that red breeches had quitted the 
 theatre ; everyone felicitated himself at being at length able to 
 hear the tragedy ; and soon they with transport applauded this line 
 addressed by Epicharis to the poet Lucas, whom she draws into the 
 conspiracy against Nero — 
 
 (t A good action is better than a good poem." 
 
 But the satisfaction of the public was again interrupted by the noise 
 made at the entrance of the orchestra. It is Prosper, who had gone 
 to that side of the house, and insisted upon forcing his way into it, 
 though they repeat to him that it is full, and as a proof of it, shew 
 him many persons obliged to stand squeezed together in the passage. 
 
 Prosper turns a deaf ear to all these representations, and, push- 
 ing the doorkeeper on one side, said, — 
 
 " Don't talk to me ! I have paid to go in everywhere ; if you 
 think I have not given enough, see ! here's money — I can pay over 
 again ; but I won't remain in the corridors." 
 
 And already he has opened the door. Without being frightened 
 at the sight of the crowd that encumbers the orchestra, he gives a 
 push with his elbow on the right, a blow with his fist on the left, 
 and still keeps making way, while the persons he is thrusting against 
 exclaim, — 
 
 " But, citizen, take care there — you are treading on my corns. 
 
 " Citizen, you'll break my back with your elbow, though I believe 
 you don't do it intentionally." 
 
6o The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " Believe as you like, I don't care a fig about it," mutters Prosper 
 continuing to work away with his feet and fists. 
 
 " Citizen, you have a place in the orchestra, then ? " 
 
 "It's possible." 
 
 "But, then, people come in between the acts, and not in the 
 middle of the scene, and disturb a whole audience in this manner." 
 
 Prosper still keeps on ; he has reached the benches, but he wants 
 to get into the centre of the pit, because from there he hopes more 
 easily to perceive Goulard. Behold him, then, treading his way 
 across the persons who are seated — trampling on the feet of some, 
 paying no attention to the complaints of the one, or the curses of 
 the other, and accompanied by the angry clamours of the pit, which, 
 tired of seeing an individual in an immense hairy cap thrusting him- 
 self through the ranks of the orchestra, cries out to him, — 
 
 " Sit down ! sit down ! " 
 
 " You are right," replies Prosper, turning towards the pit, and 
 looking at it with a nod ; " I am going to sit down, because I'm 
 tired of walking about." 
 
 So saying, he let himself fall on the bench ; but, as there was 
 no place empty, he necessarily fell upon the knees of someone, and 
 that someone bawled out to him, — 
 
 " Oh, citizen ! the handle of your sabre is hurting my belly ! 
 Equality ! fraternity ! you are smothering me ! Are you going to 
 remain on my knees, then ? " 
 
 "And where the devil will you have me place myself?" 
 
 " But it seems to me, my knees are not a place ! " 
 
 " Ah, sacrebleu ! since there's no other." 
 
 " But I can't see anything." 
 
 "What's that to me?" 
 
 "But—" 
 
 "Ah ! are not you going to hold your tongue ?" 
 
 At this moment a gentleman, seated by the side of the 
 person Prosper was sitting by, looked earnestly at him, and 
 said to him, — 
 
 "lam not mistaken ; I have seen you before ; I know you. We 
 have been in each other's company, unless I deceive myself, at the 
 Citizen Maximus Bertholin's." 
 
 At this name, Prosper in his turn examined the person who had 
 addressed him, and recognised Poupardot, whom he had in fact some- 
 times met with at the widow's. 
 
 " You are not mistaken, citizen ; I also know you ; you are a 
 friend of Maximus, the Citizen Poupardot — " 
 
 " It's myself ; and you are Prosper Bressange ! — But that cap 
 and the whole of your costume makes such an alteration in you. 
 Ah ! you are come to see the new piece of Citizen Legouve ! At 
 present it don't seem bad ; it contains some fine verses ; and except- 
 ing some speeches being too long — " 
 
 A groan that came from under Prosper then reminded Poupardot 
 that the friend who had accompanied him to the play was in a very 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 61 
 
 inconvenient posture, and squeezing himself up to his next neigh- 
 bour, he said to the newcomer, — 
 
 " Citizen Prosper, we however must make you a little room, for 
 you can't remain the whole evening sitting like that upon poor 
 Picotin." 
 
 "How ! I'm upon Citizen Picotin !" exclaimed Prosper, looking 
 round. "Ah, sacrebleu ! I am very sorry it's not his wife, for I 
 remember she's very pretty ;. but, however, in favour of your charm- 
 ing spouse, I'll try to find room between you two." 
 
 And, thanks to the efforts of Poupardot, who had succeeded in 
 making a little room, Prosper this time succeeded in seating himself 
 on the bench, and Picotin was able to see the performers. 
 
 Silence being at length restored, the piece went on in the midst 
 of universal applause. Poupardot, unwilling to lose a single verse, 
 was all eyes, all ears. As for Picotin, his new neighbour made him 
 quite uneasy ; he every now and then cast a side look at Prosper 
 and his sabre ; and at every glance he endeavoured to shuffle him- 
 self the farther from him. 
 
 Prosper, being now in the centre of the pit, had no longer occa- 
 sion to disturb anyone, in order to look on every side ; but he fre- 
 quently turned round, and paid no attention to the piece, still look- 
 ing for Goulard amongst the audience. 
 
 "It's fine ! it's very well versified ! " said Poupardot occasionally 
 to Prosper, who replied, — 
 
 " He ought, however, to be here ; Mother Gueuleton assured me 
 he was. Oh ! I must find him out ! " 
 
 Poupardot, not comprehending what affinity could exist between 
 Mother Gueuleton and the tragedy, ceased communicating his sensa- 
 tions to Prosper, and said to himself, — 
 
 " That young man seems to have had a rap on the head, or a 
 glass too much." 
 
 Picotin took good care not to address himself to Prosper : 
 he was afraid of him ; he feared he might take it into his head 
 to seat himself on his knees again ; and when Prosper turned 
 his eyes towards him, Euphrasia's husband kept his fixed on 
 the stage. Picotin was, however, forced to answer on beino- 
 appealed to by sundry elbowings in the ribs, on Prosper saying 
 to him, — 
 
 " Citizen, are you deaf ? " 
 
 " Me, citizen ! I flatter myself with having excellent ears." 
 
 " Because I've spoken several times to you without your answer- 
 ing me." 
 
 " That's singular, for I haven't heard you ; but the actors make 
 such a noise ; it's unbearable." 
 
 "I was asking you if you knew Goulard— whether you had seen 
 him here ? " 
 
 "Goulard ! who is Goulard ?" 
 
 " A vagabond ! a scoundrel ! whose back I hope to break this 
 evening." 
 
62 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Citizen, I don't know him at all ! I beg you to believe he is 
 not of my friends ! " 
 
 Prosper ceased addressing himself to Picotin, but he was vexed — 
 in despair, at being unable to see the man he was looking for. The 
 piece was drawing to a conclusion; Nero was on the stage, and Talma, 
 who represented the character, had just been loaded with applause, 
 on exclaiming, — 
 
 " Of the world's empire — now, a dagger's all 
 That's left to Osesar in his mighty fall ! " 
 
 At this moment, Prosper utters a cry of joy, and rises exclaim- 
 ing,— 
 
 " There he is — it's him ! up there at the gallery entrance ! He 
 sha'n't escape me this time !" 
 
 Then he again rushes across the persons who were seated, and 
 prepared to leave the orchestra by the same means he had employed 
 to force his way into it. But the patience of the audience is 
 exhausted ; this time the whole pit, in a mass, calls for a stop to be 
 put to the insolence of the unknown who thus disturbed them in 
 their pleasures, and demands the intervention of the armed force. 
 Two gendarmes appear at the door of the orchestra at the moment 
 when Prosper was leaving it, and one of them was going to put his 
 hand on Prosper's collar, saying to him, — 
 
 " In the name of liberty, I arrest you ! " 
 
 Prosper looked at the gendarme, give a shrug, and replied, — 
 
 " My brave fellow, you have just said a most stupid thing. You 
 arrest me in the name of liberty ? Does not liberty signify, in the 
 first place, that we ought to be free ; consequently, we can say and 
 do whatever we think lit." 
 
 The gendarme reflected a moment ; then resumed, — 
 
 "Then, I arrest you in the name of the Eepublic." 
 
 " Ah ! that's different ! And I, in the name of liberty, capsizeyou ! " 
 
 And, putting one leg behind the gendarme, who had stepped 
 forward to seize him, Prosper stretched him on his back, and gave 
 a violent muzzier to his comrade ; then, darting into the corridor, 
 disappeared through the midst of the assembled crowd, which made 
 way for him, saying, — 
 
 " Bah ! we must let him go ! he looks like a brave sans-culotte ! 
 He has been drinking a little — that's all. He wasn't in a state 
 to listen to the tragedy ! " 
 
 Prosper had left the theatre, because he reflected it wasn't by 
 getting himself put into the guard-house he could punish Goulard 
 and save Madame Derbrouck, but by watching for the former on 
 his return home ; and he, therefore, resolved to wait for him in the 
 street near his dwelling. 
 
 Half an hour elapsed ; then another ; Prosper feared the porter 
 had gone to pass the night in some wine- house, for the play must 
 long have been finished. He knew not what to do, when heavy 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 63 
 
 steps were heard in the now solitary street. Prosper listened, and 
 shuddered with joy on believing he recognised the footfall of the 
 man he was waiting for. He placed himself a few paces from the 
 coach entrance ; the person drew nigh : it was Goulard. Prosper 
 placed himself before him, and barred his passage. 
 
 " What do you want ? I haven't a sous ; I have drank all I had 
 about me," said Goulard ; "so you can't rob me." 
 
 " I am not a robber : look well at me, Goulard ; this lamp gives 
 light enough : you ought to know me again." 
 
 " Why, that should be the voice of that rake-hell Prosper." 
 
 "Yes, it is Prosper, who has been some weeks away from Paris, 
 and who returns too late to save his benefactor, but who will not 
 suffer you to have his unfortunate wife arrested." 
 
 " What rigmarole are you chaunting ? Let me alone ; I want 
 to go home to bed." 
 
 " Oh, no ! you sha'n't escape me." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Would you detain me by force ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Help! the—" 
 
 " Silence ! not a word, wretch ! or I blow your brains out ! " 
 
 And Prosper drawing one of his pistols from his jacket, put the 
 muzzle to Goulard's forehead. The porter stood mute and trem- 
 bling, while he submissively muttered, — 
 
 " I am silent. What do you desire of me ? " 
 
 " You have availed yourself of my absence to have the banker 
 Derbrouck arrested." 
 
 " It wasn't me." 
 
 "You lie!" 
 
 " He was guilty." 
 
 " That's false ; you have invented lies to deceive his judges ; but, 
 in short, since it is now too late for me to save him, give me, at 
 least, the order of arrest you have obtained against his widow." 
 
 " Against his widow ? Who has told you ? " 
 
 " You have denounced her also ; it's useless to deny it ; and you 
 have obtained an order to have her arrested." 
 
 " I swear to you — " 
 
 " Will you have me blow your brains out ? " 
 
 " Well then— it's true ! but that order — I haven't got it now." 
 
 " What have you done with it ? " 
 
 " I have delivered it to the agents of authority." 
 
 " You have delivered it — and when ? " 
 
 " This very evening, before I went to the theatre." 
 
 " Thus the Citoyenne Derbrouck — " 
 
 " Will be arrested to-morrow at daybreak ! " 
 
 " Ah, monster ! I ought to kill yon, but I don't know how to 
 assassinate. Here, >take one of these pistols ; defend yourself. 
 
 "Me fight with pistols ! I won't." 
 
 " Defend yourself, I tell you." 
 
 "I don't fight duels." 
 
64 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " You prefer going to denounce me ; but it sha'n't be this night, 
 at least. I'll hinder your running." 
 
 Changing the direction of his pistol, Prosper lowered the barrel, 
 fired, and broke Goulard's leg, who fell, vomiting forth curses. The 
 young man hastened to the house for his horse, which he found tied 
 up in the courtyard. 
 
 " Well then, my son, my pet," cried out Mother Gueuleton to 
 him, " tell me now all about the tragedy— Epichat, Epi— something. 
 I'm told there's talk of the Mother of the Cracks in it." 
 
 But, without answering her, Prosper mounted his horse, and took 
 the road to Passy full gallop. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE BELVEDERE OP PASST. 
 
 Prosper urged on his horse ; for want of spurs, he multiplied his 
 kicks — stimulated it with his voice, and lashed it with the bridle, 
 so that he had soon cleared the short distance that separates Passy 
 from the capital. He arrived at the banker's country house, situate 
 in the Rue Basse, near the Rue de l'Eglise : there was an admirable 
 view from a little belvedere built on the top of the house, whence 
 were discovered all the windings of the Seine, the surrounding 
 country, and a part of Paris. Madame Derbrouck took pleasure in 
 passing the greater portion of her time in that belvedere, where she 
 often had her infant's cradle carried ; and, while watching it, her 
 eyes were turned towards Paris, in the hope of seeing her husband, 
 whom she still expected, return, for her servants had carefully con- 
 cealed from her the terrible news, fearing that, on learning her 
 husband's death, her health might experience a shock fatal in her 
 situation. Prosper knocked lightly at the coach entrance ; he was 
 afraid of alarming the inmates of the house; but he, however, 
 wanted to be heard. At the second knock, the gardener, who was 
 also porter, half opened his window, overlooking the street, and 
 inquired who knocked. 
 
 "Me, my good Germain, me— Prosper: don't you know my 
 voice?" 
 
 " Ah, certainly ; I recognise you, my child. Ah, good God ! 
 what brings you here at this hour? You perhaps don't know 
 where to get a bed ? Wait, I'll come down." 
 
 The gardener slipped on his trousers, and opened the gates, when 
 Prosper rode in, dismounted, and said to Germain, — 
 
 " Where is your mistress ?" 
 
 " Up there ; I hope the poor lady's asleep. Ah, my poor Prosper, 
 do you know that our good master — " 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. • 65 
 
 "I know all; I heard the horrible news at Melun. But, his 
 wife?" 
 
 " She is ignorant of it ; I and the other servants have concealed 
 it from her these three days. In her situation — suckling her infant 
 — it might do her a deal of harm." 
 
 " You are right, Germain ; you are all of you worthy people here. 
 You really love your mistress ? " 
 
 "Pardi! it's natural; she has never shewn us anything but 
 kindness." 
 
 " Ah, my friend \ gratitude is now no longer natural ; it is become 
 an extraordinary virtue. But I must absolutely speak to Madame 
 Derbrouck." 
 
 "What! this night?" 
 
 " Without doubt, this instant ; there is no time to lose if we 
 wish to save her." 
 
 "Oh, my God ! is she in danger?" 
 
 " They are coming to arrest her at daybreak — this night per- 
 haps." 
 
 " Arrest her ! " 
 
 " Yes, the monster who has denounced the husband has also just 
 denounced the widow. He makes use of the terror he inspires in 
 his section to gratify his private revenge : and that's how so many 
 pretended patriots dare to say that they serve the Republic." 
 
 " Ah ! this news makes me quite a child again." 
 
 "It's courage, and, above all, activity, we must have now. 
 Don't let us awake the other servants ; it's useless. Let us go up 
 to madame ; you will knock gently, and warn her of my arrival." 
 
 " Yes, yes — let us go up." 
 
 The poor gardener was quite bewildered ; while wishing to 
 make haste, he no longer knew what he was doing ; he wanted to 
 put on a jacket, that he might not appear before his mistress half 
 dressed, but couldn't find his clothes, nor know where to put his 
 hand on a candle. 
 
 At length, with Prosper's assistance, he succeeded in dressing 
 himself, but went trembling upstairs, saying to the young man, — 
 
 " Let us go softly, that we mayn't frighten the poor lady at 
 first." 
 
 Prosper followed the gardener, and seeing him still going up, 
 without stopping at Madame Derbrouck's apartment on the first 
 floor, he thought his trouble prevented his remarking where he 
 was ; and, pulling him gently by the sleeve, he said to him, — 
 
 " Where, then, are we going to ? we are passing the first floor." 
 
 " I know it well ; I am going right," replied the gardener, still 
 ascending. 
 
 "How ! is not Madame Derbrouck's apartment on the first 
 floor?" 
 
 " Yes, but you don't know, my brave Prosper, that since her 
 husband has been arrested, that poor lady passes all her days in the 
 belvedere, hoping the sooner to see him come back ; and these three 
 
 E 
 
66 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 days since — three days ! exactly the time when he was guillotined ! 
 — well, then, since that time madame has fancied to have a bed taken 
 up into the belvedere, where she sleeps, that, as soon as she wakes, 
 she may have her eyes on the road to Paris." 
 
 Prosper stopped ; he no longer ascended the stairs ; his eyes 
 were filled with tears ; his heart was full. After a few moments 
 given to grief, he again hurried after the gardener, saying to him- 
 self, — 
 
 " We must no longer give way to tears." 
 
 They reached the top of the house, and arrived on the terrace 
 where the belvedere was built, when Prosper and the gardener 
 walked softly along, that they mightn't waken Madame Derbrouck. 
 On coming to the door of the belvedere they stopped and listened, 
 when they heard this verse sung in a low and melancholy tone : — 
 
 " Poor Jacques, when I was by thy side, 
 How happy then was I ! 
 But now, when far from thee I hide, 
 I pine in misery." 
 
 It was the romance of Jean Jacques Pousseau, then in vogue, 
 and which Madame Derbrouck was singing while rocking her in- 
 fant, because the melancholy music and words of that air were in 
 unison with her feelings. 
 
 " She is not asleep," said Prosper ; " knock at the door, Germain." 
 
 The gardener obeyed, and immediately Madame Derbrouck cried 
 out, in a trembling voice, — 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 " I, madame : your gardener, Germain." 
 
 " And what do you want so late, my good Germain ? " 
 
 " I am not alone, madame ; Prosper, the young printer, is with 
 me ; he is just arrived, and would wish to speak to madame— about 
 something — very important." 
 
 " Wait— I'll open the door." 
 
 And Madame Derbrouck opened it ; for, not being yet in bed, 
 she was still in her plain evening dress. By the paleness of her 
 countenance — the painful expression of her features, they saw that 
 her mental sufferings — her uneasiness and sitting up, were rapidly 
 destroying her health. Prosper went in, followed by the gardener, 
 and respectfully saluted Madame Derbrouck, who said to him, — 
 
 " It's you, Prosper ! it's a very long time since I saw you ; not, 
 I believe, since one evening when we met at your friend's, Maximus 
 Bertholin's. Ah ! it was the very night when they came to arrest 
 my poor husband ; for you doubtless know he is arrested ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, I know it," replied the young man, casting his 
 eyes on the floor, that he might not encounter the looks of Madame 
 Derbrouck. 
 
 " Yes, my friend, they have arrested my husband ! And why ? 
 what has he done ? Ah ! I swear to you he has never formed any 
 plot against the Republic* He was acquainted with Dumouriez, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 67 
 
 that is true ; but Dumouriez was theu fighting for France ; and 
 since he has gone over to the foreigner, my husband has no longer 
 had any connection with him. Ah ! I have no doubt of their dis- 
 covering Derbrouck's innocence, which makes me every moment 
 hope to see him return to my arms ; and just now, when you 
 knocked, I was so overpowered ! — I believed it was my husband 
 who had come back. But you are perhaps come to give me some 
 news of him ? you have perhaps seen him in prison, or he has given 
 you a letter for me ? Ah ! you have done right in coming, no matter 
 at what hour ! Well, Prosper, speak then." 
 
 Prosper checked the tears that were swelling in his breast ; he 
 could no longer find words to express himself. The confidence of 
 the now desolate widow was so great — her love for her husband was 
 so real, that the destruction of her error might at the same time be 
 the destruction of her life. 
 
 "Well, then, Prosper, you don't answer," resumed Madame 
 Derbrouck, astonished at Prosper's silence ; who at length recovered 
 himself, and said to her, — 
 
 " Pardon, madame, pardon me ; it is not — I am not come here 
 in the dead of the night for the purpose you imagine." 
 "How? you have not seen my husband ?" 
 " No, madame ; but I have learnt that you also are to be 
 arrested, and I have galloped all the way from Paris to tell you to 
 fly before daybreak." 
 
 " To arrest me ! they are coming to arrest me also ? me ! " replied 
 Madame Derbrouck, in a tone that shewed more astonishment than 
 fear. 
 
 " Yes, madame, I have sure proof of it ; they will perhaps be 
 here before daybreak. You plainly see there is no time to lose. 
 I will be your guide ; to where I know not yet— but I will save 
 you. Oh ! trust yourself to me without fear." 
 
 " Thank you, Prosper — thank you, my friend," she replied with 
 a melancholy smile. Ah ! I neither doubt the goodness of your 
 heart, nor your courage, but I cannot accept your generous assist- 
 ance. I will not." 
 
 " What, madame ! you will not save yourself from an unjust 
 arrest ? " 
 
 "No ! for, in arresting me, they are going, I hope, to let me 
 rejoin my husband. I will supplicate them to confine me in his 
 prison ; they will not be able to refuse me ; and you will see that 
 this arrest, far from being a misfortune, is going to fulfil my dearest 
 wish. I am weary of being so long separated from Derbrouck, and 
 I am going to see him again. Ah, Prosper ! I have no desire to save 
 myself ; and I, on the contrary, shall with joy behold the arrival of 
 those men who are going to conduct me to my husband." 
 
 Prosper was thunderstruck, and remained for a moment unable 
 to reply. 
 
 " But- madame, is it not uncertain they will consent to confine 
 you along with your husband ? We must not even hope for it." 
 
68 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Why would they refuse me ? am I not Derbrouck's wife ? I 
 will go down on my knees to them." 
 
 " They will not listen to you." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! my love for my husband cannot be a crime in their 
 eyes : on the contrary, it will move them to pity us." 
 
 " But your infant, madame — your daughter you are suckling ; 
 you, then, are going to abandon her ? and what will become of her, 
 deprived of the mother who has twice given her life ? " 
 
 Madame Derbrouck remained for a moment overcome, and her 
 eyes turned painfully towards her child's cradle ; but soon her fea- 
 tures again brightened up with hope, and she exclaimed, — 
 
 "I will take her with me ; they can't prevent my keeping the 
 infant I am "suckling ; and that will be again another motive to in- 
 duce them to yield to my prayer, and let me rejoin my husband. 
 Ah ! I repeat to you, Prosper, far from fearing, I desire the arrival 
 of those men ; they cannot come too soon ! for I have now been 
 separated a month from Derbrouck, and my courage begins to fail 
 me. I have only had this letter from him ; he has been unable to 
 write more than once. This letter I read over again every instant ; 
 it is very mournful, however, though one sees he wished to console 
 me. Ah ! it's because he is also weary of being far away from me. 
 Here — listen, Prosper, I am going to read you my husband's letter." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck took a letter all rumpled from her bosom, 
 and approaching the light, read it, dwelling upon every word — 
 seeking by that means to make the letter longer. 
 
 " My Tender Friend, — I write to thee from the Luxembourg, 
 where I am detained, along with a crowd of other unfortunates not 
 more guilty than myself. How long are the days when away from 
 thee ! and when, then, will end this captivity I have not deserved ? 
 I long to appear before my judges ; I have often demanded it, and 
 they content themselves with replying, with an ironical look, ' You 
 are in a great hurry ; your turn will come soon enough.' These 
 people don't comprehend what we suffer when separated from one's 
 wife, from one's child ! And thou also, I am sure, art greatly tor- 
 tured ; but do not abandon thyself to grief ; think of thy child, of 
 our little Pauline ; it is for her sake thou must keep up thy courage. 
 Adieu, dear wife ; my trial will take place before the end of this 
 decade ; I therefore hope soon to fiud myself in thy arms. The 
 gaoler has permitted me to send you this letter ; make a handsome 
 present to the bearer. Embrace Pauline for me. My God ! when, 
 when shall I be with you ? ;; 
 
 Madame Derbrouck could not finish reading without being more 
 than once interrupted by tears and sobs ; when, going up to the 
 cradle of her infant, she kissed its calm and cloudless forehead, 
 ejaculating, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ! too long has he been away from us ; every day I 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 6g 
 
 feel my courage diminish. Ah, Prosper ! you plainly see it is time 
 I rejoined my husband ! " 
 
 The young man no longer attempted to utter a word, for he 
 would be forced to tell the banker's wife that he was no more ; he 
 would be forced to destroy that hope which still sustained the wife 
 and mother ; and a secret shuddering, an icy chill, froze the heart of 
 Prosper, at the sole idea of the terrible despair that revelation would 
 occasion. Old Germain was also mute ; the poor man kept himself 
 in a corner of the chamber, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the 
 floor ; while Prosper, leaning against the window that commanded 
 a view of the road, seemed buried in reflection. 
 
 In this manner a considerable time elapsed. Madame Derbrouck 
 was seated by the cradle of her child, which was peaceably sleeping 
 in the midst of persons a prey to a thousand uneasy thoughts. At 
 that age we are acquainted only with physical sufferings, which 
 is already quite enough. 
 
 Soon, a faint light was seen on the horizon ; Prosper perceived 
 it, and shuddered as he exclaimed, — 
 
 " Daylight ! here is daylight, madame ! " 
 
 " Ah ! so much the better, Prosper/* 5 she replied, smiling ; " I 
 see it appear with pleasure, for these men will soon be here. You 
 was told they would come this morning, was you not?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, madame," replied Prosper, mournfully, and hurriedly 
 pacing up and down the room. 
 
 "I will tell them to take me instantly to the Luxembourg, for 
 it's there my husband is confined ? " 
 
 " But, madame," exclaimed Prosper, as if struck with a sudden 
 idea, "it seems to me — yes — I have heard that none but men 
 are put in that house ; the women are imprisoned elsewhere ; thus 
 you see you are wrong to let yourself be arrested ; you will under- 
 go a captivity that will not enable you to rejoin your husband." 
 
 "You are deceiving me, Prosper; you tell me that to determine 
 me to escape ; but I — I am persuaded the women also go to the 
 Luxembourg ; and if I was only to see my husband there through 
 the iron gates but one hour — but one moment in the day— ah ! 
 that would still be better than being so far away from him." 
 
 Several loud knocks were now heard at the front gate. 
 
 "It's them !" joyfully exclaimed Madame Derbrouck, while the 
 old gardener covered his face with his hands, and Prosper let him- 
 self fall on a chair, sighing, — 
 
 " Oh my God ! and I have not been able to save her ! " 
 
 "Well then, Prosper," said Madame Derbrouck, "why this 
 terror ? is it then for me to set you the example of courage ? Come 
 come, let us go down ; we mustn't make these gentlemen wait. Go 
 and open the gates, Germain. Prosper, will you be kind enough 
 to carry my child's cradle ? Poor little thing ! she is still asleep : 
 let us try not to wake her." 
 
 Prosper took up the cradle, and followed Madame Derbrouck, 
 who w T ent down to her apartment on the first floor, where she calmly 
 
?0 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 awaited the agents of the Eepublic. Old Germain had opened the 
 gates, and already all the other servants were on foot, alarmed by 
 the knocking. 
 
 The court-yard was soon occupied by gendarmes, and three men, 
 one of them holding the warrant in his hand, appeared before 
 Madame Derbrouck. 
 
 " Citoyenne, you must follow us," said one of the agents : 
 " behold the order that enjoins us to conduct you to prison, as a 
 suspected person." 
 
 " I was expecting you, citizens," she calmly replied ; " I knew 
 they were to send this morning to arrest me ; and see ! I was 
 already getting myself ready." 
 
 " What ! you knew it, and you have not escaped," replied the 
 agent with an air of surprise. " Itte well ; it proves you have 
 confidence in the justice of the revolutionary tribunal ; that may 
 be of service to you with your judges." 
 
 " And why should I have escaped ? Captivity cannot frighten 
 me, since it re-unites me to all I love. But, in the first place, you 
 will permit me to take my infant along with me, won't you ? My 
 child is only eleven months old ; I am suckling it — I can't part 
 from it." 
 
 " Oh ! infants at eleven months : what could the Eepublic do 
 with them ? " cried one of the three agents, who seemed to labour 
 beneath the weight of his belly and his triple chin, and who kept 
 looking continually round the chamber, behind the curtains, and 
 even under the furniture. " No, no, you will leave your picaninny 
 here." 
 
 " Separate me from my child ! " exclaimed Madame Derbrouck, 
 running to throw her arms round the cradle. " Oh ! never ! 
 citizens, you have, perhaps, children yourselves ; ah ! it's in their 
 name I supplicate you to let me take my child with me." 
 
 The agent who had spoke first, and who seemed to have authority 
 over his companions, appeared touched with the mother's despair, 
 and thus addressed his colleague,— 
 
 " Why deprive the citoyenne of the infant she is suckling : she 
 is fulfilling one of woman's most sacred duties ; and the Eepublic 
 cannot blame us for shewing some respect for her situation." 
 
 The fat man contented himself with a shrug, and shaking his 
 belly, muttered, — 
 
 " As you like ! But, to fill the prisons with little aristocrats, 
 when there's hardly room left for the big 'uns — " 
 
 " You may take your infant, citoyenne," resumed the principal 
 agent, turning towards Madame Derbrouck. 
 
 " Ah ! thank you ! thank you ! citizens ! " cried the mother, 
 giving those who came to arrest her a sweet smile. " And now I 
 have but one prayer more to make you, and I again hope you will 
 not reject it." 
 
 " What is it, citoyenne?" 
 
 " My husband is also a prisoner j he is at the Luxembourg. He 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 71 
 
 has now been detained a month, and the time seems very long to 
 me ; be kind enough to imprison me with him ; or, if it is not per- 
 mitted me to be in the same room, at least, let not mine be too far 
 from it — that I may see him from my windows, sometimes speak to 
 him. Ah ! citizens, don't refuse me this favour — put me in the 
 same prison with my husband." 
 
 While Madame Derbrouck was speaking, the three agents looked 
 at each other in silent surprise ; two of them seemed affected, but 
 the one who had already wanted to separate the mother from her 
 child, soon snappishly cried out, — 
 
 " What are you chaunting to us — with your husband, and the 
 same prison ? Was not your husband the banker Derbrouck, that 
 Hollander, that friend of Dumouriez — " 
 
 " Yes, citizen, he is — " 
 
 " Well then ! he has been guillotined these four days ! a 
 
 On hearing these frightful words, the unfortunate woman 
 uttered no shriek, but all her blood rushed from the extremities 
 to the heart, and she would have fallen on the floor, had not 
 Prosper darted forward and caught her in his arms. 
 
 " You have killed her ! you have killed her ! " he exclaimed, 
 carrying Madame Derbrouck to her bed, while a femme de chambre 
 ran and tried to recal her to life. 
 
 " Noiroud," said the principal agent to the fat man, " there was 
 no need of acquainting the citoyenne so suddenly with her husband's 
 death." 
 
 " How could I think she didn't know it ? " replied Citizen 
 Noiroud, rolling his stupid eyes around him. "A man who has 
 been executed these four days ! It's well enough known : it has 
 been cried in the streets. I thought she was only making fun of 
 us." 
 
 " And what are we to do now ? That woman's in a dangerous 
 state." 
 
 " Bah ! bah ! she'll come to in the coach ; the air will do her 
 good." 
 
 " In the coach ! " cried Prosper, placing himself between the bed 
 and the agents. "Could you really have the courage to take a 
 dying woman away — to carry her senseless to a prison, for her to 
 expire there without help, without friends ! Oh ! citizens, you will 
 not do that ; for you would then be tigers, not men." 
 
 "What does this fellow want?" cried Noiroud, looking at 
 Prosper with astonishment j " I'd bet he's an ' epauletier,' one of 
 Rousin's partizans." 
 
 " What do I want ? I want you to leave the citoyenne here, in 
 her house ; she can't leave it. I'll be answerable for her not 
 attempting to escape ; but, at least, she sha'n't go to prison at 
 Paris." 
 
 " Ah, you'll be responsible for it '{ You — and who are you, pray, 
 to take so much upon yourself ? " 
 
 * A true Republican — a brave sans-culotte — who fears neither you 
 
J 2 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 nor anyone. Will'you go down into the court-yard and try me ? I 
 have a pair of excellent pistols." 
 
 The Citizen Noiroud gave a shrug and looked at his colleagues, 
 while the principal agent said to Prosper, — 
 
 "Citizen, I believe in the purity of your principles, and own 
 that I feel for the deplorable situation of this young mother ; but 
 what would you have us do ? We have orders to arrest her, to take 
 her to Paris." 
 
 " And if I was to obtain permission, from the committee of public 
 safety, to let her remain here under the surveillance of a guardian ? " 
 
 " Oh ! then there would be no difficulty ! But, for that purpose 
 it would be necessary to go to Paris, to find one of the members of 
 the committee, and — " 
 
 " I charge myself with that. I have a horse below — you have 
 seals to place here. "Wait for me ! Oh ! promise me to wait one 
 hour ! — I swear to you I'll be back in an hour." 
 
 " Well, then, be it so ; we will wait one hour." 
 
 Prosper scarcely heard these last words ere he was in the court- 
 yard and on his horse. He forced the poor animal into a gallop, and 
 disappeared on the road to Paris, while Germain followed him with 
 his eyes, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Poor lad ! may he succeed ! " 
 
 While the agents of the government were taking an inventory of 
 the furniture, examining papers, and placing the seals wherever 
 they thought fit, Madame Derbrouck still remained insensible ; in 
 vain did her servants lavish on her every attention ; she did not re- 
 turnto life ; and Citizen Noiroud, who, while bustling backwards and 
 forwards, cast his eyes on the bed, said, — 
 
 " I believe the young shark with the red breeches will have 
 taken a useless journey : this aristocrat will be dead before his re- 
 turn." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Germain ; " it would, perhaps, be better 
 for her never to open her eyes again ! But her baby ! her poor 
 child!" 
 
 Time passed away ; the seals were placed ; the fat Noiroud 
 looked at the time-piece, and said, — 
 
 " We have been here a full hour ; he don't return. We must 
 have her carried into the carriage. I don't want to stop here all 
 day ; for I've business to look after at Paris : there's to be a meeting 
 at my section — we haven't too many orators, and I am one of 'em. I 
 wish to go." 
 
 " A moment, Noiroud," said the principal agent, looking at his 
 watch ; " I have promised the young sans-culotte to wait one hour ; 
 it wants five minutes yet." 
 
 " You are very moderate to-day, colleague ! If that's the way 
 you serve the Republic ! " 
 
 " I serve it better than you, perhaps ; for I don't make it to 
 be detested." 
 
 The orator could find no answer ; when, at the same moment, a 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. ^3 
 
 great noise was heard in the court. It was Prosper, who had 
 returned, and who, to arrive in time, had urged on his horse without 
 giving it a moment's rest, and the poor animal fell dead beneatli 
 him as it entered the court ; but the cavalier rushed upstairs to 
 the agents and presented to them a paper he held in his hand, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 " Here's the permission ! I have succeeded. I don't know what 
 I said to the members present ; but I know they listened to me 
 without interrupting me ; and when I had finished, one of them 
 signed and give me this paper, saying, £ Serve the Republic as you 
 serve your friends, and it may reckon upon you.' " 
 
 " Yes ; this paper is authentic," said the principal agent ; "the 
 citoyenne may remain in her house ; they merely give her a 
 guardian, to be chosen by me: it's the porter I appoint for guardian. 
 Come, comrades, we can go." 
 
 " Let us go," said Citizen Noiroud ; " but it wasn't worth while 
 putting us out of our way for this." 
 
 Prosper caught hold of the agent's hand, and pressed it between 
 his ; it was worth a thousand thanks ; and, besides, these two men 
 had comprehended each other. 
 
 At the end of a few moments there no longer remained any 
 agent of authority in the house ; and all the servants blessed Pros- 
 per, who had prevented their mistress being taken away. 
 
 The young man went to the bed, and assisted the women in 
 their endeavours to restore Madame Derbrouck. For some moments, 
 a convulsive respiration had seemed to announce the termination of 
 that crisis ; everyone desired and dreaded the moment when the 
 unfortunate would return to a consciousness of her whole mis- 
 fortune. That instant, however, arrived : Madame Derbrouck 
 opened her eyes, half raised herself, looked round, and gave a 
 painful shriek, saying, — 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ! it's not possible ! They have not killed him ! 
 it's a dream, a horrible dream I have had ! " 
 
 On seeing everyone around her in tears, she comprehended it 
 was no dream. Her look then became fixed — her reason, perhaps, 
 was going to abandon her ; but Prosper had foreseen that moment, 
 and, running to the cradle, he took the infant, and presented it to 
 the mother. 
 
 At sight of her child, Madame Derbrouck burst into tears, and 
 she clasped it to her bosom, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Yes, yes ! you are right, Prosper : I must live for her : I must 
 bear up against this frightful blow, that Pauline may not be an 
 orphan. Ah ! I will try not to die ! To live without him ! — it 
 would be eternal wretchedness. But, my daughter ! my poor little 
 one ! — dear child, they have killed thy father !" 
 
 The poor mother could not finish ; tears stifled her voice, and all 
 around her could only reply by sobs. 
 
 When this fit of despair was replaced by calmer grief the 
 servants left the room, and Madame Derbrouck said to Prosper, — 
 
74 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " How is it that I am still here ? Did not those men come to 
 take me away 1 " 
 
 " Yes, madame ; but I have been to Paris — to the committee of 
 public safety — to ask permission for you to remain a prisoner in 
 your own house. I have said you was suckling your child, and 
 they have yielded to my prayers. There are still some men who 
 respect the sweetest sentiments of nature. They have permitted 
 you to remain here. And that man — the chief of the agents charged 
 with arresting you — he, also, has been touched with your despair ; 
 he has named the porter your guardian. That's plain enough it 
 would be easy for you to save yourself." 
 
 "Thank you, Prosper. I owe you much, my friend. Ah! 
 doubtless, you knew of the fatal event — you knew that my husband 
 no longer existed, and you dared not tell it me. I now comprehend 
 the cause of your sadness — of your mournful silence, when I told 
 you I should be happy to go and rejoin my husband. And they 
 have killed him ! But he had done nothing ! — you know it well. 
 Come, I have said I would take courage. I will try to live for my 
 child ! But I will not save'myself : I will remain here — here I will 
 await my fate. You must be fatigued, my friend : so many 
 journeys, so much trouble taken for me. Go and rest yourself — 
 go, I beg of you ; think that your health is precious ; that you are 
 now my sole support— the sole support of this infant. Oh ! yes, 
 for I greatly fear ; go, my friend ; I have no doubt of Germain 
 contriving so that you shall want for nothing." 
 
 Prosper yielded to the solicitations of Madame Derbrouck ; he, 
 besides, felt great need of sleep ; for, since he had rode full gallop 
 from Melun, he had not reposed for a single instant ; and it is vain 
 for us to be strong and only eighteen years old : we still perceive 
 we are not made of iron. 
 
 Germain shewed Prosper to a small chamber where there was 
 a good bed. He threw himself on it, and was not long in falling 
 fast asleep. 
 
 A few hours' sleep were sufficient for Prosper, who would 
 have been able to return to Melun full gallop if his horse had not 
 been killed ; but on going downstairs to inquire aftej* Madame 
 Derbrouck, he met the gardener, who was pale aud seemed 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Then there is some fresh misfortune happened ? " exclaimed 
 Prosper. " Speak, what is.it now ? " 
 
 " Ah ! my God ! " replied the gardener, weeping ; " my poor 
 mistress has a fresh subject for grief ; and I sadly fear that, alto- 
 gether, it will be the death of her, poor woman ! Just now she had 
 her infant with her ; it cried — when madame recollected she hadn't 
 given it the breast since last night ; but, judge of her grief — her 
 despair, when she wanted to repair that forgetfulness — no more 
 milk, it was all driven away. However, as the child is eleven 
 months, it's quite old enough to be weaned. So we have told 
 madame, and already, before her, it has drank all that was offered 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, ?$ 
 
 to it ; but it's all one ; madame has been so grieved, that I sadly 
 fear it will make her fall ill." 
 
 " Germain, we must have a physician ; make haste — run directly, 
 while I go and try to console and tranquillise Madame Derbrouck." 
 
 The gardener ran off, and Prosper — after asking the fern me de 
 chambre if he could go in — entered Madame Derbrouck's apart- 
 ment ; he found her pressing her child to the empty breast, and 
 shedding a flood of tears, on seeing little Pauline seeking in it for 
 that nutriment she could no longer give her. The young man 
 endeavoured to console the poor mother, but she shook her head 
 mournfully, while saying, — 
 
 " I can no longer suckle my child ; you see plainly, my friend, 
 that it is useless for me to live, and that Heaven permits me to go 
 and rejoin my husband." 
 
 " Ah, madame ! what are you saying ? Does a mother give her 
 child nothing but nouriture for the body ? And all that care she 
 lavishes on it, and which often preserves its health ; and its heart 
 she forms, and its mind she enlightens, and the bad inclinations she 
 drives away from her soul ! while, on the contrary, she endeavours to 
 implant in it the seeds of virtue ; are all these, then, nothing ? It 
 is not given to all mothers to be able to suckle their infants them- 
 selves ; nature sometimes refuses them that favour ; but it is 
 commanded to all to support their first steps ; to lead them till 
 their entrance into life ; to teach them how there to conduct them- 
 selves with honour; and for that, madame, I do not believe a 
 mother can ever be replaced." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck sighed, and silently embraced her Pauline. 
 The physician was not long in presenting himself, and found the 
 young widow in a high fever ; he recommended rest, quiet to her ; 
 remedies that are prescribed, but not to be found, in the pharma- 
 copseias. 
 
 Little Pauline made no difficulty in accepting all the aliments 
 presented to her, which Prosper pointed out to Madame Derbrouck, 
 repeating to her that the physician had said there was nothing to 
 fear for the health of the infant. 
 
 The young mother smiled mournfully, and, holding out her hand 
 to Prosper, she said to him, — 
 
 " My friend, I am already greatly indebted to you ; will you 
 give me a last proof of your devotedness ? " 
 
 " Speak, madame," he replied ; " dispose of me." 
 
 " Well, then, you must not quit this house ; not abandon me 
 before — -before I am entirely recovered ; for I have an idea you will 
 again be able to render me a very great service. Are you willing ? " 
 
 " I will remain, madame ; oh ! I will remain as long as my 
 presence shall be necessary to you." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck seemed tranquillised by this promise, and 
 Prosper left the room, supplicating her to take some repose. He 
 went down into the garden, and, while walking in the shrubbery 
 that the banker had ornamented with rare exotics, he thought of 
 
j6 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Camilla, whom he had left at Melun, where she also ran many 
 dangers ; but love could not triumph over gratitude ; and not- 
 withstanding his eager desire to watch over Camilla, Prosper re- 
 solved to keep his promise, and determined to remain with Madame 
 Derbrouck so long as she should seem to desire his presence. 
 
 Next day the widow appeared more calm ; but her eyes shone 
 with a dull fire, and the fever had not left her. The physician re- 
 peated his visit, felt her pulse, shook his head doubtingly, and pre- 
 scribed, as before, the utmost quiet and repose. 
 
 A fortnight passed away ; Madame Derbrouck no longer 
 complained, but her weakness became extreme ; her voice was 
 scarcely audible, and her eyes derived a temporary brightness only 
 from the fever. At the expiration of that time, the widow — who 
 was no longer able to leave her bed — demanded to be removed into 
 the belvedere, where she had so long awaited her husband's return. 
 
 They hastened to comply with her desire. She was carried up 
 into the belvedere ; her child's cradle was placed by her bed-side, 
 and Prosper scarcely ever quitted the opposite side : on contemplat- 
 ing the sufferer, he foresaw a fresh misfortune, which all his atten- 
 tion could not prevent. But though his heart frequently reminded 
 him of Camilla — though devoured with uneasiness as to her fate, he 
 never once conceived the idea of quitting the poor patient. 
 
 One night that Madame Derbrouck felt herself still worse, she 
 beckoned Prosper to come to her, and taking his hand, which she 
 pressed between her burning ones, she said to him, — 
 
 "I have begged of you to remain— for I foresaw I had not long 
 to live ; and I feel that I have not deceived myself — " 
 
 Prosper was going to interrupt her, but she made him a sign to 
 be silent, and continued, — 
 
 " My friend, all the physicians in the world could not restore me . 
 to life. I have been struck with death on learning that of my hus- 
 band. It is not me who is to be pitied — but my child ! so young, 
 an orphan, and no more fortune — for what we had here will be sold. 
 My husband had funds at Antwerp, at a banker's ; he had just 
 purchased a fine estate in Touraine ; that is all I know, for I was 
 not acquainted with his affairs ; and when he was arrested all his 
 papers were seized. Thus, now, if the banker at Antwerp is not a 
 man of honour, of probity, he can deny having any of my husband's 
 funds in his hands. My God ! my strength fails me ! Prosper, 
 will you consent to watch over my child ? to protect her, to stand 
 in lieu of parents to her ? My friend, it is to you I confide my 
 Pauline ; ah ! it is requiring a great task from your friendshin for 
 us." 
 
 " Madame," exclaimed Prosper, " I am proud of the confidence 
 you repose in me, and my whole life shall be employed in deserving 
 it ! Yes, I will take charge of your daughter ; yes, I will watch 
 over her ; if fate ordain it — but you will not die, madame ; take 
 courage ; Heaven will preserve you for your child." 
 
 Madame Derbrouck tried to smile— to reply ; but the effort she 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 77 
 
 had made seemed to have exhausted her little remaining strength. 
 Her eyes closed, and during some hours she seemed to enjoy a calm 
 sleep. Prosper hoped that on her awaking she would find herself 
 better, but towards morning she was seized with violent delirium ; 
 on opening her eyes, she looked wildly around her ; then she wanted 
 to get up — to go to the window to see if her husband was coming 
 back — if she could perceive him on the road. 
 
 This delirium was succeeded by profound exhaustion ; but 
 every now and then she made a motion as if to take her child ; she 
 believed she still held it to her breast — she persuaded herself she 
 was still suckling it. 
 
 And sometimes she whispered the romance of Pauvre Jacques, 
 thinking she was rocking her Pauline to sleep. 
 
 But towards evening there was neither fever nor delirium ; and 
 the unfortunate went to rejoin the husband she loved so well. 
 
 After shedding abundant tears over the destiny of that woman, 
 to whom fate seemed to have promised so sweet and happy an 
 existence, and who had just died so young and so unfortunate, 
 Prosper asked himself what he could do any longer at Passy. He 
 begged Germain to make him up a parcel of the effects the most 
 necessary for the little Pauline ; and taking the infant in his arms, 
 he said to the old gardener, — 
 
 " I take with me the orphan entrusted to my care. Henceforth 
 it is my duty to watch over this little one. She is but one year 
 old ; I am only eighteen ; I am rather young to serve as a father 
 to her ; but it's all one — I hope to be worthy of the confidence 
 her mother has placed in me. Adieu ! my good Germain." 
 
 The gardener wanted to detain Prosper, observing, — 
 
 " But this house belonged to M. Derbrouck, and all in it ought 
 to be the inheritance of his daughter." 
 
 " No, my dear friend ; M. Derbrouck has been condemned, 
 his property will be sold for the profit of the nation ; that's how 
 they do it in these times. But do not be uneasy for the orphan ; 
 while Prosper exists the child of my benefactors shall want for 
 nothing." 
 
 And Prosper returned to Paris, carrying the bundle and the 
 infant. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE WORTHY COUPLE. 
 
 Prosper arrived in Paris, still holding the infant in his arms. 
 Entirely occupied with his charge, afraid of its catching cold, cover- 
 ing it up, then uncovering it, speaking to it, embracing, and trying 
 to make it smile ; the poor youth had so much to do, the task was 
 
78 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 so new to him, that it left him no time for reflecting what he should 
 do on reaching Paris, and of providing a shelter for himself and his 
 little protegee. 
 
 Prosper was at first proceeding to his old lodging, but he soon 
 stopped, thinking Goulard might have complained of him ; and, 
 besides, could the daughter of the unfortunate Derbrouck live in the 
 same house with the wretch who had denounced her parents ? 
 
 " No," said Prosper to himself ; " no ; I will no more return to 
 that house which now is hateful to me, and where my little Paul- 
 ine would not be safe. Ah ! if I knew where to find Maximus' 
 mother, the good dame Bertholin ! how would I hasten to her with 
 this precious deposit ! she would take such care of this little one. 
 And I, notwithstanding all my good will, I plainly feel I am not 
 in a situation to bring up the dear child ; it is a woman we must 
 have to replace the mother ; but a woman worthy of being entrusted 
 with such a treasure— who will watch over this infant — who will 
 love it as I love it. Where find that woman ? what must I do ? where 
 go to ? It must be hungry, and I don't know what to give it. If 
 I was to buy it a cake, a biscuit — oh, no ! that would choke it. Ah ! 
 I am cruelly puzzled." 
 
 And Prosper continued walking through the streets of Paris, 
 holding the infant in his arms ; making it jump when it cried, and 
 giving it a stick of barley-sugar he had bought, which he was de- 
 lighted to see it suck. The people who passed him stared at seeing 
 a young man so drolly accoutred — with a sabre by his side, an 
 immense hairy cap on his head, and acting the nurse. 
 
 " Give it some titty," said one. 
 
 " Hold it better than that ! " cried another. 
 
 "Is it your little brother ?" 
 
 " If it is his, he makes a famous papa ! " 
 
 " Hallo ! why don't you put it in your cap ? there's room enough, 
 and it won't cry any more." 
 
 Prosper made no reply to these jokes, but he began to be 
 impatient ; and, if he had not held the child in his arms, he would 
 have silenced his tormentors vi et armis. 
 
 The poor fellow was already thinking of returning to Melun ; 
 but there, as at Paris, to whom could he confide the orphan ? He 
 couldn't hope to find a second mother for her at his friend Durou- 
 leau's. And Prosper still kept walking on, giving the barley-sugar 
 to the little thing when it cried, and saying to himself, — 
 
 "Unfortunately, this infant can't be fed with nothing but 
 barley-sugar ! If Mademoiselle Camilla was not so young — but 
 what am I thinking of ? Could I dare request a count's daughter 
 to take charge of a poor little baby ? And even if Mademoiselle de 
 Trevilliers would be willing to take charge of it, does she not 
 herself run a thousand dangers ? may she not be arrested ? Oh ! no, 
 no ! Derbrouck's daughter would not be in safety there. Sacrebleu ! 
 I am tempted to go into a restaurateur's, and ask for bouillie for 
 two. I'll eat it along with the child." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 79 
 
 Prosper was at that time in the Rue aux Ours ; on passing before 
 a |ur-shop, he perceived a very coquettishly-dressed young woman, 
 with her bosom half uncovered^ standing on the threshold of the 
 door, where she seemed thinking more of herself than of her business. 
 It was Euphrasia. Recognising Prosper, she gave him a gracious 
 smile ; then cried out, — 
 
 " Ah, my God ! Citizen Prosper, what's that you've got there, 
 then ? Why, I'll be hung if it isn't a child ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Prosper, stopping before the shop, " it is a child." 
 
 " Come in, then, and rest yourself a little ; are you afraid the 
 house will fall about your ears ? " Prosper desired nothing better 
 than to rest himself, and at once entered the shop of Citizen Picotin, 
 over which shone the sign of the " Chat sans culotte " (the cat with- 
 out breeches), and sat down, saying, — 
 
 " Since you are kind enough to permit it, citoyenne, I will rest 
 for a moment, for I am rather tired." 
 
 "I believe you, if you've been long trotting about with that 
 infant in your arms. What is it ? a boy, or a girl ? " 
 
 "It's a girl." 
 
 " Let us see — let us look at it. Ah ! what a pretty little thing ! 
 But I fancy I've seen it somewhere before, though I may be mis- 
 taken ; for at that age all infants resemble each other. Ah ! how 
 glad I should be if it was mine ! But my husband is so awkward ; 
 after all, I begin to think it's not his fault ; it's apparently myself 
 who am not properly formed to be a mother. Ah ! it's crying, the 
 poor little dear ; we must give it something." 
 
 " If you had any milk it would drink some." 
 
 " Milk ! I haven't any ; but the silk-mercer's wife opposite ought 
 to have some ; she has seven children, all small, three of them twins. 
 One sees nothing but basins of bouillie and pap-spoons in that house ; 
 quite a family picture ! I'll go and ask her for some milk." 
 
 Euphrasia stepped over the way, and Prosper said to himself, 
 
 " That young woman has a good heart ; but yet it is not to her 
 I would confide my child ; she is too frivolous, too coquettish." 
 
 The little girl now began to cry in earnest, and Prosper was 
 unable to quiet it, when Picotin came into the shop, with a load of 
 skins, exclaiming, — 
 
 " I am done ! I am quite taken in ! They are sheep-skins they 
 have sold me for white bears ! That devil of a Romulus is always 
 playing me these tricks." 
 
 Picotin threw his skins on the counter, and, on seeing Prosper 
 seated in a corner of his shop, he remained quite stupefied, and didn't 
 seem very well pleased with his visit. At that moment his wife 
 arrived with a cup of milk. 
 
 " This will quiet your little one," said Euphrasia, without seem- 
 ing to notice her husband ; " but how must we get it to drink it ? 
 I don't understand these things for my part." 
 
 " She'll drink it out of a spoon." 
 
 " A spoon ? good ! I'll go fetch you one. Wait a little, citizen." 
 
80 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Picotin looked by turns at Prosper, his wife, the child, and cut 
 a very droll figure ; at length, when Euphrasia had returned with 
 a spoon, and succeeded in making the child drink, he cried out, — 
 
 "Citoyenne, my wife, don't you see I am here?" 
 
 " Eh ! my God, yes ! I only see too much of you ! Why don't 
 you bid Citizen Prosper good day ? Don't you know him again ? 
 He's a friend of Maximus Bertholin." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, I know the citizen again ; I remember his 
 sitting on my knees in the Theatre of the Kepublic, at the first 
 representation of Epicharis and Nero." 
 
 " In fact," said Prosper, " that evening I was so pre-occupied I 
 have perhaps insulted you without intending it ; but if you wish 
 for satisfaction, I am ready to give it you, citizen." 
 
 So saying, Prosper struck the hilt of his sabre ; but Picotin, 
 who had turned pale, and trembled on hearing the rattle of the 
 sabre, tried to look pleasant as he replied, — 
 
 " For example, citizen, have I said you insulted me ? on the 
 contrary, you gave me pleasure ; between acquaintances, we place 
 ourselves as we can. Equality — fraternity ! We sit one on the 
 other, or death ! and that's as it should be, citizen." 
 
 " Yes, I thank you." 
 
 " My wife, you don't know that Eomulus has took me in again ? 
 He has sold me sheep-skins for white bears." 
 
 " Well ! I don't wonder at it — you are so stupid. They'll 
 sell you rabbit-skins some day for foxes." 
 
 " Oh ! as for that, there's no danger ; I am well acquainted 
 with 'lakins' (rabbits), so much the more, as I'm a famous one 
 myself, without its appearing so." 
 
 " The fact is, it don't appear at all i " said Euphrasia, shrugging 
 up her shoulders. 
 
 " Ah, now ! But, Citizen Prosper, what picaninny's that you 
 have in your arms ? " said Picotin. 
 
 It is — it is a child," replied Prosper, embracing it ; " and 
 a child I greatly love." 
 
 " So it seems." 
 
 "It's quite a little angel," said Euphrasia. "Ah, my poor 
 Picotin ! are you not ashamed not to have made me one like it ? " 
 
 " There you are ! always the same song ! " said Picotin, stamp- 
 ing with vexation ; if I was to believe my wife, I should pass 
 all my time at that ! When one's in the fur line, one's quite 
 enough to do ! But to the child. Is it one of your relations, 
 citizen ? or else, is it — already — you know what — I shouldn't 
 be astonished at it; you are already such a devil amongst the 
 girls ! " 
 
 Prosper turned away from Picotin, muttering, — 
 
 " Why, what's that to you ? Do I owe you any account of my 
 conduct ! " 
 
 " No, certainly — you are quite free ; liberty for ever ! I said 
 that without any malice. Apropos, Euphrasia, I have just met 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. Bi 
 
 Poupardot, and he's quite jolly and joyful, because his wife is — 
 you know — " 
 
 " His wife is — you know — what ? How can I understand you ? " 
 "Well, then, parbleu ! his wife is— pregnant ! " 
 
 " That don't require much guessing — it shows itself. Ah ! she 
 is very fortunate ! " 
 
 " Yes, she's pregnant with several things ; I mean several 
 months gone ; and concealed it from her husband to give him an 
 agreeable surprise. Poupardot is quite delighted ; he has already 
 told me he'll have the child called Navet (turnip), if it's a boy ; or 
 else Echalote (scallion), if it's a girl. I have approved of it ; it will 
 just suit the new calendar." 
 
 Euphrasia seemed utterly regardless of what her husband was 
 talking about ; but, as soon as Picotin was silent, Prosper said to 
 him, — 
 
 " They are a very respectable and happy couple, the Poupardots 
 — are they not, citizen ? " 
 
 "They are a model for married folks; they pass their time 
 billing and cooing like real turtle doves." 
 
 "Yes," said Euphrasia, turning up her nose, "they ought to 
 live in a nest, on a tree top." 
 
 " Would you tell me where they live ?" resumed Prosper. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! — where they nestle, as my wife says ; it's not very 
 far from here — Faubourg Denis, at the entrance — No. 7, 8, or 30 ; 
 a house that has a heap of dung before it." 
 
 "That's enough," said Prosper, rising; "and now, citoyenne, 
 receive my thanks for the attention you have bestowed on this 
 infant." 
 
 " How ! are you going away already 1 " said Euphrasia, giving the 
 young man a very tempting side look. 
 
 "Yes, citoyenne." 
 
 " Ah ! that's not civil ; you should have stayed to dinner ; it 
 would have given me great pleasure, and to my husband as well ; 
 wouldn't it, Picotin?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I should have been very glad of company," replied 
 Picotin, with a face a yard long. 
 
 "I am fully sensible of your politeness," said Prosper, "but 
 I can't stay." 
 
 " You will at least come and see us again, I hope ; you know the 
 number now." 
 
 " Besides, the { Chat sans culotte,' is well known," said Picotin. 
 
 " I shall return as soon as I am at leisure. I shall not forget 
 your kindness, citovenne. Adieu, Citizen Picotin ; health to you 
 both!" 
 
 " Or death ! " muttered Picotin, making a low bow to him he 
 was enchanted to see leaving his house. 
 
 Prosper, still carrying the infant in his arms, took the road to 
 the Gate St Denis, which was then only called Gate Denis, because 
 all the saints were banished from France, and under the reign of 
 
82 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 liberty it was not permitted to have religion at will. He soon 
 found the residence of Citizen Poupardot, and entered the house 
 trembling, for he was very agitated, and feared to find his hope de- 
 ceived. A servant introduced him into a saloon, where he found 
 the happy couple. 
 
 The costume of Prosper produced a singular effect. The young 
 man was not in rags, but he was no bad imitation of Eobert, chief 
 of the brigands ; the citoyenne trembled on perceiving him, but 
 she soon recovered herself on seeing the little being he held in 
 his arms. Poupardot at once recognised Prosper, and, holding 
 out his hand, exclaimed, — 
 
 " It's the Citizen Prosper Bressange ! whom I met at the Theatre 
 of the Eepublic about three weeks ago. Good day, citizen ; I am 
 glad to see you haven't forgot us. Eliza, you ought to know the 
 citizen again whom we have seen with Maximus ?" 
 
 " Yes, I recollect him now, though that great cap makes a great 
 alteration." 
 
 " Have you quitted the printing business, citizen ? " said Pou- 
 pardot ; " for, if I am not mistaken, you were engaged in it." 
 
 " In fact," replied Prosper, " I have quitted it. These are times 
 when actions make us get on quicker than work." 
 
 " You are right. We are progressing ! enlightening ourselves ! 
 we are going on well, very well ! — excepting some faults." 
 
 And Poupardot rubbed his hands with a well-pleased look, 
 while his wife handed a chair to Prosper, saying, — 
 
 " Be seated, then, citizen. My God ! what a pretty infant you 
 have in your arms ; but it is very young to be confided to the care 
 of a man ! " 
 
 " Is not this little girl already very interesting, citoyenne ? " 
 
 "Oh ! yes. And I, who dote upon children—" 
 
 " "We shall have one before long ! " said Poupardot, with a 
 triumphant air. " Look, citizen, it begins to show itself already." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " said the wife, blushing. " Don't talk of such 
 things !" 
 
 " And why not 1 It's allowed between husband and wife ; it 
 is even recommended by the scripture, which says, * Increase and 
 multiply.' " 
 
 " Ah ! I wish my infant was already as strong as this pretty 
 little girl. How old is it, citizen ? " 
 
 " A twelvemonth." 
 
 " A twelvemonth ! See, Poupardot, how fresh and rosy it is. 
 Will you trust me with it a little while, citizen ? " 
 
 _ The only answer Prosper made to this request, was to place the 
 child in the young wife's arms, who covered it with kisses, and ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 "The dear infant smiles at me ! Ah ! how happy must be its 
 mother ! But though I have no doubt of the interest you take in 
 the little creature, I own to you, citizen, that if it was mine, I 
 wouldn't confide it to any one." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 83 
 
 * c Its mother ! " sighed Prosper ; " its mother ! Alas ! the poor 
 fchild no longer has one. Her father is one of the victims of the 
 Revolution. She has no longer either parents or fortune ; she has 
 no longer any other to protect her in the world but me ; me ! who 
 even don't know how to feed her ! " 
 
 Poupardot seemed amazed, confounded ; and his wife covered 
 the infant with tears, as she tremulously whispered, — 
 
 " Poor little creature ! an orphan ! But what, then, is going to 
 become of her ? You are too young, citizen, to take that care of 
 it its age requires ; besides, you wouldn't be able — " 
 
 " In fact," replied Prosper, dejectedly, " I plainly feel that all 
 my good will would be insufficient ; so I had thought of Maximus's 
 mother, the good dame Bertholin, to whom I intended taking 
 the infant ; but she has left Paris with her son, and no one knows 
 where they have gone to." 
 
 While Prosper was speaking, the young wife pressed the infant 
 to her heart, and tenderly embraced it — then looked at her husband 
 a,s if to excite him with her eyes to think as she did. At length, 
 unable to restrain herself, she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Oh, citizen ! if you would confide this little girl to me, I 
 would take great care of it ; I would serve it for a mother. The 
 infant I am going to have won't hinder me from loving it ; on the 
 contrary, they will play together ; they will always be with me ; 
 and, while awaiting that happy epoch, by bestowing all my atten- 
 tion on this little one, I shall serve my apprenticeship as mother. 
 I shall be less awkward with the infant heaven will send me. 
 Poupardot, are you not quite willing for us to keep this pretty 
 little girl ? But tell the citizen, then, that we'll take great care of 
 her." 
 
 Poupardot said nothing ; he seemed to be much affected by his 
 wife's proposal — the tears stood in his eyes ; at length he ran and 
 took her head between his hands, embraced her more than once, ■ 
 and, turning towards Prosper, said to him, — 
 
 " Haven't I a good wife, eh ? " 
 
 " I have never doubted it," replied the delighted Prosper. 
 
 " You wish to keep this little one ? let us keep it — I am quite 
 willing. That won't prevent our loving our own children, and 
 bringing them up well ; besides, I can afford it ; I have the 
 wherewith. They have reimbursed me for my house in assignats ; 
 I made a good bargain, excepting the assignats fall in value every 
 day ; but they'll get up again. Oh ! you'll see that. Thus, we 
 keep the child. It's agreed upon." 
 
 "This little girl has been confided to me by its dying mother," 
 said Prosper ; " I with joy deliver it to you ; but it is on con- 
 dition that you shall restore it to me whenever I shall come to 
 claim it." 
 
 " You shall always possess a father's right over her," said Eliza ; 
 " but I am sure that, before you take her back, you will wait till 
 she's able to understand and reply to you. Make yourself easy : 
 
§4 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 I'll teach her also to love you. I am certain she will have a good 
 heart" 
 
 "Try to make her resemble yourself," said Prosper, taking 
 Eliza's hand ; "that will be her finest eulogium. Ah, citoyenne ! 
 what gratitude do I not owe you ! for I confess I was greatly 
 embarrassed to know what to do with this child." 
 
 " It is we who thank you for having thought of us — for coming 
 here. Apropos, what's her name ? " 
 
 " Pauline." 
 
 " Pauline ? and her family name ? " said Poupardot. 
 
 But Eliza looked dissatisfied at her husband, and said to him, — 
 
 " My friend, the question you put is, perhaps, indiscreet. What 
 do the names of the relations — of the family of this infant, signify 
 to us ? Have we any need of knowing it to make us love her — to 
 give it our protection ? Citizen Prosper, if it's a mystery, a secret, 
 don't tell us it. Her name is Pauline, and that's sufficient." 
 
 Poupardot seemed rather ashamed at the lesson his wife had 
 given him — yet his curiosity was natural enough, and Prosper hast- 
 ened to satisfy it by saying to him, — 
 
 " There is no secret — or, at least, there can be none for you, who 
 have so willingly charged yourselves with the child I yet couldn't 
 have taken care of. This little girl is the only child of the Dutch 
 banker, Derbrouck, who lived in the same house with Maximus and 
 myself. That man had several times rendered me great services, 
 and I alone have not forgot the benefits I received from him. Ah ! 
 heaven has rewarded me for it, since it is to me Madame Derbrouck 
 has confided her infant." 
 
 " Derbrouck ! I recollect him," said Poupardot ; " I have done 
 some business with him. He was a man whose countenance alone in- 
 spired esteem and respect. And he has perished ? " 
 
 " He was acquainted with Herbert ; it's that has compromised 
 and destroyed him." 
 
 " And you, Poupardot — you call that going on well ! " said Eliza, 
 raising her eyes to heaven. 
 
 " It's Goulard — Citizen Derbrouck's porter — a wretch ! who has 
 denounced the banker. He had also denounced his wife, but she 
 died this morning, still calling upon her husband ! That man — that 
 monster — seems infuriated against that family, from which he had 
 experienced nothing but benefits." 
 
 " While this little girl remains with us," jsaid Madame Poupardot, 
 " you shall have nothing to fear for her." 
 
 " Besides, you can come and see her whenever you will ; you well 
 know your visits will always give us pleasure," said Poupardot, shak- 
 ing the young man's hand. 
 
 " I thank you," replied Prosper ; " but I don't well know what 
 career is reserved for me. There is still one person I would wish to 
 watch over, who does not live at Paris, and I leave town this very 
 day." 
 
 " At all events, citizen — as you must know where to find us, and to 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 85 
 
 write to us, to have news of this child — I warn you that we are also 
 going to leave Paris ; my wife and myself have made up our minds 
 to go and live at my country house at Clichy ; we shall be more quiet 
 there, excepting they come to disturb us, and better situated to bring 
 up our child — our children, now. But it's not far ; Clichy is close to 
 Paris." 
 
 " I know it, and I hope it won't be long before I'm there to see 
 you. Now, a kiss to that dear little one — a shake of the hand to you 
 and your wife, and I bid you farewell ! " 
 
 "What! already?" 
 
 " And you don't stop to dinner ? " said Eliza. 
 
 " No ; it's impossible ; I am longing to have news of another per- 
 son. Farewell, my good friends ; you permit me to call you so— do 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Why, I even won't let you go till you give me the fraternal em- 
 brace, and my wife as well ; for, do you see, it's not long that we have 
 been acquainted, and I already look upon you as a brother, excepting 
 the name." 
 
 Prosper pressed Poupardot and his wife in his arms— again re- 
 commended Pauline to them— embraced her afresh, and left the 
 house, thanking Heaven for inspiring him with the idea of taking 
 the orphan to this worthy couple. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE TWO NIGHTS. 
 
 " And now," said Prosper, " since my mind's at ease as to the fate 
 of the infant confided to my protection, I may be permitted to 
 think of myself ; that is to say, of my amours— of Camilla. Some 
 misfortune may have happened to her since the six weeks I left 
 Melun ; I have told Durouleau to watch over her, but the ex-brewer 
 —who, at bottom, don't seem a bad man — will he always be able 
 to moderate the zeal of the patriots who surround him ? And who 
 knows if his friendship for me may not have cooled ? No matter ! 
 I'll go to him. I can't take him back his horse ; it's dead ; but I'll 
 tell him it died in the service of the Eepublic." 
 
 Prosper had no longer any money in his pockets, but he pos- 
 sessed strength, courage, and was eighteen years old ; an age at 
 which we are unacquainted with obstacles. He set out at three in 
 the afternoon ; at ten he arrived at Melun. He had walked eleven 
 leagues in seven hours, and didn't feeLhimself fatigued ;. because he 
 was in love, and thinking of Camilla all the way. 
 
 To those who might think such speed improbable, I would say : 
 -r- lt You, then, have never been in love or jealous ? You, then, have 
 
86 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 never wished to surprise, to watch a mistress ? to arrive at her house 
 when least expected ? for, without that, you would not know that 
 in such eircumsfances we do not walk, but fly ! " 
 
 Prosper knocked at the door of Durouleau's house, which was 
 opened by Jeannette, the young servant, who uttered an exclamation 
 of joy on seeing him ; for Jeannette had a great friendship for her 
 master's protege; and she was a tall and good-looking girl, whose 
 dark and expressive eyes showed everything that was passing in her 
 heart. 
 
 "Ah ! how glad our master will be at seeing you again, Citizen 
 Prosper ; he's been quite longing for you to come. He is every day 
 saying : — ' What ! has my young red-breeches friend a fichu le camp 
 for the Missi — the Missi — ah, my God ! I don't know the name ; 
 ah, pipi ! that's it — pipi ; the Missipipi ! ' " 
 
 " No, Jeannette — here I am," replied Prosper, smiling at the 
 young girl, who had always shown so much pleasure on seeing him ; 
 " but your master is perhaps already in bed ? " 
 
 " No, citizen, my master has had the gout very bad since we last 
 saw you ; but he has been better this week past, and is going to take 
 a bit of supper in his chamber. You are just in time to keep him 
 company." 
 
 " Faith ! I sha'n't be sorry for it, for I'm dying of hunger." 
 
 Prosper did not wait for Jeannette's lighting him, but ran up- 
 stairs, and found Durouleau seated before a very well-furnished 
 table, and busy carving a partridge with truffles. 
 
 " A good appetite ! " cried Prosper, holding out his hand to his 
 friend. 
 
 " Ah ! it's you, my brave red breeches !" exclaimed fat Durouleau, 
 giving the young man a hearty shake of the hand. " I am very glad 
 to see you again ; things don't go on well, since you went away : 
 my appetite's gone ; the cursed gout has laid hold of my leg ; the 
 doctor has put me upon water; a fine regimen ! However, things 
 are going on better now, and here you are ! " 
 
 Prosper wished for nothing better than to rest and refresh him- 
 self. Jeannette brought a plate, Durouleau ordered up some volnay 
 and champagne. 
 
 " I thought you had been ordered to drink nothing but water ? " 
 said Prosper, seeing his gouty friend pour himself out a bumper of 
 champagne. 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; but the moment I'm better I pitch the prescrip- 
 tions to the devil. He, also, told me to eat nothing but potatoes 
 — that's why I stuff myself with truffles. Faith, my boy, when 
 one's sixty years old, one oughtn't to deprive ourselves of anything 
 — we then haven't too much time left to regale ourselves, ah ! ah ! 
 Here's your health, Prosper ! Ah ! if you knew how glad I am to 
 see you again — how impatiently I was expecting you." 
 
 " Thank you ! thank you ! old Eoman," replied Prosper, again 
 pressing his host's hand. " And I, also, was longing to see you 
 again, for I have many things to ask you," 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, Sj 
 
 " Let us eat and drink in the first place." 
 
 " Oh ! no, answer me at once ! Camilla, the Count Trevillier's 
 daughter — " 
 
 " Make yourself easy, you shall see her again, she is untouched ! " 
 
 " Nothing has happened to her ? Ah ! I breathe again." 
 
 " Nothing happened ! that's another affair," said Durouleau, 
 attacking a chartres pastry. 
 
 " How 1 — something has happened to her ! She has been in 
 danger ! You have answered to me for that young girl, on your 
 head." 
 
 " Why, sacredi4! I know it well ; I had promised you that, on 
 returning, you should still be the master to dispose of her fate ; and 
 I have kept my oath. But let us get our supper : we have time to 
 talk about business. Your health." 
 
 In order to satisfy his host, Prosper constrained himself to mod- 
 erate his impatience ; besides, he himself felt an appetite that would 
 ill agree with a long conversation. But, after demolishing three- 
 fourths of the pastry, and emptying several flasks in quick succession, 
 looking at Durouleau, he said to him, — 
 
 " I hope you are going to speak now ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; we haven't done bad. Ah ! you are still the same — 
 always alert at your post. You must be surprised at finding me 
 supping by myself — me, who had always at my table the friends — 
 the faithful." 
 
 " In fact, I am so. Could they have deserted you ? It's not 
 probable, you give too good dinners." 
 
 " Benoit, the grocer, is on a journey to look after a legacy ; 
 Ducroquet has been boxing with one of his intimate friends, who 
 has broke his collar bone, which has kept him at home ; Cornelius 
 Ducornard has gone to Paris, to offer Eobespierre the work he has 
 written on the necessity of our speaking nothing but Latin in France, 
 that we may the more resemble the Bomans. I own that, if his 
 plan was to be adopted, it would greatly inconvenience me ; though 
 Cornelius has told me he would teach me a little easy kitchen 
 Latin." 
 
 " But the other ! " 
 
 " As for Trappeur, he's a sneak ; I've shut my door against him ; 
 but, this concerns the emigrant's daughter — " 
 
 " Ah ! tell me ; tell me, I beg of you ! " 
 
 " Here's your health ! I'll tell you. Well, then ! you shall know, 
 then, that, some time after your departure, Trappeur began to talk 
 about you ; and in a manner I didn't like." 
 
 "And what dared he say ? Explain yourself, I insist upon it." 
 
 " He said, in the first place, that you had taken us in — that you 
 had no mission from Paris ; in short, that you were a false sans- 
 culotte. I and the others took your part — I above all. I reminded 
 them of a certain evening, when you replanted the tree of liberty ; 
 and I have answered for your principles and your civism ; then, 
 when Trappeur saw that I wasn't of his opinion, he began to speak 
 
88 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches* 
 
 of the Count de Trevillier's daughter, whom you had charged me 
 to keep my eye upon ; he pretended, since you was no longer here 
 to watch, she must be arrested as a measure of precaution. I wished 
 to oppose that measure ; on which he called me a moderate — a false 
 patriot — a friend to the nobles ! when I threw my bottle — which, 
 unfortunately, only caught his hat — at his head. You may well 
 imagine he hasn't shown himself here since ; but, to revenge himself 
 and play you a trick, he went and denounced the emigrant's daughter. 
 Fortunately, I have friends everywhere. Citron, the barber, 
 warned me in time ; then, I went myself to the little aristocrat, 
 told her I was sent by you, that she was going to be arrested, and 
 that she must be saved, and so she must hide herself directly. She 
 followed me without hesitation : and I've hid her in a place where, 
 I warrant you, no one will think of coming to look for her." 
 
 Prosper started up from his seat, to throw his arms round 
 Durouleau's neck, exclaiming, — 
 
 " You are a brave man ! you have saved Camilla ! You have no 
 suspicion of the service you have rendered me ! — it's my life I owe 
 you ! " 
 
 "Yes, I have saved your Camilla. I have promised that, on 
 your return, you should still dispose of her ; I have kept my word. 
 I don't very well know if I have served the Eepublic by preventing 
 the arrest of that young aristocrat ; for, between you and me — if 
 you are willing for me to speak out — well, then ! I, in fact, begin 
 to believe, that, if you was continually looking after that young 
 girl, it was on your own account, and not for the service of the 
 government ; in short, I have an idea you are in love with that 
 Camilla. Aye ! is it true ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I love her — I adore her ! I no longer wish to hide 
 it from you. But do you then believe, Durouleau, that the safety 
 of the country requires the arrest of that young girl. No, no, don't 
 listen to such nonsense. Do persons at Camilla's age think of con- 
 spiring ? Believe me, by saving her you have done a good action 
 you'll have no occasion to repent of." 
 
 "Oh ! I, for my part, never repent. Besides, I repeat it, I have 
 taken a friendship for you. You wanted to have the little ci-devant ; 
 I have kept her for you, ah ! ah ! Let us drink now." 
 
 " And tell me — where is she ? " 
 
 " Make yourself easy. . I warrant you, she's perfectly safe and 
 wants for nothing." 
 
 " Shall I be able to see her to-morrow ? " 
 
 " You shall see her as much as you will.' , 
 
 " Is her governess with her ? " 
 
 " The governess ! ah ! No, by God ! for example ; I have hid 
 the young girl, that's quite enough ; but I don't hide the old ones." 
 
 " And how long is it since Camilla came away ? " 
 
 " Five days." 
 
 "Five days only. And they have doubtless been seeking to 
 find her?" 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 89 
 
 " Ah ! I believe you : Trappeur was furious when he saw the little 
 girl had escaped him. He is, perhaps, in love with her himself 
 as well." 
 
 " And her retreat has not been discovered ? " 
 
 " Why, no ; there's no risk of that. Once again, let's eat— let's 
 drink : you ought to be satisfied." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I don't know how to show my gratitude." 
 
 " By drinking glass for glass with me." 
 
 " As long as you will ! " 
 
 " Bravo ! that's speaking to the point." 
 
 Another bottle of champagne was emptied ; Prosper was en- 
 chanted with his host ; and the latter, who also seemed very 
 satisfied with himself, smiled and shook his head in a very 
 peculiar manner every time he looked at his young friend. 
 
 " A propos / and my horse," said Durouleau, " are you satisfied 
 with him ? — bas he carried you well ? " 
 
 " Yery well ; I haven't brought him back to you, because he 
 fell dead under me at Paris." 
 
 " That's a good reason ! but don't let it make you uneasy ; if 
 you want to ride post again, I have other horses at your disposal." 
 
 "Thank you, old Eoman ; truly your generosity to me is— how 
 have I deserved it ?" 
 
 " Faith, if you was to demand it of me, I should be puzzled 
 to tell you. But I was alone — I have no relations, no children — I 
 was quite wearied in my big house, and, though it's stuffed full 
 of furniture, I didn't know what to do in it. Since you came to 
 lodge with me, I have amused myself. You have given life — 
 motion to the place. I should like to keep you always in it. Your 
 health." 
 
 As the two were again emptying their glasses, they heard the 
 clock strike two. 
 
 " The devil ! the night is advanced," said Durouleau, " but when 
 one's talking at table, time passes quick. You must be fatigued 
 my boy : you must go to bed." 
 
 " Willingly ; but as soon as I'm up to-morrow, I wish to go 
 and see Camilla." 
 
 " Make yourself easy. I tell you that to-morrow you shall be 
 satisfied, ah ! ah ! ah ! " 
 
 " Why do you laugh so when you look at me ? " 
 
 " It's an idea that came into my head. Besides, can't I laugh 
 if I'm pleased with myself. Come, go to bed ; you know where 
 your chamber is ? " 
 
 " Without doubt." 
 
 " Wait, wait, let me give you the key." 
 
 " You have locked my chamber, then ? " 
 
 " Yes ; nobody but me has been in it. Hadn't you left a 
 little parcel ? " 
 
 • " Ah ! yes ; faith, I had quite forgot it ; it's what remains to me 
 of my godfather's legacy." 
 
90 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " I don't know what it is ; but, I'll be answerable nobody has 
 touched anything in it. Here's the key of your apartment ; and 
 good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, Durouleau.*' 
 
 " And you, also, my brave red breeches, ah ! ah ! ah ! good- 
 night. But, I say, don't make a noise on going to bed, for 
 everybody in the house must be asleep, and it's not worth while 
 to wake 'em." 
 
 " Eight ; but I shall soon be in bed, I warrant you. Good- 
 night." 
 
 Durouleau laughed again on shaking Prospers hand ; and the 
 latter, rather giddy with the frequent bumpers he had swallowed, 
 took a candle, and left his host's chamber. 
 
 The apartments appropriated to Prosper in the vast house of 
 the ancient brewer were situate on the second floor ; they were 
 composed of a small entrance-room, then a spacious chamber, in 
 which was a deep alcove with damask curtains. It was encumbered 
 with saloon, ante-chamber, and library furniture, that scarcely left 
 room to turn round in it. Prosper had opened the door of the 
 ante-room, and walked cautiously along, to avoid falling over the 
 crowded furniture, and, all astonished at Durouleau's recommen- 
 dation, who was afraid of his waking the servants, endeavoured 
 not to make a noise. 
 
 Placing his light on a table, the young man hastened to un- 
 dress. Having, in a few instants, rid himself of his clothes, and 
 extinguished the candle, he felt his way to the alcove, found his 
 bed, and got between the sheets. At the same moment he heard a 
 shriek from someone in the bed with him. He stretched out his 
 arms — it was a woman by his side. 
 
 " How ! it's you, Jeannette ! " whispered Prosper, embracing his 
 bed-fellow. 
 
 " No, no ; it's not Jeannette ! " repeated the same voice. " Oh ! 
 this is frightful 1 it's infamous ! ' 
 
 " Camilla ! — it's Camilla ! " exclaimed Prosper, intoxicated with 
 joy and love. 
 
 " Yes, it's Camilla, who supplicates you to protect her. Prosper, 
 I could never have thought this of you. I ask you to leave this 
 room at once." 
 
 The young man did not at once obey, but the tone of the young 
 girl, which was vehement in its fierceness, admitted of no alterna- 
 tive. She heaped reproach after reproach on his head, and was 
 deaf to all entreaties. 
 
 It was in vain that he protested to her that he was ignorant 
 she was in his chamber, which, had he known, he assuredly would 
 never have dreamed of taking such a liberty with her ; that 
 Monsieur Durouleau had not told him in what place he had con- 
 cealed her ; and that he himself had been as much deceived as she 
 had been ; but the young woman only mocked at his protestations 
 and explanations, and refused to believe him. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 91 
 
 As soon as daylight made its appearance, the young girl got 
 out of bed and addressed Prosper, who was now stretched on the 
 sofa, in tones of proud disdain. 
 
 " You have deceived me," she said to him ; " you, who called 
 yourself my protector — you, in whom I placed confidence. If I 
 have come to take refuge in this house, it is because its master 
 presented himself in your name — it is because I have said to myself, 
 1 He will be there — he will watch over me.' And it was a snare laid 
 for me — and you had agreed with Durouleau to ruin me, in order 
 to gratify your passion. Ah ! it's unworthy of a man, and you 
 did not deserve the esteem I had for you." 
 
 " I did not know you were in the house ! " said Prosper, throw- 
 ing himself at Camilla's feet. " Forced to absent myself for a time, 
 I had charged Durouleau to watch over you. From the interest I 
 took in you, that man has judged I loved you ; he has, perhaps, 
 thought that you, also, loved me Ah ! I see he has greatly 
 deceived himself ! He it is who conceived the thought of conceal- 
 ing you in this chamber, which is mine ; but I again protest to you 
 he had not said a word of it to me. I returned last evening, very 
 late from Paris, and immediately came to him I had made answer- 
 able for you ; ' I have saved her,' he said to me, ' for she was going 
 to be arrested ; make yourself easy, she's in safety, and to morrow 
 you shall see her ! ' That is all he would tell me ; you know the 
 rest. Ah ! Camilla, what can I do in order to restore me to the 
 position I formerly held in your esteem ? I adore you ; but if the 
 events of this night have made me incur your hatred, I shall then be 
 forced to curse my fate ! Ah ! pardon me ; I beg of you, pardon me." 
 
 "And my shame, sir, my shame, which is public, who shall 
 henceforth efface it ? " 
 
 "Oh ! mademoiselle, Durouleau alone is acquainted with our 
 secret : and he will be silent. Yes, I answer to you for him, for I 
 will tell him my life depends upon his silence. That uneducated, 
 rude man is not devoid of good feelings. He shows me a sincere 
 friendship : oh ! he'll say nothing. Then, if you loved me — if you 
 would consent to become — But what am I going to say — what am 
 I going to hope. The Revolution, that would approximate the 
 distances of rank, will never succeed — I see it — in making you 
 forget that the chance of birth has placed between us ! " 
 
 "If you wish me to believe in your repentance— for me to 
 be persuaded you were really unacquainted with the unworthy 
 plan — there is but one means." 
 
 1 Speak, Camilla ! Speak, mademoiselle. Oh ! I will do every- 
 thing for you not to despise me ! " 
 
 " Well, then, you must procure me, from this day, the means 
 of leaving Melun for Boulogne : I have there some acquaintances, 
 and they will enable me to pass into England, where I shall rejoin 
 my father. But, mind me, monsieur, I will not remain a day longer 
 in this house : I will no more appear before that worthless 
 man — the cause of my disgrace. Ah ! I should die with shame 
 
92 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 at the sight of him. If you do not comply with my demand, I 
 leave this house — I go and deliver myself up to the agents of the 
 Republic. If you attempt to detain me by force in this place, well, 
 then, I will open that window and throw myself from it." 
 
 Prosper became pale and confounded, on hearing Camilla's 
 determination ; but his resolution was soon formed, and surmount- 
 ing his grief, he replied to her, — 
 
 " You shall go, mademoiselle ; far from me be the thought of 
 detaiuing you here by force ; but you will permit me to accompany 
 you, not to leave you till assured of your being safe from every 
 danger ? " 
 
 " No, monsieur ; by travelling with you I should seem to 
 approve of what has taken place here. I wish to go alone, and 
 this very day ; my resolve is irrevocable." 
 
 Notwithstanding the despair caused by Camilla's determination, 
 Prosper did not any longer even attempt to combat it ; and he left 
 Mademoiselle de Trevilliers, in announcing to her he was going to 
 occupy himself in complying with her wish. 
 
 Prosper went straight to Durouleau. The ex-brewer was still 
 fast asleep ; the evening's supper had produced a marvellous effect ; 
 it had, also, sent the gout to sleep ; it's a remedy, however I shouldn't 
 dare prescribe. 
 
 Without any regard' for the fat man's snoring, Prosper shook 
 him violently by the arm, and Durouleau, at length, opening his 
 eyes, looked round him, growling, — 
 
 " What is it — what's the matter ! I was so comfortably 
 asleep ; why wake me ? I don't work now — I have no longer 
 any business to attend to. I have made my fortune, that I may 
 sleep at my ease." 
 
 " It is me who wakes you ! " cried Prosper. " Come, Durouleau, 
 up ! up ! time presses." 
 
 Durouleau rubbed his eyes, then sat half up, muttering, — 
 
 " Ah ! it's you. What, up already ? that surprises me ! aren't 
 you satisfied with the surprise I had contrived for you, ah ! ah ! " 
 
 " Ah ! hold your tongue ! hold your tongue. Never one word 
 on what has passed this night ! Durouleau, I ought to hate you, 
 for it's horrible what you've done. A virtuous young girl, who 
 with confidence comes to take refuge in your house — the daughter 
 of a count, you put her into my arms." 
 
 " Eh ! let me be quiet, then. The daughter of a count ! are 
 there any counts then, at present ? You was in love with the little 
 girl — well, then, I've married you to her — it's a Republican marriage, 
 quite as good as Carrier's boat marriages, on the Loire, it seems to 
 me so." 
 
 " But you don't know that Camilla now despises — detests me." 
 
 " Bah ! you're young, you don't know the woman ! She will soon 
 come round again." 
 
 " But Camilla insists upon going away this day, and will not 
 listen to reason. There is, therefore, left for me but to comply." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 93 
 
 " Go away ! you forget there's an order out for her arrest ! If 
 she shows herself she'll be grabbed." 
 
 " I know ; we must procure her means of escaping. Listen to 
 me : you are going to dress yourself, and take Jeannette along with 
 you immediately to the office where they give out the passports ; 
 you will ask for one for your servant. You will say she has an 
 aunt very ill at Boulogne : you are known and respected, they'll 
 deliver you the passport without any difficulty.'* 
 
 " I don't doubt it ; but after—? " 
 
 "You don't comprehend that it is Camilla who will go in 
 Jeannette's clothes." 
 
 " Camilla ; but the description ? " 
 
 " The age is the same — their height similar ; they are both 
 brunettes. As for the rest, we must leave it to Providence." 
 
 "The devil ! but what you ask of me there — it may com- 
 promise me." 
 
 " If you refuse, Camilla leaves this house, and goes to give her- 
 self up, declaring that you had concealed her : that will compromise 
 you much more." 
 
 "Ah ! ah ! but your young girl's a demon, then." 
 
 " She's of a proud, decided character ; and when she has formed 
 a resolution, I see there's nothing can make her change it. Come, 
 Durouleau, dress yourself. If you have really any friendship for 
 me, you must prove it by assisting me to repair the harm you have 
 done." 
 
 " But Jeannette — " 
 
 " I'll go and warn her, give her her lesson. You have a farm 
 in the environs ; you shall send her there for a fortnight — " 
 
 "But—" 
 
 " No more observations ! or Camilla gives herself up ; and I, I 
 blow my brains out — but not before breaking your head, to reward 
 you for what you have done." 
 
 " I'll get up directly." 
 
 Prosper next hurried to the young servant, who had a tender 
 penchant for him. Jeannette promised to follow instructions; and 
 began by giving him one of her undresses, with bonnet, kerchief, 
 shoes, and all she wore when she went to dances. She then went 
 down to her master, who didn't keep her waiting. He was dressed ; 
 he took Jeannette's arm, and went with her to the passport office. 
 
 Prosper remained, for he did not think it prudent to accompany 
 them ; but he dared not return to Camilla before knowing whether 
 his project would succeed. He kept pacing the saloon ; every 
 instant he listened, looked at the window or the time-piece ; never 
 had the time seemed so very long to him. 
 
 Nearly two hours elapsed, when Durouleau, at length, returned 
 with his servant. 
 
 "We have got the passport !" cried out the fat man, "but it 
 wasn't without trouble. There are generally so many formalities 
 to go through with : must come again— return to-iaorrow. For- 
 
94 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 tunately, I am known. I said Jeannette's aunt will have time to 
 die, and the girl will have nothing left her. In short, I told them 
 a heap of lies ; and here's the scrap of paper." 
 
 " That's good — very good ; but you must now go to the coach 
 office — secure a place in her name in the first diligence that starts." 
 " There's no vehicle goes from here to Boulogne." 
 " Well ! no matter ; the chief thing for her is to leave this town 
 in the first instance." 
 
 " But, I haven't breakfasted. 
 
 " You'll breakfast after : I, for my part, will touch nothing till 
 Camilla is saved." 
 
 " You are a droll fellow ! In love with a woman, and not easj 
 till she has left you. Well, I'll be off to the coach office." 
 Durouleau again trotted away. 
 
 Prosper embraced Jeannette to thank her ; the young servant 
 let herself be embraced, and showed herself disposed to let the young 
 man do all he might wish to do ; but the latter stopped there ; he 
 was thinking only of Camilla. 
 Durouleau returned to say, — 
 
 "The place is taken in the name of Jeannette Bredoux, for five 
 in the evening ; the diligence is going to Eouen." 
 
 " Very well ! " said Prosper. " I'm going to warn Camilla, and 
 take her the clothes to disguise herself. Ah ! one more service, 
 Durouleau ? " 
 
 " What is it ? If it's to go out again, I own that my legs refuse 
 to march." 
 
 " No ; it's money we must get ; Camilla will want it on her 
 journey." 
 
 " That's much easier, and less fatiguing. Here, here's fifty louis 
 in this purse ; put it in the pocket of the deshabille ; is it enough ? " 
 " Yes, yes ; it's more than necessary to reach England." 
 Prosper went upstairs to Camilla, and on presenting her with 
 Jeannette's clothes, he said to her, — 
 
 " Here is wherewith to disguise yourself, mademoiselle, and 
 there is the passport you will make use of ; you will look at the 
 names to retain them ; your place is taken in the five o'clock Eouen 
 diligence, whence it will be easy for you to get to Boulogne. At 
 five, I shall myself conduct you to the diligence, to be certain that 
 nothing has delayed your departure. You see, I have lost no time 
 in hastening the moment that is to take you faraway from me ; and 
 yet, far from you, I shall henceforth be eternally wretched. Will 
 you go without pardoning me — without giving me one single word 
 of hope ? Do you condemn me never again to behold you ?" 
 
 Camilla, not wishing to meet the looks of Prosper, turned her 
 head aside, but her voice was milder while saying to him, — 
 
 "What you have just done, monsieur, persuades me that you, in 
 fact, were not the accomplice of that man who has sought my dis- 
 honour. I believe in your repentance — in your love ; but I am 
 ignorant of the destiny that awaits me. However, I promise to- 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 95 
 
 let you hear from me, and, if events can bring us nearer, I will let 
 you know it." 
 
 " Ah ! Camilla — ah ! mademoiselle ! think that one word of 
 remembrance from you will restore me to life. Think that there 
 is now a secret that has bound us together." 
 
 " Ah ! recall not to me what I could wish to be able to efface 
 from my memory. I am going to change my clothes, and before 
 five o'clock I shall be ready." 
 
 Prosper left Camilla's room down-hearted, fearing his love 
 would never succeed in vanquishing her pride, when he met 
 Jeannette, who looked at him sighing. 
 
 " Jeannette," said Prosper, " she who takes your name will 
 leave here at five o'clock ; you must also go at the same hour, 
 and keep away from this house for a time. Your master will 
 tell you where to go to ; you will be able to come back here in 
 a fortnight." 
 
 " Why," she replied, putting her apron to her eyes, " when I 
 did what you asked of me, citizen, I didn't think you would 
 afterwards tell me to go away. It don't please me to go away — 
 to leave the house when you are in it." 
 
 "But you must comprehend, that if any one was to perceive 
 you still at Melun, when another person has left it in your name, 
 all would be discovered — they would follow after her I wish to 
 save ; they would, perhaps, overtake her." 
 
 " Ah ! you love her greatly, that one, don't yon, citizen ? But 
 be easy — at five o'clock I shall go away, and be seen no more." 
 
 Prosper went on, saying to himself,— 
 
 " Why has not Camilla the same sentiments for me that Jeannette 
 has ? Is it because she is a count's daughter, and has been taught 
 from her childhood to look upon those who are not noble, as 
 beneath her ? Or else, have I never been able to touch her heart ; 
 I wish I had nothing but her pride to combat. But, after what 
 has passed between us, another woman would look on herself as 
 engaged with me ; and Camilla, on the contrary, treats me with 
 still more severity." 
 
 At a few minutes to five, Prosper presented himself to Camilla, 
 who had dressed herself in the servant's clothes ; and he thought 
 her still prettier in that modest costume. Such is the case with 
 all lovers : when their mistress wears a new dress, even should the 
 costume be frightful, the woman would appear prettier, because 
 the woman who pleases us embellishes all she wears, and there 
 is, besides, something piquant- in the novelty. 
 
 " I am ready ! " said Camilla. " Let us go, and be quick." 
 
 Prosper made no reply, but took her arm, and left Durouleau's 
 house without meeting him ; for the fat man had comprehended 
 that the young girl would not be flattered at seeing him again. 
 
 The coach office was but a short distance from the house ; yet 
 Prosper trembled, not for himself, who had never been afraid, but 
 for his companion. Camilla walked with a pretty firm step, but 
 
g6 the Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 her protecter felt, or, at least, saw her bosom frequently rise ; and 
 he divined the emotion she made an effort to conceal. 
 
 Just as they came in sight of the diligence, they were met by 
 a man, who stared at Camilla, and then stopped and bawled out, — 
 
 " Hallo ! hallo ! where, then, are you running like that, Citizen 
 Carrot, alias Red Breeches, with such a pretty little girl under your 
 arm ? Ah ! liberty and equality — the citoyenne's a sans-culotte, I 
 hope?" 
 
 It was Ducroquet, the tanner, who scarcely caring for his 
 broken collar-bone, had come out, got tipsy at several wine houses, 
 and was beginning to be very talkative and very quarrelsome. 
 
 Prosper, who had recognised Durouleau's friend, continued to 
 hurry on as he answered, — 
 
 " Good evening, citizen ; I'm glad to see you better ; equality — 
 fraternity." 
 
 " Good ! good ! but that's not it," catching hold of Prosper's arm. 
 " You are in luck's way ; halves, my boy — I'll have my share of 
 your little wench. What is this pretty face ? I'd like to make 
 acquaintance with her — let's go and refresh ourselves." 
 
 " Citizen Ducroquet, we are in a hurry : I beg of you not to 
 detain us, or else — take care, I am not very patient." 
 
 " Citizen Carrot — red — I don't care a fig for what you say. You 
 are a brave fellow — I know it ; so much the better : I esteem you, 
 and should be flattered to have a bout with you ; I have long had 
 an itching for it." 
 
 " Another time ! " cried Prosper, trying to rid himself of 
 Ducroquet, " I will be your man. But I must now conduct this 
 country girl — " 
 
 " You won't fight ; then I'll have a kiss of her." And the tanner 
 was going to poke his carbuncled face under Camilla's bonnet ; but 
 before his scorching breath had withered the young girl's cheek, a 
 blow from Prosper had sent him reeling into the kennel. 
 
 "Now, let us make haste!" said Prosper, hurrying Camilla 
 along. 
 
 " My God ! can you have killed that man % " 
 
 " No ! no ! he was tipsy ; I have given him a heavy fall — that's 
 all. But he insulted you, the vagabond ; ought I to suffer it ? But, 
 here's the diligence, and they are calling for Jeannette Bredoux. 
 Take care ; answer firm ; don't be confused ; there's a gendarme 
 who examines the travellers, and looks at their passports." 
 "Ah ! I shall have courage." 
 
 " Adieu, then, mademoiselle ! But you'll let me hear from you % 
 you have promised it me, Camilla. Will you think of me ? " 
 
 "Jeannette Bredoux! Come, then, Jeannette Bredoux," cried 
 the conductor of the diligence, "we are only waiting for you to 
 start." 
 
 Camilla had not time to answer Prosper, as she was darting into 
 the diligence, but a gendarme stopped her, asked her for her pass- 
 port, examined it, looked at her, and went away saying, — 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 97 
 
 " It's all right ! you may roll on ! " 
 
 Camilla took her seat, the postillion drove off, and Prosper 
 followed the cumbrous vehicle with his eyes until it was entirely 
 out of sight. The young man then returned slowly to Durouleau's, 
 satisfied with having saved her, but sad on thinking he was 
 separated from her, without knowing when he should be able to see 
 her again. 
 
 " Well, then," said Durouleau, on meeting his young friend — 
 " your little aristocrat ? " 
 " She is saved." 
 
 " Then you are content ? In that case, we are going to have a 
 jolly drinking bout." 
 
 " No ; I have no inclination for drinking ; I am too sorrowful." 
 " You are sorrowful now your belle is gone ; you wanted to kill 
 yourself, to kill everybody, if we did not get her out of harm's way 
 at once. Do you know, sacredie ! one don't know by what end to 
 take hold of you." 
 
 " Ah, Durouleau ! you don't comprehend love — not you ! " 
 " By'r lady ! it seems to me I comprehended it pretty well, before 
 I had a belly like a balloon. I thought to have had nothing but 
 thanks from you for having the idea of putting you in possession, of 
 your belle ; instead of which, you have said nothing but a heap of 
 rigmarole. It seems you are right ; I no longer comprehend love ; 
 then, let us drink. Ah ! I understand that, for example ! " 
 " And Jeannette ; have you sent her to your farm ? " 
 " Jeannette ! May I be called tyrant, despot ! if I know what's 
 become of her. She disappeared at the same time as you and your 
 belle." 
 
 " Poor Jeannette ! where can she have gone to ? " 
 " Ah, pardieu ! are you now going to torment yourself also for 
 her ? She has, doubtless, some sweetheart she has gone to spend her 
 holiday with. Come, my brave, your health ! " 
 
 Prosper did all in his power to drive away the melancholy ideas 
 that filled his mind 5 but the remembrance of Camilla was continu- 
 ally returning to his thoughts ; and when Durouleau excited him 
 to hob-nob together, he uttered such deep sighs, that the ex-brewer 
 finished by saying to him, — 
 
 " You are good for nothing this evening ; go to bed j I must 
 hope you'll be a man again to-morrow." 
 
 Prosper went up to his room, thinking of the preceding night ; 
 he opened the door, went in, placed the light on the table, and threw 
 himself on a chair ; then turning his eyes towards the alcove where 
 the curtains were close drawn, he said to himself, sighing, — 
 " Yesterday, she was there ! " 
 
 At this moment he thought he heard a slight noise, like a person 
 trying to hold the breath, by the side of his bed; he listened a 
 moment, but soon blushed at his weakness, and said to himself, — 
 
 " It's but an illusion ! I wish I could persuade myself she is still 
 there ; but she is gone, and is now far away from me." 
 
 Q 
 
98 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Prosper hastened to take off his clothes, that he might seek in 
 sleep oblivion of his grief. In an instant he was undressed, the 
 candle out, and himself in bed ; when an ejaculation of surprise 
 escaped him. Some one is there again lying by his side, and a 
 trembling voice said to him, — 
 
 " She has taken my place in the diligence, and I have taken hers 
 here ; isn't that fair ? M 
 
 " What, Jeannette ! it's you ! you are not gone ? My God ! if 
 you are seen, everything will be discovered." 
 
 "I sha'n't be seen ; I shall remain in this chamber ; I sha'n't stir 
 out of it till you believe I can show myself. You are vexed, then, 
 at my staying f Don't scold me, I beg of you. I also love you and — 
 more than the other perhaps ; but if you are angry, I'll get up and 
 pass the night on a chair. I wont make a noise ; I'll look at you ; 
 listen to you sleeping ; and I shall still be very happy. I am sure 
 you cannot object to that." 
 
 Prosper did not answer, but stood looking at the floor as though 
 some weighty matter were pressing on his mind, and as though he 
 was undecided as to how he should act in the premises. Kecover- 
 ing from his absent-mindedness he said, " Jeannette, I really ought, 
 but I cannot, refuse what you ask." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE LOVE OP JEANNETTE. 
 
 Several days passed away ; Jeannette did not stir from the 
 chamber, which no one entered but Prosper ; and it was easy for 
 him to carry provisions there,. for in Durouleau's house nothing was 
 locked up— every one in it could, at all hours of the day, eat or 
 drink as he chose ; the master of the house perfectly comprehended 
 liberty. 
 
 Nothing had been heard of Ducroquet. Prosper had told his 
 host of his rencounter in the street with the tanner, and its results, 
 to which Du rouleau replied, — 
 
 " You did well to give it him ; however, I'm certain he'll bear 
 you no malice. Ducroquet is one of those men who are never 
 better friends with people than when they have fought with them." 
 
 Prosper every day read the public papers, fearing to see in them 
 that the Count de Trevillier's daughter had been recognised and 
 detained. But a fortnight having elapsed since Camilla's departure, 
 •without his hearing any disagreeable news, his fears were dissipated, 
 and he thought that her he loved must be in England, sheltered 
 from every danger. 
 
 Though happy at knowing Camilla was in safety, Prosper sighed 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 99 
 
 011 thinking she was now with her father, and surrounded by people 
 who were going to confirm her prejudices, and still more increase 
 her pride. 
 
 " She has promised to let me hear from her," he said to himself ; 
 "will she keep her word? It seems to me, however, that she ought 
 to look upon me as her lover ! " 
 
 Jeannette was still concealed in the young man's chamber, and. 
 she showed no desire to leave it, when Prosper said to her one 
 morning, — 
 
 " Jeannette, 'tis now twenty -five days since you were supposed 
 to have gone to see your aunt ; you can now shew yourself in the 
 house, and return to your work as usual ; if any one should question 
 you, you'll tell them you arrived yesterday evening." 
 
 " You wish me to leave your room already ? " replied Jeannette, 
 looking tenderly at the young man ; " it seems to me imprudent." 
 
 " No," said Prosper, " you have been long enough away." 
 
 "Are you tired then of — of my keeping you company?" re- 
 sumed Jeannette, pouting. 
 
 Prosper replied by embracing her, and seeing her out of the 
 apartment, saying, — 
 
 " My dear friend, there is an end to everything." 
 
 " It's a pity ! " muttered Jeannette, on returning to her little 
 chamber in the attics ; " if women were men, it would last lono-er." 
 
 Time passed on, without bringing Prosper any news of Camilla. 
 In the meantime, the ninth thermidor had taken place ; Robespierre 
 no longer existed ; the terror that had pervaded France was be- 
 ginning to disappear — the communications were becoming less 
 difficult, and the costume with the carmagnole was every day losing 
 its vogue. 
 
 Prosper one morning perceived that his red breeches had several 
 holes in them ; Jeannette had already warned him she could plainly 
 see through some places in them. Notwithstanding all the grati- 
 tude he owed to this present from his godfather, he decided upon 
 casting it off, to dress himself like the muscadins (dandies) of the 
 time. He had his hair turned up " en cadenettes," fastened it be- 
 hind with a comb, and wore a coat with green collar. The desire 
 to please began to revive in France ; it was no longer a crime to 
 wear gloves. 
 
 The heart and head of Prosper were filled with love yet it had 
 
 not made him forget the infant an unfortunate mother had con- 
 fided to him. He thought of the little Pauline ; he longed to go 
 and embrace her ; and had more than once announced to Durouleau 
 his intention to pay a visit to some friends who lived near Paris. 
 But the ex-brewer had frequently attacks of the gout and he said 
 to his young friend, — 
 
 " If you leave me, what the devil will become of me ! I shall 
 then be left by myself like a rotten apple ! All my friends have 
 disappeared — are dispersed, or dead ; I have only you left to keep 
 me company — to hob-nob with me \ if you are no longer inerry sil 
 
100 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the departure of your little aristocrat, that don't prevent my loving 
 you as my son ; and I am never weary when you are here, though 
 you often contradict me in my opinions." 
 
 Prosper was not insensible to Durouleau's really fatherly friend- 
 ship, and not to chagrin him, he deferred his departure ; besides, 
 he every day hoped to hear news of Camilla ; but the days passed 
 away, and no news came. 
 
 One morning, however, a letter arrived, addressed to Citizen 
 Prosper Bressange, at the Citizen Durouleau's ; it was Jeannette 
 who brought and discovered it to the young man, who, taking it 
 with a trembling hand, broke off the seal ; but after casting his 
 eyes on the signature, the hope, the joy that animated his features, 
 immediately vanished. 
 
 " That's not from her yet ! " said Jeannette, ill concealing her 
 smile. 
 
 " No, it's not from her — but its contents recall me to my duty." 
 
 The letter came from Poupardot : he told Prosper that the little 
 Pauline was charming — that she walked alone, and was beginning 
 to speak ; that they were astonished he had not been to embrace 
 liis adoptive daughter ; that they were every day expecting him, 
 and were, also, longing to let him see the fine boy the Citoyenne 
 Poupardot had been brought to bed of, and which he had named 
 Navet. 
 
 Prosper went to Durouleau, showed him the letter, and said, — 
 
 " I must go— I can't put it off any longer." 
 
 "At least, you promise me to come back again," said the fat 
 man, holding out his hand to his young friend. 
 
 " I should be very ungrateful not to return ; for I have re- 
 ceived nothing but benefits from you ; and excepting one circum- 
 stance — even then, you thought to insure my happiness. Yes, you 
 shall see me again." 
 
 " Well, then, to set my mind at ease, leave here the little parcel 
 that's in your chamber — and that you call your godfather's inherit- 
 ence." 
 
 " Willingly ; but I should come back without that." 
 
 " And now, take this purse — there's gold in it ; and that's de- 
 cidedly better than assignats." 
 
 " IN o, thank you," said Prosper, pushing back the purse ; " I 
 don't want money — you have, already, done too much for me." 
 
 "At your age we are always in want of money. I have too 
 much, and don't know w T hat to do with it. In vain do I drink five 
 bottles a-day ; I shall never be able to spend my fortune. If you 
 refuse me, it's because you no longer wish to be my friend — it's 
 because you are an aristocrat ; ah ! bigre ! " 
 
 There was no means of resisting the hearty, and really friendly, 
 manner in which Durouleau offered his services ; Prosper was forced 
 either to accept them, or quarrel with him, and he preferred the 
 former alternative ; for, to tell the real truth, he was very glad of 
 not going to Poupardot's without a sou in his pocket. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 101 
 
 Thinking it better not to bid farewell to Jeannette, because he 
 foresaw he would again have tears to kiss off, complaints to 
 listen to, Prosper, who had no baggage to pack up, left Durouleaus 
 house after breakfast—his cane in his hand, the same as he went 
 every day to take his walks in the town. 
 
 He had just reached the road leading to Paris, when, turning 
 round, he perceived a young woman a few paces behind him, with 
 a bundle in her hand. 
 
 It was Jeannette ; she stopped, and seemed quite contused on 
 perceiving that Prosper had seen her. 
 
 The young man turned back, and went straight up to his pretty 
 follower ; and, affecting a look of displeasure, he said to her,— 
 
 " Jeannette ! where, then, are you going to ? " 
 
 Jeannette, looking on the ground, blushed, and stammered 
 
 out, — 
 
 " I — I am taking a walk." 
 
 " What is that you have in your hand ? " ?j 
 
 « it's— it's nothing ;— some clothes— belonging to my master. 
 
 "Jeannette, that's a falsehood— you are telling me a he; you 
 are following me, and that bundle contains your own clothes. 
 
 " Well then ! that's the truth. I guessed the letter you received 
 would make you leave us ; then, though I didn't listen, I heard you 
 bid master farewell, and I went and packed up a change of clothes, 
 and took my savings along with them. I've got nothing but what 
 belongs to me— and hiding myself in a corner of the street, 1 
 watched and I followed you, and I shall follow you still— no 
 matter how far you are going. I have strength and courage, and 
 sha'n't be fatigued. Are you vexed at my following you ? Ami 
 not my own mistress, and free to go where I will ?— unless it should 
 displease you. But I pray you where you go let me also go : 1 
 will wait on you— I will be your servant, and will always love you 
 as much as now I love you ; but if you are wearied with my loving 
 you, I'll tell you so no more ; let me still be with you, that is all I 
 
 Prosper was touched, sincerely affected, by the sincere love that 
 youno- girl testified for him j but he plainly felt, that, if he yielded 
 to her prayer, she would attach herself to his fate, and that the 
 longer she remained with him, the more difficult would it be for 
 him to oblige her to leave him. Had not his heart been filled with 
 the remembrance of Camilla, he, doubtless, would not have made 
 all those reflections; for we, generally, at Prospers age, lay hold 
 of happiness— of pleasure when it presents itself, without troubling 
 ourselves about the consequences. 
 
 Taking Jeannette's hand, and pressing it withm his, Prosper 
 mildly, but firmly, replied to her,— 
 
 " No, Jeannette, you shall not follow me ; I would not suffer you 
 to be my servant, and you can't be my mistress. I know not the 
 destmv that awaits me— I am ignorant of the path I am to follow. 
 You well know, that now I have but one object in view-again 
 
102 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 to meet with Camilla — and to seek for her — to find her : it is not 
 fitting for me to have another woman along with me." 
 
 Jeannette made no reply ; she wept, and withdrew the hand 
 Prosper had still kept within his — but he armed himself with 
 courage — and it requires courage to resist the tears of a young and 
 pretty woman who entreats us to respond to her love. 
 
 " Farewell, Jeannette," he said to her ; " believe me, that I shall 
 always have the sincerest friendship for you. If fortune should one 
 day smile upon me, and I can be of any use to you — ah ! come to 
 me at once, Jeannette, and you will see that Prosper is your best 
 friend. Till then, return to Durouleau's — " 
 
 " No, I shall not return there," replied the weeping girl : " for 
 now, that you are no longer there, I should find the time too long, 
 and I should pass it only in weeping in your chamber — and that 
 wouldn't be the way to forget you. Farewell, M. Prosper ; go and 
 look after your young lady — I shall, perhaps, also, find some hand- 
 some young man who won't turn his back upon me." 
 
 On finishing these words, the young servant turned round, and, 
 putting her handkerchief to her eyes, hastened away. 
 
 Prosper for a moment was tempted to run after Jeannette, to try 
 to console her ; but he reflected : he said to himself, that, after all, 
 it was not him who had sought to seduce the young girl — that her 
 misfortune was her own fault — that he had nothing to reproach 
 himself with, and a thousand other reasons, of which the most con- 
 clusive was, that he thought only of Camilla. 
 
 And why, then, seek reasons for our conduct ? when, in almost 
 every circumstance of life, there is a different sentiment at the 
 bottom of our hearts that impels us to act. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIL 
 
 AS ATHENIENNE AT PARIS. 
 
 Prosper felt his heart palpitate on approaching the country-house 
 inhabited by Poupardot ; but it was no longer love that agitated 
 him — it was a sentiment with which were mingled neither un- 
 easiness, nor suspicions, nor regret : he recalled to himself his con- 
 duct with Madame Derbrouck, and the honourable confidence she 
 had given him proof of, by bequeathing to him the care of watching 
 over her infant : and he longed to see, to embrace that little girl, 
 whom he had carried in his arms when he left Passy. 
 
 The house where Poupardot resided, at Clichy, was plain, but 
 pleasantly situate, surrounded by a pretty garden, and provided 
 with everything we are obliged to do without in town, and that it 
 is so necessary to furnish ourselves with in the country. 
 
The Man wffli the Three Pair of Breeches. 103 
 
 But Prosper did not then occupy himself with examining the 
 house, but, on being told by a servant that her master and mistress 
 were with the children at the bottom of the garden, he hastened 
 to find them. 
 
 Madame Poupardot was seated beneath a vine-bower, holding a 
 little poppet, some months old, on her knee ; on the green sward 
 before her was rolling a little girl, who had just strength enough 
 to run — to fall down, and get up to run again ; a short distance 
 behind her, Poupardot was busy grafting a plum-tree. 
 
 The husband and wife uttered an exclamation of joy on seeing 
 Prosper, who, before speaking to them and to the little girl on the 
 grass, took her up in his arms, and covered her with kisses, till the 
 child was nearly stifled, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 
 
 Madame Poupardot hastened to reassure the child, by saying 
 to it, — 
 
 " Pauline, this gentleman is your good friend. You know, we 
 were every day telling you he was coming — that we are often talk- 
 ing to you of your good friend, Prosper, who loves you so well, and 
 whom you ought, also, to love. Come, bid him good-day.' 
 
 The child opened her full blue eyes, looked at Prosper, and, at 
 length, said to him, — 
 
 " Good-day, my good friend." 
 
 " There, I flatter myself her education promises to get on ! " said 
 Poupardot, giving his visitor a hearty shake by the hand. " Here 
 you are, at last ; I thought you wouldn't have come. See, there's 
 my son — my little Navet, I hope you are going to embrace him as 
 well?" 
 
 Prosper embraced the little poppet, then the mamma— he 
 embraced the whole family, testifying to the worthy couple his 
 gratitude for the care they had taken of the child he had confided 
 to them. 
 
 " And what do you thank us for ? " said Eliza ; " for your 
 having procured us pleasure — happiness ? This little girl is so 
 engaging ; and you will see what sweetness — what sensibility her 
 character already announces." 
 
 " Like my Navet," resumed Poupardot, " who will be a prodigy 
 of sensibility, excepting he's very fond of biting." 
 
 " If my husband has written to desire you to come and see us, 
 I hope you don't think it's to give you your little Pauline back 
 again. In the first place, she is still too young for you to take 
 charge of her. You are not come to fetch her away ?" 
 
 Prosper reassured Madame Poupardot, who had all a mother's 
 affection for the orphan, which did not prevent her cherishing her 
 son. But tender dispositions are not confined in their affections, 
 and with them their is always room for love. 
 
 " Ah ! but now, citizen, do you really know you no longer look 
 like the same man?" cried Poupardot, while examining Prosper. 
 " The last time we saw you, you was dressed like a real sans-culotte; 
 you are now a muscadinJ* 
 
104 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " I like you better so," said Eliza, smiling. 
 "I have taken leave of my red breeches, because they were 
 taking leave of me," said Prosper, "but I am not ungrateful, and 
 shall never forget what I owe them. "What news at Paris 'i I 
 have been quite a stranger to politics these few months past." 
 
 "Things are going on well, very well," replied Poupardot, 
 rubbing his hands. "The reign of terror is at an end. The con- 
 vention makes good laws ; only, as they make fresh ones every day, 
 it will become difficult to bear them in mind ; but, when there's 
 enough of them, I presume they'll stop." 
 
 "The assignats are in more disorder than ever," said Eliza, 
 M and I firmly believe we shall get but very little from the sale of 
 our house at Paris." 
 
 "Bah! bah! they'll get up again," returned Poupardot. "The 
 sale of the national property ought to make several milliards of 
 assignats return into the coffers of the State ; then, as there will be 
 fewer in circulation, it's quite plain they'll get up again — except- 
 ing any unforseen circumstances should take place." 
 " And our friend Maximus, have you heard of him ? " 
 " Not a word ! we don't know what has become of him. It 
 grieves me, for I fear he may be in trouble. I would willingly 
 have rendered him service ; yet Maximus is proud ! he wishes to 
 owe nothing but to himself." 
 
 " Yes, he is one of those few people we never see when they are 
 in misfortune : because they are afraid of one divining their situa- 
 tion, and of supposing they come with a view of our offering our 
 assistance to them ; it is, perhaps, carrying delicacy too far : but it 
 never. proceeds but from an excessive sense of honour." 
 " And Eoger, our brave soldier ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Ave have had news from him. Eoger was present at our 
 glorious siege of Toulon, where that young artillery officer, Buona- 
 parte, so distinguished himself. Eoger is no longer a private — he's 
 already lieutenant. Our armies are covering themselves with glory. 
 Eoger is full of ardour of zeal ; I'm sure he'll get on rapidly — 
 excepting he's killed." 
 "AndPicotin?" 
 
 " He has changed his sign ; he has removed his chat sans culotte 
 and has replaced it by a bear which you could hardly tell from a 
 sheep. I don't know if that poor Picotin is doing any business, 
 but I believe that his wife pays scarcely any attention to it ; she is 
 so coquettish. Since the French recommence giving themselves up 
 to pleasures ; since the theatres are re-opened, Madame Picotin 
 never misses a representation, unless to go to the concert or ball — 
 but it's not with her husband she goes there." 
 
 " Ah, my friend," said Eliza, "is it right of you to speak ill of 
 people ? Madame Picotin may be giddy, fond of pleasure ; but 
 that's not a reason for believing everything." 
 
 " Ah, my God ! " cried Poupardot, " it's because Picotin is every 
 minute coming here to complain of Euphrasia, and tell me of some 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 10$ 
 
 trick she's been playing him ; but you are right, Eliza, that's no 
 ousfness of ours f and what we ought now to think of is our new 
 e-uest • we must make him welcome and comfortable, that he may 
 ?emain the longer with us. Come, Citizen Prosper I am going to 
 install you in the chamber we have kept for you. My house isn't 
 very biff, but it's convenient ; when you shall have rested yourself, 
 I'll show you the whole of it, from the cellar to the garret, except- 
 ing the plantations in my garden." - An L 
 
 "I am decidedly enchanted at coming to take up my residence 
 at Clichy ; the air here is good, and I'm sure that my little Navet 
 will spring up like a mushroom." ._ 
 
 "Yes, my Augustus enjoys excellent health here," said J^liza, 
 
 em « r Navf t's^otTwo teeth, already," resumed Poupardot, catching 
 
 UP *lnd, t yeC Augustus is only five months old," observed the 
 
 young mother. , 
 
 " And his calves— just look at Navet's calves. 
 
 " How's this, that you both give him different names { said 
 
 Pr °« That's true," said Poupardot; "my wife don't like the name 
 of Navet ; she wishes him to be called Augustus ; I find that very 
 bad policy. Augustus is the name of an emperor— ot a despot. 
 "And Navet is the name of a vegetable," said the young 
 
 " Since they have put those names in the new calendar, to re- 
 place the saints — " , , 
 
 "Your Eepublican calendar has gone by— they wont have 
 anything more to do with it. I would bet those names don t last 
 any lon|er than the decades, and that we shall return to the 
 
 L11 " Hush, Eliza ! hold your tongue ; content yourself with bring- 
 ing up the boy, and don't you meddle with politics ; my son shall 
 be called Navet." . . . . 
 
 Prosper put an end to the discussion, by asking permission to 
 go and take some repose, when Poupardot conducted him to a neat 
 little chamber, where he begged him to consider himself at home. 
 
 The friendship shown him by the Poupardots the caresses of 
 the infants, the calm and homelike life he led in the house at C hchy, 
 seemed so much the more agreeable to Prosper, as at Durouleaus 
 he was forced to be continually at table, drinking and smoking, a 
 kind of life that soon ceases to please when we fall in love. 
 
 The little Pauline easily habituated herself to play with him 
 she called her good friend, and would come of herself to climb 
 upon his knee. Children guess those who love them ; it is a gilt 
 of nature they lose on growing bigger. . 
 
 Prosper employed the gold Durouleau had given him in fre- 
 quently buying playthings for Pauline and little Poupardot ; he 
 endeavoured by every possible means to prove his gratitude to 
 
106 The Man zvith the Three Pair of Breechts, 
 
 his hosts, and when he spoke of returning to Melun, they would 
 say to him, — 
 
 " You are then tired of being with us.' 
 
 Then, when Prosper seemed dull, and let a sigh escape him, 
 Poupardot would look significantly at his wife, and whisper,— 
 
 "There's something in the wind — I would lay he's in love — 
 excepting he's got some other ailment. Wife, you must question 
 him about it." 
 
 " No," said Eliza, " the pains of love delight in mystery ; those 
 who reveal all the secrets of their souls, know not how to love 
 truth." 
 
 Poupardot did not seem to be of his wife's opinion, and to make 
 her perceive it, he would hastily catch his son up in his arms, 
 calling him his dear Navet. 
 
 And the mother would shrug up her shoulders, saying, — 
 
 " Can't you let Augustus be quiet ! " 
 
 But those slight quarrels were the only ones that disturbed the 
 union of the worthy pair, and one might still say — " that's a happy 
 family." 
 
 Picotin frequently came to visit his friends at Clichy. The 
 first time of his again seeing Prosper, he did not know him, so 
 great was the difference between the fierce-looking sans-culotte, 
 who had seated himself on his knees at the theatre of the Eepublic, 
 and the young muscadin, who passed his clays playing with children, 
 and dangling the little Pauline. At length, on recognising the 
 young friend of Maximus, he shook him heartily by the hand, with 
 every sign of the sincerest friendship. But as he did the same to 
 every person of his acquaintance, but little confidence was placed 
 in his professions, and the friendship he prostituted to everybody 
 was estimated at its just value. 
 
 Picotin frequently complained of his wife ; who, like many other 
 persons of those days, was an enthusiastic admirer of the Grecian 
 manners, customs and costume, and wished all the fashions of Athens 
 to be adopted at Paris. 
 
 " I don't know what will become of my shop," said Picotin, one 
 morning, on arriving quite dismayed at Poupardot's, " but there's 
 Euphrasia always talking to me about the Greeks, who has always 
 Athens or Lacecleraon in her mouth, and who pretends we ought to 
 imitate them because they were famous republicans." 
 
 " Well then, Citizen Picotin, is that no longer your opinion ? " 
 said Prosper. "Some time ago you took the surname of Horatius 
 Cockles, to resemble the great men of Rome ; why don't you now 
 take a Grecian name since they have the preference ?" 
 
 " The preference ! In the first place, it's not general ; the idea 
 of imitating the Greeks only comes from the saloons, where the 
 coquettes and muscadins meet together. But the prettiest joke of 
 all is, that the wife of a conventionalist has walked publicly in the 
 garden of the Tuilleries, along with one of her friends, both of them 
 dressed as Atheniennes, that's to say, in a robe without a shift, or 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 107 
 
 rather a shift without a robe, and their feet naked, with nothing 
 but sandals." 
 
 "Is it possible % " said Eliza, with a look of incredulity. 
 
 " I don't know if it's possible, but I assure you so it is ; my 
 friend Eomulus has seen and followed them — and they were followed 
 by a crowd of men, as you may easily conceive — and the more so, as I 
 am assured that the two ladies are very pretty and very well made." 
 * " Parbleu ! " said Poupardot, " hunchbacks would not have taken 
 that costume." 
 
 "Well, then," resumed Picotin, "when I heard everybody 
 blame the two citoyennes who had made that experiment, would 
 you believe that my wife defends them, and pretends that we 
 ought to adopt the Athenian fashions. Now, only look at me, with 
 a tunic covering no lower than half way down my thigh, and a 
 mantle carelessly thrown over my shoulder — when the wind blows 
 — what pretty things you must see ! But it's all one, Euphrasia 
 thinks, dreams of nothing but Greece, and to commence, she this 
 morning served me a mess up for breakfast, seasoned with thyme 
 and honey, telling me it was the favourite repast of Solon — and for 
 drink, she gave me, instead of wine, a villainous compound she 
 called Maxos or Ohio — I found it detestable, and am come to 
 beg you will give me something for breakfast I can swallow." 
 
 They endeavoured to console the poor husband, gave him break- 
 fast, Poupardot poured him out bumper upon bumper, to make 
 him forget the hydromel, and Picotin, heated by the wine he had 
 drank, rose from table, more disgusted than ever with the Greek 
 cookery. 
 
 After breakfast, Picotin engaged Prosper and Poupardot to 
 take a walk with him to Paris, to hear the news, and see how things 
 were going on ; for, if the regimi of terror was past, tranquillity 
 however was far from being re-established, and every day still 
 brought forth fresh quarrels in the convention, murmurs amongst 
 the people, and threats in the sections. 
 
 Prosper had often been to Paris since he had been with the 
 Poupardots ; but he no longer meddled with political discussions ; 
 his only wish was to meet with someone coming from England, to 
 try to hear news of the Count de Trevilliers and his daughter, and 
 until now that desire had not been gratified. 
 
 The three young men had left Clichy behind them, and were 
 going down the road to Paris arm in arm. Prosper, always 
 thoughtful, always pre-occupied, paid little attention to what was 
 passing around them ; Poupardot, on the contrary, examined, tried 
 to read in every countenance, to guess what the different groups were 
 talking of. As for Picotin, whom his breakfast had rendered 
 almost rash, he hummed the Carmagnole ; but when a muscadih 
 passed, and seemed to listen to him, he quickly transformed his air 
 into Malbrouck. 
 
 The trio reached the Boulevards. 
 
 " Where are we going to ? n inquired Prosper. 
 
io8 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " To the Champs Elysees ? " cried Picotin ; " it's a lovely day, and 
 the place will be thronged with fashionables." 
 
 " Be it so," said Poupardot ; " we shall perhaps hear some news 
 there — excepting there are none." 
 
 They started afresh, and soon arrived at the Champs Elyse'es, 
 where there was really a great crowd of all classes ; some going to 
 see, others to show themselves, some to listen to what was saying, 
 and the greater number through the want of having anything else* 
 to do. 
 
 Our three friends had already walked through several avenues; 
 Prosper was looking, was seeking if, amongst the thousands who 
 were passing before him, he might not discover Maximus — his dear 
 Maximus — he would have been so glad of again meeting with. Pou- 
 pardot was trying to persuade himself that everyone looked happy : 
 and Picotin made a crowd of reflections, to which his two com- 
 panions judged it was useless to reply. 
 
 All at once, some young men congregated together, laughing 
 aloud, then proceeded to a less frequented alley, but which soon 
 became thronged with gazers. 
 
 " There's something happened that way, citizens," cried Picotin, 
 dragging his two companions to the side where the crowd was hasten- 
 ing ; "see! see! they are running; there's certainly something; 
 let us go and see what it is." 
 
 Poupardot and Prosper complied with his request, and Picotin, 
 addressing himself to the first person they met, said to him, — 
 
 "Citizen, what's the matter then down there? "Who are they 
 following ? What do they want to see ? " 
 
 " It's a woman again dressed like a Grecian ; the very devil's in 
 those ladies ; this one is almost naked. A muslin tunic— nothing 
 under it ; you comprehend what one can see ; she's a bit of a scarf 
 over her shoulders, but that hides nothing at all. Go, citizen, go ; 
 the woman's pretty ; she's worth the trouble of looking at." 
 
 " Oh, parbleu ! I shall be enchanted to see one of them ! " cried 
 Picotin ; " this is a proof Eomulus had not deceived me. It's 
 decided ; the women are turning Greeks ; let us go and see that 
 one. 
 
 Picotin dragged his companions along, elbowing his way amongst 
 the crowd, and at length succeeded in perceiving, about thirty paces 
 in his front, the modern Athenienne, who was walking alone, but 
 perfectly unconcerned, in the midst of the crowd — seemingly no 
 way affrighted at the effect produced by her costume. 
 
 " Peste ! she's well made ! " exclaimed Picotin ; " fine legs — 
 famous calf — hips — as is plainly to be seen ! " 
 
 " She seems quite at her ease in that costume," observed Pou- 
 pardot, "and yet it's furiously indecent." 
 
 "That's true," said Picotin, "but it's very exciting ! Pichtre ! 
 but I begin to take a liking to the Greeks. I don't see her front, 
 but her rear is superb ! What say you to it, citizens ?" 
 
 " She's like the pictures of the angels," said Poupardot, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 109 
 
 Prosper said nothing, but merely shrugged up his shoulders. 
 
 " Forward ! forward ! " cried Picotin, " I want to see her face ; 
 I want to assure myself that all we see is as firm to the touch as it 
 is lovely to the eye." 
 
 " Ah, Picotin ! I hope you'll know how to behave yourself — that 
 you won't think of insulting that woman," said Poupardot. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, citizen ; who's thinking of insulting her ? 
 but a woman who walks almost naked in public ought not to be 
 easily offended. Come along, then, come along ; I want to make the 
 conquest of the Athenienne." 
 
 Picotin doubled his pace ; the breakfast had rendered him enter- 
 prising, and the Greek costume set his imagination on fire. He at 
 length arrived close behind the Athenienne, and, while stretching 
 out his neck to see her face, his hand permitted itself to give a 
 gentle tap on the quivering prominence just below the rear of the 
 cestus. At the same instant, the modern Grecian turned round, 
 gave him a sound box on the ear, and Picotin remained quite 
 astounded on perceiving it was his own beloved better half. This 
 might have passed off for the present, had there not been so many 
 witnesses of the new Athenienne's retort uncourteous ; besides, the 
 box on the ear had been given with such hearty good will, that 
 every one might have heard it ; and the spectators immediately 
 crowding round the boxer and the boxed put a thousand questions to 
 Picotin he knew not how to answer— some of whom addressed 
 Euphrasia in terms by no means flattering ; they rallied her on her 
 costume, and asked her if she had adopted the Grecian tunic to have 
 the privilege of slapping her admirers' faces. Some men were already 
 proposing to administer to her a correction similar to what is be- 
 stowed upon naughty children. Euphrasia was frightened ; she 
 turned pale — she trembled — she wished to speak, but her voice was 
 drowned in howlings. She looked round for her husband, but he 
 was gone, holding his hand to his cheek. The poor Athenienne 
 knew not how to escape from the mob that surrounded her, when a 
 young man forced his way through the crowd, took her arm, and 
 vigorously pushing back all who tried to stop their passage, suc- 
 ceeded it disengaging Euphrasia — dragged her to a coach-stand, and 
 assisted her in getting into a fiacre. 
 
 " Ah ! thank you ! thank you, Citizen Prosper ! " exclaimed 
 Euphrasia, when she had recovered strength to speak, and recog- 
 nised her liberator ; " but for you, I don't know what would have 
 become of me. Oh ! it's all over ! I swear to you I'll never more 
 dress myself like an Athenienne." 
 
 " And you'll act wisely," said Prosper, smiling ; " the French 
 don't seem to me disposed to become Greeks." 
 
 " It, however, is my stupid jackass of a husband who was the 
 cause of all this ; if he hadn't come to insult me, I shouldn't have 
 given him a box on the ear, and the mob wouldn't have gathered 
 round me. What an idea to come and pinch me, as if he hadn't 
 plenty of time for that at home— but he never thinks of it there." 
 
no The Man zvith the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " He wouldn't have done it, if he had recognised you." 
 
 " How ! he didn't know it was me ? It was with another 
 woman, then, he was thinking to take liberties ? Ah, the monster ! 
 he would really deserve a thrashing. Where are you taking me to, 
 citizen ? " 
 
 " Why, to your home, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh ! not .yet ! I won't return before night ; I should be afraid 
 of some fresh disturbance, if I was to be seen by the neighbours in 
 this costume. I didn't dress myself at home ; it was at one of my 
 female friends I put on these things." 
 
 " Well, then, do you wish me to take you back to your friend's ?" 
 
 " She perhaps won't be in ; if you are not pressed for time, tell 
 the coachman to drive us to the Bois de Boulogne ; it will soon be 
 night, when we can return to Paris." 
 
 Prosper was quite disposed to do everything that might be 
 agreeable to the young wife, whom he could not avoid thinking 
 very seducing in the Attic costume, and he ordered the coachman 
 to drive to the Bois de Boulogne. Euphrasia, who was no longer 
 afraid, recovered her gaiety and her coquetry ; she tried to wrap her- 
 self up in her mantle, but the least motion of the fiacre deranged the 
 drapery, and sometimes raised part of the tunic, when Euphrasia 
 would laugh like a little fool, and Prosper try to cover her again, 
 to prevent her feeling cold ; but he was so awkward, that he had 
 always to begin again. During this time night began to set in, and 
 the air to be fresh. Prosper had shut down all the glasses of the 
 fiacre, for fear of his companion catching cold; and notwithstanding 
 that precaution, she crept close to him to keep herself warm. 
 
 It was now ten o'clock, and the vehicle containing Prosper and 
 Euphrasia was still rolling along in the Bois de Boulogne ; but the 
 coachman was almost asleep, and " on his coursers' necks his hand 
 let float the reins," when Prosper and his Athenienne who were 
 neither of them cold, thought it time to return to Paris. 
 
 They return to the Pue Aux Ours — the young wife alighted 
 from the fiacre — tenderly pressed Prospers hand, and darted into 
 the shop, exclaiming, — 
 
 " It's all one ! I'll give my husband a famous blowing up ! " 
 
 About six weeks after that day, Prosper received a letter from 
 Melun, sealed with black ; he opened it ; it was from the same 
 notary who had invited him to come and take possession of his god- 
 father's legacy, and contained the following words : 
 
 " The Citizen Durouleau, formerly a brewer, has just died from 
 an attack of the gout ; he leaves neither children nor relations, and 
 has named you, Citizen Prosper Bressange, heir to his whole for- 
 tune ; and it is this time question of something more than 'Three 
 Pairs of Breeches ; ' for, a short time before his death, Durouleau 
 had made the acquisition of a national property ; the estate of the 
 ci-devant Count de Trevilliers. Whenever you choose to come 
 down, citizen, you will be able to enter into immediate possession 
 of your inheritance." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 1 1 
 
 Prosper for a moment believed himself to be the sport of a 
 dream ; when great good fortune befalls us, we fear it's not a 
 reality ; it is not the same with misfortune, which we always re- 
 ceive as an old acquaintance. However, this unexpected windfall 
 was quite real ; he held the letter which announced it in his hand, 
 and he was almost vexed with himself at feeling himself so happy 
 at the death of poor Durouleau, who thus again gave him another 
 proof of the affection he had always professed for him. 
 
 But, in this circumstance, it was quite natural for pleasure to get 
 the better of regret ; a thousand thoughts, a thousand hopes, 
 crowded on Prosper's mind ; and what enchanted him above all was 
 to find himself proprietor of the Count de Trevillier's estate— of 
 that fine domain where Camilla had passed her infancy, and which 
 she was unceasingly regretting — since her sole happiness consisted 
 in taking her walks around it — since she no longer had the right 
 to reside on it. The imagination of a lover goes at a railroad pace ! 
 Already Prosper sees himself the husband of Camilla, and bringing 
 her back to the domain of her forefathers. 
 
 The new heir hastened to show his hosts the letter he had just 
 received ; they shared his joy ; Poupardot embraced, complimented 
 him ; Eliza told him he deserved his good fortune ; and those 
 felicitations were really sincere, for the worthy couple were inac- 
 cessible to envy, and they also "enjoyed the happiness of their 
 friend. 
 
 " And you, dear little girl," said Prosper, taking the unfortunate 
 Derbrouck's daughter in his- arms ; "you, born in opulence, and 
 who no longer possess anything, I then shall be able to insure your 
 future independence. Ah ! if I felicitate myself upon being rich, 
 it is because I feel how delightful it must be to render happy those 
 we love." 
 
 Prosper wished to leave Paris for Melun on the day he received 
 the letter, but the fresh storm that burst over the political horizon 
 of France did not permit him to take his departure so soon. 
 
 The sections were then in full revolt against the convention ; in 
 every quarter of Paris the drum was beating to arms ; and Poupar- 
 dot — who, notwithstanding the prayers of his wife, would absolutely 
 leave home to know what was going on — returned one day quite 
 pale, breathless, and with a wound in his knee, which, however, 
 did not prevent his rubbing his hands while saying, — 
 
 " Things are going on well— oh ! very well : the revolt is finished. 
 The general, Buonaparte, has just grape-shotted the sections ; he 
 soon swept the canaille away. The convention triumphs. Oh ! I 
 believe they'll recollect the 13th vendemaire." 
 
 " But how is it you are wounded ? " exclaimed Eliza ; " can you 
 have been fighting ? " 
 
 " No ; but I wanted to cross the Rue Saint Homore just at the 
 moment they were firing the cannon ; those confounded guns 
 carry a long way, and when one's curious, we sometimes meet with 
 disagreeable mischances. I have had a splinter in my knee, and it 
 
H2 The, Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 gives me pain — excepting that I am very well satisfied, for I hope 
 that at last we are all going to be happy." 
 
 Eliza hastened to dress her husband's wound, and Prosper 
 thought it his duty to remain at Clichy until Poupardot was out of 
 danger. He was soon cured, but as the wound had taken place in 
 one of the nerves of the knee, it caused a stiffness that made him 
 limp when walking, and the surgeon announced to him that that 
 testimony of his patriotism would always stick by him. 
 
 At length, Prosper, seeing that Paris had again become tran- 
 quil, resolved to set off for Melun ; he bade his friends farewell, 
 tenderly embraced Pauline, whom, with a look, he again recom- 
 mended to the good Eliza, then set out to receive the inheritance 
 he owed to providence and to his uncle's red breeches. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIIL 
 
 RESIDENCE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Scarcely arrived at Melun, Prosper hastened to call upon the 
 notary Dumont, who read to him the will made in his favour and 
 delivered him the title deeds which assured him the possession of 
 a fortune that, moreover, no one thought of contesting with him. 
 
 The ci-devant brewer was not a millionaire, and besides, until 
 his last attack of the gout, he had deprived himself of nothing, 
 and had indulged in all the enjoyments that suited his tastes. The 
 fortune he left at his death was composed of the estate of 
 Trevilliers, with its dependencies, which brought in an income of 
 from ten to twelve thousand livres ; the house he occupied at Melun, 
 and lastly about a hundred thousand livres in cash, that he had kept in 
 an old chest and concealed in the bottom of a wardrobe, which an- 
 nounced his little confidence in the assignats ; it was with that paper 
 however, he had made the acquisition of the emigrant's property. 
 
 It then was not an immense fortune that had fallen to Prosper, 
 but to one who possessed nothing, the change of situation must have 
 seemed somewhat marvellous. 
 
 Let us also remember he was then only twenty years of age, and 
 that if events, the circumstance she had been placed in, had not 
 already given strength to his character, his head and heart might 
 well abandon themselves to those illusions so natural to youth, and 
 which, in a riper age, we long endeavour to retain. 
 
 On re-entering the house where he had left Durouleau happy 
 and cheerful, Prosper felt himself affected, and would, without regret, 
 have, given the fortune just left him, again to press the hand of 
 that man, who might have committed great faults during his life- 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 1 J 
 
 time, but from whom he had never received anything but marks 
 of friendship. 
 
 On arriving in the chamber he had formerly occupied, another 
 souvenir took possession of his heart. It was there Camilla had 
 passed the night, where he had been happy, and he said to himself, — 
 
 " After what has happened, could she ever consent to give her- 
 self to another ? Oh no ! Camilla is too proud to wish to deceive any- 
 one. She knows how truly I love her, and now that I can restore 
 to her the domain of her father, now that I am rich, why shouldn't 
 I become her husband ?" 
 
 Prosper remained part of the day in that chamber, abandoned 
 to his visions of future happiness, and his heart full of the remem- 
 brance of Camilla. Time passes away very quick with poets and 
 lovers ; those men are never melancholy when alone, it is a little 
 indemnification for all the deceptions that await them. 
 
 And it was only at the moment when he was going to leave his 
 chamber, that Prosper recollected another person who had inhab- 
 ited it along with him ; his eyes then wandered over the objects 
 around him, while whispering to himself, — 
 
 " Poor Jeannette ! she truly loves me ! and I have forced her 
 to love me ! while the other — our heart then is very ungrateful ! 
 very hard ! very unreasonable ! Nothing touches it when it does 
 not love ; it remains cold to the proofs of the most ardent love ; 
 while it inflames itself, sometimes consumes itself, for a person from 
 whom it receives nothing but disdain or contempt. But if I can 
 find Jeannette again, I will at least give her proofs of my friendship 
 by raising her for ever above want." 
 
 Prosper had already formed his project : his resolution was 
 taken ; he determined to pass over to England in search of Camilla; 
 he could not believe she had entirely forgotten him. Attributing her 
 silence to the force of circumstances, and not to her will, he also 
 said to himself that she had perhaps written to him, and her letters 
 had been lost ; the war that then existed between England and 
 France, the rarity, the difficulty of the communications between the 
 two countries, might, in fact, give probability to those conjectures ; 
 a lover, besides, clings to everything that flatters his passion ; he 
 would suppose the destruction of the globe, rather than entirely 
 renounce the hope of being beloved. In love we want proofs to 
 believe in our misfortune, and still — how many men have them 
 and will not believe, Oculas habent et non videbunt ; which is, how- 
 ever, very fortunate. 
 
 Prosper hastened to arrange everything relative to his inherit- 
 ance. Then, after taking a considerable sum with him, depositing 
 the remainder of his ready money with the notary, and leaving his 
 house to the care of two of the late Durouleau's servants, he set off for 
 Calais, where he hoped to find the means of passing into England. 
 
 It is very rare "not to obtain what we wish, with money, at all 
 times, under all governments, and Prosper succeeded in securing 
 a passage on board a smuggler bound to Scotland. He embarked 
 
H4 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 one gloomy night, and was soon at a distance from his native 
 shores. 
 
 The chief thing, for Prosper, was to have left France. Once in 
 Scotland he had no difficulty in reaching England, but he perceived 
 he had done well in furnishing himself with a good round sum, 
 for, if we spend money in France, in England it seems to fly away. 
 In a fortnight after his departure from Calais, Prosper was in 
 London, lodging at a good inn in the city, and running through the 
 town in hopes of meeting with the daughter of the Count de 
 Trevilliers. 
 
 But the poor inamorato every day felt a portion of his hopes 
 escape him. How, in fact, succeed in finding her he was in search, 
 in the middle of an immense capital, of a numerous population, and 
 with difficulty stammering out a few words of the language that 
 was spoken around him ? 
 
 The landlord where Prosper lodged pretended to understand 
 and speak French very well. When the young traveller took 
 up his abode at his inn, announcing he had come to London in 
 search of some of his countrymen, Mr Betteson (the name of the 
 landlord) had told him he would assist him in his search, and find 
 means to meet with his friends again. But, after some days passed 
 in the city, as Mr Betteson sent Prosper beer when he asked for 
 sugar, a beef -steak when he wanted a pen, and a tailor when he 
 inquired for a ticket-porter, the young man removed to an hotel 
 in the brilliant parish of St James's, where Prosper found a land- 
 lord, and even waiters, who spoke French pretty well, and he 
 inquired after the Count de Trevilliers. 
 
 " If he's an emigrant," he was answered, " we have many of 'em 
 in London, in all quarters ; some are foolishly extravagant, the others 
 have not a farthing and are very wretched ; others, even forced to 
 have recourse to their talents for a subsistence, and. to profess the 
 art or the science they possess, conceal their name and quality 
 through pride. We don't know the Count de Trevilliers ; to obtain 
 intelligence of him, it would be necessary for you to frequent the 
 higher circles, to be introduced into the saloon of some nobleman, 
 or, what would be still better, to try to be presented to some great 
 personage." 
 
 But Prosper had no acquaintances, no letter of recommendation ; 
 he was a roturier, he had been a printer, he was a Eepublican, a 
 partisan of liberty, of the Revolution, he was a possessor of rjational 
 property, and those were titles that could not allow him to be 
 admitted into the saloon of the English Aristocracy. 
 
 Six months had passed away; Prosper had several times walked 
 through every parish in London, he had visited all the public places, 
 he frequently went to the theatres, the balls ; he had dined at 
 all the best traiteurs, called for wine in all the taverns, without 
 ever seeing Camilla, or hearing her father's name mentioned. 
 
 The poor lover was in despair ; he had already several times had 
 the intention of leaving England, but was unable to decide himself, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. i 1 $ 
 
 because he had a secret presentiment that her he loved was still at 
 London. 
 
 He was one morning walking in the outskirts of the town. He 
 was no longer seeking, he was no longer making inquiries — for, in 
 that quarter, as well as in the others, he had asked for the Count 
 de Trevilliers and his daughter, and had only received negative 
 answers. 
 
 But a post-chaise had just drawn up before an eight-roomed 
 house, from which, in the first place, alighted a man of an elegant 
 ioumure; by his dress and manners Prosper quickly recognised 
 him to be a Frenchman ; then a young woman leaped out of the 
 chaise, and though he only caught a momentary glance of her, his 
 heart told him that woman was Camilla. 
 
 Prosper had stopped in the street, motionless — a hundred paces 
 from the post-chaise, with his eyes fixed upon that house into which 
 had just entered the two persons, who seemed arriving from a 
 journey. He knew not what to do. That good fortune, he no 
 longer reckoned upon, stunned, astonished him. In the meantime 
 the postillion had remounted and the chaise had driven off, when 
 Prosper recovered his presence of mind, and, running after the 
 vehicle, with a half-guinea between his fingers, called to the pos- 
 tillion, who checked his horses and awaited the young man's approach. 
 During the six months he had been in London, Prosper had learned 
 sufficient English to know how to make himself be understood, and 
 inquired who were the travellers just alighted from the chaise. 
 The postillion began by taking the half-guinea presented to him, 
 and then replied, — 
 
 "Yes, they're travellers — a French emigrant count, just come 
 from Birmingham." 
 
 And giving his horse a cut, he again trotted off. Prosper was 
 not much the wiser for this information, but he plainly heard the 
 words count and emigrant. Besides, he was certain it was Camilla 
 he had seen ; but he knew not what plan to adopt. He felt this was 
 not the time for him to present himself when the persons, whoever 
 they might be, had just arrived from a journey. Besides, he wished, 
 in the first place, to see Camilla without her father, but for that 
 purpose he must have some intelligence in the house. 
 
 Prosper passed the whole day keeping watch in the street, when, 
 towards evening, a female, whom, by her toumure, Prosper recog- 
 nised to be an English woman, came out of the house. Prosper ran 
 after, accosted her, stammered out a few words neither French or 
 English, because, in his eagerness to make himself be comprehended, 
 he could no longer find words to express himself. Fortunately for 
 him, the lady he was addressing spoke very good French, and said 
 to him, smiling, — - 
 
 "I believe it would be more convenient to you not to speak 
 English." 
 
 Prosper was enchanted, had he not been afraid of frightening 
 the lady, he would have embraced her ; he could at length obtain 
 
t\6 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the information he desired. Mrs Wilfort (it was the lady's name) 
 said to him with much politeness, — 
 
 "The persons you have just seen alight have lodged with me 
 for a year ; I am a widow, living alone with two servants, and as 
 my house is spacious enough, I have given up the half of it to that 
 French gentleman and his daughter. He is an emigrant, the Count 
 de Trevilliers. I don't believe them to be rich ; they have been 
 passing some months at Birmingham, with an English family they 
 are intimate with. They have now returned, and will live, I sup- 
 pose, as usual. The father sometimes rides out every day upon a 
 hired horse ; the daughter remains almost constantly in-doors. 
 They receive visits from some of the French nobles, emigrants like 
 themselves ; they converse, play at cards, and don't drink tea — 
 which seems to me the most surprising of all ! " 
 
 Prosper thanked Mrs Wilfort, who seemed very fond of talking, 
 and, stating himself to be the brother of a friend Mademoiselle de 
 Trevilliers had left in France, said he should pay her a visit as soon 
 as she should be recovered from the fatigue of her journey, and 
 begged her not to announce it, because he wished to surprise the 
 count's daughter. 
 
 Mrs Wilfort promised secrecy ; and the young man went away 
 full of joy. For the first time since his abode at London he saw, 
 he looked with pleasure around him. The town appeared more 
 lively to him, the shops more splendid, the English women more 
 gracious ; he fancied he had not before perceived all that. 
 
 Prosper passed some days in strolling round the house where 
 Camilla resided. The count went out habitually at one in the 
 afternoon and did not return before five. Quite sure of the moment 
 when he would find Camilla alone, Prosper resolved no longer to 
 defer his interview. 
 
 This young man, whom, we had seen some time before so bold, 
 so enterprising, was then trembling, timid ; and his heart, agitated 
 by fear and hope, sought in vain to recover assurance. 
 
 "How will she receive me?" such was the question Prosper a 
 hundred times addressed to himself on his way to Camilla. He 
 at length arrived at Mrs Wilfort's, and begged her privately to 
 acquaint the count's daughter that a person she had been acquainted 
 with in France wished to speak to her. 
 
 Mrs Wilfort showed Prosper into a parlour, and engaged him 
 to wait there while she went to inform Mademoiselle de Trevilliers. 
 
 She returned in a few minutes, and said to him, — 
 
 "The young lady put a great many questions to me respecting 
 the person who asked for her. I replied I was not acquainted with 
 you : in short, she is going to coine/' and Mrs Wilfort left the 
 room. 
 
 " My God ! what ceremonies ! " said Prosper, throwing himself 
 on a chair ; " but let us recollect I am no longer in France ; that 
 here, Camilla is again become noble, a great lady ! that the Ee- 
 publican ideas must be in great discredit in an emigrant's family 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 117 
 
 and that I ought respectfully to address myself to her who perhaps 
 is no longer willing to remember the intimacy that existed between 
 
 US '"a door opened and Camilla appeared. Since her departure 
 from France, her features had taken a more serious, a sterner expres- 
 sion ; her shape had developed itself her firm step was no longer 
 that of a young girl who ran playing through the fields. 
 
 Prosper found her still handsomer, and remained as if struck 
 with admiration at her sight. . 
 
 Camilla, on recognising the person waiting for her in the parlour, 
 turned pale, she leant against the table, and remained some instants 
 without being able to speak. 
 
 "It's you! monsieur !" said Camilla at length, and those words 
 were pronounced in a tone of reproach, which already wounded the 
 heart of Prosper. . . „ „ ,. , 
 
 "My presence seems to surprise you, mademoiselle, replied 
 Prosper^ with a trembling voice. "You then did not expect me j 
 You— you thought, then, I could be able to forget you ! that I could 
 be able to live without seeing you again, without knowing what 
 was your destiny ! You had promised to let me hear from you. 
 I have waited in vain— two years have nearly elapsed-and not a 
 word has come from you to allay my uneasiness and restore a little 
 calm to my heart. Ah ! if you knew how much I have suffered ! 
 Unable to hold any longer, I have quitted France. For seven 
 months I have been in London-but, at length, I have found you 
 ao-ain— I see you— ah ! I am still too happy \ ' m 
 
 ° While Prosper was speaking to her, Camilla experienced an 
 emotion she made efforts to overcome ; taking a chair and beckon- 
 ing the young man to seat himself by her, she replied to him in a 
 
 mil "Mon^euT Prosper, if I have not let you hear from me, it is 
 because I thought that it was my duty entirely to forget the past, 
 to efface from my memory recollections which are too painful to me. 
 Yes my reason told me all liaison ought to be broken off between 
 ns ' Do not believe me to have formed that resolution without 
 pain-but of what service would it be for us again to see each 
 other 1 " Even if I should love you, we cannot be united to each 
 other." Forget me, monsieur, and believe that I shall ever form 
 vows for your happiness." . ■_ 
 
 " Forget you '" exclaimed Prosper, who with difficulty contained 
 himself while Camilla was speaking, "and it is thus you receive me 
 —we must no more see each other— we cannot be united S And 
 why then, mademoiselle ? I now am rich ! I can render you inde- 
 pendent— I can restore to you the domain where you passed your 
 youth, and which you so much regretted- it is mine, and I was so 
 happy in being able to come and offer it you. 
 
 "How, monsieur, you have purchased my father's chateau, 
 said Camilla, almost angrily. " Ah ! you are an ac ^ ire . i ; i ° f , 1 r ;^X^ 
 property ; it ought not to have cost you dear-you wul doubtless 
 
Il8 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 have paid for it in assignats — but if that is your title of recom- 
 mendation to my father, I warn you it won't obtain you a very 
 agreeable reception." 
 
 Prosper was confounded, he little expected reproaches, and did 
 not think he deserved them ; it was not till after a moment's silence 
 he was able to reply. 
 
 " I have not purchased your father's chateau — how could I have 
 done it ? I possessed nothing — but — a person died, who made me 
 his heir ; that person had acquired the domain, which was your's — 
 that is how I find myself the proprietor of it. If it was wrong to 
 make that acquisition, I seek to repair it by restoring you that 
 property. Ah S mademoiselle, don't address to me reproaches I 
 have not deserved. In becoming your husband, it shall be the 
 employment of my whole life to render you happy — I shall have no 
 other will but yours — Camilla, do you not know how truly I love 
 you ? It is true that you are noble and that I am not ; but am I, 
 then, nothing to you ! and ought those prejudices, which are no 
 longer known in France, to place a barrier between us here ? " 
 
 Prosper had thrown himself at the feet of Camilla, who looked 
 uneasily around her, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Eise — rise, I beg of you. My God ! were any one to come, you 
 would make me lose my reputation." 
 
 " But give me one word of hope — of consolation." 
 " What can I say to you ? I am not my own mistress, I am 
 dependent on my father." 
 
 " But, at least, do you permit me to see him, to demand your hand 
 of him?" 
 
 " You can do so, but I don't think you can succeed." 
 " You then have never said a word in my favour % you have not 
 spoken to the count of him who has saved you, who has facilitated 
 your flight from France ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, I have named you to my father asa person to whom 
 I am under great obligations. I think I ought not to have said 
 more ; and he has doubtless now forgot your name ; my father is 
 so absent, so occupied with political affairs." 
 
 " Well, then, I will see him ; I shall have courage to speak to 
 him. But you, Camilla, will you say nothing to him to induce him 
 to listen favourably to me ? " 
 
 " I have no influence over the will of my father. See, in the 
 first place, what answer he gives you — and now, adieu ; if he were 
 to find us together, it would only serve to indispose him against 
 you." 
 
 " Leave you already, Camilla, after so long an absence ! when I 
 have still so many things to say to you ; when I have so much 
 pleasure in looking at you ! " 
 
 " You would not wish to compromise me — to cause me unpleas- 
 antness." 
 
 " Oh ! no ! I leave you, I go — but to-morrow I shall come and 
 see your father — to-morrow my fate shall be decided," 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 119 
 
 Prosper rose from his seat, advanced towards Camilla, and, 
 carried away by his love, made a motion as if to press her in his 
 arms, but Mademoiselle de Trevilliers took a step in the rear, and 
 her look was then so imposing, her brow so stern, that the poor 
 youth remained trembling and confused ; he contented himself with 
 putting to his lips a hand she deigned to abandon to him, and went 
 away after darting at her a last look in which his whole soul was 
 depicted. 
 
 Prosper returned to his hotel dissatisfied, uneasy ; the reception 
 he had met with was not of a nature to encourage him, yet he still 
 sought to deceive himself : he said to himself that the count's 
 daughter ought, at her father's, to resume that severity of manners 
 and language, but that she had permitted him to demand her hand, 
 and that, if she did not love him a little, she would have opposed 
 his speaking to the count. In short, he said to himself all that we 
 seek, all that we imagine when we love someone and don't wish to 
 find any faults in her. 
 
 Next day, after paying more than usual attention to his dress, 
 and endeavouring to dissemble his frank and Republican manners 
 under the costume of a dandy, Prosper went to the Count de 
 Trevilliers before his usual hour of going out. 
 
 A livery servant, but whose clothes were patched and pieced in 
 several places, came to the door and asked him what he wanted. 
 
 " To speak to M. the Count de Trevilliers." 
 
 The man hesitated, scratched his ear and replied, — 
 
 " I don't know if M. the Count is visible — what name am I to 
 give?" 
 
 " Merely tell him that a Frenchman, who wishes to see M. de 
 Trevilliers upon business that interests him, desires a moment's 
 conversation with him." 
 
 The man went away, turned back, seemed to reflect for some 
 seconds, and at length decided to deliver the message. 
 
 At the expiration of ten minutes, which to our lover appeared an 
 hour, the footman returned and said to him, — 
 
 " M. the Count would wish to know, sir, whom you come from 
 — and if you have any letter of recommendation ? " 
 
 Prosper could scarcely restrain his rage at the valet's impertinent 
 tone, and in his turn assuming an imperious tone, he said to him, — 
 
 "I come from no one. It is me, myself; it is me, me, do you 
 understand, who wants to speak to your master." 
 
 The decided tone taken by Prosper imposed on the valet, who 
 then made him a respectful bow, and went away after whisper- 
 ing,— 
 
 " M. the Count is going to come— but, do you see, we have so 
 many persons asking after him, that it tires us. We are obliged to 
 be careful whom we answer. Wait a moment ; the count is going 
 to come." 
 
 " What trouble to approach the great ! " said Prosper to himself 
 while pacing the parlour ; " but I forgive him ; he has creditors, as 
 
120 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Mrs Wilfort told me. M. de Trevillier's affairs are somewhat de- 
 ranged ; then ought he not to welcome a man who asks him for his 
 daughter without a portion, and who will, on the contrary, be very 
 happy to share all he possesses with her. Ah! if such could be 
 the case ! " 
 
 At length the Count de Trevilliers entered the room. He was 
 a man upwards of fifty, but who had still the tournure and the 
 manners of a young man, having been a very handsome man in his 
 young days he took great care of his person ; his manners were ele- 
 gant and polite, but his smile habitually sarcastic ; and his caustic 
 mind was plainly perceptible in his look. 
 
 He bowed to his visitor, pointed to an armchair ; threw himself 
 on a sofa, with a glance reviewed Prosper's dress, let a slight motion 
 of his lips escape him, which indicated there were many things in 
 it to criticise ; and at length said to him, — 
 
 " Monsieur, you have demanded to speak to me ; you know me to 
 be the Count de Trevilliers ; I, before conversing with you, would 
 desire to know who you are. Such is the English fashion. They, in 
 company, immediately declare to you the name and rank of every 
 person present ; I like that way much : it prevents every kind of 
 quid fro quo." 
 
 Prosper felt himself intimidated by the tone of the courtier ; he, 
 however, tried to resume his air of independence, and replied to 
 him, — 
 
 " M. the Count, your demand is quite natural. My name is Pros- 
 per Bressange." 
 
 The count seemed waiting for those names to be followed by 
 some titles, but hearing nothing more, he muttered, — 
 
 " Prosper — Bressange ? — and that's all ? " 
 
 The young man felt the blood rush up into his cheeks, but, look- 
 ing down, he replied, — 
 
 " Is my name, then — not sufficient 1 ' 
 
 " Ah ! I believe it wouldn't have been the worse for some titles 
 after it, though they just now want to abolish all that in Prance. 
 Ah, my God ! the poor fools who want to suppress the noblesse ! 
 I would bet they won't be long before reinstating it. After proscrib- 
 ing the ancient one, I bet you they will make a new one. Find me, 
 then, a world in which vanity is not to be found. But that is not 
 the question. Let me hear, my dear monsieur, what you have to 
 say to me." 
 
 While pronouncing these words the count had thrown himself 
 back upon the sofa— with the left hand fingering his frill, and with 
 the other rubbing his calf. 
 
 "Monsieur the Count," said Prosper, "by naming myself I be 
 lieved, in the first place, to awaken your recollections — I thought 
 to remind you of circumstances which might have moved your 
 feelings." 
 
 M. de Trevilliers took a pinch of snuff, and shook his frill, while 
 saying,— 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 121 
 
 " You have awakened nothing at all, monsieur ; explain your- 
 self more clearly — for, may the devil fetch me ! if I comprehend 
 you." 
 
 " Well, then, monsieur, I am going to explain myself : You 
 had left mademoiselle, your daughter, in France, where she was in 
 the greatest danger. Some one has watched over her — ; has constantly 
 protected her against those who demanded her arrest — and at length, 
 when there was no longer any safety for her in France, provided her 
 with the means of escaping under a fictitious name. He who has 
 done that is myself, Monsieur the Count." 
 
 M. de Trevilliers looked at Prosper with a less ironical air, and 
 with more gravity replied to him, — 
 
 " Ah ! it's you, monsieur, who have done all that ! Camilla has, 
 in fact, related all those circumstances to me. Well ! receive, then, 
 my thanks for what you have done for my daughter. Give me your 
 hand, young man." 
 
 Prosper eagerly seized and pressed the hand presented to him, 
 but which the count quickly withdrew, saying, — 
 
 " Moreover, I am unable to testify my gratitude to you in any 
 other way — for I, at this moment, am ruined, or nearly so." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur ! I hope you don't think I am come to claim a 
 gratuity ? " 
 
 "Pardon me, Monsieur Bressange, I have had no intention of 
 wounding your feelings — but we are living in so extraordinary an 
 age. I, for my part, have but little belief in fine actions devoid of 
 all interested motives ; but I repeat to you — I speak generally — 
 there are always exceptions. I renew to you my thanks. Had you 
 anything else to say to me?" 
 
 Prosper felt all his courage give way ; the tone of the count was 
 not calculated to encourage him, yet the remembrance of Camilla 
 re-animated him, and, trying to subdue his emotion, he replied, — 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur the Count, I ought now to come to the purport 
 of my visit, for I did not come to you in search of thanks ; another 
 motive, to me very important — " 
 
 " Speak on, monsieur, I am listening to you." 
 "Well, then, I must avow to you, Monsieur the Count, that, 
 having frequently had occasion to find myself near mademoiselle, 
 your daughter, I have been unable to defend myself from experi- 
 encing for her a sentiment — in short, I am violently enamoured of 
 Mademoiselle Camilla, and I am come to supplicate you to grant 
 me her hand. I am rich, Monsieur the Count ; I possess an income 
 of nearly eighteen thousand livres ; it doubtless is not a great 
 fortune, but I am young, and may, by my exertions, increase it. All 
 I shall have will be mademoiselle your daughter's, and my sole 
 thought, my only aim, will be to assure her happiness." 
 
 The count had listened with admirable sang froid; his physiog- 
 nomy, however, had again become sarcastic. When Prosper had 
 ceased speaking, he took a pinch of snuff, and replied, dwelling on 
 his words — - 
 
122 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 "You are young ; yes, I perceive it. "Whose son are yon, Mon- 
 sieur Prosper ? " 
 
 "Monsieur, my father was a perfectly honest man — a simple 
 merchant ; he had left me some fortune ; but, finding myself an 
 orphan and my own master at sixteen years of age, I had soon dis- 
 sipated my patrimony. I am now one-and-twenty ; the events in 
 the midst of which I have lived have ripened my reason ; I have 
 just inherited — and I swear to you — " 
 
 " Very good, very good ; any other details would be superfluous. 
 My dear Monsieur Prosper, do you know that if, only eight years 
 ago, any one, such as yourself, had come to make me the proposal 
 that you address to me, I would have had him thrown out of the 
 window." 
 
 " Monsieur ! " exclaimed Prosper, casting an angry look at the 
 count ; but M. de Trevilliers seemed perfectly unmoved, and making 
 him a sign to resume his seat, he continued, — 
 
 " I tell you what I would have done eight years ago ; sit down, 
 then ; the times have somewhat changed my disposition. You have 
 just come from Paris ; you are thoroughly imbued with the prin- 
 ciples of the Eevolution ; you are no longer willing to recognise the 
 distinctions of rank, of birth ; you have become enamoured of Made- 
 moiselle de Trevilliers, and because you have rendered her some 
 services — without interested motives, however, as you have said to 
 me — you have thought you could demand her hand of me, and that 
 I would grant it you. I excuse you, because all this is the conse- 
 quence of those grand words of liberty and equality, that for some 
 years past have been constantly sounding in your ears. But, as for 
 me, nothing will ever be able to modify my opinions. My daughter 
 is noble ; she shall espouse none but a noble — at least, as long as I 
 am alive. Your income of eighteen thousand livres is not much ; 
 but that would have nothing to do with it ; you might not possess 
 one sou, and yet I could give you my daughter, if your birth was 
 equal to hers. You have just told me that you will work to augment 
 your f ortui le ; learn, monsieur, that I will not have a son-in-law 
 who works. Pardieu ! if I was to let you have your way, I should 
 place, perhaps, Mademoiselle de Trevilliers behind a grocer's 
 counter. Well, well, all this is only a joke, and not worth while 
 being warm about ; is it not true, Monsieur Prosper ? " 
 
 The poor lover was overwhelmed ; the ironical tone of the count 
 deprived him of all hope ; he comprehended how senseless he had 
 been in coming to ask him for his daughter's hand ; and yet, he 
 could not figure to himself that Camilla could give herself to any 
 other but him. 
 
 After some moments' silence, during which M. de Trevilliers 
 again commenced stroking his calves, Prosper stammered out, — 
 
 " Pardon me, Monsieur the Count ; love has made me conceive 
 hopes that I see cannot be realised. Yes, I thought that, by assur- 
 ing the future destiny of your daughter, you might — I had been 
 told you were in somewhat embarrassed circumstances, and--" 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 123 
 
 "Well, then, monsieur! what signifies that? "We borrow, we 
 get into debt, we even go to prison if we must ! and all that don't 
 dishonour us." 
 
 "Your domain, in the environs of Melun, has been sold; you 
 doubtless know it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I heard of it some time ago ; it is, I have been told, to a 
 former brewer — one named Durouleau — who, with a few packets of 
 assignats, has permitted himself to purchase my estate! It's very 
 convenient to become a landowner at so cheap a rate ! They are 
 capable of buying my farms, my woods, my other domains ; but 
 all that will have a turn, I hope ; the royalists will have their 
 revenge ; and I think that then all those who have enriched 
 themselves with our spoils, will be expelled from their soi-disant 
 property." 
 
 Prosper said no more ; he looked down, and no longer knew 
 what countenance to put on. For the first time, he comprehended 
 that the count did not look very favourably on the proprietor of his 
 domain. 
 
 Perceiving the embarrassment of Prosper, who remained silent 
 in the middle of the room, M. de Trevilliers rose, went to him, and 
 in a tone of the most exquisite politeness thus dismissed him, — 
 
 " I think we have nothing further to say to each other ; adieu, 
 M. Bressange 1 believe me, I shall never forget what you have done 
 for my daughter ; it will be the only remembrance I shall preserve 
 of this interview." 
 
 Prosper bowed without finding a word to reply, and soon found 
 himself in the street, without knowing exactly how he got there. 
 
 The poor youth had no longer any hope of bending the father of 
 Camilla, but he had already formed a resolution, the result of his 
 conversation with the count. 
 
 He had scarcely returned to his hotel, when he wrote to M. 
 Dumont, the notary at Melun, with whom he had left all his title- 
 deeds, and begged he would immediately forward all those relative 
 to the estate purchased by Durouleau, annexing to them a deed of 
 conveyance he would only have to sign, to enable him to give up 
 that domain to whoever he might think fit. 
 
 This letter sent off, Prosper tried to divert his thoughts — to 
 amuse, to stun himself, by indulging in the few pleasures a French- 
 man can find in London, and, above all, to think no more of Camilla. 
 But love is not one of those sentiments that we can at will banish 
 from our heart ; and it is not, above all, at one-and-twenty years 
 of age, that we ought to expect reason to triumph over it — if, how- 
 ever, reason ever triumphs over love, which to me seems at least 
 doubtful. 
 
 The notary found means to forward the title-deeds of the do- 
 main, as well, as that of the conveyance he had been required to 
 annex to them. Prosper hastened to sign that deed, by which he 
 recognised having sold his chateau, and then wrote the following 
 letter to Camilla's father ; — 
 
124 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 "Monsieur the Count, — It is myself to whom a short time 
 since your domain was bequeathed ; but far from considering 
 myself as its proprietor, I think with you, Monsieur the Count, 
 that it has not ceased belonging to you. Resume possession 
 of it, then ; I send you all the title-deeds of that estate of which 
 I for a moment have been the ' depositaire ' ; too happy in again 
 having it in my power to oblige you, and only desiring to prove 
 to you that a man, though all imbued with the principles of that 
 Revolution you blame, has not the less a generous and disinterested 
 heart." 
 
 Prosper signed this letter and sent it, along with the other 
 papers, to M. de Trevilliers, by one of the waiters at the hotel — 
 telling him to deliver them into the hands of the count himself. He 
 did not tell him to demand an answer, but he hoped they would deign 
 to send him one ; and he impatiently awaited the return of his 
 messenger, who, after a considerable time had elapsed, at length 
 returned with a letter from the count to Prosper, who eagerly broke 
 the seal, and read the following note, that impregnated the air with 
 a strong odour of musk and amber : — 
 
 " My Dear Monsieur Bressange, — I am really touched at the 
 noble manner in which you act towards me, and I believe that the 
 best proof I can give of my being so, is to accept the restoration of 
 my property. I hope before long to be able to acquit myself of the 
 debt you have imposed on me, and repeat that, if I can be of any 
 service to you, yon will always have it in your power to dispose of 
 my credit. — Your obliged, etc., etc., 
 
 " The Count de Trevilliers." 
 
 Prosper several times reperused this note; that phrase, "if I can 
 be of any service to you," seemed to him almost a mockery. He, 
 however, was satisfied with what he had done, for he thought 
 Camilla would be informed of his conduct, which she could not fail 
 finding noble and generous. He said to himself, — 
 
 " If M. de Trevilliers did not intend at last to grant me his 
 daughter's hand, would he have consented to receive from me the deed 
 that restored his estate to him ? " 
 
 But weeks passed away, and months elapsed, without the poor 
 swain hearing either of Camilla or of her father. 
 
 " They have entirely forgot me," he said to himself ; " why, then, 
 should I remain any longer in England ? " 
 
 And yet, he did not leave it ; there was something that still 
 kept him. 
 
 More than six months had e ] apsed since Prosper saw the count; 
 several times, impelled by the desire of seeing Camilla, he had passed 
 before her residence — but his hope had never been realised ; he 
 would then return, pensive and melancholy, to his hotel, and by his 
 slow step, his grave and serious look, no one would in him have 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 125 
 
 recognised a Frenchman ; the passion which filled his soul had 
 changed both his disposition and his physiognomy. He was no 
 longer that gay, boisterous, careless young man ; he was a disap- 
 pointed lover, and nothing gives a care-worn look so much as a' 
 passion that is not shared. 
 
 One morning, after again saying to himself that he ought to 
 leave England, Prosper bent his steps towards the abode of the 
 Count de Trevilliers, and on approaching the house, he perceived a 
 carriage drawn up before the door. Something told him that car- 
 riage was waiting for Camilla, and he stopped a short distance off ; 
 when, in about fifteen minutes, Camilla come out of the house, in 
 full dress, and a man, still young, handed her into the carriage, into 
 which the Count de Trevilliers followed them, and ordered the 
 coachman to drive off; while Prosper stood stupefied and motion- 
 less, no longer seeing anything, and yet still looking. All at once, 
 wishing to satisfy his curiosity, and unable to resist the presenti- 
 ments that agitated him, he ran into the passage before the door 
 was shut, and appeared like a madman before Mrs Wilford, who 
 had not yet finished her curtseys, ere he already had said to 
 her, — 
 
 " Madam, I beg of you to answer my questions relative to 
 Mademoiselle de Trevilliers ; it is so long since I saw her — she has 
 just got into a carriage with her father and a gentleman — what, 
 then, is that gentleman ? Are they again going into the country ? 
 Mademoiselle Camilla was, however, in full dress ! " 
 
 Mrs Wilford finished her fifth curtsey, and at length replied, — 
 
 " You then, sir, are unacquainted ? The count's daughter has 
 been married these fifteen days — sixteen days — no! fifteen days — 
 I was right — to the Marquis de Clairville, the gentleman you saw 
 handing her into the carriage." 
 
 " Married ! married ! " repeated Prosper, thunderstruck ; " Cam- 
 illa is married ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Mademoiselle Camilla is now the Marchioness de 
 Clairville. You know she was twenty years old, or nearly — 
 that's not too young ; I believe they are going this morning 
 to make visits, or a-shopping, or — Well, then, you are going 
 already, sir ? " 
 
 Prosper no longer listened to Mrs Wilford ; he knew that 
 Camilla was married — he had no occasion to hear any more. He 
 returned to his hotel, and immediately sat down and wrote to 
 Poupardot, — 
 
 « My Friend, — I am going to travel, to see the world ; I 
 shall, perhaps, be a long time absent ; but I have no wish to return 
 to France until I shall be cured of a foolish passion, that makes me 
 forget all who sincerely love me. I do not recommend my little 
 Pauline to you ; I know your's and your good Eliza's heart. My 
 notary will forward you a sum, with which you will satisfy the 
 fancies and caprices of the child I have confided to you. — Adieu." 
 
i26 The Man ivith the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 Prosper then wrote a second letter, as follows, to his notary at 
 
 Melun : — 
 
 x 
 
 " My Dear Monsieur Dumont, — Do me the pleasure to remit 
 me the remainder of my funds as soon as possible. As to my house 
 at Melun, sell it, and pay whatever it may produce over to the 
 Sieur Poupardot, whose address I here subjoin. 
 
 " P.S. — You will find in the chamber I occupied at Melun, two 
 breeches — the one blue, the other white ; they are all that remain 
 to me of my godfather's legacy, but I set store by them ; be kind 
 enough to send them to me, along with my money." 
 
 This letter being dispatched, Prosper made the necessary prepara- 
 tions for his departure, saying to himself, — 
 
 "I will go — I don't know where; I'll make the tour of the 
 world, if I must, but I'll forget her. Ah, Camilla ! Camilla ! you 
 have never loved me ! or you would have made your father relent." 
 
 In a few weeks' time, Prosper received from his notary the 
 remainder of his hundred thousand francs, and his godfather's two 
 pairs of breeches. Thus provided, he set out upon his travels. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TIME FLIES SWIFT. THE MILITARY REGIME. 
 
 Let us return to Clichy — to that modest country house inhabited 
 by the Poupardots, where we shall again meet a happy family, 
 which is rare ; a sweet-tempered, submissive and faithful wife, 
 which is very remarkable ! a man having only his wife, which is 
 miraculous ! and thinking everything for the best, which often 
 exposes us to be deceived in this world, where the reverse is so often 
 found to be the reality, especially in morals. 
 
 Poupardot limped, owing to the splinter he had received in the 
 knee on the thirteenth of Yendemaire, but he was enchanted with 
 the conduct the convention then was pursuing. In a short time 
 after, he was very well satisfied with the directory ; and when 
 the eighteenth Brumaire arrived, finding himself by chance at St. 
 Cloud, when Buonaparte was directing his grenadiers against the 
 Council of the Five Hundred, poor Poupardot had received in the 
 melee a stroke from a sabre that carried away three-fourths of his 
 left ear ; but that did not prevent his approving the vigorous act 
 by which the General Buonaparte had just placed himself at the 
 head of the government. 
 
 Little Navet was growing a strong and hearty boy ; his father 
 idolised him, and was no longer vexed when his mother called him 
 
the Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. i 27 
 
 Augustus— the old calendar seeming likely to dethrone the new 
 one. The little fellow was a liar, a glutton— obstinate and pas- 
 sionate ; but the father called all that character, and said,— 
 
 " My, son will have his own way ; I am very glad of it ; it is 
 that which announces great men : genius ought to possess a firm 
 will!" , 1 ■ ,_ 
 
 Eliza, all the while not daring to contradict her husband, could 
 have wished her son to be brought up so as to have a will less firm, 
 even if by it he was to lose a little of his genius ; but when she 
 confined him, as a punishment, to a dark room, Poupardot would 
 run to release the child, and give him cakes. A system of educa- 
 tion more common than is thought, and which is none the better 
 for that. . 
 
 Pauline, on her side, was becoming a charming little girl ; she 
 every day acquired more graces, and displayed a new quality. 
 
 At three years old, she was pretty, gentle, and laughing : at 
 six, she already listened with serious attention to the lessons of the 
 worthy woman who stood her in lieu of a mother, and the goodness 
 of her heart showed itself on the most trifling occasions ; at eleven, 
 she was an amiable, loving child ; knowing how to anticipate your 
 desires, and seeking in the eyes of those around her what she could 
 do to make herself agreeable to them. Attentive and reasonable, 
 she was capable of comprehending your pains ; she was not yet a 
 woman, and she already was no longer a child. 
 
 Picotin and his wife came every now and then to visit the 
 inhabitants of Clichy ; Euphrasia, no longer dressed as an Atheni- 
 enne — the Grecian costume was no longer in fashion. Besides, 
 Madame Picotin was beginning to acquire an em-bon-point that the 
 tunic would not have become ; stays were now indispensable to 
 her ; but what she had gained in dimensions, far from being in- 
 jurious to her attractions, gave them renewed freshness ; and her 
 natural coquetry, the manner in which she knew how to set herself 
 off, the glances she darted in a way peculiar to herself, altogether 
 made Euphrasia a very agreeable woman in company, and whose 
 society was eagerly sought after by the men. 
 
 Under the consulate, Picotin had renounced his trade m furs ; 
 his wife, being acquainted with a crowd of military men of all ranks, 
 hoped, with their protection, to make her husband obtain some con- 
 tract for the army. They had promised the ci-devant furrier the 
 contract for the soldiers' havresacs ; and in order to manufacture 
 them in a superior manner, Picotin had intended to employ all he 
 possessed in the purchase of sheep-skins, with which he hoped at 
 length to make a fortune. But his sprightly wife busied herself 
 more with balls and conquest, than with her household affairs or 
 future prospects. Every day some handsome and gallant officer 
 came to escort Euphrasia either to the theatre or to some assembly. 
 Picotin saw his house frequented by so many military officers, that 
 he was quite dazzled by them ; but he made them all welcome, for 
 his wife said to him, when taking her cavalier's arm,— 
 
128 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Make yourself easy, Pico tin ; we are under a military regime j 
 and I am enchanted at being acquainted with so many officers, 
 because, with the protection of those gentlemen, you can't fail 
 getting on." 
 
 Picotin would thank his wife for all she was doing for him, and 
 would then go to Poupardot, and say to him, — 
 
 " I am sure of making my fortune ; I shall get on ; my wife is 
 working for me. As she has comprehended we are at present under 
 a military regime, she has put herself ' au regime' ; she sees a great 
 many officers — she even goes to balls with them ; and all that to 
 procure me a contract, and make me gain three hundred per cent, 
 on my sheep-skins." 
 
 Poupardot made no reply — he contented himself with smiling. 
 As for Eliza, she paid little attention to anything Picotin said ; 
 besides superintending the household affairs, her son and Pauline, 
 her mind was again occupied with fresh hopes— she bore within 
 her bosom a new pledge of her husband's love. 
 
 It was the latter end of the year 1804 ; the first consul had just 
 caused himself to be proclaimed emperor. Poupardot, who had 
 been to Paris to participate in the magnificent fetes of the corona- 
 tion, had just returned to Clichy, rather fatigued in his knee, scratch- 
 ing the remnant of his left ear, and nearly hoarse with crying out 
 " Yive l'Emperor ! " It was then his wife brought into the world 
 a second son, whom Poupardot held up, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Oh ! as for this one, we'll name him Napoleon ! for it would 
 be impossible to give him a finer name." 
 
 Poupardot's second son, who was born about nine years after his 
 brother, was therefore christened Napoleon Poupardot ; and the 
 good Eliza shared her tenderness equally between her two boys, 
 which did not prevent her from always showing the utmost affec- 
 tion for the young girl confided to her care. 
 
 A long time had elapsed since Prosper had bade farewell to his 
 friends, and embraced the little Pauline. During his residence in 
 England, he had frequently written to them ; but since the letter 
 in which he announced his intention of travelling, to cure himself 
 of an unfortunate passion, they had not received a line from him. 
 Many years had passed away, many events had taken place in 
 France," and Prosper had not returned to his native country. 
 
 The Poupardots often talked together of him — they every day 
 hoped to see him arrive at Clichy ; but, in proportion as the years 
 rolled on, their hopes of again seeing Prosper were changed into a 
 mournful and sweet remembrance. 
 
 Poupardot would often say, — 
 
 " He is very long in curing himself of his passion." 
 
 "It's because he loved sincerely," replied Eliza. 
 
 " We should have heard from him, excepting he's dead in some 
 distant country." 
 
 When Poupardot said that before little Pauline, the poor child 
 turned away her head, and shed tears ; for she had been told so 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 2<) 
 
 much of her good friend Prosper, of her adoptive father, that she 
 loved without knowing him, and she every day prayed to God to 
 let him come back. Eliza noticed the child's grief, when she would 
 scold her husband, Saying to him, — 
 
 " Why try to make us think that Prosper is dead ? You hurt 
 Pauline, who is so anxious to know him, who is every day talking 
 to me about him." 
 
 "To know him ? but she has seen him. Ah ! it's true she was 
 too little to be able to remember him ! It's he who will find his 
 protegee greatly altered — Pauline is now entering into her twelfth 
 year ; and Navet — I mean Augustus ! — he wouldn't know him 
 again ; and my little Napoleon ! What a many things we shall 
 have to show him ! and it's because it seems to me he must also 
 long to see us, that I conceive fears from so prolonged an absence." 
 
 When Madame Picotin paid a visit to the Poupardots, it was 
 rare for her not to ask if they had heard from Prosper ; for, not- 
 withstanding her mind being so fully taken up in the society of the 
 military, Euphrasia had not forgotten him who had been her pro- 
 tector on the day when she had wished to exhibit herself in the 
 Champs Elysee, in the Athenian costume ; and she still preserved 
 a tender remembrance of her ride in the fiacre, in the Bois de 
 Boulogne. 
 
 Prosper was then the usual subject of conversation, whether at 
 Picotin's or at Poupardot's ; neither had the latter forgotten his 
 two other play-fellows, Maxim us and Roger. He knew that Roger 
 had belonged to the army of Italy, that he had fought bravely at 
 Lodi, at Rivoli, at Castiglione ; that he had become a lieutenant ; 
 but of Maximus he knew nothing ; not a word had he heard of him 
 — nowhere had he met with him. 
 
 The Poupardot family were one day in the garden of their house 
 at Clichy. Eliza was suckling her last born; her husband was 
 playing at nine-pins with his son Navet, who, either through 
 wickedness or through awkwardness, never failed throwing the ball 
 against his father's shins ; while Pauline was talking to a little bird 
 she had brought up, and which, although it was then strong enough 
 to fly away, and avail itself of the liberty granted it, never failed 
 returning to perch itself on it's mistress's shoulder, when she called 
 out, " Tom ! little Tom ! come — come quick ! " And you may judge 
 if the little girl was pleased, when, at her voice, the bird, which 
 had flown to some distant trees, flew back again to let itself be im- 
 prisoned by her. Tom, however, was but a modest pierrot ; but a 
 pierrot, which is not fickle, is better than a colibri that abandons us. 
 Little girls already comprehend that. 
 
 All at once a stranger, in the uniform of a hussar, entered the 
 garden, ran to Poupardot, clasped him in his arms, almost stifled 
 him with embraces — then went and did the same to Eliza, both of 
 whom returned his caresses, exclaiming, — 
 
 " It's him ! yes, it's himself ! Here you are then at last ! * 
 
 At these words, little Pauline forgot her bird, and advanced a 
 
 i 
 
1 30 The, Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 few paces to run into the arms of the gentleman who had just 
 arrived ; for, on hearing the words " It's him ! " her heart had pal- 
 pitated with joy, with happiness ; she had no doubt of his being 
 her protector — him she was always expecting, and she ran to the 
 officer, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah ! it's my good friend Prosper ! " 
 
 But the officer had stopped ; he looked at Pauline holding out 
 her arms to him, and said, — 
 
 " Who is this little girl ? Another of yours, my friends ? Sacre- 
 bleu ! you haven't been asleep while I was fighting ! " 
 
 " No, it's not our child," said Poupardot ; " I have only two 
 boys ; Navet, the big one here — a famous sharp lad — and that 
 little one, six months old, that I've christened after the great man, 
 because that will bring him good luck. This little girl is an orphan 
 that we keep ; by-and-by, we'll tell you all about it." 
 
 " My poor Pauline," said Eliza, " this is not yet your good friend 
 Prosper ; it's Roger, our old friend Roger you have often heard us 
 speak of." 
 
 Pauline said no more — the joy that shone in her eyes disap- 
 peared ; she, however, tried to smile, curtsied to the lieutenant of 
 hussars, then returned to little Tom, her heart rather full at having 
 been deceived in her hope. 
 
 It was eleven years since Roger had joined the requisition ; since 
 then he had several times changed his regiment — had been frequently 
 in action without returning to Paris ; he was at present lieutenant 
 in the cavalry ; he was no longer that pale and delicate young man 
 who, on quitting his friends and family, seemed scarcely to have 
 strength enough to join his corps ; eleven years, and a soldier's life, 
 had made great alterations in him ; in lieu of the fragile and deli- 
 cate constitution that alarmed the young soldier's friends, he was 
 now a hale and robust man — a man with sun-burnt complexion, but 
 the whole of whose person announced strength and health. In 
 short, the Lieutenant Roger, with his black moustache and his 
 bushy whiskers, proclaimed a frank hussar, a jovial soldier, a bon 
 vivant, a good comrade ; his eyes still expressed pleasure at the 
 sight of a pretty woman, but the sentimental air of former times 
 would in vain have been sought for in them. 
 
 When one has been eleven years away from our friends, we have 
 many questions to ask them ; one of the first addressed by Roger 
 was to inquire after Maximus and his mother, and he looked 
 quite down-hearted when Poupardot replied to him, — 
 
 " I am quite ignorant of what has become of them." 
 
 " Ah ! sabre and sabre- tashes ! that's what hurts me ; me who 
 had reckoned upon such pleasure in embracing Maximus. When 
 I went to his lodgings one evening to bid him farewell — you was 
 there yourself, Poupardot— I remember my saying to him "then, 
 *I know I shall see you again. Maximus, but by that time many 
 changes will have taken place.' Well, then, my poor Poupardot, I 
 have not been mistaken ; many changes have taken place ; instead 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 131 
 
 of a Eepublic we have now an emperor, and victories in every 
 country — everywhere glory for Frenchmen ! Ah ! grape and 
 chain-shot ! it would be difficult not to be content now ! " 
 
 " Oh ! as for my part, I am quite content ! " replied Poupardot ; 
 "though my wife, for example, finds coffee and sugar rather dear — 
 but the women understand nothing about politics. As for Maximus, 
 you know he wanted nothing — dreamt of nothing but the Eepublic. 
 I am not persuaded of his being satisfied with the change that has 
 taken place in France." 
 
 " Why, then, he would be very difficult to please ! Can anything 
 be more desirable than a military government? Have not the 
 nations been the most glorious under great captains ? Look at 
 Charles XII. — Frederick II.— Gustavus Adolphus ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes ; I am quite of your opinion ; I am an enthusiastic 
 admirer of glory. I shall make soldiers of my sons — excepting 
 Navet : he shows a decided predilection for the navy, and already 
 makes little boats with walnut-shells." 
 
 " And that young man who used to work in the printing office 
 with Maximus— that giddy, noisy young fellow — Prosper, in short ; 
 what has become of him ? " 
 
 " Oh ! that young man has become reasonable too soon ! When 
 I say reasonable, we don't know what he is now, for he's making a 
 tour of the world to try to cure himself of an unfortunate passion." 
 
 "Ah ! Bah ! How ? — that young madman ! " 
 
 " He has gone through many adventures, but he is rich now ; a 
 man who had taken a friendship for him has made him his heir, 
 and left him a chateau — money — unless he has made away with it 
 all in his travels, for we have had no news from him these eio-ht 
 years. 
 
 " The little girl you see down there is his," said Eliza, pointing 
 to Pauline. 
 
 " How ? his ! has he already a child of that age ? " 
 
 " That is to say his, because her dying mother gave her to him. 
 It's the daughter of that Dutch banker, Monsieur Derbrouck, who 
 perished in the time of terror. Prosper being unable to save the 
 father, prevented the unfortunate mother from being brought to 
 the scaffold, but he couldn't prevent her dying broken-hearted — 
 and he swore to stand in the place of a father to the child." 
 
 " That's well done ! very well done ! " said Eoger, curling his 
 moustachio to conceal his emotion ; " I see he's a brave fellow, and 
 that makes me regret the more my being unable to shake hands 
 with him. And you, while Prosper is travelling, you are taking 
 care of the little one ? " 
 
 " He sent us twenty thousand livres, being seemingly afraid that 
 the child would be a burden to us," said Poupardot; "but his 
 money is there ; I have not touched it ; it shall be Pauline's por- 
 tion, in case Prosper shouldn't be able to give her another." 
 
 " Always good, kind-hearted I It is by that, my friends, I know 
 you to be still the same." 
 
1 32 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " But how is it yon don't inquire after Picotin ? " 
 
 " Nor after his wife ? " added Eliza, with a smile. 
 
 " Ah ! I was just going to do it," said Eoger, half laughing. 
 " Well, then, what's become of him ? that brave Anacharsis, who 
 was always trembling ! Has he made a fortune with his furs ? 
 His wife, is she still as coquettish as ever ? " 
 
 "Picotin is now a dealer in sheep-skins ; he's in hopes to get a 
 contract for the army. His wife's become quite fat, but she's still 
 pretty. As for coquetry, it's a fault that women don't get rid of — 
 and they are right, so long as they are not old. Euphrasia is not 
 come to that yet, and she is fonder of pleasure than ever. We are 
 intimate ; we often see them. Ah ! I have an idea ! you dine with 
 us?" 
 
 "Parbleu ! do you think I don't?" 
 
 " Then I'll send word to Picotin and his wife that we expect 
 them to dinner, without warning them of your being here. It will 
 have quite a theatrical effect." 
 
 "Very well imagined. Ah ! what a pity Maximus can't make 
 one of the party. Poor lad ! what can have become of him ?" 
 
 Poupardot immediately despatched a messenger to invite 
 Monsieur and Madame Picotin to dinner, and then took Roger to 
 show him his garden, orchard, bee-hives, etc., leaving his wife to 
 attend to the cooking, and little Pauline shutting Tom up in his 
 cage that she might assist Eliza in the preparations for the repasts 
 which they wished to render splendid, because we are always glad 
 to feast an old friend on his return. 
 
 At four o'clock everything was ready, and only waiting for the 
 arrival of the guests from Paris. Eoger, weary of looking at Pou- 
 pardot's cabbages, lettuces, and apple-trees, had returned to the 
 saloon, and was there relating his brilliant campaigns in Italy, which . 
 his hosts were never tired of listening to. At length the house-bell 
 was heard. 
 
 " Here are our friends," said Poupardot ; " I would wish to see 
 if they'll know you again." 
 
 It was in fact the two Pico tins — but they were not alone ; a 
 youug officer of the line — a tall, fresh-coloured, broad-shouldered 
 spark — gave his arm to Madame Picotin, and seemed proud of that 
 employment, which he fulfilled with all the phlegm of an officer on 
 a reconnoitring party. Behind them came Picotin, carrying an 
 umbrella, his wife's reticule, and a second shawl for madame in case 
 of her feeling cold. 
 
 Euphrasia entered the hall, still hanging on the officer's arm, 
 who gravely bowed, while Madame Picotin said, smiling graciously 
 on the company, — 
 
 " Good evening, my good friends ; you see w r e have accepted your 
 amiable invitation without any ceremony, and I, moreover, have 
 taken myself permission to bring you Lieutenant Bienlong, a dis- 
 tinguished officer, whose acquaintance I thought you would be 
 flattered to make." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 133 
 
 " You have done perfectly right," replied Poupardot ; "besides, 
 your friends — friends — are our friends." 
 
 " Ah ! she brings officers along with her ! " muttered Eoger, 
 looking at Eliza with a rather sarcastic expression. 
 
 " Oh ! when she brings only one, it's very lucky ! " replied Eliza, 
 dissembling her vexation. 
 
 " The lieutenant himself at home here ! in his element to talk 
 of battles ! " resumed Poupardot. " Here's an officer of hussars, 
 who has made all the campaigns of Italy." 
 
 Picotin bowed to the very floor ; the lieutenant saluted Eoger 
 without saying a word, and Euphrasia then occupied herself in con- 
 sidering that hussar officer, whom she believed she had not seen 
 before ; she pursed up her mouth to make it appear very small, 
 rolled her eyes about most eloquently, smiled to show her teeth, and 
 neglected nothing to seem pretty ; but Eoger, tired with all these 
 coquettish tricks, burst out laughing, and exclaimed, — 
 
 " How ! a thousand cartridges ! my little Euphrasia don't know 
 me again ! Then I must renew our acquaintance." 
 
 So saying, Eoger went and embraced Euphrasia, which made 
 Lieutenant Bienlong twist his moustache, and look rather grave ; 
 however, Madame Picotin, who received the salute with a very good 
 grace, soon cried out, — 
 
 " Is it possible ? It's Eoger ! " 
 
 " Eoger ! " said Picotin ; " our dear friend Eoger ! " and he 
 ran full-butt against the hussar, who, shaking him by the hand, 
 said, — 
 
 . " Yes, my friends, it's me — it's Eoger, whom you haven't seen 
 these eleven years. Poupardot wished to give you a surprise, and 
 he has succeeded, for you scarcely expected to dine in company with 
 me." 
 
 " Faith, no ! " cried Picotin, we were not thinking of you at all ; 
 you wasn't thinking of him, was you, wife?" 
 
 Euphrasia seemed at first embarrassed, on finding herself 
 between Eoger and the lieutenant ; but, like a woman habituated 
 to such situations, she was not long in resuming all her gaiety, and 
 said, — 
 
 "My husband is always saying some stupid thing or other; 
 excuse him, my dear Eoger ; certainly we were often thinking of 
 you — I, at least ; we do not forget a friend of our youth. But we 
 certainly did not expect to find you here ; and it is a very agreeable 
 surprise, for which I could not sufficiently thank our amiable 
 hosts." 
 
 The dinner being announced, put an end to these protestations 
 of friendship. Lieutenant Bienlong, who seemed to make a point 
 of rigorously performing his service, again took Madame Picotin's 
 arm, to conduct her to the dining-room. They sat down to table, 
 and Euphrasia had the pleasure of finding herself placed between 
 the two officers. 
 
 The dinner was recherche: every one did honour to it j but 
 
134 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 the young lieutenant surpassed all the guests by the dexterity with 
 which he made what was offered him disappear. However, 
 Euphrasia, who doubtless feared her protigi dared not help him- 
 self according to his appetite, was constantly occupied in exciting 
 him to eat. 
 
 " Lieutenant, you can still take a little more beef ? " 
 
 " I will willingly accept some." 
 
 " M. Bienlong, take a leg of that fowl, then ; you are fond of 
 fowl?" 
 
 " I will accept some with pleasure." 
 
 "Lieutenant Bienlong, another slice of the roast mutton? 
 Come, we don't stand on ceremony here, amongst friends ; we 
 mustn't be idle." 
 
 And the young lieutenant, who had already made five slices of 
 the mutton disappear, put two more on his plate, replying, — 
 
 " I am incapable of refusing you, madame." 
 
 And Poupardot said to himself, — 
 
 " But it seems to me he's not idle at all." 
 
 "Sacrebleu !" said Eoger to Picotin, who sat next him, "I do 
 pretty well at table, but there's a lieutenant who beats me hollow. 
 Does that gentleman dine often at your house ? " 
 
 " Why, six times a week at the least," replied Picotin, with an 
 air of pride. 
 
 " I congratulate you, my dear Picotin — your wife has some solid 
 acquaintances. Peste ! that's a very obliging spark ! " 
 
 " He has undertaken to get me a contract, and enable me to 
 dispose of my sheep-skins." 
 
 " Oh ! I readily believe he will do something for you." 
 
 "My wife also takes a deal of trouble upon herself, for my 
 interest, with the other officers who visit us." 
 
 " She don't grow thin upon it, it seems." 
 
 " Oh ! my wife's made of iron ! She's not like me ; the revolu- 
 tions make me ill ; during the reign of terror, I was continually 
 out of order." 
 
 They rose from table, and the conversation of Lieutenant 
 Bienlong— which, during the dinner, had been confined to "I will 
 willingly accept some," was now changed into nods more or less 
 prolonged. Then, after conversing for a short time, and giving 
 Eoger some tender glances that were lost upon him, Euphrasia 
 rose, took the lieutenant's arm, beckoned her husband to carry her 
 reticule, and saluted the company, saying, — 
 
 " We are going to wish you good evening, for we are not at 
 home, and M. Bienlong must return to his barracks. Adieu, my 
 good friends ! M. Boger, I hope you will come and see us ? " 
 
 " I will do myself that pleasure," replied Roger, returning the 
 grave bow of the lieutenant. 
 
 " Come and see us," said Picotin ; " you will find officers of every 
 rank at our house, and if you should hear of a contract — " 
 
 " You may be sure, my friend, I'll think of you." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 135 
 
 The Picotins took their departure with Lieutenant Bienlong, 
 and Eoger, pressing Poupardot's hand, exclaimed, — 
 
 "It's here I shall come with pleasure to pass my leisure 
 moments, until the emperor sends us again to glory. As for 
 Madame Picotin, she has too many new acquaintances, who must 
 necessarily injure the old ones. Farewell, my dear friends." 
 
 And Eoger went away, after having again embraced Poupardot 
 and his wife, kissed their children, and given Pauline a little tap 
 on the cheek. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 THE BLUE BREECHES. 
 
 Eoger had kept his word ; he had often returned to Poupardot's ; 
 the sight of that worthy family was an agreeable refreshment to 
 him after the fatigues of war. He there talked of his old friends ; 
 of Maximus, whom he had been unable to meet with, and of 
 Prosper, from whom no intelligence had been received. But the 
 emperor, who didn't let his soldiers long remain idle, had again 
 summoned his legions to the field, and Eoger, eager to rejoin his 
 colours, had taken leave of his friends at Clichy, saying, — 
 
 " If you see me again, I shall be no longer a lieutenant ; I shall 
 either be killed or promoted ; but the emperor is a connoisseur in 
 men, and with him the brave never go unrewarded." 
 
 "May we see him again?" said Eliza. "Ah! if I had a 
 military man for my husband, I should never know a day's repose." 
 
 "He'll come back again — I'm sure of it," replied Poupardot. 
 "Is not the great Napoleon always a conqueror? "We shall see 
 Eoger again ; and he'll perhaps be colonel ! general ! — who knows ? 
 —you see he's fond of combats. If ever my little Napoleon was to 
 show the same dispositions, I would certainly let him join the army, 
 excepting he shouldn't be tall enough. One mustn't oppose voca- 
 tions, thaf s my principle. As for Navet, I don't know vet what 
 he'll make." * 
 
 " I know he steals my preserves," said Eliza. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear friend, all children are greedy, more or less. 
 If you didn't lock up your preserves, he would take them— but he 
 wouldn't steal them." 
 
 The news of a great victory again arrived, to increase the 
 enthusiasm of the French for their emperor : it was the battle of 
 Austerlitz, just gained by Napoleon. At Paris, they celebrated 
 this fresh triumph of the French arms by fetes -, there were few 
 families which had not one of its members in the army : and the 
 glory of a husband— of a brother, or a young cousin, was reflected 
 
1 36 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 back on his relations, and rendered them doubly happy by the 
 news of a victory. 
 
 Poupardot was in an ecstacy of joy. He wanted to take his 
 wife every day to Paris, and conduct her to some theatre to see a 
 piece de circonstance ; but Eliza preferred remaining with her 
 children, that is to say, with the one she was suckling and young 
 Pauline ; for M. Navet would always accompany his father, and 
 made him buy him cakes at every pastry-cook's shop they passed. 
 
 Picotin and his wife no longer came to Clichy ; for Euphrasia, 
 not confining herself to bringing one officer when she came to dine 
 at her friend's, soon brought two, then three ; so that, to prevent 
 being exposed to receive a whole regiment, Poupardot and his wife 
 had begged Madame Picotin not to bring any more of the military 
 along with her. Euphrasia, setting more store by her conquests 
 than her friends,' felt herself offended by the recommendation, and 
 had given over returning to Clichy, also forbidding her husband to 
 ever set foot there. Eliza and her husband easily consoled them- 
 selves for the misfortune. There are some people who give us 
 great pleasure, when believing they inflict a punishment upon us. 
 
 It was the beginning of 1806 ; Pauline was entering her thir- 
 teenth year. Already the timidity of adolescence was commencing 
 to add to the charms of childhood ; but it was not that ridiculous 
 affectation of a little girl who wishes to assume the air of a young 
 lady. Pauline grew in mind and body, without her character 
 undergoing that grievous change that often accompanies the 
 passage from childhood to youth. Her heart was still as good-— her 
 temper as sweet — her tastes as simple, and her little bird Tom was 
 still her favourite. 
 
 One thing alone disturbed her happiness. As soon as she had 
 been able to comprehend, to feel, she had been told of Prosper. 
 Eliza had a thousand times repeated to her all the young man had 
 done to save her mother from the scaffold ; how she had confided 
 her infant to him. She had related to her the trouble, the per- 
 plexity of Prosper, who had carried her in his arms from Plassy to 
 Paris. Her heart felt the liveliest gratitude towards him who had 
 shown such affection for her parents. 
 
 In proportion as she advanced in age, that sentiment acquired 
 fresh strength. She had been taught to love, to cherish him, who 
 was to be her protector ; and the young girl had but one desire, 
 one hope — it was again to see her good friend Prosper. 
 
 But that hope every day became weaker. Time, in passing 
 away without bringing any news of the traveller, made her believe 
 he had perished far from his country and his friends. "When 
 Pauline would still speak of Prosper, Eliza mournfully shook her 
 head, as if she would say, '"You must think of him no more," and 
 Poupardot observed, — 
 
 "My dear child, he who ought to have been your protector, has 
 doubtless died in some distant land ; but we will never abandon 
 you ; when you are old enough, we'll have you married ; and ? 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 137 
 
 besides, Prosper had thought of you ; you have twenty thousand 
 livres he sent me, and that I have invested ; that will still make a 
 pretty little portion — without reckoning the interest." 
 Pauline sighed while answering, — 
 
 " Ah ! I would like better for him to have given me nothing, 
 and to be sure of his return." 
 
 And every night and morning, when addressing her prayer to 
 heaven, the young orphan never failed demanding of it the return 
 of him who had heard the last words of her mother. 
 
 One fine morning in spring, when Poupardot, having embraced 
 his wife, was preparing to take a walk in the country with his son 
 Navet, the sound of a carriage, which stopped before their house, 
 attracted the attention of the parents and their children. 
 
 Navet ran to look out at a window ; after somewhat brutally 
 pushing Pauline away, who had desired to place herself there first, 
 he cried out, — 
 
 " Oh, this is not a fiacre ! it's a carriage with three horses." 
 " It's a post-chaise ! " said Pauline. 
 
 " A post-chaise ! " exclaimed Poupardot ; " see, then, who alights 
 from it." 
 
 "It's a gentleman in a cocked hat, with top-boots, and coming 
 here." 
 
 " Is he in uniform ? " asked Poupardot. 
 
 " No ; but, for all that, he has the look of a military gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " It's probably Eoger come back from the army." 
 " No, it's not Monsieur Roger." 
 
 " Bah ! you don't know him again, because he's in plain clothes ; 
 however, I hear somebody's coming up stairs. We are going to see 
 the gentleman, and as it is not a year since Roger went away, I 
 shall know him again this time." 
 
 The door was suddenly thrown open ; a man appeared at the 
 entrance of the apartment, and stopped, attentively considering all 
 the persons before him. The stranger was tall and thin ; his features, 
 which were passibly handsome, bore the impress of fatigue and 
 care ; his brown hair hung down straight upon his shoulders ; a 
 scar, from his forehead to the top of the left cheek, did not a little 
 contribute to give that man a singular aspect, whose age it would 
 at the first glance have been difficult to guess. His costume was 
 as original as his physiognomy. A wide, green greatcoat, uu- 
 buttoned, showed a white waistcoat, hooked up to the cravat, and 
 a pair of blue breeches, that seemed much too wide for the wearer, 
 and to which a broad scarlet seam gave a military look ; top-boots, 
 a black cravat, and a three-cornered hat, worn fore and aft, com- 
 pleted the new-comer's costume. 
 
 Every one in the room stared at the stranger, and seemed wai - 
 ing for him to explain himself ; they could not imagine why he did 
 not speak, and yet they dared not question him. A sentiment they 
 could not account for kept all present in a state of feverish anxiety ; 
 
138 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 but the stranger seemed heedless of the curiosity he was exciting, 
 and tranquilly continued'his examination. His eyes stopped alter- 
 nately upon Poupardot, his wife, and their children ; but when 
 they fixed themselves upon Pauline, they became animated with 
 an indefinable expression, and tears stood trembling within them ; 
 at length, an ejaculation escaped him, and running up to the young 
 girl, he pressed her to his heart, exclaiming, — 
 
 " It's her ! it's my little Pauline ! if s the child who was de- 
 livered into my arms ! Oh ! I can't deceive myself there ; she has 
 her mother's smile — all the features of her unfortunate father ! " 
 
 On hearing these words, Poupardot and his wife went nearer to 
 the stranger ; they considered him with more attention ; they dared 
 not yet believe their ears and their hearts. As for Pauline, she, 
 without comprehending why, felt pleased — felt happy in the arms 
 of him who was loading her with caresses. 
 
 At length, the stranger, turning his head towards Poupardot 
 and his wife, held out his hand to them. 
 
 " "Well, then, my^friends, you are unable to recognise me ? I am, 
 in fact, greatly changed, but my heart is still the same, and Prosper 
 has the same friendship for you as formerly." 
 
 " It's himself ! it's Prosper ! Pauline, this is the one you were 
 still awaiting ; he is at length returned ! " 
 
 These were for some minutes the only words they could pro- 
 nounce, in the midst of the excitement that had seized on every 
 heart. When they were somewhat calmer, when Prosper had seated 
 himself in the midst of his friends, and held on his knees the young 
 girl he was never tired of considering, they were able to speak to 
 and understand each other. 
 
 " How ? it's you ! " cried Poupardot ; " do you know, we had lost 
 all hope of ever seeing you again ? You were living, and yet never 
 let us hear from you." 
 
 •' Ah, my dear Prosper," said Eliza, " it was very unkind of you 
 to leave us so long in such uneasiness. And that poor girl, who 
 was every day talking to me about you — who was every day pray- 
 ing to heaven to bring you back to us ; and those breeches with the 
 scarlet seams — and that scar on your forehead — are you in the army 
 now ? Not to write to us for five years — it's frightful ! " 
 
 " My good friends, before scolding me, will you hear me ? " 
 
 " Without doubt ; we desire nothing better ; we are curious to 
 know what you have been doing all this time." 
 
 " In that case, listen to me." 
 
 Prosper gave another look at Pauline, whose eyes were fixed 
 upon his ; imprinted a kiss on her forehead, and thus began the re- 
 cital of his adventures : — 
 
 " I had gone to England in search of a person I was in love with. 
 I found that person ; but I then saw how greatly my hopes had de- 
 ceived me. She whom I believed to call my wife married another 
 man. It was then, my heart filled with despair, I felt the want of 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 1 39 
 
 travelling — of running through the world, to endeavour — under 
 other skies, amongst other people — to divert my thoughts, to seek 
 for new sensations, to vanquish the disease that was killing me. 
 
 " It was then I wrote to you, my dear Poupardot ; I don't well 
 know what I said to you, I was so full of grief ! My head was 
 burning, and with you, my good friends, I should have found no 
 repose. I then required motion, adventures, strong emotions ; my 
 soul stood in need of those violent remedies administered to the sick 
 of whom we have no longer any hopes. 
 
 " I had then with me about eighty thousand livres in letters of 
 exchange upon the first bankers in Europe ; it was all that remained 
 to me of my fortune, of the inheritance of the good Durouleau. 
 This astonishes you ; but I had already given the greater part of it 
 to some one ; or rather, I had only made a restitution. 
 
 " I went to Italy ; I saw Venice, Florence, Naples. I led the life 
 of a nobleman, of a prince, and tasted all the pleasures that opulence 
 procures. I kept a good table; I had soon numerous friends — or, 
 at least, those acquaintances who offer their services to fortune's 
 favourite of the day ; of those men who, for a dinner, a ball, a fete 
 proffer you their friendship — lavish on you their compliments and 
 their smiles. A sorry race ; which we find in every country, whom 
 we scarcely tolerate, but which we employ the same as we make 
 use of playthings, of cards or dice. 
 
 " I passed three years in Italy ; its fine climate, its impassioned 
 women, the harmony of its language, and the facility of the maimers 
 had turned aside the current of my chagrins ; yet did I feel the 
 emptiness of those pleasures I was tasting ; I thought of you, my 
 friends, and I said to myself, ' One day with them, seated by their 
 hearth, in the midst of their family, is worth more than twenty 
 nights passed in festivals, at balls, and the card-table.' But I felt 
 I was not yet sufficiently cured to return to France, where so many 
 reminiscences awaited me. 
 
 " I one day took it into my head to consult my cash-box ; I had 
 but twenty thousand livres remaining, for in three years I had spent 
 sixty thousand. To act the great man, that wasn't too much, but I 
 found that for me it was paying rather dear for distractions ; be- 
 sides, by continuing at the same rate, I should have had but another 
 year to keep on. I thought it was time to stop. 
 
 " It was then that ideas of ambition came over me ; I had felt 
 all the advantages of riches, and conceived the desire of only return- 
 ing to France with a great fortune. I formed the finest projects for 
 the future. I need not tell you, my friends, that you were always 
 the foremost in the dreams I made. I also thought of this dear 
 little one, and I said to myself, ' Instead of returning to France, 
 after making away with what Durouleau had left me, would it not 
 be better to try my fortune ? If fate smiles on me, I shall be able 
 at my return to assure that poor little girl a lot deserving envy.' 
 
 " There was, perhaps, another thought also at the bottom of my 
 heart, and which I dared not avow to myself. For in France I 
 
140 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 might meet with that woman who had disdained me, and whom I 
 could have wished to crush. 
 
 " My determination was fixed ; I embarked for the East Indies ; 
 it is always there we go in search of fortune. After a long passage 
 I arrived at the island of Java. With the remainder of my money 
 I purchased land and slaves. I cultivated sugar and indigo, and 
 set earnestly to work. I might, then, doubtless, have written to 
 you ; but it was my favourite project one day to surprise you, by 
 arriving all covered with gold ; but I perceived that a fortune is 
 not made in India so rapidly as we are told. However, at the end 
 of five years, I had increased my capital ten-fold. A magni#cent 
 speculation was then offered me ; by laying out my two hundred 
 thousand livres in merchandise for China, I could quadruple my 
 fortune. I should have been truly rich. I tried the chance. A. 
 vessel sailed with my merchandise, and I only awaited its return to 
 leave Java for France ; it did not return — it foundered at sea ! 
 
 " I had lost the whole fruit of my labour ; but I supported my 
 misfortune with resignation, and said to myself, ' Fate will not 
 permit me to return rich to my friends ; well, then, I will return to 
 them poor, and I am sure they will receive me quite as well.' It's an 
 advantage I possess over many people. You see I didn't hold to 
 money ; it was merely a dream I had had. 
 
 " With the little I had remaining, I succeeded in paying my 
 passage on board a vessel bound to France ; but this time our 
 passage was unfortunate ; and after some severe weather, and a 
 violent gale, in which we were near going to the bottom, the pas- 
 sengers were forced to disembark on the coast of Dalmatia ; but, 
 undismayed, I at once formed my resolution : I have remarked 
 that I conduct myself better in adversity than in prosperity ; it's 
 always some comfort. 
 
 " I resolved to make the rest of my journey on foot ; I had, be- 
 sides, very strong reasons for aiming at economy. Behold me, 
 then, on my way — a stick in my hand, and a light havresac at my 
 back ; unacquainted with the roads, but troubling myself very 
 little about that ; for I was in no hurry, and I said to myself, ' I 
 shall always arrive somewhere.' 
 
 " All the while travelling on, I know not how, I found myself in 
 Austria, then in Moravia, where I for the first time heard reports 
 of war ; the poor inhabitants of the villages I passed through, told 
 me that Austria and Russia were fighting against France — that 
 troops were every instant marching through the country, and that, 
 in a short time, a great battle was expected. 
 
 " I could only form vows for the success of our arms, for my 
 appearance was by no means that of a warrior ; my clothes were 
 threadbare, and my wardrobe offered me but few resources where- 
 with to repair the disorder of my dress. 
 
 " Yet, during my long travels, since my departure from England, 
 do you know, my friends, what I had always faithfully and care- 
 fully carried along with me ? Well, then, it was what remained tQ 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. \\\ 
 
 me of good Father Brillancour's inheritance — two pairs of breeches, 
 the one blue and the other white, You laugh. This seems to you 
 surprising, and you doubtless don't comprehend how, while leading 
 the life of a nobleman in Italy — while spending sixty thousand 
 livres in foolish orgies, I could have thought of preserving two such 
 modest garments, and which even were not made for me ! Such, 
 however, is the fact; for, see you, my friends, despite my follies, 
 my love of independence, and my liberal principles, I am not the 
 less somewhat superstitious ; I set a great value upon my god- 
 father's legacy. The red breeches, besides, had been of too great 
 service to me, not to have some confidence in the others. In short, in 
 every country I had been in, I had carried my two breeches with 
 me ; and finding myself at that time in a state bordering on poverty 
 — finding myself, above all, very badly protected by a pair of pan- 
 taloons torn in several places, I said to myself, ' This is the moment 
 to have recourse to my good father ; let us put on one of his 
 breeches.' 
 
 " I untied my bundle in a wood, where there was nothing likely 
 to interrupt while changing that necessary garment. I examined 
 the two breeches ; the white pair was of satin, with embroidery 
 and spangles ; it scarcely suited the circumstances I was placed in ; 
 but the blue was of stout cloth, and set off with scarlet seams, 
 which gave them a somewhat military look. I put on the blue 
 breeches ; the same I still wear at this moment. 
 
 " I had scarcely finished dressing myself, when the shrieks of 
 women and a crowd of peasants flying, told that troops were enter- 
 ing the country ; it was some Russians, they told me. Not caring 
 to wait for them, I hastened my steps, and walking on till night- 
 fall, I found myself half a league from the little town of Austerlitz, 
 in front of a country house, the elegant exterior of which announced 
 wealth and good taste. I was worn out with fatigue and hunger, 
 and perceived not a single habitation— not a cottage around me. 
 Faith ! not being able to demand hospitality from the poor, I 
 decided upon addressing myself to the rich. I knocked at the 
 garden-gate, for all the entrances to the house were carefully 
 fastened; which, in time of war, seemed quite natural to me. A 
 voice from a window asked me in French what I wanted. En- 
 chanted at hearing my native tongue, I replied I was a poor traveller, 
 and that I demanded hospitality for one night in the meanest corner 
 of the house. I had not finished, when a voice from the inside 
 called out, * It's a Frenchman ! open the gate, Pierre— open to him 
 quick 1 ' 
 
 " The gate was unbarred, and I saw a servant who was armed to 
 the chin, but who seemed all of a tremble. After assuring himself 
 that I was alone and unarmed, he introduced me into a charming 
 house, furnished with as much taste as elegance, and told me to sit 
 down and wait : in a few minutes a gentleman about forty years 
 old, in a handsome dressiug-gown, came into the hall. This gentle- 
 man, who seemed to have been wounded in the leg and scarcely 
 
I42 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 able to walk, leant on the arm of a young and pretty woman, and, 
 seating himself in an arm-chair, the following dialogue took place 
 between us : — 
 
 " ' You are a Frenchman ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 "'So much the better; and I also. You are not in the 
 service ? ' 
 
 "'No; lam but lately returned from India; the vessel that 
 carried my fortune has been lost at sea ; I am obliged to travel on 
 foot ; but I possess strength and courage ; in France I shall again 
 find friends, and that thought bears me" up.' 
 
 ' That's very well. As for me, I am rich ; passing accidentally 
 through this country, I have settled myself in it, because I met 
 with this pretty little Moravian, whom I have married, and who 
 renders me completely happy. You shall remain here as long as it 
 may please you, and be treated as a compatriot, which ought 
 always to signify as a brother. Only I ought to warn you that, if 
 any Austrian or Eussian soldiers should want to force an entrance 
 here— as I do not like them, and besides don't wish them to ap- 
 proach my wife — it is my intention to defend myself even unto 
 death. Does it suit you to second me?' 
 
 "'Perfectly.' 
 
 " 'Already some light troops of the Eussian army have wanted, 
 two days ago, to force their way into my house. I have four 
 servants here, and, notwithstanding that, we have killed and 
 wounded fifteen of them. They believed there was a French ad- 
 vanced post stationed here, and retired. Unfortunately, I was 
 wounded in the leg, which would inconvenience me if they were to 
 return. But no matter, we must either die or repulse them ; be- 
 sides, were I to admit them, on discovering me to be a Frenchman, 
 they would show me no quarter ; and my wife ! When I think 
 that those wretches — ah ! and I am wounded ! ' 
 
 " ' Monsieur, furnish me with arms, and depend upon my using 
 them. If you are attacked, I promise you to take your place, and 
 to let myself be killed before your wife receives the least outrage.' 
 
 " ' You are a brave man, and it is heaven that sends you to us. 
 However, Napoleon is not very far distant with his army, and- 1 
 have no doubt of his soon giving the allies a sound thrashing. You 
 are now at home. Adieu for the present ; I am going to have my 
 wound dressed.' 
 
 " My host then left the room with his young and pretty wife. 
 I have no need to tell you that every attention was paid to me at 
 this Frenchman's. 
 
 "I had been two days with M. ])erneval, when, early in the 
 morning, the report of musketry in the distance announced to us 
 there was an engagement not far off. The gallop of horses was soon 
 heard, and the servants came, full of alarm, to tell me the house 
 was surrounded by Eussians, and belonging to the same corps of 
 which their master had already repulsed a squadron. ' Well,' I said, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 143 
 
 'We are going to kill some more of them ; arms, coolness and 
 courage ! ' 
 
 " In a few minutes, the Russians attacked us. M. Derneval 
 wished to second me, but was unable to stand. I soon saw we 
 were lost, when I ran and placed myself before the door of the 
 chamber where Madame Derneval had hid herself. I had promised 
 to die before they should reach her, and I determined to keep my 
 word. Scarcely had I posted myself, before the Russians entered 
 the house on every side. I had soon several of them before me, one 
 of whom said to me in bad French, — 
 
 " ' It's you who killed some of our men a few days ago. You 
 are the master of this house.' 
 
 " * Yes, yes,' said another, ' it's him ; he's a Frenchman — a soldier ; 
 look at his uniform breeches.' 
 
 " ' Well, then,' I replied, ' what do you want with me ? ' 
 
 " * To teach you not to shut your doors against us, and settle 
 with you for the brave fellows you killed.' 
 
 " Several sabres were immediately uplifted against me ; I 
 defended myself like a lion ; I killed two of the enemy ; but I at length 
 received a sabre-wound on the head : I fell, and lost all perception 
 of what was passing around me. When I recovered the use of my 
 senses, I was lying in a good bed ; my host and his wife were on 
 each side of me, and M. Derneval, pressing my hand, said to. me, — 
 
 " ' Your courageous defence has preserved the honour of my 
 wife, by giving time for a French detachment to arrive. I have 
 reported your fine conduct to the generals who have been to my 
 house, and they have charged me to assure you they will make it 
 known to the emperor. Know that Napoleon has gained a great 
 victory, and that the battle of Austerlitz will be placed amongst the 
 brightest days that immortalise the French name.' 
 
 " ' And how long have I been in bed ? ' I said, putting my hand 
 to my wound. 
 
 " 'A fortnight ; you have been very ill ; we were in dread of 
 losing you, but the danger is passed ; you now require nothing 
 more than rest and care. You are to me more than a brother ; 
 for to you I owe my honour and the happiness of still pressing 
 in my arms the woman I adore.' 
 
 " My convalescence was very long ; for besides this wound in 
 the head, I had received another in the side from a sabre, and a 
 thrust from a lance had nearly pierced through my thigh ; I 
 therefore passed two months longer with my new friends ; they 
 would have kept me entirely with them ; but I was continually 
 talking of Paris— of you, my friends, and they comprehended it was 
 only in France I could be perfectly cured. Derneval one morning 
 said to me, — 
 
 " ' You can only be happy at Paris ; we should be ingrates, 
 were we to keep you any longer : there is a post-chaise at the door 
 waiting for you. Go, my dear Prosper — but only remember that 
 you have friends in Moravia who will never forget you.' 
 
r44 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " I was charmed at travelling post, but I found myself puzzled 
 enough ; for I had no more than a few crown pieces about me, 
 which would scarcely have sufficed to pay three postillions. I don't 
 know if Derneval divined my thought, but he came to me smiling, 
 and said, — 
 
 " ' Go without fear ; you will want for nothing on the road ; I 
 have provided for everything.' 
 
 " He theu pressed me in his arms — his wife gave me her hand to 
 kiss, and we bade each other farewell. A choice of clothes had 
 been brought into my chamber, but I would not accept any of them. 
 I was quite pleased at returning to France with these blue breeches, 
 which had also brought me good fortune.' 
 
 " The post-chaise drove off, and I found on the cushion opposite to 
 me a parcel with my address. I opened it ; it contained a purse 
 full of gold, a pocket-book with one hundred and fifty thousand 
 livres, and the following letter from Derneval : — 
 
 " ' Accept this, not as the price of the service you have rendered 
 me — such actions cannot be paid for — but as a pledge of my friend- 
 ship. This sum, which to me is nothing, will assist you in re-estab- 
 lishing your fortune. If you were to refuse it, I should think 
 that you are unwilling to look on me as your friend.' 
 
 " "While I was unsealing the parcel, and reading that letter, the 
 postillion had whipped on his horses, and we were already at a con- 
 siderable distance from Derneval's. What could 1 do ? Return to 
 my compatriot, and return him what he with such generosity 
 offered me ? No ! for I knew him too well ; my refusal would 
 have wounded his feelings. I thought it became me to accept this 
 new fortune fate had sent me. I did so — returning thanks to the 
 friendship of that worthy Frenchman. And that is why you see 
 me again to-day, my friends, still rich, in a post-chaise, and with 
 my godfather's blue breeches." 
 
 Prosper here terminated his narrative, that every one had 
 listened to with the liveliest interest ; Pauline, above all, did not 
 lose a word of it ; when dangers threatened her good friend, she 
 turned pale; when a fortunate event happened to. him, she 
 trembled with joy ; and when he had finished, she said to him 
 with her sweet voice, — 
 
 " And now you won't leave us any more, will you ? " 
 
 " No, my dear child, I have seen enough of the world ; I can 
 now rest myself ; besides, though I am not yet thirty years old, my 
 last wounds have somewhat cooled the heat of my blood. Hence- 
 forth, the care of your happiness will be my sole occupation, and I 
 shall share that of my friends, whom I know not how to thank for 
 all they have done for you." 
 
 " I like that much," said Poupardot ; " and you doubtless 
 wished to pay me by sending the twenty thousand livres. I have 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 145 
 
 put them out to interest in the little one's name. Oh ! if I had 
 been in want, I shouldn't have blushed to accept them ; but, thanks 
 to heaven, I had no need of them, though my fortune is a little 
 diminished, because the assignats are now entirely depreciated : 
 but it's all one ; I have wherewith to bring up my two sons. You 
 see them, Navet and Napoleon ; two lively fellows, who will make 
 their way in the world." 
 
 "In short, my friends, you are happy; it's all I desired, and 
 you restore me a charming young girl in place of the infant I had 
 left you." 
 
 " Do you wish to take her back from us already ? " said Eliza, 
 with tremulous voice. 
 
 " No, no ; I would not wish my arrival to give pain to this 
 child. We shall see, by-and-bye, whether my company suits her. 
 I now only think of the happiness of again finding myself in France 
 and near my friends. Ah ! give me some information respecting 
 them. Maximus — " 
 
 " We don't know what has become of him ! we have never been 
 able to find where he lives ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I'll find him out, unless he is dead. And Roger ? " 
 
 " Lieutenant of hussars, a year ago. He has returned to the 
 army. I believe I heard that he had been made captain. Oh ! we 
 shall soon see him again !" 
 
 " And Picotin, his wife ? " 
 
 " Picotin sells sheep-skins, while waiting till he can get a con- 
 tract for the army. His wife is a great admirer of the society of 
 the military; she has almost constantly a whole staff round 
 her." 
 
 Prosper remained for some moments silent. They saw he 
 wished to ask another question, and that he was embarrassed ; but 
 at length he said hesitatingly, — 
 
 "And the emigrants ?" 
 
 " Oh ! a great part of them have come back to France, a decree 
 having given them permission. Some of them are already soliciting 
 places from the government, and gentlemen of the ancient court are 
 seen mixing themselves with the new one." 
 
 Prosper remained for a moment pensive ; but soon, seeming to 
 drive away former recollections, he gave himself up to the pleasure 
 he experienced at finding himself once more with his friends. He 
 was, above all, enchanted with Pauline ; the sensible looks— the 
 sweet temper— the graces of the young girl, astonished and charmed 
 him. 
 
 When the good Eliza told him that the amiable child did not 
 pass a day without talking of him— without praying to heaven for 
 his return, Prosper felt the tears moisten his eye-lids, and he 
 reproached himself with having kept so long away from the orphan 
 But, by returning sooner, he, doubtless, would not have returned 
 rich ; and he finished by concluding that everything was still for 
 the best. ° 
 
146 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 After a day passed with his friends, Prosper returned to Paris, 
 where he took handsome apartments — had them elegantly furnished 
 — and, above all, had a pretty little chamber carefully decorated, 
 which he destined for Pauline. He then hired a valet, a woman 
 cook, and a well-informed housekeeper, whom he destined as a kind 
 of governess for the orphan. 
 
 These arrangements being all completed, Prosper, though long- 
 ing to have with him her of whom he considered himself the second 
 father, hesitated, however, to demand her from Poupardot : he 
 feared afflicting Eliza ; he feared, above all, that Pauline would be 
 emvwyte with him, and regret the residence at Clichy. 
 
 But, after several days passed at Poupardot's, Prosper perceived 
 that M. Navet was continually plaguing the young girl, and that she, 
 to avoid causing quarrels in the house, bore, without complaining, a 
 thousand ill-natured tricks the froward boy was continually annoy- 
 ing her with. 
 
 At length Prosper, arriving unexpectedly at his friend's, found 
 Pauline in the garden, and her eyes full of tears. 
 
 " What's the matter, my dear girl 1 " said Prosper, running up 
 to her. " Who is it can vex you ? Who, then, permits himself to 
 make you weep here ? " 
 
 Pauline hesitated — she was unwilling to complain, that she 
 might not give pain to Eliza, who already suffered from the bad 
 disposition announced by her son Navet. But Prosper would not 
 be satisfied with subterfuges ; he would have the truth ; and 
 the young girl avowed, weeping, that Monsieur Navet had just 
 killed with stones her little bird Tom she was so fond of, because 
 it had pecked a cream cheese he was going to have for his break- 
 fast. 
 
 Prosper then took Pauline on his knee, and said to her, — 
 
 " Would it make you unhappy if I was to take you along with 
 me? You shall have a pretty apartment — a governess— servants. 
 You shall have all the masters you desire, and all the pleasures that 
 suit your age. But, if you prefer remaining here, if you are un- 
 willing to quit those who have brought you up in my absence — 
 you are free, and I shall not blame you." 
 
 Pauline looked in Prosper's face, and, without hesitation, re- 
 plied, — 
 
 "My good friends, the Poupardots, can do without me since 
 they have other children. But you, who are alone — you want 
 some one to keep you company. Ah ! you will speak to me of my 
 mother — of my poor father ! and I shall never be weary when with 
 you." * 
 
 Prosper was too much affected for him to reply ; but he imme- 
 diately ran to his friends and said to them, — 
 
 " My friends, I am come to take Pauline away with me if you 
 have no objection." 
 
 Eliza looked at the young girl, gave a deep sigh, and whispered 
 in her ear, — 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 147 
 
 " Go, my dear little girl ; you will be very happy with him, and 
 there will be no one to make you weep." 
 
 And Poupardot, slapping Prosper's hand, said to him, — 
 
 " Well ! I don't blame you — because Pauline is getting big — 
 my young Navet is getting big — eleven years and a half ; he 
 announces the strength of a Hercules, and they would be difficult 
 to bring up together; excepting for the precautions one would 
 take." 
 
 The same evening Pauline was established in the chamber 
 Prosper had prepared for her at his apartments. A respectable 
 governess had orders not to quit her, and the servants obeyed her 
 most trifling wishes. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A GARRET. 
 
 Prosper was overjoyed at having, at length, with him the child of 
 the persons he had so much esteemed and respected. His whole 
 thoughts, his chief occupation, wholly consisted in promoting her 
 happiness. 
 
 Every instant in the day he was seeking what to do to please 
 her ; he was continually recommending her to the attention of her 
 governess, and ordering the servants to watch that her most trivial 
 desires were complied with. A mother could not be more attentive 
 — a father could not do more. 
 
 Yet, there was nothing in the tone, in the manner of Prosper 
 that announced the gallant, or a pretender to the favours of the fair 
 sex. He had always been frank and brief in his discourse ; but 
 since his long travels, his habitual look had become grave, and his 
 manners sometimes partook of a vivacity bordering on bluntness. 
 As to his personal appearance, it was difficult to decide whether it 
 was pleasing or otherwise. He was tall, and held his head a little 
 on one side ; his features, sunburnt in his travels, had taken a stern 
 expression that was sometimes changed to sadness. The scar on 
 his cheek did not disfigure him, but only gave him a somewhat 
 original look ; lastly, his eyes, when animated, which they quickly 
 became when he was speaking of any one he loved, were full of fire. 
 
 Such at that time was Prosper Bressange, who no longer scarcely 
 resembled the young printer of other days, but who might still 
 please greatly, or entirely displease. 
 
 When Pauline's protector had purchased for her some new piece 
 of furniture or article of dress he thought might be agreeable to 
 her, he merely bluntly said to her, — 
 
 " Here, dear child, this is for you." 
 
148 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 And when the young girl wished to express her thanks to him, 
 he would interrupt her with, — 
 
 "You are satisfied ; that is all I require." 
 And he would go away that he might hear no more. 
 But Pauline well knew how to find the means of showing 
 Prosper how sensible she was to all he did for her ; the best way 
 in which she could prove her gratitude was to make him compre- 
 hend she was happy at being with him and did not regret having 
 left Clichy. This also was what she studied to convince him of ; 
 nor was that difficult ; for, with her protector, the orphan had 
 nothing left her to wish for or desire. 
 
 When Prosper returned to dinner, he would find Pauline in the 
 saloon studying the piano, which she had shown a desire to learn ; 
 she would rise, and, running to meet her good friend, receive him 
 with a sweet smile ; and Prosper would press her hand, and say to 
 her, — 
 
 "You are then contented, my child? you are not tired of being 
 with me?" 
 
 " Me tired here, when you anticipate my most trifling wishes ! 
 Ah ! I should then be very ungrateful ; but, thanks to heaven, I 
 am not, for I truly love you, and am quite happy here." 
 
 "In that case I am also happy," replied Prosper, "for your 
 happiness ought henceforth to be my only study." 
 
 But, while saying this, Prosper would frequently let a sigh 
 escape him, and there was more melancholy than happiness in his 
 smile. 
 
 The little girl, who possessed an intelligence superior to her age, 
 perceived that the cheerfulness of her protector was not so real as 
 he wished to make her believe ; this sometimes afflicted her to the 
 very heart, but she would not have dared to address a question to 
 him on the subject. 
 
 Prosper was away from home a great part of the day ; he 
 wanted to find Maximus ; he, at least, said it was for that purpose 
 he was so frequently out ; but he had, perhaps, still another hope 
 he was unwilling to own to himself. 
 
 It was the commencement of 1807. Pauline had already been 
 some time with her protector, and her attachment to him became 
 more lively every day ; for she plainly saw that, under a stern and 
 somewhat rude exterior, he possessed a soul of fire for his friends, 
 and a compassionate heart for all the. unfortunate. 
 
 Prosper would have wished to give his 'protegee masters in every 
 science and accomplishment. The governess was forced to make 
 him comprehend that too many studies would fatigue Pauline, for 
 him to resign himself to her learning only what she pleased. How- 
 ever, the serious studies had been rather neglected in the Poupardot 
 family, Where they had enough to do with the young gentlemen — 
 Navet, Augustus and Napoleon. Pauline wrote a very indifferent 
 hand, and was not well acquainted with her language ; Prosper, 
 therefore, set about inquiring for a writing and French master. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 149 
 
 Prosper had received the addresses of several professors, and 
 had gone to them, but he had not yet met with one to suit him. 
 He was difficult in the choice of the masters he gave Pauline ; he 
 saw, with reason, that we cannot be too particular in the persons 
 we place in the intimacy of a young girl. 
 
 One day that Prosper was returning from calling on a professor 
 who lodged in pretty apartments in the Faubourg Montmarte, and 
 whose pedantic tone had by no means suited him, as he was leaving 
 the house, an old cook, who had heard him inquire for the French 
 master, timidly accosted him, and said to him, — 
 
 " Monsieur has been up to the master above ? Has monsieur 
 settled with him ? " 
 
 "No," replied Prosper, looking at the woman; "but why do 
 you ask me that question ? Do you know another writing-master to 
 recommend to me ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, monsieur ! I do know another, and a very deserving 
 man ; and although he don't make a great show, that don't hinder 
 his being well edicated; if he hadn't had misfortins — " 
 
 "And is it he who taught you grammar?" said Prosper, with 
 an ironical smile. 
 
 " Oh ! no, monsieur ! I ! I've taught myself when I've time. 
 But the professor I was going to tell you of, comes to my master's ; 
 he educates a little boy nine years old ; and that child, who could 
 only make pot-hooks three months ago, writes now like you and 
 me, and speaks; it's quite wonderful! and all that's not dear; 
 twelve francs a month, and lessons every day, excepting Sunday." 
 
 Prosper, who had no confidence in the cook's recommendation, 
 was going away without hearing any more, when she added, — 
 
 " And then, monsieur, that poor professor ! he supports his 
 mother, who is paralytic ; all he gets, betakes to her, and yet with 
 all they are not well off." 
 
 Prosper stopped, went back to the cook, and said to her,— 
 
 " His name, his address ? " 
 
 " Wait, monsieur. The name ! I don't recollect it just now. I 
 always call him the professor, or little masters master ; but as for 
 his address, I know it, because I went there one day, when youno- 
 master couldn't take his lessons, seeing he was going to the fair at 
 Saint Cloud. It's not far from here he lives ; it's at No. 66 Eue 
 des Martyrs, at the top of the house, in the attic on the fifth storey. 
 Ah ! by'r lady ! he's not like anyone in this house." 
 
 " Eue des Martyrs, sixty-six ; that's sufficient ; and you don't 
 remember the name ? " 
 
 " Wait, then ; it begins with a B ; like Malthurin or Claude." 
 
 " Good ; thank you ; I shall find it." 
 
 Prosper left the cook seeking for the name that had escaped her, 
 and immediately proceeded to the Rue des Martyrs, where he had 
 no difficulty in finding the house he was directed to. He entered 
 a dark passage, where he in vain looked for a porter, and there- 
 upon decided to climb the five pairs of stairs—taking, nevertheless, 
 
1 50 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 hold by a bannister, which, considering the darkness of the stair- 
 case, was a very necessary safe-guard. At every landing-place the 
 steps became higher and more perpendicular ; arrived at the fifth 
 storey, it was a real miller's ladder. Prosper hesitated, saying to 
 himself, — 
 
 " This poor devil, then, is lodged too ill to have many pupils ; 
 that can't say much in favour of his talents : but, however, let us 
 see ; merit is sometimes like virtue — impossible to guess where it 
 niches itself ! " 
 
 Prosper mounted the ladder, and found himself before a door 
 with a latch ; he stopped to take breath. 
 
 "This must be," he said to himself, "the abode of the poor 
 writing-master; dancing-masters don't lodge so high. But the 
 French have the habit of paying the persons who amuse them better 
 than those who instruct them." 
 
 He knocked at the door, when an old and broken voice 
 replied, — ; 
 
 " Turn the latch and come in." 
 
 Prosper opened the door, and found himself in a garret, where 
 the only furniture he perceived was a turn-up bedstead, an old 
 walnut-tree buffet, a table, and a few chairs ; but all so extremely 
 clean, that it almost made him forget their poverty - stricken 
 appearance. In an obscure corner of the chamber, an old woman 
 was seated in a wide bergere that seemed new, and of which 
 the comfortable appearance formed a contrast with the other 
 furniture. 
 
 Prosper, who on his first entrance had not perceived the lonely 
 tenant of the place, went up to her, took off his hat, and said, — 
 
 " Pardon me, madam e, I want a writing and French master — 
 whose name the person who recommended him could not tell me. 
 Does he live here ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, yes ; it is here he lives ; it is my son who is 
 the professor you have been told of ; he won't be long before he 
 comes in — if you would sit down ; pardon me if I don'b hand you a 
 chair myself, for I have entirely lost the use of my legs these six 
 years ! " 
 
 The voice of the paralytic struck the very heart of Prosper ; and 
 he endeavoured to recollect where he had already heard those ac- 
 cents that caused in him an emotion he was astonished at. While 
 taking a chair and seating himself before the old lady, he attentively 
 considered her. 
 
 "We lodge rather high, monsieur," she resumed, " and you have 
 taken the trouble to come up ; but lodgings are so dear at Paris — 
 and writing-masters don't get a great deal. It is true my son is 
 very modest, yet he possesses talent : this eulogium may appear 
 suspicions from the mouth of a mother, but, if you employ my son, 
 you will see, monsieur, that it is not exaggerated, and with so many 
 fine qualities, virtues. It is he who takes care of me ; he deprives 
 himself of everything that his poor sick mother may want for 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 151 
 
 nothing, poor boy ! It is he who sleeps on that flock bed — I have a 
 very good bed with two mattresses." 
 
 " But your son — I recollect his name now ; is it not Maximus 
 Berth olin ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, yes. Ah ! you knew his name." 
 
 " Did I not know it ? Has it not always been engraven on my 
 heart ? It's you, my good Mother Bertholin — it's you ; I then 
 have found you again — at last ! " 
 
 Prosper took the good woman's head between his hands, and he 
 embraced her as a son would embrace his mother. Madame 
 Bertholin, all-astonished, and comprehending nothing of these 
 marks of tenderness on the part of a man she did not recognise, 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, I am Mother Bertholin ; but you, who know 
 us, who then are you % " 
 
 " Who am I ! Ah ! yes, in thirteen years you can't know me 
 again. But you have not forgotten Prosper ? that young printer 
 you so often recommended to be steadier ? " 
 
 " Prosper ! you ? thou ? " 
 
 And the old woman herself embraced him whom she at length 
 recognised, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Ah ! how glad my son will be ! " 
 
 " And I also," said Prosper, wiping his eyes ; " I have been 
 long enough seeking him ! But why thus hide himself ; live 
 like a wolf ; go no more to see his friends, Poupardot and his wife, 
 who would have been delighted to see you again ? Why let 
 us weep over his death ? that's not well of him. I have done nearly 
 the same thing. But Maximus —a young man so steady, so reason- 
 able — he could not have the same motives as myself." 
 
 " You ask me, my dear Prosper, why my son has not been to see 
 his friends. But you, then, are not acquainted with the character 
 of Maximus ? you, then, no longer remember how proud he is of 
 heart ? When my son, in the year '94, lost his place in the print- 
 ing office, finding it difficult to gain a livelihood, he accepted a 
 petty employment at Limoges ; we set off for that town, and 
 managed to live there tolerably well for five years. Maximus was 
 then cheerful and happy — for at that epoch the Eepublic was great 
 and triumphant. At the end of five years, having lost his employ- 
 ment, we came back to Paris ; Maximus, being out of a place, began 
 to give lessons in French and writing ; we were doing pretty well, 
 when, after a long illness, I came to bedeprived of the use of my limbs. 
 Maximus spent and sold almost all we possessed to have me taken 
 care of, and that is what has reduced our circumstances, I might 
 almost say, to the state of misery we have fallen into. But my son 
 works as much as he can, and never complains when he believes 
 I want for nothing. I have several times mentioned the Poupar- 
 dots to him I have entreated him to go and see his old friends ; 
 but he always replied to me, ' My mother, when a man who is 
 in distress goes to see his friends who are rich, it almost looks 
 
152 - The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 like going to ask them to assist him ; they may suppose him 
 to have that thought even whether or not : as I don't wish them 
 to have that idea of me, as I will not receive assistance from any 
 one, so long as I remain poor, I will deprive myself of the pleasure 
 of visiting my friends.' " 
 
 " What a devil of a man, with his unsocial principles ! Thus, 
 Mother Bertholin, he will not permit me, who am rich at this 
 moment, to oblige him ! " 
 
 " No, my dear Prosper, he will accept nothing. He might even 
 be angry if you were to insist upon it." 
 
 . "In that case, I am glad I found you first. Here, my good 
 mother, take this purse— this gold. Ah ! I hope you will be less 
 proud than your son — that you will not deprive me of the pleasure 
 of obliging you." 
 
 So saying, Prosper put a purse, containing fifty guineas, on the 
 good woman's knee ; who, while considering that gold she so much 
 needed, sighed and said to him. — 
 
 " But, my friend, you are too good ; this gold, when my son sees 
 it— what will you have me say to him ? If he guesses the truth 
 he'll be angry." 
 
 "You will invent some history. Parbleu ! women are never at 
 a loss. You will say — ah ! an excellent idea !— that you have won 
 a prize in the lottery; twelve hundred francs for twelve sous! 
 They cry nothing else in the streets." 
 
 " But I can't walk, and consequently can't go down to buy a 
 lottery ticket." 
 
 " And can't the sellers come up when they're called ? Besides, 
 haven't you some neighbour who would do you that service ? Come, 
 come, it's settled— it's finished; you have won a prize in the 
 lottery." 
 
 " My good Prosper — " 
 
 u Hush ! silence ! let's say no more about it ; here's some one 
 coming up. It's Maximus ! it must be him ; my heart has guessed 
 it. Don't say anything to him ; he won't know me again." 
 
 It was, in fact, Maximus ; the years that had elapsed since his 
 friend had lost sight of him had made but little alteration in his 
 person. It was still the same handsome and somewhat stern figure, 
 only it was paler and thinner than formerly ; and on that forehead, 
 still young, which bore the imprint of care and misfortune, the hair 
 was already beginning to be thin. Perceiving a stranger with his 
 mother, Maximus bowed, and said to him, — 
 
 " May I know, monsieur, what it is you desire of me ? " 
 
 " What I desire ? " said Prosper, after for a few instants fixing 
 his eyes on his old friend ; " what I desire ? Oh, faith ! to embrace 
 you in the first place ! " 
 
 So saying, he ran to Maximus and clasped him in his arms. 
 The latter, in his turn, looked at him attentively, and soon ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 " You are Prosper ! I know your voice— your look ; as for the 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 153 
 
 rest, I own I might have been mistaken. That scar ? Are you in 
 the service ? " 
 
 " No ; but that don't hinder one from fighting when the occasion 
 presents itself. I have at length found you again ; it will soon be 
 thirteen years since. What events have taken place since that 
 time ! " 
 
 Maximus sighed, and with a mournful shake of the head 
 replied, — 
 
 " Yes, in fact, there have been a great many changes." 
 
 " You sigh, Maximus ; you seem dissatisfied while saying that. 
 Do you not share the enthusiasm caused by all the glorious victories 
 gained by the emperor ? Are you insensible to the glory of your 
 country ? " - 
 
 " Oh ! you can't suppose that, Prosper ; no one takes a greater 
 interest in the glory of my country than myself, but we were also 
 vanquishers before we had an emperor ; we triumphed at Lodi, at 
 Areola, at Eivoli, and our republic was not then destroyed. To me, 
 Prosper, the general of the army of Italy was a much greater man 
 than your emperor. But let us drop this subject, and say no more 
 about politics; we shouldn't perhaps agree. Tell us your ad- 
 ventures ; tell us what you have been doing since we last saw you." 
 
 Prosper seated himself between Maximus and his mother, and 
 gave them a faithful relation of his adventures, his amours, and of 
 his travels ; he concealed nothing from them, only passing rapidly 
 over what he had done to save Madame Derbrouck. When 
 Maximus learnt that the daughter of the unfortunate Hollander 
 existed — that it was for her Prosper was seeking a master, he pressed 
 his friend's hand, saying to him, — 
 
 "Ah; you are still the same; the head giddy, but the heart 
 excellent." 
 
 "My head is much more reasonable now," replied Prosper, 
 smiling ; " you do me too much honour in believing me to be still 
 a thoughtless scapegrace. It seems to me I have no longer the 
 looks of one." 
 
 " Oh ! that signifies nothing ; I know you ; I bet you are still 
 thinking of that little countess, who has been laughing at you — 
 who has never loved you." 
 
 "It is possible she may never have loved me, but she has not 
 made game of me, since she never gave me any hopes. Moreover, 
 I swear to you I no longer think of her." 
 
 "You deceive yourself! you are always thinking of her; J 
 have seen it while listening to you ; and, if you was to meet with 
 her again, you would still be capable of acting the fool for her." 
 
 " And in what have I acted the fool, then ? Is it in restoring 
 the estate to her father — the only resource that remained to him, 
 when all his other property was sequestered ?" 
 
 " No, I don't blame you for that ; but, in short, Durouleau had 
 left you a fortune ; you have made away with it— lost it : chance 
 has sent you another ; try to keep it." 
 
154 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 x "This Maximus is still the same— he don't flatter his friends. 
 Make yourself easy, my mentor, I shall be prudent ; but do you 
 consent to come and give lessons to my young orphan — to the child 
 of the worthy pair we had so great a regard for % " 
 
 " Do I consent ? ah ! it's a happiness you procure me. To me, 
 the daughter of that unfortunate banker is an object of love and 
 veneration." 
 
 " That's all very well, but as we don't live upon sentiments, I 
 offer you a hundred francs a month ; is it enough ? " 
 
 " You are mad ! My best pupils only give me four-and-twenty, 
 and I won't receive any more for her." 
 
 " If your other pupils are mean and stingy hounds, that don't 
 concern me. You shall have a hundred francs." 
 
 "I will receive but twenty-four, or deprive myself of the 
 pleasure I should feel in becoming the master of that dear' child." 
 
 " How obstinate ! My dear Maximus, you are terribly self- 
 willed ! I have remarked, one must always do as you wish. No 
 matter — you shall have your own way : but, tell me, will your 
 superb pride prevent you from sometimes accepting a share of my 
 dinner, and consenting to take a seat at your friend's table ? " 
 
 Maximus replied with a smile, and, shaking Prosper's hand, — 
 
 "No, no ; I'll dine with you sometimes with great pleasure." 
 
 " That's very lucky. And I think you won't be vexed to meet 
 Poupardot and his wife there ? " 
 
 " Doubtless not ; on the contrary." 
 
 " I'm glad of it. I will, then, hasten to acquaint them I have 
 found you 'again. They will be so glad, for we all esteem you, do you 
 see, and we are not so proud as you are — we are not afraid of show- 
 ing it. I also long to tell Pauline that her new master was ac- 
 quainted with her parents — that he lived in the same house as those 
 unfortunates. That poor little girl is just entering her fourteenth 
 year ; but you will see what an angel she is. She already possesses 
 the reason and the sensibility of a woman, with the mildness and 
 the candour of a child." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " said Dame Bertholin, " when I last saw her, she 
 was still at her mother's breast ; I certainly shouldn't know her 
 again ; but I should have been so happy to embrace her ! Alas ! 
 it is impossible ; I can no longer leave my room." 
 
 " "Well, then, Mamma Bertholin, I will bring Pauline to you, and 
 you shall embrace her." 
 
 " What, Prosper ! you would have the goodness — " 
 
 " The goodness ! would it not also give Pauline pleasure to see 
 a person who has loved, who has been acquainted with her mother? 
 Ah ! she will thank me for thinking of bringing her here." 
 
 "But, to come up this villainous staircase — to come up to this 
 garret to see an old paralytic woman — " 
 
 " Do we consider the beauty of the lodging — ought we to count 
 the steps of the staircase, when we go to see our friends ? You are 
 eld and infirm ; two reasons to love and respect you. Oh ! don't 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 135 
 
 be uneasy ! my Pauline is none of your delicate young ladies ; she'll 
 be happy to come and see you. .Adieu, Mamma Bertholin ; adieu, 
 my dear Maximus. Ah ! I am so glad ! I feel as if I was still only 
 eighteen. I must march, I must run — I can't stand still. Farewell 
 for the present ! farewell, my good friends." 
 
 Prosper embraced the old lady upon both cheeks ; he shook 
 Maximus by the hand, and left the garret, laughing and singing in 
 a manner he had not done for a very long time. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PICOTIN AT HOME. A PARTY OF OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 The first thing done by Prosper on leaving Maximus, was to hasten 
 to his little proUgee. Pauline shared so sincerely in his most trivial 
 disappointments, she testified so real an attachment for him, that 
 he was certain she would be happy on knowing he had again found 
 that friend he was so often talking of, and he hurried to acquaint 
 her with the events of the morning. 
 
 The young girl leapt with joy on learning she would have for 
 her master a person who would be able to talk to her of her parents ; 
 and when Prosper asked if it would be agreeable to her to go and 
 see old Mother Bertholin, she ran to take her bonnet and shawl, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 " Oh, directly ! Let us go — let us go there at once ! " 
 
 "I was certain, my dear little girl, that such would be your 
 answer, and that you wouldn't be afraid to go up five pairs of 
 stairs — into a garret, in short — to see that poor old lady who so 
 greatly desires to embrace you." 
 
 " Afraid of going up into a garret ! Ah ! if I was to think so, 
 I should have a very bad heart — and you don't believe I have— do 
 you, my good friend ?" 
 
 " No, no ! far to the contrary. "We will go and visit Madame 
 Bertholin ; but I must, in the first place, call on my friends at 
 Clichy ; I must tell them that Maximus is found again ; Poupardot 
 will be so overjoyed at it ! Come with me, Pauline ; we'll take a 
 coach to Clichy, and invite the Poupardots to come and dine here 
 to-morrow with Maximus, and then we'll go and pay a visit to 
 Mamma Bertholin." 
 
 The young girl was enchanted at accompanying her good friend, 
 and was ready in an instant. They sent for a coach, and were soon 
 at Poupardot's house, where a fresh surprise awaited Prosper ; who 
 had scarcely set foot within doors, before a military officer, sitting 
 by Eliza's side, started up, and ran and embraced him till he was 
 almost stifled, exclaiming, — 
 
1 56 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Here he is, then ! our friend Prosper ! Ah ! swords and pistols ! 
 I was also at Austerlitz, and I heard of the fine conduct of that 
 Frenchman, who let himself be almost massacred in defending alone 
 the house of one of his compatriots against a squadron of Russians. 
 But I didn't suspect the brave fellow to be Prosper — that young 
 printer I have known so wild and so giddy ! Do you know me 
 again ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes ! you are Eoger, who joined the requisition in the 
 second year of the Republic." 
 
 " And now captain, my friend ! Ah ! a thousand bomb-shells ! 
 one marches double quick under the emperor — gets on rapidly. I 
 said to my friends, when I left them nearly two years ago, ' If I 
 come back, I shall no longer be a lieutenant.' I have kept _ my 
 word ! Ah ! what a glorious reign, my friend ; what a brilliant 
 epoch for France ? It's a pity you didn't engage in the army ; you 
 would have now been a field-officer — I'll be bound for it ! " 
 
 " Everybody can't be soldiers," said Poupardot. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! oh, yes ! Under the reign of Napoleon, every man 
 ought to long to be a soldier" ; it's the only way to get on." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Prosper, " I have news to tell you, that I am 
 sure will give you great pleasure." 
 
 "What, then," cried Roger, "are we going to begin a fresh 
 campaign ? " 
 
 "Are they going to re-imburse the holders of assignats ?" said 
 Poupardot ; "I have eighty thousand francs worth of them in my 
 cash-box. My wife is always wanting to make curl-papers of them, 
 but I say to her, ' Wait ; who knows ? I have put them on one 
 side for a reserve.' " 
 
 " It's nothing concerning either war or assignants, but one of 
 our old friends — a man we all esteem." 
 
 " Maximus ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I was sure your heart would name him. Yes, it's 
 Maximus I have found again — that I have seen ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ! where is he ? A thousand squadrons ! let me 
 go and shake hands with him ! " 
 
 " Where is he ? " cried Poupardot, " that we may go and throw 
 ourselves in his arms," 
 
 " Where is he ? In a wretched garret, where he supports his 
 paralytic mother by his labour. It was chance, or rather Providence, 
 that made me find him out, in looking for a writing-master for my 
 young orphan. He is still the same in other respects ; quite as 
 proud, and in principles as strict. Do you know what his mother 
 told me was his reason for not coming to see us ? It was because, 
 being poor, he was afraid of being thought to come with the view 
 of borrowing money. And he this day has only consented to give 
 lessons to Pauline on condition I should pay him no more than his 
 other pupils." 
 
 "There I recognise him," said Roger; "he's a man fashioned 
 after the antique." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 157 
 
 " I don't believe he'll make a fortune under any government ? ' 
 muttered Poupardot. 
 
 "Notwithstanding that, gentlemen, though Maximus has no 
 reason to blush for his poverty, it would perhaps be painful for him 
 to receive us all in his humble lodgings ; but to-morrow he will 
 come and dine with me, and I hope that you will also be of the 
 party." 
 
 " With all my heart, my brave fellow," said the officer ; while 
 Poupardot exclaimed, — 
 
 " You hope so ! To meet again with Maximus ! why, it will be 
 quite a holiday ! We'll all of us go ! we'll take our children along 
 with us — shan't we, Eliza ? unless it would incommode our friend ! " 
 " Incommode me ! " said Prosper ; " when in my apartments, 
 always consider yourselves at home. To-morrow, then ? Pauline 
 and myself have still another visit to make. Farewell for the 
 present, captain ; farewell, my dear friends ! " 
 
 Prosper took leave of his friends, followed by Pauline, after she 
 had tenderly embraced the good Eliza, who asked her in a whisper 
 if she was still happy ; to which she made no other reply than by 
 relating all her protector had done for her. 
 
 It was now to Dame Bertholin that Prosper was going to take 
 the orphan, and, on their way in the fiacre to the Eue des Martyrs, 
 he said to her, — 
 
 JVI thought it might be imprudent to give Maximus' address ; 
 besides, his friends will meet him to-morrow, and if he wishes them 
 to go and see him, he will tell it them himself. Do you see, my 
 dear little girl, when people who are rather proud fall into mis- 
 fortune, they give us a great proof of friendship by permitting us to 
 visit them : but everybody does not thus comprehend it." 
 
 They arrived at the house where Maximus lodged, and Prosper 
 took the young girl's hand to assist her in ascending the dark and 
 winding staircase they had to climb before reaching the garret ; ' 
 but she did not remark the number of steps they had to go up ; 
 she was entirely occupied with thinking she was going to see 
 persons who had been acquainted with her parents. 
 
 They at length came to the door on the fifth storey : Prosper 
 turned the latch, and introduced Pauline. The good dame was 
 seated in her bergere, and her son was writing at a table. On see- 
 ing the young girl come in, Maximus rose, advanced a few paces 
 towards her, and then stopped to contemplate her with an air of 
 respect. 
 
 " This is Monsieur Derbrouck's daughter," said Prosper. 
 The old lady seemed quite struck ; tears flowed from her eyes, 
 which were intensely fixed upon Pauline. Maximus was scarcely 
 less affected than his mother, on seeing the child of that unfor- 
 tunate pair, victims of the reign of terror ; and the young girl, 
 sharing the effect inspired by her presence, remained motionless in 
 the middle of the room, endeavouring to smile, but also finding 
 nothing but tears to express her emotion. 
 
158 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 At length, Mamma Berth olin raised her arms, and stretched 
 them out towards Pauline, saying to her, with a voice interrupted 
 by sobs, — 
 
 " Will you — my child — will you — " 
 
 The poor old lady had not strength to say more, but Pauline 
 comprehended her, and immediately ran to embrace her, exclaim- 
 ing,— 
 
 " Oh, yes ! madam e ; yes ! and I will love you also." 
 
 The young girl remained for some moments in the arms of the 
 good old woman, who seemed never tired with embracing her, with 
 looking at her, and then embracing her again. Maximus afterwards 
 came forward, and took the hand of Pauline, which he respectfully 
 carried to his lips, saying, — 
 
 " We are happy, mademoiselle, at again beholding the child of 
 that so honourable man — of that so good, so benevolent lady, we 
 had the good fortune to be neighbours to. Your father, dear 
 young lady, perished at that unfortunate epoch when the Revolution 
 was changed into the reign of terror — when blood-thirsty men 
 sullied its purest pages. Doubtless, some day, on writing the events 
 of the Revolution, Monsieur Derbrouck's name will be mentioned ; 
 and as he had the misfortune to receive Herbert and other ultra 
 Jacobins of that time under his roof, sentiments that were never 
 his will be falsely attributed to him ; but it is almost always thus 
 that history is writteu. Should that happen, mademoiselle, all 
 those who have been acquainted with your father know him to 
 have been an honest man, and not a conspirator ; and if you ever 
 visit Holland, his native country, you will there find his memory 
 venerated, and his name dear to all his fellow-countrymen." 
 
 Pauline listened to Maximus with religious attention ; and when 
 he ceased speaking, she said to him, — 
 
 " I thank you, monsieur, for what you have just said to me re- 
 specting my father ; I needed it not to cherish his memory, but it 
 is always so pleasing to hear our parents spoken well of ! " 
 
 " Dear little girl ! " cried Mother Bertholin, " she has all her 
 mother's voice — her nose — her eyes ! Poor lady ! when I recall her 
 to mind ! She sometimes, my child, would come into our room to 
 bid us good-day, to inquire after my health — for she did not disdain 
 the humble dwelling of the poor. Oh ! she was so amiable — so 
 gracious ! My God ! and to die so unfortunate !" 
 
 "Come, mother, come — it's enough," said Maximus ; "you see 
 you make the dear young lady weep." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind ! " said Pauline ; " I prefer to weep and hear 
 people speak to me of my mother." 
 
 " Yes, but I won't have you weep any more," said Prosper ; " let 
 us see you dry up your tears. We are just come from the Poupar- 
 dots, Maximus ; they were delighted to hear of you. But you don't 
 know whom I met at their house ; a captain of hussars, who had 
 just arrived — Roger ! " 
 
 " Could it be ? Impossible 1 Roger here ? " 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 159 
 
 " Yes, and you shall see him to-morrow ; they are all to dine 
 with me. Ah ! what a pity your good mother can't make one of us » " 
 
 " You mustn't think of it, my dear Prosper," said the worthy 
 dame ; " but I am always glad when I know my son is happy ; and 
 to-morrow I shall rejoice when knowing him to be amongst his old 
 friends." 
 
 " And we will drink to your health, Mamma Bertholin : oh ' 
 we won't forget you ! " 
 
 Prosper and Paulne pa sed near an hour with the tenants of 
 the garret ; and when they at length took leave, it was with the 
 promise of soon seeing each other again, for the young girl had 
 asked permission of the old paralytic to allow her sometimes to 
 visit her ; and it may be well imagined, Mamma Bertholin did not 
 refuse it. 
 
 Prosper returned home with Pauline, and gave his servants the 
 necessary orders for the morrow's festival. He then again went 
 out, for he had conceived a project, and with him there was never 
 a long interval between the thought and the execution. 
 
 Prosper had said to himself, " To-morrow I shall have the com- 
 pany of three old friends— three companions of my youth ; but 
 couMn't I also have other persons with them we were acquainted 
 with I I haven t yet seen Picotin and his wife since my return to 
 Paris ; I have often thought, but other thoughts have made me 
 forget, to call upon them. Picotin was not a man of great merit 
 far from it ! but after all that, poor Horatius Cedes was a good- 
 hearted fellow, whose only fault was to be always trembling, and to 
 let himself be led by his wife. As for Euphrasia, if her conduct 
 has continued to be somewhat imprudent, I oughtn't to forget she 
 fed my little Pauline when I first brought her in my arms to 
 Paris ; then again, when she exhibited herself as an Athenienne 
 and I saved her from the insults of the crowd by taking her to the 
 Bois de Boulogne, she also showed herself very grateful for what I 
 had done for her ; I should certainly be very ungrateful to forget 
 all that. 1 11 go to them, and invite Picotin and his wife to dinner 
 to-morrow." 
 
 And that was why Prosper went out again, and proceeded to 
 the Eue aux Ours, for he recollected perfectly well where was situated 
 the furrier's shop that belonged to Picctin. 
 
 But Euphrasia and her husband had long since left the Rue aux 
 Ours; ana m the place where formerly stood the furrier's shop, 
 Prosper found a grocer's; he, however, went in and asked what 
 had become of the "fourreur " who had formerly lived there 
 
 The shopman looked at Prosper, gave the wink to two servant- 
 maids who had just come into the shop, and replied — 
 here'" 1 <f ° Urreur ? ' X don,t know what th at is ;— we don't sell 'em 
 
 Prosper then addressed himself to the woman of the shop who 
 could give him no information, but called her father, who 'after 
 some minutes' consideration, exclaimed,— ' 
 
160 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Ah, yes — a furrier — he had this shop before me." 
 
 "Exactly so ; and where did he remove to from here ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Oh! yes — Eue Saint Honore, close by the 
 Arbre Sec." 
 
 " Infinitely obliged to you." 
 
 Prosper went to the place he was directed to ; where, perceiving 
 a furrier's shop, he went in, thinking to find Euphrasia or her hus- 
 band ; but, on asking for Monsieur Picotin, he was answered, — 
 
 " They gave up their stock to us a long while ago. Monsieur 
 Picotin only sells sheep-skins now. He lives in the Faubourg 
 Saint Germain." 
 
 Prosper went to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and inquired at 
 the address given him for M. Picotin, dealer in sheep-skins, and was 
 told he had removed a year before, and was then lodging in the 
 Marais rue des Enfants-rouges, near the market. » 
 
 " SaprediS! " said Prosper to himself, " these people do nothing 
 but move about ; they don't give me a very good opinion of their 
 trade. No matter ! I won't be disappointed : let's go to the 
 Marais." 
 
 On arriving at the street of the Enfants-rouges, Prosper at 
 length succeeded in finding the residence of the sheep-skin dealer, 
 and the porter of the house said to him, — 
 
 " On the fourth storey ; go up — M. Picotin's at home." 
 
 " Ah ! God be praised ! " said Prosper, hastening up a dirty 
 staircase. 
 
 On reaching the landing-place on the fourth storey, he read on a 
 copper plate fixed on the door, — 
 
 " Anacharsis Picotin, dealer in sheep-skins, and general dealer 
 in all skins belonging to his trade." 
 
 " He is still as clever as ever in the drawing up of his sign- 
 boards," said Prosper to himself, opening the door. 
 
 On crossing the threshold, he found himself in a small square 
 room, which, from a dining-room, it seemed, had been converted 
 into a kind of office. The chamber was divided in the middle by a 
 partition, in which was an opening similar to that in offices where 
 payments are made, and on the grating was pasted a strip of white 
 paper, with the word, " Caisse," written in letters six inches long. 
 But everything on the other side of the grating seemed in disorder : 
 you perceived a ledger open on a desk, from which it appeared the 
 owner was in the habit of tearing out the pages ; a writing-desk, 
 covered with dust, and a few pens, frozen in the ink ; the handle 
 of a penknife, and some sheets of paper spotted with oil ; in one 
 corner of the floor was a heap of dirty sheep-skins ; and lastly, on 
 the ironbound chest, representing the " caisse," stood a pot-de- 
 chambre, which they had forgot to empty. 
 
 After casting a glance round this office, Prosper hastened to 
 push open a door that led into another room, when he found him- 
 self in a saloon, which seemed converted into both a bed-room and 
 kitchen, for a roasting-jack and saucepan were placed before a 
 
The Man with the Three Pair vf Breeches. 161 
 
 large fire on the hearth. The furniture in this room would have 
 been tolerably good, had it not been dirty or broken, and strewed 
 with articles of feminine attire. There — a gown ; here — a petticoat : 
 further on, a pair of old slippers and a bonnet ; upon a commode — 
 a pot of pomatum, a comb, and a cracked looking-glass. In the 
 midst of this disorder, a man in his shirt sleeves, and a fur-cap on 
 his head, seemed performing the part of a scullery boy, for in one 
 hand he held a broom, in the other a skimmer, and he had a dish- 
 cloth under his arm. Prosper had no occasion to look long at this 
 man, in order to recognise him : Picotin was little altered ; the 
 person whose countenance is strongly marked with stupidity, pre- 
 serves it intact on growing old. On seeing a stranger enter the 
 chamber, Picotin hastily began dusting the furniture, crying out, — 
 
 " Madame's not in ; we don't make any payments to-day ; it's 
 she who's got the keys — come some other day." 
 
 Prosper did not stir, and couldn't forbear smiling on seeing the 
 employment Euphrasia had given her husband. 
 
 Picotin, perceiving that the strange gentleman remained in the 
 room, notwithstanding what he had said to him, took the broom, 
 and made all the dust in his power, crying out, — 
 
 " Madame Picotin's not at home — we don't pay to-day — it's she 
 who has the keys of the cash-box — it's useless for you to wait, she 
 won't be back till midnight." 
 
 " And if I want to speak to monsieur as wellas madame," re- 
 plied Prosper, coming forward. 
 
 " Oh ! then — but me, I haven't the funds — I have nothing to do 
 with the money business now." 
 
 " Well ! who the devil's saying anything to you about your 
 money business, or cash-box, my poor Picotin ? See — look at me, 
 and try if you can't recollect an old tormentor of yours, who, some 
 years ago, nearly lamed you by sitting on your knees at the 
 Theatre Francais — at that time the Theatre of the Republic — during 
 the first representation of Nero and Epicharis." 
 
 Picotin slapped his forehead, gave an exclamation of surprise, 
 and ran to shake Prospers hand, saying, — 
 
 " Ah ! I know ; ah ! sapristie ! I know now — you are Prosper 
 Bressange, the young journeyman printer, ci-devant : but if you 
 hadn't told me all that, I should never have known you again. Ah I 
 how you are altered ! My God ! aren't you grown old ? — it's aston- 
 ishing ! " 
 
 " No, my dear Picotin, there's nothing astonishing in that : I 
 was then only eighteen The man is no longer the same as the wild, 
 mischievous lad, and, above all, when he has led an active, stormy 
 life." 
 
 " Ah ! you have been in storms — and me, do you find me much 
 altered?" 
 
 " Faith, no ! you have still the same look as you formerly had — 
 and your wife ! " 
 
 " Ah ! she's gone to take a ride out with two cuirassiers, friends 
 
 L 
 
1 62 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 of ours. But she won't be long before she's back — they'll be home 
 to dinner ; I was only joking when I said she wouldn't be home till 
 midnight. But I must look to the meat— the devil ! it's a piece of 
 the fillet of veal, and, if it was burnt, my wife would lead me a 
 fine dance ; I am also afraid my soup is boiling too fast. I'll taste 
 it — you must dine with us, Prosper ; that will please Euphrasia, 
 I'm sure of it ; she's often talking of you — and it won't put us out 
 of the way ; when there's enough for four, there's enough for five — 
 when there's enough for five, there's enough for six, as our friends, 
 the cuirassiers, say, when they bring their comrades along with 
 them." 
 
 While saying all this, Picotin basted the meat, then he tasted 
 the soup, shook his head, fetched a pitcher of water and emptied 
 the half of it into the saucepan, muttering, — 
 
 "It will still be quite salt enough — besides, that will make more 
 of it, and our friends, the cuirassiers, are very fond of soup." 
 
 "You are then turned cook and housekeeper ?" said Prosper. 
 
 " By'r lady, my dear friend, one must certainly do something — 
 trade is so bad ! My wife won't hire a servant, she pretends I am 
 such a wicked fellow It's she who keeps the books, and so I sweep 
 up the rooms and light the fire — it passes my time away. Well, 
 then, you'll dine with us, won't you ?" 
 
 So saying, Picotin again laid hold of the pitcher, seeming de- 
 termined to empty it entirely into the saucepan, if the answer was 
 in the affirmative. 
 
 " No, no, that's impossible ; it's I who am come to invite you 
 and your wife to dinner to-morrow. You will find Maximus 
 Bertholin, Poupardot and his wife, with me ; also Eoger, who is 
 now a captain of hussars. I hope you'll think those sufficient 
 reasons for not refusing me." 
 
 "Ah ! parhleu! even if there were only yourself, it would still 
 give me great pleasure to dine out — I don't find much amusement 
 here : all my day is taken up — cleaning, cooking, and then the plates 
 and dishes to wash. Ah! my God ! ah! my God ! I don't know 
 whether I shall be able : my wife has a party for to-morrow — she's 
 going to see a regiment reviewed, and will bring five officers home 
 with her." 
 
 "If your wife can't come, you will come, I hope; here's my 
 address on this card." 
 
 " Certainly ; it would suit me very well ; I should be very 
 glad to see Maximus again, I believed him to be quite dead ; 
 Eoger, I dined with him eighteen months ago : but he's a brave 
 fellow, I shall see him again with pleasure. Unfortunately, 
 Euphrasia won't let me go out ; besides, there'll be an enormous 
 tricot to cook — it's very perplexing." 
 
 At this moment a noise was heard in the first room, and a 
 hoarse voice bawled out, — 
 
 " Hallo ! house here. M. Sheep-skinner. I hope there's some- 
 body at home to day." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 163 
 
 Picotin turned pale, and began to tremble, as he muttered 
 between his teeth, 
 
 " Ah \fichtre! it's M. Machis, the pork-butcher, again. What 
 a plague that man is ; his looks will be very pleasant." 
 
 " There's somebody in the other room," said Prosper. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know what it is, it's on business. They all come 
 when I'm getting dinner ready. I'll go and send the fellow 
 away." 
 
 Picotin passed into the so-named office, and began whispering 
 to the person just come ; but as the latter replied as loud as he 
 could bawl, Euphrasia's husband saw it was useless to dissemble, 
 and soon Prosper overheard the following dialogue : — 
 
 "SacretU! M. Picotin ! I hope you will settle it to-day, and 
 not let me call again for nothing." 
 
 " I am very sorry, M. Machis, but you are unlucky — you 
 always come when my wife's not at home." 
 
 " You are making fun of me ! with your wife, who is always 
 gadding about ; besides, I don't want her ; pay me, and let's have 
 done with it." 
 
 "But you don't comprehend, then, M. Machis, that I can't pay 
 you, since she has taken the keys of the cash-box along with her." 
 
 " Always the same note ! that won't take any longer. A pretty 
 cash-box is yours ; do you pay with the money I see in the piss pot 
 there. Come, let's settle it ; I have furnished you with hams, etc. 
 — you have given me an I O U for sixty -three francs, and it's six 
 weeks since you have put off to next day. Sacretti! is a man to be 
 made to come forty times for sixty-three francs ? " 
 
 " By'r lady ! when one hasn't the money — " 
 
 "Then people have no business to eat truffled petti- toes and 
 stuffed turkeys. You shall pay me, or, by the holy cross, I choke 
 you ! " 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! leave go then." 
 
 Prosper hastened to Picotin's assistance ; and not before it was 
 time ; for M. Machis was holding his debtor by the throat, and 
 didn't seem disposed to show him' any quarter. Prosper threw 
 sixty-three francs on the counter, saying, — 
 
 "There's your money, monsieur, take it and be gone." 
 
 The pork-butcher loosed his hold of Picotin, counted the money, 
 put it into his pocket, and gave a receipt, saying, — 
 
 " This is good — this is the way to do business ; it's paid, it's 
 finished, I think no more about it. We'll bear no malice, M. 
 Picotin." 
 
 " Yes ! that's very likely ! " said Picotin, when M . Machis had 
 shut the door ; " no malice, when he had nearly throttled me ! 
 But for you, my dear Prosper, I was done for. What do I not owe 
 you, my dear friend ? — that is to say, its sixty-three francs ! " 
 
 " You owe me nothing at all ! don't mention it. I am only sorry 
 to see you are not in more flourishing circumstances." 
 
 " Why, it's true, things go on very badly. I hear nothing of 
 
164 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 the contracts I was to have had ; and then I don't well know what 
 I could contract to supply. I have no longer anything but some 
 sheep-skins, and them my wife wishes to have made into breeches 
 for me ; she says it would give me an English look." 
 
 At this moment, the voice of Euphrasia was heard on the stair- 
 case, as well as the sound of the cuirassier's boots. 
 
 "There's my wife !" said Picotin, starting, and he immediately 
 ran and knelt down before the hearth, turning the spit and looking 
 into the sauce-pan. 
 
 " This office is horribly dirty ! " cried Euphrasia. " I am sure 
 M. Picotin can never sweep it. All the dogs in the house seem to 
 make it their happy hunting-ground ; I really don't know what my 
 husband can employ himself about." 
 
 Prosper, who had remained standing in the second partition, soon 
 saw a lady of tolerably robust embonpoint make her appearance. 
 She was in a green cloth riding-habit, in several places spotted with 
 grease, and wanting several buttons on the breast ; she wore a round 
 felt hat, surmounted with a feather that had once been green, and 
 placed over the ear in a very provoking manner ; in her hand she 
 held a lady's whip, which, in coming in, she seemed preparing to 
 exercise upon some one. 
 
 Prosper would not easily have recognised Euphrasia had he met 
 her anywhere but at home. The Amazon halted on seeing a gentle- 
 man planted in the middle of the chamber, and who stared at herwith 
 a singular expression of surprise ; but, soon recovering her habitual 
 assurance, she went close up to him, and, in her turn, surveyed 
 him from head to foot ; then, all at once, with a sudden exclama- 
 tion of joy, she threw herself into his arms. 
 
 " It's Prosper ! " 
 
 The two cuirassiers stopped short in the doorway, on seeing 
 their Amazon so tenderly embracing the stranger ; as for Picotin, 
 he was still on his knees turning the spit. 
 
 "Well, then," he said, "isn't she glad to see you ? Oh, I told 
 you so ! she was so often talking about you !" 
 
 " You are the first who have recognised me," said Prosper, dis- 
 engaging himself from the arms of Euphrasia. 
 
 " Oh ! but me, my dear friend, I have eyes — and then a heart ! 
 You have a scar that alters you a little — but nevertheless I should 
 have known you again amongst ten thousand." 
 
 And then, turning towards the military, she said to them with 
 a curtsey, — 
 
 " Gentlemen, give me leave to introduce an old and real friend 
 to you." 
 
 The cuirassiers touched their caps, while Picotin cried out, — 
 
 " "Would you believe, Euphrasia, that Prosper won't dine with 
 us?" 
 
 " Ah, bah ! and why not ? " said the Amazon. 
 
 " Because it's impossible, my dear lady : I leave you, for they 
 are waiting for me at home. Could I say a word to you before I go ? " 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 165 
 
 "How, then? why, two — ten— as many as you please, my dear 
 friend." 
 
 Euphrasia followed Prosper into the so-called office, wheie he 
 gave her an invitation for the next day. The Amazon smacked her 
 whip, and replied, — 
 
 " Ah ! the devil and all ! how vexing it is ! I am going to-mor 
 row to the review of a regiment, and have engaged five officers to 
 dinner. Ah, dame ! unless I was to bring them to dine with you 
 along with me — " 
 
 " No, that can't be — I have no room — my apartment is too small ; 
 we'll put off the party to another time. Adieu, my dear Madame 
 Picotin!" 
 
 "Ah! how stupid he is; call me Euphrasia, then, you rake ! 
 But you'll come and see us again, I hope ; you will think of me, who 
 have never forgotten you — ungrateful ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I shall see you again very soon. Fare you well ! " 
 
 And Prosper hastened down stairs, saying to himself, — 
 
 "I am decidedly glad that Madame Picotin won't be with us to- 
 morrow ; and, that she may not think of coming to me, I'll never 
 set foot in her place again — for I perceive that her society would 
 not be at all suitable for my dear Pauline ; for when we possess a 
 delicate flower, we must carefully preserve it from all impure breath." 
 
 Next day, everything had the air of a fete at Prosper's, and 
 Pauline already gracefully filled the place of lady of the house. 
 
 Maximus came first, then Poupardot, with his wife and the two 
 boys, who, for their first words on coming in, cried out, " Is dinner 
 ready ?" Maximus embraced Eliza and her husband ; he even em- 
 braced their two children, though M. Navet seemed quite sulky be- 
 cause he didn't see the cloth laid, and his little brother's nose wanted 
 wiping every minute. But Poupardot, who was an enthusiastic 
 admirer of his sons, said to Maximus, — 
 
 " Ah, now ! you shall be their professor ; I confide their educa- 
 tion to you, and you will have pupils that will do you honour. I 
 am sure of it ; excepting they won't learn anything." 
 
 " I will willingly teach them the little I know," said Maximus ; 
 " but, in the first place, here's one you must let grow a little bigger ; 
 as for the other, if he is willing to learn — " 
 
 "I would rather get my dinner ! isn't the dinner ready ?" re- 
 plied M. Navet, rocking himself on a chair. 
 
 " Listen to the droll little fellow ! " cried Poupardot, laughing ; 
 " oh ! he shows astonishing traits of wit." 
 
 The arrival of Roger interrupted the conversation. The captain 
 threw himself into Maximus' arms, and this time the recognition 
 was longer and more touching, for there existed a more intimate 
 friendship between Eoger and Maximus, than between the latter 
 and Poupardot. The two friends were never weary of looking at 
 each other, of reminding each other of past events. 
 
 The dinner hour had arrived, and they were going to sit down to 
 table, when the bell announced another visitor, and Picotin was 
 
1 66 The Man with the Three Pair of BreecIUs. 
 
 soon ushered into the room, in a very threadbare suit, and bowing 
 humbly to the company, he said, — 
 
 " Here I am ! faith, so much the worse ! My wife may scold me 
 if she will ; I stole away from them ; I couldn't resist the desire of 
 having a good dinner with old friends. Where, then, is M. Maximus ? 
 Ah ! there he is ! My God ! how he is also altered ! Ah ! here's 
 Captain Koger. Good day, captain ; vive Vempereur ! " 
 
 Maximus shook Picotin by the hand, and then Prosper invited 
 the guests to proceed to the dining-room. They seated themselves, 
 and commenced by drinking to friendship and to the happiness of 
 meeting again. The amphitryon was happy and proud at being 
 able to treat his old acquaintances. He had neglected nothing to 
 render the repast splendid and delicate ; and while indulging in 
 the pleasure of recalling ancient reminiscences, every one did honour 
 to it. The conversation was general, for there was no mystery 
 between those men who had been so many years without seeing 
 each other. Their political opinions, however, were not the same. 
 Maximus regretted the republic ; Eoger lauded the Empire ; 
 Poupardot was always satisfied with the present, and Prosper 
 seemed to fear for the future ; but their discussion did not 
 degenerate into quarrels, because the hearts of the whole four 
 were upright and honest, and because they mutually esteemed 
 each other. 
 
 As for Picotin, his only opinion seemed to be to dine well. He 
 found the dishes at Prosper's table better dressed than what he 
 himself cooked, and appeared to wish to eat and drink for several 
 days to come. 
 
 Little Pauline sat next to Eliza, and appeared happy at the joy 
 that shone in the eyes of her protector. Poupardot, while sharing 
 in the conversation of his friends, kept continually looking at his 
 sons, and was every instant saying, — 
 
 " Navet eats heartily ! What a fine fellow ! he sits at table 
 like a man : and my little Napoleon ! see, then, how he plays his 
 part!" 
 
 Roger, who seemed out of patience with these reflections, could 
 not help whispering to Maximus, — 
 
 " !Don't you think, like me, Maximus, that it's ridiculous to give 
 the name of a great man to such abortions — that it's profaning 
 what we ought to respect, and that, to be called Napoleon, we ought 
 to have the right to be so ? " 
 
 " Your reflection is just enough," said Maximus; "but that is 
 the fault of many people, who, in their enthusiasm, injure the 
 persons and things they most esteem." 
 
 " I propose to drink to friendship," said Picotin, who was already 
 a little tipsy, and didn't wish to stop halfway. The toast was ac- 
 cepted, and Prosper soon proposed another ; he raised his glass, 
 saying,— 
 
 " To the health of Maximus' mother, the good dame Bertholin, 
 whose infirmities prevent her being with us." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 167 
 
 The toast was drank with acclamation; and Picotin, filling hia 
 glass, exclaimed, — 
 
 " To the health of the good— good and old Madame Bertholin ! 
 Vive I'empereur ! " 
 
 The conversation became still more animated^ at the dessert. 
 Prosper spoke of his voyages, Eoger of his campaigns, Maximus of 
 the time of the Directory, Poupardot of his assignats and of his 
 two boys. Picotin listened, still working away^ with his fork ; but 
 he every now and then rose to propose a toast in honour of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Pauline had quitted the room with Madame Poupardot, who 
 rose from table with her youngest born in her arms, as soon as he 
 was beginning to be sleepy ; as for M. Navet, he would remain 
 with the men, and continued eating as long as anything remained 
 on the table. 
 
 The conversation was prolonged until nearly eleven, when M. 
 Navet, who, for some time had left off eating, went up to his father, 
 and began to cry, saying, — 
 
 "Papa, I've got the belly-ache ! " 
 
 On which Poupardot started up, saying, — 
 
 " You have got the belly-ache, my dear man ? but, in fact, it is 
 late — eleven o'clock in a few minutes. I can't find fault with your 
 having the belly-ache at eleven, when you have been eating since 
 five. My dear" friends, I am not tired at being with you, but I 
 believe it is time to part. Come, Eliza, put on your bonnet and 
 shawl ; quick ! Navet's got the belly-ache ! " 
 
 The other guests, following Poupardot's example, rose, and made 
 ready to depart. Picotin alone stirred not, when Eoger said to him, — 
 
 " Well, then, Picotin, are you coming ? Do you intend stopping 
 all night at table?" 
 
 Picotin tried to rise, but fell back into his chair, stammering 
 out, — 
 
 " I'm ready— I'm ready — but I can't find my legs ! " 
 
 It was then perceived that M. Picotin was completely knocked 
 up ; however, with the assistance of his friends, he succeeded in 
 recovering the use of his legs j and Eoger took hold of his arm, 
 saying, — 
 
 " Come ! pistols and sabres ! lean upon me ; I'll see you home, 
 or else you would have little chance of getting there to-night." 
 
 " I'll be your second," said Maxiraus. 
 
 They bade adieu to Prosper, and set off; Poupardot put himself 
 with his family into a fiacre — Maximus and Eoger went on foot, 
 each of them holding one of Picotin's arms, who stumbled at every 
 step, and said to those who were supporting him,— 
 
 " My good Maximus, my brave captain— it's very funny ; I am 
 quite giddy. You won't tell my wife, will you ? it shan't happen 
 again." 
 
 11 Don't be alarmed, my poor Picotin, she shall know nothing 
 about it." 
 
i68 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " Thank you, captain. Vive Vempereur ! " 
 
 Picotin being arrived at his lodgings, Maximus and Eoger re- 
 turned to their respective homes, conversing by the way, and some- 
 times disputing upon political opinions ; but when they at length 
 separated, they were still good friends, and shook hands with the 
 sincerest friendship. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 THE GENERAL'S WIFE. 
 
 Pauline grew tall, and continued to be good and amiable. Maxi- 
 mus had taught her sufficient to enable her to know how to speak 
 correctly, and not be pedantic. Prosper gave her everything she 
 could desire, and more than she thought of ; the youth of the 
 orphan passed away happy and calm under the protection of him 
 who thought only of her happiness. 
 
 Prosper's fortune, however, was not inexhaustible. He did not 
 spare the hundred and fifty thousand he had brought back with 
 him into France, He kept handsome apartments ; two servants, 
 and a woman especially attached to the service of Pauline ; he would 
 have her dress with elegance ; he was continually giving her jewellery 
 — bringing her those charming nothings invented to please the 
 women and ruin the men. Lastly, he was fond of frequently treat- 
 ing his friends, and every now and then would force the good 
 Mamma Bertholin to win in the lottery, since it was the only means 
 he could employ to improve the situation of Maximus. 
 
 It was certainly a pleasant life ; but to continue it for any length 
 of time, Prosper would have required an income he did not possess. 
 Maximus would occasionally say to him, — 
 
 " You follow neither profession nor business ; you have no place, 
 and you spend a deal of money ; your fortune is then fixed on a firm 
 basis, and sufficient to support your present style of living — at least, 
 as long as you live ? If I put this question to you, you know it is 
 not dictated by idle curiosity, but only by the interest I feel in your 
 welfare." 
 
 Prosper smiled, pressed the hand of Maximus, and replied to 
 him, — 
 
 " Don't be alarmed ! don't make yourself uneasy about me. I 
 am no longer a thoughtless, giddy fellow ; I shall take care not to 
 hurt myself." 
 
 But he would sometimes, when alone, recall to himself the advice 
 of Maximus, and say, — 
 
 "He is right ! the money I have won't last for ever ; I ought 
 to think of the future. It is for Pauline's sake, above all, I would 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 169 
 
 wish for a fortune, for, in a short time, I must think of having her 
 married. I must give her a portion. Poor girl ! I so much desire 
 to see her happy _! and, for that purpose, there is no sacrifice I 
 would not make, if necessary. Let me go into business, or seek for 
 an employment, and in the meantime be more economical." 
 
 And after saying this to himself, Prosper would go out and 
 quite forget his prudent resolves ; then, as his strong box was still 
 far from being empty, if he saw in a shop a shawl or some trinket 
 that pleased him, he would buy it, and run to carry it to Pauline, 
 who would scold him for his generosity. 
 
 m " M y good friend," she said to him, " you give me too many 
 things; you spend too much upon me; I don't want to have so 
 many dresses and trinkets. Am I not sufficiently adorned when 
 you say I look well; sufficiently happy, when I am with you? " 
 
 Prosper would then kiss her forehead and say to her, — 
 
 "My dear friend, I wish you to have all that, for your parents 
 were rich, and, but for the events of the Revolution, you would have 
 a fortune — you would possess a fine estate your father had purchased 
 at Touraine ! But, since you have been confided to me, I ought as 
 far as possible to give you what you would have had. Besides, 
 when I bring you anything I think likely to please you, I am so 
 contented, that it would be bad of you to wish to deprive me of that 
 happiness." 
 
 What means were there of refusing the presents of anyone who 
 gave in that manner ? There are some persons who spoil a present by 
 the manner in which they make it ; there are others who double 
 its value. 
 
 Picotin had not returned to Prosper's since the day on which he 
 had made so good a dinner; it was presumed that his wife had 
 inflicted a chastisement upon him for permitting himself to dine 
 out without her ; but what gave great pleasure to Prosper was his 
 having heard no more of Euphrasia, who, probably, was piqued at 
 his not having returned to see her. He was so much the more 
 satisfied at not having had Madame Picotin's visit, as that lady's 
 passion for the military no longer knew any bounds ; she had been 
 several times met walking arm-in-arm with a drum-major, and 
 afterwards with a pompier (fireman). 
 
 It was in the year 1811 that Pauline attained her eighteenth 
 year ; she was charming, not so much by the regularity of her 
 features, as by the ensemble of her physiognomy, where a sweet and 
 tender expression gave a certain melancholy to her countenance, 
 that rendered her still more interesting. 
 
 Maximus no longer gave her lessons, but he frequently called 
 to see her. He was fond of conversing with her upon history or 
 philosophy ; the correct judgment and expansive mind of the young 
 lady delighted him. Then, when a painful event, but too easy to 
 forfesee, took place — when Maximus had lost his aged mother, 
 Pauline had wept with him ; and every time she saw him, to soften 
 his grief, she would talk with him of the good Mamma Bertholin. 
 
170 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 Many persons believe they must not speak before us of the 
 persons we cherished and whom we have lost ! These people pro- 
 duce the same effect upon me as those who are afraid of the dead, 
 and hasten away from a friend, a wife, or a sister, who have just 
 closed their eyes ! When we so greatly fear a beloved image, it 
 shows we are very eager to forget it. The persons who really love 
 console themselves by remembrance. 
 
 Prosper often considered Pauline in silence ; struck with her 
 graces and her attractions, he said to himself, — 
 
 " She's an angel, and she will cause the happiness of him who 
 marries her. If she was to go into company, I am persuaded she 
 would make some brilliant conquest — that she would form an ex- 
 cellent alliance ; but^she don't go into company. At Poupardot's 
 they see nobody, and here I receive only my old friends. The 
 devil ! she'll never get married, if she is not seen ! " 
 
 When the orphan perceived her protector with his eyes fixed 
 upon her, she would colour up, seem affected and embarrassed ; 
 would then turn pale, and sometimes let her work fall from her 
 hands. 
 
 Since 1807, Roger, who had gone with his regiment into Spain, 
 had returned from it a colonel ; but he had received a wound that 
 was not yet quite healed, and had obtained permission to come and re- 
 pose himself at Paris. Prosper, who frequently saw him, went 
 one morning to his lodgings, and said to him, — 
 
 " My dear colonel, I am come to consult you upon something 
 that greatly interests me ; for Maximus is always preaching to and 
 scolding me. The orphan who was confided to me, Pauline Der- 
 brouck, is now eighteen years old ; she is a young woman full of 
 grace and attractions, and she has, moreover, a good heart and all 
 the estimable qualities that can be desired in a wife. I do every- 
 thing in my power to render her happy ; but it has for some time 
 seemed to me that she is becoming melancholy — that her smile 
 is no longer frank, as it used to be. Young girls, at her age, have 
 new ideas, new desires ; I have thought it would be necessary to 
 get her married, which would doubtless be the means of restoring 
 her to her accustomed cheerfulness." 
 
 " To marry a young girl seems to me a very good idea," replied 
 Roger, stretching himself in his easy chair ; " but what do you 
 want me to do in that business ? Do you wish me to marry 
 Mademoiselle Derbrouck ? She is certainly pretty, amiable, and 
 really deserving of any one's love ; but, my friend, I am twenty 
 years older than she is, and, though at thirty-eight a man may still 
 make a very good lover, I myself am no longer good for anything. 
 I am already fatigued by my campaigns, half-worn out by my 
 wounds, and, if I was forced to pay my court to a woman, I 
 should be a real conscript. No ; marriage don't suit me ; I prefer 
 smoking my pipe, conversing and drinking champagne wilh a 
 friend, and going to fight again as soon as I shall be completely 
 cured." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 171 
 
 " Colonel," said Prosper, smiling, " I have never thought of mak- 
 ing you espouse my Pauline." 
 
 " Well, then, what do you want of me ? explain yourself." 
 
 " I should wish to find for Mademoiselle Derbrouck a husband — 
 young, handsome, sensible, virtuous, rich—" 
 
 " Ah ! you only want that ? " 
 
 " It seems to me that Pauline is every way worthy of an accom- 
 plished man — " 
 
 " It's possible ; but we don't often find what we deserve ! How- 
 ever, go on." 
 
 " To find a husband for Pauline, I must mix with society ; it is 
 there we make acquaintances, whom we afterwards invite to our 
 houses. Well ! I go nowhere but to Poupardot's ; for it is not at a 
 theatre I shall seek for a husband ; but you, Colonel, you are re- 
 ceived into the houses of the great ; you go into company ; in short, 
 will you sometimes take me along with you ? " 
 
 " Most willingly, my dear friend ; when a man has the scar you 
 bear on your face, we ought to be made welcome everywhere. Now 
 you can go with me this very evening, if you will, to General 
 Bloumann's ; he's an Alsatian — one of the emperor's old grumblers, 
 who has won all his promotions on the field of battle ; he is also a 
 worthy man ; no pride in him ; a bit of a swearer, and rather 
 blunt in his speech. Oh ! he understands nothing about ceremony ; 
 he will receive you with great pleasure, as will his wife, who is 
 amiable ; not the least conceit in her ; she must have been very 
 pretty, and is still very well ; education rather neglected, but wel- 
 coming you with all heart. The general often gives soirees, dinners, 
 and balls ; well, then, you will perhaps there find what will suit 
 your young lady." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear Colonel ; I'll call this evening, and go with 
 you." 
 
 " At eight o'clock — military hour. It's agreed on." 
 
 In the evening, Prosper, after bestowing great attention on his 
 personal appearance, went to bid adieu to Pauline, who, unaccus- 
 tomed to see her protector dressed with such elegance, said to him, 
 smiling, — 
 
 "Are you going to a ball, my friend V 
 
 " No, my dear Pauline : if I had been going to a ball, I should 
 have asked you to come with me." 
 
 " I thank you ; but I should have refused." 
 
 " Oh ! so you say — I don't believe it." 
 
 " You know well I'm not fond of company — of great assemblies — 
 that I find myself quite happy in the tranquil life I lead with you." 
 
 " And me — I find you ought not naturally to be so ; at your age 
 
 there are a thousand things we desire — and that we dare not demand." 
 
 " What will you have me desire ? — you are so good to me ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I know what I mean. Besides, I for some time plainly 
 
 see that you are no longer so cheerful— that you frequently sigh : 
 
 it is because the time hangs heavy on your hands," 
 
172 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Why, no, my friend, it does not — oh ! I swear to you it is not 
 that." 
 
 " It is something else then % " 
 
 " No ; there is nothing the matter with me. I am very happy — 
 and it's very bad to believe me otherwise." 
 
 Pauline's eyes were filled with tears, and she could scarcely speak. 
 
 Prosper took her hand, and said to her, smiling — 
 
 " You are a child ; I didn't wish to give you pain — but leave to 
 me the care of providing for your happiness." 
 
 The young girl looked down, and was silent. Prosper left her, 
 and proceeded to Colonel Eoger's, who, surveying him from head 
 to foot, exclaimed, — 
 
 " A thousand squadrons ! Do you know, Prosper, that you are 
 still a good-looking fellow ? " 
 
 " You think so, Colonel." 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 "Thirty-five." 
 
 " You have still stuff in you to excite passions — it's that scar, 
 above all, that ought to fetch the women. I am quite vexed I 
 didn't catch a sabre cut on the face." 
 
 " Colonel, you have received enough of other wounds, to have no 
 need of that one." 
 
 "But, apropos, Poupardot once told me, when talking together, 
 that you left France to try to cure yourself of an unfortunate pas- 
 sion. And your flame — have you seen her again ?" 
 
 A cloud passed over Prosper's features, as, with a sigh, he replied, 
 
 "No, no; I have not seen her again — I have nowhere heard 
 speak of her ! — had no intelligence of her. Ah ! mind me, Colonel, 
 don't touch that chord ! it pains me ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, my friend — I am sorry I mentioned it ! but, I 
 thought, for my part, it was a thing gone by ! We soldiers, do 
 you see, haven't the habit of making an amour endure so long. It's 
 finished ! let's forget it, and proceed to the general's." 
 
 General Bloumann resided in a pretty hotel in the Faubourg Saint 
 Honored The two friends ascended a carpeted staircase, with gilt 
 banisters, and entered an ante-chamber, where was posted a kind 
 of chasseur against the saloon door, charged with announcing the 
 visitors as they arrived. 
 
 Eoger said to him, — 
 
 " Announce Colonel Eoger and Monsieur Prosper Bressange." 
 
 At the name of Prosper Bressange, the chasseur gave a start and 
 made a singular grimace, which, however, was not noticed by the 
 two friends. 
 
 The chasseur hastened to throw open the folding doors, and in a 
 guttural tone announced the new-comers. 
 
 The Colonel introduced Prosper into a superb saloon, where there 
 was already a numerous company. Elegant women, military 
 gentlemen, artists and savants ; some were standing engaged in 
 conversation, the others were seated by ladies ; in the centre of the 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 173 
 
 room were two card- tables, and in the nest apartment was a piano 
 and persons playing and singing. 
 
 General Bloumann was a man about fifty ; tall, muscular, wear- 
 ing enormous black moustaches, but whose countenance was open 
 and agreeable. 
 
 Eoger presented Prosper to him, saying, — 
 
 " General, I have given myself permission to bring you my friend, 
 Prosper Bressange, whom I have sometimes mentioned to you." 
 
 " You have done well, colonel. Your hand, Monsieur Bressange ; 
 you bear a sign on your forehead that greatly pleases me. Ah ! 
 /outre, I know something about sabre cuts myself — I have given 
 and received a few. You got that in the environs of Austerlitz ? I 
 know that history : I was there myself at Austerlitz ; ah ! it was 
 warm work." 
 
 " General, is not madame here ? I should wish to introduce my 
 friend to her." 
 
 " Yes, yes, she's down there, in the other room. They are rattling 
 the piano, and singing — what ? I don't know ; old nursery songs." 
 
 " Is madame a musician ? " inquired Prosper. 
 
 " My wife ? Ah ! bah ! a musician like my old slipper ! I have, 
 never heard her sing anything but 'Polly put the kettle on.' 
 But she listens to the others. Everybody must amuse themselves 
 their own way— that's my motto. Ah ! there's an old comrade." 
 
 The general having quitted the two friends to go and meet an 
 officer who had just entered the saloon, Boger said to Prosper, — 
 
 " What do you think of the general ? " 
 
 " He seems as frank and cordial in his reception, as he is blunt in 
 his discourse. I like those men. They put you at once at your ease." 
 
 " Ah ! he's a brave soldier and an excellent man. Now come 
 and make your bow to madame, and then all will be said ; you will 
 be as free here as at home." 
 
 Prosper followed his introducer into the room where they were 
 performing music, and from which it was difficult to hear the 
 visitors announced. 
 
 In the midst of several young ladies talking and laughing near 
 the piano, was a tall lady, dressed with more elegance than taste, 
 whose features, without being handsome, were still pretty, and, 
 above all, pleasing, by an expression of frankness and good-nature. 
 
 Eoger advanced towards her, and presented Prosper, with, — ^ 
 
 "Here is one of my good friends, whom I have taken permis- 
 sion to bring to you, madame, and who will be highly flattered by 
 forming an acquaintance with you." 
 
 The general's wife— for it was her— rose, and making Prosper a 
 rather awkward curtsey, replied, — 
 
 " But it is ourselves who will be charmed. Colonel, you have 
 done very right. If the gentlemen would take anything — " 
 
 " A thousand thanks, madame," replied Prosper, seeking in his 
 memory where he had already seen the general's wife ; who, on 
 her side, on hearing Prospers voice, seemed quite struck \ a lively 
 
174 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 emotion was displayed in her looks— fixed upon the person just pre- 
 sented to her ; she, also, seemed trying to recollect his features. 
 
 Roger, seeing his friend motionless before madame, faced to the 
 right-about, and returned into the saloon. The young ladies pre- 
 sent went to the piano, and Prosper found himself in a part of the 
 apartment alone with the mistress of the house, who looked at him 
 in a singular manner, and whom he himself was persuaded he had 
 already seen somewhere. 
 
 It was the general's wife who decided upon speaking the first. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, in a tremulous voice, " the manner in 
 which *I look at you must certainly seem very unpolite to you ; but 
 — it's because that — I fancy I have already seen you formerly." 
 
 " I, also, believe I am already acquainted with you, madame." 
 
 " Your name, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Prosper Bressange." 
 
 The general's wife trembled from head to foot, and could stammer 
 out, — 
 
 " Prosper ! — it's you ! — it's thou !— ■ 
 
 "But yourself?" 
 
 "Jeannette, who lived long since at Melun, with Monsieur 
 Durouleau." 
 
 " Jeannette ! it's you ! can it be ! " 
 
 " Yes, 'tis me. Ah ! I am so happy at seeing you again." 
 
 The general coming into the room, prevented the continuation 
 of the conversation ; he went up to his wife, and said to her, — 
 
 "Well, then, Jeane, you are talking with monsieur, Colonel 
 Eoger's friend. Ah ! he has a handsome mark on the forehead. 
 What is it they are doing here ? are they singing ? making merry ? 
 I don't much like your shakes and quavers. Let me have ' Mother 
 Godichon,' that's a lively tune, that sets you a-going ; or, better, still 
 — ' When I move, all move, all move,' that makes a famous chorus." 
 
 The ladies laughed heartily at the general singing his ditties, 
 but Jeannette was soon surrounded by company, and couldn't any 
 more converse with Prosper in private, but she followed him with 
 her eyes, and seemed never tired of looking at him. 
 
 Prosper went to look at the card-players; he listened to the 
 music ; but all the while, seeming to take a part in what was pass- 
 ing around him, his eyes were frequently turned towards the 
 general's wife. He had not yet recovered from his surprise, and 
 could have wished to exchange a few words with Jeannette ; who, 
 on her side, sought every possible opportunity of getting near 
 Prosper ; but, as mistress of the house, she was almost always sur- 
 rounded by company, and forced to devote her attention to the 
 guests of her husband and herself. However, towards the end of 
 the soiree, the general was engaged at a card-table, already a great 
 number of the company had taken their departure, and there no 
 longer remained in the music-room but a gentleman and a lady, 
 who also seemed to wish not to be overheard. 
 
 Prosper, who then was, through politeness, leaving the room, 
 
The Man with tJu Three Pair of Breeches. 175 
 
 perceived a door open at the farther end of the room, then Jean- 
 nette appear, and beckon him to her. 
 
 Prosper obeyed the invitation, and soon found himself alone in 
 a pretty little boudoir tete-a-tite with the general's wife. He seated 
 himself by her side upon a divan, and Jeannette, tenderly pressing 
 his hand, said to him, — 
 
 " It's you, Prosper ! — you are not dead ! — and I at last see you 
 again. Ah ! it's now I am happy ! " 
 
 " My dear Jeannette. Ah ! pardon me, madame, if I still permit 
 myself to give you that name ! " 
 
 " Oh ! always call me so. Do you then believe, that because I 
 have become a general's wife I wish to forget what I have been. Oh ! 
 no. I am a parvenue, but, at least, I don't hide it from myself." 
 
 " But how happens it then ? — " 
 
 "Yes, I conceive your surprise. You didn't expect to find 
 again in a rich hotel that poor girl you had driven away from you — 
 whom you bad forbidden to follow you." 
 
 " Driven away ! Ah ! that word is cruel ; and if I forbade you 
 to follow me, events have proved I did well ; for with me, Jean- 
 nette, you would not have attained the situation you now are in." 
 
 " Don't be offended , I don't wish to reproach you — though I was 
 then nearly heart-broken. Listen to me, and in a few words you 
 shall know all my history. When I quitted you on the high road, 
 I did not return to M. Durouleau's ; no, my resolution was taken 
 not to go there any more. I walked a long time as chance directed 
 me ; I knew not what plan to adopt. All at once an idea came 
 across my mind: I said to myself, 'When young men are de- 
 ceived by their mistresses, they enter the army to forget their 
 love : ' well, then, I also will set out for the army ; I won't make 
 a soldier of myself, but I'll make a sutler of myself. My resolve 
 being taken, I set out, and journeyed on until I came up with a 
 corps of the French army ; I then bought what was requisite for 
 my new situation, and I became a sutler. In that fresh situation 
 you may easily think I made more than one conquest — that I was 
 courted by many ; for, in short, I was a pretty and a good-hearted 
 girl, though you had forgot it; but I would listen to none of them; 
 I was always thinking of you. And, though surrounded with 
 lovers, I remained virtuous ; for a woman can always be so when 
 she will, the same as, when she will also, she does the contrary, 
 despite all the precautions that are taken to insure her fidelity. My 
 reputation for virtue acquired me the esteem of the officers of the 
 army; in short, M. Bloumann, who was then captain, became 
 enamoured of me. I listened to him 110 more than to the others ; 
 but he offered to marry me, and I accepted his offer, but not, how- 
 ever, before I had avowed to him I had already loved one with all 
 my heart. But that avowal, in proving my frankness to the 
 captain, only served to augment his love. My husband is now 
 become a general, and he still loves me as much as ever. I, for my 
 part, shall never forget what I owe to him. I shall be faithful to 
 
176 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 him, because it is my duty. But I may still be happy at meeting 
 with you again, and I may also tell you so. Embrace me, for there 
 can be no harm in embracing one's old friend." 
 
 So saying, Jeannette presented her cheek to Prosper, who em- 
 braced her with all his heart. A slight noise, similar to the stealthy 
 steps of a person retiring, was then heard. 
 
 Jeannette rose, and said to Prosper, — 
 
 "I fancy there was somebody listening to us. Beturn to the 
 saloon, my dear Prosper, for since I have lived in the world, I have 
 learnt that people discover harm in the most innocent actions ; and it 
 must not be perceived we have had a private conversation together ; 
 but I shall henceforth be quite happy ; for I have found you again 
 — I have embraced you, and now I hope I shall sometimes see you." 
 
 Jeannette and Prosper separated ; he returned to the saloon 
 through the music-room, and the general's wife was not long in 
 making her appearance from another side. 
 
 Roger aud his friend shortly after took leave of the general, 
 who, holding out his hand, said to Prosper, — 
 
 " You are one of those men who please me — a rough and ready 
 bougre of my own kind. I like such better than your dandies. I 
 shall always be glad to see you, whenever you like to come, and 
 my wife, also, won't you, Jeannette ?" 
 
 Jeannette contented herself with smiling and curtseying. 
 
 Prosper went away with the colonel, whom he thanked for the 
 agreeable evening he had procured him ; but he didn't judge it 
 necessary to tell him of the intimacy that formerly existed between 
 him and the general's wife. 
 
 On the next morning, it was scarcely six o'clock, and Prosper 
 was still asleep, when he felt himself awoke by his servant, who, 
 shaking his arm, said to him, — 
 
 "Pardon me, monsieur, for waking you, but here's a letter 
 brought by a man all over gold lace : a chasseur, I believe, and he 
 said it must be absolutely delivered to you immediately." 
 
 Prosper rubbed his eyes, took the letter, and read as follows : — 
 
 " I wait for you at half-past six, at the Maillatgate. I shall 
 have my pistols ; bring yours, if you think proper. It is useless to 
 tell you the occasion of this duel — you must know it. You are a 
 brave man — I am also ; we don't want seconds. I shall only have 
 my servant, bring yours. If, as I don't suppose, you don't come to 
 this rendezvous, I should be obliged to put the toe of my boot in 
 your backside the next time I meet you. 
 
 "General Bloumann." 
 
 Prosper could not at all comprehend the motive of this challenge ; 
 but he hastily dressed himself, told his servant to take his pistols, 
 and follow him in a fiacre to the place of rendezvous. 
 
 While on their way, recollecting his conversation on the previous 
 evening with the general's wife, Prosper presumed he might have 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. ijf 
 
 oeen informed of it, and that he was probably extremely jealous. 
 Yet there was nothing criminal in that interview, and Prosper 
 flattered himself his adversary would permit him to explain him- 
 self before firing. 
 
 The fiacre drew up at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, and 
 Prosper perceived that the general was already at the place ap- 
 pointed, striding backwards and forwards with a look of impatience. 
 His chasseur was behind him. 
 
 Prosper advanced toward the general, and addressed him 
 thus, — 
 
 " Pardon me, general, if I have made you wait ; but I have made 
 as much haste as possible." 
 
 " You are here, that's enough. Let us go to the thicket down 
 there — where we'll find a suitable place." 
 
 And the general again stepped out. While following him, 
 Prosper resumed, — 
 
 " General, you see I have complied with your invitation." 
 
 " I never doubted it, monsieur." 
 
 " But yet, before we fight, I should very much like to know why, 
 and I assure you I do not comprehend — " 
 
 " Perrout ! — nonsense all that. Words are useless between men 
 of heart : they act, that's much better." 
 
 " But still, general, it might be necessary to know the motive — " 
 
 " Ah ! you want to make game of me, with your look of not 
 knowing ! Come, sacrebleu ! let's finish it. See, here's a good 
 place. Ten paces distant ; your own pistol, or one of mine. My 
 chasseur shall clap his hands : at the third clap we'll fire together. 
 Will that do?" 
 
 " But, general, we might in the first place explain ourselves." 
 
 "I tell you words signify nothing! Ah! f outre/ take your 
 ground, or I shall believe you are afraid." 
 
 Prosper made no reply ; he took one of his adversary's pistols, 
 and waited. The general measured the paces, placed himself, and 
 said to the chasseur, — 
 
 " Come, clap your hands three times." 
 
 The chasseur did not wait for a repetition of the order; he 
 seemed, on the contrary, to obey it with the utmost alacrity. At 
 the third signal, the two adversaries fired, and Prosper fell, wounded 
 in the side. 
 
 An exclamation of joy was heard ; but it did not proceed from 
 the general ; who, turning round to his chasseur, said to him, — 
 
 " Go and assist the gentleman's servant to carry his master to 
 the coach. Adieu, M. Prosper Bressange ; when you are cured, 
 we'll recommence." 
 
 M. Bloumann left the ground, and Prosper's servant ran for the 
 fiacre, when the chasseur went up to the wounded man, and, lean* 
 ing over him, said to the wounded man, with a chuckle, — 
 
 " This is a revenge for the pistol ball you lodged in my leg." 
 
 " Goulard ! " murmured Prosper fixing his eye on the man* 
 
 at 
 
1 78 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Yes ! Goulard ; who told the general yesterday he had sur- 
 prised you embracing his wife. Eh ! eh ! eh ! " 
 
 Prosper could make no reply ; his strength failed him, and he 
 fainted. 
 
 When he recovered his senses, he found himself in his bed, with 
 Pauline standing by him, her face bathed in tears ; he held out his 
 hand, and said to her, — 
 
 " Don't grieve, my dear little girl : my wound is very slight : it 
 was only the loss of blood that made me faint ; but I am certain I 
 shall soon be on my legs again." 
 
 " Oh ! provided that's true ! But I shall not believe it till the 
 surgeon tells me so." 
 
 The surgeon arrived, and after dressing the wound, also re- 
 assured the young girl, by telling her there was no danger to be 
 apprehended, and that a fortnight would be sufficient to make a 
 complete cure. 
 
 Then only could Pauline smile ; and, taking Prosper's hand, she 
 placed it on her heart, saying to him, — 
 
 " Oh ! if you had died, I should very soon have followed you." 
 
 " Dear child, how sensible I am to your attachment." 
 
 " If you were sensible of it, you would not thus expose your life ; 
 and for what did you fight ? " 
 
 " For what ? Why, I swear to you it would be a hard matter 
 for me to tell you." 
 
 The sound of the bell interrupted their conversation, and the 
 servant ran into the chamber, crying out, — 
 
 " General Bloumann demands to see monsieur." 
 
 " Gracious heavens ! " exclaimed Pauline ; " your servant has told 
 me that it was with him you fought the duel ; is he come again for 
 the same purpose ? " 
 
 "Don't be alarmed," said Prosper, smiling; "that would be 
 rather too soon ; I am not yet in a state to begin again. Leave me 
 alone with the general, I beg of you." 
 
 It was not without difficulty that Pauline would consent to leave 
 the chamber, and she was scarcely outside before the general came 
 in, and running to the wounded man, repeatedly embraced him, ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 "Ah! sacre mille cannonades! My dear Prosper, brutal that 
 I am, I know all now ! Jeannette — who even did not know of our 
 duel, for I hadn't mentioned it to her — told me everything on my 
 return home. Your recognition, yesterday — your conversation in 
 the boudoir, and that blackguard of a Goulard, my chasseur — a 
 scamp I had taken out of the streets. He had presented himself to 
 me as a victim of the Revolution ; I took pity on him, and it's him who 
 had made me infamous reports ; but I have kicked him out of doors. 
 I'll answer for his not being able to sit down for a long time to 
 come. I hope your wound is not much : you bear me no malice now ? 
 My house is. henceforth the same as your own. Come, sacrebleuf 
 embrace me.'' 
 
The Man with tJte Three Pair of Breeches, tyg 
 
 Prosper embraced the general, saying to him, — 
 
 " Your wife is worthy of all your love, general ; and it is for 
 that I shall always feel the greatest friendship for her." 
 
 " Oh ! I know it well ; we must say no more about that. 
 Your hand ; and as soon as you're able to go out, promise me to 
 come and dine with us ?" 
 
 Prosper promised him, and the general at last went away, 
 whistling the air of " Mother Godichon." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A RENCONTRE AT THE BALL. 
 
 During the whole time that Prosper was obliged to keep his bed, 
 Pauline attended him with the most tender solicitude ; a sister, a 
 daughter could not have shown a more touching affection ; and 
 the wounded man sometimes said to her, — 
 
 " Truly, my dear Pauline, you will make me almost lament my 
 cure. You spoil me ; when I shall no longer have you with me, I 
 shall experience too many privations." 
 
 " Oh ! why should you no longer have me with you ! " murmured 
 the young girl. 
 
 " When you are married, it is your husband who will claim the 
 greatest share in your affections — and he will be right." 
 
 To this Pauline would make no reply, but she would generally 
 leave the room, and remain some time without returning to her 
 protector. 
 
 The general called several times to see Prosper, and as soon as 
 he was cured, he took him home with him, and made him dine with 
 his wife. He testified the utmost confidence in him ; and Prosper 
 did not abuse it ; for though having no intention of being more 
 than a friend to Jeannette, he took care never to see her but in the 
 presence of her husband. This delicate conduct acquired him all 
 the general's friendship ; who, though having confidence, liked quite 
 as well it not being put to the proof. 
 
 Pauline was now in her nineteenth year, and the general, who had 
 seen her at Prospers, engagedpiim to bring her to his parties ; and 
 Jeannette had joined her entreaties to those of her husband. Prosper 
 also wished the orphan to mix with society, and often solicited 
 her to accompany him to the general's, but she always refused. 
 
 "Why will you have me go into those crowded assemblies?" 
 said Pauline. "I feel myself so happy as I am ! I do not want 
 to form other acquaintances." 
 
 Once, however, Prosper entreated her, with more than usual 
 earnestness, to accompany him to a ball given by the general ; and 
 
l8o The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 fearing to vex her benefactor by always refusing to comply with his 
 desire, Pauline yielded, and consented to go to the ball with him. 
 
 Prosper wished the banker's daughter to appear in the world 
 with kclat : and for that purpose, without consulting Pauline, he 
 purchased for her a splendid dress, and took care that nothing should 
 be wanting to set off the natural charms of her person. When the 
 day of the fete had come, when the hour for going to the general's 
 arrived, then was Prosper proud on looking at the young girl, who 
 wore an elegant ball-dress with as much grace and ease as if she 
 had passed her whole life in the great world. 
 
 The general's saloons were crowded, but Pauline might be 
 classed as one of the prettiest women present. Jeannette eagerly 
 welcomed the young orphan ; she was acquainted with the interest 
 Prosper took in her welfare, and that was a motive for her to love 
 her also. 
 
 " Your pupil is a fine girl," said the general to Prosper ; " you 
 wish to have her married, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes, general ; but I would be happy — " 
 
 "Ah, bigre! he would be a scamp who wouldn't make such a 
 pretty rosebud happy. Has she any browns ? " 
 
 Prosper reflected a moment. He still possessed some sixty 
 thou? and francs ; deciding to keep but little for himself, that he 
 might as mre the happiness of Pauline, he replied, — 
 
 "General, she will have fifty thousand francs from me ; she has 
 already twenty thousand of her own." 
 
 " Well, then, that's not to be grinned at. We'll find her a hus- 
 band — a good, solid chap — one of my own sort ; I'll make it my 
 business. In the meantime, we must set all these little women 
 capering this evening. Ah ! here's our friend, Colonel Eoger. 
 Colonel, you are going to dance, I hope ? " 
 
 Eoger, who had just arrived, saluted the general, and held out 
 his hand to Prosper, saying, — 
 
 " General, I no longer dance but to the sound of the cannon." 
 
 " Hallo ! here again is another invalid ! " cried the general. 
 *' Corbleu ! gentlemen, we however must make these ladies dance ; 
 I have a swarm of them here. May the devil fetch me, if I know 
 the half of 'em!" 
 
 "Let us see all these beauties, then," said Eoger, putting his 
 arm within Prosper's, when the general had left them. " Come ; 
 let us pass them in review ; your young lady dances, and I think, 
 you have no occasion to remain planted by her side." 
 
 "Doubtless not; besides, Madame Bloumann has been kind 
 enough to tell me she would take charge of Pauline. But I own 
 to you, colonel, that instead of passing the ladies in review, I 
 should prefer taking one of the man — to know if, amongst all I see 
 here, there might be one worthy of my young protegee" 
 
 " Let your damsel choose for herself ; she'll know better what 
 suits her." 
 
 So saying, Eoger hurried Prosper away. There was dancing 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 181 
 
 in several rooms. The general had placed the whole of his apart- 
 ments at the disposal of the company ; and notwithstanding this, 
 the throng was so great, it was sometimes necessary to remain a 
 long time in one room before being able to pass into another. 
 
 The colonel examined each lady, made his remarks somewhat 
 " a la mititaire," and passed on to another. Prosper merely smiled, 
 and did not always look at the one Eoger was criticising. All at 
 once the colonel stopped, saying,— ,.,,,. 
 
 " Ah ! swords and pistols ! there's one that's worth looking at. 
 She's no ionger in the prime of youth, but she's still a fine woman. 
 What a noble countenance ! rather proud, though. That woman 
 must have been ravishing at twenty. Look, Prosper, what age do 
 you give her ? " 
 
 " Her ? who ? " . ; ' ■ , , , 
 
 " That lady sitting down there against the fireplace, and who 
 seems to look at everybody disdainfully enough." 
 
 Prosper turned his eyes with indifference towards the person 
 pointed out to him ; but soon, on examining the lady, he felt his 
 heart beat violently ; a sudden tremor pervaded his whole frame, 
 and he bore so hard upon the colonel's arm, that the latter said 
 
 to him, — . .. 
 
 " What's the matter, then ? Are you going to fall ? 
 
 "No, colonel," replied Prosper, who could scarcely speak, so 
 great was his emotion ; " no ; but that lady—" 
 
 11 About thirty, isn't she ? " 
 
 " Oh, my God ! were it possible—" - y 
 
 " I don't see what there would be astonishing in that. How- 
 ever I no longer like her so well, because she has too sarcastic an 
 air. ' I lay she's criticising everything here. But what the devil 
 makes you tremble so?" 
 
 " What makes me 1 that woman. Ah, colonel ! it's her I loved 
 so much ; her I have had so much trouble to forget." 
 
 " From the emotion you show, I'm afraid you haven't forgot her 
 at all Ah ! she was your flame. Crebleu ! you hadn't a bad taste. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! it's Camilla 1 still lovely— proud— superb. That 
 paleness now spread over her features gives them a fresh charm. 
 
 " Ah ! her name's Camilla." 
 
 " Oh ! I know her again, but I'm quite certain she won't recog- 
 nise me.' Colonel, I entreat you, go and inquire of the general— 
 ah ! here he is coming this way." 
 
 Eoger stopped M. Bloumann, and, showmg him the lady m 
 question, asked him who she was. 
 
 " Do I know all the donzelles who are here this evening ? said 
 the general. " But that one was brought me by the Baroness de 
 Montaurey— that great mare all in yellow down there, and who is 
 mad after dancing, though she's past forty. Make Madame de 
 Montaurey dance, colonel— devote yourself, and she'll tell you all 
 she knows, and more too, about her friend, and many others beside ; 
 the baroness chatters as much as a regiment of magpies." 
 
1 82 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 It was long since Eoger had danced, but to oblige Prosper he 
 devoted himself, and made his bow to Madame Montaurey ; she 
 accepted the invitation ; and after the country dance — in which he 
 confounded the figures, tore two robes, and trod upon several toes, 
 he returned with an air of triumph to Prosper, who had remained 
 without stirring in the same place, and said to him, — 
 
 " To oblige you, I have just danced with the person who pre- 
 sented that lady here. I got out of the scrape better than I could 
 have believed, save a few robes that twisted about my legs — but 
 that's not my business." 
 
 " Well, then, colonel, what have you learnt ? " 
 
 " That lady is the Marchioness de Clairville, daughter of the 
 late Count de Trevilliers." 
 
 " The very same ! Oh ! it's really her ! " 
 
 "She's a woman belonging to the ancient noblesse ; she's a widow." 
 
 " She's a widow ! could it be possible ? " 
 
 " Well ; why not 1 She is a widow without children ; but she 
 is not rich, the Marquis de Clairville, her husband, having dis- 
 sipated nearly all they had. It is as much as the widow can do to 
 live decently, but she's not the less proud for that, and the baron- 
 ess her friend had great difficulty in inducing her to be present at 
 a ball given by a general of the empire. That's all I know ; are 
 you satisfied ? " 
 
 " Thank you, colonel." 
 
 " And now, are you going to remain stuck up all night in the 
 same corner ? " 
 
 " My dear Eoger, leave me a moment ; I wish to see if she will 
 know me again." 
 
 " Ah ! I comprehend : you want to renew your acquaintance." 
 
 " Be good enough to go to Pauline ; you'll tell her I am engaged 
 at cards, and that I'll soon return to her." 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! Now that I'm set agoing, I'll invite 
 Mademoiselle Derbrouck to dance with me ! It's droll, but the 
 taste for dancing gets hold of you like a longing — to sneeze." 
 
 Eoger left Prosper, who managed to slip himself behind the 
 chair occupied by Camilla, who was then conversing with the 
 baroness her friend, and occasionally letting an ironical laugh 
 escape her. But Madame de Montaurey having quitted Camilla to 
 rejoin the dancers, Prosper went nearer to the Marchioness de 
 Clairville, and said to her in a half whisper, — 
 
 " And you, madame, you don't dance ? " 
 
 Camilla turned her head towards Prosper, and rather drily 
 replied to him, — 
 
 " No, monsieur ; I am come here as a spectator, but not to 
 amuse the others." 
 
 " And yet, madame, you still form the chief ornament of the 
 ball ; and after fifteen year's absence, in the widow of the Marquis 
 de Clairville, I again find Mademoiselle de Trevilliers as lovely as 
 before," 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 183 
 
 The Marchioness looked at Prosper afresh, and this time said to 
 him with a more amiable air, — 
 
 " You know me, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, and this long time." 
 
 "Have the goodness, then, to tell me where we have met? 
 Your voice — yes, your voice is known to me, but your features — " 
 
 " Oh ! you doubtless have not preserved any remembrance of 
 them ; besides, years, travel, and, more than all that, perhaps, a 
 profound grief I was unable to vanquish, may well have changed 
 my features." 
 
 Camilla listened attentively to Prosper ; at every word he 
 uttered, she seemed to show increasing interest ; she at length 
 looked at him again, and stammered, — 
 
 " It seems as if I was dreaming ! Ah ! I deceive myself ; do I 
 not ? He whom I mean is dead long since." 
 
 "It, then, would give you great pain, madame, to find that 
 Prosper Bressange is still in existence ? " 
 
 "Ah! it's you !" 
 
 " Yes, madame ; yes, Camilla. Ah ! pardon me ; the time that 
 has elapsed was escaping my memory. I again find you lovely as 
 before. My heart beats as it formerly did, and I was again going 
 to say I love you ! " 
 
 The marchioness experienced a lively emotion, but she made 
 efforts to conceal it, and replied, in a low tone of voice, — 
 
 " Monsieur, be silent, I beg of you ; it is not in a ball-room we 
 can speak of the past ; you might compromise me." 
 
 " I should never forgive myself, madame ; but would you not 
 permit me to see you again ? will you not grant me a moment's 
 interview ? " 
 
 Camilla seemed to reflect for an instant, and at length replied 
 quite low, — 
 
 c< Call on me, Eue de Grenelle, Faubourg Saint Germain, close 
 to the Eue du Bac." 
 
 " You permit me to come and see you ! " said Prosper, intoxicated 
 with joy ; " ah ! thank you — thank you a thousand times." 
 
 But the marchioness, who feared the joy of Prosper would be 
 remarked, then feigned to laugh, saying quite loud, — 
 
 " "Who ? me dance the gavotte ? Oh ! for example, you are mad, 
 monsieur ; you can't think of such a thing." 
 
 The quadrille being finished, Madame de Montaurey returned 
 to her friend, and Prosper went away ; but his eyes were brilliant 
 with delight, and at that moment there was not a man at the ball 
 so happy as himself. 
 
 It was in that disposition of mind that he was going to 
 return to Pauline, but the general passing by, stopped him 
 to say, — 
 
 " Well, then, my brave, how do you find our ball ? " 
 
 " Charming, general ; delicious ! I have never been so well en- 
 tertained." 
 
184 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 "Ah ! that's "Because you are fond of the cotillon* and there are 
 some of all colours here. But do you know that your orphan is 
 making conquests ? They are disputing who shall dance with her." 
 
 " Really, general ? " 
 
 " I believe we have already a match for her. Do you see that 
 young man down there ? — a tall, pretty youth, who is putting his 
 hand to his frill." 
 
 " I see him." 
 
 " He is the only son of a contractor, and those contractors have 
 grist in their mills. It's young Alfred Ramincourt. Well, then ; 
 he has already danced three times with your ward, and then he 
 came to me, and, taking me into a corner, said — ' Ah ! sacre f outre, 
 general, what a pretty girl ! ' He perhaps didn't say exactly like 
 that, but it gives you his idea ; then he asked me who she was. 
 When he knew she was an orphan, and solely dependent upon you, 
 who wished to get her married, he squeezed my hand like a mad- 
 man, exclaiming, 'General, I beg of you to introduce me to M. 
 Bressange.' I replied, ' We'll see about that ; ' and without seeming 
 to mean anything, I told him the little girl would have a portion. 
 Aye ! you see how I make you march double quick ! " 
 
 " I thank you, general ; it appears to me in effect a very good 
 match ; and if the young man suits Pauline — " 
 
 But the general, without staying to listen to Prosper, passed 
 into the next room, crying out, — 
 
 " How, now ! which way pass the ices, then ? I can't catch one ; 
 there's a heap of marauders here, who seize them all on the road ; 
 I must set this to rights." 
 
 Prosper wished to get to Pauline, who was seeking for him with 
 her eyes in the middle of the crowd ; she at length perceived him, 
 smiled, and beckoned him to her. He was going to comply with 
 her wish, but at that moment the orchestra again gave the signal 
 for dancing. It was Roger who this time came to take Pauline's 
 hand : the colonel had all at once acquired such a relish for dancing, 
 that he didn't miss a single quadrille, which made the general 
 laugh heartily, and say, while seeing him dance, — 
 
 "Ah, bigre! if my floor wasn't solid, how the colonel would dis- 
 appear at every jump he takes ! " 
 
 Pauline gave herself up to the pleasure of dancing, and seemed 
 to experience that satisfaction the most modest woman ought to 
 enjoy, when she sees herself the object of general admiration. 
 
 Prosper felicitated himself on having brought her to the 
 general's, and passed into another apartment to try to see Camilla 
 again. He had been there some time, and the quadrille was just 
 finished, when the general's wife came to him, and taking him by 
 the arm, said, — 
 
 " Come ! come quick ! your dear child finds herself indisposed." 
 
 " How ? Pauline ! she was dancing just now with Colonel 
 Roger." 
 
 ..* Cotillon— a kind of dance ; also a petticoat. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 185 
 
 " Yes, yes, she was dancing, but she wasn't able to finish. It's 
 the heat, perhaps. I have taken her into my room ; she is weep- 
 ing ; she must be nervous." 
 
 Prosper hastened to follow Jeannette, and found Eoger standing 
 by Pauline, and holding a flask of sugared water ; the poor colonel 
 was quite in despair at the event, and kept continually repeating, — 
 
 "This quite confounds me ! we were dancing so well ! Made- 
 moiselle is light as a feather ; she did not seem ill at all ; we were 
 talking ; I told her a heap of things ; and then all at once I saw 
 her turn pale — quite pale ; and if I had not supported her, T 
 believe she would have fallen." 
 
 Prosper looked at Pauline ; she was in effect deadly pale ; hei 
 eyes had a mournful, even sombre expression, and she quickly 
 turned them away on seeing her protector appear. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, my dear Pauline ? " said Prosper, 
 wishing to take the young girl's hand, but immediately drawing it 
 back, she replied, — 
 
 " I feel myself extremely ill ; I should wish to return home ; I 
 however, wouldn't deprive you of the pleasures of the ball ; remain— 
 madame will give, me one of her servants to see me home." 
 
 "Do you think, then, Pauline, I can remain here while you are 
 suffering ? No, no ; we are going together ; there are, doubtless, 
 carriages below." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Jeannette ; "but, my dear young lady, if you 
 would have waited a little, it would, perhaps, have gone off." 
 
 " Oh ! no, madame ; I prefer returning." 
 
 The good Jeannette carefully wrapped up Pauline in an im- 
 mense shawl, and Prosper led her downstairs, and got into a fiacre 
 with her. He several times, on their way, spoke to Pauline, to 
 know how she felt ; but she only replied by monosyllables, and on 
 arriving at their lodgings, she hastened to retire to her apartment. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 CAMILLA AND PAULINE. 
 
 On the morning after the ball, Prosper hastened to inquire of 
 Pauline how she felt herself. He found her pale, her eyes red as if 
 she had wept a great deal, and seemingly a prey to melancholy 
 thoughts. At sight of him she, however, made efforts to smile, 
 and again said to him, — 
 
 " I am quite grieved that, on my account, you left the ball 
 where you was so much' amused. You see, I bring ill-luck with 
 me ; from this time, don't take me any more into company ; leave 
 me here ; it will be better," 
 
1 86 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you speak in this manner," said Prosper. " I 
 hoped you had been greatly entertained at Madame Bloumann's. 
 Everybody found you charming, my dear Pauline ; I have received 
 nothing but compliments for you ; I was hoping you would have 
 acquired a taste for society." 
 
 " The general's wife showed me the politest attention; I like that 
 lady extremely ; but notwithstanding that, I prefer remaining at 
 home to going into company." 
 
 " What a singular idea ! Because you found yourself indis- 
 posed ? " 
 
 "Oh! it's not that." 
 
 "And do you suspect what it was made you feel ill? Was it 
 an ice ? was it the heat 1 or was it dancing ? " 
 
 A bitter smile passed over the lips of Pauline as she replied, — 
 
 " No, it was none of those ! " 
 
 " I hope that no one said anything disagreeable to you, and which 
 may have hurt your feelings ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! no one. Perhaps you are right ; it was doubtless the 
 heat." 
 
 Pauline cast down her eyes, and said no more, when Prosper, 
 less uneasy as to her health, left her, and taking a cabriolet, ordered 
 the cabman to drive him to the address given him by Camilla, in 
 the Faubourg Saint Germain. 
 
 The house where the Marchioness de Clairville resided had a 
 very plain appearance, and the porter told Prosper to go to the 
 fourth floor above the entresol. 
 
 " She lodges almost as high as Maximus ! " said Prosper to him- 
 self while going up the staircase ; " it seems that her husband has 
 really left her but little. Poor Camilla ! she, brought up in opu- 
 lence, habituated to all the enjoyments of luxury, perhaps living 
 amidst privations — and I who am so thoughtlessly spending what 
 I have." 
 
 Prosper reached the door of Madame de Clair ville's apartments 
 which was opened by a servant, whose clean but extremely plain 
 dress bespoke the under servant rather than the femme de chambre. 
 Prosper entered a small room eight feet square that represented an 
 ante-chamber, and asked if he could see Madame de Clairville. The 
 servant asked him his name, and said to him, — 
 
 " I will go and inquire if madame is visible. Have the good- 
 ness to wait in the saloon, sir." 
 
 She then opened a door, and Prosper went into a somewhat 
 larger room, where there were two shabby arm-chairs, a bergere, 
 four stools, and some old family pictures. 
 
 "All this don't announce very easy circumstances," said Prosper, 
 looking round him ; " but notwithstanding that, it is still the same 
 ceremonious tone — it is still a marchioness I am going to speak 
 with." 
 
 At the expiration of a few moments another door opened, and 
 Camilla appeared. She was dressed in a very plain black robe ; but 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 187 
 
 the grace with which she wore it, the noble air she preserved in the 
 most modest negligd, made the simplicity of her costume disappear ; 
 you were only struck with her beauty and her distinguished manners. 
 
 Camilla received Prosper with an amiable though rather re- 
 served politeness ; and making him sit down, she said to him, — 
 
 " If it is not an indiscretion, monsieur, I should be very curious 
 to hear the recital of your adventures. You must have met with a 
 great many during so many years that we have not seen each 
 other." 
 
 Prosper asked for nothing better than to satisfy her. He 
 related his voyages ; and, while telling her what he had experi- 
 enced, frequently let a few words escape, that hinted his only aim 
 had always been to drive from his heart a passion that reduced him 
 to despair. But Camilla would then pretend not to understand, or 
 quickly directed the conversation to some other subject. 
 
 Prosper having terminated his narration, said to the mar- 
 chioness, — 
 
 " If I, in my turn, madame, were not afraid of being indiscreet, 
 I should also ask you for a few words respecting yourself. For 
 fifteen years have I lost sight of you, and yet I have not been a 
 moment without interesting myself in your happiness." 
 
 "Me, monsieur!" said Camilla; "I have nothing but a very 
 simple story to relate. A short time after my seeing you in 
 England, I espoused the Marquis de Clairville. I was but little 
 acquainted with him, but my father desired that union. We came 
 back to France when the emigrants were permitted to return to it; 
 and my father died in a twelvemonth after ; in short, five years 
 ago, I also lost my husband. That, monsieur, is all." 
 
 "And your situation, madame ; is it such that you have no 
 desire to form — " said Prosper, after much hesitation. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur," Camilla hastened to reply in a tone of haughti- 
 ness and almost anger. " My situation is such as becomes me ; I 
 might, doubtless, be richer — keep a different establishment — but it 
 is sufficient for me to want the assistance of no one." 
 
 Prosper was silent, for he perceived it would require but little 
 to offend that woman who still preserved the same pride. He was 
 however astonished that she had not, during their conversation, 
 addressed a single word of gratitude to him, for his conduct to her 
 father relative to the estate near Melun. 
 
 After passing what seemed to him two very short hours with 
 Camilla, Prosper took leave of the marchioness, by asking per- 
 mission to see her again, which she graciously enough granted. 
 
 A month passed away, during which Prosper often called upon 
 Camilla, who always received him with much politeness ; but she 
 preserved a reserved and ceremonious tone, which seemed to forbid 
 his being more to her than a mere acquaintance ; and when he was 
 on the point of reminding her that their liaison had been more 
 intimate, a stern look from the marchioness arrested the out-pour- 
 in^s of his heart that were ready to burst from his lips. 
 
1 88 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 Prosper hoped to see Camilla more tender, more sensitive ; he 
 would above all have wished her to judge him worthy of her con- 
 fidence, and not so carefully to disguise her straitened circumstances 
 from her. 
 
 Having one morning found the servant alone, and seeing that 
 her eyes were red and swelled, he succeeded, by dint of prayers and 
 by putting a piece of gold in her hand, to make her speak. 
 
 " If I have wept, monsieur," she said, " it is because madame is 
 killing herself with work to obtain the means of living, and of 
 dressing as becomes a person of her rank ; she spends whole nights 
 embroidering ; it is I who carry back the work, but to day they 
 had none to give me. Madame is gone out to inquire for — to try 
 to get some elsewhere. You perfectly understand she don't say 
 it's for herself. Oh ! she conceals that ; and if she knew I had 
 told you so, she would turn me away directly." 
 
 Prosper promised the servant to say nothing ; but already his 
 resolution was formed ; and next day, on going to Camilla's, he 
 was determined at length to know what he had to hope. 
 
 Madame de Clairville received Prosper with* her accustomed 
 politeness ; her physiognomy was as amiable and as calm as usual ; 
 to look at her, no one would have guessed the pecuniary embarrass- 
 ments of her situation. Prosper seated himself nearer to her than 
 he was in the habit of doing, and looking earnestly at her, he at 
 length said, — 
 
 " Well, then, madame, are we then to be henceforth only cold 
 acquaintances to each other? Is there nothing that ought to 
 establish a closer intimacy between us? and is the past entirely 
 dead in your remembrance ? " 
 
 The countenance of Camilla became serious and stern, and it 
 was not till after some minutes' silence that she replied, — 
 
 " Monsieur, when the past may make us blush, is it not a duty 
 to forget it?" 
 
 " Blush ! still that word ! Ah, madame ! you have severely 
 punished me for a fault that was not premeditated. Must it, then, 
 for ever close your heart against me ? and has not my love been 
 sincere and constant enough for you to be sensible to it ? In 
 England, your father rejected my demand with disdain ; he married 
 you to the Marquis de Clairville ; I have no need to tell you all I 
 suffered on learning of your marriage ; but you then were de- 
 pendent on your father. I might believe that, even while bestow- 
 ing a thought upon me, it was your duty to obey Monsieur de 
 Trevilliers : but now, your father no longer exists ; you are a widow 
 — you are entirely free ; who, then — unless it is yourself— can pre- 
 vent me from telling you of my love ? " 
 
 " It seems to me, monsieur, that it becomes us both to be no 
 longer any more than friends ; it is, at least, useless for us to allude 
 to a sentiment that ought no longer to exist." 
 
 " No longer exist ! Ah, Camilla ! — for I will once again call 
 you by that cherished name — and why, then, should we be only 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 189 
 
 two friends ? Are you not still lovely — charming — formed to 
 please the same as formerly ? and me, have I not preserved a heart 
 as burning, a soul as impassioned ? Oh, yes 1 I feel it ! that love 
 you had inspired me with has not changed ; it slumbered at the 
 bottom of my heart, but one of your looks was sufficient to 
 awaken it." 
 
 " Monsieur ! " exclaimed Camilla with an irritated air, " what, 
 then, do you hope, and what is the purport of your words % " 
 
 " Do not cast on me those looks of anger. What I wish, 
 madame — what would complete my happiness, would be to become 
 your husband. You are free ; grant me your hand." 
 
 A lively emotion displayed itself in the features of Camilla ; 
 her bosom palpitated ; she turned her head aside that she might 
 not meet the lightning glances of Prosper ; one would have said 
 that a fierce combat was taking place in the bottom of her heart. 
 She at length replied, — 
 
 " No, no ; that is impossible ; I cannot accept your offer, 
 monsieur." 
 
 " You cannot accept it ! " said Prosper, rising ; " that is suffi- 
 cient, madame ; I cannot now have the least doubt as to your 
 sentiments, for it is you — yourself alone, who reject my love. 
 Henceforth, I shall no more importune you with my visits." 
 
 " Yet, monsieur, you had acquired my friendship." 
 
 " We do not accept the friendship of a woman who has disdained 
 our love ; at least, such is my way of thinking ; my position with 
 respect to you would be too painful ; I feel that all relations be- 
 tween us two ought from henceforth to cease. Adieu, madame ! 
 may you be happy ! that will be the constant vow of my heart." 
 
 On finishing these words, Prosper bowed to Camilla, who was 
 extremely affected, and made a motion as if to rise and detain 
 Prosper ; but she again fell back upon her chair, and let him 
 depart, who for so many years had felt for her the tenderest love. 
 
 Prosper hastened away, and this time he did not abandon him- 
 self to despair, for the marchioness had wounded his vanity ; what 
 he cursed was his weakness — what he regretted was his having 
 again laid at the feet of Camilla a love she had rejected. 
 
 " That woman has never loved me," he said to himself ; " 1 have 
 to-day full proof of it ; and I — I have passed my life in cursing the 
 fate that separated me from her ! But it's finished — quite finished ! 
 Yes, but while I know her to be in distress, I shall be unable to 
 forget her ; and, besides, I ought not to suffer her who was the 
 idol of my youth to spend her nights in sitting up, to fatigue her 
 eyes by forced labour. She would refuse assistance on my part ; 
 but if she was ignorant of it coming from me ! Ah ! I recollect ; 
 when conversing together, she spoke to me of some of her hus- 
 band's debtors, from whom she had been unable to obtain any- 
 thing—that's it S " 
 
 Prosper went to a notary, and dictated to him the following 
 note : — 
 
1 90 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches t 
 
 " Madame, — An old debtor of M. de Clairville, having it now 
 in his power to acquit his debt, begs you to receive the enclosed 
 twenty thousand francs. If he does not sign his letter, it is owing 
 to blushing at not being sooner able to repay the widow of his 
 creditor." 
 
 Prosper carried the note home with him, took twenty thousand 
 francs in bank-notes, which he enclosed along with it in an envelope, 
 and in the evening went with a ticket-porter he could depend upon 
 to the street where Camilla lodged, and saw him deliver the parcel 
 to the porter, with orders to carry it up immediately to Madame 
 de Clairville. 
 
 Prosper felt himself more happy, more calm, after executing his 
 generous design. 
 
 " At present," he said to himself, " let me think, let me attend 
 only to Pauline. For this some time past, ever since she was at 
 the general's, she has been dull and thoughtful. But — what an 
 idea ! — if she had noticed some one there ! that young Alfred, who 
 danced so often with her. Yes, that must be it. When a young 
 girl sighs, when she loses her cheerfulness, it is almost always 
 occasioned by love. Who could she be enamoured of ? We see no 
 company, and, besides, the alteration I have remarked in her only 
 takes its date from that ball. Stupid that I am, not to have guessed 
 that before ! Ah ! I was only thinking of Camilla ; that woman 
 made me forget everything else — and even my dear Pauline ! " 
 
 Prosper went up to Pauline, and found her low-spirited and 
 cheerless. It was, in fact, since the soiree given by the general that 
 the young girl's temper seemed changed. She had become less 
 communicative : she well knew that her protector went out almost 
 every day, but she no longer asked him why, as she formerly did ; 
 she seemed, on the contrary, to avoid conversing with him ; in 
 short, she always tried to receive him with a smile, but it was no 
 longer the sweet look of other times. 
 
 . Prosper seated himself by the side of the orphan, who was em- 
 ployed at her needle ; he took one of her hands, which she gently 
 withdrew, saying to him, — 
 
 " That prevents my working." 
 
 " Well, then, my dear friend, I presume you have no occasion to 
 hurry," said Prosper, again catching hold of her hand. " I see, my 
 child, you are rather out of temper with me — and you are right." 
 
 " Out of temper ? I don't comprehend you," replied the young 
 girl, blushing to the very whites of her eyes. 
 
 " I mean that I for some time have paid less attention to you — 
 I have more rarely kept you company ; you mustn't be offended 
 with me for it — my thoughts were so entirely absorbed ; I will tell 
 you all about it some day, my dear Pauline, for you are my friend 
 — my best friend. However, you, on your side, are no longer the 
 same ; your cheerfulness seems to have vanished j you no longer 
 talk with me as before." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 191 
 
 " But — me ! you deceive yourself, I assure you," replied Pauline, 
 with faltering voice. 
 
 "No; and it is since the ball at General Bloumann's that I 
 have noticed this change in you ; it is equally since that day that 
 I — but it's of you alone that I must think. If you were more con- 
 fiding, my dear friend, if you were willing to confide to me the 
 secrets of your heart, it would perhaps be easier for me to restore 
 you to your former cheerfulness." 
 
 " My secrets ! " stammered Pauline ; " but I have no secrets ; 
 I don't know what you mean ; I am cheerful, as I always was." 
 
 While saying these words, the young girl sighed heavily, and 
 tears rolled over her cheeks. 
 
 " Come, I see that my questions give you pain ; I shall not 
 carry them any further ; but, I repeat to you, that henceforth I 
 shall study only your happiness, and I hope to find the means of 
 assuring it." 
 
 "And what means will they be?" tremulously demanded 
 Pauline. 
 
 " "What means ? you shall soon know. Ah ! in the first place I 
 ought to warn you, I am going to give a soiree— have company ; 
 there will be music and dancing. You possess talents, Pauline ; 
 your voice is sweet and melodious ; you play very well on the 
 piano ; of what use is all that, if we receive nobody ? " 
 
 " But I have told you I am not fond of company." 
 
 " Oh ! you haven't told me all. When a person forms the orna- 
 ment of society, it's a fault to fly from it. Everybody at the 
 general's found you charming. I shall have company next Satur- 
 day ; I am going to send my invitations, and I hope you will not 
 refuse doing the honours of my soire'e with your accustomed 
 grace." 
 
 Pauline bowed without answering, and did not seem at all 
 enchanted with Prosper's project ; but he, persuaded that he had 
 divined the best means to putting an end to the orphan's melan- 
 choly, immediately set about writing his invitations. 
 
 The Poupardot family and Maximus were the first invited, as 
 well as several persons who visited the inhabitants of Clichy house ; 
 as for Koger, he had again set out to join the army, but General 
 Bloumann was still at Paris ; Prosper called on him, invited him, 
 and asked if he couldn't bring with him the handsome young man, 
 the contractor's son. 
 
 " Alfred Eamincourt ! " cried the general ; " don't I believe, 
 parbleu! I can bring him along with me ! it's as if you was to ask 
 one of the emperor's old grumblers if he'll go into action ! He 
 mentions Pauline to me every time I see him ; he is decidedly as 
 enamoured of her as a cock. Why, when I shall tell him I am go- 
 ing to take him to your soiree, he'll be fit to burst with joy. 
 Depend upon us, my brave, and upon my Jeannette. My wife 
 don't like ceremonious people, but she knows we are at home with 
 you ; she'll come." 
 
ig2 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches \ 
 
 Prosper also invited several persons he had formed an acquaint- 
 ance with at the general's. He tried to direct all his attention to 
 the coming fSte, and to the marriage he hoped to make for Pauline. 
 In this manner, he made efforts to forget Camilla, and to banish 
 from his memory the image of that woman he had loved so 
 well. 
 
 But, while making the different preparations for nothing to be 
 wanting at his soiree, Prosper was obliged to examine his strong- 
 box. Then, and for the first time, he struck his forehead, exclaim- 
 ing— 
 
 " Ah, my God ! I have sent Camilla twenty thousand francs. I 
 certainly don't repent it, but yet the portion I announced I would 
 give to Pauline — the fifty thousand francs I spoke of to the general 
 — I no longer have them : there remains scarcely thirty-eight alto- 
 gether. I always spend without reckoning. Maximus is right — 
 economy is not my forte. The devil ! what must be done ? I, in 
 the first place, wish my soir6e to be deficient in nothing ; and for 
 that purpose, I shall lay out as much as is necessary. But that 
 portion — those fifty thousand francs — how shall I complete them 
 now ? and I haven't thought of that a moment." 
 
 As a commencement towards completing the sum he was de- 
 ficient of, Prosper bought Pauline a lace veil and a charming neck- 
 lace, and then was anything but economical in the orders he gave 
 to render his soiree brilliant. He had lustres and girandoles placed 
 in his saloon ; he ordered an orchestra, and engaged musicians ; 
 after intending to give only a little concert, he decided upon having 
 a ball ; after reckoning upon inviting only a score of persons, he sent 
 cards to eighty, and was going to spend fifteen hundred francs 
 instead of a hundred crowns ; such was his fashion of studying 
 economy. 
 
 Pauline dared not make any representations, yet it was plain 
 that the great preparations for that soiree astonished her more than 
 they pleased her ; but they suited her protector, and, to make her- 
 self agreeable to him, she did her best to second him. 
 
 Since he had taken an account of his strong-box, Prosper was 
 every moment thinking of the fifty thousand francs he had promised 
 to give as a portion to his protegee. The preparations for his soiree 
 had for some time diverted his thoughts from the subject ; but the 
 appointed day arrived, everything was ready, and there was nothing 
 more to do until the evening ; then did that thought, which un- 
 ceasingly tormented him, return with still greater force to his 
 memory. 
 
 All at once, Prosper ran to his bureau, opened it, took out several 
 bank-notes, put them into his pocket, and went out, saying to him- 
 self, — 
 
 " I see no other means ; let us try fortune ! hazard ! roulette ! 
 I am told one can gain immense sums at it in a few minutes ; that's 
 exactly what I want ; I am fond of expedition. Pardieu ! I ought 
 to have thought of that sooner ! I am going to play for Pauline, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 193 
 
 to give a portion to the dear little girl ; it's impossible for me not 
 to win." 
 
 Prosper had already been with Eoger in one of those houses of 
 the Palais Boyal, where roulette and trente etun attracted gamblers 
 and strangers ; but then, curiosity alone had brought him to those 
 tables, heaped with gold and bank-notes ; this time, it is the desire 
 to play — it is the hope to win, that leads Prosper to one of those 
 houses. He rapidly ascends the staircase ; he rushes across the 
 halls ; stops before a roulette, and draws a bank-note from his 
 pocket ; he risks a thousand francs at once, for he fancies that, by 
 playing high, he will the sooner have accomplished his design. 
 
 Every eye is turned towards the individual who begins his dSut 
 by staking a thousand francs, and seems as calm and as cheerful as 
 if he is only a mere spectator. 
 
 The game is finished — the thousand francs are lost. Prosper 
 seems astonished, but he goes on. In a very short time, he loses 
 the fifteen thousand francs he had about him. Prosper stamped 
 with rage. 
 
 " A note of a thousand francs more," he said, " and I had won — 
 I had got back all I have lost ; I should even win by martingaling 
 — seven — eight reds successively. Ah ! let me hasten to repair this 
 fault." 
 
 He left the gaming-house, took a cabriolet, drove home, put the 
 remainder of his bank-notes into his pocket-book, and returned to 
 place himself before the green cloth. 
 
 But he has now no longer that confidence, that calmness, with 
 which he began to play. His hand trembles while placing his 
 money on the board ; his eye anxiously fixes itself on the boule that 
 is going to turn ; he scarcely breathes ; his hope, his life, all is 
 there. The " belle " turns — stops ; Prosper loses, wins, loses again. 
 He feels himself dizzy; he burns with impatience ; he wishes to 
 force fate ; he doubles, he triples his stake ; chance becomes un- 
 favourable to him — the fatal rake sweeps off his notes. After some 
 moments, his hand in vain searches his pockets ; he has no longer 
 anything — he has lost all ! 
 
 A cold sweat stood upon Prosper's brow, yet no complaint 
 escaped him. He quitted the table, he left that fatal house, and 
 for a long time walked, without troubling himself as to where he 
 was or where he was going to ; he no longer dared to think ; he 
 feared to reflect. 
 
 In the meantime, night had come on, and the fresh air had re- 
 stored a little tranquillity to the mind of Prosper. He then reminded 
 himself that the company he had invited were probably on their 
 way to his apartments; he thought of Pauline, who must be 
 astonished at his absence, and said to himself, — 
 
 "Let me return ; let me try to conceal, to dissemble the anguish 
 of my soul. That money ! if I was alone, I should be quickly con- 
 soled ; but that young girl who has been confided to mt- 1 can no 
 longer do anything for her. Ah ! Maximus, Maximus ! you were 
 
 K 
 
194 Th e Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 quite right ; I am not more reasonable than formerly. And this 
 marriage that I hoped to conclude ! Ah ! I ought to destroy my- 
 self ; but no, it would be cowardice ! it would be abandoning that 
 young girl, who has no other support, no other protector than my- 
 self. Let me return home and hide my feelings ; I have fortun- 
 ately paid all the expenses of this evening in advance. Providence 
 has often befriended me, and it will, perhaps, again come to my 
 assistance." 
 
 Prosper then looked round him, to see what part of Paris he 
 was in ; and, ( 'turning round, he, with accelerated steps, soon regained 
 his apartments, where several persons were already in the saloon ; 
 and Pauline, uneasy and alarmed, was unable to account for Prosper's 
 absence ; his return restored her cheerfulness. 
 
 " My God," whispered Pauline to him, " you didn't come, and I 
 knew not what to do, what to say, to all these people. Without 
 you, there can no longer be any pleasure." 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear Pauline ; some unforeseen business — " 
 
 " You seem extremely agitated." 
 
 " It's because I hurried along. But let us forget this accident, and 
 attend to our company — and you ought to be the queen of the fete" 
 
 In order to please Prosper, Pauline made efforts to be amiable 
 with every one. The Poupardot family arrived. M. Navet had 
 become long and thin like an asparagus, but his tastes had not 
 changed ; as soon as he arrived, he stopped before the buffet, 
 swallowed two glasses of lemonade, and stuffed himself with 
 pastry : little Napoleon had a continual toothache, which made 
 him quite cross. But Poupardot was still enchanted with his sons, 
 and presented them to Prosper, saying, — 
 
 " Look ! see how they grow ! and they come on the same with 
 their learning — they catch at everything ; Navet has almost got 
 through addition." 
 
 Maximus came in soon after ; always modest, saying little, not 
 mixing with the crowd, but observing and judging men and things 
 much better than those chatterers who wish to decide upon and 
 know everything. 
 
 Then came General Bloumann and his wife, who was delighted 
 at finding herself at Prosper's, and testified the utmost interest in 
 Pauline, showing her the frankest friendship. 
 
 Nor was the tall young man, M. Alfred Eamincourt, long in 
 making his appearance ; he was magnificently dressed ; he seemed 
 rather stiff in his cravat and laced coat ; but his eyes sparkled with 
 joy, and he a thousand times thanked Prosper for his kindness in 
 sending him an invitation. 
 
 The master of the house did his best to animate the company ; 
 they sung, they played, and they danced ; the syrups, the punch, 
 and the ices circulated with profusion. 
 
 " Ah ! a thousand bombshells ! this is better than at my place," 
 said the general ; " I wasn't able to catch a single ice there, and 
 here I have eat three 1 " 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 195 
 
 " And me, eleven ! " muttered lankey Navet, ruiining after a 
 waiter. 
 
 The contractor's son frequently danced with Pauline ; he pre- 
 engaged her for several quadrilles ; he was continually by her side ; 
 he did not lose sight of her for an instant : the young girl seemed 
 tired with constantly seeing herself the object of the officious atten- 
 tions of M. Alfred, and knew not how to withdraw herself from 
 them. As for Prosper, he did all he could to forget the events of 
 the morning, and to appear gay ; but a fatal recollection by times 
 arrested the smile on his lips, and shed a sombre tint over his 
 physiognomy. 
 
 Maximus, who observed all, and who read to the bottom of his 
 friend's heart, approached Prosper, and whispered, — 
 
 " There is something the matter with you." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Yes ; your cheerfulness this evening is feigned ; your laugh 
 forced. Have you, then, any sorrow you cannot confide to your 
 friend ? " 
 
 " You deceive yourself ; there is nothing amiss with me." 
 
 "That is to say, you wish to keep your chagrins to yourself 
 alone ; you think me incapable of consoling you. I shall not ques- 
 tion you any more." 
 
 Maximus went away from Prosper, and the latter again tried to 
 feign a cheerfulness that was far from his heart; but nothing is 
 more fatiguing than to assume a countenance. Towards the end of 
 the soiree, tired of the character he had imposed upon himself, Prosper 
 had retired for a moment into an apartment at a distance from the 
 ball-room ; and believing he could remain free from interruption, 
 threw himself upon a sofa ; but young Alfred, who had kept his 
 eye upon him, was not long in rejoining him, and said, — 
 
 " Pardon me, monsieur, I am perhaps intruding ; but I wished 
 to speak to you without witnesses ; the happiness of my life de- 
 pends upon this interview." 
 
 Prosper pointed to a chair, saying, — 
 
 " Speak, monsieur, I am all attention." 
 
 " You have doubtless guessed what I am going to say to you, 
 monsieur ; for such is the love I feel for Mademoiselle Pauline, 
 that it is impossible for me to conceal it. Yes, monsieur, I love 
 that charming young lady whose protector you are ; I know that she 
 is an orphan, that she depends solely upon yourself ; w r ell, then, mon- 
 sieur, I am come to demand her hand of you." 
 
 Prosper expected that demand, but he no longer knew how 
 to answer it ; however, after a moment's hesitation, he stammered 
 out, — 
 
 " Monsieur, General Bloumann has spoken of you to me in most 
 honourable terms. Your demand cannot but natter my young 
 orphan ; but you are very rich, monsieur, and you may form an 
 advantageous alliance ; while Pauline, she ought to have fifty thou- 
 sand francs ; but — a circumstance — " 
 
196 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, you do me an injustice ! " exclaimed the young 
 man ; " I am not one of those men who buy, who bargain for a 
 wife ; it is your charming ward I wish for — herself alone ; no dowry ! 
 I am rich, and my father has left me the privilege to espouse who- 
 ever I might choose." 
 
 Prosper felt hope again revive within ; his heart expanded ; he 
 pressed Alfred's hand, while saying, — 
 
 " What ! Pauline without a dowry, and you would still espouse 
 her?" 
 
 " I repeat to you, monsieur, I want her alone, and I shall be too 
 happy. Do you grant me her hand ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Alfred, your love seems sincere ; fear no obstacle on 
 my side. This union is now going to depend upon Pauline alone ; 
 but I think she cannot be insensible to your sentiments ; to-morrow 
 I will acquaint you with her answer." 
 
 Alfred was intoxicated ; he thanked Prosper a thousand times ; 
 both of them rejoined the company, and it was real joy that now 
 sparkled in their eyes. 
 
 The soiree soon after terminated ; the company took leave, the 
 general swearing he had been greatly amused, his wife smiling at 
 Prosper, Navet reckoning up what he had eat, and young Alfred 
 again darting an impassioned look upon Pauline. 
 
 On the next day, as soon as Pauline entered the saloon, Prosper 
 went and seated himself by her side, saying to her, — 
 
 " My dear friend, I have something very important to communi- 
 cate to you, upon which depend your future prospects — your happi- 
 ness. I see that you are impatient to hear me explain myself. Well 
 then, my dear Pauline, some one has demanded your hand of me, 
 you doubtless guess who. That young Alfred Eamincourt, who had 
 already seen you at the general's, is passionately enamoured of you. 
 He is very rich ; he loves you ; and I have thought this union would 
 assure your happiness." 
 
 Pauline had become quite serious from the first words uttered 
 by Prosper ; then, by degrees, as he proceeded, a sombre melancholy 
 took possession of her features. 
 
 " Is that the motive that made you give yesterday's soiree ?" she 
 said at length ; "it is thus you thought to restore me to my former 
 cheerfulness? Ah ! you have then greatly deceived yourself." 
 
 Prosper looked stupefied, while muttering, — 
 
 " I own to you I have then wrongly interpreted your late low- 
 ness of spirits ; I believed you had singled out that young Alfred 
 at the general's ball, where he paid his court to you." 
 
 " Ah ! I did not perceive it." 
 
 " But you now know that he loves you — that he demands your 
 hand. He is rich, and besides he is very good-looking." 
 
 " I find him frightful ! " 
 
 "Frightful! Oh! what injustice! What answer then am I 
 to send him on your part ? " 
 
 " You will tell him I thank him, but that I won't marry him." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. igf 
 
 " What, Pauline ! you refuse so brilliant a match ? But reflect 
 then." 
 
 "Oh ! I have reflected quite enough ; I will not marry him." 
 Prosper rose, paced for some time up and down the chamber, 
 and at length exclaimed, — 
 
 " I will not force your inclinations ; but verily, Pauline, for so 
 reasonable a young girl, you, at this moment, don't possess common 
 sense." 
 
 Pauline put her handkerchief to her eyes, and with a stifled 
 voice replied, — 
 
 " It seems you have a great longing to see me married ; it is be- 
 cause, perhaps, you would be very glad to be free— to no longer 
 have me with you ; my presence is, doubtless, a burthen to you. 
 Well, then, I will go away ; I will leave you, if you desire it, but 
 I will not marry." 
 
 " A burthen ! you ! Ah, Pauline ! what word is that you have 
 uttered ? Come, don't weep, my dear child ; be comforted ; you 
 well know you shall never do but what you like, but I could so much 
 have wished to see you happy — " 
 
 " Since I am so with you, why then wish absolutely to have me 
 married ? " 
 
 Prosper again began pacing the chamber ; Pauline saw he was 
 in pain and afraid to speak ; and going up to him, she said, with 
 that voice which penetrates to the bottom of the heart, — 
 
 " If you really loved me, my good friend, you would tell me 
 what it is that afflicts you, for I see your mind is ill at ease— and 
 you do not judge me worthy of sharing your sorrows." 
 
 "Well, then, Pauline, I am going to tell you all, I am going to 
 make you a full confession ; you are going to see how blameable is my 
 conduct ; but I prefer undergoing your reproaches to concealing any- 
 thing from you." 
 
 " Eeproaches ! Oh, never ! " 
 
 " Listen to me. I had brought back into France fifty thousand 
 crowns ; I have never known how to reckon with myself ; I thought 
 that sum would last for ever. Some time since, when we went to 
 the general's ball, I examined my cash-box ; I had still sixty thou- 
 sand francs remaining ; I wished to establish you respectably in the 
 world by procuring you an advantageous marriage ; I proposed to 
 myself to give you fifty thousand — " 
 
 " What ! almost the whole ! you kept nothing for yourself ? " 
 
 "Me ! Oh ! that didn't disturb me; but at that ball I met 
 with a person — you have heard me speak of a lady I formerly 
 greatly loved ? " 
 
 " Camilla de Trevilliers, now widow of the Marquis de Clair- 
 ville, and you met her again at the general's ball." 
 
 " The very same ; but how do you know ? " 
 
 Pauline blushed, and looked down while replying, 
 
 " It was Colonel Roger who told me all that, while dancing with 
 me." 
 
tgS The Man with the Three Pair oj Breeches, 
 
 " Roger ! what has he told you ? " 
 
 " That you had again found your first love — that you were quite 
 glad, quite happy." 
 
 Prosper remained silent for several minutes ; a thousand recol- 
 lections, a thousand thoughts, now struck him. One would say 
 that a cloud which covered his eyes had been suddenly dissipated ; 
 for a moment, he turned his looks on Pauline, but quickly averted 
 them, as if fearing to encounter hei^s ; in short, his voice was no 
 longer the same, and he replied to her in a less intimate tone, — 
 
 " Roger has not deceived you ; I have seen Camilla again ; that 
 is to say, the Marchioness de Clair ville, for she is no longer the 
 Camilla of other times. She received me politely, but coolly ; and 
 I— X Pauline, have yet been mean enough to talk to her of love — 
 to oner her my hand." 
 
 "You are going to marry her ?" said the young girl, faintly. 
 
 " Oh, no ! for she has rejected my offers ; she has again disdained 
 my love, and this time it's finished ; I shall never see her again ! " 
 
 " Could it be possible ! " exclaimed Pauline, scarcely able to 
 moderate the joy that sparkled in her eyes ; "you no longer love 
 her ? you won't see her any more ? " 
 
 " No, never ! but she has been unfortunate ; I have wished to 
 do her a service, and have sent to her a part of what I had left, 
 without her knowing it came from me, but also without thinking 
 it was your portiou I was disposing of." 
 
 " Oh ! you have done well, my friend ; you should have given 
 her all." 
 
 " I afterwards wished to replace that money I was deficient of. 
 Ah ! it was then I was really culpable. I went to a gambling- 
 house, and there — like a fool, a madman — I have played, I have 
 lost all that remained to me." 
 
 " All ? oh ! so much the better ! What happiness ! they now 
 won't want to marry me ! " and Pauline skipped joyfully round the 
 room. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Pauline," said Prosper ; " you are still 
 sought after ; M. Alfred asks for no portion ; he has a great fortune ; 
 with him, you will shine in the world ; while now with me, this 
 more than comfort — these servants, these handsome apartments — 
 you must renounce them all. You plainly see you would be wrong 
 to refuse the advantageous match that presents itself, and that I 
 was right in wishing for this marriage. Well, then, are you now 
 persuaded ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I am quite decided. Here, my good friend, is a pen 
 and paper ; sit down there, and write to M. Alfred : — * Monsieur, 
 Mademoiselle Derbrouck is extremely flattered by the honour you 
 wished to confer upon her, but she refuses absolutely to grant you 
 her hand.' " 
 
 "What! Pauline?" 
 
 " Write ! oh, write ! I beg of you." 
 
 "But think, then, that I have lost all — all ! " 
 
' The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 199 
 
 " Well, then, can't we work ? We shall "no longer have all these 
 fine apartments where we lose ourselves — those three servants who 
 weary me — we shall no longer see all that company I detest. Ah ! 
 how fortunate — how happy I am going to be !— Write, my friend : 
 write, then." 
 
 "But, however, if— " 
 
 " And my twenty thousand francs out at interest hat we never 
 thought of! You see we are still rich— even a great deal too 
 much so." 
 
 " That sum is yours, Pauline ; yours alone." 
 
 "Mine ? yours ; isn't it all the same ? Besides, if it belongs to 
 me, I now make you the offer of it. Come, my friend, no more 
 delay, but make haste and send my answer to that gentleman." 
 
 Prosper resisted no longer ; he wrote to Alfred as Pauline de- 
 sired him ; and while writing her refusal, he felt a sentiment he 
 could not well account for, but which greatly resembled satisfaction. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 POLITICAL EVENTS— 1814, 1815. 
 
 In a few weeks after Alfred had received the letter announcing the 
 refusal of his proposals of marriage, Prosper and Pauline were 
 settled in neat apartments in the Marais, where they no longer 
 had valets and rich furniture, but contented themselves with strict 
 necessaries. Pauline had the prettiest chamber on the floor; 
 Prosper had insisted upon it ; as for him, he contented himself 
 with a small bedroom without a fireplace ; a parlour, a kitchen, 
 and a closet for an old female servant to sleep in, completed their 
 apartments. 
 
 Prosper, by the sale of his elegant furniture, had again raised a 
 sum of money ; but he had given it to Pauline, saying to her,— 
 
 "Henceforth, my dear friend, you must be our banker; for 
 our funds would be too much exposed in my hands. I shall seek 
 for some employment, some place ; and whatever I gain, I will 
 faithfully deliver into your keeping." 
 
 And Pauline, with a charming smile, replied to him, 
 
 " Don't torment yourself ; we have a thousand francs a year, 
 and some money before us; I shall be economical and saving, 
 and you'll see we shall want for nothing, even if you shouldn't 
 procure any employment." 
 
 And, to commence economising, Pauline was going to discharge 
 their servant ; but Prosper seemed so unhappy at the thought of 
 her waiting upon herself, that she consented to suspend that 
 reform. 
 
200 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 They no longer went to the theatres, or the concerts, nor into 
 company but they made excursions on foot in the environs of 
 Paris ; Pauline no longer wore elegant dresses and jewellery ; but 
 her neat dress showed good taste, and she looked quite as pretty 
 in a plain bonnet ; when they didn't go out, Prosper kept Pauline 
 company ; he read to her, or related some adventure of his life ; 
 and the time passed away so quick, that they were frequently 
 astonished to find it time to bid each other good-night. In short, 
 since they had been no longer so rich, they seemed much happier ; 
 Pauline, above all ; her cheerfulness had returned with the roses 
 of her complexion, and her eyes sparkled with joy whenever she 
 fixed them on her protector. 
 
 A great change in the manners of Prosper with Pauline had, 
 however, taken place ; it was no longer the frank familiarity, the 
 unceremonious tone, of former times ; it was now a friendship as 
 tender, but more reserved ; as sweet, but a less free intimacy ; in 
 short, it was like a new sentiment that was silently introducing 
 itself into the soul of Prosper, and that only announced its presence 
 by the unknown happiness it gave birth to. 
 
 An hour passed away from Pauline, seemed now to Prosper of 
 mortal length, so that he rarely went out. Besides, the general 
 was with the army, and his wife had left Paris for. one of his 
 estates ; Maximus had accepted a professor's place at some leagues 
 from Paris ; there, then, remained only the inhabitants of Clichy : 
 but Poupardot's two sons had become so unbearable, and their 
 father spoilt them in such a manner, that it often prevented his 
 going to see him. 
 
 Then, when we find a pleasure in being at home, when our 
 heart there feels a secret joy, why seek elsewhere for other pleas- 
 ures and other faces ? — This was what Prosper said to himself, 
 while keeping Pauline company. Sometimes, however, his eyes 
 would seem dull, a cloud would pass over his countenance. The 
 young girl quickly perceived it, and her looks would then question 
 her friend ; and she, also sighing, would sometimes say to him, — 
 
 " I am sure you are thinking of Camilla." 
 
 " Oh, no ! you are wrong," Prosper would eagerly reply ; " for 
 this some time past I have entirely ceased thinking of the 
 marchioness ; or even if anything reminds me of her, I swear to 
 you it no longer makes me sigh." 
 
 " Truly ? Why, then, did you look so sad just now ? " 
 
 " Ah ! because I this morning again saw a new dress — a charm- 
 ing shawl — and when I think I can no longer bring them to you 
 as before ! " 
 
 " And is it that which makes you sad ? Truly, my friend, you 
 form a very wrong opinion of me, if you believe I make my happi- 
 ness consist in a more^r less elegant dress. How many times must 
 I repeat to you that I am much happier since we live quietly by 
 ourselves, than when we went into the world of company ? Yet 
 I had hoped you would have perceived it." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 201 
 
 These sweet words always brought back smiles on the counten- 
 ance of Prosper. He would take Pauline's hand, and press it 
 between his ; sometimes these two hands held each other for a 
 long time, nor did she ever again say that it prevented her from 
 working. 
 
 Prosper, at the end of some time, succeeded in finding a place 
 in a commercial house ; the salary was trifling, and he was forced 
 to remain writing almost the whole of the day ; it was a great 
 subjection to a man until then habituated to an active life and 
 perfect liberty ; but it was a question of augmenting their comforts, 
 of being again sometimes able to make Pauline a present, and 
 Prosper submitted himself without repining to this new kind of 
 life ; besides, when he returned from the office, there was someone 
 waiting for him, who welcomed him with a sweet smile that made 
 him quickly forget the wearisomeness of his labour. 
 
 Time flowed smoothly along with these two persons who were 
 beginning to comprehend each other ; but the political horizon was 
 not calm and without storms like the dwelling of Prosper. Fortune 
 had abandoned him she had elevated so high ; the emperor had 
 met with great reverses ; the French still fought with the same 
 courage, but the other nations, envious of twenty years of victory, 
 had banded together to overwhelm them. 
 
 Prosper and Pauline did not busy themselves with politics — 
 there was in them another sentiment which absorbed all the others ; 
 yet would the orphan sometimes say to her friend, — 
 
 " What is passing, then ? Alarming reports are spread abroad ; 
 they say that the enemy is going to attack Paris." 
 
 And Prosper would reply, — 
 
 " It's impossible ; they will never reach here ; it's the alarmists 
 who spread those reports." 
 
 Pauline let herself be easily reassured, and it was no longer of 
 the war they conversed. 
 
 One day, however, Prosper — who had gone as usual to his office 
 — returned home pale and agitated ; he took his sabre and his pistols, 
 and embracing Pauline, he said to her, — 
 
 " Don't go out, my dear friend ; don't leave your room ; don't 
 go to the window if you hear any noise in the street." 
 
 "What's the matter, then ?" inquired the terrified Pauline. 
 
 " They say that the enemies are at the gates of Paris — that they 
 are going to attack this city." 
 
 " Good heavens ! and where are you going with those 
 weapons '( " 
 
 " Where am I goiug ? Parbleu / I am going to fight in defence 
 ©f my country." 
 
 " To fight ! but if you were to be killed ?" 
 
 " I shall die like a brave man, and I shall deserve your regret. 
 Don't attempt to detain me, my dear Pauline ; at this moment, I 
 ought only to listen to the voice of patriotism." 
 
 The young girl shed tears ; she clung to Prosper, but dis- 
 
202 The Ma7i with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 engaging himself from her arms, he ran — he flew to the barrier of 
 Clichy. 
 
 There, amidst a crowd of men of the world, of poets, of artists, 
 whom the dangers of the country had transformed into soldiers, 
 Prosper recognised Maximus, armed with a sabre and carbine. 
 
 " How ! you are here ! " said Prosper, running to his friend. 
 
 " I returned to Paris a week ago." 
 
 "But you, a republican — you are come to fight for the 
 emperor ? " 
 
 " I am come to fight for my country ; when it is menaced by 
 the enemy, there ought to be no longer an opinion ; we first defend 
 it, and discuss afterwards." 
 
 Prosper pressed the hand of Maximus, and both ran to join the 
 ranks of those brave men of all classes, who, preserving the French 
 gaiety in the most important circumstances, were exchanging bon- 
 mots, and singing a joyous chorus, while waiting for the moment 
 of going into action. 
 
 Impatient to meet the enemy, Maximus had passed the barrier, 
 and Prosper, whom an old invalid had furnished with a musket 
 and cartridges, accompanied him. 
 
 The two friends gained the open country, and took their way 
 towards the buttes Saint Chaumont, from whence they were not 
 long in seeing some Cossacks galloping in the plain, some of whom 
 advanced within musket shot : they had already brought down two 
 of them, when a pistol-shot struck Prosper, who fell a few paces 
 from his friend. 
 
 Maximns threw down his carbine, lifted Prosper up, carried 
 him in his arms, and, braving the bullets of the Cossacks', at length 
 succeeded in re-entering Paris with his precious burthen ; where 
 a milk-woman, who had fled for safety from her cottage, offered 
 her ass and paniers to transport the wounded man. Prosper was 
 placed as well as they could, for the wound he had received in the 
 breast made him lose a deal of blood, and he had fainted. 
 
 Maximus followed the Boulevard du Temple ; he knew not 
 Prosper's new address, but he soon recollected his having one 
 evening seen Picotin home to the Eue des Enfants-Eouges ; and 
 being not far from it, he determined to conduct his friend there. 
 
 They reached Picotin's. 
 
 "He, perhaps, won't be at home," said Maximus to himself, 
 "for the place for every Frenchman to-day is at the barriers ; but 
 I shall see his wife, and I am certain that she will second me in 
 succouring my friend." 
 
 Maximus addressed himself to the porter, and asked for 
 Picotin. 
 
 The porter replied, smiling, — 
 
 " He has told me, that if anybody came to seek him, I was to 
 say that he is not at home ; but, monsieur, if you was to take the 
 wounded man to the surgeon's close by, it would be better than 
 climbing up to the fourth storey." 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 203 
 
 " You are right, my friend ; assist me, we will carry him 
 there." 
 
 The porter and Maximus took Prosper up in their arms, and 
 bore him to a neighbouring surgeon's, where every attention was 
 paid him. 
 
 " The wound is serious," said the surgeon. " If this gentleman 
 lives far off, he can't be removed." 
 
 " His lodging ? Wait, monsieur ; I'll try and find it out, while 
 you are dressing my friend's wound." 
 
 And Maximus darted out of the shop, and returning to Picotin's, 
 hastened up to the fourth floor. Under the copper plate containing 
 the sheep-skin dealer's name, was chalked up in large letters, — 
 
 " There is nobody within." 
 
 Notwithstanding this notice, Maximus pushed the door open, 
 and entered the office, where he saw no one ; but on proceeding into 
 the second room, he found Picotin seated in an arm-chair, a night- 
 cap on his head, and with his right leg, bandaged from the knee to 
 the ankle, resting on a stool. 
 
 "I am ill ! I am wounded !" bawled Picotin, on hearing some 
 one come in ; "I can't go and fight, because I can't walk." 
 
 But on recognising Maximus, a slight blush came into the face 
 of the pretended wounded man, and he muttered, — 
 
 " What ! it's our friend — our dear friend, Maximus ! I have 
 wounded myself in the leg, you see ! I am nailed down here ! I 
 did it with a frying-pan." 
 
 " Oh, parbleu ! I can easily believe it wasn't done with a sabre 
 or a musket." 
 
 " By'r lady ! it might have been, if I had been able to walk. 
 Tell me, Maximus, do you believe the enemies will get into Paris ? 
 Are they still fighting ? " 
 
 " What matters it to you, since you remain there ?" 
 
 "How ? but it matters a great deal to me ! The prospect of 
 being sacked — pillaged — that's very comfortable. I have a good 
 mind to go down into the cellar ! " 
 
 " But first tell me, Picotin, where Prosper has removed to ; do 
 you know ? " 
 
 " Where Prosper has removed to, since he is no longer rich ? 
 for it appears he has also tumbled down — " 
 
 " His address ! make haste ! he is wounded — perhaps mortally." 
 
 " Ah ? bah ! What ! poor Prosper ? I lay he has been to fight 
 along with you. What foolishness ! If you had done like me — " 
 
 " Will you answer me ? " 
 
 " Here — close by Rue Chariot, No. 22 ; I often meet him when 
 I'm going to market." 
 
 "Rue Chariot — that's enough. Adieu !" 
 
 Picotin, forgetting he was wounded, started up, and ran after 
 Maximus, calling out to him from the landing-place, — 
 
 " I say, then, Maximus, if you meet my wife in the streets, or 
 
204 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 at the barriers, tell her that the milk has been brought up this 
 long time ; her coffee is getting cold ; it will be good for nothing. 
 I don't know where the devil she's gone to ; I said to her, * Don't 
 go out ; you may meet with some Cossacks.' And she answered 
 me, ' A reason the more ! ' " 
 
 Maximus did not stop to listen to Picotin, but hastened back to 
 the surgeon's ; Prosper had come to himself, but was too much 
 exhausted to speak ; he, however, pressed his friend's hand, mur- 
 muring the name of Pauline. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I comprehend you," said Maximus ; " you wish to be 
 conveyed home to her. Come, gentlemen, a last service ; let us 
 make a kind of litter to transport our wounded man. He lives 
 close by ; I now know his address." 
 
 Everyone eagerly lent their assistance. If the French are 
 always disposed to laugh in serious circumstances, it must also be 
 said that they are always ready to succour any one who is suffer- 
 ing, or to contribute to a good action. In a few minutes, Prosper 
 was placed on a kind of stretcher, and carried to his lodging. 
 
 Maximus wished to forewarn Pauline, that the sad sight she 
 was going to see might not take too violent an effect upon her ; he 
 was fearful of her tears, her cries, her, despair, that might have 
 occasioned his friend a dangerous emotion. But the nio.it sensitive 
 souls frequently find in great misfortune a force, an energy, they 
 would not have been thought susceptible of. 
 
 The young girl, on seeing Maximus arrive pale and dismayed, 
 believed her misfortune greater than it was. 
 
 " Prosper is dead ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 "No, no — but wounded — with a pistol-shot." 
 
 " Where is he ? — take me to him." 
 
 " He is coming — they are bringing him here — you will see him." 
 
 Pauline uttered not another word, shed not a tear ; her grief 
 . was mute ; but she flew to meet her protector. She took his hand, 
 pressed it within hers ; and he still found strength enough to give 
 her a smile. 
 
 In a few moments Prosper was placed in bed, when Maximus 
 went out, and returned with a surgeon and a physician, who, after 
 examining the wound, shook their heads in a manner far from 
 encouraging, and said, — 
 
 " It's possible he may get over it : but there's considerable 
 danger." 
 
 Then Maximus, taking Pauline's hand, said to her, — 
 
 " Courage ! my dear child. Heaven will not permit you to lose 
 your protector. As for me, I can no longer be of any service to 
 him, and I now return to the post of honour." 
 
 Maximus then embraced Pauline, and left the house ; the sur- 
 geon and the physician did the same, after giving the necessary 
 directions, and promising to call again in the evening. 
 
 The young girl being then left alone with Prosper, who had 
 been forbidden to speak, threw herself on her knees, prayed heaven 
 
The Man with the Three 'Pair of Breeches. 205 
 
 to preserve him who was all to her, and, having no longer any 
 witnesses, the tears gnshed from her eyes. 
 
 Night came on. The old servant, who was every instant going 
 down to inquire the news, returned to her mistress, and trembling 
 said to her, — 
 
 "Ah ! mademoiselle, they say it's all over with us ! the enemies 
 are going to enter ; there'll be fighting in the streets ; we shall be 
 pillaged, and something else besides." 
 
 Pauline scarcely listened to the servant's lamentations ; for her 
 there was no longer but one thing in the world that could interest 
 her — it was the life of Prosper. 
 
 The night, however, was still only about nine in the evening ; 
 the report of a cannon was heard, but it was not followed by any 
 other. 
 
 A fortnight afterwards, Pauline was seated by Prosper's bed-side ; 
 a ray of joy had come to reanimate her features, worn with watching 
 and anxiety ; for on that morning only, the physician had found a 
 favourable change in the state of his patient ; and while announc- 
 ing to the young girl that the cure would be long, he had promised 
 her to save him. Pauline had then found herself so happy, she 
 could willingly have embraced the physician. What signified the 
 length of the cure to her ? he answered for Prosper's life ; it was 
 also saving her own. 
 
 The strictest silence had been enjoined the patient, whose weak- 
 ness was extreme ; and it was only by his looks he could repay the 
 care of his young nurse ; when he wanted to say a word, she would 
 put her finger on his mouth, whispering, — 
 
 " It's forbidden ! don't speak, my friend ; when you are cured, 
 we'll make up for it ! you shall talk to me all the day long, and I 
 shall be so glad to listen to you." 
 
 That day, however, Prosper, who felt himself much better, had 
 spoken a little. First to express to his young friend all his grati- 
 tude for the attentions she had lavished on him : next to ask her 
 the political news, and know what had taken place since he was 
 wounded on the buttes Saint Chaumont. 
 
 " Political news ! " replied Pauline, " my God ! my friend, why, 
 for this fortnight past, I have thought only of you. I know there 
 is no more fighting. I know that we have changed the government. 
 But don't ask me anything more, for it would really be impossible 
 for me to answer you." 
 
 The bell, announcing visitors, interrupted their conversation : the 
 voice of Poupardot was heard, and the next minute the worthy 
 Eliza and her husband were by Prosper's bed-side. 
 
 " Here we are ! " cried Poupardot. " How, my poor Prosper, you 
 are wounded ! you have been in battle, then ? " 
 
 " Without doubt," replied Prosper, " and you ? " 
 
 " Oh, me ! I had truly something else to do ! " 
 
 "The Cossacks have burnt our house — broken — destroyed — 
 ruined everything !" cried Eliza, with a heavy sigh. 
 
206 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " Oh ! that's nothing ! things are going on well, very well ! " re- 
 sumed Poupardot, rubbing his hands. "We have now our legiti- 
 mate princes ; we shall have a paternal government : that is what 
 ought to make us feel happy ; we shall have a fowl in the pot, my 
 friend ! and, excepting the good Henry IV., whom we shan't have, 
 because he is dead, it will be absolutely the same thing." 
 
 Prosper started ; he could scarcely believe his ears. 
 
 " We are here in a flying camp," said Eliza. " As we can't live 
 at Clichy any more, we are going to settle on our little farm at 
 Montereau, and in the meantime, till we have got everything 
 ready, we are staying here in a furnished hotel." 
 
 " We have left our two young sparks talking over a roast fowl ; 
 I am even afraid they may fight about it, for they are both of 
 them vastly fond of the legs. Apropos of fighting, there's one piece 
 of news you don't know : Madame Poupardot is again preparing 
 a shoot for me. Ah ! ah ! ah ! a last folly : this one will be the 
 nestling." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! my dear ; will you please to hold your tongue ? " 
 said Eliza, blushing. 
 
 "Well, now ! why then? — it gives me pleasure to have another 
 child more ! it's not forbidden ! I lay it will be a son again ; what 
 name shall we give him? I must consider about it, and in the 
 meantime make haste to get to Montereau, that my wife may rest 
 herself there." 
 
 " And Maximus 1 " whispered Prosper. 
 
 " Maximus, ah ! he's quite in a bad humour. Singular fellow ; 
 I have always seen him dissatisfied under every government ; he's 
 not like me. Come, get|eured, my dear Prosper, and don't be long 
 about it ; you shall then come with your dear Pauline, and see us 
 at Montereau ; we shall do very well there. I am sure of it, except- 
 ing the air shouldn't agree with my wife, but I don't believe that." 
 
 Again Eliza sighed, while saying, — 
 
 " Ah ! our poor house at Clichy !— -it was so pretty ! " 
 
 Pauline, who feared they would fatigue Prosper, observed to 
 Poupardot, that if he wished him to be cured, he must not make 
 him talk, because the physician had forbidden it. 
 
 The worthy couple felt the justice of the observation ; and, after 
 having tenderly embraced the wounded man and his young nurse, 
 bade them farewell, engaging them to come down to Montereau. 
 
 Some weeks after, Prosper was able to leave his bed, and seat 
 himself at the window, to breathe the mild air of spring. Pauline 
 was^ always with him, seeking in his eyes to anticipate his most 
 trivial desires. 
 
 Prospers convalescence seemed likely to be long — his strength 
 did not return ; but, at length, he was saved, and the orphan 
 found herself repaid the price of her many days of anxious care and 
 attention. 
 
 What retarded the entire re-establishment of Prospers health, 
 was his vexation at having lost his employment ; nay, his knowing 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 207 
 
 that his illness must have been very expensive, and the uncertainty 
 of his future prospects. Pauline, who guessed his thoughts, bid him 
 not to be uneasy, and to rely upon her for the expenditure of their 
 little household ; but the dread of the orphan being once in want 
 of the necessaries of life depressed his spirits, and retarded his 
 perfect cure. 
 
 An old friend sometimes came to keep Prosper company ! it was 
 Colonel Eoger, who had left the service when he had been forced to 
 cease combatting for his emperor. Eoger, also, had become taciturn 
 and morose ; while passing his fingers through his moustaches, he 
 would occasionally sneer between his teeth ; and when he came and 
 seated himself by the side of the convalescent, hours passed away, 
 and during which Prosper confined himself to sighing and lifting 
 his eyes to heaven, and Eoger to swearing and twisting his 
 moustaches. 
 
 Pauline, to enliven the two friends, would endeavour to re- 
 animate the conversation, and she mentioned the general. 
 
 " He is like me— on the half -pay list," replied Eoger ; " he is 
 gone to plant his cabbages, with his wife; he still growls, like 
 me !" 
 
 " And Maximus ? " said Prosper ; " it was he who picked me up, 
 carried me on his shoulders, when I was wounded, and I have never 
 seen him since." 
 
 "Your surgeon told him you was out of danger ; that was all 
 he wished for. He has left Paris, and I believe he is now an usher 
 in some village boarding-school." 
 
 " And that poor Picotin— what can have become of him amidst 
 all these events ? " 
 
 " Picotin ! swords and pistols ! there is no danger of his having 
 been killed or wounded. I don't know what he is doing now, but I 
 have several times met his wife in the street, with a mass book in 
 her hand ; I have even seen her going into a church." 
 
 After this conversation, Eoger took two or three turns round 
 the room, again let fly a few oaths, pressed the hand of his friend, 
 nodded to Pauline, and went away. 
 
 As soon as Prosper felt himself able to go out, he used to take 
 short walks, leaning on Pauline's arm. He had already began to 
 talk of seeking work or a place— though his physician had ordered 
 
 him the completest repose. But Pauline would then be vexed 
 
 would even scold him. 
 
 " Do you wish then," she said to him, " for me to lose the fruits 
 of all my care. Do you want, by fatiguing yourself, to fall ill again 
 — to prevent the return of your strength ? No, no, my good friend ; 
 you shall obey me : you have promised it, and now I insist upon it 
 Absolute repose ; above all, no work— no uneasiness : that is what 
 I will have." 
 
 " But — the future ; but money ! " said Prosper. 
 " That's my business : it's me who keeps the cash ; you have 
 promised me not to have anything more to do with it." 
 
208 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Near a year elapsed ; Prosper's health was yet but delicate ; 
 however, to satisfy him, Pauline had consented to let him copy 
 manuscripts, an occupation, that did not oblige him to go out, and 
 that he could do in the same room with her. 
 
 The orphan was one clay working as usual, seated near Prosper, 
 when Colonel Roger suddenly burst into their apartment, and quite 
 transported with joy shouted out, — 
 
 "Victory! my friends, he is coming back— he'll soon be here. 
 Ah ! a thousand squadrons ! I — I well knew he wasn't gone for 
 ever." 
 
 " But who, then, is coming back ? Who, then, will soon be 
 here ? " 
 
 " Why, parbleu ! the emperor ! — my own emperor : for I only 
 know him— I love none but him ! — and for him again will I 
 fight ! " 
 
 "Can it be possible ! — the emperor is coming back ! — is it not a 
 false news ? " 
 
 " No, oh ! it's really the truth. He disembarked at Cannes. 
 Grenoble has already opened its gates to him ; and I — I am to meet 
 him ! I am going to offer him my sword and my blood. Oh ! 
 my children ! what a beautiful day ! What a pity, Prosper, that 
 you are not able to come along with me ! But, adieu ! I can no 
 longer stand still. I am going to see the emperor again ! Adieu ! 
 my friends, I am off." 
 
 PtOger was like a madman : he embraced his friend, embraced 
 Pauline, and then rushed out, without even listening to their 
 farewell. 
 
 When the colonel had left the house, Pauline went up to Prosper, 
 and, looking at him with tender disquietude, said to him, — 
 " This time I hope you won't leave me and go and fight ?" 
 " No, my dear Pauline ; don't be alarmed," replied Prosper, smil- 
 ing. " I have fulfilled my task towards my country ; and, besides, 
 my arm is yet too feeble. Let us hope that the time of our dis- 
 asters will never return." 
 
 In a few days after the emperor was at Paris ; a few months 
 later the Battle of Waterloo again changed the dstinies of 
 France. 
 
 Prosper had taken no part in political events ; still weak and 
 languishing he had remained with Pauline. Why should they 
 have quitted each other ? He felt himself better when with her : 
 she was never happy but in his company. 
 
 Roger still came to see them, but very rarely. The poor colonel, 
 since the hundred days, had become more unsocial than ever, and 
 his visits were now passed in curses, loud and deep, accompanied by 
 twistings of his moustaches. 
 
 But one morning, Pauline opened the door to the Poupardot 
 family, augmented by a little boy nine months old. 
 
 " How's this ! you have left your little farm at Montereau ? " de- 
 manded Prosper of his friend. 
 
1tke Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 2b§ 
 
 " Our farm ! " replied the good Eliza, weeping. " It has long 
 since been destroyed; when we went to retire there we found 
 nothing but ruins. In 1814 there was a battle close by it. It has 
 been levelled to the ground — demolished by the cannon balls." 
 
 "Ah ! my God, yes," said Poupardot, "there don't remain a 
 square foot of it standing ; when I saw that, with the sale of the 
 ground, I wanted to try my hand at dealing in something or other : 
 so I bought some horses ; I wasn't doing amiss, when, during the 
 hundred days, my horses were put in requisition for the army. All 
 my stock has been killed in these last battles, and I have no hope 
 of recovering my funds ! but, excepting that, things are going on 
 well, very well. We have our father at Gand ; I hope it's finished 
 now, and that we shall be quiet." 
 
 "It's quite time for it to finish !" said Eliza ; "at every revolu- 
 tion we have lost something. We formerly were rich, and now we 
 have scarcely enough left to bring up our family." 
 
 "It's all one," said Poupardot. " I am enchanted at having another 
 boy. I have named this one Ignatius. Come, my little Ignatius, 
 give papa a smile. He won't smile ; it's because he's cutting his 
 teeth." 
 
 The Poupardots went away in search of a lodging in Paris, where 
 they wished to settle. 
 
 Prosper said, looking after his friend, — 
 
 " What a happy character ! he is almost ruined, and he is still 
 contented. He applauds at every revolution ; and, however, there 
 would never be any, if all men resembled him." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A GREAT LADY 
 
 It was the end of 1815 ; Prosper and Pauline no longer lived in the 
 Rue Chariot; they had taken still humbler and cheaper apart- 
 ments ; moreover, Pauline, who, without owning it to Prosper, had 
 been obliged, during his illness, to make a great breach in her 
 twenty thousand francs, had discharged her servant. But, despite 
 those necessary measures of economy, she was not the less cheer- 
 ful — did not appear the less happy. 
 
 It was not the same with Prosper ; his health was beginning to 
 be entirely re-established ; but he had not been able to procure 
 another place. The produce of his copies did not much improve 
 their situation ; and his spirits were greatly depressed. 
 
 One afternoon, Prosper had just gone out, when an elegant 
 carriage drew up before the house where he lodged, and from it 
 alighted a lady, whose dress was elegant, whose towmre was noble 
 
 o 
 
2io The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 and distinguee; a footman in handsome livery went to speak to 
 the porter, and returned to acquaint the lady that " M. 
 Prosper Bressange did lodge in that house, on the fifth storey. 
 He had just gone out, but that his ward, Mademoiselle Pauline, 
 was within." 
 
 The lady reflected a moment, and then resolved to go upstairs. 
 
 Pauline was busy at her tambour frame. Though she had not 
 confided it to her friend, she worked for a shop, and very often in 
 the night, when Prosper believed her to be at rest, she was 
 employed at her work, which she did not leave till the break of 
 day. 
 
 On going to open the door, the orphan was quite astonished to see 
 before her a tall and elegant lady, seemingly upwards of thirty, 
 very elegantly dressed, and whose tournure and manners announced 
 her a person of distinction. 
 
 "Monsieur Prosper Bressange ?" said the lady, advancing. 
 
 " He lives here, but he is gone out ; however, I don't think he 
 will be long, and perhaps madame will come in and wait a 
 little ? " 
 
 The lady made no other answer than stepping into the little 
 room where Pauline was working ; the latter handed her a chair, 
 saying,— 
 
 " Will you be seated, madame ; having come up so high, you 
 must be fatigued : above all, not being habituated to it." 
 
 " But I, mademoiselle, I am habituated to it, for I have for a 
 long time lived nearly as high ! " 
 
 So saying, the lady sat down — then cast her eyes round the room, 
 when a shade of melancholy overspread her features, and a deep 
 sigh escaped her. Pauline, whose curiosity was more and more ex- 
 cited, already conceived a thousand thoughts— a thousand suspicions, 
 and felt an extraordinary emotion in the presence of this lady whom 
 she saw for the first time. 
 
 " Will madame permit me to go on with my work ? It is wanted 
 and I have promised — " 
 
 " Do so, mademoiselle ; I should be sorry to put you to the least 
 inconvenience. It is not a very long time since I also embroidered, 
 nor do I blush to say it was to earn a subsistence, for the little I 
 possessed would not have been sufficient to support me." 
 
 Every word of the lady increased the suspicions of Pauline ; 
 being unable any longer to resist her sensations, she stammered 
 out, — 
 
 " My God ! Madame, what you tell me would make me be- 
 lieve that you are a person my protector has often spoke of to me, 
 and if I dared ask you your name — " 
 
 " Camilla de Trevilliers, Marchioness de Clairville." 
 
 Pauline turned quite pale, her bosom contracted, an enormous 
 weight placed itself upon her heart ; she, however, made efforts to 
 conceal her emotion, while replying, — 
 
 "Ah! yes, madame, yes — that's it; I remember your name; 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 211 
 
 but I now recollect, madame, you need not give yourself the 
 trouble of waiting for Monsieur Prosper ; he won't return till 
 very late." 
 
 " With your permission, mademoiselle, I will remain to converse 
 a moment with you." 
 
 Pauline could no longer find any reply ; she contented herself 
 with bowing, and remained silent ; but it was easy to see by the 
 palpitations of her bosom that she was greatly agitated. 
 
 " Since you have heard Monsieur Prosper speak of me," resumed 
 Camilla, "you ought to know, mademoiselle, that I have experi- 
 enced great misfortunes, and that he has rendered me important 
 services." 
 
 " He has told me of your misfortunes, madame, but never of his 
 services." 
 
 " Well, then, I, mademoiselle — I take a pleasure in proclaiming 
 that I am greatly indebted to him ; and his conduct towards me 
 was full of delicacy, for he did not wish me to know it was him- 
 self who obliged me. He perhaps feared that gratitude would be 
 too heavy a load for my heart. Ah ! I avow it, I have for a long 
 time mistaken his fine soul ; I have made a very bad return for 
 all he has done for me. Fortunately, there is always time to 
 repair our faults." 
 
 Pauline listened with the utmost attention ; she could work no 
 longer ; her hand trembled ; she ran her needle into her fingers 
 instead of the embroidery, and replied, hesitatingly, — 
 
 " It appears, madame, that your situation is fortunately changed, 
 that your misfortunes are at an end ? " 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, the time of trial is passed for me. Our 
 legitimate princes are returned ; with them I have recovered my 
 fortune, and obtained possession of all the estates belonging to my 
 father which had not been sold ; in short, I am rich, and I can 
 now acknowledge what has been done for me." 
 
 Pauline made no reply ; she continued pricking her fingers while 
 seeming to work. Camilla remained silent for a moment, again 
 looked round her, and resumed, — 
 
 "Mademoiselle, pardon my questions— you must well think 
 they are not prompted by idle curiosity. When I saw M. Bres- 
 sange again at General Bloumann's, and when he called upon me, 
 I had then every reason to suppose him to be rich ; and now it 
 seems to me — excuse me — but it seems to me that it's quite the 
 reverse." 
 
 "Madame, my protector has in fact experienced a reverse of 
 fortune, but notwithstanding that, we want for nothing, and we 
 are quite happy." 
 
 Pauline pronounced these words, " we are," with a certain affecta- 
 tion that did not fail to strike Camilla. The marchioness looked 
 earnestly at the orphan ; for the first time she seemed to examine 
 her with much attention, and to scrutinise her whole person. 
 Pauline felt herself colour up ; she was embarrassed \ she felt 
 
ii2 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches* 
 
 almost angry, for the great lady's examination lasted a long time. 
 At length it ceased, and Camilla said to her, — 
 
 " Mademoiselle is doubtless the person M. Bressange has taken 
 care of ; who is an orphan, and whose parents have died during 
 the Eevolution : I have been told all that." 
 
 " Yes, madame," replied Pauline, recovering her self-possession, 
 "I owe everything to M. Prosper ; he saved my mother from the 
 scaffold ; he protected my infancy ; since his return to France, he 
 has always made my happiness his study. Ah ! I should be very 
 ungrateful not to love him ; but I am not so ; for my blood, my 
 life, I would give it all for him." 
 
 " That forms your eulogium, mademoiselle, and fine actions no 
 longer surprise me on the part of M. Bressange." 
 
 Camilla rose on saying these words ; Pauline hastened to do the 
 same. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the marchioness, "be pleased to tell M. 
 Prosper that I shall return to-morrow about two o'clock, and that 
 I hope he will wait for me, for I must, absolutely speak to him. 
 You will have that complaisance ? " 
 " I will tell him, madame." 
 " Good morning, mademoiselle." 
 
 Camilla made Pauline a very ceremonious curtsey ; the latter 
 returned a similar one, and the marchioness descended the five 
 storeys. 
 
 On returning home, Prosper was quite astonished to find 
 Pauline agitated and pale, and her eyes full of tears. He hastened 
 to her, exclaiming, — 
 
 " What, then, has happened in my absence ? What's the matter 
 with you ? " What fresh misfortune have we to dread ? " 
 
 Pauline, though still weeping, endeavoured to smile as she 
 replied, — 
 
 " Mon dim I why, there has nothing happened — nothing unfor- 
 tunate, far to the contrary — for it will doubtless be a happiness for 
 you." 
 
 "In short, there is something. Explain yourself, I beg of you." 
 " There has been a visit, but it was for you ; it's a lady, who 
 wanted to see you." 
 "A lady?" 
 
 " Yes, a lady you are well acquainted with." 
 " Her name ? Did she tell it you ? " 
 "Yes, it's— it's the Marchioness de Clairville." 
 "Camilla!" 
 
 Pauline put her handkerchief to her eyes, murmuring, — 
 " Ah ! she is still Camilla, then, to you ? " 
 "Well, my dear Pauline, in what respect can that visit grieve 
 you?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, certainly, I am very wrong ; I don't know why I 
 weep." 
 
 " But what can the marchioness want of me ? " 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 213 
 
 " I don't know, but she'll tell you herself to-morrow, for she 
 will call again ; she wishes absolutely to speak to you, and she begs 
 you to wait for her." 
 
 " She wishes to speak to me ! it's singular." 
 
 " It seems she now knows all you have done for her." 
 
 " Who then can have told her ? " 
 
 "I don't know, but she seems very grateful for it. It is time ! 
 and as at present she has diamonds, footmen, and carriage, she will, 
 without doubt, engage you to go to her, and you — you will return ! 
 for you loved that woman so much ! Oh ! but pardon me, my 
 friend ; I don't know what I'm saying ; I am foolish. May you be 
 happy ! that is all I wish ; that is all I ask of heaven ! " 
 
 Pauline again hid her face in her hands, for she was weeping 
 bitterly. It was difficult not to comprehend the cause of her grief; 
 however, Prosper dared not yet persuade himself that the orphan 
 felt any other sentiment for him than friendship, because there 
 were seventeen years difference between them. He feared to 
 abandon himself to too sweet a hope, and contented himself with 
 replying,— 
 
 " I am charmed on Madame de Clairville's account that she is 
 now rich, that she keeps a carriage ; but I don't comprehend how 
 you can think that will influence my sentiments. When I loved 
 her, she was in very different circumstances." 
 
 Pauline dried her eyes and tried to seem calm, while replying, — 
 
 " Pardon me, my friend, I don't know what I say — I don't know 
 what is the matter with me ; but it will go off." 
 
 During the evening, the orphan affected to appear at ease ; she 
 even attempted to be lively, but she couldn't succeed. As for 
 Prosper, he said little, for he was extremely preoccupied with the 
 visit he was to receive next day ; and his mind abandoned itself to 
 a thousand conjectures. 
 
 Next morning, Pauline was pale and suffering ; but she tried to 
 dissemble the trouble of her soul. She spoke no more of Camilla ; 
 only, when the carriage of the marchioness stopped before the house, 
 she said to Prosper with a trembling voice, — 
 
 " I withdraw ; I leave you, my friend ; it would not become me 
 to hear what the Marchioness de Clairville wishes to say to you. 
 Besides, my presence here would doubtless prevent — I sha'n't 
 leave my chamber till after she has gone." 
 
 Prosper only answered Pauline by a look better understood than 
 words; the orphan seemed to comprehend it ; and giving her pro- 
 tector a tender smile, she left the room. 
 
 The marchioness did not keep Prosper waiting ; the bell rang, 
 and this time her former lover himself opened the door to her. 
 
 These two persons, once again seeing each other, felt themselves 
 at first equally embarrassed. Prosper dissembled his embarrass- 
 ment under an excessive politeness ; he handed the marchioness in, 
 presented her with a chair, and seating himself at a distance from 
 her, saidj— 
 
214 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " I have learnt, Madame the Marchioness, that you had given 
 yourself the trouble of calling yesterday. I know not to what 
 motive to attribute the honour you do me ; but you ought not to 
 doubt the pleasure I derive from it." 
 
 The serious tone of Prosper seemed to disappoint Camilla ; she 
 looked earnestly at him ; one would say she desired, on meeting his 
 eyes, to read other sentiments in them : but Prosper had respect- 
 fully averted them. 
 
 " Monsieur Prosper,' said Camilla, " I have desired to see you, 
 to speak to you, for I have done you great wrong, and it is now 
 my most anxious wish to repair my injustice." 
 
 " Wrong ! Madame the Marchioness ! I do not comprehend 
 you." 
 
 "I am going to explain myself ; and in the first place, I could 
 wish to see you quit a tone of coldness that freezes me ; I would be 
 to you, not the Marchioness de Clairville, but Camilla, as in former 
 days." 
 
 Prosper looked at the marchioness with an air of great surprise, 
 while replying, — 
 
 " Madame, this ceremonious tone I have always met with from 
 you, when, burning with love, I endeavoured to transfuse into your 
 heart a portion of what mine was experiencing. Then, without 
 doubt, I could have wished you to treat me with more intimacy ; 
 but, at this day, I think it no longer necessary." 
 
 " But at this day, monsieur, I repeat to you that I acknowledge 
 my faults — that I, at length, know I had formed an erroneous opinion 
 of you. Oh yes ! for I knew not all the delicacy of your soul. I 
 believed that, after having obtained a triumph due to treachery, you 
 wanted through that afterwards to force me to become your wife, 
 and that idea had bruised my heart. I now see that I was mistaken. 
 All the sacrifices you have made to me, fully prove the reality of 
 your love ; but it is only lately that I have become acquainted with 
 them. My father had kept me in complete ignorance of your noble 
 conduct relative to that estate of which you had become the pro- 
 prietor, and which you had restored to him during your abode in 
 England. It was but the other day, when, having recovered all my 
 property, I was amusing myself with inspecting all the papers left 
 by the Marquis de Trevilliers, that I found some notes in his hand- 
 writing, in which he mentioned your noble action. I then compre- 
 hended that he who had done that must be the same person who 
 had sent me twenty thousand frances, when I some years ago was 
 forced to work in order to conceal my distress. I questioned my 
 servant ; I found out the ticket-porter who brought me the letter 
 and the money ; at length I knew the whole truth." 
 
 " Well, then, madame, if I have had the happiness to render 
 some services to you or to monsieur your father, I also procured 
 myself a pleasure ; and it does not deserve so many acknowledg- 
 ments on your part." 
 
 Camilla was greatly affected; she looked a long time at 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 215 
 
 Prosper, who persisted in turning his head aside ; she at length 
 resumed, — 
 
 " You still bear me malice — oh 1 I see it plainly. It is then my- 
 self who ought to return to you. Well then, Monsieur Prosper, 
 this hand you have so often demanded of me, I this day offer it you 
 with all my heart. Fate has restored to me my fortune, and I 
 shall be happy to share it with you." 
 
 Prosper seemed petrified by a proposal he was far from expect- 
 ing ,* for a moment he raised his eyes on Camilla, but he immediately 
 cast them down again and remained silent. The marchioness, at 
 seeing him remain cold when she had hoped her words would be 
 received with the liveliest transport, became serious and uneasy ; 
 the blood rushed into her cheeks when she stammered out, — 
 
 " Well then, sir, you do not answer me ? " 
 
 "Madame the Marchioness," said Prosper at length, "the offer 
 of your hand is doubtless a great honour, it would formerly have 
 crowned all my vows, but now, I should fear being able to assure 
 your happiness, I should fear no longer responding as you deserve 
 to that interest you are kind enough to express for me. Permit 
 me, then, to refuse this mark of your goodness, of which I shall 
 preserve during my whole life a grateful remembrance." 
 
 Camilla rose ; her lips were pale ; her bosom palpitated, there 
 was more than vexation in her features, for there were also tears in 
 her eyes : she, however, tried to appear calm while saying, — 
 
 " You refuse me, monsieur ? I ought to have expected it. The 
 motive of your refusal — oh ! I am acquainted with it ; I saw it 
 yesterday — here, in this room. Since it is so, I take my leave of 
 you, but first, you will permit me to return you these twenty 
 thousand francs that you sent me four years ago. This is really a 
 debt I ought to acquit, and you have not the right to refuse me." 
 
 So saying, Camilla placed a pocket-book on the table, and Prosper 
 contented himself with bowing without making any reply. The 
 marchioness then made him a low curtsey, murmuring, — 
 
 " Adieu, monsieur, you will at least permit the Marchioness de 
 Clairville to believe you still her friend ? " 
 
 " It is a title, madame, I shall never cease to deserve." 
 
 Camilla cast one more look at Prosper, and then hastily left the 
 room. Prosper saw the marchioness to the door, and when he re- 
 turned to the room, Pauline ran in breathless, and threw herself 
 into his arms, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Eefused ! you have refused her ! " 
 
 And, unable to support the excess of her joy, she fainted on 
 the breast of him to whom, by these words alone, she had so plainly 
 declared her love. 
 
2l6 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 THE THIRD PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
 Happiness had again returned to the abode of Prosper ; without 
 having yet made an avowal of their mutual sentiments, Pauline 
 and her protector knew how to comprehend each other. The sum 
 the marchioness had returned removed their fears for the future ; 
 yet Prosper seemed unceasingly preoccupied ; he was absent, 
 thoughtful ; Pauline perceived it, and said to him, — 
 
 " My friend, during the fortnight since Madame de Clairville 
 called here, I— I am quite happy, quite contented ; but you have 
 something on your mind ; I wish to know what it is ; are you now 
 sorry for having refused that lady's hand ? " 
 
 Prosper looked tenderly at Pauline, while replying, — 
 
 " Ah ! you don't believe that ! " 
 
 " In short, what have you been continually thinking of for this 
 fortnight?" 
 
 _ "Iwished to conceal it from you, to cause you an agreeable sur- 
 prise, in case I should have succeeded ; but I now plainly feel it is 
 difficult for me to have a thought you did not know. Listen to 
 me. Madame de Clairville has recovered all the property her 
 father the Count de Trevilliers had lost by emigrating ; but your 
 father— yours, my dear Pauline— had also a fortune; in the first 
 place, funds invested with a banker at Antwerp. Without acquaint- 
 ing you with it, I have forwarded your claims to him ; he is a 
 scoundrel, and has denied them. The receipts are lost ; we then 
 must think no more of that money : but M. Derbrouck had pur- 
 chased a very fine estate in Touraine, a few months before his 
 arrest. If it has not been sold as national property, why should 
 you not also recover the estate that belonged to your father, now 
 that the Bourbon government restore to the victims of the Eevolu- 
 tion what they had lost ? " 
 
 " Ah, my friend ! why torment yourself for a little fortune ? 
 Are we not happy now ? We have enough no longer to be in dread 
 of poverty. I assure you I no longer desire anything." 
 
 " And me, my dear Pauline, as your protector — as charged by 
 your dying mother to stand you in lieu of parents, I ought to make 
 every effort to enable you to recover what belongs to you. If I do 
 not succeed, I shall, at least, have done my duty, and will not have 
 to reproach myself with having neglected your interests." 
 
 " But how do you hope to succeed ? You must have protection 
 — you must have the support of persons possessing influence with 
 the government. If for that you must apply to Madame de Clair- 
 ville, I declare to you that I prefer renouncing the property of my 
 father." 
 
 "Madame de Clairville would not hesitate at being useful to 
 you if she could, but it is not to her I mean to address myself. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 217 
 
 Roger, to whom I mentioned the affair, and who, notwithstanding 
 his being so out of humour with the new government, does justice 
 to those amongst its partisans who deserve eulogium, said to me, 
 swearing the while, ' Go and call on the old Duchess de Delmas ; 
 she is well looked on at Court, and has protected several faithful 
 followers of the emperor, who had formerly done her services. She 
 is a woman who possesses the memory of the heart, and that is a 
 good one.' The colonel gave me the duchess's address, and I have 
 decided upon presenting myself to her." 
 
 " What ! without any letter of recommendation ? " 
 " We have no need of them with persons who are willing to 
 oblige, and they are of no service with those who have no wish to 
 
 Pauline made no more attempts to turn Prosper from his pro- 
 ject, though she had not the least hope of it succeeding. Next 
 day,' after dressing himself with more than usual care, and taking 
 with him all the documents necessary for proving the rights of 
 Mademoiselle Derbrouck, he proceeded to the hotel of the Duchess 
 of Delmas, Kue St Dominique, Faubourg Saint Germain. 
 
 Prosper entered the courtyard of the old hotel, that seemed 
 proud of remaining, the same after so many revolutions ; a Swiss 
 barred his passage, saying to him, in a jargon meant to be foreign, 
 and which was only ridiculous, — 
 
 "Where are you going, Sapremein fichtre ? " 
 
 Prosper looked at the soi-disant Swiss, who had an immense 
 wig and bushy moustaches, that hid part of his cheeks ; the brown- 
 red eyes of the man caused him a disagreeable expression, and he 
 hastened to reply to him, — 
 
 " I desire to speak to Madame the Duchess of Delmas." 
 
 "Madame the Duchess is not yet visible, sare — mein Gott /" 
 
 " This is a Swiss who speaks like a Paris cook ! " said Prosper to 
 himself ; and he was going away, when, reflecting, he gave him his 
 card, saying, — 
 
 " Have the goodness to say to Madame the Duchess, that the 
 person whose name is on the card begs her to honour him with a 
 moment's audience." 
 
 The porter, after casting his eyes on the card, gave a convulsive 
 start, and quickly turned round, when Prosper went away, saying,— 
 
 " I shall return in two hours." 
 
 Not knowing how to pass his time until then, and being at a 
 considerable distance from his lodging, Prosper weirt to take a 
 walk in the garden of the Luxembourg. He had been there some 
 time, when an enormously fat woman passed close by him, rather 
 plainly dressed, and who affected to give herself the prim look of a 
 prude, holding a missal in one hand, and on her arm a basket, in 
 which were several small loaves uncovered. 
 
 Notwithstanding the enormous green bonnet which covered her 
 head, the lady cast a side -glance at Prosper, stopped, and then 
 came up to him, crying - at,—- 
 
2i8 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 " I am not mistaken ! it's my dear friend Prosper ! " 
 
 " Ah, my God ! could it be you, Madame Picotin ? All ! how 
 fat you've got !" 
 
 " It's with vexation, my dear friend ! I have undergone so many 
 trials. All these revolutions have been too much for my suscepti 
 bility : we get fat because we no longer know which side to turn.'' 
 
 " And what's become of your husband ? " 
 
 " Ah ! don't mention him to me. Fie ! what a guts ! he ate 
 me out of house and home. I've turned him out of doors." 
 
 " And what is he doing now ? " 
 
 " He deals in rabbit-skins. Ah ! what a stinking fellow ! God 
 be thanked ! I've rid myself of him ; he had become so impious, 
 he shocked me." 
 
 " And your friends the cuirassiers — the dragoons, and the 
 firemen % " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! what are you talking about ? My God ! do you 
 imagine I think anything of those men ? You well know that, in 
 the time of the usurper, we were obliged to be upon good terms 
 with the military." 
 
 " Ah ! you call Napoleon an usurper at present." 
 
 " My God ! I never talk politics ; I no longer think of anything 
 but my eternal salvation. Ah ! I perceive one of our church- 
 wardens, who is to get me put on the list for a ' dame de charite.' 
 Adieu, my dear Prosper; pardon me for leaving you, but I must 
 overtake my churchwarden." 
 
 And Euphrasia began running as fast as her immense corpulency 
 would permit her. 
 
 As Prosper looked after her, he said, — 
 
 " Such is the way of the world. Under the Eepublic, she wanted 
 to represent the goddess of liberty ; under the empire, she wore a 
 riding-habit, and did not miss a review ; now, she wants to be a 
 { dame de charite ! ' My old godfather Brillancour ! there are some 
 people with whom life is but a long comedy." 
 
 Prosper hastened to the duchess's hotel, where the Swiss again 
 opposed his going in ; and, while holding down his head as if to 
 hide his face, said to him with the utmost rudeness, — 
 
 " Madame the Duchess won't see you, sapremann / " 
 
 " Won't see me ! " said Prosper ; " this answer surprises me, and 
 I can't believe it." 
 
 " Go out of this at t'instant, sare ; I am forbidden to let you enter 
 —fichtremann /" 
 
 The porter's incivility gave Prosper a great inclination to 
 chastise him, but he restrained himself, and went away, saying, — 
 
 " It's not by thrashing that man I shall serve the interests of 
 Pauline." 
 
 Prosper returned home quite dispirited, and communicated the 
 failure of his attempt to Pauline ; who, far from taking it to heart, 
 said to him, — 
 
 "J had foreseen it, my friend, but you wouldn't believe it. 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 219 
 
 "Well ! don't think any more of enriching me ; I repeat to you, that 
 I do not place my happiness in the greater or the less amount of my 
 fortune." 
 
 Prosper made no reply ; he seemed resigned. But next day, on 
 returning into his drawer the black pantaloons he had worn the day 
 before, his eyes fell upon an object he had not looked at for a long 
 time. It was the white satin breeches left him by his godfather, 
 and all that remained to him of his legacy. 
 
 Prosper took out the breeches, and examined them ; then, all at 
 once, as if struck with a sudden idea, he put them on, with a pair 
 of white silk stockings, a dimity waistcoat, and his best coat ; and 
 thus set off, presented himself before Pauline, who burst out laugh- 
 ing, and said, — 
 
 " Ah ! My good friend, where then are you going thus accoutred 
 with white satin breeches ? " 
 
 " I am going to the Duchess de Delmas." 
 
 " You can't think of it ; her door was shut against you yester- 
 day." 
 
 " I will make another attempt to-day to see her." 
 
 " But these satin breeches ? They might pass at a ball, and even 
 then—" 
 
 "But, dear Pauline, my godfather's breeches have always 
 brought me luck ; I wish to try these, which are the last of my 
 legacy. Tax me with superstition, with folly — whatever you will, 
 but I wish to make the experiment. Only just call a coach for me, 
 for I can't go on foot in this costume." 
 
 The coach was called ; he got into it, and reached the duchess's 
 hotel. 
 
 As Prosper was crossing the court, without speaking to the 
 porter, the terrible Swiss came out of his box and ran after him, 
 crying out, — 
 
 " Ah ! that's the way you get into hotels, is it ? I told you yes- 
 terday, that Madame the Duchess wouldn't see you, why do you 
 come again ? sapremann ! " 
 
 " Because I can't believe that Madame the Duchess of Delmas 
 has given the order you tell me of ; because I must absolutely 
 speak to her." 
 
 " You sha'n't speak to her— you sha'n't go in." 
 
 The concierge had been to fetch his big cane, and brandished it 
 in front of Prosper, who seemed disposed to take the cane and 
 break the fellow's head with it. In the meantime, some of the 
 servants, attracted by the noise, had run into the court, and were 
 going to take their comrade's part, when a casement was thrown 
 open on the first storey, and an old lady looking out, exclaimed, — 
 
 " My God ! what's the matter then in my court ? Why this 
 noise ? these shouts ? " 
 
 Prosper guessed it was the duchess, and running under the 
 window, made her a low bow, saying, — 
 
 " ^e kind enough to excuse me, Madame the Duchess \ but I 
 
220 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 m 
 
 called to solicit a moment's interview with you. I gave my card 
 yesterday to your Swiss, and he says you refuse to receive me. I 
 have not believed that answer, madame ; for I had put under my 
 name that I came to solicit a service, and I know that with you it 
 is a title of recommendation." 
 
 The old lady gave Prosper a slight nod. "While he was speaking, 
 she seemed struck with his dress, and when he had finished, she 
 said to the Swiss, — 
 
 " "What is the meaning of all this, Goulard ? You didn't give 
 me the gentleman's card yesterday, and without my order you 
 permit yourself to forbid him my door. You shall answer to me 
 for your conduct presently. Monsieur, give yourself the trouble 
 to come up." 
 
 " Goulard ! " muttered Prosper, on passing the concierge. u Gou- 
 lard ! Ah ! I am no longer astonished at meeting with so bad a 
 reception ! "Wretch ! I am then destined to meet with you every- 
 where." 
 
 Goulard dared not reply, but hastened to hide himself in his 
 box, and Prosper was at length introduced into the duchess's apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Madame the Duchess de Delmas was a woman of sixty and 
 some years ; her features, which must have been very handsome, 
 still retained an habitual, amiable, gracious and intelligent expres- 
 sion ; she had of nobility only that which constitutes its charm ; 
 manners full of distinction, an extreme politeness, and something 
 that inspired confidence and respect. She made a sign to Prosper 
 to take a seat, and begged to know the motive of his visit. 
 
 On seeing himself so well received, Prosper felt his hopes re- 
 vive, and without any preamble, without seeking for pompous 
 phrases to embellish his narrative, he stated the motive that 
 brought him, and related to the duchess how the mother of 
 Pauline had perished. 
 
 "When he pronounced the name of Derbrouck, the duchess uttered 
 an exclamation and interrupted Prosper, saying to him, — 
 
 " Derbrouck ! a Dutch banker, who resided at Passy ! I have 
 been acquainted with him, monsieur ! He has several times ren- 
 dered me service by forwarding funds to me in the retreat where I 
 was concealed. And it is for his daughter you are come to demand 
 my protection. Ah ! I shall think myself too happy if I can be of 
 use to the child of that unfortunate man ! From henceforth don't 
 be in the least uneasy ; this business becomes my own, and if the 
 unfortunate Derbrouck's estate has not been sold, I promise you it 
 shall be restored to his daughter before long." 
 
 Prosper abandoned himself to all the effusion of his gratitude, 
 which the old lady put an end to by saying, — 
 
 " Monsieur, I am now going to own something to you that will 
 appear singular, but I hope you will excuse it. You wear a pair of 
 white satin breeches, which have immediately interested me in your 
 favour, and I must tell you why. Now, my husband wore one 
 
The Man with the three Pair of Breeches, ^21 
 
 exactly similar at our marriage ball. These have certainly not 
 been made for you." 
 
 " No, madame, they came to me from a godfather, whose legacies 
 have always brought me good fortune, and this day affords me 
 another proof of it." 
 
 "You certainly think that it is not your costume which has 
 determined me to receive you. However, on seeing a man disput- 
 ing in the court with my Swiss, I might, perhaps, have hesitated to 
 listen to you, if your dress had not prepossessed me in your favour. 
 Paidon me this weakness, monsieur. I am old, and I love every- 
 thing that reminds me of my young days. But that don't prevent 
 me from interesting myself in the happiness of those who have 
 come after me." 
 
 " Madame, when persons are as beneficent, as good as you are, 
 they deserve the respect and the love of everyone. You would make 
 the republicans cherish the nobility." 
 
 " Ah ! my God, monsieur, if all were willing, it would, perhaps, 
 be very easy to understand each other ! What I can't conceive, is 
 that idea of my concierge, who told you I refused to see you." 
 
 " Madame, you remind me of a person I had forgot while with 
 you. In relating to you the misfortunes of the Derbrouck family, 
 I spoke to you of a wretch who, after having denounced the banker, 
 had also wanted to have Pauline's mother arrested." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, well then ? " 
 
 "Well, then, madame, the name of that [infamous man was 
 Goulard. It is the same who is now your Swiss." 
 
 " He ! such a monster in my house ! Oh, my God ! the wish to 
 do good then also exposes us to succour crime ! That man presented 
 himself to me as a victim of the Revolution, as having been denounced 
 during the reign of terror, and, notwithstanding the vulgarity of 
 his language, I consented to take him into my service ; but he 
 shall no longer sully my hotel by his presence." 
 
 The duchess rang the bell, and on a valet appearing, she said to 
 him, — 
 
 " Signify to Goulard that I order him to leave my house this 
 very instant." 
 
 The valet was going away, when the old lady called him back, 
 and, delivering him a purse, resumed, — 
 
 "We mustn't, however, turn even the guilty away, without giv- 
 ing them the means of procuring a living. It would be exposing 
 them to commit faults again. There, give the man that, but let 
 him go directly." 
 
 " And now," said the duchess, addressing herself to Prosper, " I 
 am going to occupy myself with your interesting proUgee. I 
 have your address ; you shall hear from me. Adieu, monsieur." 
 
 The old lady held her hand out to Prosper, who carried it to 
 his lips, exclaiming, — 
 
 " What do I not owe you, madame ? so many favours ! " 
 
 " No, monsieur, no — you owe me nothing. It wo aid be rather 
 
222 The Man with the Three Pair of Breechet 
 
 my place to thank you, since, by your means, I have driven from 
 my residence a man who dishonoured it, and I shall restore, I hope, 
 the inheritance of her father to a poor orphan." 
 
 Prosper again bowed, and took leave of the duchess. On cross- 
 ing the court, he looked into the porter's lodge ; but Goulard was 
 already gone. 
 
 Prosper got into the coach and returned home. By the joy 
 that sparkled in his eyes, Pauline guessed that this time he had not 
 made his journey in vain. 
 
 "My godfather has again brought me good fortune, ;; cried 
 Prosper, pressing the orphan's hands within his. " It is impossible 
 to meet with a more worthy woman than that Duchess de Delmas. 
 Your fortune will be restored to you — at least I hoDe so, and 
 then—" 
 
 " And then ? " replied Pauline, looking at him. 
 
 " Well, my mind will be at rest as to your future happiness." 
 
 " Don't let us natter ourselves yet, my friend ; but let us hope ; 
 I am quite willing to do so, and besides, I see it gives you pleasure." 
 
 Three weeks passed away, at the end of which Prosper received 
 a message from the Duchess de Delmas, requesting him to come to her 
 hotel ; he hastened to obey, and the old lady then delivered to him 
 the title-deeds that restored to the daughter of the banker Der- 
 brouck the property of her father, sequestered under the Eepublic. 
 
 Prosper wished to throw himself at the duchess's feet ; but she 
 stopped the torrent of his acknowledgments by saying, — 
 
 "Go and carry this news to your protegee. Only tell her I 
 shall be very glad at once to see the child of a person who has often 
 obliged me." 
 
 Prosper is intoxicated with joy ; he does not walk, he flies to 
 his lodgings ; he runs to Pauline, he presents her with the title- 
 deeds that restore her fortune, and says to her, — 
 
 " Here — here. Now only I have fulfilled my duty." 
 
 Pauline casting down her eyes, takes the papers, then in her 
 turn presents them to Prosper, saying, in a voice trembling with 
 emotion, — 
 
 " If I am happy at recovering this fortune, it is only to share it 
 with you. Well, then, you will not refuse me, I hope." 
 
 Prosper could not resist his feelings ; he pressed the orphan in 
 his arms, exclaiming, — 
 
 " It is then true ? could you have loved me ? " 
 
 " Can you ask me ? And you, monsieur, you ? " 
 
 " Ah, Pauline ! have you not comprehended why I no longer 
 loved Camilla ? But to ' possess your love ! I dare not believe in so 
 much happiness. Think, then, that I am thirty-nine years old, 
 seventeen years more than yourself. To me you are so young." 
 
 " So much the better, my friend — I shall have the more time to 
 love you." 
 
 In a month after, Pauline, who had been to thank the Duchess 
 de Delmas for her protection, became the wife of Prosper Bressange, 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 223 
 
 and as witnesses of this union, there was Maximus, who had con- 
 sented for once to quit the village where he lived, to share in the 
 happiness of his friend ; the brave Roger, colonel upon half pay, 
 who on that day again found his good humour, and swore much 
 less ; lastly, Poupardot and his wife, who did not bring their three 
 sons, because the eldest, Navet, had run away from home to seek 
 his fortune ; the second, Napoleon, was at college, and the third, 
 Ignatius, had just been vaccinated, 
 
 At the moment the company were leaving the church to get 
 into the carriage, Prosper perceived a wretched dealer in rabbit 
 skins in custody of a gendarme ; leaving his company for a moment, 
 , he inquired what offence the poor " industriel " was charged with, 
 and learnt he had been taken into custody for being unable to pay 
 for the dinner he had eaten in a neighbouring cabaret. 
 
 Prosper made the gendarme take his prisoner back to the house, 
 where he paid the demand against him, and slipped a purse into 
 the hand of the rabbit-skin dealer, in whom he had recognised 
 Euphrasia's husband, the unfortunate Pico tin. 
 
 The new married couple needed not the pleasures and the noise 
 of Paris to render them happy. Their plan was already formed ; 
 it was on the fine estate restored to Pauline that they were going 
 to enjoy happiness and peace. 
 
 " I hope, my friends, that you will come to see us in Touraine," 
 said Prosper to his witnesses. 
 
 " Yes, I shall go sometimes," replied Maximus ; " the picture of 
 your happiness will make me forget my past illusions." 
 
 " As for me, I shall often go," said Roger ; " for when with 
 good friends like you, I shall be able to swear, to smoke, and to 
 growl quite at my ease ; and then I shall talk of my campaigns, of 
 my emperor, and there I shall be listened to with pleasure." 
 
 "And we," said Poupardot, " we shall certainly also go and see 
 you, excepting we shouldn't have time, and my wife should give 
 me a fourth son, which would greatly astonish me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER— EPILOGUE. 
 
 It was in the month of July, that a gentleman of some fifty years 
 was walking with a lady who might be thirty-seven, but who was 
 fresh and pretty, along the Boulevard des Italiens, on their return 
 to the Rue Montmartre. The lady seemed uneasy, and often looked 
 first on the one side then on the other. Soon she said to the 
 gentleman on whose arm she was leaning, — 
 
224 *& e Man with the Three Pair of Breeches, 
 
 " My dear Prosper, let us make haste back to our hotel. We 
 have completed all our purchases, we have bought our children 
 all they asked of us ; I could wish we were already gone from 
 Paris." 
 
 " And why so, my dear Pauline ? I easily conceive your desire 
 to see our children again. I also long to em brace them. But you 
 have no reason to be uneasy ; we have left them at home in 
 Touraine, because it would have been very inconvenient to have 
 brought three children with us in the little journey we have jusb 
 made to Paris ; but they are with a good governess and honest 
 servants, who love them, and we have worthy neighbours, who will 
 go to see them every day ; we ought then to be perfectly easy 
 respecting them." 
 
 " Nor is it that which makes me uneasy. But I am afraid at 
 Paris. It seems as if something — that all is not quiet in this 
 town." 
 
 " Come, my dear friend, you alarm yourself without occasion. 
 Though, certainly, since we inhabit Touraine, I am an entire 
 stranger to politics." 
 
 " We are to travel post, are we not, my dear ? " 
 
 " Without doubt, since you wish it." 
 
 " The horses and post-chaise will come and take us up at the 
 hotel?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I don't wish to go without bidding farewell to our 
 friends Maxiinus, Roger and the worthy Poupardots. They are 
 to come and dine with us to-day. They are perhaps waiting for 
 us while we were making our purchases. We shall soon know, 
 for here we are." 
 
 " And the post-chaise in the courtyard all ready ! " said Pauline, 
 who seemed enchanted at seeing the vehicle. 
 
 Prosper and his wife hastened up to their apartment, where 
 they found their friends expecting them ; but they all seemed 
 very agitated, and Eliza seemed all of a tremble. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, then?" said Prosper. "What 
 has happened ? Are we not going to sit down to table ?" 
 
 " Oh ! dinner is quite out of question," cried Eliza, " when they 
 are going to fight in Paris ! " 
 
 "To fight?" 
 
 " Why, yes," said Maximus ; " you know nothing, you — but a 
 great revolution is preparing here." 
 
 " Can it be possible ! " 
 
 " You don't read the journals, then," said Poupardot, " or you 
 must plainly have foreseen something was going to happen." 
 
 " Ah ! my God ! I no longer read anything ! " 
 
 "For my part," said Roger, "I don't see why that should 
 prevent our dining ; for if we are to fight again, it's not forbidden 
 to get strength beforehand." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " cried Pauline, clinging to her husband's neck, 
 " let us set off directly, I entreat you ; don't let us wart till it 
 
The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 225 
 
 becomes impossible. Our children are expecting us ; take pity on 
 my alarm, my fears." 
 
 "Your wife is right," said Maximus; "since your post-chaise 
 is all ready for you below, it would be as well for you to go at 
 once— to-morrow you will perhaps no longer have it in your 
 power." ._ 
 
 "But still, before going," resumed Prosper, "I should like to 
 be certain of what you announce to me, and to know if you don't 
 deceive yourselves. I wanted to know the news, but my wife 
 not being willing to let me go without her, I have just sent some- 
 body, an old acquaintance I saw just now at the corner of the 
 street, poor Picotin, trudging along with his rabbit skins on his 
 shoulder." 
 
 " Picotin ? " 
 
 " Yes, I told him to come here to me at this hotel, if he learnt 
 anything fresh ; and see, there he is coming into the court— he is 
 doubtless looking for me. This way, Picotin, come up to the first 
 floor." . . 
 
 The rabbit-skin dealer came upstairs and stood quite surprised 
 at finding himself amidst his old friends. 
 
 " Well, Picotin, what news ? " they cried out to him from all 
 sides 
 
 "Ah ! good day, my friends ! How's this, you are all of you 
 at Paris ? it's singular how we meet together again." 
 " But tell us then, what news V 
 
 " Oh ! they are beginning to make warm work of it ! On the 
 boulevards they're smashing the lamps, pulling up the trees. I'm 
 told they've been fighting on the Palais Koyal side. If my wife could 
 just fall into the middle of some row and get a clumsy thump or two, 
 she well deserves it, she has two or three times wanted the gen- 
 darmes to lay hold of me. Oh ! you don't know. Just now, in the 
 Eue Saint Honore\ a police spy having wanted to disperse a group, 
 some gamins have run after him, pelting him with stones and mud, 
 and trying to get away from them, he fell like a lump of lead, with 
 his head on a heap of paving stones ; on going up to him, I found 
 it was Goulard, the porter at the house where Maximus formerly 
 lived." . : 
 
 "Goulard !" exclaimed Prosper. Ah ! heaven is just, and the 
 people have avenged me ! Come, my friends, I see that this is really 
 the commencement of a revolution, and this time I think it will be 
 the good one." 
 
 " The good one," said Maximus, " was in eighty-nine, but they 
 spoiled it for us." 
 
 " The good one, said Eoger, " was the empire ; but Napoleon 
 is dead." 
 
 " The good one," said Poupardot, " was the restoration, excepting 
 
 flip \ rm^flPK^ 
 
 " The good one," said Eliza, embracing Pauline, " would be that 
 in which we should not lose anything." 
 
 p 
 
226 The Man with the Three Pair of Breeches. 
 
 Prosper got into the post-chaise with his wife, and said, shaking 
 each of his friends by the hand, — 
 
 " I am ignorant of the destiny futurity reserves for France ; all 
 I can now do, is to offer up prayers for the glory and happiness of 
 my country." 
 
 THE END 
 

THE 
 
 PUOELLE OF BELLEVILLE. 
 
 Translated from the French 
 
 OF 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK, 
 
 BY 
 
 T. UEQUHAET. 
 
 Xonfcon: 
 MATHIESON & COMPANY. 
 
CONTENT 8. 
 
 CHAP, 
 
 I. The Panokama Arcade, . 
 II. The Young Nobleman, . 
 III. An Interior, 
 
 IV. The Effects of the Chocolate, 
 
 V. The Two Girls, . 
 VI. Virginie's First Waggery, 
 
 VII. The Work goes bravely on, 
 VIII. The Cuirassier, . 
 IX. The Fete Champetre, 
 X. The Letter to the Aunt, 
 XI. An Intended Victim, 
 XII. Real Love, 
 
 XIII. The Assignation, 
 
 XIV. The Count's Visit to Troupeau, 
 XV. The Messenger, . 
 
 XVI. The Journey, 
 XVII. The Aunt's Establishment at Senlis 
 XVIII. The Desertion — The Expulsion, 
 XIX. More Love and More Folly, 
 XX. A Night of Adventures, 
 XXI. The Cockchafers, 
 XXII. A Maiden's Resolution, 
 
 XXIII. The Seamstress, . 
 
 XXIV. The Conclusion, . 
 
THE PUCELLE OF BELLEVILLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE PANOKAMA ARCADE. 
 
 HE Arcade near the Panoramas is the best-situated and most 
 frequented " Passage " in all Paris, and for several reasons ; 
 namely, the handsome streets in its immediate vicinity, the 
 print-shops, with their admirable likenesses and busts of cele- 
 brated persons, and other individuals who only render themselves 
 ridiculous in obtaining an unenviable notoriety ; from its pastry-cooks, 
 milliners, tailors, hatters, dressmakers and glovers ; its liveliness, and above 
 all from its total abstinence of that thorn in the side of all fashionable 
 people — the " vulgar crowd." In it you seldom encounter drunken fellows 
 in waistcoats, with their shirt-sleeves tucked up to the elbows, and ugly old 
 women, redolent of tobacco, with gaudy-coloured cotton kerchiefs twined 
 around their heads — not that I have any extraordinary high opinion of the 
 morality of people dressed in stove-pipe hats, broadcloth, silks, satins and 
 lace — but at any rate I hate vulgarity, and it appears to me that even some 
 good is attained by observing the conventionalities of good society, especi- 
 ally in this age of deterioration, where fast young men think it the thing to 
 smoke on the public promenades, roll along the streets without caring how 
 they annoy the passers-by, and going to balls and evening parties with dirty 
 hands and boots. 
 
 The Arcade contains within its fertile bosom all that can minister to 
 the wants, luxuries, and tastes of man and woman. Does anyone require to 
 be newly clad from head to foot, he will find there tailors, bootmakers 
 and hatters, coats, boots, hats, pantaloons and waistcoats ; he may enter it 
 with all his habiliments shabby or worn out, and leave it a perfect exquisite, 
 with a rapidity of change we see only in a pantomime ; does he wish to dine, 
 he will find there a first-rate restaurant ; does he only want to take some 
 slight refreshment, he will find a succession of coffee-houses profusely orna- 
 mented with pictures, statues, and gilt-mouldings ; and does he wish to 
 while the time away with a newspaper, a pamphlet, or a book, he will find 
 a well-appointed reading-room ; does he want — in fact everything that can 
 
 A 
 
2 The Pucelle of Belleville, 
 
 be imagined is to be found in this Arcade, so that at all seasons of the year, 
 and at all hours of the day — be the weather fair or foul — there are always 
 crowds of people to be met with there. 
 
 In the morning — that is about ten o'clock, for folks are quite fashion- 
 able in this Arcade — clerks in the government offices and men who are 
 early on the Stock Exchange begin to travel through it ; soon after come the 
 " travellers," who are in a hurry to display the samples and patterns of their 
 various wines, spirits, wares, and various manufactures to the shopkeepers ; 
 then old female servants and young girls who have been sent out to execute 
 commissions — but very few grisettes, seeing it is not their quarter of the 
 town. No one is in the shops as yet — not even children with their nurses 
 at the confectioner's ; but, as soon as twelve o'clock has struck, the ladies 
 commence showing themselves in their pretty walking morning dresses, in 
 which they generally look by far more charming and engaging than in the 
 most finished evening toilettes and elaborate costumes. The dear creatures 
 have come out merely to take the air, without any definite, precise object, 
 to see the fashions and admire the new things in the drapers' windows, and 
 so they stop frequently before the splendid panes of glass to express their 
 opinions upon the merits of a dress or shawl. And who can enter into a 
 woman's mind and say what thoughts the contemplation of that dress may 
 raise ! At this very moment, whilst that lady is gazing at the satin so 
 intently, she is murmuring to herself, — " How pretty it is, and so becoming, 
 
 I am sure, to my complexion ! I will buy it and wear it at Doctor B 's 
 
 party to-morrow evening ; perhaps that young barrister who is such a con- 
 noisseur in dress will admire me in it, and at any rate my fat, coarse cousin 
 Angelina, who thinks so much of herself, will die with rage when she sees 
 me wear it. Yes, I'll buy it, and send it to the dressmaker's this very 
 afternoon." 
 
 At two o'clock ladies of fashion become more numerous, and here and 
 there you may espy indications of a rendezvous, but the Arcade is not really 
 very convenient for this description of appointment ; love and gallantry 
 always flourish best in mystery ; here you risk being seen — that is if you 
 are at all known about town — and therefore, readers, take good advice, and 
 if you have a love affair on hand, go to some other part of Paris, where you 
 will not find so many people in your way. But the most fashionable locality 
 for assignations and rendezvous is the pastrycook's shop, where from two 
 o'clock till three it is hardly possible to obtain standing room, and it is a 
 service of difficulty to make your way to the steam oven on which the tempt- 
 ing little tarts are placed. Those unfortunate beings who happen to be in 
 the background murmur at the good luck of those whose hands are within 
 reach of the ministering priestess of the savoury shrine, and sometimes 
 vehement outcries are heard against those hungry votaries whose appetites, 
 apparently, will never be appeased. And yet the frequenters of the shop 
 are not vulgar females in leather and cotton aprons, dirty, greasy bonnets 
 and sealskin caps, like the customers at a penny pudding stall, but people 
 in the highest classes — elegant young women, be-ringed, coquettish, liquorish, 
 be-laced, be-flounced, be-rouged old dowagers, officers of superior rank, with 
 the ribands of various Orders at their buttonholes, amorous old men parad- 
 ing with no very honourable intentions, seeking what lambs they may 
 devour, and young men with short or flowing locks, moustachios and beards 
 of every cut and hue, all cramming themselves with cakes and patties, 
 digested with small glasses of wine and cherry brandy, according to the 
 difference of age and sex. 
 
 But it is in the evening that the crowd becomes so thick that you can 
 scarcely walk ; for after a good dinner at a first-rate tavern nothing is 
 
The Panorama Arcade. 3 
 
 so agreeable as a lazy lounge with an intimate acquaintance in a place 
 of fashionable resort. One gentleman stops to admire the plaster casts, 
 another contemplates the superb bindings of some books, a musician peeps 
 through the window and reads the title of a new song he does not know, 
 an antiquary examines the Dresden vases, the Oriental china and Etruscan 
 jars, whilst a chubby-cheeked boy devours the devices in sugared chocolate 
 with his eyes, and a gourmand gloats upon the ruddy lobsters and the 
 Strasbourg pies. The exquisites stop ever} 7 now and then and direct their 
 eyeglasses at the piquant young women behind the counters in the shops, and 
 these in their turn whisper to each other and make remarks upon the men, 
 although they appear to be intent upon their work, and dare not speak for 
 fear they should be discharged, because milliners' and bonnet-makers' girls 
 deem it a high vaunt and privilege to be enabled to say, — "I am at an 
 establishment in the fashionable Arcade of the Panoramas." 
 
 One evening about eight o'clock, after a lovely summer's day, a thunder- 
 storm came on suddenly, and all those who were promenading leisurely on 
 the Boulevards, listening to the sounds of the itinerant musicians, and enjoy- 
 ing the refreshing breeze, were compelled to seek instant shelter, so that in a 
 few minutes the Arcade was full, and to swell the influx it happened that 
 the first piece at the adjoining theatre was just over and the persons who 
 had come out of it into the fresh air were also driven into the Arcade. 
 Thus it was that two well-dressed, middle-aged men experienced great diffi- 
 culty in forcing their way into the place of refuge. Both were corpulent to a 
 degree, and the shorter one of them made up in circumference what he lost 
 in height ; their faces were not distinguished by any peculiarity of expres- 
 sion, although there was an unmistakable stamp of the retired tradesman 
 upon them, and at the moment they succeeded in squeezing their way, in 
 the heightened colour of their cheeks and a slight thickness of articulation, 
 notwithstanding they spoke loudly, showed that a good dinner and old wine 
 had greatly contributed towards putting them in the very best of humours 
 with all mankind. 
 
 11 By Jove, it is lucky we are in here at last," exclaimed the shorter of 
 the pair, unbuttoning his coat from the throat to the waist. " I am well- 
 nigh wet through ; how are you, Troupeau ? " . . . " Oh, pretty well, no 
 harm to speak of ; how suddenly the rain has come down ! It did not 
 rain during the time we dined ; capital feed, wasn't it ? " . . . " Excellent ; 
 rather dear though ! " . . . " My good fellow, you must pay a good price 
 if you wish to dine well ; it won't do for you and me, men at our ease, to 
 go to a twopenny-halfpenny ordinary." . . . "No, no, we can afford 
 better things. Oh, that exquisite Burgundy has made me all alive ; I could 
 play the devil's own tricks now, VauxdoreV' . . . "And, i' faith, 
 Troupeau, I don't think I should be much behind you." ..." Steady, 
 my boy, steady, though, you know what good advice our wives gave us 
 before we set out for Paris" — (this was uttered with a certain sort of half- 
 tipsy irony) — "mine would scarcely let me accompany you, Vauxdore. 
 Madame Troupeau is dreadfully jealous and awfully exacting about her 
 matrimonial rights, and you know, old fellow, that you've the reputation of 
 being rather — eh ! " . . . " Indeed, and do they say that at Belleville ? 
 What scandalous untruths people will make use of ! " . . . " Speak no 
 harm of Belleville, my good friend, I beg ; respect the dwelling-place of 
 my wife and child." ..." Pooh, pooh ! don't be such a fool, every 
 attention shall be paid to the happy village that contains Madame 
 Troupeau, I assure you ; besides, have I not had a country-house at 
 Belleville ever since I gave up the floor-cloth and table-cover business, 
 although I do retain one sleeping-room in Paris ? " . . . " Uncommonly 
 
4 The Pacelle of Belleville. 
 
 convenient that ! I should like to have an apartment in Paris myself— for 
 I can afford it, but my wife won't hear of it." ... " Jealous again, eh % " 
 ... " No, not exactly, although, as I said before, she will not hear of 
 separate bedchambers, but she says we might in that case bring our 
 daughter Virginie to town too frequently, and you know how admirably 
 the girl is being brought up." ... " She is never allowed to go out, 
 I have heard." . . . "Ah, my dear Vauxdore, my wife asserts such 
 seclusion is absolutely necessary ; a young daughter is a tender exotic 
 flower that must be cultivated beneath the parental hothouse glass, that 
 her beauties may blossom and be developed in security, free from the rude 
 blasts of the outer air. It's my wife says all that, you know." . ._. 
 " Well, well ; but for my part I find that flowers exposed to the natural air 
 grow as well as those under the glass you mention ; but every woman 
 has her own ideas." ... "I can assure you we have never had any 
 reason to regret the manner in which Virginie is being educated. Heaven 
 be praised ! she is in her seventeenth year and has not the slightest idea 
 
 f " ... " Ah ! innocence in all its purity ! " . . . " Yes ; the other 
 
 day when we were walking in neighbour Bernard's garden we came upon 
 a statue of Mars, and would you believe it the dear girl asked why he 
 hadn't any bosom ; ha, ha, ha ! " . . . " Did she make any inquiries 
 about any other portions of his godship's anatomy?" . . . "Mars was 
 dressed in a tunic, sir ; do you suppose my wife and my aunt would have 
 allowed my daughter to see a statue altogether naked ? My aunt ! Ah, 
 "Vauxdore, there never was such a dragon of propriety and virtue ! But, 
 enough of the women, let us look into the shops." 
 
 The friends approached the window where the statuettes are displayed, 
 and Vauxdore, who came frequently to town and pretended he recognised 
 several of the likenesses, kept crying out, — " There ! there's a likeness ! how 
 extraordinary, how very striking ! " and Troupeau, without having the 
 slightest idea who the figures were intended to represent, continually re- 
 sponded, — " I believe you, I should think so, astonishing correct ! " . . . 
 "What is so correct, may I ask, sir," a gentlemanly man inquired on 
 Troupeau's left. ..." Why, that, sir — that's Thingummy, isn't it, Vaux- 
 dore ? " . . • " Ah ! I do not know 'Thingummy,' " said the gentleman, 
 turnino- on his heel with a gesture of contempt, and Vauxdore, who had 
 still sense euough left to perceive the people round the window were laugh- 
 ing at him, drew his companion away, observing that the crowd was so great 
 he could not breathe, and proposed to enter one of the cafes and play at 
 dominoes, billiards, ecarte\ or any other game for a bowl of punch, for, since 
 the fat citizen had left off business and retired to Belleville, he passed the 
 greater part of his time at cards. 
 
 However, Vauxdore declined gambling in every shape, and proposed 
 going to the theatre for an hour, because he recollected that he was 
 acquainted with one of the musicians in the orchestra, and he was sure, if 
 he asked his friend, that he would introduce him behind the scenes. 
 Troupeau hesitated for some time, having the fear of his better half before 
 his eyes, but Vauxdore represented to him that she would never know it, 
 and that it was probable they might touch the hearts of some charming 
 actresses, so the wine overpowered Troupeau's virtuous determination, and, 
 having entered a cafe, they imbibed some hot rum punch, which com- 
 pletely upset them, and thus discoursed whilst they were drinking it : — 
 " Do you ever go to theatres, Troupeau ? " . . . " No, no, that is, yes ; I 
 think I went once about thirteen years ago, when Virginie was four years 
 old, and I remember speakiDg to the manager to let Polichinel give her some 
 sweets in a paper." ..." Bah ! you are talking of the Marionnettes. 
 
The Panorama Arcade. 5 
 
 I mean a large, grand theatre, where live real men and women play, that's 
 the sort of thing." ..." Oh, yes, I have been three or four times?' . 
 "You see the actors and actresses in their costumes." ... "I don't 
 suppose, Vauxdore, that they perform in their shifts and shirts." . 
 "That isn't what I mean ; I intended to say the costumes of their parts! 
 Why, man alive, I've been behind the scenes, and chatted with Mauliu's 
 Torquatus, and given a pinch of snuff to Uajazet." . . . "Who are they? 
 I never remember seeing either of them at your house." ..." My poor, 
 dear, stupid friend, they are characters in different plays ; Maulius, Hamlet, 
 (Edipus, Othello; they are all tragedies, you know." ... "Oh! yes of 
 course I know that, but the truth is I am rather tired of theatres ; my 
 aunt holds them in aversion, and therefore my wife and I don't go to' the 
 play so often as we used." . . . "Very kind of you to humour the old 
 girl." ..." Listen, Vauxdore, although I am very comfortable with my 
 income, I should not have any objection to increase ; and Mademoiselle 
 Belleavrine, my maiden aunt, has a thousand a year, which was left her by 
 her father, who was a brewer at Senlis." ..." The devil she has ! The 
 old gentleman must have had a roaring trade to leave her that amount." 
 ..." You see, my good fellow, Virginie will have it all, but then the 
 old woman makes a point of superintending her grand-niece's education 
 upon her own plan, and that is the reason she has left her house at Senlis 
 for the present, and come to reside with me. Mademoiselle Belleavrine is 
 a perfect Lucretia, and would faint if she heard of Virginie going to the 
 play; besides, the girl would think it very improper herself." . 
 " Poor little innocent ! not at all like my niece Adrienne • she is mad 
 about theatres." . . . "Oh, not at all like your niece," Troupeau replied, 
 with something like disdain, " quite the contrary, I should think • 
 Mademoiselle Adrienne is too gay, too thoughtless, does nothing but laugh 
 all day ; but "—(and then he looked round the cafe, and emphasised the 
 words in order to create a sensation) — " it is getting late, so let us go be- 
 hind the scenes." 
 
 With this intent the retired tradesmen rose and walked very unsteadily 
 into the street, buoyed up with the fumes of the wine and the punch, and 
 their own importance, and Vauxdore having found his friend, the musician 
 in the orchestra, they were conducted by him up the ladder that led to the 
 stage, and when they reached the wings, adjusted their cravats, pulled up 
 their collars, and smoothed their wristbands to make a great impression 
 upon the ladies, and looked superciliously at two firemen who were standing 
 by, and whom they mistook for some of those useful occasional assistants 
 
 in spectacles denominated in stage parlance "supes," that is for the 
 
 benefit of country folks— "supernumeraries." . . . " Take care, gentle- 
 men," said the musician, who preceded them; "place yourselves here, but 
 pray do not move, because this is a fairy piece, with a great deal of machin- 
 ery, and if you get in the way you may perhaps be hurt." ... " Thank 
 you, my good friend," Vauxdore stammered, "but we know what the 
 inside of the theatre is. I've been behind a thousand times, almost played 
 once." ... "So much the better ; you will see very well there, but, as 
 the piece is about to commence, I must run back to the orchestra. Remain 
 where you are, and I will rejoin you when the melodrama is at an end." 
 
 Notwithstanding Vauxdore"'s vaunted acquaintance with the secrets of 
 the prison-house behind the curtain, this was the first time he had ever been 
 in the position he then occupied, and he and his friend Troupeau were all eyes 
 and ears for everything that was going on around them. On every side 
 they beheld females, their faces covered with paint, and wearing turbans 
 on their heads, and flesh-coloured tight pantaloons, and many with paste- 
 
6 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 board coats of mail ; some of the women laughed and chattert^, some sung 
 snatches of airs, and others put a pin here and there in each other's dresses ; 
 some cut entrechats, spun pirouettes, and lifted their feet to the level of 
 their shoulders ; and all laughed in their sleeves at the puzzled, half -tipsy, 
 comic, amazed expression upon the countenances of the inhabitants of Belle- 
 ville. Vauxdore was impressed with the idea that he and his friend had 
 produced an effect upon the giggling women, and, at the end of the act, pro- 
 posed to take a turn amongst the beauties; seeing two pretty Turkish 
 brunettes, burnt-umber Odalisques, to whom they desired to pay court, 
 they advanced on the stage, where the carpenters were setting a scene for 
 the opening of the next act, and, hearing cries from the flies to stand out of 
 the way, stepped aside hastily, just in time to avoid an Arabian palace 
 descending upon their heads ; but their situation was not bettered in any 
 way, for they were pushed unceremoniously aside by the scene-shifters, 
 amongst windows that did not open, and doors that did, to the great amuse- 
 ment of the figurantes, until they took refuge underneath a tree, and had 
 hardly taken their places below its spreading branches than the boards 
 gave way steadily but rapidly beneath their feet, and all the Tartars, 
 figurantes, scenes, wings, audience, orchestra, and slips disappeared from 
 their astonished eyes : down — down they went, as into a murky, bottomless 
 abyss, thinking they were utterly lost, until they found themselves, with 
 a slight shock, thrown from their stand, and in their tremor they fell upon 
 the solid floor. 
 
 Not knowing nor conceiving where they could be in the dark, the two 
 friends shouted as loudly as if they were in the personal clutches of the 
 fiend. The prompter and some of the servants came to them with lights, 
 to deliver them from the perilous gulf, and conducted them again to the 
 upper regions of the theatre, and offered to place them in a better situation, 
 but all their ideas of achieving the conquest of the enchanting female 
 histrionics were entirely dispelled, and they would not believe themselves 
 in safety until their feet touched the pavement of the street. Vauxdore' 
 felt himself all over to ascertain whether any bones were broken, as he said 
 nothing should induce him to risk his life and limbs behind the scenes 
 again. Troupeau swore his Aunt Belleavrine was right in declaring that 
 theatres were places of perdition. Vauxdore' had a scratch on his nose, 
 which he said he should tell his wife was caused by an awkward hackney- 
 coachman's whip. Troupeau found he had a bump on the forehead, which, 
 he intended to tell his fifth rib, had arisen from a drunken fellow running 
 against him, and both went to their beds, affirming they never wished to be 
 in the company of any actresses again. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 
 
 Midday had struck by all the clocks in the fashionable Chaussee D'Antin 
 when a gentleman, under thirty years of age, with curly black hair and 
 moustachios, and eyes and cheeks slightly haggard from continued dissipa- 
 tion, lay in bed in a handsomely furnished apartment, not asleep, but 
 stretching his limbs, fatigued with sitting up night after night at gaming- 
 houses or at balls. Presently the bell at the doer was rung, and the valet, 
 on presenting himself in his master's room, was received first with an 
 
The Young Nobleman. 7 
 
 inquiry as to what animal was boring him so early, and secondly, with 
 a threat of discharge if he did not do his duty better and keep away those 
 wretched duns. The servant excused himself by saying it appeared that 
 all the Count De Senneville's creditors had agreed to meet at his door 
 that morning, asserting each after the other that he had promised to pay 
 them, and further, he stated the present claimant was a German tailor, who 
 was so stupid as not to understand that his lordship was- still asleep, and 
 swore that he would not go away without his money. . . . "Ah, ha! 
 if that is the case," replied the Count, "put the foils, the broadsword, and 
 the Turkish sabre on the table, and presently admit the gentleman." 
 
 The Count was out of bed in an instant, slipped on a pair of trousers 
 and a dressing-gown, took up one of the foils, and was lunging vigorously 
 against the wall as his valet ushered in a little, meagre man, who bowed . 
 to the ground as he said he " was very happy to see Monseigneur the 
 Count." . . . "Ah! it's you, Kirchmann, is it ?" said the Count, without 
 discontinuing his exercise ; " by what chance is it that you are here ? " . . . 
 " Not any chance at all, my lord ; you know your lordship promised me 
 that to-day — " ..." Yes, I know that I promised you, but I have 
 plenty of things to do to-day ; two men to kill, Kirchmann, what do you 
 think of that ? By Heaven, you shall serve me for a figure to practise 
 at." ... " What, my lord ? " . . . " Here, all you Germans are 
 swordsmen, take this foil, and put yourself in guard ; you cannot be hurt, 
 there is a good strong button at the end." So saying, the Count attacked 
 the tailor, who had no idea of the use of weapons, and, whilst retreating 
 round the room, was hit all over the belly, chest, and face, until he could 
 not stand it any longer, and, throwing the foil down, cast himself upon 
 a chair, and declared that he was vanquished. 
 
 " Well," quoth the Count, "if you have had enough of the foils, we will 
 take a turn at the broadsword or the sabre, but they require more caution, 
 because they are sharp, and you may get wounded ; but don't fear, my good 
 man, I will strike as gently as I can, and when we have breathed ourselves 
 a bit we will talk of your account." . . . " I thank you, my lord," said 
 the tailor in a mortal fright, having the fear of instant death before his 
 eyes, ' ' but I am in such a hurry that I cannot afford time to stop any 
 longer ; I will come another day, when your lordship will not have quite so 
 many men to kill." . . . "Stop, Monsieur Kirchmann, I assure you 
 I will settle your account this day ; only two or three cuts with the sabre 
 by way of practice, and a pistol shot, and all will be right, they will not 
 occupy more than five minutes." . . . The unfortunate tailor did not 
 stop another minute, but fled from the room as hastily as if the house were 
 about to fall, whilst the Count threw himself on a couch, and burst into 
 a hearty fit of laughter. 
 
 When he had sufficiently indulged his merriment, he said, — " You see, 
 Leblond, there are always ways and means of getting rid of importunate 
 creditors. That was a capital idea, of mine with the money-lending Jew 
 the other day. The extortionate old thief swore he would not quit the house 
 without being paid, but I soon unearthed the rascal by causing three or 
 four bundles of straw to be set on fire in the yard, when the smoke and 
 the cries of the servants for water and help drove the Israelite away as if 
 the avenger had been at his heels." ..." My lord's invention is inex- 
 haustible in getting rid of such useless vermin ; but, nevertheless, it would 
 be much more agreeable to be in funds." ..." Truly, Leblond, you 
 are right ; but what would you have me do ? There has been a terrible 
 run of ill-luck against me lately at hazard and rouge-et-noir, and my 
 fine landed property in Touraine is so deeply mortgaged that I cannot 
 
8 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 obtain another halfpenny upon it ; my parents ought to have left me a 
 larger income, for, what with my necessary expenses for pleasures, and my 
 ill-luck at play, mine never has been one-half enough. If I had some rich 
 relatives who would oblige me by dying speedily and leaving me their heir, 
 there would be some hope of doing something, but. alas ! I have not even 
 an uncle, or a wealthy, cross old maiden aunt. Upon my life, it is too 
 annoying !"..." Will your lordship return to bed ? " Leblond inquired, 
 assisting the Count to take off his morning-gown. ..." No, Leblond, as 
 I am out of bed, I may as well make my toilette, especially as I have a 
 rendezvous this morning with that antiquated Marchioness whom I cannot 
 keep from running after me, although I hate and detest her with all my 
 heart ; I absolutely tremble to think of the penance I must endure in pass- 
 ing one single hour with her. Last night she happened to be at the same 
 ball as myself, and when she got me into a corner I had to suffer an illimit- 
 able string of reproaches because I had not been near her for a fortnight, as 
 if I could sacrifice my time to the old lady when I had quite a run of good 
 fortune with the pretty dears, and it was incumbent on me to sustain my 
 reputation with the sex. Ah ! Leblond, love is occasionally quite exhaust- 
 ing in its demands. However, I must go to the Marchioness for sundry 
 substantial reasons — although the effort will be worse than poison to me 
 when I think of that delightful blonde I am to meet in the evening ; so 
 quick, bring me some of that chocolate which I only take on extraordinary 
 occasions, and which would make me accomplish the labours of Hercules 
 himself." . . . "I understand, Monsieur the Count ; by-the-bye, what an 
 immense quantity of that chocolate your lordship has taken lately ! " . . . 
 " Hold your tongue, sirrah, that does not concern you ; be off, and let me 
 have the renovating beverage immediately." 
 
 The obsequious valet withdrew with a grin upon his face, and the used- 
 up, worn-out young nobleman muttered to himself, as he went on with his 
 toilette, — " If I could possibly avoid going to the painted hag undoubtedly 
 I would, but I have not a guinea in the world, for I lost my last one at play 
 last night, and a man cannot live — without money. No, no, without that in- 
 dispensable necessary life is merely an existence. Celenie has obliged me 
 several times already, and will do so again, or else assuredly I would not go 
 near her, and then she is so happy when I pretend to love her. Well, well, 
 only let a good-looking fellow make love to a dowager, and he may get on 
 pretty well in Paris ! " 
 
 Leblond returned by the time De Senneville had concluded his soliloquy, 
 and having placed the wonder-working chocolate on the table, proceeded to 
 drape the Count's hair in the most fashionable manner. Whilst so 
 engaged he said, — " I had almost forgotten to tell your lordship that during 
 your sleep there has been a man here from Belleville, and as I knew he was 
 one of the creditors, I sent him about his business ; in fact, he was all polite- 
 ness, and there was not the least trouble in getting rid of him." . . . "Oh, it 
 was Troupeau, I'll bet any wager." ..." Your lordship is quite correct: 
 it was just nine o'clock when he came first, and when he returned at half- 
 past ten I had only to say, — 'The Count is not awake yet,' and off the good 
 man went again." . . . "Bravo, Troupeau ! that fellow now is a jewel of 
 a creditor : here now I have owed hi m upwards of three hundred pounds 
 for bed down-pillows and mattresses for the last five years, and although he 
 has been at least five hundred times for his money, he has never presumed 
 t ) come to my own rooms, but contented himself with leaving his name at 
 the porter's lodge." ... As the Count spoke, a gentle, modest ring was 
 heard at the outer door. Leblond looked at his master as if for instruc- 
 tions, and that worthy nobleman having directed the valet to admit the 
 
The Young Nobleman. 9 
 
 party if he should be the respectable ex-upholsterer, that he might at least have 
 the satisfaction of seeing his lordly debtor once in his life, Leblond with- 
 drew, and re-appeared instantly, introducing Troupeau, his hat in his hand, 
 bowing to the carpet, and scraping, and shaking his head like a Chinese 
 mandarin. 
 
 De Senneville appeared to be delighted, and advanced to the tradesman 
 with a patronising smile, saying, — " My dear Troupeau, how glad I am to 
 see you at last ; how good of you to come." . . . Profoundly astonished 
 with this flattering welcome, Troupeau entirely lost all recollection of 
 where he was ; he almost prostrated himself before the Count, he bowed 
 to Leblond, and to all the pieces of furniture in the apartment in suc- 
 cession ; he twisted his legs together in such an awkward manner that he 
 was near falling in disentangling them, and at length recovering his breath, 
 he stammered out, — "Ah, my lord, I am sensible of the distinguished 
 honour — indeed, your lordship is too good — certainly, on my part: — " . . . 
 " Sit down, my dear Troupeau. Leblond, give the gentleman a chair directly ; 
 I cannot think of his standing for a moment. Will you permit me to finish 
 dressing, my good friend ? " . . . " Oh, my lord, you must be joking ! Do 
 anything you like. I will take a chair, but I assure your lordship it is 
 only in obedience to your will." . . . "Would you believe it, Troupeau, 
 I was talking of you at the very moment you rang the bell ? " . . . " Can 
 it be possible ! What could your lordship have to say about your humble 
 servant ?"..." The fact is that Leblond had just informed me that he 
 had sent you away when you called this morning, and I was reprehending 
 him for his impertinence in doing so. He ought to have awoke me." . . . 
 " Awake you, my lord ! Oh, dear, no ! I came too soon, my lord, but 
 then we are such early people in the country. "... " Ah, you live in 
 the country, do you ? " . . . " Yes, my lord, at Belleville." . . . "You 
 have retired from business, I suppose ? " . . . " Your lordship is per- 
 fectly right ; I have been prosperous, and can live comfortably without 
 troubling myself about a shop." . . . " You are a philosopher, Troupeau, 
 and reason like Epicurus. Do you know him, friend ? " . . . " No, my 
 lord, I cannot say I do. Is he in the upholstery line ? did he make feather 
 beds ? " . . . " No, not exactly, although he was very fond of lying on 
 them. But I am glad to hear that you are at your ease." ..." Possibly, 
 my lord, pretty well-to-do at present, but my income will be increased 
 considerably at my aunt's death." . . . " Ah, ha, so you have an aunt ! 
 I cannot say that I am equally well off. I should not wonder, now, if you 
 have quite a chateau at Belleville ? " . . . " Oh, no, my lord, nothing at 
 all like a chateau, but a very pretty house in the Rue de Calais, the best 
 street in the town." ..." Have you any children, Troupeau ? " . . . 
 " An only daughter, my lord, the unique object of all the cares of my wife, my 
 aunt, and myself. Everything is done to perfect her education and her 
 morals." . . . " And are you satisfied with her, my dear sir?" . . . "Per- 
 fectly, my lord ; she is as a sheet of paper without a blot — pure and unde- 
 filed — innocence itself in a petticoat and chemise ! " . . . " The young 
 lady wears other drapery occasionally, I suppose ? " . . . " Certainly, 
 certainly ; she has been brought up in the strictest principles of morality 
 and decency, and wears drawers invariably." . . . "Drawers! For 
 what purpose, pray ? " . . " Oh, my lord ! for fear that — if by accident, 
 you know, she should slip and fall, or a gust of wind should — it might — but my 
 excellent aunt takes care of everything; besides, she will have it that in our 
 family everybody must wear drawers. The old lady says she has never 
 omitted to wear them all her life. I have worn them ever since I was 
 married ; the housemaid, the cook, and the gardener's wife all wear them, 
 
10 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 in fact, my wife sent a servant away not long ago because she would leave 
 them off on Sundays when she went dancing at the tea-gardens outside the 
 town. Yes, yes, girls who insist upon taking off their drawers when they 
 take walks in the country must have very improper ideas in their heads, and 
 we cannot keep them in our house. When I was in business, my wife 
 would not have let me keep a clerk or a shopman unless she was convinced 
 that he wore drawers. "... " What a treasure of a woman you possess ! 
 Is your daughter pretty, my good friend ? " . . . " "Very, my lord, very 
 indeed ! but, singular to say, she does not take after my wife or my- 
 self." ..." How old is she, Troupeau ? " . . . " Just seventeen, my 
 lord." . . . "Quite of an age to be married." . . . "No hurry at all; 
 my daughter will be rich, and therefore we can afford time to pick our 
 man ; besides, she is such a child yet, and does not know anything of the 
 world ; she amuses herself entirely with her doll, playing at battledore and 
 shuttlecock, and sometimes at draughts." ..." Do you not bring her to 
 Paris occasionally, and take her to the play ? " . . . " The theatres ! Oh, 
 no, she detests them ; we could not get her to remain one minute in the 
 house." ... "It strikes me, Troupeau t that your daughter is very un- 
 like other young ladies. But to business : I think I have a trifling account 
 with you which you have come to settle ; is it not so ? " . . . " Pray do 
 not think, Monsieur de Senneville, that I am here for anything of the 
 kind. I am in funds at present, I assure you ; indeed, I stumbled upon a 
 couple of hundred pounds this morning quite unexpectedly.'' .... " No 
 matter for that, Troupeau, I am always in a hurry to pay my debts ; you 
 might come here again without finding me, and then I should feel vexed." 
 " Not another word at present, my lord, if you will oblige me ; we will talk 
 of business another time." . . . " Well, Troupeau, I must yield, I suppose, 
 but I only do so on condition that you will remain and take your breakfast 
 with me. Leblond, put another cup and plate upon the table, and tell the 
 cook to let us have breakfast directly ; that chocolate must be cold, bring 
 some more hot, and now, Troupeau, to table with a good appetite, I hope." 
 Uttering these words, the Count passed his arm around his good 
 natured dupe's waist, and invited him to place himself at a table spread 
 with an elegant dejeuner a la f ourchette in a handsomely-appointed dining- 
 room. The young nobleman had seen the tradesman's weak point in a 
 moment, and laid a plan for turning it to his advantage by flattering his 
 vanity to the very utmost. He overwhelmed him with his attentions, 
 pressed him to eat and drink, called him "his friend" in every phrase he 
 spoke, offered him other wines if those on the table did not please his 
 palate, and, having fairly intoxicated the man with his adulation, asked 
 him how he came by the large lump upm his forehead. Troupeau related 
 his adventure of the preceding evening at the theatre, at which the Count 
 rallied his friend on his taste for the fair actresses, and then, taking out his 
 watch, observed that the time had passed so agreeably in Troupeau's com- 
 pany that he was not aware it was so late. The upholsterer reeled a little 
 from the effects of the potent wine as he rose to take his leave, but the 
 Count was in despair at his friend quitting him so soon, pressing him down 
 upon the chair again, and remarking that he had a great mind not to keep 
 his appointment with one of his friends, a wild young man at present — but 
 who would be enormously rich some day — and who bad asked him for the 
 loan of two or three hundred pounds. He had obliged his friend frequently 
 before, and would do so again with pleasure — for the repayment of the 
 money was perfectly secure — but as some people he expected had not come 
 that morning — the devil was certainly in all debtors, he thought — his young 
 friend must go without the money for that day. 
 
The Young Nobleman. 11 
 
 Troupeau listened to these insidious, half -uttered observations with an 
 attentive ear, and then exclaimed, with a face radiant with joy, — "My good 
 lord, will you do me a great favour ; will you confer an obligation on 
 me!" . . . " My dear friend, I ask for nothing more delightful ; I shall 
 only be too happy to do anything in my power for you." . . . "Will 
 you then do me the honour to accept the two hundred pounds I have about 
 me, and so oblige your friend ? " . . . "No, Troupeau, I cannot 5> indeed 
 it is impossible, I owe you too much already." . . . "A mere trifle, my 
 lord, not worth speaking of ; I hope you do not think that I came to your 
 lordship—" . . . " Yes, but— " . . . "Now, my lord, if you do not take the 
 money I shall think you do not consider me worthy of your esteem ; I shall 
 be deeply mortified." . . . "Not another word, my friend; if that is 
 really the case I must give in, for I would not hurt your feelings for the 
 world. Give me the two hundred pounds, although I tell you there is 
 not another man in all Paris I would accept them from." ... "I cannot 
 be too grateful for your lordship's preference," and thereupon Troupeau 
 took out four fifty-pound bank notes which he handed, with a humble bow, 
 to the Count, who put them into his waistcoat pocket with a gracious smile, 
 and shook the poor man's hand till his arm ached. 
 
 Both then rose from the table, and Leblond, perceiving that the im- 
 portant business was completed, brought in the invigorating chocolate upon 
 a silver salver, and inquired whether his master could not take it, to which 
 the Count replied in the negative, saying he should not visit the Marchioness 
 that morning ; however, as it was of an extraordinary quality and very rare, 
 perhaps his friend Troupeau would take a cup. The upholsterer excused 
 himself, first, on the ground that he had taken so much wine that he could 
 not drink another drop of anything, but when the Count went on to say 
 that it made a man as strong as an Arabian acrobat — if taken at intervals, 
 for it was too powerful for daily use, that he imported it himself direct from 
 Constantinople, where it was drank by the Sultan, the Grand Vizier, and 
 the Three-tailed Pachas — he could not withstand the temptation, and, taking 
 a cup from the waiter, drained it to the dregs, and asserted it was the most 
 delicious compound he had ever tasted. 
 
 De Senneville said he could not detain his friend any longer, as he was 
 sure that Madame Troupeau must be anxiously expecting him ; he desired 
 the dupe to present his compliments to that excellent lady, and inform her 
 that he would come to Belleville at an early day to do himself the pleasure 
 of making her acquaintance, and that of her lovely, innocent daughter with 
 the drawers, and after shaking him by the hand again in the most friendly 
 manner, bowed him out of the room, and then reclined on an ottoman, ready 
 to die of laughter at the idea of the easy mode in which he had contrived 
 again to place himself in funds. 
 
 As for Troupeau, he strutted along the Boulevards as if all Paris were 
 his property, and was lifted to the Seventh Heaven with the triumph of 
 being able to astound all his acquaintances at Belleville and in the city with 
 the information that he had breakfasted with his fiHend — the noble Count 
 de Senneville. 
 
1 2 The Pucelle of Belleville, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN INTEKIOE. 
 
 One fine morning two females of very distinct physical appearance were 
 to be seen quietly seated in a neat apartment in a house in the pretty little 
 town of Belleville. The elder of them, who had probably attained the 
 mature age of sixty-five, was tall, thin, yellow-skinned, and wrinkled ; 
 her face could not have been pleasing at any period of her life, her deep- 
 set, grey eyes were not unlike those of a horned owl, her mouth preserved 
 the remains of three sharp-pointed teeth, her nose was as long and as 
 hooked as a vulture's, and her chin protruded forward as if to prevent 
 anyone to approach this very common and supremely ugly visage. Such 
 was Mademoiselle Belleavrine, the aunt of Madame Troupeau : and from this 
 sketch of her, readers, you can well understand it was extremely possible 
 for her to have passed through life without taking off her drawers. 
 
 The other was a girl of sixteen or seventeen years of age, of a slight 
 figure, but with rounded, budding beauties which promised to be very agree- 
 able when more fully developed by the agency of time, her bright chestnut- 
 coloured hair was simply turned up with a comb behind, and fell in natural 
 ringlets on her brow, her large blue e3 7 es were soft in their general expres- 
 sion, but sparkled like diamonds as a gay thought flitted through her brain, 
 and her lips, generally prim and compressed, were occasionally assimilated 
 to her eyes with a slight smile of sarcasm and disdain; and, altogether, 
 a physiognomist would have said, on looking at the girl, that much wit, 
 intelligence, and an uncontrollable desire for mischief were concealed under 
 an outward appearance of innocence, candour and demureness. Such was 
 Mademoiselle Virginie Troupeau, who had acquired the cognomen of " The 
 Maid of Belleville," from which it is not to be inferred that she was the 
 only young woman of that pure description in the quiet little town. 
 
 The great-aunt, with spectacles on nose, was busily employed in mend- 
 ing stockings, and the young girl held a large, brass-bound book in her 
 hands, in which she read a few sentences, and ever and anon left off, 
 turned her head round, and stretched her neck to peep out of the window, 
 showing every sign of impatience, and even making a slight grimace when 
 the old lady's eyes were turned another way. 
 
 At the moment we introduced our readers to this ill-assorted couple, 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine said to her niece, in a hoarse, uncouth voice, — 
 " Well, niece, and what is it makes you stop ? "... to which interroga- 
 tory Virginie replied, after placing the book deliberately on the table, — "I 
 really do not know what is the matter with me to-day, aunt, my legs itch 
 all over ; I must have some gnats about me, I am sure." . . . "Where 
 can you have got them, my dear ? You have not been walking in the 
 fields for several days." . . . " But there are gnats elsewhere than in the 
 fields, aunt, for I often see them in our garden." . . . "Well, well, 
 Virginie, continue the reading of the holy book. " . . . " Yes, aunt, but I 
 do not recollect where I left off." . . . " You must pay more attention, made- 
 moiselle." . . . "Ah, here it is, all about Aaron and his children and 
 what was to be done to them. Yes, ' And you shall place a mitre on their 
 heads, and they shall be — and they ' — dear me, how the things do bite ! how 
 troublesome it is to itch so quite high up — on the thigh." . . "Niece, I 
 protest I am shocked at your improper language ; a properly brought-up 
 young lady should never use the word 'Thigh.'" . . . "But what shall 
 I say, aunt, to show where the nasty gnats are biting me 1 " . . . " Say 
 
An Interior. 13 
 
 your femur, it is more lady-like and decent." . . . "Very well, aunt 
 dear ; please may I scratch my femur ? "... "Oh, yes." And Made- 
 moiselle Virginie, without more ado, lifted up her petticoats, displaying a 
 pair of fine cotton drawers enveloping her rounded proportions, under which 
 she passed her hand and scratched away most vigorously. 
 
 "See, niece," ejaculated the old aunt, when the maiden had finished 
 the gratifying operation, " what an admirable invention drawers are. If 
 you had not happened to have a pair on just now, you must have blushed 
 at the exposure even to your aunt." ..." Bless me, aunt, I don't know 
 whether I should have blushed or not, but I do know that I should have 
 scratched myself much more comfortably ! " . . . " Decency before every- 
 thing, my dear." . . . " How is it then, aunt, that all women do not wear 
 drawers ? " . . . " Because it is always difficult in this wicked world to 
 carry good principles into effect ; the women are so weak and misguided, 
 and the men so perverse. But patience, my child, Vice must be over- 
 thrown at last." . . . "Does Vice always go without drawers, aunt ? " 
 ... " Oh, Vice introduces itself to erring mortals in a thousand shapes ; 
 without doubt the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, of Nineveh and 
 Babylon, did not wear a very decent costume." . . . "But Adrienne 
 does not wear drawers, aunt, and she even says it is not right for a woman 
 to be dressed just like a man." ..." Adrienne is a bold, unmannerly 
 girl : she may dress herself as she pleases, it is perfectly indifferent to us. 
 But I desire that you will not make her your companion, and that you will 
 not even speak to her unless your parents or myself are by." ..." Why 
 should I not, aunt? Adrienne is lively and gay, and her conversation 
 amuses me." ..." Too lively a great deal, mademoiselle, and always 
 laughs when men address her ; really it is shocking, quite too bad ! Do 
 you ever see me laugh and giggle when a gentleman asks me how I do ? 
 No, no, niece, no man can ever boast of having laughed and joked with me. 
 Adrienne has been very badly brought up, and, indeed, it could not have been 
 expected to be otherwise with such extraordinary people as her parents : so 
 long as Madame Vauxdore" can eat and drink and stuff herself, and 
 Monsieur can gamble and play at billiards and all sorts of games at cards, 
 they do not trouble themselves about what may become of her. Oh, dear 
 me, such goings on ! But now resume your reading, my dear, you have 
 scratched yourself quite enough, I should think." 
 
 Virginie took up the large book with a sigh, put out her tongue at the 
 old woman slyly, and read as fast as she could, — " ' And you shall take the 
 blood of a calf and place it with your fingers on the horns of the altar.' " 
 . . . "Not so fast, niece, if you please." . . . " ' And you shall take the 
 fat of the entrails, and the membrane that covers the liver — ' Aunt, 
 what is a membrane ?" . . . "Go on, my dear, don't interrupt so often, 
 I quite lose the thread." . . . "What thread have you lost, aunt ? " . . . 
 "The thread of what you are reading. Do pray goon, Virginie." . . . 
 " ' The liver — and the two loins, and the fat that covers them, and you shall 
 burn it — ' Dear me, aunt, burn the fat, how nasty that must smell ! " 
 ..." No, mademoiselle, a burntoffering to the Most High cannot smell 
 disagreeable.". . . " But, aunt, when cook is broiling mutton chops, papa 
 says they smell like burning out a tallow candle, and I am sure that's nasty 
 enough. Oh, oh, there's a gnat biting my bottom ! " . . . " Fie, fie 
 niece, surely my ears cannot have heard aright!" . . . "Why Tie,' 
 aunt, have not I got a—" . . . "Be quiet, do, mademoiselle, and do not 
 shock me with the repetition of that horrid word : instead of using it, you 
 should say your coccial bone." . . . " But it isn't a bone at all, aunt, it's 
 quite round and fleshy." . . . "I repeat, my dear, that is the word you 
 
14 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 must use when you speak of that locality, although you must avoid doing so 
 at all times. Ah, my dear child, when you shall have been five or six 
 months with me at Senlis, I hope you will not commit these extraordinary 
 mistakes." . . . "Do you mean to go back soon, aunt?" . . . "Yes, 
 my dear, and to take you with me. Your parents have brought you up 
 pretty well considering, but you want a certain carriage, an air of making 
 yourself respected, a dignity which annihilates men if they have any sinister 
 designs." ..." And have you ever annihilated any men, aunt ? " . . . 
 " I flatter myself I have." . . . " Now, what did they do, aunt, to deserve 
 it ? " . . . " Nothing, my dear, but they would have, most likely." . . . 
 " What, aunt ? " . . . " There, there, we've had chattering enough. Go 
 back to your pious reading." . . . "Oh, aunt, you always make me read 
 in the big book ! I am quite tired of it, I declare ! " . . . " Then take 
 The Children's Magazine; you may read Beauty and the Beast." ... "I 
 know all the stories in The Children's Magazine by heart." . . . "Dear 
 me, children will always have something new ! When I was your age I 
 was glad to read Tom Thumb every day. Bring me that volume there upon 
 the commode, it is very instructive, and I permit you to read anything in 
 it." . . . " Is it amusing, aunt ? " . . . " Extremely so, as you will see 
 from the title — History of the Wars undertaken by the various Nations 
 of Europe. Begin where I have turned down the leaf." . . . "'The 
 Dutch general was desirous of following up his successes in the East Indies, 
 and threw his army forward with the intention of subduing the aborigines 
 of the Molucca Isles.' What are aborigines, aunt ?"..." Savages, my 
 dear." . . . " ' Erom the Moluccas he^proceeded to Banda and Manilla, where 
 the natives opposed a stout resistance to him, but after concentrating his 
 forces he became victorious in three days.'" . . . "He must have been 
 a great warrior that ! Well, niece, how is it you do not read any more ? " 
 . . . " It is all the same to me, aunt, whether those people in the Indies 
 are conquered or not : I should like to read some other books. Adrienne 
 told me there are some sweet pretty novels and romances. " . . . "Heavens 
 and earth, child, what a pest this Adrienne is ! A novel, a romance, and 
 you dare to ask me to let you read such trash ! Do you not know, Virginie, 
 that those are wicked, impious books, and that a girl is totally lost who reads 
 them ?"..." But Adrienne has read some of them, and you see she is 
 not lost." . . . "Yes, niece, she is, at least she is already three-parts in 
 the gulf. Really, I must speak to Madame Vauxdore* upon the fearful 
 subject." ..." I'm sure I do not wish Adrienne to be scolded, aunt, she 
 is so kind, and arranged my hair for me this morning. Look, aunt, is it 
 not well dressed ? " 
 
 The old aunt lifted her eyes to the young girl's head, and then cried 
 out, — " Good heavens, what do all those twistings and turnings of your hair 
 mean hanging down your cheeks ? " . . . " They are curls in the English 
 fashion, aunt." ..." Your English curls give you the appearance of I 
 don't know what : take them out directly, and put your hair behind your 
 ears as it should be. And your kerchief, too, why is it not crossed upon 
 your neck ? " . . . " Because it is so hot, aunt, I am almost smothered." 
 . . . "Decency first, my dear, respiration afterwards." . . . "But, 
 aunt — " . . . No remonstrances, mademoiselle, I will be obeyed. Come 
 here ; there ! now, with the neckerchief quite high, you will do ; I declare 
 you look just like a little saint. " . . . Virginie yielded herself unresist- 
 ingly to her aunt to be dealt with as she listed, vowing internally that she 
 would give her bosom as much air as she liked when the old woman's back 
 should be turned. 
 
 The arrival of Madame Troupeau interrupted the dialogue between the 
 
The Effects of the Chocolate. 15 
 
 old lady and her grandniece. The spouse of the ex-upholsterer was a fat 
 woman of about forty years of age, wearing a high cap covered with 
 immense bouquets of ribands ; she had two protuberances of hair on her 
 left cheek, but as her friends told her they were beauty spots, she encour- 
 aged their appearance as much as possible by never wearing a bonnet. She 
 affected to be in great alarm at her husband remaining so long in Paris, 
 although she knew he had to look after several persons who owed him 
 money, and said his protracted absence — he having now been twenty-four 
 hours away — caused her so much anxiety that she seemed absolutely to be 
 sitting upon hot coals. What made her fear more than usual for his safety 
 was that he was in company with neighbour Vauxdore, a great libertine, 
 in whose morality she did not place the slightest confidence, and really she 
 could not tell to what evil company he might have been introduced. The 
 old aunt participated in her niece's misgivings, and asked her why she per- 
 mitted her husband to mix with such associates as the Troupeaux ; she 
 had just been informed by Virginie of the infamous fact that the niece 
 Adrienne read novels and romances. ..." Yes," Virginie observed, 
 "she has read Oil Bias and Amadis ; she was speaking to me about them 
 the other day." ..." I'll be bound, now, there's some love stuff in those 
 horrid books." . . . "Oh, Troupeau," said the disconsolate wife, "how 
 cruel of you to leave me in this uncertainty." ... " But, mamma, 
 Madame Vauxdore is not at all anxious about her husband. I went to her 
 house this morning and found her occupied stewing a wild duck with 
 turnips." ... " My dear niece, you give way too much to your feelings ; 
 it is not proper, and would almost make people believe that you could not 
 remain content one night without your husband. It is really quite indecent ; 
 and the best proof that a woman can do entirely without men is that I 
 have never taken one, and yet you see I am not a whit the less comfortable. 
 Ah, if all the women were like me, the men would not give themselves the 
 airs they do." ... At this moment the door bell was rung, and Madame 
 Troupeau rushed downstairs to see whether it was her dilatory, peccant 
 husband. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE EFFECTS OF THE CHOCOLATE. 
 
 On leaving the Count de Senneville, Troupeau strutted down the Boule- 
 vard with his hat cocked jauntily on one side, and soon met his friend 
 Vauxdore, who was quite out of patience waiting so long for him. The 
 upholsterer was never tired of singing the praises of his amiable young 
 friend the Count, but Vauxdore put an end to them by reminding him it 
 was time to return to Belleville, and that their wives would be looking for 
 them. The weather being ' extremely fine, there were a great many people 
 walking out, and Troupeau felt so elated that he would peep underneath 
 the bonnet of every woman he came nigh. After a long delay, and sundry 
 loving squeezes of the hand of a pretty orange girl, the friends reached the 
 Boulevard du Temple, and having entered the omnibus for Belleville, 
 Vauxdore* placed himself next the door, whilst Troupeau sat down close to 
 a plump, comely woman at the upper end of the vehicle, and entered into 
 immediate conversation with his neighbour. . . . "Lean against me, 
 madame, I beg, if you have not room enough ; the ladies never discompose 
 
1 6 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 me in the least." ..." You are very polite, monsieur, but I fear I 
 should annoy you, as you see I am inclined to be rather fat." ..." The 
 greater reason to accommodate you," etc. . . . And so the conversation 
 went on, the woman entertaining Troupeau with an account of her 
 husband's maladies and his strength being so much wasted by continued 
 illness that he was almost good for nothing, and Troupeau pressing her to 
 lean against him, until the good woman asserted that her husband was a 
 scavenger, and the citizen's pressing solicitations were suddenly brought to 
 an abrupt conclusion. 
 
 When the friends arrived at Belleville they separated, each going to 
 his residence, Troupeau, as we have seen, not finding his better half in 
 a very amiable disposition. ... " Good day, aunt," he said, on entering the 
 room ; " Virginie, my love, how do you do ? And wife, kiss me, my dear, 
 and congratulate me on my safe return." . . . "It's all very well, 
 monsieur, but first you must account to me for your unusual absence." . . . 
 " Well, well, my love," he exclaimed, folding her in his arms in a manner 
 that old Mademoiselle Belleavrine thought was positively shocking, " kiss 
 me first, and we will talk of business afterwards." ... " There, monsieur, 
 since you will have it so, and now tell me what has kept you." ... " Oh, 
 you shall know all ; here, Virginie, are some oranges I have brought you." 
 . . . "Thank you, papa." . . . "Surely, Monsieur Troupeau, you did 
 not stop in Paris merely to buy oranges ! I am sure there is something 
 behind all this. Did you see your debtor, the Count de Senneville, sir ? 
 and where were you last night, and what has made you so late to-day ? " 
 . . . Troupeau leaned towards his wife, whispered something in her ear, 
 winked at her, and then, rubbing his hands, said, — "You shall know all 
 about it, my dear, you shall know directly ; I am going upstairs to take 
 off my boots ; come with me, and you shall know." ... So saying, 
 Troupeau danced out of the room, and Madame followed him slowly, 
 wondering what it all could mean. 
 
 As she entered the bedroom, she saw that her husband was in one of his 
 happiest moods, frisking about the room in the most extraordinary fashion, 
 and she declared that he must be mad in behaving in such a singular man- 
 ner, but the good man gave his wife an explanation that apparently satis- 
 fied her, for when she rejoined her aunt in the sitting-room, an amiable 
 smile had replaced the ominous frown that sat upon her brow before she 
 went upstairs. . . . "Well, niece," asked the old woman, taking off her 
 spectacles, "has your husband communicated to you the results of his 
 journey ? " . . . " Oh, yes, dear aunt. It appears that the Count is an 
 exceedingly gentlemanly young man, and treated Troupeau quite like a 
 friend ; indeed, he has given him the entree to his house at all times. He 
 breakfasted with the Count, and drank some very extraordinary chocolate." 
 ..." Indeed ! but is it not time to think of dinner, niece ; we have not 
 all been breakfasting with a count, you know." . . . Thus exhorted, 
 Madame Troupeau cast an eye at the looking-glass to see whether her cap 
 was all right, and proceeded to the kitchen humming the air, " Yes, I will 
 ever faithful be," whilst Virginie remarked, "In what a good humour 
 mamma is since papa went upstairs to take off his boots ! " . . . " Women 
 are too good-natured by half," snarled Mademoiselle Belleavrine; "one 
 word softens them. If I had a husband, he should not turn me round like 
 that ; if once I was in an ill-humour, it should last a whole year, that's 
 certain. Women ought to be more firm, and maintain their dignity." 
 
 In a few minutes Monsieur Troupeau made his appearance once more in 
 his dressing-gown and slippers, and having inquired for his wife, received for 
 answer that she was in the kitchen seeing after the dinner. This seemed 
 
The Effects of the Chocolate. 17 
 
 to annoy him ; he observed that he had breakfasted so heartily that he had 
 not the slightest inclination to eat, and on Madame entering the room with 
 the announcement that the repast would be ready in a quarter of an hour, 
 he whispered again that the socks she had given him hurt his corns, that 
 he could not possibly keep them on, and he wished her to go upstairs with 
 him and get him another pair. The words were no sooner out of his mouth 
 than he left the room with a hop, skip and a jump. Madame Troupeau 
 was all astonishment at her husband's singular behaviour ; she hesitated for 
 a few moments whether she should go after him, and then muttering some- 
 thing to the effect that if the socks were too small they must certainly be 
 changed, she followed her lord and master to the nuptial chamber. 
 
 At the end of the prescribed quarter of an hour, when Babeile, the 
 cook, came to say the dinner was ready, Troupeau and wife had not 
 descended : Mademoiselle Belleavrine made some caustic remarks upon 
 their absence, which she construed into personal disrespect, and observed 
 that if they did not make their appearance forthwith, she would proceed 
 to dine without them ; she had never seen her nephew so fastidious about 
 his feet before, there was no reason that he should give himself such airs 
 because he had chanced to breakfast with a Count. Her hours at Senlis 
 were regular, and she would not wait, but at the moment she was about to 
 take her seat at table the couple reappeared, he marching like a hero all 
 radiant with pride, and she following him, with an expression of merri- 
 ment and fondness in her countenance. ..." We were about to 
 dine without you," said the old maid dryly ; " I cannot conceive why- 
 so much time was necessary to put on a pair of socks." . . . "Pray 
 excuse us, aunt, Troupeau would make me cut a corn that hurt him, 
 and that detained us." . . . " Why does not he do what I have 
 told him to do a hundred times ? Let him apply to them a dock-leaf 
 steeped in vinegar ; that will eradicate them in a few days." ..." Some 
 dock-leaves, ah ! we did not think of that. Are you hungry, my love ? Can 
 you eat a little after that delicious chocolate ? " . . . " Yes, dearest, I'll 
 try and pick a bit ; Nature must be supported." 
 
 Madame Troupeau looked most affectionately at her fond husband as 
 she helped him to the choicest portions of the dish before her, murmuring 
 a few words expressive of her attachment meant only for his private ear, 
 and, happily, unheard by Mademoiselle Belleavrine, who certainly would 
 have been completely paralysed at hearing them ; and as the old aunt sat 
 in solemn, silent majesty, Virginie asked her father for the femur of the 
 fowl he was cutting up. Not being particularly well versed in anatomy, 
 Troupeau put down his knife and fork, stared at his daughter, and inquired 
 what she meant, to which the girl replied, — " The femur, papa, because 
 aunt says it is very improper to say thigh." ..." Yes, nephew, and 
 I hope you approve of the word, which is much more decent than the 
 common one." "No doubt of it, aunt; but you see, when I was in the 
 feather-bed and horse-hair mattress line, I had not much time to learn 
 those sort of things, but now that I am at my ease, and am the intimate 
 friend of the Count de Senneville, I intend to devote myself to the cultiva- 
 tion of the Arts. By-the-bye, my friend the Count has promised to come 
 and see us soon." 
 
 This announcement induced Mademoiselle Belleavrine to prick up her 
 ears and address her nephew with mere consideration. She became all 
 anxiety to know when the Count would arrive ; Virginie asked whether 
 noblemen were handsomer than other men, which drew down an indignant 
 reply from the aunt ; Madame Troupeau patted her child's damask cheek, 
 and affirmed the question proved her innocence, for she made inquiries as 
 
 B 
 
1 8 The Pucelle of Belleville. l 
 
 to a man's good looks with the same simplicity as she would as to the 
 beauties of a Chinese fan, and all the women suddenly observing the lump 
 on Troupeau's forehead, teased him with respect to the manner in which 
 he had been hurt, when luckily a young torn cat came gravely into the 
 room, and effected a diversion from the interrogatories that had become 
 embarrassing. The poor man caught up the kitten, stroked its back, and 
 patted it without its responding to his caresses. He then expressed his 
 wonder at the animal's unusual dulness, which was answered by Virginie 
 stating that the kitten was out of temper because the cook had cut his — 
 tail, it was, she thought, in the morning with a red hot knife. . . . 
 "Don't say 'tail,' Virginie," screamed the old maid, "it's most improper, 
 the servant only cut the kitten's ' superfluity' "... " Very well, aunty, 
 I'll say ' superfluity ' another time." 
 
 The family were still at their dessert when a little pale, thin man, with 
 goggle eyes, long nose and open lips, and wearing a crisp-curled wig which 
 was rather too small for him, and did not quite come down to his large ears, 
 entered the apartment. The new-comer was Monsieur Tir, a gentleman 
 who had formerly been a clerk in a Government office, but had gained his 
 superannuation pension, and resided at Belleville, where he gave himself 
 up to his overpowering passion for making fireworks. In his infancy, Tir 
 dreamed of nothing but rockets, serpents, wheels, blue-fire, suns, stars, 
 squibs, crackers, and maroons ; in his childhood he was always playing 
 with gunpowder and brimstone, loading and firing little cannons to 
 astonish his young companions ; and in his riper years, his passion for the 
 pyrotechnic art became greatly on the increase. Whilst he had been in the 
 public office his desk was always filled with explosive materials that would 
 have blown the whole premises into a thousand pieces ; at home, the tables in 
 every room were covered with portfires, slow matches, and long trains of 
 powder ; it was even stated that he only married that he might have the 
 pleasure of displaying thousands of variegated Roman candles at his wed- 
 ding ; he had named his son Petard, and his daughter Poudrette ; and as to 
 the social qualities of the good, fussy, little man, he was hospitable and 
 kind, was no tale-bearer, and never said a bad word of his neighbour. 
 
 Monsieur Tir saluted the company with the manners of a gentleman, 
 and after the usual inquiries as to the' health of all parties and observa- 
 tions on the weather had been made, the little man plunged at once into 
 the details of his favourite occupation, announcing that his head had been 
 racked for several nights past pondering as to how he should contrive to 
 make three brilliant suns turn three different ways at once — one to the 
 right, the second to the left, and the third — ah ! there was the knotty 
 point ! The old maid thought Monsieur Tir's amusement was a very 
 filthy one, and that his hands must be always dirty and black with powder, 
 to the great disgust of his lawful, wedded wife, but he deposed that Madame 
 was used to it, and did not mind it, and further, that his boy began to 
 make miniature bomb-shells tolerably, and his daughter worked tow 
 wrappers for the rockets ; when he should have amassed a large quantity 
 of fireworks of every description, he meant to discharge them at a fete, and 
 he hoped it might be on the occasion of the marriage of Mademoiselle 
 Viro-inie. . . . The affrighted aunt, shocked at the very mention of such 
 a heinous impropriety as marriage before a . girl of seventeen, drew herself 
 up haughtily, pinched in her lips, and begged Monsieur Tir to hold his 
 tongue, and Troupeau added fuel to the flames by saying there was 
 time enough for Virginie's espousals, as she was only a child yet, and he 
 would marry her to a man who was really worthy of her, that was (with a 
 deferential bow) always with the permission of his aunt. 
 
The Effects of the Chocolate. 19 
 
 The last observation somewhat mollified the Dragon of Virtue and 
 Propriety ; calm was completely restored, and just as the wine glasses were 
 filled, and a toast proposed to be drunk to the success of the three erratic 
 suns, Vauxdore" entered the room with a pack of cards in his hands, and 
 proposed abruptly to elucidate how to gain the trick at whist in a very 
 critical position. All the vinegar in Mademoiselle Belleavrine's disposition 
 — and there was no small quantity of it — mounted into her face at once on 
 beholding the libertine, the seducer of her nephew, the man who had 
 kept him out all night, but somehow or other Madame Troupeau did not 
 seem to participate in her aunt's indignation. Vauxdore was requested 
 imperiously to keep his damning, soul-killing cards to himself. Tir nodded 
 and sipped his wine, and Troupeau, who had been fidgeting about on his 
 chair, and feeling the corns upon his feet, threw a knowing glance at his 
 wife, and then fixed his eyes upon the ceiling, whilst the hardened Vaux- 
 dore^ quite unabashed by the old maid's portentous frown, dealt the cards, 
 placed them with the faces upwards, and persisted in showing how the odd 
 trick might be won. ' - ■ • 
 
 " This is how the cards were," he said ; " the eldest hand plays this one, 
 and then I— look at it well, Troupeau." ..." Yes, yes, I see " (another 
 wriggle on the chair). ..." Bless me, nephew, what makes you turn 
 and twist about on your chair so ? I declare you have not sat still one 
 moment during the last quarter of an hour!" . , . "Really, aunt, I 
 cannot help it, it is all owing to this abominable corn. Bobonne did not 
 cut it at all comfortably, and then these slippers press upon it so." . . . 
 "What, nephew, nothing but that odious corn again ! It is quite annoy- 
 ing, pray let me hear no more about it. Niece, go upstairs directly with 
 your husband, and arrange his feet, so that we may have no further trouble 
 with them. "... Madame Troupeau did not wait for this order to be 
 repeated ; smiling and signing to her smirking, simpering, well-pleased 
 husband, the couple left the room, all conjugally, arm-in-arm. Vauxdore 
 replaced the pack of cards in his pocket, Tir lapsed into a reverie about the 
 three suns, Virginie sat bolt upright in her chair, neither looking to the 
 right nor the left, and Mademoiselle Belleavrine took out her knitting, not 
 deigning to cast a glance upon the two abominable men. 
 
 Half-an-hour passed away in mournful silence, and the married folks did 
 not reappear, Virginie sighed and looked out of the window, Vauxdore" fretted 
 and fumed, burning with desire to explain the game, Tir smiled continually 
 as he thought of a new kind of star that would revolve at least three minutes, 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine lost all patience, and could not take her eyes off 
 the door, until at last she became mad with anger and curiosity, and throw- 
 ing her knitting on the floor, exclaimed, — " There is certainly some very 
 extraordinary conduct going on to-day between my nephew and my niece : 
 what can they possibly be doing so long upstairs ; it's quite disrespectful 
 to me for them to remain for such a lengthened period in their room. Ah, 
 I see how it is ! they are tired of me ; well, at any rate I can go back to 
 Senlis, there at least my wish is a law, and I am obeyed implicitly. Almost 
 three-quarters of an hour pretending to cut a corn ! " . . . "It never 
 takes me the fiftieth part of the time, " said Vauxdore ; " two cuts with 
 a penknife, and it is done." . . . "Perhaps they are making a rocket to 
 surprise us," Tir hazarded. ... "I cannot tell what they are making, 
 sir, but the whole proceeding is extremely ridiculous. Bless me, though, 
 I may be wrong. Gracious heavens, what if sbe should have wounded him 
 in cutting the corn, and they should both have swooned away J At any 
 rate I'll go and see." 
 
 The old lady rose from her chair, took her thick, gold-headed cane, and, 
 
2Q The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 leaning upon it for support, ascended the stairs gently, pausing for breath 
 at every step until she reached the bedroom door. Hearing sounds within, 
 she listened to hear what they were — because a good, pious woman may 
 hold sinful cards in detestation, and yet be an accomplished eavesdropper — 
 and the smack of a hearty kiss came twanging on her ear ; the sound was 
 hateful to her, she searched for the key of the door to burst in upon the 
 culprits, but could not find it, as Troupeau had locked it on the inside, and 
 foiled in this attempt she applied her eye to the keyhole, and then — She 
 uttered a piercing shriek and fell, stricken to the heart, upon the floor. At 
 the sound of their aunt's cries Troupeau and his wife rushed from the chamber 
 and began to lift her up, but she rudely repulsed their assistance, and, having 
 raised herself with a gigantic effort, she stumped down the staircase, striking 
 her cane heavily against every step, and muttering, — " To-morrow, please 
 Providence, I will go home ; I cannot remain longer in a house like this." 
 ... " Dear me, aunt, and what did you see ? " Madame Troupeau asked, 
 trembling all over, and colouring up to the eyes. ... " What did I see ? 
 Was not your husband taking off his clothes — " ... " But, aunt — " . . . 
 " In the night, when going to sleep, it might perhaps be allowed, but to 
 take off one's clothes in the middle of the day, oh, it is abominable ! " . . . 
 "But, aunt — " ... "I don't know, and I don't care what your customs 
 in Paris may be, but your manners and customs are too nighty for me ; 
 to-morrow I shall go back to Senlis." . . . "Now don't, aunt; do calm 
 yourself." . . . "No, my mind is made up upon it, and as for your poor 
 daughter Virginie, you may finish her education yourself. I will have 
 nothing more to do with her." 
 
 It was in vain that the niece and nephew endeavoured to moderate the 
 old woman's ire ; she withdrew to her own room, packed up her things by 
 herself, and on the following morning, having had her horse put to an 
 anomalous carriage, very like a covered cart, which she styled her cabriolet, 
 driven by a labourer in her garden, whom she called her coachman, 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine ascended her car, and took, as she thought, her 
 final leave of Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE TWO GIRLS. 
 
 The two elder Troupeaux could not conceal their disappointment and 
 chagrin at their aunt's precipitate departure, but they did not anticipate 
 any unpleasant results from her ill-humour, as they were used to her 
 vagaries, and they hoped to make their peace with the old woman by sending 
 Virginie to her the moment she should request that young lady's presence 
 in her house. The girl, on her part, was delighted at seeing her great- 
 aunt's back: she was tired of continually hearing, — "Sit upright, 
 mademoiselle — keep your eyes on the ground — don't use that naughty 
 word — there, you are stooping again," — she rejoiced at escaping from the 
 wearying, daily readings, and to be able to enjoy the company of her 
 young friend Adrienne again ; in fact, she should be free, for her parents, 
 who adored her, had the greatest confidence in her innocence, and let her 
 act exactly as she pleased. At seventeen years of age a girl finds it 
 delightful to follow the dictates of her own will ; a short time afterwards 
 she finds it still more delightful to gratify the wishes of another ; but as 
 
The Two Girls. 21 
 
 she advances on the downward path of life, she becomes equally as selfish 
 in her wishes as when she was a child. 
 
 This Adrienne, whom old Mademoiselle Belleavrine could not bear, was 
 nevertheless a very fascinating girl : she was two years older than Virginie, 
 was stouter and more fully developed in her form, she was a brunette, with 
 bright sparkling eyes, a rich, pouting mouth, black hair and a somewhat 
 dark complexion, her short, small nose, slightly turned up, gave a quick, 
 saucy expression to her face, and her easy manners and gay, lively laugh 
 made her a great favourite with all the young men who had the pleasure 
 of her acquaintance. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Vauxdore" were in the habit of going fre- 
 quently with Adrienne to neighbour Troupeau's to play a friendly rubber, 
 and when the attention of the elders was absorbed completely in the game, 
 the girls would glide away silently to Virginie's own room, where they 
 could converse more freely and unbosom all their little secrets to each 
 other. On the day after Mademoiselle Belleavrine's departure, the 
 Vauxdore family dropped in as usual, and found Troupeau lying at his full 
 length on a sofa, and feeling quite iU-natured and indisposed from the feverish 
 irritation caused by his corns upon the previous day. Monsieur Tir was 
 also there with the juvenile Petard and Poudrette, but as he did not play 
 at cards, he requested permission, when the company and his children were 
 seated at Pope Joan, to take a mysterious little box containing gunpowder 
 and other combustibles into a corner of the room to finish a complicated 
 piece of stars, suns, and bombs, which was granted by Madame Troupeau 
 on his promising not to go near any of the candles. Virginie and Adrienne 
 took their work to a window and affected to be sewing busily, but as soon 
 as the game became animated, they rose quietly and went to their usual 
 place of intimate communion. 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " Virginie exclaimed, as she closed the bedroom dcor, 
 " here we are alone at last, and now we can have a nice, quiet chat without 
 any fear of interruption. I cannot bear that little thing Poudrette, with 
 her face always smeared with dust and charcoal, and her dolt of a brother 
 Petard, who is always capering like a goat, and smells of brimstone enough 
 to poison you. Oh, Adrienne, how long it seems since we have seen each 
 other ! " . . . " That was the fault of your great-aunt, Virginie ; she 
 followed you as if she were your shadow. "... " Oh, yes, Adrienne dear, 
 you cannot think how tiresome she was, with her wretched readings in 
 which she called instruction books. And then she was always correcting 
 my language and making me use such ridiculous words : for example, this 
 thing, you know — which we sit upon — " . . . "Do you mean the 
 chairs, dear?" . . . "No, no, this thing that follows us everywhere, 
 you know." . . . "Ah, I comprehend." . . . "Well, dear, instead of 
 giving it the name we always do, she says that we must call it the 
 coccial bone." . . . " The stupid old woman ! " . . . " Yes, Adrienne, 
 and what is worse, she says I must not scratch it when it itches." . . . 
 " Oh, now, that is too much. But it is quite a blessing she is gone. By-the- 
 bye, Virginie, what made her run away so soon ? I thought she intended 
 to remain another fortnight with you ? " . . . "I cannot tell you why 
 she took into her head to leave ; something, I believe, she saw papa do ; 
 she was angry at him and mamma remaining so long in the bedroom 
 together after dinner, so she would go and see what they were doing, and 
 down she came in a fury and said she must leave a house where such things 
 are going on. And when she went she said I must go and stop with her 
 some time at Senlis." . . . "Dear me, how horrid ! I should die there 
 in a week, but you are such a good, auiet girl, Virginie, that you will be 
 
22 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 able to bear the misery, no doubt." ..." Yes, Adrienne, I am quiet, 
 but I have my thoughts for all that, I can tell you." ..." You say you 
 do not like the theatre or dancing, whereas I am mad about both." . . . 
 "That is, I pretend not to like balls and dancing because aunt detests 
 them, and as she says she will make me her heiress I must not displease 
 her, but in truth, dear, I am dying to go to the theatre, and I should like so 
 to go to a ball if I did but know how to dance, for as yet I can scarcely 
 make a curtsey decently." . . . "As for me, Virginie, I like the 
 world and society ; it is so delightful to see the young fellows 
 come grouping themselves around you, and then to hear some of them 
 sigh gently and to see them looking tenderly at you as if they were 
 desperately in love. But I always let them go on, and tease and torment 
 them as much as ever I can, and laugh at their fine words. There's no 
 harm in all that, dear, but as uncle is not very rich, I must give up all the 
 fun some day, and find out a decent husband, although at the same 
 time I think I am more likely to get a good handsome one by chatting 
 and laughing than by buttoning up my mouth, looking demure, and 
 answering only in monosyllables." ... "A good, young, handsome hus- 
 band, Adrienne ; how pleasant it must be to have one ! " . . . " What 
 makes you think so dear ?"..." Because all women get them if they can. 
 I wonder why aunt never had one." . . . "Because she wasftoo ugly 
 and too ill-tempered for any man, in spite of all her wealth. But, Virginie, 
 I could tell you something if you would promise to be discreet and never 
 mention it again." ... " Oh, do tell me, Adrienne, and as to telling it 
 again, do I ever speak to anybody but you ? " . . . " Well, then, listen, 
 I have made a conquest of Monsieur Doudoux, a dark young man, with fine 
 black eyes : have you ever seen him, dear ? " . . . "No." . . . "Most 
 likely he has only come to Belleville lately with his mother, who is in a bad 
 state of health and has been ordered here by the doctors to endeavour to 
 re-establish it. His real name is Ledoux, but as he is very shy and timid, 
 quite like a young girl, we call him Doudoux, and so does his mamma." . . . 
 "How old is he, Adrienne?" . . . " Only^ nineteen — the same age as 
 myself. He is very quiet, studies almost all day at home, and never comes 
 out at night. Uncle formed an acquaintance with the Ledoux through a 
 mutual friend who lives at Menilmortant, and not long since we went to 
 pass an evening at their house. In the course of it, whilst the old folks 
 were engaged at cards, Doudoux and one of his college friends went into an 
 adjoining room to chat, and as the door was only half shut, and they talked 
 rather loudly, I could not help hearing what they said as I sauntered care- 
 lessly about the room. Their conversation was very interesting, I assure 
 you." . . . "What did they talk about?" ... "Of women, girls, 
 of the whole beautiful sex, in fact." . . . "Are we the beautiful sex, 
 Adrienne ? " . . . " Yes, dear." ... " Then men are the ugly sex, 
 of course ? " . . . " Not exactly, my love. How innocent you appear to 
 be ! Well, Doudoux said to his friend, — 'Ah, my dear fellow, what an 
 angelic being a woman is ! I dream of her every night, and when I see 
 a lovely creature I fall in love with her directly, but when I am in her 
 company I dare not tell her how I adore her, I tremble like an aspen leaf, 
 I flush, I stammer, and all my faculties seem to become powerless or to 
 leave me.'" . . . "Poor, dear, young man! " said Virginie. . . . "And 
 then his friend replied, — ' What a' — I can't say the word — ' infernal fool 
 you must be ! I have had half-a-dozen mistresses already, and played them 
 some scurvy tricks too, but they adore me for all that.' "... "Did you 
 see the friend — was he good-looking ?"...' " Not in the least ; quite 
 a common fellow, with all his boasting. At last poor Doudoux sighed and 
 
The Two Girls. 23 
 
 said his friend must be happy in being so beloved, but he — that is Doudoux 
 — would be in Elysium if he could find a kindred soul who would mingle 
 its emotions with his own, whose giant pulsations would throb only in 
 unison with his. "... " Bless me, Adrienne, what did all that mean ? " 
 . . . "Oh, it only meant that he wanted some nice girl to love him. 
 Well, Doudoux's friend laughed at him, and as the dialogue was over I crept 
 away and sat down on a chair, and when Doudoux came into the room, 
 knowing how he felt, I could not help looking at him with a little interest, 
 rather tenderly, indeed, and when he saw that my eyes were upon him, he 
 blushed all over his cheeks. However, he did not speak one word to me 
 that night, but one other evening, when his mamma and he came to our 
 house, he did say a word or two. I answered him gaily, and although he 
 was very serious, contrived to make him smile, and since then he has been 
 much less timid, and in fact he has told me that the days he sees me are 
 marked in his almanac with a white stone." . . . "What does that 
 mean ? " . . . " It's a figure of speech, my dear, quite classical, taken 
 from the Greeks or Romans. Doudoux is very fond of those figures. 
 Once, when I told him that I should be better pleased if he came more fre- 
 quently to uncle's, he threw up his arms and cried, ' Oh, Jupiter, Oh, Bone 
 IJeus/'" . . . "Was he saying his prayers?" . . . "No, no, those 
 were exclamations of pleasure. He is very learned, and likes to speak 
 Latin." . . . " And do you understand his Latin ? " . . . ft No, love, 
 but I can understand by all his motions what he means. At any rate, now 
 your cross old aunt is gone you will see him, for he is very often at our 
 house." ... "I am quite in a hurry to see your Doudoux, Adrienne, I 
 assure you." ... " Ah, Virginie ! did you but know how sweet it is to 
 feel these new sensations in your heart, to think only of one person, to guess 
 all the soft, pretty things he will utter : to be sure this young gentleman 
 has not told me yet that he loves me, but I can see plainly by his eyes that 
 he is burning to do so. Ah, me!" . . . "And I should like to feel 
 these sensations you speak of, Adrienne, and to have a nice, handsome 
 young man in love with me." ..." Yes, dear, but only with honourable 
 intentions, you know." . . . "And what do they mean ?" 
 
 At this moment the confidential dialogue of the two girls was inter- 
 rupted by a terrific explosion in the drawing-room, followed by piercing 
 screams and cries. The friends started from their seats, rushed precipit- 
 ately down the stairs, and when they reached the drawing-room found it 
 was filled with smoke, through which sparkled the bright rays of a pyro- 
 technic sun burning upon the velvet-cushioned sofa. Madame Troupeau 
 and Madame Vauxdore had taken refuge underneath the card-table to 
 avoid the sparks that were flying about in all directions, their husbands had 
 ensconced themselves behind the long window-curtains, Poudrette, with a 
 chair on her head, was looking on as complacently as if she were beholding 
 the fireworks at Vauxhall, Petard was laughing and jumping with delight 
 in the middle of the room, and Monsieur Tir was standing disconsolately 
 in one corner with his whiskers singed, and his wig half -burnt upon his 
 head. 
 
 The accident happened in this manner : whilst the round game was 
 going merrily on, Tir had completed his sun in a workmanlike manner, and 
 attached the slow-fire train to it, but forgetting Madame Vauxdore's 
 caution, he approached one of the candles, and just at the moment that 
 Vauxdore cried out triumphantly, "I have Matrimony and the Pope," the 
 train caught fire, and communicated it to the sun, the latter sprang from 
 Tir's hand on to his face, the crackers hissed and burst, the ladies shrieked, 
 the bomb exploded with the noise of a heavy cannon, the soarks flew here 
 
24 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 and there as the sun dashed about the apartment, and it had just sought 
 a final resting-place upon the sofa when the affrighted girls hurried to the 
 room. At length the last ray of the mimic luminary faded into night, and 
 the company partially recovered their composure : the two men came from 
 their hiding-places behind the curtains, and assisted their wives from under- 
 neath the table, and then Madame Troupeau walked up to poor, trembling 
 Monsieur Tir in an awful rage, and scolded him severely for disobeying her 
 injunctions, and coming near the candle. Madame Vauxdore declared that 
 the sparks had made holes in her best stockings and burned her legs, which 
 she displayed in proof of her assertion, Troupeau moaned and swore alter- 
 nately at the destruction of his handsome velvet-covered, spring-stuffed sofa, 
 Tir was in despair at the mischief he had unintentionally committed, Madame 
 Troupeau also said she was burned, but declined any investigation of the 
 injured part, Petard and Poudrette treated the affair as an excellent good 
 joke, and Vauxdore complained of the card-table being upset, and his 
 losing in the melee the money he should have gained by having " Matrimony 
 and the Pope." 
 
 As may be well conceived, the party was effectually broken up by the 
 unfortunate occurrence : Tir made a thousand excuses, which were very 
 coldly received by the host and hostess, the Vauxdores said, " Good-night," 
 and Adrienne whispered to Virginie, "Try and come to me to-morrow, and 
 probably you will see Doudoux." That night the " Pucelle of Belleville " 
 thought long and deeply, but candour compels us to say it was not the fire- 
 works that discomposed her mind. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 virginie's first waggery. 
 
 Whether pleasure or pain have vividly affected mankind during the day, 
 the impression they have made upon the mind are almost sure to be repro- 
 duced in dreams at night. Sleep is said to be repose. Yes, and so it is for 
 those beings who have passed the day in peaceful occupations ! But behold 
 the slumber of the gambler, the jealous husband, the despairing lover, the 
 heart-broken wife, the ambitious courtier, and the miserable wretch who 
 has not wherewithal to buy his children bread, and then say whether in 
 their sleeping hours they enjoy repose ! No ! sleep is to them nothing but 
 a succession of harrowing, exhausting dreams — a repose, it may be, from 
 corporeal energy, from muscular fatigue — but an unceasing continuation of 
 undying mental misery and pain. If any description of pleasurable dreams 
 can be more soothing than another, it must be that of a young, fervent girl 
 whose heart is yet untouched by love, and who knows its joys and woes 
 only by reputation through the confidences of her bosom friends. What a 
 host of new sensations will be evoked from the inmost recesses of a maiden's 
 heart when she sees, " in her mind's eye," a lover whom her fancy has 
 created in all masculine perfection kneeling at her feet ! With what ecstasy 
 will she imagine that she hears him whisper, " I adore you, dearest angel, 
 and swear to love none other through my life ! " How ardently will her 
 bosom throb as she hears the declaration ! And then, mayhap, she dreams 
 he clasps her within his arms and strains her passionately to his breast ; 
 and then waking, alas ! the blissful illusion is dispelled. 
 
 Although Virginie had never seen Doudoux, she dreamed of him all night. 
 
Virginie's First Waggery. 25 
 
 The conversation of the previous evening had excited her imagination; 
 she thought Doudoux made love to her instead of Adrienne, and it was so 
 extremely pleasant that on her awaking she was vexed to find it was nothing 
 but a dream. Whilst the family were at breakfast, the girl asked with an 
 air of indifference whether they were going to the Vauxdore's in the even- 
 ing, and on her mamma inquiring why she put the question, she replied, 
 with an assumption of the greatest innocence, that Adrienne had promised to 
 show her some engravings of new dres: eg in The Magazine of Fashion. 
 Her parents agreed to join Vauxdore's circle now that their aunt's presence 
 did not confine them entirely to the house, and Virginie was enjoined to 
 dress herself and her hair in the most becoming manner as the neighbours 
 generally had many friends, and rich people like the Troupeaus could 
 afford superior costumes. The girl answered modestly, "As you please, 
 mamma," and when she left the table for her room, the fond, indulgent 
 parents congratulated themselves on possessing such a jewel of a daughter 
 who was all one perfect mass of innocence from head to foot, a sweet young 
 creature who was never weary of any place where there were bees, butter- 
 flies, and gold and silver fish. The conversation then turned upon the 
 necessity of an immediate reconciliation with Mademoiselle Belleavrine 
 on account of her possessions, but on Troupeau adverting to the cause of 
 the old lady's anger his wife cut him short by stating that the remembrance 
 of the occurrences of that day made her blush all over. 
 
 In the evening, the parents and the girl repaired to Vauxdore's at the 
 usual hour ; Virginie, all unconscious as she was, had made a very becoming, 
 hasty toilette, and taken much trouble with her hair. She was not an 
 absolute beauty, she had not one of those Grecian profiles which strike you 
 by the regularity of outline, nor did she resemble one of those paintings 
 by Raphael of the Virgin Mary, before which you could throw yourself 
 upon your knees and say your prayers, but there was something extremely 
 piquant, something that excited instant attention in Mademoiselle Troupeau's 
 appearance, no one could pass by without remarking her, for there was that 
 indescribable, indefinable expression in her face that never fails to attract 
 the men. A woman was never yet a good judge of another woman's 
 charms. Speaking of them, Labruyere says : — " Women do not please 
 each other by the possession of the same features and graces by which 
 they bring men to their feet ; and a thousand of those attractions, manners 
 and actions, which excite the fiercest passions in the stronger sex, only 
 produce hatred and aversion in a female bosom." , . . The moralist is 
 right : no doubt women will not positively deny the existence of beauty, 
 which is self-evident, for if they did so it would create a suspicion that 
 they were envious of it, but on the contrary they mingle their praises with 
 the adulation of the men, but always contriving to point out some slight 
 imperfections in their sister's face or figure. But when they meet those 
 women who are passable, neither ugly nor pretty, but who nevertheless by 
 some innate sympathy are sought after by the men, then they will not 
 allow that they possess form, feature, manners, grace or ease ; they run 
 them down unmercifully, and only wonder that the stupid fellows can find 
 any pleasure in conversing with such frightful dowdies. Ah, ladies, ladies ! 
 you will do well to leave off pulling your sisters into shreds and tatters, for 
 you are not competent judges in cases which subjugate men's hearts ; they 
 see hotly with their passions, their deep-seated feeling, their prejudices, 
 and their tastes, whilst you see coldly with your eyes ; and even should 
 some of you declare that Madame So-and-So is a scarecrow, a monster, the 
 chances are that the lords of the creation would discover something 
 peculiarly fascinating in the hideous frights. 
 
26 TJie Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 In addition to Vauxdore^s accustomed friends, the society was increased 
 that evening by the presence of Madame Ledoux and her timid son, and 
 the Troupeaus had scarcely entered the saloon before Adrienne tripped up 
 to Virginie, kissed her, and whispered in her ear, — "There he is, sitting 
 close by the cat." This hint was quite sufficient for the artless girl, who, 
 resuming her juvenility, danced up to the poor cat, and whilst she caressed 
 it, took the opportunity of scrutinising young Doudoux, who did not observe 
 her, but pursued Adrienne with his staring eyes. Virginie thought the 
 enamoured swain might have devoted a few minutes to herself, and be- 
 coming impatient at his neglect, pinched pussy's tail so hard that it screamed, 
 and jumping upon Doudoux's shoulder, awoke him from his reverie ; he 
 feared the animal might have scratched Virginie in its anger, and on 
 expressing a hope that such was not the case, she said she feared she was 
 hurt in the neck and shoulders, and invited the young man to ascertain if 
 such were not the case. Monsieur Doudoux advanced timidly, scarcely 
 daring to lift his eyes to the maiden's throat, but perfect innocence was 
 free from guile, and pulling open the top of her habit shirt and directing 
 his attention to the locality, he certainly saw some very pleasing round 
 white objects, but without any marks of laceration from feline claws. 
 Adrienne, who was in a fever at the examination, cried out against its 
 stupidity, whereupon Virginie replaced her kerchief, and thanked Doudoux 
 with a humble curtsey and a sparkling glance that set his heart bounding 
 in his breast, because as yet he had mixed but little in good society, and 
 consequently was not at all accustomed to that style of thing. 
 
 During this little agreeable bit of by-play, Vauxdore was occupied 
 counting out the fish for the card-players, who placed themselves at a large 
 round table, whilst Adrienne, Virginie, and two younger girls remained 
 with Monsieur Doudoux, who had it in charge to do his utmost to amuse 
 them. The " Maid," finding the young gentleman extremely good-looking 
 and very much to her taste, hastened to sit down by his side, and all being 
 accommodated with chairs and stools, Adrienne requested her lover to 
 tell them some pretty tale. Therefore Doudoux, whose literature was con- 
 fined to the antique, drew himself up and inquired whether the ladies 
 would prefer him to recite something to them from the Greek of Homer 
 and Thucydides, the Latin of Virgil, or the "Jerusalem Delivered," in 
 Italian. ..." No, no," the two elder cried, "that would be too serious," 
 and one of the younger ones modestly suggested that it should be some- 
 thing very frightful, something beautiful about ghosts. Doudoux replied 
 he did not know any stories about ghosts, and Adrienne, who by this time 
 was not very content with the "Pucelle's" strategy, and was bound on 
 counteracting it, pressed the lover so earnestly to recollect some tale, and 
 smiled on him so delightfully that Virginie became alarmed lest the fish 
 should fly her net, and gave a sudden start upon her chair, declaring at the 
 same moment that Monsieur Vauxdore had shaken the lamp on the card 
 table so much that she fancied from the flash it was Monsieur Tir with 
 another firework, and having thus effected a diversion, she continued, 
 addressing Adrienne, — "And do you know, dear, mamma was burnt 
 badly too ; quite a dreadful scar all down the femur." 
 
 Doudoux was quite astonished that a young lady should make use of 
 such a scientific term : he complimented her on her knowledge of 
 anatomy and osteology, and ventured to express a hope that she was well 
 grounded in chemistry. " Mademoiselle," said he, in a burst of enthu- 
 siasm, " your acquirements do you infinite honour ; it is to be desired that 
 women should be taken from the common, beaten track of female 
 education, that they should soar upwards in that intellectual flight to 
 
Virginias First Waggery. 27 
 
 which their faculties may well aspire, and that they should be taught the 
 dead languages, mathematics, geometry, and other sciences. Perhaps 
 mademoiselle may have read ' Plato on the Human Body ? ' " . . . Virginie 
 cast down her eyes, which had been fixed tenderly on those of Doudoux, 
 and having professed her ignorance of any minute details of male 
 anatomy, he said it was a glorious work in which the great disciple of 
 Socrates represented the human head to be the citadel of the body, the 
 neck an isthmus, the heart the fountain from which springs the blood, the 
 veins streets and other highways, and the stomach a kitchen. — Adrienne's 
 turn had come again ; she broke in with great tact, remarking laughingly 
 that she had a pain in her kitchen, and then brought back the conversation 
 to the ghosts. 
 
 Doudoux was mortified at her insensibility to the sublime subject on 
 which he had been holding forth, as he bit his lips and held his tongue, but 
 luckily an elderly gentleman who entered the room at the instant caught 
 up Adrienne's last word, and directing his steps towards the younger group, 
 announced that he had a hundred ghost stories at their command. This 
 gentleman, Monsieur Renard, was one of those persons who delight to hear 
 themselves talk, who are convinced that they are more intelligent, more 
 skilful than all the rest of the world, who could have done anything, and 
 attained any dignity in the State if they had wished and tried. Renard sat 
 down by the side of one of the little girls, and was in the midst of a horrible 
 murder -apparition story, when Adrienne exclaimed, — "Take care, Virginie, 
 or you will get into Ledoux's pocket." . . . "Dear me, I beg pardon, 
 monsieur; if I annoy you by being too close to you, do pray tell me." . 
 " It is not possible, ma'amzelle ; you annoy me, per Jovens, no ! " . . . 
 Adrienne tossed her head and frowned, Virginie chuckled at the thought 
 that she was directing Ledoux's affections from her friend, and kept 
 up a sharp fire of glances from her eyes upon him, till he was utterly 
 confounded between the attractions of the rivals, although his love of 
 science inclined him slightly towards the fair one who used the term femur 
 instead of thigh. . . . The remainder of the evening was passed in the 
 usual way, the old folks played on and occasionally quarrelled about the 
 fish, Monsieur Renard drawled on story after story, after the fashion of the 
 Arabian Nights' Entertainments, light refreshments were handed round 
 before the company separated, Adrienne helped Virginie affectionately and 
 said " Good-night, dear," with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness in her 
 heart, and Virginie, on getting into bed, thought the new feelings that 
 her friend had spoken of the day before were sensations of a pleasing 
 nature, and by no means to be despised. 
 
 A few evenings subsequently the young folks found themselves together 
 again : Doudoux blushed to the very eyes and sighed like a furnace as 
 Virginie looked languishingly at him whenever Adrienne could not see her ; 
 and, strange to say, in the course of the evening it happened frequently that 
 Mademoiselle Troupeau's hand accidently met that of Monsieur Ledoux, 
 and once — by chance too — her arm was placed upon his with the weight of 
 her whole body resting on it, so that he could not withdraw it without the 
 risk of letting her fall down. When the " Maid " went home, she felt that 
 Ledoux had regarded her more than Adrienne, and promised herself to 
 bring him out — if he could be drawn from his torpidity — by the grants of 
 some little favours when they should meet again. The opportunity 
 was not long in presenting itself. The next reunion was at Madame 
 Ledoux's, where Virginie and the young man soon came in contact : that 
 night, however, she altered her tactics, and almost dissolved herself in 
 sighs ; he cared no more for Adrienne, let her proceed to any part of 
 
28 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 the room she liked without interesting himself about her occupations, and 
 when she flew off in a pet, taking courage from Virginie's stolen glances, 
 he stammered, — 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle ! " . . . " Oh, monsieur ! " . . . " My heart is 
 full, ma'amzelle." . . . " Of what, monsieur ? " . . . " I dare not tell 
 you." . . . "How, then, can I know?" . . . "If lam not a nullity 
 in your estimation, a neutral fraction, a mere zero, permit me the honour of 
 touching the tip of your delicious little finger." . . . Not content with 
 yielding the minute fractional portion of her hand that the bashful youth 
 solicited, she gave him the whole of it, and pressed his shrinking one ardently 
 in return. In ecstasy, in paradise, he bounded back, treading upon the cat's 
 tail, causing it to miawl horribly, provoking cries from Madame Troupeau, 
 in the first place, of alarm for the safety of her pet, and then of delight at 
 the way in which her innocent, child-like daughter was amusing herself and 
 her youthful friends. 
 
 So much for parental confidence ! Here, readers, you see a young girl 
 originating an intrigue, aye, and carrying it boldly out, under her mother's 
 nose, and without the old lady being in the least aware of it. You will tell me 
 that a woman who is held to be an admirable wife does the same with her 
 husband without his having the least suspicion of her conduct. Well ! that 
 only proves what an excellent thing a reputation is ; and therefore you 
 who have it, pray do your utmost to retain it. Let a man or woman do 
 what they will, gratify every desire, every bad passion, every lust, no one 
 will suspect them if they have a reputation. Add hypocrisy to sin, what 
 does the world care about your morality, so that decency and good manners 
 are respected ? What does the world require amongst its associates ? 
 Nothing but outward show ! Give a woman a handsome bonnet, ribbons, 
 and a silk dress, and a mau a brand-new suit of clothes, and that is all that 
 is required. To be sure there are some morose, old-world, superannuated, 
 misanthropic people who are ridiculous enough to assert that there is a 
 necessity for openness, probity, and several other trifles which our ancestors, 
 in their ignorance, were in the habit of denominating virtues, but then 
 they are very few in number, are nothing but dotards, and meet with the 
 derision they deserve. 
 
 The state of affairs between Monsieur Doudoux and Adrienne was now 
 materially altered. He cared nothing more about her ; indeed, it was his 
 youth which had deluded him with the idea that he was in love, because at 
 nineteen years of age every boy is like the page Cherubino in The Marriage 
 of Figaro, and becomes enamoured of every petticoat he sees. The same 
 objection may be urged to his passion for Virginie ; it was not love in the 
 real acceptation of the word, but it was a fancy on his part that she was 
 superior in talent and conversation to every girl he had seen, merely because 
 she employed two or three anatomical terms which her old aunt had insisted 
 she must use for the sakejof her so-called decency. Adrienne did all she could 
 to reawaken the fancy for her that had passed from Doudoux's breast, and 
 tried to believe that he could not feel any affection for a girl whom she con- 
 tinued to regard in the light of a mere child, whilst Virginie, although she 
 kept up her outward appearance of guilelessness and purity of thought, ad- 
 mired herself in the glass every night before retiring to bed, laughed to 
 think how very simple it was to please a lover even with the mere pressure 
 of a hand, and resolved to have as many "new sensations" as she could, 
 for the mere fun and frolic of the thing. 
 
 As yet the " Pucelle of Belleville " only thought she would gratify her 
 innate taste for waggery and amuse herself as best she could ; for certainly 
 she had no affection for the pedantic, effeminate young man. You will say, 
 
Virginie's First Waggery. 29 
 
 readers, that it was not an amiable trait in her character to find amusement 
 in that which pained her only friend, but all women take delight in these 
 little amorous rogueries, for their friendship is seldom sufficiently firm to 
 resist the vanity of making conquests, and very often those intrigues which 
 they have commenced in joke become so serious that they are insensibly 
 urged on with them and cannot resist the torrent that carries them away. 
 
 Why has Dame Nature, so parsimonious in her personal gifts to some, 
 lavished them so prodigally upon others ? Why has she made some beings 
 ugly, deformed, repulsive, dull, tedious, and stupid, and blessed others with 
 a pleasing, seductive exterior, a graceful shape, a lovely face, a sparkling 
 imagination, sound sense, and a voice whose lightest sound thrills the 
 recesses of man's inmost soul ? Is it to be supposed that a woman en- 
 dowed with all these mental and physical advantages will not endeavour to 
 profit by them ? A beauteous creature is made to be beloved, and a man 
 gifted with attractions is destined to make love to her, each has his or her 
 respective mission which they must fulfil, but the women become soonest 
 aware of theirs, and thus Mademoiselle Virginie Troupeau, who felt that 
 she was sent into the world to please, to enchant, seduce, and play the 
 devil with men's heads and hearts, lost all delight in playing with pet dogs, 
 cats and birds, and admiring gold and silver fish, and felt exceeding ill at 
 ease in her pretty cotton drawers. She began to fancy there were a hundred 
 other ways of holding communication with young Doudoux than by merely 
 seeing him at the evening parties given by her father's friends, and amongst 
 others ; she caused him to understand that he might walk occasionally in the 
 street before her bedroom window, that she would cough when she was not 
 alone, and sing when he could approach and converse without the chance of 
 interruption with her. The young philosopher, who was quite green in 
 intrigue, remained dumb with astonishment whilst he admired the fertility 
 of his mistress's imagination, and then whispered he should have great 
 pleasure in teaching her the verses of Propertius and Catullus, to which she 
 replied she thought he might give her some more agreeable instruction than 
 by reciting the poetry of the dead men of Rome, however plaintive and 
 tender it might be. 
 
 Three weeks had elapsed since Monsieur Troupeau had returned from 
 Paris, where he drank the most miraculous chocolate, when one morning 
 his wife, after hovering round him some time in indecision, observed, with 
 an air of indifference, that, from what he said, she had expected the Count 
 de Senneville would have honoured them with a visit before then. Troupeau 
 replied that the Count had certainly promised to come without fail, but 
 young men, especially in high life, were ever famed for forgetting their 
 engagements, that there was a certain etiquette in the great world which, 
 perhaps, he might violate if he were to press the Count to fulfil his promise, 
 and he thought it would be best to leave the nobleman to follow his own 
 course. Madame Troupeau appeared annoyed at her husband's supineness ; 
 she took two or three turns up and down the room, and then leaning over the 
 back of the sofa on which he was reclining, she said, — 
 
 " My love, does not the Count owe us a sum of money, which you did 
 not receive on your last visit to him ? " . . . " Yes, dearest, but we must 
 not be importunate with those sprigs of fashion ; we are at our ease, thank 
 Heaven !"..." Yes, Troupeau, but if you do not remind the Count of 
 it, we shall never get it. Take my advice and go to Paris ; you can call 
 upon de Senneville as a friend at breakfast time, in the course of your con- 
 versation you can mention the debt incidentally, and if he does not pay you, 
 why, at least you will partake of that delicious chocolate." 
 
30 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE WOKK GOES BRAVELY ON. 
 
 In order to please his better half, Troupeau set out for Paris very early the 
 following morning, and when he reached the city purchased a hat in the 
 newest style, and a pair of white kid gloves, and settled to his satisfaction 
 the manner in which he should hold the hat underneath his arm, and the 
 complimentary phrases in which he should address his noble friend. He 
 had heard it remarked that a man of genius might be recognised by the 
 most minute actions of his life, and ever since he had adopted all sorts of 
 trifling ways, thinking his genius was shown in their development. Madame 
 saw her husband depart with considerable delight : her bosom heaved, and 
 the most voluptuous ideas floated through her mind as she anticipated his 
 return, and dreamed of love, socks, corns, and chocolate. 
 
 Whilst her mother's mind was entirely occupied with these day dreams, 
 Virginie was pondering how she could employ her time in a more utilitarian 
 mode ; she thought there were other things even more charming than the 
 most ecstatic dreams, she felt it was uncommonly pleasant to tease and 
 worry Adrienne and mystify Doudoux, and that the sentiment with which he 
 burned ought to have more definite results than loving glances, sighs, and 
 Latin words. She did not exactly know what she really did desire, but 
 she felt there was something essential wanting to her happiness. 
 
 If you are not well acquainted with the topography of Belleville, 
 readers, you must be informed that the Rue de Calais is a long street, not 
 much frequented, where Doudoux might walk unnoticed by the inhabit- 
 ants, who are as much inclined to gossipry there as in any other portion of 
 the kingdom ; and this was the reason Virginie had pointed out to the young 
 man its facilities for their intercourse, especially as, when they happened to 
 be in society together, Adrienne never lost sight of them, they could not 
 exchange a word without her interrupting them, and indeed Doudoux had 
 never got further than saying, — "Adorable creature, did you but know — " 
 Now the girl was determined to know, and reasoned, accurately enough, 
 that if she were alone with him, he would infallibly conclude the sentence. 
 "What a stupid fellow he is," she said internally; "he has no wit, no idea 
 of inventing a pretext for having an interview with me ; it is I who have 
 to arrange everything ! If I were as bashful and awkward as he is, our 
 whole life would pass away in sighs. Ah, it is all very well to laugh at his 
 sighing, but I do not intend to waste my time in that way, I can assure him." 
 
 There are some folks who pretend that people can do everything they 
 wish if they will but try, and the assertion is true only up to a certain 
 point, but it is certain that quick-witted, intelligent people can do more 
 than lazy, stupid ones, and thus it was that Virginie soon devised an 
 expedient for giving a rendezvous to young Doudoux. 
 
 The windows on the ground floor of Troupeau's house lighted the hall, 
 the dining-room, and the kitchen, in both of which the female servant was 
 constantly employed, so that the lovers could not enjoy a private conversa- 
 tion there. There was also a risk of being surprised at the iron entrance 
 gate, but on leaving it and proceeding along the garden wall there was 
 a wooden gate always double-locked, the key of which Virginie knew was 
 suspended on a hook over the kitchen fire. Having watched an oppor- 
 tunity when the servant was temporarily engaged elsewhere, the girl seized 
 the key, ran into the garden, unlocked the gate, replaced the key, and then 
 posted herself at the gate with the anticipation that Doudoux would pass, 
 
The Work goes bravely on. 31 
 
 and when he did so shortly afterwards she beckoned him to come^ to her, 
 told him to be there at twilight, shut the gate without waiting for his reply, 
 ran into the house, sat herself down, and remained all the rest of the day 
 working by her mother's side without lifting her eyes from her embroidery, 
 which caused the fond mother to think that no parent upon earth ever 
 possessed such an amiable, innocent, dutiful, artless, simple-hearted child. 
 All conspired to favour the girl's scheme ; her father was absent at^ Paris, 
 her mother had ordered a tepid bath at eight o'clock, and she saw with de- 
 light that nothing could interrupt her meeting with Doudoux. 
 
 Night came and with it the warm bath. Madame Troupeau plunged her 
 matronly charms in the renovating liquid, and rubbed them well with 
 honey waters and almond -paste, and there she disported, Naiad-like, for a 
 considerable period, awaiting the return of her husband in the position of 
 the chaste Susanna, but not precisely with the same intentions. Babelle 
 was busy in the kitchen, scrubbing the pots and pans and singing merrily, 
 so Virginie told her she would go and look at the pictures of the Saints and 
 Fathers in the drawing-room, and forthwith ran as fast as her legs could 
 carry her to the garden gate. Arrived there she drew a long breath, and 
 heaved a sigh, compounded of pleasure, curiosity, hope, and a little fear ; 
 for at seventeen years of age a girl does not go to her first rendezvous with a 
 superabundance of sang-froid, although in this instance it must be ac- 
 knowledged that our heroine's fear was that. Doudoux would not keep the 
 appointment. ... 
 
 Before she risked opening the gate she whispered through the keyhole, — 
 " Are you there, monsieur?" and received for answer, — "Yes, mademoiselle, 
 I have been watching Phoebus in his decline, awaiting the honour of your 
 presence." ... "If that is the case," said Virginie, " I will open the 
 gate; bless me how it sticks ! Help me, monsieur, and push it in." . . . 
 Doudoux did as he was bid, and exerted his strength so vigorously that 
 the gate flew back and stretched the girl upon the earth. He cried out 
 for fear that she was hurt, but she jumped up lightly, and with great presence 
 of mind bade him hold his tongue lest he should be heard in the house, and 
 someone should interrupt their tete-a-tete, upon which he inquired nervously 
 whether she was hurt, and upon what substance she had fallen. ..." On 
 what did I fall, monsieur ? Why, you must have seen." ..." Not I, 
 indeed, ma'amzelle." ... "■ On my os coccygis, then." ... " Os 
 coccygis / Oh, eminently scientific girl ! I was made for you, and you were 
 made for me, and we were both made for each other ! " . . . " Like 
 enough, but at any rate let us sit down, monsieur. " 
 
 Having pronounced these words, Virginie led the way to an old 
 wooden bench in an arbour a few paces from the gate, on which she sat 
 down, and Doudoux, creeping timidly to her side, contemplated her bright, 
 sparkling face by the pale light of the bonnie moon. Becoming tired of 
 this silent admiration, she said, — " Well, monsieur ! " . . . " Well, made- 
 moiselle : Quid Novi?" . . . "What did you say, monsieur?" . . . 
 " Quid Novi. "... " Do leave off your Latin, and speak common sense. 
 When I see you in society you are constantly saying, — 'Ah, mademoiselle, 
 did you but know — ' Tell me, now, what is it I do not know ? " . . . 
 " Bight, mademoiselle, you speak like Cicero himself " (then making a great 
 effort, and trembling all over, he said), — " do you know what Love is ? " . . . 
 " No, monsieur." ..." Nor I : that is, I did not until I saw you. Before 
 your angelic presence met my ravished eyes I knew not what the divine, 
 ethereal essence was. Ah, mademoiselle, were I to ask you from your 
 parents, do you think they would bless me with your hand ? " . . . "I 
 cannot tell, monsieur, but my aunt must be consulted too, she has always 
 
32 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 said that I am much too young to marry." . . . "And mamma says that 
 I must wait until I am twenty-one. "... " You have still a long period 
 before you." . . . "Alas, yes; but in the meantime I burn — " . . . 
 " But I do not at all ; feel my hands, monsieur, and you will see." 
 
 The young man clutched her pretty hand, and its contact did not tend 
 to allay the fever of his blood ; he pressed it ardently, and in the height 
 of his new-pledged audacity carried it to his lips. Virginie began to feel 
 an unaccustomed glow pervade her frame — for with people of their age 
 the electric fluid passes rapidly — and they said no more, but their silence 
 was more eloquent than words. Doudoux came closer to the girl, who, 
 shrinkingly, retired a little farther from him, nevertheless he passed his 
 arm around her taper waist and strained her to his heart, farther still she 
 withdrew gently from him and he pursued, when at the moment he strove 
 to snatch a kiss they came to the extreme end of the bench, which tipped 
 up, of course, and precipitated the lovers to the earth. For an instant 
 Doudoux was in despair ; but as Virginie indulged in a low laugh at the 
 ridiculous occurrence, he recovered his equanimity and hardihood, until as 
 they rolled upon the ground somehow or other his eye caught the fringe 
 of — the little cotton drawers. 
 
 He sprang up as if an adder had bitten him, muttering, — " What if 
 it should be a boy after all ! " and at the same moment Adrienne appeared 
 at the garden gate, exclaiming, — " Ah, Monsieur Doudoux and Mademoiselle 
 Virginie, have I caught you in the act ? " . . . Virginie recognised the 
 voice at once : as quick as lightning she was on her legs, pushed Doudoux 
 against Adrienne through the gate, shut it upon them, and then ran to 
 her own chamber, resolving — no matter what Adrienne might say — she 
 would maintain she had not left her room at all that evening. 
 
 On a sudden Doudoux found himself in the street, without exactly 
 comprehending how he got there. He stood immovable against the door 
 which had been shut behind him, not quite recovered from the surprise the 
 pair of drawers had occasioned, and Adrienne also remained a few paces 
 from him, violently agitated, but doing all in her power to conceal her 
 anger and chagrin. Finding that the young man would not open the con- 
 versation, she said, in a voice broken with convulsive sobs, — " Monsieur, it 
 is necessary that I should have an explanation with you lest you should 
 suppose that I came here to watch you ; oh, dear no, it was the farthest 
 thing from my intention, I assure you ; I am nobody — nothing to you, 
 I know, although you have behaved in a very singular and improper way 
 to me, that is certain. To be sure you were always running after me, 
 always talking to me, could not be happy without me, and all that : but 
 it's all the same to me, I do not care a farthing about it ; women are always 
 treated so, I know." 
 
 Adrienne was obliged to take breath when she had got thus far in her 
 reproaches to her perfidious swain, and he, profiting by the circumstance, 
 murmured, — "Mademoiselle, I really do not know — " . . . "Oh, of 
 course you don't, but I do not want any excuses, monsieur, I tell you it is 
 all the same to me whether or not you are in love with Mademoiselle 
 Troupeau, the horrid little coquette, with her air of innocence ! " . . . 
 " Coquette, mademoiselle ! really that is rather — " ..." Yes, monsieur, 
 I repeat it, she is a coquette, a jilt, a flirt, and is only playing with you 
 and making a fool of you. But all I have to say is that I only came here 
 by the merest chance because my aunt asked me to go out and buy some 
 fresh brown bread for supper, and then I just stepped up to the milkman's 
 to tell him to bring a double quantity of milk to-morrow morning because 
 aunt — " . . . "Indeed, mademoiselle. I do not wish — " . . . "Oh, 
 
The Work goes bravely on. 33 
 
 don't interrupt me, I must and will prove that I was not watching you ; 
 so in passing before this door I saw it was open, which was rather singular, 
 because it is generally closed, and then, on looking in — hi, hi, hi — I saw both 
 of you — hi, hi — and in a very odd position as it seems to me — hi, hi, hi ! " . . . 
 "Mademoiselle, I must beg you to understand that we fell off the 
 bench." ..." Oh, very likely indeed, monsieur, all my regret is that 
 I should have interrupted your peculiar tete-a-tete so inopportunely." . . . 
 " I hope, Mademoiselle Vauxdore", you do not suppose any — " ..." Oh, 
 bless me, no, how is it possible to suppose anything of such a demure, saint- 
 like, innocent child as Mademoiselle Troupeau, so timid, so retiring ! 
 Make yourself easy, sir, I am not a chatterbox, and shall not make mischief, 
 although people seem to think they have a right to trample upon my feel- 
 ings just as they please." 
 
 The poor girl's heart was full. She did not utter another word, but 
 burst into an agony of tears, and Doudoux stood silent before her without 
 speaking, for he felt that he had acted faithlessly towards her. Thus they 
 stood opposite each other, he hoping that she would go away, and she 
 anticipating that he would endeavour to make some excuses for his conduct, 
 but when at length Doudoux, tired of waiting for Adrienne's departure, 
 took his way home without deigning to notice her, her anger became 
 reinflamed, and she followed on his steps, calling out that he 'had acted 
 towards her like a low-bred, ignorant fellow, a scoundrel, a villain, and 
 that his behaviour was scandalous. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, this behaviour is scandalous indeed," roared a man 
 who had approached the pair unseen, " and yours in particular, young lady. 
 It's horrible, infamous, to give a rendezvous to a young man in the street 
 at night, and before my door, before my house that ought to be respected, 
 seeing it is the abode of Innocence itself." . . . Doudoux and Adrienne 
 looked up at the person who delivered this extraordinary tirade, and seeing 
 it was Troupeau, ran off to their respective homes. 
 
 The fact was that the ex-upholsterer had just returned from Paris, and 
 at the moment he was about to enter his house he had heard Adrienne 
 talking in a loud tone, and thought she was reproaching some lover for his 
 culpable desertion of her. As it was, the flight of the young people did not 
 calm his ire, and he continued to fulminate anathemas against assignations 
 and incontinence as he tugged violently at the bell-pull at the gate. 
 Plunged in the limpid stream and immersed in a reverie, Madame Troupeau 
 was awoke by the noise from her anticipations of the delight attendant upon 
 her husband's return, and rang the bell for Babelle to inquire what was 
 going on. Virginie remained quiet in her room, vowing that all the folks in 
 the town might knock and ring and shout as much as they liked, but she 
 would not move a jot, and the servant, instead of opening the street door, 
 ran to her mistress and found her — like the great statue of the Venus — 
 just stepping from the bath. 
 
 Now Babelle, the cook, had a morbid dread of popular eruptions, and 
 was in the habit of fearing that every outcry that was heard in the streets 
 must be the precursor of another sanguinary revolution. ..." Oh, 
 madame," she uttered tremblingly, as she stumbled into the room and leaned 
 for support against a piece of furniture, " I am dying with fright ; did you 
 not hear the people shouting in the street ? They are now at the gate and 
 want to break in ; it's another revolution, I am sure, oh, dear, what shall 
 we do ! " . . . " Good heavens, Babelle, you frighten me ! what can all 
 that ringing at the outer gate mean ? " . . . " Ringing at our gate, madame, 
 oh, it's no such thing, it's the tocsin, the church chimes rung backwards. 
 The greengrocer's wife told me yesterday that the Government was going 
 
 
 
34 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 to put a duty upon peas and kidney beans, and that Paris would soon be 
 all blood and fire." ..." There goes the bell again, Babelle ; do go and 
 see what they want." . . . "Oh, dear madame, I can't, I do believe 
 they want us to cry out ' Liberty for ever !'"... " Well, and if so, 
 they must be satisfied, I will go down to them. But bless me, here I am 
 quite naked. Quick, Babelle, get me a dressing-gown, some slippers and a 
 shawl, and run upstairs and see that poor dear Virginie does not leave 
 her room." 
 
 Babelle left the room and returned instantly with a dressing-gown and 
 shawl, which Madame Troupeau scrambled into in the greatest hurry and 
 affright, not forgetting a pair of drawers, and all this while Troupeau was 
 tugging at the bell as if he would pull it down. Accoutred in this light 
 manner the good lady opened a window on the staircase which looked into 
 the front garden, and not seeing who was there, cried out, — "Yes, my 
 friends, ' Liberty j.f or ever,'" to which Babelle added, flourishing a dirty 
 pocket-handkerchief, "And no duty on peas and kidney beans." . . . 
 " Why, wife, what does all this mean ? " Troupeau inquired, as he let the 
 bell-pull drop from his hands ; " come down and let me in." . . . Nothing 
 could exceed the astonishment of the women at the ridiculous mistake 
 they had made ; Babelle ran down and admitted her master, who was in 
 a bad humour at being detained so long at the gate, in addition to his dis- 
 gust at Adrienne's conduct, and threw himself sulkily upon a chair, and 
 then madame, having explained the reason of her semi -nudity at that early 
 hour of the evening, Troupeau moderated his anger and gave her a detailed 
 account of what he had seen without. Both agreed that Adrienne's be- 
 haviour was the effect of her having been so improperly brought up, and 
 congratulated themselves upon their possessing such a pearl of price as 
 Virginie, and then peace and tranquillity being completely restored, 
 Madame Troupeau looked lovingly at her spouse, and, inviting him to sit 
 beside her on the couch, managed her shawl so awkwardly that for a short 
 period her bosom's charms were all exposed to Troupeau's view. Unfortu- 
 nately, however, Troupeau was in nowise moved by the temptations, and, 
 taking up a chamber candlestick, said, — " Good night, my dear, I am very 
 tired and shall go to bed directly ; to-morrow I will relate to you what I 
 did at Paris, but at present I can only say that I did not meet the Count 
 de Senneville." ..." Then you did not get any of his wondrous choco- 
 late ! " exclaimed madame in despair, and then as her husband walked 
 away quietly to his own room, she gathered her drapery around her form 
 and muttered, in a perfect rage, — " What a fool I was to take so much 
 trouble about the bath ; oh, these men, they never will be good-natured 
 when we want them ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE CUIRASSIEK. 
 
 When Troupeau met Vauxdore the next morning, he commenced a laboured 
 harangue — which his friend did not listen to, being then engaged reading 
 a book regulating the laws of the game of " Imperial " — upon the necessity 
 of keeping his niece within doors, and of preventing the neighbours talking 
 about her assignations with young men ; but when he came to that point 
 
The Cuirassier. 35 
 
 Vauxdore became angry, and calling his wife to him, that lady, who was 
 aware of Troupeau's tattling propensity, and averred he would make a 
 pumpkin out of a hazel nut, declared that she had sent Adrienne to the 
 baker's to fetch some fresh brown bread for supper, and the niece herself 
 cleared up the whole affair by stating she had met Monsieur Doudoux 
 accidentally on her return, and was talking to him quite casually when 
 Monsieur Troupeau alarmed them with his violence, so that the upholsterer 
 made nothing by his complaints, but was laughed at and reproved for his 
 injurious suspicions, and requested to mind his own business for the 
 future. 
 
 Only one word was required on Adrienne's part to free herself from 
 suspicion, and take revenge upon the rival who had supplanted her, but she 
 was an excellent hearted girl, and although wounded deeply in her feelings, 
 scorned to avenge herself by making known the ungrateful conduct of her 
 who still she called her friend. 
 
 In consequence of the untoward event narrated in the last chapter, 
 Doudoux dared not promenade any more in the Rue de Calais ; moreover, 
 Monsieur Troupeau looked austerely at him whenever he met him, and the 
 young man feared lest he should guess the affection he nourished for his 
 child, an affection which soon subdued the slight feelings of disappointment 
 caused by the discovery of the lady's cotton drawers, for Doudoux had put 
 some artful leading questions to several females upon the subject, and had 
 found it was not very unusual for the articles to be in use. Such being 
 the case, he would have given all the world, had he possessed it, to obtain 
 another interview with Virginie, and exhausted his brain in endeavouring 
 to devise a plan to meet her, but his imagination was not so fertile as 
 Virginie's, and as she was not quite satisfied with their last tete-a-tete, and 
 did not second his efforts to procure another, he was compelled to remain 
 without the gratification of his desires. 
 
 As Vauxdore - knew that Troupeau would chatter about the young 
 people whom he saw together on the night of his return from Paris, he 
 took care to disseminate the antidote to the poison by relating his version 
 of the story, which he believed to be the correct one, and consequently both 
 he and his wife were convinced of the perfect innocence of Adrienne : thus 
 the neighbours visited each other as usual, because in a small village it is 
 difficult to shake off old acquaintances, and impossible to make new ones. 
 But Madame Troupeau would not let her daughter be alone with Adrienne, 
 who was vexed at the circumstance, because, notwithstanding the duplicity 
 with which she had been treated by Virginie, she still retained some 
 friendship for the girl, and on one occasion when her parents' eyes were 
 not upon her, she seized the opportunity of taking her by the hand and 
 whispering to her that she never would speak one word of what had really 
 taken place at the ever-memorable garden gate. Virginie lifted up her 
 demure eyes and thanked her friend with a look, and thus a perfect under- 
 standing was re-established between the girls. 
 
 Several weeks passed on, and Adrienne, notwithstanding her devotion 
 to her friend, sighed occasionally as her thoughts reverted to Doudoux, 
 when one morning her attention was awakened by her uncle stating that he 
 had heard at the coffee-house the previous evening that a regiment of Cuiras- 
 siers would be soon stationed at Belleville, and that of course he should have 
 one man billeted upon him. Madame Vauxdore ordered a small extra 
 bedroom to be got ready, and indulged a hope that they should hear some- 
 thing of their young scamp of a nephew Godibert, who would enlist in the 
 Cuirassiers, although he was not drawn in the conscription, and Adrienne 
 said she should be delighted to see her gay-spirited playfellow who used to 
 
36 TJie Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 carry her on his shoulders and call her his little wife, and who had now been 
 upwards of seven years away. 
 
 Whilst the news of the expected arrival of the soldiers caused the bosoms 
 of the Vauxdores to bound with pleasure, the elder Troupeaus were in 
 despair lest a Cuirassier should be sent to lodge with them. ... " Not 
 that I doubt the honour of these men," said Madame, " but they will talk 
 nonsense to the girls, and our Virginie is so pretty and so young, we must 
 not run any risk of the bloom of her innocence being brushed from the sweet 
 flower even by the barrack habits and expressions of the military ; but go 
 to the quartermaster and see all about it, and try at any rate to get to keep 
 two horses instead of a billet for one man." . . . Now Virginie, ap- 
 parently with eyes only for her work, had kept her ears open and heard this 
 little low-toned dialogue : she wondered what objection her parents could 
 have to a Cuirassier, whom her fancy had painted as a very delightful, 
 rattling creature, and she sighed to think that Adrienne would be happier 
 than herself, as Vauxdore would procure the billet of an officer if he could, 
 that he might play whist and ecarte with him. 
 
 The soldiers soon afterwards marched into the town, helmets flashing, 
 steeds curveting, colours flying, sabres glancing, and trumpets playing, and 
 the desires of Troupeau were satisfied by the authorities sending him two 
 horses instead of a single trooper, but as for the Vauxdores, they were not 
 at all displeased when they saw a handsome, moustachioed young fellow, 
 full six feet high, walk, with a gentlemanly bow, into the room, but they 
 were mightily surprised and not a little pleased when the strapping fellow 
 exclaimed, — "Uncle, aunt, do you not know me? I am your nephew 
 Godibert, now a sergeant of Cuirassiers, and nicknamed • The Galloper. ' " 
 . . . Thus saying, the long-parted relations embraced affectionately,' and 
 the old lady said she never could have expected that her young, mischievous, 
 hot-headed boy of a nephew would have made such a fine fellow and looked 
 so handsome in his uniform. 
 
 Whilst this scene of recognition was going on, Adrienne remained stand- 
 ing in the middle of the room smiling quietly, and when the soldier had 
 disengaged himself from his aunt and smoothed his moustachios, which her 
 loving kisses had somewhat disarranged, she turned to the soldier, saying, — 
 "And now, Monsieur Godibert, have you not one word to say to me ? " . . . 
 "Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I do not recollect that I ever had the 
 honour — " ..." What ! do you not remember your little cousin Adri- 
 enne ? " . . . " Is it possible, Adrienne, the little girl I left, and now, 
 you, this fine young woman ! " . . . " Yes, indeed, it is — " . . . And the 
 friendship was renewed by the tall " Galloper " taking his little wife up in 
 his arms and kissing her a hundred times. That done, he said the regiment 
 would only remain a week at Belleville, but he expected a furlough, and 
 would devote the whole of his leave of absence to his friends. 
 
 As soon as the greetings were over, Vauxdore ran out to inform all his 
 friends of the arrival of his nephew the handsome Cuirassier, six feet high, 
 with a pair of undeniable moustachios. ..." They have not sent you 
 a nephew to lodge," he exclaimed, as he entered Troupeau's apartment. 
 ... " They could not very well, my friend, as I have only a couple of 
 horses to keep," was the reply. ..." You shall see mine, then ; he is 
 such a fine fellow, a perfect horseman, I assure you, none of your rude, 
 uncouth soldiers, nothing that smacks of the barrack in the least, but quite 
 a soft, gentle tone, and the most amiable manners, although they do call 
 him 'The Galloper' in the regiment. Madame Troupeau, I shall do 
 myself the honour of presenting my nephew to you." 
 
 Off went Vauxdore, rubbing his hands in high glee, to communicate the 
 
The Cuirassier. 37 
 
 intelligence to some more acquaintances, whilst Madame Troupeau thought 
 she could do very well without the company of "The Galloper," and her 
 husband said, — " My love, we cannot refuse to see Vauxdore's nephew, but 
 it appears to me that if this dashing Cuirassier remains in the house with 
 Adrienne — who is so thoughtless and imprudent — eh ! do you foresee any 
 consequences, dear?" . . . "Oh, yes, my dear, they may easily be 
 guessed ; but the poor people are half blind ; it will be just like the affair 
 with young Ledoux, and depend upon it, if anything should happen they 
 will not believe it. Ah, she's a cunning girl, that Adrienne ! " . . , " How 
 different to our dear, artless child ! " . . . "I should think so, indeed, 
 Monsieur Troupeau, but then Virginie has been brought up in so superior 
 a manner ; and when she leaves my protection for that of a husband, I shall 
 be able to say to the happy man, — ' My son, you will find everything as it 
 ought to be.' "... " Yes, wife, and no small boast either, when so many 
 husbands now-a-days do not find what they expected, and not a few of them 
 much more." ..." Hush, silence, Troupeau, our daughter is at the other 
 end of the room, and she may hear you." ..." True, true, my sweet. 
 By-the-bye, the dear child's birthday will soon be here, and I think we ought 
 to celebrate it by some rejoicings ; suppose we give a ball ? " . . . " Oh, 
 fie, Troupeau, our daughter does not dance, you know, and aunt considers 
 the mingling of the sexes is quite improper." ... " Well, then, a grand 
 dinner ? " . . . " No, no, the whole trouble falls upon me, and it gives me 
 such a dreadful headache for a week afterwards." . . . "Then there is 
 no other resource than to give an entertainment at a tavern. Virginie has 
 teased me for one for a long time, and I think we must make up our minds 
 to gratify her this once." . . . "Agreed, my dear, but where shall the 
 fete take place ; in the woods of Romainville ? We have not been there once 
 since aunt came to see us. "... " Impossible, my love. Madame Belle- 
 avrine hates Romainville on account of the song written about it — ' Blest 
 wood, where youthful lovers o'oam.'" ... "At any rate we must go to 
 some hotel for the dejeuner : what say you to ' The Flying Horse ' ? It is 
 the most respectable establishment in the neighbourhood, and there is such 
 a delightful lawn in front of the house ; we can have the breakfast laid out 
 there, and it will look more rural, you know." ..." Well, well, we shall 
 see. Virginie, come here, my love ; shall you like to go to the wood of 
 Romainville on your fete-day, and have a dejeuner in the open air ? " . . . 
 " Oh, yes, mamma, above all things, and perhaps you will let me ride upon 
 the rocking-horses, or even on a real donkey ? And who is to go with us ; 
 you will invite Adrienne, I hope ? " . . . " Adrienne ! Humph ! I have 
 told you often, my dear, that her company is not fit for you." ..." But, 
 mamma, she is so lively, and pleases me so much : I shall be quite unhappy 
 if Adrienne is not there." . . . "Well, go and sit down to your work 
 again, and your papa and I will see what can be done." . . . Madame 
 Troupeau tapped her daughter's cheek playfully, and the girl danced across 
 the room to her seat, thinking to herself, — " It's all right, if they ask 
 Adrienne they must invite the other Vauxdores, and then I shall see this 
 handsome Cuirassier." 
 
 "The Galloper" was now fully installed in his uncle's house, where he 
 won all hearts by the frankness of his manner. He was not by any means 
 a clever fellow, but he was an uncommonly fine young man, and very atten- 
 tive to the ladies : qualifications which ensure success in the world where 
 so much merit is attached to a fair outside, and there he remained gratify- 
 ing his uncle by playing dominoes and ecarte* with him, pleasing his aunt by 
 praising her ragouts, matelottes, and stews, and romping with his pretty 
 cousin Adrienne, and talking of their childhood whenever they could find 
 
38 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 an opportunity. How exquisitely sweet are the reminiscences of our youth- 
 ful days 1 They carry us back to those bright hours when we were free 
 from trouble and from care, and when fiery passions had not taken posses- 
 sion of our hearts. 
 
 But whilst these pleasing remembrances crowded upon their memory, 
 Adrienne did not dare to style her tall cousin "her little husband," and 
 although he recalled to her mind the spots where they used to roll together 
 on the grass, and the places in which they hid themselves to elude their 
 relatives' pursuit, and they visited them together over and over again, 
 there was a diffidence in her manner of accosting him which she could not 
 account for, and which he endeavoured strenuously to dispel. Was 
 Doudoux forgotten, and was this timidity the effects of nascent love ? 
 
 Then, like Desdemona, she would listen with eagerness to the recital 
 of his "moving accidents by flood and field," for he had been campaigning 
 in Algeria, and had killed six Bedouin Arabs with his own hands, and he 
 told the tale not with a heated tone, and garnished with oaths as many 
 soldiers do, but all gently and with a flute-like voice, which it seemed im- 
 possible could issue from the throat of a strapping, six-feet-high dragoon. 
 While Adrienne drank in the exciting story she would almost jump off her 
 chair, and at the end of it she said, — " What a passion you must have been 
 in, cousin Godibert, to kill six men ! " . . . " Not in the least, my pretty 
 cousin, a good soldier never gets into a passion when he is on the field. 
 We take up a position as coolly as possible, salute our enemy quite politely, 
 and perhaps hum an air whilst he takes his aim. If he misses, then we fire, 
 and if we hit him most likely he says, — ' I'm done for, comrade,' and then 
 the answer is, — ' Good-bye then, old fellow, no animosity, I hope ? ' and the 
 affair is over quite pleasantly." 
 
 Hitherto Vauxdore had not deemed it expedient to introduce his nephew 
 to the Troupeaus, but time did not hang heavily upon " The Galloper," for 
 his cousin, as if anxious to atone for her uncle's neglect, suffered him to be 
 very little alone, and as the gay soldier appeared to be perfectly happy in 
 her company, the philosophic, timid boy Doudoux slipped entirely from her 
 mind, and all memory of him was soon buried in oblivion. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FETE CHAMPETKE. 
 
 One evening the Vauxdores resolved to pay a visit to their friends the resi- 
 dents in the Rue de Calais. Godibert lent his arm to Adrienne, who strutted 
 by his side with a triumphant air, proud of presenting the handsome Cuiras- 
 sier to the Troupeaus, and rejoicing in the idea that Virginie would see the 
 reciprocal tenderness that existed between the young soldier and his cousin 
 which amply repaid her for the faithlessness of young Ledoux. The Tir 
 family, Monsieur Renard, and some other neighbours were seated in 
 Troupeau's parlour when the Vauxdores arrived, and the fat little man, 
 after making his bow, cried aloud, — " Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to 
 present to you my nephew, a Cuirassier, who is above six feet high, and has 
 killed half-a-dozen Bedouin Arabs." The company all rose, the soldier 
 advanced to the centre of the room, lowering his head so as not to knock it 
 against a chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and covered with brown 
 
The Fete Champkre. 39 
 
 Holland cloth ; the men saluted him courteously, and the ladies all agreed 
 that he was a very fine young man indeed. 
 
 Neighbour Renard commenced putting a series of ridiculous questions 
 respecting Africa to Godibert, and answering them himself, which greatly 
 annoyed the soldier, for he was not yet acquainted with the fact that there 
 are a large number of people in the world who arrogate to themselves the 
 exclusive right of occupying the time of others with whom they may be 
 temporarily associated : you may go to a party hoping to be amused and to 
 be pleased with the society of your oldest friends, but it is not so ; a pedant, 
 or a babbling, chattering blockhead wills that it shall be otherwise, and 
 therefore, no sooner have you entered the apartment than he places himself 
 right before you, catches you by the button, and although you cast your 
 eyes right, left, and all over the room, testifying your impatience in every pos- 
 sible way, you cannot get rid of the atrocious bore who still will hold you fast, 
 whilst conventional politeness prevents you from breaking rudely from him. 
 The Cuirassier was precisely in this unenviable position with the self- 
 sufficient bore, Renard, when he heard Madame Troupeau say, — "But 
 where is my daughter, what can have become of Virginie ? . . . Poudrette 
 replied, — " She has hid herself behind the curtain there, madame," and at 
 the same moment, a low, delicate, sweet-toned timid voice was heard to 
 say, — "I am here, mamma." . . . "Why, what on earth are you doing there, 
 my dear ? Pray leave off this childishness, come out, dear, do." ... "I 
 dare not, mamma, I am so afraid of the tall gentleman who has killed six 
 Bedouin Arabs. "... All the company laughed heartily at Virginie's 
 fears except Adrienne, who could not understand her friend's timidity, and 
 thought she could detect some malice lurking under it. . . . " Nephew," 
 said Vauxdore*, "it belongs to you of right, as you have frightened the 
 young lady, to calm her fears, to prove that though you are a raging lion 
 amongst the enemies of your country, you are as gentle as a lamb amongst 
 the women, and to show the truth of the old proverb that — Tartars are 
 only barbarians with their foes. " 
 
 Thus exhorted, and having obtained permission of Madame Troupeau, 
 " The Galloper " advanced towards the window-curtains, followed by the 
 anxious father, crying, — " Don't be afraid, Virginie, my love, the soldier is 
 young, and just like other men, only he has moustachios," and in a few 
 moments the young lady was drawn gently into the light hiding her face 
 within her hands until Godibert's musical voice and amiable sentence com- 
 pletely reassured her, when she withdrew her fingers one by one from her 
 speaking countenance, and the whole becoming visible, she looked up to his 
 eyes as if in wonder, and feeling pleased with the examination, vouchsafed 
 him a pretty little smile, and observed in an affected, childish tone, that 
 she did not fear his moustachios any longer, and that his uniform was 
 very pretty. 
 
 During the rest of the evening, " The Galloper " amused himself with 
 paying great attention to Virginie, and relating his exciting adventures to 
 her in such an animated strain that Adrienne thought her cousin was by far 
 too anxious to allay the girl's timidity ; and on their way home they had 
 almost an altercation because Godibert was in raptures at the beauty of 
 his new acquaintance, and talked so earnestly of leaving the regiment and 
 settling down for life that Adrienne became alarmed, and represented to 
 him that Mademoiselle Troupeau's parents were rich and ambitious, and 
 would not think of giving her to any other than a wealthy man. That 
 night, from some unaccountable reason, the cousins did not converse as 
 unrestrainedly as before, and were not by any means such confidential 
 friends when they retired to rest. 
 
40 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Of course, as soon as the Vauxdores left Troupeau's house the Cuirassier 
 became the subject of conversation. Madame praised his gentlemanly, 
 quiet manners, so different to those of the generality of men who have seen 
 active service and been a considerable time in garrison, the slaughter of 
 the six Bedouins gained him great esteem with the papa, and Ma'amzelle 
 Virginie, although she said nothing, thought there was a great difference 
 between him and Doudoux. Next came a little bit of scandal, without 
 which Madame Troupeau could not have slept comfortably, and she 
 observed to her husband that Adrienne appeared much too familiar with 
 her handsome cousin, and had followed him all the evening with her eyes 
 in a very unbecoming manner. Troupeau concurred in the justice of the 
 remark, shaking his head and adding that no good could come of it, and 
 all the family then went to bed, where Virginie dreamed of Bedouins, 
 moustachios, uniforms, and handsome Cuirassiers. 
 
 Shortly afterwards the invitations for Troupeau's fete champetre were 
 issued. Godibert was delighted at receiving one, for he could think of 
 nothing but the fascinating, bashful girl, much to Adrienne's chagrin, 
 although he had only seen her once since the friendly soiree, on the occasion 
 of a morning visit to Madame Troupeau, when he saw her in the company 
 of her mamma, and of course could not address any particular observations 
 to her, but soldiers are in the habit of speaking by their gestures as well as 
 by their mouth, so that notwithstanding the conversation was not directly 
 addressed to her, Virginie understood the soldier's pantomime exceeding 
 well. 
 
 The fete-day arrived at last : during the whole of the morning " The 
 Galloper" was busily employed brushing his uniform, cleaning his belt, 
 polishing the scabbard of his sabre, and looking to the neatness of his 
 accoutrements, amidst the continual jeers of Adrienne as to his desire to 
 set himself off that day to the best advantage, which he bore with the 
 greatest possible good humour, for when a man is disposed to be happy and 
 expects to pass a pleasant day, it takes a great deal to put him out of 
 temper. Then Adrienne sighed, looked in the glass, thought she was quite 
 as handsome as Virginie, and regretted she could not assume the air of 
 infantine simplicity which seemed to please Godibert so much. 
 
 All the guests were to meet at the Troupeaus' at twelve o'clock, and 
 consequently at that hour the Vauxdores went there and found Renard 
 standing in the middle of the room dribbling out a tedious oration on the 
 pleasures of the country ; several acquaintances arrived soon after, and the 
 Tir family came the last, bending under a load of fireworks, he carrying 
 beneath his arm a mimic star that was to eclipse all those in the firmament, 
 Petard a huge bundle of rockets, serpents, and maroons, and Poudrette 
 a sun beneath each arm. Mindful of the fate of the Utrecht velvet-covered, 
 spring-stuffed sofa, Madame Troupeau absolutely shrieked at the sight of 
 the combustibles, and ordered them to be taken into the yard, which command 
 was instantly obeyed, as Tir only proposed to discharge them in the even- 
 ing in the wood of Romainville, whilst Renard asserted that he could make 
 the best fireworks in the world if he wished, and then exclaimed, — " But 
 here comes Mademoiselle Virginie, a delightful young lady, perfectly well 
 brought up, a concentration of virtues, in fact, the very model of her 
 mamma." 
 
 As the old bore uttered these words, Virginie entered the room dressed 
 all in white ; her robe completely concealed her bust, and it was impossible 
 for the most scrupulous severity to find anything that could be amended in 
 her toilette ; but there is a certain manner of wearing habiliments which adds 
 greatly to their intrinsic beauty, and so it was that under the virgin dress 
 
The Fete Champtire. 41 
 
 that came up to the very throat, the girl's yet small, but well-rounded 
 bosom seemed struggling into light, and although her walk as she crossed 
 the room to her mother was calm, repressed and modest, those swelling 
 hips were voluptuously developed at every step she took. All the gentle- 
 men were delighted with the indefinable something in the "Pucelle" 
 appearance, and Monsieur Tir openly asserted, by way of an extraordinary 
 compliment, that she would look positively enchanting in a grand trans- 
 parency. Virginie's heart beat with rapture as she listened to these 
 encomiums on her person, but she kept her eyes upon the carpet and said 
 nothing. The time for active operations had not come. 
 
 At half -past twelve all the company were assembled, with the exception 
 of two rich gentleman from Paris, for whom it was absolutely necessary to 
 wait : had they been poor men, the word would have been given to proceed 
 to "The Flying Horse" at once, but the rich men must be waited for, 
 because the world has always bowed the knee before the God of Wealth, 
 and although we are said now to be in the Age of Light, there does not 
 seem to be any alteration in the practice. An hour passed away without 
 the rich friends making their appearance, but instead of them a dense 
 cloud rose from the horizon, spread its dark mantle rapidly over the town 
 of Belleville, and then discharged a perfect storm of hail and rain. 
 Everybody was in despair : Madame Troupeau declared they should not be 
 able to have the dejeuner upon the lawn, Monsieur Tir foresaw that the fire- 
 works could not go off, and ran into the yard to protect them from the 
 rain, Madame Vauxdore, who was a gourmand, and had not eaten any 
 breakfast in anticipation of the good things that were to come at the 
 dejeuner, hoped the repast would not be postponed indefinitely, "The 
 Galloper" approached Virginie and observed that the weather was most 
 vexing, as he had promised himself the greatest delight in promenading with 
 her in the wood, to which she replied when no one was observing her in the 
 general chorus of lamentations, that if the rain should cease and they 
 should go out, she should expect him to give his arm to her before anybody 
 could accost her, and by no means to escort his cousin Adrienne. The 
 young man nodded and looked assent, and so "perfect simplicity" had 
 succeeded in attaining one of her desired ends. 
 
 Unfortunately the rain continued to pour down in torrents, and the 
 stomachs of the guests became more importunate in their demands for food 
 as the minutes passed away. Madame Troupeau would not hear of such 
 a thing as troubling herself with providing refreshments for her acquaint- 
 ances in the house, and as a last resource the Master of the Feast proposed 
 that, as the wood of Romainville was totally out of the question, his com- 
 panions should equip themselves for the weather as well as they could, and 
 see if they could not find something to eat at the neighbouring tavern 
 called the "Isle d' Amour." 
 
 The proposition was accepted. The men searched everywhere for 
 umbrellas to protect the ladies, who put on their bonnets and thickest 
 cloaks, and shortly afterwards they set out for the "Isle d' Amour," and 
 were speedily and comfortably seated in the best saloon of that establish- 
 ment. Notwithstanding Godibert and Troupeau did their best to keep up 
 the spirits of the ladies, the company did not seem to relish the excellent 
 repast supplied by the landlord, and the meal passed off heavily, for it is 
 very tiresome to be shut up in a room when a run in the fields has been 
 anticipated, and we all know best that a thousand trifling liberties inter- 
 dicted within walls may be taken when gamboling in the open air, and that 
 young ladies — even the most discreet — are rather attached to the commission 
 of these pleasing liberties, especially when indulged in by a young and 
 
42 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 handsome man. | Worse than all, Madame Troupeau had arranged her 
 guests with a strict eye to propriety, so poor Adrienne was seated between 
 Petard and Poudrette, Virginie between Messieurs Tir and Vauxdore', 
 whilst the others sat just where they pleased, and to increase the regret of 
 the two girls, they had been scarcely a quarter of an hour at table before 
 the rain ceased, the weather cleared up, and the sun broke out again in all 
 its brilliancy. 
 
 It has been written that everything must have an end; the devouring 
 appetites of the hungry men were appeased at length, the sky had donned 
 again its usual azure, the ladies had looked wistfully out of the windows for 
 some time, and made repeated remarks that the paths were dry, and the last 
 toast to the health and happiness of " The Pucelle of Belleville " had been 
 drunk — as the newspapers say — with the accustomed honours, when Monsieur 
 Troupeau rose quickly from his seat and delighted the hearts of all the 
 young folks by proposing to set out for the woods of Romainville. 
 
 The line of march was settled in a minute ; Adrienne seized hold of her 
 cousin's arm in spite of his endeavours to free himself in order that he might 
 escort Virginie, the latter bit her lips at the success of the ruse, and caught 
 hold of young Poudrette to avoid the detestable attentions of old Renard, 
 who she saw hastening towards her, and Madame Troupeau, having cast an 
 eye round the company to ascertain how they were coupled, whispered to 
 her husband, — " See, my dear, how innocence will manifest itself in every- 
 thing ; our Virginie is content with the company of young Poudrette, whilst 
 that bold Adrienne has caught hold of the tall Cuirassier and is laughing 
 and talking with him in a very improper manner. "... " Thank Heaven 
 there is no resemblance between the two," Troupeau answered, "and as 
 Virginie is a good girl, I will pay for a donkey for her as soon as we shall 
 reach the wood." ..." Have a pony for her, my dear, if you like, for 
 my daughter is dressed in such a manner that she can ride on horseback 
 without offending propriety, in case of any little accident." 
 
 In a few minutes the party had passed through Belleville and the 
 paddock at Saint Fargean, where the sounds of pistols discharged at targets 
 continually offend the ears of quiet people who have left the city in hopes 
 of enjoying a peaceful afternoon, and reached the quarter where the horses 
 and donkeys stand in rows waiting to be hired. Fifty animals — warranted 
 docile and easy — were offered at once to the pedestrians ; Virginie stopped, 
 quitted Poudrette, went up to her father, and asked him to treat her to a 
 ride, but whilst he was undecided which of the animals to select for her, 
 Vauxdore attempted to settle the matter by pronouncing in favour of don- 
 keys, and offered to pay for two for Adrienne and his wife. Madame 
 Vauxdore" declined riding, because it would interfere with her digestion, 
 and Madame Troupeau because the motion was too much for her, and the 
 young Tirs, having been refused a mount because their services were wanted 
 to carry the fireworks to the wood, began to cry and to destroy as many 
 crackers, serpents, and cartridges as they could, without being seen by their 
 papa. Renard declared he had ridden so many thousands of miles that he 
 was disgusted at the sight of even a wooden horse ; and at length, it being 
 arranged that a portion of the company should remain on foot, and that the 
 others should take horses or donkeys according to their choice, Virginie 
 decided to have a horse, because Godibert had told her that the motion was 
 the easiest, and that they could soon gallop from all the rest. However, 
 this plan was arrested momentarily by Troupeau ordering the steadiest nag 
 in the whole troop to be saddled for him, that he might accompany his 
 darling daughter and not lose her from his sight. 
 
 A smart little pony being brought for Virginie, "The Galloper" took 
 
The Fete Champetre. 43 
 
 her in his arms and lifted her like a feather into the side-saddle, he then 
 chose for himself the most spirited animal he could find, assisted to 
 hoist Troupeau upon his jade, promised madame to ride gently and take the 
 greatest care of her child, and then helped Adrienne on to her patient ass, 
 whilst the discomfited girl muttered to herself that she would keep them in 
 view if she mashed the donkey's cropper with her stick, and make a sieve 
 of his thick hide with a long hairpin, which she forthwith applied in the 
 region of the tail in such a manner as to convey to the donkey's imagina- 
 tion that she meant "going," and nothing else. 
 
 No sooner was the cavalcade duly formed than the word was given to 
 advance, but it was much easier said than done. Vauxdore was mounted 
 on a donkey who would not go ten paces forward without stopping and 
 trying to turn back, and when foiled in that attempt, would describe in- 
 numerable circles, and exciting roars of laughter at his jockey. Troupeau, 
 the moment his animal began to trot, rolled about from left to right as if 
 he must fall every instant to the ground, and when, by chance — which 
 happened every three minutes — he found himself out of the saddle, upon 
 the horse's neck or loins, he called out to his companions to stop until he 
 recovered his balance, and then jogged on again. 
 
 Two of the company, also mounted upon horses, had started off at a 
 hand -canter, to show their equestrian talent, and soon disappeared. 
 Godibert would willingly have done the same with Virginie, but he dared 
 not start away from her father, and wished the girl to get accustomed to 
 the action of the beast, and as yet he had not been able to throw off his 
 cousin Adrienne, who, with the powerful aid of the strong black pin, had 
 managed to keep so close to him that he could not speak a word without 
 being heard. Virginie soon became impatient of being controlled in this 
 manner, and wished to be alone with her admirer. She whispered to him 
 that she would like to go faster if he thought she would not fall, and he, 
 taking her horse's bridle in his hand, and promising to keep its pace to that 
 of his own, by way of security, told her to sit back firmly in the saddle, 
 and then, with the ease of an accomplished horseman, struck the animals 
 into a brisk trot. 
 
 At first the girl uttered two or three exclamations at the fright caused 
 by the novelty of her situation, but "The Galloper" soothed her appre- 
 hensions, and in a few minutes, fear giving way to pleasure, she pressed the 
 pony to increase its pace, whilst Adrienne, toiling after her and belabouring 
 the unfortunate donkey, cried out, — "Don't go so fast, you will fall ; your 
 papa cannot follow you ; your mamma said you must not trot. " 
 
 Adrienne's vehement remonstrances were all in vain, and notwith- 
 standing she applied the hairpin to the donkey's hinder quarters with the 
 energy of desperation, her cousin and Virginie vanished from her sight 
 just as they turned to the left down a bypath on the outskirts of the 
 wood. Knowing she could not now be observed, Virginie pulled up to take 
 breath, and " The Galloper " swore a round oath that she rode like a captain 
 of dragoons, and if she would try a smart canter she would find it more 
 pleasant still. The girl was delighted at the praise paid to her, and the 
 passionate looks of the young Cuirassier, excited with the exercise, his 
 companion's beauty, and the quantity of wine he had drunk at the 
 dejeuner. She replied, — "She should be too happy to try, but she feared 
 that she might tumble off," and on Godibert assuring her with an ardent 
 gaze that "he would watch over her as he would over the safety of an 
 angel dropped from Heaven," she could not resist the temptation, and 
 giving the horse his head and striking him with the whip, the animal 
 sprang briskly off at a smart hand-gallop. 
 
44 The Pucetle of Belleville. 
 
 " How delightful ! " Virginie exclaimed, " what a heavenly sensation ! 
 At every bound the animal makes I feel in paradise." . . . "Upright, 
 sit more upright still, adorable creature," shouted the Cuirassier ; " don't 
 check him, yield yourself to the motion." . . . "Bless me, how my 
 dress flies up, it is well I have got the drawers on ! " . . . "A devilish 
 droll uniform for a woman ! But never mind, lift the nag lightly with 
 the bit, my beauty ; that's it. Diavolo, what a lovely figure ! " . . . " Ah, 
 Monsieur Godibert, I like galloping better than any other pace." ... "I 
 knew you would, my angel, — upright, but not so stiff ; drop your hand a 
 little and feel his mouth a bit." " The Galloper " struck Virginie's horse 
 sharply on the crupper, gave his own the spur, the steeds bounded forward 
 at a furious pace for half a mile, and then the girl pulled up perspiring pro- 
 fusely and almost exhausted. 
 
 The animals, fatigued with sinking fetlock deep into the sand, were glad 
 to be relieved from the severe exertion ; they willingly relaxed into a walk, 
 and at that moment Virginie and the Cuirassier penetrated still deeper into 
 the wood, until at the end of a partially cleared bridle-path they came upon 
 the high trees, shrubs, underwood and palings which fence in the home park 
 of the chateau in the forest, and which was precisely similar to that where 
 the celebrated Beauty in the Wood reposed, because the environs could not 
 be seen from the chateau. 
 
 Here the couple came to a complete stand-still ; the " Pucelle," inquiring 
 what was to be done next, looked at her lover, with eyes sparkling still more 
 brightly and cheeks glowing from the exercise, that set his blood on fire, for 
 you may well conceive, readers, that a pretty woman, a hard gallop, and 
 a convenient dense wood are three things that easily make a young man 
 feel most uneasy. Proceeding so, the horses so close together that 
 Virginie's little hand was placed in his fervent grasp, they reached 
 the well-known sandy road, and walked to the point of view whence 
 a great portion of Paris may be seen, including the Emperor Napoleon's 
 Triumphal Arch, the dome of the Hospital of the Invalids, and also the 
 meadows around Saint Gervais, the village of Pantin, the steeple of the 
 cathedral at Saint Denis, the Forests of Bondy, and the town of Mont- 
 morency. 
 
 Virginie and the young soldier stopped simultaneously at the spot : in 
 truth not to admire the lovely view — for "The Galloper" preferred the 
 sight of the girl's bright, laughing eyes to the most enchanting scenes in 
 Switzerland or Italy, and she, affecting to conceal those sparkling orbs, 
 suffered herself to be admired with considerable nonchalence, which was all 
 very natural, and is the constant custom of all the fair sex who deem 
 themselves good-looking. The tired animals blew the heated breath out 
 of their distended nostrils, Virginie sighed and looked up tenderly 
 in the Cuirassier's face, and he was silently contemplating her various 
 beauties with a swelling breast and flashing eye, when suddenly he 
 broke from his reverie, threw himself from his horse, and opened a con- 
 versation in the following manner, — "These poor beasts are very hot, 
 ma'amzelle." ..." Yes, monsieur ; had I better not relieve mine by 
 alighting also ? " . . . "I think you had." ..." Help me off, then." 
 . . . Godibert, taking her in his arms and supporting her on his chest, was 
 in no hurry to put her down, and she remained quite contented in that 
 position, merely saying, — "Bless me, how strong you are!". . . The 
 Cuirassier replied he could carry her a hundred leagues, and began to put his 
 assertion to the proof by bearing her into a thicket that bordered the little 
 square on which they had been standing. Virginie yielded laughingly to the 
 joke, but presenthy, seeing her lover was plunging into the densest part of the 
 
The Fete Champetre. 45 
 
 tall underwood, began to feel uneasy, and expressed a fear that the horses 
 would run away. 
 
 Godibert replied that they would easily find the animals again, and 
 then bearing his pretty but affrighted burthen as a feather, to a by-path 
 near the ditch and hedge that fringes the extreme end of the wood, and is 
 seldom visited by excursionists, he plunged into a thick group of holly 
 bushes, placed her upon the mossy sward, threw himself upon one knee 
 before her, and said, in a voice broken with agitation, — "Mademoiselle, I 
 cannot control my feelings any longer, I love you to desperation, and I tell 
 you frankly, whether you believe me or not, I shall love you till death." 
 ... " Dear me, monsieur, if that is the case I may as well tell you 
 that — " ..." Since the first evening I saw you, I have thought of none but 
 you. You have ever been the uppermost in my thoughts." . . . "Indeed, 
 monsieur, I thought you were in love with your cousin Adrienne." . . . 
 " In love with her ! How could you think so ? No. I laugh and talk 
 with her, but that is all." ... " And are you not joking now when you 
 say you love me ? " . . . "Ah, no, loveliest of all creatures, I swear by 
 those eyes, and by this kiss." 
 
 Indeed, Virginie began to perceive that there was not anything in the 
 least pertaining to a joke about the handsome Cuirassier's proceedings ; on 
 the contrary, he was terribly in earnest, he held the young girl powerless in 
 his nervous grasp, he had snatched several burning kisses, and was on the 
 eve of culling something more delicious still, when a noise was heard 
 amongst the underwood. The soldier, putting a truce to his amorous enter- 
 prises, sprang up to chastise the insolent individual who dared to disturb 
 him, and stood aghast when he beheld — Adrienne on her donkey. The 
 fact was the jealous girl, aided by the hairpin and a branch of a small tree 
 she had broken down, had gained the wood when she met the pony that 
 Virginie had mounted returning to its stable, and the Cuirassier's horse 
 quietly browsing upon the leaves of an oak tree. Presuming that her 
 recreant cousin and his new love must be near, she had wandered up and 
 down several paths, and stumbled on them by the merest chance. 
 
 " And this is your galloping, sir, is it ? " Adrienne cried, as she jumped 
 off the donkey in a rage. " Very pretty, indeed, it is to lead young ladies 
 into thick bushes and seat them down too upon the grass ! And you 
 Virginie, I am perfectly ashamed of you ! I knew you wanted to be alone 
 with Godibert, and that is the reason you left me behind upon the donkey. 
 It's quite shameful of you, I declare, after all that I have done for you. 
 And there's your papa, who will think that you are killed, as he saw you 
 go off just like a mad woman." Without waiting to make any lengthened 
 excuse, but only saying it was Godibert's fault for taking her off the horse, 
 Virginie jumped upon the donkey, telling Adrienne to mount her pony if 
 she could find it, and having turned the patient animal's head round, she set 
 off homeward at a round trot, leaving the cousins to make the best they 
 could of each other's company. 
 
 Whilst " The Pucelle of Belleville " was taking a riding lesson in the 
 wood of Romainville, her father and Vauxdore, who had not become very 
 accomplished cavaliers, did not leave the walking portion of the company, 
 in spite of Madame Troupeau's continual incitements to ride quickly and 
 look after the safety of her daughter, so when the pedestrians arrived at the 
 cottage of the head forester, they were all so fatigued that they proposed to 
 enter it and sit down, and just as Troupeau was about to descend from his 
 courser in great glee, Virginie's pony was seen trotting from the covert. 
 Madame Troupeau shrieked and exclaimed that some awful calamity must 
 have taken place ; her husband and all the guests were instantly in a state 
 
46 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 of great alarm, Madame Vauxdore cried, Monsieur Renard exhorted all to 
 be calm, in a sonorous tone, Troupeau kicked his horse so fiercely to drive it 
 into the wood in search of his lost child that the animal would not bear the 
 punishment, and kicking its heels up furiously deposited the rider upon the 
 earth, and Vauxdore jumped quickly from his ass to help his friend. 
 
 "The forest must be beaten thoroughly — the girl must be found," 
 resounded on all sides ; Tir was deputed to hold the horse and the ass, and 
 to remain where he was with the fireworks, which he had dragged along 
 with him till he perspired from every pore ; all the gueets plunged into the 
 wood searching in different directions, and calling aloud upon Virginie, but 
 without finding the lost lamb, and only disarranging sundry loving couples, 
 who cursed their officiousness with all their hearts. When as they had all 
 reunited at an open space surrounded by trees, and were holding a consulta- 
 tion or a plan of future operations, Mademoiselle Virginie came trotting 
 up a path upon the donkey, and dismounted in the midst of the 
 assembly. 
 
 Madame Troupeau threw herself into her daughter's arms and kissed 
 her as affectionately as if she had been absent a whole twelvemonth from 
 her sight, and when the first feelings of satisfaction at finding her lost treasure 
 were abated, she remarked that Virginie had left them upon a horse and 
 came back upon an ass, which change the girl accounted for by stating she 
 had lent her pony to Adrienne, who wished to ride on horseback, but as to 
 the horse returning without a rider, or where Adrienne was, she could not 
 give them any information. 
 
 It was now the turn of the Vauxdores to be alarmed for the safety 
 of their niece, and the necessity of searching the wood was as apparent as 
 before the arrival of Mademoiselle Troupeau. Her selfish mother, satisfied 
 at her daughter's return, said she was so fatigued that she could not take 
 any part in the search, and would remain with Monsieur Tir, and Renard, 
 asserting that he knew every nook and corner of the wood as well as if he 
 carried a map of it in his beard by reason of the tricks he had played the 
 fair sex there in the days of his hot youth, proposed to head the exploring 
 party. It was further agreed that all the ladies, with Virginie, Petard and 
 Poudrette — the two latter had been disputing during the discussion as to 
 who should ride the donkey — should remain at the woodward's lodge, and 
 the three men proceeded immediately to seek the missing parties. 
 
 As they took the first path that presented itself, Monsieur Renard 
 chuckled and said, — " Let me conduct you, gentlemen ; I lived in this 
 neighbourhood formerly, and was often in the forest, I assure you, and not 
 always alone either, humph ! ah, fortunate wood ! Do you see that tree 
 there ? Well, beneath it a lovely woman and I were happy — " . . . 
 " Here ! Adrienne ! Godibert ! " Vauxdore shouted, " we are looking for 
 you." ... "Be easy, my dear Vauxdore, we shall soon find them, I'll 
 answer for it. And there, down that vista which the sun's rays cross so 
 brightly, at the end of it there is an oak tree on which I engraved the first 
 letters of my Christian name, and that of a sweet, pretty, fair little creature. 
 She was called Quercille — that is an oak, you know — such a charming 
 woman; the letters were — " . . . "Godibert! Adrienne! I say," 
 Troupeau and Vauxdore bawled at the topmost of their lungs. . . . 
 " Nay, we shall find them — come and see my oak." . . . "Damn your 
 oak, sir, it is my niece I want to see. Your remembrances of things we do 
 not care a rush about keep us moving continually in the same circle." 
 . . . " Here is a horse," Troupeau cried to his friends. . . . 
 " Another horse without a rider, and positively the one that Godibert was 
 on ; what can it mean ? " . . . Troupeau laughed as he replied, — " Pro- 
 
The Fete ChampStre. 47 
 
 bably your nephew and niece have preferred walking," and Monsieur 
 Renard took a pinch of snuff and glanced significantly at the upholsterer. 
 
 Vauxdore remained for a few minutes uncertain what to do, for several 
 faint ideas as to the termination of the search rushed across his brain ; then, 
 rousing himself, he made up his mind that the chattering Renard should 
 not be a witness of the denouement if he could help it, and said, — "This 
 horse must be detained at all hazards : he appears very quiet, mount him, 
 Monsieur Renard, since you are such an excellent horseman, and scour the 
 outer paths while we search the interior." . . . "Thank you, no," the 
 braggart replied. " I ride nothing but thoroughbred animals, and shall not 
 demean myself by getting on the back of a dirty hack not fit to draw an 
 old applewoman's cart." ..." Cowardly fool, then let him go, remain 
 where you are, and you, Troupeau, come along with me." 
 
 So saying, the excited uncle pushed on, followed by his friend and the 
 braggadocio, who would not be left out of the party, until they had pro- 
 ceeded about a hundred yards, and then the upholsterer, being ahead, made 
 a sign to halt, whispering that he heard something. Vauxdore rushed to 
 the front, dashed through some thick holly bushes, and there beheld Adri- 
 enne seated on the grass weeping bitterly, and Godibert with his arm around 
 her waist trying to comfort her by the simple method of a close embrace. 
 Nothwithstanding these suspicious appearances there was nothing in the 
 least improper in them, and they admitted of a very natural solution, for 
 ever since Virginie trotted off Adrienne had done nothing but cry, and the 
 soldier, being affected with her tears, remembered the mode in which he 
 had effectually comforted a great many heartbroken young women, and 
 was carrying out the plan when his uncle and his friends broke in upon 
 them. 
 
 " What on earth, Godibert, does this mean ? " Vauxdore asked when he 
 recovered from his surprise. . . . "That's a pretty question," Renard 
 whispered to Troupeau, " as if the situation of the young couple did not 
 explain the tale too well. "... " Yes," Troupeau answered, " and the 
 girl is crying." . . . "Uncle," said "The Galloper," rising from the 
 ground, " we were merely sitting down to rest ourselves as we were tired 
 with riding, and Adrienne is crying because the horses ran off the moment 
 we dismounted." 
 
 All pretended to be satisfied with the explanation, and prepared to 
 join the company, but as they walked back Troupeau could not forbear 
 whispering to Vauxdore, — " I told you the other day to keep a good look- 
 out upon your niece." Renard remarked in Troupeau's ear, — " The woods 
 of Romainville had always been famous for faux-pas." The Cuirassier said 
 to his cousin, — "Adrienne, I know your kind heart, do not compromise 
 Virginie," and the good-natured girl answered,—" I will not, I will not say 
 one word, let them think what they like, the making her unhappy would 
 not relieve my misery." 
 
 When the wanderers rejoined the company, Vauxdore's displeased air 
 and his niece's inflamed eyes gave rise to numerous suspicions, which were 
 augmented by a few words that Renard and the babbling upholsterer let 
 drop. His wife threw a glance of contempt and disdain at poor Adrienne ; 
 then rising, said it was getting dark and was time to go home, adding in a 
 majestic, solemn voice, — " Virginie, my child, remain close at my side, I do 
 not wish you to be with — some persons." . . . Our heroine followed her 
 mother, her eyes on the ground and looking as innocent as a dove. Mon- 
 sieur Tir tried to ignite his fireworks as a last resource to detain the guests, 
 but they were all so damp that they would not go off ; and the horses and 
 donkeys being paid for, the company took the road to Belleville in a much 
 
48 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 less joyous humour than they left it. The Cuirassier looked at Virginie all 
 the way, but dared not approach her. She did not glance at him once, and 
 when the party reached the Rue de Calais, they bowed to the Troupeaus 
 and sought their various homes. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE LETTER TO THE AUNT. 
 
 "And so you state, my dear," Madame Troupeau said to her husband the 
 moment they were alone together, " that you saw that bold-faced creature, 
 Adrienne, concealed with her soldier cousin in the bushes ? " . . . " Yes, 
 my love : her eyes were quite red, and she was crying, and he was kissing 
 her." . . . "Enough, my dear, the rest is easily guessed." ... "I 
 must say, however, my love, that I did not see any impropriety beyond 
 the kissing." ..." Quite enough in all conscience, Monsieur Troupeau ! 
 One thing is certain, that we cannot go any more to the Vauxdores ; our 
 daughter's innocence must not incur the danger of being contaminated 
 by associating with that Adrienne. But, now, let us turn to another 
 subject : I am quite uneasy at not receiving any letters from our aunt. 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine visits that little — humph — fault of yours rather 
 harshly. "... " True, dear, and it is inconceivable why she has not sent 
 for Virginie : however, a thousand a year is not to be thrown into the 
 street, and so I had better write a letter to her. I am not a very good hand 
 at turning a phrase, but I think I could manage something, explaining how 
 much we regret having given her offence." 
 
 Madame agreed with her husband as to the feasibihty of the project, 
 and during the whole of the ensuing night, Troupeau dreamt of the terms 
 of the letter to the old maiden aunt, and Virginie of her race with the 
 Cuirassier, of the conversation that followed it, and of the awkward 
 position they were in when the donkey carried Adrienne to the spot. 
 The handsome soldier's manners and habits of acting were essentially dif- 
 ferent to those of young Ledoux. He hurried on his course of love as fast 
 as ever he could, but notwithstanding his impetuosity he had not lighted 
 any extraordinary fires in the young girl's heart. She passed a sleepless 
 night, tossing and turning in her bed, and thinking that men did not make 
 declarations of their attachment in precisely the same manner. "Mon- 
 sieur Doudoux," she thought, " looked at me without speaking, was always 
 sighing, and never moving a foot or hand, but Monsieur Godibert, how 
 animated he was ! I really had not time to prevent him — and Adrienne 
 seemed quite angry when she came up and found me talking with her cousin. 
 Well, it is not my fault if I turn all the men's heads, and they will leave 
 her for me ! " 
 
 On his part the Cuirassier said, — " This little Virginie is certainly an 
 adorable 'creature, and I am mad about her, that's a fact, so much so that 
 I cannot answer for my discretion when I am near her. She is rich and I 
 am poor, so that is another reason I should win her ; therefore I must do 
 all in my power to gain her love, and then her parents are so fond of her 
 that they will not refuse to marry us if she should ask them." 
 
 As for poor Adrienne, formerly so thoughtless and so gay, she did no- 
 thing but weep throughout the night ; not that she was desperately in love 
 
The Letter to the Aunt. 49 
 
 with her cousin, for girls who have an ardent desire to be beloved often mis- 
 take friendship or a kindly feeling for the Master Passion, and when they 
 are continually in company with one young man are in the habit of prefer- 
 ring him because they don't see another. Again, another cause of Adrienne's 
 melancholy was the conviction that all her hopes were destroyed by a few 
 glances from the bright-eyed " Pucelle." " If things go on always in this 
 way," she thought, " I shall never have a husband : oh, dear, dear, it is 
 very cruel that Virginie should take all my lovers from me ! — What can be 
 done to prevent these faithless men from changing ! " 
 
 On the morning after the fete, Vauxdore held a private interview with 
 his nephew, and said to him, — " Yesterday, sir, I found you consoling your 
 cousin, as you called it, and therefore, I presume, you had given her some 
 cause to weep — " ..." Uncle ! — " ..." Hold your tongue, sir, and 
 hear me out. If you are in love with Adrienne you must marry her directly, 
 and if not you must not be found with her in situations that damage her 
 reputation : do you desire to marry her ? " . . . " No, uncle, I do not : 
 my feelings towards my cousin are only those of sincere friendship." . . . 
 " Very well ! Then as your sincere friendship only induces you to play at 
 a game of hide-and-seek with her that might lead to the appearance in the 
 world of a child who would have no other father than Sincere Friendship, 
 I shall be very much obliged to you to seek some other habitation, there is 
 too much talk about you and Adrienne already." ..." Certainly, uncle, 
 I will leave your house with many thanks for your kindness to me, but I 
 assure you I have not injured Adrienne, and such an idea is the farthest 
 from my thoughts. I shall go to Paris, obtain my discharge from the ser- 
 vice, of which I am weary, and then endeavour to settle down for life." . . > 
 " As you please, nephew, since you will not espouse your cousin : and now 
 — farewell." 
 
 A soldier's baggage, if on active service, is soon packed up :• " The Gal- 
 loper's" preparations did not occupy much time, and when he had said 
 " Adieu " to his aunt and Adrienne, who positively refused to bear any 
 message from him to Virginie, the young man threw his foraging cap upon 
 his head, took his sheathed sabre in his hand, and proceeded to Monsieur 
 Troupeau's to take leave of the family. The ex-upholsterer's brains had 
 not yet furnished to him the matter for the letter to his aunt, his wife sat 
 by his side at the writing-table, as if her presence would inspire him like 
 the Castilian spring, and Virginie was seated at the window looking out 
 for chances, when she saw the Cuirassier approach. 
 
 Troupeau received him very ceremoniously, Madame eyed him super- 
 ciliously from head to foot, but Virginie gave him an almost imperceptible, 
 kind smile without moving from the window. Godibert was considerably 
 disconcerted at this cold reception, and stammered out, as he looked obliquely 
 at Virginie to see what effect the announcement would produce, that he was 
 about to leave Belleville, and had come to thank them for the kindness they 
 had extended to him. Virginie did not take any notice of Godibert's de- 
 claration, for at that moment she was engaged telegraphing to someone in 
 the street, but she resumed her imperturbable demureness instantly, whilst 
 the Cuirassier went on to say that when he returned from Paris with his 
 discharge, he meant to marry, as he had lately inherited a hundred a year, 
 which would always supply potatoes, bread and cheese. 
 
 Troupeau laughed the young man's modest income to scorn, for he was 
 at his ease, and was privileged to despise men in less affluent circumstances 
 than himself, and at the same moment Madame Troupeau, seeing her 
 daughter's head out of the window, inquired what she was looking at so 
 intently, and received for reply — -she was looking at the neighbour's cat 
 
 D 
 
50 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 playing in the garden, a cat which the Cuirassier thought occupied a great 
 deal too much of her attention. . . . "And so you are leaving Belleville, 
 monsieur ?"..." Yes, madame, but I shall return soon ; indeed, I have 
 certain hopes, without which — " . . . "Ah, yes, we are aware of all 
 that — we wish you good-day and a pleasant journey. Virginie, come here, 
 my dear, you have looked at the cat quite long enough." 
 
 Godibert saw that there were no means of prolonging his visit, and he 
 bowed politely to all in the room. Virginie dropped a low curtsey without 
 lifting up her eyes, papa and mamma saluted the soldier coldly, and he left 
 the room cursing the " Pucelle's " parents and the cat, but as he opened the 
 street door with violence he ran against a young man who was staring up 
 at the window from which Virginie had been looking out. 
 
 This young man was Monsieur Doudoux, whose passion for Mademoiselle 
 Troupeau had not decreased in the least, and although he dared not walk 
 openly up and down the Rue de Calais, he had come there at last from 
 mere despair. His mother saw with dread that her son did nothing but 
 sigh and dream as he pored over his scientific books, and, fearing that his 
 health might be impaired by too much devotion to his studies, she deter- 
 mined he should travel for some time, and begin by visiting England. 
 Doudoux conformed to his mother's wishes with a heavy heart, promising 
 himself that he would not be long absent, but before leaving Belleville he 
 could not resist the desire of seeing Virginie, so he placed himself without 
 being observed before the window where she usually sat, and had been 
 endeavouring to make her understand by signs that in his absence he 
 should adore her still. So this was the neighbour's cat the young lady had 
 been watching. 
 
 Astounded at the sudden rencontre with the soldier, Doudoux muttered 
 some unintelligible excuse for his awkwardness, rubbed his forehead, which 
 was slightly damaged, and walked dolefully home without daring to cast 
 another glance at the window, muttering, — " I had the happiness once of 
 seeing the frills of her cotton drawers, and those delightful garments have 
 never since been absent from my ravished eyes ; there are no sacrifices 
 that I would not make, nothing on earth that I would not do, to behold 
 those charming drawers again ; and then — and then — assiduous affection 
 may overcome all obstacles." . . . Godibert looked at the amorous youth 
 as he retired, and said also to himself, — "There's something in all this 
 that I don't quite understand. This smock-faced boy had his eyes upon 
 the window when I ran against him ; and the cat ! Humph ! What if 
 Mademoiselle Virginie should be somewhat of a coquette ! Never mind 
 if she is, she must be mine ; 1 have kissed her and held her in my arms, 
 and it shall never be said that ' The Galloper ' stopped short there with a 
 pretty, willing girl." . . . Our heroine, on her part, said, as she went to 
 her own room, — " Both of them are gone. Poor Doudoux ; how he does 
 love me with his sentimental looks ! and Godibert looked at me so tenderly 
 as he played with his moustachios. It is very provoking that both of them 
 should leave at the same time, and I hope to gracious some other men 
 will come to Belleville soon." 
 
 When the elder Troupeaus were quite alone again, the husband cried 
 out to his wife to bring him pens, ink and paper immediately, for ideas 
 had poured into his head, and he felt certain the letter he should write 
 forthwith to Mademoiselle Belleavrine would be so persuasive that her 
 heart would melt at reading it, and she would relax in her severity 
 towards her nephew and her niece. The materials having been brought, 
 Troupeau spread out a sheet of paper perfectly flat before him, dipped his 
 pen in the ink, leaned his head upon his hand, looked up at the ceiling, 
 
An Intended Victim. 51 
 
 wrote a sentence upon the paper, looked up again, and continued the same 
 evolutions at intervals for upwards of an hour. 
 
 At the end of that time he shouted triumphantly to his wife, — " Listen 
 to what I have written to our aunt." ... " I am all attention, dear." 
 
 " ' Good-day to you, dear aunt; we hope you are pretty welV You see, 
 dear, I thought she would be pleased to know that we are anxious about 
 her health." . . . " It is well thought of, my love." . . . "Isn't it? 
 Humph ! ' The state of your health — And I write you these lines to 
 assure you we are really desirous to know how you are.' . . . Do you 
 perceive the address in that sentence, wife, that she may not think the letter 
 has been premeditated ? . . . ' Nevertheless, aunt, I wish to clear myself 
 with you from any blame as to the unfortunate circumstance which was the 
 cause of your departure — ' That is the ticklish point, and you will see, 
 my dear, how adroitly I get out of it. 'It is true that I had taken off my 
 drawers, which must have been very offensive to you, but I assure you it shall 
 never take place again. My wife will tell you that I have never left them off 
 once since you broke our hearts by leaving us, and that we have bought twelve 
 new pairs for Virginie ; my wife has treated herself also to some pairs, and 
 JBabelle's wages have been increased that she may buy some, and never be with- 
 out them, so that the family can defy the gusts of wind; and, indeed, there-is 
 nothing that we will not do to please you. Our daughter sends her love and 
 duty to you, and is always delighted and prepared to come when you shall 
 send for her. — Adieu, dear aunt, from your niece and nephew; 
 
 'Troupeau:*' 
 
 Madame expressed her perfect approbation of the important epistle, and 
 her husband thought, if the old woman remained unmoved after reading it, 
 her heart must be made of stone. The letter was then sealed and ad- 
 dressed, and the upholsterer took it to the post himself, in order that he 
 should be sure it might reach his aunt. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN INTENDED VICTIM. 
 
 Three weeks had passed away since Doudoux and the Cuirassier quitted 
 Belleville, and Adrienne had dried her tears because she thought her cousin 
 did not deserve that she should weep his loss ; and you may be sure, readers, 
 when a woman reasons in that manner she has not been very fearfully in 
 love. Virginie did not dry her eyes, because she had not wept, but she 
 looked out of her window in vain for a new lover, and was vexed that no 
 one came on whom she could essay the power of these charms, which 
 seemed to her vanity invincible, from their having already conquered two 
 young, but very different, hearts. 
 
 One night when Renard was paying a visit at Troupeau's he concluded 
 a harangue above an hour long by saying, — " And have you heard the 
 news ? " . . . " The news ! No ; what can you mean ? " . . "I ask 
 you whether you have heard that for the last three or four days — I will not 
 be sure that it is not six — our friend Vauxdore has had a lodger in his 
 house?". . . " A lodger !" both Troupeaus exclaimed. . . . "Yes, Vaux* 
 
52 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 dore says his house is so much larger than he requires, that he has let some 
 rooms on the second floor to a young gentleman." ... "A young gentle- 
 man ! those people will never learn common sense. It is of no use talking 
 to them ; experience is thrown away upon them. So here's another wolf in 
 the sheepf old ! And most probably this young man enters into their 
 society? " ... " Oh yes, he is continually with them of an evening, and 
 plays cards with his host." ... "Of course, Vauxdore could not possibly 
 give up his game at ecarte. What sort of a young man is he ? " . . . 
 " Well, not very tall, but well made, something like me. Oh yes, he is a 
 gentleman, no doubt ; has excellent manners too, and you know from my 
 extensive knowledge of the world that I am a good judge." ..." What 
 is his name, what is his occupation, and why does he come to lodge here, 
 at Belleville ?" . . . "I can tell you ; I know all about it. His name is — 
 wait a bit — his name — I did hear it, but it has escaped my memory — and his 
 profession — let me see — he has means of his own, I believe — yes, I know he 
 has. And then you know young men sometimes do not know what to do 
 with themselves ; and as for his choosing Belleville for a temporary residence, 
 why, it's his taste ; perhaps he likes to be in the country, or it may be for 
 his health — oh ! I guessed that at once." 
 
 Madame Troupeau looked mysteriously at her visitor, and said in an 
 almost inaudible tone, that her daughter might not hear her, — " It will not 
 be long before we shall hear more news of Mademoiselle Adrienne." . . . 
 " Humph ! yes ; and if they should take a walk to Romainville, why, that 
 wood is so tempting — I know from my own case — " ..." Hush, Mon- 
 sieur Renard, I beg " (glancing at her daughter). ... " Ah yes, innocence 
 might hear us. By-the-bye, madame, I have been informed that you and 
 the Vauxdores are not such good friends as you formerly were." ..." I 
 never intend to set my foot in their house again ; that is, with my daughter. 
 My husband can go if he likes, and Vauxdore, I suppose, will come here 
 occasionally, but it is impossible that our child can associate with Adri- 
 enne." 
 
 Virginie, who was busy stringing pearls, but had heard every word of 
 the conversation, looked up and asked why she was to be debarred from the 
 society of her only friend ; to which the old lady replied in some embarrass- 
 ment, that Adrienne was too frivolous and flighty in her manners ; that it 
 was difficult to select a proper friend at all periods of life, and that she 
 must be guided by her parents' judgment. Monsieur Renard expressed 
 the same opinion, and then took his leave of the family, promising to come 
 the next day and bring all the news he could pick up respecting the lodger 
 at his friend's. 
 
 Not one sentence that was uttered had been lost on Virginie, who had 
 not taken any notice of what had been said, but she thought Adrienne was 
 very lucky to have the comfort of the society of a very young gentleman so 
 soon after the departure of the Cuirassier, and therefore she was all ears the 
 following morning when Renard entered rubbing his hands and radiant with 
 joy, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, burst out with, — " Neighbours, 
 I have much to tell you, I have made all sorts of inquiries about Vauxdore's 
 lodger, and I have found out that his name is Auguste." ... " Auguste ! 
 Ah! but Auguste what?" . . . "Bless me! Auguste simply: I did 
 not hear any other mentioned." . . . "But that is only his Christian 
 name." ... "I know no more : but then he is rich, or at least comfort- 
 able in his circumstances, for he rides out frequently on horseback, and that 
 costs money, you know." ..." Did you hear anything about his trade, 
 his profession, his business ? " . . . " No, I did not hear one word about 
 that : Vauxdore asserts that he is independent, but it is suspected that is 
 
An Intended Victim. 53 
 
 only to conceal his real profession." . . . "Ah, indeed ! then there is 
 some mystery about him ? " . . . " Yes, undoubtedly, this Auguste shuts 
 himself up in his own room for whole days together, and is often heard speak- 
 ing aloud although he is quite alone." . . . "Perhaps he is an actor." 
 ... " No : if that were the case he would have to go to the theatre every 
 evening. But he always remains at home, and when anyone comes from 
 Paris to see him he gives orders that he is not to be interrupted on any 
 account." . . . " Perhaps he is a spy ! " . . . " Oh, madame, what an 
 idea ! Oh, no, the gentleman's manners and appearance forbid such a sup- 
 position. Besides, he is a musician, and has had a beautiful piano sent from 
 Paris, an upright one in rosewood, with crimson silk in the centre, like those 
 you might have seen at the Exhibition." ... " Oh, if he has an upright 
 piano, it is clear he must be somebody ! " Madame Troupeau lowered her 
 voice so that her daughter might not hear her, and almost whispered, — 
 " How can such a man as you have described be content with passing his 
 evenings with such persons as the Vauxdores, unless he has some designs 
 upon the niece ? " . . . Renard answered in the same tone, — " Precisely 
 my opinion." Troupeau nodded assent, and Virginie wished in her heart 
 that Adrienne Vauxdore, could come to her chamber and tell her all her 
 secrets as of old. 
 
 From that moment the ex-upholsterer and his wife became most anxious 
 to make the acquaintance of the mysterious gentleman, and when Renard 
 came running to them one morning announcing that an officer, wearing the 
 Cross of the Legion of Honour, had come in his private carriage to visit 
 Monsieur Auguste, they made up their minds to invite him to their house, 
 so soon as they could find a colourable pretext for doing so. 
 
 Such was the state of things when good, easy Monsieur Tir, who was 
 left in despair at the failure of his mighty star in the wood of Romainville, 
 determined to raise himself from the state of disgrace into which he had 
 fallen, and astonish all his friends in Belleville with the display of his 
 transcendent talents. The poor man had ruminated over the check he had 
 sustained on the evening of Mademoiselle Troupeau's birthday, and promised 
 himself a glorious revenge, and, in order that the cherished star should 
 shine with an unearthly splendour, he went to work with renewed vigour, 
 made fresh cartridges, slow matches, trains of powder and park-fires, 
 whilst Petard and Poudrette were up to their eyes and ears in brimstone 
 and charcoal dust. All these preparations occupied much time ; but then 
 Monsieur Tir comforted himself with the idea that he should produce fire- 
 works worthy of the great master of the art in the middle ages, the 
 renowned Cosmo Ruggieri, and which should make his pyrotechnic fame 
 known to the uttermost ends of France. 
 
 When the great work was achieved, Tir busied himself with writing 
 numerous invitations to a fete where nothing was to be furnished to the 
 guests but fire in all possible variety of shape and colour. Unfortunately 
 he had not a garden attached to the house he occupied, but there was 
 a yard at the back of it sufficiently spacious to accommodate all the com- 
 pany, and where he could display the brilliant ignited efforts of his genius, 
 and no man could say him "Nay." Now Monsieur Tir not only invited 
 all his friends and acquaintances, but told them to bring as many people 
 as they could with them — indeed he might have posted up placards soliciting 
 the attendance of all the inhabitants of Belleville — for he argued that the 
 greater the number of people present, the greater his chances of renown 
 would be, and the wider his glory would be spread, and as in small com- 
 munities opportunities of amusement are scarce, and a trifling event will 
 attract great attention, no one who was asked declined the invitation. Of 
 
54 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 course the Troupeaus were amongst the guests, a circumstance which 
 delighted Virginie — although she concealed her satisfaction, for it was 
 certain that the Vauxdores would be there, and probably she should see 
 their lodger who rejoiced in the possession of an upright piano. 
 
 The day, or rather the night, on which Tir's " star " was to be in the 
 ascendant, arrived at last. Readers, you have not yet been introduced to 
 Madame Tir, because, as she was an invalid and had not been out of the 
 house for some years, she was not at the dejeuner given by Troupeau. 
 Well, she was a large, round mass of fat, broader than she was high, who 
 wore on her head nothing but round night-caps, and whose sole occupation 
 consisted in migrating from her bed to her lounging chair, from it to the 
 kitchen, and so back again. Some mischief -making, censorious, meddling 
 people would have it that in early life she was an active, lively woman, but 
 that she became fat, indolent, and pursy in consequence of her husband 
 compelling her to pass her time in cutting out, folding, and tightly binding 
 up coarse brown paper for the outside of his fireworks ; however that might 
 have been, the poor woman, who was never particularly bright, limited her 
 conversation to the phrases, " How is the health, eh ? Pretty tolerable, eh ? 
 Just like me!" 
 
 Monsieur Tir's apartments consisted of five rooms, or rather cabinets, 
 in each of which it was impossible for three persons to sit down at once, on 
 account of the chairs and tables being generally covered with powder cans, 
 brown paper, and rocket sticks ; but this was not of any inconvenience in 
 the present instance, because Tir — although he had not invented gunpowder 
 — knew that his guests only came to see the fireworks, and so he placed in 
 the yard sundry chairs, benches, empty barrels, stools and planks in a 
 similar manner to those in the streets of cities when any public show, 
 spectacle or procession is about to pass. To be sure, these arrangements 
 were not very elegant nor even sightly, but Tir did not mind the yard 
 looking like a carpenter's shop, full of worn-out timber and old casks, so 
 that his purpose was accomplished. 
 
 No sooner had Phoebus sunk beneath the western wave — as the poets 
 sa y — than the good folks of Belleville flocked to Monsieur Tir, who received 
 them in the yard, whilst his wife remained at a chamber window, saluting 
 the guests as they entered with, " How is the health, eh ? Pretty tolerable, 
 eh ? Just like me ! " Some persons, thinking they were not to remain 
 constantly in the yard, ascended to Madame Tir's apartments, but came 
 down again immediately, because there was not a single chair to sit upon. 
 
 In the midst of the crowd who were jammed together in the yard like 
 salted herrings in a barrel, the Troupeaus were to be distinguished above 
 the rest by the splendour of their toilettes, as the upholsterer desired upon 
 all grand occasions to make it apparent that he was a man of wealth, and 
 that his family could afford to eclipse their poorer neighbours in their dress. 
 Madame Troupeau's bonnet was so bedecked with feathers that some wags 
 asserted that her head looked like that of a horse in Francois' amphitheatre. 
 Monsieur was habited all in black, with such a pair of tight trousers that 
 he could not stoop for fear of their cracking, and Virginie was dressed in 
 simple white, with a plain white rose in her hair. All the women were 
 compelled to confess that she looked extremely pretty, and as for the men, 
 they fought for the privilege of being near her, and for the chance of 
 obtaining a smile, of which the bashful girl was very chary, that is, in 
 numerous circles. She scarcely ever raised her eyes, and looked so modest 
 that the men exclaimed that she was a perfect Madonna, a lovely little saint. 
 The Troupeaus took up their position on some benches from which they 
 Would have a good view of the fireworks, The crowd of visitors increased 
 
An Intended Victim. 55 
 
 at every moment, whilst Tir kept bustling backwards and forwards from 
 his guests to the different pieces, exhorting all comers to find seats as 
 quickly as they could, and in a few minutes after the upholsterers were 
 seated, a buzz and an unusual sensation announced the arrival of the 
 Vauxdores with their mysterious lodger, who was a great lion in Belleville 
 at that moment because people in private carriages came to see him. Our 
 heroine looked up furtively at the gentleman and saw that he was infinitely 
 superior in his manners and person to Doudoux or the Cuirassier — not that 
 he had the height and manly figure of the one, or the bright complexion of 
 the other, but his countenance was intelligent and expressive ; his large 
 black eyes were full of fire, but relaxed into much softness when he replied 
 to such observations as were made to him. His figure was of the middle 
 height, but well turned, and there was an elegant repose and ease in his 
 manner that prepossessed society in his favour. 
 
 When the Vauxdores entered, Adrienne was hanging upon the 
 stranger's arm, but as he could not obtain a seat near his hosts, he 
 ascended the platform at some distance from them, and as Adrienne turned 
 her head quite round towards him, Virginie saw with envy and regret that 
 the handsome lodger was continually smiling and nodding with an evident 
 understanding to her friend. Madame Troupeau leaned towards Renard, 
 observing that the gentleman was very good-looking, and had quite the- v air 
 of a man of fashion, Virginie lowered her eyes as soon as she caught 
 Adrienne's glance, the Troupeaus and Vauxdores exchanged amicable 
 greetings, the inhabitants of Belleville kept pouring in amain until there 
 was not an inch of room to be found, so some mounted to Madame Tir's 
 apartment, where that good lady had become absolutely hoarse from 
 repeating at every moment, — "How is the health, eh? Pretty tolerable, 
 eh ? Just like me ! " and her husband seeing there was not room for even 
 a mouse to enter, determined to display his skill. 
 
 The flight of a sky-rocket was a signal that the fireworks were about to 
 be discharged, and before the bright sparks had become extinguished in the 
 air, the whole of the assembly hushed their conversation, and turned their 
 eyes upon the frames to which the suns, stars and Catherine-wheels were 
 fixed ; some in the back seats stood up to obtain a better view, others 
 leaned upon the shoulders of those in front of them, the planks over the 
 barrels began to crack, the ladies trembled and uttered little smothered 
 shrieks, the men joked with them, and made light of their fears, and 
 Monsieur Tir was in ecstasy as each successive piece that was discharged 
 brought down the enthusiastic plaudits of his friends. 
 
 However, these were but minor triumphs compared to the crowning one 
 that was to be achieved by the wondrous star, and the shower of serpents 
 and Roman candles which had been confided to Petard and were to 
 terminate the evening's amusements. The youth had been at his post for 
 some time, waiting anxiously for the signal from his father, unknown to 
 whom he had added a large number of rockets to what might be called the 
 denouement, and when a gentleman placed behind two fat ladies, and who 
 consequently could not see anything that was going on, called out to him to 
 fire, Pdtard thought the order came from his father, and discharged his 
 bouquet into the upper air at the very instant that Tir put the match to 
 the great star. The effect was perfectly astounding. At first the visitors 
 were absorbed with admiration at the same time that they were half- 
 deafened with the rushing of the rockets, the hissing of the serpents, and 
 the explosions of the maroons, but in a few seconds a great change took 
 place in the feelings of the company, for some of the rockets and snakes 
 would take a wrong direction and came cracking and sputtering into the 
 
56 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 yard. The women were frightened and endeavoured to escape, but in their 
 hurried efforts too many crowded upon particular spots, the consequence 
 was that several of the benches and planks gave way, precipitating their 
 occupants to the ground, and to add to the disorder some of the burning 
 rocket-sticks fell upon the ladies' heads, and a sudden blaze of light 
 disclosed to the spectators the alarming fact that the tall feathers on 
 Madame Troupeau's bonnet were on fire. 
 
 While her husband rent the air with his exclamations as he struggled to 
 reach his spouse, the lady had presence of mind to untie the strings and 
 throw the blazing bonnet from her before she swooned away, but unfortu- 
 nately it fell upon small, dry brushwood placed underneath a plank, which 
 ignited directly, and the flames being communicated to some laths and an 
 old barrel that formerly contained tar, an impression was created that the 
 premises were on fire, and the attempt to escape from the imminent danger 
 became furious. In the scuffle the Troupeaus were separated from Virginie, 
 and called loudly for their daughter ; Vauxdore's lodger seeing their anxiety, 
 pushed everybody near him aside and scrambled over the benches till he 
 reached the " Pucelle," who was not in the least danger. He then offered her 
 his hand to escort her through the dense mass of visitors, but she thought 
 it much more proper, and certainly far more agreeable, to faint and fall 
 within the handsome stranger's arms, and so he restored her to her parents 
 in a state of complete insensibility. 
 
 Madame Troupeau was all gratitude to the unknown gentleman for 
 what she persisted in calling her daughter's miraculous preservation from 
 death by fire. He treated the affair as a very ordinary, commonplace 
 occurrence, and did not take any merit to himself for what the little world 
 of Belleville called an act of heroic courage. Monsieur Troupeau ran to 
 fetch vinegar and restoratives for his daughter, Adrienne looked at her, 
 thinking it was very extraordinary that so much bright colour should 
 remain in the cheeks of a girl who had fainted dead away, but at the 
 moment that Troupeau returned with at least a quart of vinegar, and was 
 about to dash it in Virginie's face, she thought it high time to come to 
 herself, so heaved a deep sigh, trembled slightly all over, opened her deep 
 blue eyes, and fixed them upon the preserver of her life. 
 
 By this time the last sparks of the erratic rockets were extinguished, 
 and the whole of the company had left the yard except Monsieur Tir, who 
 slunk into a corner overwhelmed with rage and despair at the failure of the 
 great star which was to have handed down his name, covered with laurels, 
 to succeeding ages ; the Vauxdores proposed to go home, but as they were 
 about to leave Virginie breathed gently a few words of thanks to their 
 lodger, Madame Troupeau burst out into another torrent of gratitude to 
 the preserver of her child, and her husband, taking out his card, presented 
 it to the gentleman, soliciting the honour of seeing him at his residence. 
 The invitation was accepted, bows and curtsies were interchanged, and 
 then the groups departed. 
 
 Monsieur Auguste offered his arm to Adrienne as they went home ; she 
 took it, suppressing a sigh, and at the commencement of the walk not a 
 word was spoken by either of the young people. Virginie's fainting fit 
 and Auguste's haste to succour her had taken away all that gaiety of 
 spirit which the acquaintance with Auguste had reawakened in her heart. 
 Adrienne's gentle, confiding nature was constantly looking to some con- 
 genial bosom for affection and support ; the lodger appeared to take great 
 pleasure in her society, had become very attentive to her, was hardly ever 
 away from her, and it had happened more than once that in chatting with 
 her he had taken her hand and pressed it tenderly within his own. Poor 
 
Beal Love. 57 
 
 Adrienne was delighted, she yielded herself up to the sentiment that 
 Auguste had unconsciously inspired, and she thought, — " He loves me, I am 
 sure, and I love him ; should he act as Doudoux and Godibert have done, 
 death only remains for me." 
 
 Happily for the affectionate girl her hopes of her passion being recipro- 
 oated had increased every day, for every day Auguste remained longer with 
 her, and not content with pressing her hand he had carried it to his lips 
 and imprinted a kiss upon it on the morning of the very day when Monsieur 
 Tir gave his pyrotechnic party. As they proceeded home Auguste broke 
 the silence by saying, — " Did the fire frighten you much, Adrienne ? You 
 do not answer me ; are you not well ? " . . . " Oh, yes, very well indeed, 
 monsieur ; I do not faint like — like Virginie." ..." Do you know that 
 young person ? " . . . " Yes, I have known her for a very long time." 
 . . , "And yet you did not speak to her ! " . . . " No, we are not on 
 visiting terms : I was very fond of her, but I have reasons to think she did 
 not like me." ..." Indeed, that is very odd ; the girl has an air of 
 great candour, great simplicity." ..." Ah, it appears so to you. Do 
 you mean to accept her parents' invitation ? " . . . " Undoubtedly : they 
 were so pressing ; it would be rude not to go and see them." 
 
 When Adrienne gained her own room she threw herself upon the bed, 
 burst into tears, and murmured in the accents of despair, — " He will go ; he 
 will see Virginie and talk to her, and perhaps she will win him from me 
 just like the rest. Great Heaven ! assuredly that girl is born to be my 
 evil genius ! I can forgive her the other two, but Auguste ! Oh, no, no, 
 no, I must not lose him, for the feelings I bear towards him are far different 
 to those I entertained for my cousin and Doudoux, No, she shall not have 
 him, for I will force him to be constant." 
 
 So Adrienne went to sleep and dreamed of the manner in which a man 
 could be compelled to be constant in his love. Poor girl ! She might as 
 well have dreamed of finding the Philosopher's Stone ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 REAL LOVE. 
 
 " He will come and see us," the Pucelle of Belleville exclaimed delightedly 
 the moment she was alone. " He will come and see me. How glad I am 
 that those rockets fell amongst the visitors ! And how lucky it was that 
 I remained upon the benches instead of going to mamma, and then how 
 fortunate that I pretended to faint away when the gentleman came to me. 
 He will come, and perhaps he will fall in love with me. By-the-bye he did 
 not look at me much, and seemed to have eyes only for Adrienne." 
 
 A deep, heartfelt sigh accompanied the last words : a sigh which no 
 occurrence as yet had ever had the power to extract from the breast of 
 Virginie. Up to that moment no man had touched her heart, and she had 
 made love merely for the love of mischief and in joke, but now a different 
 feeling occupied her mind, and from that evening she became pensive and 
 uneasy, and her whole thoughts were given to Auguste. Whilst Virginie 
 dreamed daily and nightly only of the unknown, her parents congratulated 
 themselves upon having made the acquaintance of a fashionable-looking, 
 elegant young man, who must be rich because gentlemen in private cam- 
 
58 The Pucelle of Belleville, 
 
 ages and honoured with Orders of Knighthood came to see him, but when 
 two days had passed since Tir's soire'e and Auguste did not come they were 
 much mortified, and began to fear that the Vauxdore's had said something 
 disparaging of them and of their daughter, a second Joan of Arc, in the 
 full sense of the term. Virginie did not make any comment on the stranger's 
 absence, but suspected it arose from his preferring Adrienne to herself. 
 
 On the morning of the third day the retired tradesman, his wife and 
 daughter, were seated in the parlour after breakfast. Troupeau, in his 
 dressing-gown and slippers, was reading the newspapers and making acute 
 comments on the political events of the day ; his wife in a morning neglige 7 , 
 and her hair still in curl-papers, was looking into a large mirror that adorned 
 the fireplace, pretending to understand her husband's remarks, but in reality 
 examining an envious wrinkle that was producing a decided line from under- 
 neath her right eye all across her cheek to her ear ; and "Virginie was occu- 
 pied with netting — an employment much affected by women, because it 
 does not engage the mind, but leaves them at liberty to think — when 
 Babelle opened the door and said, — "Monsieur Montreville wished to know 
 whether he might be permitted to pay his respects to the family." 
 
 " Monsieur Montreville ! " said Troupeau, throwing himself back in his 
 lounging chair, " I really do not know anybody of that name. Have you 
 seen him before, Babelle ? " . . . " No, monsieur, this is the first time I 
 have seen the gentleman." . . . " Is he a common man or a gentleman, 
 Babelle ? " . . . " Quite a gentleman, madame, and a very handsome 
 one." . . . Virginie's wish was father to the thought, as she suggested 
 that perhaps the visitor was the gallant gentleman who had saved her from 
 the devouring element. In an instant all was in confusion ; Madame 
 bewailed her hair being in paper, Monsieur was vexed at his being in his 
 dressing-gown, but as it would have been the height of ill-breeding to keep 
 a fashionable man waiting in the street, Babelle was told to admit 
 Monsieur Montreville, who proved to be the gentleman who lodged at 
 the VauxdoreV. 
 
 Montreville presented himself with the ease and elegance of a man who 
 has seen much of the world, and mixed in good society. He would not 
 hear a word of excuse respecting the curl-papers and dressing-gown, and 
 politely accosted Virginie, who rose from her seat, made a deep, respectful 
 curtsey, and resumed her work without uttering a word. The elders were 
 desirous of again expressing their gratitude to their visitor for his supposed 
 heroic exertions, but he changed the subject immediately, and on Troupeau 
 apologising for having kept him waiting in the street by reason of his not 
 knowing Auguste's family name of Montreville, the latter remarked that 
 Troupeau might have seen it not long ago in the newspapers, as his brother, 
 Colonel Montreville, had been appointed a General. A General's brother ! 
 Here was a catch for the ex-upholsterer ! His wife, who had slyly torn out 
 two or three curl-papers, shot out of the room when she heard the state- 
 ment, and her husband, first asking his visitor's pardon, followed her a few 
 minutes afterwards and returned in a full-dress black coat. 
 
 The conversation then became general, and Madame having re-entered 
 the room in a neat morning dress, and all the curl-papers taken out, Mon- 
 treville let drop casually that he intended to remain at Belleville for some 
 time, as the neighbourhood of Paris was very convenient to him at present, 
 although his brother wished him to stay with him on his estate in Burgundy. 
 An upright piano, officers with orders, a brother a General, and an estate 
 in Burgundy ! Verily, Monsieur Montreville was increasing in importance 
 every minute. Turning towards Virginie, and regarding her attentively, 
 the guest inquired whether she had recovered from her fright; the girj 
 
Real Love. 59 
 
 coloured all over her neck and face as she endeavoured to reply h i the mffl* 
 artleTmanner that she felt no fear of fireworks, and should like to see 
 ^nTtlSCentS again, even at the risk of ^^^^tZ 
 remarkina that he once saw a had accident caused by them at a tete lven 
 by Ms S, a Magistrate, Deputy-Lieutenant for the county, the respect 
 and admiration of the Troupeaux for him was at their height. 
 
 A few more commonplace observations being made, Monsieur Montre- 
 ville took his leave, and having promised to return soon, wm ^shovm to the 
 outer door by Troupeau in person. When he was gone, Madame said to 
 her husband, " My dear, that young gentleman is cer ainly ™*°fr-^ 
 " Mv dear, I should think so. A man who has a brother a General, possess 
 ing an estate in Burgundy, and an uncle a Magistrate Blftj^ta; 
 
 feiifflffKS* 5 ha'; Tr^, there uJEZS* 
 ffisf g in such Jimble apartments ^ ^ ».. -JMJ-J- 
 
 teXn r dear .' »' . . ^ and wo must have four side-dishes besides 
 °he pSs and the Anchovies "-(then lowering his voice touchjug his wife s 
 knee, and pointing significantly to Virgmie he continued)- this acquaint 
 
 iZ =ght t Sf ;-S silSat^ r^«j<£ 
 £»£»" heads kno^^ft-nun^S^g 
 
 % d fXfeurte-tFes C rtT^^ 
 
 contented pTrtyfer she perceived that Monsieur Montreville had been 
 Howard's ht and treated her with W«-cnce f oep« the t,™ th h 
 
 InnVPfl at her so fixedly, and then he seemed as if he could read the secrets 
 of her heart She reflected that Doudoux and the Cuirassier had regarded 
 £ ' ver ; d 'fferenti; and then crumpling up her work w:th passion, she 
 thouoht that Auguste considered her a mere weak baby of : a _ child, she 
 resetted her assumption of infantine simplicity,, and vowed that at his 
 next vfsft she would not be the least embarrassed in £ £-^*>« 
 subdued other men, and certainly she would bring ^ t0 ^ p fe S iff ^ 
 Virrinie, the fun of making love was gone, and instead of the delight of 
 tormenting men, she was suffering deeply from the arrows of the little 
 
 S ° d In a limited locality every occurrence the least out of the usual routine 
 is known aTmoft aTsoci as i/has taken place, and if the ordinary course had 
 not been observed with respect to Auguste s visit to to ^ «<Jfa, 
 Troupeau would have caused it to be reported throughout to mU age, ^tor 
 the same afternoon he told everybody he saw and Pf*g^££j 
 who was the most chattering old woman ,in the , place that ^«™Sl 
 loner's name was Auguste Montreville, that he had a brother a General, 
 polssLg Z extensive landed estate in X*^'^^^ 
 Mam strafe and Deputy-Lieutenant of the county, and that he (iroupeau; 
 
 Preparation of a plan and sections of new fortifications for that side of the 
 
 city commencing at the hamlet of La Courtiile. ... « K-htnine 
 
 The report went from mouth to mouth with the rapidity of lightning, 
 
60 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 until one of Vauxdore's intimate friends said to him in the evening, — " So 
 we hear you have a great man lodging with you." . . . "Indeed ?" . . . 
 " Yes, and that he is a member of the Government. "... " Very odd 
 that, my friend, seeing that he occupies most of his time with music." . . . 
 " Oh, of course, that is only as a blind. And then he receives visits from 
 people in private carriages." . . . "Yes, sometimes." . . . "And 
 when they come to him from Paris, does he not give orders that he is not 
 to be disturbed on any account?" . . . "Yes; that is true enough." 
 ..." Then, my dear fellow, you see there must be some State secret ; 
 they say it is concerning the fortifications. Pray ascertain for me whether 
 my house is comprised in the plan." . . . "And from whom did you 
 hear all this ? " . . . " From Renard and Troupeau. Your lodger has 
 paid a visit to the latter, and it appears unbosomed himself to him." . . . 
 " Well, well, I do not know whether Monsieur Auguste is a great man or 
 not," said Madame Vauxdore\ "but I do know that he is a very polite, 
 gentlemanly young man, and praises all the dishes that come to table." To 
 which her husband added, — " I believe that gossiping old woman Renard 
 has invented all this nonsense. At any rate, be he who or what he may, 
 that is his own affair, and so long as he conducts himself properly in my 
 house, I shall not trouble my head about what any one may say of 
 him." 
 
 Adrienne wept in secret when she heard that Montreville had paid a 
 visit to Troupeau, for she feared that Virginie might draw him from her. 
 Her unhappiness increased when she ascertained that he had been a second 
 time, and she was in despair at being informed that he had accepted an 
 invitation to dinner. Her heated imagination represented that Auguste 
 would not have gone a second time to the Rue de Calais unless he was in 
 love with Virginie, and that probably the dinner was the one usually given 
 on the betrothal of a girl to her future husband, and Adrienne's fancy 
 painted at the same time that he had been less assiduous to her lately, that 
 he had not taken so much pains to find her alone in the rooms or on the 
 staircase, and that he had not taken advantage of the opportunities to press 
 her hand, pass his arm round her waist, and snatch a loving kiss. 
 
 The fact was that for the last few days the mysterious lodger had been 
 engaged in some private and important business. He had remained in his 
 chamber a considerable portion of the day with the door locked, and then 
 went to Paris, and came back with several rolls of paper in his hand. 
 Renard, who now passed many hours in watching Auguste's actions, 
 observed his goings in and out, and made them known to Troupeau. The 
 latter was delighted with the news, as he considered the rolls of paper to be 
 official, and, in return for it, invited the communicator to meet the supposed 
 diplomatist at dinner on the following Thursday. 
 
 On that morning, Monsieur Auguste despatched Vauxdore's servant for 
 the newspapers immediately after breakfast, and almost jumped for joy on 
 reading them.- The girl reported this circumstance to her master, who 
 began to think Renard was right in his supposition that his lodger had 
 a post under Government, and that some fresh lucrative and honourable 
 appointment had caused his manifestation of delight. Madame Vauxdore 
 was of opinion that if such were the rase she should lose her model of 
 a lodger, and Adrienne, after hearing the various commentaries of her uncle 
 and aunt in silence, went into the garden to have — as is the custom with 
 young ladies — a good, hearty cry. 
 
 She had not been there long, and was weeping comfortably at her ease, 
 when Montreville came dancing towards her with the newspapers in his 
 hand, and remarked that it was a long time since he had had the pleasure 
 
Real Love. 61 
 
 of chatting with her, as he had been much engaged of late. Adrienne 
 replied that he might have conversed with her at any time he liked, if he 
 had wished, but that it seemed he thought no more about her ; on which 
 the young man looked at her attentively, and observed to her that she had 
 been crying, and seemed in a melancholy humour. ... " You speak to 
 me, too," he said, "in a ceremonious tone, which appears very odd to me 
 after the freedom with which we have conversed. Why is it, Adrienne, 
 that you address me in this distant manner?" . . . "Monsieur," she 
 answered, with a mournful look, and repressing her tears with difficulty, 
 "it is because — that is — before I was acquainted with your rank and position 
 in society, I permitted myself the liberty of talking familiarly to you, but 
 now that I am aware, I do not dare — " . . . "What, in the name of 
 wonder, does all this signify ? What can you mean by my rank, my position ? 
 For Heaven's sake, explain yourself." . . . "Well then, monsieur, my 
 uncle has been informed that you are a great person in the Government, and 
 that you remain here unknown for important political reasons." . . . 
 " And who has told your uncle this mass of absurdity ? " . . . " Monsieur 
 Renard and Monsieur Troupeau." 
 
 Auguste laughed immoderately at this declaration, and when he re- 
 covered his composure, said, — "I now see the reason of all the polite 
 attentions that have been lavished upon me for the last few days, and the 
 punctilious respect, mademoiselle, that has been paid me by your uncle." 
 ..." My uncle has the same impression respecting you as the rest of the 
 neighbours, and the pleasure you felt this morning in reading the newspapers 
 confirmed him in the opinion." . . . " My dear young lady, the news- 
 papers of this morning supplied me with some pleasing intelligence ; indeed 
 I have great reason to be happy to-day." . . . "No doubt, Monsieur 
 Montreville ; do you not dine at Monsieur Troupeau's ? " . . . " Yes, it 
 is true ; and recollecting what you have just told me, I promise myself great 
 amusement there." . . . " You seem always to amuse yourself there by 
 your going so often. Pray, monsieur, what do you think of Mademoiselle 
 Virginie ? " . . . " Oh, she is very pretty. When I went there first she 
 was stiff and starched, and would not speak a word, but since she has become 
 used to me and converses freely, I find she is really a very sensible, superior 
 sort of girl." . . . " Good morning, Monsieur Montreville." . . . "Surely, 
 mademoiselle, you will not leave me so soon ? " . . . "I cannot stay, 
 monsieur, besides, I fear to detain you, you have so many important and 
 pleasing engagements at present." ... "Do you not know, dear Adrienne, 
 that my greatest happiness is to be near you ? " . . . " Oh, no ; I do not 
 think so any longer ; I cannot believe it. The mystery that surrounds you, 
 the conjectures that are made respecting you, all combine to prevent me 
 from being on the same footing with you as formerly." ..." Well, then, 
 dearest, I will tell you all, I will tear away this veil of mystery that enshrouds 
 me, for I cannot have the least shadow of a secret with you." 
 
 The girl's eyes brightened with delight as she eagerly asked, — "But 
 when and where ? " . . . Auguste approached her, passed his arm around 
 her waist, and whispered, — " There, upstairs, we can talk more freely than 
 here in the garden, where we run the risk of being overheard. I have often 
 begged you not to shut your chamber door the moment you retire for the 
 night, that I may see and converse with you alone." . . . "Receive you 
 in my own room, monsieur ? No, that cannot be ! " . . . " No one will 
 be aware of it. If you have the slightest friendship for me, Adrienne, you 
 will not refuse me this trifling boon. This evening, when I return from 
 Troupeau's, I will pass by your door ; do not close it, and you shall know 
 fully who and what I am. "... Adrienne refused her suitor firmly, and 
 
62 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 as he was attempting to overcome her scruples she heard her uncle's voice 
 calling to her, and, leaving Montreville abruptly, she ran into the house. 
 
 It was the custom at Troupeau's to dine punctually at four o'clock, but 
 on the occasion of receiving so distinguished a guest as Monsieur Montre- 
 ville, it was thought advisable and fashionable to postpone the dinner until 
 half-past five. Thinking that the young diplomatist would not open his 
 bosom freely if there were many guests, Troupeau had only invited old 
 Renard, who was thought to be possessed of great finesse, and would draw 
 Auguste out upon State secrets, and Monsieur Praline, a wealthy, retired 
 tradesman in the oil and Italian warehouse line, who ate and drank without 
 speaking a word, and was merely asked to prevent there being an odd 
 number at table, a circumstance which at any time would throw Madame 
 Troupeau into strong hysterics. 
 
 The Pucelle of Belleville awaited Montreville's arrival with great im- 
 patience. She had become less embarrassed in his company at each 
 succeeding visit that he paid the family, and more than once her eyes had 
 sought his without the slightest hesitation. She entertained an overpower- 
 ing feeling for Auguste that she vainly struggled to repel ; she dared not 
 make use of those little artful expedients that never failed with the 
 Cuirassier and Ledoux, and one word from him set her heart bounding 
 tumultously in her breast, and made her instantly forget all the deep 
 stratagems she had conceived. 
 
 Precisely at five o'clock Messieurs Praline and Renard were at 
 Troupeau's door in full dress, and on being ushered into the drawing-room 
 the former sat himself down in an arm-chair in one corner and dosed off to 
 sleep, whilst the latter walked up and down, making a sad clatter with the 
 seals and trinkets fastened to his watch chain. Nor did Monsieur Montre- 
 ville keep the good lady's dinner waiting, for the tittle-tattle that Adrienne 
 had related to him had led him to expect that he should have some famous 
 fun with his host and hostess, and the anticipation had given a lightness to 
 his countenance and carriage, from which it was augured by the company 
 that the high official was in great good-humour, and that extraordinary 
 revelations of the policy of the Government would assuredly be made. 
 
 The honoured guest was placed at dinner between the mother and the 
 daughter ; the one pestered him with her obsequious attentions, loading 
 his plate and never suffering his wine glass to be empty, whilst the other 
 kept her eyes down or looked at him only by stealth, but in revenge her 
 legs were never at rest for two minutes together, and when her knee or her 
 foot accidentally met that of her neighbour, and he withdrew his, she 
 stammered something of an apology, whilst he thought he had got into 
 a singular family, where the father toadied him as if he had been a Prince 
 of the Blood, the mother crammed him as if she desired he should burst, 
 and the daughter kept kicking him like any dog. 
 
 Nothing had been spared that could render the dinner worthy of the 
 supposed distinguished individual who was to partake of it ; Troupeau and 
 his wife were all attention to their visitor, Praline ate enormously, and 
 only opened his mouth to say, — "Thank you, I think I will take a little 
 more of that ragout," even Renard talked less than usual in order to do 
 honour to the repast, but Montreville kept up the conversation in a gay, 
 spirited manner, and every observation that fell from his lips, however 
 casual, was magnified into a bon-mot by his hearers, and he was thought 
 to be full of learning, wit and talent. Virginie scarcely spoke, but was 
 sadly troubled with the fidgets in her legs. 
 
 Hunger having been satisfied, and the dessert placed upon the table, 
 Troupeau, who was all agog to become the depository of political intelli- 
 
'Real Love. 63 
 
 gence with which he proposed to himself to astonish the inhabitants of 
 Belleville, whispered to Renard it was time to begin and pump the guest, 
 whereupon the gossip drank a large glassful of claret in order to brighten 
 his ideas, and addressed Auguste thus : — 
 
 "Do you not think with me, Monsieur Montreville, that as the wheat 
 harvest has been good we shall have bread cheap this winter?" . . . 
 Auguste could scarcely keep from smiling at the stupidity of the question, 
 but recollecting the character he had to support, he answered gravely, 
 shaking his head with a slow, pedantic motion, — "Bread cheap ! humph ! 
 Very proper it should be so— but — humph!" . . . " Aye, aye, I under- 
 stand," cried Renard, assuming to comprehend the dark hints ; " that de- 
 pends of course upon circumstances, more or less — according to — in fact — 
 there is no saying— " . . . "Gentlemen," said Auguste, playing abstractedly 
 with the handle of the dessert fork, whilst the hearers hung on his every 
 word, "gentlemen, just now — it cannot be concealed — that — humph! — a 
 great deal may be said." . . . "Oh, yes," all ejaculated together, "an 
 immense deal may be said." 
 
 Auguste dropped his head thoughtfully on his hand, and tapped the 
 wine-glass before him with the fork three or four times as if he were un- 
 conscious of what he was doing ; Troupeau leaned on Renard 's shoulder 
 and whispered that the State secrets were coming, and Praline ate away 
 without taking any notice, till Auguste, breaking from his abstraction, 
 continued, — "Gentlemen, perhaps you will say — opinions are free, you 
 know — every man is at liberty to form his own — such as they are — but, 
 gentleman, what is, the result of this diversity of opinion, this constant ebb 
 and flow of the flood of popular political ideas, this constant opposition 
 — which if viewed in a proper light, such as — cannot fail directly — that is 
 to say, sooner or later — to bring on a crisis." ..." How learned ! " 
 Troupeau said. " How profound ! " Renard uttered. " Excellent ! " quoth 
 Praline — (meaning the figs and almonds). "How delightful ! " simpered 
 Madame Troupeau — but Auguste, seemingly so deep in thought that 
 he did not hear the muttered exclamations, almost soliloquised, — 
 
 " I am not — I am free to say — one of those who are certain, who stake 
 their reputation and veracity — and who, in perpetuating systems of 
 national government, fall back upon the exploded ideas of bygone ages ; 
 such were never my opinions." . . . "Nor mine, nor mine," exclaimed 
 the two men in a breath. ... " But, gentlemen, if we were to glance 
 at the politics of the great European powers, we should find a very 
 different state of things. " . . . " I perfectly coincide with you," Renard 
 said, and then whispered to Troupeau, "Now at last we are upon the right 
 scent, now we shall know the secrets of the Cabinet ; " whilst Virginie 
 cast a look upon Auguste, whom in her heart she suspected of being at that 
 moment engaged in the pleasing occupation of humbugging her father and 
 his friend, but the diplomatist did not deign to remark her, and preserving 
 his gravity, and emphasising every word, he slowly said, — 
 
 " You speak of the affairs of Spain — very good ! But there are 
 Russia and Turkey, they are peculiarly important at the present juncture ! 
 England, perfidious Albion, has her hundred eyes upon us ! Sweden 
 too, and Norway must not be forgotten, and then Italy ! Ah, gentlemen, 
 Italy, perhaps — the Pope — Italy ! — humph ! " Up to that moment Praline 
 had contented himself with tasting everything upon the table, and 
 imbibing the good claret, only rolling his eyes from one speaker to the 
 other, much as a child listens to the recital of a tale he does not under- 
 stand, but as Auguste dwelt longer than usual on the last Humph/ he 
 ventured to express a modest hope that the coffee would be boiling hot. 
 
64 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Then, readers, you should have seen the indignation depicted upon 
 the countenances of everybody at the table ; Madame Troupeau bitterly 
 reproached the ex-oil and colourman for interrupting Monsieur Montreville 
 in such an interesting part of his discourse ; talk of coffee when the cabinet 
 secrets of the Emperor of Russia, the Pope and the Sultan were upon the 
 carpet ! She had no patience with such behaviour ; Troupeau eyed the 
 offender as if he could cut his throat. Renard mildly informed Praline 
 that he was a perfect brute, and the unfortunate man, totally unaware of 
 the faults he had committed, was inclined to burst into tears, when Auguste 
 effected a diversion in his favour by asserting that he too preferred his 
 coffee boiling hot. This observation was conclusive ; and as the great 
 man's wishes were to be consulted in every shape, Madame Troupeau led 
 the way to the drawing-room, Montreville offered his arm to Virginie, and 
 the great political conversation was at an end. 
 
 During coffee Montreville chatted with the ladies, and Troupeau fretted 
 and fumed at Praline's unlucky interruption, but Renard whispered he 
 had discovered the means of drawing the young statesman out again ; and 
 consequently, when the cups and saucers were removed, he took a morning 
 paper from his pocket, and offering it to Auguste asked him if he had read 
 it. . . . " Yes, sir," was the reply, " and I will not conceal from you that 
 I had personal reasons for waiting for this day's papers with great anxiety." 
 . . . Personal reasons ! That must mean that he expected promotion 
 in his department. Troupeau ventured to ask in the most obsequious 
 manner whether he might take the liberty of inquiring what they were, 
 a request seconded by the eyes of all in the room — except Praline — and 
 the joy that sparkled in their faces may easily be conceived when Auguste 
 bowed, smiled, and said, — "Monsieur Troupeau, my reception here has 
 been so flattering that I must not have any secrets with you, and therefore 
 you shall know all. " 
 
 The family and Renard crowded round Auguste, all anxiety to hear 
 who he was ; Praline retired to a couch with a glass of Maraschino in his 
 hand, Madame giving him a look which seemed to say, — " Interrupt the 
 gentleman again at your peril, you bear," and the object of all these flatter- 
 ing attentions, bowing again to his hearers, said as calmly as possible, — 
 
 "When I came to lodge at Belleville there was certainly some little 
 mystery in my proceedings, my profession or occupation was not known, 
 and as I called myself merely Auguste, without mentioning my family 
 name, it is most likely I was not considered a very respectable or estimable 
 person. The fact is, that I came here to avoid the supervision of my 
 family for the moment, and to follow my vocation without the possibility 
 of interruption, a vocation to which I am devoted and which my relatives 
 always opposed, but never successfully resisted. Sir, I was born with an 
 uncontrollable passion for composing music ; it has been the only pleasure 
 and gratification of my life ; I have worked at it with enthusiasm day and 
 night, and at length I composed a comic opera. It was performed last 
 night in Paris. I had not the courage to go to the theatre, but it was 
 decidedly successful ; and now, you may well conceive the anxiety and 
 impatience with which I looked at this morning's papers." 
 
 The faces of the young man's hearsrs gradually elongated during this 
 short recital, until at the conclusion of it they attained a prodigious length ; 
 Troupeau was the first to break the silence by observing in a doleful tone, 
 and with a sensation of disappointment aggravated by the conviction of 
 the folly and haste with which he had jumped to the conclusion that 
 Auguste was a government official, — "What, monsieur, then you are not 
 a diplomatist, but only write music for the theatres ? " . . . " Yea, 
 
The Assignation. 65 
 
 Monsieur Troupeau, I write, and moreover I have succeeded." . . . 
 " And you are not attached to the Ministers in any way % " . . . " No, 
 thank heaven. I am attached to nothing but liberty and the Fine Arts." 
 ..." Very fine indeed, but still riches are much better." ..." That 
 depends upon taste ; a fine fortune maybe made by talent." . . . "At 
 least you have not deceived us by stating that your uncle is a Magistrate 
 and your brother a General ?"..." Not in the least ; they are both 
 in such positions, if they are not dead within the last few days." . . . 
 "His relations are men of substance, Troupeau," said his wife, "there is 
 some comfort in that." ..." Yes, my dear, but he works for a theatre. 
 Oh, if Mademoiselle Belleavrine were to know he had dined here she would 
 go mad." 
 
 It was impossible for craven natures like those of the upholsterer and 
 his wife to bear up against the harrowing idea of losing the old woman's 
 fortune for their daughter, and they appeared undecided how to act. 
 Auguste did not prolong their embarrassment, but looking at the clock, 
 and seeing it was late, he took a polite leave of the family ; Virginie 
 curtsied to him, and smiled sweetly in his face as she thought he was the 
 handsomest man she had ever seen, and that the possession of high talent 
 was preferable to the possession of diplomacy, but her parents returned 
 his bow with a cold salute far different to the joyous transports with 
 which they hailed his arrival in the afternoon. 
 
 As soon as Auguste was fairly out of Troupeau's house, he could not 
 refrain from laughing at the folly of persons who considered the Fine Arts 
 of secondary importance to employment in a Government office, but he 
 quickly dismissed the subject from his mind, and as he traversed the 
 short space that intervened between the Rue de Calais and his lodging, he 
 thought only of the charming Adrienne, whether she had yielded to the 
 request he made to her in the morning, and that she would favour him 
 with a tete-a-tete. When he arrived at Vauxdore's he opened the door 
 with a latch-key without disturbing the family, ascended the staircase 
 without making the slightest noise, although he was in hot haste to 
 ascertain the determination of the mistress of his heart, soon he reached 
 the second floor, and as he stole gently along the corridor his bosom 
 heaved with delight as he beheld the rays of a candle shine through a 
 half-opened door, and the next minute he covered Adrienne's lips and 
 cheeks with passionate kisses as he held her panting and blushing in his 
 arms. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ASSIGNATION. 
 
 Readers all, male and female, but especially the female, you will agree 
 that nothing is more difficult than to resist giving way to the commission 
 of those acts to which your feelings hurry you, although you know at the 
 same time that they are wrong. Now, Adrienne did not possess that 
 severe virtue, that quintessence of propriety, that staid, marble-cold 
 morality which despises personal beauty, laughs at love, and sets seduc- 
 tion at defiance. She was not what is commonly called a " strong- 
 minded " woman ; she was not, and it is a great compliment to her, 
 one of the Judiths, Cleopatras, Zenobias, Semiramises, or Delilahs of 
 
 E 
 
66 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 antiquity, from whom Heaven in its mercy defend us ; but she had the 
 open heart and the confiding weakness of her delightful sex, and she 
 loved Auguste Montreville, the unknown artiste, with all the fondness, 
 depth, ardour, enthusiasm and sincerity of an amiable, gentle girl's 
 first love. As Adrienne sat lonely in her room that evening, expecting 
 yet fearing, and at the same time hoping that she might see her lover, 
 her own love became deeper and deeper still, as she thought she might be 
 supplanted in his affections by Virginie, and you know, readers, from 
 what has been related in this veracious history, that she had some reasons 
 to doubt the mischief -making Mademoiselle Troupeau. 
 
 All the livelong day she had pondered over Auguste's request that 
 morning in the garden, and promised over and over again she could not 
 leave her room door open ; but no sooner was the resolution formed than 
 she thought Virginie would endeavour to entrap her lover with her as- 
 sumption of innocent simplicity, and that if he were to see her (Adrienne) 
 on his return from dinner, she might destroy the impression of the 
 maiden's charms, and therefore it would be good policy not to shut the 
 door, and the result of all these deliberations was that about half-past 
 ten o'clock Auguste quietly entered the girl's room. 
 
 Notwithstanding she had counted his footsteps as he came up the 
 stairs, and burned to see him, she pretended — according to the recognised 
 custom in parallel cases — to be alarmed, and exclaimed, but in a very 
 soft voice, that he must not come in, as she was about to shut the door 
 immediately and go to bed. Auguste closed the door for her, and then 
 sitting by her side told her she looked very pretty in her becoming night- 
 cap, and related all that had taken place at the discomfited upholsterer's. 
 Adrienne was overjoyed to find that her lover was not a great man, as 
 she had dreaded, and he, folding her to his bosom, said, — "My family, 
 Adrienne, is of good standing in society and tolerably wealthy, but I 
 broke with several of the members because it was my fancy to compose 
 music, and I came here to Belleville to be free, to be master of my own 
 actions, to be released from importunities that annoyed me, to devote 
 myself entirely to the opera in which I was engaged, and, I will state 
 candidly, to fly for a period from the parties, balls and theatres at Paris, 
 where men meet so many delightful women who first enchant and seduce, 
 and then deceive and leave them to go through the same scenes again 
 with fresh, young dupes. Now, I acknowledge, Adrienne, that I have 
 one unpardonable sin. I cannot forgive or even forget being deceived, my 
 whole nature revolts against it." . . . "Have you ever been so, Auguste?" 
 ..." More than once, dearest ; some men think it is all in the usual 
 order of things, and take no heed of it, but I have been weak enough to 
 mourn the loss of a woman in whom I reposed the greatest confidence, for 
 although I am lively and occasionally, I believe, even frivolous, my heart 
 is capable of the most intense passion, and I never experience half feelings 
 nor take half measures ; with me love is all misery or all ecstatic joy. I 
 came, then, to Belleville to fly these transient intrigues ; but I was a fool 
 to suppose that I could escape from the shafts of love, for where women 
 are there of necessity will he be, but if in this retirement I should find — 
 as I believe I have found — a woman who will love me sincerely, who will 
 bare her whole bosom to me, who will keep no secret from me, and have 
 no intrigue to conceal, then I shall not regret having become again en- 
 slaved when I thought to recover my lost liberty." 
 
 Insensibly Auguste had drawn nearer to Adrienne as he spoke under 
 feelings of great excitement, and had again passed his arm around her 
 waist ; she trembled with emotion as she drank in his words with delight, 
 
The Count's Visit to Troupeau. 67 
 
 but he calmed lier maiden apprehensions and drew her unresisting upon his 
 knees ; looking up in his face with her whole soul beaming from her eyes, 
 she asked him what the Troupeaus said when they found he was not the 
 important personage they thought him, but when, after relating their 
 disappointment and chagrin, and the cold, formal farewell they took of 
 him, he went on to say he must exculpate their daughter from the charge, 
 as she had kindly tried by her manners, courtesy and smiles to make 
 amends for her parents' rudeness, Adrienne disengaged herself from 
 Auguste's arms, jumped up in a pet, and sat down in a chair in the 
 farthest corner of the room. 
 
 The musician looked at her in astonishment for a few minutes, and 
 then asked, — " What have I done, Adrienne, that you should fly me in 
 this way, as if you held me in aversion ? " ..." I do not hate you, 
 monsieur, and if I did what would that signify to you, so absorbed as you 
 are in Virginie ? " ..." Absorbed in Virginie ! You wrong yourself, 
 Adrienne, Mademoiselle Troupeau can never be more than a simple, every- 
 day acquaintance to me. How can I be absorbed in her, dearest, when my 
 thoughts are occupied entirely with you ? " ..." Oh, so you say, but — " 
 . . . "Adrienne, I love none but you, and if you return my passion I 
 shall indeed be happy." 
 
 The faces of the lovers had approached so close that the fire in 
 Auguste's lips conveyed its electric influence to that of Adrienne, and 
 thence through her every limb. With her head sinking to his bosom and 
 her hand reposing in his, she murmured that she loved him as she had 
 never yet loved man, he promised her that he would not revisit the Trou- 
 peaus, that he would never — never — see Virginie again, and as love, joy 
 and pleasure brightened her eyes and flushed her d^wny cheek, he pressed 
 her more closely in his vigorous embrace, and vowed never to love 
 another. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE COUNT'S VISIT TO TROUPEAU. 
 
 How exquisitely sweet it is to keep the vows of fidelity made to an adored 
 mistress, to be always with her, to see that she is happy, and to possess 
 her love. When a man has such happiness as this, he is a fool to cast it 
 from him ! But, perhaps, you will say, reader, that many men have longed 
 for, and diligently sought, this happiness, but never found it. 
 
 Auguste Montreville remained for some weeks at Vauxdor^'s, happy in 
 possessing Adrienne's love, and her heart ; in fact, possessing all those 
 sweets that a lover can possess — and keeping his promise religiously, for 
 he did not return to the Troupeaus, but contented himself with sending the 
 servant with his card. It is not to be inferred that he had entirely dis- 
 missed the Pucelle of Belleville from his thoughts, for he had not forgotten 
 Virginie 's singular manoeuvres with her legs and feet beneath the table ; 
 but he refrained from going to her for fear of annoying Adrienne, and she, 
 happy in his affections, did not reproach herself with her misfortune, for 
 she thought it attached him to her, and she gave herself up to the pleasure 
 of the moment without thinking of the future and the probable conse- 
 quences of her weakness, although several circumstances might have con- 
 
68 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 vinced her of the miserable reality of her position — but who ever anticipates 
 a fearful storm in the bright morning of a summer's day ! 
 
 In the smart house in the Rue de Calais the elders felicitated them- 
 selves that Montreville did not follow up his visits. Virginie, however, 
 did not participate in the parental sentiments. She burned to see the bright 
 eyes and handsome countenance of the talented musician, and one day 
 when her mother was running down all artistes connected with the 
 theatrical profession, she ventured to observe that he had saved her from 
 the effects of the fireworks, and that, in all probability, she owed her life 
 to him. . . . Madame Troupeau replied, — "My dear, we owe him 
 nothing ; he has been amply repaid ; we gave him a superb dinner, soup, 
 fish, flesh and fowl, with four side dishes without the gherkins and 
 anchovies, eleven dishes at dessert, and the very best of wines. Is it not 
 so, my love?" . . . "Yes, my life," Troupeau answered, "that bill 
 is paid in full and duly receipted." . . . Virginie thought not, and 
 vowed to pay over again in her own way when she could find a fitting 
 opportunity. 
 
 To make that opportunity, or to seek some change from her continual 
 tedious work, our heroine was now constantly at the window of her room 
 pretending to be netting, when one forenoon she saw a gentleman drive 
 up to the door in a dashing, well-appointed cabriolet. She ran downstairs 
 to communicate the intelligence to her papa, who thereupon threw down 
 the newspaper, went to the window, uttered a shout of joy and nearly fell 
 through it, rushed out of the room to his wife, who was quite alarmed at 
 his wild appearance, threw himself into a chair, and could hardly articu- 
 late, — " It is him, goodness gracious, it is him ! " . . . " Him ? What 
 him ? " Madame very naturally asked. " What on earth has upset you so, 
 Troupeau ?"..." Him, my dear ; him, my love, my friend, the 
 Count de Senneville !"..." What, Troupeau ! the Count coming to 
 visit us ? Oh, I am taken ill." Thus saying, the fussy woman felt herself 
 so overpowered with the honour of receiving a young spendthrift nobleman 
 that she ran up and down the room like a mad woman, called for Babelle 
 to fetch her best dress, then sought her bedchamber to beautify herself, 
 told Virginie to go to her own room, put on a black silk apron and place a 
 white rose in her hair, and ordered her husband downstairs immediately to 
 receive the noble Count. 
 
 The upholsterer went down the staircase four steps at a time, and fell 
 against Babelle at the bottom of them without seeing her, almost knocking 
 her nose flat upon her face, directed her to put some logs of wood immedi- 
 ately on the hearth in the best drawing-room, pushed her out of his way, 
 and reached the door just as the Count descended from the cabriolet. 
 Taking the delighted tradesman by the hand and shaking it warmly, he 
 said, — " Good day, my dear Troupeau, how glad I am to see you ! " . . . 
 Troupeau bowed to the floorcloth in the passage without daring to lift his 
 eyes, and stammered out, — " Oh, my lord, I really could not have expected 
 this honour, it is quite too good of you ; if you had but warned me of your 
 visit, I would have had fresh gravel and sand laid down ; I would." 
 . . . "No ceremony, my good friend, I beg. The fact is, I said to myself 
 after breakfast, what a superb winter morning. I have a great mind to 
 drive to Belleville and see friend Troupeau, and here I am ! But tell me, 
 is there room for my cabriolet ? " . . . " Certainly, my lord, we have 
 a carriage -house and all that is requisite for people at their ease. Babelle 
 should open the great gates for you, but she is engaged at this moment 
 lighting a fire, and we have only one servant just at present, my lord, 
 although we can very well afford to keep two, but then Madame 
 
The Count's Visit to Troupeau. 69 
 
 Troupeau — " . . . "Do not make yourself uneasy, my good fellow, 
 my groom Leblond will be able to open the gates well enough, and take 
 the horse to the stable. Come, let us go into the house, I am really all 
 impatience to be introduced to your amiable wife." ..." Oh, my 
 lord, I can never sufficiently appreciate your kindness." 
 
 As the scheming spendthrift turned towards the house, Troupeau 
 would fain have walked behind him, but he observed it was for the 
 master to do the honours of his own mansion, or possibly guests might 
 find themselves in the kitchen instead of the saloon, upon which Troupeau 
 rushed up the stairs, bawling to his wife that the Right Honourable the 
 Count de Senneville would do her the honour of making her acquaintance. 
 On entering the drawing-room the upholsterer did not find any one in it 
 but Babelle, who was on her knees before some large logs of wood upon 
 the hearth, which she was blowing with all her might until the room was 
 full of smoke ; the Count threw himself upon a sofa, Babelle left the 
 apartment to fetch more fuel by her master's orders. He remained standing 
 reverently before the Count requesting the supreme honour of his lord- 
 ship's company to dinner, which offer the young nobleman declined, 
 because, as he said, he was expected at the Russian Ambassador's, and 
 after a few commonplace remarks had been interchanged, always with the 
 most obsequious deference on the part of the upholsterer, his better-half 
 sailed pompously into the room. 
 
 De Senneville rose to receive the lady, but was obliged to turn his head 
 away to conceal the smile that came upon his face on beholding the ridicul- 
 ous figure she had made of herself by putting on her head two wreaths 
 of flowers, a plume of feathers, and a large bunch of ribands above each 
 ear, but the effect of this enchanting head-dress was totally destroyed by 
 the melancholy fact that Madame, in her extreme haste not to keep his 
 lordship waiting, mingled her wreaths, ribands and flowers in great con- 
 fusion, and not perceiving that a piece of sponge had got amongst them, 
 put it on her head inadvertently, and came down to the drawing-room 
 without taking one solitary glance in the dressing-glass. 
 
 The Count pretended to sneeze to cover the rudeness of turning away 
 from a lady the moment she entered the apartment, then bowed to her 
 with the greatest of affability, and commenced a high-flown compliment, 
 but was compelled to turn away again and feign to sneeze a second time, 
 for the unfortunate sponge provoked so droll an effect amongst the tower 
 of feathers, ribands, flowers and lace that he found it impossible to re- 
 frain from laughing, and whilst Madame replied to the Count with the 
 most exaggerated expressions of gratitude that came upmost in her memory, 
 Troupeau observed that the Count had caught a very bad cold indeed, and 
 then called to Babelle to bring more wood. The fire began to blaze fiercely 
 under the blasts of a pair of bellows wielded by the stalwart cook, Troupeau, 
 who was completely taken up with the fire and De Senneville's cold, put 
 another log of wood at each successive sneeze, and as the Count could not 
 preserve his gravity every time he looked at his hostess, the sneezing 
 became so frequent and the logs of wood so numerous that the fireplace 
 soon became a perfect furnace. 
 
 However, the entrance of Virginie into the room diverted the Count's 
 attention from the mother, and put an end to the sneezing. With her 
 usual assumption of timidity our heroine stopped at the door the moment 
 after she had thrown it open, and remained there until her mother bade her 
 come in, and then curtseying lowly to the Count she walked modestly to a 
 chair at the extreme end of the room without once lifting her eyes from 
 he carpet. The lib ertine was in amazement : he had expected to see in 
 
70 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 the daughter an amalgamation of the pride, folly and obsequiousness of 
 the parents ; but Virginie, in her simple morning-dress without flowers, 
 feathers, lace or ribands, but with her ringlets falling gracefully upon her 
 shoulders, formed an enchanting object such as he had not hoped to find 
 in that locality. 
 
 He left his seat and advanced towards her, bowing and offering his 
 hand, but before she accepted it she rose, and gliding across the room to 
 her mother, snatched off the offending sponge, which her quick eye had 
 instantly detected, without the old lady having any other idea but that her 
 daughter was arranging a stray lock of hair. She then moved grace- 
 fully towards the nobleman and tc\k his proffered hand, whereupon 
 Madame Troupeau could scarcely contain her joy, and looked triumph- 
 antly at her husband, and he, in the ecstasy of his delight, heaped 
 half-a-dozen more logs upon the fire. Having kissed the "Pucelle's" 
 hand in the most gallant manner and conducted her to a chair, the Count 
 sat down by her side, and congratulated her parents on possessing such a 
 lovely and amiable child, an angel who ought not to be shut up in a dun- 
 geon in the country, as she was born to shine in the saloons of Paris. 
 
 "Certainly, my lord," Troupeau said, "we are blest with a daughter 
 such as few parents can boast of, besides being able to give her some- 
 thing at her marriage that shall be well worth having, without counting 
 what will be coming after her mother's death and mine ; but the 
 capital is such a dangerous place for a young girl, whilst here we can 
 complete her education and perfect her principles, and keep her from 
 contracting friendships with thoughtless, giddy girls, who very often do 
 great harm to virgin innocence. But, pray, come to the fire, my lord, 
 you have a bad cold." . . . "I thank you, my friend, but I had 
 rather not ; yours there would roast me, but there is one here that I 
 prefer, the soft, sweet, pleasing flame within your daughter's eyes. 
 Perhaps you are right about Paris after all ; at any rate, Mademoiselle 
 will grace any residence she may gladden with her presence." . . . 
 The gratification of the parents was at its height. ..." Why do you 
 not reply to the Count, my child?" said the doating mother. . . . 
 "Because, mamma, I like so much to hear him talk." . . . "Wit 
 and sense added to beauty," quoth the Count ; " Madame, your daughter 
 is an enchantress, a perfect Circe." ... As the wife leant towards 
 her husband, rather puzzled at the nobleman's last compliment, and was 
 inquiring of him what a " Circe " meant, Babelle dashed into the room, 
 and shrieked that the chimney was on fire, and the flames were spreading 
 all over the roof of the house. 
 
 In an instant all was in confusion. Madame Troupeau cried out for 
 the firemen, Virginie trembled, and looked imploringly in De Senne- 
 ville's face, beseeching his assistance, her father, in his excess of 
 friendship, declared that it was the duty of the whole family to think 
 only of preserving the Counts valuable life, but he, thanking his host 
 for his kind consideration, said he could take pretty good care of himself 
 if he should find it necessary, and further, that if his servant, who was 
 both skilful and courageous, was. shown the way to the top of the 
 premises, he would extinguish the fire in the chimney in a few minutes. 
 Troupeau and Babelle left the room immediately to seek Leblond's 
 valuable services, our heroine thought it high time to get up a quiet 
 fainting-fit, so successful in Auguste's case at the firework soiree, and 
 allowed her head to sink gently upon the back rail of her chair ; her 
 mother followed suit, bumping down upon a sofa which nearly gave 
 way under the rude assault, and the Count, leaving the elder lady to 
 
The Count's Visit to Troup eau. ?1 
 
 come to her senses at her own convenience, occupied himself exclusively 
 with Virginie, passed his arm round her neck, sustained her head, and 
 held a smelling-bottle to her nose, as he murmured between his teeth, — 
 " She is uncommonly pretty, such a lithe, graceful figure : and what 
 a lovely bosom ! Upon my life she is a bewitching, charming girl ! " 
 . . . As Virginie's cheek lay on his shoulder she did not miss hearing 
 one word that he uttered, and her heart bounded at the thought that the 
 handsome, gay, gallant young nobleman was fairly in her toils. 
 
 Presently several pails of water poured down the chimney hissed 
 upon the burning logs, and spread all round the room. The destruction 
 of the carpet was too much for even Madame Troupeau's swoon ; she 
 opened her eyes and inquired whether the flames were subdued, to 
 which De Senneville answered, without looking up, that at present 
 there appeared to be a greater danger of the inmates being drowned 
 than burned, and as he leant over the girl his hand wandered gently 
 over her bosom, down to her hips, and thence along her thighs and 
 knees, evidently only to restore the suspended circulation of the blood, 
 and the artless " Pucelle " did not deem it expedient to unclose her eyes. 
 
 " By Heavens, she is adorable," thought the Count, " not only young, 
 innocent and pretty, but made like the Medicean Venus," but his half- 
 uttered praises were immediately put an end to by Madame Troupeau 
 walking up to him, thanking him for the care he had taken of her 
 daughter, and as Babelle entered the room a few moments afterwards, 
 declaring that the fire was extinguished, thanks to the intrepidity of 
 Leblond, who walked upon the roofs of the houses with the agility and sang- 
 froid of a veteran torn cat. Virginie decided upon recovering, so opened 
 her eyes, shuddered slightly when she perceived she had been reposing in 
 the Count's arms, thanked him for his polite attention, rose and re- 
 adjusted her habit-shirt, which somehow or other was greatly dis- 
 arranged. 
 
 The fears of the family being thus fortunately allayed, Madame 
 Troupeau lavished her encomiums upon De Senneville for not leaving 
 her daughter and herself, but the Count, having observed that it was not 
 exactly convenient or healthy to remain in a room ankle deep in water, 
 and that he should be happy even in the kitchen with the ladies, 
 Madame responded to the compliment by a superb curtsey, and Vir- 
 ginie, raising her eyes to the nobleman's, found his fixed admiringly 
 upon her. The parties then proceeded to the upholsterer's private room, 
 where a fire was kindled on his promising not to meddle with it, and the 
 Count was pressed to accept some refreshments, but he declined any, 
 stating pointedly, with his regards still upon the "Pucelle," that he had 
 come that day quite casually, but now that he had the pleasure of know- 
 ing the family, he would certainly return soon, and stop and dine with 
 them (then Troupeau trod gently on his wife's foot, looked significantly 
 at Virginie, and placed his fingers on his mouth), and then concluded by 
 saying, — " My good friend, I owe you some money, let me have the 
 pleasure of paying it." . . . " Pray don't mention it, my lord, there 
 is not any hurry ; my means allow me to assist my friends, and — " . . . 
 "Yes, I am perfectly aware of that, but it will require some time to 
 restore my affairs to order ; a young and noble bachelor " (dwelling on the 
 word) " has so much to entice him that he cannot help sometimes — how- 
 ever, I am determined to sow my wild oats and take a bride " (another 
 emphasis, which made the Troupeaus' eyes dance with delight), "for 
 marriage is the only tie that binds us of the great nobility. Yes, a 
 young, beautiful, modest, well brought up girl, with a few thousand 
 
72 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 crowns for her dowry, only because it is the custom, nothing else, and 
 old customs must be respected, will fix me at home for life." 
 
 As De Senneville cast the most impassioned glances at Virginie as he 
 Tattered this insidious speech, tears of joy came into her mother's eyes, and 
 her father threw himself back upon his chair, and gazed upon the ceiling 
 in order to conceal his emotion ; the Count saw that the bait was 
 swallowed, and went on to say in an indifferent tone, — " Well, this 
 morning, I thought I would draw some money from the banker's, and 
 discharge a few accounts, and on looking over some bills, I found I had 
 just a thousand crowns to pay somewhere hereabouts — at Menilmoutant 
 —it is close by, I believe ? " . . . " Yes, my lord." . . . "I 
 thought I would kill two birds with the one stone, you see, and get rid of 
 some debts at the same time, and so I put a bag of gold and silver into 
 my cabriolet." ..." My lord, I assure you it is only in obedience 
 to your wishes — " . . . "Babelle," the nobleman continued, without 
 appearing to heed Troupeau, " have the goodness to tell my servant to 
 bring up the bag I put into the cabriolet this morning." 
 
 The servant put down the bellows to execute the Count's orders, and 
 immediately a thick smoke issued from the hearth, and set everybody 
 coughing. Troupeau inwardly cursed his ill-luck on this day of glory, 
 when he was visited by a real, live nobleman — the Count coughed 
 violently, but preferred remaining where he was to removing to another 
 chamber, where the relighting process would have to be gone through all 
 again, and in a few minutes the valet made his appearance without the bag. 
 
 " Well, Leblond," said the Count sternly, " did I not send you word 
 I wanted the bag of money we took up at the banker's this morning?" 
 
 . . Leblond affected to be surprised at the question, then as his 
 face gradually darkened, and he scratched his head, he half muttered, — 
 "A bag, my lord, I think I recollect we did have one, but I don't 
 remember seeing it lately. Oh, Heavens ! " Without stopping to say 
 another word, Leblond bounded out of the room and down the stairs as 
 if he were mad ; the Count pretended he could not understand what the 
 fellow meant by his ridiculous conduct ; Troupeau feared something had 
 happened to the money, which De Senneville would not hear of, and as 
 they were canvassing the chances of some misfortune, Leblond re- 
 appeared, looking the picture of despair. The astute scoundrel held his 
 pocket-handkerchief to his eyes, pumped up a groan closely resembling 
 the bellowing of a bull, and then roared out wdth a flood of tears, — 
 
 "Oh, my lord, we have been robbed, there is no bag in the cabriolet." 
 ..." No bag, you rascal ! Robbed ! Do you know you are in the house 
 of a highly respectable and honourable gentleman ? " . . . "Oh, yes, my 
 lord, I know very well that the bag cannot have been stolen here ; but I 
 did not see it as we came through Belleville. Oh, I guess now, miserable 
 man that I am ! Oh, oh, it has been lost all through my fault. "... 
 "Speak, you villain, speak, what mean you?" . . . "Perhaps you will 
 recollect, my lord, that in passing along the Boulevard you went into a 
 reading-room to have a glance at one of the morning papers?" . . . "Well, 
 sirrah ? " . . . " Then, my lord, when you went into the reading-room, 
 unfortunately — oh, oh, oh — as I remained in the cabriolet there was a show 
 of waxwork figures on the other side of the way, and as the man cried out 
 that there were the likenesses of Ali Pasha, Blue Beard and a woman with 
 three stomachs, I could not resist leaving the cab — oh, oh — riolet, oh, and 
 going across the road to see them." ..." Well, sir, what has all this to 
 do with the bag of money ? Finish your nonsense directly, or I will break 
 every bone in your miserable body." 
 
The Count's Visit to Troupeau. 73 
 
 Leblond dropped on his knees as he said, — " Well, my lord, I forgot all 
 about the bag, and desiring a little boy to hold the horse's bridle I went 
 over to the show, and when I came back I never thought about it — oh, oh, 
 oh — because the woman with three stomachs wouldn't go out of my head, 
 and then the bag must have been stolen — oh, oh, oh ! " 
 
 The Count was in a fury ; he looked round for some weapon with which 
 to destroy the valet, as he stood over him with clenched fists and glaring 
 eyes, but the ladies interceded for Leblond, and Troupeau, accosting the 
 nobleman in the most deferential manner, implored him to forgive the 
 man in consideration of the masterly mode in which the fire was ex- 
 tinguished by him. After allowing himself to be solicited for some time 
 De Senneville bowed to Virginie and consented. Leblond rose up, humbled 
 himself gratefully before the Troupeaus and left the room, upon which the 
 Count turned to his host and said it gave him the greatest pain to remain 
 still indebted to him. . . . "Oh, Monsieur de Senneville," Troupeau 
 replied, "name it not, my whole establishment is entirely at your ser- 
 vice." 
 
 De Senneville seemed wrapped in thought for a few moments as he 
 stood admiring the "Pucelle," who, of course, was all unconscious that any- 
 body was looking at her ; Madame Troupeau was employed putting matches 
 and paper under the refractory logs that would not burn, but the Count, 
 rousing himself, took the opportunity of waving Troupeau aside, and said, — 
 " Your last assertion was a bold one, my good friend : your whole establish- 
 ment ! Do you know that you have a treasure, a gem, a jewel in it ? 
 Your daughter is an angel ! " . . . "My lord, you overwhelm me." . . . 
 " Such grace — such modesty !"..." Oh, yes, my lord : as to modesty, 
 she never fails to wear drawers." . . . " How old is she ? " . . . "Just 
 seventeen and a half." . . . " Have you never thought of marrying her ? " 
 "Not yet, we can afford to wait till a proper man presents himself. I 
 want a son-in-law who will confer an honour upon me. I am rich and can 
 wait." ..." Right, my dear sir, quite right. Your daughter will have 
 a wealthy dower?" . . . "Yes, her aunt has one thousand a year, of 
 which one -half will come to Virginie upon her marriage, I will give her 
 five thousand pounds down, and the whole of my fortune after the death 
 of myself and wife." . . . 
 
 De Senneville held up his finger for Troupeau to hold his tongue, then 
 took his arm and pressed it affectionately, saying, — " Enough, enough ; do 
 not promise your daughter to any man on earth until you have seen me 
 again, do not enter into any matrimonial engagement for her ; you under- 
 stand me ? " . . . " Can it be possible, my lord ? May I dare to hope ? " 
 . . . " Silence, silence, this must be a secret between us two. " . . . "Oh, 
 my lord, you have given me such a turn. I am so pleased — so flattered — 
 so honoured." . . . " Hush, not a word about it till we meet again." . . . 
 "True, my lord, such an unexampled honour! Oh, not a syllable shall 
 pass my lips." ..." Keep your lovely daughter for me, Troupeau ; such 
 a treasure must have numerous admirers, and I say openly she shall be 
 mine, so look to her well, my friend." . . . "I will answer for her, my 
 lord, with my life, she cannot look a man in the face, she is so timid, and 
 I pledge my word of honour, I swear that no male shall set foot in this 
 house until your lordship shall return." . . . "Troupeau, my future 
 father-in-law, I am perfectly satisfied with your assurance. I must repair 
 to my estate in Touraine for a few weeks, and then I shall return and claim 
 my angelic bride. " So saying he pressed the dupe's hand warmly, bowed 
 politely to his wife, lifted Virginie's hand to his lips and kissed it ardently 
 but respectfully, whilst the upholsterer, not daring to speak, rolled his eyes 
 
74 The Pucetle of Belleville. 
 
 at his wife and smiled, and shook his head, and made all manner of tele- 
 graphic signs. 
 
 At length the hand was dropped with a deep sigh ; more bows and 
 curtseys were made, and De Senneville left the room, followed by Troupeau, 
 but just as the former was stepping into the cabriolet he stopped short and 
 murmured to himself that since the bag of gold was gone it was no use 
 driving to Menilmontant]to see the creditors. In a moment the upholsterer 
 pulled. the skirts of the Count's coat, and as he turned round with a smile, 
 begged he would not defer his visit to Menilmontant for want of money, 
 for there was as much as he liked in the house at his service, especially as 
 after what he had said he might be considered quite one of the family. . . . 
 The young man affected to be pained at being still more deeply indebted to 
 his friend, but the proud future father-in-law would not hear of any excuse 
 from his aristocratic son, but ran into the house, and reappearing speedily 
 put notes for two hundred pounds into the Count's hand, and laughing 
 and bowing directed him the way to Menilmontant. 
 
 Again the Count shook Troupeau's hand, jumped into the cab, exchanged 
 a knowing look with his accomplished valet, and then drove off — not to pay 
 his pretended debts at Menilmontant, but to dine with his favourite Sultana 
 at the first restaurateur's in Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 When the Count's cabriolet was out of sight Troupeau ran upstairs as fast 
 as his legs could carry him, and danced about the room and laughed and 
 sang until his wife asked what was the cause of his unusual gaiety, observ- 
 ing at the same time that their visitor had talked to him apart for a consider- 
 able period, and/had also engaged him for some time below. Troupeau 
 winked, led his wife into the corner of the room farthest from Virginie, 
 and informed her that the Count had made an offer for their daughter's 
 hand as clearly as a nobleman could speak, that he had desired him not to 
 enter into any matrimonial engagements for her until his return, and re- 
 quested that the greatest secrecy should be observed. Now, this was hard 
 to bear ; no doubt it was desirable, most flattering, and highly honourable 
 to have a nobleman for a son-in-law, but then the misery of being debarred 
 the ecstasy of relating to their friends the incipient greatness that was 
 dawning on them. 
 
 The good woman was so overpowered with the announcement, that she 
 was obliged to bathe her temples with eau-de-Cologne to keep herself from 
 fainting : the thoughts that crowded upon her imagination were too much 
 for her. She should become the mother of a Countess, and consequently of 
 a Count ; that would necessarily ennoble her husband, who would be a 
 gentleman, perhaps a knight, at any rate somebody with a red riband at 
 his button-hole, and they would go into the very best society, and speak 
 only to people with titles, and stars, and orders, and laces, and diamonds, 
 and real cashmere shawls. ... As for Troupeau, his excitement was so 
 great, that he turned quite pale, and his daughter inquired whether he was 
 ill. He answered, — " No, my love, I am not ill ; on the contrary, I was 
 never so well and so happy in my life. I declare I am quite beside myself 
 
The Messenger. 75 
 
 with joy. Virginie, my dear, what do you think of our friend the Count 
 de Senneville ? " . . . The girl shook her head slightly as she answered, — 
 "I did not take any particular notice of him, papa." . . . "But, my 
 child, you must have seen that he is handsome, and possesses the polished 
 style and delightful manners of the nobility." ..." I did not observe 
 anything particular in him, papa, and I am sure he is not nearly so good 
 looking as Monsieur Montreville." ..." Bless me, Virginie, how can you 
 think so ? " mamma exclaimed in the greatest horror, " there is not the 
 least resemblance between them !"..." Compare a nobleman to a poor 
 artiste, indeed ! " . . . "I did not compare them at all, on the contrary, 
 I say that Auguste — " ... " Hush, hush, my dear," papa joined in 
 with a solemn prophetic air, " dismiss that low fellow from your thoughts ; 
 from this hour you may indulge in the highest aspirations — there is nothing 
 too great, too exalted — " . . . "Really I do not comprehend you, 
 papa." . . . Well, my darling child, when the Count de Senneville 
 returns — " 
 
 Just as the upholsterer was about to divulge the secret in spite of him- 
 self, his wife touched his arm, and her frown recalled his circumspection. 
 He stopped abruptly, to Virginie's great mortification, and then with- 
 drawing to a corner with Madame, they settled, in accordance with the 
 wishes of their future son-in-law, that no man under fifty years of age 
 should come into the house. The proud, happy father went downstairs 
 to give orders to his servant to that effect, his wife called her daughter to 
 her, embraced her affectionately, held her at arm's length for a few min- 
 utes, surveying her with pride, burning to inform her of the magnificence 
 that awaited her, and then ran out of the room for fear she should betray 
 the Count's confidence, and when she was gone the girl said to herself, — 
 " I know what makes both of them so mad, for I heard every word De Sen- 
 neville said upstairs, but it shall never be if I can help it : that odious 
 Count, with his sneering, mocking face, was only making game of papa, I 
 am sure, although he did look at me lovingly at times. Neverthless, I love 
 Monsieur Auguste better than all the rest of the world, and they shall never 
 make me a Countess by force." ... If the truth must be told, the 
 " Pucelle " was in a perfect fury at the matrimonial scheme ; she threw down 
 her embroidery, stamped upon it, and hurt her head against the frame as 
 she ran to the window to see if any gentlemen were walking in the street ; 
 then, as she became calmer, she looked at herself in the mirror, smiled, and 
 said, — "And that Count makes me hate him more and more by his forbid- 
 ding any men to come to the house ; I am sure I shall die of dulness ; 
 Auguste has not been lately, and Doudoux and the Cuirassier have quite 
 abandoned me. A Countess ! That is a very pretty title ! But, then, I 
 love Monsieur Auguste better than all three of them, and yet, to think that 
 I have not been able to make him love me!" . . . The little foot was 
 stamped violently upon the floor again, but as the young lady discovered 
 she only hurt her heel in doing so, she speedily left off. 
 
 The immediate feelings of the Troupeaus were those of joy ; but when 
 they had indulged in them to excess, cool reflection stepped in and moder- 
 ated their transport considerably. They recollected that they had not 
 received any answer from their aunt to the letter they had written to her ; 
 from this unfortunate circumstance they deduced that her anger against 
 them was not appeased, that it was possible she might alienate her for- 
 tune, and in that case, would De Senneville marry Virginie when he found 
 she did not possess the dower and reversion that had been held out to him. 
 All these doubts troubled their peace of mind, and rendered their nightly 
 couch anything but a bed of roses. 
 
7f> The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 In the meantime a strict watch and ward was kept against the approach 
 of any being of the masculine gender to the premises, and indeed the decree 
 was carried out with such severity that one morning Babelle refused to 
 allow a new water-carrier to enter the house because she conceived he 
 was not quite fifty years of age, and it was only with her master's express 
 permission that the man was permitted to come in and empty his buckets in 
 the reservoir. 
 
 For some time past Vaudore had not visited the Troupeaus, because he 
 had been coldly received on his last going there, and consequently Virginie 
 had not been able to obtain any intelligence about Auguste, or whether he 
 was captivated by Adrienne ; moreover, the men of mature age who were 
 not excluded from the upholsterer's house were requested not to speak 
 of the trivial affairs that were being carried on in Belleville, and as also it 
 was decided that no subject but politics should be entertained until the 
 Count's return, Virginie was ready to die from ennui, and was anything 
 but charitably inclined towards the nobleman for effecting such a perfect 
 revolution in affairs. 
 
 It happened,lhowever, one evening that the babbler Renard said, in great 
 haste as he entered Troupeau's drawing-room, that he had the pleasure of 
 stating that young Monsieur Ledoux had returned from travelling in Eng- 
 land, and also Vauxdore's nephew Godibert, who had obtained his discharge 
 from the army, and was no longer a cuirassier. Troupeau replied carelessly 
 that the fact was not of the slightest interest to him, as he should not think 
 of receiving people of that description again ; whereupon Renard said, with 
 a solemn countenance, it had been remarked in Belleville that his friend saw 
 much less company latterly than he used, and ill-natured comments had been 
 made upon it. Madame drew herself up with dignity as she observed, — " We 
 are above such paltry considerations, we do not heed what common people 
 say, and the day will soon come when we shall look down — " ... A 
 glance from her husband checked the vaunt that was rising to her lips. 
 Renard was all ears, but finding that Madame Troupeau stopped short, he 
 proceeded to say, — " Vauxdore's niece must be very glad at these young 
 men having returned ; that is to say, not exactly glad, because she must 
 be rather embarrassed now that Montreville is there." ..." Does he pay 
 attention to Adrienne too?" Troupeau inquired in a whisper. . . . "Oh, 
 dear, yes ; there is no mystery about it, he is her declared lover ; all Belle- 
 ville talks about it ; it is even said — " (then, lowering his voice, he con- 
 cluded the sentence so that no one but his acquaintance could hear him) ; 
 but whatever the communication was, it induced Madame to exclaim, — 
 " Oh, monstrous, infamous ! And yet it was to be expected after all that 
 we have seen. Monsieur Renard, I beg that you will never mention that 
 vile girl's name to me again." 
 
 From the few sentences that Renard let drop, Virginie gathered that 
 the handsome young composer was the accepted lover of her former friend, 
 and that Doudoux and the Cuirassier had come back to Belleville. She 
 could not conceive it possible that they could have been an hour in the 
 village without passing beneath her window ; and when she retired to her 
 room after a miserable evening, she stamped again with rage, and then 
 burst into tears as she thought all the young men forsook her ; she saw 
 none now but those old enough to be her father, she heard no conversation 
 except upon politics, and she swore that, whenever she should meet the 
 Count de Senneville again, she would treat him in such a manner that all 
 ideas of marrying her should be effectually banished from his mind. 
 
 About two o'clock the following afternoon a carriage pulled up before 
 Troupeau's gate. Virginie, who was seated as usual at the window, did 
 
The Messenger. 77 
 
 not stop to ascertain what sort of a vehicle it was and who was in it, but 
 cried out to her parents that their noble visitor was at the door. Both of 
 them ran into the garden to receive him, and uttered a shout of delight 
 when they saw it was not the Count who had arrived, but — what was 
 better in their eyes — the equipage was that of their old aunt. Breathing a 
 hurried hope that all the females had the regulation drawers upon their 
 nether members, Troupeau bade his daughter come downstairs, and, 
 casting a glance over his own habiliments to satisfy himself that there was 
 nothing in his appearance which could shock the old woman's morbid, 
 immaculate propriety, he took his daughter in one hand and his spouse 
 in the other and advanced to the carriage to assist the spinster to alight. 
 
 The family, however, were doomed to sustain a temporary mortification, 
 for, instead of Mademoiselle Belleavrine, they saw an extremely fat and 
 very short man attempting to get out, who was evidently unaccustomed to 
 a carriage, for after turning himself round and lifting up the skirts of his 
 coat to prevent their coming in contact with the wheels, he stretched out 
 one of his stumpy legs as far down as he could without reaching the first 
 step, but exposing to the astonished spectators all the time that portion of 
 his person which our heroine had been taught to call the "coccial bone." 
 ..." Stop, stop, sir," Troupeau cried, " I will bring you a bench which 
 will assist you." . . . "Thank you, sir, kindly," replied a soft, honey -sweet 
 voice, and the bench having been brought, the corpulent unknown stepped 
 comfortably and safely to the ground. 
 
 He was an enormously fat little man, as round as an apple, without any 
 perceivable neck, his head being placed, as it seemed, directly upon his 
 shoulders, and that head was covered with a mass of hair curling naturally, 
 concealing the whole of his forehead, and almost meeting a pair of extensive 
 shaggy eyebrows ; his complexion was a dirty sallow, his eyes leaden and 
 without the least expression, his legs were the perfect resemblance of two 
 massive truncated pillars. 
 
 This singular-looking individual bowed to each of the persons who stood 
 ready to receive him, and then said with a bland, open air, and in the most 
 insinuating tone, that he supposed he had the honour of accosting the 
 respectable Troupeau family, whom he had been sent to visit by Mademoi- 
 selle Belleavrine, and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he turned 
 round to the gardener who had driven him there, and, without even asking 
 permission, directed him to detach the horse from the carriage, unharness 
 it, and make it and himself comfortable for the night, as neither the animal 
 nor he would be wanted till the following day. 
 
 The family fairly overflowed with courtesy as they ushered their aunt's 
 envoy, puffing and blowing like a porpoise, into the drawing-room, and 
 when they reached the apartment he took a letter from his pocket, saying he 
 was charged to deliver it by that estimable lady, Mademoiselle Belleavrine. 
 Troupeau took the letter from the ambassador with as much respect as if 
 it had been a missive from a crowned head, and all the parties being seated 
 after a most extraordinary display of ceremony, the upholsterer read aloud 
 as follows : — 
 
 " NEPHEW AND NIECE, — / have received the letter you wrote to me some 
 time back, and I acTcnoxvledge myself quite satisfied." . . . "Ah," said 
 Madame Troupeau, " I am delighted that she is satisfied." ..." My dear, 
 I must beg you will not interrupt my reading this very interesting letter." 
 . . . "Goon, my dear, I promise you that I will net." . . . "lam 
 quite satisfied, and am willing that all that has passed shall be forgotten; 
 therefore let it never be mentioned again." . . . "Dear, dear aunt," 
 
78 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Madame broke in again, " she is not vexed. Virginie, my child, this con- 
 cerns you ; do you hear, your aunt is not angry any longer ? " . . . Virginie 
 merely bent her head slightly, as if she did not care a button whether her 
 great- aunt was vexed or not, whilst Troupeau took out his pocket-handker- 
 chief, wiped his eyes, and said in a whining tone, which was intended to be 
 a sentimental one, — " Excuse my weakness, Monsieur, but I am so happy 
 at my aunt having extended her forgiveness to us ; pardon this emotion. " 
 
 " The winter, which is near, will be long, and I shall require constant 
 amusement, and, therefore, I request that my great-niece, Virginie, may 
 come and pass some months with me." ..." Some months ! " the girl 
 exclaimed in dire afright. ..." Hush, hush, my dear, you interrupt 
 your papa. Poor girl ! she is overpowered with delight." . . . Now 
 there was not a shadow of pleasure in the tone in which the maiden spoke, 
 but her mamma deemed it advisable that it should be thought such was 
 the case. Troupeau took the same view of affairs, confirmed his wife's 
 opinion with a nod, and continued, — 
 
 " i" do not doubt thai you will hasten to accede to my request, but as I will 
 not annoy either of you by ashing you to bring her to me, as it is only her 
 I want — " ..." Kind, kind aunt ! how thoughtful of her ! " . . . 
 " I want, I have sent my friend Monsieur Baisemon, who will deliver this 
 letter to you" . . . The messenger rose from his chair and bowed, the 
 Troupeaus returned his salutation, and the reading was proceeded with. . . . 
 " That gentleman is my steward, my man of business ; I have not known 
 Mm very long, but he possesses my entire confidence, and he deserves it. "... 
 Baisemon rose again and bowed, and Troupeau did the same. ... " He 
 is an extraordinary man, gifted with the most pious principles, wise as 
 Joseph, virtuous as Ruth, patient as Job, — in fact, a man after my own 
 heart." . . . During this enumeration of his transcendent qualities the 
 steward kept on bowing, but at its termination he resumed his seat, and, 
 with his head bent forward and eyes upon the ground, awaited the conclu- 
 sion of the letter. 
 
 " Give your daughter into Baisemon' s keeping with the greatest assurance 
 of her being well taken care of. I have charged him to bring her to me, and 
 have sent Grillore with the cabriolet to conduct them here. You will give my 
 horse one night's rest, and will send off my grand-niece the day following the 
 receipt of this letter. I need not tell you that your daughter shall be tenderly 
 guarded whilst she remains with me ; you know me and my principles, and 
 they are guarantee enough. Adieu. Be virtuous, and so farewell. — Your 
 aunt, " Belle a vrine." 
 
 Troupeau and his wife were in raptures at the contents of the letter, 
 and vied with each other in uttering the most extravagant expressions of 
 delight. Virginie did not see anything particularly pleasing in passing a 
 dreary winter alone with her stiff grand-aunt and the corpulent man of 
 business, but her parents checked her as she was about to speak, and told 
 her she might lose a splendid inheritance and a noble marriage if she did 
 not appear overjoyed. The prospect was alluring to a girl of Virginie's 
 disposition : she reflected that her father's house had become a dungeon 
 now all young men were excluded, and that even Mademoiselle Belle- 
 avrine's would not be so dull, as, at least, she could make game with the fat 
 steward ; so in a few moments she looked up with a radiant countenance, 
 declared she would make her preparations for departure immediately, 
 curtsied reverently to Monsieur Baisemon, and left the room with a light, 
 bounding step, as if the prospect of a residence with her grand-aunt had 
 opened a thorough sunshine on her heart. 
 
The Messenger. 79 
 
 The delighted father gazed fondly at his daughter's sylph-like figure as 
 she tripped away, and asked the steward his opinion of her. Baisemon, as 
 in duty bound, answered that she was a daughter worthy of her admirable 
 parents, and Troupeau immediately began to sing the praises of the girl. 
 . . . " Ah," he said, " we may well be proud of that dear child, gentle and 
 docile as a lamb ! You saw how gladly she left the room to obey our 
 respected aunt's commands. She will leave us without shedding a single 
 tear ; not that she does not love us, oh, no ! but because we have imbued 
 her with the most virtuous principles. Although we have never lost sight 
 of her one minute since her birth, we shall place her in your hands without 
 a regret, for a gentleman in whom our dear, excellent aunt reposes trust, 
 must always possess our confidence." ..." Dear sir," Baisemon replied, 
 "you do me too much honour. I assure you that your daughter shall 
 reach my dear friend, Mademoiselle Belleavrine's, in all honour and safety ; 
 but permit me to say just now that I have eaten nothing since leaving 
 Senlis and — " . . . "You have not eaten, Monsieur Baisemon ? and we 
 have been so neglectful as not to ask you. It was the effect of joy ; but 
 you shall have the best the house affords directly. Wife, see what you can 
 put on the table before dinner for our amiable visitor. And our aunt, my 
 
 dear sir — we are so overwhelmed with joy at regaining her friendship is 
 
 she well ? " . . . " Tolerably, a little thinner than usual ; but the doctor 
 asserts it is all the better for her." . . . " I am glad to hear it. By-the-bye, 
 my dear " (this was to Madame, who was about to leave the room to ex- 
 pedite luncheon), " if the Count should return whilst Virginie ah ! 
 
 Monsieur Baisemon, since you are in our aunt's confidence you must be in 
 ours. Know, then, that a gentleman of the highest rank, a young and 
 
 noble count, aspires to our daughter's hand." ..." The devil ! that is 
 
 indeed," said Baisemon, turning a longing eye to the door in anticipation of 
 the servant making her appearance with the tray. . . . "Yes it is so. 
 The Right Honourable Count de Senneville is desirous of becoming our 
 son-in-law. He will make our daughter a countess, and I shall be the 
 grandfather of a little nobleman. I am sure aunt will be delighted when 
 she hears of this alliance ; her ideas are upon the grandest scale, just like 
 our own, eh, Monsieur Baisemon ? " . . . "I have no doubt the venerable 
 lady will be enchanted ; but, as I told you — " ..." It must be an 
 absolute secret though, sir ; not a word about it until the most noble 
 Count shall lead my daughter to the altar, you understand ? " . . . "Oh 
 perfectly; but it strikes me Grillore must be hungry too." . . . "Ten 
 thousand pardons, monsieur, I had quite forgotten — parental love, you 
 see. My dear, do hasten the luncheon for Monsieur Baisemon, and let the 
 estimable, faithful Grillore be taken care of too." 
 
 The good lady, who had glided quietly back into the room after givino- 
 some orders, left again, whilst Baisemon fumed and fidgeted, and Troupeau 3 , 
 holding him fast by the button, could not forego the pleasing strain. 
 " And now you see, my dear friend — for being my aunt's friend you 'must 
 be mine — that since I am to be honoured with having a count of one of the 
 first families in all Touraine for my son-in-law, I have taken every pre- 
 caution to prevent the slightest thing that might mar the marriage * so all 
 the young gentlemen of the town have been forbidden to come here 'for the 
 present, and my daughter does not visit at any neighbour's where she may 
 chance to meet them. That's acting like a prudent father, I should think ? " 
 . . . "Decided^, decidedly; but touching the breakfast — " . . . "It 
 is coming ; but another moment, if you please. Our dear daughter will be 
 lost to us for some time, but we know our aunt, and rely upon the purity of 
 her principles. She does not receive any young men, I believe ? " . 
 
80 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 " None ; but shall we go to the dining-room ?"..." That is a very 
 lucky circumstance ; but, nevertheless, Monsieur Baisemon, I recommend 
 my daughter especially to your care, not that she has the least idea of any- 
 thing wrong, but sometimes, you know, accidents will happen from an 
 excess of innocence, eh ? But what hours do you keep at Senlis ? " . . . 
 " We breakfast usually at half -past eight o'clock ; but this morning it was 
 much earlier, because we had to come off to Belleville, and really — " . . . 
 " Dear, dear, I beg your pardon again, my dear sir, a thousand times. 
 Come downstairs, and we can talk things over whilst you satisfy your 
 appetite." 
 
 Baisemon sighed the deep sigh of satisfaction, followed his conductor to 
 the dining-room, and threw himself upon the provisions laid out for him 
 like a famished wolf ; whilst Troupeau pottered on about his daughter's 
 superb marriage, the steward responded only by nodding his head, brief 
 affirmative grunts, and monosyllables, reserving his wind for the more 
 serious business of the table ; and when he had so stuffed himself that he 
 could not get another mouthful down, he wiped his enormous mouth, 
 smiled, and said he should be happy to listen to anything his hospitable 
 entertainers had to.say. . . . "Monsieur Baisemon," Madame commenced, 
 " our aunt writes that she knows but little of you, but what she does know 
 makes her esteem you highly ; may we venture to ask — without being 
 guilty of rudeness — in what way you became acquainted with her and 
 gained her confidence directly ? Our aunt does not place her affections 
 lightly." 
 
 "Madame," the fat man replied, as pompously as a pedagogue, but 
 with much unction, with a bow as profound as the protuberance before 
 him would permit, "I will narrate the whole affair to you from the begin- 
 ning to the end, and nothing but the truth shall issue from my lips, for I 
 am not double-faced like the Roman Janus. I am the only son of 
 respectable but poor parents, who loved me dearly — according to their own 
 statement — but were impressed with the ludicrous idea that I grew too 
 fast, had far too large an appetite, and ate too much. I was hardly ten 
 years old when my father kicked me out of the house with fifteenpence in 
 my pocket and his blessing, adding, by way of incentive to future exertion, 
 — ' Help yourself, and Providence will help you.' The proverb is rather 
 musty, but true for all that ; and as the learned master of a hedge-school 
 in the neighbourhood thought he discerned some glimmerings of talent in 
 me, he took me under the protection of his cane and ferrule, and when I 
 had attained twelve years of age I understood the Latin syntax tolerably, 
 could construe a bit, and flog the boys to my protector's complete satisfac- 
 tion — to say nothing of my own whenever any one of them had previously 
 offended me. I acquired the classics rapidly enough, and in a few years 
 the reputation I had gained procured me the situation of tutor to the son 
 of a nobleman, and then I exerted myself to the utmost to imbue his mind 
 with the principles of wisdom, honesty and virtue, and the rules which 
 govern participles and the irregular verbs. It was not my fault if one fine 
 moonlit night he ran off with his mother's maid — supposed to be so, at 
 least up to that time — but men are often unjust when they are angry, so 
 the excellent nobleman threw all the blame on me, and turned me out 
 without paying me a sou. However, I consoled myself by thinking it was 
 ordained by fate to be so, and like the patriarch — whose examples I always 
 kept before my eyes in periods of difficulty and distress — I submitted to it 
 without a murmur. Well, I vegetated for some time, teaching reading, 
 writing, arithmetic, and Latin ; indeed, sharing all my talent as I roamed 
 from place to place until my resources became totally exhausted, and my 
 
The Messenger. 81 
 
 clothes so worn and ragged that if I had gone on much farther in that way, 
 I should have finished by showing most of my person too. Still I com- 
 forted myself with the reflection that Isaiah walked in a state of perfect 
 nudity, but as I was not a prophet I had the weakness to wish for a pair 
 of breeches, and I am bound to say that my lower garments were in a sad 
 state of dilapidation when I arrived at Senlis. As I sauntered along one 
 of the streets in a melancholy humour, pondering upon the mutability of 
 human affairs, I came suddenly upon a second-hand clothes shop and saw 
 a beautiful pair of large black trousers hanging outside upon a peg. I sat 
 down on a bench opposite the shop to contemplate them at my ease, when 
 the proverb — ' Help yourself, and Providence will help you ' — came into my 
 head, but alas ! Providence was not in a benignant humour that evening, 
 and would not aid me in the least, for as I rose from the bench my breeches 
 were caught by a nail that I had not perceived when I sat down ; the 
 cloth was so rotten that a large rent was torn in them, and it was im- 
 possible that I could proceed down the street without exposing the most 
 ignoble portion of my person to the public eye. Now, my dear sir, you are 
 aware that it is a maxim of modern morality that the public eye must be 
 respected ; so I regarded the serious rent in the nature of a direct inter- 
 vention of Providence, who said to me, — 'My good fellow, help yourself to 
 that prime second-hand pair of black superfine cloth trousers, and don't 
 offend the dainty feelings of the good folks of Senlis.' So I advanced to 
 the shop, took the trousers from the hook, ran up a dark alley, and put 
 them on. 
 
 " Having done so, and being fit to meet the public eye without offending 
 it, I resolved to go back to the shopkeeper and say to him, — ' Friend, I 
 have been compelled by stern necessity to borrow your pair of trousers, but 
 I assure you I will repay you when Providence shall assist me ; ' but I 
 cannot tell how it was I missed my way in that large town, and had just 
 found myself at the end of it farthest from the clothes shop, when the 
 tradesman came up, and seizing me in the most brutal manner by the collar, 
 swore I had robbed him. I told him I was coming to him that very moment 
 to arrange about the garment, but he would not hear reason, and the myrmi- 
 dons of so-called justice dragged me off to gaol. 
 
 ' ' Well, sir, I was committed by an ass of a magistrate, and subsequently 
 brought up for trial. When I was called upon for my defence, I merely 
 said to the judge and jury, — ' My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I 
 preferred being arrested and imprisoned to the shame of showing my 
 nakedness to the public' Of course I expected to be acquitted out of 
 common decency, but, woe is me ! in what a base, degenerate age 
 we live ! The judge punished me because I would not infringe the 
 principles of elevated morality, and I was condemned to one month's 
 imprisonment. Nevertheless, I bore my unjust sentence patiently, for I 
 said to myself, — ' Was not Daniel cast into a den of lions, and yet there are 
 nothing but spiders' webs in mine ! ' However, my misadventure caused 
 a great sensation in the town ; good, kind, noble, charitable people pitied 
 my hard fate — the ladies especially, and when my term of incarceration 
 was up they gave me a purse of money they had collected for me. Whilst 
 I was spending some of it quietly in a public house to which I had resorted 
 to taste wine, which had been withheld from me for a whole month, 
 Grillore came with a message to me from Mademoiselle Belleavrine, and 
 when I repaired to her residence in obedience to her mandate, she looked 
 at me admiringly as she said, — 'And you, then, are the worthy man who 
 suffered himself to be deprived of liberty rather than expose to the passers- 
 by that which should never see the lisrht ? ' I bowed in acquiescence : the 
 
 v 
 
82 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 excellent lady took my hand and pressed it as she said, — ' You are a man 
 to be admired, and your conduct has raised you in my opinion ; take these 
 twelve pairs of drawers and these ten dollars, and come and dine with me 
 to-morrow. ' . . . On the following day I went to Mademoiselle Belle- 
 avrine's with four pairs of drawers on to prove to my benefactress how 
 forcibly I esteemed her gifts, and she appeared gratified with my delicate 
 attention. In a word, my conversation, and the principles developed in it, 
 pleased your admirable aunt, who proposed to me to remain with her, to 
 become her steward, and look after the whole of her affairs. I accepted 
 her offer with respectful thankfulness, and have now been three months 
 with her, and I am proud to say she has never repented what she was 
 kind enough to do for me." 
 
 The Troupeaus listened attentively to the lengthened narrative, and at 
 its conclusion appeared more astonished than delighted. After a few 
 moments' reflection, however, the upholsterer held out his hand to the 
 moral steward, saying, — " Monsieur Baisemon, a man who prefers suffering 
 imprisonment to showing his rump, in these days of licentiousness, is a 
 person to be respected, and therefore I confide my daughter to you in the 
 full assurance she will not see or hear anything offensive whilst in your 
 company. Wife, go upstairs to our child, and see that she has ample 
 provision of neckerchiefs, habit - shirts, drawers, and tippets, that her 
 toilette at her aunt's may be as modest and proper as the good lady may 
 desire. " 
 
 When Madame Troupeau reached her daughter's chamber, she found 
 the door fast locked within, and on her calling to be admitted, Virginie 
 replied, — " Coming in a minute, mamma ; pray excuse me for keeping you 
 waiting, but I am changing my drawers, those I had on have got torn by 
 accident." . . . Was this the fact, reader, you will ask. No, but you 
 shall be informed of the real, naked truth. 
 
 As soon as our heroine entered her room when sent up by her parents, 
 she ran to the window, and this time she did not cast her eyes down into 
 the Rue de Calais for nothing, for immediately opposite the house she saw 
 a fine, tall, well-made man walking up and down like a sentinel upon duty. 
 He had neither uniform nor moustachios ; he was not a cuirassier, but 
 simply Monsieur Godibert, a private citizen, still so enraptured with the 
 Pucelle of Belleville's charms that he could not forego marching up and down 
 the street in hopes of seeing her. The young man had spent much time 
 in dancing attendance in the waiting-rooms at the War Office before he 
 could get his discharge from the service ; and when he obtained it, and 
 was master of his own actions, he came back directly to the town that held 
 the object that engrossed his thoughts. When he arrived, his first care 
 was to visit his uncle and his aunt ; he kissed his cousin Adrienne quite 
 brotherly, bowed to Auguste Montreville, whom he found in the house, left 
 them to enjoy their love, and posted himself like a cavalry vidette before 
 Troupeau's residence. 
 
 Having assured herself, by looking up and down the street, that there 
 was no one in it, Virginie leaned out of the window, smiled at Godibert, 
 and said, — "Pray, what may you be doing there, monsieur?" . . . 
 " Adorable girl ! At length I see you ; could you but know the pangs — " 
 ... " Hush, hush ; if you want to see me again, you will not do so 
 by coming here. To-morrow I leave for Senlis, to pass some months 
 with my aunt, Mademoiselle Belleavrine." ... "At Senlis! No 
 matter ; where you are I will be, even at the uttermost ends of the 
 earth. Might I not be introduced to this aunt?" ... "I cannot 
 tell ; but I kndw that I shall die in despair if some one does not come 
 
The Messenger. 83 
 
 and see me. Oh, heaven ! there is a person coming ; be off with you, 
 I beg. "... It was at this very interesting part of the conversation, when 
 probably a deep scheme for meeting might have been laid, that Virginie 
 saw some one coming up the street. Godibert took the hint, and ran 
 round a corner out of sight, swearing that he would follow her to China 
 and have her, even if he plucked the Emperor by the beard. 
 
 After the lapse of a few minutes, our heroine went again to the window 
 for the twofold purpose of ascertaining whether Godibert escaped and who 
 it was coming up the street, and at the instant she put her head out she 
 perceived a young man making signs to her as he stood about fifty paces 
 off. It was Doudoux ! He had returned from his travels as much in love 
 and as timid as ever, although he was now of age ; and as he entertained a 
 wholesome fear of Troupeau ever since the night of the rencontre at the 
 garden-gate, he stood stock still, poking out his neck like a gigantic crane, 
 placing his hand upon his heart, and simpering and smirking at his mistress. 
 Virginie thought he was as great a fool as ever ; then it flashed across her 
 mind that she might have fine fun in playing off the young men against 
 each other at Senlis ; but hearing her mother at that moment calling to 
 her and knocking at the door, she darted a smile at Doudoux that set all 
 his blood in motion, and hastily writing a few lines with a pencil, stating 
 where she was going, she wrapped the paper round the stopper of a scent- 
 bottle that was on the toilette-table, and threw it into the street. Doudoux 
 picked up the missive, read it over, kissed it a thousand times when he 
 ascertained its purport, walked away thanking heaven that Virginie loved 
 him, and made up his mind to declare his passion to her parents now that 
 he was of age. 
 
 With the speed of lightning, " Perfect Innocence " stripped off her 
 drawers, tore a long slit in them, opened the door, and said, — "I beg 
 pardon again, mamma, but you came to the door just as my drawers got 
 torn. I could not keep them on in that condition, because they would have 
 given me cold, and so I took them quite off." . . . Madame kissed her 
 daughter's forehead as she replied, — " You are worthy of me, my child, of 
 your father, and of the high rank to which you are destined, for you will 
 arrive at the topmost round of the social ladder. Preserve your innocent 
 candour, never forget the principles of propriety, which a woman ought to 
 guard next her heart, and do not play the fool like that silly Adrienne — " 
 . . . " What has poor Adrienne done ?" the girl interrupted. . . . "For 
 mercy's sake, do not speak of her, my love ; her name ought never to sully 
 your pure lips. Be respectful and obedient to your aunt, never contradict 
 her, and above all things wear as many pairs of drawers as she shall bid 
 you ; Baisemon has gained her affections by wearing four, so it would not 
 be amiss if you were to put on two pairs every day. In a word, my dear, 
 remember that you will inherit her large fortune or not, just as she pleases, 
 and that a great man threw his admiring eyes upon you whilst our chimney 
 was on fire. I will not say another word, for what I have insinuated ought 
 to make you despise all other men who may have the impudence to pay 
 attention to you, although I suppose such a thing is not at all likely to 
 happen while you are with your aunt." . . . This short sermon being 
 over, the mother occupied the rest of the day in packing her daughter's 
 clothes, and giving her injunctions as to her behaviour to her aunt, to all 
 which the girl modestly answered "Yes," with her eyes upon the ground. 
 
 At an early hour next morning, the horse was harnessed to the cart, 
 and the girl's boxes and packets were put into the bottom of it, with a 
 game pie, a huge German sausage, some rolls, and several bottles of wine, 
 as Monsieur Baisemon had deemed it prudent to lay in this stock of pro- 
 
84 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 visions because the Mademoiselle Troupeau would not have occasion to 
 enter an inn on the way, and risk encountering a man of less than fifty 
 years of age. 
 
 Virginie embraced her parents and stepped lightly into the carriage, 
 Baisemon bowed to them, took a polite leave, and was hoisted in with the 
 help of a high stool. Grillore placed himself on the driving-bench in front. 
 Troupeau said, with a moistened eye, — " Monsieur, we confide our treasure 
 to you ; give our kind love to our aunt." ... " Make your minds easy 
 about mademoiselle, I will not lose sight of her," the steward replied. . . . 
 " Adieu, mamma ; adieu, papa," quoth Virginie ; the whip was cracked, 
 the horse walked on, and the paternal home was lost to the maiden's sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 Foe a young girl who hitherto had never been farther from Belleville than 
 the wood of Bomainville, a journey of six-and-twenty miles was rather a 
 serious affair, and as the old maid's vehicle had two little windows in the 
 sides, Virginie's head was constantly out of one of them, looking for novel- 
 ties, picturesque views, the peasants' costumes, and all the pretty things 
 about travelling that she had read in books. 
 
 The carriole had only two cross-benches ; Grillore was of course upon 
 the front one, and Baisemon and Virginie upon the hind one, but the 
 steward's corpulence was so great that he occupied fully two-thirds of the 
 space, as the girl leaned forward or from side to side to get a peep at 
 the open country, some part of her person came constantly against his 
 shoulders, his arms, or his legs, and then she kicked or elbowed the 
 intrusive members soundly, and exclaimed loudly against his obesity. 
 Baisemon, smiling at every dig of the " Pucelle's " elbow, answered mildly 
 that Providence had dealt kindly with him and blessed him with much 
 fat ; that he could not move farther from her because his superficies was 
 pressed tightly against the panel of the carriage ; that she might wriggle 
 and shake herself as much as she pleased without incommoding him, and 
 that, should she graze his haunches with her elbow, he should receive her 
 indignities as meekly as if she offered the choicest viands to him. 
 
 Our heroine was not at all mollified by this concession, but leaned upon 
 and pressed her companion as much as she could, for, in addition to her 
 being in a very inconvenient, constrained position in the carriole, she was 
 much disappointed by the character of the country she was passing through, 
 and which was very different to the pictures her imagination had painted 
 of the delights of travelling. She found the meadows, fields, and trees pre- 
 cisely the same as those she had been accustomed to see in the neighbour- 
 hood of Belleville ; the villages were equally dirty, the peasants as sunburnt, 
 and the waggoners as obstinate and insolent in refusing to make way, until, 
 completely tired of annoying Baisemou, without any gratification from the 
 view, she smiled and asked him civilly whether she should not see any 
 prettier scenes upon their route, and he replied that there would not be any 
 change in the general appearance of the country, but they should get some 
 capital ratafia at Lonores. 
 
 " But where are the pointed rocks, the precipices, the torrents, the cas- 
 
The Journey. 85 
 
 cades that I have read of ?" . . . " We shall not find any between this 
 and Senlis ; the road is flat, and therefore much more easy and agreeable 
 for travelling in a carriage than a mountainous, picturesque country. " . . . 
 " To what part of the world then must I go to behold all these romantic 
 wonders ? " . . . " There are many lands, mademoiselle, which would 
 amaze you. In Russia you will see vast fields of ice covered with sledges, 
 peasants who are perfect slaves, Cossacks who do not wear shirts, nor even 
 drawers, and females who lie down at night just wheresoever they may be, 
 without taking the trouble of looking for a bed. If you should go towards 
 China, you would come to the celebrated wall, upwards of five hundred 
 leagues long, that separates the Celestial Empire from Tartary ; and you 
 would see the inhabitants of Pekin, Nankin, Fo-Kien, and other cities and 
 provinces very particular about morality ; and if you traverse Bohemia you 
 will find a nation who sell nostrums for every disease, tell fortunes, and rob 
 hen-roosts." . . . "And have you been in all these countries, Monsieur 
 Baisemon ? " . . . " No, mademoiselle. I only tell you what I have read 
 in books of travels, a great reason for not believing them ; for all the world 
 agree that travellers do not always tell the truth. But what do you say, 
 mademoiselle, to a slice of Bologna sausage and a glass of wine ? " 
 
 Virginie replied that she was not hungry, that he might eat as much as 
 he pleased, although she wondered he could do so without the convenience 
 of a chair and table ; but she would wait until they should arrive later in 
 the day at a comfortable inn in some village, and then enjoy her dinner at 
 her ease. And her surprise may be conceived when he informed her that 
 he was in despair at not being able to meet her wishes ; that they could not 
 leave the carriole at all during the journey, as they had all they could desire 
 in it ; and when she suggested that she might want to get out for purposes 
 than eating before they reached Senlis, he calmly stated that in every case 
 his positive orders were not to lose sight of her for a single moment. 
 
 The girl threw herself back in the carriole in a passion, jamming Baise- 
 mon against the hinder panels ; but he was a philosopher in his way, and 
 thinking that Virginie was not quite such an amiable innocent as he had 
 been told, he pulled the basket of provisions from underneath the seat, took 
 out the pie, cut himself a large slice, and ate it greedily, washing it down 
 with sundry draughts of wine. Whilst he pursued this agreeable occupa- 
 tion, the " Pucelle " turned again to the window, hoping that Godibert and 
 Doudoux had taken the hint as to her departure and followed her upon the 
 road, but not seeing them she indulged in another little bit of mischief, by 
 leaning suddenly against Baisemon, as he was in the act of raising a glass 
 of wine to his lips, and spilling it down his shirt-front and waistcoat. The 
 philosopher, however, was proof against these slight misfortunes, and, 
 wiping off the moisture from his garments, observed, with the greatest 
 sang-froid, that it was fortunate there were several other bottles of claret in 
 the carriage. 
 
 As the steward kept on plying his jaws, Grillore, the gardener, looked 
 round into the carriage so often and so piteously, that Virginie thought the 
 poor man must be hungry, and made a remark to that effect. Baisemon 
 said the man could not hold the reins and eat at the same time, and that as 
 the horse was a very slow-paced animal, and the days were short, it would 
 not be pleasant to be surprised by night before reaching Senlis ; but our 
 heroine insisted that the horse must have some rest and the man some food, 
 and on her promising not to attempt to leave the carriage without his per- 
 mission, her guardian directed Grillore to stop, and some oats having been 
 given to Cocotte the nag, and a lump of sausage, a large slice of pie, and a 
 bottle of beer to the man, Baisemon continued to eat unceasingly ; and 
 
86 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Virginie, notwithstanding she was vexed at her lovers not having followed 
 her, contrived to make a very tolerable dinner. 
 
 At length Baisemon declared that he was satisfied ; and although poor 
 Grillore had not half finished, he was ordered to replace the bit in the 
 horse's mouth, and cramming a huge piece of pie-crust in his own, he 
 remounted the bench, smacked the whip, and put the lumbering vehicle in 
 motion, whilst the steward appeared inclined to sleep after his inordinate 
 meal ; and Virginie kept a good look-out for the cuirassier and Doudoux, 
 mistaking every cow driven by peasants she saw upon the road for a 
 cavalier pursuing her in haste. 
 
 An hour had elapsed since the carriole had been in motion, and Baise- 
 mon was fast asleep, but our heroine was not at all disposed to disturb his 
 slumbers, for on leaning again from the window she thought she discerned 
 a pedestrian striving his utmost to overtake the carriage, and being desirous 
 to aid him in his endeavours, her fertile fancy suggested a scheme instantly, 
 and tapping Grillore gently on the shoulder, and handing him a bottle of 
 wine, which she took quietly from the basket, she desired him to stop. The 
 command was implicitly obeyed. Baisemon inquired with a sleepy grunt 
 why the gardener did not proceed. Virginie answered that she must get 
 out. He replied that she could not ; but she stepped on to the front bench 
 without heeding him, took hold of Grillore's hand, and jumped lightly down, 
 running into a thicket on one side of the road, whither he followed her as 
 soon as he roused himself, rubbed his eyes, clambered over the benches, and 
 deposited his heavy carcase upon the ground. When he arrived where the 
 young girl stood, she remonstrated indignantly with him upon the system 
 of espionage to which she was subjected ; and as the altercation lasted some 
 time, and she almost protested she would not re-enter the carriole unless 
 her self -constituted tyrant gave her more liberty, the pedestrian had time to 
 come nearly up to the travellers, and sat down to rest himself beneath a 
 tree. 
 
 It was Godibert, completely equipped for the roads, with a stout stick in 
 his hand and a knapsack on his back. Virginie saw and recognised him at 
 a glance, gave him an almost imperceptible smile unseen by her tyrant, and 
 suffered herself to be reconducted to the carriole. Her complacency and 
 good- temper returned the very instant she saw Godibert. Again the 
 vehicle rumbled on, and as, when Baisemon had dropped off to sleep again, 
 she looked from the window on her side to ascertain whether her lover was 
 coming after her, she saw a hand placed cautiously against the window. 
 The fact was that Godibert had jumped up behind the carriole, and now, 
 by leaning forward at the risk of falling on the wheel, he could see and 
 touch Virginie, and even address to her a few whispered sentences, which 
 she replied to in the same low tone. The soldier's position was one of great 
 difficulty, for the old vehicle, being without springs, jolted terribly, and 
 every moment he was in danger of being shaken down upon the road ; but 
 when was a lover prudent in obtaining a meeting with his mistress ! 
 
 All of a sudden Baisemon opened one eye as he said, — " I thought, made- 
 moiselle, you did me the honour of speaking to me." ..." You thought 
 wrong then." . . . "And yet I am sure." . . . "Am I forbidden to 
 talk to myself if I think fit ? " . . . " Certainly not, mademoiselle ; but 
 if you think fit to talk to me I shall esteem it an honour to reply to your 
 observations." . . . "I would prefer that you should sleep, and I talk to 
 myself." . . . "Your will is my law." ... So saying, the fat man 
 turned round and resumed his nap. Virginie put her head out of the 
 window, and as Godibert advanced his close to her, she whispered to him 
 that she was being conducted to her aunt, a cross, ill-tempered, ugly, mis- 
 
The Journey. 87 
 
 chievous old maid, who would shut her up closely in the house, and not 
 allow her to see any man under fifty years of age ; and whilst the young 
 couple were devising some means by which they could communicate with 
 each other, the old mare relaxed sensibly in her slow pace, in spite of Gril- 
 lore's voice and whip, and then, having come to a sudden dead halt, the 
 shock awoke the steward, who inquired angrily why they had stopped again. 
 Grillore stated in reply that Cocotte refused to go on, and he (that is, the 
 man) thought there must be some one behind the carriage. Baisemon sug- 
 gested that the intrusive individual — if there were one — should be invited 
 to descend by some applications of Grillore's cart- whip. Whereupon the 
 gardener rose up on the bench and struck three or four times over the roof 
 of the carriage, but was stopped by Virginie desiring him to desist, and 
 saying the only person behind was a poor Savoyard boy with a monkey, who 
 was resting himself for a few minutes ; and then reducing her command to 
 a whisper, she told him if he left off immediately he should have some more 
 pie and wine at a convenient opportunity. 
 
 Grillore grinned intelligence from ear to ear, the whip was again put in 
 requisition, and Cocotte managed a slow trot with great exertion, whilst 
 the driver occasionally shrugged his shoulders, and thought the little 
 Savoyard was uncommonly heavy for a child. Unfortunately for the lovers, 
 their conversation was effectually interrupted, for Baisemon was completely 
 awake, and as he was of opinion that carriages were only vehicles for eating, 
 drinking, and sleeping, he put his hand beneath the seat, pulled out the 
 basket, and having taken off the napkin with which it was covered, was 
 startled at seeing that the walls of the crust only remained, a partridge and 
 three larks, with the stuffing which surrounded them, and a small loaf of 
 bread having entirely disappeared. 
 
 The epicure became quite pale as he stammered, — " Bless my heart, 
 mademoiselle, you must have made another hearty meal whilst I slept ! " 
 ..." What can have put such nonsense into your head, sir ? I have not 
 even thought of such a thing." ..." It must be you, then, Grillore, who 
 have dared to help yourself without permission ?"..." Me, indeed ! " 
 the man replied. " How the devil could I reach your basket ? Ma'amzelle 
 knows—" . . . "Oh, I know nothing, Grillore, for I must confess I took 
 a little nap myself." ..." But, ma'amzelle — " ..." Enough said ; be 
 silent, Grillore, and mind your driving. Don't you see we were nearly on 
 that heap of stones." ..." Well, it is odd ! There's less of the German 
 sausage, too, than there was, and there's only one full bottle of wine ! I 
 could have sworn there were two when I replaced the things after dinner ! " 
 . . . "You must be mistaken." . . . "Ah," cried Grillore, "I see how 
 it is. Mademoiselle is so kind, she must have given some of the victuals to 
 the Savoyard." . . . Our heroine denied the insinuation, and Baisemon, 
 heaving a doleful sigh, applied himself seriously to the remainder of the 
 pie-crust, ordering the gardener to make the best of his way to Senlis, as 
 the shades of evening began to fall. 
 
 Now, Grillore's appetite was not appeased by the great hunch of pie that 
 our heroine had given him, and as he heard Baisemon eating without think- 
 ing of him, he turned his head continually and coughed ; but finding that 
 no notice was taken of him, he left off stimulating the old mare, and she 
 incontinently dropped into a walk. . . . "Well, lazy-back," Baisemon 
 exclaimed, annoyed at the renewed stoppage, " why are we stopping now ? " 
 ..." Because Cocotte is hungry. When a horse's belly is empty, he 
 can't go on any more than a man. I must give the poor beast some hay. 
 There's a public-house down there where I can get something for her, and 
 something for myself too, as it seems you are not disposed to leave me any- 
 
88 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 thing." ..." These stoppages are quite annoying, Grillore, and it is quite 
 shocking that you should give so much way to your carnal appetite ; but 
 make haste, and let us be on the road again. Mademoiselle will be afraid 
 if we should be overtaken by the night." 
 
 Virginie protested she had no fear, and immediately the carriole was 
 pulled up at the entrance of a hamlet. Grillore's first care when he reached 
 the earth was to step behind the vehicle and see who was there, but much 
 to his surprise there was not anybody near except a strapping fellow fast 
 asleep under a tree, with his head upon a knapsack. He muttered to him- 
 self that the Savoyard had made great haste to get away, and was slightly 
 suspicious with respect to the tall, stout-made man reposing underneath the 
 tree ; but being pressed and urged to get on as fast as possible, he took off 
 Cocotte's bridle, gave her what she required, and, entering a humble public- 
 house, came back with a bottle of beer, some cheese and a large thick slice 
 of bread nearly as big as a half-quartern loaf, and down he sat, munching 
 his provisions by the roadside, without once taking his eyes off Godibert, 
 who remained as still as if he were dead. 
 
 When the steward had comforted his inner man with all that had 
 remained in the basket, he recollected that they had still ten miles to 
 accomplish, and that, as night was drawing on apace, Mademoiselle Belle- 
 avrine would be uneasy at her niece's absence. He accordingly desired 
 Grillore to replace the bit in Cocotte's mouth, flattering himself that as the 
 Savoyard was gone they would get on much speedier, when just as they 
 were about to start the noise of a horse galloping was heard. Virginie put 
 her head out of the window, saw a young man approach at full speed on a 
 powerful blood-horse, saw it was Monsieur Doudoux, smiled and thought, — 
 " Both of them here ! good : I shall have fine sport ! " 
 
 Doudoux moderated his pace as he approached the carriage, and reduced 
 his courser to a walk as he came close upon it ; then having passed it, he 
 turned round to make sure that the travellers were the persons he sought, 
 looking eagerly into the vehicle ; but the " Pucelle " did not give him the 
 trouble to fatigue his eyes, for she leaned forward and smiled at the young 
 man, whilst Baisemon was arranging a leather cushion to sit upon, and 
 Grillore was putting the bit in Cocotte's mouth. Everything being 
 arranged, the animal dragged the carriage about a hundred yards at a 
 trot, and then relaxed her pace ; the mounted traveller kept by the side of 
 the carriole, constantly gazing into it. Grillore muttered it was odd that 
 the animal that galloped so furiously to overtake them could not go faster 
 now than the old mare. Baisemon desired him to mind his driving, and 
 not busy himself with other people on the road, and then dropped asleep ; 
 and Godibert, jumping up again, placed his head against the window, and 
 asked Virginie if she knew who the horseman was, and being informed that 
 he was a gentleman of her acquaintance from Belleville, he swore that if 
 he persisted in keeping them company he would descend from his perch and 
 pull Doudoux from his horse. Our heroine tried to calm her impetuous 
 swain, as she did not want any scenes upon the road, deferring them for 
 her amusement in her retirement at Senlis, and he at length promised to be 
 calm, and not give Doudoux the correction his impertinence demanded. 
 
 All of a sudden Grillore, who had his suspicions from Cocotte's reluct- 
 ance to draw, pulled up, stood up on the driving-bench, looked over the top 
 of the carriage and saw Godibert hanging on behind. Shouting to him to 
 get down, the noise awoke Baisemon, who feared he was being overturned. 
 Godibert laughed in the angry driver's face, Virginie said there was a 
 great fuss about nothing, and the mare was strong enough to draw all of 
 them easily, and Baisemon settled the question by sharply rebuking Grillore 
 
r I7ie Journey. 89 
 
 for his constant halts, and desiring him to drive on as fast as he could, on 
 pain of his displeasure. 
 
 There then was no resource for the gardener, even if the unfortunate 
 mare's back was broken by the additional weight, and as he did not at all 
 like the appearance of Doudoux's riding by the side of the carriole,— which 
 he did thinking that Godibert was a servant, and therefore not at all dis- 
 composed at Virginie's talking to him,— he endeavoured to shake him off 
 by driving faster, but when the old mare, urged by the butt-end of the 
 whip, sprang into a "butcher's pace," half -gallop, half-canter, Doudoux 
 gave his animal a light touch of the spur and was ahead in an instant ; so 
 when Cocotte's spirit subsided Doudoux drew bit again to a walk, and 
 thus his eyes were never off the carriage. 
 
 Night found them them still toiling along the road at a point where 
 there was not a single habitation near, when Grillore turned round to 
 Baisemon and whispered to him,— " I don't like these goings-on at all, sir, 
 they're not right, I'm sure." . . . "What, Grillore— what goings-on?" 
 said Baisemon, rubbing his eyes. ... " What ! Have you not observed 
 that a man has been riding by our side for the last hour and a half, as if 
 we were prisoners he was escorting ? " . . . " Oh, indeed, is the same man 
 still travelling by our side ? " . . . " Yes. If Cocotte springs a bit- 
 crack— there he goes too, and if she takes a wink or too he pulls up 
 directly. There, at this moment he is staring into the carriole. " . . , 
 " Bless me ! I am getting quite nervous, Grillore ; it is really very odd. 
 . . . "And the other fellow behind, pretending to be asleep by the 
 roadside that he might get up, eh ? Don't you think they understand each 
 other, eh ? By gemini ! they're making signs to each other ; they're up to 
 no good, that's certain." ..." Dear, dear, what shall we do ? And we 
 are still five miles from Senlis. Whip the horse, Grillore, whip her as 
 hard as you can ; perhaps we may yet escape them." ..." It's no use 
 whipping her at all, master, she won't pull an ounce harder than she likes 
 with all this dead weight behind her." . . . And thus Baisemon con- 
 tinued bemoaning his hard lot at the danger he ran of being robbed and 
 perhaps maltreated in the dark. Grillore sat sulky, but not afraid ; and 
 as for being plundered, he, poor fellow, had nothing to lose ; whilst Virginie 
 regretted that her companions had no pistols, called upon them to defend 
 her and her baggage, and, whilst she pressed Godibert's hand through the 
 window, laughed in her sleeve at the cowardly steward's fears. 
 
 There was no moon that night, and there were not any lamps attached 
 to the old lady's carriole, because she was not in the habit of travelling in 
 the dark. Grillore urged the mare onward through the darkness as fast as 
 he could in compliance with Monsieur Baisemon's entreaties, whilst the 
 measured trot of Doudoux's horse sounded mournfully in his ears, and to 
 increase his terror, Godibert began whistling a quick march. The steward 
 was wild with fear ; he swore at Grillore and called on him to flog the 
 mare. The gardener had now become alarmed himself, and struck the 
 mare fiercely with the whip. At that moment the animal tripped and fell, 
 and Grillore and Baisemon were precipitated from the carriage, Virginie 
 being jerked forward, but remaining still in the inside. The men cried out 
 as if they were knocked to pieces, Godibert was down from behind the 
 carriage, and Doudoux from his horse, in an instant, and having ascertained 
 that the Pucelle of Belleville was unhurt, they placed the steward and the 
 gardener on their legs, and endeavoured to do the same kind office for 
 Cocotte, which was accomplished with some difficulty ; and then they 
 began to question each other haughtily as to each being in their relative 
 positions. 
 
90 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Godibert commenced by saying, — " Why is it you have been riding by 
 the side of this carriage so long, and been continually staring in it ? " . . . 
 " By what right do you ask me ? " said Doudoux, with a disdainful air. " I 
 do what I like best, and do not render an account of my actions to any 
 man." . . . "And I desire, sir, that you will not follow us one step 
 farther." . . . " And what shall dare to prevent me ? " . . . "This," 
 exclaimed Godibert, crooking his leg behind Doudoux's knee, like an 
 accomplished Cornish wrestler, and hurling him to the earth ; but the 
 combat was not over. The young man — effeminate, but no coward — was 
 up in a second, and flew at his adversary's throat. And while the 
 combatants fought furiously, and with doubtful success, Baisemon partly 
 scrambled and was partly pushed head foremost by Grillore into the carriole, 
 the latter jumped upon his seat with the agility of a wild cat, and Virginie 
 was driven off, leaving her amorous cavaliers pummelling each other on 
 the public road. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE AUNT'S ESTABLISHMENT AT SENLIS. 
 
 Whetheb the fall had put Cocotte upon her mettle, or she was pleased at 
 being quit of Godibert's great weight, she responded to Grillore's cries, and 
 trotted on merrily at such a pace that she soon reached the gate of her 
 mistress's house in Senlis, to the great delight of Baisemon, who had the 
 grace to thank Heaven for having preserved him through the perils he had 
 encountered on the road. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine's house was situated at one end of the little 
 town, at a right-angle with a square grass plot, from which several deserted, 
 half -closed up lanes led, and a narrow pathway, flanked by her high garden 
 wall. Without a habitation in front of it, the house might be called a 
 rus in urbe — a country house in town. The old lady, in fact, had chosen 
 it on account of its isolated position, and had barricaded it as if it were 
 about to sustain a siege. The windows on the ground-floor were defended 
 with strong cross-bars of iron, which gave it the complete appearance of a 
 prison, and those of the first floor had Venetian blinds outside and in ; the 
 outer doors, studded with strong iron nails, were double-locked and barred 
 and bolted every night, and the walls, twelve feet high, were loaded at the 
 top with bits of broken glass and spikes and iron hooks. 
 
 The interior of the fortress corresponded in its main features to the 
 exterior, and consisted of large gloomy chambers hung with ancient 
 tapestry, long passages and corridors like those of a nunnery, a spacious 
 yard in which nothing wa3 ever to be seen, except linen placed to dry and 
 the kennel of a ferocious watch-dog, and an extensive garden full of useful 
 vegetables and fruit-trees, but no arbours, bye-paths, tufted thickets, or any 
 places of harmless recreation. 
 
 Grillore blessed his stars at having reached home as he jumped from 
 the bench, and ringing lustily a bell that hung at the side of a pair of 
 large folding gates, a thin, sharp voice asked who was there. Baisemon 
 hastened to reply, as he let himself drop gently from the carriage, — " It is 
 us, good Phyllis ; and we bless ourselves at having arrived at this hospit- 
 able asylum, even as Jacob offered praises to Jehovah when he beheld the 
 land of Canaan." . . . Even then the timorous man was uneasy, fearing 
 
The Aunt's Establishment at Senlis. 91 
 
 the two robbers were at his heels, until the carriage and himself were 
 enclosed within the gates, and Bayard, the bull-dog, had flown out of his 
 kennel the moment Virginie set her foot upon the ground, and appropriated 
 to himself a mouthful of her dress, undergarments, and precious drawers, 
 happily without injuring the dainty limbs they covered. 
 
 Bayard was then driven back to his kennel, and the old waiting- woman, 
 Phyllis, informed our heroine and Baisemon that Mademoiselle Belleavrine 
 had been anxiously expecting them, and was then seated in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Phyllis was not the young "weak-headed" creature we are apt to 
 associate with that pretty, pastoral name, but a mature woman of fifty-five 
 or thereabouts, but still hale and active, and the only female servant that 
 the old maid had ever been able to keep in her service, because those who 
 had preceded her could not put up with the whims and tyranny to which 
 they were subjected, but as Phyllis was as ill-tempered, ill-favoured, 
 peevish, wrinkled, crabbed, and sour as her mistress, the amiable couple 
 jogged on tolerably well together. 
 
 The servant caught up a lamp and led the way across a large hall, up 
 a stone staircase to the first floor, and then through a small ante-chamber 
 into a large room dimly lighted by two wax candles, where they found 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine reposing majestically in an enormous lounging- 
 chair before one of those vast antique fireplaces, beneath whose mantel- 
 piece a tall man could stand without lowering his head. The old maid 
 put down her spectacles and the book she had been reading as her niece 
 approached with that pretty robe of simplicity which she always wore at 
 home, but which she had put off occasionally whilst on the road, and 
 curtsied respectfully to her aunt without once lifting an eyelid. ..." Oh, 
 my love," the old lady said ; "there you are at last; how glad I am to 
 see you ! I hope you have been as good and modest and obedient as when 
 I left you at Belleville ? " . . . " Yes, aunt," was the reply, in the soft, 
 dove-like voice of gentlest innocence. . . . "And are you glad that 
 you are going to spend some time with me ?•" ... " Yes, aunt," in 
 precisely the same tone ; and then joyously,—" Oh, very glad, indeed ! " 
 ... " Good child ! Kiss me, and come up and warm yourself at the 
 fire. Monsieur Baisemon, I am glad to see you. And now, pray, tell me 
 what has delayed you so long ? " 
 
 Up to this moment, the steward had remained in a respectful position, 
 his head inclined forwards ; but now he resumed the perpendicular, coughed 
 slightly, and stated, with his honey tone, that the route had been beset 
 with dangers, and if Providence had not guarded her chosen ones, Grillore, 
 Virginie and himself would have remained stiff and stark upon the king's 
 highway. ... " Heavens ! how you frightened me ! " the old lady 
 cried. " You do not mean to say that you were overturned ? " ... 
 " No, mademoiselle, not precisely that ; but I must tell the tale in proper 
 order. First, then, we left the respectable Monsieur Troupeau about half- 
 past eight o'clock this morning, loaded with compliments from the family 
 to your worthy self, a pie, bread, beer, German sausages, and wine, in 
 accordance with the old maxim, — ' Help yourself, and Providence will help 
 you' — and because, likewise, it would not have been proper for your 
 amiable niece to have entered a common inn — at least, such I understood 
 to be your wish and the desire of her honourable papa." ..." Quite 
 right, my friend, go on." . . . "Thus, you see, mademoiselle, the 
 journey commenced as comfortably as could be ; but before long a Savoyard 
 boy gets up behind the carriage, and the extra weight — for, according to 
 Grillore's account, he was extraordinarily heavy— prevented Cocotte from 
 
92 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 trotting in her usual manner ; but, judge of our amazement, when we found 
 soon afterwards that the little boy had become a tall, stout, ill-looking " 
 (Virginie frowned here, and started slightly in spite of the part she was 
 acting) " vagabond, who laughed in our faces when we desired him to get 
 down." ... "A big man ! " ... " Yes, mademoiselle, a big, tall, 
 strapping robber, as it turned out. Well, I thought first of getting out of 
 the cabriolet and fighting with the fellow ; but Grillore trembled so that he 
 was not of the least use ; and if I had, what was to have become of 
 Mademoiselle Virginie, whom I had orders not to quit ? " ... " Quite 
 right again, sir ; but pray continue." ... " Cocotte would not go on, 
 notwithstanding Grillore applied the whip vigorously, when, as I was 
 considering what step it would be best to take, another robber" (Virginie 
 smiled) " rode up on horseback, and would not leave the cabriolet. He 
 was armed to the teeth, was he not, mademoiselle ? " ... "I dared 
 not look at him, monsieur." ..." The two men made numerous signs 
 to each other, and when night had come on, and we had arrived at a lonely 
 part of the road about five miles from here — " . . . "Heavens, how 
 horrible ! " burst from the old lady." . . . — " I called to Grillore to 
 gallop the mare as fast as he could, but instead of galloping, Cocotte 
 stumbled, and we were all thrown from the cabriolet." ... " All ! 
 what ! my niece and all ? My love, I hope you had your drawers on ? " . . . 
 "Yes, aunt." . . . Believe me, my dear lady, decency was not offended 
 in the least, but my chin and forehead were much bruised. I cannot tell 
 you how we got up, but when I was upon my legs again, Cocotte was upon 
 hers, and Mademoiselle Virginie seated in the cabriolet, and then — oh, 
 strangest of all this strange, eventful history — the two robbers were fighting- 
 like bull-dogs, rolling over each other in the dust ! Regaining my presence 
 of mind, I ordered Grillore to jump up and drive on, which he did instantly, 
 and thus we arrived here, and I have the honour of handing over to you 
 your amiable niece, as pure and innocent as when her honourable parents 
 confided her to my care." 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine shuddered as Baisemon concluded his narra- 
 tive, and asked Virginie whether she had not been dreadfully frightened. 
 The girl replied in the affirmative, adding, she trembled so much that she 
 thought she must have fainted ; and the steward having remarked that he 
 forgot to state that the game-pie and some wine he had with him was stolen 
 on the road, his mistress rang the bell, and requested Phyllis to bring up 
 supper and some of the oldest wine she could find in the cellar. Whilst the 
 collation was being prepared, Virginie was closely questioned by her aunt 
 with respect to her morals and general education, and she answered so 
 candidly and modestly, that the old woman was delighted with her excel- 
 lent principles, and thought a few months' residence beneath her roof would 
 make the girl a paragon of knowledge and propriety. All parties then did 
 ample justice to the supper — Phyllis appearing especially to admire the 
 manner in which the steward wagged his jaws. Bayard, the bull-dog, was 
 unchained, and left free to roam about the yard. Baisemon, in wishing 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine good-night, said he had an important communi- 
 cation from Virginie's parents to make to her in the morning ; and that 
 lady, leaning on her tall, gold-headed rane, and preceded by Phyllis, con- 
 ducted our heroine along the passage and across another saloon, and, open- 
 ing a certain door, ushered her into a gloomy chamber, lighted only by one 
 large window, which looked into the courtyard. In the centre of the room 
 was an old-fashioned carved oak bedstead, with damask hangings, a dress- 
 ing-table and toilette-glass, and chairs to correspond, and a high, antique 
 chest of drawers, 
 
The Aunt's Establishment at Senlis. 93 
 
 The old maid looked about her with a scrutinising eye as she said, — 
 " This is your own room, niece, and I hope you will find everything com- 
 fortable in it. As I know you are fond of reading, you will see there are 
 some amusing books for you — The Complete Gardener, The Royal Cook, 
 Fairy Tales, and A Treatise upon the Growth of Mushrooms, by which you 
 are enabled to distinguish the real ones. Good-night, my dear. You may 
 sleep with the greatest assurance of being safe, as this room is between 
 Phyllis's and mine. Monsieur Baisemon's is below you, and Grillore's 
 above. Bayard, too, is loose in the yard ; and if you should require any- 
 thing in the night, you can ring this bell, and Phyllis will come to you. Go 
 to sleep in peace, my love, for you must be tired, and to-morrow I will 
 make you acquainted with the rules and regulations of the house." The 
 aunt kissed her niece's forehead, withdrew, and taking the key from the in- 
 side of the room, double-locked the door behind her. 
 
 Left alone in this melancholy apartment, Virginie surveyed every nook 
 and corner of it, and then sitting upon the bottom of the bed she thought 
 she should die of grief if she remained with her aunt for many months, and 
 almost gave way to tears. Summoning up her courage, and blaming her 
 lovers for being such fools as to quarrel with each other when they ought 
 to have made sure of where she was going, she reflected that no good would 
 come of yielding to despair, that Godibert and Doudoux would certainly 
 find out where she was imprisoned, and that she would infallibly devise 
 more occupation for her gaolors than they either looked for or would desire. 
 
 Various schemes of petty annoyance floated through the "Pucelle of Belle- 
 ville's" head whilst she undressed herself. As she threw her garments one 
 by one aside until her whole figure stood revealed, and enclosed her curling 
 locks within the nightcap's tight embrace, she thought with De Senneville 
 that she was exquisitely formed, and, at the same time, very pretty, and- 
 giving the Count, Doudoux, and Godibert momentarily to the winds, she 
 sighed as she thought Auguste Montreville was blind to her beauties, and 
 preferred the homely charms of Adrienne. When the preparations for 
 repose were at length completed — for at Virginie's age a girl looks long and 
 fixedly in the mirror, and the inspection of her person never causes that 
 regret with which at a more advanced period of life female curiosity is often 
 punished — the girl threw herself upon the bed, but found, in her excited 
 state, it was impossible to sleep. She got out of bed, looked at the books, 
 threw The Treatise on Mushrooms into the farthest corner of the room, kicked 
 The Royal Cook, and wished The Complete Gardener at the devil ; then all 
 at once an idea seized her, so she pulled the bell-rope as hard as she could, 
 blew out her candle, and jumped into bed. 
 
 At the sound of the bell the aunt called to the servant that her niece 
 had rung, and in a few minutes Phyllis entered Virginie's room with nothing 
 on but a short petticoat and chemise, and holding a night-lamp in her hand, 
 and inquired why she had rung so violently. The mischievous girl said she 
 had rung because she was frightened at hearing a low, smothered voice in 
 the room, and was sure there was some one concealed beneath the bed, but 
 as she had no candle she could not see. She begged Phyllis to ascertain 
 whether there was any one there or not ; but the servant, trembling in 
 every joint, declared she would not look under the bed for the whole world, 
 and running into the landing-place shouted toBaisemon to come up, and the 
 gardener to come down, whilst Mademoiselle Belleavrine kept on asking 
 from her room what was the matter, and Phyllis, paying no attention to her, 
 bawled lustily for Grillore and the steward. 
 
 Presently the corpulent man arrived, his head covered with a large cotton 
 nightcap, and his fat round body enveloped in an old blouse, by way of 
 
94 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 dressing-gown, so short that it permitted the regulation drawers to be seen, 
 and hearing from the cook that Virginie supposed some one was underneath 
 the bed, he sheltered his poltroonery under the plea that he could not stoop 
 to see, and forthwith waddled into the landing as fast as he could, and 
 bawled too for Grillore. The uproar had now become so deafening that 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine could not remain easy any longer in her bed, but 
 got up and inquired whether the house was on fire ; and being told that 
 such was not the case, but that probably a thief was concealed under her 
 niece's bed, she added her shrieks to the general confusion. 
 
 At length the old labourer awoke from a sweet sleep, came downstairs 
 clad simply in a shirt and pair of pantaloons, grumbling at being disturbed 
 in the only comfortable moments he had enjoyed during that exciting day. 
 Baisemon, gliding behind him, and holding the night-lamp over his shoulder, 
 pushed him towards the bed, telling him to advance boldly, for there was a 
 robber underneath it ; but Grillore had heard that " Discretion was the 
 better part of valour," and proposed to fetch Bayard to aid in the researches. 
 Virginie had no desire to find herself again in close approximation to the 
 bull-dog, who had taken a fancy to bite her cotton drawers, and reproaching 
 the men for their cowardice, the gardener was persuaded to look beneath the 
 bed, and, of course, saw no one there. 
 
 All were in amazement. Phyllis called to her mistress to make her 
 mind easy, as there was no one in the room. Grillore muttered an oath or 
 two between his teeth. Virginie said it was very singular, for she pro- 
 tested she had heard unusual sounds ; and the philosophic steward accounted 
 for the girl's delusion from the fright she had experienced at the robbers in 
 the journey being again brought before the senses in her dreams. When all 
 the parties had left our heroine's room, she hid her head beneath the bed- 
 clothes, laughed heartily at the commotion she had occasioned, and went to 
 sleep with the determination of playing more tricks on the morrow. As to 
 her victims, she had effectually banished " Nature's sweet restorer, balmy 
 sleep," from their pillows. The aunt was afflicted with a hideous nightmare ; 
 Phyllis dreamed that an attempt was made upon her antiquated virtue by a 
 robber ; Baisemon, that he was being murdered ; and Grillore, that he was 
 thrown from the carriole up to his neck in a pond close to the roadside. 
 
 The " Pucelle's " countenance was the only gay one at the early morning 
 meal, the faces of the other inmates being pale and haggard. After break- 
 fast the steward desired an audience of his mistress, and having communi- 
 cated the brilliant offer made to Virginie by the Count, the old maid's 
 vanity was piqued by the grandeur of the alliance, and her mouth assumed 
 almost an agreeable expression as she murmured several times to herself 
 with great complacency, — " The Countess de Senneville ! It is worth while 
 marrying— although against my general rule — for such a title as that ; " 
 and then she recommended perfect secrecy upon the subject to all the 
 world, including the destined bride, because conversations about marriage 
 were apt to raise ideas in girl's heads that ought to be repressed. This 
 point being satisfactorily settled, there was a confidential detail of each 
 other's sufferings during the past night, and the old lady philanthropically 
 proposed that the whole of the establishment should be in bed that evening 
 at eight o'clock, to make up for their want of rest. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine next proceeded to her niece's room, and in- 
 doctrinated her with the usages of the house, as to the regularity of occu- 
 pations and of meals ; after which she told her she might walk in the garden, 
 the high walls of which prevented any entrance from without, except by 
 escalade, and there Virginie passed the whole of the forenoon, examining 
 minutely whether there were- any means of a man being smuggled into the 
 
The A wit's Establishment at Senlis. 95 
 
 premises ; but she found to her great annoyance that her aunt had taken 
 every reasonable precaution to prevent being surprised within her citadel, 
 for all the doors were bolted, barred, and double-locked, and without friends 
 inside the fortress it might defy attack. 
 
 Dissatisfied with her search, Virginie returned to her aunt, who gave 
 her The Art of Preserving to amuse herself with until dinner, which was 
 as mournful as the breakfast. Mademoiselle Belleavrine, not being able to 
 eat, laid her want of appetite at her physician's door for not consulting her 
 constitution better. Her niece was absorbed in a reverie as to the probable 
 locality at that moment of Godibert and Doudoux. Baisemon, who always 
 consumed enough provisions for a family, being the only individual whose 
 stomach retained its usual healthy tone. After dinner our heroine again 
 explored the garden and courtyard without arriving at any satisfactory 
 result. The rest of the afternoon dragged heavily on with embroidery and 
 a forced reading of the "Big Book," which had been in such constant 
 requisition at Belleville, and at the hour indicated in the morning everybody 
 retired to their respective rooms, to act there as they liked. 
 
 Seated on the foot of the bed with the detestable Art of Preserving in 
 her hand (the volume had been given her by her aunt in case she should 
 like to sit up a little while and improve herself in the mysteries of pickles, 
 jellies, marmalade, and jams), her legs crossed like a tailor's, her head rest- 
 ing on one hand, and the corresponding elbow reposing on one knee, she 
 pondered as to the most effective means of banishing sweet sleep from her 
 neighbours' lids, until at last a sarcastic smile passed slightly across her 
 lips, and her eyes sparkled brightly as a brilliant, new, malevolent idea 
 crossed her brain, and then her countenance resumed its usual calm expres- 
 sion. She uncrossed her legs, raised her head, rose, snuffed her candle, and 
 comfortably seated herself in a large arm-chair. 
 
 When she had arranged her plot definitely, she undressed herself com- 
 pletely, put on her night-cap, and lay down in bed ; but as soon as eleven 
 o'clock struck on the old-fashioned timepiece in her aunt's room, and she 
 thought all the inmates were plunged in slumber deep, she screamed fear- 
 fully, knocked over the table placed by her bedside, jumped out of bed, 
 threw the chairs about the room, knocked some of them against the wall, 
 and stamped on the floor, till the whole of the house was again in a state of 
 alarm and wonder as to what had occurred, and sitting upright in their beds 
 listened in fear and trembling to ascertain what was the matter. Made- 
 moiselle Troupeau waited for a few minutes to see what the effect of her 
 stratagem would be, but not finding any one come to her, she broke the jug, 
 basin, and glass water-bottle on the floor ; and then the old maid, her hair 
 standing on end with affright, rang her bell violently, at the same time call- 
 ing on Phyllis to come to her. 
 
 A few more moments' silence, and four chairs in our heroine's room were 
 hurled upon each other. The aunt's bell rang out its chimes in a fearful 
 manner. Phyllis came running, and peeping carefully into the room whence 
 all this noise proceeded, she beheld Virginie in her chemise stalking slowly 
 up and down, her head and neck protruding forward, her eyes unclosed and 
 fixed, muttering to herself, but not answering the questions the astonished 
 servant asked her. Phyllis made up her mind that the young lady must be 
 mad, and, hastening to her mistress's room, informed her of the real state of 
 affairs. . . . " Holy Virgin ! " the old lady exclaimed, " walking about in 
 her chemise ! Heavens, if she should not have her drawers on ! Did you 
 see whether she had ? " . . . » No, madame, I was too frightened to ob- 
 serve anything particularly." . . . " Call up the people directly, Phyllis, 
 and let us see what can be done for the poor girl." 
 
96 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 The outcry and confusion of the previous night was recommenced, but 
 the servant almost bawled herself hoarse before she could arouse Grillore 
 and Baisemon, who stood by his sleep as firmly as he did by eating and 
 drinking ; at length the two men arrived in their nocturnal costume, and 
 being conducted to Virginie's chamber, found her perched like a statue 
 upon a chest of drawers, reciting some set speech. Grillore stood rooted 
 to the floor, and Baisemon rubbed his eyes in wonder, as Phyllis whispered, — 
 "Now, sir, what do you think makes her do so ? " . . . "What do I 
 think, my dear ? " Baisemon replied in the same tone, for he always 
 cultivated a cook's good graces, " it's the merest trifle in the world. When 
 I was an usher at the school, we had half-a-dozen pupils just in the same 
 way; they are called somnambulists, from their walking in their sleep." . . . 
 " Bless me, Monsieur Baisemon, you do not mean to say that ma'amzelle is 
 asleep ? why, her eyes are open. " . . . " Certainly, but she is asleep for all 
 that." . . . "Asleep; up there?" . . . "Yes; if she were not, she could 
 not have mounted there so high." . . . " Wake her, then." . . . "No, 
 my good soul, it would be dangerous to awake her in that position. She 
 might fall." A silence ensued for several minutes, during which Virginie 
 did not move. Grillore had fallen asleep, with his body leaning against 
 the door. Phyllis, shivering with the cold, and naturally desirous of 
 returning to her warm bed, requested the steward to re-animate the statue, 
 when, just as he reached the chest of drawers, and was about to touch 
 the " Pucelle's " leg, she lifted up one foot, kicked the steward's night- 
 cap flying across the room, jumped from her dangerous pedestal as lightly as 
 a bird, and covered herself up in bed with her head beneath the clothes. 
 
 Baisemon picked up his cap and put it on his head, approached the 
 bed, shook Virginie gently, and called on her by name ; whereupon the art- 
 ful girl trembled, opened her eyes in well-feigned astonishment, rubbed them 
 hurriedly, and inquired why he woke her. She listened to the steward's 
 tale as to her misdeeds with the greatest apparent incredulity, but the 
 proofs strewed about the room were too strong to be resisted ; she then 
 was inconsolable at finding out her somnambulary tendencies, and refused 
 to be comforted, even when Baisemon assured her it was a very usual 
 occurrence in juvenile persons, and as the blood became colder with ad- 
 vancing age, she would probably surmount it in about a dozen years. . . . 
 The steward then saluted the young lady, and departed, followed by 
 Grillore and the cook, the latter muttering that if the fits were to last 
 twelve years, and the girl remain there too, the servants were likely to 
 have a fine time of it, and she, for one, should give her mistress warning. 
 She then went to her mistress's room, who was astonished to hear of her 
 grand-niece's infirmity, and expressed her wonder that her nephew had 
 not informed her of it, and then, somnambulism having received some 
 hearty, smothered curses on all sides, tranquillity was again restored with- 
 in the house. 
 
 The second day of the " Pucelle's " residence at Senlis passed in the 
 same signal dulness as the first : the establishment, however, not having 
 the plea of fatigue, did not retire so early, but when they had done so, 
 and Virginie supposed they were snug between the sheets, she undressed 
 herself as usual, tore up TJie Art of Preserving and The Treatise upon the 
 Growth of Mushrooms, and set fire to them in the middle of the room, till 
 it was full of smoke. She then got out of bed, ran into the landing-place, 
 and screamed that the house was on fire. Baisemon and the servants, 
 alarmed by her cries, rushed to the chamber, hut dared not enter it for 
 fear of being suffocated. The faithful steward ran to his mistress's room, 
 seized her as she sat upright in bed, carried her into the garden and placed 
 
Tlie Aunt's Establishment at Senlis. 97 
 
 her upon a chair far from the perilous scene, regardless whether she had 
 drawers on or not, then re-entered the house, and having, with the assist- 
 ance of Grillore, thrown several buckets of water into our heroine's 
 chamber, they went into it, but did not find any article consumed. 
 When this curious circumstance was announced to the old lady, she was 
 puzzled how to account for the physical fact that smoke was created with- 
 out burning, but as she was not a philosopher, nor much interested in the 
 study of causes and effects, she only shivered, shrugged her shoulders, 
 desired to be carried to the house, and got into bed again as quickly as 
 she could. 
 
 On the third night somnambulism supervened again ; on the fourth 
 Virginie dreamed a second time of robbers ; and for a whole week she 
 kept the household in a state of misery and continual alarm. At the end 
 of that period her resources were becoming exhausted, and she found that 
 her aunt was rather suspicious about the reality of these continual mis- 
 fortunes in her niece's apartment, and talked of sending for a doctor to 
 see whether this somnambulism might not be cured. Virginie did not care 
 about being treated for a disease which she had neither inherited nor con- 
 tracted, and instantly left off her midnight walking fits. But on the other 
 hand she could not resolve to let her gaolers — as she called them — rest in 
 peace. And as she lay in bed for the ninth time in her grand-aunt's desolate 
 old house, she racked her imagination to devise some other spiteful trick. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, as she tossed and tumbled, she heard a low 
 growling, and immediately afterwards the barking of the bull-dog in the 
 yard, and her heart bounded with delight as she thought that the cuirassier 
 or Doudoux were endeavouring to effect an entrance from without. Pre- 
 sently the growling and barking of the dog became furious. Phyllis ran 
 to her mistress's room at the sound of her bell, and found the old woman 
 impressed with the idea that there was a spell upon the house, and vowing 
 to burn some candles at the shrine of the Archangel Michael if he would 
 expel the demon. Baisemon and Grillore, now so used to being disturbed 
 nightly that they did not undress, were speedily on foot, and had no doubt 
 but that robbers were endeavouring to scale the walls, but would not obey 
 their mistress by descending and ascertaining what really was the matter 
 until they had procured arms in the shape of two old rusty fowling-pieces 
 which had been hid in a garret for many years, and could not possibly go 
 off under any circumstances. In great tribulation, and with heavy hearts, 
 they went down the stairs, opened the yard door cautiously, and whistled 
 Bayard to their side ; then Grillore led the van, pointing his gun with a 
 lighted lantern at the end of the barrel as if he covered an object on which 
 he was about to fire. Baisemon followed next, shielding himself behind 
 the gardener, and the cook, armed with a spit, brought up the rear. The 
 dog, after jumping three or four times against a particular spot in one of 
 the walls, snuffed the air, and returned quietly to his kennel ; and the 
 rounds having been completed without any malefactor being discovered, 
 the men went back to their beds convinced there was something super- 
 natural about the premises. 
 
 Notwithstanding some dozen pounds of candles that were burnt in 
 honour of the Virgin and the Archangel Michael, Bayard kept up the same 
 terrific barking for several nights, whilst the inhabitants of the house could 
 not conceive the reason of his anger, for it was not to be presumed that 
 robbers would bivouac every night immediately outside the walls without en- 
 deavouring to effect an entrance on the premises. The "Pucelle" ensconced 
 herself beneath the bed-clothes and laughed at the fears of her companions 
 — guessing the real truth ; and in order that we may arrive at it, readers, 
 
 G 
 
98 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 let us return to Godibert and Doudoux, whom we left fighting, all chival- 
 rously, for their mistress on the road. 
 
 There is scarcely any harder work than personal combat ; so, after 
 blows had been mutually interchanged by the two lovers, they stopped for 
 breath, and looking round, perceived that the fair object for whom they 
 had been contending had been removed during the fury of the fight. A 
 temporary armistice was agreed to, and a solemn parley being held, the 
 following conversation was opened by the cuirassier : — " You are follow- 
 ing Mademoiselle Troupeau on horseback?" . . . "Yes." . . . 
 "And I on foot; the reason being that I am desperately in love 
 with her." . . . "And I, too. Love, thou wert the ruin of 
 Helen and Fair Troy ! But, come what will, I must discover the adorable 
 Virginie." ..." And so will I, seeing that she has told me where she 
 is being conducted." . . . "She has told me too." . . . "The devil 
 she has ! She cannot love us both." . . . Here was an awful dilemma ; 
 the young men seemed to think for a few minutes which would be the 
 best course to pursue, and then Godibert said, — " Look you, monsieur, let 
 us assist each other in obtaining access to this sweet girl, and when we 
 have done so, she shall say which she prefers, and the other shall go his 
 way." . . . "Agreed," cried Ledoux ; "so let us shake hands over 
 it." . . . "There," rejoined Godibert. "And now, in the first place, 
 have you got any money, for I possess nothing but a fertile imagination." 
 ..." Yes, I think I have as much as we shall want." ..." Well, 
 then, we cannot fail. And now for action." 
 
 In pursuance with the cuirassier's advice, he got into the saddle, 
 Doudoux jumped up behind, holding on by his new comrade's loins, and 
 in this friendly guise the late combatants arrived in Senlis, and put up at a 
 quiet inn. It was too late that evening to make any inquiry about 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine, but the next morning the house was pointed out 
 to them, and they passed the whole day wandering around it and looking 
 up at the windows without seeing anybody, and several days occupied in 
 the same manner without Godibert's genius and Doudoux's money origi- 
 nating any scheme by which they might obtain an interview with the lady 
 of their love. 
 
 When eight days had gone by Godibert slapped his forehead as a 
 luminous idea entered his head, the result of which was, that when night 
 came Doudoux and himself tried to scale the yard wall with a ladder 
 which was much too short, and Bayard awoke the servants with his barking. 
 For several other nights the young men roamed about the premises, but 
 were prevented entering by the wakeful dog, and then they returned to 
 their inn, hoping that the next day would bring forth some fresh successful 
 plan. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 THE DESERTION- -THE EXPULSION. 
 
 Our history now returns to Auguste Montreville and Adrienne Vauxdore, 
 the young couple who swore they loved each other so fondly, and- did not 
 fail to prove the assertion to the utmost one evening when the gentleman 
 returned from a dinner at Troupeau's. We left them in an agreeable occupa 
 tion that of making love ; but as some weeks have elapsed since we saw 
 
The Desertion — The Expulsion. 99 
 
 them, it is extremely probable that in that period they may have met 
 several times. 
 
 Adrienne was superlatively happy, for Auguste told her every night 
 and day that he loved her as much as ever, and he had also kept his 
 promise and never returned to the Troupeaus, nor sought to see Virginie 
 again ; and thus Adrienne gave herself up unhesitatingly to the happiness 
 of the moment, and dreamed not that any evil could ever come. But in 
 the inevitable order of things, so much love so passionately indulged in 
 could only have one natural result, and Adrienne found, with mingled 
 pain and pleasure, that she must become a mother ; pain, lest her situation 
 should be perceived and made the theme of scorn for wicked tongues ; and 
 pleasure at the additional claim upon her fondest cares — for she did not 
 entertain the slightest thought that Montreville would leave her — and 
 basked in the sunshine of the present hour, heedless of the fell fury of the 
 coming storm. 
 
 One evening, as they clung together caressing and caressed, the poor 
 girl blushed deeply as she stammered out the truth. Auguste's brow 
 clouded suddenly, but he quickly regained his serenity, surveyed his mistress 
 affectionately, kissed her, and pressed her to his heart. In an instant he 
 made up his mind respecting the course he would pursue. He reflected 
 that Adrienne loved him sincerely, and had yielded her maiden charms to 
 him ; that she had made him the happiest man on earth for many weeks ; 
 that she was not coquettish nor deceitful ; that she was a steady girl, 
 calculated to make a good manager of a family, and as she would soon 
 make him a father, he would not delay making her his wife. 
 
 Auguste Montreville was of an ancient family, and his relations were 
 wealthy. He had some fortune himself, considerable talents, and an agree- 
 able exterior, and therefore, in a worldly sense, he could anticipate making 
 a good match ; whereas, with the exception of her beauty, Adrienne pos- 
 sessed nothing. She was entirely dependent upon her uncle, who, having 
 only just enough to maintain his family in comfort, could not afford to give 
 any dower to his niece. Auguste knew all this, and yet he resolved to 
 marry her ; and it was certainly very handsome on his part : for although 
 it may be said he only acted honourably, yet the doing one's duty is so 
 very rare now that when it does occur it deserves to be placed in the ranks 
 of positive virtues. 
 
 Nevertheless, as it costs a young man who has mixed much in the 
 world to make what the world calls a sacrifice, Auguste contented himself 
 with telling Adrienne to be of good cheer, as he would not forsake her ; but 
 as something increased every day that would soon make all Belleville ac- 
 quainted with the peculiarity of her situation, she meekly addressed herself 
 again to her lover, and he replied that he would marry her as soon as he 
 could make the necessary arrangements, that he would try to obtain the 
 consent of his uncle, the magistrate, from whom he had great expectations, 
 but that, if even all his relations should censure him for his love, he would 
 return and perform his promise at all hazards to himself. He was of 
 man's estate, his own master, free to do his own will, and she should be 
 his wife. 
 
 After this energetic declaration, Adrienne had such undivided faith in 
 Montreville, and took so much pride in the anticipation of being married to 
 him, that she did not care about concealing her condition ; and when the 
 neighbours looked at her superciliously or indignantly and whispered amongst 
 themselves, she smiled in scorn, and was tempted to exclaim,—" He will 
 marry me, and now I can afford to put up with all your pity and contempt." 
 The kind aunt's mouth was shut by the same assurance, and when 
 
100 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Vauxdore" was told the same thing by his wife, he merely remarked he hoped 
 the marriage would soon take place, and so put an end to the unpleasant 
 observations that where daily dinned into his ears. 
 
 Auguste left for Burgundy to visit his relations and make them ac- 
 quainted with his intended marriage, and soon after his departure good 
 Madame Vauxdore was taken dangerously ill. Her husband thought she 
 had eaten too heartily at supper of a turkey stuffed with chestnuts. The 
 surgeon said it was a slight apoplectic stroke, and the patient was con- 
 vinced it was nothing more than an attack of bile, and so, being treated 
 for all three complaints, it was no wonder that at the week's end the 
 poor soul was no more. 
 
 This melancholy event involved the necessity of postponing Adrienne's 
 marriage for some time, but as she bore in her bosom that which would 
 not be deferred, but persisted in growing fast, Vauxdore took care to make 
 it known that Monsieur Montreville would espouse his niece as soon as he 
 returned from Burgundy. The lover did return, enamoured of Adrienne 
 as much as ever, and with every intention of speedily fulfilling the promise 
 he had made, but, alas ! " the course of true love never did run smooth," 
 and, unfortunately for his peace of mind, one evening he went to the 
 cafe to pass away an hour, and there met the gossiping, tale-bearing 
 Renard. Auguste did not recollect him at first, but he reminded the 
 musician that he had the pleasure of dining with at Monsieur Troupeau's, 
 and taking a chair at his side proceeded to enter into conversation as if 
 with an old friend. 
 
 Monsieur Renard chattered on for some time upon indifferent subjects, 
 and then, stopping suddenly and fixing his eyes upon Auguste's, he said, 
 with a knowing smile, — "By-the-bye, Monsieur Montreville, I have to 
 congratulate you on your approaching marriage." . . . "My marriage! 
 Pray, who may have informed you of that circumstance ? " . . . " There 
 is no mystery about it, my dear sir ; Vauxdore mentions it everywhere 
 in Belleville, he is quite proud at having you for a son-in-law." . . . 
 " Monsieur Vauxdore is quite right ; and I assure you the marriage would 
 have been celebrated by this time had it not been for his wife's death." 
 . "We of Belleville, Monsieur Montreville, esteem it an honour 
 that you should have selected a helpmate from our town ; and I am very 
 glad of it on poor Adrienne's account, who has missed her chances of being- 
 married twice or thrice before, and who, without your kindness, might have 
 led apes, you know where. However, she's a good-hearted girl after all 
 
 excellent temper — and will make a capital housewife, I am sure. Bless 
 
 me ! if men were always to make themselves uncomfortable about what 
 has passed, there would be very little happiness in this world ! " 
 
 The last words — pronounced with emphasis — struck Montreville as 
 being very singular ; he drew his chair closer to Renard, looked at him 
 in surprise, and said uneasily, — " I do not understand you, sir ; have the 
 goodness to explain yourself more clearly. What is there in Mademoiselle 
 Vauxdore's past conduct about which I ought not to make myself uncom- 
 fortable ?"..." Oh, monsieur, Monsieur Montreville ! Why do you ask 
 me ? you must know well enough. People do speak about the cuirassier 
 and Madame Ledoux's son ; but ycu are quite right in treating such trifles 
 with contempt ; no doubt Adrienne will make a good wife for all that has 
 gone by." 
 
 Auguste caught hold of Renard 's arm as he muttered to himself, — 
 " Affairs with a cuirassier and another man," and then grasping it con- 
 vulsively, till the old man writhed with pain, he whispered sternly in his 
 ear that he must have undeniable proof of the truth of his scandalous 
 
Tlie Desertion — Tlie Expulsion. 101 
 
 imputations. ..." Answer me, sir," he said, " and dread my vengeance 
 if you have gone one inch beyond the truth. Is it of Adrienne Vauxdore 
 you speak? Is not her reputation free from stain, her character above 
 reproach ?"..." Monsieur Montreville, I have not uttered one word 
 that is not true ; I am extremely sorry for having pained you, but I 
 thought you were acquainted with the facts, which are notorious in Belle- 
 ville." . . . "What facts, monsieur? In mercy answer me ; which 
 facts?" . . . Hereupon Kenard related coolly and circumstantially, 
 without missing the slightest circumstance that could _ give Auguste 
 annoyance, and yet shielding himself from asserting any positive culpability 
 to Adrienne, how Troupeau had surprised her at his garden-gate in the 
 retired Rue de Calais with young Ledoux, and the adventures with a 
 cuirassier on the fete-day in the wood of Romainville. He said further 
 that the sudden departure of Godibert and Ledoux the very next day 
 after their arrival at home was attributed to their finding their places 
 occupied by Auguste ; and then, assuming that he was wanted to make 
 a fourth at whist, he left the young man to digest the baneful poison he 
 had poured into his soul. 
 
 Every word the malignant old man deliberately uttered went like 
 a dagger into Auguste's heart ; he left his seat abruptly, rushed from 
 the cafe, and walked about the town without any purpose, irritating 
 himself with the damning thought that he had been deceived by the 
 only woman he had ever loved, by her in whom his fondest hopes were 
 centred. He stamped with rage at the idea of being played upon by 
 a scheming, artful girl whom he had mistaken for innocence itself, of 
 being cajoled into the belief that he was her first love, whereas her 
 favours had been bestowed upon the Cuirassier and another man. Per- 
 fidious, wanton, treacherous Adrienne ! Even had she told him of her 
 faults, he might possibly have forgiven them and taken her to his arms, 
 but to conceal her conduct under the cloak of white-robed candour, and 
 then to have her criminality revealed to him by another, and to find it 
 the laughing-stock, the common talk of all the town. It was too much 
 to bear. Then jealousy pointed out that Adrienne appeared much 
 excited, and trembled violently at seeing her cousin Godibert on his 
 return ; and that her reason for exacting a promise from him not to go 
 again to the Troupeaus, was that she feared her former friends might 
 tell the whole truth of her, and state why they could not receive a 
 person guilty of such improprieties in their house, nor allow their pure 
 young daughter to visit her. At length, becoming a little calmer, he 
 resolved to see Troupeau and ascertain whether he corroborated Renard 
 with respect to what took place in the wood of Romainville ; and also 
 to make inquiries from other people as to Adrienne's general character, 
 and if he found all that Renard had said was true, then he would fly 
 instantly from Belleville, and never see the false woman more. With 
 this determination he returned to Vauxdore's house, ran upstairs, passed 
 Adrienne's chamber without looking in, threw himself in despair upon 
 his bed, and passed a miserable, sleepless night. 
 
 On the following morning, declining breakfast, for his heart was too 
 full to eat, he went to every individual with whom he was acquainted in 
 Belleville, and purposely turning the conversation upon Adrienne, the 
 Cuirassier and Ledoux, was heart-broken to find that Renard's tale was 
 confirmed in every particular, although some of his friends did not 
 attach any great importance to what was everywhere asserted. All 
 doubt was at an end, the young man's dearest hopes were crushed. He 
 did not return to Vauxdore's all day, but wandered in the neighbourhood, 
 
102 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 giving way to bursts of grief that convulsed his manly frame ; and when 
 night came, he again ascended to his own room without speaking one 
 word to Adrienne, locked himself in, packed up the few things he had 
 with him, placed upon the dressing-table a purse containing considerably 
 more than would repay his landlord for his board and lodging, and then 
 wrote a short letter to Vauxdore, and another to her who was to have 
 been his happy bride. These finished, he did not lie down upon the bed, 
 for he knew that sleep would not visit his sad eyes, but he sat all discon- 
 solately throughout the night, watching for the daylight, and cursing the 
 deceit of women. 
 
 With the first streak of dawn he came forth from the apartment which 
 he had inhabited so long, and taking up his small valise trod gently down 
 the stairs ; his breast swelled almost to bursting, and he could not repress 
 a heavy sigh as he passed Adrienne's door. He muttered his forgiveness of 
 her perfidy with an aching heart and tearful eye, he breathed a prayer 
 for her future happiness, opened the outer door, and stepped into the 
 street, cast one look at the window of the sleeping Adrienne's room, and 
 strode on, determined never to set foot in that town again. 
 
 Vauxdore's household got up at the usual hour, but Auguste Montre- 
 ville was nowhere to be found : Vauxdore waited for his breakfast in no 
 very amiable humour ; and Adrienne, surprised at her future husband not 
 having come to her the two last nights, went into the garden, but could not 
 see him anywhere. Breakfast was over, but still Auguste did not appear, 
 and Vauxdore suggested that he must be indisposed, and it would be no 
 more than charitable to send him his breakfast to his room ; the words 
 were scarcely out of the uncle's mouth before Adrienne was out of the 
 breakfast parlour, up the staircase, and at Auguste's door. She knocked 
 and called him, but received no answer ; becoming alarmed at the con- 
 tinued silence, she entered the room and beheld, with dismay, that the 
 bed had not been slept in, so that apparently her lover had not been in 
 all night ; a deadly paleness overspread her face, and she trembled in every 
 limb ; a thousand frightful ideas presented themselves to her imagination, 
 until, raising herself, she perceived the letters, and seizing the one addressed 
 to her, broke the seal with the energy of despair, and, guessing her mis- 
 fortune, stood breathless like a statute as she read : — 
 
 " You have deceived me, Adrienne, and have loved others before me. Your 
 intrigues with Monsieur Ledoux and your cousin Godibert have been re- 
 vealed to me. If you had told me candidly that others had enjoyed your 
 favours before me I might, perhaps, have pardoned you and have loved you 
 still : but to swear to me that I was the first man that possessed your heart — 
 to pass yourself for that which you were not is treachery, is a scandalous con- 
 , cealment that I cannot forgive, nor can I marry a woman who has amused 
 herself with playing thus wantonly upon me. Farewell; you will easily 
 forget me; I shall endeavour to drive you from my remembrance, but 
 whether I succeed or not you will never again behold 
 
 "Auguste Montreville." 
 
 Still Adrienne remained entranced, and tears would not come to her 
 relief : she gazed upon the letter as if fascinated by the characters as she 
 gasped, — "Gone! For ever gone! Believing that I have yielded to 
 others as to him — that I have deceived him. Great God ! you ;know that 
 I am innocent, yet he is gone, and I shall never see him more ! " . . . 
 The wretched girl's head fell upon her bosom, and she buried her face in 
 her hands as the scalding tears coursed down her cheeks. At this moment 
 
The Desertion — The Expulsion. 103 
 
 Vauxdore, having become impatient at his niece's delay, came upstairs, 
 and seeing her in tears inquired what was the matter. Adrienne sobbed 
 almost inarticulately that Auguste was gone, and pointing out the letter 
 to her uncle, he grasped it with an oath at the perfidy of Montreville, and 
 read as follows : — 
 
 11 MONSIEUR, — I regret to say that it is impossible that I can marry your 
 niece— you can easily guess the reason why. I leave you the sum to which 
 I am indebted to you for board and lodging ; and as for the piano in 
 my room, you can do with it what you please. Accept the respects and 
 adieux of AuGUSTE.' 
 
 " Damn him, his impertinence, and his piano too," cried Vauxdore in 
 a fury ; " what does he mean by saying that I can ■ easily guess the reason 
 why ' he will not marry you ?— but, perhaps, the letter to you will be more 
 explanatory." . . . Vauxdore snatched it from the trembling girl's 
 hands, and his brow darkenedfas he read it. He then turned upon her and 
 reproached her with her intrigues with Godibert and Ledoux, the know- 
 ledge of which had come to Auguste's ears and induced him to break 
 off the match. It was in vain that she asserted her innocence in both 
 cases ; circumstantial evidence was strong against her, and the supposition 
 of her previous guilt was strengthened by the visible result of her love for 
 Montreville, which she could not possibly deny. Her uncle flew into a 
 positive fury when he recollected that he had informed all Belleville that his 
 niece would shortly be married to the talented composer, and now all his 
 hopes were blasted : he fumed at'the thought of how his kind friends would 
 torment and laugh at him ; and then turning to his miserable niece, who 
 scarcely seemed to know what was going on, he shouted, — " It was the 
 fault of your foolish aunt who encouraged you in all your stupidity : but I 
 will not have any more of it ; I will live a bachelor — all alone — I will not 
 be pointed at with the finger of scorn, and be taunted with having a hus 
 bandless mother in my house. Be off with you, I say : do you hear me, 
 wretched girl 1 Pack up your things, be off with you at once, and rid me 
 of the sight of yourself and your eternal shame. " 
 
 Launching another look of indignation at the forsaken girl, Vauxdore 
 caught up his hat and left the room as if it were on fire. Adrienne had 
 not sought to moderate his anger, for it seemed to her that Fate could 
 not depress her more now that she was abandoned by Auguste ; but it is 
 well known that excess of misery frequently produces a stolid apathy that 
 enables it to be borne, so the girl, thinking no greater calamity in the 
 world could now befall her, heaved one deep sigh, then dried her eyes, 
 went to her own room, and as she arranged a small bundle of necessaries to 
 take with her, thought it signified nothing where she went so that she 
 could weep unmolested ; she was young and could work at her needle for 
 the support of herself and babe. She would exert herself to the utmost, day 
 and night to provide every comfort for it, and if it should be a boy, she 
 should think, as she kissed it, that she still embraced its cruel and misguided 
 father. 
 
 Vauxdore* had left his house in a passion, but he was really a kind- 
 hearted man, and when he had walked some time in the fields near Saint 
 Gervais his anger subsided, and he reproached himself with having spoken 
 so harshly to his niece. He reflected that she must be plunged in grief at 
 being abandoned by him who was to have been her husband, and he feared 
 to think what might become of her if she had left Belleville without money 
 and without one friend in the whole world to go to. These better feelings 
 
104 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 soon completely mastered his passion ; he made up his mind to forgive the 
 girl for having yielded to overpowering temptation, backed by a promise of 
 immediate marriage ; he determined to afford her all the consolation he 
 could, and to brave the sneers and sarcasms of people who were not worthy 
 a moment's consideration. He then hastened home and called on Adrienne, 
 but it was too late, for the poor girl had left her uncle's house without 
 leaving the slightest traces of the direction she had taken. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MORE LOVE AND MORE FOLLY. 
 
 Night after night Bayard, the watch-dog, kept up his serenade at Senlis, 
 an _d if by any chance he was silent and the household was at peace, 
 Virginie was sure to have a fit of somnambulism on her, until sleep was 
 chased from the domicile of Mademoiselle Belleavrine. Phyllis grew more 
 lathy and jaundiced ; Grillore broke faster every day ; the mistress of the 
 house became peevish and exhausted for want of rest ; and even Baisemon 
 lost some portion of his rotundity ; while, as for our heroine, she thought if 
 her two lovers confined their amorous attempts merely to making the bull-dog 
 bark, it was not worth their while fighting so fiercely for her on the road. 
 
 At the end of the week Baisemon was so weary of going the rounds 
 whenever the dog gave the alarm that he pretended to have the lumbago 
 so severely that he could not move hand or foot, and was obliged to keep 
 his bed. For three days his firm ally, Phyllis, brought him up his break- 
 fast, a capital dinner, and beef-steaks with onions and fried potatoes 
 for his supper, and rubbed and scrubbed his back and loins without 
 even stipulating that he should wear his drawers. The fact was, Phyllis 
 was an excellent creature, and quite above all weak prejudices ; she was, 
 in some respects, like those admirable women the Sisters of Charity, who 
 devote themselves to the service of the afflicted, and immolate their female 
 scruples on the altar of Christian mercy ; for them there is no distinction 
 of sex — although it was not precisely this with Phyllis as she rubbed the 
 steward's greasy back. 
 
 It was very unfortunate that Grillore was taken ill at the same moment, 
 and could not attend to his duties : but there was no compassion on the 
 part of Phyllis for the poor old man ; she let him remain alone in his garret, 
 and her delicacy would not let her rub him, although he was at least twenty 
 years older than Baisemon. When the gardener did not make his appear- 
 anceat the kitchen breakfast, and Phyllis, having ascended to his room to 
 inquire the reason, was informed by him that it was impossible he could 
 work in the garden, inasmuch as he could not stir, she bouncecf into the 
 parlour, where she found her mistress and her niece preparing for Baisemon 
 a syrup, sovereign in cases of rheumatism and lumbago, composed of 
 absynthe, aniseed, and sugar-candy, into which Virginie slid occasionally, 
 when she was not perceived, sundry pinches of mustard, salt, and Cayenne 
 pepper for the steward's especial delectation. 
 
 Raising her voice to a shrill scream, the cook took the initiative by 
 thanking Providence that the worthy steward was getting gradually better, 
 and could even turn himself a little in bed that morning ; but then that 
 lazy, good-for-nothing Grillore had persuaded himself that he was ill, and 
 
More Love and More Folly. 105 
 
 could not run on any errands, and she supposed she must go out and buy 
 everything that was wanted herself, although she had been harassed so of 
 late that her drawers hung about her poor legs like hop-sacks ; and then if 
 anything was to happen during the night, now that the men were on their 
 backs, who was to defend the women from rape, robbery, murder, and 
 Heaven knows what ? 
 
 " Aunt," said Virginie quite innocently, " if you please, I can go out 
 and market." . . . " No, my dear, that would not be decent ; you ought 
 not on any account to purchase anything at a shop without having your 
 own servant behind you. You are called to too high a destiny to occupy 
 yourself with household details." . . . "And yet, aunt, you make 
 me prepare this syrup." . . . "That is quite a different thing, 
 my love : princesses, abbesses, canonesses, all have prepared potions to 
 administer to the sick. The ends sanctify all. But the question is, what 
 are we to do in our present difficulty ? We must have some assistance : 
 Phyllis, do you happen to know any female of irreproachable character, 
 who always wears drawers, that might do ? " . . . " I'll not have any 
 woman here, mademoiselle, if I know it," Phyllis growled ; " or if you take 
 one you must lose me. Perhaps a girl that I must teach her business, and 
 have everything myself to do all the while. If that's your intention, pay 
 me my wages and let me go at once." ... " Pray be quiet, Phyllis, 
 calm yourself, I beg ; it would only be to help you." ... '.'Help me ! 
 I don't want any help about my own proper business, I think I know that 
 well enough. It's men we want — men to defend us, for the row there is 
 every night makes me quite afraid." . . . "Well, then, try to find out a 
 discreet, honest, sober man, that I may engage without any offence to 
 morality." ... " Ah, that's something like coming to the point," the 
 ancient damsel exclaimed, much mollified. " Now, Madame Beurre, the 
 greengrocer, says she knows two quiet, peaceable young men, who come 
 from her own village in Picardy, who are in want of a situation, and will 
 be contented with almost any wages offered to them." ... " Two men, 
 Phyllis, will be more than we require," Mademoiselle Belleavrine rejoined ; 
 but the domestic showed that, as one would be fully occupied in the 
 garden, the other could clean the shoes and knives, and attend to the stable 
 and the poultry-yard ; and the discussion terminated by the servant, as 
 usual, having her own way, and being desired to tell the greengrocer to 
 send the young men to her mistress. 
 
 As Phyllis's anxiety to have men to watch over her through the silent 
 hours of night proceeded from the idea that she possessed a jewel really 
 worth preserving, she repaired forthwith to the greengrocer's and told her 
 to send the young men to the house, and in less than half-an-hour this in- 
 telligence was communicated to Godibert and Ledoux. By the potent 
 agency of a few dollars, those gentlemen had enlisted Madame Beurre in 
 their interest ; and as the good woman had resided in Paris in her early 
 life, knew a thing or two, and had a soul above confining her talents to the 
 sale of apples, carrots, cabbages and pears, she pricked up her ears at the 
 thought of an intrigue, and had promised to place the young men in the old 
 maid's house ; and thus, in less than an hour, the two lovers, disguised in 
 coarse linen trousers, hob-nailed shoes, long blue blouses, with carroty wigs 
 on their head, and low-crowned, broad-brimmed straw hats in their hands, 
 knocked and besought admittance at the gate of that fortress which they 
 had so long beleaguered and so often failed to storm. 
 
 Phyllis smiled kindly on the peasants as she let them in, and introduced 
 them immediately to the parlour, where they stood before Mademoiselle 
 Belleavrine and her niece in as awkward positions as they could devise, and 
 
106 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 their eyes upon the ground, as if they feared to move a step. Virginie, who 
 saw through the disguises at a glance, crammed her pocket-handkerchief 
 into her mouth to prevent her laughing outright, and on her aunt requesting 
 her to withdraw, as she wished to put some questions to the candidates for 
 service, she curtsied to the old lady, crossed the room, and said to the 
 lovers in a whisper as she passed them, that she had never seen such figures 
 in all her life. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine signed to the assumed Picards to approach, 
 which they did awkwardly enough, and Phyllis stationed herself at her 
 mistress's elbow, in order to make any comments she might think applicable 
 to the case. The old lady inquired where they came from, and whether 
 they were brothers ; to which Godibert made the necessary replies in a very 
 broad provincial dialect, hesitating, however, as to his and his brother's 
 names, which they had forgotten to arrange in their hurry, but eventually 
 stating they were John and Pierre. Phyllis praised their modesty and 
 general appearance whenever she could put in a word, and the examination 
 being deemed satisfactory, the young men were enjoined never to be with- 
 out drawers, and were then marched off triumphantly and committed to her 
 care. 
 
 When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, the servant assured Godi- 
 bert and Ledoux they should be well fed if they proved useful and docile, 
 and behaved themselves with propriety ; and having shown them their bed- 
 rooms — one on the ground-floor, and the other in an attic, that the forces 
 might be divided in case of an onslaught from above or below — she directed 
 Pierre (Ledoux) to go into the garden and gather some chives and parsley 
 for the soup, and John to pluck some pigeons, and afterwards to sweep 
 down and rub the staircase, whilst she went off to rub her darling Baise- 
 mon's loins. 
 
 The moment her back was turned the young men burst out laughing at 
 the singularity of their new situation, and having settled in their own minds 
 that Grillore and the steward would not recognise them in their disguises, 
 they ratified the terms of their agreement now they had accomplished a 
 lodgment in the body of the fortress, and renewed their promise that when 
 Virginie had declared for one, the other should depart in peace, and that 
 neither should attempt to obtain a private interview and forward his own 
 suit to the detriment of his rival's claims. And here it may as well be 
 stated that neither of them had the least intention of abiding by the con- 
 vention if it should suit his convenience or interest to depart from it. 
 
 Although the lovers were now beneath the same roof with the empress 
 of their hearts, they found it impossible to establish a communication with 
 her, for the aunt never quitted her side within doors, and being in the 
 depth of winter she could not pretend to want fresh air and take walks in 
 the garden. Por several days therefore they were obliged to content them- 
 selves with throwing sheep's-eyes at her whenever they were unobserved, 
 but that did not happen very often ; for Phyllis was for ever at the two 
 miserable servants, making one pluck and draw poultry, and clean vegetables, 
 and the other sweep the hall, chop wood, scrub pots and pans, and light the 
 fires, so that their servitude began to be intolerable. 
 
 The celebrated syrup prepared by Mademoiselle Belleavrine's own 
 hands for Baisemon, and so adroitly doctored by the " Pucelle," had the 
 effect of keeping him in bed for another week with the most excruciating 
 pains in the intestines, and Grillore also pined away in his lonely garret : 
 but as Bayard had ceased his midnight barking since the Picard brothers 
 were residents in the house, Phyllis never ceased telling her mistress that 
 
More Love and More Folly. 107 
 
 the nocturnal disturbances had ceased since the robbers had ascertained 
 there were two vigorous defenders' of virgin innocence upon the premises. 
 The old lady said she was perfectly satisfied with the young men, as she did 
 not hear of their having any amourettes with the country wenches, neither 
 did they swear or make use of any naughty words that offended maiden 
 delicacy. She was certain likewise that they were full of zeal for her ser- 
 vice, as she could not move an inch without finding one of them close upon 
 her steps, and she was so delighted with their assiduous attention that she 
 ordered Phyllis to place a pair of new white cotton drawers upon each of 
 their beds, and tell them the articles constituted a portion of her livery. 
 
 One morning Virginie managed to escape, and ran into the garden to 
 enjoy a few minutes' liberty ; but she was scarcely there before Godibert 
 was at her heels, and throwing himself upon his knees and kissing her hand, 
 he said, — " Judge, lovely creature, how fervently I must love you to submit 
 to dig and hoe this wretched ground, scrape turnips, and peel onions at the 
 order of a demon of a woman who never gives me a moment's rest." . . . 
 " What ! Monsieur Godibert, do you still think of me ? " . . . " Made- 
 moiselle, you are my leading file, and I am bound to follow you. I recog- 
 nise no other commanding officer than you ; but there is another gentleman 
 in this house who states that you have given him encouragement, and that 
 you told him you were coming here." ... " He tells a fib, sir." . . . 
 " Then since you do not love him permit me to kick him out." ..." No, 
 no, let him stay — " . . . Our heroine would have said more, but hearing 
 Phyllis call for John from the end of an adjoining walk, Godibert answered 
 and went to meet her with a muttered curse at the interruption, and Vir- 
 ginie returned into the house. 
 
 As she tripped lightly up the stairs, she found Ledoux rubbing the 
 banisters with bee's-wax and polishing them with a brush ; he was on his 
 knees in an instant, ejaculating, — "Adorable divinity! Fourth Grace! 
 Ninth Muse ! Oh, Circe ! Oh, Armida ! I burn my life away, and I 
 die by inches for your sweet sake." . . . " And wherefore do you die, 
 Doudoux ? " . . . " Because my poor heart pants to repose itself upon 
 your own, to mingle its pulsations ; to find in your loved bosom a chord 
 responsive." . . . "Do pray talk common sense, sir, so that I can 
 understand you." . . . "Well, then, mademoiselle, that big hulking 
 fellow, Godibert, pretends that you favour his addresses." . . . "'Tis 
 a story." . . . "He asserts that you prefer him to me." ... "It 
 is scandalously false." ..." That he is here by your express desire." 
 . . . "It is no such thing." . . . "Then I may tell him to go 
 about his business ? " . . . " Virginie ! Virginie ! " screamed the old 
 woman from the drawing-room door ; so the Pucelle sprang away like a 
 deer, leaving the literary serving man upon his knees. 
 
 Neither of the young men had advanced their suits by these stolen 
 interviews, but they thought they would make Virginie speak out when 
 chance should afford them another ; and one was not long in coming, 
 for on the following day, when her aunt was temporarily absent, the girl 
 ran into the garden, and soon met the Cuirassier. Unfortunately, the 
 month was only December, and not laughing May, when the trees are 
 dressed in their robes of lively green, and consequently there were no 
 leaves nor shade to conceal what took place from prying eyes ; however, 
 all localities are sufficiently convenient to give and receive kisses — for 
 love easily accommodates himself to places ; and as Godibert was a bold 
 man, he lost no time, but seized his mistress in his arms, and stole 
 kisses from every beauty that presented itself to his grasp, till our 
 
108 The Pucelle of Belleville, 
 
 heroine began to tremble and think there was a likelihood of a repetition 
 of the scene that took place in the wood of Romainville. 
 
 All of a sudden a cry was heard, and Doudoux rushed to the rescue of 
 the girl, with his redoubtable broomstick in his hand. He seized his rival 
 by the collar and struck him several times with his clenched fist upon the 
 head. Godibert, exasperated at being disturbed at the very moment of his 
 triumph, turned upon his assailant with the rage of a hunted boar at bay, 
 and whilst Virginie made for the house, another desperate combat between 
 the infuriated men ensued, which might have been attended with serious 
 results if Phyllis had not been attracted to the spot by their shouts, and 
 put an end to a disgraceful contest between two seeming brothers. 
 
 The Picards promised to behave in a more brotherly manner to each 
 other, and as they walked towards the house, the cook informed them 
 that the doctor had ordered a laxement to be administered to Baisemon, 
 whose bowels were still in a sad state of irritation from the soothing dose 
 prepared by Virginie, and that one of them must administer it to the 
 steward ; but Doudoux swore per J ovens that he would do no such thing, 
 and Godibert damned the steward and the laxement with all his heart : 
 and whilst the servant went to report their enormities to her mistress, they 
 unchained Bayard, thrashed the sulky brute unmercifully, and then drove 
 him from the yard. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A NIGHT OF ADVENTUEES. 
 
 The measure of iniquity of the assumed peasants was not yet full, for 
 Baisemon, feeling himself better, had fancied a roast fowl for his dinner, 
 but on its being served to him he found that Pierre had neglected to draw 
 out the entrails, notwithstanding the precise orders of the cook, and John 
 had put sorrel and nettles into the parlour soup instead of chives and 
 parsley. It was impossible that this misconduct could be overlooked, so in 
 the afternoon, when the steward hobbled into the drawing-room, the old 
 lady inquired tenderly after his complaint, and then told him it was time 
 he should take the management of the house again, for latterly the new 
 servants had committed all sorts of atrocities, and heeded nothing that was 
 said to them. 
 
 When the cook had made her complaint of the rebellious behaviour of 
 the brothers, she was directed to summon them immediately to come 
 before their mistress and account, if they could, for their misdeeds, and she 
 departed on the errand, but re-entered the room a few minutes afterwards, 
 pale, with her eyes almost starting out of h~r head, and calling upon the 
 Virgin, the Archangel Michael, and all the saints in the Romish calendar. 
 Virginie restrained her merriment, being convinced that the Picards had 
 proved refractory and disobeyed the summons. Baisemon fidgeted about 
 on his chair, not being at all at ease respecting the young men ; and 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine, drawing herself up with dignity, asked Phyllis 
 the cause of her bewilderment. 
 
 " Oh, it's horrible ! " she said ; " I cannot tell you, mademoiselle, before 
 your niece." . . . "Virginie, my love, go to your room." . . . "Why, 
 aunt ? " . . . "Go when I tell you ; a young lady properly brought up 
 
A Night of Adventures. 109 
 
 obeys, and does not reply." . . . This was conclusive. The girl left the 
 room, and the servant said, at a sign from her mistress, — "Well, made- 
 moiselle, when I went to communicate your orders to the young men, I 
 found the shortest on the stairs, which had not been swept down, nor the 
 banisters dusted these two days, and when I told him he must come to 
 you and make what excuses he could, instead of being sorry and complying 
 directly, as he ought to have done, he said I was a stupid old fool, and that 
 I was not to come bothering him." ..." Horrible ! " exclaimed Made- 
 moiselle Belleavrine. ... " Impious — rebellious — monstrous ! " Baisemon 
 ejaculated ; "because, you see, my dear madame, at that moment Phyllis 
 represented you." . . . "But, madame," the cook continued, "Pierre 
 was not half so bad as John ; for when I went to him in the garden to 
 fetch him to you, and said it was most likely he would be sent away if 
 he didn't do his duty better, the great good - for - nothing - fellow said — 
 oh, I can never repeat it." ..." Speak out, Phyllis, I command you." 
 . . "He said — he said you were a miserable old cat, and might 
 send him away as soon as you liked, he didn't care a — damn." 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine fell back in her chair and nearly fainted 
 away as the derogatory words issued slowly from the servant's lips. Baise- 
 mon appeared overwhelmed with the enormity of John's offence; and 
 having advised that the brothers should be expelled instantly from the 
 peaceful asylum they had polluted, he was charged by his mistress to go 
 immediately to the offenders, pay them their wages, and see them off the 
 premises. This commission was not exactly agreeable to the steward, who 
 feared a scene and some uproar with the violent young men, but as he was 
 accustomed to obey his mistress's slightest wish — well knowing on which 
 side his bread was buttered— he bowed submissively and left the room, 
 whilst the old lady calmed her agitation with sal-volatile and eau-de-Cologne, 
 and on his return both she and the servant were surprised to hear that 
 the young men had behaved very quietly, and would leave peaceably ; 
 but, as it was late in the evening, they had humbly requested they might 
 be allowed to stop in the house that night, and would depart the first 
 thing in the morning. The request was graciously acceded to, and then 
 Grillore, who was convalescent, and had come down to the kitchen for an 
 hour or two, was introduced to his indulgent mistress. The misconduct 
 of the Picards had inclined her to be merciful to the old gardener, so 
 she forgave him for being ill, and said she should always take the same 
 care of him if he continued to serve her faithfully. Grillore might have 
 asked what this kind care was, seeing he had been left entirely to himself, 
 and fed on bread and toast and water during his attack, but he tried to 
 persuade himself that this rigid regimen had been ordered by the doctor, 
 and so wisely held his tongue. Whilst this audience was being held, 
 Virginie had contrived to see both her lovers separately, and give each of 
 them an assignation for that night, and then, running to her own room, 
 patiently awaited a message to come down. 
 
 About nine o'clock the old lady, who had dined in anything but a 
 satisfactory manner, on account of the sorrel and nettles in the soup, was 
 making amends with a comfortable supper with her niece- and Baisemon ; 
 Phyllis was constantly filling the steward's glass, and Grillore, having 
 come to take orders as to some alterations in the kitchen-garden, had been 
 treated to a whole tumblerful of wine, when steps were heard in the 
 corridor, not awkward and shambling like those of uncouth peasants, but 
 firm, measured and resolved, as those of men in the upper classes of 
 society, and presently the door was thrown open and Ledoux and Godibert 
 appeared, standing erect, with a half sarcastic, mocking smile upon their 
 
1 10 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 faces, very different from the submissive, downcast expression of the 
 countenances of men who come to solicit pardon and ask to be retained 
 in service. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine observed the singular change in the young 
 men, and asked them timidly what they wanted ; and Phyllis pursed up 
 her lips and looked indignant as both of them took a pair of drawers from 
 underneath their blouses, and Godibert said, as they were about to quit 
 the old maid's house, they desired to return her livery to her, for they 
 found service was not suited to them, and had determined to enlist as 
 soldiers. Grillore's tumbler fell from his hand and was broken on the floor 
 as the young man spoke ; then gliding behind Baisemon's chair he asked 
 in a whisper whether he did not recognise the pretended peasants as the 
 robbers they met with on the evening of the journey from Belleville. The 
 aunt was about to bid the young men retain the drawers for the sake of 
 propriety, and had just opened her lips, when she saw the steward turn pale 
 and spill the salt as Grillore spoke to him. The augury was bad ; she 
 motioned to the Picards to warm themselves at the fire, where, unseen by 
 the rest of the family, they telegraphed to Virginie, and then, having 
 observed that spilling salt was a bad omen, she asked her steward what 
 was the matter with him. He leaned towards the old lady, informed her 
 that her two servants were the robbers they had encountered on the road, 
 and then came the fearful thought that they had destroyed Bayard the 
 dog, and would probably assassinate the male inmates, ravish the females, 
 and despoil the house that night. 
 
 It was speedily arranged that dissimulation was to be the order of the 
 day ; Grillore was desired to remain in the room and take some more wine, 
 a process which it was not necessary to recommend to the steward, who 
 said to himself he would not leave the supper-table, but would eat and 
 drink as long as Nature would permit, preferring to die of a surfeit than 
 by the robbers' knife. Virginie was much amused, having guessed the 
 cause of the terrible commotion, and her aunt, turning to the young men, 
 asked them in the sweetest tone she could make up whether they would 
 drink a glass of wine to their future success in the army. Godibert and 
 Doudoux accepted the offer, drank the good wine, bowed politely to the 
 ladies, and then left the room. 
 
 When they were gone the old lady informed Virginie that they were 
 robbers, and Grillore asked her respectfully whether she did not recognise 
 them as the men they had seen on their route to Senlis, although they were 
 very well disguised with their red wigs. The " Pucelle " could not coincide 
 at all with the gardener and steward ; she asserted that the men they 
 had been afraid of in their journey were stouter and older, and was so firm 
 in her opinion that her aunt and Phyllis were rather shaken, although the 
 old lady deemed it necessary to take the greatest precautions to avoid the 
 perpetration of any outrage upon their virgin persons during the ensuing 
 night. 
 
 A solemn council was then held, the result of which was a determina- 
 tion to change the sleeping apartments for that night, which would have 
 the effect of deceiving the robbers who were well acquainted with the 
 general arrangements, so the old lady and the cook were to repose in 
 different beds in the yellow saloon, Virginie in a small cabinet that led out 
 of it without any other entrance, and Baisemon and Grillore were to occupy 
 the library, which apartment was within instant call. This arrangement 
 completely marred our heroine's plans for the night's amusement, but she 
 dared not murmur at it for fear of exciting suspicions, and she resumed her 
 constitutional gaiety, thinking that the stratagetic dispositions of her aunt 
 
A Night of Adventures. Ill 
 
 would probably be productive of very interesting consequences. Phyllis 
 and the gardener were then dispatched to remove the beds to their fresh des- 
 tinations ; Mademoiselle Belleavrine sat silent, ruminating over the possible 
 dreadful occurrences that might take place ; Virginie was engaged with 
 her own funny anticipations, and Baisemon remained at the supper-table 
 imbibing large quantities of brandy and water to keep his courage warm. 
 
 In the course of an hour, the servants announced that the changes in 
 the bedrooms had been made ; the old lady took a lighted candle and led 
 the march, Virginie came next, then Phyllis leaning upon Baisemon for 
 support, and the old gardener closed the line. At the slightest sound of 
 the wind that blew mournfully along the corridors, all stopped and drew 
 their breath, thinking to behold the Picards advancing towards them with 
 masks upon their faces and poignards in their hands. Nevertheless they 
 met no one, and arrived safely at the yellow saloon, where two beds had 
 been hastily made up for the old lady and her servant ; the females took 
 possession of it, the men wished them " good-night," and sneaked back to 
 the library with their hearts jumping every moment to their mouths, and 
 Virginie was pushed into the cabinet, from which she could not emerge 
 unless she contrived to fly through a small grated window, placed high up 
 in the wall. 
 
 All was silent in the house. Mademoiselle Belleavrine got into bed, 
 covered her head up with the clothes, and invoked all the saints in paradise 
 to prevent the robbers from penetrating to her asylum, and Phyllis did as 
 much in a truckle bed which she had placed quite at the end of the saloon, 
 to be as far off as possible from her mistress, because the good lady was in 
 the habit of snoring like a fatted Christmas pig. 
 
 The " Pucelle of Belleville " threw herself upon the bed in a perfect 
 rage ; she was vexed to death at being shut up in the little cabinet, and 
 furious at not being permitted to sleep in her own room, for by long con- 
 templation of the door-lock she had contrived to take out the screws and 
 replace them without its being perceived, unless it was examined very 
 closely, and thus she could enjoy, if she chose, in the night, as much liberty 
 as in the day, and she had only awaited an opportunity of doing so. That 
 opportunity had presented itself that morning ; she had met Godibert and 
 Doudoux separately, and as each solicited a tete-a-tete, she said to each, — 
 " I shall expect you to-night, and that you may not mistake the room, I 
 will affix a small bunch of straw to the handle of the door." 
 
 With all her faults, Virginie was really virtuous, and was solely 
 actuated by the mere love of mischief in all the tricks she played. She did 
 not intend to receive either of the young men in her room, but to repair to 
 the library when the household should be in bed, where she calculated she 
 "could chat comfortably with the first lover that should come until the arrival 
 of the second, and then inform both that she did not care a fig for either, 
 leaving them to settle matters as they chose, and with this view she had 
 attached a bunch of straw to the library door, that the young men might 
 know where she was in the dark. But her aunt's arrangements had made 
 all the girl's dispositions useless ; there were no means of her escaping from 
 the cabinet to prevent the explosion she foresaw, and so she undressed 
 herself and lay down quietly until it should take place. 
 
 When Baisemon and Grillore reached the library, the former tumbled 
 into bed as fast as he could, desired the gardener not to call him if he heard 
 any noise, and was soon fast asleep under the influence of the brandy and 
 the wine. Grillore was not by any means so certain that he had made 
 a mistake as to the identity of Godibert and Ledoux that Virginie asserted 
 so strenuously, and recollecting that the things had not been removed from 
 
112 Tlie Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 the supper-table, and thinking that some stimulants might prove useful in 
 braving the perils of the night, he returned to the parlour, trembling like 
 an aspen leaf, and possessing himself of some wine and the remains of the 
 brandy, hastened back to the library, but, as he was on the point of 
 re-entering it, he beheld the bunch of straw upon the lock, which Baisemon 
 had not seen because he was half drunk and half asleep. Grillore stood 
 still in complete astonishment, but he was naturally a shrewd fellow ; he 
 thought the straw was some secret signal of the robbers, and being of 
 opinion that the ladies were more worthy of their attentions than himself, 
 he transferred the bunch to the lock of the yellow saloon door, regained 
 the library, drank the wine off at a draught, jumped into bed, gulped 
 down the brandy, and was soon as fast asleep as his companion. 
 
 After their dismissal from the dining-room the young men retired to 
 their rooms, taking care not to mention the bliss that each expected would 
 certainly be conferred upon him in the night. When all was quiet in the 
 house, Godibert left his cabin, on the ground floor, without taking any 
 light, for fear of discovery, and crossed the yard boldly, without any fear 
 of being detected from the barking of the dog. He then mounted the stairs, 
 entered the corridor in which he knew Virginie's room was situated, and 
 groping his way felt every door until his hand encountered the little bunch 
 of straw. "This is it," he said to himself, " but the devil's in it, the door 
 is locked : no matter if she has changed her mind, I'm determined to have 
 her now, I am so near, even if I kick the door in ; but let me see whether 
 I cannot effect a breach in the outworks without making any noise." . , . 
 Now the door of the yellow saloon was a folding door with two leaves, and 
 as the frame in which they were fitted was old and worm-eaten, by feeling 
 cautiously and with much perseverance the ex-cuirassier pulled out the 
 hinges, gently pushed back one of the leaves, and entered the citadel in 
 triumph. 
 
 His heart bounded with joy, he scarcely gave himself time to push 
 back the door, he thought only of the supreme felicity he was about to 
 taste ; he felt his way noiselessly forward till his hands touched a bed, and 
 bending his head down he found from touch and sound that it was occupied. 
 Heavens ! the girl was asleep, or feigned to be, to save her modesty. 
 Love itself now crowned his dearest wishes ! — and in a few moments he 
 was in the bed and clasped the blushing— Phyllis to his heart. The old 
 servant uttered a smothered cry, but the thousand fiery kisses that choked 
 her utterance reassured her ; she thought if he were a robber he was a very 
 gentle one. Just at that moment a sound was heard at the door, and both 
 were hushed to silence. 
 
 Doudoux, ever thoughtful and prudent, and fearful of compromising the 
 character of her who honoured him with an assignation in the dead of night, 
 left his garret not a great while after Godibert, and when he had de- 
 scended the stairs to the passage along which he had so often gazed in 
 hopes of obtaining a glimpse of his mistress's figure, he groped his way too 
 until he came to the door with the bunch of straw, and entered the room 
 without difficulty, as one leaf of the door remained still open. Godibert and 
 old Phyllis dare not breathe ; and chance directing Doudoux's steps to 
 the other end of the saloon, he arrived at the bed where the " Pucelle's " 
 aunt was snoring as happily as usual. 
 
 " She sleeps the sleep of innocence and peace," the romantic youth 
 exclaimed ; " ambrosial daughter of the Raphian Isle, voluptuous Venus, 
 God of Cythra and Cuidos, how I thank thee ! " . . . In another minute 
 the youth was by the sleeper's side : the old aunt awoke, but her faint 
 cries were speedily hushed with kisses ; she pushed, she scratched — but 
 
The Cockchafers. 113 
 
 hark ! A figure, clothed in white raiment, stole gently into the room 
 from the cabinet in which Virginie was supposed to be asleep. The face 
 of the figure was covered by a gauze veil, and it carried a lighted candle 
 in its hand. 
 
 It was the form of Virginie, who appeared to be walking in her sleep. 
 A solemn silence pervaded the chamber, but the two lovers, though greatly 
 astonished at the fair apparition, could not restrain their curiosity from 
 casting a glance at the figure which was by their side. They rubbed their 
 eyes, and the one seeing the face of the antiquated, disagreeable spinster, 
 the other the visage of the meagre, ugly, jaundiced-looking cook, both 
 simultaneously sprang from the beds, seized their garments, and fled as 
 if all the imps in Pandemonium were at their heels. 
 
 Virginie continued to peregrinate the room, uttering weird and un- 
 earthly sounds, but which, in good truth, was merely suppressed laughter, 
 and eventually disappeared into her cabinet, shutting the door after her. . 
 
 Her sense of the ridiculous had been so much excited, that she had 
 to tumble all the chairs in the room on top of one another, and to break 
 all the earthenware on her water-stand, so as to drown her laughter. 
 
 But it was not long until she could hear the following colloquy in the 
 next room between the two old dames : — 
 
 "Heaven is my witness," said the disconsolate old aunt, "that I 
 fought with tooth and nail." 
 
 "And I," replied the servant, "did everything to repulse the 
 fellow." 
 
 "Ah, Phyllis, what shall we do? We have nothing to fear from 
 Virginie : she was asleep, poor dear. But, how lucky ! What, if she had 
 seen all ! Bub do not breathe a word of what has taken place." 
 " Never, mademoiselle, the secret shall never be known to any person in 
 this world." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE COCKCHAFERS. 
 
 The young men ran along the passage and down the stairs with the greater 
 portion of their clothes upon their arms without once looking behind them 
 but when they reached the coach-house they stopped to take breath, and' 
 whilstthey dressed themselves, compared notes with respect to the means 
 by which they had been entrapped into making such provoking and ridi- 
 culous mistakes, and then they perceived they had been basely played upon 
 by the girl whom each flattered himself he had made his own. They swore 
 to bury all animosity, and never to speak to the faithless " Pucelle " again ; 
 and then, shaking each other cordially by the hand, they gained the street 
 and separated, Ledoux stating he should return to his mother's house at 
 Belleville, and Godibert that he would amuse himself some time in Paris. 
 
 The steward and the gardener did not awake from their drunken 
 slumber until a late hour, and having mutually remarked that their sleep 
 had been undisturbed, and consequently the peasants could not be robbers, 
 dressed themselves and went to inquire how their mistress and the cook 
 had passed the night in the saloon. Baisemon advanced to the old woman's 
 bed with his body at a right angle with the floor, and bowed respectfully as 
 
114 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 he asked whether she had slept well, to which she replied in the affirmative, 
 and evinced great satisfaction when Baisemon and Grillore stated, in answer 
 to a question, that they had not heard any noise, and had not woke 
 once during the dark hours. Baisemon remarked it was probable she 
 would not experience any more alarm, as the Picards must have been gone 
 at break of day ; but the old lady's feelings towards the suspected robbers 
 seemed to have undergone a complete revulsion, for she exclaimed hastily, — 
 " Go and see, sir, whether that is the case, and if they have not left the 
 house, tell them I forgive them all their insolence, and am willing to retain 
 them in my service." . . . " Now, mademoiselle — " . . . " Silence, my 
 good friend, if you please, and do as you are requested. I have reflected 
 that those young men may repent and amend, — sinners must not be 
 excluded from returning to the paths of virtue ; tell them they shall be 
 well fed and have as much wine as they like. " . . . " Wine, mademoiselle ! " 
 ... " Yes, sir, and mark, I will be obeyed." 
 
 Baisemon left the room muttering to himself the Latin quotation con- 
 cerning the fickleness of woman, but returned immediately and stated that 
 the young men had left, apparently without stealing anything. All that 
 morning Virginie's face wore a strange, radiant smile, and she could not 
 help laughing heartily at her aunt's doleful countenance ; but the old lady 
 was so engrossed with her reminiscences of the past night, that she did not 
 observe the girl, nor reprove her when she laughed outright at the an- 
 nouncement that the family would occupy their usual rooms that night. 
 
 The household resumed the monotonous style of living that it had 
 dragged on before the %dvent of the young serving-men, but their absence 
 was sensibly felt by every one. The mistress passed her time in sighs and 
 groans ; Phyllis complained that she had no one to assist her in the poultry- 
 yard, the kitchen, or on the stairs ; Virginie was annoyed that she had no 
 one on whom she could exercise her mischievous propensities ; Grillore 
 asserted that he Nad to perform too much hard work ; and Baisemon dis- 
 covered that Phyllis did not pay that devoted attention to him to which he 
 had been accustomed. Thus the house was enveloped in more than its 
 pristine dulness, and the inmates trembled in their beds as they reflected 
 they had not the savage Bayard for their watch. Nevertheless, time 
 passed on until Spring brought back the leaves on every tree, and all 
 Nature revived under the bright rays of the genial sun, which, however, 
 could not penetrate the recesses of the old maid's dreary residence at 
 Senlis. 
 
 During the winter Monsieur Troupeau had written frequently to his 
 aunt, stating that the Count had not returned from his tour in England, but 
 that he had often sent word through his solicitor that he remained in the 
 same mind respecting Virginie, and begged her relations would take as much 
 care of her as they would of the "wonderful lamp" in "The Arabian 
 Nights' Entertainments. " 
 
 One of those heavy storms so common in the month of April made its 
 way one night through the dilapidated roof of the old maid's house, and 
 the rain trickled successively through the bedroom until it destroyed the 
 paper on one of the walls of a chamber on the basement story. Baisemon 
 was in a fright ; he feared that the ceiling of his bedroom would fall in, 
 and declared it was tempting Providence to remain in a house which 
 threatened to tumble down and bury the inmates in its ruins. By way of 
 proof, he made Mademoiselle Belleavrine remark that the flooring cracked 
 beneath him as he walked upon it, which was not at all to be wondered at, 
 considering his enormous corpulence and weight ; and Phyllis having posi- 
 tively stated that she would not go down to the cellars because the roof was 
 
The Cockchafers. 115 
 
 full of cracks, the old lady was persuaded to leave her residence until it 
 should be properly repaired. 
 
 She possessed another house in the centre of the town which she never 
 inhabited, on account of her disliking the noises in the street ; but as she 
 must have found a resting-place somewhere at that juncture, she determined 
 to remain there until she should take her niece back to Belleville. There 
 was not any garden to the house, but it had the great advantage — in our 
 heroine's eyes — of being situated in the most frequented portion of the 
 town, and she jumped for joy at finding she could see the people as they 
 passed, and promised herself much amusement whenever her aunt's back 
 should be turned. 
 
 Soon after the family removed to the other house, as Virginie was 
 sitting one fine morning watching the passers-by, whilst her aunt was tell- 
 ing Phyllis 's fortune by the cards, and eagerly trying to find out whether 
 any more Cossacks or peasants from Picardy would come to Senlis, she per- 
 ceived a young gentleman strolling up the street with a very abstracted, 
 desponding, melancholy air. Her heart beat violently, and her cheeks 
 became as red as scarlet, as she saw it was Auguste Montreville. As he 
 was about to pass the house without looking up, she determined to attract 
 his attention, and recollecting the successful means she had seen adopted at 
 a theatre, she caught up a pair of scissors that were lying on the work-table 
 and threw them from the window on to the pavement at his feet. 
 
 Auguste started, stopped, and beheld the girl, who whispered she would 
 come to the door and receive the scissors, if he would be kind enough to 
 pick them up. As the two old women were too much engaged with the 
 pack of cards, and their hopes of the speedy return of the truant Cossacks 
 to notice her, she descended the stairs with a fluttering heart, but unfor- 
 tunately found the door fast locked. Knowing that Grillore kept the key, 
 she went to the old man, and telling him she had let something fall from 
 the window, requested he would open the door and allow her to pick it up. 
 The gardener replied that he was forbidden to open the street door unless 
 by his mistress's express orders ; but on the girl wheedling him a bit, pat- 
 ting his cheeks and chin, and stating that her aunt was too busy with the 
 cards to know what was going on, he could not resist her, and unlocking 
 the door told her to pick up the scissors quickly and return into the house. 
 
 When the " Pucelle " stepped from the door, she found Auguste waiting 
 with the scissors in his hand. He had not had time as he looked up at the 
 window to ascertain who it was that dropped them, and he was now quite 
 astonished to find Troupeau's pretty daughter standing demurely before 
 him. He bowed respectfully, and expressed his surprise at finding Virginie 
 in Senlis. To which she replied as fast as she could speak, fearing her 
 aunt might miss her, that her parents had sent her there some months ago 
 to keep her aunt company, but that she was weary of the dull, dreary place, 
 and would fain return to Belleville. She was sure Auguste would see that 
 she had become very pale and thin. The young man smiled slightly, as his 
 breeding would not allow him to contradict a lady, although he could not 
 perceive any change in Virginie's complexion, or falling-off in her well- 
 rounded bust and limbs ; but as his apathy and silence did not suit her, she 
 cast down her eyes modestly when she knew that his were examining her 
 person, and said, in a weak, hesitating tone, — 
 
 "But I beg pardon, Monsieur Montreville, it cannot interest you at 
 all whether I am bored to death or not." ..." Excuse me, mademoiselle, 
 if I did not answer you as promptly as good manners required, but meeting 
 you so unexpectedly has recalled to my memory things that I wish I could 
 bury in f orgetfulness. " . . . "Are you displeased then, sir, at seeing 
 
116 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 me ? " . . . " No, mademoiselle, it is not that that I would say ; but 
 your presence recalls Belleville to me, and a hundred other things, the re- 
 membrance of which I desire to lose. " . . . " Have you, then, left Monsieur 
 Vauxdore's ? " . . . " Yes, mademoiselle, some time since. At first I re- 
 turned to Paris, but having had an attack of illness this winter, T have 
 come here to stop with a relation who has a villa in the neighbourhood, in 
 the hope of re-establishing my health." ..." You are indeed very pale, 
 monsieur, and, to my thoughts, much changed. Is it long since you 
 quitted Belleville ? And Adrienne, have you seen her lately, too ? " 
 
 Auguste's brow clouded over for a moment, and his face became as pale 
 as death ; however, he made a strong effort and replied that he had not 
 seen Adrienne since he left her uncle's house, and he did not think it was 
 likely he should ever meet with her again. Virginie could scarcely conceal 
 the rapture that simple phrase infused into her heart : her bosom throbbed 
 with the»sensations of ungovernable love, and her quiet fancy pointed out 
 to her the advantages in pressing her siege upon the young man's affections 
 that were to be derived from his residence near Senlis, but as she lifted up 
 her glowing cheek and sparkling eye, and said how delighted she should 
 be to see him again, and he had responded to the wish, Grillore, who had 
 been standing all the while behind the open door, whispered that her aunt 
 was calling her, and catching hold of her skirt pulled her back into the 
 hall. Much chagrined, she walked mournfully upstairs, and directly to 
 the window, replying petulantly to her aunt's inquiry as to where she had 
 been, and leaning out, watched Montreville's retreating figure up the 
 street. 
 
 From that hour " The Pucelle of Belleville " had not one moment's 
 peace ; she could not remain for two minutes quiet in the same place ; she 
 had but one desire, one only hope, and that was to behold Auguste again. 
 It was not now with her a feeling of coquetry, a mere desire to please, a 
 natural sentiment of female vanity, or a love of practical mischief that 
 had taken undivided possession of the girl's whole frame. She was no 
 longer to be recognised as the being she had been. She sighed, thought only 
 of Montreville, saw him every night in her dreams, and his loved name was 
 always on her lips, till her wish to see him became so uncontrollable that 
 she felt she must break her bondage and go forth, or assuredly she must 
 die. 
 
 Day by day, and hour after hour, the girl sat at the window, but could 
 not see the young composer again, and the street door was as hermetically 
 sealed as ever against her going out. This being the state of things she 
 changed her tactics, and set about accomplishing her ends through the fat 
 steward's agency, and with that view kept constantly fidgeting about him, 
 smiling at him, and exercising all those little winning ways and graces as 
 she addressed him that she had already observed few men could resist 
 when employed against them by a young and pretty female. In fact, 
 Baisemon was so surprised by Virginie's flattering attentions and deference 
 to him, that he was absolutely insane enough to fancy she was in love with 
 him, and consequently became quite confused and awkward in her presence 
 whenever she came near him or spoke to him, and the girl, remarking with 
 her natural keen preception that she had produced the desired effect, 
 thought the time had arrived to put her scheme for meeting Montreville 
 into immediate execution. 
 
 In pursuance of this determination, one morning when the sun shone 
 brightly into the breakfast parlour, Virginie said, — "Aunt, dear, I wish 
 you would allow me to take some walks in the country this fine weather ; 
 my appetite is quite gone, and I am sure it is because there is no garden, 
 
The Cockchafers. 117 
 
 and I never go out into the air : if this goes on, aunt, I shall soon not be 
 able to eat anything at all." . . . "Certainly, my dear," Mademoiselle 
 Belleavrine replied, " you do eat much less than formerly, and seem to have 
 lost your spirits, just like me since the night of the Cos — that is, my dread- 
 ful nightmare. It is very amazing : I cannot go out with you, walking 
 fatigues me so ; I have a great mind, my love, to send you back to 
 Belleville." . . . "Oh, aunt, do not do that, I have not any wish to 
 return home, I assure you. It will be quite time enough when papa comes 
 to fetch me." . . . "But if you should fall ill!" . . . "Let me take 
 some exercise, aunt, and my appetite and colour will come back." . . . 
 " You cannot go out by yourself, dearest, and it is not proper that Phyllis 
 alone should accompany you ; " and then she added, with a deep sigh, " Base 
 advantages are often taken of women when they think they are free from 
 all attacks. " . . . " Cannot Monsieur Baisemon go with me, aunt ? He 
 surely would not let any one insult me." . . . The steward, who was 
 dozing in his chair after eating a voracious breakfast, pricked up his ears 
 at his name being mentioned, and said, with the strongest possible attesta- 
 tion that he dared hazard before the scrupulous old maid, that he would 
 be answerable for her niece's safety with his life. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine yielded to the steward's protestations of 
 superhuman devotedness and care of his fair charge, and Virginie, having put 
 on a neat little cottage bonnet, took Baisemon's arm and almost dragged him 
 into the street. Whilst they were in the town the girl walked at a modest, 
 steady pace, but as soon as they were in the open fields she walked as fast as 
 she could, and looking on every side in hopes of seeing Montreville, till the 
 steward perspired through every pore, and at the end of two hours was so 
 distressed that he could hardly speak. At length our heroine was obliged 
 to return without having met the man who had robbed her of her heart ; 
 but she ate her dinner with . a good appetite, and as Baisemon, too, after 
 being groomed and rubbed down by the gentle Phyllis, ate enough for four, 
 the old lady made up her mind that promenading in fine weather was 
 certainly productive of salutary effects. 
 
 The following morning, after breakfast, Virginie took Monsieur Baise- 
 mon's arm again and led him farther into the fields until his face shone 
 with the heat as if he had plastered pomatum on his flabby jaws. He was 
 also obliged to be rubbed down again and change his shirt and stockings 
 on returning to the house ; but as Virginie assured him she was delighted 
 to take these healthful walks with him for her protector, he grinned and 
 bore all his torments for her sweet sake. 
 
 On the third day our heroine directed her steps towards a little wood 
 that commanded a large expanse of fertile, champaign country, and just 
 as Baisemon commenced an oration on the beauties of Nature, and the 
 tranquil pleasures of a rural life, she surprised him by putting her hand 
 upon his mouth, knocking his huge lips more sharply against his teeth 
 than was agreeable, and expressing a wish to sit down upon the grass. 
 The proposition was not at all unpleasant to the steward ; to be sure, he 
 wondered that Virginie should feel inclined to rest herself so early in the 
 day, but then the steward had not perceived, as she had done, a young 
 man so wrapped in his reflections that he did not hear that any one was 
 near him, seated at the foot of a tree about thirty paces off ; and so he 
 followed her delightedly to a group of oaks, and with her assistance 
 deposited his heavy person with his back against the trunk of a thick tree, 
 but so that he could not see the melancholy gentleman at so little distance 
 from him. 
 
 Virginie dropped by his side in a half -recumbent attitude, and looking 
 
118 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 tenderly at him, said she should like to sleep if he would keep her company. 
 Now, nothing could suit Baisemon better ; and as the girl closed her 
 languid orbs and pretended to have lost all consciousness, he shut his lids 
 and soon gave oral testimony from his nose that there was no feigning in 
 his heavy slumber. As soon as our heroine was satisfied there was no 
 chance of Baisemon's waking, she crept gently from the spot where he 
 reposed, and sat down nearer to Auguste, fearing to make any noise, which 
 would awake the steward at the same time that it would make Montreville 
 aware of her approach. 
 
 But as time was passing away, and it was possible Auguste might 
 remain in his reverie all day without being in the least aware of her 
 proximity,, she had recourse to a stratagem to inform him of her presence, 
 and uttered a faint cry as if she had seen a frog, a caterpillar or other reptile. 
 Auguste could not fail to hear her ; he rose, turned round, advanced to the 
 young lady, and smiled when he recognised his old acquaintance Mademoi- 
 selle Troupeau. He expressed his fear that she had been frightened by 
 some repulsive animal, and smiled again and laughed when she replied that 
 she had been much startled by a cockchafer alighting upon her dress. 
 She requested he would not laugh quite so loud for fear of disturbing her 
 guardian, who was asleep close to them ; and Auguste, having satisfied 
 himself from the steward's stentorious breathing and sonorous snoring 
 that it would be a task of difficulty to wake him, politely requested the 
 " Pucelle " to bear him company for a few minutes, then sat down close 
 to her on the grass, and took her willing hand in his, as her whole soul 
 beamed from her lustrous eyes. 
 
 A grass-plot in the sweet spring time, surrounded by trees and tufts of 
 shrubs, always forms an agreeable drawing-room for a morning conversation, 
 and as on the present occasion the thicket and trees were covered with 
 their leafy screens, and Baisemon was there apparently only to enjoy his 
 sleep, the young people might consider themselves perfectly alone. How- 
 ever, the conversation between Virginie and Auguste was quite the reverse 
 of brilliant ; he was absent and melancholy, speaking only at intervals, 
 and she was much surprised at his pensiveness, and burned to know what 
 had oppressed his feelings. Occasionally she lifted her eyes to her neigh- 
 bour's countenance, but she seldom met his, which were fixed upon the 
 flowers and the grass. 
 
 Virginie endeavoured, by scattered sentences, to impress upon Auguste's 
 mind that she walked out every morning, and preferred that little wood to 
 any promenade in the neighbourhood ; but he did not seem to hear her, 
 and a long silence ensued. The girl's face assumed a mournful character 
 that was quite unusual to it, and Montreville was again lost in reverie, 
 but as Virginie knew it would soon be time to return to dinner, she broke 
 the silence by observing that remembrances of events that had taken place 
 must be exquisite when they could enchain a man as his had done, and 
 prevent him from seeing that anyone was near him. ..." Not always," 
 he replied ; "in my case they are not even agreeable. But excuse me, 
 mademoiselle, that I do not make you acquainted with their cause." . . . 
 "And why not, Aug — Monsieur Montreville ? Perhaps your griefs might 
 become less by entrusting them to me. I might even be able — "... 
 "Yes, you are indeed formed by nature and by acquirements to console 
 any man in his affliction ! But should I ? why, perhaps, then there would 
 be but another disappointment." 
 
 Auguste sighed and said no more ; but after looking tenderly at the 
 " Pucelle " for some minutes, he rose and took his leave, and as soon as he 
 was out of sight, she sighed deeply as she thought that he had not asked 
 
The Cockchafers. 119 
 
 her whether she would be there on the morrow. She then roused Baise- 
 mon from his sleep, and they returned to the aunt's house, the one 
 delighted at being comfortably cool instead of in a bath of perspiration, and 
 the other wishing for the next day to come that she might go back to the 
 little wood and repose upon the grass in spite of toads, frogs, caterpillars, 
 May - bugs, cockchafers and gnats, and all the varieties of the insect 
 kingdom. 
 
 No sooner was breakfast over on the morrow than Virginie called upon 
 her companion to bestir himself for their excursion, and having led him at 
 almost a breathless pace to the spot where she had seen Montreville on the 
 previous day, said she should lie down and take a nap, in a tone that 
 conveyed her intention of being implicitly obeyed. The steward bowed 
 and sat down, as he muttered that mademoiselle had become a dormouse, 
 but that he preferred repose to running over hill and dale ; and as soon as 
 his nasal organ testified that Somnus had marked him for his own, Virginie 
 raised herself gently, and looked all round for Montreville, but not seeing 
 him, burst into a flood of tears. She remembered that he had addressed 
 her as coldly as if she had been a perfect stranger, and that he had left her 
 without expressing the least wish that he might see her again ; and whilst 
 her grief was at its highest, she heard a footstep advancing towards her, 
 looked up, and seeing it was him who occupied her thoughts, " a change 
 came o'er the spirit of her dream," her eyes were dried, and a glow of 
 pleasure reanimated her countenance as he smiled and sat down by her 
 side, no more than ten paces from the place where Baisemon was asleep. 
 
 The fond girl had never experienced so much delight throughout the 
 whole period of her short existence as when Montreville took her hand 
 raised it to his lips, and whispered, with a glance at the sleeper, that the 
 hope of meeting her had brought him back, and he was happy at being 
 able to converse with her without the intervention of a party who could not 
 sympathise with him in his melancholy. She dared not give way to the 
 joy that filled her heart for fear of waking Boiseman, but their mutual 
 communications, though still reserved on his part, were more frank and less 
 mournful than before, and when they parted it was with the full under- 
 standing that both would be in the same place on the following day. 
 
 On that morrow the sun was not more exact and punctual in his pro- 
 gress than "The Pucelle of Belleville," at the place of rendezvous, and 
 when she and her guardian arrived then her command was imperative, — 
 "To sit down and sleep." Boiseman was in a talkative humour, and 
 essayed to make a few observations on the beauties of the locality ; but 
 Virginie closed his mouth by remarking that they had plenty of time to 
 chatter at the old lady's, and she put it to him pointedly whether he would 
 prefer a sound nap and an appetite to a race across the fields, till he should 
 be wet to the shirt, and unable to eat his dinner from fatigue. There was 
 no doubt in the steward's mind with respect to the alternative, and in a few 
 moments the fat man pressed his mother earth and again was soon 
 asleep. 
 
 Montreville, who had been watching our heroine's manoeuvres at a dis- 
 tance, came up the instant his ears assured him he could do so with safety, 
 and gliding down softly by her side, put his arm around her waist, and was 
 not requested to desist. The conversation became fervent. That which had 
 been only adopted by the young man merely to dispel his gloomy ideas had 
 now become a powerful chain that drew him irresistible to seek the inspir- 
 ing society of the lovely girl, who did not attempt to conceal the ecstasy his 
 presence caused her ; and although he was on his guard, although he had 
 always been unfortunate in his amours, and sworn that he could never fall 
 
120 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 in love again, yet in spite of his resolves he was attracted towards the 
 charming, piquant, seducing girl. 
 
 Thus the tete-a-tetes were continued day after day. At each succeed- 
 ing interview Auguste's coldness melted more and more away, and, whether 
 by chance or by design, every day Virginie chose a place of rest more and 
 more distant from the sleeping steward. The conduct of the lovers — for 
 such they must now be called — had increased in familiarity, and the girl's 
 hands and lips were freely yielded to the embraces of Auguste. But in 
 none of these interviews had the young composer made that declaration 
 which a woman burns to hear when she languishes to respond encouragingly 
 to it, and she wished the more for its announcement because all playful 
 designs, all trifling with his feelings, all coquetry were eschewed, and all her 
 hopes were centred in the wish that she might soon become his wife. 
 
 The gentle exercise that Baisemon took, the fresh air, and the consequent 
 appetite freely indulged, disposed him the more to corpulence and sleep, so 
 that when he and his ward arrived each morning at the accustomed spot, 
 there was no need for her to bid him take the welcome horizontal somnolent 
 refreshment. As the lovers sat together one morning hand-in-hand, Vir- 
 ginie led the conversation to her parents, to the intentions of De Senneville, 
 and the projects they entertained of making her a countess. Auguste heard 
 the statement much more tranquilly than she expected or desired. Far 
 from being in a fury at hearing her speak of her proposed marriage, he 
 merely withdrew his hand from hers, and cast his eyes upon the ground. 
 Not a word escaped his lips. Virginie, troubled and displeased at his 
 silence, also held her tongue, until her feelings overcame her, her head 
 dropped upon her breast, the big tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. 
 
 Montreville turned as a heavy sigh escaped from her aching breast, and 
 was shocked at beholding the fair girl in tears. He passed his arm around 
 her taper waist, and pressed her gently to his heart, as he asked her what 
 had caused her grief. ..." Have I not told you," she answered, " that 
 my parents, dazzled by their ambition and the supposed splendour of the 
 alliance, will have me marry this odious Count de Senneville, and you hear 
 the horrid truth as quietly as if I were an utter stranger to you, whereas I 
 had hoped that you would have been dreadfully enraged?" . . . "From this 
 transport, Virginie, I can only gather the pleasing, flattering fact that you de- 
 sire I should love you ? " . . . " Certainly, Auguste. I am no common girl, 
 and must speak out ; and though you may think it unmaidenly on my part, 
 I cannot help avowing that I love you better than my life." ..." Alas ! 
 Virginie, you are deceived. That which you take to be love is but a trifling 
 feeling, a delusion of your heart, which will swiftly pass away. " . . . " No, 
 Monsieur Montreville, the love I entertain for you is not of that transient 
 nature you deem it, but it is passionate and deep fixed, and will end only 
 with my life." ..." But would it avail you, lovely creature, if that pas- 
 sion were returned as ardently by me now that your parents will marry you 
 to this Count de Senneville ? " . . . " All, all in the world, Auguste. 
 Say only that you love me, and nothing shall force me to that frightful 
 match." ..." But your parents, dearest, will never consent to accept a 
 humble composer for their son-in-law. Do you not remember the scorn and 
 contempt with which they looked down upon me after the dinner-party 
 when I made my profession known ? " . . . " Oh, yes, Auguste, too well. 
 But I care not. My father is devotedly attached to me, and I am sure will 
 let me marry whom I will ; but it is useless, for I see you love me not." 
 ..." Who can behold you, converse with you, Virginie, and love you 
 not?" . . . "No, no, you but deceive me. Your melancholy, dreary, 
 abstracted air all show £h.at your heart is devoted to another ! " 
 
The Cockchafers. 121 
 
 Straining her more warmly to him, Auguste swore that from that 
 moment he would devote his whole life to her. Our heroine still appeared 
 to doubt the sincerity of his professions ; but he persisted, and was about 
 taking some very decisive steps to prove it, when two cockchafers, who pro- 
 bably had been making love in the tree under which Baisemon was extended, 
 fell plump upon his face and awoke him with a sudden start. He sat up on 
 his broad basis, rubbed his nose and then his eyes, then looked round for 
 the damsel entrusted to his care, and was surprised not to see her slumber- 
 ing near him. He became uneasy, rose, looked round, and uttered a cry of 
 despair as he saw his ward returning the kisses and caresses of a handsome 
 man, who seemed very familiar, and disposed to take every advantage 
 of her love. Auguste released the " Pucelle " from his arms, and walked a 
 few paces off, but she came coolly up to the astounded steward, looked him 
 laughingly in the face, and asked him what had occurred to produce that 
 stupid, stolid countenance, more like a fool's than that of a learned man. 
 ... " Mademoiselle," he stammered out at length, " I am so surprised, 
 so astonished, that I — " ..." Moderate your astonishment, my good 
 friend. What is there to wonder at in seeing me conversing with that 
 gentleman ? " . . . "If your aunt should become acquainted with it, I 
 am a lost man." . , . "Not at all. That gentleman, Monsieur Baise- 
 mon, is my future husband, the Count de Senneville." 
 
 The steward bowed to the earth before Auguste ; he looked at Virginie 
 imploringly not to involve him in any deceitful plot, but she paid no atten- 
 tion to his looks, and, holding up her finger to him by way of caution, 
 introduced Baisemon as her aunt's confidential man of business. The young 
 man addressed a few polite ordinary words to him, to which the fat hypo- 
 crite replied in the most servile, fawning terms, and then proposed to return 
 to Senlis, as Mademoiselle Belleavrine would be delighted to see the Count. 
 This was a staggering proposition : but when did a woman's wit ever fail 
 her at a pinch ? Virginie answered instantly that the Count desired to be 
 unknown in the country for the present, that he wished to see and talk 
 with her in private, and when his equipages and horses should arrive in a 
 few days, then he would take her kind aunt completely by surprise, and the 
 old lady would have the satisfaction of announcing the brilliant marriage 
 to all the inhabitants of Senlis. 
 
 Baisemon could not make up his mind to disoblige a young lady who 
 was to be a Countess, and could always find him a home and wherewith to 
 gorge his sensual appetite, and as the presumed nobleman politely but non- 
 chalantly requested that the steward would hold his tongue, he promised 
 not to mention a word of the rencontre to his mistress. Auguste then 
 regarded our heroine tenderly, kissed her hand, and took his leave ; and 
 Virginie, taking Baisemon's arm, directed her steps homeward, saying, — 
 " My good sir, when people are about to be married it is natural they should 
 endeavour to become intimately acquainted with each other's feelings ; we 
 shall continue our walks every day, and when the Count comes to chat 
 with me, you must shut your eyes and go to sleep directly. And now, 
 listen to me, sir ; when I shall be a Countess, there shall always be a table 
 for you with every delicacy my establishment affords, and you shall cram 
 yourself with good things all day long." 
 
122 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 a maiden's kesolution. 
 
 The little wood near Senlis presented its usual attractions, and " The Pucelle 
 of Belleville " and her fat companion resorted to it every day. Auguste 
 Montreville never failed to meet her, to sit down and chat ; but Baisemon's 
 sleep was banished, — first, because he thought he should be wanting in 
 respect to the Count if he should snore in his presence ; and secondly, 
 because he recollected the eagerness with which the young folks were con- 
 versing and embracing when the cockchafers awoke him by dropping on his 
 nose, and although he looked upon the lovers as affianced, and all but 
 married, he deemed it prudent to retire to a short distance and keep a 
 bright look-out. 
 
 Baisemon's presence sadly incommoded the young people ; they could 
 not bid him go sleep, as of old, but yet they said a thousand passionate, 
 endearing things to each other, although they could not decide on the 
 exact means they would employ in bringing about their marriage, and day 
 after day, as Baisemon and Virginie walked back to her aunt, she was com- 
 pelled to satisfy his curiosity as to the reason why the supposed Count did 
 not appear in his own proper character, by stating that he expected papers 
 and documents from Paris, and the appointment of her father to an import- 
 ant post under Government, and that was the surprise he was preparing 
 for the family. 
 
 The lovers continued to see each other every day, and Auguste had 
 now become so enamoured of the girl that he did not waste a thought upon 
 the poor forsaken Adrienne, when one afternoon a horseman rode up to 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine's door, dismounted, took his small valise from 
 the horse's crupper, knocked, was admitted by Grillore, put his small port- 
 manteau in the hall, walked into the parlour and saluted his astonished 
 daughter and his aunt. It was Monsieur Troupeau, who, after the first 
 greetings and expressions of surprise were over, nodded to Phyllis and the 
 steward, and told his aunt that, as a considerable period had elapsed since 
 Virginie had been with her, and as his wife and himself felt very dull 
 without their daughter, and, moreover, as his dear aunt had promised to 
 return to Belleville with the child, he had come to solicit the fulfilment of 
 her promise, and he hoped, when they should all have returned to his 
 house, an august ceremonial — to which he would not more particularly 
 allude — would then take place. 
 
 Troupeau rubbed his hands playfully, and nodded and winked as he 
 concluded the sentence ; Baisemon smiled and looked provokingly knowing, 
 and Virginie coloured up, bit her lips with vexation, then sighed and bent 
 over her embroidery to conceal her agitation. The old lady reciprocated 
 the upholsterer's look of intelligence, and said composedly, — " You have 
 acted right, nephew, in coming to see me : I have desired to bring your 
 daughter to you for some time, but she is so happy here with me, and has 
 begged me to keep her." ... " Oh, yes, dear aunt, I am never so happy 
 as with you," Virginie exclaimed. . . . " It is quite right of you, my dear, 
 to indulge in these sentiments of affection to your admirable aunt, and I 
 am proud to think that you have given her complete satisfaction during 
 your sojourn in her house." ..." Yes, nephew, she has been an excellent 
 girl since she came here, and I think you will find that she has gained much 
 in my society." 
 
A Maiden's Resolution. 123 
 
 The upholsterer expressed his perfect conviction of that fact, and 
 having requested permission to retire, went to the chamber prepared for 
 him, took off his boots and his riding-coat, and made himself comfortable 
 and perfectly at his ease, taking the greatest care that nothing in his 
 personal appearance should offend the old lady's morbid delicacy. Whilst 
 he was so occupied, Mademoiselle Belleavrine hastened the supper, and 
 Virginie passed the time in great uneasiness, feeling that the connection 
 between Auguste and herself must be brought to light, and that she should 
 not be able to take her promenade with Baisemon on the following day and 
 inform her lover of her father's arrival in the town. 
 
 Full justice was done by the hungry traveller to his aunt's supper ; in 
 the course of the meal it was arranged that Troupeau, his aunt and 
 daughter, with Baisemon, should go to Belleville on the next day but one ; 
 and Troupeau having requested his daughter to withdraw to her own room 
 for the remainder of the evening, as he had family matters of importance 
 to settle with his aunt, the frightened girl did so, thinking that her 
 intended marriage would form the subject of her relations' tete-a-tete, and 
 vowing that, let them arrange it how they might, she had fixed upon a 
 husband for herself widely different to the Count de Senneville. 
 
 When his daughter had left the room, Troupeau drew his chair closer 
 to his aunt and Baisemon, and, smiling pompously, said he thought that a 
 convenient opportunity to talk over the grand affairs of his child's future 
 prospects. His aunt nodded assent, and Monsieur Baisemon inclined his 
 head, whereupon the proud father fumbled mysteriously in a pocket-book, 
 and drawing from it a letter, written on satin paper highly perfumed, he 
 passed it under his aunt's nose, declaring it breathed the very atmosphere 
 of nobility, and said it was from his excellent friend the Right Honourable 
 the Count de Senneville. Having cleared his throat with a few prefatory 
 hems, he read as follows : — 
 
 " MY WORTHY FRIEND," — " You hear he styles me his worthy friend,'' 
 — " my worthy friend, I would willingly throw myself at your lovely daughter's 
 feet, for I am more madly in love with her than ever ; but a scoundrel, who 
 owes me some hundred of pounds, has gone to London, and it is necessary that 
 I shoidd go after him and compel their payment, and that being done, I will- 
 return immediately to bind myself with Hymen's chain to your delightful 
 Virginie, who will make the prettiest little Countess ever seen." — " That 
 she will, indeed ! " — " Adieu, father -in-laio, if you will permit me that title 
 by anticipation.''' — "If I permit him; will I not !" — "Believe me, yours 
 ever most sincerely, 
 
 " De Senne ville. " 
 
 " And then there is a postscript, — " / shall bring you back a present from 
 England." — "That is the letter, aunt," Troupeau said; "and so we may 
 conclude the marriage is as good as over. "... " Thank Heaven ! " 
 ejaculated the pious aunt, and Baisemon smiled, rubbed his hands, but 
 uttered not a word. 
 
 Naturally enough, after a few commonplace remarks, the conversation 
 reverted to Virginie's marriage. Mademoiselle Belleavrine expressed a 
 doubt of the Count's returning so soon as he intended, because he might not 
 be able to find his absconding creditor immediately, and be obliged to 
 pursue him throughout the island. Troupeau prayed fervently that such 
 might not be the case, as his wife and himself would be upon tenter-hooks 
 until the wedding should have taken place ; and Baisemon, whilst smirk- 
 ing, pinching up his lips, and fidgeting upon his chair, at length let drop 
 
124 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 the ominous words, — " You may perhaps not wait for the Count so long as 
 you expect." . . . Both his hearers stared at him for some further ex- 
 planation, but as the prospect of the Countess's table and daily excellent 
 fare loomed before his mind's eye, the steward felt that he had unwarily 
 committed a great fault, and resolved to hold his tongue. Troupeau then 
 said, — " What is it you would insinuate, Monsieur Baisemon ? Pray ex- 
 plain yourself, sir, if you please." ... " Oh, nothing. I only thought— 
 a trifle, my dear sir — nothing, I assure you. "... " Excuse me, monsieur, 
 but your looks, your agitation, your whole air convince me there is some 
 meaning in your words." . . . "My nephew is right, honest Baisemon, 
 there is something on your mind ; relieve it, sir, I beg." 
 
 Thus adjured, fearing that any further concealment might endanger his 
 comfortable situation, and that a present good is preferable to a problemati- 
 cal future one, the depository of the lovers' stolen interviews determined 
 to make a clean breast, and commenced saying, in a whining, deprecatory 
 tone, — " Well, my honoured mistress, in obedience to your command — and 
 I do not see why I should not, as it will make two young creatures happy 
 — although I know I shall expose myself to your reproaches ; but as the 
 philosopher says — I do not recollect precisely which of them at this moment 
 — that the end justifies the means, and, as I always had that maxim in 
 view, I hope you will absolve me from any blame. "... " What the 
 devil does all this mean," Troupeau said within himself. " Has he stolen 
 another pair of breeches ! " . . . "Go on, sir," Mademoiselle Belleavrine 
 cried out angrily ; " go on, without further circumlocution." 
 
 " Well, then, as you know, mademoiselle, for some weeks past I have 
 been in the habit of accompanying your niece in her promenades. At first 
 we walked anywhere her fancies dictated ; but after a few days we directed 
 our steps constantly to a little wood not far off, where we sat down to rest, 
 and sheltered by the relief of the foliage from the glaring heat of the sun, 
 we slept occasionally, as it was the young lady's wish." ..." Well, well, 
 do go on. "... "I did not conceive it my duty to offer any obstacles to 
 her gratification ; but one morning, on my awakening suddenly, I saw a 
 handsome, aristocratic gentleman talking to Mademoiselle Troupeau." 
 ... "A man near my niece ! " cried one. " A man near my daughter," 
 said the other auditor. ..." For Heaven's sake moderate your anger 
 till you hear me out. At first I was so astounded that I did not know what 
 to do ; but as I was about to rush upon the intruder, he drew himself up 
 with dignity, and said he was the Count de Senneville ; and so, of course, I 
 was disarmed." . . . "The Count de Senneville ! " the aunt and nephew 
 exclaimed with one voice. ..." Yes, my good friends, and he is in this 
 neighbourhood even now, with the intention of causing you a great surprise. 
 I have endeavoured every day to induce him to present himself to Made- 
 moiselle Belleavrine, but he has desired me not to say one word." 
 
 The old lady seemed overwhelmed at her niece's having had the finesse 
 to conceal the Count's arrival from her, and Troupeau could not understand 
 how it was that De Senneville should have been in Senlis upwards of a 
 month, and yet write only four days back that he was in England. How- 
 ever, it having been satisfactorily ascertained that Baisemon had never 
 slept since the first day he beheld the romantic lover, he was not only for- 
 given, but applauded for the part he had played in the little melodrama, 
 and it was arranged that the steward should accompany Virginie to the 
 wood as usual on the following morning, without informing her that her 
 secret was betrayed, and that Troupeau should follow at a short distance 
 and catch the lovers in the act. Mademoiselle Belleavrine could not alto- 
 gether make up her mind respecting her grand-niece's dissimulation after 
 
A Maiden* 8 Resolution. 125 
 
 all the excellent moral precepts she had continually repeated to her ; but 
 as she thought with Baisemon, that the end justifies the means, and knew 
 the end in this instance would be a brilliant alliance with a nobleman, she 
 shook her head, took up her chamber-candlestick, and all the plotters went 
 quietly to bed, not without some indefinable forebodings as to the occur- 
 rences of the forthcoming day. 
 
 As soon as it was light, our heroine rose from her uneasy bed and 
 worried herself thinking whether or not she should be permitted to take her 
 customary exercise after breakfast, and if not, how she should be able to 
 meet Auguste again, as the party was about to return to Belleville on the 
 following day, but she was agreeably surprised when Baisemon took his 
 hat after breakfast, saying he was at her orders, and putting her arm under- 
 neath his, as her heart bounded with delight, she hurried from the street, and 
 when they were in the fields absolutely said, — " He was a dear, fat old duck." 
 
 Auguste had not arrived when Virginie and her guardian reached the 
 thicket, but he made his appearance a few minutes afterwards, and was 
 much surprised to see the agitation displayed in the girl's face. At their 
 joint, eager request, Baisemon withdrew, and, sitting down upon the bright 
 green sward, Virginie related in a hurried manner the news of her father's 
 visit to Senlis, her immediate return to Belleville, and the inevitable dis- 
 covery of their amour when the Count de Senneville should come home 
 from England. The steward walked to the outskirts of the wood, and 
 beckoned to Troupeau to come up : the proud father advanced with a 
 stealthy pace, chuckling inwardly that he had lodged the game ; silently 
 he crept on, rubbing his hands with delight at the idea of discomfiting the 
 Count, and the steward triumphantly bawled out, — " There they are," at 
 the very moment that Auguste, by way of consoling Virginie, had taken 
 her in his arms and was kissing away the tears that poured in torrents dowi? 
 her face. 
 
 Troupeau uttered a cry of despairing rage like a wild beast mortally 
 wounded by the hunter's spear, and darted a look of fury at the steward as 
 he hastened towards the lovers, exclaiming, — "Stupid brute, who told you 
 that was the Count de Senneville ? The fellow is a vagabond, a common 
 player, a mere rascally, paltry musician ! " . . . Then addressing himself 
 to Montreville, he said, — " And you, sir, how can you have the impudence, 
 the unparalleled audacity to make love to my daughter, the affianced wife 
 of the Count de Senneville ? Even were she not to become a countess, how 
 dared you try to win her affections without my consent ? " . . . Next turn- 
 ing to his daughter, as the tears filled his eyes, the disappointed father ejacu- 
 lated as well as his broken utterance would let him, — " Oh, Virginie, you 
 break my heart in pieces ! You could not think this scoundrel was the 
 Count, knowing his lordship as you do ! But I can forgive you, believing, as 
 I do, that it is from excess of innocence that you have erred ; but for this 
 rascal, this villain — " 
 
 " Stay, monsieur," Auguste said calmly, " cease from applying these 
 opprobious epithets to me : I may have done wrong in meeting Made- 
 moiselle Troupeau without your knowledge, but she herself will tell you 
 that I would have avoided seeing her had she not led me to believe that you 
 would have consented to the realisation of her own wishes, and granted me 
 the honour of her hand." . . " Can this be true, Virginie ? " 
 
 The young girl, who, up to that moment, had stood silent looking 
 alternately at her father, her lover, and the steward, not without smiling at 
 the ludicrous despondency painted in the bloated features of the last, pro- 
 duced by the fading vision of the luxuries heaped on the Count de Senneville's 
 table, drew herself up with an air of resolution, and fixed her eyes calmly 
 
126 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 upon her father as she said, — " Yes, dear papa ; it is time that you should 
 know the truth and the firm determination I have come to, which I will 
 tell you in a few brief words. I do not like the Count de Senneville, and 
 I will not marry him ; but I love Auguste Montreville, and no man on 
 earth but him shall be my husband : and you, papa, I feel certain, will 
 consent that it shall be so, for you would not wish to cause your only 
 daughter's death. " 
 
 Troupeau had naised his arm and extended his hands involuntarily as his 
 eyes beheld his daughter's unwonted rebellious, self-dependent air, but they 
 fell paralysed and powerless to his side as she concluded the fatal sentence 
 that hurled down all his hopes of future glory : recovering himself a little 
 he stammered, in a heartbroken tone, — " Is it my child who speaks, can 
 my only daughter address me in these cruel words ? " . . . " Yes, papa, 
 it is ; and once for all, do what you will, my mind is made up, and my 
 determination shall never, never change." . . . The expression of the 
 upholsterer's countenance altered as the " Pucelle " spoke : before the last 
 words had well left her lips, he shouted, — " Ah, minion, dare you brave me 
 thus ? Begone, away with you, we shall see whether I will be obeyed or 
 not," then having shaken his fist violently at Baisemon, and poured forth 
 another torrent of abuse on Montreville, he tore down a branch of a low 
 hazel tree that grew near, and absolutely drove the steward and Virginie 
 before him to the town. 
 
 " Love me still, Auguste," she cried, turning upon her heel ; " love me 
 still, for I swear that I will be thine alone," then kissing her hand to her 
 lover, she took Baisemon's arm and walked coolly on to Senlis, whilst her 
 exasperated parent stamped and swore and kicked the shrubs with rage as 
 ha marched homeward in their rear. 
 
 During the departure of her nephew and her steward on the anticipated 
 "Agreeable Surprise," Mademoiselle Belleavrine had occupied herself with 
 preparations for the journey to Belleville, and as the party entered the 
 morning-room she inquired with some uneasiness where the Count de 
 Senneville was. The upholsterer, without replying to the question, motioned 
 to Virginie to go to her own room : the girl curtseyed to her aunt and him, 
 and left the parlour as tranquilly as if nothing unusual had taken place, 
 and when she had retired her father threw himself on to a couch and 
 related all the atrocities that had been committed in the fatal thicket, and 
 Baisemon accompanied the doleful recital by bellowing like a bull, whilst 
 the old maid apostrophised her Fate at intervals, and muttered that some 
 evil genius had sworn to accomplish the ruin of the female portion of the 
 family. When Troupeau had concluded, his anger returned on hearing 
 Baisemon moaning and blubbering, and he had almost a mind to thrash 
 him soundly, but his aunt interfered on the fat man's behalf, representing, 
 as was the fact, that he had been completely deceived by Virginie, and it 
 was resolved to rate her soundly that very moment, take her to Belleville the 
 following day, and make her a countess in spite of all that she could say 
 or do. 
 
 In obedience to an order transmitted through Phyllis, " The Pucelle of 
 Belleville " presented herself before the Council of Three with a light step, 
 and stood calmly before her aunt, whilst the old lady put on her spectacles 
 with a majestic air, her father surveyed her with a countenance " more in 
 sorrow than in anger," and Baisemon remained twiddling his thumbs in a 
 corner of the room. 
 
 When Mademoiselle Belleavrine thought a sufficiently solemn impres- 
 sion had been made upon the girl, she assumed a look of greater sourness 
 and severity than usual as she said. — "Niece, I am perfectly shocked at 
 
A Maiden's Resolution. 127 
 
 hearing the enormities that your poor papa has told me ; and, what is more, 
 ma'amzelle, I am quite surprised that after what has taken place you 
 should dare to stand before me in that careless, impertinent manner ; 
 change it, ma'amzelle, this instant, curb your unbridled passions, and ask 
 pardon for your insolence; promise to obey your parents' wishes." . . . 
 "No, aunt ! " the girl cried quickly, "no, aunt, never ; I will not change 
 the resolution I have taken, nor have I any forgiveness to request." . . . 
 " Holy Virgin, what do I hear ! Can this be my niece ?"..." Yes, 
 aunt, for I wish to be frank with you, and from this moment you shall not 
 find 'any dissimulation in me." ..." Insolent child, I shall find a way 
 to bring down this saucy tone." . . . " Nay, aunt, I assure you you never 
 will." . . . "And as for your infamous seducer, your paramour, give up 
 all hope of seeing him again. De Senneville has solicited your hand, it 
 has been promised to him, and, whether you will or not, a countess you 
 shall be." ..." Again I say, aunt, I never will ; Montreville has my 
 heart, and no other man shall ever have my hand. " . . . " Obstinate slut ! 
 how can you prefer a base-born, low musician to a noble count 1 " . .^ . 
 "At any rate, my dearest aunt, any musician is preferable to a Cossack." 
 
 The lightning's effect upon a stately tree, as it shivers it into a thousand 
 pieces, is not more deadly than was the effect of Virginie's last word upon 
 her aunt ; the angry reply died upon the old lady's lips, the deadly pallor 
 of her cheeks betrayed itself through the thick coat of rouge which had 
 been laid upon them, and the spectacles fell from her nose as she leaned 
 helplessly against the back of her arm-chair. Troupeau looked at his aunt 
 in wonder, then cried out for salts, vinegar and aromatics, and Virginie, 
 having assured him that the old lady's spasm was not dangerous, walked 
 out of the room, coldly observing that she did not think her great-aunt 
 would say anything more to her that morning. 
 
 Virginie's supposition turned out to be correct, and when the aunt came 
 to herself she seemed pleased at not seeing that her niece was in the room ; 
 in fact, she gave up the affair as a bad job, she washed her hands of the 
 incorrigible, besotted girl, and on Troupeau still beseeching her to interpose 
 her authority with his daughter, she told him flatly that if he did not 
 desist, she would not return to Belleville with him, and possibly he might 
 repent annoying her. Thus adjured, Troupeau held his tongue, and the 
 rest of the day was passed in a melancholy manner, the girl's meals being 
 sent to her own room, with a special injunction that she was not to presume 
 to come downstairs until she was prepared to ask pardon for her sins, and 
 promise to obey her father's wishes. Virginie cared nothing for either the 
 inducements or the threats held out to her, but thought continually of 
 Montreville, and nursed her love, resolved to have her own way in all 
 things, come what might. 
 
 On the following morning the carriole was drawn from its retreat, 
 Cocotte and Troupeau's horse were harnessed to it, Virginie was placed on 
 the hind seat, under the strict surveillance of her father and her aunt, and 
 the doleful, tedious journey to Belleville was accomplished before night, 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine not once opening her mouth, Monsieur Troupeau 
 imitating his aunt, Baisemon fearing to break the silence by any indiscreet 
 remark, and Grillore contenting himself with swearing at the horses, and 
 getting down for a glass of beer at a public-house whenever he asserted the 
 wretched animals required rest. 
 
 When the bell was rung at the house in the Eue de Calais, Babelle 
 opened the door, and, seeing who had arrived, called to her mistress, who 
 made her appearance forthwith, attended by a domestic she had hired during 
 Troupeau's absence, because their means permitted them. The fond mother 
 
128 The Pueelle of Belleville, 
 
 hugged her daughter to her breast, notwithstanding her husband's tele- 
 graphic signs to her not to be too affectionate, but when the party reached the 
 drawing-room she saw, with surprise, the air of restraint that prevailed, and 
 inquired in some alarm what had happened to make them all look in such 
 a mournful manner. Troupeau replied, with a deep sigh, that she would 
 know it all too soon, and Virginie, having embraced her mother a second 
 time, tripped up to her chamber, leaving the old folks to relate all her 
 enormities at their ease. 
 
 As soon as the girl had left the room, her father opened the door again, 
 looked out upon the landing to make sure that nobody was eavesdropping, 
 shut it violently, advanced to his wife with a mysterious air, begged her 
 to arm herself with courage and be firm, and then told precisely the same 
 tale to her that he had recited to his aunt at Senlis. Madame Troupeau 
 could not and would not believe all that was alleged respecting her 
 daughter's turpitude ; she maintained that the child was an angel of 
 candour, innocence, openness and light, and that her relations must have 
 irritated and teazed and worried her to alter her disposition and character 
 in so singular a manner ; but she would speak to her affectionately, as 
 only a mother knew how, and she was sure her daughter's natural goodness 
 of heart, properly appealed to, would lead her to do all her parents wished. 
 Baisemon was of the same opinion, and as Mademoiselle Belleavrine would 
 not utter a syllable on the subject since the simple word " Cossack " had 
 sealed her lips, Troupeau requested his wife to make her attempt on the 
 morrow, and the conversation was then dropped. The aunt repaired to 
 the chamber appropriated to her use, Baisemon went to renew his acquaint- 
 ance with the wines and provisions on the dining table, and Virginie, 
 having placed herself at the window, and laughed at the idea of the trick 
 she had played Godibert and Doudoux, then commenced speculating 
 whether Auguste had followed her to Belleville, and if he thought of her 
 as constantly and ardently as her thoughts dwelt on him. 
 
 During the whole of the night, Madame Troupeau cogitated over the 
 sermon she intended to deliver to her daughter the next morning, and with 
 which she hoped to bring her back to the paths of obedience and duty ; but 
 the most experienced orator often loses both nerve and temper when the 
 audience pay no attention to him, and so the good lady's oration came 
 to a sudden stop when Virginie, after listening submissively to the first 
 few sentences, broke in with — "All that you can say upon the subject, 
 my dear mamma, will be entirely useless ; I love you dearly, but I love 
 Monsieur Auguste Montreville better than the whole world. I am rich 
 enough to please my own fancy, and I tell you plainly, if you bring the 
 Count de Senneville to me, I will turn my back upon him and affront 
 him as deeply as I can." . . . "Daughter," the mother answered in 
 a passion, "I had hoped that your papa had deceived me, but I see 
 that I was mistaken, and he was right. Your obstinacy must be quelled, 
 and to begin, I command you to keep your own room, and not to stir from 
 it without my permission." ... "As you please, mamma." . . . 
 " And if you do not return to your obedience, you shall have only bread 
 and water for your nourishment." . . . "Just as you like." . . . 
 "And perhaps a birch-rod — " . . . But here it may be as well to drop 
 the curtain on the unseemly colloquy. 
 
 Although Madame Troupeau was naturally a kind, good - hearted 
 creature, she was in the habit of pushing things to extremities ; and when 
 she left her daughter's room in a towering passion at her continued obsti- 
 nacy in refusing De Senneville, and descended to the drawing-room where 
 the rest of the family were waiting impatiently to hear the result of the 
 
A Maiden's Resolution. 129 
 
 long interview, she found the new servant, Lizette, occupied in some little 
 office, and giving way to the wrath she had restrained with the greatest 
 difficulty, she gave the girl a hearty box on the ear at the same time that 
 she ordered her to quit the room. Everybody was surprised at the rapidity 
 of the action ; the servant left the apartment crying and muttering that 
 she did not deserve such treatment. Baisemon, fearing the choleric im- 
 pulse might possibly endure some minutes longer, placed his fat hands upon 
 his cheeks, Mademoiselle Belleavrine fanned herself, and Troupeau im- 
 plored his wife to tell him what had happened. 
 
 The disconsolate mother, with tears in her eyes, detailed what had 
 taken place upstairs. All were aggrieved, but not astonished, after the 
 specimen of the " Pucelle's " obduracy they had witnessed at Senlis the 
 day before ; and a council being held with respect to the girl's future mode 
 of treatment, it was decided, on the grand-aunt's suggestion, that she 
 should be immured, without the slightest relaxation, in a room, the win- 
 dows of which looked into the back-yard, where she could see only Babelle 
 and Lizette, and it was hoped that this severity would soon expel the 
 demon that possessed her. 
 
 Virginie was greatly vexed at being compelled to leave her own apart- 
 ment, as she thought there was a strong probability of establishing some 
 communication with Montreville by the window that had been so favourable 
 to Godibert and Doudoux, but she would not show it ; and as she was 
 escorted to her new lodging by the family in full force, she assured them 
 in the coolest manner possible that incarceration in the most solitary cell 
 in the Chateau of Vincennes would have no effect in making her alter her 
 determination. 
 
 A fortnight elapsed without bringing tranquillity to the troubled family 
 of the Troupeaus ; Virginie felt the full loneliness of her position, but was 
 too proud to let it be seen even by the kind-hearted Babelle, who brought 
 her her meals, and being somewhat inclined to the tender passion, mourned 
 her young mistress's hard fate ; and at the end of that period Madams 
 Troupeau presented herself one morning before her daughter, when the 
 following dialogue ensued : — 
 
 " I trust, my child, that you have at length listened to the voice of 
 reason, and have made up your mind to obey your father and myself, and 
 embrace the splendid opportunity of marriage that awaits you.". . . . 
 " Mamma," was the cool reply, " I am grieved to cause you any uneasiness, 
 but my determination remains the same. I am the best judge of my own 
 happiness in matrimony, and will have no one but Auguste." . . . "Why 
 cannot you be happy with the Count ? Do cast off this obstinacy, for you 
 may rest perfectly assured that we will never consent to your marrying 
 this — musician." ..." Monsieur Montreville is of good family, mamma, 
 and, according to your own account, once saved my life." . . . "He has 
 been sufficiently repaid for it already ; once for all, will you accept the 
 Count and make all of us happy ? " . . . "Never, mother, never." . . . 
 Madame Troupeau bounded out of the room in a passion, and her husband 
 and aunt shook their heads mournfully, as they feared the Count would 
 arrive before the aspect of affairs was changed. 
 
 Melancholy and sombre dulness pervaded the establishment for the 
 next eight days ; a fortnight succeeded to them, and still the young girl 
 made the same inexorable answer to the repeated solicitations of her parents. 
 Madame Troupeau began to fear that the constant restraint and want of 
 exercise and air would impair her daughter's health, her husband became 
 infected with the same anxiety, and their firmness was evidently on the 
 wane, notwithstanding that their aunt urged the necessity of placing the 
 
 I 
 
130 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 fair recusant upon a bread and water diet. They received no visitors at 
 the house because they feared that their daughter's attachment — ignominious 
 in their eyes — might become know in Belleville ; and the old gossip 
 Renard was not admitted under sundry skilfully devised pretences ; but 
 these very precautions to keep the affair a secret caused their neighbours to 
 talk about them, the good people remarked to Babelle, when they met her 
 on her domestic errands in the street, that it was singular Virginie had not 
 set foot outside the house since her return from Senlis ; all sorts of supposi- 
 tions were hazarded, which, of course, Babelle had reported to her mistress, 
 she again told them to her husband, and the family were ready to die with 
 fright lest the real truth should reach De Senneville's ears. 
 
 Six heavy, dreary weeks had passed away since " The Pucelle " had 
 been imprisoned in her fastness ; determined to conquer or to die, she had 
 refused to avail herself of the permission given her to take the air in the 
 garden, and it was now clear that she was getting emaciated, and her health 
 was gradually giving way ; Madame Troupeau was seriously alarmed at 
 the idea of losing her only child, the father reflected that if the girl should 
 die there could not be any chance of her becoming a countess, and, as a last 
 resource, the mother was commissioned to tell her that, if she did not yield, 
 her great- aunt would surely disinherit her. 
 
 Again the fond mother stood before her daughter, pale and worn with 
 grief, and addressed her, not in the accent of command, but in an imploring 
 tone. "My child," she said, "your aunt empowers me to tell you that 
 if you will not espouse the Count she will alter the will she has made 
 already in your favour, and then you will lose upwards of fifteen hundred 
 pounds a year." . . . The girl saw that her adversaries were driven back 
 to their entrenchments, and had recourse to their last grand system of 
 attack, so, taking advantage of her position, she answered calmly, — "My 
 dear mamma, I could do very well without the money that my aunt may 
 leave me, but pray tell her that, should she please to alter this same will 
 that she has made, I know a pretty little story about some Cossacks in the 
 yellow drawing-room at Senlis, which I shall not fail to relate to every one 
 I meet." 
 
 Madame Troupeau returned to the saloon, wondering what the tale 
 about the Cossacks might mean, but her astonishment was beyond all 
 bounds when, on repeating her daughter's message word for word, her aunt 
 exclaimed almost in a frenzy, — " Marry her to this Auguste, to the devil if 
 you like, but in Heaven's name let me hear no more about these horrid 
 Cossacks." 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine's consent to the marriage with Montreville 
 almost reconciled the Troupeaus to the match ; but a hankering to call 
 their daughter " Countess " still lingering in their minds, when one day 
 Babelle informed them that Virginie had besought her to procure some 
 deadly poison under the pretence of administering it to the rats, and then 
 all their anger and pride were thrown to the four winds, and they thought 
 only of preserving their dear daughter's life. In a few minutes after they 
 received the fearful communication, the affrighted parents ascended to 
 their daughter's chamber like martyrs, and told her she was free to marry 
 whom she liked ; and whilst the girl embraced them and thanked them 
 for their kindness a thousand times, she laughed in her sleeve at the 
 success of her little stratagem about self-slaughter and the rats, and 
 chuckled at the adroit manner in which she had swayed them to her will. 
 
The Seamstress. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 Hand-in-hand the triumphant daughter and the vanquished parents 
 descended to the drawing-room, which they found empty, inasmuch as 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine had withdrawn from the chance of any allusions 
 being made to the vile Cossacks, and taken her faithful steward with her. 
 When the first ebullitions of joy at the happy reconciliation had subsided, 
 Troupeau recollected it would be necessary to make Montreville acquainted 
 with their consent that he should wed their daughter, and as Virginie knew 
 his address in Paris, her father sat down at the writing-desk^ and hav- 
 ing cudgelled his brains for upwards of a quarter of an hour without pro- 
 ducing the first line of an epistle, wrote the following letter at Virginie'a 
 dictation : — 
 
 " MY DEAR MONSIEUR MoNTREVILLE, — / have the pleasure of in- 
 forming you that our anger against you has passed away, and as our 
 daughter's happiness is the thing dearest to our hearts, we are ready to give 
 you her hand if you love her still, and swear never to love anyone but her. 
 Come yourself and bring your answer." . . . The letter was signed, sealed 
 and despatched, and whilst our heroine strolled in the garden to enjoy the 
 freshness of the air from which she had been so long debarred, she counted 
 the hours, the minutes that must elapse before Auguste would receive the 
 note, and tormented herself with the idea that he had forgotten her, and 
 sought consolation with another love. 
 
 The evening passed away, and yet Auguste came not : Madame Troupeau 
 remarked that he might be out of town, and the note would not reach him 
 till the morrow, but the suggestion, probably true as it was, yielded no 
 comfort to the love-sick girl, and she passed the night in all the anxiety of 
 hope deferred. She recalled to mind her meetings with Auguste^ she re- 
 collected that even when he courted her he seemed pensive, and his heart 
 spoke not in his words, that sighs occasionally escaped him, and then came 
 the bitter thought that he did not love, had never loved her, and would not 
 come now that her parents had, as it were, thrown her at his feet. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck on the following day, and yet no Montreville, nor 
 any news of him from Paris : Virginie was pale and utterly dejected, and 
 Troupeau fumed at having demeaned himself by submissively offering his 
 daughter to a man who apparently spurned at and neglected her ; but about 
 two the door -bell was rung hurriedly, some one was admitted, all eyes were 
 turned towards the door, and Virginie nearly fainted as Montreville entered 
 the saloon. The young man bowed politely to the company as he advanced 
 to Troupeau, who shook him by the hand with evident reluctance, and 
 stammered some unintelligible words, and, passing to Madame Troupeau 
 he kissed her coldly on both cheeks, and then saluted Mademoiselle Belle- 
 avrine with much less ardour — as she thought — than the Cossack on the 
 memorable night at Senlis. Baisemon thrust himself in Auguste's way, 
 referring his claim to especial notice, but Montreville walked by him with 
 a contemptuous smile, and took his seat by his blushing future bride. 
 
 After the usual compliments had been made, Troupeau entered upon 
 business, and went straight to the preliminaries of marriage, which were 
 not difficult in arrangement, for as Auguste had neither father nor mother 
 living, there was no one to control his inclinations, and having stated that 
 
132 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 his present income amounted to only two hundred a year, but that he had 
 great expectations, he interrupted Troupeau as he was about to detail what 
 fortune he would give his daughter, telling him to make what provision for 
 her he thought fit, for that he should marry her for herself alone, and be 
 supremely happy even if she came without a single penny to his arms. 
 Such being the case, all obstacles to the immediate marriage were removed, 
 and Troupeau undertook to see the lawyers and procure the necessary legal 
 documents. Auguste remained to dinner, and to Virginie it seemed that 
 scarcely an hour had elapsed when night came and her affianced husband 
 returned to Paris, promising to be with his mistress at an early hour on the 
 following day, after he had made some preparations that would hasten the 
 ceremony that was to crown his love. 
 
 From that moment " The Pucelle of Belleville " recovered all her gaiety ; 
 and she laughed and danced and sang as she had done before Love took 
 possession of her heart ; but as the important marriage-day approached she 
 found it necessary to curb the exuberance of her joy, and descend to the 
 usual occupations of life, for a hundred purchases must be made, and as the 
 whole household were fully engaged, Baisemon was despatched to Paris 
 every day to buy silks, satins, and other stuffs, but the fat man never 
 complained, keeping, as he did, the perspective of a glorious wedding-feast 
 in his mind's eye. 
 
 Auguste came every day to Belleville to bask in the sunshine of his 
 mistress's eyes, but although he was tender and assiduous, his brow would 
 sometimes lower, and his countenance wore an expression more of regret 
 for lost happiness than an anticipation of future bliss. Within a fortnight 
 the bridegroom had obtained from his native place the numerous documents 
 which are required in France before a marriage can be celebrated, and it 
 was arranged that the union should take place at the expiration of ten 
 days, when one morning after breakfast Troupeau received a letter with the 
 London post-mark stamped upon it. He grew pale as he recognised the 
 handwriting to be that of the Count de Senneville, and, breaking the seal, 
 his voice trembled as he read : — 
 
 "MY DEAR FRIEND, — I shall leave London the day after to-morrow, and 
 stop three days at Calais in order to select some handsome sea-shells. There- 
 fore expect me at Belleville in a xoeek from this, and have my pretty little 
 Countess's hand quite ready for me." 
 
 Virginie threw up her head and laughed in scorn at this singular 
 epistle ; Troupeau dropped his upon his breast with a sigh as he thought 
 of the honours now for ever lost ; Baisemon muttered that oysters would 
 have been a more agreeable present than a few trumpery shells ; and 
 Madame Troupeau dropped an unbidden tear as she reflected that De Sen- 
 neville might send back his shells and seek elsewhere another maiden for 
 his bride. 
 
 The intelligence of the Count's approaching arrival created the greatest 
 consternation in the family ; the heads of it knew well enough that should 
 he come before their daughter was married he could demand the fulfilment 
 of the promise of her hand ; but as this was not to be thought of, it was 
 arranged that the wedding should tak-j place in three days, so that, when 
 De Senneville should make his appearance in the Rue de Calais, he would 
 find his intended bride irrevocably another's. A host of females connected 
 with ladies' wearing apparel were immediately summoned to the house and 
 their services put into requisition to complete our heroine's wardrobe ; 
 Madame Troupeau re-wrote the invitations to the marriage feast, Monsieur 
 
The Seamstress. 133 
 
 rode to Paris to hasten the grand preparations of the confectioner and 
 restauranteurs, and all seemed delighted at the abridgement of the time 
 before the event took place that was to make the young couple happy, 
 except Auguste himself, who sighed when the announcement was made 
 known to him, and became more pensive as the hour of his bliss drew nigh. 
 
 In three days, then, " The Pucelle of Belleville " would effectively lose 
 that appellation in becoming Madame Montreville ; but the dresses for the 
 religious ceremony, the dinner, and the ball were not completed — a circum- 
 stance sufficient to break any young girl's heart — and as the selection of 
 them had been entrusted to one of the most aristocratic dressmakers in 
 Paris, Virginie decided upon going to her at once to try on the robes and 
 hasten her handmaidens in their work, because it was imperatively neces- 
 sary that a rich heiress like Mademoiselle Troupeau should be habited on 
 such an important and interesting occasion in the very height of fashion. 
 
 Accordingly a hack carriage was hired from the adjacent livery stables, 
 and our heroine, accompanied by Baisemon, by way of propriety, was driven 
 to a first-rate establishment in the Rue Montmartre. When she entered 
 the handsomely fitted show-room she found the mistress of the house 
 superbly dressed and surrounded by a bevy of young, good-looking girls, 
 who tried on Virginie's marriage robe and dinner dress, which fitted 
 beautifully, and then informed her that the ball dress was not finished, 
 neither could they show it to her, because the seamstress who had under- 
 taken it was a young mother, who could not leave her infant, and was 
 therefore obliged to work at home. 
 
 Virginie's decision was made upon the spot ; she was determined to see 
 the dress, and ascertain how it progressed towards completion, so, having 
 nquired the seamstress's address, she tripped down the stairs, quite 
 delighted that the affairs of the toilette were in so satisfactory a state, and 
 taking one of the apprentices with her, and waking Baisemon from a nap, 
 she ordered the coachman to drive to the street where the young woman 
 lived. The apprentice preceded her up several flights of narrow, dirty 
 stairs, and, opening a door, ushered her into a small garret, where the first 
 thing she beheld was a cradle placed upon two rickety, straw -bottomed 
 chairs, and covered with white calico curtains, which were closely drawn. 
 
 There was not any one in the room, but the apprentice having passed 
 into another, and returned with the announcement that the dressmaker 
 would be with Mademoiselle Troupeau in a moment, she returned to the 
 shop, and Virginie took a good survey of the room in which she found 
 herself. It was very small, without any curtains to the window, and the 
 only furniture it contained was a worm-eaten deal table, a few old chairs, 
 and a piece of broken glass by way of a mirror ; nevertheless, the prevail- 
 ing poverty did not conceal an air of neatness and cleanliness that showed 
 the unfortunate inmate had been accustomed to a better state of things. 
 The " Pucelle's " heart was touched: used to all the comforts, and even 
 luxuries of life from her earliest childhood, she knew not what real misery 
 was, and she shuddered to think of the privations that must be endured by 
 the unhappy mother who tenanted the room. 
 
 As she looked mournfully round her eye rested upon the cradle, and she 
 felt a desire to behold its occupant ; accordingly she rose gently, and was 
 in the act of drawing back the curtains, when a female voice exclaimed in 
 a low, hurried, anxious whisper, — " Hush, hush, do not awake my child ! " 
 Virginie started as the accents met her ear, then turning round suddenly 
 to see who it was that uttered them, she stood fixed to the floor as she 
 recognised the friend of her childhood — Adrienne Vauxdore". 
 
 " Adrienne ! " at length burst from her lips, " is it possible that I find 
 
134 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 Adrienne Vauxdore* in this miserable garret ?"..." Yes, mademoiselle,' 
 her unfortunate friend replied, as the big tears rolled down her cheeks, " it 
 is I, indeed. But wherefore this emotion, this astonishment ? Did you 
 not know that I had quitted Belleville— that my uncle had thrust me from 
 his door ?"..." Poor, poor Adrienne. No, I was ignorant of that fact, 
 for my father has not seen your uncle lately, and in our house your name 
 was never mentioned. But tell me, Adrienne, why did your uncle treat 
 you in this cruel manner ? " 
 
 The unmarried mother pointed to the cradle, in which Virginie now 
 saw a blooming boy about two months old, but did not speak one word. 
 Then having kissed the child passionately as she bent over it, she offered 
 a chair to her former companion, and, taking one herself, proceeded to 
 narrate her melancholy tale. 
 
 "You know, Virginie," she said, "that Monsieur Auguste Montreville 
 came some time since to board and lodge at my uncle's at Belleville ? " 
 Our heroine nodded an assent, for she could not speak, and she looked 
 intensely at Adrienne as she continued, " I think too you were aware that 
 he paid attention to me, at least he professed to be sincerely attached to 
 me, and I believed him with my whole heart and soul. Unfortunately, 
 Monsieur Troupeau invited him and he went frequently to your father's 
 house ; then I became jealous and fearful lest you might win him from me 
 — and you know full well, Virginie, that I had good reasons to dread you 
 — and I strove by every means in my power to assure of my love. In 
 short, I was too confiding, and, in an evil hour, when an opportunity 
 presented itself—" ..." Oh, God ! " Virginie almost shrieked, whilst 
 a convulsive shudder ran through her frame, " Auguste, then, is the father 
 of your child ? " . . . " Yes ; is he not like his father ? But let me 
 finish my melancholy tale. Auguste had promised faithfully to marry me 
 a hundred times before that fatal evening when he returned from the 
 dinner-party at your father's, and, in a frenzy of hope, jealousy and love, I 
 yielded to him. Montreville only awaited some arrangements with his 
 relations in order to fulfil his promise, but when he knew that I was likely 
 to become a mother, he communicated his intentions to my uncle, and the 
 preparations for our marriage were in progress, when, unfortunately, my 
 poor aunt was suddenly taken ill and died. The wedding was, of course, 
 delayed, but Auguste was as loving, as amiable and attentive as ever, when 
 one day — oh, Heavens, the remembrance of that dreadful morning chills 
 my blood — Auguste did not appear at the breakfast-table, nor had I seen 
 him the two previous nights. Fearing that some accident had occurred, I 
 rushed to his chamber and found it empty, and, from the state of the bed, 
 it seemed he had not lain in it all night, but there were two letters upon 
 the dressing-table, one to my uncle and one to myself, and here the latter 
 is, read it, read it yourself, for it rends my heart to do so." 
 
 So saying, the poor, deserted girl took the letter from her bosom. 
 Virginie's hand trembled as she received it, for her conscience smote her 
 for her injustice to the afflicted being who was seated by her side. She read 
 the opening sentences precipitately, but dropped it in her lap when she 
 came to the fatal words, I now know your intrigues with Monsieur Ledoux 
 and your cousin Godibert." . . . " Virginie," Adrienne continued, " you 
 know how false that assertion is ; you know that I concealed your follies 
 out of the purest friendship for you, and that I was not guilty of even the 
 slightest impropriety with those young men. But the inhabitants of Belle- 
 ville believed otherwise, they told Auguste of your father seeing me with 
 Ledoux, the evening that you made the assignation with him at the garden- 
 gate in the B,ue de Calais, and of what took place in the wood of Romain- 
 
The Seamstress, 135 
 
 ville, where circumstances told so much against me, and he abandoned me 
 for ever. Then it was that my uncle drove me from his house, and I should 
 have died in despair had I not recollected that I was about to become a 
 mother, and that my future life ought to be dedicated to my unconscious 
 babe." 
 
 Adrienne burst into tears and hid her face with her hands at the con- 
 clusion of her melancholy tale, whilst the scalding drops poured down the 
 " Pucelle's " cheeks like rain ; her heart reproached her bitterly for all the 
 misery she had caused her friend, and she could have sunk into the earth 
 through very shame. The seamstress recovered herself, and, drying her 
 tears, assured our heroine that her wedding dress should be ready by the 
 time it would be wanted, if she worked at it by night as well as day. She 
 then asked Virginie to whom she was going to be married, but the only 
 reply she received was a kind pressure of the hand, an embrace, and an 
 assurance that she would soon be there again. She then ran down the 
 stairs, jumped into the carriage, gave an address to the coachman, woke up 
 the steward, who, as usual, was fast asleep, desired him sharply to hold his 
 tongue when he hazarded an observation respecting the wedding dresses, 
 and leaned back in the carriage in silence and in deep thought. 
 
 At the expiration of a quarter-of-an-hour, the coachman pulled up at 
 the gate of a respectable-looking house, and Virginie, jumping out, asked 
 if Monsieur Auguste Montreville was within. The reply was in the 
 affirmative ; she uttered a joyous exclamation, bade Baisemon remain 
 where he was for a few minutes — he thinking that, as the couple were to 
 be married in three days, if they could not wait so long, and if anything 
 did happen previously, there would not be any harm, did not oppose her 
 wishes — and bounding up the stairs, rang a bell violently, scarcely answered 
 the servant who opened it, and almost threw herself into a handsomely 
 furnished room where Auguste was seated writing at a desk. 
 
 His astonishment was unbounded ; he led her to a couch and knelt 
 before her as he saw the deep emotion that thrilled her breast; ; he implored 
 her fondly to calm her agitation, but she only wept the more bitterly, and 
 making a strong effort, informed him of her unexpected meeting with 
 Adrienne, and all that had taken place. The deceived, hoodwinked young 
 man was stricken to the heart, and he fell heavily, as if in a trance, into a 
 large arm-chair as Virginie resolutely drew herself up and said : — 
 
 " Listen to me, Auguste, and lay what I am about to tell you to your 
 heart. You loved Adrienne sincerely, and were on the point of marrying 
 her when some abominable, scandalous reports that reached your ears 
 induced you to think that she had already sacrificed her honour. It was 
 not the case. It was I who was really guilty ; it was I who gave the 
 rendezvous to Godibert and Ledoux ; but when the shame of discovery 
 arrived, I contrived to make my escape, and substitute poor Adrienne in 
 my place. Circumstances were against her, but I repeat she was innocent." 
 . . . " Great heavens ! Virginie," Auguste murmured, " can this be 
 true ? " . . . " Yes, Montreville ; you may well believe all I say, for you 
 cannot tell the sorrow that crushes me to the earth, the misery that 
 extinguishes every hope of future happiness as the words pass from my 
 lips. It costs me much — it racks my bosom to destroy my fairy dreams 
 of love by telling you the truth ; but Adrienne must no longer suffer 
 through my thoughtless folly ; you must be persuaded of her thorough 
 innocence, and I — even I — will give her a husband worthy to be the father 
 of her child. Auguste, you have never ceased to think of Adrienne ; your 
 coldness when pressing on your suit with me, the sighs that escape you now, 
 the tears that bedew your cheek, all prove to me that you love her fondly 
 
136 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 still, and therefore you must marry her. Come with me, let me instantly 
 repair as much as I can the wrongs I have committed. Come with me and 
 make poor Adrienne happy." 
 
 With an overflowing heart Montreville rose to follow the enthusiastic 
 girl, who, in truth, was doing a deed of heroic justice. He hesitated at 
 the threshold of the room and adverted to their marriage, but she smiled 
 as she said she gave him his entire liberty, and then, nerving herself to the 
 task, embraced him for the last time. Hand-in-hand they came down the 
 stairs, entered the coach, and were driven to the street where Adrienne 
 resided without uttering a word upon the way, much to Baisemon's sur- 
 prise, for he could not conceive it possible that melancholy could possess 
 the souls of two young people about to attain the very summit of their 
 hopes. 
 
 When the carriage stopped Auguste and Virginie stepped out and 
 silently ascended to the garret ; they entered the room where Adrienne 
 was bending over the cradle without her being aware of their presence in 
 the least, and the repentant Auguste sank at her knees as " The Pucelle of 
 Belleville " touched her lightly on the shoulder and said, in a husky, broken 
 voice, — "Adrienne, I have brought you back your husband, who feels how 
 wrong he was to believe the calumnies that had been spread about you. 
 I committed all the mischief, and it was for me to repair the error. Fare- 
 well, and be happy with your husband." 
 
 Words cannot paint the delight expressed on Adrienne's countenance 
 as Auguste rose from his knees and strained her to his breast. She 
 motioned to Virginie to stay, and then, disengaging herself from Auguste's 
 arms, she asked her not to leave them at the renewal of their happiness ; 
 but Virginie answered firmly, — " Know ye not that I must away to com- 
 plete the preparations for my marriage with the Count De Senneville," 
 and whilst Montreville stood mute with wonder, incapable of motion, as if 
 an enchanter's wand had turned him into stone, she rushed downstairs, 
 told the man to drive quickly back to Belleville, ordered Baisemon not to 
 speak one word on pain of forfeiting his place at her table for evermore, 
 threw herself back against the cushions of the carriage, covered her face 
 with her hands, burst into an agony of tears, and sobbed all the way home 
 as if her heart were breaking at the idea of her approaching nuptials. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIV. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 Our heroine's parents were rather uneasy at her protracted absence, and 
 consequently were extremely pleased when she entered the morning-room, 
 although she looked deadly pale, and her eyes were red with weeping ; 
 but their surprise was immeasurably increased when, taking a seat on a 
 chair between them, she stated that Auguste and herself had returned each 
 other their plighted faith, and that, in obedience to their desires, she was 
 willing to become De Senneville's wife. Baisemon thought it very possible 
 that the fickle girl would change her mind before the morning, and insist 
 upon having some other person for her husband ; even Mademoiselle 
 Belleavrine expressed her satisfaction by a grim smile ; but as for Troupeau, 
 he called for Babelle, Grillore, and Lizette to tell them the important news, 
 
The Conclusion. 137 
 
 and was prevented with difficulty from shouting it out of the window ; then, 
 catching up his hat, ran into the street to make all Belleville acquainted 
 with the glorious intelligence that his daughter would become a countess. 
 
 His intimate friends were delighted at his brilliant prospects, more 
 especially as he promised them a succession of fetes to celebrate the 
 wedding, which was to be illuminated by fireworks and a large transparency 
 with the portraits and title of the bride and bridegroom, designed and 
 executed by Monsieur Tir. Vauxdore alone was the only invited in- 
 habitant of the little town who declined being present at the festivities, 
 for, since the day he had turned away his niece, he had deeply regretted 
 the hasty act, and, secluding himself from all society, had scarcely ever 
 left the house. 
 
 For the first time in his life the Count de Senneville was punctual to 
 an appointment, and arrived at the ex-upholsterer's at Belleville on the 
 day he had indicated in his letter, but if the good people had known the 
 truth they would have found that his punctuality was caused from his 
 eager desire to possess " The Pucelle's " dowry, because he had entirely 
 dissipated his fortune, and, after purchasing at Calais one of those large, 
 handsome shells, which from the peculiarity of their formation are commonly 
 called "Love's Throne," he had hardly funds enough left to defray his 
 expenses back to Paris. The Count received an enthusiastic reception from 
 the elder Troupeaus and Mademoiselle Belleavrine, and a cold one from 
 Virginie, who affected to be conferring an honour upon him in consenting 
 to become his bride ; the experienced roue understood her well, but took no 
 offence at her conduct, having her present property and great expectations 
 before his eyes ; and taking the shell from his pocket he presented it to her 
 with much grace, merely exacting a promise from her that she would return 
 it to him on their nuptial night, which was fixed in solemn conclave for 
 a fortnight from that day. 
 
 Fresh cards of invitation to the wedding were issued with the neces- 
 sary change in the bridegroom's name, and, at Virginie's request, Godibert 
 and Ledoux were not omitted : as for herself, she took no interest in the 
 approaching ceremony, nor in the toilette she was to grace, but as her whole 
 character seemed changed, or, in fact, was only developed in a different 
 light, she passed much of her time with the notary who was employed to 
 draw up the marriage settlements, instructing him to arrange them in such 
 a manner that her dowry should be used to pay off the mortgages upon the 
 Count's estate in Burgundy, but the property that would come to her at 
 her aunt's decease should be free from any of his debts, and entirely under 
 her sole and separate control. The lawyer was astonished to find so young 
 a girl with so much worldly knowledge and with greater forethought than 
 her parents ; but she put an end to his compliments by promptly remarking 
 that she could not afford to ruin herself even to become a countess. 
 
 In the interval that elapsed before the Count returned, Montreville 
 and Adrienne had become man and wife, and established themselves in a 
 comfortable house in Paris. Happy in the possession of a lovely, amiable 
 woman who adored him, and a charming babe, Auguste never experienced 
 a moment's regret at having failed to gain a wealthy wife, and feeling no 
 compunctious visitings of conscience, he divided his time between friend- 
 ship, love and the cultivation of the Fine Arts, for since his niece's marriage 
 Vauxdore' became reconciled to the young folks, and often came to see them. 
 
 On the eve of the day that was to unite him to our heroine, De 
 Senneville repaired to Belleville to sign the marriage-contract : he hesitated 
 slightly at the clause which debarred him from disposing of her fortune, 
 and at the conclusion of the reading of the document said to his futura 
 
138 The Pucelle of Belleville. 
 
 father-in-law, — "How is this, my dear sir, how comes it that you dis- 
 trust my prudence ? I bring your daughter my nobility, and she brings 
 me her money ; I think that we ought to have everything in common." 
 ..." Indeed, my lord," Troupeau replied, " I did not give any instruc- 
 tions to the notary upon the point, and—" . . . But Virginie, interrupting 
 her father, said, — " My dear papa, the contract has been drawn up entirely 
 in accordance with my wishes ; if it displeases Monsieur de Senneville he 
 is free to take his nobility elsewhere, but if he loves me, as he says he does, 
 he must see that the precautions I have taken will only tend to secure our 
 future happiness." 
 
 Troupeau trembled all over as he felt there was still a possibility of the 
 coveted honour of becoming allied to a noble of high rank slipping from his 
 grasp ; but the Count was too deeply involved in debt to let pass the 
 opportunity of redeeming his paternal estates and freeing himself from the 
 importunities of clamorous creditors, so he put a good face on the matter, 
 and professed himself willing to defer in every particular to the wishes of 
 his bride. 
 
 At length the important day arrived that was to make a countess of the 
 pretty "Pucelle of Belleville." Troupeau and his wife were stirring with 
 the lark, and at an early hour in the morning the Rue de Calais was alive 
 tvith carriages of high and low degree ; the whole town was in a state of 
 great excitement, and the inhabitants lined the streets to see the brilliant 
 cortege pass. The blooming Virginie was splendidly arrayed, and as the 
 Count led her to the altar she walked up the aisle, not agitated and with 
 the trembling gait of a bashful girl, but with the easy air and proud, 
 decided step of a queen marching to her coronation. The gossips who 
 crowded around remarked the circumstances, and made the usual kindly, 
 good-natured comments on it. One augured that the Countess would be 
 master in her establishment, and another did not infer much matrimonial 
 happiness to her husband, but Renard quaintly observed that he had been 
 present at many marriages, and his experience told him that those timid 
 brides who could not lift their eyes during the celebration of the holy rite 
 had not always been those who had kept their nuptial oath the most 
 religiously. 
 
 Mademoiselle Belleavrine was present at the service in the church, but 
 returned to Senlis immediately after its conclusion, determined never again 
 to quit the old house which daily recalled to her memory one of the most 
 memorable epochs of her life. 
 
 The marriage feast was of the most sumptuous character, and the ball 
 no less magnificent, there being a hundred more persons present — including 
 Godibert and Ledoux — than could be accommodated at the repast. The 
 young men looked at the Countess with admiring eyes, but dared not 
 accost her in her new-blown dignity ; and she, with great good nature, 
 indulging at the same time in a low laugh at the remembrance of the 
 scenes at Senlis, gave them a general invitation to her seat in Burgundy. 
 
 There remain only a few words to be said : Tir could not discharge 
 his fireworks when the bride retired, because De Senneville led her quietly 
 away without the company remarking it ; and Baisemon, gorged to the 
 throat with wine and the good things at the supper, tumbled into bed, 
 wondering whether Virginie had yet abandoned to her husband the sweetly- 
 named sea-shell. 
 
 THE END, 
 
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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 8U3 
 
 K76x 
 v. 8 
 
This BOOK may be kept out TWO 
 WEEKS ONLY, and is subject to a fine 
 of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was 
 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
 r^J*T\&M^am&F- 
 
/~* 
 
 2 .c 
 
WINE < 
 
 -» WOMEN t- 
 
 AND SONG. 
 
 ijL sdlzUsk: 
 
 LONDON: 
 THE TEMPLE COMPANY, 
 
 BOOKSELLEKS' ROW, W.C. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FIRST DA Y. 
 
 The Silent Passenger, . 
 
 THIRD DAY. 
 
 ) 
 
 Chaptee I. — 
 
 1 
 
 Here's to the New Year, . 
 Chapter II. — 
 
 ? 
 
 The Saintly Widow, 
 
 43 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 SECOND DA Y. 
 Chapter I. — 
 
 He becomes Communicative, . . . • 12 
 
 Chapter II. — 
 
 Parentage and School Days, . . . . 17 
 
 Chapter III. — 
 
 Hereditary Taints, . . . . 25 
 
 Chapter IV. — , 
 
 First Start out into the World, . . . . 35 
 
 Chapter V. — 
 
 Again on the Road, ... 41 
 
 Chapter VI. — 
 
 A Triangular Love Affair, .... 47 
 
 Chapter VII. — 
 
 In the Clutches of the Law, . . ... 55 
 
 61 
 
 64 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter III. — 
 
 Seeking for the Pearl of Great Price, . . . 68 
 
 Chapter IV, — 
 
 Must to London, ...... 73 
 
 Chapter V. — 
 
 A Drove of Irish Shearers, .... 77 
 
 Chapter VI.— 
 
 With a Wild Beasts' Show, .... 85 
 
 FOURTH DA T. 
 Chapter I. — 
 
 The Pleasures and Pains of Alcohol, ... 92 
 
 Chapter II. — 
 
 Notes by the Way, ..... 95 
 
 Chapter III. — 
 
 First Impressions of Germany, .... 98 
 
 Chapter IV. — 
 
 The Great Fair at Leipzig, . . . .104 
 
 Chapter V. — 
 
 Settling down to Study, . . . . .108 
 
 Chapter VI. — 
 
 Another Affair of the Heart, . . . . Ill 
 
 Chapter VII. — 
 
 The Amende Honorable, ..... 114 
 
 FIFTH DA Y. 
 Chapter I. — 
 
 A Lovers' Quarrel, . . . . . 118 
 
 Chapter II. — 
 
 A Night of Adventures, . . . . .121 
 
 Chapter III. — 
 
 The Breach healed, , , , , ,127 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter IV. — 
 
 A Terrible Awakening, . . . . . 131 
 
 Chapter V. — 
 
 Getting under Weigh again, . . . . 135 
 
 Chapter VI. — 
 
 Liza's Answer and what came of It, . . .138 
 
 Chapter VII. — 
 
 In the Metropolis, . . . . . 143 
 
 Chapter VIII. — 
 
 Was it Fate? ...... 146 
 
 Chapter IX. — 
 
 All is Vanity, . . . . . .149 
 
 Chapter X. — 
 
 Residence in the Modern Athens, . . . 153 
 
 Chapter XI. — 
 
 The Belles of Edina, . . . . . 159 
 
 Chapter XII. — 
 
 My Literary Bete Nolr, . . . . . 161 
 
 Chapter XIII. — 
 
 Music North of the Tweed, . . . . 167 
 
 Chapter XIV. — 
 
 Strangling the Monster, . . . - . 171 
 
 SIXTH DA Y. 
 
 Chapter I. — 
 
 The Climax — Last Will and Testament, . . . 175 
 
 SEVENTH DAY. 
 Chapter I. — 
 
 Mr Bigglethwaite's Suicidal Mental Battery, , . 181 
 
 Chapter II. — 
 
 Resumes his Narrative, . . . . . 186 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter III. — 
 
 The Saintly Widow again, 
 Chapter IV. — 
 
 Mrs Deerpin hoist with a Petard, . 
 
 Chapter V. — 
 
 A Welcome Visitor, 
 
 Chapter VI. — 
 
 Sage Reflections, . 
 
 Chapter VII. — 
 
 Disappearance of Mary, 
 
 Chapter VIII. — 
 The End, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 19'i 
 
 198 
 
 207 
 
 211 
 
 216 
 
 234 
 
THE DIPSOMANIAC; 
 
 OR, 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF A LIFE. 
 
 TOLD IN SEVEN DA YS. 
 
 Experience has long since dissipated my faith in men's rationality. 
 
 Herbert Spencer. 
 
 FIRST DAY. 
 
 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 The weather was bitterly cold when we set sail from 
 New York, and for this reason, as well as for the 
 other, that the ship carried few passengers — about 
 thirty all told — there were hardly any leave-takings 
 to be witnessed. The captain had been personally 
 known to me for years, but we were in no sense 
 friends. While waiting in New York for the ship 
 to be loaded and coaled — she was four days behind 
 advertised time in sailing, in consequence of some 
 slight repairs that had to be made to her deck equip- 
 ment while in dock, the result of the tempestuous 
 weather she had encountered on her way out — I had 
 several times been invited to dine with him on board, 
 and in this way he had become not only aware of my 
 presence, but our former acquaintance had been re- 
 vived as well. The cargo of the ship consisted almost 
 entirely of grain — some four thousand tons, I was 
 
 A 
 
2 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 told — and she had been loaded up to the very lips, 
 as the sailors phrased it. In fact, when we steamed 
 out of dock, our good ship was drawing twenty-nine 
 feet of water at the stern, a fact that portended, at 
 least, a protracted passage, if not also considerable 
 risk to life, should the weather prove stormy. Of this 
 latter, however, the cap.\?in assured me there was little 
 to fear, as we were bound to have a calm after the 
 recent storm, and so it turned out ; the ocean was as 
 smooth as a mill pond from port to port. Never- 
 theless, it was not until we had completely cleared 
 the fogs of the Newfoundland banks that all the 
 passengers had fairly got on to what is called their 
 sea legs, and were able to sit down to table together 
 at meals. 
 
 The steerage passengers were all assigned berths in 
 the second cabin, for the reason that the steerage, as 
 well as part of the second cabin, had been taken 
 advantage of for the stowing away of hundreds of 
 sacks of grain. Thrown into such a narrow space, 
 people soon become acquainted and familiar. A lady 
 and her daughter, both of whom turned out to be of 
 a most perfervid religious cast of mind, were, by 
 common consent, assigned places at one end of the 
 table at meals, while a Scotchman and his rosy young 
 wife — who had gone out to the States immediately on 
 their getting married, three months previously, to seek 
 a new home, but who were returning disappointed — 
 took up a position at the other end. There were 
 about a dozen other passengers, all men, chiefly of the 
 English and Scotch mechanic class, who were return- 
 ing to England for the same reason as the couple just 
 mentioned, together with two Irishmen from the silver 
 mines of Arizona, who were going to the diamond fields 
 in South Africa, the writer, and the subject of this nar- 
 rative. The latter was an elderly gentleman, verging 
 on seventy years of age, as I afterwards discovered, but 
 who did not look more than threescore years, if so 
 
THE SILENT PASSENGER. 3 
 
 much. His hair was quite white : very bushy, and worn 
 rather long. To the onlooker it seemed a perpetual 
 annoyance to him, for he kept pushing it from off 
 his brow and behind his ears almost every time you 
 looked at him, or threw it back out of his eyes with 
 a wave of the head, as a restless horse does its mane. 
 He was clean shaven, except for a little distance under 
 each ear — short "mutton chop," in fact. His hair 
 coming so constantly down over his brow, it was 
 difficult to form any correct idea of the shape of 
 the forehead : but what eyelashes and eyes ! The 
 latter, though small, appeared to flash on you like 
 a wave of electric light ; grey-blue and restless. The 
 nose was large and broad, and its walls seemed to rise 
 and fall like those of a setter. The mouth and chiu, 
 when in repose, were so firmly set that you made 
 yourself believe at times you could hear the teeth 
 grind. Altogether, it was a solemn, severe face — a face 
 to be remarked and never to be forgotten. It was a 
 face whose features appeared incapable of relaxing — 
 stern, unbending. A smile, one would have thought, 
 would altogether be out of place there. Yet it was 
 not a cruel face, nor was it the face of a Jeremiah. 
 It can best be described as a "Thus saith the Lord 
 face " — an Elijah sort of expression. 
 
 On the first day he took up his position at the 
 upper corner of the table, with his back to the side of 
 the ship, whether at meals, or when the cloth had been 
 cleared away, which he retained till nearly to the end 
 of the voyage. The assistant steward assigned me the 
 seat opposite, which was a cushioned form without 
 back, so that I had the two religious ladies close to my 
 left, and he them close to his right. For the first two 
 days I attempted several times to engage the old man 
 in conversation directly, or through the ladies, but he 
 paid no more heed to us than one dumb. He was 
 evidently an experienced sailor, for he ate always with 
 an excellent appetite ; and this was the only oppor- 
 
4 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 tunity one had of seeing his teeth, which were large, 
 clean, white and regular. He was an adept with knife 
 and fork, and was the only person at table who used a 
 serviette, which, of course, was of his own providing. 
 He cut his food into very small pieces, and sat up, 
 when masticating, straight as a bolt, with his elbows 
 well in by the sides. After every mouthful of food 
 or liquid he raised his napkin and drew it across his 
 lips without altering the position of the head. On 
 board such ships, when travelling second class, you are, 
 in respect of food, given Hobson's choice : eat what is 
 set before you, or leave it, and no ceremony, and less 
 civility ; although it is open to any passenger to make 
 complaint to the captain direct of any grievance, 
 when he pays his supposed official visit to the cabin 
 once every day. From the former circumstance it 
 was not necessary for our silent fellow-passenger to 
 open his lips, even to the steward. 
 
 On the afternoon of the second day, a deputation 
 appointed by the passengers who had met on deck 
 to discuss the peculiarities of " the corner man " (as 
 he was already designated), appeared at the cap- 
 tain's room on deck, where I was seated with the 
 latter playing chess, to lay before him their fears 
 in regard to the said " corner man." They were of 
 opinion that he was both deaf and dumb, and, what 
 was worse, mad, in which latter case they considered 
 him dangerous ; " No saying what he might do," as 
 one of them remarked. I, who had been observing" 
 his movements more closely than they, was able to 
 reassure them on both points ; for while in my berth 
 reading, to be out of the gaze of his piercing eyes, 
 which were simply unendurable when alone in the 
 saloon with him, I had heard him repeat to himself 
 passages in five or six tongues, three of which were 
 more or less known to me — Latin, German and French. 
 From the books, too, which I had seen in his hands, and 
 before him on the table, I felt convinced that he, like 
 
THE SILENT PASSENGEK. 5 
 
 the great Molkte, could be silent in seven or eight 
 languages. The incident, however, coming to the ears 
 of one of the assistant stewards, a bluff Yorkshire- 
 man, the one who waited most often on us at table, 
 was not allowed to pass by unheeded. Jim — that was 
 his name — when placing his food before him that 
 evening at supper, blurted out in his broad York- 
 shire tongue, good-humouredly, " I say, ' corner man,' 
 do you know what they are saying about you ? 
 They are saying you are deaf and dumb and mad." 
 Everybody at the table roared with laughter at this 
 impertinent sally of Jim's, and it proved also irre- 
 sistible to my vis-a-vis. He joined in the laughter, 
 and showed his fine white teeth to great advantage. 
 It was like a beam of sunshine breaking through a 
 thundercloud ; but still he did not speak. We had 
 not long, however, to wait. The supper things had 
 hardly been cleared away, and he had been given time 
 to replace his books before him on the table from the 
 seat beside him, whence they had been removed to per- 
 mit of the cloth being spread, when our religious lady, 
 taking advantage of the circumstance of his laughter, 
 made bold again to speak to him and to offer him a 
 religious tract of some kind. Throwing back his hair, 
 you should have seen the storm which momentarily sat 
 on his brow ! But he answered her calmly. "Madame," 
 he said, "I have long ago settled the matter of religion 
 with my own conscience ; I have no need of such 
 literature ; do not therefore trouble me farther with 
 it." Seeing that the lady was about to reply, he 
 hurriedly picked up his books from the table and 
 proceeded to his berth, muttering to himself as he 
 went words I could not catch. To me, however, the 
 tones of his voice were as great a revelation as his 
 laughter had been a few minutes before ; they were 
 peculiarly mellow and harmonious, quite convincing 
 me that he was a man with " music in his soul," and 
 therefore no hatcher of treason. 
 
6 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 The ice was now broken, and next morning, stopping 
 me on deck, he opened a conversation, unsolicited on 
 my part, and commenced to speak as "one that 
 had authority, and not as the scribes." It was easy 
 to discern from his manner that if friendship was 
 to proceed apace, I would have to play the part of 
 disciple ; even so, my curiosity being already some- 
 what whetted, and he many years my senior, I was 
 quite prepared to accept the position. I was first 
 subjected to a fire of cross-examination as to my past 
 life, my present occupation, and my future aims, these 
 last in particular. My answers seemed to please him, 
 and he became more and more communicative as to 
 himself. Finding that I, like himself, had given some 
 considerable attention to music, the conversation 
 turned chiefly on that topic. I elicited the facts 
 from him that at one time music had been his ex- 
 clusive study and occupation, and that he had not 
 only filled the position of organist. and conductor, but 
 had been a vocalist of some repute as well. 
 
 The same afternoon, while playing again at chess 
 with the captain, I communicated the gist of our con- 
 versation to him, suggesting at the same time that an 
 impromptu concert might be got up in the cabin, 
 seeing that, besides myself and my new-found friend, 
 there were two professionals amongst the cabin 
 passengers, and none amongst the latter who were 
 likely to take exception to the presence of the second 
 cabin passengers in the first cabin, who, I proposed, 
 should be invited to be present. Though this latter 
 was quite contrary to the rules of the ship, the captain 
 agreed to the proposal, provided the cabin passengers 
 were unanimous, which fact he undertook to ascertain 
 through the steward forthwith. On an answer being 
 brought back that everyone of the cabin passengers 
 was agreeable, I at once accompanied the captain to 
 the saloon and arranged a programme for the evening, 
 leaving out, however, on second thoughts, our silent 
 
THE SILENT PASSENGER. 7 
 
 " corner man," until I should know more of him. 
 I was likewise deputed to invite the whole of the 
 second cabin passengers to be present, an invitation 
 which was gladly accepted, I need hardly say, and by 
 none more heartily than by the " corner man." When 
 I had approached the latter I found him in his corner, 
 immersed in Plato's Republic, in the original, and he 
 complaisantly invited me to avail myself, if I was so 
 minded, of any of the other books that were lying on 
 the table before him. I selected Goethe's Faust, which, 
 I could see, pleased him. In a little while he put 
 down his book and asked me how I was getting on 
 with mine, and requested me, in the most friendly 
 manner, seeing that there was no one present but 
 ourselves, to read it aloud, that he might also enjoy 
 it with me. Demurring to the proposal, on the 
 ground that I was unequal to such a task, he took 
 the book and commenced to read. Considering his 
 past behaviour, I was quite astonished at this conde- 
 scension ; the rather, too, when he informed me that 
 he would read slowly, so that I might be able to 
 follow him. When he had read for about the space 
 of ten minutes, he put down the book, seemingly quite 
 overcome with emotion. As there was nothing in the 
 text at the particular point which he had reached to 
 account for this sudden outburst of feeling, I waited 
 for an explanation ; but the only explanation he 
 vouchsafed was that the associations of the book, not 
 its actual sentiments, touched a tender spot in his 
 nature, the particulars of which he would perhaps 
 unfold to me at another time. 
 
 When supper was laid soon after, to the surprise of 
 everyone, he talked all throughout it, addressing his 
 conversation to me, which had reference exclusively 
 to the music that was to be given at the concert, 
 analysing some of the more important numbers phrase 
 by phrase, and characterising the genius and methods 
 of the different composers. No one had any ears now 
 
8 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 except for the silent "corner man." Even our re- 
 ligions neighbour was hushed into silence : a rare 
 thing, as, when she could find no one else to talk to 
 she bored her daughter, who sat by her side, about 
 this preacher, that Bible passage and the other. 
 
 I now looked forward with no small amount of 
 pleasure and enthusiasm to the friendly intercourse 
 I should have with my vis-a-vis during the rest of 
 the voyage. His stores of knowledge, both as regards 
 books and music, appeared to me at first to be in- 
 exhaustible, and in this I w r as not greatly disap- 
 pointed, as will presently appear. But the mot 
 d'ordre just then was the concert to take place in 
 the evening. People who have not been to sea can 
 form no conception of the joyous anticipation that 
 such events call forth amongst men and women who 
 are thus thrown together with nothing to do. 
 
 Our silent friend took his place among the second 
 cabin passengers in the most dignified and respectful 
 manner, his arms folded and all attention. The ball 
 was set rolling by the elder of the two lady profes- 
 sionals with Suppe's " Poet and Peasant," effectively 
 arranged for the pianoforte, and performed in a very 
 
 editable manner. The other professional lady fol- 
 lowed w^ith Bishop's somewhat hackneyed, " Tell me 
 my heart," which was enthusiastically received by 
 the second class passengers, and encored. Then fol- 
 lowed a song by myself, "Der Erlkoenig," and one 
 by another gentleman, one of the second class pas- 
 sengers, who gave Longfellow's " Village Blacksmith," 
 Weiss' version of it, with good effect. By general 
 consent an interval now ensued, during which refresh- 
 ments were served round, at the expense, I was led 
 to understand, of one of the first cabin passengers. 
 When the tray was presented to our "corner man," 
 he politely bowed refusal, accompanied by a wave of 
 the left hand and a "No, thank you." During the 
 whole of the time of this sort of "free-and-easy," 
 
THE SILENT PASSENGER. 9 
 
 which might last perhaps for half-an-hour, I sat 
 beside him, and the conversation naturally turned 
 on the music and the musical capacity displayed by 
 the respective performers. He praised my singing, 
 particularly my endeavours to accommodate the 
 English version of the words I made use of to the 
 music, which had been originally set to the German 
 words. He spoke kindly also of the musical efforts 
 of the others, with the exception of the lady who 
 had played the "Poet and Peasant," so acceptably, 
 as it seemed to me, bating her affectation. Of 
 this performance he would not speak, and I little 
 dreamt for the moment that thereby hung a tale, 
 or, I should rather say, perhaps, that it preluded 
 a scene. 
 
 It came to the turn of this lady again to play, 
 and this time she selected the pretentious concert- 
 room piece, the Sonata by Beethoven, generally, though 
 erroneously, described as "The Moonlight Sonata," 
 which has as much to do with the moon specifically 
 as the moon has to do with the ripening of corn. 
 When she had performed a few bars, my neighbour 
 at once began to grow very restless, constantly chang- 
 ing his position, and apparently unable to keep his 
 hair out of his eyes. This continued until the first 
 movement had been gone through and repeated, as 
 well as the second, with its charmingly pensive lilt, 
 which was not well executed, had been given. My 
 neighbour's impatience, I now observed, had increased 
 to fever point. A dash was then made by the per- 
 former at the final presto movement. This proved 
 to be the last straw for my neighbour's patience. He 
 sprang to his feet and shouted at the top of his voice, 
 " Stop, woman, you are committing murder." The ex- 
 plosion was so sudden and unexpected, that not even an 
 " Oh " escaped anyone, while the speaker's countenance 
 was a picture. I could not see how the others looked, 
 my regards were so steadfastly fixed on the interrupter. 
 
10 THE SILENT PASSENGER. 
 
 Dead silence reigned for a moment, while he stood as 
 straight and immovable as a Corinthian pillar, in his 
 plain dark clothes and high black neck-stock, and 
 still higher white collar, his features apparently life- 
 less. Such moments, as everyone knows, seem very 
 long and excruciatingly painful ; and it was left to 
 the performer herself to put an end to them. With 
 exquisite tact and with the sweetest smile illuminat- 
 ing a by no means unattractive, though carefully 
 powdered, face, she gracefully rose from the piano- 
 forte stool, and, addressing my statuesque neighbour, 
 apologised to him and the company for attempting to 
 give a rendering to music far beyond her executive 
 capacity ; " but," she continued, " would the gentle- 
 man " — not the slightest tinge of contempt noticeable 
 on this word — "I am now addressing kindly show me 
 how the music should be played ? I will have great 
 pleasure in turning the leaves for him if he will allow 
 me." Nothing could have been finer than this, the 
 more so when it is added that the little speech was 
 delivered in a voice peculiarly attractive in itself from 
 its timbre, as well as by being free from the least visible 
 emotion. I had never before, I thought, witnessed 
 anyone so beautifully, so gracefully, so dexterously 
 made to feel, if such a one was capable of fine feel- 
 ing, the exceeding foolishness of one's own gratuitous 
 folly. But my neighbour's countenance, I must admit, 
 was far from showing it. Placing his large-brimmed 
 felt hat on the seat which he had vacated, he walked 
 deliberately up to the lady, bowed to her without 
 speaking, as if he were willing to accept the kind 
 offices she had proffered, sat down, and without even 
 running his fingers over the key-board (the modern 
 virtuoso's " look here "), nay, even forgetting to throw 
 his hair back behind his ears, began the soft arpeggio 
 movement. When he had executed the slow move- 
 ment for the first time, the difference between his 
 playing and that of the lady who stood by his side 
 
THE SILENT PASSENGER. 11 
 
 was so marked, that the late " disagreeable incident " 
 seemed to be quite forgotten by everybody except 
 by the captain, who looked glum and discontented. 
 When our "corner man" had finished playing, his 
 auditors were in raptures. Though, like Rubenstein, 
 he sometimes made finger slips, yet there was a 
 broadness and massiveness of expression, together 
 with a phrasing at once intelligent and varied, in 
 his playing, that rendered it far from being con- 
 temptible. What struck me most at the time, and 
 which our after intercourse confirmed, was that the 
 composition in its three movements responded exactly 
 to his own temperament, to wit — a heaving longing, 
 melancholy pensiveness, and concentrated fury. 
 
 On his rising from the instrument, there followed 
 another of those little scenes that one likes never to 
 forget. There was reciprocal bowing between him 
 and the lady, profuse apologies on the one side, and 
 sincere congratulations on the other, until everybody 
 felt in the utmost good humour. The former at- 
 tempted to apologise to the company, but his first 
 words were drowned with " no, noes." He had apolo- 
 gised openly to the lady, and everybody seemed to be 
 satisfied with that. After the concert was over that 
 night, Mr Bigglethwaite (I may as well now give his 
 name) and I talked for hours together, during which 
 he gave me an outline of his life and career, informing 
 me at the same time that he proposed giving it to the 
 world in all its nakedness and truth, with the object 
 that, while it might discourage and even offend some, 
 on the other hand, it would show what obstacles were 
 and were not to be overcome in the life of one cast 
 into the world with hereditary taints, and whose sole 
 gift from nature, and parents and friends, had been 
 ambition. 
 
SECOND DAY. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HE BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. 
 
 Next morning, when I ascended to the deck before 
 breakfast, I found Mr Bigglethwaite had already 
 preceded me thither. His greeting was hearty and 
 friendly in the extreme. He was much distressed, 
 he informed me, on account of his behaviour of the 
 previous evening at the concert; to the extent, 
 indeed, that he had not slept any during the night. 
 "It was the miserable professional affectation of 
 the lady," said he, " that first put me off my guard. 
 In my soul I do detest professional cant ; but 
 at my time of life and with my experience I ought 
 to have been proof against such an outburst of 
 temper ; it is so humiliating when one comes to reflect 
 on it." 
 
 " No doubt," I answered, and by way of encourage- 
 ment I added : " But ' all's well that ends well.' 
 Take my word for it, if that is worth anything in 
 your esteem, there is not one who was present who 
 would not now say that the episode did not enhance 
 the enjoyment of the evening." 
 
 " That, though no doubt well meant, is cruel ; it 
 is only another way of saying that I played the 
 part of a fool unintentionally, and that I earned the 
 fool's reward, namely, was laughed at." 
 
 " Not at all ; it was your rendering of the mus ic 
 
HE BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. 13 
 
 which was enjoyed more than anything. Do you 
 think, if you had not been able to acquit yourself as 
 you did, the company would have been put into such 
 high good humour ? It is the motive one must 
 look at." 
 
 " This is where you are entirely in the wrong," 
 said he, turning sharply on me. " Misplaced motives 
 are the curse of humanity. Motives, forsooth ! 
 Motives make martyrs, not men. What have other 
 people to do with my motives, or they with mine ? 
 Motives are not actions. It is not what a man 
 thinks, but what a man does that he must be judged 
 by. 'What a man sows, that shall he also reap.' 
 The devil's motives are of the best ; that is, from his 
 own point of view. To the devil with — ahem ! — well, 
 let us drop the subject. I made a fool of myself, 
 and I ought to be sent to sea, like Jonah, for my 
 folly ; voila tout." 
 
 To change the subject I remarked: "By the way, 
 you said something about Goethe's Faust yesterday ; 
 what is it you promised to tell me ? " 
 
 " The subject is too painful a one for me to enter 
 on at present ; besides, we should not have time 
 before breakfast. I will tell you all about it, 
 however, before we separate : the voyage is still 
 young." 
 
 " Very well, then ; but did you not also say tha 
 you had some idea of writing your own life, and 
 of giving it to the world ? In what form are you 
 going to present it ? " 
 
 " I am going to lay my innermost soul bare to my 
 fellow-men in the best language I can command. I 
 shall keep nothing back, however compromising to 
 myself as one of God's creatures, that I think may 
 either serve as an example or a warning." 
 
 " Your motives — I beg your pardon, I shall 
 endeavour to banish this word from my vocabulary 
 for the future, after what you have said this morn- 
 
14 HE BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. 
 
 ing." Mr Bigglethwaite grinned, and shot at me 
 a bolt from his electrical orbs. " What I intended to 
 say," I continued, "was that your object was de- 
 cidedly a laudable one ; and I was further about to 
 ask whether I could be of any service to you 
 in the carrying of it out, between this and the time 
 we are due at Liverpool. It has just occurred to me 
 that, seeing I can write shorthand in a kind of way, 
 I could take down what you have to say of yourself 
 and extend my notes afterwards ; a man, you know, 
 can speak from three to four columns an hour, while 
 it takes an hour to write half a column, even when 
 one has thought out what one has to say. What do 
 you think of the proposal ? From what you told me 
 last night of yourself, the exercise will afford me 
 much pleasure, I know ; besides, it will be an excellent 
 way pour passer le temps" 
 
 Mr Bigglethwaite looked at me curiously for a 
 moment, a look in which I could discern credulity 
 as well as kindliness, and replied : " Your offer is 
 generous in the extreme, but I could not think of 
 imposing on you to the extent you suggest. How- 
 ever, let us dismiss the subject until after breakfast; 
 an revoir." 
 
 Seeing the captain on the bridge, I joined him there, 
 to talk over the incidents of the previous evening. 
 He was still full of resentment, I found, against Mr 
 Bigglethwaite for the way in which he had acted 
 towards the lady pianist. He was disposed, I saw, to 
 put it down to Mr Bigglethwaite's gross nature, the 
 result, again, of his low origin and defective training ; 
 but when I had informed him that Mr Bigglethwaite 
 could be either eloquent or silent in as many 
 languages as he had fingers on both hands, he cocked 
 his ears, as- the saying is. I then rehearsed to him 
 the conversation I had just held with Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite, following it up with the graphic account of 
 his career, almost in Mr B.'s own words, he had given 
 
HE BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. 15 
 
 me on the previous evening after the concert, which 
 seemed to interest the captain ; impressing upon him 
 also at the same time that he was not the first man 
 in the history of the world who had entertained 
 an angel unawares : all this with the object of putting 
 him in good humour and of making him forget the 
 faux pas of my neighbour on the previous evening ; 
 and I succeeded. 
 
 At breakfast the concert was the sole topic of con- 
 versation, and Mr Bigglethwaite, as a matter of course, 
 the hero. Even our revivalist lady neighbour showed 
 herself eager to add her meed of praise without once 
 mentioning tracts, which was becomingly acknow- 
 ledged by the object of it. Mr Bigglethwaite, how- 
 ever, took the earliest opportunity to inform everyone 
 that his conduct towards the lady pianist, as well as 
 to the whole company, was most reprehensible, and 
 that he was truly sorry for it; hoping at the same 
 time that no one present would follow his bad ex- 
 ample and make the lady's efforts to please them all 
 the subject of disparaging remarks. Nothing could 
 be more magnanimous than this : and it had the effect 
 of raising Mr Bigglethwaite still higher in the esti- 
 mation of his fellow- passengers, myself among the 
 rest ; but, at the same time, our " corner man "—this 
 mode of designating him was dropped from this 
 morning, and I, too, shall drop it henceforward in 
 this narrative — by his manner, gave it clearly to be 
 understood that, though he had made a mistake, this 
 was no reason why anyone should presume upon his 
 self-imposed privacy. 
 
 Soon afterwards I found Mr Bigglethwaite sitting 
 • on deck, under the bridge, looking out upon the 
 dismal clouds, and the weary waste of boundless 
 waters. If the reader will excuse the paradox, it 
 was a lovely morning for indulging melancholy 
 thoughts, and for grieving over the loss of one's 
 mother-in-law. I suggested this to Mr Bigglethwaite 
 
16 HE BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. 
 
 as I took a seat beside him, and it had the effect of 
 making him display again his fine set of ivories. 
 
 " I envy you your youth and exuberance of animal 
 spirits," he remarked. " There is no pleasure compar- 
 able to the pleasures of youth." 
 
 "I envy you your age and experience," I replied. 
 " There is no treasure comparable to the treasure of 
 a well-stored mind." 
 
 " A truce to wit," he rejoined. " It is out of place 
 with disappointed old age, especially in such weather 
 and amid such surroundings as these." 
 
 11 Well, then, be young again," I retorted, " and 
 do me the honour to tell me all that ever you did 
 from your earliest infancy upwards, so that I may 
 hearken and apply my heart unto wisdom." Let me 
 say here parenthetically that I had already observed 
 Mr Bigglethwaite's fondness for biblical figure and 
 allusion, and that I was endeavouring to imitate him 
 in this. 
 
 " I perceive, my young friend, that you have got a 
 good deal of literary talent," he said, turning round 
 on me with kindly looks. " How have you come by 
 it ? Is it nature's gift, or has it been acquired through 
 diligence and industry ? " 
 
 " I only wish it were half that of yours," I returned, 
 evasively. " I do not flatter you when I say that you 
 are by far the wisest man who has ever condescended 
 to hold converse with me. Still, you might comply 
 with the request I have just made." 
 
 " What was that ? " 
 
 " Be young again ; give me the history of your 
 early life. I will faithfully promise you to cherish 
 it in my heart, and who can tell whether your so 
 doing might not save a soul from the mediocrity to 
 which it stands in appearance to be condemned. I 
 need not formally quote to you the text which tells 
 of the joy that the saving of one soul causes ; " this 
 in dead earnest. 
 
PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 17 
 
 "You quote Scripture aptly. Your father must 
 have been a pious person." 
 
 " I hope so, and my mother likewise. Let me 
 repeat my request. Come, tell me all that ever you 
 did." 
 
 "If you really wish it, I will comply with your 
 request : but I fear it will not be a very edifying 
 pastime to one brought up as you have been." 
 
 " I will venture it ; and trust me for separating the 
 wheat from^the chaff." 
 
 "This last remark determines me," said he decidedly, 
 
 " I am so glad," I answered ; " begin." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 " Well, then," said he, after reflecting for a minute 
 or two, " I will try. My life, as you already know 
 from the outline I have given you of it, has been a 
 very chequered one ; and I have often debated with 
 myself whether, upon the w T hole, it were not better 
 for me I had never been born. Well and truly has 
 the German poet said, 
 
 ' Hinab, hinauf, gelit unser lauf ; ' 
 
 and my career has been more up and down than that 
 which is usually the lot of the great majority of 
 human beings. I have been the slave of my passions 
 even from my mother's womb : and I have been so 
 buffeted about from one to the other that the wonder 
 is I am here to-day — now nigh threescore and ten — 
 to relate to you a tithe of what I have gone through, 
 what I have suffered. And yet, if I had my life to live 
 
18 PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 over again, and had the disposing of events, I question 
 whether I should wish to have it altered. Nature 
 is always kind : it makes the back for the burden." 
 
 After a considerable pause, which I did not attempt 
 to interrupt by coughs, gestures or otherwise, for 
 I saw his thoughts were now far away from his 
 immediate surroundings, he turned suddenly towards 
 me, and continued as if he had forgotten he had been 
 silent. " For you know, that where there has been 
 much suffering there must also have been present, at 
 intervals at least, corresponding enjoyment. The two 
 things are inseparable, bound indissolubly together. 
 Yet we are too apt to forget our times of pleasure and 
 to recall only our periods of suffering. And it is 
 fitting it is thus : for our pleasures and enjoyments 
 are, from their very nature, well able to take care of 
 themselves ; but who among us can bear a load of 
 sorrows and misfortune and not be weighed down 
 thereby ! But these trite sayings are apart from our 
 present purpose. I have promised to give you an 
 outline of the principal incidents and episodes in my 
 by no means uneventful and short career, and let us 
 now confine ourselves to that. 
 
 " Some sixty-nine years ago I was born of parents 
 who moved in a humble sphere of life, being the 
 seventh son, without break, in a family of eight sons 
 and two daughters. Seven towns, we read, laid claim 
 to being the birthplace of Homer ; as for me, I have 
 never been able to determine whether I am an 
 Englishman or a Scotchman ; not that this makes any 
 great difference, seeing that no species of mermaids, 
 but only will-o'-the-wisps, exist on land.* I have 
 been told that the house in which I first saw the day 
 was situated partly in Northumberland and partly 
 in Eoxburghshire, the supposed dividing line passing 
 obliquely through the bed in which my mother lay 
 on that interesting occasion, the head of the bed 
 * The Editor confesses his inability to see the joke here. 
 
PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 19 
 
 pointing to the north. It may hence follow that in 
 being born I passed from England into Scotland, or 
 vice versa, and am therefore both English and Scotch 
 by nationality as well as by extraction. As my father's 
 paternal grandfather and great-grandfather were born 
 in the same house and in the same bed — built into 
 the wall — which rested above the same spot, this per- 
 haps had something to do with the fact that in my 
 paternal grandfather's family there was a son who 
 died a lunatic, a daughter an idiot, and a second son 
 a religious maniac* But, on the other hand, if it is 
 contended that I was not born until my whole body 
 was born, my head in that case may be English, 
 and the nether portions of my body Scotch, or vice 
 versa. My mother's family came from north of the 
 Tweed, in Berwickshire, and except that two of her 
 brothers were killed in the wars of last century, they 
 would in all probability have died of dipsomania like 
 their father and elder brother. But both my father and 
 mother were temperate in their habits, and lived a 
 pious and unostentatious life ; the world being neither 
 the better nor the worse for their having been in it, 
 
 "My earliest recollections reach back to the time 
 when I first began to attend school, being then barely 
 four years of age. The school was situated some 
 thirty miles inland on the English side of the border, 
 but the schoolmaster was a Scotchman, and who had 
 the name of being a strict disciplinarian. I can only 
 recall one occasion when I came under the lash of his 
 'tawse,' and I richly deserved all I got; for I had 
 almost killed his wife's favourite cat by tying a 
 lighted fusee to its tail, which again caused the animal 
 in its desperation and terror to get on to the roof of 
 the school, which was of thatch, and to catch fire. 
 Fortunately for me the fire was extinguished before 
 any serious damage was done, and I have nothing to 
 complain of in the premises, as the Americans say, 
 * The Editor has verified these facts. 
 
20 PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 except that I carry upon my body until this day the 
 marks inflicted upon me by my worthy schoolmaster. 
 JRequiescat in pace; for he was otherwise kind to 
 me, taking the greatest pains and trouble to instil 
 into my opening mind knowledge which is useful to 
 me even now. 
 
 It was while I was attending this school that I 
 first fell a victim to love, passionate love, when I was 
 barely eight. The object of my youthful affection 
 was my schoolmate, a girl a year younger than my- 
 self, whose parents, sheep-farmers, lived near mine; 
 and so it came to pass that we walked together to the 
 school, about two miles distant, and home again at 
 night. We shared each other's bread and cheese, and 
 everything edible that came into the possession of 
 either: in a word, we were in every sense socialists, 
 holding everything in common. But let me here say 
 that, though I was young in years to fall in love, I was 
 by no means young in experience. I had already 
 frequented the society of men a good deal — men of 
 the farm-labouring and mechanic class — and was au 
 courant of all their talk respecting the relations 
 between men and women, wives and husbands, etc., 
 and had committed to memory a great number of the 
 lewd stories which passed from mouth to mouth 
 amongst them, and which I have never been able to 
 banish from my thoughts. I knew when, where and 
 how to apply all manner of oaths and blasphemies ; 
 and they used to encourage and laugh at my precocity. 
 I had already been drunk several times, and could 
 turn up my finger ' like a little man ' whenever 
 chance presented itself. I had a strong craving for 
 stimulants of every kind, tobacco, snuff, and especially 
 for alcohol; in fact, the craving for the latter was 
 sometimes maddening. This I had inherited from 
 my maternal ancestors. I well remember that one day, 
 when I could not have been more than six years of 
 age, in finding myself alone in the house, when my 
 
PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 21 
 
 mother had gone out to do shopping, I went to the 
 cupboard, where a bottle of gin had been put away, 
 and, pouring out a teacupful, swallowed it at one 
 draught, almost choking myself. I felt it going down 
 my throat and gullet like burning lead. The flavour, 
 however, was not new to me ; I had frequently tasted 
 beer and gin and whisky, but only in small quantities, 
 and therefore they produced no particular effect on 
 me, beyond that they satisfied for the time being a sort 
 of craving at the top of the windpipe. The effect 
 now, however, was at once delicious and visible. My 
 nature seemed to say, ' Thank you, that's just what I 
 have been asking for.' It made me feel, I remember, 
 as though I were lord of the whole universe, though 
 at the same time I was so physically helpless that I 
 could not stand up. My mother, on returning, seeing 
 my condition, became greatly alarmed. She could 
 not make out 'what had got the callant,' and I, 
 though drunk, was yet wide awake enough not to 
 enlighten her. In the end it was discovered that I 
 had been to the gin bottle, and I was sent to bed to 
 get sober. My father did not punish me, for some 
 reason ; he adopted the more prudent course of 
 banishing all liquors, whether beer or spirits, from 
 the house ever afterwards. 
 
 " But to hark back to school and to Agnes Baynes, 
 my little sweetheart. At eight I had acquired all that 
 could be imparted to me, as one of a class with the 
 other boys and girls, by Davie Dykes, my school- 
 master. I had mastered the three R's, and acquired 
 the rudiments of the Latin and English grammars, 
 was the most forward boy of the school in geogra- 
 phy, had read all the books the school library con- 
 tained, which included Hume's History and Essays, 
 Gibbon's do., Robertson's do., Blair, his Sermons and 
 Rhetoric, Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations — the 
 utility of which I did not comprehend then, nor do 
 even now — Moral Sentiments and the Formation of 
 
22 PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 Languages, and numerous other prose works; in poetry, 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Thomson, Cowper, Burns, and 
 portions of Byron and Scott. I read everything, in 
 fact, upon which I could lay my hands, including an 
 old Encyclopaedia Britannica, and another Encyclo- 
 paedia, published at Bristol ; Bunyan's PilgrimJs 
 Progress, and the Holy War ; Fox's Booh of Martyrs ; 
 Barnes' Notes, etc. Davie Dykes was good enough, 
 too, to allow me to take home any books that he 
 approved of, and those that he did not approve of I 
 managed to take home also, when his back was 
 conveniently turned (I have said he was a Scotchman). 
 I would have sat up all night reading if my father 
 or mother had allowed me. This, together with a 
 memory as tenacious as steel, necessarily made me 
 very precocious as a boy of eight. As a matter of fact, 
 my memory does not carry me back to the time when 
 I spake as a child and thought as a child. Would 
 to God I had not been taught to read until I had 
 been at least twelve or fifteen, and had settled down 
 first to some manual occupation ! It is a mistake, in 
 my opinion, to educate a child before you learn him 
 to work. Man was sent into the world to earn his 
 bread by the sweat of his brow, first and foremost. 
 Education, especially much reading, scatters a boy's 
 brains, so to speak, to the four winds of heaven ; at 
 least it did mine. My head has always resembled a 
 bees' cap. To working men, then, I would say, learn 
 your boys to work first : educate them afterwards to 
 whatever profession or vocation their natural tend- 
 encies lead them. We hear it constantly said in 
 our days that this is not the age of genius. What 
 wonder! Our modern systems of education and of 
 sociology, as our social habits are comprehensively 
 called, lead to China (to a dead level of intelligence), 
 not to Greece and Rome, when Greece was Greece, 
 and Rome was Rome. Germany has improved on 
 this system. True, it makes the education of children 
 
PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 23 
 
 compulsory ; but its military system gives parents the 
 opportunity to correct any mistake made on their 
 part in choosing in infancy an occupation for their 
 sons, by the three years the latter have to serve in 
 the army before their habits have become irrevocably 
 fixed. But this is by the way. 
 
 As to my little sweetheart, Aggie, I loved her most 
 devotedly. My feelings, however, as I remember 
 them, were, I must confess, of a mixed kind. I was 
 very jealous ; yet I had no particular desire to be 
 much in her company, providing she did not fraternise 
 with other boys. It was absolute torture to me to 
 see her and another boy standing examining a flower 
 or even reading from the same book in school. Some- 
 times I flattered myself that she preferred me to any 
 other boy, but (little flirt as she already was) she 
 would never condescend to say so, when I asked her 
 whether she did. I daresay you know that it is natural 
 to the other sex — inherent in their first breath — to 
 make us males, whether as boys or men, miserable at 
 times, in order to enhance their importance in our 
 eyes. Be that as it may, Aggie and I got on very 
 well. Our walks to and from school, and our Satur- 
 days' strolls in the woods were very sweet and 
 pleasant. She would not have gone to school without 
 me, nor I without her, except under the greatest com- 
 pulsion and fear of consequences. In any case, such 
 an untoward accident would have been a non dies to 
 both of us. In the absence of other boys, we were 
 perfectly happy in each other's society. From the 
 books I had read I knew the whole formula to be 
 gone through when a young man asks a young lady 
 to be his wife, and I had also coached Aggie as to how 
 she was to act and what to say. Our betrothal took 
 place in a sheltered spot in a plantation, close by our 
 home, one summer Saturday afternoon. I remember 
 well of Aggie, bonnie, blue-eyed Aggie, rising from 
 the green sward on which she had been seated 
 
24 PARENTAGE AND SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 making posies of the flowers I had gathered for her, 
 and of my going down on one knee before her, kissing 
 her hand, and of putting the question whether she 
 was willing to be my wife. But what do you think 
 the little puss did ? Directing my attention to a 
 chaffinch which was chirruping loudly on a tree 
 behind me, and was anxious to enter its nest which 
 was near where we stood, she pushed me over on my 
 back, and ran off screaming and laughing with all the 
 grace and agility of a young fawn. Girls and women 
 have queer little ways, ways, however, which are 
 perfectly understood by us males. She wanted me 
 to run after her, to catch her in my arms, and to 
 bring her back as if by force — (but only as if) — 
 and to extort an answer as if against her will. I 
 humoured her in these - particulars, and we were soon 
 duly engaged. Our first care as a young engaged 
 couple was to retreat from the try sting-tree arm-in- 
 arm, so that the chaffinch might visit its home of 
 wedded bliss. These were happy days of blissful 
 artlessness, for let it never be forgotten that though 
 my morals had been corrupted by my elders, as above 
 described, no thought incompatible with innocence 
 and purity once crossed my brain when in the society 
 of my bonnie Aggie. But how little did we think on 
 that summer afternoon, when all nature, the birds, 
 the flowers, the leaves, all seemed to rejoice with us, 
 that it was the last Saturday we should ever spend 
 together on earth ! I did not see her on Sunday, for 
 she went to church and I to chapel. When I called 
 for her on Monday morning as usual, to go to school, 
 I was told she was ill in bed with fever. I had no 
 misgivings, however, knowing that measles, fevers, etc., 
 were incident to all young people, and I therefore did 
 not call for several days : in point of fact, I was pro- 
 hibited by the teacher from doing so, in case I should 
 bring the fever into the school. On the Saturday, 
 however, I called, in obedience to my mother's behests, 
 
HEREDITARY TAINTS. 25 
 
 and on entering the room wherein she lay I saw her 
 folded in the arms of death. My heart was too full 
 to cry (indeed, I was too manly, as I thought, to 
 indulge in tears ; for had I not read in some book of 
 philosophy that it evinced weakness of character to 
 shed tears, especially in a man, and was not I a man !), 
 but the sight of her ghastly pale features made a deep 
 impression on me. It was the first dead body I had 
 ever seen. Fond as I had been of her, it was not till 
 that Saturday that I realised how very dear she had 
 been to me, how necessary, in fact, she had become to 
 my existence. I wondered whether she had thought 
 of me when she was dying, and to what sort of place 
 her spirit had taken its flight ! I mourned for her in 
 silence. I have often thought that had my dear little 
 sweetheart, my bonnie, blue-eyed Aggie, the object of 
 my boyish veneration, but lived on, the world would 
 not have treated me so harshly as it has done ; it 
 would at least have had mercy on her. But who 
 knows ! " 
 
 Here the old man fairly broke down with emotion, 
 and if he did not shed tears, he at least was unable for 
 some little time to speak. I did not interpose. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 "Let us change the subject," he said, when he again 
 began to speak. "Perhaps I should here explain to 
 you more fully how it is that I have been all my life 
 so much the slave of my passions : at any rate give 
 the passions a name. The passion which has more 
 enslaved me than any is the passion for drink. In- 
 
26 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 deed, passion cannot half convey to your mind what 
 I mean to express. Call it rather the Hell-fire, re- 
 gurgitating, consuming, all-pervading, torturing, in- 
 satiable, reeling desire for something that nothing 
 can temporarily lighten or appease except alcohol. 
 Doctors tell you that alcoholism is the result of 
 weakness of will on the part of the victim. They 
 know nothing about it, but they have got to say 
 something for their fee. Pity it is that doctors, 
 educated men, many of them honourable enough too 
 in their way, are reduced either by the whims of 
 some specimens of poor frail humanity, by the neces- 
 sities of their position, or from their innate callous- 
 ness to moral as well as physical death — 'how use 
 doth breed a habit in a man ' — to the miserable con- 
 dition of accepting a fee for administering a bread 
 pill under another name ; nay, when even hungering 
 for a fee, of keeping patients waiting for half-an- 
 hour or more in their consulting room, to make believe 
 that they are busy, while they may be only discussing 
 with their wives upstairs as to how the grocer's and 
 butcher's bills are to be paid, or money raised for 
 servants' wages ! ! I have been told that either the 
 Greek or Roman Catholic Church, or both, does not 
 insist upon doctors visiting the confessional ; that the 
 latter are given absolution without being asked to sub- 
 mit to this ordeal ; just as in other Churches they are 
 given the communion without having to put in hardly 
 any appearances at the house of God ; or just as, again, 
 they are not called upon to take communion at all, and 
 yet their souls are taken care of, or, at least, are held 
 to be in no danger, notwithstanding ; all on account 
 of a sheep falling into a ditch on a certain Sunday, 
 and of somebody performing the humane act of pull- 
 ing it out, Sunday or no Sunday, and not allowing 
 it to perish ; which humane act was justly described 
 by Him who spake as never man spake, as one of 
 necessity and mercy. I say then, as well tell me that 
 
HEREDITARY TAINTS. 27 
 
 alcoholism is owing to weakness of will power as that 
 a lunatic has only to say to the evil spirit which 
 possesses him : ' Get out of me ; go somewhere else 
 for a time ; among the Hebrew swine if you like,* 
 and when I have a convenient season I will call for 
 you.' Doctors can do nothing for you ; give you 
 nothing that will assist you when in that state, any 
 more than they can cure you of consumption. Here, 
 as in the case of the octoroon and the mule, nature 
 commands them to stand aloof. There is one of two 
 things, however, they may do for a dipsomaniac, and 
 very often do do. They can shut off his drink, which 
 is either followed by death or a living death ; or they 
 can kill him with a poisonous antidote, an overdose 
 of prussic acid, perhaps, which frequently happens, 
 and, perhaps, not a bad thing either, for the victim. 
 I shall return again to this subject as we proceed. 
 After little Aggie's death I flew to drink for refuge, 
 and I stuck at nothing in order to obtain it. I rifled 
 my father's and mother's purses, the pockets of my 
 elder brothers, whenever I had an opportunity, and 
 expended what I found there in gin or whisky. No- 
 thing short of death would stop me from having drink. 
 Thrashings, threatenings, even prison-walls had no 
 terrors for me. I deserted the school, and hung about 
 the public-house doors ; I would sing, dance, hold the 
 candle, anything, all for drink. I was generally toler- 
 ably successful, too, in obtaining it, frequently coming 
 home in the evenings quite drunk. This grieved my 
 father and mother beyond measure. I, too, was sorry 
 for myself, and heart-sorry for them ; but it seemed I 
 could not help myself. When my mother, after one of 
 these debauches, would help me to dress in the morn- 
 ing, and stroke my cheeks and hair with her hands, 
 warning me to try and be a good boy during the day, 
 all my book manliness would give way, and I would 
 
 * This is in allusion to the Jew-baiting of modern years, but 
 I cannot localise it. — Ed. 
 
28 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 burst out crying ; but in analysing these tears after- 
 wards, though they seemed genuine enough at the 
 time to myself, I found them to be crocodile. They 
 left no impression. They were simply the concrete 
 expression of a certain kind of nervousness induced by 
 alcohol. When they were over, I would hasten like a 
 dog to its vomit, return like a sow that was washed 
 to its wallowing in the mire. 
 
 After alcohol, my next strongest and most persistent 
 passion throughout life has been music. The fact is, 
 the latter has been to the former what the negative 
 pole is to the positive pole in an electric battery, the 
 one acting as the stimulant of the senses, the other 
 the deadener. Up to a certain point, nothing could 
 be finer and more enjoyable than this combination ; 
 but the difficulty is to strike the happy mean. For 
 years, however, I managed to keep both in subjection ; 
 that is, stimulating in season and curbing in season, 
 the one by the other; examples of this will appear 
 later on. 
 
 " I have described the condition in which I found 
 myself at the age of eight just after the death of 
 Aggie. Fortunately for me, at this time I was 
 attracted to the study of music, by reason of one of 
 those itinerant singing masters — a most useful and 
 beneficial class of men they were for people living in 
 villages, who at that time were so common, but 
 who have now entirely disappeared since the in- 
 troduction of railways (which have to a large extent 
 broken up village life) — visiting the village near to 
 which I lived, and opening a class for beginners. I 
 had always had a sharp and correct ear for music, and 
 could already read it tolerably well at sight. I was 
 captivated for the nonce, and became a member of the 
 class. I likewise returned to school. In the evenings 
 I applied myself with the greatest assiduity to music, 
 the alcoholic wave seeming to pass away at the 
 appearance of the other — I mean the musical wave. 
 
HEREDITARY TATNTS. 29 
 
 " At the end of three months I had attained such 
 proficiency in the practice of music, that I was put 
 forward by the teacher on the closing night of the 
 classes, which was a sort of public entertainment, to 
 undertake to read any piece of music at sight that 
 anyone in the audience might hand up to the platform 
 to me. A local minister, who had composed and pub- 
 lished the music for several hymns which had come 
 to be used very generally in Nonconformist chapels, 
 passed on to me a piece of music in MS., written 
 in seven sharps. I had never before seen a piece 
 of music set in this key, and was therefore unable to 
 find out the key-note. The teacher, seeing that I was 
 embarrassed, approached me, when I told him my 
 difficulty, who in turn explained it to the audience. 
 He showed me where to find my key-note on the 
 'stave, and at the same time gave me its pitch from a 
 flute which he held in his hand. I then sang the 
 music, first to numbers, and then to words, without 
 once faltering or blundering, and my efforts were re- 
 warded by the rapturous applause of the audience. 
 As was but natural for a boy of my years, I felt a 
 silent satisfaction at being thus made the hero of the 
 hour among my village companions, male or female. 
 I hence devoted myself even more ardently to the 
 study of ' sweet sounds,' and before many months had 
 passed, it was immaterial to me whether you placed 
 a strange book or a strange piece of music before me : 
 I could read either at sight with equal facility. 
 
 "Unfortunately, however, another passion had 
 been growing up in me. My affection for Aggie, 
 though deep and sincere, was, as I have explained, 
 in no sense sensual. It had not yet assumed 
 the form and strength of une grande passion. It 
 was a genial and passive feeling, resembling in 
 many particulars that which I entertained for my 
 mother. But now my thoughts turned to an un- 
 married lady, old enough to be my mother, whose 
 
30 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 house I passed, morning and evening, in going to and 
 returning from school. I used to see her sitting in the 
 garden reading or knitting, or at the window, which 
 faced the road. I envied her first for her seeming 
 wealth and ease, and then I began to wonder why 
 she did not get married and become a mother herself, 
 instead of staying at home in the capacity of a 
 child to her mother. She was the daughter of a mill- 
 owner, and was reputed to be very accomplished. 
 What it was about her that attracted me has now 
 gone from me ; but I remember that I was deeply in- 
 terested in her, though we had never yet spoken. For 
 a time, I was ashamed to own it even to myself. The 
 fact is, I was conscious of the absurdity of my posi- 
 tion. ' How could I,' I used to reason with myself ; 
 ' how could I, a boy of ten, have the temerity to 
 approach a woman of five-and-twenty, or more, and 
 tell her that I was dying for the love of her ? ' I had 
 sense enough, moreover, to know that my passion, 
 if not actually unnatural, was, at least, abnormal ; 
 nevertheless, it was real, all the same, while it lasted. 
 In all my reading I could find no case that was 
 parallel to mine, not even in the Arabian Nights. 
 Don Juan was the nearest approach, but even he 
 was far enough off in point of age and experience. 
 Believe me, I was sorely puzzled. ' Hope springs 
 eternal in the human breast ; ' but what had I to hope 
 for but blank disappointment ? The feelings or senti- 
 ments, or whatever you may call them, which inspired 
 me for this lady, corresponded in no particular to 
 those which I had entertained for my school -girl 
 companion. I experienced no inconvenience, either 
 mental or physical, in the society of the latter : but 
 the very sight of the former made me quiver from 
 head to foot. In time, I became very taciturn and 
 absent-minded. I put music and books aside. I once 
 more deserted the school. I strolled for the greater 
 part of the day in the woods and fields, all alone, 
 
HEREDITARY TAINTS. 31 
 
 preoccupied with this one great thought. My ears 
 were deaf and my eyes blind to the vernal delights 
 of nature. What were the singing of birds, the 
 blooming of flowers, and the budding of trees to me, 
 moi, ' alone, all all alone/ in my agony. I believe it 
 is Macaulay (though I do not set much store by Thomas 
 Babington's opinions, having, in fact, always regarded 
 him in much the same light as that other Thomas, 
 ' Blind Tom.' What the latter was to music the former 
 was to literature — brilliant, but — ) ; I say, I believe it 
 was Macaulay who said, in his essay on Milton, that 
 to be a poet or to be able to appreciate poetry, one 
 must take leave of one's senses, at least temporarily. 
 Whether the Blind Tom of English Literature was 
 right for once, I will not attempt to discuss ; but the 
 sentiment is, at all events, applicable to the victim of 
 single and passionate love. The latter is beside him- 
 self ; one object stands focussed before his mental 
 vision, and do as he will he cannot displace it. It is 
 a state not to be supported for any length of time. 
 It is a feeling which is urgent and inexorable. It is 
 a sort of heart-burning, an expressible longing for the 
 unseen and the unspeakable. At this time I frequently 
 quoted to myself the words of Satan — the devil is 
 said to look with kindly eyes on ' lovers when alone — 
 in Milton's glowing language : ' ' Me miserable ! which 
 way shall I fly? Infinite wrath, infinite despair. 
 Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell.' My father 
 and mother were once more greatly concerned about 
 me, being of opinion that I had actually gone mad, 
 like some of the members of the former's family, never 
 dreaming that I was only madly in love. 
 
 " One day, when my distress might be said to have 
 reached its climax, in walking along a country lane, 
 which had hedgerows on either side, or I should have 
 hidden myself, I unexpectedly encountered the person 
 who had occasioned me so much uneasiness. She had 
 been to the musical gathering on the last evening of 
 
32 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 the singing class as above described. She stopped 
 me, and began to speak of the part which I had taken 
 in it, and praised unstintedly my efforts. She volun- 
 teered, moreover, to take a kindly interest in my 
 future, especially as regarded music, promising that 
 she would make arrangements to give me lessons on 
 the piano. My happiness was complete. What more 
 did I want ? Only one thing — my father's consent. 
 That, however, was peremptorily refused. I was told 
 that, instead of learning the piano — a questionable 
 accomplishment at the best in my father's eyes — I 
 would now require to do something to earn a living by, 
 I could not blame my father. He saw it was useless 
 in him to attempt to keep me at school ; besides, we 
 were a large family, and our income was small. I 
 was hence once more plunged into the depths of 
 despair. I had recourse again to alcohol. It proved 
 indeed 'tired nature's sweet restorer' to me. All 
 suffering vanished as if by magic. I began to think, 
 in fact, that I had not been in love at all. It was my 
 insatiable craving for drink that had by some means 
 or other been diverted from its proper object. I 
 became quite contented, provided always I could pro- 
 cure a certain quantity of drink every day. 
 
 " I was now hired out to a farmer whose ' steading ' 
 was close to the parish church and its invariable 
 country neighbour, the village inn and ale house. 
 But I soon discovered when by myself, as I was now 
 compelled to be for the greater part of the day, in 
 attending to the duties assigned me by my master, 
 that I had come to a wrong conclusion. The desire 
 to be near the lady who had spoken so kindly to me 
 returned. I became again restless and uneasy, drink 
 or no drink : and I seemed to grow worse each day. 
 Of my master and mistress I had nothing to complain. 
 When out in the fields with the cattle during the day 
 I could take a book with me to read, and I had both 
 the farmer's and rector's library to draw upon. More- 
 
HEKEDITARY TAINTS. 33 
 
 over, the innkeeper's daughter, who was about my 
 own age, used to come and keep me company, in order 
 to hear me read. This was a diversion, but it was far 
 from being a cure. When I no longer could endure 
 the longing and agony, I resolved one day, as the 
 novelists say, to put my fate to the test, for better, 
 for worse. I went to the lady's house, found her, told 
 her my tale of woe, and ended by declaring that if she 
 would not consent to marry me, I should without an 
 hour's delay put an end to my miserable existence. 
 I was terribly in earnest, and the lady appeared to 
 recognise the fact. 
 
 I did not then see the comic side of the interview, as 
 I do now. I must have cut a ridiculous figure, as you 
 can readily fancy — I, a poor boy, hardly ten years of age, 
 addressing himself thus to a lady ; she, the daughter 
 of a wealthy father, who had probably seen not less 
 than eight-and-twenty summers, though she would 
 not own, as I was told, to more than five-and-twenty ! 
 But in whatever light my inamorata viewed my 
 temerity, she said nothing to wound my feelings. She 
 told me in a kindly and gentle tone of voice that I 
 was much too young to think of such things. In time, 
 however, when I was grown up, I would, she was sure, 
 be worthy the love and hand of any woman. Mean- 
 while, I was to be diligent, to attend church regularly, 
 read nothing but good books, and to eschew bad 
 company ; finally, I was to return to her when I was 
 twenty-one, and she would then give me an answer. 
 
 " ' Wait twelve years ! ' I exclaimed sorrowfully. 
 ' Yes/ she rejoined kindly ; ' twelve years will not 
 be long in gliding past, especially with a boy like 
 you, who are already so accomplished both in music 
 and in a knowledge of books.' 
 
 " I went away very dejected : but I afterwards dis- 
 covered that, immediately after my leaving her, the 
 lady had waited on my mother, but for what purpose 
 I never could find out." 
 
34 HEREDITARY TAINTS. 
 
 At this point Mr Bigglethwaite paused, and sug- 
 gested that we should pass the rest of the afternoon 
 in reading, and that in the evening, if I was agreeable, 
 he would continue his narrative, to which I of course 
 assented: but not without some silent dissent, inas- 
 much as the whole story of this affair of the heart 
 seemed to me so improbable and strange, that I would 
 gladly have heard it out. My curiosity, in short, had 
 been awakened, but my sense of consistency and of 
 the fitness of things was by no means satisfied. In 
 any other person I have ever met, I would have put 
 down the story as a myth, an effort merely of the 
 imagination, and one, too, which lacked the essential 
 attribute of fiction in its best sense : I mean verisimili- 
 tude : nevertheless, the expression, the whole manner 
 of the man, convinced me that he was speaking the 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: 
 that it was, in fact, impossible for such a one to trifle 
 with words, far less to tell a lie. 
 
 After tea we met on the deck as in the morning, 
 and without delay Mr Bigglethwaite at once re- 
 sumed. 
 
 " The next two years of my life were uneventful, 
 except that hardly a day passed without my reading 
 several hours. In this way I added greatly to my 
 knowledge of the world ; for I was able to retain and 
 assimilate the greater part of what I read, and the 
 books I delighted in were anything but trashy. 
 They were mostly histories, biographies of great men 
 and women, and volumes of poetry. It was before 
 the days of circulating libraries, so it was rarely 
 I had the chance of reading novels — Scott's alone 
 excepted — and perhaps it was no great loss. 
 
FIB ST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FIRST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 
 
 " At the age of twelve I started out into the world 
 to seek my fortune, not knowing whither I was go- 
 ing, with only a shilling in my pocket, and a few 
 things wrapped up in a cotton handkerchief. My 
 father and mother, the latter especially, were greatly 
 grieved ; but I had their blessing when I took leave 
 of them. Thirty years afterwards, I returned to seek 
 them out, and was grieved in turn to find that both 
 had been dead for years, and what added to the 
 poignancy of my grief was, that both had passed into 
 the land of shadows in the full belief that I had pre- 
 ceded them thither. 
 
 " In a few days I found myself in the neighbourhood 
 of Oldcastle, with its many reminiscences of border 
 warfare, filled with the idea that one day I should be 
 a great public artist, what is called now a virtuoso : 
 a foolish notion surely to get into a boy's head, who 
 was without money and a friend in the world ! I 
 had read about Dick Whittington, but considered the 
 tales told of him as being unworthy of credence. The 
 mighty deeds which had been recorded of Napoleon I., 
 considering his original obscurity and his diminutive 
 stature, and which were then fresh in my memory, 
 inspired me, however, with the idea that nothing was 
 impossible, even for me. 
 
 " The first occupation I found was in a coal mine. 
 It was entirely strange to me, yet I was greatly 
 interested for a time in what I saw in the bowels of 
 the earth. In good truth, I seemed never to grow 
 tired of examining, in my moments of leisure, by the 
 aid of my old lamp, the different geological formations 
 as they presented themselves to my view in the sides 
 and faces of the different galleries in which I might 
 
36 FIRST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 
 
 be. The men were, on the whole, very kind and in- 
 dulgent, answering most of my inquiries as far as 
 they could. I had often heard of boys being abused 
 and even maltreated by the men immediately over 
 them; but on this score I had never anything of 
 which I could complain. I was uniformly, nay, I 
 might almost say without exception, treated with the 
 greatest fairness. This, perhaps, may have been due 
 to the fact that I did whatever was required of me 
 with the greatest willingness and alacrity. If some 
 of the other boys were treated differently, it must 
 have been their own fault : the result of waywardness 
 and disobedience. 
 
 " My wages were eightpence per day, and this sum, 
 after deducting ninepence a week for my lodgings, I 
 found to be amply sufficient to supply all my wants. 
 Indeed, had the latter been otherwise, I should never 
 have lacked at least for food ; for when we assembled 
 near the pit bottom at ' piece ' time, as it was called, 
 those who had enough and to spare were not slow to 
 offer assistance to those who were pinched, be it man 
 or boy. Exhibitions of selfishness were rare. What- 
 ever disputes arose, and these were neither few nor 
 trifling, proceeded rather from temper than from 
 greed. So far as I could judge, then, the great 
 majority of the men were happy and contented ; they 
 had few wants to supply, and cares sat lightly on their 
 shoulders accordingly. 
 
 " Few people are to be found at this time of day 
 who will seriously argue that the spread of education 
 and the diffusion of knowledge have not bettered the 
 social and moral condition of the working classes, the 
 miners among the rest. At the time of which I speak, 
 and in the locality in which my lot was cast, there 
 was not one working man in five who had been taught 
 even to read. A man's education then consisted in 
 knowing how to do his work expeditiously and well. 
 In a word, every man was a specialist. The being 
 
FIRST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 37 
 
 able to read does not necessarily make a man a better 
 miner, iron-worker, blacksmith, ploughman, drayman, 
 and so forth. On the contrary, it tends, by diverting 
 the thoughts to the contemplation of extraneous 
 matters, to make him less of a specialist, and, conse- 
 quently, a less efficient workman. But man does not 
 live, nor ought to live, by toil alone, any more than 
 he does by bread alone. The man who can read and 
 write possesses certainly an advantage over the man 
 who cannot. It is a mistake, however, to imagine^ as 
 many do, that because a man cannot read nor write, 
 he must perforce be degraded, and of a low moral 
 type. If that were so, how should we describe the 
 Greeks at the time of Socrates, and Plato, and 
 Aristotle ? How many of them could read and write ? 
 Their education was a lip education; and so it was 
 with the miners of Oldcastle over half a century 
 ago. Like the Greeks, they nocked daily to the places 
 of local public resort to learn the news. 
 
 " They were by no means ignorant of what had taken 
 place or was going on in the world. They, too, had 
 their oracles or wise men, who discoursed to their 
 fellows, seated on their ' hunkers ' against the walls, 
 on every conceivable subject, when the weather would 
 permit. Tolerably well read as I was, I learned much 
 from these men. Then, again, like the Greeks, they 
 had their games — quoits, running and leaping contests, 
 boxing matches, and many other manly sports. Added 
 to this there were cock-fights, dog-fights, horse-races, 
 not to mention travelling shows, or the excitement 
 caused by a marriage, the gossip by a birth — by an 
 illegitimate one especially— or finally, by the deep 
 and universal sorrow and sympathy called forth by 
 a death, or some serious accident in the mines. 
 
 " I was in many respects happy amongst these good- 
 hearted and illiterate miners. I had my flute, my 
 singing books, besides my full share of the amuse- 
 ments common to all, and if I had contented myself 
 
38 FIRST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 
 
 there, I believe I should have lived a happier life 
 than I have done. 
 
 " During the greater part of the time I worked in 
 the coal pits, I had, strange to say, no craving for 
 alcohol, at least none to speak of. When it happened, 
 which was seldom, that I had been taking drink over 
 night, I found it, I must confess, very difficult to 
 resist the craving for stimulants in the morning. 
 Indeed, on such occasions, I would either go a round- 
 about way, so as not to pass public houses, to my 
 work, or rush past with my head turned from them. 
 I could not, when in such a state, look a public house 
 fairly in the face, and at the same time resist the 
 temptation to drink. But, however strong this crav- 
 ing may have been, I had only to put my foot on 
 the cage to descend the pit shaft, when it gradually 
 began to leave me. Nay, more ; even when I yielded 
 in the morning to the temptation, I had not been 
 more than an hour underground before the craving 
 would turn to loathing. I never could account 
 for this; but so it was. The atmosphere of a 
 coal pit proved in my case an infallible cure for 
 alcoholism. 
 
 " Before I left home, I had formed a resolution never 
 again to court the society of the opposite sex. My 
 two love affairs having terminated in the one case so 
 sadly, in the other so unsatisfactorily, I had reasoned 
 myself into the belief that women were the root of 
 all evil. But the more I outwardly eschewed their 
 society, the more I inwardly became enamoured of 
 them. I might elude their company, but I could not 
 banish them from my thoughts, night or day. It 
 seemed as if there were something gnawing always 
 at my heartstrings. Music was the only antidote, 
 and that was but temporary ; lasting only while I 
 was engaged in its study or practice. At my work, 
 abroad in the fields, at church on Sunday, in bed, the 
 one thing that my imagination loved to dwell on was 
 
FIKST STAET OUT INTO THE WORLt). 39 
 
 a female face and form. And the most singular part 
 of it was, that it was not one face and form which 
 haunted me. It was now one, now another, now a 
 third and fourth ; yet only one at a time. I fre- 
 quently tried to convince myself that this was a 
 strong natural argument in favour of monogamy. 
 Still, though I sometimes found myself envying the 
 squire — who had just got married — with his one young- 
 wife, at other times it was the Padischa with his 
 three thousand, more or less, which attracted me. 
 Nor was my passion confined to living, tangible beings. 
 I actually fell in love with the faces and forms, as I 
 had pictured them in imagination, of Eve, as delineated 
 in Paradise Lost, of Shakespeare's Ophelia, of Burns' 
 Highland Mary, and of many other poetical and 
 historical — of the latter, Jane Grey and Mary Queen 
 of Scots — characters. But I am happy to say on this 
 occasion my will triumphed over my desires. 
 
 " There was another matter which gave me much 
 concern at this epoch, and I mention it only to show 
 that the most trifling matter often changes the whole 
 course of one's life. It was part of my duty to visit 
 the smithy, night and morning, to take hence or 
 fetch away the picks used in digging the coal. In 
 contemplating the flaming forge, when waiting, as I 
 had often to do, the question arose in my mind, 
 How was the first blacksmith's hammer and tongs 
 made ? I am still an agnostic on the point. You 
 would hardly believe it, but I assure you that this 
 had, in the end, the effect of drawing me away from 
 the mines to the blacksmith's hearth. I did not, 
 however, leave the mining occupation without some 
 considerable regret ; because, first, I had found in the 
 great majority of the miners true friends in the best 
 sense of the word ; and secondly, because I experienced 
 great delight in examining minutely any new forma- 
 tion that presented itself in the operations of extract- 
 ing the coal. I verily believe that, if I had remained 
 
40 FIRST START OUT INTO THE WORLD. 
 
 at the occupation, I should have become an enthusiast 
 in the study of geology. Finally, what I loved to do 
 even more than the examining of new faces and sides 
 of galleries, was to creep into one of the worked- 
 out mines or roads, as far as it was safe, and when 
 everything was quiet, to extinguish my light, then to 
 sit down and listen in total darkness to the drops of 
 water and particles of blaize or clay falling from the 
 roof. What strange images this called up before my 
 imagination ! I did not dare, however, indulge this 
 morbid fancy too often. It was too uncanny, and 
 sometimes unnerved me for days." 
 
 Here again the aged man paused in his narrative, 
 and I had already come to understand him so far forth, 
 that it would have caused him deep irritation, even 
 to the extent of his abruptly breaking off our confer- 
 ences, if I attempted to disturb him, so I kept silence, 
 for I felt instinctively that he had a remarkable his- 
 tory to tell, and had not yet even touched upon its 
 more important incidents and episodes, and I was not 
 wrong in my conjecture. He sat motionless for the 
 space, at least, of fifteen minutes, drawing occasional 
 long breaths, while I listened to the throbbing of the 
 engines which were propelling us onward to our desti- 
 nation. Suddenly the silence was broken by his re- 
 peating, as if all unconscious of my presence, a couplet 
 of a well-known concert ballad, — 
 
 " Farewell, dear old village, farewell, dear old spot : 
 Bright haunts of my childhood, thou'lt ne'er be forgot/' 
 
 Then turning and addressing me he said, — 
 
 " My friend, I am a sort of fatalist ; and it seems to 
 me I have accomplished my destiny ; it was God's will 
 that I should suffer as I have done. He has led me 
 through my passions to the goal I have now reached. 
 He has visited the sins of my fathers upon me. I 
 could endure all this, however, without repining, were 
 it not for the thought of the children, the blessed 
 
AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 41 
 
 children ! Will they have to suffer as I have done ? 
 Ah me ! Who knows ? " 
 
 I will not inflict upon the reader the details of 
 the discussion which here took place on fatalism, 
 materialism, and other isms of a cognate character. 
 My design is to give the outlines of the history of 
 a remarkable life, and to keep myself in the back- 
 ground as much as possible; to act the part of a 
 listener and recorder, nothing more. 
 
 " I have just told you," he continued, " the reason of 
 my deserting the mines and the society of miners, and 
 why I determined to become a son of Yulcan. But 
 I should have told you also that I was refused ad- 
 mission to the choir of the parish church because 
 I worked in the mines. The vicar had drawn the 
 line at colliers, and it was my ambition to become 
 a member of some choir. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 
 
 " Well, I collected my ' belongings ' into a cotton 
 handkerchief, and once more set out on my travels, 
 just as I had done on leaving home, not knowing 
 where I was going to. I continued southward, and 
 on the fifth night I came to a spade and shovel forge, 
 and was given permission to lie down in the ashpit of 
 the furnace, to rest till the morning. The few coppers 
 I had at starting were now gone, but the hammerman 
 and his assistant kindly gave me a portion of their 
 bread and tea, for which I was truly thankful. When 
 the master of the forge appeared in the morning, he 
 spoke kindly to me, and listened benevolently to the 
 story I told him, and was greatly amused when I 
 informed him that I had left the calling of a collier 
 
42 AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 
 
 to become a blacksmith, in order to discover how the 
 first hammer and pair of tongs were made. He worked 
 himself as a ' finisher ' of spades and shovels, and when 
 the breakfast hour arrived he took me to his house, 
 some distance off, where his wife supplied me with 
 a substantial meal. In return, I asked him if I could 
 not do some work to repay him for his kindness. He 
 set me to picking and cleaning scrap-iron — making the 
 pieces ready to be ' piled ' into square blocks of sixty 
 or seventy pounds' weight, which were then heated 
 and welded, and drawn out, under a tilt hammer, into 
 bars of about three inches wide, and less than an inch 
 thick. I continued at this occupation for two weeks, 
 sharing at night the bed of an apprentice to the 
 'shovel-finishing' trade, and having also my food 
 provided. 
 
 " This spade-maker was a very worthy man of 
 about fifty, exemplary in the outward observances of 
 religion, but far from being fanatical. He had read 
 a good deal, and was a man of considerable grasp 
 of intellect. He was an enthusiastic Whig, and took 
 a lively and active part in politics, local or national. 
 He was considerate and kind, often very forbearing, 
 to those whom he employed. ' Be just and fear not,' 
 was a maxim he not only repeated often, but also 
 acted up to. How few such men do we meet in 
 business now-a-days ! Our modern methods of busi- 
 ness, it seems to me, are but a return to barbarism. 
 The Red Indian or Bedouin, indeed, is less suspicious 
 of, and more truthful to, his fellow, than are now the 
 majority of business men one to another. Take every 
 man for a rogue, forsooth ! Do not the heathen like- 
 wise ! Avaunt with your modern civilisation, if this 
 be its outcome, its goal ! 
 
 "But to return. At the end of two weeks, Mr 
 Black, as I shall call my new master, offered to 
 apprentice me to the trade of a 'plater' of shovels, 
 if I would give him the address of my father or 
 
AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 43 
 
 some relative, in order to obtain his consent, as 
 required by law. For some reason I cannot explain, 
 I would not agree to this ; and it was, therefore, 
 arranged that I was to leave. When I was ready to 
 depart, I went to Mr Black to thank him for his 
 kindness, and to say good-bye. 
 
 "'Are you really determined to go away?' he 
 asked, in an anxious tone. 
 
 "On responding in the affirmative, he tried to 
 frighten me by threatening to take me to_ the 
 constable, on the pretext that I must have committed 
 some crime, and was hiding from justice. Conscious 
 that I had nothing to fear on that score, I told him 
 he could do as he pleased, but I could not give him 
 the information he wanted : I would do anything he 
 required except that. 
 
 " ' You're a strange boy/ he said, whereupon I took 
 my leave. 
 
 " I had not, however, got more than fifty yards 
 away when I heard his voice calling after me. I 
 returned, for I was really heart-sorry to separate 
 myself from such a man. Indeed, I was on the point 
 of relenting, when he told me that he would give me 
 a month to think over it ; meanwhile, as he could 
 not find another lad, I was to begin work. He never 
 again reverted to the matter, and I was thus relieved 
 from further embarrassment. 
 
 " Two years passed away while I was thus learning 
 the trade of a ' plater.' My wages for the first year 
 were nine shillings per week, for the second twelve 
 shillings, and I found myself now in what I regarded 
 as affluent circumstances. That is to say, I earned 
 more money than was required to keep me in food 
 and decent clothing, while I had my lodgings free of 
 charge. The one week I worked at night, and the 
 next during the day. The attic in which I slept 
 being above the warehouse in the forge, and some 
 distance from my master's house, I virtually could 
 
44 AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 
 
 go out and in as I pleased. I had free access to my 
 master's library, which, for a person of his standing 
 and for those times, was one of considerable preten- 
 sions. It contained, perhaps, about two hundred 
 volumes, and mostly standard works. I literally 
 wallowed in it for the first year of my apprenticeship, 
 and this had the effect of appeasing to some extent 
 my craving for drink, and for the society of the 
 opposite sex. Would that I could have continued 
 thus ! ' Music hath charms, e'en for the savage 
 breast/ but not always unalloyed charms. I joined 
 the choir in the church, and became a member of a 
 glee club. This was an innocent and elevating em- 
 ployment, you will no doubt say : but it was far 
 otherwise in my case. I was constantly falling in 
 love, and was as constantly baffled in my attempts to 
 captivate the attentions of girls of my own age. They 
 despised me for what I knew more than the other 
 striplings : and I was thus driven to seek the society 
 of females years older than myself. With the latter I 
 was generally successful. On walking home in moon- 
 light evenings from the glee club or from the church, 
 I could tell them the names of many of the planets 
 and stars; at other times I was able to discourse 
 fluently on music, poetry, history and theology. I 
 was, in a word, a precocious boy, whilst my com- 
 panions were illiterate women, but with all the feelings 
 natural to adolescence. We were thus mutually 
 placed in circumstances of great danger : I, from mere 
 egotism in aping the man; they, from treating me 
 with the familiarity denied to male adolescents, except 
 in the case of brothers and sisters. It had pari passu 
 the same effect upon me that a hot-house has upon 
 certain members of the vegetable kingdom ; it brought 
 about what I might call premature maturity. Its 
 immediate effect was nervous excitability and a pain- 
 ful restlessness whether in the presence or absence 
 of the opposite sex, a state which I soon discovered 
 
AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 
 
 45 
 
 alcohol— the craving for which I thought I had con- 
 quered— alone could allay. Such associations, how- 
 ever innocent in intention, are not only morally 
 dangerous in their tendency, but are positively in- 
 jurious both to the physical and mental _ well-being 
 of the immature. In my case it revolutionised my 
 temper, which I have never since in certain circum- 
 stances been able to control, and laid the basis of that 
 < hell of all diseases'— alcohol excepted— insomnia, 1 
 had only myself, however, to blame for all this. 1 
 had freed myself of parental or other control, which 
 is always attended with danger in one so young. 
 
 "In time, from frequenting the society ot men 1 
 begat more confidence in the society of women I he 
 former spoke as freely before me as if I had been ot 
 their own age, and, truth to tell, the conversation 
 mostly indulged in was not of the chastest descrip- 
 tion Lewd stories were the favourite themes, but 
 these, though often quite new to me, were so bad as 
 to revolt me. Yet, even so, I could not shake off their 
 influence for evil altogether, even when in the society 
 of women. It must be confessed, too, that some of the 
 young women gave me a great deal of encouragement. 
 Instead of resenting my advances and insinuations they 
 at most only laughed at them ; and this proceeded not 
 from natural depravity (I question if one woman out 
 of ten ever thought of wrong-doing), but rather trom 
 force of example and lack of education. The young 
 woman who would not make thus free with a suitor 
 or an accepted lover was regarded as a prude and 
 ' uppish,' one who affected airs above her social stand- 
 ing, and who was in consequence generally eschewed 
 
 bv young men. 
 
 "But as good fortune would have it, experience in- 
 clined me rather to the society of the latter than to 
 that of the former, which drew upon me a good deal 
 of ridicule. But I could afford to despise this. Kidi- 
 cule, it is said, kills. It had the opposite effect upon 
 
46 AGAIN ON THE ROAD. 
 
 me, at least for a time. It only drove me from the 
 society and companionship of men, on whose lips was 
 constantly to be found sensuality, coarseness or blas- 
 phemy. Nor did this happen a day too soon. Religion 
 was beginning to occupy a prominent place in my 
 thoughts, and it would not have taken a great deal 
 of argument just at this time to overthrow the whole 
 fabric of my beliefs. Music saved me at this crisis. 
 The organist of the church, finding how useful I was 
 to him, procured for me a small salary either as first 
 soprano or alto, as occasion required, and I therefore 
 had to go to church and rehearsals regularly. In 
 addition, he likewise engaged to teach me the organ 
 as far as that was practicable, with my horny hands. 
 In this way my leisure hours in the evenings of my 
 'day-shift' week came to be fully occupied. I had 
 thus no temptation either to think or do wrong. True 
 it is, I was thrown more than ever into the society 
 of women older than myself, and in this par- 
 ticular I was still abnormally sensitive. But these 
 were mostly of the class I have above described as 
 'uppish/ and I was therefore compelled to employ con- 
 siderable reserve in their society, whether when alone 
 or before others. On my ' night-shift ' weeks I was 
 rarely absent from my attic when not at work, except 
 on Saturdays. I devoted the days from noon, when I 
 arose, till five o'clock to severe study all by myself. 
 I made great progress in logic, moral philosophy, 
 rhetoric, music and mathematics, as well as in French, 
 German and Italian. Theology I soon let severely alone, 
 as every time I approached the subject in a serious 
 frame of mind perplexing questions started up. I 
 contented my conscience by reading a portion of the 
 Bible every evening, repeating the prayer I had been 
 taught at my mother's knee, and in going to church 
 on Sundays. 
 
 " Mr Black took great interest in my studies, and 
 I generally spent the hours on Sunday, while I was 
 
A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR 47 
 
 not at church, in giving him an account, before his 
 family, of what I had been reading during the week. 
 
 " For a time I was able to keep my enemy alcohol, 
 and all evil thoughts generally, at a distance. In 
 respect of the former, I may mention that I had 
 reached the stage when I could drink an enormous 
 quantity of whisky or ale without feeling its effect. 
 I had on more than one occasion sat down with men, 
 who were regarded as case-hardened 'topers,' and 
 drunk them blind, as the saying went. Whisky, 
 moreover, was cheap in those days : one could buy 
 a bottle for a shilling or one and threepence, so it 
 did not cost much to put an ordinary person under 
 the table. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 " It would have been well, however, had I then been 
 able to realise the full import of the precept — 'Let 
 him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' 
 Simultaneously I became enamoured of three women, 
 whose ages were respectively, twenty-three, twenty- 
 two, and nineteen. I was just turned of fourteen, but, 
 except for my female voice, I might have passed for 
 eighteen. I had a large frame, was five feet nine in 
 height, and weighed ten stone. The eldest of the 
 three was the daughter of a farrier and storekeeper, 
 the youngest my master's daughter, and the other the 
 daughter of a farmer, who sang in the choir, and was 
 a member of the glee club. I really could not tell 
 which I liked the best. I was attracted to the last 
 by her voice and unaffected bearing. There was in 
 
48 A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 her voice, whether in singing or in speaking, a sweet- 
 ness which charmed, and in her features and person 
 a freshness which always seemed to smell of new- 
 mown hay. In bearing, though not in any sense 
 diffident, she was amiable almost to ingenuousness. 
 It was a real pleasure to sing with her in a duet: 
 she was so sympathetic both in voice and expression. 
 For a time I accompanied her home every night from 
 the rehearsals and from the church. I was attracted 
 to my master's daughter, in the first place, from a 
 feeling of gratitude towards her father, who had been 
 so kind to me : in the second place, by her smile and 
 her frown, each of which transformed her whole face, 
 and were to me equally delightful to behold. She 
 was likewise uncommonly intelligent, and on Sundays, 
 when visiting her father, much of my conversation 
 was addressed to her, and vice versa. As for the 
 farrier's daughter, I hardly knew what it was about 
 her that pleased me. She was good nature itself : 
 rollicking and free in speech and manner : tall and 
 robust, with dimples in her cheeks ; eyes that looked 
 on you with an expression which was inexpressible. 
 She was, too, ' mighty fond of a chaff.' The fable 
 informs us that Buridan's ass died of starvation be- 
 tween two bundles of hay, the gravitation of desire 
 holding it in equilibrium — powerless to turn to one 
 side or the other. I was for a time threatened with 
 a similar fate. I was in a sort of triangular fix, and 
 the angles being equal I knew not to which hand to 
 turn. To which of the three should I declare my 
 passion ? If to all three, that would be no relief ; 
 for love, like murder, will out, in which case I would 
 be rendered ridiculous. If to one only, which one ? 
 and what would then become of the other two ? 
 If to none of them, what would become of me ? 
 Would I be able to smother the unholy passion in 
 my bosom ? If, failing that, should I allow myself 
 to pine away, like as so many of the heroines in 
 
A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 49 
 
 novels are represented as doing ? or shuffle off by 
 poisoning, or drowning, or leaping from some high 
 eminence — the top of the furnace chimney, for in- 
 stance ? I had not yet breathed a word of love to any 
 of the three. My secret was locked up in my breast. 
 Sleep deserted me, but this may have been caused by 
 over-study, and my mind was thus active night and 
 day. When I tried to read I became drowsy, and 
 when I sought to woo sleep I became wide awake. 
 The consequence was that I could neither study, sleep, 
 nor be at rest. The agony I endured, especially when 
 working at night over a blacksmith's hearth, was very 
 painful to endure. I would fall asleep on my legs, and 
 had some very narrow escapes of falling in the fire or 
 under the hammer. Yet in our resting 'spells/ when 
 I would lie down and try to snatch a few minutes' 
 repose, it was to no purpose. Just as I would be going 
 off into an unconscious state, I would start up, and 
 often bite my tongue almost through. How I did 
 long to be down some pit once more, where the 
 atmosphere, I felt certain, would soon lull me to rest ! 
 But I was miles now from any pit ; besides, how could 
 I leave my work ? It is a strange state to be in ! 
 
 " I see you do not understand it, so I will try to 
 explain it," turning his head sharply, as was his 
 manner, and looking me straight in the eyes. "It 
 has always seemed to me to be a state in which one's 
 mental and bodily faculties have come to be antagon- 
 istic. When the body craves rest, the mind demands 
 exertion ; and when you exert the body, the mind 
 becomes inactive. The two sets of functions, try as 
 you will, cannot be brought to support one another. 
 You have no sooner got up than the desire seizes 
 you that you want to lie down ; and you have not 
 lain down many minutes than you want to get up. 
 The doctors have told me that in young people it is 
 due to the nerves ; but this is only apparent to the 
 victim, when, on the point of dropping off to sleep, 
 
 D 
 
50 A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 a nervous shock makes him start, as if a cannon 
 had been unexpectedly fired off at his ear. In people 
 more advanced in years, it is ascribed to the stomach 
 and the liver ; but I had not then discovered, unless 
 by inference, that I was possessed of either. 
 
 " But to our muttons. Similia similibus curantur; 
 in proportion as I grew more feverish from want of 
 sleep, my love fever, as if by way of recompense, 
 diminished. Books and studies of every description 
 were thrown aside, at the suggestion of Mr Black, 
 my master, to whom I had described my condition 
 when I could no longer hide it. I struggled hard 
 against the demon drink ; but in the end my will had 
 to surrender unconditionally. I had no money, how- 
 ever, to procure it (I had spent my spare cash in 
 books), and the pay day was yet some distance off. 
 I went to Jessie, the farrier's daughter, with a lie in 
 my mouth. I told her my master had sent me for a 
 bottle of whisky, with which to treat some customers 
 whom he expected at the forge the next day. This 
 was a fatal step in more ways than one, as will 
 appear presently. The drink gave me relief in body, 
 but not in mind ; I mean, when under its influence 
 I procured a few hours' sleep ; but my waking hours 
 were more terrible than ever. Every time I cast 
 eyes on my master, a thrill of terror and of shame 
 ran through my whole frame. I pictured to myself 
 prison and punishment, and could see no way of 
 escape. Had I confessed my wrong-doing to my 
 master, there was every chance of my receiving for- 
 giveness, for he was one of the best of men. Instead, 
 however, I went and made a full confession to Jessie, 
 and entreated her help as well as forgiveness, promis- 
 ing that I should do anything she might ask of me in 
 return. Not only did she do what I required of her, 
 but gave me another bottle of whisky to take with 
 me on my own credit, the conditions being that 
 I was to assist her in learning French, and to teach 
 
A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 51 
 
 her to read music at sight. I went home that night 
 with a light heart, with the feeling that a terrible 
 load had been lifted from my shoulders. What a 
 strange compound is man, or boy either, for the 
 matter of that ! The lessons were begun under the 
 most auspicious circumstances, and with the full consent 
 of Jessie's parents. I visited her at her house twice a 
 week, and her mother was careful that we should not 
 be disturbed. Indeed, there was no one that could 
 disturb us ; for, when Jessie was upstairs with me, 
 her mother could not leave the store below. 
 
 " My pupil did not make much progress, either in 
 music or French. Though of a lively disposition and 
 possessing a fair stock of mother- wit, she was intel- 
 lectually dull, her memory, in particular, being very 
 deficient. 
 
 " Jessie had a suitor, a youth about her own age, who 
 had served his apprenticeship with her father to the 
 blacksmith trade, and who had lived under the same 
 roof with her for over ten years. It seemed to be the 
 desire of the parents that Tom (this was the only name 
 I knew him by) and Jessie should get married, and 
 that the former should step into the shoes of his father- 
 in-law at no distant day thereafter, for the latter, even 
 already, had practically retired from the business : he 
 very rarely now did any manual labour. But the 
 obstacle to the consummation of the parents' wishes lay 
 in Jessie herself. She treated her suitor with great 
 indifference, often even with contempt : and that not- 
 withstanding it had been for months the talk of the 
 village gossips that the marriage had been all arranged. 
 One day, when I was alone with Jessie, I asked her 
 whether the rumour was true, and I was rather 
 surprised to receive the answer : ' No, it is not true : I 
 would rather marry you.' This compliment, if com- 
 pliment it could be considered, I felt to be double- 
 edged. It was not apparent to me whether she liked 
 me well enough, if I had been old enough, to marry 
 
52 A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 me, or whether she despised me only a little less than 
 her suitor. Whichever was intended, I was by no 
 means displeased : nay, on the contrary, it seemed to 
 add, for the moment, a cubit to my stature. 
 
 "I was fast nearing the age when boys begin to 
 think that they know more than their fathers and 
 their 'elders,' and that the world is only for them, 
 their especial oyster. True it is, for one of my 
 education and upbringing, I had a considerable fund 
 of book knowledge, and could express myself with 
 ease and fluency ; besides, I possessed what people 
 were pleased to designate a ' wonderful knowledge of 
 music' In addition, I could sing well, and had 
 already aquired such a mastery of the technique of 
 the piano as to be able to play my own accompaniments 
 or that of another to any ordinary ballad. Moreover, 
 whether under the influence of drink or otherwise, I 
 had great vivacity of manner, and was not ungainly 
 in person. I suppose it was these quasi-accomplish- 
 ments which first recommended me to Jessie. My 
 origin, again, had no doubt whetted her woman's 
 curiosity. There was a mystery surrounding that, 
 and no arts or inducements or threats could prevail 
 upon me to draw the veil aside. I had in the begin- 
 ning no particular reason, as you are already aware, 
 for concealing my parentage and the history of my 
 childhood, except that I wanted to be free from 
 parental control. But the idea had now taken hold 
 of me that one day I should become a great man, and 
 that then I would return to my native village and 
 astonish everybody. Jessie tried hard to make me 
 divulge the secret, but with no better success than my 
 master, Mr Black. 
 
 In time the novelty of Jessie's society and the dread 
 of exposure — I had more than once offered to pay for 
 the whisky which I had procured on credit in my own 
 and master's name, but she indignantly refused to ac- 
 cept of it — wore off, and my visits to the farrier's 
 
A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 53 
 
 house became, in consequence, less frequent. When 
 we did meet, however, we became, day by day, more 
 free of one another in our conduct and bearing ; but 
 this freedom was not characterised by any feature 
 which might not have had place between brother and 
 sister ; we sometimes indulged in the luxury of a kiss, 
 that was all. In proportion as my fondness for the 
 society of Jessie decreased, that for the society of the 
 farmer's daughter, whose Christian name was Ena, 
 increased. My ambition was now to be near the 
 latter as often as possible, but the impediments to 
 that were not easy to get over. It had come to her 
 ears that I was paying my addresses to my master's 
 daughter, with the consent of the latter's parents ; nor 
 would she be convinced that my visits to Jessie had 
 no other object than to attempt to teach her singing 
 and French. As a matter of fact, as I afterwards 
 discovered, Jessie had informed her that not only was 
 I ' smitten ' with her, but also that she could do with 
 me just as she pleased. My amour propre was 
 wounded by this ' impartment/ to use a happy 
 Shakesperian term, and I resolved there and then 
 never to see Jessie in private again. All my blandish- 
 ments, excuses and protestations had no effect on Ena; 
 she refused even my escort home from the church or 
 from the glee club. But it was not in my nature to 
 be baffled when I had set my heart upon anything. 
 Such was my egoism and self-confidence, that I 
 inwardly vowed that, sooner or later, even though it 
 should take years, I would one day bring her to my 
 feet ; meanwhile, my policy was to let her severely 
 alone, to disregard her very existence, unless in the 
 most cold and formal manner, and finally, to excite 
 her jealousy by paying my addresses to my master's 
 daughter (Lily by name) in the most ostentatious and 
 open manner. I had already penetrated the 'true 
 inwardness ' of the female heart to the extent, at 
 least, that it was more vulnerable to indifference and 
 
54 A TRIANGULAR LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 jealousy than to the strongest protestations of love 
 and the most abject personal attentions. Alas ! poor 
 fool ! 
 
 It was soon brought home to me, in the most pain- 
 ful manner, that in coming to the above resolutions I 
 had calculated without my hosts. Two or three days 
 after my interview with Ena, as above described, on 
 entering my master's house, whither I had repaired 
 with the twofold object of having a book changed, and 
 the chance of a chat with Lily, I found Ena engaged 
 in earnest conversation with the latter. I at once 
 divined its purport, and made my dispositions accord- 
 ingly, after the most formal recognition on my part, 
 as well as on theirs. I lost no time, when I had 
 secured the book I had come in quest of, in returning 
 to my own quarters at the forge : but not to read or 
 pursue my studies. I was annoyed to exasperation, 
 and had a presentiment that some great misfortune 
 was again about to befall me. I had sense enough to 
 perceive that, since I had laid my net so openly in 
 sight of the bird, neither Ena nor Lily could be blamed, 
 if they declined to be caught in it. But what was I 
 to do ? Without the distraction of female society, 
 I must have fallen back on alcohol ; nevertheless, I 
 reasoned myself into the belief that of the two evils 
 I had chosen the lesser. True, I instinctively felt that 
 I had nothing to fear from either Ena or Lily ; no, it 
 was only the wrath of Jessie I dreaded. I went once 
 more to her and offered to pay for the several bottles 
 of whisky she had supplied me with on credit on my 
 own, as well as the one on my master's, account. She 
 only jeered at me, informing me at the same time that 
 she knew the whole history of my intrigues with Ena 
 and Lily, and that it was she who had opened their 
 eyes. Further, that she had only to open her mouth 
 to her father, or Mr Black, and the gaol would open 
 its doors for me. Instead of cringing to her for 
 forgiveness, as she expected I would,.! challenged her 
 
IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 55 
 
 to do her worst; nay, I would deprive her of the satis- 
 faction of doing what she had threatened, as I should 
 at once inform both myself. 
 
 This unexpected temerity on my part completely 
 disconcerted her, and when I turned from her to take 
 my leave, she made a rush to grasp and detain me, but 
 without success ; I escaped from the house and went 
 immediately in search of her father. Unfortunately 
 for me, however, the latter could not be found, so I 
 resolved to wait until the following day. Too late, 
 alas ! too late ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 
 
 I HAD not long retired to rest next morning, after 
 working all night, when my master came into my 
 room, his face wearing an expression I had never 
 seen there before. He was in such a boiling rage that 
 he could not speak, and I at once divined the cause. 
 
 " < What is the matter, Mr Black ? Has Jessie Arm- 
 strong informed you that I procured a bottle of whisky 
 in your name ? ' I inquired. He gazed at me stead- 
 fastly without answering, breathing heavily. ' If so, 
 it is quite true, and I humbly beg your forgiveness ; 
 but, let me add, it is the only criminal act I have ever 
 committed in my life, and I cannot express to you how 
 bitterly I regret it. More than that — ' 
 
 " ' Silence, sir ! do not attempt to cover over one lie 
 by telling more. You have procured no less than 
 four bottles of whisky in my name.' 
 
 " I was about to remonstrate, when he again ordered 
 me to be silent. ' Little did I know,' he continued 
 
56 IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 
 
 ' that I was harbouring a thief and common vagabond 
 under my roof— you who must have come here to 
 escape the consequences of your former misdeeds. No 
 wonder you refused to give me any information as to 
 your early life ! ' and he glared at me and clenched his 
 fists, as if he was about to set upon me. Seeing that 
 he was beside himself with rage, I did not, grieved 
 though I was at the false accusations he brought 
 against me, attempt to answer ; I knew that he was 
 a just man, and that when he had calmed down he 
 would listen to me. 
 
 "'But if this were all, I might forgive you/ he 
 proceeded, absolutely choking with rage. 'You 
 have tried to corrupt my daughter's virtue, and you 
 have succeeded in seducing Jessie Armstrong, you 
 scoundrel ! ' 
 
 " This was too much for flesh and blood to endure. 
 I leapt from bed with a bound, and seizing a 
 carpenter's mallet at hand, I raised it aloft and 
 exclaimed, ' Sir, if you make another such accusation 
 against me, or even open your mouth again, I shall 
 brain you.' 
 
 " The ' shaf tmaker,' who was in the apartment 
 adjoining, rushed in at this moment and disarmed me, 
 and then led Mr Black out of the room. I was so 
 overcome with rage that it was several minutes before 
 I could recover strength sufficient to begin to put on 
 my clothes. I had not finished dressing when the 
 'shaf tmaker' returned, and informed me that Mr 
 Black had sent for a constable, and that he was 
 charged not to let me go until the arrival of that 
 officer. I informed him that I was quite prepared for 
 such a thing, and I would not seek to escape, as I was 
 innocent of the charges Mr Black had brought against 
 me, except in the case of one bottle of whisky, which 
 I had shared with him (the shaftmaker), and that I 
 had offered again and again to pay Jessie Armstrong 
 for it. 
 
IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 57 
 
 " It was not long before I regained my wonted com- 
 posure, so that, when the constable arrived, he found 
 me engrossed in Alison on Taste. He had a warrant 
 for my apprehension, which having been read over to 
 me, I was handcuffed and led off to the watch-house at 
 Bampton. On the following day I was brought before 
 a Justice of the Peace, and my accuser was Jessie. 
 I pleaded guilty to obtaining one bottle of whisky 
 under false pretences, but was not allowed to explain 
 the circumstances, and I was committed for trial at 
 the ensuing Quarter Sessions. While I was awaiting 
 my trial, I told the chaplain the true state of affairs, 
 who in turn communicated with the vicar, in the 
 choir of whose church I had sung for so long, and 
 with whom I was a great favourite. It was not long, 
 too, before I was visited by Mr Black and his daughter 
 Lily. The former expressed deep contrition for hav- 
 ing acted so hastily, the more so when he had learned 
 from his daughter that there was not one word of 
 truth in the accusation he had made against me in 
 respect of her, and that he had been misled by Jessie. 
 It had also leaked out, he informed me, that the latter 
 had been seen several times in a forest adjoining the 
 village with a married man, under very compromising 
 circumstances. The upshot was that the vicar under- 
 took to have me defended, and when the day of trial 
 arrived, Jessie failing to put in an appearance, I 
 pleaded, as in the court below, to obtaining one bottle 
 of whisky under false pretences. After hearing the 
 solicitor whom the vicar had employed in my defence, 
 the chairman and indeed the whole bench expressed 
 great sympathy for me, but as I had broken the law 
 I must suffer the penalty of the law ; nevertheless, 
 as Miss Armstrong's absence was a suspicious circum- 
 stance in the case, and as Mr Black did not press the 
 charge, the ends of justice would be served by my 
 being sentenced to one day's imprisonment, seeing 
 that I had already been incarcerated for a month ; 
 
58 IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 
 
 the sentence to date from the beginning of the 
 Sessions, which meant I was to be set at liberty. 
 
 " Mr Black and his daughter Lily were the first to 
 congratulate me when I stepped out of the dock, and 
 they pressed me to come home with them to dinner, 
 and to resume my former relations with the family. 
 I was so utterly ashamed of my position that I could 
 not consent to this. I only asked to be allowed to 
 return to the forge to collect together my few belong- 
 ings, and to depart in peace, never to see their faces 
 more. 
 
 " Mr Black acceding to this request, I returned to my 
 former quarters after an enforced absence of a month 
 from them. I was sad at heart. I had passed many 
 happy days and nights there with my books and my 
 thoughts. All the dreams I had dreamed of the 
 future, while lying on that straw couch, gazing on 
 bare walls, were now shattered. Would I ever be 
 happy again ? Now I was about to tear myself away 
 from the most agreeable associations, and to separate 
 myself from one of the best of men and the kindest 
 of masters. And whither bound ? Ich wusste nicht 
 wo. 
 
 " The books and music I had collected I entrusted to 
 Mr Black to be divided equally between his daughter 
 and Ena, taking with me only Hume's Essays and 
 Plato's Republic, to distract my thoughts in my travels 
 in search of some new employment. On saying- 
 adieu to Lily, she put a small parcel into my hand, 
 which, she requested, I was to accept as a memento 
 of her and her family, but I was not to open it until 
 I reached Hulchester, whither I informed her I pro- 
 posed directing my steps. I gladly accepted it, and 
 promised to do as she required. Four days later, 
 when I opened the parcel, I found it contained a small 
 box, and in the box were ten pounds, together with a 
 letter from Mr Black, setting forth that the money was 
 not given as a gratuity, but was, in part, my wages 
 
IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LAW. 59 
 
 for the time I was in prison, and second, the cost of 
 the books I had presented to Lily. My first impulse 
 was to return the money, but when I reflected on the 
 delicate manner in which the whole thing had been 
 gone about, I concluded that it would be churlish on 
 my part not to accept it. And believe me," said Mr 
 Bigglethwaite with emphasis, turning to me, " that 
 that ten pounds have always seemed to me like the 
 oil of the widow's cruse, which was inexhaustible.' 
 
 Thus ended our second day's intercourse, and before 
 I slept that night I took down the narrative, as nearly 
 as I could remember it, in shorthand, which latter is 
 now expanded for the first time. 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 heke's to the new yeae. 
 
 I FOUND the captain on the bridge when I went up to 
 deck next morning after breakfast, who beckoned me 
 to ascend to where he was. The weather was raw 
 and muggy, but the sea was perfectly calm. 
 
 " I saw you had a long sederunt (this was a favourite 
 term of the captain's for describing a sitting, or session) 
 yesterday, you and your friend who made the scene 
 at the concert, evening before last," said the captain 
 to me, when I approached him, after we had saluted 
 each other in the usual way. 
 
 " Yes, and a most interesting one it was," I answered. 
 " He gave me an account of his early life, which he 
 proposes to publish soon after he gets to England, and 
 I have offered to assist him in it. He is one of the 
 queerest fishes I have ever met. I took down what 
 he said in shorthand, as far as I could remember it, 
 after going downstairs last night, and it is a caution, 
 if it be true. Would you like to hear it ? If you have 
 time, I will read it from my notes to you ; I can assure 
 you it is well worth listening to." 
 
 " I must see the first officer and the steward first. 
 I do not think we will be able to take any observa- 
 tions to-day, the weather is so thick ; still, I must hear 
 what the first mate has to say. The steward wants 
 to see me, too, about the dinner. Let's see," pulling 
 
here's to the new year. 61 
 
 out his watch ; " it is 9.30 just now, meet me at my 
 room at 10 o'clock, say, and we can smoke a cigar 
 together," saying which, he left me on the bridge, and 
 went downstairs. It was not long before I followed 
 him, going to my berth to look over my notes in 
 order to refresh my memory from them. 
 
 When I left the second cabin at 10 o'clock, to go to 
 the captain, Mr Bigglethwaite, I learned from the 
 under steward, was still in bed. 
 
 " Let's hear, then, what the old codger has to say 
 for himself," said the captain, who came into the 
 room a few minutes after me, sitting down opposite 
 at the table, and lighting a cigar. 
 
 I then read to him from my notes, as well as I 
 could, what the reader already knows, which seemed 
 to amuse and interest him very much. When we had 
 talked the matter over, and when I had informed him 
 that Mr Bigglethwaite would continue his narrative to 
 me on deck, if the weather was not too cold, he asked 
 me to invite Mr Bigglethwaite to his cabin and he would 
 be happy to form one of the audience, if the old man did 
 not object. This was agreed upon, and I went in quest 
 of our guest. I now found him sitting downstairs in 
 his accustomed corner, with his pile of books before 
 him, as usual. He was suffering from the exposure 
 of the previous day, he told me, and he proposed to 
 remain downstairs for the most of the day, in case 
 he might catch cold. I was at a loss as to how to 
 approach him with the captain's message, in case he 
 might accuse me of abusing his confidence by taking 
 down notes of what he had said, and by communicating 
 them to the captain without his permission, as I had 
 done. He found no fault, however, with me for what 
 I had done ; nay, on the contrary appeared rather 
 to be pleased than otherwise; and what was still more 
 agreeable to me, he promptly aud cheerfully accepted 
 the captain's invitation, and informed me he was 
 ready to proceed to the rendezvous as soon as I was. 
 
62 here's to the new year. 
 
 He seemed, in fact, to have taken a fancy to me, and 
 I could not now do anything that would offend him. 
 It may be remarked, however, that he still maintained 
 his dignified reserve with the other passengers, the 
 " tract " lady included. 
 
 We did not find the captain in his room when we 
 entered, but the steward was there, who was placing 
 whisky and glasses on the table. When Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite observed this, a kind of shudder appeared to 
 pass over him, but he made no remark. 
 
 The captain, on entering, greeted Mr Bigglethwaite 
 with a hearty hand-shake, wishing him at the same 
 time the compliments of the season, for we were yet 
 only in the first week of the New Year. 
 
 " Had we not better drink to the New Year ? " said 
 the captain, on taking his seat, addressing both of us ; 
 " it is still young ; besides, the weather is so cold, and 
 it may help to cheer us up a bit." 
 
 I at once assented, but it required considerable per- 
 suasion on the part of the captain to induce the old 
 man to join with us; but in the end he allowed him- 
 self to be persuaded. 
 
 This is the only incident in that voyage that I look 
 back on with regret, and my reason for saying so will 
 appear in the closing chapters of this book. 
 
 " I would have felt myself compelled to refuse your 
 kind offer peremptorily," said Mr Bigglethwaite at 
 length, " had it been any other season of the year than 
 this ; but what border man " (he laid great stress on 
 border man), " especially if he has been away so long 
 from the scenes of his childhood as I have, could find 
 it in his heart to refuse to wish success to the New 
 Year;" this naively. The health of the New Year 
 was accordingly drunk with border honours, which, 
 I may mention, differ in nowise from the Scotch mode 
 of honouring that occasion. By the time the con- 
 versation, however, had been brought round to the 
 question of Mr Bigglethwaite continuing his narrative 
 
here's to the new year. 63 
 
 from the point at which he had left off on the previous 
 day — for we talked of various other general matters 
 first, not forgetting to pledge the New Year more 
 than once again — the lunch bell was rung, and the 
 captain had to leave us to go to the cabin proper, to 
 take his place at the head of the table. It was 
 arranged, however, that we were to meet in the same 
 place at two o'clock, when Mr Bigglethwaite was to 
 continue the story of his life. 
 
 I had never before witnessed drink produce such 
 an instantaneous and marvellous change upon anyone 
 as it did upon my neighbour. All at once he became 
 gracious, affable and communicative. When we sat 
 down to table in our own cabin, he even condescended 
 to bow to the " tract " lady at his right hand, nor was 
 it long before his conversation directed all other eyes 
 to him. For a full half -hour, his was the only voice 
 to be heard. He discoursed on literature, Shakespeare 
 in particular, and his knowledge of the subject seemed 
 inexhaustible. Moreover, the flow and force of his 
 language could only be compared to a geyser in full 
 activity. It was lucid and nervous, consequent and 
 continuous. Everybody stared, forgetting often to 
 eat, until reminded by Jim from behind. It was only 
 when I drew his attention to the two bells just gone 
 off that he seemed to draw breath.* 
 
 * I have never known anyone to manage their breath, whether 
 in speaking or singing, as he did. It was next to impossible 
 to detect it. He accompanied the function with a gesture of 
 feature and body, which, in four cases out of five, was successful 
 in drawing away the attention from the act of inhalation. It 
 was a trick, of course, but a most useful and even commendable 
 one. 
 
64 THE SAINTLY WIDOW. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE SAINTLY WIDOW. 
 
 When we reached the captain's room on deck, he 
 was all life and animation, as eager evidently to 
 " orate " as both the captain and I were to listen. 
 
 "Well, Mr Bigglethwaite," said the captain, as he 
 sat down in his favourite corner, facing both Mr 
 Bigglethwaite and myself, lighting his cigar, "you 
 have promised to entertain us in this wretched 
 weather with a history of your adventures in life. 
 I am all ears. I have learned your early history, as 
 I told you this morning, from our friend here," point- 
 ing to me. " You had escaped the leashes of the law, 
 and had arrived at Hulchester." 
 
 " Very well ; when I reached Hulchester and found 
 myself the possessor of ten pounds — an enormous sum 
 in my eyes then — I really did not know to what hand 
 to turn. I was worse off than if I had been penniless, 
 without either food or shelter, for then stern necessity 
 would have nerved me into action of some kind, and 
 set my mind upon some one object — at least how to 
 obtain employment. It was a year of great destitu- 
 tion and hardship in England ; a time of rick-burning 
 and general discontent. Labour was scarce, people 
 were starving, and it seemed as if the scenes of 1789 
 in France were about to be enacted on English soil. 
 George IV. had not long become king de jure as well 
 as de facto, and if it had rested with the masses, his 
 head would not have been worth many days' wear ; 
 and I question if a single soul in England, from poor 
 Queen Caroline downwards, would have heaved a sigh 
 for that part of his body itself. However, with all 
 their discontent, the people were attached to their 
 country and its institutions : and then again, the 
 ' Iron l)uke ' stood between them and their sovereign. 
 
THE SAINTLY WIDOW. 65 
 
 It was in the very thick of such stirring scenes that 
 I found a lodging in the quiet home of a widow lady, 
 who had an only daughter, two or three years my 
 senior, perhaps, but who was as sweet and ingenuous 
 as a little child. They were the wife and daughter 
 of a Nonconformist minister, who had reached a pre- 
 mature grave, the result, I was informed, of too much 
 zeal in the cause of the Master he had served. The 
 little cottage in which they lived, situated in the 
 outskirts of the town, belonged to the widow, who 
 had, besides, an annuity of some tive-and-twenty 
 pounds a year from the religious denomination to 
 which her husband had belonged. They lived in 
 genteel comfort and poverty, adding to their slender 
 income the wages earned by their united needles, 
 which they plied all day long in shirt-making and 
 handkerchief-hemming. 
 
 The mother was still on the sunny side of forty, 
 and in her stuff black gown and spotless widow's cap, 
 was indeed charming to look upon. Except that she 
 was fair and blue-eyed, she might have indeed passed, 
 as it seemed to me, for the mother of our Lord herself, 
 she was so gentle, pensive and 'uplifted.' It was 
 plain to see that her home was not of this world, but 
 that she looked towards a better country. Her voice 
 was soft and unctuous, her conversation insidiously 
 persuasive ; so much so, indeed, that from the very 
 first day I felt it a hardship to have to resist her 
 slightest wish. Mary, the daughter, was cast very 
 much in the same mould, both physically and 
 mentally, except that, at times, she gave evidence 
 that there was more resonance in her temper, and 
 therefore much more impatient of contradiction ; but 
 this, as I soon discovered, was more apparent than 
 real, arising simply from disparity in age and lack 
 of experience ; in a word, she had not yet had time to 
 mellow. 
 
 " In every respect, both were the antithesis of me. 
 
 E 
 
66 THE SAINTLY WIDOW. 
 
 Beside them I was uncouth in manner, brusque in 
 speech, self-confident and self-assertive, buoyant in 
 temper and callous in bearing. To tell the truth, I 
 may have exaggerated my natural defects before them 
 at first ; for I entertained not a little inward contempt 
 for melancholy simpering, downcast looks, gentle re- 
 proaches and passive acquiescence. My idea of proper 
 manliness was to stick to your guns through thick and 
 thin, and to have it out with your adversary, what- 
 ever might be the consequences. But would you 
 believe it, captain," leaning forward towards the 
 latter with his neck craned, "in less than a week 
 these two women had so tamed me that I had become 
 like putty in their hands, a being destitute of indi- 
 vidual volition and action ! I verily believe that if 
 either or both had asked me to marry them just then, 
 and to fly aloft with them, or anywhere, everywhere, 
 I would have tried. Not that I was in love with 
 them ; to have fallen in love with either mother or 
 daughter in the manner I had previously fallen in 
 love with other females would have appeared to me 
 a crime as heinous as blasphemy or sacrilege. I was 
 nevertheless attracted to both by some occult and 
 mysterious power. 
 
 The mother, Mrs Deerpin, appeared to be deeply 
 and sincerely religious. I had to join in their family 
 devotions, morning and evening, as a matter of course. 
 Up till now, my ideas in regard to religion were those 
 which are common to most boys at the age I had 
 reached ; from mere habit I looked upon religion as a 
 proper thing ; its stated observances obligatory on any- 
 one who affected to be respectable, nothing more. All 
 Protestant Churches were alike to me ; but Roman 
 Catholicism and all other isms, not Protestant in 
 name, I had been taught to abhor ; and did so heartily, 
 but for what reason I could not tell. I went to 
 chapel with Mrs Deerpin and her daughter, and on 
 the very first Sunday was welcomed by the officiating 
 
THE SAINTLY WIDOW. 67 
 
 minister and others. All this was very agreeable, but 
 I had not yet found employment, and my reticence 
 as to my past life, as well as my parentage — this had 
 become an invincible habit with me now — was not 
 calculated to aid me in this connection ; people were 
 much more careful about character in those days than 
 now. Independently of any of the chapel people, 
 however, my good angel — fate, luck, or whatever it 
 was— once more came to my succour, when, not more 
 than three weeks had elapsed from the time I had 
 first set foot in Hulchester, and I obtained a situation 
 in a silk factory, as an assistant at a silk-printing 
 steam machine, and to begin with I was to receive 
 twelve shillings a week. This was indeed lucky ; 
 I had once more found remunerative occupation, 
 pleasant domestic surroundings, books to read, with 
 time and oportunity to read them, and my soul 
 well taken care of to boot. But it was not long 
 before my born adversary, alcohol, came ' sneaking 
 around/ as the Yankees would say, to have another 
 tussle with me. I struggled manfully with him night 
 and day, but he would not let me go. To baffle him 
 I went to prayer meetings, attended music classes, 
 pored over my books, all to no purpose. I had to 
 yield at length to the gnawing torture, but not un- 
 conditionally this time. I limited myself to three 
 pints of beer per diem — I would have died rather 
 than take a teaspoonful more. This was some- 
 thing gained. In three weeks time he departed, 
 leaving me nothing the worse, except minus the few 
 pence per day it cost me — for I was careful to let no 
 one see me drinking, or entering a public house, 
 except with pitcher in hand; this latter was at 
 that time one of the earliest lessons taught young 
 Nonconformity. 
 
68 SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 
 
 " Three months thus glided past without any un- 
 toward incident appearing to threaten my unruffled 
 serenity. At the end of this time, however, a set was 
 made upon me by the combined forces of the chapel. 
 It had got wind somehow that I had not yet found 
 Jesus, in the Nonconformist or revivalist sense. I 
 was asked to become a communicant of the church, 
 or what they called a member of the chapel. I had no 
 particular objection to this, and said so, for I had 
 already been confirmed and had received the communion 
 in the Church of England. I was told, however, that I 
 would have to separate myself entirely from the world 
 before I could approach the Table of the Lord in this 
 Nonconformist chapel ; that I would have to obtain 
 saving grace, the ministry of the holy spirit, and many 
 other things. Still I did not object, for, truth to tell, 
 notwithstanding all my reading, I had not the faintest 
 idea what it all meant ; did not know how to set 
 about getting it, and would have been unable to 
 recognise it when I did get it. I told the minister all 
 this with my usual frankness, and I could see that he 
 was something more than astonished thereat ; he was 
 shocked, even to the whites of his upturned eyes. I 
 began to get alarmed ; or at least to wonder me much 
 as to what it was all about ; especially, why I was 
 looked upon as a greater sinner than all the other 
 chapel boys, which my own common sense told me I 
 was not, but, on the contrary, was better than the 
 most of them; I had never done anything illegal in 
 my life, except to obtain a bottle of whisky by fraud ; 
 but I told them, at the instigation of Mrs Deerpin, that 
 I would do whatever they wanted me, except walk 
 with unboiled peas in my boots, for I had somehow 
 
SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 69 
 
 or other heard or read that this was a penalty in- 
 flicted on disobedients in certain religious denomina- 
 tions outside the Church of England. Deacon Jones 
 and Mrs Deerpin were appointed to ' fix me up ' — I 
 cannot help using American phrases, some of them 
 are so pat and expressive — for communion ; and I 
 listened to their teachings with the greatest eagerness 
 and anxiety." 
 
 Here the captain grinned aloud, which had the effect 
 of bringing Mr Bigglethwaite to a pause in his narra- 
 tive, but it did not disconcert him. He retained his 
 serious demeanour, though he seemed annoyed at the 
 captain's levity. 
 
 " I can assure you, captain, I was not making game 
 of them, but was in dead earuest," he remarked. 
 " Well, the first thing I was required to do was to 
 put aside my music and all my books. I obeyed, 
 dissenting inwardly, however. The whole of my 
 leisure hours were to be devoted to the reading of 
 the Bible, and to other works of a cognate character 
 which they put into my hands. The deacon came 
 in the evening and prayed with me, Mrs Deerpin 
 prayed with me, I tried to compose prayers by my- 
 self suited to my condition, we all three prayed to- 
 gether. This continued for about two weeks, and I 
 now felt that a change of some kind had been effected 
 in me, or was about to take place, something as dis- 
 tinct as the passing from the dipsomaniac or alcoholic 
 state into the rational or sober state, accompanied by 
 symptoms, both mental and physical, as sharp and 
 painful, but quite different. Music became hateful to 
 me, the very sight of Shakespeare or Burns filled me 
 with a loathing only comparable to the sight of food 
 while suffering from sickness. My appetite deserted 
 me, just as it did after a drinking bout. I became so 
 nervous and excited that I felt often like crying out 
 for very fear. For fear of what ? The devil and 
 hell-fire, think you ? Nothing of the kind. It was 
 
70 SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE, 
 
 an invisible, occult something, somewhere, nowhere. 
 The thought of madness began to brood over me. 
 There was madness in the family. Was I, like my 
 raving uncles, of whom I had often heard, to end my 
 days in solitary confinement ? My past life rose up 
 before me like a terrible nightmare. I felt myself 
 reeling on the verge of a terrible precipice, with an 
 immense yawning gulf below. I could have torn the 
 very flesh from my bones in remorse for my ingrati- 
 tude to my father and mother. What would I not 
 have given in such moments to feel the stroke of my 
 poor mother's hands over my cheeks and hair ? I 
 groaned in very anguish." 
 
 At this point the old man paused in his narrative, 
 his eyes darting electrical flashes, his features con- 
 torted, his fingers bent and rigid, his whole frame 
 drawn up to a tenseness which appeared to threaten 
 to rend it to shreds. A " creepy " feeling had also 
 taken possession of me, and I could see that the 
 captain was ill at ease. It was hence a relief when 
 the purser entered with papers in his hands, to which 
 he asked the captain to attach his signature. This 
 done, a little desultory conversation ensued in regard 
 to the weather, whereupon the bottle was again passed 
 round, and Mr Bigglethwaite drank off his glass 
 greedily, with a single gulp, indeed. In a second the 
 liquor took effect. The captain once more produced his 
 cigar case, proffering each of us a weed, which, however, 
 was declined by Mr Bigglethwaite, on the plea that 
 he did not smoke. When the captain and I had 
 lighted up, the former apologised to our interlocutor 
 for the interruption, and requested him to resume his 
 narrative, if agreeable, passing the compliment at the 
 same time that it had been intensely interesting, a 
 compliment acknowledged by Mr Bigglethwaite with 
 the grace now habitual to him immediately after 
 indulging in alcohol. 
 
 " Well," he began, in a sobered mood, " it was not 
 
SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 71 
 
 long, fortunately, before I discovered that Mrs Deerpin 
 had been to some extent cognisant of the mental 
 struggle I had been engaged in, but that she had 
 discreetly kept silence until the proper time had 
 arrived, as she thought, to interpose. Entering my 
 room one evening, while I was reading perhaps for 
 the fiftieth time the story of the betrayal of Christ by 
 Judas — the monster ! I thought — and the crucifixion, 
 she sat down by my side, and, putting her hand upon 
 my shoulder, looked up in my face — hers seemed to 
 me at that moment to be the face of an angel — gently 
 putting the question to me, ' Have you found Jesus ? ' 
 On answering that I was not aware of the fact if I 
 had, she continued: 'Do not deceive yourself, my 
 dear boy ; if you have not yet found Him, He is not 
 far from you, nearer perhaps than you imagine. 
 Have you confessed your sins to Him and repented 
 of them ? for unless you have done this you cannot 
 look to Him for forgiveness. Tell me all ; you can 
 trust me, surely, and I will pray with you and for 
 you.' 
 
 " For the first time I was vexed with Mrs Deerpin, 
 but hesitated to tell her so ; she had always been so 
 loving and kind to me. 
 
 " ' I really have nothing to tell you, Mrs Deerpin, 
 except that I do not feel very well, the result, perhaps, 
 of overstudy and sleeplessness, and from brooding too 
 closely over the subjects that Deacon Jones and you 
 have assigned me. I think it would be better for me 
 now to give up reading the Bible so much, until, at 
 least, I get back my sleep. In order to this, suppose 
 I resume my former habits ? ' 
 
 " I have never forgotten the look of compassion and 
 of blank disappointment that these words of mine 
 called forth in her countenance. I was so much put 
 out by it that I was on the point of apologising and 
 of retracting what I had said, when she arose from my 
 side, took me by the hand, commended me to God, and 
 
72 SEEKING FOR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 
 
 left the room, as I could see, sorrowing. Notwith- 
 standing, I was glad when I found myself alone. 
 I experienced a feeling of utter weariness and ex- 
 haustion, and was so shaken in the nerves that I could 
 hardly guide a tumbler of water to my lips. I was 
 conscious that I could not remain in the state I was 
 then all night, without the risk of serious conse- 
 quences. I accordingly got up, seized my hat, passed 
 through the room in which Mrs Deerpin and Mary 
 were sitting, without vouchsafing a word to either, 
 and walked as straight as my limbs and the streets 
 would carry me to the nearest public house, which 
 I entered. Procuring half-a-pint of gin in a bottle I 
 left, but before I had gone many steps I withdrew the 
 cork, placed the spout of the bottle in my mouth, and 
 drank the whole contents before I attempted to stir 
 from the spot. Oh, ye gods, what a refreshing draught ! 
 It transformed me as if by lightning. All my terrors 
 and sorrows were chased away in a moment. I was 
 myself once again. There was a great mental calm, a 
 great elan of physical strength. Men and women once 
 more assumed their wonted forms of flesh and blood. 
 I must have been in a dream, afflicted with some 
 terrible nightmare. I walked home happy and con- 
 tented, and retired at once to bed and to sleep. 
 How different all nature looked the next morning-. 
 After all, I began now to think, it was not a bad 
 world, nor were the people that were in it so terrible 
 as they had appeared to me. I blessed from my heart 
 of hearts that fourpenny worth of gin — so much relief 
 and refreshment for less than the reward of half a 
 day's labour ! No more pain, no more suffering, no 
 more sorrow for me, when relief was so close at hand, 
 and could be purchased at so small a sacrifice ! 
 
 " I now found myself in the condition I had been 
 in exactly two weeks before, with the exception that 
 my mental faculties had developed in the interim in 
 such manner that much of my mental furniture which 
 
MUST TO LONDON. 73 
 
 had before been mere flotsam and jetsam had now 
 taken the form of fixed ideas; a kind of salvage 
 rescued from my almost physical wreck. The whole 
 thing had been a mere matter of nerves. I was now 
 neither more nor less religious than I had ever been. 
 I still paid the same deference to it I had done before. 
 I had no disposition to desert chapel or to shun Mrs 
 Deerpin's family devotions, but I declined most em- 
 phatically henceforward to be questioned as to the 
 state of my soul, or to accept my religion at second- 
 hand. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MUST TO LONDON. 
 
 " Not long after this episode, the idea began gradually 
 to take possession of me that Hulchester was too 
 small a place for one of my capacities. When I com- 
 pared myself with the other boys in the factory of 
 my own age, they were pigmies beside me. Even the 
 men looked up to and respected me for my superior 
 intelligence. I must to London — London, around 
 which revolved the intellectual and mercantile uni- 
 verse. Change of scene and surroundings I eagerly 
 longed for, and change I must have at any cost or 
 sacrifice. 
 
 "But another year rolled on before I could bring 
 my mind to make the final plunge. During the most 
 of this time I had not again been troubled by spiritual 
 promptings either of a religious or alcoholic kind — ^two 
 things so nearly allied in their exaggerated phases. 
 My conduct had been in every respect exemplary. I 
 had for the nonce no secret vices or weaknesses that 
 I was anxious to conceal. 
 
 " I had now arrived at the period in life when, in 
 
74 MUST TO LONDON. 
 
 boys, the voice is said to break ; when the larynx 
 takes on new proportions and dimensions, and the 
 sound emitted assumes a deeper tone ; when the 
 voice, in fact, in speaking or singing, drops an octave. 
 A strange provision in nature, but a change not 
 wholly inexplicable on physiological grounds ! For 
 a time I felt myself put out as much as Jonah, and, 
 like him, retired to a distance from the world, to 
 see what would become of one of the objects of my 
 greatest concern, namely, my voice, my Temple of 
 Apollo. No young mother ever waited with more 
 breathlessness the verdict — a boy or a girl — than I 
 did — a tenor or a bass. I had set my mind on fill- 
 ing a high place in the musical firmament. 
 
 " For several months now I was Tyrolese, both in 
 speech and song. People laughed at me, nor could I 
 help laughing at myself. But only wait ! I would 
 astonish them as soon as the change in my throat 
 was fully wrought. Who would not rather be a 
 Brahm than an Alexander or a Napoleon ? Viva le 
 virtuoso tenore ! Mais sacre nom de dieu — a 
 baritone. What had my good angel fate, or luck, 
 been about at this juncture ? Had he been, Baal-like, 
 fast asleep ? 
 
 " I regarded a baritone as neither fish, flesh, fowl, 
 nor good red herring. No Santley had yet made his 
 appearance in the Temple of the Muses. True, Mozart 
 had assigned leading parts in his operas of Don 
 Giovanne and Le Nozze di Figaro, for baritone, 
 basse-faille, voices, which operas were then beginning 
 to be talked of in circles to which I had access. But, 
 except for these, no music of any importance had yet 
 been written for this particular species of voice. 
 Moreover, so far as my observation went, a baritone 
 was treated in opera and other of the highest forms 
 of musical expression — including oratorio — as a sort 
 of superior super merely ; a kind of under-study, a 
 sort of useful person in his way, but — " 
 
MUST TO LONDON. 75 
 
 Here a fit of coughing prevented Mr Bigglethwaite 
 from finishing his sentence ; but it was not necessary, 
 the reader can fill in the hiatus for himself, as I did. 
 
 " I was disgusted," he resumed, " and metaphorically 
 threw music and all thoughts of music to the dogs. 
 What idol was I to set up in its place? Wohin 
 muss ich gehen. Was soil ich thun? Ich wusste 
 nicht* Literature was beyond my reach. In my 
 most sanguine dreams of the future and its possi- 
 bilities, the thought never once suggested itself 
 to me that I would ever be able to write a book, 
 become an orator, or, like our more ' for'ard ' cousin, 
 'hire a hall, all to myself.' The possessors of such 
 gifts, I deemed, were not ordinary men; nor, like 
 angels, did they often visit this terraqueous globe. 
 It was impossible that nature could have made the 
 mistake and selected me as one of these. I ! what was 
 I, or my father's house ? Born in obscurity, mad, per- 
 haps ! With talents, certainly, of a kind, both for 
 doing good and evil ; but mostly evil ! And not even 
 to have been given the boon of a tenor voice ! ! Ah, 
 well. I became indifferent. The life of Hodge — then 
 a mere swine — with its few responsibilities, might not 
 be such a bad life after all. The delights of a ' soo 
 in a sheugh,' as the Scotch say, were at least within 
 my reach ! 
 
 " Lily Black's cruse of oil had not yet run dry ; on 
 the contrary, it had increased threefold during my 
 residence at Hulchester. My character stood high in 
 the eyes of my employers ; I had not once been found 
 fault with. Mrs Deerpin, as I thought, had been very 
 kind to me, only, in her eyes I lacked the pearl of great 
 price, the one thing needful. But I had determined 
 to sacrifice all these. Higher wages were offered me 
 to stay : no. Mrs Deerpin pleaded with me : no. 
 
 * " Mr Bigglethwaite frequently introduced quotations from 
 foreign languages into his narrative, but I have thought it right 
 to translate or omit the greater portion of them. — Ed. 
 
76 MUST TO LONDON. 
 
 Mary looked up into my face with her liquid eyes — 
 the charming angel that she was — still my answer 
 was, no. I must go in quest of a better land. 
 
 " My parting with Mrs Deerpin and Mary was one 
 of the most painful experiences of my life. I did not 
 shed tears, I could not. Both wept silently. Mrs 
 Deerpin took me in her arms, pressed me to her bosom, 
 asked for the blessing of God to descend on me. I 
 tore myself away; while my luggage was to be sent after 
 me to the place I should afterwards name to them. 
 
 " Then was the day of stage coaches and of daring 
 highway robberies. People were hanged for steal- 
 ing, and, all things considered, proper, too. A rogue 
 or a thief is not mendable. Away with him. Why 
 cumber the ground with prisons to keep him alive ? 
 Such a one has no soul to save." 
 
 " But the incident of the two thieves on the cross ? " 
 interposed the captain reprovingly. " You must have 
 forgotten them." 
 
 " Not at all ; the man Jesus Christ was too good a 
 judge of character to forgive thieving. We have 
 various accounts as to their crimes. Most likely, like 
 himself, they had been convicted wrongfully, although 
 the narrator, for literary effect perhaps, has neglected 
 to tell us so. However, I did not wish anyone to be 
 hanged for robbing me, and so I sewed my savings 
 into the lining of my cap, with the exception of a few 
 shillings, and donned my worst suit of clothes. Be- 
 sides, I had a great desire to see the country between 
 Hulchester and London, and to witness a great horse- 
 race named the St Leger, at which, it was said, the 
 king and many of the nobility were to be present. It 
 had not yet been my privilege to set my eyes even on 
 a lord, alive or dead, but the time had now arrived 
 when my curiosity on this point was to be satisfied, 
 if possible. To this end, though London, which was 
 my destination, lay south, I turned my steps west- 
 wards. 
 
A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 77 
 
 " I felt very sad at heart during the first two or 
 three hours of my journey. The feeling was one 
 of utter loneliness, though I was still encountering 
 fellow-beings at almost every step, having yet hardly 
 cleared the suburbs of the great northern emporium. I 
 experienced to the full the responsibility of the step 
 I had taken. I had no one to fall back upon now, in 
 the event of sickness, or disaster of any kind, no one 
 to look to for advice or counsel, no one even to speak 
 to. I was tempted to turn into one of the numerous 
 taverns which confronted me with open doors on every 
 side, as I journeyed on, to seek the society of any one 
 chance might there throw in my way, be it man or 
 woman. But to all such promptings I kept repeating 
 both sotto voce and viva voce, what had now for 
 months become my watchword : ' No, that means ruin 
 of soul and body.' 
 
 " In this frame of mind my thoughts turned to Ena 
 and Lily, and their happy surroundings, but with no 
 notion of going to where they were. My self-reliance 
 had entirely deserted me. To remain thus alone 
 was misery, but the very thought of turning back, or 
 of seeking out faces that I knew, was even more 
 repellent. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 
 
 When the shades of a moderately warm autumn 
 evening began to close around me, I found myself 
 in the footsteps of a company of Irish shearers 
 who had turned their faces northwards to push their 
 way home. I envied these poor people in their rags, 
 
78 A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 
 
 and seeming destitution. Withal, each had a home 
 somewhere, some eye which would mark his home- 
 coming with welcome and delight. Alas ! poor me ; 
 I had no home. 
 
 " We were now well into the country, and I tarried 
 behind these vagrants to see how they would dispose 
 themselves for the night ; for I had, in fact, made up 
 my mind not to seek the shelter of an inn that night, 
 in case I should give way to my besetting vice, drink ; 
 but to spend the night as they did, in their society, if 
 possible ; otherwise, as near their resting-place as 
 practicable. 
 
 " I continued to follow the band, which might 
 number a hundred to one hundred and fifty souls, at 
 a distance, until I saw them halt at a grassy plot on 
 the verge of a plantation, near which was a farmhouse, 
 from several of whose windows lights were to be seen 
 glancing through the trees. I hesitated to approach 
 them, and sat down on a hedge-bank to consider what 
 I should do. The sun had now sunk beneath the 
 horizon, but its golden glory was still dazzlingly re- 
 flected on the western skies. There was ■ a solemn 
 stillness in the air/ save for the occasional bellowing 
 of a cow, or the barking of a dog, or the almost im- 
 perceptible hum of these Irish voices. I was weary 
 in body and depressed in spirits; but I experienced 
 considerable consolation from the thought that I was 
 in proximity to so many fellow-creatures who were, 
 in respect of shelter, at least, in no better case than 
 I was. 
 
 " My reason for not approaching these poor people at 
 once was, I need hardly say, the fear of being robbed 
 and maltreated at their hands. From hearsay and 
 from books I had been taught to look upon Irishmen, 
 in such circumstances, as mere hordes of semi-savages, 
 beings whose passions were still undisciplined, and 
 who, when not awed into fear by a physical force 
 stronger than their own, were capable of any atrocity. 
 
A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 79 
 
 True it is, I had already come in contact with many, 
 I might even say hundreds, of individual Irishmen, 
 and I had almost always found them to be the very 
 antipodes of the above. But such was the effect of 
 education, especially of false education, that when I 
 got up to approach these harmless people I had the 
 idea that I was taking my life in my hand. My fears 
 were, however, soon set at rest. When I came up 
 with them I halted in front of a group on the out- 
 skirts of the company, and inquired, timidly, whether 
 they would have any objection to my sitting down 
 near them, and whether I could have their protection 
 for the night. After a minutes' confabulation in an 
 unknown tongue, an elderly man, dressed in corduroy 
 knee breeches, a kind of swallow-tailed coat and vest 
 of rough blue cloth, both of which had brass buttons, 
 a tall hat, with a portion of the crown gone, and a 
 scarlet handkerchief tied round his neck, approached 
 me, and on my repeating what I had before said, 
 informed me that I was welcome to sit down wher- 
 ever it pleased me ; and, if I had no objections, to 
 come and sit near him. As the tone of his voice was 
 to the last degree kindly, I at once threw off all 
 fear, and followed him and sat down near the centre 
 of the band. Almost the first question he then asked 
 me was whether I was hungry, offering me at the same 
 time a piece of dry bread, accompanied with an 
 apology for having nothing better to give me. As I 
 had eaten hardly anything during the whole day, 
 I was so 4 down in the dumps,' I accepted it eagerly, 
 informing him, however, that I was not without 
 money, showing him at the same time what I had 
 concealed in my cap. He was, I could see, greatly 
 surprised that I should be the possessor of so much 
 wealth. Laying his hand upon my shoulder, and look- 
 ing me straight in the face, he said, in his sweet Irish 
 brogue, which I will not attempt to imitate, — ' Now, 
 my boy, tell me how you have come into the possession 
 
80 A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 
 
 of all that money. You did not steal it, I hope ? Be 
 honest with me and speak the truth ; ' all this in dead 
 earnest and sincerity. When I had told him every- 
 thing he took me by the hand, which he shook warmly, 
 as did also several of the others sitting near, who had 
 heard my story. ' Bless you, my boy. You will come 
 to something some day, take an Irishman's word 
 for it.' 
 
 " Alas ! I have come to a fortune, — yes, a great 
 fortune," mused our interlocutor, as if all unconscious 
 of our presence. " Yes, a great fortune ; but I see I 
 am forgetting myself." 
 
 Resuming the thread of his narrative : " I was 
 pleased, of course, to find such kind friends, notwith- 
 standing they were from amongst the despised and 
 rejected of the subjects of George IV. (the greatest 
 monarch, perhaps, of his House in the sense in which 
 that house has understood greatness — ' we have come 
 here for all your goods ' ) ; and when I told them of the 
 fears I had entertained in approaching them, together 
 with the reasons to which such fears must be 
 attributed — which I described as ' lying rumours' — 
 the sympathy between us was complete. 
 
 " ' I do not blame you, my boy,' said the old Irish- 
 man, ' for thinking of us as you did. It is the way all 
 Englishmen think of us and speak of us. But if they 
 would only treat us as you have done, in your boyish 
 way, that is, believe us and trust in us, and not mis- 
 represent us, George IV. would have no truer and more 
 loyal subjects than Irishmen. Anyhow, my true boy, 
 of one thing be assured,' taking me again by the hand, 
 * you are as safe with us to-night as though you had 
 been surrounded by a hundred English red-coats,' an 
 assurance, I need hardly say, I now regarded as 
 superfluous. 
 
 " As soon as he had thus done speaking, he offered 
 me a ' drap of the crathur,' at sight of which all my 
 resolutions never to touch drink again vanished. 
 
A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 81 
 
 How could I refuse him ? Whether the liquor was 
 good or not, I did not know nor care; but I have 
 hardly in my life tasted anything which seemed 
 sweeter to my taste than that ' suck ' out of my Irish 
 friend's whisky bottle. But, ah me ! I ought to have 
 resisted. Upon the resolution I had formed on leav- 
 ing Hulchester, never to taste drink again, depended 
 my whole future life ! I had looked upon it as the 
 last chance God had given me to acquit myself like 
 a man. But my kind Irish friend could not have 
 known this, nor that I, in accepting his proffered 
 kindness, had rejected perhaps the last offer of salva- 
 tion made to me." 
 
 On the captain and I both evincing some uneasiness 
 at this last remark, regarding it — at least I did — as 
 a side wipe at us for pressing him to join with us in 
 drinking to the New Year, he anticipated speech in 
 either of us by saying : " Don't misunderstand me ; 
 what I was about to impress on you was this, that 
 good and evil are so mysteriously blended together in 
 human nature, that often when we think, like this 
 kind-hearted Irishman, we are doing good, we are 
 only doing evil. At any rate, that ' suck ' out of the 
 whisky bottle changed, for the time being, the current 
 of my life. 
 
 " To return to our Irish friends collectively. It 
 was now time for all my ' bed companions ' to prepare 
 themselves to lie down to rest on the grass until 
 daybreak. The night was clear and starry, and I 
 could see the movements of everyone around me. But 
 hark ! a solemn scene was now about to be enacted — 
 a scene which made a deep impression on my mind, 
 both from its novelty and its nature. I did not observe 
 a signal given by anyone, but, before I was aware, 
 as if by tacit understanding, I discovered that the 
 whole company had simultaneously become engaged, 
 each for himself, in earnest religious devotion. I could 
 hear suppressed and reverential mutterings all around 
 
 F 
 
82 A Drove of Irish shearers. 
 
 me, accompanied almost everywhere by the sign of 
 the Cross. It seemed too solemn a moment for me 
 almost to breathe. That night, as I lay on my back 
 on the grass, gazing at the starry firmament, how 
 vividly did it bring up before my imagination the 
 scene in which Jacob is described as wrestling with 
 the Lord, in which he exclaimed, ' Surely the Lord is 
 in this place.' Be that as it may, that company of 
 poor, illiterate (despised and rejected, if you will) Irish 
 peasants, I was convinced, had lain themselves down 
 to rest in the full assurance that ' He that watches 
 over Israel, who slumbers not nor sleeps/ would pro- 
 tect them. 
 
 " I did not sleep that night : my mind was too dis- 
 turbed. Besides, it was the first night that ever I had 
 had the green sward for a pillow and the heaven for 
 a canopy, and under very different climatic conditions 
 from Father Jacob, not to mention the strangeness of 
 my surroundings. But I was not once afraid, though 
 the whole of my fortune was in the lining of my cap. 
 We were only disturbed once during the night, and 
 that was by the mail coach, going either way. About 
 midnight I observed through the trees in front of us, 
 the lights in the windows of a distant farmhouse to go 
 out, and soon after I could get me no warmth. I would 
 gladly now have given all the money in my possession 
 for one more ' suck ' out of the bottle of my old Irish 
 friend, who lay stretched and snoring by my side : but 
 I might not disturb him. I longed with an exceeding 
 longing for the first indications of dawn. When should 
 I be able to exclaim with the poet : — 
 
 ' But yonder comes the glorious king of day, 
 Eejoicing in the east — ' 
 
 I thought, as I lay shivering in the night air. When 
 daybreak did come, whether it was the result of my 
 excited imagination, or whether the phenomena were 
 actually what they appeared to be, I know not, but 
 
A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 83 
 
 I never witnessed anything so exuberantly glorious, 
 even under tropical skies, as the rising of the sun on 
 that August morning. As the great ball of fire, 
 heralded by waves of light, purple and azure, gradu- 
 ally disclosed itself to view, from behind the shaggy 
 tops of the distant mountains, I was filled at once with 
 awe and admiration : with awe, because of my total 
 incapacity to formulate to myself even a feeble con- 
 ception of the creator of a work so stupendously grand ; 
 with admiration, because of the exceeding beauty with 
 which its earliest and increasing rays pervaded all 
 nature around me. The trees seemed to open their 
 leaves to kiss its cheery light and to salute each other; 
 the bushes, the hedgerows, the songsters of the ad- 
 joining grove, everything appeared to awake as from 
 a sweet slumber, refreshed and glad. Dead silence 
 had given place to a universal hum : the world seemed 
 to have come to life once more. 
 
 " One by one my companions of the night began to 
 stir and arouse themselves; and by three o'clock, 
 already full day, they were all on foot. They were 
 all heading for York and the north, expecting, 
 however, to make halts by the way, to assist in 
 gathering in the remaining harvest. Their final 
 destination on this side the channel was Glasgow, 
 where they would find ships to take them to Dublin 
 and Belfast. Before we took leave of each other, the 
 old man who had been so kind to me informed me 
 that every man who left Ireland for the English and 
 Scotch harvest generally took home with him from 
 eight pounds to twelve pounds, a sum which, in 
 addition to the produce of their potato plots and 
 their cows, together with what they realised from pig 
 rearing, sufficed to maintain them and their families 
 in comparative comfort until the harvest came round 
 again in the following year. This was before the 
 days of steam reaping machines, steam thrashing 
 machines, steam everything. It is now thirty 
 
84 A DROVE OF IRISH SHEARERS. 
 
 years or more since these mechanical inventions have 
 put an end to this species of human industry, but 
 whether for the better or the worse — for Ireland, at 
 least — may be well open to doubt. At any rate, 
 Ireland is still the cock-pit of English politics, and, 
 as far as human foresight can penetrate, it will ever be 
 so. Be that as it may, no one could have been treated 
 more hospitably by utter strangers than I was by these 
 poor Irish folks ; and you will not therefore be sur- 
 prised when I say that, from that night until now, 
 whenever I have encountered a son of the Emerald 
 Isle in distress, both my hand and my heart have 
 been ready to go out to him. Nor can I ever forget 
 the look of righteous indignation which the old man, 
 on presenting me with a blackthorn stick as a keep- 
 sake of our meeting, gave me on shaking hands 
 with him, when I offered him in return a sovereign. 
 For a moment I feared he would send me away 
 with his curses on my head : but it was only for a 
 moment ; we parted company with the blessings of 
 the holy trinity ringing in my ears." 
 
 The dinner bell here interrupted Mr Bigglethwaite 
 in his narrative, the captain's duty requiring that he 
 should take his place as usual at the head of the table ; 
 but he appeared so much impressed" with what he had 
 just heard that he asked us, as a favour, to remain 
 where we were during his absence, and that he would 
 send us dinner from some special dishes which had 
 been prepared that day for the cabin table, which 
 invitation we accepted. 
 
 The dinner was everything that could in reason 
 be desired, while the whisky before mentioned was 
 superb. When it was over, we went out and patrolled 
 the deck, and I was regaled with a discourse on the 
 respective merits of the works of Socrates, Plato and 
 Aristotle, as compared with Hume, Goethe and Comte 
 respectively, greatly to the disadvantage of the latter 
 trio. He was actually bursting with eloquence in 
 
WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 85 
 
 praise of the Greek trio. What I would not have 
 given, I thought in listening to him — for I could only 
 listen — to have been brought up at the feet of such a 
 Gamaliel, instead of being condemned to pass several 
 years at one of our multifarious seminaries of learning, 
 so called ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 
 
 When the captain returned, Mr Bigglethwaite was 
 eager to plunge in medias res, and his speech was now 
 rapid and eloquent beyond what I had yet heard it. 
 There was something, too, in his voice and manner, it 
 may be remarked once for all, which claimed at once 
 one's attention and sympathy. The former was clear 
 and mellow, capable of expressing any shade of feeling 
 or passion, while the latter was intense and pervading. 
 One felt one could not resist listening to him, what- 
 ever the subject might be. 
 
 " Well, when I parted with my good Irish friends 
 that autumn morning," he resumed, " I felt dazed. I 
 could not concentrate my thoughts on anything ; and 
 I had not proceeded far when I was constrained to 
 sit down and consider my position. That ' drap of the 
 crathur' had unsettled all my plans. I cared now 
 neither for the St Leger, nor for London. At one 
 moment I thought of returning to my good angel 
 Mrs Deerpin, at another the images of Ena and Lily 
 would rise in my mind. I had never forgotten that 
 Ena had rejected me, and that I had resolved to 
 bring her, sooner or later, under subjection to my will. 
 
86 WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 
 
 But how could I face, at the same time, Lily and the 
 others? Come what might, I would try, the rather 
 when my only alternative was drink and idleness. The 
 craving for some alcoholic stimulant was intense, but 
 the excitement of the journey thence and the thoughts 
 of Ena's sweet face and voice might allay it. I started. 
 During the day I halted at several wayside taverns 
 and inns to get drink and food, with the usual result 
 that the former drove away all unhappiness. I came 
 up, before the day was over, however, with Rombell's 
 wild beasts' show, whose immediate destination was 
 Wakefield. At Oldcastle I had several times been 
 charmed with the playing of the band of this show, 
 and the thought now occurred to me that I would like 
 to become a member of the latter. Somehow or other 
 throughout my life it has almost invariably happened 
 that whenever I have set my mind upon any object, 
 or to accomplish any end, its attainment has followed, 
 as a matter of course. That evening I succeeded in 
 getting the bandmaster to listen to my playing on 
 the flute, and I was engaged, without more ado. 
 When I retired to rest that night, I could not render 
 the good Lord thanks enough for the unmerited 
 goodness He had bestowed on me. What a prospect 
 was now opened up to me ! Not only would it be 
 in my power to become a great musician — another 
 Mozart or Haydn, perhaps — but my desire for seeing 
 strange places would also be gratified. I was fired to 
 the tips of the fingers with ambition. 
 
 " The terms of my engagement were, however, some- 
 what onerous. I was to give all my time and ser- 
 vices — be a sort of bandsman's devil, in fact — for six 
 months, in return for bare food and shelter. But I 
 had £30 saved, and this was therefore no hardship. I 
 set myself in earnest to learn the flute parts in the 
 music that the band was accustomed to play, and I 
 found this a task of no very great difficulty. My 
 fellow-bandsmen were very kind to me from the first, 
 
WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 81 
 
 which kindness I returned, when opportunity offered, 
 by copying and recopying their parts for them. I 
 delighted in this work : it at once improved my chiro- 
 graphy and introduced me in a practical way into the 
 mysteries of the science of harmony. I had, however, 
 other duties of a less agreeable kind to perform. I 
 had to assist in the stables, in the kitchen, and in the 
 menagerie. But in recompense I learned to ride and 
 to cook, and became acquainted with the habits of the 
 different animals, acquirements which in after life 
 have many times come to my assistance. Music, how- 
 ever, was my goal. I laboured at it in season and out 
 of season, and my reward was not loug in coming. In 
 addition to perfecting my execution on the flute, I soon 
 learned to play the clarionet and the cornopean, as well 
 as to perform on the drums. There was no pause to 
 my energies. 
 
 " In six weeks' time we came to D , near Bampton, 
 
 where we remained for three days. What a triumph 
 it was for me on the first night to see Ena and Lily 
 standing in the crowd in front of the ' show/ listen- 
 ing to the band, with the consciousness that they re- 
 cognised me amongst the players. I soon joined 
 them, and how delighted they both were to see me ! 
 The time for my revenge on Ena had come sooner 
 than I expected, and in a way that I could not foresee. 
 It was a proud moment in my life when, on the 
 day following, she met me by appointment alone in a 
 country lane, and when she buried her head in my 
 youthful breast, sobbing out that she loved me, had 
 always loved me, and had never loved any besides. 
 My first impulse, now that my triumph was complete, 
 was to chide and to spurn her from me, but before I 
 could find words to do this, the sight of her welling 
 eyes and the sensation of her shivering frame deterred 
 me. What could I do ? I could only kiss her up- 
 turned face and lips, which in turn sent a thrill 
 through my frame. Happy moments 1 
 
88 WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 
 
 "I see you are laughing at me," he said, turning 
 sharply to the captain. "You do not doubt rny 
 word? Well, well, I deserve to be laughed at," 
 he went on, without giving either of us a chance to 
 reply. "I have always played the fool when the 
 opposite sex was in question. It has been my fate, 
 and I must not hence repine. Love, fatal love, cruel 
 love, what wilt thou not have to answer for on the 
 great day of reckoning ! Fool, that I was ! I, too, 
 confessed my love to Ena ! Love, did I say ? Yes ; 
 it must have been love, genuine love, for it left an 
 aching pain in my breast for days and weeks after. 
 To use a vulgar American expression, I had got Ena 
 on the brain. For days together I tried to make the cor- 
 nopean say Ena. I blew Ena into my flute and clarionet. 
 Wallace, the great shaggy-maned lion, looked up at 
 me surprised when, in entering his cage, I called 
 out to him Ena, instead of his own name. So much, 
 indeed, was he put out that he raised his fore paws 
 up on my shoulders and rubbed his cold nose against 
 my cheek, so as to be friends with me again, I sup- 
 pose. Different, however, was it with the tigers 
 one day when I entered their cage to clean it out, 
 thinking only of Ena. The largest of the four, a 
 female, sprang at me, knocking me back against the 
 bars of the cage, and I only saved myself by 
 thrusting the grape which I held in my hands into 
 its mouth. It was fortunate, too, that two of the 
 keepers were so close at hand that they had time to 
 enter the cage before the other three tigers had made 
 up their minds to join in the attack. I was rescued 
 without sustaining any injury further than having 
 my clothes torn. But it was a lesson to me. It 
 taught me that a tiger's cage was not the proper 
 place to 'moon' over the face and form of a girl I 
 loved. I never repeated the mistake. Yes, you may 
 laugh," pursued our interlocutor, addressing both of 
 us, " but I can assure you that it was a solemn two 
 
WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 89 
 
 minutes for me, the longest two minutes I have ever 
 spent in this world. 
 
 " Before leaving D , I had another secret inter- 
 view with Ena, during which we pledged eternal con- 
 stancy to one another, and wept on each other's necks. 
 I was perfectly sincere, or, at any rate, believed that 
 I was, in my protestations ; but, would you believe it, 
 on the same day I went through a similar ordeal with 
 Lily, and made similar protestations to her — pro- 
 testations equally affecting, and delivered with equal 
 fervour and sincerity ? You laugh again, but what 
 I say is God's truth. I was not acting the hypocrite, 
 in intention, at least. In both cases my acts and 
 language were prompted not by passion, but by feel- 
 ings of the most disinterested love. At the moment, 
 and for some time after, I would have laid down my 
 life for either. Nay, if either had given me the cold 
 shoulder it would have caused me the acutest pain. 
 Man is a strange phenomenon, especially as regards 
 the opposite sex. He is a paradox to himself; a reed 
 shaken hither and thither by the winds of feeling and 
 of passion. 
 
 ' Love's of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence.' 
 
 " In other words, love is excusable and even becom- 
 ing in a woman, but a man in love ! Ye Gods ! what 
 a sorry figure he cuts ! He is eschewed and held up to 
 ridicule by his own sex, and laughed at and coddled 
 by the other. It is a passion he is ashamed of, even 
 in the presence of the object of his affections. He 
 blushes before the latter, while he denies the soft im- 
 peachment before all others. A man in love is like 
 a man in drink. The more he is smitten, the louder 
 he protests. Hume has called love an amiable weak- 
 ness, but Hume was a life-long bachelor. I prefer to 
 call it an amiable hypocrisy. 
 
 "I had not many days left D , when I received 
 
90 WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 
 
 a letter from both Ena and Lily, each protesting, in 
 the strongest language, that I had deceived her. They 
 had been exchanging confidences. What could I do ? 
 I was not in Turkey or Persia. I could love two 
 women sincerely, but I could not marry both legally. 
 To be serious ; on receiving the two letters just men- 
 tioned, I saw it was impossible for me to continue 
 relations with either, and wrote them accordingly, 
 apologising for my conduct ; but, you may believe 
 it or not, I assure you that hardly any act of my life 
 ever gave me greater pain than the inditing of those 
 two epistles. 
 
 " Mais a nos muttons. I continued with the wild 
 beasts' show for a period of nearly three years, and 
 with it visited every city and town of importance 
 in England, Ireland and Scotland. I made rapid 
 strides in music, and soon ingratiated myself with 
 the proprietor and proprietress. The latter was the 
 better mare, and was a woman of rare business 
 capacity. I assisted her with her accounts and in 
 other matters, and possessed her full confidence. 
 
 " It was during these three years that I commenced 
 in earnest the study of the piano. There was one in 
 the private apartments of the proprietress, to which 
 I had access whenever I pleased. Indeed, I could go 
 out and in the apartments of the latter just as if 
 they had been the apartments of my mother. I 
 made good progress on the piano, practising three or 
 four hours every day. I early became enamoured of 
 the music of Beethoven. Compared to it, all other 
 music seemed to me mere Jews' harping. You will 
 now understand, Mr Captain, why it was that the 
 other evening I could not bear to hear one of the 
 charming productions of this mighty tonal master 
 murdered. It was impossible for me to sit still under 
 such circumstances. My conduct was rude, I admit ; 
 but there are times when it is admissible, and even 
 commendable, to supersede convention by the honest 
 
WITH A WILD BEASTS' SHOW. 91 
 
 assertion of one's feelings. The occasion referred to 
 was, I deemed, such a one ; and I hope the lady has 
 forgiven me." 
 
 On being assured in the affirmative on this point by 
 the captain, it was agreed that we should separate for 
 the night, to meet in the same place the next morn- 
 ing at eleven. 
 
FO URTH DA Y. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE PLEASURES AND PAINS OF ALCOHOL. 
 
 I found Mr Bigglethwaite pacing the deck at nine 
 o'clock, and at once joined him. 
 
 " I have had a bad night, my friend," was his first 
 salutation. 
 
 " Indeed," I replied ; " in what way ? " 
 
 " I could get no sleep, and I neglected to take some 
 alcohol with me to my berth last evening. Oh, what 
 I have suffered since three o'clock ! I have often 
 wondered why I was born to be the victim of such 
 tortures. The great Book tells us that the sins of 
 the fathers shall be visited on the children even to 
 the third and fourth generations. This is most true 
 in my case. I am suffering, and have suffered all my 
 life, for the sins of others." 
 
 " Have you tried teetotalism ? " I asked. 
 
 " I have tried to be a teetotaller ever since I was a 
 boy ; but when these periodical waves, that I have 
 previously described, of appetite and passion sweep 
 over me, nothing can stem them. You may set your- 
 self against them for days, and even weeks, as I have 
 many times done, but in the end you have to succumb. 
 And the strangest thing of all is that, after this wave 
 has passed over you ; in other words, after I have 
 made myself so ill by the consumption of alcohol that 
 my stomach will not even retain water, far less liquor 
 of any kind, when I am laid prostrate, unable to move, 
 
THE PLEASURES AND PAINS OF ALCOHOL. 93 
 
 and have to be nursed back into health by tea-spoon- 
 fuls of beef -tea — I say, the strangest thing of all is, 
 that I cannot explain to myself when again well, how 
 it is that I have been so weak as to succumb to its 
 influence. I believe the true reason is that the first 
 eight or ten days is a period of great enjoyment, some- 
 thing really delightful. I am not referring, of course 
 to sottish drunkenness ; I have hardly ever been in- 
 capable from the effects of liquor in my life ; I allude 
 to a kind of mental exhilaration which begins to be felt 
 soon after one has commenced to imbibe freely. There 
 is no sensation I have ever experienced from any 
 source or cause whatever that yields so much pleasure 
 as during this incipient stage. While it lasts you have, 
 so to speak, the gift of tongues, the command of all 
 knowledge, rare aptitude for invention and for forming 
 new plans and designs, together with marvellous 
 capacity for concentrating thought on a single object ; 
 which last, as you may know, was held by Dugald 
 Stewart to be the distinctive characteristic of genius, 
 as distinguished from mere talent. I repeat, by way 
 of emphasis, that the incipient stage of an attack of 
 alcoholism is a glorious experience. Nay, everything 
 that I have accomplished more than my fellows who 
 started life under similar conditions has been conceived 
 during these periods ; but — but oh, how dearly I have 
 had to pay for it! No language can describe nor 
 tongue can tell the agony and the torture which has to 
 be endured when the moment arrives that the stomach 
 and the liver refuse to perform their functions, and 
 when sleep deserts your eyes and slumber your eye- 
 lids ! Many, many times have I wished for death 
 during these periods. Sea sickness, forsooth ! The 
 difference is as great as between the extracting of a 
 tooth and the pulling of a finger or toenail out by the 
 roots." 
 
 " What you say is hardly credible," I here inter- 
 posed. 
 
94 THE PLEASURES AND PAINS OF ALCOHOL. 
 
 "You may honestly think so, no doubt, and con- 
 clude that I am exaggerating ; but, believe me, I am 
 not stretching the truth one iota. Pray God, my 
 young friend, day by day, that it may never be your 
 fate to pass through either ordeal I have just de- 
 scribed ! At this moment I feel a gnawing pain just 
 there," — pointing to his breast, — " a pain that any or 
 all the drugs in the pharmacopoeia cannot quell ; I have 
 tried doctors and drugs, until I have tired of them, to 
 no purpose. Only one thing can remove this pain, 
 and that is alcohol, a hair of the dog that bit me. 
 Come, the bar is now open ; I can bear this torture no 
 longer ; let us see the steward." 
 
 I followed the old man downstairs with anything 
 but a light heart. I was truly grieved for him ; sorry 
 to see a fellow-being, endowed with such great natural 
 capacity even the temporary slave of one of the 
 grossest, if not the grossest, of all human appetites. 
 Reaching the steward's room, he drank a quartern of 
 Scotch whisky, without water, straight off, while I 
 contented myself with a small glass of stout ; to pay 
 for both of which he took a sovereign out of a bagful 
 of gold, whicn must have contained hundreds. 
 
 When we reached our cabin five minutes later, and 
 had sat down to table for breakfast, he remarked, — 
 
 " Now I feel quite well, as well as I ever did in my 
 life ; the pain is entirely removed, but, alas ! I know 
 it will not be for long ! The furnace will now have 
 to be fed night and day for perhaps a fortnight, and 
 another period of torturing illness awaits me at the 
 end of that time. Oh, what a miserable creature I 
 am ! " hissing these last words out of his mouth. 
 
 I felt as if I could have shed tears for the old white- 
 haired man, for I could see that the thought of the agony 
 which was awaiting him was already clearly depicted 
 in his countenance. It was needless to make sugges- 
 tions to such a one, a man so immensely my intellectual 
 superior ; I therefore contented myself by saying, " I 
 
NOTES BY THE WAY. 95 
 
 was sorry," and led the conversation into other 
 channels — music and books. 
 
 At eleven o'clock we found the captain in his room 
 on deck awaiting us. The sea being so calm, and the 
 passengers so few, the latter's duties were far from 
 being onerous. In fact, these merely consisted in pre- 
 siding at the table at meal times, and in receiving the 
 reports of his officers two or three times a day. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NOTES BY THE WAY. 
 
 The whisky bottle was again placed on the table, 
 and when each had taken as much as he wanted — 
 the old man's mode of drinking was to throw the 
 whole glassful of liquor into the back of his mouth 
 and to swallow it, then to take a sip of water after- 
 wards — Mr Bigglethwaite, who was again all life and 
 animation, began, — 
 
 "What a strange life is the life of a strolling 
 showman. It had great attractions for me in the 
 beginning. I would not have exchanged my position 
 for that of the prime minister. Fresh scenes and 
 pastures new almost every day. The journeys along 
 the highways from town to town, and the conversa- 
 tions we held with the common people whom we en- 
 countered, particularly at the roadside inns, interested 
 me much. In its way it was a valuable experience, 
 especially in those times, when the great majority of 
 the people travelled so little. If I only had had the 
 wit then to have reduced to writing what I heard and 
 saw that struck my attention, it would have been 
 invaluable at the present day ! What impressed me 
 
96 NOTES BY THE WAY. 
 
 most was the gross ignorance of the common people — 
 in particular, the agricultural labourers — especially in 
 the Midlands and in the south of England. I do not 
 exaggerate when I say that there was not one in 
 five who could read, far less write. But they were 
 by no means savages. On the contrary, they were the 
 perfection of good nature and of docility. Contented, 
 too, they seemed to be with their lot. In fact, I do 
 not remember of ever hearing one of them complain. 
 Still, it is not to be gainsaid that the cattle and horses 
 of the masters they served were much better cared for 
 than they. I visited many of the hovels — call them 
 rather sties — which they inhabited at nights, and it 
 was easy to see that, living under such conditions, 
 they must have been lost to all sense of decency and 
 of morality. There was no chance, moreover, for 
 a delicate or sickly child to survive the ordeal ; die 
 they must have for want of proper nourishment and 
 attention. In all my wanderings through the agri- 
 cultural districts of England, I never once beheld, that 
 I remember, a sickly child. In a w T ord, the condi- 
 tions under which these miserable people lived were 
 a practical application of Mr Darwin's now famous 
 postulate — 'the survival of the fittest.' And intel- 
 lectually (save the mark!), they had as great difficulty 
 in communicating their ideas to a stranger as has the 
 average negro of the Southern States of America. 
 
 " Yet, with all his grossness and ignorance, I much 
 preferred Hodge to the iron- workers and factory 
 labourers in Lancashire and the Midlands. These were 
 savages, in every sense of the term. I give a typical 
 instance. One day I w T as in a public house in Shef- 
 field, where a number of puddlers and others were 
 drinking. While I was standing listening to their 
 conversation — almost every other word of which was 
 either an oath or an obscene epithet — a woman, far 
 advanced in pregnancy, put her head in at the door, 
 and seeing her husband standing near, informed him 
 
NOTES BY THE WAY. 97 
 
 that his dinner was ready, and asked whether he 
 would come home and eat it. The infuriated brute, 
 without the slightest warning, sprang at her as a man- 
 eating tiger would at its hapless prey, seized her by 
 the hair, dragged her into the room, pulped her face 
 in a few minutes with his fist, then threw her on the 
 floor and kicked her with his hob-nailed boots until 
 it seemed to me she was dead. Strangest of all, not 
 one of the dozen or more men standing about offered 
 to put out a hand to save the poor woman from the 
 vengeance of her inhuman husband. On the contrary, 
 they seemed to regard his conduct as a proper thing : 
 at any rate, as a matter which had no concern for them. 
 Speak of the cruelty and savagery of the Red Indian ! 
 In those three years I witnessed outbursts of pure 
 animalism in the manufacturing districts of England 
 that would have made the blood of a Red Indian 
 stagnate ; for there are limits to the Redman's cruelty ; 
 at any rate, he was never known to maltreat his squaw. 
 " But to return to a showman's life. In the second 
 year, though I was exceptionally treated and remuner- 
 ated, the gilt of my new vocation began to wear off. 
 I came to look upon myself as being little better than 
 one of the performing dogs. I got disgusted, too, with 
 my fellow-bandsmen, and with most of the others 
 engaged about the menagerie. They were an illiterate 
 and godless set. Petty quarrels, the result of petty 
 jealousies, were of daily occurrence. You were laughed 
 and sneered at if you spoke of church, or even men- 
 tioned the name of the Bible. As a class, strolling 
 showmen are lost to all sense of virtue and morality. 
 Impecuniosity is chronic amongst them. ' Eat and 
 drink, for to-morrow you die,' is their rule of life. 
 Travelling from place to place — always on the move — 
 and being constantly in the public gaze, gives them no 
 doubt a superficial polish and smartness, but they are 
 far from being intelligent; not excepting the clowns who 
 are supposed to say things calculated to make people 
 
 a 
 
98 FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 
 
 laugh. It is rare that you meet an educated person 
 amongst them. And I speak here of hundreds of 
 shows besides the one with which I was connected, that 
 we encountered in our peregrinations and fraternised 
 with. Like publicans, showmen are a class by them- 
 selves. They are socially ostracised. People may 
 fawn upon you in a tap-room, or inside your estab- 
 lishment ; but nobody invites you to his house. A 
 strolling showman has, moreover, little chance of 
 associating with respectable females outside his own 
 particular caravansera, and in many instances these 
 are anything but respectable. In short, I found it 
 to be an unenviable occupation and a miserable 
 existence, and, at the end of three years, no induce- 
 ment which might have been held out would 
 have persuaded me to remain in it. Yet it was an 
 experience I have never had occasion to regret. It 
 not only afforded me the opportunity of developing 
 my musical talents, as well as of increasing my 
 knowledge of the science, but it gave me also such an 
 insight into human nature that I have rarely since 
 been taken in with anyone — unwittingly. Do not 
 therefore regard it as egotistical when I say that I 
 have now only to turn my attention for a very short 
 time on any new-made male acquaintance, when I 
 can perceive the inward workings of such a one's 
 nature as clearly as if I had gone down him with 
 a lighted candle. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 
 
 "It was at Glasgow where I took my leave of the 
 ' show ' business. I had no fixed purpose as to my 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 99 
 
 future, except that I believed that my true vocation 
 now was that of a musician. I could not, however, 
 make up my mind for some weeks as to what particular 
 branch of the profession I should attach myself; 
 whether I should make the flute, the clarionet, or the 
 piano my especial study— I could play all three about 
 equally well— or whether I should make the attempt 
 to develop my vocal powers with a view to becoming 
 a public singer and singing master. After four 
 or five weeks' earnest meditation on this, to me 
 then, momentous question, I resolved to adventure 
 the last named. Simultaneously, I made the further 
 resolution that I must go abroad to study the vocal 
 art, for the twofold reason: first, to get rid of the 
 obloquy attaching to my late occupation ; and second, 
 to acquire the prestige which foreign study of the art 
 carried with it at that day. I had no notion, how- 
 ever, as to where I should go, nor had I anyone from 
 whom I could obtain the information. Money was 
 now no object. I had saved over two hundred pounds, 
 a sum sufficient to keep me, according to my style of 
 living, for four or five years. With a view to gaining 
 this knowledge, I placed myself under the tuition of 
 a long-haired German named Bulcher, who had ac- 
 quired some considerable renown, both as an organist 
 and concert singer, as well as a teacher of singing. I 
 found him to be a very painstaking and patient 
 instructor, and a good fellow to boot. He not only 
 imparted musical instruction to me of a very valuable 
 kind, both on the piano and in vocalism, but also 
 taught me how to pronounce German and French. 
 I remained with him for several months, at the end 
 of which time he advised me to go either to Leipzig 
 or Miinchen to pursue my studies, giving me at the 
 same time letters of introduction to several celebrated 
 musical ' professors '—there are no teachers of music 
 in Germany; they are all 'professors.' Among these 
 letters was one to a Herr Schutz, a teacher of the 
 
100 FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 
 
 piano at Leipzig. This was before the days of the 
 now celebrated Conservatorium der Musik, and before 
 Mendelssohn and Wagner's names had become 
 known. 
 
 "I took ship from Leith to Hamburg, in which 
 latter city I arrived in the month of September. 
 What a change from England ! It was inconceivable 
 to me how human beings sprung from the same stock 
 could be so different in manner, dress, habits — every- 
 thing. I disembarked on the Saturday. I had 
 witnessed squalor, poverty, destitution, and misery 
 enough in England and Ireland, but the scenes that 
 now met my gaze baffle description. It made my 
 heart bleed to behold the women yoked with dogs to 
 heavily-laden waggons, which they dragged along the 
 ill-paved streets. And this was the country of 
 Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven — of Goethe, Schiller, 
 and Luther — Germany, the home of all that was great 
 in philosophy and music ! If I could have found a 
 ship, I would have returned that same evening whence 
 I came. And the next day, Sunday ! What a scene ! 
 To my English eyes it seemed as if hell itself had 
 been let loose! Trumpet-blowing, performing dogs 
 and donkeys, bands of music, punch and judy, theatres 
 in full swing, games, shouting, laughing, dancing, 
 drinking, and, worst of all, parsons mingling in the 
 crowds. Was there a God above, I ruminated, who 
 could permit such scenes on the day especially set 
 apart by Christendom for His worship ! The same 
 evening, after darkness had set in, the streets pre- 
 sented a dismal appearance as compared with those 
 of such towns as London, Manchester or Glasgow. 
 Gas was yet hardly known there ; only a few of the 
 principal streets were lighted with it, the greater 
 part of the city being shrouded in darkness, save for 
 the glimmer here and there of an oil lamp. I shall 
 never forget the experiences of that night. In the 
 afternoon, on leaving the hotel at which I had put up, 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 101 
 
 to take a walk, I stupidly neglected to write down 
 the name of it; and I had wandered I knew not 
 where. You may hence readily conceive my alarm, 
 when, at ten o'clock, in trying to find my way back 
 to the hotel, I suddenly found myself in a street _ of 
 wooden shambles, where I was saluted on every side 
 by females, who were sitting on the door steps, and at 
 the open windows, all decolleU, tres decolleU, I hesi- 
 tated for an instant whether to turn back or go 
 straight on. As the street I had just emerged from was 
 as dark as Erebus, and seemingly deserted, while the 
 one I now stood in was made bright by the lights 
 from the open windows, and reverberated with the hum 
 of human voices, I concluded to push onward, and get 
 out of it as quickly as possible. The next street I came 
 to, however, presented the same scenes. Half -naked 
 women were sitting inside at the windows, and men 
 were standing outside speaking to them through open 
 panes, which were fitted with wooden panels on hinges, 
 and could be closed or opened at will by the person 
 inside. I grew heart-sick, and almost distracted, especi- 
 ally when some of the women sitting on the door steps 
 would run up to me in the middle of the street, and 
 seize me by the arm and address me : 'Ach ! dw hist 
 ein shoener jungling, kommen sie hierein, Jcommen 
 siemit mir mein liebster,' etc. [' Oh, but thou art a 
 handsome youth, come inside here ; come with me, 
 my dearest.'] Emerging from this street, I turned 
 right and left in order to escape from such abomin- 
 able scenes, to a thoroughfare where at least the out- 
 ward appearances of decency were repected ; but 
 I must have passed through at least half-a-dozen of 
 such quagmires of vice and debauchery before I 
 succeeded. Fortunately for me, I had not now 
 gone far when I met a gentleman whom I recognised 
 as one of the guests at the hotel I was in quest 
 of. I accosted him in German, and to my great 
 delight he replied, — ' I am an Englishman, and don't 
 
102 FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY. 
 
 understand German.' What a relief ! I then ex- 
 plained to him my helpless position in regard to the 
 hotel, where was locked up in my room everything 
 I possessed in the world, as well as narrated to him 
 as graphically as I could the scenes and adventures of 
 the previous half -hour. He seemed both amused and 
 interested, and wanted me to turn back with him, so 
 that he might see with his own eyes what I had just 
 described. I was not to be persuaded to this step, 
 however ; I had received compliments enough for one 
 day from these miserable degraded creatures. We re- 
 turned together to the hotel, inquiring our way as 
 we went from what seemed to be night constables, 
 men wearing a sort of uniform, shabby and dirty, 
 and who had suspended from their waist belts what 
 appeared to be a sort of fishing rod, on hinges, 
 doubled up into lengths of about four feet. One of 
 them explained to us that this rod, when extended, 
 was about twenty feet in length, had a hook at the 
 end, was thrown like a lasso, and was used for 
 tripping up prisoners, or persons found committing 
 a crime who attempted to run away. It was a 
 primitive device in our eyes, but we were informed 
 that it was looked upon with great dread by the 
 criminal classes. 
 
 " My newly-made friend turned out to be a commer- 
 cial man from Manchester, who was visiting Germany 
 with the double purpose of seeing the country and its 
 people, and of attending the great European fair which 
 opened at Leipzig in October, and continued all 
 through that month. This was a rare piece of luck, 
 the more so, seeing that we both, before meeting, had 
 made up our minds to walk from Hamburg to 
 Leipzig, a distance of over two hundred English miles. 
 We remained together in Hamburg about eight days, 
 and singularly enough, before the end of that time, 
 we unconsciously began to fall in with German 
 manners and customs. Day by day the people 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GERMANY, 103 
 
 appeared to our eyes to be less miserable, and the 
 scenes witnessed less repulsive. Darwin is not far 
 wrong in describing man as a sort of developed ape. 
 At any rate, the tendency of imitation was so strong 
 in both of us that, instead of going to church in the 
 morning of the following Sunday we went to the 
 opera; instead of dining at two o'clock and taking 
 our usual Sunday afternoon's sleep, we dined at one 
 o'clock, and repaired immediately to some celebrated 
 gardens not far off, where dancing commenced at two 
 o'clock ; and finally, instead of attending evening 
 service, we went to the circus. I was far from being 
 easy in my conscience, however. There was a still 
 small voice that kept constantly telling me I was 
 doing wrong; and when I mentioned the matter to 
 my Manchester acquaintance, he informed me that he 
 had experienced the same feelings. Alone, I should 
 never have dreamt of doing such a thing, and so I 
 found it to be also with my friend. So, you see, that 
 however desirable and agreeable pleasant society may 
 be at times, it is not always an unmixed benefit. 
 
 " We started from Hamburg on the Monday morning, 
 and reached Leipzig on the Saturday week following. 
 The weather was everything that could be desired, 
 but the roads were execrable ; Macadam had not yet 
 been heard of in that quarter of the globe. We were 
 frequently compelled to take refuge in the Lager Bier 
 Sale and Gasthofe which stood by the wayside, to 
 escape from the clouds of dust. What struck us most 
 of all was the extraordinary cheapness of everything 
 as compared with England. The most that we paid 
 any night for supper, lodgings and breakfast was at 
 Magdeburg, where we were charged a thaler (three 
 shillings) each. Nay, in some of the villages where we 
 halted for the night we were not required to pay more 
 than half that sum. But the accommodation, as a rule, 
 was wretched ; no carpets, no bed clothes — we had to 
 sleep between two beds, with the result that you could 
 
104 THE GREAT FAIR AT LEIPZIG. 
 
 not regulate the temperature of your body. When 
 you got too hot, the only remedy was to kick the 
 upper bed to one side, whereupon you suddenly be- 
 came too cold. The food was detestable — the staple 
 articles being Schwartz brod (black bread), which tasted 
 like stale yeast, and bratwiirfte (sausages), which were 
 not fit for a dog to eat. The people were miserable, 
 filthy and ill-clad ; so degraded and cringing that they 
 would have licked the soles of your boots for a farth- 
 ing. The common women, moreover, were the ugliest 
 and most uncouth of their sex I had so far set eyes 
 on. The poor creatures were worked like beasts, while 
 their indolent husbands, and brothers and fathers, 
 stood by or walked by their side, smoking their filthy 
 cabbage cigars. How the proprieties and amenities 
 of family life could be observed, when, as I was told, 
 father and mother, brothers and sisters — to the num- 
 ber, in many cases, of ten or twelve, some of the latter, 
 too, men and women — all lay down at night on the floor 
 of their single apartment dwelling huddled together, 
 was a matter I dare not inquire into. 
 
 " The country for most of the way was flat, dreary 
 and monotonous, nothing to relieve the eye save an 
 occasional windmill. We were truly glad to reach 
 our destination, where we put up at the Palm Baum 
 Hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 THE GREAT FAIR AT LE1PZEG. 
 
 " The fair had not yet fairly commenced, but the 
 town was already inundatsd with Jews, Greeks, 
 Armenians, etc., in long coats, from all parts of the 
 continent. A square about the middle of the town, 
 called Markt Platz, was the centre of the hubbub and 
 of business. The regular trade of the town, especially 
 
THE GREAT FAIR AT LEIPZIG. 105 
 
 in all the streets which converged on the square just 
 mentioned, was almost entirely suspended while the 
 fair lasted, the shops being let to the foreign merchants 
 at high prices in which to ply their multiform and 
 various businesses. It was a lively time for everyone 
 while the fair continued. Even Sunday regulations in 
 regard to worship, which are strictly enforced at other 
 seasons, were relaxed during this month. On Sun- 
 days, the people crowded in from the country, and the 
 fun was, I can assure you, fast and furious. Yet the 
 utmost good nature prevailed ; nothing to suggest in 
 the least Donnybrook. People had come to laugh and 
 make merry, not to quarrel and to fight. Drunken- 
 ness, moreover, was nowhere to be witnessed. 
 
 " It was a quaint old place was Leipzig fifty years 
 ago, a town with a great history. I talked with many 
 people who had witnessed the retreat of the great 
 Napoleon from the town, pursued by the Allies. 
 Their hatred against the hero of Jena and Austerlitz 
 was implacable, and that against their king for link- 
 ing his fortunes with that of the great strategist 
 hardly less so. And so well they might. In many in- 
 stances their homes had been sacked and pillaged, and 
 their wives and daughters and sisters violated under 
 their very eyes by the bloodthirsty and inhumanised 
 French soldiery while they occupied the town. 
 
 " ' Peace hath its victories, no less renowned than war,' 
 
 sung our great Milton. I cannot quite agree with 
 him in respect of the renown of war. War, whatever 
 be the object aimed at, is the enemy of civilisation and 
 of human progress. It is opposed to every trait which 
 serves to distinguish mankind from the brute. You 
 shake your head," said the old man, addressing the 
 captain, "but what I have stated is God's truth all 
 the same." 
 
 "If what you say be true," retorted the captain, 
 with some warmth, " then Wellington, Nelson, Wash- 
 
106 THE GREAT FAIR AT LEIPZIG. 
 
 ington, and in our own day Sir Colin Campbell, 
 Havelock, Outrain, Gordon and others must be the 
 greatest monsters in human form that ever lived. I, 
 myself, have been a defender of my country." 
 
 " You misunderstand me, my good sir ; I was not 
 referring to individuals — individuals are most often 
 the tools of circumstance — but to the effects of war in 
 the abstract. Lord Palmerston no doubt spoke truly 
 when he said that man was a fighting animal; by 
 which he meant to convey that it was impossible to 
 eradicate mere brutishness from the majority of man- 
 kind, and, therefore, a nation to ensure its existence 
 in the family of nations must descend to the level of 
 the dog and the cat, and fight for the mere sake of 
 fighting. You shake your head again, captain, but 
 nothing is more true, as all history proves, than that 
 the nation which lives by the sword must perish by 
 the sword. The dark ages, what were they ? The 
 direct result of war, cruel war — Roman domination, 
 Mahometan atrocity, your ambitious Alexanders, Alis 
 and Charlemagnes ! What has happened before may 
 happen again ; and I have no hesitation in affirming 
 that the militarism of the present day if persisted in 
 will prove the harbinger of another period of intel- 
 lectual darkness — of pure animalism. In these days 
 no greater than Plato and Aristotle, Csesar and Pom- 
 pey, Horace and Juvenal have arisen. Moreover, 
 no greater fallacy was ever uttered than that the surest 
 way to maintain peace is to be prepared for war. As 
 well say that the best means of causing Britons to love 
 one another would be to make every individual a 
 skilled boxer. Exciting times, indeed, we should 
 have, if every woman were an Amazon and every 
 man an Orestes ! But I see this subject is distasteful 
 to you, captain, and I shall therefore not pursue it 
 further. All that I meant to say at the outset was 
 that the killing of fellow-beings must necessarily 
 brutalise those who engage directly in it — as it un- 
 
THE GEE AT FAIR AT LEIPZIG. 107 
 
 doubtedly did the French soldiery I have just re- 
 ferred to, who were but the victims of circumstances 
 forced upon them — and is diametrically opposed to 
 the evolution of the species, I mean the advancement 
 of civilisation. Mistake me not, however ; I am neither 
 a Quaker in respect of war, nor a prude in respect of 
 morals. I have never turned the left cheek to any 
 man who has smitten me on the right. There I have 
 often claimed the right that the law assumes — of met- 
 ing out punishment for injury inflicted. In like manner 
 I have often, with the apostle, had to own to myself 
 that ' the good which I would that I do not, and the 
 evil which I would not that I do.' 
 
 " In many respects my Manchester acquaintance 
 and I were differently constituted. He courted wran- 
 gling and disputation ; my policy, on the other hand, 
 being to avoid both. When the pinch came, however, 
 he sneaked away ; my temper compelled me to stand 
 and face it out. Away from home, like so many 
 married Englishmen, he meant ' to enjoy ' himself, as 
 he phrased it ; away from home I meant to improve 
 myself. It required, therefore, only a few days for 
 us to drift apart : insomuch that we seldom saw each 
 other, except when he sought me out to be his inter- 
 preter in the making of some bargain. 
 
 " The fair was a novel sight to me. While it lasted 
 I did nothing but move about among the throng, with 
 the twofold object of watching the manner in which 
 business was transacted, and of educating my ears to 
 the sounds of the German tongue. Business, I may 
 mention, was conducted wholly on the Israelitish prin- 
 ciple — ' higgling/ as Adam Smith calls it — and the 
 amount of money — ready money — that changed hands 
 was enormous. But it was a time, as one might say, 
 of great moral relaxation. I need not go into details 
 further than to say that at nights, especially, all the 
 baser passions of our weak human nature seemed to 
 be unblushingly let loose. 
 
108 SETTLING DOWN TO STUDY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. • 
 
 SETTLING DOWN TO STUDY. 
 
 " Immediately the fair was over, I lost no time in 
 presenting my letter of introduction to Herr Schutz, 
 and in settling down to the study of the pianoforte as 
 an experiment. Though Herr Schutz had already 
 earned a considerable reputation as a teacher of that 
 instrument, I was struck by the fact that he could 
 not play himself — not one bit more than a simple 
 finger exercise, and even that clumsily. He was a 
 little man : not more than five feet in stature, and on 
 the sunny side of forty. He could speak English only 
 a little, but was thoroughly at home in French and 
 Italian. He was on very friendly terms with Geyer, 
 whom I often met at his house, and at the Lager Bier 
 Sale in the evenings. The composer of 'Tannhauser' 
 was yet, like myself, a mere stripling. But what 
 eyes ! what features, cut as if in marble ! what rest- 
 less energy! what powers of expression, both in speech 
 and on the pianoforte! I never looked at or ex- 
 changed words with him but I thought that nature, 
 by some strange freak, had affixed the head of a 
 matured genius on the frame of a boy. And in 
 manner — he had no manners in the sense that we 
 Englishmen understand that term — seemingly con- 
 scious of his intellectual superiority, he was by turns 
 haughty, overbearing, insolent, vindictive, reckless in 
 speech, wholly indifferent to the opinions or feelings 
 of anyone. 
 
 " ' I am the blessed Glendovir 
 
 'Tis mine to speaK and yours to hear,' 
 
 suggested itself at every movement of the eye, expres- 
 sion of the features, turn of the head, motion of the 
 haud, and gesture of the person. His generosity was 
 
SETTLING DOWN TO STUDY. 109 
 
 profuse ; but he was so poor that he seldom had the 
 opportunity of indulging that passion. Money lent to 
 him he considered as money given to him. Many of 
 his fellows regarded him as mad : I worshipped him 
 as a born genius. I was therefore not surprised 
 at his attaining the unique position in music he did 
 in after life. He was born great, and could have 
 achieved greatness in any thing which he set his mind 
 to accomplish. 
 
 " To return again to Schutz. I engaged to take 
 fifty lessons from him, three a week, for which I paid 
 him in advance three pounds, the highest prices he 
 charged anyone. From this you will understand why it 
 is thatEngland has always been overrun with German 
 1 professors ' of music. Offer your Von Schmidt, Von 
 Nagel, Von Bauer, in London, Is. 6d. for a lesson of an 
 hour's duration ! He would at once tell you that he 
 was 'vun professor.' But Schutz was well content 
 with this sum, and perhaps no better teacher of the 
 pianoforte has ever lived. He had the rare gift of 
 making his pupil, willing or unwilling, attain the goal 
 he had marked out for him or her. 
 
 "I received altogether one hundred lessons from 
 him, and to show the honesty of the man, he then 
 informed me that it was useless in me spending more 
 money in tuition on that branch of music, as I could 
 now accomplish what was still lacking in my playing 
 for myself; further, that I was quite competent to 
 become a successful teacher, but I would never be a 
 virtuoso, because of the strain my muscles had been 
 subjected to in manual labour in early life. I was 
 piqued at this, but determined to remain in Leipzig 
 so as to reap the benefit of at least another season's 
 concerts at theGewandhaus — concerts which were given 
 twice a week, beginning in October and closing in 
 April, and at which, besides a splendid local band, the 
 greatest artists in Europe were to be seen and heard. 
 Another reason was that I had meanwhile become in- 
 
110 SETTLING DOWN TO STUDY. 
 
 terested in a German madchen, of about my own 
 age, whose father was a provision merchant, and re- 
 puted rich, according to Saxon ideas of wealth. She 
 was musical, could both play and sing well, and was 
 intelligent besides. She was comely in person : large 
 blue eyes, fair hair and complexion ; features regular, 
 the nose inclining to the Roman type, but not pro- 
 nouncedly so ; long fair eyelashes, setting off a finely 
 arched brow ; mouth a trifle large, and upper lip 
 short; teeth pearly white, but a little irregular; 
 under jaw somewhat masculine, and neck and bosom 
 becoming, but not remarkable in any degree. She was 
 what might in strictness be called a buxom lass rather 
 than a beauty. Unlike most German maidens, how- 
 ever, she was not of a phlegmatic temperament. 
 She was brimful of fun and frolic, yet never out- 
 stepped the bounds of maiden modesty. I became, I 
 say, much interested in her, and lost no opportunity of 
 being in her society. 
 
 " Perhaps it will be proper here to mention that dur- 
 ing the time I resided in Leipzig I was never attacked 
 by alcoholism. Teetotal I was not, nor ever attempted 
 to be. I drank lager beer freely, without any ill effects 
 resulting therefrom. In point of fact, I flattered my- 
 self that I had at length placed my life-long enemy 
 under my feet, that I could do with him just as I 
 pleased. Occupation, climate, and personal surround- 
 ings must, however, have been the chief factors in 
 this seeming victory. A day in which I did not work 
 and study at least from twelve to fifteen hours I 
 regarded as a day wasted. In a word, the task I set 
 myself to accomplish was one hundred hours' work 
 and study per week, and I frequently achieved one 
 hundred and thirty hours. The climate suited me to 
 a needle's point, while a few months sufficed to adapt 
 my tastes to those of the people amongst whom I 
 moved. The event, however, proved that my enemy 
 was not subdued, but only temporarily vanquished. 
 
ANOTHER AFFAIR OF THE HEART. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ANOTHER AFFAIR OF THE HEART. 
 
 "Ma affaire nouvelle du casur did not proceed apace. 
 I had a number of rivals, which made Lisa (that was 
 her name) capricious and indifferent, and me jealous 
 and exacting. I had the full permission of her parents 
 to visit her, and, in fact, to make any appointments 
 we pleased, either in or out of doors, at any reasonable 
 hour of the day or evening. I pressed my suit at 
 first with great eagerness, only to receive rebuff after 
 rebuff, but always administered in good temper. 
 When I made an appointment to visit her on a certain 
 day or evening, at a named hour, I was almost certain 
 to find that one or more of my rivals had anticipated 
 my coming. It was thus impossible for me to declare 
 my passion to her. Another obstacle was that, unlike 
 most maidens, though perfectly conscious of her 
 charms, both of person and temperament, she was 
 not in the least susceptible to flattery. The utmost 
 that she would allow in this regard was the usual 
 formal compliments as to her singing and playing; 
 and even in this, if you attempted comparisons, they 
 were resented. 
 
 " I attributed at first my non-success with Lisa to 
 my foreign origin and my imperfect acquaintance 
 with the German tongue. Naturally loquacious, it 
 was most difficult for me to hold my peace while 
 my rivals were speaking; and it hence happened that 
 frequently I made the most egregious errors, often, 
 too, of the most indelicate nature. In fact, the mere 
 recollection of some of the latter makes me shudder 
 at the present moment. You can readily conceive, 
 therefore, how deeply this wounded my pride and 
 self-esteem. Rightly did the Psalmist exclaim, 'A 
 wounded spirit, who can bear ? ' It was hard in my 
 
112 ANOTHER AFFAIR OF THE HEART. 
 
 case. After one of such contretemps I wrote to Lisa 
 — I was ashamed to go in person — apologising for 
 what might appear to her my rude behaviour, and, at 
 the same time, expressing the opinion that it were per- 
 haps — I could not help inserting this word vielleicht — 
 better for her that the liberty to visit her should be 
 withdrawn, at her request, by her parents. To my 
 great surprise as well as delight, I received from her 
 the same day a letter couched in the most gracious 
 terms, telling me frankly she would do nothing of the 
 kind, and chiding me for being so sensitive on a 
 point as to which she rather sympathised with than 
 blamed me for. My hopes began again to rise. I 
 figured myself kneeling at the feet of Lisa that very 
 evening, imploring her to be mine and mine only ; 
 that I saw her flushed countenance, her assenting 
 eyes, felt the thrill of reciprocated love and passion 
 in her hand, which I eagerly pressed to my lips, and 
 heard the sweet tones of her voice saying, Ich Hebe 
 dich. 
 
 " I longed for the evening to arrive so ardently that 
 in my practice that afternoon I made pot-pourri of my 
 exercises. I could play, sing or read nothing that 
 did not put me in mind of Lisa — charming Lisa. At 
 intervals I paced my room, surveyed myself in the 
 mirror, composed speeches full of passion and of love, 
 anticipated the moment when I should inhale the 
 sweet fragrance of her breath, and taste the lucious 
 honey of her vermillion lips." 
 
 Here the captain and I broke out into laughter 
 at the earnestness and eloquence of the old man ; but 
 without giving either of us time to recover and to 
 speak, he continued in a changed mood, — 
 
 " I perceive I have been making myself ridiculous 
 by speaking of love as though I were a boy of seven- 
 teen. But is not the outward expression of love be- 
 tween a young man and maiden peculiarly childish ? 
 Who but a Frenchman would have the fortitude to 
 
ANOTHER AFFAIR OF THE HEART. 113 
 
 have a third party present in such moments as I have 
 just been attempting to describe ? A Red Indian or a 
 Maori would rather be scalped or hacked to pieces 
 than be found guilty of such folly. But folly it is 
 not, when the passions are green, especially. A well- 
 conditioned stripling cannot trifle with the heart. 
 Once that has been touched with the live coal of a 
 maiden's pure love, there is an immediate conflagra- 
 tion, a consuming fire, that nothing can extinguish. 
 Well did Solomon give expression to the sentiments 
 of humanity of all times and climes when he said, — - 
 ■ For love is strong as death, passion inflexible as 
 hell ' (i.e., which never relaxes its prey) ; ' its brands 
 are the brands of fire, its arrows the fire' (i.e., the 
 lightning) ' of Jehovah.' . . . ' Great waters cannot 
 quench love, rivers cannot extinguish it. If a man 
 would seek to purchase love at the sacrifice of his 
 whole substance, he would only reap confusion.' " 
 
 " You must have been hard hit on this occasion," 
 interrupted the captain. " In my simple ignorance I 
 had always supposed that a man or woman could only 
 once fall in love in his or her lifetime ; all else was 
 mere consideration and esteem, a feeling akin to that 
 which exists between persons of the same sex ; and 
 this seems also to have been the opinion of Solomon, 
 whose language you have just quoted. But you, you 
 seem from your own account to have been in love at 
 least half-a-dozen times before you were twenty, and 
 on each occasion head over ears. Are you romancing, 
 attempting to ' stuff ' us ? If not, explain to us more 
 fully your states on some of these occasions," this 
 jestingly. 
 
 " Most willingly, my dear captain. Love with me 
 has always been a species of frenzy. Like my fits of 
 alcoholism, it has ever come in gusts, sweeping every- 
 thing for the time being before it. But in this con- 
 nection there is one fact, a constant fact, that I have 
 observed : namely, a fit of alcoholism and a fit of love 
 
 H 
 
114 THE AMENDE HONORABLE. 
 
 cannot co-exist. They are mutually destructive. Hence 
 the passion of a drinking man or a good ' diner-out/ 
 as it is called, for the opposite sex is nothing but mere 
 animalism. In a word, alcohol, however pure, and 
 pure love are incompatible. In like manner, I have 
 found that book-wormishness and an itch for writing 
 or ' orating ' are far from being conducive to success- 
 ful love-making. But there is this difference, that 
 whereas the former extinguishes, the latter merely 
 chills, affection. But this is by the way." 
 
 The luncheon bell, however, now summoned the 
 captain to his place at the head of the table, and 
 when we had partaken once more of the latter's hos- 
 pitality, we separated to meet again in the evening in 
 the cabin, where another impromptu concert was to 
 be given, in which Mr Bigglethwaite had consented 
 to take part. 
 
 The weather outside was cheerless and dismal. The 
 decks were wet and slippery with the drizzling rain 
 which was falling. We paced the deck in silence 
 for a few minutes after leaving the captain's room, 
 looking at the expanse of waters, with nothing to 
 relieve the eye save the gulls which followed and 
 hovered about the vessel. There was, too, the mono- 
 tonous throb of the engines, which did not conduce 
 to buoyancy of spirits. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE AMENDE HONORABLE. 
 
 "I would give a sovereign for an hour's sunshine," 
 ejaculated Mr Bigglethwaite; "but, alas! I am going 
 back to England and to London, where it is more 
 than likely I shall not again see the face of the great 
 
THE AMENDE HONORABLE. 115 
 
 life-giver for months to come. Let us again see the 
 steward to see whether he has any cheer to offer us." 
 
 " Will it not be adding fuel to the flame to indulge 
 again so soon after what the captain has kindly given 
 us ? " I suggested. 
 
 " Not at all," said the old man ; " but you need not 
 take anything ; with me it is a necessity — only bear 
 me company." 
 
 I consented to accept a small bottle of stout, but my 
 astonishment was great indeed when I heard my com- 
 panion call for a quartern of pale brandy for himself. I 
 watched to see what he would do — whether he would 
 sip it or would gulp it down. Filling it into a tumbler 
 from the measure, and pouring out water in a separate 
 glass, he stood motionless and speechless looking at it. 
 The situation becoming embarrassing, I asked to be 
 excused for a minute. When I came back, the brandy 
 had disappeared, and Mr Bigglethwaite was ready to 
 accompany me to our own cabin, where dinner would 
 now be laid. On our way thence, the old man became 
 again all life and animation, but as we took our 
 accustomed places at the table, he whispered in my 
 ear, " Oh, that this were over ! " 
 
 I understood, of course, to what he referred, and 
 from that moment I set myself to watch him closely 
 — to see with my own eyes whether the accounts he 
 had given of himself in such junctures were what he 
 represented them to be. His exuberance of spirits 
 was most marked at dinner, the principal topic of con- 
 versation being, as was natural, the concert in the 
 evening. 
 
 It was looked forward to by everyone as a great 
 event, showing how little it takes to amuse people on 
 a sea voyage. Even the greatest minds, placed in 
 such circumstances, have to unbend to trifles. A gull 
 alighting on the deck, whence it cannot rise, its legs 
 being so short and so powerless, from being so little 
 called into exercise, in its eager quest after food, will 
 
116 THE AMENDE HONORABLE. 
 
 form of itself the all-absorbing topic of conversation 
 for the passengers and crew of a ship for a whole day. 
 It will hence be understood what were the eager 
 anticipations a concert called forth, the rather when 
 it was known that Mr Bigglethwaite was to figure 
 prominently in it. Considering his conduct at the 
 previous concert, it was only natural that great things 
 should be expected of him. 
 
 Music being the theme at dinner, Mr Bigglethwaite 
 was of course Sir Oracle, and acted the part to per- 
 fection. He discoursed most learnedly and eloquently 
 on Beethoven, Mozart, Bellini, Verdi, Flotow, Meyer- 
 bey er, Mendelssohn, Bach, Handel, Wagner, Schubert, 
 Sterndale Bennett, Dudley Buck, Costa, Jenny Lind, 
 Patti, Sims Reeves, Lablache, Titiens, Nilsson, Grissi, 
 Mario, Sontag, Joachim, and I know not how many 
 other great composers and virtuosi. While thus dis- 
 coursing, he seemed to be full to overflowing with 
 delight and happiness. In a word, the subject seemed 
 to " enthuse " him to the roots of the hair. 
 
 I did not see him again until the evening, for, 
 truth to tell, I was careful to keep out of his sight, in 
 case he should ask me again to accompany him to the 
 bar ; not for my own sake, but for fear that he should 
 make my society the pretext for imbibing more than 
 he might otherwise have done. 
 
 At the appointed hour Mr Bigglethwaite appeared 
 
 in the cabin in the regulation evening dress, with 
 
 white necktie and gloves, and in jubilant spirits. In 
 
 the matter of dress he was singular. On being called 
 
 upon by the captain to open the concert, he sat down to 
 
 the pianoforte and played a nocturne by Chopin, from 
 
 memory, with fine effect. Though pressed very hard, he 
 
 could not, however, be prevailed upon either to repeat 
 
 the performance or to give anything in lieu thereof, 
 
 his excuse being that he was opposed to encores, for 
 
 the reason that it was unfair to the performer, who 
 
 might reasonably be supposed to have temporarily 
 
THE AMENDE HONORABLE. 117 
 
 exhausted not only his muscular and nervous forces, 
 but also his artistic powers of expression ; moreover, 
 it was impossible for an artist to wind himself up in a 
 moment, as one would a watch ; artistic expression 
 required not only general preparation, but also time 
 for concentrating the emotional forces on a given 
 theme. Out of sheer complaisance, however, he 
 promised to prepare himself to play two selections in 
 the second part of the programme, if the company so 
 desired. In deference also to a request made by the 
 captain, he agreed to take part with me in the duet, 
 " All's well." 
 
 I need not detain the reader further here than to 
 say that Mr Bigglethwaite did not fail of his promise ; 
 his two selections in the second part of the programme 
 were numbers four and eight, Mendelssohn's Lieder 
 Ohne Worte, which were excellently rendered and 
 enthusiastically received, while his singing in the duet 
 was all that could be desired, standing out, I must 
 frankly confess, notwithstanding his age, in striking 
 contrast to my poor efforts It needs also to mention 
 that Mr Bigglethwaite, in order to atone for his con- 
 duct to the lady performer at the previous concert, 
 gallantly volunteered to turn the leaves for her on 
 the present occasion, a compliment which the lady in 
 question accepted with becoming grace. 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A lovers' quarrel. 
 
 MrBigglethwaite did not appear at the table to break- 
 fast, but I learned from the steward that a quartern 
 of brandy and a pint of milk had been supplied to 
 him in his berth, in bed. At eleven o'clock punctual, 
 he joined me on deck, and in answer to my inquiries 
 regarding his health, he replied that though he knew 
 he was not well, his senses gave no indication of the 
 fact. He had slept fairly well, and his sensations at 
 that moment were of the most delightful description. 
 " Let us away to the captain's room ; he will be await- 
 ing us there," said he, leading the way. 
 
 We found the captain in his accustomed chair, 
 enjoying his morning " weed," and after an exchange 
 of the ordinary salutations, and partaking of our 
 usual forenoon's refreshment from the captain's bottle, 
 Mr Bigglethwaite took up speech. 
 
 " We broke off yesterday with love-making in 
 general, but let us now hark back to Lisa and 
 Leipzig. My love for this German maiden, at the 
 period in question— time is a great factor in love 
 as in everything else, but I will tell you all about 
 this later on — was sincere. And this independently 
 of the fact that my regard for Ena and Lily had by 
 no means died out. Indeed, I might honestly say 
 that distance had lent enchantment to their charms. 
 
A lovers' quarrel. 119 
 
 "When I visited Lisa that night, I found her, to 
 my great delight, alone. I was so overjoyed at this 
 circumstance that I could with great difficulty con- 
 tain myself. I could see, moreover, at first glance 
 that she had taken more than usual pains in the ' get 
 up ' of her toilette to render her charms more attrac- 
 tive in my eyes, and I felt flattered and encouraged. 
 Further, my anticipations were realised to the extent 
 that she offered no resistance to my pressing her hand 
 to my lips, but it was cold, and the expected thrill was 
 not there. In compensation, however, I perceived a 
 faint blush spread over her features, but it was only 
 for a moment. Pointing me to a seat on the sofa, she 
 sat down beside me, but to my confusion she began 
 at once to upbraid me for the letter I had sent her. 
 
 " ' You surely must have a poor opinion of my in- 
 telligence, and none of myself, when you could write 
 such a letter to me/ said she, with some bitterness. 
 Before I could answer, she interposed with the re- 
 mark, ' Hear me out, and then you can say what you 
 will. I have sent for you to-night to tell you that in 
 my opinion you have been attempting to play the 
 fool with me. You are an Englishman, but there are 
 Germans in the world, aye, and in Leipzig itself, just 
 as good as any Englishman.' Again I essayed to 
 reply, and again I was silenced. ' I had thought at 
 one time that you were inspired by honest purposes 
 in visiting me here at my father's house, but in this 
 I see I was mistaken. Your pretended delicacy was 
 but a feint, a ruse to get rid of me when you found 
 that you could not toy with my affections as you 
 listed. Gott sei dank, my heart is yet untouched by 
 your attentions, as well as by those of any other man. 
 I have done.' 
 
 "I could not of course remain silent under such 
 reproaches ; and during their delivery I was able to 
 muster courage enough to reply to her in a similar 
 strain. 
 
120 A lovers' quarrel. 
 
 " ' Miss Hahn,' I began, rising to my feet, ' I do riot 
 mean to reply seriatim to the accusations you have 
 just seen fit to bring against me. I will only say 
 that, so far as I am aware, only one of them, and one 
 only, is true, namely, that I am an Englishman. And 
 let me tell you that it is not compatible with the 
 dignity of an Englishman to put up with unmerited 
 reproaches, and statements reflecting upon his honour 
 which are inconsistent with the facts. But as you 
 are a woman, I will not attempt to argue with you, 
 and will, therefore, with your permission, take my 
 leave. When you are prepared to apologise for what 
 you have said to-night, it may be convenient for us to 
 meet again, but certainly not till then, so good-night.' 
 
 " ' Stay a moment, I have somewhat more to say to 
 you,' rejoined she, in a less defiant tone. 
 
 " ' I am ready to hear anything you have to say, 
 provided you do not again reproach me with conduct 
 unbecoming a gentleman.' 
 
 " ' What I have further to say is this : you must 
 have known that what was so palpably a slip of the 
 tongue on your part could not have been taken au 
 serieux by anyone who heard it ; not even by the 
 gentlemen whom you esteem, or at least have esteemed, 
 as your rivals. You Englishmen are too sensitive 
 about trifles. Do you mean to tell me that the 
 accidental displacement of the vowels ei for ie, in a 
 tongue foreign to you, was ground sufficient for your 
 breaking with a young lady if there had been no 
 other cause ? ' 
 
 "'I do say so,' I rejoined; ' there was no other 
 cause.' 
 
 " ' Then all I have to say is, that a man who can 
 allow such a trifle to disturb his equanimity is a most 
 undesirable acquaintance. He would be quarrelling 
 with his own shadow next.' 
 
 " ' Have you done, Miss Hahn ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, I have nothing further to say than that, for 
 
A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 121 
 
 your future peace of mind, if you intend to remain in 
 Germany I would advise you to apply yourself with 
 all diligence to the mastery of a German grammar, so 
 that you may never again be guilty of misplacing an 
 ei for ie in the presence of a lady. This is not bad 
 advice, you will admit, I am sure ? ' 
 
 * * You are sarcastic, Miss Hahn, but let me assure 
 you that anything you may now say can have no 
 more impression upon me than a drop of water on a 
 duck's back.' 
 
 K ■ Ah, I see ! My reproof has not then been without 
 its effect/ she retorted. * After what you have just 
 said, it is quite evident that the misplacement of a 
 simple vowel is not likely soon again to wound your 
 amour propre. Au revoir, Mr Bigglethwaite.' 
 
 " ' Gute nacht, Fraulein Hahn.' 
 
 " ' Au revoir, Mr Bigglethwaite.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 
 
 " I felt ill at ease for some days after this interview. 
 Several times I abruptly left my piano and my books 
 to go to her to seek her forgiveness, and to accept any 
 terms her caprice might see fit to impose on me, only 
 that I could be reconciled to her ; but always as 
 I neared her house my pride would rebel. She had 
 wounded me in my most vulnerable part — my self- 
 esteem. At such times, too, the images of Ena and 
 Lily would rise before my mind, and I longed to be 
 near them, though I knew perfectly well I could 
 expect no better treatment in that quarter. And to 
 aggravate my position, it was seldom that I left my 
 
122 A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 
 
 lodgings now that I did not encounter one of the 
 rivals above alluded to. Such meetings were un- 
 doubtedly the result of sheer accident, but to my 
 brooding thoughts they seemed far otherwise. I 
 attributed them to my offended inamorata — believed 
 firmly, in fact, that she had engaged them to dog my 
 steps. To a mind less excited than mine, the very 
 inception of such an idea must have appeared ridicul- 
 ous. What rival would accept such an office ? Nay, 
 what woman would have the audacity to seek to 
 engage a suitor in such a mission ! But a thwarted 
 lover is one whose reason is unthroned in respect of 
 the object of his affections. With him every road leads 
 to Rome. At anyrate, I fancied I observed in every re- 
 cognition, though it consisted only of a simple ' guten 
 morgen,' of any of my quondam rivals, the hand of Lisa. 
 The more I attempted to avoid holding converse with 
 them, the more eager each seemed to be to ' chum ' with 
 me. Especially, too, was it repugnant to me when I was 
 questioned as to when I had last seen Fraulein Hahn ; 
 and, as was but natural, the more I evaded such 
 interrogatories, the more was I pressed. This could 
 not continue. A quarrel ensued, and I was challenged 
 to fight a duel with swords — mensuren — according to 
 the young German student fashion. I laughed at the 
 idea, but I soon learned to my sorrow it was no laugh- 
 ing matter. The word was passed round to all the 
 young men in the town, with the result that I was 
 jeered and sneered at, as well as jostled, whenever I 
 appeared in public. The favourite mark of contempt 
 was the putting of the fingers to the nose at me. This 
 from utter strangers I could not at first understand, 
 but I soon learned what it imported. In the circum- 
 stances — a stranger in a strange land — I should have 
 kept discreetly out of sight, or shaken the dust of the 
 town from my feet. I was in no mood, however, to 
 seek refuge in either of these. My blood was up, and 
 after consulting with Herr Schutz, who advised me to 
 
A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 123 
 
 seek the protection of the English consul, I resolved 
 to deal with my detractors in my own way, to wit — to 
 knock on the head the first person that molested me, 
 if he was alone ; and if there were several, to lay about 
 me with the blackthorn stick my kind Irish friend 
 had presented me with. 
 
 " The occasion soon arrived. On making my way, in 
 the dusk of the evening, to a Gewandhaus concert, 
 I encountered, in the market square, the rival whom 
 I disliked the most. He saluted me in the con- 
 temptuous manner I have described, and jostled me 
 on the shoulder. Quick as lightning I laid him flat 
 on the pavement with a blow from my fist, and pro- 
 ceeded on my way, expecting every moment to be 
 followed and stopped. I reached the concert-room 
 without molestation, and heard nothing for several 
 days. 
 
 " Early one morning, however, I was suddenly 
 awaked by the sound of voices outside my bedroom, 
 which was immediately followed by thuds at the door, 
 as if the intruders were about to burst it in. To swing 
 about my pianoforte against the door, and to arm my- 
 self with my blackthorn behind it, were but the work 
 of a moment. It was pitch dark save for occasional 
 gleams which came from the outside through the 
 seams of the door. Mounting the instrument — an old- 
 fashioned 'square' which I had hired — I waited in 
 silence, with my blackthorn raised over my shoulder, 
 for the first head which should present itself. Amidst 
 the din, I could hear outside the screams of my land- 
 lady and of her children, mingled with the loud protests 
 of the husband ; but these soon became silenced. The 
 intruders continued to bang away at the door, with 
 what appeared from the sound to be a poker, and soon 
 one of the lower panels was driven in. Leaping from 
 my position to the floor, a light from outside dis- 
 covered to me the head and shoulders of a man, who 
 was pressing himself through the broken panel, under 
 
124 A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 
 
 the pianoforte. A single blow from my blackthorn 
 stopped up at once that means of ingress. How badly 
 the head of the intruder was hurt I could not, of 
 course, tell in the dark. Almost simultaneously the 
 body was withdrawn, and the upper panels of the door 
 smashed in, which latter revealed to me the forms of 
 at least a dozen persons crowded in the passage. In 
 my despair I searched, like another Don Alfonso, 
 under the bed, and there I found a weapon, the frag- 
 ments of which, in another second, were flying in all 
 directions from the heads of the cowardly intruders. 
 The guttural and sibilant sounds which this attack 
 called forth had hardly subsided when I followed it 
 up by another — my earthenware water jug, full almost 
 to the brim, which I dashed into their midst with all 
 my might, and which must have proved refreshing 
 after the douche bath just administered. This was 
 the signal for a general stampede, and I was thus left 
 master of the situation. 
 
 " It was some time before I attempted to light my 
 candle, for in the passage I could still hear the breath- 
 ing and movements of one or more persons. As the 
 minutes, which seemed hours, passed, and this con- 
 tinued, I longed for help to come, and in order to this I 
 called out to my landlady and landlord, but received no 
 answer. Prompted by curiosity as well as by fear, I 
 crept under the pianoforte up to the door, and there 
 lit my candle. I could see the bodies of two men, one 
 prone and the other stretched on the back, on the 
 floor, in pools of blood. Believing I had nothing 
 further to fear, I hurriedly got into some of my 
 clothes, and, drawing back the pianoforte and unlock- 
 ing the door, I passed outside, candle in hand. Turn- 
 ing over the body nearest the door, I discerned the 
 features of the rival I had laid low a few days before 
 in the market place. He was bleeding freely from a 
 gash on the left side of the head, and seemed to be 
 insensible. I examined likewise the other body 
 
A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 125 
 
 which had an ugly gash on the forehead, from which 
 the blood was oozing. I next went in search of the 
 inmates of the house, but found it deserted, except for 
 me and the two persons lying unconscious, perhaps 
 dying. Dressing hastily, I repaired at once to the 
 residence of Lisa, and woke up ' Papa ' Hahn, to seek 
 his guidance and protection. Why I went there, and 
 not to the house of the English consul, or to the police, 
 both of whom were nearer, I could not then explain 
 to myself, nor can I now. It must have been what 
 might be called tije unconscious belief that, notwith- 
 standing all that had happened, I would find my truest 
 friend in Lisa. ' Papa ' Hahn, as well as Frau Hahn, 
 was much alarmed when I described to him what had 
 taken place. Lisa was not present. There was. only 
 one thing to do — place myself in the hands of the 
 police. This was at once done; and 'Papa' Hahn 
 and two officers went to see after the injured men 
 I have already described. 
 
 " I was at first placed in a cold, damp cell, but when 
 I gave one of the officers the name of my friend 
 Geyer — the young scapegrace — and informed him 
 that I wished a message sent to the latter early in 
 the morning to come and see me, I was allowed to 
 come into the room of the officer in charge. Geyer 
 appeared to be known to them all — not for his musical 
 powers, for which he afterwards became so famous, be 
 it observed — and they spoke as familiarly of him as 
 though he had been an old jail-bird, or one of them- 
 selves. I thought this very strange: but as it was 
 against the disciplinary rules of the station to enter 
 into conversation with any of the officers, I had no 
 opportunity then of satisfying my curiosity. And to 
 perplex me still more, next morning, when the officer 
 who had gone in quest of Geyer with my message 
 returned, and informed me Er est nicht zwfinden, and 
 that mannhat ihn nicht gesehen seit zwei wochen, and 
 further, that Frau Geyer was inconsolable over the 
 
126- A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 
 
 disappearance of her erratic son, I concluded that the 
 young devil had been up to some mischief, and that 
 he was hiding from the police ; he was always in hot 
 water of some kind, debt, practical joking, debauchery 
 — both wine and women. But my mind was dis- 
 abused of any such fears when ' Papa ' Hahn was 
 allowed to see me about ten o'clock in the morning. 
 It turned out that Geyer's father had been Herr 
 Actuarius to the police court — in plain English, an 
 inferior police clerk — and this accounted for the 
 familiar way in which the officers spoke of him. I 
 was formally charged in the morning, and closely 
 questioned as to all the facts of the case, after which 
 1 was re- committed until a full inquiry had been 
 made, conducted in the formal and leisurely manner 
 that was characteristic of the official Herr Saxon. 
 
 " Meanwhile, my rooms had been searched, all my 
 papers examined, seized and impounded, but nothing 
 more compromising was discovered than a few love 
 letters and my passport, which was quite regular. 
 
 " I soon found that I was to be kept in total ignor- 
 ance as to what had been the fate of the two men 
 until my trial came on ; and as I began to get alarmed, 
 I thought it prudent to summon the British consul. 
 He informed me that the two men had not been seri- 
 ously injured, but that I had acted throughout most 
 imprudently, and would very likely be punished for 
 my rashness. When he was still with me, in came 
 bouncing young ' Dick' — Geyer — as I had nicknamed 
 him, full of concern; for he was owing me fifty 
 thalers, and I suppose he thought that I was urgently 
 in need of the money. When he had gathered the 
 facts of the case, and I had given him to understand 
 that I was good for other fifty thalers if he could get 
 me out of the scrape, he said, in so many words, 
 ' Keep your mind easy, old boy, I'll make it right for 
 you ; leave it to me : ' but I really do not remember 
 his exact words. How he managed it I do not know, 
 

 THE BREACH HEALED. 127 
 
 but the result was that I was set at liberty that 
 evening, on the condition, however, that I was to leave 
 the country in twenty-four hours, as my presence in the 
 town was sure to result in fresh attacks on me by 
 the students, and disturbance of the public peace, the 
 German student blood being up ; and that I would 
 have to seek the shelter and protection of ' Papa ' 
 Hahn for the night, as the authorities would not 
 undertake to protect me elsewhere. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BREACH HEALED. 
 
 " This was not altogether to my liking ; I would once 
 more have to be near Lisa, which I dreaded because of 
 the quarrel we had had. 
 
 " ' Lisa/ I said to her, when we were left alone in 
 the parlour the same evening, ' are we to part friends 
 or what ? ' 
 
 " ' Beider,' was the quick retort. 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? I do not quite follow you ; 
 how can we be both ? ' this in French, as I was no 
 match for her wit when she was speaking in her 
 mother tongue. 
 
 " l Ach aber du bist unartig; es muss das du 
 Deutch sprechen. ' 
 
 " ' Nein, nein ; haben sie vergessen, schiessen oder — ' 
 - Schweigen sie' putting her hand upon my mouth; 
 . sie ! sie ! ' this latter reproachfully. 
 
 "I could no longer pretend ignorance as to what 
 she meant by du and sie ; * but I still hesitated. 
 
 * Du is the pronoun used between lovers and parents and 
 children, equivalent here to our English dear in its application. 
 —Ed. 
 
128 THE BKEACH HEALED. 
 
 " ' Lisa/ I began, after a pause which had become 
 embarrassing by its length, speaking in German as 
 she had requested ; ' Lisa, I am going away, and you 
 know it is not through any fault of mine.' 
 
 " 'Yes, I know it is not your fault ; but you might — ' 
 At this point she was interrupted by ' Dick ' entering 
 the room, all out of breath. 
 
 " ' You have great reason to be thankful/ said he, 
 addressing me in English, a language he spoke well, 
 1 that you escaped as you did. It was the intention of 
 Brtiger — the young man I had knocked down — and 
 his friends to drag you from your bed, and to take 
 you down to the river and do for you; well — you 
 know.' 
 
 " ' But how did they get into the house ? Was 
 Schmidt (this was the name of the people I lodged 
 with) a party to the plot ; had he been bribed, the 
 mean dog?' 
 
 " ■ Never mind ; I have settled the whole thing ; get 
 you out of the town to-morrow, and you will hear no 
 more about it. Where do you propose going ? ' 
 
 "This was a question I had not yet had time to 
 consider. I had intended to remain abroad for at 
 least another year. 
 
 : " ' I really do not know/ I answered ; • can't you 
 arrange with the authorities for me to remain here, at 
 least for a few days longer ? ' 
 
 " ' No, no/ he said emphatically ; ' the officials at the 
 Rathaus have made up their minds that you must go 
 at once ; they regard you as a dangerous person. 
 Und bist du nicht willig, so branch ich Gewalt, c'est 
 le mot d'ordre ; so make up your mind to it ; adieu, I 
 will see you to-morrow.'* I never saw Dick again, or 
 my hundred thalers. 
 
 " The situation, though a novel one, did not at all 
 chime in with the notions I had conceived as to the 
 
 * In addressing me familiarly, it was a fad of ' Dick's ' to speak 
 in three or four different languages. 
 
THE BREACH HEALED. 129 
 
 treatment that was due to one who was at once a 
 British subject and a subject of the sovereign of the 
 neighbouring country of Hanover. Yet in my inmost 
 heart I was far from being ill-pleased that I was 
 considered of such importance as to be threatened 
 with an official escort out of the town, if not out 
 of the country also. The upshot was that it was 
 arranged soon after with 'Papa' Hahn, that I was 
 to take my departure next afternoon by the ' post- 
 kutche ' (post-chaise) ; meanwhile, ' Papa ' Hahn went 
 to see after my luggage, and to take out a seat for 
 me in that conveyance. 
 
 "I dreaded again being left alone with Lisa, for 
 I did not want to commit myself, or to have a scene 
 of any kind ; I therefore tried to keep Frau Hahn in 
 the room until the return of 'Papa/ but I was 
 baffled in this ; she had calls to make outside, and so 
 left us by ourselves once more. 
 
 " We were sitting on the sofa when Frau Hahn, a 
 stout, bustling woman, with a face as red as a ' nor- 
 wast min,' as the Scotch say, took her departure. 
 Opposite was a large mirror in a gilt frame depending 
 from a cord on the wall. I looked into the mirror, my 
 elbow resting on the head of the sofa, and my cheek 
 on the palm of my left hand. Lisa, at the other end of 
 the sofa, was, I could see, examining her linked hands, 
 which lay in her lap. We seemed both to be listening 
 to the ticking of a German clock which stood on a 
 chiffonier at the end of the room, to my right. Two 
 large wax candles, placed in silver candlesticks, 
 burned on a table in front of us, in the centre of the 
 room. I was all the time in fear lest Lisa should look 
 up to find me regarding her ; nevertheless, for some 
 unaccountable reason, I could not withdraw my eyes 
 from her figure in the mirror. I could see her chest 
 heaving, and I could also hear her breathing. The 
 ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder and louder. 
 Why was not there a cat in the room, or a mouse, or 
 
 I 
 
130 THE BREACH HEALED. 
 
 something to break this painful monotony ! I closed 
 my eyes, believing that she would hear the motion of 
 the eyelids, or in some other inscrutable manner 
 become aware that I had ceased to regard her, and 
 look up. I was right. On opening my eyes, our eyes 
 met in the mirror, which was the signal for us both 
 moving our positions and for each drawing a long 
 breath. The situation had now reached its climax. 
 Involuntarily we faced each other, and the next in- 
 stant her head was reposing on my breast, while my 
 arms were encircling her waist." 
 
 Here the captain broke out into a loud guffaw, 
 exclaiming, " I must drink your health for that, Mr 
 Bigglethwaite ; come, join me," and he proceeded to fill 
 up the glasses. Mr Bigglethwaite, as was his habit, 
 bolted the whole contents of his glass at a single gulp, 
 and the effect, as usual, was immediately visible. 
 
 "I did not intend to convey, as your laughter 
 seemed to imply, captain," resumed our interlocutor, 
 "that the interesting position in which Lisa and I 
 now found ourselves was solely of her choosing ; no, 
 the motion was not only mutually spontaneous, but 
 also simultaneous." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," retorted the captain, still 
 laughing, " but continue." 
 
 " Well, as you know, I had no option as to what 
 should follow. As I looked at her upturned face, 
 which was suffused with blushes, and into her liquid 
 blue eyes, fairly dazzling with fondness, I felt for a 
 moment as if mesmerised. I could not speak, I could 
 not even breathe ; we were both entranced. A sudden 
 thrill which I felt pass through the body of Lisa, held 
 tightly in my arms, awoke me, however, from my 
 reverie, and I placed a burning kiss upon her lips, 
 only a single kiss. How mysterious are the workings 
 of nature I That kiss brought us back at once to the 
 full consciousness of our position, and we breathed 
 freely. 
 
A TERRIBLE AWAKENING. 131 
 
 " ' Lisa/ I said, ' what does this mean ? Are we not 
 forgetting ourselves ? Did you expect me to ask you 
 whether you love me ? ' 
 
 " Quick as lightning she sprang out of my grasp to 
 her feet, her mouth open, her cheeks distended, her 
 eyes no longer dazzling with that fondness which I 
 had witnessed only a minute before, but glaring with 
 angry passion ! I was transfixed, helpless, not only 
 from a sense of the advantage she had over me from 
 position, she standing in front of me with arms raised, 
 ready, as I believed, to fly at my throat with all the 
 fury of an enraged tigress ; but also from my inability 
 to comprehend what had produced the sudden change 
 in her. A loud scream, and she fell prone on my 
 seated form, once more into my arms, but in a swoon, 
 foaming at the mouth, biting and lacerating her lips 
 and tongue. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A TERRIBLE AWAKENING. 
 
 " I HAD hardly time to free myself from her grasp, 
 and to place her at full length upon the sofa, when I 
 heard a loud knocking at the door, and the sound of 
 a man's voice which I did not recognise. I ran to the 
 door and hastily opened it. It was one of the 
 night watchmen in his semi-military uniform. 
 
 " ' Ach ! it is you again/ said he. ' What is the 
 matter ? Have you murdered somebody ? ' 
 
 "He was immediately followed by several other 
 people, men and women, who had also been attracted 
 by the unearthly scream and his infuriated knocking. 
 I led the way into the room in which I had left Lisa, 
 who, meanwhile, had rolled over on to the floor 
 
132 A TERRIBLE AWAKENING. 
 
 where she lay writhing and kicking and tearing her 
 throat and face with her nails. The cry immediately 
 went up, ' You monster ! you villain ! you demon ! ' 
 and I had to strike out right and left to defend my- 
 self from the fury of my assailants. I was soon, how- 
 ever, overpowered and rendered insensible from the 
 rough treatment I received. 
 
 "When I recovered consciousness, I found myself 
 stretched on a wooden table, with a doctor and several 
 people by my side. I was in terrible pain, and could 
 only groan in my agony. I could hear voices, but 
 could comprehend nothing. I felt something pass 
 down my throat, and almost immediately I relapsed 
 into unconsciousness. I afterwards learned that I 
 had remained in this state for some hours, and that 
 during that time I had been assiduously cared for by 
 Mr and Mrs Hahn and Lisa, who had rapidly re- 
 covered. My next shock of consciousness was to 
 listen to the sound of a far-away voice, so distant 
 as to be hardly audible. The sound by degrees came 
 nearer and nearer, and at length, on opening my eyes, 
 I beheld standing by the bed, in which I had now 
 been placed, the anxious face of Lisa. 
 
 " ' Oh, Lisa,' I said faintly, ' what is all this that 
 has come upon me ? I am dying.' 
 
 " Her only answer was to bend down and kiss my 
 cheek. I soon after felt what I conceived to be the 
 sleep of death creeping over me, and I had only 
 strength to say, ' Adieu, Lisa ; I die loving you ; ' this 
 in German. 
 
 "When I next awoke it was in the night. Near 
 the side of my bed I could discern the nickering rays 
 of a candle, which seemed to beat in unison with the 
 uncertain action of my heart. My eyelids opened 
 and closed, and there was only my heavy interrupted 
 breathing to disturb the solemn stillness. I tried to 
 recall the immediate past events, but my will was too 
 feeble to command my thoughts. I was conscious of 
 
A TERRIBLE AWAKENING. 133 
 
 no pain in any particular part of my body ; I felt only 
 a diffused numbness. All motion, or the desire to 
 move even my eyelids, seemed to have passed away 
 from me. In this state I suddenly felt a gust of warm 
 air pervade my face, accompanied by a soft pressure 
 on my cheek, and unconsciously my eyelids opened 
 once more. It was Lisa. 
 
 " ' Bist du besser, susse,' she murmured. 
 " ' Oh, Lisa ! are you come again to see me ? ' I 
 answered in a whisper. A sweet smile passed over 
 her face, and I remembered no more. 
 
 " This proved, however, to be the turning point of 
 my illness. When I next awoke, I was not only able 
 to cast a glance all over the room, but also to lift my 
 hands, and to ask for something from the doctor, 
 who was then by my side, to moisten my parched 
 throat and tongue. He gave me a little brandy and 
 water, which seemed at once to put new life into me. 
 ' Doctor/ I said, ' where am I ? ' 
 
 " ' You are in the house of your friend Mr Hahn.' 
 " ' Gott sei dank,' I exclaimed, in a voice loud 
 enough even to frighten myself. 'I will soon get 
 well now. Am I badly bruised ? Is my face 
 disfigured much ? ' raising my hand at the same 
 time to feel the parts where plasters had been put. 
 I also passed my hand over my scalp, and to my sur- 
 prise could only feel more plaster and no hair. ' Have 
 you shaved my head ? ' I then queried. On being 
 answered in the affirmative, I continued, ( What about 
 my ribs ? Are some of them broken ; they feel so 
 sore.' 
 
 " ' You must remain quiet,' he replied, ' and not ask 
 any more questions. You are in good hands, and you 
 will soon get well if you do as I tell you, but you 
 must be patient.' 
 
 "'Very well. But how long will I have to lie 
 here ? ' At this point Lisa entered. 
 
 " ' Oh, Lisa/ I exclaimed joyfully, ' I am so glad to 
 
134 A TERRIBLE AWAKENING. 
 
 see you. I am better now, and shall try to get up 
 to-morrow if our friend the Herr Doctor will permit 
 it. I feel that I have got another new lease of life/ 
 All this without once giving her time to answer. 
 
 " ' Oh, but you are a naughty, wayward boy/ chided 
 Lisa, with a frown on her face. ' If you do not obey 
 absolutely (durchaus) the Herr Doctor's commands, 
 I will not enter your chamber again.' 
 
 " ' Lisa, I am your slave for the rest of my life, but 
 do not be too hard on me at first.' This sally brought 
 a blush into the countenance of Lisa, and a severe 
 smile from the lips of the Herr Doctor, who imme- 
 diately took his leave. When he had gone, I asked 
 Lisa to come near me, for I began to feel a little faint 
 after the exertion of speaking so much. 
 
 " ' Lisa,' I began, ' let me tell you before I try to go 
 to sleep again that you are a dear angel, one among 
 ten thousand of your sex. Promise me, if I get 
 better, that — ' Here she placed her hand upon my 
 mouth, and would not allow me, on pain of her ever- 
 lasting displeasure, to say one word more. ' I obey, 
 I obey, dearest Lisa, but grant me this favour : give 
 me a little more of that brandy, and not much water, 
 just the slightest drop, enough only to moisten my 
 tongue, and when you shall have done that, then just 
 one more kiss and I shall go to sleep.' 
 
 " She hesitated for a moment, as if undecided 
 whether to refuse or to comply with my request, 
 seeing which I continued, ' Lisa, who hesitates is lost.' 
 She thereupon silently mixed the brandy and water 
 in a china jug, which had a mouthpiece to it, held it 
 to my lips, and when I had drunk it, bent over me 
 and kissed my lips, and retired from the room. Im- 
 mediately afterwards, notwithstanding my pains, I 
 glided more contentedly than I ever before remember 
 of doing, into the ' land of Nod.' 
 
GETTING UNDER WEIGH AGAIN. 135 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GETTING UNDER WEIGH AGAIN. 
 
 " My convalescence was only a question of a week 
 or ten days. I had, however, been handled somewhat 
 roughly ; my body was covered with bruises, and it 
 was at one time thought that my skull would have to 
 be trepanned. I recognised that I had had the conceit 
 taken out of me thoroughly. After all, perhaps, my 
 assailants may not have been much to blame ; appear- 
 ances were all against me ; Lisa was struggling on 
 the floor with her garments somewhat disarranged, 
 the results of her wild movements, and I, a young 
 man of her own age, the only person in the house 
 with her. In fact, I was even so magnanimous now, 
 that I demurred to the suggestion of the British 
 consul, who came to see me, that my assailants should 
 collectively and individually tender me apologies for 
 their hasty and brutal conduct. I was not, however, 
 so disinterested in this as I appeared. I had ulterior 
 motives, and these were the rescinding of the orders 
 of the authorities in respect of my leaving the town. 
 The former, I was told, had made a careful inquiry 
 into all the circumstances connected with the assault, 
 and had been satisfied by Lisa that I was in no wise 
 to blame. They had, in fact, placed several persons 
 under arrest, while waiting to see how my injuries 
 would result. The matter hence now rested with me 
 and the British consul, but as I was unwilling to 
 move in the matter, the prisoners were set at liberty. 
 
 " The revocation of the order for my expulsion did 
 not come, however, and it being difficult for me to 
 feign illness longer, I made preparations to depart. 
 
 "'Lisa,' said I to her one day, 'I wish I could 
 remain with you here, but you see how impossible it 
 is. It is not only that I am under orders to quit 
 
136 GETTING UNDER WEIGH AGAIN. 
 
 Saxony, but what would become of me were I to 
 remain here? No doubt I must settle down some- 
 where in order to make a start in life, but, as you are 
 well aware, Leipzig holds out few inducements to a 
 stranger.' 
 
 "I could see the tears rise in her eyes, but the 
 ordeal through which she, as well as I, had passed, 
 had mellowed the outward expression of her heart and 
 feelings to the extent that the laying of her head 
 upon my bosom, or my holding her in my arms, would 
 have now appeared to both of us childish and foolish 
 in the extreme. By tacit consent, there was to be no 
 more of that nonsense. 
 
 " ' Dearest,' she began, in a low, tender tone, ' it is 
 very distressing, for me at least, that we should have 
 to part. I cannot, however, gainsay a single syllable 
 you have just repeated; yet, ah ! why should we 
 part ? ' 
 
 " * Say rather, dearest Lisa,' I interrupted, ' by what 
 ill-chance was it that we ever met ? ' 
 
 " ' It was by no ill-chance,' returned she spiritedly. 
 * If I never have another happy day in my life, it 
 will always be a solace to me to be able to look back 
 on the events of these few weeks.' 
 
 "'To speak thus of me, dearest Lisa, does me 
 infinite honour, more a hundred times than my con- 
 duct deserves ; but let me whisper this parting word in 
 your ear : you are deserving of some one better than 
 I am, and may He that marks the fall of the sparrow 
 direct such a one's steps to you as soon as I am gone. 
 It must be, dearest Lisa, that your life be happy, and 
 woe is me if I should be the one to make it in any 
 degree miserable ! ' 
 
 "'I could be happy with you,' murmured she, look- 
 ing down at a thread of silk which she twisted in the 
 tips of her fingers. 
 
 " ' My dearest Lisa, that cannot be — impossible : I, 
 who have no money, no occupation, not a single well- 
 
GETTING UNDER WEIGH AGAIN. 137 
 
 wisher in the world, perhaps, save yourself. Lisa, you 
 would not have me a burden on your parents, indul- 
 gent though they be to you. But even so : this would 
 run counter to my feelings : I could not endure it.' 
 ""'I am well aware of that: you have shown me 
 more than once what a proud spirit you are possessed 
 of. We Germans are not so squeamish.' 
 
 " ' Lisa, let us not discuss this matter further. May 
 the day come, however, and that soon, when you shall 
 be the wife of the man you deserve, and the mistress 
 of a happy home. Let us seek your father or mother.' 
 
 " She did not seek to change her posture, but con- 
 tinued to look at the silk thread which she held in 
 her finger tips, her elbows resting on her sides. I 
 watched her attentively, waiting for her to answer. 
 
 " My dear captain, I have never known anyone who 
 was capable of converting into concrete terms the feel- 
 ings and sensations of two young people of opposite 
 sexes, placed in the circumstances I now mention. It 
 is a sort of haschisch inebriation, an obliteration of time 
 and space, a suppression of all wishes and desires, a 
 total indifference to joy and pain, good and evil, an 
 emancipation from both material and immaterial ex- 
 istence; in a word, it is the absolute annihilation of 
 all external sensation, of emotion, volition, intellect : 
 it is consciousness without feeling, thought without 
 symbols, vision without extension, sound without 
 vibration, touch without object." 
 
 Hereupon a ray of sunlight burst into the room, 
 the first that had been witnessed for several days, 
 and which had the effect of calling forth from the 
 captain the naive remark that he had better go and 
 assist the first officer in taking observations of the 
 position of the ship, after which it would be time 
 for lunch. 
 
 Suddenly, like an electrical flash, the captain's words 
 seemed to bring back Mr Bigglethwaite, who was 
 sitting with his elbows on the table, his chin resting 
 
138 LIZA'S ANSWER AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 on the palms of both hands, his eyes darting from 
 their sockets, to a realisation of his surroundings ; and 
 throwing himself back in his seat, a burst of laughter 
 escaped him, positively wild in its vehemence. Some 
 seconds elapsed before the captain or I could under- 
 stand what to make of it ; but we were soon reassured 
 by Mr Bigglethwaite's ejaculating, " Oh, captain, that 
 is indeed w^ell put in ! how grotesque ! " It was our 
 turn now to join in the laughter, and we all " hotched " 
 and shook our sides ; which was renewed by a further 
 remark of the captain's on leaving us, to wit, that 
 by the afternoon, when we should meet again, Lisa 
 would have had time to make up her mind. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Lisa's answer and what came of it. 
 
 When we had reached the deck, abaft the funnel, 
 the old man was full of glee ; happier than I had yet 
 seen him. But I likewise observed that he was 
 labouring under a good deal of nervous excitement. 
 His merriment had an unhealthy ring ; his expres- 
 sion, particularly that of the eyes, an unnatural 
 air. His bodily movements were twitching and un- 
 rhythmical, while the tone of his voice was eager and 
 piercing. In promenading the deck, he would by 
 turns dart off in front of me, then suddenly come to 
 a standstill. 
 
 " Let us go and see the steward again," said he at 
 length ; " I feel so restless and uneasy. Oh ! that I 
 could shake such feelings off; no fish out of the 
 water could be more ill at ease than I am at this 
 moment. I am, both mentally and physically, sadly 
 
liza's answer and what came of it. 139 
 
 out of joint. But my stomach and liver still hold 
 out. This cannot, however, be for long. In fact, 
 I had the usual premonitions in bed last night that 
 the climax was fast approaching; I awoke several 
 times to hear myself snoring — a sure indication, I 
 bit my tongue several times in trying to compose my- 
 self to sleep— another certain sign : and I had several 
 visions of things neither possible in the heavens or in 
 the earth, nor in the waters under the earth." 
 
 By this time we had reached the bar, where we 
 found the second officer off duty, and who joined us 
 in drinking. In less than fifteen minutes, Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite had made disappear, in the manner I have 
 described, three sixpenny-worths of brandy, and his 
 conversation and demeanour became proportionately 
 animated and interesting. He fairly electrified both 
 the officer and steward with a discourse on the 
 physiology of the human body, which I will not 
 attempt to reproduce, for the very sufficient reason 
 that I could not, my knowledge of the subject being 
 so limited. 
 
 When we sat down in our usual places at table in 
 our own cabin, and when I heard the old man dilate 
 on various subjects — as was now his daily wont — I 
 could only once more regret that I directly, though 
 unintentionally, had been the cause of all this vehe- 
 ment eloquence, enjoyable though undoubtedly it was 
 to everyone present. 
 
 " Come, Mr Bigglethwaite," said the captain jocularly, 
 when we had taken our accustomed places in his room 
 after lunch, " let us hear now what was Lisa's answer ; 
 and, for the sake of my mediocre intelligence, try 
 and keep a little nearer to the earth and things 
 earthy." 
 
 The old man smiled, and stroked his hand over his 
 
 chin. 
 
 " Very well, captain, I will try. In any case, Lisa's 
 answer was most ingenuous. 
 
140 liza's answer and what came of it. 
 
 " ' I want to leave my father and mother/ said she, 
 in an insinuating voice, without raising her eyes. 
 
 " It was now my turn to be silent and to cast down 
 my eyes." 
 
 "She had you that time," interposed the captain 
 familiarly. 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure ; and would you believe it, 
 captain, that, instead of making answer, I only tried 
 my best to appear silly ; and it was in this position 
 Frau Hahn found us when she had entered the room 
 silently from behind. 
 
 " ' What is the matter with you two young people, 
 that you both seem to be examining my waxed floor 
 so intently/ said the old dame laughingly, starting us 
 both out of our reverie. 
 
 " I was forced now to make the plunge. 
 
 " ' Oh, it is you, Madame Hahn/ said I ; ' Lisa has 
 just informed me that she would like to leave — ' 
 
 " ' No, I did not say — ' interrupted Lisa confusedly, 
 and stopping short. 
 
 "'You should let Herr Peekle — I never will learn 
 to pronounce your name, mein herr,' said Madame, 
 addressing me, which was the signal for a general 
 twitter. 
 
 " ' Who did Lisa say she would like to leave ; you ? ' 
 rejoined Madame, apparently piqued with curiosity. 
 
 "I waited for Lisa to answer; but as she made 
 no attempt to do so, I began to be suspicious that 
 mother and daughter had laid this trap for me. 
 
 " ' Well/ said I, ' she did not exactly say that ; she 
 said she would like to leave — well, home.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Lisa ; do you really want to leave your poor 
 old mother ? ' this in a reproving tone. 
 
 "'Yes, and father too/ interrupted I, somewhat 
 emboldened by the confusion manifested by Lisa. 
 
 " ' Oh, Lisa, did you really say this ? warlich ? ' 
 
 " Lisa's only answer was to blush more profusely. 
 
 " ' My baby; has she lost that little tongue of hers ? 
 
liza's answer and what came of it. 141 
 
 " Still no answer. 
 
 " ' But she did not tell me where she would like to 
 go when she left both father and mother/ said I, 
 eyeing Lisa narrowly. Confusion was now written on 
 every line of Lisa's face, while Frau Hahn tried to 
 look astonishment. 
 
 " ' Come now, Lisa, tell us where you would like to 
 go ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' You know very well,' she answered spitefully. 
 
 " ' I know ! I am returning to England, as you 
 know, and you would not like to go so far away from 
 home as that ? ' 
 
 "At this point she whispered something into her 
 mother's ear, and suddenly left the room, leaving me 
 face to face with the wily frau. 
 
 " ' Mein herr, my daughter is a very shy girl.' 
 
 " ' Is that what she just whispered you ? ' 
 
 " ' No ; she said that you would not understand.' 
 
 " ' Understand what ? ' 
 
 "'Well, well, she must tell you herself, before you 
 leave ; but do not be cruel to her, I beseech of you ; 
 she is my only child, dear to me as the apple of my 
 tree, the one pigeon of my housetop, everything to me 
 and her father ever since we lost our dear little Hans 
 and Gretschen,' and hereupon she fell to weeping. 
 
 " ' Be assured, my dear Frau Hahn, that I shall 
 never forget your kindness to me ; and as for Lisa, 
 the image of her sweet face will only be effaced from 
 my imagination with death itself. Can I say more ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, you can say more ; you can say that you 
 love her.' 
 
 " ' That were useless, madame ; she already knows 
 that.' 
 
 " ' Ah, but she has not said that she loves you ; find 
 that out, mein herr, before you go away ; ' this accom- 
 panied by a significant leer. 
 
 " ' I shall not fail, my dear Frau Hahn ; and need I 
 say that nothing in the world could delight me more 
 
142 liza's answer and what came of it. 
 
 than to be assured of that fact : but, even so, alas ! 
 alas ! ' 
 
 " ' Do not give way to despondency, mein herr ; all 
 will turn out for the best. 5 
 
 " ' But what you suggest, or rather imply, cannot 
 be ; Fate is against us. Lisa has a happy home : moi, 
 I have no place I can call home.' 
 
 " ' Could you not be happy here, with my child ? ' 
 
 " ' No, madame : I am not worthy of her. Besides, 
 dependency on the part of a husband is incompatible 
 with perfect domestic felicity. It is the part of a 
 husband not only to cherish his wife, but also to endow 
 her with worldly goods. Where the converse obtains, 
 madame, there can be no happiness worthy the name. 
 Now, madame, I have only one request more to make, 
 and it is this, that you will assure Lisa of my undying 
 attachment to her, but that I can never be anything 
 nearer and dearer to her than I am at this moment. 
 That she and you, and dear " Papa " Hahn may work 
 out your own perfect happiness, is the sincere wish of 
 one whose life has ever been, and will ever continue 
 to be, unhappy. Trouble is my lot. Fate has 
 decreed it.' 
 
 " I did not again see Lisa. In less than an hour 
 after this interview a message came from the Rathaus 
 informing me that the weather outside was delightful, 
 and that I was not to delay a minute in coming out 
 to enjoy it. The news was communicated to me by 
 Mr Hahn, who only allowed me time to bid him and 
 his wife a hasty farewell. 
 
 Ci When I had emerged from the house I found two 
 persons in mufti and a conveyance awaiting me, into 
 which I was required to enter at once, hardly being 
 allowed time sufficient to gather up my belongings to 
 take with me. As we proceeded on our journey, how- 
 ever, my two companions became very civil. Their 
 orders were to set me down at the nearest point of 
 the frontier; but they drove me into the yard of a 
 
IN THE METROPOLIS. 143 
 
 hotel in the centre of Magdeburg, and there they left 
 me. 
 
 "As my passport was found by the Prussian 
 authorities at Magdeburg to be marked, I was given 
 no time to look about me. I had to hurry on to 
 Hamburg by stage-coach, which I reached in due 
 course, with all my belongings. On the journey 
 thence, I made up my mind to return to England 
 by first ship available, whatever the port it was 
 destined for. This chanced to be a ship bound for 
 London, which city I reached in safety in about two 
 weeks after my enforced departure from Leipzig. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 " It was the spring time, the month of May, when 
 the season, as the phrase went, was in full swing 
 when I set foot in the great metropolis — London, of 
 which I had read so much, and about which I had, 
 both while awake and asleep, so often dreamed. I 
 experienced at first the disappointment usual to most 
 persons who visit the great capital for the first time. 
 London, St Peter's at Rome, and Niagara Falls, you 
 may have heard, are three of the great wonders of the 
 world in regard to which the aphorism, ' Familiarity 
 breeds contempt/ does not apply. All three improve 
 on better acquaintance. One has only to look long 
 enough at the interior of St Peter's to see it grow 
 into boundless dimensions ; to listen to the rush of the 
 waters of Niagara to become almost distracted by their 
 
144 IN THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 thunders ; to survey from the Mansion House at noon 
 the moving mass to be filled with awe and wonder. 
 
 " Almost the very first day I found myself in the 
 position last named. I was, for the first fifteen minutes, 
 more confused than impressed, and as I gazed the 
 stream of people and of vehicles of every description 
 appeared to grow denser and denser, until it became 
 almost overpowering in imagination. 
 
 " I was as yet by no means destitute, though the 
 omens now began to point in that direction : but as 
 I stood there gazing, the thought occurred to me that 
 it was now high time my education was finished, and 
 that I entered seriously upon the business of life. 
 Yet here I was, only a unit among the millions of 
 human beings with whom I was surrounded, and not 
 one of whom, so far as I could tell, was known to me. 
 But I had heard that some six people of this great 
 aggregate of humanity died every hour, and it followed 
 of course that their places had to be filled by others. 
 Was it not therefore possible for me to elbow myself 
 in amongst the latter ? 
 
 " How I was equipped for entering into the contest 
 with others you already know, at least in great part. 
 In the domain of literature and music I had, all things 
 considered, attained considerable proficiency. I could 
 speak and read several languages besides my mother 
 tongue. My morals (except for the periodical crav- 
 ings for alcohol, which I had had in the past to 
 encounter, but which were now, as I fondly hoped, 
 things of the past) were still uncorrupted and in- 
 corruptible. My frame and constitution had again 
 become as adamant against all the common ills and 
 enemies of individual humanity. I was brimful of 
 energy, eager with anticipation, full of resources, 
 determined on conquest. But I was solitary, alone ; 
 known of no man. 
 
 u What a great fire a small spark kindleth. As I 
 was about to leave the position in which I had now 
 
IN THE METROPOLIS. 145 
 
 stood for nearly an hour, my attention became 
 attracted to a black beetle which emerged from the 
 gutter and made as if it would cross to the other side. 
 The time was just after noon, one of the most 
 crowded hours of the day, when wheeled traffic may 
 be said to cover every available inch of space from 
 kerbstone to kerbstone. Undaunted, nevertheless, 
 this enterprising creature, started out upon its 
 self-appointed and perilous journey. 'Poor, foolish 
 thing,' I said to myself, ' what mad impulse can it be 
 that goads you on to certain and instant destruction ! 
 Yet under your black, glittering coat there exists 
 that which man may take away, but that which man 
 cannot assuredly bestow. No doubt you have an 
 appointed mission here on earth as well as I; but 
 what can be your object now ? ' Onward it pressed, 
 now disappearing under a horse's hoof, now reappear- 
 ing as if from under the crushing weight of the wheel 
 of some great waggon ; now encountering obstacles 
 in the shape of mud, straw, or animal droppings. 
 Undeterred it struggled on in pursuit of its aim. At 
 the risk of my own life I followed it up, and in five 
 minutes by the clock of the church in Lombard 
 Street, it had reached the other side, just in front of 
 a tavern at the corner of Princes Street. If a beetle 
 were a reasoning animal — and it must have had some 
 reason for embarking upon such a hazardous journey 
 —perhaps it had gone in search of its companion or 
 its larvae, who knows? — what an eternity the five 
 minutes in question must have seemed to this beetle ! 
 
 K 
 
146 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WAS IT FATE ? 
 
 "This incident inspired me with courage. Courage, 
 did I say ? It was more than courage ; it was the 
 firm belief that the time was at hand — perhaps not 
 twenty-four hours distant — when my energies and 
 abilities would find some appropriate field for their 
 activities. An involuntary impulse carried me in the 
 direction of St Paul's, which I had already entered 
 that morning. I must needs enter again. As I 
 wandered among the long-drawn aisles and stately 
 monuments, erected, some of them, to the great dead, 
 a well-known female voice suddenly saluted my ears. 
 It was the voice of the vicar's wife, of Bampton, 
 who, with her husband, had been watching my move- 
 ments for some time. I was, as you can imagine, well 
 pleased to be taken notice of by my previous bene- 
 factors — you will remember that it was this gentleman 
 who undertook to defend me in Court from the charges 
 preferred against me by Jessie — while, on their side, 
 they were even more delighted when they learned 
 from me the particulars of my career since I had left 
 the village. In course of conversation it likewise 
 transpired that they, too, were no longer residents of 
 that village, but had removed north to the vicinity of 
 Edinburgh, where Mr Drummond (this was the vicar's 
 name), who was by extraction a Scotchman, had 
 obtained an important charge in the Scotch Episcopal 
 Church. I had always had a predilection for the 
 northern part of the kingdom, arising, no doubt, 
 from my early puritanical training, both at home, at 
 school, and at chapel ; and of all towns north of the 
 Tweed, Edinburgh, next to Inverness, pleased me the 
 most. It was then, so to speak, still glowing with 
 the glamour that the genius of Scott had cast 
 
WAS IT FATE ? 147 
 
 around it. It was the home of a certain set of 
 philosophers, whose works had come to interest me 
 much ; it was a seat of learning, of even more than 
 national renown ; while the impression that its 
 physical and natural aspects had left upon my mind 
 could only be likened to a dream. 
 
 " As we walked together through the great cathedral, 
 and later on visited the homes of the dead in West- 
 minster Abbey, my musical education and the capital 
 of the northern section of the kingdom, as a place of 
 residence, formed the chief topics of conversation. 
 It was soon made apparent to me that Edinburgh, 
 though justly celebrated for some things, was far 
 behind the age in the matter of music. The reasons 
 for this will appear presently. But there was a 
 certain class who still lingered within its confines in 
 winter — a section of the Scotch aristocrac}^ — whose 
 tastes were more cultivated and refined, and who 
 would, I was assured, welcome the presence in their 
 midst of one who was competent to inspire in them 
 an enthusiasm for the masterpieces of the great con- 
 tinental masters. Nay, more, there was a vacancy 
 for the position of organist in one of the Episcopal 
 churches near the town, and the appointment had been 
 virtually left to Mr Drummond, whose present visit, 
 in fact, to the capital had been chiefly undertaken 
 with the object of selecting and recommending some 
 one for the position. 
 
 " Was it chance that directed my steps for a second 
 time that day to the precincts of St Paul's, there to 
 meet my former benefactors ? Was it chance in the 
 same way that saved the life of the poor beetle in 
 crossing the busy thoroughfare near the Mansion 
 House, as above described ? But here permit me to 
 make a short digression. 
 
 " In the course of this narration you have no doubt 
 remarked that I have made frequent references to 
 Fate, my good angel, etc., and concluded, by implica- 
 
148 WAS IT FATE? 
 
 tion, that 1 hold that a man's life is not in his own 
 hands, but that, on the contrary, he is largely the 
 creature of circumstances, I mean, the victim of a 
 predetermined order of things. This belief in a pre- 
 determined order of events can be traced back to 
 a period to which the memory of man runneth not. 
 As a matter of fact it is, and of necessity is, coeval 
 with man himself. The reason is that man is born 
 into an order of things which are controlled by 
 powers outside of him, and which he sees are invari- 
 able in their workings. Such a belief, therefore, grows 
 with his growth, and strengthens with his strength. 
 Shakespeare has expressed this belief in the well- 
 known words : ' There's a divinity doth shape our 
 ends, rough hew them as we will.' Otherwise 
 variously expressed : ' No man knoweth what a day 
 may bring forth.' ' To-day he is, and to-morrow he 
 is not.' Byron's declaration that he awoke one morn- 
 ing and found himself famous — -which implies of 
 course that he was previously not famous, nay, if not 
 also to some extent infamous — is but another way of 
 expressing the same fact. The truth is, that in every 
 human being there is a primordial structure, both of 
 sense and mind, which is the cause of all that he ever 
 afterwards becomes. He cannot get away from this. 
 A man cannot both be what he is and what he is not. 
 It therefore follows that thieves, poets, rogues, inven- 
 tors, orators, buffoons, idiots, philosophers, musicians, 
 astronomers, soldiers, murderers, misers, spendthrifts, 
 priests, adulterers, sluggards, men of action, etc., etc., 
 are all alike born, not made. In this view a man's 
 career in life is as fixed and immutable as are the 
 courses of the planets. Such sentiments, therefore, as 
 1 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,' 
 1 Some mute inglorious Milton,' ' Some Cromwell 
 guiltless of his country's blood,' etc., are nothing but 
 pious fictions. Nature has not decreed that every 
 man that is born shall be great, but only that 
 
ALL IS VANITY. 149 
 
 sufficient great men shall be born. In this, as in 
 all else, it has not deviated from its fixed rule — the 
 eternal fitness of things. Not only then is it true 
 that ■ Whatever is is right,' but also that ' Whatever 
 is is, and cannot be aught else.' One cannot help 
 catching a cold, do as one will. The truth seems to be 
 this : that if a man follows the promptings of his own 
 senses and reason, he is what nature intended him to 
 be, whereas, if he follows the dictation of others, he 
 will nine times out of ten miss his true vocation. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 " But to return to my new-found friends Mr and 
 Mrs Drummond. It were worse than useless in me to 
 attempt to describe my feelings after I took leave of 
 them late that same evening. I had given them ex- 
 hibitions of my skill on the pianoforte, and of my 
 attainments in the vocal art, which had the effect of 
 calling forth their sincerest encomiums. Gratifying 
 as this, however, was to me, moi, who might be said to 
 have received my first real lessons in the art from 
 Mrs Drummond, it was nothing as compared to the 
 effect, in a different sense, produced on me by Mr 
 Drummond's words when he informed me, in a voice 
 trembling with earnestness and emotion, that I was 
 now even more competent to shine in any walk of 
 literature to which I might direct my talents than in 
 music; 'but I fear,' he ended, 'all is vanity.' These 
 last words made a deep impression on me, but I dared 
 not ask him then what he meant to import by them. 
 I pondered over them alone that night in my room (in 
 
150 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 a little hotel near Covent Garden), until my candle had 
 burned itself quite out, unperceived by me, and day- 
 light had made its appearance through the seams of 
 the worn-out curtains. I was seized with an emotion 
 which I had never before experienced. I was wrapt 
 in thought, but, try as I would, my thoughts would 
 not shape themselves into language. My mind was 
 a mirage in which I could discern myriads of objects, 
 but no single object by itself clearly. And it was in 
 this condition that I threw myself on the top of my 
 bed without undressing, and disposed myself to woo 
 the goddess of sleep. I soon became lost to all ex- 
 traneous surroundings, the noise of human voices and 
 footsteps, together with the roar of vehicular traffic 
 outside, but not to mental perturbations. I must have 
 been in a sort of trance, for when I started up, on being 
 rudely shaken by the arm, I was in a perfect fever of 
 excitement ; but I was only vouchsafed an electric 
 glance, as it were, of the cause, when it vanished, leav- 
 ing hardly a rack behind in imagination. The intruder 
 I found to be the landlord, who had forced the door, 
 after many fruitless endeavours to arouse me. The 
 time, I learned, was eight o'clock in the evening, and it 
 was fast getting dark. I could give no explanation 
 for the condition in which my landlord had found me, 
 which, added to the fact that, after repeated trials, I 
 was unable to stand up, caused him some alarm. At 
 lirst he accused me of drinking by myself in the 
 locked-up room, and began to bully and abuse me : 
 but when I challenged him to search the whole room 
 for evidence of his assertions, his manner changed. 
 I trembled from head to foot, perhaps as much from 
 the exposure to the cold (for the weather was raw 
 and humid) as from any other cause. My teeth 
 chattered as if to unhinge my under jaw, and almost to 
 deprive me of the power of speech. I managed, how- 
 ever, to call for brandy, which the landlord hurriedly 
 fetched me ; and when he had poured about two wine- 
 
ALL IS VANITY. 151 
 
 glassf'uls down my throat, after I had myself made 
 several vain attempts to lift the glass to my mouth, I 
 rapidly recovered and became composed. He was deaf, 
 however, to my appeals to allow me to remain under 
 his roof for another night ; so I had to sally forth to 
 seek other quarters, which I found near by. I now 
 tried to force myself to take some nourishment, but 
 my stomach revolted at the very sight of food — the 
 first indication I had had up till now that I possessed 
 such an organ. 
 
 "I had some considerable difficulty in explaining 
 away these details when I visited my friends at their 
 hotel the next morning. Mrs Drummond, woman- 
 like, attributed it to over excitement, but I could see 
 that Mr Drummond was sceptical, though he pretended 
 to express concern. 
 
 " The next day was Sunday, and we visited together 
 St Paul's in the morning, and Westminster Abbey in 
 the afternoon, principally to hear the music. In the 
 evening Mr Drummond had been able to arrange that 
 I should preside at the organ in a church — I cannot 
 now remember the locality — the rector of which had 
 been a fellow-student of his at Cambridge. My play- 
 ing gave entire satisfaction, and, as a result, it was 
 arranged next day that I should proceed north with 
 Mr and Mrs Drummond, when they had concluded 
 their visit to London. 
 
 " Change and comparison are said to be the two 
 most fruitful sources of all human knowledge ; but 
 there must be a limit even to these. My life so far 
 had been one continual round of changes and of fresh 
 objects upon which to exercise my powers of observa- 
 tion and perception. I was really anxious now to 
 have the opportunity to give my undivided attention 
 to some special calling, and to fix upon a place where- 
 in I might settle down to dwell. To one who has no 
 home, or no expectations of making one, the world 
 viewed even under its more attractive aspects appears, 
 
152 ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 oftentimes as but a weary wilderness, a scene of fret- 
 ful unrest. Such at least I had frequently experienced 
 it to be, and it can therefore be imagined with what 
 interest I looked forward to this new turn in the 
 wheel of fate (or fortune, if the term be preferred) in 
 my as yet fitful existence. I had no misgivings 
 as to my capacity to perform all the functions of the 
 position *I was now intended for, provided only I did 
 not allow myself to be led astray by the counter 
 attractions of other courses of conduct. What these 
 were likely to be you already know. I was, however, 
 fortified now, as I firmly believed, against the most 
 dangerous of these — I mean alcohol — while as for the 
 opposite sex, it was simply out of the question that I 
 could ever again fall in love with any woman — so long, 
 at least, as Lisa lived. And as regards books, the 
 indulgence of that passion could only be a useful aid 
 to me in my business as a musician, and not a 
 hindrance. Vive music and literature, to the north ! 
 
 " I longed as impatiently to be at the scene of my 
 new activities as much as ever child could for the 
 possession of a promised new rattle. Electricity itself, 
 which had not long come into vogue, and to be popu- 
 larly talked about, could not have taken me thence as 
 quickly as I wished to go. We reached ' mine own, 
 my native town' of Scott by mail coach about the 
 end of May, and before the expiry of the week, after 
 a few preliminaries had been arranged, which in- 
 cluded an introduction to the clergyman, his wife, the 
 members of the choir and others, as well as an exhibi- 
 tion of my skill on the organ, I was duly installed in 
 the position of organist in the church called after 
 some saint. 
 
 " I had now reached what seemed to me to be the 
 promised land, the land in which, at all events, I 
 intended to reap milk and honey in abundance. The 
 only specks I could discover on my horizon were the 
 ominous words of Mr Drummond — ' But aU is vanity.' 
 
RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 153 
 
 These words were graven on my memory with 
 diamond clearness, and wherever I turned I could 
 read them. 
 
 " In the very first letter I wrote to Lisa, I quoted 
 them, and explained the connection in which they 
 had been uttered. Poor Lisa ! In answer I could 
 see that she had not only poured out her heart to me 
 on the paper, but her tears as well. Would that I 
 had proved worthy of such devotion ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 
 
 " My first year's residence in Edinburgh was unevent- 
 ful, the most uneventful of any so far in my life. 
 Indeed, there were days and weeks together that I 
 never had the opportunity of exchanging even a single 
 word with anyone, except in the most formal manner 
 with members of my choir at service on Sundays, 
 and at rehearsals on week days. I was lodged in 
 the house of a widow in the new town, from whose 
 manner I soon discovered that Edinburgh lodging- 
 house etiquette required that lodgers in the same house, 
 and lodgers and the proprietors of the house, should 
 treat one another under all circumstances as complete 
 strangers. Each lodger had his own room, in which 
 his meals were served up to him in solitary state, as 
 though he had been an item of some menagerie ; 
 and, like the latter, was not even allowed to choose 
 his own food, unless he made a protest against the 
 choice of the mistress, which was assumed to be in- 
 fallible, in writing. He was not entrusted with a 
 latch-key, but if he gave notice, also in writing, that 
 
154 RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 
 
 business or friends — he was expected to declare his 
 object — would keep him out later than the usual hour 
 for retiring, some one was appointed to sit up for him. 
 Not a bad rule, perhaps, all said and done ; for, apart 
 from the fact that no man of proper feeling would for 
 the mere selfish gratification of his own tastes heed- 
 lessly deprive another of his rest, it was merely apply- 
 ing to bachelor life the rule of married life ; besides, 
 there might be something in the Edinburgh saying 
 that it was proper for every person to go to bed at a 
 decent hour of the night, though mistresses were 
 divided in their opinions as to where decency ended 
 and indecency began. Anyhow, this fear of ' indecency ' 
 had the tendency to make people seek their homes at 
 the earliest hour practicable. Still (and what rule is 
 without its exception ?),if you went to a public assembly 
 or ball, and ' danced all night to the broad daylight, and 
 came home with the girls in the morning,' it was all 
 right, you were decent ; but if you went privately to a 
 friend's house to have a quiet rubber at whist, to dis- 
 cuss the differential calculus, or, mayhap, to see after 
 the eternal welfare of your soul, and stay beyond a 
 certain hour, it was indecent ; you had to sneak home 
 by back lanes and wynds so as to prevent observation 
 and the spiteful comments of your neighbours after- 
 wards. It is this gratuitous interest which the Scotch 
 take in one another that makes them at once so jeal- 
 ous of one another and so clannish, so cantankerous 
 and 'gey ill to liv wi', for others. But all these 
 to me exceptional regulations were, I say, at least 
 decorous and orderly, if they could not be called 
 neighbourly. I had no fault to find with them ; to 
 this extent at least they were good — no gossiping 
 fellow-lodger or even the mistress herself interfered 
 with me in my studies. 
 
 " Aside from study my sole recreation was to take 
 a walk at stated periods of the day along the whole 
 length of Princes Street,, east and west,, simply to look 
 
RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 155 
 
 at the people- whom I might meet. One of the great 
 figures whom I used to encounter was the celebrated 
 ' Christopher North/ who for long I took to be a well- 
 to-do builder or quarryman, his frame was so massive 
 and strong, and his habits so * full/ to appearance. I 
 should as soon have mistaken Satan himself for the 
 Angel Gabriel as to have taken Professor Wilson for 
 a literary man, with his collie dog. Indeed, I could 
 not be thoroughly convinced of the fact until I had 
 gone to the college and heard him deliver one of his 
 lectures. But the one thing that struck my attention 
 most in these walks was the sombre faces of the 
 majority of the male pedestrians, and the almost 
 universal fashion of white neckties and broadcloth. 
 Two out of every three whom I thus encountered— 
 apart from artisans and mere counter-jumpers — 
 .affected this attire, and became it, too, marvellously in 
 the sense I have indicated, namely, to look the Day 
 •of Judgment. To stoop, to laugh, ay, to grin, never ! 
 In my simple ignorance I took all these 'white- 
 'Chokered ' mortals for parsons ; but I soon found out 
 my mistake. They were lawyers, doctors, brewers, 
 printers, wine merchants, haberdashers, tailors, shoe- 
 makers, who aped the clerical toga, and to be complete, 
 did not laugh. After all, there was something, I used 
 to think, to be said in its favour; these men did not 
 need to change their face or dress in going to a 
 funeral and to church, or in looking over their 
 shoulder when entering a public-house by the back 
 door ; not to mention that it gave parsons to under- 
 stand that they were men like other men — a healthy, 
 radical sentiment, plenty of which was flying about 
 just at that time. In a word, I soon learned that 
 the first tenets of an Edinburgh gentleman were to 
 wear white neckties and broadcloth, and not to 
 laugh, at least while walking in Princes Street. I 
 used also to think that, supposing I had been a 
 student of physiology from Saturn, even with my 
 
156 RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 
 
 eighty senses, as the inhabitants of this planet are 
 reputed to have, and had visited the earth with a 
 view to investigate the two-legged animals thereon, 
 what attribute could I have seized upon in your 
 white-chokered Edinburgh gentleman to distinguish 
 him from apes and angels — under what class could 
 I have ranged him ? Certainly not under ' laughing 
 animal/ " 
 
 "But you would have been wrong, Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite," I interrupted ; " I have lived in Edinburgh 
 just as I have done in London and Boston, and my 
 impressions are entirely the reverse to what you 
 would have us believe. Nay, I found geniality to be 
 one of the most distinguishing features of Edinburgh 
 society." 
 
 "But you are speaking of an entirely different 
 period. My remarks have reference to the time when 
 Edinburgh was exclusively the home of law, medicine 
 and priestcraft, and of nothing else, just before the 
 time of the beginning of what has subsequently been 
 ostentatiously designated ' The Ten Years' Conflict,' a 
 conflict which, to the unprejudiced onlooker, seemed 
 the fit bedfellow of that described by Dean Swift, in 
 his time, in the well-known lines, — 
 
 " ' Some say that Signor Bonincimri 
 Compared to Handel is a ninnie, 
 While others says that to him Handel 
 Is hardly fit to hold the candle. 
 Strange such a difference should be 
 'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.' 
 
 " Edinburgh was then a very hotbed of religious 
 fanaticism. When what was called a ' U. P.' could, in 
 the eyes of the 'unco guid,' be hardly saved, what 
 chance was there for the souls or bodies of an Episco- 
 palian, not to speak of a Catholic ? 
 
 " At the end of a year I began to grow weary of 
 this isolation and constraint, and I felt a change 
 beginning to creep over me. I became deficient in 
 
RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 157 
 
 energy. I had read more than my brain would as- 
 similate. My ideas began to grow cloudy, even in 
 regard to the most common subjects. I longed for 
 fellowship, and especially for the society of the oppo- 
 site sex. You could not speak to a lady of your own 
 position, socially, that she did not give you to under- 
 stand that you were trying to make game of her, let 
 you be ever so sensible and serious. I had heard that 
 it was only the Irish-Americans and French that 
 hated the English, but I had now become disillusioned 
 in respect of this. The Edinburgh people were too 
 discreet to express their hatred openly, but they made 
 you feel it all the same. 
 
 " I was still corresponding with Lisa, and I could 
 see sometimes, from her half-spoken reproaches, that 
 she was not quite sure that some Scotch maiden might 
 not have usurped her place in my regards and affec- 
 tions. It was always refreshing to read her answers 
 to my letters, in which I essayed to describe the 
 Blumines with which I was now surrounded, and 
 especially when she set herself to defend them from 
 my sarcasms. 
 
 " I hesitated to communicate my discontent to Mr 
 Drummond, for I could not banish his ominous words 
 from my thoughts, ' But all is vanity.' I commenced 
 to tamper again with alcohol, chiefly, at first, for the 
 reason that I was repeatedly assured that Scotch 
 whisky could do no one any harm, it was so good ; 
 but I was careful, like the rest of the Edinburgh 
 people, not to be seen entering public houses by the 
 front doors. This itself acted as a considerable 
 restraint upon my craving for some change or 
 excitement, for, since it was so dangerous to be seen 
 entering one of these places, it was almost fatal to 
 be found in one of them, even supposing the ' common 
 informer' had sneaked in by a back or side door 
 himself. 
 
 "I grew more and more indifferent to everything, 
 
158 RESIDENCE IN THE MODERN ATHENS. 
 
 even to iny music ; and as for books, I began to hate 
 the sight of them. Concerts there were none. I dare 
 not be seen in the ' synagogue of Satan,' such as it 
 was. But I did go openly to the ' synagogue ' on one 
 occasion to witness — not to listen, my ears were too 
 sacred for that sort of thing — a contest between some 
 Highland pipers, my chief object being, however, to 
 meet the son of Mendel, who was to be present; for 
 I had been apprised from Leipzig, from my former 
 teacher there, of his intention to visit ' Auld Reekie/ 
 and I had also a letter of introduction to him, which 
 I duly delivered. He was a tall, delicate, spare youth, 
 of a distinctly Jewish cast of features, and he was 
 amiable to the last degree. He was with friends, 
 and my conversation with him was therefore limited, 
 but short as it was I managed to extort from him, 
 in answer to a question, his opinion of the bagpipes 
 as a vehicle of sweet sounds. It was short and to the 
 point : f Ach, Sacra ! ' 
 
 "I suddenly became a socialist in my opinions as 
 regarded work. I reasoned myself into the belief 
 that I had realised in my own experience that all 
 work and no play did make ' Jack a dull boy,' and 
 that the ' three eights ' was the most reasonable way 
 out of the difficulty that I had yet seen suggested : 
 ' Eight hours to sleep, eight hours to work, and eight 
 hours to play.' The question of ways and means had, 
 however, to be faced. Eight hours' play meant the 
 spending of more money than my slender income would 
 afford. This difficulty was, fortunately, overcome 
 through the good offices of my friend Mr Drummond, 
 who had procured me some translations to do from 
 the German, for an Encyclopaedic work which was 
 being brought out by one Tait. My work, when re- 
 vised by Mr Drummond, gave satisfaction, but the 
 remuneration was paltry. Yet the idea was new, and 
 I persevered in it, with the result that, instead of de- 
 voting my eight hours to play, I gave them to work, 
 
THE BELLES OF EDINA. 159 
 
 with the money I had received for it to the good. 
 But it was not long before this source ran dry, and in 
 the end I neither found myself richer nor wiser for 
 the experience. The sight of my work, however, in 
 print nattered my vanity. I was seized with a new 
 flush of energy. I copied out Hume's Essays with a 
 view to modelling my style upon his. I essayed to 
 write an article for Blackwood and the Edinburgh 
 Review, but I found before I had finished them that 
 the subjects upon which I had fixed had been long 
 before entrusted to competent hands. Not only that, 
 but when I compared what I had written with what 
 these had written, I concluded that literature was not 
 my forte, and therefore consigned my MS. to the 
 flames, in case it should fall into the hands of any- 
 one, and thus at once expose my ignorance and my 
 audacity. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE BELLES OF EDINA. 
 
 "In my perambulations about the town, I cast, as 
 usual, a critical eye upon the fair sex, but for some 
 reason the belles of Edina did not awaken in me, as 
 I have already implied, any degree of enthusiasm. 
 They lacked that delicacy of feature and shape that 
 characterised the ladies of Saxony, as well as the clear 
 rosy hue of complexion that I had remarked in their 
 sisters south of the Tweed. Their features for the 
 most part were hard, angular and set, while the whole 
 expression of the countenance was bleak, mid-wintry 
 and passionless. Their dress was substantial, but by 
 
160 THE BELLES OF EDINA. 
 
 no means elegant ; sombre in hue by preference, with 
 little or no adornment, whether as regards design or 
 colours. Excellent ' ministering angels ' they might 
 make, but one could hardly conceive of them chatting 
 gaily in a drawing-room, indulging in jeu d'esprits 
 with a partner, or vis-a-vis in a quadrille or contre 
 dance in a ball-room. They seemed more adapted 
 by nature and training for utility than for ornament. 
 Their manners were rigid, stunted and mechanical. 
 There was no touch of softness, gentleness or tender- 
 ness suggested by their looks or in the tones of their 
 voice. When they attempted to smile or look pleased, 
 it was like a ray of sunlight attempting to force its 
 way through a black cloud. They had no small talk. 
 Their conversation turned alternately on domestic 
 economy or the powers of the civil magistrate, re the 
 Kirk. To enter a room where they were was like 
 breaking the ice to go into a bath. Marks of affection 
 even between husband and wife, brother or sister were 
 rarely to be witnessed. Yet withal, there was not 
 the slightest suggestion of egotism, affectation, 'stand- 
 offishness' or superiority in their conversation or 
 bearing. In everything they were orderly, correct 
 and proper. 
 
 " One expects more than this in a young female ; at 
 least I did, and I was therefore disappointed in the 
 Edinburgh young ladies. Yet, if taxed, I could not 
 have found open fault with them for anything, for 
 they were uniformly civil to me. I nevertheless grew 
 tired of them, and in the end eschewed their society 
 whenever possible. 
 
 " I hence came to the conclusion that, so long as I 
 remained in Edinburgh, I should at least have one 
 passion less to contend with : no more new loves to 
 distract me, whatever might become of the old. But 
 more of this latter anon. 
 
MY LITERARY BETE NOIR. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MY LITERARY BETE NOIR, 
 
 "I had now entered upon an entirely changed 
 life. I could indulge my passion for music to the 
 utmost extent. I could play and sing from early 
 morning till late at night, if I so listed, but there 
 was one drawback, which I must give with some 
 detail, as the name of the other person involved 
 became subsequently so famous. In the same common 
 stair in which I was lodged, there was also lodged on 
 the floor over me a man who kept constantly grum- 
 bling to my landlady about his not being able to 
 follow his calling because of singing and playing in 
 my room. He was a literary man of some kind, and 
 he declared that it was impossible for him either to 
 read or write when I was in the house. These com- 
 plaints in time became so vexatious and incessant 
 that I resolved to see the author of them, if that 
 were possible. I had no desire to make myself a 
 nuisance, but still, as music was my business, it was 
 necessary that I should practise at home. In order 
 to come to some understanding, I sent a message to 
 my literary neighbour, asking him to make an 
 appointment with me, to see whether we could not 
 come to some arrangement whereby we both might 
 be able to follow the bent of our inclinations — I for 
 music, and he for literature — with the least possible 
 inconvenience to one another. To my astonishment 
 Mrs Aitken, the landlady, brought me back from my 
 neighbour the answer that, since my ambition evi- 
 dently was to rival a jackass in its braying, it were 
 a pity to interfere with me in my noble pursuit. 
 Though this was far from being complimentary to my 
 vocal attainments, I yet felt that my neighbour had 
 some reasonable grounds for complaint. True, it 
 
 L 
 
162 MY LITERARY BETE NOIR. 
 
 was not my fault that the bent of his mind carried 
 him to literary studies, nor that he had taken up his 
 quarters in such close proximity to mine ; nor could 
 I again be blamed for not giving up the study and 
 practice of music, upon which my mind was set, so 
 that he might both read and write undisturbed. 
 At the same time, however, I felt the message 
 which had been sent to me insulting, and that the 
 author of it, if for no other reason, deserved no 
 consideration at my hands. For some time I was un- 
 decided as to how I should act in the circumstances ; 
 with the result that I sometimes sang and played more 
 than if I had not received such a message. At other 
 times I felt too much annoyed to indulge in either. 
 This state of affairs continued for some weeks longer, 
 when the matter, so to speak, was taken out of both 
 my and my surly neighbour's hands. It became a 
 question now with the landladies of the respective 
 houses who was to change lodgings — I or my literary 
 bete noir. It was impossible for the latter to continue 
 in his with me in the floor under him, while it was 
 equally impossible for me to remain on condition that 
 I should give up my musical studies. My landlady 
 had no objection to find with me ; she liked music, and 
 I paid her regularly ; neither had the landlady above 
 any reason to find fault, as I was informed, with her 
 lodger. He was regular in his habits, scrupulously 
 exact in money matters, and never spoke to anyone 
 unless when exasperated by my music, or ' my bray- 
 ing and Jew's harping,' as he called it. As yet, my 
 neighbour and I had never encountered one another 
 in person, whether in the street or on the stair — 
 though I had eagerly desired such a meeting. I 
 therefore sent a second message in writing by my 
 landlady to my neighbour, to the effect that, if agree- 
 able, I should like him to reconsider his determination, 
 and to grant me a personal interview. This I now did 
 at the suggestion of Mr Drummond. I received a note 
 
MY LITERARY BETE NOIR. 163 
 
 in reply, unsigned, stating that the writer would as 
 soon meet the devil, and further, that if some of my 
 victims — for he was not my only victim, as he assured 
 me — would only take it into their heads to pour some 
 molten lead down my throat, he would be the last 
 person in the world to shed a tear over me. When I 
 was inditing my message to which the latter was the 
 answer, I had in my mind the episode related of 
 Abraham and Lot, as given in the Book of Genesis, 
 and was prepared to act, if need be, in the spirit of 
 the old patriarch ; but I need hardly say that I now 
 no longer entertained such self-denying sentiments, 
 all the more as my landlady now encouraged me in 
 disregarding his complaints. 
 
 "A few minutes ago I told you that I had just 
 then been reading Hume's Essays. In one of them 
 it is attempted to be proved that human nature, if 
 left to itself, is neither malignant nor cruel ; that 
 no one would for example tread on the gouty 
 toe of a fellow - being with the single aim of 
 causing pain. I agreed with the great eighteenth- 
 century sceptic in this entirely ; I had no desire, 
 so I reasoned with myself, to cause my neighbour 
 either pain or annoyance ; on the contrary, had I not 
 shown that I was even prepared to make a sacrifice 
 of a portion of my personal liberty, so as to ease him 
 in this particular to the utmost of my power ? But 
 at the same time I owed a duty to my own interests 
 as well as to his, and it was therefore now incumbent 
 on me, seeing my interests centered wholly in music, 
 to pursue the even tenor of my way, as if he did not 
 exist for me. Of course, I said to myself, I would not 
 indulge a spirit of revenge — of course not. I would 
 only practise music as I had done before ; and if this 
 caused him annoyance, so much the worse for him. 
 How easily we can delude ourselves when the matter 
 is a question of temper or self-interest ! I had not 
 received my neighbour's second message for more 
 
164 MY LITERARY BETE NOIR. 
 
 than an hour when the passion for music seized me 
 with a force stronger than I had ever previously ex- 
 perienced. Music, and nothing but music, I felt, was 
 my vocation, and I had been sent into the world to 
 excel in it, and in nothing else. It was therefore no 
 use in me attempting to kick against the pricks, 
 to struggle against fate. Instead now of practising 
 from three to six hours a day, I considered every 
 hour of my waking hours as wasted that was not 
 devoted to music. I could, it is true, have devoted 
 several hours a day to practising on the organ, and 
 therefore abated the nuisance of such practice to my 
 neighbour to this extent, for the organ in the church 
 was at my absolute disposal ; but there was the 
 difficulty about the blower. I would have to pay him 
 out of my own pocket, and considering the state of my 
 finances, I did not see, even to further the interests of 
 another, that it was my duty to make this sacrifice. 
 
 " I heard nothing of my irascible neighbour for 
 some time ; but it was not long before we became 
 known to each other in the street by sight. When 
 we passed each other on such occasions neither of us 
 flinched from looking one another in the face — I with 
 an affected air of complaisance, he with the grin of a 
 demon. I found him to be a tallish, lank, countrified 
 person of about thirty to thirty-five years of age, with 
 piercing steel eyes, and very sharp-cut features and 
 mouth. It was a breach-loader face — charged with 
 deadly potentialities. I could not, of course, tell what 
 would have been its expression in repose, for I never 
 saw it except with a grin or a scowl upon it. But it 
 was a strong face, and unmistakably intellectual in 
 its expression." 
 
 " Do you recognise the portrait ? " Mr Bigglethwaite 
 asked. On being answered in the affirmative, he 
 continued : — 
 
 " How long he endured the torture of my music 
 I do not remember, but to the best of my belief it 
 
MY LITERARY BETE N01R. 165 
 
 was for months. I afterwards learned, too, that in 
 the end he forgave me, and commended my industry. 
 
 " I had now reached another crisis in my history. 
 My savings were almost gone, and my salary as 
 organist, together with the fees of the few pupils I 
 could secure, were insufficient to support me in any- 
 thing like the position my ambition suggested as being 
 commensurate with my abilities and education. I 
 had been introduced to many good families by Mr 
 Drummond, where I was- pressed to play and to sing, 
 with the result that everybody expressed themselves 
 delighted with my efforts. Indeed, had I accepted all 
 the invitations that were sent me to the houses to 
 which I had been so introduced, and to the houses of 
 others whom I met there, my evenings would have 
 been fully occupied. But, in truth, I was not fitted 
 to shine in society, in the circumstances. I was not 
 the equal, socially, of the people whom I met there, 
 and I could not brook the notion of being patronised. 
 I was not Israelite enough, either, to press my wares 
 in such circles ; besides, I could see quite well that 
 my patrons thought me sufficiently compensated for 
 my services by admitting me to their society on such 
 special occasions. It were also useless, I found, to 
 attempt to attract them towards me by the occasional 
 exercise of my undoubted gift of languages. It was 
 rare that you encountered one who could even stutter 
 out a sentence in French. True, a knowledge of 
 the Latin was affected by all the professional 
 classes, and all, both male and female, were deeply 
 versed in theology. It was regarded as hardly re- 
 spectable to evince any enthusiasm in respect of the 
 stage ; in general, theatres were looked upon, and even 
 described, as I have said, as 'synagogues of Satan.' 
 An actor was an outcast from society ; a musician, at 
 best, an adventurer. Moreover, the only music which 
 was really appreciated, all pretensions to the contrary 
 notwithstanding, was Scotch music ; and I need hardly 
 
166 MY LITERARY BETE NO IB. 
 
 add that Scotland has never had, nor has even to this 
 day, any music that is worthy the serious considera- 
 tion of criticism. And as for the sister art of poetry, 
 you might quote, without fear of giving offence, Milton, 
 Thomson and Cowper ; but great circumspection was 
 necessary when mentioning the works of Shakespeare 
 and Dry den. The genius of Burns was held to have 
 been misdirected, and it was not safe to put his works 
 into the hands of the young. Nay, it was the firm 
 belief of the great majority of the people I so met 
 that Burns died unrepentant, and his soul must there- 
 fore be in hell. As for Scott, as one middle-aged lady 
 earnestly assured me, — 'Oh, if Sir Walter had but 
 given one half the great powers with which his Maker 
 had endowed him to the furtherance of His cause on 
 earth, what a blessing he would have been to Scotland. 
 But, ah me ! ' shaking her head dubiously. 
 
 " Such were my surroundings at this new crisis in 
 my career above alluded to. Through the opposition 
 of my literary neighbour, I had qualified myself in 
 a remarkable degree to inspire enthusiasm in people 
 capable of artistic feeling. But the soil of Edinburgh 
 was not yet ready for the seed. As I told my friend 
 Mr Drummond at the time, one might as well try to 
 blow Mount Vesuvius into action with a pair of 
 domestic bellows as to endeavour to permeate the 
 subjective consciences of the Edinburgh people with 
 a breath of artistic feeling. And Edinburgh is not 
 peculiar in this. Wherever the blight of puritanism 
 has fallen, the same thing has been observed. Boston, 
 Massachussetts, was in no better case than Edinburgh 
 in this respect, while puritanism held undisputed 
 sway there. 
 
MUSIC NORTH OF THE TWEED. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MUSIC NORTH OF THE TWEED. 
 
 " Besides this intense subjectivity which is the 
 peculiar mental characteristic of the Scotch people, 
 and which is destructive of artistic feeling, there is 
 something in the climate, the further you go north, 
 which is inimical to the production of delicate shades 
 of sound. To an educated ear the ninth symphony 
 of Beethoven is not the same when heard in the 
 Music Hall, Edinburgh, as when heard in St James 
 Hall, London, even when executed practically by the 
 same orchestra, under the guidance of the same 
 conductor. In vocal music the difference is even more 
 apparent. Whoever heard of a musical Highlander, 
 apart from the bagpipes, which is the quintessence 
 of the discord of sounds ! But the bagpipes were 
 never seriously intended to soothe the feelings ; on the 
 contrary, they must have been designed only to rouse 
 the passions, or, on occasion, to drown the shrieks 
 of the wounded and dying. See a Highlander when 
 intoxicated with the heavenly music — ' twelve pipers 
 playing different tunes (sic) in the same room I ' It is 
 a scene never to be forgotten. And, like his bag- 
 pipes, the voice of a Highlander is untuneable, and 
 limited in compass. In tone it partakes of the 
 quality of the sound emitted by the sheep which 
 feed on the sides of his native mountains. It is a 
 guttural snivelled through the nose, like that of the 
 spoken Gaelic language, which among the natives is 
 generally uttered in a very low tone, rarely rising 
 above A flat, second line below the stave, the object 
 presumably being to place the eavesdropper at a dis- 
 advantage. It hence follows that no man who speaks 
 constantly the Gaelic language, as it is spoken in the 
 north or west of Scotland, can ever attain to vocal 
 
168 MUSIC NORTH OF THE TWEED. 
 
 excellence. This defect, however, is not racial ; it be- 
 longs to the language, climate and home manners of 
 the people. In America and England, I have known 
 many ladies and gentlemen of Highland extraction 
 who were excellent vocalists. Captain," exclaimed 
 Mr Bigglethwaite energetically, evidently remember- 
 ing that the captain himself was of Highland 
 extraction, " did you ever hear a Highland congrega- 
 tion praise the Lord in Gaelic ? If not, you should 
 not miss doing so ; musically considered, it is the 
 most unique performance I ever listened to ; it baffles 
 description." 
 
 It was easy to see that Mr Bigglethwaite had touched 
 the captain on a tender spot ; in fact, had been guilty 
 of a decided faux pas, for the captain in answer only 
 deigned to say that he had frequently been to the 
 Gaelic church with his mother, and, except that he 
 did not understand the Gaelic tongue, he saw nothing 
 in the service incompatible with sincere fervency and 
 earnest devotion, and this was uttered in a decidedly 
 offended tone. 
 
 "Granted, granted, captain. I was not referring 
 to the service itself. I was only speaking of the 
 music from a musician's point of view. As for the 
 Highland people themselves, next to the Jews, they 
 are the most earnest race that probably exists any- 
 where in Europe, not even excepting the unspeak- 
 able Turk. Anyhow, let us descend to the Lowlands, 
 and see what the nature of the soil is there for vocal 
 culture. Take the case of boys as the most pro- 
 nounced instance. In England and Italy, boys whose 
 voices have not yet broken are largely engaged to 
 take the soprano parts in the choirs of cathedrals ; 
 bear witness, St Paul's Cathedral in London, and the 
 Pope's special choir in the Vatican. I have known 
 English boys who could reach C Alt. with as much 
 ease and with as good an effect as a female soprano. 
 In Scotland it is rare to find a boy who can give out 
 
MUSIC NORTH OF THE TWEED. 169 
 
 a decent tone on F, fifth line, soprano clef. Again, as 
 regards the voices of matured persons of both sexes, 
 they are decidedly inferior in quality of tone as com- 
 pared with people south of the Tweed. There is an 
 unresonant woodenness in the tone of the former that 
 cannot be eradicated, and this is the reason, no doubt, 
 why Scotland has never given to the world a great 
 vocalist, whether male or female, and probably never 
 will. I except, of course, from this category the chil- 
 dren of Scotch parents born abroad, or the children 
 of foreigners born in Scotland ; the late wife of Carl 
 Rosa is a notable example of the latter, while I have 
 also known several remarkable instances of the former. 
 This is no doubt attributable in a great degree to the 
 guttural character of the Lowland Scotch. And here 
 I may mention that, before I went to reside in Edin- 
 burgh, I was assured that I should hear better English 
 spoken in Princes Street there than could be heard 
 in Regent Street, London. Fie upon such a state- 
 ment ! " — Good marning — you bad bye — light the 
 gaas," etc. In so far as mere sound is concerned, it is 
 not English at all, at least any more than the language 
 spoken by a down-east Yankee is English. Yet, vain 
 as the Americans generally are, they do not pretend 
 to speak English : they speak ' United States,' and 
 Englishmen who go there are described as gentlemen 
 who speak ' United States ' with an English accent. 
 To return. The difference between an English basso 
 and a Scotch basso — I have never actually heard either 
 a true Scotch basso or tenor ; nine out of ten of the 
 voices of Scotchmen can only, at best, be classed as 
 baritone — is as marked as that between an Italian and 
 a German basso. In a word, vocalism, in its most 
 developed and purest form, seems to be the peculiar 
 gift of the Latin races ; and as regards the Anglo- 
 Saxon and Teutonic races, I should be disposed to place 
 Scotland, and Edinburgh as a city, in this respect, on 
 the bottom round of the ladder. No : the Scotch, 
 
170 MUSIC NORTH OF THE TWEED. 
 
 though a very worthy and, in a sense, great people, 
 are not a musical people. They are ' timmer/ a word 
 descriptive of the fact, and whose equivalent is not to 
 be found in the speech of any other country I am 
 acquainted with. Scotland has, however, been the 
 fruitful soil, in other respects, of genius of the highest 
 order, from Scotus and the Admirable Crichton down 
 to the two Stuarts — Stuart Mill and Stuart Blackie. 
 Where would civilisation have been to-day, captain, 
 without the steam engine, gas, steamboats, the electric 
 telegraph, paraffin, and the telephone — all discoveries 
 and inventions claimed by Scotchmen — Watts, Mur- 
 doch, Fulton, Brown, Young and Bell, respectively. 
 And surtout, as the French would say, or otherwise 
 (to quote a favourite expression of your Scotch 
 preachers), the Alpha and the Omega of them all, per- 
 haps — I mean your Scotch whisky. What is your 
 vodky, schnapps, English gin, Kentucky rye, com- 
 pared to the pure Ben Nevis ? 
 
 " c Gie him Scotch drink until he wink, 
 That's sinking in despair ; 
 And liquor gud to fire his blud, 
 That's pressed wi' grief and care.' " 
 
 This last sally was too much for the captain's 
 gravity, who burst into loud laughter, and at the same 
 time handed round the bottle, upon which, as I had 
 for some time observed, our interlocutor had been cast- 
 ing envious eyes. " Here's to Scotland and Scotchmen, 
 past and present, at home and abroad," was the toast 
 given by Mr Bigglethwaite in raising his glass, a toast 
 which, on being duly honoured by all three of us, we 
 adjourned, pro tempore. 
 
STRANGLING THE MONSTER. 1*71 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 STRANGLING THE MONSTER. 
 
 When we reached the deck, Mr Bigglethwaifce had 
 taken on, for the first time since he came on board, 
 the comic air. He became frisky and playful as a 
 kitten, raising and lowering his shoulders, bending 
 and straightening his legs at the knee joints, smooth- 
 ing his chin with his hand, pirouetting, and enhaling 
 deep inspirations of what he called the "caller sea 
 air," while his face was redolent of pleasure. This 
 lasted, however, but a short moment; his coun- 
 tenance soon assumed its wonted seriousness ^ and 
 occasional twitching, and his body its usual stateliness 
 and composure. We paced up and down for some 
 time in solemn silence, both holding our heads up like 
 stags scenting the breeze. Truth to tell, I was think- 
 ing^of and compassionating the condition of my fellow 
 passenger, which was beginning to give me great alarm. 
 We were yet several days from port, and I was debat- 
 ing with myself whether it would not be wise to see 
 the captain privately, and tell him all that I knew of 
 Mr Bigglethwaite, especially as to the policy of allow- 
 ing him unlimited supplies of brandy in his room at 
 night : for I had been informed by the steward that 
 he was now drinking about two bottles of brandy a 
 day, apart from what he took in my presence. 
 Suddenly, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he 
 stopped and faced me. " My friend," he began, " I 
 perceive that you are thinking seriously of something, 
 and I have a shrewd suspicion that your thoughts are 
 running upon me ; tell me, is it so ? Be honest with 
 me too : were not you thinking that I was taking too 
 much to drink ? " 
 
 " Indeed, to be honest with you, as you ask me to 
 be, my thoughts were running in that direction. Is 
 
172 STRANGLING THE MONSTER. 
 
 it not possible for you to limit yourself to say three 
 or four drinks in the twenty-four hours ? " 
 
 "Utterly impossible, when drink is within my 
 reach. It is not for the love of the drink qua drink. 
 I detest the taste of drink itself, as you may have 
 concluded from the manner in which I drink it. I 
 have to gulp it down as you would a bitter drug." 
 
 " I have observed that," I said ; " but it yet seems 
 strange to me that you should persist in taking 
 what you dislike so much, the more so when it also, 
 as you say, makes you ill." 
 
 " True, true, you may well think so ; when I have 
 not been taking it for some time, and when the taking 
 of it again steals in upon me in the manner I have 
 already described, or when the desire sweeps down 
 upon me with irresistible force, I feel not only relief 
 from some weight which seems to be hanging upon 
 me, but also experience pleasures and delights, some- 
 times mild, sometimes exquisite — but in either case 
 feelings to which the pleasures of love, the delights of 
 music, the exhilaration of exercise, the charms of 
 congenial society, the flush of unexpected success, the 
 applause of friends, the sweets of remembered kind- 
 ness, the luxury of literature, appear as nothing in 
 comparison. But, arrived at the state I am now in, 
 my condition is truly pitiable. Every drink I take 
 becomes more and more repulsive to me. But what is 
 the alternative ? To stop when I have got thus far 
 would mean agony bordering on madness. I do not 
 mean delirium tremens. I have never been in that 
 state. It is bodily pain and depression in mortal and 
 deadly conflict with your will and all your better im- 
 pulses and feelings. You feel you are a slave, and you 
 are ashamed of it. Acd each attack is different from 
 its predecessor. Sometimes it takes an active bodily, 
 at other times an amorous turn ; sometimes it runs 
 on drowsiness, indolence, indifference; sometimes on 
 company, at others on solitude; sometimes you feel 
 
STRANGLING THE MONSTER, 173 
 
 shaky and nervous, at others buoyant and strong; 
 sometimes you feel savage, quarrelsome and repul- 
 sive, even to yourself; at others complaisant, con- 
 descending, polite, affable, poetical ; sometimes the 
 world appears a perfect paradise, and everyone you 
 meet an angel, a living miracle ; sometimes you would 
 not tread on a worm for the world ; at other times 
 earth is a perfect hell, your best friend a devil incar- 
 nate, the sun's light sickening, the darkness horrify- 
 ing, every animal a viper, every sound a shriek of 
 agony, the flesh of your body slime, the bed clothes 
 pitch, your mouth a roaring furnace — oh, I could go 
 on for an hour describing the different phases and 
 feelings of my body and mind when both are 
 steeped in the fumes of alcohol. I have mastered 
 every appetite and passion and feeling except this 
 one, and I am determined that the present shall 
 be my last struggle with the demon. In two weeks' 
 time I am either dead or I shall have strangled the 
 monster. I have never before been able to raise 
 myself to this pitch of enthusiasm on the point. I 
 begin from this forth to ' taper off.' In answer to a 
 lady friend who once chided me for being inconstant 
 in love and constant in drinks, I assured her that she 
 was mistaken, for all rny life long I had neither kissed 
 by the calender nor drunk by the chronometer. How- 
 ever, I shall now falsify this latter part of my state- 
 ment. I shall drink with my watch in my hand 
 until my approaching illness shall have passed over : 
 then I shall put away both watch and bottle, and 
 when the watch shall start of its own accord, i.e., with- 
 out being wound up, I shall take a drink. Do not 
 laugh at me, or consider my determination as emanat- 
 ing from the brain of a madman. I have considered 
 well what I am going to do. My weakness hitherto 
 has been in not attaching an alternative to my resolu- 
 tion. I have yet to know the man who has succeeded 
 in keeping an absolute resolution. Nay, I believe I 
 
174 STRANGLING THE MONSTER. 
 
 am the only person who has ever made such a resolu- 
 tion, and it is therefore no wonder that I have failed. 
 You shake your head incredulously. ' The pope he 
 leads a pious life,' you have no doubt heard. Why ? 
 To remain pope, the alternative being to save souls." 
 
 Hereupon the assistant steward interrupted to tell 
 us supper was on the table, at which I felt relieved, 
 being satisfied that my friend was surely about to 
 have a fit of the "jumps." After supper Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite, who had hardly tasted anything, proceeded to 
 his berth, which he did not leave again that evening. 
 
SIXTH DA Y. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE CLIMAX — LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 Early in the morning of the next day, one of the 
 Irishmen who had shared a cabin with Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite during the passage came to my berth, alarm 
 plainly written on his countenance, and requested me 
 to lose no time in seeing my friend, for he feared 
 that something serious was about to happen ; at any 
 rate, he was dreadfully ill, and wanted to see me im- 
 mediately. When I entered the apartment, a minute 
 afterwards, in my trousers and nightshirt, I found Mr 
 Bigglethwaite lying in one of the lower berths, groan- 
 ing in agony. In answer to my anxious inquiry as to 
 what was the matter, he could only gurgle out, " Oh, 
 my friend, I am ill. . . . The climax has been reached 
 at last. . . . Oh ! . . . give me that pail." When he 
 had finished putting up what seemed to be pure water, 
 I asked what I could do for him ; go for the ship's 
 surgeon — anything ; in answer to which he merely 
 shook his head and lay back again, and continued to 
 groan. He seemed to be perfectly clear and composed 
 in mind, and there was nothing about the expression 
 of his face to indicate that there was anything the 
 matter with him, except that he was the victim of 
 severe bodily pain. He was shaking in every limb 
 and fibre, but the excessive retching was in itself 
 sufficient to account for this. I knelt down in front 
 
176 THE CLIMAX — LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 of the berth and awaited his pleasure. After remain- 
 ing in this position for a few minutes, and observing 
 that he seemed to be growing calmer, he turned his head 
 in my direction, and informed me that he felt a little 
 better, and apologised for disturbing me. "If you 
 could only find me something," he said, " to allay my 
 burning thirst, there will be no necessity for your re- 
 maining with me any longer. I know what would 
 settle my stomach, temporarily, at least, but, as I told 
 you last evening, I have made up my mind never to 
 allow alcohol to pass down my throat again. I am 
 determined to keep my word, let the consequences be 
 what they may. I took my last drink just before 
 retiring last evening, and not even the prospect of a 
 speedy dissolution will alter my resolution." 
 
 " But, Mr Bigglethwaite, will you not allow yourself 
 to be guided by your past experiences ? " 
 " No, death first." 
 
 " In that case, perhaps, the doctor could give you 
 something that would serve, to some extent at least, 
 as a substitute, and not leave the bad effects of the 
 other ; will I see the captain first ? " He had no time 
 to answer, before another attack of illness supervened, 
 which seemed to shake every muscle and nerve in his 
 body, and continued at short intervals for at least 
 fifteen minutes, and was painful in the extreme to 
 witness. When it had ceased, I offered him a little 
 water to moisten his throat, but he only wet his lips 
 with it, saying that if he attempted to swallow it it 
 would simply bring on another attack. 
 
 " Do you expect the illness to pass off, if you do 
 nothing to assist nature ? " I suggested timidly, when 
 he again lay back exhausted. " Shall I try and get a 
 little crushed ice for you, to quench your thirst ? " 
 
 "I will give nature the chance for once, and if it 
 fails, then I commend my worldly affairs to you, my 
 body to the sea, and my — " He was not allowed to 
 finish the sentence, sickness again supervening. 
 
THE CLIMAX — LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 177 
 
 This time, great beads of perspiration stood out on 
 his brow, his cheeks, his upper lip, his nose, his chin, 
 seeming to spring out of the skin spontaneously, ac- 
 companied by violent fits of shivering, while he only 
 heaved deep sighs. I could no longer stand by passive : 
 I left the cabin, and, dressing hurriedly, went in search 
 of the ship's surgeon, going also to the captain's cabin 
 and informing him as to the state of affairs. A con- 
 sultation ensued in the captain's room when I informed 
 the surgeon that it was useless to attempt to administer 
 to the patient alcohol in any form, seeing the resolu- 
 tion that the latter had come to; suggesting at the 
 same time, however, that surely his (the surgeon's) 
 experience in chemistry would enable him to over- 
 come that prejudice, if he deemed it necessary. The 
 captain, who was much alarmed, agreed with me^ in 
 this, and I thereupon proceeded to where the sick 
 man lay, to warn him of the approaching visit of 
 the surgeon, who, I informed him, visited him ex- 
 pressly by the captain's orders, and that he must 
 see him, so as to relieve the captain from responsi- 
 bility ; this firmly. He regarded me for a moment, 
 but I stood his look unflinchingly. 
 
 "My hour is come," he said in a low voice; 
 "and will you, too, desert me?" looking at me 
 with eyes that seemed to pierce me to the very 
 
 soul. 
 
 The surgeon entered and was soon followed by the 
 
 captain. 
 
 "Mr Bigglethwaite," said the latter, without ^ any 
 preliminary observations, " my authority here until we 
 reach port is absolute, and if you refuse to avail your- 
 self of the assistance which the doctor is prepared to 
 render, I have a duty to perform." 
 
 These words had hardly escaped from the captain's 
 lips when Mr Bigglethwaite sprang from his berth on 
 to the floor, but the door was blocked by the captain 
 and myself, I in front of the latter. An awful 
 
 M 
 
178 THE CLIMAX — LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 moment of suspense followed, but my presence of 
 mind did not desert me. 
 
 " Mr Bigglethwaite," I said, " I am your friend until 
 death, and after death, if need be ; place yourself in 
 my hands." 
 
 Throwing up his arms he exclaimed, — " Oh, my little 
 Jean, my dearest boy ! " and he fell into the surgeon's 
 arms and mine, utterly exhausted. 
 
 Carrying him out into the saloon and laying him 
 on a bed on the floor, which was hurriedly brought 
 from my berth and his own, injections of morphia 
 were administered, and brandy poured down his throat, 
 which, I observed, he did his best not to swallow. 
 In a few minutes he revived, whereupon he was 
 carried up to the deck to the captain's room, which 
 the latter gave up to him. After another arm 
 injection and more brandy, this time mixed with 
 ground biscuit, had been administered, the patient 
 revived sufficiently to be able to sit up on the couch 
 on which he had been laid. He complained of his 
 head and of a depression so frightful that it seemed, 
 Atlas-like, the whole world was on his shoulders ; but 
 he could converse calmly and rationally. I was then 
 left alone with him, with instructions that I was 
 to administer a teaspoonful of brandy, mixed with 
 ground biscuit, every quarter of an hour, or oftener, 
 if deemed prudent, and the patient now offered no 
 objections. Two hours afterwards, though still very 
 weak, we conversed together as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 " You have heard me twice refer to children," he said, 
 " and the last time I named one of them ; thereby hangs 
 a tale, which I feel in duty bound to reveal to you, at 
 least so far forth as to enable you to find them, if you 
 will take the trouble, when I am no more. It is a 
 dying man's request ; will you promise me this one 
 and last favour ? " 
 
 I promised him if what he asked was within my 
 
THE CLIMAX — LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 179 
 
 power to accomplish, even at the cost of great 
 sacrifice of time and what means my circumstances 
 would reasonably afford, I would comply. 
 
 " Well, then, get your pencil and paper and write 
 down quickly, in your shorthand, for I feel I have 
 not long to live." 
 
 I went to my cabin and fetched the necessary 
 materials, and commenced to write : — 
 
 " I, David Bigglethwaite, place in your sole keeping 
 
 and charge (you ) my grand-daughter, 
 
 Jean Middleman, my grandson, David Bigglethwaite 
 Miller^ and my entire property, in money and 
 securities, to will and to do according to your own 
 good pleasure, with this single request, that you 
 give to the world a true and faithful record of my 
 life, as you have had it from my lips, and as you will 
 find it^ set down in the papers which I will place 
 forthwith in your possession, together with said 
 money and securities, the whole of my remaining 
 property not already settled and devised upon the 
 said Jean Middleman, my grand-daughter, and the 
 said David Bigglethwaite Miller, my grandson. 
 
 " (Signed) David Bigglethwaite. 
 
 " Witness, . 
 
 When^ I had written out the above in longhand 
 and in ink, I demurred receiving money which of 
 right^ should go to the grand-children he had named, 
 and it was not until the captain and the surgeon 
 were called in, and had become the attesting wit- 
 nesses, that I consented. 
 
 When I had been put in possession of everything 
 that is to say, when all papers, money and securities 
 had been transferred from Mr Bigglethwaite's trunks 
 and pockets to mine, the donor observed, in presence 
 of the captain and myself, "Now, I die contented; 
 my little Jean and little Davie will be properly taken 
 
180 THE CLIMAX— LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 care of, and the world will know that there once 
 lived a man who, if fate had decreed otherwise, might 
 have been capable of accomplishing something for 
 the good of his fellow-men at large ; but who was 
 doomed, instead, to suffer much and to cause others 
 to suffer with him." 
 
SEVENTH DA Y. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR BIGGLETHWAITE'S SUICIDAL MENTAL BATTERY. 
 
 Early in the morning, our good ship had called at 
 Queenstown and disembarked its mail bags; but 
 before any of the passengers were astir, we had 
 cleared the Irish coast and were heading for the 
 Mersey. I had remained all night in the captain's 
 cabin with Mr Bigglethwaite, but except that he 
 could not get any sleep, and was consequently more 
 or less restless, the night passed away without any 
 incident worthy of remark ; he seemed most anxious 
 that I should not be disturbed in my rest. He was 
 visited about nine o'clock in the morning by the 
 doctor, who pronounced him to be on the fair road 
 to recovery, and who also prescribed absolute quiet. 
 When the doctor had gone, he said to me,— 
 
 " What fools these doctors are ! He is firmly con- 
 vinced, as you see, that I will get well again ; but I 
 know better. Perhaps I might get better if there 
 was any particular reason why I should. But I have 
 no desire to live. I have accomplished my destiny. 
 If I live until I reach land, I shall be satisfied." 
 
 "You do not mean to shorten your days by any 
 act of your own ? " I suggested. 
 
 "Yes, I do," he replied quickly. "When a man 
 has lived his days, it is his own business whether he 
 chooses to live on or to die." 
 
182 MR bigglethwaite's suicidal mental battery. 
 
 "Then, do you mean to blow- your brains out, 
 jump overboard, cut your throat, take poison, or 
 what ? If you do, it cancels any obligation I have 
 entered into with you. I will have nothing to do 
 with a suicide : self-murder is cowardly," and I made 
 as if I would leave him. 
 
 " Stay," he said ; " do not be too hasty : hear what 
 I have to say first. I do not mean to take away my 
 life by any of the methods you have named, or by 
 any physical act of my own whatever. In order to 
 die, it is not necessary to lift one's hand against one's- 
 self : the will can accomplish that by itself alone. 
 Though it is useless in a man to will to live a thou- 
 sand years, it is yet in his power to will that he shall 
 not live a hundred hours." 
 
 " You mean that a man can starve himself to death 
 within a week ? " 
 
 " Not at all. That would be physical murder. 
 What I mean to say is, that a man who properly 
 understands the working of the human mind — espe- 
 cially his own mind, and, of course, its relations to 
 its physical surroundings — can die whenever he has 
 a mind to : whenever he thinks he is ready to go, 
 in fact. He need not suffer forty-eight hours' phy- 
 sical pain, unless he desires to live on." 
 
 " I do not understand you. Do you mean to assert 
 that a man can kill a healthy body by a mere act of 
 the will ? " 
 
 " Not by a single act of the will, but by persistent 
 strokes of the will." 
 
 " Oh, I see ! you would ' moon ' and fret yourself 
 away like a love-lorn, stupid girl. But even so : I 
 never heard of a man dying of love-sickness, except 
 in novels written by women for women, and you are 
 past the love-lorn age. After all, I think the doctor 
 is not far wrong ; he says you will be all right in 
 twenty-four hours. Can I do anything for you be- 
 fore I go to take breakfast with the captain ? " 
 
MR BIGrGLETHWAITE'S SUICIDAL MENTAL BATTERY. 183 
 
 I could now see that the old man was angry with 
 me, and he answered, in an offended tone, — 
 
 "No, I want nothing; I am quite comfortable. 
 Only, tell the captain that I shall never be able to 
 repay him for his kindness ; but if the fervent wishes 
 and blessings of a dying man have any efficacy, and 
 they are said to have, he shall indeed be blessed." 
 
 I left him with this, and repaired to the first cabin, 
 where I found the captain, by appointment, awaiting 
 me to join him at breakfast. He had, meanwhile, 
 also been visited by the ship's surgeon, who had re- 
 lieved him of all further anxiety in regard to Mr 
 Bigglethwaite's condition. We talked long over the 
 events of the previous twenty-four hours, and, in 
 particular, as to what was to be done about Mr 
 Bigglethwaite's will and property. On examination, 
 the latter was found to amount to no inconsiderable 
 sum, in addition to the liberal provisions he had 
 made for his grandchildren above named. I had no 
 desire to become thus suddenly opulent, nor was _ the 
 captain at all possessed of an Ananias-like spirit; 
 it was agreed that we should allow matters to re- 
 main as they were until after we had reached terra 
 firma. 
 
 On emerging from the cabin after breakfast, and 
 passing along the deck, I was surprised to find Mr 
 Bigglethwaite sitting under the bridge, on the steer- 
 age side of the ship, with a book in his hand. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, Mr Bigglethwaite ? 
 You know the doctor gave strict orders this morning 
 that you were to remain quiet in bed ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but I also know from experience 
 that the only benefit to be derived from doctors' 
 admonitions, in cases like mine, is either to take no 
 notice of them at all, or to do the opposite of what 
 they advise. I should have been dead long ago if I 
 had heeded what doctors have said to me. I have 
 never known a doctor who did not suffer from the 
 
184 MR bigglethwaite's suicidal mental battery. 
 
 disease of over- wisdom — an incurable and deadly- 
 disease — I mean for the patients." 
 
 I was at a loss as to how to reply to this, for it 
 was, I could see, uttered in all seriousness, and I was 
 loathe to make use of some commonplace, since it was 
 sure to be resented. Sheridan's proffered consolation 
 to the poor inebriate lying in the gutter suddenly 
 flashing across my mind, I sat down beside him. 
 
 "I was just thinking over what I said to you this 
 morning. My life is ended. I can be of no more 
 service, either for good or evil, in this world," he 
 began, after a long silence, which I did not attempt 
 to break in upon. 
 
 " Indeed," I remarked, " I am surprised to hear 
 you speak thus, a man of such infinite resources. If 
 life is a burden to you, what must it be to thousands 
 of people who are absolutely without either worldly 
 means or mental resources ? I have been told that 
 old age is the most enjoyable part of a well-spent life, 
 only next to the full flush and exuberance of youth 
 itself. In fact, it is a return to youth, if we can 
 believe what poets and philosophers say." 
 
 Mr Bigglethwaite hereupon cast on me a withering 
 look — a look in which I could plainly discern con- 
 tempt, compassion, impatience and resentment, but 
 he simply ignored what I had said. 
 
 " I have made up my mind, however, to live for at 
 least other eight days, then I shall turn on the whole 
 force of the nerve currents of my brain upon a name- 
 less part of this used-up body, which will as surely 
 and suddenly annihilate its vitality as if the current 
 proceeded from an electric battery." 
 
 I laughed inwardly at the idea, but made no re- 
 mark, and another prolonged dead silence ensued. 
 The weather was cold, but bracing, as compared with 
 the previous eight days. It was a land temperature, 
 a frosty atmosphere, tempered by a sea breeze. Mr 
 Bigglethwaite was, however, well wrapped up as 
 
MR BIGGLETHWAITE'S SUICIDAL MENTAL BATTERY. 185 
 
 compared with me, and I made this latter the pretext 
 for breaking a silence which had become painful, 
 When I returned, wrapped up in my ulster, a change, 
 I found, had come over Mr Bigglethwaite. He asked 
 me to retire with him to the captain's cabin, where, 
 he remarked, we could resume our conversation as 
 during the early days of the voyage, and it was not 
 long before we were joined there by the captain 
 himself. 
 
 " Captain," he said, when the latter entered, " you 
 see I am not going to die after all, at least not just 
 yet. The illness has passed away, and I am really 
 sorry to have caused you the trouble and anxiety I 
 have. How can I compensate you for what you have 
 done ? " 
 
 " I am amply compensated, my dear sir, in finding 
 you unexpectedly so fully recovered," replied the 
 captain heartily. " It was a smart attack. I hope 
 you will never have another like it." 
 
 "You may rest assured I never will, my dear 
 captain, but my next and last illness, though aris- 
 ing from a different cause, will be short, sharp and 
 decisive. It will give no one any trouble ; my heart 
 will stop beating in a moment." 
 
 " Do you suffer from heart disease ? " inquired the 
 captain anxiously. 
 
 " No, not in the ordinary acceptation of these terms ; 
 but I have a premonition, amounting, I might say, 
 to a certain knowledge, that this will be the manner 
 of my going off. But it will not be for a time yet. 
 Let us then change the subject. Would you care to 
 hear another chapter in my life ? It is the only one 
 remaining that has not been committed to paper. I 
 hardly feel equal to the task of commencing it now ; 
 but after luncheon, in which I hope to be able to join 
 you, you will do me great honour if you will form 
 one of the circle as before ; if not, I will have to dic- 
 tate it to my friend here. It comprises one of the 
 
186 RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 
 
 most remarkable epochs in my life, so singular and 
 unique, indeed, that I had at one time intended to 
 pass it over; but, on reflecting over it, I have con- 
 cluded it is worth preserving, for the information of 
 the children, at least. It is right that they should 
 know it, when they have reached an age to under- 
 stand." 
 
 The captain agreed to form one of the party, pro- 
 vided his duties would permit of it ; though this was 
 now uncertain, seeing that we were approaching so 
 near our destination, the most anxious time of all 
 for one who has the material cure of souls, as well 
 as the care of the property of others. The captain 
 was hereupon called away. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 
 
 " I THREW up my position as organist near Edin- 
 burgh in disgust at the end of two years, poorer in 
 purse, though in every other respect richer by the 
 experience. The only friends I left behind me in 
 that city that I cared to remember were Mr and Mrs 
 Drummond. I had, however, learned, while there, 
 this important lesson, namely, that my temper was 
 not suited for the vocation of a teacher of music. 
 Besides having no patience with cant, I was too 
 severe a critic of the weaknesses and foibles of my 
 fellow men, while I was much too blind to my own 
 failings and shortcomings. I had set up an im- 
 possible standard for other people to walk by, while 
 I resented as impertinence the slightest interference 
 
RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 187 
 
 on the part of others with my freedom of action, 
 Mr Drummond alone excepted. Though not resent- 
 ful and vindictive, I was yet captious and ill- 
 natured on the slightest provocation. I had much 
 over-rated my own capacity, and become, conse- 
 quently, offensively egotistical, cynical, and hyper- 
 critical. When I had convinced myself of the fact, 
 I suddenly went to the other extreme. I had a 
 good word to say for everybody and of everything ; 
 and indulged in self-disparagement on every con- 
 venient opportunity. The result was that I made 
 myself ridiculous. I soon found that people took me, 
 not for what I was really worth, but at my own 
 estimate. Not only this; but I also perceived that 
 had I continued in this course, my very modest 
 estimate of my abilities would soon have become 
 the true one. Meekness and progress are sworn 
 enemies— the Sermon on the Mount to the contrary 
 notwithstanding. Self-assertion is one of the prin- 
 cipal elements of success in life. No man ever 
 achieved greatness who did not know he was great. 
 Self-depreciation on the part of men who have be- 
 come eminent is but amiable hypocrisy: a fishing 
 for compliments, not to call it by a harder name. I 
 say, then, these were lessons that my Edinburgh ex- 
 perience taught me : If it was bad for the individual 
 to over-estimate his talents, it was fatal for him to 
 under-estimate the latter. 
 
 " I was undecided what to do when I left Edin- 
 burgh for the South. Had I followed the promptings 
 of my heart, I should have returned to Germany. 
 I still entertained the sweetest recollections of my 
 sojourn with Mrs Deerpin and Mary. I had still 
 something more than a platonic interest in the future 
 of Ena and Lily: while the temptations held out 
 by London for putting my musical and literary 
 abilities to the test were very urgent. I fully re- 
 cognised that I could not live on sentiment: but 
 
188 RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 
 
 what chance of success had I in such a city as London, 
 where people were reported to be starving by the 
 thousand ? I was too good a logician to set much 
 store by chance, qua chance, but, for all that, I 
 had an almost abiding belief in destiny, be the hand 
 which led Providence or what it might. If I lived, 
 I lived : if I died, I died : voila tout My future 
 life could be no greater a puzzle than my past 
 life had been. I had, upon the whole, found my- 
 self in the right place at the right time, though 
 by what accident it all came about was beyond 
 my ken, and even human reason itself. A still small 
 voice kept constantly telling me, 'Make up your 
 mind, and all will be well.' 
 
 "I made up my mind. I booked my luggage by 
 mail coach to the place I have called Hulchester, 
 whether I determined to follow it on foot, my ultimate 
 destination being, however, London. 
 
 " It was the month of July, and I had not left 
 ' Auld Reekie ' far behind me when I again fell in 
 with droves of Irish shearers, pushing their way 
 southward. Time, however, had created a great 
 gulf between us. My society was no longer suited 
 for them, nor theirs for me. My clothes were too 
 fine, and my appearance and manners generally, 
 try as I would, distasteful to them. They spoke with 
 me, but would not converse. In a word, there was 
 no common basis on which we could meet, and I soon 
 began to take no notice of them : yet I must not 
 omit saying that not one of the hundreds I thus 
 came up with ever once solicited me for alms. 
 
 "It was the same reason that deterred me from 
 seeking out my parents and relations. I felt as if 
 I no longer belonged to them. Call it unnatural, 
 ingratitude, or whatever you will, the truth is, the 
 feelings I now entertained for any or all of the latter 
 were different in nowise from the feelings I enter- 
 tained for other people with whom I had become ac- 
 
RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 189 
 
 quainted in my travels. I much preferred, for example, 
 Mrs Deerpin, Frau Hahn, or Mrs Drummond to 
 my own mother, though the latter had, in every 
 sense, been to me everything that a mother could 
 reasonab]y be expected to be. There was no re- 
 vulsion of feeling : at the same time, there was no 
 attraction. A good deal of nonsense passes current 
 in respect of natural affection. The latter differs 
 in no way from other human affections. It is merely 
 remembrance of past kindness, and, above all, imme- 
 diate past kindness, just as in the case of friends, 
 not blood relations. Affection is in the memory, 
 not in the blood. 
 
 " I had not penetrated England many miles before 
 I overtook in a country lane Rombell's wild beast show 
 once again, making for the South. I resolved, how- 
 ever, not to make myself known, unless I should be 
 recognised by the proprietor or proprietress. I had 
 been separated from it now for nearly five years. 
 I passed by, unheeded and unobserved, van after 
 van, until I had reached the second one from the 
 leader, beside which walked a man and a dog. The 
 former took no notice of me, but the latter had no 
 sooner smelled of me than he broke out into wild 
 howls of delight. He was a Newfoundland dog, and he 
 effectually blocked my progress by his jumping up on 
 and all around me. I scowled at him, and ordered 
 him to lie down, but to no purpose : he dared me 
 to proceed until I had fawned and spoken to him. 
 This latter brought the proprietress to the door, 
 when I was recognised at once ; and she lost no time 
 in descending from the van and taking me in her 
 arms, as though I had been some long lost prodigal son. 
 I was overwhelmed with kindness, and she would not 
 hear of my leaving her until I should see her husband, 
 who had gone on in front of the show to make the 
 necessary arrangements at the next halting town. 
 Nay, a special conveyance was ordered to be 
 
190 RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 
 
 prepared for me and my hostess, which should drive 
 us into the town in advance of the main body of 
 the cavalcade. When we found the proprietor, 
 he vied with his wife in doing me honour. I was 
 deeply affected by their hearty and spontaneous 
 marks of kindness. Though prodigal and effusive, 
 it was most sincere and hearty. It seemed to 
 open all the well-springs of my better nature, 
 which for some reason had been completely dried 
 up for the past two years. I appreciated it as I had 
 never appreciated anything before, and I agreed 
 to be their guest until we should reach Hulchester, 
 some weeks later. 
 
 " I was too good now to play in the band or to be 
 lodged in one of the caravans ; at least the pro- 
 prietress thought so, and rooms were accordingly 
 taken for me at the hoteL The personnel of the 
 show had almost entirely changed in the five years 
 since I had left it. The band had been entirely 
 remodelled, but not improved. The new bandmaster, 
 I soon discovered, was a drunken sot, and therefore 
 indolent and indifferent to his duties. He had at one 
 time been a good trumpeter and cornopean player, 
 but the muscles of the lips were now almost used up, 
 and his wind had become jerky and uncertain. His 
 drinking habits, moreover, carried with them the 
 further punishment — to wit, the contempt of those 
 under and about him. 
 
 " At the request of the proprietor, I took the band 
 in hand. The members looked up to me with respect 
 and admiration, on account of my friendship with the 
 " missus," and my foreign musical training. I could 
 do little, however, with the material I had taken in 
 hand ; in a short time, therefore, more than half 
 the men had been sacked, and new men appointed in 
 their places. This was the beginning of the renown 
 that band obtained and held for years all over the 
 rural towns of the United Kingdom. But I could 
 
RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 191 
 
 no longer lead the life of a showman. Not only were 
 the temptations to vice too great, but the life itself 
 was vicious and degrading. Apart from my occa- 
 sional spells of drinking — of which no one but myself 
 knew anything — my habits and principles were yet 
 unimpeachable. True, I loved to sport with and to 
 tease the girls, but I had sense enough to stop there. 
 I was still a Joseph, or what the Americans deno- 
 minate a ' Sissie ; ' but it soon became apparent to 
 me that I would leave more than the skirt of my 
 garment behind me if I continued in that life. It 
 was hard, however, to tear myself away from my 
 hosts, they were so good and kind. I was hence 
 prevailed to remain with it some months, to assist 
 the proprietress in putting the accounts straight, and 
 in adjusting things generally, in the absence of the 
 proprietor, who had gone on a lengthened tour in 
 quest of more wild animals and other novelties. In 
 fact, I was, during his absence, complete • boss of the 
 show ' — bossing the proprietress with the rest, be- 
 cause she liked to be 'bossed. 5 She would have 
 given me up half of the show or half of the profits 
 to have remained with her. She was a stout, un- 
 gainly, uncouth woman, but a woman of excellent 
 business capacity and of considerable force of cha- 
 racter. She was fond of good music, and nothing 
 charmed her more than to hear me read Scott's 
 novels. In a word, she was one of Nature's un- 
 polished jewels : would have commanded respect and 
 esteem in any position in life. 
 
 " I had, meanwhile, made a flying visit to Mrs Deer- 
 pin, and had what might be called a mixed reception. 
 She was pleased to see me, but was shocked when I 
 informed her that I was connected with a travelling" 
 show. In fact, she shed tears for me, and besought 
 me — for God's sake, for Jesus' sake, for her sake, and, 
 above all, for the sake of my never-dying soul — to 
 come out from amongst the unclean people. Mary, 
 
192 RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. 
 
 who had meanwhile developed into the full bloom of 
 maidenhood, and was most bewitching to look upon, 
 added her entreaties to those of her mother, and for 
 a moment I allowed myself almost to be persuaded. 
 But my sense of right and of common gratitude 
 reasserted themselves, and would not permit of my 
 deserting the proprietress of the show without first 
 giving her due notice of my intention. What strange 
 notions of right and wrong these over-religious people 
 get into their heads ! Mrs Deerpin would have re- 
 joiced if I had deserted my benefactress there and 
 then, even although my doing so would have wrought 
 the latter's ruin. Indeed, she went so far as to hint 
 that there would be joy in heaven over such an 
 event; and when, in answer, I told her that the 
 angels must be very easily pleased, and have precious 
 little to do if such a paltry and untoward event 
 could be so much to their liking, she fainted clean 
 away, or pretended to do so. I left her in that state, 
 and returned to the show. 
 
 " We shall draw a veil over most of the events of the 
 next six months of my life while I continued to ' boss ' 
 the wild beasts show. Though to the outside world I 
 was the very pink of propriety, I allowed myself to 
 engage in many transactions which my conscience did 
 not approve ; I need only specify inveterate gambling 
 as one, and that, too, with the money of my bene- 
 factors. It made no difference that I was successful, 
 and actually robbed nobody of a single penny. That 
 was purely accidental ; no thanks to me : my guilt 
 was the same as though I had lost everything. It was 
 a dreadful shock : in good truth, it so shattered my 
 moral sense that it has not recovered from it until this 
 day. Don't tell me that a man who gambles or in- 
 dulges in games of chance, of whatever kind, can be 
 a gentleman — I mean, an honest man ! As well tell 
 me that the sun shines by virtue of a borrowed 
 light. The man who gambles is a moral inverte- 
 
THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 193 
 
 brate ; precisely in the same condition as a woman 
 who has lost her virginity out of wedlock. He may 
 be reclaimed, but never purified. He is tainted, and 
 the blood of all the saints in the calendar can never 
 wash away the stain in this world. 
 
 " Such was the penalty and curse I had to pay for 
 rejecting the entreaties of Mrs Deerpin. I left the 
 show with no stain on my outward character, but 
 with a polluted soul. The business, however, had 
 prospered so amazingly under my management, that 
 when leaving I was forced to take five hundred pounds 
 as my rightful share of the enhanced profits. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 
 
 " I WAS most penitent when I returned to Mrs Deer- 
 pin, admitted that I had done wrong in disregarding 
 her counsel, and only pleaded in extenuation musical 
 enthusiasm and the waywardness of youth. 
 
 " Mrs Deerpin's circumstances had not materially 
 altered in the seven years, except that by hard work 
 and the strictest frugality she had managed to accumu- 
 late a little ready cash. I was again without occupa- 
 tion, and without what really could be called hope in 
 the world. I soon found myself, moreover, from 
 whatever cause, completely under the domination of 
 Mrs Deerpin. Away from her, my reason would act 
 in obedience to my will : near her, I could only act 
 and think as she directed me. It was not a question 
 of the physical senses, or of affection in the ordinary 
 acceptation of that term. It was simply a question of 
 mental domination on the one side, and of willing 
 
 N 
 
194 THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 
 
 obedience on the other. Had she ordered me to strip 
 myself naked in the middle of the street in broad 
 day, I should have done it. Had she said, ' Marry me,' 
 I should have obeyed. 
 
 " I have many times thought since that she exercised 
 this power over me unconsciously. At any rate, if she 
 did, it was not apparent. She never said, ' Do this, 
 do that/ but always, ' Will you do this or that ? ' And, 
 let me add, that she did not seek to put me through a 
 second spiritual process ; but whether she then be- 
 lieved I had found the pearl of great price, or was 
 given over irremediably to the Evil one, I could not 
 tell. She never .again made any special or pointed 
 reference to my soul ; but more of this anon. 
 
 " Three or four months glided past while I was in 
 this state of pure passivity. I got up in the morning, 
 and read and played and sang ; ate my meals, talked 
 about the weather, and went to bed again. I was 
 objectless ; I neither enjoyed life nor repined under it. 
 So long as Mrs Deerpin seemed to be satisfied, I was 
 satisfied. As for Mary, she did not know, I could see, 
 what to make of it. One night, when we had been 
 left alone in the parlour, she said to me, — 
 
 " ' What is the matter with my mother and you ? 
 You seem to have come to some secret understanding 
 never to oppose or contradict one another. You have 
 not been secretly married, have you ? ' 
 
 " ' No, Mary ; why should you think that ? You 
 have never seen anything happen between us to 
 suggest such a thing ? ' 
 
 " ' No ; but people will talk. Mrs Jones said in my 
 hearing last Sunday that it was strange a tall and 
 promising youth like you should hang so close to my 
 mother's apron-strings. You are altogether different 
 from what you used to be/ 
 
 " ' Yes, I know I am, Mary ; but you are well aware 
 that there is not the slightest ground for this spiteful 
 remark of Mrs Jones. You must tell your mother/ 
 
THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 195 
 
 " ' Indeed I will not. What would mother think if 
 I were even to suggest such a thing. You have no 
 conception how strictly I have been brought up. I 
 have never been allowed to go anywhere except my 
 mother was with me. I have never had the oppor- 
 tunity to speak privately with other girls, far less 
 young men, except yourself. To speak the truth I do 
 not know why you have been called a boy and I girl.' 
 
 "'Come, now, Mary, you seem to have learned a 
 great deal in these seven or eight years we have 
 been separated. My little sister, as she used to be, 
 would never have thought of putting such awkward 
 questions to her brother. What you have said, Mary, 
 is very immodest, and if you had repeated it to any 
 other man, young or old, it might have ruined you 
 for life.' 
 
 "'Oh, dear, what have I done? what have I said? 
 I have not told a lie!' she ejaculated, almost ready 
 to shed tears. 
 
 " ' Don't repeat it, Mary ; when you are going to o-et 
 married, your mother will tell you all about it.' 
 
 " ' What is it to get married— I mean after people 
 leave the church and enter upon housekeeping? I 
 know there is something that I have not been told ■ 
 do tell me ? ' 
 
 Mary/ I said sternly, ' you must cease asking me 
 such^ questions. It is most improper, most repre- 
 hensible, indeed, in a young lady. Never speak to 
 any one again as you have just done, except to your 
 mother.' 
 
 " Mary was by no means satisfied, I could plainly 
 see ; on the contrary, she was offended, and left me 
 to go into the kitchen. I had no reason to suspect 
 her of duplicity; nothing could have made me be- 
 lieve such a thing. I pitied her, and, at the same 
 time, felt annoyed. Should I inform her mother, so 
 as to save her from disgrace, and perhaps from ruin, 
 peradventure she might find the opportunity to ply 
 
196 THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 
 
 another with the same questions ? But how dare I 
 broach such a matter to Mrs Deerpin ? The very 
 thought of it made my blood run cold. Yet I must 
 do it for Mary's sake, if for nothing else. Poor, inno- 
 cent Mary, and yet so bewitchingly beautiful ! 
 
 " I did not find an opportunity for several days. I 
 continued to hang about Mrs Deerpin's apron-strings, 
 as though she had been my mother and I her big, 
 blubbering boy. She always seemed to be happy 
 and contented when I was near her, whether Mary 
 was in the room or not. 
 
 " One week night, when Mary was upstairs dressing 
 to go to chapel for some purpose, I found myself 
 sitting near Mrs Deerpin, who was sewing, with a 
 book in my hand. 
 
 " ' Mrs Deerpin/ I began, very timidly, ' I have 
 something that I would like to say to you, but — 
 but — ' I was so ashamed that I could not proceed, 
 and to my great astonishment, Mrs Deerpin began 
 suddenly to blush, and to seem even more confused 
 than I was. I, too, soon felt my face grow warm, 
 and my breath to come by fits and starts. Suddenly, 
 remembering a maxim of my master while in the 
 show business, that whenever one felt embarrassed, 
 or in want of a word, one had only to exclaim, 
 ' Jehoshaphat ' to put things right. ' Jeehoshaphat ! ' 
 I yelled. Mrs Deerpin sprang to her feet as if she 
 had been hoist with a petard." 
 
 I had proceeded thus far in writing to Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite's dictation, when the captain entered. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the latter, " I am sorry I cannot 
 form one of the party ; the weather is so thick, and 
 we are so near land, that my duty calls me to the 
 bridge. Continue, however, with your narrative, and 
 our friend here " — pointing to the writer — " will read 
 it to me when we get to land. I am glad to see you 
 looking so well, Mr Bigglethwaite ; the old dog for the 
 hard road, eh ? Adieu, until we reach Liverpool." 
 
THE SAINTLY WIDOW AGAIN. 197 
 
 This speech of the captain's seemed to act as a wet 
 blanket on Mr Bigglethwaite's humour, which, just 
 before the former entered, had taken a light and 
 sprightly turn. 
 
 "I am sorry you all seem to think I have been 
 shamming, but I cannot blame you, it is one of the 
 penalties I have had to pay all throughout my life ; 
 people will insist on misunderstanding me ; kindly 
 ffive me a little more of the doctor's medicine, to see 
 whether it will drive away these morbid feelings. 
 Oh, what an unfortunate wretch I have been ! " 
 
 I felt myself quite nonplussed by these remarks, 
 and arose from the table and administered the medi- 
 cine as requested, without making any remark. After 
 he had taken it, he requested to be left alone for an 
 hour to lie down and rest, and I accordingly took my 
 departure, wondering whether, in my absence, he 
 meant to turn on his nervous battery, as he had 
 threatened. 
 
 I felt most uncomfortable, and tried to see the 
 captain ; but as I found this to be impracticable, he 
 was so anxiously engaged on the bridge, I went in 
 search of the ship's surgeon, whom I found in his 
 cabin. When I explained to the latter the threats 
 that Mr Bigglethwaite had made about committing 
 suicide by a mere act of the will, he laughed at the 
 idea, and assured me it was a mere delusion, induced 
 by alcoholic mania ; " he was all right now." 
 
 When I returned to Mr Bigglethwaite in an hour, 
 I found he had shaken off his melancholy; he had 
 regained his good humour, and welcomed my en- 
 trance. Taking up my pen once more, he began, — 
 
198 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 " We left Mrs Deerpin hoist with a petard. 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' she exclaimed, fetching at the same time 
 an ocean-wave like breath, and placing her hands 
 upon her chest ; ' how you did frighten me ! Oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! I feel faint,' she continued ; whereupon I 
 sprang up to render her assistance. I was just in 
 time, for she fell into my arms as if in a swoon. 
 Mary had also been alarmed, and came rushing down- 
 stairs semi-deshabille to see what was the matter. 
 Poor Mary! In her anxiety to assist her mother, 
 she never once thought perhaps of what charms 
 she was exposing to the gaze of man's eyes. But 
 her mother was not slow to remark the awkward 
 predicament. She sprang out of my arms, and 
 screamed ' Mary ' louder than I had given voice to 
 * Jehoshaphat ' a minute before. Poets and painters 
 are said to catch waves of expression in the human 
 countenance, which accounts for their being able to 
 represent to the eye and mind pictures which are 
 at once so like and unlike anything in nature. I 
 caught this wave passing over Mary's face, simul- 
 taneous with the first consciousness of what her 
 mother meant by screaming out her name as she 
 had done. The human countenance — above all a 
 beautiful female countenance — is said to be divine; 
 but only at such flashes of time. A man could not 
 long look on such divinity as I beheld in the counten- 
 ance of Mary for that brief moment and live. It 
 cannot be conveyed to the mind; it has to be seen 
 by the naked eye. 
 
 " I have never known three people to be in such 
 a dilemma as we three were at that moment. It was 
 Mary's turn now to faint and fall into my arms as 
 
MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 199 
 
 her mother had done a minute before ; at sight of 
 which the latter, instead of coming to my relief, 
 flopped back into a chair, all ' peching,' as the Scotch 
 say. Here was a fine kettle of fish to be in. Mary 
 had really fainted ; there was no sham about it ; she 
 became as limp as a dish-clout. And as for me, 
 whether from excitement, emotion or passion, or all 
 three combined, I felt at one moment a sort of 
 darkness beginning to creep over my vision ; but, 
 fortunately, it passed away as suddenly as it came. 
 
 "I did not know what to do with my burden, 
 whether to lift it up or lay it down. I had, in very 
 truth, got a white elephant on my hands. I had 
 not yet been initiated into the mysteries of how to 
 treat females who go off into a swoon, or a pretended 
 swoon. Chapping their hands, pricking their heels 
 or the soles of their feet with a needle, or other 
 sharp instrument, throwing water over them, loosing 
 their corsets, etc., were facts in domestic science out- 
 side the domain of my observation and experience. 
 I could not analyse a fit or a swoon, but I could see 
 that, while Mary thus lay in my arms, both the colour 
 and expression of her face changed about as often as 
 Brewster's newly invented kaleidoscope. It was then 
 that I first realised the full force of the remark I had 
 often heard my mother and other women repeat, — 
 ' What a helpless creature a man was in a sick room, 
 especially where the patient was a woman.' I could 
 do nothing but sustain the limp burden in my arms, 
 and call to Mrs Deerpin for help. In the end I lifted 
 Mary up in my arms, carried her into the parlour, 
 and laid her lengthwise on the sofa. When I re- 
 turned to Mrs Deerpin she had regained her feet, 
 and, to my absolute amazement, wore an expression 
 on her face that gave me the idea a thunder-cloud 
 was about to burst. ' You silly fool/ she exclaimed, 
 and rushed past me into the room where I had laid 
 her daughter, leaving me standing bewildered. * And 
 
200 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 this is the woman/ I mused, 'that I have regarded 
 as being too " uplifted " and holy for this weary, 
 work-away world ; so like an angel ! What a simple, 
 blind fool I have been not to have discovered this 
 sooner. And she called me a silly fool ! Yes, she 
 is right ; but I shall play the fool no longer, at least 
 to her.' 
 
 " If ever I received a direct revelation from on high, 
 it was at that moment. I seemed to grasp the whole 
 purpose of a man's life as if by a flash. I was 
 changed from that very hour. Life was no longer 
 a dream : a happy autumn sunset : it was a reality, 
 an open book in which he that runs might read. I 
 felt strong, self-possessed, sobered. I now walked 
 leisurely towards the door, and, halting at the thres- 
 hold, said, in a self-assured tone, — ' Mrs Deerpin, 
 can I be of any assistance to you ? ' 
 
 " Mary was now sitting up, and her mother had 
 thrown a covering of some kind over her daughter's 
 previously exposed shoulders. But none of these 
 things could have now moved me, any more than 
 they would have done the most experienced physician. 
 Both gazed at me astonished, almost bewildered. 
 Money is, after all, a power. I suddenly remembered 
 that I was the possessor of several hundred pounds, 
 and felt all the elation of individual independence. 
 I did not once flinch the gaze of either, nor even 
 relax a muscle of my face. As I stood, I could see 
 the old expression of benignness, that meek, affected 
 saintliness, gradually returning to Mrs Deerpin's face. 
 I turned and walked away to avoid a scene, for, 
 assuredly, I would have fallen foul of Mrs Deerpin 
 for her hypocrisy had I remained. I had still some 
 compassion for Mary, particularly when I remembered 
 what she had told me in regard to her inexperience. 
 1 I should always shield and protect her if it were in 
 my power ; ' such was my inward resolve. 
 
 "That night I went to the theatre, and witnessed 
 
MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 201 
 
 a representation of . Hamlet. The character of the 
 gloomy, philosophic J)ane had always had a great 
 attraction for me. I looked upon him as a sort of 
 brother — in spirit. I sympathised with him in his 
 every sentiment and action, even in his treatment of 
 Ophelia. If he did not respond to her passion in the 
 manner she wished, that was her misfortune, not his 
 fault. He was made of other stuff. Mad ? No, un- 
 less it be the madness which distiuguishes the things 
 of the spirit from the things of the flesh. It is an old 
 story to say of a man who speaks as no other men 
 speak that he hath a devil. Any way, the represen- 
 tation of Hamlet that night gave the finishing tone 
 to my temper. Savage in act nor wicked in thought 
 have I never been, but I have often considered that it 
 would be well for the human race if one were at 
 liberty to rid one's self of bores and prudes in the off- 
 hand manner Polonius was despatched. Since that 
 night I have never thought and acted from impulse 
 or reasoned conviction like other people. I have, 
 therefore, earned the appellation of being eccentric — 
 a fool and a madman by turns. A fool for seeking to 
 grasp the eternal humanities ; a madman for regarding 
 all else as of little account. 
 
 " Next morning, at breakfast, I gave Mrs Deerpin 
 intimation that my visit to her would end in a few 
 days. She pretended to be greatly affected, and 
 pleaded with me to alter my determination. Mary 
 said little, but her looks spoke volumes. I could see 
 that she now regarded me with different eyes to what 
 she had done formerly. Had my holding her in my 
 arms awakened a feeling different from that of a 
 sister in her heart ? The very thought made me 
 wince. Would it be another case of Hamlet and 
 Ophelia ? Surely Heaven would be more merciful — 
 to Mary. Half-an-hour after breakfast, she entered 
 my room with duster in hand, a thing she had 
 never done before, while her mother went out to 
 
202 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 make a call — also something quite singular. As Mary 
 moved about from one object to another, my heart 
 yearned for her, not with fondness, but with compas- 
 sion. The thought occurred to me, ' Pity is akin to 
 love.' Not in my case, I was certain. I could not 
 love her person ; that niche in my heart had already 
 been filled by Lisa's form. But there was something 
 about her that attracted me. It was not her intelli- 
 gence, for she was only moderately intelligent. Was 
 it her comparatively helpless condition, the poor vic- 
 tim of a designing mother, who, I was now con- 
 vinced, was jealous of her daughter, and had brought 
 her up in such manner that she could never be her 
 rival ? 
 
 " I pretended to be reading, but my eyes only fol- 
 lowed the letters. I could see, at the same time, that 
 Mary was performing her dusting in the most eccen- 
 tric and perfunctory manner, and that her thoughts 
 were engrossed with some other subject. I was 
 charitable enough, however, to believe that she was 
 only concerned about losing a pleasant companion ; 
 and not only that, but also the ten shillings per week 
 I was paying for my board — a very great considera- 
 tion to such poorly genteel people. 
 
 " ' Mary,' I said to her at length, * you seem to be 
 pre-occupied with some great thought this morning ; 
 is it anything you can tell me? if so, perhaps I can 
 help you.' 
 
 " Her heart seemed to be too full for utterance, 
 and she suddenly became very pale. 
 
 " ' You don't appear to be very well this morning, 
 Mary,' said I, observing this ; ' you have not got over 
 the excitement of last night/ 
 
 " She essayed to answer, but the words appeared 
 to stick in her throat. I became very uneasy, and 
 dreaded a repetition of the scene of the previous 
 evening. 
 
 " ' Mary,' I said sharply, * you had better go to 
 
MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 203 
 
 your room ; do not let us have any more swooning or 
 fainting fits; if these occur any more, I shall leave 
 the house at once — instanter.' 
 
 " This had the desired effect. She sat down, and 
 her countenance soon began to assume its natural hue. 
 
 " ' Why are you going away to leave us ? Are you 
 angry with me for appearing as I did last night in 
 your presence ? I did not — ' and she stopped, and 
 made a gesture, as if she were about to burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " ' Mary ! ' I exclaimed, starting to my feet, ' if 
 there is to be any crying, I am off. I will not have 
 it,' uttered in an angry tone. 
 
 " A few tears came, but she was soon able to check 
 them, whereupon I sat down again. 
 
 " ' Tell me, Mary,' taking up speech, ' what is the 
 meaning of all this dusting this morning, and your 
 mother's going out so soon after breakfast ? This is 
 something altogether unusual for both of you. Why 
 did your mother send you in to pretend to dust the 
 room this morning ? What does it all mean ? ' 
 
 " ' You will not be angry with me, will you, if I tell 
 you ? ' looking at me with eyes that it would be im- 
 possible to describe. 
 
 " ' No, I will not be angry, Mary, you know that ; 
 tell me all about it.' 
 
 " ' Mother says that, after what happened last 
 night, you will have to marry me ; but I don't want 
 to marry. She has gone to consult a neighbour on 
 the subject.' 
 
 " ' Nonsense, Mary ; neither you nor I could help 
 what happened last night ; in any case, nothing hap- 
 pened that either of us need be ashamed of. Did 
 she tell you to ask me to marry you — really ? ' 
 
 " ■ No, she did not tell me that ; but she told me to 
 stay in the room dusting, to give you the chance to 
 ask me; and if you asked me, I was to say "No" at 
 first.' 
 
204 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 " ' Ah, that is interesting; and would you really say 
 "No," if I asked you?' 
 
 "'No — I mean, yes,' abruptly correcting herself. 
 
 " ? Explain yourself, Mary. Would you do as your 
 . mother has instructed you if I put such a question 
 to you ? ' 
 
 " ' I would have to do as my mother told me ; but, 
 at the same time, I would also do anything that you 
 would ask me,' she answered, quite ingenuously. 
 
 " We were here interrupted by the noise of Mrs 
 Deerpin entering, who was accompanied by some one, 
 as I could hear, but who spoke so low that I could 
 not distinguish the voice. The door of the room in 
 which Mary and I were was slightly ajar ; but Mrs 
 Deerpin had hardly entered when it was gently 
 closed from the outside. I did not regard this as 
 strange, concluding only that it was some customer 
 who had come to see her about some sewing. 
 
 " ' What do you mean, Mary, by saying that you 
 would do as I would ask you ? Has anybody been 
 putting evil thoughts into your head ? ' 
 
 " ' No; no one has spoken to me except my mother.' 
 
 " ' Did she tell you that you were to do as I asked 
 you, after you first answered me " No ? " 
 
 " ' Yes.' 
 
 " ' And what did she say she expected I would ask 
 you ?' 
 
 " ' She said that you would ask to kiss me.' 
 
 " ' Any more ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes ; and I was to let you.' 
 
 "'Oh, I understand,' I said musingly. 'But if I 
 did not ask you to marry me, what were you to do ?' 
 
 " ' I was to try to be ill — the same as I was last 
 night.' 
 
 " ' What ! was your illness last night shammed ? ' 
 
 " ' It was intended it should be so, but I was really 
 ill ; I did not know where I was for a long time.' 
 
 " ' How long were you to remain ill ? ' 
 
MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 205 
 
 " ' Until mother should come back.' 
 
 " At this point, Mrs Deerpin put her head in at the 
 door to say that she was going out again, but that it 
 would not be long before she was back — shutting the 
 door after her, and, as I could hear, turning the key- 
 in the lock. I paid no attention to the latter, know- 
 ing that I had another key in my pocket. When she 
 had gone, I said to Mary, — 
 
 " ' Mary, do you know that your mother has been 
 telling you to do that which is most dishonourable 
 and very wicked ? Do you know, further, that it 
 is now in my power to blast both her and your char- 
 acters for the rest of your lives ; to place you in such 
 a position that no one would speak to you — nay, that 
 every decent person would spurn you from them as if 
 you were filthy and unclean things ? ' 
 
 " ' But you would not do that with me, nor with 
 my mother either, for my sake, would you, David ? ' 
 bursting into tears at the same time, and making a 
 rush at me, as though she wanted to clasp me by the 
 neck. 
 
 " ' Stand off, Mary ; no more shamming/ pushing 
 her gently from me with both hands. ' Hypocritical 
 wretches, both of you.' 
 
 " 'The look of agony which these words called forth 
 in the countenance of Mary, her eyes swimming in 
 tears, convinced me at once that she was not acting 
 this time, whatever she may have been doing before.. 
 But my heart was steeled. 
 
 " ' Mary, I leave this house this minute.' She made 
 another attempt to seize me, but I kept her at arm's 
 length, exclaiming, ' Infamous, designing wretch ! ' 
 
 " ' Do not go away and leave me, David ; I will 
 die. Do anything you like with me, but take me 
 with you.' 
 
 " ' What ! take you with me ? never ! ' and started 
 to walk towards the door. Suddenly remembering, 
 just as I was about to put my key into the door, 
 
206 MRS DEERPIN HOIST WITH A PETARD. 
 
 that all my money was in the keeping of Mrs Deer- 
 pin, I paused. Mary, meanwhile, had thrown herself 
 upon the sofa, and was sobbing almost hysterically. 
 I had not a spark of sympathy for her now ; but my 
 money, my ducats ! 
 
 " ' Mary/ I said, in a softened tone, approaching 
 where she lay, ' dry up these tears and let us speak 
 this matter over, to see what it is best to do.' 
 
 " She suddenly became calm, and wiped away her 
 tears. I have said above that Mary was a bewitching 
 beauty, and so she was, for one in her sphere of 
 life, and of her class. But, at that moment, no 
 slimy viper could have appeared to me more hate- 
 ful. I had, however, now an important part to act, 
 and I disguised my feelings. 
 
 " * Tell me, Mary ; tell me truly, is all this your 
 mother's doing ? ' I asked, in a subdued tone. 
 
 " ' All, all her doing. I am only guilty to the extent 
 that I love you.' 
 
 " ' Well, well ; never mind that ; but love or no 
 love, will you do as I tell you ? ' 
 
 " ' Anything ! ' 
 
 " ' Well, it is a bargain ; but you must say nothing 
 to your mother, at any rate. Only say to her that 
 we are engaged to get married, and leave the rest 
 to me. Suppose we have some music now ? ' 
 
 " ' But you have not kissed me yet ? ' suggested 
 Mary, innocently. I turned and looked at her. I 
 noticed a singular expression in her eyes. The balls 
 appeared to dance through the half- closed eyelids, 
 and I could see a pink wave start from behind the 
 ears, and rapidly pass over the face, disappearing as 
 it seemed at the tip of the nose. I took no further 
 notice of the remark, but turned again and went 
 to unlock the door with the key which I had in my 
 pocket. In this, however, I was baffled; Mrs Deer- 
 pin had left the key in the door on the other side. 
 There was now no longer any question in my mind 
 
A WELCOME VISITOR 207 
 
 that Mrs Deerpin either did intend that I should 
 marry her daughter, or, failing that, hold on to my 
 money : at the same time, I had no misgivings as 
 to my own capacity and adroitness as to how to deal 
 with her. I possessed a splendid trump card in 
 Mary. I was convinced of her purity and innocence, 
 and I knew also that I possessed her M heart. 
 
 " ' We shall defer that, Mary, to a more appropriate 
 time; until after we are married, you know. To 
 kiss you just now, when we are quite alone, would 
 not be proper in a young lady who is engaged to 
 be married. We must now do as married people 
 do ; married people never kiss when alone : they do 
 that in public. Besides, you promised to do what 
 I told you.' 
 
 "Mary was satisfied with this, and we sat down 
 together at the piano. I did not play anything in 
 particular, but got hold of a theme upon which I 
 improvised in the direction my thoughts were run- 
 ning, while Mary sat and listened. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A WELCOME VISITOR. 
 
 Ten minutes later, perhaps, Mrs Deerpin entered, 
 and, to my surprise, she was accompanied by Lily; 
 who was no longer Lily Black, but Mrs Morgan, as I 
 soon discovered. I was delighted to meet her: and 
 I could see a tear start into the corner of her eye as 
 we shook hands, but whether a tear of gladness or 
 regret I was not able to determine. Lily's presence 
 broke down all the barriers which had been set up 
 between Mrs Deerpin and me. The latter had re- 
 
208 A WELCOME VISITOR. 
 
 assumed her Madonna expression of countenance ; 
 Mary was in maiden rapture ; while I ordered the 
 fatted calf to be killed, with all the dignity and 
 aplomb of a lord of the manor. 
 
 " In a little, I followed Mrs Deerpin into the kitchen, 
 and laying my hand upon her shoulder, placed my 
 mouth close to her ear, and whispered that Mary 
 and I had become engaged, but requested her not 
 to tell Mrs Morgan, my reasons for which I would 
 give later on. At this impartment Mrs Deerpin 
 almost fainted away, but, recovering, she took me 
 in her arms and kissed me, and assured me that 
 the dearest wish of her heart had been fulfilled ; 
 ending by saying that the Lord had heard her 
 prayer. 
 
 " ' Hypocrite ! ' was my inward comment, when 
 I turned to walk away from her. 
 
 " An hour later we were joined by Lily's husband, 
 a hulk of a farmer's son, whom nature had designed 
 for the plough-tail, and nothing else, but in many 
 respects a model husband. He was good-natured, and 
 had never taken the trouble, as he afterwards in- 
 formed me, to form opinions on anything; he left all 
 that to his wife, who, he naively informed me, was 
 well read. His wife had brought him to Hulchester 
 to be introduced to some of his relations there, so she 
 said, but after dinner she secretly imparted to me it 
 was principally to see me, for old acquaintance' sake. 
 
 " ' You little flirt ! ' I exclaimed, when she com- 
 municated this piece of information to me. 'Don't 
 you like your husband, Lily ? ' 
 
 " • No ; to be frank with you, I don't. He is too 
 pliable ; he does everything I want him ; he has no 
 mind of his own ; he never leaves my side, except 
 when at his work. I feel often that I could spit on 
 him.' 
 
 ' ' Oh, Lily ! I am so sorry. Eut why did you 
 marry him?' - - 
 
A WELCOME VISITOK. 209 
 
 " ' To spite Ena, who had been dangling with him 
 from the time you left. What a cunning minx that 
 Ena was. You thought that butter would not melt 
 in her mouth, like all the rest of the young men.' 
 
 " ' And what has happened to Ena, pray ? Is she 
 still unmarried ? How did you spite her by marry- 
 ing your husband V 
 
 " ' Now, one question at a time, David, and let me 
 first put one to you. Have you been making love to 
 Mary in your usual fashion ? If you have not, I can 
 see already that she is very much in love with you.' 
 
 "'I cannot help, as you know, Lily, admiring a 
 pretty girl. Don't you think she is pretty ? ' 
 
 "'Well, she is passable, but she will never suit you. 
 Her mother told me this morning that she will soon 
 have to undergo an operation.' 
 
 "'What!' I exclaimed eagerly, 'an operation! 
 What is the matter with her ? ' 
 
 "'lam not going to tell you ; you must ask your 
 future mother-in-law. Your married life is not likely 
 to prove any happier than mine.' 
 
 " ' Now, now, Lily, I can see you are making fun of 
 me. This was ever a favourite pastime of yours ; you 
 dearly love to tease. But let us drop the subject for 
 the present. Tell me how you spited Ena by marry- 
 ing your husband.' 
 
 "'A young man, a surveyor, came to reside in 
 the neighbourhood — a steam railway is to pass near 
 Bampton — and I walked out with him several times. 
 He also came to the house on Sundays to see me, and 
 he was very nice. What do you think Ena did? 
 She went and told him that I had been engaged to 
 you ; that you had been put in jail for stealing, and 
 many other things, and she took him away from me. 
 When I saw this, I became very pleasant with Jack, 
 my husband, and I made him propose to me before a 
 month, and so we got married. But what do you 
 think happened to Ena ? Her charming surveyor 
 
 o 
 
210 A WELCOME VISITOR. 
 
 soon afterwards left the neighbourhood, and nobody 
 knows where he has gone to, while Ena, like Jessie 
 Armstrong, is a mother.' 
 
 " ' You surprise me, Mrs Morgan — I mean Lily ' (she 
 would not allow me to address her as Mrs Morgan) ; 
 - Ena, the innocent, the amiable, the snow-white, pure 
 Ena, a mother, and she not married ! I am amazed. 
 She told me she loved me, and could not love any one 
 else.' 
 
 " ' You are not the only one she has told that to. 
 What a lot of fools you men are.' 
 
 " ' What about your husband, Lily ? It was too 
 bad to fool him into marrying you, merely to spite 
 Ena. Who has been fooled the more — he or you ? ' 
 
 " This conversation took place on a seat in the 
 garden, while Mary had been showing Mr Morgan her 
 flowers, and explaining to him their scientific nomen- 
 clature ; and when it had reached this point, we were 
 joined by the latter. As we walked into the house, 
 in answer to a summons of Mrs Deerpin, that tea was 
 ready, Lily had only time to say to me further, that 
 her husband was as kind to her as husband could be, 
 according to his means and ability; but, though he 
 was a strong- looking man, he was anything but 
 strong ; there was consumption in his family, and she 
 was afraid he would not live long. 
 
SAGE EEFLECTIONS. 211 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SAGE REFLECTIONS. 
 
 "That night, as I lay in bed awake, I revolved all 
 these things in my mind. Here was Mrs Deerpin, a 
 consummate hypocrite, who had me fairly in the toils. 
 She was in possession of my money; and, notwith- 
 standing all her protestations, an inward monitor told 
 me that she would never let Mary marry me. She 
 had once more proved false by informing Mrs Morgan 
 that I was engaged to be married to Mary ; but what 
 did the intimation about a surgical operation import ? 
 Was this a ruse to divert my attentions from her 
 daughter to herself ; or did she mean to inveigle me 
 into a marriage with her daughter, well knowing all 
 the time that her daughter was physically incom- 
 petent to enter into such a state ? I had heard of 
 such things. One thing, however, was clear, I thought; 
 she meant to stick to my money. She was still a 
 handsome woman ; and, but for the accident of Mary, 
 might have passed for a lady of thirty or thirty- 
 five. Perhaps Mary was not her daughter at all; just 
 as I had discovered, only two days before, that her 
 father was not Mrs Deerpin's late husband, but that 
 she was the daughter of a former husband, to whom 
 Mrs Deerpin had been married when she was little 
 more than a child. Why had this fact been concealed 
 from me until now — now, when 1 was the possessor of 
 over five hundred pounds, and fully equipped for 
 pushing my way in the world, both by reason of 
 education and natural acquirements? When a woman 
 could play the hypocrite so well in respect of the 
 future welfare of her soul, what would she not do 
 to gain any worldly end ? I resolved, there and 
 then, to fly-blister her religious side by assuming 
 the role of atheist and heretic. 
 
212 SAGE KEFLECTIONS. 
 
 " Then, as to Mary, though I had nothing to find 
 fault with in her disposition, intelligence, and temper, 
 I could not fall in love with her person. I looked 
 upon it in the same light as that of a sister; it was 
 an object, I felt sure, I could never bring myself to 
 defile, unless, like her mother, she was playing the 
 hypocrite, which, I was certain, she was not. In 
 regard to Mrs Deerpin herself, indeed, before she 
 revealed her hypocritical side, I had the same respect 
 for her ; now, I loathed her person as I would that 
 of a prostitute. I loved the body of one person 
 only, and that was Lisa's." 
 
 Here I interposed. " You do not expect me to 
 put all this in print. To say the least, it is not 
 customary, even in French novels, to distinguish 
 between the body and mind of a woman. A woman 
 is not supposed to have any body, further than those 
 parts of it which she exposes to the world. She is 
 all soul, poetry, plumage ; a sort of superior parrot and 
 canary-bird joined into one; an inimitable clothes- 
 pin, a jeweller's shop, and all that; but you must 
 not say that she has a body — ' flesh and bones as ye 
 see me have.' " 
 
 " That is well put in," answered Mr Bigglethwaite, 
 grinning; "you have anticipated what I was going 
 to say. I mean society would have us believe that 
 this is the whole of a woman's entity, the end for 
 which she has been sent into the world. But it is 
 far otherwise. Man is born of a woman; she is 
 the creative force of all that is great in this world ; 
 that is her mission; all else is mere 'leather and 
 prunella.' We do not love mother-earth as earth, 
 but for that which she produces." 
 
 " Excuse me," I again interrupted ; " you seem to 
 be rushing to the other extreme. You do not deny 
 mind to a woman ? " 
 
 " No ; but what I mean to convey is, that that 
 which most distinguishes woman is body, not mind ; 
 
SAGE REFLECTIONS. 213 
 
 whereas what is called society would have us be- 
 lieve that she is all soul and no body. Fie upon 
 society! Our manners are but a mask we wear. 
 The true woman is not deceived by them. She 
 recognises her mission, and accepts it cheerfully. 
 She is a mind producer. A race of philosophic and 
 scientific mothers is an impossibility. Blue-stockings, 
 like mules, do not reproduce their kind. Motherhood 
 and mind-creativeness are mutually destructive. 'Tis 
 mind that makes the man, body the woman. When, 
 therefore, you hear a man declare that he would 
 be ready to die for a woman, put it down that it 
 is her body he craves after, not her soul. 
 
 " On that same night I thought of Ena. Another 
 of my idols smashed ! Also of Lily, and what she 
 had said of her husband. She despised him, and 
 hoped he would soon die of consumption ; for this 
 is what her language implied. This happily brings 
 out the difference between a woman's and a man's 
 love. A well-conditioned woman prizes what is 
 greatest in man — mind. If left to herself, all other 
 things being equal, she will not fall in love with 
 a fool. It is this which makes a woman's love, 
 in a sense, more noble, more pure than the love of 
 man for woman. The difference in the object con- 
 stitutes the difference in the thing itself; and where 
 such a combination meets in a prudent pair, the 
 highest law in nature has been fulfilled. 
 
 " When I appeared at breakfast next morning, I 
 had thus determined on my line of action. It had 
 been Mrs Deerpin's custom to say grace before and 
 after meat, and always to use the same form of 
 words. I made my first attack here. When she 
 had finished this morning, I suggested that hereafter 
 she might dispense with this formula, when we were 
 by ourselves, at least, as we all knew it by heart. 
 We would each take it for said. She yielded the 
 point without hardly any protest. In the evening 
 
214 SAGE REFLECTIONS. 
 
 I asked to be excused from being present at tbe 
 usual family devotions, on the ground that I should 
 like to attend a concert that was to be given in the 
 town, and invited Mary to accompany me. My in- 
 vitation was accepted, and when we returned, Mrs 
 Deerpin had already retired. On the following night, 
 I objected boldly to these devotions altogether, giving 
 as my reason that, when I was married to Mary, and 
 continued to live with them, it would be my place 
 to take the leading part, and this I was disinclined to. 
 A discussion ensued, and in the end I had my 
 own way. From that day all formal worship was 
 banished from the house. On Sunday I asked Mary 
 to go with me to church instead of to chapel. This 
 point, too, I carried. In a word, in a week's time 
 religion and religious subjects were completely ban- 
 ished from the house of the once pious widow; 
 and three weeks later she had severed all connection 
 with the chapel. I was now satisfied that her piety 
 had been all a sham. 
 
 " Finding mother and daughter so pliable and 
 plastic, I was at a loss how next to proceed. My 
 money I wanted, but I had not the courage to ask 
 for it. I had made up my mind that, if I could not 
 procure it unless by marrying Mary, I would take 
 care to marry Lisa first. 
 
 " Love-making between Mary and me did not 
 proceed apace. I treated her as I would have my 
 sister — just as I had always done. She became 
 by turns fretful and languishing, but I took care 
 never to be left alone with her. I prosecuted 
 the study of the piano and the cultivation of my 
 voice, and I would on no account allow her to be 
 present at such times. I was in no hurry to settle 
 down to any fixed occupation. I had refused the 
 position of organist on the ground that it was my 
 intention to proceed to the Continent to pursue my 
 studies there for another year. 
 
SAGE REFLECTIONS. 215 
 
 "As Mrs Deerpin, who was graciousness itself, 
 did not make any objection to this proposal, nor 
 make any move to force on the marriage, I began to 
 think I had been wronging her ; that the suspicions 
 I had entertained of her wicked schemes were base- 
 less. I could not conceal from myself, however, 
 that she was a consummate actress. Hardly a day 
 passed on which I did not see several examples of 
 this. 
 
 " Many days had not passed when Mary one 
 morning entered my room dissolved in tears. 
 
 * ' What is the matter, Mary? have you quarrelled 
 with your mother?' and I attempted to soothe her, 
 good, innocent soul that she was. 
 
 " ' She says I am not her daughter at all, but the 
 child of her twin sister, and that I shall have to go 
 home to my real mother,' said Mary sobbing. 
 
 " I regarded this as a ruse — an attempt to force 
 my hand, and I replied, — 
 
 "'She is only trying to frighten you, Mary, for 
 some disobedience. Don't cry any more about it. 
 It does not matter whose child you are, you are 
 a good girl all the same. I shall see her on the 
 subject, and put matters right for you.' 
 
 " I did not, however, go immediately in quest of 
 Mrs Deerpin. I wanted to think the matter out, to 
 see whether I could divine her purpose. At dinner 
 time I made no mention of it, and so several days 
 passed away without the question being revived. 
 Meanwhile, I became more demonstrative in my 
 regards for and attentions to Mary, which pleased 
 her much, while I could also see that this exasper- 
 ated Mrs Deerpin. I, too, was becoming an actor, 
 to the extent at least of disguising my thoughts 
 and intentions. 
 
216 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 " One morning I was awoke by hearing a com- 
 motion in the house, the tread of strange feet, and 
 the sound of Mary's voice weeping bitterly, but it 
 soon ceased. At breakfast the latter did not appear, 
 but I made no remark as to her absence, for it some- 
 times happened that she had to go out to take back 
 work or fetch it from the warehouse by which they 
 were employed, though latterly they had been doing 
 very little sewing. I could not help remarking, 
 however, that Mrs Deerpin was more smartly dressed 
 and more effusive than usual. Not to be outdone in 
 politeness, I, too, laid myself out to be as enter- 
 taining as I could. I tried to be witty and learned 
 by turns, while on her part she affected to be coy 
 and delighted. After breakfast I went a-fishing, 
 and did not return until late in the evening. I had 
 been tolerably successful, and I found Mrs Deerpin 
 waiting for me, as well as a nice supper, which she had 
 prepared. She had even provided some beer for me 
 — the first time I had known her place any intoxi- 
 cant on the table. She praised me for my skill 
 as a fisherman, laughed at my slightest attempt at 
 a pun, and looked languishing at times. When we 
 rose to retire to our respective rooms, she held out 
 her cheek for me to kiss, as she had been accus- 
 tomed to do when I had first lodged with her. 
 I accepted the inevitable, and heightened the 
 effect of it by remarking that it seemed like old 
 times. 
 
 " I went straight to bed, but not to sleep. Every- 
 thing seemed plain to me now. Mary had been 
 sent away, and the mother intended to capture 
 me. If my money had not been in her keeping, I 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 217 
 
 would soon have put an end to her scheming. 
 Nevertheless, by her conduct she had cleared the 
 ground to this extent : Mary was no longer a factor 
 in the problem I had to solve. Before falling asleep, 
 I resolved to have my revenge, and the plain road 
 to this was to humour and toy with the old girl — 
 lead her out. 
 
 "Hearing her near my own door, next morn- 
 ing, before I was up, I called out that I wanted 
 to speak to her. She was again got up with un- 
 usual care, and was wreathed in smiles. When I 
 explained to her that I felt tired, and would not 
 appear at breakfast, she at once offered to provide 
 me with my breakfast in bed — just what I expected. 
 I could not help sniggering and laughing to myself 
 when she had gone. The only question I had now 
 to settle was whether she intended me to propose 
 marriage to her — her pension would cease with her 
 marriage — or whether she was planning a liaison. 
 Both were about equally repulsive to my feelings. 
 
 " When she returned with my breakfast on a tray, 
 which consisted of some of the fresh-water trout I 
 had caught on the previous day, nicely cooked, to- 
 gether with steaming fresh coffee and buttered toast, 
 she placed it on the table beside the bed, and sat 
 down near it to do the honours. This was the first 
 time in my life I had ever been honoured in this 
 way, and I must confess it felt ' good,' as the Ameri- 
 cans say. We chatted and jested on various sub- 
 jects, and she even volunteered the information that 
 this was the way she was accustomed to treat the 
 dear departed Deerpin. 
 
 " ' What a happy man he must have been,' I sug- 
 gested ; ' what a pity he died so soon. You will 
 never meet his like again, perhaps.' 
 
 " ' Yes, he was a good husband,' and she began to sob, 
 
 " * Do not cry, Mrs Deerpin ; crying will not bring 
 him back. You are still young, and, what is better, 
 
218 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 beautiful to look upon. There are as good fish in 
 the sea, you know, as ever came out of it.' 
 
 " I had struck the proper chord ; she smiled in the 
 midst of her tears. 
 
 " ' Who would marry a poor woman like me, even 
 although I was what you say, still young and beauti- 
 ful ? Excuse me for reverting to my late husband 
 again. The last words he said to me were, showing 
 his kindness of heart, " Jemima, do not mourn for 
 me long, and, above all, do not remain single for my 
 sake." ' 
 
 " ' How considerate in him ; it is not every hus- 
 band who would have done this.' 
 
 " ' No, indeed ; they, as a rule, only think of them- 
 selves, and never consider how their poor widows 
 are to live after they are gone.' 
 
 "'Yes, Mrs Deerpin, this is, unfortunately, too 
 true. How long has your husband been dead? ' 
 
 " ' He has been dead more than seven years.' 
 
 " ' And you have never had another offer of mar- 
 riage in all that time 1 I wonder at this.' 
 
 " £ Ob, I have had several offers ; but none which 
 suited me exactly. The man that 1 marry must not 
 only be a man I can respect, but also one that I can 
 love.' 
 
 " ' Quite right, Mrs Deerpin, quite right. Where 
 there is no love there can be no happiness. Have 
 you not often wished that you had had a son, who, 
 to some extent, would have filled the place of his 
 father % ' 
 
 "'Perhaps it is better that things are as they are. 
 You see, I have no encumbrances.' 
 
 " ' You are forgetting Mary, although it is hardly 
 fair to describe her as an encumbrance.' 
 
 " ' Indeed, she has been a great encumbrance, but 
 I have now got freed from it at last.' 
 
 " ' What ! Mary ! My future wife ! Do you mean 
 to tell me you have sent her away? Where are 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 219 
 
 my — • and I made a movement as though I would 
 leap from the bed. 
 
 " Mrs Deerpin sprang to her feet, with a scream, 
 and, placing her apron in front of her face, ran out 
 of the room, banging the door after her. As for 
 me, I lay back in bed, and almost exploded with 
 suppressed laughter. 
 
 " ' How you did frighten me when you threatened 
 to spring out of bed this morning. I have not 
 quite recovered from it yet/ she remarked, when I 
 entered the sitting-room, dressed, not long after. 
 I pretended to be very much annoyed, ready to 
 tear my hair out by the roots, in fact ; but, actually, 
 it was with the greatest difficulty I could keep from 
 laughing. 
 
 " ' Where has Mary gone? ' I demanded to know ; 
 'I must not lose an hour in trying to find her. 
 What would my life be now without Mary, dear 
 Mary ! Mrs Deerpin, you are cruel/ 
 
 " ' You will think otherwise when you know the 
 whole truth. Sit down, and 1 will tell you all 
 about it.' 
 
 " ' No ; I cannot wait. Where is she i I must 
 find her.' 
 
 " I could not proceed further. I had a fit of vio- 
 lent coughing, but which was in reality only sup- 
 pressed laughter, and took the opportunity to seek 
 again my room. 
 
 " I had now time for a little quiet reflection. I 
 began to ask myself the question whether the 
 course I was pursuing with this widow woman, 
 hypocritical and worldly though she was, was, after 
 all, one that could commend itself to my conscience 
 or higher reason. By the laws of society, she stood 
 condemned ; revenge or punishment being of the 
 essence of man-made law. She had proved herself 
 deceitful, untruthful, unscrupulous and vindictive. 
 She had not hesitated to sacrifice the future of one 
 
220 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 whom she had made the world believe was her 
 daughter for the gratification of her own personal 
 ends, if not to say grosser passions. But it was yet 
 to be made clear and unmistakable whether the con- 
 dition of yielding up to me my money, which had 
 been placed in her keeping, was my offering her 
 marriage. There was no sacrifice I would not make 
 rather than that. The very thought of occupying 
 the same room at night with such a woman rilled 
 me with the most acute loathing. But was I blame- 
 less ? Had not I promised her daughter marriage, 
 with uot the least intention of carrying out my 
 promise % This being so, ought I not rather to feel 
 grateful to her for relieving me from such a false 
 position ? To speak the truth, I was, to some ex- 
 tent, grateful to her. It would have been a terrible 
 wrench to my feelings to desert Mary as soon as I 
 had regained possession of my money. Mrs Deer- 
 pin had thus cleared the field for me. She had 
 broken off that engagement, while I had not yet 
 become entangled with her. Would I make the 
 plunge, or simply ask her for my money, and take 
 my departure if refused ? The only alternative 
 to this was to toy with her affections, and enter 
 upon a regular course of lying and deceit, and, hav- 
 ing gained my object, throw her back on society 
 as a discredited person. This latter was almost as 
 abhorrent to me as was the thought of being linked 
 to her in the bonds of matrimony. Though I 
 was equipped with one of the most essential attri- 
 butes of a liar — namely, a good memory — I yet hesi- 
 tated to entertain the idea. Whatever diplomatists 
 and lawyers may say, there is a real pleasure in 
 being in a position always to speak the truth. For 
 this reason, I have never been able to understand 
 what enjoyment diplomatists and lawyers, especi- 
 ally the latter, could find in life, when the highest 
 object aimed at in either of these professions — the 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 221 
 
 latter almost exclusively — is to give the principle 
 of evil, otherwise called the devil, as fair a chance 
 in this world as the opposing principle — the good. 
 How much lying is inseparably necessary to this? 
 I was not given the opportunity to come to a de- 
 cision one way or the other; I had to answer a 
 knock at the door. 
 
 "'Mrs Deerpin/ said I to the intruder, with all 
 the earnestness I could command, ' I must really 
 know where Mary has gone to ; I will leave your 
 house immediately if you don't tell me. I could not 
 have believed that you could act so cruelly to your 
 own flesh and blood.' 
 
 - " ' Well, well, don't be so impatient, and I will tell 
 you all about it; sit down,' answered she, in her 
 most seraphic tones. And I sat down with apparent 
 reluctance. 
 
 " ' You ought to be thankful that I have saved 
 you from an alliance with my daughter, as you 
 insist on calling her, though I have already told you 
 that she is not my daughter. I have never had a 
 child of my own, which was one of the greatest 
 griefs of my late husband. Indeed, his exceeding 
 anxiety to have a child hastened, I believe, his end.' 
 
 " ' It is very sad, Mrs Deerpin, very sad,' answered 
 I, ironically ; ' but you have not yet told me about 
 Mary. I am most impatient to know all about her.' 
 
 " s She has gone to live with her own mother, the 
 sly, ungrateful minx.' 
 
 " ' Mary sly and ungrateful ! I will not believe it. 
 She is as innocent and artless as a child,' I said, 
 with feigned temper. 
 
 " ' Yes ; that is all you know. You are not the 
 first man she has imposed upon. In the last five 
 years she has so compromised me that I have now 
 hardly a friend left. She is just like her mother. 
 Mrs Deerpin uttered all this in a quiet, thoughtful 
 manner, and the effect produced upon me inwardly 
 
222 DISAPPEARANCE OP MARY. 
 
 was disconcerting ; but I disguised my emotion, and 
 replied, — 
 
 " 'Mrs Deerpin, I am sorry to hear you speak thus 
 of Mary, than whom, 1 believed, no more simple, 
 purer-minded girl ever lived. And you must not 
 take it amiss if I say that I am still not quite con- 
 vinced. Mary is not capable of what you impute 
 to her, and I refuse to listen to you further in regard 
 to her wrong-doing. All I ask of you is to give me 
 her address, and I shall find out the rest for myself.' 
 
 " The widow was hardly prepared for such an ex- 
 pression of opinion on my part, while I fancied I 
 saw lurking in the corners of her half-cast-down 
 eyes, the evil spirit itself. In my heart I said, — 
 ' You lying, deceitful, designing wretch.' Making 
 no answer, and while she was preparing, as I could 
 see, a flood of tears, I rose to my feet and anticipated 
 the outburst. 
 
 " ' Mrs Deerpin,' said I firmly, * I will have no 
 feminine arguments of that sort; and if you persist 
 in crying or in attempting to get up a scene, I shall 
 leave you at once. I have asked you a simple 
 question, " Where is Mary V I must know.' 
 
 " s What is the matter with you now, David ? I 
 cannot understand you. You have not been in the 
 habit of treating me thus. That wicked girl has 
 poisoned your mind against me, just as she has done 
 that of many others. But she will never have the 
 opportunity to repeat it. It will never be your pri- 
 vilege to see her again. You will regret what you 
 have said to me this morning if you do not at once 
 retract.' 
 
 " During the delivery of the last three or four 
 sentences of this speech, I could see the Madonna- 
 like expression of her countenance gradually give 
 way to a look of fiendish resolution and temper ; but 
 she remained quite self-possessed. I removed my 
 gaze from her, and walked towards the window, out 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 223 
 
 of which I looked, to witness the rain falling. I 
 expected that she would leave the room, but she did 
 not budge. 
 
 " My thoughts chased each other with lightning 
 speed, but none of them would stay long enough 
 before my heated imagination to get welded into 
 shape. At one moment I thought of defending 
 Mary, and by iteration of my undying attachment 
 for her, provoke Mrs Deerpin into making some 
 admissions. At another, of attacking her personally 
 for her baseness and hypocrisy ; but this meant the 
 loss of my money. Again, of continuing to flatter and 
 to wheedle her, which was manifestly her most vulner- 
 able side ; but I could not make up my mind. 
 
 "Turning round, I expressed surprise at seeing 
 her still in the room. 
 
 " ' Why, Mrs Deerpin, I thought you had left me 
 alone to nurse my peevish temper? Let us postpone 
 this discussion till a more convenient season.' I 
 spoke quite at random. As I looked at her, the 
 fiendish veil seemed to pass from her face, in the 
 manner I had seen a dark cloud pass from the face 
 of the moon; 1 mean, the transformation seemed 
 gradual, not electrical. It appeared to pass up the 
 face vertically, and to lose itself in the hair, and to 
 leave nothing behind it for an instant but a single 
 colour — uncommon paleness. Gradually, however, 
 I could see a variegated wave start from the corners 
 of the mouth, and in less time than you can draw 
 breath, it had passed over the whole face. Pity it 
 is that one cannot photograph such impressions; 
 language is useless for the purpose. I had now 
 before me a picture of coy middle-age, and, as a 
 picture only, by no means an unpleasing one. But 
 such is the rapidity of centred eye and mind that 
 the whole scene I have described could not have 
 taken more than a second to accomplish ; impres- 
 sions to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 
224 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 " ' David/ she answered in her smoothest tones, ' I 
 warned you about going back to that wild-beasts' 
 show. It has transformed your whole being.' 
 
 " I saw my chance, and chimed in at once with 
 the sentiment, — 
 
 " ' Yes, it has changed me, but I must try and 
 change back again. Suppose I return the five hun- 
 dred pounds I got from the show : I see plainly now 
 no good can come of it ; it can only prove another 
 Achan's treasure — accursed.' 
 
 " I had hit the nail straight on the head : Mrs 
 Deerpin was completely nonplussed, and could not 
 answer. Pursuing my advantage, I went on : — 
 
 " ' Mrs Deerpin, I am still young, and you, too, 
 are comparatively young. The world is before us : 
 let us put away the accursed thing.' 
 
 " Still no answer, except that her countenance 
 indicated great mental perturbation, wave following 
 wave in rapid succession. I walked up to her and 
 placed my hand upon her shoulder, as I had been 
 accustomed to do formerly. 
 
 " ' You do not answer, Mrs Deerpin,' I said kindly. 
 ' What is there in what I have suggested that 
 disturbs you ? Tell me.' 
 
 " Rising, she threw her arms round my neck, just 
 like a mother, and, burying her face in my bosom, 
 sobbed out : — 
 
 " ' David : you will never forgive me if 1 tell you/ 
 and she continued to sob and to cry. I did not seek 
 to break in upon her grief for a moment, as it 
 began to dawn upon me that I had been swindled, 
 and that Mary's disappearance might have something 
 to do with it. She had forced me to become en- 
 gaged to Mary, and marriage being impossible, for 
 the reasons she had hinted at, she had sent Mary 
 away with my money. I could believe anything of 
 her now ; but I made up my mind to act diplo- 
 matically, until I should know more, at least. 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 225 
 
 k i 
 
 You need not be afraid to tell me anything, 
 Mrs Deerpin : whatever may have gone amiss with 
 Mary, I know it cannot be your fault. You are my 
 second mother.' " This last clause I put in as a sort 
 of safeguard. ' Come, let me hear the worst/ and I 
 placed her, at the same time, gently down on the sofa, 
 and took a seat beside her. But she continued to 
 sob and to cry, refusing to be comforted, seeing 
 which I got up to leave the room, informing her, sym- 
 pathetically, that I would go and take a short walk 
 to give her time to recover herself, after which she 
 could tell me all about it. Closing the door after 
 me, I was about to pass into the kitchen to seek for 
 my hat — for I was accustomed to roam all over the 
 house, as if it had been the house of my mother. 
 On the threshold I picked up a letter which had 
 accidentally been dropped by some one, and was on 
 the point of returning with it to Mrs Deerpin, when I 
 discovered it was in Mary's handwriting. I put the 
 letter in my pocket and walked out of the house. 
 
 " The letter, addressed from Liverpool, was in 
 Mary's handwriting, and ran somewhat as follows : — 
 
 " ' Dear Mother, — I am returning home at once. 
 I will not be a party to deceive David in the manner 
 you suggest. It is bad enough that I should deceive 
 him as 1 have done. I pretended to him that I did 
 not know the difference between a boy and a girl, 
 and he believed rne. I am coming back to marry the 
 father of my child. This is my duty as a mother, not 
 only for the one born, but for the other unborn. I 
 will not be a party to this hypocritical plot any 
 longer. Give David back his money, and let him do 
 as he likes with it. If you do not, I will write to him, 
 and tell him where to find it. He will never marry 
 you. He has told me again and again that he looks 
 upon you as a mother— nothing more nor less. In 
 these circumstances, marriage is impossible. I will 
 wait only a week for an answer.' 
 
 P 
 
226 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 " This letter was signed, ' Your daughter, Mary.' 
 I will not seek to disguise the fact that this letter did 
 not stagger me. I was dumfounded, in fact. Here 
 was Mary an experienced woman of the world, while 
 all the time I had been esteeming her as a child in 
 her simplicity and innocence. I must, indeed, be a 
 bad judge of feminine character. But, at least, this 
 cleared up the mystery about the surgical operation. 
 Again, there was Mrs Deerpin plotting to rob me of 
 four hundred pounds of my money; the alternative 
 being marriage. What ought I to do? I had still 
 about one hundred and fifty pounds in my own 
 possession. Should I leave Mrs Deerpin's house 
 at once, and prosecute her at law for the money ; or 
 should I let her keep it % If I prosecuted her at law, 
 and succeeded, it simply meant the transference of 
 the money from Mrs Deerpin's pocket to that of some 
 solicitor, not to mine. That would be poor satisfac- 
 tion ; better let it remain where it was. Mrs Deerpin, 
 a poor woman, would, perhaps, never have another 
 opportunity to appropriate other people's money ; 
 the solicitor, as a matter of course, would find plenty 
 such opportunities. Should I see Mary? Now that 
 I knew everything, that could only lead to a dis- 
 agreeable scene. Would I be revenged on Mrs Deer- 
 pin for her duplicity and base hypocrisy in another 
 way than suing her at law ? Perhaps her tears had 
 not been altogether feigned ; Mary's letter may have 
 frightened her. I caught at the latter idea just as I 
 was about to re-enter the house. I would see the 
 matter out. 
 
 " ' Well, Mrs Deerpin, I am pleased to see you 
 better, and pray do not resume the disagreeable 
 subject to-night. You can tell me all about it at 
 some other time. How charming you look after 
 your tears ! Why, to people who do not know you 
 you would pass for a girl of five-and-twenty.' 
 
 " Such was the salutation with which I greeted her 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 227 
 
 on my return ; and in reply she affected one of her most 
 youthful smiles, but which had the effect of exposing 
 more wrinkles in her face than I had ever seen there 
 before. How my soul revolted at the sight of her ! 
 But I had a part to play. 
 
 " ' David, you always seem to bring sunshine with 
 you. I do not know what I should do without you. 
 You are all that I have in the world now;' this 
 passing sweetly. I had not yet taken a seat, and as I 
 walked about the room I could hear my teeth grind. 
 
 " ' You flatter me, Mrs Deerpin. The obligation is 
 all on your side. I would be less than human if I could 
 forget your kindness when I was a poor boy working 
 in the silk factory. How old are you, Mrs Deerpin 1 ?' 
 
 " ' Ahem ahee — ! Wh — wh — what makes you 
 
 ask that question, David ! ' she simpered out, smiling 
 her sweetest. 
 
 " ' I really do not know, Mrs Deerpin ; it was only 
 an idle thought that came into my head.' At this 
 moment I was standing in front of her, and she made 
 way for me to sit down beside her on the sofa with- 
 out being asked. I sat down. 
 
 " ' You have heard me say, Mrs Deerpin, that it- 
 was my intention to go abroad for another year, to 
 complete my musical studies. How would you like 
 to go with me t ' 
 
 " < Oh, it would be delightful ! Are you really in 
 earnest, David ? ' placing her hand upon my arm, and 
 looking up in my face with an eager smile. 
 
 " « You know, Mrs Deerpin, I never trifle with you. 
 I mean what I say.' Before I knew where I was, she 
 had locked me in her arms, and kissed me twice or 
 thrice on the cheek. A shiver passed through my 
 frame thereat as though I had been stung by a ser- 
 pent. Yet I managed to disguise my feelings. 
 
 " < Oh, David, I will be a good wife to you.' 
 
 " ' A wife, Mrs Deerpin ! ' I exclaimed astonished, 
 and drawing myself up and away from her. ' What 
 
228 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 do you mean ? ' She held down her head and made 
 no answer, and began to toy with the fringes of her 
 apron. I waited, without changing my position. 
 
 " ' 1 suppose you think I am too old/ she began, 
 after a long pause. I still waited, but without evinc- 
 ing any emotion one way or the other. ' How, then, 
 do you propose I should go with you abroad if not 
 as your wife % ' 
 
 " i As my friend and adopted mother,' I answered, 
 in a somewhat mollified tone of voice. 
 
 " ' But you told me just now, that to people who 
 did not known me, I would pass for five-and-twenty. 
 That would not do, David.' 
 
 " This subtle retort took me somewhat aback for a 
 moment. 
 
 " ' Yes, Mrs Deerpin, I did say so ; but I am not 
 one of those people, you know,' I managed to stumble 
 out at length, rather clumsily. 'And you are forget- 
 ting also that I am engaged to your daughter. What 
 would people here say if I threw over the daughter 
 and married the mother? ' 
 
 " ' I have told you already, David, that she is not 
 my daughter; it is wicked in you to persist in saying 
 she stands to me in that relation, when you know 
 she is my sister's daughter;' delivered with temper. 
 
 " ' Do not lose your temper, Mrs Deerpin. Did 
 not you lead me to believe all these years that she 
 was your daughter % ' 
 
 " ' But I could not help myself. I did it to shield 
 my sister's honour. Mary has known all along that 
 she was not my child ; though it is only lately that 
 she was told the whole truth.' 
 
 " ' That makes no difference, Mrs Deerpin. All 
 the Avorld believes she is your daughter, and you 
 cannot blame the world for it.' 
 
 " * Oh, David ! if you only knew her real history 
 and origin, you would despise her from the bottom 
 of your heart.' 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 229 
 
 " ' I don't know that I should, Mrs Deerpin. The 
 girl cannot help her origin ; and I would be the last 
 to blame her for the sins of her parents. Tell me 
 what she herself has done that is censurable. I will 
 listen to that ; but I refuse to hear anything about 
 the evil deeds of her parents. And let me suggest, 
 Mrs Deerpin, before you answer, that neither her 
 own misdeeds nor those of her parents can be very 
 heinous, or I should have heard of them in these 
 years. I have never heard the breath of scandal 
 raised against either. 5 I spoke seriously, as my 
 curiosity had for the moment gained the ascendency 
 of my judgment. 
 
 " ' I must subscribe to most of what you say, David 
 I took good care that nobody should know. But 
 you are different. I could not see you wronged.' 
 
 " < Why, then, did you send her into my room to 
 dust the other morning, with instructions not to 
 leave until I proposed to her ? ' 
 
 " ' I will tell you, David. I wanted to know 
 whether you preferred her to me. You know the 
 attentions you have paid to me ever since you came 
 back to us, until a few days before that event. Why 
 did you change so suddenly in your manner? ' 
 
 " ' Because our apparent intimacy was giving rise 
 to scandal ; but you know, Mrs Deerpin, that all my 
 relations with you have been purely filial. Mary 
 opened my eyes. She asked me one night if you and 
 I had been secretly married, and many other things.' 
 
 " ' Oh, the wicked creature ; and yet, after this, 
 you would not hear me speak a word against her.' 
 
 " ' No, I would not ; nor will I even now. The girl 
 was perfectly blameless in all that she said to me. 
 She spoke, in fact, out of the innocence of her heart.' 
 
 " * How blind men are to the failings of such of the 
 other sex as may strike their fancy. But if I only 
 were to open my mouth, as I before said, how differ- 
 ently you would regard her.' 
 
230 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 " ' Don't do it, then, Mrs Deerpin. Whether she is 
 or is not your child, it is not for you to speak against 
 her. You brought her up, and are therefore not free 
 from responsibility. But let us change the subject. 
 What about our continental trip % ' 
 
 " ' I could not go with you unless as your wife, 
 however much I might desire to see strange places.' 
 
 " ' Well, that is plain enough, and I suppose you 
 will expect as plain an answer. Much as I revere 
 and esteem you, I cannot think of you in the rela- 
 tion of wife, for the simple reason that I have always 
 regarded you in the light of a mother. The idea of 
 a boy marrying his mother is revolting.' 
 
 " ' You are not such a boy. You are five-and- 
 twenty.' 
 
 " ' True ; but how old are you 1 You must be at 
 least double my age.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! oh ! oh ! me fifty ! I am nearer thirty 
 than fifty.' 
 
 " ' Well, well, Mrs Deerpin — even so — it is not the 
 age I most object to. It is the feelings that have 
 been engendered in me through our long associations.' 
 
 " ' Now, David, you are only trying to vex me. 
 These feelings that seem to shock you would soon 
 wear off after we were married.' 
 
 " ' Perhaps so ; but I am not disposed to sweep 
 away the past for the sake of an uncertain future. 
 Why are you so anxious to get married, Mrs 
 Deerpin % ' 
 
 " This question staggered her ; and she could only 
 hang down her head. Pursuing my advantage, — 
 
 " ' You know, Mrs Deerpin, that even supposing we 
 were to get married, we would have to put away 
 the five hundred pounds I got from the "show" 
 business. You have told me that all money earned 
 in that way was accursed. What have you done 
 with the money? Is it in the bank?' 
 
 " Mrs Deerpin made no answer, but burst into 
 
DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 231 
 
 tears and made an attempt to rush into my arms. I 
 had anticipated such an episode, and so kept her at 
 arm's length. 
 
 " ' Stand off,' I said sternly ; ' I have had enough 
 of this. Where is the four hundred pounds I gave 
 you to keep for me I Answer me.' 
 
 " Her only response was more tears, and to sit 
 down on a chair and bury her face in her apron. I 
 stood and looked at her for a minute or two, without 
 moving or uttering a syllable, gazing at her intently. 
 Observing her peep over the corner of her apron 
 with one eye, to see what I was doing, my patience 
 gave way, and I pulled the apron violently from in 
 front of her face, exclaiming at the same time, — 
 
 " You lying reprobate; base, ungrateful, contempt- 
 ible wretch ; for two straws I would strangle you 
 where you sit.' 
 
 " When the apron was pulled from her face, I could 
 see that her crying was all sham ; there were no tears 
 in her eyes. This, added to the other provocations 
 I had received, so worked upon my temper that I 
 deemed it prudent to leave the house, for fear I 
 might lay violent hands on her. 
 
 "I went directly to the Liverpool Mail Coach 
 office, and booked for that town, and in less than 
 four hours I was standing in the presence of Mary. 
 Naturally the latter was greatly surprised to see me, 
 but there was no scene. She was living with a 
 distant relative of her late father, and I soon dis- 
 covered that the story as to her being a daughter of 
 Mrs Deerpin's sister was all a myth ; she had no 
 sister. After the usual greetings had been finished, 
 Mary and I were left alone. 
 
 " ' Mary, is that your letter % ' I began, producing the 
 document I had found on the floor, above alluded to. 
 
 " ' Yes, that is my letter ; and everything stated 
 therein is true,' she answered calmly. ' I suppose 
 you will for ever after this despise me ? ' 
 
232 DISAPPEARANCE OF MARY. 
 
 " ' That depends on circumstances, Mary. But let 
 me say this at the outset. If you act honourably in 
 the present emergency, I will bury the past and con- 
 tinue to be your friend.' 
 
 " * What would you have me do % ' she asked. 
 
 " ' Come home with me, and assist me to arrange 
 about getting away from your mother. Leave the 
 rest to me ; but be assured I will act generously by 
 you. Will you do this ! ' 
 
 " ' I will,' and so saying she left the room to pre- 
 pare for the journey to Hulchester. 
 
 " When she returned, she brought her child with 
 her, a plump, rosy little fellow of about three years 
 of age. 
 
 " ' Do you mean to take your boy back to Hul- 
 chester with you, Mary ? 
 
 " ' No, I do not ; no one there knows anything 
 about him ; he was born here, and he will remain 
 here/ was her response. 
 
 " I felt relieved at this, and expressed my grati- 
 tude by putting a five-pound note into his hand. 
 
 " When we had mounted the Hulchester coach, 
 she related to me the. particulars of her backsliding, 
 and of her behaviour towards me. The father of her 
 child was the son of Deacon Jones, and it was her 
 mother's anxiety to have her married that brought 
 about the catastrophe. The latter used to go out 
 and leave them alone in the house together for 
 hours. And in respect of me, every word that she 
 had uttered, and her every action, had been sug- 
 gested by her mother. It had at first been her 
 mother's intention to so compromise me that I would 
 have been obliged to marry her (Mary) ; but the 
 return of her sweetheart had disconcerted her 
 mother's plans. When the latter found that she 
 (Mary) had found a husband, the plan now was 
 either to do me out of my money, or to make me 
 marry Mrs Deerpin. 
 
DISAPPEAEANCE OF MARY. 233 
 
 Such, in brief, was the state of affairs I had to 
 face when I reached the residence of the ' saintly 
 Avidow ; ' but I had Mary's assurance that I should not 
 lose my money, and as to marrying her mother, she 
 knew, she said, that that was out of the question. 
 
 " When we entered the house the same night, we 
 found Mrs Deerpin in the kitchen. At sight of Mary, 
 she uttered a loud scream, as though she had seen a 
 ghost, and fell from her chair to the floor in a dead 
 faint. I believed the faint was real this time; ac- 
 cordingly, I left Mary to take care of her. Half an 
 hour later, mother and daughter entered my room 
 together, the former as pale as a sheet of paper. 
 
 "'Well, Mrs Deerpin, what have you got to say 
 for yourself now ? ' said I, taking up speech before 
 they had time to sit down. 
 
 " ' Let me answer for her,' interposed Mary in an 
 authoritative tone — a tone I had never before known 
 her to assume. ' Mother is sorry for what she has done, 
 and she humbly begs your pardon and forgiveness.' 
 
 " ' Mary, I can pardon, but I can never forgive her 
 for what she has done. What arrangements have 
 you come to in regard to my departure? ' 
 
 " ' To-morrow I shall hand you over your money; 
 it is banked, fortunately, in my name ; so that, 
 whether mother is agreeable or not, she shall not 
 hinder me from restoring to you what is your own.' 
 Then turning to her mother, she said : ' Mother, let 
 me say to you in presence of David that I am 
 ashamed of you, and that you have been the cause 
 of my ruin.' 
 
 (i This was a complete turnin g of the tables. Hitherto 
 Mrs Deerpin had always assumed centurion authority, 
 and Mary rendered willing obedience. Now, the 
 former stood as though she had just emerged from 
 the ducking pond, while the latter appeared as if she 
 had the power of life and death in her hand — looked 
 every inch a queen. 
 
234 THE END. 
 
 " It needs only to add that next day notice was 
 given to the bank that the four hundred pounds was 
 to be withdrawn; and in order to facilitate and hasten 
 the nuptials of Mary, I presented her with one hun- 
 dred pounds. Two weeks later I had the pleasure 
 of addressing her as Mrs Jones. As for Mrs Deerpin, 
 the only words I again addressed to her was on leav- 
 ing, when I said: 'Mrs Deerpin, accept fifty pounds 
 from me, as a recognition of your kindness to me 
 when I was a poor boy working in the silk factory ; 
 and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.' " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 AVhen Mr Bigglethwaite had finished dictating the 
 above, he was so utterly exhausted that he fell back 
 on the sofa, and panted for breath. The thought 
 occurred to me that he might have turned on his 
 mental battery, about which he had spoken so confi- 
 dently. Accordingly, I lost no time in running to 
 fetch the ship's surgeon. When the latter entered, 
 however, he soon revived. He explained that he 
 had only been seized with a fit of giddiness, and 
 asked the doctor whether he had administered 
 quinine to him ; for this drug, he said, always pro- 
 duced this effect upon his head. On being assured 
 in the negative, he seemed relieved. He then asked 
 for a little brandy and water, which the doctor 
 ordered not to be given him, and another scene 
 would have occurred, had not the captain oppor- 
 tunely made his appearance at the moment. When 
 the matter had been explained to the latter, he sup- 
 ported the ship's surgeon, as a matter of course, and 
 appealed to Mr Bigglethwaite not to embarrass him 
 
THE END. 235 
 
 in his position as commander of the vessel. At men- 
 tion of these last words, our hero at once made the 
 amende honorable, and submitted unconditionally to 
 the doctor's behests. To use a homely expression : he 
 took his medicine like a little lamb. That evening, 
 before midnight, our good ship was expected to reach 
 its destination, and so it came to pass. Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite, with my assistance, was able to disembark 
 the next morning, and his parting with the captain 
 and the other passengers, in particular with the lady 
 of musical notoriety, and the lady who said " tracts," 
 was most touching. We drove directly to a hotel, 
 intending to put up there for a few days until 
 Mr Bigglethwaite should have recovered sufficiently 
 to be able to undertake the journey to London. 
 In the afternoon I left him by himself in his bed- 
 room for two hours, to go and pay a final visit to 
 the captain. When I returned, I found Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite in bed, and beside the bed a table, on 
 which was placed a bottle of brandy, nearly half 
 empty. To my great alarm, he was almost black 
 in the face, his eyes rolling in their sockets as if 
 he were being suffocated. Hastily ringing the 
 bell, I seized the seemingly dying man by the arm, 
 and shook him with all my might. I soon had the 
 satisfaction of seeing him heave a deep breath, and 
 I persevered in this treatment until a doctor had 
 arrived. I at once communicated to the latter my 
 suspicions that the patient was trying to kill him- 
 self by holding his breath — an idea which the man 
 of medicine ridiculed as preposterous. The patient 
 continued to heave long breaths at intervals, while 
 the doctor stood by the bed feeling his pulse, listen- 
 ing to the beating of his heart, etc. I could see that 
 the latter was in a bewildered funk — utterly helpless 
 to do anything for the patient. 
 
 " Don't you see the man is suffocating from some 
 cause or other ? " said I to him sharply, my patience 
 
236 THE END. 
 
 giving way at length at his bewildered helplessness. 
 " Shake him up as I have been doing." 
 
 " No ; let him be quiet ; the man is dying. Nothing 
 can now save him ; the brandy has killed him." 
 
 " Mr Bigglethwaite," I called out, " remember your 
 promise to me not to commit self-murder." 
 
 Hearing these words, he relaxed his lips and 
 looked at me, and in a short time began to breathe 
 freely. In less than ten minutes the natural colour 
 had returned to his face, and I had the satisfaction 
 to hear him call me by name. All this time our son 
 of iEsculapius had been standing by the bed inactive, 
 looking as wise as an owl. In two hours Mr Biggle- 
 thwaite had recovered sufficiently to be able to 
 converse with me quite rationally, but he was so 
 weak that he could not lift his head. He complained 
 of a burning thirst in his mouth and throat, and I sat 
 by his bedside, administering table-spoonfuls of iced 
 water to him every two or three minutes. Arm 
 injections were again resorted to, but without any 
 apparent effect. Thus he continued until about ten 
 o'clock in the evening, when he expressed a desire 
 to see the captain and ship's surgeon. Leaving our 
 patient in charge of a porter and housemaid, I 
 hurriedly took a cab and drove to the docks in quest 
 of these two gentlemen, but was unsuccessful in 
 finding either. Wheu I returned to the hotel, I 
 could see that a great change had come over Mr 
 Bigglethwaite. In answer to my inquiry as to how 
 he felt, he simply whispered, " See to Davie and 
 my wee Jean." In another minute he was dead. 
 
 THE EN r D. 
 
[FIRS1 TIME IN ENGLISH] 
 
 THE CUCKOLD 
 
 BY 
 
 CH. PAUL DE KOCK 
 
 TRANSLATED BV 
 
 JOHN H. URQUBART 
 
 feonSon 
 MATHIESON & 0. 
 
CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THINGS WHICH OFTEN HAPPEN. 
 
 I was jusfc going to give up the paper I had been 
 reading in one of the newsrooms of the Boulevards, 
 when I heard a voice which I very well knew, before 
 its owner had even opened the shop door. 
 
 Turning round I saw my friend Belan, who, ac- 
 cording to his wont, was shouting as if he were 
 talking to deaf people, and managed to take up the 
 room of four, although he was slender, and so short 
 that he had been exempted from the conscription • 
 but Belan was continually working his arms about 
 and standing on the tips of his toes to make himself 
 look taller, and then he would throw his head back 
 and act exactly like a bear in a cage. 
 
 Belan saw me as soon as he had opened the door, 
 and rushed up to me, calling out : 
 
 ' My dear Blemont, I was looking for you, in fact 
 I have just come from your lodgings, and, as I was 
 told that very likely you would be here, I 
 
 c Pray don't talk so loud,' I said to Belan, whose 
 shrill accents were causing a revolution in the read- 
 ing room. ' Wait a mom, nt and I will be with 
 you.' 
 
 ' My dear friend, the fact is it is a matter of great 
 importance that I have to tell you of, and you will 
 see whether ' 
 
 ' Do hold your tongue ! Really, the people who 
 are reading the papers, and whom you are disturb- 
 
 B 
 
* THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ing, don't care the least about your affairs; they 
 certainly did not come here on your account.' 
 
 ■ Tou are quite right, but ' 
 
 ' Come along out.' 
 
 Saying this I took M. Belan by the arm and 
 -dragged him out of the reading room. 
 
 * Now, my dear fellow, you can talk, for you will 
 not disturb anybody on the Boulevards, but it will be 
 as well to lower your voice a little, for there is no 
 necessity of taking every passer-by into our confidence. 5 
 
 ' My dear friend, you say I am not to speak so 
 loud, but when anyone is in such a state of agitation 
 as I am, it is surely allowable to speak loud. It 
 relieves one's feelings. My God ! I wonder how it 
 will all end ! ' 
 
 6 1 say, Belan, you are making one quite nervous. 
 What is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Why, love, intrigue, woman — women are always 
 at the bottom of it. You know I stick to that.' 
 
 I could not help looking at the little man. He 
 certainly was not badly made in his own little style, 
 and many tall men could not show such calves as 
 his. But his face was so funny. His turned-up 
 nose, his eyebrows, which were too much arched, his 
 Tieart-sliaped mouth, and his great protruding eyes, 
 were altogether so comical that I could not conceive 
 i;hat he could possibly inspire love, for I could much 
 sooner imagine that an amiable and clever face 
 could do so ; but perhaps I do not understand any- 
 thing about it, for Belan passes for a man who has 
 plenty of love affairs, and, as he had just said, he 
 continually had some intrigue on hand. It is true 
 that he was rich, and money is a powerful auxiliary; 
 lor many men, who call themselves accomplished 
 seducers, owe their successes to it alone. 
 
 Belan saw that I was looking at him. Again he 
 stood on tiptoe, and said, in a tone of vexation, for 
 the little man soon gets vexed and irritated : 
 
THINGS WHICH OFTEN HAPPEN. O 
 
 * You seem to be surprised that it is the question 
 of a love intrigue. Are you surprised because I turn 
 somen's heads ? ' 
 
 ' No, my dear fellow ; I am only surprised that you 
 .-are in such a state of agitation, since, you are accus- 
 tomed to it.' 
 
 1 Oh ! but it is not aiways so serious as it is to-day. 
 Of course you know that I am on the most intimate 
 terms with Madame Montdidier ? ' 
 
 6 Upon my word I was not aware of it.' 
 
 ' What you, a roue, a seducer like myself, did not 
 ;know it?' 
 
 ' You are really doing me too much honour.' 
 
 ' Of course I have not told anybody, for I am dis- 
 cretion itself ! But those things are always known, 
 and generally it is only the husband who does not 
 notice them.' 
 
 ' Has he noticed it this time 9 ' 
 
 ' Just listen. Montdidier, according to what his 
 wife says, is hot headed, and even brutal ; and, be- 
 sides that, horribly jealous.' 
 
 ' All that will not prevent his being a .' 
 
 ' No, it never prevents ; on the contrary, it gives 
 an inclination to make him one. But you will 
 acknowledge that precaution and prudence were 
 doubly necessary. He is not one of those complai- 
 sant husbands who forestall your desires and are 
 continually asking you to accompany their wives 
 and to go with them to the theatre, or accompany 
 ihem for a walk ; one of those husbands, in fact, 
 who seem to say to you : " Cuckold me ; I should 
 rather like it." ' 
 
 ' There certainly are some like that.' 
 
 ' It was a matter of deceiving an Argu?, an 
 Othello ; it was incessantly necessary to invent some 
 stratagem. Luckily, I am never at a loss.' 
 
 ' You are very fortunate.' 
 
 ' To-day, Montdidier was dining out — some grand 
 
 b 2 
 
4 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 dinner to which he was obliged to go. We arranged 
 our plans accordingly. His wife pretended to dine 
 early, and said she was then going to see her aunt, 
 which, as a matter of fact, she did ; but then she 
 met me at a small restaurant on the Boulevard du 
 Temple. All turned out as we had arranged, and we 
 had a very good dinner, etcetera, etcetera.' 
 
 ' Yes, a great deal of etcetera.' 
 
 * You may take it for granted that there was a* 
 lot of it. In the evening Helen — that is her 
 name- ' 
 
 6 It suits her exactly.' 
 
 < Yes, that is true, though it never struck me be- 
 fore. Well, Helen was obliged to go to meet her 
 Menalaus. That's very funny ! Menalaus ! ' 
 
 6 You are Paris. 9 
 
 ' Exactly, I am Paris. It is a pity, but I cannot 
 iaugh just now. Helen was to go to meet her hus- 
 band at the Giraud's, who are giving an evening 
 party. You know Giraud ; he is a great talker, and 
 imagines that he has an office, because he has three 
 pieces of pasteboard lying on his desk ; and has a 
 mania for getting everybody married, just in order 
 that he and his wife may be asked to the weddings/ 
 
 ' Of course I know him.' 
 
 < I was also to go there, only rather later, as we 
 did nor wish to get there together. People are 
 talking quite enough as it is. for I have such a 
 terrible reputation ' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 4 Well, a short time; ago we sent for a cab, and I 
 got in with Helen. I ought to have let her go by 
 herself, but what would you have? it is always so 
 hard to separate. She is extremely ardent. . Well, 
 there I was in the cab with her. You know that 
 Giraud lives in the Rue Poissonniere, and I told the 
 driver to put me down at the corner of the Boule- 
 vard. We were driving along very quietly, when,. 
 
THINGS WHICH OFTEN HAPPEN. 5 
 
 ^suddenly, we went on one side. Helen fell against 
 one of the doors, I fell on to her, and all this was 
 caused by an accident to the carriage — one of the 
 hind wheels had broken. We yelled out as if we 
 were mad. Helen pushed me away with one of her 
 -fists, which she shoved into my eye, saying that I 
 was suffocating her, and I said : " Take your hand 
 away, jou will poke my eye out." Cannot you 
 picture it to yourself ? ' 
 
 'I see that you were no more thinking about 
 saying pretty things to each other. 5 
 
 < Most decidedly not, I rather think we were going 
 iio call each other names. Just see how a broken 
 wheel changes people's feelings. Luckily we were 
 more frightened than hurt. A crowd had got round 
 our cab. I managed to open the door and jumped 
 out first, but you may guess my stupefaction at 
 seeing the husband standing in front of me; yes, 
 Montdidier himself, who was craning his neck to see 
 what had happened.' 
 
 ' Did he recognise you ? ' 
 
 'I don't know; as soon as I saw him I did not 
 give him time to speak to me, for I turned round so 
 sharply that I nearly knocked down a man who was 
 selling herb tea behind me. I pushed the people 
 aside, even upsetting some, and tore to your lodgings 
 without stopping.' 
 
 ' And did you leave your poor little woman in the 
 lurch?' 
 
 ' Do you think I was going so give her mv hand 
 and do the polite to her in her husband's pre'sence ? 
 I think I took the wisest course. However, if 
 Montdidier recognised me, and I am afraid he did, 
 if his wife tells him my name — if ... for he must 
 nave seen me get out of the cab . . . good heavens, 
 -juch an angry and jealous man ! ' 
 
 ' He is quite capable of using his wife badly.' 
 
 * Yes, certainly, his wife . . . and me also. When- 
 
6 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ever we were together, she kept saying to me r 
 " Ah ! if my husband knew, he would kill me ! — he- 
 would kill me !" ' 
 
 4 Then he might very well wish to kill you also ! ' 
 
 4 The idea is too terrible ! I am not afraid of 
 fighting a duel ; it is well known that it is not that r 
 for I have given proofs of my courage. But just 
 think of the noise and the scandal such an affair - 
 would cause ! And then, after all, I owe Mont- 
 didier no grudge. He always received me very - 
 kindly, and used to ask me to dinner. I owe him no 
 grudge whatever.' 
 
 ' You only owed his wife one.' 
 
 ' Don't joke, my dear fellow ; the matter is far too 
 serious for that. Confound these intrigues ! I will 
 deceive no more husbands. It is a stupid and even 
 immoral thing to do, and I am very vexed with my- 
 self for ever having done it. Well, you are actually 
 laughing again ! ' 
 
 6 1- cannot help it, for you put me in mind of those 
 sailors who pray to God in a storm and make fun of 
 Him in fine weather.' 
 
 6 1 don't know whether I am like a sailor, but I do 
 know that I feel uncommonly uncomfortable. Just 
 fancy an adventure like that immediately after 
 dinner ! I feel the Charlotte riesse lying heavily on 
 my stomach. Please don't laugh, but help me out 
 of the difficulty, and I'll do the same for you some 
 other time ; and you don't know how soon, for you 
 also are a terrible man — the terror of husbands. 
 Good God ! you have made a lot of those poor ' 
 
 ' I will gladly be of any assistance to you, but I do 
 not see how I can be so, unless I can make Mont- 
 didier believe that I was in the cab with his wife,- 
 though that would not restore his Helen's reputa- 
 tion, which is the first thing for him to con- 
 sider.' 
 
 ' That's right ; that's exactly it ; '•hough I am not* 
 
THINGS WHICH OFTEN HAPPEN. 7 
 
 the least in love with, her since she poked her finger 
 into my eye. It's extraordinary how very ugly she 
 seemed to me at that moment J ' 
 
 'Ton did not always think her ugly. She has 
 bestowed "her favours on you, and you must make it 
 up to her by trying to save her honour.' 
 
 ' Yes, she has been very good to me ; but I don't 
 want her favours any more. Even if the whole 
 matter were settled, I say again it is over — no more 
 married women, no more illicit loves. Unmarried 
 girls, widows — women who can do as they please — I 
 do not object to ; one need not be continually hiding 
 and taking round-about roads and carriages.' 
 
 ' I thought that those very fears gave a zest to 
 such kinds of adventures ? ' 
 
 'Thank you ! that kind of zest is a very pleas xnt 
 thing ! If only I get out of this scrape, I will settle 
 down ; no lady shall seduce me again. But in order 
 that I may find time to become virtuous, Montdidier 
 must not blow my brains out. Now, my dear 
 fellow, do try and find out some ' 
 
 ' Go to Giraud's ; you will see whether Montdidier 
 is there with his wife, and, by the way he looks at 
 you, you will easily be able to judge whether he 
 recognised you and how he took the matter.' 
 
 ' What ! I go and expose myself to his rage and 
 fury before every one ! Th&t is not to be thought 
 of, my friend.' 
 
 'A man of the world does not put people into 
 possession of these sort of secrets.' 
 
 ' I told you that Montdidier was a brutal ' 
 
 ' If he thinks his wife has been unfaithful to him 
 he will not go to a party with her.' 
 
 'You are right; but there is another way in 
 which we might make quite sure of it, and that is- 
 for you to go to Giraud's. If the husband and wife 
 are there, watch them closely, and you will soon see 
 on what terms they are, and then you can manage 
 
"8 4*HE CUCKOLD. 
 
 to tell the lady that you have just left me. Do me 
 the favour of going there.' 
 
 6 1 shall only do it to oblige you, for the parties 
 of that business man are not very amusing, and 
 [ intended to go and see some very nice ladies this 
 evening.' 
 
 6 You can see them to-morrow ; you will always be 
 sure of finding them. Besides that, perhaps they 
 are married ladies, and so, perhaps, I am saving you 
 from some scrape.' 
 
 ' To hear you, one would think that nobody ever 
 went to see a lady except for the sake of conquest.' 
 
 'Well, you see I know you. Come, Blemont, 
 sacrifice your ladies to me ; just consider that I am 
 between life and death as long as I don't know how 
 I stand.' 
 
 ' Well, I will go to oblige you. 5 
 
 * You are a real friend. It is nearly nine o'clock, 
 when the party will be at its height. It is a musical 
 evening. Act prudently, and, if they are there, 
 watch them narrowly.' 
 
 ' I feel like the confidant in a melodrama.' 
 
 6 1 will wait for you in the cafe at the corner of 
 the Boulevard, and have some eau sucree. If all goes 
 on well, and I can show myself, you will be kind 
 enough to let me know.' 
 
 ' Naturally.' 
 
 We walked on faster, and on getting to the 
 corner of the Rue Poissonniere Belan took my hand 
 and, shaking it vigorously, said : 
 
 * My dear fellow, I shall wait for you in the caf 6 
 opposite. Don't tell anybody I am there ; don't 
 mention me ! ' 
 
 6 You need not be the least alarmed.' 
 
 I went on a few steps, and then I was suddenly 
 stopped by some one coming behind me ; it was Belan, 
 who had run after me, and said in an impressive 
 voice : 
 
THE HOUSE OP THE GIRAUDS. 9 
 
 I 
 
 c My dear Blemont, let this adventure lead you to 
 (reflect, and correct your manner of life, like it will 
 correct mine. My friend, we must amend. As for 
 me, I swear, on the word of Ferdinand Belan, that 
 •the handsomest woman in Paris, if she is not 
 free ' 
 
 I did not listen to the end of the little man's 
 sermon ; I left him with a smile, and went to M. 
 •Giraud's. 
 
 CHAPTEE IT. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE GIRAUDS. 
 
 It was a very funny house, but there was nothing 
 ^very extraordinary about it, as its absurdities are 
 met with everywhere in society : but things need not 
 be extraordinary in order to be comical. 
 
 M. Giraud was forty years old, and had formerly 
 been clerk in a Government office ; then a lawyer's 
 clerk, and had done many things besides, none of 
 which, I believe, he did well ; but he was as curious 
 and inquisitive as a female doorkeeper, and he set 
 up as a wit and for a man of very superior manners ; 
 lie even asserted that he had made female conquests, 
 although he was very ugly, and you could smell his 
 lw-eath three yards off, though, in spite of that, he 
 would talk to you under your very nose, as is usual 
 with people who suffer from that little infirmity. 
 
 . His wife was nearly as old as he was, neither 
 pretty nor ugly, but, unfortunately, she was just as 
 pretentious, always dressed like a provincial actress, 
 
10 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 and wished, especially, to be sKm, even if she could 
 not breathe. 
 
 Then there was a boy of seven, who was exactly 
 like his father, and still played with dolls' houses ; 
 another boy of four, who was allowed to do just as- 
 he chose, and who made such good use of that per- 
 mission, that there was not a single piece of unbroken 
 furniture in the house ; and, lastly, there was a little- 
 girl of eight, who wished to be the mistress and to* 
 slap her two brothers, in order to show them that 
 she had already arrived at years of discretion. Add 
 to that a quarrelsome dog, who barked for five- 
 minutes at anybody who came, and a cat which 
 always had a cork collar round its neck and a plaster 
 on its head, and there you will know the whole of 
 the house of Giraud. I do not mention the servant 
 girl, because they change her every fortnight. 
 
 I do not know whether they were rich people (I 
 never bother myself with what is no concern of 
 mine), but I do not think they were as well off as 
 they pretended to be. I fancy that M. Giraud, who 
 wished to get every bachelor whom he met married, 
 levied an impost on the marriages he brought about, 
 and it certainly was not the right of the first night 
 which the feudal lord could levy. 
 
 As soon as I arrived I went up to the third floor, 
 where I heard children screaming, and I could dis- 
 tinguish the voices of Mdlle. Josephine Giraud and 
 her elder brother. They were mixed up with the sound 
 of a piano and a flute, from which I gathered that 
 the soiree was at its height. 
 
 When I got into the dining room I saw a maid- 
 servant, whom I did not know, making glasses of 
 eau sucree, and I believe she tested them to see 
 whether fchey were good or not. The brother and 
 sister were fighting about a bit of cake. At that 
 moment M. Giraud came out of the dining room 
 holding an argand lamp in his hand, and came up to me,. 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE IB 
 
 * Here you are, my dear M. Blemont ; I am de-- 
 lighted to see you. Why did you not come sooner ? 
 Ceran has been singing, and he was in such capital 
 voice. And, now, we have just had a concerted 
 piece for the flute and piano, which was beautifully 
 played. This confounded lamp will not act ; I don't 
 know what is the matter with it. Come in, come 
 in, we have a lot of people here. There will be 
 some more singing, and there are a number of pretty 
 women, some who are not engaged to be married 
 and who have good dowries. If you are inclined 
 that way . . . Just listen, for you must come to it 
 at last. Devil take the lamp ! and it is a new wick 
 too.' 
 
 I went into the drawing room, but it was very 
 difficult to make one's way about, in the first place 
 because the room was small, and then because the 
 ladies were all sitting and had formed a circle which 
 nobody had ventured to penetrate as yet, so that one 
 had to insinuate oneself in and out behind those 
 ladies at the risk of disturbing some of them or of 
 treading on the toes of the gentlemen who were 
 behind their chairs. An evening party where the 
 ladies are all ranged like borders in a garden, and- 
 when they do not speak to the men, but only ex- 
 amine one another from top to toe to see what they 
 can find to criticise, is very dull. To make matters 
 worse, the room was very badly lighted ; a large 
 argand lamp, similar to the one I had seen in M. 
 Giraud's hands, threw a very doubtful light, and 
 some candles placed here and there were not enough 
 to make up for the want of lamps. All that, added 
 to the silence of the ladies and to the suppressed 
 whispers of the gentleman, made it a most lugu- 
 brious affair. 
 
 I saw Madame Giraud not far from me, and she 
 saw me also, and tried to get to me by pushing aside 
 some of the gentlemen and by smiling at those whe* 
 
THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 x>tAj moved a very little aside, in order that they 
 might have the pleasure of brushing up against her 
 charms* At last she reached me, and as I could see 
 no reason why all the men were speaking in such a 
 low tone, just as if they were in church, I asked her 
 how she was in my ordinary voice, which in a 
 moment attracted all looks to me. It had a good 
 effect, however, for several young men, who, doubt- 
 lessly did not dare to begin, began to speak more 
 freely, instead of in mysterious whispers. 
 
 ' If you had come rather sooner,' Madame Giraud 
 •said to me, ' you would have heard a grand piece ; it 
 was most delightful.' 
 
 I felt inclined to say to her that it was not at all 
 delightful just then, but I did not do so, for if one 
 were to say all one thinks, one would be very badly 
 received. Soon Madame Giraud exclaimed : 
 
 ' But where is M. Giraud ? What does he do to 
 his lamps ? This one is not burning properly now. 
 How very tiresome ! What do you think of that 
 voung lady near the fireplace ? Forty-five thousand 
 francs down and expectations. Not at all to be 
 despised. You will hear her sing directly ; she is to 
 ging an Italian song. Ah! how M. Giraud upsets 
 
 me ! ' 
 
 At last he returned, holding the lamp, which was 
 '"burning very brightly, in his hand. He put it on a 
 table and said : 
 
 ' It will do now ; it was very easily managed.' 
 
 ' You must do the same to the other,' she replied ; 
 -you see it is hardly burning at all/ 
 
 'More it is ; very well, I will do the same to it/ 
 
 Madame Giraud stopped her husband, who was 
 about to get the other lamp, and said, in a low voice, 
 Jbut loud enough for me to hear : 
 
 6 Would you believe that Dufloc will not sing p ' 
 
 ' No ! not really ! ' 
 
 * He says he has a cold.' 
 
THE HOUSE OP THE GIRATJDS. I3r 
 
 'It is mere spite, because we did not ask him to 
 dinner.' 
 
 ' We must do something, for it is not very lively.' 
 
 ' We must set them to dance directly.' 
 
 ' No, it is too early.' 
 
 c Then try and get Montausol and his wife to sing y 
 or else Mdlle. Dupuis. Manage that whilst I go and 
 look after the lamp.' 
 
 They separated, and, profiting by the bright light 
 which had returned, I thought about fulfilling the 
 object of my mission, and looked for Montdidier and 
 his chaste spouse. 
 
 There are some very pretty women in the room, 
 and they would have looked prettier still if, instead 
 of trying to stifle their yawns, their faces had worn 
 an animated expression. There was one by the 
 piano, presumably unmarried, who was charming. 
 Light hair, but not too light, blue eyes, not too wide 
 open, a pretty mouth, a very white skin, a slight 
 colour, and grace in her manner and in the way her 
 hair was done. She did not look as if she were 
 bored, which, certainly, under the circumstances, 
 denoted great acquaintance with the usages of 
 society. 
 
 The young lady's fine eyes made me forget Belan 
 and his commission, but just then I noticed Madame 
 Montdidier, who was laughing and talking with the 
 lady who was sitting next to her. That appeared to 
 me to be a good sign, for if she had had a scene 
 with her husband I do not fancy she would have 
 been quite so cheerful, though, of course, in society, 
 people know how to dissemble. Let us look for the 
 husband ; a man is not so clever in hiding his feel- 
 ings. It must be seen in the face when it is so 
 recent. Those poor husbands ! how we laugh at 
 them whilst we are bachelors. After all, however, 
 I hope I shall also laugh at them when I am married. 
 I flatter myself that I shall have a virtuous wife ; 
 
J4 THE CUCKOLD* 
 
 one must always flatter oneself with that idea, and 
 
 then . . . if • • • good heavens, it is not such a 
 terrible thing ! I shall call to mind what La Fon- 
 taine says : — " When one knows it, it is a small 
 matter ; when one does not, it's no matter at all." 
 
 I did not see Montdidier in the drawing room. 
 Perhaps he was in the bedroom, where ecarte was 
 going on. I should like to go there, but it is not an 
 .«asy matter. Will nobody make up their mind to 
 break through the circle which the ladies have 
 formed ? I shall take the first opportunity of doing 
 so. 
 
 The dosr bejran to bark, which meant new arrivals. 
 That dog performs all the duties of a footman. They 
 were ladies, which was fortunate, as the circle must 
 be opened to make it larger, and as soon as I saw an 
 opening I went into it. A young man, who was 
 glad of the chance of going up to a certain lady, did 
 the same, and then another and another. It is 
 always a case of Panurge's sheep. Certainly the 
 circle was broken up, and people were soon mixed up 
 and one could move about, and that was owing to 
 me. I had caused a revolution in the Giraud's 
 drawing room which will surely cause no deaths. 
 
 Involuntarily I went towards that pretty girl 
 whom I had a dmi red at a distance. When one was 
 near her she appeared prettier still, and I forgot that 
 Belan was waiting for me over a glass of eau sucree, 
 and that I should bring him a message of life or 
 death. It was a hard struggle to leave the spot 
 where I was. 
 
 But the piano was being played and someone was 
 going to sing, so I thought I might as well stay 
 where I was to listen. It was the Montausols, who 
 were going to give us a duet. What a united couple 
 they must be, for one will never sing without the 
 other. He was a short, enormously stout man, 
 whose purple cheeks seemed as if they were going 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE QIEATJDS. 15 
 
 to burst when he only breathed, and which, there- 
 fore, had a terrible effect when he raised his sten- 
 torian voice, which had the vibrations of a violin- 
 cello. His wife was also very short and qnite as 
 stout as he, and she seemed to suffer a great deal in 
 •extracting shrill notes from her chest which pierced 
 the tympanium. They had a name for fine pieces, 
 and they were about to regale us with something out 
 of a grand opera. A lady was sitting at the piano. 
 The husband looked at his wife and puffed like an 
 ox during the introductory chords ; the wife looked 
 at her husband and raised one of her hands to beat 
 time. Each of them seemed to say : ' Come, sing 
 out boldly ; let us stun them ! ' 
 
 The recitative began ; at the third bar the com- 
 pany already did not know what they were at. 
 Husband and wife answered each other backwards 
 and forwards like two tenuis players who strike the 
 ball with all their force. When one made a mistake 
 and got out of time, the other cast furions glances, 
 and agitated the whole body to set the duet going 
 again. 
 
 ISTot being enough master of myself to look at the 
 singers quietly, I looked at the young lady near me ; 
 that was the best means of forgetting the music. 
 She did not laugh, but I thought 1 noticed that she 
 slightly bit her lips. The fact is, it is very difficult 
 at times to keep your countenance in a drawing 
 room. She looked towards me, and seemed even 
 more embarrassed than before, so she turned away 
 her head. Perhaps my looking at her so attentively 
 had displeased her; perhaps it was not polite to look 
 at her so fixedly. I did not think about it, I only 
 did it, not in order to draw her attention to me, but 
 because I found pleasure in doing so. I hastily 
 looked in another direction and attended to the 
 music. That wretched duet would not finish. Hus- 
 band and wife were perspiring freely. -One ought 
 
Iff THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 to ^ave done to them like one does to those per^ 
 formers who show off feats of strength, and who- 
 are called upon to stop when their performances 
 become too terrific. 
 
 I was amusimg myself by watching the music-mad 
 couple, when, suddenly, the light got low. Mon- 
 tausol leant over the music, and, at a moment when 
 he was not singing, called out impatiently : 
 
 ' Snuff the candles, snuff the candles ; one cannot 
 see any more ! ' 
 
 But the obscurity was not caused by the candles. 
 It was the lamp which M. Giraud had trimmed 
 again which had lost its brilliancy. Madame Giraud 
 at once called her husband, who was busy with the 
 the other one, and he came with a great pair of 
 scissors in his hand, exclaiming : 
 
 6 I cannot understand it ; it cannot be the oil, as 
 it is fresh.' 
 
 ' Papa,' said the little girl, * yesterday I saw 
 Alexander poking little leaden dolls into the 
 lamp.' 
 
 6 Oh ! by George, if that little scamp has been 
 playing with the lamps I am not astonished that 
 they will not burn. My wife lets him touch every- 
 thing, and some day he will upset my desk.' 
 
 'It is impossible for me to scold my children,' 
 Madame Giraud said to those who were standing 
 near her. ' As soon as I think they are in trouble, 
 it makes me feel quite ill. And then little Alexander 
 is so pretty, so nice ! ' 
 
 Mamma is interrupted by a great noise which 
 proceeded from the ante-room ; the dog barked, and 
 the little girl showed herself at the door and said : 
 
 < My little brother has upset the tray with all the 
 glasses on it.' 
 
 This incident upset the whole house. Mamma 
 ran to look after her broken glasses ; papa left his 
 lamps to try and catch his son ; and little Alexander 
 
THE HOUSE OP THE GIRAUDS. 17 
 
 gets between everybody's legs, and at last crawled 
 under a sofa, putting out bis tongue at bis fatber. 
 
 Tbe duet bad finished in tbe midst of all this- 
 uproar, and nobody bad tbougbt of tbe singers, even 
 whilst they were still singing. Tbe Montrausols left 
 tbe piano, looking very cross. Tbey came and sat. 
 behind me and said : 
 
 6 Tbey will not catcb me singing in this bouse 
 again.' 
 
 6 1 should bope not. These people don't know 
 what music is.' 
 
 'Not in the sbghtest. We will leave after the 
 punch bas been served.' 
 
 6 If there is any ! ' 
 
 I left the drawing room and went into the bed- 
 room, where I saw Montdidier talking to several 
 people. I saw nothing extraordinary in his face,, 
 yet he was talking eagerly. I went up with an in- 
 different air, though I can listen as well as otbers ; 
 be was making no mystery of it. 
 
 'Yes, gentlemen,' he said, 'I got there just as 
 tbe carriage fell over. My wife was coming back 
 from her aunt's, and was being driven here. But 
 poor Belan had tbe greatest fright. It seems he 
 was passing close to the cab when the hind-wheel 
 came off. Seeing it falling towards him, be tbougbt 
 that he was dead — pulverized ; and as the cab win- 
 dow was open, he got in through it, so as not to be 
 smashed. You know that he is very little, and my 
 wife told me that be scrambled in with tbe agility 
 of a monkey. Then, seeing that the cab did not 
 move, be opened tbe door and ran away. My wife 
 is quite sure that be did not recognise her, and that 
 is probable, or he would, at least, bave given ber his 
 hand to abght. Ha ! ha ! poor Belan, how I shall 
 laugh when I see him ! ' 
 
 And M. Montdidier began to laugh again, his 
 bearers did tbe same, and I iKi£ft*ted tbem with all 
 
 o 
 
18 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 my heart — as a matter of fact, I ought to have 
 laughed most. Montdidier, who saw that I was much 
 amused, tapped me on the shoulder and said : 
 
 ' You heard my wife's adventure ? ' 
 
 'Yes. 5 
 
 ' And her meeting with Belan ? Wasn't it very 
 funny?' 
 
 ' Extremely funny ! ' 
 
 4 1 would give a napoleon if Belan were to come 
 here to-night, so that I might have a little fun at 
 his expense.' 
 
 I did not give him any answer, but vanished in 
 the crowd to procure the desired pleasure for the 
 poor husband, for it was only just that he should 
 also have a little. 
 
 I went out without being seen, and hastened to the 
 cafe where the uneasy lover was waiting for me. I 
 found him in front of his third glass of eau sucree, 
 looking pale and upset, as he did not augur anything 
 good from my long absence. I quickly reassured 
 him, and told him, laughing, what I had just heard. 
 
 Whilst I was talking his features assumed all 
 their vanity again. Before I had finished, he leant 
 over the table and held his sides in fits of laughter. 
 
 ' That is charming ! that is delicious ! There, 
 Belmont, that will do ; you will kill me with laugh- 
 ing. I jumped out of the door . . . Oh ! those 
 women ! what ideas they have — an invention for 
 everything tha-t happens ! I was a fool to be 
 anxious ! ' 
 
 ' That's what I said an hour ago, but then you 
 were not in a state to listen to me.' 
 
 6 Yes, I confess it ; I was anxious, not for myself, 
 but for her. That is settled, so don't let us think 
 about it any more, except to laugh at it. Waiter, 
 take for three glasses of eau sucree. I am in a hurry 
 to get to Giraud's. Is it a grand affair ? Are there 
 many people there ? ' 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE GIRATJDS. 19 
 
 1 It is not exactly a grand affair, but there are a 
 ^ood many people, and I noticed some very pretty 
 women.' 
 
 6 Pretty women ! Just let me arrange my neck- 
 -iie.' 
 
 * But you know, Belan, that this adventure was to 
 .correct you ; you swore never to make love to ladies 
 .again.' 
 
 ' I did not say all. Those who are free are not 
 included in my vow. And, then, upon my word, one 
 says that at the first moment . . . Let us go to 
 •Oiraud's ; I know a new ballad . . . You will get 
 them to sing, won't you ? ' 
 
 6 You evidently wish me to stand sponsor for 
 
 Belan's only answer was a pirouette, and he was 
 jmadly gay. We went towards Giraud's, but I told 
 him not to come in for several minutes after me, as 
 J. did not wish it to appear that I had been to fetch 
 him, and I got in without being seen, as I had got 
 «out. In the ante-room I saw Giraud, who was look- 
 ing at his two lamps in some consternation, as they 
 were at the point of going out again. He did not 
 jiotice that I had been out, he was so absorbed in his 
 wick, and he said, holding one out at me : 
 
 ' It is quite incomprehensible. You are a witness 
 -that I am going to put in new wicks, and we will see 
 if they smoulder again.' 
 
 £ Yes, I see you are taking a great deal of pains 
 -to amuse us.' 
 
 f Oh ! when once they burn properly. . . . Theo- 
 dore ! Theodore ! will you leave those little cakes 
 alone ? A great boy like you ; and to be greedier 
 than your little brother ! ' 
 
 * Papa, let me take one ; I want to play at 
 dinners.' 
 
 *Play at dinners at eleven years old! Are you 
 «ot ashamed of yourself P But at any rate, don't 
 
 c 2 
 
20 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ■touch, the big cake. It does not seem to he going" 
 off at all well in there ; my wife has no idea of 
 throwing life into her parties. Onr singers hare 
 colds ; we shall have to set them to dance, and it 
 would be very kind of you, M. Blemont, to set it 
 going.' 
 
 6 But, you know very well I don't play the piano.' 
 6 ~No ; but you can ask my wife to beg somebody 
 to play a quadrille. There are plenty here who caB' 
 play.' 
 
 * Before executing your commission, will yoo 
 kindly tell me who that pretty person in the rose- 
 coloured dress is, who is sitting close to the piano ? ' 
 ' In rose ; in front of the piano ; with golden ear& 
 of corn in her hair ? ' 
 
 'No; she has nothing of gold in her hair. A 
 rather pale, very pretty hlonde/ 
 
 ' A pretty blonde ? There are several ladies here 
 in rose-coloured dresses. Here, when I have finished 
 my lamps, you shall point her out to me.' 
 
 I saw there was nothing to be got out of M* 
 Griraud at that moment, so I returned to the drawing 
 room. A gentleman was sitting at the piano, he 
 was not playing dance music, however, but was 
 singing and playing snatches of different airs which 
 he could remember. A friend was sitting besides 
 him, who, as soon as he had finished one fragment 
 asked *him for another ; he did just as if he were at 
 home, and it may be guessed how amusing that was 
 for the company. He had been at it for a long time., 
 and did not seem likely to leave off for a long time^ 
 but appeared to think that the piano had been put 
 there for his express use. I have met many people 
 like him in the world. 
 
 Belan had been in the drawing room for some 
 time, and I saw him talking and laughing with Mont- 
 didier, so I guessed the subject of their conversation* 
 Madame Montdidier looked anxiously at Belan, for 
 
THE HOUSE OP THE GIRAUDS. 21 
 
 c 
 
 *ghe did not know whether he had been told what he 
 .ought to say, but she reassured herself when she saw 
 that they appeared to be on very good terms together. 
 Poor Montdidier did not strike me as being as bad 
 and jealous as his wife allegecL Women are fond of 
 saying that men are very jealous of them ; it natters 
 their self love ; and then there would be no fun in 
 deceiving men who do not mind it. 
 
 After vainly trying to find some lady or gentleman 
 to sing, which put her out a good deal, and seeing 
 that everybody was tired of the attempts of the 
 gentleman at the piano, Madame Griraud at last made 
 up her mind to tell him that they were going to have 
 .-a quadrille, and he carelessly left the piano, passing 
 bis hands through his hair, and still humming some- 
 thing from Rossini. 
 
 I asked that young lady whom I had found so 
 .much to my taste to dance with me, and she accepted. 
 I tried to say somethieg else than : ' It is very hot,' 
 • or, 'This is a very pretty quadrille.' It is really 
 difficult, however, to find a subject of conversation 
 at once with any lady you don't know, especially 
 when one wants to keep from commonplaces. 
 
 Bat Griraud came back with his two lamps, which 
 -were burning with the most extreme brilliancy. 
 ■Here was a subject for conversation. 
 
 ' We wanted them ; nothing looks so melancholy 
 ;?as a badly-lighted ball room; don't you think so, 
 ^mademoiselle ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Yet there are some ladies here who might prefer 
 -the half light ? ' 
 
 She only smiled. 
 
 ' You have not been singing, mademoiselle 9 ' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, monsieur ; I sang a ballad.' 
 
 ' That must have been before I came, and makea 
 ane regret having come so late.' 
 
 * You did not lose much, monsieur.' 
 
- 
 
 22 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' I cannot take your word for that.' Here we hacl 
 to take our turn in one of the figures, and, when ifc 
 was over, I tried to renew the conversation. 
 
 f Shall you sing again, mademoiselle ? ' 
 
 ' I certainly hope not ; I have paid my debt, and 
 that is enough/ 
 
 6 Are you not fond of playing and singing ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very ; but I like it with people whom I 
 know. I don't see any necessity for amusing people 
 whom one has never seen, and who only listen to you* 
 out of politeness.' 
 
 6 I see that you already judge the world ' 
 
 Here we were interrupted by the last figure, an<& 
 the quadrille was over. I could see that this youngs 
 person was by no means silly, though she might not,. 
 perhaps, say the same of me. 
 
 I caught Giraud at the very moment that he was ; 
 looking after his lamps, which were already goings 
 down.' 
 
 'You saw me dancing with that young lady 
 opposite us? Well, she is the one I asked yom 
 about.' 
 
 6 Oh ! that is Mdlle. Eugenie Dumeillan.' 
 
 < Who is she ? ' 
 
 ' She is the daughter of Madame Dumeillan, wha 
 is sitting beside her.' 
 
 ' My dear Monsieur Giraud, I fully believe that 
 she is her father and mother's daughter, but what I 
 mean is — who are these people ? What do they do ? 
 In fact I want to know more about them. Don't- 
 you, a man of information, feel that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; but she is not on my list of marriage- 
 able young ladies. Of course she is to be married,, 
 but they have not thought about it yet ; but that 
 tall, dark girl yonder, my dear fellow, has a hundred 
 thousand francs down. That's a nice little bit of 
 money, eh ? Ah ! if I were not married ! . . . My 
 wife, look after your son Alexander, or he will 
 
TEE HOUSE OP THE GIRATTDS, 2S 
 
 knock over the tea tray, and all the cups will be 
 broken like the glasses were/ 
 
 ' My dear Monsieur Giraud, I don't care the least 
 for the amount of the tall, dark girl's dowry. So 
 you can tell one no more about those ladies op- 
 posite P ' r 
 
 ' Yes, I can. The mother is a widow, M. Dumeil- 
 lan was chief clerk in some public office; I don't 
 know in which, but he was chief clerk, and left his 
 widow an income of four or five thousand francs, I 
 believe. Mdlle. Eugenie has been very well educated^ 
 and will have something that an aunt left her. I do- 
 not know exactly how much, but I can find out. 
 She will not be a bad match, for she is an only 
 daughter. Shall I speak for you ? ' 
 
 'Don't play me such a trick as that ! Who the 
 devil told you that I wished to marry ? Cannot one 
 speak about a young lady without thinking of marry- 
 ing her ? ' 
 
 'I don't say so; but as it must always come to 
 that ' 
 
 'Papa, there is my brother Theodore stuffing 
 quarters of sugared oranges into his pocket.' 
 
 m It was little Mdlle. Giraud who had come to tell 
 him this, and so Giraud left me to go and box his 
 son's ears. Then Belan came up to me. 
 j ' I suppose you did not ask Giraud to beg me to 
 sing, as he has not mentioned it to me ? ' 
 
 ' Do leave me alone with your singing ! "We have 
 had quite enough of it and prefer dancing.' 
 
 'But nobody has heard me. I am sure people 
 would have been delighted, and I learnt a song on 
 purpose. But you don't know that Helen is treating 
 me Boldly, very coldly, because she thinks it was 
 very unkind of me to run away so quickly when I 
 saw her husband. What an idea! Could I guess 
 that she would make up some story on the spur of 
 the moment? Well, let her be angry if she likes ; 
 
24 *HE CUCKOLD. 
 
 I don't care the least now. I continually see her 
 poking her fist in my eye when the cab fell on one 
 side. She did not look at all pretty then. I have 
 views on that little woman in black ; don't you see 
 her 9 A nice stont woman, with flashing eyes. That 
 promises something ! ' 
 
 * But she is married, and her husband is playing 
 •ecarte ; he is a receiver of taxes.' 
 
 f All the better ! We will show the receiver a 
 trick or two.' 
 
 There was another dance, and Mdlle. Eugenie 
 played, but it was only half over when the two 
 lamps went out again. The last figures were danced 
 in twilight, or, rather, in semi-darkness. Everybody 
 laughed, whilst Madame Griraud scolded her hus- 
 band, who called out to me : 
 
 'Upon my word, I give it up. I have all my 
 trouble for nothing. Theodore, tell the servant to 
 bring some more candles.' 
 
 He certainly left the room, but only to go to the 
 sideboard in the dining room. Another quadrille 
 was got up when we could see better, but it was ac- 
 companied by Madame Griraud's calls for more 
 lights, Griraud's complaints about his lamps, the 
 squalling of the three children, who were fighting 
 for the cakes, and the barking of the dog, who ran 
 japping after everybody who was leaving. 
 
 Belan, who was dancing vis-a-vis to the nice stout 
 woman, took no notice of the noise, and only thought 
 about the dance, but, dark as it was in the dining 
 room, he did not see the quarter of an orange that 
 Master Theodore had let fall out of his pocket, and so 
 he slipped and fell between the legs of his vis-a-vis. 
 
 The ladies screamed, and Belan got up, putting 
 his hand to his side, and declaring that he should 
 not have fallen if he had not brodden upon some- 
 thing. The little Griraud picked up the smashed 
 quarter of an orange, crying out : 
 
TWO REAL LOVERS. 25 
 
 ' My brother threw that down/ and the papa left 
 the room, swearing to Belan that his son should be 
 whipped as soon as everybody had left. 
 
 That was the last quadrille ; the candles were 
 threatening to follow the example of the lamps, and 
 :SO people took their leave. Mdlle. Dumeillan went 
 with her mother ; and though I gave the mother my 
 arm, I only had eyes for the daughter. I assisted 
 them into their cab, bowed, and . . . Well, matters 
 -could not go much further at a first meeting. 
 
 I heard somebody laughing and humming behind 
 me. It was Belan, who was following the lady in 
 black and her husband, and he said to me, in 
 (passing: 
 
 ' I am going to follow her, it is going very well, it 
 is taking. As to the Montdidier, it's all over, broken 
 off. We are sworn enemies. Good-bye. I am going 
 to pursue my conauest.' 
 
 The next moment I saw Montdidier and his wife 
 pass me in company with a tall fair man, who had 
 been behind madame's chair the whole evening. 
 
 I could not help smiling on thinking of Belan's 
 projects of steadiness, nor prevent my saying to 
 ^myself : 
 
 * Oh, men ! oh, women I ' 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 TWO REAL LOVERS. 
 
 I was lodging in the Sue Meslay, in a large house 
 -where there were lodgings to suit all incomes, and 
 
26 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 even those who had no income at all ; in which, con- 
 sequently, they who sit up to gain their livelihood, 
 and they who sit up to amuse themselves, mount the 
 same staircase, only the former mount much higher^ 
 But in the garrets pleasure can also be found, and 
 love, and pretty faces. He who knows how to meet 
 them is not afraid of mounting rather high. 
 
 I knew that at the top of the house where I lodged 
 there were little wainscotted rooms which were not 
 air-tight, which smoked, and where one froze in the 
 winter ; where the rats and the mice came to pay~ 
 you a visit every night, and which, in spite of all, 
 the landlord let as dear as ever he could, and, besides 
 that, he would not take everybody, but only quiet 
 lodgers. 
 
 I had never been to these little rooms, though it 
 was not from a lack of inclination, for several times 
 I had met a young and very pretty girl on my stair- 
 case, who, I know, lived in one of the most modest 
 rooms on the fifth storey. She had not the common 
 look of a workgirl, neither had she the wide-awake 
 look of a grisette, and yet it nearly came to the same 
 thing, for she worked for her livelihood. She made 
 festoons and wreaths, so the porter told me, and 
 mended linen when anybody wonld give her any to 
 do. But she looked so young still, that she inspired 
 little confidence with tiie people to whom she went 
 to ask for work, and yet one can be just as honest at 
 sixteen as at forty. It is in the blood, and when one 
 has to wait for time and experience it is n Bver much 
 to be relied on. 
 
 Little Marguerite found some difficulty in obtain- 
 ing a room in the, house. The owner thought her 
 too young, and did not wish to let it to her ; he wa& 
 astonished that she should take a room of her own 
 at her age. But the little girl had a certain candid 
 manner that disarmed his severity; she declared that- 
 she was very steady, made no noise, never came in- 
 
TWO REAL LOVERS. 27" 
 
 late, and so lie let her have a room at a hundred anct 
 thirty francs a year. Ton must make a lot of festoons 
 to save that. 
 
 In spite of her candid air, Mdlle. Marguerite had 
 a lover, but when a girl only has one, receives him 
 only, goes out with nobody but him, it is allowable 
 to call yourself quiet and even respectable. Bespect- 
 ability does not consist specially in innocence. I had 
 a maid-servant who was a virgin and who stole my 
 neckties. 
 
 I knew nothing of these details when I met the girl 
 on the stairs the first time. When I saw her slight 
 features, which barely announced fifteen, her large, 
 light-blue eye?, her small mouth, her little waist, 
 her little bust (for, except her eyes, Mdlle. Mar- 
 guerite seems to me to have everything small about 
 her), I looked at her very attentively, and tried to 
 make her look at me, but she paid no attention to 
 my glances, and quickly ran downstairs. Another 
 time I ventured on a few words and compliments, 
 but she did not answer, so I left off looking at her and 
 speaking to her, for I am not headstrong, and I 
 think that, in order to please, one must please at 
 once. 
 
 Once, however, Mdlle. Marguerite came and rang 
 at my door, and, seeing her there, I did not know 
 what to think of the matter; but the girl, whose 
 eyes were full of tears, did not the least think of the 
 impropriety of what she was doing. She had come 
 to ask me whether I had seen her cat, which had 
 been lost since the morning, and, on learning that I 
 had not seen her moquette, she went off like a shot, 
 without listening to the consolations which I wished 
 to bestow upon her. 
 
 Then said I to myself : ' That girl is virtuous, for, 
 I think, to be faithful to a lover is to be virtuous,' 
 and a conversation I had about her with the people 1 ' 
 at the lodge confirmed me in this opinion. 
 
28 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 f Oil ! she is very quiet/ the woman said, * except 
 she is running after her cat, with which she plays as 
 if she were only five years old. But then she is still 
 so very young. However, she has a lover, who is 
 almost as young as she is, and also very good look- 
 ing. She is as poor as Job, and all the furniture in 
 her room is a bed — and what a bed ! Four pieces of 
 wood, which fall to pieces as soon as one touches 
 Ihem, a little cupboard, worth about fifteen sous, 
 -four chairs, a jug, and a little looking-glass worth 
 1:hree francs ; look at that — and Mdlle. Marguerite 
 calls it housekeeping ! However, she pays her 
 quarter's rent regularly, so there is no more to be 
 .said about the matter.' 
 
 'I suppose her lover is an apprentice or labourer?' 
 
 * Certainly not ; he is a gentleman, but apparently 
 he finds the furniture good enough, or he cannot do 
 any better for her, and I can tell you that the girl 
 ■eats potatoes oftener than anything else. But as 
 long as she sees her Ernest and can play with her 
 cat she is as happy as a queen.' 
 
 Since knowing all that, I only looked at the girl 
 with interest. Sometime afterwards that interest 
 increased still further. Without wishing to do so, 
 I overheard a conversation between Marguerite and 
 an old count who lived on the same landing as I did. 
 He was an old libertine ; there is nothing extra- 
 ordinary in that— we are all so more or less. He 
 also used to look at our young neighbour, and one 
 day when I was going out, and my door was half 
 open, I overheard the following conversation. 
 
 ' Just listen, just listen ! you pretty, cunning little 
 thing ; I have got two words to say to you.' 
 
 ' "What is it, monsieur ? ' 
 
 ' First of all, that you are a dear little heart.' 
 
 < Oh ! if that is aU ' 
 
 ' Do listen ! My dear child, I want to make your 
 tiappiness.' 
 
TWO REAL LOVERS. 20 
 
 ' Happiness ! Why, I ain very happy, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Nobody can be happy living under the roof in a 
 wretched, poorly-furnished room. I want to give 
 you handsome apartments, and money to buy what- 
 ever you want.' 
 
 'What do you mean, monsieur? What do you 
 take me for ? ' 
 
 'Come, come, Mademoiselle Marguerite; don't 
 play Lucretia ; when one has a lover, and lives with 
 a young man, one ought to be less severe.' 
 
 ' My having a lover, monsieur, is no reason why I 
 should listen to such sort of things.' 
 
 'Your young puppy of a lover gives you nothing, 
 and he will leave you in the lurch on the very first 
 opportunity, but I will make you a regular allowance, 
 and if you behave properly I ' 
 
 'Monsieur, I beg you to hold your tongue, and, 
 above all, never to speak to me again ; take care that 
 I do not tell Ernest that you called him a puppy, 
 and have spoken to me as you have done. He would 
 give it you nicely.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? You insolent, impertinent 
 little wretch ! ' 
 
 'You old fool!' 
 
 With that she ran upstairs as fast as she could, 
 and the count went into his apartments grumbling-' 
 whilst I said to myself : 
 
 ' She loves her Ernest really, as she prefers misery 
 with him to comfort with another ; and I am almost 
 ashamed of having said any pretty things to her, 
 for, without being constant oneself, one can pay 
 homage to fidelity in others. 5 
 
 I was curious to see her lover, but most likely he 
 came early and left late, or, perhaps, did not leave at 
 all. One day, however, I met him, and was surprised 
 at knowing him, for I had met him in society several 
 times. He was a young man of very good family, 
 but he had a mania for writing plays, and, as yet,' 
 
30 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 had only succeeded in having one or two minor pieces 
 produced on the Boulevards. His parents did not at 
 all approve of his dramatic bias, and wished to get 
 him into some public ofiice, but he always found 
 ineans to be too late for the post, and they, not being 
 jit all pleased with him, only gave him very little 
 pocket-money. Poor young man ! Now I can un- 
 .derstand why his little mistress ate more potatoes 
 than quails. 
 
 I only knew him by his family name, and did not 
 know that he was called Ernest. Meeting me on the 
 . stairs he smiled and we bowed, but I did not try to 
 stop him, he was going up so fast. I could quite 
 conceive that he was much more eager to be with 
 her than to stop and speak with me. 
 
 For a long time I saw nothing of little Marguerite 
 and her young lover. Coming home one night from 
 another party at Giraud's, I saw the people in the 
 lodge were in a great state of commotion ; husband 
 and wife were still up, although it was past twelve, 
 : and, as a rule, one or other was always in bed by 
 eleven. There was also an old cook from the house 
 in the lodge ; they were talking with much gesticu- 
 lation, and I heard the words : 
 
 4 She is very ill ; the midwife shook her head, and 
 that's always a bad sign.' 
 
 6 Who's very ill? ' I asked, taking my candle. 
 
 6 Oh, monsieur, little Marguerite, who has had a 
 -miscarriage.' 
 
 ' What ! was the poor little thing pregnant ? ' 
 
 ' Couldn't you see that for yourself, monsieur ? 
 Why, she was four and a half months gone already.' 
 
 < Is not M. Ernest there ? ' 
 
 ' He is like a madman. He has just gone home, 
 taking our little nephew with him ; so I suppose it 
 is to bring back something, for everything is want- 
 ing up there.' 
 
 At that moment there was a violent knocking at 
 
TWO REAL LOVERS. 31 
 
 'the door, and, as soon as it was opened, Ernest came 
 in, carrying a mattress on his head ; the young 
 bellow did not mind compromising himself by doing 
 porter's work, for when it comes to succour a woman 
 one loves, one does not consult conventionalities, 
 and, then, the streets are not very full at mid- 
 night. 
 
 The young nephew came behind him, carrying an 
 armchair, covered with Utrecht velvet, and I guessed 
 -that, unknown to his parents, he had robbed his 
 room to procure some furniture for his little sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 ( It was time you came back, monsieur,' said the 
 old porter's wife, with that alarming manner which 
 increases the effect of bad news. * Mdlle. Marguerite 
 is very ill, and there have been complications. In 
 fact she is losing an immense amount of blood, and 
 you may guess that it cannot go on long like that.' 
 
 The young man uttered a terrified cry, threw the 
 mattress on to the ground, and rushed up the stairs, 
 four at a time, without listening for anything more. 
 
 I had stopped outside the porters' lodge, who were 
 already too old and too lazy to offer to take it up ; 
 as for the little nephew, it was all he could do to get 
 up with the armchair, and the cook was only there 
 to talk. I soon made up my mind ; I took the mat- 
 tress on my shoulders, and carried it up to the fifth 
 iloor. 
 
 I got outside little Marguerite's door, and, though 
 it was not quite shut, I did not dare to go in. I 
 knew the girl was so poor, and one ought to show 
 the greatest consideration for people in such circum- 
 stances. Perhaps she and her lover might take it 
 amiss were I to do so. However, as she was so 
 ill 
 
 Whilst I was hesitating and stopping outside the 
 door with the mattress on my shoulders, I heard a 
 harsh voice, saying : 
 
32 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 ' Send for an accoucheur, monsieur ; I can be re- 
 sponsible for nothing more. It is very urgent.' 
 
 A weak voice, which I recognised as that of the- 
 girl, then said : 
 
 ' Stop here, Ernest, don't leave me ; 1 am not in 
 such pain when you are here.' 
 
 I pushed open the door, and, throwing the mat- 
 tress into a corner of the room, I said : 
 
 6 1 will go for a doctor, and you stop with her, as- 
 fine feels better for it.' 
 
 f Ob ! please, go ! ' Ernest said to me. ' I should 
 be extremely obliged to you.' 
 
 I waited for nothing more ; ran down the stairs, 
 nearly knocking down the little nephew, who was 
 not much more than half way up. When I was in 
 the street, I hurried along at hap-hazard, trying 
 to find some shop in which to ask whether there were 
 an accoucheur in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Where could I find out ? Everybody was in bed ; 
 I saw plenty of midwifes' plates, but they were no 
 good. I knocked and rang at some doors, and made 
 an infernal noise. 
 
 6 Who is there ? ' the porters asked. 
 
 ' Does an accoucheur live here ? ' 
 
 The only answer I got was abuse, or else I got no 
 answer at "all; people are not always obliging when 
 they want to sleep. 
 
 I knew two obstetric doctors very well, but they 
 lived a long way off, and the poor child might die 
 before they arrived. What was to be done P I did 
 not wish to return alone, however, so I felt inclined 
 to cry ' fire ! ' Those means which have been em- 
 ployed in several plays may be just as good in real 
 life. One must frighten one's fellow citizens to get 
 anything out of them : when everybody is at the 
 windows I will ask for a doctor. 
 
 I was going to raise an alarm in the quarter, when 
 two men passed close to me, speaking eagerly. * 
 
TWO REAL LOVERS. 33* 
 
 recognised Ernest's voice : fearing that I might not 
 return quickly enough, he followed, hut he took the 
 precaution to get the address of a doctor from the 
 midwife. 
 
 I went up to him, and he thanked me, though I 
 had done nothing. We hurried back without a 
 word, for he was only thinking of saving poor Mar- 
 guerite. When we got in, Ernest went to his mis- 
 tress's room with the doctor, whilst I remained on 
 the staircase, which I went up and down in an ex- 
 cited manner. All I had said to Ernest was : 
 
 ' If you want anything, I shall be here.' 
 
 How long these moments seemed to one ! The 
 young lovers loved each other so dearly, and she was 
 so little and pretty. If she were to die, what a sad 
 thing it would be, and how her lover would regret 
 her. Think of losing such a long future of happi- 
 ness. Surely death commits an error when it closes 
 eyes of sixteen ! ' 
 
 I- fancy an hour had passed since they had gone 
 upstairs. But I heard footsteps, somebody was 
 coming down, and called me. It was Ernest. His 
 eyes were sparkling with joy, and he exclaimed : 
 
 * My friend, my friend, she is saved ; there is no 
 more danger.' 
 
 6 How delighted I am to hear it ! ' 
 
 We shook hands. He had called me his friend,, 
 and a few hours previously we hardly knew each 
 other ; but there are circumstances which bind us 
 more closely together in a day than sixty passed in 
 one another's society, and this is just what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 The accoucheur came down, and Ernest said : 
 
 c You are going, monsieur, so, of course, there is 
 no more danger ? ' 
 
 c No, you may be quite easy. Everything is now 
 in its proper place and as it ought to be, and I will 
 answer for her. All she wants now is rest and quietness .* 
 
34 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' But you will come and see her to-morrow morn- 
 ing 9* 
 
 ' Yes, I will come and see her to-morrow.' 
 
 He went away, and Ernest followed him as far as 
 "the street-door, looking at him and listening to him 
 like an oracle. It is indeed a beautiful profession 
 ^which gives us the means of saving our fellow- 
 creatures. In our eye, he who preserves the life of 
 a being we love is no longer a man — he is a god ! 
 
 I was going to return to my apartments, but 
 Ernest said to me : 
 
 ' Come upstairs a moment ; she will be pleased to 
 see you.' 
 
 The girl was in bed, but it did not seem to me to 
 T)e a very soft one ; howler, she had the mattress 
 which her lover had brought her, besides what she 
 generally had. The midwife was sitting in the arm- 
 chair, which contrasted very much, in its elegance, 
 with the rest of the furniture which the room con- 
 tained. She had her feet on a foot- warmer, al- 
 though she was opposite the Replace ; but the fire 
 was certainly a very small one. She had nothing in 
 her looks which betokened the least feeling; one 
 could see that she had come to perform her business, 
 and that was all. By her disagreeable manner, by 
 the way she looked about her, it was clear that, 
 from the poverty of the room, she feared that she 
 should not be well paid for her services. However, 
 she had consented to stop the night, and the young 
 man was much obliged to her. 
 
 Ernest went up to the bed very softly, but the girl 
 put out her hand to him at once, and said : 
 
 ' I am not asleep ; I am not inclined to sleep, but 
 I am comfortable now. I am afraid that it will tire 
 you to pass the night here, as you have not been 
 very well yourself, so you had better go home. You 
 know that I am out of danger, and madame is going 
 "to stay here.' 
 
TWO SEAL LOVERS. 
 
 ' Yes, I am going to stay,' said the midwife in a 
 liarsh voice, ' although it is very inconvenient ; but 
 
 oh, good heavens ! how cold this room is, and 
 
 -what a draught, and what a fire ; just two sparks ! 
 Haven't you even got a pair of bellows ? ■ 
 
 Ernest went and fetched the bellows, and then 
 went back to the bed, and said : 
 
 6 You may be quite sure, dear, that I shall not 
 leave you. But here is M. Blemont, who was kind 
 -enough to go for a doctor when he came an hour 
 -^go, and we have not even thanked him.' 
 
 c I beg your pardon, monsieur, excuse me ; but I 
 -was in such pain then.' 
 
 ' You owe me no thanks, for I did not find your 
 doctor.' 
 
 1 Never mind that,' Ernest said ; ' you showed an 
 interest in us which I shall never forget.' 
 
 ' Confounded old bellows, without a farthing's 
 worth of wind in them ! ' 
 
 I turned rouud to the midwife ; T wished I could 
 make her hold her tongue, fo* I thought such re- 
 flections would pain the lovers ; but I was mistaken, 
 for they were not listening to the woman. Ernest 
 was holding his sweetheart's hand and she was look- 
 ing at him tenderly ; after having feared an eternal 
 reparation, it seemed to them as if they had found 
 each other again, and they only thought of their 
 love. However, Marguerite sighed, and then I heard 
 lier say to Ernest, in a half whisper : 
 
 6 What a pity, my friend ; it was a boy.' 
 
 Poor little thing ! Hardly able to keep herself she 
 -wished for a child, because a woman is always proud 
 <®£ being a mother, and a child is another bond to 
 attach her lord to her. 
 
 I was just going to leave them, when we neard a 
 violent noise ; it was panes of glass being broken. 
 :and, as it seemed, on the roof, near the window of 
 iihe room where we were. 
 
 i) 2 
 
36 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 The midwife screamed with fright and got behind* 
 me, saying : 
 
 6 It's robbers ; did you hear, gentlemen ? They 
 are getting in through a window ! We must alarm 
 the whole house ! ' 
 
 I shared her opinion, and was going to open the 
 window to see what it was, when Marguerite, who r 
 instead of showing any signs of fear only smiled 
 slightly, signed tome to stop, and said to us : 
 
 ' Don't be alarmed, 1 know what it is ; it is my 
 neighbour, M. Pettermann, returning home.' 
 
 6 Who is M. Pettermann, and why does he make 
 such a noise in getting in? ' 
 
 ' He is a tailor, and works in his own room, but 
 gets drunk at least three times a week, and on those 
 days he always loses the key of his room ; then he 
 climbs on to the leads outside the landing-place 
 window, and, at the risk of breaking his neck, he 
 goes as far as his casement, knocks in a pane of 
 glass with his fist, so as to enable him to seize the 
 hasp, and gets in by the window. Ask Ernest 
 whether we have not heard him doing it more thaii ; 
 a dozen times ? ' 
 
 I could not help laughing at M. Pettermann V 
 habits, whilst the midwife exclaimed : 
 
 6 What a fool ! how he frightened me ! Fancy- 
 walking on the leads when you are drunk ! ' 
 
 6 If he were in his sober senses, he probably would 1 
 not risk it.' 
 
 ( Well, your neighbour will break his neck some 
 
 day.' 
 
 ' That is what I have told him very often. The 
 next day, when he has to have a new pane of glass 
 put in, he swears it shall never happen again. The 
 porter has threatened to get rid of him if he does 
 not go in through his door and come home sooner.' 
 
 Just then we heard somebody fuming and swear- 
 ing at the landlady. On getting into his room, M~ 
 
TWO TRUE LOVEBS. 37 
 
 Pettermann had been able to open his door, which 
 •was only closed with a latch. 
 
 ' Perhaps he wants a light 9 ' Marguerite said ; 
 * though he very rarely asks me for anything, but he 
 will have seen that we are not in bed here.' 
 
 We heard somebody knocking up against the 
 door, and a hoarse, stammering voice said : 
 
 6 Neighbour, are you not in be-be-bed, neighbour? 
 Would it be troubling you to light my candle-end 
 for me ? ' 
 
 I was curious to see neighbour Pettermann, and 
 1>efore Ernest had time to leave go of little Mar- 
 ,grierite's hand I had opened the door. 
 
 The tailor was still a young man, with a frank, 
 open face, but his drunken h' ats had made his nose 
 purple and pimply, and his dresu was in a state of 
 disorder which showed his intemperance. 
 
 On seeing me, he opened his eyes wide and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 ' Hullo ! I must have made a mistake. That's 
 funny. Isn't this my little neighbour's door ? or has 
 she moved ? ' 
 
 6 No, monsieur,' Ernest said ; ' but don't speak so 
 Joud, because she is ill. What do you want ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! she is ill, poor little woman ! ' 
 
 And M. Pettermann went up to the bed and said : 
 
 ' You are ill, my poor little woman ? What is the 
 ^natter with you ? ' 
 
 Ernest stopped the tailor, who smelt strongly of 
 wine, and the latter, always polite, although he was 
 ■drunk, thinking he had done something foolish, went 
 backwards as far as the armchair in which the mid- 
 wife was sitting, and let himself down on to her 
 *knees, saying : 
 
 'I beg your pardon. You are right; it is no 
 [business of mine.' 
 
 ' Will you get up, you drunkard ? ' screamed tLd 
 anidwife, pushing off the tailor by his back. 
 
8» 
 
 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 He turned round and stammered : 
 
 ' There ! I was sitting on a lady without knowing' 
 it ! I beg your pardon, my little mother. I didn't 
 mean it, I will swear.' 
 
 6 Give me your candle and I will light it for you/ 
 Ernest said, ' for I suppose that is what you want. 5 
 
 ' Yes, neighbour, if you will be so Mud. Why f 
 I have scratched my right hand in getting into my - 
 room.' 
 
 We then saw that the poor Wretch's right hand 
 was covered with blood, and that two of his fingere- 
 were badly cut. Marguerite pointed out a cupboard 
 in which were some linen rags, and Ernest quickly 
 wrapped up the tailor's hand. He allowed it to be- 
 done, saying: 
 
 'That's nothing at all — a mere trine. I don't 
 know what I was about to-night, but I smashed two*" 
 panes instead of one.' 
 
 6 But, Monsieur Pettermann, don't you intend to 
 correct yourself of that habit of coming in through- 
 the window ? ' 
 
 6 What am I to do ? I lose my key ; these keys 
 fall out your pocket without your noticing it, and, 
 there, I think, to-day there was a hole in my pocket. 
 But I assure you that after this I shall take care y . 
 more especially as this will be in my way in sewing/ 
 
 ' Here is your candle.' 
 
 ' Much obliged to you. Good night all. I hope 
 you will soon be better, little neighbour. If at any 
 time I can be of use to you, just call me ; don't> 
 stand upon ceremony.' 
 
 As soon as the tailor had gone back to his room r 
 thinking that the young invalid required rest, I also 
 wished them good night and left her room. How- 
 ever, I wanted to say something to Ernest privately, 
 and, as he showed me downstairs with a light, when 
 we had got near my door, I stopped, and did not 
 gpeak, for I really did not know how to begin. 
 
TWO TRUE LOVERS. 39* 
 
 Ernest, who did not think that I had anything 
 more to say to him, wished me good night and was 
 going upstairs, when I took him by the arm, for I 
 was bound to speak : 
 
 c Monsieur Ernest, I am delighted at having come- 
 to know you better. I hope our acquaintance will 
 not stop here.' 
 
 ' Monsieur, I am much obliged to you. I hope th& 
 same, and I tell you again I shall not forget the- 
 interest which you took in the events of this night.. 
 Good night ; I must go ' 
 
 * A moment more ... I was going to say to you . . .. 
 but first of all excuse me ; 1 hope you will not be 
 offended at what I am goin* to say. Young men 
 may speak freely to eacn otter. Although I am five 
 or six years older than you, 1 remember very well 
 that, living at home when I was eighteen, I was very 
 often embarrassed to be able to give my mistress a. 
 present. Now, listen ; your little friend has just- 
 met with an accident which may put you to expenses 
 that you did not expect so soon. A young man,. 
 living at home, is pressed for money sometimes. 
 Allow me to offer you the use of my purse, and you 
 shall repay me when you can.' 
 
 'I am much obliged for your offer, Monsieur 
 Blemont, and it certainly does not offend me, for I 
 do not think it is a crime to be short of money, and: 
 I will not pretend to be well off, as that would give- 
 you a very bad idea of my heart, after having seen 
 that poor girl's room. My parents are well off, a& 
 you know, but they treat me severely, because I will 
 not do exactly as they wish. They think, also, that at 
 my age one ought not to want to spend money on a 
 mistress. Perhaps they are right. Really, however, 
 I assure you that the privations which Marguerite 
 and I endure increases our love instead of lessening- 
 it. Marguerite, young and pretty as she is, might, 
 if she pleased, find rich lovers with whom she would: 
 
-40 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 enjoy all the comforts of life., but she prefers to be 
 poor with me. We are not to be pitied for that, for 
 we love each other more than money. Besides, I 
 Tiope the pressure is only momentary ; I have two 
 plays which have been accepted, and if they 
 succeed ' 
 
 c Then yon accept my offer ? ' 
 
 ' No. I never borrow money when I am not sure 
 of being able to repay it. That is a principle from 
 which I will not deviate.' 
 
 ' But as your plays have been accepted ' 
 
 8 A play is never a certainty ; it is a throw of the 
 dice. I thank you a thousand times. Besides, I 
 have enough to hold out with for the present. As 
 for the future, we hope, and build castles in the 
 air.' 
 
 6 1 am sorry that you have refused me.' 
 
 ' And I am glad that you made me the offer, for 
 you are the first of my friends who has made me 
 such a proposal, and you are only my friend of a few 
 Jiours.' 
 
 ' One often spends one's life with people who pass 
 by that name, but who have none of the feelings of 
 Jriendship.' 
 
 * G-ood night, Monsieur Element. If you have 
 time, come upstairs for a moment to-moiTOW ; we 
 -shall be pleased to see you.' 
 
 c Yes, I will come and ask after my neighbour* 
 Good night.' 
 
 Ernest went back to the fifth storey and I went to 
 jny rooms. 
 
MOBE ABOUT LOVE. 41 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 MORE ABOUT LOVE. 
 
 The next day I went to pay my neighbour of the 
 ififth storey a visit, and found her alone with her 
 lover; the midwife had left, and Ernest was sick 
 nurse, both from necessity and choice, for the two 
 lovers were much happier for not having a third 
 person about them all day, for what would be a pri- 
 vation for others is a satisfaction for lovers. 
 
 Ernest was sitting near his mistress's bed, and I 
 thought I might be in their way, so I only wished to 
 stay for a moment, but I was there for more than an 
 hour, for they pressed me to stay every time I rose 
 to go. We spoke freely about all sorts of things. 
 Marguerite spoke about the child she had hoped for, 
 and her eyes seemed to say to Ernest that there 
 would be plenty of opportunity for making that good. 
 Ernest consoled her for her disappointment, and 
 spoke about his two plays that had been accepted — ■ 
 they were his children also. I spoke about theatres, 
 balls, love intrigues, and, without mentioning names, 
 I related the adventure of Belan and his Helen to 
 them, which made them laugh heartily. I do not 
 know whether I spoke with unusual interest about 
 Mdlle. Dumeillan, but when I mentioned her name, 
 I noticed that Marguerite smiled, and that Ernest 
 "did the same. 
 
 At last, after I had been talking some time, Ernest 
 fiaid to me : 
 
 ' My dear Monsieur Blemont, it seems to me that - 
 you are in love.' 
 
 ' I, in love ! and with whom, I should like to 
 fcnow ? ' 
 
42 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 'Well, with the fair young lady who speaks bcp 
 well, who plays the piano so nicely, who has such a> 
 pleasant look ' 
 
 6 1 did not say that, surely ? ' 
 
 ' No, but we divined it by your manner of talking^ 
 eh, Marguerite ? ' 
 
 ' You are certainly in love with the young lady in 
 the rose-coloured dress.' 
 
 C I will swear to you that ' 
 
 ( Don't swear, monsieur, for it would not be true.'' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Eugenie is very pretty, certainly,, 
 but I don't know her.' 
 
 ' That can be managed.' 
 
 ' I don't know whether these ladies would receive 
 me ; but you have given me an idea — I will go and 
 talk with M. Giraud. Perhaps, to-day, he will not 
 be busy with his lamps. I will go there, and, with- 
 out appearing to do so, I can lead up the conversa- 
 tion to them.' 
 
 •Yes, go ; and then come and tell us how matters- 
 are getting on.' 
 
 I will confess that the picture of the real love of 
 those two made me long for similar happiness. Per- 
 haps the recollection of the charming Eugenie in- 
 fluenced my reflections a good deal. I was twenty- 
 six, and already tired of amorous intrigues. It is- 
 amusing, however, to have three or four mistresses- 
 whom one deceives at the same time; who have 
 scores with us and threaten us, follow us, spy after 
 us, and are more in love with us for every infidelity 
 we are guilty of. And those poor husbands whom 
 
 one makes , that is also very amusing. But in 
 
 the midst of all those pleasures, it seemed to me that 
 the heart at times felt a void. Did not Ernest and 
 Marguerite experience more real happiness than I 
 did ? I do not know, but I should like to try it. 
 
 I had an income of eight thousand francs — not- 
 exactlv a fortune, but a competency. Besides, I was* 
 
MOBB ABOUT LOVE. 43^ 
 
 a barrister, and that was something, although I 
 certainly had not pleaded often since I had acquired 
 the right to wear the robe. Pleasure too often dis- 
 tracted me from business, but if I got married I 
 should be steady — I should be obliged to be. 
 
 My father was dead ; he had also been at the bar. 
 He left me an honourable name, which I mean to 
 preserve unblemished, for, though one has three or 
 four mistresses at once, that does not affect one's 
 honour, especially when one has neither rape nor 
 seduction to reproach onese'd: with, and, thank God ! 
 we live in times when it is easy to make love with- 
 out coming to that. I know it is not moral to de- 
 ceive husbands, but the example was contagious, 
 
 and there are so many who neglect their wives F 
 
 Is it not natural, then, to console the ladies ? 
 
 My mother, who spent ine summer in the country 
 and the winter in Paris in front of a whist table, 
 would, I knew, be very glad if I were to get married; 
 she had an income of three thousand francs, which 
 would come to me some day, but I never thought of 
 that, for when one loves one's parents one ought 
 always to hope that they will not die. 
 
 I do not know why I have made these reflections. 
 After all, I was not thinking of marrying; or, at 
 least, of making one of those marriages that 'are 
 arranged beforehand by relations and friends. If I 
 were to marry, I should have to be very much in 
 love, and to be sure that I was loved in return. 
 
 Walking and thinking, I got to Giraud's door. 
 Should I go upstairs ? Why not ? I might pretend 
 to have lost a walking-stick or a switch the night 
 before; certainly, I never carry either, but that 
 makes no difference. It was two o'clock, and I 
 thought that Giraud would be in his study, so I went 
 upstairs. I found the door on the landing open. 
 The three children, dressed like little thieves and 
 dirty as rag gatherers, were playing with the dog ii* 
 
4A , TH* CUCKOLD. 
 
 the ante-room, and had put a black silk cap of their 
 father's on his head. I noticed that the rooms were 
 not done yet, and the servant was sweeping out the 
 drawing room. I was told that Giraud was in, and 
 thought that he was in his study, but the little girl 
 called out to me that papa was dressing mamma, 
 and I did not dare to go into madame's room. Mon- 
 sieur was sent for, and during that time I remained 
 in the dust, pursued by the broom. 
 
 At last Giraud arrived, shaking his hands and 
 making grimaces : 
 
 ' Good day, my dear Blemont.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to have disturbed you; I came up, as 
 t was passing, to 
 
 6 You have not disturbed me in the least ; on the 
 contrary, you have put a stop to my sufferings. I 
 was just trying to fasten my wife's gown. Ah ! my 
 thumb ! — good heavens, hov it hurts ! I could not 
 manage it, after all, and yet she declares that her 
 dress is too wide, but I don't believe it. Francoise, 
 .go and fasten my wife's dress.' 
 
 'But you know, monsieur, that madame says I am 
 ; awkward at it, and not strong enough.' 
 
 'Never mind, just go; and you can finish the 
 •drawing room afterwards.' 
 
 I thought that we were going into his study, and 
 that we should find a fire there, for it was by no 
 means warm ; but Giraud asked me to sit down on 
 the sofa, and said : 
 
 6 1 cannot take you into my study, because it is not 
 .done yet. How my thumbs do hurt me ! They will 
 light the fire after the drawing room is done. Is it 
 late ? I have not found a moment yet to dress my- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Why, it is past two.' 
 
 * Good gracious ! And I have three engagements 
 this morning to arrange interviews for people who 
 want to get married,' 
 
MORE ABOUT) LOVE. 45- 
 
 ' I will not detain you.' 
 
 'Don't go; they can wait for me. They never 
 finish anything in this place ... My friend, mar- 
 riage is a beautiful thing, and I hope that you will 
 soon take your place amongst the respectable class 
 of married men.' 
 
 ' There is time enough for that.' 
 
 ' You must be tired of your bachelor life ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 I Did you notice any young lady at our party last 
 night who struck your fancy ? ' 
 
 6 ~No ; I only came because I thought I had left a 
 rather nice walking-stick here yesterday.' 
 
 f A walking-stick ! We must ask the children ; 
 they find everything in this place. They are as 
 clever as demons. Theodore I Alexander ! my^ 
 daughter ! ' 
 
 i Don't disturb them.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; I shall be glad for you to see them, 
 they are so clever in their answers.' 
 
 I did not venture to say that T bad already seen 
 the clever dears. Papa called them again, and they 
 came — Theodore on all fours, with Alexander on his 
 back, holding the dog in his arms. To represent a 
 quadruped better, he had put on great paper ears, 
 and the little girl was whipping him behind with a 
 bundle of quill pens. 
 
 I laughed at the sight, and, at first, Giraud 
 thought it very amusing ; but soon he recognised 
 his black silk cap on the dog's head, and then he 
 laughed no longer. 
 
 6 What, you young scamp ! You have taken my 
 silk cap and put it on Azor ! ' 
 
 6 Papa, it was to make a scarecrow of him.' 
 
 6 1 have forbidden you a thousand times to touch 
 my things . . . And you, miss, what are you whip- 
 ping your brother with ? ' 
 
 < With a ' 
 
46 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' It's with a bundle of pens that was on my desk — 
 ^very dear pens, the very best, which I keep for 
 writing my circulars with ! Who allowed you to 
 -take anything off my desk? But I say, Master 
 "Theodore, just come here. What have yon *nade 
 jour asses' ears out of ? ' 
 
 ' Papa, it was some paper that was lying about.' 
 
 ' Lying about ! God forgive me ! It's M. Mer- 
 millon's letter, in which he gives me full details of 
 Iris daughter's dowry. Little scamp, to make asses' 
 ears out of my correspondence ! Some day you will 
 be taking thousand franc notes off my desk to make 
 screws for sweets out of. I'll settle with you ' 
 
 Giraud was just going to run after his son but I 
 stopped him, for I heard madame crying out in an 
 angry voice : 
 
 6 Giraud ! Giraud ! are you not coming to finish 
 dressing me ? Francois*? wannot fasten my dress ; 
 she is horribly awkward.' 
 
 6 That's it,' Giraud said, ' she will get warning be- 
 cause she cannot fasten a dress quickly enough. It 
 is always the same old song. So much the worse ; 
 let her do it herself. Just look at my thumbs ; there 
 is no skin left under the nails.' 
 
 The door of the bedroom was half opened, and 
 Madame Giraud showed herself, half dressed, and 
 behind her was the servant, who came in and resumed 
 her broom, muttering : 
 
 ' What dog's work ! Does she think I took the 
 place to pull in her stomach ? ' 
 
 Seeing me, Madame Giraud took one step back 
 and three forward, and exclaimed : 
 
 'Oh ! T ' M. Blemont, pray excuse my disorder, but 
 M. Giraud is such a man ; he never finished me. I 
 cannot remain half dressed, and I declare, monsieur, 
 that the dress is too wide for me.' 
 
 ' I declare to you, my wife, that I have hurt my 
 ^thumbs.' 
 
MORE jLBOUT LOVE. 47 
 
 ' Oh, you are a butter-fingers ! and I have three 
 visits to pay before dinner, and you know that we are 
 "to dine with Madame Dumeillan, who has a box at 
 iihe Porte-Saint-Martin.' 
 
 6 1 forgot that we were dining out. Believe me. 
 my dear Blemont, we have no many invitations that 
 -we don't know which to accept. They dine early ! 
 good heavens, how unfortunate I am ! I shall never 
 have time enough/ 
 
 Madame Giraud had said enough for me. De- 
 lighted at what I had just heard, I went up to her : 
 
 1 If you will allow me, madame, perhaps I shall be 
 more fortunate than your servant.' 
 
 Madame Giraud gave a gracious smile, and im- 
 mediately turned her back to me, saying : 
 
 6 You are very kind, Monsieur Blemont. Will you 
 really be so good ? ' 
 
 'With the greatest pleasure, madame.' 
 
 I was no novice in fastening dresses, so I took hold 
 of the bodice on both sides, and, though it hurt me 
 .a little, the dress was fastened, and I did it as if it 
 vcost me no effort. 
 
 6 It's done ! ' cried Madame Giraud, with a trium- 
 phant air ; ' isn't it, Monsieur Blemont ? ' 
 
 'Yes, madame, it is done perfectly.' 
 
 ' Well, Monsieur Giraud, you see when one knows 
 
 how to set about it ,. and Monsieur Blemont 
 
 seemed to do it quite easily. 5 
 
 6 Without the least difficulty, madame.' 
 
 6 Upon my word, my dear fellow,' Giraud said, c lf 
 you would come here every day when Madame 
 Giraud is dressing, you would do me a great kind- 
 ness.' 
 
 6 Hold your tongue, Monsieur Giraud ; you ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself. Excuse me, Monsieur 
 Blemont, I must go and finish dressing- ^Many 
 thanks.' 
 
 Madame went into ber room, and Giraud wanted 
 
THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 to make me sit down in a corner that had already- 
 been swept, bnt I took up my hat and bade him 
 good-bye. He accompanied me as far as the landings- 
 saying to me again : 
 
 6 My friend, get married. Believe me, it is the 
 happiest state. I know three yonng ladies to be 
 disposed of who have splendid dowries.' 
 
 6 Yery well ; we will see abont it.' 
 
 'If your walking stick is found, I will take care 
 of it.' 
 
 *' Oh ! now I come to think of it, I do not believe 
 that I left it here. Good-bye.' 
 
 Mademoiselle Eugenie would be at the Theatre 
 Porte-Saint-Martin that evening, so I determined to 
 go there and see her, and, as the Giraud's would be 
 with her, I could go and pay my respects to the 
 ladies. And yet, these Girauds were so stupid, so 
 ridiculous, with their mania for marrying everybody, 
 that I was sorry to see them on intimate terms with 
 the ladies. It might, perhaps, only be one of those 
 society intimacies — people see each other to while 
 away the time, but do not care for one another. 
 
 I waited for the evening without any particular 
 impatience, for I was not in love. I wanted to see 
 the girl again because I had nothing better to do,, 
 and because my eyes, which were fatigued with, 
 pretended love looks for such a long time, required 
 to rest on other charms to regain that fire which they 
 had lost. 
 
 I went to the theatre late, for I wished them to 
 get there before me. I looked at the boxes, and saw 
 them in one on the first tier. The mamma and 
 Madame Giraud were in front, and Mdlle. Eugenie 
 behind them. Giraud I did not see, doubtless he 
 had some marriage to arrange. There was a vacant 
 place beside Mdlle. Eugenie ; should I venture ? 
 No ; the box was theirs, and I dare not go into it 
 without being invited. 
 
MORE ABOUT LOVE. 49* 
 
 1 thought her still prettier than I did the day 
 "before, for her simple mode of dress imparted fresh 
 graces to her. As I was not seen, I could look at 
 her at my ease. There was room in a box next to 
 theirs, but I did not like to go into it, as it would 
 have shown too palpably that I wished to speak to 
 them. 
 
 The play went on, but they did not see me T 
 although I had got as near to the box as I could. 
 That Madame Giraud thought of nothing but her 
 waist ! I was sure she was suffocating. She had. 
 not the sense to look in my direction. 
 
 The door of the box opened, and, no doubt, it was 
 Giraud. No, it was a young man, who bowed to the 
 ladies, and Mdlle. Dumeillan smiled at him, and 
 then talked and laughed with him. It was worth 
 my while to come in order to see that ! Good 
 heavens ! how stupid some people are ! I was ac- 
 tually jealous, and on account of a person whom I 
 hardly knew, and to whom I had never spoken a 
 word of love. She was quite at liberty to have a- 
 lover — and even ten — if she liked. *» I felt annoyed 
 at my folly, and, to prove to myself that that young 
 person was totally indifferent to me, I immediately 
 had the box which was next to the one where she 
 was opened for me, for I did not see why the pre- 
 sence of two ladies, who were almost strangers to- 
 me, should prevent one from talking to Madame 
 Giraud, whose dress I had fastened that morning. 
 
 I went to the box, and did not look at Mdlle. 
 Eugenie ; I pretended not to see the ladies 3 but soon 
 Madame Giraud called to me : 
 
 ' Good evening, Monsieur Blemont. How kind of 
 you to come and see us. So you remembered that 1 
 told you I should be coming here this evening with 
 these ladies? ' 
 
 The devil take Madame Giraud and her recollec- 
 tions ! and I answered deliberately : 
 
SO THJfif ttUCKOJGD. 
 
 8 !Nb, madame, I did not know, or had forgotten, 
 that you were coming ; bnt I have an appointment 
 with some one here this evening, and that made me 
 come.' 
 
 I then bowed coldly to Madame Dumeillan and her 
 daughter and turned round to look about the theatre. 
 But soom Madame Griraud spoke to me again ; she 
 overwhelmed me with civilities since I had managed 
 to fasten her dress. 
 
 Although I appeared to be listening to her I did 
 not hear what she said, as I was listening to the 
 young man who was talking to Mdlle. Eugenie. His 
 conversation was very empty, for he spoke about 
 nothing in particular, but only about theatres, and so 
 I began to feel in a better temper. I turned towards 
 the ladies again and joined in the conversation, but 
 did not look at Eugenie, for I did not wish her to 
 think that I had come on her account. 
 
 Soon the young man took his leave, and went back 
 to the people he was with. He could not be in love 
 with her to leave her like that. I looked at Mdlle. 
 Dumeillan by stealth, and after his departure I no- 
 ticed that she was just as cheerful and as amused as 
 when he was there ; so I begaa to think I had made 
 a mistake, and that he was not a lover. 
 
 Thereupon, I got as close as I could to their box, 
 and exchanged a few words with Mdlle. Dumeillan 
 whilst the play was going on. Once, her hand was 
 against mine, which was resting on the partition 
 which separated us. It was quite by chance that our 
 two hands met, and she quickly withdrew hers, and 
 I did the same, stammering some excuses. But that 
 charming hand, when it touched mine, made me ex- 
 perience the most delightful sensations — and a mere 
 touch produced that effect ! I should like to know 
 
 whether Mdlle. Eugenie but she was not looking 
 
 in my direction any longer. 
 
 1m the interval between the actr that followed, 
 
I GO TO THE HOTJSE. 61 
 
 Madame Giraud, who was talking to Madame Du- 
 -meiUan, suddenly turned towards me, and said : 
 
 * See, madame, Monsieur Blemont is a barrister, 
 ;and knows all about tlie laws and everybody's rights. 
 My husband does not know much about it ; all he 
 toows about is marriages. Consult M. Blemont 
 about your business, and he will tell you whether 
 you are right or wrong.' 
 
 * I should neither dare to trouble monsieur, nor 
 permit myself to take up his time.' 
 
 I hastened to offer my services, and to ask what 
 -the matter in question was, but that could not be ex- 
 plained in the theatre. I should have to examine 
 documents and title deeds, and so, when they left, 
 Madame Dumeillan gave me her address, with many 
 excuses for troubling me, and thanked me beforehand 
 for going to her the next morning. Fancy thanking 
 me for what I should have asked for as a favour ! I 
 rfelt very happy, but I concealed my feelings, and did 
 not again bring my hand into contact with Mdlle. 
 Dumeillan's, for I was detemrined not to show my- 
 self at all in love. A novice throws himself at 
 people's heads, but a man of sense knows how to 
 husband his advantages. 
 
 Following out this principle, as soon as I saw 
 Giraud come into the box I bowed and left the 
 theatre. Had I remained, it would have seemed too 
 much as if I were waiting for an opportunity of 
 seeing them home. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I GO TO THE HOTJSE. 
 
 The next day I waited till two o'clock, and then 
 ?went to Madame Dumeillan's. Everything was «*. 
 
 e 2 
 
52 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 great contrast to the Griraud's ; the servant had 
 finished sweeping out the room, and she showed me* 
 into a plainly, but tastefully, furnished drawing' 
 room, where I found Mdlle Eugenie practising on 
 the piano. 
 
 She left her music in order to go and tell her 
 mother that I had come, and, of course I did not 
 venture to tell her that I had come for her sake 
 alone, that would be advancing rather too quickly^ 
 What a pity it is that one cannot always go straight 
 to one's object ! What a lot of time one loses. 
 
 The mamma came, and soon explained her affairs 
 to me, and showed her title deeds. Eugenie left the 
 drawing room whilst her mother was talking with 
 me, and it is well that she did so, for I was listening 
 inattentively and, I believe, answering at sixes and 
 sevens. It was the matter of a small farm, which 
 came to her from her husband, and ber right to 
 which a brother-in-law of the deceased man was 
 going to dispute. Her rights seemed to me to be 
 quite clear, but I could not read all the deeds there 
 and then, and so it was agreed that I should take 
 them away and study them at home. 
 
 Eugenie came back, and we talked of less serious 
 matters. The mamma was very amiable; Eugenie 
 was clever and well educated, and, although I was 
 not as yet altogether on an unceremonious footing* 
 with the ladies, yet I was on very good terms with 
 them. I took leave after stopping an hour. I had 
 no need to ask permission to come again, as I had 
 established a footing in the house. 
 
 I waited two days before going to Madame Du- 
 meillan's again. I am strangely constituted ; X 
 wished to hide my feelings, and I should have been 
 sorry if Mc^lle. Dumeiilan were to guess the im- 
 pression which she had produced upon me. How- 
 ever, I paid my second visit, and I had carefully 
 studied the particulars of the case in the actio© 
 
I GO TO THE HOUSE. 53 
 
 •which was going to be brought against the widow. 
 I felt certain that right was on her side, and, after I 
 •had assured her of this, I offered her my services, 
 which she gladly accepted. Decidedly, I was no 
 longer a stranger ; I was looked upon as a friend. 
 
 They had one day in the week when they were at 
 home, when there was card playing, mnsic, and some- 
 times dancing. The company was more select than 
 that at the GJ-iraud's, altogether of another class, 
 though there were some people whom I did not care 
 to see there. These were a lot of good-looking 
 young men who were very gallant and assiduous in 
 their attentions towards Eugenie. How foolish I 
 was ! I should have been very glad for young women 
 t;o have gone to the house, but I only wanted men in 
 wigs. Such I found very agreeable. 
 
 As for me, I do not think I am so, very often. 
 One never is when one is really in love. I liked to 
 ^see the ladies by themselves, then I was much 
 happier. If Eugenie played, there was no young 
 man to hang over the piano, ready to turn over the 
 leaves for her. If I talked with her we were not in- 
 terrupted by some fashionable nobody who came and 
 paid her a compliment, and yet I perceived that it 
 -was impossible to receive nobody but me. 
 
 I did not neglect the case which Madame Dumeil- 
 lan had confided to me ; it would be doubly agree- 
 able for me to win it ; I should oblige the ladies, and 
 give them a favourable idea of my talents. It did 
 not require much eloquence to succeed, and Madame 
 Dumeillan gained the day over an opponent who had 
 tried to cheat her, out of a mania for law suits. 
 Two months after I had first gone to their house I 
 could tell them that they had won. 
 
 Although it was only the question of a small pro- 
 perty, Madame Dumeillan thanked me effusively : 
 mammas are fond of money. Eugenie thanked me 
 politely, and that was all. Generally, we were tole- 
 
54 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 rably cool to each other. Why did she not treat me' 
 like any other man? Had she remarked that I got 
 into a bad temper when anybody paid her attentions, 
 and that I went away as soon as anyone else came 
 np to her ? Perhaps she disliked me ? She certainly^ 
 conld not find me very amiable, for I was mnch less 
 so than most of those who went to her mother's 
 honse. I never nattered her, I never was gallant or 
 assidnous in my attentions towards her, and conld L 
 hope to please her thns ? Yes ; I wished her to love 
 me as I was ; I wished her to show me that she had 
 read my heart, and that I did my ntmost to hide 
 what was passing in it from her. Love occasionally 
 makes ns very eccentric. 
 
 Sometimes I thought I wonld change my manner 
 towards her. I tried to do like the other yonng men 
 who came to their honse ; to be agreeable, gallant,, 
 to langh and joke whilst others snrronnded her, bnt 
 I did not play my part well ; my gaiety was forced, 
 and Eugenie seemed to notice it, which made me 
 more awkward still. 
 
 The yonng men who went to Madame Dumeillan's 
 wej-e all well bred, and their attentions to Eugenie 
 could offend nobody ; but I got it into my head that 
 she was a coquette, and though innocent coquetry is 
 nothing more than a desire to please, I made up my 
 mind to forget her as soon as possible, and not to go- 
 near the house for a fortnight. 
 
 It cost me a good deal to stick to my resolution^ 
 Eight days passed, however, and I kept my word ; on 
 the ninth I thought that Madame Dumeillan — who 
 had shown me great kindness, and always evinced 
 the greatest pleasure in seeing me — would think it 
 strange that I had been so long without going to 
 call. After all, if her daughter looked at me coldly, 
 that was not her fault, and was no reason why H 
 should be impolite towards her. On the tenth day I 
 made up my mind to go aud see them that evening. 
 
I GO TO THE MOUSE. 
 
 55» 
 
 1 had not chosen the day of one of their parties, 
 though I found some old friends of Madame Du- 
 meillan also had come to play boston ; two ladies and 
 an old gentleman were playing with mamma, and 
 Eugenie was alone in a corner of the drawing room 
 busy with her embroidery. 
 
 Madame Dumeillan asked kindly after my health ; 
 she was afraid that I had been ill, and had intended 
 to send and ask after me the next day. I thanked 
 her, and excused myself on the score of a press of 
 business ; then I left mamma to her game, and went- 
 and sat down by Eugenie. 
 
 She bowed to me very coldly, and then did not 
 raise her eyes again and uttered nothing but common- 
 places ; she had not even the politeness to reproach, 
 me for not having been there for so long, as her 
 mother had done. It seemed that this young person, 
 was just as distasteful to me as I used to find her 
 charming ; if I dared, I would take up my hat and 
 leave the room immediately, but that would be rude. 
 
 Oh ! if we had been in love with each other what 
 a number of things we should have found to say 
 when we were, so to speak, alone in the drawing' 
 room, and now we had to limit ourselves to a few 
 indifferent phrases. Occasionally we were some 
 minutes without speaking, and she did not lift her 
 eyes from her work. How I should like to tear up 
 that embroidery, which seemed to engross her so 
 
 much. 
 
 Half an hour passed in this manner. She went om 
 working with the same assiduity, and I was still by 
 her side, speaking little and sighing involuntarily. 
 Suddenly the drawing room door was opened, and 
 Gerval came in, one of the young men who was very- 
 attentive to En genie and often sang with her. 
 
 This Gerval was a good-looking, very agreeable 
 young fellow, and so, of course, he was one of those 
 whom I hated the most. I am sure that I changed 
 
.56 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 colour on seeing him come in, and whilst lie was 
 paying his respects to Madame Dumeillan, I quickly 
 went into the corner of the room where I had put 
 my hat, for I was determined not to wait another 
 .moment. I wished I were a hundred leagues off, 
 and was sorry that I ever came. I had already got 
 jny hat in my hand, and was going off without say- 
 ing a word to anybody, when a hand seized mine, 
 pressed it gently, and stopped me. It was Eugenie, 
 who said to me in a tone of voice which she had 
 never had for me before : 
 
 c Why are you going ? To stop away for a fort- 
 night, and then to go away like this ! I really can- 
 not understand you. What have we done to you 
 that you should not come any more ? ' 
 
 I was motionless. I felt upset at the soft touch 
 of her hand and the gentle tones of her voice, but I 
 also felt a hitherto unknown happiness. One must 
 have loved truly to understand what I then felt. I 
 eagerly pressed her hand and she returned the pres- 
 sure and then gently withdrew it, with her eyes still 
 fixed on mine. All that had been the affair of a 
 moment, but that moment decided the rest of my 
 life. Eugenie loved me, she had read my heart, and 
 1 felt that I could no longer live without her, that 
 for the future Eugenie would be everything to me. 
 
 I no longer thought of leaving. Eugenie returned 
 to her place, and Gerval went to talk to her, but I 
 was no longer jealous ; Gerval was no longer dis- 
 tasteful to me ; it had only required an instant to 
 change my whole disposition. I went up to Eugenie, 
 and whilst talking to Gerval she managed only to 
 look at me. The young man proposed some music, 
 -and as she went to the piano our hands met, and 
 when she sung a love duet with Grerval her eyes ad- 
 dressed her words to me. Erom the moment that 
 two hearts understand each other, there are a thou- 
 sand means of proving it. 
 
I GO TO THE HOUSE. 57 
 
 After that duet Gerval proposed another, but she 
 ^refused on the pretext of a sore throat, and came 
 ^nd sat down by me again. Gerval remained some 
 •time longer. I fancied that he was not in quite his 
 usual high spirits and less sparkling than usual. At 
 last he took leave and went. 
 
 Though Eugenie still held her work she did no- 
 thing ; our eyes frequently met and we spoke in low 
 tones. Now I had so many things to say to her, 
 .and yet we only exchanged a few words, but our 
 looks were more eloquent than any language. 
 
 How quickly the time passed ! I was so happy to 
 be near her ! The last game was finished, and 
 Madame Dumeillan asked her daughter to bring her 
 her purse. They were leaving, and I was obliged to 
 do the same. 
 
 ' I hope you will not stop away for so long again,' 
 Madame Dumeillan said to me kindly, and as she 
 passed close to me Eugenie whispered : 
 
 ' You will come again to-morrow, won't you ? ' 
 
 I only answered with my eyes, but she understood 
 the reply, as I saw a tender smile on her lips, and I 
 took my leave intoxicated with love and happiness. 
 
 I returned home, hardly touching the ground. It 
 seemed to me that already happiness had transported 
 me to the third heaven, if, indeed, there be a third 
 heaven. 
 
 Going up my stairs I thought of my young lovers 
 on the fifth storey. I had neglected them very much 
 for some time, but I had always been unhappy, 
 jealous, and in a bad temper, and the picture of their 
 love would only have aggravated my wretchedness. 
 But to-day I could go and see them. I should not 
 be low spirited and sulky when I was with them, and 
 they would undertand my happiness. 
 
 It was only a quarter past eleven, and seeing that 
 ~there was still a light burning in their room, I 
 Jmoeked at the door and said who it was. 
 
58 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Ernest opened it to me. 
 
 'Where did you spring from?' he said with s> 
 laugh ; c we have not seen you for a month.' 
 
 6 He has just been to see Eugenie,' said little- 
 Marguerite ; 'see how happy he looks ! Love mat- 
 ters seem to be going on all right.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! very well indeed. I am the happiest of 
 men to-night. Now I know that she loves me ; she 
 prefers me to all those who paid her attentions, and 
 yet I was much less attentive and agreeable than the 
 others.' 
 
 6 What does that matter ? One is always agree- 
 able when one is loved.' 
 
 I told them all that had occurred between Eugenie- 
 and me, and they listened to me attentively, for they 
 understood it all, as they loved each other tenderly .- 
 When I had finished my story, I jumped up and 
 piroueted about the room, I could not keep still. 
 
 6 Take care,' Marguerite said to me, ' or you will- 
 break everything. But, monsieur, you don't even 
 see how nice everything is here now? ' 
 
 I had not even looked at the room, but there were 
 some slight alterations in it, The miserable bed 
 had given place to a very neat painted one, with 
 cushions and a tester. The chairs, which were nearly 
 all broken, had been replaced by six new ones, and a 
 walnut- wood chest of drawers stood in the place of 
 the little cupboard, and, lastly, there was a really^ 
 good fire in the grate. 
 
 6 Isn't it nice ? ' Marguerite said to me ; ' Ernest, 
 gave me all this. His play has been a success, and, 
 oh ! how pretty it is ! When the author was called 
 for, and his name given out, I was inclined to call 
 out, " My little husband did that ! Oh ! he is very 
 clever, is my little husband."' 
 
 f Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite V ' 
 < No, monsieur ; I want to talk. We are no longer- 
 so poor now. Just look at my mantelpiece. There* 
 
PRELIMINARIES OP HAPPINESS. 59 s 
 
 are two china cups and saucers and a sugar basin on 
 it. That box is to put the week's money in. When 
 there is anything over I put it in a money-box.' 
 
 Poor little girl ! How little she wanted to make 
 make her think herself rich! Many would have 
 thought the room wretched. I congratulated her, 
 and admired everything that she showed me. I 
 complimented Ernest on the success of his play, and 
 I sincerely shared their happiness, which only in- 
 creased my own. I stayed with them for more than 
 an hour, and talked to them of Eugenie and our 
 love ; whilst they told me of their little projects, 
 their plans for the future, their hopes — very modest 
 hopes — which proved that, given up to their love, 
 they knew neither vanity nor ambition. 
 
 I was not yet thinking of taking my leave, and I 
 think we should have spent the whole night in talk- 
 ing thus, when suddenly we heard a tremendous 
 noise on the roof, and broken panes of glass fell on 
 to the leads and into the yard. First of all I was 
 involuntarily startled, but it was soon over, and I 
 began to laugh on looking at Ernest and Marguerite, 
 who were doing the same. 
 
 It was M. Pettermann returning home. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PRELIMINARIES OP HAPPINESS. 
 
 After this I went to see Eugenie every day, for I 
 did not know any reason for hiding my love. She 
 loved me and knew that I adored her ; was it not 
 
<60 THE CTTCKOLD. 
 
 right that her mother also should know her feelings P 
 I never thought that Eugenie would become mj 
 mistress ; I desired and hoped for lasting happiness. 
 Eugenie would be my wife — I wap sure of her con- 
 sent, but her mother's was also necessary. 
 
 I think that the good mamma had guessed the 
 state of my feelings for a long time : parents are not 
 always the dupes of our little tricks, of our cold and 
 ceremonious manner ; but when they pretend not to 
 see you may be sure that they approve of our incli- 
 nation. Madame Dumeillan saw that I went to her 
 house every day, and a man does not go every day 
 to a house where there is a pretty woman without 
 there being some love in the matter. Eugenie pouted 
 when I came late and scolded me when I went, and 
 though mamma heard it all she was satisfied with 
 smiling. I saw that our Jove was no longer a secret 
 for anybody. 
 
 Eugenie did not call me Monsieur Blemont any 
 tmore ; she called me Monsieur Henri, or plain Henri 
 when nobody was by. How sweet it is to hear her 
 one loves call us for the first time by our baptismal 
 name without that prefix monsieur. From that 
 moment a stronger bond united us and a tenderer 
 intimacy existed between us. Eugenie could love as 
 well as I could ; I could read all her thoughts in her 
 eyes, and she did not try to hide what she felt from 
 me. I had found the weman whom I longed for : 
 beauty, grace, intellect and virtues. Yes, virtues ; 
 for Eugenie was good, sensible, submissive and tender 
 with her mother ; I never heard her complain when 
 : she was obeying her slightest wish. I used to think 
 her a great flirt, but I was mistaken ; she liked 
 amusements suitable to her age, and gave herself up 
 .to them frankly and gracefully, but that was not 
 coquetry. She laughed with those who tried to 
 please her, but she gave none false hopes. Now, 
 when at their at homes young men came and paid her 
 
PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS. 6£ 
 
 ) 
 
 attentions and compliments she did not laugh any 
 longer; their gallant speeches bored her; her eyes 
 sought for and followed me constantly, and when 
 she could escape from the crowd, she would come to 
 me and say in a whisper : 
 
 6 Henri, I don't care for parties any longer ; I like 
 it much better when you are here alone to keep us 
 company.' 
 
 Eugenie was, perhaps, rathe^ susceptible, and 
 yielded to a first impression too quickly. I some- 
 times saw her get cross and sulk for days on account 
 of a word which she misinterpreted, or of a perfectly 
 innocent action which she misunderstood, but that 
 slight fault would disappear with time and experience. 
 I thought also that she would be jealous, very jealous 
 even ; she changed colour and got uneasy when I 
 spoke for a long time with the same lady ; but far 
 from blaming her for this, I felt a secret joy at it ; 
 for that jealousy was another proof of the love with 
 which I had inspired her. I should have been sorry 
 if she could have looked on coldly whilst I was 
 talking to another woman, for I should have thought 
 that she loved me but slightly. And then, after all, 
 I did not expect to find a perfect being, which is said 
 not to exist. But if a perfect woman did exist I 
 would not marry her, for I am sure I should get 
 tired of her very soon. 
 
 Eugenie was to teach me music, as she thought I 
 had a good voice and sang with taste, and we began 
 our lessons at once. I did not suppose I should 
 make rapid progress, but as these lessons pleased us, 
 and as they gave me an opportunity for being near 
 Eugenie to tell her a hundred times over how I 
 adored her, she was to give them to me frequently 
 and I must become a musician. I was to teach hei 
 painting ; she was very anxious to be able to wield a 
 brush, and I had no doubt that in a short time shr 
 would do honour to her master. 
 
<62 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Every day augmented my love for her, and daily I 
 acquired new proofs of her devotion to me. Those 
 delicious hours which I spent with her — but always 
 in her mother's presence — made me long" for a still 
 greater happiness. Why should I hesitate to settle 
 my lot, for I was sure that she would gladly become 
 my wif e ? 
 
 Hitherto I had only spoken to her of love and not 
 of marriage, but, surely, I did not need to pronounce 
 the word. Eugenie, of course, could not, for a well- 
 educated young lady does not ask the man who is 
 paying her attentions whether he means to marry 
 her, for she naturally cannot suppose that he has 
 any other intention. If a girl were to ask such a 
 question, she would always put herself in an un- 
 favourable position ; she would seem to say : 
 
 ' I will love you when I am sure that you intend 
 to marry me.' 
 
 Fine love, to be commanded or suppressed at will ! 
 
 One day I went to Madame Dumeillan's at twelve 
 o'clock, and for a wonder Eugenie was alone. The 
 mamma had gone to pay a visit, and Eugenie had 
 found some excuse for not going, as she hoped I 
 should come. She told me this with a tender smile 
 which transported me, and gave me her hand, which 
 I eagerly pressed ; and then I sat down by her side, 
 quite close to her, as close as possible. I spoke to 
 her of my love. I told her — as I had already done a 
 hundred times — that I was only happy with her. 
 But one never tires of hearing the assurances of a 
 feeling which one shares ; when such words weary 
 us, our hearts are beginning to change. 
 
 Whilst speaking to Eugenie I had, for the first 
 time, put my arm round her waist, and I pressed her 
 tenderly against me, but she freed herself gently, 
 ind said : 
 
 6 Come to the piano, monsieur ; you must have a 
 lesson this morning.' 
 
PBELIMINARIES OP HAPPINESS. 6$ 
 
 I did not feel equal to look at the notes tranquilly, 
 ao I detained Eugenie by the hand. 
 
 6 Please let us talk a little longer ; we have plenty 
 of time for the piano.' 
 
 f We can talk whilst you are having your lesson.' 
 
 6 1 cannot take it this morning.' 
 
 ( Why, monsieur ? Are you tired already of learning 
 music ? ' 
 
 6 Oh, no ! But I have so many things to say to 
 jrou, and I so rarely find you alone.' 
 
 * Does mamma's presence prevent you from talking 
 with me ? Don't we talk together for hours every 
 evening whilst they are playing cards ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but that is not the same thing ; it is so much 
 jiicer to be alone. Dear Eugenie ! I should like to 
 spend my whole life with you alone.' 
 
 c You would very soon get tired of that ! ' 
 
 'With you? It's impossible. It is you, more 
 likely who would object to giving up the homage of 
 that crowd of young men who surround you, on my 
 ^accouut.' 
 
 ' Oh ! how horrid to say that ! I also am bored 
 everywhere when you are not there. Do I listen to 
 the compliments and the gallantries of a crowd of 
 young men ? Come to the piano, monsieur ! ' 
 
 i Just one moment more ! ' 
 
 I adored her and was sure she loved me, and yet I 
 trembled at pronouncing the word marriage. It was 
 very strange to hesitate and to be embarrassed with 
 the woman you love in speaking of a bond which 
 both long for. I never hesitated to triumph over the 
 modesty of a pretty woman, and to abuse her weak- 
 ness. It seems to me that more courage is requisite 
 to behave well than to commit follies. 
 
 I was holding Eugenie's hand, which she had 
 abandoned to me ; I could not speak, but I covered 
 it with kisses. I do not know whether she guessed 
 what was going on in my heart, but she blushed 
 
64 THE CTTCKOLD. 
 
 deeply, and she turned away her eyes so as not to 
 encounter mine. At last I stammered in a whisper,, 
 and in an almost shamefaced manner : 
 
 ' Eugenie, will you be my wife ? * 
 
 She gave me no answer, but her hand pressed mine 
 tenderly, and her bosom heaved vehemently ; I met 
 her eyes, which she tried still to turn away from me,, 
 and they were filled with tears. How sweet are the 
 tears which pleasure causes us to shed ! I fell at 
 her feet and repeated my vow to love her all my 
 life. 
 
 I was still on my knees — one feels so happy thus 
 before a woman whom he adores. It has been said r 
 I believe, that nothing is so foolish as a man on his 
 knees before a woman ; that may be in the case of a 
 woman who resists us, but I see nothing foolish in 
 it when one loves the woman. 
 
 The door of the drawing room was opened ; it was 
 Madame Dumeillan, who caught me on my knees 
 before her daughter. 
 
 I was not at all confused at being found in that 
 position, for my intentions were honourable; and 
 even Eugenie looked at her mother fearlessly; never- 
 theless she said to her, blushing : 
 
 ' Mamma, he swears he will love me all his life, 
 and wants me to marry him.' 
 
 Mamma smiled, for she learnt nothing new. How- 
 ever, I went up to her, and taking her hands in 
 mine, I pressed them and begged her not to oppose 
 my happiness and to call me her son. 
 
 fc What answer has Eugenie given you ? ' she said 
 kindly. ■ Tou know I rather spoil her, and if she 
 does not want to marry you I should never force her, 
 I v/arn you of that.' 
 
 As she said this, mamma gave her daughter an 
 arch look, for she knew that the latter returned my 
 love. Eugenie threw herself into her mother's 
 arms and hid her pretty face on her bosom; she 
 
PRELIMINARIES OP HAPPINESS. 6& 
 
 could not speak, and it was with difficulty that 1 
 could do so. Madame Dumeillan took her daughter's- 
 hand and put it in mine. Eugenie still hid her face 
 but her hand pressed mine, and her mother took us 
 into her arms and pressed us to her heart. Happy 
 moment ! Should I ever again experience such puro 
 pleasure? 
 
 After this first moment of effusion Madame Du- 
 meillan exclaimed : 
 
 'Upon my word, I am a very thoughtless mother I. 
 I give my consent to your marriage, and don't even 
 know whether you have your mother's, or whether a 
 marriage alliance with us will please her ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, madame ; I am quite easy on that score. 
 My mother will be delighted to see me married, and 
 my choice must please her. I have not mentioned 
 the matter to her yet, because, first of all, I 
 wanted to know whether Eugenie — whether your 
 
 daughter ? 
 
 ' Call her Eugenie, monsieur ; it is your right now 
 He may call you Eugenie, my daughter ? ' 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 'Dear Eugenie ! How kind you are, madame. I 
 will go and see my mother, and to-morrow she shall 
 come herself.' 
 
 ' Eor heaven's sake give us time ! ? 
 ' No, madame, it does not do to lose time when 
 one wishes to be happy. You have given your con- 
 sent, ought not I, therefore, at once wish to call you 
 my mother also ? ' 
 
 ' Say, rather, to call her your wife, you rascal ! ' 
 'Well, yes, I am burning to call her my wife; 
 dearest Eugenie ! I am so happy, and I will go to 
 my mother immediately.' 
 
 ' Immediately ! Why he must really be mad ! ' 
 
 ' Henri, you will come back this evening ? ' 
 
 ' How can you ask me such a question ? ' 
 
 I kissed Eugenie's and Madame Dumeillan's hands 
 
*56 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 and left precipitately to go to my mother's. I was 
 very happy, and yet I should have liked to have 
 been a few weeks older, so as to have been happier 
 still. 
 
 My mother was not at home, she had gone to pay 
 some calls, which was very unfortunate. I did not 
 know where to look for her, and so I left, telling the 
 servant that I would come back. I went out and 
 did not know where to go to, as I knew nobody in 
 that quarter of the town in which my mother lived. 
 It was too far to go back to Eugenie, as I wished to 
 Teturn to my mother's house soon, so I sought out 
 some unfrequented streets in which to walk, so as to 
 be able to think of Eugenie without being dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 I had been walking for a quarter of an hour, and 
 then went back to my mother's, but she had not re- 
 turned ; so I was obliged to walk about again, which 
 was a nuisance. I should have had time to go and 
 see Eugenie again, for now I could not live away 
 from her. 
 
 A little man passed close to me, turned round, 
 stopped, and got in my way. I had not looked at 
 the individual, but he called out to me : 
 
 6 What the devil is he thinking about that he does 
 not know his friends ? ' 
 
 It was Belan, so I gave him my hand. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, my dear Belan/ I said, ( but 
 I really did not see you.' 
 
 6 You were wonderfully preoccupied. I'll bet that 
 you were thinking about your love affairs. ' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; I don't deny it. I was thinking of 
 the woman I love and whom I shall adore all my 
 life.' 
 
 < How excited you are ! I see myself in you.' 
 
 I was just like a child, eager to tell everybody the 
 cause of my happiness. I told Belan of my love 
 affairs and my approaching nuptials with Mdlle* 
 
PRELIMINARIES OP HAPPINESS. 67 
 
 Dumeillan. The small libertine made a semi-pirouette 
 and clapped his hands, exclaiming : 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! So you are going to get married ? 
 Upon my word there is sympathy between us, for I 
 .am also going to get married.' 
 
 'Really?' 
 
 ' Yes, I am quite decided on it ; I am tired of love 
 adventures ; and to be continually running the risk 
 of one's life becomes rather trying at last. Since 
 my adventure with Montdidier — you remember ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, perfectly ! It was the day when I first saw 
 Eugenie at the Grirauds.' 
 
 ' You got to know your intended at the Grirauds ? 
 So they have brought about the marriage P ' 
 
 'Certainly not. Madame Dumeillan sees them 
 hut seldom, and I never spoke to them about it. I 
 don't think I require Griraud's services in order to 
 get married.' 
 
 'It's all the same thing; as you first saw the 
 young lady at his house, he will be furious if he is 
 not invited to the wedding ; if he does not direct 
 everything ; if his wife is not at the upper end of 
 the table, and if his three children are not allowed 
 .to cram their pockets full of dessert.' 
 
 ' Then I think he will have to be furious.' 
 
 ' But to return to myself, my dear friend. I was 
 .saying to you that, since my adventure with Madame 
 3Iontdidier, many disagreeable things have happened 
 to me. I have been obliged to jump out of a first- 
 floor window ; another time I was forced to spend 
 the night on a balcony, where I caught a cold ; and 
 the other day, to avoid being caught by a husband, 
 T. was obliged to hide myself in a big chest, where I 
 was nearly stifled. I stopped there for an hour, and 
 when they took me out I was purple and had no 
 breath left. Upon my word, all that has disgusted 
 me with gallant intrigues, and I mean to put an end 
 to them, like you. I am making up to a young lady 
 
 i'2 
 
68 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 living in the Eue de la Boquette. I am going there 
 now. Yon may have seen her at Grraud's; it is> 
 Mdlle. de Beauslre.' 
 
 • I don't remember having seen her. 5 
 
 c She is very handsome. Regular features, an 
 aqueline nose — I am very fond of aqueline noses — 
 wonderful eyes, good waist, fine shape — everything: 
 is there.' 
 
 6 Are you sure that everything is there ? ' 
 
 6 What a bad joke ! Yes, I am quite sure ; one 
 can see that in a moment. I am very assiduous in 
 my attentions, and I think I am not indifferent to 
 her. The other day, playing some childish games at 
 her mother's, she chose me to give me her confidence 
 (this evidently refers to some particular game, per- 
 haps something like forfeits, but what it is exactly 
 the translator cannot precisely ascertain), and com- 
 ing up to me blushing, she whispered : " I don't know 
 what to say to you'' I was enchanted.' 
 
 ■ There was much reason for it.' 
 
 c Yes ; for ■ ' I don't know what to say to yon ' r 
 meant, -f I am afraid of saying too much to you." ' 
 
 6 It might, perhaps, be made to bear that construe- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Since that time I have made no mystery of my 
 intentions. Besides that, she is a very good match. 
 Her dowry is eighty thousand francs and brilliant 
 expectations. Her family is noble, and I will tell 
 you, my dear fellow, that, in order to be better re- 
 ceived by my future mother-in-law, I have risked 
 putting a little de before my name. Giraud advised 
 me to do so, and so now I am only called Ferdinand 
 de Belan.' 
 
 ' So you have ennobled yourself on your own pri- 
 vate authority ? * 
 
 c I think I have the right to do so. Eummaging 
 amongst a lot of old papers, I found that one of my 
 ancestors was a member of the household of Louis 
 
PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS. 69 
 
 TXV., and to be that a man must have been a noble. 
 rNo doubt the de was suppressed from fear during the 
 Revolution.' 
 
 'But I have often heard jou express the most 
 profound aversion for titles, and make fun of musty 
 parchments.' 
 
 ' Well, you know, one often says a thing in order 
 to appear to have an opinion. You shall see my in- 
 tended, that is all I can say to you, and my mother- 
 in-law — a splendid woman still, and such manners ! 
 She was at the Court, and so she is very strict on 
 matters of etiquette, but she adores her daughter, 
 and declares she will never leave her.' 
 
 * So you are going to marry two women at the 
 same time.' 
 
 * Oh ! that is only a figure oi speech. But the 
 ladies are visible now, so good-bye, my dear Blemont. 
 I invite you to the wedding beforehand, and I intend 
 it to be a very grand affair, at Lointier's. His rooms 
 .are magnificent. I have already in my mind the 
 two different suits of clothes that I shall wear on the 
 day, and the pas that I shall execute in opening the 
 ball. I hope I shall also come to your wedding.' 
 
 ' I am not at all sure that there will be any enter- 
 tainment ; it will be just as Eugenie pleases. I as- 
 sure you that it is not that which occupies my 
 thoughts.' 
 
 6 1 at once began to think of wedding breakfasts, 
 suppers, and of dances ; twice I upset my night-lamp 
 when I dreamt that I was opening the ball. If any- 
 one were to offer me a yearly income of twelve thou- 
 sand francs, I would not remain a bachelor any 
 longer. Grood-bye, my friend, I must be off to 
 Madame de Beausire's.' 
 
 I hastened to my mother's, and this time found 
 lier at home. She had not asked me how I was be- 
 fore I began to tell her of my love and begged her to 
 come with me to Madame Dumeillan's at once. 
 
70 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 My mother did not share my eagerness, though it 
 made her smile. She was very glad that I was 
 thinking of settling down in life, and she had no 
 doubt that I had made a good choice ; but then she- 
 began with those customary, cruel phrases : 
 
 ' We must see — make sure j there is no need to be 
 in a hurry.' 
 
 No need to be in a hurry when it was a question 
 of happiness ! Parents never will remember the- 
 time when they were in love. I urged and begged 
 my mother to go with me to Madame Dumeillan's 
 immediately, but she calmly remarked that it was> 
 four o'clock, that she was going to dine out, and that 
 it was too late to go to Madame Dumeillan's that 
 day. All I could get from her was the promise that 
 she would go the next day, and she allowed me to 
 tell the ladies so. 
 
 There was nothing for it, so I took my leave, and 
 I would bet that before I was down stairs she had 
 forgotten my visit, and was only thinking who would 
 be her partner at whist at night. 
 
 I went to see Eugenie again that evening. It was 
 only with her that I could find means to spend the 
 time patiently till I should be her husband. 
 
 Unfortunately it was the night of one of her~ 
 parties ; many people were there, and we could not 
 talk much together, so our eyes had to do it for us. 
 Just then society was very distasteful to us. If only 
 all those people knew how glad we should be to see 
 them leave ! 
 
 However, as the different sets of card-players were 
 settled, I hoped at last that I might get near Eugenie,, 
 but just then Giraud and his wife arrived. After 
 speaking to the lady of the house, Madame Giraud 
 seized hold of Eugenie and Giraud came and sat 
 down by me, and spoke in a sort of knowing manner. 
 He might have heard that I was paying my addresses 
 to Mdlle. Dumeilian, and thought, perhaps, that I. 
 
FRELIMINABIES OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 71 
 
 should beg him to arrange the matter for me and 
 stipulate the clauses of the marriage settlement. 
 Poor Giraud! I pretended not to understand hi& 
 allusions. 
 
 When he spoke of Eugenie I changed the conver- 
 sation, and so he got vexed aiid left me, which was 
 just what I wished. I would have betted that his 
 wife was going the same towards Eugenie as he had 
 been doing towards me. Belan was right; these 
 people would not fcrgive us if we got married with- 
 out their having a finger in the pie, but we could do 
 without their forgiveness. 
 
 Madame Giraud left Eugenie with a look of great 
 vexation, and she looked at me and smiled : I had 
 guessed the subject of their conversation. Husband 
 and wife rejoined each other and whispered eagerly y 
 and then went up to Madame Dumeillan, and, stand- 
 ing on her right and left, she could not escape from 
 them. They hoped to be more fortunate with 
 Eugenie's mother, but they only wasted their time, 
 for she told them nothing, and found some excuse 
 for leaving them after talking with them for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 Giraud and his wife were very angry, and came 
 towards me, so I was sure they were going to talk at 
 me, and I was right. Madame Giraud began by 
 speaking to her husband, so that I could not help 
 hearing. 
 
 ' It is very strange, isn't it Monsieur Giraud ? ' 
 
 6 Yery funny ; they seem to be playing at diplomacy 
 here.' 
 
 6 They are making a mystery of what is an open 
 secret. I suppose they take us for fools ! * 
 
 6 It appears to me like it.' 
 
 ' One would think it was a question of the union 
 of two powers.' 
 
 c Perhaps they are afraid of being obliged to ask 
 us to the wedding.' 
 
f J THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 
 'Good heavens! Weddings! We have enough, 
 and too much of them.' 
 
 ' I refused an invitation to one for to-morrow. And 
 poor Belan, who has already invited us to his. The 
 entertainment is to be held at Lointier's.' 
 
 ' He will make a very good husband. How does 
 he get on with Madame de Beausire ? ' 
 
 f Oh ! since I have been to see the mother-in-law 
 all the little difficulties have been smoothed over. 
 There are some people who do not fear my mixing 
 myself up with their interests, and who find the 
 benefit of it.' 
 
 ' Let us go, Monsieur Giraud ; we have still time 
 to go to our kind friends in their apartments at two 
 thousand francs in the Rue de la Paix. You arranged 
 their daughter's marriage two months ago.' 
 
 ' You are right ; I am sure that they expect us to 
 tea. 
 
 Husband and wife vanished without saying a word 
 to anyone. Here were people who were angry with 
 us because we found it natural and convenient to 
 arrange our own affairs ourselves. But in the world 
 so little is requisite to gain us enemies, especially 
 with people of small minds. 
 
 The company was beginning to leave, and I found 
 a moment for talking to Eugenie. I told her that 
 my mother was coming to call the next day. She 
 blushed and sighed, and said : 
 
 ' Suppose she does not like me, and will not have 
 me for a daughter ? ' 
 
 Not like her ! Who could help liking her? I was 
 ^quite easy on that score, and so I reassured Eugenie 
 and left her at the proper time, as I had not yet the 
 right to stay with her. 
 
 As I was going into my apartments I met Ernest, 
 'who was coming from his mistress. Since I had 
 been so constantly at Madame Dumeillan's I had 
 neglected my friends on the fifth storey very much. 
 
PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS. 73 
 
 J&rnest kindly reproached me with this, but they were 
 mot angry with me ; they knew that I was in love, 
 and thought it only natural that I should think of 
 nothing but her I loved. Ernest said to me : 
 
 6 1 hope you will come and see us sometimes, al- 
 though Marguerite will soon cease to be your neigh- 
 bour.' 
 
 ' Is she going to move ? ' 
 
 ' In a week. Thank God, she will not lodge in a 
 garret any longer. Poor little girl ! she has been 
 very wretched, and has made so many sacrifices for 
 me, that I am delighted to be able to find her a 
 lodging in a pleasanter situation. My affairs are 
 going on well, and I have had a very lucrative success. 
 I did not spend the money in cafes or restaurants, 
 for I always thought of Marguerite, poor and de- 
 prived of everything in her garret. You see, that 
 whatever my parents may say, it is not always a bad 
 thing to have a poor mistress, since it has early in- 
 stilled habits of order and economy into me.' 
 
 ' I see that you are not selfish, and that you do 
 
 not think, like so many young men of your age, who 
 
 fancy that they do enough for a woman if they take 
 
 her to the theatre and the restaurant, which pleasures 
 
 rthey share, but who think no more about her as soon 
 
 -as they have left her lodgings.' 
 
 6 1 have taken a pretty little apartment in the Rue 
 
 du Temple, where we are going to live ; I say we, 
 
 because soon I hope not to leave Marguerite any 
 
 more. I don't care what people may say ; I wish to 
 
 "be happy, and I shall let backbiters talk.' 
 
 ' You are quite right, my dear Ernest ; happiness 
 is such a rare thing, that it is well worth making 
 some sacrifices for. I am going to get married, to 
 marry my Eugenie ; all my wishes are f iMlle d.' 
 
 1 1 could also marry Marguerite, but we are so 
 •happy as it is, that where is the good of chang- 
 ing P Besides, we have plenty of time. Good- 
 
74 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 bye. my dear Blemont. You will be sure to come 
 and see us ? ' 
 
 6 1 promise you I will/ 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MABRIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 
 
 My mother had been to see Madame Dumeillan^ 
 and they had agreed to the match. My mother was- 
 much taken with Eugenie, and congratulated me on 
 my choice, and my mother was difficult to please- 
 The marriage settlements had been easily arranged 
 between them, as each had only one child. I has- 
 tened on the moment of my marriage as much as I 
 could, and spent three-quarters of each morning and 
 the whole of every evening with Eugenie. If they 
 went into society I accompanied them. Our ap- 
 proaching union was no mystery, and several young- 
 men had already congratulated me on my happiii ess- 
 Some had sighed when they had looked at Eugenie ;,. 
 perhaps they loved her. Poor young fellows, I pitied 
 them, but really I could do nothing for them. 
 
 It was decided that I should keep on the apart- 
 ments where I was. They were large enough for 
 my wife and me, and I had them carefully decorated 
 so as to meet her tastes. They would not have been 
 large enough if Madame Dumeillan had come to live- 
 with us, as I thought at first she would do, and 
 Eugenie hoped that her mother would not leave here- 
 out Madame Dumeillan said tenderly, yet firmly : 
 
 ' No, my children, I will not live with you. When* 
 
MARRIAGE. A MERTINQ. THE BALL. 75" 
 
 a man marries he only wishes to take one wife ; why 
 then give him two women ? I know Henri is fond of 
 me and that he would gladly have me to live with 
 you, but I know that a young married couple have^ 
 often a thousand things to say to each other, and 
 that a third person, however much beloved, is often 
 in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial 
 quarrel, the presence of another person can often be 
 very hurtful, and make that last for eight days which 
 might only have been the matter of a moment ; it 
 stops the unfoldingsof love and redoubles the bitter- 
 ness of reproaches. I will come and live near you, 
 and you will see me very often, and you will always 
 know where to find me when you want me.' 
 
 Eugenie was obliged to give way to her mother, 
 and as for me, upon my word I thought Madame 
 Dumeillan was quite right. 
 
 Were we to give a wedding entertainment ? Such 
 was the question that I had often put to myself, and 
 which I was more than once tempted to put ta 
 Eugenie. 
 
 But on reflection I thought I should be wrong not 
 to give one. To please me Eugenie would pretend 
 not to care about the ball ; but at twenty years of 
 age, endowed with a thousand charms and graces, 
 was it not natural to wish to show herself in all the 
 pride of her happiness ? Is not that day — on which 
 for the first time she is called madame, although at 
 that moment she is still a girl, when she has not all 
 the assurance of a woman, but on the contrary feels 
 her maiden modesty increasing — one to be marked 
 in her life? Yes, at the age of love and pleasure 
 we must have a wedding entertainment, especially as 
 I was marrying the being I cherished; happiness 
 enhances beauty. My Eugenie had no need of that, 
 but why should not I be a little vain and proud of 
 my triumph ? 
 
 It was decided that we were to have a gran& 
 
76 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 wedding entertainment — a breakfast after the cere- 
 mony, and then a ball and supper at night — at 
 Lointier's. I made np my mind to take care that 
 Eugenie should be magnificently dressed on that 
 day; not that she would please me better, but I 
 washed her to enjoy all those feminine triumphs 
 which form an epoch in women's lives. 
 
 The moment of my happiness drew near and we 
 busied ourselves with the list of invitations. There 
 were only to be a few at the breakfast, but enough 
 for them not to bore each other, or for it to appear 
 to be a family gathering. A large number of people 
 in the evening; the rooms were large and they ought 
 to be filled. The only thing we should have to be 
 careful about, would be not to admit amongst the 
 crowd any of those fine gentlemen who, without 
 knowing either the bride or bridegroom or their 
 parents, present themselves impudently at some large 
 ball, get admitted because they are so well dressed, 
 eat ices and have supper, and often swindle at 
 ecarte. 
 
 We had already written down a mass of names ; 
 I had not forgotten Belan, and as Madame Dumeillan 
 knew Madame de Beausire and her daughter slightly, 
 they also received an invitation, which would make 
 poor Ferdinand happy. Suddenly I stopped and 
 looked at Eugenie and her mother with a smile and 
 said : 
 
 4 Shall we put their name down also ? ' 
 
 6 1 will bet that I guess,' Eugenie exclaimed ; 
 * Henri is thinking of the Girauds.' 
 
 \ Exactly.' 
 
 ' Why should we ask them ? ' Madame Dumeillan 
 said. ' They are very tiresome people, and so curious 
 as almost to become spies.' 
 
 e I agree with you; and the last time that they 
 were at your house they appeared to me very ridicu- 
 lous. But I must not forget that I met Eugenie at 
 
XAREIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 77" 
 
 their house for the hrst time, and they will be very 
 pleased at being invited. When I am so happy, I 
 wish everyone to share my happiness.' 
 
 ' Mamma, Henri is right ; let us invite them.' 
 So the Grirauds' name was put down on the list. 
 At last the great day came. I got up at six o'clock,- 
 for I had hardly slept at all. I could not keep quiet. 
 What was I to do up till eleven, when I was to call 
 for my mother and then for Eugenie 9 It was quite 
 impossible to read, draw or paint. Think of her ! 
 I did nothing else; but that fatigued without dis- 
 tracting me. After dressing, I went through all the 
 rooms to see whether everything was in order, and 
 hoped they would please her. These lodgings, which 
 I had occupied for over four years, involuntarily 
 recalled to my mind a thousand episodes in my 
 bachelor life. This bedroom, this little drawing 
 room, had seen more than one woman ; I had re- 
 ceived many fair visitors there. When any of them 
 had promised to come to breakfast or to spend the 
 day with me, how impatiently I counted the minutes 
 till the hour of meeting ; how I feared that any in- 
 truder should come and ring instead of her whom I 
 was waiting for. What vows, what kisses, what 
 promises had not that sofa witnessed, and how soon 
 it was all forgotten ! Well, I was very happy also 
 in these days. 
 
 Oh ! whilst I though of it, I had not burnt all 
 those letters which I used to receive then, but they 
 were in a casket in my writing table. 
 
 I had often re-read them with pleasure, but if 
 Eugenie were to find them ! 
 
 I made up my mind to burn them all ; what was 
 the good of keeping them ? 
 
 I took out the casket containing the love letters 
 and opened it. How crammed with letters it was ! 
 There are ladies who are so fond of writing ; some 
 because they write well, others because they think 
 
178 TiLB CUCKOLD. 
 
 they do, and others, again, just because they love 
 me. I took all the letters and carried them to the 
 fireplace and put them into a heap, but before setting 
 fire to them I opened first one, then another and 
 .another and another. Each of them recalled to me 
 an epoch — a day of my life. It is strange how 
 quickly time passes amidst such old recollections, 
 and when nine o slock struck I was still reading. I 
 felt no love for any of these ladies, but it was my 
 last farewell to my bachelor life. 
 
 I set fire to the lot, and thus the loves of a bachelor 
 were burnt and only the ashes remained, and no 
 more will be left of all the wealth and all the wonders 
 of the world. 
 
 Serious thoughts for one's wedding day, but they 
 helped to while away the time and that was some- 
 thing. Besides this, extremes meet, and at the 
 height of bliss one is impressionable to melancholy. 
 A grocer weighing his sugar, or a postman delivering 
 his letters has no such feelings. 
 
 But I was very nearly forgetting one thing, for it 
 was not surprising that, taken up altogether as I had 
 been with Eugenie for some time, I had somewhat 
 neglected my own affairs. I used to amuse myself 
 by taking miniature portraits of some of the ladies 
 whose letters I had just burnt, and they were locked 
 up in the big standing desk against which I used to 
 paint. There were eight of them. 
 
 Should I make this sacrifice also ? It would be a 
 pity, not so much on account of the originals as that 
 the miniatures were not badly painted. Why should 
 I destroy them ? First of all Eugenie would never 
 see them, and should she do so I could say that they 
 were fancy portraits, and so I spared the ladies and 
 returned their pretty faces to the desk, from which 
 I did not think they would ever reappear. 
 
 Now everything had been carefully looked over 
 and examined, and nothing remained that could pos- 
 
MARRIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 79 
 
 ^ibly offend Eugenie. No, she could come here and 
 3*ule as mistress, and for the future no woman would 
 *come in but such as she pleased to receive. 
 
 It was time for me to dress myself regularly for 
 rthe wedding, for it would not be amiss for me to be 
 sat my mother's a little before the time. If only the 
 carriages did not keep us waiting ! Somebody was 
 coming into my rooms. It was the porter and his 
 wife, who brought me an enormous bouquet. Did 
 •they think I was going to wear it in my button- 
 hole? 
 
 The husband advanced in a graceful manner and 
 was going to speak, but his wife did not give him 
 -the chance. 
 
 1 Monsieur, this is the occasion of your marriage ; 
 we are very proud of being able to congratulate you 
 on such a happy day by offering you this bouquet 
 and our compliments, and these everlasting flowers 
 rare the pledge that your happiness will endure for 
 ^ever.' 
 
 Whilst his wife was uttering this the porter tried 
 to get in a word or two, but without success, so I 
 took the bouquO, gave them some money, and got 
 rid of them. One's wedding day would certainly not 
 be at all pleasant if one had to undergo many such 
 congratulations. At last there was a carriage down 
 below y and I went downstairs, passing as quickly as 
 possible through a row of cooks and other old women 
 belonging to the house who were waiting in the yard 
 to look at me, just as if a man who was going to be 
 married had his nose put on differently that day than 
 usually. 
 
 I was driven to my mother's, who had only just 
 begun to drees. 
 
 6 It's not eleven o'clock yet,' she said, ' we hare 
 plenty of time ; go and read the paper.' 
 
 Go and read the paper when I was just going to 
 |*et married ! I, who never read one right through 
 
£0 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 *rhen I had nothing to do ! No, I preferred to re- 
 main, and every five minutes I went and knocked at 
 her dressing-room door to know whether she was 
 ready. 
 
 At a quarter past eleven I carried off my mother 
 almost by force, as she said her bonnet was not put 
 on properly; however, I listened to nothing, and 
 when we were in the carriage I declared to her that 
 she was perfection, which calmed her and she became 
 good tempered again. 
 
 Eugenie was ready when we arrived at her mother's 
 house ; I was sure she would not keep me waiting, 
 but would have pity on my impatience. Everybody 
 who was there declared that her toilette was charm- 
 ing. I did not notice her dress, I only saw her, and 
 should have found her a hundred times prettier had 
 it been possible. 
 
 One of the witnesses kept us waiting. There are 
 some people who would not hurry themselves for a 
 minute in order to oblige others, and for whom there 
 is no subject in the world for which they need dis- 
 turb themselves. I could not live with people like 
 that. 
 
 At last he arrived and we started for the mairie. 
 I did not give Eugenie my arm, for to-day all was 
 ceremony ; one ought to be happier the day after 
 one's wedding than on the day itself. 
 
 Ceremonies never amused me, and those attendant 
 on my marriage seemed to me extremely long. To 
 gain courage I looked at my wife, she was much 
 moved and shed tears. Dear Eugenie ! I only 
 thought of loving her always, and it was certainly 
 not necessary to order me to do so. 
 
 It was over, and we entered the carriages amidst 
 a crowd of lookers-on who devoured us with their 
 eyes. I felt lighter and happier, and very glad that 
 it was finished. 
 
 In church I saw Griraud and his wife in full dress f 
 
MARRIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 8V 
 
 they paid us some compliments which I did not hear,, 
 but I said to them : 
 
 ' Till this evening/ and they replied by bowing 
 profoundly. 
 
 We then went to Lointier's, where a splendid break- 
 fast awaited us. Generally a wedding breakfast is a 
 very dismal affair. The bride can scarcely laugh, 
 and even if she is thoroughly happy she is pensive 
 and speaks little ; the grand parents always wish to 
 preserve their dignity, and on this occasion I way 
 preoccupied, or rather vexed because it was still 
 morning. Of course there were some funny men, or 
 those who wished to be so, present ; a stout gentle- 
 man, a connection of my mother's, made some jokes 
 — which were quite out of date — on the situation, 
 but he obtained no success; nobody laughed, and he 
 was obliged to keep all his funny sayings — of which 
 I believe he had a large number — to himself. I was 
 delighted, for I thought such things in very bad 
 taste: they are only suitable for the weddings of 
 footmen or porters. The modesty of a girl who has 
 only one more day of innocence ought to be respected, 
 and even those who know all about it ought to be 
 credited with innocence. 
 
 Eugenie and I were at some distance from each 
 other; we could not speak to one another, but we 
 looked at each other stealthily, and our eyes mutually 
 advised patience. 
 
 It was five o'clock. The ladies left to change their 
 dresses, and I took my wife down to the carriage 
 which was to take her and her mother away. I 
 should have liked to have gone with them, but 
 Madame Dumeillan and my mother told me I must 
 stay with the company that was still at table. 
 Eugenie leant forward to me and said : 
 
 . Oh, my friend ! we shall have much happiness 
 to-morrow ; I hope that nobody will come and sepa- 
 rate us then.' 
 
-'82 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Dear Eugenie, you were quite right ! I was obliged 
 to return to the breakfast table, because some of our 
 ;guests chose to eat and drink for four consecutive 
 hours. If only I were hungry ! 
 
 At last, at six o'clock, they all rose. Several 
 gentlemen began to play cards, and as politeness did 
 not require me to watch them losing their money I 
 left, and was driven to my wife's mother's house. 
 
 The hairdresser had only just arrived, and she had 
 entrusted her beautiful hair to him. These hair- 
 dressers are really very lucky fellows to be allowed 
 to handle such beautiful tresses and to look at the 
 pretty heads that are entrusted to them. He took 
 at least three-quarters of an hour to do Eugenie's 
 hair, as if it were a matter of difficulty to make her 
 look charming, but women are very patient when it 
 is a matter of their toilette. 
 
 At last the hair was finished, but they carried her 
 off as she was not dressed. My wife did not belong 
 to me yet, but had to yield to the exigencies of the 
 day. Never mind, I must have patience ; only once 
 let me get possession of her ! That evening I made 
 up my mind to bolt all the doors and to let nobody 
 In the next day except whom I pleased. 
 
 I saw that Eugenie would not be dressed for an 
 hour at least, so I went out to try and kill the time, 
 and throwing myself into a cab, I had myself driven 
 i;o the Tuileries. 
 
 I got out in the Rue de Hivoli and went into the 
 gardens. There were very few people under the 
 splendid chestnut trees towards which I directed my 
 steps, at which I was pleased, for people looking at 
 jou or jostling you every moment prevents you 
 dreaming or thinking at your ease. 
 
 I went to the Tuileries very rarely, as I found that 
 great garden dreary and monotonous, but on this 
 occasion I thought it was more pleasant, as I could 
 think freely about my wife there. My wife ! The 
 
CARRIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 83 
 
 word had a strange sound in my ears. I was married, 
 and yet how often had I made fun of married men, 
 and I began to wonder whether I had been wrong in 
 doing so, or whether I should be an exception to the 
 rule. 
 
 I walked along at haphazard till I found myself in 
 the enclosure containing Hippomenes and Atalante, 
 which recalled a certain rendezvous to my recollection. 
 It was three years ago, in the depth of winter, and a 
 -great deal of snow had fallen ; the garden and the 
 seats were covered with it and it was very cold. But 
 it was a lovers' meeting, when one does not generally 
 consult the barometer. I was to meet a girl called 
 Lucile, who was called Madame Lejeune as being 
 more respectable, and who used to fine-draw cash- 
 meres. She was very pretty, was Lucile, twenty- 
 ihree years old at that time, a good waist, well made, 
 almost distinguished looking, with nothing to betoken 
 ;he grizette. Her portrait was amongst those that 
 I had kept. She loved passionately for a fortnight, 
 the third week she grew calmer, and she was gene- 
 rally unfaithful at the end of a month. As I had 
 been told of this, I thought it rather more amusing 
 to be beforehand >,vith her, and to take another 
 woman before the fortnight was over. She never 
 forgave me ; her self-love was wounded, for I don't 
 suppose she would have been more constant to me 
 than to any other man, but she tried to make me 
 believe so, and since that time, whenever I met her, 
 I always perceived bitterness in her speech and anger 
 in her looks. 
 
 We had agreed to meet just outside this enclosure, 
 and, in spite of the severity of the weather, I re- 
 member that Lucile was there before me. We had 
 only known each other for four days and we adored 
 each other. She did not scold me for keeping her 
 waiting, although her nose and chin were red and 
 her fingers were tingling with the cold, but her eyes 
 
 g 2 
 
84 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 were flashing. We got into a cab and were driven 
 to Pelletan's, in the Pavillon-Francais, where we 
 dined. That was one of the most delightful days of 
 my bachelor life. 
 
 But all that was not worth one of Eugenie's smiles. 
 I was about to leave the Atalante, when, turning 
 round, I saw an elegantly-dressed lady a couple of 
 yards from me, who was looking at me smiling, and 
 said : 
 
 f You must allow that only the snow is wanting to 
 make the similarity complete.' 
 
 What a strange coincidence I It was Lucile, so I 
 went up to her and said ; 
 
 6 You here, madame ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, monsieur ; but I beg to assure you that I 
 have not come here in search of recollections.' 
 
 • I was here quite by accident, madame ; but 
 passing by the statues I remembered a certain 
 rendezvous, and I will allow that I was thinking of 
 you.' 
 
 6 Really ! It was truly charming of you ! So you 
 were obliged to come to the Tuileries for that 7 
 monsieur ? ' 
 
 £ Madame, even if it were so, you must allow that 
 many others think about you ; one more or less in 
 the number of your aspirants — why you ought not 
 to notice it ! ' 
 
 4 You are extremely polite ! But I am not at all 
 surprised, as you never had anything but agreeable 
 things to say to me, and you are just the same 
 now. 5 
 
 6 1 don't think that I have said anything to you 
 which ' 
 
 ' Oh, good Leavens! let it alone. You would be 
 very wrong if you thought that I attached any value 
 to your recollections. But how grandly you are 
 dressed ! Are you going to a wedding ? ' 
 
 6 Just so. I have been at one since the morning,, 
 
MARBIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 85 
 
 ;and I am taking a walk here whilst the bride finishes 
 dressing for the ball.' 
 
 6 Oh ! you are one of the wedding party ? Is the 
 bride pretty ? ' 
 
 e Charming.' 
 
 6 Girl or widow ? * 
 
 < A girl.' 
 
 £ How old is she ? ' 
 ' Twenty.' 
 
 ' Is she ? You know what I mean.' 
 
 ' I could tell you that better to-morrow, were I to 
 *ee you.' 
 
 ' Are you best man ? ' 
 
 < Better still.' 
 
 ' Better still? What! Do you mean— ? No, it's 
 not possible ! Tou surely have not got married ? ' 
 
 f Why shouldn't it be possible ? ' 
 
 ' Because you are not likely to commit such a 
 folly.' 
 
 * I don't know that marriage is always a folly, but 
 I can assure you that I was married this morning, 
 and that, far from being sorry I am very glad.' 
 
 '1 can understand that if it was only this 
 morning.' But really, Henri, you are married? 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! How funny ! ' 
 
 * I don't see anything funny in it.' 
 
 6 Ha ! ha ! ha ! Poor Henri ! So you are 
 married? Upon my word I cannot get over it; but 
 I declare to you it gives me the greatest pleasure. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ' 
 
 There was something ironical in Lucile's laughter 
 that began to put me out, so I bowed and was about 
 to leave her, but she stopped me. 
 
 c One moment more, monsieur ; probably it will be 
 -a long time before I have the pleasure of speaking 
 with you again, for a married man never goes out 
 without his wife. So yours is very pretty ? ' 
 
 <Yes e ' 
 
86 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' You are very much in love with her ? • 
 
 ' More than 1 have ever been before.' 
 
 < That is very polite ! ' 
 
 6 Why shouldn't I say what I think ? ' 
 
 4 You are quite right. But, I say, you must try" 
 and make her love you more than you have ever been 
 loved before. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ' 
 
 'I don't think that will be difficult.' 
 
 ' You think so ? You might be mistaken.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, madame, for leaving you, but 
 my wife's toilette must be finished by this time, and 
 I must go and call for her.' 
 
 6 Of course, as soon as yowr wife expects you ! Go r 
 monsieur, and take care that she never expects any- 
 one else but you. Ha ! ha I ha ! ' 
 
 I saw that Lucile had not yet forgiven me. I left 
 her without being able to control the feeling of ill- 
 humour which she had given rise to in me. I threw 
 myself into the carriage, which drove me back to 
 Eugenie's, who was waiting for me, and the mere 
 sight of her, a single word from her, dissipated this 
 slight cloud immediately. She was dazzling; her 
 charms and graces and her brilliant toilette all 
 united to make her look enchanting. I took her- 
 hand, as it was time to go to the ball. 
 
 ' Come, let us be off,' Madame Dumeillan and my 
 mother exclaimed. I, holding Eugenie's hand and. 
 looking at my wife, had forgotten everything else. 
 
 Our entrance into the rooms was accompanied by~ 
 a murmur of admiration. I heard her praises sound- 
 ing in my ears, and I may say that they pleased me 
 extremely, for it was my wife whom they were ad- 
 miring. Eugenie blushed and cast down her eyes, 
 but she could hardly help hearing the compliments 
 that were showered upon her on her passage up the. 
 rooms. 
 
 There were already many people there, and those* 
 whom I knew came and greeted me. Giraud took 
 
MARRIAGE. A MEETTWGK THE BALL. 87* 
 
 my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be friends, 
 with all the world in my happiness. The men 
 crowded round my wife to obtain the favour of danc- 
 ing with her, and marked their names against the- 
 numbers on the programme, and I heard one of them 
 say that he had got number twenty-six. According^ 
 to that I could hardly hope to dance with my wife 
 that night, so I took my cue and determined to dance 
 with others. 
 
 I noticed a little gentleman who wa3 pushing and 
 upsetting everybody so as to make room for himself ; 
 it was Belan, who was giving his arm to a young* 
 lady at least a head taller than himself, with whom 
 he was going to dance. Passing close to me he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 f My friend, this is Madamoiselle Armide de Beau- 
 sire, of whom I have so often spoken to you.' 
 
 I bowed to Mdlle. Armide, who was neither pretty 
 nor ugly, and whose eyes were nearly as big as her 
 mouth, but in her face and whole manner there was, 
 something affected and stiff, which smelt of the 
 Provinces a mile off. 
 
 A crowd gathered round to see them dance. The 
 little dandy danced very well, and as he was very 
 well made he wore tight trousers, a tight coat and a 
 tight waistcoat. There was not a wrinkle about him,, 
 so that if his face had only been blackened he might 
 have passed for a little negro in pwris natwralibus. 
 
 Between the dances I tried to get near my wife* 
 I introduced a number of people to her whom I 
 hardly knew, but who said to me : 
 
 'Will you be kind enough to introduce me to 
 madame ? ? 
 
 At twelve o'clock the crowd had got so dense that 
 one could hardly move about. Did I know all these 
 people ? Certainly not, but I had told several of my 
 acquaintances to bring theirs, and that goes very far 
 sometimes. It was a )>*illiant assembly — beautiful 
 
'88 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 toilettes and elegant men — and I did not see any of 
 those mean and common faces, and old tumbled caps, 
 which one is at times surprised to see at grand 
 parties, at which, however, they have the best right 
 to figure, for at a wedding those ugly, vulgar heads, 
 which one sees in a corner, generally belong to some 
 uncle, or aunt, or cousin, who must be invited. I 
 met Griraud three times, either eating ices or taking 
 some to his wife. He had only brought his two 
 eldest children, which was very kind of him. I was 
 so happy that I actually invited Madame Giraud to 
 dance. She appeared to be extremely flattered at 
 my politeness, Bah ! what did it matter to me with 
 whom I danced if it was not with Eugenie ? and I 
 no longer thought of paying court to ladies. 
 
 ' Your ball is delightful,' Belan said to me, drag- 
 ging me into a room where they were playing cards, 
 but in which one could at least move about. ' There 
 nrnst be at least four hundred people present.' 
 
 I Upon my word I could not tell you the number. 
 As long as people amuse themselves, that is all I care 
 about.' 
 
 6 That is just how it will be at my wedding. What 
 do you think of Armide ? ' 
 
 ' She is very nice.' 
 
 4 And her eyes ? ' 
 
 4 Magnificent ! ' 
 
 4 Are they not wonderful ? Well, my friend, she 
 is all like that ; she is clever, talented, and has a 
 most distinguished manner. Did you see me dancing 
 with her ? ' 
 
 4 Yes.' 
 
 * Didn't we suit each other admirably ? ' 
 
 4 It is a pity that you are rather short beside her.' 
 
 f Short ! You are joking, surely ? It is she who 
 is rather tall. Besides that, with my figure it is as 
 good as if I were three inches higher. I certainly 
 would not exchange with that great awkward fellow 
 
MARRIAGE. A MEETING. THE BALL. 
 
 89 
 
 in front of us. Those tall men never hold themselves 
 well. Have yon seen Madame de Beausire ? ' 
 'I think not.' 
 
 * Come and let me introduce you to her, and you 
 will see a woman who has nothing vulgar about her, 
 but she is a type of good society.' 
 
 I allowed myself to be taken to her, for I did any- 
 thing I was asked that evening, and I saw a tall, 
 yellow woman, who looked like a bit of old em- 
 broidery, and as if she had never smiled since she 
 was born ; so I paid my respects to her as quickly 
 :as possible and left her. I fancied one would get the 
 spleen in Madame de Beausire's company. 
 
 Supper time came, and at last the ball would be 
 over. Though I was not exactly bored, yet I wished 
 -to be at home with my wife. 
 
 The ladies took their seats, and I looked after 
 ..everybody and took care that the large and small 
 tables were properly attended to. 
 
 ■ Sit down, take something,' people said to me, but 
 [ did not think about eating, I would rather hurry 
 on the suppers of all these people. 
 
 I found Giraud and his two children sitting at one 
 .of the small tables with three young men. He had 
 a cake on bis knees and had slipped a rum jelly 
 under the table, as he did not wish to hand it round 
 lest he should not get it again. I ordered fish, pies 
 und poultry to be taken to him, and covered his 
 children's plates with cakes. Giraud was delighted ; 
 he squeezed my hand and murmured : 
 
 ' This is one of the nicest weddings I have ever 
 been at, and, thank God, I have seen an extraordi- 
 nary number of them.' 
 
 Madame Giraud had been obliged to leave the long 
 table when the other ladies rose, and she now came 
 behind her husband and her children. She had an 
 enormous reticule on her arm, and whilst pretending 
 i,o hand to the gentlemen anything they might re- 
 
90 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 quire, I saw that she opened her bag every moment 
 and put in cakes, biscuits, and even pates crusts^ 
 Giraud, who saw that I had noticed his wife's ma- 
 noeuvres, said to her in an angry voice, just as- 
 madame was about to put some macaroons into her" 
 bag: 
 
 ' What are you doing, Madame Giraud ? Where 
 are your manners, putting macaroons into your 
 bag?' 
 
 ' My dear, it was only for Azor, poor beast. You; 
 know how fond he is of them, and they would only 
 have been wasted, so there is no harm done. Surely 
 poor Azor ought to have a little share in the festivi- 
 ties.' 
 
 * Madame Giraud, you know perfectly well that 1. 
 don't like such things.' 
 
 I appeased Giraud, who merely pretended to be in 
 a rage, and went away, so as to leave his wife at 
 perfect liberty, and she ended by making a regular 
 balloon of her bag. 
 
 At last the tables were empty ; many of the guests 
 went back to dance, but many went to their carriages^ 
 and I thought they were quite right. 
 
 I fancied that it was pleasanter now, as one couldi 
 find room to dance. Eugenie was always engaged,. 
 so I was obliged to be satisfied with being her 
 vis-a-vis, and in the figures in which we joined hands 
 we could say much by a gentle pressure. It seemed^ 
 as if heart and soul passed into that dear hand which' 
 pressed mine so tenderly. 
 
 The company got less and less, and my mother had 
 left. Madame Dumeillan only waited for us to go 
 to do the same. It was five o'clock, and the sun was- 
 shining through the windows and dimming the 
 brightness of the chandeliers, so I went up to 
 Eugenie. 
 
 ' I am tired of dancing,' she said, ' and yet I dc> 
 not like to refuse.' 
 
MARRIAGE. — A MEETING. THE BALL. 9$ 
 
 * But I really think we might leave now.' 
 
 She looked down but said nothing. Upon my word 
 I had done enough for others, and it was time ta 
 think about myself a little. I took my wife's hand 
 and drew her away ; Madame Dumeillan followed 
 us ; we got into the carriage and drove off. We 
 were obliged to put Madame Dumeillan down at her 
 house, and then go on tc our own. It was only a 
 short drive, but to me it appeared very long, for the 
 nearer one approaches to the moment for being 
 crowned with bliss the more impatient one is for its 
 arrival. 
 
 We had not spoken much in the mamma's presence, 
 and at last we reached her house. She embraced 
 her daughter, and it seemed to me a very long busi- 
 ness. How selfish we are ! I did not think about it 
 as the last time that the mother held her virgin 
 daughter in her arms, nor consider that I should' 
 have all my life in which to enjoy my conjugal 
 rights. 
 
 Madame Dumeillan went into the house and we 
 drove on. At last I was alone with my wife, and I 
 think that was the most delicious moment that I ever~ 
 experienced, and it had seemed to me as if it would 
 never come. I took Eugenie into my arms. She 
 had wept on embracing her mother, but she did not 
 weep when I embraced her, for I excited her with my 
 caresses, and entirely new sensations made her heart 
 beat rapidly. 
 
 We arrived at our home. The servant who was to 
 attend to us, and who had been in her motherV 
 service, was waiting for us at the porter's lodge with a- 
 light, but as it was broad daylight we required no- 
 body's services. My wife entered my apartments, 
 and as she was leaning on my arm I could feel that 
 she was trembling, and I think that I trembled also. 
 Happiness has strange effects sometimes ; it seems 
 to choke us, almost to give us pain. 
 
$2 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 I closed and bolted the doors. 1 was alone with 
 
 my wife. At last there was no one else present. We 
 could love each other, tell each other so, and prove it 
 to one another ! 
 
 CHAPTER VOL 
 
 THE HONEYMOON. BELAn'S WEDDING. 
 
 How quickly happiness makes life pass ! We had 
 been married a f ortnight, and it seemed to us as if 
 we had only been married yesterday. I could hardly 
 say how we employed the days, for we did not find 
 time to do anything. We got up late, we break- 
 fasted alone, we talked, and often I took Eugenie on 
 to my knees, for one can hear much better when one 
 -is close together. 
 
 We made plans and projects, and our conversation 
 was often interrupted by kisses, which I took or 
 which she gave me. We were frequently quite sur- 
 prised on looking at the clock to see that it was just 
 -twelve, and that we had been talk ng for two hours. 
 Then it was time to dress and go and see Madame 
 Dumeillan, and sometimes to take a walk, and we 
 talked whilst we were dressing. If by chance any- 
 body came to see one, or a client came for a consul- 
 tation who kept me in my study for a quarter of an 
 hour, I found my wife impatient at my long absence 
 when I came out, and we had to talk again for a 
 short time to makeup for the annoyance the visit 
 iiad caused us. At last we would go out, and we did 
 
THE HONEYMOON. BELAN's WEDDING. 93 
 
 like school-children ; we took the longest way, and it 
 was often nearly dinner-time before we got to my 
 mother-in-law's. Since our marriage we had been 
 to the theatre twice — we preferred that to going to 
 parties. At the theatre one can still be tete-a-tete, 
 and talk if the play bores one ; whilst in society one 
 cannot do all that one pleases Then we returned 
 early, and were always pleaded to get back. But, I 
 say again, all that passed like a flash of lightning. 
 
 My wife found my apartments very much to her 
 taste, and told me that she liked to be where I had 
 lived as a bachelor. She often asked me questions 
 about that period of my life and listened to me with 
 interest and curiosity, but I did not tell her every- 
 thing. I passed over many episodes, for I saw that 
 she was jealous, and her brow darkened when there 
 were women in my adventures, when she would often 
 interrupt me and say : 
 
 ' That's enough ; hold your tongue, I don't want 
 to hear any more.' 
 
 ' But, my dear, I did not know you then.' 
 
 In spite of my caresses, however, her bad temper 
 used to last for several minutes. 
 
 But we were obliged to do something else than 
 talk and kiss. Eugenie was to go on with my music 
 lessons and with her's in painting. But first of all I 
 began with her portrait, and that was an occupation 
 which took us a long time, for we often found much 
 to distract us ; when I looked at my model, who 
 fixed her beautiful eyes on me and smiled at me so 
 tenderly, how could I resist the desire of embracing 
 her? She used to pout at me so prettily when I was 
 a long time without leaving my brush, and then I 
 would get up and take my model into my arms. It 
 made me think that painters must have a large 
 amount of virtue to resist the temptations which they 
 experience whilst painting the portrait of a young 
 and pretty woman. A woman, when we are painting 
 
$4 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 her, looks at us just as we wish her to ; we ask for 
 £i look or a tender smile, and they try to be as charm- 
 ing and tender-looking as possible, for a woman 
 wishes to look seductive in her portrait. I never had 
 any difficulty about resisting my desires, as I had 
 only painted my mistresses, but when one has to 
 examine and reproduce a thousand charms, and to 
 remain tranquilly at one's easel, a man must be very 
 virtuous, and yet that is not the painter's favourite 
 virtue. 
 
 In spite of our distractions I worked at my wife's 
 portrait eagerly ; it was finished in ten sittings and 
 I was delighted with my work — the likeness was 
 striking. She uttered an exclamation of surprise on 
 seeing herself, and feared that I had flattered her. 
 No ; I had certainly not painted her as she was in 
 society, when she looked at everybody with indiffe- 
 rence, but as she was when she looked at me whilst 
 I was painting her — with eyes full of love. I thought 
 I had done quite right in choosing that expression, 
 for I had painted the portrait for myself, not for 
 4)ther people. 
 
 Next Eugenie insisted that I should paint my own 
 and that would be much less amusing. I feared it 
 would be a long affair ; I had already given myself 
 several sittings, and I did not think it got on well. 
 Eugenie was not satisfied, and said : 
 
 ' You put on a sulky and a serious air. Tou don't 
 look at me like that. 5 
 
 6 My dearest, it bores me to look at myself.' 
 
 c Oh ! wait a moment ; I know what we can do. 
 So that you may look pleasant, I will come and sit 
 beside you, and then when you look into the glass 
 you will see me also ; and I hope, monsieur, that you 
 will not put on a cross face.' 
 
 I thought the arrangement delightful, and, thanks 
 to it, I was no longer bored whilst having my sitting, 
 for with her by my side, I always saw her first on 
 
THE HONEYMOON. — BELAn's WEDDING, 9 
 
 K 
 
 looking into the glass, and my portrait gained very 
 much in this manner. I could paint myself as she 
 wished me to look, and she was as pleased with my 
 portrait as I had been with her's. 
 
 I put her's into a locket which I always wore, and 
 she had mine set in a bracelet which she always had 
 on her arm. Not satisfied with having each other 
 in reality we also wished to have each other's like- 
 nesses, and if we could have possessed each other 
 in any other manner we should have liked to have 
 4one so also. But is it a bad thing to love too much ? 
 Her mother and mine declared that we were unreason- 
 able and worse than lovers, but Eugenie and I wished 
 always to remain the same — we were very happy 
 
 thus. . . 
 
 Although our mutual lessons in music and painting 
 were very delightful, I felt that it was not by this 
 means that I should make my mark at the Bar. I 
 had quite neglected the Palais de Justice since my 
 marriage, and had not paid the least attention to my 
 •practice, but when I wished to read and to be alone 
 in my study, Eugenie detained me and said : 
 
 c Why should you trouble yourself and bother your 
 head over the Code and the Pandects ? Are we not 
 rich enough, and happy? Why should you practise 
 and worry yourself on other people's account ? Stop 
 with me and give me a painting lesson, and don't go 
 to the Palais.' 
 
 I could not resist my wife. My mother sometimes 
 found fault with me for what she called my idleness. 
 Love is not idleness, but happy love makes us fit for 
 nothing but to make love. 
 
 Three months had passed almost as quickly as the 
 -first fortnight of our married life, and a new subject 
 of joy increased our happiness : my wife was preg- 
 nant. We jumped and danced about the room when 
 we thought that we should have a child. We spoke 
 of nothing else, and made no more projects for the 
 
96 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 future without making our son or daughter share in 
 them. Kind Madame Dumeillan shared our joy y 
 my mother congratulated me, but without any en- 
 thusiasm and as if it were a very simple matter : it 
 appeared to me as if it ought to make a noise in the 
 world. 
 
 We rarely went into society, and had only been to 
 two balls since we were married. But one morning 
 we received a letter announcing their approaching 
 nuptials and inviting us to the wedding of M. Ferdi- 
 nand de Belan and Mdlle. Armide de Beausire. 
 Eugenie was not yet far enough advanced in her 
 pregnancy to fear that dancing would do her any 
 harm, and she promised me only to do so in modera- 
 tion, so we determined to go to M. de Belan's balL 
 I fancied we should get some amusement out of it, 
 and my wife agreed with me. Belan had been to 
 call on us twice since we had been married, and 
 Eugenie found him a very laughable little individual 
 on account of his chatter and pretensions ; whilst as 
 to the family de Beausire, the little I had seen of 
 them seemed very funny to me. 
 
 The note of invitation also mentioned that we 
 were expected to the breakfast, but we preferred to 
 deprive ourselves of that pleasure. We mistrusted 
 wedding breakfasts, which are generally as amusing 
 as an amateur concert or a reading at a party. We 
 had made up our minds only to go to the ball when 
 Belan himself called. 
 
 The dandy bowed almost down to the ground to 
 my wife, which was not a difficult matter for him, 
 then he shook hands with me, and said to us in a 
 triumphant manner : 
 
 ? You have received our invitations ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear friend ; and, first of all, let us con- 
 gratulate you.' 
 
 1 Thank you. I certainly ought to feel flattered at 
 the preference which has been shown me. I had 
 
THE HONEYMOON.— B ELAN'S WEDDING. 97 
 
 seventeen rivals, of whom three were millionaires 
 who had ironworks, factories, and coal mines ; three 
 marquises, one of whom had three crosses, but I out- 
 distanced them all, and, like Csesar, Veni, vidi, vici*. 
 Well, we rely upon you.' 
 
 ■ Yes, we will be at your ball.' 
 
 c And at the breakfast ? ' 
 
 ' We cannot exactly promise about the breakfast/ 
 
 * Oh ! Excuse me ; I must have your promise. It 
 would be too bad to fail us. There will be only a 
 certain number of people present in the morning,, 
 but they will be very select. Two of my wife's 
 uncles, three cousins, five aunts — all women after the 
 style of my mother-in-law. Good heavens ! my 
 mother-in-law ! She has done nothing but cry since 
 the wedding day was fixed ; she soaks at least four 
 handkerchiefs a day, and never loses sight of her 
 daughter. This is rather in my way when I want to 
 be effusive in my sentiments, but I shall have time.. 
 However, you must be present at everything. 
 Madame, I beseech you ; Henri will not be able to 
 resist you.' 
 
 Eugenie could not refuse ; she looked at me and 
 we promised. Belan thanked my wife and kissed 
 her hand, then he asked to see me alone for two 
 minutes in my study. 
 
 6 Have you an action on hand ? ' I asked Belan as 
 soon as we were alone. 
 
 ' No ; but I want to ask your advice. You have 
 married a woman whom you worship, and you will 
 be able to tell me ' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' I don't quite know how to explain it to you. I 
 was, as you know, like yourself a seducer, a man of 
 many conquests, never embarrassed in a the-a-tebe — 
 I was like gunpowder.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Well, it is very singular, but when I am with 
 
U8 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 -Madamoiselle de Beausire — wliom I adore by the 
 way — it lias a totally different effect on me ; I feel 
 as if I should not dare to pinch, the tips of her 
 fingers, in fact, I do not feel the slightest inclination 
 "to be enterprising. I declare to you it worries me 
 and makes me uneasy ; T cannot sleep at night, and 
 the nearer my wedding day approaches the more my 
 fears augment/ 
 
 i Poor Belan ! Come calm yourself \ true love, too 
 ardent love, sometimes produces that effect which 
 you feel, but it does not last. Besides, what have 
 you to be alarmed about with your wife ? You may 
 be sure she will not escape you. It is not like a 
 mistress, who often will not give us a second meeting 
 when she is dissatisfied with the first ; but with one's 
 wife, if it is not all right the first night it will be 
 the second.' 
 
 ( That is true ; it might not even come off till the 
 eighth. You have quieted me somewhat, but 
 Madamoiselle de Beausire .... a young lady who 
 has been brought up so strictly .... it's not so with 
 a grisette ; it happens quite naturally with a grisette 
 .... And then her mother is always there.' 
 
 ' I don't suppose she will be there on your wedding 
 night?' 
 
 k I should not like to say so. She does nothing 
 but declare that nobody shall ever separate her from 
 her daughter, that she cannot sleep when she is not 
 ^vith her. .... I believe that she is going to sleep 
 in a little room which adjoins our alcove.' 
 
 ' That will be very pleasant for you ! ' 
 
 ' All that running through my head deprives me 
 •of my natural ardour. ^Te^er mind, from now until 
 my marriage I will eat everything with vanille ; I 
 will even put it into my broth. Good-bye, my dear 
 Blemont, we may reckon on you. Your wedding was 
 -tery nice, but wait till you see mine, that is all, I 
 can tell you.' 
 
THE HONEYMOON. BELAN's WEDDING. 99 
 
 Here we were, obliged to go to the breakfast as 
 -we had promised, but it might be more amusing than 
 we thought, and then, there are some gatherings 
 i:hat are funny on account of their very dullness. 
 One must only look at the right side of things, and 
 ^people say there is a right side to everything. 
 
 Eugenie was busy about her dresses, for she would 
 ^want two on that day. I advised her not to squeeze 
 herself into her stays and her dresses — you will guess 
 why. A woman must think about being a mother 
 before she thinks about having a slim waist, and that 
 is what ladies often forget. 
 
 At last Belan's great day came. They sent a 
 carnage for us ; the coachman and the tiger behind 
 were in apricot-coloured liveries. That, certainly, 
 quite outdid my wedding, so we quite expected to 
 see everything on a magnificent scale. We were to 
 meet at Madame de Beausire's, where I had never 
 been; it was an old house in the Rue de la 
 Roquette. 
 
 We went past an old porter and mounted an old 
 staircase which was strewn with rose leaves ; I would 
 bet that it was an invention of Belan's, and I did 
 not think it a veiy fortunate one, as they nearly 
 caused my wife to fall, but I saved her in time, and 
 .she said to me, laughing : 
 
 ' My friend, we got married without rose leaves.' 
 
 1 Yes, dearest; it was less romantic, but we did 
 not slip.' 
 
 We went up to the first floor and were shown into 
 an extraordinary lofty room. It was all I could do 
 -to make out the mouldings on the ceiling. An old 
 footman, who looked as if he had been crying, an- 
 nounced us — perhaps tears were the way of the 
 house — and we found ourselves in an immense 
 drawing-room, where Belan, who was doing the 
 honours, gave us the idea of a dwarf amongst Pate- 
 .gonians. We saw a number of old faces ; they were 
 
 h 2 
 
100 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 the continuation of the embroidery of «f hich Madame- 
 de Beausire was a specimen. The men were seniors 
 — pretentious, sententious ; the women stiff and 
 painted; and though there were some people like 
 ourselves present, there were very few of them. I 
 expect that Belan was allowed to ask only a very few 
 of his own acquaintances. He did not seem at all 
 at his ease amongst the family de Beausire ; he did 
 not venture to be merry and was afraid of being sad r 
 and he walked about amongst his new relations, wha 
 did not talk for fear of compromising their dignity. 
 
 The bridegroom was delighted to see us, as he felt 
 more at his ease with us. 
 
 ' Tou will see my wife directly ; she is with her 
 mother, who is finishing her toilette and shedding 
 tears all the time.' 
 
 I I say, does your mother-in-law do nothing but 
 
 cry?' 
 
 ' Yes, my friend ; that woman is a regular brook.' 
 
 'What's the reason? ' 
 
 ' Grief at separating from her daughter ; and yet 
 she is not going to separate from us, as she intends 
 to sleep in our room.' 
 
 'In the same room with you? That's rather 
 strong ! ' 
 
 c I swear it is so. I even believe that she hoped I 
 should not sleep with my wife, but, in spite of all my 
 respect for Madame de Beausire, I would not yield 
 on that point, and I think that Armide was grateful 
 to me for it. But here are the ladies.' 
 
 The bride entered, supported on one side by an 
 old aunt with a nose like a screw, and on the other 
 by her mother, who, with her lean shape, her red 
 eyes, and her sickly complexion, looked just like a 
 ghost. 
 
 By the sighs which those ladies were uttering one 
 might have thought it was Iphegenia being led to 
 the sacrifice. The relations came forward and paid 
 
 
THE HONEYMOON. — BELAN's WEDDING. 101 
 
 compliments which were quite in keeping with their 
 bearing, and the bridegroom seemed to be of the 
 least account amongst them all. When he spoke to 
 his wife she did not answer him ; when he turned 
 .-towards his mother-in-law she took out her hand- 
 kerchief and turned her back on him; and if he 
 went amongst the relations they pretended not to 
 notice him. < 
 
 We set out for church, and I gave my wife my 
 arm, as I did not see why I should deprive myself of 
 that pleasure on account of these people, and so we 
 all went ceremoniously downstairs, Belan leading 
 with his mother-in-law on his arm. The rose leaves 
 had a marvellous effect. 
 
 ' It's charming,' said an old aunt ; * it's just like 
 a procession.' 
 
 ' That's my idea,' Belan exclaimed ; c it struck me 
 during last night whilst I was thinking of my wed- 
 ding, and I am delighted if ' 
 
 Belan had got so far, when a tall cousin who was 
 giving his arm to the bride slipped down two steps 
 and fell on his rear, dragging the fair Armide after 
 ihim. 
 
 Everybody screamed out. Luckily Armide had 
 fallen decently, and had not shown the company 
 ; anything, for if she had it would have been very 
 disagreeable for her husband, who would naturally 
 hope to be the first to see her, and it would also 
 Jiave made his mother-in-law shed more tears. 
 
 The bride was quickly picked up, whilst the cousin, 
 who was left to pick himself up, uttered a coarse 
 oath, and said: 
 
 1 The devil take the rose leaves ! What fools people 
 are to strew them on the staircase I Here I have 
 ^damaged my scrotum, 9 
 
 Belan was flabbergasted ; he was in great confusion 
 gA> the accident that his idea had caused. 
 
 4 Monsieur de Belan, we must have all that swept 
 
102 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 away,' said the mother-in-law, and he answered with 
 a bow : 
 
 'Yes, my mother-in-law de Beausire, I will see to 
 it. 
 
 They were maried in a small church in the Mareiss. 
 Nothing extraordinary took place, except that the 
 mother-in-law soaked two pocket-handkerchiefs, and- 
 that Belan made horrible grimaces in trying to cry 
 also, but without success. 
 
 I hoped that the breakfast would have been held 
 at a restaurant, but we went back to the mother-in- 
 law's for it. However, we must have courage, and 
 Eugenie and I looked at each other, and declared, 
 though rather late, that we would never be caught 
 there again. 
 
 The bridegroom had gone on ahead, no doubt to- 
 have the rose leaves swept away ; I was sure he 
 would rather have done it himself than have exposed 
 himself to his mother-in-law's anger. 
 
 A large table was laid in the great dining-room, 
 and we sat down. I was between the old aunt with 
 the screw-like nose and the tall cousin who had 
 slipped so elegantly on the staircase ; my wife was 
 about a mile away from me between two old uncles 
 in wigs. What an amusing time we were going to 
 have of it ! 
 
 I expected to see Giraud and his wife at the break- 
 fast, for Giraud was saying everywhere that he hacL 
 brought about Belan's marriage ; but probably the 
 mother-in-law had not thought them worthy of that 
 honour and we should not see them till the evening. . 
 
 The bride never raised her eyes and ate nothings 
 The mother-in-law looked at her daughter, wiped- 
 her eyes, and did not seem fco notice that there was 
 anybody present. We had been at table for two 
 minutes without touching anything, as nobody had 
 been asked to help the dishes. Belan, not knowing 
 whether he was to do the honours, looked at his wife 
 
THE HONEYMOON. — BELAN's WEDDING. 103 
 
 and his mother-in-law by turns, and at last stammered 
 
 ont : 
 
 « Who is to help the dishes ? Bo yon wish me to 
 do it, Madame de Beausire | ' 
 
 Bnt Madame de Beausire's only answer was to 
 blow her nose and to sigh. 
 
 I looked at my wife, and felt so strongly inclined. 
 to laugh, that I threw my knife and fork down so 
 that I might be able to do it whilst pretending to 
 hunt for them under the table, for it is always better 
 to appear awkward than impolite. 
 
 At last an old uncle, who had not come to the 
 wedding only to look at the dishes — which would 
 certainly have been a nobler feature than eating 
 them — drew an enormous pie to himself and gave 
 the signal for the attack. 
 
 We made up our minds to breakfast, but it was- 
 done with that gravity and decorum which were only 
 interrupted by the noise of plates and forks. 
 
 When their appetite was partially appeased some 
 of the uncles and cousins were kind enough to give 
 vent to a few pretentious phiases, lingering on each, 
 word as if to make sure that we should understand, 
 them. Belan said something now and then, but 
 nobody paid any attention to him. I noticed that 
 he was trying to lead the conversation up to verses. 
 suitable to the occasion, and I would have betted 
 that he had made some, or had some made for him., 
 but did not know how to bring them in. When lie- 
 got on to his subject, an uncle or an aunt would in- 
 terrupt him and speak of something else, so I took 
 pity on him, and said : 
 
 ' My dear Belan, has anybody written verses on 
 your marriage ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, exactly ; I sketched out something in honour 
 
 of this day, and if you will allow me I will ? 
 
 ' What ! Monsieur de Belan, do you mean to say- 
 that you are going to sing? ' exclaimed Madnme de 
 
104 THE CUCKOLn* 
 
 iBeausire, casting almost menacing looks at her son- 
 in-law. * For shame, monsieur ! I should like to 
 -know what company you have been in the habit of 
 keeping, where they sing at table ? ' 
 
 4 Mother-in-law, I have no intention of singing 
 and no wish to do so. It was only some verses 
 which I wished to recite, and which do not the least 
 Tesemble a song.' 
 
 s Verses for a wedding ! They ought to be left to 
 the " Almanack of the Muses," ' said the tall cousin 
 sitting next to me, and who bore the bridegroom a 
 grudge since his fall on the staircase. At the same 
 moment Madame de Beausire uttered a cry, and 
 said : 
 
 'Armide, you look pale; do you feel ill, my 
 daughter ? ' 
 
 I had not noticed that the bride had changed 
 colour, but as her mother had said it, perhaps 
 Armide thought it right not to feel very well, so she 
 passed her hands over her eyes, and murmured : 
 
 ' Yes, I feel — I feel something here. I — — ' 
 
 But her mother did not let her finish; she jumped 
 up, screaming out: 
 
 ' Good heavens ! Armide is dying ; we must take 
 her to her bed.' 
 
 Immediately there was a general movement. The 
 ,aunt who was sitting beside me rammed her elbow 
 into my nose, so as to get up quicker and go to her 
 niece's assistance, who by that time thought that she 
 ought to be really ill. Whilst she was being taken 
 to her room, Belan ran about amongst all the people 
 like a little madman, and I went up to my wife, gave 
 .**er my arm and led her out, saying : 
 
 * I think we have had enough for this morning.' 
 
 Belan caught us up on the staircase, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 1 What ! you are going already 9 My wife will 
 -come to herself again immediately ; I am not at all 
 
THE HONEYMOON. BELAN's WEDDING. 105 
 
 uneasy about her, but my mother-in-law is always 
 persuading her that she will die when she is not 
 thinking about it.' 
 
 ' We have an appointment.' 
 
 \ At any rate we shall see you this evening ? * 
 
 ' The ball is not at your mother-in-law's ? : 
 
 ' "No, at Lointier's ; it will be magnificent.' 
 
 ' We will be sure to come.' 
 
 How glad Eugenie and I were to be alone again. 
 We found plenty to laugh at in discussing the ori- 
 .ginal characters we had just seen, and although my 
 wife was not ill-natured she could very easily turn 
 -people into ridicule. 
 
 As we had promised to be at the ball we were 
 -obliged to go. It could not be such a melancholy 
 ^affair as the wedding breakfast, and then it was to 
 take place in the same rooms where we had given 
 ours, and we were not sorry to see them again. 
 
 We went late, as we wished to find the dancing in 
 rfull swing, but we were surprised to find the rooms 
 nearly deserted and only two small quadrilles going 
 on, which were being danced without the least 
 crowding, and yet it was past eleven o'clock. 
 
 Belan came up to us with a face a yard long, and 
 csaid: 
 
 * It's very vexing ; my mother-in-law would only 
 .allow me to invite thirty persons, as she said that 
 would be quite enough with her family and acquaint- 
 ances, and, you see, many have not come. I know 
 that the company is very select, but it would be a 
 rgood thing to have rather more people.' 
 
 ' However, my dear Belan, it will enable us to 
 dance more comfortably.' 
 
 ■ That is so ; the dancers will be the gainers.' 
 
 * And madame is no longer unwell ? ' 
 
 * No, it was nothing ; but sure my mother-in-law 
 as suffocating ! Just look at her eyes ! She's a 
 ^regular rabbit, they are so red, and I am really sorry 
 
106 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 for |her. She is crying now because her daughter 
 will not miss a dance, and says she will be killed,- 
 Good God ! what sensibility ! ' 
 
 5 1 don't see the Girauds at your ball, and I am 
 surprised at that, for you certainly invited them.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! my dear Blemont, don't speak to 
 me about it, I am in despair ; but my mother-in-law 
 declared that their manners did not suit those of her 
 family, and would not allow me to ask them.' 
 
 ' But I thought that Madame de Beausire visited 
 them?/ 
 
 ' Yes, but ever since the little Giraud girl put out 
 her tongue at her, she declared that she would never 
 set foot inside their doors again.' 
 
 6 1 thought that Giraud had interested himself in 
 your marriage.' 
 
 ( Yes, he put the matter in train.' 
 
 ' And you did not ask him to the wedding ? He 
 will never forgive you.' 
 
 ' What could I do ? my mother-in-law .... but 
 I beg your pardon, I think that she is beckoning to 
 me.' 
 
 We left Belan, and I danced with Eugenie ; we 
 were very happy at dancing together and at seeing 
 the rooms again which had witnessed our own wed- 
 ding festivities, and from our looks we might have 
 been thought to have been principally interested in 
 the wedding. 
 
 The best thing to do was to dance at a ball where 
 one knew nobody. But those old de Beausires, who 
 walked gravely round the different sets, and those 
 old aunts who sat still, seemed to be almost out of 
 temper at seeing people who appeared to be amusing; 
 themselves, and I am sure that they thought us c bad. 
 form.' 
 
 Eugenie proposed that we should leave before- 
 supper, but I wished to remain, as I thought there 
 would be something amusing at the end of the ball.. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. — BELAN's WEDDING. 1Q7 
 
 The supper was not served like mine; the ladies 
 alone were seated and the men were obliged to stand 
 behind them. Madame de Beausire would have it 
 so, because it was much less enjoyable than when 
 small parties were made up to sit down together. 
 
 The supper only lasted a short time, and when 
 Madame de Beausire gave the signal by rising, all 
 the other ladies had to do the same thing. I heard 
 an old female relative grumbling as she rose : 
 
 'It is quite ridiculous; I have net had time to 
 finish my wing of a chicken.' 
 
 The nearer the fatal moment approached, the more 
 Madame deBeausire's eyes filled with tears. At last, 
 when the dance was drawing to a close and Belan 
 went up to Armide to ask her to leave, she precipi- 
 tated herself between them sobbing, and exclaimed % 
 
 e You shall not separate me from her, monsieur.' 
 
 Belan stood before his mother-in-law as if he were 
 petrified, and the relations surrounded them, whilst 
 I heard the uncles and aunts say to each other: 
 
 6 That little bridegroom is conducting himself in a 
 very indecent fashion. I am sorry that he has be- 
 come a member of our family.' 
 
 Meanwhile, the aunts and the old cousins carried 
 off Madame de Beausire, who left with her daughter, 
 whilst Belan remained where he was, and when he 
 saw us he came to wish us good-night, and stammered 
 out: 
 
 6 1 have let my wife and her mother go on first,- 
 because, you know .... they are going to put the 
 bride to bed, and, of course, I ought not to be 
 present.' 
 
 f My dear Belan, I am afraid that you will have & 
 scene with Madame de Beausire to-night.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear no ! and besides, if necessary, I shall 
 show her what I am.' 
 
 We took our departure, and as we were returning 
 we agreed that a man was always very foolish to > 
 
 -I V^»'-> 
 
108 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 enter into a family which imagined it was doing him 
 a greal honour by uniting itself to him. If, by 
 ehance, he has been born in an inferior station he 
 must, by his character and intellect, prove himself 
 superior to those who wish to humiliate him. 
 
 ■ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ▲ QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 
 
 A few days after Belan's wedding M. and Madame 
 Oiraud called upon us. I guessed what brought 
 them, and, in fact, they had hardly sat down when 
 Giraud exclaimed : 
 
 f Tou must have been very much astonished at not 
 ^seeing us at Belan's wedding ? ' 
 
 'That is to say,' Madame Giraud continued, 'it 
 struck everybody. It was such an extraordinary, 
 gross piece of meanness ! Why, they got to know 
 .each other at our house, and Giraud made the first 
 advances, sounded Madame de Beausire and enume- 
 rated all the young man's property and good qualities 
 to her, and then not to ask us to the breakfast or 
 evfen to the ball ! It is an indignity ! ' 
 
 'It was really indecent,' Giraud exclaimed; 'and 
 .if my wife had not prevented me, I should have de- 
 manded satisfaction from that impertiment little 
 Belan.' 
 
 'No, no; people would have imagined that we 
 thought about a wedding, and, thank God, we have 
 more of them than we care about. Besides, I have 
 heard that it was a very melancholy and slow affair/ 
 
A QTTARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 109 
 
 'It was not very lively, Eugenie leplied. 
 
 ? Oh ! yours was a nice wedding, my dear Madame 
 Blemont, so tasteful, and everything that anyone 
 could want. I declare I ate thirteen ices, for every 
 moment traysfull of them passed me and I was 
 carried away.' 
 
 c Yes, it was a delightful wedding, 5 Giraud said j 
 ' but I have been told that at Belan's there were not 
 enough people to get up two quadrilles of sets of 
 twelve, and the old de Beausire, who did nothing but 
 cry ; and then you know what happened at night 9 ' 
 
 6 No, we know nothing.' 
 
 S I know all about it, as I have a servant who was 
 in service in the house where the de Beausires lodge, 
 and who has kept up a connection with it. Well, at 
 night the mother-in-law would not leave her daughter. 
 When the husband arrived Madame de Beausire 
 sobbed so loud that she awoke her neighbours. Belan 
 got angry and there was a scene, and, in a rage, he 
 went and spent the night in a closet in which they 
 kept the charcoal, and in the morning he came out 
 as black as a coal. Poor fellow ! if he does not take 
 care those two women will shut him up in a foot- 
 warmer and will feed him through the holes when 
 he is very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! it's very funny/ 
 continued Madame Griraud; 'however, I will only 
 give him a year to be ... . never mind .... but 
 he will certainly have deserved it.' 
 
 M. and Madame Griraud took their leave of us, 
 again assuring us of their friendship, and no doubt 
 they would go the round of all their acquaintances 
 with the same motive. 
 
 As her pregnancy advanced my wife had a thousand 
 little things to do which necessarily made her neglect 
 her music and painting. Her health was often in- 
 different and she wanted rest, so that I found much 
 more time for working in my study. Besides that, 
 the name of father, which I hoped soon to enjoy, 
 
^SffATJp A 
 
 110 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 made me think more reasonably than I had done 
 some months previously. If our fortune were enough 
 for Eugenie and me, it would not be so when we had 
 several children, and so I ought to increase it for 
 their sakes. 
 
 Belan brought his wife to pay us their wedding 
 visit, and she was no less stiff and starched since she 
 was married. I thought that the newly-married 
 man's eyes were as red now as his mother-in-law's, 
 so, perhaps, he also cried sometimes to please Ma- 
 dame de Beausire. He took such care of his Armide, 
 , so forestalled her wishes, and did it all with so much 
 humility, that he seemed to be his wife's footman. 
 
 We returned their visit, but did not go there again, 
 we remembered their breakfast. 
 
 Since I had settled down to work again and had 
 resumed my profession, my mother thought that we 
 had become more sensible, and that I now gave her 
 the idea of a married man. I don't know what I 
 looked like, but I thought that Eugenie and I were 
 becoming much too serious : we had no more romps 
 and committed no more silly tricks — her condition 
 was the cause of this, and so I longed for it soon to 
 come to an end. 
 
 The desired moment arrived, and Eugenie made 
 nie the father of a daughter, whom I thought very 
 pretty. For a woment my wife was vexed, as she 
 had hoped for a son and was certain that she should 
 have one. I was as glad to have a daughter, and, 
 besides, we should hardly stop there, and thus I con- 
 soled Eugenie. She wished to nurse the baby, but 
 the doctor said she was not strong enough for that, 
 and so my daughter — whom her godmother, Madame 
 Dumeillan, had called Henrietta — was handed over 
 to a great fat nurse who lived only three leagues 
 from Paris, so we could often go and see her. My 
 wife's health was soon re-established, but she was 
 capricious and her temper was uncertain ; what she 
 
A QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. Ill 
 
 Iliad determined to dt» in the morning no longer 
 pleased her in the evening. I was extremely obliging, 
 but I liked people to know their own minds and not 
 l>e like a weathercock. Perhaps my wife wished to 
 ■go out for a walk, and when I went into her room to 
 ^fetch her, she had changed her mind because she 
 would have to dress, and I would go back to my 
 study laughing, and say : 
 
 c If you make up your mind you can now come and 
 ^etch me.' 
 
 One day, going through the Rue du Temple I 
 "iieard myself called. It was Ernest, who was behind 
 me. I was very glad to see him and we shook hands 
 neartily. 
 
 ' My dear Ernest, is it really you 9 How long it 
 is since we have met ! ' 
 
 1 Yes, more that a year ; and I suppose you are 
 married by this time, as you were on the point of 
 marrying your dear Eugenie the last time I saw 
 vou.' 
 
 'Yes, I am married and a father, so you see I 
 .don't lose much time. 5 
 
 ' That's all right. Are you still living in your old 
 lodgings ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my wife likes them very much. And you ? ' 
 
 ' We are living in this street, only a few doors off. 
 I gave you our address and you promised to come 
 and see us, but you have forgotten your neighbours 
 of the garret.' 
 
 c I plead guilty ; but the change in my condition 
 must be my excuse.' 
 
 c In order to be forgiven altogether, you must come 
 -and say " How do you do? " to my wife. I pay my 
 wife, although we are not married ; but I must say 
 my wife on account of porters and strangers — it is a 
 sacrifice one has to make to respectability. After 
 all, what difference is there between us and married 
 people ? None, except the signature of a big register; 
 
112 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 and neither signatures, vows, or promises made be- 
 fore men make people conduct themselves any 
 better.' 
 
 c 1 quite agree with you.' 
 
 ' Besides that, we are very happy ; we are loveis 
 still, and we don't care fer evil tongues.' 
 
 I You are right, my dear Ernest ; we must live for 
 ourselves and not for others.' 
 
 ' Now that my affairs are going on all right I don't- 
 care a straw about my parents ; I owe nobody any- 
 thing ; and I am as happy as a king, or, rather, 
 happier than a king. But, come along ; Marguerite 
 will be very glad to see you; we often speak of 
 you.' 
 
 I followed Ernest, and he took me into a nice 
 house, where we went up to the third storey, and 
 when he rang my former neighbour came and opened 
 the door, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise 
 on seeing me. 
 
 6 Why ! it is Monsieur Blemont ; how extraordi- 
 nary ! ' 
 
 ' Beally, my dear, if he has come I met him and 
 brought him here by force, otherwise you would not 
 have seen him now.' 
 
 i It is very horrid to forget your good friends and 
 neighbours ! ' 
 
 f Madame .... I know .... it is true . . . .' 
 
 ' Oh ! he is getting mixed and ashamed of himself/ 
 said Ernest, laughing ; ' so we must be generous and 
 not say anything more to him about it.' 
 
 I was shown into the bedroom, which served a& 
 drawing-room, and though it was not elegant it con- 
 tained everything that was necessary, and there was 
 an air of order and of neatness about the whole place 
 that did honour to its mistress. 
 
 Madame Ernest (for I could not call her otherwise) 
 had got rather stouter, and her eyes and all her 
 features expressed such satisfaction and happiness 
 
A QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 113 
 
 that it made her still more beautiful. We sat down 
 and talked about the evenings which we used for- 
 merly to spend together in the garret. 
 
 ' You have married jour Eugenie ?' she said to me. 
 
 'Yes, madame; thirteen months ago.' 
 
 ' You must be very happy, for you were very much 
 in love, and she loved you also.* 
 
 8 Yes, madame.' 
 
 ' Have you any children P a 
 
 'How silly you are,' Ernest said; 'do you expect: 
 them to have half a dozen in thirteen months ? 
 
 ' I meant to say a child.' 
 
 ' I have a little girl two and a half months old.' 
 
 'You are more fortunate than we are .... I 
 should be so glad to be a mother .... and since 
 my miscarriage .... but this time I hope . . . .' 
 
 And the little woman looked at Ernest with a smile, 
 and he smiled also, but said : 
 
 • How can you talk of such things before people P*" 
 
 ( Never mind, there's no harm in wishing to be a 
 mother, and them M. Blemont isn't people, he is our 
 friend, as he proved that night I was so ill. But do 
 come and see how nice it all is.' 
 
 She took me all over their apartments, which con- 
 sisted of three rooms and a little closet, and she 
 stopped in. front of the mantelpiece in her room and 
 said: 
 
 ' Do you see ? We've got a clock ! ' 
 
 ■ Do be quiet, Marguerite,' said Ernest. 
 
 1 No, I want to talk. Why should I be stuck-up 
 towards Monsieur Henri, who knew me when I was 
 so poor and unhappy ? I am sure he will be pleased 
 to see that we have all this.' 
 
 ( You are quite right, madame ; and you only judge 
 me rightly when you »ay that I am pleased at your 
 happiness.' 
 
 4 You see that I was right. I have also a char- 
 woman, who comes every morning to do the rough 
 
114 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 work. Ernest would have it, because he says I am 
 not strong enough.' 
 
 * How interesting all this must be to monsieur ! ' 
 
 \ Yes, it is very interesting. He is always scolding 
 me because I do not know the usages of good society, 
 but that is not my fault. I think one can very 
 well tell a friend about one's affairs, and I am so 
 happy ! ' 
 
 Here Marguerite began to jump about the room, 
 then she ran and put her arms round Ernest's neck 
 and kissed him. She was still a perfect child, but 
 then she was not eighteen yet, and I only hoped she 
 might preserve her happy character for a long time. 
 
 Time passes very quickly when one is with people 
 one likes, and I saw that it was past five and my 
 wife was waiting dinner for me, and I was to take 
 her to a new play that evening, so I said good-bye 
 to my young friends, and begged Ernest to come and 
 see me when he was passing my way. 
 
 It was very rare for me not to come home a long 
 time before sitting down to dinner, and to-day we 
 were to have dined before five o'clock, so as to be in 
 good time for the theatre. I found Eugenie at the 
 window, uneasy and impatient. 
 
 'Where have you been? It is nearly half -past 
 five. You never come home as late as this.' 
 
 ' Mv dear, I met some old friends ' 
 
 ' And you never thought of me who was waiting 
 .for you and did not know what to think ? ' 
 
 ' Come along, let's go to dinner.' 
 
 * But I want to know where you have been.' 
 
 ' I will tell you during dinner.' 
 
 We sat down, and I told my wife all about my in- 
 timacy with Ernest and Marguerite, and was obliged 
 "to go rather far back to make her understand how I 
 came to go into the garret. Eugenie, who had 
 listened to me with interest at first, grew thoughtful 
 and her brow dark. I finished my Btory, and for a 
 
A QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 115 
 
 long time she was silent, and though I dined she ate 
 nothing and still kept silence, which vexed me. 
 
 ' Why are yon not eating ? ' 
 
 ' Because I am not hungry.' 
 
 ' And why do yon look cross atme?' 
 
 ' I ? I am not looking cross.' 
 
 'And you don't say a word .... we are not 
 -usually like this.' 
 
 c l was thinking of your female neighbour— of 
 your friend's mistress — whom you used to go and see 
 in her garret.' 
 
 6 1 only used to go when Ernest was there.' 
 
 c Oh ! you were always sure of finding him ? ' 
 
 c Yes, because I generally only went in the evening, 
 and he almost always slept there.' 
 
 ' Almost! ' 
 
 ( Eugenie, I have told you the truth, and you 
 -would be very wrong to think otherwise.' 
 
 ' You seemed so smitten with this little Marguerite, 
 and thought her so pretty ' 
 
 ' First of all I did not say that she was very pretty, 
 and even if she were that is not what I admired in 
 her ; it was her affection and her tenderness for her 
 lover.' 
 
 ' Oh ! so that made you clamber up under the roof? ' 
 
 A That was it. Why should you think evil of any- 
 one you don't know ? ' 
 
 ' You did so many things when you were a bachelor 
 — you had so many mistresses ! ' 
 
 c That is the very reason why I had no need to 
 turn to another man's, who, moreover, would not 
 have listened to me.' 
 
 ' You may have known Mademoiselle Marguerite 
 before she knew her M. Ernest, since she was your 
 neighbour.' 
 
 'If 1 had imagined that you would think such 
 things, I should not have spoken to you either about 
 Ernest or his wife.' 
 
 i 2 
 
116 THR CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' His wife ! She isn't his wife/ 
 
 * It's nearly the same thing, as they live together/ 
 
 6 At any rate, this woman would not be received in 
 any respectable society.' 
 
 'That's simply a foolish prejudice. Good society 
 would not receive a woman who has lived for a long 
 time with the only man she h;s ever loved, and whose 
 only care and happiness is in making him happy ; 
 who goes out with nobody but him, only dresses for 
 him and takes no pleasure without him ; but a woman 
 who ruins her husband by her mad extravagance, 
 who does not even try to hide her gallantries, will be 
 received and feted by society, and this only because 
 they are married. It really does honour to the world's 
 good sense.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, how excited you are I ' 
 
 c I hate injustice, and I tell you that I am always 
 above prejudices, and that I should be very glad to 
 receive Ernest and his wife in my house.' 
 
 4 1 am much obliged to you, monsieur, but never- 
 theless I hope it will not happen.' 
 
 6 If you knew them I am sure you would not speak 
 so.' 
 
 'I have no wish to make their acquaintance ; it is 
 quite enough that you are Mademoiselle Marguerite's 
 intimate friend.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Eugenie, how foolishly you are 
 talking ! ' 
 
 < Did she live in this house ? ' • 
 
 e Most certainly she did.' 
 
 ' I am no longer surprised that you thought so 
 much of your lodgings.' 
 
 I threw my knife and fork down angrily, and got 
 up from table saying : 
 
 ' Don't let us talk any more about it, for you will 
 only put me in a passion. Are you ready ? It ia 
 time to go to the theatre.' 
 
 ' I don't intend to go,' 
 
A QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 117 
 
 1 And this morning yon were so looking forward to 
 It. What new whim is this ? ' 
 
 * It is no whim at all ; I don't care about going to 
 the theatre ; I don't want to go out.' ■ 
 
 « Just as you like ; so I shall go out without you. 
 
 I took my hat and went out, slamming the door 
 behind me, for one must vent one's ill-temper on 
 something. 
 
 I was really vexed. This was the first quarrel 
 that I had had with mv wife, and it pained me all 
 the more as I was not the least to blame ; and when 
 one feels that one deserves neither reproach nor 
 blame, one owes those who have blamed or reproached 
 one a double grudge. 
 
 A month or two ago I could not have believed 
 that Eugenie could have spoken to me as she did, 
 but jealousy had made her lose her head and so I 
 tried to excuse her, for one tries to find excuses for 
 iihose one loves ; one would be too unhappy if one 
 could not do so. 
 
 The play did not amuse me much, though there 
 -were moments when, thinking only of it, I gave my- 
 self up to the pleasure it afforded me ; but soon the 
 recollection of my quarrel with my wife came to my 
 remembrance and was like a weight on my chest T 
 preventing me enjoying myself. I was like a child, 
 for, after all, the dispute had only been a slight one, 
 and I ought not to have thought that husband and 
 •wife could always agree. And yet I had fancied 
 ..... I had believed .... Although the quarrel 
 had only been slight it pained me very much, be- 
 cause it was the first and deprived me of my il- 
 lusions. 
 
 When I got back my wife was in bed, and the 
 next day we did not mention our discussion of the 
 evening before. We were not on bad terms, though 
 -not exactly on good ones. Eugenie was colder and 
 did not talk much, and it was no longer that sweet 
 
118 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 abandonment of formerly. I could not, however,, 
 beg her pardon when I had done nothing, so she 
 must sulk if she liked and I would pretend not to- 
 notice it. 
 
 A fortnight passed thus, during which time I had 
 been at Ernest's only once, but I took care not to tell 
 my wife of my visit, for it does not do to tell people 
 that see evil in everything, all that you do. 
 
 One morning Eugenie said to me : 
 
 ' We ought to set about looking for new apart- 
 menW 
 
 ' What do you mean ? Why should we P ' 
 
 6 In order to move, I suppose. 5 
 
 ' You want to leave these apartments which you 
 liked so much?' 
 
 6 Oh ! I hate them now, and if I had known all I 
 know now we should certainly have taken others 
 when we married.' 
 
 ' Known what you know ! Are you going to begin 
 again ? * 
 
 1 You cannot deny that you knew Madamoiselle 
 Marguerite here ; everybody in the house knows it,, 
 and it certainly is not pleasant for me to live here.' 
 
 6 Everybody in the house knows that I spoke to 
 my neighbour, but then everybody knows also that I 
 was not her lover.' 
 
 6 Oh ! that is not what people say ; the people at 
 the porter's lodge themselves ' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say, Eugenie, that you talk 
 with them ? ' 
 
 ' No, but our servant talks with them sometimes — 
 as is only natural — and I know that Madamoiselle 
 Marguerite was not satisfied with receiving your 
 visits, but she came to see you.' 
 
 6 That is not true.' 
 
 * Of course you would not allow it, for you could 
 not say that she came with her lover.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I remember in fact that she came one 
 
A QUARREL. FIRST DISAGREEMENTS. 119* 
 
 morning to ask me whether I had seen her cat that 
 she had lost/ 
 
 ( Her cat ! What a delightful pretext ! This very 
 prudent young lady who goes to a bachelor's rooms 
 to ask about her cat ! ' 
 
 £ I declare that it is true/ 
 
 'And I suppose another time she came to ask 
 about her dog ? ' 
 
 I did not answer, for I knew that I should fly into 
 a rage, and so it was wiser to hold my tongue. Per- 
 haps Eugenie perceived that she had gone too faiv 
 for almost immediately she said, gently : 
 
 1 In any case we should have to move when our 
 daughter comes back from nurse, for these apart- 
 ments will be too small ; why, therefore, should we 
 wait so long ? ' 
 
 ' These rooms suit me, and I mean to remain in 
 them/ 
 
 I was not in the habit of resisting my wife, but 
 her suspicions of my connection wiih Marguerite 
 made me angry, and, besides, it would have put me 
 out to leave my lodgings. 
 
 Eugenie did not insist upon the matter and for 
 several days we were very cold towards each other,, 
 but there was no further question of moving, and, 
 though I saw that my wife wished to mention it she 
 did not dare. After all, I thought, the porters, the 
 neighbours, and the old gossips might have said 
 things. Such people are fond of scandalmongering, 
 and seeing me going up to the girl's room they 
 might think that Ernest was not there. 
 
 Why should I force my wife to hear the stupid! 
 talk of these people continuously ? She did not like 
 our apartments, and something must be done to pre- 
 serve the peace. Peace ! yes, I was beginning to^ 
 feel that it was a precious treasure, not always to be- 
 found in households, so I said to Eugenie one- 
 morning : 
 
120 TKE CUCKOLD. 
 
 f If you will dress yourself at once, we will go and 
 look for apartments.' 
 
 The came and threw herself into my arms and 
 kissed me tenderly : she had regained aU her old 
 goodhumour. Nothing more is required to make a 
 woman amiable tlian to do all she wants. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 A SCENE. 
 
 We had rented apartments on the Boulevard 
 Montmartre, and though they were rather dear they 
 were very pretty. 
 
 We could not take possession for three months, 
 but meanwhile my wife was in a charming humour, 
 excepting those little disputes which will take place 
 between the most united couples, for we are none of 
 us perfect. Eugenie was like she had been in the 
 first days of our marriage, and did not speak to me 
 any more about Ernest and Marguerite, nor did I tell 
 her that I went to see them occasionally. 
 
 One fine winter's morning we made up our minds 
 "to go and see our daughter, for it would be too long 
 to wait for the spring to go and take our little 
 Henrietta into our arms. As soon as we had formed 
 the project I went and hired a carriage for the whole 
 day, and I had a pie, a fowl, and some Bordeaux put 
 into it, as they were always useful and not generally 
 found at nurses'. Eugenie had on a large bonnet, 
 -which would shelter her from the wind, and a very 
 
A SCENE. 121 
 
 targe cloak; I wrapped myself in mine, only leaving 
 niy hands free for driving, and off we were for 
 IJivry. 
 
 We had a good road. It was rather cold but there 
 was a bright snn, and, better still, we had love and 
 -good temper as our travelling companions, and so we 
 travelled on merrily. When my hands were cold 
 Eugenie took the reins and drove instead of me. 
 
 We sang, we laughed, we even ate in our covered 
 gig ; we were our own masters, and only two of us. 
 There was no tiresome coachman behind us to 
 grumble if we drove too fast or whipped his horse, 
 or to laugh when he counted the kisses we gave each 
 other. When people love each other it is so nice to 
 be only two. 
 
 We skirted the famous forest of Bondy — which is 
 not nearly so famous as it used to be, for there are 
 fewer robbers in the woods and more in drawing- 
 irooms — and arrived in due course at Livry, a village 
 where there are hardly any cottages, a market-town 
 -where there are very few houses. We found out 
 where our nurse lived, and made a triumphal entry 
 into a yard full of manure, mud and puddles of water. 
 /My wife jumped out of the carriage immediately ; 
 she had seen the nurse holding an infant in her arms 
 and she ran up to take the little thing,from her, ex- 
 , claiming : 
 
 ' That's my daughter, I recognise her.' 
 
 I must declare that I should not have done so. 
 When the child left us she was only three days old, 
 and it seems to me that at that age all children are 
 alike *, now she was four months old, and one could 
 begin to distinguish something, but I could never 
 •have guessed whether it was my daughter or the 
 nurse's, who was only three months older ; mothers, 
 .however, never make a mistake. 
 
 Eugenie admired her daughter and declared that 
 oshe was like me already. With the best will in thd 
 
122 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 world I could not see any resemblance, and though T 
 felt ijiat I should love my daughter very much,, 
 frankly I could not see anything to admire in her. 
 
 What I did admire, however, was the health and 
 stoutness of the nurse. She appeared strong enough 
 to suckle four children at once, and looking at her 
 fafc cheeks and her broad bust, I said, like Diderot: 
 ' One could kiss her for six weeks running and never 
 kiss the same place twice. , 
 
 It was lucky that we had brought provisions with 
 us, as we could get nothing where we were but eggs ? 
 milk and bacon — country fare, but not enticing. I 
 ate with the peasants whilst my wife carried her 
 daughter about and put her into her cradle, and then 
 told me that I was greedy and preferred pie to my 
 daughter. I was very fond of them both, but I 
 must declare that I could not get enthusiastic, as yet,. 
 over a little creature that could not talk and only 
 made faces, but my heart told me that I should not 
 make the worse father for that. 
 
 We walked about in the neighbourhood. We 
 could not admire the verdure, as it was freezing, but 
 we admired beautiful sites and views which must- 
 have been lovely in summer, and meadows in which- 
 it must have been delightf al to roll when the clover 
 was thick. 
 
 We returned to warm ourselves at a bright fire — - 
 it is so easy to do it in front of the enormous country 
 fireplaces, it is the only thing which our good ances- 
 tors had that I regret. 
 
 We ate again, for one always returns to that with 
 pleasure ; and then, after having embraced the child,, 
 the nurse, and everybody else, we got into the gig. 
 It was nearly five o'clock, and in winter the night 
 comes on quickly. 
 
 In the evening the cold seemed more piercing, so* 
 Eugenie and I cuddled up close together. My cloak, 
 which was very large, wrapped us both up, and we 
 
JL SCENE. 
 
 12# 
 
 tried all manner of means to keep each other warm. 
 Eugenie sat on my knees and drove, and 1 let her do 
 as she liked, and there was hardly any daylight more. 
 All of a sadden the horse stopped. Eugenie and I 
 were no longer thinking about the road. I don't 
 exactly know what we were thinking about, but the 
 horse, feeling that he was not being driven, went 
 on one side ; he was across the road, and stopped just 
 in front of the ditch. 
 
 We laughed at one another and at the awkward 
 
 position we found ourselves in , we might have 
 
 been upset into the ditch. But luckily our horse 
 was not in love, so I took the reins again and got 
 him into the road, and we returned to Paris, declaring 
 that the day had been very short and promising our- 
 selves to go and see the nurse again soon. 
 
 A few days after this visit to Livry, on coming 
 home I found Ernest in the drawing-room talking 
 with my wife. I had several times asked him to 
 come to see me and he had not yet done so, and now 
 I was much surprised at seeing how friendly Eugenie 
 was, as I had always feared that she would be very 
 cool towards him. However, I soon discovered why 
 she was so gracious towards him — he had been an- 
 nounced by his family name, which I had never 
 mentioned to my wife. 
 
 ' Here is M. Firmin, one of your friends, who has 
 been waiting for you a long time,' Eugenie said to 
 me when I went in. ' I have not yet had the plea- 
 sure of seeing monsieur ; I do not think he was at 
 our wedding.' 
 
 I was rather embarrassed. I did not dare to ask 
 Ernest about his wife, for I saw that Eugenie did not 
 know that he was the lover of my former neighbour, 
 so L spoke about the theatres and literature, and 
 getting Ernest into his hobby I heard a lot of theat- 
 rical news, but suddenly he exclaimed : 
 
 ' I was very vexed at not being at home the day 
 
124 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 before yesterday when you came to call. My wife 
 told me that you waited a long time.' 
 
 ' Monsieur is married P ' Eugenie remarked im- 
 mediately. 
 
 Ernest merely bowed, and continued : 
 
 \ I was the more vexed as I had a box at the 
 Vaudeville to offer you, and it might have amused 
 madame.' 
 
 Eugenie thanked him, and I tried to bring the 
 conversation back to the theatres, but Ernest, who 
 did not guess my fears, said to me : 
 
 Marguerite, who used to be so fond of the theatre, 
 is beginning to get tired of it, as I take her so 
 often.' 
 
 At the name of Marguerite my wife grew pale, 
 and then she said to me with a forced smile : 
 
 ' Does this happen to be M. Ernest ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, this is M. Ernest Eirmin, of whom I have 
 often spoken to you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I know .... whose wife used to live in 
 this house ? ' 
 
 Ernest bowed again and I held my tongue, I felt I 
 was getting red with anger, for Eugenie had pro- 
 nounced the word wife with an accent of irony which 
 pained me. There was a certain amount of malicious- 
 ness in it, and I cannot understand malice towards 
 anyone who has never done one any harm. 
 
 Luckily, I do not think that Ernest had remarked 
 jny wife's design, for he went on talking about lite- 
 rature and theatres, but Eugenie did not say a word, 
 and she was just as cold as she had been friendly 
 when I came in. Ernest and I kept up the conver- 
 sation, till at last he got up to take his leave, and 
 bowing to my wife offered to send tickets occasion- 
 ally if she would like to have them. She, however, 
 replied that she did not care for the theatre, but she 
 spoke in such a disdainful and rude manner that this 
 &ime Ernest must have been shocked at it, but he 
 
▲ SCENE, 12^" 
 
 was satisfied with looking at me, gave a half smile, 
 shook hands with me expressively, and left us. 
 
 I expected a quarrel or something, for I began to 
 perceive that when one is a husband one must often 
 expect something, but Eugenie said nothing and 
 went into her room, and I let her go and went into 
 my study, and spent the rest of the day without 
 seeing her. 
 
 At dinner time, vexed that she had not left her 
 room, I made up my mind to go and look after her, 
 and found her sitting down and crying bitterly. 
 
 I went up to her and tried to kiss her, but she 
 pushed me away. 
 
 6 What does this mean, Eugenie 9 What are you 
 crying about ? What is troubling you 9 ' 
 
 6 You, monsieur.' 
 
 <I9' 
 
 c Oh ! you are making me very unhappy.' 
 
 ' I make you unhappy 9 I must say that I did not 
 expect such a reproach when I try to gratify all your 
 wishes and tastes, when your will is mine ; I make 
 you unhappy ! Upon my word women are very un- 
 just. What would you say, Eugenie, if you had a 
 husband who was always finding fault, eccentric, 
 dissipated, a gambler 9 ' 
 
 c Good heavens, monsieur ! I know that a husband 
 always thinks that he has done everything that is 
 required of him when he gives his wife the bonnet 
 and shawl that she wants ; but I would rather that 
 you had all the faults that you have just mentioned, 
 and were faithful to me.' 
 
 c You reproach me with not being faithful ! That 
 reproach to me ! ' 
 
 'Can you deny that you are in the habit of 
 going to see your former neighbour, this Madame 
 Ernest 9' 
 
 c I never have denied it ; for why deny what is not 
 wrong 9 ' 
 
:126 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' At any rate you did not tell me, and unless he 
 thad called I should not have known it.' 
 
 c I did not mention it to you because your ridiculous 
 suspicions forced this mystery upon me. I thought 
 that you would suspect something wrong, and so it 
 was useless to tell you anything which would not 
 interest you much.' 
 
 s What ! not interest me when you went and made 
 love to other women! What a dreadful thing to 
 say.' 
 
 ' Eugenie, you have no common sense, and I am 
 sorry for you.' 
 
 ■ One never has any common sense when one dis- 
 covers a man's intrigues. Will you say again that 
 her lover is always there when you call ? It's a pity 
 that he himself said that you waited a long time for 
 him. Fool ! not to see what you go for when you 
 .call at his house and he is not there.' 
 
 ' It requires a lot of patience to listen to such silly 
 things quietly.' 
 
 ( I am sure that you go and see that Marguerite, 
 your former neighbour, every day. I don't know 
 her but I detest her, abominate her. Don't let her 
 
 J , M. Ernest, bring her here, for I will turn 
 
 her out of doors. Good heavens ! to have a mistress 
 after only having been married for fifteen months ! ' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and began to sob 
 afresh, and her tears made me excuse her injustice. 
 I was going up to her to try and bring her to reason, 
 *vhen, all of a sudden, she got up and said : 
 
 ' Very well, monsieur, if you have a mistress, I tell 
 you that I will have a lover.' 
 
 I must acknowledge that these words had a very 
 disagreeable effect on me, for though I knew that 
 they were only uttered in a moment of anger, I never 
 could have imagined that Eugenie would have thought 
 of such a thing. 
 
 1 Madame,' I said in a tone of voice that had no- 
 
▲ SCENE. 
 
 127 
 
 *khing gentle about it, 'do not make me lose my 
 patience. I tell you again that I have no mistress, 
 that Madame Ernest never has been and never will 
 be my mistress , that I seldom go to see them, and 
 that it is quite by chance that Ernest is not there 
 when I do go. As he is not employed in an/ office, 
 one can never calculate when he will be absent. And, 
 then, think of this : suppose I had one or even more 
 mistresses, and were to neglect or abandon my house- 
 hold, that would give you no right to have a lover. 
 The position of a man and his wife are totally diffe- 
 rent. I may have intrigues and lose my fortune and 
 mj health, but that would not dishonour you, or 
 bring another man's children into your family, but 
 it is not the same with a woman's conduct ; a single 
 fault ruins her in the eyes of society and may oblige 
 her husband's children to share their bread with 
 -those of the seducer ' 
 
 c All that is very useful, monsieur ; it proves that 
 you may do what you like and that women may only 
 pass their lives in tears. Is that fair ? ' 
 
 < If you find it too difficult and too cruel, why do 
 ^you get married, you ladies ? You ought to know 
 under what obligations marriage lays you.' 
 
 1 That is quite right ; it would be far better not to 
 marry, to do like Madamoiselle Marguerite; one is 
 then free to follow one's inclinations, to leave a man 
 and to take up with him again if one likes.' 
 ' I did not reply, but walked up and down the room. 
 However, Eugenie did not cry any more ; she had 
 wiped her eyes, and in a few moments she came to 
 me, and taking me gently by the arm, she said : 
 
 6 Henri, perhaps I was rather in the wrong ; but if 
 this woman has not been, is not your mistress ; if 
 yea. do not love her .... swear to me that you do 
 not love her.' 
 
 ' I will swear to you that I do not love her and 
 have never been her lover.' 
 
128 THE CCCKOLD. 
 
 j Ver y well then ; to prove this to me, promise me 
 that you will never set foot within their doors 
 again.' 
 
 ' No, I am very sorry, but I cannot promise you: 
 that.' 
 
 8 Why, if yoa are not in love with this woman ? ' 
 
 ' For the very reason that I have no intrigue with 
 Madame Ernest, I mean to go and see her and her 
 husband whenever I please. Besides, just listen, my 
 dear ; to-day you are jealous of her and do not wish- 
 me to go to her ; in a few days you would be jealous 
 of another and forbid me to go anywhere. It cannot 
 he settled like that. I love you as much as I did the 
 first day of our marriage, but I do not intend to be 
 your slave. Nothing is more stupid than a husband 
 who does not dare to take a step without his wife's 
 permission, and nothing is more impertinent than 
 for a woman to say to her husband : " You shall not 
 go there, because I will not allow it." ' 
 
 'But, Henri, I do not forbid you, I only beg you.' 
 
 * JSTo, my dear Eugenie, I am extremely sorry, but 
 I shall go where I please.' 
 
 8 And you dare to tell me that you do not love this 
 woman ? ' 
 
 8 Had I been her lover you would never have known 
 that I went there, and never have heard me mention 
 her.' 
 
 8 So you prefer the friendship of those people to- 
 my happiness and quietness, and are ready to sac- 
 rifice my tranquility to them?' 
 
 6 Tour quietness need not be troubled by the 
 visits which I pay to Ernest, and I repeat that I 
 will not yield to ridiculous suspicions, and will do 
 as I please.' 
 
 8 That is enough, monsieur ; I can now appreciate 
 your love at its just value.' 
 
 She went back to her room and I sat down and 
 dined* and as she did not come back I dined alone 
 
▲ SCENE. 129 
 
 fbr the first time since my marriage; I should 
 never have thought that such a thing could have 
 happened. 
 
 My dinner was soon over, for nothing takes away 
 the appetite so much as a quarrel ; and to quarrel 
 with anybody one loves causes anger and sorrow as well. 
 
 Directly after dinner I went out, and walked with- 
 out any object ; but there is nothing so good as the 
 fresh air to soothe & bad temper, but as it was cold, 
 and I could not go on walking continually, I went 
 into the Varietes, where there is generally something 
 to laugh at, and it is good to laugh at times. 
 
 I went into the orchestra stalls and saw Beian, no 
 longer curled and tightly buttoned up as he used to 
 be when a bachelor, but in a large overcoat fastened 
 up to the chin, and with a serious face that gave one 
 no idea of a man who was in the habit of making 
 conquests. 
 
 Was that the effects of marriage ? Could I have 
 undergone the same metamorphosis without knowing 
 it? 
 
 I was glad to see him and hoped that he would 
 distract me a little, so I went and sat down beside 
 him, but the former seducer was so absorbed in 
 thought that he did not recognise me. 
 
 6 Well, Belan, does the play amuse you ? * 
 
 * Ah ! it is Blemont. Glad to see you, for since 
 we were married we hardly ever meet. We com- 
 mitted all sorts of follies together formerly when we 
 were bachelors — it was a merry time.' 
 
 s You don't mean to say that you already regret 
 being married 9 ' 
 
 No, no, certainly not ; I only said it as a joke. 
 But I mean to say that a married man owes it to 
 himself not to commit follies like a bachelor, and, 
 besides, I am extremely happy.' 
 
 4 1 congratulate you; but how comes it that ma*- 
 dame is not here with you ? ' 
 
 s 
 
130 THE CTTCKOLU. 
 
 ' Oh 1 she is dining ont with her mother at a house 
 to which I conld not be asked as we should have been 
 thirteen at table. I am going to fetch her, but as 
 they dine very late, Armide told me not to hurry 
 myself, not to go till between ten and eleven o'clock, 
 and so I came here whilst I was waiting. But I 
 thought that you never left your wife, my dear 
 Blemont, for you are always quoted as a pair of 
 turtle doves.' 
 
 ? Well, turtle doves don't always agree. We have 
 had a slight quarrel, and so I have come to the 
 theatre for a little distraction.' 
 
 ' Eeally ! that is like Armide and me ; I often 
 quarrel with Armide .... but that is no reason 
 for not being happy ; they are little clouds that soon 
 pass over.' 
 
 ' And does your mother-in-law still go on crying 
 continually?' 
 
 ? Don't talk to me of her, for I declare she is my 
 nightmare. She sets up her daughter. I know it 
 is not from any bad intention .... she is far too 
 noble-minded for that, but when I fail in a salute, in 
 any attention, or don't offer my arm quick enough, 
 there are reproaches and complaints. However, I 
 am very happy, although those wretched Girauds 
 have already tried to make people believe that I am 
 a cuckold ' 
 
 ' What ? The Girauds have said ' 
 
 ' Yes, my friend, that I was a cuckold ; whilst my 
 wife is a woman of the strictest principles, and then 
 she is one of those women about whom one can be 
 quite easy — you understand what I mean ; one of 
 those cold, marble women. When one embraces 
 them it is just the same as if one didn't do it— it has 
 no effect.' 
 
 \ The devil \ that is very reassuring.' 
 
 6 When I am a cuckold I will let people proclaim 
 it. But, of course, it is well known why the Giraudf 
 
A SCENE. 131 
 
 said tliat — it was out of spite because they were not 
 asked to my wedding.' 
 
 1 1 think so too ; but still I cannot believe that thev 
 
 ^allowed themselves to ' 
 
 'It's a fact; but I must tell you that they found 
 
 some pretext for saying things. I told you that I 
 
 cut out many rivals to obtain Armide's hand, and 
 
 that amongst them was a marquis who had six crosses. 5 
 
 ' Yes, I remember/ 
 
 ' Well, instead of being angry, like the others, be- 
 cause I had distanced him, he came and congratu- 
 lated me frankly, and with charming amiability he 
 said to me : " You have beaten me, as was only 
 right, for you are more worthy than I; I do you 
 justice and appreciate you. Marry Madamoiselle 
 Beausire, but allow me always to reckon myself 
 amongst your friends." What do you think of that ? ' 
 c It was very kind.' 
 
 j \ Of course you will feel how sensible I was of 
 his way of acting, and so I begged him to come 
 and see us, and he has come, and come very often, 
 and that is the reason why the Girauds have been 
 saying things. When my wife heard it she wished 
 me immediately to beg the marquis to cease his visits, 
 asshe is very strict, but I showed my character and 
 said to the marquis : " You come every day ; try and 
 come twice a day, and I shall be delighted." And 
 he does it, and this time, at anyrate, my xnother- 
 m-law thought I had acted rightly.' 
 
 I did not say anything, but I thought to myself: 
 'How selfish we are; we laugh at others' woes and 
 wish people to pity our griefs.' 
 ^ At a quarter past ten, although there was another 
 piece to be played, Belan left to go for his wife, 
 for ho feared that his mother-in-law would scold 
 him if he stopped longer, though that did not pre- 
 vent his telling me again, as he wished me good 
 night, that he was very happy. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 OHAPTEK XL 
 
 APPEARANCES. 
 
 For several days Eugenie and I scarcely spoke £ 
 she spent nearly the whole day in her room and I 
 in my study. Thus we could not quarrel, but it was 
 an unhappy existence, and I did not marry to live 
 on such terms with my wife, and were it to go on I 
 should certainly regret my bachelor life. 
 
 I had been to Ernest's, and what a difference I 
 How happy they were, and lovers still. They gave 
 each other love, pleasure, happiness, and they were 
 still as gay and as much children as when they lived 
 in the garret. Ernest asked after my wife out of 
 politeness, but I don't think he was in a hurry to see 
 her again, and I did not venture to ask him to come, 
 though I did not mention my quarrel with Eugenie. 
 
 When one is young, especially when one loves y 
 one cannot sulk for long, but that confounded pride 
 kept Eugenie and me back. It was a question of 
 who should make the first advances, for, no doubt, 
 she thought she was not in the wrong and I know 
 that I was in th* right. But one day when Eugenie 
 was sitting near me without speaking J. put my pride 
 on one side, embraced my wife tenderly, and we 
 made it up. It is very delicious to make up a quarrel, 
 but, nevertheless, as it is the result of a quarrel, I 
 do not think it is a pleasure to be indulged in often* 
 The time for our moving was coming on, and I felt 
 regret at leaving that house where I had spent so 
 many happy moments, but I kept my regrets to my- 
 self, as my wife would have thought I had other 
 motives. This change of domicile was a pleasure for 
 Eugenie and I pretended to share it. I thought she 
 
APPEARANCE!. 138 
 
 was doubly pleased, first of all at leaving that house 
 ;^nd then at removing from the quarter where she 
 Imew that we were near Ernest and his wife. 
 
 The day before we were to move, as everything 
 was upside down, we would not dine at home. We 
 could not go and ask Madame Dumeillan to give us 
 domicile as she had not been at all well for some 
 time ; if we were to go to my mother's it might make 
 her lose her game of whist, so we quickly made up 
 our minds to dine in a private room at a restaurant. 
 My wife was delighted at the idea. As business 
 would keep me till late near the Tuileries I told 
 Eugenie to meet me on the Terrace des Feuillants : 
 she was going to our new apartments and would be 
 on the terrace at five o'clock. 
 
 I made haste to finish my business, for I did not 
 wish Eugenie to be at the place of meeting before 
 me, and I made such haste that it was only half -past 
 lour when I went into the Tuileries' gardens, so I 
 made up my mind to walk about. 
 
 I had hardly been there three minutes when I 
 ieard a voice, which was not strange to me, say 2 
 
 ' It appears that we are always destined to meet 
 here. It is really very strange.' 
 
 It was Lucile again. I had not met her since my 
 wedding day, and now she was very elegantly dressed, 
 and alone also. 
 
 ' You, madame ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, monsieur ; I must come to the gardens to 
 meet you.' 
 
 ' Certainly, in Paris, when one is not looking for 
 anyone ' 
 
 c And even if one is looking that is no reason for 
 -meeting. Have you just been married again, mon- 
 sieur? ' 
 
 6 No, madame ; that is all very well when one is a 
 ^bachelor, one can take a fresh wife every week.' 
 
 ' And now you are steady ? ' 
 
134 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 .. 
 
 e Very steady.' 
 
 £ I congratulate you; but for a steady man you 
 seem to me to have an appointment here.' 
 
 ' You are quite right, but all appointments do not 
 necessarily mean gallant intrigues.' 
 
 8 1 don't know what they prove, but you are wait- 
 ing for somebody, and I will bet it is a woman.' 
 
 6 You are quite right ; a woman whom I am going 
 to take to dine in a private room at a restaurant.' 
 
 F There you see .... this steadiness ! But I 
 should have been surprised had it been otherwise. 
 It was worth while to get married ! ' 
 
 6 Madame, I will not prolong your anxiety ; I am 
 waiting for my wife, whom I told to meet me here.' 
 
 c Your wife ? I beg your pardon, monsieur, and 
 accept my apologies. I could not guess that you 
 had become a Philemon. But really, without joking,, 
 are you waiting for your wife ? ' 
 
 * Yes, certainly ; what is there extraordinary in. 
 it?' 
 
 6 Are you still in love with your wife, Henri ? ' 
 
 e Still ! Why it seems as if we had only been 
 married yesterday.' 
 
 6 How charming that is.' 
 
 She bit her lips with a smile of vexation, and as I 
 did not wish to prolong the conversation, although I 
 knew that my wife would not be coming yet, I made 
 a movement as if to bow and leave her, but she held 
 me by the arm. 
 
 ' You don't mean to leave me so soon ? You need 
 not trouble, your wife will not come just yet.' 
 
 ' I hope not, for I must tell you plainly I should, 
 not like her to see me talking with you.' 
 ' Would she whip you ? ' 
 
 < Hardly, but she is very jealous, and it would pain 
 her.' 
 
 B She would be very wrong indeed to be jealous ot 
 
 me.' 
 
APPEARANCES. 13& 
 
 * That is true ; "but yon know that jealous people 
 are often wrong.' 
 
 ' Henri, I have a proposition to make to you.' 
 
 'What is it?' 
 
 ' Take me to dine instead of your wife, and in the 
 evening yon can tell her that yon were detained by 
 business.' 
 
 c ^No, thank God, I have not got so far as that 
 yet.' 
 
 ' It was a joke, monsieur ; I know you are far too 
 
 virtuous to do such a thing Save you got 
 
 ants up your trousers ? ' 
 
 ' No, but I don't want to stop here.' 
 
 ( Very well, let us walk on.' 
 
 ' I cannot walk with you.' 
 
 ' And if I don't chooee to leave you P • 
 
 * Lucile, pray let me go.' 
 
 ' What a sentimental air you are putting on ! After 
 all, the garden is free, and if I like to walk by your 
 side you have no right to hinder me. Besides, I am 
 very curious to see your wife. Would she eat me if 
 she found me with you 9 So you won't answer me r 
 and are in a rage ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I declare I cannot understand what is your 
 motive for acting as you are doing. It is pure malice^ 
 and I do not think that I have given you cause for 
 it.' 
 
 6 Oh ! you think so ? You must have a very short 
 memory, for I think I have all sorts of things to be 
 avenged on you for.' 
 
 e There must surely be persons to occupy you in 
 whom you must take a far greater interest, and I aiw 
 only astonished — as it is four years since our connec- 
 tion ceased — that you have not forgotten i&e.' 
 
 e It is certain that you deserve that I should. But 
 what would you have ? It is, perhaps, for that very- 
 reason ' 
 
 * Lucile, another day we will talk as much ag yom 
 
136 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 like, bnt please let me go to-day ; don't stop with 
 me.' 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! How you make me laugh ! ' 
 
 I began to walk very fast and Lucile did the same, 
 continuing to speak to me, though I did not answer 
 her. I noticed that people were looking at us, as I 
 seemed to be running away from a woman who was 
 pursuing me. I was in agony and stopped. 
 
 ' Lucile, you are treating me atrociously.' 
 
 c There, don't excite yourself ; I am going to leave 
 you, for I am sorry for you ; you start convulsively 
 at every woman you see. But tell me, first of all, 
 whether you still have my portrait ? ' 
 
 ' Your portrait ! I don't know, but I will look.' 
 
 ' I want to have it back, for you cannot care for 
 it, and I want it, as it is a very good likeness.' 
 
 6 1 will give it you.' 
 
 'I am still living in the same street, only two 
 houses lower down.' 
 
 ' Very well, I will leave it at your apartments.' 
 
 e You promise ? ' 
 
 'Yes/ 
 
 e That is very kind of you. Good-bye, my dear 
 Henri. Come, don't be angry any longer, and don't 
 forget your promise.' 
 
 'Yes, I ' 
 
 The words died on my lips, for I saw my wife, pale 
 and trembling, close to us, looking at us attentively. 
 At that moment Lucile was holding my hand bidding 
 me good-bye, and I, delighted at getting rid of her, 
 was shaking hers amicably. Eugenie had seen it all, 
 and Lucile, seeing the change that had come over 
 my features, turned round, looked at my wif ^. with a 
 mocking smile, and went away, again bidding me a 
 very unceremonious adieu. I could have done any- 
 thing to her at that moment. 
 
 I went up to my wife, and I am sure I was as 
 much embarrassed as if I had been guilty. 
 
APPEARANCES. 137 
 
 4 Here yon are I was talking with a lady 
 
 whom I had just met.' 
 
 * I saw the lady, and even heard her. It is useless, 
 monsieur, to me to meet you .... to make me 
 come in ^rder to witness such scenes as this.' 
 
 { Do you really see any harm in this ? . . . . I will 
 swear to you . . . .' 
 
 6 It costs you nothing to swear. Who was that 
 woman ? Tour former neighbour, Madame Ernest ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear no ! It was a woman whom .... I 
 knew before I was married.' 
 
 f Oh ! so she was one of your former mistresses ? ' 
 
 f Well, even if it were so ? . . . . As I have not 
 «een her for a long time . . . .' 
 
 e You don't see her any longer, and she allows her- 
 self to talk so freely with you .... holding your 
 hand and looking straight into your eyes? And 
 then she laughed in my face as she went away ! What 
 an insolent manner she had! I shall know her 
 again, for I had plenty of time to examine her 
 closely, as you were so taken up with that woman 
 £hat you did not notice me .... And then you 
 ^promised her something ; for she said to you : "Don't 
 forget your promise." Is that true, monsieur ? ' 
 
 * Good God ! of course it is possible ; I don't ex- 
 actly know what she did say to me, for I only desired 
 one thing, and that was to get rid of her ; for I felt 
 sure that if you saw me talking to her you would 
 again get a thousand fancies into your head.' 
 
 ' Fancies ! I suppose if I saw you in a woman's 
 arms I must not take it amiss? Oh! I am suffo- 
 cating ; I cannot bear it any longer.' 
 
 She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and I took 
 her arm and got her away. I did not wish to be 
 made a sight of again on the Terrace des Feuillants. 
 We walked in the Champs Elysees for some time 
 without speaking, till I stopped at a restaurant into 
 which I wished her to come. 
 
188 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' What is this place ? ' 
 
 i A restaurant, where we are going to dine.' 
 
 4 It's no good, for I am not hungry and want to g& 
 home/ 
 
 ' Yon kivow that everything is packed np at home, 
 and that we cannot dine there. Really, Eugenie, you 
 give yourself pain quite needlessly. How could you 
 think that, if I had any relations with that woman r 
 I should stay with her on the very spot to which L 
 knew you would be coming ? I 
 
 ' What did you promise her ? ' 
 
 ' I have quite forgotten ; she had been worrying 
 and annoying me for ten minutes, and I would have 
 promised her all the treasures of India to have got 
 rid of her.' 
 
 \ But why was she holding your hand 9 ' 
 
 6 It's the manner of all these women • they cannot 
 speak to you without taking your hand or your 
 arm.' 
 
 f Oh ! so she is a prostitute ? ' 
 
 * No .... she is a kept woman.' 
 
 I She looks very bold, for all that.' 
 
 At last I got Eugenie inside. We were shown into- 
 a private room, and I made out my bill of fare, for r . 
 after all, I felt that I had not dined. The waiter 
 left the room, after whispering to me : 
 
 [ Monsieur will ring when he wants dinner.' 
 
 He thought I had a love adventure ; husbands and 
 wives are not in the habit of having a private room 
 at a restaurant. 
 
 Madame sat down in a comer, far from the table^ 
 with her head in her hands. She was not crying 
 any more, but she did not look at me. It would be 
 very pleasant if all the time that we were dining, or 
 I was dining, she looked like that. So this was the 
 little party from which I had promised myself so 
 much pleasure ! Man proposes, woman disposes ! 
 
 I sent Lucile to the devil with all my keart. Her- 
 
APPEARANCES. 139" 
 
 ■ 
 
 spite and obstinacy had caused all this ; why would 
 she not leave me ? I suppose because she saw that 
 it vexed me. 
 
 If we -were to remain like that, it seemed to me 
 that the best thing I could do would be to ring for 
 dinner at once. 
 
 Our room looked out into the Champs Elysees. It 
 was a beautiful day in April and as warm as summer, 
 so I opened the window and watched the passers-by 
 for some time. As Eugenie did not move I wont up 
 to her. 
 
 c Are you going to stop a mile from the table ? f 
 F I told you I was not hungry, but you can dine y 
 I shall not interfere with you.' 
 ' What a nice pleasure party f J 
 ' Yes ; I shall not forget it.' 
 
 * Nor I, either. You must be very hotheaded not 
 to listen to reason, and to fancy that I was looking 8 
 out for that woman when I was expecting you.' 
 
 ' I don't say that you were looking out for her, I 
 am not so stupid as that ; but I think she was looking 
 for you, and no doubt you had often saved her the 
 trouble of doing so ; and, then, you acknowledge that 
 she was your mistress.' 
 
 6 That I had known her before I was married 5 
 that is quite true, madame. Perhaps I was wrong 
 to tell you that, but as I was doing nothing wrong I 
 did not think it necessary to tell a lie.' 
 
 6 When one has known a woman and sees her 
 again, one must always be on pretty intimate terms 
 with her.' 
 
 ' You are very much mistaken, for if it were so 
 men would have enough to do.' 
 
 'Everybody has not known all Paris, like you 
 have.' 
 
 i Madame, I have done no more than anybody else, 
 only I see that I ought to have been less op©n witt 
 you.' 
 
140 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 * Yon ought to have been so before marrying me/ 
 
 ' That would have been a pretty thing — to have 
 told a respectable young lady my adventures as a 
 bachelor ! Really, you have no common sense ! ' 
 
 Saying this I pulled the bell violently, for I felt 
 that I was loosing my tempe, but when the waiter 
 came he only partially opened the door, and just 
 showing the tip of his nose, he said : 
 
 * What does monsieur require ? t 
 e Let us have dinner.' 
 
 ' In a moment, monsieur.' 
 
 And he went away, after having just glanced at 
 Eugenie. 
 
 'You need eat nothing, if that suits you, but at 
 least you ought to come to the table, so as not to 
 appear singular to the waiter.' 
 
 Eugenie gave me no answer, but she came and sat 
 down opposite to me. 
 
 The waiter brought the soup and I helped my 
 
 wife. 
 
 ' But, monsieur I told you that I should eat no- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' I don't say you are to eat it, but I have put it on 
 your plate so that you may have appeared to have 
 dined.' 
 
 Again she did not reply but did not touch her 
 soup, and I ate mine whistling between my teeth, as 
 was my wont when I was in a bad temper. 
 
 The waiter came again, and took the precaution to 
 rattle the key three or four times in the lock before 
 coming in. That waiter was a fool ; he could surely 
 see that we were not thinking of love-making. 
 
 He brought us a beefsteak. At home, Eugenie 
 always helped the dishes, as I did not like doing that 
 or carving, but now she would not even look at me. 
 T cut myself a piece of steak with an angry gesture, 
 and then pushed the dish towards her, but she 
 would not touch it, for no doubt she thought it 
 
APPEARANCES. 14? 
 
 would vex me to see her not eating, and so she would 
 not take anything at all. 
 
 Anger and vexation robbed me of my appetite, but 
 nevertheless I managed to eat for two. To increase 
 my annoyance, a small concertina player had stopped 
 under our window, and since we had been there he 
 had kept on playing the same air, though I had told 
 him he would get nothing, as I was not at all in a 
 kindly frame of mind. 
 
 There he was again fiddling with the key : what a 
 fool that waiter was ! I should have liked to punch 
 his head when he came in, still with his mysterious 
 air, and put some sweetbreads on the table. 
 
 Such quarrels are very annoying, for as one cannot 
 get out of them they must be borne to the very end. 
 If you are bored at other people's houses you can 
 leave and not go there again, but you must return 
 to your own home. I know there are some husbands 
 who go out in the morning and don't return till bed- 
 time, but how terrible to have to shun one's own 
 house in order to find quiet ! It would be far better 
 to remain a bachelor, for then at least one can 
 amuse oneself and laugh occasionally. 
 
 I had been reflecting thus for some time, and also 
 about other matters which were not altogether rosy- 
 coloured. The concertina still went on, but I paid 
 no more attention to it, for I had forgotten the 
 sweetbreads in front of me, and did not even re- 
 member that I was in a restaurant, and was only 
 recalled to myself by the noise which the waiter 
 made with the lock as he brought in a roast chicken. 
 
 He put it down and looked at the other dish which 
 had remained untouched ; then he glanced at us. I 
 am sure he had never seen such a taciturn couple, 
 but as we did not speak to him he said : 
 
 'Monsieur and madame have not yet touched the 
 sweetbreads .... I have brought the chicken too 
 aoon and will take it away again.' 
 
f42 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 'No, no, leave ifc, and take your sweetbreads away? 
 we don't want them.' 
 
 ' But I assure you, monsieur, they are beautifully 
 cooked and as sweet as ' 
 
 6 Take them away, I tell you.' 
 
 I do not know whether I said that in a terrible 
 voice, but the waiter took up his sweetbreads and 
 disappeared like a flash of lightning, closing all the 
 floors behind him. 
 
 The chicken was there and I wondered whether 
 my wife would be kind enough to carve it, so I passed 
 it over to her and begged her to do so, but she pushed 
 it back into the middle of the table, and said : 
 
 ' I am not going to carve.' 
 
 5 But you know I never do it.' 
 
 f Tou may do as you please, monsieur.* 
 
 6 So you will not carve, madame P ' 
 f No, monsieur.' 
 
 f Once, twice ! ' 
 
 5 No, monsieur.' 
 
 6 Very well ; it is no good making a present of it 
 to the restaurant keeper, and so ' 
 
 I took up the dish and threw the chicken out of 
 the window. My wife uttered a little cry involun- 
 tarily, and I went to the casement, for I noticed that 
 the concertina had suddenly stopped, and I saw the 
 little Savoyard, who had just picked the chicken up, 
 and who no doubt feared that I should go down 
 stairs to look after it, throw his concertina behind 
 his back and run away through the Champ Elysees 
 as if the devil were on his heels. 
 
 When I saw this I conld not keep serious, but 
 burst out into a fit of laughter, which only increased 
 when I saw that the little concertina player ran all 
 the quicker when he saw me at the window. My 
 wife could not resist the desire to see what had be- 
 come of the chicken, and seeing what the boy had 
 done she bit her lips to prevent herself from laugh* 
 
APPEARANCES. 14S 
 
 ing; but when I turned towards her she could not 
 -contain herself any longer and followed my example* 
 Nothing brings about a reconciliation sooner than 
 laughter : merry people rarely quarrel. We had got 
 4?lose together, as we had both left the table to go to 
 the window, and I don't know how it happened, but 
 
 1 soon found Eugenie in my arms, then we embraced, 
 then we left the window and went to the back part 
 -of the room, and then 
 
 The door was opened, without much fumbling at 
 the handle this time. It was decreed that the waiter 
 should commit nothing but stupidities ; he never 
 could guess rightly. Eugenie, ruddier than the cherry, 
 liastily got away from me, but not so quickly that 
 the waiter, who had seen us quite near, withdrew im- 
 mediately with the macaroni, stammering : 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, you are not ready for it, and 
 
 2 think that the cheese is not quite done enough.' 
 
 He shut the door, and I took hold of Eugenie 
 again, who murmured : 
 
 6 Grood heavens ! what will the waiter think o£ 
 
 1 must acknowledge that that did not trouble me 
 in the least, and I think that Eugenie had also for- 
 gotten it in a few minutes. 
 
 I was obliged to ring for the macaroni, and when 
 the waiter came at last he sang and talked to him- 
 self on the landing before touching the handle, and 
 then he fumbled with it for about five minutes, for 
 lie had made up his mind not to come in at an in- 
 convenient moment this time. All the time that he 
 was present my wife kept her eyes down and neither 
 moved nor spoke, for she was not used to these sort 
 of little entertainments. 
 
 We had dessert and champagne, and our dinner 
 finished much more cheerfully than I could have 
 guessed from its beginning. I had sworn to Eugenie, 
 &t least twenty times, that I had had no relations 
 
144 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 with Lucile for a long time before our marriage. She 
 was very amiable again, and though she had taben 
 nothing but biscuits and champagne, she thought 
 that a dinner in a private room was very amusing, 
 and I promised her that we would soon have an- 
 other. 
 
 The next day we were to move, and Eugenie went 
 early with her servant to our new apartments, where 
 she wished to have all the furniture settled according 
 to her taste. I remained in our old lodgings to 
 superintend what was taken away and being packed 
 up, and, besides, I was not sorry to remain as long as 
 I could in my former bachelor apartments. 
 
 The people who had undertaken to move us had 
 declared that everything should be finished by four 
 o'clock, and now it was seven and I was still there. 
 At length the last pieces of furniture were taken 
 away and I could leave also. I walked through the 
 empty rooms, which were full of memories for me. 
 Here I had received such pretty women; I had 
 brought Eugenie here, and here she had made me a 
 father. I was sorry to leave an abode in which I had 
 been so happy, and wondered whether I should be so 
 elsewhere. 
 
 However, enough of these childish ideas, for a 
 man is bound to be happy, no matter where it may 
 be, if he be with the object of his affections, and as 
 I was sure my wife would be eager to see me I started 
 immediately. 
 
 I arrived at our new lodgings in the Boulevard 
 Montmartre, and though the rest of the furniture 
 had been taken in nothing was in its place yet, 
 whilst I had expected to find everything in order. 
 
 ' What have you been doing since the morning ? r 
 I asked the servant, who seemed very unhappy, and 
 she replied : 
 
 6 1 really did not know, monsieur, where I was te 
 put all the things.' 
 
APPEABANOKS. 145 
 
 f But has not my wife been with you all day P ] 
 
 'Yes, monsieur, madame is here. At first she was> 
 very busy in arranging everything, but then, a short 
 time afterwards, as she was putting a piece of furni- 
 ture in its place ' 
 
 6 Did she hurt herself ? ' 
 
 ' No monsieur, not that, but she found something- 
 or other that vexed her ; she began to cry, and then 
 went into her room, and has taken no more interest 
 in anything.' 
 
 Here was something fresh ! Was I never to have 
 another day's quiet ? Only yesterday we had made 
 it up, and this morning she was very amiable to- 
 wards me. What could be the cause of this fresh; 
 trouble ? 
 
 Saying this to myself, I went towards the bed- 
 room, and found Eugenie sitting in one of the arm- 
 chairs which were still in the middle of the room. 
 She was pale but her eyes were dry, and she appeared 
 to be thinking profoundly, and did not move when I 
 went in. 
 
 'What is the matter with you, my dear child P 
 One does not know yet where one is here, and the 
 servant tells me you will not give orders about any- 
 thing. What does it all mean ? J 
 
 'It means, monsieur, that you can have everything 
 arranged as you yourself please, for I dcn't mean to- 
 have anything to do with it.' 
 
 'Madame, there is something the matter with 
 you again ; really this happens too often. What is- 
 the matter with you to-day ? ' 
 
 6 Nothing ought to be the matter with me, for with 
 you I ought to be prepared for everything; but 
 there are things which I cannot take coolly, and when 
 I see that I have been so shamefully deceived ' 
 
 6 Deceived ! What do you mean, madame ? Be 
 kind enough to explain yourself. What have you 
 heard to-day ? ' 
 
*£46 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 1 1 have heard nothing, but I have incontestible 
 proofs. I certainly was not looking for them but 
 found them by chance. Wishing to put your desk 
 into its place something broke, the drawers opened, 
 and .... see, monsieur, what I found. 5 
 
 Eugenie opened a drawer and threw down the 
 eight female portraits that I had kept at the back of 
 my desk. 
 
 I must acknowledge that I was thunderstruck for 
 a few moments at the sight of them, but soon re- 
 covered my self-possession. 
 
 6 Why should you be angry at having found those 
 portraits ? You know I amuse myself with painting, 
 and, as a bachelor, I used to paint miniatures. They 
 are fancy portraits, and I really saw no harm in 
 .keeping them.' 
 
 '■ Fancy portraits ! ' Eugenie exclaimed, trembling 
 with anger and with flashing eyes, 'Wretch that 
 you are ! I expected that answer. . . . You don't 
 remember that I saw one of your models yesterday. 
 Is that a fancy portrait ? It is too good a likeness 
 for me to make a mistake, for it is that of the woman 
 you were with/ 
 
 She handed me Lucile's portrait, and it was one of 
 the most striking likenesses, though I had forgotten 
 that I had kept it. I did not know what to say, for I 
 was vexed at appearing guilty when I had done no 
 harm, and I was so put out by my wife's reproaches 
 that I threw myself into a chair and said nothing. 
 
 Eugenie came up to me with Lucile's portrait in 
 her hand. ■ 
 
 ' You are confounded, monsieur, and can find no 
 more ready-made lies, and that is a pity, as you lie 
 so nicely. So this is the woman with whom you 
 have had no relations for a long time, whom you 
 never see and never loved ' But you carefully keep 
 her portrait as well as those of seven other women, 
 whom you no doubt meet by accident, as yon did 
 
APPEARANCES. 147 
 
 that girl yesterday. Eight mistresses at the same 
 time ! I congratulate you, monsieur, on being such 
 a steady husband. And this is the man who swore, 
 when he married me, that he would never love any- 
 one but me, and that I should suffice for his happi- 
 ness ! Yery well, monsieur, have your eight mis- 
 tresses, have thirty if you like, but I shall not stay 
 with a man who acts like that. I have no more love 
 for you; I feel that I bate you and will not see you 
 a<niin. I shall go to my mother, and thus, monsieur, 
 you will be at full liberty to receive your neigh- 
 bours and all the women whose portraits you have 
 painted:' 
 
 6 Upon my word, madame, you can do just as you 
 please, for I can tell you that I am beginning to get 
 tired of your jealousy, your rage and scenes. This 
 was not the life I looked forward to when I married, 
 and is no longer that calm and happy life that we 
 spent together. I love you as much as ever and have 
 never ceased to love you, and it is not my fault if you 
 choose to fancy things and discover intrigues in the 
 most innocent matters. I have nothing to reproach 
 myself with, for if I were guilty I should have taken 
 precautions, but I did not see any harm in preserving 
 portraits which I had painted before knowing you, 
 and which recalled my bachelor's life to me. It is 
 -quite time that amongst them is that of the person 
 I met yesterday, and she was asking me for it, and I 
 promised to send it to her just as you came up.' 
 
 • Not to send it to her but to take it yourself. I 
 Temember perfectly now. Oh ! you will not make 
 me believe that this portrait was painted some time 
 .ago, for it is exactly like the woman as she was 
 yesterday, when she was squeezing your hand so 
 tenderly. And to dare to say that you are innocent, 
 when I daily discover fresh proofs of your incon- 
 stancy ! But you shall not take her portrait to her, 
 neither her's nor any other. See, this is what I shall 
 
 l 2 
 
148 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 do with thorn, and I only wish I could break the^ 
 bonds which tie me to yon in the same manner/ 
 
 She threw the miniatures on to the ground,, 
 trampled on them and crushed them under her feet.. 
 I never saw her in such a passion, but I said nothing- 
 and kept my seat, and my tranquillity seemed to in- 
 crease her rnge. At last, when she had reduced the- 
 ivory to powder, she pulled up the sleeve of her dress, . 
 tore off the bracelet that was on her arm, to which 
 my portrait was attached, and throwing it down she 
 broke it with her feet, exclaiming : 
 
 6 And I will not keep that of a man whom I can; 
 no longer love.' 
 
 The sight of the women's broken portraits had not 
 caused me the slightest emotion, but when I saw 
 Eugenie break mine, which she had vowed she would 
 preserve all her life, I felt deeply hurt, and the pain 
 was so sharp that it seemed to me as if my whole 
 happiness had been destroyed like that portrait. I 
 made an involuntary movement to stop her, but a 
 feeling of just pride kept me back, and I allowed her 
 to consummate the sacrifice. 
 
 After having destroyed my portrait she let herself 
 drop into an armchair, as if she were overcome by 
 the transports to which she had abandoned herself, 
 and I even fancied that she seemed rather ashamed 
 of what she had done. Then I got up and looked 
 sadly at the fragments of my likeness, cast a glance 
 at my wife, and left the room without uttering a 
 word. I went out, without knowing where, and 
 though I had not dined I was not hungry. I could 
 still see Eugenie crushing my portrait under her feet, 
 and I fancied that she could no longer love me, that 
 her love and fidelity were attached to that picture 
 which she would not have any longer. 
 
 I felt that I must be a man rather than a lover, 
 for love does not last for ever and courage maintains 
 us in all circumstances of our whole life. I could 
 
APPEARANCES. 149 
 
 not help sighing as I thought thus, for T still adored 
 Eugenie, and, after all, it is said that jealousy is a 
 proof of love. My wife would recover her senses, 
 jand I would pardon her. 
 
 But to have smashed my portrait, which was my 
 own work, which ought to have reminded her of the 
 -delightful sittings which we had had together, was 
 wery had, and I should find it difiicult to forgive her 
 for that. 
 
 After walking for a long time I found myself in 
 my old street : I helieve that our legs have an instinct 
 of their own, and carry us to places where they have 
 often heen. 
 
 How if I were to go and see Ernest and his wife 
 for a little distraction ? They were my friends and 
 would feel for my trouble, and though I should not 
 mention it to them I should forget it in their 
 company, and so I went towards the Rue du 
 Temple. 
 
 I went upstairs, and Madame Ernest opened 
 the door to me and showed me into the room, 
 saying : 
 
 ' What miracle hrings you here in the evening, 
 -monsieur ? It is very rarely we see you even in the 
 morning. Ernest has gone to the theatre, hut he 
 promised to he home early.' 
 
 The little woman made me sit down and took up 
 her work again, and we talked — or rather she did — 
 and told me ahout Ernest, his work, his success, and 
 "their manner of living. I liked to listen to her, and 
 I looked at her whilst she talked, and it seemed to 
 me to he one of those evenings spent in her garret. 
 Marguerite was still the same, and in my heart I still 
 liked to give her that name. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped and said to me : 
 
 * I do all the talking, and no doubt I am tiring 
 you.' 
 
 'Not at all/ 
 
150 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 ' But you don't say a word, and you are not so 
 silent as a rule. Has anything unpleasant put you 
 out ? ' 
 
 < Very likely.' 
 
 ' A little quarrel with your wife ? I am sure I haver 
 guessed rightly.' 
 
 £ Quite so ; we have had a slight quarrel.' 
 
 'And it troubles you? You are just like me? 
 when I and Ernest have a quarrel it grieves me so 
 .... luckily it is very rare and does not last long, 
 for it would kill me if it did.' 
 
 And thereupon the little woman told me about 
 some childish quarrels that had occurred between 
 them, that could not for a moment have lessened 
 their love. I had been listening to my former neigh- 
 bour for an hour without being the least tired, but 
 I wished to know what was going on at home, and 
 so I got up* 
 
 6 I will not keep you,' she said, ' for no doubt your 
 wife is expecting you, and you must not keep her 
 waiting. Ernest will be very sorry not to have seen 
 you.' 
 
 I took my leave, and just as I left the house a 
 woman, who was leaning against a post near the 
 gateway, took my arm convulsively, and said : 
 
 ' You have been alone with her for an hour and a 
 half; her Ernest was not in, as I know, for the 
 porter told me so.' 
 
 It was Eugenie, who, no doubt, had followed me 
 and waited outside all the time that I was with Mar- 
 guerite. 
 
 I was so utterly surprised that I could not answer; 
 and after saying these few words to me my wife left 
 me and ran away as quickly as she could, and I only 
 overtook her with some difficulty, but she would not 
 speak or take my arm. 
 
 Thus we got home, but when I wished to have an 
 explanation with her, she went and locked herself in 
 
EUGENIE AND MARGUERITE. 151 
 
 I 
 
 her bedroom and refused to open the door, so I had 
 a bed made up in my study. 
 
 Thus we slept each by ourselves, aud separated so 
 after such an evening ; a rather unfortunate inaugu- 
 ration of our new dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 EUGENIE AND MARGUERITE. 
 
 After spending several weeks without speaking 
 my wife and I at last made it up, but it only seemed: 
 a hollow reconciliation to me — a mere patched-up 
 affair. Could these frequent scenes have changed 
 our love ? No, I still loved my wife, but constant, 
 quarrels embitter the tongue and change the character,, 
 and words spoken in anger, although forgotten im- 
 mediately, yet are fatal to our illusions, and these? 
 never return. 
 
 We had beep to Livry again to see our daughter 
 at her nurse's, and this time it was a splendid June- 
 day. But how little this excursion resembled the 
 last one ! My wife and I had no quarrel, but there 
 was a calmness between us as if we had been married, 
 twenty years, and our horse did not nearly land ua. 
 in a ditch on our return journey. 
 
 Soon after we had gone into our new abode a cruel: 
 event overtook us : Eugenie lost her mother, who 
 died after a short illness. I felt the loss almost as 
 much as my wife did, for Madame Dumeillan had. 
 been our best friend. She avoided entering into ou*r 
 
152 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 discussions and pretended not to see our quarrels, 
 but, without saying that either was in the wrong, 
 she would manage to bring us together again ; and 
 whenever Eugenie had been to her mother's she was 
 much more amiable when she came back. Such 
 parents are very rare, and her loss was irreparable, 
 for one does not find people like her twice in a 
 life. 
 
 Eugenie's grief was very deep, and so I took her 
 out a good deal in order to distract her a little, and 
 we went to parties, to the theatre and to concerts, 
 and entertained a good deal more at our own house ; 
 for though society does not make us forget a cruel 
 loss altogether, yet it occupies our thoughts and 
 softens the pain. 
 
 We took our daughter home, and her presence con- 
 tributed much to allay my wife's grief. The sight 
 of the child, her caresses, her first words (which were 
 unintelligible to everybody but ourselves), enabled 
 Eugenie to endure her sorrow. A woman is a daugh- 
 ter before she is a mother, but she is a mother longer 
 than she is a daughter, and, in our hearts, love does 
 mot ascend back, but inclines, on the contrary, to- 
 wards new generations. 
 
 Her mother's death had made my wife richer than 
 myself by four thousand francs a year. I did not 
 grudge her her fortune, but I did not wish my chil- 
 dren to owe more to their mother than to me, and so 
 I set to work more eagerly and spent a great part of 
 jooj time in my study and in the Law Courts. We 
 met more rarely, but I hoped it was not for that 
 reason that we agreed better, for I was always glad 
 to be with Eugenie and delighted to take my daughter 
 into my arms. She was very pretty, and I felt in- 
 clined to spoil her and to do all she wanted, but my 
 wife was stricter. 
 
 We did not see much of my mother ; she thought 
 mo good whist players ever came to our house. The 
 
EUGENIE AND MARGUERITE. 153 
 
 *Girauds came sometimes — they were still trying to 
 marry people — and I had the pleasure of getting 
 them to meet Belan and his wife. It was a running 
 fire of epigrams on Gdraud's part. The grand 
 Armide did not seem to pay any attention to them, 
 and Belan entrenched himself behind his wife, whose 
 footman he had the air of being, and to whom he 
 never spoke without bowing first. 
 
 Of course, in the parties we frequented there were 
 pretty women and very pretty girls, and I must ac- 
 knowledge that I several times caught myself making 
 eyes at the ladies and love to the girls, quite forget- 
 ting I was married. The latter did not respond, as 
 my married state was an impediment, but it was not 
 always so with the former. But such moments of 
 forgetfulness only lasted a moment, and I was as- 
 tonished at having acted as if I were still a bachelor. 
 There is no great harm in looking tenderly at another 
 woman than your wife, but I should have thought it 
 very wrong if Eugenie had done the same and looked 
 tenderly at a man. I was certainly not sorry at being 
 married, then why should I occasionally act as if I 
 were not ? But it only proceeded from my disposi- 
 tion and not from my heart. I do not think it ne- 
 cessary because a man is married that he should 
 behave like an owl, and never dare to laugh or joke 
 except with his wife ; in that case Hymen's chains 
 would be too heavy. 
 
 Sometimes I went to Ernest's, and he was a father 
 also now f his little Marguerite had presented him 
 with a boy, so that they were at the summit of their 
 wishes. Fortune smiled on them, for Ernest was 
 making money, and, had he wished it, there would 
 have been people to come to his table and compli- 
 ment him on his success and flatter his wife, closing 
 their eyes to what was defective in their union. But 
 Marguerite did not care to go out into society, for 
 -she said that a few real friends were worth more than 
 
154 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 parties where women pick each other to pieces and 
 men deceive each other. She spoke of the world a^ 
 if she knew it, and said to Ernest : 
 
 f, Society into which yon wish me to go would think 
 it was honouring me very much in receiving me, and 
 many women would blush to speak to me. ' She is 
 not married " they would say, looking at me super- 
 ciliously. But I am not inclined to put up with such 
 a reception, for at the bottom of my heart I think I 
 am just as deserving of respect as those ladies, for I 
 would give my life and my blood for you, and there 
 is more than one amongst them who would not do* 
 the same for her husband.' 
 
 I thought my former neighbour was right, and 
 Ernest could not give her any answer, though he^ 
 would have liked her to go into society sometimes so 
 as to get used to its manners, and not to be awkward 
 if she had to receive people at home. He wished to 
 turn his little Marguerite into a lady, but I thought 
 she was very well as she was. 
 
 My wife had been less jealous for some time, for r 
 no doubt, she felt that she was in the wrong to be 
 so, and now had striven to oveicome her fault. But 
 if that were not the motive ! Suppose she loved me 
 less ! How ingenious we are in tormenting ourselves i 
 I was made miserable through my wife's jealousy r 
 and now I was uneasy because she left me in peace a. 
 little. 
 
 Sometimes, however, I still saw her following me 
 with her eyes when I was talking to a pretty woman ;. 
 but after having done my part as a polite man, if I 
 went up to Eugenie, as if to reassure her, she looked 
 away with indifference and did not seem to take any 
 more notice of me. Was that her new fashion of 
 loving me, and was there no middle path between 
 that air of calmness and her transports of jealousy ? 
 
 Amongst the people whom we were in the habit of 
 seeing there were many men of letters and artists.- 
 
EUGENIE AND MARGUERITE, 155" 
 
 Their society was agreeable ; even when saying ill- 
 natured things they were witty and their manners 
 were without ceremony. A very agreeable painter r 
 whom we often met out, wished absolutely to give a- 
 ball — although he was a bachelor — to those ladies to* 
 whose houses he went the oftenest, and everybody 
 accepted his invitation, for all expected much amuse-- 
 ment from a party given by a bachelor painter. I 
 managed to get him to invite the Belans and the 
 Girauds, for I liked to see the enemies meet. Leberger 
 asked everyone who was mentioned to him, as it was 
 his greatest desire to have a large number of people 
 present, and as his studio was to be given up ta 
 dancing there would be plenty of room. 
 
 My wife made several objections to going to this 
 ball; she thought it would not be enjoyable, and- 
 pretended that she did not care for dancing any 
 longer, though she was only twenty, but as I made a- 
 point of it she at last gave way, but we did not start 
 till our little Henrietta was asleep, and I wished that 
 she were already of an age to come and dance with 
 us. 
 
 Two coloured lamps at Leberger's door indicated 
 his dwelling to us at some distance. The artist was 
 determined that nothing should be wanting. The 
 staircase was illuminated by numerous chandeliers, 
 and though there were no flowers on the stairs carpets 
 were laid down. Guided by the sound of the music 
 we went upstairs, and found that the ball had already 
 begun. An obliging neighbour who lived on the 
 same landing as the painter had lent him his rooms, 
 which served as cloak-rooms and as a laboratory in 
 which to make the punch and prepare the refresh^ 
 ments. 
 
 The studio, which was transformed into a balW 
 room, looked charming. Finished paintings, out--- 
 lines and studies ornamented the walls; busts and 
 torsos supported the candles and served as candle- 
 
J156 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 sticks, and the musicians were on a large set of steps, 
 which was draped with Roman costumes. It was an 
 amateur orchestra, but they displayed as much cool- 
 ness and almost as much talent as a prof essional one. 
 Behind them was a mannikin, who had a serpent in 
 his mouth with which he appeared to be playing ; 
 and an Ajax had a small flute in his mouth, and a 
 trombone was in the hand of Belisarius. 
 
 There were a number of people present. Leberger 
 jbad invited many of his fellow artists, and also poets, 
 musicians and sculptors, and the ball was already 
 very animated. I saw Giraud dancing with his 
 •daughter, whilst his wife had her eldest son for her 
 partner. I saw Madame Belan, who had deigned to 
 stand up with a poet ; whilst her husband was keep- 
 ing his mother-in-law company, who was sitting in a 
 corner of the studio, where one might think she was 
 posing for the e Mother of the Maccabees.' 
 
 My wife was sitting by some ladies of her acquaint- 
 ance, so I went and looked at a quadrille, and I no- 
 ticed a young lady who was dancing timidly, but not 
 ungracefully. Where had I seen her before, for I 
 certainly knew her ? Was it possible ? It was Mar- 
 guerite, Madame Ernest. Her toilette — no different 
 from the simple style of dress in which I had always 
 seen her — had prevented me from recognising her, 
 and I had not the least idea of meeting her at this 
 ball, but I suppose that her husband wished her to 
 ,^ome. I soon saw him, looking on at his wife dancing 
 with evident pleasure, and he was quite right, for 
 she was one of the nicest-looking women there. 
 
 I saw nothing astonishing in Ernest having brought 
 fiis wife there, and I should not have thought it 
 wrong if he had taken her with him everywhere, 
 but there were some foolish people present who did 
 not think as I did, though, luckily, peoples' positions 
 jire not written on their foreheads. 
 
 But my wife ! Since that evening when she had 
 
EUGENIE AND MABGUEEITE. 157 
 
 followed me, she was persuaded either that I was or 
 had been Madame Timlin's lover, so I was certainly 
 not going to tell her that my former neighbour wasr 
 present, but if she were to see Ernest she would be 
 sure to learn it. 
 
 I was as uncomfortable as if I had been guilty ; in 
 fact, had I been so I do not think I should have been 
 so embarrassed. However, I felt obliged to go and 
 say ' How do you do ? ' to Madame Ernest, as I did 
 not intend to be rude because my wife was unjust, 
 but I made up my mind to try and do it without her" 
 seeing me. 
 
 When Ernest saw me he said : 
 
 ' You here, my dear Blemont ? I am very glad to 
 see you, though I did not expect to have the pleasure.^ 
 So you know Leberger ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he comes to our house sometimes. ' 
 
 ' It's a very nice ball I hare brought my; 
 
 wife There she is, dancing.' 
 
 e I have seen her.' 
 
 ' She did not want to come, but I got angry and' 
 so she gave way. Leberger had told me that it 
 would be quite without ceremony, and that was to 
 be expected at a bachelor's; and, after all, my wife 
 is as good as any who are here. As soon as I caD 
 her my wife nobody dare presume to call her any- 
 thing else, and if we were obliged to know all about 
 the people who are the ornaments of a drawing- 
 room, I fancy we should learn some pretty things.' 
 
 6 You know that I think just as you do about that r 
 for I am not one of those who only believe in virtue 
 before a notory. But it is not known that you are 
 not married, and one need not proclaim such things 
 by tap of druin.' 
 
 c Certainly. Just look at Marguerite, how nice she 
 is. I was afraid that she would be awkward and 
 embarrassed, but she is getting on better than I 
 hoped. I said to her, before coming here : " Just* 
 
153 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 make up your mind that you are worth more than 
 all the people you will see, and then their looks will 
 not intimidate you." ' 
 
 6 One ought always to say that to oneself, even if 
 £>ne is going* to Court.' 
 
 ' Your wife is not here 9 ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ' 
 
 * I will go and speak to her.' 
 
 * I believe she is dancing just now There 
 
 are some funny-looking people here, don't you think 
 
 ^o?' 
 
 1 Yes, enough for a comedy.' 
 
 I wished that Ernest wonld forget to go and speak 
 to my wife, but how could I prevent him ? As soon 
 -as the dance was over I profited by the moment when 
 the ladies were taking their seats again to go up to 
 Madame Ernest, whc was, luckily, a long distance 
 from my wife. 
 
 My former neighbour appeared delighted to see 
 me. 
 
 c Sit down by me for a moment,' she said ; * I am 
 so delighted to see somebody I know, for I am lost 
 amongst all these people. Poor Ernest is afraid to 
 leave me, and I fear it will worry him. Do you like 
 ihe way my hair is done ? * 
 
 ' Very much, madame.' 
 
 * I thought it looked very bad. I prefer my little 
 .cap which I wear every day at home, but as Ernest 
 would bring me I was obliged to dress.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, madame ; I should like to stay 
 with you, but my wife is here ' 
 
 "Madame Blemont here! and I was keeping you 
 from her. Do show her to me, I should so like to 
 see her.' 
 
 ' Just now there are too many people between us, 
 but Ernest knows her and will point her out to you. 
 Excuse me ; I shall hope to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you again.' 
 
EUGENIE AND MARGUERITE. 159 
 
 1 left her, though, perhaps, she would think me very 
 rude ; but, then, how unpleasant to have a suspicious 
 ^if e — one really does not know what to do under 
 such circumstances. 
 
 Belan came and took my arm, saying : 
 
 'You know, my dear friend, that I am not a 
 cuckold?' 
 
 ' Good heavens, my dear Belan, did I ever say you 
 were ? ' 
 
 i I have my reasons for telling you this. Those 
 blackguard Grirauds have been saying the most shock- 
 ing things, and my mother-in-law wished me to fight 
 a duel with them.' 
 
 6 With Griraud and his wife ? ' 
 
 ' I meant, of course, with the husband, and I 
 wished to do so myself, but my wife declared it was 
 not worth while ; but they are here, and when I see 
 them I don't know how to restrain myself.' 
 
 'How can you believe all you are told? Very 
 likely the Girauds never spoke about you at all.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes they did ; they even .... I beg your 
 pardon, my mother-in-law is beckoning to me.' 
 
 He left me, and I was still laughing at what he had 
 been telling me, when I saw Ernest talking to my 
 wife. That I could not help, and after all it was 
 very good of me to worry myself when I had done 
 nothing wrong. 
 
 As soon as Ernest left her I went up to Eugenie, 
 and I knew by her face that she was aware that 
 Madame Eirmin was present. 
 
 e I did not wish to come to this ball,' she said to 
 me, ' and, no doubt, it was a presentiment. I ought 
 to have followed my own idea, and then I should not 
 have found myself with people whom I did not wish 
 -to meet. I suppose you have been speaking with 
 your former neighbour ? ' 
 
 'My neighbour? Oh! I beg your pardon, you 
 mean Madame Eirmin ? 
 
160 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' I know she is here ; her gentleman was kind 
 enough to tell me so.' 
 
 * Certainly she is here, and I have just been speak- 
 ing to her.' 
 
 * It is verj pleasant for me to find myself at an 
 evening party with that woman ! ' 
 
 ' I may tell you that had I known she was to be 
 here I should not have pressed you to come.' 
 
 ' That I believe ; but don't let it interfere with 
 you, monsieur. There she is, I suppose, going by 
 with her Monsieur Ernest. What a common face r 
 one can see immediately what she is. But go, mon- 
 sieur, perhaps she wants to ?peak to you ; I do be- 
 lieve she is looking at me. Impertinent wretch ! At 
 any rate, monsieur, I must beg you to forbid her to 
 look at me like that.' 
 
 I was on thorns, as Ernest and Marguerite had 
 passed quite close to ns, and I was afraid lest they 
 had heard what Eugenie said, so I went away and 
 took my place at an ecarte table, where I remained 
 for more than an hour. 
 
 When I returned to the ball-room I passed Ma- 
 dame Ernest, who looked at me with a smile ; so she 
 had not heard anything, and I went up to her — hav- 
 ing made up my mind not to care for what anybody 
 might think. 
 
 ' You do not dance, Monsieur Blemont ? ' 
 
 6 Not very often.' 
 
 6 I have seen your wife ; she is very pretty but she 
 looks rather serious, is she always like that ? ' 
 
 6 No, but she has a headache.' 
 
 ' Are you not going to dance with her ? ' 
 
 4 She has plenty of partners.' 
 
 'That makes no difference. I am always asked r 
 but I like to dance with Ernest as well. I have not 
 missed a single dance yet.' 
 
 'Are you enjoying yourself?' 
 
 * Yes ; but I would rather be by our own fireside.' 
 
EUGENIE AND ilASGUERITE. 161 
 
 A partner came to claim Madame Ernest for the 
 next dance. I walked about the room, and my wife 
 danced with a very good-looking* dandy. Belan was 
 opposite to his wife, whom he looked at admiringly, 
 whilst the tall Armide seemed ont of temper because 
 her husband was her vis-a-vis, Giraud made up to 
 me, and said with a knowing air : 
 
 * It seems to me that Belan has grown insignificant 
 since his marriage — his wife overwhelms him.' 
 
 6 Tou are malicious, Giraud.' 
 
 ' Just look at the mother-in-law there ; she is either 
 cryiug, or has been crying, or will cry.' 
 
 4 Perhaps it's with pleasure.' 
 
 ' Yes, she looks so cheerful ! What a pleasant life 
 Belan must have with these two women. His not 
 asking us to the wedding has not brought him any 
 good luck. But, I say, the marquis is not with 
 them ! How is that ? ' 
 
 ■ What marquis ? ' 
 
 6 Ha ! ha ! you pretend not to know, and it is art 
 open secret. But I think my daughter wants some 
 refreshment.' 
 
 Marguerite was right ; the world is very malicious^ 
 
 The dance was over, and I was standing by my 
 wife, though without speaking to her, when Belan 
 stopped close to us and, looking round, pointed Mar- 
 guerite out to us, and said : 
 
 e That is one of the prettiest women in the room/ 
 
 * I cannot say I admire your taste, monsieur,' my 
 w-if e exclaimed ; ' who could ever think that woman 
 pretty ? And then her whole style ; one can see at a 
 glance what she is.' 
 
 6 Why, what is she ? Do you know her ? ' Belan 
 
 asked with great curiosity. 
 
 ' No, I don't know her, but I know what she is.' 
 6 Madame,' I said in my turn, * what reason have 
 
 you to slander anybody who has never harmed 
 
 you?' 
 
162 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 * Never harmed me ! It pleases you to say so, 
 monsieur, but at least I can think it wrong for M. 
 Leberger to invite his friends' mistresses to a ball 
 which he gives us.' 
 
 ' What ! that little woman is *. 
 
 ' M. Firmin's mistress.' 
 
 ' I was told she was his wife.' 
 
 ' She is his wife,' I said, with an angry look at 
 Eugenie, but she continued, ironically : 
 
 ' No, Monsieur Belan, that little woman whom you 
 are kind enough to think pretty, is not M. Pirmin's 
 wife, and my husband knows it better than anybody, 
 although he says to the contrary.' 
 
 ' What do you mean P Is she ' 
 
 I did not wait to hear more, but left them ; and 
 though I had not thought Eugenie malicious, what 
 I had just heard revolted me, and at the moment I 
 thought I hated her. 
 
 Dancing went on, but many people had already left. 
 As I was walking about the studio I thought I could 
 see several ladies whispering, and pointing at the 
 same time to Madame Ernest. Belan was quite 
 capable of telling all his acquaintances what my wife 
 had just related to him. Poor Marguerite ! because 
 she was pretty the women were glad to culumniate 
 her ; they would have been more indulgent had she 
 been ugly. 
 
 Another quadrille was going to be danced, and the 
 orchestra gave the signal. Madame Ernest was 
 asked, and her partner placed her opposite my wife, 
 and I immediately saw Eugenie go to another place 
 with her partner, whereupon Marguerite's partner 
 placed her vis-d^vis to Madame Belan, who did as my 
 wife had done— she went away and sat down, ex- 
 claiming aloud : 
 
 'I would rather not dance.' 
 
 I was indignant, and seizing the hand of the first 
 lady I met — without even inviting her — I took her 
 
EUGENIE AND MA&GUEKITB. 163 
 
 off and we stood up vis-a-vis to Marguerite and her 
 partner. My wife then did the same as Madame 
 Belan had done — left the quadrille — giving me a look 
 which I did not the least mind. Whilst we were 
 dancing Ernest came up to me ; he was red and his 
 eyes were sparkling. 
 
 f My friend,' he said to me in a whisper, f I am 
 much obliged to you for what you have done ; I shall 
 not forget.' 
 
 e What do you mean ? * 
 
 ' Oh ! you saw quite well the affectation with which 
 they withdrew from my wife. I even heard some 
 words which the tall wife of that little gentleman 
 uttered, and I could hardly contain myself.' 
 
 ' You were mistaken, Ernest.' 
 
 f Oh, dear no ! They think thot they will compro- 
 mise themselves if they dance opposite to an un- 
 married woman. I am sorry for them. If I were 
 to pry into the conduct of many of the married 
 ladies, I think that I should find out some pretty 
 things.' 
 
 Ernest spoke loudly, and looked ironically round 
 him, and I feared that he would be heard and that 
 there would be a scene. Luckily the dance was over. 
 Little Marguerite had also noticed that several ladies 
 pretended to smile when they looked at her, and felt 
 uncomfortable, so she said to Ernest ; 
 
 \ Let us go home now ; it is late and I am very 
 tired.' 
 
 'No, we won't go yet,' he replied roughly. 'I 
 should be very sorry to go at present, and we will 
 sta} r till the last.' 
 
 His wife was not in the habit of replying to him, 
 and then she saw that something was the matter. 
 Firmin took my arm and dragged me away with him, 
 and we walked about the studio. I tried to distract 
 his attention, when Giraud came up to me rubbing 
 his hands and exclaiming : 
 
 x 2 
 
164 THE OTTCKGLD,, 
 
 6 They are talking scandal here ; those Belans are 
 very spiteful.' 
 
 e My dear Giraud, I do not care for scandal, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Do yon see that little woman in bine with corn- 
 flowers in her hair ? ' 
 
 Giraud was pointing out Madame Ernest to me y 
 and I did not answer him, but tried to get Eirmin 
 away in another direction, but he let go my arm and 
 went up to Giraud, saying : 
 
 ' What have you been told about that lady ? I am 
 very fond of scandal.' 
 
 ' They say that she is not married ; that she is the 
 mistress of a young author who is here, and who in- 
 troduces her everywhere as his wife.' 
 
 In vain I winked and made signs to Giraud ; he 
 was not looking at me and was speaking to Eirmin. 
 
 ' They think it very wrong of Leberger to hav< : 
 asked her to his ball, because they say she is not 
 much better than she should be, and was an em- 
 broideress, or mended lace, and some even declare 
 that she was a dancer at one of the theatres on the 
 Boulevards.' 
 
 6 Monsieur, 5 Ernest said, taking Giraud's arm and 
 shaking it violently, 6 tell all those who have said this 
 
 to you, from me, that they are sons of b s, and 
 
 that if this young woman is not married she is not 
 the less estimable, but a hundred times more so than 
 many legitimate wives, and that were I to quote that 
 passage of Scripture : " Let her who is without sin 
 among you cast the first stone at her," to those ladies 
 who are here, I do not think, monsieur, that even 
 your wife would care to stone my poor Marguerite.' 
 
 Giraud was very much embarrassed, for he saw 
 the stupidity he had been guilty of, and was profuse 
 in his excuses. But Ernest insisted on his pointing 
 out the persons to him who had spoken in that 
 manner. Giraud immediate^ nointed out Bel art, 
 
KUGENIE AND MARGUERITE. 165 
 
 .and lirmin went towards the little man. I tried to 
 restrain him, bnt in vain, for he would not listen to 
 me, and so I followed him to try and arrange the 
 matter. 
 
 Belan was just giving his wife a glass of almond 
 water, and Ernest went past him quickly and knocked 
 up against him, so that the glass and its contents 
 fell over the dress of the magnificent Armide. She 
 nttered a cry and the mother-in-law uttered two, 
 whilst Belan turned towards Ernest, and muttered : 
 
 f Devil take it, do be careful ! ' 
 
 Ernest, however, only smiled, and said : 
 
 ' How unfortunate ! ' 
 
 Tall Armide had seen the smile, and said to her 
 husband : 
 
 ' This gentleman did it on purpose ; he does not 
 even vouchsafe to try and conceal it.' 
 
 And the mother-in-law added : 
 
 'I hope, Monsieur de Belan, that the matter will 
 not rest here, and that my daughter's dress will not 
 ^e spoilt with impunity. This gentleman must 
 apologise ; he must indeed.' 
 
 Belan had become much less hasty ever since his 
 marriage ; however, he left his wife and, going up to 
 Ernest, who had remained standing a few yards off, 
 he said to him : 
 
 ' Monsieur, you have spoilt my wife's dress, and I 
 am astonished that, as a man of the world, you do 
 not at least beg her pardon.' 
 
 c Monsieur, you and your wife have tried to tarnish 
 the reputation of mine ; a dress may be washed, but 
 calumnious words cannot be effaced for a long time, 
 bo it is you, monsieur, who owe me an excuse.' 
 
 Belan was thunderstruck, and I hastened to act 
 iihe mediator. 
 
 1 My dear Ernest, Belan's only fault is thoughtless- 
 ness, for he only repeated what he had heard.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' Belan replied ; ' I only repeated what 
 
166 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Madame Blemont told me, and I invented nothing j 
 bnt if you require satisfaction, monsieur f 
 
 'No, no, Belan; Ernest sees quite well that he 
 only has to do with me, and I should be very vexed 
 if you were to interfere in a matter that only re- 
 gards me.' 
 
 Belan went back to his ladies. I do not knew what 
 he said to them but they soon after left, and the 
 mother-in-law cast furious looks at Ernest as she 
 was going out of the room. 
 
 I was standing near him and he was thoughtful, 
 and said nothing, so I was the first to break the 
 silence. 
 
 6 Ernest, my wife is the cause of all the unpleasant- 
 ness that you have had to put up with this evening. 
 I cannot explain to you her reasons for acting as she 
 has done, but I need not tell you that I blame her 
 conduct, and if that is not enough I am quite ready 
 to give you satisfaction.' 
 
 6 No, my dear Blemont, we will not fight a duel 
 because your wife has said some nasty things. I do 
 not require you to explain her motives, as I know 
 them perfectly.' 
 
 6 You know them ? * 
 
 c At any rate I can guess them. Your wife is jea- 
 lous of Marguerite.' 
 
 ' Who can have told you ? ' 
 
 6 Just listen, my dear fellow ; A man is not an 
 author without having studied the human heart a 
 little, and especially the female heart.' 
 
 6 You are only too right, Ernest ; my wife is hor- 
 ribly jealous of all the women I knew before my 
 marriage, otherwise I should already have invited 
 you and your wife to come and see us.' 
 
 6 1 guessed it all ; I am sorry for you, but not at 
 all angry.' 
 
 6 1 am going to ask your wife to dance.' 
 
 ' No, don't ; it will only vex yours.' 
 
ITJOENIB AND MARGUERITE. 167 
 
 ' She djoes not scruple to hurt my feelings, and I 
 intend to show that I have nothing to do with her 
 evil tongue/ 
 
 I went and asked Madame Ernest to dance the 
 quadrille with me, and she accepted, smiling. 
 
 'I am glad you have asked me, monsieur, or I 
 should have thought thab I did not dance well enough 
 for you.' 
 
 'I will make sure of your having a vis-a-vis* 
 Ernest said, * by being yours myself.' 
 
 The music struck up, but there were only just 
 sufficient to make up one set, as nearly everybody 
 had left. 
 
 I looked for my wife and saw that she was terribly 
 pale, at which I was very sorry and felt all my anger 
 vanishing. I was almost sorry to dance now, but 
 she ought not to have pushed me to extremes. 
 
 Suddenly Eugenie rose and came up to me, and I 
 wondered what she was going to do. 
 
 ' Monsieur, I don't feel well, and I want to go.' 
 
 ' We will leave after this dance, madame.' 
 
 ' No, monsieur, I want to leave immediately.' 
 
 Marguerite had heard what my wife had said, so 
 she quickly interposed. 
 
 4 Monsieur Blemont, if your wife does not feel well, 
 pray go and do not put yourself out on my account/ 
 
 'No, madame; I mean to have the pleasure of 
 dancing with you, and we will go away afterwards.' 
 
 1 What, monsieur ! ' Eugenie said ironically, ' you 
 will not come, even when madame allows you ? ' 
 
 ' That is quite enough : not another word, if you 
 please.' 
 
 * Yes, monsieur, it is quite enough ; I will leave 
 you. Dance with this woman ; make her your mis- 
 tress again, as she was when she lived in the garret 
 in your house. I am going.' 
 
 And, in fact, she went ; but Madame Ernest had 
 heard it all, for she spoke so that she might hear* 
 
168 TIIE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Marguerite grew pale and red by turns, and looked 
 down, and I saw tears in her eyes. But, apparently, 
 she soon recovered, wiped her eyes, and tried to ap- 
 pear smiling when she looked at her husband. 
 
 I was pained and indignant at the same time, and 
 hardly knew what I was about ; and yet in the 
 midst of all this I was obliged to dance. 
 
 'Well, its your turn/ Ernest exclaimed; 'come 
 along, what are you thinking about ? ' 
 
 Luckily he had heard nothing, and I profited by a 
 moment when we were not dancing to say to my 
 partner, in a low yoice : 
 
 6 Madame, I see that you heard what my wife said. 
 I do not ask you to pardon her as she is inexcusable, 
 and jealousy has upset her better judgment; but 
 pray believe that I am as much hurt as you are at 
 what she has just said.' 
 
 ' I acknowledge, Monsieur Blemont, that I was so 
 surprised — so overcome .... To call me your 
 mistress ! Good heavens ! who can have said that I 
 was your mistress ? ' 
 
 e I hope you do not think for a moment it was I, 
 madame P ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, monsieur, no ; but who could have said 
 it?' 
 
 j Nobody said it, madame ; and I can only repeat 
 to you that jealousy alone can inspire such calum 
 nies.' 
 
 ' My garret ! Did she think that I should be 
 ashamed at remembering that I lived there ? Not 
 the least : but, really, your wife is jealous of me ? 
 
 ' Yes, since I, unfortunately, told her of the even- 
 ings I used to spend with you and Ernest If 
 
 you only know how unhappy her jealousy makes 
 me ! The beautiful days of our marriege passed 
 very rapidly.' 
 
 c Monsieur Blemont, how sorry I am for you, and 
 also for your wife, whom I pardon, for Ernest did 
 
EUGENIE AND MABGUERITE. 169 
 
 aot hear what she said, and pray never let him know 
 ^*rhat it was she did say.' 
 
 ' I certainly shall not tell him.' 
 
 * I did not wish to come to this ball, and it wonld 
 Jiave been far better if I had stayed at home.' 
 
 At last this fatal quadrille came to an end and 
 everybody left. Ernest and his wife wished me 
 good night, and I could see in her face how glad she 
 was to go. 
 
 My wife had gone also : who could have accom- 
 panied her ? She could not have gone by herself, 
 hut it was quite certain that she w»* ***> longer here ; 
 but just then Leberger camo up to me and said : 
 
 f I suppose you are looking for your wife ? She 
 -did not feel very well whilst you were dancing, and 
 so Dulac went with her; you know him, the tall 
 Dulac — one "** our amateur orchestra.' 
 
 i I do not know him, but I will thank him when I 
 iineet him,' 
 
 ' He is a good fellow and plays the violin capitally. 
 I will bring him to one of your evenings if you will 
 let me.' 
 
 ' With pleasure ; but I must go as it is getting 
 late.' 
 
 k It went off very well ; I think people enjoyed 
 themselves, don't you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I enjoyed myself immensely. Good night,' 
 
 I went home fully expecting a scene, and it was as 
 well to be prepared for one. My wife might be in 
 bed and asleep ; but no, I heard her walking up and 
 down the drawing-room. I met the servant carrying 
 a mattrfyfls, and she told me that madame was having 
 ,-a bed made up in her boudoir. How unpleasant not 
 to be able to have a peaceable home, and to have 
 more scenes and quarrels ; and that after only 
 having been married three years and a half ! 
 
 However, I must brave the storm, so 1 went into 
 ^he drawing-room. Her hair was all hanging about 
 
170 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 her, and she almost frightened me ; she was holding 
 a bottle of smelling-salts to her nose. 
 
 I went up to her and asked her if she was ill, and 
 as she did not answer me I was about to take up a 
 candlestick and leave the room, when she got up 
 hastily and came and stood in front of me. 
 
 ' So you hare left that woman at last 9 \ 
 
 ' I don't know whom you mean by that woman. I 
 have danced with a person whom I respect, and who 
 was kind enough to forgive you for the insulting 
 things you said before her.' 
 
 ' She was kind enough to pardon me P Upon my 
 word, how charming of her ! But I will not forgive 
 that lady whom you respect for daring to dance with 
 you in my presence. Her fool of a lover may think 
 it quite right ; it is worthy of him, but are you not 
 ashamed of yourself, monsieur 9 ' 
 
 f Yes, madame ; I was much ashamed this evening 
 at being the husband of a woman who conducts her- 
 self as you have done.' 
 
 ' What a horrible thing to say ! And you are 
 finding fault with me P ' 
 
 'Yes, for publicly taking away a respectable 
 woman's character.' 
 
 ' Say a prostitute ' 
 
 ' And for making other people witnesses of your 
 foolish jealousy.' 
 
 ' I am certainly very foolish to be jealous of you, 
 for you are not worth it.' 
 
 ( But you must not expect me to put up with such 
 behaviour, and to hold my tongue when you insult 
 my friends.' 
 
 ' You should have got up a scene with me before 
 your mistress, that would have pleased her.' 
 
 ' You do not mind humiliating me before other 
 people — for it is humiliating a man to put him into 
 the position in which I was at the ball.' 
 
 ' I shall not go anywhere with you again, and then- 
 
fUOESTIS JL3SV MARGUERITE. 171 
 
 you cannot say that you are ashamed of me, or that 
 I have humiliated you.' 
 
 ' That is the "best thing you can do, for it is better 
 for a woman not to go out with her husband than t* 
 behave as you did this evening.* 
 
 * I can see whom you have just left by the way 
 in which you are speaking. You are profiting by 
 their advice.' 
 
 These words put the finishing touch to my ex- 
 asperation, so I went out of the drawing-room 
 quickly and shut myself up in the bedroom* 
 
 mam o» tow 
 

 M d 
 

 
 CHAPTER E 
 
 M. DULAC. 
 
 Fkeqtjent quarrels, rarely made up, that was now 
 our existence. After Leberger's ball we did not 
 speak for a whole month, and it appeared a very long 
 month to me, so that I regretted my hachelor life, 
 and still more the first months of our marriage. 
 
 At last we spoke again, but not freely as before. 
 At the slightest thing my wife flew into a rage, or, 
 at least, got angry. When I opposed her she had 
 hysterical attacks and screamed terribly. At the 
 beginning of our married life, when we had a slight 
 quarrel she cried, but she did not scream or go into 
 hysterics. 
 
 My daughter was three years old, and charming. 
 She was as pretty as her mother but she never sulked, 
 and I was infatuated about my little Henrietta. 
 When I quarrelled with her mother I took her into 
 my arms and covered her with kisses, to make up 
 for the caresses which I did not bestow on Eugenie. 
 
 ' You will always love me ? ' I used to say to her, 
 and when she replied in her pretty voice : ' Yes always, 
 papa ! ' I felt so happy that I often forgot my quarrels 
 with my wife. 
 
 When winter brought the return of balls and 
 parties Leberger brought M. Dulac to our house. 
 He was a tall, dark, rather good-looking young man, 
 but had rather a silly bearing, but he had good man^ 
 
TWE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ners and was very agreeable. He was said to be an 
 excellent musician ; he was a man of independent 
 means, and this is quite enough to m^ke a man 
 sought after. 
 
 M. Dulac seemed pleased at coming to our house 
 and was constantly at our parties, and came also to 
 see me in the morning about a small law-suit that he 
 had on, and which I willingly undertook. He was 
 very friendly, and though I knew that one must not 
 depend on society friends, yet I was easily taken with 
 any appearance of friendship, for I never pretended 
 to like people whom I did not. 
 
 Thanks to him we now had much more music. 
 My wife had almost given up the piano, and I need 
 not say that our mutual lessons had ceased — she said 
 I paid no attention to her, I said the same about her, 
 so piano and painting were both neglected. 
 
 But M. Dulac — who played the violin very well — 
 
 r^rsuaded my wife to take up her music again, and 
 was rery glad that she should not forget what she 
 was so efficient in, and so I could listen to her playing 
 once again, and with pleasure. 
 
 She also took a great liking for balls, parties, 
 theatres — in a word, for society ; so that nearly every 
 day we had invitations to parties or dinners, and as 
 we were obliged to give a return we never had a day 
 to ourselves. That was not the quiet existence which 
 we had traced out during the first days of our mar- 
 riage, and I must confess that this continual whirl 
 of gaiety did not agree with me, but my wife liked 
 it and it was a means of preserving peace. 
 
 I was earning enough money to be able to afford 
 this manner of life, for Eugenie spent the greater 
 part of her income on her dress. She had become a 
 great coquette, and not being twenty-five yet was 
 still pretty enough. 
 
 What troubled me was, that amidst all this plea- 
 sure my wife took but little trouble about my daugh- 
 
M. DULAC. a 
 
 ier. She was not neglected but was very carefully 
 looked after, yet it seemed to me that her mother 
 did not fondle her enough. 
 
 I had no doubt that she loved her daughter dearly, 
 and, perhaps, she was the stricter with her because 
 I rather spoilt her. I did not find fault with her 
 for it, as just then I carefully avoided everything 
 -that could put her out of temper, because she was 
 pregnant again, and I received the news with great 
 pleasure, as I should be so glad to have a boy. I 
 should not love him any more than my daughter, but> 
 I should love him as much, and I felt, from what I 
 experienced with one child that when I had two my 
 happiness would be doubled. I was, therefore, very 
 careful about my wife, though I did not notice that 
 she was more amiable towards me on that ac- 
 count. 
 
 I went very rarely to see Ernest, but I knew that 
 they were happy. They had two children now, whom 
 they adored; and Marguerite preferred to remain 
 with them to going to parties or balls. I was obliged 
 to acknowledge that I should have been glad if 
 Eugenie had had the same tastes as Marguerite, who 
 always asked after my wife, thought Ernest had not 
 come near us again, and I thought he was right. 
 
 I had not met Belan for a long time, when one 
 morning he came into my study, red, panting, and 
 perspiring. He sat down by me, and before I could 
 ask him a question he exclaimed : 
 
 ■* I am one, my friend ; decidedly I am one ; I am 
 quite convinced of it now. It is a most terrible and 
 abominable thing ! ' 
 
 ' What are you ? ' I asked Belan, who was mopping 
 his forehead. 
 
 ( What a question to ask ! I am a cuckold ! f 
 
 Belan said that in such a funny way that I could 
 not resist an inclination to laugh, and whilst giving 
 way to it he got up and said in a injured tone : 
 
 b 2 
 
4 the crcrcsoiuD. 
 
 * I did not think that an old friend, and a marriecf 
 man, would laugh at my misfortune.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, my dear Belan,' said I, forcing 
 him to sit down again ; ' I did not mean to hurt your 
 feelings, but really you came and took me so suddenly 
 that I thought it was a joke.' 
 
 i No ; I swear to you that there is no joke about 
 it. My God ! wicked Armide ! A woman who had 
 been so well brought up ; a woman who would not 
 even allow me to take oft my shirt before her . . . ^ 
 I cannot stand it, and I have come to ask you what 
 I ought to do ; you are a lawyer and will advise me, 
 .... Unworthy woman ! ' 
 
 f First of all calm yourself, Belan ; and then, as 
 you want my advice, tell me what makes you think- 
 that your wife has deceived you.' 
 
 ' I have metioned a certain marquis to you, my 
 dear friend, who was a suitor for my wife's hand,, 
 and who later came very politely to my house. I 
 must say that he overwhelmed me with politeness. 
 He came very often ' 
 
 * You told me that yon had asked him to do that. r 
 ' Yes, that is true, because the Girauds had ven- 
 tured to say things Besides, how could I 
 
 guess ? Perfidious Armide ! . . . . A woman who 
 pinched me, bit me, scratched me on our wedding 
 night when I wanted .... You know what I 
 mean.' 
 
 6 Well, my dear Belan?' 
 
 f. At last it got so far that the marquis never left 
 our house ; he always gave my wife his arm, accom- 
 panied her to the theatre, brought her back from 
 balls, sang duets with her — for I must acknowledge 
 that he has a very good voice. All that I did not 
 mind, it was quite right ; besides, I said to myself % 
 " My mother-in-law is there!" However, the day 
 before yesterday, coming in during the course of the 
 day without being expected, and wishing to speak to 
 
M. DUXAO. 5* 
 
 my wife, I found that she had locked herself into 
 her boudoir with the marquis. .... Now what for, 
 I should like to know ? There is no piano in her 
 boudoir, and I remembered my adventures when I 
 was a bachelor, all the husbands whom I deceived,, 
 and it was a blow to me. I rushed to the boudoir 
 and knocked like a madman, and my wife opened the 
 door and there was a scene, and as the marquis ap- 
 peared shocked at my suspicions I thought I was- 
 wrong. However, I think that when you once get 
 these confounded ideas into your head you cannot 
 get rid of them again in a hurry. All night I dreamt 
 of Moli&re's plays, " Georges Dandin," and " Le 
 Coca imaginaire," and I recollected certain circum- 
 stances Oh ! my dear Blemont, jealousy i& 
 
 a cruel thing, but you are happy enough not to know 
 what it is. It took me like a pistol shot.' 
 
 ' My wife has taught me all that that feeling can 
 make anyone suffer ; but go on.' 
 
 ' Well, yesterday I was to dine out, and my wife 
 was to dine at one of her aunts. I started, and as 
 I was going along I remembered my adventure 
 with Madame Montdidier .... you remember, be- 
 fore we were married ? ' 
 
 6 Yes, I remember.' 
 
 * She had said that she was going to dine with an 
 aunt, but I was the aunt. I really believe that it 
 brings us unhappiness when we have caused so much 
 to others. At any rate I determined to return home 
 and watch my wife; so I went up a narrow pas- 
 sage opposite our door, and in five minutes I saw 
 Armide come out, very elegantly dressed. My 
 mother-in-law was not with her, though I had been 
 told that they were going together, and my wife 
 got into a cab, which I followed at the risk of 
 breaking a blood-vessel, and my wife was driven 
 into the new Boulevards, which was not by any 
 means the way to her aunt's. She stopped out- 
 
THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 side a restaurant that was renowned for its fried 
 gudgeon, and she went in. In a few minutes I did 
 the same, put a five-franc piece into the waiter's 
 hand, and ordered him to tell me with whom that 
 lady was dining. He described the gentleman who 
 was waiting for her so well, that I could not have 
 ihe slightest doubt it was the marquis. He pointed 
 out the private room in which they were, at the end 
 of the passage. I rushed at it as if I were demented, 
 and seeing the key in the door went in furiously and 
 found myself in the presence of an artilleryman of 
 the guard who was amusing himself with a gri- 
 ^ette. 
 
 ' The artilleryman did not at all like being disturbed, 
 and I was profound in my excuses. He was very 
 rude : whilst the girl was arranging her dress he 
 took me by the shoulders and pushed me out of the 
 room, saying he would see me again after dessert. 
 You may suppose that I did not much care to wait 
 for the artilleryman, and so when I got into the cor- 
 ridor, where there were no more keps in the doors, I 
 began to shout out in a stentorian voice : " Armide, 
 open the door for me." Nobody opened, however, 
 and the waiter told me that whilst I was having my 
 explanation with the soldier the lady had quickly 
 left with her gentleman. But where was she ? He 
 could not tell me. I went home, and only found my 
 mother-in.law, who called me a visionary ; and in the 
 evening, at the first words I said to my wife, she 
 locked herself into her room and would not open the 
 door again. That is my position, my friend. I 
 dreamt of " Georges Dandin " again, and I came the 
 first thing this morning to tell you about it.' 
 
 Belan had finished at last, and though I was still 
 very much inclined to laugh I restrained myself. 
 
 < All that you have told me,' I said, ' are mere sup- 
 positions, but you have no proofs.' 
 
 1 My dear Blemont, when we have had as many 
 
M. DULAC. V 
 
 adventures as you and I, and know all about it, it is 
 as good as proofs.' 
 
 • The waiter may have been mistaken ; perhaps it 
 ^as not the marquis ; did you see him ? * 
 
 F Of course not, as they had gone ; and I was not 
 at all inclined to wait for the artilleryman.' 
 
 ' You did not act like a clever man.' 
 
 6 You are quite right ; I was an ass and lost my 
 jhead.' 
 
 Jj My poor Belan, you must never trust to appear- 
 ances — I can tell you that better than anybody 
 else.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! You don't mean to say that you also 
 shave suspected madame ? ' 
 
 ' I ! never ; but she has suspected me, and without 
 the least reason, I assure you.' 
 
 f Confound it 1 suppose I was wrong ? What is 
 your advice ? ' 
 
 'Wait; see and examine matters prudently, or 
 else frankly ask your wife for an explanation of her 
 conduct yesterday, for perhaps it is very simple and 
 quite innocent.' 
 
 6 Yes, it is possible ; and it is certain that I behaved 
 like a child. You have calmed me somewhat, Ble- 
 mont. Of course because a young man comes to see 
 you very often and is polite to your wife that proves 
 iaothing, for you are not jealous of M. Dulac, who 
 often goes to you and constantly gives your wife his 
 arm ; my mother-in-law was talking to my wife about 
 it the other day.' 
 
 6 And what did the ladies say about me ? ' 
 
 f Nothing, they were only talking about M. Dulac. 
 Armide thinks him very handsome, though I don't 
 see anything wonderful about him. You were men- 
 tioned, and they said that you were not at all jealous, 
 though M. Dulac was your wife's devoted cavalier ; 
 but you took no notice of it, which showed that you 
 knew how to live and let live. Then they laughed, 
 
3 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 because you know when women talk about us there 
 is no end to it. My dear fellow, what are you think- 
 ing about? you are not listening to me.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon ; I was thinking that people 
 very often remarked things which we, whom they 
 chiefly interest, pay no attention to.' 
 
 c You advise me to wait, to watch, and be prudent, . 
 and I will do so, but if I obtain proofs, then . . . . 
 I shall explode and be terrible — inflexible. Good-bye, 
 my dear friend, I will go, as I see you are pre- 
 occupied.' 
 
 I had not the slightest inclination to laugh after 
 he had gone, for what he had told me about his wife 
 and mother-in-law had had a peculiar effect upon 
 me. People were noticing that M. Dulac was very 
 often at my house and attentive to my wife and I had 
 not noticed it, but the reason was that I saw no harm 
 in it, whilst the world in general was so malicious, 
 and calumny was such a treacherous weapon. Figaro 
 was right : ' Calumny, always calumny ! ' 
 
 Although I knew it was only malice, I involuntarily 
 thought of M. Dulac's behaviour, and remembered 
 his particular wish to obtain a footing in our house 
 since that ball from which he had seen my wife home. 
 
 I began to ponder, and got more uncomfortable and 
 unquiet than I had ever been before. I wondered if 
 jealousy attacked us like that? and then thought 
 how foolish I was to let Belan disturb me with his 
 conjugal troubles. It was very possible, and even 
 probable, that his wife would deceive him, for she 
 had never loved him, but Eugenie .... who had 
 loved me so much, and who still loved me, as I hoped 
 — although jealousy had rather soured her temper 
 .... but that was a proof of love ; suppose, how- 
 ever, she did not love me any longer? Why shoul-l 
 she not ? It was not at all necessary for Belan to 
 tell me what had been sa.d— he had only done it out 
 of spite. 
 
M. DU1.AC. 9 
 
 In order to get rid of my thoughts I left my study, 
 and hearing the piano I went into the drawing-room 
 suddenly, where I found M. Dulac sitting by my 
 wife — very close to her, as it seemed to me — and at 
 that moment I must acknowledge that the sight of 
 Trim made me feel very uncomfortable. 
 
 He got up quicMy and came towards me. 
 
 ' Good morning, M. Blemont ; I have brought your 
 wife a fantasia, which she played at sight in a most 
 remarkable manner.' 
 
 I went up and down the drawing-room once or 
 twice, and then asked my wife why Henrietta was 
 not there. 
 
 f I suppose because she is playing in my room ; a 
 little girl of nearly four can surely play by herself, 
 and you do not expect me to take up all my time 
 with her I suppose ? ' 
 
 I sat down to listen to the music, but in a few 
 minutes my wife said she was tired and got up from 
 the piano, and after talking for a few minutes M. 
 Dulac took his leave, my wife went into her room, 
 and I returned to my study, thinking I must have 
 appeared very stupid to him. 
 
 When I was alone I was ashamed of my suspicions, 
 but in spite of that I paid more attention to my 
 wife and did not leave to others the care of accom- 
 panying her to parties, but went with her myself. 
 But as the end of her pregnancy approached she 
 became more sedentary, balls were given up al- 
 together, she went to parties but rarely, and even 
 her music was neglected ; and when she was confined 
 I was the father of a boy, to my extreme joy. 
 
 I myself went to announce the event everywhere, 
 not forgetting Ernest and his wife, for I was sure 
 :they would share my happiness, which they did, for 
 loving their children they knew what I felt. 
 
 My mother was godmother and a distant relation 
 „©f my wife's godfather. The boy was called Eugene, 
 
10 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 and we put him to the same nurse at Livry who 
 had had our daughter, and who, by profession, had 
 always plenty of milk. 
 
 Eugenie seemed very pleased at having a son,, 
 though her pleasure was less pronounced than mine. 
 Our friends came to call, and M. Dulac was not 
 one of the last ; he seemed to sympathise so much 
 with my happiness that I was quite touched. I ha& 
 got rid of the fancies that I had some months ago,, 
 and could not conceive how I came to doubt Eugenie's 
 fidelity even for a moment. 
 
 Belan also came to see me again, and he was quite 
 reassured with regard to his Armide's virtue, for 
 she had proved to him that she had made an ap- 
 pointment with the marquis on the new Boulevards 
 in order to make a house to house collection for the* 
 poor, and that it would have been too much for 
 her modesty if everybody had known what she did 
 to relieve the sufferings of humanity. Belon humbled 
 himself before his charitable better half, and went 
 about everywhere proclaiming his wife's good deeds, 
 and had no more fear of being a cuckold. So much 
 the better for him, and I congratulated and got 
 rid of him just as he seemed to be going to talk 
 with me about M. Dulac again. I gave him to un- 
 derstand that I was not fond of evil tongues, and 
 that I should not be at all obliged to anyone who- 
 tried to sow discord in my household. 
 
 I made up my mind not to be jealous any more, 
 and I was ashamed of having been so even for a 
 moment. If Eugenie was not the same towards me- 
 as she had been during the first months of our 
 married life, the reason was that we cannot always 
 expect to enjoy such perfect happiness. If enjoy— 
 ment does not quench love altogether it certainly 
 makes it less violent ; if one can satisfy one's desires 
 whenever one pleases they grow less. Eraest and 
 Marguerite, however, still seemed to be two lovers^ 
 
M. DULAC. 11 
 
 but, then, they were not married, and perhaps the 
 very knowledge that either could leave the other at 
 any moment prevented their love from growing 
 cold. 
 
 When her health was re-established, Eugenie's 
 taste for amusement returned, and she took very 
 little notice of her daughter, which pained me very 
 much, for Henrietta was very charming and I spent 
 hours in talking with her, and they passed much 
 more quickly than those which I was obliged to spend 
 at a party. 
 
 I wanted to go and see my son at Livry, but my 
 wife declared that he was still too young and that 
 we ought to wait till his features were more formed ; 
 but I did not choose to wait, so one morning I hired 
 a horse and went to the nurse's. 
 
 I thought him delightful, and fancied I could trace 
 a likeness to his mother in his features. I kissed 
 him, but could not help sighing, for something was 
 wanting to my happiness, and I thought it very 
 wrong of Eugenie not to come and see her son 
 also. 
 
 The nurse asked if madame were ill, for the good 
 folks thought she must be not to have come with me; 
 and when I told her that my wife was not very well, 
 the nurse replied that she was sure she would come 
 as soon as she was quite well again, which I tolcl 
 her was quite certain and that we should come to- 
 gether. 
 
 After stopping there for several hours I returned 
 to Paris, and my reflections were not very pleasant 
 during my ride. In vain I tried to excuse Eugenie 
 — I could not but feel that her conduct had not been 
 what it ought to be, and I did not like to think her 
 in the wrong. 
 
 On getting home at six o'clock, I found my wife 
 had gone to dine with Madame Dorcelles, who was an 
 old schoolfellow whom she had met again in society* 
 
12 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 one of those dissipated flirts who think it quite 
 natural only to see their husbands by chance when 
 they dine together. I did not like the woman. I 
 had told Eugenie this, and begged her not to be in - 
 "fcimate with her „ and now she had gone to dine there. 
 
 Of course she had not taken my daughter, and 
 Henrietta ran to meet me, holding out her arms to 
 be kissed — I could not understand how Eugenie could 
 nnd any pleasure away from her. 
 
 1 So mamma would not take you with her ? ' I said, 
 taking the child on to my knees. 
 
 ' No, papa.' 
 
 ' And did you cry when she went out ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa, I cried, but mamma promised to bring 
 me a cake if I was a very good girl, and then I did 
 not cry any more.' 
 
 'Has anybody been to call on your mamma to- 
 day? 5 
 
 'Yes, that tall gentleman, you know, who has 
 music with mamma and gives me bonbons.' 
 
 «M. Dulac?' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 ' And did you stay with mamma whilst they were 
 having music ? ' 
 
 ' No, because mamma thinks I make too much 
 noise, and so she sends me to play in the dining-room 
 with my doll.' 
 
 I felt oppressed at heart and said nothing for a 
 long time, and I fancied that my little Henrietta 
 guessed that I was in trouble, for she looked at me 
 timidly and did not speak any more, but I kissed her 
 tenderly and she smiled again. 
 
 Where could Eugenie be this evening ? I did not 
 think that Madame Dorcelles received regularly, and 
 at any rate I was sure it was not one of her days. I 
 suspected that she gave Eugenie very bad advice, and 
 I would not go to her house or I might show my bad 
 temper ; no, I certainly would not go. 
 
M. DULAC. 13 
 
 But why should I feel any restraint ; why not say 
 ™io my wife exactly what I thought ? Only so that I 
 might have peace and avoid quarrels ; but was it 
 right to allow one's wife to commit follies, or at least 
 to be inconsistent, in order to have peace ? I thought 
 not, and determined to tell Eugenie exactly what I 
 ■ thought. 
 
 Perhaps they were at the theatre, and so I went 
 out after leaving Henrietta with her nurse. But to 
 which theatre should I go 9 I went to the Varietes, 
 to the Gymnase, to the Porte-Saint-Martin, and re- 
 membered that I had met Eugenie there the night 
 after Giraud's ball, where I had seen her for the 
 first time. I looked at the box where she had been 
 that evening, and wished for that time over again. 
 How much in love I was I and though I loved her as 
 much as ever, she ' 
 
 When one is thinking time flies very quickly and 
 the piece was over without my noticing it, and I was 
 only recalled to myself by seeing everybody leaving, 
 so I thought it time to do the same. 
 
 I went home, and just as I got to the house I no- 
 ticed a gentleman and lady outside the door, and I 
 fancied the latter was my wife, so I went and stood 
 behind one of the trees on the Boulevard, from where 
 I could see them better. Yes, it was my wife and 
 M. Dulac; so he had seen Eugenie home. They 
 talked together for a very long time, and he took her 
 hand and did not leave go of it. Why did he hold 
 her hand like that? When a man does it he is 
 making love to the woman, and I remembered that 
 when I held that same hand I gave it a tender pres- 
 sure, and now, no doubt, he was pressing my wife's 
 hand and she did not withdraw it. The idea exas- 
 perated me, so I went up to them quickly, and he let 
 .go her hand at once and bowed to me ceremoniously, 
 saying : 
 
 * Oh ! it is Monsieur Blemont ; I have been seeing 
 
14 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 madame home as she was kind enough to accept 
 arm. Good evening, madame.' 
 
 He bowed and left us, and I don't know whether 
 I even answered him, bnt I pushed my wife into the- 
 house and we went upstairs without speaking, and as 
 soon as we got to our apartments my wife went into 
 her bedroom and I followed her. I walked up and 
 down without being able to speak. I wished to see 
 whether she would ask me about her little son — for 
 she must have known that I had been at Livry — but 
 she never spoke, but merely put on her curl-papers. 
 
 I could not bear it any longer, so I went up to her 
 and said : 
 
 ' Where have you been to-day, madame ? ' 
 
 ' Where I pleased, monsieur. I don't think I 
 am in the habit of asking you where you have 
 been.' 
 
 6 That is no reason, madame, and I have the right 
 to ask you what you have been doing.' 
 
 ( Oh ! the right ' I also had that right, but when 
 I wanted to exercise it I did not succeed.' 
 
 'Madame, I don't know what you mean. . . . - 
 Besides, you have not answered my question.' 
 
 f I have been to dine at Madame Dorcelles' ; it was 
 no secret as I told the servant, and I thought you 
 would come and fetch me.' 
 
 ' Tou could not think that I should go to the house 
 of a woman whom I dislike, and yen ought to have 
 known that I should object to your going to Madame 
 Dorcelles's, who has the reputation of being a flirt 
 and not a good mother.' 
 
 ? The reputation ! . . . . Did Madame Ernest teUu 
 you that Laura was a coquette ? ' 
 
 ' Madame Ernest does not speak ill of anybody.' 
 
 ' She has her own reasons for that.' 
 
 Tor God's sake leave Madame Ernest alone; £ 
 scarcely ever see her now.* 
 
 ' It is quite immaterial to me, I assure you.' 
 
1 1 believe you, as you have other things to occupy 
 you.' 
 
 6 What do you mean by that, monsieur ? ' 
 
 ' If you found me seeing a lady home, as I found 
 you with Monsieur Dulac, I should like to know what 
 you would say ? ' 
 
 1 Good heavens ! you don't mean to say that you 
 are jealous ? you, who thought me so ridiculous for 
 being so ! ' 
 
 ' Without being jealous, I can take care that you 
 do not expose yourself to malicious tongues.' 
 
 e I am much obliged to you, but I am old enough 
 to know how to behave myself.' 
 
 ' Eugenie, you have grown very strange, and I 
 don't know whose advice you are following, for I 
 cannot believe that you are acting thus of yourself 5 
 but I doubt whether your new way of behaviour to* 
 wards me makes either of us happy. I really hardly 
 know you.' 
 
 ? I have said the same of you for a long time.' 
 
 * I can understand your not being the same towards 
 me, but your children • . • you have not even asked 
 me about the boy ! ' 
 
 'How could I know that you had been to seer 
 him?' 
 
 6 You leave Henrietta here to the care of a 
 nurse ' 
 
 ' When one goes out one cannot always drag the 
 children about with one.' 
 
 ' Drag ! I hope that word is not your own ; no 
 doubt Madame Dorcelles taught it you when she was 
 talking about her own children.' 
 
 ' I suppose you dislike Laura because she is an old 
 school friend of mine, and for that reason you speak 
 ill of her ; but I tell you that it will not prevent me 
 £rom meeting her or from going to her whenever I 
 choose.* 
 
 - Suppose I were to forbid you? • 
 
15 '"Bj. cuckold. 
 
 4 That would "be ali the more reason for mv doing 
 it.' 
 
 ' Very well, madanie ; yon can go yonr way and I 
 will go mine.' 
 
 * Go where yon like ; it's all the same to me.' 
 
 I went np and down the room again and then left 
 my wife, who went on putting in her curl-papers. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE SERVICE A WOMAN RENDERED ME. 
 
 d 
 
 Six months had passed, during which I sought 
 amusement outside my wife's company. In the first 
 place it was the result of the scene we had on that 
 evening when I returned from Livry, and then anger 
 and pride took their share. Noboby likes to make 
 the first approaches, especially when he knows that 
 he is not in the wrong ; and yet I did not like the 
 manner of life, it was not at all according to my 
 taste, To be obliged to seek for happiness away 
 from home, when I still loved my wife and cherished 
 my daughter, was too much. And why should 
 Eugenie behave as she was doing? No doubt it 
 pleased her not to go out with me any more, but yet 
 I daily expected that she would come into my study 
 and throw herself into my arms, but I hoped in vain. 
 Then I felt angry, and swore that I would think no 
 *nore about her ; went out to forget her ; and re- 
 irarned thinking about the whole matter still. 
 
 I would not let her say that I stood in her way or 
 
THE SERVICE A WOJUAN RENDEREE ME. 
 
 prevented her from doing us she liked, for I was d& 
 termined to give her no cause for complaint. Often 
 did I not know where she had been to, but I nevei 
 thought that she would forget herself or fail in her 
 duty, for had that been possible she would have de- 
 served my contempt and not my love, and it is always 
 a mistake to be jealous, for it is either without reason 
 or people are making fun of you. 
 
 But in spite of my philosophy I thought occasion- 
 ally of M. Dulac, nor had I forgotten that evening 
 when he held Eugenie's hand is his ; but then many 
 young men were like that, I had been so myself be- 
 fore I was married — must make love to every pretty 
 woman ; and he did not come to our house so often. 
 I did not know whether he brought Eugenie home, 
 as I did not follow her. 
 
 Ernest and his little Marguerite had gone to spend 
 the summer in the country, in an out of the way 
 place, where there would be nobody else except them- 
 selves and their children ; but they never got tired 
 of each other, and I almost envied them their hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Belan 1 avoided, for he made me lose my patience r 
 one day he declared he was a cuckold, and the next 
 he was sure that his wife was quite faithful to him. 
 I could not understand a man like that, for if I had 
 Jiad a hundredth part of his reasons for being jealous 
 I should a long time before have known what to 
 do. 
 
 Neither was I particularly fond of being with the 
 Girauds ; they recalled so many epochs in my life. 
 He never met me without still complimenting me ou 
 my wedding ball and supper and that annoyed me, 
 and then I always fancied that there was some 
 mockery and malice hidden behind their manner of 
 congratulating me on my married happiness, though, 
 perhaps, I was wrong. 
 
 As a rule I did not care for society now and only 
 
 o 
 
38 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 went into it for distraction, but I was fond of going 
 to the theatre, as I could either listen or think, as I 
 pleased, and sometimes I even took my little Henri- 
 etta with me ; and I also went to Livry again to see 
 the bay, but he was too young to understand me or 
 to talk to me. 
 
 Sometimes I went to my mother's, but I never 
 mentioned my domestic troubles to her, for what 
 would have been the good ? Those are the sort of 
 things that one ought to keep to oneself as far as 
 possible, and my mother would only have told me 
 that I was old enough to look after my wife and 
 household, and I had the greatest objection to her 
 finding any fault with her daughter-in-law, as the 
 remonstrances of mothers-in-law are never listened 
 to, so it was as well to keep quiet, which I did. 
 
 Winter had returned, with all its balls and parties, 
 and Eugenie had one evening weekly on which she 
 was ' at home ' to all our numerous acquaintances, 
 and I left her free to invite whom she liked. Some- 
 times I thought that she felt my kindness in giving 
 way to her ; sometimes she seemed thoughtful, sad, 
 or pre-occupied, but she did not draw any closer 
 to me although she was more gentle ; but she seemed 
 to shun me and to fear lest I should talk to her 
 of love. What could be the matter with her? 
 
 Dulac came very often, and he certainly put me 
 out, for it always appeared to me as if he came be- 
 tween Eugenie and me ; but I could not get rid of 
 him, as he was so polite and everybody thought him 
 so agreeable, only I did not agree with everybody. 
 
 Madame Dorcelles came sometimes, but I did not 
 -notice that my wife went any more frequently to see 
 her, and I was glad of it. Madame Dorcelles had 
 tried to flirt with me, and had called me a savage 
 and a misanthrope, but I let her call me whatever 
 she liked and took no notice of her leers. Certainly 
 my wife had a very strange friend is tier i 
 
THE SERVICE A WOMAN RENDERED KB* 19 
 
 As it vexed me that Dulac should always act as 
 any wife's cavalier, I made up my mind to go out 
 with her again, which seemed to surprise her though 
 she said nothing. I was not sure whether she liked 
 it, but I noticed looks and glances between her and 
 M. Dulac ; I was sure of it, and sometimes I got 
 into a rage, but soon recovered myself and thought 
 ^that I was a fool. 
 
 We were invited one evening to go and see a 
 magic-lantern, which might amuse the children and 
 ^also the grown-up people too, and so I took my wife, 
 who was sulky, and Henrietta, who was delighted at 
 the thought of what she was going to see, and I was 
 pleased at her pleasure, 
 
 The Belans, the Girauds, and the inevitable M. 
 Dulac were there. That man pursued me every- 
 where and spoilt any pleasure that I looked forward 
 to, and I began to hate him. 
 
 We were soon asked into the dining-room, where 
 the magic-lantern was to be exhibited, and which 
 was necessarily almost dark, but that only seemed to 
 increase the merriment of some who were present. 
 Giraud, who was sitting next to me, whispered : 
 
 ? The funniest scenes will not be those of the magic- 
 lantern. Just look in that corner ; there is Madame 
 Belan with the marquis. It's very funny : poor 
 JBelan, but he looks like one ! ' 
 
 I could not laugh at his jokes and looked for my 
 wife. I did not think that M. Dulac had left the 
 ; drawing-room, where he had been playing ecarte, 
 and that made me rather more quiet. 
 
 When the show began more visitors had arrived, 
 ;and we were packed so closely that nobody could 
 move. We were shown the sun and the moon, 
 harlequin and the devil, cupid and a savage, and 
 the gentleman who was showing it talked intermi- 
 nably. The children uttered shouts of pleasure and 
 -the ladies laughed very much, though I thought it 
 
 c 2 
 
20 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 very long. I could not leave my place to get to 
 my wife and the room was getting darker, but all 
 of a sudden, in the midst of his explanations, the 
 gentleman upset his lantern, which fell to the ground. 
 The lights were tnrned up, and suddenly we could 
 see clearly again. 
 
 I immediately looked in the direction of my wife, 
 M. Dulac was sitting behind her, and one of her 
 arms was hanging over the back of her chair and 
 her hand was in her neighbour's. 
 
 I made such a sudden movement to go to Eugenie 
 that I trod on Giraud's foot, who yelled out that 
 I had hurt him. I did not, however, even stop to 
 apologise, but, making my way up to my wife, I 
 saw that her arm was no longer hanging behind 
 her chair, and that M. Dulac was not so close to 
 her. I don't know how I looked, but Eugenie was 
 very much disturbed and M. Dulac looked very much 
 embarrassed. 
 
 'Take your shawl,' I said roughly to my wife, 
 ' call your daughter, and let us go.' 
 
 1 Why should we go now ? ' she asked me in ap-^ 
 parent susprise. 
 
 ( Because I choose, madame ; don't make any ob- 
 jections, only make haste.' 
 
 The tone of voice in which I said this was so 
 new to Eugenie, that she got up directly to obey me ; 
 besides, others might have heard me speaking to her 
 so, and I do not think she would have liked that. 
 
 £s soon as she was ready I took Henrietta's hand 
 and we prepared to leave. 
 
 ' Are you going already 9 ' our hostess said ; ' it is 
 not over yet, and the lantern will be all right in a- 
 moment.' 
 
 Eugenie, however, said she did not feel well, and 
 so we went. 
 
 I did not say a word to my wife as we were going" 
 home because our little girl was with us. Poor child! 
 
THE SERVICE A WOMAN BENDEBED ME. 2l 
 
 I had deprived her of part of the pleasure that she 
 had looked forward to, and she did not dare to com- 
 plain. 
 
 After we had got in and the child was in bed r . 
 Eugenie said to me in an unpleasant voice : 
 
 6 May I ask why you took me away so suddenly ? ' 
 
 6 May I ask why y/jur hand was in M. Dulac's whilst. 
 the room was dark ? ' 
 
 ' My hand in M. Dulac's ! You were dreaming.' 
 
 * Not at all, for I saw it quite distinctly.' 
 
 * Possibly M. Dulac may have taken my hand by- 
 accident whilst he was joking with me, but I did not 
 even notice it. And that is the reason why you came 
 up to me like a madman, and spoke to me in such a 
 threatening tone of voice as if you were going to- 
 strike me, and made everybody look at me ? Certainly 
 no one who was accustomed to good society ever 
 acted like that before/ 
 
 6 Madame, when I think I am wronged I do not 
 care at all about other people, and time was when 
 you did the same. I do not know what sort of jokes 
 M. Dulac allows himself with you, but I may tell 
 you that I do not like them, and I beg that you will 
 not allow it in the future, and tell this gentleman 
 not to let it happen again.' 
 
 ' You expect me to mention your silly ideas to this 
 young man ! I shall take good care not to do any- 
 thing of the kind ; it's pure nonsense ! ' 
 
 6 Well, I shall not scruple to turn the gentleman 
 ont af doors whenever I feel inclined.' 
 
 6 1 should advise you to do it ! Fancy putting him 
 out of doors because he is agreeable and obliging 
 towards me. That would be the only thing wanting 
 to give you a good reputation in society,' 
 
 'Take care, madame, not to give me one that 
 might suit me even less.' 
 
 'It seems to me that it is hardly worth while 
 going out with me if you are going to have such 
 
22 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 scenes with me. Formerly you went your way and 
 I went mine.' 
 
 6 1 shall go with you whenever I please, madame. 
 I know I may be in your way, but you will go no- 
 where without me unless I choose.' 
 
 ' Oh ! we will see about that.' 
 
 I went to my room but did not sleep all night, 
 and constantly saw that young man with my wife. 
 
 Yet what Eugenie told me was quite probable and 
 might be true, but a thousand other circumstance? 
 which I now remembered renewed my suspicions 
 when I wished to get rid of them. 
 
 Suppose she was deceiving me ? I shuddered at 
 the thought, and although it was torture, I deter- 
 mined to know and to find out whether I was de- 
 ceived. 
 
 But that was not such an easy matter, for women 
 know so well how to take their precautions, though 
 such as are not in the habit of having intrigues 
 might be caught. Here I was, absolutely in the 
 character of a jealous husband; I, who had made 
 such fun of them and deceived so many, my turn 
 
 had come, and if I were a I don't know what I 
 
 should do. Formerly I used, to laugh at the word, 
 for I thought the matter quite simple and natural, 
 and we never put ourselves into the place of those 
 whom we are making fun of. There certainly are 
 some who are indifferent about the matter, and others 
 who joke about it, but such husbands do not love 
 their wives, and the wisest and most reasonable do 
 not try and find out whether they are .... On 
 the" contrary, they carefully avoid everything that 
 might destroy their tranquility by enlightening them 
 on the subject, and they are quite right, so why 
 should not I do the same ? 
 
 After that long and painful night I went into my 
 study and tried to divert my thoughts by attention 
 to my work, but before ten o'clock Belan came in, 
 
THE SERVICE A WOMAN RENDERED ME. 23 
 
 and nothing could be more unwelcome than the sight 
 %. o£ him at that moment. He threw himself into an 
 armchair, and said : 
 
 ' This time, my dear fellow, I can have no more 
 4oubt about the matter .... I am a cuckold ! ' 
 
 Hearing this, I got up from my seat, walked 
 -quickly up and down the room, and said : 
 
 ' Good God, monsieur, it would be surprising if you 
 were not, seeing how often you have said so.' 
 
 Belan opened his eyes wide, and murmured : 
 
 ' Is that all the advice you have to give me ? Is 
 that what you think ? f 
 
 ' I have no advice to give you, and I think nothing, 
 for there are circumstances when you must do ail 
 that for yourself, but I cannot understand anyone 
 -openly proclaiming his shame as you do.' 
 
 ' Proclaim ! What do you mean, I should like U 
 know ? Because I come to confide in a friend, you 
 say that I am proclaiming. Just listen. I don't care 
 to be a cuckold myself ; of course everyone can do 
 as he pleases. I know that there are some husbands 
 who don't mind it — who let their wives gp with their 
 lovers and don't appear to notice it ' 
 
 I had listened to him attentively, but when he said 
 this I could not contain myself, but rushed at him 
 and seizing him by the collar I shook him violently 
 claying : J 
 
 ' Are you speaking at me? Do you mean to in- 
 sult me by putting me into the category of the com- 
 plaisant husbands whom you have mentioned P By 
 George, Monsieur Belan, I am not at all inclined to 
 put up with anything of this kind.' 
 
 The poor little man let himself be shaken without 
 being able to defend himself, so astonished was he at 
 my action. At last he called out, looking at me in 
 terror : 
 
 ' ^mont, my dear friend, what is the matter with 
 jou? You must be ill and not quite yourself.' 
 
24 THE CUCKOLD* 
 
 I let go his collar, and ashamed of my passion T 
 threw myself into a chair and stammered : 
 
 c No, I am not very well ; I thought yon meant to 
 insult me, but ' 
 
 * I wish to insult an old friend, when I came to^ 
 confide my domestic troubles to him ! Blemont, you 
 grieve me .... and, then, if you really thought 
 that I wished to make fun of you .... in the first 
 place I don't see why I should have made fun of you 
 .... but then, if you want satisfaction .... you 
 know that I am not a man to recede .... I know 
 I avoided the artilleryman, but one does not fight a 
 duel with an unknown individual, but it is different 
 with a friend.' 
 
 I held out my hand to Belan, and said : 
 ' I tell you again I don't know what was the mat- 
 ter with me ; we certainly will not fight, my dear 
 Belan, and let us forget all about it.' 
 He shook hands heartily, and replied : 
 ' Let us forget it and shake hands. Oh ! my dear 
 friend, I think that we may shake hands cordially, 
 but I will leave you, as I see you are busy and have 
 
 disagreeable thoughts Perfidious Armide ! 
 
 deceitful Armide ! Pope is quite right .... have 
 you read Pope ? ■ 
 
 * I am not quite sure, but I think I have.' 
 
 ' If I had read him sooner I should have thought 
 twice before getting married. You remember what 
 he says about women 9 ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 * Well, he says : " Each woman is at heart arake.' y 
 What do you think of that ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think it is polite.' 
 
 * But I am afraid it is true. Thus Armide is at 
 heart a rake, your wife ' 
 
 ' For God's sake drop that Belan.' 
 6 Yes, I will tell you my fresh discoveries another 
 time. Oh ! how cunning women are; but you 
 
TH1 SERVICE A WOMAN RENDERED ME. 25 
 
 ^now that as well as I do. Good-bye, my dear 
 fellow.' 
 
 It was a good thing he went, for I was on the 
 point of catching him by the collar again, and though 
 it seemed that I conld not bear to hear of faithless 
 wives and deceived husbands, I must yet find out 
 -what the connection was between my wife and M. 
 Dulac. 
 
 Eugenie and I did not speak any more except to 
 say bitter things to each other, but, nevertheless, I 
 accompanied my wife everywhere, for I would not 
 allow her to go out without me ; but I did not make 
 myself agreeable in society, for everywhere almost 
 we met M. Dulac. If I was playing cards I did not 
 think of my game, but was looking after my wife to 
 see whether he was near her or was talking to her, 
 and if she was playing I sat by her side so that no- 
 body else should come near her. If she danced with 
 M. Dulac I forced her to leave the ball at once, and 
 she did not dare to resist, for she saw by my face 
 that there would be a scene before all the company. 
 I know I was looked upon as sulky and jealous, and 
 that when people spoke of Eugenie they said : 
 
 1 Poor little woman, her husband makes her very 
 ^unhappy ; he is a tyrant and a wretch ! ' 
 
 No doubt people said that of me now, for we are 
 almost always judged by appearances. 
 
 One morning, tired with a sleepless night, and 
 above all with my thoughts, I got up and dressed, 
 and, contrary to my custom, which was to remain in 
 nry study till ten o'clock, I went out before eight. 
 
 Chance, or perhaps my destiny, took me towards 
 ihe Boulevard du Temple. At first I felt inclined to 
 go and see my mother, but I remembered that it 
 would be much too early, as she rarely got up before 
 ten o'clock. I thought it would be better to go to 
 my friends in the Bue du Temple, as I had not seen 
 ?them for six months, so I went there, but was told 
 
26 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 they had moved and were living in the Boulevard 
 Saint-Martin. 
 
 I was going there, when a woman in a cap and 
 morning jacket, with a milk- jug in her hand, nodded 
 to me as she went past me. 
 
 It was Lucile, whom I had not met since my wife 
 surprised us on the Terrace des Eeuillants. She 
 looked back, stopped and smiled, and as I had no 
 more fears that my wife was spying after me, I weutr 
 to speak to her. 
 
 ' This time we have not met in the Tuileries.' 
 
 6 No, that is some time ago ; do you find me 
 altered?' 
 
 * Not at all ; you are still very pretty.' 
 
 ' How polite you are ! But I must say that I think 
 you have grown pale and thin ; apparently marriage 
 has not suited you.' 
 
 ( Perhaps not. Do you live near here now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, in the Rue Basse-du-Temple, and I have just 
 been to fetch my milk. 1 have turned economical 
 and have no maid now, but I will give you some 
 coffee if you will come and have some breakfast with- 
 me.' 
 
 4 No, I cannot, I must go home.' 
 
 6 Are you still afraid of being scolded and followed^ 
 by your wife ? ' 
 
 i Decidedly not.' 
 
 ' 1 quite believe you ; she has something else to do 
 than to follow you, Ha! ha! ha! poor Henri ! ' 
 
 At her laughter I felt my face flush, but I made 
 up my mind to restrain myself. 
 
 ' What are you laughing at, Lucile 9 It seems to 
 me that if my wife has much to do, you cannot know 
 anything about it.' 
 
 6 Perhaps I know better than you, and am better 
 instructed than you think for.' 
 
 'In the first place you don't know my wife.' 
 
 * Not know her ! I saw her once on the Terrace 
 
THE SERVICE A WOMAN RENDERED ME. 2F 
 
 des Feuillants, and once is quite enough for me to 
 recognise people again, and I can tell you that I have 
 recognised her uncommonly well since, and have cer- 
 tainly not made a mistake* 
 
 ' What do you mean P ' 
 
 '1 mean that your wife has her fun like other 
 women. Did you suppose that you were privileged ? 
 No, monsieur, you have a splendid pair to wear.' 
 
 I tried to conceal my feelings by replying : 
 
 ' You are very glad to speak evil, it is your custom, 
 but you would be very much embarrassed to prove 
 the slanders that you have uttered concerning my 
 wife.' 
 
 ' Slanders ! I have uttered none. Your wife gave 
 me the idea of being disagreeable the first time I 
 saw her, but I should have said nothing about her if 
 I had not been sure of my facts. I cannot say that 
 I am sorry that your wife has lovers, for I should lie 
 if I said so, but I did not tell her to give you horns, 
 she did not require my advice for that.' 
 
 6 Lucile, this is too much ; you shall prove what 
 you have said at once/ 
 
 < What a hurry you are in, and I never hurry my- 
 self. If you wish me to give you an answer you 
 must first of all come with me, for I want my coffee 
 as I am hungry.' 
 
 She went towards her house and I followed her y 
 saying to myself every moment : 
 
 ' I must restrain myself and be a man, and if she 
 has spoken the truth I must yet try to act like a 
 reasonable being.' 
 
 Lucile went into a house in the Eue de Ghissol, and 
 going up to the third storey she opened the door and 
 I went into the modest but neatly-furnished apart- 
 ments, and as she was preparing to make her coffee 
 I took her by the arm and stopped her. 
 
 ' Lucile, put me out of my misery, and tell me all 
 you know about my wife.' 
 
^8 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 She looked at me and seemed sorry. 
 
 ' Good heavens, Henri, what a state yon are in I 
 If I had known that it would have had snch an effect 
 npon yon I should not have told you anything about 
 it. How silly to be so upset at such a trifle. Your 
 wife goes her way and you go yours ; that is the 
 usual thing. Tou are not much of a philosopher. 5 
 
 ' I shall be when I am certain of my lot ; now tell 
 me all.' 
 
 1 Well, come to the window. Do you see that little 
 
 door?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, it is the back entrance to a cafe and restau- 
 rant where there are private rooms ; you know, one 
 of those houses of assignation. 5 
 
 ' I understand what you mean.* 
 
 ' By going in that way one is not seen, as one avoids 
 the cafe and goes upstairs at once, and a bell calls a 
 waiter who shows you into a private room. It is 
 very convenient, I often used to go there formerly.' 
 
 'Well? 5 
 
 * Well, your wife goes to meet her lover there.' 
 
 * My wife ? It is not true.' 
 
 'Oh ! I recognised her, though she generally comes 
 in a cab and gets out a short distance off. Her face 
 is hidden by a large bonnet and she wraps herself up 
 in her shawl, but I noticed her and spied her out. 
 It amuses me to spy after lovers who go there, for as 
 I have nothing to do it takes up my time. Yes, I am 
 sure it is she, and she has not been once only but ten 
 times at the least.' 
 
 ' What time does she come ? ' 
 
 ' Generally it is about a quarter or half past seven 
 ^vhen she comes, and she remains for about an 
 
 hour.' 
 
 ' That is not true, for my wife never gets up be- 
 fore nine o'clock.' 
 
 ' So you think, my dear fellow. You imagine she 
 
% THE SERVICE A WOMAN KENBEKED ME. 29 
 
 is asleep, but suppose I were to tell you that she is 
 over the way now ? * 
 
 ' Now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw her go in about half an hour before 
 : meeting you. Stop at the window and you will see 
 a cab drive up which she has sent for, she will get 
 in and the gentleman will leave about five minutes 
 later. I know the exact order of proceedings.' 
 
 6 What is the man like ? ' 
 
 'Young, tall and dark. He is good looking; I 
 must do your wife that justice.' 
 
 I took my hat and rushed towards the door, but 
 Lucile got in front of me. 
 
 * Where are you going to ? ' 
 
 ' To make sure that it is they/ 
 
 'You don't mean to say that you are going to 
 make a noise and have a scene ? ' 
 
 ' No, you don't know me. When I know my mis- 
 fortune I shall be calm, but I wish to see them. 
 Lucile, I will go out.' 
 
 'Very well, but on the condition that I go with 
 you. I know the house and will show you the way — - 
 but you promise ' 
 
 ' Come along.' 
 
 She put on her bonnet and shawl, and we went 
 downstairs and were soon at the opposite house. We 
 opened a little wooden barrier which made a bell 
 ring, and we went up a small staircase, Lucile leading 
 the way, and my heart beat so violently that I was 
 obliged to stop in order to recover my breath. 
 
 A waiter met us and I said to him : 
 
 ' You have a lady and gentleman here ? * 
 
 Ee looked at me, not knowing whether he ought 
 to answer or not, but on my putting a twenty-franc 
 piece into his hand and repeating my question, de- 
 scribing the couple to him at the same time, he 
 said : 
 
 6 Yes, monsieur, I know who you mean. Besides, 
 
SO THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 at this early hour we generally have nobody here but 
 them. They are in that room opposite.' 
 ' Show us into a room next to theirs.' 
 He showed us into a large room, but how could I 
 see them ? If it had been only a partition, but it 
 was a wall ; however, I could see them going out, 
 and I told the waiter to let me know when the cab 
 was sent for. 
 
 What a situation ! to be close to my wife whilst 
 she was in her lover's arms. I felt inclined to burst 
 open the door but mastered myself for my children's 
 sake. But suppose it were not she ? I listened close 
 to the wall, and though I heard some sounds I could 
 distinguish nothing. Lucile opened our door gently, 
 and pointing out the next one to it, said : 
 
 * You would hear much better there.' 
 
 I went carefully and listened at their door, and I 
 could quite plainly hear them kissing, and distinguish 
 the words : 
 
 8 1 must go now, for I want to be in my own room 
 before he leaves his scudy.' 
 
 It was she ; I knew her voice and it altogether 
 upset me. 
 
 I returned to Luciie ; I don't know what I looked 
 like, but she threw herself at my knees, crying and 
 stammering : 
 
 * Forgive me ! oh, forgive me S If I had only 
 known ! I am so sorry for what I have done.' 
 
 I did not reply for I could not speak. The bell 
 rang in the next room, and T listened. 
 
 The waiter went upstairs nuid a cab was ordered, 
 and I recognised Dulac's voice, but I managed to re- 
 strain myself. The waiter came and told me when 
 the cab was down below, and then I left the room 
 and waited at the bottom of the stairs. 
 
 At last she came down ; I heard the rustling of 
 her dress. She was on the last step when I suddenly 
 stood before her and took her by the arm. She looked 
 
INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. 31 
 
 tip, and seized with terror, she fell on to the stairs 
 without uttering a cry. 
 
 I picked her up, carried her and put her, or rather 
 flung her, into the cab, and giving the driver the ad- 
 dressy I hastened off as if I could not get away 
 quickly enough from this house where I had acquired 
 the certainty of my shame. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 I had walked for a longtime; exhausted by fatigue 
 I stopped at last. I was in the country, and saw no 
 houses and did not know where I was, though that 
 was of no consequence. I sat down on the ground 
 at tLe foot of a leafless tree, for nature was still dead 
 and there was nothing green around me. 
 
 T was alone, and resting my head in my hands I 
 abandoned myself to my grief and despair, and I am 
 not ashamed to confess it that I shed tears, for no 
 one could see me, and I thought I found some relief 
 in weeping. 
 
 It was not only her love that I regretted, but my 
 whole happiness and my ruined future. My happi- 
 ness had been over for some time, but I continually 
 flattered myself that it would return, and now all 
 was lost and it was impossible that that happiness 
 would ever return. 
 
 And yet there are many husbands who forgive, or 
 
SbZ THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 shut their eyes to the infidelities of their wives, for 
 as they deceive them themselves they think it only 
 natural that they should do the same, but if I had 
 deceived Eugenie a thousand times I could not bear 
 the thought of being deceived. 
 
 I would not see her again ; we would separate but 
 without any public scandal, for I would hide my dis- 
 honour for my children's sake, and it was on this 
 account that I mastered myself that morning. I 
 might have struck Dulac, and a duel would have 
 been the result, and after what had been said already 
 -everybody would have guessed the cause that led to 
 it, and I could find some other means of satisfying 
 my vengeance without the risk of making my dis- 
 honour public. 
 
 At last I got up and started off to walk again, and 
 seeing houses before me I asked a peasant, who told 
 me that I was at Hontreuil, and looking at my watch 
 I saw that it was past mid-day, and so I went into a 
 sort of restaurant, for though I was not hungry I 
 wished to shorten the day and not to return to Paris 
 yet. I fancied that everybody must read my mis- 
 fortune in my face, but above all I was afraid of re- 
 turning home, though I hoped I should no longer 
 find her there. Her fortune was quite enough for 
 her to live comfortably upon, and she might leave 
 me as long as she left me my children, for I wanted 
 them and thought I had the right to take them from 
 their mother, and it would not be a great deprivation 
 for her, for she could not have really loved them and 
 she did not deserve that I should regret her. 
 
 I tried to eat but could not swallow a morsel, and 
 so I paid and went out and continued to walk. On 
 looking at my watch it seemed as if the time had 
 gone very slowly, but I was obliged to return to Paris, 
 where I arrived at three o'clock. 
 
 I felt that I could not support her presence if she 
 were still in my house, so I made up my mind to 
 
INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. 3*£ 
 
 make sure before going in. I felt overcome on looking 
 up at the windows from which she had sometimes 
 watched for and smiled at me, and now I had no 
 longer a wife. What had I done that she should 
 make me so wretched ? 
 
 However, I went up and spoke to the porter. 
 
 6 Is madame in ? ' 
 
 ' ~No, monsieur ; she left about ten o'clock with 
 some luggage and the young lady. 5 
 
 ' She has taken away my daughter P ' 
 
 ' Tes, monsieur ; so I thought she was going into 
 the country. Did not monsieur know ? ' 
 
 I did not wait to hear any more, but rushed up- 
 stairs and rang violently. The servant opened it for 
 me and began to tremble when she saw me. 
 
 ' Has your mistress gone away 9 ' 
 
 6 Tes, monsieur ; madame said she was going into 
 the country. She looked very ill when she came back 
 from her bath.* 
 
 ' From the bath?' 
 
 \ Tes, monsieur ; madame went out very early this 
 morning to go to the baths.' 
 
 ' Did she often go ? ' 
 
 \ Tes, monsieur, for some time past.' 
 
 s Why did you not tell me of this ? ' 
 
 ' Because madame told me I was not to.' 
 
 < Well, and then ? ' 
 
 6 Madame shut herself up in her room for a long 
 time and then called me, made me pack up her things, 
 telling me to make haste, and then she sent me for a 
 cab, and having the luggage sent downstairs she left 
 with Madamoiselle Henrietta, telling me to give a 
 letter to you.' 
 
 ' A letter? Where is it?' 
 
 \ I put it on your desk, monsieur.' 
 
 I rushed into my study, and seizing the letter broke 
 the seal. What could she say tome? I looked for 
 traces of tears but there were none, and I only hoped 
 
:34 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 that the day might come when she would shed aa 
 bitters as she had caused me to shed in the morning. 
 This is what she said : 
 
 ' MONSIEUR, 
 
 ' I have deceived you, and though I might, 
 perhaps, still deny it I will be more open than you 
 have been with me. I know I am guilty, but I should 
 never have been so without your example ; and al- 
 though in the eyes of the law I am much more cul- 
 pable than you, I do not think so. Besides this, I 
 think it will be a good thing for both of us. I shall 
 keep my daughter, you will keep your son. My for- 
 tune is enough for me, and I shall not be obliged to 
 appeal to you. Farewell, monsieur, and believe that 
 •J ardently wish for your happiness. 
 
 ' Eugenie.' 
 
 What a letter ! not a word of regret or expression 
 of repentance. So much the better, as it gave me 
 courage. But Henrietta, my daughter, should I be 
 obliged to live without her ? What cruelty ! Eugenie 
 knew how devoted I was to her, and yet she carried 
 her off, and that not from maternal love — for she 
 could not love her children — but to make me more 
 unhappy still; and perhaps the child, when she 
 ceased to see me might cease to love me. 
 
 I threw myself into a chair and lent my head on 
 my desk, and I do not know how long I remained 
 thus. 
 
 I heard the servant behind me, and perhaps she 
 had been talking to me for some time. 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' 
 
 ' Is not monsieur going to dine ? It is past six 
 e'clock, and so I ventured .... I feared monsieur 
 might be unwell.' 
 
 ' No, I don't want any dinner ; but what did the 
 child say when she left, poor little thing ? ' 
 
INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. 85 
 
 ' Well, monsieur, she wanted to take her doll with 
 her, bnt madame would not let her, and said she 
 would buy her another.' 
 
 'Was that all 9 * 
 
 'No; then Madamoiselle Henrietta asked why 
 they were not going to wait for her papa before get- 
 ting into the cab.' 
 
 ' Dear child, so she thought of me.' 
 
 These words did me good. Eugenie had not said 
 where she was going, but I should learn from her 
 banker. I must know, and then we would »ee 
 whether she would refuse to give me up my daughter. 
 No more weakness. The next thing was to be avenged 
 on Dulac. I knew where I could meet him that 
 evening, as I was to have taken my wife there ; but 
 suppose she had written to him and told him what 
 had happened? It was hardly likely, as the first 
 thing she would think about would be to get away. 
 
 I asked the servant whether madame had written 
 any more letters but she did not know. Oh ! if 
 Dulac were to escape me that evening ! It was seven 
 o'clock and I dressed to go out. Go into society and 
 pretend to be calm and to smile with a half-broken 
 heart ! but it would not be for long, I hoped. 
 
 I put plenty of gold into my pocket, but as it was 
 too soon to go to the party yet, I walked up and 
 down the rooms. Cursed apartments, where I began 
 by being unhappy, you will not see me for much 
 longer. 
 
 At last it was eight o'clock and I started. The 
 party was at the house of the lady where the magic- 
 lantern had been shown ; there I had had the first 
 inkling of my misfortune, and there it was only right 
 that I should be avenged. 
 
 There were not many people present and he had 
 not arrived yet, and when I was asked after my wife 
 T replied that she was not well, and then went and 
 ^at down at a card-table. 
 
 D * 
 
36 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Every time the drawing-room door opened I turned 
 round with an involuntary shiver, but he did not 
 come, though Belan and Giraud did. I pretended to 
 be too taken up with my game to be able to speak to 
 them, but Belan found means to come close to me 
 and to whisper : 
 
 ' My dear friend, I am not one ; it has all been ex- 
 plained to my perfect satisfaction, and I will come 
 and tell you all about it one of these days.' 
 
 I merely shook his hand, rather convulsively no 
 doubt, for he withdrew it and said : 
 
 'I am quite sensible of the pleasure which this 
 causes you. 5 
 
 At last he came into the drawing-room and looked 
 all about, and I guessed whom he was looking for. 
 He came up to me — so he knew nothing — and had 
 the audacity to ask after my wife and wished to know 
 why she was not present, but I restrained myself r 
 and after a few vague words I left him. 
 
 I waited for him to sit down to ecarte, which he 
 did at last, and at the second deal, when we lost two 
 points, I declared that our opponents had not cut and 
 that the cards had been arranged. People looked at 
 me in astonishment; but nothing was said, and M. 
 Dulac, who had become thoughtful, offered to forfeit 
 the deal, which was, however, refused. 
 
 We lost, and I took the hand and trebled the 
 stakes so that nobody might bet on me, and then I 
 held my cards so that the betters might not be able 
 to see them. I threw out trumps so as to lose, and 
 then asked for my revenge, and though it is usual 
 to vacate one's seat when one has lost I did not do 
 so, but doubled the stakes and kept uttering epigrams 
 on my opponents' luck, 
 
 M. Dulac kept his patience very well, but he seemed- 
 uncomfortable though he said nothing. I lost again r 
 and pretending to be a thorough gambler I again in- 
 creased the stakes, and when I lost I got up and 
 
INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. 37^ 
 
 flung my cards in M. Dulac's face. Of course lie 
 could not take that quietly, so lie also got up and 
 asked whether I intended to insult him, and I merely 
 laughed at him and gave him no answer. The by- 
 standers tried to settle the matter by telling him 
 that I was a bad player and that my losses had ex- 
 asperated me, but I saw that everybody thought I 
 was in the wrong, and neither Dulac nor I said a 
 word. I had done quite enough publicly for our 
 duel to be explained by that scene. 
 
 ; In a few moments I went up to Dulac and said to 
 him in a whisper : 
 
 ij ' I shall wait for you to-morrow morning at seven 
 o'clock at the entrance to Yincennes, with a friend ♦ 
 don't fail to come, and remember that this matter 
 cannot be settled.' 
 
 He nodded assent, and after walking about the 
 drawing-room for a short time I left. 
 
 I was obliged to get a second, but my choice was, 
 already made; the number of our real friends is not 
 so great as to cause one any embarrassment in such 
 a matter, so I went to Ernest's new house. Thev 
 were not at home, as they were gone to the theatre 
 with their children, but as they now kept a servant 
 1 made up my mind to wait for them, as it was 
 absolutely necessary for me to see Ernest that 
 evening. 
 
 The certainty of revenge or of an end of my 
 troubles had somewhat calmed me. On reflecting 
 on my situation it struck me that this duel could 
 not have a satisfactory result, for were I *o kill Dulae 
 that would not restore my happiness, and if he killed 
 me my children would be handed over to a mother 
 who did not love them. But I must fight him as I 
 hated him so, and yet he had only acted as youno* 
 men do, and as I had very often done myself when 
 I was a bachelor. My wife was much more culpable 
 and I could not punish her. 
 
38 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 In case of my death my children would inherit 
 all that I possessed, so that I need not make a will, 
 and I only hoped that they would never learn their 
 smother's fault. 
 
 What miseries may result from a moment of weak- 
 ness ! If a woman calculated them would she ever 
 be culpable ? But I never did so myself ; we want 
 excitement, and calm and pure happiness soon palls, 
 though some do know such happiness. 
 
 After rather more than five years of married life 
 and a love match ! She certainly did love me ; no- 
 body forced her to marry mo ; her mother did exactly 
 what she wanted. A girl who has been forced to 
 give her hand to a man whom she does not love is 
 much less to blame when she is unfaithful ; but to 
 show me so much love and then .... I must tiy 
 and forget it all. 
 
 Ernest and his wife came back from the theatre, 
 and on being told that a gentleman was waiting for 
 them in the drawing-room they came in and uttered 
 an exclamation of surprise on seeing me. 
 
 1 It is a long time since we have seen you. Wha* 
 brings you so late ? ' 
 
 ' I wished to see you ; I have a favour to ask of 
 Ernest.' 
 
 They both looked at me and said : 
 
 c What is the matter with you ? What has hap- 
 pened ? ' 
 
 ' How pale and unnerved you look ! ' 
 
 e There is nothing the matter with me/ 
 
 ? Oh, yes ! I know there is. Is your wife ill, your 
 children P ' 
 
 I threw myself into a chair and said : 
 
 _ I have no longer a wife .... no child is with 
 me ; I am alone now.' 
 
 ' What do you say ? ! Marguerite exclaimed ; ' your 
 wife ' 
 
 ( She has deceived me, and is no longer with me.' 
 
INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCES. o'J 
 
 They did not say a word; they appeared over- 
 whelmed. I got up and spoke more firmly : 
 
 c Yes ; Eugenie has deceived me. You know how 
 J loved her, and it was only this morning that I had 
 proofs of her guilt. I am not yet accustomed to my 
 sufferings ; perhaps I shall be so in time, but I de- 
 clare that I will do my best to forget such an un- 
 worthy woman. I have been unfortunate in love, 
 but I shall find some consolation in friendship.' 
 
 Marguerite began to cry and Ernest pressed my 
 hand. At last I said : 
 
 6 Gocd-bye, dear friends, it is late ; pardon me for 
 .having come thus to disturb your happiness. Ernest, 
 can I have two words with you ? ' 
 
 He took me into the window recess. 
 
 i I am going to fight a duel to-morrow ; you will 
 ^uess with whom and for what reason, and I need 
 not tell you that no arrangement is possible, although 
 we are supposed to fight about a dispute at cards. 
 Will you be my second ? ' 
 
 c Of course I will.' 
 
 'I shall expect you to-morrow morning, at six 
 -o'clock precisely.' 
 
 6 1 will be punctual.' 
 
 I shook hands with them and left, and what tor- 
 ture it was to be obliged to return home ; neither 
 wife nor child, though the former had avoided me 
 for a long time, but Henrietta had always come to me. 
 
 I passed a terrible night and could not sleep for a 
 moment, and wondered whether she who had made 
 me so wretched was sleeping calmly. 
 
 At six o'clock Ernest came ; there was a cab 
 below, so I took my pistols, and we got in and told 
 the cabman to drive us to Vincennes. I did not speak 
 during the journey, but just before we arrived at our 
 destination Ernest said to me : 
 
 ' Suppose you fall — have you aothing to say to me, 
 mo instructions to give me ? ' 
 
40 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' None, my dear Ernest, for except yon and your 
 wife nobody takes any real interest in me. My son 
 is not yet old enough to be able to understand his 
 loss ; Henrietta might cry, so I should not wish her 
 to be told anything ; poor child, I do not wish her to 
 shed a tear.' 
 
 On our arrival we saw two men walking up and 
 down a short distance fram the castle — it was Dulac 
 and his second. We went quickly up to them and 
 they bowed to us. I did not return their politeness 
 and walked on towards the forest. 
 
 I did not know Dulac's second ; he was not one of 
 our set, which was all the better. I do not know 
 what Duiac had told him, but I knew that the former 
 was not the dupe cf the motive that had made me 
 pick a quarrel with him the evening before. 
 
 At last we stopped, and our seconds handed us our 
 pistols after having measured the distance. 
 
 ' Fire, monsieur/ I said to Dulac ; i I was the ag- 
 gressor.' 
 
 c No, monsieu,' he replied coldly ; c you ought to 
 fire first, as you are the offended party.' 
 
 I did not wait to be told again, but fired and 
 missed him. It was his turn and he hesitated. 
 
 c Fire, monsieur, and remember that this matter 
 cannot end thus.' 
 
 He fired, but without hitting me. Ernest gave me 
 another pistol ; I aimed at Dulac again, fired, and he 
 fell. 
 
 I am not a bad-hearted man, but I should have- 
 liked to have killed him. 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OF TORMENT. 41 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 ANOTHER SUBJECT OF TORMENT. 
 
 ■ 
 
 I left the forest immediately and Ernest did the 
 same, after telling Dulac's second that he would 
 send some persons to his aid. 
 
 This time fate was just and my vengeance was 
 satisfied. I ought to have felt relieved, and yet I 
 did not, for I had not taken my vengeance on her 
 who had done me the chief injury. I thanked Ernest 
 and left him, promising him to go and see them 
 often. He wanted me to go and dine there that 
 same day, but I wished to be alone, and I would go 
 to them when I had learnt somewhat to bear, or at 
 least to hide, my grief. 
 
 I looked for apartments in their quarter, far from 
 where I was at present. I took the first I could 
 find, and returned home, saw my landlord, paid him 
 whatever he asked to let me leave immediately, and 
 had my furniture removed at once. 
 
 I dismissed the servant ; not that I had any fault 
 to find with her, on the contrary, but I wished to 
 forget the time during which she had been in my 
 service and I did not wish to see her again, and so 
 I gave her enough money to enable her to wait 
 patiently till she got another place. 
 
 When I was settled in my new lodgings in the 
 'Rue Saint-Louis, I at once felt better, for there is 
 nothing better for ills of mind — as of body — than 
 change of air. 
 
 I should have liked to have gone to see my son, 
 but as it was too late to go to Livry that day I went 
 to Eugenie's banker to try and find out where she 
 -was, for I wanted to write to her and demand my 
 
42 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 daughter. My two children were not too much to 
 make up to me for what I had lost. 
 
 I took care not to tell the hanker — who was a very 
 excellent man — the real reason of my separation 
 from Eugenie, hut said that our tempers were in- 
 compatible, and that we had both thought this the 
 best step to take, and that it was irrevocable. I in- 
 formed him that I did not want my wife's address in 
 order to run after her, but only to write to her on 
 some matters of business that we had not settled. 
 
 He did not know where Eugenie was, as she had 
 not written to him, but he promised to send me her 
 address as soon as he knew it. 
 
 Thus I was forced to wait in order to see my 
 daughter again. If I only had her likeness ! for 
 though I had often intended to paint it, business or 
 scenes with her mother had prevented me from doing" 
 so ; but I should have the original in a few days and 
 would not separate from her again. 
 
 Regret at not having painted her portrait made 
 me think of the one which I always carried about 
 me, and I would break it like she had broken mine. 
 
 It was inside a locket, which I opened, and in spite 
 of myself I could not help looking at the miniature 
 which recalled her features so well. I don't know; 
 how it happened, but my anger was dispelled, and L 
 felt moved and softened. This was not the woman 
 who had deceived and left me ; she still loved me 
 and thoroughly responded to my transports; her 
 eyes were constantly looking into mine. That Eu- 
 genie of formerly was no longer the same as the 
 Eugenie of to-day, so why should I destroy her 
 picture ? 
 
 I looked about me ; I was alone, and I pressed my 
 lips to the portrait. It was an unworthy weakness,, 
 but I felt as if I had found her again as she was 
 five years before, and that illusion procured me & 
 moment's happiness. 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OP TOEMENT. 43 
 
 The next day I started early for Livry. The road, 
 brought many things to my recollection. My son 
 was only eleven months old, but as soon as I could, 
 without injury to his health, I would take him away 
 from his nurse and not go to that part of the country 
 again. 
 
 I got to the peasants' house, who immediately 
 asked after my wife, so I told them she had gone 
 into the country for a long time, and asked to see 
 the boy. 
 
 When they brought little Eugene to me I took 
 him into my arms and was going to cover him with 
 kisses, when all of a sudden a new and cruel idea. 
 struck me and my looks changed. I put away the 
 child, who stretched out his arms to me, and gave 
 him back to his nurse. 
 
 The good woman could not understand the change 
 that had taken place in me, so she looked at me and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 'Well, what's the matter? You give me back 
 your son without kissing him, and yet he is very 
 pretty, poor little treasure.' 
 
 6 My son ! ' I said to myself, ' my son ! He is only 
 eleven months old, and Dulac used to come to our 
 house before Eugenie was pregnant again.' 
 
 A new suspicion thus increased my torture, for 
 who could assure me that he was my own son, and 
 that I was not going to kiss the fruits of their 
 liaison ? 
 
 This idea made me get up suddenly. 
 
 ] Are you ill, monsieur ? ' the nurse asked me. 
 
 I did not reply, but left the house and took a walk 
 for some time. I felt that for the future I could not 
 think of my son without that cruel thought pursuing* 
 me ; when I kissed the child it would disturb my 
 happiness, and change the aifection that I should 
 have had for him. Yet women declare that they are 
 not more culpable than we ! They always know that. 
 
THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 "they are the mother, and have no fear of bestowing 
 their caresses on another woman's child, and that is 
 "the great advantage which they have over us. But 
 nature does not do everything ; one becomes a father 
 by adopting an innocent little creature, and he is no 
 father who abandons his children, and thus I returned 
 to the nurse's in a calmer frame of mind. 
 
 The poor woman was in a corner with the child in 
 her arms, and she did not venture to bring him to 
 me again ; so I went up to her, kissed his forehead 
 with a sigh, asked her to take great care of him, 
 gave her some money, and returned to Paris even 
 sadder than when I left. 
 
 I found Ernest waiting for me. He had been to 
 my former apartments and got my new address, and 
 since the morning he had been looking for me every- 
 where to try and console me. 
 
 ' What do people say ? t was my first question, for 
 J. must acknowledge that my greatest fear was lest 
 people should know that my wife had been unfaithful 
 to me, and this less on my own than on her account, 
 for I did not wish her to appear guilty in the eyes of 
 society ; it was quite enough that I knew her to be 
 so, and I begged Ernest not to keep anything from 
 me. 
 
 6 Tour duel is known,' he said, * but it is attributed 
 to the scene you had at cards, and you are blamed 
 whilst your adversary is pitied. Dulac is not dead, 
 and the doctors think he will recover, but it will be 
 a long business as he was severely wounded. I do 
 not know how Giraud has already found out that you 
 have changed your apartments and that you are here 
 without your wife, but I suppose he asked the porter, 
 and he has told it everywhere. People talk about it, 
 and everybody has a different version, but most think 
 that you made your wife so unhappy that she was 
 obliged to leave you.' 
 
 c So much the better if people believe that and lay 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OF TORMENT, 45 
 
 all the blame on me. Only yon and yonr wife know 
 -the truth, and I know that you will not betray my 
 confidence.' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; although it makes me very angry 
 to hear you accused and your wife pitied. In your 
 place I should not be so generous.' 
 
 c But think of my children — my daughter ! ' 
 
 ' That is true ; I did not think of them.' 
 
 6 What do I care if people blame me ? They will 
 not see much of me at present.' 
 
 * But I hope you will not turn misanthrope and 
 will seek distraction, and try to forget a woman who 
 is not worthy of your regrets ; it would be an un- 
 pardonable weakness to act otherwise.' 
 
 ' I will try to follow your advice.' 
 
 e Well, then, to begin with, you will come and dine 
 with us to-day,' 
 
 I could not refuse, although I preferred solitude, 
 and so I went. His wife overwhelmed me with kind- 
 ness and their children came and played with me, 
 and during dinner they did all they could to divert 
 my thoughts. I was sensible of their kindness, but 
 Ihe sight of their domestic happiness and of this 
 united family could not assuage my grief, it rather 
 increased it. I also had a wife and children, and such 
 sights nearly broke my heart. What I wanted was 
 a crowd of people and exciting pleasures ; I required 
 ~to be distracted and not softened. 
 
 I left my kind friends early. Three days later I 
 had a letter from Eugenie's banker, who told me that 
 for the present she was at Aubonne, near Montmo- 
 rency, so I knew where my daughter was, at which 
 I was very glad, for one does not seem to be so far 
 away from people when one knows where they are. 
 I remembered that Eugenie had some old distant re- 
 lation living at Aubonne, and had most likely gone 
 to her, but I could not tell whether she would remain 
 ^here, so I made up my mind to write to her at once* 
 
46 THE CX5CK0LD. 
 
 I sat down at my desk but I did not know how to* 
 begin : I had never written to Eugenie, as we had 
 never been separated. It was no good reproaching 
 her for her conduct now, and no use complaining 
 unless I meant to forgive her, so I would go straight 
 to the point. 
 
 4 Madame, 
 
 6 Ton have taken away my daughter, and I 
 desire, I wish her to remain with me. Keep your 
 son ; you can give him that name, bnt can I also call 
 him so ? Take that child and give me back my 
 daughter. It will be no privation to you, and I will 
 allow her to go and see you whenever you wish. I 
 hope I shall not be obliged to write to you a second 
 time.' 
 
 I signed the letter and had it sent to the post 
 immediately, as I was in a hurry for an answer. 
 
 I determined to give up my profession, for I had 
 enough to live on, now that I was no longer house- 
 keeping nor receiving company. But what could I 
 do to while away the time, which appears so long 
 when one is unhappy ? I would take to my painter's 
 brushes again and devote myself to art, and console 
 myself with it. Had it not been for my children 
 I should have left Paris for some time and travelled, 
 but my daughter was still too young to be exposed 
 to changes of climate, which might be detrimental 
 to her health. 
 
 At the end of two days I received a letter from 
 Aubonne. I trembled as I opened the letter : this 
 was her answer : 
 
 ' Monsieur, 
 
 c You are mistaken if you believe that it" 
 would not be a great privation for me not to have 
 my daughter, for I love her as much as ever you 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OP TORMENT. 47" 
 
 can. As for your son, he certainly is yours. You 
 know how frank I am, so you may believe what I 
 tell you. Matters will remain as they are, my^ 
 daughter shall not leave me. You can take legal 
 proceedings if you like ; nothing will alter my reso- 
 lution. ' Eugenie.' 
 
 I could hardly bear to read the letter, i was so- 
 furious and indignant. She had dishonoured me and 
 made me unhappy, and now she refused to give my 
 daughter up to me. She had neither pity nor sen- 
 sibility. She said she loved her daughter : yes, like 
 she had loved me. She dared me, and told me to 
 take legal proceedings. If I could ! if I had proofs 
 of her crime ! But no ; if I could she knew too 
 well that I would not have the Courts ringing with 
 my wrongs, and that people should only pronounce- 
 my name in mockery. She knew me, and therefore ■ 
 she feared nothing. She declared that her son was 
 mine and expected me to believe her word. No, I 
 would not see that child again, or hear him men- 
 tioned; but I neither could nor would forget my 
 daughter. 
 
 For some days I was in a great state of agitation 
 and did not know what to determine on. Sometimes I 
 thought I would leave France, but the thought of 
 Henrietta restrained me ; then I thought I would go 
 back into society, have mistresses, spend my time 
 with them, and drown all recollection of the past 
 in their company. But a profound depression of 
 spirits succeeded that fever of my senses, and I did 
 not even go and see Ernest, as everything worried 
 and wearied me, and all I cared for was to be alone 
 to think of my daughter ; her mother I hated and 
 cursed. I would leave France ; what held me back 9 
 Nothing that I know of. 
 
 Several weeks passed, almost without my knowing 
 how I lived. I went out very early to avoid all visitors,* 
 
48 TIIE CUCKOLD. 
 
 and was daily becoming more morose and more of 
 a misanthrope ; I went for walks in lonely places, 
 came home early and told my porter to say I was 
 not in, for the porter was also my servant to look 
 after my apartments, which, by the way, was very 
 badly done. 
 
 The honse in which I was now living snited me in 
 many respects. Dark and melancholy, like most of 
 the old houses in the Marais, I fancied that very few 
 people lodged in it, for I rarely met anyone on the 
 stairs. However, I had one neighbour whom I would 
 gladly have done without ; it was a man who lived 
 in one of the garrets that were above my rooms — 
 the house only being three storeys high. 
 
 My neighbour was in the habit of singing as soon 
 as he got home, which was usually between ten and 
 eleven o'clock at night; and till he was in bed and 
 asleep I was obliged to listen to his merry ditties 
 and drinking songs. It made me impatient; not 
 that it prevented me from sleeping, for I got no sleep 
 at such an early hour, but it disturbed me in my 
 thoughts, and sometimes I made up my mind to 
 complain to the porter ; but, then, it was not fair to 
 prevent other people from being merry because I was 
 in trouble. 
 
 But at last it became quite insupportable, because 
 my neighbour came home much sooner and his sing- 
 ing often began at eight o'clock in the evening ; and 
 although I never talked with the porter, I deter- 
 mined to ask him who it was who was always 
 singing. 
 
 'Monsieur,' he replied, - : it is a poor German tailor. 
 I cannot conceive how he has the heart to sing, as 
 he has not a sou, for it seems he cannot get work, 
 and I am not at all surprised at it, as he is a 
 drunkard and a bad workman. I gave him a pair of 
 my trousers to turn into a new coat for my son and 
 .it was very badly made — no style and all the darns 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OP TOBMENT. 49" 
 
 in front — so 1 gave him no more of my custom. How- 
 ever, he will not annoy you long, because lie has had 
 warning as he cannot pay his rent.' 
 
 I told the porter that I did not want the man to 
 be sent away, but all the landlord thought about 
 was his rents. That evening, at about eight o'clock,. 
 I heard the tailor singing with all his might. Wlio 
 would think that the man had not got a sou? 
 
 Suppose I were to go and give him some money to 
 be quiet ? But perhaps that would only make him 
 sing all the louder ; however I yielded to my impulse, 
 and if he were obliging he might sing less loudly,, 
 though I hardly hoped it, for the Germans are obsti- 
 nate and fond of music, but still I went. 
 
 I mounted to the storey above me, and his voice 
 guided me to his room, and though the key was in 
 the door I knocked before going in. 
 
 He went on singing without answering, so I wen' 
 in, and found myself in a room in one comer of whicl 
 there was a mattress on the ground with a wretched 
 counterpane over it, which, with a cane chair without 
 a bottom, some spoutless jugs and a long plank, 
 which no doubt served as a tailor's board, but was 
 now placed against the wall, formed all the furniture. 
 The window was open, and on the sill a young man 
 was sitting, whose careless and red face did not seem 
 unknown to me. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and 
 was sitting tailor fashion, with his knees over the 
 window ledge, which exposed him to the imminent 
 risk of falling into the yard. 
 
 As soon as I was inside he stopped, and said: 
 
 ' Oh, I thought it was the porter who had come 
 for his money again, and I should have said to him : 
 " Tut, tut ! " Sit down, monsieur.' 
 
 I sat down. My neighbour seemed very uncere- 
 monious, for he had not got ftp. I don't know 
 whether he thought that I had come to hear him sing, 
 but he seemed inclined to go on, so I stopped him. 
 
50 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 Monsieur, I am your neighbour.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Next door or underneath ? f 
 
 6 Underneath.' 
 
 * Of course ; next door there are nothing but fha 
 cooks of the house, unhappily all of them old. They 
 don't sing or make love any more ; all they make are 
 sauces and strong soups. I would give all their 
 soups for a bottie of Beaune : how good Beaune is ! 
 If I had any I would offer you some, but for three 
 days I have drunk nothing but water. Tut, tut ! it 
 ^cannot be helped.' 
 
 Whilst he was talking I looked at him and felt 
 sure I had seen him somewhere, though I could not 
 ^fcell where. 
 
 ' Have you come about a pair of trousers or a coat? ' 
 he went on. 'It would just suit me, for I have no- 
 thing to do, and I would make them for you im- 
 mediately, and in the newest style, although that 
 wretch of a porter has dared to complain of my talent. 
 Fool ! he expected me to make a new coat for his son 
 out of a pair of trousers that had already been turned 
 three times.' 
 
 * I have come for nothing of that sort, but to ask 
 sa favour of you.' 
 
 ' A favour ? ' 
 
 ' You sing a great deal, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Well, I have nothing else to do.' 
 
 4 Yov certainly sing very well.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have a good voice ; we Germans are all 
 musicians — it is bom in us.' 
 
 *I know that ; but do you think it is agreeable for 
 anyone who has to work with his brains and to think, 
 ^to hear singing all the evening long ? ' 
 
 1 What has that got to do with me 9 ' 
 
 ' Look here, I will come to the point. Your sing- 
 ing disturbes me, and if you will be kind enough to 
 sing less, or not so loud, I will beg you to accept this 
 as a slight token of my gratitude.' 
 
ANOTHER SUBJECT OF TOBMENT. 
 
 51 
 
 I had taken my purse out of my pocket and was 
 looking for some place to put it on, which was diffi- 
 cult unless I put it on the ground, when the tailor, 
 who had left the window and jumped into the room, 
 came up to me with knitted brows. 
 
 ' I say, monsieur from downstairs who is not fond 
 of music, do I look as if 1 were asking for alms? 
 Has Pettermann ever been taken for a beggar 9? 
 
 ' Pettermann ! ' I said, looking at him attentively, 
 & is your name Pettermann ? ' 
 
 'Schniek Petterman, journeyman tailor since I 
 -was fifteen ; I never could become a master, but it 
 was not my fault. Well, what are you looking at 
 
 snefor?' . 
 
 6 1 know you now ; you used to live in the Kue 
 
 ^Xeslav.' 
 
 < 1 think so, but I have changed my lodgings ? so 
 often that I cannot remember all that I have had.' 
 
 ' Do you remember that little room into which you 
 rso often got through the window in the roof by 
 ireaking the panes of glass because you had lost 
 jour key?' 
 
 'I remember; there were some wide leads, and 
 they were very handy for scrambling on to.' 
 
 6 And your little neighbour, who used to give you 
 a, light for your candle ? ' 
 
 < Little Marguerite ? Oh ! I know you now ; you 
 were my neighbour's lover.' 
 
 6 No, I was only her friend, but I often went there. 
 We used to hear you coming in. . . . How happy 
 I was in those days ! ' 
 
 ' You were happy when I broke the windows 9 Did 
 that amuse you 9 ' 
 
 ' At any rate I am very glad to see you again.' 
 
 6 You are very polite, monsieur ; it must be five 
 years ago at least, and I was not married then.' 
 
 * Oh ! you got married since, then ? ' 
 
 ' Good God ! don't talk to me about ft. I don't 
 
 e 2 
 
52 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 know what idiotic idea took possession of me, as X 
 hardly ever thought of love, but one day it took me 
 just like a fit of sneezing, and I thought I was smitten 
 with a young cook who had sometimes asked me the 
 time or for a light, innocent trifles which showed' 
 that she wished to make my acquaintance. Suzanne 
 was pretty, a superb girl, well made ; I must do her 
 justice as far as physical beauty goes. She had 
 saved twelve hundred francs by robbing her em- 
 ployers rather in the matter of vegetables and butter? 
 and I thought that would be a nice little sum to 
 start a tailor's shop with, like those m the Palais- 
 Royal, I made her an offer, she accepted me, and 
 we were married, I rented a shop on the Boulevard 
 du Pont-aux-Choux, and it went very well ' 
 
 ' Por some months ? ' 
 
 ' Por some days — a week at most. Then my wife 
 began to think that I came home late and was too 
 fond of talking, and that I drank. I said she had 
 no business to think of anything but making button- 
 holes. She refused to do them and I got angry; 
 she was obstinate and we came to blows and fought 
 regularly, and when once that habit is acquired . . . 
 well, we never missed a single day, morning and 
 night ; you should have seen how we thrashed each 
 other ! ' 
 
 ' Had you not better have left your wife ? ' 
 
 I Just what I said to myself ; so one evening when 
 she had half torn my left ear off, I packed up my: 
 traps and left her.' 
 
 ' Have you seen her since ? ' 
 
 ' Not such a fool, and I don't want to, and I think 
 she would not much care to see me, and whether she 
 lives or dies I shall not marry again.' 
 
 6 You have no children ? ' 
 
 'What do you mean? How could we find time 
 to make one when we were always thrashing each 
 other ? I am glad there were none, for they would 
 
A..NOTHEK SUBJECT OF TORMENT. 5& 
 
 have been on my hands, and I have trouble enough 
 to keep myself.' 
 
 6 1 suppose your wife has remained faithful to 
 you?' 
 
 ' Faithful ! you don't suppose I bothered myself 
 about that ? Besides, we onJy lived together for four 
 months, and that did not make me any richer. For 
 some time past I have had no work, and one ruins 
 one's fingers with doing nothing. But all the same, 
 that is no reason why you should come so, with your 
 purse in your hand.' 
 
 ' Listen to me, Pettermann \ I explained myself 
 badly, and had no intention of offending you.' 
 
 6 1 am not offended, but ' 
 
 ' I was told that you had no work, and I was going 
 to give you my custom.' 
 
 ' Your custom ! That is quite another thing.' 
 ' I cannot show you to-night what I want you to- 
 do, but I thought there could be no harm in giving* 
 you some money in advance for what you would do. 
 We have already lived under one roof; we know 
 each other, and I should be sorry to quarrel with 
 you.' 
 
 c Monsieur, as soon as you offer me money in ad- 
 vance for work that is different. ' Give me what you 
 like and I will accept it, and not charge you any the 
 dearer on that account.' 
 
 ' That's all right. Here are forty francs, and we 
 will reckon up afterwards.' 
 
 * Forty francs ! I will make you a coat, waistcoat, 
 and trousers for that, and if my singing disturb? 
 
 you ' 
 
 ' No, no, sing Pettermann ; now I know it is you 
 it will not annoy me. I shall think I am in my old 
 lodgings.' 
 
 1 left the tailor, who did not know into which 
 pocket to put his forty francs, and returned to my 
 rooms, But on that evening, and all the next week 
 
54 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 I did not hear Pettermann sing, because lie did not 
 come liome till midnight — drank — and went to sleep 
 as soon as he was in bed. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A MEETING. DEPARTURE. 
 
 My conversation with the tailor had diverted my 
 thoughts a little and I slept better, and when one is 
 melancholy one ought to be forced to find some 
 distractions, just as patients are forced to take neces- 
 sary medicines. 
 
 One morning I went to see Ernest, who had called 
 on me at least ten times without finding me at 
 home. 
 
 His wife scolded me a good deal, and said : 
 
 ' You avoid your real friends and there is no com- 
 mon sense in that, and you need not punish us for 
 the faults of others. Your wife has chosen to keep 
 her daughter ; that is no reason for being disconso- 
 late^ — cannot you go and see her ? ' 
 
 4 See her ! I have longed a thousand times to do 
 so, but she is with her mother, and I could not endure 
 the sight of her.' 
 
 'Her mother is not always with her,' Ernes fc said; 
 * when she comes to Paris — which she has done fre- 
 quently lately — she rarely brings Henrietta with 
 her. 5 
 
 ? What ! Eugenie has already come back to Paris ? 
 T though she would not dare to show herself here.' 
 
A MEETING. — DEPARTURE. && 
 
 6 Remember that everybody thinks you are in the 
 -wrong. Ton are supposed to have left a charming 
 woman whom you were making unhappy. I am only 
 telling you exactly what is said, and I hope it does 
 not vex you.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, I am glad to know it. Go on, 
 Ernest, tell me all yon have heard.' 
 
 ! After spending a fortnight only in the country, 
 your .... wife returned to Paris and took hand- 
 some apartments in the Rue d' Autin, and she goes 
 into society and devotes herself to pleasure ; dresses 
 with the greatest elegance, and frequents balls, 
 theatres, and concerts. But she often goes back to 
 the country and spends a few days there and then 
 returns here. The day before yesterday I met her 
 at a party at Madame de Saint Albin's.' 
 
 f You saw her P ' 
 
 ' Yes ; there were a great many people there, and 
 when I arrived she was at the card-table, laughing 
 and talking very loud, and struck by her voice I went 
 /near her. When she saw me my eyes were fixed on 
 her, so she looked away and changed countenance, 
 .and soon left off playing.' 
 
 6 You did not speak to her? ' 
 
 ' No, I had no inclination to, and I don't think she 
 wished it either, as she carefully avoided my looks. 
 When I looked for her again in the drawing-room 
 she had left ; I think my presence was the cause of it.' 
 
 \ You were not there, madame ? ' I said to Madame 
 Ernest. 
 
 _ * No, Monsieur Henri ; you know people do not in- 
 vite me because I am not married.' 
 
 As she said this, I fancied that the little woman 
 sighed and glanced at Ernest, but in a moment she 
 continued : 
 
 ' But even if I were married I should not go out 
 : any more on that account ; for the little I have seen 
 «of society has not made me enamoured of it.' 
 
56 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 'My dear child,' Ernest said, 'one must go to 
 parties just as one goes to the theatre, not to please 
 others but to amuse oneself — when the piece is slow 
 there is no absolute necessity for remaining to the 
 end.' 
 
 ' And M. Dulac ? ' I said, after a pause ; ' you have 
 not mentioned him, Ernest. Don't fear to tell me 
 all you know. I suppose he is more Madame Ble- 
 mont's cavalier than ever 9 ' 
 
 ' You are mistaken ; he had scarcely recovered 
 from his wound — and that is only a short time ago 
 — when he set out to travel, and I am told that he 
 is in Italy. 5 
 
 I must confess that this news pleased me, though 
 it really did not matter to me now whether Dulac or 
 another were Madame Blemont's lover. Madame 
 Blemont ! So she was still called by my name ?' 
 Ernest told me so. I hoped she would have taken 
 her mother's again. Is it not cruel not to be able 
 to deprive a woman who has dishonoured you of your 
 name ? If Madame Blemont had children now, they 
 also would bear my name and share my property. 
 Is that justice ? And yet divorce is not allowed be- 
 cause it is immoral. (This was written many years 
 before the present Divorce Laws were passed in 
 France.) It is certainly much more moral to let a 
 guilty wife bear the name of the husband whom she 
 has abandoned, than to allow strange children to have 
 a name and inherit property to which they have no 
 right ! 
 
 And yet Ernest wanted me to go again into that 
 world where Madame Blemont was received and 
 made much of, whilst people would be thought to 
 compromise themselves if they invited that good 
 little Marguerite, who cherished her children, looked 
 after her house, and made Ernest happy, and only 
 because she was not married. I was sorry for this- 
 world, filled as it is with vice and foolish prejudices,. 
 
A MEETING. — DEPARTURE. 57 
 
 sind I made up my mind to leave it to Madame Ble- 
 mont, as I would share nothing more with her. 
 
 I promised to go and see my friends oftener, for I 
 had not yet made up my mind what to do, though I 
 still intended to leave Paris and to travel, especially 
 J3ince I had learnt that Madame Blemont had re- 
 iairned. 
 
 My porter told me that a gentleman had teen to 
 see me three times, and from his description I was 
 sure it was Belan, so I told him always to say that I 
 was out, and he also gave me Giraud's card. Would 
 those fellows never leave me in peace ? Unhappily 
 I had been obliged to leave my address at my late 
 apartments, but I made haste to get rid of all the 
 cases that had been entrusted to me, so that I might 
 leave Paris as soon as possible. 
 
 Part of the day I spent in calling on my clients in 
 order to return their briefs, under the pretext that 
 my health obliged me to give up my practice at the 
 Bar. Sometimes I saw Belan or Giraud, but I always 
 managed to avoid them. I had finished all I had to 
 do, and felt free and able to do as I liked, when, 
 going through the Palais Eoyal in a hurry, Belan 
 stopped me, and this time I could not avoid him. 
 
 ' At last I have got you ; I am very glad of it, for 
 where the devil have you been hiding yourself ? I 
 have often been to see you at your new place, but 
 you were never at home.' 
 
 * I had a great deal of business to finish, my dear 
 Belan, and now I am in a great hurry. 5 
 
 ' That's no matter to me, for I shall not let you go 
 — I have too much to tell you. But, I say, have you 
 rreally left your wife ? ? 
 
 ' Yes, we could not agree.' 
 
 ' That's just what I said at once : " They could not 
 agree ; " but I must tell you that as a rule people say 
 you are in the wrong, and that you are a jealous, 
 tyrannical husband.' 
 
58 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 e It is quite immaterial to me what people say.' 
 
 'You are quite right. If I could only separate* 
 from my mother-in-law, good heavens, how pleased 
 I should be ! But Armide will not leave her mother, 
 so I am continually between two fires, for when one 
 is not quarrelling with me the other is. But I am 
 quite tranquil now as regards my wife's virtue ; the 
 marquis does not come to see us any more, I don't 
 know why, but he has entirely ceased his visits. As 
 for Armide, she has become so cross and warpish,- 
 that really at times I fancy I would rather be a 
 cuckold if only my wife were nice and gentle, and- 
 yet ' 
 
 ' Belan, I must leave you 9 
 
 * Nonsense, you cannot be in a hurry, for just now 
 you are very fortunate, living as a bachelor again* 
 Of course you have your fun ' 
 
 ' I am only thinking of finishing up my business 
 and ' 
 
 6 Oh, yes ! how virtuous ! I know you, you seducer, 
 and, between ourselves, let me tell you that I also 
 have made a nice little acquaintance, for we are none 
 of us saints, and even if a man is married he may 
 have a weakness, and moments when he forgets him- 
 self, and, besides that, it is allowable in us men. 
 But I am obliged to take the greatest precautions, 
 for if my wife or mother-in-law were to catch me 
 at ' 
 
 6 Grood-bye, Belan ; I wish you much pleasure.' 
 
 ' But where are you off to in such a hurry ? I will 
 go with you.' 
 
 I did not want the little man to go with me, so to 
 get rid of him I told him that [ was going to the 
 Bois de Boulogne, when he clapped his hands and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 S It could not be better, for I have appointed to 
 meet my little girl there, close to the Chateau de 
 Madrid. I never meet her inside the barriers.' 
 
▲ MEETING. DEPASTURE. 
 
 * My business takes me to another part.' 
 
 * Never mind, we will take a cab and drive to the- 
 Bois together.' 
 
 Accordingly we took a cab, and as we were going 
 along Belan spoke to me about his wife, his mistress, 
 his mother-in-law, and my duel with Dulac, which 
 he thought had taken place in consequence of our 
 scene at the card-table, and I took care not to un- 
 deceive him. 
 
 When we got into the Bois, Belan wanted me to 
 go with him to see his little acquaintance, but I as- 
 sured him that somebody was expecting me also, but 
 in order to satisfy him I promised to meet him two 
 hours later at the Porte Maillot, having fully made- 
 up my mind not to go there. 
 
 At last he left me, and I went into another drive- 
 opposite to the one that he had taken. It was four 
 o'clock, and there were plenty of people walking and 
 many on horseback in the Bois. For some time I 
 had been looking at those young men who come 
 there to show off their fine clothes, their horses, and 
 their horsemanship. Time was when I took pleasure 
 in that, and now nothing of that sort tempted me. 
 
 A cloud of dust announced a number of riders, 
 and I thought I saw two ladies amongst them, so I 
 stopped to have a look at them. They came on at 
 full gallop and passed close to me, and after looking* 
 at one of the ladies I looked at the other. It was 
 Eugenie, dressed in an elegant riding habit, mana- 
 ging a mettlesome horse with great skill ; and as she 
 swept past me her horse covered me with dust, and 
 I could not move a step backwards, for I was obliged 
 to stop where I was ; so surprised and overwhelmed 
 was I that I could not have walked a step. 
 
 The riders were a long way off but I was still 
 looking after them, standing on the same spot,, 
 motionless and seeing nothing else, when some more 
 gentlemen on hcrsback came along at full gallop, but. 
 
^)0 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 I did not hear them. They cried out : ' Look out ! * 
 but I did not move, and suddenly I felt a tremendous 
 shock, I was thrown on to the ground, and a horse's 
 hoof struck me on the forehead. 
 
 I lost consciousness, and when I recovered my 
 senses I found that I was in one of the cafes at the 
 entrance to the Bois. A number of people were 
 round me, and amongst them several very well-dressed 
 young gentlemen. One of them said to me : 
 
 ' Monsieur, I am in despair, as I am the cause of 
 this accident. I called to you : " Look out ! " but 
 my horse was going at full gallop and I could not 
 stop him.' 
 
 'That's true,' said a man who was holding my 
 Tiead ; ' I am a witness that this gentleman cried : 
 " Look out ! " but then you ought not to have been 
 going at such a furious pace. I called out to you to 
 stop, but you did not do so.' 
 
 I recognised Pettermann, for it was he who was 
 ^behind me. I accepted the young man's excuses 
 and told him that I had nothing against him, and 
 assured him that my wound was nothing, though I 
 liad lost much blood and felt very weak. A cab was 
 sent for, and I asked Pettermann whether he could 
 ;go with me. 
 
 \ Whether I can see you home ? ' the tailor replied ; 
 c even if I couldn't I would, for I am not likely to 
 leave my kind neighbour who advanced me forty 
 francs in this state ; you don't know me yet.' 
 
 They put a bandage round my head and helped 
 me into the cab, Pettermann took the seat opposite 
 to me, and we returned to Paris. 
 
 During the drive I thought much less about my 
 wound than the manner in which I had met Eugenie, 
 and I asked Pettermann whether he had not seen a 
 lady in a riding habit close to me when I was knocked 
 down. 
 
 * I was not more than twenty yards off when that 
 
A MEETING. DEPARTURE. 
 
 61 
 
 happened,* lie replied. ' I was taking a walk, loafing, 
 -as I had nothing else to do. But I went to your 
 .apartments this morning, monsieur, to get your ma- 
 terials, but you are always out in the morning, and 
 .■at night I cannot find your door. 
 ' I am not tninking about that.' 
 ' Very well. I was walking along, and had looked 
 at the ladies go past on horseback ; and didn't they 
 ride well! Other horses were coming along so I 
 stood on one side, and then I saw you. They shouted : 
 46 Look out ! " and I don't know what you were look- 
 ing at, only you didn't move, so I said to myself : 
 " This gentleman is not deaf, for he could hear my 
 singing perfectly well." The horses went on full 
 -gallop, and I shouted : " Look out ! " and " Hold 
 liard ! " to the riders, but you were knocked down 
 and had a terrible wound, and then the young men 
 stopped. I was already holding you up, and the one 
 who had knocked you down was very sorry — I must 
 do him that justice. We carried you to the nearest 
 cafe, and when I said that I was your neighbour and 
 knew you they sent for a cab and soon you opened 
 your eyes, but all the same you have a bad kick on 
 the head.' 
 
 ' Whilst I was unconscious, did you see any other 
 persons near me? Did one of the ladies on horse- 
 tack return 9 ' 
 
 f No, monsieur ; their was no lady near except the 
 landlady of the caf£, and she washed your wound 
 well ; I assure you she did not spare the water.' 
 
 I said nothing more as I was beginning to be i*. 
 a good deal of pain ; the motion of the cab hurt me, 
 my head was throbbing and my senses began to 
 wander. At last we got home ; Petterman^ *\nd the 
 porter carried me upstairs, put me to bed, and sent 
 for a doctor. I was in a violent fever, and soon I 
 could not answer those around me,, for I did not 
 ifeiow them any more. 
 
62 TEE CUCKOLD. 
 
 One evening I opened my weary eyelids and looked' 
 about the room, which a lamp dimly lighted. I saw 
 Pettermann sitting at a table, his head resting on- 
 one of his hands and the other holding a watch at 
 which he was looking. I called him in a weak voice, 
 and when he heard me he uttered a cry of joy, let 
 fall the watch, and came to my bed. 
 
 i You are saved/ he said ; f the doctor said that 
 before nine o'clock this evening you would recover 
 consciousness. I was counting the minutes, and it 
 only wanted five to the hour, and I was beginning 
 to doubt the doctor, but you know me and you are 
 saved. 5 
 
 He really seemed fond of me and the thought 
 pleased me, so I held out my hand to the worthy 
 fellow and made him sit down by me. 
 
 ' First of all,' he said, ' you must take this draught 
 which the doctor ordered, and you must do as he 
 says, as he saved your life. I shall believe in doctors 
 for the future/ 
 
 I took it, and then Pettermann picked up the 
 watch, and said : 
 
 ' It was your watch that I let fall, monsieur, but 
 it has not stopped. It is like you, the mainspring is 
 good.' 
 
 He sat down and continued : 
 
 { You have been in bed five days, in a violent fever 
 and delirious. In vain we tried to calm you ; you 
 called me Eugenie and only spoke of Eugenie. Now 
 you adored her, now you hated her; so that the- 
 porter, who is rather a scandalmonger, said that she 
 must have played you a trick ; but I said you did 
 not know what you were talking about as yom were 
 delirious. I don't know whether I did right, but 
 seeing your state and that you had nobody to look 
 after you, I installed myself here. The porter ob- 
 jected and wanted hi* niece, who is nine years old r 
 to nurse you ; but I would not listen to him, and saidi 
 
A MEETING. DEPASTURE. 6$ : 
 
 to myself : " I brought monsieur here when he was 
 wounded and I will not leave him till he is cured. '* 
 If I am wrong, I beg your pardon and will go.' 
 
 I put out my hand to Pettermann again, and said : 
 
 ' So far from doing wrong, my good fellow, I owe 
 you many thanks.' 
 
 6 Not at all, monsieur, I owe you the forty francs % 
 but as soon as you have your materials ' 
 
 ' We will not talk about that.' 
 
 ' Very well ; and, indeed, the doctor has forbidden- 
 you to talk much.' 
 
 6 Has anybody been to call ? ' 
 
 * Except the doctor and the porter, not a cat has 
 been near the place.' 
 
 Ernest and his wife did not know of my accident, 
 or I am sure they would have been to look after me y 
 and I was glad my mother did not know, as it would 
 have alarmed her, and there were other things which 
 I wished to keep from her knowledge. 
 
 I tried to sleep, but Eugenie's image interfered 
 with it. She was the cause of my being in this bed. 
 She must have recognised me when she passed so 
 close by me, and she did not come back. I did not 
 know whether she had heard of my accident ; and 
 whilst I avoided society as if I were guilty, she 
 entered into all its gaieties. She who hardly dared 
 to ride, now rode boldly in the Bois de Boulogne. I 
 fancied I must be dreaming, and would try not to 
 think of her any more. 
 
 I must go and see Henrietta before leaving Paris 
 without her mother knowing it, but even were she to 
 know it I had the right to embrace my daughter, 
 only I must have patience till then. 
 
 The doctor came to see me, but I did not know 
 him. He appeared cold, abrupt, and spoke little, 
 but he neither made a display of his learning nor 
 did he use medical terms to his patients, and I like- 
 such men. 
 
64 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 In a few days I was much better and stronger. 
 Pettermann was still with me, as I had got used to 
 liim. He had not got drunk once since he had been 
 attending to me, which was a great sign of his at- 
 tachment 5 and it was not self-interest that led him 
 to this, for his refusal of my purse when I went up 
 "to his garret, showed me that he did not care for 
 money, and I had also noticed that he was neither 
 curious nor indiscreet. 
 
 I was making all these reflections one evening 
 whilst lying on my sofa. Pettermann was sitting by 
 the window without speaking, for if I did not talk he 
 generally did not say anything, and we would often 
 spend several hours without a word, and that was 
 another quality which I liked in him. 
 
 ' Pettermann.* 
 
 4 Monsieur.' 
 
 ' Are you very fond of your tailoring trade ? ' 
 
 6 Eeally, monsieur, I have had so little to do lately 
 that I shall quite forget it soon, and then I must ac- 
 knowledge that I never distinguished myself in it, 
 and that disgusted me.' 
 
 ' As soon as I have regained my strength I intend 
 to leave Paris and to travel — perhaps for a long time. 
 Would it suit you to go with me, not as my servant 
 but as my confidential companion ? ' 
 
 ' Would it suit me 9 Eather, I should say. I will 
 be your valet or what you please, and I am sure you 
 will never humiliate me.' 
 
 ' But, Pettermann, you have one fault ' 
 
 6 I know what you mean — I get drunk ; but only 
 when I have nothing to do ; and when you find me 
 occupation that will cure me of drinking. But I 
 should be lying if I were to say that I would give up 
 drinking altogether, and if you take me with you, 
 you must allow me to get drunk once a month ; that's 
 jail I ask.' 
 
 ' Yery wall, once a month, but not oftener.' 
 
a MEETING. DEPAETUEE. 6£ 
 
 6 Ho, monsieur.' 
 
 6 That is settled then, and you will stay with me t 
 There is nothing to keep you in Paris ? ' 
 
 ' Good heaves ! no, monsieur ; there is only my 
 wife.' 
 
 6 We shall start in a few days, but I must tell you 
 that I mean to travel as an artist — now on foot, then 
 in a carriage — and to bravo the rain and the wind 
 when I feel inclined.' 
 
 ' You are joking, monsieur. I am not a fine lady, 
 ind shall, of course, do as you do.' 
 
 ' One thing more ; do you know my name ? ' 
 
 ' I heard the porter mention it once, though I have 
 forgotten it again, but * 
 
 ' Don't try to remember it, as I mean to travel 
 under another, and shall call myself Dalbreuse. I 
 do not wish to be known by any other.' 
 
 ' That is quite enough, mon&ieur ; for of course I 
 shall call you what you please. Well, I am settled, 
 and need not look after waistcoats and trousers to 
 make, and I am very glad that I shall not have to 
 leave you again.' 
 
 I was pleased at his pleasure, and delighted to find 
 someone who was attached to me who had known me 
 before I was married. 
 
 The next day Ernest came to see me, and after 
 shaking hands heartily, I said to him : 
 
 * You know that I have been at death's door ? ' 
 
 ' Your porter has just told me ; you ought to have 
 let us know. That is hardly the way to treat your 
 friends.' 
 
 s My dear Ernest, when I was in a state to let you 
 know I was out of danger ; and then I thought that 
 I would wait till I was entirely cured to tell you 
 about it myself.' 
 
 , What happened to you ? 
 
 I told Ernest everything, and how I was knocked 
 down because I had been looking after Eugenie too 
 
 F 
 
«66 the cuckold. 
 
 long. He was vexed at my weakness, and as he wag 
 About to find fault with me, I said : 
 
 c My dear friend, you will not have to find fault 
 with me on this account again, for I will not hear 
 my wife's name mentioned in the future, and promise 
 me that you will not name her to me.' 
 
 ' Most certainly.' 
 
 ' Besides that, I mean to travel, very likely for a 
 long time.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it, sorry as I shall be to lose 
 you, but change of scene will do you good. Are you 
 going by yourself ? ' 
 
 * No ; I have found a faithful companion — the man 
 who left the room as you came in. Didn't you re- 
 cognise him? It was that poor journeyman tailor 
 who lived in the garrets near Marguerite, and who 
 used to smash the windows to get into his room.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? And this man ' 
 
 ' Did not leave me for a moment whilst my life was 
 in danger, and yet I was a stranger to him, and now 
 I am going to take him with me. Will you take 
 this paper?' 
 
 'What am I to do with it? ' 
 
 6 It contains the portrait of her whom I used to 
 ^all my wife, but I shall not keep it any longer. 
 Later, if you like, you can give it to her son.' 
 
 6 Her son ! but, Blemont, he is your son also. You 
 will surely go and see him before setting out ? ' 
 
 ' No, the sight of him would be too painful for 
 me. I have told you what I think, and I shall not 
 see the child again.' 
 
 ' Are you not in the wrong ? The child is not re- 
 sponsible for his mother's faults.' 
 
 ' I may be unjust, but why has she given me cause 
 for being so ? I leave him under your charge, to 
 put him. to school when he is old enough ; and I will 
 give you a power of attorney, so that you may be 
 ible to obtain any money you may want. Excuse 
 
A MEETING. DEPARTURE. C7 
 
 one for all the responsibility and trouble I am giving 
 ;you.' 
 
 ' Dont mention that ; but I think that this poor 
 ..child ? 
 
 'Please don't speak of him again, as I wish to 
 banish his mother and him from my memory and my 
 heart. And yon must not call me Blemont any 
 longer ; for the future I wish to be called Dalbreuse, 
 ;and you must write to me under that name, for I 
 hope you will write to me.' 
 
 c Of course I shall, but I hope you don't intend to 
 
 :stop away for a century. The time will come when 
 
 you will be able to live in Paris, and meet .... the 
 
 person whom you are avoiding now without it making 
 
 any great impression on you.' 
 
 ' I hope so, but meanwhile I will go to Switzerland 
 and see the Alps, and to Italy, and then to the Pyre- 
 nees, and stop wherever I can enjoy myself and find 
 something to paint.' 
 
 ' Paint the portraits of all the pretty women you 
 can ; that will amuse you most. When do you think 
 of starting ? You must be quite well first.' 
 
 e In a week I hope to feel no more of my wound, 
 and you shall see a good deal of me before that. I 
 am to be allowed to go out to-morrow, and will come 
 .and see you.' 
 
 When he had gone I set about preparing for my 
 journey. I intended to let my apartments furnished 
 whilst I was away, and now I had only one wish — to 
 leave Paris and to kiss my daughter before I left the 
 .neighbourhood. 
 
 As soon as I could get out I bought two horses, 
 for I intended to travel on horseback as long as that 
 amused me. Then I went to see my mother, and I 
 found that, as I had feared, she knew that I was no 
 longer living with my wife, for of course some good- 
 natured friends had told her ; but she thought that 
 .only a quarrel was the cause of this rupture. She 
 
 f 2 
 
08 THE CTJCKOLD. 
 
 offered to try and reconcile us, for she also thoughts 
 that it was my fault, and preached me a sermon ow 
 the matter. 
 
 I thanked her, and told her I was leaving Paris^ 
 almost immediately on important business, and she 
 hoped that when I returned all would be right be- 
 tween my wife and me ; and leaving her that hope I 
 wished her good-bye. I was sure that she would not 
 go and see my wife, as that would upset her usual 
 habits. 
 
 I saw a good deal of Ernest and his wife before 
 my departure, and, sorry as they were that I was 
 going, they were glad on my account. I asked them 
 to let me know all they could about Henrietta, anct 
 made them promise never to mention Madame Ble- 
 mont's name to me, and at last one evening I paid 
 them my farewell visit, as I was to start the next 
 morning. 
 
 Pettermann had been ready for a long time. He 
 told me that he was a good rider ; we each had a 
 capital horse, and at six in the morning we left Paris. 
 He was very pleased to set out, and hummed an air 
 or two from the Marriage de Figaro, which he had 
 not done since I had been ill. 
 
 We went towards Montmorency, for Aubonne is 
 near there, and I wanted to see my daughter. I had 
 made secret inquiries about Madame Blemont at her 
 lodgings in the Rue d 5 Autin, and as one can find 
 out everything in Paris for money, I learnt that she 
 was in Paris at that moment, but that her little girl- 
 was not with her ; so Henrietta was in the country 
 alone without her mother, and I could not have 
 found a more favourable instant for seeing my little 
 girl. 
 
 Pettermann trotted behind me without ever asking 
 where we were going, and I was pleased at his dis- 
 cretion. After passing Montmoreney, and as soon. 
 as I saw the first houses of Aubonne, I said to him j 
 
▲ MEETING. DEPABTT7BE. 69 
 
 4 1 have some business in this village ; I want to 
 aee someone who is very dear to me, and I want you. 
 to find out for me where Madame Rennebaut lives. 
 She is an old lady who has a house in the neighbour- 
 hood.' 
 
 • Madame Rennebaut. Very well, monsieur, I will. 
 ask at the first baker's shop. Perhaps there is only 
 one in the place, and then she must get her bread 
 from him. Wait for me here, monsieur; I shall 
 soon be back.' 
 
 I let him go, and from the top of the low hill on 
 which I was I could see several country houses, and 
 I checked my horse, wishing I could see and kiss 
 Henrietta; the mere idea of this made my heart 
 beat. 
 
 When Pettermann came back, he said : 
 
 i I have had Madame Rennebaut's house pointed 
 out to me ; she is a rich childless widow, and keeps, 
 a gardener, cook, and housemaid.' 
 
 ' Where is her house ? ' 
 
 * At the other end of the village. It is a very nice 
 house, with an iron gate to the garden, and a terrace 
 from which there ought to be a splendid view.' 
 
 We went in the indicated direction, and as I know 
 that Madame Blemont was in. Paris I had no fears 
 about going to Madame Rennebaut's. I did not 
 know what Eugenie had said to her, but I should ask 
 to see my daughter, and I did not suppose I should 
 be refused. 
 
 I saw the house that had been indicated to Petter- 
 mann, but as we were passing the garden wall I saw 
 a woman walking along the terrace, holding a little 
 girl by the hand. 
 
 I recognised them both, and turning my horse 
 round I rode into the open fields as fast as I had 
 come, and did not stop till a clump of trees hid me 
 from view. Eugenie was there ; so there had been a 
 mistake and I could not go to the house ; she mighty 
 
TO THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 iperhaps, think that I wished to see her, and that 
 would be too humiliating. In any case, however, I 
 would not leave without giving my daughter a kiss. 
 
 I did not know what to do. Pettermann was be- 
 hind me but he said nothing. I dismounted and he 
 did the same, but I told him to keep his horse and 
 hold mine, and to keep behind the trees, as we should 
 be starting again soon. 
 
 I went towards the house by a circuitous way so 
 as not to be seen, feeling sure that I had not been 
 recognised before, as Eugenie was not looking in my 
 direction. 
 
 I was opposite the garden where they had been, 
 lyut I was hidden by a thick hornbeam hedge. There 
 was a walnut tree a few yards from me, and after 
 looking round to make sure that nobody saw me I 
 climbed into the tree, and was able to look into the 
 garden perfectly well without being seen. 
 
 They were coming back from a side walk, Henri- 
 etta skipping and playing whilst her mother walked 
 slowly, either looking on to the ground or indiffe- 
 rently around her. The child seemed to me to have 
 grown prettier, and I wished she would turn her face 
 towards me. 
 
 When they got near her mother sat down on a 
 bench that was close to the angle of the wall; she 
 had a book, but she put it down by her side and did 
 not read, and I wondered why not, and what she 
 was thinking about, as she did not talk with her 
 little girl, and looked serious and heavy-eyed ; was 
 she wearied of pleasure ? 
 
 Henrietta came up to her and gave her some flowers 
 which she had picked. She took her daughter on to 
 her knees, looked at her, and kissed her several times 
 almost frantically, then she let her go and fell into 
 her reverie again. 
 
 She had never kissed her child like that in my 
 presence, so I could only suppose that she thought 
 
£ MEETING. DEPARTURE. 71 
 
 4hat she would have pleased me by allowing me to 
 witness the caresses which she bestowed on her 
 daughter. 
 
 Nearly an hour passed without her moving or read- 
 ing, only occasionally looking at the little girl who 
 was playieg on the terrace ; nor did I think of how 
 time was passing, or of poor Pettermann who was 
 waiting for me, and I could not take my eyes off the 
 rgarden. 
 
 Suddenly, in running to her mother, Henrietta 
 stumbled and fell on her face, and I uttered a cry 
 simultaneously with Eugenie, who ran up to her 
 daughter, pieked her up and kissed her. The little 
 one cried a little, but soon got quiet and smiled, and 
 I heard her say : 
 
 6 It is nothing, mamma.' 
 
 Eugenie then looked about in all directions, and 
 holding the child in her arms she came to the edge 
 of the terrace, looked into the road, and I heard her 
 5ay: 
 
 e You did not cry out when you fell down ? ' 
 
 ' No, mamma.' 
 
 * Who was it then, I wonder ? Is your nurse in 
 ;the garden P But it was not her voice either.' 
 
 She was still looking about, and I did not dare to 
 move for fear of being discovered. 
 
 At last she sat down again, but in a few moments 
 «he said : 
 
 8 Let us go indoors, Henrietta.' 
 
 8 1 would rather stop in the garden.' 
 
 * But suppose you were to fall again.' 
 
 * I will not run any more, but play very quietly.' 
 She went away and my daughter remained by 
 
 herself. If I could only profit by this moment ; but 
 the wall was rather high and how could I get on to 
 the top of it ? Perhaps by mounting on the horse's 
 •saddle I might manage it. 
 
 I got down from the tree, and going to Pettermann, 
 
72 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 who was still in his saddle, I mounted my horse and: 
 signed to him to follow me. In a moment I was? 
 again close to the garden wall, so I got on to the 
 saddle, clambered on to the top of the wall, jumped 
 down and was on the terrace, leaving Pettermann 
 staring after me, without saving a word however. 
 
 I went a few steps into the garden, and seeing 
 Henrietta I ran up to her, took her into my arms and 
 covered her with kisses before she had time to re- 
 cognise me, but when she saw who it was she ex- 
 claimed joyfully : 
 
 ( It's my papa, it's my dear papa ; so you have 
 come back ; I have asked mamma every day when 
 you were coming.' 
 
 ' Be quiet, my dear child, and come here on to 
 the terrace, for I do not want to be seen from the 
 house.' 
 
 ' Wait a moment whilst I go and fetch mamma.' 
 
 ' No, no, don't go ; stay with me, it is so long 
 since I have seen you. Did you think of me some- 
 times 9 ' 
 
 e Yes, I wanted to see you very much.' 
 
 ' And what does your mother say when you speak 
 to her about me 9 ' 
 
 6 She says nothing .... she says : " That will 
 do, don't speak to me about your father ; " and yet 
 she speaks to me all day long about you, so let me 
 go and tell her you are here.' 
 
 'No, dear child, I have no time to talk to her 
 just now, and I must leave you also, for a long 
 time, very likely.' 
 
 ' You are not going away again ? Do stay with 
 ns and don't go.' 
 
 Poor child, how glad I should have been to have 
 stayed with her ! I sat down on the seat where 
 her mother had been sitting and took her on to 
 my knees. Por a moment I thought I would carry 
 her off with me, but it would not have done, for 
 
THE MONT D' OB. 73 
 
 =a child of that age can more easily spare her father 
 than her mother, so I niust suffer and be unhappy. 
 
 Suddenly I heard somebody calling out : 
 
 * Henrietta, are you not coming in ? ' 
 
 'Here is mamma/ the child cried, so I got up 
 quickly, put her down, kissed her and hurried away. 
 
 ' But, papa, wait ; here is mamma.' 
 
 I only went all the quicker, scrambled on to the 
 wall, dropped down the other side, and rushing up 
 to where Pettermann was, I got on horseback and 
 shouted : 
 
 ' Come on as fast as you can.' 
 
 We urged our horses to full speed, and were fai 
 from Aubonne without my daring to look round for 
 £ ear of seeing the terrace. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MONT d' OB. 
 
 Two years had passed since I left Paris, and in 
 ^company with my faithful Pettermann I had travelled 
 through Spain. I thought of Gil Bias, and that 
 made my stay there more pleasant ; I looked for his 
 -counterpart at inns and in public places, and once, 
 when a beggar held out his hat to me, I looked to 
 see whether he were not aiming at me with a blunder- 
 buss. Muleteers and dirty wenches reminded me of 
 Don Quixote and his amusing squire, and I should 
 iave liked to meet them in search of adventures. 
 <Gil Bias and Don Quixote, though they are only 
 
74 THE CCCKOLD. 
 
 imaginary characters, are so lifelike that sometimes 
 we fancy that we recognise them, and look for thenv 
 in the country in which the author has placed them, 
 so engraven are they in our memory. I know I could 
 not possibly go to the Highlands of Scotland without 
 thinking of Rob Roy; to the Mauritius without 
 speaking of Paul and Virginia ; nor to Italy without 
 remembering Corinne. 
 
 I had crossed the Pyrenees, but I had a fancy for 
 seeing Switzerland, so we left Prance again. I was* 
 no longer melancholy, silent and morose, as I had 
 been when I set out, and Pettermann had resumed 
 his habit of singing. Por some time we had travelled 
 on horseback, then I sold them and we went part of 
 Andalusia on foot, or took the public vehicles or a. 
 returning postchaise, and thus I overcame my sorrow, 
 though it was no easy work. 
 
 In the different countries through which I passed- 
 I saw husbands who were what I was, and who did 
 not seem to mind it much. Some, who were jealous 
 from self love, had mistresses and tyrannised over 
 their wives; others pretended to be philosophers, 
 and treated them very badly at home, whilst in public 
 they seemed to grant them perfect liberty. Many 
 shut their eyes to the unpleasant fact, and some 
 thought themselves too clever to be deceived ; but I 
 saw very few who really loved their wives, or deserved, 
 by their attentions and their conduct, that they should 
 be faithful to them. 
 
 I had a few intrigues, but I never lost my heart,, 
 and I do not think it was susceptible of love — it had 
 been too cruelly wounded. I was carrying a sick 
 man about with me, who was still weak and feared 
 violent emotions. 
 
 Pettermann hardly thought about women, and I 
 was very glad for his sake, but he did not omit to 
 get quite drunk once a montk, according to our 
 agreement ; but on other days he drank moderately^ 
 
THE MONT D* OB. 75 
 
 and I had nevei had to find fault with him once 
 since he had been in my service. He had a very even 
 and cheerful temper: sang when I was in a good 
 humour and was silent when he saw that I was other- 
 wise. He never asked a question or uttered an in- 
 discreet word ; he had not once mentioned Aubonne 
 to me, and I think that he believed I was a bachelor. 
 
 During the first year of my absence I heard fre- 
 quently from Ernest, to whom I used to write as- 
 soon as I was settled in a town. Faithfnl to his 
 promise he never mentioned her whom I wished to 
 forget entirely, but he sent me news of Henrietta 
 and of little Eugene. He told me that my daughter 
 was charming, and that he had seen her several 
 times, but whether at her mother's or not I could- 
 not tell. How I longed to see her I I would return 
 to Paris for her sake, and after seeing her I would 
 start on my travels again. As for my .... as for 
 little Eugene, I could not think of the child without; 
 a renewal of my sorrow, for though I would gladly 
 have done so, I never could share my tenderness be- 
 tween him and his sister. Poor Eugene, what a sad 
 look out for him ! 
 
 Ernest's last letter appeared to me to be different 
 from his former ones and I thought he was reticent* 
 In his last I noticed this sentence : 
 
 ' There have been many changes here within & 
 short time, and you would no longer reeognise the* 
 person whom you are avoiding ; I cannot say more, 
 for fear of vexing you and of being accused of having: 
 broken my promise. But return as soon as you can, 
 for your children watch to see you, and your friends 
 also.' 
 
 He would persist in calling them both my children, 
 T et I had only one. What did I care about the 
 that he mentioned 9 He surely could not 
 
76 Tfi£ CUCKOLD. 
 
 wish to make me take an interest in that woman f 
 I could not believe it, and so did not give him any 
 answer abont the matter. 
 
 Before returning to Paris I went to Auvergne, that 
 picturesque and mountainous country — the French 
 Scotland — which Frenchmen who are fond of rocks, 
 : glaciers, and precipices would go to oftener if it were 
 not so near to them. We admire what is far from 
 us ; we all wish to see Italy and Switzerland and we 
 never think of the Auvergne, of Brittany, or of 
 Touraine. 
 
 Sometimes, struck with a beautiful view, I would 
 say to Pettermann : 
 
 'Is not this splendid? What do you think of 
 itP' 
 
 But he was not a painter, and I saw no enthusiasm 
 in his face ; he would only shake his head and answer 
 coldly : 
 
 ' It is pretty, but it is not equal to Munich.' 
 
 Munich was his native place, so he was at all 
 -events a man who thought highly of his own 
 -country. 
 
 As we were near Mont d* Or I made up my mind 
 to go and try the waters, and see that little town 
 -where invalids, sightseers, and people who did not 
 know what to do with themselves ail met together. 
 
 I stopped at the best hotel where there were many 
 strangers, especially English, but there were also 
 many French people, and also some of those cavaliers 
 of fortune, men of perfect manners, like one sees 
 them in Paris at large parties, and who come to Mont 
 d' Or to gamble, for a great deal of gambling goes 
 on at watering-places, and many a visitor who came 
 in grand stylo leaves altogether ruined. 
 
 I did not play, but among those who came to 
 
 dance and enjoy the music — neither of which I could 
 
 endure now — I could not help noticing a Parisienne 
 
 of about twenty-five. She was very pretty and seemed 
 
THE MONT d' OB. 7T 
 
 ito know it; but her coquetry was very frank and 
 amiable, and seemed to say : 
 
 * I am a flirt and I cannot help it, so yon mnst ex- 
 pense my faults and take me as I am, for I shall not 
 waiter.' 
 
 Her name was Caroline Derbin, and at first I 
 
 -thought she was married or a widow, for I never 
 
 ^should have guessed that she was a girl from her 
 
 manner or her decided tone ; she was so, however, 
 
 :and was said to be rich and already mistress of her 
 
 fortune. Rich, pretty, and still unmarried ! no doubt 
 
 it was from choice. 
 
 She was with her uncle — a M. Roquencourt — a 
 little thin man of about sixty, very talkative — but, 
 then, that was all he could do — and he took great 
 care of his niece and did all she wished. 
 
 If she was a coquette and tried to please men, at 
 least she was never out of temper and had none of 
 the airs of a fine lady. One soon got to know her, 
 ;and she soon seemed to be an old friend ; but, then, 
 were those easy ways only the outcome of her virtue 
 and her good principles? I could not decide the 
 matter, for I would never again judge from appear- 
 ances. What did it matter to me, as I wanted her 
 neither for my wife nor my mistress ? Her society 
 pleased me, and that was all that I required. 
 
 M. Roquencourt was very fond of talking and I 
 was a good listener, which is a rarer thing than 
 people imagine, and I soon became his especial 
 favourite. 
 
 ' Monsieur Dalbreuse,' he said to me, the fourth 
 morning after my arrival at Mont d' Or, *. you know 
 I never intended to come and take the waters, but it 
 was an idea of my niece to come here, and so we had 
 -to start immediately. I remember thirty-five years 
 iago I was at Plombieres, with the celebrated Lekain ; 
 .did you know him ? ' 
 ' No, monsieur. 9 
 
78 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 * Of course, you are too young ; well, I was acting 
 with him * 
 
 ' Oh ! then you used to act ? ' 
 
 'As an amateur. Did you know Madamoiselle 
 Coutat ? She was acting with us.' 
 
 6 ~No, monsieur.' 
 
 c Why you nave seen nothing, monsieur. What 
 talent ! what charms ! One day I was acting in 
 Tartufe — no, I don't think it was Tartufe ' 
 
 Just then his niece came and took his arm, and I 
 was very glad of it. 
 
 ' Now, uncle, it is time to take a drive ; the weather 
 is lovely, and you can talk about acting another time. 
 Will you come with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse ? ' 
 
 She said this as if we were old acquaintances, and 
 I liked her frank and open manners : and what dicl 
 it matter to me if I was deceived in her ? and so I 
 went with them. 
 
 A handsome carriage was down below, and I no- 
 ticed that those men who bowed to the fair Caroline 
 looked at me enviously when I took my seat. A 
 charming woman of five and twenty who has a 
 carriage will always make numerous conquests, for 
 some are in love with the woman, the others with the 
 carriage, but as I neither coveted the one nor the 
 other I sat down quite calmly, enjoying my drive be- 
 cause I was not occupied with casting loving looks- 
 at my opposite neighbour. 
 
 Occasionally she admired the scenery, but suddenly 
 she burst out laughing at the dress of a lady water 
 drinker who had just passed us, and whilst pretending 
 to listen to her uncle's account of his acting, I was 
 really laughing at her remarks. 
 
 The drive seemed very short, but we met at the 
 public rooms in the evening, and I amused myself by 
 watching Madamoiselle Derbin. In society she was 
 more coquettish, and, therefore, not so agreeable as 
 when we were more alon«i As I was not making ujr 
 
THE MONT D* OB. 71> 
 
 to her, I discreetly left her when I saw several adorers 
 coming towards her, but with that unaccountable* 
 behaviour which is so common amongst women, she 
 appeared to seek me out, and would frequently come 
 and sit down by my side. 
 
 « Don't you dance ? ! she said to me towards the- 
 end of the evening. 
 
 f I don't care for it any longer.' 
 ' And you don't play cards ? ' 
 ' Their play is too high here. I have quite enough 
 to live on, and do not care to risk my fortune with- 
 people who would not scruple to rob me of it.' 
 6 You are a philosopher ! ' 
 6 Oh, dear no ! ' 
 
 ' But you have no love affairs on here.* 
 ' Do you think it absolutely necessary to have love 
 affairs on when one is at a watering-place ? ' 
 
 ' I did not say that, but I think you are an ori- 
 ginal character.' 
 
 * On the contrary, I can assure you that there are 
 many like me.' 
 
 When she left me she looked at me rather strangely* 
 Did she wish to rank me amongst her numerous con- 
 quests ? Possibly, for what she had just said gave 
 me a peculiar idea of her discretion. A young un- 
 married lady who thought it strange that you did 
 not have any intrigues .... and yet I preferred to 
 think that it only came from her originality. 
 
 I had been at Mont d' Or for a fortnight and had 
 only intended to spend a week there. But I enjoyed 
 myself ; the society was agreeable, but if Caroline 
 and her uncle had not stayed I should have gone 
 away also, for I had <£ot used to them. I was not 
 paying Caroline any attentions, but she was very 
 pretty, and her black eyes had sometimes a tender, 
 at others a mischievous expression, and even if a 
 man is not in love there is always a charm attached 
 to th^ 'Tesence of a pretty woman, and it was most 
 
€0 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 likely that charm which kept me there. There was 
 -not a ball or a concert in the public rooms every 
 evening, and then we remained in the hotel ; and 
 whilst some played cards the most talked. We had 
 a few persons of title amongst ns and they were not 
 the most agreeable, but we left them to amuse them- 
 selves in their own corner, and we chatted with the 
 clever artist who had a store of interesting anecdotes, 
 or with the man who would tell us his last love affair, 
 and certainly M. Roquencourt was not the least 
 talkative amongst us. Was a town mentioned, he 
 had acted there ; or if a celebrated person was talked 
 about he had known an actor who imitated him 
 .exactly, and he himself would give us a sample. 
 
 I liked to listen, talked little and never about my- 
 self, and Caroline, who, in spite of her coquettish 
 and flighty ways, yet noticed and remarked every- 
 thing that was goin£ on around her, said to me one 
 day: 
 
 ' Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody relates their ad- 
 ventures except you ; why is that P ' 
 
 ' 1 suppose because I have none to relate, madam- 
 xnoiselle.' 
 
 • Or because you do not choose to do so ; but, of 
 course, you can do as you please. I tell everything 
 -about myself, because up till now I have had no 
 
 secrets to keep. I am an orphan ; my father, who 
 was an army contractor, left me an income of twenty- 
 five thousand francs, and I live with M. Roquencourt, 
 my guardian and maternal uncle, who lets me do just 
 as I please, because he knows I have been used to do 
 -so ever since I was a child. That is my whole his- 
 tory, and now you know me as well as if we had 
 been brought up together.' 
 
 Perhaps she thought that her confidence would 
 beget mine, but I merely answered ; 
 
 * How comes it that, pretty and rich as you are 
 jou have not yet married ? * 
 
THB MONT P' OR. 81 
 
 • I was sure you would ask me that ! Surely, mon- 
 sieur, I need not be in a hurry to get married and to 
 he in the power of a man who very likely would not 
 let me do as I pleased 9 Iain very happy with my 
 uncle and he is very kind, especially when he is talk- 
 ing about actors % so that I tremble at the thought 
 of° losing my liberty; and, then, I will tell you 
 plainly I have never yet met a man who was worthy 
 of such a sacrifice.' 
 
 i You are fortunate, madamoiselle, and are quite 
 right to remain as you are, believe me. Do not risk 
 your life's repose by binding yourself to someone 
 who you think loves you, and who will, perhaps, ter- 
 ribly deceive you. No, do not get married.' 
 
 Caroline looked at me in surprise and said nothing 
 for a few moments, then she said, with a laugh : 
 
 6 You are the first man who has ever given me such 
 advice ; but I don't think you are like the rest of 
 
 the world.' 
 
 The next day, after having listened to and laughed 
 at the pretty things several young men had said to 
 her, she came, as she often did, and sat down near 
 the window from which I was looking at the view. 
 
 *You can always admire these mountains, mon- 
 sieur.' 
 
 ' Yes, madamoiselle ; I think it is a very interesting 
 
 country.' 
 
 * Do you paint 9 ' 
 
 * Yes, but I am only an amateur, and sometimes I 
 try my hand at portraits.' 
 
 * How kind it would be of you to paint mine ; we 
 should have plenty of time here, and I would sit to 
 you as often as you liked. My likeness has often 
 been painted but never satisfactorily. Will you do 
 it, monsieur ? ' 
 
 How could I refuse a pretty woman who was fixing 
 her charming eyes upon me P Besides that, I had 
 no motive for a refusal. 
 
 o 
 
TRI CUCKOLD. 
 
 'I will paint your portrait, madamoiselle, but I 
 cannot hope to be more successful than those who 
 have already done so.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you may be, but that does not matter ; 
 it will amuse us. When shall we begin P f 
 
 ' When you like.' 
 
 ' Immediately, then ; I will sit to you in my uncle's 
 room ; but I suppose I ought to have my hair dressed 
 first of all?' 
 
 ' No ; I will paint you just as you usually are, and 
 will go and get my paints and brushes.' 
 
 f Meanwhile I will go and tell my uncle. How 
 kind you are ! ' 
 
 On going to my rooms I found Pettermann brushing 
 my clothes and singing — he was very careful in keep- 
 ing them in good repair. 
 
 ? I think we shall stop here a few days longer ; you 
 7 are not tired of the place ? ' I said. 
 
 ' No, monsieur ; it is all the same to me where I 
 am, and the wine is very good here. By the way, 
 what day of the month is it, monsieur? * 
 
 ' The seventeenth.' 
 
 * Only the seventeenth ! the month seems to have 
 gone very slowly.' 
 
 I knew why he had asked the question, and so said 
 to him : 
 
 ' As the wine is so good, and I am enjoying myself, 
 it is only fair that you should do the same ; so act 
 as if it were the end of the month.' 
 
 ' No, monsieur ; an agreement is sacred. Since I 
 have been with you I have begun to rsspect myself, 
 and if I get drunk once a month the reason is that 
 I should get ill if I gave up drinking altogether. 
 But if the wine is good the women are terribly 
 curious.' 
 
 ' How do you know that, Pettermann P ' 
 
 * Because for the last few days they have all been 
 at me to try and make me talk.' 
 
THE MONT D* OB. 8$ 
 
 "'Who?* 
 
 ' First of all the landlady, then the servant girls ; 
 frat as they saw that that would not do, a pretty 
 young lady came herself, as if by accident ' 
 
 i A lady stopping in the hotel ? f 
 
 'Yes, the one with a little uncle who is always 
 talking.' 
 
 1 Madamoiselle Derbin you mean.' 
 
 \ That's it.' 
 
 * What did she ask you ? ' 
 
 f She pretended to be going through the yard 
 where I was, and first of all she said to me : " You 
 are in M. Dalbreuse's service?" so I said: "Yes, 
 madamoiselle." ' 
 
 < Well, Pettermann.' 
 
 1 So she went on : " Have you been with him a long 
 time ? " I told her about two years, and then she 
 asked whether you were a kind master and what you 
 did when you were in Paris; so I said it was no 
 business of mine, and then she went off, but came 
 back almost skipping, and tried to slip a piece of 
 gold into my hand, and whispered to me : " He is 
 not married, is he?" But I would not take the 
 money, and replied with a bow : " No, madamoiselle, 
 lie is not married," and she ran away laughing, and 
 said: "The servant is almost as original as his 
 master." If she is not curious I don't know who 
 is.' 
 
 So she absolutely wished to know who I was and 
 what my position in the world was, and my silenee 
 had vexed her. But it was very strange to ask if I 
 were married. Pettermann thought I was not, and 
 I had never said anything that could make him 
 think otherwise ; but it could not matter to her un- 
 less she felt some affection for me, which I could not 
 believe, as I had never mentioned a word of love to 
 her. It must have been the mere caprice of a co- 
 quette who wished to subdue everybody to her sway, 
 
 a 2 
 
84 THIS CUCKOLD. 
 
 as she had only known me for a fortnight . I also* 
 thought that I could not inspire love any more — that 
 must quite be a thing of the past. 
 
 I said this to myself whilst I was examining my 
 colour-box, but that need not prevent me going to 
 Madamoiselle Derbin, as she was waiting for me, 
 and even if she liked me that was no reason why I 
 should shun her ; we must leave such things to the 
 patriarch in Genesis, whom I was not at all inclined 
 to imitate. 
 
 When I reached their apartment the uncle was 
 there and thanked me for my kindness, and Caroline 
 was very much troubled about what position she 
 should assume ; but I begged her not to think that I 
 was painting her, so that there might not be any- 
 thing stiff about it, and then I began. 
 
 I had a very obedient model, and her uncle walked 
 about the room and said presently : 
 
 ' It will be a very good portrait, I am sure. I was 
 painted as Scapin once, but I don't remember the 
 painter's name, though I shall do so directly. He 
 was at Bordeaux, at the Countess of Yernae's, and 
 there I got to know Dugazon. He was as funny in 
 society as on the stage. Did you ever see him 
 act?' 
 
 ' I think so, monsieur, but I was so young that I 
 can scarcely remember.' 
 
 ' To come back to my portrait ; the painter thought 
 me so funny in the Fourberies de Scapin .... you 
 know the play ? ' 
 
 'Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 c What a question to ask, uncle ! As if he would 
 not know Moiiere ! You had far better look how my 
 portrait is getting on.' 
 
 ' You cannot expect anything in a quarter of an 
 hour. Well, I was painted as Scapin, and it was a 
 capital likenesss. But Scapin was not my best cha- 
 racter ; I assure you I have made people cry * 
 
THE MONT D* OB. 8&~ 
 
 * Uncle, you are disturbing Monsieur Dalbreuse, 
 and it will be your fault if the likeness is not good/ 
 
 ' Tour uncle can go on talking, mademoiselle ; I 
 assure you that it does not put me out in the 
 least.' 
 
 She made a little vexed grimace, which I should 
 have liked to transfer to the canvas, as it suited her 
 very well. I think she hoped her uncle would leave 
 us, but he had no idea of doing so. 
 
 After walking up and down the room again he 
 came and watched me working, and said : 
 
 6 Eeally Caroline is rather like Mademoiselle Lange,. 
 especially about the eyes. You did not know Made- 
 moiselle Lange, who acted at the Francais ? ' 
 
 ' No, monsieur.' 
 
 6 She was a most natural actress and a charming 
 woman ; I knew her well. Ske taught me how ta 
 apply my rouge, which is a very difficult thing to do^ 
 properly, as I used to daub it all over my face. I 
 had been acting Gros-Bene, in the Depit Amoureaux,, 
 very successfully, in fact people had laughed till they 
 cried, and when it was over the Lange took me aside 
 and said : " Tou acted divinely, but, my dear fellow,, 
 you don't know how to put on your rouge ; you have 
 put it on everywhere in blotches, and that is not the 
 way to do it; your eyes are very bright, but put 
 plenty below them, and you will see how much 
 brighter they are. Then, put it on more lightly still 
 behind the ears, and hardly any on the lower part of 
 your face." I followed her advice and it acted 
 admirably.' 
 
 ' Uncle, are you not engaged to play backgammon 
 this morning with that Englishman whom you chal- 
 lenged yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Not this morning ; it is for this evening. Back- 
 gammon is a capital game; do you play, Monsieur 
 Dalbreuse ? * 
 
 6 A little, monsieur.' 
 
86 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 * Daziacourt taught me ; he was a first-rate player. 
 I remember one night we were playing for one of his 
 wigs; it was the wig he wore in ... . wait a 
 moment, it was an excellent wig and had a great 
 deal to do with the piece, It was the wig ' 
 
 Caroline got up impatiently, and said : 
 
 ( I do not wish to tire monsieur, and we have done 
 enough for to-day ; it is so fine that I want some 
 fresh air. TJncle, would you kindly fetch my hat.' 
 
 M. Roquencourt went out of the room scratching 
 his ears, and murmuring : 
 
 ' I cannot remember the name of the part.' 
 
 As soon as he had gone, Madamoiselle Derbin 
 said : 
 
 6 To-morrow we will have our sitting sooner, whilst 
 he has gone to read the papers, for he is dreadful 
 with his actors and plays. One really does not know 
 what one is about, and I think it must be much 
 better to work when there is not somebody present 
 who is talking incessantly ; that is to say, if you do 
 not mind being alone with me, monsieur.' 
 
 She smiled at me as she said this, but yet there 
 was something rather sad in her smile. Certainly 
 that young person could assume many different looks. 
 !Now laughing, mischievous, mocking; and then 
 serious, pensive and drooping, she was never the 
 same for two minutes together. Was it an art, or 
 did her various feelings at once depict themselves on 
 her features 9 It did not, after all, matter much to 
 me, but as I had not answered her question I felt 
 rather embarrassed, but just at that moment her 
 uncle returned with the hat, exclaiming : 
 
 * At any rate I know I won the wig, and Dazin- 
 court jumped up from his chair in a temper and said : 
 " I will not play with you ?jn.y more ! " ' 
 
 Madamoiselle Derbin did not care to hear any 
 more, so she took my arm and we went out. She had 
 not even asked me whether I felt inclined to go for 
 
THE MONT d' OB. 87 
 
 a walk with her, but she guessed I should like it, and 
 she guessed rightly, for I was never bored when with 
 her. 
 
 The next day I went to her uncle's apartments at 
 the appointed hour and found her alone, but I did 
 not feel the least embarrassed, for I had no declara- 
 tion of love to make to her, so that I should not 
 liave told her the fact had I even been very fond of 
 her. I was not free, but I did not wish to deceive 
 lier and I had nothing to fear, for I should never 
 love again; and though I liked her society, her cha- 
 racter, her wit, her winning grace, and did justice to 
 ner charms, I was not in love with her — as I have 
 just said, I should never be in love again. 
 
 We began immediately and I worked with pleasure, 
 though at times almost overcome by the recollection 
 of those happy sittings which my wife had given 
 me. What a pleasure it was to paint her, what a 
 smile she had, and how full of love her eyes used 
 ^o be! 
 
 I suppose my looks showed something of what was 
 going on within me, for twice my model asked me 
 whether I was not well. I assured her that there 
 was nothing the matter with me, when she said : 
 
 ' You look rather sad, however ; and if it is a 
 trouble to paint me, you are not obliged to do it.' 
 
 * On the contrary, madamoiselle, it gives me great 
 ipleasure.' 
 
 8 How strangely you say that ! * 
 
 I went on working and did not answer, and Caro- 
 line became serious and did not say another word. 
 
 6 Would you be kind enough to smile a little, 
 madamoiselle? you are not so serious as a rule.' 
 
 6 You are saying nothing to amuse me, monsieur ; 
 and you yourself .... good heavens, how charming 
 jom. look ! ' 
 
 6 Perhaps I am thinking of something that is not 
 wery cheerful, and at this moment I am thinking ' 
 
88 ' rB - E CUCKOLD. 
 
 < Of whom?' 
 
 * Of a person whose portrait I also DaintecL* 
 
 * A woman ? ' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 4 1 suppose you loved her?' 
 
 * Certainly.' 
 
 Caroline changed colour and got up suddenly r 
 saying : 
 
 6 Enough for to-day ; I will not sit any more. 
 
 'But, mademoiselle, we have only just begun.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, but I am tired ; and, besides, I don't 
 care about having my portrait now.' 
 
 * What whim has seized you now 9 ' 
 
 6 Surely, monsieur, I may have my whims if I 
 please.' 
 
 < I am also very sorry, but I have begun your por- 
 trait and want to finish it.' 
 
 6 1 tell you that I don't want to have it. . . . You 
 would be obliged to keep it, and I should like to know 
 what good that would be to you ? But, good gracious^ 
 don't look so cross ; here I am, don't be angry ; I 
 will sit as long as you please.' 
 
 She took her seat again ; she had wiped her eyes- 
 hastily, and yet I thought I still saw some tear& 
 sparkling in them. What a strange woman ! what 
 a mixture of coquetry and feeling ! What was passing 
 in her heart? Sometimes I feared to guess. 
 
 I worked for a long time but did not make much 
 progress, I was too much taken up with my past and 
 present. Caroline was thoughtful. At times she 
 spoke to me about Paris, and I knew that she wanted 
 to know what my profession had been, and I saw no 
 harm in telling her that I had been a barrister, and- 
 that seemed to please her. Why should she take 
 such an interest in all that concerned me? I had 
 never said a word of love to her. 
 
 Our third sitting was more cheerful; we were 
 getting used to one another. When I sighed she 
 
THE LAW COURTS GAZETTE/ 89 
 
 scolded me and told me to work better, and when she 
 was thoughtful I asked her to smile and to look 
 coquettish, like she did in society. The time of the 
 sittings passed very quickly, and I began to fear lest 
 I should get too much used to Caroline's society. 
 Ernest was certainly quite right when he advised me 
 tto paint pretty women as a. distraction. 
 
 CHAPTER VU. 
 
 THE - LAW COURTS GAZETTE.' 
 
 We had had ten sittings and the portrait was nearly 
 -finished, and it might have been left as it was, for 
 Caroline was delighted with it, but I found that 
 iihere were still one or two little things to be done to 
 the dress and the hair, and I thought we should both 
 be sorry when the sittings came to an end. 
 
 One wet evening, when we had all remained in the 
 liotel with several tourists who had just arrived, the 
 ^conversation became general. An old gentleman, 
 who was almost as talkative as M. Roquencourt, 
 though not nearly so agreeable, was entertaining us 
 *with some scandalous case of which there was an 
 account in the f Law Courts Gazette.' A husband 
 charged his wife with adultery, and he told us that 
 .there were some very recy details in the case, which 
 the ' Gazette ' reported and made its own comments 
 *on, and he went up to his room to fetch the paper, 
 which he would insist on reading to us. I would 
 gladly have let him off this act of kindness. 
 
90 THE OfUCXOLD. 
 
 Whenever the subject was mentioned I felt un- 
 comfortable, but the gentlemen laughed and made- 
 their jokes about the deceived husbands, and I tried 
 in vain to laugh also. I wanted to change the con- 
 versation but did not dare to, for I fancied they would 
 guess my motive. Luckily Madamoiselle Derbin was 
 close to me, and she did not appear to take much 
 interest in the anecdotes which the 'Law Courts 
 Gazette ' reported. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said an Englishman, e with us we 
 look at the matter from a different point of view ; it 
 becomes almost a commercial operation, for we make 
 the lady's lover pay heavy damages.' 
 
 ' Can damages restore the honour of an outraged 
 husband ? ' said an old Spaniard. ' In my country; 
 the reparation is swift but terrible.' 
 
 1 Gentlemen,' said M. Eoquencourt, e I remember' 
 once playing in the Marriage de Figaro with one of 
 my friends who was in the same plight as the hus- 
 band in the f Gazette.' He played Almaviza, and as 
 everyone knew what had happened to him, you may 
 guess what allusions were made during the play, and 
 how people laughed. Nevertheless, he acted very 
 well. I was Figaro, and I had the most beautiful 
 dress that you can imagine, white and cherry-coloured 
 silk covered with embroidery. It cost me a great 
 deal of money, but Dugazon, who saw it, was so de- 
 lighted with it, that he had & similar one made for 
 himself.' 
 
 This time I was delighted to hear M. Roquencourt 
 talking of the parts that he had played, as I thought 
 it would change the conversation, and I was just 
 going to ask him for some anecdotes about Dugazon, 
 when the confounded gentleman arrived with the 
 paper in his hand, exclaiming : 
 
 'Here is the 'Gazette'; I can assure you thai 
 there are some very amusing details in it, which oaa 
 be read bofore ladies,' 
 
»HE 'LAW COURTS GAZETTE.' M* 
 
 6 Does this conversation amuse you ? ' I asked 
 
 Caroline. 
 
 ' Do you think that I listen to all their chatter ? 
 I think my thoughts are worth more than their 
 
 talk.' 
 
 As she said this she looked at me tenderly and put 
 her hand on my arm, for I had sat down by her side, 
 but I was quite taken up with the 'Law Courts 
 
 Gazette.' 
 
 The old gentleman put on his spectacles and went 
 up to a lamp, for he was determined that we should 
 listen to the newspaper— some people will amuse you 
 in spite of yourself. 
 
 < Gentlemen, here it is ; it occurred in Paris, and 
 the names are given in full.' 
 
 ' Yery pleasant for the husband,' said the Spaniard 
 in a low voice; 'all Europe will know that he is a> 
 cuckold.' 
 
 < The husband is a great fool to take proceedings 
 for such a trifle,' said the young Frenchman; 'he 
 deserves that the whole world should make fun of 
 him.' 
 
 6 A trifle, monsieur ! ' the Spaniard replied, 6 when 
 it affects our honour.' 
 
 f " Where the devil has it been placed ? " Beau- 
 marchais said that, and he was very witty. When I 
 was playing Figaro, I was with ' 
 
 ' Well, gentlemen, do you not wish to listen to the 
 paper ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, we are waiting for you.' 
 
 ' " A case, common enough, indeed, but very amu- 
 sing in its details, was tried yesterday in the Court 
 of First Instance. Ferdinand Julien Belan married, 
 in June, eighteen hundred and twenty-four, Madam- 
 oiselle Arinide Constance Fidele de Beausire. For 
 some years- 
 
 ' Ferdinand Belan ! ' I said, and immediately every- 
 one looked at me and exclaimed : 
 
THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' Do you know him ? Is lie one of your friends 9 
 "What sort of a man is he ? Do tell us. 5 
 
 ' I know a person of that name, certainly, but it 
 may not be the same. He was married, but I have 
 not seen him for a long time, and I know nothing 
 about his affairs.' 
 
 6 Most likely it is the same man.' 
 
 f He must look an awful fool ! ' said a young 
 tourist. 
 
 1 A husband who has been deceived must have a 
 strange sort of face,' said another. 
 
 ' Just what a young man would say,' replied the 
 ^Englishman. ' If it could be seen in the face, French- 
 men would laugh a good deal less.' 
 
 e Gentlemen, I acted Sganarelle in the Gocu Imagi- 
 naire, at Bordeaux. I have acted the part in Paris 
 .since, but what I am going to tell you happened in 
 Bordeaux. The play had been settled for a long 
 time, but suddenly the man who was to have taken 
 the part of Sganarelle went bankrupt, losing two 
 hundred thousand francs ; so you may guess he was 
 not much inclined to act in a comedy. All the 
 company were in despair, when Mole said to them : 
 " I know somebody who could help you out of the 
 difficulty if he chose, for he is one of my friends and 
 acts comedies like an angel, and he happens to be at 
 Bordeaux just now." Of course they all begged him 
 to bring his friend, so Mole came and saw me, and 
 «aid : " Will you take the part of Sganarelle in the 
 Gocu Imaginaire ? " and I replied : " Why shouldn't 
 J ? " 
 
 ' He told me I should meet some charming women 
 whom I should be able to kiss, and then asked me 
 whether I kne-w the part, and when I said "No," he 
 told me that it was very long, and bet me a truffled 
 turkey that I should not know it by the next day, 
 but the next day I acted Sganarelle and had a pro- 
 digious success.' 
 
THE 'LAW COURTS GAZETTE,' 93 
 
 ( Gentlemen, I fancy that 1 Drought down tne news- 
 paper to read it to yon, and if you will allow 
 me ' 
 
 That confounded fellow would not be quiex, and 
 although I knew it was about my friend Belan, I was 
 not at all curious to hear an account of the case. 
 Luckily, at this moment the landlady of the hotel 
 came into the drawing-room, and after bowing to 
 her guests, she said to Madamoiselle Derbin : 
 
 6 Will you allow me, madamoiselle ? If I am not 
 putting you out too much I should—' 
 
 ' What is it, madame ? ' 
 
 8 There is a French lady who has been here since 
 this morning, in order to take the waters — for she 
 has certainly not come for pleasure, as she looks very 
 ill. 5 
 
 * What can I do, madame ? ' Caroline asked. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, madamoiselle, but this is it. 
 The lady — who is evidently very well bred — has no- 
 body with her but her maid, and as she has not left 
 her room since morning, I think she must find it very 
 solitary. I went up just now and told her that the 
 guests met in the drawing-room in the evening, and 
 that she ought to join them as it would be a little 
 change, but she neither promised nor refused to come. 
 She seems shy ; but perhaps if you, madamoiselle, 
 were to ask her to come I do not thiuk that she 
 would refuse, and a little company would do her 
 ^ood.' 
 
 Many of us begged Madamoiselle Derbin to do as 
 the landlady asked her ; and after assuring us that 
 she was not certain of success, and that, perhaps, we 
 might have to confine our pretty speeches to the 
 ladies who were then present, she went. 
 
 I was very glad of this diversion, for it had caused 
 
 Belan's affair to be forgotten ; but I saw that the old 
 
 gentleman did not think himself beaten, for he went 
 
 &nd sat in a corner of the room, looking very cross, 
 
94 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 but still holding the ' Law Courts Gazette ' in his 
 hand. 
 
 As Madamoiselle Derbin did not return directly 
 Borne ventured on the observation that she would not 
 succeed in persuading the lady to leave the solitude 
 of her room, but the old uncle said : 
 
 ' Gentlemen, I am sure she will succeed in this 
 matter as she does in everything else ; and if she 
 has made up her mind to bring this lady here she 
 will do it. My niece is like me ; I dare say that I 
 have played twenty parts in my life .... what am 
 I saying ? at least fifty, and I acted at least a dozen 
 which I learnt in a day, as I did that in the Gocw 
 Imaginaire. But that was a very long part, and 
 yet ' 
 
 ' Here is Madamoiselle bringing the lady,' said a 
 young man, half opening the door, at which Caro- 
 line appeared, giving her hand to the new arrival. 
 Everybody rose to bow to her, and as I was about 
 to do the same thing I fell back into my chair, 
 for in this thin, pale, sickly-looking woman I recog- 
 nised Eugenie. 
 
 She had not seen me, for she had merely bowed 
 on coming in without looking at anyone and sat 
 down immediately ; and just behind her, as I was, 
 I neither ventured to move nor breathe. 
 
 Madamoiselle Derbin told us that she had found 
 great difficulty in persuading her to come, and I 
 heard one of our young men say : 
 
 ' I know that lady, I have met her in Paris. Her 
 name is Blemont, and her husband has left her;, 
 he is a bad fellow — a gambler and a libertine.' 
 
 6 Poor woman ! ' M. Roquencourt said ; e there are 
 so many of those wretches of husbands who act in 
 the same way. I was asked to take the part of 
 Othello, but I refused.' 
 
 I looked at the young man who had mentioned 
 mv wife's name, and I was sure he did not know 
 
THE 'LAW COURTS GAZETTE.* 95 s 
 
 me, as I had never met him out ; but the sight of 
 Eugenie brought back all my troubles, and though I 
 wished to get out of her neighbourhood I did not 
 dare to move, for were she to look round she would 
 see me. 
 
 However, matters could not remain like this long, 
 and Caroline, who was not talking to Eugenie any 
 longer, turned to me to ask why I did not come and 
 speak to them. 
 
 I did not know what to say, but my wife pushed 
 back her chair to make way for me, and on looking 
 at me she fell back fainting. 
 
 f She is not well,' Caroline exclaimed ; * bring some 
 smelling salts, and open the windows to give her 
 more air.' 
 
 Of course there was a general commotion, and I 
 got up to make my escape from the room, but Caro- 
 line called me back and asked me to help to carry 
 the lady to the open window, and I could not well 
 refuse; but the sight of her closed eyes, pale lips 
 and sunken cheeks gave me a feeling akin to pleasure, 
 for though I was not hard-hearted, she had caused 
 me such trouble, and I felt as if my vengeance were 
 beginning. Why should I leave the room ? I had 
 nothing to avoid her for, and so I made up my mind 
 to see how she would bear my presence. 
 
 Whilst these ideas were passing through my head 
 Caroline had pushed me towards Eugenie's armchair, 
 asking me whether I was going to stand there all the 
 evening ? so we carried her to the window and smel- 
 ling salts were brought. 
 
 6 Hold up her head. I don't know what you are 
 thinking of this evening ; you don't seem to hear 
 me. Poor woman, how pale she is; but she is 
 pretty in spite of that, don't you think so ? ' 
 
 6 Yes, madamoiselle.' 
 
 6 Well, I am fortunate even to get that out of you* 
 Ah ! she i« coming to.' 
 
96 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Slie opened her eyes and seemed to be trying to 
 collect her thoughts, and as she looked slowly round 
 I was the first person she saw ; so she immediately 
 looked down and put her hands to her forehead. 
 
 1 Ton frightened me, inadame/ Caroline said ; 'how 
 do yon feel now ? ' 
 
 * Thank you, it was only an attack of giddiness. 
 I am better, but I will go to my room.' 
 
 She tried to get up but fell back into her chair, 
 saying : 
 
 * I feel quite overcome.' 
 
 * Stop here ; it will go off and you will be comfor- 
 table at the window. Solitude is sure to brkig on 
 low spitits, which increase the evil ; is that not so, 
 Monsieur Dalbreuse? He is not listening to me ; I 
 cannot understand what is the matter with him this 
 evening.' 
 
 Meanwhile I had left Eugenie's chair, and she 
 looked out of the window without turning towards 
 the room ; and M. Boquencourt gave us a long ac- 
 count of how he fainted once on the stage, when 
 acting Harlequin to the Columbine of a certain 
 marchioness, whose charms so overcame him that he 
 outdid himself, and when it was over he fainted in 
 the wings from his exertions and the heat of his 
 .mask. 
 
 Several people went up to her to ask her how she 
 felt, and though I could not hear what she said I 
 saw she did not move, for, no doubt, she feared to 
 meet my eyes again if she looked round. I was 
 sorry that she had not brought the little girl with 
 her, but perhaps it was as well, as I might not have 
 been master of myself had I seen her. 
 
 The conversation had ceased, or at least was no 
 longer animated, and the old gentleman, who had 
 remained in the corner with his newspaper in his 
 hand, thought it a favourable moment ; so he drew 
 up his chair, and asked whether they now wished 
 
THE ' LAW COURTS GAZETTE.' 97 
 
 him to read them the case they had been talking 
 about 9 
 
 6 It is very difficult to read well,' M. Koquencourt 
 said ; 6 there are many authors who cannot read their 
 own works. I remember once when I was reading a 
 letter on the stage ' 
 
 * Monsieur,' the old gentleman interrupted him in 
 an angry voice, ' do you wish me to read you the 
 " Gazette " or no?' 
 
 * I beg your pardon ; do read it, and I will tell my 
 story afterwards ; it will make you laugh.' 
 
 I was on thorns. "Was I obliged to listen to this 
 case ? and yet my vengeance was beginning, for it 
 would give Eugenie great pain to hear the details — 
 but I thought that I should suffer as much as she 
 would. The pitiless reader took his paper and put 
 on his spectacles, so there was no escape for us. 
 
 1 " A case, which is tolerably common in itself, but 
 which is very amusing in the details and the speeches^ 
 has been " ' 
 
 * You have read that already, monsieur.' 
 
 6 So I have ; let us get on to the case itself : " M„ 
 Belan brought a charge of adultery against his wife y 
 Armide de Beausire. The following are the facts 
 which led him to " ' 
 
 Whilst the first words were being read I looked at- 
 Eugenie ; she tried to get up and go away, but she 
 had not taken two steps before she fell at Mademoi- 
 selle Derbin's feet with a deep sigh. 
 
 4 It is a nervous attack, everyone exclaimed ; f she 
 is very ill and ought to be taken to her room.' 
 
 Several gentlemen helped to carry her out and 
 Caroline followed them* whilst I stayed at the 
 window. What I had seen and heard pained me 
 greatly, and I no longer wanted vengeance at such a 
 price; so I made up my mind to leave that very 
 night, as I had no wish to kill her. If it only de- 
 pended on me she would soon recover. 
 
,§"fe THE CUCKOLDe 
 
 In the room some began to wonder at the cause 
 of this second fainting fit; others asked how she 
 was; and the old gentleman, looking very sulky, 
 went and sat down in his corner again and put the 
 newspaper into his pocket. 
 
 When Caroline came back everybody asked her 
 how she was, and she said that though she was better 
 she feared all the waters of the Mont d' Or would not 
 restore her to health. 
 
 8 I can guess the reason for the second faint,' said 
 the voung man who had already spoken about 
 Eugenie. ' That poor Madame Blemont— that is her 
 name — was very unhappy in her married life, and 
 her husband left her ; and she was, no doubt, thinking 
 -of that when she heard of a husband who was 
 bringing an action against his wife.' r 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that her husband left her ? 
 1 1 met her several times in Paris and knew her 
 agaim immediately, though she is very much changed. 
 Her husband I did not know, but he seems to have 
 been a wretch, a libertine, gambler, jealous, with 
 every vice in a word, and left his wife with two 
 young children, a boy and a girl, on her hands.' 
 
 8 What horrors men are ! and how gentle and good 
 she looked, and ought certainly to have made the 
 happiness of any man who could appreciate her. 
 How sorry I am for her, and perhaps she loves him 
 still for we are so kind that we cannot hate you even 
 when you deserve it most. I shall certainly never 
 
 get married.' 
 
 Saying this, Caroline looked at me as it to nnd 
 out from my looks what I thought about it, but I 
 turned away and did not say a word. 
 
 As everybody was wishing each other good night 
 I felt my arm pinched ; it was Caroline, who said to 
 me in a vexed tone : 
 
 < So it seems that this evening I must wish yon 
 good night ! You have been very disagreeable.' 
 
THE ( LAW CRUETS GAZETTE.' 95 
 
 That reproach brought me to my senses, and think- 
 ing that as I was going to start before daybreak 1 
 might not see Mademoiselle Derbin again, I tried to 
 iiake her hand but she withdrew it, saying, however, 
 more gently: 
 
 <I do not forgive so easily; to-morrow we will see 
 whether yon deserve it.' 
 
 I had made up my mind to go, for I could not 
 
 -meet Eugenie, and as she was ill I ought to pity her ; 
 
 "but why did she come to disturb my peace here ? 
 
 As for Mademoiselle Derbin, I must have left her 
 
 sooner or later, and suppose she knew that I was 
 
 that Blemont who was looked upon as a wretch! 
 
 How they spoke about me ! but that did not vex me, 
 
 as I preferred to be thought of like that to airing my 
 
 grievances before all the world like Belan. Poor 
 
 bellow ! I thought he would come to that. But, then, 
 
 Caroline took me for an unmarried man, which was 
 
 all the more reason for leaving. I could hope for 
 
 nothing from such a connection, for at Caroline's 
 
 :age a woman requires a lover or husband and not a 
 
 mere friend, and so I determined to call Pettermann 
 
 and send him for post-horses, and get him to pack 
 
 our luggage. 
 
 I called him several times without getting an 
 answer, and as he did not generally go to bed before 
 me I went upstairs to his room, but he was not there, 
 :and I asked the servants whether anyone had seen 
 Mm. A girl said that in the morning he had had an 
 excellent breakfast and several bottles of Burgundy 
 taken down to a small summer-house at the bottom 
 of the garden and that he had not been out since 
 ihe morning. I then remembered that it was the 
 first of the month, and as that was his usual day for 
 getting ' jolly, 5 1 guessed what he was doing in the 
 summer-house, and so I got the girl to show me the 
 place where he enjoyed himself. 
 
 We took a lantern and found the place quite dark, 
 
 h 2 
 
100 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 and Pettermann, who made it as much a point of 
 honour to get completely intoxicated once a month 
 as he did to keep quite sober on every other day, 
 lying under the table close to a bench on which he 
 had, no doubt, been sitting as long as he could keep 
 his seat. 
 
 6 Is he dead ? ' the girl cried ; e he does not move. r 
 
 ' No, he is only drunk ; but it is very unfortunate, 
 as I wanted to leave to-night.' 
 
 6 But, monsieur, you have not ordered horses.' 
 
 'I suppose I can get them at the Post at any 
 time ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; but your servant is in a very nice state to 
 travel.' 
 
 I took hold of Pettermann by the arm and shook 
 him and called him. 
 
 6 I'm asleep,' he grumbled at last. 
 
 'But, my good fellow, I want you; so try and: 
 wake up.' 
 
 'I'm going to drink for a month to-day, so let me 
 sleep and call me when I am thirsty,' and I could not 
 get another word out of him. 
 
 'You had better leave him here for the night,, 
 monsieur ; nobody will disturb him, and you see you 
 cannot make him move, and you could not take him 
 with you like that.' 
 
 She was quite right ; it was hopeless to expect any- 
 thing from him that night, so that if I were to go he 
 could not go with me. Had I better go without him, 
 or wait at Mont d' Or till the next day ? 
 
 I decided on the latter course; and after the 
 civility that Mademoiselle Derbin and her uncle had 
 shown me, it would have been rude to have left and 
 only sent her portrait, which I had painted and still 
 had in my possession, without a farewell word. I 
 would, therefore, stop till the next day, and till my 
 departure I would manage to keep out of Eugenie'* 
 way. 
 
A CHATTEEEE. 101 
 
 I went up to my room and to bed. I was very 
 anxious to go, but yet I thought that I was not sorry 
 to be obliged to stay a little longer. 
 
 CHAPTER Vlll. 
 
 A CHATTERER. 
 
 My first thought on waking up the next morning 
 was that Eugenie was under the same roof with me*. 
 I wondered whether her paleness and sadly changed 
 looks proceeded from remorse, but that was hardly 
 likely, as she had shown none when I wrote to ask. 
 to have my daughter, or when she passed me by so 
 lightly in the Bois de Boulogne. No, and besides 
 that, the fault that she had committed is the one for 
 which least repentance is felfc; which is a truth,, 
 though perhaps not a moral one. 
 
 However, I would go, as I did not wish to have- 
 last night's scene over again or to see Madame B16- 
 mont, but I wanted to see my daughter, and Ernest 
 had not written to me ; but I forgot that I had not. 
 told him I was staying in that town, where I had 
 only intended to remain a few days. 
 
 I got up to ring the bell for Pettermann, when 
 looking on the chimney-piece I saw a note and a 
 pocket-book which had not been there the evening 
 before. I had given Ernest the pocket-book when 
 leaving Paris, but how came I to find them there ? 
 Let us look at the note. It was Eugenie's hand- 
 writing, as I saw by the address — 'To M. Dalbreuse* 
 
1U2 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 —and so she sent me back the note-hook and her 
 portrait. How audacions ! Ought I not to send it 
 all hack to her without reading her note 9 I ought 
 to ; hut as one often does what one ought not, I 
 could not resist my curiosity and opened the note. 
 
 c I have been told, monsieur, that you wished to 
 leave this hotel last night. Do not let my presence 
 drive you from a place where you seem to be enjoying 
 yourself, for you shall not meet me again as I will 
 not leave my room, and were I strong enough I would 
 leave immediately. I have given your children into 
 Madame Firmin's charge, as she and her husband 
 were kind enough to promise to look after them. I 
 think you will approve of what I have done, though 
 you can do as you please with your daughter ; I only 
 wish to retain my tears and my remorse.' 
 
 How weak we are ! Before opening the note I was 
 angry, and now I was moved because it bore the 
 marks of her tears, and had she written like this in- 
 stead of as she did two years ago, who can tell what 
 I should have done ? Formerly she hated Madame 
 Firmin, and now she entrusted her with Henrietta ! 
 What could have happened in these two years ? I 
 could not guess, but I was very glad to know that 
 my little daughter was with my faithful friends. 
 
 As to the pocket-book, I could not understand what 
 her idea was in sending it to me. Did she think she 
 could force me to love her still, and that she might 
 obtain her pardon by sending me her portrait? No, 
 I had loved her too much ever to forgive her. I 
 would send it back to her, but still I kept the book 
 in my hand, turning it over and over, as if to make 
 sure that it was still the same, and then I opened it 
 to see whether the picture had faded at all during 
 the two years. 
 
 But instead of Eugenie's portrait the pocket-book 
 
A CHATTEEEE. 103 
 
 contained that of Henrietta, exactly like her — her 
 hair and eyes — and I could not help kissing it when 
 I looked at it. Blessed pocket-book ! I would not 
 part with you now, for though a child may get tired 
 of seeing its father, a father is never tired of looking 
 at his child ; and if anyone could plead for Eugenie 
 now, who could do it so well as her daughter ? 
 
 I rang the bell for Pettermann, as I wanted to 
 know whether he had put the articles on to the 
 chimney-piece, and he came in rubbing his eyes. 
 
 When I told him he had been drunk overnight he 
 allowed the fact but told me that it was his usual 
 d,ay, and assured me that he did not the least re- 
 member my having shaken and called him, adding 
 that he was only just up ; and on my asking him 
 whether he had been told that I wished to start the 
 night before, he said no. 
 
 ' Well,' I said, jf did you put this note and pocket- 
 book on my mantelpiece this morning ? ' 
 - ' JSTo, monsieur j I have not been into your room 
 since yesterday.' 
 
 "Then go and call the little servant-girl whose 
 name is Marie, I think — a short, stout girl.' 
 
 ' I know her, monsieur ; she brought me my break- 
 fast yesterday.' 
 
 When she came she denied all knowledge of the 
 iiote-book and letter, but said she told the servants 
 in the morning that I had been anxious to start in 
 rthe night. 
 
 It did not matter by whom Eugenie had sent them 
 to me. I was no longer angry for what she had just 
 done, but as I did not wish to make her stop in her 
 room I would leave. If, however, I were to leave im- 
 mediately, she would think I shunned her neigh- 
 bourhood, and as I did not wish to wound her in 
 -.return for the present she had made me, I did not 
 Imow what to do. 
 
 I ordered breakfast in my own room, and was just 
 
104 T3S CUCKOLD, 
 
 going to sit down when M. Eoq >iencourt came In ? 
 and on asking him what had procured me the pleasure 
 of such an early visit, he replied : 
 
 * My dear Monsieur Dalbreu«e, my niece has sent 
 me to ask you to have your breakfast with us. She 
 was in a great hurry, bui^ luckily, I don't take long 
 dressing : when one has been in the habit of actings 
 one is used to changing one's dresses so quickly* 
 But my niece just told me that you wanted to leave 
 here last night without saying good-bye.' 
 
 ( Well, monsieur, it is true that -' 
 
 'But you surely should not run away like that. 
 I don't suppose that you are being pursued like M. 
 de Pourceaugnac. How I have made people laugh 
 as that devil of a Pourceaugnac- 
 
 ( Monsieur, as your niece is waiting for us- 
 
 Yes, you are right. I must tell you that she is 
 very angry with you, and that is the reason why she 
 wanted you to come to breakfast. She says that you 
 are a horrid man.' 
 
 So Caroline was going to scold me because I 
 wished to go away, and ] did not think she had 
 the right to do it. 
 
 Mademoiselle Derbin wf b sitting at table drinking 
 her tea, and only gave me a slight inclination of the 
 head. I could see that she was vexed but did not 
 wish to appear so, and as her uncle began to make 
 some stage jokes she said : 
 
 6 Have you brought monsieur here to act 9 I 
 thought it was to have breakfast. Sit down, mon- 
 sieur, my uncle is terrible with his parts.' 
 
 6 That means to say that you are in a bad temper 
 this morning ; that is all.' 
 
 * I in a bad temper ? "WTry should I be ? What 
 reason have I for it ? ' 
 
 6 1 tell you that you are. However, I told Mon- 
 sieur Dalbreuse beforehand, and said to him: "M«f 
 niece is mortally angry with you," ' 
 
 sa^p* 
 
A CBATTE71ER. IDS 
 
 * Really, uncle, I don't know whaA is the mattei 
 with you to-day ! Did I give you such a message ? 
 And why should I be angry with him ? Because he 
 was going to leave in the middle of the night with- 
 out even wishing us good-bye ? After all, he is his 
 own master, and we are nothing to him but mere ac- 
 quaintances ; people with whom one is glad to amuse 
 oneself when it does not put one out, but of whom 
 one never thinks again as soon as one has left 
 them.' 
 
 ' Oh, mademoiselle ! I hope you do not think 
 that.' 
 
 'Yes, I do, monsieur, and I am sure of it. If you 
 had looked upon us differently, and had a slight 
 amount of friendship for us, you would not have 
 wished to leave us in such a manner, and it would 
 not merely be owing to your servant's intoxication 
 that we owe the pleasure of seeing you again.' 
 
 ' Sometimes an unforeseen circumstance forces us 
 to leave persons whom we like most.' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly ! when there are others whom we 
 axe in a hurry to see again, or on whose account we 
 forget even ordinary politeness.' 
 
 4 My dear friend, I told you that she was angry 
 with you.' 
 
 'Good gracious, how disagreeable you are this 
 morning ! ' 
 
 M. Roquencourt laughed and drank his tea and I 
 did the same, whilst Caroline did net say anything 
 more nor look in my direction, and the uncle had to 
 carry on the conversation. Presently, however, Caro- 
 line said to him : 
 
 ' Have you heard anything about Madame Blemont, 
 tincle ? ' 
 
 'Not yet.' 
 
 " She is very distinguished looking, and I like her 
 ^ery much.' 
 
 e Yes, she has beautiful eyes, and reminds me * 
 
106 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 'Would it not "be right to go yourself and ask 
 what sort of a night she has had ? ' 
 
 ' But, my dear child, would a lady staying in an 
 hotel by herself receive a visit from a man ? ' 
 
 'Oh, uncle, you are so old that a visit can be 
 thought nothing of ! ' 
 
 ' What do you mean by that ? Don't you know 
 that I am vigorous enough to make conquests still if 
 j chose ? ' 
 
 ' But, my dear uncle, I do not think that you wish 
 to do so any more. Please go up to this lady's 
 apartments ' 
 
 ' I will go, but I will not be answerable for the 
 consequences.' 
 
 As soon as her uncle had left us, Caroline turned 
 to me, and said in a gentle voice that I did not think 
 she would assume : 
 
 ' Why were you going away so quickly without 
 seeing me again ? Pray tell me.' 
 
 ' Important business called me back to Paris.' 
 
 'I don't believe it; for you received no letters 
 yesterday. What have we done to cause such a 
 sudden departure ? Have I said anything to vex 
 you ? I am so heedless and wild at times ' 
 
 'Nothing of the sort, mademoiselle. You have 
 overwhelmed me with your kindness and indul- 
 gence^ ' 
 
 ' You might be talking to your schoolmaster ! Bui 
 why do you want to go ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' So you have secrets, monsieur? Tery well, it is 
 better to tell me. But do you mean to take my 
 portrait away with you ? ' 
 
 ' No, mademoiselle ; I should have had it returned 
 to you.' 
 
 ' Had it returned to me ! But it is not finished j; 
 a good deal wants doing to it still.' 
 
 Her uncle came in and said : 
 
 - a* 
 
A CHATTERER. 107 
 
 ' Madame Blemont is not visible yet — just as I ex- 
 pected —but she is fully sensible of our attention, 
 and is ratlier better this morning.' 
 
 ' So much the better ; I will go and see her. But,, 
 uncle, when are we going' to return to Paris ? ' 
 
 6 When ? I like that question. I do exactly as 
 she pleases, and she pretends that she wants to know 
 what I wish ! ' 
 
 6 Well, I think we might spend another week here,, 
 and if M. Dalbreuse's business is not urgent we will; 
 ask him to accept a seat in our carriage and we will 
 take him back to Paris with us. Well, monsieur, 
 will you say what you think of my uncle's pro- 
 posal ? ' 
 
 6 Yes, my dear fellow ; for although my niece al- 
 ways arranges everything as she pleases, I must pre- 
 tend to have decided; but, really, I shall be very 
 pleased to have you as a travelling companion.' 
 
 I did not know what to say or decide upon. It 
 appeared to me that I ought to go away, but yet I 
 should like to stay. A week soon passes, and I should 
 cot be in Madame Blemont's company, as she would 
 remain in her own room, and she herself asked ma 
 not to go. 
 
 Whilst I was thinking, Caroline came up to me, 
 and, tapping me gently on the shoulder, said : 
 
 ' Monsieur, whenever you like .... we are wait- 
 ing for your decision.' 
 
 C I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I was con- 
 sidering.' 
 
 ' Will you go back with us 9 ' 
 
 ' I am afraid I shall be in your way ; I have some- 
 body with me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! your German ? He can sit in the rumble.* 
 
 ' Yery well, I accept your offer, mademoiselle.' 
 
 'That is very kind of you.' 
 
 Mademoiselle Derbin regained all her good humour^, 
 and arranged a drive for the day, as she wished t& 
 
108 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 view several sites in the neighbourhood -which she 
 Lad been told of. We were to be ready in an hour, 
 and she left ns to dress herself : we shonld do nothing 
 to the portrait that day. 
 
 Caroline was a spoilt chile", as might be seen by 
 her wilful manner and her impatience when her 
 caprices were not yielded to ; but she was so agree- 
 able, so seductive when she wished to please, that it 
 was really hard to resist her ; but the interest she 
 took in me disquieted me at times, as I feared that 
 she was in love with me. I feared it, as that love 
 could not make her happy ; but at the bottom of my 
 heart I should have been flattered, enchanted, for 
 we always listen more to our vanity than our 
 reason. 
 
 To distract my thoughts I looked at my daughter's 
 portrait and wished I could return at once, but she 
 was with Ernest and his wife, where I knew she 
 would be well taken care of, and that they would 
 often speak of me. 
 
 At the appointed hour I joined Mademoiselle 
 Perbin and her uncle. She was charmingly dressed, 
 and her large brown eyes sparkled more brightly than 
 ■ever. 
 
 ' How do you think I look monsieur ? ' 
 
 ' I think you always look nice.' 
 
 * Is that true 9 Do you mean what you say 9 ' 
 
 ' Certainly ; and, besides, I am only the echo of 
 what everybody says.' 
 
 ' I don't want you to be an echo, and I did not ask 
 what other people thought, as it is quite indifferent 
 
 to me.' 
 
 We were just going to start, when suddenly Caro- 
 line exclaimed : 
 
 ' Suppose I were to ask Madame Blemont to go 
 with us ? ' 
 
 ' You know she is ill, mademoiselle, and would de- 
 cline.' 
 
A CHA.TTEREB. 
 
 109 
 
 < A drive must do her good, and I will go and ask 
 
 'It will be labour in vain, mademoiselle. ' 
 
 < We will see about that.' 
 
 Whilst she was gone, M. Eoquencourt began to re- 
 cite to me, bnt I did not listen, as I was waiting for 
 Mademoiselle Derbin's return too impatiently. At 
 last she returned alone, as I had hoped, but with 
 more than vexation on her countenance. 
 
 « Let us go/ she said. ' M. Dalbreuse had guessed 
 rightly that mine would be a useless errand, as she 
 will not come with us.' m 
 
 We got into the carriage and began our drive, and 
 though I should have liked to have known what had 
 heen said I did not dare to ask Caroline, but she 
 saved me the trouble, and, looking at me fixedly, she 
 
 said * 
 
 ' M. Dalbreuse, do you know Madame Blemont ? ? 
 i Do I know her ? No, oh ! no, mademoiselle.' 
 * You dont seem to be very certain.' 
 1 1 beg your pardon, but why do you ask me ? ' 
 1 Because during the whole of the short time I was 
 •with her she talked about nothing but you, wanting 
 -to know how long I had known you, whether we had 
 met elsewhere, and so on ; which I thought rather 
 strange. When I told her that we intended returning 
 to Paris together, she made such a peculiar face. It 
 is very agreeable, certainly ! And you never met her 
 in Paris ? ' 
 
 'No, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' Then you must have made a conquest of her last 
 -night, isn't that so, uncle ? ' 
 
 < My dear child, there is nothing extraordinary in 
 that. I made ten conquests in the part of Figaro, 
 but my cherry and white costume was very elegant.' 
 ' It seems to me that M. Dalbreuse does not re- 
 quire that to captivate ladies. I must say this one 
 does not please me so much as she did ; I looked at 
 
110 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 her well this morning, and she is so terribly thin and 
 pale. She certainly could never have been very 
 pretty.' 
 
 I was quite ready to declare the contrary, but I 
 naturally held my tongue. 
 
 After a drive of several hours we returned to the 
 hotel, and were told that several new guests had ar- 
 rived, amongst them two English noblemen and their 
 wives and a gentleman from Paris, who already gave 
 as much trouble as four people. 
 
 Caroline went away immediately to attend to her 
 toilette so as to outshine the English ladies, or per- 
 haps to make the conquest of the Englishmen and 
 the Parisian. 
 
 I went to my room and reflected on what Mademoi- 
 selle Derbin had told me about her conversation with 
 Madame Blemont. What could my connection with 
 Caroline or any other woman matter to Eugenie now ? 
 Was I not free to dispose of my heart? But women 
 have so much self love that even when they do not 
 love us any longer they feel vexed at seeing us follow 
 their example, though men are much the same. 
 
 I joined the company in the drawing-room in the 
 evening quite confidently, as I was sure Madame 
 Blemont would have no wish to come. There were 
 plenty of people present. The Englishmen and the 
 women who were travelling with them — though I did 
 not know whether they were their wives — were already 
 there. The latter were young and pretty, but their 
 male companions took no notice of them and were 
 deep in politics with a Spaniard and some Frenchmen^ 
 Several young men were doing the polite to the two 
 strangers, and I went up to Mademoiselle Derbin — - 
 who was almost forsaken for the new comers, who, 
 however, did not come up to her — so I sat down by 
 her, and was glad to find that the neglect of her 
 little Court had not put her out. 
 
 ' You don't do like the others,' she said tome with 
 
A CHATTERER. 11. 1 
 
 a smile ; ( are you not going to offer up incense at 
 
 the shrine of the strangers ? ' 
 
 c l do not feel the least inclination to do so ; whv 
 
 change when one is well off P ' 
 
 ' It does happen, however, sometimes.' 
 
 ? Yes, but then one mav be well off and not know 
 
 it.' 
 
 ' I hope I shall never think so.' 
 
 I don't know how it happened at that moment that 
 Caroline's hand was under mine. She did not with- 
 draw it, and we remained for a long time thus with- 
 out noticing what was going on around ns in the 
 drawing-room. That hand resting against mine 
 nevertheless recalled Eugenie to me at the period 
 when I was making love to her. Of course Caroline 
 could not know that the pressure of her hand re- 
 minded me of another woman, and that it made me 
 thoughtful, when all of a sudden the drawing-room 
 door was flung noisily open and someone came in 
 talking very loud and making a great noise. I turned 
 round, for every time anybody came into the room I 
 secretly felt uneasy. 
 
 C I suppose that is the gentleman from Paris?* 
 Caroline said. 
 
 I looked at the new comer, who was bowing to the 
 company, and .... it was Bel an ! 
 
 He had already turned towards us, bowed to Made- 
 moiselle Derbin, and, in spite of all my signs, called 
 out as soon as she saw me ; 
 
 c I am not mistaken, surely ! It is my dear friend 
 Blemont, whom I have not seen for two years o 1 
 
 He opened his arms to embrace me, and I think I 
 could have choked him with pleasure. Everybody 
 was looking at us, and I could not disguise my em- 
 barrassment and vexation. Belan took me in his 
 arms, squeezed and embraced me in spite of myself , 
 still exclaiming : 
 
 ' Poor Blemont ! how delightful it is to meet a^ 
 
12 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 friend when one is on a journej, Don r t yon think 
 
 so?' 
 
 ' Hum ! May the plague ' 
 
 ' How ! What ! He has not yet recovered from 
 his surprise.' 
 
 Caroline, who had been struck by the name Ble- 
 mont, looked at me steadily, and said to Belan : 
 
 6 But, monsieur, are you not mistaken ? Tou are 
 talking to M. Dalbreuse. Is it not so, monsieur? 
 We are waiting for your answer.' 
 
 I did not know what to say, and Belan went on : 
 
 * Does he call himself Dalbreuse now ? Upon my 
 word, my dear friend, I never knew you under that 
 name .... but I see — oh, the scamp ! since he has 
 left his wife he has changed his name, so as to be 
 taken for a bachelor.' 
 
 ' His wife ! ' Caroline exclaimed. 
 
 ' His wife ! ' mahy others repeated. 
 
 < Monsieur,' I said to him, repressing my anger 
 with difficulty, ' who instructed you to relate facts 
 which have no interest for anybody but myself ? ' 
 
 ' Good heavens, my dear Blemont, I had no idea 
 that it was a secret ; and, then, I have just met your 
 wife in the garden, and seeing you here, I thought it 
 was made up and you were living together again.' 
 
 ' That is enongh, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Tour wife in the garden ! What ! it is your 
 wife ? ' Caroline said to me in a whisper. 
 
 I looked down, for at that moment I wished that 
 the earth would swallow me up and hide me from 
 the people's eyes, whilst all around I heard the ex- 
 clamation : 
 
 ' He is the sick lady's husband ! ' 
 
 Belan, who saw how upset 1 was at the effect that 
 his words had produced in the drawing-room, looked 
 at me in a stupid sort of manner, and murmured : 
 
 • I am very sorry if you are vexed that I . . . but 
 I could not guess ; you ought to have told me. I 
 
A CHATTERER. 118 
 
 suppose you know what has happened to me, for it 
 is no mystery — my case was in the 6 Law Courts^ 
 Gazette ' some days ago. I am .... Ah ! it is all 
 over, I am a .... I don't want to say the word 
 before the ladies. And just see how unlucky I am : 
 the Court decided that there was no proof and 
 obliged me to live with my wife, and will not allow 
 me to be a cuckold. Good heavens ! I have said the 1 
 word right out.' 
 
 ' Cuckold ! ' several young men said, laughing. 
 * Do you happen to be M. Ferdinand Belan, whose 
 name appeared in the 6 Law Courts Gazette ' re- 
 cently?' 
 
 'I am the man, gentleman. Julien Ferdinand 
 Belan, who wished to have a separation from Armide 
 Constance Fidele de Beausire.' I was ordered to- 
 keep my wife, but I shall appeal ; I am certain that 
 I am a cuckold — the judges were influenced.' 
 
 Belan was surrounded by grinning young men who 
 asked him all sorts of questions, so I was uot thought 
 of at the moment, and seizing the opportunity I 
 rushed out of the drawing-room without looking at 
 Caroline, and went upstairs. 
 
 I rang for Pettermann and ordered him to get 
 ready to start immediately, for I was anxious to get 
 away as soon as possible. If I had followed my 
 yesterday's idea and left, I should have avoided this 
 scene and no one would have known that .... but 
 I should never meet these people again. But in the 
 eyes of Caroline and her uncle I should pass for & 
 deceiver — an intriguer, perhaps. People always 
 think badly of a man who assumes a false name. 
 That confounded Belan ! what cursed chance could 
 have brought him in my way ? 
 
 I went downstairs to pay my bill, as I was going 
 to post all the way to Paris for fear of any more un- 
 pleasant meetings, and whilst waiting for the horses 
 to be put to I walked about uneasily in the hotel 
 
 x 
 
114 THE CUCK.U.D. 
 
 yard. I did not want to go into the garden for fear 
 of meeting Madame Blemont there alone, nor did I 
 want to go back into the house for fear of meeting 
 any of the guests from the drawing-room, so I sat 
 down on a stone bench in a corner of the yard. It 
 was dark and nobody could see me, but just then a 
 woman passed me, stopped, and came up and sat 
 down by me. It was Caroline, and though I could 
 not see her face I could guess by her short and 
 quick breathing that she was very much agitated. 
 
 ( I was looking for ^ou, monsieur; I wished to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 6 1 was sorry, mademoiselle, not to be able to wish 
 you good-bye, but I have sent for horses and am 
 going to start.' 
 
 6 1 thought so, and you are quite right, only you 
 ought to have left sooner, and I am very sorry 
 lhat I detained you this morning. I see why you 
 wished to avoid Madame Blemont's presence, if it is 
 a fact that you are her husband.' 
 
 ' It is a fact.' 
 
 c You never told me that you were a married man, 
 and you .... your conduct has been abominable. 
 I hate and detest you as much as I formerly liked 
 you. You are married! Why did you not say so, 
 monsieur ? ' 
 
 6 As I was not living with my wife, I thought, ma- 
 demoiselle, that I was free to ' 
 
 1 Free ! of course you were free. What could the 
 pain you caused to others matter to you ? at which, 
 no doubt, you laughed in secret. I see the portrait 
 that has been drawn of you — little flattering though 
 it be — is a correct one, and you heard it yesterday. 
 Is it a true one, monsieur ? * 
 
 * Yes, mademoiselle. 5 
 
 Here Caroline burst into tears, telling me I was 
 the cause of all nay wife's sufferings, and upbraiding 
 •me for not throwing myself at her feet and begging 
 
A CEATTEEEE. 115 
 
 her pardon. She begged me to go back to her, and 
 tried to make me promise to do so, calling me M. 
 Dalbreuse, as the only name that she eould remember 
 mie by. 
 
 I told her this was quite impossible, as we were 
 separated for ever ; so she told me she and I were 
 also, and that my conduct towards her had been dis- 
 graceful, making myself agreeable, as I had, and not 
 Celling her that I was fettered for life. 
 
 ' However,' she continued, ' if I had loved you, if 
 T had allowed myself to be led away by your deceitful 
 exterior, you would have made me miserable also. 
 What can you say to that ? ' 
 
 • I don't think that I ever said a word that could 
 have made you believe ' 
 
 6 No, as a matter of fact you never said anything ; 
 I am a silly mad flirt ! But you have my portrait, 
 monsieur, and I do not think it is worth your while 
 to keep it, for I hope sincerely we shall never meet 
 again.' 
 
 * Here it is, mademoiselle ; I meant to have sent 
 it back to you at the first post house where we 
 changed horses.' 
 
 Caroline took it, or rather tore it, out of my hands, 
 and at that moment a servant called me, and Petter- 
 mann announced that the horses were put to. 
 
 We got up from the bench on which we had been 
 sitting, but Caroline seized me by the arm and said 
 to me in a beseeching tone : 
 
 e I don't think you can be deaf to the name of 
 liusband and father ; your departure may, perhaps, 
 cause your wife's death, who, no doubt, came here 
 to be reunited to you. Do not deceive her hopes, 
 but restore her husband to her, their father to your 
 children. All the pleasures which you are in search 
 of cannot equal those which, you will find in your 
 home with a wife who adoret you, and she will for- 
 give you. Remember that she is in the garden, 
 
 i 2 
 
116 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 close by, and perhaps has heard you ; ju3t look at 
 that white shadow there near the entrance.' 
 
 In spite of the darkness I thought that I saw a 
 woman, so disengaged myself from Caroline's arm. 
 and rushed into the carriage, which was waiting for 
 me. Pettermann followed me and off we went. 
 
 CHAPTLK IX. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 We travailed as hard as we could night and day r 
 for the further I got from Eugenie the easier I felt* 
 I could not understand how I had consented to stay 
 where she was — Mademoiselle Derbin must surely 
 have had great power over me to mak^ me forget all 
 my resolves. I never could have had resolution 
 enough to meet Madame Blemont. When she dared 
 me I was angry; now that she seemed ill and un- 
 happy I was even more uncomfortable when near 
 her. 
 
 When we got to Paris poor Pettermann could 
 hardly walk on getting out of the postchaise, for 
 his trousers had stuck to his rear ; and in spite of 
 all his efforts to conceal his sufferings, his grimaces 
 would have made me laugh had I not been in such 
 a hurry to get to Ernest's, so I took a cab, got in, 
 and Pettermann, with my aid, sat down opposite me 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 ' Ah ! I call that driving fast ; two more changes 
 and my stern would have been cooked like a steak/ 
 
THE CHILDREN. 117 
 
 Anxious as I was to see my daughter I thought, 
 that the driver and horses were equally lazy, but at 
 last we got to Firmin's house, and I jumped out, 
 before Pettermann had time to move. 
 
 Another disappointment, for Firmin and his wife* 
 were at Saint Maude, where they had bought a small 
 country house and always spent the summer months, 
 so I was obliged to go there after them ; but getting - 
 the address, I got into the carriage again and we 
 started, to the consternation of Pettermann, who 
 had got up and could not sit down again. 
 
 Luckily Saint Maude is not far from Paris, and as 
 soon as we arrived at the village I got out of the 
 carriage and saw before me the house that had been 
 mentioned to me — two storeys high, with gay out- 
 side Venetian shutters, a wrought-iron gate, and a 
 garden at the back. As soon as I rang the bell at 
 servant came, and told me that M. Firmin lived 
 there and was at home. 
 
 Without waiting to hear any more I rushed up- 
 stairs, although the girl called after me that her 
 master was busy and did not wish to be disturbed, 
 for I knew that he would excuse me for interrupting 
 him. 
 
 After going through several rooms I found him,, 
 and he told me that he was overjoyed at seeing me, 
 as they had been constat fly expecting my return. 
 
 ' Here I am at last/ I said, ' and very anxious ta 
 see my daughter.' 
 
 * She is here ; your .... Madame Blemont gave 
 her into her care.' 
 
 * I know that.' 
 
 * You know it ? I wished to give you a surprise |. 
 but who told you ? ' 
 
 ' Eugenie herself. 1 saw her at Mont d' Or ; but 
 I will tell you all about it by-and-bye, only let me 
 see Henrietta.' 
 
 * All the children are in the garden with my wife.* 
 
:II8 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' Show me the way, but don't say a word, as I 
 want to see whether she recognises me ; at her age 
 children forget so easily.' 
 
 At the end of a grarden walk I saw Madame 
 Firmin sitting on a bank of turf, and on the lawn 
 close to her four children were playing, and I im- 
 mediately recognised my little girl, who though 
 grown had altered but slightly. 
 
 The children, engaged at play, did not see us ; 
 however, Marguerite, on recognising me, made a 
 movement to come forward, but I signed to her to 
 stay where she was and not to say a word. 
 
 I hid behind a lilac-bush and called Henrietta. The 
 child seemed astonished, as she recognised the voice 
 and yet it was that of nobody she had recently seen ; 
 and when, on my repeating the call, she declared 
 it was like her papa's voice, I could restrain myself 
 n@ longer, but rushed out from behind the bush. As 
 soon as she saw me she knew me and ran towards 
 me, crying out : 
 
 ( Oh ! it is papa ! ' 
 
 When I took her in my arms nobody can tell 
 the joy I felt, nor how I wondered that I had not 
 returned to her sooner. I sat down by Madame 
 Firmin, and taking Henrietta on my knees, I said : 
 
 ' You knew me again, then ? ' 
 
 'Oh, yes, papa; and I knew your voice so well, 
 and I have often said how long you were in coming 
 back to us.' 
 
 Just as I was saying that I should not go away 
 again soon, Ernest's two children came to look at 
 me; and only a little boy about three years old 
 remained sitting on the grass by himself, looking 
 at us in a timid manner, when Henrietta suddenly 
 got off my knees, and running to him took him by 
 the hand and brought him to me, saying : 
 
 ' Well, Eugene, come and kiss papa.' 
 
 I had guessed that it was he, so I looked at him 
 
THE CHILDREN. 119 
 
 closely and saw that lie had pretty auburn hair, good 
 eyes and rosy complexion, and looked sweet-tempered, 
 and that he was very like his mother. That was all 
 I could see in him. 
 
 I suppose I looked rather stern, for the child 
 seemed afraid to come to me ; but I could not help 
 smiling when he said in a manner that was comically 
 serious : 
 
 ' How do you do, papa ? ' 
 
 I kissed his cheek, but with a sigh and heavy heart, 
 let him go, and by the way the poor little fellow ran 
 back to the lawn one would have said that he saw I 
 had kissed him against my will. 
 
 I took my little daughter on my knees again, and 
 she jumped up and down and clapped her hands, say- 
 ing that all she now wanted was mamma, who would 
 soon come, as she had told them that she had only 
 .gone to fetch me. 
 
 I said nothing, but Ernest observed in a low 
 ^oice : 
 
 * My dear fellow, you have forbidden us to talk to 
 you about your wife, but now you must expect to 
 hear her talked about very often. I don't suppose 
 that you wish Henrietta to forget her mother ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not ; and now I am more reasonable 
 than I was formerly, but I am very curious to know 
 .... Henrietta, run and play with your little 
 friends.' 
 
 As soon as we were alone 1 said to Ernest and his 
 wife: 
 
 c Just tell me what has happened since my depar- 
 ture, and how she came to give my daughter into 
 your care/ 
 
 6 We will tell you all about it,' Marguerite replied - r 
 i but first of all ... I say, Ernest, have you told 
 Mm. eh ? • 
 
 Ernest smiled and did not speak. 
 
 'What is it? 'I asked. 
 
120 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 * We are married, ' Marguerite said, jumping up 
 from the bank ; j it happened three months ago, and 
 I am not afraid of his leaving me now that I am his^ 
 wife.' 
 
 So saying she ran up to Ernest, took his head in 
 her hands and kissed him, but he shook her off, 
 saying : 
 
 6 Leave me alone, you are rumpling my shirt front/ 
 
 ' Do you see, Monsieur Henri, he is not so nice as 
 he was, already. Ah ! but I only said it by way of 
 a joke.' 
 
 ' My dear friends, you are very right to get married- 
 if it suited you ; and though I do not think that you. 
 will be happier than you have been, I do not think 
 that you will be less so, for you have the guarantees 
 for happiness.' 
 
 I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest^ 
 who said to me : 
 
 1 You have thought enough about us ; now let u& 
 come to yourself. After you had left Paris, I wished^ 
 to find out how Madame Blemont was behaving. But 
 she very rarely appeared in society, and, nevertheless 
 (for you know how just the world is), she was pitied- 
 and praised and you were blamed for having left 
 her. One evening she came to a large party at which 
 I was, and, well dressed as she always was, I thought 
 her pale and changed, and fancied I noticed that her 
 gaiety was forced, and that every moment she fell 
 into a sombre reverie, from which she roused herself 
 with difiiculty. 
 
 * You know what I thought of her, and I gave her 
 such a look that I am sure she guessed that to me 
 alone had you confided your troubles ; and so, when 
 she saw me, she left off talking and could not even 
 put on an affectation of enjoying herself. 
 
 ' Belan, his wife and mother-in-law were there, 
 and I don't know whether it was out of mischief 
 or pure stupidity that he said to me ; 
 
THE CHILDREN, 121 
 
 6 "Why, that poor Blemont was nearly killed by 
 isome riders in the Bois de Boulogne ; so a young man 
 told me who helped to pick him up." 
 
 'Your wife happened to be just behind us, and she 
 looked at me in a manner that I cannot express ; but 
 she seemed to me as if she wished me to listen to 
 her, and so I left the room immediately and went 
 home. At seven o'clock the next morning, however, 
 your wife came to my house, and you may guess bow 
 surprised I was at seeing her come into my study — 
 pale, trembling, and hardly able to stand. 
 
 ' " Monsieur,' she said, ' I am sure you know how I 
 have wronged M. Blemont, for I have seen how you 
 despise me and I hardly ventured to come to you, 
 I>ut I heard yesterday that he had been hurt in the 
 Bois de Boulogne, and I feared that I was the cause 
 of that accident also. Is it so ? Is he quite well 
 again ? Pity me and tell me all." 
 
 6 1 told her exactly what had happened, and she 
 could not doubt that she was the principal cause of 
 all ; and I also told her of your dislike for your son 
 and your intention of not seeing him, and I gave her 
 the pocket-book which you had given me, enclosing 
 her portrait, and on seeing this she fainted. Mar- 
 guerite came and I left her to her care, and she will 
 tell you the rest.' 
 
 ' It will not take me long,' she said. When she 
 recovered consciousness she said she wished she were 
 dead, and that she would commit suicide ; she asked 
 for you and her children and called herself the vilest 
 names. I am sure you would have pitied her, and 
 seeing her state I went home with her, and, with my 
 husband's permission, I stayed with her till she had 
 rrecovered. 
 
 4 How kind you are, madame ! you forgot her be- 
 Jhaviour towards you.' 
 
 * That I had done for a long time, for in this world 
 one must often forget and pardon. When she got 
 
122 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 better slie thanked me for all I had done for her,, 
 and begged my pardon for the evil she had thought 
 of me. Of course I willingly forgave her, and then 
 she told me that she had always been jealous of me. 
 I scolded her for having suspected you, and told her 
 that you used to come to my little room to talk about 
 her, which made her cry ; and then she confessed to 
 me what she had done, weeping more bitterly still, 
 and I could see that, except for mad jealousy, vexa- 
 tion and evil councils, she would never have done as 
 she did. She then told me that she was sorry for 
 having refused to let you have your daughter, and 
 that, in spite of the grief it would cause her to part 
 with her, she had made up her mind to yield to your 
 slightest wishes. She also asked me to take charge 
 of Henrietta and your son till your return — yes,.. 
 your son, as she asserted several times. 
 
 ( She had made up her mind, she said, to renounce 
 society altogether, and, in fact, she lived in the most 
 absolute retirement ; and a few days ago we heard, 
 that she had gone to Mont d' Or, as her medical mam 
 had ordered her to do so.' 
 
 ' Of course,' Ernest said, f we do not expect you to 
 be much softened by all this, for her fault is one 
 which a husband who loved his wife cannot forget,, 
 but without forgetting one can at times forgive " y 
 there are many women more guilty than she is, and 
 we cannot but be sorry for Madame Blemont and 
 pity your children.' 
 
 I assured him that this pleading was in vain : that 
 were I to take her back I could never forget, when 
 she was in my arms that another had enjoyed those- 
 caresses, and that I would not condemn myself to 
 such a life. I assured them, however, that I would, 
 do my duty by little Eugene, although I could not 
 look upon him as my son. 
 
 Thinking of Petterwann, I got np and asked them 
 whether they could give me a room in their house*. 
 
THE CHILDREN. 12& 
 
 They told ine it had always been kept ready for me,, 
 and finding that I stiH had my rooms in Paris, I 
 made np my mind to stay where I was and lea re 
 Pettermann in charge of them ; so I went out and. 
 sent him back, much to his satisfaction. 
 
 Ernest and Marguerite showed me my room, which 
 was very pretty and looked into the garden and 
 opened on to a passage at the end of which was the- 
 room where Henrietta and her brother slept. 
 
 They showed me over the house and garden, which; 
 though neither were very large were just of a man- 
 ageable size and the garden well laid out. At the 
 end of it, where there was a small door leading into 
 the forest, I saw a little pavilion with two windows, 
 one looking on the forest of Yincennes — they were- 
 both closed with shutters. 
 
 6 What do you intend to do with that pavilion ? ' I 
 asked Ernest. 
 
 ' I have been thinking the matter over ; I fancy T. 
 shall turn it into my study.' 
 
 'It will just suit you, for you will be quite quiet* 
 there.' 
 
 ' But it is not ready yet, for we have spent so- 
 much on the property that we must wait a little for 
 that.' 
 
 Time passed very quickly. I never went to Paris ; 
 Pettermann brought me all I wanted, and told me 
 that nobody ever called on me — people did not know 
 I had returned, and Caroline and her uncle did not 
 know my address, and even if they had they would: 
 not have taken any notice of me. 
 
 I often thought of Eugenie, pale and changed as; 
 I had left her at Mont d' Or ; and Henrietta con- 
 stantly asked me why she did not come back, and 
 the boy would never allow me to forget her. 
 
 Poor child ! it was not his fault that his mother 
 was guilty, but I did not like to think of him, 
 though I felt how I should love him were I sure that; 
 
324 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 he was my son, and these cruel suspicions pain me 
 more than certainty even. He seemed to div.ne my 
 feelings, as I never smiled at him ; so he never came 
 near me except when his sister brought him, and I 
 felt that he feared me and would never love me. 
 But suppose he were my son ! The cruel suspicion, 
 however, returned, and at the moment when I felt 
 inclined to take him in my arms that thought stopped 
 jne. 
 
 My daughter saw that I did not caress her brother 
 like I did her — for a girl of seven observes more than 
 "we often think — and noticing that when I called her 
 J did not call him, that when I took her on my 
 knees I did not take him, she a sked me one day : 
 
 'Papa, don't you love my brother? You never 
 speak to him or kiss him, but he is very nice and 
 loves you very much. 5 
 
 ' My dear child, one does not treat boys like one 
 does girls.' 
 
 ' Then one does not kiss boys ? ' 
 
 'Not very often.' 
 
 'But M. Ernest kisses his little boy as often as 
 he does his girl.' 
 
 I did not know what to say ; children often em- 
 barrass us when we want to hide something from 
 them, and Henrietta, who saw that I did not know 
 ^what reply to make, said : 
 
 'It would be very naughty of you not to love 
 nny brother.' 
 
 To avoid her remarks and questions, I made up 
 *mj mind to kiss her less during the day, but in the 
 morning, whilst they were still asleep, I went into 
 their room, and passing Eugene's crib, which wag 
 near the window, I used to go to Henrietta's little 
 bed, and pulling the curtains gently apart, So as 
 not to wake her, I kissed her and went out again 
 ^without going up to the crib. 
 
 For several days I did this. Henrietta did not 
 
THE CHILDREN. 125 
 
 ?speak to me about her brother any more, but used to 
 look at me with a knowing air, and I fancied that 
 there was some project hatching in that little brain. 
 One morning I went as usual into the children's 
 room; I half opened the curtains and kissed my 
 daughter, and was just going out on tip-toe, when I 
 heard shouts of laughter behind me, and turning 
 round I saw Henrietta in her nightgown, hiding be- 
 hind an arm-chair; but she came out and danced 
 about the room, saying : 
 
 ' Ah ! I knew I should make you kiss my brother.' 
 I looked at her in surprise, and then opening the 
 bed-curtains I saw her brother lying there with her 
 little night-cap on and his face turned towards the 
 wall. So I had kissed him ! I felt softened towards 
 him, and at that moment I heard him say in his 
 '. little voice, without turning round : 
 
 * Sister, may I move now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; it's all right,' she replied. 
 
 * What does he mean ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' He was not asleep, papa, he was only pretending. 
 I turned him towards the wall, and said : " If you 
 turn your head or move papa will know you and not 
 kiss you," and you see he has been very good and not 
 moved the least.' 
 
 I could not resist this, but took him in my arms 
 and covered him with kisses, saying to myself : 
 
 ' For the future I will fondle you both equally, and 
 my heart will not distinguish between you ; you shall 
 -equally be my children. It is better to love a stranger 
 than to repel one's own son.' 
 
126 THE CUGKGLD, 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE-MONGER. 
 
 One day, when Pettermann came from Paris- 
 bringing some toys for the children, I saw that he 
 wanted to say something, so I asked him what was 
 the matter. 
 
 ' Nothing, monsieur; only coming here this morn- 
 ing I met some people.' 
 
 6 Well, has that got anything to do with me ? * 
 ' Yes, monsieur, you know them . . . some people 
 who were with us at Mont d' Or, that well-made, 
 pretty young lady, and that little, thin, lively, jolly 
 gentleman.' 
 
 * M. Roquencourt and his niece.' 
 ' Tes ; I met them on the Boulevard, just as I was 
 going into the Faubourg Saint Antoine. I did not 
 see them, but some one tapped me gently on the- 
 shoulder, and turning round I saw the uncle ; he was 
 out of breath and his niece was some way behind . 
 The first thing he said was : " My friend, you walk 
 uncommonly quick, you have made me run." I re- 
 plied : " Monsieur, I did not know that you were 
 following me." Then his niece came up, and she 
 still seems very curious: you remember how she 
 questioned me at Mont d' Or j> ' 
 6 Well, what did she ask you ? ' 
 ' First of all she asked after you, and then, as I 
 was carrying a parcel she said: "Where are you 
 taking that to 9 " " To Saint Maude, mademoiselle." 
 " Does M. Dalbreuse live at Saint Maude ? " " Tes, 
 mademoiselle." "And is that parcel for him?" 
 " Yes, mademoiselle." She then began to laugh- 
 heartily, and I saw that a clown's head was sticking: 
 
THE MARBIAGE-MONGEB. 
 
 127 
 
 out of the parcel which I was carrying, and the uncle; 
 said : " Has M. Dalbrense got a theatre of puppets r> 
 "No, monsieur; there are books in here for my 
 master, but the toys are for the children.' What I 
 has he got his children with him? " the young lady 
 cried. I thought to myself: "Here are too many; 
 questions," so I took off my hat, bowed, and said 1 
 was in a hurry.' 
 
 ' Was that all, Pettermann 9 
 'Yes, monsieur.' m 
 
 So Caroline had not forgotten me, m spite ot tner 
 way in which we parted. The remembrance of her 
 was a pleasant one ; her character was so strange 
 and her manner of thinking was not like that of any- 
 body else, and yet she had all the amiability and 
 grace of her sex. But, however, I need not trouble 
 myself about her, for I had determined to love no- 
 body but my children. It was a pity though, tor 
 love is a very pleasant occupation. 
 
 Three days after Pettermann had told me of this 
 meeting, I was walking in the forest of Yincennes 
 with my children. Eugene was less timid with me 
 now, though not like his sister, who made me do 
 lust what she wished. I had one of them on each 
 hand, and was listening to Henrietta's chatter and 
 her brother's little answers. She began to talk ot 
 her mother, and said : yf 
 
 ' Papa, why doesn't mamma come back ? 
 I She is a long way off, and perhaps you will not- 
 see her for a long time.' 9 
 
 < How tiresome ! But why don't we go to her ? 
 6 We cannot do that.' 
 'Why?' . , 
 
 ' I don't know where she is now. 
 ' Oh, suppose she were lost ! ' 
 Henrietta's eyes were full of tears as she looked afe 
 me. Poor little girl, if she knew how she pained me I 
 I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugenie had> 
 
1Z8 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 returned I fancied she would have asked to have seen 
 her children, and I should not have refused her that 
 satisfaction, but I never heard her mentioned. Ernest 
 xind his wife did not speak to me on the subject, and 
 although this subject began to vex me, I would not 
 be the first to mention her, and possibly they know 
 no more than I did. 
 
 Henrietta kept looking at me, and at last, losing 
 patience because I did not answer her, she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 1 But, papa, what are you thinking about? * 
 
 ' About you, my little girl.' 
 
 'I asked if poor mamma were lost, and you don't 
 
 say a word And Master Eugene, who never 
 
 asks after mamma ; it's too bad. Horrid little boy ! * 
 
 Eugene looked at his sister as if he were ashamed 
 of himself, and then began to say to me, in a sin g- 
 v song voice : 
 
 1 Papa, tell me something about mamma, if yon 
 please.' 
 
 ' I kissed him ; that would be answer enough for 
 him, but his sister was daily embarrassing me more 
 and more, but she was sensible beyond her years ; so 
 I sat down at the foot of a tree, drew the children to 
 me, and said to Henrietta : 
 
 ' Listen to me ; your mamma has gone abroad, and 
 I myself do not know when she will come back ; you 
 may think how it grieves me not to see her, and 
 every time you speak to me about her you increase 
 :my pain. Do you understand that, my darling? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa ; so I must not speak of mamma any 
 more ? ' 
 
 1 At any rate do not ask me questions which T can* 
 not answer.' 
 
 ' But I may think of her ? ' 
 
 * Yes, dear child ; and you may be quite sure that 
 -as soon as she comes back to Paris, the first thing 
 she will do will be to come and see you.' 
 
THE MARRIAGE-MOWGEB. 129^ 
 
 She did not say any more, but the conversation 
 seemed to have pained the poor children. 
 
 A few minutes after a lady and gentleman came 
 towards us, and before I had time to look at them 1 
 heard my name. It was M, "Roquencourt and his 
 niece, who stopped in front of us. 
 
 6 Yes, my niece was right ; it is M. Dalbreuse.* 
 
 I got up and greeted the uncle and niece. Caro- 
 line was cold but polite, and I did not think she had 
 that lively and vivacious look which had attached so 
 many people to her car at Mont d' Or ; she looked 
 much graver now, in fact almost melancholy, but 
 none the less charming, in my eyes, on that ac- 
 count. 
 
 'My niece said to me some distance off: " Thery 
 is M. Dalbreuse," and I must confess to you that I 
 did not recognise yon, though my sight is very good 
 and I have never worn spectacles. But who are 
 these pretty children ? ' 
 
 c They are mine.' 
 
 * Yours ! Oh, yes ! I remember my niece told me 
 that you were married. They are charming ! The 
 little girl has beautiful eyes, and already a little 
 manner which .... and you, my fine fellow, you 
 will make your mark some day.' 
 
 Whilst M. Roquencourt was looking at my 
 children, his niece came up to me and said in a 
 whisper : 
 
 ' So you have your children with you now ? 5 
 
 * Yes, mademoiselle.' 
 
 She stooped down to Henrietta, and said to her : 
 ' Will you give me a kiss, dear child ? ' 
 Henrietta made a pretty curtsey and allowed her- 
 self to be kissed; and then Mademoiselle Derbin 
 took Eugene into her arms to kiss him also, and I do 
 not know why, but the sight pleased me. 
 
 ' Oh ! you are living at Saint Maude, Monsieur 
 Dalbreuse. Your servant told as so.' 
 
130 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' Yes, monsieur ; I am spending the summer here 
 with some friends who were kind enough to take 
 charge of my children whilst T was travelling about.' 
 
 'You don't know that we are your neighbours 
 «ince yesterday ? ' 
 
 'Indeed!' 
 
 ' Yes, it is a fact. We have rented a small fur- 
 nished house at Saint Maude, and are going to spend 
 "the rest of the summer here. It was my niece's idea. 
 After we had met your servant, she said : " Uncle, I 
 am not well," and, in fact, she has not been well 
 since we left Mont d' Or.' 
 
 f. Good gracious, uncle, all these particulars cannot 
 possibly interest M. Dalbreuse.' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, anything that concerns you must 
 interest me.' 
 
 She looked away without speaking, and her uncle 
 went on : 
 
 ' Yes, my dear child, you were far from well, al- 
 though you tried to conceal it. One could easily see 
 it by your serious and melancholy manner, for you 
 had lost all your cheerfulness which you used to have, 
 in fact ' 
 
 c Indeed you are mistaken, uncle ; I am always the 
 same.' 
 
 ( However, you wanted to come here for the sake 
 of your health — so you said to me at least — and when 
 you want anything .... you know, my dear Dal- 
 breuse, it was just like when she made us go for 
 walks and drives at Mont d' Or — it must be done 
 immediately ; so within twenty-four hours we came, 
 s»w and hired a small house, and came and took 
 possession at once.' 
 
 ' I was tired of Paria, and, then, I did not know 
 this part of the country.' 
 
 ( I know it, and used to come here to act at Du- 
 gazon's country house ; I will show it to you as we 
 go back, and ' 
 
THE MARRIAGE-MONGEB. 131 
 
 * But, uncle, we are detaining M. Dalbreuse, and, 
 ^perhaps, we are even bothering- him. 5 
 
 6 Not at all, mademoiselle 5 I was just going back 
 ix> Saint Maude.' 
 
 We went back together, and M. Roquencourt — 
 who entertained us with an account of how he once 
 let loose a dozen mice out of a basket on the stage of 
 Dugazon's private theatre, much to the disgust of 
 ~the ladies though to his own satisfaction, as the joke 
 brought him three love affairs — went on talking till 
 we got to the village, Caroline holding Eugene by 
 Uhe hand and constantly speaking to Henrietta. 
 
 'This is our hermitage,' M. Roquencourt said, 
 stopping outside a pretty house about two gunshots 
 from Ernest's. [ I hope, M. Dalbreuse, that you will 
 come and see us, for in the country one must be 
 neighbourly ; don't you think so, Caroline ? ' 
 
 4 If Monsieur Dalbreuse will give us the pleasure 
 of his company and bring his children, I shall be 
 charmed to see them again. Will you come, Henri- 
 etta, dear ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, madame.' 
 
 j And you, my little friend ? You ought to be fond 
 of bonbons, and I always have some.' 
 
 Eugene answered with comical seriousness that he 
 should be very glad to go and see the bonbons. I 
 thanked her for my children and took my leave, pro- 
 mising to bring them the next day. 
 
 So Caroline wished to see me again and her anger 
 was appeased ; no doubt the same feeling that liad 
 caused had dissipated it. I could not help wondering, 
 however, why she was so changed, but I should have 
 been very foolish to have thought that it had any- 
 thing to do with ml Surely she might have some 
 secret trouble, in which I was left altogether out of 
 the calculation. I should have liked to know whether 
 she had seen Madame Blemont again before leaving 
 Mont d' Or, and, as a matter of fact, I was not at 
 
 k 2 
 
132 THE CTJCKO1.0. 
 
 ajl sorry for this meeting. When Ernest was at work: 
 one conld not speak with him, and his wife was alto- 
 gether taken up with her children and her household 
 duties, so I conld sometimes go and have a chat with 
 M. Koquencourt. 
 
 At dinner I told mj hosts of what had happened. 
 
 ' If they are nice people, ask them to come and see 
 us,' Ernest said. 
 
 I could see that his wife did not agree with him. 
 I had said that Caroline was charming ; women some- 
 times fear the visits of a charming person, and Mar- 
 guerite was a woman now. 
 
 ' My friend,' she said, ' these people have an income 
 of twenty-five thousand francs and keep a carriage,, 
 so I should never dare to receive them.' 
 
 6 Why, my dearest ? I am an authoi*, and genius 
 goes before fortune ; is not that so, Henri ? ' 
 
 4 It ought to, certainly.' 
 
 * But I, not being an autlior am not a genius.' 
 
 4 That is no reason, for the one does not neces- 
 sarily imply ths other.' 
 
 6 But I shall not dare .... they will not know 
 .... you say yourself that one ought not to make 
 acquaintances who might lead into expense.' 
 
 It seemed to me as if Marguerite were getting into 
 a muddle ; I fancied she was making signs to her 
 husband, but he was thinking about something else 
 and not listening to her, and so I reassured the little 
 woman by telling her that she was by no means 
 obliged to receive M. Roquencourt and his niece. 
 
 4 But you will see them ? ' she said. 
 
 * Of course I shall ; I see nothing to prevent me.' 
 
 4 Certainly not. But look here, from what I have 
 heard of this young lady, who does not choose to 
 get married, I fancy she is a flirt.' 
 
 4 If it were so, as long as her society pleases m& 
 I think I can go without fear.' 
 
 Madame Ernest said noting more, but I could 
 
THB MABBIA.GE-MONGEB. 133 
 
 clearly see that; she was not pleased at the idea of 
 our neighbours, and I could not imagine the reason ^ 
 however, that would certainly be no obstacle to my 
 going to see them. 
 
 The next day I took my children and went to Ji- 
 Roquencourt's. I found the uncle in his garden with 
 several people from the neighbourhood— rich people 
 soon make acquaintances. He was talking theatrical 
 matters with them, and took my boy and girl by the 
 hand to show them his garden and let them taste hi» 
 peaches ; so I let them go and went into the house> 
 and found Caroline in the drawing-room playing the ; 
 piano. I listened for some time without speaking,. 
 and when she stopped I went up to her. 
 
 * You were listening to me,' she said, '• and have- 
 not brought your children.' 
 
 ? I beg your pardon ; they are with your uncle.' 
 
 * They are charming, and I congratulate you on 
 having them with you. It shows that your wife has 
 forgotten how you have wronged her, since she en- 
 trusts to you what must be dearest to her. I pre- 
 sume, therefore, that she herself will soon ' 
 
 'Did you see her again before leaving Mont d* 
 Or?' 
 
 6 Mo, monsieur 5 she left the hotel where we were 
 staying the day after you did. Don't you know 
 where she is now ? ' 
 
 •' No, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' Really, monsieur, I cannot understand your con- 
 duct. You seem to be devoted to your children, and 
 you leave their mother, who is ill and unhappy. If 
 I had not seen you and only heard of you, I should 
 have thought that you were physically and morally 
 ugly, but one cannot think that when one knows 
 you.' 
 
 She smiled and I did not speak, which was the 
 best thing I could do when this subject was broached. 
 Henrietta and Eugene came in from the garden and 
 
1S4 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 Caroline ran to kiss them and loaded them with toys 
 and sweets, and then, as I wag still silent, she sat 
 down at the piano again. Eugene was sitting in a 
 corner taken np with his bonbons and Henrietta with 
 -a beautiful doll which Mademoiselle Derbin had 
 given her, but as the piano began she stopped playing 
 ^tnd listened. I did the same, and when, after a short 
 prelude, Caroline began to play one of Eugenie's 
 iavourite pieces, I could have thought that I was 
 listening to her. Sobs, however, took me out of my 
 reverie, and I looked up and saw Henrietta in tears 
 and the doll fallen out of her hands. I rushed up to 
 lier and Caroline did the same. 
 
 ' What is the matter, my dear child P * I said, 
 "laking her into my arms. 
 
 * Oh, papa ! I thought I heard mamma playing.* 
 Poor little girl I I pressed her to my heart and 
 
 Md the tears which fell from my eyes in her hair. 
 
 Caroline remained standing in front of us, and said 
 "fco me in a whisper : 
 
 * You see how the child is crying, and you will not 
 :give her back her mother ! ' 
 
 We both of us caressed and consoled her, but, in 
 spite of Caroline's entreaties, I went away with the 
 -children, for I heard M. Roquencourt coming back, 
 ■arid at that moment I could not bear his company. 
 
 I called on my neighbours frequently, but Caroline 
 mever played the piano when I was there. She made 
 much of my children and gave them many presents, 
 which they could not refuse ; whilst with me she was 
 sad and silent, though she always thought that I 
 went away too soon. 
 
 I could see that the Firmins did not like our new 
 neighbours, which was very unjust as they did not 
 Imow them. Marguerite looked disdainfully at the 
 presents which Henrietta and Eugene received from 
 Caroline : was it jealousy, because her children did 
 aot receive the same that made Madame Ernest de- 
 
THE MARRIAGE-CONGER. 
 
 135 
 
 predate what my children had ? No, I know her 
 p Mndness of heart, and that she was not at all envious ', 
 then what could be the reason for this prejudice 
 Against -M. Roquen court's niece 9 
 
 On going to call one day, I was very much surprised 
 
 -to find M. Giraud there* but I soon learnt that he 
 
 Jiad been introduced by a neighbour with whom he 
 
 -was spending the day. In the country one friend 
 
 brings another, and Giraud was one of those people 
 
 «who ask nothing better than to be taken, anywhere. 
 
 He seemed delighted to see me as he felt strange 
 
 ;£here, and seeing that I was on very friendly terms 
 
 :£n the house he was doubly polite to me. I guessed 
 
 -the reason, for he had not come without one ; no 
 
 .doubt he had heard that Mademoiselle Derbin was 
 
 siot engaged, and what a wedding it would be with 
 
 M rich and pretty girl as the bride ! and so he wished 
 
 •4a find out what he could. He overwhelmed Caroline 
 
 with compliments, which she did not seem to like, 
 
 and listened with imperturbable patience to M. Ro- 
 
 ^uencourt's theatrical anecdotes ; it might be worth 
 
 another invitation to him. 
 
 However, the friend who had brought him wanted 
 -to go, and Giraud left with evident reluctance, after 
 liaving asked permission to pay his respects to uncle 
 and niece when he should happen to be in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and having received a polite answer he 
 -went away delighted. I left at the same time, for I 
 saw that he wanted to speak to me, and, in fact, we 
 had scarcely got outside before he took my arm and 
 walked slower, calling out to his friend to go on, and 
 f . then he began the conversation : 
 
 * You seem very intimate at M. Roquencourt's ; 
 ihey receive you very well, my dear friend.' 
 
 L Well, M. Giraud, I fancy I am well received 
 -wherever I go ; if it were otherwise 1 
 
 * Good God ! I don't mean that. I know how capital 
 & fellow you are, although yo~ are not living with 
 
136 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 your wif 3, but that proves nothing ; but, I say, thafc 
 Mademoiselle Derbin would be a splendid match for 
 a man, if I have heard rightly. But I will find out 
 — twenty-five thousand francs a year and expecta- 
 tions from her uncle; pretty, and a good figure, and 
 I know the very man to suit her.' 
 
 * Oh ! you have ' 
 
 *You know I have always men of my acquaintance 
 who want wives, so when Dupont, who is going on 
 in front, mentioned this young lady to me, I said to 
 him immediately : " Tou must take me there." He- 
 did so, and I mean to go again. Are they always at 
 home ? ' 
 
 ' Except when they have gone out.' 
 
 * I meant to say, they don't go to Paris often.* 
 
 * I really can't say / [ 
 
 ' Then I shall make haste to come back here ; she- 
 is too good a chance to lose — some one else mights 
 Luckily, Saint Maude is not far off, and there ara 
 omnibuses. But, my dear friend, you ought to help 
 me a little ; sound the uncle and the niece, and talk- 
 of the young man whom I am thinking of,' 
 
 * What young man ? ' 
 
 * The young man whom I was going to bring before 
 her notice ; a good-looking young fellow of two and 
 twenty, an only son, well off, who wants to buy a 
 chemist's business. But if he does not suit her, I 1 
 know several others who might. The great thing, as 
 to find out whether the young lady has a liking for 
 anybody. Do you know whether she has ? ' 
 
 * What right, M. Giraud, do you think I have to 
 ask this young lady such a question ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! you can find out without asking. In any 
 case do your best for me, and I will ask Dupont to 
 do the same. I must catch him up. Pray, my dear 
 fellow, sound the young lady, for you can offer, a- 
 good-looking young man with a hundred thousand 
 francs and expectations from two quarters. And if 
 
THE MARRIAGE-MONGER. 
 
 137 
 
 she objects to a chemist, which is very likely with an 
 income of twenty-five thousand francs, I can find 
 ner a barrister. Hi ! Dupont, stop ! I am coming. 
 Devil take him, he is just the man to begin dinner 
 
 -without me.' . 
 
 When he had left me I could not help laughing at 
 Ms mania for marrying people ; I believed it was 
 hii only business, and tiiat, besides the wedding 
 breakfast and dinner, he got a handsome fee. 
 
 Ti he reckoned on me to speak to Mademoiselle 
 Derbin he was very much mistaken. I certainly was 
 mot going to speak for anyone I did not know, and, 
 Ibesides that, I did not think i* so very necessary to 
 
 get people married. ■-'■•., , 
 
 Three days later, when I had forgotten all about 
 Oiraud, I went out for a few moments without my 
 children. I had no intention of going to see Caro- 
 line, but she was at the window as I passed and 
 beckoned me to come in. As her uncle was in the 
 garden she was in the drawing-room alone. 
 
 Since our stay at Mont d' Or, I had always felt 
 .embarrassed when I was alone with her, and now we 
 remained for some minutes without speaking, as often 
 happens when one has much to say. Caroline was 
 close to the piano, and so I said : 
 
 < Why do you never play now when I am here ? 
 s f It seemed to make you unhappy, and I don't see 
 why I should do that.' 
 
 * There are some recollections which are pleasant 
 And painful at the same time j but I should like to 
 liear that piece which you played last, and which 
 made Henrietta cry.' 
 
 Caroline satt down at the piano and played Eu- 
 genie's favourite piece, whilst I let myself go with 
 the charm of listening to her and the illusion of 
 my recollections. My heart was full of tears and 
 vet I felt pleasure, and though Caroline often turned 
 jround to look at me I did not see her. 
 
138 TUB CUCKOLD. 
 
 All of a sudden a loud noise drew our attention* 
 from that situation which had its charm for both of" 
 us. There was a violent ring at the house door, and 
 soon we heard several voices and the barking of a>* 
 dog. 
 
 * How tiresome ! ' Caroline exclaimed. ' One can- 
 not be quiet for a moment in this place. My undo 
 is glad to see all his neighbours, so I must really be- 
 angry with him.' 
 
 The noise increased, and I fancied I heard voices 
 that I knew. The speakers came towards the drawing-- 
 room, and in walked Giraud, his wife, daughter, and 
 one of his sons, accompanied by a tall young man in 
 evening dress, who did not aeem tc dare to move for" 
 fear of disarranging his tie or rumpling his collar. 
 
 Caroline opened her eyes wide when she saw all 
 these people coming in, but Giraud came forward in 
 a jaunty fashion and introduced his wife, saying : 
 
 6 Mademoiselle, I have the honour of paying yots 
 my respects ; allow me to introduce my wife. My^ 
 dear, this is the niece of M. Roquencourt, who re-^ 
 ceived me in such a friendly manner last Sunday, and 
 asked me to come and see him when I happened to 
 be in the neighbourhood. My eldest son and my" 
 daughter. Bow, my children. This gentleman is- 
 one of our intimate friends ; he joined us in our ex- 
 cursion, and I have taken the liberty of introducing" 
 him to you. How are you, my dear Blemont ? I am; 
 delighted to meet you here.' 
 
 Caroline bowed very coldly all round and asked" 
 them to sit down, which they did, the tall young man 
 sitting on the edge of the sofa. Giraud went ob- 
 immediately : 
 
 6 But where is your dear uncle ? How he amused" 
 me with his theatrical reminiscences, and how my 
 wife laughed when I related them to her ; didn't you, 
 my dear ? ' 
 
 'Yes, indeed, I did. But why is Azor huntings 
 
THE MARRIAOE-MONOEB. 18$ 
 
 about tiiidef all the chairs? Be quiet, Azor! HL 
 Morville, please give him a kick and make him Her 
 down.' 
 
 M. Morville^ who is the good-looking young man,, 
 got up and tried to catch hold of the dog, but not 
 succeeding he gave him a kick which made him yell 
 and bolt at the very moment when M. Roquencourt 
 was coming into the room. 
 
 Everybody rose again, and M. Giraud introduced 
 his family and the tall young man afresh, adding^ 
 this time : 
 
 ' M. Morville* does not go into the country very 
 often, as he has so much business to settle since his- 
 uncle, who was a merchant, left him a hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs and a buggy. Was it a buggy 
 or a tilbury that your uncle had ? ' 
 
 6 It was a gig/ M. Morrille* replied, without moving- 
 his head. 
 
 M. Giraud made rather a face, and went on: 
 
 1 Yes, a carriage of some sort, in fact. That is 
 very nice for a young man of three and twenty ; and 
 when I told him that we were going to see some very 
 nice people, he did not hesitate a moment about 
 coming with us. My dear wife, this is M. Roquen- 
 court, who, as I told you just now, used to act so 
 well formerly Good heavens, how you made me 
 laugh ! ' 
 
 M. Roquencourt at first seemed rather surprised at 
 finding so many people brought to call by a man 
 whom he had only seen once before, but as soon as 
 anyone began to talk to him about acting his looks 
 brightened, he smiled and exclaimed : 
 
 ' Yes ; I have played in comedies before the greatest 
 actors/ 
 
 * Just what I told my wife and M. Morville. Just 
 think, my dear, he has performed before the greatest 
 actors. 9 
 
 ' But my favourite part was Figaro. Oh, Figaro I 
 
440 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 The dress was so very beaueiful and suited me so 
 ,we}l.' 
 
 1 1 am sur« the dress must have suited you. M. 
 Morville, were you not once dressed as Figaro, to go 
 ►to a grand fancy dress ball at a contractor's ? ' 
 
 ' No, I was dressed as a harlequin.' 
 
 * Oh ! that's a different matter.' 
 
 * But to return to my dress,' M. Roquencourt said ; 
 -*it was white and cherry coloured, and all silk. I 
 believe I have it still.' 
 
 1 You have it still ! How kind it would be of you 
 4o put it on for us to see.' 
 
 Caroline, who had not spoken a word all the time, 
 turned towards me and whispered : 
 
 'Have these people come here to make a fool of 
 my uncle ? ' 
 
 'No, they have another motive, which I will tell 
 you by-and-bye.' 
 
 M. Roquencourt looked at Giraud a moment, and 
 -then said, good naturedly : 
 
 ' No, I cannot put it on any more ; I have not used 
 dt for the last twenty-five years, and since then I 
 iiave increased in volume.' 
 
 'Yes, in twenty-five years one alters and gets 
 stouter. M. Morville, I think you have grown since 
 .last year ? ' 
 
 ' About half an inch.' 
 
 f Half an inch ! What a fine man you will make ! 
 Mademoiselle, also, has a very feae figure — one of 
 those elegant, supple figures which require a tall 
 .man to give her his arm.' 
 
 This compliment was addressed to Caroline, and 
 she looked at me and made an impatient movement; 
 but Giraud, who fancied that he had said the finest 
 thing in the world in talking of fine figures, had 
 forgotten M. Roquencourt, who was very small, so 
 the uncle came forward into the middle of the circle, 
 and said ; 
 
THE K.A.ERJ4OE-M0NOEB. 141 
 
 'Monsieur, yon are very* much mistaken in saying 
 -that a man of middle height onght not to offer his 
 arm to a tall woman. That great actress, Mademoi- 
 selle Contat, was certainly not short, and yet she was 
 -very glad to have me to offer her my arm.' 
 
 ' Oh ! M. Roquencourt, that was not at all what I 
 meant to say. The devil ! Let us understand each 
 •other! Everybody knows that short men .... why 
 all the greatest heroes were short men — just take the 
 Alexanders, the Fredericks, the Napoleons, they were 
 all short. Is not that so, M. Morville ? My dear 
 -wife, do make that girl hold her tongue.' 
 
 '. And it is far better for an actor to be short than 
 tall, for the stage makes you look taller.' 
 
 * Just what I have said to my wife twenty times : 
 -" The stage makes you look taller; "and you know 
 
 something about that, M. Roquencourt.' 
 
 The poor old gentleman, vain of his past exploits, 
 -was led away to declaim pieces from various comedies 
 vvhile M. Giraud was convulsed with laughter, and 
 assured his wife that he had never seen anything like 
 it on the stage, and kept urging him to give them 
 :more proofs of his talent. 
 
 ' I wonder how long this is going to last?' Caroline 
 ^whispered to me. I only smiled, without a word, 
 and M. Roquencourt was in the middle of a comic 
 passage, which M. Giraud was applauding with all 
 his might, when he was interrupted by the cook 
 -rushing in and saying : 
 
 * Good heavens, mademoiselle, I wonder what dog 
 that is that has come here P He came into the kitchen, 
 ^took all he could find, swallowed the remains of a 
 dfowl in a trice, and then ran off with the leg of 
 muttom which was for your dinner.' 
 
 'Oh! that was because he was thirsty,' Giraud 
 exclaimed, f. Give him something to drink : he is 
 very hot, give him some water, please, and he will 
 jump up on you immpdia-t^ly.' 
 
142 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 * Monsieur,* Caroline said, rising and going in & 
 very decided manner towards Giraud, *I am very 
 sorry, but you must get youi dog some water else- 
 where; my uncle must remember that we have to go 
 out this morning, and as we are late we cannot really 
 have the pleasure of asking you to stay here any 
 longer.' 
 
 Whilst she was saying this Caroline gave her uncle 
 a look which he oould not misunderstand, and he 
 stammered out : 
 
 I Yes, really, I believe we must go out/ 
 
 Giraud seemed thunderstruck, and looked at his 
 wife, who looked at M. Morville, who looked at his 
 trousers to see that they were not creased. 
 
 However, the whole of the family got up; the 
 good-looking young man did the same, and Giraud 
 bowed profoundly, saying : 
 
 6 Of course, we will not detain you as you are busy.- 
 Another time I hope we may be more fortunate, and 
 that we may make an acquaintanceship whose happy 
 results .... M. Morville, present your respects to 
 mademoiselle; say good-bye, my children. M. Roquen- 
 court, we shall not forget your kindness. Azor ! Azor ! 
 Azor ! Oh, he is bound to come ! Hope to see you 
 again soon, my dear Blemont/ 
 
 As the family were going out, Giraud whispered 
 to me : 
 
 6 Is she attached to anyone ? If this young man 
 does not suit her, I have two others to introduce to 
 her ; let me know when you find out anything.' 
 
 At last they left the drawing-room, after finding 
 Azor, who ran out of the house with a leg of mutton 
 bone in his mouth ; and as soon as they had gone, 
 Caroline said to the servant and the gardener : 
 
 * If ever these people come here again say we are 
 not at home ; they are really too impertinent/ 
 
 ■' You may be quite sure of that, mademoiselle/ 
 the cook replied ; ' I neither want to see the master 
 
THE MABBIACtiC-HOfraBB. 145 
 
 nor the dog any more. Now I have got to see after 
 my whole dinner over again.' 
 
 'It is all my uncle's fault ; he invites everybody 
 he meets, and as long as people talk to him about 
 theatres and comedies that J s all he cares about; he- 
 would declaim to chimney-sweeps.' 
 
 * That is too much, my niece ! Did I go after this* 
 gentleman and ask him to bring his wife, his children 
 and his dog? He thought I recited parts out of 
 some comedies very well, and there is nothing extra- 
 ordinary in that, many others besides him have* 
 thought the same ; but to declaim to chimney- 
 sweeps ! though they might have very good taste for 
 all that. The common people are not such bad judges- 
 as you seem to think, and Dugazon told me repeatedly 
 that at free representations they never applauded 
 except when applause was deserved. But you underr 
 stand nothing about comedy, and talent is wasted on 
 you.' 
 
 He was very much put out and left us to go to his 
 own room, but Caroline detained me, saying : 
 
 * Just a minute, please. You know this M. GirauuV 
 who seemed to wish to instal himself here with his 
 wife and family, and even his friend. He spoke to 
 jou in a low voice, and you told me that you would 
 inform me of the motive for his visit. Will you tell 
 it me, monsieur 9 ' 
 
 I sat down by her side again, and I could not help 
 smiling as I said : 
 
 'Mademoiselle, this M. Giraud has one mania, one 
 wish, one vocation, and that is to make up matches. 
 Hearing that you were still free, he at once conceived 
 the plan of getting you married.' 
 
 'Insolent fellow ! how dare he interfere in such a 
 matter ? ' 
 
 4 As he thinks that everybody must end in that, 
 sooner or later, he is wonderfully persevering in his- 
 projects. He had already asked me to speak to you 
 
144 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 in favour of the yonng man whom he has just brought 
 here.' 
 
 ' What ! that great boody ? ' 
 
 'He is an aspirant to your hand, mademoiselle; 
 and in spite of the unflattering reception which yon 
 gave Giraud and his protege, I should not be at all 
 surprised if he returned to the charge very soon with 
 a fresh suitor.' 
 
 4 1 assure you that I shall not receive him again. 
 What you have just told me makes me think this 
 Oiraud more unbearable than ever. Wish to get me 
 married I Whoever heard of such a ridiculous 
 idea ! ' 
 
 She became serious and pensive and looked down, 
 but in a few moments she continued : 
 
 'I marry ! never, never ! At one time I thought 
 it possible ; I had a delightful dream, but it was only 
 : a dream, and I had deceived myself cruelly. 5 
 
 Her words rather troubled me, and yet how did I 
 know that they were meant for me? I ought not to 
 have wished to know, and yet I drew closer to Caro- 
 line, whose head was hanging down, and took her 
 hand, which I had never done before, but she looked 
 so sad that I wished to console her. 
 
 I did not know what to say to her, nor did I dare 
 to ask her the motive for her resolution, and we re- 
 mained thus without speaking. I pressed her hand 
 gently, but that evidently did not console her, for 
 she was crying ; so I put my arm round her waist 
 And could feel her heart beating and her breath on 
 .my cheek. 
 
 All of a sudden she pushed me away and withdrew 
 from me, exclaiming : 
 
 c I did not think I was so weak, but at any rate I 
 will not be criminal ; I will not add to the grief of a 
 woman whom I pity, and whom I would restore to 
 happiness. And as I cannot conceal my feelings 
 from you, we will never meet again except in society, 
 
THE PHANTOM. 145* 
 
 in the presence of strangers, and this tete-b-tete is the 
 last we shall ever have.' 
 
 With these words she hastily left the room and I 
 also went away, thinking that, as a matter of fact, 
 it would be quite as well for us to avoid being alone 
 together. 
 
 CHAPTEB 3X 
 
 % THS PHANTOM. 
 
 Sxhcb my last meeting with Caroline I went there 1 
 much less frequently, and never without my children. 
 It was getting towards the autumn and we should 
 not stay in the country much longer, so I took them 
 for daily walks in the forest. Sometimes Madame 
 Ernest came with us, and I perceived that she seemed 
 more friendly towards me since I had been at M. 
 Roquencourt's less, so I could only conclude that 
 she had something against her neighbours ; but as 
 she was always as kind and attentive to me and my 
 children as ever, and Ernest just the same toward' 
 me, I asked them no questions. 
 
 Often I thought that she wanted to talk to me* 
 for I could see by her face that she had something 
 to say. But what kept her back ? I often saw her 
 glancing at me and my children, but either she did 
 not speak or talked of indifferent subjects. 
 
 One day, after dinner, we went iirto the forest with 
 the fou* children. The sun was declining, and a* 
 
 L 
 
146 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 we were going into a rather gloomy walk, Eugene 
 cried ont : 
 
 ' I am afraid of the phantom here ! ' 
 
 ' Of the phantom ? ' I said, taking him up in my 
 arms; 'who has been talking to you about a 
 phantom ? ' 
 
 'The nurse,' Madame Ernest's little girl replied; 
 * and she says there is a phantom in our house, and 
 "that she has seen it in the garden.' 
 
 'Tour nurse is very silly, and you also,' the 
 mamma said immediately; 'I shall forbid her to 
 talk to you about such things.' 
 
 ' I have also heard her speak about it,' Henrietta 
 said ; ' and nurse declares that one can see and hear 
 the phantom near the little pavilion.' 
 
 ' What fools such people are ! and how can you, 
 Henrietta, who are a sensible child, repeat such 
 stuff?' 
 
 Madame Ernest seemed very vexed at the mentaon 
 of the phantom, and I began to laugh, and said to 
 her : 
 
 * Really, you take the matter too seriously. Do 
 you think I am going to run away directly, because 
 these children say there is a phantom in your 
 house ? * 
 
 " Of course not ; but don't you think they are 
 wrong to frighten children by talking to them of 
 such things ? ' 
 
 '- That's the very reason why it is better to laugh 
 : at it with them than to get angry about it. I am 
 sure that you are not frightened at the phantom, 
 Henrietta, for you know such things don't exist.' 
 
 ' I don't know whether there are any, but I am a 
 little bit afraid, for all that. The other night I woke 
 up and fancied I saw something white leaving the 
 room. I felt inclined to call out, but put my head 
 under the bed-clothes instead.' 
 
 * But, my dear child, first of all you ought to know 
 
THE PHA1TT0M. 147 
 
 mhsLt you are frightened about. Now, what is a 
 phantom ; come ? { 
 
 * It is — I don't know papa.' 
 
 \ Oh ! I know quite well/ little Ernest criei ; ' a 
 phantom is a ghost.' 
 
 ' And what is a ghost P * 
 
 f Why — a phantom.' 
 
 ' Well done ; you are fit to interpret the Book of 
 XLevelations ! ' 
 
 j A phantom,' the little girl said in her turn, c is a 
 <levil with a red tail and green horns, who comes at 
 jught to pull naughty children's legs.' 
 
 That definition made Marguerite and me laugh, 
 t)tlt I agreed with her that she had reasons for finding 
 -fault with her nurse, who had told the children such 
 tales. 
 
 Whilst talking about phantoms we had got back 
 to the house, so I said good night to the children, 
 who were going to bed, and went into the garden, 
 for it was a lovely evening. I soon got to the un- 
 inhabited pavilion. The moon was shining, and 
 looking at the clumps of trees round me I thought 
 of the phantom. I imagined how easily any foolish, 
 person, who believed in such things, might see 
 shadows behind the foliage, which the slightest wind 
 anoved. 
 
 I sat down on a bench outside, for the night wai 
 so warm and calm that I did not think of going in- 
 doors. I thought of Caroline, and then of Eugenie. 
 The children had been talking to me about her that 
 very day, and I wondered why Ernest and his wife 
 mever mentioned her to me, for I should have liked 
 to have heard of her, as, though I could never love 
 lier again, I never could be indifferent to her. 
 
 I forgot how time was going, till a slight noise 
 -which 1 heard close to me made me look round. It 
 seemed like a gentle sigh, and as I saw nobody I got 
 mp, and fancied that, through the trees, I saw some- 
 
 l 2 
 
148 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 thing white hastening towards the other end of the* 
 garden. I remembered the phantom and this excited/ 
 my curiosity, but I could find nothing anywhere, in 
 spite of my search ; so I made up my mind to go in, 
 as it was getting late and at doubt everyone had 
 gone to bed. 
 
 I certainly don't believe in ghosts, but I remem- 
 bered Madame Ernest's impatience when the children 
 talked about it, and I fancied there was some mystery 
 hidden under all this, which I should like to discover, 
 as I thought it might interest me. 
 
 I went to bed but I could not sleep. Worried with? 
 these ideas, I got up and was going to open the 
 window, when I thought I heard a noise at the end 
 of the passage in my children's room. I opened the 
 door gently, and at that moment a sort of white 
 shadow came out of the room at the end ; and, rather 
 startled at first, I was just going to rush out upon 
 this mysterious being, when I thought better of it 
 and remained quiet, without moving, to see what 
 would happen. 
 
 After having closed the door of the children's 3 
 room the shadow stooped down to pick up a lantern; 
 and then came quickly in my direction. I could now^ 
 distinguish that it was a woman, and I recognised 
 
 Eugenie I 
 
 Dressed in white and with a large muslin veil 
 thrown back from her head, she looked, in the dis- 
 tance — with her face as pale as her dress — like some- 
 thing ethereal and vaporous, and I guessed that she 
 was the phantom that had frightened the nurse and 
 children. She looked very sad, and hastened down 
 stairs, and running to my window I saw the light of 
 the lantern crossing the garden and disappear close 
 to the pavilion. 
 
 So she was living there and close to me, and I 
 wondered what was her object and hope. Had she 
 only hidden herself there for her children's sake ¥ 
 
THE PHANTOM. 14^ 
 
 Ernest and Marguerite, however, knew that I should 
 never prevent her seeing them, and as I wished to 
 find ont their motives, I made up my mind not te let 
 them see that I knew anything, but to try and dis- 
 cover more the next night. 
 
 The next day 1 involuntarily went, several times,, 
 towards the pavilion, which was closed as usual, and, 
 then I remarked that the door by the side of it r . 
 which went out into the forest, must be verv con- 
 venient for going in and out of the garden without 
 being seen from the house. 
 
 At night I kissed the children as usual when they 
 went to bed, and as soon as I thought they were 
 asleep I said good night to my hosts and went to my 
 room, under the pretext of a violent headache ; but 
 as soon a3 I had got there I came out of it again 
 gently, without a light, and went into my children's,, 
 and whilst waiting I sat down by Henrietta's bed r 
 who was sleeping quietly, as was her brother. 
 
 At last, some time after everybody had retired for 
 the night, I heard someone coming along very gently,, 
 so I got up from my chair and hid myself behind the 
 large window curtains, and almost immediately after- 
 wards Eugenie came in with the lantern and dressed 
 as I had seen her the night before. "Walking on tip- 
 toe, she went up to the little girl's bed and kissed her 
 without waking her, then kissed the boy, and came 
 and sat down opposite the children, looking at them 
 a long time as they slept. 
 
 I did not dare to move, hardly to breathe. Eugenia 
 put her handkerchief to her eyes, and I could hear 
 
 ner say : 
 
 \ Poor children ! How unhappy I am, for you will 
 never again call me mother, nor he me " his Eugenie.'* 
 I have, indeed, been punished.' 
 
 She sobbed, and I almost felt inclined to go to 
 her, dry her tears, and press her to my heart as 
 formerly. 
 
150 
 
 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 We had been in this position for a long time, and 
 at last Eugenie got up and seemed as if she were 
 about to say good-bye to her children, when then the 
 door was gently opened. Eugenie started, but re- 
 assured herself on seeing Marguerite, who closed the 
 door quietly and came and sat down by her. Though 
 they spoke in a low voice, I did not lose a word of 
 their conversation. 
 
 ' My husband is working , I did not feel inclined 
 to go to bed ; there is no light in M. Blemont's room, 
 so I suppose he is asleep ; and so I came, as I thought 
 I might find you here. Tou will get iU if you con- 
 tinually cry like that.' 
 
 f Tears and regrets are my lot, I can have no other 
 existence.' 
 
 c Who knows 9 You must always hope, and I am 
 sure your husband would forgive you if he could read 
 the bottom of your heart.' 
 
 ' No ; he would be continually thinking of what I 
 had done, and yet, perhaps, I was not so guilty as he 
 thinks. If I had loved him less I should not have 
 acted as I did. Certainly my jealousy was no excuse, 
 but I thought my husband — whom I adored — was 
 deceiving me, and I wished to make him taste what 
 I had undergone. " Flirt," people said to me, " and 
 you will soon bring him back to your arms ; for men - 
 soon become cold towards a woman whom nobody 
 seems tc wish to possess." I believed it all, fancied 
 that Hen'i had never loved me, and that ball — at 
 which he danced with you — put a finishing stroke to 
 3ny madness. 
 
 f Fatal blindness ! My jealousy had banished peace 
 from our household, and I threw myself into the 
 whirlpool of pleasure — not that I liked it, but be- 
 cause I saw that it vexed him. 
 
 ' When once I had taken the guilty step, I cannot 
 tell you what I felt ; and when he knew the truth I 
 would not abase myself before him and try to obtain 
 
THE PHANTOM. 151 
 
 iny pardon by my tears, but I tried to deceive myself, 
 and so I wrote to him as a woman might have done 
 -who really hated him ; and, to make him believe that 
 C did not repent, I went into society more than ever, 
 as I hoped that he would hear of it and believe that 
 K was happy without him; so I affected a gaiety 
 which I was far from feeling. But I did not know 
 of his duel and illness, and when I heard of those 
 events almost at the same time a bandage fell from 
 my eyes, and the thought that I might have been the 
 cause of his death filled me with horror, and I felt 
 how wrong I had altogether been. You told me that 
 I had suspected him unjustly, that he loved me when 
 I thought him faithless, and now that I know that I 
 lost him through my own fault you expect me not to 
 weep.' 
 
 \ But why not let us speak to him about you and 
 try and soften him 9 ? 
 
 e No, it is impossible ; another has already tried it 
 in vain — Mademoiselle Derbin, whom he met, I think, 
 at Mont d' Or ; and finding he was my husband, be- 
 lieving he had left me, she begged and prayed him 
 to return to me : I was near and heard them without 
 their knowing it. He even allowed himself to bo 
 accused of faults of which he was innocent, but he 
 aaid : "We are separated for ever ! " and those cruel 
 words went to my heart like a knife and nearly killed 
 me.' 
 
 c That does not prove that he has not changed his 
 mind : I have told you how altered he is towards 
 Eugene, poor little boy.' 
 
 ' Since my fault, the first happy moment I have 
 .had was to hear that he no longer repelled his own 
 son ; for I declare that I was utterly free from blame 
 when my son was born'' 
 
 I was so delighted at this that I made a movement 
 which almost betrayed me, but, luckily Marguerite 
 went on speaking and they did not hear me. 
 
152 TH~B CUCKOLD. 
 
 ' As lie has been so careful in hiding your fault, Ml 
 is likely that he will pardon you.' 
 
 ' No ; that was for his own and his children's sake 
 — he will never forgive me, for he loved me too much^ 
 Don't mention me to him. Thanks to your pity and 
 kindness, I have been able to see him again. Hidden 
 in the pavilion, a hole in the shutters enables me to 
 see into the garden, where Henri often walks ; some- 
 times I hear his voice and see him with his children, 
 and then what pleasure and pain I feel ! I had a 
 place between him and his children, and now I can 
 occupy it no more. I know I could see them and 
 have them come and see me, but as they grow up 
 they will ask why I do not go to their father, and so 
 they had better forget me.' 
 
 She began to sob again, and then went on : 
 6 Another thing grieTes me — you will guess what ' r 
 you who have been so good to me and read my 
 
 heart, and whom I wronged and misunderstood * 
 
 f Be quiet,' Marguerite said, kissing Eugenie ; ( I 
 have oome good news for you. For some days past 
 M. Blemont goes to see Mademoiselle Derbin much 
 less frequently.' 
 
 * Does he really ? I have no right to be jealous, H 
 know ; I have no claim on his heart, and yet I can- 
 not bear to think that he loves anybody else ; and 
 she is so pretty, and loves him, I know. I saw it at 
 Mont d' Or, and was certain of it on the evening 
 that he left, for though she begged him to return to- 
 me, her voice trembled and she could hardly repress 
 her tears, and she spoke iike one would to somebody 
 one loves whilst pretending to hate him. Poor Caro- 
 line ! she thought he was free, and gave herself up 
 to the pleasure of love without fear.' 
 
 ' Yes, but now she knows that he is married and 
 thinks that he abandoned you, why has she come to 
 live close to us with her uncle, and invited M. Ble- 
 mont to go and see her ? Tha t is not the way to 
 
LTJCILE AGAIN. 153 
 
 forget her love, supposing she loved him; and it 
 <does not give me a very high opinion of her, and I 
 fancy M. Henri sees that I do not like her, even 
 without knowing her.' 
 
 f She loves him still and wished to see him again ; 
 but if, at least, he did not love her ! Often when I 
 see him, I fancy that I still reign in his heart, and 
 the awakening is too cruel. I am enly a stranger, I 
 cannot regain the place I held in his heart, and others 
 must possess his love ; but don't mention me to him, 
 my children do that. I hear them ask for their 
 mother, and if he does not listen to them he certainly 
 would not to you. Wait till he himself .... but 
 he will never ask what has become of me.' 
 
 ? I cannot think he has quite forgotten you, but it 
 is late, and time for you to go to bed.' 
 
 Marguerite took the light, Eugenie kissed her 
 children again, and then they both noiselessly left 
 the room, carefully closing the door behind them. 
 
 As soon as the sound of their footsteps had died 
 away I left my hiding-place, kissed the children with 
 even greater pleasure than usually, and went to my 
 own room. The conversation which I had just heard 
 was engraven on my memory, and my resolution was 
 Already made and plans formed. 
 
 CHAPTEH Xn. 
 
 LUCILE AGAIN. 
 
 The next day I wrote to Pettermann to come and 
 see me as I had some commissions for him, and he 
 •goon arrived at Saint Maude, but he seemed em- 
 barrassed and disinclined to speak. 
 
154 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 'What is the matter ? * I asked. 'I see there i$ 
 something' that you have to tell me, so why don't you 
 do so?' 
 
 £ Yes, monsieur, but I don't exactly know how to~ 
 begin, for I shall look like a fool, saying one thing 
 and doing another ; but, then, so much the worse. 
 You know, monsieur, that a man is not like a phoenix,- 
 so here goes. You know I am married, monsieur^ 
 and that I left my wife because we could not agree ; 
 she beat me and, did not like me to drink — I wanted 
 to drink and did not like being beaten. Well, mon- 
 sieur, a few days ago I met my wife and she spcke~ 
 to me ; she seemed very quiet and so we got quite 
 soft-hearted. She asked me whether I still got drunk, 
 and when I told her that it only happened once a 
 month now, she said : " One cannot find fault with 
 once a month ; "' and so, monsieur, I have promised 
 to take my wife back. The only thing I am sorry 
 for is that I shall be obliged to leave you, for I am 
 afraid that you will be vexed with me.' 
 
 ' Not at all, Pettermann ; I am glad to hear it* 
 What is your wife doing at present ?' 
 
 c She is portress in a large house close to where we 
 live.' 
 
 ' Well, if there are any good rooms to let in the 
 house where she is, you might still be my servant ; 
 are there ? ' 
 
 6 That would suit me excellently. There are two* 
 beautiful sets of rooms, newly decorated, with all 
 necessary offices — one on the second and one on the* 
 third storey.' 
 
 c Take the one on the second storey and have all 
 my furniture moved into it. Here is my upholsterer's 
 address ; go and tell him to look at the rooms and 
 put in anything more he may think requisite, and 
 mind I want everything ready in four days from now^ 
 as I intend to take back my wife also.' 
 
 6 1 did not know you were married, monsieur/ 
 
LKJCIUB AQAIR. 
 
 155 
 
 * Yes, and like you, Pettermann, my wife and I did 
 not always agree ; and now that I see how wrong I 
 was, I hope to regain all my former happiness with 
 her and my children.' : 
 
 <I am glad to hear that, monsieur; and 1 teel 
 quieter now at finding that you are going to do as I 
 am: I can still remain in your service, monsieur/ 
 
 After having enjoined absolute secrecy on him y 
 Pettermann went back to Paris. 
 
 I felt satisfied, and yet I was obliged to avow it 
 to myself that I no longer loved Eugenie ; but, per- 
 haps, for that very reason it was now possible for me 
 to return to her, as I saw in her the mother of my 
 children, and did not wish to condemn her to per- 
 petual grief. 
 
 We could not be as we had been formerly, that 
 would be impossible; but I should be kind and con- 
 siderate towards her, and time would bring about 
 the rest. Of course, I must see Caroline no more, 
 and that would not be the smallest sacrifice which I 
 should make to my children ; but I had quite made 
 up my mind, I would go and see her the next day 
 for the last time, and tell her that I was going back 
 to my wife ; she would believe that I had yielded to 
 her entreaties, and I should not undeceive her. 
 
 I returned to the drawing-room, where they all 
 were, and as I wished to amuse and forget myself, I 
 played with the children, kissed Madame Ernest, and 
 joked with her husband. 
 
 They both wanted to know what had come to me 
 as I seemed so happy, and I told them that I had re- 
 ceived good news, which I would tell them later on, 
 and then asked what we were going to do, as I felt 
 much inclined to amuse myself. 
 
 ' To-day is the last public ball at Saint Maude/ 
 Ernest said ; ' let us gc there, as I hear it will be & « 
 very grand affair.' 
 
 < I have not been there yet ; so we will all three go/ 
 
HBO THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 1 No, no/ Marguerite said, * it would not amuse 
 me the least, I would rather stop with the children ; 
 but you two can go, only don't get talking to women, 
 for there are some of all sorts at these balls in the 
 environs of Paris/ 
 
 We promised to be good, and directly after dinner 
 Ernest and I went there. The weather was lovely, 
 and besides the inhabitants of Saint Maude and 
 and Yincennes, there were many people from Paris 
 who wished to enjoy a country ball. Many convey- 
 ances were stationed round about. 
 
 6 It is going to be quite a grand affair,' Ernest 
 said. *■ I'll bet we shall find more than one theatrical 
 lady here ; the princesses of the footlights are very 
 fond of country balls.' 
 
 ' But you remember that you promised your wife 
 "to be very good.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, one always promises, and keeps 
 one's promise if one can. Come along, I hear the 
 music* 
 
 We had only gone a very short distance when I 
 Tieard myself called, and turning round I saw Belan, 
 with his wife on one arm and his mother-in-law on 
 the other, appearing quite proud of the superb 
 Armide. He bowed very politely to me, and having 
 'found seats for the ladies, he came to me and dragged 
 ine off in an opposite direction from where the 
 dancing was going on. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Blemont, you see how it is ; all is 
 made up and I have returned to the fold. I was a 
 -wandering sheep, as my mother-in-law says, but all 
 is forgotten and I am reconciled to my wife.' 
 
 ' So I supposed on seeing you just now, but I must 
 •acknowledge that it slightly surprised me. After 
 appealing' to the law, and your name appearing in 
 the papers ' 
 
 ' What does that matter ? What do papers prove 9 
 -Besides, as the Court decided that I was wrong, and 
 
LUCILB AGAIN. 157 
 
 -that I was wfc a cuckold, I cannot pretend to know 
 more than the judges.' 
 
 6 1 fancied, at Mont d' Or, that yon spoke diffe- 
 rently, and intended to appeal.' 
 
 ' Yon think I said so ? Well, it is possible, but 
 then I was angry, excited, jealous, and spoke non- 
 sense, but now I am reasonable. At my return from 
 Mont d' Or, her relations came to see me, and said 
 that Armide was inclined to forgive me, so I said : 
 -" Let us forget our differences," and all my friends 
 tell me that I am quite right to take my wife back.' 
 
 ' I am far from finding fault with you, but in your 
 ^place I should not have made so much noise about 
 it.' 
 
 6 I rather like to make a stir and cause people to 
 talk about me, As soon as I go into society now I 
 hear people whispering and saying, when they look 
 fit me : " That is M. Ferdinand Belan ; " just as they 
 might say : " That is Voltaire," or : " That is Frede- 
 rick the Great " — I assure you I rather like it. But 
 good-bye, I see the ladies are looking for me, and I 
 want to dance with Armide.' 
 
 I had not the slightest desire to detain him. What 
 a singular man ! though, perhaps, not so very singular 
 after all, for there are many like him ; but I did not 
 the least like his company, and now I must try and 
 find Ernest. 
 
 I went near to the dancers, and saw him figuring 
 with one of the inhabitants of Saint Maude, and as 
 I did not want to dance I was looking for a chair, 
 when I noticed a lady who was making signs to me 
 to come to her. It was Caroline, who was sitting 
 there with her uncle, and who offered me a seat by 
 her side. I hesitated, for I should soon be obliged 
 to avoid her presence, but this would be the last time 
 before wishing her farewell. To refuse just now 
 -would have been rude, so I went and sat down by 
 her side. 
 
153 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 * You were a long time in making up your mind,^ 
 she said with a smile, ■ and yet we are not tete-a-ttit* 
 here/ 
 
 I did not answer, I was even afraid of looking at 
 her, for I thought that her eyes were even more 
 dangerous than ever now that they had lost their 
 coquetry. Luckily, her uncle put an end to my 
 embarrassment. 
 
 ' You don't dance, M. Dalbreuse ? ' 
 
 * No, monsieur ; I don't care for dancing now.' 
 
 I I used to be very fond of it ; in fact, I used to be 
 a very good dancer. I remember, in the Amphitryon, 
 when I was acting the part of Sosia .... you re- 
 member the famous lantern scene ? Dugazon jumped 
 over it like a buffoon and hopping, but I wished 
 to do something more, so I put the lantern — look 
 here — like this chair, at this distance ; then I ad- 
 vanced, turning a pirouette, and I cut a lovely caper 
 before landing on the other side. It is a very 
 difficult thing to do ; see, I will put the chair down 
 on the ground to make you understand better.' 
 
 6 My dear uncle; you don't mean to say that you 
 are going to jump over chairs in this place ! ' 
 
 6 No, my dear, no ; I am not going to jump, only 
 I want to explain to M. Dalbreuse what I did as 
 Sosia, and I natter myself that no actor in the 
 Francais ever jumped higher than I did.' 
 
 Luckily for M. Roquencourt, one of his neighbours 
 from Saint Maude came and sat down on the chair 
 which he was going to use, and that spared him 
 the trouble of showing me how he used to jump,- 
 and he began a conversation with his neighbour. 
 
 ' You don't dance ? ' I said to Caroline. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I should only dance with somebody I 
 knew here; and then, like you, I don't; care for 
 dancing any more now. I don't mean to go out at 
 all this winter, as all that I used to like worries 
 me, and I shall stay at home alone with my thoughts * 
 
LUCILB AGAIN. 
 
 159 
 
 it is a great pleasure, occasionally, to be able to think 
 at one's leisure.' 
 
 She looked at me, but neither of us spoke. Some- 
 thing her uncle said to his neighbour — I forget ex- 
 actly what it was — made us laugh and dissipated our 
 thoughts for a moment ; but suddenly Mademoiselle 
 Derbin, who was looking at the dancing again, said 
 to her uncle : 
 
 < Just look ! there is the woman who mends my 
 lace, and see how she is dressed ! She has a good 
 figure, and one might really think that she was all 
 that she ought to be. Look, M. Dalbreuse, at that 
 woman in the lilac bonnet.' 
 
 I looked at the person whom she pointed out to 
 me, and I was as terrified as if I had seen a serpent. 
 
 It was Lucile, whom I had not seen since that fatal 
 dav, and I fancied that her presence renewed all the 
 torments that I then endured. I could not tell Caro- 
 line this, but my looks must have expressed my feel- 
 ings, for she said to me : 
 
 < What can be the matter with you ? You must 
 know that woman.' 
 
 * Yes, formerly ; but now ' 
 
 6 What has she done to you that the mere sight of 
 her upsets you so ? ' 
 
 * Nothing .... I don't know why .... but on 
 seeing her . . . • one does not always know what 
 one feels.' 
 
 Just then the quadrille finished, and Lucile and 
 her partner came in our direction, and sitting down 
 at a short distance from me she looked at me steadily* 
 I could bear neither her presence nor her looks, so I 
 got up suddenly, pushed my way through the crowd, 
 and leaving the dancing ground did not stop till I 
 got to a spot where there was nobody. 
 
 So I was never to be happy or to forget my troubles. 
 When I had decided to forgive Eugenie and to re- 
 store their mother to my children, the sight of this* 
 
160 TUB CUCKOLD. 
 
 Xmcile must recall to me all I wished to forget. How 
 .she looked at me ! She took pleasure in my pain 
 and in the shame her presence caused me. Her eyes 
 sparkled with malice, and I only hoped I should never 
 see her again. 
 
 I threw myself on to the turf and tried to get calm. 
 After all, the meeting with this woman would change 
 nothing in my determination, and I must learn to 
 master myself better for the future ; but I would go 
 a hundred leagues, if necessary, to avoid meeting 
 her. 
 
 I remained where I was for more than half an hour, 
 and then, feeling quieter, I thought I would go back, 
 as no doubt Ernest was waiting for me ; but after a 
 few steps I stopped again, as I did not wish to see 
 Lueile. Just then, however, a woman came from the 
 direction of the dancing, and I saw that it was 
 -Caroline. 
 
 She came up to me and took ine by the arm, 
 •saying: 
 
 ' I have found you again at last ; I was looking for 
 you everywhere. How happy I am ! but come into 
 the forest so that I may be able to talk to you, for I 
 have so much to say. I told my uncle not to be un- 
 easy, as you would bring me back.' 
 
 I listened to her in astonishment, for I fancied 
 that something extraordinary must have taken place, 
 she was so different to what she was when I left 
 her. She took my arm and pressed it gently ; she 
 seemed much agitated, but it appeared to be with 
 ^pleasure. 
 
 We went into the forest, and Caroline said, looking 
 at me tenderly : 
 
 6 My friend, I must appear very silly, very incon- 
 sistent to you, but you do not know yet what I have 
 experienced. Within the last few minutes my lot 
 arm my future are changed; now I can be happy. 
 I loved you, as you well know, for I could not conceal 
 
LTJCILE AGAIN". 
 
 161 
 
 my feelings towards you. Without a wore* we under- 
 stood each other, hut that love was a crime—so I 
 thought, at least— and I reproached myself with it y 
 and wished to avoid and forget you. But how 
 wretched I was ! Now I know the who)* truth, and 
 I know that I may love you.' 
 
 ' What do you mean? . 
 
 ' That 1 know everything. Forgive me for navmg 
 questioned that woman, hut I could not resist my 
 curiosity, as you seemed so very strangely upset.' 
 
 < That woman ! Have you been talking to 
 
 Lucile?' 
 
 < Yes ; and now I know that, far from being cul- 
 pable towards your wife, she deceived you infa- 
 mously.' 
 
 ' Be quiet ; pray don't speak about it.' 
 ' I declare to you that I will never remind you of 
 a matter which has caused you so much pain. Now 
 I can understand why you would not be reconciled 
 to her and avoided her. I accused you, and thought 
 that I was the obstacle to your reconciliation ; but 
 seeing how matters really are, why should I condemn 
 myself to continual sorrow? why should I not 
 abandon myself to the feelings which you have ex- 
 cited in me ? ' _ 
 
 ' Caroline, what are you sayine? Even if my wife 
 had been guilty, am I free to* dispose of myself ? "> 
 
 ' Free, no ! I know that I cannot be your wife, 
 but what does the title of wife matter ? You know 
 how little I care what people say, or for appearances. 
 I am my own mistress, so why should I not venture 
 to love you ? Is your whole life to be ruined because 
 you are chained to a woman who caused your un- 
 happiness ? Through my love I mean to make you 
 forget your former sorrows; and how delightful it 
 will be for me to be your real, your only love, to 
 know all your thoughts, to have you with me at 
 every moment. But you don't answer me ! Can J 
 
102 THE CUCKOLD, 
 
 be mistaken? Do you not love me? Then all is 
 over for me, and I can but die ! Henri ! Henri ! why 
 don't yon speak ? ' 
 
 She put her head on my breast, and I could not 
 say what was passing within me. How should I 
 escape, or repel a woman whom I loved so much? I 
 could not do it, so I took her charming face into my 
 hands, and, wishing to console her, mine approached 
 her's, and our cheeks burned and our lips met. We 
 forgot the universe and only existed for ourselves. 
 
 I cannot say how long we remained there on that 
 piece of turf, the witness of our amorous delirium. 
 I was happy, and yet something oppressed and sad- 
 dened me. I did not dare to reflect. Caroline had 
 twined her arms round my neck, and had altogether 
 gi\en herself up to her love. I looked about and 
 listened ; not a sound was to be heard. 
 
 K It is very late,' Caroline said ; 'we must go back. 
 Thou [In France, as in Germany, thou is used 
 amongst those who are very intimate; the words, 
 my friend, are of constant occurrence amongst hus- 
 bands and wives and lovers] wilt see me home, my 
 friend, of course ? * 
 
 * Naturally.' 
 
 * Where are we ? ' 
 
 * 1 don't know, but I almost fancy we are near 
 Ernest's garden; yes, that is the wall.' 
 
 ' I thought I saw a small pavilion.' , 
 
 1 A pavilion ! Let us get away as fast as we can. 
 
 < Thou wilt come to-morrow, my friend ? I shall 
 see thee every day, now ? ' , 
 
 < Yes ; to-morrow I will see thee and talk to tnee. 
 'How' strangely thou art speaking; what is the 
 
 -matter with thee ? ' 
 
 ■ Nothing at all ; but come, let us get away irom 
 
 i\ pi*e 
 
 Catherine put her arm round me, and I put my 
 arm round her waist to support her ; and thus we 
 
LUCILE JlQAIH. 163 
 
 left the spot that had been witness of our vows. It 
 was dark, and we had only gone a few yards when 
 we stumbled against something. Caroline stooped 
 down and uttered a cry of horror. 
 
 ' Good heavens, my friend, it is a woman ! ' 
 
 I shuddered, and hardly ventured to look down and 
 see who it was that was at our feet. 
 
 6 One might think that she was dead,' Caroline 
 said. 
 
 I knelt down and raised the unhappy woman's 
 head, and pushed aside, as well as I could, the leaves 
 to obtain a little more light. I was horrorstruck ; 
 it was my wife who was lying motionless before me ! 
 
 Caroline heard me murmuring Eugenie's name, 
 and also recognised her ; and kneeling down by her 
 side she gave way to her grief, for she guessed that 
 she had been the cause of her death. I could neither 
 speak nor move, but was motionless before the dreadful 
 sight. All of a sudden Caroline exclaimed : 
 
 6 She is not dead ; her heart is beating still.' 
 
 These words gave me courage ; so I stooped and 
 took Eugenie in my arms, but where could we find 
 assistance at that late hour ? The nearest place was 
 Ernest's garden, and so we went towards the little 
 gate, which was open. There was a light in the 
 pavilion and the door was also open, so that it was 
 slear she had left it hurriedly ; and going in I put 
 Eugenie on the bed, whilst Caroline found water and 
 smelling-salts, and then ran to the house for help. 
 
 I bathed Eugenie's forehead with water and tried 
 to warm her cold hands. At last she moved, opened 
 her eyes, recognised me, and taking one of my hands 
 into hers she murmured : 
 
 6 1 am happy once again, now you are by me.' 
 
 ' I had forgiven you, Eugenie, so you may be happy 
 •still. I wished to restore a mother to her children.' 
 
 ' Was it possible ? But no, it is better for me to 
 die. You love another woman : I heard you. I was 
 
164 THE CUCKOLD. 
 
 here, and hastened out and saw you in her arms, and 
 that killed me. But yet I deserved that punishment. 
 May Caroline make you happier than I have done. 
 Say again that you forgive me and that you will love 
 your son ' 
 
 'Eugenie! good heavens, she is fainting, and 
 there is no one coming ! s 
 
 Ernest and Marguerite came hastily into the pa- 
 vilion and went up to the bed. Eugenie half opened 
 her eye3, then she gave me her hand, saying in an 
 almost inaudible voice : 
 
 ft I have not seen my children.' 
 
 Marguerite made a movement as if to go out, but 
 Eugenie signed to her to remain where she was,, 
 murmuring , 
 
 ' No, they are asleep ; don't wake them.* 
 
 Then she went to sleep, never to wake again. 
 
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CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DANGER FROM TOO MUCH SLEEP. 
 
 Now, I fancy I can hear you exclaim already that 
 what I am about to say is a paradox, for you have^ 
 so often heard this phrase repeated: "After all, 
 there is nothing does one so much good as sleep.' 9 
 Or, perhaps, " Sleep does so much good ! ,; Or^ 
 again, " Sleep is the great restorer." Or, yet again,, 
 " He who sleeps dines " (I have to beg your pardon 
 for citing this last; for I am persuaded that you 
 have never made the experiment). To all of which 
 I would reply that even the best things have their 
 bad sides : and we must be careful never to abuse 
 the former. 
 
 For the present, however, I will simply content 
 myself by submitting a few figures : you know that 
 there is nothing so incontestable as figures. I shall 
 first take those persons who go to bed at twelve 
 o'clock, midnight : no doubt there are many who go 
 to bed much later, but as there are others who seelr 
 their couches sooner, we shall say -that the latter 
 balances the former. You go then to bed at mid- 
 night, and you get up at eight o'clock in the 
 morning i in which case you have slept eight hours,. 
 or the third of your day. 
 
 It hence follows that, if you live sixty years, you 
 have given up twenty years to sleep. And when all- 
 is said and done, do you find that this time devoted. 
 to rest has been too much ? 
 
2. THE DANGER FROM TOO MUCH SLEEP. 
 
 " Ah, my dear sir ! " I can hear you exclaim 
 already : 
 
 " But, my good sir, one does not sleep the whole 
 night without awakening. I do not get eight hours' 
 sleep." 
 
 Be it so, I wish you well all the same. Then, 
 instead of twenty years' sleep, I shall say that you 
 only get fifteen years : even then, is not that a great 
 deal of time to lose ? " 
 
 " Sleep," says Montaigne, " quenches and sup 
 presses the faculties of the soul, I can hear you 
 respond : " You forget that repose is indispensable 
 to man (and to women also : — women look so pretty 
 when folded in the arms of Morpheus.") 
 
 That is true ; hut everything in life is mere habit : 
 with four hours' sleep per day, or rather per night, 
 you could present the appearance of an iEseulapius. 
 I am fain to believe, that the god of medicine 
 always enjoyed the best of health. Nevertheless, I 
 am not prepared to vouch for the fact. 
 
 But you ought not to acquire the habit of devoting 
 more time to this obliviousness of existence. Now, 
 seeing that you practice the contrary, it happens 
 that the more you sleep, the more you feel the want 
 of sleep when deprived of it, which also stagnates 
 and thickens your blood, and takes away a portion of 
 your bodily activity, as well as, sometimes, clouds 
 the mind itself. (Provided always, you know that 
 you have such a faculty: but I will allow that in 
 every case such a faculty is present). 
 
 Sleep possesses still another great inconvenience : 
 it provokes obesity ; and surely you have no desire to ► 
 become fat? It is a charge without benefice. In 
 general, there is nothing which brings on old age 
 more rapidly than a great belly. Find me a man 
 who desires to have a great belly ! you would search 
 in vain for such a person. On the contrary, you 
 will find hundreds of men who are obliged to com- 
 
THE DANGER FROM TOO MITCH SLEEr. 3 
 
 press themselves, to force back that which would 
 protrude: and in order to this they frequently 
 employ methods which are injurious to the respira- 
 tion — like women, they put on corsets. There are 
 some who even go the length of refusing to satisfy 
 the cravings of appetite, who do not eat what their 
 stomachs demand, being always afraid of seeing 
 their abdomen expand. 
 
 Alexander the Great, or the great Alexander : (no, 
 I think it is preferable to say Alexander the Great, 
 since the former denotes one person, while the latter 
 are very numerous), Alexander the Great would 
 often, even while in bed, strive not to be overcome 
 by sleep, for fear that he might forget his plans, the 
 mighty projects on which he was meditating. You 
 will perhaps say to me : " Why then did he go to bed 
 at all?" He went to bed to seek repose, but not to 
 sleep. To this end, he had placed on the ground 
 over against his couch a large copper basin ; he held 
 his arm extended over the surface of this basin, and 
 in his hand he had a copper ball. When sleep 
 would take possession of him, his fingers became 
 relaxed, and, naturally, permitted the great ball in 
 his hand to escape from his grasp : whereupon the 
 ball, in dropping into the basin, made such a noise, 
 that it suddenly woke him up. You are at liberty 
 to do like Alexander the Great, if you do not want 
 to go off to sleep : but you will perhaps find it 
 painful to hold your arm extended over a basin, and 
 to retain a copper ball in your hand. I frankly own 
 that only Alexander the Great or Alexander Dumas 
 would be capable of doing such a thing. 
 
 There are other means of warding off sleep. It is 
 very rare that sleep seizes you when you are taking 
 amusement. It is only a question then of amusing 
 yourself, but to accomplish that is not always so^ 
 easy a matter as you think. 
 
 A gentleman, whom I shall name Dupont, if you 
 
4 THE DANGER FROM TOO MUCH SLEEP. 
 
 will kindly permit me to do so, who resided in the 
 |>retty little village ef Brives-la-G-aillarde, had the 
 unfortunate habit of sleeping too much. He was 
 likewise a married man, but it appears that that did 
 2iot afford him amusement enough : there are even 
 people who would have the audacity to tell you that 
 this circumstance would only tend to minister to- 
 such an infirmity. 
 
 But apart from this, there is one thing that was 
 certain, and it was this: Madame Dupont herself 
 often said to her husband, " My dear, you sleep far 
 too much: and to be guilty of such a thing is 
 ■contrary to all rules of common sense. You are 
 only forty years of age, but what will you be when 
 you are fifty ? You go to sleep as soon as your ear 
 touches the pillow : you do not wake up during the 
 whole night ; in the morning, one can hardly get you 
 to open your eyes. You are no longer a man, you 
 are a dormouse ; and I have to inform you that, in 
 marrying you, I had no idea I was espousing an 
 animal of that kind. But it does not concern me so 
 much as yourself : this abuse of sleep will prove fatal 
 to you ; you have already grown very stout, and you 
 will soon have a belly like Mr. Punch." 
 
 M. Dupont was nettled at this discourse of his 
 -wife. He might not perhaps have minded much to 
 l>e compared to a dormouse, but he had a horror of 
 «ver having a belly like Mr. Punch. 
 
 But to avoid both calamities, he went immediately 
 to see his doctor, and said to him : " Doctor, I sleep 
 :£ar too much ; my wife complains of it, and I even 
 :£eel myself that it makes me very stupid. What 
 must 1 do in order to sleep less?" 
 
 The doctor, who was a great smoker, held down 
 Jlis head and made a cigarette for himself, and said 
 l>y way of answer : " Do you smoke ? " 
 
 " I do little else than that, but I fall asleep even 
 in smoking." 
 
THE DANGER FROM TOO MUCH SLEEP. 
 
 "That is a pity, because I would have advised 
 ;you to try smoking/' 
 
 " Recommend me some other thing." 
 
 "Do you take snuff?" 
 
 "Yes, doctor; and I have collected a large 
 assortment of snuff-boxes ; but I do not find any 
 benefit from it either." 
 
 " That is most provoking ; for otherwise I should 
 Ihave recommended you to take snuff." 
 
 " Well, try again." 
 
 " Do you play cards 9 " 
 
 " I know almost every game ; but I have no love 
 for such amusement ; cards send me to sleep almost 
 immediately." 
 
 " So much the worse ; for I would have advised 
 you to play cards. There remains only one thing 
 you can do ; you must find amusement. Have you 
 ever been in Paris ? " 
 
 " Yes, doctor, twice ; but it is a long time ago, 
 and I was then in business. It was before my 
 marriage. It seems to me that I enjoyed myself 
 very well when I was in Paris." 
 
 " Very well ! Go there ; return there to stay for 
 some time ; that will wake you up, re-animate you, 
 amuse you. But let me impress this one thing upon 
 you : Go alone, and leave your wife at home." 
 
 Dupont highly approved of this latter condition. 
 He hastened home to get ready for the journey; 
 communicated to his wife what were the doctor's 
 orders, and started off without madame appearing 
 to regret much his plan of prolonged absence. 
 But one does not attach much importance to the 
 society of a dormouse, or at most of being esteemed 
 a small chapel of ease. 
 
6 HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 
 
 The time we speak of was in the year 1860, and 
 during 1 the carnival season, which unfortunately did 
 not last very long on that particular year ; we say 
 unfortunately, for we must avow that we are not of 
 the opinion of those people who declare : " Masks 
 have gone out of fashion; people no longer disguise 
 themselves, whether in driving in carriages or in 
 promenading on foot, along the Boulevards. Out 
 upon such nonsense ! All this is of the past, has 
 disappeared, is in bad taste Before long, we shall 
 have no more carnivals at all." 
 
 In the first place, we do not understand why 
 people blame that which furnishes an amusement, 
 which delights the multitude. Those who do not 
 laugh at such proceedings have a liver perpetually 
 disordered, nerves always on the stretch. I am dull 
 enough in all conscience ! But in days gone by, 
 when, during carnival times, a triple row of car- 
 riages, filled with masked people, formed an immense 
 Longchamp in the interior of Paris. I give my 
 word for it that the promenaders, passers-by, even 
 the flaneurs, were far from complaining at having 
 the opportunity thus given them of witnessing such 
 a spectacle gratis. 
 
 Everybody has not the means to go to a ball, or 
 the Opera, nor even to the Barthelemy, while the 
 ordinary tradesman, in walking with his wife during 
 the Easter holidays, returns home delighted at having 
 run against the Harlequins or the Mr. Punches ^ 
 and if one of our Bears had said to his wife, "I 
 know who you are/' the happy couple would not 
 have thanked him for it, and madame would have 
 
HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 7 
 
 said with a proud air to her escort : " One of those 
 surly bears bawled out to me, "I know who you 
 
 are." 
 
 You then see quite well, you pessimistic gentlemen 
 who are opposed to the carnival, that in suppressing 
 it, you would ofiend everybody. I know also that 
 that too would sit easy on your consciences ; but you 
 need have no fear that, as long as the world lasts, 
 carnivals will not be done away with. There are 
 likewise some people who will tell you that we have 
 a carnival all the year round ; that one does not need 
 to be in a carnival to see it. But as this is a very 
 old story I will not attempt to refute it. 
 
 The carnival is the season of intrigues and of 
 folly. We might even also inform you that there 
 are intrigues going on all the year round; but that, 
 too, goes without saying, and we will not repeat it. 
 We shall take the liberty to remark to you in passing 
 that we are not here setting forth anything that is 
 new ; which is very considerate on our parts, and we 
 are firmly persuaded that some people will give us 
 full credit therefor. 
 
 M. Dupont was, as we have said, a man forty years 
 of age — an age when the passions have reached their 
 zenith, when one at least ought to be full of passion : 
 but up till now this gentleman had not given the 
 world the slightest hint of this fact. He smoked, 
 lie snuffed, he gambled, he drank, but all this 
 without any distinct purpose and without, so to 
 speak, affording him any real pleasure. As for women, 
 you have been told that he slept too long beside his 
 own wife, for him to give heed to any others. But 
 for all that, Dupont was not insensible to the 
 charms of beauty. That which especially attracted 
 him in a woman was her height, form, and ankles. 
 Moreover, he preferred a fine person to pretty 
 features, and unfortunately for Madame Dupont, 
 she was pretty rather than well made. This is 
 
8 HOW DTJPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 
 
 perhaps what rendered her husband so addicted to 
 sleep. 
 
 As for Dupont himself, he was neither good- 
 looking nor particularly ugly, neither tall nor 
 stunted, neither vulgar nor witty. He was one of 
 those people of which you can say nothing. Never- 
 theless, he was, as to his person, tolerably well 
 made; he had a small foot, and a delicate white 
 hand. He was very vain of such advantages, con- 
 sidered himself a small Apollo, and had a great 
 horror of becoming pot-bellied. It was principally 
 for fear of this that he had decided to betake 
 himself to Paris; and, seeing that the doctor had 
 ordered that he should go there without his wife, 
 nothing is more certain than that he intended to 
 lead there the life of a bachelor. Now what is 
 this bachelor life if it be not the desire to engage in 
 intrigues, little love affairs, chance "pick ups," 
 aud, in fact, to spend one's time in running after 
 women of every description, fashionable women 
 when the occasion presents itself, and grisettes 
 when one can find nothing better? 
 
 As to grisettes, there are some writers who would 
 have us believe that they no longer exist, that they 
 have gone out of fashion like poodles, that they have 
 escaped from their shells ! Do not worry yourselves, 
 gentlemen, the grisette exists, and will always exist 
 in Paris. Again, if you please, what are your 
 flower girls, your embroideresses, your burnishers, 
 your colour printers, your pin pointers, your vest 
 makers, your seamstresses, your trouser makers, &c, 
 &c. ! It is not the professional coquettes, nor the 
 showy beauties who are always putting themselves 
 in evidence before the foot-lights of the small 
 theatres, and who have been designated, I hardly 
 know why, the "oglers "; it is no longer the shop 
 girls, for very often their lovers can offer them no 
 more than their love ; finally, it is not the daughters- 
 
HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 9 
 
 of respectable tradesmen, who rarely go abroad 
 except on the arm of their father or their brother : 
 it is not the grisettes, the real grisettes ! Do not 
 debase the coin ; the money is good enough ! Why 
 not let her pursue her natural course? You, 
 gentlemen, who stoutly maintain that such are no 
 longer to be found in Paris, move on a little, daring 
 ihe summer, to the "Cloiserie des Lilas," that 
 favourite ball of students, who still delight in the 
 dance and in love-making. There you shall see 
 grisettes belonging to all the classes, you shall 
 witness them jumping, laughing, frolicking, dancing 
 a can-can with as much grace and much less " hip- 
 shot" than in the Spanish dances that are per- 
 mitted in the theatres; you shall hear them talk, 
 make mock of one another, envying the love of the 
 latter, and ridiculing that of the former, and in the 
 middle of such phrases you shall hear bursts of 
 laughter exchanged; they will gather around you, 
 assail you with piquant and witty remarks, original 
 locutions which are to be heard nowhere else, but 
 who will not permit you to remain in a serious 
 mood. • . . The rather if you do not belong to 
 that school who are opposed to laughing, and who 
 4are to assert that laughter is a grimace. My God, 
 what a sad school ! Take my advice and never send 
 your children to it. In a word, you ought to see 
 that the results are destructive of happiness. 
 
 Dupont arrived in Paris at the time of the 
 Carnival, and bega* his bachelor life by putting in 
 an appearance at the ball of the Opera. He said to 
 himself : 
 
 " The doctor has ordered me to amuse myself, and 
 it is impossible that I can amuse myself except in 
 the middle of that company composed for the 
 most part of pretty women who are not positively 
 Lucretias, who ask for nothing better than to make 
 acquaintances who flock to the ball with no other 
 
10 HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 
 
 end in view. I shall make my choice, I shall endea- 
 vour to pick out a little female moulded like a 
 Venus, who drinks even like a bacchanalian, for all 
 the bacchanalians, at least all those I have seen 
 representations of, are perfectly formed ; I shall do- 
 the amiable, the gallant; I have wit enough when I 
 choose to exercise it; though, of a truth, I some- 
 times have difficulty in putting my wit en train ; but 
 with perseverance and with the aid of good punch I 
 shall come out of my shell, and I shall not go to bed 
 at ten o'clock, seeing that I shall remain at the balL 
 until midnight. 
 
 Dupont put his project into executiou. He had 
 indeed considerable trouble, when ten o'clock had 
 struck, to prevent himself from falling asleep in his 
 chair. Several times, instead of putting on a black 
 coat, he was on the point of ensconcing himself in 
 bed, but just as he was about to give way to his old 
 habit, he fortunately caught sight of his stomach, 
 and, remembering that he was no longer able to 
 button the first button of his vest, he jumped to his 
 feet, and quickly made his toilet, murmuring the 
 while : " Yes, unfortunately, my bodily tendency is 
 to become a puncheon ! I shall never have a hump 
 on my back, it is true ; but it is what one carries in 
 front of one that makes one ridiculous, not to speak 
 of the great inconvenience. I must be off to the 
 ball, cut up all sorts of capers, and amuse myself ! 
 Jehosaphat ! It is not a question of enjoying one- 
 self ; it is to remain young ! " 
 
 Behold then our friend in a ball-room ! Moving 
 his way about amongst that indiscriminate multi- 
 tude who form a circle round the dancers, because 
 from thence one can have a close look at the 
 women, nay, even nudge them, speak to them, offer 
 them your arm if they chance to be without a 
 sweetheart; the masked ball affords opportunities 
 for all this. And what are \he things it does not 
 
HOW DUPONT AMUSED 1II5ISKLF AT A BALL. It 
 
 permit? Dupont saw a great many pretty faces, in 
 the guise of marines, sailors, jockeys and postillions. 
 In general, the ladies who affect the masculine 
 attire do not wear masks, and are not at all dis- 
 inclined to let their visage be seen. They allow also 
 their shoulders and bosoms to appear; sometimes 
 they even permit too much freedom of display about 
 their point of anchorage. But such women do not 
 understand that the eye longs to have something 
 left to picture to itself, and that one delights 
 especially to dote on that which is not visible. 
 
 Dupont selected a very gracious little blonde who 
 was in the costume of a Columbine. In order to 
 become acquainted with her he wanted her to dance 
 a polka with him. But our native of Brives-la- 
 Oaillarde little knew to what he was exposing 
 himself. He had the idea that people danced a 
 polka at the ball of the Opera, in the same way as it 
 was daneed in the provinces. Above all, he did not 
 know that a polka here terminated in a galop. And 
 what a galop! One must see it to appreciate it. 
 A whirligig, a species of mad * rolic seems to seize 
 upon the whole of the dancers, at the very sound of 
 brilliant, lively, animated music, and which carries 
 you out of yourself, electrifies you; you can no 
 longer galopez; you fly, you whirl, you dart, you 
 press, you jolt against one another at every turn. 
 Be brave then; do not lose your head, unless you 
 want to lose your feet. 
 
 And this is just what happened to Dupont. He 
 lacked the go to keep his balance in this baccha- 
 nalian scene; he fell. He drew his fair partner 
 down with him, who, however, quickly regained her 
 feet, and said to him humourously : " My pet, when 
 one does not know how to galop, one should not 
 invite a lady to join in it." 
 
 In another minute the Columbine had seized the 
 arm of a Harlequin, and joined once more in the 
 
12 HOW DXJPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 
 
 galop with him. As for poor Dupont, who was not 
 so alert in regaining his legs, he received the 
 momentum of a great number of the feet of the 
 dancers, and when he did get up he found himself 
 covered with bruises. 
 
 Our friend, whose knees, shoulders, and back had 
 suffered much, left the ball crippling ; and, getting 
 into his bed at the hotel, he said to himself : " Well, 
 I have had amusement enough for one night." 
 
 Dupont did not, however, consider that he had 
 
 been seriously hurt, although in reality he was. A 
 
 few days later he visited the ball once more. This 
 
 time, however, he betook himself to the Casino ; for 
 
 he had been informed that the latter was the 
 
 favourite resort of the most fashionable women. As 
 
 a matter of fact, our provincial was agreeably 
 
 flattered at the sight of the toilettes, and the 
 
 elegance of the ladies who were in society costume 
 
 rather than in that of the bal masque, and he said to 
 
 himself: "It is hardly possible that people will 
 
 dance a galop as furiously in this place as at the 
 
 ball of the Opera. Besides, as a mere matter of 
 
 prudence, I shall not galop at all. I shall limit 
 
 myself to inviting a lady to a country-dance, which 
 
 is much more circumspect. Again, as to a quadrille 
 
 it has always the same figures, which I know ; and it 
 
 is not at all likely I shall be thrown to the ground in 
 
 making the ladies' chain or the pastourdle." 
 
 Accordingly, Dupont, after walking up and down 
 for some time in the ball in quest of a lady who was 
 well formed, invited at length a tolerably well-fared 
 female, whose languorous eyes fixed themselves on 
 his with a complaisauce inexpressible, to dance with 
 him. Behold Dupont in the mazy dance ! He had 
 for vis-a-vis a lovely romp, a pupil of the celebrated 
 Rigobboche, whose bold and eccentric dancing was 
 so renowned that people disputed for a position from 
 which to see her dance. 
 
HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSEIiP AT A BALL. IS 
 
 When Dupont made his avant-deux in front of 
 that lady he suddenly received a superb kick full in 
 the face, which was the signal for great bursts of 
 applause from the spectators. 
 
 Dupont was the only one who did not laugh* 
 His nose had suffered dilapidation, and he was about 
 to complain of the fact, when the brave romp thus 
 addressed him: "My dear friend, you must be a 
 goose, otherwise you would have known that this 
 was the moment when I throw up my legs. When 
 one is unacquainted with my steps, one ought not to 
 dance as my vis-a-vis. No fresh man would have 
 allowed himself to encounter my foot." 
 
 As Dupont was suffering much from his nose, 
 which was running with blood, he quitted the ball, 
 and in jumping once more into bed, he said to 
 himself: "I have had amusement enough for 
 to-day." 
 
 When a few days had passed by, Dupont s nose 
 healing up meanwhile, he said to himself : " What is 
 the use of being obstinate? I shall go back to the 
 ball once more ; only, I shall take care this time not 
 to dance." 
 
 Dupont's attention being attracted by a poster, 
 which was of such a size that it covered by itself 
 almost an entire column of one of the boulevards, he 
 entered the ball of the Salle BartMUmy. There the 
 crowd is as great as at the ball of the Opera, but the 
 society is infinitely more select, while the odour of 
 pipes, which is blended with that of the raf reshments 
 served up in the hall, the tobacco fumes, and the 
 dust rising from the floor, give to this ball a charm 
 altogether peculiar. 
 
 Dupont, however, soon picked out a rather pretty- 
 little brunette, and whose mien betokened that of a» 
 grisette. She was alone, and he offered her his arm 
 and some punch. The young lady hesitated, and 
 responded : " You are very kind ; I am very fond of 
 
14 HOW DTJPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 
 
 punch, and I would gladly partake of it, only that I 
 am afraid of Ronfland." 
 
 " And who is this Ronfland ? " may I be permitted 
 to ask. 
 
 " He * * * is my friend, an upholsterer, a good 
 fellow, only he gits drunk too often. I came to the 
 "ball with him : then he should have danced with me, 
 but he has not given me one dance, and in stead has 
 gone straight oft and left me standing here. But 
 for all that, he is very amiable." 
 
 " It seems to me that the moment he left you 
 standing here, you were free to do whatever you 
 pleased, even to accept my arm and to indulge in a 
 little punch; you cannot remain alone in such a 
 crowd as this, you must have a protector." 
 
 " True, it is not very agreeable to be left alone. 
 I do not understand Ronfland. He left me near the 
 orchestra and said to me, c Remain here; I shall 
 return to you immediately.' That was more than 
 an hour since, and he has not yet returned." 
 
 " He has forgotten you." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure he has gone to take some refresh- 
 ment." 
 
 "Without you? This is not polite. You see 
 quite well that you have a right to do the 
 same." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I have. So much the worse for 
 Ronfland. After all, it is his fault." 
 
 Dupont thereupon passed the arm of the little 
 brunette under his. He conducted her to the cafe 
 of the ball-room, ordered punch, poured out some to 
 his new acquaintance, who willingly accepted it, but 
 not without keeping repeating to him : " After this, 
 you will surely dvtnce with me, sir, will you not? 
 For one does not come to a ball not to dance." 
 
 Dupont, who did not care to engage in dancing, 
 kept pouring out the punch, and responding: "Yes, 
 yes, later on; we have plenty of time. For the 
 
HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT A BALL. 15 
 
 present, every bod y is on the floor ; it would be too 
 not ; it is better to refresh ourselves." 
 
 Suddenly, however, a man dressed in a coat, the 
 collar of which came up round his ears, put in an 
 abrupt appearance, struck with one hand on the 
 table, while with the other he overturned the bowl 
 of punch and the glasses, and applied a pair of 
 stiffled lungs to the little brunette, saying: "Ah, 
 this is the way you conduct yourself, Josephine : I 
 brought you here : I led you into the ball-room, and 
 you have been amusing yourself with other people. I 
 will now lead you to the door, you wicked strumpet." 
 
 Mademoiselle Josephine burst into tears, ex- 
 claiming : " Eonfland, you are the worse for drinking. 
 I have played you no trick; you must not leave me. 
 But you are drunk ; I do not love you any longer." 
 
 But Dupont was not in the humour to let a woman 
 in whose company he was be affronted. He quietly 
 arose, and, picking up the empty bowl which had 
 rolled from the table, he made use of it to smash the 
 nose of Eonfland, and exclaimed : " By heavens ! I 
 am not quite so drunk as you are, and am therefore 
 disposed to have a little revenge for all this." 
 
 But the young man with the turned-up collar, 
 rendered furious by the blow he had received, leapt 
 upon Dupont, and losing his equilibrium, they 
 both rolled over on to the floor, and continued to 
 struggle. 
 
 The guard arriving, the two gentlemen were 
 separated, and Eonfland and his beauty were shown 
 to the door. Dupont was compelled to pay for the 
 breakages, and as he was rolling over the broken 
 glasses he received an ugly wound in the face, so 
 he lost no time in getting into a cab and regaining 
 his domicile, murmuring: "I have got what I 
 deserved ! I have gone sadly astray. But one thing 
 is certain : I shall never again visit a ball to seek for 
 amusement." 
 
16 MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 Dupont was obliged to keep his room for eight 
 <days. He was lodged in an unpretentious hotel in 
 the Rue de Seine. To pass the time, which seemed 
 long to him, our provincial amused himself by 
 looking, almost all day long, out of the window. As 
 his room was on the third floor, and as the house 
 opposite the one in which he was was not so high, 
 Dupont could see quite distinctly from his window 
 into that of a female neighbour, who occupied an 
 attic facing. 
 
 " So far, I have not had much chance to see 
 Paris ! " said Dupont to himself, as he was walking 
 slowly up and down his room, with his head wrapped 
 in bandages. " I have done everything I could to 
 amuse myself, but I have succeeded but poorly : yet, 
 at all events, I can aver that I sleep less : especially 
 since I received the wounds in the head. I shall 
 xiot go to a ball again to seek for chance amusement. 
 But one often goes far from home to seek for that 
 which lies under one's very eyes : for in one of those 
 attic rooms opposite I have observed a young girl, 
 very pretty indeed, and particularly well formed. I 
 can, moreover, judge of her all the better since I 
 liave always seen her in grand neglige, in a morning 
 jacket and a little fustian dimity — at least so far as 
 I can make out from here. And how piquant she 
 seems in this simple neglige! One cannot help 
 admiring such a lithe and imposing stature. And 
 what haunches ! Oh, how well protected they are ! 
 And what a figure ! It is simply impossible not to 
 fall in love with a person like that ! " 
 Dupont thereupon opened the casement of his 
 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 17 
 
 -window, notwithstanding it was pretty cold, and, 
 placing himself boldly against it, directed his regards 
 to the window of his pretty neighbour. The latter's 
 window was closed, bnt the curtains were not drawn, 
 and it was easy to perceive the young girl who 
 dwelt there, and who was adjusting her head-dress 
 before a little mirror which was attached to the 
 centre casement of the window. 
 
 " Her face is peculiar," said Dupont to himself, 
 ^"with those large brown eyes and little turned-up 
 nose ; a nose of the Roxelane pattern. The mouth 
 --* ■* * hu m : it is not a small mouth : but it is well 
 furnished with teeth * * *, and then she smiles so 
 pleasantly. To sum up, the face is nothing extra- 
 ordinary, and I am most in love with her height. 
 Ah ! there she is walking up and down her room 
 * * * always in that charming costume, a white 
 camisole fitted closely to the body, and that little 
 flounced dimity which clings so tightly to her 
 rounded hips. I cannot see either her feet or her 
 ankles, but they must be superb. Such a tall, well- 
 knit figure almost always proclaims a fine ankle. 
 There is no gainsaying that I am not furiously in 
 love with that form over there. I must become 
 acquainted with this young lady. She must have 
 remarked my eagerness to eye her. If so, she does 
 not seem at all displeased with me, for she has any- 
 thing but a ferocious air. Nay, her features always 
 wear an expression of gaiety, tinged with the 
 slightest supQon of mischief: which leads one to 
 believe that she is encouraging me to make her 
 acquaintance. She may be a seamstress. As soon 
 as I can leave here I shall find out all about her 
 from the porter opposite. I know how to make 
 "those gentlemen tell all they know." 
 
 In waiting for this opportunity to arrive, Dupont, 
 wholly taken up with his female neighbour, slept 
 jnuch less, and sometimes even passed the whole night 
 
 c 
 
18 MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 without sleeping at all. This was progress, and he- 
 said to himself: "How changed my wife will find 
 me when I return to Brives-la-Gaillarde ! I only 
 fear that when I get there the desire to sleep will 
 again come back to me." 
 
 The wounds now being healed, Dupont was in a. 
 position to strip his head of the bandages which had 
 swathed it. He hastened to quit his chamber and 
 to present himself at the house wherein resided the 
 young woman with the flounced dimity, and to 
 enter the box of the concierge — for in Paris the 
 porters have all become concierges : just as shops 
 have become warehouses; beer-shops, commercial, 
 houses ; barbers, saloons, where one is rejuvenated ;. 
 grocers, depots of colonial produce ; bakers, pastry- 
 cooks ; sweety merchants, tailors ; libraries, lecture- 
 halls ; cafes, restaurants ; cook shops, victuallers ; 
 finally, even those gentlemen who work at night 
 give themselves the title of employes in a powder 
 factory. 
 
 Dupont approached the concierge in the most- 
 friendly manner, and slipped into his hand the most 
 irresistible argument. The concierge, who turned 
 out to be a woman, and who wanted the opportunity 
 to speak, willingly threw aside her penny illustrated 
 paper, and responded to Dupont's enquiries as 
 follows, without even drawing breath: "The young 
 woman who occupies a room on the third floor, the 
 second window to the left, is called Georgette : she- 
 is an embroideress. Moreover, she has wonderful 
 talent. To look at her, she appears to embroider 
 like a fairy. She is, I believe, twenty years of age, 
 and has only been a short time in Paris. She is- 
 from Lorraine. She is very sprightly, converses 
 freely, but is nevertheless, I believe, very circum- 
 spect. That being the case, I should not put my 
 hand to the fire. One must never put one's hand to- 
 the fire in cases of this kind ; otherwise, one is likely 
 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 13 
 
 to get burned. But, for all that, I have never seen 
 -any men ccme to pay visits to Georgette. But 
 whether she knows people outside, I really cannot 
 -say. You can understand that when this young 
 lady goes out, I am not then with her. For the 
 ^•est, she is quite regular in her habits, she does not 
 go out to balls, although, I fancy, that is not 
 because she does not want to do so, since I have 
 Jheard her say several times: "How delightful it 
 must be to be able to amuse oneself ! Oh, how I 
 •should like to have an income of twenty thousand a 
 jear!" But although she has no such income, she 
 is, nevertheless, far from being sad : she sings all the 
 <lay long. This is all I can tell you of her history : 
 I really know no more about her." 
 
 Dupont drew his hand across his forehead, and 
 murmured : " Twenty thousand francs a year. The 
 -devil! I am not going to give her that sum." 
 Continuing: "You say that this young girl is an 
 •embroideress ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Why ask that?" 
 
 "I mean, what does she embroider?" 
 
 /Why, collars, handkerchiefs, caps, everything 
 that people wish embroidered." 
 
 " Ah ! then, I will be in order in asking her to 
 embroider something for me." 
 
 " Yes, you can do so, without giving offence." 
 
 "Very well — I shall go up-stairs at once to 
 .Miss Georgette's room." 
 
 " It is on the third floor, sir." 
 
 " Oh, I know all about it." 
 
 "Yes, but there are several doors. Hers is the 
 one which has a tooth-brush hanging from the bell- 
 liandle." 
 
 " I shall remember that." 
 
 In ascending the stairs Dupont said to himself: 
 
 p 2 
 
20 MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 "What in Jupiter may I have embroidered? AhT 
 I have it. A cravat ! But, hang it, this is no- 
 longer the fashion ; men do not wear embroidered 
 cravats now. But what does it matter? I shall 
 say it is the fashion at Brives-la-Gaillarde ; and 
 then, what does it matter to this young woman, 
 provided that one gives her work to do ? " 
 
 When Dupont reached the third floor he saw- 
 before him a number of doors; bat, descrying the 
 small tooth-brush suspended from a handle, he- 
 boldly pulled this bell. 
 
 The door was opened by Miss Georgette in person, 
 and who feigned a sort of sickly smile when she saw 
 who it was that had come to see her. This young 
 woman was always dressed in a white tight-fitting 
 jacket, and a fustian petticoat. This costume 
 became her admirably. It showed off her form to 
 great advantage. Nay, if we might say so, r*i was a 
 costume that would become every woman, tnat is to 
 say, provided always she were well-formed. 
 
 "Miss Georgette, who does embroidery?" said 
 Dupont, with a sort of patronising air. 
 
 " I am that person, sir." 
 
 "Miss Georgette, I came * * * * I should feel 
 obliged * * * * I have been told * * * ". 
 
 "Be good enough to step inside, sir: I do not 
 receive visitors on the stairs." 
 
 Dupont could have asked for nothing better than 
 such an invitation. He walked into an apartment 
 which, so far, he had only seen through the window. 
 It was very modestly furnished, but there was a 
 certain neatness about everything. The floor was 
 waxed and streaked over ; there was not a grain of 
 dust on the f urniture ; the bed was nicely made and 
 clean and white, and everything, in fact, bore the- 
 imprint o£ the personality who occupied the room*. 
 Demosthenes, on being asked to say what it was- 
 that constituted an orator, responded : " Pronuncia- 
 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 21t 
 
 tion, pronunciation, pronunciation." A philosopher- 
 king, on being questioned as to what would make 
 the walls and ramparts of a city fall down, responded: 
 " money, money, money." Again, Ninon, on being 
 asked what was the finest ornament a woman could 
 put on, responded : " propriety, propriety, propriety." 
 
 The young woman offered Dupont a chair. She 
 did the honours of her establishment with perfect 
 ease, and did not appear in the least intimidated in 
 presence of the gentleman. Now, on the other- 
 hand, it was the latter, who, wishing to give himself 
 an air of importance, became exceedingly awkward, 
 so much so that he had great difficulty in getting 
 out what he wanted to say; all the more, too, seeing 
 that Miss Georgette stood waiting for him to speak, 
 with an air that betrayed an inclination to burst 
 into a fit of laughter. 
 
 "Miss, I came for ***". 
 
 "For some purpose, I have not the least doubt, 
 sir." 
 
 " Yes, miss : I have been told that you do em- 
 broidery work* * * ". 
 
 " In this you have not been misinformed. Have 
 you some article you wish embroidered? " 
 
 "Yes * *■* I mean to say * * * I do not know" 
 whether embroidered cravats are worn in Paris?" 
 
 " ISTo, sir, that is not the fashion here." 
 
 " Ah, well ! what about rufiles ? " 
 
 " Worse still." 
 
 " And handkerchiefs ?" 
 
 " For ladies ? certainly, sir ; some very delicate 
 embroidery work is done on handkerchiefs ! " 
 
 " Ah ! very well. Then you must embroider some 
 handkerchiefs for me." 
 
 While Dupont had been thus talking he frequently 
 cast his eyes down to the feet of the young woman. 
 Her feet were small, mignon, finely arched, the 
 ankle also was very neat, all which observations so* 
 
22 MADEMOISELLE <JEOBGETTE# 
 
 distracted his attention that he continued to murmur 
 to himself for some considerable time: "Ah! one 
 •embroiders handkerchiefs here ! " 
 
 It was not long before Miss Georgette gave way 
 to a fit of laughter, which had the effect of dis- 
 concerting her visitor, who now regarded her with 
 an astonished air, and said: "You are in excellent 
 spirits, miss, I can very well see." 
 
 "You speak truly, sir: I never harbour melan- 
 choly." 
 
 " But might I be allowed to ask what it was that 
 just now provoked your hilarity 9" 
 
 " Why, it was yourself, sir." 
 
 " 1 9 Ah, it was I who made you laugh 9 " 
 
 "You find me then to be an eccentric person, 
 miss 9 " 
 
 " Eccentric is not the word, sir ; but, to speak the 
 truth, it was only a ruse, in order to find a 
 pretext * * * ". 
 
 " A pretext ! How 9 I do not comprehend you." 
 
 " It is nevertheless an easy matter to understand. 
 You wanted to find some excuse — a reason for 
 coming to call on me — for you have nothing that you 
 want embroidered." 
 
 "What makes you think that, miss 9" 
 
 "Do you really believe that I do not recognize 
 you, sir 9" 
 
 " Ah, you recognize me 9" 
 
 " Of course ; you live in the little boarding-house 
 opposite, where you pass your time ogling me — 
 darting at me sheep's eyes." 
 
 "Ah, then you have remarked this 9" 
 
 At this Dupont drew himself up to his full height. 
 He was flattered at having been remarked, and he 
 drew from this a favourable augury. The fair 
 «mbroideress continued: "Yes, sir, I have remarked 
 ihat. Unless I were blind, how could I help seeing 
 it 9 Further, the other day you planted yourself 
 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 2$ 
 
 at the open window ; the cold was horrible ; your 
 nose was quite blue. I had then a good mind to 
 make faces at you." 
 
 Here Dupont bit his lips and his gorge soon fell. 
 
 " 1 did not do so, because I presumed that, on 
 seeing your head bandaged and wrapped up that you 
 had either sustained some injury, or had been sick: 
 we must have pity on people who are ill; but it 
 would appear that you are now better ? " 
 
 " Yes, miss ; I had been fighting a duel, and got 
 wounded in the head." 
 
 " Ah ! you have been fighting a duel, sir ? Might 
 one ask, without being considered impertinent, what 
 motive you had in figting a duel ? " 
 
 " It was a lady — a very distinguished person, with 
 whom I foregathered, who allowed herself to be 
 stared at by a quidnunc — at very close quarters." 
 
 "And you fought for a lady. That was very 
 gallant of you : and I can forgive you now for 
 ogling me ; but tell me, sir, why did you come to-day 
 to see me?" 
 
 " Well, I see you have divined my purpose, miss ; 
 you no longer have any doubts about it. I saw you 
 at the window ; I thought you were charming, and I 
 desired to make your acquaintance." 
 
 " A1 such an early hour ! it is a very great liberty 
 to take ! And what end have you in view in making 
 my acquaintance ? you hope, I suppose, to make me 
 your mistress?" 
 
 " Miss Georgette, I did not say that." 
 
 " No ; but you thought it ! Do not men always 
 act thus when they encounter a young woman, weak 
 enough and silly enough to believe them ? But let 
 me indeed warn you that with me you will only los& 
 your time." 
 
 " In any case, miss, it would be difficult to lose it 
 more agreeably than in your society." 
 
 "That is very complimentary. But, sir, I have- 
 
I» 
 
 24 MAADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 to avow to you that I must know well the people I 
 receive. Now, sir, I do not know yon." 
 
 " That is quite correct, miss ; very true indeed ; 
 one ought to know with whom one does business." 
 And Dupont who, in advance, had prepared his 
 little speech, drew himself up in his chair and 
 continued : " Let me begin, miss, by telling you that 
 I am an American. I was in business, but am now 
 retired. My fortune is large enough to render me 
 comfortable; I am a widower, without children, 
 consequently, master of all my own actions — can do 
 as I please." 
 
 " Yery well, sir; but what is your name? : 
 
 " My name is * * * Dupont." 
 
 " Dupont : that is a very French name ; I thought 
 "that the Americans had names more resembling the 
 English." 
 
 " That depends on their origin ; my family was 
 originally French. Now, that you know who I am, 
 will you permit me, miss, to come and pay court to 
 you?" 
 
 " I have no objection to offer, provided only you 
 have not lied to me. For, let me warn you, I detest 
 liars." 
 
 Dupont, leaning forward, rubbed his nose and 
 proceeded : " Miss, you seemed eager to know who I 
 was; I have satisfied you on the point. As for me. 
 would you allow me ? * * * ". 
 
 " To ask, who I am ? Oh, that can be soon told. 
 "You already know that my name is Georgette, and I 
 -do embroidery. I was born at Toul, a pretty town 
 in Lorraine, in the environs of Nancy. My parents 
 were not rich. There were three sisters of us ; and 
 I am the youngest. My two elder sisters came to 
 Paris in the hope of becoming there more happy, 
 And of being able then to provide better for our 
 parents. They did not succeed. Poor, dear sisters ! 
 Afterwards * * * they both returned home again." 
 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 25> 
 
 "And you in turn have come to Paris? I am 
 astonished that your parents gave their consent to 
 your leaving them. They must have been afraid that 
 you would not succeed any better than your sisters ! " 
 
 " Yes, but I — I had a great desire to come to 
 Paris. I resolved upon it ; and when I wish a thing, 
 it is as good as fulfilled." 
 
 " That indicates force of character." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have that, and a good deal of it." 
 
 "And since you are now in Paris, how do you 
 like it?" 
 
 " Tolerably well — not too well. No doubt there 
 are many ways of amusing oneself in Paris. One 
 can there join in so many pleasures. There are 
 theatres, balls, promenades, concerts, everything 
 that can charm those who can procure themselves 
 these delights. But when one has to remain in 
 one^s room all day long, and when one has to pass 
 one's evenings either in working or in reading, one 
 abstracts but little enjoyment from a sojourn in 
 Paris." 
 
 " That is very true. But what hinders you from 
 taking part in all those enjoyments that you seem to 
 yearn after?" 
 
 " Do you imagine that a woman can go by herself 
 to theatres and promenades ? " 
 
 "No, of course not; but you do not mean to 
 suggest that you have not had any amount of" 
 cavaliers who have offered you their arms ? " 
 
 " Quite true, but I do not walk out with every one 
 who asks me, sir; I do not accept the arm of the 
 first comer. Certainly, if I had listened to all the 
 young men who have already dogged my steps — who 
 have overwhelmed me with their foolish declarations 
 of love — a love which seems to have seized them 
 suddenly in seeing me walking in the street ; no, I 
 should not have lacked opportunities to be abroad.. 
 But it is not this that I wish ! " 
 
26 MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE. 
 
 Dupont hereupon stroked his chin, muttering' to 
 himself: "She will not be difficult to manage. She 
 does not want to walk out with the young sparks ; 
 she desires to make the acquaintance of one who is 
 up to the mark. The chances hence are all in my 
 favour." 
 
 Miss Georgette had again taken up her embroidery 
 work, and could only see the lower part of the 
 figure of her visitor. The latter, in looking at her 
 working, exclaimed : " Miss, you embroider to 
 perfection." 
 
 44 You diseover that, do you, sir? Do you under- 
 stand it?" 
 
 " Yes, I have a wi * * *, I mean a sister who 
 also embroiders." 
 
 " She is in America, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, she remains there." 
 
 " As for me, sir, it is not to be wondered at that I 
 can embroider fairly well, as I come from a district 
 which is renowned for its embroideries. I am from 
 Nancy, which is not to be surpassed for that kind of 
 work." 
 
 " Oh, then you come from Nancy." 
 
 " Not exactly, but from Toul, which is quite near. 
 Well, have you yourself done any embroidering? " 
 
 Dupont burst out laughing, and responded : " No, 
 not I; and since you have divined that I have only 
 come here in the hope of making your acquaintance 
 "* * * *, well, miss * * *, can I have the extreme 
 felicity of being allowed to cultivate your acquaint- 
 ance — of coming again to see you — and even of 
 offering you my arm sometimes in order to take you 
 to a theatre or to a concert?" 
 
 Miss Georgette reflected for a few moments, 
 regarding Dupont eagerly, and answered: "You 
 have not lied to me in all that you have told me in 
 regard to your position ? Are you indeed free and a 
 widower ? " 
 
YOUNG COLINET. 27 
 
 Dupont answered without hesitancy : " No, miss, 
 I have not lied to you." 
 
 " In that case, sir, you may come and see me — I 
 hope everything is as you say." 
 
 " Ah, miss, you have made me one of the happiest 
 of mortals." 
 
 " But you must not make your visits too frequent 
 — that would be compromising." 
 
 Dupont got up, saluted the young embroideress, 
 and took his leave, saying to himself : " She is 
 mine; and it will not be long perhaps before I 
 obtain what I wish ; it is only a question of time : 
 she is mine — and I have no longer any desire to lie 
 in bed all the time," 
 
 CHAPTEB IV. 
 
 YOUNG COLINET. 
 
 A fortnight has come and gone. Dupont goes, 
 very often to see his fair neighbour, with whom he 
 is more and more taken, for, to the charms of her 
 person, Miss Georgette joins wit, gaiety, and piquant 
 conversational powers. It needed no more than that 
 he should turn his head in the direction of our 
 provincial, to make him lose his appetite for the 
 day, and to prevent him from sleeping more than 
 two hours together at nights; seeing that his love 
 had by no means been satisfied, and because his 
 desires augmented on every occasion when he even 
 looked at the object which had created them; yet 
 he was no farther forward in his aims than on the 
 first day he had spoken to her. If he took the hand 
 of the young woman, she would withdraw it from 
 his grasp with a smile. If he attempted to embrace 
 
::28 young colinet. 
 
 her she would repel hiui ardently. If he dared to 
 pinch her knee, if he wished to measure height witli 
 her, she would put on a severe air, and tell him in 
 the most decided manner : " If you do not leave off 
 I shall show you to the door, and I shall not receive 
 you again." 
 
 Dupont, seeing himself thus compelled to give 
 over his audacious advances, in walking away would 
 say to himself anew : " Yes ; I see now it will take a 
 long time; much longer than I had calculated on. 
 But I must see it to the end, because, if this young 
 woman does not find me to her liking, she ought not 
 to have consented to receive my visits and should not 
 have walked out with me; nay, and ought not to 
 have received presents from me. She is acting 
 cruelly, in placing possession at such a high price. 
 But this last, I know, is mere coquetry — mere 
 dupery ; still, it cannot last always." 
 
 In short, Miss Georgette gladly accepted the arm 
 of Dupont to go to the theatre, to concerts, and to 
 the promenades. As to balls, Dupont did not offer 
 to go there, and she did not seem to desire it either ; 
 3mt there was one thing which, up to this time, she 
 had steadily refused to do; to wit, to dine at a 
 restaurant in a private room with him. 
 
 " I should like to dine with you in a restaurant," 
 - she said one day to Dupont, " but only in the public 
 room where other people dine." 
 
 " It was in vain that Dupont insisted : " People 
 are not well served in the public room ; besides, it is 
 such bad form; ladies who dine at a restaurant 
 never go to the public room." 
 
 Georgette was inflexible ; she would not yield the 
 point. In general, she appeared to go with Dupont 
 only for the sake of having a companion ; to see the 
 world, and in turn to be seen herself. 
 
 Georgette's toilette was very simple. Dupont 
 ; reasoned to himself: "Men gain women over by 
 
YOUNG COLINET. 2$ 
 
 giving them dresses and ornaments, and by coquetry. 
 I shall see what effect this has." 
 
 He accordingly sent to the young embroideress a 
 rather pretty shawl, a silk dress, and a stylish hat. 
 She received his presents as a mere matter of course. 
 On this very day he took her to the theatre, the 
 Opera Comique: and on returning home in the 
 -evening with his female neighbour he proposed to 
 •enter her apartment with her for a few moments, 
 Trat she shut the door in his face, saying : " Take a 
 warning from this ; it is quite enough that I receive 
 jou so frequently during the day as I do." 
 
 When walking arm in arm with Dupont Miss 
 ■Georgette made frequent conquests : the latter would 
 then become jealous, for he found that in her 
 •company she would often be distraite, and that she 
 •occupied herself with men who ogled her, and not 
 with him. At other times the young embroideress 
 would manifest great curiosity. Often at the 
 theatre she would point out to him some elegant 
 j-oung man, and say to Dupont : " Do you know the 
 gentleman who is in that box in front of us, who is 
 iolding an opera-glass in his hand ? " 
 
 " No, I know nothing at all about him," Dupont 
 would respond ; " I do not know any one in Paris." 
 
 "Yes, to be sure; I forgot you had just come 
 fc>m America ; that is a pity." 
 
 "Why is it a pity?" 
 
 " Because you do not know-any one in Paris." 
 
 "And even though I were acquainted with that 
 .young man you have designated, what good would 
 that do you ? " 
 
 "Oh, nothing; it was simply that I wanted to 
 know." 
 
 On another occasion it was a man of mature age, 
 but who was got up in the latest fashion and affected 
 all the airs of a young dandy, that Miss Georgette 
 remarked at the promenades, and whom she pointed 
 
30 YOUNG COLINET 
 
 out to her faithful cavalier, accompanied by the- 
 remark : " Do you know who that gentleman is ? " 
 
 "How the devil do you think I can know 
 him?" 
 
 "Ah! quite right, you have just come from 
 America —I had forgotten that." 
 
 On returning home one evening Dupont began ta 
 say to himself: "Why does she thus question me- 
 about the men we meet in the promenades or at the 
 theatre ? The latter do not interest me at all : she 
 is very coquettish, is this young woman ; she never 
 turns away her eyes when a man looks at her ; she 
 always looks as rf she wanted to make a conquest* 
 Nevertheless she is discreet, very discreet ! I know 
 her better than any one else. Still, it appears as if 
 her only concern was to walk abroad; to see things. 
 True, she is very finely shaped, for when she is on 
 my arm everybody turns round to admire her form, 
 her tall figure, hei feet and her ankles. How can 
 one help falling in love with all this ? It has taken 
 away my appetite both for eating and drinking: 1 
 have not even had, for a long time, any sleep. I 
 have grown lean, though I cannot be sorry for that ; 
 but I am afraid to look at my eyes; and if this 
 continues, I shall, instead of resembling a Pole- 
 chinelle, become like a Pierott." 
 
 One day Dupont went to visit his fair neighbour, 
 and had only been seated a few minutes ; he watched 
 her embroidering, and was endeavouring to persuade 
 her that he adored her, while the young woman 
 listened in a sort of indifferent manner, just like 
 seme one who was thinking of something else than 
 what was being addressed to her; when suddenly 
 two gentle taps were made on the door from without^ 
 
 " Somebody has knocked at your door," said 
 Dupont with a surprised air. 
 
 " I fancy I heard some one knock also." 
 
 " Do you expect anybody ? " 
 
YOUNG COLINET. 31 
 
 " No ; but why should no one come to see me ? you 
 liave come here when I did not at all expect you." 
 
 " Hark ! somebody is knocking again. It is 
 indeed your door." 
 
 " Come in," cried Georgette ; " the key is in the 
 <door." And, indeed, the young emtroideress was 
 always careful to leave the key in the door on the 
 outside when Dupont was within with her, in order 
 not to give rise to malicious scandal. 
 
 The door was opened and a young man presented 
 himself, who remained standing on the threshold. 
 He might be twenty years of age, though he did not 
 look so much. His figure, fresh and natural, had 
 all the appearance of juvenility ; his large blue eyes, 
 soft and tender, possessed almost as much charm as 
 those of a young woman ; a slight beard covered his 
 •chin ; his brow was yet unwrinkled by care, and his 
 fair curling hair iell naturally and carelessly, 
 denoting that the hand of a barber had never once 
 passed through it. Altogether he was a fine-looking 
 young fellow, of medium height, slender, graceful, 
 and whose cut was neither that of a countryman nor 
 that of a Parisian. He wore dark corded pantaloons, 
 with leather gaiters on top of them, a velvet waist- 
 coat with metal buttons, together with a great 
 hunter's coat with a black fur collar. Finally, he 
 held in his hand a small rcund felt hat, with a large 
 brim, and a great blackthorn stick. 
 
 " Miss Georgette, if you please ? " said the young 
 man, still standing on the threshold of the door. 
 
 At the sound of this voice the young embroideress 
 sprang to her feet, crying out : " Colinet — yes, it is 
 Coiinet." She ran towards the new comer: took 
 hold of both his hands, then his head, and finally 
 embraced him several times, with all the marks of 
 the most lively affection, saying : " My dear Coliuet : 
 oh, how pleased I am to see you ! " To which the 
 young man responded: "And you likewise, Miss 
 
32 YOUNG COLiJXfiT. 
 
 Georgette, how pleased I am to see you! I was 
 told that Paris was such a great place, and I was 
 afraid of not being able to find you." 
 
 Dupont surveyed all this, and made some queer 
 gestures. Mentally he said to himself : " It appears 
 that, after all, she allows herself to be embraced- 
 And what is more, it was she who was the first to 
 embrace. Confound it ! I have been only a fool all 
 this time. This is most humiliating." 
 
 Georgette took the young man by the hand, led 
 him into the centre of the room, and presented him 
 to M. Dupont, accompanied by these words : " You 
 see before you one of my childhood friends. We 
 uaed to play together often when we were yet 
 children. Did we not, Colinet?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Georgette." 
 
 " All right, provided they do not attempt to have 
 games now, now that they have grown older," 
 thought Dupont, who was forced to admit that the 
 young man was very attractive. 
 
 " Monsieur is from your part of the country ? "" 
 Dupont asked. 
 
 " Yes ; of course, and he has just come from 
 there. Is it not so, Colinet, that you have come 
 straight from the country?" 
 
 " Yes, miss ; I arrived last night at the Place d'~ 
 Etain, where I put up; it is in the square of 
 St. Martin." 
 
 " And what about my mother, my father, my 
 sisters : give me all their news." 
 
 " Every one of them, thank heaven, is quite well, 
 and each of them has charged me to embrace you 
 for them." 
 
 "Well, then, embrace me for each and all of 
 them." 
 
 The youthful Colinet advanced and eagerly 
 embraced Georgette afresh. 
 
 Dupont turned up his nose and said to himself t 
 
YOUNG COLINET, 8& 
 
 "I wonder whether they are going to pass their 
 whole time in embracing one another? See — this 
 conntryman; he has obtained more in two minutes 
 than I hare accomplished in a month. It is abso- 
 lutely necessary I should change my tactics." 
 
 When the youthful Colinet had finished embracing 
 Georgette she made him sit down beside her. 
 
 "Have not my sisters sent anything to me by 
 you?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, miss : Miss Aimee, your 
 eldest sister, has sent you a letter which I have in 
 my pocket." 
 
 " Then give it me, do give it me quickly." 
 
 M. Colinet gave a letter to Georgette, which she- 
 seized with avidity, broke the seal, and went to read 
 it in the embrasure of the window, without taking 
 any account of the company. Upon this Dupont 
 turned towards the newly-arrived countryman, and 
 said : " Have you visited Paris before ? " 
 
 " No, sir, this is the first time." 
 
 "Have you come to make Paris your future- 
 abode?" 
 
 " Oh, no, sir. I have even promised my mother 
 that I should not remain here longer than four days„ 
 I shall take my departure on Saturday." 
 
 This response afforded Dupont the liveliest satis- 
 faction, for he had already begun to fear that he 
 would find this young man every day in the house 
 of his countrywoman. He hence assumed a more 
 amicable demeanour: "You are engaged in com- 
 merce I opine ? " 
 
 " I raise sheep and my father rears rams." 
 
 "That is a very delightful calling. Our first 
 parents bred animals, that is to say, more or less ; as 
 for us now we content ourselves with eating them, 
 and in this we do wrong, since it does not furnish 
 the means by which breeds may be improved." 
 
 Miss Georgette had now finished reading her- 
 
 b 
 
$4 AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH. 
 
 letter, which seemed to have created in her the 
 liveliest interest ; in finishing it she let escape from 
 her an " at last," which seemed to convey a great 
 many things. 
 
 Dupont, satisfied by knowing that the youthful 
 Colinet would only remain a short time in Paris, 
 took up his hat and addressed his fair neighbour : 
 4t I shall leave you with your compatriot, your 
 childhood's friend; you must have many things to 
 tell each other." 
 
 " I shall not seek to retain you," answered 
 Georgette, smiling. 
 
 " She will not detain me, forsooth ! I see it all ! " 
 said Dupont to himself as he retired. " She never 
 seeks to detain me. This thing is getting too 
 tedious : I am sick of it. And this youthful Colinet 
 has embraced her at least a dozen times. It is now 
 time my turn came round." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH, 
 
 The following day, about noon, when Dupont 
 entered the room of his female neighbour, he found 
 there young Colinet, who still wore such a retiring 
 air that the elder man, who remained seated in 
 front of G-eorgette and watched her working away 
 without uttering a word. Though her face wore a 
 liappy expression, he could do nothing but regard her. j 
 
 "By the way, M. Colinet," said Dupont, "howl 
 -did you amuse yourself yesterday? Have you made 
 some slight acquaintance with Paris?" 
 
 " I went yesterday, sir, to see the animals at the I 
 
AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH. 35- 
 
 sheep than the lions and tigers. I should like to 
 know why they have such beautiful cages made for 
 them, whilst that my sheep have often not even a. 
 house to shelter them." 
 
 " M. Colinet, tigers are secured in cages because 
 they are savage and because people are afraid of 
 them. As for your sheep, seeing that, on the 
 contrary, they do no injury to any one, we do not 
 take any notice of them— we leave them to pasture- 
 at their own free will. This latter is indeed some- 
 thing. ,, 
 
 " My sheep cannot always find suflicient pasture 
 in the fields, whereas I saw them give enormous, 
 quarters of beef to your villainous tigers." 
 
 "Yes, and for the same reason. People are 
 afraid of them, consequently they must be well fed.'*" 
 
 " Colinet, you must visit the theatre while you are 
 in Paris." 
 
 "With you, Miss Georgette?" 
 
 "Yes, M. Dupont, whom you see present, wilt 
 take us both there." 
 
 " This is all very well," said Dupont to himself^ 
 Yet, after all, I would rather have this than if she- 
 went there alone with him." 
 
 "Will you take us both to the theatre?" asked 
 Georgette, addressing herself to M. Dupont. 
 
 "Why, of course, miss: nothing would give me- 
 greater pleasure. Am I not always at your service ? 
 and I am only too happy to have the opportunity of 
 entertaining you." 
 
 "Yes, sir; I know that you are extremely com- 
 plaisant : but I would not have you think I wish to 
 abuse your kindness." 
 
 "You cannot put my complacency too often to 
 the proof. You know my sentiments towards you - y 
 I make no secret of them : I am your faithful 
 cavalier." 
 
 The youthful Colinet regarded Dupont and 
 
 d2 
 
156 AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH. 
 
 Georgette by turns ; lie looked as if he were seeking" 
 "to comprehend them, seeing which the young 
 -embroideress broke into laughter, exclaiming : 
 *' Then, we shall go to the National Circus ; we shall 
 *there enjoy the delightful changes of fairy scenes; 
 that will amuse you, Colinet." 
 
 " I shall go wherever you wish, Georgette." 
 
 " This is rather singular ! " said Dupont to him- 
 self ; " she addresses him in the lover's tense, but he 
 never tutoys her. After all, this is better than if it 
 "were the other way." 
 
 The same evening Dupont conducted Miss Georgette 
 rand the youthful Colinet to the Theatre du Cirque, 
 in the boulevard du Temple. I need hardly inform 
 the reader that all the theatres which lent so much 
 gaiety to that boulevard had not yet been demolished. 
 People played at fairies in which the dances were 
 ^relieved by magic spells, and with changes of 
 scenery. The somewhat slender costumes of the 
 :f emale dancers caused Colinet to lower his eyes, and 
 -even sometimes to turn away his head when the 
 majority of the spectators directed their opera- 
 classes upon the limbs of the female dancers. 
 
 "Well, how do you like this?" asked Dupont in 
 pressing up to the young man ; " you seem to look 
 away at the most seductive moments." 
 
 Colinet coloured up and responded : " I am afraid 
 -■of offending the ladies by looking at them, when 
 they throw their limbs up by the side of one." 
 
 "Poor boy! truly he is not dangerous," said 
 Dupont to himself. " But, all the same, my pretty 
 ^embroideress is only occupied with him. When I 
 speak to her, she will hardly deign to answer me: 
 she appears as if she were not listening. I am most 
 anxious that her little, childhood's friend should 
 return to the country to take care of his sheep." 
 
 This wish of Dupont's was soon realized. On the 
 •Saturday Colinet took his leave of Georgette, who 
 
AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH. 37 
 
 •charged him to deliver two letters to her sisters and 
 to kiss her parents for her. The young man agreed 
 to all this, and set out with a sad heart, saying 
 •to Georgette: "Why do you not come home with 
 me? I should be so happy to take you back 
 into the country! Do you like Paris then, 
 Georgette?" 
 
 " It is not so much that it pleases me, Colinet, but 
 I must yet remain here for a while — indeed I must. 53 
 
 " Will it be for a long period ?" 
 
 " I do not know — let us hope not. Ah, I swear to 
 you, Colinet, that the day on which I again see my 
 parents will be the happiest in my life." 
 
 " And for me also, Georgette." 
 
 "Indeed, Colinet, you have then * * * a great 
 interest in me." 
 
 " I do not know what I have — but I should like 
 never to leave you." 
 
 " We shall see each other again, Colinet ; think 
 always of me: on my part, I shall not forget 
 jou." 
 
 "Ah! Georgette, this promise has rendered me 
 quite happy." And in proof of his joy the poor boy 
 burst into tears. He then embraced Georgette, and 
 only saved himself by the agility of his limbs, for he 
 felt that if he were to tarry longer he would not be 
 able to tear himself away. 
 
 Dupont appeared at the residence of his fair 
 neighbour about noon; he found her sad and 
 pensive, and said to her : " I perceive that the young 
 deeper of sheep has taken his departure?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he is to be envied ; he is going to see 
 my father and mother ! " 
 
 " Doubtless. But, on the other hand, it must be 
 very monotonoES to have nothing but sheep to look 
 at. You see, darling Georgette, there is nothing of 
 that kind in Paris. It is the centre of all pleasures, 
 it is there that talent of every kind resorts to to be 
 
 
38 AN UNSOPHISTICATED YOUTH. 
 
 recognized and applauded — everything that is- 
 renowned. In a word, one really lives in Paris; 
 elsewhere one only vegetates." 
 
 "If that were true, sir, it would be a great mis- 
 fortune to many men, for the entire world cannot 
 come to Paris. As for me, I believe that one can be 
 happy elsewhere when one is netu* those whom one- 
 loves and when one understands how to limit one's 
 *" desires." 
 
 3 " That is very true, dearest Georgette ; you speak 
 like a Yirgil or a Delille. It is, I believe, the latter 
 who has said that in the country we at once fear 
 more the gods, and make more love. As to makings 
 love, even at the risk of displeasing Delille, one can 
 make it very well indeed in Paris — aye, even to 
 perfection, and if you would only be less cruel to me 
 * * *. But I see you are preoccupied. It appears 
 to me that you are not listening." 
 
 " What was it you said to me, sir? " 
 
 " There : I was sure of it ; you were not listening i 
 But I excuse you ; the departure of your childhood's 
 friend has grieved you. I see, it has absolutely 
 upset you. But wait: to-morrow is Sunday; we- 
 must enjoy ourselves. Will you come and dine with 
 me at a restaurant ? " 
 
 "I should so much like to." 
 
 "Then I shall come to take you at five o'clock f 
 be ready. We shall dine at Bonvalet's, on the 
 boulevard." 
 
 " Wherever you please ; it is all the same to me." 
 
 " Yes, yes, at Bonvalet's ; one is well taken care of 
 there ; afterwards, we can go to one of the theatres 
 opposite, that is understood — arranged; until then 
 let me leave you to your reflections : till we meet 
 again, dear neighbour, till to-morrow." 
 
 Dupont walked away rubbing his hands, ancfc 
 repeating to himself: "To-morrow shall witness my 
 triumph I From here I shall go straight to Bon- 
 
A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 89 
 
 valet's : I shall speak to one of the waiters, I shall 
 -engage him in my interests, and I shall secure in 
 advance a private room, although I should have to 
 g>ay for it its weight in gold." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 
 
 The next day at five o'clock, it is inadmissible 
 •even to suppose that Dupont was not punctual. On 
 reaching the apartment of Georgette he found her 
 dressed, but still pensive and apparently careworn. 
 
 " It is most apparent that you too much regret 
 the friend of your childhood," said Dupont to her, 
 smiling. You who were always so gay, you who 
 sang without intermission — I hardly recognize you 
 
 now." 
 
 " It is not the departure of Colinet that pre- 
 occupies me," responded Georgette. "It is not 
 that." 
 
 "Then what else can it be? Something good, 
 perhaps. "Will you confide it to me?" 
 
 " I do not think so." 
 
 " In that case, let us go to dine." 
 
 They entered a restaurant in the Boulevard dn 
 Temple, and just as they were ascending the first 
 flight of stairs they met three gentlemen descending, 
 who appeared to have dined rather too well. One 
 of them, who thus found himself face to face with 
 Dupont, let escape an exclamation of surprise in 
 regarding him, and punched him in the stomach, 
 saying : " Whoever expected to see you here ? it is 
 Dupont, my dear Dupont. How is it that you come 
 to Paris and do not call on me ? " 
 
ft 
 
 40 A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 
 
 Dupont became confused. He stammered and 
 wiped his nose, murmuring: "Ah! it is you, 
 Jolibois — good afternoon — I see you are all right — 
 adieu ! " and he sought to pass with Georgette, who 
 leaned on his arm; but Jolibois held him by the 
 elbow, and said : " Well, why should you be in such 
 a hurry when you meet an old friend ? How long is 
 it since you left Brives-la-Gaillarde ? Your wife, is 
 she with you ? Do not seek to get away ; I am so 
 glad to see you again. My poor Dupont ! Do you 
 still sleep like a dormouse ? For you did little else 
 than that when I was at Brives-la-Gaillarde, and 
 were a perfect plague to your wife. Ah ! aha, if she 
 only now saw your dear partner, it would plague her 
 much more." 
 
 Dupont was on the rack. Had he dared, he 
 would have felled his friend Jolibois to the ground 
 for taking these liberties with him. He forced him 
 now to let go his arm, and murmured: "Jolibois^ 
 you have dined, and dined very well, as I can see. 
 But * * * madame and I, we have not yet dined, and 
 we wish to join our friends, who are waiting for us- 
 up-stairs. I shall come and see you ; but leave mo,. 
 Jolibois ; I shall come and see you — I promise you 
 that. Come, my dear lady, we are expected." 
 
 By dint of a fresh effort he succeeded in freeing 
 his arm. He soon rejoined Georgette, and mounting 
 the staircase with her, he left his friend Jolibois,. 
 who watched him climb the stairs, and cried after 
 him: "Ah! you sly dog! you thought you would 
 escape me. But I divine — I see what it is. Dupont, 
 you are a sly dog ! But be easy, I shall say nothing 
 to your wife." 
 
 Georgette said never a word ; she had compassion 
 on her cavalier on seeing the pitiful condition he 
 was in. They reached the hall on the first. Dupont, 
 on recognizing his waiter, called out to him:. 
 " Waiter, we should like a table in a public room." 
 
A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 41 
 
 « 
 
 There are none left, sir ; they are all occupied. 
 On Sundays it is very difficult to find one dis- 
 engaged, unless you come very early. But I have, 
 accidentally, a private room you can have, which has 
 just been vacated. I can let you have that." 
 
 Dupont looked at Georgette, who said : " We wish 
 io dine in a public room. Let us take a turn on the 
 boulevard ; we can return later, and we shall then 
 probably find accommodation." 
 
 " Just as you wish, my dear," who dare not insist, 
 inasmuch as the encounter with his friend Jolibois 
 had made him feel abashed, but who in going away 
 made a significant signal to the waiter. They 
 reached the boulevard; the weather was unpro- 
 pitious ; it was humid ; it was even muddy on the 
 pavement, but, as it was Sunday, there were, not- 
 withstanding, many people on the boulevards, 
 because that in Paris, whatever be the weather, 
 there is always a multitude of people who will come 
 out to walk, and who, when the rain falls in torrents, 
 re-appear the next moment with their umbrellas, 
 «nd walk along looking in at the shops, as though it 
 were the middle of summer. 
 
 Dupont had given his arm to Georgette ; he did not 
 know how to begin a conversation, and felt himself 
 greatly embarrassed. The young girl took pleasure 
 for some time in his apparent confusion ; finally, she 
 said : " Well, Mr. American from Brives-la-Gaillarde, 
 your encounter with your friend Joiibois seems to 
 have struck you dumb. What a pity it is that you 
 met him ! you said sometimes such pretty things ! " 
 
 " My dear neighbour, 1 own that this encounter 
 has been far from agreeable to me." 
 
 " I can quite believe that." 
 
 "In the first place, Jolibois was half dr * * *; it 
 was indeed easy to see that he had too much to 
 dr * *- *; he did not know what he sni«l. H> re<oor- 
 nized me, and afterwards took me for an r - 
 
 
42 A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 
 
 Georgette pulled up suddenly. Looking her 
 cavalier straight in the eyes, she said to him in 
 bitter tones: "Mr. Dupont, do you take me for 
 imbecile ? " 
 
 " I, miss ! God forbid ! On the contrary, I have 
 every reason to know that you are possessed of much 
 spirit! that you reason justly — that you have also- 
 much finesse and malice." 
 
 " Then, sir, do not attempt to repeat the lies you 
 have told, and in which, from the first, I set little 
 store by. For you have the air rather of a Limousin 
 than of an American. You have never been in 
 America. You come from Brives-la-Gaillard, as 
 your friend Joilibois has just told us. But I blame 
 you less for that than for attempting to pass your- 
 self off for a widower, whilst you have still a wife ! 
 Fie, sir, fie ! Deny your wife ! It is a base act ! " 
 
 Dupont now saw that he must give up lying. He 
 stammered out : " Miss * * *. Well, it is true * * *V 
 I own it * * *, But I was so anxious to make your 
 acquaintance ! What, if I had told you I was 
 married; you would very likely have not received 
 me." 
 
 "Why not? On the contrary, it would have 
 given me more confidence in you. I should have- 
 said : " Here is a man who does not seek to deceive 
 me * * *• But to pretend to be a widower * * * to 
 seek to make believe you were a bachelor, while your 
 poor wife is no doubt grieving over your absence ! " 
 
 "Oh, no; as to the latter, you need have no* 
 concern. My wife is not groaning over my absence,. 
 She was the first to urge me to come to Paris, and 
 to go there without her." 
 
 " And to pass yourself off for a bachelor ? " 
 
 "I will not avow she went so far as that; but 
 when a woman permits her husband to go on a trip 
 without her, it is equivalent to saying that he may 
 assume that r6le ; for you must not, my dear little^ 
 
▲ PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 43 
 
 aieighbour, tliink that men are nuns, and you know 
 that well." 
 
 "Enough sir, enough; not one word more on that 
 subject." 
 
 "That is well; I could not wish for anything 
 ^better. But it appears to me that it is raining." 
 
 "Yes, indeed it does. Let us return to the 
 restaurant; there will probably be an empty table 
 now." 
 
 They returned to Bonvalet's. The waiter there 
 made the same answer. "Every place is taken in 
 the public rooms; but I have a private room dis- 
 engaged ; but I would advise you to decide quickly, 
 otherwise, it will be taken by others." 
 
 Dupont regarded Georgette, who replied : " Well, 
 let us go to this private room, seeing that we cannot 
 -do better." 
 
 Our gallant was enchanted. The waiter conducted 
 the couple into a small room, well heated, well 
 furnished, well supplied with sofas and easy chairs, 
 where two covers were laid. 
 
 " One would indeed think," said Georgette, as she 
 disembarrassed herself of her shawl and hat, " that 
 we had been expected." 
 
 " In a restaurant, people are always expected." 
 
 " Yes, but those covers were all ready laid." 
 
 "It is no doubt a room where never more than 
 two persons dine." 
 
 " That matl ers not. Order quickly, sir, for I am 
 very hungry." 
 
 " I should like to know what you prefer ? " 
 
 " As for me, I like everything." 
 
 "And I, nothing comes amiss to me. So the 
 matter is easily arranged." 
 
 Dupont ordered a very choice dinner, with a great 
 variety of wines. He wanted to sit down beside 
 ^Georgette on the sofa, but the latter insisted on him 
 taking a seat opposite her, on the other side of the 
 
44 A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 
 
 table, and said to him ; " you would incommode me> 
 at dinner; besides, I do not like to be disturbed 
 while eating." 
 
 "I will not oppose her," said Dupont to himself y 
 let us proceed quietly ; I have many things to ask 
 her pardon for ; but wait until we get to the wines."" 
 
 Georgette did honour to the dinner ; but she drank: 
 very little, although her vis-a-vis did everything in 
 his power to induce her to do so ; and admonished 
 her when presenting her with the first glass of 
 Beaune : " Be careful that you do not put any water 
 into this wine — it would destroy it. There is nothing 
 more delicious than Beaune." 
 
 "It makes no difference to me!" responded the 
 young embroideress. I never drink pure wine. I 
 prefer it with water." 
 
 "That is all right with vin ordinaire. But this, 
 which costs four francs a bottle * * *, it is a crime 
 to put water in it." 
 
 "Then, my dear Mr. Dupont, ask for some vin 
 ordinaire ; in that case you would not expose me to 
 the commital of a crime." 
 
 Dupont was enraged ; but, in order to conceal the 
 chagrin he experienced at the hands of his fair- 
 friend, he took good care himself to drink his Beaune 
 pure, and to return to it often, in order to assume 
 an appearance of gaiety. He now commenced to 
 venture on some endearing terms; but Georgette 
 brusquely interrupted him with the remark: "To 
 recur to your wife, is she pretty 9 " 
 
 Dupont knit his brows, and answered : " She is 
 not bad * * *, but she is not so perfectly formed as 
 you are, not by a long way. Ah ! if she only had 
 your ravishing figure ! " 
 
 " Are her eyes black, or blue 9 " 
 
 "They are as green, yes green, as those of a cat." 
 
 "Ah, what a misfortune! How can your wife 
 have eyes like a cat's ? r ~ 
 
 » 
 
Jl private dining-room. 45- 
 
 u That is all one to me. But what a liquid grace 
 there is in yours ! jour smile transports me." 
 
 " As for her teeth, are thej well set ? " 
 
 " What teeth do you mean ? " 
 ~ " Those of your wife." 
 
 "My God, Miss Georgette, do not say any more? 
 about my wife ; she has not got any teeth. I must 
 tell you that it was not to hear you speak of her that 
 I invited you here to dine with me." 
 
 "That is possible ; but this subject of conversations 
 pleases me much." 
 
 "Nevertheless, my dear Georgette, must I again* 
 repeat to you that in Paris I have no wife; I have- 
 become again a bachelor." 
 
 " Yes, I know well that you would fain make me 
 believe this. But, after all, my dear Mr. Dupont^ 
 be well persuaded of one thing : that it is to me a 
 matter of indifference whether you are married or 
 single." 
 
 Dupont interrogated himself as to how he should 
 interpret this. He concluded by drawing from it am 
 augury favourable to his love projects. He poured 
 out a glass of grenache to his vis-a-vis, and said t 
 "This is a lady's wine, very mild, which does not- 
 bear any water. Taste it, I pray you." 
 
 Georgette took a sip of it and replaced her glass- 
 on the table, saying : ' i I do not like sugared wines.** 
 
 "Jupiter! what is it then that she does like?'*" 
 said Dupont to himself, as he emptied his own glass 
 at a single gulp. Yet by reason of wishing to give 
 himself airs this gentleman became as flushed as 
 was his friend Jolibois, and when the champagne 
 was brought in, he rose from his chair and invited 
 Georgette to dance a polka with him. The latter 
 laughed in his face, and he resumed his seat* 
 Dupont poured out some champagne, and in offering* 
 it to the young woman, said : " Does the champagne 
 displease you also ? " 
 
*46 A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 
 
 « 
 
 Oh no; on the contrary, the latter is very re- 
 freshing. Does your wife like it ? n 
 
 Dupont struck his fist on the table, swallowed his 
 glass of champagne, then exclaimed: "Most as- 
 suredly you are mocking me. But you shall pay 
 for it. This last deserves to be revenged, and I am 
 going to be revenged in embracing you." 
 
 In saying this he got up, darted close up to 
 Creorgette, whom he attempted to clasp round the 
 waist; but the latter repulsed him with a firm band, 
 and said: "Monsieur Dupont, none of those games, 
 or I shall become very angry." 
 
 " Why, my dear angel, do you still wish to deny 
 me this?" 
 
 " I deny you everything ; be persuaded of that.'* 
 Oh ! you are only making fun of me, mocking 
 
 me." 
 
 " How, and in what am I mocking you, sir?" 
 
 *' In what ? In everything. When a lady places 
 lierself under the care of a man, encourages his 
 gallantries, when a lady consents to receive presents 
 .at his hands * * *, a shawl, a hat * * *, and I know 
 not what, all that is not simply for walking her out — 
 *lo you understand, miss?" 
 
 " I understand, sir, that you are as foolish as you 
 -are impertinent. Have I ever given you to under- 
 stand that I would become your mistress? You 
 Teproach me with accepting your presents. I have 
 given you much more in return in consenting to 
 receive your -visits, in going with you to the pro- 
 menades, and to the theatres, in placing my arm in 
 yours. Do you account all that as nothing, 
 sir?" 
 
 "I say nothing. But, after all, you have con- 
 sented to dine with me in a private room, and when 
 a woman goes with a gentleman into a private 
 apartment, it is not to behave cruelly to the latter. 
 Everybody is aware of that. 5 ' 
 
 » 
 
A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM. 47" 
 
 "Oh, sir. I have enjoyed dining tete-a-tete with 
 you, for you have never appeared dangerous to me.'* 
 
 " Then why have you refused up till now?" 
 
 11 Because I did not wish to inspire in you hopes 
 that could never be realised." 
 
 " And why did you accept to-day ? " 
 
 "Because I got tired walking in the rain with 
 you. But, remain easy, sir, you shall never haver 
 another opportunity." 
 
 Dupont was very angry ; but his amour-propre, the- 
 wine, the mocking regards of that young lady who 
 assumed an air of defiance, proved too much for his 
 self-control, and he decided to brave, this once, the- 
 anger of Miss Georgette ; he convinced himself that 
 he was not a ninny, that he would never again find 
 such a favourable opportunity, and that he would be 
 a fool if he did not profit by it. All these reflections 
 passed through his mind like lightning: not being 
 able to succeed in embracing the woman he wished 
 to triumph over, he resolved to attack her in another 
 way. A rude box on the ear was the price he soon 
 received for his audacity. 
 
 "Leave me, sir!" said Georgette in springing up- 
 "you are an impertinent fellow. I shall not remain 
 another minute with you." 
 
 " Oh, I am very sorry for that, my fine neighbour,, 
 but I shall not leave you," said Dupont, whose head 
 was reeling, and who succeeded in seizing the striped 
 little petticoat that Georgette wore underneath her 
 dress. No, no; I hold that dear little petticoat 
 which becomes you so well, which I admire and have- 
 contemplated so often * * *. I hold it, and I shall 
 not let it go." 
 
 "Very well ! take good care of it, sir; for it is all 
 you shall have of me." 
 
 In saying this, Georgette found means to make- 
 the petticoat immediately fall at her feet. She 
 sprang out of it, seized her shawl and hat, and 
 
48 THE SECOND PETTICOAT. 
 
 quitted the room before Dupont, who still held in 
 his hand a part of the little striped petticoat, had 
 ^recovered from his astonishment. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 THE SECOND PETTICOAT. 
 
 On the day after the dinner Georgette had, at a 
 irery early hour in the morning, quitted her un- 
 pretentious little chamber in the Rue de Seine, for 
 at mid-term she had taken care to give notice to 
 leave. 
 
 Moreover, she had rented in the Marsh, in the 
 IBoulevard Beaumarchais, where beautiful houses, 
 elegantly built, have now taken the place of cross- 
 alleys, shaded by centenarian trees, which, formerly, 
 was often made the place of meeting between loving 
 ^couples residing in the quarter. 
 
 The young embroideress has substituted for her 
 ,attic apartment a neat lodging, which, though still 
 unpretentious, betokened a less precarious existence. 
 The furniture, too, was more comfortable : it was 
 neither that of a piquant, little mistress nor that of 
 a grisette. 
 
 Miss Georgette had likewise changed her occu- 
 pation. She had abandoned embroidery for shirt- 
 making, and, as she could sew as well as embroider, 
 •she did not want for work. 
 
 Again, for the little fustian petticoat she had 
 -substituted a petticoat of black silk, which showed 
 off to great advantage her seductive form, and only 
 descended about midway between the knee and the 
 ankle, so as to allow to be seen the lower portion of a 
 weli-shaped leg, and the outline of a very plump calf. 
 
THE SECOND PETTICOAT. 49 
 
 Indoors, the dainty little seamstress affected the 
 ♦costume she had worn in her apartment in the Rue 
 de Seine — a pure, white camisole fitted tightly to 
 the body, and the short petticoat which became her 
 ^so well. With the latter she always wore white 
 stockings, and well-fitting boots. Attired in this 
 pique and neglige fashion, she always attracted 
 attention wherever she appeared. 
 
 Again, Georgette lived at the bottom of a court — 
 a court, however, which was respectable, well-aired, 
 3,nd well kept. It formed a regular square. The 
 Tooms constituting the main building had naturally 
 in front the view on the boulevard and into the 
 court: whilst the other tenants had to content 
 themselves with a back view; and when they ap- 
 proached their windows the only satisfaction afforded 
 them was to look at one another. 
 
 Georgette occupied two small rooms on the entresol, 
 situated midway between the ground floor and the 
 iirst landing. Over her were an old lady and her 
 domestic, personages whose ages, when put together, 
 -exceeded a century. On the first floor there resided 
 *a well-to-do tradesman's family, who always went to 
 bed at 10.30 o'clock. Above that a lady who gave 
 lessons on the piano. In the main building to the 
 right, a skilled artisan who had a nurse that acted as 
 maid of all work ; then there was a middle-aged lady 
 who had been very beautiful, who was still very 
 coquettish, who painted her nose with powder, cold 
 cream, rouge, blue, black, who had a fondness for 
 i}he beauty spots with which ladies formerly be- 
 daubed their faces. 
 
 Above this lady, who called herself Madame 
 Picotee, were two young men engaged in literary 
 occupations, — never slow to turn their opera-glasses 
 on any of their female neighbouis who were attract- 
 ive-looking. 
 
 In the main building to the left, on the first floor 
 
 E 
 
50 THE SECOND PETTICOAT. 
 
 was a dress-maker's workshop; on the second, a 
 miniature painter, on the third, a photographer. 
 In each wing of the building, the lumber-rooms were 
 reserved for the domestics to sleep in. 
 
 The front of the main building, which looked out 
 on the boulevard, had some very luxurious apart- 
 ments, and were, consequently, occupied by the most 
 distinguished personages of the mansion. On the 
 first floor there was a very rich gentleman, who had 
 two servants: a nurse and a valet-de-chambre. On 
 the second, there was a youthful couple. The 
 husband was engaged in business, while the wife 
 affected lakadaisacal manners ; madame was pretty 
 and coquettish, monsieur sottish and a libertine. 
 They had a little soubrette who had an old look 
 about her, and a cook who was grey with age. 
 Finally, on the third floor there was a young man 
 who had just been admitted to the medical pro- 
 fession, and who lacked for nothing except patients \. 
 he sought them out, he enquired for them every- 
 where; he would have manufactured them if that 
 had been possible, but always with the idea only of 
 pleasing and attending them and the glory of beings 
 able to cure them. 
 
 As soon as Miss Georgette had taken up her abode- 
 in the little entresol at the bottom of the court 
 everybody's regards were directed towards her, and 
 the female eyes were the first to express an eager 
 desire to know about and to judge of their new 
 female neighbour ; for that women are more curious. 
 than men is a well-recognized fact. 
 
 It was easy to take note of the new comer. It 
 wus the month of April, spring-time; the weather 
 was very fine ; the sun deigned to make his appear- 
 ance at frequent intervals, and Miss Georgette, who 
 was sometimes very glad to salute its rays in her 
 tiny chamber, had almost every day her window 
 open, and, as was her habit, worked sitting near her 
 
THE SECOND PETTICOAT. 51 
 
 •window. You know, of course, in what costume 
 she worked — a camisole fitted, closely to her figure 
 and a petticoat also fitting tightly over her 
 haunches. 
 
 Seated there you could look at her, examine her at 
 jx>ur ease. As she was very alluring, very seductive 
 in her simple costume, the women found her to be 
 very inconvenient, and predicted that she was sure 
 to go to the bad. They decided that the little 
 seamstress did not know how to conduct herself, and 
 that she was as ugly as Satan. 
 
 The lady who painted her face went even as far as 
 to say that Miss Georgette's petticoat was indecent, 
 because it was designed to show off the figure to too 
 -great an extent. True it is, this lady had no longer 
 jl person capable of being shown off to advantage: 
 but, on the other hand, she was very fond of going 
 to the Circus to witness bare-back riding, and she 
 was never heard to denounce the tight-fitting panta- 
 loons and hose which were worn by the majority of 
 the equestrian performers. 
 
 The men who resided in the same tenement as 
 Georgette were by no means of the same opinion as 
 the women. Every one of them, on the contrary, 
 found the young lady to be very attractive, very well 
 made, and rendered all the more enchanting by the 
 graceful manner in which she displayed her modest 
 toilette. The little, black petticoat was pronounced 
 ravishing ; and from the first floor to the attics, the 
 neighbours said one to the other : " Have you seen 
 that little miss who occupies the entresol who wears 
 i;hat short petticoat ? " 
 
 " Yes, this young lady is certainly very piquant : 
 she has a very captivating figure — and she displays 
 her charms to the greatest advantage. She puts me 
 in mind of the famous Spanish columbine — Camera 
 Petra." 
 
 "Yes, yes, that petticoat seems to say a great 
 
 e 2 
 
^>2 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT 
 
 <JerJ ; 1 have seen her in the court ; she goes to the- 
 pump for water." 
 
 " Always in her simple negligee costume ? " 
 
 " Always. Ah ! gentlemen, you should have seeit 
 her pump up the water! How graceful she ap- 
 peared, as her petticoat followed the direction of 
 her body as the handle moved up and down! It 
 would have sent you crazy ! " 
 
 " She has a very prettily turned leg, and a neat 
 little foot." 
 
 " She is a very genteel young woman. I will do> 
 my utmost to capture her." 
 
 "So shall I." 
 
 " So shall I." 
 
 "And I," said the photographer to himself, "I 
 shall gain her over more easily than any of the- 
 others ; because I shall go and propose to my little 
 fair neighbour to take her photograph on a card — 
 every young lady is eager to haye her portait taken*" 
 
 CHAPTEE Yin. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT RUIN HIMSELF FOB A 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 There was one gentleman who had nothing to 
 say. To be sure the latter was too great a gentle- 
 man to condescend to talk to his neighbours. It 
 was he who had the fine suite of rooms facing the- 
 front, on the first floor; this person was named 
 M. de Mardeille. Whether he was noble or not^ 
 concerns us little; this was certain — he had an 
 income of about twenty thousand francs, and he- 
 never could spend, during the year, the whole of hia 
 income. 
 
RUIN HIMSELF FOR A WOMAN. 5tT 
 
 M. de Mardeille was then about fifty years of age ; 
 he appeared to be little more than four and forty .r 
 He had been a fine-looking man, and his appearance 
 was still very passable. He was of a commanding 
 height, well made, having the good fortune, as he 
 took on age, not to take on a large stomach ; he was 
 still capable of making conquests, for to his physical 
 advantages he knew how to add those which fortune 
 procures. Always got up with great elegance, 
 without, however, adopting the fashions which are 
 becoming in a young man but ridiculous in a man of 
 a certain age, M. de Mardeille had a distinguished 
 appearance, the manners of the " great world," and, 
 in a word, without being a star, he had that society 
 wit, which often consists in nothing but memory r 
 and which is infinitely more common than natural 
 wit. Added to this, he had great assurance, and 
 believed himself to be one of the None-Such. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to say that M. de 
 Mardeille took the greatest care of his health, his 
 aim being to appear always handsome, and con- 
 sequently always young, which is rather difficult, 
 considering one grows older every day; yet, it is a 
 fact that in proportion as one affects the airs of 
 youthfulness, so does one strive to persuade oneself 
 that one is actually young ; in good truth, there is 
 always something in our conscience which calls up 
 to our recollection the number of years we have 
 lived ; however, in proportion as one is able to conceaL 
 this from view, so has one the right to forget it. 
 
 M. de Mardeille took also the greatest care of hi* 
 person. He had a bath twice every week ; he made 
 use of all those cosmetics designed to enhance the 
 freshness of the colour of the skin. He was guilty 
 of no excess, whether as regarded the table or love. 
 In fact, he acted like a man whose only concern was 
 himself ; he had never suffered the slightest chagrin 
 at the hands of a woman, for the reason that egoists 
 
54 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT 
 
 are not amorous. Nay, more; this gentleman, 
 boasted himself of the fact that he had never spent 
 any money on a mistress. It cannot be called 
 spending one's money, it* a gentleman takes a lady 
 to dine at a restaurant, or to the theatre, or to the 
 Bois de Boulogne in a hackney coach ; for, in that 
 <jase, as he has his share in the pleasure he procures, 
 and satisfies at the same time his vanity in making 
 a parade of a conquest, it is always with a selfish 
 end in view that he parts with his money. Thus, 
 M. de Mardeille, who, up till now, had found out 
 the way of enjoying himself without its costing him 
 anything, jeered at his friends, the majority of 
 whom had ruined themselves by contracting debts in 
 order to sati&fy the caprices of the ladies that they 
 longed after. Often, after indulging in such re- 
 flections he would view himself in the glass and say : 
 * ( Gentlemen, why in Jupiter don't you take a pattern 
 by me ? no woman can resist me ! And yet, I have 
 never offered any one of them either diamonds or 
 cashmeres, far less money ; not I ! I am very careful 
 in paying the bills of their fashion merchants : on 
 such occasions, for example, as when a lady who 
 ordered goods for me, took it into her head to send 
 me one of her tradesmen's bills with a little note, in 
 which she begged me to relieve her from her embar- 
 Tassment by settling the enclosed bills, I thereupon 
 showed my obliging tradesman to the door, ceased 
 visiting my fine beauty at her residence, and to 
 whom I wrote: "I find it impossible to oblige 
 you, and I therefore dare not see you again." It 
 was then that my mistress came running to me, 
 literally overwhelming me with marks of tenderness 
 and affection, exclaiming : " Then you do believe 
 .that I loved you only for what you gave me ? No : 
 I love you only for yourself. Oh, do return to me, 
 <lo return ! " Fir some time I closed my ears to 
 such appeals, and when I did re-visit her, what 
 
RUIN HIMSELF FOR A WOMAN. 55» 
 
 transports of love we experienced ! For, gentlemen, 
 be assured of this one thing, that it is never the 
 man who is most gallant and most generous who is 
 the most loved ! One has to be more astute in 
 practising deceptions on her ; that is all : and then, 
 what a pleasure it is to possess a woman who is not 
 actuated by mercenary motives?" 
 
 "But," said one of his friends to him on one 
 occasion, by way of reply: "you have, then, never 
 experienced the pleasure of giving. You do not 
 know what a charm there is in satisfying the desires 
 of a woman, in ministering to her caprices, her 
 fantasies, and with what a sweet smile she thanks 
 you, when you take to her, either a pretty jewel, or 
 a rich dress ? " 
 
 "Pardieu! I doubt much whether she ought to* 
 smile at you ; would you not rather she made a face 
 at you ? In any case, that smile, so gracious, which 
 transports, inebriates you, it is not to you that it is 
 made, but to the jewel, to the cashmere which you 
 have brought her ! And do you indeed believe that 
 she loves you the more for it? Not at all; she 
 deceives you the next instant by mocking you to the 
 man of her heart, to whom she laughingly exhibits 
 the present you have just given her. No, gentle- 
 men, no; I do not know, nor do I want to know 
 what you call the pleasure of giving. In point of 
 fact, that pleasure would take away all confidence in 
 my mistress, and if I am deceived, I can at least say 
 that it cost me nothing. To be sure," continued de 
 Mardeille, "I ought to acknowledge, that I have- 
 always achieved my conquests in high society, and 
 that, consequently, those ladies have no need that I 
 should act generously towards them." 
 
 " That proves nothing," was the rejoinder, " what- 
 ever the position a woman may be placed in, she is 
 always flattered by receiving a valuable present." 
 
 "That is quite possible; but I am much more- 
 
£6 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT 
 
 flattered when she loves me without my offering 
 iihem to her." 
 
 The reader will now understand this gentleman 
 who lives directly opposite to Georgette, and whose 
 windows, situated on the first floor, commands a 
 view of the persons who occupy the entresol opposite, 
 which entresol was occupied by the dainty seamstress, 
 who (as we have already had the privilege of inform- 
 ing you) very often left her window open, in order 
 to enjoy the genial breezes of the early spring, and 
 perhaps, also, to let herself be seen by her neigh- 
 bours. When a woman is pretty, she never hides 
 herself away, unless she is under the dominion of 
 jealousy. And even then, she still finds some means 
 of showing off so much of her person as will excite 
 the envy of her fellow women. 
 
 M. de Mardeille condescended sometimes to show 
 himself at the window of his dining-room, which 
 looked into the court ; from there, this gentleman, 
 enveloped in a fine dressing-gown, velvet or silk, 
 according to the season, his head surmounted by an 
 elegant plaited cap, the tassel of which gracefully 
 fell over his right ear, and which allowed a few 
 ringlets of brown hair to be seen, which he was 
 •expressly forbidden to dye, — would regard those of 
 his neighbours who would repay the trouble of being 
 looked at. But, up to the present, he had noticed 
 nothing in the mansion that was worth more than a 
 passing glance. 
 
 No sooner had Georgette taken up her quarters, 
 than the servant of M. de Mardeille eagerly sought 
 out his master, to announce to him that a new 
 female neighbour had taken the little rooms opposite, 
 adding : " She appears to me to be very dainty and 
 pretty." 
 
 Ah! she appears to you to be pretty?" rejoined 
 the master, smiling. " And what sort of woman is 
 this new occupant ? " 
 
RUIN HIMSELF FOB A WOMAN. 57 
 
 "Sir she is'* * * a woman, is still unmarried; so 
 at least she appears to me, and she makes gentle- 
 
 men's shirts ." . . , 
 
 «A seamstress! How dare you mention such a 
 
 person to me, Erontin !" ^ . ^ 
 
 M de Mardeille had arranged that his valet was 
 to allow himself to be called Erontin, although hi* 
 real name was Eustache ; but this name of Frontm 
 formerly employed in all the comic operas, recalled 
 to our elegant "masher" a multitude of exciting 
 intrigues, gallantries, divertisements, in which the 
 master of Erontin had always been the vanquisher ; 
 and it was probably to reproduce m the world these- 
 theatrical scenes that M. de Mardeille had thus, 
 named his servant; if he had but dared, he would 
 have called him Figaro ! but he had begun to be a 
 little too matured to make an Almaviva. 
 
 Erontin, who was a great booby, though he 
 entertained an exalted opinion of himselt, 
 smilingly responded to his master: "Upon my 
 word, master, although she is a shirt-maker I have 
 always believed that a pretty girl was always a 
 
 P ^ There is indeed some truth in what you say,. 
 Erontin; but, as for me, you must know that I 
 regard women with other eyes than you do; that is 
 to say, in order to appear pretty to me, a young girl 
 must * * * a grisette even * * *, for I know abso- 
 lutely nothing of grisettes— I say, she must be 
 possessed of something more than ordinary beauty 
 * * * what would charm you— you fellows, bhe 
 must possess * * * I know not what * * * a certain 
 particular attraction, that would not readily strike 
 you you who are not connoisseurs, and who do not 
 hold communion with martyrs. Come now, Erontin, 
 what is it you have remarked about this girl that is 
 especially seductive?" 
 
 " What have I remarked, sir i> 
 
-58 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT 
 
 "Yes. But, first, where have you seen this vonn^ 
 girl?" 
 
 "Sir, I saw her pass this morning; she walked 
 across the court; I was standing near the porter, 
 who said : " Look there, that is our new tenant of the 
 entresol. Her name is Miss Georgette ; she is a shirt- 
 maker, and it appears that she sews like a fairy." 
 As was only natural, I have been taking particular 
 notice of her. She is a young woman of, perhaps, 
 twenty years old ; she is very well made ; has very 
 large, bewitching eyes ; those sort of eyes which you 
 ***you ». 
 
 " Enough, Frontin, I understand. And then ?" 
 
 " And then, sir, why, her nose is slightly retrousse; 
 lier mouth is very large * * *. I saw her teeth, as 
 she was speaking to the concierge — she has only lost 
 a single one, sir." 
 
 . "Jupiter! you say she is about twenty, and has 
 lost a front tooth ; this latter is most unfortunate." 
 
 " No, I mean that her teeth are very white, finely 
 regular * * *, and then her cheeks have the appear- 
 ance of roses, beautifully fresh." 
 
 "I have it. A rustic beauty, who has probably 
 just arrived from the country." 
 
 " Oh, no ; she has not the appearance of a country 
 lass: her manners are too easy and graceful for 
 that." 
 
 " Well, well ; I shall see, I shall take note of her. 
 I shall cast my eyes over her. But I will bet ... a 
 tooth-pick, that this fair neighbour is only a very 
 common-place beauty. Does she show herself some- 
 times at the window ? " 
 
 " Yes ! better than that, sir ; she keeps her window 
 quite open, and from our apartment you can get a 
 full view of hers — you can even see to the foot of her 
 little bed." 
 
 " Ah : you can see as far as her bed ... • And she 
 keeps her window open ? " 
 
RUIN HIMSELF FOR A WOMAN. 59^ 
 
 " But, sir, I presume she closes it when she goes 
 to rest. Besides, she has curtains." 
 
 " 0, ho ! you scamp, Frontin ; you have observed 
 all that . . . that she has curtains ! Zounds ! it would 
 be jolly if she did not have them! Her manners, 
 Frontin, her manners! Well, I should like to see 
 this young girl that you consider so well-bred, and I 
 will then be able to tell you whether you are a good 
 judge of that." 
 
 " I am certain that you, sir, will be of my opinion." 
 
 A few minutes later Frontin came running to 
 his master, exclaiming: "Sir, the windows of the 
 young lady opposite ours are open. She is working 
 close by them. You can survey her at your 
 leisure." 
 
 M. de Mardeille jumped up, and said: "The devil 
 they are, Frontin ! I must then go and have a look 
 at this pretty seamstress. But look out! If you 
 have given me all this trouble simply to go and look 
 at a common sort of beauty, I shall never again put 
 any confidence in your judgment." 
 
 Although he had the appearance of simply going 
 to look at his new neighbour out of mere com- 
 plaisance, our fine gentleman was most eager to 
 assure himself whether she was really what his 
 servant had represented her to be; for M. de 
 Mardeille had always been a connoisseur m the 
 matter of the fair sex. A desire to please women 
 had been almost the sole occupation of his life : and 
 for some years this occupation had been exceedingly 
 laborious, and had taken up more and more of his 
 time. It is not easy for one of fifty to make onself 
 appear only forty ; especially when there are women 
 who even regard the latter as old, although, ordi- 
 narily, they themselves have reached that time of 
 life. A man of mature age succeeds much better 
 with a young girl, than with women who have 
 passed the flower of youth, and why? It is, no 
 
60 A GENTLEMAN WHO WOULD NOT 
 
 doubt, because the latter have more experience than 
 ^fche former. 
 
 M. de Mardeille, accordingly, went and placed 
 himself at one of the windows of his dining-room, 
 where he assumed a most graceful pose, leaning 
 against the casement. Throwing the tassel of his 
 cap behind his right ear, he allowed his eyes to 
 wander to the other side of the court, his object 
 being not to give his female neighbour the idea that 
 he had come there simply to look at her. 
 
 It was not long, however, before he carelessly cast 
 his eyes in that direction. Georgette was seated 
 Against the window sewing, and from time to time 
 she allowed her eyes to wander over the court. It 
 is not forbidden to a young lady not to know her 
 neighbours by sight. 
 
 M. de Mardeille could then examine at his leisure 
 "the features of the young seamstress, who, when she 
 raised her eyes from her work, could see well enough 
 "that her neighbour opposite was regarding her. 
 But that did not seem at all to embarrass her, nor did 
 it prevent her from often raising her head in turn to 
 look out of the window. 
 
 " Not bad, not bad," murmured M. de Mardeille. 
 ""A small nose a la Roxelane, fresh appearance, 
 -eyes which appear lively enough, mischievous 
 enough, yet nothing extraordinary. I have seen all 
 that a hundred times before. She is a passable 
 enough young woman, but nothing more. She is 
 not good enough for me, my poor Frontin, not- 
 withstanding all the praises you have lavished on 
 her." 
 
 But this gentleman only saw Georgette seated. 
 In that case he could neither admire the delicateness 
 of her figure, nor the graces of her form. Happily, 
 Accident designed .... Was it indeed an accident ? 
 We would not swear to it ; women are so skilled in 
 ^the knowledge of how to seduce men. Never mind I 
 
RUIN HIMSELF FOR A WOMAN. 6L 
 
 let us place to the credit of accident the circum- 
 stance that prompted the young lady to rise and 
 to go to her other window to water a small pot of 
 
 violets. 
 
 This gave opportunity to her neighbour opposite 
 to see her walking to and fro in her chamber, for 
 she could not find at the moment that with which to 
 water the flowers, especially when she was not 
 possessed of a watering-pot. He could now see to 
 .advantage Miss Georgette in her white camisole, and 
 her little petticoat. He could even see her foot and 
 the lower part of her limb?, for the young woman, 
 always by accident, of course, walked several times 
 to the far end of her chamber, continuing to go and 
 come, after having watered her flowers ; and M. de 
 .Mardeille, who, a minute before, felt disposed to 
 leave his dining-room, remained standing at the 
 window, never budging an inch, and kept murmuring 
 -to himself : " Ah ! the devil, yes, she is very pretty, 
 this young lady. Jupiter, what a figure, what a fine 
 shape, what feet and what limbs! As for herself 
 generally, she is infinitely better than any woman I 
 have seen. What a wriggling gait, too! she puts 
 me in mind of that song, by Beranger, * My frisky 
 one ! ' " And M. de Mardeille began to hum it. 
 
 Astonished at hearing his master sing, Frontin 
 said to him in a piteous tone of voice : " So, sir, you 
 Ao not think that the little seamstress opposite 
 unerits the praises I have given her?" 
 
 To which M. de Mardeille responded without 
 quitting the window and without ceasing to regard 
 his fair neighbour : " Hush ! hush ! be silent, Frontin: 
 I did say that, but I had not then seen her supple 
 form, her delicate figure, her little black petticoat 
 which so well serves to show off her voluptuous 
 charms. All these are admirable. And her foot I 
 It is a delicious little foot, while her leg promises 
 
62 THE LITTLE BijACK PETTICOAT 
 
 " Well, I am glad that you are convinced I wa& 
 right, and ". 
 
 "Hold your peace, Frontin; say not another 
 word. See, she is also looking at me." 
 
 In point of fact, Georgette had just raised her 
 head, and her eyes had met those of her neighbour 
 of the first floor. M. de Mardeille eagerly seized 
 this occasion to make a gracious salute to his new 
 neighbour, to which she responded with a bow and g 
 very amiable smile. M. de Mardeille hereupon lefi 
 his window, remarking : " I must not be too prodigal 
 of my attentions all at once. But I can see quite 
 well, after the way in which she smiled at me, that 
 it will not take much effort on my part to overcome- 
 all her scruples," 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT PERFORMS ITS WORK. 
 
 While M. de Mardeille was congratulating him- 
 self that he had made a conquest of the young^ 
 shirt-maker, all the other male occupants of the 
 house were putting forth, each an effort, to capture 
 her. The little black petticoat of Georgette's had 
 turned all their heads. The young litterateurs sought 
 to make her the theme of their verses, to celebrate 
 in song her seductive person; they sought to illus- 
 trate Georgette as Beranger has illustrated Lisette, 
 as all the amorous poets have sought to immortalize 
 their mistresses and their loves. Each of them 
 conceived himself to be a Virgil, a Catullus, a 
 Tibullus, a Petrarch. There was no harm in that. 
 One must always believe oneself to be something or 
 another; it affords so many pleasures and costs but 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORK. 6S 
 
 little. The painter in miniature had made up his 
 mind to propose to her to be allowed to do her 
 portrait. The photographer hoped that she would 
 Allow herself to be photographed in cabinet size, in 
 vignette size, in different postures. The young 
 doctor wished absolutely to have her under his care, 
 and supplicated Providence to strike her down with 
 some illness, so that she would be obliged to have 
 recourse to his skill. The married gentleman, who 
 was very phlegmatic and who had the pretty wife, 
 came naturally to the conclusion that the little 
 shirtmaker was much superior to his wife. As this 
 gentleman lived immediately over M. de Mardeille, 
 he thus had a fair view into Georgette's rooms. He 
 accordingly placed himself very often at one of the 
 windows of his dining-room, and from thence, not 
 content with ogling his fair neighbour, he made no 
 ceremony about making signs, throwing kisses at 
 her, and of even going through a sort of pantomime 
 — very compromising in a married man. In good 
 truth, this gentleman was aware that his wife was 
 not at all jealous, and that she paid little heed to his 
 frolics and gestures. 
 
 To cap the climax, our used up old bachelor, the 
 gentleman who had a nurse to take care of him, 
 could not restrain himself, notwithstanding his fiye- 
 and-fif ty years, from casting his eyes in the direction 
 of the gentille shirtmaker; and, as his rooms were 
 not exactly opposite hers, he was sometimes obliged 
 to push his head far out of his window in order to 
 accomplish his object, much to the alarm of his 
 nurse, who remonstrated : " My God, sir, it is very 
 foolish of you to perch your body out of the window 
 like that! What is it you are so anxious to see? 
 Is it on account of that little shirtmaker who 
 occupies the entresol, that you run the risk of falling 
 out of the window P For my part, I cannot see any- 
 thing in thiB young woman worthy of admiration. 
 
( V THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT 
 
 ue is nothing remarkable ; and then, sir, you will 
 get a crick in the neck — the young woman never 
 looks in this direction." 
 
 The bachelor at this became angry, but, not 
 wishing to discharge his nurse, said : " Arthemise, 
 you do not know what you are saying. I am looking 
 neither to the right nor to the left ; I put my head 
 out of the window because it does me good to 
 
 breathe the fresh air I love to inhale it. I do- 
 
 not concern myself with my neighbours; I do not 
 even know that a shirtmaker now resides in the 
 entresol" 
 
 In fact, just as often as Georgette opened her 
 window and sat down by it to work, one could see 
 immediately the head of a man appear at a window 
 on the fourth floor, then another would show itself 
 on the second : sometimes all the gentlemen appeared 
 at their windows at the same time. All this seemed 
 to amuse Georgette, who graciously acknowledged, 
 with a slight forward inclination of the head, th& 
 different salutes offered from all the floors. 
 
 The feminine sex were 'outraged at the conduct of 
 these gentlemen, for, up till now, none of them had 
 manifested the least eagerness to see any of th& 
 beauties living in the tenement : for, truth to tell, it 
 did not contain one ; except the wife of the phlegm- 
 atic gentleman, but the latter never showed herself 
 at any of the windows of the court. Her bedroom 
 window looked out on the boulevard, and this lady 
 would never have thought of compromising herself 
 by placing herself at one of the windows giving into 
 the court. On the other hand, her husband was one 
 of the most intrepid of those who were eager to see 
 Georgette the oftenest, and who had recourse to any 
 number of telegraphic movements, of which, how- 
 ever, the young shirtmaker took not the slightest 
 notice. But that did not dishearten M. Bistelle 
 (this was the name of the gentleman) ; he continued 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORK. 6> 
 
 to throw kisses to the young lady, who pretended 
 not to see them. Such conduct, however, scandalized 
 all the other neighbours. 
 
 The young dressmakers amused themselves at the 
 expense of M. Bistelle, and pointed their fingers to 
 him as soon as he appeared at his window. The lady 
 who had painted beauty spots on her face, Madame 
 Picotee, took up a position at her window as soon as 
 her neighbour sat down at hers ; and she would then 
 break out into forced laughter at each kiss M. Bistelle 
 would cast at Georgette. 
 
 "Ah, good God!" she exclaimed, "what beasts 
 men have become ! even though I have not yet seen 
 her who has been the present cause of it. And a 
 
 married man too it is too horrible! The 
 
 Bastille ought to be rebuilt to accommodate just 
 such people." 
 
 M. Bistelle heard all this: but it made no differ- 
 ence to him, and he often muttered to himself, half 
 aloud: "Ah! if I had chosen to send my, kisses to 
 this dear lady, she would not have thought my 
 conduct so horrible ! " 
 
 M. de Mardeille took good care not to act so 
 foolishly as his neighbour on the second floor, 
 though he too often went to his window to look at 
 Georgette ; but, far from making any signs, to her 
 and from sending her kisses, he contented Mm self 
 merely by making her a profound salute, to which 
 the young lady never failed to respond by a gracious 
 smile. But, seeing that neighbour Bistelle was 
 often at his window just at the moment when 
 Georgette made those sweet smiles accompanied by 
 an inclination of the head, he took to himself what 
 was intended for the floor below; his hopes increased ; 
 ■he was enchanted, rubbed his hands, and sometimes 
 -descended into the court to walk about; and he 
 Would stop under the windows of the shirtmaker, 
 and begin to hum; "It is here the Roses Moom," or 
 
66 THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT 
 
 again, " When one knows how to love and please, wliat 
 lacks he else besides ? " 
 
 On such occasions the little apprentice dress- 
 makers never failed to clap their hands and to 
 demand an encore. One day Madame Picotee took 
 into her head to throw him down two kisses, which 
 set M. Bistelle laughing, and made him pull some- 
 thing out of his pocket : " I will spend this," said he, 
 ** on rouge and nose paint." This put the lady with 
 the beauty spots into a fury, and she would have 
 •emptied a basin of slops on the devoted head of her 
 neighbour had it not been for the presence of the 
 concierge, who was sweeping the court. 
 
 Frontin, who now j)erceived very clearly -that his 
 master had become enamoured of the young lady in 
 the entresol, recounted to him all that had taken 
 place in the mansion, not forgetting to impart to 
 iiitn also all the follies to which M. Bistelle had been 
 guilty of in his endeavour to ingratiate himself with 
 .Miss Georgette. 
 
 " What ! Do you mean to tell me that this 
 phlegmatic gentleman hopes to make a conquest of 
 this pretty grisette?" exclaimed M. de Mardeille; 
 •" a man who, perhaps, does not look at his face in a 
 glass once a week ? " 
 
 "I do not know whether our neighbour knows 
 that he is such a fright," responded Frontin, " but I 
 -can assure you, sir, he flatters himself that he has 
 made an impression on Miss Georgette; he would 
 make believe that she smiles sweetly to him when he 
 ^oes to his window." 
 
 " Smiles ! It is I to whom the young lady directs 
 her smiles, not to him ! It is impossible it can be to 
 him. The sot ! the baboon ! Does not this man 
 greatly resemble a baboon, Frontin, more than any 
 man you ever saw ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, he has the tricks of a large monkey ! " 
 
 " What ! do you mean to tell me that he permits 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORK. 6T 
 
 himself to chatter, like the big monkey he is ? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir, he indulges in such fantastic tricks,, 
 that he greatly resembles the animal you name. 
 But that is not all!" 
 
 " What else does he do, Frontin ? " 
 
 u I know this, sir, that M. Bistelle, this morning, 
 sent Miss Georgette a very beautiful bouquet of 
 flowers." 
 
 " A bouquet ! Oh, the jackass ! And did the 
 little seamstress accept it from him ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, and it is standing now in water at her 
 window." 
 
 " Can that be possible ! I must see this myself." 
 M. de Mardeille thereupon hurried to his window to- 
 have a view of the seamstress ; and not only did he 
 perceive a large bouquet of flowers at the window, 
 but he also saw M. Bistelle promenading in the 
 court, who was humming : " And if I am not there,, 
 my bouquet at least shall be." 
 
 "Enough, enough," exclaimed the old fop, "I 
 must take decided action at once; I must declare 
 myself in another way than from the window. I 
 cannot, however, go directly to the rooms of this 
 grisette in the camisole; that would compromise me. 
 Ah ! I have got an idea. By Jove, a very simple one r . 
 too. She makes shirts. I shall make this a pretext* 
 Frontin, pay attention for a little." 
 
 " At your service, sir." 
 
 "I want you to go straight to the rooms of" 
 Miss Georgette." 
 
 "To the house of our pretty neighbour?" 
 
 " Yes ; you must go and represent me, and be sure 
 you act politely. You shall tell her that, discovering- 
 she is a shirtmaker, and that I, having some super- 
 fine ones I wish made That is not true ; I dc^ 
 
 not want any ; nor would I be able to make any usfe 
 of any she would make; my shirts must always be 
 * a la rigu&ur', but I can order a dozen! You shall 
 
 *2 
 
<68 THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT 
 
 then say to her, tliat having work to give out, I 
 should like if she would come up to my rooms to see 
 me about it. You understand : by doing this I do 
 not compromise myself, and I shall then be able to 
 have a friendly chat with her here?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I understand perfectly, and I shall go 
 ^tt once to execute your commission." 
 
 " Be respectful and most polite ; that flatters 
 these young girls." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and would you not that I should take 
 to her, at the same time, a small bouquet?" 
 
 " Fie upon bouquets ; they are no good ; I cannot 
 do anything so common. Do you think that I could 
 act like this M. Bistelle ? No, no ; never a bouquet ; 
 I do not want that in order to succeed. Gro, Frontin ; 
 and if the young shirtmaker should ask you at what 
 liour I can receive her, you can tell her that I leave 
 her to choose the hour that will be most convenient 
 for herself, and that she will be well received at any 
 time. Nothing can be more gallant than this, I 
 hope? That is better than a bouquet; that is ! " 
 
 Frontin started out to execute the commission of 
 his master. But the bouquet sent by M. Bistelle to 
 Georgette had been seen by all the neighbours. 
 Instantly, as though a light had been set to a train 
 of powder, each of the aspirants to the favours of 
 the young lady concluded with himself that he could 
 not be left behind, and that the moment had arrived 
 when her acquaintance must be made. 
 
 The young litterateur, who wrote poetry, went and 
 
 bought a bouquet of .violets which cost two sous; 
 
 for gallantry must always be measured by one's 
 
 means ; but the bouquet was wrapped up in white 
 
 jmper, on which he inscribed this quatrain : 
 
 I saw you pumping water all alone one day, 
 You looked so very charming, bright, and gay ; 
 Your movements were so rhythmic, graceful, clever, 
 1 wished to be condemned to pump with you for ever. 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORK. 69 
 
 Tlie young poet engaged the concierge to cany his 
 bouquet and his verses to the entresol, charging him 
 to say to the young lady that she must read what 
 was written on the paper. A little later the confrere 
 of the poet also came on the scene with an unpre- 
 tentious bouquet, but the taste of the latter inclined 
 him to vaudevilles rather than poetry, therefore he 
 sent a song with the flowers, and he gave the concierge 
 similar charges concerning it as did the preceding. 
 Then came the photographer, who sent a packet of 
 photos which were the photographs of actors most in 
 vogue at the time. We know that, ia general, 
 young workwomen have a very pronounced liking for 
 actors. Our photographer did not doubt for a 
 moment that his present would not prove highly 
 agreeable, and he charged the concierge to tell 
 Miss Georgette that he would feel greatly honoured 
 if she would permit him to take a photograph of her. 
 Next it was the turn of the painter in miniature, 
 who sent a pretty cardboard box upon which he had 
 painted a profusion of little Cupids, all disposed in 
 graceful attitudes. The latter, in handing over his 
 l)Ox to the concierge, said: "Do not fail to assure 
 Miss Georgette that the painter, the author of all^ 
 these little Cupids, will esteem it a great favour to 
 be allowed to make a portrait of his fair neighbour 
 gratis, and in any costume that would be most 
 agreeable to her." 
 
 Following the painter in miniature, only a few 
 minutes later, the young doctor came to see the 
 concierge, to whom he confided a parcel, wrapped up 
 in paper, saying: "Be careful to deliver this to 
 Miss Georgette as coming from me: it consists of 
 four flowers, which have the most delicious odour, 
 and fortunately serviceable when one has a cold; 
 and it is very rare that one who inhales their perfume 
 catches a cold more than once in a year. Yon shall 
 tell the young lady that I shall be pleased at any 
 
70 THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT 
 
 time to place my professional services at her disposaL 
 Finally, it was none other than the old bachelor, 
 who, unknown to his nurse, had made the purchase 
 of a box of confections. But the latter was careful 
 not to execute his commission through the concierge r 
 for then his nurse would be sure to find out all about 
 it. He went out on the boulevards and found a 
 message boy, to whom he gave the box, explaining 
 to him where he was to take it : but as he did not 
 wish to hide his light under a bushel, for fear his 
 fair neighbour might think the present had coma 
 from some other person, he charged the messenger 
 to say to the young lady : " This is from M. Renardin r 
 your neighbour, who sends you this box with his 
 compliments." Then he added : " Above all, do not 
 stop in front of the concierge, or speak to him ; go- 
 straight to Miss Georgette in the entresol, I have 
 paid you : receive nothing from her." 
 
 Such was the state of affairs when M. de Mardeille 
 sent his valet, Frontin, to the apartments of 
 Miss Georgette. From an early hour in the fore- 
 noon, the concierge, who had received the presents, 
 the one after the other, had been going and coming 
 all day long to and from the rooms of Georgette in 
 the entresol, who, by the way, accepted everything 
 that was sent her without evincing the least concern^ 
 contenting herself merely, by repeating on each; 
 occasion : " You shall say to this gentleman that I 
 am greatly obliged." 
 
 " Mademoiselle must not neglect to read the 
 verses — there are verses written on the paper," said 
 the concierge in handing over the bouquet of" 
 violets. 
 
 "That goes without saying: I shall read 
 everything, but I shall not respond to any of 
 them." 
 
 Georgette had read the quatrain of the poet and 
 was making ready to hum over the quatrain of the 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORE. 71 
 
 Taudevilliste, which was set to the of La 
 JBoulangere : 
 
 You have a pretty roughish face, 
 
 A waiste so very slim ; 
 An eye which kills, a foot all grice, 
 
 A form so neat and trim. 
 
 When the concierge reappeared carrying the packet 
 with the photographs of actors, and a minute later 
 with the pretty box on which was painted the Cupids, 
 •Georgette exclaimed : "What! again? Have these 
 gentlemen passed the word to each other to-day to 
 «how me all manner of attentions ? " 
 
 " It would seem so, miss ; as they have presented 
 themsekes at my lodge as if arranged in Indian file. 
 But I do not complain, for the reason that they are 
 ^11 good-hearted fellows. They desire only to present 
 to you their respects, and that is all they have 
 -charged me to say to you." 
 
 " Monsieur le concierge, I accept those little presents 
 
 on that understanding , as an earnest of friendly 
 
 relationship; but be good enough to say to those 
 gentlemen that I do not wish their homage, and that 
 they need not give themselves the trouble to come to 
 offer me anything in person." 
 
 The concierge retired, murmuring : " Hang it ! It 
 appears that this young shirtmaker is a virtuous 
 person, and that these gentlemen have been deceived 
 in her. But despite that, she receives their presents 
 ^.11 the same." , 
 
 Georgette had received the present which had 
 l)een sent by the young doctor and had made the 
 same response to the concierge, when the valet of 
 M. de Mardeille presented himself at the door of her 
 chamber. "Frontin saluted the young woman in the 
 five and easy manner characteristic of valets, who 
 take it for granted that the people to whom they are 
 sent are only too pleased to see them; and when 
 iGeorget-te demanded to know what he wanted, he 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK PETTICOAT 
 
 responded in an almost patronizing tone of voices 
 "Miss, I come on behalf of niy master, M. de 
 Mardeille, the gentleman who has apartments facing 
 yours, on the first floor, apartments for which he 
 pays 3,000 francs. My master is very rich; he has 
 an income of over 25,000 francs ; he could keep a 
 carriage, if he wished ; he has the means to do it- 
 If he does not keep one, it is because he does not 
 wish it." 
 
 Georgette laughed in the face of the domestic, 
 and exclaimed: "Well, what next? What does it 
 matter to me that your master has means sufficient 
 to keep a carriage and that he pays 3,000 francs for 
 his apartments ? Has he sent you here to tell me all 
 this ? That is really too bad ! " 
 
 M. Frontin was somewhat disconcerted on finding- 
 that he had not produced a greater impression ; and 
 he responded in a less elevated tone : " No, miss, not 
 at all ; my master did not send me here to say that. 
 
 But I thought I believed you would like to 
 
 know it. One likes to know those with whom one 
 does business " 
 
 "Then deliver your message; that will suit you 
 better than your fine speeches." 
 
 Again Frontin felt himself completely put out ; he 
 had expected to find a young workwoman who would 
 only be too glad to receive a message from his 
 master, and he now saw that he had to do with a 
 young woman who seemed to be mocking him. He 
 hence decided to be very polite, and said in a 
 respectful tone : " Mademoiselle, my master, having 
 some shirts he would like to have made, and knowing 
 that this is your business, begs that you would call 
 upon him at his rooms to receive his commands, and 
 that you would take his measure." 
 
 " Sir," replied Georgette in a very decided manner, 
 "you can tell your master that I am not in the habit 
 of going to the apartments of a bachelor. If the 
 
PERFORMS ITS WORK. 
 
 75 
 
 gentleman were married, if he had a wife living with 
 him, I should only be too happy to accept his 
 invitation ; I should then oppose no difficulty ; but as 
 
 he is alone ". 
 
 "Mademoiselle, he has a maid besides myself 
 
 " Sir, domestics count for nothing. I shall not go 
 to the room of your master ; if he has any orders to 
 give, he can come here and see me ; I shall receive 
 him ; him who has an income of 25,000 francs with 
 or without a carriage." 
 
 Frontia was piqued; first, because the young 
 shirtmaker had told him that domestics count for 
 nothing; next, because she appeared to take little 
 account of the high position of his master. He 
 answered with a vexed air : " But, miss, what can be 
 ihe harm? what is it to prevent you visiting 
 M. de Mardeille at his rooms ? you would not be the 
 
 first who have done so. He receives ladies, a 
 
 great many ladies ! and, assuredly, they are ladies, 
 who are not obliged to work for anybody." 
 
 "Mr. Valet, you are a fool. You talk nothing 
 but nonsense. 
 
 " What ! I am a fool ! Permit me ". 
 
 " I do not doubt but your master receives a great 
 many ladies, and it is just for this reason that I do 
 not wish to add one to the number." 
 
 " But, then, miss ". 
 
 " Now, do not say another word. You have my 
 answer: go and report what I have said to M. de 
 Mardeille." 
 
 Frontin was about to reply, when a loud noise in 
 the court attracted the attention of the whole of 
 the residents in the mansion. 
 
A BOX OP PRESERVED FRUIT, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ▲ BOX OP PRESERVED FRUIT. 
 
 It is necessary to call to mind that M. Renardin,, 
 the neighbour of Georgette, who had in his house a 
 nurse who acted as a maid of all work, had made the- 
 purchase of a box of preserved frait, and had 
 charged a little boot-black with delivering it to* 
 Georgette, and had explained to the urchin, at the 
 same time, that she lodged in the entresol at the- 
 bottom of the court. 
 
 But the young street arab, who combined com r 
 missions received for running messages with what he- 
 earned by shoe-blacking, was a native of Auvergne, 
 possessed no more intelligence than sufficed to enable- 
 him to put a bright polish on boots, or to fetch a 
 pail of water ; for, in general, the water carriers of 
 Paris are almost all Auvergnats. This little message 
 boy had placed under his arm the box of preserved 
 fruit, which was carefully wrapped up in white 
 paper and tied all round on the outside with pink 
 ribbons. He had just entered the main door of 
 the mansion we have alluded to, had defiantly passed 
 the concierge, and was about to cross to the other 
 side of the court. But the concierge, who had ob- 
 served him passing, left his lodge at once, followed 
 the boy close up, and stopped him in the middle of 
 the court. 
 
 " Where are you going like that, you little scamp P" 
 said the concierge to the boy. "You enter these 
 premises, pass in front of my lodge without saying a 
 word ! No one is permitted to enter this mansion in 
 such a manner: do you hear, my little Savoyard P" 
 
 " I am not a little Savoyard ; I come front 
 Auvergnat ! " 
 
A BOX OF PRESERVED FBUIT. 75 
 
 "Savoyard or Auvergnat, ifc makes no difference 
 to me; but you must tell me where you are 
 going." 
 
 " I shan't speak to you ; I am going straight on." 
 
 u You won't speak to me ! we shall see about that : 
 •but I must speak to you. I am the concierge: I 
 have the right to interrogate you, and you must 
 -answer me." 
 
 " I won't speak to the concierge — I was told not to 
 — I want to go straight on." 
 
 "You stubborn little rascal! Let me tell you 
 that you cannot pass here until you have told me 
 where you are going ! " 
 
 " I have told you that I am going straight on to 
 -deliver this box." 
 
 "At whose house?" 
 
 "I shan't tell you that." 
 
 "I shall make you tell me; that I will. As to 
 
 that box, what does it contain? Some incendiary 
 
 material, perhaps? If you are not disposed to 
 
 -answer me, I shall take you and your box straight off 
 
 to the commissioner of police ! " 
 
 The concierge seized the little urchin by the arm 
 and the latter began to cry with all his might, and 
 to bawl out : " Let go my arm, you great lout ! I 
 came here at the instance of M. Eenardin, your 
 neighbour: I shall go straight back and tell him 
 that you have prevented me from executing my 
 
 commission." 
 
 Miss Arthemise, the nurse of the old bachelor, 
 was crossing ttie court at that moment, and hearing 
 the name of her master pronounced, she stopped, 
 and, advancing to the youthful commissionaire, said : 
 "M. Eenardin! who is asking for M. Eenardin? 
 Is it this little boy? What is it you want to see 
 him about ? " 
 
 " Not at all : he pretends he has come here at the 
 instance of M. Eenardin," said the concierge: "if 
 
76 A BOX OF PRESERVED FRUIT. 
 
 this little imbecile had only told me this at first, I 
 should have let him pass ! " 
 
 " M. Renardin has sent him : in that case it is I 
 he wants to see. It is to me that he has been sent 
 by M. Renardin. What is it yon want, my little- 
 fellow ? " asked Miss Arthemise. 
 
 The yonng Auvergnat regarded Miss Arthemise, 
 — who was a stout, buxom woman of thirty, high- 
 coloured, and provided both with a moustache and 
 clusters of hair on the cheeks, which gave her the 
 air of a man disguised in female attire — and said to 
 her : " Is it the fact that you are Miss Georgette ?" 
 
 " Miss Georgette ! " exclaimed the full-fed nurse, 
 rolling her bleared eyes : " Yes, yes, 1 am she." 
 
 "And you live in the entresol o^er there?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I tell you I am the person you are- 
 asking for. And has M. Renardin sent you with 
 this box to Miss Georgette who lives in the entresol ?" 
 
 " Yes : he is your neighbour, and he sends it with 
 his best compliments, miss." 
 
 " Ah ! then we shall see what it is he has sent to- 
 this conceited minx." 
 
 Miss Arthemise thereupon took the box from the 
 boy, and had already begun to tear off its white 
 wrapper, when the concierge exclaimed : " Stop a 
 minute, miss ; you have taken possession of this box, 
 when all the while you know quite well it was not 
 intended for you ! " 
 
 " What has that to do with you 9 What business 
 have you to interfere, you officious Swiss ? Has not 
 the shirt-maker paid you for looking after all the 
 presents that are sent her by her lovers ? " 
 
 " No, miss, the shirt-maker has not paid me, but I 
 must nevertheless do my duty ; if this little Savoyard 
 had explained himself to ma, I should have allowed 
 him to pass on to the apartments of Miss Georgette, 
 with the message he had to deliver her." 
 
 "Yes, we all know that you take care of just 
 
A BOX OP PRESERVED PRUIT. 77" 
 
 such people: that is the principal part of your 
 business." 
 
 " My business is to see that residents here receive? 
 the parcels that are addressed to them. Give me up 
 at once this box, which is not for you." 
 
 " Just wait a little. Aha ! preserved fruit ! apricots t 
 Chinois ! do you see that '? He can make presents of 
 preserved fruits to this miserable creature while he 
 tells me there is no need of putting mushrooms into> 
 a chicken fricassee ! it costs too much money ! I 
 am not economical ! Just wait a little : wait a 
 minute! You want me to give up to you these 
 preserved plums, these nice sugared strawberries 
 lying so beautifully in rows ! " 
 
 " I ask you once more, Miss Arthemise ; give me 
 up that box : you are not Miss Georgette." 
 
 The little Auvergnat, who only now began to> 
 realize that he had made an ass of himself, cried out t 
 " Then you are not Miss Georgette, of the entresol ?'* 
 
 " That is all right. Hold your tongue, you little 
 brat, that does not concern you. See, here is a 
 chinois ; swallow that and let me see your heels,'* 
 and Miss Arthemise thrust a little preserved orange 
 into the shoeblack's mouth. The latter accepted 
 the fruit and ate it ; but he wes yet eager to regain, 
 possession of the box, and essayed to take it out of 
 the hands of the stout nurse of M. Renardku 
 The concierge assisted the little commissionaire in 
 this; but the great Arthemise at once gave signs 
 that she would not give it up without a struggle 
 with both of her rude antagonists. She turned 
 away and began by taking a piece of fruit and 
 throwing it at the face of the boy; next, seizing a 
 preserved apricot, she applied it to the left eye of 
 the concierge, who bellowed out like a bull that he 
 had been blinded; finally, she began to throw the 
 contents of the box about her, right and left. 
 
 What with the lamentations of the concierge and. 
 
78 A BOX OP PRESERVED FRUIT. 
 
 the cries of the little Auvergnat, to which were 
 joined loud bursts of laughter proceeding from 
 Miss Artliemise, all the lodgers in the house were 
 attracted to their windows to learn the cause. To 
 add to the hubbub, M. Renardin re-entered the 
 "house just at that moment, disquieted at not seeing 
 the return of his messenger, and curious to know as 
 to how the pretty shirt-maker had received, his 
 present. 
 
 The old bachelor was thunderstruck in seeing the 
 little Auvergnat on all fours in the court, scrambling 
 after fruit which had been thrown at him; the 
 -concierge, who was swearing and gesticulating as he 
 picked the pieces of apricot out of his left eye, and, 
 to cap all, the nurse, who was greedily devouring the 
 fruit, remarking : " This fruit is indeed delicious, all 
 said and done. I had no idea it was so nice ; and I 
 am going to treat myself to a good share of it." 
 
 "What is the meaning of all this, Arthemisef 
 What are you doing down in the court when you 
 should have been getting your dinner ready?" said 
 M. Renardin, with a frown on his brow. 
 
 " My dinner ! Ah, well ! my dinner can look after 
 itself. Meanwhile I shall regale myself with chinois 
 and preserved pears ! My dear sir, you can, when 
 you like, make nice presents to the ladies. But you 
 should have chosen a different page from this little 
 fool here; he mistook me for the cherub in the 
 mtresol : and I let him do it : I have accepted the box." 
 
 "How is this, you little scamp? Is this the 
 way you execute the commissions you are entrusted 
 with?" 
 
 " No, sir ; it was not my fault. Why would the 
 concierge not allow me to pass him?" 
 
 " I have only done my duty ; this little Savoyard 
 is a fool ; he was going to seek out the entresol wheu 
 Miss Arthemise told him that she was Miss Georgette, 
 and he gave the box to her." 
 
A BOX OF PRESERVED FRUIT. 71> 
 
 "What! Artliemise, you have allowed yourself 
 
 » 
 
 " And why not : what harm have I done ? This 
 urchin brought a box : and why should I not conclude* 
 it was intended for ine? How was I to know that a* 
 man of your age was still paying court to youngs 
 ladies ? that you would be at the expense of treating 
 the first hooded head that presented itself in the 
 house ? that you were in the habit of sending boxes 
 of preserved fruits to a new lady comer?— a shirt- 
 maker ! whilst that you keep grumbling every daj 
 about my using too much butter in making sauce* 
 "? 
 
 " That is quite enough, Arthemise ; I shall see to 
 that : -meanwhile, follow me, and we will discuss the 
 matter up-stairs. I do not want that the whole> 
 house should know all that takes place in the interior 
 of my apartments." 
 
 M. Renardin led the way up-stairs, without evea 
 lifting his eyes to the windows of the entresol* 
 Miss Arthemise followed her master, making face* 
 at him from behind ; she still held the box of fruit* 
 under her arm, and said, looking up in the face of 
 the concierge : " I am all right ; I still retain the box 
 of fruits ; and, as for my master, seeing he does note 
 like bread soup, he shall have to keep quiet : I shall 
 give him nothing else to eat for the next eight days ! '* 
 
 " Miss," said the concierge, " if my eye should be* 
 injured, you will have to pay for a doctor." 
 
 "Rest easy, my dear friend: you shall have to> 
 address yourself to M. Renardin; he has been the 
 cause of all the trouble. He is an old rake, and 
 nothing else." 
 
 Georgette had heard all that had +aken place from 
 her rooms, and was greatly amused thereat. Fronting 
 who chanced to be on the stairs at the time, sud- 
 denly stopped to listen, so as not to lose a word of 
 the affair, and be able to report everything to his 
 
80 A BOX OF PRESERVED FRUIT. 
 
 master. Meanwhile everybody had left the court, 
 for the little Auvergnat, after picking up what fruit 
 he could, had beat a hasty retreat, and the valet de 
 chambre had retraced his steps to the first landing, 
 and dow stood in front of his master. He began by 
 asking permission of his master to allow him to 
 recount all that he had seen and heard in the court; 
 but M. de Mardeille interrupted him with the 
 remark : " I am aware of all that ; I heard and saw 
 everything from my window. I know that M. 
 Hetiardin sent a box of dried fruits to the little 
 shirt-maker, and that his servant, Arthemise, had 
 seized the box and had devoured the great part of its 
 contents. This Arthemise is such a queer card that 
 her master ought at once to show her to the door. 
 But when a man allows himself to be domineered 
 over by his servant, he indeed deserves to be made a 
 fool of by her. Besides, the whole affair has little 
 interest for me: this M. Renardin is not a rival 
 •worthy of my serious attention. You have been to 
 the apartments of our fair neighbour. Well, I 
 suppose she felt very much flattered, enchanted with 
 the idea of my proposal? What did she say?" 
 
 Frontin drew himself up, affected an air of grave 
 importance, and responded: "Miss Georgette does 
 not appear at all flattered at the proposition you 
 entrusted me to convev to her ; on the contrarv, she 
 put on an air, oh my ! as though she were somebody 
 ►of great importance ! " 
 
 "Come now, Frontin, make a long story short." 
 
 " Well then, sir, this shirt-maker does not wish to 
 •come to you to take your measure in order to obtain 
 work from you : do you understand ? " 
 
 " I understand that you are a fool, if this is the 
 wny in which you have executed my commission. I 
 never instructed you to say that I wanted her to 
 ttake my measure." 
 
 " Sir, I believed that this was a necessary pre- 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 81 
 
 liminary. When a tailor makes you a pair of 
 trousers, lie always takes your measure." 
 
 " Say no more ; tell me about our fair neighbour : 
 especially as to what she said to you about me; she has 
 not refused without giving you some reason for it." 
 
 " Sir, she thought it very strange that you were 
 not married. She said to me : " Oh, if your master 
 were married — if he had a wife, it would be different ; 
 I should go at once to take his measure ; but I never 
 enter the rooms of bachelors. If he wishes to pay a 
 visit to me, I shall receive him ! " 
 
 "Ah, she wants that I should go to her! You 
 dullard, why did you not tell me that at first? I 
 understand ; my visiting her would flatter her vanity. 
 These pretty misses have so much self-conceit ! She 
 wants all the house to know that M. de Mardeille is 
 paying his addresses to her. After all ; I can put up 
 with that. I shall go ; but I shall go in the evening ; 
 because that in the dark, the neighbours will not be 
 at their windows." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY, 
 
 That same evening M. de Mardeille left his apart- 
 ments about eight o'clock. It was completely dark ; 
 everything was quiet in the whole house ; he de- 
 scended the staircase without making any noise, and 
 passed quietly and without being observed the lodge 
 of the concierge. He made haste to cross the court, 
 and ascended to the little entresol, in which he 
 perceived a light. He said to himself : " No one has 
 observed me coming here to the rooms of tLe little 
 shirt-maker, who perhaps will not be very sorry to 
 
 G 
 
82 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 receive me in the evening; for it will thus save* 
 appearances." 
 
 M. de Mardeille now found himself in front of the 
 door of Georgette. He knocked gently, and in a 
 moment after a sweet voice was heard in answer i 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "Open, if you please, Miss Georgette; it is one 
 who desires to speak to you." 
 
 " I do not receive visitors in the evening. Come 
 back again to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Miss Georgette, it is I — your neighbour opposite,. 
 M. de Mardeille — he who, this morning, sent to you 
 his servant. You know what brings me here. Be 
 so good as to open the door to me." 
 
 " Sir, I am very sorry ; but in the evenings I open 
 the door to no one. Come again to-morrow, when it 
 is daylight." 
 
 " Why is this, miss ? you leave me standing at your 
 door, I, your neighbour, M. de Mardeille? You 
 know quite well that I am not a thief." 
 
 "You are perhaps even more dangerous than a 
 thief. Good night, sir. To-morrow, when it is day." 
 
 "It is because she considers me too dangerous,, 
 that she does not wish to open the door to me just 
 now," said M. de Mardeille to himself on his way 
 back to his own apartments. This idea flattered his 
 self-esteem, consoled him somewhat for the bootless 
 trip he had taken. He thus communed with himself: 
 " There can be no question that she wishes all the 
 house to know that I am paying court to her. Well,, 
 miss, since it must be, you shall have a visit from 
 me in full day." 
 
 Accordingly, on the morrow, after passing more 
 than an hour in front of his mirror, because he was 
 absolutely bent on making an impression, M. de 
 Mardeille resolved on braving the suspicious regards- 
 of his neighbours. He descended the staircase,, 
 feigning as though he were about to go out ; but in. 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 83 
 
 passing in front of the concierge, who was standing 
 near his lodge, he said : " By the way, does the young 
 woman who is lodged in the entresol make shirts ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, she works for a haberdasher ; she seems 
 to sew to perfection : at least, so I have been told." 
 
 " Ha ! in that case, I have a good mind to give her 
 «,n order for some shirts. One ought always to 
 employ one's neighbours as much as one can.*' 
 And our elegant gentleman, making a semi pirouette, 
 gained the court, and in another minute found 
 himself in front of the door of Georgette, who, as 
 was her custom, always left her key in the door out- 
 side during the day. M. de Mardeille gave two 
 gentle taps. 
 
 " Come in ; the key is in the door ! " answered the 
 same voice as on the preceding evening. 
 
 The gentleman made his entry with that easy 
 :grace which comes of mixing with the world, and 
 that peculiar air of condescension always affected 
 by a rich person when he goes to visit poor people ; 
 unless, indeed, as it sometimes happens, when the 
 lich man is possessed of mind or tact ; in which case, 
 instead of desiring to make the superiority of his 
 position felt, he seeks rather to draw attention away 
 from it. But men of mind and tact are rare, and 
 these two qualities were wanting in the neighbour of 
 'Georgette. Our gentleman, however, in observing 
 the unaffected manner in which he was received by 
 the young woman, abated somewhat of his self- 
 importance and airs of condescension. Georgette 
 <lid not seem to be in the least put out by his visit : 
 ahe gracefully offered him a seat, and without any 
 to-do about it resumed her own, which was placed 
 ugainst the window, and remarked: "May I be 
 permitted to ask you, sir, to what circumstance I am 
 indebted for the honour of being enabled to receive 
 jou?" 
 
 M. de Mardeille raised himself up nonchalantly on 
 
 ©2 
 
84 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 his chair, and responded with a smile : " Miss, I sent 
 to you yesterday my valet de chambre : I took the 
 liberty of asking you to come to my rooms — they 
 are quite near to here — I live just opposite — over 
 there." 
 
 "Oh, yes; I know that, sir; I recognize you 
 perfectly; but your domestic must have told you 
 
 "That you did not wish to visit the rooms of 
 bachelors : yes ; he told me that : but why on earth 
 are you so afraid of bachelors ? Perhaps you have 
 great cause to complain of them ? Aha ! aha ! 
 But do you know that this might be made the 
 pretext of many and various suppositions ? " 
 
 " Our fine gentleman continued to laugh, for the 
 reason that he had fine teeth which he was desirous 
 of showing off, and because he was of opinion that 
 it was the thing to laugh thus. Georgette, however, 
 remained impassive, and responded coldly : " Sir, I 
 do not know what suppositions people may make; 
 but I act thus because it suits me, and I care very 
 little as to what others think about me." 
 
 M. de Mardeille, who was taken quite by surprise 
 by the serious tone of the young woman, only smiled 
 now to permit of the surface of his teeth being seen, 
 and soon after concluded not to laugh at all. He sat 
 upright in his chair, and responded: "I had no 
 intention of offending you. The devil, miss ; but it 
 would seem that one may not indulge in any 
 pleasantry before you." 
 
 "Pardon me, sir; I am very fond of pleasantry, 
 when I know my company." 
 
 " Ah, that is well said : for you do not know me 
 yet except by sight. As for me, miss, I am delighted 
 to have a vis-a-vis so charming as yourself, and this 
 it was that immediately inspired in me the desire to 
 ... to ... I mean, strike up some personal acquaint- 
 ance with you." 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 8& 
 
 "I thank you, sir, but there is a wide gulf 
 separating us socially." 
 
 " This gulf can be narrowed — I mean to say, even 
 although the distance between a pretty woman and a 
 man who is fascinated by her charms appears sharply 
 defined." 
 
 Georgette smiled, and murmured : " "Was it to tell 
 me this, sir, that you came here to-day 9 " 
 
 " To be candid, miss, yes : I am not one of those 
 who seek thirty and six ways to reach their goal : I 
 prefer to come straight to the point. And, besides, 
 why should I seek to dissimulate the impression that 
 your graces of form and of manner have made on 
 my heart ? It is not a crime to love you, I hope ? 
 the rather as I am a bachelor, and I am not aware 
 of any reason why I should not pay my homage to 
 you. Yes, dearest neighbour, you have quite turned 
 my head — since the day I first beheld you in that 
 simple personal adornment which becomes you so 
 well, I have had no repose — I dream only of you. I 
 have made the making of shirts a mere pretext in 
 order to draw you closer to me — but that which I 
 wish, what I desire above everything is to declare to 
 you that I worship you, and to earnestly entreat 
 that you would not remain insensible to my great 
 love." 
 
 It was now Georgette's turn to indulge in laughter; 
 and, moreover, she laughed so heartily and with so 
 much abandon, that our fine gentleman, who had 
 been drawing his chair closer to his fair companion r 
 drew back again and seemed entirely non-plussed. 
 As the pretty shirt-maker continued to laugh, he 
 was forced to say to her : " Upon my word, miss, I 
 am e nchanted at seeing you so gay : but why should 
 it be denied me not to know what it is that makes 
 you laugh thus? Surely it cannot be the frank 
 avowal of my sentiments ? You ought by this time 
 to be habituated to the receiving of such declara- 
 
$6 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 tions ? As far as I can see, all the gentlemen in the 
 house have either said or wish to say to you as 
 much ". 
 
 "Ah, you know all about that, sir?" 
 
 " How could I help seeing the concierge, who was 
 -engaged all day yesterday in carrying bouquets to 
 you — cartes de visite — what else do I know ? I have 
 even been told of a box of preserved fruits ! Oh ! 
 this is too funny ! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, all the gentlemen in the house have 
 behaved very gallantly towards me." 
 
 "To be sure, miss, I have not sent you any 
 bouquets ; that seems to me so common, so vulgar, 
 that I do not care to imitate these gentlemen. You 
 will thus see, miss, I speak — I speak out frankly 
 what I feel. Do you not think that this is the best 
 thing to do?" 
 
 " But bouquets, presents, also appear to me to be 
 ▼ery agreeable." 
 
 M. de Mardeille bit his lips, and said to himself : 
 4t She likes to receive small presents : she is selfish — 
 that is a pity." 
 
 But this did not prevent him from again drawing 
 his chair closer to that of Georgette, and from 
 attempting to assume a tone of voice at once very 
 tender, very touching, as he murmured: "Dearest 
 of maidens, you have not yet made any response to 
 my declaration ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, sir : can it be that you did not 
 apprehend the meaning of my laughter?" 
 
 " In what way ! is this your manner of answering 
 «uch declarations ? Be it so, what am I to conclude 
 hence?" 
 
 " That I have taken your declaration of love for 
 "what it was worth : that is to say, as a piece of 
 pleasantry." 
 
 " Pleasantry ! Oh, do not think that. I speak 
 -very seriously. I love you, I adore you." 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 87" 
 
 " All tli is is the result of having seen me at my~ 
 window?" 
 
 " Why should it take weeks and months for one to* 
 fall in love? We discover a pretty woman, sho 
 pleases us, we become entranced immediately, or wo 
 never become entranced. Love ! is not love a kind 
 of electricity?" 
 
 u I was ignorant of this fact." 
 
 " But it is nevertheless most true that the eyes of 
 a pretty woman contain the fluid which electrifies us ^ 
 From the moment that we feel the commotion, it i» 
 all over with us ; we are electrified." 
 
 " In very truth ! And what of women : what is it> 
 that electrifies them?" 
 
 " Why, it must be brought about by the same- 
 means — our regards, the expression of our eyes." 
 
 In saying this, M. de Mardeille, who sought to 
 electrify the young woman, fixed on her eyes full of 
 fire and sought anew to draw his chair nearer to 
 hers : but Georgette, in turn, drew away from him 
 and addressed him in a very dry manner : " Sir, do- 
 not come so near me, I entreat of you ! it is irksome 
 to have to move about: besides, it is not at all 
 proper." 
 
 Our fine gentleman was at a loss how next to 
 proceed. Concluding that his eyes had not given 
 forth sufficient electrical fluid, he essayed to render 
 them much more inflammable, and began: "Is it 
 then forbidden to one to approach you, in order to 
 admire in closer proximity that divine figure?" 
 
 "Yes, sir: that is forbidden. What would the 
 neighbours think if they saw you sitting close up to 
 me?" 
 
 " The neighbours ! the neighbours ! But why do 
 you leave your window wide open? It is very in- 
 convenient for any one who wants to speak with you. 
 If you will permit me, I will close it." 
 
 ** No, sir, nc : I want it to remain open ; it doe* 
 
88. A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 not interfere in the slightest with conversation ; and 
 should the neighbours know you had come to see me 
 here — which is not at all unlikely, for everybody can 
 see into this room : no matter, they would only see 
 that nothing was going on that I had any interest 
 in concealing." 
 
 M. de Mardeille knit his eyebrows slightly ; and 
 began again to twist about in his chair. After a 
 moment's pause he said : " What a singular idea it 
 is to submit oneself to the inspection of other 
 people — people, especially, one ought to hold in 
 contempt." 
 
 " I see : you think that each person should hold 
 his neighbour in contempt." 
 
 " I think — I think you are treating me with great 
 severity." 
 
 " And I, sir — I think that I have accorded you a 
 great favour in consenting to receive you in these 
 rooms — where I am not in the habit of receiving any 
 one. It appears to me that you set little store by 
 that?" 
 
 "0, pardon me, my pretty neighbour! I am 
 ■assuredly deeply conscious of it ; but I am of opinion 
 — I hope — I mean, you have not yet informed me 
 whether the sentiments I have avowed are not 
 displeasing to you." 
 
 " You see, sir, I know little of you ; and perhaps I 
 am not as easily electrified as you are." 
 
 "You naughty girl! you seem to take great 
 pleasure in tormenting me ! " 
 
 " You have just said, sir, that you love me. But 
 why should I believe in your love? What proofs 
 can you give me of it ? " 
 
 " What proofs ! What can you mean, miss ! 
 Must you have proof before you can believe it ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly. I am very incredulous ; I accept 
 nothing, until it has first been proved to me." 
 
 " But, miss, it seems to me that the declaration I 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 89 
 
 have just made to yon ought of itself to convince 
 you of its sincerity. For a man of my position — one 
 who only frequents the habitations of the great, to 
 come here — to you, a simple workwoman — he must 
 surely be impelled by a sentiment which brooks no 
 obstacles ! " 
 
 "You mean to say, sir, that y©u imagine you have 
 done me a great honour in coming here to visit me ? " 
 
 "No, I do not say that; most decidedly you 
 delight in tormenting me ; for you will misinterpret 
 my words." 
 
 Georgette did not respond, and went on with her 
 work. M. de Mardeille, piqued to the quick at not 
 having gained his object as rapidly as he had hoped, 
 said to himself: "I must change the conversation 
 somewhat; this teasing little monkey is no doubt 
 very fond of amusement. Every woman desires to 
 be amused. I shall astonish her." After a pause 
 he said to her aloud : " Have you been long engaged 
 in such kind of work — working for some outfitter?" 
 
 " No, sir, not very long. First of all, it is not very 
 long since I came to Paris." 
 
 " Ah, then ! you are not a Parisienne ? You 
 astonish me ! You have all the grace of manner of 
 one ; and, might one, without giving offence, ask of 
 you from what part of France you hail from?" 
 
 "I come from a small village near Rouen." 
 
 " Ah, you are a Normande. That is very singular ; 
 you have not the slightest accent of the country. 
 And how long have you been in Paris ? " 
 
 " Five months, or thereabouts. " 
 
 " Did you come here alone ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite alone. I said one day to my parents, 
 I am eager to go to Paris. I shall seek employment 
 there, and, who knows, tnat I may not there make a 
 fortune ! " 
 
 M. de Mardeille rubbed his nose, and rejoined: 
 "A fortune — hum — that is a difficult matter. A 
 
"90 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 lyoman has bub little chance of making a fortune who 
 has nothing to depend upon but her needle. Still. 
 in coming to Paris, you probably thought timi xoti 
 would there find a rich protector who should at 
 -once put you on the road to that fortune of which 
 jrou seem to be ambitious." 
 
 Georgette responded, somewhat tartly : " No, sir, 
 I did not come expecting to find any one in Paris, 
 and I know of myself how to attain the end I have 
 set my mind upon." 
 
 Our polished gentleman bit his lips once more, 
 and looking about the room, reasoned with himself 
 -thus : " One does not know how to take this little 
 minx : she is armed at every point. I shall not make 
 a conquest of her so soon as I had hoped. But that 
 matters little. I will bide my time. I must sooner 
 or later discover the weak joint in her armour." 
 
 "Miss Georgette, are you fond ot going to Ihe 
 theatre?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; very fond indeed." 
 
 " Do you often go there ? " 
 
 " Hardly ever, sir. In the first place, I have few 
 -acquaintances in Paris ; and for a young woman to 
 • go to the theatre alone, that would not just be the 
 thing." 
 
 "I have found the weak joint in her harness,'" 
 said M. de Mardeille to himself, in responding : " Oh 
 very well, my dearest neighbour: if you will permit 
 ^ne, I will take you to the theatre ; we shall take a 
 little box with curtains, in which we will be very 
 comfortable, almost the same as if we were at home." 
 
 " I do not know, sir, what you mean by a box with 
 ^curtains ; but when I go to the theatre, it is not witu 
 a view of concealing myself: I wish both to see amx 
 to be seen." 
 
 " Ah, you like to be seen ? Do I see before me i 
 little coquette ? " 
 
 "That is not coquetry. Again, sir, you mn&ii 
 
A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY, 91 
 
 indeed be well aware that I could never think of 
 going to the theatre with any one so fashionable as 
 you are, in the simple costume I am accustomed to 
 wear." 
 
 " I can of course fancy that you would not go 
 there dressed in that camisole and that little petti- 
 coat, although that costume suits marvellously well. 
 Ah, you look ravishing in it ! " 
 
 " No, of course, I should not appear in this cami- 
 sole ; but my toilette, n t best, is very plain : a stuff 
 gown, a little cap, and a kerchief over my shoulder : 
 such is my costume." 
 
 " Indeed ! you have then no hat — a dainty little 
 hat!" 
 
 " No, sir ; I have not." Our fine gentleman began 
 to wriggle about again, to draw himself up on his 
 chair ; and, after reflecting a moment, said : " Never- 
 theless, I think you would look charming in a 
 bonnet. Besides, we should take a cab. Is it a 
 bargain P I will take you there this very evening, if 
 it is agreeable to you." 
 
 " What, sir ! Do you mean to say you would take 
 with you a female in a cap, dressed, in a stuff gown, 
 with a kerchief over her shoulder ? " 
 
 " I mean it : I am free from all prejudice : I should 
 like to take you in your present costume, if th.it were 
 possible." 
 
 " No, sir ; you will never make me believe that." 
 
 "Well, if I put you to the test, that will be a 
 proof, I hope, of the extent of my love for you." 
 
 Georgette shook her head, and said : " No ; that 
 would prove nothing at all : for the rest, sir, I have 
 too much self-respect, and consideration for your 
 position to allow you to compromise yourself in this 
 manner. Fie ! what would people think of you, sir, 
 if they saw you with a woman on your arm dressed 
 in a cap?" 
 
 " But we shall take a carriage." 
 
$2 A DECLARATION AND OBSTINACY. 
 
 "We cannot enter the theatre in a carriage. 
 Aha ! aha ! And as I do not want to conceal myself 
 in a curtained box, or even in the hall adjoining it, 
 the attention of the audience would all the time be 
 attracted by my peculiar toilette." 
 
 M. de Mardeille now got up and began to walk 
 about the room, and was silent for a while : at 
 length he said : " My dear child ! what then would 
 you require to enable you to go to the theatre with 
 me?" 
 
 " Well, I should say, a silk dress : people have 
 become so skilled in making gowns that I would 
 have no difficulty in finding one ready made that 
 would fit my figure. Then, a dainty little hat, a 
 mice shawl — cashmere or something of that kind — 
 and gloves — a pretty pair of kid gloves." 
 
 M. de Mardeille began again to promenade the 
 apartment, concealing with difficulty the chagrin 
 that had taken the place of the gracious airs he had 
 so lately assumed. Turning round suddenly to look 
 in the court, he exclaimed : " Ah ! I fancy some 
 - visitors have come to call on me in my apartments. 
 Yes, yes, it is for me. G-ood bye for the present, my 
 dear neighbour : and a thousand excuses for having 
 to quit your charming society so abruptly." 
 
 "Oh, do not concern yourself about me, I pray 
 you." 
 
 Our elegant beau had already reached the door, 
 and lost no time in regaining his own apartments 
 opposite, in the worst humour imaginable. 
 
 "Sir," said Frontin, as soon as his master had 
 found a seat, " have you had yourself measured by 
 the little shirt-maker ? " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you silly fool ! I forbid 
 you ever to speak to me again about that little 
 grisette." 
 
 
LOVE ! LOVE ! WHEN WE ARE BOUND BY THY CHAINS ! 93 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 LOVE ! LOVE ! WHEN WE ARE BOUND BY THY CHAINS ! 
 
 Eight days have passed and gone, and M. de 
 Mardeille has not re-appeared at the apartments of 
 Georgette; nor has he shown himself, during that 
 time, at the windows of his rooms which looked into 
 the court ; but on several occasions he had raised in 
 a surreptitious manner the corner of his dining-room 
 window curtains and peeped from behind them. 
 He had thus watched his fair neighbour — always so 
 cheery, so spruce, so gracious — walking to and fro in 
 her unpretentious apartments, now placing herself 
 against the window to continue her work, now 
 getting up from her seat and sitting down again, 
 each movement of the pretty shirt-maker making his 
 heart bound and rebound ; while he had been com- 
 pelled, on more than one occasion, to lift his foot to 
 Erontin, who was so ill-mannered as to laugh out- 
 right when, on entering the room, he observed his 
 master peering from behind the curtains. 
 
 Yet, M. de Mardeille was nattered somewhat to 
 find that, although Georgette responded pleasantly 
 to the salutes made to her from time to time by her 
 other neighbours, he had never been able to discover 
 any of them in her rooms : so that, after all, she had 
 really conferred a favour on him by allowing him to 
 visit her. 
 
 At the end of a week M. de Mardeille said to 
 himself: "After all, it was for me — purely on 
 account of me, so as not to compromise me — that this 
 young woman wished to appear nicely dressed when 
 taking my arm. I cannot take any exception to 
 such a sentiment as that : it is in every way excus- 
 able. It only remains to send her what she has 
 
94 LOVE ! LOVE ! WHEN WE ARE 
 
 asked for. Pardieu ! I have the means to do it» 
 True, I am above all that ; yes : it is altogether 
 contrary to my habits ; I have never spent anything 
 on women ; I know at the same time that one swallow 
 does not make a summer: still, I am opposed on 
 principle to making such presents-; it goes against 
 the grain. But this girl is not to be put from her 
 purpose : she is a woman of character : hence, if 1 do 
 not send her what she wants, Lwill have to give up 
 all hopes of conquest. But I do not wish to re- 
 nounce her. I dream of her by night. I have 
 constantly before my mind's eye her lithe figure — 
 her rounded hips which her little petticoat caresses 
 so finely. Ah, well ; I will purchase the things she 
 wants; though I will not go so far as a cashmere 
 shawl; oh, no: she cannot have that. Still, when 
 one embarks in the pursuit of gallantry, one must 
 do the right thing. But at my age — to change my 
 habits; it is far from being agreeable. Why, in 
 Jupiter, did this little grisette take it into her head 
 to come and take rooms in this house — directly 
 opposite — under my very nose 9 There is a fatality 
 in this I" 
 
 It was now a contest between love and his brother 
 self-love, and the result could not therefore be 
 doubtful: love won the day. The next morning 
 Georgette received a shawl, a hat, a dress, not to 
 mention a pair of fine kid gloves, accompanied by a 
 pretty little note, in the handwriting of her elegant 
 neighbour: "After this, can you come with me to 
 the theatre this evening 9 " to which Georgette sent 
 back word with the messenger, "Yes, I shall go." 
 He had, however, sent another messenger than 
 Prontin: from which latter he wished to conceal 
 that he had put himself to so much expense on 
 account of the pretty shirt-maker. About seven 
 o'clock in the evening our "old beau" presented 
 himself at the rooms of Georgette, whom he found 
 
BOUND BY THY CHAINS ! 95 
 
 quite ready, awaiting his arrival ; decked out in the 
 new clothes he had sent her, but not quite so 
 seductive-looking as when in her white camisole and 
 little black petticoat ; passable-looking nevertheless, 
 for the reason that a young and pretty woman can- 
 not be disfigured even by an elegant hat. M. de 
 Mardeille was indeed surprised at the easy grace 
 which his fair neighbour displayed in her new vest- 
 ments. He said : " Upon my honour, you are looking 
 •charming in these clothes. You wear everything 
 with such an easy grace." 
 
 " Are you astonished at this latter, sir ? " 
 
 " Nothing that you could now do would astonish 
 me. I believe that you have been created with a 
 view to shine in everything." 
 , " Well, sir, I am quite ready ; let us go." 
 
 " Oh, we have plenty of time. Give me the oppor- 
 tunity to admire your fair proportions a little more." 
 
 " You can admire me at the theatre as much as 
 you please ; and as I do not go to places of amuse- 
 ment very often, I do not wish to miss seeing any- 
 thing. Let's go ! " 
 
 Georgette has now reached the top of the stairs, 
 tind is closely followed by M. de Mardeille, who is 
 saying to himself: "This little creature seems to 
 have a will that sets anything or anybody at de- 
 fiance. But, when we return from the theatre this 
 evening, I flatter myself that I shall not be so easily 
 put off." 
 
 It was still broad daylight when Georgette 
 •emerged into the court, in her " braws," leaning on 
 the arm of M. de Mardeille. All the neighbours 
 were at their windows; and it is hardly necessary 
 to repeat the language in which each attempted to 
 relieve himself or herself of the feelings now 
 suggested to his and her mind. 
 
 " What is this that is going to happen to our " old 
 beau?" said the young photographer: "he is rich, 
 
9G LOVE ! LOVE ! WHEN WE ABE 
 
 elegant; and it is tills which must have induced this 
 young girl to give her arm to a play ej -out old 
 dandy." 
 
 Again, " it is all very well for this gentleman to do 
 as he has done," said the painter in miniature. 
 "He seems to know how to please young girls. 
 Some young girls have a great predilection for 
 matured men." 
 
 " This Lovelace of the first floor must have been at 
 great expense," said the two men of letters : " for he 
 has dressed his fair neighbour from head to foot. 
 Women are always taken by coquetry. But for us, 
 how could we go to all that expense? Yet, it is 
 singular, seeing that this M. de Mardeille has the 
 reputation of being very capricious in his tastes as 
 regards the fair sex. It is even rumoured that he 
 invited her to his rooms in order to show off before 
 her." 
 
 The young doctor said nothing ; contenting him- 
 self merely by giving mental expression to the 
 reflection : " To think that she has not even had a 
 cold!" 
 
 M. Bistelle was furious ; because Georgette had 
 accepted his bouquets and had not invited him to her 
 rooms : on the contrary, she had declined all his 
 propositions ; so, on seeing Georgette cross the court 
 in her new toilette, he exclaimed : " What a fright 
 she looks ! That shawl is not a cashmere ; it is not 
 even a Lyons shawl : as for the dress, it is only a 
 lousy silk ; while the hat must have been purchased 
 in some second-hand shop. Well, we shall see what 
 all this will come to. I would have dressed the 
 little beauty a hundred times better than that. She 
 has made a mistake in preferring this Mardeille to 
 me —a man who has never been known to do a 
 generous act to a woman." 
 
 Finally, it was M. Renardin's turn to have his say, 
 but the old bachelor, on seeing Georgette cross the 
 
BOUND BY THY CHAINS ! 97 
 
 court, contented himself by pulling a long face ; all 
 the more as his nurse, Miss Arthemise, did not fail 
 to say to him in a sneering tone : " Look there ; your 
 fine beauty, the object of your passion, has placed' 
 her arm in that of the first comer : and it is to such 
 that you send boxes of preserved fruits ! How this 
 fine shirt-maker must now be laughing in her sleeve 
 at you!" 
 
 "Arthemise, let me in the first place inform you 
 that you talk like a fool. This young lady has not 
 received from me any preserved fruits ; since it is 
 you who have eaten the most of theni." 
 
 "Thank goodness, I was able to intercept your 
 messenger in the court : but for that she would have 
 received them. You see now it is a good thing that I. 
 have eaten the f raits. Do you imagine that this 
 little minx would have put the box on her head to go 
 out with you ? Yes, you may make a face ! But 
 take my word for it, she has imposed on that once 
 young man of the first floor: and she is right,, 
 because he treats women shamefully: he has got 
 what he deserves." 
 
 M. de Mardeille took Georgette to the Ambigu- 
 Comique Theatre. He wished at first to lead her 
 into a dark little box, but she refused to enter it ; 
 and that gentleman was obliged to take his place in 
 the balcony by her side. There was not the slightest 
 chance here for taking any liberties. But, in re- 
 venge, our gay old spark sought every minute to 
 whisper in the ear of the girl words of love ; but the 
 latter, growing impatient, said to him testily: 
 " Please do me the favour to keep silent. You 
 hinder me from following the piece, and surely you 
 must know that it was for this purpose that I came 
 here." 
 
 At this M. de Mardeille bit his lips, and said to- 
 
 himself : " There is nothing so tiresome as coming to 
 
 ! the theatre with one of those young women who have 
 
 H 
 
98 LOVE ! LOVE ! WHEN WE ARE 
 
 rarely been to one before. I shall take good care not 
 to take you often to snch places : not I." 
 
 Georgette was greatly amused by the piece, whilst 
 to her aged cavalier it proved so infinitely tiresome, 
 that he was glad when the curtain fell. To reach 
 home, M. de Mardeille wished to hire a carriage, but 
 the young woman refused, and insisted on walking 
 home on foot. 
 
 " But you see, Miss Georgette, it is raining," said 
 M. de Mardeille. 
 
 " It makes no difference : the rain will refresh us." 
 
 " But your new hat ! the rain will spoil it com- 
 pletely." 
 
 " Well, it cannot be helped, if it does get spoiled. 
 There are other hats to be had at the milliners' 
 shops." 
 
 " Do you really fancy that I am going to buy you 
 a new hat every day?" said her partner, who had 
 great difficulty in restraining his anger, and who was 
 obliged to walk home with her on foot, giving his 
 arm to Georgette, who during the long distance, 
 would only condescend to speak to him about the 
 piece and the actors she had just seen. 
 
 They reached home at length, and M. de Mardeille 
 had impatiently longed for this moment; flattering 
 himself all the way that he would then see his 
 triumph complete. On entering the house in which 
 both lived, and when they had come in front of the 
 lodge of the concierge, which was situated close to 
 the foot of the stairs which led to the first floor, 
 Georgette stopped, and making a gracious bow to 
 her cavalier, she said: "Good night, sir; and a 
 thousand thanks for the pleasure you have given me 
 in taking me to the theatre." 
 
 X( Why do you say to me good night ! " exclaimed 
 M. de Mardeille, smiling. " I am not going to bed 
 just yet; will you not permit me to go with you, so> 
 that we can have a friendly chat for a short time ? " 
 
BOUND BY THT CHAINS ! 99 
 
 tt 
 
 Ob, no, sir: for I am going straight to my couch,, 
 and this is not an hour for haying friendly chats." 
 
 "You are going to bedP That will make no 
 difference to me. I will not seek to prevent you. I 
 should only be too happy to be allowed to assist you 
 in making your evening toilette." 
 
 "I do not want any one to assist me. In any 
 case, it is not a man I would choose to help me in 
 that. Good night, sir." 
 
 "How is that? You surely must be jesting t 
 Do you mean to tell me, charming neighbour, that 
 you refuse to allow me to enter your apartments for 
 a few minutes ? " 
 
 " Come to-morrow, sir ; to-morrow when it is day- 
 light : I shall be happy to receive you then, if you do 
 me the honour to pay me a visit; but, for the 
 present, it would be inconvenient to receive you." 
 
 On saying this, Georgette made her escort a slight 
 bow, and darted away speedily in the direction of the 
 stair leading to the entresol. M. de Mardeille re- 
 mained standing in front of the concierge's lodge : he 
 bitterly reproached the young lady for her conduct,, 
 muttering to himself: "This is really too bad. She 
 accepts my presents : a complete outfit which cost me 
 a lot of money; and she is even more reserved now 
 than before ! This young lady has been making a 
 fool of me." 
 
 " Imbecile that I am : I who could not see all this- 
 beforehand ! This little beauty has a hundred times 
 more tact than I have! She did not wish the 
 concierge to see me going up to her rooms for a short 
 time : a thing that would have made everybody in 
 the house say that I had spent the whole night in 
 the apartments of the fair seamstress. Yes, yes, she 
 has done quite right ; but she indicated quite clearly 
 iiO me the course I should follow : which was, to^ 
 ascend to my rooms, and pretend to go to bed : then,. 
 when everybody was asleep, when the gas had been 
 
 f. 2 
 
100 love! love! when we are 
 
 put out, to re-descend and to creep softly to her door, 
 where, I shall wager, she has left, as is ~her habit, 
 the ke y on the outside. I see the whole thing now ; 
 I shall be there ! " 
 
 M. de Mardeille went up-stairs, making as mnch 
 noise as he could with his feet, and on entering his 
 Toonis closed the door securely, divested himself of 
 his outer garments, with the assistance of Frontin, 
 whom he ordered to bed immediately thereafter. In 
 half an hour afterwards the gas was put out, no noise 
 was to be heard anywhere, no light was to be seen in 
 any part of the house, not even ' in the rooms of 
 Georgette, and M. de Mardeille said to himself: 
 "This young woman is already dreaming of me. 
 She is prudence itself: she has put out her light. 
 All right. Darknes gives one courage. I must 
 .make haste : the happy moment has arrived." 
 
 This gentleman, leaving his rooms, enveloped in a 
 large dressing-gown, with his fine smoking cap on 
 'Ms head, descended the stairs, taking every pre- 
 caution so as not to be heard ; he passed noiselessly 
 the concierge's lodge, where the light had been put 
 out; darkness reigned everywhere, and, in feeling 
 his way across the court our gallant went with his 
 nose straight against the corner of the pump ; but, 
 then, it proved a guide to him, for the stair leading 
 to Georgette's room was near by : he at length found 
 It, and mounting it step by step, he said to himself : 
 "I have found it at last." He was now standing 
 before the door of Georgette : he began to grope for 
 the key, but discovered it was not in the key-hole, 
 and the door was quite fast. " She has not thought 
 -of leaving the key outside ; it is an oversight," said 
 M. de Mardeille to himself. " Perhaps she has done 
 this out of modesty, so as not to have the appearance 
 of expecting me. I must, nevertheless, let her know 
 i;hat I shall tap softly : she cannot be asleep yet." 
 
 M. de Mardeille gave first two gentle taps on the 
 
 
BOUND BY THY CHAINS ! 101 
 
 door : then repeated them louder, murmuring : " Ah ! 
 she does not hear. Can she be already asleep? 
 that is very singular. There is no noise in the house 
 anywhere : she must hear. Well, so much the worse. 
 I must wake her up. If other people hear me, it 
 will be her own fault ! n 
 
 M. de Mardeille began to knock louder and louder 
 at the door and to shout through the keyhole : " My 
 dearest neighbour, it is I. Open just for a minute. 
 I have forgotten something in your room. Come 
 now, darling Georgette, you have teased me enough ! 
 You must open to me. I have something important 
 to communicate to you. Be so good ! What I have 
 to tell you won't take two minutes: I shall then 
 leave you in peace." 
 
 Pains and prayers were useless. No answer came, 
 and the door did not open. After remaining about 
 three quarters of an hour in front of the door of 
 Georgette, our midnight gallant, disappointed and 
 boiling over with rage, pulled his smoking cap tightly 
 over his forehead and began to descend the stairs, 
 groping his way along the wall. 
 
 To increase his fury, he heard, when he had 
 reached the court, bursts of laughter proceed from 
 several of the windows, and he recognized the voice 
 of Miss Arthemise, who called out to him lustily: 
 " Ah ! this is capital. We ought to give you a 
 serenade. The little beauty makes game of her 
 suitors ; and for that I could now make friends with 
 her. Aha ! aha ! Do you remember the song which 
 runs: 
 
 Burnt out is my candle : 
 No more light have I : 
 So please turn the handle, 
 Or else I shall die. 
 
 *^.. 
 
102 A BROOCH. 
 
 CHAPTEE Xni. 
 
 A BROOCH. 
 
 M. de Mardeille did not close an eye the whole* 
 of that night. He was grievously vexed. He longed 
 impatiently for the approach of day in order to seek 
 some explanation from the little shirt-maker for her 
 conduct towards him, promising himself that h& 
 would heap upon her the most bitter reproaches^ 
 Our gentleman firmly believed himself in the right r 
 for the reason that, in love, he considered one should 
 always give tit for tat. 
 
 The darkness has given place to bright sunlight : 
 and people have begun to enter and leave the house. 
 Our elegant arose earlier than usual, and in going to 
 regard himself in the glass, he found that he looked 
 frightfully pale, that his eyes were bleared and red, 
 and that he had a fatigued air. Seeing that M. de 
 Mardeille wished, above everything, to appear 
 handsome and seductive, he spent more than an 
 hour over his toilette, changing every minute either 
 his scarf or his vest, but without appearing any the 
 fresher for it. Almost wearied out, he said to him- 
 self : "A pale complexion renders one interesting. 
 Women are rather fond of anything which suggests 
 melancholy. This cruel girl will be touched by my 
 appearance of suffering. Decidedly, it will be all 
 the better that I look pale; for her attention will 
 thereby be attracted to me at once." 
 
 M. de Mardeille thereupon set out for the rooms 
 of his fair neighbour, traversing the court as quickly 
 as possible, so as to avoid the scrutiny of his other 
 neighbours. He now found the key on the outside 
 of the door, and entered boldly into the apartment, 
 where he saw that Georgette had already entered on 
 
A EROOCH. 103 
 
 the labours of the day. She saluted him with a 
 gentle smile, and said : " Good ' morning, sir ; it is 
 very kind of you to come and see me. Would you 
 kindly take a seat, and we can talk of the play last 
 evening." 
 
 M. de Mardeille declined to sit down ; and began 
 to walk np and down the room. 
 
 "Miss," responded he, "I did not come here to 
 «peak of the play of last evening." 
 
 " Ah ! very well then; we can speak of something 
 «lse." t 
 
 " Miss Georgette, you sleep like a log." 
 
 " I ? you are mistaken, sir : on the contrary, I am 
 a, very light sleeper : the slightest noise awakens me." 
 
 " You hear the slightest noise ! How is it, then, 
 that you did not hear me at your door, yesterday 
 evening, when I knocked for a good half hour with- 
 out ever your once deigning to answer me ? " 
 
 " Yesterday evening ? But I did hear you quite 
 distinctly, sir : too distinctly, indeed." 
 
 " Then, miss, why did you not open the door to 
 me?" 
 
 " Why ? Because I did not want to. Because I 
 do not receive visitors at midnight. Besides, I was. 
 very much put about at hearing you tapping at my 
 door." 
 
 " Tapping ! But if you had opened to me at once 
 I should not have been compelled to keep on tapping." 
 
 " Yes ; but seeing that I did not want to open, it 
 was your duty not to continue tapping." 
 
 " But, miss, it seems to me that I had the right to 
 present myself at your door — that I might count on 
 being received. When a lady accepts presents from 
 a gentleman, it is with an implied understanding. 
 In a word, he ought not to be left standing at the 
 door when he comes to see you." 
 
 " The right ! the right ! " exclaimed Georgette, as 
 ahe rose from her seat and shot at M. de Mardeille 
 
104 A BROOCH. 
 
 such a glance as to make him quail before her. 
 
 ** Are you aware, sir, that I regard you as an 
 
 impertinent fellow, and that I ought to show you to 
 
 the door, and forbid you to put a foot in this place 
 
 again ? Is it because you have sent me a few paltry 
 
 articles of dress that you take upon yourself to 
 
 address me in this fashion? Know this, sir, that I 
 
 have conferred on you much honour by consenting to 
 
 accept your presents ! If you had not wished to go 
 
 out with me, you would not have made them to me. 
 
 Thus, then, it is to satisfy your vanity that you sent 
 
 those presents to me, rather than to do a kindness to 
 
 me. How could you fancy, sir, that, on this pretext 
 
 alone, I would open my door to you at midnight ! or 
 
 that I should give myself up to you and be only too 
 
 happy to become your mistress ! You must be 
 
 crazy, sir. See ! there are your presents. I shall 
 
 not keep them from you. You can take them with 
 
 you. Look you! This is the value I attach to 
 
 them!" On saying which, Georgette hurriedly 
 
 opened a drawer, took out thence a dress, a shawl, a 
 
 hat, threw them on the floor, and kicked them in the- 
 
 direction of M. de Mardeille, who shook with fright 
 
 and dared not budge. 
 
 When she had done all this, the young woman 
 went and re-seated herself at the window, which, as 
 usual, was open, and began again to work, without 
 appearing to take any notice of her neighbour, who 
 stood as immoveable as a mile-post. 
 
 Matters remained thus for several minutes, which 
 gave our fine gentleman time to reflect. Finally, he 
 began by picking up the hat, dress, and shawl, 
 walked up to the drawers and placed fchem on top of 
 it: then, turning to Georgette, he stammered out 
 confusedly : " Miss, I have done wrong ; a very great 
 wrong— I confess it." 
 
 "It is well, sir, that you see yourself as you do." 
 "I had imagined — or rather I had hoped — I 
 
A BROOCH, 105 
 
 ~T. certainly attach no value to the trifles I sent you — 
 that you would not think it was this that brought me 
 to your door yesterday evening— after the theatre. 
 For God's sake, my dear neighbour, pardon me ; be 
 not angry with me, for this would render me most 
 unhappy." 
 
 " Since you confess your fault," said Georgette, 
 smiling, "I forgive you." I am not at at all vin- 
 dictive. I speak out at once what is in my mind: 
 that done, I think no more about it." 
 
 Our elegant gentleman now took the hand of the 
 young lady and carried it respectfully to his lips. 
 The latter withdrew her hand, pointed him to a seat, 
 and said: "Now, take a seat, and let us speak of 
 something else." 
 
 " Of something else," repeated M. de Mardeille, in 
 sitting down. " When I am near you it is difficult 
 for me to refrain from speaking of my love. Are 
 you really vexed?" 
 
 " No : but do you not remember what I once said 
 to you about that?" 
 
 " Indeed ! is it possible, dear neighbour, that you 
 iave spoken to me on this subject?" 
 
 " Yes ; I told you that I did not believe in the love 
 of any one, except those who could give me proofs of 
 it." 
 
 Her neighbour frowned, and stammered out : " Ah, 
 yes, quite true ; I do remember now — proof s— only I 
 do not quite comprehend what you mean by that 
 term." 
 
 " My dear sir, I would be afraid of insulting your 
 intelligence if I attempted to make myself better 
 understood," said Georgette, in an ironical tone of 
 voice. " So much the worse for you, if you do not 
 comprehend." 
 
 "What about the theatre? Were you amused 
 last evening," rejoined M. de Mardeille, eager to 
 change the conversation. 
 
106 A BROOCH. 
 
 "Yes, sir, very much. I would go very often to* 
 the theatre if I had the means." 
 
 "But when one took yon there, would it not be 
 the same thing ? " 
 
 " No, it is not the same thing to be able to afford, 
 oneself amusement whenever one pleases, as to accept 
 it at the hands of others, when it may please them." 
 
 " Nevertheless, my fair neighbour, whenever it 
 shall please you to go again to the theatre, I shall 
 only be too delighted to be called upon to take you. 
 there." 
 
 " You are too kind, sir. Did you notice yesterday,- 
 at the theatre, that lady in rose colour who occupied 
 one of the stage-boxes ?" 
 
 " In one of the avant-scene boxes ? " 
 
 " I do not know what you mean by an avant-scene- 
 box ; but the lady I refer to wore in her hair a sort 
 of diadem of flowers; and she looked very pretty 
 therefor." 
 
 " Oh yes, I remember her — a handsome blonde— 
 that was Imra, a very fashionable lady." 
 
 " Do you know her ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I know her in the same way that one knows- 
 the ladies whom one is in the habit of meeting at the 
 Casino balls, and on first night representations; in 
 point of fact, at all the fetes at which any one can be 
 present at by paying money." 
 
 "Is this lady married?" 
 
 " Married, forsooth ! Do you imagine that these 
 sort of women get married ! She is a kept woman,, 
 and is well cared for ! " 
 
 " A kept woman ! In any case she is rich. She 
 wore a magnificent diamond necklace and brooch. 
 For they were diamonds, were they not, sir?" 
 
 " They might be — or at least looked like diamonds. 
 Still, it is not at all improbable they were false ones. 
 Now-a-days false ones are made that imitate sa 
 closely real ODes that one is often deceived by them- 
 
A BROOCH. 107 
 
 They looked pretty enough: but often even the 
 latter are the most striking to the eye ; everything 
 depends on the way they are shown off." 
 
 " Oh, false ones ! what an abomination ! I should 
 not like to wear false diamonds." 
 
 M. de Mardeille hereupon looked over to his own 
 window, then he got up and said : " How quickly the 
 iiime passes in your society, darling Georgette. But 
 I have some business to transact with my share- 
 broker, and I have only now sufficient time left to 
 keep my appointment with him. Till we meet again, 
 -dear neighbour ! You are no longer angry with me : 
 that is understood." 
 
 " No, sir, I am not angry : indeed, I have forgotten 
 -everything that passed between us." 
 
 Our old-young dandy in quitting the young lady 
 saluted her, and said to himself: "Ah! she has 
 forgotten all that has passed ; consequently, she has 
 forgotten that I gave her a complete outfit. She 
 regards that as a mere trifle. Now she speaks to me 
 of diamonds. But this is going a little too far. 
 This little beauty has most exalted notions. No 
 <loubt she would like that I should maintain her like 
 an Irma. But it is too ridiculous — the idea of a 
 mere shirt-maker asking for diamonds ! Still, I did 
 not anticipate that I should encounter so many 
 obstacles in making up to this little grisette. It is 
 the first time such a thing has happened to me. She 
 has spoken to me with the greatest frankness. She 
 is nobody's fool. Yet her expression ! She is simply 
 ravishing. She is a little demon. But to treat her 
 to diamonds ! Never ! never ! aever ! I would rather 
 <eat them." 
 
 Several weeks rolled over. M. de Mardeille is 
 Teceived by Georgette during the day, but never 
 without having her windows open all the time he is 
 with her. He has not, however, advanced his love 
 matters with her a single step. When he' has at- 
 
108 A BROOCH. 
 
 tempted to draw his chair closer to hers she has- 
 always moved away from him : when he has sought 
 to take her by the hand, she has removed it out of 
 his reach; and, finally, when he presumed to place 
 his hand upon her little petticoat, she repelled him. 
 brusquely, and taking on a severe air, said : " I will 
 not have you touch my petticoat — such a liberty I 
 absolutely forbid." In return M. de Mardeille began- 
 to sigh deeply, which had only the effect of causing 
 Georgette to laugh and to cast mocking glances at 
 him, both of which rendered her appearance all the 
 more bewitching in the eyes of her would-be lover. 
 And it must be confessed that, although Miss Georgette 
 kept her admirer at a respectful distance, she yet 
 knew how to make use of all those little arts of 
 coquetry that appeal to the passions of the other 
 sex, and in the end, in many cases, completely turn 
 their head. To such an extent had she worked on 
 the feelings of our old bachelor, that after quitting 
 the rooms of Georgette, he could do nothing but 
 walk up and down in his own rooms ; but one day, 
 on leaving her, he thus soliloquised: "Well, there is 
 nothing left for me but to do what will please her. 
 I will send her a small brooch set in rose diamonds — 
 something not very expensive : yet it must be pretty, 
 or else this young lady, I know quite well, will not 
 hesitate for a moment to laugh in my face— even I, 
 who have never before in my life spent a sou on the- 
 sex. This little coquette has made me change my 
 habitudes altogether — I feel myself now indeed to 
 be as great a fool as other men." 
 
 On the day following M. de Mardeille presented 
 himself at the rooms of Georgette — when one would 
 have almost taken him for a youth of twenty, he 
 appeared so gay, amiable, and sprightly. When he 
 had sat down near Georgette he drew from his 
 pocket a little card box, and presenting it to his fair 
 neighbour, said : "Permit me, my dearest neighbour,, 
 
A BROOCH. 10^ 
 
 to offer you this pledge—this proof of my tender 
 regard for you; and in offering it to you, rest assured 
 that I do not consider it gives me the slightest claim 
 upon your affections ; these I only seek to gain by- 
 finding my way to your heart." 
 
 " Oh ! it is too soon to think of that : still, that i& 
 a pretty speech you have just made," said Georgette* 
 who eagerly opened the box and found it to contain 
 a little brooch which might be worth eight or nine 
 francs, but which, nevertheless, looked very pretty,. 
 "Oh! sir, this is exceedingly gallant on your part," 
 and I am bound to say that you are improving." 
 
 "What does she mean by this?" thought M. de 
 Mardeille. " 1 am improving ! Never mind ; but at 
 present I will ask for nothing on the strength of 
 this fresh present. Yet, I am certain, that to- 
 morrow she will say to me, of her own accord, < I 
 shall expect you this evening.' " 
 
 "That brooch is charming," continued Georgette. 
 
 " Then you will do me the honour to accept it ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will accept it; most certainly, sir, I will 
 accept it, and I am greatly obliged to you for your 
 kindness." 
 
 "Ah, she is very much obliged to me: all right,'* 
 said M. de Mardeille to himself: "the road is clear 
 now. But I must not make the false step of seeming 
 to expect anything in return for my present; 
 therefore, it will be best for me to retire at once." 
 
 M. de Mardeille, thereupon getting up, saidr- 
 Dearest neighbour, I must now leave vou." 
 
 "Already, sir?" 
 
 "That word sounds very pretty in your mouth, 
 but pressing business calls me, though, let me add, 
 that it is with great regret that I tear myself away; 
 but, to-morrow, I hope I shall be more fortunate." 
 
 " I hope so also, sir." 
 
 Our fine gentleman saluted the young lady most 
 graciously, without seeking to take her hand: and 
 
110 COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 -walked away, delighted with himself for what he had 
 just done, and murmuring: "I have attained my 
 object at last. Women are so contrary creatures. 
 All that one has to do is to ask them for nothing. 
 Aha ! this little beauty is now mine — my very own." 
 
 » 
 
 CHAPTER XTV. 
 
 COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 The morning succeeding the day that had marked 
 the presenting of the brooch, M. de Mardeille arose 
 from bed, brimful of the sweetest anticipations, and 
 immediately began to commune with himself: "I 
 must pay great attention to my toilette this morning ; 
 yet it will be too early to go to the rooms of my 
 pretty neighbour : it will be better to give her time 
 to get anxious about me. After breakfast I shall 
 betake myself to my window, and I feel sure that 
 Georgette will signal me to come to her. Yes ; this 
 will be the proper thing to do. M. de Mardeille 
 breakfasted leisurely; sipping his coffee as though, 
 in idea, he were enjoying the fruits of his antici- 
 pated triumph. When he had run over the pages of 
 several of the morning papers, he betook himself to 
 one of the windows that looked into the court, 
 believing that this was all he would have to do in 
 order to accomplish the object he now had in view. 
 In opening his window he, of course, immediately 
 cast his regards to that of his fair neighbour, and 
 what did he see? A young man seated close to 
 Georgette, who held her two hands in his, and whose 
 looks gave token of the tenderest affection. Our 
 gallant bit his lips, and raising his eyebrows, ex- 
 claimed : " Sapristi ! with a young man ! Yes, she 
 
COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. Ill 
 
 is with a young man ! she who has told me that she 
 never receives any one but me ! This is her grati- 
 tude for my brooch! I must see to this at once. 
 I am not going to let myself be fooled like this ! I 
 must know who this young man is who is holding 
 her by the two hands, whilst she objects if I touch 
 hers with one ! " 
 
 The person who is holding Georgette by the hands 
 is none other than the young man Colinet, whom we 
 already know. He is dressed in almost the identical 
 costume that he wore on the occasion of his previous 
 visit to Georgette, the only difference being that he 
 now wears trousers instead of gaiters, and carries a 
 light cane instead of a large blackthorn. But a 
 great change has come over his physical appearance 
 during the past three months : his open and timid 
 aspect has given place to a countenance more staid 
 and reflective. 
 
 "How glad I am to see you once more, Miss 
 Georgette ! " said Colinet, in taking the hands of the 
 young woman in his. 
 
 "And I, Colinet, I cannot tell you how happy I 
 feel. How are they all at home — my father, mother, 
 and sisters ? " 
 
 " Yes, miss, I left them all in the best of health. 
 Here is a letter from Suzanne, your second sister, 
 who charged me to deliver it to you." 
 
 " Oh, give it me quick, Colinet, quick ! " 
 
 Georgette eagerly seized the letter the young man. 
 had brought her, broke the seal, and began to devour 
 the contents. As she read, one could easily see from 
 the expression of her face, how greatly she was 
 absorbed by its contents. While she was reading it, 
 Colinet began to look about him and to make an 
 inspection of the apartment, and thought to him- 
 self: "This is veiy nice; much better than the 
 former apartments." 
 
 When Georgette had finished reading, she put the 
 
112 OOLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 letter carefully away in her bosom, and smiling anew 
 to Colinet, who said to her : " Does this letter recall 
 yon to the country, Georgette ? " 
 
 "Not yet, Colinet." 
 
 "Then you have come to like Paris better than 
 you did." 
 
 " It is not that, my friend : but I came here with 
 an object in view, and I must not quit Paris until I 
 have compassed it." 
 
 " Ah, you came here on business ? " 
 
 " Yes, my friend." 
 
 "And you would not care to tell me what this 
 business is ? Perhaps I might be able to render you 
 some assistance." 
 
 " No, you could not assist me, and it is better that 
 I should not tell you what I mean to accomplish. 
 But one day you shall know all. Yes, I swear to 
 you, one day you shall know all, and you, Colinet, 
 shall not blame me : on the contrary, I feel sure, you 
 will commend me." 
 
 "Ah, Georgette, I shall never blame you; for I 
 inow you, and I know also that you are incapable of 
 doing base things. Only, damme ! you have a will- 
 how shall I describe it— somewhat obstinate, and 
 when you make up your mind to a thing, there is no 
 dissuading you from your purpose." 
 
 " Provided that one does not what is wicked, it is 
 not forbidden to one to possess firmness of cha- 
 racter?" 
 
 " No, no ; nothing is forbidden to you. Only, at 
 one time you used to address me in the second 
 person, but now you hardly use this tense." 
 
 "Georgette blushed, and responded: "That is 
 true, Colinet. But this ought not to pain you, for I 
 do not love you less than ever I did. Yet, it Seems 
 to me that I must not now use the familiarity with 
 you that I did when we were children together." 
 
 "If you love as much, I ought not to complain; 
 
COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 113 
 
 but as for me, Georgette, each day I love you more 
 and more." 
 
 " So much the better ; it is well to know that you 
 do not change, for I count on your love, Colinet." 
 
 "Oh, Georgette, when one has once loved you, 
 low can one change?" 
 
 " Embrace me, Colinet." 
 
 "With all my heart." 
 
 Our wealthy neighbour had not seen the young 
 Tnan embrace Georgette, for all this had taken place 
 before he showed himself at the window. 
 
 When Colinet had embraced Georgette, he said: 
 *' What about M. Dupont that I saw so frequently at 
 your rooms during my previous visit; does he still 
 visit you ? " 
 
 " No, Colinet, I never see him now." 
 
 The young man smiled, and appeared delighted to 
 learn this; but his eyebrows at once fell when the 
 young lady continued : " But I see another gentle- 
 
 man." 
 
 " Ah ! you have made the acquaintance of another 
 gentleman." 
 
 "Yes, a gentleman, who is the pink of fashion, 
 who lives in these rooms over there ; he comes often 
 to see me. It is not improbable that you may see 
 him immediately. In that case, I shall say, what is 
 quite true : that you are a friend of my childhood, 
 and do not forget that I shall pass for a Normande." 
 
 " A Normande ! But that is not true ; you are 
 from Toul, in Lorraine." 
 
 "I know that very well, Colinet; but this is 
 precisely what I do not want this gentleman to 
 know; and be sure of one thing: do not, in his 
 presence, mention the name of my parents : remember 
 that." 
 
 "Why all this mystery in the case of this gentle- 
 man? You have never done anything that is evil. 
 Why conceal the name of your family, miss? 
 
 I 
 
 » 
 
114 COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 " Colinet, you have told me that you have every 
 confidence in me." 
 
 " Certainly ; and shall always have." 
 
 "This being so, do not, my friend, persist m> 
 questioning me farther on this point for the present. 
 I have told you that one day 1 shall explain every- 
 thing to you ; is not that sufficient for you ? " 
 
 " Quite sufficient, Georgette : I did wrong in 
 putting these questions to you. I shall not mention 
 the subject again to you; it is finished and done*. 
 Then you area Normande." 
 
 "Yes, from a little village near Rouen." 
 
 " The name of the village ? " 
 
 H The name ? I really do not know the name of 
 any village in that locality ; but that does not matter t 
 call it anything. This gentleman is not acquainted 
 with all the environs of Rouen. Hold ! call it Belair. 
 There is a Belair in every province." 
 
 "That is understood. As for me, I must also be- 
 a Normand." 
 
 " Without doubt." 
 
 "In that case, can I be a raiser of sheep?" 
 
 "Why not? One raises animals everywhere. 
 Hush ! I hear my neighbour coming." 
 
 M. de Mardeille had crossed the court like & 
 lighted train of powder, ascended the stair without 
 drawing breath, and had alighted in the chamber o£ 
 his fair neighbour like a bomb. Without taking- 
 any notice of Colinet, who had risen to salute him, 
 he advanced to in front of Georgette and began to 
 address her in a voice suffocating with rage : " It is 
 I, Miss Georgette," to which the latter smilingly 
 responded : "I see quite well it is you, sir." 
 
 " You did not expect me, at least at this particular 
 moment, I presume." 
 
 " Why not, sir : I am always expecting you ; you 
 come when it pleases yourself : between neighbours^ 
 people do no stand on ceremony.' 
 
 j> 
 
COrJNET makes georgette a second visit. 115 
 
 "Yes, but I believed — I did not think you re- 
 ceived any society ; yon who told me that you received 
 no one ! " 
 
 The countenance of the young woman took on at 
 once an expression of seriousness and severity, and 
 -casting on M. de Mardeille a contemptuous stare, she 
 exclaimed: "First, sir, let me tell you that I look 
 upon what you have just said as in very bad taste. 
 If, up till now, it did not suit me to receive other 
 visitors besides yourself, know this — that it was not 
 with a view to please you that I did so. Would you, 
 «ir, have people believe that I am dependent on you 
 — that you have claims on me? I am ashamed of 
 jou, sir." 
 
 Our fine gentleman became as red as Turkey cock ; 
 he stamped with his feet, pulled at his gloves, but 
 was unable to respond. Georgette hence continued : 
 *' To-day, a childhood's friend, who hails from my 
 part of the country, with news from my parents, has 
 come to see me. He shall always be welcome here, 
 I was about to present you to him, sir, when you 
 prevented me by talking in the ridiculous manner 
 you have done. You have not even had the common 
 politeness to respond to the respectful salute made 
 you as you entered. You, sir, you who know so well 
 the usages of society — I can only think that you are 
 .not yourself this morning — that something has 
 occurred to upset you. Cohnet, my friend, resume 
 your seat." 
 
 M. de Mardeille hardly knew where he stood ; the 
 determined look of Georgette had nailed him to the 
 «pot; finally, he turned towards Colinet and made 
 ihe latter a profound reverence, after which he 
 decided to sit down. 
 
 " Yes, it is true," he began : " I am not well this 
 morning ; I have had a very bad headache ; I feel all 
 out of sorts/' 
 
 " Very well ; that puts a different face on matters : 
 
 i2 
 
116 COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 and we can excuse yon for being in a bad humour t 
 Colinet, my friend, how long is it since you reached 
 Paris, and how long are you going to remain here ? ,r 
 
 " Miss Georgette, I only arrived this morning, and 
 will leave again to-morrow." 
 
 At these words M. de Mardeille's countenance 
 assumed a more benevolent aspect, and he sat up in 
 his chair. "Are you so pressed for time, Colinet?" 
 
 " I have only a few commissions to execute, before 
 I return to the country. We have sold some cattle r 
 and I am going to collect the price of them." 
 
 " You are, sir, a breeder of animals," said M. de 
 Mardeille. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and horned animals in particular, 
 because I find that that pays best." 
 
 "Yes, yes ; that is a very interesting occupation." 
 
 Then turning to Georgette, our neighbour said to 
 her in an almost timid tone of voice: "I see you 
 have not put on your brooch." * 
 
 " No ; one does not wear a brooch with a camisole," 
 responded Georgette, laughing; besides, it is too 
 early in the morning to wear brooches." 
 
 "Have you a chicken to put on your brooch 
 (spit) ?" asked Colinet. "If you have, I will assist 
 you with it. I know all about that." 
 
 Georgette burst out into laughter, and M. de 
 Mardeille feigned also to imitate her, but it was a 
 forced laugh on his part. 
 
 " My dear Colinet, we are not speaking of the kind 
 of brooch you are thinking of," said the young shirt- 
 maker, when she had recovered from her hilarity. 
 " I do not live in such grand style as that : my 
 repasts are much more modest. Nevertheless, my 
 friend, if, before you go to-morrow, you will be so 
 kind as to breakfast with me, 1 shall have a pate, and 
 a sausage; with these and with a good appetite, one 
 can make a good breakfast. Don't you think so?" 
 
 " Assuredly, mam'zelle ; I could not object to that. 
 
 » 
 
COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 117 
 
 " And if M. de Mardeille would make one of the 
 party, and would not consider our breakfast un- 
 worthy of him, he would do us a great honour by^ 
 accepting." 
 
 The face of the aged suitor was at once wreathed 
 with smiles, and, making a gracious bow, he ex- 
 claimed: "Unworthy of me! A repast presided 
 over by you! On the contrary, nothing could b& 
 more delicious : and I accept with all my heart your 
 kind invitation. Only, I would ask of you fco be 
 allowed to fetch a few bottles of wine from my 
 cellar : that could do no one any harm." 
 
 Oh yes : bring anything you like ; we are not proud 
 people : we thankfully accept everything offered us." 
 
 "In that case, my dear neighbour, the thiag is 
 agreed on; I breakfast with you. Until then, I 
 shall leave you, for you must have a thousand things 
 to tell your friend about your parents — your friends 
 —not to mention the messages you will no doubt be 
 desirous of sending to your family, and I should be 
 extremely soriy to stand in the way of them. 
 Gcod bye, my dear neighbour. Good day, sir, until 
 to-morrow. But at what hour will you breakfast^, 
 my dear neighbour?" 
 
 " Well, about ten o'clock, sir." 
 
 " Very well : I shall be punctual." 
 
 The old dandy then withdrew more pleased than 
 he was furious on his arrival. A few words from 
 Georgette had thus sufficed to drive away his bad 
 humour: still, it is not to be gainsaid that her 
 manner of saying them could admit of no reply. 
 
 When M. de Mardeille had departed Colinet 
 seemed to have fallen into a reflective mood, and, 
 observing this, Georgette said to him : 
 
 " What are you thinking about, my friend 9 " 
 
 "About that gentleman who was here a minute 
 ago. How he did address you on entering ! " 
 
 " But you also heard how I answered him." 
 
118 COLINET MAKES GEORGETTE A SECOND VISIT. 
 
 " Oh, that afforded me the greatest pleasure ! Is 
 that matured gentleman paying his addresses to 
 jou?" 
 
 "Yes, but have no fear, Colinet; he is no more 
 dangerous to me than was M. Dupont." 
 
 " Well, since you assure me of this, I believe you. 
 But why did you invite him to come to breakfast 
 with us? I should have been better pleased to 
 ^breakfast with you alone." 
 
 " And so would I, my friend ; but I have only done 
 what I could not help ; for I do not wish to quarrel 
 with my neighbour just yet; and this would have 
 happened if I had not invited him. I must go and 
 answer my sister Suzanne's letter, after which I 
 shall write to Aim£e : and to-morrow I shall confide 
 iihe missives to your care." 
 
 "On my part, I shall go and execute my com- 
 missions ; for, when one comes to Paris — you know 
 liow it is in the country — one has to do messages tor 
 everybody. Besides, I have promised to dine with 
 some friends; and I shall not see you again until 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Come early then, so that we may have time to 
 talk a little together before breakfast." 
 
 "Yes, mam'zelle Georgette. Oh, what a pity it 
 could not have been arranged that none but us two 
 should breakfast together ! " 
 
 " Never mind, Colinet ; the time will come when 
 tihere shall be none but us two : but when that time 
 -shall arrive you may perhaps not like it ! " 
 
 " Ah, Georgette, you cannot think that ! " 
 
 The only response that the young woman made to 
 the friend of her childhood was to hold out her 
 hand: the latter pressed it in his, then covered it 
 with kisses: and Georgette found it necessary to 
 Tecall to his mind the number of commissions he had 
 been charged with before he could summon the 
 courage sufficient to enable him to take his leave. 
 
THE SELECT LITTLE BREAKFAST PARTY, 119" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE SELECT LITTLE BREAKFAST PARTY, 
 
 As early as nine o'clock the following morning- 
 Frontin brought to Georgette a large dishful of 
 joies gras, a Rheims ham, cakes, some delicious 
 fruit, a few bottles of Bordeaux, Madeira, and 
 champagne. The valet de chambre, who could not 
 help recalling to mind the manner in which he had 
 previously spoken to the young shirt-maker, now 
 endeavoured to be as polite, as he had shown himself 
 on the former occasion impertinent. 
 
 Georgette accepted it all without appearing in the- 
 least surprised, whilst that Colinet, who had already 
 arrived on the scene, opened his eyes and exclaimed ^ 
 " How is this ! are we going to eat all that ? Oh, but 
 what a feast we shall have, Georgette. What a 
 feast ! This gentleman must be deeply in love with 
 you when he can send you such a quantity of good, 
 things?" 
 
 "Do you really think that that is a test of his 
 love, Colinet ?" 
 
 "Dame! it ought at all events to prove some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Yes, it proves that he would like to seduce me,, 
 for there are so many women who allow themselves 
 to be carried away by their appetite." 
 
 "Quite true; one often sees that happen. For 
 instance, in our part of the country, there was 
 Manette, who has been — in the little plantation 
 with Blaise, simply because he gave her some 
 plum tarts. But you are not a girl of that kind, 
 Georgette!" 
 
 " By no means. I shall eat all these good things, 
 and our neighbour shall not be one step farther 
 
120 THE SELECT LITTLE BREAKFAST PARTY. 
 
 forward in his designs. Colinet, you will not forget 
 to deliver to my sisters the letters I have given yon." 
 
 " Is it at all likely that I will forget anything you 
 have told me? All the more seeing that Suzanne 
 ^nd Aime*e will be anxiously awaiting the letters 
 they expect me to bring them ! " 
 
 " I know it too well ! Poor dear sisters ! " 
 
 "Have you informed them that you will soon 
 Teturn to the country 9 " 
 
 " Not yet, my friend, not yet." 
 
 " Are you going to remain much longer in Paris ?" 
 
 " My God ! how can I tell that ?" 
 
 "And your mother, dear old mammy Granery! 
 she longs so ardently after you ! " 
 
 " My mother ! Ah, Colinet, be sure and tell her 
 that I love her as much as ever — that she is not to 
 
 grieve over me, and that I wish . But, hush, 
 
 here comes M. de Mardeille. ,, 
 
 Our neighbour of the first floor, gay, amiable, and 
 smiling, presented his duties to Georgette, and 
 tapped Colinet familiarly on the shoulder. 
 
 " In good truth, sir, you are indeed well come ! " 
 said Georgette; "you have sent us so many good 
 things ! My poor little pate will not dare show itself 
 out of the cupboard." 
 
 " You are jesting, my dear neighbour. We shall 
 fetch your pdte forward alongside of the rest. Will 
 we not, M. Colinet?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I could ask for nothing better." 
 
 " That being so, gentlemen, let us take our places 
 ■at the table." 
 
 They sat down to table, which, though its 
 -trappings could not be called elegant, were yet 
 exquisitely neat. The young woman had substi- 
 tuted flowers for those costly epergnes which adorn 
 the tables of the rich; and women have so much 
 taste in arranging and displaying- flowers that they 
 ^always appear as charming ornaments. Georgette, 
 
THE SELECT LITTLE BREAKFAST PARTY. 121 
 
 on her part, did the honours of the table without 
 embarrassment or awkwardness. Added to this, she 
 was arrayed in her little petticoat and camisole, 
 which together rendered her most seductive. 
 
 "You must excuse me, sir, for not having made 
 my toilette," said she to her neighbour ; " but I feel 
 most at ease dressed thus ; besides, I was afraid I 
 might spoil my fine dress." 
 
 "You look charming in that costume, my little 
 neighbour; I should have felt offended if you had 
 made your toilette. Are you not of my opinion,, 
 Colinet 9 Don't you think that Miss Georgette is 
 piquant in this charming neglige?" 
 
 Colinet was much occupied in eating ; nevertheless,, 
 he managed to make an inclination of the head, and 
 respond: "I am accustomed to see mam'zelle like 
 that! At home we only dress on the occasion of 
 some/e£e." 
 
 "What part of the country do you come from^ 
 Mr. Colinet?" 
 
 The young man regarded Georgette, and the 
 latter divining that he had forgotten the name she 
 had told him, she made haste to answer for him : 
 
 "Bellair, sir." 
 
 " Bellair, I do not know any town of that name in 
 Normandy." 
 
 " It is not a town : it is a village." 
 
 " Oh, if it is only a village, that may account for 
 it. Do you drink anything, Mr. Colinet 9 What do 
 you say to a glass of wine 9 " 
 
 " Yes, sir, especially when it is so choice as this is." 
 
 "I suppose in your part of the country people 
 mostly drink cider 9 " 
 
 "Cider!" reiterated Colinet, looking astonished; 
 but Georgette gave him a kick with her foot under 
 the table, and exclaimed : 
 
 "Why, of course they drink cider. You must 
 know that at our home, in Normandy, cider is more 
 
122 THE SELECT LITTLE BREAKFAST PARTY. 
 
 common than wine. And hear me, Colinet. Do not 
 drink too much of it here, or else you will soon get 
 intoxicated." 
 
 " Have no fear of that," said M. de Mardeille ; 
 "good wines never do one any harm." 
 
 " Don't you believe him, Colinet. And, M. de 
 liardeille, if you press him too much and he becomes 
 intoxicated, he will not be able to return to the 
 country to-day." 
 
 This remark of Georgette's prevented M. de 
 Mardeille from again filling the glass of his neigh- 
 bour; and he said to himself: "it would be bad 
 policy in me to hinder Georgette's childhood's friend 
 from taking his departure." 
 
 The breakfast lasted a long time. Colinet, in 
 doing honour to the wines of his neighbour, was 
 careful not to take too much, and Georgette also 
 took care to change the conversation whenever M. de 
 Mardeille made any mention of Normandy. When 
 one o'clock was heard to strike, M. de Mardeille 
 suddenly got up, saying: "I must now go to the 
 Exchange." 
 
 "And I," said Colinet, "must now begin to think 
 of taking my leave." 
 
 "A pleasant journey to you, M. Colinet; we shall 
 see you again, I hope." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Georgette ; " you shall certainly 
 see him again." 
 
 When M. de Mardeille had gone, Colinet drew a 
 deep sigh, and said : " This gentleman is much more 
 fortunate than I ; seeing that he lives close by you, 
 and I must now take myself away." 
 
 " No, Colinet, he is not more fortunate than you, 
 for I love you, while I shall never have any love nor 
 even friendship for that gentleman." 
 
 "Ah well, you are right: I am more ortunate 
 than he. His breakfast was all very well. But 
 what does it amount to after all ! I would rather 
 
TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS, 12$ 
 
 eat potatoes and salt, with jou alone for my 
 companion." 
 
 " And so would I, my friend." 
 
 " Then why do you invite him to come here ? " 
 
 "Are you going to put questions to me again, 
 Colinet?" 
 
 "Oh no; pardon me, Georgette; I will say no 
 more." 
 
 " Then kiss me and take your leave. And be sure 
 to kiss for me my mother, my father — and my 
 sisters." 
 
 " Eest assured ; I will not forget." 
 
 Colinet eagerly embraced Georgette, and went 
 forth shedding tears even more copiously than hfr 
 had done on the previous occasion. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TWELVE THOUSAND PEANCS. 
 
 About five o'clock in the afternoon M. de Mardeille- 
 returned to the rooms of Georgette, whom he found 
 alone, sitting against the window, as was her wont. 
 
 "Well, has your young compatriot taken hig 
 departure?" said our elegant, in taking a seat in 
 close proximity to the young woman. 
 
 " Yes, sir, hours ago : almost as soon as you left." 
 
 '* That young man appeared to interest you very 
 much?" 
 
 " Yes, he is a warm friend of mine." 
 
 "But, not to go about the bush, is he not voui 
 lover?" ■ ._ 
 
 "I have told you, sir, that I have not got a lover; 
 and let me add, without a word of a lie — I have 
 never had one." > 
 
124 TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS. 
 
 "I believe you, dear neighbour, I believe you; 
 although it is quite a rarity to meet in Paris a young 
 woman of twenty — for you must be twenty, are you 
 not?" 
 
 " And six months, sir." 
 
 " And six months. But what is still more strange, 
 and circumspect, and have always been so ! That is 
 indeed pleasant to contemplate. But, may I ask, 
 whether it is your intention always to remain in 
 that condition — never to lose your heart ? " 
 
 " I do not know, sir : one cannot answer for what 
 may happen." 
 
 " Bravo ! That is well said." 
 
 M. de Mardeille drew his chair close to that of 
 Georgette, and murmured: "But if by chance you 
 should meet a man — who adores you — who would 
 lay his fortune at your feet — like myself, for example 
 —would you give yourself up to him?" 
 
 " Women have always been weak creatures." 
 
 "Oh ! my charming sweet ; I am the most fortunate 
 of men — you overwhelm me." 
 
 In saying this he placed his hands upon her little 
 black petticoat ; but Georgette drew back from him 
 instantly and struck him smartly on the hand, 
 saying to him very seriously, at the same time : 
 
 "Come, sir, where are your manners? I have 
 already warned you against taking any liberties 
 with me." 
 
 Our fine gentleman stamped his foot furiously on 
 iihe floor, and exclaimed: "Sapristi! Do you still 
 persist in making a fool of me ! At one moment you 
 lead me to believe that you shall be no longer cruel 
 —then the next you forbid me from taking the 
 slightest liberty with you. What do you mean by 
 acting thus ? On what footing are we now to stand ! 
 I should indeed like to know as to where you intend 
 leading me ! " 
 
 "I do not mock you, sir; but what put it into 
 
TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS. 125 
 
 your head that I was going to yield to you so soon ?" 
 
 " Already ! That is a fine thing to say ; the rather 
 when yon know it is now over two months since I 
 began paying conrt to yon, not to mention the 
 sacrifices I have made for yon ! I am not speaking 
 of the new outfit. That is a bagatelle. But when 
 yon intimated that you desired a brooch in brilliants, 
 I procured that brooch at once for you. The latter 
 is no trifle ; and you will permit me to say, that when 
 a young lady accepts such presents ". 
 
 " One should immediately become the mistress of 
 Tii'tti who has made the present ! Is that what you 
 mean, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, of course ; in the ordinary course of things, 
 at least." 
 
 " Well, sir, that is not my idea of things." 
 
 " Then, miss, what is your idea of things, or rather 
 your behests ? for, latterly, I must confess, I do not 
 understand your conduct." 
 
 " One moment, M. de Mardeille, if you would that 
 I should explain myself more clearly to you, I will 
 tell you at once at what conclusion I have arrived." 
 
 " To be sure, explain yourself : that will afford me 
 great pleasure. Speak : I am most anxious to hear 
 you." 
 
 "Listen to me then, sir: listen attentively. If, 
 out of kindness for the present of your brooch, I 
 were to give myself up to you to-day, as you require 
 that I should do, what would happen then, sir? 
 Simply this, that your love, or caprice being once 
 satisfied — for with the majority of men of your 
 stamp, love is a mere caprice — — — ". 
 
 "Oh, miss, can you really believe thisP" 
 
 "Yes, sir, yes, I believe——, I have not the 
 slightest doubt about it : but, please, let me proceed 
 without interruption. Well, then, if I were so weak, 
 so foolish, mark the words, as no longer to offer you 
 any resistance, then, in a month, two months, let us 
 
126 TWELVE THOUSAND FBANCS. 
 
 say even three months, you would by that time have- 
 had enough of the little grisette — grown tired of her 
 ■—would cease visiting her; nay, would take the 
 game pains to avoid her, as you had formerly done in 
 running after her. The world would then have- 
 presented the spectacle of a young woman abandoned 
 by the man for whom she had sacrificed everything,. 
 on whose word she had relied. And this same man, 
 after having led her away from the paths of useful 
 industry and inoculated her into a life of voluptuous 
 idleness, would desert her, and, as so often happens, 
 without any resource against poverty and misery. 
 But that is not all. If that young woman should be 
 only unfortunate, that would no doubt be much of 
 itself; but, if in addition she alone were to be 
 punished for her fault — which is often, too often the 
 case — and a poor infant is summoned into the world 
 as the result of that transient liaison ; then, the poor 
 mother, who is barely able by her exertions to find 
 nourishment for herself, far less to nourish an infant 
 as well; I say, is not that something frightful to- 
 contemplate? ought not one to shrink before the 
 possibility of such a terrible future ! " 
 
 "Oh, Miss Georgette, you are merely conjuring^ 
 up events, manufacturing chimeras — drawing upon a 
 romantic imagination." 
 
 ' i No, sir, it is more than imagination. I am only 
 relating what I have seen and what is taking place 
 every day. And you, sir, I put it to you; you who 
 now maintain that I am inventing chimeras ; be 
 honest with me and tell the truth if that be possible ; 
 has it never happened in your own experience that 
 you have seduced and abandoned a young woman in 
 the circumstances I have just been attempting to 
 describe? Look closely into your past life, call up 
 your amours and your numerous conquests, and tell 
 me, sir, if all that I have just said has not happened 
 to you?" 
 
TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS. 127 
 
 M. de Mardeille began at once to change colour, 
 and rising from his seat, his face wearing a sullen 
 expression, he proceeded to wander up and down 
 the room, murmuring : " Good God, miss, we are not 
 ^discussing the question of my numerous conquests 
 and adventures. It would be impossible for me to 
 recall all that has happened to me — it is so long ago. 
 Besides, I have now no recollection of anj of them." 
 
 " Say rather, sir, that you do not wish to recollect." 
 
 "Pray, let us drop that subject, and let us return 
 to what now concerns ourselves only. After what 
 you have just said, if I have rightly understood you, 
 you will not yield yourself to any one ". 
 
 " Not unless such a one will put me in the position 
 of having nothing to fear from poverty, and of being 
 able to support and bring up my child — if such an 
 -event should follow. Yes, sir, that is my fixed 
 resolution — my decided determination — and I assure 
 you that you will not make me change from it." 
 
 Our fine gentleman made a sneering grimace, and 
 eontinued to walk about the room, murmuring : 
 "The devil, miss, you have made all those calcula- 
 tions, taken all those precautions." 
 
 "Is it forbidden to me to do so, sir?" 
 
 " No, but it is rare, fortunately, that such things 
 Jiappen. With you love, sentiment, and the advan- 
 tages of having a lover — all that ordinarily attracts 
 a young woman, glides smoothly over your heart — 
 leave no sort of emotional impression. Decidedly, 
 -sensibility is not your fort." 
 
 " You believe this ? As for you, sir, do you possess 
 a sensitive heart?" 
 
 " I am keenly alive to your charms, I can assure 
 you. But my love has not touched you: you are 
 treating me very cruelly." 
 
 "I am less animal in my propensities than some 
 others ; that is all." 
 
 "Then, miss, you must be assured of a fortune 
 
128 TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS. 
 
 before one can merit your favours. You canuot but 
 be aware that everybody has not a fortune at their 
 disposal/' 
 
 " A fortune ! Oh no, sir ; I am not so ambitious. 
 It is not a fortune I ask: it is simply the where- 
 withal to maintain and bring up the child which is- 
 often the result of such intercourse." 
 
 "Ah! I see; you wish for such a result. But 
 suppose there should be no result ! " 
 
 " Well, in that case, there would be the young 
 woman, who at least should be sheltered from want." 
 
 "Ah, provision for the young woman herself, if 
 there was no baby. Yery well; you seem to have- 
 thought of everything. You would be invaluable in 
 the office of an exchange broker." 
 
 "Even that would not displease me. Men gene- 
 rally make more with their pens than women do 
 with their needles." 
 
 iC ~No doubt; but it is not to their needles that 
 women resort in order to appease their vanity." 
 
 " But they are not bound to be coquettes." 
 
 "You men would be very angry if they did not 
 have resort to coquetry." 
 
 M. de Mardeille still walked up and down the 
 room muttering to himself: "When a lady knows 
 how to love and to please, she has no right to the 
 goods of another. "No ; it is not the thing to enter- 
 tain such ideas. The goddess of love is represented 
 as having a bandage over her eyes. That is as it 
 should be. *Come, gentle goddess, come! listen to 
 me, listen to me." 
 
 Georgette went on with her work as though the 
 gentleman had not been present. At length M. de 
 Mardeille approached the pretty shirt-maker, and 
 said to her quite brusquely : " How much do you 
 think it would take to pay for bouillon for a child 9" 
 
 Georgette smiled, and answered: "Seek, and ye 
 shall find." 
 
TWEL.VE thousand francs. 129 s 
 
 " All ! I find you are now quoting the words of the 
 gospel against me. But St. Peter was not mocking 
 us, his humble followers, when he said that: for 
 there is one thing I have sought for incessantly, and 
 have never been able to find. I shall not, however,. 
 in deference to your sex, tell you what it is, but 
 every man can divine it. But let us come to what 
 you have just been saying. It seems to me that 
 with two or three thousand francs you ought to be 
 able to provide sufficient pap for your baby." 
 \ " That is another thing. A child can be kept on 
 very little. But it requires more than mere nourish- 
 ment. When it is grown up one must think about 
 its education. Then it must be put to some trade so 
 as to be able to earn its own living, and in its turn 
 be able to render some assistance to its parents." 
 
 "Tra la, la la!" There is no reason for going 
 into such details. You seem to have made up your 
 mind that it will be a boy ; be it so, we can give him 
 an allowance, but if it is a girl?" 
 " What difference will that make ? " 
 " What I mean to convey, miss, is, that you would 
 like to be put into possession of a fortune at once." 
 
 " No, sir, you exaggerate. Admitting that it was 
 a boy that had to be brought up. In that case, I 
 fancy that twelve thousand francs would give him 
 such a start in life as he deserves." 
 
 " Twelve thousand francs ! " saying which M. de- 
 Mardeille made such a bow that his head almost 
 touched the floor. He continued : " Twelve thousand 
 francs ! And you imagine, miss, that that is a mere 
 nothing." 
 
 " I think it is not enough to make a man out of 
 a child ; but by investing such a sum at once in some- 
 savings bank, it would augment by degrees. And 
 what about the mother, sir, should she have nothing 9 1 
 In any case, the future of the child ought to be 
 assured." 
 
130 TWELVE THOUSAND FRANCS. 
 
 Our fine gentleman continued his promenade up 
 and down the chamber, indulging in such reflections 
 as these : " The world is growing very strange. It 
 is a school. In it one is learning something every 
 day. As for women, they are becoming more and 
 more unreasonable. We men are but children in 
 i:heir hands. Twelve thousand francs ! With that 
 sum one used to be able to command a hundred 
 mistresses. I am not speaking of myself: for, 
 thank God, no woman has ever ruined me. I have 
 achieved all my triumphs with a closed purse. I 
 like that better ; in that case, one is certain of being 
 loved for oneself. None of them has ever been in a 
 position to give me the mitten." 
 
 " Sir, let me infcn you that your reflections are 
 in very bad taste," said Georgette : enraged at the 
 isoliloquies of that gentleman. 
 
 " But, miss, it seems to me that I should at least 
 he permitted to mourn over my fate." 
 
 "No, sir, I will not permit you to do so in niy^ 
 presence. You blame my conduct. But if I chose* 
 mr, I could by a single word make you blush to the 
 tip of the ears — would make you straighten your 
 wrinkled brows in my presence and humbly beg my 
 forgiveness for your impertinences." 
 
 M. de Mardeille rolled his large eyes, and stam- 
 mered out : " I do not comprehend a single word of 
 what you have just said. If you would express 
 j-ourself more clearly." 
 
 " It is not convenient at the present moment for 
 ine to be more explicit; but do not give yourself any 
 ^concern ; you will lose nothing by waiting." 
 
 Our fine gentleman took up his hat, saying to 
 ihimself : " I shall lose nothing ? That is an enigma. 
 I have lost a brooch. If I dared, I would demand 
 its return. But I dare not, for I know quite well 
 she would not give it me back. This young girl has 
 imposed on me. She has a provincial accent — a 
 
▲ PARCEL. 131 
 
 country wench. Fool that I have been! But it 
 will teach me to make sacrifices for women ! " 
 
 Turning to Georgette, the gentleman made her a 
 very formal bow and left the house, infinitely less 
 radiant than in the morning, and murmuring be- 
 tween his teeth: "Twelve thousand francs for a 
 little shirt-maker! My God, what is the world* 
 coming to. What next ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 A PARCEL. 
 
 Fob a whole week our first floor gentleman is in 
 the worst possible humour. He went out and in all 
 
 I hours of the day, growling at his servant, eating 
 almost nothing, sleeping very badly, and had not 
 
 I once even approached the windows which looked into 
 the court yard. One day Frontin desired to say 
 something about the young woman in the entresol? 
 but his master interrupted him abruptly, saying r. 
 "If you dare to say another word to me about that 
 shirt-maker, if you venture on repeating a single 
 
 j syllable to me relating to her, I shall kick you out of 
 my house with my foot. Now remember what I say." 
 But, after the lapse of these eight days, M. de 
 Mardeille, becoming alarmed at the loss of appetite 
 and sleep, and witnessing with concern that his 
 fresh and smiling complexion had now the colour of 
 a baked apple, that his brows were beginning to> 
 
 I wrinkle, that his cheeks were gradually falling in, 
 and that if this were to continue he would present 
 the appearance of a man of the, years he had really 
 
 ; lived, said to himself: "I must put an end to alt 
 this* I seek for distraction but can find none. I 
 
 e2 
 
132 
 
 A PARCEL. 
 
 pay iny addresses to otlier women — they receive me 
 favourably — and I . do not return to them again. 
 But somehow the image of this Georgette is con- 
 stantly before my eyes. I see her going to and 
 coming from her chamber in her camisole and little 
 petticoat. Her voluptuous proportions turn my 
 head. I am decidedly attracted to this young woman. 
 And after all, I should be a fool to permit myself to 
 pine away, when it rests with myself to be the happy 
 lover of this little witch. I know what it will cost 
 me. But, even so, twelve thousand francs will not 
 ruin me; besides, she has given me the positive 
 assurance that she will be satisfied with this sum. 
 She is not like other women whose demands are 
 never satisfied. And though one does not give them 
 such a large sum at once, yet one has to be con- 
 stantly giving them, so that in the end they cost a 
 good deal more." 
 
 When he had concluded these reflections, M. de 
 Mardeille turned round to Frontin and said to him : 
 "Frontin, how long is it since you saw our little 
 neighbour ? " 
 
 Frontin, calling to mind the inhibition which his 
 master had placed upon him, regarded the latter 
 with an astonished air, and responded: "Madame 
 Picotee ? I met her only this morning in the court.'* 
 
 " Who was speaking to you of Madame Picotee, 
 you imbecile. Do you think I should describe her 
 as my little neighbour? What has that withered 
 
 I was speaking to you of 
 the entresol, — the lovely 
 
 old hag to do with me ! 
 the young woman in 
 Georgette." 
 
 In hearing the name of the pretty shirt-maker 
 pronounced, Frontin said to himself : " This is simply 
 to try me — my master has forbidden me to speak of 
 lier — he wants to entrap me." 
 
 Putting his finger on his lip, Frontin turned to- 
 ward his master, shook his head knowingly, as if to 
 
A PAKCEL. 133 
 
 say to him: "No, I am not such a fool as to be 
 -caught in this way." 
 
 This so enraged M. de Mardeille that he seized his 
 valet by the shoulders and shook him, exclaiming : 
 ^Why don't you answer me, you fool?" 
 
 " Sir, you expressly forbade me ever again to 
 speak of that young woman in the entresol. 3 ' 
 
 " I now remove the inhibition, dullard." 
 
 " But how was I to know that ! " 
 
 "I wish you now to speak of her, and to tell me 
 till that you have heard about hei. You must know 
 something, you who are so constantly with the 
 concierge" 
 
 " Upon my word, sir, it is always the same story. 
 M. Bistelle sends billet doux together with bouquets 
 to mam'zelle Georgette, and begs of her to receive 
 liim ; but to no purpose ; she refuses either to receive 
 himself or his billet doux" 
 
 " Indeed ! Georgette refuses to, receive this gentle- 
 man? That is so far well. She received me, and 
 though our neighbour, who is rich, must have made 
 her some tempting offers, she thus preferred me : she 
 must have a penchant for me. She only resisted me 
 "because she has got into her head — that cursed 
 calculation — that fear of results. Yet, I am the 
 favoured one — I am her beloved one, which comes to 
 the same thing. Have you heard nothing else about 
 lier, Frontin?" 
 
 "Well, there is the other old gentleman, M. 
 Uenardin, who still seems eager to make her a 
 present. He had ordered for her a superb Savoy 
 •cake. T do not know how Arthemise came to know 
 this, but she did get to know it all the same. She 
 took up her position near the lodge of the concierge, 
 stopped the baker's man in the passage, took the 
 cake from him, and, knocking a hole in it, she put it 
 -on her heatl, in the form of a turban, which gave 
 her the appearance of a Turk; then walked all over 
 
134 A PARCEL. 
 
 the house with it thus placed, and even served her 
 master with his dinner without removing it. There 
 was a great how-do-you-do about it." 
 
 "That was first rate. This gentleman thinks he 
 will seduce a young girl by offering her pastry - 
 The old jackass ! " 
 
 M. de Mardeille went up to the window and drew 
 aside the curtains. Georgette sat in her usual 
 place, and seemed , more seductive than ever. He 
 was now afraid lest she might be angry with him ; 
 nevertheless, he could not resist the temptation of 
 throwing open the window, and of placing himself at 
 it so as to have a good view of his pretty neighbour.. 
 She was not slow in raising her eyes to where he 
 stood ; he made her a profound bow in acknowledg- 
 ment, to which she responded with a sweet smile- 
 He was enchanted, radiant; he passed an hour at 
 the window, and daring that time Georgette several 
 times smiled at him. 
 
 " She is not angry : she will receive me again : I 
 could read that in her eyes," said our gay old 
 bachelor to himself. " Yes, I need have no fear in 
 presenting myself at her house. But if I do not 
 conform to her wishes, 1 will not be a step farther 
 forward." 
 
 The day passed without M. de Mardeille coming 
 to any resolution. He had gone several times to hi& 
 secretaire, rummaged in his cash box, had taken out 
 a number of bank notes, regarded them affection- 
 ately, and had put them back again with a sigh. 
 Love and avarice had declared war a outrance in the 
 heart of this gentleman, who was cruelly rooted to 
 his former habits. The next day M. de Mardeille 
 still wavered, hesitated, and could not come to a 
 decision, Prontin came running to him: "Sir, come 
 quick and see this from the window. Mam'zelle 
 Georgette is in the court pumping water. Oh, if you 
 could only see with what grace she pumps ! " 
 
A PARCEL. 135 
 
 "Oh, I must see that; yes, I must," and our 
 ancient lover hastened to place himself at one of his 
 windows, which was directly facing the pump. 
 {Georgette was there, wearing as usual her little 
 petticoat, which rounded gracefully over haunches, 
 and the motion of pumping displayed to the utmost 
 advantage her exquisite physical charms. Did the 
 young lady not know this ? It is most prohable she 
 did, seeing that she appeared to take great pleasure 
 in the exercise, which to others is looked on as 
 fatiguing. 
 
 M. de Mardeille, having contemplated for several 
 minutes this moving picture which stood before his 
 eyes, ran quickly to his cash box, took thence a roll 
 of bank notes, without even hesitating once. He 
 placed them hurriedly in a portfolio, which he put 
 in his pocket; then hastily making his toilet, left his 
 own rooms to seek those of Georgette, repeating to 
 himself the words of Csesar in crossing the Rubicon 
 — " Alea jacta est" — "the die is cast." 
 
 The young shirt-maker had just time to quit the 
 pump, to ascend the stairs to her room, and to 
 resume her work, when she turned round to witness 
 the arrival of M. de Mardeille— flurried, excited, 
 palpitating with hope. He advanced to where 
 Georgette was, and in taking a seat beside her, said : 
 " My dear little neighbour, I have come to beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 " Beg my pardon ! But I have no recollection, sir, 
 •of your having offended me." 
 
 " But it is so, all the same. The last time I was 
 here, I said some things to you which I ought not to 
 have said." 
 
 " Then, sir, I must have forgotten them." 
 
 " Ah, how kind of you ! how very amiable on your 
 part ! Yet, I am bound to confess, darling Georgette, 
 that, separated from you, I could not live — I was so 
 acutely unhappy." 
 
136 A PARCEL. 
 
 ,» 
 
 "In very truth P ! 
 
 "It is so true that, in order to prove my love for 
 yon, I am resolved to make any sacrifice — a thing 
 that I have never done in the case of any woman 
 heretofore. Yet, what would I not do to touch this 
 bewitching petticoat — which always eludes me when 
 I attempt to grasp it ! See here, my darling girl ; be 
 good enough to accept from me this pocket-book — it 
 contains twelve thousand francs in bank notes. Will 
 this put a period to your harsh treatment of me ? " 
 
 Georgette blushed. A thrill of joy, a sentiment of 
 triumph shone in her eyes. She took the pocket- 
 book, regarded it without examining its contents,, 
 and with eyes abashed she stammered out : " Since 
 you have made this great sacrifice on my account, I 
 can no longer help yielding myself "up to you ; still, I 
 must beg that you will grant me one day's respite. 
 To-day I should like to have my thoughts dwell on 
 my family — to call up the recollections of my youth ; 
 but when to-morrow comes you shall find — I am 
 
 vours." 
 
 "Oh! I can refuse nothing to her who promises 
 me such happiness. So, then, to-morrow you will 
 fight shy of me no longer — you let me lay my hand 
 on that wicked little petticoat, which causes my 
 heart to jump into my mouth ! " 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow I promise that you shall be* 
 allowed to touch it as much as you wish, and that I 
 will not oppose you any longer." 
 
 " Enough, enough, my divine seraph ! I could 
 wish for nothing farther. I shall now leave you to 
 your reflections until to-morrow; for, if I remained 
 longer with you at present, I might not be answer- 
 able for my conduct. Then, to-morrow. We shall 
 breakfast together, and your windows shall be closed 
 for once, eh?" 
 
 "They shall be closed. Just wait, and you shall 
 see!" 
 
A PARCEL. 137 
 
 M. de Mardeille thereupon took his leave; but 
 soon after he began to reflect : " She has put me off 
 until to-morrow. Before yielding herself up to me, 
 I presume she wants to find out whether the pocket- 
 l>ook I have given her contains the amount of money 
 I told her it did. Oh, but she is an artful little 
 sphinx — one who has no idea of allowing herself to 
 be easily trapped. But what does it matter? she 
 -will see that I have not deceived her, and, for this 
 -time at least, I feel certain she will hold to her 
 promise." 
 
 A day and a night seem long when one is on the 
 Tack of anticipation — on the threshold of accom- 
 plishing that which one ardently desires. M. de 
 Mardeille did the best he could to kill the time. He 
 dined at a restaurant, called on his friends, visited 
 several theatres, returned home very late, went to 
 bed, and finished the day by falling asleep dreaming 
 only of Georgette. 
 
 The day so eagerly wished had at length arrived ; 
 hut it was somewhat late when our gallant rung the 
 bell for Frontin, which latter entered his master's 
 chamber walking on his tiptoes. 
 "What time is it, Frontin?" 
 " It is close on ten o'clock, sir." 
 " What ! I have slept far too long, and you never 
 -thought of coming here to wake me up ! " 
 
 "To wake you up, sir! I had no orders to do 
 that, and, otherwise, I would never presume on 
 i;aking such liberties." 
 
 " Well, no matter. Get everything ready for my 
 toilette. Tou are going to curl my hair up to the 
 mark. This morning I am anxious to look my very 
 *>est." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you always look handsome." 
 " Not at all bad, I admit, for an old one." 
 " I intended to convey, sir, that when one is rich 
 one always appears handsome." 
 
138 A PARCEL. 
 
 "You are chattering now like a fool, Fronting 
 But listen, Frontin. Go into the dining-room and 
 see whether the windows of our little neighbour are 
 open, as usual. And tell me also whether Georgette 
 is occupying her usual seat near the window." 
 
 Frontin went to do what his master had told him,, 
 and soon came, exclaiming excitedly : " Sir, some- 
 thing very extraordinary must have happened. All 
 the windows of the entresol are closed, and you know 
 that Georgette ordinarily keeps them open." 
 
 " Closed ! " cried M. de Marseille, laughing. " Ah^ 
 yes, I remember. That is just what I asked of her 
 yesterday to do. This is the proof that she i& 
 expecting me. It was stupid of me to sleep so long- 
 Crone, Frontin, make haste, with my hair." 
 
 The servant bustled about in order to arrange the 
 slender locks of the other. And when he had 
 polished his master off, the latter said to him : 
 "Now, go to the buffet, take some Madeira, some 
 Bordeaux, some champagne, and carry them to the 
 rooms of our little neighbour, and say to her that I 
 shall have the honour of waiting on her in about 
 five minutes' time." 
 
 Frontin disappeared ; but bef oro his master had 
 finished he returned, holding a bottle under each 
 arm aad a third in his hand, looking even more- 
 stupid than was his wont. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, you fool! Why 
 have you not done what I told you? Did I not tell 
 you to carry these bottles to the rooms of Georgette ? " 
 shouted M. de Mardeille. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir : I did go there ; but there was 
 no one in ; that is why I have brought back the 
 bottles." 
 
 "Nobody in! She has of course gone out to 
 make some purchase or another for breakfast. 
 Why did you not wait for a few minutes on the 
 landing ?" 
 
A PARCEL. 139 
 
 " Ah, sir, that was my first idea ; but it is just as 
 well that I did not act on it ; for it now appears that 
 1 might have waited in vain." 
 
 "What do you mean, sir, by in vain? Explain 
 yourself instantly." 
 
 " Well, sir, as I was returning here I encountered 
 the concierge, to whom I said : " Mam'zelle Georgette 
 it appears has gone out : do you know when she will 
 return?" at which he burst out laughing, and said: 
 "Why, if you are going to wait on her, you will 
 have to wait a long time. She went away last 
 evening." 
 
 " Went away last evening ! How is this ? you do 
 not know what you are saying. You have been 
 misinformed, sir. Gone away ! Where has she gone 
 to?" ejaculated M. de Mardeille, the picture of 
 astonishment. 
 
 "That is just what I wanted to know, sir. It 
 appears that Georgette suddenly made up her mind 
 i;o change her lodgings. She paid the concierge last 
 evening : then went and fetched a dealer, to whom 
 she sold her furniture : this done, she hailed a cab, 
 which she entered and drove away without telling 
 any one where she was going." 
 
 M. de Mardeille became in turn green, red, and 
 callow. He* let himself slide down into a chair, 
 stammering out: "A glass of water, Frontin; a 
 glass of water. I believe I am going to be very ill." 
 
 The servant ran to fetch a glass of water to give 
 to his master. 
 
 " Sir, I perceive you have been very much in love 
 with our little neighbour," suggested Frontin, 
 timidly. 
 
 At these words M. de Mardeille threw the glass with 
 
 its contents at the head of his servant, screaming: 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you brute. I have been robbed. 
 
 That's what's the matter with me. Go and tell the 
 
 jporter to come to me : I must speak to him." 
 
140 A PARCEL. 
 
 " That reminds me, sir, he has something to give- 
 you — a parcel Georgette left with him for yon ; for 
 he said to me — "Is your master up yet? I have a. 
 parcel I was charged by the young shirt-maker, 
 when she was leaving, to deliver into his own hands- 
 
 "And why did you not tell me that before, you 
 imbecile ? Go to the porter — make haste : tell him 
 to come up here at once." 
 
 " Stay, sir ; there is some one ringing the bell- 
 It must be the concierge, I shall go and let him in."' 
 
 The thoughts of our fine gentleman were now of a 
 mixed order — floating between fear and hope. He 
 said to himself: "A parcel: it must contain the 
 bank notes, which she has sent back to me. 
 Eeflection has no doubt caused her to change her-\ 
 mind, and she has concluded to remain virtuous." 
 
 The concierge now entered the apartments of our 
 gentleman of the first floor, carrying in his hand a 
 rather bulky parcel, which was carefully wrapped up- 
 in brown pa'per, and which he carried under his arm 
 as though it had been the keys of a great city. He 
 presented the parcel to M. de Mardeille, who turned 
 it over and examined it, and who began to say with 
 himself : " I know I did not give her enough bank: 
 notes to make up a parcel as bulky as this." 
 
 " Sir," said the concierge, " here is a parcel that 
 the young lady in the entresol charged me to deliver 
 to you when she went away." 
 
 " Went away ! But why did you allow this young 
 *.ady to go away ? Did you give her notice to quit ? " 
 
 " ~No, sir, but she has paid up all — even the term 
 of notice — and I had therefore no power to detain 
 her : besides, her engagements elsewhere seemed to 
 be very pressing." 
 
 " And you did not ask her where she was going to?'* 
 
 "Pardon me, sir, she told me that she was re- 
 turning to her own part of the country, but she^ 
 would be back a^ain in Paris in about a week." 
 
A PAKCEL. 141 
 
 " And she did not leave with you any address ?" 
 
 " No, sir, bnt she left this little note for yon." 
 
 "Ah ? let me have it then. Tou ought to have 
 given me this first of all. Leave me now ; and you 
 too, Frontin." 
 
 The concierge and the valet then walked away, 
 saying to one another : " What a shame it was in 
 him not to open the parcel in our presence ! " 
 
 "Yes, said Frontin, "I am very curious to know 
 what it is the little shirt-maker has sent him. 
 You, who took it from her, did you not find out 
 what the paper contained ? " 
 
 " Assuredly not." 
 
 "Was it hard?" 
 
 " No, it was quite soft." 
 
 "Then it is probably a cheese the little shirt- 
 maker has received from some of her country friends." 
 
 When once alone, M. de Mardeille made haste to 
 open the parcel. It contained the little black 
 petticoat which Georgette had been in the habit of 
 wearing constantly. 
 
 " Her petticoat ! She has sent me her petticoat ! " 
 screamed M. de Mardeille. " What bitter mockery ! " 
 
 He then tore open the letter and read : " I told you 
 to-day that you might feel, touch, and handle my 
 little petticoat in whatever way you pleased. You 
 see I have bee a as good as my word. I have sent it 
 to you. I have no doubt you will think ill of me for 
 this, sir. But do not condemn me off-hand; wait 
 until you have seen me again ; and that shall be as 
 soon as ever I can. Yes, remain quiet; you shall 
 hear from me again." 
 
 M. de Mardeille was so overwhelmed with rage 
 that the letter dropped out of his hand. 
 
 \ 
 
1.42 A YOUNG EA KE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A YOUNG BAKE. 
 
 A fortnight has now passed since the events 
 related in the previous chapter. 
 
 In a handsome apartment, in a house in the Rue 
 de la Chausse d'Antin, a young man, enveloped in a 
 superb dressing gown, is listlessly promenading up 
 and down, going from one room to another, puffing 
 away at a cigarette. 
 
 This young man was Yiscount Sommerston, a 
 descendant of a rich Irish family. But Edward de 
 ^Sommerston had been born in France, and had 
 never manifested any desire to take up his residence 
 in the country of his ancestors. Since the age of 
 twenty-one, he had been in receipt of an income of 
 .about four thousand a year, and had during that 
 ■time given himself up to a life of pleasure, irregu- 
 larity and debauchery — a life that makes young men 
 old in a very short time. 
 
 Tall, well-made, handsome and rich, all of which 
 are well calculated to Mil a man in ten years or 
 even less, provided he does not know how to regulate 
 •his passions. The Yiscount was now nine-and- 
 twenty years of age. Ho was not yet dead of course, 
 but it were no exaggeration to say that he had 
 already one foot in the grave. He had not only 
 used, but abused everything. 
 
 The list of his mistresses was a lengthy one, the 
 •rather, seeing that it contained the names of many 
 persons who had not been known to him for more 
 than a week, this gentleman being essentially in- 
 constant and capricious. The woman he worshipped 
 one day he despised the. ^ day following. As ill luck 
 ^would have it, he had never encountered any woman 
 
A YOUNG RAKE. 14^ 
 
 who had resented his attentions; the title of rotie 
 and scapegrace he bore, being regarded as a recom- 
 mendation rather than as a reproach with the ladies* 
 to whom he paid homage. 
 
 By this time, Edward de Sommerston had squan- 
 dered moie than the half of his fortune; but there 
 still remained to him as much of it as would serve to* 
 make him comfortable, provided he knew how to- 
 take care of the latter. But he was ignorant of 
 everything, even as to how to amuse himself; every- 
 thing fatigued, bored, and disgusted him. 
 
 Thus Edward was no longer capable of loving* 
 He had destroyed his stomach by imbibing toa 
 much champagne and malvoisie. He still gambled 
 a little, but without taking any actual interest in it x 
 unless when luck was very much against him;, 
 though when he lost heavily he would exhibit &- 
 little emobion, which had the effect of bringing a 
 little life into his pale and emaciated countenance. 
 
 Only one thing remained to this gentleman, viz.,, 
 his passion for tobacco. You never met him any- 
 where without his having a cigarette in his mouth,, 
 and when that was finished, another, so that either 
 within or without doors, he must always be smoking^ 
 "He could not," he said, "pass a single hour with- 
 out tobacco in some form." He attributed this 
 foolish habit to the complaisance of the ladies with 
 whom he was wont to consort, and who sometimes 
 even joined him in a cigarette. What think you,, 
 dear reader, of ladies who smoke? 
 
 It was in vain that the doctors advised the 
 Viscount, " It is wrong in you to smoke so much : it 
 does you great injury. You cough: you have a. 
 weak chest: eventually it will dry up your whole 
 system if you continue to smoke as you do. You 
 will become a consumptive." 
 
 But instead of following this advice, the young 
 man, on the contrary, pretended to know more than 
 
144 A YOUNG BAKE. 
 
 the doctors. He was wont to say to himself: 
 <c They forbid me smoking. Yery well. I shall 
 smoke even more, in order to show them what value 
 I attach to their counsels." 
 
 In point of fact, the number of cigarettes smoked 
 in one day by Edward Sommerston was such that 
 his valet de chambre in the end did little else all day 
 long than make cigarettes for his master. 
 
 Edward had from time to time travelled, in the 
 hope of finding under different skies new sensations. 
 He had travelled over Switzerland, Spain, Italy, and 
 England; but, unhappily, wherever, he who can 
 strew his path with gold, meets with few obstacles to 
 the accomplishment of his desires. As for women 
 they are born coquettes, men are egotists, hotel 
 keepers, eager for gain, lay themselves out to please ; 
 while everywhere servants are always ready to 
 flatter. In Spain, thanks to a jealousy born of the 
 soil, he had fought several duels : but as he was 
 skilled in handling both sword and pistol he had 
 always come off the conqueror, yet after all he had 
 derived little or no pleasure from such encounters. 
 
 On one occasion, while travelling in Switzerland, 
 in attempting to scale a glacier, he lost his hold and 
 was precipitated to the foot of it, where he had to 
 remain six hours before the guides succeeded in 
 pulling him up with ropes. When he had been 
 rescued, half frozen to death, the Viscount was 
 greatly pleased, and he often afterwards reverted to 
 this journey, describing it as the most agreeable of 
 any of the tours he had made, seeing that it had 
 furnished him with a new sensation. 
 
 When we now meet the Viscount Sommerston, he 
 had returned from Italy only a month previously; 
 he was, as we have above stated, walking up and 
 down his apartments, smoking cigarettes, and 
 followed about by his valet, Lepinette, who kept 
 constantly handing him fresh ones. 
 
A YOUNG RAKE. 
 
 145 
 
 All at once, the Viscount pulled up abruptly in 
 -the middle of his drawing-room, and exclaimed: 
 "Lepinette, what is the time by the clock?" 
 
 " It is nearly three o'clock, Monsieur le Viscount." 
 
 " Ah, indeed. Give me a cigarette." 
 
 " There is one, sir." 
 
 " I shall go now and finish my dressing. What 
 the devil am I to do with myself to-day? Can you 
 tell me, Lepinette?" 
 
 " If I remember rightly, sir, you have told three 
 of your friends, MM. Florville, Dumarsey, and 
 Lamberlong, to be here at three o'clock, in order to 
 "take a ride in the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 "Ah, yes, you are right. In fact, these gentle- 
 Tnen are due here now. That is not a good cigarette : 
 make me another one." 
 
 " Here you are, sir." 
 
 "To ride in the Bois — it is always the same 
 thing — it is very monotonous. Lepinette, can you 
 not find me something which will amuse me 
 better." 
 
 "I could not suggest anything better, sir; but 
 Monsieur the Viscount is so difficult to please. That 
 which pleases others is to him a matter of indiffer- 
 ence and even of disgust." 
 
 " That is true, Lepinette ; it is difficult to amuse 
 me. In this I am like Louis XIV. In returning to 
 Paris as we did lately, I had hoped to find something 
 lew. This cigarette does not smoke well. Eetch 
 
 le another." 
 
 " Here is one, sir." 
 
 "It is always the same thing; nothing new, 
 piquant." 
 
 " There are, however, some very pretty girls living 
 in this neighbourhood, sir." 
 
 "Yes, to suit your taste, but not mine. But, 
 tark ! Do I not hear the clatter of horses' feet in 
 
 ie court yard ? " 
 
 Xi 
 
146 the viscount's friends. 
 
 "Yes, it is the three gentlemen, your friends r 
 who have come to call on Monsieur le Yicomte." 
 
 " Ah ! by Jupiter — and I am not yet dressed. So 
 much the worse for them ! They must wait. Give* 
 me another cigarette." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THE VISCOUNT'S FRIENDS. 
 
 The friends of the Viscount entered his drawing- 
 room in riding costume, with riding whips in their 
 hands. 
 
 The first to enter was a tall young man nearly six: 
 feet in height, but who was slender in build, so- 
 transparent, that he inspired one with the fear that 
 he might break in two if he attempted to bend down 
 — and this feeling was heightened by the fact that 
 he was dressed in the latest fashion. His clothes 
 fitted him so tightly that not a wrinkle was to be- 
 seen in the former. Even the ladies must have 
 envied this gentleman for his slender waist. His 
 name was Elorville, and he had an agreeable enough, 
 countenance. 
 
 The second gentleman was also young : of medium- 
 height, whose hair was perfectly red, even to his 
 eyelids and eyelashes ; which latter, however, did. 
 not prevent him from considering himself extremely 
 handsome: while he did not dare turn his head for 
 fear of crumpling his collar, and of disarranging the> 
 set of his cravat. He was an habitue of the Theatre 
 Italien. He hardly ever missed a single perform- 
 ance; was ambitious of being regarded as a great 
 connoisseur in music, and firmly believed that he> 
 could have given out C Alt. from the chest, if only~ 
 
THE VISCOUNT'S FRIENDS. 147 
 
 liis voice had been cultivated ; but it was not culti- 
 vated. This person, who made himself so ridi- 
 culous by his pretensions and his manners, was 
 M. Lamberlong. 
 
 The third gentleman who presented himself at the 
 residence of the Viscount was a young man about 
 ^thirty, neither handsome nor ugly, stout rather than 
 lean, with a smiling countenance, and giving evidence 
 iihat he was one of those good-natured fellows who 
 made life a pleasure. His name was Dumarsey. 
 
 Florville and Dumarsey have each a huge cigar 
 in their mouths ; the young ma a with the red hair 
 does not smoke. In recompense, he had a small pane 
 of glass which he constantly applied to his right eye, 
 which served the purpose of a monode. His good 
 friends alleged that he ought also to place a glass 
 upon his left eye, so as to hide completely from view 
 his albino orbs. 
 
 "Here we are, Edward, here we are. Ah, he is 
 mot ready." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what is all the hurry ? In the 
 "first place, it is yet too soon to go to the Bois. We 
 have plenty of time. I will now go and finish my 
 -dressing. Lepinette, give me a cigarette." 
 
 " Here is one, sir." 
 
 "You will allow me, gentlemen, to finish my 
 toilette in your presence." 
 
 "All right, all right, take your time," said 
 Dumarsey. I have here an excellent Londres, that 
 will amuse me." 
 
 " As for me," said Florville, " I am not so well off ; 
 T have only a poor Havannah." 
 
 " Monsieur Lamberlong, if you would care for a 
 xigar, the box is there ; help yourself. As for me, I 
 only smoke cigarettes ; but I have always cigars at 
 hand, for the accommodation of my friends." 
 
 " I am infinitely obliged to you, my dear Viscount ; 
 •but I never smoke. Yesterday, at the Opera Bouffe, 
 
148 the viscount's friends. 
 
 ihere was a gentleman who smelled of tobacco— 
 that inconvenienced a great many ladies. 5 ' 
 
 " But as there is no Bouffes this evening, you 
 have nothing to fear." 
 
 " But to-night I am going to a concert, at which 
 Alboni is going to sing." 
 
 " Assuredly, you seem always to be where there is- 
 good music." 
 
 " That is my element." 
 
 "You see, Edward," said Dumarsey, smiling,, 
 "that Lamberlong could have given out C Alt» 
 from the chest, if he had only cultivated his voice. 
 What a misfortune that he has neglected his scales ! " 
 
 "Is there no other way of getting out that note?^ 
 Suppose we hire an express train ? " 
 
 " Gentlemen, you are laughing at me. Still, it is 
 none the less true that at the Opera, not long since, 
 a gentleman in the balcony said to me : " Sir, your 
 place is there ! " — meaning behind the footlights. 
 
 "AttheBalcon?" 
 
 "No, at the Opera, which pays salaries amounting- 
 to 60,000 francs." 
 
 " This gentleman must have a good knowledge of 
 music, then?" 
 
 " Yes, he advised me to go under training at once 
 at the Conservatoire." 
 
 " It must be admitted that in this world there are 
 many happy mortals. Here was a gentleman who 
 pretended to judge of the quality of the chest C of 
 Lamberlong ! As for us, we pay fabulous prices for 
 a stall at the Opera. We praise the Opera Bouffe 
 which we have never heard. This is too bad !" 
 
 The young man with the red hair, growing im- 
 patient, got up and began to examine the pictures, 
 which hung on the walls. 
 
 "Is there anything new going on in the world,, 
 gentlemen?" said Edward, as he was adjusting the 
 knot of his cravat. 
 
THE VISCOUNT'S FRIENDS, 14^ 
 
 " No, I hear of nothing piquant — nothing worth 
 speaking ahout. For a long time we have been in 
 want of some pungent scandalous intrigues, the 
 principals in which are known to us." 
 
 " Who is the woman that is all the rage just now.. 
 Bememter, gentlemen, that I am not long back 
 from Italy, and that I am ignorant of what has been 
 going on in Paris." 
 
 " There are five or six who are greatly in vogue ;, 
 but you must have seen them, for you went yesterdays 
 evening to the soiree of St. Phar, the banker." 
 
 "There was nothing there to boast of. If that is 
 all you have to offer me ". 
 
 " Ah, yesterday at the Opera there was a ravishing 
 blonde. She attracted the attention of everybody." 
 
 "Well, I suppose you found out all about 
 Miss Lamberlong ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is the wife of a rich Spaniard, who is 
 about to take her to Brazil. 
 
 "If she is going to Brazil, that is too far off for 
 me to follow her. But you yourself, Yisconnt, you 
 have just returned from Italy, you must have had a 
 few adventures there. Spanish women, they say, 
 are very vindictive." 
 
 " Not more than in France ! I have indeed seen 
 the glitter of some of the little daggers that they 
 carry in their belts, but I have never felt the point 
 of one." 
 
 *'Then, no grand passions?" 
 
 " None, none, it was very dreary. Love is going, 
 out, gentlemen." 
 
 "That is not the opinion of a young gentleman 
 who is always in the Orchestra, at the Bouffes. It 
 is said that he is dying in love for a young actress - r 
 he cannot bear any one speaking to her even ! " 
 
 " Well, it is only to an habitue of the Opera that 
 such things can happen. Lepinette, a cigarette?" 
 
 " Here is one, sir." 
 
150 THE VISCOUNT'S FRIENDS. 
 
 " How many of these do yon smoke in a day, 
 Edward?" 
 
 " I do not know ; I have never counted." 
 " I get through over two dozen ! " 
 " As for me, nearer three dozen." 
 "Pardieu: yon have only to ask my valet de 
 -chambre : he could inform you better than anybody I 
 know." 
 
 " Lepinette, how many cigarettes does your master 
 smoke in a day — about?" 
 
 Lepinette reflected a moment, then responded: 
 *' Gentlemen, I have made in a day for the Viscount 
 as many as sixty ; in any case he never uses less than 
 iorty." 
 
 " Ah, ah, ah ! that is superb ; sixty cigarettes in a 
 day. You ought to get a prize, Edward. We 
 ought to deck you with a garland of cigarettes." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what would you have one do ; 
 one must do something: the rather when one has 
 nothing else to fall back on." 
 
 "My dear Viscount, you cannot make us believe 
 that you have not some beauty who is engaging 
 your attentions." 
 
 "No, my dear Elorville, at this moment I have 
 nobody. I am so satiated with love ! I have finished 
 with love : my heart can never again be set on fire — 
 the incendiary looks of these ladies fall on me as ice 
 and snow. And then, when one gets to know 
 women, we all know how easy it is for them to take 
 ;an oath to anything." 
 
 " Oh, but there are exceptions," said Dumarsey. 
 "Stay, Edward, I knew you once had for a 
 mistress a pretty girl whom you induced to run 
 away with you; you found her in an outfitter's. 
 She came from Lorraine. She was almost fresh 
 from the country." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I remember her. It is Suzanne you are 
 speaking of." 
 
THE VISCOUNT'S FRIENDS. 15fc 
 
 " Yes, you are right ; that was the name you gave 
 her. She appeared to be deeply in love with you, 
 that young girl." # 
 
 " That is to say, she was too much m love witli 
 me. Such creatures become insupportable. She- 
 was too sentimental." 
 
 " What have you done with this Suzanne ? " 
 
 "What have I done with her? Nothing at alL 
 What does one usually do with one of these little 
 wenches who have been our mistresses when we have 
 no further use for them ? One can do nothing else 
 but get rid of them." 
 
 "Then you do not know what has become of 
 
 her?" 
 
 "No, indeed, and I should be very sorry to know.. 
 I have had enough of trouble in ridding myself of 
 the importunities of that little beauty. Lepinette,. 
 give me a cigarette." 
 
 " Here is one, sir." 
 
 At the mention of the name of this young girl to 
 him the face of Sommerston had began to redden, 
 and a frown to gather on his brow. He now threw 
 away the cigarette that had just been handed him, 
 and from which he had only taken a few puffs. 
 His ill-humour, however, rather amused Lamberlong, 
 and to change the subject he bawled out: "Ah, 
 mon dieu ! I have forgotten the name of the opera 
 which is to be given to-morrow. Can you inform 
 me, gentlemen?" 
 
 "Lamberlong, do leave us at peace about your 
 everlasting Bouffes. We know quite well that you 
 never miss a single performance of the Italian 
 players, and we know also that you do not under- 
 stand a word of Italian." 
 
 " Who says that I do not know a word of Italian ? 
 It is false. I can follow fche words quite well." 
 
 "You can follow the words, but you do not 
 comprehend them." 
 
152 THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 " Do you comprehend Italian ? Tf so, tell me the 
 meaning of these words : Pane nos recede ? " 
 
 The young man with the red hair knit his brows, 
 looked at the ceiling, then murmured : " I have never 
 heard those words at the BouSies." 
 
 Our dandy then burst into laughter, and Florville 
 exclaimed; "You do not then know that Dumarsey 
 was speaking to you in Latin ? " 
 
 " Latin ! In that case, how do you think I could 
 understand them? Do you think I know Latin? 
 Fudge, a dead language ! People do not sing in 
 Latin at the BouSies." 
 
 " The horse of Monsieur le Viscomte is now ready 
 saddled," said a little groom, popping his nose in at 
 the corner of the door. 
 
 " Right you are. In that case, gentlemen, let us 
 set out. By the way, Lepinette, have you filled my 
 pockets with cigarettes ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have stuffed them away everywhere 
 about your person ; even in your trousers' pockets. 
 
 " That is right. Now, gentlemen, let us mount. 
 
 a 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 Two days after this riding party, Edward de 
 £>ominerston was in his smoking room, lying stretched 
 -on a sofa, smoking and languishing as usual, re- 
 garding attentively the rings of smoke ascending, 
 then dissipating in the atmosphere of the chamber, 
 until, by reason of this dissipating, they had become 
 a dense cloud — so dense, that one could no longer 
 distinguish any object at the other end of the apart- 
 ment. Suddenly the door was opened, and Lepinette 
 
THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 15tfc 
 
 entered, who, in order to ascertain, through the 
 clouds of smoke, the exact whereabouts of his 
 master, said in an undertone: "Is Monsieur le 
 Yicorate asleep ? " 
 
 " No, I am not asleep. I only wish I could ; but 
 smoking always keeps me awake. What do you 
 want?" 
 
 " I have come to inform you, sir, that I have made 
 
 a 'find'". 
 
 " A ' find ' ! You have discovered some treasure. 
 So much the better for you; keep it for your- 
 self." 
 
 "Oh, sir, it is not a treasure of money. It ia 
 something quite different, and which may be more to 
 the liking of monsieur." 
 
 The Yiscount, half rising, said in a lazy tone: 
 " What is this, then, that you have found ? " 
 
 " Sir, it is a woman; or, rather, a ravishing young 
 
 girl. 
 
 The Yiscount, allowing himself to drop down full 
 length on the sofa again, muttered : " And it was for 
 that you came here to disturb me — that is what you 
 call a treasure?" 
 
 " I had thought that you, sir, would not be sorry 
 to learn that there is in the house a female who 
 would really repay the trouble of being looked at." 
 
 "Ah, this beauty lives in the hotel, does she?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. The concierge, who is here as the 
 representative of the proprietor, has in his rooms 
 up-stairs some pretty articles of furniture that he 
 lets out on hire for his own benefit." 
 
 "Well, what do I care about his little gains? 
 But the other part." 
 
 "This is, that one of the chambers have been 
 rented by a Mademoiselle Georgette, a very discreet 
 person, as it would appear, who rarely goes out and 
 never receives any one." 
 
 **Well: she is no doubt some religious recluse, 
 
154 THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 who spends her time in counting beads. Can the 
 concierge vouch as to her virtue ? " 
 
 " No, sir, the concierge has not gone so far as to 
 ^say that ; I simply repeat to you what I have heard." 
 
 " And what does she do for a living, this living 
 paragon of excellence?" 
 
 "I am told, sir, that she is engaged in light 
 tapestry work, — finishing off pretty little knick- 
 knacks, such as pendants to chandeliers, small rugs 
 upon which to put the feet, cigar cases — oh, you 
 should see those elegant cigar-cases ! " 
 
 " How do you know all this ? Have you already 
 ^bought something of this young woman?" 
 
 No, sir, but the concierge has shown me one that 
 his new tenant has made him a present of: it is 
 extremely pretty." * 
 
 " Ah, the concierge smokes, then?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; smokes like a Swiss." 
 
 " There must be something queer about the 
 proprietors of the hotel to permit all that! But, 
 apart from this, what has all you have been talking 
 about to do with me?" 
 
 " I thought that monsieur would be curious to see 
 the little beauty up-stairs." 
 
 "She will be some common sort of creature, I 
 have no doubt: one of those little creatures who 
 affects airs of modesty ; some grisette who wishes to 
 -draw attention to herself; I know all about those 
 sort of people." 
 
 " By no means, sir ; this girl has not a common 
 face; I shall not declare to monsieur that she is 
 precisely what may be called a beauty ; but, alto- 
 gether, there is something about her which pleases; 
 and above all, such a finely-shaped figure — mag- 
 nificent bust — a neatly turned ankle, and such a 
 neat, small foot ! " 
 
 "Ah, indeed, she possesses all that. You must 
 have been making a very close examination." 
 
THE THIRD PETTICOAT, 155> 
 
 a 
 
 The other day, sir, I chanced to be on the 
 landing when she came up-stairs, dressed in a 
 camisole and little short petticoat, and the former 
 was so spotlessly white, while the extremity of the 
 latter was so prettily embroidered ! Oh, sir, she has- 
 not the appearance of being a loose person. Besides, 
 sir, she was humming some tune as she was ascending 
 the stairs, keeping time with her feet at every step 
 she took. Of course, T stepped aside to allow her to 
 pass, in return for which she made me a very 
 gracious bow; and as she was passing I took the 
 liberty, sir, of saying to her that I hoped we should 
 have the pleasure of having her for our neighbour." 
 
 " You devil of a Lepinette, you do not waste much 
 time in making new acquaintances ! " 
 
 " When one has the honour of being in the service 
 of Monsieur le Vicomte, one ought at least to know 
 how to make up rapidly to the fair sex?" 
 
 " That is not bad. Continue." 
 
 "Well, the young lady stopped and responded to 
 me in the most amiable manner ; ' Yes, sir, I live in 
 the house.' Then she saluted me anew, and con- 
 tinued her way up-stairs." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " No, sir ; as this encounter proved, very agreeable 
 to me, I have several times since went and taken my 
 position on the landing in the hope of seeing her 
 again, and I was not disappointed. Only a minute 
 ago, while I was standing there, the young lady 
 came slowly down the stairs." 
 
 " For a young woman who never goes out, it seems 
 to me that she is to be found very often on the 
 stairs." 
 
 " If you please, sir, she had forgotten to buy some 
 coffee ; it appears that she has a passion for this 
 beverage ; that she cannot get on without coffee." 
 
 "Did she tell you that?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, but without stopping on her way down 
 
156 THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 stairs. It will not be long, of course, before she 
 returns, and if you, sir, would like it, I will go and 
 look down the well of the staircase, and when I see 
 Miss Georgette entering below, I will come and tell 
 jou." 
 
 " Oh fudge, Lepinette ! Do you think I am mad — 
 that I would go out to the stairs to watch for a 
 grisette. You are a fool, Lepinette. 
 
 " I only thought that monsieur would like to see 
 the white camisole and the little short petticoat: 
 seeing that the latter becomes the young woman so 
 well." 
 
 " Pardieu ! I can save all this trouble by sug- 
 gesting a much simpler way. She makes ornamental 
 cigar-cases, you say : I shall order some from her. 
 <3ro and watch for her return, and when you see her 
 coming ask her to come in here for a moment, and 
 you can tell her why." 
 
 "That is enough, sir; I shall go at once and 
 execute your commission." 
 
 '' But see here, if you should not see her passing 
 on the stair, you can go up to her apartments ; one 
 -does not require to stand on much ceremony with a 
 little workwoman." 
 
 "Very well, sir; if she has already passed up- 
 stairs, I shall do as you say." 
 
 Lepinette disappeared, and Edward de Sommerston 
 plunged anew into the delights of a cigarette : but 
 five minutes had hardly rolled over when the valet 
 .returned to speak to his master s 
 
 " Sir, the young person is here," 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" 
 
 " Why, the little lady up-stairs who makes cigar 
 
 <?,ases." 
 
 " Ah, I had already forgotten about this young 
 -female. Well, show her in." 
 "In here, sir?" 
 "Of course; do you fancy that I am going to put 
 
THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 157 
 
 myself to the trouble of going into the drawing- 
 room to receive this grisette ? " 
 
 « Very well, I shall at once introduce her." 
 
 Returning after a minute the domestic announced 
 Mademoiselle Georgette. And Georgette, whom we 
 already "know, seeing that we have seen her in Rue 
 de Seine and Boulevard Beaumarchais, entered the 
 smoking-room dressed in her trim little morning 
 costume. But, on this occasion, there was in this 
 simple neglige something which gave the idea of 
 smartness and of coquetry. For example, the cami- 
 sole was adorned with neat lace and her petticoat 
 "was embroidered at its extremity. Again, her hair 
 was done up in the latest fashion : in short, one could 
 see now that she was got up a la Chaussee-d'Antin. 
 
 Georgette advanced three steps and then with- 
 drew, exclaiming: "Ah, mon Dieu, what a bad 
 smell this place has ! " 
 
 The Viscount thereupon turned himself on the 
 sofa, and said: "I see, you do not like tobacco 
 smoke, my little damsel." 
 
 " Stay, is there any one there ? I could not discern 
 anybody through those clouds of smoke. But no 
 matter. I cannot remain here. I do not want to 
 give the impression that I have been visiting a 
 barrack room." 
 
 Georgette made her escape at once from the 
 smoking-room and, in retreating, opened the first 
 door she came to, and found herself in a splendidly- 
 burnished drawing-room, where she remained for a 
 moment, and said to herself : " What a relief ! One 
 can at least see clearly here, as well as escape being 
 poisoned by tobacco smoke." 
 
 Our young swell, astonished at the hasty retreat 
 made by the young woman, got up, smiling, and said 
 -fco himself : "She is evidently a character, this little 
 beauty. But, in fact, I should not have been able to 
 see her here. But where the devil has she got to ? 
 
158 THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 I will have a look for her. A game at hide-and-seek- 
 will at least recall to my mind my boyhood days." 
 
 After going into one room, then another and 
 another, our young dandy reached finally the one in 
 which Georgette had sought refuge. He descried 
 her sitting in an arm-chair, and turning over the 
 leaves of an album which lay near her. The great 
 assurance of this young woman, the easy manners 
 which she exhibited in this handsome drawing-room, 
 surprised Edward not a little, and, after reflecting a 
 few moments, said to her: "You seem to enjoy 
 looking at the caricatures contained in that album ! ,r 
 
 Georgette rose and graciously saluted the Viscounty 
 answering : " I was waiting on you to follow me, sir,, 
 and I did not think I was doing any harm in turning 
 over the leaves of this album." 
 
 " Oh no, you have not done any harm ; only you 
 ran away from my smoking-room as if it had been 
 the cage of a wild bear." 
 
 "To speak truth, sir, I am not sure that I would 
 not prefer the cage of a bear to a room where the 
 smoke prevented one from seeing anything: where 
 one's eyes smarted, and one should have soon got a 
 headache; not to mention the insupportable odour 
 which one was compelled to breathe." 
 
 While Georgette was speaking Edward examined 
 her from head to foot, and that examination was 
 altogether to the advantage of the young lady ; for 
 he murmured from time to time : "Well-made, yes ! 
 very piquant! that devil of a Lepinette has not 
 deceived me on tnis occasion." 
 
 He then began to make a circuit of Georgette, who 
 was now standing in the middle of the room, and he 
 smiled in contemplating the little petticoat, which 
 fitted so perfectly into the haunches of the grisette,. 
 who, growing impatient under such an inspection, 
 exclaimed at length : " Will you -have soon done, sir, 
 in making an inspection of me?" 
 
THE THIRD PETTICOAT. 159 
 
 " But you are indeed so charming to behold ! " 
 
 " Was it to tell me that that you have brought me 
 liere?" 
 
 " Well, supposing it were so. My valet de chambre 
 has vaunted to me of your person and figure, that I 
 -was curious to know whether he was speaking the 
 truth." 
 
 "If I had known that, I should certainly have 
 never entered this house. Adieu, sir." 
 
 " Stay a moment. What a hurry you seem to be 
 .in, Miss Georgette. For it is, I presume, Miss 
 <xeorgette, whom I am addressing." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " From what part of the country are you ? " 
 
 " From Bordeaux, sir." 
 
 " From the south ! I could have guessed that." 
 
 "Why so, sir?" 
 
 "Because you seem to have a little head which 
 very easily takes fire." 
 
 " I am quite satisfied with my head and all that it 
 •contains." 
 
 "Do you live alone up-stairs?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And have you a great many lovers, Miss 
 Creorgette?" 
 
 The young woman cast at him a contemptuous 
 look, and answered : " I have none at all, sir." 
 
 " What ! not even one — some young man according 
 ix> your heart ? That is very surprising." 
 
 " What can you find surprising in that, sir ? Do 
 jyou fancy that a young woman cannot live without 
 having a lover ? " 
 
 " In Paris, at least, such a thing seems very 
 difficult." 
 
 " Not more difficult in Paris than anywhere else. 
 A woman cannot be compelled to do what she does 
 •not wish." 
 
 " Not always. There is the desire, you know, to 
 
160 THE THTRD PETTICOAT. 
 
 please, not to speak of coquetry, which is innate- 
 in woman. A woman likes to have fine dresses,, 
 and one cannot have these without earning 
 them. Women love to be decked ont in silks 
 and cashmeres ! You are charming in that desha- 
 bille. But you could not appear thus at the 
 Mabille." 
 
 " But I have no desire to visit the Mabille." 
 "Now, you can hardly be saying just now what 
 you believe." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am." 
 
 "No lover! What a phenomenon! For with 
 that form and figure and that little foot you must 
 have made hundreds of conquests." 
 ' "Well, yes." 
 "And you have rejected all advances?" 
 Every one." 
 
 But you must have a lover in the country — some 
 secret passion which fills your heart ? " 
 No, sir, I have no secret passion." 
 This being so, I must repeat — you are a pheno- 
 menon, and I am very proud of having such a rarity 
 as a little neighbour. Your are then afraid of love — 
 yes, afraid of lovers?" 
 
 " I ! I am afraid of nothing." 
 " Ah, ah, ah ! you are most amusing." 
 "You find me amusing, sir; that is not very 
 complimentary to me." 
 
 "I find you piquant, alluring, ravishing." 
 Thereupon the young man attempted to take 
 Georgette in his arms, but the latter resisted, and 
 threw off the Yiscount, saying to him in a very 
 determined tone of voice: "Sir, such manners are 
 displeasing to me, and let me warn you that they 
 never succeed with me." 
 
 " Pardon me, miss ! pardon me ; I forgot that I, 
 had a Lucretia to deal with." 
 
 " Is that all you have to say to me, sir ? " 
 
 
 
AN ATTEMPT. 161 
 
 " No, I want to speak to you about some cigar- 
 cases : my servant told me that you make them to 
 perfection." 
 
 " I at least take the greatest pains in making 
 them. Do you require one ?" 
 
 " If you would be so kind." 
 
 "What colour would you like it?" 
 
 " Oh, I am not very particular ; I leave all that to 
 your taste to select." 
 
 " Yery well, sir ; I charge eleven francs apiece for 
 them." 
 
 " Charge what you please. The price concerns me 
 little." 
 
 " In that case, sir, you shall have a cigar-case in 
 three days." 
 
 " Very well, and be so amiable as to bring it to me 
 yourself." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "Do not be afraid, either, that I shall again 
 receive you in my smoking-room." 
 
 "Oh, so much the better. For, in good truth, 
 that tobacco odour has given me a head-ache. I 
 have the honour of saluting you, sir." 
 
 Georgette then made the Yiscount a " fetching " 
 little reverence, and the latter, watching her move 
 away, said to himself: " Pardieu ! This little 
 brunette must be mine ; for she is certainly not only 
 pretty, but original." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AN ATTEMPT, 
 
 Edward de Sommeeston did not credit what 
 Georgette had said to him on the subject of love ^ 
 
 M 
 
AN ATTEMPT. 
 
 mor did the "Viscount believe ia the virtue of a young 
 woman who lived all alone and worked for her 
 living. He thus communed with himself: "This 
 little one would like to pass herself off for a chaste 
 person, in order to appeal more directly to the 
 generosity of suitors ; this is a ruse of which I am 
 not going to be made the victim. She will have to 
 yield herself like others — for she is but a woman, and 
 must be allured by dress and jewels — these are the 
 keys to a young woman's heart." 
 
 During the three days which had to elapse before 
 Ms order could be executed, the young man had 
 several times asked his servant whether he had 
 encountered the pucelle on the stair ; but Lepinette 
 mad not seen Georgette, which very much annoyed 
 Mm; for the valet had nattered himself that he 
 could make a conquest of the young girl much more 
 easily than his master. 
 
 The day on which Georgette had appointed, 
 Edward, arrayed in an elegant dressing-gown, 
 awaited the young woman in a pretty little parlour 
 which might serve in an emergency for a boudoir. 
 He smoked cigarettes, but took care to smoke a very 
 mild tobacco, and which, moreover, was slightly 
 perfumed. 
 
 On the stroke of noon Lepinette announced to his 
 master Mademoiselle Georgette, whereupon the 
 young workwoman made her appearance, dressed in 
 her little petticoat and camisole as usual. 
 
 She saluted the Yiscount, and said to him: 
 " Pardon me, sir, for presenting myself to you in 
 this neglige. But I have to devote so much time to 
 working that I never take the pains to change my 
 toilette while at home." 
 
 " The little wretch knows quite well that she is 
 much more seductive arrayed thus," said Edward to 
 himself, " and this is the reason she comes here in 
 that little petticoat. If she were not so well formed 
 
AN ATTEMPT. 16& 
 
 she would take care to provide herself with a lot of 
 dresses. I know all this of course. Mademoiselle 
 Georgette is anxious I should have every opportunity 
 to admire her charms : she would like to please me," 
 and the young man, without putting himself to the 
 trouble to rise, motioned Geprgette to take a seat. 
 
 "Be seated then, Miss Georgette, if you please* 
 Tou look very well as you are. Besides, one does not 
 dress oneself merely to call on a neighbour. It will 
 not annoy you, I hope, if I continue to smoke ? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, I did not come here to inconvenience 
 you." 
 
 "Moreover, it is a very mild tobacco and the 
 odour of which is not disagreeable, even to persons* 
 who do not care for tobacco." 
 
 " That ia true ; it smells like patchouli." 
 
 " You have had the complaisance, I hope, to thinlr 
 of my cigar-case ? " 
 
 44 Here it is, sir,'* and Georgette handed the 
 Viscount a handsome cigar-case lined on both sides 
 with silk. 
 
 "Oh, how superb! It is perfectly charming!'*' 
 exclaimed Edward. 
 
 "It pleases you? I am so glad." 
 
 " I should be very difficult to please if that did not 
 satisfy me in every particular. These little squares 
 are perfect in form and colour. You have as much 
 taste as talent. And did you take only three days 
 in which to do it?" 
 
 "It is indeed so." 
 
 "Why, it is worth at least fifty francs." 
 
 "No, that would be too expensive. I will be 
 satisfied with the price we arranged for." 
 
 "But that would hardly allow you five francs a 
 day for your labour, not to mention the price of the 
 wool and the silk." 
 
 "Oh, if I could earn five francs a day I should be- 
 too happy — I would become too rich." 
 
 m 2 
 
164 AN ATTEMPT. 
 
 "Ton are not then ambitions. Ton have no 
 desire to change yonr position ? " 
 
 "Huni! that would depend. To change for a 
 mere trifle wonld not be worth the tronble. Some- 
 times I dream abont things. I have fancied myself 
 in gorgeous apartments, covered with diamonds, 
 cashmere shawls, carriages, lacqueys to serve me : it 
 was magnifique ! " 
 
 " I quite see the drift of this apologue," thought 
 Edward, "she wonld like some one to give her 
 all this. She is very mercenary, this little 
 minx." 
 
 While making this reflection the yonng man had 
 left his easy chair and had placed himself close in 
 ^ront of the chair Georgette occnpied, and there, 
 placing his hands npon his haunches, he looked 
 Georgette straight in the eyes, and said: "Look 
 here! Do yon know that, in my opinion, yon are 
 nobody's fool ! " 
 
 Georgette endnred his look and his remark 
 without flinching for a moment, and contented 
 Tierself by rising from her seat and remarking: 
 "I am very glad, sir, that you entertain such an 
 opinion of me." 
 
 "Very well, then; keep your seat; you are not 
 going to run away from me like that, are you ? " 
 
 " Tes, sir ; I cannot afford to pass my time away 
 doing nothing; I am not a millionaire." 
 
 " Stay a moment, and let us talk a little. In the 
 *first place, I cannot let you take your departure 
 until I have paid you." 
 
 "Oh, that does not disturb me in the least. I 
 will trust you." 
 
 " But in that you might be wrong. Please do me 
 the honour to stay a little longer, for it is so 
 pleasant to talk to you." 
 
 Edward took Georgette by the hand, who allowed 
 him to lead her to a seat, after which he sat down 
 
AN ATTEMPT. 165 
 
 Reside her^ and said : " Do you know what I am 
 going to tell jon ? " 
 
 " How should I know ?" 
 
 "Well, it is this : I am deeply in love with you." 
 
 " Ah, ah, ah ! what nonsense to talk like 
 that." 
 
 " You may call it nonsense if you please, out it is 
 nevertheless true. And the fact surprises myself not 
 a little, for I had made up my mind a long time ago 
 I never could love any one again. There must be 
 something about you — I know not what — something 
 more piquant and attractive than about any other 
 woman. I have it! It is that little petticoat of 
 yours that has made a conquest of me." 
 
 " If that be so, sir, I shall at once go up-stairs to 
 my own room, rid myself of the garment, send it to 
 jou, so that you may have nothing further to desire 
 on that score." 
 
 "Ham — oh, you teasing little wretch! You 
 laiow that that would not satisfy me ! I want not 
 only the little petticoat, but all that it contains. 
 What a pretty little hand ! " 
 
 " Ah, sir, I beg of you not to touch me. I have 
 already informed you that I do not approve of such 
 ways." 
 
 " You are quite right ; I had forgotten that you 
 are a vestal. I am so little accustomed to meet 
 such persons." 
 
 " Oh, then, I see you entertain a bad opinion of 
 women. You must have encountered in your time 
 some honourable women, whom you no doubt were 
 eager to seduce and then to abandon, as you have 
 -done in the case of others." 
 
 "It is quite possible; but I do not remember. 
 With me the past is dead." 
 
 " But I am persuaded of it, and that is why it is 
 necessary for one to take precautions against future 
 contingencies." 
 
166 AN ATTEMPT. 
 
 a 
 
 That is very strange. Do you know, my dear 
 creature, that yon are very funny ? " 
 
 " Sir, I forbid you to use any familiarities with 
 me! You have no right to address me like- 
 that ! " 
 
 " Because you are not yet my mistress 9 Is that 
 it? But in a little you shall be, so it comes to the 
 same thing." 
 
 "No, sir; I shall not be your mistress. And I 
 warn you, once for all, not to speak to me thus t. 
 otherwise, I shall go away and never return here 
 again." 
 
 "Come now, do not be alarmed, Miss Georgette; 
 I shall always treat you respectfully. I see ; you do- 
 not wish to have me for a lover; is that not so?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " How then 9 Am I displeasing to you 9 " 
 
 " Oh no ; it is not that." 
 
 " Well, since it is not that, will you tell me what 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " I do not wish to listen to you ; I have heard of 
 your fickleness. You never keep a mistress more 
 than a month — more or less — and I should never 
 think of exposing myself to treatment of this kind." 
 
 " Some one has been romancing to you. I do not 
 say that I love eternally. For you must know that, 
 sometimes, if we do not cast aside some women r 
 they will cast aside us. The initiative must come 
 from one side or another, and I prefer that it should 
 come from me." 
 
 "Your mode of arranging such matters does not 
 at all fall in with my ideas. But the truth is, you 
 are too much run after, too much flattered by the 
 society in which you move ever to be attracted by a 
 grisette," 
 
 "There is a great deal of truth in what you say- 
 Thou reasonest well, ma charmant, but let me tell 
 you that I have now lost all interest in the great 
 
AX ATTEMPT. 167 
 
 ladies, and I simplj sneer at anything they may 
 think or say abont me." 
 
 "I do not believe you. Adieu, sir: I must return 
 to my apartments." 
 
 "But I cannot let you go before you vouchsafe 
 me an answer." 
 
 " Later on, we shall see about that." 
 
 " Then you will come again and see me. By the 
 way you must make me two more cigar-cases, which 
 I wish to give to friends. In the mean time, let me 
 pay for this one." 
 
 The young man thereupon drew from his pocket a 
 purse full of gold, and threw it into the lap of 
 Oeorgette. The latter looked attentively at the 
 purse for a few moments, then weighing it in her 
 liand, remarked: "What is all this for?" 
 
 " That is what I owe you?" 
 
 The delighted damsel opened the purse, amused 
 herself by counting its contents, then responded: 
 " There is close on live hundred francs here. That 
 would indeed be a great-price to pay for a cigar-case." 
 
 " Then you can make me two others, and that will 
 pay for the whole." 
 
 "Oh no, sir; I cannot accept all this. I shall 
 take what is my due, and return you the rest: I 
 wish for no more." 
 
 In saying this, Georgette took fifteen francs in 
 •gold from the purse, then placing the latter on a 
 table, ran away, exclaiming: "Adieu, Monsieur le 
 Yicomte. I shall come and see you again when I 
 .shall have finished the cigar-cases you order." 
 
 Edward was so taken by surprise at the action of 
 ihe young woman, that it did not even occur to him 
 to try to stop her. 
 
168 TEtiTIA SOL VET. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 TERTIA SOL VET. 
 
 The refusal of Georgette to accept the purse of 
 gold, as we can readily suppose, lessened in no way 
 the fancy that the rich young man had taken for the- 
 damsel: on the contrary, indeed, it only served to- 
 increase it, while no one knew better than herself 
 what effect her so acting would have upon him.. 
 Desires which are quickly satisfied are seldom or 
 never abiding; obstacles are necessary to the 
 strengthening of our passions, and so long as matters 
 remain thus we have no peace. A pleasure which 
 comes to us unsought we place no value on; it is, 
 simply a dish destitute of seasoning. 
 
 But owing to this new fancy which had taken 
 hold of the Yiscount, he now felt less bored; nor did he 
 smoke so many cigarettes ; which proves that love is 
 good for something, at least, and his friends were not 
 slow to perceive the change that had come over him- 
 
 " My dear sir, you have got some new idea into 
 your head," said Florville to him one day; "I would 
 lay a wager on it." 
 
 "Any one who has got eyes in his head can see 
 that," remarked Dumarsey. 
 
 u Some new intrigue is forming in your mind." 
 
 "In good truth, gentlemen, you have divined 
 aright," responded Edward. "Yes, I have taken a 
 violent fancy. The devil take me ; I believe I have 
 fallen in love." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then she must be very pretty." 
 
 "She is better than pretty; she is piquant — 
 ravishing." 
 
 "Did you see her at the Bouffes?" enquired 
 Lamberlong. 
 
TEETIA SOL VET. 169 
 
 • 
 
 "At the Bouffes! You can take my word for 
 it she has never been there," whereat the gentle- 
 man with the red hair makes a grimace, and 
 rejoins : a A woman who never goes to the 
 Bouffes ! ^ion dieu ! How can such a thing be 
 possible ! " 
 
 "Come then, Edward, tell us what sort of a 
 woman is it that is the object of this new passion?" 
 " What sort ! The essence of modesty itself." 
 "And when do you propose letting us have a look 
 at this beauty?" 
 
 " Gentlemen, I shall be happy to exhibit her when 
 I shall have proved her fortunate vanquisher." 
 
 "Oh, then, it is one of those affairs that are to 
 come off." 
 
 " Yes, and I shall take good care not to introduce 
 her to any of you just yet ; for I know you too well, 
 gentlemen ; you would seek to supplant me." 
 
 " And do you reckon that you shall have to sigh 
 for a long time," suggested the grand Florville; 
 " you, sir, who ordinarily conduct your love affairs 
 with railway speed ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; I have on this occasion to do with a 
 little wench who will not surrender until after a 
 great deal of striving." 
 
 " Well, then, when do you expect you will be able 
 to show us this beauty, which latter we shall of 
 course regard as the sequel of your triumph. 1 will 
 give you three days. Will that be enough ?" 
 " Hum ! I don't know about that." 
 "See here, gentlemen, do not let us be too 
 exacting. Nevertheless, if at the end of a week, you 
 do not invite us to dine with your nice beauty, we 
 shall conclude that you have been baffled. What do 
 you say to that, Edward ? " 
 
 "Yes, gentlemen, in eight days. I shall accept 
 jour challenge." 
 
 " If you succeed in bringing the lady, it will be 
 
170 TERTIA SOL VET. 
 
 for us to stand the dinner : in the opposite case, yom 
 will have to stand the shot." 
 
 "Well then; it is a bargain. In a week, then^ 
 But I hope to succeed before that." 
 
 This meeting had taken place two days after 
 Georgette had refused the purse of gold which con- 
 tained five hundred francs. As soon as his friends 
 had taken their leave, the Yiscount said to himself i- 
 "I must take action at once. That little one has- 
 refused my gold. But mere gold ! That is not half 
 so flattering to the vanity of a woman as fine- 
 dresses. She has let herself be swayed by pride. 
 But, in the present instance, I shall send her things 
 she will not be able to resist." 
 
 The young man immediately ordered his carriage 
 and had himself driven to the most fashionable 
 shops. He bought a beautiful shawl, some different 
 patterns of silks and velvets, not to mention a 
 pretty hat, which he thought would well become the 
 young woman he was eager to overcome. Eetu ruing 
 home with his purchases he said to Lepinette: 
 "Take all these to the young woman up-stairs — I 
 mean Miss Georgette. Tou shall give her my com- 
 pliments, and say to her, at the same time, that I 
 wish to know whether she has yet finished the 
 cigar-cases I have ordered, and that I expect her 
 here to-morrow morning, even if she has not got 
 them ready." 
 
 Lepinette took up the rich presents carefully in his 
 hands, and departed immediately to carry out the 
 behests of his master, whilst that the latter set out 
 to take a ride in the Bois. 
 
 In returning home in the evening, the first care of 
 the Viscount was to find out from his valet as to 
 how his presents had been received, whereupon 
 Lepinette assumed a grave air, and responded : 
 "Sir, I have witnessed to-day that which I have 
 never seen before." 
 
TEKTIA SOLVET. 
 
 171 
 
 '* What can that be, then ? Yon have fche ap- 
 pearance of a ghost." 
 
 " Well, sir. I have seen a young woman, a simple 
 work-woman who lodges in a garret, refuse a cash- 
 mere shawl, velvets, silks, splendid jewels, and so 
 
 forth." 
 
 " What ! you have seen all that? Do you refer to 
 
 Georgette?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; Miss Georgette has refused your 
 
 presents." 
 
 " It is not possible ! " 
 
 «• It is as I say, sir." 
 
 " You must have misunderstood her." 
 
 " Not at all ; besides, sir, you know very well that 
 I am au experienced hand in executing just such 
 commissions. I laid out the silks, the shawl, and 
 the other things on a table before the astonished 
 eyes of this young woman, who, at first, merely 
 looked at me without making any remark, but, 
 finally, said to me : " What does your master mean 
 by all this?" 
 
 " Miss, I answered, you can put any meaning you 
 please on it. My master begs you to accept all 
 those, and presents at the same time his compli- 
 ments : he also asks that you would take him to- 
 morrow morning the cigar-cases ordered, — but if 
 they are not yet ready, it makes no matter; he 
 would like to see you all the same." 
 
 " That was very clever on your part : but proceed." 
 
 Miss Georgette thereupon got up from her seat, 
 and coming near to the presents, said to me : " Every- 
 thing is very pretty, very elegant, but I do not want 
 them. You will therefore convey to the Viscount 
 my heartiest thanks; and be sure to tell him that I 
 shall wait on him to-morrow with the cigar-cases he 
 ordered ; but you must carry back to him all these 
 fine presents." 
 
 "Miss," said I, in a supplicating voice, "you can 
 
172 "TERTIA SOLVET. 
 
 do whatever you like with all these things, whatever 
 seems good in your eyes; but I entreat you to keep 
 them, otherwise my master will be very angry with, 
 me. 
 
 " I am very sorry, but I cannot keep them." 
 In saying this, the young lady, who appears to me 
 to be very determined, took and placed all the things 
 in my arms, and pushed me gently in the direction 
 of the door, which she immediately closed on me. 
 This is all that took place, sir." 
 
 " What do you mean by bringing back my 
 presents ? " 
 
 " I could not help myself, sir." 
 "You could not help yourself: you are a fool- 
 Could you not have thrown them down some- 
 where in the chamber, and then taken your 
 leave?" 
 
 "I believed that she would have thrown them 
 after me on to the landing." 
 
 "Well! the matter has turned out very badly- 
 We must change all that. However, did she promise 
 that she would call here to-morrow ? " 
 "Yes, sir." 
 " That is well." 
 
 Edward could not reconcile to himself the conduct 
 of this young girl, and he walked up and down his 
 apartments in a state of great excitement. At first 
 he thought of rushing straight up to the apartments- 
 of Miss Georgette ; butj in that case she would in all 
 likelihood not have opened the door to him ; besides, 
 he did not wish to have himself talked about in the 
 hotel. He went to bed that night saying to himself : 
 " She will be here to-morrow at all events. I shall 
 then see her, when I shall demand to know why she 
 has refused my presents ; the rather, as I did not ask 
 for any favours in exchange for them, though, 
 no doubt, she must have divined as much. Oh, 
 Miss Georgette 1 you will not resist me much longer* 
 
TERTIA SOLVET. 17$ 
 
 But I verily believe that, all said and done, I am 
 smitten by her. Be that as it may, this is a matter 
 in which my honour is engaged. I am determined 
 that I shall not be the one who shall have to pay for 
 the dinner for my friends." 
 
 All night long the image -of the young girl who 
 had refused his brilliant presents haunted the- 
 imagination of the Yiscount. He got up early, 
 tried to smoke, but threw away several cigarettes 
 no sooner than he had lit them. Ordering the 
 articles he had caused to be sent to Georgette to be 
 brought into his little sitting-room, and viewing 
 them from the divan on which he reclined, he began 
 to commune with himself thus : " Perhaps she did 
 not like the colours I had selected for her ! Never- 
 theless, that is a charming shawl. ~No, that could 
 not be her motive. After all, has she acted wisely 
 in rejecting them, she who has been dreaming that 
 she would one day be rich? This little beauty has. 
 got an idea of some kind into her head, but I shall 
 take care to make her divulge it to me." 
 
 At length, when it was getting on to noon,. 
 Miss Georgette made her appearance, and Lepinette 
 lost no time in conducting her into the little parlour 
 where the Yiscount was impatiently waiting for lier^ 
 She saluted Edward with a pleasant smile, while he, 
 on the contrary, pulled a long face, as he motioned 
 to her to be seated. 
 
 " Sit down, '1 you please, miss," began he. 
 
 " Sir, your cigar-cases are finished, and here they 
 are." 
 
 " Oh, very well : but it is not they that concern me- 
 just now." 
 
 " Your valet de chambre has informed me that you 
 wished to see me, nevertheless ". 
 
 " My valet de chambre is an ass. For the rest, yon 
 know quite well, that the cigar-cases have only been 
 made the pretext of your coming to see me. What 
 
174 TERTIA SOLVET. 
 
 is the good of feigning when we ought to speak out 
 frankly to one another ? " 
 
 "I do not understand to what you are alluding, 
 sir." 
 
 Edward, thereupon pointing to the articles lying 
 on the sofa, said to Georgette somewhat brusquely : 
 *' Why did you refuse all these things from me?" 
 
 "Why did you send them to me?" responded the 
 latter in the same tone of voice. 
 
 The young man was at a loss to answer: but, 
 -finally, bursting out into laughter, exclaimed: "I 
 see quite well, miss, there is no chance of one 
 getting the last word with you. Come, my darling, 
 let us play cards at this table here, showing each 
 other our hands." 
 
 "I do not know how to play at cards." 
 
 " Oh, you know very well what 1 am driving at. 
 But let me explain myself in the most categorical 
 manner. Georgette, I adore you." 
 
 " You have told me that before." 
 
 " In love, repetition is permissible : it is this very 
 repetition which constitutes its chief charm. Let 
 me repeat, then, that I adore you." 
 
 " Well, on my part, I do not believe it." 
 
 "But I will compel you to believe it. Do you 
 iihink that you are going to pass your youth without 
 ^becoming acquainted with love?" 
 
 "I do not know, sir; but I have always heard it 
 said that it is never safe to make rash promises." 
 
 ''That is a very sensible remark. Very well! 
 Xet me be the happy mortal who shall make you 
 know how to love. I wish indeed to render you 
 happy — to make your lot one to be envied." 
 
 " Men always say that to the girls they desire to 
 lead astray. But what next ? " 
 
 " I — I always hold to my promises. In the first 
 place, I shall instal you in a pretty apartment, which 
 I shall furnish with the greatest taste. You shall 
 
TERTIA. SOLVET. 175 
 
 have dresses, jewels — I shall take you to the theatres, 
 to the promenades : you shall have a carriage at 
 your disposal. I shall pay your tradesman's bills ; 
 and, what is more, you shall have a thousand francs 
 per month to spend as you will. Come now, tell me, 
 is not that handsome?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed; it is very handsome. But how 
 long will it last?" 
 
 " Just as long as you please." 
 
 " You mean to say, just as long as you continue to 
 care for me ; and, I am sure, that would net be long." 
 
 " I shall have but one object henceforth in life, 
 and that will be, how to please you. Now, G-eorgette, 
 do you understand me ? Will you consent to make 
 me the happiest mortal that exists ? " saying which 
 the Yiscount attempted to take hold of the hand of 
 the young girl, but she drew it back sharply, and 
 responded : " No, sir, decidedly not." 
 
 " What ! you reject my propositions ? " 
 
 "I reject them, decidedly." 
 
 "You have then some cause for hating me — in a 
 word, you despise me ? " 
 
 "No, not at all; I can assure you." 
 
 " Then, the offer I have made does not satisfy you ? 
 Well, then, just tell me what you would like — what 
 your heart is bent on. In a word, I do beseech you 
 to explain yourself." 
 
 Georgette remained silent for a moment, then 
 began slowly : "If I were to tell you what I do wish- 
 you would, I am sure, think me very ridiculous." 
 
 " Oh no ; not at all ; speak out : it is the privilege 
 of women to indulge any number of fantasies." 
 
 " Oh, it is not a mere fantasy. It is a forecast of 
 the future. Monsieur le Yicomte, how much do you 
 think it would take to bring up a little girl from the 
 cradle, till she had reached the age of sixteen or 
 thereabouts : nay, to make her fit to become a wife ?" 
 
 The young man opened his eyes, and responded z 
 
176 TERTIA SOLVET. 
 
 "What in Jupiter are you talking about? More- 
 over, what has that to do with the propositions I 
 have just made you?" 
 
 "A very great deal, I can assure you. But be so 
 good as to tell me, what would the education of a 
 young girl, her keep and everything, cost ? " 
 
 " How the deuce do I know ? Do you imagine 
 such questions ever engage my attention?" 
 
 "No, I do not indeed think that such thoughts 
 ever occupy your mind; but, for all that, make a 
 guess." 
 
 "Well, the matter of three or four thousand 
 ■francs would be enough." 
 
 " No, sir, you are very wide of fche mark. For my 
 part, I calculate it would cost at least twenty 
 thousand francs." 
 
 " Twenty thousand francs ! Perfect nonsense ! 
 Such a sum is out of the question. Twenty thousand 
 francs for a baby ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; the child will grow to be a young 
 woman, and you will surely allow that in passing 
 through this stage she should receive such an 
 education as would fit her to become a wife. In 
 good truth, sir, 1 had thought you would have been 
 more generous. Forty thousand francs a year does 
 not suffice to maintain you in your life of pleasure, 
 and yet you would grudge twenty thousand francs to 
 bring up, educate, and assure the existence of a 
 'woman ! But such are you men." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right. Twenty thousand 
 francs would not be too much. But for God's sake 
 drop that subject, and let us come to ourselves. 
 You surely cannot much longer treat me with such 
 cruelty. But what is it that you wish ? for you have 
 not yet told me." 
 
 " Well, sir, if I were to yield myself to you, and 
 the result were to be a little girl, I should wish to 
 have as much as would bring her up, educate her 
 
TEETIA SOLVET. 177 
 
 properly, and as I have no faith in the promises of a 
 lover, I should wish that, before giving myself to 
 liim— do you follow me, sir?" 
 
 The Yisconnt sat bewildered. Raising his eye- 
 brows, and drawing away his chair from that of 
 Georgette, he muttered: "Ah! you mean to say, 
 that you must have twenty thousand francs before 
 you consent to be mine." 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is exactly what I mean/ 3 
 
 " That is a high price, miss." 
 
 "It is not I who ask it from you, sir," returned 
 the young woman, casting on Edward a look of 
 disdain almost approaching contempt : "it is for the 
 little girl — the infant." 
 
 "The little girl! the little girl! but you have 
 not had one yet ! Wait at least until that event 
 arrives, and then we can arrange about the 
 matter." 
 
 "Oh no; for then it would be too late; and I 
 should be certain to be refused." 
 
 " Do you believe that ?" 
 
 "I believe it; I am sure of it." 
 
 In uttering these words, Georgette cast upon 
 the young man such a searching look that he 
 could not endure it, and was compelled to lower his 
 eyes, and to stammer out : " Yes, it is quite 
 possible." 
 
 After a few minutes' silence G-eorgette arose, and 
 said : " Adieu, monsieur." 
 
 " How is this ? Are you going away, 
 miss?" 
 
 "Of course I am; I see that you have nothing 
 more to say to me." 
 
 "But pardon me, your ultimatum has come so 
 suddenly upon me, that I have had no time to 
 think. Give me a little time to reflect on the 
 matter." 
 
 "To be sure; as long as you like. You have 
 
178 TERTIA SOL VET. 
 
 compelled me to say what I think. But it is af 
 folly. Let us say no more about it." 
 
 "What will happen then! But you have be*»n 
 saying all that in jest ? " 
 
 "By no means: I spoke with all seriousness; and 
 I am now firmly persuaded that you are averse from 
 making any sacrifice on my account. I am not 
 worthy of you." 
 
 " But I did not say that. Only one has not always 
 at one's command such a large sum of money." 
 
 "No one is pressing you, sir. You can take your 
 time about it. But pardon me, I cannot remain 
 here longer : I have work to do. So adieu, Monsieur 
 le Vicomte." 
 
 Georgette then cleverly escaped from the hands of 
 the young man, who sought to detain her, and who* 
 cried out to himself when she had gone: "I always 
 thought as much. She is a wicked little jade — as. 
 cunning as the very devil. She has as much wit as 
 malice. Yet ! twenty thousand francs for that ! and 
 all in one lump ! Oh, no ; I shall not be such a fool 
 as that for a mere grisette. Such a thing would be 
 contrary to common sense. And all her nonsense 
 about a little girl! She puts me in mind of poor 
 Suzanne, who, I believe, had one — a little girh 
 But what the devil am I thinking about P Bah ! 
 Let us forget all about it, and betake ourselves to< 
 the club!" 
 
 The Yiscount set out to seek the circle of his 
 friends ; after which he went to the house of a friend 
 where he commenced to play for heavy stakes. He 
 sought to distract himself : played at baccarat ; first 
 he lost ten thousand francs ; then finished by winning 
 three thousand. He left his friend's house, saying 
 to himself: "It might, nevertheless, have happened 
 that I had lost twenty thousand francs, and I would 
 have had to find it in twenty-four hours. Oh ! if I. 
 only liked : it would not be difficult for me to procure 
 
TERTIA SOL VET. 179 
 
 that sum. I have only to sell some railway shares. 
 But it must not be. I must not be such a fool. I 
 am sure that I would be sorry afterwards." 
 
 Two days rolled over, during which the Yiscount 
 -did all in his power not to think anything of 
 Georgette : but on the third, haunted continually 
 by her image, he arose early and said to himself: 
 " I was not born to endure such torture as this ; the 
 rather when I can procure the pleasures I long after 
 with so little trouble. And after all, what is a few 
 bank notes, more or less ? — I can economise in some 
 other way. I will go to my stockbroker and settle 
 the thing at once. Besides, it is the day after to- 
 morrow that I must dine with my friends. I will 
 not have it said that I pay." 
 
 Edward repaired to his stockbroker, informed him 
 of the sum he wanted in lieu of the securities he 
 wanted to sell, obtained the money and returned to 
 his apartments. He placed the twenty thousand 
 francs in an elegant rortfolio, then packed up all the 
 things l.e had previously sent Georgette, and charged 
 Lepinette only to say to the young lady that he 
 should like to see her to-morrow. 
 
 "Go," said the Yiscount to his valet, "go up- 
 stairs and I shall watch you, and see that you do not 
 make any mistakes this time." 
 
 The valet de chambre obeyed with alacrity the 
 commands he had received, while the Viscount 
 awaited his return with the greatest anxiety. This 
 time Lepinette returned radiant. 
 
 " Well," said Edward to him. 
 
 " The young lady has opened the portfolio. I did 
 not have the curiosity to watch her while she counted 
 ~fche contents; but the latter appeared to me to be 
 bank notes." 
 
 "Well, what next, you foolP" 
 
 " What next ! She appeared enchanted, and said 
 "to me in the most amiable manner, " Be good enough 
 
 N 25 
 
180 TERTIA SOL VET. 
 
 to inform your master that he can come up to see me 
 here between eleven and twelve o'clock to-night.. 
 By his doing so he will accord me a great favour, for 
 I wish to thank him in person." 
 
 " Ah ! bravo ! At last. Tandem ! denique tandem 
 felix. Ah ! I indeed now know that I shall accom- 
 plish my ends — and these gentlsmen will not have 
 the opportunity to mock at me." 
 
 The young man was bubbling over with delight. 
 He immediate'y called for a supply of cigarettes — an 
 indulgence he had even ceased to think about ever 
 since the image of Georgette had taken possession of 
 his fancy, and thereafter left the house in order to 
 kill the time. He returned about eleven o'clock, but 
 he waited until twelve, so that he might not encounter 
 any one on the stairs. Seizing then a candle, he 
 ascended softly two nights of stairs. Lepinette had 
 indicated to him which was Georgette's door — the 
 last on the right; and he did not mistake it. Imme- 
 diately he found himself in front of that door, and 
 found the key in the lock. 
 
 " She thinks of everything," said Edward to 
 himself: "because of this I will not require to 
 knock, so that no noise will be heard on the stairs. 
 That is most fortunate. He quietly turned the key 
 and entered the chamber, where reigned complete 
 darkness. " She has already gone to bed," thought 
 the Yiscount, while feeling his way to the side of the 
 bed which was at the far end of the room. He held 
 up his light — there was no one there : the bed was 
 empty, and nobody had occupied it. Unable to 
 explain to himself the meaning of this, the young 
 man began to look around; and, finally, discovered 
 lying on a table, close to the fire-place, all the 
 presents he had sent to Georgette : not a single 
 article was wanting, not even the hat; moreover, 
 there was also spread out near by the little white 
 petticoat, and on top of it was a letter, which was 
 
THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 181. 
 
 addressed to Monsieur le Yicomte, Edward de 
 Sommerton. The astonished lover seized the letter,, 
 and eagerly read it : 
 
 Monsieur le Vicomte, — I have gone away ; do not seek for me. 
 I take with me your portfolio and all that it contains ; I ouly had 
 need of that ; I have left you all the rest. I leave you, moreover, 
 my little white petticoat, that you appeared to have a great fancy 
 for : but one day I shall ask you to return it to me, for I calculate- 
 on seeing you again and of explaining my conduct to you ; and, 
 perhaps, then, instead of appearing blameable in your eyes, you will 
 conclude that all I have done was only natural. 
 
 The Viscount stood for a moment almost thunder- 
 struck ; looking in turn at the letter and the little 
 white petticoat ; theu, suddenly, he was seized with a 
 fit of laughter, and exclaimed : " Well, well ; she is 
 a queer character, this little beauty! What a 
 charming adventure, though ! I will have great fun 
 with my friends when I pay for the dinner the day 
 after to-morrow." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIH. 
 
 THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 
 
 Towards the end of the following September,, 
 about two o'clock, on a fine afternoon, a gentleman 
 could be seen walking to and fro in the Jardin des 
 Plantes, in the avenue facing the monkey cages. 
 This gentleman was no other than our old acquaint- 
 ance, M. Dupont, of whom we have lost sight for a 
 long time. We left him in the private rocm where 
 he had been dining with Georgette, who had quitted 
 his company most precipitately, because that that 
 gentleman had thought that he would make an easy 
 triumph of a young girl, for no other reason than 
 that she had consented to dine alone with him at a 
 
182 THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 
 
 restaurant ; but as good or ill luck would have it, he 
 had only captured a striped little petticoat which 
 had been abandoned to him. Immediately following 
 this adventure Dupont returned to his wife at 
 Brives-la-Gaillarde, whither he had taken with him 
 the little petticoat, which, however, he took great 
 care not to show to his wife, who would have 
 deemed it strange that her husband should only 
 bring back from Paris a solitary petticoat. Dupont, 
 however, had been, since his visit, less addicted to 
 sleep than before ; which was, indeed, something to 
 say in favour of the Capital city. From time to 
 time, when alone, he would bring forth from its 
 place of concealment the grisette's little garment; 
 regard it lovingly ; and sigh, as it brought back to 
 his mind the image of her who had worn it and 
 whom it became so well. On such days Dupont 
 would even sleep less than usual, which induced his 
 wife to say to him: "My dear, you were indeed 
 quite right in spending a few weeks in Paris when 
 you did, for you certainly are much more wide 
 awake now than formerly; in short, ifc has done you 
 good." 
 
 But one day, about the middle of the month of 
 September, Dupont received a letter, which ran as 
 follows: 
 
 Sir, — If you desire to see again Miss Georgette, whose acquaint- 
 ance you made during your sojourn in Paris last spring, you will 
 find her about the 25th of this month in Paris ; and if you take a 
 walk in the Jardin des Plantes about two o'clock, in the avenue 
 facing the monkey cages, she will be pleased to join you there. You 
 will De good enough also to bring with you the little striped 
 petticoat, which Miss Georgette left in your hands. 
 
 Dupont leaped with joy after reading this letter, 
 saying to himself : " She wants to see me again, oh, 
 the little dear ! The petticoat is only a pretext ; she. 
 has repented of her treatment of me, and desires 
 now to recompense my love. Oh, yes ! I shall 
 
THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 18S 
 
 certainly meet her at the time and place appointed.'*" 
 " My dear, I should like much to take another 
 little trip to Paris ; I want to see Jolibois ; besides, £ 
 think it will do my health good ; but I shall not stay- 
 so long as I did the last time." 
 
 Behold now our old acquaintance, Dupont, 
 walking up and down in the Jardin des Plantes, at 
 the place indicated, on the 25th September, and 
 feeling, from time to time, in the outside pocket of 
 his great overcoat, the little petticoat which he had 
 been asked to return to its owner. 
 
 Dupont soon began to notice that he crossed ofteiL 
 with a gentleman of mature age, whose dress 
 betokened something of the dandy. The latter was 
 no other than M. de Mardeille, who, a few days 
 previously, had received the following letter : 
 
 If M. de Mardeille would take the trouble to visit the Jardin des 
 Plantes, in the avenue facing the monkey's cages, on the 25th inst., 
 at about two of the clock in the afternoon, he would there meet 
 Miss Georgette, who would explain to him her reasons for acting, 
 towards him as she had done ; and that she would take it as a- 
 kindness if he would bring with him her little black petticoat. 
 
 M. de Mardeille needed no further inducement to 
 make him comply with such a request, for, truth to 
 tell, he was burning with desire to see again 
 G-eorgette. He said to himself : " She has, perhaps, 
 come to the conclusion to return me the twelve- 
 thousand francs that I was foolish enough to give- 
 her." 
 
 After having folded and tied up the little black 
 petticoat, and stowed it away in the outside pocket 
 of his overcoat, he lost no time in repairing to the 
 spot she had indicated in her letter. 
 
 It was not long before a third person put in an 
 appearance, who also began to walk up and down 
 like the two others ; this third person was the young 
 Yiscount, Edward de Sommerton, who had received 
 a letter couched in identical terms as the one which. 
 
184 THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 
 
 Tiad been sent to M. de Mardeille, except that the 
 writer begged the Viscount to bring with him the 
 little white petticoat. But as our young dandy was 
 not in the humour to put such an article in one of 
 his pockets, he had brought a little groom with him, 
 who carried the garment in question under his arm, 
 and who, at the same time, held in one of his hands 
 a box of cigarettes. 
 
 These three gentlemen walked up and down the 
 same avenue, passing and re-passing one another, 
 and it was not long before they each began to 
 remark his two neighbours. 
 
 "I should think," said M. Dupont to himself, 
 " that these two swells have also made an appoint- 
 ment to meet some lady in this avenue"; M. de 
 JMardeille made a similar reflection in encountering 
 Edward and Dupont, while Edward thought, as he 
 puffed away at his cigarettes, that these two old 
 foggies were also expecting to meet some one at the 
 same place as himself. A slight shower of rain now 
 began to fall, and almost immediately the avenue 
 was deserted by every one except the three gentle- 
 men with the petticoats. 
 
 The latter continued to walk up and down in the 
 avenue, and as there was no one else to be seen 
 except their three selves, together with the little 
 groom who followed closely at the heels of his 
 master, there could no longer be any doubt that 
 some one person had given a rendezvous with all 
 iihree of them. Indeed, in passing and re-passing 
 one another, as they no longer could help smiling, it 
 was easy to see that they were measuring up each 
 other, and were each ready to say: "Hem! how 
 tiresome it is for me to have to wait so long ! Ah ! 
 if it were not that I expected to meet a pretty girl, 
 I would have cut my stick long ago ! " 
 
 More than once Dupont was at the point of 
 accosting his fellow promenaders in order to open up 
 
THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 185^ 
 
 a conversation with thein, but he did not dare. He 
 thought to himself : " The time would not seem 
 quite so long if I could but introduce myself to one 
 or both of these gentlemen. It would at least be a 
 distraction and serve to while away the time, but 
 neither of them appears to me to be in the humour 
 for conversing." 
 
 Suddenly, Edward pulled up and drew out his 
 watch. M. de Mardeille did the same : and Dupont 
 soon followed suit, and at the same time, he hurried 
 up to the two gentlemen, watch in hand, and 
 ventured the remark : " Pardon me, gentlemen ; but 
 would you be so kind as to tell me the correct time ? 
 My watch seems to be iast, and I would be much 
 more easy in mind if I could be informed of the 
 exact hour. According to my watch it is twenty- 
 two minutes past two." 
 
 " Twenty-two minutes past two ! That is 
 exactly the time it is by mine," said M. de 
 Mardeille. 
 
 " Upon my word," said Yiscount de Sommerton r 
 "our watches seem to keep better time than the 
 clocks of Charles Y. ! 1 see that that is also the 
 time recorded by my watch." 
 
 "Charles Y.'s clocks were not then good time- 
 keepers," suggested Dupont. 
 
 "Don't you remember," rejoined Edward, "that 
 that monarch had a passion for clock-making? He 
 amused himself by cleaning and repairing all his 
 clocks; and he had such an enormous number of 
 them, and they were so nicely adjusted, that when 
 one had ceased striking twelve another immediately 
 gave the alarm for one o'clock, and so on. The 
 three gentlemen indulged a good laugh at this 
 mention of the clocks of Charles Y. It was not long 
 before Dupont remarked: "But apart from that I 
 had an appointment at two o'clock — in the gardens 
 —here — in this avenue." 
 
186 THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 
 
 "And so had I." 
 
 *' I also had an appointment." 
 
 " But women can never be punctual." 
 
 " No ! no woman was ever known to be exact to a 
 minute." 
 
 " All the more so, when they are young and 
 pretty, and when they know that one is sure to be 
 waiting for them." 
 
 " Yes, they have an idea that that enhances their 
 -charms." 
 
 " As for me," said Edward, "I will only wait five 
 minutes longer ; and so, when it is the half hour, if 
 Miss Georgette has not th^n put in an appearance, I 
 am off." 
 
 " Georgette ! " exclaimed M. de Mardeille. 
 
 " Georgette ! " muttered Dupont. This is indeed 
 very singular. It is a Georgette I am waiting 
 for." 
 
 " And I also," said the Viscount : " this is really 
 getting very funny. A young brunette, about 
 middle height, formed to a tick : and what a 
 foot ! what an ankle ! She is indeed altogether 
 delicious." 
 
 " This is an exact portrait of the person I expect," 
 ®aid M. de Mardeille. 
 
 "I am with you two gentlemen," said Dupont: 
 *' that is exactly the kind of person who wrote me to 
 meet her here." 
 
 " The thing is getting more and more funny," 
 -said Edward. ■" I have here her letter." 
 
 " So have I." 
 
 "I also." 
 
 " Let us compare them. Well ! by the sacred 
 beard of the first Moses, if they are not all in the 
 same handwriting!" exclaimed the Viscount. 
 ^But that is not all. I have a petticoat here that 
 this Georgette left with me, which she has asked me 
 to bring here with me." 
 
THE GENTLEMEN WITH THE THREE PETTICOATS. 1ST 
 
 "Torn," said the Viscount to his groom, " eome 
 here and show us what you have got tnere under 
 your arm." 
 
 The little groom drew near and exposed to view a 
 little white petticoat. Both M. de Mardeille and 
 Dupont followed suit in respect of the petticoat they 
 bad brought in his great coat pocket. 
 
 "Here is a petticoat I have brought with me, ,r 
 said M. de Mardeille. "Look, this is the one she 
 has left with me," remarked Dupont. 
 
 Hereupon all three gentlemen gave vent to such 
 loud peals of laughter, that the monkeys in the 
 cages near by darted aloft to the top of their poles 
 and began to imitate them. When this access of 
 hilarity had expended itself, the Viscount said: 
 "Don't you think, gentlemen, that this young 
 woman has been making a fool of all the three of us 
 in giving each of us a rendezvous at the same place 
 and at the same hour?" 
 
 "I am beginning to have an idea of that kind," 
 said M. de Mardeille. 
 
 " And we have before our eyes the monkey s, ,r 
 chimed in Dupont. " She has selected this spot for 
 some purpose." 
 
 "No doubt," said Edward; "but it is now 2.30 
 o'clock ; I am off." 
 
 "Wait a minute, sir; I descry a woman in the 
 distance coming in our direction." 
 
 " But she is on the arm of a gentleman." 
 
 " Miss Georgette did not write us that she would 
 meet us here alone." 
 
 "I cannot yet distinguish her features, seeing 
 that she wears a bonnet, and it is not her figure at 
 all. This lady is wearing an enormous crinoline." 
 
 " Yes, it is a crinoline, and of the latest pattern." 
 
 " My God ! how ugly she looks in it. The 
 Georgette that I expect dressed differently from 
 that. She was trim and neat. You could see her 
 
188 THE WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES. 
 
 shape without any difficulty. Nevertheless, the 
 nearer she comes, the more it seems to me it is she." 
 
 " Wait a moment ! Look ! I would swear it is 
 Georgette ! " 
 
 " It is she. Yes, there can now be no mistaking, 
 /gentlemen. Stay, she is coming in our direction. 
 I see quite well now it is she." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIY. 
 
 THE WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES. 
 
 It was indeed Georgette, who, got up with taste, 
 but withal with perfect simplicity, wearing one of 
 those fashionable petticoats which gives a woman 
 the appearance of a sugar loaf. She was leaning on 
 the arm of Colinet, who had now thrown off all 
 appearance of timidity and bashfulness. 
 
 Georgette and her escort approached the three 
 gentlemen, whom she saluted graciously, accom- 
 panied by the remark : " Pardon me, gentlemen, if I 
 have kept you waiting. The fault lies with our 
 coachman, who could not get his horses to go. 
 But, perhaps, you will first of all allow me to 
 introduce you to my husband, M. Colinet." 
 
 Colinet gravely saluted the three gentlemen, who 
 returned it, one of them remarking : " Was it only 
 rfco introduce us to your husband that you brought 
 ms here ? If so, you need not have troubled." 
 
 Georgette responded : " Gentlemen, I have asked 
 you to meet me in these gardens, because I knew 
 that it contains avenues which are little frequented, 
 where we can talk unmolested. I perceive one over 
 iihere which appears to answer very well ; would you 
 have the goodness to follow me thence ?" All three 
 
THE WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES. 189 
 
 .gentlemen bowing their consent, they followed her, 
 and on reaching some benches they sat down, at her 
 request, with the exception of the little groom, who 
 stood off at some distance. The young woman then 
 turned to MM. Sommerton and de Mardeille, and 
 said to them: "It will only require a few words 
 from me to explain to you two why I have acted 
 towards you as I have done. And, first, gentlemen, 
 let me inform you that I am neither a Normande 
 nor a Bordelaise : I am from Lorraine : Toul is my 
 native place. My parents are poor, honest, labouring 
 people, named Granery: I am the sister of Aimee 
 and Suzanne, 
 
 The Yiscount and M. de Mardeille, at the mention 
 of these names, manifested great surprise, their 
 faces, the picture of self-reproach; but not so 
 Dupont, who said to himself : " What has this to do 
 with me?" 
 
 " Yes," continued Georgette, " I am the sister of 
 that poor Aimee, who came to Paris, where she 
 hoped, by her skill in embroidery, to earn as much 
 as would place her parents beyond the reach of 
 want. She, unhappily, crossed your path. Aimee 
 was beautiful, she pleased you: simple and in- 
 experienced, she believed your fine speeches, 
 promises, and protestations; and in the end was 
 seduced by you. A child, a son, was the result of 
 this backsliding. You then changed in your 
 manner to her; your visits became rare, and when 
 she asked you for the means to provide for her child, 
 you deserted her altogether. Ah ! sir, you must 
 have been possessed of a black heart to have acted 
 thus ! To cease to love a person is explicable ; but 
 to repulse a mother when she asks you for food to 
 nourish your own child ! It is most shameful ! " 
 
 M. de Mardeille let his eyes fall to the ground in 
 confusion without answering. Turning next to the 
 Yiscount, she thus addressed him : " Have I need to- 
 
190 THE "WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES. 
 
 remind you, sir, that your conduct towards niy~ 
 sister, Suzanne, was exactly the same as that of this 
 gentleman with Aimee. You seduced a young girl 
 who was innocence itself ; you well know it ; then, 
 after you made her with child, you too abandoned 
 her, and in order no longer to be compelled to listen 
 to her tears, her supplications, you quitted Paris. 
 My sisters returned to their mother in despair. 
 They threw themselves with their offspring at the 
 feet of our parents, who have nourished them. 
 Instead of cursing them for their fault my parents 
 wept with and tried to console them, for, with us 
 poor people, we never shun nor despise our children, 
 when they are unfortunate ; it is more natural for us 
 to pardon them. But I, in witnessing both my 
 sisters weep by the cradles of their offspring, said to 
 myself: "I too shall go to Paris, but only to be 
 avenged." I was twenty years of age, I was strong 
 and, above all, possessed a determined will. It was 
 in vain that my parents opposed my resolution. 
 Aimee did not know the address of M, de Mardeille 
 and Suzanne was ignorant as to whether M. de 
 Sommerton had returned to Paris. But nothing 
 stopped me. "I shall succeed in finding them," 
 .said I to myself, and there was something that 
 seemed to say to me that I would not be baffled in 
 my enterprise. I natter myself that I have made a 
 conquest of you two gentlemen, and I am sure both 
 of you will be ready to admit this. And now, 
 M. de Mardeille, is it necessary for me to say that 
 the twelve thousand francs I asked of you were for 
 your son, and they have been placed on his head r 
 and will serve to bring him up. And you, sir r 
 Viscount, from whom I asked twenty thousand 
 francs, because 1 knew you were rich, and because I 
 knew that the education of a girl is more expensive 
 than that of a boy — know now that this sum will 
 serve to educate and to dower the child of Suzanne* 
 
THE WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES, 191 
 
 INow, gentlemen, I ask you to say whether my 
 conduct has been blameable. This gold, by which 
 you intended to seduce and to ruin me, just as you 
 ruined my sisters, I have applied to a good use. It 
 will serve to bring up your offspring, and that which 
 you would have applied to accomplish a base action, 
 may yet redound to your honour. Now, gentlemen, 
 what better could I have done'?" 
 
 "Upon my honour you could not have done 
 better," exclaimed the Viscount; "you have played 
 your cards well. I acquit you of all personal blame. 
 And, madame, accept my compliments along with 
 this petticoat, which I am eager to restore to you. 
 Tom, hand over that parcel to madame." 
 
 M. de Mardeille did not appear to take the thing 
 in such good part as the Yiscount ; nevertheless, he 
 felt that he must accept the inevitable, and to make 
 at least some show of repenting of his transgression. 
 He therefore addressed G-eorgette : " Madame, it is 
 but too true that I had badly judged of you. My 
 conduct towards your sister Aimee was not what it 
 should have been ; but you have repaired the fault. 
 We who are so much engrossed with business, 
 pleasures, often do wrong without intending it. 
 Present my compliments to your sister ; and here is 
 -fche little petticoat which became you so well." 
 
 "But what about me, madame, I who have not 
 seduced any of your sisters, why have you mixed me 
 up in this affair ? " 
 
 "You, sir," responded G-eorgette, smiling, "I 
 took you at first for a frank, good-natured fool, and 
 was hence not afraid to give you my arm, seeing 
 -that I was alone in Paris. I had not then dis- 
 covered the address of these two gentlemen, which, 
 however, my sisters sent me later on. I wanted to 
 go to the theatres, balls and routs, in the hope of 
 discovering, of encountering those whom I was bent 
 on finding." 
 
192 THE WHYS AND THE WHEREFORES. 
 
 "Ah! I understand: and you made me your 
 instrument — a convenience for walking you out." 
 
 " Something of that kind, sir. And as for your 
 love, it did not give me much concern. When I 
 found out that you had lied to me, that you were 
 married, which latter was perfectly indifferent to 
 me, I was yet willing to pardon you. But when you 
 attempted to take liberties with me, sir, I made 
 haste to quit your society, and in abandoning you, I 
 left with you a little petticoat ; you have brought it 
 here, I hope ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame, I have it here!" and Dupont,. 
 with the best grace he could command, drew from 
 his pocket the little packet, which he presented to 
 Greorgette. The latter took it, handed it to her 
 husband, then getting up, and bowing to the three 
 persons who had been enamoured of her, she said to 
 them: "Now, gentlemen, seeing I am rehabilitated 
 in your regards, nothing remains to me but to wish 
 you all the good I can." And having saluted them 
 once more, Greorgette took the arm of her husband, 
 and walked away. 
 
 The three ex-lovers stood looking after her in the 
 distance, and the Viscount was the first to break the 
 silence, 
 
 " Sapristi ! what a difference between that bird- 
 cage and the little petticoat which became her so 
 well ! Ah ! if I had only seen her in that attire,. 
 things would not have happened as they have done." 
 
 " Most certainly not ! " exclaimed M. de Hardeille; 
 "that could not have happened, and I should still 
 have had my twelve thousand francs." 
 
 "I am entirely at one with you, gentlemen,'' said 
 M. Dupont ; " what a difference it does make in her 
 appearance ! Decked out in that species of sugar 
 loaf instead of exhibiting to us her bewitching form ! 
 Ah ! madame, what a cruel trick have you done us all !" 
 
 FINIS. 
 
FIRST TIME IN ENGLISH. 
 
 MADAME'S 
 
 PANTALOONS, 
 
 BY 
 
 — PAUL BE KOCK.— 
 
 -:o:- 
 
 LOKDON: 
 MATHIESON & COMPANY. 
 
CHAPTEE I. 
 
 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 It was on the Place de la Bourse, nearly opposite- 
 the Vandeville Theatre, which at that time was not 
 yet in the Chaussee d'Antin, as it was in the year 
 1867 where two young men met, looked at each. 
 other, stopped and exclaimed simultaneously : 
 
 " Why, Adolphe !"..." Frederick! ". . ."What lucky 
 chance ? ".. ." Well, it is really more than six months 
 since I saw you ! Where have you been hiding 
 yourself ?"..." I have been hiding in Russia, and 
 have been almost hidden in furs to protect myself 
 from the cold."..." What have you been doing in 
 Russia ? You are not an actor nor a painter ; but 
 oh ! I had forgetten that you are a medical man. 
 An amateur, certainly, for I do not think that you 
 practice much, but at any rate you have taken your 
 doctor's degree."..." Yes, but I have come in for a 
 tidy bit of money, so I do not practice except at 
 odd moments, and then I assure you that travelling 
 has its advantages for a man in search of prescrip- 
 tions for his friends and patients."..." You were al- 
 ways fond of roaming and seeing different countries ; 
 you are a born tourist !"..." Well, I am rather, but 
 I am getting over it by degrees, for I am nearly 
 thirty, and when a man begins to get fat the inclina- 
 tion for gadding about begins to diminish."..." Upon 
 
TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 my word ! Why, I am tlie same age as you, for we 
 were born on the same day.". . ." Yes, my dear Frede- 
 rick, we shall both be thirty on the first of next 
 month."... "Really? Don't you think it is only 
 twenty-nine? "..." Certainly not; thirty, most de- 
 cidedly."..." My dear old Adolphe Pantalon, you 
 still look very young, with your light hair, your blue 
 eyes, and your pink and white complexion, and you 
 will go on looking so for a long time."... " I hope so, 
 certainly ! You are dark and pale, with very fascinat- 
 ing eyes, and so G-od alone knows all the successes 
 you have had amongst women, and I suppose it was 
 some intrigue or other that made you go ail the way 
 to Russia? "..." Not at all, I had to go on business, 
 as someone had left me a handsome legacy there ; 
 when my business was finished I felt inclined to ex- 
 plore the country, which is very interesting and 
 picturesque in parts, but then I have my young 
 brother here, who is ten years younger than I am." 
 ..."Oh! you mean little Gustave ! "..."My dear 
 friend, little Ghistave, as you call him, is now over 
 twenty, and a very good-looking lad, not tall, but 
 well built ; he has a most delightful temper, he is 
 as gentle as a lamb, and as timid — as a girl, when 
 she is timid ! The only thing is that he is somewhat 
 of a child still. I might, perhaps, even say rather 
 silly, and so he requires a guide, a mentor, to give 
 him that assurance which he does not possess. I 
 intend, therefore, to take him to England and then 
 to Italy, and we are going to start in four days, for 
 I want him to see other countries, to get to know 
 the world and to study people's manners and customs. 
 I hope it will be to his advantage, but in any case it 
 cannot hurt him. But what are you thinking about 
 Adolphe ? You don't appear to be listening to me 
 in the least, and though I know it is very foolish of 
 me, yet I like people to listen to me when I am 
 speaking. Some people do not care about that the 
 
TWO FRIENDS. 5 
 
 least, and, as long as they are only allowed to talk, 
 •do not notice whether anyone is listening to them 
 or not, and go on though they only get random 
 .answers; just like girls, who will sit down at the 
 piano and go on singing, though everyone is talking ; 
 such people sing and talk merely for their own sake. 5 ' 
 ..."I am listening to you, my friend, indeed I am; 
 !>ut I really have so many things in my head ! "... 
 " Well, I must confess that you look rather strange, 
 but one thing comforts me, and that is that you 
 look rather happy than otherwise."..." Well, I will 
 tell you something which will astonish you extremely. 
 And yet, it is only something quite natural!"... 
 ^ The devil ! You are exciting my curiosity very 
 much! But, let us hear the news."..." My dear 
 fellow, I am going to get married !"..." Get mar- 
 ried! What ! at your age? "..."Absolutely, at my 
 age ? I don't think that thirty is at all too young." 
 ..."Get married! But why? You are a barrister, 
 and have a good private income, and you seemed 
 perfectly happy ! "..."Yes, but I am going to get 
 married in the hope of being still happier, and then, 
 people have said to me : 'Pantalon, you ought to get 
 married ; why don't you get married ? It gives a 
 jyoung man a position in society."..." There are al- 
 ways some people who interfere with matters that do 
 mot concern them at all ! Now, I would make a bet 
 that those who said that to you were married them- 
 selves?"..." Why ?"..." Well! because , . but, 
 never mind, if it suits you, you are quite right ; but 
 whom are you going to marry ? "..."Mademoiselle 
 Oezarine Ducrochet, and you may be quite sure that 
 I am not going into the affair blindfold. She is the 
 daughter of people in a very good position, but both 
 tier parents are dead, and she has been brought up 
 bj her maternal uncle, Monsieur de Vabeaupont, 
 an old . e i captain, who is very rich, who has never 
 i>een married, and adores his niece, to whom he will 
 
6 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 give a hundred thousand francs (4,000Z.) down when 
 she marries."..." Well, that is better than nothings 
 and how old is the young lady ?"..." Twenty-five." 
 ..."Twenty-five, a dowry of a hundred thousand 
 francs, and an uncle whose heiress she is to be ! 
 Why, she must either be very ugly or deformed ? ". .. 
 " By no means ! She is tall and well made, with 
 excellent features ; why do you think she must be 
 ugly ?"..." Because I cannot understand her not 
 being married at her age, with a good dowry and 
 other future advantages. 5 '..." You will understand it 
 perfectly wnen I tell you that she has been brought 
 up in her uncle's chateau, where she had her own 
 way in everything since she was ten years old, for 
 Monsieur de Yabeaupont, who is very old and gouty y 
 has never thwarted his niece in any way, and has 
 even allowed her <.o choose her own studies and her 
 own masters; left thus to herself, you may guess 
 that Cezarine has become rather — what shall I say? 
 — well, rather like a boy. She rides, fences, and 
 goes in for gymnastics, just like a man, and does it 
 all as well, and perhaps better than many men." . . . 
 "The devil she does ?"..." What do you mean by 
 the devil? "..."Never mind, go on."..." The next 
 thing she took a fancy to was to study law, the Code 
 Napoleon and Latin ; just fancy, my dear fellow,. 
 she actually can talk Latin."..." That is bound to 
 make your married life very happy ! It will be most 
 delightful when you want to kiss your wife and she 
 says : " Non fossumus ! "..."Oh ! of course it is 
 nothing but a caprice, and will soon pass over ; bnt r 
 as she was so used to having her own way in every- 
 thing, she did not care about getting married and 
 exchanging the liberty which she enjoyed for a chain 
 which would bind her to a master."..." And she 
 was quite right !"..." She refused every offer, and 
 she had many ; but at last her uncle got angry, and 
 told his niece that he wished to live o^er again in 
 
TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 Iiis great nephews and nieces, and, for the first time, 
 he would not yield, but insisted upon being obeyed, 
 mi d so he took his niece into society a great deal, 
 and said to her: 'Take any husband you like; I 
 don't mind who it is, as long as you take one ! * 
 Well, I happened to be on the spot — "..."And so 
 you captivated the fair Cezarine? "..."It looks like 
 it, but really I did not take much trouble in the 
 matter, for you know I am not particularly clever 
 with women. But I was told that she thought I 
 looked like a good sort of fellow."..." And she is 
 quite right. "..."And that she preferred that to the 
 pretentious manners of the most elaborate dandies ! " 
 ..." And did you fall in love with the young lady im- 
 mediately? "..."I am not in love! I like her, she 
 is pretty; dark, very dark, her hair, her eyes, even 
 her skin, has something — a warm tint; she has a 
 beautiful mouth, and I am not quite sure whether 
 she has not a slight moustache, but I rather like 
 that. In one word, she is decidedly good-looking, 
 but no one would venture on the slightest familiarity 
 with her ; one would be afraid of meeting with a very 
 bad reception."..." So much the better for you, as 
 jou will be quite certain that she will never be un- 
 faithful to you.". . ." Oh ! " Adolphe Pantalon replied, 
 in an indifferent tone, " my wife's fidelity will never 
 trouble me, for I am not at all of a jealous nature. 
 Another advantage is that Cezarine will undertake 
 to superintend my little sister Elvina's education, 
 for she has taken a great fancy to her."..." Oh ! yes, 
 I bad forgotten that you have a sister. How old is 
 she?"..." Just seventeen, and she is very pretty. I 
 have kept her at a boarding school since my mother's 
 death, but we have' settled to have her to live with 
 us as soon as we are married."..." And when is this 
 wonderful marriage to come off? "..."To-morrow, 
 my friend; not a day later."..." To-morrow ! As 
 soon as that ! "..."And I may reckon upon you to 
 
8 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 come to my wedding ?*!..-." Thank you, you have in- 
 vited me because you happened to meet me; very 
 much obliged to you, it is extremely kind !"..." Here 
 is a proof to the contrary ; here is the list of all the^ 
 people I was going to call upon to-day, in order to- 
 invite them, and your name comes first."..." So it 
 does ; very well, I will come. I am very glad it is- 
 to be to-morrow, as I am going to leave Paris again 
 in three or four days' time . . Oh ! by the way r 
 what about my brother Gustave ?"..." Bring him 
 with you, of course. One can never have too many 
 dancers at a wedding. Will you come to the wed- 
 ding dinner? No, thank you; that is a purely 
 family affair, and when one hardly knows a soul, it 
 is not very amusing."..." I quite agree with you,, 
 and so I will not press you to come, for it is cer- 
 tainly not very amusing for a stranger. And then y 
 Uncle Vabeaupont, the old sailor, is not always very 
 good tempered and swears like one of the damned, 
 and when he has the gout it is worse still. At four 
 o'clock in the morning there will be a splendid 
 supper. "..."At four o'clock? That is very late! 
 Just think how that will delay you in carrying off 
 your wife! "..."My dear friend, my wife that is to 
 be herself settled the whole business, and I am only 
 following her instructions.". . ." Already? That is all 
 right then. If she is to settle everything, the whole 
 affair must go off perfectly."..." But I must be get- 
 ting on, for you may guess that I am in a hurry,. 
 I am afraid of forgetting something, and my in- 
 tended has entrusted me with so many commissions ! 
 Oh ! there is the bouquet and the orange flowers — 
 what did she say about them? "..."Perhaps that 
 she did not want either ! "..."A very likely thing! 
 On the contrary, she wants a lot of both, and it is 
 only natural ; when a woman has waited till she is 
 twenty-five to get married, she has the right to an 
 enormous bridal bouquet I "..." So if an old maid of 
 
CAPTAIN DE VABEAUPONT AND HIS CABIN BOY. 9 
 
 «ixty were to get married, she ought to have an 
 orange tree in a tub . . Oh ! wait a moment, at 
 what restaurant is the wedding dinner to be given ? 
 for if you want me to be there, 1 must know where 
 it is to be ! "..."How stupid I am ! Really, I may 
 be quite capable to-morrow night of forgetting that 
 I am married. It is to be at Bon valet's, Boulevard 
 -du Temple ; he has slendid rooms for dancing and 
 for the supper."..." That is settled then, my brother 
 and I will be there at eleven o'clock punctually."... 
 *' That is too late ; Cezarine has arrauged it all dif- 
 ferently. The dinner is to be at hve o'clock ; that is 
 her uncle's usual hour ; at seven o'clock they will 
 go and change their dresses, and the ball is to begin 
 at eight, because the uncle wishes to see the danc- 
 ing, and at twelve o'clock he goes to bed. Do you 
 understand ? "..."Perfectly, but as I have no parti- 
 cular wish to dance before the uncle, I shall come as 
 late as possible, so good-bye till to-morrow." 
 
 -: o : — 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CAPTAIN DE VABEATJPONT AND HIS CABIN BOY. 
 
 Before going to the wedding, let us make the 
 closer acquaintance of the young lady who is about 
 to become Madame Pantalon, and of her uncle, old 
 Captain Hercules Yabeaupont. 
 
 There is very little to add to the portrait her 
 future husband had drawn of his wife. Mademoi- 
 selle Cezarine was a tall, handsome girl, well pro- 
 portioned, though perhaps rather stout for her age — 
 
10 CAPTAIN DE VABEATTPONT AND 
 
 more of a Juno than a Venus. Her features wer$ 
 regular, her nose slightly aquiline, and her flashing 
 black eyes encountered every look boldly. Her hair, 
 eyebrows and the rest were very black, and there 
 was something masculine in her manner and bearing. 
 However, when she chose to smile and to be ami- 
 able, her feminine qualities asserted themselves again. 
 But she had an imperious disposition, and everybody 
 was obliged to do as she wished, and though not 
 really bad tempered, she would never yield, even 
 when she was wrong, chiefly because she never 
 thought that she was in the wrong, and, as her uncle 
 was constantly telling her that she was cleverer than 
 anyone else, she fancied that she was a genius, whilst 
 she had not even got common sense ; but she was 
 never at a loss for a reply to a sarcasm, and was al- 
 ways ready to say something impertinent. 
 
 Hercules de Yabeaupont was sixty-five; he was 
 ' a tail, thin man, with a strongly developed head, a 
 piercing eye, and a voice like thunder. But old age, 
 numerous wounds, and the gout were beginni ag to 
 tell on him very much. He was much bent, walked 
 with difficulty, and his thin hair and his moustache 
 were white, but his voice, when he was in a passion, 
 had still that formidable roar which made his sailors 
 obey him. He had never cared for anything except 
 glory and good living, and he only gave up his sea 
 fife when old age and the gout left him no place. 
 He then retired to his little chateau at Bretiguy, a 
 small village in Picardy, near Nozon. He did not, 
 however, retire to his estate by himself, for he took 
 his cabin boy with him, a lad whom he had taken 
 under his protection and whom he loved as much as 
 he was capable of loving anything, and to whom he 
 was attached because he had almost entirely brought 
 him up, and we generally get attached to people 
 whom we have benefited, though they frequently do 
 not by any me; ns reciprocate the feeling. It wa& 
 
HIS CABIN BOY. 11 
 
 mot so in this case, however. They had found a little 
 boy of six or seven on a pirate vessel which they had 
 captured. Who was he, and where did he come 
 from? Who were his parents? They did not know, 
 and they did not much care ; the child was pretty, 
 ^nd so they took him to the captain, who was then 
 a young man still, but who, with all his courage, 
 had a weakness for children, and when he saw the 
 lad, he exclaimed : " Whom does this giant belong 
 to ?"..." Nobody knows, captain; we found him 
 cowering in the pirate captain's cabin ; most likely 
 his father was killed in the fight."..." Very well, we 
 will keep him and make a man of him ; can he 
 talk? "..."A jargon which nobody can understand." 
 ..." Come here, youngster; what is your name? " 
 
 The child did not reply, but he began to laugh, 
 and, seizing a pipkin which a sailor had in his hand, 
 and in which there was still a little rum left, he put 
 it to his lips and swallowed the contents almost 
 without winking. This feat delighted the captain ; 
 he took the little boy into his arms, danced him up 
 and down, and said : " The devil ! You will make z 
 fine fellow, when rum does not make you blink at 
 your age. I will keep you and you shall be my 
 cabin boy, and I will attach you specially to my 
 person. What is to-day ?"..." Shrove Monday (in 
 French Lundigras — Monday before Ash Wednesday), 
 the last day but one of the Carnival."..." Why ! 
 there we have a name for him immediately; now 
 youngster, you are to be called Shrove Monday from 
 henceforth! You understand, you men? So now 
 take him away, give him a good scrubbing, dress 
 him like a cabin boy, and mind and teach him his 
 new profession, for I have an idea we shall make 
 something of him one of these days." 
 
 This is how the captain, who was quite a young 
 man then, picked up Mr. Shrove Monday, wbo had 
 never left his captain since, and whom he obeyed like 
 
12 CAPTAIN DE VABEAUPONT AND 
 
 the most faithful dog obeys his master. But the 
 little cabin boy, who at first had had a chubby, 
 bright face, had now become a heavy fat fellow, to* 
 whom much rum had imparted a careless and even a 
 brutalised look. He had grown very little and be- 
 come extremely fat ; he had, in fact, remained al- 
 most a dwarf, but that did not prevent him from do- 
 ing his work and from always being ready to exe- 
 cute his captain's orders. 
 
 The latter, who was a very tall man, used to lean 
 upon him, as if he had been a walking stick, whilst 
 he talked to him ; he would put his hand upon his 
 shoulder when he walked, and made Shrove-Monday 
 go on, as if he were a bamboo cane, and the boy, 
 who was used to this manoeuvre, executed it with 
 the greatest precision. He was twenty years 
 younger than his captain ; when the latter had to 
 take leave of his frigate he was sixty and his man 
 was only forty, but, thanks to the rum which he fre- 
 quently took to excess, and the sun which tanned 
 his skin, Shrove-Monday looked almost as old as his 
 captain. His stoutness added to his physical disad- 
 vantages, and, as he was extremely fat, his cheeks 
 protruded so that his nose was almost hidden be- 
 neath them, and silly goggle eyes gave him, on the 
 whole, the look of some grotesque mask or of a 
 buffon's head. 
 
 Monsieur de Yabeaupont, who did not like to be 
 separated from him, had brought Shrove-Monday 
 with him, and said to him : " You shall not leave 
 me again; you shall lead the life of a pasha, and have 
 nothing to do but to eat, drink, sleep, and to be al- 
 ways at my orders, ready to obey me at a word ; will 
 that suit you? "..."Perfectly, captaim"..." And, as 
 one must find some means of getting rid of the time 
 when one cannot fight any longer, you shall play 
 cards with me whenever I am inclined."..." Yes, 
 captain, only I do not know anything at all about 
 
HIS CABIN BOX. 13 
 
 them."..." That is no matter, I will teach you pi- 
 quet ; and try not to get diunk too often. When my 
 gout will allow me, we will go out shooting."..." Yes, 
 captain." 
 
 Everything was done exactly as Monsieur de Va~ 
 beaupont had said. They went and installed them- 
 selves at Bretiguy ; it was a large house, containing 
 more than twenty rooms, which were certainly not 
 in very good repair, but that was a matter which 
 could easily be set to rights, and it had something of 
 the look of one of those old castles of which one 
 reads so much in English romances. It was flanked 
 by two towers, which bore the somewhat grand 
 names of Northern and Southern Tower, and each 
 was surmounted by a culverin dating from the reign 
 of King John, and which had not been used since, 
 The garden was large and had a small lake and a 
 grotto ; then there was a wood of about three acres, 
 which might pass for a park and which immediately 
 joined the garden. % 
 
 The village of Bretinguy was only small, but the 
 inhabitants were not poor, and such a thing as want 
 was absolutely unknown, whilst the peasants were a 
 strong and sturdy race; the women were good-look- 
 ing and the children fat, and there was altogether an 
 aspect of happiness about the place, which it was a 
 pleasure to see. The only thing was that they drank 
 nothing but cider ; wine was something out of the* 
 common, and only the big wigs of the neighbourhood 
 kept it in their cellars. This, however, was a matter 
 of small importance to the inhabitants of the 
 chateau, as their cellar was always well stocked, for, 
 like all gouty people, the captain was very fond of 
 good wine. Unfortunately, his gout had not gone, 
 most likely because he looked after his cellar too 
 well, and so they had not been able to go out shoot- 
 ing, but he had to be satisfied with playing dominoes 
 with his cabin boy, whom he also tried to teach 
 
14 CAPTAIN DE VABEAUPONT AND 
 
 piquet, but lie could not learn it at all, though the 
 captain did his best to knock it into him. Every 
 evening after dinner he made a bowl of punch, 
 which was put on the card table at which he used to 
 take his place, saying to Shrove-Monday : "Now, 
 sit down opposite to me, take your cards, and try to 
 pay attention ; I have made up my mind that you 
 shall learn piquet." He might, however, make up 
 his mind as much as he liked, the lesson always 
 came to an end by the captain calling him a con- 
 founded fool and declaring that he should never 
 make anything of him. 
 
 Six months after he had settled down at Bretiguy 
 that little niece, who was then hardly ten years old 
 and who had suddenly been left an orphan, came 
 and claimed her uncle's protection ; he gladly took 
 charge of her, and was delighted when he discovered 
 that she had all the tastes and inclinations of a boy. 
 She at once showed that she had a proud, indepen- 
 dent disposition, and a will which nothing could sub- 
 due. If her uncle asked her to do anything that 
 she did not like she would say : " ISTo, I shall not do 
 that."..." And why not, if you please, missP"... 
 4t Because I don't choose to."... "But I tell you, jou 
 must, by jove."..." But I tell you, by Minerva, I 
 don't intend to, for all that." 
 
 Then the captain would begin to laugh, and, 
 giving his niece a pat on the cheek, he used to say : 
 " You ought not to wear petticoats ; you are worthy 
 to be a sailor, you have a will of your own, and I 
 like that ; do what you like, learn what you choose, 
 and have whatever masters you please. I give you 
 carte blanchel But only learn piquet, so as to be 
 able to have a game with me occasionally, as that 
 fool of a Shrove Monday cannot manage to get it 
 into his head." 
 
 Cezarine had learnt to ride, to fence, to shoot 
 ^with a bow and arrow, to skate, to swim, to jump 
 
HIS CABIN BOY. 15 
 
 over ditches, and, when she was twelve years old, 
 she conld beat her nncle at piquet, at backgammon, 
 and at chess. The captain doated on his niece, and 
 wished her already to undertake the housekeeping, 
 so she gave the servants their orders. Shrove-Mon- 
 day, who obeyed her as promptly as he did his 
 master, occasionally made a mistake and called her 
 captain ! 
 
 But in spite of her predilection for gymnastics- 
 and manly pursuits, when little Cezarine was fifteen 
 she found that it was rather dull at Bretiguy in 
 winter, and she wished to pass a few months in 
 Paris. The captain would have preferred to remain 
 on his estate altogether, but he saw that he could 
 not keep a girl who ought to get married some day 
 or another out of the world altogether, so they went 
 to Paris for the winter, and, as the captain was rich, 
 he received many visits and numerous invitations. 
 At fifteen she had the appearance of a girl of 
 eighteen, and Monsieur de Vabeaupont was much 
 complimented on his niece, and she, proud of being: 
 admired, praised and made much of, immediately 
 took a liking for society, and wished her uncle to 
 give dinners and evening parties, and though he did 
 not care for them himself, as his niece wished it, he 
 gave in. But her success was only short-lived, for 
 peopie soon discovered that she had a somewhat un- 
 certain temper; she gave short and occasionally rude 
 answers. She hated dancing, because she did not 
 know how to dance, and did not care for music be- 
 cause she could not play on any instrument, and so r 
 after having been terribly bored at two or three 
 evening parties, she said to her uncle : " Let us re- 
 turn to Bretiguy," and, as he wished for nothing, 
 better, they left Paris the next day. # 
 
 But all those little blows to her vanity had taught 
 Cezarine that, in order to succeed in society, it is 
 not enough to know how to ride and to fence, and, aa 
 
16 CAPTAIN DE VABEAUPONT AND 
 
 there was dancing at all the evening parties she 
 went to, she made up her mind to learn to dance, 
 and endeid by getting fond of it. As all the young 
 ladies of good education knew music, she persuaded 
 lier uncle to buy a piano and engage a music master. 
 But she had not the slightest taste for it, and after 
 she had got so far as being able to play Marlborough 
 s'en vat en guerre (a favourite French song against 
 the great Duke of Marlborough — "Marlborough is 
 going to the wars " ) with one hand, she gave up 
 the piano for the hunting horn, and soon acquired 
 enough skill on that instrument to drive all the 
 game in the neighbourhood away. 
 
 Then another idea laid hold of her. She had some- 
 times heard men speaking of serious matters or dis- 
 cussing points of law, and so she took a fancy to be- 
 come learned, to study Latin and Greek and the 
 Oode of Laws, so as to be able to speak upon it all 
 like a barrister, and so for two years she assiduously 
 read The Law Journal, but that did not make her 
 any more agreeable in company. When, however, 
 she was eighteen, lovers began to put in an appear- 
 ance, for it was known that the young lady would 
 "have a dowry of 4,000L and that she was Monsieur 
 de Vabeaupont's sole heiress, and he was very rich. 
 But Cezarine showed no inclination for getting mar- 
 ried; she was not in the least hurry to lose her 
 liberty, and she was backed up in this feeling by two 
 of her intimate friends, Mademoiselles Poalina and 
 Olympiade, whose acquaintance she had made in 
 society, and with whom she had almost immediately 
 become on terms of intimacy, because their ideas, 
 acts and thoughts were similar, and Paolina was 
 supposed to be a genius. 
 
 When she was ten years old she had guessed a 
 riddle in a newspaper, and since then it had been 
 her greatest pleasure to write verses and little fables 
 till such time as she might write a tragedy — that 
 
HIS CABIN BOY. 17 
 
 was her great ambition, but she wanted a totally 
 new subject, and that she had not yet discovered. 
 The younger people had often laughed when she re- 
 cited her poems, and so she had conceived a violent 
 hatred for all those people who were not able to 
 understand her poetry, and she frequently said to 
 <3ezarine : " My dear, believe me, and don't get mar: 
 ried ! Tou have money of your own, and your uncle 
 lets you do just as you like, so why should you lose 
 all that? When a woman marries, she becomes 
 a slave, and what utter folly to be a slave to any 
 man ! " 
 
 Mademoiselle Olympiade, who was a tall girl and 
 as thin as a whipping post, to whom nobody made 
 love, also affected the greatest dislike for men and 
 constantly kept saying : " Good heavens ! what 
 horrible creatures men are ! How can anybody like 
 "them ! Two-thirds of them have dreadful feet and 
 walk horribly, and then, look at their coats and hats, 
 and they want to be masters ! They like to seem to 
 protect us, but I am sure that I don't want any of 
 their protection ! Oh ! don't get married, my dear 
 dezarine ; make fun of all these fine gentlemen and 
 laugh at their sighs, but never believe a word they 
 say to you, for they are all liars ! " 
 
 Cezarine, who was not at all of an impressionable 
 nature, quite agreed with her two friends, and re- 
 fused every aspirant to her hand. The old sailor 
 had thought all this very funny at first, but when 
 his niece was twenty-three he reflected that if this 
 were to go on in the same way he should never see 
 himself revived in his niece's children, that he should 
 thus be deprived of society which would have amused 
 and occupied his declining years, and so he said to 
 Oezarine one day : 
 
 "My dear child, you have refused many offers, 
 but now you must think seriously of getting mar- 
 ried.". . ." But uncle, where is the necessity ?"..." I 
 
 B 
 
18 CAPTAIN DE VABEATJPONT AND 
 
 tell you again that it is my wish. Take your own 
 time ; I do not say that I want you to get married 
 to-morrow or next day, but pay attention to those 
 who may present themselves as possible wooers, and 
 when you have found one whom you think you 
 might like, come and tell me immediately, so that 
 we may finish off the business." 
 
 Cezarine, however, managed to gain a respite, bat 
 what induced her to make up her mind was that her 
 two intimate friends, who had so railed against 
 man, had just got married themselves. The poetical 
 Paolina had married a Monsieur Etoile, a man of 
 business, whilst the bad-tempered Olympiade had 
 become the wife of Monsieur Bouchetron (Anglice — 
 Mr. Stophole), a stockbroker, and when Cezarine ex- 
 pressed her astonishment that they had consented 
 to take husbands, Paolina replied: "Monsieur 
 Etoile shed tears when he heard my poetry," whilst 
 Olympiade looked down on the ground and mur- 
 mured : " Monsieur Bouchetron has promised to allow 
 me to dress as I please." 
 
 At that juncture Adolphe Pantalon appeared on 
 the scenes, and, without being an Apollo, he was a 
 good-looking young fellow enough, and what took 
 Cezarine's fancy more than anything else was his 
 kind, easy disposition, especially when, without pay- 
 ing her a number of compliments, he simply told 
 her that he should be very flattered if she would 
 take him for her husband. 
 
 It was winter, and so they were in Paris, when 
 Cezarine went and said to the captain : " Uncle, I 
 think that at last I have found a man to suit me, 
 and whom I will consent to marry."... The old sailor 
 jumped up from his easy chair in his pleasure, and 
 cried : " Ah ! I am delighted ; but where is this 
 fellow who is going to become my nephew ?"..." At 
 home, I expect. He is a barrister, has a private in- 
 come of eight thousand francs (320L), and is nearly 
 
HIS CABIN BOY, 19 
 
 thirty years old."..." That is all as it should be. 
 Certainly eight thousand francs a year is not much, 
 and you might have expected to have made a better 
 match, but, if clever and energetic, he will increase 
 his income. And what is the fellow's name?"... 
 " Adolphe Pantalon (i.e., trousers or breeches) ; here 
 is his card, which he asked me to give you."... 
 " Pantalon ! That is a funny name ! It would be 
 very unfortunate if with such a name you did not 
 wear the breeches, but I am quite easy on that score, 
 for you certainly will wear them ; but you are sure 
 that you like the young man? "..."Yes, certainly! 
 though I am not violently in love with him.". . ." Oh ! 
 it is not at all necessary to be in love with one's 
 husband. "..."There is only one thing that I am 
 afraid of, and that is that he is not at all clever."... 
 "Do not complain of that! If you marry a man 
 who i3 too clever it is like putting yourself against a 
 player in a game at which he is more skilful than 
 yourself ; you are sure to lose every game. Marry 
 this Pantalon, and no doubt you will get on capitally ; 
 I should like to make his acquaintance as soon as 
 possible, and so I will send him an invitation for to- 
 morrow immediately, by Shrove-Monday." 
 
 The captain summoned lis cabin boy, and said to 
 him in confidence : " You must take this letter to 
 Monsieur Pantalon ; give it to nobody but himself, 
 and tell him that you are to wait for an answer. 
 Whilst he is reading it, you will look him over care- 
 fully from head to foot, you understand, for he 
 wants to marry my niece, and I should like to know 
 first of all whether he is physically suited to her; 
 whether he is in good health, strong and well built, 
 likely to make a — vigorous husband — you know what 
 I mean ! ". . ." Yes, captain ; I will examine him.' 
 
 Shrove-Monday started on his errand. He found 
 Adolphe in his study ; his man-servant wished to take 
 in the letter, bidding the other wait for the answer, 
 
20 CAPTAIN DE VABEAUPONT AND HIS CABIN BOY. 
 
 but the former refused, and said : " "No, that will not 
 do at all ; I must give the letter into his own hands, 
 for whilst he is reading'it I have got to look him over 
 carefully and see how he is made, to see that he is 
 not knock-kneed, whether he has good broad shoul- 
 ders, and whether he is a young man who is up to* 
 his work; do you understand me? "..."No, gene- 
 rally when anybody comes to see a lawyer, the client 
 does not pay much attention to his build; but I 
 will go and tell my master."..." Very well, you can 
 go, but 1 am not gting to part with the letter ; I am 
 not going to give it to anybody but him self ."...The 
 servant went and told the young barrister that there 
 was a man waiting who had a letter for him, but 
 that he refused to give it up except into his own 
 hands, and suggested that he might be a thief, who 
 wished to inspect his private room. But his master 
 replied : " Thieves do not rob lawyers, who are their 
 natural defenders, so show him in." 
 
 So Shrove-Monday was introduced, and critically 
 examined Pantalon whilst he was reading the letter 
 which he handed to him, and then took his leave, 
 very well satisfied with his inspection. He had been 
 absent for an hour, and returned with a radiant, 
 look, and said to Monsieur de Yabeaupont : " Cap- 
 tain, the gentleman — the breeches — accepts the in- 
 vitation with many thanks; he sent you his compli- 
 ments, and gave me this little yellow boy to drink his 
 health with.". . ." That is all right, but you remember 
 what I told you — to look carefully to see how he was 
 built . . "..."Oh! captain, I am perfectly satis- 
 fied ! He had on a fancy waistcoat and polished 
 boots, but he is firmly built, and is a man who ought 
 to have been a sailor." 
 
THE WEDDING DINNER, 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 The captain had found Adolphe Pantalon quite 
 worthy of marrying his niece, and three weeks after 
 the invitation which Shrove-Monday had taken to 
 him the wedding of Cezarine and the young barrister 
 took place. 
 
 The wedding dinner was given at an excellent 
 restaurant on the Boulevard <les Italiens, and a 
 numerous company had been invited, and, as the 
 bride was allowed to do as she pleased in that respect, 
 she had asked all her intimate female friends, as 
 well as many married ladies and girls, who always 
 happened to agree with her views. She had invited 
 Madame Etoile and her husband ; he was a man of 
 forty, with a cold, distant manner, who spoke little, 
 and whose only thoughts were how to make money. 
 Paolina thought that he shed tears when he heard 
 her elegies, but the other girls declared that he only 
 had a violent cold in his head, which caused him to 
 use his pocket handkerchief at every moment. 
 
 Olympiade was there with her husband, Joseph 
 Bouchetron, who was still a young man, but pitted 
 with smallpox, so that his face looked like a strainer, 
 which, however, did not prevent his smiling every 
 moment, and trying to make himself very agreeable 
 and to look carefully after the wants of the ladies. 
 " But why did you marry such a pock-marked man ? " 
 Cezarine had once asked her friend...." I preferred 
 him for that very reason, my dear; men marked with 
 the smallpox have become very rare since the intro- 
 duction of vaccination, that those who are pitted 
 have a distinguished look, which prevents them from 
 being confounded with common, ordinary faces, and, 
 
22 THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 if it continues, I am sure that in a few years pock- 
 marked men will be worth a ridiculous price." 
 
 Then there were Monsieur and Madame Vespace. 
 She — her name was Lenobin — was a little woman of 
 eight-and-twenty, who had been pretty, but had lost 
 all her good looks as the result of several illnesses, 
 oontracted from her insatiable longing for excite- 
 ment ; she would pass her whole nights in dancing 
 and in going from party to party, and she used to 
 tell her husband to mind his own business if he 
 begged her to be prudent and take care of herself. 
 At last he got tired of not being listened to, and 
 though he had not discovered Amenia, Monsieur 
 Vespace managed to discover a little shirtmaker, who 
 wished for nothing better than to listen to him, and 
 so he let his wife go into society as much as she 
 pleased, whilst he went to see his little seamstress, 
 who never wanted to go to a ball, and as lovers had 
 for some time past begun to get scarce with Madame 
 Vespace, she had taken to romances ; she read all 
 Anne Radcliffe's old works, and pretended to believe 
 in ghosts, apparitions and spiritualism^ and, above 
 all things, she longed to be bewitched. 
 
 Next to them, came Monsieur and Madame Gras- 
 sonillet. She was a young woman of twenty-four, 
 and she could be either languishing or vivacious in 
 turns, for she knew it did not do always to be the 
 same ; she was a great coquette, and naturally wished 
 to please the men. Of course, this did not altogether 
 suit her husband, who was very jealous and inclined 
 to have scenes with his wife, but she not pay much 
 attention to him and kept on working the batteries 
 of her eyes, which put Monsieur Grassonillet into a 
 bad temper very frequently, and, as he was very 
 ugly into the bargain, all the men thought that they 
 were justified in making love to his wife, as they 
 did not think she could entertain any feelings of 
 affection for such a disagreeable husband. 
 
THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 23 
 
 Again, there was Armida Dutonneau, a handsome 
 woman of more than thirty, bnt who had made np 
 her mind that she wonld never be more than thirty- 
 six. She was a somewhat mascnline beanty, and 
 rather vulgar perhaps ; her complexion was getting 
 spotty and her nose red. Her husband was well 
 suited to be her cavalier, for he was a man of fully 
 six feet high. He was well built and well covered, 
 without being too stout, and his face expressed his 
 happy disposition; he was always laughing, even 
 whilst his wife was finding fault with him, for in 
 this case it was just the opposite to the Grassonillets ; 
 it was madame who was jealous and ^ monsieur was 
 given to flirting with other women, till at last she 
 used to declare that men were not good for much I 
 He only laughed the more when his wife got up a 
 jealous scene with him, and he would often seize the 
 occasion to take up his hat and go for a walk in one 
 of the squares ; he liked to go there and og e the 
 pretty girls, for it must be confessed that he only 
 sought out those oases because he was certain of 
 finding some more or less good-looking women 
 there. Young nursemaids especially always come 
 there in great numbers, with their brats, and ^ as 
 Chou-chou — that was his wife's pet name for him, 
 when she was in a good temper-^-was not at all 
 proud, he had no objection to the white apron and 
 muslin cap of the servants. *' 
 
 Easily, there was a widow, a Madame Mambart, 
 who was forty and had buried three husbands. She 
 was a tall woman, who must have been very good 
 looking, but her strongly-marked features expressed 
 neither gentleness nor affability. She had fine black 
 eyes, but their expression was either hard or mock- 
 ing, a loud voice, and when she laughed there 
 was nothing frank about it, but it sounded like a 
 cavernous cough. It might seem strange that 
 Cezarine should have a friend so much older than 
 
24 THE WEDDING DINNEB. 
 
 herself, but the widow Flambart, who was always ex- 
 tremely well dressed, used to admire Cezarine's 
 proud bearing, and had complimented her on the 
 good taste of her dress ; sometimes too, she had gone 
 into ecstacies on hearing the captain's niece quote a 
 Latin author, and what woman is there who is not 
 to be caught by flattery? Everybody knows La 
 Fontaine's fables, but none takes them to heart. To 
 these people must be added a few old friends of the 
 captain and their wives, and big or little children. 
 So much for the guests on the bride's side. 
 
 The bridegroom's guests were much fewer in 
 number, for the only relations he had, besides his 
 sister, were an old aunt, who was extremely deaf, 
 and a few cousins and their wives, about a dozen 
 people altogether, but, as there were about three 
 times as many on the bride's side, it was a pretty 
 large gathering altogether. 
 
 We must not, however, forget Shrove-Monday, 
 who was the captain's inseparable companion. He 
 had not a place at the table, of course, but he stood 
 ^behind Monsieur Vabeaupont, and was always ready 
 to wait on him. It was quite useless for the master 
 of the establishment to say to the captain that there 
 were enough waiters to insure everybody at table 
 being attended to promptly ; the old sailor would not 
 yield, and said : " I mean to have my cabin boy 
 behind me, or else I shall go and keep the wedding 
 elsewhere ! " Of course, the reply he got was that 
 if he wished it, he was quite at liberty to have him. 
 
 They sat down at five o'clock precisely, and Shrove- 
 Monday stood behind the captain's chair, where he 
 was in everybody's way, because be was so fat that 
 he took up a large amount of room, and he was 
 jostled by the waiters till it was really almost sad to 
 see the little wrinkled man in his sailor's dress look- 
 ing at them in a stupified manner, without moving 
 from the place which had been assigned to him, and 
 
THE WEDDING DINNER. 2& 
 
 smiling at the pokes in the ribs which he received 
 and only saying : " Go on, jostle away, never mind 
 me ; I mean to stand firm at my post, for I am strong 
 enongh ! " 
 
 Monsienr de Vabeaupont had the bride on his 
 right and Adolphe's sister, Elvina, who was seven- 
 teen and had just left school, on his left. She was 
 a pretty, good tempered, merry girl, bnt she was 
 still so timid and embarrassed in society that she 
 scarcely ventured to say a word, and only answered 
 the captain in monosyllables. 
 
 " Well, my second niece, for you are my second 
 niece now, you must talk a little and loosen your 
 tongue. Are you glad that your brother has got 
 married ?"..." Yes, monsieur ! ". . ." Don't call me 
 monsieur, call me uncle, and have some Madeira 
 with me." ..." No, thank you, monsieur !"..." Con- 
 found it, call me uncle and have some Madeira, to 
 touch glasses with me. Shrove-Monday, give the 
 young lady some Madeira.". . .Tha latter looked at 
 the captain in a stupified manner and said : " I have 
 not got got any, monsieur."..." Then go and ask for 
 some, you fool — you can get anything you want here 
 by asking for it."... So Shrove-Monday said to a 
 waiter, who was passing : " Comrade, I want somfr 
 Madeira."..." Comrade ! I am not your comrade! 
 Go and ask for it in the kitchen, for you are only in 
 the way here." And the waiter went off without 
 more ado. Then Shrove-Monday asked another, 
 who was more polite and who said to him : " Go ta 
 the pantry and ask the butler." The old cabin boy 
 at last made up his mind to leave his post and try to 
 get what was required; meanwhile, however, the 
 captain got furious because his wants were not sup- 
 plied and half got up, and Cezarine had some diffi- 
 culty in appeasing him and making him understand 
 that the waiters were not making fun of him. But 
 Shrove- Monday at length appeared with a bottle of 
 
26 THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 Madeira, and his master asked him why he had left 
 his post. On his telling him that it was to get the 
 wine which he required, he replied that he should 
 have made the waiter hring it to him. But, after 
 all, Elvina would not drink it, and the captain said 
 to the bridegroom : 
 
 "Why will not your sister* drink it? "..." Well, 
 captain, she is not accustomed to drink wine w&hout 
 water ; she is afraid that it might not agree with 
 her, and it certainly might affect her head."... 
 " Well, I see that her whole education has yet to be 
 undertaken ; luckily, your wife will see after that, so 
 your little sister will be in good hands." 
 
 Most of the ladies, however, did not by any means 
 share Elvina's fears, and were quite ready to take 
 Madeira, and the widow even took it more than 
 once and said : "A woman ought not to object to 
 hob-nob with a man ; they call us the weak [sex, 
 and we have not the slightest objection, but our 
 capabilities are really quite as great as mens*, only 
 we are stupid enough not to make so much use of 
 them."..." Bravo," cried the captain. "Here, boy, 
 let us have some claret." 
 
 Sb rove-Monday, who was still holding the bottle 
 of Madeira, put it on to the ground and violently 
 took a bottle of 'claret out of the hands of a waiter, 
 who was passing with one in either hand, and so 
 could not defend himself ; all that he could do was 
 to say in a low voice : " All right, I will pay you 
 out for that, my old fellow ! " Shrove-Monday 
 came back quite proud to his master, and all the 
 guests found the wine very good and did honour to 
 it, and even the ladies, carried away by the widow 
 Flambart's example, became charmingly merry, 
 whilst some of the men allowed themselves one or 
 two of those jokes which fools think it incumbent 
 upon them to make at the expense of newly-married 
 people. The talk had become general and lively all 
 
THE WEDDING DINNER. 27 
 
 round th 3 table ; in fact, everybody was talking at 
 once, and the captain was delighted ; he. struck the 
 table with his fist and exclaimed in a loud voice : 
 "That is a!l right, a general impetus, and people 
 are beginning to talk; the bridegroom is the only 
 one who has not livened up a little. Why, how is 
 that, Paatalon ? You are not saying a word. You 
 must not let love render you dumb. You must not be 
 in love at table ! Come, sing us something; here we 
 at dessert, and it is the proper time to sing.". . ." No ! 
 no, uncle," Cezarine said, " singing at weddings has 
 quite gone out of fashion ; it is very had form, and is 
 left to workpeople."... "My dear niece, that shows 
 that workpeople know how to amuse themselves 
 better than we do, and I think that it is our ' form ' 
 that is ( bad,' and not theirs, and I will have a song. 
 Now then, Pantalon, are you going to begin ? "... 
 " Captain, I am very sorry to have to refuse you, 
 but 1 have never known how to sing."... "I beg your 
 pardon, captain," Madame Etoile said, half rising* 
 in order to obtain more attention, but, if you will 
 permit me, I have written some verses on my friend 
 Cezarine's marriage, and I am quite ready to recite 
 them. "..."Very good, fair lady! Pray let us hear 
 them; that will be no reason why we should not 
 have some songs afterwards. Boy ! give me some 
 Chambertin." 
 
 Whilst his master had not been looking at him, 
 Shrove-Monday had turned away and drunk out of 
 the bottle of Madeira itself several times, but just 
 then the captain turned his head a little and saw his 
 cabin boy with the neck of the bottle to his lips, 
 and so he caught him beautifully. " What are you 
 doing, you scamp ?"..." I beg your pardon, captain, 
 I was tasting to see whether it was the wine you had 
 asked for."..." Why, you were drinking out of the 
 bottle, you rascal."..." Captain, I guessed it was 
 some Madeira you did not want any more."..." We 
 
28 THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 shall have a very nice little account to settle by and 
 by, Master Shrove-Monday ! "..."As yon please, cap- 
 tain."..." Meanwhile, pour me out some Chain- 
 bertin ! " 
 
 Shrove-Monday went to get the other bottle, which 
 he had hidden in a corner ; he uncorked it, and be- 
 gan to pour some into the glass which the captain 
 was holding out to him, but the waiter from whom 
 he had filched the wine had for some instants been 
 watching for the right moment to be avenged on the 
 old fellow. Just as he saw that he was helping his 
 master he came up softly behind him, gave him a 
 good kick behind, and disappeared immediately. The 
 £ick had been applied so vigorously that Shrove- 
 Monday rebounded from it, and by that sudden 
 motion had struck and shivered the glass which the 
 captain was holdiug out to pieces, whilst the wine 
 was spilt all over the table, splashing Elvina and the 
 old sailor. The latter got up in a furious passion, 
 seized his plate and broke it over the cabin boy's 
 head, exclaiming: 
 
 " Get out, you brute ; get out, you pirate ! Don't 
 come near me again, or I will sink you." But 
 Shrove-Monday received it all with the greatest cool- 
 ness, and merely rubbed his head and stern and 
 said : " When you want any more wine, you can just 
 call me." 
 
 They had some difficulty in appeasing the captain, 
 and Madame Etoile, who was eager to let her verses 
 be heard, rose a second time and said: "Peace is 
 restored and the storm is over, so that the Muse may 
 venture to show herself and I will begin. This is 
 addressed to you, fair bride : 
 
 On the bank you meet, 
 
 Hymen aud the Cupids ; 
 
 Oh ! may you in your household 
 
 Be able to rule without assistance — 
 
 Learn how to command alone. 
 
TlLti WEDDING DINNER. 29 
 
 Be firm in what you say ; 
 
 If your husband makes a noise, 
 
 If he wishes to turn into a bear, 
 
 Believe me, in order to brave the storm, 
 
 Act like a man, without any subterfuges. 
 
 Madame Etoile stopped and sat down to take 
 "breath, and the ladies especially applauded very 
 loudly. But Chou-Chou Dutoneau said : " I am not 
 very fond of husbands who turn into bears!"... 
 " Why not, monsieur ? It is only natural," pretty 
 Madame Grassonillet said, laughing; "a husband 
 who turns into a bear is a thing that is seen pretty 
 frequently !"..." Armandine, I think your remark is 
 extremely out of place," Monsieur Grassonillet said, 
 in a low voice ; " I agree with Monsieur Dutoneau, 
 and I think it is very rude of this lady to say that 
 we are turning into bears ! I think she might have 
 found a number of comparisons which would have 
 been more correct and not so brutal."..," You are 
 quite right, my dear ; she might have said : ' turn 
 into a canary.' " — [The word is serin in the French, 
 and means a canary, and also a blockhead, fool, or 
 simpleton.] . . ." I don't like that word any better.". 
 " Well, what you like then ? Perhaps you would 
 like to be compared to an owl? "..."Oh ! — please, 
 there, that is enough ; but I know perfectly well to 
 what bird one might compare you. "..."If you know 
 tell me immediately. "..."No, there are some things 
 which one keeps to oneself." 
 
 The captain, who had not been particularly 
 amused by Madame Etoile's verses, now exclaimed : 
 "Now, let us have a tol-de-rol, something rathei 
 broad."..." I beg your pardon, captain," Paolina 
 hastily interposed, "you have only heard the be- 
 ginning of my piece of poetry, and I must finish it ; 
 now I am going to deal with marriage in all its 
 aspects," and the poetical Paolina got up from her 
 
SO THE WEDDING DINNER. 
 
 seat, and this time added action to her delivery : 
 
 Who could have been the first on eaith 
 To fetter the sex which was made to please ? 
 Let us go back to Noah, or even to Cain — 
 Let ns go farther back still . . 
 
 "No, no, don't go back any further !" the captain 
 cried, striking the table. " I beg your pardon, fair 
 lady, for interrupting you, but I must confess that 
 when I hear poetry recited it sends me to sleep im- 
 mediately ; we, old sea dogs, know nothing about 
 poetry. Keep your verses till supper time, when I 
 shall not be present, and let us sing something jolly. 
 As these gentlemen do not seem inclined to sing, I 
 will begin, so listen : 
 
 It is in the city of Bordeaux 
 . "Now, ladies, we will leave the gentlemen to 
 sing," Cezarine said, getting up, for I think it is 
 time for us to be thinking of dressing for the ball.", 
 ..."Yes, yes," said Madame Dutoneau, getting up 
 also, " we really must always mistrust these gentle- 
 men's songs! "...Madame Etoile said nothing, but 
 she gave the men a disdainful look, whilst the 
 widow Flambart cried : " These gentlemen are de- 
 lighted to see us go, for now they can smoke ! At 
 present, women are abandoned f orthe sake of cigars." 
 ..."How horrid!" Madame Yespace said...." For- 
 tunately, we all have our little means of vengeance," 
 Madame Grassonillet murmured. 
 
 And the ladies disappeared, at the very moment 
 that Monsieur de Yabeaupont began his song. 
 
THE BALL. OL 
 
 CHAPTER IY 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 As soon as the ladies had gone, everyone was 
 eager to sing after the captain, for all the gentle- 
 men knew some songs, though they were, perhaps, 
 rather too broad to be sung before the ladies. They 
 remained a long time at table, and it was nearly nine 
 o'clock before they got up and went into the neigh- 
 bouring card room. When the captain got up, he 
 was not exactly drunk, for he was in the habit of 
 drinking pretty freely, but yet, he was not very firm 
 on his legs, and he began to call out for Shrove- 
 Monday, but on that occasion he did not respond to 
 the roll-call. " Where the devil is my cabin boy? " 
 the captain exclaimed. What have they done with 
 him? I want him; Pantalon, nephew Pantalon, 
 just go and look after him, if you please." The hus- 
 band hastened to do as his wife's uncle requested 
 him, and he returned in a few moments and said to 
 the captain : " My dear uncle, Shrove-Monday is not 
 in a fit condition to present himself before you, for 
 he is so drunk that he cannot stand, and, in fact, at 
 this moment he is fast asleep in the study, where he 
 has been eating and drinking for four. I can assure 
 you that they have taken excellent care of him."... 
 "Very well, just show me where he is, and I will 
 talk to the rascal.". . ." But captain, as he is asleep . . " 
 ..." Never mind ; T will find means to wake him up." 
 The captain took Adolphe's arm and said to him : 
 " You are strong enough, but you are too tall ; I 
 have been in the habit of leaning on that scamp of a 
 Shrove-Monday, who serves me as a walking stick,, 
 and so I walk very badly when I have not got him 
 to lean upon." 
 
82 THE BALL. 
 
 When they got to the study they found Shrove- 
 Monday lying snoring on a sofa. The captain 
 looked at his cabin boy, hit him in the ribs, and, see- 
 ing that that did not wake him up, said to the bride- 
 groom: "Ask the waiter for a bucket of water."... 
 " A bucket, captain ! Will not a glassful be enough? " 
 ..."A glassful for a man who has spent his life at 
 sea ! Tell him to bring a bucket quite full ! " The 
 waiter from whom Shrove-Monday had stolen the 
 bottle of Chambertin brought the bucket of water,, 
 and when the captain told him to throw it in the 
 cabin boy's face he did it so skilfully that Shrove- 
 Monday's head did not lose a drop of it. The expe- 
 dient operated very effectually; the fellow opened 
 his eyes, saw his master, and stammered : " Here I 
 am ! What wine do you want, captain ?"..." Just 
 listen to the fellow ! He thinks of nothing but 
 drinking! Here, make haste and get sober, and 
 come and act as my prop again." And the captain 
 went off with Adolphe, saying : " I will forgive this 
 sponge, because he also wished to celebrate your 
 wedding, and then because I cannot do without 
 him." 
 
 At about half -past nine the ladies returned, having 
 changed their dresses, which, without making the 
 ugly ones look pretty, yet gave the ball an elegant 
 and brilliat appearance. Cezarine was very beauti- 
 ful, and wore her bridal attire like a queen might 
 wear her crown. At about eleven o'clock those 
 people began to arrive who had only been invited 
 to the ball, which then became very animated, as 
 there were a number of pretty women, and the cap- 
 tain walked about the ballroom leaning on his cabin 
 boy, who had got sober by that time, and who 
 thought that it was his duty to smile at everyone 
 who looked at him. The captain was in high spirits 
 and kept begging the ladies to make the best use 
 of their evening, till at last Shrove-Monday whispered 
 
THE BALL. 33 
 
 to him : " If you like, I will dance also ! n The cap- 
 tain shrugged his shoulders, and leaning more 
 heavily on his living walking stick, he said : " Hold 
 your tongue you great hamhoo came ! Look here, 
 Shrove-Monday, all these ladies dance very nicely, 
 and the men are not so bad, though some of them 
 seem, as if dancing were too much trouble for theui, 
 but it is all nothing compared to the dances which I 
 have seen in Africa. You should have seen the 
 women jump, skip, writhe, with their streaming hair 
 floating on their shoulders, and all of them uttering 
 piercing cries whilst they were dancing. The men 
 were even worse, and often they would take the 
 women round the waist and throw them at hap- 
 hazard over their shoulders ; it did not the least 
 matter whether they fell heads or tails, and, if any 
 of them could not get up, no attention was paid to 
 them ; it was grand." 
 
 Just then the bride opened the ball with her hus- 
 band, and when that dance was over she said to him : 
 " Now, we must not dance together again during the 
 whole evening.". .." What ! not even once ? ". . .," ISTo, 
 quite impossible, for I have too many engagements ! 
 But you, monsieur . . "..."Don't call me mon- 
 sieur; my name is Adolphe! "..." Very well then, 
 Adolphe, I have written down the names of all the 
 ladies with whom you ought to dance, on this card, 
 and though the»e are a good number of them, still 
 you must manage to get through it."... The bride- 
 groom was not at all pleased at the duty which his 
 wife imposed upon him, but he determined to do as 
 she asked him. When Cezarine told Madame Flam- 
 bart what she had done, the latter said : " You are 
 quite right, my dear ; you must make him do his 
 duty and accustom him to obeying your wishes." 
 
 At about eleven o'clock, Frederick Duvassel put in 
 an appearance, accompanied by his brother, and the 
 bridegroom, who was very pleased to see his friend, 
 
 o 
 
34 THE BALL. 
 
 introduced him to his wife during a pause in the 
 dancing. Of course, he paid her the usual compli- 
 ments and introduced his brother to her as an inde- 
 fatigable dancer, saying, however, that he himself 
 never danced. Gustave was a very good-looking 
 young fellow, with something of the schoolboy 
 manner about him still ; be was vry shy and blushed 
 whenever a lady spoke to bim, and so he looked 
 down under Cezarine's glances, but be found great 
 pleasure in looking at little Elvina. As soon as she 
 bad introduced them to each other, Cezarine turned 
 to Madame Dutonneau and said : " How very stupid 
 of my husband to invite a man who never dances to 
 a ball ! What on earth can we do with this Mon- 
 sieur Duvassel ? I do not like his looks at all!"... 
 " His brother is very nice looking.". . ." A schoolboy, 
 who looks like a ninny ; give me Monsieur Fouillac, 
 the son of my uncle's old friend ! He is a delight- 
 ful man, and does not forsake the ballroom for the 
 card-room, like most of the gentlemen do!"... 
 " Well, but really, he is a rather antiquated dancer! " 
 Madame Yespace said ; " he must be nearly fifty ! " 
 . . ."Oh ! no, you are quite wrong my dear ; I am sure 
 that he is not more than forty-five."..." He looks a 
 great deal more."..." Oh ! Chou-Chou always looks 
 young ! " Madame Dutonneau said. " Nobody would 
 believe that the wretch is forty-six ! He is too 
 handsome, and he knows it!"...'<|Do you really 
 think that your husband is too handsome ?"..." Yes, 
 for he has made too many conquests ; he takes ad- 
 vantage of his vigour and neglects his wife — and a 
 woman of my age does not like to be neglected in 
 that way." 
 
 We have not yet made Monsieur Fouillac's ac- 
 quaintance. He was a man on the shady side of 
 forty, and used to have a pleasant, though a sheep- 
 like face; but now he was bloated, and his eyes, 
 which were small, were very much like those of a 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 35 
 
 mouse. He had a perpetual smile on his lips and 
 was always paying compliments, and that goes a 
 long way," especially with ladies; however, he was 
 thirty, and all he had succeeded in doing up to the 
 present was to run through the fortune which his 
 father had left him, and no one exactly knew how 
 he had managed to live since then, for he had no 
 profession, and, after trying several careers, he now 
 spent his time in doing nothing, though he said 
 that he did business on the Stock Exchange; he 
 went there pretty regularly certainly, but it was 
 said that he only risked other people's money. He 
 had lost all his own in gambling of one sort or the 
 other, but in spite of that, he had not lost the hope 
 of being more fortunate some day, and if he did not 
 go to the baccarat table when he was at a party, 
 the only reason was that he had no money in his 
 pocket, and that it grieved him not to be able to play 
 for high stakes, as he had formerly done, and then, 
 naturally a man who used to cover the table with 
 banknotes does not care to play when he only runs 
 the chance of winning a few francs, and so Monsieur 
 Fouillac was satisfied with looking on at the game 
 without joining in it. 
 
 At dinner he ate and drank for four, but this did 
 not prevent him from studying the tastes and dis- 
 positions of most of the bride's intimate friends, an*, 
 so during the evening he did not fail to praise Mpl 
 demoiselle Miole's verses, to compliment Madan^ s 
 Vespace on her ball dress and her queenlike bearings 
 Olympide de Bouchetron on the distinguished looks 
 which the smallpox marks gave to her husband, and 
 lastly, Cezarine, on the habit of making herself 
 obeyed, and on the empire which she already seemed 
 to poss'ess over her husband. There was only Ma- 
 dame Ftembart whom he did not venture to com- 
 pliment on the fact of her being the widow of three 
 husbands, but, on the contrary, bowed profoundly 
 
$6 THE BALL. 
 
 every time she passed, and stopped as if lie were 
 going to carry arms. 
 
 Adolphe introduced bis friend Frederick to the 
 captain, who said to the new comer : " Why are 
 you so late, monsieur? "..." But, captain, it is not 
 late yet !"..." Do you thiuk so? It is half-past 
 eleven, and I am going to bed soon ; you are an old 
 frieud of Pantalon's ?"..." Yes, monsieur; we are 
 old schoolfellows."..." Well, you see I have found 
 bim a fully equipped wife — a vessel that knows how 
 to steer, by jove ! You have seen my niece?"... 
 "Yes, captain, I have just had the pleasure of salut- 
 ing her. She is a very handsome woman."..." I 
 should rather say so, and I only hope that Pantalon 
 will not lie to by her. But I am quite easy on that 
 score, for if he were not to go all right she would 
 soon set him straight. My niece is as good as any 
 man, and has all the capabilities of a first-rate man; 
 as for fools, she would roll them under her feet like 
 so many kittens." 
 
 Frederick tried to keep from laughing and looked 
 
 at the bridegroom, who did not seem specially 
 
 pleased with this portrait of his wife, but just then 
 
 Madame Flambart came up to them and said: 
 
 " Monsieur Adolphe, your wife is afraid that you 
 
 - re forgotten that you ought to dance this dance 
 
 5. *i Madame Gercain, and they are taking their 
 
 •a.- ?s. There she is, on the left.". . ." Oh ! I see her ; 
 
 \& £ ugly enough to be remarked anywhere, and I 
 
 .jeL^se she is rather hump-backed. I really don't 
 
 very much care about dancing with her."..." Well, 
 
 your wife says you are to, so just come along!"... 
 
 So the husband made up his mind to obey, although 
 
 with a very wry face, and Madame Flambart looked 
 
 at the ca.ptain and said to him : " You see, he has 
 
 given way. Oh ! Cezarine will make him do as she 
 
 likes, for I said to her : " My dear, from the very 
 
 first days of your marriage you must make your 
 
THE BALL. 37 
 
 liusband do as lie is told. From the very first," I 
 said, " make him do as he is told." 
 
 " Who is that lady ? " Frederick asked, when the 
 widow had gone away...." A woman who has buried 
 i;hree husbands. "..."By jove ! If that is the con- 
 sequence of making them do as they were told, I 
 only hope your niece will not follow her example ! K 
 ..." The old sailor laughed, and replied: "My niece 
 will take nobody's advice, but always does just as 
 she pleases. Come Shrove-Monday, it is time to tack 
 ~fco be off."..." What, captain, are you going already? 
 They Lold me in the kitchen that there was to be a 
 supper."... "I know that, by jove, as I ordered it, 
 but that is for the young people who are going to 
 dance all night, whilst we old sea dogs will be off to 
 bed. In any case, it seems to me, you scamp, that 
 you have eaten and drunk enough not to require any- 
 thing more !"..." I can assure you, captain, that I 
 should be very glad of some supper . . "..." Hold 
 your tongue, and come ; forward, march ! " 
 
 Monsieur de Yabeaupont and his cabin boy had 
 gone ; the ball was at its height, for the captain had 
 done everything very well. The punch circulated 
 after every dance ; the gentlemen did justice to it, 
 and Madame Flambart imitated them and said to 
 the ladies : " Take my advice and drink punch; it is 
 far preferable to ices and syrups, for if you tak^ 
 punch you are certain never to get inflammation c- 
 the lungs."..." But we shall get drunk," Madan*" 
 Vespace said.. . ." No ! It is only a matter of getting 
 used to it." 
 
 Amongst all those merry and animated faces, the 
 bridegroom's evinced the least amount of high 
 spirits, and his friend Frederick, who was a close 
 observer, went up to him and said: "What is the 
 matter, my dear Adolphe ? Really you have a 
 thoughtful look, which is quite out place in a newly- 
 married man."... "My dear friend, upon my word, I 
 
38 THE BALL. 
 
 am done for ! This constant dancing is enough to 
 kill anyone ! I never cared much for it — a quadrille 
 here and there might do, but never to have a mo- 
 ment's rest during the evening does away with all 
 pleasure! 5 '... "And what forces you to do it?"... 
 " It is my wife's doing ; Cezarine gave me this list,. 
 on which she has written the names of all the 
 women I must dance with. Did not you see just 
 now, when I wanted to rest a little while, how she 
 sent Madame Flambart to me to remind me of my 
 duty ?"..." Adolphe, will you allow me to give you a 
 piece of advice?"..." Go on, I am listening to you." 
 ..."I trembled for you just now, when I heard the 
 portrait that Monsieur de Vabeaupont drew of his 
 niece. If what he says is true, you have not mar- 
 ried a woman, but a lifeguardsman !"..." What an 
 idea! "..."I hope the uncle has exaggerated the 
 portrait, but, at any rate, your wife has already 
 shown herself somewhat exacting towards you. This 
 Madame Flambart — the widow of three husbands, is 
 constantly saying that your wife must make you do 
 as she tells you. In married life reciprocal yield- 
 ing is the best thing ; it is no good saying : ' I will 
 be master.' The thing is never to give in when you. 
 are in the right, and if you get into the habit of do- 
 tng all that your wife wishes she willjbegin by looking 
 Don you as a cipher, and will then act without con- 
 '^lting you."..." Oh! be quite easy, I have a toler- 
 "^ly strong character myself, and, if I am pushed to 
 Extremes, I shall show it ! ".. ." That is all very well r 
 but it is better not to allow yourself to be pushed 
 to extremes."..." Ah! there is the ritornello of the 
 dance ; it is a waltz this time, and I am not fond of 
 waltzing."..." Very well, then don't waltz ! "..."It is 
 Madame Boulard's turn ; a huge woman — a bundle,, 
 and I should never be able to hold her up."..." Don't 
 waltz then; say it makes you giddy."..." But 
 Cezarine knows that I do, for I have often waltzed 
 
THE BALL. 39 
 
 with her. Ah ! here comes the aide-de-camp to tell 
 me."..." Yes, the widow of three husbands is coming 
 towards us, so look out ! " 
 
 Madame Elambart at that moment came up to 
 them and said to the bridegroom : " Well, don't you 
 hear the music? They are waltzing, and you ought 
 to ask Madame Boulard ; Cezarine has just told me 
 so. Come, make haste or you will lose half of it ; do 
 come along. "...Frederick jogged his friend and 
 whispered in his ear: "Don't go.". . .Adolphe hesi- 
 tated and then said: " I am very tired, and Madame 
 Boulard waltzes very badly."..." You will make her 
 go all right. With a good partner a woman can al- 
 ways get on."... "No, when a woman has no ear her 
 partner cannot possibly make her keep step."..." But 
 do come, Monsieur Pantalon, as your wife wishes it." 
 ..." No, I am not going to dance this time.". . ." That 
 is most unamiable and impolite! Your wife will 
 T)e furious."... "No, I think not; I should be sorry 
 to think that my wife would be cross with me for 
 such a trifle." 
 
 The widow went off in a bad temper, and told 
 -Cezarine of her husband's refusal, and the bride 
 could not at all understand how he could object to do- 
 ing what she wished, and said to Monsieur Fouillac, 
 who was close to her : " Monsieur Fouillac, will you 
 kindly go to my husband, for he cannot have under- 
 stood Madame Mambart ; he owes this waltz to Ma- 
 dame Boulard, and she is waiting for him. She has 
 refused other partners because she was reckoning on 
 Jiim, and it would be dreadful to make her lose her 
 waltz; please go and tell him that."..." I will fly, 
 fair lady, and if necessary, should your husband 
 absolutely refuse to waltz with her, I will take his 
 p>lace, although I am rathei a bad partner."... "What 
 a charming man you are ! You do everything that 
 you are asked ! "..."I have nothing else to do, ma- 
 dame," and he went away to Adolphe, whilst Cezarine 
 
40 THE BALL. 
 
 said to Madame Flambart : " I have a very sti'Ong- 
 idea tliat it is Monsieur Duvassel, Adolphe's new 
 friend, whom I had not noticed before, who gives 
 him bad advice, for this is the first time that he has 
 ever refused to do anything that I have asked him.** 
 ..."Yes," said the widow, "he spoke to your hus- 
 band in a low voice, and he looked delighted when 
 Monsieur Pantalon refused to waltz. "..." Very well, 
 we shall see ! My husband need not think that he 
 is to take advice from anybody but me. No, no, I 
 should never allow that; this Monsieur Duvassel, 
 this self-styled doctor, had better take care of him- 
 self." 
 
 As soon as Monsieur Fouillac reached the bride- 
 groom, who was still talking to Frederick, he smiled 
 at him pleasantly and said : " My dear friend, I. 
 come to you in the character of an ambassador. 
 Your beautiful wife has delegated her powers to 
 me, and I am to ask you to waltz with Madame- 
 Boulard, whom I do not know, but who was pointed 
 out to me in the distance. A little short, dark, fat 
 woman, with roses in her hair. I can see her from 
 here. "..."Monsieur Fouillac, I am sorry that you. 
 should have had this trouble, but I have already 
 said to Madame Flambart that I wish to rest a 
 little, for I am very tired."..." So you will not waltz 
 with Madame Boulard? "..."No, not this time."... 
 " Very well then, if you will allow me, I will take 
 your place and waltz with the lady who is expecting^ 
 you ; I can say that you have the cramp in your leg." 
 ..." Say anything you like; you are very kind, and. 
 I am much obliged to you for all the trouble you are 
 taking on my account."..." I am only too glad to be 
 of any use to you ; the only thihg is that I am not a 
 very good waltser. Does the lady waltz well?"... 
 fX Like an angel," Frederick said, biting his lips.... 
 •' Oh ! then she will steer me ! It will be all right 
 if she will only steer me." And ofP Monsieur Fouillao 
 
THE BALL. 41 
 
 -went, to ask the fat lump, who eagerly accepted his 
 invitation. 
 
 " Who is that obliging gentleman ? " Frederick 
 said to Adolphe. ..." An acquaintance of the captain's, 
 the son of one of his old comrades. You told him 
 iihat she waltzed like an angel, and it is just the op- 
 posite."..." It was as well to encourage him, as Ma- 
 dame Boulard must be invited to dance . . But 
 look, here they come. Upon my word, it is worth 
 .seeing.' ' 
 
 Monsieur Fouillac, who was about the middle 
 height, had his partner's head almost under his 
 chin ; he had his arms right round Madame Boulard, 
 and as they turned he tried to support her heavy 
 weight, whilst she kept hopping out of time, and 
 let herself go in her partner's arms at random, so as 
 nearly to break his back. In fact, the unfortunate 
 Fouillac was perspiring profusely, and he was purple 
 in the face ; he was obliged to hold her tight and 
 also to avoid colliding with the other dancers, against 
 whom Madame Boulard seemed to be continually 
 wishing to knock. This difficult task could not be 
 of long duration. Monsieur Fouillac did not wish 
 to stop, out of vanity, but at last he got giddy and 
 jostled on all sides ; he, unfortunately, got in the 
 way of Dutonneau, who was dancing with a lady of 
 his own size, and cannoned so violently against Ma- 
 dame Boulard and her partner that they could not 
 withstand the shock, but both fell down, he on his 
 back and his partner on him. Luckily, it was not 
 an opera ball, in which case all the dancers would 
 have gone on, at the risk of going over them, but in 
 a, private ball, when such an accident happens, the 
 leader of the band makes a sign to the musicians, 
 -who immediately leave off playing. 
 
 All the dancers stopped and hastened to the assis- 
 tance of the fallen couple. Fouillac could not move, 
 because Madame Boulard was on the top of him, 
 
42 THE BALL. 
 
 and because he had all the roses which were in her 
 "bodice as well as her chignon, which had fallen off, 
 in his month. At last they succeeded in picking up 
 the lady, and all her female friends crowded round 
 her, and assured her that she had fallen very luckily r 
 without even showing one of her garters. This was 
 poor comfort to her, as her hair had all come down ;, 
 she looked at her chignon, and at the roses which 
 were lying on the floor and which Fouillac had spat 
 out of his mouth in a rage. His face was alf torn r 
 as ladies, as a rule, have a large number of hair pins 
 in their hair, and those which held Madame Boulard's 
 chignon on had not spared her partner's face. 
 
 As soon as Cezarine heard of the accident that had 
 happened, she went to her husband and said to him 
 angrily: "Well, monsieur, do you know what has 
 happened ? It is your fault that Madame Boulard 
 fell and that her hair has come undone, and that 
 poor Monsieur Fouillac's face is all scratched."... 
 u How is it my fault ? I cannot help it if Madame 
 Boulard wears false hair and if Monsieur Eouillae 
 falls with his partner ! "..."Yes, monsieur, it is your 
 fault, for if you had waltzed with Madame Boulard 
 when you were engaged to her it could not have 
 happened.". . ." That is delightful ! I did not put the 
 names of all those ladies on my card, but you did it v 
 and put too many."../' Very well, monsieur, I shall 
 remember how disobliging you have been. "..."But 
 Cezarine, it seems to me . . " The bride, how- 
 ever, walked away without listening further and 
 look at Duvassel, who, however, gave her a polite- 
 bow.. . ." You have made me do a nice thing or two! "' 
 the bridegroom said to his friend* " Now my wife- 
 is angry with me ; I have been the cause of Madame- 
 Boulard losing her chignon ! "..."Never mind, don't 
 distress yourself, your wife will forget all about when 
 she is dancing, and many of the ladies have been 
 laughing at the occurrence. But here is my brother ; 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 43 
 
 he is not in a bad temper."... Gustave, as a matter of 
 fact, was radiant, and said to the bridegroom : " Oh ! 
 monsieur, your sister is charming ; I hope when my 
 brother and I come back you will allow me to call 
 upon you? "..."Naturally."... "I say, Adolphe, my 
 brother is in love with your sister ! He has caught 
 fire like a lucifer match ! "..." Well, if he is still in 
 love with Elvina a few years hence, I don't know — " 
 46 Oh ! yes, monsieur, please keep her for me, don't 
 let her marry anyone else ! "..."Do not alarm your- 
 self, young man, Elvina is much too young to think 
 of marrying yet ! "..."I say, Frederick, we shall not 
 be away too long, I*hope ?"..." Leave me in peace, 
 young tinder-box; I would not mind betting that 
 you will fall in love in every town where we stop."... 
 " No, no, Monsieur Pantalon, don't believe him ; I 
 shall never love anyone but your sister. Oh! a 
 polka! I will dance: it with her."..." There, get 
 away with you." 
 
 At four o'clock in the morning they went to 
 supper, where the ladies rested and the gentlemen 
 strengthened themselves for the cotillon. Adolphe 
 tried to get near his wife, but she avoided him, and 
 gave him no answer when he spoke to her. 
 
 " This is a good beginning," Frederick said, look- 
 ing at the bridegroom out of the corner of his eye. 
 "Ah! my poor Adolphe, you have married a very 
 pretty woman, but honestly, I do not envy you your 
 good lock." 
 
44 SIXTEEN MONTHS f. ATE ft. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER. 
 
 Sixteen mo/itlis had passed since the wedding we* 
 witnessed. Frederick Dnvassel and his brother had 
 travelled over England, Germany, and Italy, and. 
 when they returned to Paris, Gustave was less- 
 childish and thoughtless than he had been when they 
 left, and, in spite of one or two love adventures 
 which he had met with, he had not forgotten pretty 
 Elvina, with whom he had fallen in* love at Pan talon's; 
 wedding, and so as soon as they got back to Paris he 
 said to his brother : " I suppose you will go and see 
 Adolphe ? If you do, ask him to let you take me 
 there occasionally."..." Yes, yes, but wait a mo- 
 ment; why, you hardly leave me time to take off my 
 boots.". . ." Ask after his pretty sister ; I suppose she- 
 will have grown a great deal ! ". . ." Very likely ! Do 
 you want her to be much taller ?"..." Oh ! no; I 
 want to find her just as she was sixteen months ago.'* 
 ..."For your sake I hope she has not changed, but 
 so many things may happen in sixteen months ! "... 
 " Do you mean to say that perhaps she may not love 
 me any longer?"..." What do you mean? Did 
 that timid girl tell you immediately that she was in 
 love with you? "..."Oh! no, but then without say- 
 ing anything, people very often understand each- 
 other immediately, and, if I am wrong, I shall be 
 very unhappy! "..."Hold your tongue; you are not 
 twenty-two yet, and at that age it is only fools who* 
 are made unhappy from love, and you are by no- 
 means a fool."..." When are you going to see Mon- 
 sieur Pan talon ? "..." Oh ! leave me in peace ; I will 
 go in a few days."..." Go to-morrow, please go to- 
 morrow."..." What a hurry you are in, but calm 
 
SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER. 45 
 
 yourself j you ardent lover, and do not give way too 
 much to sweet illusions, for a philospher once said : 
 4 When you come back from a long journey, be pre- 
 pared to find that your house has been burnt down, 
 that your wife has been unfaithful to you, and that 
 your children are dead.' "..." Well, I have neither 
 house, children, wife nor mistress.",.." Very well then, 
 you can defy destiny. Those who possess nothing 
 have at least one consolation, they can sleep securely. 
 When I have been in love it has always been calmly 
 and pleasantly ; for me, love has always been a plea- 
 sure and not a pain, but I will not tease you, my 
 poor Gustave; I will go and see the Pantalons to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The next day, as Frederick was crossing the Place 
 de la Bourse, he met Adolphe face to face, on the 
 very spot on which they had met sixteen months be- 
 fore. "What! is it you?" they both exclaimed 
 simultaneously. " We are are destined to meet on 
 the same spot."..." It seems so; we met here six- 
 teen months ago."..." You were just going to be 
 married," Frederick said, " and I was returning from 
 a journey just like to-day, for I arrived in Paris with 
 Gustave yesterday evening, and I was going to see 
 you ; only I suppose you are not going to get mar- 
 ried again !"..." Oh! no, once is quite enough of 
 that !"..." How you said that, my dear fellow ! But 
 let me have a good look at you. Well, I must tell 
 you that you no longer look as smiling and happy as 
 you used to do, and you have got quite thin. 
 That would not matter; it is not being fat that 
 makes a man happy . . "..."No, but it often 
 shows that he is happy. Cezarine always insists on 
 being master, and if I say a word or make the 
 slightest remark she flies into a rage and smashes 
 everything that she can lay hold of ! "..."It is all 
 her nerves my dear fellow."..." Then she must be all 
 nerves. During th ; first months of our married life 
 
46 SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER. 
 
 she was in the family way, and so I said to myself : 
 * Her condition accounts for it all, and the effects 
 will cease when the cause does.' My wife gave birth 
 to a darling little girl ; very well, she put her out to 
 nurse at Bretiguy, close to where her uncle lives, so 
 nothing could be better. She went to see her when- 
 ever she pleased, and I had no fault to find with 
 that, and at the same time she used to go and see 
 her uncle, who never comes to Paris now, because 
 his gout prevents him, but since the child was born 
 she is worse than ever. She finds fault with every- 
 thing that I do, tries to interfere with my work and 
 the cases I have to undertake ! When clients come 
 to consult me and I happen to be out she receives 
 them, and has the matter explained to her, and more 
 than once she has sent them away, saying : ( Your 
 case is a bad one, and my husband will not under- 
 take it ; I do not wish him to have anything at all to 
 do do with it, for he would only lose it ; take away 
 your papers, the law is not on your side. 5 "..." That 
 is very amusing ! So madame is a lawyer ?"..." It 
 is not at all amusing, my dear fellow ! It is no good 
 for me to say to her : ' My dear, the worst cases often 
 bring us the most honour, just because they are the 
 most dflicult to defend/ for she only laughs in my 
 face and tells me that J know nothing about it ; that 
 as a rule, men know nothing of law, that they are 
 not sharp enough to lay hold of the weak side of a 
 case, and that it is the women who ought to be the 
 lawyers."..." Well, if it depended only on talking, 
 they certainly would not be left behind ! "..."Un- 
 fortunately, I lost my two last cases, and so you may 
 imagine that my wife was not; sparing of her sneers ! 
 Ah ! if only she had had the case in hand, my client 
 would certainly have gained the day; and it is just 
 the same with everything.^ Whatever I do, she could 
 have done it better, and makes fun of me."... "Poor 
 Adolphe ! It is rather soon, after only sixteen months 
 
SIXTEKN MONTHS LATER. 47 
 
 of married life! ".-."Well, it lias come to this that 
 we have our separate apartments now. She has been 
 encouraged in her ideas by her intimate friends, 
 Mesdames Vespace, Dutonnean, Bouchetron, Etoile, 
 and Widow Flambart, and a whole lot more. If 
 yon only knew how they all speak of men ! Accord- 
 ing to them, we ought to confine ourselves to being 
 their slaves and doing their errands ; they ought to 
 keep the purse, and only give us any money when 
 they are satisfied with our behaviour. "..."Why, it is 
 en( ugh to make a cat laugh ! "... "I assure you it is 
 no laughing matter when one is the husband of a 
 virago, and then that fellow Fouillac flatters them, 
 and so they graciously admit him to their councils, 
 because they think him worthy of confidence."... 
 " Because he tumbled down when he was waltzing 
 with Madame Boulard ?"..." Because he carries on 
 his face the marks where he scratched himself with 
 the hairpins in his partner's chignon ; they are noble 
 scars, which make him appear charming in these 
 ladies' eyes."..." Do you let him come to your 
 house? "..."I cannot help myself; Cezarine would 
 make a fine noise if I were to send him to the right 
 about ! Besides, my fine gentleman, whom I take to 
 be a Gascon by nature as well as by birth, is always 
 trying to get invited to dinner, and pays his shot 
 with anecdotes, in which the fair sex always plays a 
 charming part." [The natives of Gascony are sup- 
 posed, rightly or wrongly, to be great boasters.] . . . 
 "And your charming little sister? You have not 
 mentioned her. Is she with you still ?"..." Yes, but 
 I think it would have been better if Elvina had re- 
 mained at school !"..." Why ?"..." Because by dint 
 of living with Cezarine, of constantly hearing men 
 badly spoken of, and of noticing the way in which 
 my wife speaks to me, my sister is becoming rather 
 intractable, is too self-assured, and makes remarks 
 when I ask her to do anything — because, in a word, 
 
48 SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER. 
 
 she is no longer the gentle, retiring girl whom you 
 saw at my w( dding."..."The deuce! And my 
 brother is still in love with her, and thinks and 
 talks of nothing but her! "..."Is that so? "..." Well, 
 almost as soon as he arrived yesterday he wanted 
 me to call upon you, for he is anxious to be intro- 
 duced."..." Let him come by all means, for they 
 have not yet gone so far as to refuse to receive a 
 good-looking, nice young fellow."..." And am I to 
 be part of the bargain as well."..." Naturally ; I 
 receive their friends, so the deuce would be in it if 
 they were notto receive mine."..." That is no reason, 
 but what you have just told me, makes me rather 
 uneasy about Gustave. You must not let that girl 
 become a curassier, or even a drummer boy."..." I 
 do not think there is much fear of that, for when 
 my wife has said anything that vexes me and my 
 sister notices it, she comes and kisses me and 
 whispers : 'Don't be vexed Adolphe ! Cezarine only 
 says that in order that she may not be obliged to 
 give in ! ' "..." Well, at any rate, I think it time for 
 my brother to put in his appearance, if he does not 
 wish your sister to become a masculine woman ! 
 May we come and call this evening ? ". . ." It happens 
 to be our evening, but without ceremony, so you 
 need not put on evening dress. I am only speaking 
 about the men, for the women always dress ; it is 
 their i rovince, and they often do it, not so much to 
 attract men as to eclipse other women, even their 
 best friends ?"..." Really, Adolphe, you speak very 
 severely of women now ! ". . ." What can you expect ? 
 The whole thing has soured my temper; but you will 
 be sure and come to-morrow evening with your 
 brother? "..." Yes, but don't tell your wife before- 
 hand, for I do not fancy that she looks upon me with 
 a very favourable eye."..." Well, I am afraid you 
 are right," Adolphe replied ; " Cezarine is not parti- 
 cularly fond of you."..." What is her reason for her 
 
IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON SHOWS HERSELF. 49 
 
 dislike ?"..." She thinks you advised me not to ask 
 Madame Boulard to dance, and that you made that 
 lady's chignon fall off by cannoning up against us, 
 and she also lays the scars on Monsieur Fouillac's 
 cheeks to your charge."..." Confound it, then I 
 must look out! But n ver mind, I am a medical 
 man, and if I could manage to cure these Jadies of 
 some their sick headaches they might perhaps for- 
 give me."..." I am afraid not."..." That is a pity, 
 but they may do so, after all, in the long run." 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON SHOWS HEKSELtf. 
 
 It was a tolerably large party at the Pan talon's, 
 for Cezarine's intimate friends rarely missed one, as 
 ihey enjoyed telling each other all the grievances 
 they had against their husbands ; or, if not that, they 
 bad to complain of their neglect or stupidity. The 
 results of these confidences were always the same, 
 a,nd Cezarine used to say : 
 
 " We must change all that ! The laws have been 
 badly framed, places are badly filled, and the profes- 
 sions are going to the dogs. In fact, the parts 
 have been distributed in an absurd fashion. The 
 men have seized upon every honourable employment; 
 all rewards, commendations, and favours, everything 
 falls to them ; they have thrust us on one side, as if 
 we were only good to look after our children and 
 interest ourselves in our dress ; it is an insult to us ! 
 We are just as capable as they are to fill posts in 
 
 D 
 
50 IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON 
 
 bureaus, public offices, mercantile houses, and banks- 
 I made a mistake when I said as capable. I ought 
 to have said more capable, for we have a hundred 
 times more cleverness in our little fingers than they 
 have iu their whole heavy bodies ! Could we not be 
 lawyers, doctors, judges, poets, writers cf novels? 
 In these last two spheres, indeed, women have al- 
 ready given proofs of their power, and who can 
 doubt of our cleverness and courage ? What gentle- 
 men in the Bois de Boulogne are able to perform 
 such feats as the lady circus riders in the Hippo- 
 drome do?" If it came to war and fighting, does 
 anyone believe that we could not use a sword, or 
 handle a rifle ? I repeat it again, women are cap- 
 able of anything ; I need hardly mention to you the 
 names of those women who will be illustrious for 
 ever; I will not speak to you of Jeanne d* Arc, be- 
 cause she is a glory apart, but of the great Catherine 
 of Russia, of Elizabeth of England, of Margaret d* 
 Aujou, of Maria Theresa, and of many others, who 
 have all proved that women ought to command, as 
 they know how to wear a crown ! " 
 
 Whilst Cezarine stopped to take breath, the widow 
 Flambart exclaimed : " Yes, the rule of men has 
 lasted too long, and the masculine should make way 
 for the feminine ! I have had three husbands, and 
 I know how such gentlemen ought to be treated.. 
 My husbands are dead, and that is no fault of mine ;. 
 if they had lived they would have been model hus- 
 bands." 
 
 Whilst tin ladies were talking together like this,, 
 the men were talking about business, the theatres, 
 politics, or were playing whist, at which a few 
 dowagers, who had not yet altogether broken with 
 the male sex, kindly took a hand. But Monsieur 
 Fouillac joined the camp of the female reformers ; he 
 approved of their projects, applauded their lan- 
 guage, and said : " I quite agree with you, madame j 
 
SHOWS HERSELF. 51 
 
 men are of no use except to earn money . • "... 
 ** And to spend it afterwards with bad women," Ma- 
 dame Dutonneau said, " and to take them out for 
 drives in the Bois de Boulogne ! " 
 
 When Frederick and his brother were announced, 
 Oezarine looked up, for the name struck her although 
 she had not seen the owners of it for a long time, 
 and, on looking in their direction, she immediately 
 recognised Frederick and said to her friends : " That 
 is the gentleman who prevented my husband from 
 waltzing with Madame Boulard at my wedding ! ** 
 Of course, they all made a horrified gesture, as if 
 they had seen Beelzebub himself, and fat Madame 
 Boulard immediately put her hand to her chignon to 
 make sure that it was not falling off. " And what 
 does this gentleman do? w Paolina asked...." He is a 
 medical man, or, at least, says that he is ; he is a 
 doctor who is always travelling about.". . ." But then, 
 how does he attend to his patients? "..."He does 
 not attend to them."..." That is very lucky for 
 them, most likely, but a doctor who is always travel- 
 ling about sounds rather like a joke. Suppose you 
 happen to be ill, and send in all haste for the doctor, 
 and are told : * Yery sorry, but he happens to be in 
 Constantinople at this moment, but do not be un- 
 easy ; he will come and see you as soon as ever he 
 returns ! '"..."He is a sort of doctor in partibus, 
 then ? " [In partibus — Infidelium. — Amongst the 
 heathen or unbe'ievers. A title given to bishops in 
 the Romish Church who have no fixed diocese, but 
 are missionary or travelling bishops.] 
 
 Frederick immediately went and paid his respects 
 "to the mistress of the house, and her reception of 
 him was polite though very cool. " I do not sup- 
 pose you recognise me, madame, for I have only had 
 the pleasure of meeting you once before."..." I beg 
 jour pardon, monsieur, I recognise you perfectly ; you 
 were at my wedding ball."..." Yes, madame."... 
 
52 IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON 
 
 "And you and my husband were having such an 
 interesting conversation that he would not interrupt 
 it, even 1o dance with a lady whom he had asked." 
 ..."Madame, Adolphe is one of my best friends; I 
 had just come from a journey, and, after a long 
 separation, two old schoolfellows have always a great 
 deal to say to one another. In fact, I think that at 
 that moment Adolphe was telling me of his happi- 
 ness and pointing out his wife to me."... Cezarine 
 could not help smiling and said to her friends : " He 
 has his wits about him, and is decidedly amusing. ,, 
 ..."That makes him all the more dangerous," Ma- 
 dame Etoile said...." Well, my husband is not the 
 least dangerous in that way/' Olympiade said.... 
 " Dutonneau could be very amusing if he liked," 
 Armida observed with a sigh, " but he never favours 
 me, for he keeps it all for his mistresses."..." All 
 witty men are bad," Paolina replied...." My dear, I 
 do not altogether agree with you," Cezarine said.. 
 "Long live wit! emollit mores! " .." Oh ! 'if you 
 begin to talk Latin you are sure to be right, for we- 
 cannot understand you." 
 
 After having bowed to Cezarine, Gustave looked 
 for pretty Elvina, whom he only discovered with 
 some difficulty, for the bashful girl had retired to- 
 make room for a slender young person, who did not 
 look nearly so modest, and who did not cast her 
 handsome eyes down to the ground whenever she 
 was spoken to. But those eyes always had a charm 
 for Gustave, and he recognised them, and imme- 
 diately went and sat down by her, and said to her : 
 " I must really beg your pardon, mademoiselle, for 
 not having recognised you immediately, but you 
 have altered so much !"..." Do you think I have- 
 altered a great deal since my brother's marriage^ 
 But you must remember that that is sixteen months 
 ago, and one has plenty of time to alter in that 
 period, especially when one is seventeen. I am nearly^ 
 
SHOWS HERSELF. 53 
 
 eighteen-and-a-half now, and no longer a child ; I 
 am learning to ride.". . ." Really? ". . ." Yes, my sister 
 takes me to the riding school."../' Yon are always 
 ch 51 rming, mademoiselle, and if yon have altered at 
 all, it is to yonr own advantage."..." I have grown 
 a good deal."..." You are just the right height, and, 
 if eyes grew larger, I should say that yours had 
 grown also."... "But you have also altered a good 
 deal, monsieur."..." Do you think so? "..."Yes, you 
 are sunburnt, and then "..."Well, what be- 
 sides? "..." You have a little moustache, and I don't 
 fancy you had one sixteen months ago."..." You are 
 quite right."..." I like to see a moustache, and am 
 very glad you have let yours grow." 
 
 Gustave could not help thinking that this was 
 rather a strange thing for a girl to say, but he con- 
 tinued, nevertheless : " Mademoiselle, if my looks 
 ha^e altered, I can assure you that my heart has 
 not ! I carried away the most delightful recollec- 
 tions from that wedding ball, where I had the happi- 
 ness of dancing with you several times, and that re- 
 collection has never left me, but it has remained in 
 
 my heart, together with the image of you can 
 
 guess whom, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 Elvina blushed, for she had not yet learnt to laugh 
 at a declaration of love, and then, Gustave's eyes 
 were so eloquent, his voice was so tender, and he 
 seemed so thoroughly to feel what he said, that the 
 girl's heart beat so violently that she could scarcely 
 reply : " But, monsieur, I cannot guess ; why should 
 you wish me to guess? "..." That image is yours, 
 mademoiselle ! ". . ."Mine ! Indeed ! Have you really 
 been thinking about me for sixteen months?"... 
 " When one loves anybody, is not one continually 
 thinking of them? "..."I do not know, monsieur! 
 You are saying things to me which I have never 
 heard before ! "..." I am only telling you what I feel. 
 You believe me, do you not, nnvl •;noiselle? "... 
 
54 IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON 
 
 " Certainly not ; in the first place, my sister Cezarine 
 has told me that we should never believe what men 
 say to us, for she declares that you are all liars."... 
 " Tour sister gives us a very bad character, but she 
 only said that by way of a joke."... "No, indeed, she 
 said it quite seriously."..." Does not she wish you to 
 get married some day ?"..." She would not object to 
 my taking a husband, if only he would be my slave." 
 ..." Very well then, I shall be delighted to be that 
 slave ; let me hope that your choice will fall on me." 
 ..." Oh ! monsieur, I said slave, but I think my sister- 
 in-law only wanted to frighten me by drawing such 
 a picture of marriage as would deprive me of all 
 desire of thinking of it. She is not very happy. I 
 am sure I don't know why, for I do not think my 
 brother is at all unkind, and I am sure that he loves 
 his wife, and should not love suffice for making a 
 married couple happy ? "..."It is not enough for it 
 to exist on one side only, but when two hearts under- 
 stand one another perfectly, and there is perfect con- 
 fidence between husband and wife, I think you will 
 agree with me that true and perfect happiness exists 
 in such a union." 
 
 The girl hesitated for a reply, but Cezarine, who 
 thought that she had been talking to Gustave a great 
 ■deal too long, called her, and told lier to go to the 
 piano, as the ladies wished to hear her sing. 
 
 Whilst the music was going on, Adolphe got his 
 friend into a corner and asked him what he thought 
 of his wife...." She is all right," he replied, "al- 
 though she has not forgotten that I prevented you 
 from waltzing with Madame Boulard."..." She cer- 
 tainly has a most extraordinary memory !"..." Do 
 you know, 1 fancy that all the ladies who are round 
 your wife look askance at me."..." They do that at 
 every man ; only Monsieur Fouillac is in their good 
 graces, because he surpasses them in the ill that 
 they say of men."..." Why, the man is a traitor ! "... 
 
SHOWS HERSELF. &> 
 
 « What he says to the ladies is so ridiculous that 
 sometimes I am inclined to believe that he is making 
 fun of them, or that he wishes to become widow 
 Flambart's fourth husband."..." Have all the ladies 
 who are here sworn eternal hatred to men t> lo 
 speak the honest truth, if it were so, your parties 
 would lose their chief attraction." " No, thank 
 heaven, these foolish ideas which disturb my ^ wif e 
 and her intimate friends are not shared by all the 
 ladies who come here. For instance, look at that 
 pretty, light-haired girl, who is smiling at something 
 that tall young man standing by her is saying ; she 
 does not belong to the camp of Independents. ... 
 "What are they? "..."They are the ladies who re- 
 volt against what they call the male yoke, who wish 
 to change all social positions, and who wish to nit 
 those employments which, up till now, have been 
 restricted to our sex, and my wife is proud of bemg- 
 one of the warmest Independents! ... 4 Good 
 heavens! What are we coming to? If all the 
 women want to wear the breeches, the only thin^ 
 left for us will be to put on petticoats. ..." I think 
 nothing would please them better.". . ." Poor things f 
 They do not understand that they can govern us 
 much better by their petticoats and pretty figures 
 than if they assumed all the manners of our sex, tor 
 if they copied us they would lose all their advant- 
 ages Ah ' here is my brother; he has been talking 
 to your sister, and I do not think that he looks as 
 happy as he did when we came here." 
 
 Gustave came up to the two friends, and smiled 
 at Adolphe, but his smile was somewhat con- 
 strained. " Well, my brother-in-law that is to be, 
 Adolphe said with a laugh, " so you have been talk- 
 ing to my sister? Has your absence damaged you 
 in her eyes?"..." Oh! no, monsieur; Mademoiselle 
 Elvina is still most charming and amiable, only — " 
 ..." So ! there is an only ! " Frederick exclaimed: "I 
 
Ob IN WHICH MADAME PANTALON SHOWS HERSELF. 
 
 was sure of it; I saw it coming."..." Please let me 
 finish ; I mean to say that Mademoiselle Bivina is no 
 longer so timid, as — how shall I say it — as natural 
 and unaffected as she used to be. They have been 
 instilling peculiar ideas about men into her, that 
 they ought never to be believed, as they are all, and 
 always, liars."..." By jove ! Do you mean to say 
 that my wife said that? "..." Then, when I told her 
 how happy I should be if she would have me for her 
 husband, she replied that a husband ought to be a 
 mere slave — "..."There, that will do, Gustave! 
 That girl who, sixteen months ago, was so gentle and 
 so sweet, has been utterly spoilt. The business will 
 not suit me at all. A husband ought to be a mere 
 slave ! Those are nice ideas to put into the head of 
 a girl of her age. I will never let you marry a girl 
 who holds such views! "..."Oh! it was only a joke, 
 Frederick ; I am quite certain that she only said it 
 for fun ! "..."No, no, it was not said ia fun; she 
 has imbibed all her sister-in-law's ideas, and she 
 wishes to have them realised when she marries ; 
 just ask Adolphe whether he laughs with his wife ? " 
 ..."Certainly not," he replied with a deep sigh; 
 il we never laugh now ; we are not at all a cheerful 
 couple ! I only hope that you will not be like we 
 are.". . ." Monsieur Pantalon, your sister is still quite 
 young; she merely repeats what she hears, and it 
 will not be difficult to bring her back to more reason- 
 able views."... "She will have to change most 
 deucedly before I consent to letting you marry her ; 
 we see how badly Adolphe and his wife get on to- 
 gether, and that ought to serve us as an example. 
 After sixteen months of married life, with every- 
 thing to make them happy, they are living like a eat 
 and dog. Some cats and dogs live very happily to- 
 gether, whilst here we have a husband who is bullied 
 and insulted, and all because he was too kind and 
 yielding — too stupid, not to put it too finely, and it 
 
CHOU-CHOTj's ESCAPADES. 57 
 
 is the best word for it — during the first days of his 
 married life. And you want to marry a girl into 
 whom the same views of female independence have 
 been instilled ! 'No, my dear boy, I shall certainly 
 not allow it. Either the young lady must desert 
 the camp of these ladies or you do not marry her." 
 
 Gustave did not say a word, but he went up to 
 the piano and looked at Elviua; as for Frederick, he 
 went and played cards, for he did not care to expose 
 himself to the looks of the Independents, and so 
 after having spent two hours at Adolphe Pantalon's 
 they took their leave ; Gustave quite low-spirited at 
 the change that had taken place in Elvina's manners 
 and language, and Frederick really grieved to see 
 how unhappy his friend was in his domestic re- 
 lations. 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 CHOU-CHOU'S ESCAPADES. 
 
 For some weeks, Frederick went to the weekly 
 gatherings at his friend Pantalon's, but Cezarine 
 gave the brothers a very cold reception, though 
 Frederick, who wished to see as much as he could of 
 his old friend, pretended not to see the coolness of 
 her greeting and was doubly polite to her, which 
 only irritated her, as she wished to make it so un- 
 pleasant for him that he would cease his visits. 
 
 Gustave always tried to talk with Elvina, but he 
 rarely got the opportunity ; Madame Pantalon did 
 not approve of the young man paying his addresses 
 
58 CHOU-CHOU'S ESCAPADES. 
 
 to her sister-in-law, and so she always tried to pre- 
 vent them from talking together much, and as soon 
 as she saw him sit down near Elvina she found some 
 pretext for breaking off their tete-d-tete, and, though 
 the girl sometimes seemed to regret leaving the 
 young man, who looked at her so affectionately and 
 kept telling her that he adored her, yet she obeyed 
 her sister-in-law, who had gained such an influence 
 over her, and if by chance she had stayed talking to 
 Gustave too long, Cezarine never failed to say to 
 her : " My dear, it is not at all proper to talk as much 
 as you do to young Duvassel ; you are surely not so 
 silly as to attach any importance to the foolish 
 things which he says to you ? It does not do you 
 any credit, and all the ladies are laughing at you, 
 and no doubt he does the same. He belongs to a 
 bad school, and his brother, who calls himself a 
 doctor, gives him bad advice. He it was who at my 
 wedding ball advised my husband not to dance with 
 poor Madame Boulard, and you know what the con- 
 sequences were ! Men who interfere in their friends' 
 domestic affairs are a scourge which ought to be 
 banished from society." 
 
 Cezarine's temper had become so haughty and dis- 
 agreeable towards her husband, that he began to 
 find his wife's imperious manner insupportable. If 
 he answered her in a tone of authority, this 
 it gave rise to scenes and quarrels, and the bitter 
 words which she used, and which only exasperated 
 him, did away with all hope of reconciliation be- 
 tween them, and a serious incident aggravated the 
 situation. Adolphe lost an important case which he 
 had made sure of winning, and instead of consoling 
 lier husband for an occurrence which, after all, is 
 not uncommon with lawyers and which did not affect 
 their income, as soon as Cezarine learnt the result of 
 the action, she went to Adolphe and said to him, in 
 a mocking tone of voice : " Well, so you have 
 
CHOU-CHOTTS ESCAPADES. 5$ 
 
 managed to lose your case, that case which you felt 
 so sure of winning ! "..."Yes, I ought to have won 
 it, for right was on my side ; my client was an 
 honourable man, whilst his opponent was a rogue, 
 and we all know that such people stick at nothing, 
 and, though the honest man calmly awaits the result 
 which he does not doubt for a moment must be 
 favourable to him, yet humanum est err are, and so 
 the rogue gains the day."..." He gains it because 
 the lawyer has not defended his opponent's case 
 well I However, you are so used to losing any cases 
 which you undertake that you ought not to be sur- 
 prised at losing this one ! "..."Not only am I sur- 
 prised, but I am very sorry. When I am called upon 
 to defend a thief, or to palliate an offence which I 
 blame myself, I am not sorry if I lose my case ; 
 on the contrary, I occasionally congratulate myself 
 on doing so . . "..." Yery nice, for a barrister to 
 congratulate himself when he has lost his case. That 
 is really good — Shrove-Monday could not have ar- 
 gued better than that . . "..."I know nothing 
 about Shrove-Monday's arguments, but as for your- 
 self, I know that you say very disagreeable things." 
 ..."I have not said half enough yet, monsieur; I 
 wish you to understand that I am ashamed of being 
 the wife of such a bad lawyer; let me pi actice in- 
 stead of you, and you will see that things will go a 
 great deal better."..." Well, if you are so ashamed 
 of bearing my name, relinquish it; let us have a 
 separation."..." Perhaps you think that you will 
 make me unhappy by mentioning a separation ? I 
 can assure you that I have been thinking of it for a 
 long time. Yes, monsieur, we will separate, and I 
 will keep my daughter with me, because it is a 
 mother's place to bring her daughter up. Were it 
 a boy, I would gladly leave hiin with you, but I 
 mean to keep my daughter," 
 
60 CHOU-CHOU S ESCAPADES. 
 
 Adolphe did not reply, for when he heard his 
 child mentioned he felt a sensation of profound 
 grief. He said to himself that, for his little daugh- 
 ter's sake, he ought perhaps to have had more pa- 
 tience, and that it was very sad when a child could 
 not at the same time receive its mother's kisses and 
 its father's caresses, and so he left Cezarine without 
 another word. 
 
 Some time passed by, and husband and wife never 
 spoke; Cezarine avoided her husband's presence, 
 and, when Elvina asked her why she had quarrelled 
 with her brother, she merely replied : " My dear, you 
 may suppose that I have good reasons for acting as 
 I am doing ; I have a project which I am soon going 
 to put into execution ; I am dreaming of the regenera- 
 tion of woman."..." The regeneration? "..."Yes, so 
 that women may recover their civil and political 
 rights."..." I do not understand you."..." It is not 
 at all necessary. Be guided by me, and you will 
 find that you cannot make a mistake." 
 
 Nothing more was said, but the apparent calm 
 was only the precursor of a storm, It increased 
 without much preliminary loud warning in the 
 houses of those ladies who wished to be inde- 
 pendent. They all came to Cezarine with their com- 
 plaints, and she was delighted to listen to their con- 
 fidences, because she saw that the projects which she 
 had formed were about to be realised. Her inti- 
 mate friends had just met one morning at her house 
 to complain of their husbands. Madame Etoile came 
 with her nose pinched in and vexation legible in her 
 -eyes, and as soon as she entered the room she ex- 
 claimed : " It is altogether incredible ; nobody would 
 believe it ! "..."What, my dear friend?" Cezarine 
 said, making Paolina sit down in an easy chair. 
 " You seem extremely irritated! "..." You shall see 
 whether I have not good reason for being so ; I was 
 quite aware of the fact that my husband was not 
 
CHOU-CHOU's ESCAPADES. 61 
 
 an eagle ; there are very few eagles amongst these 
 gentlemen !"..." Rara avis". . ." Ah ! my dear, I am 
 a poetess, but I know nothing of Latin, for I look 
 npon dead languages as of very little use . . "... 
 ■"Never mind about that, but please go on! ". .."** I 
 was saying then that my husband was not an eagle, 
 but I did not think thai he was an owl. Well, he 
 is an owl of the stupidest kind I assure you. I must 
 tell you that I have just finished a poem on the 
 difference that there is between a man and a grey- 
 hound — and you may guess that I have preferred the 
 greyhound. It is highly spiced and very good ; I 
 took great pains with it, and threw my whole soul 
 into it, and I believe it will be a great success ; but 
 you shall judge for yourselves, for I will read it to 
 you one evening — to-morrow perhaps. I was kind 
 enough to wish to give Monsieur Etoile the first 
 benefit of my poem, and so I read it to him, but I 
 had hardly got half through it, when that ignoramus, 
 that Hottentot, got up and said to me : ' Whatever 
 nonsense are you reading to me ? It is terribly 
 stupid ; I am much obliged to you, but I have had 
 enough of it ! ' and away he went."..." That was de- 
 cidedly rude ! "..."It was the grossest impertinence; 
 I cannot live with a man who does not understand 
 poetry, and so I have told Monsieur Etoile that I 
 shall leave him."..." Have you fully made up your 
 mind ?"..." Most decidedly.". . ." Very well, then we 
 will all go together, and found the race of The Inde- 
 pendents."..." Oh. \ bravo! bravissimo . . The In- 
 dependents ! the name is grand and smacks of 
 romance, of melodrama. There was, if I remember 
 rightly, a play which formerly attained a large 
 amount of success ; it was called Robert, the Brigand 
 Chief, and I am surprised it has not been reproduced 
 in our time."..." But, dear madame, please tell me 
 what connection there, is, according to your idea, be- 
 tween us and your Robert, the Brigand Chief?"... 
 
62 chou-chott's escapades. 
 
 " He did not look upon himself as a brigand chief; 
 he called his men the Independents ! They were the 
 redressers of wrongs, a sort of Vekm Gericht." [An 
 independent, much feared, secret tribunal in West- 
 phalia, in the middle ages.]..." Let us call ourselves 
 at once The Enlightened Ones. 39 ... 66 Ah ! that would be 
 a capital name; suppose we adopted that name ! 
 What do you think? I should very much like to be 
 able to say : 'I am one of the enlightened ones ! ' " 
 
 Madame Bouchetron followed Madame Etiole, and 
 she was furious because her husband would dress 
 fashionably ; she declared that he was terribly con- 
 ceited, and added that when she threatened to leave 
 him, he told her she was quite welcome to do so, 
 for he did not care a rap ! " 
 
 That fat lump Madame Dutonneau then added her 
 complaints to those of her friends ; she came in quite 
 out of breath, and threw herself into a chair, which 
 creaked beneath her weight, and it was some time 
 before she could speak ; but Cezarine brought her a 
 glass of water, which she drank off at a draught, 
 and, as soon as she could speak, she said : " Ladies, 
 my husband is a monster, a profligate, a wretch ! ". . . 
 "That is nothing new; you have frequently told us 
 that before, my dear."..." Yes, but now I have dis- 
 covered the intrigues of this Sardanapalus ! He 
 keeps a mistress — he has two mistresses — he has 
 three mistresses ! "..."As many as that! That is 
 really coming it rather strong ! "..."So you may 
 judge how he neglects me ! As I have noticed 
 latterly that Chou-Chou was away from home more 
 than ever, I pretended to be ill, and so he went out ; 
 I followed him. He had told me that he was going 
 to play dominoes in the Cafe de la Eotonde, but he 
 went in an opposite direction to the Palais Royal, 
 and so I said to myself : ' He is not going to try and 
 get the double six, there — I will bet that he is going 
 into one of the squares/ and as a matter of fact he 
 
CHOU-CHOU's ESCAPADES. 63 
 
 stopped in the square des Arts-et-Metiers, which is 
 the place where all the nurse-inaids of the district 
 meet, and I said to myself : * Will he condescend to 
 handle a dishclont, when he usually plentifully be- 
 sprinkles himself with scent ? ' Bat no, a grisette 
 came along — for there are some of those confounded 
 grisettes about still, although people assert that the 
 race has disappeared like that of pug dogs. It is 
 not true, however, for though there are no more 
 pugs, (this was written before the revival of the 
 pug) there are, and always will be, all sorts of work 
 girls, embroiderers, burnishers, artificial flower makers, 
 shirtmakers, dressmakers' apprentices, laundry girls, 
 and so on, and if you do not put them into the 
 category of courtesans, what can you call them ex- 
 cept grisettes ? ". . . " Why, workgirls.". . . " Yes, those 
 who go regular to work ; but those who only care 
 about amusement, who go to the theatres, and want 
 to dance at the public balls?"..." Never mind the 
 grissttes; let us come back to your husband.".,. 
 ""The grisette went straight up to Chou-Chou ; she 
 was one of those undecided blondes, with a face 
 without much expression, fresh-looking, but not so 
 clear-skinned as I am ; only the beauty of youth. 
 Well, can you believe it, the minx went straight up 
 to him and deliberately took his arm, whilst he 
 smiled and pursed out his lips as if for a kiss. You 
 may guess what I felt at that moment ! "..."I sup- 
 pose you rushed up to your husband and tore him 
 away from the girl? "..." That was what I meant to 
 do, and I was just going round the large fountain to 
 get at him, when I saw another grisette, a dark one 
 this time, with a very bold look, walk up to the 
 couple whom I was watching ; they all smiled and 
 shook hands, and the dark one took hold of my hus- 
 band's other arm. Of course, I was nearly choking, 
 and did not know what to do, and, in my rage, I 
 nearly walked into the fountain, when a third grisette 
 
64 CHOTJ-CHOTj's ESCAPADES. 
 
 joined the infamous trio. She was a pale girl with. 
 chesnut hair and half -open eyes, like a gasping carp ; 
 she also smiled at the wretch of a Chou-Chou. Of 
 course, she could not take his arm, as both were en- 
 gaged, but evidently all the jades knew each other, 
 for the last comer immediately took the arm of the 
 light-haired one, and so they all four walked off arm 
 in arm, four abreast. Of course, I followed, and I 
 saw them all go into a restaurant in the Rue Saint 
 Martin, where they went into a dining-room on the 
 ground floor." . . ." I beg your pardon," Cezarine said ; 
 " I am making no excuses for your husband, but it 
 appears to me that a party of pleasure with three — 
 ladies, is not so reprehensible as if he had been with 
 only one.". . ." Not so reprehensible ! When he takes 
 three grisettes to a restaurant ! Are yon thinking 
 of the amount they would eat, the jades ! Women 
 like that simply devour! They want oysters and 
 champagne. 'That's the way the money goes.' 
 He says I am a glutton when I ask for eels and 
 sauce a la tartar e\ You will understand that I did 
 not Avish to compromise myself with such girls, for 
 they would only have insulted me, and so I went 
 liome and waited for the wretch's return ! I jusfc 
 told him all that I had seen, and wound up by say- 
 in <r that I had resolved on a separation, as I could 
 not live with a man who spent all his time in the 
 squares, and whom one might meet with three 
 women hanging on to him — three women whom he 
 took to dine at a restaurant ! "..." Capital."..." And 
 the brute actually said: 'Don't alarm yourself; I 
 will not run after you.' " 
 
 When Madame Dutonneau had finished, Madame 
 Vespace, Madame Grassonillet, and others, declared 
 that they shared Cezarine's views ; they were deter- 
 mined to throw off their husbands' yoke and to- fill 
 the same employments and professions in the ^ world 
 as the men did. Madame Boulard took part in the 
 
A GRAND RESOLUTION. ( 5- 
 
 cabal of the Independents. Ever since she lost her 
 chignon whilst she was waltzing, she declared that 
 men ought to have their heads shaved and only wear 
 a little plait, like Chinamen did. And, certainly, 
 the widow Elambart was not amongst the least 
 ardent to demand a reform in the habits of society, 
 where, according to her, women ought to command, 
 keep the keys of the cash box, and make the laws. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A GRAND RESOLUTION. 
 
 As soon as Madame Pantalon was certain that 
 she had a large number of adherents, she called 
 them together and said : " Have you made up your 
 mind to second me, to work with me for the eman- 
 cipation of woman, so as at last to place her on the 
 same level as a man — till the time arrives when we 
 shall take our place above them? ''...All the ladies 
 replied, with an amount of harmony which was very 
 rare amongst them : " Yes, yes, we have made up 
 our mind."..." Will you acknowledge me as the 
 head of this enterprise ?"..." Decidedly. "..."And 
 you will obey me as such ?"..." Naturally.". . . " You 
 swear it ? ". . ."Is it necessary to take an oath ? ". . . 
 " Well ! perhaps not, for in this world I have noticed 
 that an oath, as a rule, imposes no obligations."... 
 "Very well then, we will not swear."... "It is far 
 better so, for you will then only be bound by your 
 own will, which is better than any oath."..." That 
 is already a reform ! " Widow FJambart exclaimed. 
 
 E 
 
66 A GRAND RESOLUTION. 
 
 " We will decide that in the future, in business as 
 in other matters, there shall be no more swearing ! " 
 ..."That is understood, so now ladies, listen to me." 
 ..."We are all earsl "..."Make your preparations, as 
 if you were going on a long journey ; take all your 
 dresses and your jewels with you, and money, if you 
 have any ; those who have none must do without ; I 
 am going to take you to a place where you will not 
 need to spend any."..." Where is that happy spot ? " 
 ..."Near Br^tiguy, at my uncle's chateau."... "And 
 will he really receive us and entertain us allP"... 
 4< He will be delighted. I wrote to tell him of my 
 intentions, and I have received his answer ; I hope 
 you will all listen attentively. I see Madame Gras- 
 sonillet talking to Madame Yespace at the other end 
 of the room, and I have a strong objection to any- 
 one talking when I am speaking ! " . . . " Really, I was 
 only asking Madame Grassonillet whether she knew 
 where about Br^tiguy was ? "..."And I replied that 
 I did not know any more about it than she did."... 
 " Ladies, you ought to have asked me, and I could 
 have told you that Br^tiguy is in Picardy, a few 
 leagues from Nozon.". . ." Is Nozon far from Paris ? " 
 ..." About sixty-five miles. It is an historical town ; 
 for some time it was the capital of Charlemagne's 
 kingdom, who was crowned there in 768. Hugues 
 Capet was elected king there in 887 ; the Normans 
 took it and ravaged it, and it was burnt six times. 
 In 1516 Francis the First concluded a treaty ofpeace 
 
 with Charles the Fifth there; then "..."There, 
 
 that is enough history !"..." Yes, we want to hear 
 ihe captain's letter."... "Yery well, then don't inter- 
 rupt me again, and I wifi read it." 
 
 My dear Niece, — You tell me that you have some great pro- 
 jects ; that yon wish your sex to take all the positions 
 which men have arrogated to themselves, and yon ask to 
 be allowed to come to Brltiguy with some lady fiiends 
 who wish to second yonr enterprise. I assure yon that 
 
A GRAND RESOLUTION . 67 
 
 nothing you could do could possibly give me greater plea- 
 sure ! I am as dull as a dismasted ship here, for I am 
 eonfined to the house by gout, and Shrove-Monday is my 
 only company, and he cannot play piquet and cheat me 
 at dominoes. Come with your friends, by all means ; if 
 there is half a ship's crew of you I can put you all up and 
 entertain you ; you can go out shooting, you can climb 
 the hills and scour the country — the more you play the 
 devil the better pleased I shall be, as it will remind me 
 of my youthful days, so come as soon as you like with 
 your recruits. I shall expect you all soon . . 
 
 "Well ladies, what do you say to this letter? "... 
 "It is very cordial !"..." It proves that you will 
 have a warm welcome."..." All right, that is settled, 
 and we will go to Bretiguy ; but when shall we 
 start ?■"... "I cannot fix the exact date at this mo- 
 ment, but it will not be long ; I am only waiting for 
 an opportunity of telling Monsieur Pantalon that 
 our tempers are so uncompatible that we cannot 
 live together any longer, and I know that he will 
 place no obstacle in the way of our separation. I 
 only ask you to be ready at any moment."..." And 
 your young sister-in-law ? "..."What ! Elvina? Of 
 course, she will come, with us ; she shares our views, 
 but I have not told her of our plan, because girls of 
 her age cannot always keep a secret."..." And will 
 Monsieur Fouillac come to Bretiguy P "..." I do not 
 see why we should not let him come. He is devoted 
 to our cause, and was the first to encourage us in 
 our project of emancipation. "..."That is so; and 
 then, he may be useful to us when we want any- 
 thing done in Paris, and we can make him execute 
 our commissions." Whereupon the ladies separated* 
 
 Elvina had noticed that meetings took place in 
 her sister-in-law's room, and that she was not in- 
 vited to join them, but she did not venture to ask 
 Cezarine what she was plotting with intimate friends. 
 She was agitated by a variety of feelings, for whilst 
 
68 A GRAND RESOLUTION. 
 
 she kept telling herself that she ought not to think 
 of Gustave or believe a word that he said to her, be- 
 cause men's chief object was to seduce women and 
 then make fun of them afterwards, yet Gustave's 
 words and affectionate looks often pre-occupied her 
 thoughts, and then she used to say to herself : " After 
 all, it is a great pity that we ought not to listen to 
 what it is so pleasant to hear ! " 
 
 The opportunity which Madame Pantalon was 
 waiting for so impatiently soon offered itself. A 
 young clerk in a stockbroker's office, in whom 
 Adolphe had great confidence, and whom he con- 
 sulted when he wished to do any business on the 
 Stock Exchange, had told him of a very good invest- 
 ment for anyone who had any spare capital, and 
 Adolphe had invested thirty thousand francs in the 
 speculation, but one fine morning the man to whom 
 he had entrusted his money ran away and earned off 
 all the money that had been confided to him. Ceza- 
 rine read an account of it in the paper, and imme- 
 diately went to her husband. He was already aware 
 of his loss, but had not thought it necessary to tell 
 his wife of it. 
 
 She accosted him in that mocking manner, which 
 had become habitual to her, and held in her hand 
 the newspaper in which she had just read of the un- 
 fortunate affair. "How long ago is it," she said, 
 ** since you heard anything of that honest Monsieur 
 Duriinadt, in whom you placed so much confidence ? " 
 ..." Why do you ask me ? ". . ." Because, if you have 
 not heard from him, I can give you news of him ; it 
 is in this paper. That gentleman, of whom you held 
 such a high opinion, and to whom you entrusted 
 thirty thousand francs, has just bolted and carried 
 off all the money belonging to his dupes."..." I was 
 quite aware of it."..." You knew it, and did not tell 
 me ?"..." What would have been the good of doing 
 so? "..."What do you mean? So you would ruin 
 
A GRAND RESOLUTION. 69 
 
 yourself and lose all your money without letting me 
 know what was going on? That is rather too much, 
 and it is time for it to finish ; I will no longer live 
 with a man who can neither win a ease nor invest 
 his money securely. We must have a separation, 
 monsieur ! "..."I assure you, I am quite willing, bub 
 I utterly deny your right to find fault with nie about 
 this last business, for the loss which I have sustained 
 is no affair of yours in the least. The money which 
 I have lost is my own ; since our marriage I have 
 never touched yours. I had no necessity for doing 
 so ; you can have it all back, for it is intact in your 
 lawyers hands, and I am delighted to be able to re- 
 store it to you. My own will be quite enough for 
 all my requirements when I am again liviug alone. 
 As you wish to ke^p your child, do so by all menus ; 
 no doubt her mother is the proper person to have 
 charge of her, but I hope that you will occasionally 
 allow her to come and see me. Let us separate 
 without any publicity, law suit, or scandal, like 
 well-bred people ought to do. You claim all ;l 
 man's privileges for a woman, and do not seem to 
 comprehend that she ought to be gentle, yielding, 
 and amiable towards her husband, I got married 
 in the hope of having a pleasant, peaceful home, and 
 a wife who would smile on me, and perhaps even 
 love me a little, but we have both of us been de- 
 ceived; let us, therefore, separate without further 
 delay ! I wish you every happiness, and you may 
 be assured that I shall not interfere with it." 
 
 With these words, Adolphe went out of the room, 
 and left his wife rather confused at the calm and 
 resolute manner in which he had accepted their 
 separation. But soon her imagination caught lire 
 at the thought of the new kind of life which she 
 was going to lead, and she went to Elvina and said : 
 4i Get ready and pack up all your things, for we 
 shall start.in two davs."... u Oh! are we croinor on a 
 
70 THE INDEPENDENTS 
 
 journey with my brother? "..."It is no question of 
 your brother — we are going to separate, and I have 
 left h.m."..." Good heavens! What is the reason 
 of that ?"..." Because we cannot live together ; you 
 must have noticed that."..." But still — to leave my 
 brother! "..."Of course, if you prefer to remain 
 with him to coming with me, you have the perfect 
 right to do so ; but, you little simpleton, just think 
 that with me and with all those ladies who are go- 
 ing to accompany me, you will lead a totally diffe- 
 rent life; we shall be our own mistresses, and be 
 free to do just as we please."..." Eeally ! And 
 where are we going? ".."To Bretiguy, to the 
 country house of my uncle the captain, who is de- 
 lighted at the idea of receiving us."..." But are we 
 going for long? "..." For good !"..." Well, that is 
 certainly a long time ! And what shall we do when 
 we get there ?"..." Do not worry yourself ; we shall 
 not be at all dull. I will teach you to ride, to fence, 
 and to use a pistol. We will go out shooting and 
 fishing, and, perhaps, even give the peasants a 
 thrashing if they are insolent ; in a word, we are go- 
 ing to spend the same sort of happy and careless 
 life that men do, and it .will be perfectly delightful." 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE INDEPENDENTS ON THEIR JOURNEY. 
 
 After answering his niece's letter, Captain Va- 
 beaupont sat down in his great armchair, with one 
 foot on a footstool, and took up a speaking-trumpet, 
 
ON THEIR JOURNEY. 71 
 
 wnich was on a table beside him. He used it in- 
 stead of a bell to summon Shr ore-Monday when he 
 wanted him. It was the same that he had used on 
 Doard ship, and, when he used it, it could be heard 
 from one end of the chateau to the other. The ex 
 cabin boy did not hurry himself, because his legs 
 were not so agile as they used to be, but he answered 
 the summons as quickly as he could, and stood up- 
 right before his master, who said to him : " Shrove- 
 Monday, summon all the household."..." Dogs and 
 ^11 ?"..." You fool, I mean the servants." 
 
 The captain's household at that time consisted, be- 
 sides Shrove-Monday, of an old gardener, his daugh- 
 ter Nanon, a peasant girl of sixteen, who was very 
 stupid, idle, and greedy, and of Marfcine, a fat woman 
 of thirty -six, who was a very good cook, and who, 
 on that account, was very highly esteemed by Mon- 
 sieur Vabeaupont. " I have sent for you," the cap- 
 tain said, as soon as they came into the room, " to 
 iell you that I am expecting a lot of company, as my 
 niece is going to bring a number of friends to stay ; 
 as they are all ladies, you must give them plenty of 
 nice little dishes, Martine, and you, Nanon, must 
 look after the bedrooms."..." Will they bring their 
 own servants ?"..." Naturally, my niece will bring 
 her own maid, but I do not suppose the others will. 
 IHanquet, let us have a lot of vegetables and fruit." 
 ..." Vegetables and fruit, captain ! Why, it is only 
 May, and everything is growing, so they must have 
 patience."..." Well, do the best ycu can, and how 
 about flowers ?"..." They will pick them all, and 
 spoil my flower beds and borders."..." Let them pick 
 ^nd spoil as much as they choose; you have my 
 orders to let them do as they like and not to com- 
 plain. ISTanon, look after the poultry yard, so that 
 we may have plenty of eggs."..." Well, if the hens 
 won't lay, I cannot force them to."..." Of course 
 not, but when they do lay, you n<ei not run and 
 
72 THE INDEPENDENTS 
 
 swallow the eggs immediately, warm from the nest ! ir 
 ..." Oh ! captain, it is Shrove-Monday who told you 
 that, but it is not true !"..." He has told me no- 
 thing ; but if I cannot walk well, I can see what goes 
 on from the windows, so now you have heard my 
 orders, and just be sure and obey them." 
 
 The servants left the room in a rather bad temper, 
 with the exception of the cook, who was glad of an 
 occasion for displaying her talents ; but Nanon, who* 
 was as lazy as she was greedy, said, with an angry 
 toss of her head : " I don't see any fun in having to 
 look after the rooms of a heap of women ! They 
 are never satisfied, and the beds never suit them — 
 there is always something to be altered, so the 
 quickest way will be not to make them at all!"... 
 W4 And they will make fine havoc with my garden ! " 
 Daddy Manquet said. " They will pick all the 
 flowers and not leave a single one ; they will eat the 
 cherries before they are ripe, walk on the borders, 
 and trample on my as aragus bed and the growing 
 peas ! Just imagine a lot of women in a nice garden ! 
 I would as soon have a lot of chickens there ! ,: 
 
 Four days later, the Northern Railway brought 
 the first detachment of the Independents to Nozon ; 
 it consisted of Cezarine, Elvina, and Mesdames 
 Etoile, Bouchetron, Vespace, the Widow Flambart, 
 Mademoiselle Aglae, Madame Pantalon's chamber- 
 maid, a little, dark, bright-eyed girl, who had never 
 sworn hatred to men, but who was very glad to be 
 allowed to accompany her mistress to Bretiguy, as 
 she was very curious to see what they were going to 
 do there, for she had never beeu there before. 
 
 Of course, they had a vast amount of luggage, for 
 no woman can travel without a great number of 
 dresses, and they had such a quantity of dresses, 
 bonnets, petticoats, and shoes, that sixteen trunks 
 and fifteen bonnet boxes could scarcely hold every- 
 thing. It was five miles from the station at Bretiguy 
 
ON THEIR JOURNEY. 73 
 
 to the captain's, and when they had got out at the 
 -statr n and were surrounded by their formidable 
 array of luggage, Cezarine said to a porter : " We 
 want to go to Nozon."..." It is five miles from here, 
 madame."..."I know that, for I have often been 
 there, but then I always drove all the way ; now we 
 have come by train, which is much quicker, but the 
 question is how are we to get there now? "..."I will 
 tell you the way ; you cannot make a mistake, and, 
 if you walk leisurely, you will get there in two hours 
 and a half.". . ." What do you mean ? Do you think 
 we are going to walk?"..."! don't see any other 
 means."... "How dreadful — five miles to walk!" 
 Paolina exclaimed; "why, I never walk !"..." We 
 shall hurt our feet with the stones!" pretty Ma- 
 dame Vespace said ; " my nice new boots will be 
 ruined very soon."... "I can easily walk the five 
 miles," Widow Flambart said; "I can walk like a 
 soldier! "..."I cannot, however," Olympiade ob- 
 served; " I have no objection to walking, but I 
 happen to have a corn that hurts me dreadfully.",.. 
 " Let us see, ladies," Cezarine said, " do not excite 
 yourselves ; we will certainly not walk. If they 
 could only procure us four horses, we would take 
 three of the ladies up behind us, and off we go ! I 
 could do the five miles in less than half an hour."... 
 " But, as we have not the least desire to get up be- 
 hind, it is no question of getting horses for us, but 
 a carriage. And then, could you take our luggage 
 on your crupper?"..." True, I forgot that, so we 
 must have a carriage, two carriages, indeed. I say, 
 porter, can we get them here? "..."There is only 
 one which runs between Nozon and Bretiguy.". .. 
 "But surely some peasant in the neighbourhood 
 must have a conveyance of some sort ? A washer- 
 woman's cart would do, at a pinch ; with money, one 
 <jan always get what one wants, and we cannot re- 
 main here, iookiug at our luggage. Come, Aglae, 
 
74 THE INDEPENDENTS 
 
 you and I will go in one direction and Madame* 
 Flambart in another, and ask everywhere ; the rest 
 of you must remain and look after the luggage."... 
 " Oh ! If we only had bicycles to do the journey 
 on !*'... "I should hate to see women on bicycles, 
 for tricycles are bad enough; they are really only 
 fit for men to use.". . ." I promise you that if I could 
 only get one, I should not hestitate for a moment to- 
 get astride it ! " 
 
 In three-quarters of an hour, the widow returned, 
 out of breath, with her hair all coming down, and 
 almost in despair; she could find nothing except 
 wheelbarrows, and she did not think that any of the 
 Indies would care to go five miles like that.... "And 
 then, who would wheel us?" Paolina asked.... 
 " There are plenty of peasants who would be glad to 
 do it for a crown, but what would the captain think 
 if he saw us coming in wheelbarrows ? It would in- 
 deed be a funny way to arrive ! " 
 
 At last Cezarine returned, and exclaimed : " Vic- 
 tory ! I have found a large, covered laundry van t 
 which will easily hold us all and in which we shalL 
 be quite comfortable ; the owner declares that it has 
 springs."..." And what about our luggage? "..."I 
 think it will take that as well." 
 
 But just then Aglae returned with a donkey cart 
 and a boy of ten, who was the driver, so [at last their 
 fears were allayed. They put their luggage into the 
 cart, and the ladies took their bandboxes with them ; 
 the laundryman arrived with the van, and they all 
 got in as fast as possible. He had put in two 
 benches, which he used when he took his family to 
 fetes in the neighbourhood, and in front there was a 
 smaller bench, on which the driver sat...." But there 
 are only two benches ! " Cezarine said, when she wag 
 in the conveyance...." Well, I could not get any 
 more in. How many are there of you ?"..." Seven.'* 
 ..." Very well ; three on each bench, and one alongside- 
 
ON THEIR JOURNEY. 75 
 
 of me, and there you are !"..." Three on each bench 
 -—we shall not be able to find room.". . ." You must 
 squeeze a little, and then it will be all right."... 
 "Come ladies, we must try. Luckily, none of us 
 -are very stout, except perhaps Madame Mambart. 
 Madame Vespace, Madame Etoile and Madame Bou- 
 chetron, please sit on the bench at the end. There 
 you are ! ". . ." Oh ! It is a very tight fit !"..." We 
 ^hall not have room to use our pocket handkerchiefs 
 if we want them."..." Then you must do without! 
 Madame Mambart, Elvina, and I will sit on the 
 second bench, and Aglae by the side of the driver. 
 Are you all right ? " 
 
 They had all got in, but when Widow Mambart, 
 who was extremely stout, tried to sit down by the 
 side of Cezarine, who was not particularly thin, thev 
 could not possibly find room. It was no use for 
 Elvina to squeeze herself up against the side of the 
 <jart, for Madame Mambart could not possibly sit 
 down, but suddenly she exclaimed : " How stupid we 
 are ! Aglae, who is very thin, must come and sit 
 here, and I will go and sit by the side of the laundry- 
 man." They changed places, everybody settled 
 down, the driver cracked his whip, and the donkey- 
 cart followed with the boy and the luggage. The 
 laundryman's horse had a very slow trot, and he 
 -could not be induced to go any faster, and the ladies 
 thought that their conveyance jolted horribly. " You 
 would be jolted a great deal more if you were not 
 packed so tightly! "the man observed ..." That is 
 true," Cesarine replied ; " everything has its good 
 side, and I see that Madame Mambart, who is not 
 -so tightly wedged in, every now and again gives a 
 jump which makes me dread to see her tumble out." 
 
 As a matter of fact, the widow felt the jolts, 
 which raised up the end of the bench on which she 
 was sitting, and almost made her her fall on to the 
 ^driver's knees, and he, who was a wrinkled, cross- 
 
THE INI E PENDENTS 
 
 looking old fellow, growled out : " I say, madaine r 
 what do you come on to my knees like that for ? "... 
 w *Do you think I am doing it on purpose, my friend P 
 Your wretched cart jolts so, that I cannot help it, 
 hut I prefer jolting on to your knees to falling out 
 altogether. "..."You must try and hold on better, 
 for you see, when you tumble up against me it in- 
 terferes with my driving."..." Bibi is going very 
 slowly," Cezarine observed ; cannot you whip him up 
 a bit ?"..." That would do no good! Bibi will al- 
 ways go his own pace, and you see animals are like 
 us ; they get used to going a certain pace, and no- 
 thing will change them." 
 
 Suddenly, the cart gave such a jolt that the widow 
 was jerked out of her seat, and in falling back, she 
 nearly squashed the laundryinan. He swore, Bibi 
 stopped, and Madame Flambart got out and said : 
 " I will not stop in that thing any longer. Oh ! a 
 nice idea ! I will get into the little cart which is be- 
 hind us and sit on my box ; I shall be much more 
 comfortable there." ..." But, Madame Flambart, the 
 cart is pretty well laden already ;jthe donkey seems to 
 have some difficulty in dragging it, and if you get on 
 the cart as well, the poor brute will not be able to go 
 a yard."..." Bah ! lam not so heavy, and donkeys 
 are very strong, as a rule ; I will go and take that 
 little boy's whip, and I will bet that I will not be 
 left behind. 
 
 She went up to the cart, and soon they heard her 
 wrangling with the little boy, who would not let her 
 have his whip, but at length she managed to gain 
 possession of it, and, scrambling into the little 
 vehicle, she sat down on the luggage in front, seized 
 the reins, and began to thrash the donkey, who, to 
 the great surprise of the ladies on the other cart, 
 began to gallop, and soon outstripped Bibi. " There r 
 you see how 1 can drive ! " she said, with a scornful 
 look at the iaundrvman j " this donkey goes better 
 
ON THEIR JOURNEY. 77 
 
 than your horse ! "..."Ail right! all right! You 
 will just see for how long he will go on in that 
 way ! " the man replied, shaking his head. " You 
 may knock the poor brute up, but he can never go 
 at that pace all the way to Bretiguy." 
 
 Ten minutes passed, and the cart was ascending a 
 steep slope, when suddenly it stopped and they 
 heard a cry. The donkey had fallen down and Ma- 
 dame Flambart had tumbled out, but luckily, as the 
 cart was very low, she had sustained no injuries with 
 the exception of a bump on her forehead. " There 
 you are," said the laundry man ; " I knew it would 
 end like that." Bibi stopped of his own accord, and 
 Cezarine jumped out to help Madame Flambart up, 
 but she had already got up by herself. As to the 
 donkey, however, it was very different, for he alto- 
 gether refused to get on his legs again ; Cezarine, 
 the laundryman, the widow and the child, all tried 
 to make him rise, but he resisted all their efforts. 
 However, they were quite close to Bretiguy, and so 
 Cezarine told the little boy to remain by the cart, 
 and assured him that she would immediately send 
 someone to his aid, and so she got into the laundry- 
 man's cart again. Madame Fiambart followed her 
 example, and in five minutes they arrivsd at the 
 captain's house. 
 
 It was a very funny sight to see the ladies jump 
 out of the cart when it stopped in the yard. Mon- 
 sieur de Yabeaupont, who had dragged himself on 
 to the balcony, could not get over his surprise, and 
 said: "What is that extraordinary conveyance in 
 which you have come?".. ." Oh ! my dear uncle, one 
 must take what one can get," Cezarine said ; " we 
 will tell you all about our adventures later on, but 
 first of all, please send Shrove-Monday and your 
 gardener to help to get up the donkey which is 
 bringing our luggage. "...At a sign from his master 
 Shrove-Monday followed the man, who left his cart 
 
78 THE INDEPENDENTS 
 
 in the yard, and Madame Pantalon gave the gardener 
 a push, and told him to go with Shrove-Monday, and 
 then, turning to her companions, she said : " Ladies, 
 be kind enough to follow me, so that I may intro- 
 duce you to my uncle." They all, therefore, fol- 
 lowed her on to the first floor, where the old sailor 
 remained almost always ; the gout confined him to 
 his coach, but he received the ladies very kindly, and 
 said to his niece : " Cezarine, yon have brought only 
 a very few guests ; I expected a whole batallion, and 
 you have only brought a patrol."..." Oh ! uncle, this 
 is only the advanced-guard ; the others will be here 
 very soon, but they were not ready, and we were in 
 a hurry to get here. Yon know these ladies — Pao- 
 lina, Olyinpiade, Madame Flambart — they are old 
 friends, and I think you have also seen Madame Yes- 
 pace before ?"..." Yes, she was at your wedding." 
 ..."That tall girl is Elvina, my sister-in-law."... 
 4C How she has grown ! And who is that dark girl, 
 who is standing there at the back? "..."That is 
 Aglae, my maid; and now uncle that we have got 
 •over the introductions, with your permission, we will 
 go and rest a little in our own rooms, for the con- 
 veyance which brought us from Nozon, has shaken 
 ns terribly, has it not ladies? "..."Yes, I feel as if 
 I had been beaten !"..." And 1 am stiff all over ! ". . . 
 "I can hardly hold myself up !"..." Then go and 
 rest, my dear young ladies, and please remember 
 that you are at home here. You may do exactly as 
 you please ; go ont when you choose, walk, drive, or 
 stay at home ; only I insist on one thing, and that is, 
 punctuality at meals. We breakfast at eleven and 
 ■dine at six, and that to the moment ! So much the 
 worse for those who are not there, for I will not 
 wait ; I sit down to table at the moment." 
 
 The ladies at once made use of the permission 
 which had been given them, and Nanon showed the 
 five new arrivals the way, and said to them : " There 
 
ON THEIR JOURNEY. 7S 
 
 are rooms on the first, second, and third floors, sc 
 you have only to choose."..." Put these ladies on the 
 first floor, as they have come first, and Elvina shall 
 have the room next to mine, on the ground floor."... 
 " And what about me, madame ? " Aglae asked. . . . 
 " You must have a room in the garrets.". . ." But our 
 luggage, our dresses, and our things V " Madame 
 Vespace exclaimed. " I shall not have a moment's 
 peace till I know that my dresses are not lost."... 
 " Nor I, either," Olympiade said. " And then, there 
 are a lot of cosmetiques and washes, as well as bottles 
 of scent that I cannot possibly do without.". . ." Ah ! ,] 
 Madame Etoile said, " I never use any cosmetique, 
 face powder, or anything else; nature is enough for 
 me ! But I have some very valuable manuscripts in 
 my luggage, a poem and a half-finished tragedy, and 
 only suppose if I were to lose that !"..." Set your 
 mind at rest," Cezarine said, " here are Shrove- 
 Monday, the donkey and the cart, with all our lug- 
 gage, just coming into the yard, and, as our names 
 are on our various packages, they will at once be 
 taken to our various rooms."..." Ah ! bravo! well 
 done Madame Pantalon ! " And the ladies- went to 
 take possession of their rooms, whilst Shrove-Monday, 
 with the assistance of Daddy Flanquet, got the 
 trunks out of the cart, and said : 
 
 " All these boxes for there dresses ! What a lot 
 of duds they must have, so no wonder they always 
 look as fresh and neat as if they had just come out 
 of a bandbox." 
 
80 THK CtUjlCK Or A l2tJKOKM 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CHOICE OF A UNIFORM. 
 
 Cezarine and her friends arrived at Br^tiguy at 
 five o'clock in the evening, and they were too tired 
 by their jolting to think of anything but retiring. 
 As soon as their mind was set at rest about their 
 dresses, they threw themselves on to their beds, and 
 slept till past ten o'clock. Then, they woke and got 
 up because they were hungry, and they all rang 
 their bell and asked for candles. Shrove-Monday 
 soon came, followed by !Nanon, who was yawning 
 and stretching herself, and who was besides in a very 
 bad temper, because she had been told not to go to 
 bed. However, the captain had felt sure that the 
 ladies would be hungry when they woke, and so he 
 had ordered supper to be laid in the dining-room, 
 whither Shrove-Monday conducted them, and they 
 immediately sat down and drank to the health of 
 their host, who understood how to do things so well. 
 
 « Why does not the captain have supper with us ? " 
 Widow Flambart asked.... " Because he is in bed and 
 asleep, madame," Shrove-Monday replied. "My 
 captain never eats supper, and always goes to bed at 
 ten o'clock.". . ." We are keeping you up very late to- 
 night, my poor fellow ! " Cezarine said...." Oh! I do 
 not mind," he replied. " When a man has been a 
 sailor, he gets a snatch of sleep when and where he 
 can; I have slept in the rigging before now, and I 
 am not particular about sleeping in a bed. But 
 Nanon there, why, I can scarcely manage to keep 
 her awake !"..." Well, I am used to go to bed and 
 to sleep; I should get ill if I got no sleep."..." But 
 don't you know, my child," Paolina said, " that too 
 much sleep makes people stupid."..."! don't care 
 
THE CHOICE OP A UNIFORM. 81 
 
 ;about that."..." The girl wants to have her wits 
 sharpened a little."..." We will make a drummer of 
 her," Cezarine said. " There is a drum here still, 
 is there not, Shrove-Monday ?"..." Yes, Mrs. Cap- 
 tain, a drum and two horses ; the one you used to be 
 so fond of riding formerly, and then a little pony 
 that goes like the wind! "..."First-rate ! Elvina, 
 you shall the pony to-morrow. Shrove-Monday, you 
 know how to beat the drum? "..."I should rather 
 hope so !"..." Then you 'must teach Nanon, and when 
 we have any proclamation to make in the village, 
 she shall do it.- She has a very shrill voice, luckily." 
 ..." What, madame ! You want to make a drummer 
 of me? Well, I never !"..." Hold your tongue child, 
 and learn to obey without answering. We must 
 begin by enforcing complete subordination here, must 
 we not, ladies? Everybody must obey."..," Yes, 
 but then everybody must be free ! "..."Excuse me, 
 but we must settle all that ; we will draw up a deed 
 of association, and form the tribe of Independents, 91 
 ..."We are already in that germ," Paolina said.... 
 "Our object, that we all agreed upon, is, I believe, 
 to assert our rights to that position in society which 
 men have for so long wrongly usurped, is that not 
 so ?"..." Yes! yes !"..." We will regain all that; 
 we are capable of performing anything that men 
 •can!"..." Everything, is perhaps going rather too 
 far! "..."No, no!" exclaimed the widow, "I will 
 undertake to do everything that men do, and to- 
 morrow we will proclaim throughout the whole 
 neighbourhood, to the beating of a drum, that at 
 Oaptain Yabeaupont's chateau women are to be 
 found who do exactly as they please."..." That 
 would be very badly worded ; if we were to proclaim, 
 that, what would people think of us? "..."I meant 
 to say, who are capable of fulfilling exactly the same 
 employments as men."... "My dear, before proclaim-\ 
 ing anything in that fashion, we must have an 1 
 
 p 
 
82 THE CHOICE OP A UNIFORM. 
 
 agreement formally drawn up, and we must swear 
 to abide by it in every way."..." But you are forget- 
 ting- that we agreed that we should not swear!"... 
 "Ah! I had forgotten that. But before continuing 
 our deliberations we must all be assembled, and our 
 full number is not present, so let us go to bed." 
 
 Next day, two large char-a-bancs arrived, con- 
 tain g Madame Dutonneau, Madame Grassonillet, 
 Madame Boulard, and six other young ladies, who 
 wished to be enrolled in the number of the Indepen- 
 dents, and who had taken to flight with or without 
 their husbands' consent. Amongst them there were 
 also some girls who were of age and some women 
 who had only gone through a left-handed marriage. 
 
 Madam Boulard had a chignon of such a size that 
 a child might have riden astride on it, which pro- 
 voked some whispering amongst the first arrivals, 
 who said to each other: "She has done things very 
 well ! "..."She wished to prove that she sets much 
 store by that ornament."..." But how could she 
 make up her mind to leave her husband, who adores 
 her? "..."He has not adored her since that acci- 
 dent which happened to her at the ball ; it seems 
 that till then he did not know that his wife wore 
 false hair."... "How very strange !"..." When he 
 found it out, he forebade her to wear it, and that 
 was the cause of quarrels, disputes, and, at last, of 
 a rupture ! "..."And now she makes up for it by 
 wearing a chignon like a mountain." 
 
 Monsieur Fouillac accompanied the last comers, 
 and he bowed to Cezarine and said : "Your uncle 
 has frequently asked me to come and pay him a visit,. 
 but I was in no hurry to accept it, as I knew that I 
 should not find that sex here which gives a charm 
 to our existence, and to which I have devoted my 
 life. But now it is different, ladies abound here, 
 and so I have taken the liberty of coming also."... 
 " You are quite right; we know that you are 
 
THE CHOICE OF A UNIFORM. 83 
 
 favourable to us, Monsieur Fouillac, and we reckon 
 on you, in case we have any commissions which we 
 wish to have executed in Paris.".. ." I shall be entire- 
 ly at your orders."..." There are two good horses 
 here, and you can have one to ride to the railway 
 station; I suppose you ride ?"..." I can mount a 
 horse, but, unfortunately, I cannot stick on ! lam 
 ioo light, and tumble off immediately. "..."Well 
 then, you must have my uncle's old gig."..." Do 
 not trouble about me ; I will get there by some means 
 or other." 
 
 Cezarine introduced the new comers to her uncle, 
 and then, whilst they were settling down in their 
 rooms, she said to Elvina : " Now I am going to see 
 my little daughter, Georgette ; will you come with 
 me ?"..." Of course I will with pleasure. Shall we 
 walk?"..." Certainly not, it is quite the other side 
 of the village, but if we ride we shall be there in 
 ten minutes. Hullo! there, Shrove-Monday — "... 
 ■" Here I am, captainess."..." Why does he call you 
 captainess? "..."Because, my dear, I am in the 
 habit of commanding, and because he always obeys 
 me, just the same as he does my uncle." 
 
 They soon started off; Madame Pantalon rode per- 
 fectly and feared nothing, but the girl had not her 
 assurance ; she had a good seat and managed her 
 horse gracefully, but she could not jump over 
 hedges and ditches, although her sister-in-law cried 
 out to her : "Come along, do as I do ! Clear every 
 obstacle — leap, leap ; by jove ! " But Elvina paid 
 no attention to her, and she was very wise, for in 
 jumping a tolerably high hedge, the fair rider had 
 not noticed a little peasant lad who was sitting be- 
 hind it, engaged in spreading soft cheese on his 
 bread. Luckily, the horse did not alight on him, 
 but his feet merely grazed him and covered him with 
 earth ; the urchin, however, was so frightened that 
 he uttered the most lamentable yells, and declared 
 
84 THE CHOICE OF A UNIFORM. 
 
 that they had run over him. Cezarine jumped off 
 her horse, and some villagers ran up, to whom the 
 child showed his cheese which was covered with 
 earth. " Where are you hurt ? " they asked.". . ." I 
 don't know ; but cannot you see that my cheese i& 
 spoilt."..." So the horse did not touch you ?"..." I 
 don't know, but my cheese is covered with dirt, and 
 it was my breakfast."..." So you are not hurt?"... 
 " It was my cheese ; but the horse very nearly came 
 upon my back ! " Cezarine gave the lad five francs 
 to buy some more cheese and the peasants said : 
 " The little beggar is in luck, to happen to be there 
 nearly under the horse, and to get five francs for 
 that ! " 
 
 Madame Pantalon re-mounted her horse and rode 
 rather slower now, for Elvina said to her : " What 
 an accident you would have occasioned if that little 
 boy had been rather more to the left ! I declare 
 that I will never jump hedges! "..."You are quite 
 right ; for the future I will be satisfied with ditches, 
 but who could have guessed that there was a little 
 boy behind the hedge ?"..." In the country you 
 ought always to be careful. Nearly all the acci- 
 dents which happen out shooting are caused through 
 carelessness. Oh ! If I were to go out shooting — " 
 ..." You would go and examine every brake and 
 bush before letting fly into it. I don't think that 
 you would bring much game home. "..."I would 
 rather that than have to reproach myself with any- 
 body's death." 
 
 When they arrived at the nurse's house, they 
 found that little Georgette, who was a year old and 
 very pretty, was quite well. " She is very like* my^ 
 brother," Elvina said...." Indeed I hope not ! " Ceza- 
 rine replied...." Why not? My brother is very nice- 
 looking."..." That may be, but I do not wish my 
 child to be like him ."..." Because you are angry 
 Tvith him just at present, but that will not last for 
 
THE CHOICE OP A UNIFORM, 85- 
 
 ever."..." My dear child, as I have left my husband, 
 I do not wish to hear him mentioned again, so do 
 not let ns say another word on the subject, but re- 
 turn honie." 
 
 They were waiting impatiently for Cezarine, for 
 all the Independents were together, and, as they 
 had recognised Madame Pantalon as their chief, 
 they wished her to regulate the manner in which 
 they were to employ their time during their stay. 
 But dinner was served, and the captain had shouted 
 through his speaking trumpet : " Come to dinner ; its 
 five o'clock, and all business must be put off till this 
 evening. • 
 
 After dinner, at which Madame Flambart took 
 rather more wine than was good for her, only to 
 show that in reality &ha could do as men did, Ma- 
 dame Pantalon rose and said: "Ladies, I must ask 
 you to be silent for a moment, for I am going to 
 mention a most interesting subject ! " Silence was 
 a thing which was not at all easy to obtain at a 
 gathering of fifteen women and two men, for the 
 captain and Monsieur Fouillac had been admitted to* 
 the conference. However, they tried to obey, and 
 nething was heard but low whispers. "Ladies, or I 
 should say, brave Independents, it sounds better,, 
 and is, besides, the name which we have adopted — " 
 ..." Hear ! hear !"•••" Very good !"..." I should have 
 preferred Progressives " Paolina said, " for we are 
 inarching on towards progress."..." That would be 
 too pretentious. Independents is more unconstrained " 
 ..."I propose that we call ourselves the Emancipates 
 — "..." Not at all a bad idea," the captain said, with 
 a laugh. "The Emancipates! I really think that 
 name would suit you exactly. "..."No, uncle; it 
 might do for quite young girls, but we are women,, 
 and have no wish to be taken for school girls !"..." As 
 for me," Madame Flambart said, " considering the 
 character we are going to assume, and so as to 
 
66 THE CHOICE OP A UNIFORM. 
 
 overawe these gentlemen — and then, the name would 
 recall ancient times — and besides, we have all their 
 ideas and feelings, and that does us great honour — " 
 ..."For goodness sake do finish! "..." I should have 
 preferred it if we had called ourselves the Roman 
 Woman ! ".. ." My dear," Cezarine said, " as peasants 
 are very ignoraut, if we were to talk to them about 
 Romans they would think we meant some new kind 
 of salad ! And then, we have adopted the name of 
 Independents, and if we keep constantly going back 
 on what we have already done, we shall never get 
 ^finished."..." Madame Pantalon is right."..." We 
 are The Independents ."..." Now that the incident is 
 closed, I must say that I do not like the word, 
 though it is used."... "It is quite Parliamentary."... 
 -"Very well, the subject is closed, but do you not 
 think that, as we are going to devote ourselves to 
 ^ome regular exercise, to go out together, to show 
 ourselves in the country in a body, it would be as 
 well to have a uniform ?"..." Hear ! hear ! hear ! A 
 uniform by all means.". . ." That would be delightful, 
 
 and when we all go out together "..."They will 
 
 take you for the National Guard of the district! " 
 Fouillac said...." Uncle, are there any National 
 Guards in the villa ge ? " . . . " No.". . ." Nor gens- 
 darmes ?"..." No ! "... " Nor policemen ?"..." Not 
 one.". . ." Then who looks after the inhabitants ? ". . . 
 ■■" They take care of themselves."..." And if a thief 
 were to come, who would arrest him ? "..."The vil« 
 lage constable."..." On his own responsibility?"... 
 "The village authorities, the mayor and the muni- 
 cipal councillors would be his authority. But thieves 
 do not trouble villages much, and, if they were to 
 come here, I assure you that they would meet with 
 a very bad reception! But I am sure that the vil- 
 lagers would be very glad to have a National Guard 
 of pretty women."- — [This was written long before 
 the National Guard was abolished, after the Franco- 
 
THE CHOICE OF A UNIFORM. 87" 
 
 German war, in 1871.]... "If it does them no good, it 
 cannot do them any harm."..." Well," Cezarine said, 
 " let us return to the subject of the uniform. Inde- 
 pendents, this is my proposal. It must not be too- 
 glittering, but yet it should be pretty and in good 
 taste, so this is what I thought of : — A blue and 
 white striped petticoat, a blue coatee of thin cloth^ 
 with red facings and a single row of white metal 
 buttons, to button quite down the front; a small 
 black cravat, leather waist-belt, and white gaiters 
 over our shoes. Our head-dress to be a square cap,, 
 with a peak, a silver aigrette, and a tassel of the 
 same metal to fall on one side. Well, what do you 
 think of it?" 
 
 The 7 adies looked at each other, and none of them 
 seemed pleased. " I do not like that blue and 
 white striped petticoat," Madame Dutonneau said. 
 "White makes one look so big."..." Why not an 
 orange-coloured petticoat ? Orange is very pretty," 
 Paolina said.. . ." It does not suit me ; I should prefer 
 the petticoat altogether white."..." I hate gaiters t 
 They make your feet look so big."..." Why should 
 not the coatee be green ? It is much more uncom- 
 mon than blue."..." A single row of buttons is not 
 enough. I should like four."... "You would look 
 like a bullfighter ! "..." A cap with a peak is not at 
 all becoming," Madame Vespace said...." What 
 would you wear instead ?"..." A fur cap," Madame 
 Flambart said...." With a plume, I suppose P"... 
 " No, with an aigrette." 
 
 All the ladies spoke at once, and as it was a matter 
 of dress, it was impossible to make them hold their 
 tongues. In vain Cezarine appealed for silence, and, 
 as she had no bell, she took her uncle's speaking 
 trumpet, and, at the noise which she made with it r 
 the ladies were obliged to be silent, for they could 
 not hear each other. 
 
88 THE CHOICE OP A UNIFORM. 
 
 " Independents ! n Cezarine said, " you have recog- 
 nised me as your leader, and I have proposed a very 
 becoming uniform to you, but if instead of adopting 
 it you all propose a costume according to your own 
 fancy it would be a very bad beginning, and we 
 should never be fixed on a firm basis! "..."Madame 
 Pantalon is right," Widow Flambart said ; "we must 
 bow to her decisions, and I for one, tell you that I 
 intend to have a uniform made like the one she has 
 proposed !"..." So shall I."..." So shall I, except for 
 a few slight, unimportant modifications."..." Yes, 
 except a few insignificant trifles. "..."Well then, we 
 are agreed on that point."..." Agreed ! agreed!"... 
 "Come ladies, write to your dressmakers in Paris 
 this very evening, give them your orders, and Mon- 
 sieur Fouillac will be kind enough to go to Paris to- 
 morrow with your letters."..." With pleasure, fair 
 volunteer ; not only will I see your dressmakers, but 
 I will urge them to execute your orders without de- 
 lay, and, if you wish it, I will myself undertake to 
 bring back your uniforms."... "Oh ! you are delight- 
 ful! And our head-dresses? "..."You mean your 
 caps? "..."In our letters we will give full details 
 how they are to be made."..." That is settled; you 
 shall have everything as soon as possible ; I will play 
 the devil with the dressmakers, milliners and hatters, 
 so that you may have everything this week." 
 
 The ladies went to their own rooms to write to 
 their dressmakers, and the next morning Fouillac 
 took charge of the letters and started to Paris. 
 
THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 89 s 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 Whilst waiting for the return of their messenger,. 
 Madame Pantalon, who did not wish to remain in- 
 active, proposed to have it publicly announced in the 
 village that application might be made at the chateau 
 if anybody wished to employ members of any of 
 those professions, arts, and businesses, which had 
 hitherto been the monopoly of men, and that the- 
 [ndependent ladies would undertake to do gratui- 
 tously, all that those gentlemen claimed as their 
 special province. 
 
 That motion was adopted by a majority of votes, 
 but Madame Vespace exclaimed : " I fancy you are 
 going on rather too fast, for we might be asked to 
 do things which we know nothing about." ..." My 
 dear," Cezarine replied, " when people found an as- 
 sociation, or enter on an enterprise of any sort, 
 they must never seem to have the smallest doubt as 
 to its success ; it is always as well to promise a great 
 deal, and perform as much as possible. And then, 
 there is always sure to be someone amongst us who 
 knows what others are ignorant of. I know the 
 Code and have studied Cujas and Bar thole, and I 
 should not be at all embarrassed if I had to appear 
 as counsel in court. Paolina is very well versed in 
 literature, Madame Flambart has studied chemistry, 
 and Olympiade medicine, Madame Dutonneau is as 
 strong as Hercules, and could carry three children 
 on her head — and a table into the bargain."..." I 
 should like to see that !"..." Very well, ladies, some 
 evening I will let you see me do it."..." I am a good 
 billiard player," Madame Grassonillet said...." I am 
 a capital musician."..." My father was an architect 
 
"90 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 and so I know how to build a house."..." That is 
 just what I said ; we can undertake anything ! 
 Hullo ! Shrove-Monday ! Where has the fellow got 
 to ? Aglae, just go and look for him and Nanon." 
 
 The lady's maid went and fetched Shrove-Monday 
 out of the cellar, and Nanon from the kitchen ; the 
 gardener's daughter always had her mouth f nil, no 
 matter what time of day it was, and though Shrove- 
 Monday was not always drinking, yet his rubicund 
 countenance proclaimed that he did his share to- 
 wards it. 
 
 The little servant girl and the old cabin boy soon 
 appeared; he gave a military salute, and Nanon 
 hastily swallowed half a hard-boiled egg, "Have 
 you executed my orders P " Ceznrine asked the sailor, 
 4C and have you taught this girl to beat the drum 9 " 
 ..."Yes, captainess, I have given her some lessons, 
 -and she does not do it particularly badly, though 
 not particularly well, either." ... "Never mind; 
 Nan on, you must take your drum and make a pro- 
 clamation in the village square.". . ." I, madame ? ". . . 
 " Yes, you ; first of all you must beat the drum ; you 
 know how to do that ?". . ." I am not quite s • sure ; but 
 what am I to proclaim 9 ". . ." Just read what I have 
 written on this piece of paper ; try and learn it by 
 heart, it is not long, and you must publicly cry 
 what is written on it ; if you cannot remember it, 
 you must read it after you have beaten the drum." 
 ..."But, madame, it has just struck me that no- 
 body but the rural policeman is allowed to make any 
 proclamations, and, if I beat the drum, Farineux 
 will have me arrested."..." Just do as I tell you, and 
 if the rural policeman intereferes with you send him 
 about his business. I suppose, as my uncle owns 
 the whole of the village, he ought to have the right 
 of nominating the rural policeman, and so we shall 
 dismiss the present man, and put you in his place." 
 ..."But I am not a man ! "..."That is the very 
 
THE ETJRAL POLICEMAN. 91 
 
 reason, as we are going to fill all the posts which 
 men have hitherto occupied."... "Oh ! that is another 
 matter altogether, so I will go and beat the drum 
 and make the proclamation. That fellow Fairneux 
 will be nicely sold ! " 
 
 Nanon was delighted at the prospect of being 
 rural policeman. She read the paper which had 
 been given her over and over again, and when she 
 thought that she knew it by heart, she tied the 
 drum round her waist, put the drumsticks inside the 
 front of her dress, and went into the village square 
 and cried out : " I am the rural policeman ; I have 
 taken Fairneux's place, and I am going to beat the 
 uruin and tell you something very interesting, so 
 open your ears all of you ! " The words of the 
 gardener's little daughter, and the drum which she 
 carried, excited the attention of the peasants, and 
 when she beat the drum the villagers came running 
 from all directions and exclaimed : " Why ! there is 
 Nanon beating the drum ! What a joke ! Nan on 
 has turned drummerboy ! "..."Just hold your tongue 
 all of you, and listen to my proclamation. Hum ! — 
 Hum ! — Listen — I must try and remember ! All 
 right, here goes : ' The inhabitants of this place are 
 herewith informed that for the future men have be- 
 come women — no, that is not it — that women have 
 become men, and that if you are in want of — no 
 matter what, you will be assisted gratuitously at the 
 chateau, and where the ladies will undertake — no, 
 that's not it ! yes it is — they will undertake gratui- 
 tously, or • " 
 
 She could not go on, for a vigorous hand seized 
 her by the ear. It was Fairneux, the rural police- 
 man, who was pinching her vigorously and said to 
 her : " What are you doing here, Nanon Fanquet, 
 with that drum at your side ? What have you been 
 saying to them? "..."Oh ! Oh! Daddy Fairneux, let 
 go my ear; don't pinch me like that! I am going 
 
"92 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 to make a proclamation."..." A proclamation! I 
 should just like to catch you doing it ! Nobody but 
 myself has the right to make any proclamations at 
 Bretiguy ; do you hear that, you little minx, as I am 
 the rural policeman.". . ." That is to say, you used to 
 be, but you are so no longer. I have taken your 
 place ; it has been given to me . . Oh ! you are 
 astonished at that, and so am I, but it is so all the 
 same." 
 
 All the villagers began to laugh, and on all sides 
 one heard: "Oh ! Nanon is the new rural police- 
 man ! ". . . " What a joke ! ". . ." Have you changed 
 jour sesque, Nanon? "..." You are not a girl any 
 longer, eh ? ". . ." Yes, yes, of course I am, but that 
 is no reason why the ladies at the chateau should 
 not attend to all your requirements gratis, and Ma- 
 dame Pantalon has appointed me rural policeman in- 
 stead of Fairneux."..." That is the lady who nearly 
 killed little Badon by riding over him."..." Yes, she 
 is the captain's niece, and she has made me rural 
 policeman.". . ." She has ? What right has she to do 
 that?"..." Upon my word I do not know. There 
 are a number of ladies up at the chateau who think 
 the world is turned topsy-turvy, and who intend to 
 set it right. "..."I should like to see that! So the 
 world is upside down, is it ? However, just come 
 with me to the mayor, jSTanon, and we will soon see 
 whether he will have you for rural policeman." 
 
 Nanon had no particular desire to go before him, 
 but Fairneux would not let go of her, and she could 
 not resist. The mayor was a small landed proprietor, 
 who cultivated his own land ; he was a man of about 
 sixty, with a good and shrewd face, and he had a 
 great deal of common sense, which is most valuable 
 for a man in authority. " Sir," the policeman said, 
 pushing Nanon before him ; " I have brought Flan- 
 quet's daughter to you. He is a gardener up at the 
 chateau. I think she is rather queer in her head, or 
 
THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 93 
 
 -else that she is a sonambulist ; you see sh.3 has got a 
 drum, and she has been making a proclamation, 
 and saying a lot of nonsense, and she actually says 
 that my place has been given to her."... The mayor 
 looked at Nanon, and could not help smiling, as lie 
 said to her : " Is that so, my child ? Do you really 
 want to take Fairneux's place? "..."Well, why 
 should I not, monsieur?"..." What? You want to 
 loe rural policeman? Whoever has put that idea 
 into your head ? Come Nanon, just think a little. 
 If you were a boy, I might understand your wishing 
 to be rural policeman, but for a girl . . You 
 have been dreaming child, and are not quite awake 
 yet."... "Oh ! yes I am, sir, and I am not dreaming 
 in the least; and then, it was not my own idea, but 
 Madame Pantalon, my master's niece, said to me : 
 f Gro and beat the drum in the village, and proclaim 
 what is written on this piece of paper ; ' but I said 
 to her : ' The rural policeman makes all the pro- 
 clamations.' She replied : ' I will oust him and give 
 you his place.' "..." She has not the right to oust 
 me, has shi sir? "..."Certainly not, but it is only a 
 joke."..." I don't like such kinds of jokes. I sup- 
 pose I am to arrest Nanon, sir ? "..."Wait a mo- 
 ment, Faimeux, not quite so fast ; before arresting 
 the girl, it would be better to have an explanation 
 from Madame Pantalon, Monsieur de Yabeaupont's 
 niece. Go to the chateau, Fairneux, and ask the 
 lady what the meaning of it all is; why she sent 
 Nanon out with a drum, for I believe you are a ser- 
 vant there, my dear ? Have they turned you out of 
 doors?"..." Certainly not, monsieur, just the op- 
 posite, as I have been raised a step and made rural 
 policeman."..." She will stick to it. Why, the girl 
 is a regular mule! "..."Go up to the house, Fair- 
 neux, and ask the captain's niece for an explana- 
 tion." 
 
94 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 " Here is the captain's niece ! What do you 
 want of her P I am quite ready to give you an ex- 
 planation ! " It was Cezarine, who was pushing her 
 way through the j easants to get to the mayor* 
 Curious to know the result of her proclamation and 
 to see what effect it had on the villagers, she had 
 left the house soon after the gardener's daughter, 
 and, finding no one in the square, she had been told 
 by an old woman that the drummer-girl had been 
 taken before the mayor. Her unexpected arrival 
 caused a sensation at the mayor's house, especially 
 as she assumed an arrogant tone and seemed ex- 
 tremely irritated ; and then, she held a riding whip 
 in her hand. Nanon uttered an exclamation of joy 
 and ran up to Cezariue and said : " Oh ! madame, 
 I am so. glad you have come; they object to my 
 being rural policeman, and Fairneux was going to 
 put me in priscn."..."Is this true, sir? What right 
 have you to arrest my servant ?"..." What right has 
 sbe to wish to take my place ?"..." Hold your 
 tongue, Fairueux, and let me speak to the lady ; but 
 first of all, madame, pray sit down."..." It is not 
 worth while, sir ; I am in a hurry to finish the busi- 
 ness. You are the mayor of Br6tiguy? "..." Yes r 
 madame," he replied, " and as the head authority in 
 this place, I must ask you what is the meaning of 
 this joke, for I cannot suppose that you were in 
 earnest when you appointed this girl as rural police- 
 man !"..." And why not, monsieur P ". . ." Because it 
 is an employment which is only suitable for a man." 
 ..."With my uncle's authority, I and my friends are 
 going to alter all that. We have enough education, 
 talent, strength, and courage to fill all the places 
 which are generally given to men."..." I do not 
 doubt your talents or your knowledge, madame. At 
 Monsieur de Yabeaupont's house, you can do what- 
 ever you please — have women for grooms or coach- 
 men — that is your business, but you have no right ta 
 
THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 95 
 
 dismiss one rural policeman and to appoint another." 
 ..."Not the right! Does not the whole village be- 
 long to nay uncle ?"..." Good heavens ! madame, as 
 you are so well educated you ought to know that 
 all such rights as you seem to refer to have ceased 
 to exist for a very long time ; there are landed pro- 
 prietors who often do a great deal of good to the 
 poor, but that does not give them the right to nomi- 
 nate rural policemen. In the towns there are pre- 
 fects and sub-prefects, and in villages there are 
 mayors and their deputies and the members of the 
 municipal council, and they nominate to all vacant 
 employments." 
 
 Cezarine bit her lips, for she felt that the village 
 authorities had beaten her, but almost immediately 
 she replied : " What do you mean ? My uncle owns 
 a large amount of land about here, and surely he 
 can have his fields and vineyards looked after by 
 -anyone he likes, so as to prevent thieves from eating 
 his grapes or stealing his fruit and vegetables?"... 
 " Excuse me; your uncle can send his servants to 
 look after his property if he pleases, but that will 
 not prevent Fairneux, the rural policeaian, keeping an 
 eye on it as well.". . ." Yes, yes, I will keep my eye on 
 it, and, if the lady wants me to make any pro- 
 clamations for her, I will do it very differently to 
 Nanon, who only talks nonsense ! But, as I have 
 broken my drum, Nanon can come with me, if you 
 have no objection, madame, and bring hers." 
 
 Cezarine did not reply to the man, but said to the 
 mayor : " Monsieur, is there any objection to our 
 beating the drum in the village ? My friends and I 
 have had a uniform made, and . . "..."Do you 
 wish to join the National Guard, madame? "..." Not 
 at present, but we shall see about it later on; mean- 
 while, however, when we go out in a body, a drum 
 at our head would have a very good effect."..." If 
 you want to do it only for your own amusement, and 
 
96 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 not to encroach on the rights of the rural police man r 
 you may certainly have a drum beaten ; people will 
 think that you are a set of mountebanks, that is 
 all ! "...Madame Pantalon bit her lips again, then 
 she gave the mayor a military salute, gave Nanon a 
 sign to follow her, and returned to the chateau. 
 
 A few days passed, whilst they were anxiously 
 awaiting Fouillac's return, and, to pass away the 
 time, they went through their drill, whilst Shrove- 
 Monday gave them lessons in fencing and in broad- 
 sword exercise, and taught them to use a pistol. He 
 even wished to teach them how to use a boarding 
 pike, but the Independents altogether refused that 
 weapon, as they had no present intention of enter- 
 ing the navy. 
 
 At last, a letter from Fouillac announced that he 
 should return the next day with the uniforms, and 
 he requested Cezarine to send the captain's old car- 
 riage to the station to bring back the numerous 
 parcels for the ladies at the chateau. They all 
 uttered exclamations of joy when they heard the 
 letter read, and only wished that it were already to- 
 morrow, when Shrove-Monday would go to ISTozon 
 and bring back that charming Fouillac and the 
 dresses which they had ordered. Of course, they 
 passed a vote of thanks to him for having executed 
 their commissions so well; Paolina undertook to 
 write him some appropriate verses, and Madame 
 Duttoneau volunteered to kiss him, but her proposi- 
 tion was rejected by the majority ; the scratches 
 with which his face was covered did him a great 
 deal of harm. 
 
 On the day that he was to return, the carriage 
 started, but the ladies were up even before, though 
 it set off very early and Fouillac was not expected 
 back till mid-day. They hurried over their lunch, 
 and it was in vain for the captain to beg them to 
 take their time, as their uniforms would not arrive 
 
THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 97 
 
 any the sooner because they half choked themselves 
 in bolting their food. 
 
 "Ah! captain," they said, "we are so curious to 
 see them, and above all, to try them on, for we mean 
 to wear them as soon as ever they come."..." And 
 then we will all march past the captain, who shall 
 review us."..." I have bought a pretty little carbine 
 for each of you, which I shall ask you to accept from 
 me."..." Oh! thank you, captain; and swords as 
 well? "..."We will see about that later on! You 
 are not going to do any fighting immediately, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 They had posted Nanon as a vedette on the road 
 to watch for the approach of the carriage ; the cap- 
 tain had lent her his speaking trumpet, through 
 which she was to cry: " Here they come! " Cezarine 
 wanted her to fire a shot to announce him, but the 
 girl refused and took the speaking trumpet, and, as 
 soon as she announced the approach of the carriage, 
 all|the ladies rushed to meet it. At last, there it was, 
 with all the packages and Fouillac, whow they over- 
 whelmed with thanks, and then Madame Etoile 
 stepped forward to read her poem, but the other 
 ladies had thrown themselves on the packages, each 
 seized what belonged to her, and off they all went, 
 exclaiming: "Let us go and put them on! "..."Yes, 
 yes, you can read the complimentary ode after- 
 wards ! "...Paolina made up her mind to do as the 
 others, and said to herself : " Hum ! dress and co- 
 quetry ; but still, I am sure the dress will not suit 
 me very well."... Fouillac, who did not the least care 
 to hear the verses, went to keep the captain com- 
 pany, who was still at table, and in an hour's time 
 — for it took them no less to array themselves in 
 their uniform — a great chattering announced the 
 approach of the ladies. They were all in a hurry to 
 show themselves to the captain, who made them 
 stand up in a row before him, and immediately burst 
 
 a 
 
•8 THE RURAL POLICEMAN. 
 
 out laughing and said : " Oh ! so that is your idea of 
 a uniform ! Pray allow me to compliment you on 
 it!" 
 
 As a matter of fuct, none of the ladies were 
 dressed alike. To begin with, their petticoats varied 
 in colour or make ; the skirts were blue, certainly, 
 but some were profusely braided, whilst others only 
 had an edging ; one had four rows of buttons to her 
 coatee, whilst the other only had one, and some had 
 gold and others silver-plated buttons. A similar 
 diversity existed in their head coverings : some had 
 little round caps, others had a peak or a furred 
 head-dress, something like a grenadier's ; some had 
 a brooch at the side and others a small plume. In 
 a word, it was all very pretty and becoming, but 
 certainly not a uniform, and, as at first they had 
 solely been taken up with looking at themselves, it 
 was not till they all met that they noticed how 
 little similarity there was in their costume. Then, 
 however, Cezarine said with a frown : " Upon my 
 word, ladies, is this the way you have carried out 
 my instructions?" 
 
 But Madame Grassonillet replied, in a very de- 
 cided tone of voice : " You gave out that we were the 
 Independents! I should like to know, therefore, 
 why we are not to do as we like?"..." She is quite 
 right," the captain observed. " You remind me, 
 Cezarine, of those people who are always prating of 
 liberty, but who, at the same time, wish to force you 
 to share their opinions." 
 
",OUGlI LAItoWftk 99 
 
 CHAPTER KIT. 
 
 ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 Let us leave the wives for a while and return to 
 the husbands, to those unfortunate husbands ! I do 
 not, however, see why 1 should pity them after all, 
 for now Adolphe was able to undertake cases with- 
 out his wife insisting on interfering with them; 
 Monsieur Etiole was not forced to listen to his wife's 
 verses, which he did not at all like being obliged to 
 do, whilst Monsieur Bouchetron had plenty of time 
 to get vaccinated and to dress as he pleased. Ves- 
 pace could take his little seamstress out for a walk 
 whenever he felt inclined; Monsieur Grassonillet 
 was not obliged to witness Armandine's flirtations, 
 and the handsome Dutonneau could treat as many 
 grisettes as he pleased at a restaurant. So you will 
 see that these husbands were not to be pitied, and 
 this is probably the case with many others, under 
 similar circumstances. 
 
 Frederick Duvassel was not at all surprised to hear 
 that Madame Pantalon had separated from her hus- 
 band, for from the very beginning of their marriage 
 he had foreseen that they would not live happily to- 
 gether ; but his brother, who was still very much in 
 love with Elvina, was constantly pestering him about 
 her, as he wished to see her again. Adolphe knew 
 that his wife and sister were staying at Monsieur de 
 Vabeaupont's at Bretiguy, and he had told his 
 friend. Moreover, as most men whose wives have 
 left them know each other, they were perfectly well 
 acquainted with their wives* projects, and asked 
 each other whether they should let them do as they 
 pleased or oppose their plans. Frederick, who had 
 been admitted to their councils, said to them: "Will 
 
100 ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 you allow me to give you a piece of advice, for, 
 though I am not married, I take the greatest interest 
 in married people. In fact, I have a preference for 
 married men. Tour better halves — and this is a 
 most appropriate expression, for in married life it 
 is generally the woman who is that, though I should 
 prefer to say your wives — have got some rather 
 peculiar ideas into their heads, and have given way 
 to new views. But I do not think we should make' 
 fun of them, but pretend to take the matter seriously. 
 Will you allow me to act, and only promise to second 
 me when I need your assistance? "..."Of course we 
 will."..." Do as you please, we will give you a free 
 hand."..." Well then, gentlemen, I am quite sure 
 that the sheep will come back to the fold before 
 long."..." Please don't be in any hurry !"..." Take 
 your own time about it !"..." Oh! I will act with 
 great circumspection. To-morrow I will go to take 
 up my abode at Bretiguy ; I shall easily find quarters 
 somewhere in the village, and then I will event my 
 batteries, and write to Adolphe as soon as I have 
 anything of importance to tell you."..." Yes, but do 
 not be in a hurry ."..." Make yourself quite easy on 
 that score ; of course, I know that we must give 
 the ladies time to get a longing to see you again, 
 were it only to put you in a rage." 
 
 Gustave almost jumped for joy when his brothei 
 said to him : " We will go to Bretiguy to-morrow, 
 but we shall not go to the captain's immediately, for 
 he might have us shown the door, and nobody at the 
 chateau must have any idea that we are in the vil- 
 lage. Now listen to me carefully, Gustave. I shall 
 only take you with me on the condition that you 
 obey me punctually and that you do not try to see 
 Elvina before I give you permission to do so ; in a 
 word, that you will do exactly as I tell you.". . . " Yes, 1 
 will promise you that ; but at any rate, I shall be 
 near her, and that alone will make me happy!"... 
 
ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 101 
 
 "Adolphetold me that his wife's maid, that little 
 Aelae did not at all share her mistress' ideas, and I 
 must try and see the girl."..." Yes, and we will get 
 her onto our side-"..." That is my busmes; all you 
 have got to do is to keep quiet and not to go hanging 
 about the house, for if you do, I send you back to 
 
 Paris." 
 
 The next day, Frederick, Gustave, and their man- 
 servant went to Paris ; the name of the latter was 
 La Brie ; he was a very sharp fellow, and Frederick 
 depended on him to aid him in carrying out the plan 
 he had conceived. A traveller in remote districts 
 very rarely finds any difficulty in obtaining accom- 
 modation in a farmhouse, as long as he is not exact- 
 ing and pays without bargaining, and Frederick soon 
 found what he required. Almost as soon as he had 
 settled down, he asked the farmer's wife, who seemed 
 to be decidedly talkative, about the persons who 
 were staying at the chateau...." Well," she said, 
 "they seem to be a funny lot there just now."... 
 "What do mean? Does not it belong to Captain 
 Yabeaupont any more ? ". . ." Yes, but what I meant 
 was that his niece, who is now Madame Pantalon, 
 has come and takm up her quarters there with a 
 posse of women who have been sending round the 
 crier with a drum to say that they would undertake 
 any sort of work in the neighbourhood gratis."... 
 " Well but surely you can have no objection to such 
 an offer ?"..." Bah ! Don't you see that it was only 
 done by way of making fun of us ? To show you 
 that it was only a joke, I must tell you that they 
 wanted to make Nanon, the gardener's daughter, 
 their rural policeman, but Fairneux, who fills the 
 post, did not quite see it, nor the mayor either."... 
 " Perhaps they were wrong. I would just havejet 
 them try, so as to have seen how matters went."... 
 " Really ! I should have been nicely protected against 
 the thieves by that Nanon, who is very greedy and 
 
102 K01TGH LABOUR. 
 
 who can never go past a gooseberry tree without 
 picking" some. By the way, Matois, there is a great 
 breach in our garden, through which any one can 
 get in ; have you been to Gerand, the mason, to tell 
 him to come and repair it ? ". .." Yes, but he has got 
 a crick in his back this morning and canno.t move." 
 ..."That is pleasant, for we do not know when we 
 may be robbed !"..." But Daddy Matois," Frederick 
 said, "it appears to me that this would be a capital 
 opportunity for you to assure yourself of those ladies* 
 sincerity and capabilities. Go and ask for a mason, 
 or rather a masoness to repair your wall ; you will 
 risk nothing, as they will do it gratis, so if it is 
 badly done you will not lose your money ."..." What ! 
 I go to the chateau and ask for a mason in petti- 
 coats ? Why ! I would never risk it, monsieur ; they 
 would just have me thrown out of doors immediately." 
 ..." You are quite wrong, and I am certain that, far 
 from having you thrown out of doors, Madame Pan- 
 talon and her adepts will be delighted to see that 
 their proclamation has produced some effect."... 
 " These gentlemen are quite right," Madame Matois 
 said ; " go there like a sensible fellow, for they will 
 not eat Jyou, and, as they are willing to do it for 
 nothing, it is worth trying for."..." Very well, as you 
 both advise me to go, I will be off at once."..." Yes, 
 be off with you, but don't say that you have anyone 
 from Paris lodging here ; we have a reason for not 
 wishing them to know it at the chateau."..." All 
 right, monsieur; if you wish it, of course. And 
 then, I think I understand. Ha ! ha ! he ! he ! I 
 will go and fetch a lady mason ! " 
 
 Old Matois went off, and the two yc ung men took 
 up their position in a room from tiie window of 
 which they could overlook the road that led to the 
 big house, so as to be able to see whether the man 
 brought anyone back with him...." Suppose Elvina 
 were to come! " Gustave said to his brother.... "How 
 
ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 can you think of such a thing? Do you suppose 
 that a girl like that could have a fancy for a mason's 
 trade? I am sure that none of them will come, but 
 I am curious to know what they will say to old 
 Matois." 
 
 When he presented himself at the chateau, Shrove- 
 Monday was in the yard and asked him what he 
 wanted...." Well, Mister Cabinboy," Matois replied 
 (for Shrove-Monday always went by that name), 
 ■" there are some ladies here who will undertake any 
 kind of work gratis — ". . ." Why, there is half a crew 
 of women here. I am teaching them to fence, shoot, 
 a&d ride. What do you want with them?"... 
 -" Why, I have a wall that wants repairing, and so 
 I have come to get a workwoman."..." Do you think 
 I have taught them the building trade?"..." Just 
 take me to Madame Pantalon; I have come in con- 
 sequence of her proclamation, and my business is 
 with her."... Shrove-Monday shrugged his shoulders, 
 but he said to the peasant : " Come with me." 
 
 The Independents were all together in a large 
 room which they had chosen for the purpose of hold- 
 ing their deliberations in, and they were busy in 
 ^drawing up rules and regulations for their society, 
 but had not yet succeeded in getting one adopted, 
 when Shrove-Monday appeared, followed by Daddy 
 Matois, and said to Cezarine : " Mrs. Captain, here 
 is one of the villagers who wants you to do a little 
 job for him."..." Well, my good man, what do you 
 want? "..."Excuse me for taking the liberty, but 
 you have been cryitog it publicly in the village that 
 you will undertake to help us gratis in anything we 
 want doing, no matter what it may be, so that we 
 need not be obliged to apply to men."..." Certainly. 
 Well, what then?"..." Why, madame, I want to 
 have my garden wall repaired, and I have come to 
 -ask the one amongst you who happens to be a mason 
 
104 ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 to be kind enough to come to my house and repair 
 it for me." 
 
 All the ladies looked at one another, for they had 
 not the least expected to be called upon for this sort 
 of work, and they whispered to each other : " Just 
 catch us working at his wall ! "..." Nice sort of em- 
 ployment for us!"..." The wretched peasant is 
 making fun of us! "...And Cezarine herself said in 
 a low voice : " The devil take him and his wall ! 
 But still it is very unfortunate, my dears, that we 
 must meet the first request for aid by a refusal ! " 
 ...Suddenly, however, Widow Mambart got up and 
 said : "Well, ladies, this man's request shall not be 
 refused ; it is not very difficult to get some ashlar or 
 old plaster and to make it stick together with some 
 hot lime; I will undertake to do it myself."... 
 " What, Madame Flambart, do you really think you 
 are capable of undertaking mason's work?"... 
 " When anyone has a strong will, one can do any- 
 thing one pleases ; you said so yourselves. A breach 
 in a wall is a very small matter ; my man, have you 
 any cement and tools at your house? "..." Oh ! yes, 
 madame, I have everything you want, a banker 
 trowel, cement, and rubbish for making the wall."... 
 " Yery well, then let us be off, but I want someone 
 to help me ; a mason never works without an assist- 
 ant. Who is coming with me? "...Nobody moved, 
 and on all sides was heard : " Not I ! Not I ! Not 
 I ! "...Whereupon Cezarine called her maid and said 
 to her : " Aglae, you will have to go with Madame 
 Flambart and help her in her mason's work.". . ." You 
 are going to do mason's work, my poor girl ! " Elvina 
 said to the little maid, who replied with a cross 
 
 look : " But, madame, I shall never be able to " 
 
 " When one does not know a thing, one goes and 
 learns it, so please go, Aglae, and don't answer.",.. 
 "But, madame "..."As Madame Flambart is 
 
BOUGH LABOUR. 105 
 
 going to set you the example, it strikes me that you 
 ought only to be too glad to imitate her." 
 
 Frederick and his brother were standing at the 
 window, and the former uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise when he saw Madame Flambart and Aglae 
 comino- behind Daddy Matois...." It is not Elvina ! " 
 Gustave said."..." Thank God!" was Frederick's 
 fervent ejaculation; "I should never have forgiven 
 her if she had turned mason." But as for poor Aglae, 
 it is quite clear from her face that she had not come 
 for her own pleasure. La Brie was in the garden, 
 but they did not know him ; he was clever, and, as 
 he had put on a blouse, he might easily pass for a 
 peasant. 
 
 Madame Flambart went proudly into the house, 
 and said : " Where is this wall? Just let me see it, 
 and I will repair it for you in less than no time."... 
 " Is the lady a mason? " Mother Matois said, making 
 a very respectful curtsey...." I am whatever I please, 
 I can do any and every thing ; let me see this breach 
 in your. wall."... Old Matois took the lady into his 
 garden and showed her the place which had to be re- 
 paired. The rubbish was iu its proper place quite 
 handy, and then the mortar and all the mason's 
 tools, but instead of looking at the things, Aglae 
 examined La Brie, who was some little distance off, 
 whilst Madame Flambart took off her skirt and her 
 hat, turned up her sleeves, and said: "We shall 
 want some water; where is the water ?"..." Well, 
 ladies, here are two watering pots full of water, and 
 when you want any more, the well is only a few 
 yards off."..." All right, and now, my good fellow, 
 you can go. I do not like to be looked at whilst I 
 am at work, it puts me out s if I want you I will call 
 
 you." 
 
 Daddy Matois raised his cap and went, but he did 
 not lose sight of these new-fashioned masons. Widow 
 Flambart did not like to be looked at beceuse she 
 
106 KOTJGH LABOUE. 
 
 did not know where to begin or whnt she ought to 
 do, and so she carefully examined the stones and said 
 to Aglae : " We must first put one on the top of the 
 other as well as we can, and then we must fix it 
 with the plaster. I think that is the way, is it 
 not?"..."! think it is, madame, but I am not in 
 that line of business myself ! "..."Well, let us try; 
 I say, this plaster is rather heavy to handle . * 
 Oh ! oh ! there is a stone fallen on my foot. "..."You 
 will hurt yourself if you don't take care !"..." Non- 
 sense ! I am a man as far as courage goes ; come,, 
 Aglne, do bring me the rubbish."... "-Here they are,, 
 madame ; here they are — "..." And take care of my 
 feet. "..."If I only had a wheelbarrow, I could brin£ 
 a lot more at a time.". . ." You had better go and ask 
 for one directly, but first of all we must make some 
 cement to bind it all."..." Here is the bucket, ma- 
 dame."..." What do you put in first ?"..." The 
 water, I should think."..." No, it must be the 
 plaster. Just bring some in a bag."..." Oh! how 
 heavy it is ! ". . ." Put in a lot. It is very amusing to 
 be a mason !"..." You are very lucky to like it, ma- 
 dame ! "..."I think I have noticed that masons al- 
 ways sing whilst they are at work."... "I believe they 
 do."..."Yery well, then let us sing; do you know 
 any masons' songs, Aglae? "..."No, madame."... 
 " How stupid you are ! Ah ! I remember a song at 
 the Opera Comique, in a piece called The Mason. 
 Yes, I remember it : 
 
 Hasten, let us work, 
 
 Let us earn our money t 
 Labourer do not shirk, 
 
 Let us earn our money! 
 
 Well, Aglae, are you going to let me sing all by my- 
 self?"..."! do not know the tune, madame."... 
 "Yery well then, bring me the water."..." Here it 
 is."..." And now the plaster; but it is very strange,. 
 
ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 107 
 
 I may have as much water as I like and it will not 
 bind."..." But, madame, plaster does not bind imme- 
 diately ; you must give it time."../*' I suppose I am 
 in too great a hurry, but I have seen masons work 
 it about with their hands."..." With a trowel, ma- 
 dame, I think."... "But this one is broken; just go 
 and get another." 
 
 Aglae went to the house, and Madame Mambart 
 looked at her plaster for some time and then began 
 to knead it with her hands, and said to herself: 
 " Plaster whitens the hands, and perhaps it will take 
 ^)ff the freckles from mine, so I will put them both 
 into it." Whilst she was saying this she left both 
 her hands in the plaster and forgot to stir it about, 
 and, as it had received but little water, it suddenly 
 stiffened and became hard, and the lady mason, who 
 was bending over the trough, exclaimed : " It is very 
 strange, it is closing round my fingers • why, it is 
 ■closing round my whole hand. Why, good heavens, 
 I cannot get them out ! My hands ai'e immersed in 
 it. Here, Aglae! you peasant fellow! somebody! 
 anybody ! come and set me free . . Both my 
 hands are fixed in this trough ! " 
 
 Nobody came, however, because Frederick was 
 purposely keeping the peasant and his wife, and La 
 Brie was talking to Aglae, who was in no hurry to 
 go back to her mason's work. Madame Mambart 
 was in a very uncomfortable position ; she was ob- 
 liged to remain on her knees before the trough, 
 which was so heavy that she could not raise it, and 
 the longer she waited, the harder the cement be- 
 came, and, though she screamed and called, she had 
 to wait fully five minutes in that position, but at 
 last Daddy Matois arrived, and shortly after him 
 Aglae.... "It is really abominable," Madame Mam- 
 bart said, " to leave me with both my hands sticking 
 in this trough. Bring a hammer as quickly as you 
 can, and break the cement which is all round my 
 
108 ROUGH LABOUR. 
 
 hands."..."! am very sorry, madame, but I could 
 not guess . . "..."Get my hands out of it as 
 quickly as possible, please."..." But it sticks so tight, 
 and if I pull your arms I run the risk of breaking* 
 your wrists. "...But Aglae had already been to get 
 one, and she soon returned with another trowel, with 
 which they managed to break the plaster and to set 
 free Widow Flambart from the unpleasant gloves 
 which she had provided herself with. As soon as 
 she was free she kicked the bucket, resumed her hat 
 and jacket, turned down her sleeves, and said: 
 "Come along with me, Aglae; we will be off."... 
 " What, do you mean to go, madame? " Matois said * 
 " and what about my wall ?"..." Confound you and 
 your wall. I have had enough of mason's work, it 
 makes your hands like bricks ! You will not catch 
 me at it again ; working in plaster indeed ! " 
 
 Madame Flambart returned to the chateau, where 
 she related her misadventure, which made all the 
 young women laugh and make fun of her, instead of 
 pitymg her. The next day other peasants, whom 
 Erederick had put up to it, came to the house, where 
 one asked for a locksmith and another a waggoner, 
 but on that occasion the villagers met with a some- 
 what rude reception, and Cezarine said to them : 
 " We shall leave the rough work for the men, it is 
 good for them ; but you must not ask anything of us 
 that does not require sense, delicacy, talent, skill, 
 tact and imagination."..." Then why did you send 
 the drum round and announce that you would do 
 gratis all that men were in the habit of doing? "... 
 " Why, are you so stupid as to believe everything 
 that is publicly announced?" 
 
THE LADIES START A NEWSPAPER. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE LADIES START A NEWSPAPER. 
 
 That adventure somewhat cooled the enthusiasm 
 of the Independents, for, after having proclaimed 
 that they could easily replace the men in everything, 
 they were rather vexed to find that there were some 
 things that they could not do, but they said to each 
 other : " After all, it is the fault of our education ; if 
 Ve had been taught gymnastics and how to climb up 
 ladders when we were quite young, we should be 
 able to be fiiemen ! " Whilst they were waiting to 
 settle the foundation of their society, Madame Etoile 
 said to the Independents one morning : " Ladies, in- 
 stead of wasting our time over trying to settle the 
 articles of our body, it is a much more pressing 
 matter to start a newspaper, in which to develope 
 our new ideas on the condition of women, and we 
 ought to ask all who agree with us to come to an 
 understanding with us. Such a newspaper would 
 make us known all over Europe, and, perhaps, even 
 further still, for no one can tell how far its circula- 
 tion might extend, and I am sure that we should very 
 soon have an immense number of subscribers. We 
 should make money in that way, and in all new 
 enterprises, such as this one of ours, one can never 
 have too much money, and often one has not got 
 enough ! " 
 
 Naturally that proposal was received with great 
 applause. " Yes, yes, we must start a newspaper of 
 our own !" they all cried...." I have been thinking 
 about it for several days," Madame Pantalon said.... 
 "The idea struck me a long time ago," Madame 
 Bouchetron observed...." I meant to have mentioned 
 it yesterday, but I forgot all about it."... "I meant 
 
110 THE LADIES START 
 
 to have proposed it twenty times ;" &c, &c... 
 "Very well, ladies," Paolina said, with a sardonic 
 smile, "you have all had the same idea as I have, 
 and I really feel flattered at being in such good com- 
 pany. You remind me of the man who heard Vol- 
 taire very highly praised as a writer, and who said : 
 * That was very clever of him ; he wrote everything 
 that I thought.' "..."Don't let us have anything 
 unpleasant said," Cezarine exclaimed. "Paolina, 
 you were the first to propose starting a newspaper, 
 so all the honour of the notion belongs to you. 
 We will immediately set about carrying the plan 
 into execution. Of course, we shall all work on it ? " 
 ..." Yes, yes, all of us.". . ." It will be a pleasure.". . . 
 " Will it appear every day?"..." No, that would be 
 too hard work for us ; it must be a weekly paper."... 
 "Very well."..." Would it not be as well if each of 
 us were to say what we are going to write about, so 
 that the articles may not be similar ?"..." A very 
 good idea."..." Each of us must choose her own sub- 
 ject."..."! suppose we may write about anything 
 we like? "..."Well, very nearly; come, Madame 
 Flam bart, what subject will you undertake ?"..." I 
 will write on politics."..." That is impossible; we 
 must eschew politics altogether, or otherwise we 
 should have to find sureties, and that would cost too 
 much."..." That is a pity, for I had so many new 
 proposals to make to the governments of various 
 countries."..." You must keep them for some other 
 occasion ; your chance may turn up."..." Well, if I 
 must not touch politics, I will write about fishing 
 and our fishing industries.'*... "I will write about 
 shooting and hunting."..." I really do not see what 
 that will have to do with the society which we wish 
 to found. Never mind, however ; let us get on. And 
 you, Madame Grassonillet ? "..."I will write articles 
 on the fashions."..." But there are already several 
 newspapers devoted to them, and so it would only be 
 
A NEWSPAPER. Ill 
 
 repeating the same thing over again ! "..."I suppose 
 you are joking ! One can never say too niucli about 
 the fashions to women ; in fact, it is indispensable to 
 write a lot about them."..." Yery well; let us ask 
 another lady. How about you, Mndame Vespace P " 
 ..." I will write a novel in the English style." 
 
 And so they went on, each of them choosing her 
 special line.. . ." I shall write about music". . ." And I 
 about painting." ... "I," said Madame Boulard, 
 " shall devote a series of articles to the great pro- 
 gress that hairdressers have made lately in the art of 
 doing our hair."..." All that is futile, and has no 
 connexion with those new ideas which we wish to 
 put forward on the capabilities of our sex !"..." We 
 shall get at that by degrees."..." Let us hope so ! " 
 ..." I know how to make preserves and pickles, and 
 will give the recipes."..." Oh ! my dear, pray do not 
 let us talk of preserves and pickles ; that would be 
 too wide of the question."... "I shall say how absurd 
 it is for men to wear stays, as they often do."... 
 " And you will be told that you wear drawers, some- 
 thing very like short trousers."... "If we do, it is 
 from modesty and decency, whilst, when men wear 
 stays, it is from vanity and to try and hide their 
 obesity."..." I have been told that some men put on 
 rouge.". . . " Impossible ! Where could they put it ? " 
 ..." Not on their nose, I presume, but on their cheeks 
 to give them a nice, fresh colour."..." I do not 
 think that can be quite true, for I have seen men 
 with a very fine colour, but they would have pre- 
 ferred to have been pale ; it is so much more distin- 
 guished looking." ... "Before going any further, 
 allow me to remark to our honourable commander 
 that we ought to think of some suitable title for our 
 newspaper ; that is a very important consideration, 
 for the success of a publication often depends very 
 much on it."..." And then we must choose one 
 which will fit in well with our subject."..." We have 
 
112 THE LADIES START 
 
 not far to seek," Widow Flambart said ; " let us call 
 it The Independent Women's Journal. 99 ..." That is 
 rather dry, and might give rise to conjectures. I 
 should prefer something else."..." Call it The New 
 Crusade. 99 ..." People would think it was a religious 
 paper."..." Well then The Journal of the Fair Sex. 9 * 
 ..." We must avoid all mention of our sex.". . ." But, 
 first of all, what coloured wrapper shall we have? 
 That is a very important question, and we must try 
 and choose an attractive cover, so as to catch the 
 eye." 
 
 After much debating, they at last agreed upon a 
 lemon-coloured cover, and Madame Pantalon said : 
 " Well, that is settled, and now about the title, but 
 I fancy we ought to think that over at our leisure, 
 so as to hit upon a good one, and so that it may not 
 interfere with our writing the articles for our news- 
 paper. I propose that we adjourn this meeting to 
 go and work at them."..." I should like to observe to 
 Madame Pantalon that it is frequently necessary to 
 mention the name of the paper when one is writing 
 an article for it, and that consequently it would be 
 very inconvenient not to know the title."..." She is 
 quite right, and then, a title sometimes helps you in 
 what you are writing."..." "Very well then, only do 
 let us settle it."..." Suppose we merely call it The 
 Lemon Gazette. 99 ..." That would make people think 
 that it was only to be read whilst eating oysters."... 
 "Let us call it The Regenerator. 99 ..." That would 
 make people think that it was devoted to hair dyes 
 and cosmetiques."..." Call it The Ear-Piercer; we 
 want to pierce and penetrate the ears of the public ; 
 so then, that is settled, and our newspaper shall be 
 called The Ear-Piercer ; and now let us go and set to 
 work ! When are our articles to be ready ?"... 
 "Will three days be too soon? "..."I shall write 
 mine to-morrow," Paolina said...." That is very well 
 for you, as it is your vocation to write, you are the 
 
A NEWSPAPEB. 113 
 
 tenth Muse! " Amandine said, with a mocking smile, 
 " but it is not everyone who has your experience. I 
 do not think that three days will be too much."... 
 " Shall we have a committee to consider the 
 articles ?"..." No," Cezarine replied ; " I alone shall 
 judge and decide, and you may be sure that I shall 
 do so quite impartially ; and then, if I should not be 
 able to make up my mind, I will ask all of you for 
 your advice, and the majority shall settle it." 
 
 The ladies separated and went to work with 
 ardour at their future newspaper, for when a woman 
 is seized by a new idea, she always works with vigour 
 and enthusiasm to carry it out, but her ardour rarely 
 lasts long. It takes very little to distract a woman's 
 attention, and a fresh idea makes her forget the 
 former one, just like a new love makes us forget 
 the old. 
 
 Elvina was the only one who declared her intention 
 of not having anything to do with the lemon-coloured 
 newspaper. " Why will not you write an article as 
 well as the rest of us ? " Cezarine asked her. " It 
 does not matter whether it is long or short. The 
 shortest are often the best, and are *more likely to be 
 read right through. Why will you not bring your 
 stone as well to the edifice which we are going to 
 build? "..." Because, sister, I do not feel myself cap- 
 able of writing anything which it would be worth 
 while to print, and it seems to me that to be able to 
 write for a newspaper one must require a great deal, 
 a very great deal of intellect and knowledge."..." My 
 dear child, you exaggerate ! Certainly it can do no 
 harm to have a great deal of intellect, but it is not 
 absolutely indispensable, and I know several well- 
 known journalists who never put any into their 
 articles for fear of using it all up ! However, you 
 must do as you please. When you see The Ear- 
 Piercer in everybody's hands, and hear its articles 
 praised, I am certain that you will wish to have your 
 
 H 
 
114 THE LADIES START . 
 
 prose or verse inserted."... "Are you going to put 
 poetry in as well? "..."We shall put anything and 
 everything in." 
 
 For three days the Independents seemed to be very 
 busy and hardly spoke to each other. The captain 
 was very much puzzled, for he scarcely saw the 
 ladies, even at meal times, and then, they were much 
 less talkative than usual ; at last he could stand it no 
 longer, and said to his niece : " What on earth are 
 you and your friends thinking about? You never 
 talk, you never laugh, you never quarrel with each 
 other, and your thoughts seem to be heaven knows 
 where. What has happened to you all ? It is not 
 natural when women do not talk. There must be 
 something extraordinary at the bottom of it."... 
 " Well, uncle, we are getting up a newspaper! "... 
 " Whatever for? Are there not enough of them al- 
 ready? "..."It is to be a newspaper to spread our 
 views and propagate our principles, and to enlighten 
 women who are still blind."..." But if you publish a 
 newspaper for blind women they will never read it." 
 ..."That was a figure of speech of mine, uncle; 
 when I said to enlighten the blind, I meant to say 
 to open their mind and intellect, "..."But suppose 
 anyone has none, what do you open for them then ?" 
 ..."We hope to enlarge their ideas and thoughts. 
 To-morrow each of your lady visitors will bring me 
 her article, and I shall arrange them and have The 
 Ear-Piercer printed at Nozon, as it will cost less 
 there than in Paris, and then Monsieur Fouillac 
 will undertake to find someone in Paris who will sell 
 it and distribute it everywhere.",.." What is to be 
 the name of your newspaper? "..." The Ear-Piercer." 
 ..."Do you intend to allow any premiums or bounty 
 to the sellers? "..."Oh ! no uncle, that has been so 
 generally done that it has become vulgar ! We shall 
 promise them, but we shall not giv© them ; that will 
 be much more ingenious. " 
 
A NEWSPAPER. 115 
 
 On the day fixed for the publication of their news- 
 paper the ladies went into the large room, which 
 they had chosen for their deliberations, at mid-day, 
 and Cezarine sat down at a large table covered with 
 writing materials. When they were all seated, she 
 rang the handbell which was on the table before her, 
 called for silence, and said : 
 
 " Madame Etoile, you were the first to propose a 
 newspaper, so it is for you to begin. Be kind 
 enough to read us your article."..." Oh ! I am in no 
 hurry," she replied; "you shall have the honour of 
 beginning, Madame Pantalon! "..."I do not see any 
 necessity for me to read you what I have written. 
 In the first place, it is very long, and then, even sup- 
 posing it did not altogether please you, I am deter- 
 mined not to alter anything in it, so that conse- 
 quently it will be quite enough for you to read it 
 when it is finished."... " Hear ! hear ! "..."And we 
 shall have the pleasure of the surprise."..." As Ma- 
 dame Etoile wishes to reserve herself for a bonne 
 louche" one of the young women said, " I will sacri- 
 fice myself. Here is what I have written . . 
 Oh! don't be alarmed, it is not long."... "But it 
 would be better if it were long ! Never mind, how- 
 ever ; only read it ! " 
 
 The youthful adept rose from her seat, cleared her 
 throat, and then read as follows from a sheet of 
 paper, which she held in her hand : — " I have a 
 friend of my childhood. I will not mention her 
 name, and simply call her Madame X. She is well 
 known in artistic and literary circles, is a beautiful 
 pianoforte player, but a terrible flirt, and makes 
 eyes at all the men. At present she is making 
 love to my husband; he is a monster, of whom I 
 ought not to be jealous, for he is not worth it, but 
 Madame X says everywhere that I have very bad 
 teeth, and that I have a number of false ones, which 
 is not true. I know things about her which make 
 
116 THE LADIES START A NEWSPAPER. 
 
 her a very unpleasant neighbour in society. If she 
 speaks about my teeth again, I declare that I will 
 mention all her disadvantages, and they would make 
 a tolerably long list ! . . " 
 
 " There ! "..." Do you intend to put stuff like that 
 into our newspaper ? " Cezarine asked...." Of course 
 I do ; I shall sign it, and my old friend will recog- 
 nise her own likeness very easily. "..."But what does 
 it matter to the public whether Madame X says you 
 have bad teeth or not, and that she has some little 
 secret infirmities ? Do you think that will interest 
 our readers V"..." Why, every day you may see in 
 the papers how the gentlemen who write the articles 
 quarrel with others whom we do not know ; it does 
 not interest me the least, but that is of no conse- 
 quence, there it is all the same."..." My dear, 
 Boileau says somewhere or other that, if we wish to 
 take people for our model, we should only imitate 
 their good side."..." It was not Boileau, but Moliere, 
 who said that ! "..."No matter whether it was 
 Boileau or Moliere ; we are going beyond the ques- 
 tion ! Your article has nothing whatever in common 
 with the object of our paper; but, never mind, I will 
 insert it. Now please, someone else." 
 
 Madame Dutonneau read a long article on the ad- 
 vantages stout women possess, and on the charms 
 which fatness lends to their whole person, and she 
 terminated with directions as to diet and mode of 
 life for people who wished to get stout, and tall 
 Olympiade followed her and read an article in which 
 she held up the advantages of a slim, slight figure, 
 and of an easy carriage, unimpeded by masses of fat, 
 which were always uncomfortable and ungraceful, 
 and which made those who were unfortunate enough 
 to be incumbered with a fat stomach look old before 
 their time. In fact, she tried to show that thinness 
 was much more pleasant for a woman than being: 
 
MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. 117 
 
 stout. She wound up by giving a recipe to prevent 
 people from getting obese. 
 
 After they had read their articles, the two autho- 
 resses looked CJ at each other like two china dogs, 
 and emotional Madame Vespace got up and said: 
 " Ladies, I have finished my novel, and it would 
 give me great pleasure if you would consent to hear 
 me read it."... "Certainly; we ask for nothing better. 
 It will not tire you too much? "..." On the con- 
 trary, it will give me the greatest delight, for I shall 
 see what impression it makes on you, and then I 
 shall hope to have your candid opinion on it. Do 
 not spare me, but be quite frank, and your valuable 
 advice will assist me ! "..."Read it, dear Madame 
 Vespace, and we will listen with the greatest atten- 
 tion and be very careful not to interrupt you. You 
 understand, ladies, that any interruption is forbid- 
 den? "..."We will adhere to the rule." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. 
 
 The new woman of letters unrolled her manu- 
 script, turned over the leaves, and examined it with 
 that love of an affectionate father who admires him- 
 self in his own child. By her side stood the tradi- 
 tional glass of sugar-water. Some people prefer a 
 glass of claret, and I even know one man who never 
 read without a bottle of champagne by his side, and 
 he applied himself to it so often that frequently one 
 
118 MADAME VESPACE'S NOVEL. 
 
 was not enough and lie asked for a second. He had 
 whatever he demanded, because he was very clever 
 and his works nearly always obtained^ reat success. 
 But, to return to Madame Vespace, who fancied 
 that she ought to make a little preface to it, and 
 said in a voice tremulous from emotion : 
 
 " Ladies, I must ask for your kind indulgence. I am 
 a mere beginner in the career of letters ; I have not 
 Madame Etiole's skill, but I only give way to my 
 inspiration. I only think it right to tell you before- 
 hand that my story is all heart, sentiment, and 
 passion."..." We shall see," Cezarine replied with a 
 smile; "calm your emotion, my dear Independent; 
 you are before your peers, and we are going to listen 
 to you read your novel, not to set ourselves up as 
 your judges, but because you wis! 1 it."..." Yes, yes, 
 I certainly wish it, and I shall carefully remember 
 your advice and your ideas. I shall be very happy 
 to profit by them. "..."How long is she going to be 
 over her preface ? " Madame Grassonillet said in a 
 low voice to one of her neighbours...." She wants to 
 prepare us for it thoroughly; it seems as if what she 
 is going to read ought to have a great effect upon 
 us !"..." We must take care then! "..."Ladies, I 
 am about to begin . The title is : - The Deceptions of 
 a Too Sensitive Heart, or the Fatal Eesults of 
 Jealousy, when that Passion is pushed to its utmost 
 limits.' ". . ." Bravo ! a splendid title," Madame Etoile 
 observed...." I think it is rather too long," Madame 
 Dutonneau said...." It will be all the more effective 
 on the cover of the book."... "The cover will never 
 hold it all, unless it is printed very small." 
 
 When the conversation was over, she looked round 
 her, and, instead of beginning to read, she began a 
 kind of preamble : " My heroine is a young princess, 
 who has been brought up by a kind peasant woman, 
 whose only fortune consists in a cow, who never 
 knew her parents . . "..."I beg your pardon, 
 
MADAME VESPiCE's NOVEL. 119 
 
 9 
 
 was it the princess or the cow who never knew her 
 parents ?"..." Really, Madame Flambart, how can 
 you ask me such a question ? It is quite clear that 
 it refers to the princess."... "Not at all; you have 
 jumbled it altogether, and I like to be clear about 
 the characters."..." My heroine's name is Acacia 
 Mower, and my hero's Blue Cornflower."..." Very 
 pretty ! Oh ! extremely pretty ! " ... " Charming 
 names !"..." Upon my word, people ought to give 
 their children such names in real life."..." Certainly 
 they ought ; it would be a hundred times nicer if, in- 
 stead of saying Mary, Adela, or Theodore, we could 
 say : ' Come and kiss me Acacia Flower ? Have you 
 learnt your lessons properly Blue Cornflower ? Have 
 you the stomach-ache, Rosebud ? ' and so on, and so 
 on."..." What a number of plants would become 
 personified !"..." We should want to have the whole 
 calendar altered."..." We will consider that later, 
 ladies. "..."Very well, but whilst on the chapter of 
 calendars, it would be as well to lengthen the 
 months; that is much more important."..." Olym- 
 piade is quite right ; a month of thirty days is not 
 enough."... "No, it should have forty at least."... 
 "Yes, at least, and then there ought to be fifteen 
 months in the year."..." I should say eighteen, for 
 don't you see, in that way we should not grow old 
 nearly so quickly !"..." Of course not, for a woman 
 who is thirty now would then only be twenty."... 
 " Of course she would, and that is one of the first 
 reforms which we must enter on our new Social 
 Code."..." A thousand pardons, dear Madame Ves- 
 pace, but the pretty names of your characters have 
 made us interrupt you. We will not speak again." 
 ..."We will try not to, at any rate."..." Go on, 
 pray."..." The villain of the tale is called Raoul Red- 
 beard."..." Would not oar old friend Bluebeard be 
 better? "..."Please do not be vexed, Madame Ves- 
 pace, we will not interrupt you again."..." Very well 
 
120 MADAME VESP ACE'S NOVEL. 
 
 then, ladies, I will begin: 'It is midnight, and 
 everything is sleeping in the virgin forest, which ex- 
 tends from the Alps to the foot of Mont Cenis . . " 
 ..." Excuse me, just a simple observation. I do not 
 think that the Alps extend as far as that."..." And 
 then, it is not a virgin forest ; the Alps have been 
 crossed for centuries, and one constantly meets tra- 
 vellers, and, occasionally, bears . . "..."Good 
 heavens, ladies, if you are going to catch me up for 
 such trifles, how can you expect my romance to have 
 any colour or poetry in it ? One says virgin forest 
 because it sounds well as a description. But I made 
 a mistake in my manuscript ; we are not in the Alps, 
 but in a thick forest in Hungary. The story begins 
 at the time of the famous Count Tekeli, who fought 
 against the troops of the Emperor of Austria. You 
 know that at the theatre now you must have music 
 if the piece is to be a success ; without it, it is impos- 
 sible. But if you have plenty of music, singing and 
 dancing, the most utter nonsense will go down. You 
 may take the most incongruous subjects — mix up 
 princesses and bakers' boys, personages of the period 
 of Louis XIII. with Wllet girls, introduce a love 
 scene between Aspasia and the Duke of Eichelieu, 
 and put Francis I. at the feet of Sophie Arnould, it 
 will pass muster, as long as the people dance, shout, 
 and skip about, and especially if the final chorus 
 finishes in a cancan . . "..."Such a mad, dis- 
 orderly dance always fetches the public ! You can 
 have no idea how such a dance pleases them, throws 
 them into an ecstacy of delight, and makes them 
 wriggle about it in the stalls and pit, and, some day 
 or other, they will invade the stage on a first-night 
 performance and mingle with the actors and actresses 
 in a wild Bacchanalian dance. That will indeed be 
 a fine day for dramatic art, and men of letters are 
 waiting for it impatiently."..." Have you finished, 
 Madame Etoile ? "..."Certainly I have finished, if 
 
BEADING THE NOVEL — CONTINUED. 121 
 
 you do not wish me to go on, though I have still a 
 great deal to say about the change which is taking 
 place in the theatre, and I am contemplating writing 
 a book on it, which I shall call: 'The Influence of 
 Pipes, Beer, Absinthe, and Music Halls, on Theatre- 
 goers.' And, besides . . "..."Are we going to 
 hear Madame VespaGe's novel ? " 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 THE READING OP MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL 
 CONTINUED, WITHOUT INTERRUPTION. 
 
 Little Madame Vespace, after drinking a glass of 
 sugar-water whilst Madame Etoile was finishing her 
 peroration, took up her manuscript again : 
 
 " ' Everything was sleeping in the virgin forest 
 which extends from the Alps ' — no, I mean to say ' in 
 Hungary . . ' On thinking it over, I fancied it 
 would be better to put 'very dense forest in Bo- 
 hemia.' "..."Which is not at all the same thing," 
 someone remarked in a loud voice...." Go on — what 
 does it matter about the country as long as the forest 
 is very thick."..." Please listen to my description: 
 * There were trees many centuries old, whose firmly 
 interlaced branches formed a canopy through which 
 the sun's rays could not penetrate, and these vigorous 
 trees grew here and there so closely together that it 
 was impossible to avoid knocking one's nose, or some 
 other part of one's person against them. The ground 
 was covered with moss, with ivy, and with dead 
 
122 READING THE NOVEL CONTINUED, 
 
 lep^es, which formed a natural carpet, and when the 
 wind whistled through the branches of these half* 
 dead trees . . "..." I beg your pardon, fair lad y, 
 but just now you said that they were vigorous, and 
 so they cannot possibly be half dead."..." Really, I 
 think that in a dense forest there can very easily be 
 dead trees amongst the vigorous ones."... "Madame 
 Vespace is perfectly right ; it is the same in every- 
 day life, where we find healthy, sick, half -dead, and 
 dead people in close proximity."..." But allow me, 
 Madame Pan talon ; in society we certainly are occa- 
 sionally brought into contact with people who are 
 not well, but 1 do not remember ever playing whist, 
 cribbage, or lawn tennis with anyone who was no 
 longer in existence ! "..."Well, but what is playing 
 whist with a dummy but playing with a dead man ? " 
 ..."Well, 1 almost think it is more interesting than 
 playing with four real players."..." Do you think 
 so ?"..." I once played whist with a Scotchman, a 
 Highlander, who was supposed to be a first-rate 
 player . . "..."Did he wear his national dress?"... 
 "I did not notice."..." Well, the Highland national 
 costume is peculiar enough to be noticed."... " Oh ! 
 yes, of course he wore it, for I remember that just 
 before we sat down at the card table he stooped to 
 
 pick up a pin, and well really, he shocked me 
 
 terribly, and I remember that he tried to cheat and 
 was kicked out of the room."... "Come ladies, it is 
 time to return to that dense forest which Madame 
 Vespace was so eloquently describing to us."..." Oh ! 
 yes ; pray Madame Yespace go on reading your de- 
 lightful novel, which we are all so enchanted with." 
 ..."They are enchanted with it, and don't even 
 listen to it," Cezarine said in a low voice to her 
 neighbour. "Luckily, poor little Madame Yespace 
 has any amount of patience; were I in her place, I 
 should have put my manuscript back in my pocket." 
 However, she went on : " When the wind whistled 
 
READING THE NOVEL CONTINUED. 123 
 
 through the branches of these half-dead trees, it 
 made them creak, and overturned the tallest poplars 
 and tore them up by the roots. That was the mo- 
 ment when the sullen and cruel Eufus Butcher chose 
 for sallying forth. That nobleman was of gigantic 
 height, standing nearly six feet seven inches in his 
 boots." 
 
 " Perhaps he had very thick soles and extra- 
 ordinary high heels?" 
 
 But she went on, without heeding the interrup- 
 tion : " Nearly six feet seven inches in his boots ; he 
 was terribly thin, and his hollow and livid cheeks, 
 his bald and shining head, and his teeth, which were 
 long and sharp like a wild boar's, gave him a per- 
 fectly repulsive look. His long, thin nose, was very 
 like a spear-head, whilst his turned-up chin threa- 
 tened to meet it ; his mouth was a perfect abyss, and, 
 when he opened it, it stretched up to his ears, and 
 his yellow eyes put the finishing touch to his hideous 
 face. After taking a few paces through the forest, 
 he suddenly stopped and said in a h olio w voice : 'The 
 disorder in nature agrees exactly with the state of 
 my heart ! * Then, putting his hand to his fore- 
 head, as if a sudden idea had struck him, he walked 
 on again, pushing aside everything that might im- 
 pede his progress with his long sword, till at last he 
 arrived at the mouth of a cave, which he hastily 
 entered. It was an enormous cavern formed by 
 rocks, or rather, perhaps, it was the result of an 
 earthquake, of some terrible cataclysm which, when 
 it upset that part of the globe, had thrown every- 
 thing topsy-turvy. £?> in the interstices of the 
 rocks, which were the roof of the dark spot, flowers 
 were growing, some with green leaves, and again 
 others with small and withered foliage. But who 
 would believe it 9 Amongst the shattered rocks, in 
 corners where the sun could never penetrate, 
 rhododendrons, heather, mimosas, crocuses, violets. 
 
124 CONTINUATION OP 
 
 narassus, primroses, and laurels were growing " 
 
 " Good heavens, Madame Vespace, have you been 
 going in for a course of botany ?"..." No, but I 
 read this in an old book, and I said to mys'elf : ' It 
 seems to me that this will do very well for my cave,' 
 and so I made use of it ; there is nothing wrong in 
 that, I presume?"..." Excuse me, my dear madame, 
 it is not only perfectly allowable to make use of any- 
 thing that we may find in old books, but there are 
 some authors who call themselves men of letters who 
 do not the least hesitate to borrow from their living 
 fellow- writers without the slightest acknowledge- 
 ment of the source from which they have derived 
 their inspiration."..." Please go on with your most 
 interesting story, and we will certainly not inter- 
 rupt you again. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL, 
 
 * As soon as he had got into the cave, which was 
 carpetted with a number of plants, whose names I 
 cannot, at this moment, remember, Rufus Butcher 
 looked around him for some time, >nd then directed 
 his steps towards an opening which he perceived at 
 the other end and which led into another more 
 spacious cave, in which everything was dark, cold, 
 and lugubrious, and which, far from being covered 
 with verdure, served as a retreat for owls, bats, and 
 enormous sliders." 
 
MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. 125 
 
 « 
 
 I wonder how long she will be before she gets 
 out of her cave?" Amandine said in a whisper; 
 " my legs are beginning to get stiff."..." It is all I 
 can do not to yawn, and really she is giving us too 
 much of the horrid place."..." Silence there ! " Ceza- 
 rine said. "What are you whispering about ?"... 
 " She was saying to me that she had seen a grotto 
 at Ermenouville, near Jean Jacques Rousseau's 
 Hermitage, but that it was not the least like the 
 one which Madame Vespace is describing."... " Oh ! 
 Have you really been to Ermenouville ? Is it not a 
 delightful, a ravishing spot? Jean Jacques Rous- 
 seau knew how to chose his retreat."..." That is 
 true, but what surprises me is that he should have 
 committed suicide in such a place! "..." What are 
 you talking about ? Jean Jacques Rosseau did not 
 
 kill himself; he died of apoplexy ". . ." I beg your 
 
 pardon ; that great philosopher was apparently not 
 philosopher enough to be able to support a misfor- 
 tune which so many husbands accept without a mur- 
 mur. When Rousseau had acquired the proofs that 
 Therese, the woman whom he had raised to his own 
 level, was deceiving him for a — I dare not say what 
 — well this child of nature, who, above all others, 
 ought to have closed his eyes to human frailties, 
 could not bear the idea of being — well, you all know 
 what I mean, and so he blew his brains out in that 
 cottage where he lived, and which is still to be seen 
 not far from The Isle of Poplars, where now his 
 tomb is. At any rate, this is what someone told me, 
 who seemed quite certain of his theory."..." Really, 
 I cannot accept your version of the story; I cannot 
 believe that the man who wrote such admirable 
 works ended his career so badly ; p he was constantly 
 surrounded by enemies who, he thought, aimed at 
 his life, so he fled from the world and hid himself 
 from the sight of all men. But that is very far 
 from being jealois of one's wife, or from committing 
 
126 CONTINUATION OF 
 
 suicide because your better half has — deceived you. 
 Rousseau must, if that were the case, have totally 
 forgotten that Ccesar, Pompey, Lucullus, Antony, 
 Cato, and so many other great men were — the same 
 thing, and knew it perfectly well, and yet did not 
 make any fuss on that account ! There was only 
 Lepidus who died of despair through it, and, 
 honestly, I do not think that Jean Jacques would 
 wish to be like Lepidus." 
 
 All the Independents applauded loudly, and said : 
 " Hurrah for Madame Pantalon ! " The latter made 
 use of the interruption to attack her second glass of 
 sugar-water. " Excuse me, my dear lady," Cezarine 
 said, "the recollection of Jean Jacques has made 
 us forget you for a moment, but I know you will ex- 
 cuse ns ; there are so few great men in these days 
 that we must go back to those who are no longer 
 living."..." I think I was in the second cave ? "... 
 " No, no, you had out of that.". . ." Well then, I was 
 at the moment when my charming shepherd Blue 
 Cornflower had, in turn, arrived at the forest."... 
 "Yes, we want to hear about him."..." So he is a 
 shepherd P" ..." Yes, a shepherd something like 
 Apollo, when he tended the sheep of Adonetus, King 
 of Thessally . . "..."On Mount Hymettus?"... 
 "No, on Mount Ida."... "I beg your pardon, it was 
 on Mount Hymettus . . "..."You are certainly 
 wrong; Mount Hymettus is a mountain of Attica, 
 and which was celebrated for the excellence of its 
 honey."..." But nobody ever kept sheep on Mount 
 Ida."..." Whatever does it matter whether Apollo 
 used to take his walks on Mount Ida or Mount Hy- 
 mettus? If it pleases you, we can say that that 
 seductive god fed the flocks of Adonetus at Mont- 
 mar a*e, if it will be of any use to your novel, and so 
 doi/t let us say any more about Apollo. "..."Tell us 
 about Blue Cornflower."..." He is a handsome young 
 man of twenty-fiv^, and wears very short buffalo- 
 
MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. 127 
 
 skin breeches, which leave his knees uncovered."... 
 "Like bathing drawers, in fact ? "..."Exactly so. 
 He wears a sheepskin mantle, which hides the 
 crosses and the foreign orders with which his breast 
 is covered."..." What ! do you mean to say that your 
 shepherd is decorated ?"..." He is not a real shep- 
 herd ; his cloak, which he wears simply fastened over 
 his left shoulder, is the skin of a tiger which he has 
 killed."... "I say! Your shepherd seems to be 
 covered with skins !"..." I suppose he also wears 
 rabbit-skin gloves? "..."No, he has no gloves of any 
 sort, but a magnificent dagger, with a real Toledo 
 blade, He has a splendid figure, whilst his face is 
 as noble as it is attractive; his open lips disclose 
 forty teeth, which are so white and regular that 
 one might think they were made of procelain."... 
 " Forty teeth ! But no one has as many as that 
 generally. I always thought that thirty-two was 
 the maximum! "..."Really I should have thought 
 that a writer might give his hero a few teeth more 
 than any ordinary individual has ?"..." Certainly ; I 
 only made a simple remark."..." Cornflower's hair is 
 as black as jet, and he wears a pig-tail, so as to 
 bring them into fashion again, and he has a noble 
 forehead, and his nose is slightly snub. . . "... 
 " What a mistake, madame ! Please alter that . . " 
 ..."What do you mean? "..."Don't give the lover a 
 snub nose. It is quite impossible ; for, in the first 
 place, a snub nose in a man cannot possibly inspire 
 love, passion, or any sentimental feeling ! A snub 
 nose has semething so funny in it that it makes you 
 irresistibly inclined to laugh, but it cannot possibly 
 make you sigh. Impassioned and inspired men al- 
 ways have straight, Grecian looses; aquiline noses 
 may, possibly, also share such feelings, but those 
 who possess them are more given to reflexion, to 
 meditation, perhaps cunning, and we ought rarely 
 to trust their words."... "It appears to me that you 
 
128 CONTINUATION OF 
 
 have made a very careful study of noses."..." Well, 
 in fact, when I see a man with a very broad or 
 tumed-up nose, I always think of Rabelais' explana- 
 tion of that particular bodily organ ."..." Do you 
 mean to say that you have read Rabelais? I al- 
 ways thought that he was an author whom no lady 
 ought to read ! "..."An error, my dear; a mistake 
 altogether !"..." Well, what does Rabelais say on 
 the subject of snub noses? "..."He says that the 
 wet nurse of the man who has a nose, must have 
 been a stout wench, with a firm and solid breast, 
 which interfered with the infant's nose and pushed 
 it upwards, whilst long, straight noses drew their 
 nourishment for soft and gentle bosoms."..." A de- 
 finition which is well worthy of Rabelais ! "..."How- 
 ever, as you do not seem to like it, I will change 
 Blue Cornflower's nose, and give him an aquiline 
 one."... "No doubt your novel will gain a hundred 
 per cent, in its interest by such a change ! " 
 
 " Blue Cornflower directed his steps towards the 
 cave, but before entering he waits for some time to 
 look round him ; at last, however, he penetrates into 
 that mysterious place where he hopes to find her for 
 whom he would gladly lay down his life, the young 
 and lovely Acacia Flower, but she is not there ; fierce 
 Maneatem, who is concealed in the second cave, can, 
 therefore, watch everything that his rival is doing 
 quite at his ease. I do not think that I have told 
 you before that this felon lord is also in love with 
 Acacia Flower, and consequently is Blue Cornflower's 
 rival, against whom he had vowed eternal hatred, 
 but I presume that you have guessed it. Soon the 
 gentle, harmonious sounds of the tabor are heard ; it 
 is Acacia Flower coming, singing and dancing. She 
 penetrates into the grotto, and scarcely is she there 
 than Cornflower is at her knees, looking at her with 
 adoring glances. She certainly is worth looking at, 
 for she is slight, supple and light, and a ring of a 
 
MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. ±29 
 
 window curtain would have spanned her wrist. She 
 has dark blue eyes, her hair is like silk, and her 
 mouth is so small that she can scarcely put her 
 little finger into it ! " 
 
 " Then how, in the name of goodness, could she 
 ever put a fork in ?"..." Your question is far too 
 material ; do you think that the heroine of romance 
 ought to be the subject of such details? Should 
 she have need of a fork ? Does she live like all the 
 rest of the world, or ever think about eating ? But 
 to resume, Cornflower is at the girl's knees and tells 
 her that he loves her, and swears that he will never 
 change, and Acacia Mower is softened. But Man- 
 eatem, who has seen it all from the spot where he is 
 hidden, takes a six-shooter out of his pocket, and 
 fires four shots at Blue Cornflower, who had fallen 
 to the ground at the first."..." Oh! what a misfor- 
 tune ! Blue Cornflower is really killed ! What a 
 sad ending! "..." But wait a moment, ladies, pray 
 wait ; it is not finished yet! Acacia Flower falls 
 fainting on her lover's body ; Maneatem runs and 
 picks her up, takes her in his arms and carries her 
 out of the cave, regains his horse and starts off at 
 full gallop. On arriving at his castle, he orders his 
 servants to prepare a feast and entrusts Acacia 
 Flower to an old female servant, who sprinkles her 
 with lavender water, whereupon she recovers her 
 senses and exclaims : ( Kill me ! ' The old woman, 
 however, replies : ' No, I shall do nothing of the 
 sort, but I will give you a nice omelette and some 
 bacon, and that is the best I can provide for that 
 feast which his lordship has ordered, but to-morrow 
 I will give you a nice stew.' I need not tell you 
 that Acacia Flower refuses to take anything, and the 
 next day Maneatem comes to see her, and says : ' I 
 will allow you three days to consent to marry me.* 
 The girl replies : * If you were to give me three 
 years it would be just the same, for I should refuse 
 
 i 
 
130 CONTINUATION OP 
 
 jou. 9 * That does not matter the least ; I am derter- 
 mined to give you three days.' At the end of the 
 i:hree days, Maneatein, who meanwhile has had him- 
 self a splendid suit of clothes made, which sparkle 
 with imitation jewels, comes back to Acacia Flower 
 and says to her: 'Be kind enough to follow me to 
 the chapel.' 'What for?' w To become my wife.' 
 * But I don't choose to.' * You must come, all the 
 same ; perhaps you will change your mind on the 
 way ; such things have happened before now. More 
 than one girl who has consented to get married has 
 said No instead of Yes when she has got before the 
 .Mayor. — [In France every little village has its Maire, 
 before whom the civil marriage, which is compulsory, 
 takes place. Any religious ceremony is only supple- 
 mentary and not obligatory.] — Why should you do 
 just the contrary ? With women one is never sure 
 of anything.' They start for the chapel, but just as 
 they are going, a man wearing a mask throws him- 
 self in front of Maneatem, treads on his toes, and 
 says fco him : ' 1 have trodden on your toes ; if you 
 are not a coward, you will demand an explanation, 
 and we will then go and fight to the death.' Man- 
 eatem replies : ' I am not a coward, but I only fight 
 with men who have no relish for such amusement. 
 You particularly want to fight, and, therefore, I shall 
 .not fight with you, but I mean to have you thrown 
 into the lowest depths of my dungeons ; before doing 
 that, however, I mean to know who you are ! ' He 
 "tears the mask from the face of the stranger and 
 
 .recognises Blue Cornflower " 
 
 "But he had been killed in the cave ! "..."Most 
 'likely he had not been killed outright. 'Acacia 
 Flower utters an exclamation of joy, Maneatem a 
 roar of rage, and Blue Cornflower a cry of rapture. 
 He takes Acacia Flower into his arms and disa pears 
 with her down a long gallery, which has a door at 
 ^the further end. This he opens, and sees a long, 
 
MADAME VESPACE's NOVEL. 131 
 
 dark and narrow corridor before him, which he enters 
 without a moment's hesitation ; it ends in a ladder 
 which he descends, and finds that it has seventy-two* 
 steps." 
 
 "Is he holding his mistress in his arms all the 
 time ?"..." Of course he is.". . ." He must be uncom- 
 monly strong, and even then she must be terribly in 
 Ais way." 
 
 " At the foot of the ladder, he came upon another 
 door, which he opened."..." So the key was in the 
 dooi ? "..."Good heavens! one does not pay any 
 attention to such details in a romance ! He opens* 
 that door and preceives another ladder, which he has 
 to mount this time."... "Poor fellow! Why a man? 
 from the mountains of Auvergne could not endure- 
 it."..." He mounts eighty rungs, and then the fresh 
 air blows on to his face, and he finds himself on 
 the bank of a river; a boat is moored close by, and,, 
 luckily, the oars have been left in it, so they jump 
 in and soon arrive at a deserted shore, where they 
 landed. Blue Cornflower, intoxicated with love, is, 
 about to throw himself at the feet of his mistress,, 
 when Maneatem leaps out from behind a gooseberry 
 bush, draws his long sword, and passes it through 
 the body of his rival '"..." Oh! so Blue Corn- 
 flower is really dead at last! What a pity!"... 
 " Wait a moment ! Eaoul Redbeard de Maneatem 
 again carries oif Acacia Flower, but this time, in- 
 stead of taking her to the chapel in his castle, he 
 determines to marry her in Italy, on the top of 
 Mount Vesuvius."..." What an extraordinary idea I 
 On the top of Mount Vesuvius ? How can anyone 
 get married there? "..."One can do whatever one 
 pleases. One of our gifted writers of romance tells* 
 us that he dined on the grass there, whilst the burn- 
 ing lava flowed a few yaids from him."..." Well 
 then, Maneatem arrives at the top of Vesuvius with 
 Acacia Flower, and, with a refinement of cruelty, he- 
 
132 CONTINUATION <^F THE NOVEL. 
 
 insists upon her being adorned like a bride. They 
 ascend the mountain, but when they arrive at the 
 mouth of the crater they meet a pilgrim, whose 
 face is entirely hidden by an enormous beard. He 
 stops in front of Maneatem, treads on his toes again, 
 and said to him : ' Will you fight now ? * And then 
 he takes off his beard, and displays the features of 
 
 Blue Cornflower "..«" So he has not been killed, 
 
 after all? "..."Not by any means. When he sees 
 him, the traitor Maneatem trembled, and feels in 
 his girdle for a weapon of some sort or another, but 
 Oornflower does not give him any time, for he seizes 
 him, and, raising him up in his arms, he hurls him 
 into the smoking mouth of the volcano." 
 
 Madame Vespace had finished reading her ro- 
 mance, which all the ladies applauded and praised 
 loudly, whilst they said to each other : " What a 
 mercy it is finished ! "..."But there is to be a con- 
 tinuation," Zenolia said; "this is only the first 
 part." ... "A continuation I " Cezarine exclaimed; 
 " but it seems to me that that will be rather diffi- 
 cult; surely your romance is quite finished, since 
 you have hurled the traitor into the crater of Ve- 
 suvius."..."! beg your pardon, for it is quite pos- 
 sible for an eruption to cast Maneatem out on to the 
 earth again, and then he could attack the two lovers 
 afresh."..." Ah! I never thought of that; that is 
 certainly very ingenious." 
 
A CHALLENGE. } ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XV [I. 
 
 A CHALLENGE* 
 
 After Madame Vespace's long story, Madame 
 
 Boulard read her article on the progress made in 
 
 the manner of dressing ladies' hair ; she laid great 
 
 stress on the advantages of wearing a large amount 
 
 of false hair, as it was an excellent protective against 
 
 many dangers. The authoress declared that she had 
 
 seen a lady whilst walking in the streets struck by 
 
 a falling chimney pot, which had not injured her, 
 
 thanks to the way in which her hair was dressed. 
 
 Madame Grassonillet had written an article on 
 
 the fashions, in which she asserted that the small 
 
 bonnets which ladies wore were too large. She said 
 
 ~that women would never have becoming head-gear 
 
 until they could put their bonnets into the front of 
 
 their dresses, where they might also keep others to 
 
 change. By this means, bonnets would perform a 
 
 double duty, for when they wished to go bareheaded 
 
 they could leave them in the inside of their dresses, 
 
 where they would also be useful, especially to those 
 
 who had very thin figures. 
 
 Then they listened to articles, on music, sino-ino^ 
 and painting ; Widow Flambart disserted on fish and 
 fishing, and said she would write about all of them, 
 from the gudgeon to the whale. But Cezarine 
 stopped her at the lobster, and said to her : " It is & 
 very good article, no doubt, but we do not care to 
 hear about the others. ,, Then one young woman ex- 
 claimed : " I intend to write a book. I do not jt -.t. . 
 know what the subject will be, or what I shall call 
 it, whether it will be sad or joyous, historical or 
 merely drawn from my own imagination, but than 
 will not matter to me as long as it is spoken about;, 
 
134 A CHALLENGE. 
 
 and if the newspapers announce its appearance be- 
 forehand, so that -nobody may steal my ideas.".., 
 " It will be announced when yon yonrself know 
 what you wish to write about; and now, Madame 
 Etoile, everybody has told us what their share of" 
 work in our paper is to be, except our young friend, 
 who does not know what she is going to write about r 
 so it is your turn and we are impatient to hear 
 you." 
 
 Paolina took a manuscript out of her travelling- 
 bag, opened it, settled herself, and said: "Ladies, I 
 have thought of our newspaper, and in consequence- 
 I have written for it ; like you, I might have treated 
 a number of other subjects, and there are some 
 which I should have liked very much to handle, but 
 then I should have been obliged to deviate from the 
 objects of our association, and so I have sacrificed 
 my tastes to my duty !"..." What a long prologue ! 9T 
 ..."What a preface ! "..."When will she have 
 finished? " they said to each other. At last, how- 
 ever, the tenth Muse took her manuscript and read 
 as follows : " For a long time the want of a lemon — 
 no, I have made a stupid mistake. I will begin- 
 again : ' For a long time the want of a lemon- 
 coloured newspaper has made itself felt in the liter- 
 ary world, and e\ery lady to whom we offer this 
 new publication will rejoice, as that void is now 
 about to be filled up. This yellow-coloured news- 
 paper, which you have wished for so long, that 
 lemon ! here it is ! Have it always near you, on* 
 your writing table and by your bedside; and you 
 will not regret it if you take it with you when you 
 go to the theatre, Let the yellow wrapper be seen 
 everywhere, let its brilliant colour strike all eyes, so- 
 that people may say to each other when they meet: 
 ' Do you subscribe to the yellow newspaper ? If not,, 
 take in The Ear-Piercer immediately; that is the 
 
A CHALLENGE. 135 
 
 newspaper with the yellow cover, that is the lemon, 
 
 -which — which " 
 
 Madame Etoile stopped, for roars of laughter 
 interrupted her reading; Madame Grassonillet had 
 ^iven the start to this outburst of hilarity. The 
 tenth Mnse laid down her manuscript, and gave 
 pretty Amandine a look which was anything but 
 friendly and said to her : " May I ask, madame, 
 what has occasioned this hilarity, which, to say the 
 least of it, is very much out of place? "..."Why ! 
 It is your lemons. Honestly, they occur so often in 
 jour article that it tickled my fancy. It might 
 have given me an hysterical attack, so I preferred to 
 laugh.". . ." I can quite understand your being vexed 
 when you hear anything sensible or serious read, 
 anything which contains only the merest common 
 -sense. I did not laugh whilst you were reading 
 your article on those little bonnets which you wish 
 to stick into the front of your dress, but I was sorry 
 for you !"..." I am grieved that my article should 
 liave caused you such feelings, but certainly you, 
 more than anyone else, ought to be delighted to have 
 something to put into the bosom of your dress! "... 
 "Madame, you are impertinent !"..." It is you, 
 madame, who have insulted me by telling me that I 
 have no common sense !"..." Well then, I will re- 
 peat it. You are good for nothing but to talk non- 
 sense."..." Even that is better than to bore every- 
 body with pretensious phrases and would-be pathos! " 
 ..." Would-be pathos ! — pathos ! That is too much 
 and you shall give me satisfaction for the insult."... 
 " You are most wearying ; it is really quite over- 
 whelming !"..." Ladies, ladies, pray be calm . . " 
 ..."No, no, this cannot go so; I demand repara- 
 tion ! "..."You certainly stand greatly in need of 
 being repaired."..." Hold your tongue, you sparrow! " 
 ..." You are not a sparrow, you are a magpie, and 
 -Ah at is a great deal worse! "..."Oh! what a horrid 
 
136 A CHALLENGE. 
 
 thing you are ! You shall give me satisfaction." 
 
 Madame Pantalon got up and stood between the 
 two antagonists, who were beginning to get rather 
 too close to each other, and said to them in a severe 
 voice : " No insults, if you please ladies ; this is not 
 the manner in which well-bred people and coura- 
 geous women ought to settle their quarrels. As we 
 wish to show that we are as good as men, let us 
 prove it by fighting duels like they do. Paolina and 
 Amandine, choose your seconds, and they will agree 
 on the conditions of the combat and the choice of 
 weapons, and to-morrow morning, at eight o'clock, 
 you shall meet in the plantation at the bottom of 
 the garden. I declare this meeting adjourned." 
 
 Cezarine's words quickly calmed the anger of the 
 two heroines. Madame Glrassonillet, however, made 
 a sign to Madame Vespace and Madame Boulard to 
 follow her, whilst Madame Etoile went off with 
 Widow Mambart and Madame Dutonneau. " Do 
 you really want to fight ? " Zenolia asked Amandine, 
 whilst Madame Boulard made sure that her chignon 
 had not got out of its place...." Well, I am not 
 absolutely bent upon it ! " the pretty woman an- 
 swered, " but if I am compelled to, I tell you imme- 
 diately I will only fight with pistols at fifty yards, 
 and I mem to have first shot."..." But suppose your 
 opponent chooses swords? "..."That is all the same 
 to me ! Let her take a sword if she prefers it. I 
 have told you my conditions, and I am not going to 
 alter them ; I will have a pistol — no, a revolver, a 
 six-shooter, and I will fire all my six shots first, and 
 then it will be her turn." 
 
 Whilst they were disputing in one room, Madame 
 Flambart was saying to Paolina in another : " What 
 weapon are you going to choose ?"..." The sword ; I 
 will not fight with anything else, for it is the weapon 
 of a gentleman, and, if the lance were still in vogue, 
 I would use that,".. ." But if your opponent wants to 
 
AN INVALID. — A MILITARY PROMENADE. 137 
 
 fight with pistols? "..." She has not the choice of 
 
 weapons! I was insulted first "..."But still if 
 
 ? ". . ." I repeat that I will only fight with sword 
 
 or lance, and I will not go from that; of course, if 
 she will apologise to me I will accept her apologies. 
 Let soldiers fight with swords, that is very well as it 
 is their profession ; let traders fight i with sticks, 
 hairdressers with combs, and coachmen with whips ; 
 that is just as it should be. Let cats fight with 
 their claws, that is their nature, but writers ought 
 only to fight with their pen. Let everybody stick 
 to his own profession. " 
 
 The seconds met together, and, as they could not 
 possibly agree on the terms of the duel, they went 
 to Madame Pantalon and asked her to help them out 
 of the difficulty. Cezarine, after hearing both sides, 
 said to them : " I do not think that these ladies are 
 at all anxious to fight, so just go and tell both of 
 them that the other one has acknowledged that she 
 is in the wrong and that the matter is settled." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 AN INVALID. A MILITARY PROMENADE. 
 
 Fotjillac helped Cezarine to arrange the literary 
 articles which were to compose the paper which the 
 ladies were going to launch on to the public. Ma- 
 dame Pantalon's article alone took up half of The 
 Ear-Piercer, and ought to assure its success, at any 
 rate, the captain's niece thought so, and Fouillac 
 *quite agreed with her. He also undertook to have 
 
138 AN INVALID. 
 
 the paper printed at Nozon, and promised to go to* 
 Paris to advertise the forthcoming appearance of 
 The Ear-Piercer, a yellow newspaper, edited by ladies 
 who wished to enlighten their fellow-citizenesses. 
 At the same time, however, he informed these 
 literary ladies that all this would cost a good deal of 
 money, because advertising was very expensive,, 
 especially when done in the style of some of the 
 large shops, whose proprietors frequently want 
 nearly a page of large type all to themselves. 
 
 " Of course, we want good advertisements," Ceza- 
 rine said. " It does not matter if they do cost a 
 great deal of money, as we must have publicity, and 
 that will bring us in subscribers. It is money well 
 laid out, and we shall get good returns for it ; my 
 cash box is at your disposal."..." And though I am: 
 not as rich as Madame Pantalon," Madame Flambart 
 said, " yet I have a few bank notes at the news- 
 paper's disposal.". . ." And you ladies ? ". . .The other 
 Independents, however, declared that they were 
 very short of funds just at that moment, and Ma- 
 dame Grassonillet remarked : " Well, as there are 
 sure to be such large profits, they can deduct our" 
 share towards the advertisements out of them and 
 give them towards the preliminary expenses." 
 
 Fouillae went to Paris, well provided with bank: 
 notes, so as to settle the important business and set 
 it going well in Paris. Madame Pantalon begged 
 her assistants to begin to think seriously about their 
 second number, whilst their agent — for to them 
 Monsieur Fouillae was nothing more — was engaged 
 in getting rid of the first. But meanwhile Frederick, 
 after the affair of the mason's work, had tried to 
 find something else so as to give Madame Pantalon- 
 something to do, for he had not come to Bretiguy ite 
 order to remain idle, and so one morning, while they 
 were all at breakfast, Nan on came in and told the 
 captain's niece that a man wanted to speak to her^ 
 
▲ MILITARY PROMENADE. 139 
 
 *"A man?" Cezarine said, "and what sort of a 
 gnan ?"..." Well, madame, I suppose he is of the 
 same sort as the rest of them are."..." But is he one 
 of the villagers and a peasant? "..."He does not be- 
 long to the village, or I should have known him, and 
 lie is neither exactly a peasant nor a gentleman."... 
 "** If he has come for a mason or a carpenter, send 
 Tiim about his business ; we will have nothing to do 
 with that kind of work."..." Oh ! no, madame, he 
 -does not want a workman, but he is holding his 
 stomach.". . ." Holding his stomach ?"..." Yes, whilst 
 he was talking to me I could see that he was holding 
 Iris stomach."..." But what has that got to do with 
 31s ?"..." Why, he wants to see the medical man."... 
 uj " Oh ! so he is ill and has come to consult the doctor ; 
 you ought to have told us that immediately, but 
 take him into our meeting room and I will be with 
 Jiim in a moment."..." Are you going to undertake 
 to cure people who are ill? " Monsieur de Vabeau- 
 rpont asked his niece.... "Why not, uncle? I have 
 studied herbs and simples, I have read many medical 
 books, and I am certain that I shall manage as well 
 .as any doctor. If any of you ladies have any know- 
 ledge of the healing art you can come with me, and 
 then that will be a regular and formal consulta- 
 tion."..."! am a very good sick-nurse," Widow 
 Flambart said.... "I cured one of my servants of a 
 violent cold," Olympiade observed, whilst Madame 
 Dutonneau remarked that she had saved her dog's 
 life when he was very weak...." Very well then, 
 ladies, come with me; you shall examine the man 
 -who is ill, and each of you shall give her opinion, 
 ,and amongst us all we must certainly be able to 
 effect a cure." 
 
 The three ladies followed Cezarine, though the 
 -others did not seem at all curious to see the gentle- 
 man who was holding his stomach. He was a man 
 of about forty, with a huge mouth, long red hair 
 
140 AN IN VALID. 
 
 reaching to his shoulders and almost covering his 
 eyes, so that the whole effect was by no means at- 
 tractive; if yon add to that a very pronounced 
 Picardy accent you will have a tolerably correct re- 
 presentation of the man, who, as soon as he saw the 
 ladies, took off his great straw hat and bowed al- 
 most down to the ground, holding his stomach, how- 
 ever, all the time. 
 
 " Do you belong to this place ? " Cezarine asked, 
 as soon as she and her friends had sat down.. . ." Yes, 
 madame ; that is to say, I do and I do not. I used 
 to live at Br&fciguy formerly, but I left it and have 
 not been here for eight years ; now, however, I have 
 come back to settle here, and I am lodging with my 
 friend, Daddy Matois, and, when I told him that my 
 health was in a bad state, he said to me : ' Just go 
 and consult the ladies at the chateau, they know 
 all about medicine and will cure you gratis — in 
 other words, it will cost you nothing.' That argu- 
 ment settled the matter, and so here I am — — "... 
 " You were quite right. Well, what is the matter 
 with you? "..."I have several ailments, more than 
 I want, I assure you."..." Well, where do you suffer 
 most? "..."Why, in my — belly. I have had*— I beg 
 your pardon for mentioning it — sucb an explosion 
 of bile that it has kept me on the constant trot for a 
 whole week without stopping, and I have grown so 
 thin that it is quite terrible. I used to have such 
 splendid calves, and now hardly a bit left; would 
 you like to see them? "..."No, it is hardly worth 
 while ; well, what next ?"..." Sometimes my stomach 
 is so swollen that it becomes like a drum— but it is 
 
 nothing but wind and goes off "...Here Olym- 
 
 piade thought she had better go off also, and left 
 the room. . . ." Is that all ?"..." Ob ! no, madame ; I 
 have three decayed teeth, and they hurt me terribly, 
 I have had a swollen face, and then they smell very 
 badly ; would vou like to iudge for yourself,. 
 
A MILITARY PROMENADE. 141 
 
 madame? "..."No! no! certainly not, we are not 
 dentists, and will believe you at a distance ! " 
 
 However, the man came up to Madame Duton- 
 neau, and opened an enormous mouth, so Armide 
 thought it prudent to beat a retreat like Madame 
 Bouchetron had done...." I will give you something 
 to put on your teeth, " Cezarine said. " That is all, 
 I suppose ?"..." Oh! no, madame, 1 have not men- 
 tioned the worst thing of all — I kept that till the 
 last. You see, madame, I am suffering from a boil 
 in a place — I don't know how to explain it to you,, 
 for it is a difficult matter to express — I am afraid I 
 shall make you blush — —"..."Come, you must tell 
 me; one can tell a doctor anything. In fact, one is 
 bound to do so, for otherwise how can he undertake 
 your case? "..."You are quite right, but then don't 
 you see you are not a doctor like the rest of them." 
 ..." What does that matter, as long as I know how 
 to cure you ? That is what you want, I suppose ? " 
 .. ."Certainly, I want you to cure me, and I ask for 
 nothing else, so that is settled ! Now I know that I 
 can tell you everything; I will go right ahead! 
 And you will undertake to cure me ? Well, I have 
 something just on the place on which one sits down, 
 and it is so bad that I can scarcely sit."..," I will 
 give you something to make a plaster, and you must 
 get someone to put it on for you."..." Would you 
 be kind enough to do it, madame? "..." Oh ! dear 
 no ! I do not undertake such things, but nothing 
 is easier than to apply a plaster. Your friend 
 Matois or his wife will do it for you."..." I can as- 
 sure you, madame, that my boil is enormous ; it is 
 not like an ordinary one, I assure," and the man 
 put his hand to the indispensable garment, when 
 Madame Flambart disappeared in her turn, exclaim- 
 ing: "What a horrid wretch! " 
 
 But Cezarine had stopped his hand and said to him 
 sternly : " Why, what are you thinking about ? I 
 
142 AN INVALID.— 
 
 -will give you some medicine for your colic and 
 some herbs for a compress, and you can get it at- 
 tended to where you like."..." Can one attend to a 
 wound without seeing it ?"..." There, confound it 
 all, I am getting tired of you !"..." Hulloh ! here is 
 "the doctoress swearing ! Oh ! well, if you attend to 
 patients in that fashion, thank ye, it is hardly worth 
 one's while to put oneself out to come and see you, 
 JCeep your nasty drugs and your herbs, for 1 will 
 bave nothing to do with them, and I can get some- 
 one who is not quite so delicate as you are to attend 
 ^fco me. Catch me believing in your fine promises 
 again ! You wanted to make fun of us with your 
 remedies ; you are enough to give me the jaundice." 
 Saying this, the man took up his stick, clapped his 
 hat on his head, and went off...." It is a nice thing 
 to try and oblige people, if they repay you like 
 i,hat! That man was really disgusting, and I am 
 mot at all sorry that he has gone." 
 
 When Madame Pantalon returned to the drawing- 
 Toom, they all began to ask her about the patient, 
 "He was an insolent fellow," she said, "who called 
 me names because I would not have ocular demon- 
 stration of his boil."... "You ought to have called 
 Shrove-Monday," the captain said; "I am sure 
 that he would have kicked him so that nothing more 
 would have been seen of the boil any more. But 
 you will have your hands full with the peasants if 
 you undertake to treat them medically, for they 
 will ask you for remedies without the slightest in- 
 tention of using them; have you cured any of them 
 since you have been here? "..." I don't know, but I 
 have given Nanon several prescriptions for people 
 who were ill."..." They did not do them any good, 
 madame," Nanon said, who had just come in, " and 
 Jean-Pierre's wife, who is downstairs, wants to know 
 whether you can lend her husband a syringe, as he 
 is not well and wants one, or whether you would 
 
A MILITARY PROMENADE. 14& 
 
 like him to come and have the remedy applied 
 here? "..."Give her all the syringes in the house,. 
 and tell her to leave us in peace." ..." Ladies/* 
 Widow Flambart said, " these peasants do not 
 respect us enough, because they have not seen us all 
 together, marching in our military uniform in a 
 body."..." That is true," Armandine replied ; "there 
 was some talk of a march with our carbines and 
 coatees, which arj nearly all alike with the exception 
 of a few buttons and other trifling details — at any- 
 rate, it is a uniform, and we have never had that 
 march."... "Well ladies, let us carry out our project j. 
 you are quite right, it will have an imposing effect 
 upon the peasants. One must always throw a little- 
 dust into the eyes of the common people."..." It is 
 lovely weather, so I propose that we carry out our 
 proposed march to-day."..." Very well then, to-day- 
 be it."..." Shall we take the drum with us."... 
 " Most certainly, it is quite indispensable, for with- 
 out a drum we might go right through the village 
 and all over the neighbourhood without attracting 
 the notice of a single soul, We might, perhaps,, 
 not even be seen by more than two or three labourers, 
 but a drum is heard at a good distance off and every- 
 body comes running to see what it is."..." Unfor- 
 tunately, we have no drummer except Nanon, and 
 she drums very badly !"..." Well, I cannot even 
 get out a single roll on a drum."..." If they only 
 hear one roll, they will think that a military funeral 
 is passing."..." Let us take Shrove-Monday with us ; 
 he can beat the drum well."..." No indeed! We 
 will have no men with us ! That would ruin all the 
 effect which we hope to produce."..." Oh ! I know 
 someone who beats the drum capitally, and that is 
 Martine, for she made fun of me more than once 
 when 1 was learning. She used to take it from ma- 
 and play splendidly on it ; she beats the rural police- 
 man altogether."..." Can Martine really beat the 
 
144 A MILITARY PROMENADE. 
 
 drum ? Nanon, go and fetch her immediately, and 
 bring the drum and drumsticks here." 
 
 The cook came, followed by Nanon carrying the 
 drum. " Martine," Madame Pantalon said, " Nanon 
 declares that you can beat the drum very well ; is 
 that true ?"..." Yes, madame ; I have, perhaps, got 
 a little out of practice, but formerly I took lessons 
 from a cousin of mine who was drummer boy in the 
 Bines, and he could just do it. I can beat the 
 march, fche double, and the retreat."..." Come then, 
 Martine, take the drum and give us a specimen of 
 your skill." 
 
 The cook immediately took the drum and the 
 drumsticks and began to drum away in a most easy 
 fashion. The ladies were enchanted, and one double 
 especially made them wriggle about on their chairs ; 
 they applauded rapturously, and Cezarine cried: 
 " Bravo, Martine ; you possess a most valuable talent 
 in society, and I had no idea that I had a cook who 
 was so powerful on the donkey's skin ! Did Shrove- 
 Monday teach you? ". . .Martine shrugged her shoul- 
 ders and replied : " What an idea ! Thank God, I 
 have had a better teacher than that ! Do you think 
 I could ever have learnt anything from that old 
 cabin boy, who knows nothing about the land ? But 
 my cousin was a very nice fellow, and was in his 
 element when he was playing the drum." ..." Very 
 well, Martine, you shall come out with us ; I have a 
 spare uniform coatee, which will fit you, and a bar- 
 rister's cap, on which I will fasten a tuft, and you 
 shall march at our head beating the drum, and give 
 us that double which carried us all away just now." 
 ..."Nothing I should like better, madame; but, if I 
 go with you, who will cook the dinner? NotNanon, 
 certainly, for she cannot even peel an onion."... 
 * k The dinner ! — the dinner ! Why, Shrove-Monday 
 must undertake it. Uncle, you will have no objec- 
 tion to Shrove-Monday cooking the dineer to-day, 
 
8HR0VE-M0NDAY AS COOK. 145 
 
 will yon ? "..." Upon my word, my dear niece, I have 
 never put him to such a test, and I must confess 
 that I shall be cnrious to see how he will acquit him- 
 self of the task."... "That will be all right, so we 
 will settle it that way, that Shrove-Monday cooks 
 the dinners. And now, ladies, let us go and dress ; 
 I will undertake to rig out Martine as a drummer." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SHROVE - MONDAY AS COOK. 
 
 An hour later, the little body of women started 
 from the chateau, preceded by Martine, who had a 
 thoroughly martial bearing and who beat the drum 
 as if she belonged to the most cracked regiment of 
 the line. The captain was standing at one of his 
 windows, with his cabin boy behind him ; he watched 
 the Amazons start, and exclaimed : " By George, 
 they look very nice, and I really believe they are 
 marching in step ! "..."Are the ladies going to fight, 
 captain ?"..." I devoutly hope not !"..." But they 
 are all carrying carbines."..." That is only to show 
 that they would be ready to defend themselves if we 
 were attacked."..." Is anyone going to beseige the 
 chateau, captain ?"..." Hold your tongue; you talk 
 nothing but nonsense. Go and look after you 
 kitchen and try to give us something good and highly 
 seasoned ; you know I do not like insipid ragouts." 
 ..."Yes, captain; I know you like something to 
 create a thirst. But, who is going to help me ? I 
 cannot clean the vegetables, turn the spit, and stir 
 
146 SHROVE-MONDAY AS COOK. 
 
 the sauces, all by my self ."..." Take the gardener 
 and Nanon to help you."..." I will take the gar- 
 dener, but not ISTanon, for she would be dipping her 
 fingers into every saucepan." 
 
 Shrove-Monday went to the gardener and said to 
 him : " Daddy Flanquet, I want you to be my scul- 
 lion, and help me in the kitchen.". . ." In the kitchen ?' 
 But I am a gardener and not a scullion ! "..." Yery 
 well, and what about me ? Am I a cook ? But the 
 captain has told me to cook the dinner and I am 
 going to do it, because I must obey my captain be- 
 fore all things, and if he said to me : ' Go and get 
 me a porpoise ! ' I should immediately start off and 
 try to find one. I certainly do not know where I 
 should get one. but I should go all the same."..." Is 
 not my girl Nanon enough to help you? "..." I do 
 not want your daughter, for she never listens to 
 what I tell her. I wanted to teach her to beat the 
 drum, and she could never get anything out but a 
 miserable rub-a-dub, but I was told I might have 
 you to nelp me, so come along, Daddy Flanquet. 
 Bring me the best vegetables you have, whilst I go 
 into the poultry yard and wring the necks of two or 
 three of my best chickens, and there are carp and 
 eels in the river. By George, I will give them a 
 regular Belshazzar's feast ! " 
 
 Shrove-Monday killed several fowls, which he took 
 into the kitchen, and there he looked with admira- 
 tion at an immense row of bright and polished 
 saucepans of all sizes ; the copper ones were as 
 bright as a mirror. He peeped into the stoves, of 
 which there were two or three, and then stopped in 
 front of the great fire place, which was big enough 
 to hold several joints at the same time. Next he 
 put on an apron, stuck a great knife in his girdle, 
 and then suddenly exclaimed : " But, where is my 
 white cap? Who ever saw a cook without a white 
 cap ? It would be like a gendarme without hi* 
 
8HR0VE-M0NDAY AS COOK, 147 
 
 ^cocked hat, so I must go and find one. Daddy 
 Elanquet always wears them, so he must have some 
 spare ones." He got a white cap and made the 
 gardener take off his and put on a paper cap, be- 
 cause it would never do for the assistant cook to be 
 dressed like the head. He allowed Nanon to come 
 and light the fires, and whilst they were burning up 
 and Flanquet was cleaning the vegetables, the new 
 cook walked up and down the kitchen, saying: 
 " Where shall I begin ? " It is an embarrassing 
 choice. First of all, how many dishes shall I give 
 them? Three roasts — a goose and a couple of ducks, 
 a stewed rabbit, spitch-cooked eels and a stewed 
 carp, asparagus and green peas, a sweet omelette 
 and a couple of jellies. Daddy Flanquet, have you 
 any fruit? "..." Strawberries and cherries are in 
 season."..." Yery well, let me have plenty of them, 
 and tell Nanon to send us in a lot of cream."... 
 "Very well ; must the goose and the ducks be 
 plucked ?"..." What a question ! Did you ever hear 
 of anybody eating a goose with its feathers on ? It 
 is just the same as if you were to ask me whether 
 you skin the rabbit. "..."I always thought that a 
 goose's feathers burnt off whilst it was roasting."... 
 " It is quite certain that the feathers disappear at 
 the fire, and, after all, I think you are right; it is 
 a good idea, and I do not think it is worth while to 
 pluck the poultry. Strange that Martine should 
 not have thought of that! Those famous cordons 
 hleus (blue ribbons of the kitchen) never think of 
 everything, of course, so I will communicate my idea 
 to her, and I am sure that for the future she will 
 never pluck any more fowls. We will put them on 
 the spit just as they are; naturally, we shall keep 
 turning them, and the feathers will very soon be 
 burnt off. But there ! I had forgotten the soup ! 
 What soup can I give them ?"..." A good cabbage 
 soup," the gardener said; "that is first rate."... 
 
148 SHROVE- MON DAY AS COOK. 
 
 "No, the captain does not care for it."..." Very well 
 then, an onion soup ; that is better still." \ "No, 
 Madame Pantalon does not like that ; we will give 
 them a Julienne soup ; one puts all sorts of things 
 into that, doesn't one ?"..." Yes, all sorts of vege- 
 tables. "..."One can put other things besides that. 
 At Marseilles I remember eating fish soup, which 
 was devilishly nice."..." Fish in soup! Were they 
 fried? "..."No, they were cooked in the liquor. 
 There are some gudgeons and minnons in the stream 
 here, so go and catch some with the net and bring 
 me a good number of them. Just look on the dressers 
 and see whether Martine has all she wants to season 
 her made dishes. This is vin ordinaire — pretty fair, 
 smells good ; Madeira brandy, but that is not enough. 
 I shall want kirschwasser, arrack and rum, for I do 
 not wish my dishes to be insipid; they must be 
 highly flavoured and tickle the palate, and I am 
 determined to make Martine look small, and now I 
 will go into the cellar and not spare the captain's 
 liquors." 
 
 Whilst Shrove-Mouday was busy with the dinner, 
 the little body of ladies walked about the village 
 and in the neighbourhood; their approach was 
 heralded by the drum, on which Martine executed 
 various marches. The noise excited the curiosity 
 of the villagers and they came running to see who 
 the soldiers were who were passing through the 
 district, and uttered exclamations of surprise when 
 they saw that small body of Amazons, some of whom 
 were pretty, whilst others whom nature had only 
 slightly favoured, looked very awkward with their 
 carbines, which tired them and which they could 
 scarcely carry any longer. As they went along, they 
 heard the people say : " Why, it is a masquerade ! " 
 ..." No, they are acrobats and mountebanks.". . ."'Of 
 course, and they are beating the drum to announce 
 their performance."..." What! don't you recognise 
 
8HBOVE-MONDAY AS COOK, 14£ 
 
 the captain's niece, at the chateau ? "..."Yes, Ma- 
 dame Pantalon is the corporal."... "Does she want 
 to nominate another rural policeman ?"..." Of course 
 not ; just look, Daddy Eairneux is following behind } 
 he must belong to them."..." Oh ! what a joke ! "... 
 " They are the new National Guard ! " 
 
 The rural policeman had recognised the Amazons, 
 and, instead of being angry, he started walking 
 with them and cried : " Ladies, it is my duty to pro- 
 tect you ; the mayor told me so, and ordered me to 
 follow you, for fear lest you should be insulted, as 
 the inhabitants might take you for Prussians." 
 They were obliged, therefore, to put up with his 
 company, which vexed them very much ; but soon, 
 all the little street boys joined him and all the chil- 
 dren of the place who were able to walk, and some 
 began to sing in order to accompany the drum, 
 whilst others whistled and pretended to imitate 
 various animals. Then Madame Pantalon ordered 
 a retreat, which, however, was not executed very 
 easily, because they were preceded and surrounded 
 by a lot of riff-rafE, so that often the drummer-girl 
 Martine was obliged to deal kicks and boxes on the 
 ear in order to be able to advance. 
 
 "It strikes me that we are not making a very 
 good impression on the country people," Elvina said 
 who was marching in the second rank, between Ma- 
 dame Boulard and Madame Flambart...." That is be- 
 cause we are not keeping step," the latter said. 
 "Madame Boulard, do take care; you are leading 
 with the right foot when you ought to lead with 
 the left."..." Oh ! nevermind about my feet; I am 
 losing my chignon, I can feel it getting loose under 
 my forage cap, and I must absolutely fasten it.".., 
 " But when we are under arms, we cannot trouble 
 ourselves about our chignons."..." I like your ' under 
 arms!' Who will lend me a hairpin? Martine, 
 have you one? "..."Madame Boulard, will you leave 
 
150 SHROVE-MONDAY AS COOF. 
 
 your drum alone ! You are beating it all wrong."... 
 " A hairpin ! in the name of all that is most dear to 
 you — 'My costume for a hairpin !* "..."Oh ! there 
 are those horrid street boys again, who are march- 
 ing in front of us again and singing : 
 
 Marlborough is going to the wars 
 When will he come back again ! " 
 
 ..."Are they singing that at us?" Madame Gras- 
 -sonillet asked... ." It seems very like it."..." Yes, and 
 now they are beginning to whistle at us ! Oh ! 
 what brutes they are !"..." I think the best thing 
 we can do is to go back ! "..."Steady ladies, steady 
 if you please !"..." What do I care about steady ! " 
 ..."My chignon is going to fall ! "..."Good heavens, 
 "take it off altogether and have done with it!"... 
 *' Eight wh^el, march! "... "Whatever does she 
 mean by right wheel ? " 
 
 The ladies returned to the chateau tired, harassed, 
 and in a very bad temper at having heard anything 
 but complimentary remarks during their progress. 
 " These peasants are not yet sufficiently instructed 
 to understand us," Cezarine said."... "No," Madame 
 Etiole replied ; "we must first of all appeal to their 
 mind ; the masses can only be taught by books and 
 newspapers, and our paper will open the pathway 
 of success to us.".." Meanwhile let us go to dinner, 
 ladies, for I am sure we all of us stand in need of 
 refreshment, and the captain's speaking-trumpet is 
 •summoning us.". . ." Yes, and we must not keep him." 
 ...The Amazons went into the dining-room, where 
 -they found the captain in his place. " Come, my 
 jouthful warriors," he said, " I have already rung 
 twice. I am very curious to taste Shrove-Monday's 
 cookery. Are you satisfied with your walk?"... 
 •"Not particularly, uncle; all the village children 
 wished to accompany us, and so did the rural police- 
 man."..." They wished to do you honour."..." We 
 
SHKOVE-MONDAY AS COOK. 151 
 
 could very well have done without it, I can assure- 
 you ! "..."My dear child, all demonstrations produce 
 an effect on men and amuse children immensely."... 
 " The best thing about our walk has been," Madame 
 Duttonneau said, " that it has given us a tremen- 
 dous appetite."..." So much the better; here is the 
 soup, so now — attention! " 
 
 Shrove-Monday, in his cook's dress, himself put 
 i>he soup on the table, and then went and stood be- 
 hind his master, to see what the effect would be. 
 After swallowing a spoonful of it, all the ladies 
 uttered an exclamation: "Oh! good gracious, what- 
 ever is this !"..." What an extraordinary flavour! ** 
 ..."It tastes of rum! "..."And whatever is this 
 amongst the vegetables? Why, I declare, it is a 
 little fish! "..."Here is a sausage."..." And here a 
 gherkin."... "I say, you idiot, what sort of soup is 
 this? "..." Captain, it is Julienne a la Marseillaise." 
 ..."But you put nothing except vegetables into 
 Julienne soup !"..." I beg your pardon, captain, I 
 put everthing, as it gives it a greater variety."... 
 " But what is the meaning of this flavour of rum? " 
 ..." I know that you like it, captain, and so I put a 
 little drop in, in order that it might not be insipid." 
 
 The captain did not say anything more, but none- 
 of the ladies could swallow a drop of this new- 
 fashioned Julienne. Shrove-Monday replaced the 
 soup by a huge dish of matelote (a sort of fish stew), 
 which flamed like punch when it is set alight ; he- 
 put it on the table, saying : " I hope everybody will 
 like this. I set it on fire — it is a regular sailor's- 
 dish." They extinguished the flames and the mate- 
 lote was handed round, but hardly had the ladies* 
 put a morsel into their mouth when they again all 
 exclaimed...." What is the matter now?" said the 
 captain, who had not yet tasted it. " Have you_ 
 burnt your mouths again ? "..."No, it is not that,, 
 but nobody could possibly eat it ; it takes the skint 
 
152 8HR0VK-M0NDAY AS COOK. 
 
 off the roof of your mouth.". . ." Just taste it, uncle. 
 I am sure you will not be able to swallow it. "...The 
 captain took a little of the sauce and made a horrible 
 grimace; however, he managed to swallow it, and 
 then said : " What have you put into it, Shrove- 
 Monday ?"..." Well, captain, it is fish, nothing but 
 
 eels and carp "..."Yes, but how did you prepare 
 
 it ?"..." I put in onions, pepper, pimento, wine, and 
 then a little arrack. Ah ! if that does not taste nice, 
 you must be very hard to please ! "..."But, you 
 idiot, you have overdone it. I might, perhaps, 
 manage to eat it, but these ladies cannot possibly 
 swallow it."..." I have swallowed a little, and it has 
 nearly flayed my tongue ! "..."Here, take it away," 
 the captain said, " as the ladies will not eat it ; even 
 I must confess that it wants an almost fireproof 
 mouth to be able to eat this sauce. Come, you 
 devil's cook, bring in your roasts, and let us hope 
 that you have not stuffed them with spices."..." Oh ! 
 jou may be quite easy on that score, I have put 
 nothing inside them, but they are put on the table 
 just as they came into the world." 
 
 The goose and the two ducks were put j>n the 
 table, and the ladies, who mistrusted Shrove-Mon- 
 day's cookery, looked at his roasts and thought they 
 had a verv dark colour, and also saw a number of 
 little black specks on the skin, which are not gene- 
 rally seen in poultry. " You have certainly burnt 
 your roasts," Cezarine said ; "they have been under 
 fire too much."..." I assure you, captainess, that 
 they are not burnt at all."..." Well then, they have 
 been very badly plucked ! They are full of the 
 Toots of the feathers."..." Ah! captainess, I have 
 found out a new method, It is best not to pluck 
 poultry, but to roast then in their feathers, when 
 they come off of themselves, and that saves a lot of 
 trouble."..." I never heard of that fashion of roast- 
 ing poultry before," Madame Flambart said, " but 
 
SHROVE-MONDAY AS COOK. 15$ 
 
 I very much doubt whether it will give a nice 
 flavour to it."..." Let us see," said the captain, " we 
 must at any rate carve them." He was a very good 
 carver, and quickly cut up the goose and the ducks, 
 and the ladies, who had had nothing to eat as yet, 
 almost threw themselves on to the poultry, in the 
 hopes of finding something to satisfy their appetite,, 
 but immediately they made wry faces and pushed 
 back their plates, exclaiming : " How nasty it 
 smells ! "..."How bitter it tastes ! "..."Whatever is 
 there inside these wretched birds? "..."I will swear 
 to you, captain, that I have not stuffed them!"... 
 " Wo," Cezarine replied, " but I would make a bet 
 that you have net drawn them."..." Ought they to- 
 be drawn ?"..." What a question to ask! Do you 
 expect us to eat all the insides of poultry ?"..." I 
 beg your pardon, but I thought it was all good, and 
 I took care not to remove it."..." Take it away and 
 bring us the vegetables. Thank God! they have not 
 to be drawn. Never mind, ladies, we must dine 
 like anchorites for once, that is all! "..."Yes, but 
 that is not very strengthening after our fatigue." 
 
 The green peas and the asparagus were brought, 
 but, instead of white sauce, Shrove-Monday put a 
 sauce-brat of a brown sauce by the side of the as- 
 paragus. " What have you put into this sauce ? " 
 the captain asked him. "It ought to be white and 
 it is quite brown."..." Why, captain, I knew that 
 you were very fond of chocolate, and so I melted a. 
 few small cakes in the sauce."..." Asparagus and 
 chocolate! What a mixture! "..."Bring 1 me some 
 oil and vinegar directly. . . And what is the 
 matter with the green peas?"..." They smell of 
 brandy !"..." I only put in three small glasses of 
 brandy to give them a flavour."..." They certainly 
 smell of it ! "..."Ah !. Shrove-Monday, you shall as- 
 suredly never do any more cooking ! "..."As you 
 please, captain j and, after all, I would just as soon 
 
154 A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 eat the food when it is cooked as have to cook it 
 myself." 
 
 The sweets, which were utterly ruined, put the 
 finishing touch to the ladies' despair, and Cezarine 
 called Martine and said to her: "You must get ns a 
 good supper, and for the future we will not take you 
 away from yonr saucepans."..." Well," said the 
 cook, "I certainly prefer them to beating the drum. 
 Everyone to his trade; and I was not taught to cook 
 in order that 1 might beat the drum." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 When Cezarine had a spare moment, she went to 
 see her little daughter, Georgette ; more than once 
 she thought of taking her with her to the chateau, 
 but the child was not fifteen months old and was 
 very well looked after by her foster-mother, who 
 took the greatest care of her and immediately went 
 and told her mother if there was the slightest thing 
 the matter with the little girl. 
 
 Elvina almost always accompanied her sister-in- 
 law when she went to see little Georgette, but she 
 was no longer the happy, lively, merry Elvina that 
 she had been ; life at the chateau appeared mono- 
 tonous to her, and she would not work for the news- 
 paper. Neither did she attend the meetings of the 
 Independents regularly, and, whilst they were con- 
 tinually elaborating the scheme of their constitu- 
 tion, without ever bringing it to a definite conclusion, 
 
A CASE TO BE DEPENDED. 155- 
 
 she without saying a word to anyone made a sign to 
 Aglae, and went out for a walk in the neighbour- 
 hood of the chateau. She had not the least idea 
 that there was anyone in that part of the country 
 who was constantly watching her and Ion gin or to 
 speak to her, but who did not venture to do so. be- 
 cause his brother had forbidden him. At last, how- 
 ever, Gustave could resist no longer and said to him- 
 self : " I will not speak to her, or, if I should speak, 
 I will remember what Frederick told me and I will 
 pretend not to be in love with her." 
 
 One day, when out for a walk, he happened to* 
 meet Elvina and her maid, and the girl uttered a cry 
 which was not at all indicative of fear, but she 
 smiled at Gustave and said : "Why, Monsieur Gus- 
 tave, what are you doing in this part of the country ? 
 Were you coming to see us ? "..." No, mademoiselle, "' 
 he replied, assuming a cold and reserved manner - r 
 "I shall certainly not go to call on Madame Panta- 
 lon, who has left her husband and surrounded her- 
 self with ladies who hfive doue the same. I know 
 that they have a very bad opinion of men — thai 
 your sister-in-law has never been at all friendly to- 
 wards my brother and that I have never been in her 
 good graces. Every time that I tried to speak to 
 you she put some obstacle in my way, so you must 
 see that I cannot think of calling at the chateau.".. . 
 "Then what have you come to Bretiguy for?"!!! 
 " My brother knows somebody near here, and I came 
 with him."..." Does your brother see much of 
 Adolphe ?"..." Yes, a great deal.". .."Is my brother 
 happier since his wife left him ?"..." I do not know 
 whether he is happier, but he certainly has a great 
 deal more peace. Oh ! if you had only remained 
 with your brother, what pleasure it would have given 
 me to have gone and seen you often and to have had 
 some music with you, and to have told you — all that 
 I then felt "..."Have your feelings altered so 
 
156 A CASE TO BE DEPENDED. 
 
 much- since then ?"..." What good would it do me 
 to love a girl who is taught to look upon men either 
 us tyrants or as slaves, or — as fools, which comes to 
 very much the same thing, for a man must be rather 
 a fool to consent to become a slave ?"..." But, mon- 
 sieur, they do not instil that into me."...*' Very 
 much the same thing, I fancy. Madame Pantalon 
 thinks herself capable of doing everything and of 
 filling any post, and, even supposing that nature had 
 endowed her with every talent, would that be a 
 reason for treating her husband as she has done and 
 for trying constantly to humiliate him ? Mademoi- 
 selle, women do not consider how much of their 
 natural charm they loose when they try to ape men. 
 And how do you spend your time at the chateau ? " 
 ...."I am learning to ride, to fence, and also gym- 
 nastics. Some of the ladies write ; they have started 
 .a newspaper, and the first number is in the press."... 
 kfc And have you anything to do with the paper '?"... 
 " No, I have no talents that way. Does your 
 brother still practise as a doctor? "..."Yes, occa- 
 sionally. I hear that Madame Pantalon is also prac- 
 tising medicine; at least, I was told something to 
 that effect in the village ? "..."Yes, Cezarine de- 
 clares that she knows as much as a doctor."..." And 
 you all took a little military promenade in the 
 neighbourhood 9 ". . ." You heard of that as well ? "... 
 " It is spoken of enough in the village !"..." What 
 do they say about it ?"..." I must beg you to excuse 
 me from telling you.". . ." On the contrary, I wish to 
 know, and I beg you to tell me, Monsieur Gustave." 
 ..."Well then, everybody thought you extremely 
 ridiculous — more than ridiculous, I was almost go- 
 ing to say."..." There ! I was sure of it; I did not 
 want to join in their absurd march, only my sister 
 insisted on it." 
 
 Elvina looked down to the ground, blushing in 
 cojif usion, when Gustave replied : " You see where 
 
A CASE TO BE DEPENDED, 157 
 
 3 r advice leads you to. There is nothing to be so 
 much teared in France as ridicule, and you would 
 never have encountered it at your brother's house, 
 where you med to devote vourself to all those occu- 
 pations in which women excel and which make 
 them all the more charming in our eyes. 5 '..." Do 
 you really mean to say that you prefer a woman who 
 can sew and do embroidery to one who can ride and 
 fence?" .." Certainly, mademoiselle; though I have 
 no wish to prevent ladies taking part in such bodily 
 exercises as can amuse them and which they can 
 enjoy. Persons of your sex can occasionally in- 
 dulge in riding, or shoot at little dolls to show their 
 skill, bub if they make a constant practise of it, if 
 they neglect feminine work and occupation for such 
 maculine pursuits, then they lose in grace and 
 charm everything that they gain in strength and 
 courage ; everything that brings them nearer to the 
 male removes them further from our ideal woman " 
 ..."Are you going ?"...« I must."... "And have you 
 nothing more to say to me ?"..." I can have nothing 
 to say to a girl who prefers Madame Pantalon to 
 her brother, for that proves to me that she would 
 not be able to understand me!" And, with an 
 effort, Gustave went away rapidly, for he felt that 
 it he had remained he should have thrown himself 
 at Elvina's feet and sworn to love her eternally, but 
 his brother had convinced him that that would be 
 the means of curing her of her folly. 
 
 She remained sad and thoughtful, and, though she 
 watched Gustave go away, yet she hoped he would 
 return, but he went on without doing so and soon 
 disappeared, and so she made up her mind to return 
 to the chateau. "He is a very nice young gentle- 
 man," Aglae, who was following her mistress, said ; 
 1 knew him again directly, for he used to come to 
 your brother's house in Paris."..." Yes, he is Mon- 
 sieur Gustave Duvassel. But, just listen to me, 
 
158 A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 AMae ; yon must not tell anyone at the chateau 
 that I met him, do you hear? Because — because it 
 must not be talked about ; I should not be allowed to 
 go out if they knew that this young man was in the 
 neighbourhood."../' Oh! mademoiselle, do not be- 
 alarmed, I can be quiet when necessary; and, 
 honestly, the chateau is not so lively that we should 
 not wish to have some slight distraction elsewhere. ,r 
 
 Fouillac returned from Paris and brought some- 
 copies of the famous newspaper with him. The Ear- 
 Piercer was very well printed, on good paper; the 
 cover was a shining lemon colour, and the title stood 
 out very boldly on it and could be read at some dis- 
 tance. The lady journalists were delighted and each 
 of them seized a copy and looked for the article 
 which she had written and which appeared to her to 
 be of the highest value now it was in print. They 
 were naturally profuse in their thanks to Fouillac 
 for the trouble he had taken about the matter, and 
 congratulated him on the success he had achieved in 
 the production of the paper, but he soon put a stop 
 to all these thanks by pulling out of his pocket a 
 memorandum of what he had paid for paper, print- 
 ing, posting bills, advertisements, and carriage; it 
 amounted to four thousand six hundred and fifty 
 francs (£186 10s.), whereupon the ladies' pleasure 
 visibly diminished. 
 
 "Well, ladies, what does the expense matter to- 
 us?'' Cezarine said; "it is money well laid out, 
 since we are sure to make four times as much by 
 our paper! — what was I saying, ten times as much.. 
 My dear Monsieur Fouillac, how many copies of The 
 Ear-Piercer Lave you had struck off ? "..."Three- 
 thousand."../' Three thousand! Why, that is not 
 enough ! We ought to have ten, fifteen thousand^ 
 and scatter it all over Paris and throughout the pro- 
 vinces. I even think that we ought to give some 
 away gratuitously."..." That is absolutely indispens- 
 
A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 159 
 
 able,". . ." Very well then, my dear Monsieur Fouillac, 
 yon must be kind enough to go to Nozon and order 
 a fresh edition, and a much larger one, of The Ear- 
 Piercer"..." That is very easily done; I will take the 
 gig and go after lunch."..." We are really abusing 
 your kindness, monsieur ! "..."I told you I was at 
 your orders, for I know nothing more delightful 
 than to be 'the squire of dames.' "..."Oh ! if only 
 all men were like you ! But T fancy you are the only 
 one of your species." 
 
 The sight of their articles actually in print in- 
 flamed all the ladies with extraordinary zeal ; all of 
 them wanted to write now, and those who had only 
 written very short articles for the first number now 
 wished to have their revenge by filling several 
 columns of The Ear-Piercer. 
 
 A few days after Fouillae's return, Aglae came to 
 Madame Pantalon and told her that one of the men 
 from the village wanted to speak to her...." If it is 
 another man with a boil, I don't want to see him." 
 ..." No, the man is not ill and does not look unhappy, 
 but he says he wants to consult you about a law- 
 suit "..."Oh! that is a very different thing; 
 
 show him in at once. I have wished for some law 
 case in which I could appear for the defendant for a 
 long time, and I shall not want the advice of the 
 committee for that, so bring my client into my 
 study. "...Aglae soon introduced an old peasant with 
 a cunning and cautious face, who bowed every mo- 
 ment and whose back was so bent that he almost ap- 
 peared hump-backed. He leant on an old hazle- 
 wood stick, although he still looked vigorous, but he 
 dragged his words like he did his legs...." Sit down," 
 Oezarine said...." You are very kind, madame, but 
 it is not worth while; I can talk standing."..." But I 
 will not allow you to stand ; sit down, I tell you."... 
 "I should not think of doing such a thing in your 
 presence, madame."..." Why, bless the man, sit 
 
160 IL CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 »* 
 
 down or I will have you turned out of the house ! 
 Whereupon he sat down, took his stick between his 
 legs, put his hat on his knees, and looked at the 
 ceiling.. . ." First of all, what is you name ? ". . ." Oa- 
 poussier, at your service."... "Do you belong to 
 Bretiguy ?"..." I belong te Nozon, but I have been 
 living in Bretiguy ever since I bought a little pro- 
 perty here."..." And you have a law-suit on hand? "" 
 ..." Good gracious, yes ! I am not at all fond of the 
 law, I assure you, but some people are so unreason- 
 able! "..." Just explain the business to me."... "I 
 will tell you all about it, for you are a barristeress, I 
 believe? "..."You may be quite easy, my good fel- 
 low, for I will manage your case as well as, and 
 better than many barristers would ! "..."And gratis 
 — I was certainly told that you would do it gratis f 
 A gentleman from Paris, whom I met at old Matois', 
 said to me : ' Just go to the chateau, and consult 
 Madame Pantalon; she will undertake your case 
 without expecting any fee.' So of course I came 
 immediately."..." So a gentleman from Paris told 
 you that. It must have been Monsieur Fouillac ? " 
 ..." I don't know his name.". . ." Never mind ; he in- 
 formed you quite correctly, for I never take any fee 
 for my services ; now explain to me your business." 
 ..."Well, I told you that I had a bit of land close 
 to Francois Lupot's, who is much richer than I am, 
 as I am very poor, and it is very wicked of him to 
 try and cheat a poor man who lives all alone with his 
 maid-servant and his cow, whilst he has seven chil- 
 dren, without counting his wife, who is quite cap- 
 able of bearing him some more, and his dogs and 
 
 his relations ". . ." Do get to your law-suit.". . ." I 
 
 shall get to it by degrees. You see it dates from a 
 long time, for law-suits you see do not come of them- 
 selves and naturally. Oh ! certainly not ; they may 
 be sniffed a long time beforehand, and I am suie 
 that Francois Lupot has been saying to himself for 
 
A CASE TO BE DEPENDED. 161 
 
 years: 'I must go to law with old Crapoussier. I 
 shall enjoy that.' "..." What makes you think so? 
 Had this Francois Lupot any reasons to hate you ? " 
 ..."Perhaps he had ; one never knows ! In the first 
 place, I once lent him my horse and he brought him 
 back lame ; of course, you may guess that I sued him 
 for damages and he had to pay me fifty francs. An- 
 other time, he had a tree which hung over my wall, 
 and which he would not have cleared of caterpillers 
 that I might have them in my garden, so I sum- 
 moned him before the mayor for that. Another 
 time his cart broke down as he was passing my house 
 and killed two of my turkeys which were in the road, 
 and so I sued him for the value of the turkeys."... 
 " As far as I can see, it seems that it was always you 
 who went to law with your neighbour."... "Yes, but 
 it was his fault, he was always doing me some mis- 
 chief ! Oh ! he is a clever fellow, a sly fox, but this 
 time he began it, clever chap, and you will see how 
 wrong it was of him !"..."! am waiting impatiently 
 to hear the cause of your quarrel." 
 
 The peasant plaintiff continued : " My ground is 
 only separated from Lupot' s by a narrow path where 
 nothing grows, and I planted potatoes by the side of 
 it — on my own side, of course, but the potatoes 
 struggled so that they covered the whole path. Is 
 that my fault? But Francois Lupont now says 
 that I am encroaching on his land, andthat's a lie, — 
 and then, the path does not belong to him any more 
 than it does to me. As my potatoes spread, I had 
 to carry the path a little to one side, for of course 
 there must be room for people to pass, and now that 
 thief of a Lupot says that as I have made the path 
 on his land, he has the right to eat my potatoes. I 
 do not at all see that. If he touches my vegetables 
 he is a thief, and he must pay me for them, and he 
 has touched them, for I have seen his children digg- 
 ing them under my very nose. He refuses to pay 
 
 L 
 
162 A CASE TO BE DEPENDED. 
 
 for them, but you can imagine that I am not going 
 to let it go on like that ! I said to him : ' Pay me 
 for my potatoes? 5 and he had the impudence to 
 reply; * Gi\e me back my land ! ' I maintain that 
 that land is the path, and I will not give up the 
 smallest portion of it ! That's the whole affair ; we 
 have already sent each other summonses on stamped 
 paper, and now he has gone to enter a plaint at 
 Nozon, and the magistrate, or the sheriff's officer, 
 or the commissary has sent me this piece of paper, 
 on which it is stated that I am to appear to explain 
 my case in two days' time, and I want you to go and 
 explain it instead of me. Here are all the papers 
 which have passed between us on the business, and 
 they will show you that I am not at all to blame, 
 but that Lupot is altogether in the wrong. Do you 
 understand it clear Jy ?"..." Yes, yes, I understand, 
 but I am not at all sure that you are in the right." 
 ..."Oh! if you are not sure, then you have not 
 understood the matter ; I tell you that the path does 
 not belong to Lupot !"..." Yes, if you could only 
 prove that !"..." But of course I can prove it, be- 
 cause for a long time my cows have been in the 
 habit of going there, and Lupot never said a word, 
 and that proves that my cows were in the right."... 
 " Yery well ; give me all the papers and documents, 
 and I will gain your case for you."..." That's all 
 right, and you will take care that I am paid for the 
 potatoes that he robbed me of ?"..." I hope so. 
 How long is this footpath which has caused the 
 whole dispute?"..." Hum! not very long and not 
 very short- — perhaps eighty or hundred yards long." 
 ..."Well, that is something! "..."And you will 
 come to look after my rights at Nozon on the day 
 after to-morrow ?"..." I will be sure to come; you 
 may depend on me. I will use all my eloquence, 
 and I am certain that you will win your case."... 
 " Well, in that case, I declare I will give you a good 
 
A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 166 
 
 shake of the hand! Good-bye, Mrs. Barrister. Re- 
 member the case is down for twelve o'clock, and 1 
 will be here again in the evening in a conple of 
 days ; yon will be back by that time ?"..." Long be- 
 fore that; bnt where is yonr land, for I shonld like 
 to see the path and yonr potatoes? "../'Yon need 
 only ask for old Crapoussier's house, as soon as you 
 get into the village, and anyone will point it out to 
 you. Tou are sure it will be gratis, rnadameP"... 
 " Have not I said so ? Do you think I am going to 
 take your money ? " 
 
 The villager went out backwards with many bows, 
 and Cezarine was delighted at having a case to de- 
 fend ; she was really going to do what her husband 
 did, and he was a barrister. She began immediately 
 to examine the papers which the man had left with 
 her ; she consulted the Code and explained it to her- 
 self in the manner which was most favourable to her 
 case, and in this she only followed the example of 
 real barristers. During the intervening time the 
 work of The Ear-Piercer was totally neglected, and, 
 as Madame Pan talon was not quite certain that she 
 would be able to speak altogether extempore, she 
 drew up a draft of her speech in favour of Daddy 
 Crapo ussier, whose potatoes had been so shamefully 
 stolen. Then she read to her associates that model 
 eloquence, in which she quoted Cato, Aristotle, 
 Cicero, and even Seneca ! And all that for the sake 
 of a few potatoes, which those great men had not 
 even the advantage of being acquainted with. But 
 Cezarine was really very well suited for a barrister, 
 and she felt inclined to go back as far as the deluge ; 
 she would have liked to bring in Noah and his ark, 
 but she checked herself, saying : " On the first occa- 
 sion, I must moderate my eloquence ; I must reserve 
 something for some future time." The Indepen- 
 dents thought her pleading magnificent, and were 
 certain that she would win the case. 
 
164 A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 Next day, Madame Pan talon went to inspect old 
 Crapoussier's land, and he showed her a path in 
 which it was impossible for two persons to walk 
 abreast, but he told her that it was all the fault of 
 the potatoes, which would spread so of their own ac- 
 cord, without anybody noticing it. Cezarine, who 
 did not find it particularly pleasant to walk amongst 
 the vegetables, was satisfied with this explanation, 
 and took leave of the man, promising to win his case 
 for him. 
 
 At noon the next day the female barrister was at 
 Nozon, accompanied by Madame Flambart and Ma- 
 dame Etoile, who wished to witness her triumph. 
 The judges seemed very much astonished at seeing 
 a lady present herself to undertake Crapoussier's 
 case, but they politely gave her a hearing, and she 
 made such good use of the permission that her 
 speech lasted an hour. They did not interrupt her, 
 for they only seemed curious to hear her. When at 
 length she had finished, Francois Lupot came for- 
 ward ; he had no lawyer, but undertook his own case 
 and explained it in a few words, without quoting 
 Cicero or Cato, and he produced a plan of the pro- 
 perty, which was verified and certified by experts 
 from the town, and on it was clearly marked where 
 the path had formerly separated the two properties, 
 and where the path ran at the present time, and 
 that was the important point in the case. As soon 
 as the president of the tribunal had seen the plan, 
 he said : " We must examine this carefully, and 
 shall not deliver our judgment until to-morrow." 
 Whereupon Cezarine returned to the chateau with 
 her two friends, who said to her : 
 
 " It is veiy disagreeable that it was not delivered 
 immediately, but you may be quite sure that you 
 have won your case."..." Do you really think so? " 
 ..." There cannot be the slightest doubt of it," Ma- 
 dame Flambart replied 5 " I only wish you could have 
 
A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 165 
 
 seen the surprised, astonished, thunderstruck looks 
 of the judges as they listened to you ! It was worth 
 sketching ; but you were really magnificent, and you 
 spoke for fifty-five minutes without stopping!"... 
 "Fifty-seven by my watch."..."! should like to 
 know how many men could do the same ?"..." There 
 certainly are some, but they are very scarce."... 
 ■" When it is a question of speaking for a long time 
 ivithout stopping, women will always have the ad- 
 vantage."... The captain said to his niece: "As you 
 are a barrister, you ought to get yourself a barrister's 
 gown made."..." No, uncle, I shall take care not to 
 do that," Cezarine exclaimed ; " I wish to be a bar- 
 rister without the gown, for I do not wish to re- 
 semble those gentlemen in anything." 
 
 During the whole evening Madame Pantalon re- 
 ceived the congratulations of her friends, and 
 Fouillac, who had gone to tell old Crapoussier that 
 the decision would not be given till the next day, 
 out that he need not be the least anxious about the 
 xesult, came back and told her that the peasant in- 
 tended to come himself and thank her as soon as he 
 Teturned from the town, where he meant to go to 
 liear the judgment and to ascertain what damages 
 Francois Lupot would have to pay him for having 
 •eaten his potatoes. 
 
 They eagerly waited for the next day, and at 
 about half-past two Cezarine said: "The decision 
 must have been given an hour ago, and we are 
 certain to see Crapoussier soon." A quarter of an 
 hour later, the villager came to the chateau, but not 
 like he had done the day before, with low bows to 
 them all, for now he took no notice of anyone, and, 
 as soon as he got into the hall, without even taking 
 off his broad-brimmed hat, he hammered on the floor 
 with his thick stick and shouted furiously : " Where 
 is Madame Pantalon? That twopenny-halfpenny 
 oarrister, who assures a man that she will win his 
 
166 A CASE TO BE DEFENDED. 
 
 case for him, and who, instead of that, shoves him 
 so deep into the mud that he has not the least idea 
 how he will ever get out of it again ? Where is she, 
 that I may tell her what has happened ? It is not 
 allowable to take in people like that ! I like her 
 gratis ! I would rather have paid a regular lawyer, 
 who would have gained my case, than have put my- 
 self into the hands of a person who knows nothing 
 about law ! " 
 
 Just then Cezarine came in with several of her 
 friends, and said to him : " Well are you satisfied ? '* 
 ..."Satisfied! Satisfied! Are you making fun of 
 me, Mrs. Chatterbox ? Isn't it enough to make me 
 lose my case without making fun of me as well?"... 
 " Lose your case ! Do you mean to say that you 
 have lost your case?"..." Yes, of course I do. Devil 
 take it ! Why, it seems that you spoke for a whole 
 hour without stopping, and that tired the judges— 
 and good reason too, fer you talked a lot of nonsense 
 to them, which had nothing whatever to do with my 
 business."..." Farmer, you are a fool; try and be 
 polite or else " 
 
 On hearing Cezarine say this, the man grew 
 utterly beside himself. " A fool ! You are right, I 
 was indeed one to trust to you and to think that a 
 woman could understand anything about knavish 
 tricks . Lupot was not so stupid as I, for he de- 
 fended himself. And do you know what that con- 
 founded judgment says ? Why ! It condems me to 
 a fine of five hundred francs (20Z.) for having planted 
 anything on land that did not belong to me. Just 
 fancy, five hundred francs ! How terrible ! And 
 besides that, I must set my boundary line two yards 
 further back, so that the path may be in its proper 
 place again, so they say. But my potatoes will never 
 go any further back ; I know them too well ! That 
 decision is just my ruin !"..." Your ruin! Come, 
 come, I was told that you were the richest man in 
 
A CASE TO BE DEPENDED, 167 
 
 the village."..." Those who said that told lies « . 
 Plant nry potatoes further hack, pay Lupot five 
 hundred francs, beside the costs of the action ! I 
 shall have the cholera-mordicus (cholem-morbus) . If 
 you cannot make people win their cases, the best 
 thing you can do is to leave them alone. Lupot tells 
 me that you talked about Monsieur Giron and Mon- 
 sieur Seneque ! What do I know about those fel- 
 lows? Do they understand anything about my 
 potatoes ? You talked nothing but nonsense, and it 
 would be far better for you to look after your kitchen 
 -than to play at being a barrister ! "..." You are most 
 insolent ! Leave the house immediately ". . ." In- 
 solent ! Look here, don't use any big words to me, 
 for I am not very long suffering !"..." Shrove-Mon- 
 day ! Shrove-Monday ! ". .." Here I am, captatness ! " 
 ..."Just put this man out of doors immediately, and, 
 if he resists, give him a good thrashing! "..."Yes, 
 captainess. Now. then, come along ! Out with you ! 
 Off you go, quick! "..." What do you mean? Do 
 you want to give me a thrashing into the bargain ? 
 It only wants that ! Oh ! they promise to undertake 
 your business gratis and then they thrash you ! " 
 
 He tried to resist and was going to raise his 
 stick, but Shrove-Monday was tolerably strong still, 
 so he twisted the cudgel out of the old villager's 
 hands, pushed him in front of himself, and then 
 made him go out of the chateau, and then flung his 
 stick between his legs and said : " Don't let us catch 
 you here again, or you shall have a good thrashing 
 with your own stick." And, whilst Daddy Crapous- 
 sier went off swearing at Madame Pantalon, she re- 
 hired to her own room, very much dissatisfied at the 
 result of the first case which she had undertaken. 
 
163 A WATER PARTY. — • 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A WATER PARTY. FOUILLAO A SPECULATOR. 
 
 The affair of the lawsuit had cast a shade of sad- 
 ness over the company at the chateau, but Madame 
 Grassonillet, who was fond of amusement above 
 everything else, said next day : " Ladies, it is all 
 very well for us to work at our newspaper, but we 
 cannot always be working. We were promised all 
 sorts of amusements here, such as shooting and 
 fishing, but fishing is a far too quiet amusement, 
 and the shooting season has not yet begun; but 
 there is a very nice piece of water at the bottom of 
 the garden, and why should we not go for a row on 
 the little lake? I propose a water party for this 
 afternoon."..." That is a delightful idea ! "..."How 
 many boats are there on the lake, Shrove-Monday ? " 
 ..." Three, Mrs. Captain, but the green one has holes 
 in it, and the blue one has one side nearly knocked 
 out, but the red one is perfectly sound."..." Then 
 why did not you tell us immediately that there was 
 only one for all of us ? And that one will only hold 
 eight?"..." Well, some must go at one time and the 
 rest another."..." I claim to be employed as a boat- 
 man," Madame Dutonneau said ; " I can row very 
 well, I have often steered boats, and I am sure that 
 I could handle a ship."..." Yery well then, that is 
 settled ; you shall be our boatman." 
 
 After dinner, the ladies, who had put on boating 
 jackets, went down to the lake, where Shrove-Mon- 
 day was waiting for them, ready to help them on. 
 He had put a plank to serve as a bridge, so that 
 they might be able to get in without wetting their 
 feet, whilst he himself was standing in the water al- 
 most up to his waist to take care of them ; but then, 
 
FOUILLAC A SPECULATOR. 169 
 
 water was his element and he was quite at home in 
 it. Madame Dutonneau, the imposing boatwoman, 
 jumped in, and Cezarine, Madame Etoile, Madame 
 Boulard, Madame Bouchetron, Madame Grassonillet, 
 "Widow Flambart, and two young-old ladies, who said 
 they could swim like fish, followed her example; 
 that made eight. Shrove-Monday said to them: 
 *' Take care and keep in the middle, und be sure not 
 to all lean towards one side, otherwise you will turn 
 bver ! In any case, there is no cause for alarm ; if 
 you tumble in, I will fish you out again." But, as 
 they preferred not to be fished out, they kept very 
 quiet on their seats, which were placed crosswise in 
 the boat. Madame Dutonneau took the oars ; she 
 handled them very well, and steered in and out 
 amongst the little inlets so dexterously that they 
 were all delighted and cried : "All honour to our 
 boatwoman ! "..."I should like to spend my life on 
 the water." 
 
 Unfortunately, however, Madame Dutonneau, who 
 had grown conceited by the praises bestowed upon 
 her, in order to shoV her skill wished to turn sud- 
 denly when close to a piece of rock which was near 
 the bank. Whether she had not given herself 
 enough room or whether the rock projected under 
 the water, at any rate, the frail boat struck vio- 
 lently on a reef, but no harm would have resulted if 
 only the passengers had sat still. As soon, however, 
 as they felt the shock they got frightened, and all 
 threw themselves on to the other side of the boat, 
 which made the small craft titfn over on one side 
 and they were all thrown into the water. 
 
 At their cries, Shrove-Monday, who had been 
 watching them all the while from the bank, imme- 
 diately jumped in and went to the assistance of the 
 ladies who could not swim. Cezarine and her friends 
 soon reached the bank without his assistance, but the 
 two young-old ladies who had said they could swim 
 
170 A WATER PARTY. 
 
 like fish uttered loud cries and called for help* 
 Shrove-Monday soon got hold of them ; he put one 
 on his back and pushed the other in front of him, 
 and soon these pretended fish were out of danger* 
 Cezarine looked round her and said : " Has every- 
 one been fished out ? . . Yes, I think so."... "But 
 where is Madame Boulard? " Paolina said ; " I don't 
 see her anywhere."..." Oh! good heavens, you are 
 right ! She is still in the water. Shrove-Monday ! " 
 . . ."Hulloh there ! Shrove-Monday ! ". . ." Here I ain* 
 Mrs. Captain ! "..."Here, make haste! You must 
 fish out Madame Boulard."..." Don't be frightened* 
 madame ; I think I see something moving yonder . * 
 why, it is a hand coming out of the water, and it 
 must belong to the missing lady. I will go and 
 bring her to you." 
 
 Lundi-Gras jumped back into the water and soon 
 reached the spot where he had seen the arm, which 
 really was Madame Boulard's. The poor woman 
 had almost lost her breath, as the water reached 
 nearly over her head, and so he quickly raised her 
 so that she should not swallow any more ; he was 
 about to regain the bank with his burden, but Ma- 
 dame Bonlard exclaimed : " No, no, not yet ! My 
 chignon ! I have lost my chignon m the water and 
 I must find it again . . Look for my chignon ! " 
 ..."But how do you think we can find your false 
 hair in the water? Perl aps the fish have swallowed 
 it ! "..."No, no ; I must have my chignon. I will 
 sit astride on your shoulders ; you shall swim and I 
 will look for my beautiful chignon. It cost forty 
 francs and was worth a hundred! Swim, sailor* 
 swim! It is your business and I know you swim 
 splendidly, and I shall be quite comfortable on your 
 back." 
 
 Those on the bank were much surprised not to see 
 Lundi-Gras and Madame Boulard return ; they had 
 no fears about her, however, for they saw her in the 
 
FOUILLAC A SPECULATOR. 171 
 
 water sitting straddle-legs on the old cabin boy's 
 tack, and in the distance it made her look like a 
 syren ; it was certainly rather original. 
 
 " Whatever can it mean ? " Cezarine said. " Is 
 she going to learn to swim? She is strangling poor 
 Lundi-Gras, and besides, we cannot wait for her any 
 longer here, for we must go and change."..." We 
 are all of us wet through ; so much the worse for 
 her. Let us go and change our wet clothes."... 
 ** Lundi-Gras ! Lundi-Gras ! How much longer are 
 you going to carry Madame Boulard about in the 
 water? Come to shore directly; I order you to! 
 Does she take you for a dolphin ?"... Now, the old 
 cabin boy had never disobeyed his captainess, and 
 so he immediately made for the bank, in spite of 
 Madame Boulard's entreaties, who called out : " I 
 think I saw it ; I believe an eel was playing 
 with it."..." I am very sorry, madame, but when my 
 Mrs. Captain call me I am bound to be at her orders, 
 and then, it is getting dark and we should not, in 
 any case, be able to find your chignon." 
 
 Madame Boulard came to land overwhelmed at 
 her loss, and she explained to her friends what she 
 had been doing in the water, but they, far from con- 
 doling with her and sharing her grief, only laughed 
 at it, and pretty Amandine said with a smile : 
 il Really, you are very unfortunate with your chig- 
 nons ; if 1 were in your place I should leave them 
 off."..." Leave them off! Leave them off!" the 
 stout little woman cried in a furious voice ; " why, I 
 would sooner do without gartess! Just see what 
 men would say if you told them to do without frlse 
 scalps when their hair is thin on the top." 
 
 The day after this unfortunate water expedition, 
 Madame Boulard left the chateau, without taking 
 leave of anyone. "Good luck go with her," Ceza- 
 rine said, " I am not at all sorry she is gone, as she 
 thought of nothing but her hair, and it is not with 
 
172 A WATER PARTY. — ■ 
 
 such ideas that we regenerate ourselves in the eyes 
 of the world." Besides this, a more important 
 matter was about to occupy the attention of the In- 
 dependents, for the second number of their paper 
 was printed. They had twelve thousand copies 
 struck oh , which they ordered to be sent to the 
 wholesale dealers, and then Fouillac undertook to go 
 to Paris again, to find out the result of the sale of 
 the first...." Will it be worth while to go to the ex- 
 pense of posters and of announcing the second num- 
 ber of The Ear-Piercer?" Pouillac asked Madame 
 Pantalon...."Yes, certainly; we must give it a little 
 more publicity, but so as to recoup yourself for this 
 fresh expense, you shall have the receipts of the first 
 number, and the amount of the subscriptions which 
 were to be paid in advance."... Pouillac made rather 
 a wry face and replied : " But suppose that is not 
 enough?"..." What are you thinking about? It is 
 impossible ! At any rate, you will not be short of 
 money, for I shall get you to draw out a sum of fifty 
 thousand francs (2,000?.) which I have in a lawyer's 
 hands ; it is the half of my dowry, which my hus- 
 band left in his hands. But he has invested it badly, 
 for it only brings me in five per cent., and I can find 
 some much better investments than that. If you 
 hear of anything good, kindly make enquiries and 
 let me know; I want my money to bring me in 
 more."..." Of course, and then one can only make 
 money with money ; water always flows to the river, 
 and he who risks nothing can gain nothing. I 
 could go on multiplying proverbs like Sancho Panza, 
 but, instead of that, I will try and make a million- 
 aire of you. What one has not succeeded in doing 
 for oneself, one often manages to do for other 
 people." 
 
 Madame Flambart, who had heard this conversa- 
 tion, said to Fouillac : " I am not very rich, for I 
 only have an income of five thousand francs (200Z.), 
 
FOTJILLAC A SPECULATOR. 173 
 
 and that is very little for a woman who wants to be 
 in the fashion. I have some thirty thousand fr ncs 
 (1200Z.) at my bankers, which bring me in very 
 little, so I will give you a power-of-attorney and you 
 can draw the money out of his hands and find some 
 good investment for me at the same time that you 
 find one for Madame Pantalon.". . ." With the greatest 
 pleasure, and it is quite possible that I may be able 
 to invest your money as well as Madame Pantalon's 
 in the same affair ; however, I will tell you on my 
 return." 
 
 He went to Paris accordingly, furnished with 
 their powers-of-attorney and the instructions which 
 he had received to enable him to push on the sale of 
 The Ear-Piercer and to give it a wide publicity. 
 During the absence of their charge-i'affaires, the 
 ladies were already making plans how to employ the 
 profits which the lemon-coloured newspaper was to 
 bring them in, and came to the conclusion it ought 
 to be invested in a common fund in order to build a 
 villa. 
 
 Fouillac was absent for live days, and the ladies 
 were losing heart, for they thought and dreamt of 
 nothing but the profit which they hoped to make, 
 for most of them had refused to allow their money 
 to go towards the fund for building a villa. At last, 
 however, their commissary returned ; he looked very 
 serious, which was not at all habitual with him, and 
 the first thing he did was to give Cezarine a pocket- 
 book and then another to Madame Mambart, whilst 
 he said to them : "I received your money . . "... 
 " Very well, dear Monsieur Fouillac ! Oh ! we were 
 quite easy on that score, but do tell us all about the 
 paper first of all, for we are dying Lo know about 
 the Debit and Credit account with the publisher, and 
 exactly how we stand."... Fouillac took a large roll 
 of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and said : "I 
 am sorry to have to inform you that the Debit far 
 
174 A WATER PARTY.—- 
 
 exceeds the Credit, but you must not be alarmed at 
 that ; it is almost always so at the beginning of an 
 enterprise — indeed, it is a good sign I think. The 
 first expenses of The Ear-Piercer amounted to four 
 thousand six hundred and fifty francs (184Z.)"... 
 " We know that already, so please go on ! ". . ." Allow 
 me, pray, for I like to be exact. I had twelve thou- 
 sand copies of the first number printed, as you in- 
 sisted on it, and they cost six hundred francs."... 
 " That is right, but that has all been paid."... "I am 
 not asking for any more money to pay that account ; 
 I am only stating the facts. This time, in order to 
 push the sale of the second number, I have again 
 paid for posters and advertisements two thousand 
 three hundred and twenty francs (92L 16s.) "... 
 "Well? Do come to the sale! "..." Six thousand 
 four hundred copies of the first number have been 
 got rid of . • "..."Why, that is very good!"... 
 " Yes, but out of this, six thousand three hundred 
 and ninety-one were distributed gratis, so that only 
 nine copies have been sold !"..." Only nine! And 
 what about the subscriptions? "..."There is not a 
 single subscriber; the nine copies were sold at the 
 full price, fifty centimes apiece ; total — four franca 
 ten sous, and the seller gets them at half-price."... 
 "Half-price! That seems enormous."..." On the 
 contrary, he asserts that it is not enough, and that 
 he ought to have a third."..." Why does not he ask 
 for the whole at once? "..."Even if you were to 
 give it him he would ask for a commission for selling 
 it. Well, I have received forty-five sous profit, and 
 that I had to deduct from the fresh expenses, which 
 left me two thousand three hundred and seventeen 
 francs seventy-five centimes to pay, which I have de- 
 ducted from the amount I bring back to Madame 
 Pantalon. These are the exact accounts of the little 
 lemon-coloured newspaper, for which you have, up 
 to the present, paid altogether seven thousand five 
 
FOTJJLLAC A SPECULATOR. 175 
 
 hundred and sixty-seven francs sixty-five centimes 
 (300Z.) " 
 
 Their brows grew dark and their faces long, and 
 several of them said : " It was worth while to make 
 us work like slaves for that ! "..." The Ear-Piercer is 
 indeed a tremendous success ! "..."Perhaps we shall 
 be asked to pay our share of the expenses."..." I 
 should like to see myself giving anything."..." So 
 much the worse for her; she started the idea, and 
 she must bear the con sequences. "...And for the mo- 
 ment the ladies all forgot that they all wished to 
 have the credit of having conceived the idea when 
 Madame Etoile first started the subject, and, the 
 day after Foniliac's return, Madame Grassonillet 
 and Madame Yespace took their departure, like the 
 lady with the chigncn, without taking leave of 
 anyone." 
 
 " They thought of nothing but dress," Cezarine 
 said ; " I am not at all sorry that they should go and 
 rejoin Madame Boulard. Perhaps they thought I 
 should expect them to pay me back the money I 
 have advanced ; if so, they know me very badly. I 
 can support the loss without it troubling me, though 
 I should like to make a great deal of money, in 
 order to realize my idea of a retreat for women who 
 have any occasion to complain of their husbands."... 
 " Ah ! my dear, you would require a very vast build- 
 ing ! " Madame Mambart said.... "I hope that Fouil- 
 lac will find some good investments for us ; he told 
 me last night that he should come and talk over 
 business matters with me this morning, and I am 
 expecting him."..." Like you, I have entire confi- 
 dence in Pouillac as an honourable and obliging 
 man."..." I am expecting him every moment, so 
 please do not go away, for what he has to say to me 
 has as much interest for you as it has for me." 
 
 Shortly afterwards he came in, with an almost 
 mysterious air about him, shut the door behind him. 
 
176 A WATER PARTY.— 
 
 and whispered: "Ladies, I do not think it at all 
 necessary for everybody in the house to know what 
 I am going to tell you, for when it is a question of 
 money I have always noticed that secrecy has a 
 great deal to do with success. If you tell everyone 
 what you intend to do, somebody else seizes hold of 
 your idea, and then, phut — it has flown to the 
 winds ! "..."Your argument is quite correct, and 
 what you are about to tell us shall remain a secret 
 amongst us three ! We are listening to you, dear 
 Monsieur Fouillac."..." Ladies, be kind enough al- 
 ways to follow my arguments, and especially in busi- 
 ness matters. If one wishes to succeed and to 
 make a fortune, it is necessary to discover something 
 new, which is useful or economical, pretty or nice. 
 Sometimes the discovery is most simple, bufc it is 
 something of which nobody had ever thought before, 
 and so it obtains an extraordinary success. Perhaps 
 you will say to me : ' That is the difficulty.' But 
 often accident assists you and puts your hand upon 
 that thread which is to lead you to a gold mine ! ". . . 
 " Pray, Monsieur Fouillac, if you have found such a 
 gold mine, tell us and do not keep us in this state of 
 suspense."..." I have not found it myself, but it 
 comes to the same thing, and I will tell you what it 
 is. I need not tell you what an enormous amount 
 of tobacco is consumed in France yearly, and that 
 the consumption is increasing year by year, so that 
 at times tobacco runs short, or cigars, and especially 
 good ones, are difficult to procure — there is never 
 any difficulty in getting bad ones."..." But what 
 has tobacco to do with our money ?"..." Have a 
 little patience and I will tell you. Anyone who can 
 manufacture cigars of a first-rate quality cheap- 
 cheap, mind you — may realise an enormous fortune. 
 Now, I have discovered a foreigner, a native of the 
 Grand Duchy of Baden, who has discovered the 
 secret. He mixes his tobacco leaves with the leaves 
 
FOUILLAC A SPECULATOR. 177 
 
 of the horse-chesnut, and they make delicious 
 cigars ! He has tried the experiment on a small 
 scale, and those to whom he has sold them have 
 been delighted with them and eagerly asked for 
 more. But he is in want of money, and so, ladies, 
 here is a grand mercantile operation to be made. 
 There will be a great many workpeople ; manufac- 
 tories and warehouses will be established, and the 
 cigars will.be sent to the four quarters of the globe ! 
 How glorious that will be ! And then, to make a 
 fortune at the same time ! Will that suit you? "... 
 " Why not," Cezarine replied, " if you think it is 
 really a reliable affair ? "..."I will answer for it, as 
 I would for myself."..." I will put thirty thousand 
 francs into it," Madame Flambart said, " and I shall 
 not be at all sorry to see some gentlemen smoking 
 horse-chesnut leaves. What fun I shall make of 
 them afterwards ! "..."That is settled, Monsieur 
 Fouillac, and I will let you have the fifty thousand ' 
 francs, and later on we will settle what part of the 
 profit you are to have."..." Pray do not trouble your- 
 selves about me ; I am only too happy to look after 
 your interests."..." You know where to find your 
 inventor again?"..." Yes, he has returned home, 
 and is waiting for me impatiently, for I told him 
 that I was going away to get the necessary funds. 
 I will start for Germany to-morrow morning, but 
 promise me to keep this matter secret, even from the 
 captain. When I bring you back a million francs 
 (40,000Z.) you will be at liberty to speak about it." 
 ..." You are quite right; we will not mention it."... 
 ** We will not say a word about it till the business 
 is in trim and going on well." 
 
178 NEWS CF F0UIL1.AC* 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 NEWS OP POUILLAC. 
 
 Cezaeine tried to console herself for the desertions 
 which had taken place in her little band, and said to 
 herself : " Before long I shall have money, plenty of 
 money, and then I will put a project which I have 
 formed into execution and buy a nice estate, where 
 all women who are oppressed and tyranised over will 
 find help and protection, and then, instead of 
 deserters, I shall have a crowd of initiated women 
 coming to me, and I shall be able to choose my ad- 
 ministration from amongst those new adherents."... 
 Madame Flambart shared Madame Pantalon's hopes 
 and she rubbed her hands and said: "Patience! 
 They have deserted us, but they will soon come back 
 again ; good fortune always brings back our friends 
 to us. They went away because our literary opera- 
 tions received a check, and they will return imme- 
 diately when they hear that our commercial enter- 
 prises are much more successful.** 
 
 As Paolina had not followed the example of the 
 others, but had remained faithful to her engage- 
 ments, they did not think that they ought to keep 
 that wonderful tobacco business a secret from her, 
 and so they told her the object of Fouillac's journey, 
 and that he had gone to Germany to make an im- 
 mense fortune, which they would be sure to realize 
 when cigars made out of horse-chestnut leaves were 
 generally smoked. 
 
 Madame Etoile was delighted to hear of the dis- 
 covery of the new kind of cigar, and she imme- 
 diately put pen to paper, for she felt inspired, and 
 she improvised the following beautiful couplet : 
 
NEWS OP FOUILLA.C. 179 
 
 As chicory — surely the thing is allowed,— 
 
 Is mixed up with coffee without any fuss, 
 
 Pray why should they stop us from blowing a cloud 
 
 From leaves of the chesnut, if that is our choice. 
 
 However, a fortnight passed without any news 
 of Fouillac..." Of course, I know that nothing can 
 have been done yet," Cezarine said ; " before the 
 business can make any progress he must get a build- 
 ing in which to set up the manufactory for our new 
 cigars, and find and instruct the workgirls, and all 
 that takes time."..." No doubt it does," Madame 
 Flambart replied, "but our dear Fouillac might 
 surely have written to us and told us whether he 
 had found his inventor again and whether he was 
 getting the business in trim."... "Perhaps he has no 
 time to write, for he must be very busy to set it all 
 going ; meanwhile, do you know what I am doing ? ' J 
 ..." Not the least.". . ." Well, I am learning to smoke 
 cigars, and I get through two or three every morn- 
 ing ; they make me cough a little, but in the end I 
 shall smoke like Lundi-Gras does."..." But why are 
 you doing that, my dear? "..."In the interests of 
 our enterprise, for you must see that we shall be 
 obliged to set the example by smoking our own 
 cigars and declaring that they are splendid."... 
 " Well, certainly that is one means of proving the 
 value of our goods. But suppose, between ourselves, 
 that these cigars made of horse-chesnut leaves should 
 be bad?"..." We will smoke others, real Havannahs, 
 and say they are our own, and, as they look exactly 
 alike, people will be taken in !"..." A capital in- 
 spiration, and we will do the same and smoke all 
 day long." 
 
 Another ten days passed, and they began to get 
 rather anxious; the ladies had sore throats from 
 smoking, and spent a considerable amount on cigars 
 in order to while away the time. Cezarine often 
 went to see her little girl ; Georgette was a charming 
 
180 HEWS OF FOTJILLAC. 
 
 child, and, although she was only seventeen months 
 old, she was already able to say mamma. Every 
 time the youog mother went to see her child she 
 felt inclined to take her back with her to the 
 chateau, but the nurse begged her to leave her with 
 her a little longer, and said : " You see how well she 
 is in our charge, and she is beginning to cut her 
 teeth, so it is hardly a suitable time to take her 
 away ; leave her with us a little longer." Cezarine, 
 therefore, yielded to the woman's entreaties, but she 
 eagerly looked forward to the time when she should 
 have her child altogether with her. At last, a 
 letter arrived at the chateau, and they all pressed 
 round Shrove-Monday, who had the letter which the 
 postman had just given him in his hand. " Give it 
 me quickly," Cezarine said to the old cabin-boy, but 
 he gave her nothing, and only said : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mrs. Captain, but the letter 
 is not for you but for Mademoiselle Elvina."..." For 
 my sister? Who can have taken the liberty of 
 writing to her ? " As she said this, she seized the 
 missive, but she recognised her husband's handwrit- 
 ing, and so she went to look for Elvina and gave her 
 the letter, saying : " Your brother has written to 
 you ; just see what he wants of you. I wonder what 
 he can be writing to you about? "...Elvina imme- 
 diately broke the seal, and read as follows : 
 
 My Dear Little Sister, — I have been ill for some days and 
 am obliged to keep my bed, and I should be very glad to 
 have a friendly face near me and not to have to depend 
 wholly on paid servants. Can you manage to come and 
 keep me company ? Is your brother no longer your first 
 and best friend ? I do not wish to think that it is other- 
 wise, and that you are not allowed to remember that you 
 are my sister. I shall expect you. 
 
 Adolphe Pantalon. 
 
 Elvina was much moved as she read this letter ; 
 she looked at Cezarine and said : " My brother is ill 
 
NEWS OF FOTTILLAC. 181 
 
 and expects me."..." Well, what do you intend to 
 do? "..."I mean to go and nurse him. Will you 
 not go with me, Cezarine ? Because, after all, it is 
 your husband who is ill. You look after strangers ; 
 will you not also go and attend to him ?"..." Oh ! he 
 would not let me wait upon him ! You may be sure 
 that he does not believe that I could cure him, and 
 you see that he does not even mention me in his 
 letter. He does not want me! "..."He cannot ask 
 you to go, as you have chosen to leave him. Will 
 you come with me, Cezarine?"... The young woman 
 hesitated for a moment and then replied : " No, I 
 shall not go."... "You will not go and look after 
 your husband when he is ill ? ". . ."My husband was 
 delighted to see me leave him, and he neither said 
 nor did anything to try and keep me from going."... 
 " Did you expect him to ask your pardon when it 
 was you who every day tried to quarrel with him? " 
 ..."It seems to me, my dear little sister, that you 
 are saying very unkind things to me !"..." I am only 
 saying what I think; you cannot wish me to flatter 
 you and to tell lies? Have I not been an eye- 
 witness of your bad temper and of your fits of pas- 
 sion ? Whenever my brother was in the right, you 
 used to quarrel with him."... "You are almost get- 
 ting impertinent, my dear. I will excuse you, be- 
 cause you are a mere child and know nothing at all 
 of what goes on in married life, otherwise you would 
 know that when a woman is in the wrong she ought 
 always to make the most noise and try to quarrel 
 with her husband. Every woman understands these 
 tactics, and never fails to make use of them."..." I 
 do not wish to vex you, and you are quite right, I 
 am only a girl, and I know nothing about a married 
 woman's behaviour, but I do know that when anyone 
 is in the wrong it is very foolish to try and be in the 
 right. For the last time, will you come with me 
 and see Adolphe ?"..." No, I shall not go ! "..."Very 
 
182 *£WS OP FOUILLAC. 
 
 ■well then, 1 shall go by myself; may I take Aglae" 
 with me? "..."No, I cannot do without my lady's 
 maid, but Lundi-Gras can go with you as far as the 
 railway station ; it is only a short journey, and you 
 will be in Paris very soon. I hope you intend to 
 some back again ?"..." I shall come back when my 
 brother has entirely recovered and when my presence 
 is no longer necessary to him, unless he asks me to 
 stay."..." Just as you please! A pleasant journey 
 to you ! " 
 
 Elvina hastily prepared for her departure, and 
 then went to say good-bye to the captain, who said 
 to her : " Go to your brother, my dear child ; I begin 
 to think that all my niece's fine projects are only so 
 many soap bubbles, which the slightest puff of wind 
 will blow to pieces. To wish to alter the world is 
 like trying to make a white man out of a negro ; he 
 may change his manners, his dress, and his lan- 
 guage, but he will always have the same passions, 
 the same vices, and be guilty of the same absurdi- 
 ties, and so we must make up our mind to take him 
 as he is." 
 
 Aglae was much distressed when she found that 
 Elvina was going away without her, and almost in- 
 sisted on accompanying her, but Elvina reminded 
 her that she was, before everything, in Madame 
 Pantalon's service, so the girl consoled herself and 
 said : " When all the ladies have left — and there are 
 only two now who are holding out — I hope that my 
 mistress will not remain here alone with the captain 
 and that old fellow. A house like this is very nice, 
 mademoiselle, when there are plenty of people in it, 
 but when one has to hunt about for them, I prefer 
 the Passage des Panoramas in Paris ! " 
 
 Elvina's departure made life at the chateau duller 
 than ever. Madame Etoile, who was still wrapped 
 up in her poetry, went to dream by herself under the 
 trees ; the captain had the gout, Lundi-Gras was 
 
NEWS OP FOUILLAC. 183 
 
 frequently drunk, the gardener almost constantly- 
 sleeping, Nanon was always eating, the cook had 
 nothing to do, whilst Cezarine and Madame Flambart, 
 who could not comprehend Fouillac's silence, began 
 to think that their money was lost, and did not 
 smoke nearly so many cigars. 
 
 At last, however, Cezarine could bear it no longer, 
 so she went to her uncle and said : " Uncle, I am 
 very anxious about Monsieur Fouillac ! "..." Why 
 should you be anxious ? You surely cannot expect 
 him to spend all his life here! He likes to go to 
 Paris and enjoy himself. "..." But you do not know 
 that I entrusted him with a large sum of money — 
 and Madame Mambart also."..." You trusted Fouil- 
 lac with a lot of money! Whatever for ?"..." For 
 an undertaking from which we were to win millions. 
 A man he knew had found out how to make excel- 
 lent cigars out of the leaves of horse chesnuts " 
 
 ..." Tobacco from horse-chesnut leaves ! What rub- 
 bish you are talking !"..." I am only repeating what 
 Monsieur Fouillac said. He told us that the cigars 
 were a great success, as there was an enormous de- 
 mand for them on account of their low price. It 
 was a discovery which was certain to make anyone 
 who could cultivate them very rich, on account of 
 the enormous demand for them."... "And do you 
 really mean to say that you believed him ?"..." So 
 much so that I let him have fifty thousand francs 
 and Madame Flambart gave him thirty thousand, in 
 order to set the business going."..." If you had asked 
 me, you would not have given Fouillac a penny."... 
 "Why, uncle? Do you doubt his honesty?"... 
 "His honesty? Well, not exactly, but he is a 
 gambler."..." He has not gambled for a long time." 
 ..."For the very good reason that he never had a 
 farthing, but who can guarantee that he did not 
 succumb to temptation as soon as he was in posses- 
 sion of a tolerably large sum of money ? Have you 
 
184 NEWS OP FOUILLAC. 
 
 got his address? "..."No; he promised to write to 
 us."..." That was very clever of him. Then you 
 must wait ; but I have very little confidence in your 
 cigars made out of horse-chestnut leaves. I can 
 only say again, I am afraid that he has cheated you 
 out of your money." 
 
 Four days later a letter with the Baden postmark 
 was delivered at the chateau. It was addressed to 
 Madame Pan talon, who eagerly looked at the signa- 
 ture and exclaimed : "It is from Fouillac! "..." At 
 last ! " Madame Flambart said. " I am quite sure 
 that we have been needlessly anxious. Read it 
 quickly; we are all attention."..." I really believe 
 that I am afraid to read it," Cezarine said.... 
 " What ! you who are so courageous, such a strong 
 woman !"..." There, it is over; it was only excite- 
 ment. Listen : — 
 
 Dear and Honoured Madame Pantalon, — I have been a long 
 time in writing to you, and you will, no doubt, have 
 accused me of negligenee, but it is not so. As, however, 
 I had nothing pleasant to communicate to you, I said to 
 myself : ' The ladies will know it soon enough ! ' More 
 than once, .indeed, I felt inclined never to let you hear 
 from me again, but I said to myself : ' They will go on 
 waiting and hoping, and that would be yery unplessant 
 for them.' You must, therefore, know that the story 
 about the cigars manufactured from horse-chesnut leayes 
 was altogether a fabrication. "When I found myself in 
 possession of eighty thousand francs, which you entrusted 
 to me, I was tempted — not to appropriate them to my 
 own use, for I am incapable of doing such a thing ! — 
 but to triple and quadruple the amount, by a martingale, 
 which I discovered some time ago, but which I was never 
 able to carry out for want of money. I said to myself : 
 'How pleasant it would be to win an immense sum for 
 these ladies who have been so kind to me ! ' If, how- 
 ever, I had said to you : ' Trust me with your money, so 
 that I may play my martingale, ' you would most likely 
 have refused, and so I made up that little story about 
 the false tobacco, which you were kind enough to believe. 
 
NEWS OF FOUILLAC. 185 
 
 Alas ! ladies, I never saw such a thing before — the red 
 turned up twenty-two times consecutively, and that up- 
 set all my calculations, and I have lost your eighty thou- 
 sand francs. And here is the principal misfortune : — If 
 I had only had twenty thousand francs more ! for luck 
 turned, and I should have won it all back again. I shall 
 remain at Baden for your reply ; if you would send me 
 more money, I am sure I could win it all back again. 
 
 — Your devoted, Fouillac, 
 
 The letter fell from Cezanne's hands, who sat 
 dumb and overwhelmed by what she had just read. 
 With Widow Mambart, however, it was quite dif- 
 ferent ; she gave way to a flood of complaints, re- 
 proaches and noise, and walked up and down the 
 room exclaiming : " It is horrible ! The man has 
 robbed me ! Robbed is the only word for it ! Thirty 
 thousand francs — the quarter of my modest fortune ! 
 What can I do with an income of four thousand five 
 hundred francs (180L) P How can I ever buy my- 
 self a bonnet out of that ? Madame Pantalon, you 
 are the cause of my ruin — of the loss which I have 
 just suffered! "..."I, madame! How am I the 
 cause of it? Did I advise you to trust Monsieur 
 Fouillac with thirty thousand francs? "..."JSTo, you 
 did not advise me, but you trusted him with fifty 
 thousand ! And was not that as good as saying to 
 me : ( He is an honest man ! ' [Naturally, I followed 
 your example, and now he has ruined me ! You do 
 not mind your loss, for your uncle is very rich and 
 he will make it good to you, but I have no uncle to 
 give me back my money. Oh ! why did I come with 
 you to this cursed place, where people do nothing 
 but make fools of themselves ? "..."Madame, ma- 
 dame, moderate your language ! "..."Wo, I will not 
 moderate it, but I repeat what I said ! You commit 
 nothing but follies here — your uniform, your news- 
 paper, your cooking, your boat, they are all non- 
 sense, blunders, and sheer folly ! Bat this last affair 
 
186 IN WHICH THE WOMAN 
 
 is rather too strong, and fills the measure to over- 
 flowing. Adieu, Madame Pantalon ; I am going to 
 take my leave of yon and yonr house, and I am only 
 very sorry that I ever came here ! " 
 
 Madame Flambart's exit was magnificent. Ceza- 
 rine went and showed her uncle Pouillac's letter ; 
 after reading it, the captain said : " I fully expected 
 this. My dear, the old saying is quite true : * Who- 
 ever has drunk, will drink ; and whoever has gambled 
 will gamble ! ' But console yourself ; I have some 
 savings and I will make your losses good. The fool ! 
 Instead of trying to discover a martingale for rou- 
 lette, he had far better try and discover a cure for 
 the gout ; that would indeed make his fortune ! " 
 
 The next day Madame Etoile followed Madame 
 Mambart, saying to herself : " There is nobody here 
 now but Madame Pantalon to listen to my verses, 
 and she is a very bad listener, so I might as well go 
 back to Etoile, who must be longing for my return ! " 
 Thus Cezarine was deserted by all the Independents. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE WOMAN IS FOUND AGAIN. 
 
 In order to console herself and to forget the suc- 
 cessive defeats which she had suffered, Cezarine 
 went every day to see her little girl, whom she loved 
 very dearly ; for a woman must love something, and 
 generally her children come before everything. But, 
 as the captain had a severer attack of the gout than 
 usual, she had not left him for two days, but tried to 
 
IS FOUND AGAIN. 187 
 
 alleviate his sufferings, and was constantly inventing 
 new remedies, which did not do him the least good. 
 
 On the third day, one of the nurse's children came 
 and asked her to go and see little Georgette, who 
 was rather unwell.. . ." My child is ill ! Since when ?" 
 "Since the day before yesterday ."...She ordered 
 her horse to be saddled, and took Aglae, who by 
 some means or other had also learned to ride, with 
 her. They soon reached the nurse's cottage, and, 
 when Cezarine went in, the nurse was teaching the 
 child to walk. The child, who began to know its 
 her mother, smiled and stretched out her arms to her. 
 ..."Well, as she is up and running about, it cannot 
 be anything very serious ! " Cezarine said, taking the 
 child on her knee...." Certainly it is nothing serious, 
 madame," the nurse said, " and that is why I did not 
 wish to alarm you ; she is hoarse, that is all.". . ." Speak 
 to me, Georgette ; do you love me ? ". . .The child said : 
 "Yes mamma," but it was not her usual voice, but a 
 hoarse, hollow sound, which it was painful to hear. 
 Cezarine was frightened and said : " Good heavens ! 
 what a voice! Can she have the croup ?"..." The 
 croup! There is no danger of that. If she had the 
 croup .she would be dead, for you know, madame, 
 that it carries them off in less than twenty-four 
 hours." 
 
 Cezarine spent more than an hour with little 
 Georgette, and left her quite reassured, as she only 
 coughed a little and seemed quite free from pain. 
 
 Three days passed, and every morning Cezarine 
 went to see her little Georgette. The fourth day 
 she went to the nurse's cottage quite early, and 
 found the woman in tears and everybody in the 
 house in grief, because Georgette was very ill. She 
 could scarcely breathe, her heart beat violently, and, 
 in spite of all, she smiled when she saw her mother, 
 who took her into her arms and said : " Oh ! what 
 has happened? "..."Nothing has happened, madame, 
 
188 IN WHICH THE WOMAN 
 
 only during the night the poor little darling sud- 
 denly became like that."..." One might almost think 
 she was going to die. Where does it hurt you, my 
 darling? "...The child pointed to her throat.... "I am 
 frightened because a neighbour of mine told me that 
 there are some kind of croups which last more than 
 twenty-four hours and which are sometimes more 
 than forty-eight hours in forming."..." Oh ! then 
 my child will die. A doctor ! Where is there a 
 doctor ?"..." At Nozon, Dr. Durand; I do not know 
 of any other."..." Aglae, make haste; take my horse 
 and your own and bring back a medical man." 
 
 At that moment the door of the room was opened 
 and Frederick Duvassel came in. Going up to Ceza- 
 rine, he said : " Madame, I have just this moment 
 been told that your little girl is ill — very ill. Will 
 you allow me to see what I can do for her? "..."In- 
 deed, monsieur, I think that heaven has sent you. 
 If you save my child, I shall owe you my life also." 
 ...Frederick examined Georgette and said: " It is a 
 case of latent croup, which takes ten days to deve- 
 lope, if it not checked at the beginning."..." Oh! 
 monsieur, will she die? "..."!N*o, but I was only just 
 in time ; this evening it would have been too late." 
 
 Cezarine was unable to reply, but Frederick took 
 the child, put it on a bed, and then took a case of 
 instruments out of his pocket; at the sight of them 
 the poor mother uttered a cry...." Do not be al- 
 armed," he said, " I will not hurt her, and then, 
 must we not save her ? " He then cut the child's, 
 tonsils,, and, introducing a long silver instrument, he 
 tore and pulled out some whitish membranes, which 
 interfered with its breathing. Georgette bore the 
 operation very well, and in a moment or two she 
 was breathing strongly and comfortably, whereupon 
 Frederick called her mother into the room again and 
 said : " Your child's life is saved. 
 
IS FOUND AGAIN. 189 
 
 Cezarine could contain herself no longer, and, 
 with tears of joy, she said : " How shall I, who 
 liave always been so unjust towards you, ever 
 repay you for what you have done for me?"... 
 " How I have misunderstood you, monsieur ! You 
 must detest me ! "..."Ladies are sometimes capri- 
 cious and take antipathies, but I assure you that we 
 do not hate them on that account. And then, you 
 are the wife of my most intimate friend. And now 
 I must advise you not to leave the child, for a 
 mother's place is by her child's bedside when it is ill." 
 
 In three days little Georgette was well again and 
 the hoarse voice had given place to the soft childish 
 tones, which are so dear to a mother's ear, and 
 Cezarine took her to the chateau, for she was deter- 
 mined not to be separated from her again. She 
 Pegged Frederick to accompany her, so he went and 
 shook hands with the old captain, who said to him : 
 " Why, I recognise you ; you were at my niece's wed- 
 ding ball."..." Yes, captain, and it was my fault that 
 nobody waltzed with Madame Boulard."... Cezarine 
 smiled and said : " Let us forget that, doctor ! You 
 said to me that it would be easy for me to prove my 
 gratitude towards you. Pray tell me how? "..." Can 
 you not guess, mad ame ?" ...Cezarine hesitated, 
 blushed, and then said: "I might make a mistake, 
 doctor, and so I should prefer you yourself to tell me 
 how I can repay you all that I owe you."..." Well 
 then, by coming to Paris with me and allowing me 
 to restore you to your hnsband's arms. I know that 
 he will be delighted to see you again ; he is quite re- 
 stored to health, and your presence will complete his 
 convalescence. Your separation was never anything 
 serious ; it was the result of misdirected enthusiasm 
 on one side, and of vexation on the other. Come 
 and restore a child to its father, and reunite a wife 
 "to her husband, and for the future I do not doubt 
 iihat you will all be happy." 
 
190 IS WHICH THE WOMAN 
 
 Cezarine held out her hand to Frederick and said : 
 " You have earned the right of making me do any- 
 thing that you wish."... "And believe me, that in 
 this case you will never repent it."..." Uncle, Mon- 
 sieur Duvassel has been begging me to go back to my 
 husband."... "He is quite right, and it is the best 
 thing you can do. All comedies end like that; and, 
 after all, you have no grave faults to accuse yourself 
 of; it was only uncompatibility of temper ! " 
 
 On hearing this, Cezarine went up to Frederick 
 and said to him : " Ton wish to take me back to my 
 husband?"..." Yes, and you have consented. Do 
 you already repent of your resolution ?"..." Oh! no. 
 
 Only? "..."Well finish what you were going to 
 
 say."..." You think that my husband will receive me 
 kindly ? I must confess that I did not behave well 
 towards him. "..."From the moment you confess it, 
 it is just the same as if you had never done so."... 
 " Do you really think so? I am by no means certain 
 that he will be delighted to see me again."..." And I 
 can assure you that he will. I know Adolphe and 
 his excellent heart, and, if you confess that you have 
 been in the wrong, it is not in his nature to be angry 
 with you any longer." 
 
 The next day, Cezarine took leave of her uncle, 
 who said to her : " I hope you will come back soon, 
 but with your husband; otherwise I shall not receive 
 you, for you have caused a good deal of mischief 
 with all your female cabals. And then, you made 
 me eat Lundi-Gras* cookery, and I do not wish you 
 to let him be cook again." 
 
 When they arrived in Paris, they agreed that 
 Cezarine with her child and maid should remain at 
 Frederick Duvassel's till he had found a favourable 
 moment for restoring the wandering sheep to her 
 home. The doctor soon returned and said : " Come, 
 you have an excellent opportunity for going home 
 now ; your husband is at the law courts, his man is 
 
IS FOUND AGAIN. 191 
 
 out, and his sister is quite alone ; I told her that you 
 were coming back and she was delighted, for she 
 knows that your presence will restore your husband 
 to health and bring happiness once more to his 
 home. Come, your rooms are ready and you can in- 
 stal yourself in them with Georgette, and, when he 
 comes home and finds his wife there, he will not be- 
 lieve that she ever left him." 
 
 Cezarine did exactly as Frederick told her; she 
 drove home, and her heart beat violently when she 
 saw her own house again, and her emotion was very 
 great when she found herself in her own rooms once 
 more, but already Elvina had embraced her several 
 times, and said to her : " Oh! I knew perfectly well 
 that you would return ! I knew that you could not 
 live away from us for any length of time." Cezarine 
 settled herself in her room, placed the child's cradle 
 -close to her bed, and put on one of those simple 
 dresses which she had been in the habit of wearing 
 before she left her home. Then she took her em- 
 broidery, sat down near little Georgette, who was 
 asleep, and said to Frederick : " ISTow he can come. 
 I only wish he could believe that the past is only a 
 dream, and forget that I ever left him."..." Be quite 
 tranquil ; he wSl believe it." Frederick could safely 
 say that to Cezarine, for the day beforo he had told 
 Adolphe that she was about to return to him, and 
 also that she hoped he would not reproach her for 
 her folly, and Adolphe felt too happy to refer to the 
 past, and then — what would have been the good of 
 doing so ? What is done, is done ! 
 
 When at last he returned home, Elvina, blushing 
 and trembling with pleasure, said to him : " Go into 
 your wife's room ; you will find what you have been 
 constantly hoping for . . and your little Georgette, 
 whom you so much wished to have in your arms." 
 But Adolphe was not listening to his sister ; he was 
 already in his wife's room, and he could not restrain 
 
192 IN WHICH THE WOMAN IS FOUND AGAIN. 
 
 a cry of joy when he saw her again, and she could 
 not check her tears when her husband covered his 
 child with kisses. Those tears were the first that she 
 had shed, and she was surprised to find that some- 
 times there is more pleasure in crying' than in laugh- 
 ing. Not a word was said about the past, not a re- 
 proach nor a word which could recall it. They were 
 reconciled, and, when peace is made, what is the 
 good of still speaking of the war 9 
 
 But when Frederick came to see them, Cezarine 
 took his hand and introduced him to her husband, 
 and said to the latter : " My dear, here is the man 
 to whom you owe your daughter's life ; without him 
 she must have died ! "...Adolphe shook hands with 
 Frederick and said : "I owe him my daughter and I 
 owe him my wife! Indeed, I owe him so much 
 that I can never hope to pay the debt." 
 
 A few months later, Gustave married Elvina, and 
 she was satisfied with remaining a mere woman. As 
 to the other ladies who played masculine parts in 
 the Pantalon confraternity, I cannot tell you whether 
 they are still acting in the same capacity, but I do 
 not think so. Women have too many attractions 
 and charms — they are too graceful, refined and 
 witty to abdicate all those advantages by trying to 
 resemble the masculine sex. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00030229262 
 
Library of the 
 University of North Carolina 
 
 * 
 
 
 B *■ 
 
 From the Pendleton King Library 
 Through Rush N. King, '04 
 
 843 
 
 K7Gx 
 V. 10 
 
 . 
 
 
 
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This BOOK may be kept out TWO 
 WEEKS ONLY, and is subject to a fine 
 of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was 
 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
C.i. 
 
MONSIEUR DUPONT. 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL DE KOCK. 
 
 fbmlum : 
 
 THE TEMPLE COMPANY, 
 
 6, Booksellers' Row, Strand, W.C. 
 
MONSIEUR DUPONT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE PEOPLE — THE MONTONNET FAMILY. 
 
 Twas Sunday : and the joyous dance went on in front of the forester's 
 house at the entrance of the wood of Romainville. No doubt other 
 dances took place simultaneously in other localities, for the beauty of the 
 day had drawn the people forth from their habitations in country and in 
 town, and more especially because, time out of mind, it had been the 
 custom to convert days set apart for repose into days of fatigue, and 
 voluntarily to incur exertion which would be rejected with disdain if 
 proffered in the shape of daily labour. 
 
 But our tale deals only with the rustic ball at Romainville. Numbers 
 of both sexes danced on the green grass plot to the inspiriting strains of 
 a violin, a drum and clarionet ; but the visitors were not confined to the 
 inhabitants of the neighbouring village, for those of Belleville, Menilmon- 
 tant, and Boissy-le-See thronged to the ball at Romainville, attracted by 
 the superiority of its orchestra, the blandness of the landlord of the little- 
 inn, and the sylvan beauties of the wood. Faster and faster grew the 
 sport, legs were thrown heedlessly about, under-petticoats displayed their- 
 tempting shapes, fair bosoms heaved, handkerchiefs performed those offices 
 which, in the ball-rooms of the higher classes, are assigned to fans, and the 
 dancers, par excellence, flew hither and thither, inflicting kicks on their 
 neighbours on every side, which, from the momentary excitement, were, 
 totally unfelt. 
 
 Now, our readers must understand that dancing in a village and dancing; 
 in a town are two very different things ; for in the former it is absolutely 
 necessary to move vigorously and for a lengthened period, and the most 
 finished exquisite of a fashionable saloon would cut but a sorry figure at a 
 ruralball where the good folks do not content themselves with merely 
 walking through a quadrille and assuming all sorts of languid airs and' 
 graces. To do honour to the day, the peasant girls had donned their best 
 attire, neat caps trimmed with lace were placed jauntily on their well-turned 
 heads, and some even sported silk aprons — in their estimation a dignity 
 equivalent in more elevated ranks to the possession of a Cashmere shawl. . 
 Pleasure sparkled in their jet-black eyes, and enjoyment prevailed through- 
 out the motley groups ; those who danced did so with all their hearts, and . 
 those who for the moment sat down patiently, looked on and promised 
 themselves the gratification of mingling in the ensuing set. Oh ! happy 
 days of youth, when a dance, a violin, a clarionet and drum can thus in- - 
 terest our minds ! 
 
:2 Monsieur jJupojit. 
 
 Tempted by the fineness of the weather, several denizens of Paris left 
 the murky city and came out to meet the villagers ; smart, coquettish shop- 
 girls, each accompanied by her sweetheart, were there ; staid matrons whose 
 occupation nailed them, all the week, to the counter, had teased and worried 
 their husbands to indulge them at this f&te, and there were not wanting 
 dapper shopmen and spruce clerks eagerly soliciting the hands of the 
 prettiest and best- dressed girls. 
 
 At a short distance from the verdant ball-room, in a small hollow deeper 
 in the recesses of the wood, a numerous and happy group were seated on 
 the turf enjoying a repast of pates, cold meats, fruits and wines ; a keen 
 appetite gave piquancy to every dish, plates were emptied rapidly, and 
 glasses drained and refilled ; the harmless jest and joke went round, songs 
 were sung, and all was delight, for at a picnic formal observances are cast 
 away, and the party assembled in the wood of Komainville were well 
 acquainted with the fact. One elderly gentleman named Montonnet vainly 
 attempted to carve a turkey, but could not accomplish the feat ; a little lady 
 near him, round as a ball, seized one of the legs of the bird, and pulled 
 lustily, when on a sudden the leg was detached, the lady rolled over on the 
 . grass, with a liberal display of her nether charms, and shouts of laughter 
 . greeted the mishap. But, alas, poor Monsieur Montonnet did not escape 
 scot-free ; for his wife, a tall, dry, lead-visaged woman, seated immediately 
 opposite to him, and who had not seen the advent of the fat little lady 
 without some qualms of jealousy, attacked him fierceh' and exclaimed, — 
 
 " I knew you could never do it, we have been married twenty years, and 
 you have never carved yet." , . . "True, my dear," replied the poor 
 man in a submissive tone, striving with a sickly smile to soften the acerbity 
 of his better half, but she returned to the charge with, — " Bah ! you 
 who cannot even serve a dish of spinach must needs dissect a turkey. Now 
 mind me, sir, and whether in the country or in town do not meddle with 
 affairs of which you know nothing." . . . "But to-day," whined he, " I 
 may do what I like. You forget it is the fete of Saint Eustache. "... 
 The utterance of the last word produced a magical effect on all the com- 
 pany ; glasses were filled to the brim, every one, addressing Montonnet, 
 drank to his health, and even his wife condescended to put on an air of 
 amiability, and wished him long life in a somewhat less acrid tone. 
 
 And here we must break the thread of the narrative for a few moments 
 to explain the cause of the friendly ceremony above detailed. Monsieur 
 Eustache Montonnet was a wealthy lace-dealer, residing in the Rue St 
 Martin, respected highly by his neighbours, for the thirty years he had 
 l>een in business he had attended to it from eight o'clock in the morning 
 until eight o'clock at night, and was never known to have failed in his 
 pecuniary engagements. He kept the books and made out the bills, 
 Madame assisted him in his purchases and correspondence, whilst the 
 ^retail department was entrusted to an old clerk who had been long in his 
 employ, and to Mademoiselle Eugenie Montonnet, who will shortly be 
 • brought upon the scene. Unfortunately — as may be gathered from the 
 -preceding remarks — Monsieur Montonnet was not lord and master in his 
 own house : his wife ruled all. When she was in a good humour — a very 
 rare occurrence — she permitted him to go out and take his coffee at an 
 - establishment at the corner of the B,ue Maucenseil, that house being speci- 
 ally selected because the lumps of sugar supplied there with the cups of 
 coffee were of large dimensions, and Montonnet was enjoined to bring three 
 of them home to his wife. Their domestic habits were of a regular nature : 
 v meals at the usual tradesmen's hours, except on Sundays, when they dined 
 . xather earlier, in order to enjoy a promenade in the Turkish Gardens, or 
 
Sketclies of the People— the Montonnet Family. 3 
 
 ..amongst the orange trees that adorn the shady alleys of the Tuileries. 
 Excursions into the country were few and far between, and only took place 
 on such extraordinary occasions as the anniversary of the birthdays of Mon- 
 tonnet and his spouse. Notwithstanding this dull, jog-trot life, the pursy 
 lace-dealer considered himself the happiest of men ; his tastes were simple 
 and peaceful, and, docile as a child, he looked to be led and not to lead ; he 
 had no strong passions to hurry him into foolish actions, attended to his 
 business, and calmly obeyed the commands of his wife. Madame Mon- 
 tonnet had passed her fortieth year— but it was agreed that she should 
 never be more than thirty-six ; sbe was a fine-growu woman, and although 
 without the slightest pretensions to beauty, was impressed with the idea 
 •that she was superior in personal attractions to the rest of her sex ; she was 
 moderately fond of her husband, but would have torn his eyes out if he had 
 been guilty of an infidelity, and was exceedingly tenacious of what she 
 -termed her rights. ■ 
 
 One only daughter had blessed the loves of Monsieur and Madame 
 Eustache Montonnet. This young lady, who had reached her eighteenth 
 year, was of a timid, submissive disposition, had been brought up under 
 rigid discipline, and was not permitted to speak a single word in the pre- 
 sence of her parents. Beneath this cold exterior great mental qualities 
 were concealed, but which, from the severity of her mother, were seldom 
 publicly developed. In person she was tall, with soft, expressive eyes, a 
 forehead shaded with dark hair, white regular teeth, and a most agreeable 
 voice ; and although not beautiful, in the strict sense of the word, she pos- 
 sessed that nameless grace which interests at first sight, and gently works 
 its way into the heart, and which is often wanting in ladies of more perfect 
 charms and chiselled features. 
 
 We have thus disposed of all the family of Montonnet, and will proceed 
 •to make known the rest of the party so festively assembled in the woods of 
 Romainville. First, then, the round little lady who rushed with so much 
 ardour to the aid of Montonnet in the affair of the turkey was the wife of 
 Monsieur Bernard, who kept a toy-shop in the Rue St Denis. This gentle- 
 man laughed loudly, made jokes, even attempted puns, and was the acknow- 
 ledged wit of the company. In her youth, Madame Bernard had been 
 pretty, and was determined to remain so ; so, to attain that desirable end, 
 she laced herself in so tightly as to impede respiration, and crippled her feet 
 -with ridiculously tiny shoes. Rather too much colour predominated in her 
 cheeks, but it gave additional point to a pair of bright, mischief -making-, 
 -ever-roving eyes. This lady had also a daughter, a fine girl of fifteen years 
 of age, dressed, however, as if she were but eight, with all imaginable 
 devices to support the assumed juvenility of her mamma. Next to Madame 
 Bernard sat a young man apparently eighteen years old, who blushed every 
 time he was addressed. This youth was the son of Monsieur Bernard's 
 ^partner, and Madame had undertaken the task of instructing him in busi- 
 ness and pushing him forward in the world. Close to Eugenie, a rich 
 .grocer named Dupont was seated. His age might be above forty ; he wore 
 a pigtail in consequence of the assurance of his hairdresser that it gave him 
 a distinguished air, and was dressed in a light blue coat and bright canary 
 coloured waistcoat, which added greatly to the naturally stupid expression 
 of his eyes. His constant occupation was to play with the seals and trinkets 
 attached to his watch chain ; he spoke in a pompous tone, under the hallu- 
 cination that his conversation was brilliant and agreeable, and, although a 
 fool, he was rich and a bachelor, which latter circumstance gained him great 
 •consideration with speculating mothers who had daughters to get off. 
 
 Next in order were Monsieur and Madame Gerard, perfumers, of the Rue 
 
4 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 St Martin. The man affected a libertine carriage, although he was ugly r 
 ill-made, and squinted ; his wife was young and pretty, and had with her 
 a boy, eight years of age, who cried, jumped on the plates, broke the 
 bottles and glasses, and was the pest of the whole company. Monsieur- 
 Gerard's sister, an old maid of forty-five, accompanied them. She was 
 continually repeating her determination not to marry, but ogled Monsieur 
 Dupont, and sighed in a sentimental manner whenever he spoke. By the 
 side of this antiquated spinster, Bidois, Montonnet's old clerk, had placed 
 himself, much to her disgust, and made free use of the bottle whenever he 
 thought himself unobserved ; and to complete the party we must introduce 
 a young man named Adolphe, close to Eugenie, tall and-well made, and 
 whose frank countenance conveyed the idea that he was not born to be for 
 ever measuring calico and bombazeen. Adolphe was a shopman at a 
 mercer's with whom Madame Montonnet dealt, and as he always gave her 
 full measure, she had distinguished him by an invitation to the fete. 
 
 Thus, gentle readers, you are now acquainted with all the individuals 
 assembled at the fete champetre of Monsieur and Madame Montonnet. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DOMESTIC DETAILS ; INTERIOR OF MONTONNET S ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 The annual recurrence of the fete of Saint Eustache was an event antici- 
 pated with the liveliest pleasure by the family of Monsieur Montonnet ; 
 great excitement prevailed on that day, and even Madame Montonnet so 
 far relaxed in her austerity as to assume a somewhat joyful air. Eugenie 
 invariably learnt a new song, and sang it to her father in the morning 
 whilst presenting him with some pretty testimonial of affection which she 
 had worked for him ; and the good man on accepting it kissed her, whilst 
 tears of pleasure stood trembling in his eyes. Madame Montonnet like- 
 wise presented a souvenir to her husband, but as her feelings had a decided 
 economic tendency, her gift consisted generally of a waistcoat, pairs of 
 stockings, pocket handkerchiefs, or other small articles of utility. No 
 matter how trivial the tribute might be, Montonnet was delighted — of 
 course — for the good man had excellent reasons for always appearing con- 
 tent. Bidois contributed nothing ; his savings were reserved for the fete 
 of Saint Barbe, the patroness of Madame Montonnet, but, nevertheless,, 
 the astute old clerk had played his cards well in the morning on which 
 our tale opens, for, whilst paying his respects and offering his congratula- 
 tions to his master, he had taken care to laud the graces, mental and cor- 
 poral, of Madame, and thus succeeded in gaining an invitation to the fete 
 champetre on condition that he carried the provisions for the repast. The 
 female servant was left at home to take care of the house, and Bidois 
 trudged on, groaning under the weight of two large baskets, with the 
 perspiration pouring from his brows ; no audible complaint, however, 
 escaped him, and he even endeavoured to appear brisk and gamesome 
 whenever the eyes of Madame Montonnet were cast upon him. On the 
 eve of the eventful day, Madame Montonnet, who had invited all the 
 guests for the gay morrow, engaged her husband in a conference, 
 and condescended to inform him who she had selected. "My 
 dear," said she, in a tone of great kindness, "to-morrow is the- 
 
Domestic Details ; Interior of Montonnet' s Establishment. 5 
 
 fete of Saint Eustache." "Indeed," replied the laceman, endeavouring 
 to look perfectly astonished, although he had anxiously watched the 
 barometer every day for the last week, to ascertain if the weather would 
 continue fair or not. After a few reciprocal compliments, and a demon- 
 stration of enthusiasm by Montonnet at the mention of the wood of 
 Romainville, which did not pass unchecked by his wife, with a curt com- 
 mand to hold his tongue, that lady proceeded to state the names of those 
 she had invited, and also to detail the plans of her campaign. " First," 
 said she, "there will be Monsieur and Madame Bernard, their daughter 
 Mimi, and their young clerk Stephen. Bernard is full of life and spirits, 
 and is excellent good company, he, therefore, is indispensable ; his wife has 
 not his wit and talent, although she talks incessantly, and really it grieves 
 to see how the poor woman screws herself in to give herself a genteel ap- 
 pearance. What folly at thirty-eight years of age ! And the daughter 
 Mimi, too ; why, the girl is at least fifteen years old, and has been three 
 years in the shop, and yet they treat her as a mere child, and give her dolls 
 to play with. However, no one is without defects, and if one should not 
 £0 out until one had found perfection, one might stop at home all one's 
 life." ... "It is all very absurd," murmured old Bidois, who essayed 
 to smile in order to conceal the grins that came involuntarily on his face 
 at the thought of the heavy baskets in perspective ; and Madame Montonnet, 
 after honouring him with a look of approbation, continued her dis- 
 course. ..." Bidois is right ; the way in which Madame Bernard 
 dresses and brings up her daughter is devoid of common sense ;^ and, 
 Monsieur Montonnet, what I particularly request is that you will not^leave 
 the company under the pretext of seeking wild strawberries with Madame 
 Bernard, for there are not any strawberries in the wood of Romain- 
 ville." . . . "My dear," said Montonnet, "I did not know there were 
 not any. "... " Well, sir, you do know now, and I forbid you to seek 
 them with Madame Bernard, who, at all events, will have her constant 
 companion, little Stephen, if she feels inclined to ramble. That youth 
 accompanies her everywhere, and really, if one was inclined to scandal, 
 surmises might be made — " Here Madame Montonnet stopped abruptly, 
 and Bidois, who laughed and looked knowing at the mention of the little 
 toyshop clerk, received a second approving look. Madame Montonnet 
 went on, — " I have also invited our neighbours in the Rue St Martin, 
 Monsieur and Madame Gerard, their daughter, and their sister, Miss 
 Cecilia Gerard. This family have the advantage of professing fashionable 
 manners, and Monsieur Gerard is particularly amiable and fascinating in 
 the society of ladies." . . . " It's a pity he smells so strong," grumbled 
 Montonnet in a low tone ; but the expression did not escape Madame 
 Montonnet, and she sharply exclaimed, — "What, sir, smells strong! say 
 rather that he is a very Sultan in his tastes, and fills every place he 
 visits with his delicious odours*" Poor Montonnet made a faint attempt 
 to impeach Gerard's moral character, but was set down authoritatively 
 with a request to confine himself to lavender water, as he was totally 
 incapable of appreciating the exquisite pomades used by the gallant 
 Gerard. "Thus," said Madame Montonnet, "we have the whole of the 
 Gerard family. The wife, to be sure, is a little hairbrained, but she is 
 young and pretty, we must grant her that. Their sister, Miss Cecilia, 
 is a very sensible woman, but, notwithstanding her pretended aversion to 
 the men, she is dying for a husband, and how he is to be obtained, with 
 her bad temper, harsh face, and long nose, it is quite impossible to tell. 
 Oh ! what a nose ! it might be passable for a man, but for a woman it is 
 Absolutely horrible. " . . . " Three inches too long," cried Bidois. . . . 
 
6 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 11 No, no," retorted Madame ; " three inches is rather too much, but itr 
 inust at lea*t be two." Addressing her husband, Madame Montonnet con- 
 tinued, — " Well, then, next comes our friend Dupont ; he could not be over- 
 looked on such an occasion, for, go where he will, he is always welcome. His 
 habits are orderly, his business good, his shop thronged from morning till 
 night, and he can pick a wife from any family he chooses. What a happy 
 lot will hers be to whom it shall fall to preside at his establishment ; what 
 an agreeable life, what bright future prospects for her ! " 
 
 Madame Montonnet, whilst dwelling on the prospects of the future 
 Madame J>rpoi;t, looked fixedly at Eugenie, who was wording calmly 
 behind the counter in the shop, but her daughter did not seem to pay the 
 slightest attention to the praises showered on the wealthy grocer, and 
 continued her work without raising her eyes or testifying the least 
 emotion at the mention of his name. 
 
 " Dupont will come," said Madame Montonnet ; " in his reply to my note 
 of invitation, he expresses the great pleasure he shall feel in being with us ; 
 and, indeed, he seems enchanted whenever he is asked to any of our 
 parties. Do not you think so, Montonnet ? Have you not remarked it as 
 well as myself ? " . . . " Yes, my life, I have. By-the-bye, he sells excellent 
 coffee, without the least admixture of chicory." . . . "He's the fattest 
 grocer in all Paris," said Bidois aside, apparently engaged admiring a~ 
 raised pate. ... " Aye, and certainly one of the richest. I would stake 
 my existence that he will bring some wines and liqueurs for our dessert 
 to-morrow." ... "I hope they won't put Dupont in the basket too," 
 murmured Bidois ; " their hearts are good to make me the veriest beast of 
 burthen that ever lived." ..." Ah ! I had almost forgotten," cried 
 Madame, " to name Monsieur Adolphe Dalmont, the gay young shopman 
 at our neighbour the mercer's." 
 
 Eugenie raised her eyes suddenly, and dropped them as quickly on her 
 work ; her hands trembled, her respiration came thick and fast, and a 
 bright flush overspread her cheeks. Was it the name of Adolphe that 
 caused this emotion in the breast ? Fortunately the mother's eye was- 
 not upon her, and the feelings of the girl escaped unmarked. 
 
 " It was not my intention, at first, to have invited this young man, 
 but it struck me that without another guest we should have been 
 thirteen. I do not care myself for such a ridiculous trifle, but all the 
 ladies who are coming are extremely superstitious, and above all Miss- 
 Cecilia, who would not have made one of the fatal number. This con- 
 sideration induced me to invite Adolphe. I know nothing of his family • 
 but his master, Monsieur Duval, says they are respectable, and gives him 
 a very good character. He likewise always behaves to me with the 
 greatest politeness, gives full measure, and recommends me the best 
 bargains whenever I go a-shopping. These will form the whole of our 
 society, and I hope, Montonnet. you are pleased with my selection ? " . . , 
 "Excellently well, my dear; we shall be as happy as kings." . . . 
 " Jeanneton shall dress us a beautiful piece of veal, a turkey, and a tongue,. 
 to which shall be added a superb pate", German sausages, cheese, fruits, etc.,. 
 etc. "... Montonnet rubbed his hands with delight as each delicacy pre- 
 sented itself to his mind's eye, and after a short pause said timidly, — " Do 
 you think we shall have, dearest — you know what ? " . . . " What, sir ? " . . . 
 "The large bottle of Muscat wine." . . . "We shall see, we shall see." 
 ..." G-ood," quoth Montonnet. ..." Oh, oh, oh ! " groaned Bidois 
 ascain, "verily they will break my back." . . . "The weather has set in fine, 
 and we shall have a lovely day to-morrow." ... "Dreadfully hot, I am, 
 afraid," said Bidois. ..." The guests are to assemble here at ten o'clock 
 
Domestic Details ; Interior of Montonnet's Establishment. 7 
 
 precisely, and I expect that you, Eugdnie, and Bidois will be quite ready 
 by that hour." 
 
 Eugenie answered calmly in the affirmative, Bidois bowed respectfully,, 
 and Montonnet, who had listened to his wife with the greatest attention, 
 was about to return to his accounts, when Madame arrested his steps 
 whilst she delivered a few brief parting words. . . . "Montonnet, as 
 this is the eve of your fete-day, do not worry yourself with any more busi- 
 ness, but go and take your glass of grog at the cafe." . . . His face lighted 
 up, he threw what was intended to be a look of inexpressible tenderness oa- 
 Madame, called for his hat and cane, and was about to leave the shop, 
 when a change came over him, his face became clouded, and be whispered- 
 d'lefully he had no money in his pocket. ..." How, sir ! " Madame 
 shrieked, " did not I give you a crown piece a fortnight ago ? " . . . " True,. 
 true, my sweetest, but you forget that we played at loto last Sunday at 
 Monsieur Gerard's." ... " No, no, sir, no, you never lost a crown piece at, 
 loto. Montonnet, you intrigue with other women ! " . . . The poor, hen- 
 pecked lace-dealer strove, in the most piteous accents, to repudiate the 
 charge of a departure from his nuptial vows ; the rage of the lady was at , 
 length appeased, and he was permitted to go his way, with a shilling in his 
 pocket, and a stern injunction to bring home three large pieces of sugar in,: 
 his pocket, and not to look at any little girls on his road. 
 
 Once out of sight of his wife, Montonnet cocked his hat on one side, 
 leered at every female he met, and swaggered down the street. The 
 interior of the house resumed its quiet, Bidois, pen in hand, was at his usual 
 post, Madame Montonnet' took her accustomed seat behind the counter, 
 and Eugenie kept hard at her embroidery. Notwithstanding all her 
 efforts to curb her impatience for the morrow, her thoughts wandered to- 
 Adolphe ; work was distasteful to her, she wished to think overdresses,, 
 ribbands, bonnets, and a thousand things for her toilette, but she dared 
 not move ; there sat her mother, and the young girl trembled to meet her 
 frown. After a half -hour of cold, uncongenial silence, Madame Montonnet 
 bade her daughter leave her tambour-frame, and see that nothing was 
 wanting in her dress for the fete. Eugenie needed no repetition of that 
 command ; in a moment the work was put away, and she bounded up the 
 stairs to her own room, and gaily summoned Jeanneton to her councils. 
 Now, Jeanneton was a buxom country lass, with a heart as open as her 
 countenance ; she entertained the sincerest attachment for Eugenie, and 
 was the confidant of all her little pleasures and her pains. To whom could' 
 the young girl confide them if not to Jeanneton ? Not to her harsh-, 
 mother, before whom she trembled, mute as an Eastern slave. Not to her 
 father, who would not hear them lest he should be harrassed and worried- 
 by his wife ; and not to old Bidois, a crusty bachelor, who could not enter 
 into such affairs. To whom, then, but Jeanneton, for Jeanneton was a^ 
 woman, tender, sensible and kind, one fitted to receive the secrets of 
 a depressed, restrained young heart. Jeanneton observed Engenie's pleased- 
 air, and the two plunged instantly into the mysteries of robes, lilac and 
 blue, Leghorn bonnets, ribbands, cherry coloured and deep red, 
 chemisettes, fichus and collarettes ; one thing, however, being quite 
 decided in Jeanneton's mind, namely, that whosoever the ladies of the 
 party might be, Eugenie was by far the prettiest of all, and must bear away 
 the bell. 
 
 The assurances of Jeanneton caused Eugenie's eyes to beam with 
 delight ; they looked deeply into those of the girl, and read in them that 
 she spoke with frankness, without compliment, and hi the spirit of truth. 
 
 "Certainly," said the honest girL "nobody can think of comparing 
 
$ Monsieur Dupont 
 
 Ma'amselle Mimi Bernard to you. Oh ! the great lanky gawky, she does 
 nothing but blow bladders of soap whenever she comes here. Nor her 
 •mother neither ; her arms are as fat as my thighs — saving your presence, 
 Ma'amselle — nor Madame Gerard, who stifles me with her odious violet 
 bear's-grease and vanilla marrow ; nor her ill-natured, cross-grained old 
 maid of a sister, who thinks no one can see she wears a wig." . . . "Fie, 
 -fie, Jeanneton, really you must not run on in this manner." . . . "La, 
 Mademoiselle, it's all gospel truth. Were there ever such horrible frights 
 of women ! and as for the men, they are ten times worse ; it would puzzle 
 a conjuror to tell which is the ugliest. To be sure, little Stephen is not 
 quite, quite so bad as the rest, but then he is such a booby ! " . . . Eugenie 
 hung her head, and after a short pause, the words dropped one by one 
 from her mouth. " There's another young gentleman, Jeanneton, I don't 
 know whether you have seen h m, he comes sometimes of a morning to 
 have a little chat with mamma ; the head shopman at the mercer's, I mean ; 
 he is not so very, very plain." ..." Oh, Ma'amselle, you mean Monsieur 
 Adolphe ? he is a handsome young man. I know him very well indeed, 
 for every time I pass the shop on an errand he comes running out to ask 
 me how you are." ..." Dear Jeanneton, you never spoke to me of this 
 before," said Eugenie reproachfully. ..." La, Mademoiselle, it went out 
 of my head like the nonsense of all the young men in our street who ask 
 -after you ; if I were to tell you all the charming things that are said of 
 you by the neighbours, it wonld take me a month to get through a day." 
 - . . The newly-found knowledge of Eugenie that she was not indifferent 
 to Adolphe was too sweet to be thus summarily disposed of, and the 
 subject was immediately resumed. . . . "But, Jeanneton, Monsieur 
 Adolphe is quite different to the other young men. How tender his looks, 
 -how respectful his manner, how amiable his air ! I have much to tell you, 
 -Jeanneton, and, perhaps, shall have more after to-morrow, for mamma has 
 invited him to the fete at Romainville." , . . " Oh, ho : has he popped the 
 question, then ? " . . . " No, Jeanneton ; but mamma has some designs re- 
 specting me that I cannot understand. She was less severe in her manner 
 ■to me this evening than usual, and bade me take pains and be particularly 
 well-dressed to-morrow." ..." Pooh, pooh, Ma'amselle ; when a young 
 lady is eighteen years of age, her parents think it is high time she should 
 be married." 
 
 At the word " marriage " Eugenie slightly started, then rose up, and 
 -entered her own chamber without speaking another word. . . . Jeanneton 
 returned to her kitchen, muttering to herself, — " My eyes and my ears are 
 open, and I can see as far into a milestone as anybody. Poor, dear girl, 
 they mean to have her married, but as it is not to the mercer's handsome 
 shopman, I won't say one word." 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE FETE OF SAINT EUSTACHE. 
 
 The sun rose with unclouded brilliance on Sunday morning, and gave every 
 indication of a glorious day, with happiness for all except Bidois, who 
 heartily cursed the fete and his own bad luck. All the earlier part of the 
 morning the miserable creature ran in and out of the kitchen, poising the 
 
The FSte of Saint EustacTie. 9 
 
 -turkey, the pate, and the veal, guessing at their relative weights, and 
 occasionally solacing himself with the poor consolation that, at least, a 
 portion of the dainties would fall to his share. M. Montonnet got out of 
 bed at seven, fidgeted about till eight, when he shaved, took his coffee at 
 nine, and at ten was full-dressed, hat and cane in hand, waiting the arrival 
 of his friends. The toilette of Eugenie was also completed in good time, 
 and she descended, fresh as a lily, to wish her father many happy returns 
 of the day. This affectionate ceremony concluded, her lovely face lost its 
 air of gaiety, and a thousand agitating thoughts crowded into her breast. 
 Every time the door of the parlour opened a blush suffused her cheeks, and 
 her heart went pit-a-pat ; but notwithstanding these evidences of some predo- 
 minant idea in her mind, she had leisure from time to time to steal sundry fur- 
 tive glances at the large mirror that covered nearly one side of the room, and 
 from them she drew the flattering inference that the prediction of Jeanneton 
 on the previous evening, with respect to her beauty, had been fulfilled. Her 
 lilac dress fitted tightly to her graceful shape, her light fichu and ribbonet t 
 tied under the chin, corresponded with it in colour, while her Leghorn 
 bonnet partly surrounded, without too much concealing, her pretty face, 
 shaded by glossy curls, and from her modest but yet laughing eyes, at in- 
 tervals there shot rays that would have warmed the blood of the coldest 
 anchorite that ever breathed. 
 
 Bidois arrived first, carrying two enormous wicker baskets, which he 
 placed on the counter, then eyed them piteously and shook his head. 
 Eugenie repaired to the shop-door to inhale the freshness of the morn, and 
 master and man entered forthwith into the following chat. ... " Fine 
 day, Bidois. ..." Humph, a burning sun, hot enough to roast Old 
 ^Nick." . . . "'Twill be cooler in the wood at Rcmainville ; there are 
 plenty of trees and shade there." . . . " Yes ; but before one gets there 
 there's the Devil's own hill at Belleville to climb." . . . "Nonsense; 
 that takes only a few minutes to ascend, a quarter of an hour at the 
 most." . . ."A quarter of an hour ? Oh, some people's conscience ! you 
 call that nothing with this heavy load to carry" — (pointing to the panniers). 
 41 li Madame would have allowed me, I would have borrowed the baker's 
 big dog, that carries the bread-baskets on a stick in his mouth." . . . 
 •" Oh, Bidois, my wife does not like brute beasts ; don't talk of the dog, you'll 
 do better yourself, old boy." ... "Do you think she will take a hackney 
 coach as far as the city gate ? " . . . " Can't say, Bidois ; I should think 
 not. seeing that there are fourteen of us." . . . "Well, then, take two or 
 three coaches ; there are six men in the party, and the cost a-piece will be 
 but trifling." ..." Right, old boy, right ; propose it to my wife when she 
 comes down." . . "Me propose it to Madame ! it seems to me you are 
 the most proper person." . . . "Well, well, I'll speak, my boy, and we 
 will see what can be done." . . . Bidois was compelled to put up with 
 the forlorn hope conveyed in his employer's last sentence, for Madame's 
 shrill voice was heard at the head of the stairs. 
 
 Madame descended the staircase with a grand air, and seeing that all 
 her household had preceded her, condescended to express her approbation, 
 at the same time hoping that the company would not keep them waiting 
 :long. Montonnet played with his cane, and Bidois, who stood grasping 
 the handles of one of the baskets, whispered to him hurriedly,—" Speak 
 about the hackney coaches, for God's sake, speak." "Presently," said the 
 ;f ace-dealer ; " don't you see no one has arrived yet ? " 
 
 The door opens : Eugenie lifts her eyes, but drops them again so soon 
 -as she perceives who it is. It is Dupont, the rich grocer, who enters 
 making as graceful a bow as his unwieldy person will permit. " I hope 
 
10 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 I have not kept you waiting," said he. . . . " No, my friend, yon are 
 a delightful man, the essence of punctuality itself ; ten o'clock has not 
 yet struck by St Nicholas' Church." . . . "Monsieur and Madame, I 
 trust you are in good health ; and to you, Mademoiselle, I offer my humble 
 homages." . . . Eugenie heard him not, but she was recalled from he r 
 mental dreams to what was passing around her by her mother screaming, — 
 " Daughter, what are you thinking of ? Don't you hear that Monsieur Dupont 
 addresses you ? " . . . " I esteem his politeness," said Eugenie in a low 
 tone. She then curtsied to the grocer, who, with his sky-blue coat, canary 
 waistcoat and powdered pigtail, thought he was an Adonis, and flattered 
 himself he had made a deep impression on her heart. . . . Madame 
 Montonnet came to the rescue, and forthwith commenced chanting her 
 daughter's praises to the admiring Dupont. "She is timid, but that is 
 proper and becoming in a young girl brought up in the superior manner 
 that she has been. My education was conducted precisely on the same 
 model, and you see what a woman I am." — (Dupont thought within him- 
 self, — "What a woman, indeed ; Montonnet, poor fellow, knows that to Ins- 
 cost.") — " There is not such another paragon in the whole Rue St Martin. ,r 
 ..." I know what becomes the head of a family, and am convinced that 
 my daughter will make as good a figure in society as myself." 
 
 Dupont asserted his perfect belief in her anticipations ; and, recollect- 
 ing that the fete was in honour of Monsieur Montonnet, he presented him 
 with a choice bouquet, and begged Madame's acceptance of two large 
 bottles which he took from his pockets, one filled with aniseed liqueur,. 
 and the other with Muscat wine. ..." Two bottles," she exclaimed \ 
 " you are too polite. " . . . " My whole shop is at your orders ; pray take 
 this paper of sweetmeats," ... " Muscat ! " said Montonnet, " my 
 favourite wine ; aniseed too ; oh, that's excellent for the wind." 
 
 The bottles were handed to Bidois to place safely in the baskets, whilst 
 he grumbled half aloud, — "I dare not shake them yet. Would that they 
 would have hackney coaches, if only to the city gates ! " . . . Montonnet 
 heard the words, and saw the poor man's pantomime, but the fear of his 
 wife was before his eyes, and at that moment he was conveniently both 
 deaf and dumb. 
 
 Mingled odours of vanilla, tube-roses and orange flowers announced 
 the advent of the Gerard family. The parfumeur advanced with a polka 
 step, and his little boy signalised his entree by climbing upon the counter,, 
 from whence he scrambled on to the shoulders of Monsieur Montonnet, 
 The ladies came next, and rushed into the arms of Madame Montonnet, 
 Kisses — fervent, unalterably friendly kisses — passed from lip to lip, dear,, 
 deliciously kind things were said ; oh, how they adored each other, and 
 all the while their envious eyes essayed to find a point of ridicule in each 
 other's dress. 
 
 Poor Eugdnie took no part in the deceitful scene ; she remained on 
 one side in a pensive attitude, which terminated with a start and a blush 
 when Adolphe made his appearance. The young man, having paid his- 
 devoirs to the heads of the family, approached Eugenie, and spoke a few 
 words to the lovely maid. She heard them not, she lifted not her head, 
 thouo-h a thousand gushing feelings prompted her to do so, for she felt the 
 cold eye of her mother was upon her. . . . Dear Eugenie, the education 
 of a vestal is not the slightest shield against the attacks of Love ! 
 
 Nothing is more disagreeable than an excursion of pleasure being delayed 
 by the absence of some of the component parties who are behind their 
 time. In these cases, the foibles of the delinquents are sure to come in for 
 a fair share of reprobation, as was the case at our friend the laceman's. . . » 
 
The Fete of Saint Eustache, \% 
 
 The Bernards had not arrived. " Ten minutes past ten," cried one. . , . 
 " Only five," said Dupont ; " I regulated my watch yesterday by the clock 
 in the Palais Royal." . . . All were dumb as to the hour. The 
 Oracle had spoken ; that point was settled. . . . Next came Madame 
 Montonnet. " I am sure it is Madame Bernard ; she is never ready, she 
 never has completed her toilette." . . . "No doubt," said Monsieur 
 Gerard ; " don't you remember, my dear, how she kept us waiting two 
 hours some time since on the Terrace of the Mendicant Friars ? " "Ob, 
 yes, my dear, certainly ; she was late because she had been disappointed 
 by her shoemaker, and persisted in wearing nothing but rose-coloured 
 shoes." . . . " Silence, silence, here they come ; bless me, how Madame ' 
 Bernard is rouged." 
 
 "Here we are," shouted Bernard, precipitating himself into the shop 
 with a bound like the first somersault thrower at Francais's ; " all hands 
 are for fun and frolic this morning, I hope ? Fun for ever, that's my 
 motto, Mesdames. My children will be here directly, and until they come 
 up, dear ladies, my love and respects to you all." The children were his 
 \4fe, the big daughter, and the little clerk. They entered at the moment 
 that Bernard was ravishing a kiss from Madame Montonnet, on seeing 
 which his wife burst forth in his praise. " See, see, he is gayer than ever 
 this morning ; what lots of fun we shall have ! " . . . " Indeed, I hope so," 
 said the squint-eyed Grand Turk of a parfumeur, eyeing her impudently 
 with his left eye, his right one unconsciously taking in the dimensions of ; 
 Monsieur Montonnet's wig. 
 
 All now was ready, and cries of " Let us be off ! " resounded on every ' 
 side. . . . "Now, what," said Bidois, in a low tone ; "set off, and with- " 
 out carriages ? Surely they must all be mad ! " 
 
 Montonnet approached his wife submissively, and inquired whether or" 
 not they were to walk ? . . . " What, sir ? that's a pretty question to ask' 
 on such a morning as this ; do you think in this fine weather people are to' 
 be stewed to death in vehicles ?"..." Excuse me, my life, for speaking y 
 certainly it would be a sin and a shame to ride on such a day as this. 
 Besides, the wood is by no means far away ; we shall be there in less than- 
 two hours, and have plenty of time to rest. "... Montonnet's words met 
 with a laughing response from all, and Bidois, yielding to his fate, passed out 
 with a heavy heart, and a heavy basket on each arm. 
 
 Arrangements for the march were then made with great bustle, each 
 individual seeking to attach himself or herself to her or him they preferred, 
 Madame Bernard seized the arm of little Stephen ; Gerard offered his to 
 tall young Mimi ; Montonnet — by orders of the commander-in-chief — - 
 solicited the company of the old maid, Mademoiselle Cecilia ; Monsieur 
 Bernard possessed himself of Madame Montonnet ; and Adolphe had' 
 glided near to Eugenie, in the hope that he would be her cavalier for the" 
 day, when the terrible words were heard, — " Daughter, accept the proffered 
 arm of Monsieur Dupont." 
 
 For the previous five minutes, the stupid grocer had stood before 
 Eugenie with his arm stretched out like a statue, explaining to her how 
 happy he should be in her society, but Eugenie neither saw nor heard- 
 him ; her thoughts were on Adolphe. Adolphe alone, she thought, could 
 be her escort on that eventful day. 
 
 The harsh notes of Madame Montonnet dissolved the spell. Eugenie" 
 heard the order, and knew that it must be obeyed. She passed her arm re 
 luctantly under that of Dupont, cast one longing, lingering look at Adolphe ? ■ 
 and, notwithstanding the awkward, blundering attempts of the grocer to 
 amuse her, was possessed by the demon of duiness the whole of the way,- 
 
12 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 If Dupont had had the slightest knowledge of the female sex ; had he not 
 .been the veriest donkey alive, he would have known what was passing in 
 the young girl's heart ; but if he saw nothing, Adolphe saw and compre- 
 hended all that was contained in Eugenie's last glance. Laying the flatter- 
 . ing unction to his soul, he offered his arm to Madame Gerard, but somehow 
 or other during the rest of the walk, Eugenie and he were seldom far apart. 
 
 The line of march was conducted with the strictest order throughout 
 the densely-populated portions of the city, Bidois bringing up the rear 
 in a fit of the sulks which augmented at every step as his fatigue increased. 
 When the slight ascent in the Faubourg of the Temple was passed, the 
 couples gradually closed, and bursts of laughter enlivened the road j but 
 once fairly without the walls, all etiquette was thrown aside, and Monsieur 
 Bernard declared he could be no longer responsible for his discretion. In 
 spite of all the efforts of Madame Montonnet he ran hither and thither, 
 jumping on the trunks of trees that lay in their waj*-, and committing all 
 sorts of follies. ..." What demon possesses your husband ? " said she to 
 3!adame Bernard. ..." Calm yourself, my dear, the poor fellow is 
 .always like a horse let loose in the country." ..." Dear me, here we are 
 . only at Belleville ; what will he do before we reach the wood ? " . . . 
 Bernard replied with a broad joke, which shocked Madame Montonnet's 
 propriety, and she let go his arm. 
 
 Little Stephen walked heavily by the side of Madame Bernard, who 
 worried and teased him to be lively ; he wanted shrewdness and a know- 
 ledge of the world, consequently she was unsuccessful, although she dinned 
 into his ears that nothing was so stupid as a timid man, who would not 
 see the good things waiting to be picked up in his path. 
 
 Monsieur Gerard walked with Mimi on the flank of the party. He was 
 a great admirer of young girls, knowing well that although Mademoiselle — 
 to please her mother — still played with a doll, she was no longer a child in 
 the eyes of the world. Her figure was tall, her cheeks blooming as roses, 
 her lips as rosy as her cheeks, and two little, plump, hard globes beneath 
 her fichu gave unmistakeable evidence of approaching maturity and nascent 
 voluptuousness of form. The hawk's-eye of the libertine perfumer had 
 observed these charms whilst in the laceman's shop, and had hastened to 
 make the innocent Mimi his partner for the day. They walked so far apart 
 from the rest of the company that the animated remarks of Gerard did 
 not reach their ears, but it was evident that he squinted worse than ever 
 as he did the amiable with all his might, and that Mimi did not understand 
 -one word that he said. 
 
 Mademoiselle Cecilia and Montonnet were the best-behaved of the 
 group ; they walked with a steady, sober pace, interrupted only by the 
 friendly pinches of snuff which were duly offered and graciously accepted 
 .as near as might be every quarter of an hour. The good-hearted, well- 
 meaning laceman sang the praises of a country life, and recounted the 
 details of every fete champetre at which he had been present ; and his 
 companion, who found his interminable stories bore enough, let him maunder 
 on, whilst she watched the other couples like a cat, endeavouring to guess 
 from the expression of their countenances what was going on. 
 
 Adolphe, encumbered as he felt himself with Madame Gerard, was 
 , obliged to pay her the usual attentions ; she saw his desire to be near 
 Eugenie, and maliciously drew him to the right and to the left, varying the 
 amusement with an occasional dead halt ; nevertheless, he contrived to be 
 frequently close upon Eugenie's heels. Now, we have not told you, readers, 
 in so many precise words, that Adolphe was over head and ears in love with 
 Mademoiselle Montonnet, but we flatter ourselves you must be fuDy aware, 
 
Tlie Fete of Saint Enstaclie. 13 
 
 from his behaviour, that such was the case. Some things are visible at first 
 sight ; papas and mammas are proverbially dull as to affairs which ought to 
 engage their every thought, and that is a very happy circumstance for 
 society at large. 
 
 Eugenie saw Adolphe's manucevres with suppressed delight. When he 
 was near her, her gaiety returned, did he but fall back a few steps, she 
 sighed, not daring to turn her head towards him, and always finding some 
 pretext to decrease her speed if he lagged too long in the rear. Dupont 
 exhausted all his eloquence — there was not much of it— to amuse his pretty 
 mate. In vain he observed that the weather was fine, although he had 
 feared in the morning there would be rain, and had almost decided on 
 putting on his claret -coloured coat ; that he was glad now he had put on 
 his sky-blue one, because it became his complexion best. All was lost on 
 Eugenie, who answered not one word, from which the grocer astutely in- 
 ferred that she had been well brought up, perfectly well brought up. 
 
 The unhappy Bidois trudged on, larding the lean earth as he went, and 
 ever and anon looking the picture of despair when removed from the sight- 
 of Madame Montonnet. The poor fellow kept eternally crying, — " Oh, it is 
 cruel hot ; will they never stop ? if they don't do so soon I shall absolutely 
 drop down with fatigue." From time to time he enjoyed temporary relief 
 by sitting on a casual bench by the road-side, or a stone boundary mark, 
 but as everybody was too pleasurably engaged to listen to his complaints, 
 they fell unheeded on the desert air. Taking up his burthens, he consigned- 
 them to the regions below, and heartily cursed all dinners on the grass. 
 " Talk of your fetes champetre," quoth he ; "if this be your pleasure, may I 
 never partake of it again. However, they cannot eat everything in the 
 basket, that's certain, and some of the good things must fall to me." 
 
 At length the confines of the wood were reached, and they hailed the 
 shade of the over-arching foliage as a welcome relief from the oppressive 
 heat of the sun. Gradually the alleys green became so narrow that two 
 people could not walk abreast ; the ladies, one and all, released the arms of 
 their respective cavaliers, and ran and jumped and skipped about, playing 
 a thousand diverting antic tricks. " No more ceremony," shouted Bernard? 
 casting off Madame Montonnet, who was by no means displeased at 
 getting rid of her would-be juvenile friend; "no more etiquette, go 
 where you like ; helter skelter every one, up with the banner of fun, and vive 
 la bagatelle." 
 
 The motion was received with a loud shout of acclamation. Mimi, at 
 Gerard's suggestion, ran off and plunged into a thicket ; he followed, and 
 having soon caught her, pinched her jocosely, and took sundry freedoms 
 with her beauties, which the simple girl permitted, thinking it formed the 
 most agreeable portion of the sport. Mademoiselle Cecilia, ever on the 
 alert, watched them with her lynx-like eyes, whilst Madame Bernard ran 
 off as fast and as far as she could, calling on little Stephen to come and 
 try and catch her. 
 
 The couple, however, who promised themselves the greatest enjoyment 
 from the romps thus set afloat, prepared to avail themselves of their posi- 
 tion in the coolest manner possible. Adolphe resigned the arm of Madame 
 Gerard with a polite bow, and Eugenie quietly withdrew hers from 
 Dupont, as he opened his mouth to commence a studied speech on the 
 pleasure he had experienced in her company. Baulked in the delivery of 
 his oration, he attributed her conduct to maiden modesty, internally saying, • 
 — " There's no way of making her understand a compliment. What pro- 
 priety, what bashful discretion!" Filled with this idea, he repaired to 
 Madame Montonnet, and expatiated on her daughter's marvellous attrac- 
 
14 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 tions and the singular perfection of demeanour at which she had arrived. 
 The cunning woman smiled inwardly at seeing the bait was swallowed, and 
 forthwith, like a skilful angler, commenced playing the fish. ... " Yes," 
 she said ; " Eugenie is a dear, good girl ; the more you see of her the more 
 you will be delighted with her. Not one word, look or gesture of insub- 
 ordination has she ever spoken, given or made, but is obedient as a Prussian 
 soldier. That's the way in my establishment." . . . " How charming to 
 fee possessed of such a wife ; she will be just the thing for me. With her 
 pretty face at the desk behind the counter, surrounded by loaves of sugar, 
 sweetmeats, jars of olives, and all th^t ! Eh, Madame Montonnet ? that'll 
 do, that'll do." . . . Madame Montonnet looked in the face of the fa 
 grocer with an air of undisguised satisfaction, and pressed his hand with 
 warmth. The heartless bargain was made. . . . Alas, poor Eugenie ! 
 
 Dupont was in ecstatics, for he was in love with Eugenie in a certain 
 sort of way. In such love as that with which a libertine regards a lovely 
 woman ; as an epicure regards a Strasbourg pie ; as a drunkard regards a 
 bottle of old wine ; or a Norman does a pippin ! 
 
 Nevertheless, Monsieur Dupont was not quite secure of his young prize, 
 and thought to make assurance doubly sure by soliciting the consent of 
 Monsieur Montonnet. He mentioned it incidentally to Madame, but she 
 did not give him time to finish the sentence. Her face grew purple with 
 sage, and her eyes flashed fire. " My husband ! " she exclaimed ; " why do 
 you talk of him ? Who ever thinks of consulting him ? What need have I 
 of his advice ? Am I not mistress in my own house ? " . . . Frightened at 
 the storm he had evoked, Dupont acknowledged her undoubted supremacy 
 at bed and board, and tranquillity was again restored. 
 
 Whilst the fate of Eugenie was being thus settled, the happy, uncon- 
 scious girl had passed with Adolphe deeper into the wood. Alas, alas ! had 
 they but known *he sordid conversation that had taken place between her 
 mother and Dupont, what misery would have torn their hearts, now bound- 
 ing with delight. Let us leave them, then, in the enjoyment of those moments 
 of happiness and joy, which, peradventure, they may never feel again, for in 
 this sad world of woe, misery and misfortune ever come too soon. 
 
 Men with the most meagre knowledge of the world must have observed 
 that lovers have a method of conveying a great deal of meaning in very few 
 words. The youngest, freshest minds acquire this language with singular 
 rapidity, nature being the surest, readiest instructress in all that pertains 
 to the heart. Eugenie was no coquette, and sought not to please ; but she 
 was sensitive, and had felt the want of being loved. The void that had so 
 long existed in her heart was now filled up. She loved strongly, passion- 
 ately, and that love would never, never be extinct. ... So you see that 
 Eugenie was no common girl. All that puzzles me is how she came to be 
 the daughter of such very common people as Monsieur and Madame Mon- 
 tonnet. . . . No matter, the Fates would have it so. 
 
 Let us return to Adolphe, and ascertain whether he deserved the ardent 
 attachment of Eugenie. Yes ; if that desert depended on a generous 
 *yarni heart, an open disposition, and high, honourable aspirations. But 
 what cared Madame Montonnet for all these noble gifts of nature ! She 
 must have money, which was precisely the qualification of which Adolphe 
 was deficient ; his father had been unfortunate in business, was still living, 
 and, in a great measure, dependent on the exertions and honest industry 
 of his son. Adolphe has well sounded Madame Montonnet's disposition, 
 .and was perfectly acquainted with the obstacles that stood in his path. 
 What were they to him ? When did love, burning in the heart of the young 
 and fair, reck of an opposing force ? If rocks could not be surmounted, they 
 
The Fete of Saint Eustaclie. 15 
 
 must be undermined; all, all must be swept before him, for love, the 
 conqueror of high and low. will never be controlled. ... So thought 
 Adolphe. Erorn the first moment he saw Eugenie he loved her ; he deter- 
 mined she should be his, and commenced immediate operations to obtain a 
 footing hi Madame Montonnet's esteem, in which he speedily succeeded. 
 . . . But now let us go on with the fete. 
 
 The laugh rang merrily around ; Bernard played the ladies all kinds of 
 sly tricks. °Gerard, at every opportunity, pushed them against the bushes. 
 Little Stephen roused himself, Montonnet enjoyed his snuff, and Bidois 
 sighed and exclaimed,—" Will they never, never sit down ?"..." Patience, 
 patience, my good man, we are not yet sufficiently advanced in the recesses 
 of the wood." Dupont, still desirous of attracting the regards of Eugenie, 
 toiled after her light form in vain attempts to reach her, for the rattling of 
 his huge chains, with the seals and trinkets at their ends, gave constant 
 warning of his approach, which was as constantly evaded by an agile turn, 
 completely baffling his enamoured pursuit. His composure was further 
 destroyed by the boy Gerard climbing up his back in order to shake the 
 powder from his pigtail. In an agony of rage and despair, he cried cnrt to 
 the father to take his mischievous imp away, but Gerard was too agreeably 
 engaged with Mimi to listen to his plaints, whilst Mademoiselle Cecilia, 
 who saw everything, noted down that Gerard had kissed the tall girl thrice, 
 and little Stephen and Madame Gerard were nowhere to be seen. 
 
 In the breasts of Eugenie and Adolphe a desire to escape from the eyes 
 of all observers burnt with an overpowering flame, but fear restrained them. 
 Eugenie stopped abruptly when she saw that in their eager haste they had 
 left° their party far behind. She trembled lest her mother should discover 
 her preference for her male companion, and command her instant absence 
 from him she loved so well. However, on this occasion, Madame Mon- 
 tonnet was so wrapped up in the confidence of conceit that the model 
 •education she had conferred on Eugenie had placed an impenetrable barrier 
 against any disobedience, that she was blind to what was going on, and left 
 the young couple to the uninterrupted enjoyment of their own delicious 
 thoughts. 
 
 As they walked onwards, hand in hand, " the world forgetting, by the 
 world forgot," Adolphe suddenly broke from his reverie, recollecting that 
 the hours were fast sliding by, and that such an opportunity of declaring 
 his passion might not occur again. " I must speak to her," he thought. 
 M I must tell her I adore her, and that no other love shall ever fill my 
 heart. If I do not speak to day, heaven knows when I shall be able." . . . 
 Whilst these ideas coursed through his brain, Eugenie also thought, — " I 
 should like to know what he really and truly thinks of me ; he is always 
 looking at me in the most tender manner, and when he looks he sighs. 
 What can be the meaning of those sighs? If he does not speak now, 
 perhaps no other opportunity may ever be afforded to him." 
 
 Poor, poor lovers, why not interchange your ardent, your unalterable 
 vows, unfettered by the chains of fear ! Not yet, not yet ; the auspicious 
 moment has not yet arrived ; their tongues are silent, but their eyes 
 .discourse. Patience, patience yet a little while ! 
 
 'Tis a pretty spot that wood of Romainville wherein to whisper vows ; 
 pity, though, that the underwood is not thicker, and the foliage of the trees 
 more dense. However, we must take it as it is. One thing we are sure 
 of, and that is, the buxom village girls and the smart city dames do not 
 always come there to discover plenty of retired walks, of boskey dells, and 
 shaded alleys green. 
 
18 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WOOD : THE DINNER ON THE GRASS. 
 
 The interior of the wood was reached at last, a consummation which elicited" 
 a hearty thanksgiving from Bidois. Montonnet sat down on the turf and 
 wiped the perspiration from his head ; but the spot did not please Madame, 
 The whole party were therefore on their legs again in a minute, the female- 
 commander acting as a pioneer. A few yards farther on she paused and 
 said,— " This appears to me a pleasant site for our camp." " Very pretty, 
 indeed," replied the laceman, again spreading his handkerchief on the 
 grass, and preparing to sit down on it ; and Bidois, gently placing the 
 baskets on the ground, joined in the general approval. Madame Bernard 
 came up at the moment, but on surveying the dell she expressed her decided 
 opinion that its eligibility was spoiled from its not possessing the form of 
 an amphitheatre with a gently sloping bank. In this opinion she was 
 strenuously supported by Gerard, whereupon Madame Montonnet graciousiy 
 gave in. Monsieur Montonnet rose unwillingly from the grass, and poor 
 Bidois lifted up his panniers with a groan of absolute despair. 
 
 About a hundred paces farther, a pretty amphitheatre presented itself, 
 and another halt was called. This seemed precisely the thing ; Montonnet'* 
 handkerchief was out in a second, and his person cast on it on the turf, and 
 the exhausted Bidois seated himself beside the baskets and again gave thanks, 
 "Stop a moment, ladies," cried Madame Montonnet at the top of her 
 voice ; " take care of your dresses, and don't sit down. Who on earth could 
 call this a proper spot with all these abominations around ? Oh, Bidois, I 
 verily believe you are sitting on a— faugh, what a stench ! Get up, sir, 
 get up quickly; this place will never do, another must be found." . . . 
 Faintly and slowly Montonnet rose, inch by inch, from the earth ; and 
 a full quarter of an hour was taken up by Bidois in achieving the 
 same feat; he then wiped the tails of his coat, shook the baskets in 
 a frenzy of passion, cursed all saints and their fete-days, and his owtt 
 ill-luck that had brought him there. 
 
 At last a third place was found. It appeared to unite all that was 
 desired— an amphitheatre, mossy turf, shade, and, above all, Madame 
 Bernard's indispensable qualification, the gently sloping bank. Bidois, 
 wet as a water-god, the big drops of sweat coursing down his cheeks like 
 rain, heard with inconceivable satisfaction the cry,— "This will do, this 
 will do," and threw himself on the ground with a firm determination not 
 to rise again. 
 
 Montonnet looked inquiringly at his wife before he took steps he 
 intended to be final. Her approval was conveyed in a nod, and down the 
 pocket handkerchief and he went for the third time. All suited their tastes 
 in selecting their resting-places, and the lady with the marked preference 
 for sloping banks, and who, by-the-bye, had undeniable well-shaped ankles 
 and legs, squatted down on the brink of the ridge, supporting her elbows 
 on her knees. Monsieur Gerard reclined lower down, immediately in her 
 front, a position which gave him a full view of the proportions of her well- 
 turned nether limbs. 
 
 As Eugenie was about to occupy the place assigned to her by her 
 mamma, she looked at Adolphe, who hastened to occupy the seat at her 
 side ; but the accomplishment of his intention was frustrated by the heavy- 
 headed grocer throwing himself on the grass, and in his descent almost 
 tumbling over the fair girl. She, however, dared not move, and was 
 
The Wood: the Dinner on the Grass. 1? 
 
 obliged — warned by her mother's eye — to bear with the nonsense uttered 
 by the fool. She fretted and fumed without avail. In his efforts to interest, 
 her, his clumsy person frequently reposed a portion of its bulk on her fair 
 form, and drew from her the exclamations, — " How I deceived myself when 
 I thought that I should be amused ; this Dupont has made up his mind tc* 
 annoy me, and will never quit my side ; I never liked the creature, but I 
 detest him now ; what agony to be linked to him, and give up dear Adolphe."" 
 However, Dupont mistook her silence for retiring modesty and timid 
 reserve, and blundered on in his own stupid way. 
 
 The fatigue of the walk was scarcely overcome, when it was discovered? 
 that the day was yet too young for the excursionists to attack the viands- 
 in Bidois' baskets, so, whilst the jaded man and Montonnet were ordered- 
 to the little inn at the entrance of the wood to fetch the essentials of bread,, 
 water and wine, it was resolved that some game in which all could take part 
 should be played. . . . Madame Bernard, perched on her bank, with a 
 liberal display of her legs, alone objected, and declared she could not joirt 
 the sport, suffering as she did from the oppressive heat, although she had 
 given herself all the cooling airs she could. ..." Not quite," said Gerard,. 
 seated below her, with an admiring gaze at her stalwart legs. 
 
 Monsieur Montonnet and Bidois were on the verge of despair ; the- 
 latter even contemplated mutiny, and pretended not to hear, as the lace- 
 man advanced towards him saying, — "Come, Bidois, come." . . . "How,. 
 what?" . . . "To fetch the bread, the water and the glasses." . . . "Well,. 
 well, there's plenty of time ; presently will do." ..." Get up, I tell you ; the 
 company are asking for refreshments." ..." Let me lie quiet a moment ; I 
 have been seated scarcely one minute, and you want me up again." ..." My 
 boy, it is not me ; it is my wife." . . . Bidois was still inclined to be 
 refractory, but the voice of Madame Montonnet decided the affair. . . . 
 " What, sirs," she cried aloud, " not yet gone, when you ought to have been* 
 back by this time ? Quick, qir'ok, be off with you ; these ladies and gentle- 
 men are thirsty." ..." We are off, my love, we are off ; Bidois would not 
 move." . . . " Eh, Bidois, what makes you so heavy and dull to-day ? " . . 
 Away they went, grumbling in low tones ; and no sooner were their backs- 
 turned than a cry was raised for the game of play, and all sprang up from 
 their seats, Madame Montonnet and Mademoiselle keeping guard over the 
 baskets, which were to be headquarters, when the two men should return 
 and the signal for the dinner be made. 
 
 The proposition of the game was, however, abandoned for the moment,, 
 whilst each couple, somewhat refreshed by the short halt, wandered from 
 the beaten paths. No longer under the sharp eyes of her austere mother,, 
 Euge'nie breathed more freely, and Adolphe's confidence returned. The 
 former, seeing Monsieur Dupont advancing, tripped lightly away, whilst 
 the grocer followed her at his best pace, but he was corpulent, and soon 
 out of wind. " Stay," he panted forth ; " stay, Mademoiselle, you run too- 
 fast ; you will be ill, you will assuredly burst a blood-vessel." She heeded 
 him not, for she knew that there was one behind her who followed up the 
 chase in right good-will. At length she was caught by Adolphe, and well 
 was he rewarded ; his arm was round her taper waist, his hand enfolded 
 hers, she withdrew it not, but gently returned the amorous pressure of his, 
 whilst, for a few moments, they stood entranced, their glad souls sparkling 
 in their lustrous eyes. . . . Profit, young hearts, by those sweet minutes*;, 
 time flies, and they may never, never come again. 
 
 Again the groups assembled around the baskets, which acted a3 a- 
 rallying point, and as Bidois and Montonnet had not returned from the 
 inn, Gerard proposed to have a game at " hide-and-seek." This was agreed 
 
 B 
 
18 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ^to without dissent, the task of the discovery of the hider being assigned 
 ■to Dupont by common consent, who sat down by the "side of Madame 
 IMbntonnet until the hiding couples should cry "Whoop." Monsieur 
 Bernard retired with Madame Gerard, Madame Bernard and little Stephen 
 •were off like a shot, Monsieur Gerard seized on Minor's arm, and sought to 
 >iiide themselves where they could- best find shelter. 
 
 Eugenie and Adolphe remained alone. For a minute or so they stood 
 ■-still, but as they were in the game, and it was necessary that they should 
 I he concealed, the youth led her off to a shady spot he said he knew of. 
 tlland in hand they passed, under his guidance, into the thickest of the 
 wood. Eugenie from time to time trembled lest they should go too far away, 
 ■but the happy youth soothed her fears with the assurance that, if they 
 -should stop short of a certain thicket, they would inevitably be found by 
 '-$hat disgusting Dupont. She said no more ; and a few paces farther on 
 "their advance was checked by a thick growth of underwood. She looked 
 behind ; no one was to be seen, the leafy screens of the mighty oaks were 
 "the only witnesses of their happy loves. A deep sigh escaped from her 
 -shest, and instantly their eyes met ; those of Eugenie became suffused with 
 T £ea,rs, and modestly sought the ground, but Adolphe's gleamed like coals of 
 <&e. He raised her hand — now abandoned to him — to his lips, and kissed it 
 ■ardently a thousand times. Eugenie could not speak ; she essayed to do so, 
 tjut her heart throbbed violently, and utterance was denied. . . . Happy, 
 Siappy, but too fleeting are the hours when Love first breaks the iron 
 Ib&nds of fear, and asserts its all-absorbing supremacy in two fond, faithful 
 hearts. 
 
 There they stood, mute as monumental alabaster ; but it was utterly 
 impossible — according to the order of things here below — that their silence 
 seould last. At length words found their way to Adolphe's lips, and fixing on 
 •S*er his flashing eyes, he said, — " Oh, Mademoiselle, for tedious days and 
 anonths I have longed for an interview with you alone, that I might make 
 Icuown to you my eternal adoration. Do not interrupt me, dearest ; even 
 -should you despise my rash avowal, do not blame, but pity me. I feel myself 
 disable to describe to 3'ou the deep feelings of my heart ; from the moment 
 an which I first beheld your fairy form it has been devoted to you, in my 
 "waking hours, in my nightly dreams it is your loved image that I alone 
 behold. . . . Oh, heavens, what has my madness done ! " 
 
 This abrupt termination to a speech which, in all probability, would have 
 ilasted some time — for when a man is in love, and the object of that love 
 ^listens to his tale, he is not likely to leave off in a hurry — was caused by 
 -Adolphe raising his eyes to Eugenie's face, and seeing that her emotion was 
 -so great that she could hardly stand. Notwithstanding she had anticipated 
 and longed for this open declaration of Adolphe's love, yet now she trembled 
 ilike an aspen leaf ; she leaned on the young man for support, her colour 
 wnet and came, her bosom heaved as if it would burst, and her eyes over- 
 sowed with tears, which came opportunely to her relief. . . . Joy has its 
 jpains as well as grief, but the former are seldom dangerous. 
 
 Adolphe held his fair burthen in his arms, and poured forth a torrent of 
 "that passionate eloquence which always distinguishes true love. He accused 
 ^himself bitterly of being the cause of that faintness with which she had 
 ; 3jeen seized ; swore that without her life to him would be but a blank ; and 
 sprayed earnestly for one little word to assure him he was not distasteful to 
 iier, for one ray, one little gleam of hope. The lovely girl spoke not, but 
 she gazed tenderly upon him, and the enraptured youth again pressed her 
 :ln his arms, for she had not strength — had she even wished it — to tear 
 ■^herself from his impassioned grasp. . . . Ah, ha ! Madame Montonnet, if 
 
Tli e Wood: the Dinner on the Grass. 19 
 
 you had not brought up your daughter so sternly, and in such seclusion from 
 lier own sex, she would have defended herself more vigorously and have 
 warded off the very first attack. Danger is best met when it is known. 
 Victory often follows a sudden, brisk assault, and, depend upon it, that a girl 
 who is all innocence falls a far easier prey than one who has some knowledge 
 -of what is what. 
 
 Whilst Adolphe, thus all ecstacy and bliss, was about to snatch a kiss 
 from her rosy lips, which moved as if they would confirm with words the 
 pattering avowal that her eyes had made, a harsh voice was heard to say, 
 ^ith a giggle, — " I have you ; you're caught." 
 
 Eugenie recognised the hated voice of Dupont. She trembled from head 
 to foot lest they should have been seen, disengaged herself from Adolphe's 
 arms, pushed him from her, and fled through the thicket like a startled 
 fawn. Oh, infamous to break up such a tete-a-tete, for in truth it was not 
 the lovers that the fat grocer had discovered. He had wandered up and 
 down for some time without finding any of the couples — for they well knew, 
 at least the males, the wood and what they were at — until, on passing a 
 thick bush, an overpowering smell of musk warned him of the vicinity of 
 Monsieur Gerard, and guided him to the spot where he found the perfumer 
 fitting on end close to Mademoiselle Mimi, who was lying at full length on 
 the turf. The shouts that attended this discovery were the cries that 
 alarmed our lovers, and destroyed the transport they enjoyed. Oh, how 
 Gerard cursed the grocer's stupid head, and the necessity which the laws 
 •of the game imposed — of returning to the panniers and Madame Montonnet. 
 .. . . What a bore, when they were so comfortable under that dense canopy 
 of leaves, and so much remained to be said. But it was no use kicking 
 against the pricks ; the penalty must be paid, so they walked on to the 
 goal, with the consolation that the ice had been broken, and they would 
 assuredly seize any future opportunity of being together that might arise. 
 . . . Where there's a will there's a way : opportunities are often made ! 
 
 " You thought you were nicely hid," said Dupont, " and so you were. 
 If it had not been for the jonquil, and the orange flowers, and the musk, I 
 might have hunted for you for a century — they put me on your track." . . . 
 Mimi pouted, and Gerard muttered some inaudible remark, when Monsieur 
 Bernard came suddenly up and asked the grocer if he had found his wife t 
 *' No," said he ; " I have not, although I have peered into'every nook here- 
 abouts. I'll bet you what you like that she has made little Stephen run to 
 the farthest extremity of the wood ; i' faith, she delights in teasing and 
 v.'orrying that lad." " No doubt, no doubt," replied the toyman ; " my wife 
 is just like me, nothing pleases her so much as a frolicsome joke." 
 
 Now Bernard, who had been in the background whilst t he "hide-and- 
 seek " was going on, and thought it high time that his agility should be 
 prominently displayed, climbed up a tree to imitate the antics of the boy/ 
 <Jerard. Forgetful, however, that he was three times the weight of that- 
 young gentleman, he perched himself upon a branch, which gave way under 
 him, and he fell heavily on the ground. All the folks crowded round him, 
 and feared that he was much hurt, but Bernard " grinned a horribly ghastly 
 smile," assured his friends it was a good joke, that his fall was contrived 
 purposely to frighten them, and rose up with the comforts of a nose grazed 
 to the bone, and a large lump on the forehead. 
 
 Whilst Madame Montonnet, who was so dull as not to see the fun of 
 the thing, was condoling with the toyman, his wife and little Stephen 
 joined the group. Madame Bernard's face was redder than ever, and little 
 Stephen's eyes were almost starting out of his head. ..." Where can 
 you two have been ? " said Monsieur Dupont. " I have looked for you on 
 
20 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 every side." . . . "We were not far off, for all that," said she. • . » 
 " And what's the matter with Stephen ? " cried Monsieur Bernard ; "has 
 lie had a stroke of the sun ? " . , . " No, my dear ; he has only heated 
 himself in hunting after strawberries for me." ..." Strawberries, Madame t 
 why, there are nothing but acorns in this wood." . . . "Right, my dear,, 
 quite right ; we found nothing but acorns, but they were very fine 
 indeed." 
 
 Miss Cecilia, who sat enjoying the matrimonial tiff, determined that the 
 ball should not fall for want of a hand to keep it up, so she called the 
 attention of Madame Bernard to the state of her husband's nose, and the 
 protuberance on his forehead, on which the lady remarked with the utmost 
 contempt that she did not trouble herself with such trifles. Excrescences 
 ©n the forehead were Monsieur Bernard's fate ; he was born for them, and 
 must put up with them as he could. 
 
 What might have followed this irritating sally it is impossible to tell \ 
 but, fortunately, at the very moment Montonnet and Bidois were heard 
 slowly advancing, and they were conjured on all sides to hasten their pace. 
 Both of them groaned under a basket laden with bread, bottles of wine 
 and bottles of water, which they deposited at the feet of the mistress of the 
 feast ; nor were they suffered to sit down and wipe the perspiration from 
 their heads without receiving a sharp reproof from Madame Montonnet for 
 the unconscionably long time they had been away. The baskets were then 
 opened in a trice, bottles were distributed around, and Bernard, uncorking, 
 one of wine, drank to the " Fete of Saint Eustache." All responded to the 
 toyman's toast, the bottles were emptied, and poor Montonnet, replacing 
 his handkerchief on the turf for the fourth time, dropped gently on it with 
 a grunt of delight, happy to have a few moments' ffest at last. 
 
 It was now far too hot for " hide-and-seek" to be continued, much to 
 the chagrin of Eugenie and Adolphe, who regretted the passing of every 
 minute that they could not be alone. There were others, too, in that circle 
 who wished to have opportunities of again playing at the pretty game ; 
 but they did not suffer those wishes to be apparent, contenting themselves 
 with the thought that there would be less heat and more shade after dinner ; 
 and then they would make up for their temporary deprivation. 
 
 The chimes of the village clock struck four, announcing that dinner-time 
 had come ; dinner-time ! To most people, and certainly for the amphitryon of 
 the feast, the all-important hour of the day. The provisions were taken out 
 of the baskets, and arranged on the grass, and the good people sat down 
 around them. Dupont was on one side of Eugenie, with Adolphe on the 
 other, so that in her estimation, looking right and left, the pleasures of her 
 position far outweighed the pain. All went cheerily on ; nothing. could be 
 better than the viands ; appetite seasoned the dishes, and the wine from 
 the inn was pronounced excellent. The laugh and the jest passed merrily 
 round, each little witty sally was received with roars, and even by the 
 party at whose cost it was made, and the Goddess of Pleasure presided at 
 the feast. Notwithstanding these appearances, old Bidois, who had assisted 
 at all the fetes of the Montonnet family for several years, shook his head,, 
 and thought the weather of the social barometer was too fine to last. " I 
 doubt," said he in his own mind, " that all this will not end in some cata- 
 strophe, seme quarrel. My excellent friends, Saint Barbe and Saint. 
 Eustache, always begin on their fetes with laughing, singing and fun, and 
 always end with hooting, quarrelling and calling ugly names." ... In the 
 meantime, this anticipation of the presence of the demon of discord did not 
 interfere in the least with Bidois' appetite, and he ate and drank enough 
 for four men, his pleasure increasing in the same ratio as he saw the 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet' s Fete. 21 
 
 ■provisions disappear, inasmuch as there would be empty baskets to carry 
 home. 
 
 In the first chapter of our tale we narrated Monsieur Montomiet's 
 lamentable failure in carving the turkey, although assisted so ably by 
 .Madame Bernard ; we also pourtrayed the snarling of Madame Montonnet, 
 who was not at all pleased at any one interfering with her good man. We 
 knew that, at five o'clock, numbers danced on the green in front of the 
 .guardhouse of Romainville, whilst the Montonnet party were dining in the 
 wood ; so we will now take up our tale at the point where we broke off, 
 and see bow the Montonnet fete came to an end, and whether the sinister 
 predictions of old Bidois were verified or not. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FINALE OF MONSIEUR MONTONNET's FETE. 
 
 " Dear me, dear me," said Bernard, " they will never be able to cut up 
 that terrible turkey." ..." I trust in heaven they will," thought Bidois j 
 "if they don't, I shall have to carry it back to Paris, and we shall be 
 doomed to eat nothing else for a week." Madame Bernard handed over 
 the leg of the bird to little Stephen, whom she was cramming to the throat, 
 and asked for a bit of the parson's nose. . . . The perfumer undertook. 
 to gratify the lady's taste, and desired the turkey should be passed to him. 
 Madame Gerard derisively remarked that her husband had, in all things, a 
 graceful knack peculiarly his own ; whilst Bidois exclaimed, half aloud, 
 * that the bird would stink of musk for a month." 
 
 Gerard worked away at the turkey with great difficulty, and as the 
 sweat ran from his face, and the tough bird was being literally torn limb 
 from limb, Madame Montonnet assured her guests that it must be tender, 
 for she had taken the trouble to go to market and purchase it herself, 
 young it might have been some years before, but now, from the size of the 
 bone and the stringiness of the sinews, it had attained, for a turke} 7 , a some- 
 what venerable age. No one durst say they could not eat it, but no ens 
 asked to be helped to it a second time. They threw themselves on the 
 pate and the other viands, whilst Bidois saw, with evident chagrin, that full 
 one-half of the odious bird was left untouched. 
 
 The sharp appetites of the guests made short work of the dinner ; the 
 cheese and fruits were placed before the company ; the Muscat wine and 
 the aniseed liqueurs, the gift of Dupont, were produced, and speedily restored 
 that good humour which the toughness of the detestable turkey had some- 
 what impaired. The glasses circulated briskly, the good wine did its 
 accustomed office ; the men talked louder, the ladies gave more licence to 
 their tongues, and entered with greater freedom into the spirit of the hour, 
 whilst the sounds of the violin, the drum and the clarionet, tempered by 
 distance, added the charms of music to the gay repast. 
 
 Dupont was the first to direct attention to the music, and forthwith % 
 desire to dance took possession of all there. Madame Bernard asserted 
 that it assisted her digestive organs, her husband pressed earnestly for a setj 
 of quadrilles, and received a contemptuous observation as regarded his 
 dancing for his pains. . . . Now, Bernard had an idea that he was an 
 absolute Yestris in the dance, and that, when he gave his mind to it, it was 
 
$2 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 the easiest thing in the world to accomplish the grand feat of cutting six. 
 . . . "You cut six, sir ; you cut six, indeed. I have never seen it yet. ,!r 
 ..." You shall see it, then, this evening." ..." Aye, aye, sir ;. 
 when the sly falls there will be plenty birds for the picking up." 
 
 Madame Montonnet leaned gently against Mademoiselle Cecilia, and 
 whispered, — " Do you not think that Madame Bernard's conversation has a- 
 very peculiar style ?"..." Indeed, my dear," replied the old maid, 
 pinching up her lips, " it is very low indeed. Where could the poor woman 
 have been bora ? " . . . " Oh, ho," quoth old Bidois ; " the women are 
 whispering already : there will be a fearful storm anon." 
 
 Montonnet next called out for a song. His wife requested Eugenie to 
 sing, but she, poor girl, placed by the side of her adored Adolphe, had for- 
 gotten all her pretty airs, and was long before she could remember a single 
 line. At length she commenced, though timidly at first, some couplet* 
 written in honour of her father's fete, then gaining confidence as she pro- 
 ceeded, and stimulated by the applause showered upon her on every side, 
 she sang the grateful words with energy and taste, for her whole soul was- 
 in tuneful accordance with their sense. . . . Montonnet, delighted with 
 the melodious strains, tenderly kissed his daughter's cheek, whilst Dupont 
 protested that her voice excelled the music of the spheres. 
 
 Adolphe alone said nothing ; his whole soul was in his eyes, and the 
 pleased, gratified look he cast upon his loved Eugenie amply repaid her 
 for her pains. . . . Monsieur Bernard, in whose brain the wine had made 
 considerable innovation, protested that Eugenie's song was very well in its 
 way, but rather dull for a jovial fete champetre. For his part, he should 
 vote for something more Bacchanalian in its tone, an expression of opinion 
 in which his better half heartily concurred. * . . This roused the ire of 
 Madame Montonnet, and she begged Madame Bernard to remember there- 
 were young ladies present, before whom it would not be proper to sing any- 
 thing offensive to ears polite. ..." I am as well aware of that circum- 
 stance as you, Madame," replied Madame Bernard, in a slightly husky- 
 voice ; " is not my infant daughter with us too 1 " . . . " Oh, yes, Madame ^ 
 an infant of fifteen years of age ! A stronger reason still why the 
 gentlemen should be guarded in their songs." ..." My daughter,. 
 Ma'am, cannot possibly put improper constructions on anything that is sung 
 or said." .- . . " Where wrong constructions can be put, some persons are- 
 not slow to find them." 
 
 " Come, come, ladies," said Dupont, offering his paper of sweetmeats ; 
 "no sparring, for heaven's sake, about a song." ..." Dupont is right," 
 hiccupped Bernard ; " I will sing you a song appropriate to our feast." . . . 
 " Sing us a drinking song," all the men shouted out at once, " and we will 
 finish the bottle of aniseed the while." - . . "Here goes, then," cried 
 Bernard — now three parts drunk — and he halloed and whooped a Baccha- 
 nalian song, the rest of the men, with the exception of Adolphe, joining in 
 a Dutch chorus, enough to split 3 r our head. . . . The wine was in. and the 
 wit was out. ... As soon as the awful din was at an end, Madame 
 Bernard, who had covered her ears with her hands during its perpetration, 
 assured the revellers she had never heard so perfectly disgusting a noise in 
 all her life ; for her part, she preferred " One dav Guillot met fair Lisette," 
 or " The Crutch of Father Barnabas." . . . " ' The Crutch of Father 
 Barnabas,'" shrieked Madame Montonnet; "whoever heard it in the, 
 society of decent people ?"..." Why not, Madame ? or the medley of 
 * The Vestal ' ? it is sung everywhere when the dessert is on the table. " 
 . . . "With men alone it najr be tolez-ated, but amongst mothers of 
 families, oh, fie ! "... " Don't make yourself ridiculous, Madame ; we are? 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet' s Fete. 2% 
 
 out for the day, and we will amuse ourselves in any way we like." . . . 
 " Because you are out for the day, there is no reason that my daughter 
 should be compelled to listen to improprieties that I should blush to hear.'*' 
 ..." Truly, a very slight thing makes you blush ; for my part, I have no- 
 such compunctious visitings ; and, to speak the naked truth, I have ofteik. 
 found that those who are so rigid in their virtuous possessions are only so. 
 in their words." 
 
 The taunt produced an excess of frenzy in Madame Montonnet ; she- 
 rose with what she intended to be a crushing, majestic air, and looked 
 daggers at the offending Madame Bernard ; the latter, nothing daunted, and 
 delighted with having pierced her to the quick, returned her gloomy looks 
 •with a scornful, defying laugh ; and Bidois, profiting by the momentary 
 confusion, chuckled in his sleeve, and jerked a drumstick of the detestable- 
 turkey far into the wood. 
 
 Monsieur Bernard, who was a good-tempered fellow at heart, immedi- 
 ately undertook to make peace between the high belligerent powers, and 
 appealed to the men for aid in his amiable endeavours. Adolphe had note. 
 chosen to hear one word of the dispute, Dupont did not know which part to- 
 take, Gerard refused to interfere, and Montonnet, overpowered with the- 
 potent aniseed, fairly lost his wits at witnessing the rage of his wife 
 Bernard persisted, nevertheless, in effecting a diversion by proposing thate 
 the younger portion of the company should repair to the dancers, whilst: 
 the eiders should remain where they were, and occupy themselves with their* 
 wine and their songs. The suggestion pleased: Madame Montonnet averred-; 
 that it would be far better for the girls than remaining to hear filthy songs*, 
 and even condescended to bid Eugenie lead the way to the green. En- 
 chanted with the permission, Eugenie and Mimi left the dell at onee„. 
 followed by little Stephen and Adolphe, the rear being closed by Made- 
 moiselle Cecilia, who laboured under the monomania of still being young. 
 
 Dupont hesitated ; he was in doubt whether to follow Eugenie, ox- 
 remain and pay court to his ally, her mother ; but whilst he was un- 
 decided, the young folks had proceeded too far for him to overtake thenv 
 so, as he had no great affection for dancing, he betook himself again to the- 
 bottle, resolving in his mind to make up for lost time in the last sets o£ 
 quadrilles. 
 
 Adolphe, grown bolder since the dinner, speedily overtook Eugenie, and 
 unhesitatingly possessed himself of her arm. Stephen offered his to Mimi*, 
 who accepted it, with a sigh for the absence of the insinuating Gerard, and 
 little Gerard gamboled on before them all : thus Mademoiselle Cecilia* 
 was forced to walk alone, which she did in a fit of the dumps, mentally 
 abusing the bad manners of the rising generation of the present age. . . . 
 Poor woman ! did she not know that " crabbed age and youth cannot dwell; 
 together \ " Did she not feel that the invisible links of sympathy draws, 
 like to like throughout the animated globe ? . . . No, no ! the scornful 
 neglect of the stronger sex had steeled her heart, and blinded her percep- 
 tion to her own advancing years. At forty-five she wished to be considered- 
 only twenty ; she saw not that her face, at no period of her youth rich ia 
 attractions, was now shrunk and shrivelled as the autumn leaf ; so, instead 
 of looking in upon herself, and calmly passing down the hill of life, she- 
 took delight in censuring the men and manners of the day, and in that way 
 revenged herself upon the ravages which time had made. 
 
 But let us leave the grumbling old maid, and see what took place- 
 between Eugenie and Adolphe when they joined the dance. At the end of 
 the first set, they sauntered, as if to escape from the heat, into a thicket^ 
 where they were effectually concealed from inquisitive, prying eyes. Onc& 
 
24: Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 there,- Adolphe, giving way to the passion that consumed Lira, took the 
 •unresisting maiden in his arms, pressed her warmly to his heart, and kissed 
 the varied beauties of her lips, her cheeks, her brow a thousand and 
 a thousand times. What could she do ? Inflamed with wine, he poured 
 forth his burning tale of love, which her delighted ears greedily drank in ; 
 moment after moment the sweet intoxication made its way to the inmost 
 recesses of her soul ; her brain reeled, her eyes swam, she trembled in every 
 serve, and murmuring, like the dying evening breeze, — " Adolphe, I am 
 thine for ever ; I live alone for thee," she lost all outward sense, and 
 passively resigned her lovely person to his eager embrace. . . . Fair, 
 innocent, young, charming, thoughtless Eugenie" happily for thee it was 
 Sunday, and so many good folks promenaded in the blithe wood of 
 Komainville ! 
 
 The sounds of approaching footsteps recalled the lovers to themselves, 
 and they walked gently back. Eugenie spoke not, but her dove-like eyes, 
 swimming with love, confirmed the sweet avowal uttered by her lips. 
 "Happy, happy day ! " she mentally exclaimed, " but, oh, too short ; would 
 that it could never pass away ! " . . . " And I, dearest, have not a wish 
 ungratified, now that I am blessed with the possession of your heart. 
 When, sweetest, shall we meet again?" . . . "Alas, I cannot tell; 
 perhaps a fortnight, perhaps in a few days." ... " Oh, Eugenie, no day 
 shall ever pass without my beholding your loved form ; on every oppor- 
 tunity that presents itself, I will run out and pass your shop, and" then, if 
 your mamma should not be in, you can speak to me for an instant at the 
 door ; if not, at least I shall have the pleasure* of seeing you at the desk." 
 , . . " I shall be always there," she answered ; " too happy if I can but say 
 ■one word to assure you of my unalterable love. " 
 
 This little scheme of future correspondence was scarcely ratified by 
 another passionate embrace, when the notes -of the violin warned them 
 that they might be observed, and, with a deep sigh at the interruption of 
 their bliss, they joined the groups on the green. The dancing was recom- 
 menced with renovated spirit ; the ball of Romainville had never been so 
 gay; but Eugenie and Adolphe moved mechanically through the prescribed 
 ■routine. In the midst of numbers they were alone ; they saw not the 
 -crowds around ; one single thought had mastery of their minds : they loved 
 and were beloved. 
 
 Tall Miini and little Stephen made a very ill-assorted couple; the 
 young^ lady gave herself airs, and would only dance in a set composed of 
 exclusives from the city, for in her eyes a peasant was a vulgar animal, by 
 no means the equal of a tailor's lad fresh from his master's goose. . . . The 
 girl was pretty right : agricultural labourers are not redolent of lavender 
 water and honey soap ! 
 
 Mademoiselle Cecilia had taken a seat on one of the benches which were 
 placed around the rustic ball-room, where she remained a silent spectator. 
 True, she had endeavoured to prevail on Gerard's boy to take her hand, but 
 the young scamp preferred racing about in the woods, so there she sat in 
 gloomy majesty. In the intervals of the quadrilles, Adolphe tempted 
 Eugenie to return into the woods ; but prudence conquered the dictates of 
 her heart, and she refused to depart, fearful of her mother's anger should 
 that dragon of watchfulness suddenly pounce upon them and not find her 
 engaged in the mazes of the djmee. Adolphe acknowledged the justice of 
 her reasoning, and desisted from further importunities. He feared lest 
 she should be exposed to her mother's rage, and besides, not a glance must 
 be seen that would raise che slightest suspicion of their loves in the old 
 lady's mind , as in that case they well knew that their doom would be 
 
Finale of Monsieur Uontonnet's Fete. 25 
 
 -.sealed, and that they would never be permitted to meet each other again. 
 "Still he incessantly poured forth his vows, deeming every moment lost that 
 was not consecrated to love ; he never tired of her whispered pledges of 
 reciprocated affection ; again and again he plighted bis troth to the fair 
 girl, and eagerly listened to her timid, low response. . . . Love and 
 .ambition are very similar : the more they have the more they want. Am- 
 bition is never satisfied ; love is just the same. 
 
 The pleasure of the happy citizens and villagers was at its height. 
 Mimi, not finding little Stephen quite so agreeable as the gallant Gerard, 
 and somewhat fatigued, had sat down beside Mademoiselle Cecilia, when 
 all on a sudden a rude mixture of laughter, songs, and drunken shouts 
 announced the coming of our friends who had stopped to finish their 
 bottles in the amphitheatre of the wood. Monsieur Bernard, arm in arm 
 with Madame Gerard, came first, making more noise than the whole of the 
 band. In spite of the remonstrances of the dancers, he di'agged the good 
 woman into the very centre of the quadrille, reeled madly up and down, 
 disturbing the poules and chaines des dames, altogether heedless of the 
 entreaties of those who endeavoured to restrain him. Persuasions were of 
 no avail ; Eernard was furiously drunk, so he cocked his hat and defied all 
 -comers. 
 
 Next Monsieur Gerard and Madame Bernard came skipping and jump- 
 ing along, he with a faint imitation of a fashionable step, concerning which 
 his motions were very imperfect." They were followed by Madame Mon- 
 tonnet and Dupont, who endured patiently her lamentations touching her 
 quarrel with Madame Gerard, whose behaviour she considered to be of such 
 an indelicate and reprehensible a description as to exclude her from all 
 future invitations. The songs of the men after the young folks"' left 
 had added to Madame's ill humour, and augmented the vivacity of Madame 
 Bernard, so that another explosion of the fair dames' wrath was only 
 avoided with the greatest difficulty. Dupont heard the recapitulation of 
 her sorrows in silence, merely observing at proper intervals, — " You are 
 right, nothing can be more sensibly put; indeed, Madame,- you are per- 
 fectly right." 
 
 As usual, Bidois came last, carrying the baskets with the remains of the 
 feast. Thanks to the cunning of the old fox, a great part of the provisions 
 were thrown away, — the baskets, however, were still far too heavy to be 
 agreeable to him, and what galled him most was that he was obliged to 
 take back to Paris the two large empty bottles which had contained the 
 Muscat wine and aniseed liqueurs presented by Dupont. 
 
 Madame Montonnet satisfied herself at a glance of Eugenie's presence in 
 -the crowd ; she then proposed to Dupont that he should ask her daughter 
 to dance, premising that ail girls were fond of that amusement, and that it 
 was an innocent pleasure which they might be permitted to enjoy three or 
 four times a year. . . . The grocer agreed with her in opinion, assur- 
 ing her that he danced with great elegance, and had been a Zephyr in his 
 youth, having had the advantage of instruction from a first-rate professor of 
 •the saltatory act at one shilling a lesson. 
 
 The time had now arrived when the delicious dreams of Adolphe and 
 Eugenie must end. Adolphe led her to her mother in obedience to an im- 
 perious sign, and one slight, soft pressure of the hand accompanied their 
 ■mute farewell. 
 
 Dupont hastened to Eugenie and solicited her hand for the next 
 .quadrille. She saw by her mother's looks that she dare not refuse, and 
 accepted his offer with a strong effort to control her disgust, whilst a side- 
 long glance at Adolphe showed him the aversion she felt at dancing with 
 
26 Monsieur Dwpont. 
 
 any other than him. Adolphe looked his answer with his speaking eyes %. 
 but, alas, submission was their lot. Housing himself, Adolphe reflected 
 that nothing would be lost in improving his opportunities to ingratiate him- 
 self with Madame Montonnet. He advanced to her accordingly, and asked 
 to be allowed the distinguished honour of leading her out. The lady de- 
 clined the invitation — thanking him graciously for his politeness — as, she 
 said, it was a long time since she had .danced : she was the head of a f amily r 
 and could not compromise her dignity by joining in a frivolity fit only for 
 young folks. Adolphe did not press his suit — as may well be supposed — 
 but engaged a peasant girl, and placed himself opposite to Eugenie, that he- 
 might have the delight of gazing on her beauteous face, and occasionally 
 meeting the sparkling light of her bright eyes. 
 
 The leader of the band had tapped on his fiddle for the music to com- 
 mence playing, and the Master of the Ceremonies had called on the assorted 
 couples to take their places for the next set, when Monsieur Bernard, with 
 whom the aniseed was uppermost, staggered irito the midst of the dancers 
 just about to begin, calling out to Madame Gerard that he could jump 
 higher than any other man in the world, and now was the time to see him 
 cut six. Montonnet beheld what was taking place with a maudlin, senti- 
 mental air, regretting that the presence of his wife prevented him from 
 mingling with the throng. Bidois, mischief -making Bidois, guessed what 
 was passing in his master's mind, and assured him that Madame Monton- 
 net was chatting with Mademoiselle Cecilia in such a position that she 
 could not possibly see him, so the laceman approached a very pretty 
 brunette who was sitting without a partner, proposed, was accepted, and 
 went his way with his head spinning round, and his heart as light m if 
 there had been no such person as his wife in all the world. 
 
 Bidois rubbed his hands, and grinned with delight at the thought of 
 the stormy scene that must ensue. Said he, " The toyman's wife is as 
 drunk as himself, master's drunk, Gerard's drunk ; they have all drunk 
 like fish, and they're all drunk together. Nothing would satisfy the old 
 fool Montonnet but dancing with that peasant girl. If his wife could but. 
 find him now with that pretty girl, what a row there would be ! She would 
 tear his eyes out to a certainty." . . . Muttering these words as he re- 
 turned slowly to the panniers, which had been deposited for safety close to- 
 Miss Cecilia, he sat down on one of them, and roared with laughter, but 
 instantly recollecting that the big Muscat and aniseed bottles were in the 
 other, he jumped up fiercely, seized the basket, cursed the bottles, and gave 
 them a shake that made them ring again. Then suddenly perceiving Madame 
 Montonnet was within a few paces of him, and could see what he was at, the 
 old hypocrite replaced the basket gently on the ground, crept up to her 
 in the most humble style, with his eyes to the earth, and inquired 
 whether he should accompany her on a promenade round the dancing 
 groups. . . . Madame cut him short with a "No," and asked what 
 he had done with her husband, for whom she had been looking on. 
 every side. . . . "I have not seen him lately, Madame ; no doubt he 
 has gone to see Mademoiselle Eugenie dance. We shall find him on the 
 green." . a . " Leave those baskets, then, and come and assist me to find 
 him." . . . "Willingly, Madame." 
 
 The old fox came away from the baskets with the greatest pleasure, 
 wishing that Providence would induce some kind-hearted fellow to steal 
 them during his absence. He then presented his arm to Madame Montonnet 
 with a low bow, pretended to be lifted above himself by the honour she 
 conferred upon him in accepting it, and walked off in the direction he had 
 seen Montonnet take with the peasant girl, measuring his step to suit 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet' s Fete. 27 
 
 those of his mistress, as closely as a raw recruit does of a veteran drill 3 
 sergeant marching by his side. 
 
 "Another signal came from the orchestra, the opening bars of the music 
 were played, aud the dancers were in motion. Bernard darted forward, 
 and in cutting a desperate caper, tripped up a smart rustic residing in the 
 neighbourhood, and soiled his Nankeen pantaloons. The young farmer 
 wiped the dust from his garment as he watched the gambols of the toyman 
 with anything but a pleased expression ; and determined to pay him off 
 when the opportunity should arrive. Bernard cared for nothing except to * 
 electrify his partner with his proficiency, and rattled on, while his wife, 
 whose equilibrium since dinner was not of the most perfect order, walked- 
 about, holding stoutly on by the arm of Monsieur Gerard. A little way 
 lower down the set Eugenie stood, in abstraction, by the side of the grocer. 
 When it came to his turn to dance, the awkwardlout, with the view of making 
 an impression on his fair partner, tried hard to recollect the instructions of 
 the first-rate professor at a shilling a lesson. He bounded up and down, 
 rushed forward, ran from side to side, and twisted round like a dancing 
 dervise, his chain and seals and the silver in his pockets keeping up & 
 running, jingling accompaniment to the music of the band. The utter 
 absurdity of the man's grotesque exertions did not fail to destroy Eugenie's 
 reverie ; she lifted her eyes, and could not repress a smile when she met - 
 Adolphe's, moist with laughter at the exhibition made by poor Dupont. 
 The booby saw the smile that brightened her face, and attributed the dissi- 
 pation of her melancholy to the power of his own fascinations in the chore- 
 graphic art ; he danced with redoubled ardour until streams of perspiration >- 
 began to flow, and having caught up in their passage some of the powder 
 with which the barber had decked out his head, trickled in little chalky- 
 rills across his gross, red cheeks. 
 
 The sky-blue coat, gleaming like a meteor in the air, pointed out the way 
 to Bidois and Madame Montonnet. On her reaching the dancers, she" 
 contemplated Dapont with rapture, and said,— " How divinely he dances, 
 what grace in all his motions, what agility, and yet what ease ! " . . . 
 " Not so very hssl, if he did not sweat so much." ..." Perspire, Bidois V 
 Do not all the world perspire when they dance ? Does not my husband 
 perspire when he merely walks a minuet ? And you, Bidois, when you have 
 finished a dance, you look like nothing more nor less than a poodle dog that 
 has just come out of the water." . - . " Quite right, Madame, quite right ; 
 everybody perspires when they dance." ..." On the contrary, sir, I say 
 everybody does not perspire when they dance. Monsieur Dupont's per- 
 spiration is entirely owing to the extraordinary heat of the day." . . . "Oh, 
 yes, Madame, it is all owing to the heat of the day." ..." What do yots 
 mean by trifling with me with your double phrases in this way?" . . . 
 Bidois saw he could not please the lady whatever he might say, and so, like 
 a prudent man, he held his tongue. . . . Madame Montonnet would nofe 
 let him rest ; she again turned her admiring looks upon Dupont, never tired 
 of impressing his praises on her hearers. ..." See, see, what graceful 
 pirouettes : equal to any at the opera." ..." Yes, Madame, just like those 
 we see at the opera." ..." Were you ever there, Bidois '?"..." Yes, 
 once, about thirty years ago, but the impressions of it are strong in my 
 remembrance ; I saw Psyche and Lawyer Patelin. Celebrated operas these." 
 . . . Madame Montonnet said no more, but after a few minutes' silence, 
 observed, — " It's a pity Dupont's trinkets make such a noise." ..." Not at 
 all, Madame, there is nothing disagreeable in such sounds as these ; they 
 always proclaim that a man is well-to-do in the world." . . . "True;- 
 where there are seals there is always a watch. "... Another pause ensues., 
 
^28 Monsieur DupdnL 
 
 x 
 
 j. . . "Mademoiselle Eugenie dances extremely well." . . . "Yes, Bidois; 
 % proper, modest, well-regulated motion. How indeed could it be other- 
 wise when I taught her ? " . . . " She takes alter her mamma in everything ; 
 she is as like you, Madame, as two peas in a pod. What a lovely woman 
 she will be ! " 
 
 The well-timed compliment had its due effect. Madame drew up her 
 head, laughed affectedly, fanned herself with her handkerchief, and eon- 
 
 - iemplated her daughter's beauty, in her mind the counterpart of her own. 
 . . . Well might she do so ! At no previous moment of her young life did 
 ■Eugenie ever look so lovely. The heat of the day, the excitement of the 
 dance, the presence of Adolphe, the avowal of his love, the new, delightful 
 
 -feelings that filled her heart to overflowing, all contributed to spread upon 
 her face an exquisite charm, that Dupont conceived to have been caused 
 by himself, and her mother, equally in the wrong, attributed to the plea- 
 sures of the day. One only was acquainted with the secret of that joy, 
 
 - -which quickened her pulses, and drove the ruby blood like lightning through 
 her veins. 
 
 The quadrille was nearly over, and Madame Montonnet had for- 
 gotten her husband whilst gazing on her daughter, when a terrific outcry 
 was heard — blows, threats, curses, shouts, and " all the current of a heady 
 -fight." The dancers and bystanders flocked towards the spot whence 
 the uproar came. Bidois manifested a strong disposition to slink away, 
 trat Madame Montonnet, who had not the least taste of fear in her com- 
 position, would go, more especially as she heard the voice of Bernard 
 high above the rest. The old clerk was forced to comply, and, once on 
 their way, it was impossible to return, for the crowd who pressed upon their 
 -heels pushed them onwards, and barred every means of retreat. On arriving 
 .at the spot where the riot was going on, they saw a tall, stout fellow, 
 without his coat, grasping Bernard by his hair, and the latter, by way of 
 reprisal, holding his adversary tightly by the throat. The cause of the 
 row was that the villagers, completely tired of the erratic kicks of the 
 
 - tipsy toyman, had cast him into the middle of the dancers of the quadrille, 
 ■ which he had thrown into disorder with his intrusive gambols. On gaining 
 
 his feet, Bernard called his adversary a bumpkin, upon which the fray 
 ..commenced, and the cries arose that interrupted the dancers in the other 
 -sets. ..." Dear me," said Madame Montonnet, " just as I thought it 
 
 would be. Bernard has quarrelled, and get into a mess. No day's plea- 
 . sure ever finished comfortably when he had anything to do with it. :: . . . 
 
 " The aniseed has done it all," growled Bidois. . . . Madame Bernard 
 -shouted out, in the shrillest tones, — "These peasants! these bumpkins! 
 
 these ugly wretches would not allow ray husband to dance with them, as 
 
 If the wood was not free for all ! " . . . These words added fuel to the 
 --fire. The peasants, irritated at the opprobrious terms, one and all took 
 
 part with their comrade. "Give it him well," they cried. "Does the 
 -fool think that he can come here and kick us about just as he likes ? And 
 
 the fat, red-faced, drunken woman, who calls us all stupid wretches, what 
 _does she look like ? No great thing, I reckon." . . . " I tell you what, 
 
 Fanchon, they are nothing but poor devils of valets and waiting-maids, 
 
 who have come here to ape their masters' and mistresses' follies." . . . 
 • "And this other fellow, who stinks so that you can't go near him, he must 
 lay down the law ; he must play the Three-tailed Bashaw, and insult our 
 .-sweethearts and wives. They've had dancing enough, and now they must 
 
 pay the piper." 
 
 The threat implied in the last remark filled Bidois' heart with dismay. 
 •The struggle between Bernard and the farmer went on amid encouraging 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnefs Feie. 2^ 
 
 cries from the partisans of both combatants, and the former had just beers 
 thrown heavily, when, luckily, the police came up, and put an end to the- 
 fray. Frightened at the belligerent demonstrations of the peasants, Gerard 
 and his wife had withdrawn from the crowd in double-quick time, an 
 example which the police recommended Bernard to follow as speedily as he 
 could. Bernard disdained the cowardly advice, for he was a great hero — 
 after dinner ; and no sooner was he free from the police than he returned 
 to the villagers, and accosted them with the choicest Billingsgate that his 
 vocabulary could supply. Flesh and blood could not stand it any longer ; 
 the tall farmer spi'ang forward, and struck a blow with his clenched fist at* " 
 the very moment that Bidois, in obedience to Madame Montonnefs orders, 
 was pulling Bernard back by the skirts of his coat, when the toyman 
 stepped quickly aside, and Bidois, receiving the blow intended for him, 
 measured his length on the grass. . . . Madame Montonnet uttered a cry 
 of despair, the villagers laughed till they could hardly stand, and Madame 
 Bernard, out of her wits with rage, insisted that her husband should thrash 
 the wretches all round. This, however, as in many other cases, was sooner 
 said than done ; for, as soon as the peasants had recovered their breath, 
 they hustled and kicked and cuffed Bernard in such sort that he was glad 
 to make his escape, bearing with him some remembrances of the woods of 
 Eomainville that he would not forget till his dying day. 
 
 Madame Montonnet ran wildly on every side, peering and prying into 
 every bush, and calling on the name of her lost lamb. What was her con- 
 sternation to find him, far away from the tumult, quietly seated on the 
 turf, offering some maccaroons to the pretty brunette. She stood aghast. 
 Had he the impudence to commit such an atrocity, — here was a specimen of 
 conjugal infidelity that she could never have believed, At last words came ; 
 to her relief. " What are you doing here ? " she cried, shaking him roughly 
 by the arm. " What, when your friends are quarrelling and fighting, you 
 must sneak away with a . " " Calm yourself, my life ; I have been throw- 
 ing with sticks for maccaroons, and every time I threw I won. I w r as 
 about to bring them to you, my sweet." ..." Don't talk to me of your 
 maccaroons ; do you not hear the noise ? Get up, I say, and leave your 
 nasty trollop ; get up, come with me, and search for our daughter, that we- 
 may leave this odious wood. Madame Bernard has raised the whole village 
 against us with her stupidity j come sir, come. Oh ! you shall smart by- 
 and-bye for this ! 
 
 Montonnet did not stop for the command to be repeated, but hastened 
 after Madame, who had already left the spot with seven-leagued-boot 
 strides, to look for Eugenie, fearing she might have been hurt in the ; 
 crowd. Montonnet looked back once piteously at the brunette, who 
 enjoyed his tribulation, held up the paper of maccaroons, shook it at him, 
 playfully, shrugged her shoulders, and laughed. When they arrived at the 
 place where Eugenie had been dancing with Dupont, she was no longer to- 
 be seen. The fact was, that the lovers seized the opportunity of the affray 
 — for lovers never lose an opportunity— to have another tete-a-tete. Again 
 and again they swore they adored each other ; that the loved dear one 
 should alone occupy their thoughts ; that they had but one hope, one aim, 
 one object in their future lives — to live for each other's happiness alone. 
 These words, it is true, they had said a hundred times before that day ; but 
 it was necessary they should say them again before they left. Love, you 
 know, is never tired of hearing repetitions. 
 
 Nevertheless the Fates have decreed that everything shall have ars 
 end ; and as it is even arranged that we poor mortals here below shall not- 
 taste the joys intended for the happy souls above, and as we are not over- 
 
-30 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 _and-above happy in this world, in order that we may be transported with 
 bliss in the next. That is the reason, no doubt, that the lovers' tete-a-tete 
 'was only of ten minutes' duration, although they wished it had been twenty 
 times as long. 
 
 The voice of Madame Montonnet was heard calling loudly on her 
 
 . daughter. The lovers started, pressed their lips together fondly for the 
 last time, retreated through the back of the thicket, made a slight detour, 
 arrived on the spot where disorder still prevailed, and pretended to have 
 been looking for their friends. Eugenie painted in glowing colours the 
 
 -misery she had suffered at losing her mamma. Madame and Monsieur 
 >Ioutonnet thanked Adolphe for the care he had taken of their child, and 
 JSidois then joined them, with his handkerchief held up to his bleeding 
 
 -nose. 
 
 A brief consultation was now held, the result of which was the deter- 
 mination to proceed immediately to town, without stopping for any of their 
 guests, with whom they had set out in the morning. The first step was to 
 .search for the baskets ; Bidois repaired to the spot where he had left them 
 ■with Mademoiselle Cecilia, but there was only one to be seen, the other 
 containing the large bottles was gone. Bidois turned his head on one side 
 to conceal the smile that would have betrayed him as he said, — " Some 
 
 ■ thieves must have taken the other basket, thinking that the bottles were 
 full of wine." . . . This view of the case was taken by all, but did not 
 afford any consolation to Madame Montonnet for the loss of the bottles, 
 which were made of the best porcelain, from the manufactory at Sevres. 
 
 . .. . . " They were suburb," said the clerk. ..." Now, children, let us be off ;" 
 -we have had enough of the wood of Romainvilie to serve our turn for some 
 
 --.time to come. Oh ! those Bernards ; it will be long before I ask them to 
 
 . one of my parties again. Monsieur Dupont, take my daughter under your 
 protection ; Montonnet, move forward, quick, and don't be turning your 
 fiead to look after your nasty minx. Do you not see that the peasants are 
 locking evilly at us, and, if we stop, will carry their intentions into effect ? 
 ^ . . " Of a verity," quoth Bidois, " I like not their looks at all." 
 
 The family Montonnet soon emerged from the interior of the wood, 
 
 .gained a beaten footpath which led to the high road, and, much against 
 
 -their inclination, came up with the rest of their party, who had waited for 
 them in order to vent their ill-humour on the givers of the feast. Madame 
 Bernard, leaning on the arm of the peace-maker, Gerard, who vainly 
 attempted to moderate her rage, was furious at having been obliged to leave 
 
 .at the end of her first dance. She launched forth the most voluble invectives 
 against every man, woman and child in the village and neighbourhood of 
 Komainville, her husband added his maledictions to hers, so that the per- 
 fumer's family, who were in no mood for another scene with the peasantry 
 of the same quality as the preceding one were about to quit the Bernards 
 and proceed to Paris by themselves, when the Montonnets came up. . . . The 
 
 ^attack commenced forthwith. 
 
 "Bravo, bravo, Monsieur Montonnet," hallooed Bernard, the moment 
 
 -lie was within hearing. " I hope you are satisfied with the nice treat you 
 gave us with the peasants in the wooda ! " . . . " Lovely ball that of yours," 
 bis wife chimed in. " So genteel, so amusing, I shall never it forget as long 
 as I live." ... " Madame," replied Madame Montonnet, in her haughti- 
 est tone, " you will allow that the disturbance was caused in the first place 
 by your husband's very improper behaviour, and that, instead of striving to 
 appease the villagers, you added to their fury by applying to them the 
 
 -most opprobrious terms." ... "I, Madame, I! I use opprobrious 
 
 -terms!" ... "I appeal to all present whether you did not?" . . -> 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet' s Fete. 31 
 
 * Really, Madame, you are too polite." ... " Oh, do by all means take the 
 part of a set of bumpkins, who have beaten, and hooted at us, and driven us 
 from the dance, and ill-used your clerk. Look at his nose, Ma'am, only 
 look at that." ..." That blow, Ma'am, was not intended for him." . . . 
 **No doubt, Ma'am, you would have preferred that my husband should 
 have received it." ... "In that case," said Bidois, "the letter would 
 hare been delivered at the right address." Bernard again burst in, — " Oh, 
 that I had had a dozen of my comrades of the National Guard at my com- 
 mand ! I would have told the scoundrels another sort of a tale." . . . 
 *' Notwithstanding your inpouring, Monsieur Bernard, there is no doubt i(j 
 was all owing to you." ... " Owing to me, Ma'am ? I did nothing wrong 
 at all, I merely danced." ... " Danced, yes, but in such a manner that 
 you kicked every one near you, and disturbed the whole quadrille.". . . . 
 " What, Ma'am, are we to restrain ourselves for these country fools ? " . . . 
 4 * I recollect, Ma'am^that when you used to dance, although it is so many 
 years ago, you used to take up room enough for six." . . . "No per- 
 sonalities, Ma'am, I beg." ... "It is you, Ma'am, who are personal." . . 
 "To be that, Ma'am, I must beg the loan of your tongue." ... " By no 
 means, Ma'am ; your own is quite long and sharp enough to destroy the 
 peace of your husband, your daughter, your servant, your clerk, and all who 
 have the misfortune to be connected with you." 
 
 Madame Montonnet could not bear it any longer ; her rage found vent in 
 a passionate burst of tears, and she called out to her husband — " Montonnet, 
 you cur, will you stand tamely by and hear your poor, dear wife abused by 
 these scandalous creatures ? " . . . Montonnet did not know what to do " He 
 thought it necessary, however, to look big, so he knocked his hat down 
 firmly on his forehead, and gave every indication of taking a very decided 
 part in the dispute. The peaceful Gerards, in the meantime, made the best; 
 of their way home, quite undecided which side to espouse. 
 
 Madame Bernard saw her advantage, and prepared to drive her arrows 
 home. . . . " Yes," she cried ; " you think, Madame Montonnet, you can 
 domineer wherever you go ; you think that everybody must tremble at 
 your frown ; you think you can bully everybody as you do your poor, craven, 
 henpecked husband. Yes, Ma'am, I have waited for an opportunity to* 
 tell you a bit of my mind ; it has been almost choking me for God knows 
 how long, and now I am delighted it is out. Keep your fetes and 
 dinners to yourselves, and I will mine. One of mine is worth ten of yours 
 any day ; and when I do give a fete, I shall furnish the wines and the 
 liqueurs for the dessert myself, and not be mean enough to expect my grocer 
 to make me a present of them." ... " Oh ! the viper ; oh, that woman's 
 venomous tongue ! But we must excuse the poor creature ; everybody 
 knows that after dinner she don't know what she says." ... " Do you 
 hear that, Bernard ; do you hear what that wretched woman says ? She 
 accuses me of having drank too much." ... " Does she say that ? " re- 
 plied Bernard ; " if she was only a man, I don't know what the consequences 
 might be. But come along, my dearest, come along ; come, Mimi, come 
 Stephen, we will not demean ourselves with stopping one moment longer in 
 the company of such low people." . . . With these words the Bernards 
 passed on, and left Madame Montonnet bursting with rage, and almost 
 fainting on the broad highway. 
 
 As soon as they were lost to view, Madame Montonnet gulped down her 
 tears with sundry hysteric sobs, and the party were once again in motion. 
 Montonnet expressed his pleasure at the Bernards having gone, as he had 
 quite lost all patience with them, and should not have be<»n able to answer 
 longer for himself. . . . Bidois said he had never seen Buch a she-dragoa 
 
32 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 as Madame Bernard, Dupont, who had been as mute as a stock-fist 
 during the quarrel, affirmed that he had never beheld her equal in his life ' T 
 and Madame Montonnet protested that it would be a lesson for her in all 
 time to come how to choose her friends. After what had taken place,. 
 Montonnet must not think of again setting his foot within the Bernards* 
 door. . . . Montonnet promised obedience. Indeed, he said, he was- 
 abcut to propose to his wife, when she spoke, that they should never meet 
 those detestable people again. 
 
 Adolphe and Eugenie were the only persons who had not something 
 derogatory to the Bernards to say. Their minds were entirely occupied 
 with their own thoughts. Nay, it is more than probable that in their hearts 
 they blessed any circumstance that detained them in the wood, filled with 
 so many delightful associations, and which they quitted with such inex- 
 pressible regret. . . . But we must return to Paris. 
 
 By this time the golden sun had set, the purple twilight glowed with 
 the last streaks of the glorious luminary, and the shades of evening were 
 stealing over the scene. Banks of dark clouds rose out of the east, piled 
 like towers upon towers ; large drops of rain fell at short intervals on the 
 path, and our wayfarers, tired with their exertions in the wood, strove to 
 reach the mighty city before they should be overtaken by the coming storm. 
 Montonnet, dragged along by his wife, endeavoured to keep pace with her 
 rapid strides. Dupont, with his coat off, and suffering from the oppressive 
 heat, trudged on to the rattling music of his trinkets, chains and seals. 
 Eugenie walked by his side, turning her head from time to time to catch a 
 momentary glance of young Adolphe ; and Bidois trotted on in his usual 
 position, more at his ease than he had been in the morning, and almost 
 forgetting his broken nose in the success of his scheme to get rid of the 
 large China bottles and one infernal basket. 
 
 They had traversed but a few hundred yards of the road towards 
 Belleville when darkness came suddenly upon them. Presently afterwards 
 the black clouds opened, the rain fell in torrents, and gusts of wind drove 
 it violently into their teeth. They had left behind the last straggling trees 
 at the outskirts of the wood, there was no shelter of any kind near, and in 
 a few moments they were all wet to the skin. Montonnet tied his handker- 
 chief over his head, and ran by the side of his wife as fast as he could j and 
 Bidois, in order to protect his hat from being spoiled — it was a bran new 
 one, having seen only two years' service — crammed the remains of the feast 
 into his pockets, tore off the lid of the basket, and placed it on his head, in 
 which costume he looked very much like the friend of our youth, poor 
 Hohinson Crusoe. 
 
 At the earnest solicitations of Dupont, Eugenie also attempted to run. 
 She had, however, only taken a few steps when her foot slipped. She 
 uttered a slight scream, found that she had sprained her ankle, and could 
 proceed no farther without additional support. Adolphe hastened to her 
 aid. She accepted his arm with delight, and having by this little stratagem 
 managed to get him to her side, she leaned tenderly upon him, and contrived [ 
 to walk on wonderfully well, considering the severity of the sprain. . . . 
 liove is astonishingly quick in suggesting expedients to the minds of young 
 ladies who are suffering from his darts ! 
 
 The pretty hamlet of Belleville was soon reached, but from thence to the 
 Bne Saint Martin the distance was still great, and the storm had not abated 
 in the least. Montonnet declared he was knocked up, and could not 
 possibly go on ; his wife complained of fatigue ; Dupont was ready to drop ; 
 Eugenie's ankle was again so bad that it was out of the question for her to 
 walk, so that a hackney coach was their only resource, provided one could 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet? s Fete. 3H< 
 
 be found. It was agreed then that the party should remain and rest them- 
 selves at the village inn, whilst Adolphe should brave the pitiless pelting of 
 the storm, and endeavour to find a coach. 
 
 He set forth on his benevolent errand, leaving his friends at "The 
 Bowling-Green, " the landlord of which hostelry would rather have had 
 their room than their company, because Madame Montonnet, on entering,, 
 told him they had merely come for shelter, and were not disposed to avail;. 
 themselves of his wines and spirituous stock-in-trade. Meanwhile, the 
 time passed on, the rain continued to patter against the small diamond- 
 shaped window panes without any signs of leaving off, and Adolphe did note 
 return. " Poor fellow," thought Eugenie ; "he is exposed to the rain, but 
 I am sure he heeds it not. With him I could brave the fiercest storm that 
 ever raged. Would I were with him even now, far in the wood of Romaiii- 
 ville ! " 
 
 However, people who are not in love are not particularly solicitous 
 about being half -drowned by the rain. . . . Madame Montonnet was tired, 
 of waiting for Adolphe, and longed to be at home and in bed, so she de- 
 sired Bidois to proceed on a voyage of discovery, and if he did not find: 
 Adolphe directly, to go on to "The Island of Love," where there were 
 carriages always to be had, and not to come back without one. She had: 
 no intention, she said, of remaining all night at this miserable village inn, 
 
 Bidois, knowing it was useless to remonstrate with his mistress, re- 
 placed the inverted baskets on his head, and went out towards " The- 
 Island of Love," wishing the devil had Saint Eustache in his holy keeping,, 
 with all his fetes champetres. He had hardly left the inn when Adolphe 
 returned with the carriage, having prevailed on the driver, with the 
 greatest difficulty, to come so far for a fare. Adolphe received a thousand; 
 thanks, and, what was better, a gratified look from Eugenie, for his pains % 
 and as the party were all dreadfully fatigued, they entered the carriage at 
 once, and bade the coachman drive as fast as he could to town. Mon- 
 tonnet ventured to ask his wife, with the utmost deference, if she had- 
 thought of Bidois, and whether she would leave him to walk home on such 
 a night ; when in return for his kindness he received a snubbing from the- 
 lady, who declared Bidois might get home as he could, and that a walk 
 through the drenching rain would teach him to execute his commissions in 
 a better manner the next time he should be sent out to fetch a coach. The 
 coachman smacked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and the road being-, 
 all down hill, the Boulevard was soon reached, the Rue Saint Martin, 
 gained in a few minutes after ; the driver pulled up before Monsieur Mon- 
 tonnet's door, and Adolphe and Dupont were dismissed to their respective 
 homes, with many thanks for their courtesy during the day, and many- 
 assurances of future friendship and esteem. . . . Thus finished the memor- 
 able fete of Saint Eustache, with all its singular events. How different 
 the souvenirs each individual had brought away ; how productive of 
 present happiness and joy, perhaps of future misery and guilt had it not 
 been ! 
 
 But let us see what had become of old Bidois. ... On leaving " The 
 Bowling-Green," he ran as fast as he could to " The Island of Love,"" 
 where the basket on his head provoked great laughter from the waiters and 
 the scullery lads, having missed Adolphe and the hackney coach, from 
 taking a short cut instead of proceeding by the main road Not finding 
 him there, he searched the village without success, and finally decided ort 
 returning to the inn where he had left the Montonnets and their friends. 
 On entering the house with the basket replaced on his arm, he hurriedly 
 inquired where they had gone, and was struck with dismay when he was. 
 
 c 
 
S4 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Informed by the grumbling landlord that they had gone to Paris in a coach. 
 ^ . . "Ina coach, and without me ?",.." Yes ; is not your name Belloie V* 
 * . . " No, sir ; Bidois, if you please." . . . "Ah! Bidois or Belloie, it's all the 
 ♦ same. Well, Monsieur Bidois, seeing you did not return, they called you 
 iwice or thrice, and as you did not choose to make your appearance, why, 
 ' tkey went away without you." . . . Tired as he was with carrying the 
 •■heavy baskets to the wood in the morning, and with being worried 
 throughout the day, Bidois, naturally enough, felt himself aggrieved at 
 being left alone, and eventually agreed with Madame Bernard that no 
 .-. greater tyrant than Madame Montonnet ever pestered the face of the 
 ■earth ; but after his anger had somewhat exploded, he ascertained that the 
 •ookmr of the coach was yellow, and that it had not been long gone, so that, 
 ii he started at once, and put his best leg foremost, it was possible he 
 qmight overtake the vehicle before it reached the city gates. However, 
 ' £here was no other course for Bidois than to make the best of a bad thing, 
 -so making up his mind to brave the tempestuous rain, he set off and ran as 
 'fast as he could, keeping up his courage with the hopes of seeing the 
 ^carriage every minute ; but this he never did, because, by the time he 
 reached the gates, the Montonnets had arrived at the Rue Saint Martin, 
 sud the two elder ones were snug in bed. Immediately after he had passed 
 ■'the barrier, Bidois, to his great delight, saw a yellow carriage a short dis- 
 tance ahead of him. " Thank heaven," he said, " there they are ; and at 
 ■-last I shall get a rest." . . . The sight of the hackney coach gave fresh 
 >7%our to his wearied limbs : he darted forward, and tramped through the 
 *§s«ddles and the mud, until his shoes and stockings were wet through and 
 C-Iirough. With great exertion he reached the side of the yellow coach, and, 
 ■without looking to ascertain whether the persons within it were those he 
 caught or not, he cried to the coachman, in a voice almost inaudible, from 
 the fatigue he had undergone, to pull up and let him join his friends. The 
 ooachman, thinking Bidois had made a mistake, pretended not to hear him. 
 2?r&ntic with the man, he cried out, — " Stop, my good fellow ; stop, I say, 
 guy friends are inside your coach ; stop, and you shall have something 
 'fee yourself to drink." 
 
 The coachman opened his ears when he heard Bidois' promise, stopped 
 Ms horses at once, and requested the old clerk to mount beside him on the 
 &qx. Bidois was not slow to avail himself of the invitation. He was by the 
 -side of the coachman in an instant, but before he had comfortably settled 
 Moiself down, and blessed his stars that he should be compelled to run no 
 ■■farther, but have a ride home, a female voice exclaimed from the interior of 
 "the coach, — " Oh, heavens, it is my husband; what on earth shall I do now ? " 
 .„ . . "Your husband 1 " replied her male companion ; "if that's the case, 
 it's high time for me to be off. " The moment Bidois heard the voices he 
 jsSoaew they were not those of the Montonnets, nor of Adolphe, nor Monsieur 
 Dupont ; he jumped down at once, and as he proceeded to open one of the 
 carriage doors, the occupants beat a hasty retreat from the opposite one, 
 leaving behind them in their flurry a lady's pocket handkerchief, a shawl, a 
 pair of gloves, and a man's hat. Bidois stood like a statue on the carriage 
 -step. ..." Why, what does all this mean, old fellow," asked the coach- 
 man, amazed at seeing his fare bolt off in that unceremonious way. . . . 
 f* Deuce take me if I can tell," answered Bidois ; " all I know is that I've 
 •had the devil's ill-luck all day, and the people who have just run away are 
 not those I was looking for." ... "A pretty fellow you are to play me 
 ? Shis scurvy trick, but I am not going to be done by you, so before we gu 
 jne foot farther you'll please be so good as to pay me my fare." . . . Bidois 
 - expostulated, and assured the coachman that he had not had any intention 
 
Finale of Monsieur Montonnet's Fete. 35 
 
 of playing a trick, and that he had simply mistaken the carriage for the one 
 that contained his friends. A crowd collected round the vehicle, and the 
 coachman, holding Bidois tight, swore that he had taken up the lady and 
 gentleman the clerk had frightened away at the "Banner of France," 
 some distance outside the gates, that they had promised to give him 
 a crown, so a crown he would have. Bidois vainly represented the 
 injustice of his being made to pay for persons whom he did nott 
 know ; the crowd around facetiously suggested that he should be 
 conducted to the guard-house at the gate, and treated to a night's 
 lodging in the black hole, and the coachman, who by this time was 
 in a towering passion at not being paid, coinciding with the justice of the 
 proposition, Bidois was bundled neck and heels into the coach and taken 
 before the officer in command of the picket of infantry at the gate. 
 
 This functionary and his men laughed heartily at the deplorable figure 
 poor Bidois cut, wet through and through, covered with dirt from top to 
 toe, and the wicker basket on his head. ..." No wonder the people in the 
 man's coach ran away," he said, after he had heard the tale. "No doubt, 
 my good friend, they took you for the devil himself." . . . Bidois replied that 
 they left behind them a shawl and other things more than sufficient to pay 
 the fare. ..." True, my good sir ; but you don't get off in that way 
 either. We will take care of the things, and send them to the head police 
 office, that they may be returned to the owners when claimed. So pay the 
 man, or we lock you up at once." 
 
 This decided the case, and Bidois had no alternative but to pay. He 
 fumbled in his pocket for his purse, which, of course, he could not find, and 
 pulled out, one by one, the bits of pates, tongue, and all the remains of the 
 dinner that were in the basket when he emptied it in order to put it on his 
 head. Bursts of laughter accompanied the production of this miscellaneous 
 cold collation; and Bidois, having at length found his purse, paid the 
 coachman a crown, replaced the remnants of the feast in his pockets, with a 
 hearty curse, and desired the man to drive him to the Porte Saint Martin. 
 As he left the guard-house to regain the carriage, Bidois smarted at the 
 high price he had been made to pay for his ride, but comforted himself with 
 the reflection that he should now stretch himself out at his ease and sleep 
 all the way home. . . . Poor Bidois ! it was written in the book of his fate 
 that he was not destined to ride home that night. 
 
 The coachman had remounted the box, and Bidois was leisurely opening 
 the doorto get in, when four young officers pushed him on one side, and 
 jumped into the coach before he was well aware of their intention. Con- 
 gratulating each other on their good-luck at not having to go farther in the 
 heavy rain, they shut the door in spite of Bidois' protestations that he had 
 paid his money, and that the coach was his for the time, and bade the 
 coachman drive on. One even affected to mistake Bidois for the waterman 
 on the stand, and said he would give him something another time. Still 
 Bidois persisted ; he asserted that he was a respectable burgess, and would 
 not be treated in that way ; he ran from the door to the horses, and from 
 the hopes to the door, imploring the coachman to do him justice and make 
 the officers get out. They swore that if they did it would be only for the 
 satisfaction of cropping his ears and slitting his nose ; and the coachman, 
 who was in capital good humour at having gained another fare, drove off at 
 a round pace, heedless of his prayers and imprecations, leaving Bidois 
 standing, the picture of despair, in the middle of the street. 
 
 In a state of utter despondency, Bidois sat down on a bench hard by. and 
 took a last look of the departing coach. For a moment he entertained the 
 idea of returning to the gate and demanding that the rascally coachman 
 
36 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 should be pursued and apprehended for defrauding him of his money, but 
 the fear of again becoming a laughing-stock to the soldiers came over him, 
 so he abandoned the intention, and walked on in no very amiable mood. 
 " Curse Saint Eustache," he growled ; "his fetes have never brought me 
 anything but misfortune. I'll take care next year to be ill for a week at 
 least before the day. A pretty party of pleasure this has been for me ! 
 First, obliged to carry a weight that would have broken a donkey's back ;. 
 next, to run about on all sorts of errands without one single moment's rest ; 
 then a thump that nearly broke my nose ; a storm that drenched me to the 
 skin ; a run after a hackney coach till my legs almost dropped off : and 
 last of all, a walk home after paying the scoundrel of a coachman double 
 his real fare. ... If these are your fetes champetres, give me my own 
 fireside for all the rest of my life ! " 
 
 At length he reached the Rue Saint Martin, completely knocked up ; he 
 let himself in by the side door, and, fearing to go into the kitchen for a light 
 lest he should meet Madame and be sent out again, he ascended the stairs 
 cautiously in the dark, threw himself on his truckle bed, and in a few 
 minutes forgot all his woes in sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EUGENIE AND THE MAID-SERVANT. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Montonnet had been in their apartment for some 
 time. They were in bed, and most likely fast asleep ; for at the age at 
 which the respectable couple had arrived, the anniversaries of births and 
 marriages and other remarkable events do not interfere with their rest. . . . 
 There's a time for pleasure, and a time for sleep. What a pity that pleasure 
 is not for " all time " ! 
 
 As soon as the party re-entered the house, Eugenie kissed her father 
 and mother, wished them " good-night," and ascended to her own room ; 
 but as she passed the kitchen, at the back of which Jeanneton slept, she 
 opened the door, and whispered, — " When I think they are asleep, I will 
 come down softly, and we will have a chat together, dear Jeanneton ; I 
 have much to tell you." ..." Very well, Ma'amselle," she replied ; " I will 
 sit up and wait for you." 
 
 When, from the silence that reigned throughout the house, Eugenie- 
 thought her parents were locked in the arms of Morpheus, she left her room 
 cautiously, and descended the staircase step by step ; at the slightest creaking 
 she stopped, and trembled all over ; and yet she was about to do no harm ? 
 It was no crime to go and talk with Jeanneton ! What was it that effrayed 
 the young girl's heart ? Her mother. If she had known that Eugenie had 
 left her room, no matter for what purpose, what reproaches would have- 
 been showered on her head ! And as for Jeanneton, she would have been 
 turned out of the house the very next minute, even in that inclement night. 
 
 If any man could have seen the young girl as she came down the stair- 
 case in the dark to seek the chamber of her humble friend, and tell her the 
 raptures she had experienced during that eventful day, he would have been 
 enchanted with the sight. Believing that she could not possibly encounter 
 one of the male sex, her sole apparel consisted of a handkerchief tied loosely 
 on her head, permitting an occasional dark lock to escape from beneath 
 
Eugmie and the Maid- Servant. 37 
 
 •the silken band, and drop in uni'estrained luxuriance on her snowy neck ; a 
 short petticoat, which displayed her well-turned ankles and feet, and a thin 
 xambric jacket, which covered, but did not conceal, those beauteous marble 
 orbs, which sank and rose as fear, passion, and the thousand pleasurable 
 emotions of first love thrilled alternately within her breast. There she 
 stood, a form worthy the pencil of Apelles, rivalling " the statue that 
 enchanted the world," a feast fit for the gods ! 
 
 Slowly she groped her way to the kitchen door, bearing no light, for 
 fear she should be seen. Jeanneton also had placed her candle as far back 
 in the fireplace as she could, lest it should awaken Madame Montonnet, 
 who, in that event, would assuredly descend, and inquire whether her 
 servant could not go to sleep in the dark. Oh, what precautions for one 
 half-hour's chat ! Yet we all know that stolen pleasures are the sweetest. 
 Only let certain things be forbidden to be done, and all the world will long 
 to do them, especially that sex who have such a peculiar preference for 
 forbidden fruit. Speak to them of our common mother Eve, tell them of 
 Pandora, of Psyche, of Lot's wife, or even of Bluebeard's wife, the pretty 
 -creatures are ready to die of fright, and simper out, — " How shocking ! " 
 Yet they are all ready and eager to do just the same ! ... It is some secret 
 influence, no doubt, of which we know nothing. But to our tale. 
 
 Eugenie opened the kitchen door, shut it again without making the 
 least noise, and commenced a dialogue with her confidant Jeanneton. . . . 
 " All are asleep, Jeanneton," she said, " and now we can converse freely." 
 ..." Bidois has not come in yet, Ma'amselle ; if he were, he would have 
 come into the kitchen for a light." . . . "He is in bed and asleep, 
 Jeanneton. His chamber is immediately over mine ; and he is snoring so 
 loudly that you may hear him in the street." ..." "Very well, Ma'amselle ; 
 then we have nothing to fear from that sullen brute, who is always bowing 
 and cringing to your mamma for his own ends ; don't trust him, Ma'amselle, 
 with one word ; but as he is snoring, pray go on. Tell me all that happened, 
 for I guess, from some expressions that Madame let drop, that the day has 
 not passed off without the usual rows." . . . "Ah, Jeanneton, I was never 
 so delighted in all my life." . . . " Then I must be mistaken ; were .there 
 not all sorts of quarrels and disputes, and fighting with the peasants ? " . . . 
 "" All very true, Jeanneton." . . . "And yet you were delighted?" . . . 
 "Indeed, indeed I was." . . . "Madame, it seems, quarrelled with 
 Madame Bernard ; what a passion she was in when she came home ! She 
 said Madame Bernard should never come here again." ... " Quite right 
 again, Jeanneton ; mamma certainly was in a terrible rage." . . . "And 
 were you not afraid ? " . . . "I scarcely saw it." ... " Well, Ma'am- 
 selle, I can't make it out at all. And you had shocking weather to return 
 in ; quite a storm, I declare." ... " Yes, Jeanneton ; still, I was en- 
 chanted. Was I not in the carriage with hint ? " . . . "Who the deuce 
 is him?" . . . "Adolphe, Jeanneton ; my own, my beloved Adolphe!" 
 ..." Adolphe ! Oh, he, Ma'amselle ; now I begin to see why you were 
 so much amused." . . . "Yes, Jeanneton; it was all through him. 
 Could you but see how tender, how amiable he is ! " . . . " He talked to 
 you constantly of love, Ma'amselle?" . . . "Yes; he was by my side 
 nearly ail the day . " . . . "And your mamma did not say anything?" . . . 
 " She did not see us ; we had so many opportunities of talking to each 
 other whilst dancing, running about, and playing at ' hide-and-seek/ 
 Monsieur JJupont always had to find us out." ... " It's very likely he 
 will have to do that often enough. I can't think why your mamma per- 
 mitted you to play at 'hide-and-seek.' " ... " Surely, Jeanneton, there's 
 -no harm in it." ..." Why, not exactly harm, Ma'amselle ; but if I had 
 
38 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 a daughter I would rather take her to the theatre now and then than let' 
 her play at ' hide-and-seek ' with young men in a wood. Well, well ; those 
 who think themselves the most Avide awake are often the most blind. But 
 pray, Ma'amselle, what did Monsieur Adolphe say to you to make you 
 heedless of all these disputes ? " . . . " Ah, Jeanneton, he told me that 
 he adored me, that he would never cease to love me, that he existed only 
 for me. Dear Adolphe ! I would pledge my life that he will never, never 
 deceive me. " . . . "Oh, Ma'amselle, never believe what young men tell 
 you ; it costs them nothing to say fine things ; they will swear you an oath 
 as quick as I can toss a pancake. Don't trust one of them." . . . "But 
 he is not like other men ; his voice so low and sweet, and his eyes, 
 Jeanneton, his beautiful eyes, were always gazing on my face. ..." And 
 you looked at him too, Ma'amselle ? " . . . " Why,- not exactly looked at 
 him, Jeanneton, but still I could see his eyes ; and when he took my hand 
 and pressed it, although I trembled, I cannot tell you the happiness I 
 felt." ..." Upon my word, Ma'amselle, you have got on fast indeed." . . „ 
 " Ah, Jeanneton, if I had not you to share my delicious joy, I believe I 
 must have talked of it to myself ; I must have pronounced his name. He 
 called me Eugenie, his beloved Eugenie ; he declared his love ; he offered 
 to marry me." . . . "And you accepted him?" . . . " At first I could 
 not speak, I trembled so ; but he pressed his suit with such energy, such 
 force, such grace, that I could resist no longer, and I assured him that L 
 returned his love." ..." And this at the first declaration ! Ah, Ma'am- 
 selle, you should not have terminated his uncertainty so soon. And now, 
 pray what do you expect from all this pretty love '?"... "I know not, 
 Jeanneton, I care not ; Adolphe loves me, and I have no thoughts that do 
 not dwell on him. Adolphe ! dear name ; ah, how I love to hear it ! 
 Say it to me, Jeanneton, over and over again." ... " Isn't one 
 name as good as another ? " . . . " No, no ; how can you say so ? Does 
 Adolphe resemble Dupont ? Dupont! horrid, horrid name." . . . "Your 
 mamma prefers it to any other." . . . "Jeanneton, he has promised to 
 pass by our shop every day of his life, to look at me through the window, 
 to bow to me, and, if mamma should not be near, to speak a few dear 
 words." ..." Very prettily arranged indeed, Ma'amselle ; but that brute 
 Bidois will be by, and will tell all to your mamma." ... " Oh, no ; I 
 am sure Bidois will not see. What pleasure to see Adolphe, even for an 
 instant, every day ! " . . . Kind Jeanneton stooped to place the candle 
 at the bottom of the hearth, shook her head slowly, and thought in her 
 own mind, — " Poor, dear girl, what misery this love is preparing for her ! " 
 Eugenie walked towards the window, and having looked out and ascer- 
 tained that all was still, quietly re-seated herself by her confidant, and 
 resumed her discourse. 
 
 "What a difference I feel, Jeanneton, between yesterday and to-day ;. 
 I am so happy !"..." Yes, Ma'amselle, it is always so at first ; but I 
 tremble to think what the end of it will be. Very soon, perhaps, your parents 
 — that is, your mamma — will marry you to some one." ..." No doubt, 
 Jeanneton ; it will be to Adolphe, of course." . . . " Do not hope so for 
 a moment ; the young man has no money ; your mamma will never consent 
 that you shall have him " . . . "Jeanneton, you drive me to despair." . . . 
 " Alas, my dear Ma'amselle, I can guess the man whom Madame Montonnet 
 has chosen for you ; and you know that, when she has once made up her 
 mind, the devil himself can't turn her from her will. Your future husband 
 will neither be so young nor so good-looking as Monsieur Adolphe, but he 
 will be rich — that is everything for your mamma. You will have a good 
 house, and a fine establishment, so, of course, you will be happy. Dear 
 
Eugenie and the Maid-Servant. S§ 
 
 Ma'amselle Eugenie, I implore you not to give way to these new sensations 
 — not to allow love to take possession of your heart. Believe your poor 
 Jeanneton, who loves you as dearly as her own life. Oh, Eugenie, although 
 a simple girl, I have loved fondly too, and know full well what it is. Mjp. 
 poor Jerome ! "What a fine, handsome fellow he was ! He loved me too.^. 
 and told me so, and we swore never to forget each other. How happy I 
 was in those days, Ma'amselle." . . . " And why did you not marry yoor 
 Jerome ?"..." My friends were poor and his were rich ; they forbade- 
 him to come and see me under pain of disinheritance ; he was in despair^, 
 so one morning he packed up a small bundle of clothes, left the village- 
 before any one was up, and has never been seen or heard of since. He- 
 may have enlisted for a soldier ; he may be a sailor on board a ship ; ke- 
 may be dead ! Poor me ! " 
 
 Eugenie heard Jeanneton's simple tale with affectionate attention. She- 
 sighed deeply at its end, took Jeanneton fondly in her arms, and mingled < 
 her tears with those of the warm-hearted country girl. . . . When they 
 became less agitated, Eugenie, never tired of talking of Adolphe, took np- 
 the subject again. ..." And now, Jeanneton," she said, "as you know so- 
 well what love is, cannot you comprehend my bliss ? " . . . " Oh, yes ; X, 
 love Jerome still, although it is ten years since we parted, and I am twenty- 
 six. I shall never have another sweetheart, I can never love again. A*> 
 number of young men look kindly at me, and wheedle me, but it's all of mo- 
 use after Jerome. You see, Ma'amselle, that love affairs do not always- 
 come to happy ends, so I advise you, as your mamma has made up hey- 
 mind, to forget Monsieur Adolphe, and dismiss this new passion from your 
 heart." . . . "Forget him, Jeanneton, never ! It is impossible. Forget 
 him who has promised to adore me all his life ! Forget him who has sworn- 
 to move, to breathe, to live only for me ! Oh, insensible and cold indeed 
 my heart must be, nay, dead within my breast, before I could forget Adolpbe. 
 Jeanneton, I will die first." . . . "No, dear Eugenie, you will not: women 
 seldom die of love ; men never do." . . . "Adolphe would die, I know, if 7 
 I were to cast him off. Did not your Jerome die for you, and is uot 
 Adolphe's love as strong as your Jerome's ? " . . . " Jerome, most likely,, 
 has been killed in battle or drowned at sea." ..." And, if so, it was all" 
 through you." . . . Eugenie was in a pet, so she rated Jeanneton, told her 
 she reasoned as coldly as if she were sixty years old, she would not love h-er? 
 any more, and would never confide a secret to her again. 
 
 The heart of the love-sick girl was full. She approached the kitchen door 
 to return to her room, but Jeanneton, with tears in her eyes, besought her to- 
 come back. She coaxed and caressed her, said she would do all her young: 
 mistress wished, and never thwart her by word or look again. ..." My 
 only wish," she said, " is to see you happy ; I would go through fire a&d.- 
 water for you. If it had not been for you, I should have left my place Ss 
 thousand times. Your mamma grumbles at me, and scolds me from morn- 
 ing to night, and, do what I will, I cannot please her. Oh, Ma'amselle, T 
 have borne it all for you, and it is too bad of you to reproach me so." . . ^ 
 Eugenie's heart was melted ; she threw herself into Jeanneton's arms, she- 
 embraced, she caressed her, and vowed she would never vex her again. . . . 
 "Ah ! Jeanneton, forget the foolish things I said in my stupid anger, audi 
 let us talk again of dear Adolphe. I will come to the kitchen every evening- 
 that I can, and speak to you of him, and you shall speak to me of poor 
 Jerome." . . . "No, Ma'amselle, no ; we will speak of Adolphe, but not of ; 
 poor Jerome. Your love makes me happy ; the remembrance of mine pro- 
 duces nothing but woe." 
 
 The two young women again took their seats by the embers of the woo& 
 
40 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ftre, for, though it was getting very late, Eugenie did not feel the least inclina- 
 tion to sleep. Her brain was in a whirl, and her heart !— she had no heart ; 
 ■fclx&t was no longer hers. 
 
 ** Jeanneton," she said, drawing her chair still closer, " if I could but 
 soften my mother's heart, and prevail upon her to consent to my union with 
 Adolphe, what excess of joy would there not be for me ! You would come 
 *md keep house for us, would you not ?"..." Oh, yes, Ma'amselle." . . . 
 **Then we should have no cares. How delightful to sit working by 
 Adolphe's side all day, for I am sure he would not leave me for a moment ; 
 all our thoughts, our wishes, our hopes would be the same ; we would 
 never go out without each other, and on holidays we would have such de- 
 lightful excursions in the country. You should go with us, Jeanneton, for 
 yanr presence would not prevent our talking of love. Not a desire, not a 
 •wish of my husband's but should be anticipated by me. If he should be 
 obliged to travel, I would go with him ; I would not part from him for one 
 minute, and I know he would not wish to part from me. A wife can travel 
 ■wi£h her husband without much inconvenience, I think, Jeanneton ? " . . . 
 ""Yes, Ma'amselle, there's no law against it." . . . " If we are rich, we will 
 Ti3.ve a sweet little country house. Which side of the city shall we have it, 
 - Jle&nneton ? " . . . "Which side you please, Ma'amselle." ... "Oh ! on 
 the side of Romainville — dear Romainville — of course. We shall take such 
 ■i&gpy walks in the woods, we shall roam about wherever we like, and no 
 ■ome could say tts ' nay.' Our cottage shall be simple, unpretending and 
 neat ; we will cultivate the little garden ourselves, we will watch the 
 -growth of the beauteous flowers we have grown ; we will rise at dawn of 
 dsy, and, while you are preparing breakfast, will stroll around, and return 
 as hungry as wolves. Oh, how delightful that will be ! Immediately after 
 t*re&kfast I shall look to the household affairs, and make arrangements for 
 ■*ke day, _ and then I shall work whilst Adolphe reads or writes. Then 
 ■dinner will come. After dinner we shall go into the garden, and remain 
 ~£&ere until evening ; we will examine the progress of the trees we have 
 jtl&nted, we will wander all around, and at night we will re-enter the house, 
 always calm, always content. What a delicious existence, Jeanneton ! " 
 « „ . " Yes," Jeanneton replied, stretching her arms out, and fidgeting oa 
 !s.er chair, to prevent herself going to sleep, " very pretty, Ma'amselle ; very 
 delightful, indeed !"..." And then, Jeanneton, we shall have children, 
 of course. How I shall love and cherish them ! They shall not fear me, 
 as I do mamma, for I will be their friend as well as mother. If the first 
 :Is 3, boy, he shall be named Adolphe, and if it is a girl, she shall be called 
 JLdolphine. I shall suckle them all myself, because Adolphe will wish it, and 
 rOb& dear little cherubs will love me all the more. What joy when my son 
 --slfifcll try to speak, and to hear him lisp out his infant words ! And when 
 he can walk, I will not lose sight of him for an instant. When I am tired 
 of carrying him, Adolphe shall take him in his arms, and nurse him and 
 jifey with him. Sometimes we will even trust him to you, Jeanneton ; but 
 ysu must take the greatest care in the world of him, and not let him fall. " 
 -»«..** No, no, Ma'amselle," muttered Jeanneton, half asleep, "he shall not 
 "fialL" ..." We will educate him ourselves, and have masters for him at 
 2B3me, and not let him go to school and contract bad habits, like that mis- 
 ■«sfei<svous monkey young Gerard. And when he is grown up, he shall 
 -■<sh®ose a trade for himself, for we will never seek to force his inclinations. 
 JLm. I not right, Jeanneton ? " . . . Jeanneton did not answer ; she was 
 'fetsi asleep. . . . Eugenie did not perceive it, and went on in her waking 
 dream, of joy. . . . "If my son should take it in his head to be a soldier, 
 ok. dear, how miserable I should be ! It is all very well to have a hand- 
 
Euginie and the Maid-Servant. 41 
 
 some uniform and a sword, and, perhaps, a cross of the Legion of Honour. 
 All those toys are precious in the eyes of young men, but what dangers 
 they undergo ! If he should march, and be engaged in battle, I should 
 think of him, surrounded by enemies, defending himself like a lion, bullets 
 flying about him like hail ; and he might be wounded, he might be killed. 
 Ah ! Jeanneton, what should I do if my son were killed ; what would 
 Adolphe say ? No ; my son shall not be a soldier. Jeanneton, what say 
 
 you?" 
 
 The question met with no reply. Eugenie turned her head quickly, saw, 
 to her great surprise, that Jeanneton was fast asleep, and all her castles in 
 the air vanished at the sight. She had no husband, no country house, no 
 -son, all her domestic bliss had " melted into thin air. " She found herself 
 with her hard parent, sitting in the kitchen by the side of the servant girl. 
 She sighed as if her heart would break, for her happiness, alas, was gone. 
 
 Day-dreams have occupied, and will always occupy, a great portion of 
 our daily life. How many young girls, like Eugenie, have passed many 
 sleepless hours in dreams, creating for themselves a happiness the reality of 
 which they were never destined to enjoy ? In love, above all things, the 
 imagination bodies forth a future of delight. The youth imagines himself 
 "by his mistress, telling his soft tale. She listens to his vows, and faintly 
 whispers back eternal love. If a slight cloud comes over the horizon, it is 
 instantly dissipated, and all is tranquility again. The enamoured girl sees 
 at her feet him who first awoke in her breast those delicious sensations 
 which all at some time or another feel. He pours forth his vows in fondest 
 accents, swears to be hers alone, and to support and cherish her for ever. 
 She sees herself in bridal array, tremblingly marching to the altar, hand 
 in hand with him. — the orange flowers and white veil on her head, when 
 the irrevocable words shall be pronounced that will make or mar her happi- 
 ness for ever. 
 
 Delicious dreams ! Ear better than the conquerors, or ambitious 
 followers of the court — they leave only a soft, sweet languor on the heart. 
 Neros, who have dreamed of the conquests of the world ; emperors and 
 kings who have dreamed to hand down their names illustrious in the annals 
 of all time ; ministers who have dreamed of overwhelming influence in the 
 great councils of their native land ; courtiers who have dreamed of illustrious 
 stars, and of the honours of " the Garter " and " the Bath " ; what's all 
 your dreams compared to those of the village lass, who dreams of an even- 
 ing assignation with her own dear love ? 
 
 The clock of Saint Nicholas struck two, and Eugenie was surprised that 
 the time had passed so quickly. " Two o'clock," she said ; " I did not 
 think it was twelve. How soundly Jeanneton sleeps. I must go to bed 
 too." Uttering these words, she shook Jeanneton gently by the arm. The 
 latter slowly lifted up her heavy eyes, shut them again, gave two or three 
 grunts, undressed herself mechanically, and tumbled into her bed. Eugenie 
 looked at her kindly for a few moments, and blessed her in her heart, then 
 blew out the candle on the hearth and prepared to regain her room. 
 
 Eugenie left the kitchen, and began to ascend the stairs with stealthy 
 steps. As she mounted them one by one, holding the banister-rail, all at 
 once she heard above her head a noise, as if some heavy substance had fallen 
 . and rolled down four or five of the stairs. She held her breath in a 
 paroxysm of fright, and trembled so violently from head to foot that she 
 could not move. She looked up, but saw no light, and could not conceive 
 whac had caused the noise. Could it be her father, or her mother, or 
 Bidois ? No ; neither of them would be out of their beds without a candle. 
 Was it caused by a robber, then ? If so, whither could she fly ? The 
 
42 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 kitchen door was closed behind her, and as it shut with a spring-lock 
 fastened inside, there was no refuge for her there. How could she avoid 
 the person who was coming down ? Presently she heard a voice that 
 partially reassured her, and instilled new life into her limbs. . . . u This is 
 certainly one of my unlucky days," said Bidois, in a low tone. It was he, 
 who. as a finale to his day of misfortune and fatigue, found himself 
 troubled with the stomach-ache, and was feeling his way down the stairs to 
 repair to the little backyard behind the shop. . . . "I, who never fall by 
 any chance, to roll now down five of these cursed stairs, and graze all the 
 skin from my back ! Oh ! ah ! what pain I am in. Surely there must 
 have been poison in the sausages ; or it may have been the veal. Ah ! 
 that's it. Jeanneton must have omitted to clean the oven properly. Per- 
 haps it's that damned grocer's aniseed. Such poor, humbugging stuff I 
 never tasted. It stunk of cloves and liquorice, and all sort of drugs, enough 
 to poison a cat. Pretty present that for a dinner party. Dupont made it 
 himself, I know. "Would it were all in his own guts ! Oh, ah, oh ! The 
 devil fetch him and his liqueurs ! " 
 
 Whilst uttering these lamentations, Bidois kept still descending the 
 stairs one by one, and was fast approaching the spot where Eugenie stood. 
 She reflected how she could best avoid coming in contact with him, and 
 saw no other means than standing close up against the wall ; and thus, by 
 screwing herself into as small a compass as possible, and holding her breath, 
 she thought that, as Bidois held by the rail of the banisters, he would pass 
 by without touching her, especially as the staircase was wide, and the night 
 was so dark that she could not see a hand's-breadth before her. Accord- 
 ingly she adopted this plan, placed herself softly against the wall, checked 
 her respiration, and waited in fear and dread until Bidois should have 
 passed, when she could re-enter her chamber, which she now fervently 
 wished she had not quitted. 
 
 The crisis was drawing near. Bidois, dragging his legs after him, his 
 trousers hanging about his heels, and holding the banisters with both 
 hands to prevent his falling a second time, passed by Eugenie without per- 
 ceiving her. A few more minutes and she would be safe, when, as ill-luck 
 would have it, an uncontrollable fit of sneezing seized her, and put an 
 entirely new face upon the scene. 
 
 " Thieves, robbers, help, thieves, thieves ! " shouted Bidois, grasping the 
 hand-rail with all his might, and doubtful whether to advance or recede, 
 whilst Eugenie, knowing that if she remained where she was her stolen 
 interview would be discovered, and that she would never have the chance of 
 another midnight chat, sprang up the stairs with the desperation of fear, 
 and in an instant regained her chamber and her bed. Bidois heard her 
 precipitate retreat, and, thinking that thieves were undoubtedly in the 
 house, kept shouting amain and stamping and kicking the stairs with his - 
 heels, until the whole household were alarmed. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Montonnet woke up at once. She pinched, and 
 shook, and rolled her husband ; but he, poor man, fatigued with the exer- 
 tions he had made during the preceding day, was enjoying the sweets of 
 sleep, and was by no means disposed to be thus rudely awakened. " Get 
 up, for God's sake, Montonnet," she said ; " do you not hear the din ? " . . . 
 " What is it, my life ?" he replied, quietly turning over on his other side. . . . 
 " "What is it ? Do you not hear a noise enough to waken the dead ? " . . . 
 "It's in the street, my sweetest." ... "In the street ! it is not in the 
 street, I say. I hear Bidois' voice." . . . "Bidi — Bidois' voice?" . . . 
 " Yes, yes ; he is crying for help. What if the house should be on fire ? 
 Help, fire, fire, fire ! " 
 
JEugSnie and the Maid- Servant. . 43? ' 
 
 The magic word " fire " produced its usual electrical effect. Montoncefe 
 sprang out of bed, and stood in an agony of trepidation and indecision ors 
 the floor, and Madame threw open the chamber door, and inquired what- 
 was the matter. 
 
 " Thieves, thieves," said Bidois, in a voice husky with fear, "there ar©~ 
 thieves in the house ; I heard them just now coming down the stairs, but 
 they have gone up again. Help me, help me, or I am but a dead man." 
 Madame Montonnet bolted into the bedroom, cried out through the key- 
 hole to Eugenie to double-lock her door, desired Bidois to rouse Jeanneton-p 
 threw up the sash of the window that looked into the street, and called J 
 lustily for assistance. While Madame w^s thus engaged, and Bidois kept/ 
 up his concert on the stairs, Montonnet ran up and down the bed-chamber, 
 completely out of his senses, vainly seeking for an old, useless gun which h© 
 had carried in some grand civic procession years gone by, and which was 
 then* quietly locked up in the bottom drawer of a cheffonier. Jeanneton, 
 awakened by the uproar, thought that something terrible had happened j 
 and Eugenie, who alone knew the cause of the disturbance, kept as 
 still as a mouse, with her head under the bed-clothes, stifling the fit of 
 laughter she could not help indulging at the thought of the terror of 
 Bidois. 
 
 It happened that the cries of Madame Montonnet were heard by their 
 neighbour the baker, who at that time was engaged with his men kneading 
 the dough for the first batch of bread in the morning. " Oh, oh ! " said he 7 
 " there's some queer game up now. The oven is not yet hot enough for th© 
 dough, so we shall have plenty of time to see what it is. Come with me 5 - 
 my lads, come on." 
 
 The men left the dough in the troughs, caught up their truncheons, and, 
 preceded by their master, ran as swiftly as they could in the direction, 
 whence the cries came. "Thank God, here is help at last," said Madam© 
 Montonnet, who saw the baker's party advancing towards the house. 
 " Yes," replied Montonnet, looking out of the window, with the gun which 
 he had contrived to find in his hand ; " I think they are the Swiss Guards." 
 ..." No ; they are the apprentices of our neighbour Petrin." ... "At any 
 rate they are men." ..." This way, Messieurs, this way if you please ; quick, 
 quick, and Jeanneton will open the door for you directly. Monsieur Petrhv 
 there are robbers in our house. " . . . " Set your mind at rest, Madame ; 
 we shall trounce them, I warrant you." . . . Notwithstanding the gallant* 
 bearing of the bold baker and his men, Montonnet manifested the greatest 
 reluctance to leave the bedroom. The laceman was of opinion that it would 
 be by far the best to remain where they were until the house should b© 
 thoroughly searched from top to bottom ; but Madame, who was made of 
 sterner stuff, thought it would be best to head the exploring party herself,, 
 so she compelled him to follow her, simply clad in his dressing-gown, bu& 
 carrying the redoubtable old fowling-piece in his hand. 
 
 In the meantime Jeanneton had opened the front door and let th© 
 baker and his assistants in. Bidois caught up a carving-knife that he 
 found in the kitchen, and brandished it with one hand, whilst with the other 
 he endeavoured to keep up his trousers, which every moment fell about his 
 heels. All parties then assembled in the shop, the bakers clad in that 
 simple costume in which they generally manufacture bread, Bidois and the 
 Montonnets as we have set forth, and Jeanneton with nothing on but a. 
 flannel under-petticoat. However, in this instance conventional propriety 
 of dress gave way to the dominant influence of fear ; and Madame Mon- 
 tonnet, who was always awfully correct with regard to appearances, and- 
 who would never look at a naked statue of Apollo or Antininous, cculd have 
 
44: Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 - thrown her arms around the bakers' necks, all in deshabille as she was, and 
 kissed them for their ready aid in that dark hour of need. 
 
 " Well, Madame Montonnet, pray what may be going on here ? " said the 
 baker, in those mellifluous tones which had won him the hearts of all the 
 servant girls in the district, by whom he was thought to be the beau-ideal 
 , of insinuating eloquence. " What can be the matter ? When we heard 
 your shrieks, I said to the boys, let us leave the dough and see what is 
 taking place at our neighbour's." . . . "Oh, Monsieur Petrin, heaven 
 itself has sent you to our aid ; without you we should all have been robbed 
 and killed. There are thieves in the house." ... " Thieves ! where are 
 they ; how did they get in ? " . . . "I can't inform you. Bidois saw them, 
 ..and will tell you all. Speak, Bidois." 
 
 Bidois stood forth, pale and trembling, and began his tale, catching 
 nervously every moment at his trousers. In the eagerness of his recital he 
 constantly let them go, and therefore they had a, strong gravitating tend- 
 ency towards the earth. He said, — " I was lying in bed thinking over what 
 iad taken place in the day, for I could not sleep at all, when I was seized 
 with a pain in my bowels, an attack of cholic, or something of that sort ! " 
 "Skip your cholic," said Madame, "and come to the facts." ... "lam 
 coming to it, Madame, as o^ickly as I can. Well, I was obliged to come 
 down to the yard to go to — " " Everybody knows where you were 
 going ; continue." ... "I left my room, and, not having a candle, felt my 
 way cautiously down the stairs that I should not disturb any one in the 
 house. I had reached the landing-place of the second flight, just opposite 
 -the warerooms, when my foot slipped and I fell down several steps, rolling- 
 over and over." . . " What on earth have we to do with your rollings ? 
 "Will you never come to the point ? " . . . " Patience, patience, Madame, 
 and let me tell my story my own way. Well, I got up as soon as I could, 
 for my back was dreadfully bruised, and held fast by the banister rail, so 
 that I might not slip again. I had almost got to the kitchen door, my 
 foot was on the last step, when suddenly some one made a loud noise close 
 to my ear ; I called out, and heard several men run up the staircase as fast 
 .as they could." ... " What shall we do ? " said Madame, leaning for sup- 
 port on Petrin's arm. " Most likely they are in the lumber-room at the very 
 top of the house." Montonnet supported himself wifh the gun, and echoed 
 his wife's remark ; and Jeanneton, w T ho began to catch a glimpse of the true 
 cause of the disturbance, wisely held her tongue. 
 
 " Forward, my lads," said the baker, " we will commence by searching the 
 yard ; we shall find the scoundrels, and if they resist we will cut them into 
 "bits." . . . "Take care, my friend, lest they fire on you." . . . "No fear 
 .of that ; robbers' weapons are never fit for service ; but first the ladies must 
 Replaced in safety." ..." Right, Monsieur ; come, daughter, we will dress 
 ourselves in my room." 
 
 The search was begun : the baker and his lads headed the column ; 
 Bidois came next with his carving knife ; then Montonnet with the gun in 
 "Ms hand, which he persisted in retaining, because, although not charged, it 
 might serve to frighten the thieves ; and lastly, Jeanneton, with a 
 -ilauibeau to light the troops on their march, passing on the flanks from the 
 head to the rear, according to the localities they traversed. Pirst they 
 "went carefully all over the back -yard, but there was no one there : no 
 wonder, because, according to Bidois' account, the thieves had fled towards 
 the top of the house ; then they visited every room in succession until they 
 arrived at Eugenie's bedroom, and tapped gently for admittance. The 
 girl, who was not yet asleep — no fear of that — opened the door at once, a 
 .dress put hastily on, but calm, and without the slightest trace of disorder or 
 
Eugenie and the Maid-Servant. 45* 
 
 of fear. . . . Petrin began a high-flown compliment to her looks, but broke 
 down before he had got far, and when Madame Montonnet asked her 
 daughter, angrily, how she dared to sleep and look so unconcerned when 
 there were robbers in the house. ..." Robbers ! " ejaculated Eugenie, 
 throwing a glance at Jeanneton ; " why, dear mamma, I never heard them." 
 ..." Lucky for you, Ma'amselle, that you can sleep like a top when the 
 house is almost turned out of doors ; but Jeanneton and I will remain in 
 your room whilst our brave defenders will search the loft and apprehend 
 these robbers." ... At the word " defenders " Eugenie lifted her eyes, but 
 dropped them suddenly again : the baker and his lads were in a costume 
 too nearly approaching the style of the antique gladiators to suit the pre- 
 ju dices of modern society. 
 
 Madame Montonnet took the torch from Jeanneton and gave it to 
 Bidois ; she then pushed Eugenie and the servant into the room, entered 
 herself, slammed the door in her husband's face, much to his chagrin, 
 double-locked it, and rejected all his entreaties to be allowed to remain and 
 defend his darling wife. . . . There was nothing for him, then, but to rejoin 
 the exploring party. Petrin offered the command to Montonnet, but could 
 not induce him to accept it ; Bidois, who was supposed to have seen the 
 thieves, was desired to act as pioneer, but no persuasion could make him 
 leave the rear, so the heroic baker again gave the word to march, at the 
 same time inculcating a cautious advance against the enemy, inasmuch as 
 they were about " to beard the lion in his den." . . . Eorward they went - r 
 the storerooms on the second floor were inspected : no thieves there. 
 Thence they went to the third floor, and into Bidois' room, the door of? 
 which was half open ; they searched all round, examined the bed, the cup- 
 board, the chimney— Bidois even looked into the night table. Again not a 
 soul was there. 
 
 " Very odd this," observed the baker. " They must be in the loft," said 
 Montonnet. " Of course they are," added Bidois. ..." Off to the loft y 
 then," Petrin replied ; " we shall surely find them, unless Bidois has been 
 dreaming." . . . "No, Messieurs, I am not a child, nor have I been 
 dreaming ; I heard the thieves with my own ears, and we shall soon see 
 where they are." . . . They ascended the stairs in silence, halted before the 
 door of the loft, and on the latch being lifted gently by one of the lads, a 
 scuffling noise was heard, followed by complete silence. . . . "We have 
 them now," said the baker, rubbing his hands with glee. "Forward, 
 Bidois ; forward, Montonnet ; we will show the rascals what it is to break 
 into honest people's houses in the dead of night ! "... He looked around ; 
 there stood Montonnet, leaning on the gun, trembling in every limb, and 
 suggesting that Bidois should run for the guard at the next station. Bidois, 
 glad of any circumstance' that would prevent his entering the dreaded loft, 
 turned rapidly away, and was bolting down the stairs, when the baker 
 caught him by the arm, declaring that he and his brave lads were as firm 
 as rocks, and the honour of the capture should belong to them alone. 
 
 With his cudgel lifted high for a downright blow, the baker charged the 
 door, burst it open at one vigorous kick, and called on the robbers to yield 
 themselves prisoners. No reply was made, and Pdtrin, followed by the lads, 
 advanced to the far end of the loft, where they saw something move under a 
 deal plank thrown over some faggots and other old loose wood. Petrin 
 made a sign to the youths ; they all moved forward, lifted their heavy 
 sticks, and all three struck at the same time on the wood. Alas ! alas ! 
 instead of hearing the groans of the detected thieves, a horrible miawling 
 met their ears ; the baker hastily pulled aside the plank, when lo ! there was 
 nothing but the body of a cat, whose back they had broken with their sticks, 
 
46 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 At the sight of poor puss, the baker and his apprentices burst into a fit 
 <of immoderate laughter ; and Bidois and Montonnet, who had remained 
 on the top step of the stairs ready for a plunge downwards in case the 
 thieves should resist, took heart of grace at the merry sounds, and entered 
 the room. " Victory, victory," cried the baker aloud ; " your enemies will 
 cause you no more fear, there they He " (pointing to the dead cat), " so go and 
 sleep in peace." . . . Montonnet and Bidois gazed at the animal in wonder- 
 ing silence, till at length the former exclaimed, — " What can all this mean ? " 
 ... "It means that there are no more robbers in your house than there are in 
 
 ,-5sy o% 7 en ; we have killed them all, and the next time your old fool of a clerk 
 ^disturbs a whole street with his nonsense at night, he will deserve to be well 
 -docked for his pains. Come, boys ; we have been away long enough from 
 4>ur work for a cat, so let us go back and knead the dough." 
 
 With these words Petrin descended the stairs, and left the house, laugh- 
 
 , ing heartily at Bidois' fears, which, most assuredly, through the talkative 
 Jb&ker, would form the conversation of the whole street for a week. 
 
 Montonnet stood some time looking at his clerk, with a visage half 
 
 . sulky, half afraid. At length he said, — " What do you think of all this ? " 
 Bidois replied, in a pet, that the baker had not half searched the house. He 
 persisted that he had heard several men run up the stairs, left his master in a 
 huff, entered his room, and double-locked the door, saying that his infernal 
 luck had been against him all day, and, say what they might, he had heard 
 some one in the house. ... So soon as the females heard Petrin depart, 
 3Iadbme Montonnet opened the bedroom door, and eagerly inquired what 
 was the result of the search. . . . "Nothing," Montonnet answered, wiping 
 his forehead ; "we only found a cat, and that was killed." . . . Madame 
 3loatonnet flew into a transport of rage ; she inveighed bitterly against 
 Bidois, and vowed he should suffer for his follies in the morning. She 
 desired Eugenie to return to her chamber, pulled her husband with no 
 gentle hand into her own room, and kept him awake with her complaints 
 neiit all the remainder of the night. 
 
 Eugenie slowly obeyed, and, on passing Jeanneton, whispered, — "It 
 •was L" Jeanneton threw back an intelligent glance, and went down- 
 
 .st&isB t promising herself a hearty laugh in the precincts of her own domain. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE STORY PROGRESSES APACE. 
 
 The proverb says, — "After a storm comes a calm ; " or, as Don Quixote's 
 squire, Sancho Panza, would have remarked, — "Days succeed days, and 
 none quite resemble any one that has gone before." . . . The morning 
 £&nie in its usual course, and everything in Montonnet's establishment 
 went on in its ordinary mode. As early as seven o'clock, the master was 
 seated at his accounts, Bidois was making out the customers' bills, Eugenie 
 sat sewing behind the counter, Jeanneton was sweeping out the shop, and 
 the voice of Madame Montonnet was heard all over the house, as she went 
 about scolding from room to room. Our readers, however, must under- 
 stand that, previously to this comparative tranquility, an explosion had 
 taken place of a more than customary combustible nature. Monsieur Mon- 
 tgmx&t received a severe reprimand for his general misconduct in the wood 
 
The Story progresses Apace. 47 
 
 of Eomainville, and particularly for the affair with the pretty brunette ; 
 and Bidois was scolded for an hour for the thousand awkwardnesses he had 
 perpetrated throughout the day, and especially for the consternation he had 
 caused during the night. The culprits heard all without replying one 
 word : they both well knew the axiom of Socrates, " that silence is the 
 best shield against another person's anger," and so they acted upon it from 
 a foregone knowledge of its utility, and from a species of that natural in- 
 stinct which often comes to our aid, and prescribes a path in circumstances 
 of difficulty. , . . This instinct is called common-sense : a sense frequently 
 more common to what the world call " fools " than to persons of brilliant 
 talents and readiest wit. 
 
 So Bidois said nothing, but kept quietly mending his pen, positively 
 convinced that there had been some one in the house on the over-night, 
 although he had managed to escape without being seen. " If it was not a 
 robber," he thought, "it was somebody, at least ; quiet, quiet, I will bide 
 my time, and keep & sharp look-out, and sooner or later the secret must be 
 told." . . . Eugenie alone escaped her mother's reprimands, and yet she 
 was not happy. Poor girl, love, and, of course, agitation and anxiety, were 
 in her breast. When Cupid lays hold of the heart of a blushing maiden, 
 he does not easily let it go. How is it that the sly god always attaches 
 himself more firrJy to women than to men ? Perhaps they treat him 
 better, and hug him more closely to their hearts ! That's it, no doubt. 
 
 Adolphe, burning with desire, created the necessity of leaving" his 
 master's shop fifty times a day, if only for five minutes at a time, to catch 
 a sight of Eugenie, to gaze at her tenderly, to address to her some words of 
 passionate love, and to read her answer in her eyes — no very difficult task, 
 for a young girl easily guesses what her lover would say, and more so when* 
 as yet he has only obtained some trifling favours at her hands. If, by 
 chance, Madame Montonnet went out, Eugenie was at the shop-door in a 
 moment, where she was instantly joined by Adolphe, equally on the watch, 
 who pressed her hand as he passed by. Happy, happy pair ! a few soft 
 words, a gentle pressure of the hand, wrapped them in Elysium for all the 
 rest of the day. These looks, these words, these pressings of the hand, day 
 after day added fuel to the fire that glowed in their young hearts ; their 
 love grew gradually in strength, and occupied their whole minds! For 
 them it was a delicious, new existence ; Adolphe lived only for Eugenie, 
 and Eugenie had not a single thought that did not centre in Adolphe. If 
 she did not see him, she kept repeating to herself,—" He will come by 
 presently, and then I shall see him ; perhaps mamma will go out this even- 
 ing, and then we shall enjoy a moment's conversation." 
 
 Eugenie continued to make a confidant of Jeanne ton, and told her every 
 
 TT\ m £ W ^ hat had taken place durin S the da y- She told her how often 
 Adolphe had passed the shop, what he had said, and what he had done 
 even how he was dressed ; and all these little details were interesting to 
 Jeanneton, because, although so many years had passed, she still thought 
 of her J erome, who, on gala days, used to have on a blue coat and a black 
 sravat— a style very frequently adopted by Adolphe Dalmont. 
 
 Apparently all went on swimmingly, and no visible cloud obscured the 
 amorous horizon. But " the course of true love never did run smooth " 
 There was one who, whilst affecting to be busily mending his pen, or adding 
 «p the amount of a bill, observed that Eugenie's eyes were continually 
 directed to the mercer's shop ; he remarked that she did nothing but sieh 
 if her mamma remained within, and that she ran to the door immediately 
 Madame Montonnet went out ; he saw that the same young man passed 
 and repassed before the house a hundred times a day ; he watched and 
 
48 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 recognised Adolphe, and so, with the appearance of being entirely occupied 
 with his accounts, Bidois acted the spy, and the result was that, at the 
 close of the day, he was aware, «paite as well as Jeanneton, of how many 
 times Adolphe had left his master's shop, what he had said to Eugenie, 
 what she had replied, and what was the colour of his coat and cravat ! . . . 
 Old bachelors are as sharp as old maids in detecting love affairs. 
 
 Bidois laughed in his sleeve whenever he thought of Madame Mon- 
 tonnet's austerity to her daughter, and at her total blindness to what was 
 o-oing on with the young folks. He promised himself some famous fun 
 when the secret should be found out, made up his mind to see all and say 
 nothing and was now perfectly convinced it was not a robber who was in 
 the house on the night of the fete of Saint Eustache. 
 
 Since that day the Bernards had not been seen in the Montonnets* 
 house, but the Gerard family were constant visitors. Friend Dupont also 
 came every day, and was often invited to stay and dine — rare instances of 
 hio-h consideration on the part of his future mother-in-law. On those even- 
 ings Eugenie was obliged to lay aside her work, leave the counter, and 
 plav at some round game, of which the fat grocer was one. Whilst the 
 play went on, he paid the prettiest compliments of which he was capable,, 
 and lost his money freely, to the great gratification of Madame Montonnet. 
 Eugenie was in despair whenever she saw him enter the shop ; she shud- 
 dered lest he should be asked to remain and dine, for then she should not 
 be able to see Adolphe, or to hear him speak ; accordingly, she hated Dupont 
 from the bottom of her heart. Bidois likewise had his conjectures as to 
 the orocer's frequent visits. At last, from the gracious condescension 
 of Madame to Dupont, the old clerk saw what their intentions were, 
 and muttered to himself, — " If he marries the girl, and a certain young 
 man does not ornament his forehead, why, I know nothing of the 
 world ! " 
 
 The orocer's visits now never ceased, and he was always received with 
 the greatest marks of attention ; day after day solemn conferences were 
 held. Madame Montonnet relaxed in her severity to Eugenie, and never 
 found fault with her for remaining long at her toilet, which, wishing to 
 look well in Adolphe's eyes, she was disposed to do. . . . Love always 
 causes a desire to please, a wish to look charming and attractive in the eyes 
 of the loved object ; and, however naturally endowed with beauties a 
 woman may be, a little art may make them more ravishing still. Besides, 
 if you desire to please after love has been gratified with possession, you 
 must never entirely neglect the pains you took to create that love. 
 Husbands, if you would not wear those horrid cotton nightcaps ; and ladies, 
 if, in your domestic privacy, you would preserve those amiable manners and 
 neatness of person that gained you your husband's affections, there would 
 be many less miserable families than there now are ! Love is sometimes 
 retained by the minutest silken thread. We knew a lady who would not 
 even look at her husband after once beholding him without his wig. 
 
 But, in general, it is only when love is for ever flown that careless 
 neglect of personal attractions tak'3s place. . . . Young men ! distrust the 
 enduring love of your mistress if she ever comes to meet you with curl 
 papers in her hair. 
 
 Eugenie, who was imbued with love throughout every pulse in her 
 veins neglected nothing that could enhance her beauties in Adolphe's 
 eyes ■ all the trouble she gave herself was for him, whilst her mother 
 thought it was intended to captivate Dupont. She assured the booby that 
 it was so ; and he entertained no doubt that he had made a conquest of her 
 heart, although she had never said a word that could give him the least 
 
Hie Story progresses Apace. 49* 
 
 encouragement, all of which he set down to maiden bashfulness, combined 
 with the admirable manner in which she had been brought up. 
 
 Everything now announced that some important event was about to- 
 take place in the lace-dealer's establishment. Montonnet walked with a* 
 gayer air, and went more frequently to the cafe* to take his glass and play 
 at dominoes. On leaving the house he kissed his daughter with a mysterious* 
 regard, chucked her under the chin, called Dupont's attention to her, and; 
 remarked how extremely pretty she was. "So highly educated," said he ;, 
 " so prudent, and so well acquainted with domestic affairs ! Eh ! Dupont j, 
 with those eyes, and that figure, how she will grace a counter ! Very like- 
 me, is she not ? " . . . "Certainly ; Mademoiselle has quite your nose." . . .. 
 "Oh, yes ; quite as my nose used to be when I was five and-twenty, and had 
 not taken to snuff. Don't you think, too, that her eyes are very like mine ? "' 
 . . . "Yes, very ; to be sure, yours are grey and hers are black, but that's. 
 the only difference." . . . "And her forehead is that of her mother ; what, 
 genius, what decision in her forehead." . . . "Certainly, Monsieur, her- 
 forehead is not at all like yours ; Ma'amselle is like both of you, just like? 
 chocolate and cocoa." . . . "You are right. I say, Dupont, we cannot, 
 manage to get a husband for the pretty dear. What do you think, Dupont,, 
 eh?" . . . " No difficulty in it at all ; it's easy as grinding coffee. " . . . 
 " The fat fool can't get out of his shop," whispered Bidois ; and Eugenie- 
 made no reply, for at that moment a young man in a black cravat and a. 
 blue coat passed in front of the shop. 
 
 Whilst similar conversations were daily takiDg place, the love-making: 
 was going on incessantly. Adolphe kept running from one shop to the other,, 
 which brought severe reproofs upon him from his master for neglecting the- 
 business. But what recked he for them ? He was over head and ears in, 
 love ; he would run all risks for one smile from his mistress ; and yet, if he- 
 should lose his situation through his thoughtlessness, he had no other 
 resources in the world. . . . Love never makes these reflections at twenty- 
 years of age ! 
 
 With the view of propitiating Madame Montonnet, Adolphe had called! 
 to see her several times since the memorable Saint Eustache ; he exerted 
 himself to the utmost to please the old lady, but though she received him. 
 politely, nothing passed on her side to produce the impression that he had 
 made any great advances in her favour ; indeed, Madame was of opinion, 
 that, as matters stood, his visits could be dispensed with altogether. . . . 
 Why had she not thought so long before ? Why had she asked him to the 
 party in the wood of Bomainville ? If she had not, he never would have- 
 nad an opportunity of breathing those tender vows which had destroyed 
 the peace of Eugenie, for up till that day she had looked upon him merely/ 
 as an agreeable, passable young man, and had not dreamed of love. In all 
 probability Eugenie, without loving Dupont, would have married him, in 
 accordance with her mother's will, without any great sacrifice on her part,, 
 and have settled down as a respectable, obedient, ordinary wife. Why was. 
 it, then, that Adolphe was invited to the fete ? In order that the parties, 
 present should not form the fatal -number — thirteen ! Because we are- 
 assured by wizards, fortune-tellers and other respectable persons who read 
 the future from the lines in the hands or from the grounds that remain in 
 coffee cups, or drops of molten lead, that thirteen always brings misfor- 
 tunes ; notwithstanding that this great foreknowledge does not prevent 
 these said respectable folks from passing years in prison, and not unfre- 
 quently dying on dung-heaps, a miserable bed of straw. . . . But these are= 
 solemn myateries which we shall not attempt to solve : we can only bow the? 
 head, wonder, and pass on. 
 
 D 
 
IsQ Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 'Two months had passed away since the fete of Saint Eustache ; rapidly, 
 s indeed, for the lovers, who saw each other every day, and let slip no oppor- 
 
 * tunity of testifying their attachment. Adolphe wished with all his heart 
 
 * So find some other means of speaking to Eugenie than merely addressing 
 -a few words whilst passing by the shop, but none were afforded to him. He 
 
 - nought out Jeanneton ; he implored her to allow him to have an interview 
 r 5n her room, and in her presence, with Eugenie in the night, when the old 
 rpeople were asleep, but Jeanneton would not consent, for she was well aware 
 -"£hat if Adolphe should be once introduced into the house, Eugenie would 
 -"Incur great risks from her own weakness and the impetuosity of his love. 
 
 - Jeanneton knew the follies of her own sex, and what an ardent young man 
 "will attempt when the whole heart of his beloved is on his side ; she there- 
 fore steadily refused the entreaties of Adolphe, although disposed to forward 
 '• fiis suit with all the powers she possessed. In the meantime, Bidois, who 
 <kept an observant eye on all, saw that the decisive day must soon arrive. 
 
 One morning Madame went early to her daughter's room, and having 
 
 * informed her that Dupont was about to breakfast with them, desired her 
 c £o dress herself as becomingly as possible, as she would not have to attend 
 saib any business during the rest of the day. She then withdrew ; and 
 ISugenie, greatly surprised, taxed her brain to devise what Monsieur 
 "JDupont's coming to breakfast could have to do with her absence from the 
 -shop. So far from regarding it as a favour, she sighed, and thought she 
 
 'would have no opportunity of seeing Adolphe ; and this idea, coupled with 
 ■ "the significant tone that her mother had used, caused her heart to beat, 
 > :snd filled it with affright. She made her toilet slowly and dolefully ; a 
 '.thousand unhappy thoughts pressed heavily on her mind ; she recollected, 
 ■with a feeling akin to despair, the grocer's numerous visits, and the joy 
 >: which her parents had always shown at his approach. She trembled in 
 wsvery nerve, and shuddered to think of the life-long misery to which she 
 •-should be doomed if her fatal suspicions should prove true. 
 
 Nine o'clock struck ; she roused herself and descended into the parlour, 
 "where her parents and Dupont were already assembled. Bidois was absent, 
 
 ■because he was ordered to mind the shop, a duty which he performed most 
 "unwillingly, since he was dying with curiosity to know what was going on ; 
 . "nevertheless, he contrived, under several pretexts, to be constantly in 
 
 -and out of the room, and now and then to pick up a few phrases of the 
 
 ^conversation. 
 
 Eugenie stood in a state of great trepidation at the entrance of the 
 
 * room, when the grocer, seeing her hesitation, advanced to meet her, and 
 conducted her to a chair. She sat down, her bosom panted with alarm, 
 
 - :and she awaited with dismay the end of these unusual preparations, whilst 
 /Montonnet, who burned with the desire of speaking, but durst not originate 
 s a, conversation in the pi'esence of his wife, hummed several opera tunes and 
 
 took an inordinate quantity of snuff. Breakfast was served, and the usual 
 'topics of the state of the weather and the prices current of groceries were 
 
 * discussed, highly flavoured with sugars and peppers by Dupont, whose 
 c mental qualifications were at all times rigidly circumscribed within the 
 L. limits of his shop. 
 
 At length Madame Montonnet made a sign to he husband and Dupont, 
 
The Betrothal 51 
 
 .an instantaneous silence ensued, and, drawing up her head with an air of 
 -dignity, she addressed Eugenie in the following words, — " My dearest* 
 ■child, you are now eighteen years of age, your education has been com- 
 pletely finished, you have attained great experience aa to the manner of 
 -conducting the general business of a shop, and, thanks to the example you 
 have always had in me, you are fit to take the head of an establishment.^ 
 ^ . . Montonnet broke in with, — " Yes, the dear girl certainly is." . . . 
 "" Silence, Monsieur Montonnet, if you please. I have instilled into 
 your mind those principles of virtue and propriety — " . . . "Madame,'' 
 ^aid Bidois, coming suddenly into the room, " there is an error in Monsieur 
 Dupin's account." . . . "Well, Bidois, do not trouble yourself about it; 
 we will rectify it by-and-by." . . . The old clerk retired ; but during 
 the few seconds he was there his eyes had taken in all the figures of the? 
 conclave at a glance, and given him a pretty correct idea of the state of 
 ^affairs. . . . Madame Montonnet continued her oration. ... "I flatter 
 myself, my dear, that the pains I have taken with your education have not 
 been thrown away, and that you will grace the matrimonial state and be 
 worthy of your mother." ..." Yes, my soul, I have always said that; 
 ■she — " ..." Silence, Monsieur Montonnet ; what makes you chatter so 
 this morning, am I never to be able to say a word ? But although you are 
 Ht, my dear, in every essential, to become a wife, yet, looking at your 
 •extreme youth, we should not have thought of proposing marriage to 
 you unless a very respectable and worthy man had made an offer for your 
 hand." 
 
 The grocer, seeing that he was about to form the subject of the dis- 
 course, looked up to the ceiling, down again to the floor, and all round the 
 room, turned up his eyes, fidgeted on his chair, and played with his seals 
 and chains. ..." Yes, my child, a brilliant offer has been made, and by 
 a gentleman who merits your affection in every respect. . . . Dupont, at 
 these words, jumped up and bowed to Madame. ..." The gentleman hi 
 ■question possesses a very agreeable exterior ; he has all those good qualities 
 which can ensure a woman's happiness ; he has arrived at an age suitable 
 for the married state, a man who loves you tenderly, will devote himself to 
 you alone with all his heart, who understands his business perfectly, is of 
 economical principles, and rich, very rich indeed. He is a man in whom I 
 cannot find a single defect." . . . While Madame Montonnet had been 
 speaking, Dupont had done nothing but bob up and down from his chair ; 
 but as she uttered the last sentence, he lost his equilibrium in reseating 
 himself, caught hold of the chair in order to break his fall, and rolled with 
 it into the middle of the room. Bidois, who affected to have heard some 
 one call, rushed in, assisted the grocer to rise, and again withdrew in 
 obedience to a command from Madame ; and Dupont, rubbing that portion 
 ■of his nether man which had suffered from the fall, resolved not to leave 
 his chair again until Madame Montonnet had finished her speech, however 
 flattering the encomiums on his pocket and person might be. . . . When 
 the disorder caused by the grocer's ludicrous accident was at an end, 
 Madame Montonnet concluded emphatically thus, — " From all that I have 
 said, my child, and from the portrait I have drawn, I make no doubt that 
 you see that the gentleman in question is our excellent friend Monsieur 
 Dupont ? You are right, it is he who has proposed for your hand, aad to 
 him you will be married." 
 
 Eugenie remained silent — the very image of despair ; she could not 
 ^speak. And if she had had the power, what could she have said ? The 
 fiat had gone forth, it was vain to endeavour to remonstrate, for she must 
 •obey. To obey ! to forget Adolphe, and become the bride of Dupont I 
 
52 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 Horror of horrors 1 that could never be. She comprehended, with one* 
 lightning glance, the extent of all her woe ; she saw no ray of hope to cheer 
 the unutterable misery of her future life ; a weight, as of a mountain, 
 pressed upon her chest, her blood froze within her veins, tears would not 
 come to her relief, and, as Dupont advanced to take her hand, she turned 
 as pale as death, and fell senseless at his feet. 
 
 The father ran to raise her from the floor, and carried her to a couch,, 
 calling on Jeanneton for help ; but Madame Montonnet, whose equanimity 
 nothing could disturb, pushed him sharply back. ..." It is nothing,"" 
 she said ; " young girls are always so when you first talk to them of being 
 married." ..." It is all joy," said Dupont ; " the poor girl could not con- 
 ceal her delight, and it has been too much for her." ..." A curious kind 
 of joy enough," said Bidois, who again hurried into the room, followed by 
 Jeanneton, carrying smelling-salts and other sovereign remedies in female- 
 fainting fits. . . . Montonnet also did not quite understand this novel 
 species of joy, and ventured to remark that his wife had not fainted away 
 when he proposed to her. ..." True, sir, true ; I had always great, 
 strength of mind ; but Eugenie is as stupidly susceptible as you. When I 
 was young there were none of these nervous attacks." . . . Dnpont professed 
 his great regard for ladies of tender nerves, inasmuch as it showed great 
 gentleness of heart ; besides, they would not be the least inconvenience to* 
 him, as he had plenty of orange-flower water and other precious essences^ 
 which his wife might partake of every day. 
 
 At length a slight colour came into Eugenie's cheeks. She opened her 
 fine eyes and cast them languidly on Jeanneton, then shuddering, closed 
 them again, to shut out the sight of her mother and the detestable Dupont* 
 Madame Montonnet, seeing that sensibility had returned, ruthlessly deter- 
 mined to clinch the affair at once. " Daughter," she said, " I can easily 
 conceive that the announcement of your intended marriage has agitated 
 you ; the idea of quitting affectionate parents is always distasteful to a> 
 fond young heart : go to your chamber, lie down for a while, and calm, 
 yourself. I have already told you that you will not be wanted in the shop 
 to-day. Go, my love, go ; you are now acquainted with our intentions- 
 concerning you, and the necessary arrangements for your marriage will be 
 made hereafter. Monsieur Dupont, give your hand to your affianced 
 bride." 
 
 Montonnet advanced to embrace his daughter, and observing her 
 trembling limbs, the tears that obscured her eyes, and the despondency- 
 painted in every lineament of her speaking face, was about to hazard a few 
 remarks deprecatory of haste, but was cut short by his wife, with the- 
 assertion that this extreme agitation was quite natural, and in the estab- 
 lished order of things on all such momentous occasions. Dupont took the 
 hand of Eugenie, now abandoned to him in silence, and handed her from 
 the parlour upstairs to her own room. On arriving at the door he thought 
 it high time to commence some compliments, so bowing profoundly to her,. 
 he stammered out, — " Mademoiselle, I am delighted to think that — knowing 
 that you will be mine — that your lovely eyes — this emotion — certainly — 
 this unequivocal testimony of your responding — if you will permit me I 
 will bring you this evening a small bottle of walnut ketchup, very good for 
 the digestion — I have also some vanilla chocolate pastilles, of a delicious 
 ilavour." Eugenie could bear no more ; she thanked him coldly, and shut 
 the door in his face. The lout remained some minutes on the landing- 
 place, staring stupidly at the door, then turned on his heels and descended,, 
 muttering pleasantly to himself that his bride was admirably brought up, 
 j&ad that his attractions must have inspired an extraordinary flame in her 
 
TJie Betrothal 53 
 
 breast, or she would not have been so completely overpowered at the 
 announcement of her future happy lot. 
 
 Dupont re-entered the shop with a smirking, self-contented air, and 
 smiled knowingly on Monsieur and Madame Montonnet and old Bidois. 
 The latter smiled too ; he had his own reasons for it. . . . " Well, son-in- 
 iaw," said the laceman, " how happy you look ; Eugenie has been kind to 
 you, it seems." . . . "Yes, father-in-law, very kind indeed; to be sure, 
 she said nothing, but I understood her for all that. She is an adorable 
 •creature ; what a treasure you have given me for a wife ! " . . . " To be 
 sure she will be your wife," said Madame ; " I should like to have seen my 
 -daughter oppose herself to my wishes. If I say, ' There is your husband, 
 take him,' she is silent, and obeys. That is the way my daughter has 
 ""been brought up. When my husband was first presented to me, I did not 
 think him agreeable at all ; nay, more, I thought him positively ugly." " My 
 •dear, you could not have thought me — " "Yes, sir, ugly ; you had a most 
 unbecoming coat on ; but all these objections did not influence my choice. 
 I said, let him only be my husband, and he shall wear anything I choose. 
 So, sir, I married Monsieur Montonnet, and, thank God, he has never had 
 cause to regret it." . . . " Certainly, my life, certainly I have not. " . . . 
 ** My daughter will be like me, Monsieur Dupont, and you will be blessed 
 with an admirable partner." 
 
 The parents and the bridegroom plunged at once into household 
 details — furniture, servants and other chattels absolutely necessary for a 
 man about to commit matrimony. Poor Eugenie remained in her room, 
 a prey to the bitter feelings that tore her heart in pieces ; she lay upon 
 her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break, until the scalding tear3 
 "flowed down her cheeks. Could her hard mother have seen her at that 
 moment, pale, worn, haggard and wan, perhaps she might have felt some 
 -touches of a parent's love, and not have steeled her heart against her 
 daughter's woes. But Eugenie dared not weep before that flinty mother. 
 Eor two hours she stirred not, and the tears still fell uncontrolled. There 
 she lay, abandoning herself to that dull, cold despair which is a hundred- 
 fold more deadly than the noisiest grief, for that which has no vent, 
 " Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break." 
 
 The day passed thus, but she took no heed of time. She was bade to 
 love hiin she could not even esteem, to give up her dear Adolphe, for whom 
 •she could have poured forth her heart's best blood like rain, and existence 
 had no longer any charms for her. At length a gentle tap at the chamber 
 •door roused her from her gloomy reverie. She trembled, and hurriedly 
 asked who was there ? The voice of Jeanneton was heard in reply. Eugenie 
 immediately opened the door, and threw herself into the outstretched arms 
 of her faithful, humble friend. For several minutes she essayed to speak, 
 lout in vain, for the tears choked the utterance of her tongue, while the 
 affectionate Jeanneton mingled her sighs with those of the fair girl, and im- 
 plored her not to give way to such despair. ..." They are going to marry 
 me, Jeanneton," she sobbed ; " they are going to marry me to that horrid 
 Dupont, and I shall be miserable for life." ..." A pretty husband, in- 
 deed, for you, a fellow with not half so much shape as the handle of a 
 frying-pan, and a face with no more expression than a pumpkin, — the stupid, 
 ugly wretch ! " . . . " Indeed, I can never love him ; and to be obliged to 
 .give up Adolphe, too — Adolphe, whom I adore. Oh ! Jeanneton, I can 
 never do it." ..." Poor Adolphe, Ma'amselle, what a pity he is not rich ; 
 he would be just the husband for you." ..." But is it not shocking, 
 -Jeanneton, that people should be married only for money. Why, why 
 should it be ? " . . . Jeanneton reflected for a little, and then gave it as 
 
54 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 her opinion that the reason was because all the world ate during the whole 
 of their life, and were only eternally in love for a very small portion of it* 
 . . . Eugenie indignantly repudiated the latter part of the reason 
 Jeanneton assigned for mercenary marriages, for she felt that both Adolphe- 
 and herself would never, never cease to love ; and after Jeanneton had ex- 
 hausted all her powers of consolation, and remarked that the marriage-day 
 ivas yet far distant, and that a hundred circumstances might break off the- 
 match, returned to her kitchen, without being seen by any one, having 
 promised faithfully to seek Adolphe, and make him acquainted with all 
 that had taken place. 
 
 Eugenie became more calm after her interview with Jeanneton. . . . How 
 small a thing will re-illumine hope in a heart only eighteen yeara of age. 
 At thirty, much more is required ; illusions have passed, and stern ex- 
 perience has arrived. Experience and illusions never agree ; hope riies, and 
 hard realities alone remain. 
 
 Jeanneton, however, had no opportunity of looking for Adolphe that 
 day, for Madame Montonnet had company to dinner, and consequently 
 Jeanneton was fully engaged in the kitchen. The Gerards and Dupont 
 were invited to celebrate the betrothal, a fact which Jeanneton had not 
 thought proper to communicate to Eugenie, for fear of annoying her still 
 more. She, therefore, flew back to her kitchen and prepared the savoury 
 dainties with a heavy heart. 
 
 When a Parisian shopkeeper gives a dinner party, the hour is generally 
 late, because he naturally wishes to get over ordinary business before giv- 
 ing himself up to the enjoyment of the evening. Such was the case at 
 Montonnet's on that eventful day. Monsieur and Madame Gerard, their 
 sister, Mademoiselle Cecilia, and their son Eanfan, did not arrive until 
 half-past five o'clock, all of them with a smirk on their faces, and wearing that 
 peculiar air of satisfaction and enjoyment which it is considered absolutely 
 necessary to assume on all occasions connected with betrothals or the great 
 deed of matrimony itself. It is not that the spectators care one farthing 
 about the future happiness of the two beings about to be irrevocably linked 
 together, but they go to be amused at a marriage as they would at a play,. 
 and with the same sympathy as they feel for the actors and actresses in the 
 dramatic scene. 
 
 Monsieur Gerard had not been informed of the important fact, but 
 several sentences that he had heard by chance, and the constant visits of 
 the grocer to Montonnet's house, had created an impression in his mind that 
 some grand event was connected with the dinner party. Whilst the usual 
 compliments were being made, and Bidois was stuffing his nose with, in- 
 numerable pinches of snuff in order to neutralise the odours of Gerard's 
 scent, Monsieur Dupont made his appearance, his pockets full of olives, 
 raisins, figs, almonds and sugared filberts, and a bottle of very choice wine 
 under each arm. The suspicions of the Gerards were confirmed at once ' r 
 they all nodded and smiled, whilst Mademoiselle Cecilia said to herself, — 
 " They are going to marry Eugenie to Dupont ; well, after what I saw in 
 the wood of Eomainville, I should have thought — but patience, patience* 
 and we shall see what will turn up at last." 
 
 The old maid held her tongue, with a determination to make herself 
 mistress of all the facts of the case during the evening ; for, notwithstand- 
 ing her avowed contempt for mankind, she had thrown sundry sheep's-eyes- 
 at Dupont, who would have been a capital catch for her ; but the bait would 
 not take, and as she had now lost all hopes of fixing the grocer, she resolved 
 to have her revenge by doing what she could to prevent his union with 
 Eugenie. When all the company were assembled, the heartbroken girl 
 
Tlie Betrothal, 55< 
 
 still remained in her room ; of course the most affectionate inquiries wes&- 
 made concerning her health, to which her mother replied that she had ke5>ft: 
 her chamber all day in consequence of having been greatly agitated wiihu 
 delight in the morning, but that she would soon come down. ... " Yes/* - 
 said Bidois, " with eyes as red as ferrets ; that will be all set down as t$i&x 
 effects of joy too." 
 
 Madame Montonnet ascended to her daughter's room, and found h&r* 
 sitting disconsolately by a window that looked into the back -yard. S&fe. 
 accosted the poor thing in a severe tone, and asked her what awful eveafea 
 had happened to suffuse her eyes with tears, and cause that mourafaJt 
 prostration which, it was evident, pervaded her whole frame ? . . ^ 
 Eugenie answered not. Her mother then desired her to dry her eyes astiL! 
 prepare to come down, for company had arrived to celebrate her betrothal; 
 to Dupont, and she must not disgrace her future husband by appearing act, 
 that desponding listless state. 
 
 Eugenie did not reply, but raised her eyes, still clouded with tears,, to- 
 her mother's face. " Why, child, what does all this mean ; let me have- 
 none of this tragedy stuff. Are you inconsolable because you are about te* 
 be married to a man whom you can do as 3 7 ou please with, and lead smy=?- 
 where with a string. I think, instead of crying, you ought to be very grate--- 
 ful to me for finding for you such an excellent match." . . . Eugenie ma&es&* 
 strong effort, and sobbed out, — " Mamma, I cannot love Monsieur Dupont.'* 
 ... " You are a fool ; what woman ever cares about loving her f utvare- 
 husband ? " . . . ' But, mamma — " " But me no buts — " " I cannot 
 marry him." ... " Cannot marry him, Ma'amselle ! do I hear aright ? 
 Is it my daughter who speaks ? How long is it that you have been pts*- 
 mitted to have a voice in approving or rejecting anything on which I have- 
 set my mind ? Let me hear no more of such folly. Dupont is rich, is only t 
 forty years of age, and is the very best match that you could possibly es-,- 
 pect. To-day you are betrothed, and the marriage shall take place in a* 
 month from this. That is decided ; so dry your eyes at once, and let ipet*- 
 have no more of these sullen, peevish looks. Come, Mademoiselle, follow? 
 me downstairs ; the company have come to dine with us, so mind yoxt 
 behave yourself properly, and appear as satisfied as you ought to be with& 
 your future excellent establishment." 
 
 The poor girl was completely broken down ; she wiped her eyes, aacE- 
 silently followed her mother. She knew it was vain to attempt to softer, 
 the heart of Madame Montonnet, but she consoled herself as well as she- 
 could with the thought that Jeanneton had promised her to seek Adolpbe^. 
 and that he would never allow her to become the wife of another. She^ 
 then entered the parlour, where the company were assembled, but, notwith- 
 standing her efforts to appear cheerful, it was with the greatest difficulty 
 that she restrained her tears, and her mournful looks confirmed the- 
 suspicions that Mademoiselle Cecilia entertained. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said Madame Montonnet, taking her daughter- 
 by the hand and giving it a squeeze significant of the severest displeasure^ 
 if she presumed to thwart her will, " allow me to present to you iayr 
 daughter and her future husband, Monsieur Jonas Dupont.". . . . Eugenie s ,. 
 ready to drop, suppressed a sigh, and courtesied respectfully to the company* 
 not one of whom did she see. Dupont strove to appear delighted, an<li 
 Mademoiselle Cecilia turned aside to hide the malicious grin that came 
 upon her face at her thoughts of Adolphe, and the natural consequences of? 
 the fat grocer's marriage. 
 
 Monsieur Gerard, as usual, was enchanted, and shook his ambrosial, 
 curls. " What a delicious marriage," he said ; " the union of Mora aaadL, 
 
-56 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Jtfars, of Hebe and Ganymede !"..." What's that ? " asked Dupont J 
 ** is Ganymede the grocers' god ? " . . . " Not exactly, my friend ; he 
 serves the other gods with their nectar drinks. " . . . " Ah ! then there's not 
 much difference. I sell drinkables and eatables too." . . . Bidois entered 
 •at that moment, having received the exalted honour of being invited to 
 dine, and was so pleased with the bride's appearance that he sarcastically 
 complimented her upon her cheerful, smiling air. 
 
 Dinner was ready, and all sat down to table. Eugenie was placed by 
 che side of her intended, and Madame Montonnet took up a position 
 immediately in front of them, that she might telegraph to the wretched 
 .girl what she ought to do, to speak, to laugh, and to appear pleased ; but this 
 running stratagem and all her nods and winks proved utterly unavailing, for 
 Eugenie never once raised up her eyes. Repulsed in this manner, Madame 
 Montonnet determined upon another mode of attack ; and as the dinner- 
 'table was long, but not very broad, and the feet of those on opposite side3 
 could easily meet, she resolved to make her legs speak instead of her eyes. 
 
 Monsieur Gerard, seated on the other side of Eugenie, endeavoured to 
 : he entertaining and polite ; and she, not seeing in him a man whom she 
 -abhorred, paid some little attention to the gallant nonsense that he rattled 
 •on with, heedless of the grocer's platitudes, mixed up with tea, sugar coffee, 
 -spices, and all the sweet contents of his well-stored shop. Montonnet had 
 ;a great inclination to be facetious with regard to the joys of newly-married 
 couples, but his wife had forbidden him to do so, and every time that a 
 joke was on his lips, Madame anticipated his words as if by intuition, and 
 frowned majestically upon him, till he shut himself up like a snail in his 
 ^shell, and the words died within his throat. Madame Gerard talked of the 
 bride's dresses and trousseau; Fanfan, as the youngest male who would be 
 ^present at the marriage, discoursed of the bride's garters, which would be 
 ins of right ; Bidois said nothing, but ate and drank as much as he could, 
 lianding the salad and the wine wherever he was told ; and Mademoiselle 
 ■Cecilia, who also was visited with a silent fit, kept her eyes on Eugenie, and 
 •smiled satirically whenever she looked at Dupont. 
 
 At length, the important question of dress being exhausted by Madame 
 •Oerard, that lady turned to felicitate Eugenie a second time, and observed 
 ■that she seemed extremely dull for a young person in such a situation, and 
 with such brilliant prospects before her. ..." My daughter knows what 
 •■she is about," replied Montonnet ; " and although very happy, of course, 
 *she is aware of her great future responsibilities, and does not conceive that 
 dt is necessary to laugh and sing like a young madcap." . . . "She appears 
 sready enough to do so," Mademoiselle Cecilia chimed in, with another sneer- 
 ing grin. . . . All this time Madame Montonnet kept her legs going with 
 *the greatest energy, but Eugenie's feet being close to her chair, and not 
 ?protruding in the least under the table, she did not receive any one of the 
 : telegraphic kicks intended for her particular instruction. Bidois was 
 occupied polishing the carcass of a turkey — the bones of the poultry always 
 falling to his share — but as he munched away and grunted, he said to him- 
 -self, — " If her face on her marriage day is as happy as it is now, what a 
 ,gay wedding we shall have ! " 
 
 Dinner had been removed, and the dessert was on the table, when 
 Madame Montonnet, out of all patience at Eugenie's despondent appearance, 
 liazarded another communication with her legs, and pressed hard upon the 
 feet of Gerard and Dupont. Now, the perfumer, notwithstanding his 
 -superlative squint, had an immense idea of his own fascinations with the 
 fair sex, and did not doubt that Eugenie, afraid of replying aloud to the 
 sine things he had been saying to her, had taken that mode of testifying her 
 
The Betrothal. 57 
 
 regard, so he sighed, looked languishingly at her, and whispered a few 
 words declaratory of his love. Eugenie heard them not ; her heart was far 
 enough away from him ! At first Dupont was at a loss to know what all 
 this kicking meant. When the last heavy pressure came upon his corns, he 
 was ready to scream out with pain ; but the idea coming into his head that 
 Eugenie might have adopted this modest mode of assuring him of her love, 
 he held his tongue, tried to appear delighted, and gratefully and in a whisper 
 thanked his bride for the proofs of her affection. Eugenie looked at him 
 in amazement. Dupont continued to whisper and smile, and Madame 
 Montonnet, who thought that Eugenie had said something agreeable to the 
 -grocer in consequence of her kicks, kept her legs going vigorously right and 
 left, the effect of which was a perfect hurricane of sighs and leers at Eugenie 
 from Gerard and Dupont. 
 
 Mademoiselle Cecilia beheld the pantomime of the grocer and perfumer, 
 and could not possibly conceive what it meant. She determined to put the 
 ^correctness of her surmises as to Eugenie's attachment to Adolphe to the 
 test, and strike a blow that should put an end to all her doubts. She care- 
 lessly turned the conversation upon the approaching marriages of several of 
 her friends ; and then, as if speaking of a perfectly indifferent subject, and 
 attentively regarding Eugenie, she said, — "What was the name, Madame 
 .Montonnet, of that young man who was with us at the fete in the wood of 
 Romainville ?"..." Adolphe Dalmont, you_mean, Mademoiselle." . . . 
 Eugenie heard the magic word. Waking at once from her reverie, the 
 blood rushed to her cheeks, and she fixed a piercing look upon the mis- 
 chievous old maid. ..." Ah ! Adolphe," Cecilia went on ; " he, too, I 
 hear, is about to be married." . . . Eugenie started up and gasped for 
 breath. " Adolphe about to be married ! " at length she stammered out, 
 ifor at that moment the barbed arrow was in her heart, and she saw neither 
 mother, father, nor any one around. While Madame Montonnet, not 
 'Iniowing what to think of the violent emotion of the girl, plunged out her 
 leg in a fit of desperation, and elicited a fearful cry from Dupont, on whose 
 lender corns her heavy foot had alighted. ..." Adolphe about to be 
 married ! " Eugenie said again, as if in a trance, and unconsciously sp;aking 
 i;o herself. ..." Yes ; I am sure of the fact, for I had it from my very 
 intimate friend, the mother of the young lady he is about to marry." 
 
 This was too much for the miserable girl. Adolphe false, and about to 
 be married to another ! The thought was worse than death. She heard 
 no more, her brain reeled, and she fell against Gerard, who luckily had 
 •marked her agitation, and received her in his outstretched arms. 
 
 All rose from table at once, and crowded around Eugenie. Bidois 
 crammed into his pocket a huge piece of cheese and some apples that he 
 had not time to finish, promising himself the pleasure of discussing them at 
 ~a more convenient period ; and Mademoiselle Cecilia laughed in her sleeve, 
 pluming herself on the success which had attended her scheme. There was 
 juot one single word of truth in her assertion of the intended marriage of 
 Adolphe, for she had merely used his name in order to satisfy herself 
 whether there was any secret intelligence between him and Eugenie, an 
 .intelligence which, from what she had seen in the wood of Romainville, she 
 believed existed between them in the fullest force. Pretending not to 
 :notice the effect of her malicious stratagem, she exclaimed, — " What can 
 have caused this sudden fainting 1 We were talking, I think, of the marriage 
 of Adolphe — " but Madame Montonnet, who saw the dangerous ground the 
 old maid was treading on, interrupted her at once, lest any suspicions of th> 
 real state of Eugenie's heart should make their way into the thick-headed 
 .grocer's skull. 
 
58 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Dupont attributed Eugdnie's fainting to the heat of the weather ; it* 
 was the middle of December, and, moreover, the Montonnets were nob 
 famous for their fires. Bidois, the hypocrite, said it was the cold ; Mon- 
 tonnet was sure it arose from indigestion, though she had tasted scarcely 
 a mouthful ; but Madame Montonnet decided that it was nothing in the- 
 world but the excitement incidental to all young girls when told they 
 were going to be married. For her part, she had fainted seven times on her 
 wedding day. . . . "You, my love," said Montonnet ; "I don't remember 
 it at all." He proceeded no further witn his reminiscences ; he caught hi& 
 wife's eye, and stopped short at once. 
 
 Gerard smiled, in his heart, at all these_ surmises, for he was persuaded 
 that Eugenie had pretended to faint only that she might have the pleasure 
 of being supported in his arms. They bathed her temples, held pungent 
 essences to her nose, and tried every means to restore her to sensibility, but 
 all in vain ; there she remained as if in the sleep of death, till at last 
 Madame Montonnet became seriously alarmed, and resolved to send for 
 medical assistance. The Gerards took their leave, for people repair to their 
 friends' houses to be amused, and not to be partakers of their grief. 
 Dupont also retired, promising to come early in the morning to hear the 
 news respecting his betrothed ; Bidois was dispatched for a physician and'i 
 the poor girl conveyed to her lone, dreary, miserable bed. . . . Thus- 
 terminated the great day of the betrothal. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PANGS OF LOVE. 
 
 Whilst these mournful scenes were taking place in the laceman's housem- 
 other important events connected with our tale were going on in the street" 
 and in the establishment of Adolphe's master. During the whole of the 
 morning the young man kept constantly traversing the short space between 
 the two shops without catching even a glimpse of Eugenie. At first he 
 thought she was engaged with her mother, afterwards that she must be in' 
 the parlour behind the shop, and every time that he passed before the house 
 that contained his love without seeing her, and re-entered the draper's shop, 
 he consoled himself with the hope that the next journey he should be more 
 lucky. Another quarter of an hour passed, out of the shop he went, but 
 no Eugenie. Another and another with precisely the same result ; thus- 
 the day crept on to an end, and at night he went to bed in despair at 
 not having seen her once during the whole of the day. 
 
 On the following morning Adolphe could not keep still for a moment } 
 he was seized with another walking fit, and was about to leave the shop 
 when his master stopped him. ""Where are you going, sir ? " he said. . . . 
 " I am going, sir, and I shall soon be back," Adolphe replied, not knowing 
 well what to say. . . . "Do you think, sir, that you are to continue going, 
 on in the way you have been for the past few days ? You do nothing but 
 run in and out of the shop ; you seem to have lost your senses ; you are 
 always in the street, and do not remain five minutes together at your 
 business. It is impossible that you can remain in my employ if you conduct 
 yourself in that manner. Eor a long time you have done nothing but make 
 the most absurd mistakes. If a customer asks you for muslin, you produce- 
 
The Pangs of Love. 50 s * 
 
 calico ; if you are asked for habit shirts you bring pocket handkerchiefs 5 
 and if you are told to cut two yards of stuff, you cut off four. In short r 
 you commit all sorts of follies, and are never here when you are wantecL- 
 This conduct must be altered, sir, or I cannot suffer you to remain here." 
 ..." As you please, sir," Adolphe replied, thinking that if he were dis- 
 missed he should be able to pass the whole day in the street without any on&' 
 interfering with him ; so, without reflecting for a moment what woulsf 
 become of him, the foolish youth bounded upstairs to his little room, made ' 
 a bundle of the few clothes he possessed, and came down again to the shop 5 - 
 there his master hastened to pay the salary due to him, delighted to get ridf 
 of a shopman who appeared to be beside his wits. 
 
 And now Adolphe was without a situation. Far from repining, he 
 rejoiced ; what cared he for the future, the present was all in all for him! 
 Everything on earth gave way to his desire to behold his love, so he deter' 
 mined to walk up and down before Montonnet's house the whole day like p 
 sentry on guard, and by that means he must see Eugenie at last. Not the <* 
 slightest thought of the future entered into his mind ; he had received £15,- 
 the amount of salary that was due to him, and with such a sum as that - 
 in his pocket, what lover of twenty years of age ever thought of his future- 
 prospects in this world ? 
 
 During the whole of the morning, and for some time after mid-day ? - 
 Adolphe walked up and down before Monsieur Montonnet's shop, until 
 about three o'clock, his stomach gave him warning that nature required* 
 some sustenance, " that lips, though blooming, must still be fed, and not - 
 e'en love can live on flowers." Fatigued with his continued promenade, 
 yet loth to leave his post, he ran into Petrin's shop, and bought a roll, 
 which he devoured without once taking his eyes off the laceman's door, 
 Eugenie, however, did not appear, and Adolphe sighed at every mouthful' 
 he took, notwithstanding which his dinner found its usual resting-place, 
 because a stomach only twenty years old digests with great facility both,' 
 the troubles of life and a twopenny roll. 
 
 The night came, but no Eugenie in the shop or at the door. Our lover 
 was in despair ; for the last hour he had been walking in the gutter without- 
 being aware that the water was over his shoes. " Her absence is extra- 
 ordinary," he thought ; " something terrible must have happened ; she is - 
 ill. Perhaps they have discovered our loves, and confined her to her room. 
 No matter what the consequences may be, I will know the reason why she - 
 has not been in the shop. There is nobody there but the old clerk, so in % 
 go." . . . Adolphe started forward, stopped suddenly at the door, drew 
 a long breath, knocked his hat down on his forehead, turned the handle of 
 the door, went in, and stood before old Bidois. 
 
 Bidois looked up, recognised Adolphe, nodded, but did not move, and^ 
 proceeded leisurely to mend a pen. After a few moments' hesitation,, 
 Adolphe cast a mournful look round him — Eugenie was not there — and- 
 politely saluted the old clerk. Bidois bowed, and went on adding up a bill. 
 " Five and five makes ten, and nine are nineteen." . . . "Monsieur Bidois r 
 I hope you are quite well ?"..." Tolerably, I thank you. Nineteen and - 
 forty are fifty -nine." . . . " Always at work, Monsieur Bidois ; you are »- 
 most indefatigable clerk ! " . . . " Not at all, sir ; I only do my duty, - 
 Seven and carry six." . . . " All clerks are not so assiduous as you are," 
 . . . " So I have often thought. Let me see ; I think I carried six % " . . • 
 "And how are Monsieur and Madame Montonnet?" . . . "Perfectly" 
 well. Yes, it was six I carried." ..." And their daughter, Mademoiselle"* 
 Eugenie ? I have not seen her in the shop neither yesterday nor to-day/' 
 , . . " She keeps her room. Ten dozen yards of green fringe at — " . • 
 
SO Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 tl She keeps her room ! from what misfortune ? " . . . B Because she is ill. 
 A hundred and thirty and sixty-five." . . . " 111 ! Eugenie ill ! How long 
 
 " has she been ill ? is she very bad ? what is her complaint?" . . . "Take 
 
 , care, sir ; take care what you are about ; you had nearly upset my large 
 account-book and my inkstand." ..." My dear Bidois, for heaven's sake 
 
 -tell me, does she suffer much ? is her illness dangerous ? are there any fears 
 for her life ?" . . . " Nought and carry eight. No, sir, no ; I do not think 
 there is any danger at present, at least the doctors do not say so. Total, 
 
 . eleven hundred and thirty-six." ..." But tell me, I pray you, what is 
 Eugenie's complaint ?"..." The devil ! that can't be right ; there's an 
 
 . error cf ten francs." ..." You will find it out another time, Bidois ; 
 
 . good, fellow, tell me what is her complaint ? " . . . "Find it out another 
 time? A pretty joke that ! I must find it out now." . . . " Her illness 
 
 —her complaint?" . . . "It must be somewhere in that green fringe." 
 M . . " Bidois, I shall die if you do not tell me." ..." Ten francs is no 
 joke." ..." Never mind ; I will give them to you if you will only answer 
 
 "jne." . . . "What do you take me for, sir, that you offer me money to 
 .neglect my hooks ? Four and eight — " . . . "Monsieur Bidois, I know 
 
 -that ycu are the very soul of honour, and of the greatest integrity ; but do 
 tiave some compassion for me. In the name of humanity, in the name of 
 all most dear to your heart, do answer me." ..." What I have most at 
 fieart just now is to find out the mistake I have made in adding up this 
 "bill." ..." Oh, miserable wretch that I am ! " . . . "I have it ; here 
 at is. Why, I have taken that three for a two !"..." And now that you 
 
 shave found it out, for God's sake tell me ? " ... "An instant, an instant. 
 
 •^What horrible bad pens ! Mademoiselle's illness has been occasioned by 
 joy." ..." By joy ! What has caused this excess of joy ?" ... "She 
 
 - is going to be married." . . . "Married, married ! to whom, with whom, 
 when ? " . . . " Don't shake the desk like that ; you have made me make 
 a blot." ..." Tell me, Bidois, tell me, or I shall go mad ; to whom ? " 
 * . . " To Monsieur Dupont, the grocer in the Rue aux Ours," 
 
 The words were scarcely out of Bidois' mouth before Adolphe, furious 
 
 -at the idea that Eugenie should be thought capable of deserting him, called 
 
 the old clerk a liar, flew at him like a tiger, seized him by the neck and shook 
 
 him till his wig nearly fell off. Bidois shouted out for help, and for the 
 
 police, when Madame Montonnet, who heard the scuffle whilst upstairs, and 
 
 - pretty well guessed the cause, descended quickly and entered the shop. At 
 . sight of her, Adolphe left off shaking the clerk, but, panting with the 
 ,-exertion, still kept his hand on the collar of his coat. She advanced to the 
 
 ^oung man with a firm step and a stern regard, and asked what all that 
 outcry meant. Bidois replied, — "It is only this young man, who has 
 thought fit to go mad because I told him Mademoiselle was about to 
 be married." . . . "And what has he to do, I wonder, with my 
 .daughter's marriage? what business is it of his? why does he presume 
 to interfere ? " Adolphe let go the clerk's collar, and hung his head, 
 „and Bidois took the opportunity of adjusting his peruke. Madame 
 .continued, — "Monsieur Dalmont, I used to think you a respectable, 
 well-behaved young man ; I am sorry to see I was mistaken ; and now 
 I forbid you ever to enter this house again." ..." But, Madame, 
 1 do not see why — " ... " You do not see the reason why ? You under- 
 stand me well enough, and your conduct this evening confirms me in the 
 i suspicions I entertained of your audacity." . . . "Well, Madame, it is 
 useless attempting concealment any longer. I love, I adore Mademoiselle 
 ^Eugenie ; I cannot live without her ; I shall die if you marry her to an- 
 other." ..." Die or live, sir, it is a matter of complete indifference to me. 
 
Tlie Pangs of Love. 6& 
 
 You are a most impertinent fellow to think of my daughter for a moment, 
 and to have the impudence to suppose that I should refuse an excellent^ 
 offer from a man with a good business and well-established in the world, 
 for a pitiful shopman at half-a-guinea a week, who chooses to fancy himself 
 in love. A pretty return this for my inviting you to my fete champetre I 
 Leave the house, sir, this moment, and never let me see your face again,- 
 And you, Bidois— do you hear me ?— if this young man has the presump-; 
 tion to come here when I am from home, kick him into the street." 
 
 Bidois grunted an assent, thinking at the same time that, from the late 
 specimen he had just had of Adolphe's strength, it would be no enviable ; 
 task to turn him out of the shop, and much sooner said than done ; when 
 Adolphe, drawing himself up haughtily, replied that, sooner or later, 
 Madame Montonnet would repent her severity, and strode out of the shop, < 
 slamming the door after him with such violence that the panes danced in 
 3ie frame, leaving Madame aghast at his audacity. When she had re-- 
 covered herself, she said, — " Was there ever such an insolent vagabond ; he^ 
 dare to fall in love with my daughter !"..." I have thought so for & 
 long time." ..." And you never told me of it ? " . . . " Why should I T 
 whenever I attempt to say anything, I'm an ass, a dotard, a fool." . . . 
 " Well, Bidois, I acknowledge you have been treated very harshly now and: 
 then ; but what have you seen ?"..." For the last month or so— indeed*, 
 ever since the fete of Saint Eustache — this young man has passed and repassed 
 the shop at least twenty times a day." . . . "Indeed! and did Eugenie- 
 take any notice of him ? " . . . " If I saw him, she must have seen him too."' 
 . . . "Right, Bidois, very properly remarked ; and now, when I put things 
 together, I am almost afraid that was the reason she dared to tell me she' 
 could not love Dupont. She must have loved him if this puppy had not 
 ensnared her heart." . . . "Just as I think, Madame." . . . "And these 
 f aintino- fits ! I was willing to believe that they were the effects of sudden 
 agitation ; but there was another cause, Bidois." . . . "My opinion to a- 
 hair." . . . "Instead of the wedding taking place a month hence, she 
 shall marry him in a week." . . . Bidois approved of the plan with all his- 
 heart : for since Adolphe had given him a very good idea of the pleasure 
 of being strangled, he had felt an ardent attachment for Dupont. 
 
 " My daughter's illness may only be assumed in order to induce me to- 
 alter my resolutions ; but I will be a match for her, and make her obey 
 me. Only let her be married, and my mind will be at rest." ..." What?- 
 do you think now of the robbers on the night of the fete of Saint Eustache," 
 said Bidois ; " was I dreaming then ?"..." Bidois, you terrify me ; can 
 that young scoundrel have dared to enter clandestinely into the house ? ' 
 o . " I can't tell ; all I know is that there was some one on the stairs 
 that night." ..." If I thought my daughter was aware of it, I cannot- 
 answer for what I might do ; but I will indulge the hope that she was 
 ignorant of the extent of this young man's effrontery. Oh ! Bidois ! what- 
 anxieties there are in a domestic establishment, particularly with such a 
 nonentity of a husband as mine ! 
 
 Having uttered these words, Madame Montonnet ascended to Eugenie's- 
 room, where she had remained in bed ever since the day of the betrothal,- 
 and conveyed to her the intelligence that her marriage should positively 
 take place in a fortnight from that time. The poor girl looked up, and saw 
 from her mother's compressed lips and flashing eyes that she had no alter- 
 native than to obey. She turned her head to the wall, and sighed, — " Ne j 
 ray of hope remains, and Adolphe is lost to me for ever. Oh, that I could 
 die." . . . Precisely Adolphe's thought as he rushed out of the laceman's- 
 fihop. 
 
t$9i Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 adolphe's neighbour 
 
 f?ESPAlR now had full possession of the two lovers hearts : despair aggra- 
 vated by the racking thought that each had wilfully been false. Eugenie 
 *mnrmured to herself, — " He loves me not, and is about to marry another," 
 
 ssxd Adolphe passionately exclaimed, — " False, fickle, perjured Eugenie, she 
 ,fs ill with delight at the idea of being married to that fool Dupont. She 
 visas deceived me ; she has played with my affections, and never loved me 
 -Ja the least." 
 
 Happily for them, young people seldom look long on the dark side of 
 ■■ihe picture, and hope came bounding to the breasts of Adolphe and his be- 
 llovecL ..." She cannot love that grocer," he thought ; " Bidois only 
 
 wished to vex me. No ; I am sure Eugenie would not deceive ; and now 
 -she is ill because they wish to force her to espouse another man. I will see 
 ihex ; I must console and comfort her. I will carry her off and marry her 
 ^|n spite of all the world." , . . Eugenie raised herself up in bed, and a 
 -bright ray shot through her heart as she said, — "Perhaps that mischief - 
 
 making Cecilia told a lie ! Adolphe cannot be unfaithful ; if he were about 
 *-to be married I should have known it from Jeanneton, who hears all the 
 
 gossip of the street. Oh, no, it cannot be ! If he had loved me not, why 
 .does he pass the shop fifty times a day ; why does he gaze on me and press 
 
 snj hand so tenderly ? Adolphe loves me, I am sure, and at this very 
 r jnoment his heart, I know, is torn with grief at not having seen me for so 
 
 many days. But to-morrow I hope I shall be strong enough to come down, 
 
 and then I shall see his dear, dear face." 
 
 ' Adolphe never ceased wandering up and down the street, when, just be- 
 fore it was dark, as the laceman's shop was about to be closed, his perse- 
 -sTetsnee was rewarded by seeing Jeanneton. He was at her side in an 
 -|R<stant, and asked a thousand questions about Eugenie in a breath ; above 
 -sMf he was dying to know whether her mother was forcing her to marry 
 'Dugout. . . . "Yes, yes," Jeanneton replied, when he stopped to take 
 
 cfjre&tk ; " they want her to marry that fat fool, and she is ill, not only 
 -/ihroiigh that, but also because they have told her that you are going to 
 
 he uiarried too." ..." I going to be married ! Who could have dared to 
 -iell her such an infamous lie ? She did not believe it, Jeanneton, I am 
 
 gus& ?"..." When one's in love, one easily believes everything one is 
 rt&ld. I have tried to comfort the poor thing as well as I could." . . . 
 
 - ^Je&nneton, tell her that I exist only for her ; that I shall never cease to love 
 jfier f and that I have given up my situation, that I may spend the whole 
 >&&¥ in. front of the shop." . . . "You have committed a very stupid act." 
 jm'i * ** Tell her that I will carry her off and marry her, although her 
 pother has forbidden me to come to the house." . . . " Forbidden you the 
 ^fefiHSse 1 Well, things have come to a pretty pass, with a vengeance." . . . 
 
 •^Bcit I must see her, Jeanneton." . . . " To-morrow, if she is well enough, 
 -she will leave her room ; do you be a little way down on the other side of 
 -f&e street at dusk, and I will come to you and let you know all that is 
 
 going on." 
 
 With this agreement they parted. Jeanneton returned into the lace- 
 • f&ati's house, and Adolphe, bethinking himself that it was growing late, 
 
 jresolved to find a quiet lodging for the night. The housekeeper at the 
 ^meccevs informed him of a house where he could be received at a moderate 
 
Adolphe's Neighbour, 6$ 
 
 >price, so, shouldering his bundle, which he had left in charge of the kind 
 old soul, he departed, " all the world before him, where to find his place of 
 rest," took a garret in the house pointed out to him, paid a fortnight's rent 
 in advance, and comforted himself with the reflection that he was his own 
 master, and could entertain himself with thinking of the empress of his 
 heart from morning until night. 
 
 On the same floor as Adolphe's room a young lady lodged whose occu- 
 pation likewise was love ; but she did not content herself with thinking of 
 it ; she made it every day and night of her life. 
 
 Adolphe threw himself on a very ordinary bed, which, with a table and 
 •two rickety chairs, formed the whole of the furniture in his apartment. 
 He thought of his dear Eugenie, and sleep had just wafted his drowsy 
 pinions over his eyes, when he was awoke by a noise in the adjoining room. 
 It was the tenant, a female, who entered, accompanied by a man, and as 
 they both talked in a loud tone, Adolphe could not help hearing the con 
 versation that ensued. The cavalier spoke first. " I am as hungry as a 
 hunter, my dear ; have you anything to eat ?"..." Nothing but some 
 sweetmeats and Parmesan cheese, which I had at breakfast." . . . "Well, 
 we must put up with them ; if I were in cash, I would fetch a fowl, but 
 that's a physical impossibility." ..." You have not got any money ? " 
 ** Not one solitary farthing." ..." You did not say that when you drove me 
 in the Tilbury to dine at Montmorency. That's the only time that you have 
 spent any money for me during the whole six weeks you have been with 
 me." . . . "I cannot spend what I have not got." . . . "You ought to 
 roll in gold ; a man who undertakes the success of the new pieces at such 
 ■a theatre as you do ought to be well off in the world." ..." Ah ! poor 
 Zelie, you think it is all profit, but I tell you, love, the expenses are enor- 
 mous. It is not only applauding the pieces ; I have my company of 
 clappers to pay ; and then consider the cost of the coffee, and the beer, and 
 the brandy, and the bowls of punch. It's not all gold that glitters, I 
 assure you." ..." Don't try to humbug me ; I know men like you who 
 have bought houses, and live in the highest style." . . . "Patience, my 
 love, that will come by-and-by ; we are only beginning just now, and have 
 been very unfortunate of late. Three pieces have been damned." . . . 
 ■" Why didn't your men support them better ? " . . . "I should rather 
 think they did ; why, it cost us two black eyes, besides the kicks, and 
 thumps on the head, and other little pleasures. There was not much fun 
 in that, I think ; but, fortunately, the manager is getting up a pantomime, 
 and then we shall have both money and rest." ... " You will think of 
 your Zdlie then, Poussard ? " . . . " Can I ever cease thinking of you, 
 my soul ? How lovely you looked to-night ! some of your steps were 
 superb ; but you must keep up the pirouettes a little longer — indeed you 
 must." . . . "What was that little author saying to you in the slips?" 
 '. . . "He was pointing out to me the weak parts of his piece which is 
 coming out, so that I might applaud them louder than others. A little 
 fellow, too, who will play the bear in the new melodrama, offered me a ticket 
 for the pit to get him a good reception on his entree. He's a donkey, but 
 if the bear has a good part, I don't know but I may." ..." Don't forget, 
 Poussard, to hiss down that young girl who makes her debut in the new 
 ballet. She will interfere with me, so we must disgust her with the stage 
 at first. " . . . " Make yourself easy, my love ; my fellows shall clap at the 
 wrong time, and so annoy the people who have paid, and there will be a 
 row at once." . . . "Delightful! But come, let me have something; 
 why, you have eaten all the cheese ! " . . . " Not much trouble in that ; 
 there was only a morsel of it, and the sweets were quite at the bottom of 
 
64 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 the pot." . . . "There is nothing for me, then?" . . . "Never take? 
 supper, Zelie ; believe me, you will dance all the tetter for it next day. 
 How tempting you look to-night." ..." You've drunk all the wine, 
 too ! " . . . "It was sour, my love ; upon my honour it would have made- 
 you ill. I can't take my eyes off you to-night. What a splendid figure- 
 you have ! I shall never be content, Zelie, till I see you at the grand, 
 opera, playing Juno, Venus, and the other delightful, beautiful goddesses." 
 ... "I should like much better to see myself at supper, with something 
 to eat." . . . "Are you really hungry ? " . . . "Certainly." ... "If 
 that's the case, we had better go to bed. You must go to the opera, 
 recollect I tell you so." . . . "Then, at least, I shall have wherewith* 
 to eat." ... " You think of nothing but eating ; when I am with you t 
 think of nothing but love." . . . "Ah, when your belly is full." . . . 
 " Only to make me strong, and more worthy of thee. Come to my arms - r 
 you are as light as a feather." ... " Leave me alone, I say ; I am not at 
 all in good humour." . . . "'Tis a storm that Love's kisses will soon, 
 dispel." . . . Adolphe heard his neighbours retire to bed ; then came the 
 sounds of passionate kissing ; and then — Adolphe went to sleep, thinking; 
 how happy the next-door couple were, in being able to bask and revel in 
 each other's arms. 
 
 Soon after six o'clock the following morning, Adolphe was awoke by a> 
 fearful tumult in the next room. For a moment he thought his neighbours- 
 were at another crisis of their vehement love, but this impression was speedily 
 removed when he heard the sounds of mingled curses, blows and oaths.. 
 " Scoundrel ! villain ! " the danseuse cried, in a voice scarcely recognisable 
 as that of the previous night. "To think to cut off with my gold watch 
 and chain before I awoke ! I have caught you, have I ? " . . . " Hold 
 your tongue, you jumping bitch, or I'll break the water- jug upon your 
 nose." ... " You villain, you robber, you thief ! A fellow for whom I, 
 have sacrificed so many men. Would you rob me of my things ? " . . . 
 " Your things ! a pretty idea that. The watch is as much mine as yours y 
 didn't I introduce you to the rich fool that made you a present of it ? 
 Haven't I pushed you forward at the theatre ? and without me and my 
 gang would you not have remained in the groups, without a pas seid ? 
 Don't you owe all your character parts to me ? You ungrateful beast, I 
 leave you without the least regret ; and mind me, Zelie, only make one 
 false step, only miss one spin in a pirouette, and down you go." . . . 
 "Quit me as soon as you like, but leave me my watch and chain." . . . 
 " Advance a foot, and I knock you down. Beware the hissiDg, Zelie ; 
 beware the goose ! " . . . At these words, the noise commenced anew ; 
 blows and cries were again heard, and were only at an end when the 
 ruffian flew out of the room, jumped down the stairs, four steps at a bound, 
 and rushed into the street. The ill-used girl followed him to the landing- 
 place, then, finding that it would be useless to pursue the wretch any 
 farther, returned into her room, burst into an agony of sobs and tears, and 
 threw herself upon her truckle-bed. Adolphe, who was about to come to her 
 aid, hearing that all was quiet, disposed himself to sleep again, wondering 
 how the pair could love so fondly overnight, and fight so fiercely the next 
 morning. . . . And he had envied them their happiness ! He was green* 
 and knew nothing of life. 
 
 When Zelie had become a little calmed, she ruminated over her unhappy 
 lot. ..." The villain," she said, " has taken all. If he had only have left me 
 the chain, I wouldn't have cared. A fellow whom I loved so. If I could but 
 get him taken up ; but then he would kill me ! Oh, miserable me ! But it's 
 all my own fault for having believed in him. Henceforth I'll give all love 
 
Adolphe's Neighbour, g^ 
 
 to the winds ; no more fancies for me. He has already eaten up what he 
 obtained for my best shawl ; but then he said it was for his poor father 
 in the Bicetro prison and so I forgave him for that. No more stupidity 
 no more foolish love for me." . . , Adolphe could not succeed n alafn 
 going to sleep. « Nature's. sweet restorer » would visit his couch no mTe 
 but, as it was only seven o'clock, and the invalid Eugenie would not leave 
 her room at that early hour, he thought it would be better to relin whele 
 he was than to be kicking his heels in the street. His excited mind contri- 
 buted to the restlessness of his body; and as the old bed creaked and 
 groaned when he turned from one side to the other, Mademoiselle ZeHe soon 
 observed that the next attic was inhabited. « There is some one there "she 
 said « I wonder whether it's a man or woman ? Whoever it is my row 
 with Poussard must have been heard. No matter ; a cobbler'sa E Z 
 
 SESfi* f l m f termin f t0 find ° Ut Wh ° Jt * a^S We go^ 
 
 f- n Fo ^f ful of ^ er loss > in a few minutes Zelie began singing a lively air 
 Lorn (Efpus Danseuses are philosophical animal!, and sin forglt the r 
 cares. Adolphe could not help thinking that he had a very singular ne X 
 bour. "Just now,", he thought, "she was in despair, and g now she° is 
 singing away as gay as a lark. What a fool I was to think of St£? uS 
 and endeavouring to comfort her ! " g e ™mg up- 
 
 After some time, finding singftig would not do, she left off, and listened 
 against the wainscoting that separated the two rooms, but heard notS 
 
 rovl 9 ^7 g ^ r n T ^° Ur mlght haVe sle P t on ' notwithstanding he; 
 roulades, so she resolved to pave the way for conversation by tappW 
 lightly on the panels of the wall. Then, imitating the tone of a verl 
 pleasing voice, she said,-' I beg your pardon, MadSmoisJCfofdfsS 
 ng you, but will you do me the favour to tell me what o'clock itTs *» 
 Not quite seven, Madame." ... "It must be a man, and from' his* 
 voice, I should say a young one. Thank you, sir ; I am extremely oblige! 
 to you. My watch has stopped ; if it had not I should not haT token thf 
 
 Aaoipne tnougnt. If a man lived always in the next room tn W iL 
 -ould .never know what sleep was. Wy the d^L" S& 
 
 Zelie listened for an answer for some time, but was disappointed "He 
 will not converse," she thought, "but I'll find out a way tTm^e'him^ 
 and thereupon she began banging her chairs about, and movin^about eve'rv 
 piece of furniture m the room, so that sleep was no longer possible Z hi 
 enjoyed by any one within hearing. Whilst thus employed she fcJt 
 alternately singing verses of different songs and talking loudly as if she 
 were addressing some one in the room. . "If if R h%J* ? y ' i ® ■ 
 to-day, what a pleasant trip into the country we will have H 
 
 ' ' Oh, lovely is the country in the sweet month of May ! ' 
 
 " By-the-bye, though, I must not forget the rehearsal at twelve. 
 
 " * Return, oh, my love, and we'll never, never part/ 
 
 " Where can I have put my comb ? Have I broken it ? 
 
 And must we part, brave grenadier ? 
 For lack of thee my heart must break.' 
 
 "If they don't give me another pas seul to-morrow I'll certain ™ ^ *k 
 opera. That's the theatre for my money ; there the Z^UTe^L 
 with proper consideration. I shall never be happy till I am there. ' 
 
$6 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 " ' While the lads and the lasses, so happy and gay, 
 Dance blithe on a fair summer's eve.' 
 
 •What on earth is this in my reticule ? A billet-doux, I declare ! I see f 
 'that little fiddler must have slipped it into my hand last night. Ah, ha ! 
 now we shall have fun. . . . ' Mademoiselle, — Every moment of my life 
 I adore you more and more.' (And I like you less and less.) ' I swear I 
 •cannot live without possessing your lovely person.' (Bless my heart !) 
 * When you make your entree for a dance, I don't know what I am playing. 
 "Your cuts make my heart leap with delight ; your pirouettes will be my 
 death ; and when you raise your leg on my side of the orchestra, the gates of 
 heaven seem opened to my view.' (The stupid young fool !) ' Your brilliant 
 eyes have destroyed my peace of mind for ever. I mistake flats for sharps, 
 '-and crotchets for rests.' (Ah, ha ! so long as he does not eat his resin for 
 sugar-candy, there won't be much harm done. ) ' Mademoiselle, I throw 
 tnyself and all my fortune at your feet. It is true Thave nothing at this 
 ■moment, but I shall be able by-and-by to keep you in first-rate style, for 
 sooner or later talent will make its way.' (The sooner the better, I say.) 
 i*- 1 am about to give a concert at Nogent, and if you will consent to bless 
 ■me, we will spend the receipts together.' (Take care you don't make ducks 
 and drakes of them, my dear.) 'I await your answer in an agony of 
 ■sracertainty.' You will await it long enough, my boy. . . . Now, 
 -irere's a pretty fellow : a fiddler, with thirty-five pounds a year, wants to 
 ■take a dancer into keeping ! If he were a good-looking fellow, I might 
 iiave a little pity on him, but a flat-nosed, red-haired scrub like him — 
 faugh ! 
 
 " ' Tell me, my heart, why morning 's prime ? 
 Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, l'ere.' " 
 
 Whilst Zelie was singing and humming and talking, she kept continu- 
 ally listening at the wainscoting, but could not hear the slightest sound in 
 Adolphe's room. She became very impatient at his insensibility, and, 
 determined to rouse his attention, tapped gently two or three times, and 
 .asked him to have the complaisance to lend her a bottle of water, as she 
 ■was in immediate want of it, and hers was quite out. Adolphe did not 
 reply ; but Zelie was not to be thwarted by his silence, and returned to the 
 •attack. ..." Monsieur, you will render me an essential service if you 
 will lend me some water ; really I am very sorry to give you so much 
 trouble about such a trifle, but, if it should incommode you in the least to 
 get up to give it me, I will come into your room and help myself." . . . 
 ** I have no water," Adolphe answered sharply ; " I drank it all last night 
 ^before I went to bed." ..." A whole bottle of water last night before he 
 •went to bed ! The young man drinks like a duck or a fish. Never mind, 
 I will know what he is like ; he seems resolved not to make my acquaint- 
 ance, and that is a stronger reason why I am determined to make his. He 
 -won't get up to give me some water, won't he ! Well, well, I must try 
 some other means to put life into this lump of lead." 
 
 Zelie left the partition, and recommenced her dancing and singing, but 
 •writh less noise and a lower key, and Adolphe, profiting by the lull, again 
 disposed himself to sleep, but his eyelids had scarcely closed when a sudden, 
 loud noise in the next room, like the fall of a heavy piece of furniture, 
 accompanied by a shriek, caused him to start upright in his bed. He lis- 
 tened anxiously, and heard long-drawn groans and subdued exclamations in 
 the dancer's voice. ..." Ah, me ! my foot is broken, I am certain ; 
 what pain, what agony I am in ! What shall I do ? I can never get up, I 
 'iknow. Oh dear, oh dear ; and there is no one near to help me." 
 
Adolphe 1 s Neighbour. 67 
 
 These plaintive sounds touched Adolphe's manly feelings. "She is 
 severely hurt ; " he said ; " and although she has annoyed me, and it seems 
 that I am not to have any sleep in this house, I cannot hear the poor 
 creature's sufferings and groans without going to her assistance. " He pro- 
 ceeded to carry his humane intentions into effect, and, having slipped on his 
 "trousers and waistcoat, left his own room and tapped at that of his neigh- 
 bour. . . "Who is there?" Zelie inquired, in a voice apparently much 
 weakened by pain. . . . " It is I, Mademoiselle, your neighbour. I heard 
 jou fall and your groans, and have come to render you any aid that I can." 
 . . . "Ah, sir, you are very kind ; do me the favour to come in." . . , 
 Adolphe pushed open the door and entered the dancer's apartment — \i a 
 garret six storeys high can be dignified with that name — and, casting a 
 quick glance around, he saw that the singular medley the room presented 
 completely realised the picture of it he had formed in his own mind. 
 
 At the far end stood a bedstead, without any curtains or tester ; in 
 other parts were an old, dilapidated walnut-wood chest of drawers, a 
 handsome mahogany toilette frame, with the glass broken, a card-table, 
 •covered with the remains of last night's supper, and some preparations for 
 the morning's meal ; a few chairs, none of which matched ; a lounging 
 chair, sadly stained ; a small table, with a broken marble top, on which a 
 night light was placed ; a volume of romance, a candlestick, various small 
 combs, a sweetmeat box, and a bottle of scented oil ; whilst on the mantel- 
 piece were gloves, ribbands, a water-bottle, a habit shirt, and several 
 saucers and pots of rouge. Different portions of female attire were scat- 
 tered here and there about the chamber ; a petticoat lay upon one chair, 
 and a pair of stays upon another ; in one corner there were a pair of 
 slippers and an elegant silk dress ; a handsome shawl, thrown carelessly on 
 a very common couch, hung partly down on the floor, and on the bed was 
 a pell-mell assemblage of stockings, kerchiefs, muffs, collars, and satin 
 shoes ; a bonnet was suspended from one of the window curtain bands, and 
 on the others were a cap, a garland of artificial flowers, garters, and curling- 
 irons for the hair. In the midst of this chaos the presiding goddess, 
 Mademoiselle Zelie, sat on' the floor, half upright, supporting herself against 
 an overturned chair, very scantily clothed, and in a theatrical attitude, 
 uncommonly well got up for effect. 
 
 Mademoiselle Zelie was a young lady of from eighteen to twenty years 
 of age, somewhat jaded by the hard work she had undergone in acquiring 
 her profession, and without the first freshness of youth. She was a decided 
 brunette, rather pretty, and tolerably well made ; all that she wanted to 
 perfect her figure being those two well-rounded globes we see in the statues 
 of the Venus de Medicis, or Girodet's Galatea ; but, if the lady did not) 
 possess them in the morning, she had her revenge at night, for then nothing 
 could surpass them in the beauty of their shape. Her eyes were black and 
 sparkling, surrounded by a slight brown circle, her lips were ruby-red, and 
 her teeth as white as pearls — at night, by the footlights on the stage. 
 ^Notwithstanding these slight defects, the general attractions of Made- 
 moiselle Zelie, her neat figure, bright eyes and sunny looks, made her a 
 lady by no means to be passed over lightly or despised. 
 
 Adolphe paid no attention to the lady's charms ; he cared nothing 
 whether she was pretty or plain, and came to assist her believing she was 
 hurt, and not to criticise her figure or her face ; but Zelie, on her side, had 
 taken in the person of her young neighbour at a glance, and the result of 
 Tier examination was a determination to follow up the acquaintance thus 
 commenced, and to attach him to her, if possible, by the silken cords of 
 love. Beware, beware, Adolphe ! 
 
68 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Thinking that Zelie was really hurt, Adolphe approached her with a com- 
 passionate look, whilst she bit her lips almost through to prevent herself 
 from laughing. . . . "I fear, Mademoiselle," he said, "that you are hurt." 
 . . . " Yes, sir ; I cannot think how it was. I was practising a dance in 
 the new ballet, when my leg accidentally touched one of the chairs, and I 
 slipped and fell, dragging with me a piece of furniture that I caught at for 
 support. My foot is certainly dislocated ; I am sure I shall never be able 
 to get up." ... "Is it only in your foot that you suffer so much pain ?' 
 ..." No, no ; in my side and my back. Pray lift me up and place me on 
 the bed. Thank you, Monsieur. There now ; put your arms under mine. 
 That's it ; don't be afraid of rumpling my clothes." . . . "Cannot you 
 walk, Ma'amselle ?"..." Oh, no ! I cannot even stand ; you must carry 
 me. Take me in your arms, do, I am not at all heavy." 
 
 Adolphe, under the circumstances, had no alternative but to lift the 
 lady up, which he did in the gentlest manner possible, and placed her on 
 the bed. Zelie then assumed a well-studied pose, and smiled lovingly 
 upon him, which he could not but think very extraordinary, considering 
 the great agony she said she was in. Adolphe thought his task was 
 ended, but the lady had not the least intention that it should be finished 
 so soon. She cast a languishing look upon him, and said she was not com- 
 fortable in that position ; would he help her to turn herself on her other 
 side ? " Put your arms under me, Monsieur — a little lower, if you please. 
 Oh, what pain I am in ! Lift up my leg, if you please ; I really cannot 
 move it. Oh, do, support me under the loins. Oh ! I fear I am very 
 much hurt* indeed." . . . "The devil's in it," said Adolphe to himself ; "the 
 devil's in it, I think. Here's this woman, without the least improper inten- 
 tion, no doubt, makes me feel all over her back, her loins, her legs, and her 
 thighs. It's some comfort, though, that she is uncommonly well made ! " 
 
 Men are but men, and a man at twenty years of age cannot treat the charms 
 of a young woman exposed to his touch and gaze with impunity. Adolphe 
 began to warm apace, as his assistance became every minute more neces- 
 sary to the dancer, and some peculiar sensations crowded on his brain ; but, 
 as he adored Eugenie — or, rather, as he did not feel inclined to become the 
 immediate successor of Monsieur Poussard in the lady's -life — he retired 
 from the bed and quitted Zelie, who never ceased ogling him, and wanted 
 to be constantly turned from one side to the other. Z61ie beheld this 
 modest proceeding with perfect astonishment, and exclaimed, — "Whatt 
 are you about to leave me?" . . . "Yes, Mademoiselle, I must; time is 
 getting on, and I have important business to transact; but I will send 
 some female to you from below." ..." You are very polite." . . . " I 
 think I can do no more for you." ..." Do you, indeed ? I think other- 
 wise." . . . " Besides, you appear to me to suffer less, and my presence is 
 not wanted." ... At these last words Zelie jumped up from the bed, and 
 laughed as if she would go mad. 
 
 She capered about the room and cried, — " So you really thought I was 
 hurt, did you ?"..." Why should I not ; what reason led you to de- 
 ceive me?" . . . " What reason ? The fact was, I wished you to know thaf * 
 it is very ungallant not to arise and lend some water to a lady when shfc, 
 asks for it." ..." I cannot refrain from thanking you for the lesson you 
 have taught me." . . . " No lesson, my dear, at all. I only give lessons 
 in dancing ; if you should wish for them, indeed I shall be most happy.'' 
 ..." I thank you, but I have no desire to learn to dance." ..." It's a 
 great pity, my dear, for you would be charming on the stage. But, for 
 God's sake, shake cif that mournful look ; oh, what a face for a young 
 
Which shows how Lovers' Vows are sometimes kept. C9 
 
 While she was rattling on in this way, Zelie kept up bounding into 
 all available parts of the little room, sinking down, jumping up again, cut- 
 ting six, twirling pirouettes, and sometimes elevating her leg as high as her 
 shoulder ; and Adolphe, who was rather green, and had not been in the 
 habit of frequenting the company of ballet girls and the slips of a theatre, 
 looked at her with unfeigned astonishment, for the whole of her gymnastics 
 were perfectly new to him. At length, tired with her exercise, Zelie sat 
 down and said, — " The noise must have awakened you early this morning, 
 and no doubt you heard my scuffle with Poussard. The fellow is a 
 scoundrel, and has deceived me ; but I am glad he is gone, and I shall not 
 see him any more. Now, I am as free as air ; but no more sentiment for 
 me.. That's all over : men are all of them false, and not worth a single 
 sigh. No more love for me ; I will devote myself entirely to my art, and 
 practise six hours a day. Dancing is hard work, too, and learnt none too 
 easily. May I take the liberty of inquiring what your profession is ? " . . . 
 '! I have none." ... "A very nice trade too. I wish mine was the same. 
 You have an independency, no doubt ?"..." No, Mademoiselle, I have 
 not any income at all." ..." Indeed ! Oh, now I see ; a handsome young 
 fellow like you always has resources." 
 
 Adolphe threw a stern glance at Zelie, which caused her to stop short 
 in a pirouette. She saw she had offended him, said she had spoken without 
 a thought, and asked him to fasten her dress behind, as she would go out 
 and breakfast with a friend. He protested he did not know how to fasten 
 a lady's dress. ..." Not know how ? Why, where were you born, and how 
 have you been brought up ? I will show you ; and then dress yourself, and 
 •come and breakfast along with us. You will be welcome, I assure you." 
 . . . "No, Mademoiselle ; I never intrude upon persons I do not know." 
 ... " What an extraordinary young man you are : quite an original, I 
 ■declare ! Do be amiable, and come along." ..." No, neighbour, I 
 -shall return to my own room." . . . " Without fastening my dress, or even, 
 sticking in a pin !"..." I tell you I know nothing about such things. 
 I will send you up the porter's wife." . . . Adolphe left the room, and 
 Zelie said, — " Go to the devil with your porter's wife. What a bear he is j 
 but I'll tame him by-and-by. What a difference between him and 
 Poussard, who told me all his love while I was drinking a glass of lemon- 
 ade." . . . Adolphe ejaculated, — " What a difference between this girl and 
 .my adorable own Eugenie ! " 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHICH SHOWS HOW LOVEKS' VOWS AKE SOMETIMES KEPT. 
 
 After taking his breakfast at a quiet coffee-house, Adolphe proceeded to 
 -the Rue Saint Martin, and resumed his walk before that house he was for- 
 bidden to approach. No Eugenie was to be seen. Could she be ill ? The 
 thought was desolation, so he resolved not to quit his post, neither by night 
 nor by day, until he could see Jeanneton, and obtain some intelligence 
 
70 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 about his mistress. " If they will not let me enter the house," he thought^. 
 " they cannot prevent my walking in the street ; but I must be careful as~ 
 to what I do, for I think that old clerk is a spy upon me." 
 
 Adolphe was right. Bidois had received instructions from Madame 
 Montonnet to keep a strict watch upon the young man's movements, and, 
 seeing him pass several times, he came to the door smiling maliciously, and' 
 pretending to mend his pen ; Adolphe consequently watched the oppor- 
 tunity of Bidois' eyes being turned another way, and then crossing quickly,, 
 he passed briskly by him, thrusting him back into the shop, knocking his 
 penknife out of his hand, and sending his pen calmly floating down the 
 gutter. . . . "The devil fly away with all of them," said the old clerk,, 
 slamming the shop-door to, and resuming his seat at the desk in a pet^ 
 " Let them settle their love affairs their own way ; I will have nothing 
 more to do with them. To lose such a beautiful pen ! and my penknife, 
 too ; it was quite as good as new, and had only been ground ten or a dozen 
 times. That young man has nearly strangled me once already, and I fear 
 he will do me a mischief yet. Madame Montonnet may bully as much as 
 she likes ; I'm a clerk, and my business is to keep the books and make out 
 the bills, and not to be a spy on her daughter's lovers. It's rather too dan- 
 gerous a job for me, so I'll have nothing more to do with it." 
 
 The lover again took up a position farther down the street, and awaited 
 Jeanneton's arrival with the greatest impatience. Evening came at last, 
 and the honest servant hurried to join Adolphe at the place of rendezvous. 
 He rushed to her side, and asked impetuously how was Eugenie, why she 
 had not been in the shop all day ; he had not seen her, and she must be 
 worse. Jeanneton told him her young mistress was a little better, but was 
 in the greatest affliction. It would be all his fault if she did not come down 
 in future, for his continual walks up and down in front of the shop had 
 been observed by Madame Montonnet, and the old lady had sworn that her 
 daughter should not leave her room until she quitted it once for all on her 
 wedding-day, never to return. That point was settled, as Madame was no 
 joker, and never altered her mind — in her own establishment. Adolphe 
 was in despair ; he tore his hair with rage, and implored Jeanneton, with 
 tears in his eyes, to allow him a moment's interview with Eugenie. She 
 should never become the wife of that rascally grocer ; if he could not see 
 his beloved, he would set fire to her father's house, and bear her away 
 through the circling flames ; if all failed, he would incontinently go 
 and drown himself ! 
 
 Jeanneton endeavoured to console him ; she recalled to his remembrance 
 his aged father, who was ill at Senlis, and had wished so long to behold his 
 only son. There was no absolute reason that he should despair ; the mar- 
 riage would not take place immediately — it might be a month yet — and in 
 the interim he might gain a fresh prize in the lottery, and then — wealth 
 being her mother's sole object — all obstacles to his marriage with Eugenie 
 would be removed. A lover's hopes are easily excited : Adolphe recollected 
 that his father's only brother had embarked for the East Indies when he- 
 was very young, and most probably had amassed a large fortune, with 
 which he would soon return, an old, dry mummy of a bachelor, to his 
 native land, die, and bequeath it all ';o him. The next instant he chased 
 this dream from his imagination, and was convinced that any wealth he. 
 might possess must be gained by his own industry : then again, he thought 
 that worldly riches were but earth and dross ; he was rich enough in 
 Eugenie's affection. . . . Jeanneton observed that his rival's candle-boxes 
 were a far better species of fortune. . . . "With the strongest assurances 
 that he would be cautious and still, the young man pressed Jeanneton to 
 
Which shows how Lovers' Vows are sometimes kept. 71 
 
 open the side door, and let him in for one half -hour in the night to have am 
 interview in her presence with Eugenie ; and Jeanneton having promised to 
 consult her young mistress, and to consent to his wishes if Eugenie would 
 receive him, Adolphe thanked her a thousand times, and retired, with the 
 understanding that he would not play the sentinel before the house on the 
 morrow, but would meet her in the same spot at dusk. 
 
 Jeanneton re-entered the laceman's house, affecting to have gone out on 
 some common errand ; and Adolphe, glowing with hopes for the ensuing 
 day, returned to his lodgings, devising modes of passing the time that 
 must elapse before he could again behold his love. As he ascended the 
 stairs he met his neighbour Zelie, with a bonnet and feather on her head, 
 a silk dress with three flounces, kid shoes, neat gloves, and a very handsome 
 shawl. He stopped to allow her to pass, and the danseuse, who had waited 
 an hour purposely for his return, to show herself to him full-dressed, and 
 was delighted to be seen in her gay costume, smiled knowingly, hummed & 
 tune, skipped down the stairs, and was lost amidst the mobs in the street* 
 Adolphe looked after her with surprise. " Who would think," he said, half 
 aloud, " that that charming woman lives in a garret 1 She is not so bad- 
 looking, either ; I have seen plainer girls than her ! But what are hesr 
 looks to me ? I will sup at once, go to bed, and try to pass away the time 
 in sleep." 
 
 Fatigued with bejng so many hours on his feet, Adolphe slept soundly^ 
 but soon after midnight he was awoke by some one knocking at his door* 
 " Who is there ? " he asked, without leaving his bed. . . . " It is I, yonsr 
 neighbour, Zelie ; do me the favour, Monsieur, to give me a light." . . „ 
 " What ! it is you again, Mademoiselle, disturbing my repose. It appears- 
 you have taken an oath never to leave me at rest." ..." My dear sir, iK, 
 is only just twelve o'clock, and I did not think you were in bed." . . ,. 
 " I have been in bed since seven." . . . " Since seven o'clock ! What an 
 abomination for a young man, to go to bed with the birds ! " . . . " That, 
 does not concern you ; let me sleep." . . . "So I will when you have life, 
 my candle." . . . "I have not any light to give you." . . . "Strike the 
 steel of your tinder-box ; that, at least, you can do." ..." I don't know 
 how." . . . How pleasant to have such a delightful neighbour as you !**" 
 . . . "Worse to be near such a woman as you." . . . " You are the first, 
 man who ever said so." . . . "Every one has his tastes." . . . "Yours are 
 not very polite." ..." Mademoiselle, will you let me sleep ? " . . » 
 " You can't want any, if you have been in bed since seven. I tell yora 
 what, my dear, you may think to sleep, but you shall not, for I'll knock 
 until morning if you will not give me a light." ... "I shall complain to- 
 the landlord to-morrow." ..." Very well ; my term is up the very nexfe 
 day after." 
 
 Zelie carried her threat into full effect, and continued to knock at the 
 door until Adolphe got up in a rage, and threw it open. She laughed 
 internally at her success, groped her way to the bed, and sat down upon it» 
 ..." What are you doing, Mademoiselle ? " said Adolphe, aghast at his. 
 neighbour's audacity. ..." Resting myself, to be sure. That dance in 
 the ballet has tired me to death, and I must have a few minutes' repose.'*" 
 . . . "Why not repose in your own room?" . . . "Because I like this, 
 best. Give me the tinder-box, if you please." . . . Adolphe got out of 
 bed in a rage, but was some time before he could find the box, and when 
 he did, he struck the flint and steel in vain. There was no fire in the stove^. 
 the tinder was wet, and would not light, so he cursed the tinder, flint and 
 steel, threw them into the middle of the room, and endeavoured to regain 
 his bed. 
 
'72 Monsieur Ditpont. 
 
 During the time he was thus employed, Zelie, who had undressed 
 herself before she knocked at Adolphe's door, and had on her person 
 nothing more than a lady's usual night habiliments, thought she should 
 take cold if she remained exposed to the air, and took refuge in Adolphe's 
 bed, where she lay holding her breath, and not making the slightest ncise. 
 . . . Adolphe called out to her that he had done all he could to procure 
 her a light, and that she must see he had not been able to do so, but did 
 not meet with a reply. He listened attentively, and no sounds were heard. 
 Congratulating himself that his pest had retired, he threw himself on the 
 bed, and was received in Zelie's arms. He uttered a cry of surprise, swore 
 -an oath, and said he would arise — but he did not. 
 
 Adolphe awoke first. He thought he must be dreaming when he saw 
 Zelie by his side, and rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he was in 
 reality awake. Then the remembrances of the previous evening rushed 
 upon his mind, and he bitterly reproached himself for his infidelity to 
 Eugenie. Adolphe exclaimed, — " Alas, what have I done ? I have for- 
 gotten my faithful Eugenie, who loves, who adores me ; and at this very 
 moment her whole heart is fixed upon me, and she weeps to think that 
 I am far away. Oh ! it is horrible ! But I will take care such a base, 
 unworthy deed shall never happen again. Eugenie, I swear to indulge no 
 further weakness. I will be worthy of thee, and never for one instant 
 forget thy own loved form. " 
 
 Adolphe dressed himself with frantic rapidity, and left the chamber 
 loefore his companion of the night awoke. . . . When she did so, and saw 
 he was not there, she turned on her other side, and murmured, — " It's strange 
 he is gone. What an odd young man ; and such a handsome fellow, too ! 
 But he will come back again to-night, and then we shall see, we shall 
 see ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE FIRST NIGHT OF A NEW PIECS. 
 
 On leaving his room in the morning, Adolphe made up his mind not to 
 return to it during the day, for fear of meeting the amorous Zelie ; and as 
 it had been arranged between Jeanneton and himself that he should not 
 be seen in the Rue Saint Martin until the evening, he felt considerable 
 •difficulty in getting rid of his time. It was the middle of the month of 
 December, the weather was fine, but cold, and exercise was necessary to 
 Iseep his blood in circulation, so he chose the environs of the city for his 
 solitary peregrinations, .because he could think more freely of his love far 
 from the busy haunts of men, and also because he knew that if a man 
 walks through the streets of Paris in a reverie, he stands a very great 
 chance of being crushed by the numerous vehicles that are passing to and 
 fro. Accordingly, he went into the suburbs, where he met none but 
 labourers proceeding to the public-houses, and lovers in couples seeking for 
 solitude, and heedless of the rigour of the time of year — for it is a well 
 
The Fint Night of a New Piece. 73 
 
 ascertained physical phenomenon that for lovers there is no heat in the 
 summer's sun, nor cold in the winter's snow. 
 
 Adolphe looked with an envious eye on the young workman and the ser- 
 vant maid, the seamstress and the junior clerk, and even the street porter 
 and the orange girl, as they passed by him to their different places of resort, 
 where each could best enjoy their tete-a-tetes, and entertain their loves 
 according to their means. The young fellows of higher rank escorted their 
 mistresses to " The Banner of France," the clerk led his belle to " The Isle 
 of Love," the workman handed his into some tea-garden of humbler pre- 
 tensions, and the porter took his lady to a small public-house, where they 
 could en j oy the unwonted luxury of a private room. " Happy, happy pairs, 
 said Adolphe, heaving a deep sigh ; " what day can be so happy as that a 
 lover passes with the object of his choice ! If I were but rich, and possessed 
 my Euoenie, it is thus we would pass all our days, and to us pleasure would 
 be always new ! " His reasoning was erroneous : nothing is more true 
 than the maxim of the sage— "Always pleasure is not always pleasure." 
 Adolphe, however, did not as yet know the joys of possessing his beloved, 
 and therefore his amorous anticipations must meet with some allowance 
 from the more experienced in the ways of the world. 
 
 Our lover dined at a small road-side inn, and when the shades of evening 
 began to fall, prepared to return to Paris, trembling with alternate hope 
 and fear, burning to see Jeanneton, and hugging to his heart the precious 
 thought that he should soon hold his dear Eugenie in his arms— Eugenie, 
 whom he had not seen for three whole days. Three days ! they are three 
 centuries for men in love — and our hero was deeply in love, notwithstand- 
 ing his little affair with the danseuse on the previous night. _ Yes, ladie3 r 
 we are compelled to acknowledge that of such anomalous materials mankind 
 are composed ; and you must not quarrel with us for telling you that any 
 one of your faithful lovers would have done as much. " But if we should 
 imitate the men % " you say. ..." Oh, fie ! you are incapable. You have 
 too much delicacy to engage in sensual amours ; you yield only to the 
 pursuit of legitimate and honourable love." 
 
 Adolphe walked slowly back to the Rue Saint Martin, and had not 
 been long at the appointed spot when Jeanneton came to the place of 
 rendezvous. He ran to meet her, and impetuously inquired what tidings 
 she had to tell him of his Eugenie. The servant replied that his mistress 
 had consented that he should repair to the house that night, and he im- 
 mediately gave way to a transport of delight. Jeanneton besought him to 
 palm his emotion ; and then went on to say that he must repair to the 
 laceman's house precisely at twelve o'clock, when she would be at the door 
 to let him in, and then he could have. a stolen interview with his beloved, 
 unless Madame Montonnet should think fit to lock her daughter in her 
 room, and take away the key. 
 
 Filled with the anticipations of the coveted bliss of folding Eugenie to 
 his breast, and again hearing love's fond accents from her own dear lips, 
 Adolphe left the street ; but as it was only six o'clock, and some hours 
 must pass away before midnight should herald him to the fair girl, he 
 .determined to tax his pocket in order to rest a little from the fatigue he 
 experienced in consequence of his protracted walk, and while away the 
 time at one of the minor theatres on the Boulevard. He joined the crowd 
 .itt the entrance to the pit, and could not help at expressing his wonder at 
 the doors not being opened when there were so many people waiting to go 
 ,in. " Sir," said a little dapper man in spectacles, who had arrived late, 
 but, by dint of pushing and elbowing right and left, had contrived to force 
 'his way to the head of the crowd, " the managers are always delighted to 
 
74 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 see a great number of persons before the doors, to hear their shout3 and 
 cries whilst struggling to get in ; and even they are not displeased if a limb 
 should be broken, or some slight accident should occur. If it is reported 
 in the newspapers that a person has been killed in a crowd at the repre- 
 sentation of such and such a piece, that play is sure to have a great run. 
 All Paris will come, and you will see that elegantly-dressed ladies with 
 Cashmere shawls, fashionable people of the highest ranks, will dine at an 
 early hour, and risk the crush, to have the glory of being able to say, ' I 
 managed to get in.' In fact, Monsieur, people attract people. No one- 
 goes to see ' The Heir at Law,' because they will not find anybody at the 
 theatre when it is performed, but everybody will run to see ' George Dauden* 
 because they know that all the world will be there. That is the reason 
 why the managers allow so many persons to collect at the entrances to- 
 night before they open the doors. " 
 
 At length the signal was given, the doors were opened, and the crowd 
 became a troubled sea of bodies, the waves of which pressed forward and 
 were broken at intervals by the barriers erected here and there in order 
 to prevent the accidents which would undoubtedly have taken place from 
 a simultaneous rush to the ticket office. Adolphe observed that the persons 
 who presented orders were more numerous than those who paid ; and as it 
 was evident that not one-half of those who desired admission could possibly 
 obtain seats, he thought the giving away so many orders was another un* 
 accountable freak on the part of the management. He paid for his ticket, 
 and was carried forward by the pressure from behind. Persons of all 
 ranks were mixed in inextricable confusion, women shrieked and men 
 cursed, every one struggled to force his way through, for in such crowds as- 
 these might makes right, and the prayers of weak women were totally 
 disregarded by the stronger sex. A lady in a handsome satin dress 
 screamed out that she was being suffocated ; a fat, elderly woman of the 
 middle class bemoaned her sad fate in being crushed to death ; and a 
 smart little milliner implored aid from those around. " Oh, my head,'* 
 said one. "My shawl is destroyed," cried another. " My hat is gone,'* 
 exclaimed a third. " My feet are mashed to a jelly," groaned a fourth. 
 Husbands were separated from their wives, and girls from their sweethearts, 
 without the possibility of rejoining each other, whilst threats, supplications^ 
 and cries of despair resounded on every side. 
 
 Another rush, an increased pressure, and Adolphe was in the pit. He 
 drew a long breath, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked 
 around. On one side of him he saw a gentleman without the tails of his- 
 coat, on another a person with a hat without a crown, and a lady, whose 
 dress had become a Spencer from the skirt being torn off ; and all around 
 him bore very visible marks of the fierce struggle that had taken place in 
 their endeavours to get in. 
 
 With considerable difficulty Adolphe obtained a seat near the centre of 
 the pit ; and as a half hour must elapse before the curtain would be raised, 
 he entered into conversation with a decently-dressed young man on his 
 right, who was Keeping for his friends two places by his side, four in- 
 front, and three behind. ... " Is it a pretty piece, sir, we are about to* 
 see ? " . . . " No doubt ; the author is a great writer, and very popular." 
 ... '• Have you seen it yet ? " . . . "I have been several times to the 
 rehearsals ; the first act is rather dull, but the interest increases as the- 
 piece goes on. When the father kills his own child, because he takes him 
 to be the son of his enemy, and finds out that he has been deceived into 
 that belief by his pretended friend, who is a traitor and a concealed foe— 
 Oh, it's beautiful, and all the white pocket handkerchiefs will come out, I 
 
The First Night of a New Piece. iw' 
 
 am sure." ... " That must be very affecting, indeed. Has the pi®©^' 
 been played often ? " . . . " Played often ! why, where have you heem 
 hiding yourself all your life ? It's the first night of it." ... " Oh I &■■ 
 new piece." . . . "Yes ; do you suppose there would be such a mobc^f 
 people here if it were not ? You don't come often here, it seems. Now,X 
 never miss the first night of a new piece ; I would rather go without xsy 
 dinner than not come. Besides, the theatre brings a fellow out so. Doa'f 
 suppose that I come here only for the pleasure of the moment, and foigefc-" 
 all about it when I leave the house. No ; the plays are engraven i&f 
 ever on my memory ; my head is crammed full of them. I can recite you 
 all the crack speeches in * Tekeli> in ' Abelvna' and give you the panisv 
 mime of the dumb man in * Truguelin.' But ' The Banished Son / ' Ah f 
 that's the piece. I know every bit about it. You see, Monsieur, that JL 
 have a decided talent for the stage ; in the robber parts I am excellent % 
 indeed, so much so, that at home I am called the young ' Tbogan.' I was-"" 
 about coming out, in spite of my mother's wishes, who would bind me ■■" 
 apprentice to a tanner, but, as I was short in stature, and would only per- 
 form the first tragedy parts, the managers would never let me make my' 
 first appearance." 
 
 The chatter of the stage-struck tanner had no charms for Adolphe ; life 
 thoughts were again reverting to Eugenie, but their current was disturbed " 
 by a hard-featured, middle-aged man on his left, who tapped his© 
 familiarly on the shoulder, and asked if the piece was well mounted ? 
 " Well mounted ?" he replied, not being acquainted with the slang of th&~ r 
 stage. ..." Yes ; and do any of the favourite actors play ? I have note 
 had time yet to read the names in the bills, and see how the parts are 
 cast." ... " Indeed, sir, I do not know any of the actors, and, therefore^ 
 cannot tell you their names." ... " Not know the names of the actors £ 
 You do not much frequent this theatre, it seems. If that's the case, yot£ 
 are very unfortunate to be here to-night, for the new piece, they say, m*"- 
 execrable trash." ... "If so, how is it you came to see it ? " . . . " Why r 
 as for that, I come to see everything. I am a good judge, you must know r 
 and a literary man myself." . . . "Very happy, sir, to make your 
 acquaintance; you are on the free list, no doubt?" . . . "No, sir, the? 
 managers of this establishment cannot appreciate talent. Would yotg ; '- 
 believe it, they have positively refused three pieces of mine that wonM ' 
 have drawn all Paris to the house ? " . . . " "Very stupid of them, indeed/^ 
 . . . "Very true ; these managers, I tell you, are incapable of judging: 
 of the merits of a play. But, however, there's some comfort in knowing; 
 that the theatre is going to the dogs as fast as it can. I shall publish a^ 
 newspaper soon, and then let them look to it." ... "I tremble for' 
 them." ... " You well may. Then my pieces will be performed all over 
 France, and then, in ten years, I shall be a man of fortune, and retire into 
 the bosom of my family and the joys of private life." ... At this period 
 of the dialogue, the young man on Adolphe's right cried out he saw his' 
 friends, and at a sign from him a party of men took possession of the seats 
 he had taken care of for them. 
 
 The disappointed author looked round him at this interruption of the- 
 catalogue of his woes, and the glory of his future triumphs. He appeared 
 to recognise the character of the new-comers at a glance, and bending down? 
 his head, whispered to Adolphe, — " You have a whole brigade of clappers- 
 on your right hand." . . . "Clappers!" . . . "Yes; men who are' 
 paid to come here and support pieces, good, bad or indifferent. But they" 
 reckon without their host if they think they can foist this stuff down the 
 people's throats to-night. I've made up my mind to hiss, and I know sis; 
 
76 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 or seven authors who are present with pierced street-door keys, and are 
 •determined to make good use of them, too." . . . "Are you not treating 
 your brother author rather ill ? " . . . " Oh, sir, this fellow engrosses 
 . everything ; his plays are performed everywhere ; so much more to the 
 managers' shame." ... " But if he works harder and writes better than 
 others, surely the managers are in the right ! " . . . " Sir, I work as hard 
 and write as ably as he does. I can keep furnishing four or five theatres 
 with plays, and yet I can never get a single piece put upon the stage. 
 Ah ! you do not know what theatrical intrigues are. But I trust, sir, you 
 will show yourself a man of sense, and hiss." ... " You must not count 
 on nry assistance in damning the piece. I applaud sometimes, but never 
 hiss by any chance." ... "If all men did as you do, pretty pieces, indeed, 
 we should see. "... " And if all acted like you, we should never see any 
 new pieces at all." . . . " Far better that a theatre should be closed than 
 wretched stuff be presented to the public." . . . "Why do you come to 
 ...see such stuff?" ... "I have told you already, for the purpose of hiss- 
 ing." . . . "You must be disgusted at continually coming to see what 
 you call 'wretched stuff.'" ... "On the contrary, nothing pleases me 
 . so well as to see a piece completely damned. I always take an extra glass 
 of grog on these occasions." ... " It is to be hoped, for the author's sake, 
 that you will go to bed without it to-uight." . . . "By your leave, sir, 
 no : if the piece is a failure I will take two." . . . Adolphe turned away 
 fate head in disgust at the cold-blooded announcement, and the conversation 
 .ceased. 
 
 The overture was concluded, the prompter's bell rang, the curtain rose, 
 and the interlude that preceded the new piece was commenced. The buzz 
 &t conversation continued around Adolphe, and as he did not give any 
 answers to the questions and observations addressed to him, he was set 
 down by his neighbours as one of the author's clique, and the recipient of 
 an order for the evening. 
 
 The interlude was over, the curtain was rung up a second time, and th^ 
 partisans on each side prepared to take the line of conduct they had 
 previously determined, or been paid, to adopt. The clappers bawled 
 " silence " as loud as they could, making more noise than all the other 
 people in the house ; the friends of the trembling author, who must not be 
 confounded with the clappers, hired by the managers, disposed themselves 
 to listen in common with the disinterested spectators, and the opposing 
 faction commenced the preconcerted discord of coughing, spitting, blowing 
 •their noses, and opening and shutting rusty-hinged snuff-boxes with a loud 
 .snap. Adolphe wished the play was over, and himself in the Rue Saint 
 Martin with Eugenie ; but he was doomed to go through such a scene as 
 tie had never witnessed before that devoutly wished for consummation 
 arrived. The tanner kept annoying him by remarking that the "pro- 
 perties" were excellent, and the dresses superb. . . . "Look," he said, 
 *'at the princess' plume of feathers — real ostrich, I'll bet any money; and 
 the leading lady's diamonds — capital, are they not ? Oh ! she knows how 
 to get the right things ; trust her for that." ..." Bad, execrably bad," 
 cried the author on his left. " What a wretched plot ; just like all his 
 others ! And what miserable dialogue ! Ah ! the idea of that scene he 
 stole from me, only mine was much better handled. Nothing but exits 
 and entries. Only fit for a penny show at a fair. And these are the 
 works the fools of managers think they can make go down here ? " . . . 
 With these words he hissed stoutly ; but was silenced immediately by 
 overpowering shouts of approbation on the other side. And thus the first 
 aec was finished. 
 
The First Night of a Neiv Piece. 77 
 
 The piece did not improve in the second act, and the public began to 
 show several signs of impatience ; the friends of the author dropped their 
 heads, maintaining a rigid silence ; the clappers applauded more vehe- 
 mently than ever to rouse the performers to exertion, and the author's 
 enemies, who scented a triumph from afar, redoubled their whistling 
 through the street-door keys. These adverse demonstrations quickly led tcr 
 personal remarks from the prominent champions on both sides, with every 
 indication of a speedy resort to blows for the settlement of the dispute. . . . 
 " Quiet there, will you ? down with those geese ; turn out those clappers ; 
 throw them over ; hold your tongues, you blackguards." Such were the 
 cries that stunned and bewildered poor Adolphe, who was placed in the 
 midst of the rival factions, and could not make his way out even if he had 
 desired to do so. . . . The noise was nothing to him ; the hours were fleet- 
 ing fast, and that was all he cared for. 
 
 The second act was at an end, and the third was anxiously looked for, - 
 as the test whether the piece should prove a failure or not. The dis- 
 appointed author and the tanner were at variance on this important point, 
 the one asserting that the piece was irretrievably damned, and the other, 
 that the scenes, properties, dresses and decorations of the third act would 
 pull it through. Up went the curtain again, when a splendidly got up 
 scene brought a burst of applause from the spectators, and a horrible giia 
 from the man of letters, who growled that the managers would be totally 
 ruined if they relied upon the decorations for effect. 
 
 A pretty divertissement, incidental to the melodrama, increased the good 
 humour of the public, and Adolphe looked at the ballet in the same listless, 
 inattentive manner with which he had witnessed the melodrama, until a 
 danseuse, covered with roses, attracted his attention. He fancied that her 
 features were not unknown to him, and that he must have seen her some- 
 where before, till at last his neighbour of the garret flashed on his memory,, 
 and he recognised Zelie at once. Zelie the sylph, in rosy wreaths, and 
 Zelie, in her night clothes in his room, were two very different beings ; 
 nevertheless his interest was awakened, he laughed when he thought of the 
 last night's affairs, and watched her 'attentively throughout the dance. 
 The girl danced firmly and gracefully ; the slight defects of face caused by 
 fatigue and too early exertion were not visible by the footlights on the 
 stage ; the airy costume became her well, the rouge on her cheeks added 
 brilliance to her bold, sparkling eyes, and the evolutions of the dance 
 offered a thousand opportunities to her of displaying the proportions of her 
 limbs in the most graceful and exciting positions. All the men in the 
 vicinity of Adolphe praised the dancer's motions and extolled their grace 
 except the moody author ; for he, whilst allowing she Was rather pretty, 
 said she kept bad time, had no steadiness in her poses, no animation in her 
 entre-chats, no certainty in her pirouettes ; her feet were flat, her arms too ' 
 long, etc., etc. 
 
 At the end of the pas-seul not an applauding hand was raised ; the only 
 marks of approbation were a few nods of the head and low " bravos " from, 
 some old well-judging frequenters of the house. Adolphe could not help 
 wondering at this strange silence, which seemed so odd to him, considering 
 how really well Zelie had danced ; but his astonishment was at an end, 
 when he recalled her rupture with the chief of the clappers, the scoundrel 
 Poussard, and he determined to disconcert the intentions of that worthy so 
 far as he could, and to break the ominous silence at all hazards. Accord- 
 ingly he commenced applauding with hands and voice as hard as he could, 
 and was instantly desired to be quiet by the men on his left ; but he was in 
 no disposition to be dictated to, and answered haughtily that as those 
 
/78 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ^around him had thought proper to disturb him with their outcries through- 
 dOtat the piece, he should applaud the dancing quite as much as he pleased. 
 -The gage of defiance being thus unconsciously thrown down by Adolphe, 
 4he demon of discord was let loose, and the row commenced forthwith. The 
 
 , ijsainer and the author roughly requested him to desist, the gods shouted to 
 -fern him out, the divertissement was concluded amidst great confusion ; and 
 ^sdsen the action of the melodrama was renewed, the uproar was such that 
 4he actors could not make themselves heard. A temporary lull took place, 
 4he performers were suffered to proceed, with occasional growling prelude 
 i»the tempest that it was evident must arrive, and when the curtain fell 
 ,€m the last scene, the clappers and the hissers were so equally divided that 
 
 , ^%t was impossible to tell to which the victory would be eventually awarded. 
 ^The rival shouts roused the opposing parties to the fray. At first angry 
 jk&aks were exchanged, threats were muttered, and fingers pointed in scorn ; 
 stet " from words they quickly came to blows." The author was pointed 
 WOUb as the noisiest hisser, and was assailed by the clappers hand and foot ; 
 ;£&d Adolphe, being next to him, received some of the favours intended for 
 
 . iMs neighbour. Furious at the attack, he returned the blows with all his 
 • : -&»ree> and struck right and left ; the combat became general, all fought 
 |pe31-mell, the people in the pit waved to and fro as the opposing forces 
 -alternately prevailed, the benches were torn up, and men and women 
 
 . ias&mpled under foot, the ladies in the orchestra stalls were assisted by the 
 ■^sasisicians on to the stage, the parties in the boxes left the theatre as 
 .-speedily as they could, and the disgraceful scene was only terminated by 
 -4$b& arrival of the guard and the apprehension of the chief promoters of the 
 ^$sa,y. . . . Adolphe, who, from the most peaceable spectator in the house, 
 
 ijhad become one of the most active combatants, fought his way into the 
 iS&reet, and ran to the Rue Saint Martin as fast as he could, having made 
 kmg his mind never to be at the theatre again on the first night of a new 
 
 , -jsiece. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE LOVERS' INTERVIEW. — THE DRUNKARD. 
 
 f^Eff was still far from midnight when Adolphe reached the Rue Saint 
 
 ^Uartin ; he saw, from a corner round which he peeped, that the lace- 
 
 , .dealer's shop was not yet shut, and he went a little farther off until Bidois 
 
 /^bould have closed the premises, and the family have retired for the night. 
 
 .Jkffcer waiting for about an hour, he saw the old clerk look out stealthily, 
 
 j3&s if to ascertain whether any one was watching in the street, then, having 
 
 ^satisfied himself of the contrary, put up the shutters and retired indoors, 
 
 ,-*a£fcer which a man was seen to quit the house. Adolphe concealed himself 
 
 .ijefaind a buttress, and soon discovered from the person's figure, and the 
 
 . ;jEa&tling of his chain and seals, that it was his wealthy rival, Dupont. ±Ie 
 
 , ^maddened at the sight, walked swiftly after the grocer, and was about to 
 
 ../stop him, and dare him to marry Euge'nie at his peril, when the thought 
 
 .eame over him that perhaps in another hour some means might be dis- 
 
 issvered to prevent the celebration of the hated match, and he refrained 
 
 committing an act of impetuous folly, which would only have put Dupont 
 
 ,s&ad the Montonnets upon their guard. He therefore turned suddenly on 
 
The Lovers* Interview. — The Drunkard. 7$ 
 
 Ills heel, shook his fist in the air, and fancying in his mind's eye that he 
 was addressing the grocer, ejaculated, — "You shall never enjoy the 
 heavenly bliss you look for." Adolphe was wrong; the grocer was not 
 dreaming of Eugenie ; his thoughts were fixed on a large lot of raw sugar 
 he was about to buy. 
 
 Our lover returned to the laceman's house, and walked up and down 
 "before the door in a fever of impatience until Jeanneton should let him in. 
 "The time crept on, passers-by became less frequent, the sounds of vehicles 
 were only heard at long intervals, the calm of night covered the populous 
 district like a veil, and Adolphe kept walking on a space of thirty yards, at 
 the rate of five miles an hour, for a period which appeared to him to be pro- 
 longed into eternity. At length the clock of Saint Nicholas struck twelve, 
 and Adolphe, blessing the Saint and his chimes, ran to the side-entrance of 
 Monsieur Montonnet's house, and placed himself before the door of the 
 entry. His heart beat so that its throbs were audible ; five minutes had 
 passed, still no one came, and Adolphe was in despair. Could Eugenie 
 have changed her mind, and refused to see him ? Might any unexpected 
 ■obstacle have intervened ? At length he heard footsteps which he knew 
 were those of Jeanneton. She opened the door as gently as possible, and 
 [having no light for fear of being seen, took the youth by the hand, enjoined 
 silence, led him along the passage with the utmost caution into her own 
 room, where, seated by the chimney, with a light far back on the hearth,, 
 "he at last beheld his own loved Eugenie. What rapture, what ecstatic joy 
 jpervaded the young hearts ! They rushed into each other's arms, gazed 
 fondly in each other's eyes, heaped maddening kiss on kiss, till speech came 
 to their relief, and their loves and hopes took the form of burning, broken, 
 -almost unintelligible words. ..." My Eugenie, what happiness to behold 
 you once again ! Not a day, not an hour has passed but my thoughts have 
 been with you !"..." And I, dearest Adolphe, what horrors have I not 
 suffered when bidden to despise your love !"..." Dear Eugenie, this 
 proof of your attachment shall never be forgotten ; they shall not drive me 
 from you, they shall never part us more." ..." Ah, would to God that 
 that might be ! but, alas, I fear — " . . . "Fear not, my life, only continue to 
 bless me with your love, and I will be faithful to you till the end of time." 
 Eugenie strained him to her heart, and as she did so, a slight twitch of 
 ■remorse came over him as he thought of Zelie, but he dashed it from his 
 mind, and gave himself up to the intoxication of the moments as they 
 passed. He swore he would adore Eugenie all his life — meaning, of 
 coarse, not to yield to Zelie's blandishments again — and Eugenie was 
 never tired of assuring him of her inalienable love. 
 
 Jeanneton had drawn her stool against the kitchen door, and listened 
 intently for any noise lest the lovers' stolen interview should be found out. 
 She gave them time to exhaust the first bursts of passions that swelled 
 within their breasts, and rose in murmuring struggles to their lips, and 
 then thought it would be judicious to leave off kissing and hugging, and 
 see whether they couid devise some practicable means of defeating the 
 marriage with Dupont. Eugenie, recalled to herself, shuddered at the 
 thought of the fat fool, but Adolphe settled the matter by swearing he 
 would carry her off, and marry her at once. ..." Carry me off, Adolphe, 
 and compel me to leave my parents ! I can never consent." ..." Marry 
 the grocer, then." . . . "Oh, no, no, no!" ... "But where will you 
 take Ma'amselle to ? w . ..." To my apartment, then to the church ; we 
 will be married, and sooner or later Madame Montonnet will relent." . . . 
 *■ Madame never forgives ; but if she should at last, how are you to live in 
 the iseantiine ? You have lost your situation, and have no money ; whafr 
 
80 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 can you possibly do for food V . . . "lam young, Jeanneton. I have 
 courage and talents, and can work." . . . "And I can work too, 
 Jeanneton." . . . "Poor dears! with courage, perseverance, talents, and 
 even high education, men starve every day." ..." Jeanneton, you drive 
 us to despair." . . . Jeanneton asseverated that her only objection to 
 Adolphe \s proposition was that she could not bear to see her Eugenie un- 
 happy and wanting food ; the young man retorted that she favoured the 
 pretensions of Dupont ; the girl replied that if such were the case she 
 would not have admitted him secretly to the house, and risked the loss of 
 her place ; and the upshot of the tiff was that all three reseated themselves, 
 with the melancholy conviction that nothing could be done to prevent the 
 approaching marriage. 
 
 Hope beamed out again, and another hour was consumed in forming 
 vain projects, which the very next moment were cast aside ; but in the 
 intervals of their construstion, they still called heaven to witness the 
 sincerity of their loves, and their determination to live, and, if necessary,, 
 die for each other. For several minutes Jeanneton had not ceased to tell 
 Adolphe that it was time he should be gone, that his staying longer there 
 would be attended with danger, and if the light in the kitchen should be 
 seen all would be discovered, and she would be turned into the street ; yet 
 the lovers paid no heed to her alarms, and pleaded for a few moments more,, 
 as they had so much still to say — much to say ! They had said nothing 
 but the same thing over and over again during the whole of the interview. 
 Oh, Love is an inexhaustible subject, and is never tired of its own repeti- 
 tions. 
 
 The hour came at length when even their enthusiastic attachment could 
 not blind them to the fact that it was time that they should part. They 
 pressed each other's hands and lips, looked in each other's eyes, sighed 
 "farewell," quitted each other's grasp, and then came back and said 
 " farewell " over and over again, until Jeanneton, who saw the precarious 
 situation in which both the lovers and herself were placed, took hold of 
 Adolphe by the skirts of his coat, and earnestly besought him to leave the 
 house. Eugenie fell almost senseless on a chair, covering her face with her 
 hands, and Adolphe retired slowly, step by step, looking fondly at her as 
 the tears trinkled down her cheeks, and dropped through her taper fingers 
 on the floor. Poor, doting things, they had a mutual presentiment that they 
 should never meet again. 
 
 Jeanneton had succeeded in withdrawing Adolphe from the kitchen, 
 and he was about descending the short flight of steps when some one 
 pushed violently against the door at the top of the entry. They stood 
 rooted to the spot. Jeanneton suddenly recollected that she had forgotten 
 to lock the door after admitting Adolphe, and shuddered to think that 
 robbers might be endeavouring to obtain access to the house. Adolphe 
 returned to the kitchen, placed himself by the side of Eugenie, and resolved 
 to defend her with his life. 
 
 Whilst they stood in trembling and fear as to what event the next 
 moment might bring, a hoarse, rough voice was heard to exclaim, — 
 " Hallo, house ahoy ! where the devil can the stairs be ? I can't find them 
 anywhere. Catherine, bring me a light, I say." And Jeanneton recog- 
 nised the voice to be that of a water-carrier who lived hard-by. The fellow- 
 was in the habit of getting drunk every night, and had mistaken the lace- 
 man's side-door for his own. As the drunkard still kept bawling and 
 knocking, it was clear that all in the house would soon be awakened, so 
 Jeanneton implored Eugenie to regain her own room, and Adolphe to be 
 off as quickly and quietly as he could. 
 
u The Lovers* Interview. — The Drunkard. 81 
 
 The importance of the advice was too striking to be overlooked - 
 Eugenie ascended the stairs with a light step, and gained her chamber, tm' 
 perceived, and Jeanneton, not without some difficulty, had pushed Adolphe- 
 to the head of the stairs. Still the din never ceased, and the water-carrier 
 kept bawling out for his wife and his children to bring him a light, when 
 Madame Montonnet was awoke by the noise, and Bidois put his" head oute 
 of the window that looked into the court, in order to ascertain what was- 
 the matter. Jeanneton whispered hurriedly to Adolphe that Jacques, the- 
 water-bearer, could not see him in the dark, that he must pass cunningly 
 by him, and, if possible, contrive some means to get him into the street- 
 She then ran into her room, took off her clothes with the speed of thought,, 
 and threw herself upon the bed. 
 
 Adolphe plunged down the staircase, four steps at a time, at the risk of 
 breaking his neck in the dark, but halted at the bottom, as he wished to- 
 ascertain the exact locality of Jacques, who was still endeavouring to dis- 
 cover the missing stairs, as he thought, of his own dwelling. " The sluta- 
 raust have removed the steps on purpose that I should not find my way to 
 bed. They're capable of doing anything, they are ; and they think by 
 that to keep me from having as much drink as I like, and when brandy's- 
 so cheap, too, this season ; but I'll show them the difference." . . . During 
 this soliloquy, Adolphe had walked on tip-toe into the entry, intending to- 
 pass on the other side of Jacques, who was groping his way by the wall. 
 He thought he had accomplished his object, and passed safely by him, buts 
 the entry was narrow, and, just as he approached the door, the hard hands- 
 of the water-carrier seized him like a vice by the head and arms. " Ah, 
 ha!" he cried, "here's some one at last; who is it? Speak; are youv 
 neighbour Benoit ? Help me to find the steps, for those women, it seems*, 
 have determined not to come down." . . . Adolphe held his tongue, and 
 endeavoured to disengage himself from the water-carrier's gra3p ; but the 
 latter would not release him, and, drunk as he was, fancied all was not 
 right. " Who are you ? tell me, are you Benoit or not ? What ! you 
 won't ; then you sha'n't go till you do. All's not right here ; you're a. 
 scoundrel, perhaps a thief. We shall soon see. Help, house, Catherine, 
 Susan, help ! " 
 
 Affairs had now become serious; Madame Montonnet, her husband,, 
 and Bidois had left their rooms, and were descending the stairs with' 
 candles in their hands. Adolphe saw the lights glimmering on the las*, 
 night, and, making a final desperate effort, threw Jacques from him to the 
 ground, opened the door, gained the street, and disappeared with the 
 speed of a hunted deer. 
 
 The drunkard, who was slightly stunned by the fall, had no sooner 
 recovered himself than he shouted out that he had been attacked by a* 
 robber, who had escaped, and taken some valuable property with him, and 
 at that moment the Montonnet family came uo to the spot. Jeanneton 
 rubbed her eyes, and pretended to have been roused from a deep sleep - y 
 Bigois growled that there was no longer any peace in that house ; Monsieur 
 Montonnet grasped his gun, although his wife had rebuked him for hi& 
 cowardice, and told him that robbers were not such fools as to make a- 
 noise that would awaken all the inmates of the establishment they 
 designed to plunder ; and she alone, with great self-possession, led the van- 
 holding a lighted candle in her hand. Eugenie did not leave her room,, 
 but sat listening, with painful anxiety, for any indication that her Adolphe 
 nad escaped unseen. 
 
 On reaching the entry, Madame Montonnet said,—" What is it ? who is. 
 there ? who are you ? " . . . Jacques, lying on the pavement, and unable 
 
 F 
 
S2 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 to rise without assistance, replied, — " Eh, ah ; it's you, wife, is it ? I've 
 »been calling you these two hours, and why the devil didn't you come ? It's 
 ; all through you I've been been knocked down with stones." ..." It's a 
 man ! " said Bidois. ..." It's a drunkard ! " said Montonnet ; and 
 .Jeanneton, going up closely to him, and pretending to make a sudden <lis- 
 ■eovery, said, — "It's Jacques, the water-carrier, I declare!" . . . "But 
 how did he get in here ? " said Madame Montonnet. 
 
 The water-carrier was raised and set upon his feet, and the interroga- 
 tions were commenced by Madame Montonnet in person. For a few 
 •moments he took her for his wife, but, finding out his mistake, begged 
 •pardon, and wished to know whether she desired any water to be brought 
 to her in the morning. ..." You drunken idiot, do you not see that we are 
 ■ In my house, and not in yours ?"..." Ah, Madame, I see ; that's the 
 ■reason I couldn't find the steps." . . . " Madame," Jeanneton said, "had 
 Ire not better be sent away ? Shall I lead him to the door ?"..." A 
 moment, Jeanneton. How did you get in, Jacques ? Was the door of the 
 •entry open or not ? " . . . "It must have been open, so when I pushed it 
 J. entered, and thought I was at home." . . . "So this is the way, 
 Jeanneton, you close the door ! " . . . "I cannot conceive, Madame, how 
 it came to be unfastened j I am sure I lock it every night." ..." And 
 how very easy for thieves to come in and rob us of our goods." ..." The 
 4}Id gentleman's right, there were some thieves ; that scoundrel who 
 knocked me down must have been one of them, to be sure." . . . "Who 
 was it knocked you down, poor Jacques ?"..." Who ? Why, the robber 
 who I caught hold of when I first came in. I thought it was Benoit, but 
 it wasn't, for, if it had been, he would have spoken ; so I held him tight 
 by the collar of his coat and his hair, but unfortunately my foot slipped, 
 and I fell, and he was off like a shot." . . . " Oh dear, oh dear," said 
 Montonnet, clutching nervously at his cotton night-cap, " there must be 
 •thieves in the house." ..." Now, sir," Jeanneton exclaimed, " can you 
 believe a word the stupid fool says ? He's so drunk that he can scarcely 
 stand." . . . "Drunk ; who says I'm drunk? If it's a man, I'll teach 
 him how to say so again." ..." There is something very mysterious in 
 all this. Are you certain, Jacques, that some one threw you on the 
 ground?" . . . "Yes, Madame, as certain as that I am here." . . . 
 * Nonsense ; he's been fighting with some one in the street — with some of 
 the passers-by." . . . " If he had fought in the street, he could not have 
 fallen in our entry." ..." Bight, Bidois ; quite right, old cock ; if it had 
 been in the alley, I should not have fallen in the street." . . . "Are you 
 quite sure it was a man ? " . . . "What a question, you old donkey ; don't 
 you think I don't know a man from a woman ? " . . . " And did he come 
 from the house ?"..." I can't tell you where he came from ; it was so 
 dark that I could see nothing at all. All I know is that I had the fellow 
 by the arms, and I am sure he was a man." 
 
 Madame Montonnet discontinued the examination, apparently satisfied 
 with what she had elicited, ordered the drunken man to be pushed into the 
 street, and muttered to herself she would take care such an occurrence as 
 sxl open door should never happen again. She was obeyed ; Jacques was 
 unceremoniously shown to the door, and ejected with a shove that almost 
 sent him on his nose, after which she double-locked the entry door with 
 .her own hands, put the key into her pocket, and desired every one to follow 
 her. All did so silently and in fear until she reached her daughter's room 
 — the two men lest by chance they should encounter a robber, and 
 .Jeanneton from fear of all being discovered. 
 
 Madame Montonnet threw open the door of her daughter's chamber,. 
 
There is Nothing certain on this Earth, 83 
 
 -and, walking straight up to the bed, was surprised to find her asleep, not- 
 withstanding the disturbance that had been made below. Eugenie was 
 wide awake, nevertheless, and only feigned slumber that she might not meet 
 her mother's searching eyes. The old lady looked all over the room, and, 
 having made sure there was no one there, left it without saying a word, 
 locked the door, and put the key also into her pocket, well persuaded that 
 her daughter was not asleep. Monsieur Montonnet, trembling all over, 
 asked his wife if she had seen anything ? Madame replied that she had 
 not, and then proposed to search the house before they again returned to 
 their beds. The laceman suggested that the assistance of the lion-hearted 
 Petrin should be invoked, but was peremptorily ordered to hold his tongue, 
 and not make himself the laughing-stock of the whole district with his 
 unmanly, ridiculous fears. The house was then thoroughly searched from 
 top to bottom without any further result ; and Bidois slunk to his own 
 room, thinking within himself that the open door and the man who had 
 thrown the water-carrier must mean something more than met the eye, and 
 that it was time Miss Eugenie should be married, for fear of any further 
 outward events. 
 
 Madame thought as much, though she did not make her opinion known. 
 She commanded a retreat, and stopped Jeanneton as the servant was about* 
 to enter her own room. ..." Jeanneton," she said, " you must seek 
 another place, for you leave this house to-morrow." . . . "What have I 
 done, Madame, that I should be dismissed in this abrupt manner ? " . . . 
 " You know well enough without my telling you ; no one remains in my 
 service who leaves doors open for thieves, or more likely lovers, to come 
 in." ..." Can you think, Madame — " ..." No more of this ; to-morrow 
 you shall receive your wages — no explanations, if you please, but go to your 
 bed." ... So saying, she pushed Jeanneton into the room, and the poor 
 girl immediately cried as if she would break her heart, at the thought of 
 leaving Eugenie. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THERE IS NOTHING CERTAIN ON THIS EARTH. — HELL IS PAVED WITH GOOD 
 
 INTENTIONS. 
 
 When Adolphe had freed himself from Jacques and gained the open street, 
 he set off running to his lodgings, trusting that he had not been seen by 
 either of the elder Montonnets. As he passed swiftly along, his spirits 
 assumed their accustomed tone, for, sure of being fondly loved by Eugenie, 
 he felt that he should eventually triumph over every obstacle to his union 
 with her, and hope whispered that their future life would be one of happi- 
 ness and ease. Revelling in the sweet certainty of being loved, his heart 
 was satisfied, his doubts and fears were all removed ; they had sworn to be 
 faithful even unto death, they had promised to see each other oft and oft 
 again— for they had not the slightest suspicion that the drunkard's mistake 
 would involve the disarrangement of all their plans — they had arranged 
 that this stolen interview should be repeated at every available opportunity, 
 and what, under all circumstances, could they desire more ? In fact, they 
 hoped ! 
 
 Hope ! Hope is the bright leading-star of human life. It is the cur- 
 rent coin of all nations and of every clime. Hope is held out to children, 
 
84 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 women and to men. With it authors, lovers, courtiers, prisoners, the sick, 
 and even experienced old men, are held as if in infants' leading-strings. It 
 is prodigally showered on the unfortunate, the unhappy and the poor : the 
 open purse of the avaricious rich would be a more healing and consoling 
 balm, but hope is a cheap commodity, and any quantity of it may be given 
 at very little cost. The child hopes to receive a doll, a rattle, or any other 
 toy ; the boy at school hopes to receive the honours of his class } the young 
 of both sexes hope to enjoy the affections of those they love ; the man of 
 mature age hopes to make a fortune ; and the old man hopes to live at least 
 till he shall be a hundred years of age. The bashful girl hopes to find a 
 partner who will be faithful to her throughout her life ; the'old maid hopes r 
 with the greatest pertinacity, that she shall get a husband yet ; the 
 gamester hopes that he shall win ; the actor that he shall attain the sum- 
 mit of his art ; the author that his lucubrations shall endure throughout all 
 time ; the epicure that he shall eat a superb dinner every day ; the Govern- 
 ment clerk that he shall be next under-secretary, and the secretary that he- 
 shall be upon the Treasury bench ; the private soldier hopes that he shall be 
 an officer ; the journalist that his articles shall be generally read ; the fool 
 that he shall be distinguished as a brilliant man ; the coquette that her 
 conquests of men's hearts will never cease ; the chemist to find out the 
 philosopher's stone ; the Jews the coming of the Messiah ; and the conjuror 
 with cards hope to discover the secret of Cagliostro, — who assuredly had 
 none, but who would have passed for a sorcerer and been burnt had he 
 come into this world two centuries earlier than he did. Thus we all hope 
 from first to last. Hope is the great vital fluid, the master-charm of life : 
 it gives brightness to the imagination, strength to bear the troubles of 
 unmerited misfortune, and delicious day-dreams to the soul : for it is an 
 indisputable fact that we are more happy in the anticipation of that we 
 hope for than in that we have ; and there is no man in this world so un- 
 utterably miserable as he whose desires are obliterated by despair, and whose 
 existence is unrelieved, uncheered by one solitary ray of heavenly-beaming. 
 Hope ! 
 
 Adolphe hoped, and he was right : he hoped to get into his room, too,, 
 when he arrived at his lodging, but there he was in error. He sought for 
 his key, but none was to be found ; he emptied his pockets, and felt his 
 clothes all over, but no key was there. What could have become of it? 
 He must have lost it in his struggle with Jacques, or more likely inthe 
 melee at the theatre. The question with him was, how was he to get into 
 his room ? He pushed and shook the door again and again, but it would 
 not yield to his efforts. If he had a strong hook of any kind, he thought 
 he should be able to open the door, for the locks of furnished lodgings are 
 not of the most secure description ; but how was he to obtain one ? He 
 must arouse his neighbours or go down to the porter's lodge, which he did 
 not feel inclined to do, because he had already had great trouble in awaken- 
 ing him to let him into the house, and it was very nearly two o'clock in the 
 morning. 
 
 Our hero knew that, if he tapped at Zelie's door, he could gain admit- 
 tance into her room with the greatest facility, but he felt some repugnance 
 to apply to her, because he had resob ed neither to see nor speak to her 
 again. Had she inspired him with disgust, or did he fear that, if he again 
 exposed himself to her fascinations he must fall ? Whatever the motive for 
 his delicacy might be, he would have nothing more to do with the danseuse,. 
 and had made up his mind to pass the night on the landing-place, when his 
 eye accidentally fell on his neighbour's door, and he saw a light glistening 
 through the space between the "bottom of it and the floor. Rather odd, he 
 
Tliere is Nothing certain on this Earth. 85 
 
 thought, that there should be a light in her room at past two o'clock in the 
 morning ; but then he recollected that, from her profession, Zelie must 
 necessarily return home at a late hour ; that, most probably, she was 
 fatigued with her exertions in the dance, and had fallen asleep, leaving the 
 candle alight. 
 
 He approached the door, and tapped gently. Zelie evidently was not 
 asleep, for she rose at once and smiled wickedly as she let him in. " You 
 are a pretty fellow, I think, to return home at this hour, and disturb me 
 when I had just gone to bed after sitting up for you from midnight. I did 
 all I could not to go to sleep, but it was impossible after my fatigue." . . . 
 " You expected me, and sat up, Mademoiselle ?"...." Of course I did." 
 . . . "But why so? I cannot comprehend at all. " . . . " What a singular 
 wild beast you are ! Did I not pay youa visit last night, and were you 
 not bound, as a gentleman, to pay me the return visit to-night ? " . . . 
 "For heaven's sake, Mademoiselle, do not recall to my remembrance what 
 took place last night ; I would willingly forget those moments of egregrious 
 folly." ..." Very polite and gallant, upon my word. The poor boy must 
 forget his little foolish ways. I should advise you, my dear, to turn her- 
 mit, dress yourself in sackcloth and ashes, and bemoan your backslidings 
 for all the rest of your life. For such a saint, though, your coming here at 
 two o'clock in the morning, and in such a state as you are in, is rather 
 puzzling to account for. Why, bless me, what a condition you are in ! " 
 
 Adolphe looked in the glass, and was quite surprised to find the state 
 his clothes were in from his conflict during the evening. His neckerchief 
 was untied and half pulled off, his collar torn, his coat covered with mud, 
 and his shirt stained with the marks of Jacques' dirty hands. He looked 
 again, and could not help laughing at his sorry plight. " Pray, Monsieur, 
 may I ask who has dressed you in this masquerade suit ; or, probably, you 
 have indulged in the freak of rolling in the gutter all the way home ? " . . . 
 ""No, Mademoiselle, I have not." . . . "At all events you've been fight- 
 in?." . . . "Perhaps I have." . . . " For some woman, I suppose ? " . . . 
 " \Vhat's that to you ? " . . . " What's that to me ! You must know, sir, 
 that I am very jealous, and if I knew who the woman was, I'd tear her eyes 
 out, and yours too." ..." Will you have the kindness to give me a light, 
 and lend me a hook or a knife, or some such thing, that I may open my 
 door?" . . . " Oh, have you lost your key ? " . . . "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 ..." And it was only to get a light that you came to my door ? Oh, the 
 brute ; how I hate you I "... " Will you lend me a knife or a strong 
 nail ?"..." Don't bother me with your knives and your nails ! You can 
 •stop here to-night. I sha'n't eat 3-ou, and to-morrow you can get another 
 key." ..." I tell you I will go to my own room." ..." Go to the devil, 
 and let me sleep." 
 
 Adolphe flung out of the room, slammed the door after him, and went to 
 the shattered window on the landing-place, firmly intending to pass the 
 hours till daylight there. However, the night was stormy, the rain was 
 -driven in by the wind, and he found it a very cold and inconvenient spot to 
 study astronomy, and address his prayers to those planets who influence the 
 success of youthful loves. He had scarcely retired from the window and 
 •sat down on the topmost stairs, when Zelie came out, with naked feet and 
 nothing on but her chemise, and entreated him to return into her room. 
 " Come in," she said ; " don't be so foolish as to remain here all night on 
 the stairs when there is a good bed for you to lie in." ..." I do not like 
 you at all ; I adore another charming, lovely woman, and have sworn to be 
 faithful to her for ever." ..." Oh, be faithful to this eighth wonder of the 
 world, this phoenix, by all means. Who asked you s&t ? not !."..» 
 
B6 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 41 No ; but you are young, pretty, and I am nothing more than a man. Go> 
 back, pray ; you will be ill if you remain in the cold." ..." I won't go 
 back without you, and if you will not come in I'll sit here by your side all 
 night." ... So Zelie sat down on the step beside him in her chemise, and 
 for several minutes not one word was spoken. 
 
 The sight of the young woman shivering in her chemise perplexed 
 Adolphe sorely, and his obstinacy began to yield. Hs thought it would be- 
 cruel, almost inhuman, to allow her to sit there and perish of cold, and so,. 
 from humanity alone, he led her back into her chamber, and took possession 
 of a chair, from which, he resolved, no consideration should make him move 
 before the morning's dawn appeared. Unfortunately for his constancy, his 
 eye fell on the coronal of roses which Zelie had worn in the ballet ; he re- 
 called to his memory her appearance in her gay but innocent costume ; he saw 
 her dancing gracefully, and bounding as an elk ; again he beheld her taste- 
 ful steps, her repose, her attitudes, and perfect ease ; and, in spite of his- 
 virtuous resolves, her image interfered sadly with that of Eugenie. 
 
 Zelie tossed about the bed from side to side ; she sang a couplet,. 
 coughed, and sighed, but nothing could stir the statue-like Adolphe. At 
 length she had recourse to woman's last infallible resource — one that was- 
 never known to fail — and wept a cataract of tears. Adolphe, in amazement, 
 feigned not to hear her, but as she continued to weep incessantly, he could 
 not refrain from asking the reason of her grief. She made no answer, but 
 cried still more ; he drew his chair a little closer to her bed, and still the 
 scalding tears never ceased to flow. Nearer and nearer yet he crept : she 
 sobbed hysterically, and, the nearer he came, the deeper was her woe,* 
 What should he do to console the afflicted girl ? At last he was so close 
 that his person touched the bed. Zelie cried no more, and five minutes 
 afterwards Adolphe cursed his weakness, and tore his hair with rage. 
 *' Wretch, monster that I am," he said, in an agony of grief ; " I, who had 
 eworn that this should never be. Oh, I am a villain, totally unworthy of 
 her love ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, Adolphe did not weep for his fault, for men never do 
 now-a-days, they are so hardened in their sins. Very different from David 
 of old, who bitterly lamented his ; but the men of this age make a vaunt 
 of their amours, though, truth to say, there is very little to boast of. 
 
 However, the remorse that Adolphe felt for his errors did not interfere- 
 with his rest, and he slept soundly until ten o'clock the next morning, from 
 which circumstance some people might infer that he was in the habit of 
 giving way to the fascinating influence of the fair sex, and was likewise 
 hardened in his sins ; but we are inclined to attribute his long slumbers to- 
 the fatigues of his walk on the previous day, the late hour at which he 
 came home, and his severe struggle with the water-bearer, Jacques. 
 
 Jeanneton rose with the sun, and, by dint of prayers and tears, 
 obtained a reprieve of a week from Madame Montonnet, in order to 
 seek a place, that she might not be turned into the streets without a home 
 to go to. The old lady took active measures to prevent a renewal of the 
 interview between the lovers, which she shrewdly suspected had taken, 
 place ; Jeanneton was ordered not to enter Eugenie's room, and not to dare- 
 to speak one word to her ; Bidois received instructions to keep a constant 
 watch from his desk behind the counter, and to observe everybody who 
 passed and repassed in the street ; all day Eugenie was not permitted to 
 stir from her mother's side, and at night she was shut in her chamber 
 under lock and key. Monsieur Dupont was desired to publish the banns, 
 and to make every preparation for his immediate nuptials, and as the fat 
 grocer was labouring under the idea that the illness of the persecuted girl. 
 
Tliere is Nothing certain on this Earth. 87 
 
 ivas caused by her love for him, he obeyed the directions of Madame 
 Montonnet with the greatest enthusiasm and delight. 
 
 The morning after the lovers' fatal interview, Jeanneton went out on a 
 casual errand, and profited by the occasion to run to the house where 
 Adolphe had told her he was lodging, that she might inform him of the 
 lamentable results which had followed the water-carrier's mistake. She 
 made no doubt but that he would be in a state of the greatest anxiety to 
 know what had taken place after he left the house, and she wished to 
 make him acquainted with the fresh precautions Madame Montonnet had 
 adopted, so that some plan of future correspondence between him and' 
 Eugenie might be devised. As early as nine o'clock she was at the 
 lodging-house, and having ascended the stairs, knocked repeatedly at 
 Adolphe's door. Meeting with no response from within, and not being, 
 sure that she was right with respect to the room, after some hesitation she 
 tapped at Zelie's door, and that young lady rose directly and let her in. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Mademoiselle," Jeanneton said, with a courtesy. " X 
 beg your pardon for disturbing your rest. I see I am mistaken in the 
 room ; it is Monsieur Adolphe Dalmont whom I wish to see." . . . 
 " Monsieur Adolphe ? " Zelie replied, eyeing the honest servant scornfully 
 from top to toe ; " and pray, my dear, what may you please to want with 
 him ? " . . . "What I want to say can only be told to him alone." . . . 
 " To him or to me, my dear, is all the same thing ; you may just as well 
 tell your business to me." ... "To him or to you the same thing l' r 
 " Certainly, Madame ; we live together." ... " In that case you must 
 be mistaken, Mademoiselle, and your friend is not the young gentleman % 
 am seeking." . . . "Look," said Zelie haughtily, pointing to the bed, 
 "and satisfy yourself whether that is he or not. But step gently and* 
 make no noise, for I would not have him awakened for the world." 
 
 With cat-like steps Jeanneton advanced to the bed, and there, to her 
 horror and dismay, beheld the false, fickle Adolphe, fast asleep ! Could it 
 be he ? Another long, anxious look convinced her there was no mistake, 
 and she stood riveted to the floor, staring at him with her eyes almost 
 starting from her head. . . . Zelie was the first to speak. " Well, my 
 dear, are you satisfied now ; is that the Monsieur Adolphe whom you- 
 seek ? " . . . Jeanneton started from her trance, and gasped out, — " Yes,- 
 Madame — Mademoiselle — it is he indeed ! Oh ! I could never have believed 
 it ! I can scarcely believe my own eyes even now ! " . . . " What may 
 you want with Monsieur Adolphe, my dear ? " . . . " Nothing, nothing ;: 
 at least, nothing now. It's all over ; there's an end of all the world, I 
 think ! " . . . " Pray, who may have sent you here ? " . . . " Nobody, 
 nobody. Poor little dear, if she knew it she would die of grief. Who is 
 to tell her the terrible truth ? And I, too, to lose my place for such a- 
 monster as that ! " . . . "Of what poor little dear are you talking,- 
 Mademoiselle ? " . . . " That is no business of yours ; Adolphe Dalmont 
 is a villain, and you may tell him so as soon as you like." . . . Jeanneton- 
 turned away from the bed with a shudder of disgust, left the room without 
 looking round, descended the stairs choking with rage, and murmured to her- 
 self as she walked slowly back, with the tears streaming from her eyes, — 
 " Oh ! these men, these men ! they are all villains and deceivers alike- 
 We may love them to adoration, we may break our hearts for them, and 
 while we are weeping, disconsolate and alone, they are passing their time 
 gaily with the frailest and vilest of our sex. Oh ! my poor, dear little 
 darling Eugenie !" . . . When the honest servant left the room, Zelie 
 exclaimed, — " What can the fat wench mean with her ' monsters,' and her 
 ' villains,' and her ■ poor little dears ' ? I say so to Adolphe 1 Not if I 
 
SS Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 know it. He would kill me, and I should lose him. I love him dearly, 
 too, although he has such finical ideas. A man who is devoured with remorse 
 because he — Lord, how funny ! " — and Zelie laughed so loudly at the young 
 man's conscientious qualms that at last she awoke him from his sleep. 
 
 He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and was somewhat surprised to find 
 liimself in Zelie's room. He felt, however, that she would only laugh at 
 item if he should again express contrition for his relapse, and swore 
 inwardly that he would never commit such a piece of folly again. Poor 
 youth ! had he known that Jeanneton had been there, and seen him asleep 
 in the ballet-girl's bed, he would have jumped through the window and 
 killed himself on the spot. Zelie was too cunning and too much in love to 
 acquaint him with the fact, and so he kept his brains in his head. Zelie 
 •opened the door for him, and bade him " good-bye " until the evening. 
 *f Till the evening," he replied, " adieu," having made up his mind at the 
 same time to quit his lodging in the course of the day. He washed and 
 dressed himself, and was about to proceed downstairs, when a letter wa3 
 ■delivered to him in the handwriting of his father. He broke the seal with a 
 trembling hand, read it hastily, and from it found that — as is usual in such 
 -cases — some kind, charitable friend had communicated to the old gentleman 
 that he had lost his situation at the mercer's. His father, notwithstanding, 
 did . not reproach him for his thoughtlessness, but pressed him to come 
 aoine immediately, as he was very ill, and thought the sight of his beloved 
 €on might do him good. 
 
 ' Adolphe loved his father from the bottom of his heart ; he knew that 
 the anxieties he had felt for many years had destroyed his health, and he 
 determined to comply instantly with the wishes the old man's letter con- 
 tained.^ He said, — " I will set out thi3 very morning ; the day fixed for 
 Eugenie's marriage is still far off, and I shall be back before anything 
 particular can have taken place. I will write a line to Jeanneton besides, 
 anforming her of my sudden departure from Paris, and beg her to let me 
 know all that may happen before I can return." 
 
 . He wrote the note accordingly, and gave it to the housekeeper at the 
 anercer's, to be secretly conveyed to Jeanneton. .The good woman, who 
 was very fond of Adolphe, undertook that the servant should receive it, 
 and having left the chief part of his wardrobe with the porter's wife, he 
 packed up a small bundle of linen for his present use. and set out for Senlis 
 &t once. To save his small stock of money, he determined to perform the 
 journey on foot, and as the distance was only rather over thirty miles, lie 
 ■calculated that by walking stoutly he should arrive that evening, and 
 fcehold his father before he retired for the night. 
 
 Having made these arrangements, Adolphe left the lodging-house behind 
 iiini with a light heart, thanking his stars that he should now be removed 
 from the dangerous fascinations of the amorous danseuse. He could not 
 resist passing through the Rue Saint Martin to take a parting glance at 
 the laceman's shop ; but no Eugenie was there, nobody but old Bidois, 
 ■standing at the door affecting to mend his everlasting pen. Adolphe sighed 
 deeply, "called upon his love within the house," and invoked the spirit of 
 JSugenie to confirm him in his virtuous resolves, and aid him In his long and 
 -arduous walk. 
 
 He trudged on manfully throughout the day, and the farther he left 
 the mighty Babylon behind ; the more the remembrance of his early days, 
 Ills boyish sports, his infant joys, crowded upon his mind, and momentarily 
 -erased the memory of his unhappy love. He recalled his first and only 
 parting with the author of his days : the sound advice which his father had 
 Isaparted, and which he had so shamefully neglected, the wise counsels to 
 
Adolphe Senior. 8$ 
 
 subdue and master his passions, which he had utterly thrown away ; and 
 the fond injunction to make known to him the slightest difficulty he might 
 encounter at his outset in the world. His father had not only eminently 
 discharged the duties of a parent to his son, but had treated him as a friend. 
 How was it, then, that Adolphe had neglected him so long ; how was it that 
 he had permitted his all-absorbing love for Eugenie to cast into the shade 
 this affectionate preceptor, father, friend ? 
 
 Our hero made his dinner at a little road-side inn, somewhat fatigued 
 with the unaccustomed exercise, and then resumed his march. The re- 
 collections of his father's illness, aggravated by his own careless inattention, 
 stung him to the quick, and he felt he could not rest again until he held 
 that fond father in his arms. He hastened his steps lest night should find 
 tlim still on the road, and incurred no further delays, for his only desire 
 was to reach his native town. His heart throbbed violently, but now it 
 "was with filial love, for at that moment he would not have turned upon his 
 track even to behold his adored Euge'nie. . . . Filial Love ! Pure, holy, 
 heavenly sentiment, graven by nature's self within our infant hearts. Well 
 it were, indeed, if all the raging passions of this life were made subservient 
 to thee ! 
 
 Night had fallen, but by the light of myriads of bright stars, Adolphe 
 saw the outskirts of a town, and knew that it was Senlis. He passed 
 rapidly on. The inhabitants were fast asleep, and took no heed of him. 
 He arrived before a neat, modest-looking house, stopped short, drew a long^ 
 breath, threw up his hands, and uttered a loud cry of joy, for his father was 
 -within. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ADOLPHE SENIOR. 
 
 Adrian Dalmont, Adolphe senior, was born in Franche-Comte. His 
 father, a respectable merchant of Besanjon, having two sons, had given the 
 boys as liberal an education as his means would allow, and not being in a= 
 position to leave them a fortune, his ambition was to put them in such 
 a> condition that they might be able to acquire fortunes for themselves. 
 ^Georges, the elder brother of Adrian, was sprightly, open-hearted and 
 easy-going, eschewed all sendentary occupations, and cared little for study. 
 His sole pleasure was to wander in the woods, over the mountains and fields 
 in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Adrian, more sedate and sensible, gave evidence very early of sound 
 sense, an ardent soul, a heart prompt to respond, but incapable of wavering 
 in its attachment. 
 
 At an early age the two brothers were orphans, and being left very 
 ?poor by their father, it was necessary for them to strike out a course fof 
 themselves.^ Georges, without troubling himself over much about the 
 future, decided to travel, to roam over the world, to cross the seas, while 
 Adrian calculated on entering on a military career. 
 
 A cousin of their mother's, however, dying at this critical period of their 
 lives, and leaving no children, her whole fortune came into the possession 
 of the young Dalmonts. This fortune, which had been acquired little by 
 
$0 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 little, now amounted to about 80,000 francs. From this moment, the pro- 
 jects of the brothers were changed. 
 
 Though Georges had reached the age of twenty-one, he had not yet been 
 in love. His tastes had always constrained him to wander far away from 
 home. He had no need any longer to travel as a poor unfortunate in quest- 
 of friends and protectors. He had purchased a small craft, which he had' 
 armed and equipped, and in this he had set out in search of a new worlds 
 for he was persuaded that there were still many worlds with which he was 
 unacquainted — which was indeed very probable, but I will not undertake- 
 to vouch for the fact. 
 
 Adrian had no intention of imitating his brother in this. He had not 
 even dreamed of quitting the place of his birth, for the reason that he had 
 already been in love, although he was only eighteen years of age, and it- 
 was at Besancon where resided the person who had won his young heart 
 
 Juliette was the object of his love. She was only fifteen years of age,, 
 hut was already the most charming young female in the neighbourhood, 
 with her blue eyes, pretty mouth, and blonde hair, which curled naturally 
 over her brow, and made her so ravishingly beautiful a creature that it was- 
 impossible to look upon her without being moved. Juliette was modest), 
 sensible and good, and wholly free from vanity. It was for these qualities 
 alone that she sought to be loved. 
 
 How could Adrian help adoring suoh a treasure ? And as for Juliette, 
 was she unconscious of the love of Adrian ? These two young people 
 seemed to be made for one another. Even in their tastes, morals and aspira- 
 tions they were one ; and this love, which had its birth in infancy, promised 
 to survive the rude awakenings of youth, and the cares of a riper age. 
 
 But Juliette was without fortune, and Adrian, having become possessed 
 of one, dare not yet propose to her for her hand. He desired above every- 
 thing to be in a condition to maintain an establishment. The fortune of 
 his mother's cousin had removed all anxiety in regard to this. Adrian 
 had become possessed of 40,000 francs, which is sufficient to make one 
 independent when one is not ambitious, and neither of the lovers was 
 ambitious. 
 
 Juliette, like Adrian, was an orphan. Her parents, respectable farmer 
 people, had been ruined by a fire ; and her only near relation was a brother, 
 five years his senior, who had been his sole protector up to the moment 
 when she became a wife. Juliette loved her brother tenderly, and looking 
 on him as the sole arm she had to lean upon on earth, had from a very early 
 age been in the habit of obeying him. 
 
 Robert — this was her brother's name — had a melancholy and morose 
 disposition, a feeble mind, and a cold heart. He loved his sister, but he 
 was unable to work to provide her with a living, nor had he the courage to 
 defend and protect her. From the time that the conflagration had destroyed 
 the patrimony of his parents, and swept away all his hopes of pleasure and 
 of happiness, Robert, wearied of the world and of himself, dragged out a 
 dull existence. He was without a position, without projects, without a* 
 future. He concerned himself with ngthing, and left poor Juliette to 
 struggle for her own existence as best she might ; and, though grieved to 
 see her labouring without ceasing for herself and for him, Robert could only 
 complain, without being able to do anything more. 
 
 There was only one man now who had the ability to distract Robert 
 and to direct his actions. This man, whose name was Roger, was of the 
 same age as Robert ; but his repulsive figure, his heavy eyes, his harsh 
 voice, already belied the appearance of youth. This man Roger hailed 
 from Paris, where he had, it was said, relations who were in easy circum- 
 
Adolphe Senior. &&■ 
 
 stances. Nevertheless, he had no social position, no fortune, and although 
 he vaunted his learning and his knowledge of everything, and his ability ts> 
 make himself useful in all kinds of industry, he had already been discharged ' 
 from several houses, where his conduct had not sufficed to recommend Mas ? 
 to the favour of his employers. 
 
 How was it possible for such a man to gain a complete ascendancy onar^ 1 
 the mind of Robert, who refused to listen to the counsels that the ges!&&- 
 Juliette sometimes permitted herself to proffer him ? It is the comEsoss 
 opinion that persons of feeble mind allow themselves to be easily goveimsl ' 
 by adroit men of the world, whose sophisms flatter their inclinations* azaf ■ 
 who reject advice dictated by reason and friendship. 
 
 This man Roger had not been able to look with indifference oa the-- 
 charms of Juliette. Under a gross exterior he concealed a heart cha2g«I 
 with envy and jealousy against all men whose natural advantages sail 
 qualities intensified by contrast his vices and deformities. Never having: 
 attempted to govern his passions— they secretly flattered him, and engaged ~ 
 his whole mind in ministering to them— Roger had come to detest Adriasa J 
 but this hatred had assumed a more violent character since the time he haS' 
 discovered that young Dalmont was in love with Juliette. 
 
 The amiable young maiden had received with trembling the declaratioaas ' 
 of Roger's love, the mere sight of whom even inspired her with a secratF- 
 horror. She would gladly have been dispensed from listening to him, foot; 
 Roger was the friend of her brother, and that title prevented her feosE? ' 
 showing him all the aversion she entertained for his person. 
 
 Matters stood thus when the brothers Dalmont received the news of 
 the brilliant heritage which was about to come to them. This event was? 
 celebrated by the people amongst whom the brothers lived, and by wham 
 they were esteemed. It was the accomplishment of the highest ambitiosr 
 of Adrian, for the reason that it would enable him to make Juliette happy* 
 She had said to him,—" My brother cannot refuse me him whom I love, and"' 
 I will become his wife in spite of that wicked Roger." ..." How happy 
 they must be I " said Robert, on learning the news ; " they are now rich* 
 How different it is with me, I who am ruined ! " and Robert became mov 
 morose and dreamy than ever. 
 
 Roger was the only one who said nothing— who did not make any dis- 
 play of his sentiments. He went so far even as to compliment the two* 
 brothers on their good fortune, and to refrain from speaking to Juliette of Ms- 
 love ; but he nevertheless strove to ingratiate himself more with Robert, assf 
 they became more than ever inseparables. They were to be seen together 
 roaming over the town, the woods and valleys,— Robert growing alwajs^ 
 more sullen and reserved, while Roger, on the contrary, became more cess- 
 tent and gay. The brothers Dalmont had, some time before, sent to their 
 man of business the titles and powers of attorney necessary for him to take 
 possession, in their name, of what was to come to them. They were now 
 expecting every moment to enter upon their respective fortunes : George 
 to enable him to make the tour of the world ; Adrian, to enable him to set 
 married. & 
 
 The lovers had already formed their plans of life : they had bought® 
 pretty house, which was then in the market, while the produce of their 
 fields was to suffice for their physical wants. They thus were cultivating 
 in peace their little domain, and, secure in their love, in their labours sst& "' 
 pleasures, Adrian and Juliette had no longer to fear adversity. 
 
 The heritage at length came to hand. The two brothers were put m - 
 possession of indisputable securities : they realised, taking each for Ms 
 portion 40,000 francs, which enabled them to follow up their inclinations*- 
 
02 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 &.n& to assure their future. Georges is all ready to depart. The eve of the 
 day when he must take leave of his brother is passed in the country, and 
 <eiijcyment is the only question dreamed of. The two brothers invite a few 
 friends to a small fete which they are to give in the country. Juliette goes 
 to it — Juliette, who is already regarded as the espoused of Adrian. Robert is 
 likewise invited, but he refuses to become a participant in their pleasures ; 
 hut that refusal surprises no one, inasmuch as every one is acquainted with 
 his sombre character, which has been carried to the extent of eschewing 
 all such gatherings. 
 
 The day is passed joyously ; people laugh, dance and sing ; Georges 
 promises his friends to return after he has discovered a new world, to 
 which he hopes to give his name. Adrian engages his brother to return 
 to him soon, in order to participate in his happiness ; and they return to 
 town, talking of their charming prospects. 
 
 Night had for some time already set in. The two brothers re-conducted 
 •Juliette to her home, after which they sought their own dwelling. They 
 lived in a house situated on the outskirts of the town, and surrounded by 
 marsh land and kitchen -gardens. It was here that they put away safely 
 iheir fortune, full of confidence, as young people generally are, seeing that 
 they are in their native place, believing themselves to be surrounded by 
 friends. 
 
 But what a thunderbolt was now about to fall on them ! Their fortune 
 lias been swept away ; the desk in which it had been locked had been 
 fjroken into ; everything had vanished. They rushed into the town, and 
 presented themselves to the magistrates ; the report spread alarm amongst 
 the whole of the inhabitants. Thieves had gained access to the residence 
 £ff the Dalmonts, and despoiled it. This news produced everywhere alarm 
 little short of consternation. A search was made, warrants were issued, 
 fbsit no trace was to be found of the thieves, who had easily gained access 
 io fche isolated dwelling, and had escaped without effort over the stunted 
 wails. No doubt was felt that some foreign pedlar, some vagabond, had 
 ^committed the crime. People condoled with the two brothers ; they were 
 twined for their imprudence. All necessary steps were taken to secure 
 the arrest of the thieves, but all was in vain ; the two brothers were 
 rsined. Georges took the matter easily : he sold off what little of pro- 
 perty remained to him, divided this with his brother, and set out, promising 
 that he would one day return a millionaire. But Adrian could not console 
 jhiniself so easily. It was not the mere money that he regretted ; it was 
 Juliette, his sweet love, that he was about to espouse. Must he now pro- 
 claim to her his misery ? Juliette had always been so tender, so loving ; 
 iier only thought was her Adrian. But Robert had made the latter under- 
 stand that he could not espouse her without the visible means of being 
 able to support her. " Promise me to remain faithful," said Adrian to 
 Ms love ; " swear to me to love me always, never to change, and I shall 
 scurageously set out hither, enter the army, acquire an honourable position, 
 in order to become worthy of you." Juliette was of opinion that Adrian 
 <was already worthy of her ; she murmured against the injustice of her 
 brother, and, without hesitation, made the oath to him demanded of her 
 f>y her lover. Adrian then embraced her tenderly, after which, in taking 
 the hand of Robert, he supplicated him to take great care of his Juliette 
 for him. Robert signallised assent with an inclination of the head, and 
 ., stuttered out a kind of promise. The hand he gave Adrian was humid 
 gsd trembling. 
 
Continuation of the History of Adrian. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF ADRIAN. 
 
 SOME time after the departure of Adrian, Roger announced that he was 
 going to Paris in order to complete some important business matters. He 
 had received some news, he said, from a relation, who was very rich, and 
 engaged in a large way of business, of some advantageous speculations 
 he was willing to assist him in. Next he proposed to Robert to go with 
 him, and essayed to tempt him with fortune. To the great astonishment 
 of every one, Robert accepted these proposals, and departed with Roger. 
 
 Juliette, left alone, thought of her Adrian, of whom she received news ; 
 from time to time. She learned that he had already distinguished himself 
 as a non-commissioned officer, and she had no doubt that he would soon be 
 promoted to a lieutenancy. Her ambition did not rise beyond that ; she 
 believed that a lieutenant was a person whom her brother could not refuse? 
 and that sweet hope sustained her courage, and consoled her for his absence. 
 However, after an absence of six months, Robert and Roger returned te ' 
 Juliette, but how different to what they were when they had left ! Roger, its- 
 was rumoured, had succeeded wonderfully in business, and had been able? 
 also to assist Robert in making some money. Roger bought a house ; 
 similar to the one Adrian had sought to acquire ; and the brother of 
 Juliette bought a pretty little property not far from that of his friend, 
 Robert's newly-acquired fortune did not, however, seem to make him?- 
 happy ; he was still as melancholy as ever ; there were even moments" 
 when, suffering from agitation of which no one could divine the cause, he 
 trembled and quaked at the least sound, at the simplest interpellation. 
 Juliette strained every nerve to restore the mind of her brother to peace 
 and contentment; but when she sought to discover the origin of her 
 brother's tears, his sadness, now that fortune smiled on him, Robert would 
 avoid his sister, and walk away without answering her questions. Roger, 
 who seemed greatly satisfied with his luck, began again to speak of love 
 to Juliette. He dogged her steps night and day, entreated, persecuted her 
 with his suit. " I can never love you," said Juliette to him ; " but I adore 
 Adrian." ..." Adrian thinks no more about you," responded Roger ; " he 
 will not return again." ..." Adrian will always be faithful to me, of 
 that I am certain ; but even if he should forget me, I will never consent 
 to marry you." . . . "You will marry me," responded Roger, darting 
 at the pretty maiden a fiendish look; "you must, you shall!" ... 
 Juliette trembled, quivered. She complained to her brother of the atten- 
 tions of the man whom she detested, but Robert did not answer ; he merely 
 listened to her in silence. Sometimes the tears would run down her cheeks, 
 and deep sighs escape her, but he only walked away, without offering his- 
 sister any consolation. 
 
 Two years had rolled over since the departure of Adrian, but no day 
 passed that Juliette did not implore heaven to bring back her lover, for 
 each day her position became more unsupportable. Roger did not relax 
 in his attentions ; he gave her no peace, and became more arrogant, more 
 assured than ever in his determination to marry her. He had now thrown 
 off all timidity in the prosecution of his suit ; he threatened, he scolded, 
 and told her he would force her into obedience. Juliette, not being able 
 to endure this creulty, implored her brother to forbid Roger asking for her 
 
«J|4 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Sated, and for the first time Eobert announced to her that she must make 
 ■$$$2> bee mind to marry Roger. 
 
 ^ Marry Roger — forget Adrian ! Never, never ! " exclaimed Juliette. 
 -*■ S sfeall carry with me to the tomb the oath I took to love him, and him 
 .^fisty/' . . . " You must forget that oath, and Adrian also," said Robert. 
 -**Wg*i must become the wife of Roger, or I am lost." . . . "Lost ! What 
 ^bjou mean ? What have you to fear from Roger ? " . . . " Everything, 
 fgjjt g.*$i do not consent to be his wife." 
 
 f&obert fled, leaving Juliette a prey to the most mortal terrors. " For- 
 .^gefe Adrian ! It is impossible. Espouse Roger ! I would rather die ! " 
 £hs£ what were these dangers that menaced her brother ? What had he 
 a&t ©ear from him whom he regarded as his sincere friend — from him to 
 •-g^isasi he was indebted for his good fortune ? Juliette strove in vain to 
 vjgfisiae this secret ; her reason became confused, her mind wandered over 
 ««a|Sg®e conjectures, she could not concentrate her ideas. 
 
 IThe day following this conversation with Robert, Juliette retired to her 
 . ^efesaber, there to seek in vain for repose ; sleep had deserted her eyelids 
 ..Jisft&s. the moment that it was sought to force her to forget Adrian. Eager 
 j&& fareathe the pure open air for a brief space, in the hope of reanimating 
 .Jagg" shattered spirits, she got up in the middle of the night, and lifted up 
 iMsgE window, which looked into their garden. When the window had been 
 .^easked a little, a voice, which she recognised to be that of her brother, 
 J&ssSce the silence of the night. " To whom could Robert be speaking at 
 ^Rss$ hour?" Juliette listened. She thought she heard her own name 
 •gp-saoimced. Soon she distinguished the voice of Roger. It was of her 
 *0ag& they were speaking. The desire to be made acquainted with their 
 ,.#£33®i;, to know what they had resolved on, dispelled all fear from her 
 n^BSsadL She descended softly from the chamber, walked noiselessly to the 
 .^ssFsas&er-house in which Roger and her brother were seated, and holding 
 Jsesr breath for fear of being surprised, Juliette listened to their conversra- 
 
 £i Things have now remained long enough in their present condition ; 
 J& is time they came to an end," said Roger. ... " It is not my fault," 
 
 ge^g^oaded Robert, in a trembling voice. " I have given you full permission 
 
 ^a^jseak to her." . . . " It is not enough that I speak to her, and you see 
 
 «BMjr well in what esteem she holds me ; she repels me continually. That 
 JllSafcle girl is devilish headstrong, but, by God, she will have to surrender. 
 
 Jfe as ior you to command her ; you are her brother, and she must obey 
 ■$$mJ* ... "I told her yesterday what were my intentions." ..." But 
 ■&&£& is, not sufficient ; you must force her to yield." ..." I have not the 
 jBB^&xity. I could not compel her against her will." . . . " You , have 
 
 jggfbihe right ! you could not ! Bah ! you are always so feeble — so unde- 
 ^tsSexL You must show her your mettle, all the same. Consider well, 
 
 JU&fclasd;, the consequences if I do not marry your sister. I have it in my 
 'tgsmez to ruin you, and I shall not hesitate to act." . . . "That would be 
 ■■•jKSKse rsiin also." ..." No, no ; I can flee. I can put myself on terms of 
 
 ssqyfcaSity with my pursuers after denouncing you, and I can lay before the 
 ssBragpisfaates an accusation against you — an accusation that you will not be 
 
 ^m^v position to deny." . . . "Wretch! what frightful condition is this 
 ■•■£&&& you have placed me in ? "... " Indeed, let me counsel you to be 
 ^Bfflite moderate in your language. You have not got a sou, and you deserve 
 ■4s& £\ave nothing. Very well ; I have enriched you — and myself, no doubt, 
 -^& &ke same time — but you elect now to break with your best friends. It 
 vigesaEss to me that you ought to be grateful to me, in place of heaping insult 
 gfeKjB&B me. You are an ingrate ! " . . . " But what about the remorse that 
 
End of the History of Adrian, 95 
 
 tears my heart, and the fear of being found out ? " . . . " As to the latter, 
 yon know very well that there is no danger ; no one is in possession of our 
 secret. You are not, then, going to run any risk ; and as for your remorse, 
 it cesses too late." . . . "Ah! that is well said. I no longer enjoy* 
 « moment's tranquillity. I could not endure to face Adrian ; and if he 
 should return to his native place ! " . . . " There is no fear of his returning 
 when once your sister is married." ..." Unlucky Adrian ! must I also 
 tear from you your lover after despoiling you of your fortune — after I have 
 £tofea from you your whole possessions ? " 
 
 A ery, issuing from the near distance, interrupted Robert. The two 
 mm m«hed impetuously from the summer-house, and found Juliette a few 
 steps distant, stretched on the ground unconscious. . . . " It is my sister," 
 said Etobert ; " it is my poor sister." ..." Yes," said Roger, in a serious 
 tone ; u she has been listening to us, no doubt ; she has heard all. It is 
 aow more necessary than ever that she should become my wife." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 END OF THE HISTORY OP ADRIAN. 
 
 In recovering sensibility, Juliette dared not cast her regards either upon 
 iter brother or Roger ; both of them inspired her with horror. She could 
 not support the thought of continuing to live with the wretches who had 
 cobbed Adrian and Georges. She had, nevertheless, some shreds of pity 
 left ior her brother, whose remorse and repentance she had witnessed. . . . 
 "You know our secret," said Roger to her. "Do you still insist on 
 refusing my hand ? I can ruin your brother, dishonour your family, and 
 I shall do it if you do not consent to marry me, even should I perish withv 
 you." 
 
 Juliette recognised that Roger was capable, out of pure revenge, of 
 dencsiacing even himself. She trembled at the bare idea of giving her 
 haEsf to that monster ; but, on the other hand, she could no more support 
 the sdea of seeing her unfortunate brother accused, dragged before the 
 tribunal, and the name of their honoured father tarnished for ever. Robert, 
 pale and trembling in presence of his sister, dared not supplicate with her 
 to gave him ; he had a horror of himself ; he felt himself unworthy of her 
 pity i and Juliette, who perceived his fears and sufferings, decided to save 
 Tier brother, and to suffer a living death in marrying Roger. 
 
 Ihe marriage-day was fixed ; in eight days Juliette — charming Juliette 
 — -wottid become the wife of a monster saturated with crimes ; one of the 
 most lovely works of nature was about to be united to one of its most 
 repulsive forms. The poor unfortunate awaited this moment like the 
 unfortunate condemned culprit waiting his doom. 
 
 Just then Adrian returned, burning with love and hope, having ob- 
 tained the grade of lieutenant, and having saved some money. He had 
 takm advantage of a leave of absence in order to demand from Robert the 
 hand of his sister ; he saw no longer any obstacles to his union with 
 JuBefc-Se. On entering his native town, his first care was to ask for news 
 •of Ms beloved. . . . "In eight days," said one to him, " she is to become 
 the wife of Roger." ..." Juliette unfaithful, and for the sake of Roger ! 
 Yo« s£& deceiving me," said Adrian. " I shall not believe it until her own 
 
$Q Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 month has avouched to me." . . . He was informed of the new residence* 
 of Juliette ; he ran — he fled — he rushed through the town like a madman ; 
 finally be came to the house — he entered — he is before Juliette. He could 
 not persuade himself that it was she whom he saw — bowed down with sad- 
 ness — dissolving in tears — pain and suffering had so altered the features of 
 his sweetheart. 
 
 Juliette gave vent to a cry of joy ; she was stunned on perceivingr 
 Adrian ; but soon, remembering her changed position, she dropped back, 
 sad and abashed, into her chair. ..." My Juliette," he cried, throwing- 
 himself on his knees in front of his lover, " can you not receive me more 
 tenderly ? " more smitten than ever. " Why these tears, this sadness ? 
 What has changed you ? You have not flown into my arms ; you have- 
 not responded to my yearning ! Ob, heavens ! have I been told the truth ? " 
 . . . "Yes," she said, in a feeble voice; "yes, I marry Roger." . . . 
 " You marry Roger ; you, Juliette ! You unfaithful to me !"..." Ah,. 
 I have not for a moment ceased to adore you ; but it must be, and I can- 
 not tell you the reason. I must marry Roger." . . . "You must marry 
 Roger ! And this is the return you give me for my love, for my constancy. 
 Perfidious wretch ! and thine own mouth dost not fear to avouch it t 
 Thou makest sport of my sorrow ! Go, then — I relieve you of your oath, 
 your letters, in which you pourtrayed a fondness you did not feel — marry 
 Roger ; you are worthy of him." 
 
 Adrian departed as he uttered these words, without even regarding: 
 Juliette. Ah ! if he could have perceived the shattered, helpless girl, he 
 would not have had the courage to tear himself away thus 1 That blow 
 was too much for the soul of Juliette. Till now she had been able to bear 
 uo, but the recollection of being accused of perfidy by Adrian, the vehe- 
 lnence of his curse, and to lose at once his esteem and his love ! When 
 Robert came in, the unfortunate girl had succumbed under the weight of 
 her great affliction. He had been informed of the return of Adrian, and 
 more troubled, more concerned than ever, he had sought Juliette in order 
 to escape from the vengeance of Adrian. 
 
 He found his sister plunged in the most overwhelming despair; he 
 heard her pronounce in the intervals of her sobs the name of her lover, and 
 declare that she was not able to support life. That spectacle cut Robert 
 to the very soul, a soul already wrung with remorse ; he felt himself 
 unworthy of the sacrifice that Juliette was going to make for him ; he 
 groaned when thinking that so much candour, beauty and virtue should 
 become a prey to the man who had forced him into crime. ..." Console 
 yourself, Juliette," said he to her ; " dry those tears. You shall see Adrian 
 again ; you may yet be happy. It is for me that you have sacrificed all." 
 . . . But Juliette did not hear him ; these consolations did not reach her 
 heart, which the interview with Adrian had just riven asunder. 
 
 Roger also learned of the return of Adrian, and perceived the fatal 
 consequences which might result from it. He feared the love of Juliette 
 and the remorse of Robert. He dreaded the fury of his rival. He con- 
 cluded, finally, that he could not be the tranquil possessor of his fortune and 
 of his mistress so long as Adrian existed, and another crime did not deter 
 him from the gratification of his passions. He swore he would kill his rival. 
 
 On withdrawing from Juliette, Adrian had quitted the town, and walk- 
 ing on aimlessly, his legs had carried him to a wood not far distant. There 
 he abandoned himself to his great sorrow. He let the tears run which he 
 had restrained in the presence of Juliette, and ceasing to combat his regrets 
 and his love, he recalled the image of her he still loved, notwithstanding 
 the perfidy he deemed her guilty of. 
 
End of the History of Adrian, 97 
 
 Nio-ht had come on ; a dreadful storm approached, the thunder rolled,, 
 and its echoes answered each other through the forest, which the lightning- 
 lighted up at intervals. Adrian remained in the forest. He was so 
 absorbed by his sorrow that the elemental war which was raging had no 
 terrors for him. On the contrary, the alarming disturbance possessed &■ 
 peculiar charm for his soul. 
 
 At midnight Robert set out from his dwelling to go in search of him 
 whom he had previously despoiled, and to whom he would make a full 
 avowal of his guilt, in hopes of obtaining his pardon. He knew Adrian 
 well enough to conclude that the fault of the brother could not alter hi& 
 sentiments in regard to the sister. 
 
 It was supposed that Adrian had selected the hut of a woodman, situated 
 in the forest, in which to pass the night. At anyrate, such was the informa- 
 tion that Robert was able to glean concerning him in the afternoon, and he 
 decided to repair thither, choosing expressly an hour when no person would 
 be able to observe him. He flattered himself that the conversation he 
 should have with Adrian would remain for ever a secret, and, above all, that 
 Roger should have no suspicions. 
 
 The hope of assuaging his soul, boiling over with remorse, imparted 
 energy to the man who was ordinarily so feeble and timid. He walked 
 with a firm step, in spite of the thunderstorm which raged over his head, 
 and it was not long before he reached the outskirts of the forest. Roger, 
 however, was also awake. The wretch was waiting for the darkness and 
 silence of the night to strike down with certainty his victim. During the 
 day he had correctly informed himself of the route Adrian had taken, and 
 when the darkness and obscurity seemed to promise hirn impunity, he 
 directed his steps towards the hut, into which to find an easy entrance, and 
 without waking up the woodman. 
 
 Roger advanced with great circumspection. He was afraid of being 
 heard. He halted at the least noise which fell upon his ear. _ At a turn in 
 the path a gleam of lightning discovered to him a man walking with great 
 precipitation. He listened, he stood unmoveable. The man passed near 
 him — the name of Juliette painfully escaped his lips. Roger had not the 
 slightest doubt that it was his rival. Whom else but Adrian would now 
 be in the wood ? He hurried his steps, he reached his victim. " Die ! " he 
 exclaimed. He struck, and Robert fell at his feet, bathed in his own blood. 
 
 From the cry which escaped the unhappy victim on being struck, he 
 recognised his mistake. He fled, devoured with rage at having failed to 
 despatch his rival. The death of Robert removed any hope of him now 
 obtaining possession of Juliette. As he walked on, he swore that Adrian 
 should never enjoy more happiness than he. 
 
 Robert, however, still breathed, and his groans becoming audible to 
 Adrian, they roused him at length from his profound stupor. However 
 unhappy one may be, one always finds alleviation from one's troubles when 
 one can succour others in misfortune. Misery does not render one insensible, 
 although misfortune does so sometimes. 
 
 Adrian betook himself to the spot whence proceeded the groaning. He 
 came near to a man who was dying. But how could he be expected to 
 recognise in this man Robert, the brother of Juliette ? Alone, in the dead 
 of the night, in the middle of the forest, and when the storm seemed as- 
 though it would overwhelm poor mortals, why should I go to succour thi& 
 unfortunate ? Adrian called out. The echoes sent back his cries, the storm 
 alone responded to them. He bent down beside the wounded person. He 
 tried to reanimate him, to staunch his wound. Robert opened his eyes, 
 and recognised the gentle voice of A drian. 
 
 G 
 
S8 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 " It is you who would save me ! " said he. " It is you who implores 
 fiea veil in my favour, dear Adrian. I am unworthy of your pity. I am the 
 .^author of all your misfortunes. I have merited my fate, but I should die 
 Jess unhappy if you would vouchsafe me your forgiveness." 
 
 "Whatever these wrongs may be," said Adrian, " I must forget them. 
 3?or the present, I must think of nothing but succouring you. You cannot 
 -remain here in the wood. I will carry you in my arms to the hut of the 
 '•woodman. We shall find assistance there." 
 
 " This would be useless," said Robert, in a choking voice. " I feel I 
 liave not many minutes to live. Permit me to employ these in confessing 
 any crime. Such an avowal alone can assuage and lessen my sufferings. 
 .Behold the spectacle — nature is on fire, the elements are at war, nothing 
 can more terrify him who already can look into the depths of the tomb." 
 
 Adrian was obliged to accede to the request of Robert. Drawing near 
 Mm, and raising gently his head, he listened in silence to the narrative of 
 ..Juliette's brother. " You know, Adrian, that the ruin of my parents 
 changed my disposition. I became morose, silent. Accustomed to a father 
 ■4;oo kind to oppose my desires, I never could be persuaded to travel. I had, 
 in fact, nothing whatever to do, and the moment I found I could no longer 
 •trust to him for subsistence, to make use of the faculties and powers that 
 mature had bestowed on me, was a terrible shock to my feelings. The 
 chagrin of having uselessly employed the early years of my life made itself 
 then felt ; but, instead of cultivating that energy which inspires in us the 
 desire to repair our shortcomings, I only indulged ennui and gloomy 
 "thoughts. Roger alone — the perfidious Roger — had the address to distract 
 3&e, by feigning to sympathise with me, and to encourage my idleness. 
 4 You ought not to travel,' he said to me often ; ' you were born rich. A 
 ^misfortune has overtaken you : some other lucky event will repair the 
 .-damage ! Fortune is kind and compensatory.' It was just at this time 
 that you and your brother inherited your relative's fortune, and I am not 
 ashamed to avow that, far from sharing in your happiness, I only experi- 
 enced regret at seeing some one more fortunate than myself. Roger was 
 .•always near me, and for some time his insidious speeches, his perverse 
 snaxims, perverted my heart and corrupted my soul. ' Now is the time,' 
 -said he to me one day, ' when both of us may repair the wrongs of fortune, 
 .•and recover that which she has taken away from us. The brothers Dalmont 
 iiave just received a considerable sum on which they had not counted, and 
 ■■with which, consequently, they can very well do without. Assist me, and 
 this sum will pass into our hands, which will then be much better placed 
 •than in those of the two dullards who are insensible of its worth.' This 
 proposition at first filled me with horror. Soon I began to regard it without 
 -dread. I even ventured on calculating on the chances of success. Ah ! 
 any dear Adrian, when one meditates on crime, one is already become 
 * culpable. What ought I to say to you now ? I was base enough to yield, 
 .and during that fete day I entered your residence along with Roger, and I 
 ^assisted in despoiling you, my friend. This is where feeble will and con- 
 tempt for work have led me ; the love of ease, which I decorated with the 
 r£rae name of independence. But from that moment, far from being happy, 
 'J. have not tasted a moment's pleasure. Sleep has deserted my eyes, 
 .and when every one reposed around me, I fancied that I was surrounded 
 •with people who were wanting to arrest me. The chirp of a bird, a breath 
 -of wind, the faintest rustle of the leaves made me start, and always to hear 
 the terrible words : 'It is you who have robbed Adrian.' But that was not 
 nearly all. A torment more cruel was in reserve. Roger — the infamous 
 -Soger — wished to espouse Juliette. It was necessary to sacrifice my 
 
End of the History of Adrian. 99 
 
 sister — to witness her tears without pity — her despair, and to condemn her 
 life to misery in order to purchase the silence of my accomplice. Juliette 
 came to discover our horrible secret. Judge of her sorrow — of her situation 
 — and cease to regard her as unfaithful ; it is for me that she has sacrificed 
 herself. But such a union could not be accomplished. To-day — touched 
 by the distress of Juliette — I came to tell you all — to confess all. A 
 monster fell on me and stabbed me. Roger is my assassin ; but now I can 
 die at ease. Juliette cannot be his wife. Dear Adrian, it was I who 
 despoiled you. Ah, tell me that you forgive me, and I shall die contented." 
 
 Adrian had listened with the most lively emotion to the recital of 
 Robert — often interrupted by moments of weakness and suffering which 
 the poor unfortunate forced himself to surmount, in order that he might 
 tell all to Adrian. The latter burst into tears at the recollection of Juliette, 
 and reproached himself that he had for a moment dared to accuse her. 
 
 " Yes," said he at length to Robert ; " I pardon you — your repentance 
 ought to efface your guilt. It is only Roger, the monster, I would like 
 to punish ; but dispel remorse — there is yet hope." 
 
 " No, Adrian, all is finished for me ; I feel it. This avowal has ex- 
 hausted all my strength ; but you have forgiven me — console my poor 
 sister — let her not curse the memory of her brother." 
 
 Robert let his head fall upon the humid leaves and grass of the forest. 
 He ceased to breathe. Adrian stood motionless for a few moments in 
 presence of the corpse of the unhappy Robert, but soon the remembrance 
 of Juliette made him feel that he had other duties to fulfil. He must 
 condole with her ; he must devote himself wholly to her. He broke down 
 several branches of trees and covered over the body of Robert with them, 
 and left the forest to go to Juliette, to whom he must impart the news of 
 the death of her brother. 
 
 But, in approaching the town, an extraordinary burst of light fell upon 
 his eyes. The sky was illumined. One could distinguish the houses, the 
 chimney tops, and the glare seemed each minute to be increasing more and 
 more. Adrian hastened his steps, agitated by a fear which he could not 
 explain. The frightened cries of people soon reached his ears. The 
 Inhabitants of the village are all on foot, and hasten towards the same point. 
 " Fire ! fire ! " is the cry raised in every direction ; and this alarming cry 
 has burned into the soul of Adrian. A secret presentiment directs his steps 
 towards the residence of Juliette. Here it is, in fact, where the flames 
 have broke out. Here it is that the lightning has descended, in the midst 
 of a thunderstorm which seems as if it would wreck the whole universe. 
 
 "Juliette, my Juliette," cried Adrian. No voice responded ; but people 
 pointed to him with their fingers the house being devoured by the flames. 
 Adrian ran, pushed through the crowd, and reached the vicinity of the 
 conflagration. He entered the house, rushed from chamber to chamber ; 
 the smoke hindered him from seeing anything. He called the name of 
 his darling. At length a voice was heard. It called Robert. Oh, Juliette 
 was searching for her brother, and wished so much to save him. Adrian 
 ran to save Juliette. He seized her in his arms. She lost consciousness 
 while still stammering out the name of her brother. Adrian rushed through 
 the flames, surmounted all obstacles — Juliette was saved. 
 
 The house became the prey of the flames. Nothing could be saved of 
 that which belonged to Juliette and her brother. The fire was attributed 
 to the lightning, which had struck several places, and, in particular, the 
 body of the unfortunate Robert, which was found the next day in the woods, 
 reduced to a cinder. 
 
 Juliette alone knew the truth. She learned from Adrian the sad end 
 
100 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 of her brother ; but she experienced a sentiment of deep satisfaction when 
 she learned of his repentance, and discovered that Adrian had pardoned 
 him. Eoger had fled the country. Juliette was left destitute ; but she 
 was everything to her lover, who soon espoused her, and they at once 
 quitted scenes which put Juliette too much in mind of her brother and 
 Roger. 
 
 Adrian obtained his discharge from the army, not desiring to separate 
 himself from a spouse whose feeble and shattered health demanded his 
 anxious care. The violent shocks which had affected the mind of Juliette 
 had also undermined her constitution. The idea of her union with Roger, 
 the death of her brother, and the burning of her dwelling, had overwhelmed 
 this unfortunate girl ; and, although happy in the arms of her husband, 
 Juliette sighed sometimes, as if doubting the reality of her deliverance. 
 
 The newly-married couple lived in Paris. Adrian found employment^ 
 the remuneration from which served to maintain them. Juliette became 
 pregnant ; she gave to the world a boy, but she died immediately after- 
 wards, in the arms of her husband. Adrian, in losing Juliette, had banished 
 all hope of happiness in his life ; still, he felt that he ought to live for his 
 son, and Adolphe became the object of his tenderest care. Adrian sub- 
 jected himself to every deprivation in order to give his son a good education. 
 Adolphe grew up under the care of his father, He was about ten years of 
 age, when one day, as he was walking with his father in the environs of 
 Paris, they were accosted by a beggar, who implored them for alms. 
 Adrian was struck with the voice of the mendicant, and, regarding his 
 features carefully, he recognised Koger under the miserable rags which 
 covered him. A sentiment of satisfaction inspired Adrian. " At least," 
 he said, " crime has not succeeded." 
 
 Eoger had already taken to flight, having recognised Adrian. A few 
 years later, his career was cut short on the scaffold. Adrian increased in 
 years, satisfied at seeing his son Adolphe respond to his hopes — for though 
 the young man was a little dull, and at times somewhat sensitive in the 
 society of ladies, he yet possessed the qualities of a man of honour, and had 
 only the defects of his age. Adrian wished to place his son in an office ;. 
 but a young man without means could not afford to pass two or three 
 years as a supernumary, and Adolphe entered a haberdasher's shop. His 
 father retired to Senlis, where he obtained some light employment, and 
 indulged the hope that his son would be more fortunate than he had been. 
 Such is the history of Adolphus, senior, whom now we shall name M„ 
 Dalmont. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE DYING MAN. 
 
 Adolphe saw, from the subdued light that came through the Venetian 
 blinds of an upper room, that his father had not retired to bed. He 
 knocked gently for fear of startling the invalid, and begged to be ad- 
 mitted. The heart of Monsieur Dalmont beat more rapidly as the well- 
 known voice reached the portals of his ears. He descended the stairs as 
 fast as his trembling limbs would permit him, unlocked the door, and in a 
 moment father and son were in each other's arms. When the first feelings 
 of gratification at again meeting after a lengthened separation were over, 
 
The Dying Man. 101 
 
 Adolphe looked attentively at his father, and beheld with grief the ravages 
 that disease had made in his frame and face. Monsieur Dalmont was only 
 forty-five years of age, but feeble as a child : his eyes were as bright and 
 intelligent as ever, but the sockets that contained them were hollow and 
 discoloured ; his cheeks were lighted with a hectic flush far different to the 
 ruddy glow of health ; that great inexplicable complaint — consumption — 
 which no physician, however eminent, no surgeon, however gifted, has yet 
 been able to vanquish — claimed him for its own, and a constant, husky, 
 wearing cough warned his friends, though not himself, that the lamp of life 
 glimmered only with occasional faint, nickering flashes, the assured prelude 
 of approaching dissolution. 
 
 The retired soldier welcomed his son with every demonstration of the 
 fondest parental affection ; he pressed him to his heart, and assured him 
 that the weakness was only temporary, that it would soon pass away, and 
 his presence would promote his cure. The young man did not reply ; a 
 tear stood in his eye at seeing his father's altered form, but he brushed it 
 quickly away, lest his parent should be a witness of his grief. He then 
 persuaded Monsieur Dalmont to retire to his bed, and, fatigued as he was 
 with the hard day's walk, he threw himself upon his humble couch, prayed 
 fervently that his father's life might yet be spared, and in a few minutes 
 lost all his cares in sleep. 
 
 The following morning the young man rose like a giant refreshed, and 
 proceeded to instal himself as major-domo of his father's house. They 
 ■enjoyed a quiet breakfast together, conversing calmly and contentedly ; 
 Monsieur Dalmont forming plans for future happiness, and buoying himself 
 up with the hope that a friend of his youth, who was in favour at head- 
 quarters in Paris, would soon be able to perform a promise that Adolphe 
 should receive a Government appointment that would place him in a 
 comfortable position for life. Their little domestic arrangements soon 
 assumed a certain regularity and method. Every morning, if the weather 
 was fine, the father and son took a short walk together. Adolphe sup- 
 ported his parent with the tenderest affection, he watched over him, and 
 anticipated his every want as fondly as a mother does her babe ; and if at 
 times a sigh was given to Eugenie, it was not mingled with regret at being 
 near the author of his days. At intervals of relaxation from his labours 
 of love, when his father's slumbers allowed the image of the fair girl to 
 •dance before his eyes, he thought it strange that he should not have received 
 a letter from Jeanneton, but supposed that Eugenie had succeeded in 
 obtaining time from her mother, and that the marriage was still delayed. 
 
 Week followed week in this quiet manner, and Monsieur Dalmont's 
 health had not advanced in the least ; indeed, it was evident that he was 
 getting worse. He became more feeble daily, his legs almost refused to 
 bear his weight, and day after day the great final change was drawing 
 nigh. Still the dying man — like most others suffering from the insidious 
 •complaint — was not aware of his own danger, his constitutional spirits were 
 not depressed ; he formed plans which never could be realised, and Adolphe, 
 -thinking with filial piety that these vistas of the future would sooth his 
 downward path, trembled to destroy the illusion, and almost confirmed his 
 hopes of living through many years. . . . Good Adolphe ! thy cares, thy 
 anxieties for thy father are in vain ; but thou wilt not have the harrowing 
 thought of coldly neglecting him who gave thee life, to destroy thy rest 
 in after days ! 
 
 At the end of the second month, Monsieur Dalmont became aware that 
 his continued existence was indeed hopeless. One morning he spoke of his 
 •approaching end with that serenity which always accompanies the parting 
 
102 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 spirit of a good man. He gave his son the most affectionate and excellent 
 advice as to his future conduct, besought him to act uprightly, and to 
 govern his passions, then kissed him tenderly, and retired to that bed 
 from which he rose no more. Adolphe watched beside his father till he 
 fell into a gentle slumber ; the young man, fatigued with three nights' 
 watching, yielded insensibly to sleep, and when he awoke at early dawn,, 
 and turned his eyes upon the bed, he saw that his father's spirit, calmly 
 and noiselessly, had winged its flight to an upper and a better world. In- 
 voluntarily Adolphe uttered a piercing shriek. But let us drop the curtain. 
 Filial grief is sacred. ... A few days afterwards, the veteran's remains- 
 were conveyed to their last resting-place, and Adolphe Dalmont was alone 
 in the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHICH SHOWS HOW JEANNETON GETS ANOTHER PLACE. 
 
 Let us now return to Paris, and see what has been passing in the interim-' 
 within the laceman's house. . . . Prom the eventful night in which the- 
 druuken water-carrier stumbled so inopportunely into the passage through 
 the open door, Madame Montonnet's vigilance had been redoubled, and she 
 pressed her daughter's marriage forward with the greatest eagerness,, 
 Eugenie was restricted to the limits of her own room, and only permitted 
 to leave it for her meals ; Jeanneton appeared unhappy, and, what was more 
 singular, did not speak to Eugenie ; Monsieur Montonnet said nothing, and 
 took his cue from his wife's countenance ; and old Bidois appeared to be- 
 overwhelmed with important business, holding secret interviews with 
 Madame Montonnet, and pluming himself upon the confidence the old 
 lady reposed in him. Eugenie could not at all make out what was going 
 on. She thought her interview with Adolphe had been discovered ; but 
 then her mother would have scolded her to death, whereas she treated her 
 with silent disdain ; Jeanneton, too, did not speak one word of comfort to 
 her ; and Adolphe had not hazarded any further communication. . . . 
 Poor little dear ! She thought the whole world abandoned her, and her 
 eyes were red with weeping ; she was in despair, and made up her mind to 
 die, but nevertheless the preparations for her wedding went on without 
 cessation. 
 
 The note which Adolphe had written to Jeanneton on leaving Paris had 
 been duly delivered to her. She opened it in a pet, and, notwithstanding 
 Adolphe's protestations, she railed at him, and consigned him to perdition 
 in her own mind, for she could not pardon his being found sleeping in the 
 same bed with a ballet-girl. She had no compassion at all for the young 
 man's error, and in this she was not to blame. Jeanneton was but a thick- 
 headed, good-hearted, honest maid-of -all-work : had she been a fine lady's 
 fine maid she would have known the world better, and not have vexed her- 
 self about such a trifle as a peccadillo with a young danseuse. 
 
 However, had Jeanneton been ever so well-disposed to overlook 
 Adolphe's folly, and console Eugenie with assurances of his undying attach- 
 ment, she had not any opportunity of doing so, because she was not allowed 
 to see her young mistress except in her mother's presence. One considera- 
 
Which shows how Jeanneton gets Another Place. 10S» 
 
 tion only gave her the slightest hope, and that was that if the detestetl 
 marriage with Dupont should take place, Eugenie would want a servant,, 
 and if she could persuade the stupid grocer to engage her, they would never 
 part. She shuddered at the idea of the marriage, but at the same time- 
 dared not tell Eugenie that she had seen Adolphe asleep in Zelie's bed. 
 
 At last all the preparations were made, all the preliminaries settled, and 
 the day for the wedding positively fixed. Dupont bad made some necessary 
 purchases, and bought the jewellery for the marriage present, amongst* 
 which — true to his instinct — he had thrust several sticks of Bayonne choco- 
 late, pots of Guava jelly, bon-bons, etc. He had ordered a complete new 
 suit of clothes from the tailor ; had enjoined his barber to invent ai& 
 entirely new mode of dressing his hair on the all-important day ; and had 
 bought an additional number of seals and trinkets which were suspended to 
 his watch-chains, and made such a jingling a hundred yards off that people 
 in the street thought a horse with small bells attached to the harness was 
 coming along, and stepped on one side to avoid being run over. Duponte 
 was delighted at being noticed — a distinction which he imagined was owin^ 
 to the figure he made — and simpered graciously at the passers-by, and they 
 laughed again, not with the fool, but at him. 
 
 Up to this time the grocer rented a small apartment above his shop ;. 
 but this establishment was by no means adequate to his enlarged views and 
 the approaching change from his single blessedness, so he took the whole 
 of the first floor, and turned his attention to the purposes to which the 
 different rooms should be assigned. This was a subject with which he was 
 very little conversant, and being sorely puzzled as to the distribution of the 
 apartments, he called up two of his shopmen to aid him with their advicei 
 Now, these shopmen, whose perceptions were cast in the same mould as 
 their master's, were of opinion that each room and cabinet were peculiarly- 
 fitted for a kitchen and a water-closet, after the English fashion. Dupont 
 was precisely of the same opinion ; but as the whole of the apartments 
 could not be appropriated for these very useful domestic apurtenances, he 
 decided to consult his future mother-in-law on the momentous question^ 
 and in the meantime, caused the wainscoting to be scrubbed, and the walls 
 to be papered from top to bottom. 
 
 One morning as Dupont was about to leave on a flying visit to Madame- 
 Montonnet, Jeanneton made her appearance. The truth was that the 
 extra grace accorded to her had expired, the marriage would take place iia 
 a very few days, and as there was no time to be lost, she determined to 
 make a bold stroke in order to obtain a situation. Dupont, thinking she 
 required some article, told her to go into the shop and choose whatever she 
 liked ; whereupon Jeanneton thanked him, and opened her little strata- 
 getic diplomacy forthwith. " It is not that I come for, Monsieur," she 
 said, with a sigh. "Ina few days you will be the husband of Mademoiselle 
 Eugenie." . . . "Yes, Jeanneton ; Thursday next will be the happy day." 
 ..." I have understood so, Monsieur, and am come to instal myself in my 
 new place." . . . "Your new place ! why, what do you mean?" . . ^ 
 " That, as you and your wife will want a servant, Mademoiselle has done 
 me the honour to select me." ..." Ah, oh, I daresay you will suit us very 
 well ; you can cook, of course ?"..." Oh, yes, Monsieur, I can cook very 
 well indeed." ..." Yes ; and you are industrious, and young and pretty t 
 I like pretty faces about me. And so you are about to leave Madame 
 Montonnet ? " . . . "I would leave everybody in the world to be with 
 Ma'amselle Eugenie. I got my discharge from Madame's service on pur- 
 pose." ..." That shows your attachment to my bride. And now you are 
 here, suppose you help me, Jeanneton, in laying out these apartments. 
 
104 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 You are acquainted with Eugenie's tastes, and may suggest some altera- 
 tions that may please her. " 
 
 The servant thought it very odd that these arrangements should have 
 been postponed until the eve of the marriage, and followed Dupont in 
 silence upstairs, where he showed her with great self -approbation that the 
 walls were nearly all coloured alike, in shades of dingy, greenish brown. 
 Jeanneton thought they looked very dull and melancholy, but Dupont 
 assured her that he knew what he was about, and that he had them coloured 
 in accordance with the lines of various articles of his trade. The dining-room 
 was olive, the drawing-room chocolate, the kitchen brown sugar, and the 
 chief bedroom pistachio-nut. ..." But, Monsieur, I see only one principal 
 bedroom." . . . "Only one! What the devil should we do with two?" 
 . . . "One for — Madame, and one for yourself." . . . "How for myself? 
 Do you think I shall not sleep with my wife ?"..." Certainly, if she 
 chooses ; but she will have a chamber for herself. It's all the fashion now 
 with young wives, and is very much more convenient. You can go in and 
 out of a morning on 3 7 our business without disturbing Madame ; for you 
 know you are an early riser, and Mademoiselle gets up very late." . . . 
 il Are you sure of that ? Her mother has told me she rises with the birds." 
 ..." Yes, at present ; but you must know Mademoiselle reckons that 
 when she is married to you she shall do just what she likes." . . . " To be 
 sure she shall ; I shall not endeavour to thwart her in the least." . . . 
 "Right, Monsieur ; and you will be a happy man. But that is not all ; 
 she is subject to dreadful nervous attacks, and if you are to sleep with her 
 I am afraid they will very much increase." ..." Nervous attacks ! the 
 devil ! Madame Montonnet never said a word to me of them. You have 
 been always with her, Jeanneton, and must know best. Perhaps it will be 
 right that we should have two bedrooms. That won't prevent my — you 
 know, Jeanneton — whenever I like, eh ? " . . . " No doubt, Monsieur ; you 
 will be her husband, and you can always — " ..." Yes, to be sure. And 
 two chambers — there's something aristocratic in the idea, something like 
 high life, something grand, something — " . . . "But do not mention a 
 word about it to Madame Montonnet. If you do, she'll tell it again to 
 Eugenie, and that will take away the pleasure of the surprise." ..." Ah, 
 make yourself easy about that ; I'll be as quiet as a mouse. But, Jeanneton, 
 &> thought has struck me; the first night, eh ? — will my wife come to my bed, 
 or must I go to hers?" . . . "Oh, Monsieur, how can you ask such a 
 •question ? Of course the husband always goes to his wife ! " . . . " Yes, 
 yes, I see. I'll go to my little wife. And now you are here, set about 
 work, and apportion the rooms at once." 
 
 Delighted at the success of her stratagem, Jeanneton chose for Eugenie 
 the chamber farthest removed from that she allotted to Dupont. The 
 former had two doors, one opening from the sitting-room, and the other on 
 to a passage, which led to a small, apartment next to the kitchen, which, 
 of course, was apportioned to Jeanneton ; thus by this arrangement the 
 servant would have access to her mistress at all times, and would be at 
 hand to console her under her misery at all hours of the day or night, and 
 lend her assistance to prevent the natural consequences of this unhappy 
 ■match. 
 
 Whilst the affectionate woman was occupied in this manner at 
 Dupont's, Madame Montonnet held a long interview with her daughter, 
 announced to her that she would be positively married within three days, 
 and commanded her to give over her lamentations, for nothing on earth 
 should stop the wedding from taking place. Eugenie heard her, but did 
 net reply ; she only thought that, as she could not help it, she must go 
 
Which shoivs 7iow Jeanneton gets Another Place. 105 
 
 through the ceremony, and then she would break her heart and die. . . . 
 There 3 used to be a great many young ladies who thought the same ; but, 
 somehow or other, the numbers diminish every day. 
 
 All that night Eugenie invoked the aid of Adolphe and Jeanneton. 
 Alas, neither could hear her prayers. Adolphe was away at Senlis with 
 his dying parent, and Jeanneton was making things as comfortable as she 
 could in her new place. A new servant, ugly, and harsh, and old, had 
 succeeded her at Montonnets', and Eugenie saw at a glance that there was 
 no hope of sympathy from her. They had dismissed her faithful Jeanneton, 
 there remained now no one to whom she could speak of her Adolphe ; they 
 were trying to break her heart, and, doubtless, they would succeed. 
 
 The foflowing day the husband's present to the bride was brought to 
 the weeping girl, the rolls of chocolate, pots of tamarnds and other con- 
 fectionaries having been taken out by Madame Montonnet, who inspected 
 the contents of the basket, to prevent the introduction of any treasonable 
 devices into her household, primarily to its being conveyed upstairs. Her 
 mother, Bidois and the servant held up to the light a topaz necklace, 
 brooch and earrings, and spread out handsome shawls, rich dresses and 
 elegant lace, all of them speaking in raptures of the articles as they were 
 successively produced. Eugenie, as soon as she was left alone, pursed up 
 her lips, and threw the presents on the couch without deigning to cast 
 one look upon the worthless trumpery. ... A young girl not to be 
 delighted with her wedding gifts: she must have loved another better 
 than her intended indeed ! 
 
 These increasing indications of her mother's determination that the 
 marriage should go on appalled the young girl's heart. Still, she " hoped 
 against hope," and prayed earnestly and long that some accident might 
 intervene to delay it, if not to break it off. It seemed borne in upon her 
 mind — she could not tell why— that she should never marry the grocer. All 
 night she slept not ; at the slightest noise in the house or in the street, she 
 sprang from her bed, and listened anxiously at the window or the door to 
 hear the voice of her beloved, who, no doubt, would come, like a Paladin of 
 old, and deliver her from her wretched fate. She called for help upon the 
 god of Love, and wearied heaven with her prayers. Alas ! Love laughs at 
 the tears caused by his barbed darts ; and Providence never interferes at 
 all in such affairs ! 
 
 The day before that fixed for the wedding had arrived, and no change 
 in the relative situation of things had taken place within the lace-dealer's 
 establishment. Eugenie at last saw the impossibility of escape ; she threw 
 herself upon her knees, and said, — " All hope has left me : I must obey ; 
 they will marry me to a man whom I detest, and, as I cannot help it, they 
 will bind me, an unwilling victim, to the horns of the altar. But I swear, 
 Adolphe, that, come what will, should they marry me a thousand times, I 
 will yet be faithful to thee ; thou alone shalt ever possess my person and 
 my heart ; and when I forget thee, may Heaven punish me with instant 
 death ! " . . . Pooh ! a lovely woman should only die from excess of 
 delight. 
 
 Whilst Eugenie abandoned herself to despair in the solitude of her own 
 chamber, a very different scene was being enacted in the little parlour 
 behind the shop, where mutual congratulations were being made, and great 
 rejoicings going on at the fast approaching marriage. After a hearty fit of 
 . laughter, Madame Montonnet observed, in a triumphant tone, " that the 
 morrow would put an end to all her anxieties, and crown all her hopes for 
 her daughter's future welfare." . . . "Yes ; to-morrow," responded Mon- 
 - tonnet, taking a pinch of snuff ; and " to-morrow ! " re-echoed Bidois r 
 
106 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 rubbing his hands with an air of enjoyment, as if he had contributed' 
 mainly to the successful issue of the plan. ..." I have had considerable 
 trouble about it, nevertheless. Eor the first time in her life, my daughter 
 has placed herself in opposition to my will ; she dared to have a preference, 
 indeed ! But, thanks to Providence and my firmness of character, I soon 
 settled all that. Did she think I was going to listen to her sighs, and 
 groans, and loves, and nonsense, and stuff, when I knew what was for her 
 good ? No, no ; all will be right, and six months hence I am sure she will 
 thank me on her knees for having married her to Dupont." . . . Yes, 
 certainly, Madame ; she will acknowledge all the blessings she owes to you." 
 ..." Yes, my sweetest, she will assuredly feel — ah, Monsieur, if it had 
 depended on you, this happy marriage would never have taken place." ... 
 ** My dear, you will agree that I have not interfered with your arrange- 
 ments." . . . "You did right, for I should not have permitted it." . . . 
 Bidois remarked, in a very insinuating manner, that his vigilant watch in 
 the shop and at the door had prevented troublesome parties, who wished to 
 disturb the arrangements, from showing themselves ; for which he received 
 an approving nod from the presiding domestic deity, and an invitation to 
 be present at the ceremony. Montonnet suggested that Bidois should act 
 as the bridegroom's head-man, but he was considered to be too old for that 
 distinguished office, and told to think himself highly honoured in being 
 there at all. It was then announced by Madame that Dupont was disposed 
 to give a princely entertainment and a ball at a tavern outside "The 
 Martyrs' Gate," where there was accommodation for a hundred persons in 
 one room ; but no consideration, no flattery, no caresses could prevail 
 upon her to name the spot. Montonnet hazarded a timid guess that if it 
 was not " The Blue Sun-Dial," it must be " The Lass with the Lovely 
 Thighs," and received an awful snubbing for his pains ; and Bidois, who 
 had not the least idea of the locality, declared he knew the tavern well, 
 and that the landlord's cook was the " Soyer" of the neighbourhood. . . . 
 The conference terminated at an early hour, with an injunction that the 
 men should be full dressed in good time, and not keep the bridal pro- 
 cession waiting. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THE MAEEIAGE — THE BEIDEGEOOM'S BEEECHES — THE FIEST NIGHT. 
 
 At length the fatal day arrived when the young, the fair, the lovely 
 Eugenie was to be joined to the fat, thick-skulled Jonas Dupont : the day 
 when a girl was to be sacrificed to the riches of a man who could not love 
 — by no means a rare circumstance — a day when the bride wept and would 
 not be consoled, which is very singular indeed, for now-a-days young ladies 
 noted for submission to their parents, and having the delights attendant 
 upon a husband's wealth in their eye, accept the man trotted out for 
 them, whether ugly or handsome, and young or old, determined to have 
 their own way when once the irrevocable knot shall have been tied. Others, 
 of a quieter and more domesticated nature, listen like good girls to the sage 
 counsels of the mammas, who say, — "My dears, a husband is always a 
 husband, good or bad, and a great deal better than none at all ; besides s . 
 all these young puppies who sigh whilst they throw sheep's-eyes at you, 
 
The Marriage — The Bridegroom's Breeches. 107" 
 
 squeeze your hands warmly, and say all manner of soft things, have bw 
 intention of marrying, and only court you that they may boast of their con- 
 quests, or for the gratification of their own desires without the encumbran۩ 
 of the nuptial bonds." . . . The daughters obey : for the mammas are vary 
 often right. 
 
 Eugenie had no such suspicions of Adolphe ; she knew that his inten- 
 tions were honourable, that he sought no greater felicity than to beeo-natr 
 her husband, and that if he did not marry her it would not be his faai&r 
 That was the reason why she thought only of him : that was the reason - 
 why she wept, and would not be comforted at the idea of being marrietl 
 to another ; that was the reason she could not, like most others, console 
 herself with the anticipation of making ducks and drakes of her husband'© 
 wealth, and so give up an honest, sensible, devoted, faithful lover. . . »■■ 
 Those lovers are very rare indeed ! 
 
 The sun of the marriage morn, which usually rises so bright and gay 
 in the eyes of the expectant bride, that sun which she wished might ever' 
 be eclipsed in darkness and obscurity, appeared to the despairing Eugenie- 
 as sombre as deep night. Her last hope vanished as her young frientls 
 called on the maid, " while yet the day that term allowed," to leave her bed 
 and let them in. She obeyed mechanically, and permitted her hair to b& 
 arranged, her dress put on, her necklace and other ornaments to be taste- 
 fully disposed by busy, friendly hands without uttering a word. She ceul«f '' 
 not speak : the iron had entered too deeply in her soul. 
 
 At every moment the happy bridesmaids exclaimed, — " What lovely 
 jewels! oh, what a beautiful dress! how beautiful she looks!" What 
 cared Eugenie about her beauty ! Adolphe was not there to see her, 
 Beautiful ! She would have preferred being so foul and ugly that Duponfc 
 should have cast her from him, and refused her proffered hand. Her dress 
 being completed, the " bride's hat," so important an habiliment in France,, 
 was placed upon her head. The poor girl shuddered as the fatal symbol- 
 touched her brow : her heart swelled, her bosom heaved and sunk like th©- 
 waves of the sea after the subsidence of a furious storm, and the scalding' 
 tears poured down her pale and attenuated cheeks. The bridesmaids 
 stared at her in dismay, not knowing what to make of such an unaccus- 
 tomed sight, and the kind-hearted girls wept in concert with the broken- 
 hearted bride until Madame Montonnet appeared. 
 
 They all knew the sternness of her character, and, as if by magic, theis" 
 composure was restored. Eugenie dried her tears, even at that moment- 
 dreading the displeasure of her mother, and received a compliment on her 
 punctuality, accompanied with a cold, Judas kiss. Montonnet felt somewh&fc 
 like a parent on the occasion, but the impulse of his heart was checked by 
 the frigidity of his hard wife. He embraced his daughter tenderly. " Yois 
 look like an angel," he said. " Go ; I pray God you may be happy ; mar- 
 riage is a delightful state, and you will come back and tell us so when yora 
 have once tasted its sweets. Dupont will adore you, because — " Mob- 
 tonnet got no further : his wife pulled the skirt of his coat, and those pulls, 
 invariably put a dead stop to the poor man's intended speech. 
 
 The grocer aroused the whole household from their rest as early as five 
 o'clock in the morning. The first thing he did was to take a bath, to be - 
 rubbed down from head to foot, and then to be shaved and have his wig; 
 new dressed. From that time till breakfast he did nothing but run in and ; 
 out of every room of his apartments, and admire himself in the mirrors j 
 he called Jeanneton and the shopmen a hundred times for nothing at alL 
 and what was more — for the first time since he had been in business — he- 
 forgot to ask for the list of the current prices of sugar, coffee, and other' 
 
108 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 groceries. Whilst running hither and thither, and throwing all the furni- 
 ture of the apartments into disorder, Jeanneton reminded him that it was 
 time to finish his toilet and put on the whole of his new suit ; so the grocer 
 rushed upstairs, pulled open a drawer, took out and admired over and over 
 again a black coat, breeches and waiscoat, a pair of white silk stockings, 
 and a pair of pumps with silver buckles. Nothing, he thought, was want- 
 ing in his costume to make him an Adonis, and he forthwith commenced 
 to don his clothes. 
 
 The coat and waistcoat fitted extremely well, but the breeches were so 
 
 ( tight that the muscles of the grocer's thighs projected in large bumps. 
 '* The devil take the breeches," he cried, after he had crammed himself into 
 them as well as he could ; " my thighs feel as if they were cramped in a 
 vice. The breeches certainly sit beautifully, not a crease in them, but I 
 can't move for fear of cracking them. I feel like a hog in armour.' . . . 
 Dupont called to Jeanneton and the shopmen to be witnesses of his splen- 
 dour. ..." How do you like my dress ?"..." Superb, Monsieur ! " . 
 "And my wig?' . . . "Admirable!" . . . "A little bit tight in the 
 breeches when you walk," said the maid. ..." Hum ! Why, yes ; the 
 breeches certainly do pinch me a little, but they'll get easier by-and-by. They 
 are the only black pair I have, and I think I know what is due to the usages 
 of society too well to put on a white or canary pair on my wedding-day. But 
 give me my gloves and my hat, and the bouquet : that's it. Are the three 
 carriages at the door ?"..." Yes, Monsieur." ..." Have the coach- 
 men bouquets in the breasts of their coats ?'..." Yes, Monsieur." . . . 
 *' And the horses ; have they bouquets, too ? " . . . "No, Monsieur ; it is 
 aiofc usual to have them." . . . "Never mind that ; it shall be so to-day, 
 so see that the horses have bouquets of flowers at each of their ears and their 
 tails. I'll let the neighbours see what a dash I cut. I don't get married 
 every day, and I'll make them talk of my wedding for years and years to 
 come. My, Joseph, and buy some bunches of orange trees with flowers, 
 and tie them to the side of the horses' ears, and affix bunches of 'Im- 
 mortals ' to their tails. I'll have things done like the Grand Bashan. 
 Shut the shop, boys, at four o'clock, and come to the ball I mean to give. 
 You shall dance till six o'clock in the morning if you like. You, Jeanneton, 
 will remain to take care of the house, but eat, drink and be happy. See 
 that all is ready for me and my little duck at night, and particularly that 
 
 . all is right in her own room. You are acquainted with what she likes, and 
 her wishes must be consulted. " 
 
 When the floral arrangements of the sorry nags that drew the hired 
 coaches were completed, Dupont descended the stairs and walked to the 
 shop door. He inspected the outward appearance of the three carriages 
 which were in attendance, and smiled blandly on the neighbours, the 
 passers-by, and the young scamps of boys playing in the street, who had 
 collected at seeing such a very unusual sight in the Rue aux Ours. Proud 
 of the immense sensation he had created, he entered the carriages one after 
 the other, tried the springs — not without some trepidation as to the effects 
 of the motion over the stones on the breeches — and having selected one as 
 most worthy of his new-fledged dignity, seated himself in state, and gave 
 the word to march. The bridegroom's coach came first, followed by the 
 two others, and the calvacade trotted briskly away, amidst the shouts and 
 derisive laughter of the folks in the streets, who, as yet, had never seen 
 liorses with bouquets at their ears and at their tails. 
 
 As the coaches passed onwards, Dupont was in an ecstasy of delight 
 .from the hurrahs of the mob at the very extraordinary appointment of the 
 liorses. Loud cries of astonishment, and exclamations of contempt for the* 
 
The Marriage — The Bridegroom's Breeches, 109 
 
 poor fool who had thus made an ass of himself, were heard on every side. 
 The grocer, who thought they were intended to testify admiration, lowered 
 the front glass of the coach, telling the coachman to drive faster, and he 
 should be rewarded for his pains ; and the latter, hearing the pleasing in- 
 telligence, and revelling already in imagination in sundry pots of beer, 
 cracked his whip, and lashed the horses into a gallop, whilst the poor 
 beasts, stimulated by the friction of the orange branches against their ears, 
 and the thumping of the " Immortals " against their quarters, partook 
 somewhat of Dupont's frenzy, and traversed the streets at — for them — a 
 very unusual pace. 
 
 One only obtrusive thought troubled the mad grocer's mind : the damn- 
 able breeches would not let him move an inch. How was he to dance ? 
 He could not lift a leg, and as to throwing them here and there and up and 
 down in the quadrilles, that was totally out of the question. Like the 
 sword of Damocles, the infernal breeches, metaphorically speaking, were 
 suspended o'er his head. The horses were pulled up at the residences of 
 several of the relatives of the bride and bridegroom who had been invited 
 to become witnesses of the ceremonies, both municipal and religious ; 
 and when the party arrived at Montonnet's house, the coaches were filled 
 with uncles, aunts and cousins to the hundred and fiftieth degree. The 
 good laceman thought the equipages were delightful ; Madame Montonnefc 
 declared that the " Immortals " and the orange boughs were the very acme 
 of taste ; and Monsieur Gerard, who, with his family, formed a portion of 
 the guests, said nothing could be better than the whole turn-out. Made- 
 moiselle Cecilia bit her lips, and said'nothing ; notwithstanding her schemes, 
 the grocer's money-bags had evaded her avaricious grasp. 
 
 Montonnet welcomed his visitors as a contented father-in-law always 
 does ; but it was soon observed that the number present was so large, with, 
 the fresh arrivals, that the three carriages provided by the bridegroom would 
 not hold them all, and that somebody must proceed to the Maire, and subse- 
 quently to the church, on foot. Bidois was the first man selected to form 
 one of the pedestrian party. . . . "Of course," he said, " it's all my old 
 luck ; I must go in the mud whoever rides. It would havefbeen much 
 better to have hired another coach than to have stuck those stupid flowers- 
 on those horses' rumps. I shouldn't wonder if the boys were to hoot at us 
 for spooneys and guys all the way." 
 
 Compliments, good wishes, congratulations were uttered, " thick as- 
 leaves in Vallombrosa ; " but Eugenie remained motionless, seated on a- 
 form against the wall ; and if a kind word were spoken to her, she only 
 acknowledged by gently inclining her head. The amorous barber risked a- 
 broad joke or two on the event ; for it is to be remarked, as a very curious- 
 anomaly, that although marriage is one of the most solemn institutions on 
 this earth, and one involving the future happiness or misery of two human 
 beings, and perhaps the immortality of their souls, there is no occasion 
 whatever on which more unbounded licence is given to pleasantry and fun. 
 The witty Beaumarchais has said, — " Of all serious things, marriage is the 
 most* ludicrious." Perhaps that is the reason why the Trench treat 
 manages in such a lively way. 
 
 Eugenie paid no attention to the badinage that was going on around 
 her ; from time to time she gazed earnestly through a window that looked 
 into the street, as if she expected to see some one pass, then dropped her 
 eyes dejectedly, and with a stifled sigh. Mademoiselle Cecilia marked the 
 victim's anxious regards, and spitefully and ironically called the attention 
 of the company to the joy that sparkled in the young bride's face. 
 
 With the greatest difficulty — owing to the accursed breeches — Dupont 
 
110 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ,~jaaa£r£ved to descend from the vehicle, and entered the back parlour with 
 tha air of a man who had subdued the world, but by no means with the 
 ^sit. He advanced with mincing steps, of six inches at the utmost, to claim 
 t&.e bride ; she stirred not. Her mother bade her stand up, in a whisper of 
 £&e greatest rage, and placed her cold, clammy hand in that of Dupont's ; 
 fee lout received it with a nod, and tried to remember a speech he had 
 si&de for the occaison, but he broke down at the first three words, and 
 g&ood still in the middle of the room, amidst the suppressed titter of his 
 -fEcesds, holding Eugenie's hand, and grinning like an ape. 
 
 Madame Montonnet cast another sly, threatening glance at her immo- 
 Jb£ed daughter — immolated at the shrine of Plutus — and moved towards 
 tlae door. Dupont handed Eugenie to the first carriage, and the company 
 iffiH mounted with the exception of Bidois, Dupont's two shopmen, two of 
 lUes male cousins, and young Gerard. As it had rained hard all the morn- 
 lag, and there was consequently much mud in the streets, these men held a 
 s-sssultation as to whether it would not be advisable to take a hackney- 
 <23acSi. The resolution was carried unanimously, and the only difficulty in 
 tcaorying it out was the procuring the necessary funds. The two cousins 
 jpsesesated sixpence each ; the shopmen declared they had not a single sou ; 
 ytmng Gerard had nothing but marbles in his pockets ; and Bidois, having 
 -jelled out a silver threepenny piece, turned it over and over again, eyeing 
 it; wistfully all the time, then returned it to his pocket, and said it would 
 fe better to walk. The amendment was carried, the original resolution 
 rescinded, and the rear of the procession followed the carriages afoot. 
 
 The bridal party repaired to the office of the registrar of the district, 
 -wliere they waited half an hour for that functionary ; for, in a populous 
 :aiy. there are always so many births, marriages and deaths to be attended 
 -&?, that this important public officer can never be sure of his time. . . . 
 *Tk& world is like a vast magic lantern, wherein mortals appear and dis- 
 sjspear ; births, marriages and deaths give way alternately to one another. 
 
 Having concluded the civil ceremony at the registrar's, they proceeded 
 <6& Saint Nicholas to receive the nuptial benediction from Holy Mother 
 &kizrdk. A great crowd had assembled within the sacred edifice, because 
 £jke Montonnets had extensive acquaintances in the Rue Saint Martin, and 
 everybody knew the grocer in the Rue aux Ours ; besides, the general 
 ^elegance of the cortege and the extraordinary caparisons of the animals who 
 gSs&m the coaches had attracted a number of persons passing in the streets, 
 sasd excited their curiosity to behold the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
 Dupont was greatly vexed that his coach could not be driven into the 
 tsedjr of the church. That would have been a very superb spectacle indeed ; 
 fJKssfc as it could not possibly be, he was obliged to content himself with 
 flighting outside, which he did with every precaution, to prevent an acci- 
 «glen6 happening to the black silk breeches. When his rotund figure was 
 sesea on the pavement, the crowd burst into fits of laughter ; but the merri- 
 •SBsent ceased the moment the wretched bride appeared, and they instantly 
 gpiezsed what was passing in her heart. Her eyes were full of tears — not 
 &2feose of joy which the tender virgin sheds when she plights her troth to 
 €ise object of her choice, but those bitter drops which spring from violated 
 i jgJlections and a broken heart ; she reeled from side to side as she slowly 
 talked, or rather was dragged, to the altar, and all around sincerely pitied 
 the poor girl in their hearts. 
 
 In passing through the crowd that lined the aisle, she looked timidly 
 , around, thinking it possible she might see Adolphe ; but he was at Senlis 
 -miih the invalid, happily for his peace of mind, profoundly ignorant of what 
 -ssas taking place. ..." He is not here," she thought ; " he knew he could 
 
The Marriage — Tlie Bridegroom's Breeches. Ill 
 
 not help me, and was unwilling to become a witness of the cruel sacrifice. 
 Kind Adolphe, he felt that the sight of him would have unnerved me, and 
 in pity to me he has stopped away." 
 
 Far different to the bride, Dupont, despite the breeches, tried to walk 
 with a free-and-easy swagger. He- rattled his chains and seals, lifted his 
 head on high, and looked on the bystanders with an air half devil-may-care, 
 half piteous, for the unhappy breeches made him sweat, and pull horrible 
 faces, which he endeavoured to disguise with a smile, which was meant to 
 say, — " Look at me, my boys, and behold the happy man who is about to 
 rejoice in such a beautiful young wife ! " 
 
 The priest was ready at the altar, the parties took the places pointed 
 out to them, and the ceremony commenced. Old Montonnet wept outright ; 
 his wife pumped up a few crocodile tears. Eugenie, pale as death, went 
 through the sacrifice mechanically, and Dupont did pretty well, although 
 he felt the pangs of purgatory as he knelt down ; but as he was rising with 
 the greatest difficulty from his knees, a loud report was heard, and the 
 bridegroom felt that the infernal breeches had burst just between his legs. 
 What if the rent should be seen ? He lost all self-possession, and when the 
 priest put the question whether he would love and cherish his wife through 
 life, he replied, in a low, muttered tone, — " Damnation take the breeches ! 
 I was sure they would be too tight." Luckily the officiating minister 
 attributed his emotion to the feelings natural on such occasions, and made 
 no remark. Dupont took out his handkerchief and held it over the rent ; 
 but when they arrived at the portion of the service where it became 
 necessary that he should put the ring on the finger of his bride, he shook 
 like an aspen-leaf, and, being compelled to use both his hands, he pressed 
 his thighs tightly together to keep the handkerchief in its place ; and no- 
 body could guess whence his embarrassment arose. 
 
 In due time the ceremony was at an end, and the church must be 
 traversed in face of the bystanders, who now had all their eyes upon 
 Dupont. He gave one hand to his bride, still holding the handkerchief 
 with the other over the execrable rent. Everybody was in amazement, 
 and numerous were the conjectures as to the cause of this most strange 
 behaviour. The young girls laughed in their sleeves, and turned away their 
 heads, pretending to be shocked ; the young men laughed loudly, and made 
 some excellent jokes ; and the old men whispered to each other, — " That 
 fellow has done well to marry such a pretty girl ; but what the deuce is he 
 hiding with his handkerchief ? " whilst old Montonnet, seeing, by a nudge 
 and a sign from Bidois, the singular manoeuvre of his son-in-law, directed 
 his wife's attention to it, and said, — " My love, of a certainty Dupont must 
 be desperately in love with Eugenie ; what a capital husband he will make 
 her, to be sure." But Madame Montonnet, who was acting the kind, 
 desponding mother, desperately cut up at parting from her own loved 
 child, gave him a dig with her elbow in the ribs, and muttered, — " It's to 
 be hoped that won't last all day long. What on earth will the poor fellow 
 do until the night ? " . . . The bride was the only person in the church 
 who had not noticed the mishap. 
 
 The company regained the carriages, which were directed to the tavern 
 outside the Martyrs' Gate. The bridegroom, as is usual, was not in the 
 same vehicle with his bride, and found himself accompanied by nobody but 
 young female cousins and old aunts, to whose congratulations he was totally 
 inattentive, being entirely occupied with thinking how he should get the 
 crack in his breeches repaired. He still continued to hold his handkerchief 
 over the same spot, until at length the oddity of the proceeding suggested 
 some extraordinary ideas to the immaculate minds both of the gay young 
 
112 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 cousins and the prim old aunts. The latter, when they thought themsdves- 
 unseen by the younger branches of the family tree, bit their lips, looked 
 significantly at each other, and gave some natural sighs to the reminiscences 
 of the days and nights of their hot youth ; and the young ladies, who were 
 dying to laugh but dared not — no doubt, as they were all unmarried, it was 
 only at the bridegroom's doleful looks — persuaded themselves it was all in the 
 natural order of things, and always expected of a husband on a wedding day. 
 
 At length they arrived at the suburban tavern, where they were received 
 by the landlord, the head-cook, the under-cook and all the sculliers, mar- 
 shalled in due order, as a bridal party of parallel importance had never 
 honoured the hostelrie with their presence before. The company alighted, 
 were shown into the best drawing-room, and Monsieur Gerard proposed 
 they they should have a game of romps before the dinner was served. 
 Eugenie, under pretence of a violent headache, excused herself from 
 mingling in the sport ; but the grocer was not permitted to absent him- 
 self from the pleasures of the fete. From the moment he entered the 
 house, he pursued all the servant girls, with the purpose of asking them to- 
 mend his breeches ; but some were too much occupied in preparing the 
 banquet to listen for a moment to his complaints, and others hid their 
 faces and ran away when he indicated the precise locality of the accident, 
 so that he felt himself under the disagreeable necessity of taking part in 
 "Blindman's Buff," "Love's Bridge," and "The Maiden's Little Box," with 
 the everlasting handkerchief between his thighs. 
 
 The guests couldn't conceal their wonder any longer ; they looked hard at 
 Dupont, raised their shoulders, laughed and whispered to each other. The 
 men said, — " What can be the matter with the fool ? " . . . " There's 
 something under that handkerchief ! " exclaimed the women. Bidois was 
 of opinion that the grocer must have swallowed a bottle of his own detest- 
 able extract of vanilla in the morning, and had the gripes ; the young men 
 thought it was unfortunate for the poor devil that night had not yet 
 arrived ; and Mademoiselle Cecilia regretted that she had missed her prey, 
 and thought what a dear, delightful, model husband the grocer would have 
 made. 
 
 Madame Montonnet heard the whispers and the jeers, and, seeing that 
 Dupont was the butt of the general jokes, determined to put an end to 
 them, and know what the secret of the pocket-handkerchief really was. 
 She beckoned to Dupont to follow, and having left the room and entered ara 
 adjoining ante-chamber, she was joined immediately by the grocer, wonder- 
 ing what his mother-in-law could have to say to him all alone, and in that 
 mysterious manner. The old lady experienced considerable difficulty in 
 approaching a subject of that delicate nature ; she assumed an air of 
 great gravity, looked at the grocer sternly in the face, glanced her eyes- 
 down his person to the offending portion, lifted them quickly, placed her 
 hand before her face, and coughed. Dupont stared at her in astonishment,, 
 not comprehending her pantomime in the least ; but there she stood, cough- 
 ing and frowning, and shaking her head ominously, until he begged most 
 respectfully that she would leave off imitating the mandarin figures in his 
 shop, and explain herself more explicitly than by hums, and ha's, and 
 bows. 
 
 Thus pressed, Madame Montonnet plunged into the subject at once. . . . 
 " All that I have seen, my son, during the last hour and a half appears 
 very extraordinary — very extraordinary indeed." . . . "Lord help me, 
 mother-in-law, what extraordinary object have you seen ? " . . . " All the 
 company- observed it as well as myself ; it caused them to titter, and gave 
 rise to jokes, and ideas of a certain kind, — you understand 1 I know such 
 
The Marriage — The Bridegroom! s Breeches, 11$ 
 
 things cannot be entirely avoided on a man's wedding-day, but it must be 
 done away with — indeed it must ; it is not yet time ; you just put an end 
 to it, my son." ..." Upon my word," replied the grocer, who had listened 
 to his mother-in-law's remarks with all his ears j " upon my honour, I don't 
 comprehend the meaning of one single word you have been saying." . . * 
 " Come, come, that's rather too strong ; you understand me well enough. 
 I tell you all the guests have remarked it ; why, at this very moment, sir, 
 your hand is upon it ! " . . . " Bless my heart, then you really think the* 
 company must have seen it ? " . . . " No doubt, sir, and that is what I 
 have been trying to make you understand for the last half-hour." . . . 
 " But, mother-in-law, I can't help it ; it's not at all my fault." ..." No 
 doubt, my son, but — " ... "I did all I could to prevent it, but it will be 
 so in spite of myself." . . . "You must take some means of stopping ifc 
 directly." ... " To be sure, Madame ; and as you are here, if you would 
 be so kind as to assist me ; it won't take more than a minute to set it 
 right." 
 
 " Monsieur Dupont ! " Madame Montonnet exclaimed, stepping back' 
 aghast, and drawing herself up with dignity ; " Monsieur Dupont ! how' 
 dare you make such a scandalous proposition to me ! Are you in your 
 senses, and do you know what you are saying ? I am disposed to think 
 you were only in fun, but still those sort of jokes should not be played on 
 me." ..." My dear mother, I had not the slightest intention of offending' 
 you ; but what can I do ? Ever since we have been here I have been 
 running after the servant girls, and not one of them will help me in this- 
 little job." ..." What do I hear ! Running after the servant girls ; and 1 
 on your wedding-day, too ! Monsieur Dupont, you are a bad man. I am 
 ashamed of you. Fie, fie, I never could have thought it." . . . "But/ 
 mother — " ..." Running after girls, indeed, it's abominable ! Try some 
 other means, sir ; ask for a private room, send for a bucket of cold pump- 
 water, and sit upon the hearth-stone." . . . "What, what," said the grocer, 
 now driven to despair ; " what the devil should I do with a bucket of water 
 to mend my breeches ? See, look at this rent." . . . Dupont removed his 
 handkerchief, Madame Montonnet shut her eyes with a faint scream, 
 opened them again with great philosophy, and became aware of her mistake, 
 
 " Dear me, dear me, what fools all of us have been ! Bless me, what a 
 tear ! Why did you not speak of it before, instead of letting the people 
 suppose all sorts of horrid things ? I will sew it up for you. Poor fellow, 
 how they have wronged you. I thought you were incapable. Oh, this 
 wicked, wicked world ! " 
 
 The old lady ran off to seek for a needle and some silk, speedily returned, 
 and set about sewing up the rent. The work was soon accomplished, for' 
 Dupont, delighted to find his torments were at length terminated, stood 
 stock-still, one foot firm on the floor, and the other on a chair, whilstr 
 Madame Montonnet, angry with herself at having entertained improper 
 suspicions of her son-in-law, was anxious to testify her regret for her fault, 
 stitched away, at times evading a too close contact of the grocer's person 
 with her hand, and all the while muttering anathemas against the wicked 
 ideas of the world. 
 
 The work was finished, the envious rent was efficiently repaired. 
 Dupont breathed freely at his ease, replaced his handkerchief in his pocket? 
 and proposed to rejoin the company, who, no doubt, would be wondering at 
 their prolonged absence. Hand-in-hand they entered the room. All eyes 
 were instantly directed to the grocer's breeches, and when it was seen that? 
 the fatal handkerchief was removed, and there was no occasion for any 
 further concealment of the lowest portion of the abdominal regions, very 
 
 H 
 
114 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 odd conjectures were formed as to what Dupont and Madame Montonnefr 
 had been doing so long out of the room together. The old lady marked the 
 eneers, and knew well to what they were attributable. She saw that an 
 .explanation of her absence was necessary, so she advanced with a haughty 
 step into the centre of the company, and detailed the adventure of " the 
 breeches." 
 
 Dupont threw himself into an attitude, which he flattered himself was 
 that of the Apollo Belvidere, whilst the ladies assured themselves by ocular 
 inspection that the story of the rent was true ; and as the landlord entered 
 immediately afterwards, aud announced that dinner was served, they re- 
 paired to the dining-room with good appetites and light hearts, and the 
 tight breeches were forgotten for the nonce. 
 
 All placed themselves at table by the side of the companions they had 
 selected for the day. Eugenie, as a matter of course, being placed opposite 
 her husband, that he might feast his eyes with the contemplation of those 
 charms, in a few fleet hours to be yielded up to his possession. How long 
 the odious day appeared to the miserable girl, and how she longed for the 
 minute she might retire, and bewail her lot unseen ! But as yet she must 
 restrain the feelings of her bursting heart, she must conceal her grief, and 
 try to eat ; but the effort was too great for her, and the savoury morsels 
 were left untasted on the plate. The perfumer, who sat next her, pressed 
 her in vain to eat and drink ; and recollecting the kicks under the table on 
 the day of the betrothal, and her fainting in his arms, he attributed her 
 despondency to her unhappy passion for him, squinted at her tenderlyj and 
 promised himself the fulfilment of his amorous wishes at some future period, 
 when Madame Montonnet's jealous watch over her daughter should have 
 ceased. 
 
 The rest of the guests consumed the viands and drank the wines placed 
 before them, careless of all things save the pleasures of the table. Bidois, 
 who was seated at the lower end between a young girl and a boy, always 
 asked for portions for three, and gave his little neighbours only as much as 
 would be good for their health ; and Mademoiselle Cecilia, malignant as 
 ever, whenever she could get a word in in the confusion of tongues, spite- 
 fully directed the attention of the company to the mournful aspect of the 
 bride. Dupont ate enough for six — caring naught for the breeches ; Mon- 
 tonnet imitated his son-in-law as well as he could ; his wife did her best to 
 animate the society, and several young fellows strove hard to excite laughter 
 with their puns and jokes ; but nevertheless a certain dulness hung over the 
 party at the commencement of the repast. Towards the end, the champagne 
 and other wines contributed their wonted share to the enlivening of the 
 guests. The men talked louder, the ladies became more affectionate by 
 drinking each other's healths, the grocer kept eternally vociferating " how 
 happy we are," and when the dessert was placed on the table, no individual 
 voice could be heard above the Babel-like chaos that prevailed. 
 
 Monsieur Gerard, seated by the side of a pretty little fair married woman, 
 •with whom he had fallen in love, proposed singing, for he had an idea he 
 was great in his roulades. Dupont took up the idea, because he had 
 written, as he said, some verses applicable to the day, and in honour of his 
 bride, which he intended to inflict on the company himself ; but, as he was 
 about to start off, and had given some preparatory hems, Mademoiselle 
 Oecili : remarked that at all marriages the post of honour was conceded to 
 the br de, therefore it would be for Madame Dupont — dwelling maliciously 
 on the word — to begin. Madame Montonnet saw through the scheme at 
 once, and asserted that her daughter never did sing. Mademoiselle thought 
 she had heard Madame Dupont sing at the fete of Saint Eustache, in the 
 
Hie Marriage — The Bridegroom's Breeches. 115 
 
 wood of Eomainville, and the mother, driven in on her defences, asserted 
 that Eugenie, at any rate, had lost her voice through the trouble, the fatigue, 
 the emotions of the day. Eugenie let them clatter and skirmish as they 
 would. All she did was to sigh when the word Dupont grated on her 
 ears. 
 
 Several ladies and gentlemen were then requested to favour the company 
 with a song, whereupon it was a singular coincidence that the greatest 
 portion of them had taken cold all at once, and others had forgotten the 
 words of all of the songs they had ever known. It was evident that none 
 of them could possibly oblige their friends, when Madame Montonnet cut 
 short the difficulty by ordering her husband to sing at once. Now, this 
 had been foreseen in the morning, and the laceman had been forbidden to 
 attempt anything verging upon a double-entendre, consequently he squeaked 
 out a drinking song, with the voice of a penny trumpet, and was followed 
 by Gerard, with " Oh, Richard, oh, my King," which abounded with roulades 
 and cadences and shakes, and was therefore his battle-horse on all state 
 occasions. 
 
 When the singing was set fairly agoing by the two men, the song went 
 merrily round ; the old aunts, the young cousins, the more distant relatives, 
 all sang in their turns till it came at last to Dupont. He fumbled in his 
 pocket for the verses said to be written by him, but as he could not find 
 them, and protested he knew them by heart, he said he would not detain 
 his visitors, but begin. The attempt was made, and a lamentable failure it 
 proved. Finding that the first verse had slipped from his memory, he 
 proposed to go on with the second, and fall back upon the first afl&wards, 
 and silence being again obtained, he ejaculated, in a voice shaking with 
 fear, — 
 
 " Dearest, I do love you 
 
 From the bottom of my heart ; 
 Hear the vows I make you 
 Before that we do part." 
 
 And all the company joined in with a thundering chorus of Mirliton, ton, 
 ton, tara, mirliton, ton, ton, ton, ton, ta. 
 
 Old Montonnet, who had been applying himself sedulously to the bottle 
 during the repast, was now somewhat excited, and disposed to be critical. 
 He said the tune was all very well, and the chorus undeniable, but for the 
 life of him he could not understand the meaning of the words, nor what the 
 vows were that the grocer made to his wife ; and in the course of the 
 dispute which ensued, from Dupont supporting the reputation of his song, 
 and Montonnet impeaching it, the waiters seized the opportunity of carry- 
 ing off the half -emptied bottles of wine, the female servants did the same 
 with the plates of fruit, ices and cakes, the kitchen lads regaled themselves 
 with the remnants in the dishes, two violins and a clarionet were scraping 
 and blowing to get into tune for the ball, the passengers in the street 
 stopped to listen to the noise inside the house, and Eanfan Gerard was 
 scrambling about under the table on all fours, seeking for the bride's 
 garter, which belonged to him of rights, as the youngest of the bride- 
 groom's men. 
 
 For the information of our country friends, and readers, it may be stated 
 here that on occasions of marriages amongst the Paris tradesmen in the 
 station of our friends, it is customary to affix a gay ribbon to the bride's leg ; 
 the youngest attendant on the bridegroom, after the dinner, which is given 
 at the wedding as a matter of course, goes under the table with his eyes shut 
 
116 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 and gropes about until he finds the ribbon, which, if he finds, he carries off' 
 in triumph as his property. . . . Now, Madame Montonnet had an idea 
 that this custom was derogatory to proper modesty, and had not attached 
 a ribbon to her daughter's leg. The consequence was, that Fanfan's 
 lengthened promenade under the table had not been productive of any 
 other pleasing result than showing him the proportions of several very 
 pretty ankles and well-turned legs. 
 
 It so happened that the pretty little fair woman smiled graciously on 
 the gallant Gerard, and did not seem displeased at his suit. This em- 
 boldened the perfumer, who plied her with compliments, and leers and 
 sighs whenever his wife was not looking at him, although he did not 
 think it expedient to risk a verbal declaration of his love, even amidst the 
 noisy chattering that was going on. He was determined, however, to 
 press his good fortune, so leaving the room quietly, he went below, scribbled 
 an amorous note to the blonde, informing her that his heart would be 
 desolate without her love, returned into the dining-room, reseated himself' 
 quietly by his inamorata, and, watching a favourable opportunity, slipped 
 his billet-doux under the cherry-coloured ribbon that encircled the fair 
 lady's waist. The young woman trembled at her neighbour's audacity. 
 She feared she should be exposed, and that invidious remarks would be 
 made. She did not know what to do with the note ; she was in an agony 
 of uncertainty whether to keep it or to give it back ; but at last she gently 
 untied her sash, pinned the billet to it, rolled it up, and placed it under her 
 thigh as #he sat, with the intention of removing the ribbon when she should 
 not be siren, and reading the gratifying billet at her ease. 
 
 Fanfan had now got tired of his quadrupedal mode of progression, and 
 was about to come from under the table, when his eye was attracted by the 
 cherry- coloured ribbon under the little lady's thigh. He made no doubt 
 that it was the garter which ought to have been affixed to the leg, caught 
 hold of it, jumped up and cried he had found the garter of the bride. 
 Madame Montonnet thought it was very strange that Eugenie should have 
 complied with the universal custom after she had told her not to do so. 
 All the men demanded that it should be shown to them ; and Fanfan 
 unrolled the sash, pricking his fingers to the bone with the pin as he did 
 so, and found the perfumer's billet-doux at the end. ... "I' faith, here's 
 a bit of paper," he shouted. ... "A paper ! " said the ladies. . . . 
 Cecilia smelt mischief in the wind, and eagerly remarked there was writing 
 on it. . . . The blonde saw it was her waist-ribbon with dismay, and 
 whispered to Gerard that he had destroyed her reputation. Gerard saw it 
 was his declaration, but comforted himself with the recollection that he had 
 not signed it, and that, as he had written it with a skewer of a pen his 
 handwriting would not be recognised. 
 
 What was to be done. . . . Madame Montonnet took the initiative, 
 and asked her daughter with dignity whether the garter belonged to her ? 
 . . . Eugenie replied in the negative, and languidly remarked that it was 
 not a garter, but a waist-band. ... " Right, right," all said with one 
 voice ; " what lady has lost her waist-band ? " . . . All felt themselves 
 immediately, and each declared that hers was on, Gerard's fair neighbour 
 being particularly energetic in tapping her waist, hiding it all the while 
 with a dinner-napkin. The next thing was to ascertain what the contents 
 of the note were. The grocer was of opinion that the whole affair was a 
 very pretty device, and the paper would be found to contain some lines 
 complimentary to his nuptials. He proposed himself to make them known, 
 but as he was about to open the billet, with an important " Humph," Gerard 
 snatched it out of his hands and pretended to read 3 — 
 
The Marriage — Hie Bridegroom! s Breeches. 117 
 
 " * Sweet are Hymen's rosy fetters 
 
 To the souls of those who love." . . . 
 
 "*' That's all," he said, tearing the paper in two, and throwing it into the 
 £ve adroitly, relieving his fair neighbour's mind, and binding her to him for 
 ■ever. . . . Fear is more powerful than attachment ! . . . All were 
 astonished that there was so little in the note. The laceman said the 
 .lines did not rhyme ; Dupont asserted they were blank verse ; Madame 
 M ontonnet decided that the sentiment was pure ; and Bidois said the 
 billet smelt damnably of orange-flower water and musk. . . . The last 
 -observation and the fixed regard of the old clerk rather embarrassed 
 JSlonsieur Gerard ; but luckily at that moment the tuning of the clarionet 
 .and the two violins was heard again, and the guests left the table and 
 ^prepared for the ball. 
 
 The fair lady remained in the dining-room until all had quitted except 
 lierself and Gerard. She feared that the loss of her waist-band would be 
 remarked and observations made ; and after various plans were canvassed 
 .and rejected, it was arranged that she should feign to be taken ill, call for 
 a chamber-maid to unlace her stays, and under these circumstances the 
 ribbon would not be missed. Madame Dufour — that was the name of 
 the blonde — walked towards the dancing-room, uttered a scream on the 
 stairs, fainted away, was conveyed to a bedchamber, where she received 
 every attention, and was very unwell for a long time, perfectly at her 
 -ease. 
 
 The ball went on all the same without her, as gaily as if there had not 
 been any such person in existence, but Eugenie resisted every invitation — 
 her husband not excepted — to stand up, to the great astonishment of all 
 the young ladies, who could not conceive it was possible for a girl to be 
 married and not dance. Bidois thought so too ; but then this marriage was 
 -an exception to the general rule. 
 
 In order to make up for his wife's deficiency in her offerings to Ter- 
 psichore, Dupont judged it necessary to dance enough for six, until his seals 
 and chains bounded up and down, his crown-pieces jingled in his pockets, 
 and he was compelled to desist from sundry misgivings as to the offending 
 breeches. At the end of the first set of quadrilles, Madame Dufour's 
 .absence was remarked, inquiries were instantly made as to where she had 
 been seen last, and from the information of the female servants ; it was 
 ascertained that she had been taken ill, and was in one of the chambers, 
 where she was carefully attended by a gentleman who was a walking nose- 
 gay made up of all the perfumes of Araby the Blest. All the elderly 
 people who did not dance proceeded to seek her out, and found her with 
 lier dress off and all unlaced, supported by Gerard, who had contrived to 
 send away the servants under one pretext and another in order that he 
 might make a declaration of his love. As gay, as amorous, and as enter- 
 prising as ever, he had just thrown himself upon his knees, and heaved a 
 sigh, when his privacy was disturbed by the lady's friends, and the per- 
 fumer's cunningly-contrived opportunity was lost. 
 
 The kind, sensitive heart of Eugenie, always alive to the maladies of 
 others, had prompted her to follow the rest of the ladies, but when she 
 perceived Madame Dufour environed by her friends, she saw that her 
 attentions would be useless, and, seeking out a retired room, she entered it, 
 found herself alone for the first time during all that long, miserable day, 
 -and there, unseen by human eyes, burst into a flood of bitter tears, and 
 gave way to the anguish of all the feelings that weighed her to the earth. 
 .j, . , "lam married," she sobbed forth, " and all is over. My dreams of 
 
118 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 happiness are past for ever. I must love dear Adolphe no more ; I can* 
 not even look forward with the least ray of hope ; I must not even think 
 of him. Oh, how hateful life is now to me ! would to God that I could 
 now lie down and die ! I will preserve my husband's honour, but I will 
 be faithful to the vow I have made, and none but Adolphe shall ever have 
 my person and my heart." 
 
 Eugenie remained a long time in the chamber alone with her grief. 
 Dupont missed her, and the company becoming alarmed, several ladies 
 left the ball-room calling on her by her new name of Madame Dupont. 
 Absorbed in her mournful thoughts, she heeded not their cries, and if she 
 heard them, she could not think it was her they sought for with that 
 detested name. ..." What can have become of the bride ? " passed from 
 mouth to mouth. Dupont stopped short in a pirouette he was executing,, 
 much after the fashion of a turnstile in fits, and which he had began in 
 front of his vis-a-vis, and would, according to his usual custom, have 
 finished in the middle of the adjoining set had he not been stopped in the 
 midst of his career. 
 
 He ran to Madame Montonnet, almost out of his wits, and asked what 
 had become of his wife. " Where is she ? what is she doing ? She must 
 be found this minute." . . . Madame Montonnet, who was averse to any- 
 further scenes, answered quietly that Eugenie had retired, that she would 
 be back presently, and that she knew perfectly well where she was. The 
 grocer smiled, thought it was a good joke simply to frighten him, shook his 
 head knowingly, and rejoined the dancers with his cuckoo cry, — " How we 
 are amusing ourselves ; what lots of fun we shall have ! " 
 
 Now, Madame Montonnet was equally astonished as the guests at her 
 daughter's unaccountable absence. She rose and left the room to seek her, 
 but in her haste to silence the obnoxious, satirical sneers that were being 
 made as to the bride's transcendent happiness, and her full appreciation of 
 it, the old lady forgot to take a light. She passed through several dark 
 passages, and entered many rooms, without finding Eugenie or meeting 
 any of the guests ; indeed, the greater part of the latter were amusing 
 themselves with dancing, and the rest took no further trouble when they 
 heard the bride's mother say she knew exactly where she was. 
 
 While the old lady traversed the length and breadth of the house in 
 this manner without finding ber she sought, the amusements went on as if 
 nothing particular had transpired. Dupont was indefatigable ; he cut 
 such capers as were never seen before, and his two shopmen made it a 
 point of honour to imitate their master as closely as possible ; such sliding 
 and bouncing from side to side, such jumping in the air, such bounding 
 forward and gracefully receding, such pas-de-basques and pirouettes had 
 scarcely ever been witnessed ; whilst poor old Montonnet, who made the 
 fourth cavalier, panted after his companions, wet with perspiration from 
 head to foot, not perceiving, in the intensity of his ardour, that his peruque 
 was almost off his head, and his cravat completely turned round, with 
 the long ends of the tie hanging down his back over the velvet collar of 
 his coat. 
 
 Bidois and Mademoiselle Cecilia looked on — the old maid because 
 nobody asked her to dance, and the old clerk as he was afraid of dirtying 
 his white stockings, because he paid for his own washing. The old maid, 
 ever alive to the detection of any action, however slight, that would admit 
 of misconstruction, observed the long absence of Madame Montonnet, and 
 pointed it out to the grocer. He and Montonnet agreed that it was 
 singular, and were about to proceed in search of her, when Gerard declared 
 that he would find the ladies and bring them back, hoping to have an 
 
The Marriage — Tlie Bridegroom } s Breeches. 119 
 
 opportunity of saying to Eugenie all the pretty things he had bottled up 
 for Madame Dufour when they were interrupted in their tete-a-tete. 
 
 The ball went merrily on, but Gerard did not return. Cecilia sat upon 
 thorns, utterly at a loss to conceive why the company should leave in pairs, 
 and never return. She ran to Madame G-erard, and made known her sus- 
 picions ; from her she* went to the bridegroom, and from him to Montonnet, 
 endeavouring with her venomous tongue to make them as unhappy as she 
 could. It was of no use ; the perfumer's wife was too happy whilst dancing 
 to pay any attention to what the old maid said ; Montonnet was too 
 delighted at finding himself free to do as he liked for a few minutes to 
 heed her ; and Dupont replied that he was quite satisfied to know that his 
 wife was with his mother-in-law. The old maid held up her hands in 
 amazement at the degeneracy of the age. She thought there never could 
 have been a marriage ball like that, and that the proceedings of all parties 
 were most scandalous. 
 
 All of a sudden a terrific noise was heard in a remote part of the house, 
 and cries of " Murder, rape, thieves, help ! " reached the dancing-room. At 
 the sound of " rape " Dupont pricked up his ears, and looked round rather 
 anxiously for his wife ; and Cecilia was happy, because something terrible 
 must have taken place. 
 
 The men rushed to the quarter whence it appeared the cries proceeded, 
 and after ascending and descending many staircases, and running through 
 several passages, they arrived at a very small room, perfectly dark, where 
 Madame Montonnet was fighting like a tigress with a kitchen-lad ; and 
 farther on they found Gerard holding in his arms a young scullion-lass, 
 whom he had fancied would fall an easy victim to his amorous pro- 
 pensities. 
 
 The fact was that Madame Montonnet, whilst seeking her daughter, 
 had lost herself. Not finding Eugenie, she determined to return to the 
 company ; but missing her way in the dark, she wandered up and down for 
 some time, and finished by walking into the little room. Now, as love is 
 the universal passion, and as there will always be intrigues all over the 
 world, outside the Martyrs' Gate as well as in other parts of Paris, 
 between kitchen-lads and scullion-girls as well as between counts and 
 duchesses, and other folks of every rank, of rich and poor, of high and low 
 degree — the only difference being in the way of expressing that love — so it 
 happened that a kitchen-lad in the service of the landlord where the mar- 
 riage fete was given, had his little affair with a strapping wench in the 
 same employ ; and whilst they thought that all the household would be 
 engaged attending to the visitors, they made an engagement to meet each 
 other in this same little dark room, for what purpose was best known to 
 themselves. The lad came first to the place of rendezvous ; he heard some 
 one sigh, and then hold her breath ; he advanced gently, groping his way, 
 and touched a petticoat, and being no judge of silk dresses, and making no 
 doubt it was his lady-love, he commenced operations by clutching her in 
 his arms, and giving her a hearty smack on the lips — a mode of salutation 
 which considerably astonished Madame Montonnet. 
 
 The perfumer, when he left the ball, avoided taking a light purposely, 
 trusting that the obscurity would be favourable to the prosecution of his 
 design. He rambled about for some time, feeling his way with his hands 
 without meeting anybody ; but as he entered the passage leading to the 
 dark room, he heard some one stealing on cautiously before him. He 
 followed the footsteps as fast as he could, and caught hold of a petticoat. 
 He was satisfied the wearer was a woman — that was enough for him. He 
 seized her in his arms, held her fast, and, pushing her into the first open 
 
120 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 door, began his attack precisely in the same mode as the lad did with 
 Madame Montonnet. 
 
 Kisses are acknowledged to be superlatively nice things — when they are 
 delivered by, and to, the right parties, which happened not to be the case 
 in the present instance. Madame Montonnet, as soon as she recovered 
 from her surprise, regained all her self-possession, and repulsed the lad's 
 advances with the energy of a dragon of virtue as she was ; and the 
 scullion-girl, perceiving that the scent of vanilla and jasmine used by the 
 perfumer did not resemble in the least the odours exhaled by her swain, 
 thought there must be some mistake, and checked Gerard's endearments 
 by oaths and blows, given with a hearty will and no light hand. 
 
 This was the reason that thumps and cries succeeded the kisses of the 
 men. So soon as lights were brought into the room, and the lad saw he 
 had been engaged with Madame Montonnet, he fled as fast as his legs 
 could carry him, and Gerard — caught in the act — let go the scullion-girl. 
 Madame Montonnet, boiling with rage, flew at the landlord, and reproached 
 him for having such impudent vagabonds in his employ; and Madame 
 Gerard asked her husband what he had been doing with the girl ? The 
 .landlord excused himself from all participation in his servant's misconduct, 
 and offered to discharge him forthwith ; whilst Gerard stammered out he 
 thought the girl was a robber in disguise, and so endeavoured to apprehend 
 him. The company appeared to be satisfied with the crest-fallen per- 
 fumer's lame excuse, and returned to the ball-room, where they found 
 Eugenie, who had been roused by the riotous noise, and reluctantly 
 quitted her retreat. 
 
 Dupont walked up to her, and opened the conversation by stating, for 
 the hundredth time, that they had had "lots of fun." He next inquired 
 how Eugenie felt herself ; but, seeing that she turned her eyes vacantly to 
 the clock, and sighed, he formed an idea that she regretted the tardy pace 
 jof time, and assured her that his impatience for the arrival of night was 
 .greater than her own. The bride stared at him in the greatest surprise, 
 and left him with contempt, on which he rubbed his hands with joy, 
 impressed with the conviction that Eugenie's headache was caused by her 
 .delight at being married, and all-absorbing love for him. 
 
 The hour had become late, and it was proposed that the amusements 
 should be closed with the old-fashioned country dance of " The Baker's 
 Wife." This is a very common mistake with respect to closing a ball, 
 inasmuch as the dance in question generally prolongs it one hour and a 
 half. It is a very agreeable dance, no doubt ; because those who take part 
 in it, being already much fatigued with their exertions in the previous 
 part of the evening, generally manage to exhaust their strength by jumping 
 about without ceasing, merely stopping to ascertain whether a certain 
 gentleman runs after a certain lady — or vice versd, as the case may be — at 
 .the proper time, and then retiring to the left, and after the whole of the 
 couples shall have gone through the prescribed routine, they return to their 
 seats, bathed in perspiration, and blowing like so many grampuses in a 
 heavy sea. 
 
 The usages of society compelled the bride to take part in " The Baker's 
 "Wife." She was dragged through the set, lugged here and there, pushed 
 right and left, turned round, and bustled on all sides, until, after an hour 
 and a quarter's misery, she was allowed to sit down, stunned and ready to 
 drop with the shouts of laughter and noisy singing that was going on 
 around. An hour and a quarter for one dance ! That was not so long, 
 considering there were forty couples to go through the figure, and the little 
 incidents that occurred and formed the great charm and fun of the thing. 
 
The Marriage — The Bridegroom* s Breeches. 121 
 
 ..Monsieur Montonnet lost his wig, his wife tore her bran new silk dress; 
 the old maid dropped her garter — there was more joking over that than 
 anything else ; Madame Gerard contrived to tumble down — it must be 
 recollected she prided herself upon her legs ; her husband rolled over a 
 very pretty girl, and gave her a loving squeeze as they got up ; Bidois 
 blackened his best white silk stockings ; and Dupont's wretched breeches 
 burst again. . . . This time the crack was not before. 
 
 "The dance was deserted, the revellers gone." Uncles had appro- 
 priated their respective better-halves ; male cousins rejoined their sisters, 
 .and all the company, covered with dust and sweat, out of breath and quite 
 done over, repaired to the hackney coaches. For the last time Duponfc 
 • cried, — " Oh, Lord ! what lots of fun we've had." Madame Montonnet 
 glided up to the grocer and whispered in his ear, in a tone half tender, half 
 .mysterious, that the time had arrived when he might depart. Dupont 
 winked at her, replied he knew what she meant, grinned like a baboon, 
 crossed over to Eugenie, seized hold of her hand, rushed with her out of 
 the room, pushed her, half -fainting and speechless, into one of the carriages, 
 and gave orders to be driven home. ... In a few seconds the bride and 
 bridegroom were on their way to the Rue aux Ours. 
 
 For the first time in their lives they were alone together. On the 
 wedding-day of a young and happy pair, united to the object of their choice, 
 that moment is the most intoxicating of their lives. Free to express their 
 -burning love, unrestricted by the conventionalities of society, unrestrained 
 by prying eyes, they give the rein to the fire that consumes them, delirious 
 with the anticipations of the swift-approaching night. 
 
 How different was the situation of poor Eugenie — chained to a man she 
 hated ! She began to dread the danger of being alone with the grocer, a 
 danger which had not yet entered into her thoughts, because she had 
 believed that, since the morning, nothing could aggravate her griefs. The 
 most docile, the most innocent, the most prudent girl knows that, when 
 she marries, her husband acquires right and power over her which she can- 
 not legally resist ; and, even when she loves, the fleeting minutes that 
 herald the exercise of these rights cause her heart to beat in joyful but 
 .fluttering alarm. What, then, must be the despair of the unfortunate 
 woman who feels she is about to yield her person to the amorous embraces 
 •of a being she detests ? 
 
 Eugenie crept into the corner of the carriage, for she felt the sensations 
 •we have endeavoured to depict in the foregoing paragraph with the bitterest 
 intensity. At first, her husband seated himself respectfully opposite to 
 her ; presently, remarking that she occupied very little room, he came over 
 and sat by her side, and the weeping girl drew herself up still closer in the 
 corner. Not a word was uttered by either party. Eugenie's woes kept 
 .her silent, and the fat fool did not know how to open a conversation. The 
 coldness of his bride repulsed him, her demeanour compelled punctilious 
 respect ; indeed, he was afraid of her, and for some time trembled in his 
 shoes. At length he became more bold, and, makiog a grand effort, spoke. 
 
 "Our bridal has been uncommonly gay, my wife." . . . "Yes, Mon- 
 sieur." ... "We had lots of fun." . . . "So I hear." . . . "The 
 ^dinner was very good. I told the landlord to make no mistake ; the com- 
 pany ate and drank like wolves and fishes. Did they not, dear?" ... "I 
 believe so." ..." My breeches are quite done for ; it will not be possible 
 to put them on again— that is, unless they are new-seated. What a pity it 
 4s, my wife, that they should be spoiled. They were superfine cloth of the 
 rvery best quality. Can you mend breeches, my dear ? " . . . "I will try, 
 sir." . . . The grocer was delighted. " What a wife I have got, to be 
 
122 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 sure," he said. " She knows how to mend breeches. That's the effect of" 
 a first-rate education. So soft and sweet, too. She speaks very little, cer- 
 tainly, but what she does say she says so well ! " 
 
 The thoughts of his future happiness in his domestic establishment 
 tickled Dupont's fancy, and increased his confidence. He sneaked by 
 degrees nearer and nearer to his wife, and she, in retiring from him, almost 
 forced herself through the panel of the coach. He took her hand timidly ; 
 she snatched it sharply away. ..." The devil," he thought ; " she'll 
 keep it up till we get home, I see, but it's all owing to her excellent 
 education. After all, she's my wife, and I'm her husband, even if she 
 should — pooh ! " He paused for a few moments, and recommenced. . . . 
 " Marriage is a lovely institution, dearest " — (Eugenie sighed, but did not 
 reply) — " especially when the happy couple love as deeply and as faithfully 
 as you and I do." (Another sigh, and no answer.) ..." How happy we 
 shall be ! " (A third sigh, almost amounting to a groan, tore the poor girl's - 
 breaking heart.) 
 
 Dupont was getting frightened at all these sighs. What could they'mean; 
 had anything she had eaten disagreed with her ?...*' No," she said. . . . 
 " Oh, I see ; it is the newness of the situation, the natural emotion, the 
 love for me, the desire — " Whilst her husband was maundering on in this 
 stupid way, Eugenie's distress became deeper and deeper still, and she 
 held her handkerchief before her face to conceal her tears. The grocer set 
 it all down to her maiden modesty, and her wish to conceal the love which 
 could " not, unsought, be won ! " He recollected that he had not had one 
 kiss off his bride all day, and thinking that a furtive embrace would be a. 
 very pretty mode of commencing the enjoyment of his marital rights, and 
 would tend to dispel his bride's timidity, he chuckled inwardly a second or 
 two, then grasped Eugenie round the waist, and strove to imprint a kiss 
 upon her lips. The girl, astounded at the suddenness of this attempt, 
 shuddered, and uttered a cry of despair ; then, thinking of Adolphe, she 
 rallied her strength, and threw Dupont from her on the bottom of the car- 
 riage floor between the seats, with his arms raised in the air. He gathered 
 himself up slowly, sat down again on the cushion, and murmured to him- 
 self that his bride was uncommonly stern in defending her person, but that 
 he would tame her and revenge himself of her virtue anon. 
 
 The thought of his repulse rankled in his heart. He made up his mind 
 doggedly to do what he liked with his bride, whether she would or not, and 
 threw himself again upon the girl. Eugenie found " that they had tied her 
 to the stake, and, bear-like, she must fight the course." Mentally she re- 
 newed her vow to Adolphe, and combated the grocer with all her might. 
 But her strength gradually diminished, whilst he became more bold. She- 
 screamed, wept, raved and implored him to desist, but he, being fully per- 
 suaded that all this repugnance was assumed, and that she would be 
 delighted to be conquered, pressed her so fiercely that she almost fainted, 
 and it is impossible to say what the immediate consequences might not 
 have been, when the coachman pulled up at the grocer's house in the Rue 
 aux Ours. . . , " Damnation," said Dupont, when the horses stopped, " I 
 had just conquered her ; but patience, patience, it's only deferred." 
 
 He jumped out of the carriage — no thought of the breeches now — lifted 
 Eugenie out, for she could not walk, carried her into the house, and upstairs 
 to her own room. She sank down on a sofa, and was attended by a female 
 servant. She lifted up her eyes to see who it might be, and saw with 
 eestacy that it was Jeanneton. The poor girl sprang up, rushed into the 
 servant's arms, shrieked, — " Save me. save me, Jeanneton," and fell senseless 
 in her arms. 
 
Shewing that no Man ought to marry, etc. J2S' 
 
 Dupont assisted Jeanneton in bearing his unhappy bride to her ibed, 
 They placed her on it, all senseless, and the grocer wondered how &13 ^sis- 
 illness could have been created by a mere attempt to snatch a kiss. Un- 
 said as much to Jeanneton, who immediately replied, with great quiekssessc- 
 and tact, that this was one of her mistress' usual nervous attacks, and tlss»%, 
 in all probability, it would last for a week. . . . " A week ! how inferably 
 awkward ; and on our marriage night, too ! What is to be done, Jesas- 
 neton ?"..." You must leave Madame alone with me, and I will Dianas* 
 her until she comes round. Do you go to your bed, and I will sit upalf"- 
 night with Madame. I know her constitution and everything that is te> h&- 
 dtme in these attacks." 
 
 Dupont looked at Eugenie, whose eyes were still closed. He gms&i&i^- 
 his displeasure and muttered, — " On the first night, too ! I had hoped imr 
 better things. Jeanneton, you must acknowledge that it is very provoking: 
 to sleep alone on one's wedding-night." ..." How can you talk so, Mc®~ 
 sieur, when, perhaps, your wife is dying?" . . . " I see her eyes are &bg&» 
 To be sure, I am fond of excitable women, because they are always tesidssr- 
 hearted and kind ; but I hope these attacks will not be repeated very €$&&&*- 
 Madame Montonnet ought to have told me of them." ..." Do you tbrmafc 
 parents ever mention these sort of things when they have a daughter && g©$>- 
 rid of?" . . . " True, Jeanneton, quite true ; I never thought of that/ 7 . 
 " Do go to bed, sir, pray." ..." Well, if I must, I must ; but watch over , 
 her closely, my good girl, and if she gets quite well in the night, I depeasd 1 
 on you to come and tell me." 
 
 The kind, quick-witted servant promised that she would not fail, an& 
 Dupont took a candle and retired to his solitary marriage-bed, damniag all 
 attacks of the nerves. He threw himself on the bed in a transport of ragey 
 swore himself to sleep, and passed away the first night of his wedded Me" 
 by snoring soundly until the morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SHOWING THAT NO MAN OUGHT TO MARRY A GIRL IN SPITE OF HERSELF*-- 
 
 So soon as the grocer left the room, Eugenie regained her senses. It ia »? 
 singular fact that women who are subject to fainting fits always manage to 
 get rid of them at the very nick of time. 
 
 Madame Dupont opened her eyes when she no longer heard the grower*®- 
 voice, and asked whether he was gone. ..." Yes, Ma'amselle— 
 Mada — my own dear, dear Eugenie ! " ... " Ah, Jeanneton, call me 
 always by that name, but never, never Madame Dupont." . . . "Incbetlji, 
 Ma'amselle, you shall never hear me pronounce that ugly name." . . * 
 " Is he really gone ?"..." Yes, Mademoiselle ; and so, to make all safe;, 
 I'll just double-lock this door ; the one going into the drawing-room I 
 leave fastened up altogether." . . . "Oh, Jeanneton, draw the bolts t©c/* r 
 ..." Never mind, Ma'amselle ; I have told him you will be unwell frar 
 a week at least, and there is no fear of his coming back to-night." . ,"* 
 " What do I not owe you, Jeanneton ? "Tis you who have saved me frora »- 
 fate worse than death. Saved me ! Yes, but only for the present. A$> 
 the end of these eight days what shall I do ? " . . . " Indeed, I can't telly 
 Ma'amselle ; it will be very difficult to prevent his coming here. H« is- 
 
124 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 -your husband, at all events, and he has the right to — " . . . "Never, 
 never, Jeanneton, never. I have sworn that that shall never be. I will 
 
 „die first. My parents compelled me to marry him. I have done so ; 
 what more can they wish?" . . . "It's certain, Ma'amselle, that your 
 parents have no more control over you ; but do you think that when a man 
 marries an uncommonly pretty girl he won't — indeed, poor dear, I don't 
 see how you can avoid it." . . . " I am his wife, indeed, and I must think 
 no more of Adolphe. Is not that misery enough ? Dear Jeanneton, if 
 you had seen the audacity of that wretched scarecrow Dupont ! Just now, 
 
 , an coming here in the carriage, he endeavoured to kiss me." ..." He 
 wanted something more than that, I think." ..." I defended myself 
 
 ,from his horrid embrace, and thrust him from me. He persisted, and 
 made a mock of all my prayers and tears. My strength had failed me 
 
 . just as the carriage stopped. Oh, Jeanneton, I feel that I cannot survive 
 such another scene. But I will take courage since you are near me, my 
 laithful girl. I will fear nothing. You will find means to prevent his 
 
 *-4Soming here, and you will never, never leave me ?"..." Never, never, 
 .Ma'amselle. I would lay down my life to see you happy." ..." That I 
 can be no more. I cannot expect ever to be happy again. Ah, Jean- 
 
 „ aaeton, those happy days, those joyful plans I dreamed of that night long 
 jago in your room, whilst speaking of Adolphe, can never come. I am the 
 
 .wife of another now, and must not even think of him. And when Adolphe 
 
 .shall hear of my marriage, what will he not say ? Perhaps he will curse 
 me, then forget his love to me, and bless another with bis heart. If he 
 jdoes, it will not be for me to accuse him of inconstancy. Adolphe love 
 
 k another ! The thought is insupportable." . . . "Do not cry so, Ma'am- 
 selle ; you would not if you knew all. Oh, these men, they — " 
 
 Jeanneton stopped short, for she found she was about to disclose too 
 much. Why, she thought, should she distress the wretched bride by tell- 
 ing her that her much -loved Adolphe had been faithless already to her ? 
 Xiefc her solace herself with the idea that he would be for ever constant. 
 i, . . Jeanneton felt the comfort Eugenie would derive from the delusion, 
 and so held her tongue. Delicacy of thought and conduct is equally 
 annate in the high and low — the simple servant and the flounced bosom 
 friend. A good kind heart is all that is required. 
 
 At Jeanneton's unceasing remonstrances, Madame Dupont, who was 
 .really ill with all she had gone through during that eventful day, suffered 
 herself to be undressed ; and during that operation and the putting away 
 
 ; ,of the hateful bridal robes, she continued to ply the servant with in- 
 numerable questions as to the reason why she found her there, and 
 whether she had received any information of Adolphe. She wept when 
 
 , she thought it might be a crime to talk of, or even to think of him, but 
 that was settled by Jeanneton saying there were an immense number of 
 
 ..ausbands throughout France who would be quite content if their wives 
 restrained themselves to merely thinking and talking of their lovers. The 
 fServant then narrated her interview with the grocer ; how she had pre- 
 vailed upon him to engage her as his domestic, and the arrangements she 
 ha,d made in the allotment of the different rooms, so as to ensure her 
 -.mistress' privacy as much as she could. 
 
 Even when Madame Dupont's aching head was laid upon her pillow, 
 
 _^she could not refrain from talking of her Adolphe. . . . "Poor fellow; 
 
 „odo you think, Jeanneton, he knows that I am married ? " . . . " No, 
 .Mada — Ma'amselle." . . . "Call me Ma'amselle always." ... "I will. 
 
 JL don't see any harm in it. If you are married, you are a maid as yet." 
 
 ~, . „ " Have you heard of him ? Do you know where he is ? Why do 
 
Showing that no Man ought to marry, etc. 125* 
 
 you hesitate ? Why do you not speak ?"..." Monsieur Adolphe is- 
 not in Paris at present." ..." Not in Paris ? Where is he, then ? " . . , 
 "He is gone to see his father, who is ill at Senlis." . . . "Dear fellow f 
 and when he comes back, he will die at hearing I am married." . . . "No r 
 Ma'amselle, he won't die, I am sure." . . . "Perhaps he will curse mjr 
 name." . . . "I think not ; he is neither your father nor your mother* 
 Look here, Ma'amselle, if he felt so much for you, why did he go away^ 
 at the very time your marriage was about to take place ? " . . . " They 
 deceived us both. My mother said it would not take place for a month at 
 least, and then she pressed it forward to take us unawares. Besides,^ 
 Jeanneton, do you find fault with Adolphe for being an affectionate and 
 devoted sou ?"..." No, Ma'amselle, I don't accuse him of that. I~ 
 merely say that all men, you see, are not like women ; they are in love, 
 but, in fact, they can do as they like, and are much happier than we poor 
 women are ; they never break their hearts for love — not they." . . , 
 " Adolphe is gone, and perhaps we may never meet again. Do you think ■• 
 I shall ever see him again, my girl ? " . . . " Possibly, Ma'amselle ; when, ' 
 do you go for a promenade ?"..." I shall never go out, Jeanneton. Z-. 
 never mean to leave this room, but to remain here alone with you. 
 Listen to the plans I have formed. Monsieur Dupont is my husband, 
 and although I can never love, nor even like him, he has a right to expect 
 respectful treatment, and the discharge of certain domestic duties at my; 
 hands. I shall thank him with all my heart for restoring you to me. I 
 shall behave to him in a respectful manner, and study his wishes, but as 
 for love, what can a man expect from a girl whom he has dragged to the 
 altar bathed in tears ? He cannot look for tender caresses from her ; he 
 cannot even wish to — " . . . "Don't buoy yourself up with that idea 
 Mademoiselle ; what did he want to be at with you riding home in the ■" 
 coach ?"..." Only to kiss me, Jeanneton ; but as for anything else, I 
 will never consent." . . . "But, Ma'amselle, he is your husband, and has 
 the right to command." . . . "To command ! Does my father command 
 in his house?" . . . "No, Ma'amselle; of a verity Madame Montonnet 
 is mistress there." ... "I have no wish to be mistress in this house, 
 Jeanneton, nevertheless I have made an irrevocable vow, and nothing 
 earthly shall induce me to break it. My hand is Monsieur Dupont's, but 
 my heart is Adolphe's, and so shall my person be if ever cruel fate wiH 
 allow. My husband's honour shall be respected. Not one strand of the 
 nuptial knot shall be disturbed, but he must not look for the favours of a- 
 loving wife from me." . . . "But I tell you, Ma'amselle, as I have told 
 you over and over again, that your husband will blow all your schemes to 
 the winds. He will come to this room and will demand — " ..." Ah, 
 Jeanneton, that must be prevented at all risks. I throw myself upon 
 your zeal. I rely on your untiring love. You have saved me this night, - 
 and I trust to you to deliver me henceforth." ..." Well, Ma'amselle, 
 I will see what can be done. It was easy enough to humbug the fool for 
 once, but I doubt we shall not be able to do it again. Nevertheless, any- 
 thing is better than to be cuddled up by that old donkey, so we must 
 try." 
 
 With that assurance Eugenie fell placidly asleep, and Jeanneton, hav- 
 ing tried all the locks again, and barred the doors against any excess of 
 mental feeling on the part of Monsieur Dupont, lay down by her dear^ 
 mistress' side. 
 
? J.26 Monsieur Vupont. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 "TRE DAY AFTER THE MARRIAGE — THE BRIDEGROOM'S VISITS. 
 
 SfeE morning after the marriage, when Dupont woke, he wondered to find 
 Stesseif alone in bed. He rubbed his eyes, and finding he was wide awake, 
 sbesr&s. to ruminate on that very remarkable fact. He laughed — not very 
 jggSkib&lly or heartily — to think how his neighbours would be mistaken in 
 iSSEfsgQsmg that he had passed the night with his young bride, and how they 
 <mmM laugh at, and plague, and joke, and tease aim, if they should be told 
 •&2,6 £<ach was not the fact. " It is rather odd," he said, " not to sleep with 
 masses wife the first night of one's marriage, and I reckoned upon it without 
 ssSssMs but these things will happen occasionally in all families. And that 
 -jsecsmss attack ! it was very inopportune ; but then it was all my own fault. 
 "Wha& made me go on so in the carriage and frighten her ? I felt remark- 
 gMv gay, to be sure, and up to the mark, and was as furious as a young lion. 
 f*<wsr thing, how she trembled ! Well, well, it's only put off for a bit ; so 
 JDfl go and see how she is." 
 
 Dupont rose, dressed himself, proceeded to Eugenie's appartment, and 
 £&p£dd. A voice from within inquired who was there, and the answer be- 
 f&g given, Jeanneton opened the door quietly, popped out, and shut it behind 
 Ifer as quick as thought. ..." How is my wife, Jeanneton, this morn- 
 S&tejf** . . . ''Very middling, Monsieur, very middling, indeed. She is 
 Sasmg a little now, but she has passed a terrible night." . . . "Poor, dear 
 Ifisle thing ! let her sleep all day, Jeanneton, and then she will be quite 
 ->ssg$L this evening," ..." This evening, Monsieur — impossible ! Don't 
 ,£fasak it. After such an imminent illness, Madame will not be able to re- 
 dSefeo-e your visits for at least ten days. If you should disturb her in the 
 ■fea^i" — Z know her so well — she will have a relapse, and that will be more 
 Jiysgeaous than the first attack." . . . " You quite frighten me, I declare ! 
 fBk&mr very inconvenient it is. You know that, when a couple are married, 
 £6 isn't quite the thing for the man to sleep on cayenne pepper, and the 
 zssmzissi on honey. You know what I mean ?"..." Dear me, Monsieur, 
 ^aeiL fs&ve plenty of time for all that. Life is long, and you are both of you 
 vnx&g. Take care of a surfeit, Monsieur." ..." That's the very reason 
 safer I want to be with my wife ; if we were old I should not think so 
 .$m&dl& about it." . . . "Bless me, you cannot prevent a woman from being 
 ■iiL** ... "At least we can endeavour to cure her : I shall send for a 
 ^pgseian, Jeanneton." ... "A physician! pooh; what do they know 
 &k*$£b nervous attacks ? " . . . "I never heard of such a complaint before. 
 €feae moment my wife was quite well, and repulsed me like a she wolf de- 
 I ft^pg her cubs, and then she's to be ill for a week or ten days ! " . . . 
 ^Ta&s best way to cure her is to let her have her own way, and never con- 
 fesdkt her. Only thwart a sensitive, nervous woman, and the attacks will 
 OflB&hMte without end." ..." Never fear, Jeanneton, she shall have her 
 ij^a way. But a doctor might be able to tell me whether I may — " . . . 
 ^Mxmsieur, only give me some ether, some orange flower water, and some 
 HMsian's drops, and I will undertake to cure Madame quicker than the 
 !feg£ <£eetor in all Paris. Madame Montonnet never had a doctor for her 
 «^a she had these fits at home." ..." And you say they would increase 
 & met slept together ? " . . . "Certainly, Monsieur." ... "If that's the 
 j&sse, I must wait till she is quite recovered ; but I will go to Madame 
 jSfoatonnet directly, and complain of her not having told me her daughter 
 
The Day after the Marriage — r Fhe Bridegroom! s Visits. 127 
 
 *was subject to these attacks." ..." And do you suppose for a moment 
 that she will own she knew of them ? Oh, dear, no ! She will tell you you 
 don't know what you are saying, that you have lost your senses, and that 
 Madame has never had any nervous fits in her life." ... " That will be 
 rather too strong, Jeanneton. You have been witness to several of them ? " 
 ..." Oh, yes, Monsieur ; and I remember you saying that you preferred 
 nervous, excitable women." . . . "Why — yes, I may have said so once 
 by chance ; but now I am married I don't care about it at all. Hear me, 
 •Jeanneton : my wife may be as ill as she likes all day, but I will have her 
 well at night." . . . With these words, uttered with anything but good- 
 humour, the grocer took up his hat, ran down the stairs, and proceeded to 
 the residence of his new father-in-law, where he found the family at 
 breakfast. 
 
 The moment Montonnet saw him, he jumped up from table, winked 
 roguishly, and exclaimed, — " Ah, ha ! son-in-law, how are you this 
 morning, after last night, eh ? " . . . " Very well, father-in-law, wonder- 
 fully well, indeed." ..." Look at the happy rogue, my wife ; doesn't he 
 look well for a fellow after the first night with a young girl ? Why, his 
 cheeks are flushed as if he had just — what a fine thing the first night is i 
 Do you think of it, sometimes, my dear ? " . . . " Yes, dearest, now and 
 then." . . . "I say, Dupont, the young slut can't look you in the face this 
 morning, eh ? so down-cast, so embarrassed, eh ? Madame Montonnet, I 
 remember how nervous and interesting you looked the morning after our 
 wedding night." ... "Be quiet, Monsieur Montonnet, I request; you 
 really make me quite ashamed. " . . . Bidois wondered whether such a con- 
 catenation. as shame and Madame Montonnet were possible. . . . The old 
 laceman returned to the charge. . . . "Well, Dupont," he said, "so you 
 found my daughter a delicious little creature ? " . . . " She is a very de- 
 lightful woman, no doubt," the grocer replied, twiddling his thumbs, and 
 brushing his hat, quite at a loss how to approach the subject of his com- 
 plaints, whilst old Bidois grinned and chuckled at the idea that the bride had 
 played the fool some confounded tricks. . . . " Well, son-in-law, why don't 
 you speak up like a man ? Has the pleasures of last night taken the tongue 
 out of your head ? " . . . " No, father ; certainly last night has taken nothing 
 out of me at all." ..." What can the matter be ? " said Madame Mon- 
 tonnet. " What are you doing standing there, playing with your hat and" 
 gloves in that manner ? A man in your situation, it seems to me, ought to 
 be more lively, more happy." . . . "I should be much more happy, mother- 
 in-law, if — in a word — my wife — your daughter — I am not at all satisfied — 
 you — you — you know very well what I mean." .... " What are you talking 
 of ? What do you mean ?"..." You must know that I know now — that 
 your daughter — my wife — is subject to a certain thing. Damn it, Madame 
 Montonnet, you ought to have informed me of it, and then I should have 
 taken time to consider whether I would marry her or not. Look you : 
 when I buy a lot of coffee, I ascertain first whether it is Mocha or 
 Martinique, and I am not in the habit of selling bitter almonds for sweet 
 ones." . . . "Pray explain yourself a little more clearly, Monsieur 
 Dupont. What has my daughter to do with your coffee and your almonds, 
 ■whether bitter or sweet ? " . . . " You understand me well enough. 
 Madame, although you pretend not to do so. You know very well thati t 
 is extremely lisagreeable, to say the least, for a man on his wedding night 
 not to bs able to — to — to — to communicate with his wife. A husband 
 reckons upon that, Madame." ..." Can you understand all this, Monsieur 
 Montonnet?" . . . "Not I, my love." . . . "And you, Bidois?" . . . 
 f* Not one syllable, Madame ; perhaps there is something wrong." ..." Yes, 
 
128 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 there is something very wrong, and it must be cleared up forthwith." . . - - 
 *' Monsieur Dupont, you will make me really angry if I hear any more of 
 this folly. What prevents you from — communicating, as you call it, with 
 your wife?" ... "Her condition, Ma'am ; the state she is in." . . . "Her 
 condition ! The state she is in ! "... " Her illness, then, Ma'am, if you like 
 viaat term best." . . . " Is my daughter ill ? " . . . " Yes, Ma'am : she has 
 jhad a terrible crisis in the night (Bidois laughed), and it will last a whole 
 -week long " (Bidois could not contain himself). ..." A terrible crisis ! of 
 what ? " . . . "Of what ? Oh, don't try to deceive me, you know of what. 
 When a young girl is afflicted with a chronic complaint, and her parents- 
 wish to get her married, they ought to inform her future husband of the 
 fact." . . . " A chronic complaint ! My daughter afflicted with a chronic 
 complaint ! Monsieur Dupont, you have lost your wits j you are decidedly 
 cut of your mind. My daughter has no chronic complaint, Monsieur ; on 
 the contrary, she has always enjoyed excellent health ; and I think it ex- 
 ceedingly impertinent of you, Monsieur, to come here and insult us with- 
 such a cock-and-bull tale as this. We have given you a charming wife, 
 and you ought to be very fond of her." ..." Ah, they told me you would 
 deny every word of it." . . . "Monsieur Dupont, you will drive me mad 
 with your stupid nonsense." ..." Very well, I hope these attacks will not 
 last ; if this one should increase — " ..." What increase ? " . . . " My 
 wife's illness." ..." You are mad, I tell you again. If your wife is un- 
 well to-day, depend upon it she will be well enough to — to communicate 
 with you to-morrow." ..." Well, well, I hope so : and now I will go back 
 and see how she is." ... So the grocer took leave of his irritated relations,, 
 leaving old Bidois more convinced than ever that he had been made a butt- 
 of by Eugenie. 
 
 Dupont went home, growling all the way, and employed himself for some 
 time with dawdling about the shop ; he then went upstairs and tapped at 
 his wife's door, which was immediately opened by herself. As he had been. 
 led to think she would not be able to leave her bed, he was agreeably sur- 
 prised to find her up : he looked at her in silence for several moments, and 
 the result of his scrutiny was a decided impression on his mind that it was- 
 extremely inconvenient for a husband that such a charming woman as lnV 
 wife should ever be unwell. In truth, Eugenie looked exceedingly pretty 
 that morning : she was attired in a simple dress, without the slightest pre- 
 tension to ornament ; her beautiful hair, retained by a tortoiseshell comb r 
 fell in natural curls over her brow, and a bodice tight up to the throat, 
 where it was fastened with a plain velvet band, hermetically confined her 
 beautifully-rounded bosom's charms. Notwithstanding the sorrow, the 
 melancholy in every feature of her lovely face, she pleased without intend- 
 ing. "Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self." . . . How many 
 women have exhausted the resources of art, and failed in producing the 
 coveted effect ! 
 
 Eugenie curtesied reverently to the grocer, and sat quietly down in an 
 lounging chair. He stood figeting at the door ; his wife's attractions 
 caused his blood to rise, and he — but, spite of his passions, her air controlled* 
 him, and he felt himself obliged to treat her in a respectful manner. Gain- 
 ing courage, he placed a cbair by hers, sat down, and commenced a conver- 
 sation. ..." How do you find yourself this morning, my dear wife ? " . . . 
 *' A little better, I thank you, Monsieur." . . . "Jeanneton told me you 
 were very ill in the night — in consequence of my — " . . . "Ah, Monsieur, 
 I thank you, indeed, for having engaged that good girl ; she has the greatest 
 attachment tome." . . . "My wife, I shall always be happy to consult 
 your wishes — " . . . "Thank you." . . . "And I hear she is a very good 
 
The Day after the Marriage — The Bridegroom's Visits. 12# 
 
 cook." . . . u Oh, yes, indeed, she is everything that is good." . . . Here 
 was a rather awkward pause : the grocer wished to introduce the subject 
 of " communication," but did not well know how to begin. After a few 
 moments' silence he stammered, — "It has been a subject of great regret 
 to me that my rude behaviour in the coach last night has been the cause' 
 of your i illness. You must feel assured that I wished to be with you last 
 night — but of course this attack will not last, and then we shall." . . . 
 Eugenie dropped her eyes on a piece of muslin she was embroidering, and 
 the grocer turned abruptly to another subject. 
 
 " Since you feel yourself so much better, my dear," he said, " perhaps 
 you will do me the favour to come down into the shop." ..." For what 
 purpose, Monsieur ?"..." To make you acquainted with the prices of 
 the articles. A pretty woman like you behind a counter always draws 
 customers ; people will step in and ask for a hundred things they do not 
 want, merely to have the pleasure of looking at you, and — " ..." Mon- 
 sieur Dupont, you will understand that it is not my intention to serve in 
 your shop." ..." What do you say, my dear ?"..." That I do not 
 intend to come down to the shop." . . . Perhaps you do not feel yourself 
 strong enough yet." ..." That is not the reason. I have not the least 
 capability for business. I prefer solitude, and mean always to remain alone 
 in my own room." ..." Am I to understand that you positively refuse to' 
 descend?" ... "I do." . . . "Surely you must be joking." ... "I 
 never joke, Monsieur." ..." Why the devil didn't you tell me that 
 before we were married?" . . . "Because you never asked me." . . . 
 " That I certainly did not, but I thought that a girl so submissive to her 
 parents as you were would have no objection." . . . "My submission to 
 the will of my parents has been fully proved." ... "I married you, 
 Madame, that you might assist in the shop." ..." And I married you in 
 obedience to my parents." . . . "Husbands are to be obeyed as well as 
 parents, Madame." ..." I shall endeavour to obey you whenever I have 
 the power." ..." And you have not the will now to come into the shop ? " 
 ... "I have not ; for if I did descend, I should die of ennui." . . . 
 « Very well, Madame, very pretty indeed ; but we shall see ! " . . . And 
 out the grocer rushed again to the Rue Saint Martin, where he found the 
 Montonnets just sitting down to dinner. 
 
 Old Montonnet saw him first, and observed that no doubt their son-in- 
 law had recovered his wits, and had come to thank his wife and himself for 
 the treasure he possessed in Eugenie. He had come down from his high- 
 horse, and, metaphorically speaking, had put some water into his wine. 
 Bidois, on the other hand, thought brandy had been added, for he had 
 never seen a man in a greater passion. . . . Dupont sat down, blowing 
 with passion and the speed at which he had walked, and Madame Mon- 
 tonnet opened the ball. ..." Take breath, my son, and then tell us what 
 has brought you back so soon." ..." Circumstances of a very disagreeable 
 nature, mother-in-law ; in fact, I am very much vexed indeed." . .' . 
 " "Vexed ! what does ' vexed ' mean, Monsieur Dupont ? I cannot conceive 
 what has happened." ..." Then I will enlighten you, Madame. The 
 fact is, that my wife has been behaving in a very extraordinary manner." 
 ..." How, Monsieur ; is it only to make complaints of your wife that you 
 have returned ? A pretty beginning, indeed, for the poor girl this is X 
 This morning it was her illness, and now it is her conduct. Bless me, only 
 one day married, and finding fault with the dear child already. Monsieur 
 Dupont, I did not expect this of you, I assure you." ..." Oh, dear, oh, 
 dear, mother-in-law, my wife refuses to come down into the shop ! " . . . 
 " She refuses ? " . . . " Yes, Madame, positively refuses ! She told me so 
 
 I 
 
130 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 ouietly, but in a most determined manner, and I am equally determined 
 that my wife shall mind the business of the shop." ..." Determined ! 
 very good indeed ! So, Monsieur, you mean to play the tyrant, I perceive, 
 in your own house." . . . " The tyrant, Madame ? " . . . " Yes, Monsieur ; 
 but listen to me. My daughter has evidently taken advantage of the 
 example I have set her, and will be mistress in her own house. The whole 
 affair lies in a nutshell. You asked us for her ; we gave her to you, and 
 we have nothing more to do with her. Whilst Eugenie was with her 
 parents, she obeyed me in all things ; and now that she is married, she 
 intends to command in her own house. It's all very right and proper ; for 
 depend upon it that a young woman who has received such an education as 
 my daughter has — an education based on the strictest moral principles — 
 and has had the brightest pictures of wisdom and virtue constantly before 
 ber eyes, cannot behave ill at home. Recollect that, Monsieur Dupont ; 
 recollect that and be satisfied." ..." But, nevertheless — " ..." No, 
 no ; a husband must not find fault with his wife. If Eugenie will not come 
 into the shop, no doubt she has excellent reasons for refusing." ..." She 
 cannot have the least reason." ..." Pooh, pooh, don't tell me ! Women 
 are not always compelled to satisfy their husbands' curiosity." ..." But, 
 mother-in — " ..." There, there, you have said enough ; you are quite 
 wrong. Mark what I say, and let it be a lesson for you for the future, not 
 to come whining here with your ridiculous complaints." 
 
 The grocer was over-crowed and dead beat. He took up his hat sulkily, 
 -slapped it down on his head, and walked out of the parlour. He cooled a 
 little as he proceeded homewards. His wife's pretty looks somewhat 
 -mollified his heart, and, as he was thoroughly convinced that she loved him, 
 notwithstanding her refusal to take part in the drudgery of the shop, he 
 resolved to let her enjoy her own will for the present, as that might tend 
 to Tier complete recovery, and to hasten the long-wished -for " communica- 
 tion." 
 
 During the whole of the ensuing week, the grocer only saw his wife at 
 meal times, and when he paid her occasional visits in the day. He made 
 continual inquiries with regard to her health, and received replies from 
 -Jeanneton that she still remained very ill ; but Eugenie was a bad dis- 
 sembler, and although she continued plunged in melancholy and always 
 lamenting her hard fate, she had recovered her strength, and her cheek was 
 less pale than on her marriage-day. One morning Dupont remarked to the 
 servant that he saw from his wife's appearance that her malady had passed 
 away. Jeanneton answered that appearances were proverbially deceptive, 
 and that her mistress' complaint was driven inwardly, and would, no doubt, 
 increase if she were worried. Dupont made light of the assurance. 
 Eugenie's ailment might increase and multiply — it was another mode of 
 multiplying he was thinking of — for a whole year if it liked ; he knew the 
 surest remedy for a pretty woman's complaint, and was determined to 
 administer it forthwith. Jeanneton retorted that her young mistress' 
 complaint in no way resembled that of other women, and endeavoured to 
 divert her master from his purpose ; but her remonstrances failed of their 
 effect, and he told her that he had resolved that he would put an end to 
 the present state of things, and enjoy his wife like other men. 
 
 Euge'nie occupied herself with needle-work in her own room. Some- 
 times she seated herself at the window that looked into the street, and 
 watched listlessly the persons who passed to and fro. She thought they all 
 saw her, and guessed her misery ; still she continued to look, for she thought 
 she might by chance see one well-known form which she burned to behold 
 again. Then she repressed the wish with a deep sigh, believing that her 
 
The Day after the Marriage — The Bridegroom's Visits, 131 
 
 duty to her husband compelled her to think of that loved form no more. 
 It was in vain that Jeanneton represented to her that if she shut herself 
 up in that manner, without taking air and exercise, she would become 
 really ill. Eugenie only answered she wished that, as Adolphe was lost to 
 her for ever, she might " sicken and so die." 
 
 Immediately after Dupont's last interview with Jeanneton, when he 
 announced his intention of enforcing his conjugal rights to their fullest 
 extent, he repaired to his wife's apartment, and found her employed with 
 her embroidery. She arose from her seat, courtesied respectfully, and 
 handed him a chair. The grocer thought she looked more interesting than 
 ever, and that, if he could but get her to station herself behind the counter, 
 not a young fellow in the street would pass without coming into the shop 
 and purchasing some little trifle. The shop, however, was not uppermost 
 in his head just then, so he kissed her hand and addressed her in a canting 
 tone, which he intended to be full of sentiment, and thought would be best 
 adapted to her melancholy demeanour. ..." Your health seems to have 
 wonderfully improved, my life, during the last few days." ..." Yes, 
 Monsieur, I do feel myself rather better." . . . "I am delighted to hear it. 
 Indeed, to use a strong expression, I am quite satisfied, for I have watched 
 for your recovery with an impatience that you must appreciate, because — " 
 ..." And why were you so impatient, Monsieur ? " . . . " Why, dearest, 
 why ? Because you know we have been married more than a week, and we 
 have never yet — " ..." Ah, Monsieur, I know it well. That marriage 
 day will never be effaced from my memory." ..." Delightful, my love I 
 Believe me, I reciprocate your sentiments ; but that is not enough — my 
 adoration for you — my love — will not permit that we shall live any longer 
 apart as we have hitherto done. We must — that is — I flatter myself to- 
 night will not resemble those that have passed. You understand, Madame 
 Dupont? " . . . "No, indeed." . . . " Ah ! I shall explain myself better 
 at night. When the shades of evening — that is, when the night planet 
 Venus — in short, I shall not sleep in my own chamber any more. " . . . 
 " How, Monsieur Dupont ; do you presume to think that any alteration will 
 be made in the manner we have lived together hitherto ? " . . . "Yes, my 
 sweetest. The mode in which we have lived together is quite new, and does 
 not resemble any that have always existed between man and wife ; and 
 now, dearest, I mean to adopt the ancient matrimonial usages. Does not 
 your heart tell you what I mean ? " . . . " My heart ? Oh, no, no, no ; 
 my heart has never understood you ! " . . . " Bless me ! Well, it's all 
 owing to your strict education and child-like innocence. I shall make that 
 little heart beat quicker, and jump for joy too, before to-morrow morning." 
 . . . "Monsieur Dupont, it will always be my study to consult your 
 wishes in all reasonable things, but I tell you decidedly that I will not 
 admit of any change in our present domestic arrangements. Each of us 
 must keep to our own apartments. When it shall be your pleasure to 
 come here in the day time, I will receive you willingly, and pay you the 
 respect and attention my husband deserves ; but if you look for any further 
 intimacy than that, you will be mistaken." ..." Very pleasant, Madame ; 
 very pleasant, indeed, that will be. But I hope you don't know what you 
 are saying. Do you think that people marry only to breakfast and dine 
 together? Oh, no ! They sleep together, too. That, Ma'am, is the first 
 great principle of marriage. Besides, my wife, when two people love each 
 other as fondly as we do, all this modesty is quite misplaced. It's all very 
 well that girls should be brought up prudently, and all that, but when they 
 are married there is no reason they should not — ah, eh, eh — communicate 
 with their husbands." ..." I agree with you, Monsieur, that when two 
 
132 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 beings, ardently attached to each other, are married, a woman can refuse 
 nothing to her husband ; but that is not the case with us. You know well 
 that I never entertained the least particle of affection for you. You know 
 that I was forced to marry you against my will, and from nothing but- 
 obedience to my parents. I am tied to you, it is true, but you must not- 
 seek to receive the usual proofs of love from me." 
 
 Dupont was amazed ; this was putting things in a new light with a 
 vengeance. His dream was dispelled ; his castles in the air — based on 
 the egotistical assumption that Eugenie was in love with him — had 
 vanished. ..." Not love me ! " he stammered out. ..." No, 
 Monsieur." ..." You are not in love with me, and never have been ? " 
 ..." No ! " . . . " Why, then, did you pretend to be ? t "Why did you 
 look sly at me, and pinch my toes under the table ? And to tell me so 
 when we have been married a week. Why, Mademoiselle, did you not- 
 tell me so before ? " . . . "I longed to do so, but mamma never gave me 
 the opportunity." ... "At anyrate we are married, and if love did not- 
 come before marriage, it must come after it. You shall love me, Madame, 
 aye, and sleep with me too." ... " Very sorry, indeed, to disappoint 
 you Monsieur, but that can never be." . . . And Dupont bounced out- 
 of the room in a perfect fury, to learn from his mother-in-law what it all 
 meant. 
 
 As he traversed the short distance between his own shop and the lace- 
 man's house, he puzzled his brains with thinking how it was possible 
 Eugenie was not in love with him ; and he resolved alternately to win 
 her to his will, and to break her obstinacy and forcibly assert his rights. 
 ... In the interim, Jeanneton scolded her mistress for being so blunt 
 with the grocer, and frankly avowing her intentions at once ; she said he 
 would now seek other means of compelling her to yield her person to his 
 embrace, whereas, if she had continued feigning to be ill, there would have 
 been fifty ways of keeping him out of her room. Eugenie excused herself on 
 the ground of an irresistible desire to tell him the truth, and flattered herself 
 that, as her husband was acquainted with her detestation of him, he would 
 not obtrude his attentions upon her any more. Poor girl, her trials were 
 not near their end. 
 
 Dupont reached the laceman's door, where he had not been for several 
 days, and Bidois, who let him in, saw, from the expression of his face, that 
 something unpleasant had again occurred. Montonnet and his wife were 
 behind the counter, and on seeing their son-in-law, cried out, with one 
 voice, that they were delighted to see him, as they were sure he was come 
 to tell them of his bliss, and that he and his wife were billing and cooing 
 from morning till night like turtle doves. Indeed, they both knew he 
 must be enchanted with his little wife. ... " You are both out," he 
 growled. "Turtledoves! we are more like dog and cat. I am come 
 again to complain of my wife. Turtle doves ! at this moment we are just 
 like pepper and salt." ..." You appear very difficult to please, Monsieur 
 Dupont." . . . "Difficult ! a man must be made of very queer stuff to be 
 pleased with the treatment I have received. Mother-in-law, you ought to 
 have told Eugenie on her wedding-day what she ought to expect, if she was 
 not aware of it ; all mothers do, and then young girls make up their minds 
 to it, and submit to their husbands at once ; but here my wife will not 
 have anything at all to do with me, and that's what I complain of." . . . 
 " Truly, my son, you are always complaining : but I don't understand 
 what you mean. You must explain yourself more fully before I can com- 
 prehend you." ... "I tell you, Madame, that your daughter is a tigress." 
 . . "A tigress ; my daughter a tigress ! Montonnet, this man dares to 
 
The Serenade. 133 
 
 call our daughter a tigress. Did you ever see anything unamiable in her 
 disposition?" . . . "Not in the least, my angel." . . . "And you, 
 Bidois, what do you think ? " . . . "She was a perfect lamb." . . . 
 " And yet he calls her a tigress." ... " Will you understand me, mother- 
 in-law ; I mean a dragon of modesty and virtue. " . . . " Well, Monsieur, 
 a,nd do you find fault with that ? That is something new, indeed, for a 
 husband to do ! Modesty and virtue in a wife form the chief comforts of 
 a married man's life." ..." Certainly I wish that my wife should be 
 prudent and modest towards other men ; but with me the case is quite 
 different. I think she ought not to repel all my tenderness, and that she 
 should let me do everything — " ..." Silence, Monsieur Dupont, silence, 
 if you please ; what are you going to say ? Be decent in your observations, 
 sir." ... " Mother-in-law, I am determined, once for all, that this shall 
 not last ; my wife shall be a wife like other wives in all respects, and not 
 think she is to get off with bowing and courtesying, and handing me a 
 chair whenever I go into her room. Moreover, Madame, she has told me 
 she does not love me, and that she never did love me, whereas you always 
 said that she adored me." . . . "And what makes you suppose it neces- 
 sary that you should be adored by your wife ? What has put that stupid 
 idea in your head ? Do not you see thousands of happy homes where 
 husbands are not adored, not even loved ? My dear Dupont, you certainly 
 have gone mad. Here you have an amiable, pretty, prudent, modest young 
 wife, well brought up, and yet you do nothing but find fault with her. I 
 cannot conceive what you would have. Go home to her, Monsieur, ask her 
 pardon for your behaviour, and do not come here with your stories any 
 more." . . . Montonnet protested he could not understand what Dupont 
 meant ; Bidois said his conduct was very mysterious ; and Dupont con- 
 tended it was as clear as day ; the fact was, that his wife refused him his 
 conjugal rights. 
 
 They all laughed the poor grocer to scorn. Madame Montonnet said 
 her daughter was off her hands, and she should not seek* to control her any 
 more ; Montonnet thought it very odd that a man of his son-in-law's age 
 should not manage to have his own way with an inexperienced girl ; and 
 Bidois told him to keep his domestic miseries to himself, and not become the 
 laughing-stock of the whole district. . . . This was too much for the 
 ..grocer. He glared at all three in succession, as if he was about to knock 
 them down, then swore a vehement oath that he would soon make his wife 
 know he was her husband, and fled like a madman from the shop. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 *Twas midnight. The grocer's house had been closed, as usual, at eleven, 
 the two men were fast asleep in the parlour behind the shop, and Dupont, 
 who had laid a plan by which he thought he should attain the summit of 
 his hopes, sat alone in his room waiting for the time to arrive when the 
 household would be asleep, and then to steal softly to the apartment of hia 
 wife, whom he trusted to find also buried in repose. The day had been 
 extremely cold, and the stars now sparkled in the firmament through th» 
 dry air of a frosty winter's night. The grocer, who had nothing on but a 
 
134 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 dressing-gown and his drawers, fortified his courage and kept out the cold; 
 
 by frequent applications to a brandy bottle, which stood upon the mantel- 
 piece, and warmed his hands over the embers of a wood fire with the 
 greatest impatience, until the clock of Saint Nicholas pealed forth its iron 
 notes, and announced the arrival of the witching hour of night. At the 
 last sound of the bell he drank another glass of the liqueur, then opened a 
 -drawer, took out an enormous cotton nightcap, almost as high as the church 
 steeple, and put it on his head ; next he tied round it a broad, sky-blue 
 ribbon, with the bow and ends hanging down over his left eye, and had a 
 good look at himself in the glass. Dupont was charmed with his appear- 
 ance. He muttered to himself, smiling all the while at the mirror, — " How 
 well I look ! it is impossible for my wife not to admire me in this coiffure. 
 What a fool I was to be vexed with what she said to me this morning. 
 She is but a child yet, and does not know what marriage means ; besides, 
 she has been so strictly brought up that she cannot have any idea about it. 
 One more glass, and then to bed, to bed. " 
 
 Dupont took up a chamber-candlestick, wrapped his dressing-gown 
 tightly around him, and directed his steps towards his wife's apartment. 
 Eugenie had talked long with Jeanneton before she retired to rest, and 
 feeling for the weariness of her attached servant, who had sat up with her 
 . mistress every night since the marriage, in order to protect the modern 
 Little Red Riding Hood from the Wolf, she had dismissed her for the 
 night, and had herself fallen, for the first time, into a sweet sleep. Her 
 dreaming imagination carried her back to the woods of Romainville, to her 
 father's fete — that sweet, never-to-be-forgotten day, when Adolphe first 
 spoke to her of love, to that day when they thought only of their present 
 bliss, and saw no clouds to overhang their future hopes. That day and all 
 its new delights had passed away, to return no more. . . . Sleep on, dear 
 Eugenie, sleep on, and wake not from that ever blissful dream ! 
 
 The grocer reached the chamber door without impediment, but was 
 surprised to find it fastened within. What was to be done ? Should he 
 tap and waken her ? No, she was timid ; she might object to let him in, 
 and then he should miss the enjoyment of having outwitted her, and rifled 
 her charms through his own consumate strategy. He reflected how he 
 should change his plan of operations against the obdurate fortress, in con- 
 sequence of the unexpected obstacle he had met with, and decided to 
 countermarch, pass through the kitchen and Jeanneton's room into the 
 passage, and so make good a lodgment in his wife's bedroom by the other 
 door. He would be a masterpiece of cunning, worthy of Machiaval him- 
 self. In pursuance of this new plan, the enamoured fool, boiling with love 
 and hope, retraced his steps into his own apartment, from thence he passed 
 through the kitchen, treading softly on the tips of his toes, and into 
 Jeanneton's room, and, shading the candle with his hand, he satisfied 
 himself, from her loud snoring, that the girl was fast asleep. 
 
 The fact was that Jeanneton, overcome with so many nights' watching, 
 had imitated the example of her mistress, and yielded to the opiate in- 
 fluences of the drowsy god, forgetting that she was placed as a sentinel at 
 the most advanced outpost, to prevent the entry of the enemy through the 
 kitchen, which was the weakest point in the defences of the citadel. Sleep 
 has occasionally overtaken the veteran soldier on his post. Jeanneton 
 must be forgiven, therefore, for forgetting her duty on that night. 
 
 Everything favoured the intrepid grocer's midnight attack. He crossed 
 the servant's bedroom without awakening her, opened the door of his wife's 
 chamber, crept slowly in, and stood at last by her bed-side, gloating on her 
 beauties as she lay. He gazed long and fixedly at her, and then gently 
 
The Serenade. 135 
 
 placed his candle on the floor. "She sleeps," he said. " 'Tis as I could 
 wish • she is all my own now. The proud beauty is in my power, and richly 
 will I repay myself for her scorn. She sleeps a maid, but when she awakes 
 and finds herself encircled with my arms— ah, ah, what will she be then i 
 Rapidly but silently Dupont threw off his dressing gown, his drawers were- 
 about his heels, and the beauteous maid had well-nigh lost that name, when 
 a horrible uproar as of a thousand discordant instruments broke upon the 
 dull ear of ni^ht, and startled the peaceful inhabitants of the Rue aux Ours 
 from their propriety. Violins, clarionets, French horns, fifes, kettledrums, 
 double basses, and even a big drum, contributed their quota towards a, 
 Dutch concert, that almost broke the panes of glass in the window-frames., 
 and must have been heard as far off as the Rue Saint Martin. The echoes 
 in the street sent back the appalling sounds ; the neighbours jumped out of 
 their beds with affright, thinking the Day of Judgment had come ; bus- 
 bands asked their wives what it could possibly be ; lovers quitted their 
 mistresses' bosoms in despair ; and the grocer remained as if he were rooted 
 to the floor. Fifty voices shouted out portions of as many songs. Gentle 
 lady, sleep no more ; " " Happy, well-assorted pair ; " " She's all my fancy 
 painted her ; " and " Wake, dearest, wake," resounded on the midnight air, 
 with the accompaniments of the instruments— especially the big drum-— 
 and the shouts of the serenaders, created an uproar loud enough to wake 
 
 the dead. • „ ■ , . 
 
 When the grocer recovered a little from his sudden fright, he saw his 
 anticipated joys were entirely marred for that night, and hastily replaced 
 his drawers ; he was about to withdraw, hoping he should make his way 
 back to his own room without being seen, when Eugenie awoke, and shrieked 
 violently at the sight of a man almost naked by her bed-side, and Jeanneton 
 rushed in with a frying-pan in her hand to the rescue of her mistress. The 
 frying-pan described some furious circles in the air over the intruder's head, 
 and was about to descend, when the grocer regained his voice, and called 
 hastily to the servant to respect his person, and desist from her ^assault- 
 " 'Tis I, Jeanneton, your master ; for God's sake don't kill me. ^ . . 
 " You, master, is it ? Pull up your breeches, then, and be off at once." . . . 
 "How dare you come into my room, Monsieur," said Eugenie, "when 1 
 forbade you ; what brought you here ? " . . . "I came, my dear, to seek- 
 to—" ... He was interrupted in his stammering apology by the voices of 
 the shopmen, who called out to him that the neighbours had come to per- 
 form a serenade in honour of his nuptials, and desired to be admitted into 
 the house, to congratulate him in person. 
 
 Dupont cursed the neighbours and their serenade, and desired Joseph 
 to keep the door fast ; but Jeanneton, who saw the advantage the opportune 
 arrival of the musicians gave her, represented to him that it would be'un- 
 courteous to allow them to remain in the streets, and said she recognised 
 the voice of Monsieur Gerard amongst the crowd. Eugenie likewise im- 
 pressed upon him the necessity of complying with the usages of society for 
 this once ; and Dupont, grumbling at his renewed disappointment, replaced 
 his dressing-gown, and descended to the shop in order to admit his ill- 
 timed visitors. His wife saw him depart with undisguised delight, and 
 blessed the arrival of the perfumer and his companions. 
 
 In fact, it was Gerard who had conceived the idea of this agreeable 
 surprise. He had intended originally to have indulged in the serenade on 
 the night of the grocer's wedding-day, but had been unable to assemble the 
 musicians -together : the violinists were engaged at a ball, the clarionets at 
 a fete champetre, the fife at a funeral, and the French horn at a christcr,- 
 ing It was necessary, therefore, that their midnight amusement should 
 
136 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 be deferred for a week ; and the perfumer had borrowed a big drum from 
 an adjacent lottery-office, where it was kept always in readiness to celebrate 
 the drawing of the great prizes which, by some unlucky chance, never came 
 out of the wheel, so that the artistes met at the perfumer's house, and re- 
 paired to the Rue aux Ours to give the grocer and his bride a specimen 
 of their gallantry. 
 
 It must be recollected that Gerard was fully persuaded that Eugenie 
 entertained a secret passion for him, from the kicks he had received under 
 the dinner-table on the day of the betrothal, and he determined to push his 
 good fortune with her, and prompted him on this occasion to beat " the 
 ■doubling drum " with a vehemence that was heard above all the other 
 instruments, and completely drowned all the airs that were played. Arrived 
 in the shop, Dupont folded his dressing-gown tightly around him, ordered 
 the men to open the door, and disposed himself, with great ill-will, to 
 receive the congratulations of his guests. 
 
 The moment the door was opened, the neighbours rushed tumultously 
 into the shop. Gerard bawled out, — " There he is ; there is the lucky man 
 who has married the prettiest girl in all the Rue Saint Martin ! Only one 
 week has passed, gentlemen, and the turtle-doves have not got over the first 
 fury of their love. Play up, gentlemen, the air from Azov and Lemira, 
 ' Wake, dearest, wake.' That is always the burthen of a bridegroom's 
 song." The amateurs prepared to obey their leader's command, and in 
 order to play more at their ease, the violins jumped upon the counter, the 
 horn squatted down upon some loaves of sugar, the clarionet sat upon a 
 barrel of size, and the fife clambered up to the topoi a hogshead of molasses. 
 The indefatigable Gerard marched up and down the shop with the big drum 
 hanging before him, and finding that the drum-sticks he had been supplied 
 with were too small to make a noise adequate to the importance of the 
 occasion, he seized a large roll of Spanish liquorice and a broom, with which 
 he beat a furious accompaniment to the song from Azov and Lemira. 
 Dupont was in a desperate rage, but propriety and hospitality forbade him 
 ■to shut out the horrid din by covering his ears with his hands ; and the 
 shopmen, who were of opinion that " Wake, dearest, wake " was an uncom- 
 monly pretty waltz, began to spin round like Eastern dervishes in the parlour 
 behind the shop. 
 
 Some minutes had passed away in this noisy manner, when the musi- 
 cians were forced to stop for lack of wind, when Dupont took the oppor- 
 tunity of thanking them for the unexpected honour they had done him, and 
 -expressed his regret that his wife could not come down to express her grati- 
 fication at their homage, because she was indisposed. She sent her 
 compliments to all her kind friends, but especially to Monsieur Gerard, 
 whose voice she had recognised at once in the street. This was cakes and 
 ale to the perfumer, who forthwith began to sing, " I am the boy for 
 bewitching them, " at the top of his voice, under the idea that Madame 
 jDupont was listening tenderly to the strain, and thanking him personally 
 in her heart. The musicians, not being acquainted with that melody, 
 .accompanied him with " Night's fairest flower," at the close of which the 
 grocer thought it proper that the company should favour him by taking 
 either wine or liqueurs, according to their fancy. The motion pleased : 
 brandy and glasses were produced, quickly emptied, and filled again. 
 Dupont warmed as he tossed off glass after glass, and, feeling inclined to 
 do things in first-rate style, bade the shopmen bring forth the ratafia. 
 
 " Hurrah for the ratafia," the mob shouted out together. From ratafia 
 they went on to old Jamaica rum ; from rum to curacoa, and so on, until 
 they had tasted all the choice liqueurs in the grocer's shop : the more they 
 
More Conjugal Manoeuvres. 
 
 137 
 
 drank the faster they performed pieces of music they thought appropriate 
 to the event they had met to celebrate, until Gerard, determined not to be 
 surpassed, caught hold of a large iron pestle, and fairly knocked m one of 
 the drum-heads. Songs, laughter, and joyous cries were mingled with the 
 instrumental sounds. Dupont, excited by the spirits he had drunk, made 
 as much noise as any of the rest ; every man played or sang and the uproar 
 was at its height, when an unlooked-for accident increased the fun : the 
 fifer suddenly disappeared in the hogshead of molasses, and the clarionet 
 tumbled stern foremost into the barrel of size. 
 
 These gentlemen, in the fulness of their ardour, forgot the treacherous 
 nature of the materials on which they were perched The one beat time 
 so fiercely with his feet, and the other jumped up and down so constantly 
 on his seat of honour, that they both finished by breaking ra the bands of 
 the casks. The fifer, who was standing, fell into the molasses up to his 
 neck, but the clarionet, who was seated, did not fare quite so ill, being only 
 half hid in the glutinous compound, his legs and the upper part of his body 
 remaining in the air, whilst his breeches received the pleasing addition of 
 several pounds of sticky size. This ludicrous accident put an end to the 
 concert Both the unfortunate musicians were drawn from their retreats, 
 and walked off with the greatest difficulty, the fifer, with five or six pounds 
 of treacle gliding gently down his trousers, impeding his steps, and almost 
 •filuemg him to the earth, and the clarionet, jumping like a rope dancer, and 
 Shaking himself all the way home to get rid of the lumps of size that sadly 
 incommoded his latter end. 
 
 It was now two o'clock. Dupont thought it would be useless to • return 
 to his wife's room, so he retired to his solitary couch, chuckling to think he 
 had found the way to reach Eugenie unawares, and that he should not be 
 interrupted in his amorous attempts by any more untoward serenades. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MOEE CONGUGAL MANOEUVRES. 
 
 'Three days had elapsed since the serenade without the grocer making any 
 more attempts to gain access to his wife. Nevertheless, Eugenie continued 
 her precautions. Since the night she had seen her husband near her bed, 
 attired only in his drawers, she could not go to sleep, but lay down in her 
 clothes, with her ears alive to every sound. Jeanneton promised to watch 
 more carefully than ever, and besought her mistress to take her natural 
 rest, feeling that these constant vigils must infallibly destroy her health ; 
 but Eugenie distrusted her servant's power to resist the attacks of sleep 
 until they put a device into practice that they imagined would effectually 
 prevent the grocer's entry. Every night the servant drew her truckle-bed 
 into the narrow passage that led to her mistress' room, completely barring 
 tne way, so that, as it was so close to the ground that a man could not pos- 
 sibly creep under it, Dupont, if he tried to pass through, must walk over 
 her person as she lay, and thus awake her from her sleep. 
 
 The attempt the two women had foreseen was made at length, and 
 Dupont took the same means as he had last adopted to ream his wife's 
 room, crossed the kitchen, passed through Jeanneton's chamber thinking 
 •she was asleep, and was astonished to find her bed arranged on the passage 
 
138 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 floor. The girl heard him, but feigned to snore in order to see what he 
 would do. She laughed inwardly to see him come to a dead stop, then 
 mutter an oath between his teeth, stand for a few moments undecided what 
 to do, and perceiving that he could not clear the obstacle that stood in his 
 road without scrambling over the bed and awaking the maid, turn on his 
 heel, and steal back again to his own room. Eugenie heard him retire 
 with thankfulness, and Jeanneton burst into a fit of merriment at the figure 
 the unhappy husband cut. 
 
 On the following morning, after breakfast, Monsieur Dupont called 
 Jeanneton before him, and inquired the reason why she had removed her 
 bed from its proper position into the little passage. She replied that her 
 mistress was always in great fear of renewed attacks of illness during the 
 night, and wished her servant to be near her. Dupont insisted that he was 
 the most proper person to calm his wife's apprehensions and minister to 
 her wants in the night, and the interview terminated with an angry inter- 
 dict from him not to place the bed in the passage any more. Jeanneton im- 
 mediately informed her mistress of the command, whereupon they groaned 
 in concert, agreeing that affairs had come to the very worst, indeed. 
 
 On the following night, when all the household was apparently asleep, 
 Dupont resumed his cotton night-cap, with the sky-blue bow and ribbons, 
 took his chamber-light, and walked on tiptoe towards his wife's apartment, 
 knowing that Jeanneton would not dare to place her bed in the passage, for 
 fear of being dismissed from her place. The mistress and the maid, how- 
 ever, were both on the alert, and the grocer had scarcely got both legs in 
 the bedroom, when a noise, as of a tall pile of plates thrown violently down, 
 and broken into a thousand pieces, resounded throughout the apartments. 
 Dupont started "like a guilty thing," Eugenie raised herself upright in 
 bed, and Jeanneton cried aloud for help, for the devil himself was in the 
 kitchen. Eor some seconds the fears of the grocer overpowered him, and 
 he did not know which way to turn for safety ; but, hearing the shopmen 
 below bustling about, not knowing what to make of the unwonted noise, he 
 took heart of grace, and entered the servant's chamber, where that worthy 
 girl was pretending to have just left her bed, and to be dressing herself as 
 fast as she could. As soon as she saw Dupont, she said, with every indica- 
 tion of horror and affright, — " Did you hear it, Monsieur ? " . . . " Oh, 
 yes, Jeanneton, what is it ? " . . . " It's a terrible thing, I assure you." . . . 
 " You know, then, what it is ? " . . . " Oh, no, no ! but ask Madame ; she 
 can tell you what it is. No wonder we are both afraid to go to bed at 
 night. It's not the first time we have been disturbed. Sometimes we 
 hear awful groans, and sometimes sighs, and plaintive, sorrowful cries." 
 ..." Bless me ! there must be robbers in the house." ..." Oh, no, 
 Monsieur, it's not robbers, I am sure ; for, when I have heard these noises, 
 I have often gone all over the house, and not discovered a single soul. I 
 tell you what it is, Monsieur — I daresay you, who are such a clever man, 
 will call me a fool for saying so — but, in my opinion, it is a ghost." . . . 
 " A ghost, Jeanneton ! " the grocer stammered, with all his teeth chattering 
 in his head. " You — you — you — you are a fool, indeed ! " 
 
 The idea of a ghost scattered the grocer's courage to the wind. He 
 caught hold of Jeanneton for protection, and retired quickly into Eugenie's 
 room ; but she had dressed herself whilst Jeanneton had held Dupont in 
 conversation. She saw that he was displeased at her having left her bed — 
 bed, with one's head under the clothes, being an effectual remedy to shut out 
 all ghostly visitors — and proceeded to say that it was impossible she could 
 sleep that night, that she was continually hearing the most appalling sounds, 
 and had no rest night nor day. Dupont said he would complain to the land* 
 
More Conjugal Manceuvres. 1 39 
 
 lord ; but then came the doubt whether that individual possessed the sacer- 
 dotal power of laying ghosts. So the grocer, still trembling with fright, called 
 out for Francois and Joseph to come upstairs directly, and assist him in 
 ascertaining whether there were any robbers in the house. The men were 
 not cowards. They came runniDg up, placed their master between them, 
 walked into the kitchen, and there found several broken plates lying on 
 the floor. Then came the question how the plates were broken. Jeanne- 
 ton could not tell ; certainly they did not fall down of their own accord ; 
 there were neither cat nor dog in the house, so it must have been the 
 ghost. 
 
 Joseph and Francois ridiculed the real terrors of their master, and the 
 assumed ones of their mistress and the maid. They searched the apart- 
 ments carefully, of course without finding any one, and came back with 
 the welcome intelligence to Dupont, who dismissed them to their beds, and 
 proposed to his wife to pass the remainder of the night in her room. 
 Eugenie replied that she should seek sleep no more, and would sit up until 
 daylight. Jeanneton pretended to be scared to death at the slightest 
 sound, and declared that she would not go again into her own room or the 
 kitchen for all the world. Then the grocer, considerably chop-fallen, re- 
 traced his steps, in mortal dread, without daring to look round him or lift 
 his eyes from the ground, eagerly opened his own door, jumped into bed, 
 and plunged his head beneath the clothes. 
 
 Thanks to the ghost, several days had glided away without the grocer 
 paying any more nocturnal visits to his wife — a circumstance which gave 
 Eugenie great satisfaction, and almost induced her to think that he would 
 not pester her again. Such was not the case. Every morning the grocer 
 proposed to himself to pass the ensuing night in the bridal chamber, but 
 when night came, when repose succeeded the busy hum of men, when not 
 a sound was heard in the street but the tramp of the police as they went 
 their rounds, a certain ominous palpitation of the heart came over ponr 
 Dupont. He called to mind the assertions Jeanneton had made, and 
 although he had said he had not the slightest belief in ghosts, he dared nob - 
 pass through the kitchen alone. At last he thought he must be a great 
 fool to take such a roundabout way of going to his wife's chamber. Why 
 could he not pass through the door in the drawing-room ? To be sure,, 
 she double-locked it on the inside, because she was afraid both of him and 
 the ghost. But then came a happy idea : he would have a counterpart of 
 the key made, and thus he should be able to obtain entrance to his wife's 
 room at once, without invading the territories of the plate-destroying 
 ghost ! 
 
 The next day the grocer took the key quietly out of the lock whilst 
 Eugenie's head was turned another way, and took it to a blacksmith, who 
 made him a fac-simile of it in a very few hours. He then adroitly replaced 
 the key in the lock without being perceived, hugged himself with the 
 success of his stratagem, and awaited impatiently the coming night, which 
 was to crown his hopes. At last the night came, and all mankind were in 
 a solemn silence hushed ; the mystic hour pealed from St Nicholas' Churchy 
 and ere the last sound had died away, Dupont rose from his chair before 
 the fire, put on the killing night-cap, wrapped his dressing-gown around 
 him, and crept stealthily across the room. He listened for a moment, not 
 a sound was heard — moreover, the ghost was in a calmer mood — so he 
 inserted the key in the lock, and tried to turn it gently round. Now, it is 
 an ascertained fact that new keys — especially when they are not well oiled, 
 and locks are somewhat rusty — do not turn so easily as old ones, and in, 
 this instance the harsh, grating noise the grocer made in unlocking the 
 
140 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 door aroused Eugenie from her slumbers. Dupont advanced to the bed, 
 Eugenie uttered a piercing scream, Jeanneton rushed in at the fearful cry, 
 pushed Dupont half across the room, and threw herself on her knees by the 
 bedside. ..." Oh, my poor mistress," she said, catching hold of Eugenie's 
 hand, and patting and rubbing it with her own. "Oh, my poor mistress, 
 she has swooned away ! " . . . " Why, what the devil is the matter with 
 her now ?"..." What's the matter with her, you brute ? Do you think 
 the poor thing would scream out in that way for nothing ? It's another 
 attack of those dreadful nerves. See how deadly pale she has turned ! " 
 ..." Another nervous attack !"..." Yes, to be sure ; and it's all your 
 fault. What do you mean by coming to her bedside just like a ghost, and 
 frightening her to death ? Run quick, and fetch me some ether, and 
 orange-flower water, and Tuffman's drops." 
 
 Jeanneton held phials with all sorts of essences to her mistress' nose, 
 and she, despising in her heart these constant stratagems, almost repulsed 
 the affectionate servant, who prevailed on her by whispers to permit her to 
 bathe her forehead with ether, as the conviction of her being real ill was 
 the only method of freeing her from the hated embraces of Dupont. The 
 grocer waited some time in Eugenie's room in hopes of her coming-to, but 
 as she did not open her eyes, and Jeanneton assured him the attack would 
 last for another week at least, he retired to his own room, cursing Madame 
 Montonnet for not having made him acquainted with the fact of her 
 daughter being subject to constant nervous attacks. 
 
 He threw himself upon the bed in no very amiable mood ; sleep refused 
 to shed its soothing influence on his eyes, and, after having tossed and 
 turned about for upwards of an hour, he got up, and went to his wife's 
 room to ask if she was better. Madame Dupont had dressed herself com- 
 pletely when her husband retired, and was now sitting talking with Jean- 
 neton at a table by the fireside, half dead with grief and want of rest, and 
 trembling to think that they should not he able much longer to resist the 
 grocer's determined efforts to communicate with his, as yet, maiden wife. 
 Not finding Eugenie in her bed, Dupont became really alarmed, and called 
 loudly on Jeanneton. The cunning servant approached him on tip-toe, 
 with her finger on her lip, and said, in a smothered tone, — " Hush, hush, 
 there, there she is, sitting by the fire." ..." But why is she not in her own 
 room ? " . . . " Don't you see she is there. She is quiet now, but she has 
 been walking about ever since you went away." . . . "Ah, then, she is 
 quite well now, and we — " . . . "Pooh, pooh, it's not a nervous attack now ; 
 it's her other infirmity." ..." Her other infirmity ! Jeanneton, what do 
 you mean?" . . . "Yes; from her infancy, you know — didn't Madame 
 Montonnet tell you ?"..." No ; from her infancy ? What ?"..." Yes, 
 yes ; dear me, she has been a somnambulist ever since she was a child." 
 ..." My wife a somnambulist ! God of heaven, what shall I do ? " 
 ..." Did you not know it ? " . . . " How could I ? I have never even 
 slept in the same bed with her yet ! " 
 
 Jeanneton made a sign for silence, caught Dupont by the arm, and 
 drew him gently into the kitchen, where Eugenie was placed at a table 
 without motion, but with her eyes wide open. The fool could not conceive 
 how a person could be asleep without the eyes being shut ; he called " wife, 
 wife," several times without receiving a reply, and thinking that somnam- 
 bulism was a very horribie thing, shook his head, again consigned his 
 mother-in-law to the devil's own peculiar keeping, and withdrew. As soon 
 as the door was closed, Eugenie declared she was ashamed of putting these 
 petty deceptions upon her husbandj but what was to be done to prevent 
 -the exercise of his undoubted marital rights ? A formal consultation. 
 
TJie Husband and the Magistrate. 141 
 
 ensued, the result of which was a determination to put bolts on Eugenie's - 
 door, to fasten inside, an indication to Monsieur Dupont that his wife was 
 firm in her resolution to sleep alone, and would resist his entrance at all 
 hazards. 
 
 At Dupont's request, a physician came the next day to pay a profes- 
 sional visit to his wife. He stopped some time with the lady, made a 
 lengthened examination, left the room with a smile, and assured the grocer 
 that there w 7 as nothing at all the matter with Eugenie. There was new 
 food for cogitation ! Jeanneton said she was ill, the doctor that she was 
 perfectly well. Jeanneton said her mistress had a nervous attack, and was 
 a somnambulist at the same time, whereas the doctor said the two maladies 
 could not exist together. His muddy brain began to work ; he called to 
 mind all the events that had occurred since his marriage, he pondered over 
 the obstacles that had barred his way to the nuptial chamber, he began to 
 suspect the truth of the servant's statements, and to think these ill- 
 nesses and the ghost story were got up with the connivance of his wife. 
 He recollected she had told him that she did not love him, and had been 
 married to him against her will ; he blushed when he thought how ridicu- 
 lously he had been deceived and jockeyed by the two girls, and he swore 
 that from that moment Eugenie should be his " wife " in every sense of 
 that important word, That very night he would go to her room, and, to 
 prevent any misconception on the point, he rang for Jeanneton to tell 
 her to communicate his intentions to her mistress at once. 
 
 The servant appeared. " Jeanneton, go to my wife, and tell her that I 
 shall sleep with her to-night without fail, and that she must prepare for my 
 reception." ..." But, sir — " ..." Go, I say ; this very night I will share 
 her bed, so don't let me have any somnambulism or nervous attacks. You 
 understand me?" . . . "Well, Monsieur, I cannot answer for Madame — " 
 ..." No reply ; tell your mistress that I must be obeyed, and she shall 
 bend herself to my will." 
 
 The night that was to witness the achievement of this miracle arrived. 
 At the usual hour of retirement, Dupont went to his wife's room, and 
 turned the handle of the door, but could not get in. He knocked, he 
 kicked, he stamped, he swore, he bawled, but without avail ; he ran round, 
 passed through the kitchen and Jeanneton's room, damning her as she lay in 
 her bed, ran up the passage, tried the other door, and found it equally 
 secure. Strong bolts were drawn within, and the doors resisted all his 
 strength. 
 
 Worn out with his efforts, and foaming with rage, he cursed the day 
 that he had meddled with the fractious, puny chit of a girl, who refused to 
 taste the sweets of love, and determined that he would conclude the affair 
 by appealing to the Commissioner of Police to aid him in the enforcement 
 of bis legal conjugal rights. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND THE MAGISTRATE. 
 
 The last successful expedient adopted by Eugenie to resist the entrance of 
 her husband to her chamber had roused the grocer's ire, and he determined 
 to use the strong hand in subduing the obstinacy of his wife He swore 
 
142 Monsieur Dwpont. 
 
 that he would be obeyed, and as Madame Montonnet would not employ 
 her influence with her daughter on the subject, he would consult the district 
 magistrate as to what final steps he should take to coerce her to his will. 
 
 The ante-chamber of the Commissioner's office was filled with a dense 
 crowd of men and women composed chiefly of the lower orders; and Dupont, 
 notwithstanding his impatience to be heard, was forced to sit down and 
 listen to the iteration of a hundred grievances, for which he cared not one 
 farthing. . . . But let us enter the public room. 
 
 " Please your worship," said a little, common old woman, " I have to 
 complain of my neighbour's dog, which is always in my room, and makes 
 such nasty messes, just as if he was in his own house." ..." Turn him 
 out whenever he comes to your apartment." ..." How am I to do so? 
 he is very ill-tempered, and bites." ..." Keep your door shut, and then 
 210 animal can enter." The old woman went away, grumbling that it was 
 very easy to say " ' keep the door shut,' but for her part, she liked to see 
 the people pass." 
 
 11 Please your worship," said a cabman, whip in hand, " this here gent 
 won't pay me my fare." . . . The gent in question was a man about fifty 
 years of age, of the " shabby genteel " appearance, who smiled continu- 
 ally, in order to show a set of very good teeth, as yet unimpared by time. 
 , . . The magistrate asked what he had to say to the charge ; whereupon 
 the defendant entered into a complicated rigmarole story, out of which all 
 that could be learnt was that twopence was the amount in dispute between 
 the cabman and himself. . . . Finally the gent was ordered to pay the two- 
 pence, with costs. . . . The next person was an elderly woman, who stated 
 that a young girl, one of the lodgers in the same house as herself, had a 
 very numerous acquaintance of both sexes, who came to see her almost 
 every evening, and danced all night long, kicking up such a row that it was 
 impossible for her (complainant) to get a wink of sleep ; and not content 
 with their noise in the night, they trod on her cat's tail, and ran over her 
 children during the day. The remedy in this instance was an application 
 to the landlord to eject the unruly lodger. 
 
 A good-looking young woman, weeping bitterly, neatly dressed, with a 
 decent apron and cap, wished to have a summons against her husband for 
 heating her, the only reason being that his supper was not ready when he 
 came home, and that he had found her with his neighbour — a carver and 
 polder — to whose house she had gone to ask what o'clock it was. On cross- 
 examination, it turned out that the young woman had been forbidden by 
 her husband to seek the carver and gilder, of whom he was jealous, as it 
 was said, not without cause, so that case was dismissed. . . . Fifty other 
 cases were of the usual trivial description. One old man complained of 
 heino" knocked down by a fast-trotting horse in a butcher's cart ; an old 
 woman of sixty, that she had been set upon by some desperate ruffians, 
 and must have been ravished if she had not been rescued by her neighbours, 
 who heard her cries, and came to her assistance ; a young man, that his 
 hat and coat had been spoiled by a liquid, which certainly was not pure 
 water, thrown from a three pair of stairs window ; a second, that his 
 pocket-handkerchief had been stolen ; a Savoyard, that his tray of images 
 had been knocked off his head by a drunken man ; a costermonger had 
 been called a thief, and his wife, a name unmentionable to ears polite ; a 
 woman's husband was always drunk ; and a man's wife was in the habit 
 -of staying out all night; a lad robbed his parents, and spent the money 
 - at private theatricals and penny hops, etc., etc. 
 
 Dupont's turn came at last. He advanced to the table with a mys- 
 -.ierious air, and requested to be heard in a private room. The gloomy 
 
The Husband and the Magistrate. 143 
 
 countenance and husky, excited tone in which the grocer spoke induced 
 the Magistrate to think that he came on some important business, so he 
 asked him to walk into another apartment, and gave orders to the police in 
 attendance that he should not be disturbed. The Magistrate pointed to a 
 chair, which Dupont took ; but not knowing how to open his communica- 
 tion, he hammered and stammered until the official desired him to come 
 to the facts of the case at once, upon which the following dialogue 
 ensued : — 
 
 Dupont : I am here, your worship, to detail a case of immense public 
 importance, and of the greatest interest to every husband. . . . Magis- 
 trate : Go on, sir, if you please ; I am all attention. . . . Dupont : Sir, 
 I have been married very lately. . . . Magistkate : I congratulate you. 
 . . . Dupont : Thank you, sir. Yes, six weeks ago I took to myself a 
 young, beautiful wife, and of course you must feel that I am desirous of 
 being with her. . . . Magisteate : Of course, of course ; continue, if 
 you please. . . . Dupont : Yes, of course. But when I got married, as 
 you may suppose, Monsieur, it was not for the purpose of remaining just 
 the same as if I was a bachelor. . . . Magistrate : The facts, sir, if you 
 please ; my time is precious. . . . Dupont : The fact, your worship, is 
 that, ever since I have been married, I have been just the same as I was 
 before ; there is no more difference than between barley-sugar and sugar- 
 candy. . . . Magistrate : I have not the least conjecture of what you 
 mean. . . . Dupont : Sir, my wife will not — . . . Magistrate : Pray 
 don't talk of her ; come to the end. . . . Dupont : That's what I have 
 been trying for the last six weeks. . . . Magistrate : Pray, sir, leave off 
 this silly joking, or you must retire. Explain yourself at once. . . . 
 Dupont : I think I have, clearly enough. The fact is, your worship, that 
 I have been married six weeks, and have not slept with my wife yet ! 
 <. . . Magistrate : A pretty thing to come to a magistrate about ! Go 
 home, sir ; sleep with your wife as often as you like, and do not come here 
 again annoying me with such nonsense. . . . Dupont : It is very easy to 
 say, " Sleep with your wife as often as you like," but I tell you she will 
 not permit me. . . . Magistrate : Oh, I begin to see : your wife will 
 not cohabit with you ? . . . Dupont : I beg your pardon, sir ; what word 
 was that you used ? . . . Magistrate : Cohabit. . . . Dupont : Thank 
 your worship ; that's just my case ; I married to cohabit, and my wife will 
 not cohabit with me. . . . Magistrate : It's a very singular case ; I do 
 not remember a similar one having been brought before me, and I am 
 afraid that I can do nothing for you. . . . Dupont : What, sir ? is there 
 not any law to compel a wife to — . . The Magistrate went to a book 
 case, took out the fifth volume of " The Code of Civil Law," and turned 
 to Chapter VI., from which he read : — * Article 212, treating of the 
 respective ' Rights and Duties of Man and Wife.' — Man and wife owe to 
 each other mutual fidelity and assistance. Article 213. — The husband must 
 protect liis wife, and the wife obey her husband." . . . Dupont : Obey 
 My wife must have forgotten that. . . . Magistrate : Article 214 meets 
 the case ; it says : The wife is obliged to reside with her husband, and 
 to accompany him wherever he shall think fit to go. . . . Dupont : As to 
 residing, we live in the same suite of apartments, to be sure ; but as to 
 accompanying me, why, I go out very often, but she will not leave her 
 room. . . . Magistrate : The husband is obliged to maintain his ivife, 
 atid to supply her with all the necessaries of life, according to his pro- 
 fession or trade and his means. . . . Dupont : Does all that mean that 
 my wife is bound to cohabit with me ? . . . Magistrate : I have read to 
 yosjj The wife is obliged to live with her husband. Now, I advise you to go 
 
144 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 home and read Article 214 of the Civil Code to your wife. . . . Dupont v 
 Thank you, sir, that is enough; I will read it to her to-day. But if its- 
 should not be of any use ? . . . Magistrate : Why, in that case I do not 
 see — perhaps it is some caprice — but it is certainly very singular. Was- 
 the lady a widow ? . . . Dupont : No ; a maid, and is so still for me. . . . 
 Magistrate : Is she deformed ? . . . Dupont : Not at all, sir, and a very 
 pretty girl ; just like you and me. . . . Magistrate : You must not 
 always trust to appearances ; sometimes the loveliest outside covers great 
 natural defects. . . . Dupont : Does your worship mean to say that my 
 wife has any natural defect ? . . . Magistrate : I did not say so ; but 
 there may be a snake in the grass for all that. If things should come to 
 the worst, I will send a summons to the lady. Good morning, sir. 
 
 Dupont left the Magistrate's apartment, bought a copy of " The Civil 
 Code," and ran home to get Article 214 by heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ADOLPHE'S RETURN TO PARIS — THE ENGRAVER AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 We left Adolphe mourning the irreparable loss of his father, the only being 
 from whom he received kind consolation, good advice, and that rare quality, 
 sincere, true friendship. A good, amiable, affectionate father is Nature's- 
 choicest gift. A man may replace a mistress or a wife, but a fond father, 
 never. 
 
 Adolphe regretted his father with the deepest love ; but he felt the 
 greatest satisfaction at having contributed towards the comfort of his 
 latter days, and smoothed his passage to the grave. A short time having 
 been given to assuage the first outbursts of passionate grief, he sold the 
 furniture of his late parent's dwelling, put the small sum it realised in his 
 pocket, paid a parting visit to his parent's tomb, and then set off for Paris 
 on foot. It was now six months since he left the city, during which he had 
 not had any information respecting the events that had taken place in his 
 absence. Jeanneton's silence surprised him, certainly ; but he presumed 
 that affairs at the laceman's remained in the same state as he left them, 
 and therefore the servant had not thought it necessary to write to him on 
 the subject. 
 
 As he approached the gay city, his tranquillity of mind somewhat 
 departed : he became agitated. The thoughts came over him : Should 
 he be able to see Eugenie again ? Was she confined as closely to her 
 room and treated as harshly as she had been ; and should he find means of 
 obtaining an interview with her ? The oftener he asked these questions of 
 himself, the more his agitation increased, and the greater his desire became 
 to arrive in town. He reached the gates of Paris at last, crossed the draw* 
 bridge with a joyous step, and, notwithstanding his long, fatiguing walk, 
 took his way towards Eugenie's abode, to gain information regarding her, 
 if possible, but at anyrate to console himself with looking at that house 
 that held the empress of his love. 
 
 His heart beat violently as he walked up the Rue Saint Martin. He 
 approached the shop, looked in as he passed, turned round at the lower end 
 of the street, repassed, looked in again, and stared fixedly through the 
 glass ; there was no one behind the counter but Madame Montonnet and 
 
AdolpJie's Return to Paris, 145* 
 
 old Bidois ! " Poor Eugenie ! " he thought, " you are treated with the? 
 same hard-hearted severity, and I am the wretched cause ! ' Perhaps I 
 may meet Jeanneton, but then I must wait until the night. It seems aa 
 age since I have seen my Eugenie. Does she preserve the same sentiments 
 of love for me ? If not, I shall surely die." . .. Night, however, was ye& 
 some hours distant, and as there was no chance of meeting Jeanneton 
 before dark, he repaired to the porter's wife at his old master, the mercer's*, 
 to leave his bundle with her, and then seek a different room to that he had 
 inhabited next to Mademoiselle Zelie, for he dared not trust himself within, 
 the sphere of influence of that fascinating lady. True it was he had made- 
 up his mind to be faithful to Eugenie ; but then he had done so before, 
 and yet the danseuse had entrapped him to her arms. . . . Adolphe was 
 quite right : when a woman is in the case, discretion is always the better 
 part of valour ! 
 
 Before he left the street, our hero determined to pass before MontonnetV 
 shop once more, and take a final look. Bidois, who had recognised the 
 young man through the window, saw him return ; so, quitting his desk, the 
 penknife, as usual, in his hand, he came to the shop-door, and, without, 
 daring to look Adolphe in the face, pinched in his lips, drew down the 
 corners of his eyes, and attempted to assume a contemptuous, mocking ahv 
 The young man hardly saw him at first, but after a few minutes his insult- 
 ing grin attracted his attention. He desired ardently to ask some questions* 
 of the old clerk, but his heart misgave him when he saw Bidois, and he 
 went away to seek the portress, who had promised that his letter should reach 
 Jeanneton. The good old soul was delighted to see him ; she inquired what 
 had kept him so long away, condoled with him on his father's death, and said 
 his letter had been delivered to the maid-servant the very night he left. 
 Adolphe thanked her heartily, and asked her if she had heard any news 
 from the Rue Saint Martin. She replied she knew nothing particular 
 during the last six weeks, but at that period the remarkable event of the 
 marriage of Mademoiselle Montonnet had taken place. . . . Adolphe turned 
 deadly pale, and grasped a chair for support. Did he hear aright ? was 
 he in his senses ? He almost seized the old woman by the throat, but 
 moderated his passion, and said she could not mean Mademoiselle Eugenie. 
 ..." Yes, Monsieur, I mean Mademoiselle Eugenie, the only daughter 
 of the laceman in the Rue Saint Martin. Sit down, dear, and take a little 
 drop of wine : bless me, how you tremble J I knew the young lady well ;. 
 the marriage was celebrated at Saint Nicholas. Perhaps it's the heat 
 that has overcome you.'' ..." And tell me, my good creature, who has- 
 Eugenie married ?"..." Monsieur Dupont, the fat, stupid grocer in the 
 Rue aux Ours." . . . "I know him. Is it six weeks since this wedding, 
 took place ?"..." Yes, about that time. Nobody can be mistaken, for 
 that wedding was a droll one enough ; the horses had bouquets of flowers 
 on their tails as well as their heads. Everybody went to see that, you 
 know. And the bridegroom was such a figure !"..." And Jeanneton^ 
 the servant, where is she ? " . . . " She has gone to live with Madame 
 Dupont, because nothing could make her part from her young mistress." 
 
 Adolphe thanked the old woman again, begged her to take care of his- 
 bundle, and then walked away in absolute despair. He^ hastened on ;, 
 pushing the passengers in the street on one side, elbowing his way through: 
 any little obstacle he met, careless where he went, only desirous of putting: 
 as great a distance as he could between himself and Eugenie, until evening 
 found him still afoot. Every moment he repeated : " She is married ! 
 Could his ears have deceived him ? No ! the details given by the porter's, 
 wife were by far too circumstantial to admit of doubt ; besides, the mar- 
 
 K 
 
146 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 :riage had been in contemplation for a long, long time, and what reason was 
 there for its not having taken place ? How could he have prevented it, 
 3iad he known it ? It was an impossibility ; but Eugenie, who had sworn 
 <to be always true, — the tender, confiding Eugenie, she had forgotten 
 Adolphe, and been married to Dupont. Forgotten Adolphe ! That could 
 not be : she was forced to make the sacrifice ; she was compelled to do so 
 by her mother, and could not but obey." . . . Then came the reaction : 
 *' Had she loved him, she would have found a thousand ways of avoiding 
 the match. No sooner had he left Paris than she yielded herself up 
 willingly to the grocer, whom she had pretended to despise and to detest. 
 l$o ! she never could have loved him ; she had only amused herself in 
 playing with his passion ; she had mocked him with all she had promised 
 -at their last interview, and laughed at his oaths, his vows, his tears and 
 -sighs." . . . Thus it always is : Love is an egotist ; he demands that 
 -everything must be sacrificed to him, and takes no heed of the bitter tears 
 he causes his votaries to shed. 
 
 Still the despairing lover hurried on, heaping unjust reproach upon 
 reproach on the miserable Eugenie, until, in a moment of temporary calm, 
 lie found himself — without knowing how — at the hamlet of Bercy, near the 
 river Seine. His limbs refused to carry him ; the walk from Senlis, added 
 to his late mad career, had entirely knocked him up ; so, in order to obtain 
 some slight repose, he threw himself upon the grass by the deep river's 
 side. After a few moments he gazed around, and saw at no great dis- 
 tance from him a young man and woman, sitting also on the bank, fondly 
 pressing and kissing each other's hands. It is a fact in natural philosophy 
 that, in all circumstances, inward sensations take their tone, more or less, 
 from what is passing in the outer world ; and that which makes the happy 
 man more gay, makes the miserable man yet more wretched. The rippling 
 -of the stream, the solitude of the spot, the breeze that murmured through 
 the leaves, and the silence of the eve, sank into the lovers' breasts like 
 balm, but added to the torments that rended Adolphe's heart. The young 
 oouple interchanged a kiss : the sound reached the ears of the unhappy 
 young man as he lay ; it recalled to him the memory of Eugenie in the 
 -wood of Komainville. He gazed wildly around to see if anybody else was 
 near. Dark thoughts crowded into his mind ; death possessed no horrors 
 for him, and he conceived the idea of finding a relief from all his woes in 
 the gentle waves that almost laved his feet. " What have I do with life ? " 
 he whispered. " She loves me not, she is another's ; she never can be 
 mine. My poor father ! he, too, is gone. No one in this world loves me 
 aiow : then farewell, life ; and welcome, welcome, eternity and rest." 
 
 Uttering a piercing cry, he sprang from the ground, and was at the 
 ■water's edge, when strong arms were thrown around him, and he was 
 spared from laying the additional sin of suicide on his soul. He turned to 
 ascertain who it was that had prevented his impious purpose, and saw it 
 was the couple who had been seated farther up the bank. They implored 
 Ihim not to renew his desperate attempt ; to remember that the Almighty 
 bad set his canon against self -slaughter : if it was poverty that had urged 
 ihiin to it, they would give him monoy and food, and minister to his wants ; 
 they besought him to think of his relations, and said they would always act 
 to him as friends. The excited feelings of the young man found relief in a 
 torrent of tears ; after which he promised the lovers that he would not 
 again attempt the commission of the dark folly that had entered his mind ; 
 and, at their pressing invitation, he consented to accompany them home, 
 land pass the night with them in their house. Each of them took Adolphe 
 by an arm, and walked towards the city. They told him they had been 
 
The Interview. 147 
 
 married some months ; that the husband, whose name was Charles, was an 
 engraver ; and his wife, Louisa, worked at embroidery ; that they were so 
 gay and happy, that everybody took them to be lovers still, and they 
 always intended to be so. 
 
 They reached the Rue Saint Paul, and ascended to the fourth floor of a 
 house, where Charles opened a door with his key, and ushered his guest 
 into a room — small, but neatly furnished, everything in it being arranged ■ 
 with taste and cleanliness. They made him sit down. In a few minutes, 
 Charles had lighted a fire in the chimney ; Louisa had laid a snow-white 
 «loth upon the table, brought out the materials for a homely supper ; and 
 they sat down to enjoy the friendly meal. When it was finished, Adolphe, 
 at their request, told them all that occurred since the fete of Saint 
 Eustache until that very morning, when he left Senlis. The young couple 
 heard him with the greatest attention ; they sympathised with his grief ; 
 blamed Eugenie for marrying the grocer after having plighted her faith so 
 firmly to her lover ; begged him to recollect that there were thousands of 
 amiable, intelligent women who would be proud to become his wife ; and 
 then made up a bed for him on the floor as comfortably as they could. 
 
 Adolphe, fatigued with his journey, and the subsequent number of 
 hours he had been on his feet, slept soundly until the morning was far 
 advanced ; and, when he awoke, found Louisa occupied with her em- 
 broidery at her husband's side. He returned them his heartfelt thanks for 
 the obligations they had laid him under, promised to come and see them 
 very often, and then quitted their humble but happy roof, to find out a 
 lodging and obtain employment, if he could, bearing with him a much 
 higher idea of human nature than he had entertained the previous day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 In the course of the morning, Adolphe visited several apartments : some 
 were too dear ; some inconvenient ; some too dull ; and others too far 
 from his new friends. At last, he finished his voyage of discovery by 
 returning to the quarter he had determined to fly from for ever — namely, 
 the Rue aux Ours, wisely reflecting that it did not signify a button now 
 whether he resided in the vicinity of Eugenie or not ; he need not absent 
 himself, on her account, from a neighbourhood that he found very con- 
 venient ; above all, he had a great many acquaintances just around, and, 
 through them, he hoped to be able to obtain a place suited to his cap- 
 abilities. Under these circumstances, he determined to seek hi old room ; 
 as, in all probability, Mademoiselle Zelie, in pursuance of her announced 
 intention, had left the adjoining apartment long before. On arriving at 
 the lodgings, he heard that such was the fact ; so, having fetched his 
 bundle and other effects from the porter's wife, he took possession of his 
 former room. 
 
 No sooner were his humble chattels arranged than he sat down in a 
 chair and began to think of Eugenie ; he recalled their last meeting in the 
 servant's chamber. Then he wandered, in fancy, to the wood of Ronoain- 
 ville, where their vows of everlasting constancy were interchanged, and 
 vhere he read the avowal of her love in her bright eyes, and the blush that 
 
143 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 burned upon her cheeks. On a sudden he awoke from his dream, threw 
 the chair from him, seized his hat, and darted into the street. "Yes," he 
 exclaimed ; " I will triumph over this criminal weakness, I will cast these 
 useless regrets to the four winds of heaven ; I will be firm, and throw her 
 memory from my mind for ever." Uttering these words, he walked on 
 .with giant strides ; but, in spite of himself, he made no progress. He- 
 seemed to describe one continual circle, like a horse in a mill, and at the 
 end of each he always found himself near the grocer's shop in the 
 Rue aux Ours. 
 
 Another idea had taken possession of his mind. Before he forgot 
 Eugenie for ever, it would be nothing more than justice to humiliate her 
 pride ; to confound her for her inconstancy ; to tax her with her infidelity ;. 
 to reproach her with her treason ; to show that he cared no longer for her ; 
 and thus to be gloriously avenged. Poor fellow ! he knew not the real 
 feelings of his heart ; his thirst to see Eugenie was at the bottom of this 
 supposed revenge. 
 
 At the very moment that he had made this final resolve, Dupont had 
 returned home, after purchasing a copy of "The Civil Code," and was 
 busily engaged learning Articles 213 and 214 by heart, that he might, 
 repeat them to his wife. Adolphe stepped abruptly into the shop, glanced 
 quickly behind the counter, then right and left, but saw no Eugenie. He 
 then remained quite still, whilst the shopmen kept bowing and asking 
 what they should have the honour of bringing to him. The grocer, also, 
 without lifting his eyes from his book, directed his men to pay every 
 attention to the gentleman. Adolphe started at the sound of the voice r 
 stammered out a few unintelligible words, and was pondering what to say 
 next, when Dupont, looking up, recognised him at once, and spoke. He 
 said he believed he had the honour of seeing him at Romainville on the 
 fete of Saint Eustache, at the party given by Madame Montonnet. Adolphe 
 replied that he remembered the grocer very well ; and being in that part 
 of the town, and having heard of his marriage, he could not pass the shop 
 without calling to offer his congratulations on the happy event. Dupont 
 put the young man on the rack by recounting most of the occurrences of 
 the happy fete : the game of " Hide and Seek ; " the length of time that 
 be and Eugenie were away, when nobody could find them ; their dancing 
 together ; the quarrel with the peasants ; and the ride home ; and con- 
 cluded by piercing him to the very heart in stating that Eugenie was a 
 submissive, doting wife, and loved her husband to distraction. All the 
 time this tirade was being delivered, poor Adolphe could not remain still 
 for a moment, but kept jumping about from one side of the shop to the 
 other, to the great dismay of the men, and danger to the bottles of syrups, 
 essences, wines, and other fragile portions of the stock. 
 
 The grocer warmed with his subject, and became more communicative. 
 He stated that Eugenie would not be persuaded to attend to the business, 
 alluded to her distaste to communication, and actually invited his visitor 
 to proceed upstairs and renew his acquaintance with his wife. Here was a 
 situation for Adolphe to be placed in ! He longed to see Eugenie, butr 
 feared some indiscretion on his own part; and while he remained in a state- 
 of bewilderment as to what he ought to do, Dupont seized him by the arm, 
 and almost dragged him upstairs to his wife's apartment. . . . Jeanneton 
 had just gone out on an errand, but Eugenie was sitting at work, absorbed 
 in thought. Sometimes her hand dropped, her eyes rested on the muslin, 
 her needle ceased its motion, and, unconscious of what was passing, she- 
 thought she worked. . . . Poor girl ! her body was there, but her mind was 
 ar away. 
 
The Interview, 149 
 
 The noise of Adolphe and Dupont ascending the stairs disturbed her 
 from her reverie. She recognised her husband's voice, and thought she had 
 heard that of the person who was with him. It must be one of his neigh- 
 bours, but nevertheless there was an inward presentiment she could not get 
 rid of, that something alarming was about to happen, a feeling that her 
 husband's arrival never yet had excited in her breast. Dupont entered the 
 .room, half-dragging Adolphe after him. He advanced to his wife and 
 said, — " Madame, allow me to present — " . . . Eugenie slowly lifted up her 
 eyes. She saw it was Adolphe. A shriek of agony escaped her, and she 
 7 fell senseless on the floor. The grocer thought it was a fresh nervous 
 -attack. Jeanneton was away, and he was as helpless as a child. Dutch 
 drops were the only resource. He rushed out of the room — for he was 
 really attached to and proud of his wife — almost rolling down the stairs in 
 his tremulous haste, but scarcely had he left the apartment when Adolphe 
 was at the poor girl's side. He lifted up her head, placed it on his knee, 
 called to her by the most endearing epithets, but still the bright eyes 
 opened not. . , . The grocer returned, followed by one of the shopmen, 
 bringing with them ether, orange-flower water, Dutch drops, aromatic 
 vinegar, and other essences, which they handed to Adolphe, and he pushed 
 impetuously from him. He pressed the fainting woman to his breast, 
 turned on the affrighted grocer, called him a pitiless barbarian, and re- 
 proached him for having constrained the wishes of his wife. Then, 
 devoting himself to his adored, he cried, — " Eugenie, my Eugenie, look up ; 
 it is your own Adolphe." . . . " His Eugenie, her Adolphe !" said Dupont. 
 *' What does all this mean, Joseph ? Has the young man gone mad ? " . . . 
 •"Say that you are mine. Oh, tell me that you love me still ! " . . . " He 
 wants my wife to tell him that she loves him ! Do you understand what 
 it all means ?"..." She will not look at me. Oh, Eugenie, open those 
 dear eyes." . . . "Monsieur, this is most extraordinary conduct." . . , 
 " Silence, scoundrel ; you have broken two fond hearts. Ruffian, you are 
 the cause of all this misery and woe. Tremble, villain, tremble ; the whole 
 weight of my revenge shall fall on you ! " 
 
 Adolphe laid Eugenie upon the carpet as carefully as a mother tends 
 her new-born child. Then he sprang up in a paroxysm of ungovernable 
 rage, seized the grocer by the throat, and shook him with the utmost 
 violence. Whilst the shopman, thinking he must have gone suddenly mad, 
 ran downstairs for assistance to deliver his master from the madman's 
 ^rasp. _ Fortunately for all parties, Jeanneton returned to the house in the 
 very nick of time, and was astonished to see the revolution that had taken 
 j>laee in the apartment since she left. There lay Eugenie, still senseless, 
 on the floor ; and here she saw Adolphe, frantic with rage, shaking the 
 grocer, who kept crying out that he was being murdered. She ran immedi- 
 ately to Adolphe, and implored him, in the name of her mistress, to be gone. 
 The magic name of Eugenie, and the accents of the servant's voice, acted 
 on the young man like a potent spell. He removed his hands from the 
 grocer's collar, took one look at Eugenie, precipitated himself down the 
 stairs, passed like an arrow through the warehouse, and gained the streefc 
 amidst the cries of the shopmen, who bawled out to the passengers to 
 beware of the madman, and reached his apartment unmolested by the 
 jpassers-by. 
 
 The instant Adolphe left the room, the servant flew to succour her 
 young mistress ; but the unexpected sight of her lover had given such a 
 shock to the system of the afflicted girl, that the usual means to produce 
 recovery were useless, and, this time, the assistance of a physician was 
 -absolutely necessary. For a whole fortnight the life of Eugenie was 
 
150 Monsieur Dupont 
 
 in imminent danger. Jeanneton would not leave her either by night or 
 day. Dupont spared no expense for the most scientific medical assistance. 
 Montonnet shed tears by his daughter's bed ; but her mother was as frigid,. 
 as hard, as unmoveable as ever. . . . Nature, seconded by youth, triumphed 
 at last. Eugenie was pronounced out of danger, but the physician stated 
 that many months would elapse before her health would be completely re- 
 established, and the greatest care must be taken to prevent the possibility- 
 of a relapse. 
 
 The grocer received these assurances with gratification and chagrin r 
 thankfulness that his wife's life was spared ; chagrin that the " consumma- 
 tion devoutly wished for " must be again so long delayed. In the mean- 
 time, he would have many opportunities of learning the " Civil Code " by 
 heart, and as communication was out of the question, he determined to take- 
 a journey to the south of France, to lay in a large stock of articles necessary 
 for his trade. This plan being definitely arranged, he placed a confidential 
 clerk at his own desk behind the counter, commended Eugenie to the unre- 
 mitting care of the affectionate Jeanneton, and got into the stage-coach for 
 the city of Marseilles — never to return. 
 
 Adolphe had not been long in his own room before his frenzy abated* 
 The tumult of his brain subsided. He walked into the open air to cool his 
 fevered blood, and proceeded slowly to the residence of his humble friends. 
 He recounted to them all that had happened in the morning. They listened 
 to him with wondering eyes, pitied the misery the sight of him must have- 
 caused poor Eugenie, blamed him for his furious, causeless attack upon 
 Dupont, but yielded to his passionate appeal to go to the grocer's shop and 
 ascertain whether his wife had recovered from her fainting fit. . . . Louisa* 
 put on a bonnet, a black silk apron, with a shawl, and set forth for the Eue 
 aux Ours, promising to bring back news of Eugenie as speedily as possible ; 
 and during her absence Adolphe sat by the side of the young engraver, as 
 he prosecuted his work, raving of his lost Eugenie, resolving never to see- 
 her more, to flee to foreign lands, then forgiving her inconstancy and pray- 
 ing for her repose and happiness through life. 
 
 Louisa went to the grocer's shop as fast as she could walk. She entered 
 it, asked for some trifling article, and gained some intelligence, because, by 
 this time, the fracas at Monsieur Dupont's formed the only topic of con- 
 versation and wonderment throughout the street. The neighbours crowded 
 to the shop, where Joseph — nothing loth — detailed to them the singular- 
 apparition of the young man, the unaccountable desire of the grocer to take 
 him upstairs, his unwillingness, the sudden fainting of Madame Dupont at- 
 beholding him, and the instantaneous madness of the youth, whose delirium 
 had almost been the cause of his master's death. Louisa ascertained that 
 Eugenie was seriously ill, but she did not tell Adolphe the whole truth, for 
 fear of setting him off again, and so represented that Madame Dupont had 
 recovered from her fainting fit, and had been removed to her bed in a state 
 of great debility. This pacified the young lover, who returned to his 
 lodging, and shut himself up alone for the rest of the day. 
 
 Time — the great assuager of all human miseries — kept on his unerring 
 course. Adolphe gave his mind to reading and hard study, passing a few 
 hours of occasional relaxation with the happy engraver and his wife. 
 Eugenie became convalescent, to the great joy of Jeanneton, who loved her 
 better than her own life ; but the maiden- wife seemed to regard her rescue- 
 from the jaws of death as anything but a boon, and could hardly be per- 
 suaded to take the medicine necessary for her complete recovery. The 
 warm-hearted servant saw that her mistress was more melancholy than 
 *ver. She divined that Adolphe still reigned within her heart. She- 
 
Madame St Ceran, 151 
 
 thought that his knowledge of the peccadillo might injure him for ever in 
 her eves, and so she determined to make her mistress acquainted witft 
 Adolphe's liaison with Mademoiselle Zelie, and the circumstance of heir 
 finding him in the danseuse's bed. One morning, in consequence of tin* 
 determination, she told her mistress all that she had seen. Eugenie turned 
 pale as she spoke, and heard her recital in perfect silence, but soon recovered 
 herself, smiled, and said— 44 You must have been mistaken, Jeanneton ; it 
 could not have been him. He loved me too fondly ever to throw himself 
 into a wanton's arms. If you had really seen him, why did you not let me 
 know of it before?" ... "I feared to give you pain. . . . Jso 
 Jeanneton, I see through your motives, my good girl. You have invented 
 this absurd story, thinking that I should throw Adolphe from my heart. 
 I thank you, Jeanneton, for your fidelity, but do not invent imaginary 
 errors for the unhappy youth. I must not love him now, but he will 
 dwell, remain for ever in my esteem." . . . Jeanneton saw the case was 
 hopeless, shrugged her shoulders, and held her tongue. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MADAME ST CERAN. 
 
 Spring, -gentle, etherel, balmy Spring, had come again, to charm the senses- 
 and reioice the eyes. All nature sprang into renewed existence : gran* 
 germinated in the earth, and passed through its russet winter covering | 
 flowers pushed forth their varied beauties to the sight ; the woods donned 
 their verdant garments ; the meadows were bedecked with emerald green t 
 the birds sang their sweet songs of love high in the air or deep m bosky- 
 bowers ; and lovers came to the woods to make that which the birds 
 were celebrating with their songs. «-. . m 
 
 Throughout the winter Adolphe had remained chiefly in his own room r 
 seeking to dissipate his gloomy thoughts with hard study ; but now that 
 the earth had recovered its lively hue, he amused himself of an evening by- 
 walking into the country with Charles and his wife, and being a silent but 
 pleased witness of their happy love, and thinking of the twanging kiss her 
 heard on the river's bank that night when he had well-nigh rushed unbid- 
 den into eternity. Our hero had managed his little funds with the greatest 
 economy, but still they diminished ; the thought could not be repelled that 
 he should soon see the bottom of his purse, and, as he was too proud to- 
 borrow money from any one, he must seek some sort of employment in 
 order to provide the absolute necessaries of existence. He sought out all his 
 old acquaintances ; received promises of the heartiest assistance from them • 
 still the boon of remunerative occupation did not arrive, and he found him- 
 self almost reduced to his last shilling. 
 
 One afternoon, sick at heart, but resigned to his fate, and almost wish- 
 ing for death since Eugenie could not be his, he wandered in the wood of 
 Boulogne, near Paris ; and, tired with several hours' continual exercise, sat 
 down to rest on a bench near to a celebrated hotel, where young couples 
 resort to make love, and fiery young men to breakfast and make friends 
 after having tried their best to blow each other's brains out or run each 
 other through the body. As he sat "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter 
 fancy " a smart private cabriolet, containing a dashing young man and a* 
 
152 Monsieur Dupont, 
 
 lady attired in the highest fashion, with a rakish-looking tiger in the foot- 
 Sward behind, drove quickly by him, and drew up at the door of the hotel. 
 Adolphe, startled at the noise of the horse's rapid pace, gazed listlessly for 
 a minute or two at the superb turn-out, and then resumed his meditations. 
 About an hour afterwards, his solitude was disturbed by a slight tap on 
 the shoulder. He turned round, and saw the tiger belonging to the 
 cabriolet, who touched his hat respectfully, at the same time smiling with 
 a look of cunning in his eyes that decided — child as he was — his acquaint- 
 ance with the perfect arrangement of an intrigue. . . . Adolphe inquired 
 what the boy wished by demanding his attention ? . . . " Hush," the lad 
 replied, putting his finger to his lip, and offering him a slip of paper, writ- 
 ten in pencil, folded only, but not sealed ; "that will tell you." . . . 
 *" What is it t " ..." A billet-doux, I suppose." ..." Who sent it ? " 
 *' My mistress." . . . "What is her name?" . . . "Madame St Ceran." 
 .. , . " I am not acquainted with any lady of that name." . . . "It 
 appears, though, that she knows you. Take it, Monsieur, for I must be off 
 quick, or all will be blown. Take it and read it." . . . Thus saying, the 
 lad placed the note in Adolphe's hands, and ran back to the hotel as fast 
 as he could. 
 
 Our hero turned the note over and over again, thinking from whom it 
 could have come. At last he opened it, and succeeded in deciphering an 
 almost illegible scrawl, to the following effect : — " Monsieur, — I have some 
 ■very important intelligence to communicate to you. Come to-morrow to 
 my house, No. 12 Rue du Haldes, and ask for Madame St Ceran. I shall 
 «xpect you at eleven o'clock precisely. Do not fail to come." . . . Adolphe 
 3*ad never heard of a lady of that name. What could she possibly want 
 with him ? Perhaps some of his acquaintances had mentioned to the lady 
 that he was desirious of obtaining occupation, and she wanted a secretary. 
 Ah ! that must be it, he thought ; rich people seldom write well. They 
 are too much spoiled in their youth to learn ; besides, the note was 
 wretchedly written, a stronger reason that Madame St Ceran should re- 
 squire the service of an efficient secretary. This idea caused some remission 
 of his melancholy ; but, as he walked back to his room, he pondered over 
 the half-impudent, half -mysterious air of the tiger, and began to think it 
 'was not very likely that a lady should seek an amanuensis beneath the 
 trees in the forest of Boulogne. 
 
 On the following morning, our lover brushed his hat and coat to make 
 them look as neat as he could, proceeded to the house mentioned in the 
 jnote, and was directed to the first floor. He knocked, the door was opened 
 by the grinning tiger, who showed him into an elegant dining-room, where he 
 was received by a dapper lady's-maid, with the same knowing smirk on her 
 face. The servant requested him to take a seat whilst she made his arrival 
 known to her mistress. Adolphe took a survey of the apartment ; he ad- 
 anired the splendour of the furniture, the beauty of the mirrors, the ele- 
 gance of the china and alabaster vases, and marvelled at the taste that had 
 dictated the luxury that had prevailed throughout the appointment of this 
 room. He thought the fair occupant must be a lady of distinction ; but then 
 <came the damning evidence of the almost illegible scrawl. 
 
 After a few minutes' absence, the lady's-maid returned to the dining- 
 room, and requested Adolphe to follow her. He followed through other splen- 
 did apartments, until the servant tapped at the door of a charming boudoir, 
 opened it, motioned the young man to go in, and retired. Adolphe 
 advanced a few steps, and saw the boudoir was tenanted by a lady, seated 
 -on an Eastern ottoman, dressed in tasty morning deshabille, but whose face 
 he could not see, because her head was completely turned on one side. As 
 
Madame St CSran. 153 
 
 3ie remained standing in the middle of the room, the lady burst into a fit 
 of laughter, jumped up from the ottoman, and threw herself into Adolphe's 
 Arms, crying out she was his own Zelie. ..." Yes," she said ; " I knew I 
 should surprise you. Here I am Madame St Ceran, but to you Made- 
 moiselle Zelie." . . . Adolphe asked her in the greatest astonishment how 
 it could be ! Had she married a wealthy man, or had a fortune been left 
 to her ? . . . " Nothing extraordinary at all for a girl in my profession : 
 come and sit down by me, and I will tell you all about it." 
 
 Hardly recovered from his surprise, Adolphe seated himself on the 
 ottoman by ZeTie's side, and she proceeded to tell him that she was now 
 .kept by a gentleman who allowed her fifty pounds a week, besides the pre- 
 sents he was always making to her. She had a carriage, horses, servants, a 
 box at the opera, and all that a woman could want at her command, and 
 yet she detested her — friend — who provided all of them for her. When 
 she had finished her recital she took Adolphe in her arms, kissed him 
 rapturously, swore she loved him to adoration, and she could not exist 
 without his love. She explained that when her friend and she had entered 
 the hotel in the wood of Boulogne on the previous day, she got rid of him 
 for a few minutes by sending him downstairs to order a superb dinner ; 
 that she then wrote the hurried note, and dispatched it by her trusty page, 
 who was in all her secrets, and that she had not slept a wink all night from 
 thinking of again seeing her dear Adolphe. 
 
 Zelie resumed her caresses, and Adolphe felt his firmness giving way. 
 He recollected that Eugenie was married, and could be nothing to him 
 now ; that Charles and Louisa were always recommending him to get rid 
 of his love, that only rendered him miserable, and the young people were on 
 the very verge of renewing the pleasing scenes that took place some months 
 before, when they inhabited adjoining garrets, when the servant disturbed 
 the amorous woman's anticipated bliss by running into the boudoir out of 
 breath, and announcing that the friend had just driven intc the court- 
 jard. What was to be done ? If the favoured lover should be seen, there 
 would be an end of Madame St Ceran' s brilliant establishment ; she would 
 be turned into the street at once, and become the poor danseuse, Zelie, again. 
 Adolphe scorned concealment in anything, but the idea of destroying Zelie's 
 happiness pressed so strongly on him that he suffered the two women to 
 push him into a small cabinet with a glass half-door, shaded by a silk cur- 
 tain, just before the gentleman who kept the ballet-girl came up the stairs. 
 
 By this time Zelie had thrown herself upon the ottoman, and pretended 
 to be suffering intensely from the headache, whilst Adolphe crouched down, 
 drew a portion of the silk curtain of the glass door on one side, and disposed 
 himself to see and hear all that should take place between Z^lie and her 
 friend. The door opened, and there walked in a tall, handsome, elegant, 
 fashionably-dressed man about thirty years of age, who advanced to 
 his mistress, took both her hands tenderly in his, and inquired in a tone of 
 .great affection after her health. He was in despair to see her unwell, as 
 he had relied on the pleasure of her company that evening at the theatre, 
 where he had taken a private box, and said he had brought her a splendid 
 Cashmere shawl and an elegant Brussels lace veil, which he hoped would 
 please her fancy. Zelie deigned to smile languidly at these presents ; she 
 said she had no objections to accompany him to the play if she should find 
 herself better in the evening, but at present she was too ill to undergo the 
 fatigue of talking, and begged he would retire. The hoodwinked friend 
 yielded to her wishes, kissed her on the forehead, crossed the room on tip- 
 toe for fear of increasing the pain in his darling's head, went down the 
 stairs, jumped into his cabriolet, and drove away. 
 
154 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Adolphe was permittted to come from his 
 concealment. He expressed his wonder that the attentions and money of 
 so fine a young man as Zelie's friend did not attract her to him ; but she 
 solved the mystery according to her own notions, by stating she admitted 
 all his good qualities ; but the plague-spot that poisoned all was — he paid, 
 and she was bought. ..." Believe me, Adolphe," she said, " and I tell 
 you gospel truth, if ever you should feel inclined to ruin yourself for a 
 woman, don't be such a fool as to reckon on her love. But you, Adolphe, 
 though you despise me, and fly from me, I love you sincerely. I see that 
 you have not been fortunate in the world — your coat, your hat of last 
 fashion shows it. I cannot bear to see you, dearest, in this guise. Here, 
 accept these fifty golden pieces, and try to love poor Zelie, who loves you 
 far better than her life." 
 
 The hot blood rushed into Adolphe's face, his eye lightened, and his 
 chest heaved. He called to mind, however, what the poor girl really was, 
 and that it was out of real kindness that she offered him the money. He 
 thanked her for the interest she felt for him, bade her keep her money for 
 her own purposes, pretended to liave business to transact that would admit 
 of no delay, pressed her hand more affectionately than he was willing to 
 admit to himself, descended the stairs, and left Zelie extended on the 
 couch, bathed in tears, and giving herself up to the most impassioned grief» 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A PIECE OF GOOD LUCK. 
 
 " What strange frolics fortune indulges in ! " Adolphe exclaimed, as he 
 left the Rue dufHalden, and mingledwith the fashionables who promenaded 
 the Italian Boulevard. " How frequently she prostitutes her favours ! 
 Why does she not bestow her precious gifts on virtue, talent, industry and 
 merit? Why is it that we so often see the honest man chin-deep ia 
 misery, and the worthless fool rioting in wealth ; the virtuous woman bend- 
 ing beneath the privations of absolute want, and the courtesan revelling in 
 luxury supplied by the coarse gratification of the sensual passions ? Why 
 do we see talent and education barefooted on the ground, and stupid ignor- 
 ance in a gilded coach and four ? Why has luck, or chance, or by what- 
 ever name the fickle goddess may be called, endowed one man with a 
 fortune, which, if properly distributed, would constitute the welfare of a 
 thousand happy homes? Why does success flee from the efforts of the 
 persevering, industrious, anxiously hard-labouring man ? Why is it that 
 the millionaire heaps mass on mass of gold, till his bags burst with their 
 auriferous contents, whilst the artizan can scarcely find a mouthful of black 
 bread to still the clamours of his hungry babes ? Fifty pounds a month 
 for Zelie to endure the caresses of a man she hates and constantly deceives. 
 For that sum per year how many a man of education has danced attendance, 
 week after week, in a minister's ante-chamber, works hard, chained to the 
 desk all day, and trembles lest some measure of financial reform should- 
 tear from him his only stay ! Zelie! a few months since the girl lived in, 
 a solitary, humble garret ; behold her now in a superb hotel. She allowed 
 herself to be robbed and beaten by a scamp ; and now she will scarcely 
 deign to reply to a man who covers her with favours. She was faithful to 
 
A Piece of Good Luck 155 
 
 the rogue, and makes a mockery of her enamoured swain ; she receives 
 jewels and money from her friend, and would fain squander them upon 
 another to whom she would refuse nothing, and upon whom she would 
 exhaust the wealth of both the Indies if he would yield himself to her 
 desires ! . . . Oh, fortune, fortune ! Truly the ancient philosophers did 
 well when they portrayed thee blind ! " 
 
 Whilst these words dropped slowly from Adolphe's lips, he continued to 
 make his way to the Rue Saint Paul. The thoughts that Zelie's magnificence 
 and his own destitution had given birth to, increased the now habitual 
 melancholy of his countenance, and induced Louise to think that some 
 new misfortune had occurred. He replied to her anxious inquiries that 
 his last shilling was gone ; that he had made up his mind to grasp the first 
 employment that should present itself. Indeed, he had been offered the 
 situation of a light porter in a manufacturer's warehouse, and he would go 
 and accept it that very afternoon. The good couple endeavoured to con- 
 sole him as strenuously as they could. It was a hard case, to be sure, for a 
 young man, brought up and educated as Adolphe had been, to descend to 
 a menial occupation, but it could not be avoided : they could not afford to 
 maintain their friend, and neither could he starve. 
 
 After having shared the dinner of the engraver and his wife, Adolphe 
 repaired to the manufacturer's office, and agreed to commence his new 
 employment on the day after the ensuing one. By this arrangement he 
 would have one more day to himself, which he would spend in re-seeking^ 
 the wood of Eomainville, again lingering in those bosky dells and alleys 
 green, which he had traversed with Eugenie, and then forget her for ever. 
 Adolphe passed a restless night, and as he was quitting his room in the 
 morning to proceed to Romainville, the porter placed a letter in his hand. 
 He did not know the writing ; but on opening it found it was from a 
 highly respectable solicitor, requesting him to come to his office, as he 
 wished to see him upon very important business. Here was another 
 subject of wonder to our hero. What could a solicitor want with him %' 
 He did not owe anybody money, nor did anybody owe money to him. 
 Might it not be another Madame St Ce>an, of whom he had unwittingly 
 made a conquest ? No, the address forbade that conclusion ; possibly its - 
 might be a situation some of his friends had been successful in procuring 
 for him. Whatever it was, in his desperate circumstances the chance 
 must not be thrown away. So Adolphe went directly to the attorney's- 
 office, and was shown into an outer room, where several very young gentle- 
 men were supposed to be pursuing their studies, and qualifying themselves 
 for the arduous profession of the law. They did not take the slightest - 
 notice of Adolphe, perceiving from his well-worn clothes that he was not a 
 wealthy client, and was, therefore, not entitled to any high consideration. 
 In answer to his inquiry for the solicitor, one young gentleman referred 
 him to the second clerk — that individual had gone out just before on 
 business. The chief clerk was enjoying a luncheon with a client, for the 
 use of whose money he had made a good bargain that morning, and it was 
 impossible that the solicitor himself could be seen, because, at that moment, 
 he was engaged with a banker, who had come to consult him as to the 
 propriety and feasibility of offering to his creditors a dividend of twelve 
 shillings in the pound. Adolphe took a chair in one corner of the room, 
 and pretended to amuse himself with "The Law Directory," whilst, in 
 reality, he listened to the conversation of the articled clerks relative to 
 their vagaries on the preceding evening, which was to this effect : — " Why 
 were you not at the ball last evening, Auguste ? It was delightful — such- 
 pretty women, punch and wine in buckets, and the devil's own high play. 
 
.156 _. Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 Durvsay lost thirty pounds at e'carte." . . . "What, Durvsay, the chief 
 clerk next door ? Where does he find the tin to carry on this game ? " . . . 
 " They do say he gets it from a rich Englishwoman who has taken a fancy 
 to him." ..." All right, my boy. Only think of plundering an English- 
 woman ! Quite national, patriotic, and all that ! " . . . "I won two 
 hundred francs from Blanval," Theodore joined in. ... " Bah ! what a 
 paltry sum ! " exclaimed Horace. " I shall stake nothing less than gold 
 when I get into the Stock Exchange. ..." Where were you, Alphonse ? 
 . . . " At a dinner at Beauvilliers ; that country squire who purchased the 
 farm in Picardy stood a feed on the conveyance being executed to him. 
 Such a glorious spread I There were only four of us,'but I'll bet any money 
 it caused the bumpkin two pounds a head. Calais oysters, pheasants 
 stuffed with truffles, Abbeville salemunt, Strasburg pies, turtle soup, 
 champagne, etc. Delicious, my boys ! The old one got so drunk that 
 we were obliged to send him home in a cab, with the name of his hotel 
 pinned on his back. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " . . . "And where might you have 
 "been, Monsieur Achilles? — on the sly, I know." . . . "Why, yes, I do 
 own that I treated a little milliner to the play ; but the trembling fool 
 ■would not go into a private box. And just as I had persuaded her to 
 take some supper at Cery's, there stood her lout of a brother at the theatre 
 door, who said he must see his dear little sister safe home. Curse the stupid 
 .fellow, I say." 
 
 This interesting and intellectual conversation was interrupted by the 
 sound of approaching footsteps from the inner room. The articled clerks 
 jumped on to their stools, leaned intently over their desks, and began 
 scribbling away as if the well-being of the universal globe depended on 
 their diligence. The solicitor and the banker entered the room, Adolphe 
 felt anxious to see who the ruined man might be, and as he leaned forward, 
 be beheld Zelie's friend, smiling and appearing as if an offer of twelve 
 shillings in the pound to confiding depositors was a very excellent joke 
 indeed. As the solicitor was about to re-enter his private room, Adolphe 
 advanced to him and said, — " You did me the honour, sir, to write me a 
 note last evening, stating that you wished to see me on business, and I 
 shall be happy if you will favour me with the knowledge of what that 
 business is." . . . "Your name, Monsieur, if you please?" . . . 
 " Adolphe Dalmont." ..." Monsieur Adolphe Dalmont, I am delighted 
 to see you. Have the goodness to step this way. I have been on the 
 look out for your address with the greatest anxiety for several months." 
 .. . . The solicitor and the young man passed into the room, and all the 
 articled clerks exclaimed, — "Now, who could have thought that seedy- 
 looking prig was that lucky fellow, Adolphe Dalmont." . . . Let us now 
 see what the conversation was that was taking place in the private room, 
 and what reason the young clerks had for applying the term " lucky " to 
 our hitherto most unlucky hero. Thus it was : — 
 
 " You are Monsieur Adolphe Dalmont, only son of the late AdrianDalmont 
 of Besangon, and nephew of George Dalmont, his brother?" ... "I am." 
 ..." Can you furnish me with your register of birth, and that of your 
 father ?"..." With the greatest facility. I have them at home." . . . 
 " Your father died lately at Senlis ? " ..." Yes." ..." Well, Mon- 
 sieur, to come to the fact, I wrote to Senlis, and received a reply that your 
 iather was dead, but that he had left one only son, who had departed 
 from that town immediately after his father's funeral, and gone no one 
 knew where. I made every inquiry about you, and even put advertise- 
 ments in the newspapers requesting you to come to me, and almost 
 despaired of finding you out, when I heard of you in a very singular 
 
A Piece of Good Luck. 15T 
 
 manner. Our female servant is married to a young man, whose uncle is- 
 clerk at a laceman's in the Hue Saint Martin." ..." Monsieur Montonnet, 
 you mean ?"..." Precisely ; well, this clerk, who is a chattering old" 
 blockhead, had occasionally talked about his master's daughter having been 
 in love with one Adolphe Dalmont, and of a forced marriage with a 
 grocer ; the nephew told the piteous tale to his wife, the servant to her 
 mistress, my wife, and my wife to me." ..." But Monsieur, you have 
 not yet told me the cause of your anxiety to find me out." . . . "Bless 
 me, I had forgot, when, indeed, I ought to have begun with that. Mon- 
 sieur Dalmont, I expect very shortly to have the pleasure of putting you in 
 possession of the large fortune of your deceased uncle, Monsieur George 
 Dalmont." ..." What, Monsieur, do I hear you aright ? can it be pos- 
 sible ? do not joke with me, I beg." . . . "It would ill become me to do 
 anything of the sort. Your uncle died at Batavia as he was about to return 
 to his native land, and has left you his heir to sixty-five thousand pounds, 
 which he had amassed in specie and indigo plantations." . . . "Sixty-five 
 thousand pounds ! " . . . "Yes ; he died a bachelor, without a will, and 
 you are his heir-at-law. As your uncle had intended to return home for 
 some years past, he had invested a portion of his riches in the funds, of 
 which you can have possession in a few days ; and, in the meantime, do me 
 the honour to consider me your banker." 
 
 Adolphe heard the attorney mechanically, but did not comprehend one 
 word of the last sentence he uttered. Sixty-five thousand pounds ! all his 
 own, and a few minutes before he had not possessed a farthing in the world. 
 He had found fault with Fortune ; what could he think of her now ! He 
 drew his breath heavily, and felt almost choked when he thought, had this 
 wealth only come three months sooner, Eugenie would have been saved, 
 and his own happiness secured for life ! In a few minutes he regained his 
 composure, and left the solicitor, promising to bring the necessary papers 
 to prove his birth and identity as soon as possible. As he passed through 
 the outer room, accompanied by the man of law, the clerks all rose and 
 bowed reverently to! the rich young man. ..." Oh, charming ! What a 
 difference between Adolphe, light porter and packer in a manufacturer's 
 warehouse, and Monsieur Adolphe Dalmont, the master of sixty-five thou- 
 sand pounds ! " 
 
 So soon as Adolphe was quit of the office, he hailed the first empty cab 
 he saw, and bade the man drive to the Hue Saint Paul as fast as if the devil 
 was behind him. Arrived there, he threw the driver a crown— for he had 
 accepted the attorney's offer of a temporary loan — ran up the stairs of the 
 house in which Charles and Louisa lived, threw open the door without} 
 knocking, burst into their room, and commenced all sorts of antics. He 
 kissed Louisa, hugged Charles, pulled them off their chairs, took each by 
 the hand, and danced with them round the table, crying out at every bound, 
 — " Sixty-five thousand pounds ; only think of that, my friends, sixty-five 
 thousand pounds. No fear for the future ; you shall have six, ten, a dozen 
 children, if you Uke, I'll bring them all up, I'll be a father to them all." 
 The engraver and his wife thought he had been to the grocer's again, and 
 was more mad than ever. Louisa cried, and Charles looked at him with 
 pitying eyes. They implored him to be calm, and at last he sat down, and 
 told them of the splendid fortune he had inherited. 
 
 " My good friends," he said, " it is to you I owe this fortune, for if it 
 had not been for you, assuredly I should have drowned myself in the river 
 Seine. Now, these riches belong to you as much as to me, and you must 
 share them with me." ..." No, Monsieur Adolphe, we will have none of 
 them ; we shall be always friends, and happy to see you, but we did not 
 
158 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 anticipate any recompense when we saved you from the effects of your 
 despair." ..." My dear Charles, let me do as I like, and make a good use 
 of my riches. Look, I have sixty-five thousand pounds ; you shall have 
 twenty thousand of them." . . . "I cannot accept them." . . . "Fifteen 
 thousand, then — ten thousand ?"..." No, no, I thank you, no." . . . 
 " What a singular man you are ! At least you can't prevent me from 
 setting you up in business; I will buy you the goodwill of a trade, and 
 furnish you with all the materials you want, and the start to bring you a 
 fortune." . . . This proposition was received thankfully by Louisa, who 
 prevailed on her husband, with some little difficulty, to accept lit. They 
 then embraced each other, shed some tears of natural delight, and Adolphe, 
 giving one long sigh to Eugenie, sat down, and began to build a consider- 
 able number of " castles in the air." 
 
 He would buy a house in a fashionable quarter of Paris, and a pretty 
 estate in the country, where himself, the engraver and his wife would pass 
 the summer season. He would engage an honest, skilful steward to look 
 after his property and receive his rents ; who should he have in that re- 
 sponsible situation ? Who was so proper as old Bidois ? It was through 
 Bidois that the attorney had found Adolphe out ; the old clerk was cer- 
 tainly a skilful accountant and an honest man ; besides, he could always 
 talk of " Her ! " . . . Poor Adolphe, he loved Her still ! „ . . . Adolphe 
 soon came down from his Pegasus in the skies to the things of this earth, 
 shook his friends warmly by the hand, and left them to look after the 
 documents the attorney had desired him to bring. 
 
 Louisa and her husband put by their work for that day ; they were too 
 agitated with their good fortune to attend to business. At dinner they 
 were not hungry ; they took a walk in the evening, but could not eat any- 
 thing for supper, and when in bed at night, they could not sleep. They 
 were not yet habituated to the possession of so much wealth. . . . Louisa 
 tossed and turned about in bed. " Our new-found wealth," she said, " has 
 taken away our appetite and sleep ; " then, kissing her husband, " happily it 
 .cannot take away our love ! " 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 IN WHICH BIDOIS TURNS UP AGAIN. 
 
 Thanks to the promptitude with which Adolphe procured the papers 
 proving his birth and relationship to George Dalmont, the legal prelimin- 
 aries were quickly arranged, and our hero found himself in possession of his 
 brilliant heritage, and free to make what use of it he should think fit. . . . 
 If riches do not constitute absolute happiness, yet it cannot be denied that? 
 they go far in producing it, with the power of gratifying every wish, and 
 ministering to all his tastes. Adolphe did not lose all memory of Eugenie, 
 but he did not give way to despair, and sought to drown his love amid the 
 pleasures that the gay capital of France always presents to a young and 
 wealthy man. In pursuance of the plan he had laid down, he bought a 
 house in Paris, and shortly afterwards an estate, about fifty miles away, 
 with a chateau, gardens, woods, fish-ponds, farms, and all "the adjuncts 
 , necessary, for the enjoyment of a quiet, gentlemanly, country life. 
 
 Louisa undertook the responsibility of providing servants and looking 1 
 
In which Bidois turns up Again, 159 
 
 -after the furnishing of his town house. Although not born to opulence, she 
 bad great natural good taste, and was continually running to the estab- 
 lishments of upholsterers, dealers in mirrors, china and nick-nacks, so thafe 
 at the end of a month the house was painted, papered, decorated, furnished, 
 and made ready for the reception ot its owner. . . . Gold was the enchan- 
 ter's wand that produced these magic alterations. 
 
 Whilst the good little woman was thus busily employed, Adolphe had 
 not been unmindful of her interest ; and at the same time he took posses- 
 sion of his mansion, the engraver and his wife were installed in a handsome 
 shop in the best business part of the city, with presses, plates and materials, 
 that promised, with industry, to procure them an excellent future trade. 
 The only person now wanting was a steward for the country estate. 
 Adolphe dispatched one of his men-servants to ascertain how the land lay 
 at the laceman's house, and heard with delight that the Montonnets, hav- 
 ing amassed a competency, had sold the goodwill and stock of the shop to 
 a young couple, who would enter into possession a few days from that 
 period. The servant was then sent back in a cabriolet, with orders to 
 bring Bidois with him, but on no account to tell the old clerk the name of 
 the gentleman who requested to see him. At the sight of a groom in a 
 handsome livery Bidois could not conceive that it was he who was wanted ; 
 on reconsideration, however, he thought it must be one of their customers 
 who wished to give some orders, so, having apprised Montonnet that he 
 should be absent for a short time, he provided himself with several patterns 
 of fringes in every style, and got into the cabriolet, with the never-failing 
 pen stuck behind his ear. 
 
 The cabriolet pulled up at the door of an elegant mansion on the 
 Boulevard Italian. Bidois stepped out, admiring the splendour of the 
 fittings, convinced that the owner must be a gentleman of wealth and 
 taste, ascended the stairs, and was ushered by the groom of the chambers 
 into the saloon. Adolphe was reclining in an easy chair. He looked 
 steadily at the old man, who stood staring stupidly, and could not believe 
 his eyes until Dalmont spoke. ..." Yes, Bidois, your eyes do not deceive 
 you ; it is I, indeed, Adolphe Dalmont, who used you so shamefully not 
 long ago, when I came into your master's shop after my return to Paris. 
 Be calm, Bidois, and do not fear, now that I am in prosperity, that I am 
 about to do you any harm. I am aware that you acted in obedience to 
 the orders of Madame Montonnet, and you only did your duty in second- 
 ing the vigilance of a watchful mother, who wished to preserve her only 
 daughter from the solicitations of a penniless young man. Now, listen to 
 me. I have succeeded to a large inheritance, and am passing rich. I have 
 purchased a fine property about fifty miles from Paris, and am in want of 
 an intelligent, honest man to act as my steward, and look after my interests 
 as if they were his own. You are a man who will suit me, and I now 
 offer you the situation ! " . . . " Me, my Lord ! " Bidois exclaimed, bowing 
 down to the carpet ; " you offer the place of steward to me ! " . . . " Yes, 
 I do so freely. What is the amount of your salary at Montonnet's ? " . . . 
 " Thirty pounds a year, with board and lodging ; washing I find myself." 
 « . . " I will give you one hundred pounds a year, with the same advan- 
 tages and power in my absence to command all my servants as if I were 
 present myself. I know I might get many stewards at one-half the salary, 
 but then they would rob me through thick and thin, so that I shall be a 
 gainer in the end by my liberality." . . . Bidois was stupefied ; he bowed 
 low again to " My Lord," accepted the situation with the greatest grati- 
 tude, and as he should be free in a fortnight, when the lace shop would be 
 given up, it was arranged that he should enter Dalmont's service at thafc 
 
160 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 period, and proceed with his new master to survey the country estate. 
 Adolphe clinched the bargain by presenting twenty sovereigns to the old? 
 man. 
 
 The servants, who were assembled in the hall, were directed to obey the- 
 new steward, and Bidois was driven back in the cabriolet, not knowing 
 exactly whether he was on his head or his heels. He alighted from the 
 carriage as if he were stepping upon air, entered the shop with his head 
 erect, and slammed the door to after him with a violence that completely 
 astonished Madame Montonnet, who had returned during his absence, and 
 was exceedingly angry at his having dared to leave the house without her 
 permission first asked and granted, an occurrence that had never taken 
 place during the fifteen years he had been in Montonnet's employ. No 
 sooner had he given three emphatic grunts, intended to be indicative of his- 
 free agency, and resumed his seat, than Madame stared at him, and com- 
 menced the attack. 
 
 " Where have you been to, Monsieur Bidois, and how dare you absent 
 yourself without my permission ? You have been away upwards of half- 
 an hour." . . . Bidois came down from his stool, seated himself on the 
 counter, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and took a pinch of 
 snuff in the coolest manner possible. ... " Do you not hear me ? " rais- 
 ing her voice ; " I ask you where have you been ? " . . . Montonnet, 
 trembling all over at an anticipated scene, faltered out, — " Bidois, my wife 
 asks you where you have been ?"..." Where have I been, where have 
 I been ? I'll tell you soon enough ; let me have a moment's breathing 
 time, if you please." ... " Bless my heart alive, what do you mean by 
 this tone, by this impertinence, Monsieur ? " . . . " Impertinence, 
 Madame ! Use better language, if you please." ... " He dares to 
 answer me. Are you mad ? or have been out to breakfast with some 
 fools and got intoxicated, the old jackass that you are." ..." Drunk, 
 Madame, and jackass, Madame ; better language, Madame. Pray respect 
 the steward of a great man, the confidential agent of ' My Lord ' Adolphe 
 Dalmont, a man of three thousand five hundred a year, the possessor of 
 houses, of farms, of cattle and sheep, and to whom you were stupid enough 
 to refuse your daughter's hand, and order to be turned out of the house. " 
 . . . "The man must be mad ; what can three thousand five hundred a 
 year have to do with Adolphe Dalmont, the young scamp who dared to 
 aspire to my child ? " . . . " Scamp, Madame ! Know that the scamp 
 can afford to engage my services at one hundred pounds a year. You did 
 wrong, Madame, in refusing him your daughter, and will repent it all the 
 days of your life." 
 
 Madame Montonnet did not know what to make of all that Bidois said. 
 She repressed her rage in order to get at the truth, and was astounded to 
 hear what Bidois had seen at Adolphe's house, which, of course, he added 
 to immensely, so that our young friend was in great danger of becoming 
 another Marquis of Carabas. Turning to her husband, she said, — "Da 
 you hear what he says, Monsieur Montonnet ? A palace, a park, lands,, 
 gardens, farms!" . . . "Yes, sweetest." . . . "A close carriage, an 
 open landau, horses, gigs, and woods ! " . . . " Woods, my love. " . . . 
 " Why don't you speak, Montonnet ? " . . . ""What can I say, dearest ? " 
 ..." Oh, he ought to have been our son-in-law, and then my daughter 
 would have been a duchess instead of a grocer's wife ! " . . . " And then 
 her husband would not have come to us and said that his wife would not 
 let — " ... "If I could but have foreseen that he would have inherited 
 this property ! " . . . " How could you, my dove 1" . . . "Be quiet, 
 Montonnet, you make my blood curdle with your coolness. Instead of 
 
In which Bidois turns up Again. 161 
 
 retiring from business with only two hundred a year, we should have livedt 
 in a palace." ... " And I should have played at dominoes all the night 
 long." . . . " I shall die with vexation." . . . "And I too," sai* 
 Montonnet. 
 
 The day of Bidois' departure from his old employer came. The clerk: 
 packed up his small stock of clothes, took leave of Monsieur and Madame* 
 and proceeded to his new master's house, dressed from top to toe in a suite 
 which he had purchased with Adolphe's handsome present. He had 
 scarcely entered the courtyard before his master made him get into a-. 
 travelling carriage, and they both departed for the country seat, Bidoio, 
 keeping as upright as a lamp-post, and not daring to move from an excess- 
 of respect, which gradually became less oppressive through Adolphe's kind 
 demeanour, seconded by. a conversation which turned constantly upor& 
 Eugenie, a subject with which they were both conversant, and of whicha 
 young Monsieur Dalmont was never tired. 
 
 The chateau was soon reached. Bidois inspected it from top to bottom 
 with the greatest curiosity. The peasants came to pay their court to the? 
 new steward, who treated them as if they were the born slaves of anv 
 ancient feudal lord, and promised them his influence with their potentr 
 master. The poor fellow, still thinking of his Eugenie, and the delights, 
 he should have experienced in wandering through the forests hand ia- 
 hand with her, examined the whole of his estate, the park, the farms, the 
 vineyards, the gardens, and the lakes, caressing the children of the 
 cottagers, and winning his tenants' hearts with his openness of disposi- 
 tion. Bidois followed his master — book and pencil in hand — taking notes 
 of all he saw, and proposing to himself to alter everything to his owa 
 lancy when his master's back should be turned. 
 
 La the evening, he visited every cottage in the village, informed himself 
 of the state of every tenant's account with his landlord, and on his return 
 to the chateau held a long interview with his employer as to the mode ia 
 which he should conduct the business of the estate. Adolphe ordered 
 bim on no account to eject any tenant from his farm, to allow the villagers 
 free access to the park and gardens, to grant time to those who were un- 
 avoidably in arrear with their rents, and to assist with money those whose 
 crops should be destroyed by tempests or accidental fire. If he should 
 hear of an industrious young couple who were desirous of being married,, 
 fout could not be so for want of funds, be was to provide them furniture, 
 and the necessaries to commence housekeeping. If he found that mea 
 were driven to poaching through want of employment, he was to find ife 
 for them, and he was to pay for a band that the villagers might enjoy 
 themselves with dancing on Sundays and other holidays. 
 
 Having given his final instructions to the steward, Adolphe left his 
 seat for Paris, whereupon the new official, who in his own ideas had 
 increased two inches in stature since his appointment, commenced the 
 discharge of his new functions by ordering the death of a poor dog who* 
 bad had the impertinenos to make for the calves of His Royal Highness* 
 
 ■im*n*T. 
 
 % 
 
162 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A MEETING AND ITS SINGULAR CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 ^When Adolphe became a rich man, he endeavoured to lose the recollection 
 <5ihis love in the usual occupations and pleasures of life. At times he 
 ^persuaded himself that that love had entirely ceased, but the very next 
 '•moment found him dreaming more fondly than ever of Eugenie. He went 
 •:much into that society to which the profession of wealth always affords an 
 •easy access. He mingled with many amiable, attractive women, whom he 
 ■thought he could love. He spoke to them, and they listened to him 
 --attentively, because he was young, handsome, liberal and rich, and thus, 
 Jiavihg won numerous hearts — the accompanying hands of which he might 
 Shave had for the mere asking — he thought he had surmounted his first 
 ■-affection, that he had forgotten Eugenie and loved another girl. . . . He 
 esaid as much to Charles and Louisa, and they agreed that he was in the 
 (aright to get married as soon as he could. 
 
 It happened invariably, notwithstanding Adolphe's new loves, that a few 
 ■"days after he had communicated the intelligence of his fresh attachment to 
 Ms humble friends, he sought them in a moody spirit, and when they 
 inquired how his amours went on, he acknowledged that he had been 
 ^deceived, and what he thought was love was only the ebullition of a 
 temporary caprice. In a short time, however, our hero seemed to have 
 i^iiade up his mind. He paid attention to a pretty, young, well-made, 
 ■elegant woman, and she responded to his vows. Adolphe had courted her 
 assiduously for a month, and was convinced that he was really in love with 
 3'ier. They were scarcely ever apart. All day the}* walked together on the 
 public promenades, and evening generally found them in the same box at 
 'the opera or the play. . . . Charles told Louisa he thought Adolphe was 
 $Sxed at last, and had forgotten Eugenie. Louisa shook her head and smiled 
 incredulously. The good little woman knew human nature better than her 
 <husband. 
 
 Whilst Adolphe was amusing himself in this manner with his hello, 
 ZEugenie's health became entirely re-established, and in the absence of her 
 iihusband she lived in retirement with Jeanneton, indulging her melancholy 
 ijm spite of the exertions of her kind-hearted servant, who kept constantly 
 ^repeating to her that she had seen her lover asleep in the danseuse's bed, 
 •the very next morning after his midnight interview with her at her parents' 
 residence in the Rue Saint Martin. 
 
 Eugenie heard Jeanneton's assertions in silence, without believing a 
 '"word she said. " Ah, Jeanneton ! " she exclaimed, " if you had only seen 
 Ihim on the day when Dupont brought him up here, you would not tell such 
 ^stories of him. Poor Adolphe ! I dared not look him full in the face, bub 
 I saw at a single glance how sadly he was altered ; indeed, misery and grief 
 Ghad worn him to the bone." . . . Jeanneton replied that she dared to say 
 .Adolphe had felt a little uncomfortable at first, but that he had soon 
 consoled himself for his loss. All men were wretches, more or less, and he 
 •was not a bit better than the rest. . . . These conversations frequently 
 iook place, and were always attended with the same result. 
 
 Madame Montonnet had taken the greatest pains to prevent the news 
 *a& Adolphe's accession to his large fortune reaching her daughter's ears for 
 fear that it would add to her regret at being sacrificed to the grocer, and 
 <j|iiat she would repine at being debarred the luxuries attendant upoa 
 
A Meeting and Its Singular Consequences. 1G3 
 
 "wealth; but in this respect she judged Eugenie's feelings by the sordid 
 measure of her own breast, and did the victim of her avarice the foulest 
 wrong, for Eugenie loved Adolphe for himself alone. Jeanneton pressed 
 her mistress to take country walks, to go to public amusements, the theatre 
 and balls, in order to dissipate her melancholy, but all in vain, until one 
 day, to get rid of her servant's importunities, and to afford some gratifica- 
 tion to the girl who had been her watchful, kind companion for so long a. 
 time, Eugenie consented to go to the opera, promising herself some slight 
 amusement at the delight of Jeanneton, who had never been at any of the 
 large theatres before. Jeanneton thought this w T as a good beginning. 
 "Only let me get her once outside the doors," she said, "and things will 
 go on well, I warrant." 
 
 The young lady and her servant occupied seats in a box in the dress 
 circle, and when the curtain drew up, Jeanneton had neither eyes nor ears 
 for anything but what was passing on the stage. Eugenie amused herself 
 for several minutes with her servant's astonishment, then, glancing casually 
 round the house, her eye rested involuntarily on a private box wherein a 
 young gentleman was seated by the side of a lady, elegantly dressed, and 
 evidently of superior rank. This young gentleman was Adolphe Dalmont, 
 -and the lady was his last conquest, her with whom he fancied himself m 
 love. Eugenie looked and looked again, and could not believe she was 
 awake. Could it possibly be Adolphe by that lovely woman's side, and pay- 
 ing her those delicate attentions that love alone suggests ! Adolphe, exqui- 
 sitely dressed, and smiling tenderly at every whispered word ; could that 
 be the Adolphe she had beheld in her own room, pale, haggard, furious, ami 
 in despair ! Not knowing what to do, trembling in every limb, and scarcely 
 believing the evidence of her eyes, she touched Jeanneton lightly, and 
 ■said, — "Look, look, good girl; do you see?" . . . "Yes, Madame, yes; 
 how beautiful it is ! "... " Do you see who it is, Jeanneton ? " . . . 
 "Oh, yes, Madame, I've known him ever so long; it's the man who 
 wanted to kill the princess." ..." There, Jeanneton, in that box down 
 there." . . . "Ah, ha! Madame, and now they're going to dance." . . . 
 ' How tenderly he looks at her, how affectionately he presses her hand ! 
 O God, it is too much ! " . . . Jeanneton was so much interested in the 
 scene that she did not hear a word Eugenie had been saying, and the poor, 
 heart-broken girl closed her eyes, and leant back, almost fainting, in her 
 chair. 
 
 When the first act of the opera was over, Jeanneton turned to her 
 mistress, and was shocked to see how deeply she was affected. She asketl 
 anxiously if Eugenie was ill, and proposed to leave the house at once. 
 Eugenie slowly opened her eyes. " Do you not see him ? " she said. . . . 
 "What 'him'?" . . . "Adolphe." . . . "Where?" . . . " In that box 
 below, with that pretty woman." . . . Jeanneton looked too, and saw it 
 was Adolphe, indeed. She endeavoured to prevail upon Eugenie to retire, 
 but her mistress was unwilling to deprive her ssvvaiit of aay pleasure, rt»i<i 
 ■determined to remain there until the curtain fell. 
 
 At the close of the opera, Euge'nie stayed until she saw Adolphe and the 
 lady leave their box. She then walked out, and so timed her departure 
 that she contrived to follow her faithless lover into the lobby, where she 
 addressed some common observuxiou 10 Jeanneton in a low tone. The 
 well -remembered accents thrilled upi^a Adolphe's ears. He turned quickly 
 round, saw it was Eugenie who spoke, and, without giving a thought to the 
 fair creature who hung upon his arm, without being aware of what he was 
 doing, he left her side and hastened forward to see his long-lost love ; bub 
 they were immediately separated by the crowd, and Eugenie, who only 
 
X€4 * Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 wished to make sure she was not mistaken, and feeling certain that the 
 lady was Adolphe's bride, passed on, and entered the carriage that had 
 been in waiting to convey her home. She took no supper, for her heart 
 was too full to eat, undressed herself in silence, and went to her miserable 
 bed, without even saying " good night " to her faithful Jeanneton. 
 
 As soon as she was up, the warm-hearted servant went to see how her 
 (mistress had passed the night, and was surprised to find her more calm and 
 self-possessed than she had lately been ; but she was still more surprised — 
 nay, even astounded — when Eugenie inquired whether any letters had 
 come to hand from Monsieur Dupont. She received an answer that he 
 had written, on business, to the young men in the shop. . . . Would her 
 *' husband " soon return ? . . . Her " husband ! " What could all this 
 mean ? ... In obedience to Eugenie's command, Jeanneton descended to 
 the shop to ascertain the exact address of Monsieur Dupont ; whilst the 
 now submissive wife opened her desk, and wrote the following brief letter 
 to the grocer : — " My husband, — I have acted wrongly towards you, and I 
 now acknowledge my error, in the hope that you will have the goodness to 
 forgive me. Erom this time forward I will act as an obedient wife, and: 
 jou will find me ready to discharge all the duties which that title 
 imposes. " 
 
 She signed the letter, for the first time, " Eugenie Dupont," folded and 
 sealed it, called Jeanneton to her, and bade her put it in the post without 
 fail, as it was intended for her husband. ..." Her * husband,' " the good 
 ■servant thought ; " what will the world come to next ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MONSIEUR DUPONT HIDES ON HOBSEBACK. 
 
 Dupont remained at Marseilles, deeply engaged in the mysteries of 
 auctions, olives, sugars, spices, pickled sprats and Turkey figs. Being 
 oppressed with business, he was not particularly desirous of returning to 
 Paris ; for he feared, in the first place, to find his wife still ill ; and* 
 secondly, he could not forget the words of the Commissioner of Police : — • 
 " When a wife behaves in that way to her husband, she must have some 
 blemish — some secret reason that she will not disclose." 
 
 This idea preyed upon his mind, and embittered the pleasures of all the 
 parties to which he was invited. The wealthy tradesman was paid the 
 greatest attention by the merchants with whom he dealt ; but he received 
 them all coldty, being determined, so soon as he should be in Paris, to have 
 a consultation of physicians, and ascertain whether any defect of nature 
 induced Eugenie to treat him in the rigsrous manner she had done. His 
 astonishment may, therefore, be conceived when he opened a letter from 
 Paris, and, glancing at the signature, saw the words — "Eugenie Dupont." 
 He spread it out, and eagerly devoured every word — "From this time 
 forward I will act as an obedient wife." Could it be possible ! . . . "And 
 you will find me ready to discharge all the duties which that title imposes." 
 . . . The grocer was mad with joy. " ' All the duties ' — it's clear enough 
 what that means. Poor little thing, it's my absence has brought her to 
 her senses ! Slis adores me now I am out of her sight, and says she is 
 
Monsieur Duponi rides on .Horseoaah 165' 
 
 aveady — And that stupid Commissioner, too, who wanted to make me 
 -believe — to- the devil with him. She lungs for me to return, and now I 
 ©hall be married indeed." 
 
 He rang for the landlady, desired her to pack up his portmanteau with 
 ■all speed, and ran off as fast as his fat legs could carry him to order hov.ses 
 for the road. . . " Where to ? " the postmaster inquired* ..." To Paris, 
 in the quickest manner : my wife expects me t<>— " . . . "You will take ai 
 chaise?" . . . "Two, if you like." . . . "And how many horses — two or four V 
 . . . "Five, if they will go the faster ; put them one before the other." . . . 
 ■" It would be impossible to drive them in that way." . . . "Then put 
 them all abreast." . . . "Impossible." . . . " Then harness them as you. 
 like ; all I care for is to be off. Ering them out at once, and send a courier 
 forward to order fresh horses. My wife waits for me to — and I am in » 
 ■hurry." 
 
 Back he went to the hotel, calling for his bill, and hurrying all the 
 •servants up and down. He did not give them time to pack all his clothes, 
 took with him only some linen and a few bills of lading, directing Jthe rest 
 of the things to be sent on with the bales of articles that he had bought. 
 The landlord could not guess what the fussy man was about, and hazarded 
 a guess " that he had received important despatches from Paris." . . . 
 *' Yes ; a letter from my wife." ..." I hope she is not ill ? " . . . " On 
 the contrary, she is quite well, and has written to say that, for the first? 
 time since our marriage, she is ready to — damn it, Monsieur, I ought 
 to be in a hurry, I think, to take advantage of that amiable desire." . . . 
 The landlord did not understand one word ; the grocer had no time for 
 any further explanations ; the chaise was at the door, the horses neighed, 
 the post-boys cracked their whips, and in a few moments the delighted 
 grocer was on his route to Paris. 
 
 All along the road the sight of the courier, four horses, and two 
 postillions induced the country people to believe that some person of dis- 
 tinction was in the chaise ; and everywhere as he passed they said, — " It 
 must be a prince who travels incognito, a general, a foreign ambassador, »r 
 ■some other extraordinary person." They inquired of the postillions at every 
 relay, and on these replying it was only a fat grocer who was in a hurry 
 to — communicate — with his wife, they laughed heartily at the joke, re- 
 maining convinced there was some mystery in this aristocratic mode of 
 travelling. Dupont worried the postillions to drive faster, paying them 
 largely, like a government contractor, an English lord, or a speculating 
 banker who has become bankrupt in his own country, and is running away 
 as fast as he can to buy lands and a fine demesne in another ; the courier, 
 cantering in advance, ordering everything to be ready for the grocer's 
 arrival. Now, the arrival of a courier at an inn always announces that 
 some important personage is on the road, and as it is not an everyday 
 occurrence, the landlords commence setting their houses in order, that all 
 snay give satisfaction to the great man. The kitchen fire is made to sparkle 
 brightly, the spits revolve, the stewing-pans are on the charcoal embers, the 
 under-cooks at their posts, the servants get ready the best suite of apart- 
 ments, and lay the best cloth and plate in the best dining-room, for a man 
 who is preceded by a courier does not dine at an ordinary, and as he will 
 not stop for the night, the host makes his repast as expensive as he can. 
 
 Near the close of the day when. the grocer left Marseilles, the cracking 
 ■of whips, the galloping of horses, and the sound of wheels was heard in a 
 large town on the main road. The landlord of the chief inn ran to the 
 .great gates, cap in hand, the servant girls smoothed their aprons and 
 adjusted their caps, the waiters stood in the doorway bowing to th» 
 
166 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ground, the stable-003-s crowded into the yard, the guests who were in the 
 house went to the windows to look at the important traveller, and a mob 
 assembled round the carriage as it drew up to the door. 
 
 The landlord was in ecstacy when he saw a courier, two postillions and 
 four horses. He cried out, — " Susan, Mary, see that there is not the least 
 speck of dust in the large saloon ; James, Pierre, look to the roast-meats, 
 the fricassees, the jellies, and the game. Don't spare anything, cook ; a dis- 
 tinguished personage like this great man has always a finical palate, and 
 does not care how much his eating costs him." 
 
 The carriage drove into the courtyard ; all eyes were fixed on the great; 
 incognito ; the carriage-door was opened, and the steps let down, but 
 instead of there descending a gentleman covered with ribbands, in a 
 deeply -laced and embroidered coat, with a plumed hat, and of a haughty 
 and imposing air, everybody was surprised to see a short, fat man 01 very 
 common appearance, with an old cap on his head, a sky-blue body coat; 
 white cravat, and yellow breeches with gaiters of the same, and who, in 
 almost falling out of the chaise, knocked the officious landlord on to a heap 
 of horse-dung that stood in the court3'ard. The landlord got up and shook 
 the filthy stream from him, comforting himself that a courier and four 
 post-horses must mean a rich man, who should pay him well for the stains 
 on his best black coat. 
 
 The great unknown hastened into the ordinary reception-room, threw 
 himself into a chair, paid the post-boys liberally, desired them to have fresh 
 horses directly, as he should only have a mouthful and then push on, and 
 then placed himself at a table covered with a common oil-cloth, bawling to 
 the waiters to bring him something to eat as quick as possible. The land- 
 lord, all smiles and civility, proceeded to address him, — "If my Lord — if 
 the Marquise," he said, "his Highness would condescend to step into the 
 apartment that has been prepared for him — " ..." Don't give yourself 
 any trouble about it, Monsieur," Dupont replied ; " I shall do well enough, 
 here." . . . "Your Excellency would be more at your ease — more com- 
 fortable — " . . . "Don't bother me, my good man, but let me have some- 
 thing to eat, quick, quick ; my wife expects me." . . . "What an original V y 
 the landlord thought, " what a singular-looking creature, but there are the 
 post-boys, and the courier, and the horses : there cannot be any mistake 
 about them." ..." Your Highness' dinner is quite ready." ..." Don't 
 give yourself any trouble, Monsieur ; a plate of fried potatoes, a piece of 
 Parmesan cheese, and a pint bottle of beer will do well enough for me." 
 . . . "What, my Lord ! do I hear right ? " . . . "Yes, yes, I want only 
 potatoes and Parmesan cheese ; let it be old, for I am a judge of the 
 quality ; and see, if yours is not good, I can send you some capital from 
 my shop." 
 
 The landlord left the room in a rage, ran into the kitchen, ordered the- 
 meats, and the fowls, and the game to be taken from the fire, casting up 
 his eyes and lifting up his hands in wonder that a man who travelled^with 
 four post horses should have nothing for dinner but beer, potatoes and 
 cheese. What the deuce could he mean by travelling like a wealthy man. 
 and dining like a cadger ! He could not be any great shakes after all :. 
 high blood was always seen, and vulgarity would out. 
 
 Dupoiit took no notice of the host's ill-humour. He crammed the 
 potatoes and cheese down his throat as fast as he could, filled a small bottle 
 with cold brandy-and -water, jumped into the post-chaise, and threw three- 
 pence to the waiters as their fee. Could this be the same man who paid 
 the postillions so generously ? Yes ! he cared not for expense so that he 
 might sleep with his wife. To communicate with Eugenie he was a lord; 
 
Monsieur Dupont rides on Horsehask. 16T 
 
 for the rest, the grocer. The landlord of the inn was right : vulgarity wilfe 
 out, and blood will show ? 
 
 The post-boys, who had heard from those of the last stage what sort of 
 a. man they had to deal with, urged their horses foward until they were- 
 covered with foam, yet still they did not go fast enough for the anxious 
 Dupont. Whips and spurs were put in still further requisition, until the 
 chaise, which was old and unused to be driven at that furious pace, broke 
 down when half-way between Paris and Marseilles. No one was hurt, bnfe 
 on examining the vehicle, it was found that it would take three days to pufe 
 it in a condition fit again for the road. Three days ! The grocer was. 
 plunged in an abyss of despair. Three days ! Before that time he had 
 hoped bis wife would have been in the family-way. But what need was- 
 there that he should travel in a carriage ? A brilliant idea came into his- 
 head : he would ride post. To be sure, he had never mounted a horse ia 
 Lis life, but he knew he could ride like an English fox-hunter. No matter 
 whether he could or could not, he must get Eugenie with child, and o»- 
 horseback he would go ! He hired an animal forthwith, purchased the 
 courier's large boots, whip, and spurs, and thus attired, half-tradesmaB^. 
 half-postboy, he clambered into the saddle, and trotted out of the town. 
 
 Dupont had not proceeded more than a mile before he found that riding 
 was not quite so easy as he had imagined ; the horse's action was high, the 
 grocer could not keep his seat in the saddle, and wandered all over the- 
 animal's back, from his shoulders to his tail. He endeavoured to grip the 
 horse with his thighs, but he shook so that he was continually off his- 
 balance, and his feet lost the stirrups, which had been let out by far toe- 
 long for him. Nevertheless, he did not lose heart, but held on by the 
 main, the pommel, and the cantle of the saddle, the only thing that plagued, 
 him being that as both hands were constantly employed in helping him tot- 
 keep his seat, he could not use the whip, and as for the spurs, they were- 
 useless, for the heels of his short legs would not reach the horse's flanks.. 
 When he had gone about three miles he dropped one of the great boots, and : 
 two miles farther the other was left upon the road. He consoled himself 
 for their loss with thinking he should be all the lighter without them, and 
 the horse would go the better. Thus he plodded wearily on until mid- 
 day, when his breeches began to crack all over, showing large interstices of-. 
 flesh. What was the destruction of a pair of breeches to a man about to~ 
 share his wife's bed for the first time ! 
 
 He had not gone much farther before he began to feel that continued 
 riding was very unpleasant to his latter end. He groaned slightly, sayingy 
 — " This horseback almost flays a man alive when he is unused to it. " My 
 rump will be bruised to a jelly, and that will be very inconvenient for my 
 wife. Never mind ; I hope it will not increase much, and I'll have & 
 plaister put to it at the next stage." His will was good to force the horse's 
 pace, but he wanted the power ; spurring was out of the question, and he 
 *ould not lift his whip, so he gave another groan, carried his hand to the 
 afflicted place, and suffered the animal to relax into a walk. 
 
 The grocer's arrival at the hotel in the next town, in a sky-blue coat, shoes 
 with buckles, and holding his hand on his rump, produced a very different 
 impression on the household to that which he had caused when he travelled in, 
 a post-chaise and four. The landlord did not move from the bar, the ostler 
 let him dismount by himself, and the waiters laughed at the grotesque 
 appearance he made. Dupont limped into the hotel, asked for a private 
 room, and desired that his horse should be well looked after. As he 
 thought the animal had fallen into a walk from exhaustion, and required 
 stimulants, and, being totally unacquainted with the habits of horses and 
 
168 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 their natural food, he shouted out to the stable-lads to give him roast-beef, 
 -with a saUce composed of strong wine, cayenne pepper, salt, and truffles,. 
 for that would make him go if anything would. The grooms shrugged 
 their shoulders at this unheard-of feed for a horse j however, they said 
 anothing, thinking that truffles might be cheap in the grocer's part of the 
 country, but there he would find his nag's dinner an uncommonly expensive 
 affair. 
 
 The beast being cared for, the man demanded the next consideration. 
 !Dupont was shown into a private room by a pretty brunette, who asked 
 lam how she could be useful to him. " Bring me a plaister of linseed." he 
 «ried; and the girl retired, laughing at the" droll idea that a man should 
 dine on linseed whilst he gave his Bucephalus truffles with wine to eat. 
 However, when the servant brought up the plaister, she saw she had made 
 a mistake, for the grocer pointed to the aggrieved portion of his micro- 
 cosm, and requested she would apply the plaister to the injured part. 
 The girl started back and refused indignantly ; but a shilling overcame 
 &kat difficulty, and whilst the plaister was being affixed, Dupont amused 
 the woman by telling her that he should soon sleep with his wife, and did 
 siot wish her to find him out of sorts. For that reason he was riding post, 
 and almost killing himself with fatigue. The woman could not help 
 saying,—" Well, now, my husband sleeps with me every night, and he has 
 ©ever skinned his rump in trying to get back to me yet ! " 
 
 The grocer's dinner was served, and whilst he was eating more at his 
 «ase, since the plaister had allayed the irritation caused by his ride, the 
 •servant recounted in the kitchen that there was a gentleman above stairs 
 ■who was killing himself with riding post in order to get to his wife, and all 
 She women around who heard the wondrous tale assembled to obtain a 
 eight of the man who they proposed to hold up as a model of perfection to 
 ■their own lazy spouses. . . . Dinner was finished, and Dupont again in 
 the saddle ; the horse pawed the pavement impatiently, the groom let go the 
 sreins, and the animal, inflamed with the pepper and the ingredients of his 
 ■extraordinary repast, bounded out of the inn-yard, and started down the 
 tread at a rattling gallop. " Bravo, bravo ! " said Dupont, holding the 
 snane with both hands ; "he goes like the wind itself ; we shall soon be in 
 3Paris now." 
 
 The action of the horse speedily shook the plaister from its place ; the 
 M raw " on Dupont's rump became larger, and he lost more leather at every 
 stride. He fairly screamed with pain as the animal galloped on, and 
 pulled the reins first on the one side and then on the other, but could not 
 ©top the excited steed. Frightened by the rider's cries, and maddened 
 %j the pulling of the bridle and the continual digging of the spurs into all 
 •$5arts of his belly and back as the grocer's legs swung to and fro, the horse 
 'took the bit between his teeth and darted furiously on. The wretched, 
 man lay helpless on the horse's hack ; the peasants jumped aside as he flew 
 Iby, until one of them bolder than the rest attempting to stop him, the 
 animal quitted the main road, bounded over the hedge, and, heedless of 
 where he was going, plunged down a quarry newly opened in the field. 
 A crowd of labourers hastened to the spot, and there they found the animal 
 »nd the wretched man both dead. 
 
The Registrar— The Wood of Romainville—The End. 16# 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE EEGISTKAR — THE WOOD OF EOMAINVILLE — THE END. 
 
 ■Resigned to her fate, but without fear, Eugenie awaited the arrival of her 
 /nusband. Sb e sat patiently in her room engaged with her embroidery, and as 
 she had forbidden Jeanneton to speak to her of the eventful night at the opera, 
 or even to mention Adolphe's name, the affectionate servant felt persuaded 
 that her mistress was cured of her unhappy love. Time passed, and still 
 Bupont came not, neither were there any letters from him : the men be- 
 «ame uneasy, and Eugenie was astonished ; for, she thought, after she had 
 written to him expressing her willingness to agree to his marital wishes, 
 fee would have hastened back with the speed of light. 
 
 One morning a letter written on black-edged paper, and sealed with 
 black, was brought to her. She shuddered involuntarily, opened it, and 
 found that it was from the magistrate of the district in which the grocer's body 
 -was found, and where it was easily discovered who he was from the papers 
 in his pockets. The magistrate wrote all the details of Dupont's unhappy 
 ■end, and stated that he had caused his body to be interred with the usual 
 ■respect. It would be absurd to suppose that Eugenie was much grieved at 
 •the fatal occurrence because she dropped a few tears at the poor man's 
 miserable death, for, although he was a fool, he had not a bad heart— which, 
 as much better than being a rogue without being a fool— but Jeanneton did 
 
 not conceal her satisfaction at her mistress being free, observing to her, 
 
 " You are a widow, Madame, but a maiden : there are many young ladies 
 -who would like to be just such another maiden widow as you ! " 
 
 Shortly after the grocer's death, Eugenie sold the stock and good-will of 
 the shop, and took a small house in the suburbs of the city, where she lived 
 -quietly with Jeanneton, free from annoyance from her parents, who had 
 also retired from trade, and taken a house a little way out of town. As the 
 weeks wore on, Eugenie lost all remembrance of Dupont, and felt a constant 
 ■desire to talk about Adolphe ; Jeanneton likewise was burning to know 
 whether her mistress still thought of the young man, but as she was for- 
 bidden to mention his name, she wisely held her tongue. 
 
 It happened that, since the night of the opera, Adolphe's attentions to 
 the young lady who accompanied him had been brought to an abrupt con- 
 clusion. She resented his leaving her to run after another woman as an 
 -offence not to be expatiated, and being above the reach of want, and not) 
 ambitious of the possession of Adolphe for his wealth, commanded him to 
 leave her presence, and never seek her more. Our lover heard her without 
 emotion, and obeyed-, The sight of Eugenie at the opera had re-lighted! 
 -the smouldering lire at his heart ; he felt that he loved her alone, but as she 
 was the wife of another, and for ever lost to him, he determined to seek in 
 ether lands that distraction from his grief which the fashionable circles of 
 3?avis could no longer give him. He resolved to visit England, Italy and 
 the Alps. He wrote to Bidois that he should be abroad for several 
 months ; embraced Louise, shook Charles by the hand, and left Erance on 
 ihe very day that Eugenie was free. 
 
 Adolphe made a lengthened tour. He ascended the Alps, admired the 
 magnificent scenery hid in their dark recesses, travelled throughout Italy, and 
 
170 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 passed the winter in London. He enjoyed the hospitality and the pleasures 
 of the modern Babylon, but amidst all his gaiety an irresistible impulse 
 drew his thoughts to France ; and, after a nine months' absence, he 
 returned to his native land. His first object was to see Louisa and 
 Charles ; they had prospered in business, thanked him gratefully for hav- 
 ing contributed so largely to their welfare, but could not tell him any news 
 of Eugenie, for in fact they had not heard of the death of Monsieur 
 Dupont. 
 
 Monsieur Dalmont gave a sigh to the memory of his buried loves, and 
 feeling anxious to know how Bidois had managed his property during his 
 sojourn in foreign lands, left Paris for his country seat. He arrived at his 
 estate without accident, and, on entering the court, saw that his domestics 
 were in a half -livery, his pointers and setters muzzled, a number painted 
 on each bedroom door, a counter placed in the dining-room,- and a small 
 office with a desk with a large ledger in the hall ; the porter was occupied 
 with a book on arithmetic, the housekeeper was working a multiplication, 
 sum, the gardener was making figures in a copy-book, the cook studying: 
 addition, and the coachman's helper employed in counting ten on his fin- 
 gers, whilst a little boy, five years old, ran to meet him, crying out,— 
 " Twice two are four, and twice four are eight." 
 
 Adolphe perceived that Bidois had made the science of arithmetic pre- 
 dominant in his household. He inquired where the steward was, and was- 
 told he was in the village, on hearing which he took his hat and went out 
 to seek him. He had traversed several fields without meeting the object 
 of his search, when, in passing through one of the paddocks, he heard the 
 steward disputing with the gamekeepers, and trying to induce them to 
 drive all the hares and the deer on the estate into the home park that he 
 might count them, and enter in his book the exact number of the heads of 
 game that belonged to his employer. 
 
 The arrival of his master put an end to the discussion. The steward 
 advanced respectfully towards him, and bowed to the ground ; but the 
 young gentleman had great difficulty in recognising the being who now 
 stood before him as the old clerk formerly in the laceman's shop. For his 
 old round hat Bidois had substituted an immense three-cornered one, and, 
 in lieu of his cane, he carried an old fowling-piece, on which he leaned for 
 support as he walked, and instead of the pen that never left his ear, he had 
 a gold pencil-case in his hands, with which he took notes of all he heard or 
 saw. Adolphe smiled at the dress of his steward, and asked him whether 
 he had taken to shooting. . . . " No, my Lord," he replied ; "but I wish 
 to be informed of everything on the estate. I am now about making a list 
 of the game, but as I do not shoot, I carry a gun in my hand to make the 
 hares and rabbits believe so, and treat me with proper respect." ..." No 
 more ' My Lords,' if you please ; but tell me, has all gone on well during 
 my absence ?"..." Yes, Monsieur ; the tenants have paid their rents punc- 
 tually, as my books will show." . „ . " No doubt of the last, Bidois ; but are 
 they happy and contented with their lot ? " . . . " Oh, yes, Monsieur ; and 
 when I shall have taught them all to calculate, they will be ten times more 
 gay." . . . "Do they dance often?" . . . "Every Sunday, and on the 
 four great fetes ; that makes fifty- six times a year, without extra occasional 
 -days." 
 
 Adolphe was satisfied. He walked leisurely across a few fields, and then 
 returned to his house, not with the intention of inspecting Bidois' accounts, 
 but to speak of a person of whom he had heard nothing, and respecting 
 whom, perhaps, his steward might give him some intelligence. The man o£ 
 figures, however, was not to be diverted from hiG favourite theme, and be- 
 
The Registrar — The Wood of Romainville — The End. 171 
 
 sought his master to look over his ledger, his day-book, and his cash 
 account. Having prevailed on Adolphe, he went maundering on,—" See 
 liere, sir, everything is order ; there is accounts open with every one of the 
 tenants ; the horses have a book entirely to themselves ; there is not a foot 
 of land that has not been valued, and I am soon going to register all the 
 trees upon the estate. The poultry-ytird is here in double-entry, and the 
 rabbits are in this other ledger. As for the little assistance to the cottagers 
 for fires, inundations, and damage by storms, I put all that down to petty 
 cash and expenses of trade." . . .. "Very accurate, indeed Bidois ; bub 
 what I want to know is—" . , . "All the cattle are registered, Monsieur, 
 and here is the kitchen-garden account." . . . "Well, well — " . . . "As- 
 for the fish, it will be rather difficult to get at them just now, but I have 
 an idea of making the keeper turn off the water, and then we can easily 
 count them, you know." . . . " Oh, leave the fish at peace, and tell me 
 whether — " ..." That fool of a porter gives me more trouble than all the 
 rest of the men-servants put together ; he will not learn to count by decimals. 
 I have declared' war to the death against any other mode of calculating, 
 and hope soon to have a favourable report to make." ..." Will you have 
 done, Bidois, and listen to me. I wish to know whether you have had any 
 intelligence from Paris, any news respecting persons — persons in whom I 
 am interested ?"..." Bless me, yes, Monsieur, I had forgotten it quite j 
 about six or seven months ago I received a letter from Madame Montonnet, 
 in which she desired her kindest regards to you." ... "To me, Bidois, 
 Madame Montonnet civil to me ! You astonish me." ..." It is all true, 
 Monsieur, and besides that, she made me acquainted with such an astonish- 
 ing event; how you will stare when you hear it." . . . "What was it, 
 quick, speak ; did it concern her daughter?" . . . "Yes, yes, indeed, the 
 poor, dear, little girl." . . . "You put me on the rack, Bidois ; what has 
 happened to him or to her?" . . . " She is a widow. " . . . " Eugenie a 
 widow ! is it possible, can it be true ? " . . . " Nothing more true. Du- 
 pont was returning home from Marseilles, when his post-chaise broke down j- 
 he must needs hire a horse, the animal ran away, jumped into a stone- 
 quarry with him, and he was killed. Only think of Dupont, who could not> 
 stick to a jackass, mounting a hard-mouthed post-horse. If he had only 
 stopped to calculate the odds in favour of an accident, he might not have 
 been killed. As it is, however, it is now above nine months since." . . . 
 " Nine months ! Eugenie a widow — nine months, and, you scoundrel, you 
 never wrote tome?" . . . "Calm yourself, Monsieur, do ; how could I 
 write when you were abroad, and I did not know your address ? " . . .- 
 "Where is she now, tormentor?" ... "At Paris, Monsieur." . . . 
 "With her mother?" . . • "No—" . . . " Horses, Bidois, this minute,'" 
 ..." You have not taken a morsel since your arrival — " ..." Horses,. 
 I say." . . . " What carriage, Monsieur?" . . . " The first that comes to 
 hand." . . . Bidois threw up one of the windows that looked into the 
 stable-yard, and cried to the grooms, — "Harness No. 1 and No. 2 to the 
 open barouche, and give a feed of oats to No. 3 and No. 4," whilsfe- 
 Adolphe walked up and down the room in a transport of happiness and joy. 
 Adolphe could not content himself with remaining in the room, and 
 descended to the yard to hasten the men, whom the steward's order always- 
 threw into confusion. In a few minutes the horses were put to, two of the 
 grooms mounted as postillions, and the word was given — to Paris. Our hero 
 took fresh horses at the first post town, travelled all night, and reached the 
 great city by break of day. He aiignted and ran to the house of Louisa 
 and Charles, where he danced, and sung, and jumped about for several 
 minutes before he became sufficiently calm to explain the reason of his mad 
 
172 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 .delight. ... " She is a widow," he exclaimed at length. " Eugenie ie 
 free." ..." Can it be possible ?"..." Yes ; she has been a widow for 
 the last nine months, and I, miserable wretch, left France at the very 
 moment, she was free. I will see her instantly, I will tell her that I have 
 loved none but her, and then we shall be happy. Thank God ! there is no 
 obstacle to our union now." Then came the damning thought that 
 TSugenie had seen him with the lady at the opera, and must believe that he 
 -was false. 
 
 He implored Louisa to set out forthwith and go to the person who had 
 succeeded Dupont to the grocer's shop in the Rue aux Ours. The young 
 woman departed, and in due time returned with the intelligence that 
 Madame Dupont was not in Paris at present, but the grocer believed that 
 .she had gone to pass the summer season somewhere in the environs, at 
 Belleville, or Saint Gervais, or Pomainville. The lover's heart told him it 
 imust be the latter ; yes, Eugenie adored him still, and had gone to 
 Homainville to wander in the sweet wood, sacred to her from the never- 
 forgotten declaration of his love. 
 
 The suggestion of the youth's heart was true. During the first months 
 .of her widowhood, Madame Dupont kept herself retired, receiving only the 
 visits of her parents. Madame Montonnet approved of her daughter's 
 resolution, and did not interfere with her views ; but after some time had 
 .•passed, she begged her to recollect than-. h.s she was so very young, she ought 
 .not to seclude herself from all society, and in all probability, with her good 
 looks she would soon marry again. The old lady did not name Adolphe, 
 but took good care to inform Jeanneton of the extraordinary change in his 
 ^worldly affairs. The quick-witted servant saw immediately the probability 
 of what would take place when Dalmont should become acquainted with 
 Eugenie's being free, and insensibly led her mistress to talk of him ; the 
 only result, however, was that the disconsolate girl always recalled the scene 
 at the opera, and persuaded herself that he had married the handsome 
 lady and forgotten her. 
 
 At the return of spring, when the earth was covered with blushing 
 flowers, and all nature rejoiced, the young widow frequently bent her steps 
 to Homainville, and spent whole days in the woods that brought to her the 
 ^memory of her early love. Accompanied by Jeanneton, she traversed 
 -overy bosky dell and alley green where she had wandered with Adolphe 
 on the day of her father's fete, and she frequented in particular the thicket 
 where their lips first met in one long kiss. Jeanneton saw that the re- 
 membrance of her lover still dwelt within her breast, and cunningly pro- 
 posed to her mistress to take apartments for the season ; for she felt assured 
 that, if Monsieur Dalmont should hear that Eugenie was a widow, and had 
 gone to reside in the neighbourhood of Paris, sympathy would teach him 
 where to find her. Eugenie approved of the advice, and a few days after 
 eaw her established in a pretty cottage on the outskirts of the wood. Every 
 day she arose with the morning's light, walked through the by-paths, and 
 reposed in the one loved spot. In the afternoon she returned again with 
 her embroidery or a book, and sat for hours beneath the leafy shade of the 
 overarching trees ; but if Jeanneton ventured to name Adolphe, she 
 .said, — " I have nothing to blame him for, my girl ; he saw that I was 
 married, and most likely he is wedded too. Leave me, leave me to my 
 thoughts. Here I dream of the sweet moments we passed together in 
 this bower here ; he. loves me, and I love him. Eor pity's sake do not 
 arouse me from my dream." Thus time passed on. 
 
 One morning, as Eugenie was slowly seeking her favourite retreat, she 
 Jieard a slight rustling before her, and on peering cautiously through th« 
 
The Registrar — The Wood of Romainville — The End. 17& 
 
 branches, she saw a young man carving with his penknife something upots* 
 the bark of one of the trees. She saw at once it was Adolphe, She crept 
 closer and closer yet, and beheld with unutterable joy that the word he had 
 engraved was " Eugenie." Her heart beat violently ; she exclaimed franti- 
 cally, — "Jeanneton, Jeanneton, he loves me yet." The youth heard the wel- 
 come sounds, dashed the branches aside, and in an instant the now happy 
 lovers were in each other's arms. They had no need to speak ; their hearts- 
 conveyed to each other the knowledge of all the suffering they had endured y 
 and there they stood, lip to lip, heart to heart, locked in a fond, close* 
 embrace, as on that eve when they murmured forth their mutual love. 
 
 Jeanneton leaped with delight. All that she had foreseen had come to- 
 pass, Eugenie would become Madame Adolphe Dalmont, and be happy al£ 
 her life. Adolphe, of course, contended that their wedding ought to take 
 place on the following day, but respect for the memory of the dead forbad® 
 this indecent haste, and he reluctantly consented to postpone their bliss* 
 until the twelve months of widowhood should have elapsed. 
 
 At length the year passed away, and no obstacle presented itself to the 
 union of the happy pair. Adolphe repaired to the house of Monsieur and 
 Madame Montonnet to make known his approaching marriage with their 
 daughter, and met with the most flattering reception from the old lady. 
 He knew well to what circumstances to attribute it, but was, by far, too 
 happy to preserve any resentment for her former slights. 
 
 The day for the espousals had arrived. It was to take place at 
 Adolphe's seat, where her parents were to be conveyed in a handsome- 
 carriage belonging to the bridegroom. It rained slightly in the morning ; 
 nevertheless, the glory of being seen in an open barouche was too great to 
 be passed over by the old folks, so Madame Montonnet directed the coach- 
 man to drive round by the Rue Saint Martin, in order to astound her old 
 acquaintances with her grandeur, and Montonnet was ordered to drop his- 
 hat out of the carriage before Bernard's shop, that some time might be 
 consumed picking it up, and her old antagonist's bosom made to swell 
 with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness — Madame Montonnet had not 
 forgiven the quarrel in the wood of Uomainville. 
 
 Adolphe went down to his estate, accompanied by Eugdnie, Louisa, 
 Charles, and the faithful Jeanneton. Bidois had been informed of the 
 hour when their arrival might be expected, and had given orders that the 
 lessons in arithmetic should be suspended. He arranged a little fete with? 
 which to receive his master and his bride. Blunderbusses were distributed 
 to the men-servants, fowling-pieces to the labourers, and wreaths of flowers* 
 to the peasant-girls — the former receiving precise orders as to the number of 
 rounds they should fire, and the latter the precise number of courtesies they 
 should make. Nearly at the appointed hour the cortege stopped at the hall 
 door amidst songs, shouts, the scattering of flowers, and a few musket shots. 
 There was a slight hitch with regard to the latter, because most of the guns- 
 ' hung fire ; but Bidois proposed to set it all right in the evening, as he 
 must have the balance of the powder quite correct in his books. Mon- 
 tonnet was afraid of being wounded. On the other hand, Madame 
 thought the reception delightful, so she ordered him to become enchanted,, 
 and, of course, he was so on the spot. 
 
 What can we say more ! Everything was arranged ; the procession 
 entered the church — this time she walked without trembling, a bright glow 
 upon her face. Adolphe led her to the altar, and they were man and wife»- 
 Montonnet wept as on the first marriage of his daughter ; Madame re- 
 mained as unmoved as on that memorable occasion ; Charles and Louisa- 
 wished they might be as happy as they had been ; and Jeanneton stepped 
 
174 Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 ■up to Adolphe, and was aJjgjjgi to tell him all about the ghost, the broken 
 plates, her bed in the j.-.assage, and the bolts, when her mistress put her 
 
 "'■iiand upon her lips, and she held her tongue. 
 
 On the following morning Adolphe heard all that Jeanneton had to tell 
 him, although it could not add to his delight, for he had already found a 
 maiden in the widow- -jnlikemany, husbands who, on their wedding night, 
 Slave found a widow in her they thought to be a maid. . . . Adolphe 
 turned his head away from the servant-girl, and laughed ; whilst old BidoLs 
 
 -wished kim joy af his first lesson in " Multiplication." 
 
 $J 23B* 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR 
 
 K ATM ONI). 
 
 HV 
 
 PAUL DE KOOK. 
 
 London 
 
 MATHIBSOK & CO., lii»; 
 
ifWi 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR RAYMOND 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE GKISETTR. 
 
 NE Saturday evening I went out to take a walk on the Boulevards 
 of Paris in a somewhat melancholy mood, unconscious of the 
 gay scene that was going on around me, reflecting seriously on 
 this world and the beings who dwell upon its surface, upon the 
 past and the present, the body and the mind, upon sensations 
 mental and corporeal, and upon that inexplicable ingredient in a man's life 
 — chance, fate, luck, destiny, or by what other appellative it may be called. 
 I had even got as far as " the bonnie lady moon," who had just raised her 
 silvery disc above the eastern horizon, and had begun to see high mountains, 
 deep lucid lakes, and impenetrable forests in her bosom, when, as I walked 
 star-gazing along the crowded path, I came suddenly in contact with an 
 opaque body, which, most assuredly, I had not as yet seen in the bright orb 
 I gazed on. 
 
 " Dear me, sir, how awkward you are ! " uttered in a low voice, the sweet- 
 ness of which even the temporary pet caused by the derangement of a small 
 bandbox on the arm of a neat young girl did not destroy, recalled me to 
 myself. 
 
 Now, if I have any weakness at all, it is for a low, sweet voice — " an 
 excellent thing in woman " — so I forthwith descended from my aerial 
 courses to look at the person against whom I had pushed in so very uncere- 
 monious a manner. , 
 
 She was a very young girl, apparently not more than eighteen years of 
 age, having on a small round cap tied under the chin, a printed calico gown, 
 and a black stuff apron, with the air of a work-girl who had finished for the 
 day, and was returning to the maternal roof. Her face was pretty ; bright 
 expressive eyes, a well-shaped nose, good teeth, and black hair formed a 
 much prettier woman than any I had seen in the moon or any other of those 
 bright islets that inhabit Heaven's blue sea. The girl re-adjusted the ribbon 
 encircling the bandbox which I had disturbed ; and on my apologising for 
 toy dreamy awkwardness, and expressing a hope that I had not done any 
 
2 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 mischief, she replied she was not hurt personally, but was afraid I had 
 rumpled the flowers which she was carrying in the box. 
 
 " Good," I thought ; " here's an adventure ! These pretty artificial 
 fiower makers in general are not quite so savagely virtuous as the great 
 Roman matron, Lucretia ; so let me see if I cannot open a conversation 
 with this tempting little puss." 
 
 The bandbox was put quite to rights, the girl replaced it on her arm, 
 and continued her homeward route. I walked on for some few paces by 
 her side, scarcely knowing how to commence my attack, for it is very 
 singular, but no less true, that although I have been a " man about town " 
 for some years, yet I am always nervous and awkward at beginning an 
 amorous adventure ; but once fairly launched, there are no means of stopping 
 me at all. However, I blundered out some short sentences from time to 
 time, such as, — "You walk very quick, miss ; fine evening for a promenade ; 
 will you accept my arm ? I shall be delighted to have the honour of escort- 
 ing you ; do you go often to the theatre ? I shall be very happy to get you 
 some orders ; take care or you'll slip," and other pretty little phrases in 
 general usage in nocturnal adventures, to all of which my florist only re- 
 plied, — " Yes, sir ; no, sir ; I wish you wouldn't tease me ; pray don't 
 follow me ; pray, sir," etc., etc. Sometimes she would not answer at all, 
 but crossed to the other side of the road, and, of course, I did the same, I 
 becoming occasionally extra tender, and throwing as strong a sentimental 
 expression into my voice as I possibly could. 
 
 At last I began to think that my running against the florist might not 
 be productive of those pleasures which I had anticipated, and that I might 
 get nothing but a long walk for all my sighs and tender glances, and I 
 recollected that once on a time I was stupid enough to follow a pretty 
 innocent lamb, who would not even look at me. much more speak to me, 
 and who finished when at her own door by asking me to come upstairs and 
 stand something to drink, with all the impudence of the celebrated lady who 
 sat on the Seven Frills. 
 
 This thought obtruded itself into my head as I walked on by the side of 
 the silent florist, who got on at a prodigious rate. We passed successively 
 the Boulevards of Mentenartie, Roissonniere, and Bonne Nouvelle, and by 
 the two small theatres. Ah ho ! thought I, we live in the Marais, that's 
 clear. Onwards we went, passing the Rue Chariot, the Rue Bretagne, and 
 the old Rue du Temple — a devil of a long way, to be sure, from the west 
 end if we should go further, but then we must stop somewhere, that was 
 certain. Stop ! Yes, to be sure, but supposing the girl should shut the 
 door of her house in my face ! Well, I should only have had a walk for my 
 pains. I know a great many, many fellows who do nothing but run after 
 the first pretty bit of muslin they see, and neglect their business in so doing, 
 and in particular clerks in public offices and merchants' counting-houses, 
 who always bolt out if a petticoat passes the window under pretence of get- 
 ting a bun for luncheon. As these last always leave their hats behind them 
 hanging on the pegs above their desks, it is certain that they cannot go far, 
 which, of course, is very consolatory to their employers. 
 
 Nevertheless, I did not reason thus sagely as we tramped along ; it 
 would have ill become a sinner like myself, on the look-out for a gallant 
 adventure, to censure the freaks and follies of others. To be sure, I had 
 been indulging in philosophical reflections as to the instability of human 
 affairs below, but they had all vanished at the sight of a neat under petti- 
 coat, which comes, of all things, the thing most fragile, weak, and deceit- 
 ful, but at the same time, most seductive, charming, delightful, enchanting, 
 and attractive in the whole world- I had wandered into the realms of 
 
The Grisette. 3 
 
 Imagination, and yet I had only seen a very pretty little foot, and an un* 
 deniably good ankle, with an inch or two of leg ; if I had only seen the 
 garter, and regions adjacent, where should I not have been ! . . . Well, never 
 mind, it is better after all to run after a pretty girl, and get the door shut 
 in one's face, than to be gazing at the moon, and cramming one's head with 
 metaphysics, astronomy, natural philosophy, and electro-biology ; for I am 
 convinced that the more a man plunges into abstract theories, the more he 
 loses sight of-demonstrative proofs and practical ends, whereas only occupy 
 yourself with looking into a pair of sparkling eyes, and the end proposed is 
 evident at once ; moreover, a lovely woman is an admirable exponent of the 
 great human system and the first principles of nature. 
 
 For several minutes I walked by the side of the work-girl without say- 
 ing a word, for I was rather vexed with her pertinacious silence, and had 
 relaxed my pace so as to fall back a few yards behind, without altogether 
 losing sight of her. All of a sudden she stopped, I stopped too ; a young 
 man came up to her ; I bit my lips and stood up in the entrance of a 
 court, and listened to the following dialogue : — 
 
 " Good evening, Caroline, how happy I am to see you." 
 * " Good evening, Jules, I hope you are well ? " 
 
 " Very, thank you, you are late home to-night. " 
 
 " Yes, we are very busy at the shop, and I had to take some work to a 
 lady in the Rue Richelieu, that kept me some time." 
 
 " And what have you in that box ? " 
 
 " A pretty bunch of roses to put on my cap to-morrow — it's very pretty 
 indeed, I assure you, I made it myself. A stupid awkward fellow ran up 
 against me at the Boulevard, and narrowly missed destroying them " — 
 (here I went farther into the court). 
 
 " There are some people who never look before them to see which way 
 they are going." 
 
 " But I must leave you, Jules, my aunt is waiting for me, and will scold 
 me if I stay out." 
 
 " I shall see you to-morrow, Caroline, I hope ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! that is if my aunt will let me come out. She has got so ill- 
 natured now, you can't think ! " 
 
 " Well, never mind, I have got four tickets for the Tivoli gardens, and 
 will come early and fetch you, and mind you'll dance with me all the 
 evening ? " 
 
 " Of course, Jules." 
 
 " Good-bye, Caroline " — (sigh), 
 
 "Good-bye, Jules "—(another, rather deeper). 
 
 Monsieur Jules sidled up to Mademoiselle Caroline, who looked down 
 and said nothing, then he put his arm round her neck, and the sound of a 
 hearty kiss struck on the dull ear of night. The young man bounded 
 away singing gaily. The girl went on a few paces, and opened the outer 
 door of a court. I followed close on her heels and was about entering with 
 her, when she slammed the door full in my face. This Jules was a lover, 
 no doubt, a true, honourable lover, for his conversation was not like that 
 of a man who intends to seduce a girl ; besides, there was the aunt, to 
 accompany them to the Tivoli, on the morrow, and see all fair. What was 
 I to do ? I would not be baulked if I could help it, and the obstacles pre- 
 sented to my pursuits only increased my ardours ; the girl was pretty, too, 
 very pretty, so I determined to ascertain the number of the court where 
 my incognita resided, and return and try my luck another time. 
 
 The moon was partially hid behind a cloud, and I had just began to 
 reconnoitre in the dark, when an upstairs window was opened, and a vase 
 
4 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 emptied into the street just as I had satisfied myself as to the colour of the 
 wall. Luckily I escaped with a few splashes. They, however, put an end 
 to my curiosity, and I left the Rue aux Hosier's in not the very best 
 temper in the world. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MARRIED COQUETTE. 
 
 When I reach the Boulevards on my return homewards, the hour was go 
 early that the theatre near the St Martin's Gate was not yet closed, and 
 at least a dozen men ran towards me offering return checks at low prices. 
 According to their account, there was another act of an astonishing melo- 
 drama to be performed yet ; that it was by far the best act in the piece ; 
 that I should see the dreadful combat with sabres and battleaxes ; that all 
 Paris flocked to see it ; and then — by a singular anomaly — that there was 
 plenty of room in all parts of the house, so that I should certainly obtain 
 a good seat. In order to pass away the time, I bought a check and entered 
 the lounging promenade behind the pit, first, because it was not worth 
 while to look for a comfortable seat for the short portion of the piece that 
 remained unperformed, and secondly, because I have often derived greater 
 gratification from the remarks of unsophisticated spectators than from 
 what was taking place on the stage. The theatre of St Martin's Gate ia 
 generally frequented by the people, a class who, luckily for them, have not 
 learnt to disguise or conceal their feelings, and who, consequently, give 
 themselves up unhesitatingly to the alternate emotions that the action of 
 the piece portrays. 
 
 Every time that the " Wicked Tyrant " of the melodrama came on, a 
 man on my left exclaimed, " Oh, you scoundrel, you scamp, you 1 But you'll 
 catch it by-and-by, I know; they'll cook your goose for you," or some- 
 thing equivalent to those words. I turned to look at my friend, who, 
 judging from his habiliments and the colour of his hands, was a tanner, and 
 saw that his eyes were more animated, and his whole person more excited, 
 than the actor who was playing the traitor's part. Before me was a 
 washerwoman, who sobbed and cried aloud when " the Princess " told the 
 awful story of her woes, and a little boy who ducked his head at the reports 
 of the guns, and crawled under the ^ench to avoid seeing the broadsword 
 combat. These people amused me. Happy creatures ! they were not used 
 up, their whole hearts were in the play, not one word of the dialogue 
 escaped them ; they almost believed it to be real, and would go home and 
 talk with rapture of what they had seen for a week. 
 
 Leaving these good honest-hearted folks, I strolled into the dress circle, 
 and seeing rather a piquant face through the small window at the back cf 
 one of the boxes, I opened the door and went in, determined, if I could, to 
 make up for the time I had lost with Mademoiselle Caroline. The lady, on 
 a nearer view, was less pretty than I had taken her to be ; she had lost the 
 first down upon her cheek, but she was not to be despised. She was well- 
 shaped, well-dressed, and there was that indescribable something about her 
 that said she could make a man superlatively happy if she liked, and I saw 
 by an almost imperceptible smile that the advent of a young fellow to the 
 box was not altogether disagreeable to her. 
 
 So you see now, gentle reader, that I am a young man. By-and-by 
 
Tlie Married Coquette. 5 
 
 1 mean to tell you all about my birth, parents, education, face, figure, talent* 
 income, and all that. 
 
 A gentleman of moderate personal pretensions, but remarkably well- 
 •dressed and of excellent manners, was seated near the lady, and he appeared 
 -to me to be her husband, because they seldom spoke to each other. On. 
 -taking a closer survey of the lady, I began to half regret that the play 
 would so soon be at its termination ; were it about to last longer I might 
 have found some way of engaging in conversation with this fashionable 
 couple, of doing the amiable to the wife, and forming a new acquaintance, 
 but that chance apparently was gone. It seemed to me that my face and 
 iigure did not displease her, because she threw some equivocal glances at me 
 now and then without her husband seeing them. Women are unconsciously 
 ■©lever at that ! If ever I am married and go to the theatre with my wife* 
 I will always place myself immediately behind her, for — but if a man 
 «hould be seated beside her, how could I help the treading on the toes, and 
 the knudging with the knees, eh ? . . . But to come back : presently she 
 "»aid, — 
 
 " The piece is not so very bad." 
 
 41 Yes." 
 
 " They play decently here ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Always " yes," thought I ; it's the husband, no doubt ; be quiet, my 
 boy, she's speaking to you. 
 
 M How tired I was last evening of that tragedy — it was a bore Made- 
 moiselle Mars not playing. By-the-bye, do we not go to the Italian Opera 
 to-morrow evening ? " 
 
 " As you please. " 
 
 " Well, we shall see ; really, if there were not so many common people 
 In the public walks of a Sunday evening, it would be much better there than 
 4o be stewed to death in an opera box. What do you think \ " 
 
 " Oh, it is the same thing to me." 
 
 The lady turned away ; the gentleman leaned forward, and so did I, 
 .pretending to look at the scene, when my hand came accidentally in contact 
 with the lady's arm, which she did not remove. 
 
 " How badly this house is ventilated," she said ; " really there is a very 
 sanpleasanb smell here." 
 
 I thought of the skirts of my coat, and instantly handed my smelling- 
 bottle to the lady ; she accepted it, put it to her nose, and in returning it 
 ©ur hands met in a gentle, mutual pressure. At that moment the curtain fell. 
 
 " The devil take it," said I to myself, " I came a little too late this even- 
 ing — that's ail Miss Caroline's fault. How so ? Without her I should not 
 have been here at all, but remained star-gazing on the Boulevard Mont- 
 snartre. From running after that artificial flower-girl, I came here ; if I 
 had not gone after her, my clothes would not have been redolent of the odours 
 of the chamber vases ; this coquette would not have smelt them ; I should 
 mot have presented my lavender flask, and our hands would never have met. 
 ' There was a chain of reasoning without one unbroken link ! and therefore, 
 most assuredly if I should ornament the gentleman's forehead, it would be 
 the fault of Mademoiselle Caroline, because she would not listen to my vows," 
 
 For the accommodation of the visitors at the theatre near Saint Martin's 
 43-ate, the benches in the boxes do not lift up ; it became my duty, therefore, 
 to assist the lady's legs over them, which gave me some other little oppor 
 tunities of testifying my new-born passion ; but once in the lobby, the hus- 
 band took her arm, and I was obliged to take up a position in the rear. As 
 1 descended the staircase, I asked myself the question whether I should follow 
 
.6 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 this couple or not. You will say it would have become me to have remained 
 quiet, and not have endeavoured to debauch the lady ; but what could 1 
 do ? I was only twenty-four years of age, and loved the women to distrac- 
 tion. Besides, my last mistress had just been unfaithful to me (it was that 
 unfortunate circumstance that had produced my melancholy reflections on 
 instability of human affairs), and a young man with a sensitive heart must 
 have a mistress of some sort or other. So that point being settled, follow the 
 lady I must. Arrived on the footpath, I thought they would call a hackney 
 coach, and then I should know the address from the direction given to the 
 driver ; but no, I was wrong in my conjectures ; the gentleman walked 
 straight to a neat, well-appointed private carriage, the servant let down the 
 steps, the couple got in, and the vehicle was driven home, without one word 
 being spoken. 
 
 My pride and self-esteem were up in arms ; a fig for milliners and flower- 
 girls ; here's a lady with a private carriage who throws sheep's eyes at me. 
 There's something like honour in making a conquest like that ! So, seeing 
 a fellow with a cabriolet passing by, I hailed him, jumped in, and told him. 
 if he overtook the carriage I would give him something extra to drink, which 
 was a very unnecessary promise, seeing that he was quite drunk already. The 
 man lashed the horse, the animal sprung forward, and the driver, in spite of 
 my remonstrances, plied the whip so unmercifully, that the horse at length 
 took the management of affairs into hia own hand, ran away with the cab, 
 and only stopped at almost the top of a hill, and in a spot which I could 
 not make out in the darkness of the night. 
 
 'When I got out of the cabriolet, no carriage was to be seen. I cursed 
 the driver with all my heart, and had a great mind to break the scoundrel's 
 whip over his back. However, there was no good in being violent, so I paid 
 him, and he left me standing alone in the street. After a few minutes' 
 thought I looked around me, and found I was in the Rue des Martyrs, near 
 Montemartre. As this was not very far from my own apartments, I had no 
 alternative but to set about going home at once, which was easy enough, as 
 the road was all down hill. I strode on, but alas ! my adventures were not 
 over for that night. I had not gone many yards before I heard an outcry 
 as of parties fighting, and as the quarter I was in is not frequented by the 
 most orderly, well-behaved people in the world, and I had no desire to seek 
 a third adventure in the " Grand Saloon," I increased my speed in order to 
 avoid any further unpleasant consequences. 
 
 The uproar continued ; noise3 were heard of men quarrelling, shouting, 
 and swearing. Women were invoking the aid of the police, the magistrates, 
 and all the officers of justice of the district ; windows were opened, and white 
 cotton nightcaps and pretty laced frills were seen by the moon's pale light ; 
 at the sight of the latter, I called to my mind my bath in the Rue aux 
 Rosicis, so ran off as fast as I could, under the impression that I was being 
 followed by a thousand devils, turned abruptly down a street to the right, 
 stopped for a moment's breath, and before I could recover myself, was seixed 
 by a female, who hung panting and exhausted on my arm. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FLO WEB- GIBL, 
 
 When the affrighted girl had recovered her breath she exclaimed in *• 
 piteous tone, and in a broad patois, — " Save me, sir, s&ve and protect ms 
 
The Flower- Girl. 7 
 
 from that odious Beauvisage, who has sworn that he will carry me off ut 
 *pite of everyone ; do you not hear how he is thrashing young Tinemouche, 
 who is a blackguard too ? My sister wasn't foolish at all, I think in run- 
 ning away when she heard the thumps on the head that were going ; sha 
 left me to get out of the scrape as I could, and by this time she's at home, 
 and telliug ail sorts of tales to mother. Save me, or I am ruined for ever," 
 As she uttered these words in an unconnected manner, interrupted wth 
 sobs, and the tears coursing down her cheeks, I considered a little wi-afc 
 line of conduct it would be best to adopt, and endeavoured to ascertain 
 whether she was good-looking or not by the dull lamp that feebly ligh ±d 
 the lonely street. Her station in life was clear from her accent and ber 
 dress, a dark red cotton gown tied round the waist with a black vel efe 
 band, a cap adorned with several rows of deep lace, a coloured handker- 
 chief round her neck, over which hung a large gold cross, proved to me ifc 
 once that she kept a stall most likely in the markets of the Innocents. A 
 second look showed that she was very pretty, her eyes, albeit full of tears, 
 had an open, candid expression, and as she spoke her parted lips disclosed 
 two rows of pearly teeth, whose whiteness had never been injured by the 
 pastes and powders of the dentist. Notwithstanding the decided attrac- 
 tions of her person, I felt considerable hesitation in allowing her to ke ep 
 possession of my arm. She was too neat to be a butcher's-girl, or a fiV a- 
 wife, What then could she be ? Most like a flower-girl, but at all events tb aft 
 was a grade rather too low for an amoress with a fashionable young uu n, 
 and I was not in a humour, after my two previous disappointments, ev^u 
 to think of her for a temporary caprice. She must be got rid of, and tb^ft 
 directly. 
 
 I disengaged her arm as gently as possible, as she stood trembling and 
 looking in agony around, and assuming a haughty tone, said,— 
 
 " It's extremely disagreeable to me, my dear, that I cannot comply with 
 your wishes. The quarrels of M. Beauvisage with young Tinemouche do 
 not interest me at all ; they are quite out of my line, I assure you. As you 
 say your sister has gone home, the best thing you can do is to go there too, 
 and your mother may think what she likes, it is all the same to me. It is 
 now past twelve o'clock, much too late to be in this part of the town, so I 
 shall be off to my bed." 
 
 The poor girl was in despair. She upbraided me for having the cruelty to 
 leave her in the street alone at that hour, and repeated that her mother 
 would beat her black and blue, unless there was someone who would 
 tell the old woman that she was not to blame. Would I have the good- 
 ness to do so ? She could see I was a gentleman, and her mother would be 
 sure to listen to what I said. At the close of this appeal the tears broke 
 out afresh, the afflicted maiden sobbed as if her heart would break, and 
 clung to Eie for support. 
 
 What could I do ? My heart was not made of stone, so that the prayer 
 of the young girl began to have some influence over me. I thought to 
 myself if, instead of the coarse woollen gown she had on a silken one, or 
 even a merino, a smart hat instead of the Little round cap, and a gold chain 
 with an abundance of trinkets instead of the massive cross, I should not 
 have needed so much solicitation to induce me to assist the girl. I should 
 have been as amiable, as gallant as possible, I should have been ready to 
 cut myself in two to have enjoyed the honour of escorting her home, and 
 now it was only her humble attire that made me cruel. At length the 
 better feeling prevailed. I could not bear to see her weep ; I recollected 
 that I had spent hours that evening stupidly running after an artificial 
 florist and a middle-aged coquette, both of whom, perhaps, had not half 
 
S My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 3*er good qualities, so I made up my mind to do a really good action, se& 
 Iser home, and try to appease the dreaded maternal wrath. 
 
 Thus you see, reader, that I am not naturally bad — yes, because you, 
 are fond of all women, you say — all pretty ones, certainly, and if you are a* 
 man, yu are so too, 
 
 I approached the pretty runaway, who had sunk on a stone bench, still 
 crying, and was holding the corner of her apron to her eyes, and asked hot 
 what her name was. 
 
 " Ni— Ni— Nicette, sir." 
 
 " Well then, Nicette, take my arm and I will see you home." 
 
 The girl bounded up, and almost screamed for joy. She thanked m&- 
 * thousand times, said she kept a flower stall at the Red Cross, and that her 
 another resided in the Rue St Marguerite, where she had a fruiterer's shop.. 
 A flower-girl ! that at least was something better than a vendor of herrings l 
 so we trotted on together, and as we went she related how she came to bo- 
 at a dance so far off as Montmartre. 
 
 It appeared that her sister's lover, young Tinemouche, was a brewer's- 
 man, a tall, dark, handsome fellow, for whom all the girls in her station in 
 the district were pulling caps. Her mother disapproved of his addresses,, 
 because she said he was a libertine, but Tranchon, her sister, admitted h is 
 love, inasmuch as he persuaded her that his intentions were perfectly 
 honourable. That morning he had come to take her sister a walk to 
 Montmartre, but the mother would not consent to her going, and so she 
 induced Nicette to accompany her, under the pretext of visiting an aunt- 
 who sold oranges at the Boulevards. Nicette went unwillingly, being sure 
 that no good would come of it, and on reaching Montmartre they met the 
 brewer, who treated them to a prolonged ride on donkeys, and then insisted 
 on them taking a quarter of an hour's rest at " The Grand Saloon." When 
 once there, there was no getting away. Tinemouche would dance with 
 Tranchon, and all were enjoying themselves as merrily as could be, when 
 unluckily Beauvisage, a pork-butcher's assistant in the same street as her 
 mother, came in. This man, according to Nicette's account, was a tre- 
 mendous fellow with all the young misses in that part of Paris, and pre- 
 tended to be violently in love with her. She had frequently told B< au- 
 visage that she would have nothing to do with him, and thrown all his little 
 presents in his face ; but it was all of no use, the amorous swain was < -i a 
 persevering nature ; no sooner did she leave her stall than he was there, 
 and when she came back she was sure to find a sausage amongst the roses, 
 and some pig's petitoes lurking beneath the pinks, and on her birthday he- 
 endeavoured to mollify her heart by presenting to her a large black pudding. 
 These savoury tentatives were of no avail, so that now the butcher had 
 become furious, and swore he would caiTy her off, like a gallant chevalier 
 of old. After all these occurrences, it was not with any feelings of delight 
 Nicette saw him enter "The Grand Saloon." The disappointed lover 
 walked up to her and invited her to dance, she refused him plump ; Beau- 
 visage put his arcns round her and tried to raise her from the bench on 
 which she was sitting ; Tinemouche ordered him to desist, which had only 
 the effect of causing him to maintain his hold ; Tinemouche struck Beau- 
 visage, the other retorted, and a general row took place, during which both 
 the sisters ran away, and the younger fled home, as before stated. 
 
 Nicette's story, rapidly and naively related, pleased me. I was glad to 
 €nd that she was a steady girl, and had not any accepted lover, though I 
 could scarcely tell the reason why. What ! reader, you will say. What ! 
 you a man in the fashionable world, were not about to pay honest addresses. 
 So a flower-girl ! , . , No, indeed, reader, such an intention never entered; 
 
My Neighbour Raymond. % 
 
 miy head ; but for all that I pressed her arm a little tenderly, — inad. 
 vertently, no doubt. 
 
 When she had finished he tale, I »aid as she had done no wrong, surely 
 ''her mother would not beat her. She replied there were several valid reasons 
 why she would. Her sister would conceal the truth, and lay all the blame of 
 going to the " Grand Saloon " on her shoulders. Besides, her mother was- 
 particularly fond of the scamp Beau visage, who got on her weak side by 
 stuffing her with forced meat-balls, and brawn, and saveloys, and never came 
 to the house without bringing a German sausage a yard long. Her mother 
 -wished her to marry him, that she might have all these nice things continu- 
 ally in the house ; and because Nicette had refused him, and would drowa 
 herself sooner than become his wife, every mishap was laid at her door, and 
 she was worried and beaten from morning till night. 
 
 At length we reached the Kue St Marguerite, and stood before Madame 
 -Jerome's door — that was the name of Nicette's mother. Her shop waa 
 closed, nor could any light be seen in any portion of the premises. It waa 
 long before Nicette could make up her mind to knock, and when she did so 
 it was with a timid, trembling hand. We waited some time, but no one* 
 -came. After a pause I knocked, somewhat louder, upon which a hoarse 
 voice asked, " Who was there ? " ..." It is mother," Nicette replied, her 
 Itnees shaking with fright. 
 
 " You, you tramping vagabond, is it ? and so you think that I'm going 
 to get up in the middle of the night, after j^ou've been setting decent men 
 together by the ears fighting about you, eh ? Be off with you, and never 
 let me see your cocked-up nose again." 
 
 " Pray, mother, open the door, do ; indeed I was not to blame." 
 
 " Go away with you, I say. You won't be a pork butcher's wife, won't 
 you ? Go and sleep in the streets,, and then see whether you'll have black 
 -|>udding3 to eat every day, you slut." 
 
 I thought it was time to interfere, for poor Nicette was like another 
 Niobe, and could not speak for tears. 
 
 ''■ Madame Jerome," I roared through the keyhole, in what I intendeds 
 to be a majestic voice, " your daughter is not to blame ; you are angry 
 -with her without cause, and if you force her to remain in the streets all 
 flight, Lord knows what may come of it. " 
 
 I listened for a reply : not a word was spoken, but I heard the bolts of 
 the door drawn back, as if the woman had relented and was about to let her 
 shivering daughter in. The door being opened slowly disclosed Madame 
 Jerome, in a night jacket and cap, glaring around her like a she-wolf. I 
 advanced with the intention of interceding for the poor girl, but was 
 -stopped by the old woman, who bawled, " It's you, you scamp, is it ? I'll 
 learn you to talk of morality, and teach me how to govern my own house. 
 Take that for your pains." With these words she struck me a blow on the 
 ^face that sent me reeling across the street, shut and bolted the door, and 
 -went growling away to her bed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUB RAYMOND. 
 
 "When I recovered my legs, I stood for about five minutes without speaking 
 •&o Nicette, for, if the truth must be told, the box on the ear given me by 
 JVtadame Jerome had very much moderated my zeal for her daughter. I 
 ^reflected on my adventures throughout the evening, and could not help 
 
10 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 marvelling at the ill-luck which had attended my anxious overtures. By 
 having followed a little grisette, whose fingers even I was not permitted to 
 touch, I was favoured with a shower-bath in the Rue de Rosicis ; by doing 
 the gallant and amiable to a coquette who looked languishingly at me, I 
 fell in with a drunken cabman who drove me to a locality far removed 
 from my own domicile ; and, lastly, from having acted as a protector to a 
 flower-girl, and endeavoured to make peace with her mother, I had received 
 a box on the ears that made my eyes strike fire. This last accident ap- 
 peared to me a gross injustice on the part of Providence, for I was really 
 engaged in performing a good action. Don't let any moralist ever tell me 
 again that a good action is never thrown away. 
 
 However, my iil-bumour became gradually dissipated as the tingling of 
 my jaw subsided, and I reflected that it would be cruel to visit the conse- 
 quences of the blow on poor Nicette, who was weeping bitterly at my mis- 
 fortune. It wr„s impossible that she could walk the streets till her family 
 ■hould get up, so I asked her if she had any friends or relations in that 
 quarter of the city with whom she could remain for the rest of the night, 
 and received in reply a statement that she had no relations near, and her 
 friends dared not receive her for fear of her mother's displeasure ; indeed^ 
 the old lady was the perfect terror of the district. She had no one bub 
 myself to look to in her distress, and, if I pleased, she would pass the night 
 at my house. 
 
 The last proposition was made with so much calmness, that I could not 
 avoid starting : it was either the greatest, most innocent simplicity, or 
 the very acme of impudence. I acknowledge that it is difficult to believe 
 that this child-like innocence exists in the bosom of a pretty vendor of 
 flowers, who is subject to the gaze and libertine proposals of every man who 
 passes by her stall ; but, nevertheless, there was something so pure in her 
 tone, the expression of her eyes was so free from guile, and the confidence 
 with which she had thrown herself on my protection so unreserved, that I 
 could not think ill of her, and consented that she should accompany me 
 home, although I felt considerably puzzled to know what I should do with 
 her when we both got there. 
 
 Having taken my arm again and expressed her thanks, I proceeded to- 
 wards the Rue St Florentine, pondering how I could best dispose of the 
 houseless girl. You see, reader, that I lodged in a fashionable quarter 
 near the Tuileries, from which circumstance you will guess that I was a 
 rather particular young man-— a bit dandyish or so — but there was not the 
 least touch of coxcombry in my disposition, I assure you. An over-power- 
 ing feeling, that I found it impossible to resist, drew me towards the fair 
 Bex ; and if sometimes I forgot all ranks in the delight of their embraces* 
 and laid the fault on fate, yet I was not one of those young men who 
 set the usages of society at defiance. I did not wish to pass, in the house 
 where I resided, as a fellow who would pick up the first trule he met in the 
 street, and therefore the pretty flower-girl must be introduced unseen. 
 There were such scandalous tongues in the house, and particularly one man. 
 on the same floor, the brute ! 
 
 It appeared to me there would not be any difficulty in smuggling 
 Nicette into my rooms. It was past one o'clock in the morning. The 
 portress would, no doubt, be fast asleep, and, when I knocked, would pull 
 the string that lifted the gate latch without rising from her bed, and then 
 Nicette could come in and reach my apartments without being seen. That 
 was ail well enough, but how was she to get out on the morrow ? Madame 
 Dupont, the portress, possessed an infinite deal of curiosity, and was a. 
 thorough gossip. She would make game of me. The whole house would 
 
My Neighbour Raymond. 11 
 
 %e, acquainted with my low amour, and I should become the laughing-stock 
 of the street. 
 
 My situation was embarrassing in the extreme ; but then, on the other 
 hand, I could not, with any regard for humanity, leave the confiding girl in 
 the street. If I should, she would certainly be apprehended by the night 
 patrol, and taken to the police station as a vagabond. Well, let me get her 
 into the house safely, and then we would think of the morrow. The sage 
 lias said, " Sufficient for the clay is the evil thereof." 
 
 "We recrossed the two bridges that connect the island of the old city with 
 the mainland, and passed along the quays and reached the Rue St Florentine, 
 overpowered with fatigue. I desired Nicotic to be as silent as the grave, 
 and not to stir a step until I told her. I knocked. The portress inquired 
 -who was there, and, on receiving my reply, pulled the latch. I entered 
 noiselessly, holding Nicette by the hand, led her to the staircase, and began 
 1»o feel my way up in the dark. 
 
 But before I go any further, I must tell you, reader, that my apartments 
 were rather high, because lodgings are excessively dear in the Kue St 
 Florentine, consequently there were several rooms to be passed before I 
 could reach my own, and I felt anxious lest any one should come out with 
 a light and discover us, for I had not even a paletot with which to envelope 
 poor Nicette. There was another consideration, though, that disquieted me 
 more than all the rest. On the same floor as myself lived a gentleman 
 about thirty-six years of age, quite an original in his way, with an ordinary 
 face, and a figure tending to corpulency, but very much screwed in to give 
 him a genteel appearance. His income placed him above the necessity of em- 
 bracing a profession, so that he cultivated the Fine Arts, and in his own 
 opinion was an accomplished painter, poet, and musician, notwithstanding 
 which he was laughed at by the men, and teased, jeered, and tormented by 
 the women at every ball, concert, or private party into which he would 
 oontrive to poke his nose. This man I detested from the bottom of my heart, 
 and I feared lest he should see Nicette and myself, and spread the adventure 
 with his tattling tongue. 
 
 And so unfortunately it came to pass. We had scarcely set foot on the 
 landing-place when Monsieur Raymond — that was the fellow's name — 
 opened his door quickly, and appeared before us with nothing on but his night- 
 shirt, holding a chamber-candlestick in the one hand, and the key of a certain 
 indispensable closet in the other We all three stopped still, I ground my 
 -teeth with vexation. Raymond stared with all his eyes, and Nicette burst 
 into a hearty fit of laughter at the singular figure he cut. The first thing 
 to be done was not to give him time to mark the girl's face and person, so 
 I thrust my hand into my pocket, but the key had got entangled in my 
 handkerchief. I could not get it out, when I did my hand trembled so with 
 vexation and rage, that I could scarcely get it into the lock, whilst my 
 neighbour kept lighting me very assiduously, with a derisive expression of 
 mock courtesy on his face. Oh, how I wished him at the devil, and could 
 have made over to him — with interest — the blow given to me by Madame 
 Jerome ! However, there was nothing to be done but to take courage and 
 face it out. The door was opened at last ; I pushed Nicette in before^ me, 
 followed her, seized a candle, came out again, asked Raymond for a light, 
 pressed my finger on my lips mysteriously, in an attitude of silence, and 
 the following conversation then ensued, — 
 
 " Pray do not tell any one that you have seen Agatha with me this even- 
 ing!" 
 
 1 ' Aga — Agatha I Pooh, you're j oking. " 
 
 " Indeed, I sun not, We have just come from a masquerade." 
 
12 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 " What ! masquerades in the month of July ? " 
 
 11 Yes, not in general I own, but this was a particular fHc of some pro- 
 prietor or other. She's uncommonly well disguised, isn't she ? Now, I'll be& 
 that you didn't know her at all. The dress, you know, and the rouge, an<$ 
 all that sort of thing, makes such a difference, you know." 
 
 "Ah, likely enough ; I couldn't see any resemblance to Agatha at all in 
 this young girl you have in there, though.' 1 
 
 " Don't say a word now ; to-morrow I will explain my reasons for keeping 
 this affair in the dark. You'll laugh when I tell you all about it. Give 
 me a light please ; good-night, neighbour, good-night." 
 
 " Good-night. I wish you much pleasure, Monsieur Dorsan." 
 
 I left my neighbour, and returned into my room, flattering myself that- 
 he had not seen Nicette sufficiently well to tell that she was not Agatha^ 
 and I also thought that if he should chatter about me, I could easily per- 
 suade others that he was half -asleep when we came home, and did not 
 know anything about it. 
 
 Now, reader, I know you will ask who this Agatha was, and why I 
 should destroj' her reputation by telling Raymond a lie. 
 
 Agatha was my last mistress, with whom I had only broken off very 
 lately ; a pretty milliner in a good street, who had occasionally done me the- 
 honour of claiming my hospitality for the night. My neighbours had seen. 
 her enter and leave my apartments frequently, consequently her reputation 
 was not in any danger. 
 
 I was alone with Nicette : it was half past one o'clock, and we stooci 
 looking at each other. She was very pretty ; my heart beat quicker and* 
 quicker, the night was advanced, but much might be done before the morn- 
 ing ; how was that night to be passed ? 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHICH SHOWS HOW THE NIGHT WAS PASSED. 
 
 I RETURNED to my apartments with the lighted candle, and found my visitor- 
 ■still dying with laughter at Raymond's appearance in his shirt, with his- 
 wondering eyes and great fat nose. I called to her rather sharply to cease? 
 ner ill-timed merriment, whereupon she looked around her, went through 
 my three rooms, examined the sofa, the lounging-chairs, the chiffoniers, and 
 «very piece of furniture, as if she feared to approach them. With some" 
 ^difficulty I prevailed on her to take a seat on the sofa by my side, and thea. 
 asked her whether she was not afraid to pass the night in the apartments of 
 * gay young man. She replied that she was n<>t ; she could see that I wa»« 
 an honourable man, and therefore she had not the slightest fear. Somehow 
 or other — but perhaps my vanity was wounded — thi3 last observation dis 
 pleased me. I looked an honourable man ! That was something, at leasts 
 but most women thought I was exceedingly good-looking ; perhaps this girl 
 thought me plain. 
 
 As these thoughts coursed through my brain, I studied Nicette more 
 attentively than I had done yet, and saw with pleasure that she was really 
 very pretty. Her face did not present any of those features which are- 
 commonly seen in her class ; the expression was gentle and pleasing, the sole- 
 traces of the flower-girl being the freshness and sweetness of the roses thafe 
 she sold. Be she the daughter of a fruit-woman or a duchess, I was com- 
 pelled to avow that Fate had treated me kindly in my third adventure, bo 
 
Which shows how the Night was passed, 13 
 
 I forgot the grisette and the coquette at once, and made up ray mind to profit 
 by the short hour that yet remained till daylight. 
 
 During the utterance of a few common-place observations, I came gradu- 
 ally closer to Nicette, passed my arm gently around her waist, and gazed into 
 her dove-like «?yes, and the more I gazed, the more tightly I pressed the 
 dark -red woollen gown. The girl did not speak ; she appeared agitated and 
 frightened ; her bosom heaved, her breath came in quick pants and sobs, her 
 eyes dropped ; but suddenly she jumped up, walked to the farthest side of 
 the room, and asked me where she was to pass the night. The question 
 embarrassed me ; I looked at her again as she stood trembling, with her eyes 
 still on the ground, and said I had not thought of that, and a hundred things 
 that calmed her apprehensions, and induced her to resume her seat on the 
 sofa, but at the furthest end from me ; her blushes, her agitation, told me 
 what was going on within her heart. For some time we sat without utter- 
 ing a word. What could possibly embarrass you with a flower-girl ? you say. 
 Why, precisely because she was one. Had Nicette been a woman in upper 
 Ife, or even a work -girl, I assure you I should have known my business 
 better, and been much further ahead. 
 
 This would never do. After an awkward pause, I plucked up courage 
 and addressed the girl. 
 
 " Nicette," I said, " do you know you are a charming woman % " 
 
 " I have been sometimes told so." 
 
 " You must have numerous lovers ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, there are plenty of men who wish to make a fool of me, bni 
 I never listen to them." 
 
 " Why, do you think they wish to deceive you ? " 
 
 " Because they are fashionable, gay young men, like you." 
 
 " If I were to speak to you of real love, Nicette, you would think — ' 
 
 " That you were making game of me, no doubt." 
 
 It must be agreed that there was nothing partictdarly agreeable in toil 
 d6but. Nevertheless I went on, — 
 
 11 Upon my honour, Nieette, I never make game of any one." 
 
 " All the men say that." 
 
 " Besides, such a girl as you are must inspire a real, honourable passion.* 
 {I came a little closer here). 
 
 " Yes, for a fortnight at the furthest. That will not do for me." 
 
 "Believe me, my dear, you are much too beautiful to remain a flower- 
 girl, and, if you please, I will find a more fitting occupation for you. " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, I am not at all ambitious, and am quite content with. selling 
 bouquets. Beauvisage is rich, and could give me nice printed cotton dresses, 
 smart new caps, and gilt chains ; but I refused him. I am not the least 
 ambitious." 
 
 Here was a second failure ! It was clear she was not mercenary — neither 
 money nor visions of vanity would tempt her. Perhaps a little sentimen- 
 tality might. Thereupon I looked as distracted and as miserable as I could. 
 I stared at her with lack-lustre eyes, and sighed and groaned for at least ten 
 minutes, all which pantomime only elicited a remark from my visitor to tha 
 effect that I had a very bad cold indeed. 
 
 The observation recalled to me my usual audacity. I blushed for my 
 stupidity to be baffled by a flower-girl, took Nicette in my arms, tried to 
 pull her on my knees, and besought her to give me one only kiss. This she 
 refused, and in spite of all my strength, I found her consent was absolutely 
 necessary. She defended herself gallantly with her hands and knees and 
 legs, and at length compelled me to desist from a struggle, of a nature to 
 which I was altogether unused, nuver having met with such a dragon of 
 
14 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 virtue amongst the numerous ladies with whom I had disported. A truce wu * 
 effected ; we talked together for some minutes, when my now new love pro- 
 mised me the desired kiss if I would permit her to retire for the night. 
 
 I did so, and she presented to me her vermillion cheeks, rich with the 
 mingled blush of virtue and the dawn of youth ; but that was not enough, 
 and I ravished a thousand kisses from her ruby lips ; a burning fire ran 
 throughout my veins. From the trembling of her whole frame, the heaving 
 of her bosom, and the languid expression of her eyes, it was evident that 
 Nicette responded to my love, and the moment of my wished -for bliss had 
 well-nigh come, when the girl made a desperate effort, threw me from her, 
 ran like lightning to the door, and was on the landing in a trice. I followed 
 as quickly as I could, and caught hold of her as she was about to descend 
 the stairs. 
 
 " Where go you, Nicette VI cried. 
 
 "Anywhere, so that I am free from you. Oh, monster ! to endeavour 
 to take advantage of my weakness and distress. I did not think it of you. 
 I will leave the house this minute. I shall be in greater safety anj^where 
 in the streets than here with you." 
 
 The worst of it was that this reproach was just. What were the facts ? 
 This young girl was evidently well-conducted. She had thrown herself on 
 my protection without reserve. She had solicited my hospitality for the 
 night, and I was endeavouring to seduce her. Very well, but then I must 
 state— for my own justification — that I did not know that Nicette was quite 
 so virtuous, and that, notwithstanding great simplicity of language and 
 artlessness of dress, a man may well distrust the virtue of a girl who pro- 
 poses to pass the night in his apartment, especially in Paris, where appear- 
 ances are so very deceptive. 
 
 As we stood on the landing, I holding fast by her gown, and she ready 
 to spring down the stairs if I let her go, she gave way to an ecstasy of 
 grief, and the scalding tears ran in torrents down her cheeks (wretch, it 
 was I who made them flow) I could not bear to see her weep — flower-girl 
 as she was, her tears went to my heart, and I could not resist falling on my 
 knees, and imploring her to return into my room. I represented to her 
 that the gate was shut, and the portress would not open it for a stranger, 
 to which she replied she would say she had been to the apartments of 
 Monsieur Dorsan (that cursed Raymond had let out my name), and if the 
 portress would not allow her to depart, she would stay in the court-yard all 
 the rest of the night. I begged her to consider the tittle-tattle of all 
 the scandal-loving servants of the different families in the house, and urged 
 my arguments so strongly, that she consented to return on my promising 
 solemnly that I would desist from taking any further liberties, and allow 
 her to sleep in one of the inner rooms. 
 
 This compact being made, I lighted another candle, and gave it to 
 Nicette, who retired, by my wish, into my bedroom, and I dragged the 
 sofa into the study, where I took up my quarters for the night. It cost me 
 much to make this arrangement, but my word was pledged. I blew out 
 the candle and disposed myself to sleep. " Sleep, that knits up the 
 ravelled sleeve of care." We sleep away the third part of our lives. We 
 plunge into sleep with avidity, and yet we fear death, which is nothing but 
 eternal sleep 1 
 
 Sleep I could not. I stretched myself along the sofa, then drew up my 
 legs, turned on my right side, and then on my left, but not a wink of sleep 
 for me. I then reflected on the events that had occurred during the even- 
 ing. I thought of Caroline the grisette, the lady at the play, and the 
 drunken cabman, but the round, plump figure of Nicette mingled in all 
 
Miss Agatha. 15 
 
 these waking dreams. I could not banish her idea ; there she was only a 
 few paces off, separated from me by nothing but a slight partition. What 
 if I held her in my arms, drinking in her balmy breath, teaching her the 
 delicious rudiments of love ! But then she would not let me. Pleasant 
 enough for me, you say, but then the consequences of those same rudiments 
 might have proved very unpleasant indeed to her. 
 
 My legs itched ; I had the fidgets all over ; I could not remain still, and 
 must see whether my protegte slept or not. I thought of the alarm she had 
 experienced in the early part of the night. I feared her mother would ill- 
 use her, and that her future life might be miserable indeed. How was it 
 that I interested myself so much about this humble girl. I crept softly to 
 the door, and saw through the keyhole that her candle was alight. Was 
 this from fear, or was it from neglect ? Perhaps she slept ! A sudden 
 desire seized me to inspect her beauties as she lay, and by a calm and quiet 
 examination, to ascertain if she was really as handsome as my imagination 
 had portrayed her in my moments of excitement. I turned the handle of 
 the lock, it was not fastened— proof that she had trusted to my word. 
 Imprudent girl ! the candle was on the table by the bed ; the devil, she was 
 not undressed, and I stole softly on tiptoe to her side ; my shoes creaked, and 
 Nicette started and awoke. 
 
 Caught in the fact, already regardless of my promise, I stammered out that 
 I had come to seek a book, and returned to the ante-chamber, swearing 
 heartily at the creaking shoes. Nicette shut the door behind me, and this 
 time the key was turned in the lock. How dreary, dull, and long that 
 night did seem I 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MISS AGATHA. 
 
 The morning came at last, but Nicette, fatigued with the adventures of the 
 night, slept soundly until the people in the house were up and stirring. At 
 length she rose from the bed, opened the door, and embraced me. I under- 
 stood her well ; that willing, grateful kiss was the recompense of my good 
 behaviour during the hours of repose. She proposed to leave me on the in- 
 stant, but I insisted on her having breakfast before she took her departure, 
 and snowing her my pantry, where I always kept some provisions in case of 
 unlooked-for visits. She arranged the table, and put everything ready for 
 our breakfast. I admired her readiness and neatness, thinking that a lively, 
 active, pretty, young servant like her would suit my domestic purposes 
 infinitely better than the lumbering awkwardness and tedious gabbling of 
 Madame Dupont. Apropos of the portress— if she should knock at the 
 door in order to discharge her usual duties, where should I hide Nicette ? 
 
 We had, however, some hours good before the time of the old woman's 
 general arrival, so having finished our meal we pushed the cups aside, and 
 I commenced a friendly chat. 
 
 "My dear .Nicette," I said, "you cannot doubt, after what has taken 
 place, that I feel the warmest interest in your welfare." 
 11 You have proved it to me indeed, sir." 
 11 What do you intend to do when you "leave this house ? " 
 
16 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 " Return to my mother, sir, of course." 
 
 " But what will you do if she should refuse to receive you ? " 
 
 " I will endeavour to get some work to do, or go into service ; surely I 
 shall be able to get a place in this large city I " 
 
 " Without doubt you will ; but how can you tell into what hands you 
 may fall ? and if you are determined to keep chaste, as I think you are, 
 being young and pretty, you will have more difficulties to encounter than 
 a plainer girl. I know mankind well, and am convinced almost all of them 
 are libertines. Your masters will make certain propositions to you, and get 
 you dismissed if you persist in not complying with their wishes." 
 
 "In that case, sir, I would seek a place with a single lady." 
 
 14 The women are scarcely any better ; the old ones keep girls imprisoned 
 for fear they should make bad acquaintances, and, perhaps, rob the house, 
 whilst the young ones are continually receiving men, and would set you bad 
 examples. Do not be surprised that I am addressing you in this quiet 
 manner ; a drunkard is a judge of wine, a horse-dealer of the animals he 
 trades in ; an artist of paintings, and a man about town, of the dangers that 
 young girls run. Experience is an able master. You would not yield to me, 
 and I am desirous that you should not become the prey of another. Do 
 not thank me ; perhaps it is only from vanity that I grudge to another the 
 gathering of the flower I could not pluck myself. Do you understand me, 
 Nicette ? " 
 
 44 Oh, yes, sir, very well. I am not a prude ; but do not fear for me, I 
 will never grant to another man what I have refused to you ! " 
 
 She uttered the last sentence with so much feeling that I could not but 
 believe her ; she loves me, certainly, I thought, so much the more credit to 
 her for not yielding herself to my pursuit. 
 
 I continued still more affectionately, " Nicette, it appears to me that 
 your present occupation befits you better than any other would, but if your 
 mother thrusts you from her, you will not have the means of continuing 
 your trade ; take this purse, there is no shame connected with your accept- 
 ance of it, for its contents are not the price of your dishonour. If you like 
 it better, consider the money only lent until you can repay it." 
 
 The poor girl was dumb with gratitude. When she recovered her speech, 
 she represented that ill-natured remarks would be made respecting her pos- 
 session of so much wealth. I told her to conduct herself properly, and live 
 down all remarks, and as to her difficulty with regard to her mother, a parent 
 who turned her daughter into the streets without the slightest cause, had 
 no right to control that daughter's actions. But then, she said, the amount, 
 fifteen pounds, was so very great. To that objection I stated that I had 
 won it a few evenings since at play, and if she was aware what amounts were 
 won and lost daily, she would think it a mere trifle. Fifteen pounds a trifle I 
 It was a treasure, a mine of gold. Yes, for those who knew the true value 
 of money, and for what good purposes it might be employed. As for me, 
 born in easy circumstances, and accustomed to the gratification of every wish, 
 I did not know what the real value of money was. I should most likely lose 
 the sum again at play, or throw it away in some very silly manner. 
 
 Nicette was at length convinced by my reasoning. She said she would 
 return to her mother's house, and if the old woman should refuse to receive 
 her, she would hire a small room, buy the best flowers she could procure, live 
 as economically as she could, and perhaps some day she might arrive at the 
 summit of all her wishes — namely, a handsome shop in a fa&hionable street. 
 
 " Then," said I, " Nicette, you will many the man of ,ybur choice, and 
 make some lucky fellow happy for life." 
 
 She dropped her eyes and sighed. It was now past nine o'clock and 
 
Miss Agatha. 1 7 
 
 quite time she should be gone. She set her cap to rights, trembled from 
 head to foot, and burst into tears as she bade me " farewell." I made her 
 promise that if she should find herself my way she would call and see me, 
 and that if she changed her quarters in consequence of her mother's anger, 
 she would leave her fresh address at the porter's lodge. You may laugh, 
 render, it's all childishness, I know ; I had only seen this interesting girl for 
 a few hours, and yet I saw her prepare to leave me with unfeigned regret. 
 
 We embraced again. I opened the door to let her out, but scarcely had 
 she stepped out on to the landing than both of us were startled by repeated 
 peals of laughter. I looked up hastily : there was that infernal Raymond's 
 door wide open, and in it stood my late flame, Miss Agatha, and himself. 
 I saw through the plot at once — the joint production of Raymond's curiosity 
 and Agatha's spite. They had been lying in wait for me since daylight. 
 But it puzzled me to think how Agatha came there, because, so far as I 
 knew, she had never been intimate with Raymond. 
 
 Nicette looked wistfully at me, seeking to read in my eyes whether she 
 should go on or return. It was no use dissembling now. If I stood to 
 parley, it was likely enough that Raymond had preconcerted a signal to 
 assemble all the young men in the house opposite my door, so I pushed 
 Nicette gently towards the staircase, and the poor girl descended, weeping 
 and holding her apron to her eyes, whilst I remained frowning at Raymond 
 and Agatha, speechless from very rage. 
 
 Agatha looked over the banisters at the flower-girl as she slowly went 
 down the stairs, and sarcastically said, — 
 
 "Bless me, how very sentimental — rivers of tears, and whole tempests 
 of sighs ! I shall certainly die with laughter." Then turning to me, " I 
 shall be very much obliged to you indeed, sir, if you will please to tell me 
 how I came to be at a masked ball with you last night, when I really did 
 not know it myself. Speak, sir. Why do you not answer me ? Don't you 
 hear me ? " 
 
 I heard her well, but did not heed her, for another subject was upper- 
 most in my thoughts. My fixed, threatening look embarrassed Raymond \ 
 he coloured, turned pale, rocked himself to and fro, made a faint effort to 
 smile, and then re-entered his room, whilst I shouted after him, — 
 
 " Sirrah, you shall answer to me for all this." 
 
 I turned to speak to Agatha, but she was gone ; and as she was 
 acquainted with every inch of my apartments, I found her seated on my 
 ottoman, with an assumed air of perfect nonchalance. 
 
 So soon as she saw me she said, — 
 
 " In the name of Heaven, Eugene, what does this little fish-girl mean ? 
 And the furniture all in disorder ; the bed tumbled and not lain in ; the 
 sofa dragged into the study, and the remains of a breakfast. What has 
 hm\ pened in the night ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Oh, dear no ; nothing very extraordinary for you, young gentleman, I 
 jtnow. The !«ed is all trim enough, but as for the sofa, I cannot make it 
 out at all. Tell me all about it, Eugene — do. Although we are no longer 
 lovers, there is no reason why we should not be friends I " 
 
 You know, gentle reader, that this lady, Mademoiselle Agatha, was the 
 lirst-rate milliner whom I had broken off with in consequence of her re- 
 peated infidelities — in fact, she was the cause of the very melancholy reflec- 
 tions I made during my walk on the Boulevards last evening. Since then, 
 however, my too susceptible heart had became imbued with so many fresh 
 sensations that Mademoiselle Agatha was quite effaced from my mind. I 
 ■eared no longer for her, and did not mind the least if I never saw her again. 
 
 B 
 
18 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 Notwithstanding our present coldness, I felt that my gravity was exceed- 
 ingly ill-placed, and that, looking at the circumstances under which she had 
 Been myself and Nicette, I could not expect she should believe my flower- 
 girl to be a Penelope of virtue. I rallied immediately, fell back on my con- 
 stitutional gaiety, and began to question her briskly in my turn. 
 
 " By what mysterious chance is it, Agatha, that I find you on this land- 
 ing with that brute Raymond, whom you have always said you could not 
 bear ? " 
 
 " Never mind, my dear ; tell me about this sofa." 
 " You shall hear all about it by-and-by." 
 
 " Well, then, yesterday I went into the country with G-rislea, the young 
 clerk, you know, on the floor below." 
 "Yes, my successor." 
 
 " Your successor if you will have it so. Well, when we came back I 
 was very tired, and so — " 
 
 " You passed the night with him, of course ; that's all very natural." 
 " Well, at half -past six o'clock this morning I got up to go away, and 
 having descended the staircase as gently as possible, and reached the great 
 gate of the courtyard, there stood Raymond on the look-out. He scanned 
 my dress narrowly, laughed significantly, and said, — ' Upon my word, I did 
 not recognise you last night ; you were uncommonly well disguised. The 
 costume of a fish-girl becomes you admirably, and changes your appearance 
 so much that no one can know you. I could have sworn that Monsieur 
 Dorsan had been making game of me.' Of course I did not understand one 
 word of what he had been saying, but the mention of your name excited my 
 curiosity. I suspected there was something you wished to keep concealed,, 
 and so I made Raymond tell me all that he had seen last night. When I ex- 
 plained to him that it was not I he had seen with you, he said he was 
 certain your new flame was still in these apartments, because he had passed 
 a great part of the night on the landing to satisfy himself whether his sus- 
 picions were correct or not, and had been standing sentry in the yard ever 
 since daybreak. We re-ascended the stairs, kept a good watch on your 
 door, and, my dear fellow, we would have remained there until dark. Oh 
 this Raymond is as good as an old woman at finding out a secret. That's 
 all. And now let me hear your story." 
 " What is it you want to know ? " 
 
 " All about the young girl who has just left you. She is pretty enough, 
 certainly; the mouth a little large, but then the round cap, Master Eugene, 
 you who set yourself up for bon too, to take up with a common round cap f 
 Fie, fie, I'm ashamed of you ! " 
 
 " Cap, or bonnet, or hat, it is all one to me what she wears.' 
 " No doubt, now you have had your will of her." 
 
 " You are mistaken, Agatha, the girl is virtuous, modest, and careful ;. 
 she is nothing to me, and never will be anything." 
 
 " Of course, of course, my dear ; the poor thing only came here because 
 she was frightened to sleep by herself Oh, you naughty, naughty boy." 
 
 " Appearances are against me, I own, and yet nothing is more true than 
 what I am about to tell you ; she passed the night in the bedroom, and I 
 slept on the sofa. That is all, upon my honour." 
 
 " You slept upon the sofa for ten minutes, and then went to her." 
 " I swear to you, no." 
 
 " Pooh 1 you were not such a fool as to remain on the sofa all night." 
 " I believe, Agatha, that in your eyes virtue and innocence are nothing 
 •lse than stupidity." 
 
 " Yery polite, indeed, of you ; but as I never was aware of your lamb- 
 
A Few Words about Myself, 19 
 
 like innocence before, permit me to congratulate you on your new virtuous 
 acquisitions. ' 
 
 " I do not pretend, Agatha, to be any better than I am. I tell you I 
 did endeavour to succeed with this interesting girl, but her resistance was 
 so real, and her tears so touching, that in spite of my hot passions I felt 
 myself compelled to resist from the attempt." 
 
 " How magnificent, how stoical ! another Scipio, I declare ! The fish- 
 girl accompanied you home in order that her virtuous resistance to you might 
 be more highly appreciated. How can you think to humbug me with such 
 a stupid tale?" 
 
 " Think what you like, Nicette is still a maid for me." 
 
 *' I beg pardon, I am sure, if I have offended you. In which market, 
 pray, does Mademoiselle Nicette sell eels and pike ? " 
 
 " In none, Mademoiselle ; she sells nothing but bouquets of flowers." 
 
 " Bless me ; flowers, how superb ! The high consideration the young lady 
 meets with is quite explained now. But the cap ! " 
 
 " She is more worthy of consideration, with her humble cap, than 
 thousands who wear the handsomest Leghorn hats." 
 
 " Or make them, you mean to say ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " You are out of humour, my dear, because I doubt the morality of a 
 
 Coung woman, who, say innocently, has slept with such a Cato as you have 
 ecome in the last four-and- twenty hours. Look here, Eugene, say what 
 you like, and swear what you like, but I tell you the thing's impossible." 
 
 " Think what you please, Agatha, your opinion is not of the slightest 
 consequence." 
 
 " Of course not now, Eugene, but there was a time it used to be (a sob) ; 
 but come, let us be friends (another), and if you wish it, I will believe the 
 .girl to be as good a virgin as the Maid of Orleans herself." 
 
 Here there were unmistakable symptoms of hysterics. 
 
 During this dialogue I had sat down on the sofa with my back to mj 
 old flame, only turning round occasionally as I sharply answered her ques- 
 tions, or replied to her taunting observations. Agatha sidled up to me j 
 she crept on to my knees, placed her arms round my neck, kissed me tenderly, 
 and I was very nearly succeeding my successes, when the image of Nicette 
 in all her purity stood before me, and I turned from the pretty milliner with 
 disgust. Agatha was piqued ; she had no love for me now, and, perhaps, 
 never had, but her vanity was wounded ; she rose up in a passion, took 
 tip her shawl, replaced her bonnet, curtseyed ironically, and flew out 
 of the room, saying, — " I beg pardon, sir, for having detained you ; you 
 must need rest, I am sure, after last night's watching. I leave you to dream 
 over the future delights of your charming conquest ; perhaps you will have 
 the goodness to present my card to the Lady Nicette. - 1 shall be proud of 
 her custom whenever you shall .think fit to put her into another costume. 
 Better, no doubt, though, the linen cap of virtue than the Leghorn bonnet 
 of frivolity ! " And Agatha took her way, humming an opera air, but with 
 spite and envy shining through every feature. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FEW WOEDS ABOUT MYSELF. 
 
 .Agatha had been gone some time, and I was sitting in my study, thinking 
 on the varied events of the night, when the portress opened the door and 
 
20 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 c&me in to set the apartments to rights. She had an idea, evidently, thafc 
 something was in the wind, and after shutting the door, cast a quick glance 
 around, that seemed to take in all that was in the room. Fool that I was ! 
 I had forgotten to remove the sofa back to its accustomed spot. But what 
 of that ? I was master in my own house, and had a right to place my furni- 
 ture wherever I liked. Now, I was not in the habit of chatting with the 
 portress : she knew it well, but this morning she kept hovering abait me, 
 making many attempts to draw me into conversation, such as, — 
 
 " What a fine morning it is, sir 1 Very fortunate, being Sunday ; there 
 are so many folks who can only get out and amuse themselves on that day. 
 Very fortunate, indeed. Eless me, how you have disarranged the furniture ; 
 Do you wish, sir, that the sofa should remain in the study ? Just like my 
 daughter, she is always changing the place for the baby's cradle. Last night 
 she thought fit to put it by her bedside, but my son-in-law would not have 
 it there, because, you know, a man sometimes gets out of bed in the night 
 to coiue to his wife, and, as the little one is almost four years old, it might 
 he very awkward — why, bless me, your bed has not been slept in, sir ; it's 
 only tumbled a bit ! And you've had your breakfast, too, earlier than 
 usuaL Two coffee-cups I " 
 
 I did not reply to these remarks, but kept dressing myself for the morn- 
 ing as she maundered on. Presently the old woman stooped down, picked 
 up something from the floor, and brought it to me with a knowing grin on 
 her cursed wrinkled brow. 
 
 " Look here, sir," she said, " here's a gold peasant's cross I have found 
 just before your bed." 
 
 " I see what it is ; give it me, Madame Dupont. I am going to send it 
 into the country. I bought it yesterday for one of my farm-tenants' 
 daughters. " 
 
 " Humph I It's a pretty cross, sure enough, but it's not a new one for all 
 that." I could have knocked the old crone down. She gave me the cross, 
 occupied herself with setting the things to rights for a few minutes, and then 
 continued, " They say the girl was very pretty, and that she was crying, too 
 — very singular, that ! " 
 
 " What girl are you talking of, Madame Dupont ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, a little kind of a girl — in fact I did not see her. Certainly sh« 
 did pass before the lodge, but — phew ! she was off like a cannon ball. Martin, 
 Madame Bertin's cook, said she saw her cross the yard as she was taking in 
 the milk for breakfast." 
 
 " Where did this young woman come from, Madame Dupont ? " 
 
 " Ah, sir — that is — really, I know nothing at all about it." 
 
 The way in which the portress spoke convinced me that, instead of being^ 
 ignorant of what had taken place, she knew all about it. Raymond had told 
 the cook, the cook had told Madame Dupont, and what with the sofa, and 
 the cross, and the bed — whew ! it was clear I should be the talk of the- 
 whole house. Madame Bertin would be informed of my freak, of course, 
 and she, being the mother of two elegant and accomplished daughters, was 
 precisely a woman with whom I wished to be on very excellent terms. I 
 was ready to tear myself to pieces when I reflected that all those disagree- 
 able things were the result of doing a kind action — a really good action on 
 the part of a young scapegrace. Appearances are always deceitful, but in 
 this instance they were likely to destroy my reputation with a family I 
 really esteemed. 
 
 Having put the cross in my left waistcoat pocket — how came it to be in 
 the immediate vicinity of the region of the heart ? — I was about to leave the 
 room, when the portress put a letter in my hand, which she pretended te 
 
A Few Words about Myself. 21 
 
 have forgotten to deliver before, and I saw, from the postmark and the hand- 
 writing, that it came from my dear and only sister, Emily. Apropos, reader, 
 before this I ought to have told you who I am, where I came from, and all 
 that ; although I must promise that you will not find anything particularly 
 mysterious about me, for I have nothing to detail relative to assassination 
 or any other species of murder, poisoning, rape, changing of children, pro- 
 menades in the Western Gallery, visits to subterranean caves, ghostly vision* 
 by the moon's pale light — these last are very telling — nor encounters with 
 winged dragons and blood-red knights, or, indeed, any sort of usual romantic 
 adventure ; but as I promised in the beginning of this true history to make 
 you acquainted with who and what I am, I will endeavour to do so in the 
 briefest possible space. 
 
 My name, then, is Eugene Dorsan, the son of a barrister at Paris, a very 
 honest man, as I have been told, and believe — indeed, it would be unfilial to 
 doubt it. He ranked high in his profession, and made money rapidly, but 
 unfortunately died at an early age, leaving only two children — my sister 
 Emily and myself. Although rich, my mother remained a widow, refusing 
 numerous solicitations to re-enter the holy state of matrimony, contenting 
 herself with giving her children an excellent education, and* keeping her 
 money for them — an example to be followed by all rich and pretty widows. 
 My sister was blessed with a gentle, affectionate temper, which caused her 
 to be beloved by her masters and every one with whom she associated ; and 
 I, although not an absolute phoenix, had not any marked intellectual defects, 
 my greatest fault having always been an insurmountable passion for women, 
 which, as it was not very fully developed in my infancy, could not greatly 
 militate against my youthful progress. Soon after our father's death, our 
 mother purchased a country house near Milan, and there our adolescence 
 passed peaceably away, without troubles, without excitement, for what afflic- 
 tions can young folks of fifteen years of age experience when cherished by 
 an affectionate mother, and kindly fostered by protecting friends ? Oh, how 
 I pity those miserable children whose parents have sunk into insensibility, 
 and forgotten nature's ties through the degrading influence of penury and 
 want ! Their apprenticeship to fife is passed in fearful woe, and in their 
 youthful days they have been familiarised with the pains and troubles of a 
 riper age. 
 
 When my sister Emily had reached her seventeenth year, she was 
 married to an excellent young man named Ddneterre, a cotton-spinner s 
 near Milan ; and three years after the marriage our mother died, leaving us 
 each a yearly income of five hundred pounds. Emily remained with her 
 husband in the country, but I, as was very natural at my age, wished to 
 taste the delights of Paris, and betook myself forthwith to that gay 
 capital, where I have resided ever since, but paying every year a six 
 weeks' visit to my sister at Milan. The time for my annual country 
 excursion was approaching, and no doubt this letter was to remind me of 
 it, and hasten my departure. It so happened that my sister, who knew 
 I was not a particularly cool-headed young man, was desirous to put 
 an end to my follies by the very sobering process of marriage. Thi* 
 very year I found in her society a fresh young miss, very pretty, very- 
 amiable, good-tempered, well-educated, and, above all s with a very con- 
 venient fortune. These young ladies were always in Madame D^neterre's 
 house by the merest chance, but the trap was easily seen by so old a stager 
 as myself. I chatted, walked, rode, danced, and sung with the girls, but 
 it always happened that at the end of the six weeks, notwithstanding my 
 sister's beautiful sermons on matrimony, and the sighs and blandishments of 
 ihe young ladies, I still remained a bachelor, not having: once made a 
 
22 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 declaration of my love. My sister thought she must have been misinformed 
 as to my Parisian amourettes, and that I was nothing better than a stone. 
 " Patience, patience," said my brother-in-law, " the right woman will come 
 at last ; perhaps next year he will be an altered man ! " 
 My sister's letter was to the following effect : — 
 
 " My dear Eugene, — The end of July has almost arrived, and you have 
 not been to see us yet. Truly, the attractions of Paris make you forget those 
 affectionate relatives who love you dearly, and never cease to think of you 
 and your future lot." 
 
 My future lot ! ah, I see, another marriage in view 1 What a foolish 
 desire on Emily's part to marry me. She is worse than the gouty, cross 
 old father in the comedies. 
 
 " We begin to think you must be weary of your numerous conquests, 
 and tired of those odious women who are guided only by their worst 
 passions, and laugh at and forget you as soon as your back is turned." 
 
 Moral and sarcastic, eh, my sister 1 You are deceived ; the conquest* 
 I am in the habit of making are not so easy as you think. But it is always 
 the same with these country women — the moment they leave Paris they 
 begin to preach. She is a good creature at the bottom, though, and I 
 believe does really love me. " As soon as your back is turned," ah ! 
 
 " We hear of you often from those of our neighbours who go occasion- 
 ally to Paris on business, and the report is that you are as hair-brained aa 
 ever, that you give yourself up to the fleeting pleasures of a fashionable 
 life, and that you are constantly deceiving your mistresses, who pay you 
 back in your own coin." 
 
 How capitally she guesses ! very wonderful indeed 1 
 
 M We have never heard of your doing any one good action." 
 
 Ah, sister dear, if you only knew of last night ! They calumniate me— 
 I, a libertine ! Nicette, Nicette, pretty little rogue ! that, assuredly, was a 
 great victory over myself. 
 
 " However, we continue to indulge the hope that you are not incor- 
 rigible. Come and 6ee us Boon ; there are some very pretty women here, 
 well-educated and virtuous, in addition to their personal attractions." 
 
 Oh, no doubt, pretty women ! Yes, to be sure, dressed up, silent 
 starchy dolls, with high-heeled shoes and their great- grandmother's farthin- 
 gales ! As for being virtuous, nature is nature in the country as well as in 
 town ; appearances are deceitful, I even thought that Nicette was not 
 quite so good as she should be. 
 
 " My husband sends a list of a few commissions which he will be obliged 
 to you to execute for him. He is arranging some delightful fishing parties for 
 you, and I promise you s.f2te on the evening of your arrival. — Your affec- 
 tionate sister, EMILY DENETERRE." 
 
 Having read the letter and made the above comments, I decided that 
 I would go and see my sister's family very shortly. I had a few affairs to 
 arrange before I could leave town ; besides, I wished to know what had 
 become of Nicette, in whom I began to take a lively and inexplicable 
 interest. As I was preparing to descend the stairs, a thought came over 
 me that 1 would speak to my neighbour Raymond, put a few questions to 
 him with regard to his conduct of this morning, and thank him for his 
 polite discretion. Accordingly, I rang his outer bell — no answer ; I rang 
 -again more loudly, and down came the bell -rope — still no one opened the 
 door ; so, in order that he might know who had damaged his piece of 
 furniture, I tied his rope to that which was attached to my own door, and 
 
The Magic-Lantern, 23- 
 
 descended the stairs. The fellow was a coward, I was aware, and had not 
 ■topped to be thanked for his share of the morning's work. The misfor- 
 tunes of this unlucky day had not yet ended. On the landing of the first 
 floor I met Madame Bertin and her two young daughters, who were going 
 to church. I took off my hat and received a freezing salutation from the 
 old lady, far different from the flattering smiles which always awaited me, 
 and the girls passed on without lifting their eyes. There was the first 
 pleasing result of my neighbour Raymond's curiosity, added to the chatter- 
 ing of Madame Martin and the portress. It was known that Nicette had 
 passed the previous night in my apartments— that is, Madame Bertin knew 
 it, and had ordered her daughters to pass by me, when they should see me, 
 as if they were not aware there was such a person in existence as myself. 
 
 Well, you will say, reader, but how is all this ? Did not Agatha, the 
 milliner, pass night after night with you, and yet your amours with her 
 were never made the subject of remark ? True, but her case and Nicette's 
 are not in the least parallel. Agatha was dressed like other females in the 
 middling classes ; besides, she worked for families in the house, and could 
 go in and out at all hours without being remarked. Thus it was very 
 easy for me to keep in with Madame Bertin's good graces, and to be in- 
 vited to her parties, although Mademoiselle Agatha did honour me with 
 her private communications ; but Nicette, with her remarkable flower-girl's 
 dress, was quite another affair. But so it is— all the world form conclusions, 
 and never dive to the bottom of affairs ; appear bad, and down you go ; 
 gin as much and as deeply as you like, but only keep up appearances, you 
 are received everywhere, in society, and no impertinent questions are ever 
 asked. 
 
 1 rushed oufe into the street in a passion, cursing all mischief -making 
 babblers, and people who judged from outward show. I walked about the 
 public lounges in a passion, dined in a passion, took my coffee in a passion, 
 went to the Champs Elyse*es in a passion, and sat down in a passion on tha 
 grass, with my back leaning against the thick trunk of a tall elm-tree. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE MAGIO-LANTEBN. 
 
 I remained for some time reclining against the big tree until, the evening 
 was getting grey, and then I amused myself with watching the different 
 effects the approaching shades of night produced upon the peculiar 
 idiosyncracies of the promenaders. Some looked up to the skies, and as 
 they beheld the starry host, directed their footsteps towards their cheerful 
 homes, whilst others — invariably couples — sought the most unfrequented 
 and most secluded spots. I was pondering in my mind what reasons these 
 parties had for preferring solitude to the lively scenes that were passing on 
 around, and was about to follow some of these disciples of Limmermann, 
 when I heard the dull tramp of a heavy foot, and, glancing round the elm, 
 I saw a stout man approaching, carrying the apparatus of a magic-lantern 
 on his back, which he placed gently on the ground on the other side of the 
 tree. This induced me to remain. It was possible that the man's jargon 
 would amuse me, or even an adventure might spring up with some of th» 
 grisettes, who, in all probability, would come to see the show. 
 
 As the man was lighting his candles, and placing them so as to illumin- 
 ate his little play, he murmured between his teeth, looking round on every 
 side, and stamping with his feet* — 
 
24 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 M Oh, the beast of a woman I it's three hours since she bolted under the 
 pretence of giving the young 'un something to eat. What game has she 
 been up to, I wonder ? If it wasn't a good day for collaring the tin, I'd 
 shut up shop and be after her at once. Well, well, Madame Trousquin, 
 some day or other I'll clear up all my doubts, and if I find anything queer, 
 I'll pay off all scores at one reckoning, I guess." 
 
 Still Madame Trousquin did not come, and the doting, affectionate 
 husband kept recommending his wares in a voluble discourse, interlarded 
 with occasional oaths and denunciations of the truant wife. After a few 
 minutes a young girl and a youthful soldier came up to the show, paid their 
 money, entered the small area before the glasses, and requested the man to 
 close the curtain tightly round them. Accordingly, my friend enveloped 
 them in a old grey cloth, which he pegged down firmly to the ground, 
 whilst an idea struck me that even a magic-lantern might be a very con- 
 venient accessory at a pinch, and, at the same time, I felt convinced that 
 the two present spectators had other fish to fry than listening to the 
 eloquent expositions of my friend Trousquin. 
 
 The travelling manager commenced his description, mingled with threats 
 at his wife, thus, — 
 
 " In the first place, ladies and gentlemen, you see the sun, and the 
 moon, and the stars, and the fish. Further on are the different products 
 of this here earth, such as fruit, trees, vegetables, animals, caves, torrents, 
 birds, mountains, and snakes, with bells to their heads. See, ladies and 
 gentlemen, and examine well the sun, that you cannot look at on account 
 of its fiery splendour ; and the gentle moon, that is now in her first quarter, 
 because it is the full. Look at those falling stars, which are cutting off as 
 if the devil had kicked them. (Not come back yet, the bitch ! then here's 
 to put the kid to bed ; she'll smart for this to-night !) Look to the right, 
 and you see Venus, shining like a candle in the dark ; look to the left, and 
 you see the Shepherd's Star. In the bottom of the picture are the Three 
 Kings, who are walking about in the gardens of the palace, not caring one 
 farthing for each other, whilst further on you see the Chariot, running up 
 and down; just bike the cars at the Russian Mountains. On the upper 
 part of this here beautiful representation, you see Jupiter and Mercury — 
 perhaps you know him better by his other name, Calomel. Then the Bull 
 and the Goat, and Virgin and her Twins. Next is the Scales, keeping an 
 even balance with the deuce of a pull on one side ; and last of all, the 
 Scmpion — an ugly brute enough, you will say. These, ladies and gentle- 
 men, are called the planets, or revolving stars, and they govern the nervous 
 infections of all those who are under their affluence. The planet Venus is 
 for love-sick, amorous women ; the Shepherd, for strong, tall, good-look- 
 ing fellows ; the Three Kings, for soldiers and heroes ; the Chariot, for 
 hackney-coachmen ; Mercury, for the doctors ; the Virgin, for pretty little 
 maids ; and the Bull and the Goat, for certain old gentlemen whom you and 
 I know very well. Look, ladies and gentlemen, and you will see in the 
 midst of that here black cloud, just between the Polar Bear and the Ram . a 
 great fiery, hairy comet, with a tail longer than a fox's brush. From the 
 remotest time, even beyond the memory of that veracious personage the 
 oldest inhabitant, these here comets have always announced the destruction 
 of the world, and there is not the least doubt that this one will soon upset 
 the globe — w r hich only hangs by a thread — with bis tail, and burn us all 
 up like so many roasted chestnuts." 
 
 At this moment there was a very evident movement underneath the 
 curtain that concealed the soldier and the girl, from which I inferred that 
 the latter was ascertaining the exact lerp-tli of the comet's tail. 
 
The Magic-Lantern, 25 
 
 TrouBquin drew the string, changed the picture, commended his better- 
 naif to the infernal regions, and continued, — 
 
 "A moment, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, and you shall see 
 what you shall see. This here beautiful painted picture represents the 
 palace of Quanki-Fingo-Kiu-Li-King, emperor of the Chinese, and king of 
 all the blue celestial Pekins. There you sees him a-sitting in his gold arm- 
 cheer, in his silver robes, surrounded with mandarins on horseback, and 
 national guards. This is supposed to be a grand state day, and the em- 
 peror is consequently giving audience to all his subjects in this here part of 
 the town. In the corner, on the extreme right, you sees an old man leaning 
 on a young gal and a bamboo cane ; he is come to demand justice on his 
 daughter's seducer, who has got her five times with child, and who gives 
 the children but kicks for breakfast every morning. See, gentlemen, how 
 the eyes of the miserable father are burning with rage, and hew the fea- 
 tures of the gal show her grief and her repentance for her fun. A little 
 on the left, enveloped in a brown cloak, stands the vile seducer, the cause 
 of all this woe, who has been arrested and awaits his doom. You can only 
 see the tip of his nose ; but his cheeks are pale, his eyes hollow, and his 
 knees knock together, for he trembles at his fate, and knows there are no 
 more goings-on for him. Now, ladies and gentlemen, in the background — " 
 
 Before Trousquin could utter another word, a fat woman came running 
 up quite out of breath, and interrupted the explanation of the show. I 
 suspected it was the wife. Indeed, the following dialogue, which immedi - 
 ately took place between her and the man, proved the fact at once. 
 
 Trousquin. — " So here you are at last, Madame Gadabout ? Further 
 on, at the bottom of the picture " — (To his wife), " I'll serve you out for 
 this. — Further on, in the bottom of the picture, you see some guards 
 dragging a fellow along who seems as if he had got the bellyache. He is 
 a deserter, who has deserted to the enemy and gone into his camp ; but 
 they've fetched him back again, and it will soon be all over with him. He 
 will be shot first, and then hanged afterwards." 
 
 While Trousquin was explaining, bis wife kept on stating, without his 
 paying her the least attention, that she was obliged to put the child to bed 
 before she could make her husband's soup, that he had nothing to complain 
 of, although he was always complaining, and that it was a long trot from 
 their lodgings to the Champs Elysees. She then deposited on a stool an 
 earthen porringer that she had brought under her apron, and placed herself 
 on the side of the show where the strings that change the scenes are ar- 
 ranged. But let us get on. 
 
 Trousquin. — "This, ladies and gentlemen, is a celebrated scene in 
 Athens, or, as it is sometimes called, Greece " — (To his wife), " Put the 
 soup away, and tell me where you have been." 
 
 Madame. — " At home, you jealous fool ; I met Angelica as I came 
 along, and we stopped for a moment's chat. Are there many people under 
 the curtaiD ? " 
 
 Trousquin. — " Look at the smoothness of the water and the blueness of 
 the skies ; look at those magnificent statues, which you might see if there 
 was more of them, but, unfortunately, a few bits only remain. On the 
 right, you see the circus where the young men used to fight the wild bull " — 
 (To his wife), "I'm sure you've been after that fellow Gudgeon. — On 
 the left, you behold the famous Partans, who used to wrestle and fight 
 with their fists, just like the rascally English." — (To his wife), " He stood 
 some beer, I know. — And the handsome young fellow that you see in the 
 middle is Alcibiades, a heavy swell in those days, whilst the little, snub- 
 
26 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 nosed old man near him is Socrates, his tutor, who is telling him all sorts 
 of things he doesn't know." 
 
 J ust then there was another shaking of the curtain, with whispered sounds 
 from the girl of, " Have done then, don't be so foolish, I won't tell you," 
 etc. Madame Trousquin pulled the string, and the action of the magic- 
 iantern went on, notwithstanding the temporary fracas beneath the curtain. 
 
 " The next, ladies and gentlemen, shall be something else. " — (To his 
 wife), " Is it all right ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " This representation, ladies and gentlemen, is taken from the heathen 
 mythology, and it is called 'The Judgment of Solomon,' surnamed 'the 
 Wise,' who is about to cut a lovely infant in two, just as you would cut a 
 penny kidney-pie. Look at the frightened babby a-kicking his dear little 
 legs in the air. Behold the joy of the cruel mother, as isn't the mother, 
 who looks on without shedding a tear, just as if she was about to receive the 
 hindquarters of a rabbit ; and behold the agony of the mother as is the 
 mother, who watches the descent of the carving knife which threatens her 
 babby's life." 
 
 The curtain shook more violently still, and sounds were heard, " You 
 brute, will you give over ? " 
 
 Tbodsqdin. — "But don't be frightened, ladies and gentlemen, there 
 wont be any cutting in halves, I do assure you. Nature is about to speak " 
 — (To his wife), " Give me the soup now.- Solomon the Great looks at both 
 the mothers with his argus eyes, and he says to himself, says he " — (To bia 
 wife), " You will always poison me with these damned onions ! — This babby 
 can't have two mothers nohow. If it was two fathers it might be like 
 enough, — Curse the onions ! — There must be something dark here, where- 
 upon the misery of the real mother is shown in a deluge of tears, and the 
 false one remains as quiet as John the Baptist and his lamb, an if she had 
 no bowels of compassion in the least, and Solomon gives the bai>by up. — Let 
 me have no more of this infernal soup. Pull the string. — This here picture 
 ladies and gentlemen, represents King David a-fighting with Goliath, the 
 gigantic champion of the Philistines " — (To his wife), " See if it's all right. 
 — See how he throws a pebble from his sling, and knocks the big one over 
 on the grass just like a nine-pin." 
 
 Madame (peeping under the curtain), "No, no, it's the Battle of Marengo." 
 Tboosquin. — "I was just saying, ladies and gentlemen, that you per- 
 ceive the great battle of Marengo, gained by the brave French troops under 
 Napoleon. — More carrots in this soup than I like." 
 
 Madame. — " You're a pretty fellow, to be nice about your vegetables ! 
 How much money have you taken to-day ? " 
 
 Tbousquin. — "Eighteen pence. — Remark those cannoneers and those 
 cuirassiers ; see how the sabres are flashing whilst the red-hot balls are 
 flying about like hail. Hark to the shouts of the soldiers, and the drums 
 and the trumpets, and the hussas, and the cries of the wounded and the 
 dead. See on the right the young ensign who holds the colours between 
 his teeth and his legs, because they have cut off both his arms ; anrl see 
 on the left that wounded officer who lies under three horses, and who for- 
 gets that he is being smothered, whilst he tries to kill one of the enemy's 
 Generals who is galloping over him, and knocking out his brains with all 
 his horse's feet. Look at the dust, and the flames, and the blood, and the 
 bullets, and the rockets, and the cannon-balls, and the shells, that enliven 
 the whole scene — " 
 
 Poor Trousquin got no further with his animated description, which was 
 suddenly interrupted by an accident that could not have been foreseen. The 
 
The Magic- Lantern. 27 
 
 girl and the soldier— who evidently must have been much interested in the 
 battle, because I heard her at that very moment making decided protesta- 
 tions, and he short, brisk remonstrances— were not content with shaking the 
 curtain that concealed them, but leaned so heavily against the framework 
 of the show, that at the most exciting period of the battle the whole 
 machine gave way, dragging the two spectators with it, whilst Trousqum 
 fell over the stool, and his wife was drawn down by the strings, in which 
 she was entangled. Here was a scene ! King Solomon and the Emperor 
 Quanki-Fingo were lying cheek-by-jowl in the gardens of the Luxembourg 
 and the Pirseus at Athens ; the sun lost its splendour, the moon her light, 
 the comet its tail, Trousquin was covered with oil, and the girl in her fall 
 presented to public view such a mass of snowy white linen as would put to 
 the blush the best-eonditioned moon that a magic-lantern ever boasted. 
 The soldier's head was jammed in Trousquin's porringer, so tightly that he 
 could not withdraw it without assistance, and when he did it was covered 
 with a mass of onions and carrots, bruised to a jelly. Madame Trousquin 
 fell under the curtain in such a manner that the public eye was not averted, 
 and altogether the cries, oaths, and tears of the injured parties attracted 
 groups of promenaders to the scene in such lots, that I was surrounded 
 immediately, and could not find an outlet from the crowd. 
 
 With the assistance of the spectators, the actors in this ludicrous oc- 
 currence were soon replaced on their feet ; the soldier wiped his face ; the 
 girl put down her petticoats ; Trousquin seized the soldier, and demanded 
 to be paid for the damage done to the show, and his wife, freed from tha 
 cords that confined her energies, prepared to do battle stoutly for her lord. 
 The showman exclaimed, — 
 
 " You have broken my glasses, spoilt the sun and the moon, and de- 
 stroyed the Chinese Palace and the judgment of Solomon, and you must 
 
 pay-" 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " replied the man-at-arms. " What have I to do with 
 your Solomons and your Chinese ? Your moon and your sun were no 
 better than farthing rushlights, and as for your oil, why, put it back in youl 
 lamps again." 
 
 " You have destroyed our magic-lantern, and we will be paid. " 
 "Get out, you drunken bitch. Was it my fault that your gimcrack 
 wouldn't stand upright on its legs ? " 
 
 " Why did you lean against it in the battle of Marengo ? " 
 ** You upset it yourself by firing the cannon." 
 
 " You've knocked my porringer to pieces ; besides, my lantern is a 
 decent, moral, respectable amusement, and not intended for fellows and 
 their doxies." 
 
 The soldier laid his hand on his sword, and roared, — 
 " Silence, you old scoundrel, or I'll cut out your tongue ! " 
 The crowd gave way for him. He caught his companion's arm and was 
 about to retire, when Madame Trousquin pushed her husband aside and 
 bravely confronted the enemy, brandishing her three-legged stool high in 
 the air. Thus the opponents stood for a few minutes, measuring ea«h other 
 with their eyes from head to foot, each moment expecting an onslaught ; 
 the soldier not offering to pay, and the woman determined not to let him 
 depart without compensation, when I came to the rescue, thinking there was 
 only one way to settle the dispute without the effusion of blood. The 
 affair of the magic-lantern had amused me, and totally dissipated my ill- 
 humour ; so I came from behind my tree, put my hand into my waistcoat- 
 pocket and pulled out ten shillings, which I threw down upon the d4bris of th» 
 show. 
 
28 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 "Here," I said, "is enough to buy you fresh palaces, and suns, and 
 moons, and stars ; but take care, my good friend, not to peg down your 
 curtain quite so tight another tune. Children of a larger growth go to all 
 shows ; and if you do not believe me, go yourself and see what is going on 
 in the dark alleys of those places where fireworks are discharged." 
 
 Trousquin stared with all his eyes, his wife threw herself on the money, 
 and the soldier, touching his cap respectfully, as if saluting his officer, 
 marched off with his belle to enjoy their loves in less frequented spots. I 
 wa.k^d away too, and, on reaching the Rue de Rivoli, found it was only nine 
 o'clock. That was by far too early to go to sleep, notwithstanding my last 
 night's want of rest, but how was I to amuse myself? There are many 
 ways in Paris, you will say. True, but in large societies where you find 
 half-a-dozen conversible persons, there are twenty who bore you to death ; 
 and in a small company you are often worried with details of petty grievances 
 and troublesome domestic affairs. No private society then for me that 
 night. Luckily I recollected that there was to be a fete at Tivoli that 
 evening, so I jumped into a cab, and arrived there at precisely the very 
 liveliest part of the amusements. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TIVOLI GABDENS. 
 
 Tivoli ! beautiful Tivoli ! Whenever I set my foot within thy vales, 
 
 1 seem to find myself in that fairy land so well depicted in the " Arabian 
 Nights. " In thy shady bowers and brilliant saloons are heard and seen 
 music, dancing, illuminations, fireworks, and games — all that intoxicates 
 the eye and charms the senses to oblivion ! What a pity that in this 
 earthly Paradise we are frequently obliged to descend to this trite, com- 
 mon earth at the sight of a fishwife, a porter, or a sweep, thanks to that 
 universal deity in the shape of minted coin, which concentrates all ranks 
 within the precincts of a public garden. 
 
 Scarcely had I advanced a few yards when I found myself in the main 
 walk, covered with festoons of variegated lamps, by whose light fair dames 
 and sturdy matrons, young girls and dry old maids, scanned each other's 
 toilettes, and criticised each other's dress. This wan the " High Charge " 
 of Tivoli. A few paces on the glare became suddenly subdutd, and some 
 dimly burning lamps, placed at long intervals, served to point the way, 
 without any unnecessary, obtrusive light. There various persons were to 
 be seen wandering lovingly arm-in-arm, enveloped in mystery, and seeking 
 the deepest shade. 
 
 " Happy bowers of Tivoli, how many amorous couples have you not 
 concealed ? — how many loving kisses have not been given and received 
 beneath your leafy screens ? Could ye but speak, ye woods ! " 
 
 I had got thus far in my soliloquy, when I heard a whisper very near 
 ma. I walked on without thought into one of the thickets that abounded 
 \t> the gardens, and on turning round a large bush came suddenly upon 
 moving objects, apparently reclining upon the grass. It was a lady and 
 a gentleman engaged with very important and secret affairs, for their heads 
 were as close together as they could be. A slight exclamation from the 
 
Tivoli Gardens. 29 
 
 lady made me retrace my steps, for I was alone. There oould be no 
 pleasure for me, then why should I disturb the business of other people ? 
 
 In a few minutes I regained the blaze of light near the " Russian Moun- 
 tains," where the high-born dame and the lowly workgirl, the pursy shop- 
 keeper and the humble washerwoman, the kept mistress and the budding 
 schoolgirl, mingle pell-mell to enjoy the intoxicating delight of rolling swiftly 
 in the cars adown the steep hill's side, notwithstanding the heavy currents 
 of air detach their bonnets from their heads, disarrange the flowers and 
 ribbons in their best Sunday caps, and take the little misses' hair quite out of 
 curl. Alone as I was, I would not enter into any of the cars, for it appears 
 to me the great charm in this amusement is to have a pretty woman seated 
 near you. In that case you can pass your arm gently round her waist, press 
 her form against your breast, and essay sundry other delicate commence- 
 ments of a suit with impunity, for the rapidity of the descent always takes 
 away the fair one's breath, and precludes the possibility of a repulse. 
 
 All the pleasures with which mankind is blessed invariably tend to 
 foster the purposes of universal love. Well has the English poet sung, — 
 
 "... All who joy would win must share it, 
 Happiness was born a twin." . . . 
 
 Who has not felt his pleasure doubled by the presence of the woman of 
 his love ? Without a woman man is desolate indeed. However high his 
 rank, however great his talents, however humble his lot, or mean his occupa- 
 tion may be, it is only in woman's presence that man gives full way to the 
 deepest, purest feelings of his heart ! 
 
 As thus I moralised, I crossed a square, brilliant with lamps, before a 
 stage on which a man was singing, to a quarter whence shouts of laughter 
 proceeded. What did I see on my reaching it ? A lofty revolving swing, 
 sustaining boat-shaped cars, containing several females, who were alternately 
 raised high in the air, and lowered almost to the ground. There was nothing 
 particular in that ; but why have the male spectators clustered on one side 
 of the swing, and why do they all lift up their eyes to the cars, and titter and 
 snort and sneeze ? Ah ! I see. The wind gently lifts the ladies' petticoats 
 as they ascend, and exposes ankles, and legs, and sometimes knees, to the 
 purient public gaze. A pretty game that, where the spectators are as much 
 delighted as those who take active parts in it 1 The females did not know, 
 or if they did, did not heed, the remarks of the men, and kept laughing and 
 screaming as if they were mad, as they rustled through the air ; but on the 
 machine stopping, and the women descending to their mother earth, I became 
 aware that the men who stood around need not have risked at the chance of 
 getting a crick in the neck from looking upwards at the fair ones' legs, for 
 undoubtedly the major part of them would not have hesitated to gratify 
 mankind with a far more liberal display of their corporeal proportions for a 
 very trifling consideration. 
 
 I quitted the swing, and sought the area before Punch's playhouse ; the 
 spot was so crowded, that not a chair was to be obtained, so I was compelled 
 to stand and hear the hunchback's witty sayings ; and as I could not see him, 
 content myself with witnessing the happiness of the young folks around me. 
 Several females were standing upon chairs, leaning on their husbands or 
 lovers, who sustained their weight on their shoulders, and delicately parted 
 their dresses round their legs ; but my attention was directed to a fat mamma 
 of a woman without a cavalier, who, in a paroxysm of enjoyment, lost her 
 equilibrium, and would have fallen, had not a young lady standing by turned 
 round and preserved her from an awkward contact with the ground. The 
 old lady fanned herself vehemently for a few minutes, but having recovered 
 
30 My Neighbour Raymond* 
 
 from her fright, she was persuaded to remount the chair, whilst her daughte* 
 procured another one, and placed herself on it with her back to her parent, 
 whom she upheld, thu3 killing two birds with one stone — namely, discharg- 
 ing the filial duty of contributing to the maternal comfort, and not losing 
 Bight of a handsome, fair young man, who devoured the scheming beauty 
 with his eyes. She made him a quiet sign ; he advanced and placed himself 
 close beside her chair ; she then looked over her mother's shoulder, and 
 whilst she eagerly explained the mysteries of Punch, took a tiny billet from 
 the inside of her glove, and dropped it gently into the lover's hand without 
 the slightest uneasiness, or even for one moment breaking her conversation 
 with her dear mamma. Truly, the young ladies nowadays put exquisite 
 grace and nonchalance in all their actions. Without doubt, they will soon 
 arrive at the greatest possible perfection. 
 
 The lover crushed the billet in his hands, looked at it wistfully, as if he 
 would read it there and then, saw that he could not, closed his hand with a 
 convulsive grasp, and hastened to a more secluded spot. I was laughing 
 internally at his impatience, when a fat couple came up, dragging two chairs 
 after them ; the lady placed hers immediately before me, climbed upon it, 
 forcing her huge ultimatum almost in my face, whilst her husband effectually 
 blocked up my view of the puppets by placing himself beside his sturdy 
 better-half. It was impossible to remain any longer in the midst of the per- 
 spiring frames that were laughing and giggling on every side, nor especially 
 behind the enormous spheroid that was immediately before my face, so I 
 picked my way carefully through the mass of chairs, dresses, and legs, glad 
 to get a mouthful of fresh air, and wandered through an alley of lime-trees 
 to a square grass plot, on which numbers of both sexes were amusing them- 
 selves with archery, firing at marks, swinging, see-saw, merry-go-rounds, and 
 other break -neck games. Some of the ladies, perched hazardously on the 
 wooden horses of the latter, cried timidly to their male attendants not to 
 push the machine so fast, whilst the men, proud of displaying their strength, 
 propelled the rotatory bar with such power, that the women became giddy 
 and unwell from the extreme rapidity of the unceasing whirl — an odd way 
 that, I thought, of making love ! 
 
 Presently I heard tears a little further off. Whence came they, and for 
 why ? A little, gentlemanly fellow, about thirteen years of age, had been 
 playing at " See-saw " with a big, awkward lout, eighteen years old at least. 
 The latter mischievously glided off the beam on which they were riding as 
 he touched the ground with his legs, and the consequence was that the boy 
 at the other end, who, of course, was elevated, came down with a run, and 
 fell heavily upon the grass. Luckily he was not seriously hurt, but went 
 limping off, whilst the booby received anything but compliments from the 
 spectators for his stupid trick. But what noise of fire-arms is that ? Oh, 
 the shooting at the Poppinjay. A happy man he will be who hits the gaudy 
 mark. A stout, middle-aged man took his turn with the loaded piece. I 
 looked at him ; it was Raymond, of course ; that fellow knew everybody, and 
 went everywhere. He was offering a bet of a glass of punch to the gentle- 
 man who had just missed the bird, that he would bring it down in three 
 shots, which offer was immediately accepted. I advanced to the marksman, 
 feeling convinced that my neighbour would make an ass of himself, and 
 found him vapouring, and bragging, and calling to the people to stand out 
 of his way. After lifting the gun to his shoulder, and putting it down again 
 several times, Raymond pulled the trigger, but without success, for the 
 pellet went five or six inches wide of the mark. Raymond's opponent 
 chuckled, and doubled bis bet on the next shot. The piece was re-loaded, 
 placed against the shoulder, and the barrel raised, when a loud discharge of 
 
Tivoli Gardens. 31 
 
 fireworks startled my neighbour ; he pulled the trigger inadvertently, and 
 the piece went off in his hand, severely wounding the attendant on the com- 
 petitors, who was standing by. The man, who thought he was killed, fell 
 upon the grass, uttering cry upon cry ; numbers crowded round him, till Ray- 
 mond, terrified with the idea that he would be taken into custody for caus- 
 ing the man's death, fled amongst the crowd the wounded man's screams had 
 attracted, pushed through them, elbowing right and left, jumped over all the 
 chairs in his way, rushed amongst the small groups who were seated on the 
 grass, became entangled in the dress of a lady who was chatting carelessly 
 with an officer, fell over her, and crushed her lovely bosom's charms, which, 
 happily, were composed of no tinner materials than gauze. The lady shrieked, 
 in order to make her soldier friend believe that her breast was brutally 
 Stove ;n, and he, mad with rage to see the charms he burned to have within 
 his clutch melt like wiuter's snow, grasped a chair, and ran after Raymond 
 with the charitable intention of knocking him on the head, and thus ascer- 
 taining whether he had brains or uot. 
 
 I was delighted at my neighbour's mishap, and ran after him as fast as 
 I could to see what would be the end of his pusillanimous headstrong race, 
 which he continued with unabated speed. His hat fell from his head, next 
 he ran up against a swinii, from which he rebounded against a group of 
 Wooden hobby-horses, and then upset two young ladies who were practising 
 a waltz. Pursued and hooted at by their male friends, he plunged iuto the 
 main alley, thinking, like a hunted stag, he would be lost in the general 
 herd, but on entering it his he-d came in contact with a low garland of 
 variegated lamps ; the cord to which they were affixed snapped asunder, and 
 the lamps, red, green, and blue, were dashed against the company that pro- 
 menaded in the immediate vicinity. The ladies screamed at seeing their 
 head-dress, their bonnets, hats, and toques covered with oil ; the young men 
 Were furious at the oleaginous desecration of their shirt-fronts, coats, and 
 waistcoats, so that Raymond became the object of general indignation in 
 that very spot which he had thought would form a place of refuge and 
 repose. All panting as he was, he resumed his flight, evaded several blows 
 aimed at his devoted head, cleared the hedge that lined the alley, and ran 
 recklessly into the locality set aside for the fireworks, notwithstanding the 
 call of the sentinel on duty that no one was allowed to enter there. Heed- 
 less of what was said, he trampled, like a mighty conqueror, over rockets, 
 bombs, muskets, roman candles, shells, and all the pyrotechnic imitations of 
 the " pomp and circumstances of glori< us war," until the sentry shouted for 
 the main-guard, but before their arrival Raymond plunged desperately 
 through a transparency, and was lost to view. Convulsed with laughter, I 
 retraced my steps towards the dancing saloon, thinking that the trick played 
 me by my neighbour in the morning was now sufficiently avenged. Certes, 
 I was in luck, and probably Dame Fortune had prepared some other agree- 
 able rencounters for me. 
 
 As I walked slowly back, my attention was attracted by a juggler, and 
 I stopped before his theatre. The crowd of spectators was even more 
 numerous than before Punch, but they were infinitely more orderly ; indeed, 
 awe reigned in many bosoms at beholding the magic change of rings into 
 bits of stone, flowers into bottles of wine, and the wondrous transformations 
 of common playing cards. One little greasy man declared the juggler was 
 a real magician, and ought incontinently to be burned ; his wife stated her 
 opinion to be that her husband was an extensive donkey, and that she could 
 puzzle the conjuror, she knew. Accordingly she asked to select a card, and 
 drew the " Eight of Spades " from a pack offered by the conjuror, who found 
 it out instantly — that was easy enough, for the pack was composed of nothing 
 
32 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 else, and whilst he drew all eyes upon him by an exquisite jargon of German, 
 English, and Italian, he passed the card neatly on to the mechanic's seat, 
 who, on being requested to rise, stood stock still in amazement at finding 
 the card beneath his rump. I left the theatre, and on putting my hand into 
 my coat pocket, discovered my handkerchief was gone — clever trick that, 
 worth two of the juggler's — but luckily my pocket-book was placed inside 
 my vest. 
 
 Behold me now in the brilliantly illuminated area, consecrated to the 
 lovers of the " light fantastic toe." Moreover, it is not " the thing " now, 
 for " quality folks " to dance in public gardens, their terpsichorean feats are 
 reserved for village balls and fetes champetres ; but at Tivoli, small trades- 
 men, stall- vendors, shopmen, clerks, grisettes, work -girls, and all the 
 lower classes, abandon themselves to the pleasures of the moment, deter- 
 mined to be amused, and jump, and sing, and dance, heedless of the chilly 
 observances of supreme bon ton. Many noble dames and damsels fair 
 looked on the happy, humble dancers, with upturned nose and scoffing eye — 
 high life does not prescribe malignity — turning into bitter ridicule all that 
 they beheld, and jeering at that which, in their hearts, they were burning 
 to enjoy. It was the acted fable of the fox and the grapes. 
 
 By far the greatest number of spectators were ranged in triple ranks 
 around a quadrille at the lower end of the saloon. What could it be that 
 caused such eager curiosity ? either something very ridiculous, or some ex- 
 tremely pretty face. As I af.proached, I heard exclamations from all sides of, 
 — " How pretty she is ! Really a sweet girl, quite genteel, and dances with so 
 much grace ! " until, looking over a rather short young lady's head, my eyes 
 became aware of the presence amongst the dancers of a pretty cap, adorned 
 with a bouquet of exquisitely-fashioned artificial roses. From the head my 
 glance descended to the person of the wearer — she danced vigorously, and 
 at the same time gracefully ; pleasure was depicted on every feature of her 
 face, and the praises of the bystanders caused her breast to heave with joy, 
 and drove the tell-tale blood throughout her glowing cheeks. There never 
 yet was a woman insensible to praise. If you should find such a black- 
 swan, reader, put her down in your books as another Wonder of the 
 World. 
 
 As I looked upon the pretty dancer, a sudden idea darted through my 
 brain. Those features, that shape, that bunch of roses, and the proposition 
 made last night to come to Tivoli. Yes I there could be no doubt, it was 
 my little, darling, artificial florist. Ah, ho ! thought I, since chance has 
 thrown you in my way, my tempting miss, let me not cast her favours on 
 one side, so to the devil with bon ton, for dance with her I will, and thus 
 gain an opportunity of whispering soft nothings in her greedy ear. What ■' 
 Eugene Dorsan ! will you brave the criticisms and sarcasms of your 
 friends ? . . . Yes, one smile from Caroline is worth a thousand of their 
 petty jibes. " Man must be happy," says Jean Jacques Rousseau, " iff, 
 nature's dearest right." I will be happy : Caroline alone can make me so, 
 but gently, wait a bit until the set is done. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FIREWORKS — THB FORTUNE-TELLER — THE OUTTEB-OUT OF PROFILES. 
 
 The dance was over, and the young men handed their partners to their 
 respective seats. Caroline took her place by an elderly woman and 
 
The Fireworks, etc. 33 
 
 • young man, evidently the aunt and the Jules of the preceding 
 evening. They were soon joined by another couple, which number ac- 
 counted for the four tickets that Jules had spoken of. Seeing that the 
 girl did not take the slightest notice of my presence — even if she saw me — I 
 passed and repassed the spot where she was seated several times without 
 succeeding in catching her eyes. At last I made up my mind to ask her 
 to dance — very unwillingly, it must be acknowledged — and throwing into 
 my air as much of the smart shopman as I could, I advanced to solicit the 
 honour of her hand, but at that moment the pretty grisette rose and accom- 
 panied a young man, who had preceded me, to the quadrille. I followed 
 ner, and before the set commenced, engaged her for the succeeding dance ; 
 she accepted the offer with evident pleasure. I remained at her elbow, took 
 advantage of her partner's flourishes in " Cavalier seul," and " En ayanto 
 deux, " to praise her graceful dancing to the skies, commended the exquisite 
 taste displayed in her bouquet, and begged her to receive my profound ex- 
 cuses for my awkwardness in running against her on the previous night. 
 The last remark induced her to turn her head so as to obtain a better 
 survey of my person, with which it appeared she was content, for she 
 smiled and inclined her head gently before addressing herself to her 
 partner, who by that time, by dint of pirouetting and cutting six with 
 desperate determination, had managed to regain his place. Occasionally I 
 whispered a few words to the purport that I had come to Tivoli in the 
 hope alone of seeing her ; she did not answer, but I saw the pleasing 
 strain was sinking into her heart, and I longed for the next dance, that 1 
 might address her unreservedly, for my experience in women told me she 
 was passionately fond of admiration, and my vanity assured me she would 
 soon be mine. Women, with infinitely more native tact than men, have a 
 thousand ways of showing their desires in a manner well appreciated by 
 those who have mixed intimately with the world. If they are clever, two 
 words give the clue to their wishes ; if they are talkative, they overpower 
 you with a host of words ; if neither one nor the other, a pressure of the 
 hand conveys the feeling as completely as the tongue, but in all cases, a 
 man who knows the world cannot be mistaken. Montaigne has written z 
 — " Eloquence belongs to man " ; he might have said with equal truth, 
 " Conversation belongs exclusively to women." 
 
 During the interval that must elapse before the orchestra should call us 
 to the ensuing dance, I amused myself by promenading in the alleys that 
 surrounded the saloon, unwilling to flutter around her, or stop still near her, 
 like an awkward ninny, seeing that the moment would speedily arrive when 
 I should hold her hand within my own, press her dear little fingers, and make 
 free use of all my acquired knowledge in the palmistry of love. Believe me, 
 reader, there is nothing like a dance for making known one's secret senti- 
 ments, without the risk of an sral declaration. That is the reason I am 
 induced to think that women are so fond of dancing. Hundreds of couples 
 have been bound together in a " Ladies' Chain ; " millions of assignations 
 made in a "Treize ;" and a thousand rendezvous accepted in a " Balancer.* 
 And yet mammas cannot prevent these naughty tricks, with all their vigil- 
 ance and mettle ! 
 
 The prelude by the orchestra had commenced, and I was advancing 
 towards Caroline, when the report of a bombshell produced a complete revolu- 
 tion in the state of affairs. The gardens were agitated in every quarter, 
 and hundreds hitherto concealed in the dark recesses came forth and joined 
 those whose deeds could brook the garish eye of light, hurrying pell-mell, and 
 crying out, " The fireworks 1 the fireworks ! " What had become of Caroline f 
 What luck if I should find her now, and have her hanging on my arm I The 
 
 
 
34 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 crash and bustle of the folks before the fireworks would form even a better 
 opportunity than dancing. Full of this hope, I rushed to the saloon; it was 
 deserted, not one single female remained; they had fled to the all-attractive 
 rockets, maroons, Roman candles, and Catherine wheels, and the chair just 
 now blessed with supporting the fair florist's graceful form was being pulled 
 in pieces by two men, each of whom wished to appropriate' it for their own 
 use, the better to enjoy the fireworks. I plunged amongst the spectators 
 assembled before the platform, endeavouring to discover my lost star; but 
 I soon perceived that it would be ridiculous to attempt to find any one in 
 that dense mass ; so, resolving to wait until the last rocket should be dis- 
 patched on its serial course, and then return to the saloon in the full expec- 
 tation of again seeing my belle, I glided about as gently as I could, and 
 amused myself with observations on the numerous actors in the shifting 
 scene. Hundreds were mounted upon chairs, supported by equal numbera, 
 and other hundreds were standing all around. Nevertheless, here and there 
 couples were seen stealthily creeping into the shadiest groves, couples who 
 most assuredly had not come to Tivoli to behold the fireworks, but who as 
 certainly would derive more gratificati< >n through them than all those who 
 looked wonderingly on with their noses in the air. 
 
 Bang 1 bang 1 went two maroons ; up went a flight of rockets into the 
 seventh heaven, then broke with sharp, sudden cracks, showing millions of 
 golden atoms in the upper air, and leaving the spectators at liberty to con- 
 template a gorgeous transparency, representing the Olympian regions, and 
 Ixion falling prostrate beneath the bolts of Jove. Loud and continued were 
 the applauding shouts when this masterpiece of pyrotechnic art became patent 
 to the public eye. Near me there stood a respectable tradesman, supporting 
 his wife on a chair, and holding a nice little girl on his shoulder, whilst he 
 endeavoured to calm the fears of a young boy who had slunk down at his feet, 
 and ducked his head at every report. As the master of the family, it became 
 his duty to explain what was going on. 
 
 " Papa, " said the little girl, *• tell me who is that big man in the red 
 mantle riding on horseback on that enormous bird ? " 
 
 " The man is Jupiter, my dear child, and the bird is one of the Birds of 
 Paradise." 
 
 " And what's that rod he is holding in his hand 1 " 
 
 " That's to beat the naughty men with who don't behave properly." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! just like our school- mistress's rod." 
 
 The wife joined in with, — " And who is Ixion, my dear ? " 
 
 " Humph ! I rather think he's a Roman — stop ! I recollect all about it 
 now. Oh, yes, he drives Jupiter's car. By-and-by you'll see he will be 
 ■truck with a lightning bolt." 
 
 " Bless my heart ! What does that mean, my dear ? " 
 
 " Why, he will be thrown into that great hole you see on the left, which 
 is meant to represent Hell, and when he's once there, you know — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see now, thank you ; he'll be struck with lightning. Ah ! 
 very proper, too." 
 
 Bang ! bang ! 
 
 ** I am so frightened, papa ! " cried the little boy. 
 
 " Be quiet, Octavius, do. You, who are always playing with my Nation*)! 
 Guard cap, and afraid of the noise of a gun 1 I'm quite ashamed of you ; 
 I'D never bring you to Tivoli again, if you're such a little coward." 
 
 At this very moment another bomb exploded with a terrific noise. Octa- 
 vius jumped up, sore affrighted, and upset the chair on which his mother was 
 standing on, the good woman fell, dragging her husband and the little girl 
 with them, and the child, grasping at the coat of her neighbour, which hap. 
 
The Fireworks y etc. 35 
 
 pened to be old, and therefore none of the strongest, tore the flap away; 
 whilst he, thinking a pickpocket had stolen his handkerchief, roared lustily 
 for the police. The very next instant, a louder and more prolonged detona- 
 tion resounded in the air ; a thousand tires sparkled brightly, rushing here 
 and there, crossing, hissing, darting in eccentriG orbits, exploding, casting 
 showers of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls, startling the ears, and 
 almost blinding the astonished sight; but this gaudy light, these mimic suns, 
 jnore gorgeous, more glittering, than that of day, lasted only a few minutes ; 
 the rocket-sticks, the half -burned cartridge-papers, the unburnt portions of 
 the shells, as their propulsive impetus became exhausted, yielded to the un- 
 alterable laws of gravitation, and threw the audience into most admired con- 
 fusion. One lady's bran-new Legh< >rn hat was completely spoiled by a rocket- 
 Btick ; another's shawl was burnt in a hundred places by the cartridge-papers; 
 and hecatombs of hchus and caps were transformed into excellent imitations 
 of the finest sieves by the innumerable falling sparks. Not feeling in the 
 least desirous of any fiery addition to my toilette, I left the crowd with all 
 speed, marvelling that neighbour Raymond had not turned up in any of the 
 transparencies, or at least amongst the interminable flights of rockets. 
 
 I returned to the saloon without finding Caroline, nor could I hope to 
 meet her again that night. Sauntering carelessly towards the door of the 
 gardens, with the forlorn hope of saying a few parting words as she passed 
 out, I passed into a sombre alley, at the end of which was a hermitage, and 
 hearing much female whispering and several shouts of girlish laughter, \ 
 concluded I had entered the precincts of a fortune-teller. Such, indeed, 
 was the case, for on advancing towards the subdued light that glimmered 
 faintly in the magic bower, I beheld a mighty sorcerer, who, with the aid 
 of a long white wand, a milk-white beard, a high-crowned hat, a black robe 
 embroidered with the heavenly bodies, and a horn, three feet long, told 
 fortunes at a very moderate price. 
 
 It is an ascertained fact that women of all ages, eveiy rank and every 
 nation in the habitable globe, are always mad to have their fortunes told. 
 The timid, fluttering, tender-hearted novices are dying to know whether it 
 is a big dark man, or a little fair one who is to have the delight of initiating 
 them in the mysteries of love. Those who do know what is what wish to 
 ascertain if their present lovers will remain firm to them, inquiring at the 
 same time whether any other man is .smitten with them. The pretty women 
 desire to ascertain whether the number of their adorers will increase, the 
 ugly ones whether they will ever have a sighing swain, and in all cases all 
 indulge in hopes and hug the fond illusion — the wished-for consummation 
 — to their breasts. 
 
 As I ruminated thus philosophically, I was agreeably surprised to see 
 Miss Caroline waiting her turn for the mystic oracle's response. She re- 
 cognised me in an instant and blushed (invariably a good sign) ; but what 
 was I to do with her aunt on one side and that intrusive Jules on the 
 other ? A luminous idea came into my head. Whilst the girl who accom- 
 panied Caroline was busily engaged with the soothsayer, I took out my 
 notebook, tore out a leaf, and scribbled on it a hasty, passionate declaration, 
 devoid of common sense, but, as I thought, just in the style to captivate a 
 coquettish grisette's heart. Regaining the group before the hermitage, I 
 advanced as softly as I could to this modern Tirasias, who, at that time, 
 was listening to Caroline's questions through the horn, pulled his robe, put 
 the note and a dollar into his hand, and made a covert sign indicating to 
 whom the writing should be given, without being seen by the spectators. 
 
 These sort of men are in general very wide-awake and dexterous adepti 
 in all matters concerning the heart, or the body, reader, if it should please 
 
36 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 you beet. He glanced his eyes at Caroline ; I made a slight gesture of 
 assent, and forthwith he began to whisper to her a thousand pretty things 
 about me, which surprised, flattered, and pleased her by the furtive looks 
 she threw at me. The fortune-teller left her, saying he would bring her 
 back a written horoscope, then entered the hermitage, returned in two or 
 three minutes, and placed my scrawl within her hand. Caroline pushed the 
 paper hastily down her bosom, and rejoined her aunt. 
 
 The divinations finished the postulants dispersed, but I lingered to the 
 last. So soon as they were gone, my man beckoned me into the hermitage, 
 commenced business without further parley, and thus he spoke, — 
 
 " Her name is Caroline, she is an artificial florist eighteen years old, has 
 not any accepted lover, and is not disposed to play the fooL She has seen 
 you, and rather likes you, and she works in the Rue St Apolline every day 
 from eight in the morning till eight at night." 
 
 Good ! I had ascertained where she was to be found. That was quite 
 enough for a bold, dashing fellow like me ; so I gave the scoundrelly priest 
 another crown, and was making the best of my way to the garden gate, 
 when, in passing by a profile-cutter's stall, my attention was attracted by 
 the sound of a voice I thought I had heard before. I stopped. It was 
 Raymond's, raised high in discussion with another man. What the deuce 
 could he be doing there ? I listened to the dialogue : the first sentence 
 came from the travelling artist. 
 
 " I tell you, sir, it is half -past eleven o'clock. All the visitors are gone 
 away, and I must positively shut up shop." 
 
 " Cut me one more profile, friend, and I will go too." 
 
 " Not one more, sir — indeed I can't. You have been now upwards of 
 two hours in my shop, and I have cut you seventeen already." 
 
 " Never mind ; another will be eighteen. I cannot have too many 
 portraits, I tell you. I shall find places wherein to put them all ; my 
 women are continually pestering me for them." 
 
 11 But, sir, will you have the goodness to let me close the shop ? " 
 
 " Shut it up as closely as you like, but I will not leave it." 
 
 "You must." 
 
 " Not till I have another likeness." 
 
 A burst of laughter escaped from me at hearing Raymond's determina- 
 tion as to passing the night. The case was clear. Fearing to be arrested 
 for all the stupid acts he had committed, and the damage he had done, he 
 had taken refuge in the artist's shop, which he would not quit until he 
 thought he could reach his home in safety. 
 
 The man now began to be in earnest, and threatened my neighbour with 
 the guard. This settled the business. Raymond thrust his cadaverous, 
 frightened visage out of the tent, perceived me, rushed up to me, and clung 
 to my arm as if I were his best bower anchor. 
 
 " My dear Dorsan," he panted, " how glad I am to see you. Oh 1 if 
 you did but know what I have gone through in these cursed gardens to-night." 
 
 " I do know it, my good fellow ; there's noise enough about it, I can tell 
 you. 
 
 " Ah me 1 I thought how it would be— do you think they will take mi 
 into custody \ " 
 
 " Very likely, indeed. The man you wounded in the head is very bad , 
 the young men whose shirts and coats you damaged with the lamp-oil 
 have assembled at the gate, and swear they will be revenged on you as yon 
 get out. You have done great mischief, and the expenses will be very 
 heavy, and — " 
 
 " Don't say any more, my dear friend, or you'll kill me outright. Save 
 
The Final Adventures of Sunday Night. 37 
 
 me, save me, you are the only man who can," and the coward almost sank 
 upon the ground. Now was the time to repay him for the morning's trick 
 about my poor Nicette ! 
 
 " Well," I replied, after a few minutes' pause, " perhaps I may take 
 pity on you, although you did play me a scurvy trick this morning." 
 
 " I swear to you it was only a joke. I will unsay all that I have said. 
 I will say that the girl slept with me, if you like." 
 
 " Say nothing about her, sir," I answered sternly ; " and mark me, if you 
 do, I'll cut your tongue out j but let go my arm, pay the man for the 
 profiles, and come with me." 
 
 Now these portraits were two shillings a -piece ; so my neighbour had to 
 pay thirty-four shillings, rather an expensive sum for a two hours' conceal- 
 ment from a visionary mob ! 
 
 Raymond took my arm again, trembling all over, but we had not pro- 
 ceeded far when I stopped short, and remarked, that I would readily do 
 all in my power to assist him through the scrape, but even were I a 
 Dugneschir, Arthur of the Round Table, the Chevalier Bayard, Orlando 
 Furioso, Alexander the Great, or any of the ancient fire-eaters, it was im- 
 possible that I could fight my way through fifty exasperated young men. 
 He saw the force of the observation, and remained for a few moments in an 
 agony of indecision. What was he to do ? He could not pass the night in 
 the gardens ; moreover, he had lost his hat, he would catch the cold, and he 
 was to sing the celebrated air from Richard Co&ur de Lion at a first-rate 
 private concert the following evening. Very embarrassing indeed. Could 
 he make up his mind to run the gauntlet at the gate ? Oh no ; no chance 
 of that ; those brutes of young men would be the the death of him. The 
 only way to get out then was to scale the wall ; but that would not do, ha 
 should be taken for a robber and shot at. At length I succeeded in putting 
 some little hope in his dastard heart, and explained a project by which I 
 Jxpected to defeat the vengeance of his adversaries, and place him without 
 the walls in safety. We walked towards the alleys farthest removed from 
 the light, until we reached the wall abutting on the Rue de Clichy, where 
 I made him sit down on the root of an old oak-tree, and told him not to 
 move, whilst I would go out by the usual gate of exit, come round to the 
 other side of the wall, watch for a favourable opportunity to climb it 
 when there was no one by, and give him the signal by clapping my hands 
 twice. He implored me to stay with him until all the people should have 
 departed, and then to scale the wall, but I excused myself, on the ground 
 that I had to take the tenor part in a difficult duet the following evening, 
 and therefore would not wish to risk taking cold, left him crouched under 
 the tree for fear of being seen, and went home congratulating myself on 
 having so speedily avenged myself for my neighbour's interference in my 
 commerce with Nicette. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TH« FINAL ADVENTURES OF SUNDAY NIGHT. 
 
 As I walked homeward, I could not refrain from indulging in occasional 
 fits of laughter at the idea of the distress neighbour Raymond must be in 
 from his lengthened watch beneath the garden wall ; but my fancy would 
 
38 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 continually revert to the image of the lovely Caroline. I thought that by 
 Shis time ahe must have read my note, and I determined to go to the shop- 
 where she worked on the following day, and thus ascertain whether all that 
 my previous imagination shadowed forth would be attended with success, 
 ;s An exquisitely moral anticipation," you exclaim. "You are seeking to 
 seduce a girl for whom your fanciful caprice will not last one week ! " II 
 am aware that I am guilty of the greatest folly at times : I believe that men 
 were sent into the world in order to seduce the women. They know it too. 
 Let them look out advisedly and take care of their virtue, like my poor 
 Nieette. 
 
 Still I walked on. The firmament was as brightly gemmed with stare 
 as on Saturday ; but my business now was not with them, so that my eyes 
 were fully engaged with things of this earth, and, just as I was about to 
 knock at the yard-gate of my apartments, I beheld a figure that was seated 
 on the stone bench near the door rise suddenly and walk towards me. It 
 was Nieette, who had been sitting there for some hours, and had come to- 
 express her gratitude for the money I had given her, and inform me how 
 ahe had laid it out. Notwithstanding the amour with Caroline, which had 
 commenced under such flattering presages, the anxiety painted in the 
 flower-girl's lineaments, and the plaintive tone of her voice, constrained me- 
 to release the knocker and listen to her simple but energetic tale. She 
 stated that on leaving my rooms that morning, she had gone straightway to 
 her mother's house, and implored her on her knees to take her in, for she had 
 done no wrong ; that the stony-hearted fiend had repulsed her with oaths and 
 blows, had accused her of having accorded woman's dearest favours to my- 
 self, and on her positively refusing to marry Beauvisage, had absolutely 
 driven her from the door. At the intercession of her sister, a small bundle 
 »f wearing apparel was thrown after her into the street, with which she 
 Walked about until she found an unoccupied room in the Rue St Honore — by a- 
 Strange fatality, not far from my apartments. She had bought a bed, some 
 chairs, and other necessaries for her humble housekeeping, with a table for 
 the exposition of her flowers, and meant to trade on her own account at the 
 corner of the street on the following morning. In conclusion, she thanked 
 me, with the tears streaming from her intelligent eyes, and asked me 
 whether I approved of what she had done. 
 
 She finished, but her gentle voice still lingered in my ears. Spite of my 
 wayward habits, there was an inexpressible something in the honied accents 
 of this girl that drove all pre-occupations from my head, and bound me with 
 chains of iron to her side. She feared, from my silence, that she had dis- 
 pleased me in takiug lodgings so close to mine, and said, if that were the 
 case, she would remove further off. I hastened to reassure her on that 
 point, told her I approved entirely of the plan she had laid out for her 
 maintenance, and expressed the heart-felt interest I took in her future wel- 
 fare. But as I spoke and gazed upon her charming face, uplifted in the 
 rays of the pale moon, the libertine again took full possession of my breast. 
 The waning night was " almost at odds with morn," the portress asleep, 
 and would not rise from her bed to pull the cord that lifted up the latch, 
 the girl might reach my rooms unseen, and then we would not have the 
 separate couches of last night. I bent down to kiss the charming maid, and 
 gently whispered my love-sick wishes in her ears ; again she bounded from 
 me with dismay, stopped short, sighed " adieu," but stirred not from the 
 spot. I advanced towards her, took her hand, led her gently to the house, 
 ipeaking soothingly in the accents of the fondest love, the knocker of the 
 gate was raised, and the fate of Nieette well-nigh sealed, when the noise of 
 founded footsteps and cries of a man, as if in peril, broke suddenly on our 
 
A Series of Mishaps. 39 
 
 ears, and Nicette, tearing herself from my arms, ran down the street and 
 ■was quickly lost to view. 
 
 The knocker fell, and the latch was lifted up ; but as I opened the gate, 
 a man, running at full tpeed, entered with me, threw himself on the pave • 
 ment, and ejaculated, — 
 
 " Thank God, I am here at last I " 
 
 The portress, hearing the unusual noise, came into the yard, where we 
 discovered the individual to be ray neighbour Raymond, panting with 
 fatigue, his hands covered with blood, his coat ripped down the back, and 
 his trousers torn from the waist-band to the knee. When he had recovered 
 his breath, he stated that he had waited to hear my signal for upwards of 
 an hour ; at the end of that time, he saw a patrol of police making their 
 rounds, and fearing to be arrested, he made up his mind to climb the wall. 
 On gaining the top, his hands and trousers were cut and torn by pieces of 
 broken glass placed on the mortar to prevent intrusion ; that he hurt the 
 spine of his back by falling on the other side ; that on retching the Rue 
 Mont Blanc, he was met by some drunken men who stopped him, tore his 
 coat, and demanded money ; that he ran away, pursued by them, and 
 reached the gateway at the opportune moment of my entry. At the con- 
 clusion of this doleful recitation, Madame I)upont recommended him to 
 bathe the lower end of his back with warm water in the morning, and I ex- 
 
 {>ressed a hypocritical hope that he had preserved the likenesses. If he had 
 ost them it would be a bad job, because they were very accurate indeed, 
 and as his was a remarkable face, he would be instantly detected. Would 
 it not be advisable to wear a wig, a pair of spectacles, and a false nose for a 
 few days to come ? Neighbour Raymond saw I was laughing at him, 
 lighted his candle and limped upstairs ; on the landing we parted with 
 over-strained courtesy — moody on his part, satirical on mine — and I 
 entered my own room, where I slept soundly enough until the morning. 
 "Night follows night," saith the saye, " and yet no one quite resembles the 
 foregoing." All brides say so at the end of the first fortnight of their 
 marriage. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A SEKIE8 OF MISHAPS. 
 
 On my opening my eyes, my first thought* were of both the girls : both 
 young, both lovely, almost in the same rank in life, but yet how different, 
 Nicette was virtuous, anH evidently was determined to remain so ; up to the 
 present time she had received no pollution at my hands — no thank* to me 
 it is true — and I would strive to remain h*r protector ami truly honourable 
 friend. I cannot tell why it was that I could not entertain the same idefc 
 of Caroline; I saw her. altoge her in another light; that she was not a 
 novice in affairs of love seemed to me quite clear, her pretty airs of innocence 
 with Jules did not impose upon an old stager like me ; she wanted an estab- 
 lishment as well as a lover, hut if she had loved the honest artisan, she would 
 have danced with him alone at Tivoli, and not have rlined with half-a-dozen 
 others, nor listened to my flattery, and accepted the billet from the Hermit 
 of the Rock. Then came a doubt ; she would not hearken to me when I 
 pushed against her on the Boulevard, and ahut the dour of the passage 
 
40 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 in my face. Perhaps that was only caused by ill-humour at my having dis 
 arranged her flowers. However, the time was fast approaching when all 
 these mysteries would be solved. 
 
 Precisely at twelve o'clock I went to the shop in the Eue St Apolline, 
 according to the directions of the fortune-teller, when, amongst many faces 
 of all sorts, I recognised that of the pretty dancer. All the young women 
 dropped their eyes at seeing a smart young man come in, but kept scrutinis- 
 ing me beneath their lids, and Caroline, I could see, was agitated, and re- 
 doubled her assiduity with her work. For a few seconds I scarcely knew 
 what to do, but recollecting that it would be supposed I came there for some 
 definitive purpose, I asked to be shown a variety of bouquets, flowers, and 
 wreaths, to send into the country to some lady relatives, who had confided 
 the selection to my taste. No progress as yet : a strapping overlooker of a 
 he-fellow served me, the girls not moving from their seats. Having chosen 
 two pound's worth of articles at haphazard, I paid the money, and requested 
 they should be sent to my apartments immediately, as I intended to leave town 
 on the following day, hoping that Caroline would understand, and contrive 
 to be sent with the goods. Back again I went as fast as my legs would 
 carry me, desired the portress to send up whosoever might call, and sat alone 
 in my room with the characteristic impatience of an ardent young man- 
 awaiting the first interview of a fresh amour, or young girls kept indoors by 
 their mammas when their hearts are burning to go out. One hour passed, 
 and no one came : another, and still no Caroline. I had just jumped up, 
 Beized my hat and cane, and was about rushing back to the warehouse, when 
 my bell was pulled. I opened it, smiling with delight, and there stood my 
 infernal neighbour Raymond, with a large bandbox in his arms. I asked 
 him fiercely what he wanted ? But before he replied he walked into my 
 ante-chamber, placed the bandbox on the table, and sat down quietly on a 
 chair, whilst I stood upright, thinking he would take the hint and go. 
 
 " Excuse me, neighbour," he said, " for taking a chair a whilst you are 
 standing, but my back is still very bad. It was a devil of a height where 
 I fell." 
 
 " Tell me, sir, to what am I to attribute the honour of this visit ? " 
 
 " I will, I will, directly ; but first let there be peace between us, for 
 neighbours should not be enemies." 
 
 " Well, well, we are so no longer ! " 
 
 " Bravo 1 Now you see I had been watching for an opportunity of doing 
 you a service in order to make up our little fracas, when about half-an-hour 
 ago there was a ring at my bell, and a girl with this bandbox inquired for you." 
 
 " A girl ! of what description ? " 
 
 " Oh, not nearly so pretty as her you had here yesterday morning, but 
 well enough in her way. She had only the box to leave, without any message, 
 so I told her you had gone out, and I would undertake to see the packet 
 delivered, thinking to give you an agreeable surprise, and then make up 
 matters with you." 
 
 Here was an opportunity irretrievably lost through this wretch's abomin- 
 able interference. I cursed him, shook my fists in his face, and whilst he 
 stood staring in amazement, I took the bandbox from the table, dashed it 
 on the ground, and kicked it from one end of the ante-chamber to the other. 
 Flower and bouquets were all flying in the air together, and one rosy wreath 
 which soared higher than the rest, having fluttered for a few moments, fell 
 upon Raymond's head, where it remained, for his fear of my unbridled anger 
 riveted Ldm to the floor. For a few moments I strode up and down, 
 stamping the flowers to pieces with my heels, until, having thrown myself 
 on the sofa to calm my hasty temper, my eyes fell on Raymond, the "crowned 
 
A Series of Mishaps. 41 
 
 vestal,' and I burst into a fit of merriment at seeing the ludicrous figure 
 lie cut, not daring to move his hands or feet one inch. My laughter re- 
 assured the pitiful poltroon ; he grinned what he intended to be a smile, 
 and asked whether I was not satisfied with the flowers that were sent me ? 
 I moderated my boiling temper, took a seat, assuming a quiet, severe air, 
 and said, — 
 
 " Neighbour Raymond, you will compel me to quit this house." 
 
 " Indeed, I hope not ; but why do you say so ? " 
 
 " Because you seem to have been placed here by Fate to interfere with 
 -all my projects, and frustrate all my designs. If a person rings at your 
 bell in mistake, why do you not send her to my apartments ? why did you 
 take charge of that bandbox, when I wished particularly to see the person 
 who brought it ? I beg, sir, that for the future you will abstain from 
 meddling with my affairs, or there will be a serious misunderstanding be- 
 tween us. You have quite enough to employ you as it is in listening to 
 the chatter of all the cook-maids, acting as a spy on all the women in the 
 house, and poking your nose into every quarrel." 
 
 " My dear neighbour, I assure you some one has belied me to you ; I 
 am not a gossip in the least. If I were I could tell you that the lady 
 on the first floor has two lovers ; that her husband keeps a woman, I know 
 where ; that Monsieur Gerard, in the two-pair back, is very much in debt, 
 and that I have seen copies of writs left for him at the porter's lodge ; 
 that Madame Bertin gives parties for nothing in the world but to get her 
 daughters married, and that her housekeeper robs her through thick and 
 thin ; that little Gerville below is going to the dogs as fast as he can, 
 with Agatha, and his horses, and all that, and a thousand other things 
 I know if I liked. But, no I all these affairs are nothing to me. I have 
 enough to do on my own account without plaguing myself with othei 
 people's business. I took the bandbox merely to serve you, as I thought, 
 but since you are displeased, if any one should make another mistake, I 
 will send her to you. Adieu, neighbour, adieu." 
 
 As he was about to leave the room, I stopped him and endeavoured to 
 ascertain whether it was really Carokne who had brought the flowers. 
 
 " Stay a minute, Raymond," I said. " What sort of a girl was she who 
 brought the box ? " 
 
 " Well enough to look at, nothing particular." 
 
 "Tall or short?" 
 
 " Humph, middling. " 
 
 " Dark or fair ; black eyes ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; that is, dark grey." 
 
 "It must be her!" 
 
 "Whois'Her'?" 
 
 11 Nothing to you, sir." 
 
 "True, true, neighbour, I quite forgot. By-the-bye, shall you go to- 
 night to Madame Van vert's soirie f She gives a concert, and most likely 
 there will be a waltz or so afterwards. I must go, because I have to sing 
 ihe grand scene from Richard Cceur de Lion. Vanvert told me — in con- 
 fidence, you know — that he shall have a young lady who surpasses everybody 
 on the guitar, and a gentleman who sings Italian like Ronconi. Madame 
 Bertin and her daughters are going ; the younger will play one of Tolbecque's 
 pieces on the piano ; but good-bye, I must be off, for I have a thousand 
 •commissions to execute, besides finding Vanvert a bass-viol, and a second 
 fiddle for his quartet. " j 
 
 And off he bustled. 
 
 When Raymond was gone, I began to reflect what I should do, and 
 
42 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 determined to return to the florist's shop. When I arrived, luckily th» 
 master was out. and on my complaining to the head-woman that the flower* 1 
 had not been sent according to my directions, one of the girls rose from her 
 stool, and said she had left them at my residence more than two hours since. 
 Heaven be praised, I thought, it was not Caroline, In a moment I was a- 
 man again. I pretended to have forgotten some of my numerous commis- 
 sions, purchased more garlands and wreaths, had them packed up before 
 me, and requested one of the young persons might accompany me with 
 them home, that there might be no more mistakes. How my heart beat 
 when I saw Caroline selected for this job I At length we should be alone, 
 and I could speak freely to her of my love. We left the shop together,. 
 Caroline walking by my side with her eyes upon the ground, and I as steady- 
 as if we had never seen each other before ; but once out of sight of the 
 warehouse I called a hackney coach, and bade her enter it ; she demurred 
 at first, but eventually consented, and all the way to my apartments I 
 poured into her ears the most impassioned declarations of my dying love. 
 You may laugh, reader, but I really meant it at the time ; many unlooked-for- 
 obstacles had checked my chase of Caroline — these only added to my deter- 
 mination to possess her ; my feelings were really interested in the gratifica- 
 tion of my wishes ; and now I had reason to believe, from the girl's conduct^ 
 that my triumph was secured. When the carriage stopped, we both got out 
 and walked to the foot of the stairs, where Caroline stopped, declined to go- 
 any further, and handed me the box. In vain I uttered the most tender 
 lamentations, and promised to be another Scipio if she would but deign tc> 
 brighten my apartments with her presence ; nothing could subdue her 
 obstinacy, and all I could obtain from her was the promise of a meeting on 
 the following evening near the Chateau d'Eau. 
 
 As I sat alone, I pondered over the difference between Caroline and 
 Nicette. The latter, armed with her innocence as in a coat of mail, and 
 thoughtless of all wrong, had not hesitated in the depths of night to accom- 
 pany me to my rooms, whilst the former was afraid even to mount the stairs. 
 What was the natural inference f That a burnt child dreads the fire — thai 
 Caroline perceived dangers where Nicette saw none. Then Caroline was 
 not so virtuous as Nicette. Very probable, possibly the difference between 
 the real fragrant flowers of the one, and the scentless manufactured bouquets 
 of the other, might be extended to their relative morality. Be it as it 
 might, there was no alternative but to wait till the morrow ; and as the 
 night must be whiled away, I dined and dressed myself for Vanvert's mis- 
 called concert — not for the pleasure of hearing my neighbour Raymond 
 murder the scene from Richard Cctwr de Lion, but because I always found 
 at the would-be musician's house a number of animals whose stupidity 
 amused me, without reckoning the master and the mistreat, who are well 
 worth a whole chapter to themselves. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 fHl AMATBUB CONOlBf, 
 
 Fbom time immemorial, the inhabitants of Paris have furnished evening 
 parties to flatter the vanity and to suit the tastes of individuals of every class > 
 A gentlemanly yoking man with a knowledge of the world has access to- 
 
The Amateur Concert. 43 
 
 %hem all. For him there is no difficulty in entering the saloons of the 
 ■highest ranks, and mingling in those brilliant fites, while the master an** 
 anistress do not know even the names of one-half of the guests who crow 9 
 liheir heated rooms. In the upper classes, a man who has been once presented 
 to the host introduces whom he likes. The new comer bows to the giver of 
 the feast, smiles, shows his teeth — if they are white— utters a few conven- 
 tional words, passes on, and eats, drinks, dances, or talks, just as he pleases, 
 for the remainder of the night. 
 
 But this is not the case in families of the middle class, where the 
 liost is infinitely more particular than the high-blooded members of the 
 aristocracy, and with them the family, station, and behaviour of a visitor 
 must be fully known before he is admitted into their society. Fortunately, 
 between the porcelain clay of the earth and the useful delf, between the 
 supreme bon ton and the retail tradesman's class, between etiquette and 
 freedom, there are innumerable happy families where gaiety prevails with- 
 out licence, talent without pretension, wit without ill-nature, and kindly, 
 amiable feelings to all around. 
 
 These traits are mostly found amongst literary men and the votaries of 
 every style of art. Men of education and the greatest natural talent are never 
 jealous of each other ; they congregate together and hold fast together, be- 
 cause they appreciate and esteem each other. Therefore in their society we 
 are sure to meet rivalry unstained by envy, success without pride, merit 
 devoid of vanity, jokes without vulgarity, and, above all, the " Wit that 
 loves to play, not wound." 
 
 There are likewise several very extraordinary re-unions, a kind of OUa 
 podrida, made up of some of the component parts of all the others. These 
 are found amongst people who are desirous of receiving a large number of 
 visitors, but do not know how to provide for their amusement, and especially 
 wnongst those who wish to overtop their neighbours, in which class I must 
 place my ambitious but good-natured friends, Monsieur and Madame Vanvert. 
 The gentleman entertained a deep-rooted, settled conviction that he was a 
 thorough musician, although he knew nothing of Time, nor could distinguish 
 a half-pause from a full rest, despite the rocking of his head, the elevation 
 of his hands, and stamping of his feet ; but as he had learnt to strike a few 
 chords on the guitar, and to accompany a simple ballad, he was really one of 
 the happiest men in the world. To this peculiarity you have only to add a 
 dominant passion for the fair sex, whom he always tenderly addressed even 
 in his wife's presence, nostrils always stuffed with snuff, a wide mouth, 
 offensive breath, Calmuc-looking eyes, a stumpy figure, a dirty shirt and 
 slovenly dress, and you will have an excellent portrait of Monsieur Vanvert, 
 who, with all his faults and defects, was a good fellow at heart, and only 
 "forty-five years old. Gaiety of heart is natural to every age, but libertinism 
 should never spoil our riper years. There is a time for all things, and I 
 hope that when I reach forty-five, my wisdom and sobriety will be in an 
 inverse ratio to what it is at twenty-four. 
 
 But now for Madame Vanvert I She had been handsome, and wished 
 to be thought so still ; her colour never forsook her cheeks, even when she 
 was unwell ; a remarkable physical fact which induced scandalous tongue! 
 to remark that she manufactured her own complexion ; but in revenge for 
 the indignity with which some of her friends treated her, she possessed 
 *n excess of curiosity, and a peculiar facility of embroiling all her acquaint- 
 ances one with the other, without apparently speaking an ill-word, and — 
 I had almost forgotten it — a decided preference for handsome men, and 
 chocolate. 
 
 Nevertheless, their house was agreeable enough to visit,, because there waft 
 
44 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 no formality about it. Everybody did as they liked, and you were sure tx> 
 meet a crowd of originals, at whose eccentricities you could not refrain 
 from laughing. The greatest number of persons you saw there came like 
 shadows in a magic-lantern. Those only who were fond of ridiculous 
 amusement returned, and as I am of that class, and was frequently there, 
 Vanvert called me his very excellent friend, and Madame always received 
 me with a most benignant smile. As Vanvert was only an under-clerk 
 in a public office, you may easily conceive he did not lodge in a first- 
 floor, but on the evenings of his parties he placed a number of wax-ends in 
 chamber-candlesticks down the staircase, which had an admirable appear 
 ance, and served to prevent the ladies and gentlemen who honoured him 
 with their presence from tumbling up, not down, and breaking their noses 
 before they arrived at his apartments, which were considerably above the 
 level of the street. They could not afford to keep a servant, but had with 
 them a nephew, some fourteen or fifteen years of age, employed by an 
 attorney — a lad of a mischievous, sour disposition, who was made use of by 
 his uncle and aunt, at their soirees, in revenge for which he always stopped 
 as late as he could at his employer's office. 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock when I reached the residence of friend Vanvert 
 — that was their hour of reception, because little people who wish to be 
 thought big people considered it the height of gentility to come late to a 
 party. Those who are to sing or to play like to be waited for ; thus it ap- 
 pears to me that if this system is only pushed a little further, it will be the 
 the fashion for an evening party not to meet until the ensuing day. I 
 knocked, and the door was opened by Madame Vanvert in person. As 
 soon as she saw it was me, she rattled out, — " My dear little Dorsan, how 
 very kind of you to come I We shall have plenty of company this evening ; 
 they are rather late, to be sure, but they will be all here soon. There is a 
 young lady from the Academy of Music, who has a capital voice, and a 
 German baroness who plays the violoncello, and — " 
 " But has your concert not commenced yet f " 
 
 " No ; Martin has not come yet, for he must accompany on the piano, 
 because his sister is so bad with a nervous attack that she cannot play, and 
 my husband has gone to fetch the bass-viol and the second violin. Oh I 
 he has done nothing else than run about since dinner. First to Madame 
 Kosemonde, to coax her to let her daughters come ; then to the music ware- 
 house to hire a clarionet ; then to Mademoiselle Laquet's to fetch the harp ; 
 then to Signor Crochinis to be certain he would come ; and indeed I don't 
 know where. And now that vagabond Triquet has not come back from his 
 master's office. I hope his uncle will box his ears soundly for it ; but come 
 in, come in." 
 I obeyed. 
 
 Our conversation — rather a one-sided one, you will say, being all on 
 the lady's part — took place in an ante-room, on one side of which was a 
 nondescript chamber serving as a dining-room, with a bed in it, at present 
 covered with shawls, hats, boas, etc., and on the other the drawing-room, 
 or music saloon, wherein such of the visitors as had arrived were assembled, 
 %n& canvassed the doing3 of their entertainers in no very amiable mood. 
 All of them wished the music to begin, but there was a considerable ob- 
 stacle to that proposition, because none of the ladies would sing first, and 
 the great quartette had not yet reached the house. A little man in spectacles, 
 seamed with the small-pox, his eyes almost lost in the fulness of his 
 cheeks, sidled about from one to the other, whispering how badly Vanvert 
 got up his parties ; there could not possibly be such another ill-managed 
 establishment in all Paris ; did any one really know who was to be there t 
 
The Amateur Concert. 45 
 
 M Oh, yes," replied a dapper young man, "I am to sing the piece from 
 The Princess of Navarre." 
 
 " I think you sung that when we met last ; really I am tired to death of 
 
 that horrid thing." ■ 
 
 " Horrid ! you don't know what you are saying sir ; nothing can be more 
 effective than the opening line of the Recitative,— It is the Princess I, annon- 
 ow honnce ! Besides, I have not had time to learn anything else. It is a very 
 pretty air." 
 
 " Yes, as Martin sings it, but not as you do. 
 " Humph ! pleasant enough that." 
 
 " The-e's Raymond, too, with his eternal song from Richard Coeur de Lion, 
 and the lady from the Royal Acadamy will sing the grand bravura from 
 Estiphania and Montano, and Signor Crachini some delightful Italian airs, 
 and Chamonin and his friend some comic duets." # 
 
 "Ah ! tolerably good the last ; that is, if Gripaille does not take it into 
 his head to accompany them with his tin-kettle of a guitar ! " 
 
 As the bloated cynic spoke, Gripaille came up, and was by hnn received 
 with, « Ah, Gripaille, I am delightful to see you ; shall we have the pleasure 
 of hearing you this evening ? Come, take your guitar, do ; these ladies are 
 dying to hear your mellifluous notes." 
 
 Gripaille, who thought he was the first guitarist in Paris, leered at the 
 circle of ladies, coughed affectedly, and protested he did not recollect one 
 line of a song ; he had such a bad cold too, and Vanvert's guitar was so 
 infamously bad, it was impossible to get a note out of it. 
 
 " Oh, Gripaille," said a dry, thin, old lady, clasping her hands together in 
 ecstasy, and almost upsetting her chair ; " dear Gripaille, do sing, I am quite 
 in heaven when I hear you. Music has such an effect upon me, you cannot 
 think ; take your guitar, enchanter, and wrap me in Elysium. You always 
 remind me of a magnificent prince, who, when I was a girl away travelling in 
 Italy, would always stop all night beneath my windows with his serenades. 
 
 It was impossible to stand this. I moved off, and bit my pocket-hanaker- 
 ehief in order to prevent my laughing in the face of the little woman, who 
 had almost taken Gripaille in her arms. Without doubt, old age is to be 
 respected, but it is extremely difficult to preserve one's gravity before 
 elderly ladies who make it a rule to swoon whenever they hear a sentimen- 
 tal adagio. 
 
 The gentleman who usually played the bass began to look repeatedly 
 at his watch and to remark that it was almost eleven o'clock, without a 
 commencement having been effected ; but as he was about seeking his hat 
 to return home in disgust, Vanvert made his appearance, quite out of breath, 
 and perspiring at every pore from the weight of a violoncello and several 
 bundles of music. . 
 
 " Here I am at lasjb ! " he cried. " I have had the greatest trouble in the 
 world to get all the parties together ; but I have succeeded after tiring myself 
 to death, so, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, we will begin the quartette 
 at once." 
 
 " Begin ! begin ! " was echoed throughout the room ; whereon Monsieur 
 Pattier (he played the bass) advanced to the music-stand, and the performers 
 of the great quartette commenced tuning their instruments. Whilst this 
 agreeable prelude was going on, some of the ladies were seized with fits of 
 gaping, others conversed with the gentlemen who stood behind their chairs, 
 and laughed, and whispered, and criticised the appearance of the amateurs ; 
 for it is to be observed that whenever music is brought forward in private 
 society, that is the very moment for the supposed listeners to make the 
 greatest noise they can. 
 
46 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 At length the intrepid musicians had brought their instruments into 
 tolerable accord, and placed their various scores upon their stands ; the old 
 bass encirled his lamp with a piece of green paper, the second fiddle 
 adjusted his spectacles, the violoncello put at least an ounce of rosin on his 
 bow, and the first violin arranged his cravat so that the fiddle should not 
 hurt his neck. During these awful preliminaries, Vanvert endeavoured to 
 procure silence by prolonged " hushes ; " the leader raised his bow, stamped 
 twice, and asked if all were ready I Pattier, who was not in a very good 
 humour, replied he had been ready ever since seven o'clock, and the bow 
 rose again majestically, when, as all appeared prepared for this grand open- 
 ing crash, the violoncello called out that the bridge of his instrument had 
 slipped down in tightening a new string, and he should require a minute or 
 two to put it in its place. 
 
 The second violin took advantage of the pause to practise a passage that 
 seemed rather difiicult ; the bass muttered an oath, and consoled himself 
 with a pinch of snuff, the audience chatted still louder, till the violoncello 
 announced that he was all right ; the leader called - attention," and sug- 
 gested the propriety of causing a prodigious effect by playing the ada/jio in 
 quick time, and the allegro much more slowly. " Agreed, agreed 1 " they said* 
 and immediately the leader went off, the others following, as usual, at 
 respectful distances, and the whole four producing a discord sufficient to 
 tear a man's ears from out his head. After a few bars had been executed 
 in the fullest sense of the word, the first fiddle stopped suddenly, and said 
 there was something wrong, but he could not exactly tell whose fault it was. 
 The bass was of opinion that the piece went gloriously ; the second violin 
 declared he had not missed a note, the violoncello said the same ; so, after 
 a half-a-dozen more dismal scraps , off the amateurs went again, the leader 
 beating time with his foot as if he would stamp the flooring in. The second 
 attempt was worse, if that could possibly be, than the last ; the audience 
 laughed outright, and again the quartette came to a dead stop. The leader 
 went round to each of the stands examining the various parts. At last, on 
 looking over the bass, he discovered the error, and roared out like a demon, — 
 
 11 How is this, Monsieur Pattier ? You have destroyed us all ; why, sir, 
 you have been playing in C sharp, and we have been playing in E ! " 
 
 Pattier, livid with rage, replied, — 
 
 " I have played correctly every note of the music you gave to me ; the 
 first quartette in the first book." 
 
 " What is it, let me see ? the devil 1 you have got one of Mozart's, and 
 we have performed one of Pleyel's ! What an absurdity, to be sure ! " 
 
 Everbody laughed at the mistake except Pattier ; he, poor man, went 
 up in a fury to Vanvert, who was making love to a pretty brunette on the 
 other side of the room, abused him through thick and thin for his negligence, 
 refused to be appeased, and left the room in high dudgeon. Madame Van- 
 vert also laid the whole blame of the contretemps upon her husband's 
 shoulders ; the company congratulated themselves on having got rid of the 
 quartette so easily, whilst the second violin, who would not be put down, 
 continued practising all the difficult passages, to show his own wonderful 
 proficiency and astound the listeners. The entrance of Raymond, with his 
 scene under his arm, and of several other ladies and gentleman, put an end 
 to the performance, which, but for that fortunate circumstance, might have 
 lasted until now ; and whilst I looked anxiously for Madame Bertin and 
 her daughters, a confused murmur announced the arrival of some personage 
 of unusually high degree. I looked towards the door, and saw Vanvert 
 escorting a fashionable-looking woman, and peering round anxiously for an 
 untenanted seat. Luckily 1 saw a chair in a corner Bear the fireplace occupied 
 
The Amateur Concert, 47 
 
 only by a large tom-cat, so I ejected the animal forthwith, crossed the room, 
 and offered the chair to the new arrival. She accepted it with a gracious 
 smile, which instantly brought to my recollection that she was the lady I 
 had seen at the theatre on Saturday night. I bowed and sighed ; her eyea 
 were raised, and their expression showed that she too remembered me. 
 
 Of a verity, that Saturday evening was doomed to form a remarkable 
 epoch in my hfe. I had become the friend of JSicette, wished to be the 
 lover of Caroline, and as for the lovely lady whose name I did not know, 
 her glances told me we should not want for opportunities of improving our 
 acquaintance. 
 
 My neighbour Raymond, always greedy of flattery and praise, seated 
 himself at the piano as soon as he made the usual salutations, and looked 
 round the room for some one to accompany the scene that was to stamp him 
 with immortality, at the same time that Gripaille took advantage of the lull, 
 seized his guitar, seated himself in the centre of the saloon, struck a few 
 chords by way of prelude, coughed and hemmed as if a cat had stuck in his 
 throat, threw back his head, lifted up his eyes as if he had discovered a new 
 planet in the ceiling, and went off at score. Now, it freqtiently happens in 
 an amateur concert that singing constitutes the most pleasing portion of 
 the evening ; generally the performers have not sufficiently mastered their 
 instruments by unremitting study and practice to take part in works of 
 great musicians, consequently quartettes are murdered, solos on the piano 
 or violin weary people to death, airs on the harp, with variations, are invari- 
 ably one-half too long, and pieces for the guitar are altogether out of the ques- 
 tion after the squeaking, strumming, twanging, booming, and grunting of the 
 larger instruments. 
 
 It is vocal music then only that commands attention ; that is, when the 
 executant has a pretty voice. This, however, was not the case with friend 
 Gripaille. His display consisted of a succession of bawls, false tones, and 
 sudden transitions from high to low without any intervening notes, accom- 
 panied with a perpetual staccato on one of the guitar strings with a continual 
 doleful oscillation of his head. The moment he sat down everyone could 
 guess the pieces he would inflict ; they were known by heart by all the 
 company, so that his miserable droning could not even boast the merit of 
 novelty ; besides, when once he was asked to take up the guitar, there was 
 no earthly means of inducing him to put it down ; on he went, alternately 
 shouting, howling, and whining ; bacchanalian, sentimental, comic, ballad, 
 serenades, all was alike to him ; but this evening I blessed him in my heart, 
 for his pertinacity enabled me to enjoy an agreeable conversation with the 
 lovely incognita seated by my side, and who expressed considerable surprise 
 At finding a man of my stamp in such a heterogeneous assemblage. 
 
 Vanvert's guests began to weary of the incessant squalling and strum* 
 ming kept up by Gripaille. Exclamations, subdued by conventional polite- 
 ness, were heard of, "It's shocking ! quite frightful ! " "And he assumes to 
 look indignantly at people for daring to talk ! " " Will he never have done ? " 
 " The fool wishes to make us believe, too, that he composes those songs ! '•' 
 " It's a story if he says so, for I have seen them published years ago." " I 
 can't stand it any longer." " Do pray hand some young lady to the piano." 
 " Oh, we must speak to Vanvert about it," etc., etc., etc. At the solicitation 
 of Raymond and the fat man in the glasses, the great young lady, a pupil at 
 the Royal Academy of Music, consented to sing, provided she was to be 
 accompanied by little Martin. They advanced, but Gripaille, pretending 
 not to see them, had begun the symphony for his fourteenth song, when a 
 burst of merriment from some young folks in the dining-room compelled 
 him to desist ; so he rose amidst a storm of satirical applause, and took hi? 
 
48 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 Beat by her of the Italian serenade, who had been in raptures during the 
 performance. 
 
 " Come to my arms, Gripaille," she cried. " Come, embrace me, I have 
 been transported into heaven ; come to my arms, you love." 
 
 The guitarist was compelled to undergo the ancient's salute : it was the 
 price of notoriety. Vanity makes great sacrifices, and adorers must be 
 paid for. 
 
 Whilst Martin and the Academy pupil were settling themselves, Ray- 
 mond — that fellow was acquainted with everybody — came up to my in- 
 cognita, bowed almost to the ground, and addressed her thus : — 
 
 " Bless me, can I believe my eyes, Madame Marsan here 1 To what 
 lucky circumstances do we owe this felicity ? " 
 
 " The merest chance in the world. Monsieur Marsan has business 
 occasionally with the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, and sometimes 
 meets our host at the office. That good gentleman has often invited us to 
 his concerts, so we decided to avail ourselves of his kindness this evening, 
 although " — and she turned to me — " I did not expect to be so very agree- 
 ably entertained." 
 
 " We will endeavour, Madame, so to contribute to your amusement, 
 that you shall look back upon this evening as one not unworthily passed 
 away." 
 
 The last sentence, as you may conceive, was tenderly uttered by your 
 humble servant. 
 
 Attention, ladies and gentlemen, if you please. The lioness of the 
 evening commenced the air from Estiphania and Montano — Raymond 
 and the other singers standing close by ready tor a rush at the music-stool 
 when the lady should rise, it being in fact a race between Richard Cceur di 
 JAon and The Princess of Navarre. And I, who had been compelled to 
 yield my chair to a lady who could not find one disengaged, walked into 
 the ante-room, and joined a group who had fled there from the ear-piercing 
 screams, false roulades, open shakes, and interminable cadences of the girl 
 at the piano. Whilst we stood there, shrugging our shoulders and covering 
 our ears with our hands to shut out the fearful sounds, a knock was heard 
 at the door, which, being opened, disclosed to view nephew Triquet, the 
 lawyer's clerk. All Vanvert's ire was lighted up at sight of the truant 
 youth. 
 
 " Where have you been, you scamp ? " he said. 
 
 " At the office, uncle." 
 
 " At the office until eleven o'clock at night ! It's a lie, sir. Do yon 
 think you'll make me swallow that ? " 
 
 " Why not, uncle ? " 
 
 "Because you always leave at nine, sir.* 1 
 
 " Yes, generally we do, but the head clerk gave me several commissions 
 to execute this evening, and that's the reason why I am so late." 
 
 " Commissions, indeed ; I know how you execute your commissions. 
 The other day he sent you out to a public office to get a writ signed directly, 
 and as you did not come back, went after you and found you on one of the 
 bridges, fishing with a rod and line in the Seine." 
 
 " Oh, Lord, uncle, who could have told you such a lie 1 " 
 
 " What 1 you deny it, do you, in face of my finding a box of worms in 
 your pocket ? " 
 
 "There's nothing at all in that; I only bought them for my brother to 
 go a-fishing in the canal the next Sunday." 
 
 " You are the most impudent story-teller I know, sir. I'll be bound 
 you've bought a cheque at one of the penny theatres, and have been seeing 
 
The A mateur Concert. 49 
 
 the last act of a wretched melodrama instead of listening to excellent music 
 here as you ought to have done. Go, sir, fill the glasses at once, and hand the 
 wine and the refreshments round to the company." 
 
 The precious nephew marched off sullenly, growling, — 
 
 " Where the devil am I to get penny-pieces to buy cheques for the play ? 
 He never gives me any, I know. They do nothing but make a slave of me. 
 ' Go here, and buy the cat some lights,' my old fool of an aunt says (mimick- 
 ing her), • and then fetch the milk, and don't forget to send in some firewood, 
 and— ' " 
 
 The young scamp did not proceed any further with the sentence, for he 
 was stopped by finding his ears smartly cuffed by his aunt, who was stand- 
 ing behind him, and had heard every word he said. When her back was 
 turned, he revenged himself by bolting an orange jelly and swallowing a 
 huge slice of pound cake at two bites. 
 
 At length the lady left off inflicting the antipodes of " dulcet and most 
 heavenly sounds," and was succeeded immediately by the little gentleman, 
 who did It is the Princess I, annon-ow honnce. As he spun out his notes, he 
 rocked himself about, and coughed and spat at the end of every verse, as if 
 he had a very bad cold indeed. The auditors tittered, gaped, and pursed 
 up their lips, as is usual in such cases, for amateurs are always more envious 
 and ill-natured than professional men, and those who are in need of the 
 .greatest indulgence for themselves are ever the first to pull others to pieces. 
 It is a very common mistake made by these people, that they best conceal 
 their own deficiencies by exposing those of others ; but nothing can be more 
 ridiculously absurd. If Mr A. sings sharp, will that give you an agreeable 
 or powerful voice ? If B. murders his solos on the violin, will you play well 
 on the piano ? If 0. is ugly, ill-built, and stupid, will that make you hand- 
 some, witty, pleasing, and well-shaped ? No, no ; it's a lamentable fact, 
 though, and by no means honourable to mankind, that we like to see people 
 at whom we can laugh, and whom we think have been less bountifully 
 endowed by nature than ourselves. The Princess of Navarre was brought to 
 a conclusion, the gentleman ambled round the room in order to receive the 
 accustomed meed of praise, and looked indignantly at me because I ventured 
 to remark that he appeared to have a cold. Yes he had, was the reply. 
 Then why did he sing ? Because the company had pressed him so. And 
 this was the man I had seen almost fighting with Raymond for the first turn 
 at the piano ! 
 
 " Hush, hush, hu-u-ush ! " Was my neighbour about to sing ? No ; two 
 gentlemen were before him again, and commenced, I believe, an Italian duet. 
 One shook his head like a Chinese mandarin, in order to mark the time, and 
 swayed his body to and fro like the grizzly bear behind the bars of his cage 
 in the Zoological Gardens ; and the other kept his nose down closely on the 
 music, so that it was all guess work, for neither of them had the slightest 
 idea of what they were at. The accompanyist endeavoured to keep them 
 together in vain. To one he said, " You are too fast ; " to the other, "Yon 
 »re a bar behind," when suddenly, as if by agreement, both of the Tamburinis 
 stopped, and then the apologies commenced. 
 
 " This duet is very difficult ; it is hardly fair to expect a man to sing it 
 at sight." (He had been studying it for at least a fortnight). 
 
 " It is the first time we have sung," Chamonin said ; " we shall do better 
 with it on the next attempt. Rossini is very chromatic, and must be studied." 
 
 Van vert thrust a pinch of snuff into his nose, leaving half of it on his 
 shirt frill, and said Chamonin was right, and Madame Van vert declared she 
 did not bike Rossini at all ; in fact there was nothing in Italian music but 
 ** this and that." d 
 
50 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 " What is Rogsini ? " asked Triquet, who had insinuated himself into the 
 saloon. ** I think I have seen the name somewhere in the book about Don 
 Quixote " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you fool ! " replied Vanvert ; "you are confounding 
 Rossini with Rosinante. Go and wash the glasses, and don't meddle with 
 things that don't concern you." 
 
 By this time Raymond had seated himself at the piano, and had just 
 5nformed the company that he " Had traversed Afric'i burning Zone," when 
 Van vert placed a music-stand in the centre of the room with uncommon 
 bustle, and proceeded to hand in a lady and a violoncello. My neighbour 
 observed that he was about to sing his famous scena, but nobody paid atten- 
 tion to the poor man, all eyes being directed to the German baroness. She 
 was a very pretty woman, fair, like most of the Saxons, well-dressed, and 
 well-shaped ; she held the ponderous instruments between her knees with 
 perfect ease and nonchalance, and played with a degree of execution and 
 taste that elongated the countenances of the great quartette half a yard at 
 least. At her side stood a tall man in a seedy black coat, of common appear- 
 ance, who looked alternately at the player and the company, pulling hideout 
 faces by way of approbation, and calling out continually, " Time, time, one, 
 two ; firm now with the bow, gently on that fourth string, that's it ; bravo I 
 quicker still ; piano," etc. This was the husband ; Hebe with a Satyr ; 
 Beauty and the Beast, Vulcan and the beauteous Goddess ; who could it be f 
 Why, the lady's husband, His Excellency the Bohemian Baron Witcheritchy. 
 
 At the finish of the sonata, Crachini sung an Italian cantata in a mediocre 
 manner, and was followed by some nonentities whom I did not stay to hear, 
 for as I could not remain near Madame Marsan, with whom by this time I 
 Uras over head and ears in love, I wandered into the dining-room, where I 
 found Raymond digesting his wrath at being so cavalierly deprived of shin* 
 ing in his favourite Caur-de-IAon. In order to plague him a little more, I 
 addressed him with, — 
 
 " How is it, neighbour, that you do not sing this evening t " 
 
 " Can any one do anything in reason here ? There never was such * 
 disorderly house ; nothing goes on right. I have counselled Van vert a 
 thousand times to write out a bill of the evening's performances and fix it 
 on the chimney glass, so that everybody may take their turn in proper 
 order ; but no, he will not do it. All he cares for is to pull the women 
 and girls about when he can get them in a corner, and the whole concert 
 may go to the devil for what he cares." 
 
 " Things might be ordered better, I acknowledge." 
 
 " And then to stop my scena for a stupid concerto on the violoncella, 
 and by a woman, too ! Bangh, what an instrument for a lady ! It is as 
 bad as if a man were to mend his own stockings. I am sure she had better 
 stop at home and mend her husband's, and her own too, instead of making 
 a tom-noddy of herself with that great thing stuck between her legs, trying 
 arpeggio, and all sorts of fooleries." 
 
 " But, my dear Raymond, surely you would not have a baroness mend 
 her own stockings 1 " 
 
 " A pretty sort of baron her husband is, I'm thinking. Why, in Ger- 
 many they are as plentiful as berries on a bush. I saw him the other day 
 in the Rue du Temple, purchasing a pennyworth of gooseberries to eat with 
 his soused mackeral. He dines too almost everyday, I am told, on pudding 
 and sausages, three halfpence a yard. And yet this Vanvert would make 
 us believe the rat is a special ambassador, incognita, from the Holy 
 Alliance, and that his family is one of the oldest in Bohemia I Likely 
 enough it is : he comes from the House of Noah, at anyrate." 
 
The Amateur Concert. 51 
 
 "Well, well, enough of this, friend Raymond. Apropos, you are 
 acquainted with Madame Marsan, I think \ " 
 
 " Certainly, I am invited to all her soirees. She is an uncommonly fine 
 woman : a bit of a coquette as you may see, thirty-six years old, you know, 
 and calls herself twenty-eight. It is reported that she has had her amours, 
 but as they have never been made public, and she has always kept up the 
 utmost decorum in appearances, she passes for a perfectly virtuous woman. 
 Nothing like outward appearances, Eugene. Her husband is a capital 
 fellow, and looks well after the main chance. He speculates largely on the 
 Stock Exchange, and gains no end of money. Besides his town house, he 
 has a sweet box in the country, just beyond St Denis, where his wife 
 has built a private theatre, and all sorts of admirable amusements are con- 
 stantly going on. I shall perform there soon in some private theatricals, 
 and if you like you shall accompany me ; introduced by me, you will be 
 received like a prince." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, we will talk it over another time." 
 
 Raymond returned to the piano, hoping to get his scena heard by hook 
 or by crook, and having ascertained all I wanted to know about Madame 
 Marsan, I went back to the company, feeling sure that my neighbour 
 would talk about me to the mature beauty, and that my birth, character, 
 and fortune, would lose nothing in his hands. In easy circumstances, he 
 would make me very rich ; of respectable birth, I should be born of one of 
 the noblest families in France, and so on to the end of the chapter. Fos< 
 sibly he might inform the lady that I was inconstant, a flatterer, a gay 
 deceiver : no matter, those amiable qualities never injure a young fellow 
 in a woman's eyes. 
 
 A piece on the harp had just been played excellently well indeed, 
 seeing that the performer only broke down twice, put her instrument three 
 tones over in unison with the piano, and broke four strings. Raymond, by 
 diut of creeping, shoving, and asking pardon, had managed to reach the 
 piano, and opened his mouth to recount his wandering African expedition, 
 when all the younger people present crowded round Vanvert, showed him 
 that it was near " the witching hour of night," and implored him to let 
 them fini h the evening with the promised dance. The prayer was granted; 
 in vain Raymond cursed between his teeth, and bawled "silence," like a 
 tipstaff in a Court of Justice. All was in disorder, the chairs were placed 
 against the walls, the piano wheeled back to its usual position, and those 
 who did not dance took refuge in the corners, or went into the other room 
 to solace themselves with what remained of the creature comforts, of 
 jellies, ices, brandy, cakes, and wine. 
 
 Little Martin very good-humouredly went to the piano, where Raymond 
 still stood, scarcely believing his eyes, and half expecting he would be per- 
 mitted to sing ; but when Martin, instead of the prelude of Richard, com- 
 menced one of Musard's spirited quadrilles, he could not contain his anger 
 any longer, but snatched the music from the instrument with his hand, 
 trembling with rage, thrust it under his arm, passed across the sets that 
 had been formed and were standing up ready to begin, receiving a few 
 curses and sly kicks on the ankles from the cavaliers, which in his fury he 
 did not feel. A young lady, whose hair was arranged a la Niiiori d^Enclos, 
 floating in long ringlets down her back, and in capital curl, because the 
 papers were only taken out by the help of a pocket mirror at the bottom of 
 the stairs, observed to the hostess that my neighbour had left in a tremendous 
 passion, and before she could receive a reply, that gentleman appeared again 
 in the doorway, and cried out rudely, — 
 
 " My hat, Madame Vanvert, if you please ; where is it, ma'am ? It 
 
52 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 is always very extraordinary that nothing can ever be found in thi* 
 house." 
 
 " Your hat, sir, your hat ? " said Madame Vanvert, looking in the 
 chimney. " Ah me 1 where is my poor cat ? I placed him here snug on % 
 chair against the fire-place, and some brute has turned him out." 
 
 M My hat, ma'am ! " Raymond reiterated at the top of his voice. 
 
 " Don't talk to me of your trumpery hat ; only think of my poor, dear 
 cat. The door has been opened frequently, and he must have gone out. 
 Tom, Tom, Tom 1 He will be stolen, poor, dear fellow, I am sure." 
 
 Both Raymond's hat and madame's cat were treated with the same 
 inattention. The dancers were determined to make up for the heaviness 
 of the whole of the evening by a few minutes' recreation before they left, 
 and one of the young men put the hands of the clock back when Vanvert 
 was looking another way, and his wife was seeking the fugitive Tom upon the 
 stairs. 
 
 During the quadrille, I made considerable way in Madame Marsan's 
 good graces, so much so, indeed, that at its conclusion she was polite enough 
 to ask me to come some evening and hear, not a concert, but some real 
 music at her house. Of course, in my then state of mind, the invitation 
 was eagerly accepted ; and having made sure of the lady, I crossed over to 
 where her husband was standing, and entered into conversation with him. 
 I talked of the funds, speculations, mines, railway shares, pictures, horses, 
 and lands, and threw in 'warily my name, family, and income. In any 
 other re-union assuredly I should not have done so ; but I did not wish 
 khat he should confound me with the set of underbred curiosities whom he 
 Baw around him. My little stroke of policy had its desired effect, for 
 Monsieur Marsan appeared pleased, poohed the company, and was kind 
 enough also to invite me to his house.. 
 
 When young people get to dancing, and poets to reciting their verses, 
 there is a complete parallel between the two, because they never know when 
 to finish. On the present occasion, no indications were shown of the slightest 
 desire to put an end to the quadrilles. Madame Vanvert was in teal's at 
 the Iqss of her feline treasure, and wished to be alone. The occupants of 
 the floor below had sent up several times to complain of the noise, and 
 Vanvert's remonstrances with regard to the lateness of the hour were treated 
 with the utmost indifference and contempt. Everyone cried, " Really this 
 shall be the last ; " but the " last " never came. Whilst the gaiety was at 
 its height, Triquet, who had been escorting a timid, single, old lady home, 
 came back in a very bad humour. He saw by a glance at the clock the 
 trick that had been played, so he informed his uncle of it, and of the threats 
 of the lodgers below, who had intercepted him on the stairs, whereupon 
 Vanvert consulted his watch, and finding his nephew was right, commenced 
 extinguishing the lights, and requested his guests to depart without further 
 parley. 
 
 All proceeded to the dining-room, laughing heartily at the abruptness 
 of their host, and there the scene became more diverting from the visitors 
 lingering as much as they could in order to prolong their departure, and so 
 chafe Vanvert. The ladies called for their hats, their shawls, their shoes, 
 and gloves ; the singers for their music books, and the players for their in- 
 struments ; mistakes were made on purpose ; the young men romped with 
 the women under pretence of helping them — moments like these are always 
 useful to the lovingly disposed ; one tied a ribbon for his lady love, another 
 a pair of sandals ; ankles and legs would get in the way of the fellows* 
 hands ; mammas called their daughters, husbands their wives, and brothers 
 on their sisters, but in vain : the ladies were engaged with " Metal more 
 
The Bouquet. 5S- 
 
 attractive." There were whisperings in ears, squeezings of the handsv- 
 rendezvous accepted, and invitations given. 
 
 As for me, I went into the bedroom where Madame Marsan said she hast 
 left her shawl ; and whilst I was seeking it on a bed covered with ladies' 
 apparel, my hand accidentally came in contact with a round, hard femal© 
 bust, which I could not help feeling and caressing, from the mere force 08E" 
 habit. The owner of it might be one of the numerous light-o'-loves in th® 
 middle circles with whom I was acquainted, and who had recognised me sm 
 I entered. Judge of my surprise, then, when on turning her over and look- 
 ing at her face — for she was lying on her back — I found she, was a lady wh& 
 in society acted the moral, the prude, even the dragon of virtue ; and bow 
 she smiled on me lasciviously, and would not hear of my excuses. Bravc^ 
 morality and outward show 1 
 
 I assisted the lady to rise, helped her on with her shawls, received a 
 world of sighs, with a tender pressure of the hand, and then escorted her t© 
 the saloon where all the company were ready to depart. Quite a little pro- 
 cession was formed ; Triquet went first with a candle to light the way ; them 
 came the folks in pairs according to their preference, the young ones making 
 as much noise as they could, because Vanvert had requested them to be- 
 quiet on account of their neighbours, and just as the foremost reached th®- 
 landing-place of the first floor, someone knocked the light out of TriquetV 
 hands, and instantly all was uproar and confusion. Mammas scolded^ 
 daughters giggled and murmured " Don't," Baron Witcheritchy swore i® 
 high Dutch, and the elderly gentlemen in good Parisian French, and I had 
 just passed my arm round Madame Marsan's waist without being checked^, 
 and boldly advanced my lips to hers, when Triquet put an end to the fxm 
 by appearing with the candle, which he had relighted at the porter's lodge.. 
 Then were to be seen fair eyes lowered, and daring ones animated witfe 
 delight, flounces on petticoats sadly rumpled, and fichus disarranged — all 
 caused by the inevitable pressure in the dark. Next came the " Adieux/* 
 much to the chagrin of poor, single devils who lived in the neighbourhood 
 of the Palais Royal, and were forced to escort feminine families as far as 
 the Marais ; girls smiled as they took their lover's arms, and wives sigheji 
 as their husbands claimed them ; and no doubt I might have seen muds 
 more had not Monsieur Marsan offered me a seat in his private carriage^ 
 which I thankfully accepted, and so was driven home. 
 
 Triquet shut the yard -gate, and said to the porter, — 
 
 " They are all gone, there is no one now." 
 
 " Ah J your uncle will have notice to quit to-morrow. A pretty fellow 
 he is, kicking up these sprees, and keeping honest people awake all nights 
 When a man plays these sort of games, he ought to have a whole house to- 
 himself I " 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Dueinq the ride home we amused ourselves with chatting about the Va»- 
 vert's musical soiree. Madame Marsan and myself laughed at their absurd 
 aping of the habits and manners of the upper classes, and Monsieur Marsaui 
 observed that the desire to eclipse their neighbours had become a permanent- 
 
54 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 evil in all ranks. No one could rest content with the pleasures of that station 
 in which their lot had been cast ; everyone must soar above it, and in order 
 to satisfy this insane craving, the artisan sacrificed his time, the shopkeeper 
 expended the money he had amassed in the prosecution of his business, the 
 wholesale dealer his capital, and the clerk his salary ; from all of which 
 folly resulted, first, borrowing of money, then embarrassments, bankruptcy, 
 and every species of debt. Madame remarked that Vanvert's soiries were 
 not very expensive ; to which her husband replied that they did not seem so 
 at first sight, but that, for an under clerk, wax-light lamps, the hire oi 
 music-stands and instruments, and even the very ordinary refreshments 
 supplied, were equally as expensive to him as the most brilliant fHe t where 
 all is in profusion, is to a banker or other wealthy man. The only difference 
 between the two was that people talked of nothing but the banker's cUjeuner, 
 and prided themselves on having been one of the invited, whereas the guests 
 ridiculed the clt-rk's soirte, and mocked and abused everyone who had the 
 misfortune to be there. I agreed, on reflecting, that Monsieur Marsan was 
 right, for two sufficient reasons ; first, because he spoke real truth, and 
 secondly, because just then it suited me to agree with him. After a few more 
 minutes' agreeable conversation, the carriage let me down in the Rue St 
 Florentin. and the Marsans proceeded to their residence in the Faubourg 
 St Honors. 
 
 As I crossed the courtyard and ascended the staircase in the dark — for 
 the portress's lamp was always extinguished at twelve o'clock — a host of 
 pleasant anticipations passed through my mind. I thought of my new ac- 
 quaintance—I could not yet say "conquest," although my vanity whispered 
 It — and of the lovely Caroline, with the assignation for the following evening. 
 Truly, I had enough to dream of, all before me partook of a celestial or a 
 roseate line. Stooping to apply my key to the lock, my hand touched some- 
 thing affixed in the hole ; what was it ? I felt ; first leaves, then flowers — 
 'tis a bouquet ! Ah, ha i my heart whispers me from whom. I entered 
 my room with a gay step and happy heart, lighted a candle by means of a 
 phosphorus-box, and proceeded to examine the bouquet. It was charmingly 
 arranged — orange-flowers, roses, pinks, and forget-me-nots tied together with 
 a white satin ribbon and a bow. Dear Nicette, you think then still of me ; 
 you are not ungrateful to me for what I did. Oh, no ! your heart is amiable 
 and your path is virtuous ; pity, indeed, it is that with all your admirable 
 qualities of head and heart, you have been born in that obscure class which 
 forbids a closer honourable intimacy. I can appreciate your virtues, but 
 must be content with honest admiration. Tou will be a treasure to some 
 humble man, but never can be anything to me. My treasure must be found 
 in the great world, and fortunate indeed shall I be if even there I meet your 
 equal. And the " Forget-me-nots ! " Without doubt, they were intended to 
 express her gratitude, perhaps her love. Yes, she loved me, and it could 
 not be concealed that in the real depths of my heart I loved her ; but here- 
 after she would be besieged with suitors ; someone would win her, and 1 
 should be forgotten. With this sage reflection I put the bouquet in a jar 
 of water, undressed myself, and went to bed. 
 
 For a considerable time I could not sleep, for the events of the evening 
 occupied my mind, and effectually prevented my enjoying my natural repose. 
 Caroline and Madame Marsan appeared alternately upon the mental view — 
 both coquettes, but in a very different manner. What would I have ? Every 
 woman that I knew was a coquette, if by coquetry 1 meant that transient 
 caprice which momentarily gives way, and vanishes at the first glance of 
 hardship or misfortune. My sister wished me so establish myself in life, but 
 what then ! In my folly I thought that I could not hope to find in a wife 
 
The Dinners. 55 
 
 those precious feelings which I had not found in any of my mistresses — an 
 indissoluble link, the performance of certain duties, the education of children, 
 and the thoughts of what the world would say, might keep my partner faith- 
 ful to her vows ; but how could I relight the lamp of love when once it was 
 extinct ? Decidedly I would not marry yet ; let me live, in the true sense 
 of the word, and not exist. But nevertheless, amidst my round of giddy 
 dissipation, I had not been quite comfortable and completely happy. 
 Although fickle, I was susceptible of good impressions ; my heart longed to 
 find another to which it could trust its whole happiness, and tenderly lean 
 on for support throughout the weary pilgrimage of life. For a long time all 
 the women with whom I had had affairs had become perjured and faithless 
 to me, but perhaps it would be the flower-girl who would prove my faithful 
 Dulcinea ; perhaps Caroline would love me without guile ; or even Madame 
 Marsan might confine herself to blessing me alone — her husband counting 
 for nothing, of course ; for as to Raymond's insinuations about her, he was 
 known to have such a gossiping, evil tongue, that no one ever gave credence 
 to one word he uttered. 
 
 The lovely but far different forms and graces of my triple beauties floated 
 before my mind's eye, but dear Nicette was always foremost in the group. 
 1 thought it must have been the odour of the orange-flowers that caused her 
 image to appear before me, by the association of ideas ; but for the whole 
 world I would not have put the bouquet from the room. How tender, how 
 grateful of her, to place it so that I could not enter without touching it with 
 my hand! Oh, woman, woman ! if you are false and fickle as the circum- 
 ambient air, yet you alone possess that tact, that delicacy of sentiment, thoss 
 gentle anticipations, that amiable foresight, which gives ten thousand addi- 
 tional charms to all your kind, endearing acts of friendship and of love. 
 
 I slept at length. Two of the fairy visions had flitted to the shades ; 
 Madame Marsan and Caroline had melted into thin air, and fair Nicette alone 
 kept hovering round my couch 1 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE DINNERS. 
 
 In the morning, when the portress came as usual to arrange my rooms, I put 
 gome questions to her bearing upon the bouquet, and was surprised to hear 
 that she had not seen any stranger ascend to my apartments, or even cross 
 the yard in that direction. It was very singular ; but as I could make no- 
 thing of it by remaining indoors, I directed Madame Dupont to pick up the 
 artificial flowers that remained on the carpet from the previous afternoon, 
 especially forbidding her to touch the bouquet, which I placed safely on the 
 console slab. Here was a well-spring of conjectures for the fertile brain of 
 ft porter's gabbling wife t 
 
 The first thing I did was to execute the commissions sent me by my 
 brother-in-law, in doing which I had to repair to several public offices, as 
 De*neterre had undertaken some building and other contracts with the Govern- 
 ment. These visits served to distract my attention from the evening rendez- 
 vous ; but you are not to suppose, reader, that I was in the habit of passing 
 my days in indolence. Oh, no; I cultivated the Fine Arts diligently, especi« 
 ftlly poetry and music, when my amourous follies would permit me; although ft 
 
£6 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 must be avowed that I had neglected the Muses terribly of late, jl-dotw 
 dinner-time, I thought that as my assignation was at the Chateau d'Eau, 
 I would dine somewhere in the neighbom-hood, instead of in the Palais Royal, 
 as I ordinarily did, so I walked towards the Boulevards, where I was well- 
 known at the first-rate coffee-houses and taverns, and had just reached the 
 Turkish Gardens on my route to " The Blue Dial," where a man is always 
 well -treated, when I saw before me a lady walking with a gentleman, whom 
 I knew to be Raymond at once, from the peculiarity of his figure. The lady's 
 face was hidden by her bonnet; but it seemed to me that I had seen her also 
 before. Curiosity induced me to follow them. They entered " The Meri- 
 dian," at the corner of the Rue d'Ang6uleme, a tavern wherein the guests 
 •re always attended by young women — occasionally a very convenient arrange- 
 ment — and as my neighbour was continually boasting that his conquests were 
 princesses and duchesses at the least, I determined to see the present rara 
 <avis if possible. In pursuance of this intention, I walked into " The Meri- 
 dian," and having asked for a private room, a female servant showed me into 
 «n apartment, which I found, from Raymond's voice, to be next that tenanted 
 i>y him and his belle, for my neighbour had acquired the habit of talking in 
 In a very loud tone, and was now endeavouring to amuse the lady with some 
 piquant observations, whilst he consulted her taste in the selection of dishes 
 lor a very recherchi dinner. 
 
 Apparently he was not successful in this object ; he had read over the 
 list of good things to be had in the house at least three times, but the 
 bill of fare did not suit the lady's fancy. She did not like any article he 
 selected — she was not at all hungry ; anything in the world would do for 
 ber. She wanted expensive dishes that were not mentioned in the lists ; 
 *nd a thousand other impertinences and affectations, which conveyed the 
 Idea to my mind that Raymond had not made a particularly distinguished 
 conquest ; and that the lady was amusing herself at his expense. Every 
 time she spoke I felt more and more sure that I was acquainted with her ; 
 and yet, I could not tell exactly who she was — how could I amongst the 
 hundreds of frail fair ones that I knew ? — but patience, the afternoon was 
 before me, until the time should arrive to meet Caroline, and no doubt 
 , before then an opportunity would arise of ascertaining who she was. At 
 last, Raymond, tired of the incognita's vagaries, decided to order the dinner 
 bimself ; the bell was rung, the waitress answers it, received her instructions, 
 and left the room, but before she had descended three stairs the lady 
 exclaimed she must have a trifle with whipt cream, and Raymond ran 
 After the girl to order it to be prepared. By chance the door of my room 
 was open ; Raymond cast an eye in as he passed in returning to his fair 
 ane, saw me, and exclaimed, — 
 
 " Dorsan, can it be you, how fortunate ! " 
 
 " The same, my friend ; what may you be doing here ! " 
 
 He entered on tip-toe with a mysterious air, winked, pointed to the 
 aext room, and whispered, — 
 
 " I'm there, in the next room." 
 
 " Ah, you happy dog, I see : a handsome lady, eh ? What a terrible 
 fellow you are with the women, to be sure I The world accuses me of being 
 a libertine, but you are a thousand times worse, indeed you are." 
 
 "Pretty well for that," he chuckled. 
 
 "And the lady, eh?" 
 
 " Charming, elegant, beautiful, delightful, in the highest circles, sports 
 livery servants, a carriage, and all that ; w^ *-e here quite on the sly ; mum, 
 Jfou know." 
 
 "Always the same good luck, Raymond, I thought as much." 
 
The Dinners. 5T 
 
 " It's a great favour for her to come here with me, I can tell you ; she- 
 has refused a hundred invitations from princes of the blood." 
 
 " Lucky man, you are, but you excite my curiosity ; may I be permitted 
 to see her ? " 
 
 " Impossible J She takes the most jealous care of her reputation, and 
 would not be seen for the world. If she were to be recognised by any of my 
 friends, she would never forgive me, and I should lose her for ever. One 
 cannot be too particular in one's amours. I look for grace, youth, rank 9 
 silks, satins, and birth ; I don't take up with all the trumpery I meet 
 in the streets." (This was a hit at my stuff-gowned flower-girl.) 
 
 " I congratulate you on your good fortune." 
 
 " But, above all, I love to overcome the scruples of the hard-hearted, 
 there's some merits due to a fellow in that. Perseverance, good manners, 
 knowledge of the sex, eh ? But I am sure my beauty will be miserable at 
 my leaving her so long. Adieu, Dorsan, adieu ; excuse my leaving you, but 
 Love and Beauty expects me in yonder bower." 
 
 " Then I should advise you not to make them wait." 
 
 And off he shuffled, swelling like a Turkey-cock at the idea of being 
 thought in the company of a fashionable woman, whereas he had never 
 achieved the conquest of a chamber-maid in all his life. 
 
 Notwithstanding that I was aware of his silly propensity to romancing, 
 and saw that he was inventing lies all the while he was talking to me» 
 «very word he uttered augmented my desire to see his woman. He seemed 
 $o have studied more earnestly than was his wont to throw dust into my 
 @yes, but he was not the man to come over me with his inocutions, besides, 
 2 owed him a hit or two for his sarcasms on Nicette — who was worth a 
 hundred of his companion, I thought, — so I sat quietly down and waited 
 patiently for any chance that might turn up. 
 • Whilst I was waiting for my soup, I opened the window of the room^ 
 which looked into the street, and turning my eyes towards Raymond's 
 window, saw that the blind was not drawn down — an evident proof that he 
 had not made any great advance in the lady's graces, — and as I scrutinised 
 the people in the street, I saw Gerville pass, the young man, it will be re- 
 membered, with whom Agatha whiled away that eventful night when I ex- 
 tended my hospitality to poor Nicette. He caught my eye, nodded,, 
 stopped short, and then looked about as if he was expecting to meet a friend. 
 At the same moment Raymond's window was thrown up, a female figure 
 gazed into the street, and just as I thought I should obtain a glimpse of 
 the lady's features, a faint cry reached my ears, and the window was shut 
 with the utmost haste. I drew back also, listened at the partition between the 
 rooms, and heard hurried exclamations of rage, grief and despair, very curious 
 indeed ; then a sudden opening of the door, and my neighbour, pale and 
 trembling all over, precipitated himself into my room without seeing where 
 he was going, tumbling up against the servant who had brought my soup 
 an instant before, knocking the tureen out of her hands, and pouring the 
 scalding liquid on her foot. The girl screamed out with the pain ; but 
 Raymond swore he would pay all damage to dress and limb, no matter how 
 expensive, pushed her out of the room, and double-locked the door. 
 
 I stood in perfect astonishment, unable to conceive what had taken 
 place. At last I said, — 
 
 " What the devil is the matter with you, Raymond, and why are you so 
 scared ; have you seen a ghost 1 " 
 
 " Oh, my dear friend," he gasped, " such an event— frightful — my position 
 is — is — terrible. While I wa3 looking out of the window — pull the blind 
 down, if you please, least anyone should see me." (He went to it and peeped 
 
58 My Neighbour Raymond* 
 
 cautiously through the blinds, and became paler still, and then he said, point- 
 ing with his fingers), — 
 
 " He is there." 
 
 "And who is » He 'I" 
 
 " Gerville." 
 
 " Well, and what is that to yon t " 
 
 " Much, everything ; he's a passionate fellow, and will go any length in 
 his jealousy ; he's watching me, I know ; and not without cause either — it's 
 his mistress who is with me in the adjoining room." 
 
 " What, Raymond, is Agatha your disguised princess, with her carriage 
 and her livery servants ? Ah, ho ! you must have obdurate, hard-hearted, 
 virtuous women, must you ; not satisfied with the first comer, women of 
 fashion and rank, eh ?" 
 
 "Joke as much as you like hereafter, Dorsan, but help me now ; you are 
 the only person who can extricate me from this frightful situation." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? What can I do ? " 
 
 " Gerville is about to come into this house ; he has seen Agatha ; he will 
 ask for her, and the waitress will show him into the next room. " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Now, my dear fellow, for God's sake do take my place, and let me stop 
 here ; I will leave the door open, he will look in as he passes, see that I am 
 alone, and be quite satisfied." 
 
 " Ah ! but why not lock yourself in with your damsel ? He would not 
 dare to force the door open." 
 
 " He's capable of even that. And if he did not, he would wait for me 
 on the Boulevard, and when 1 went out with Agatha there would be a pretty 
 scene, I'm sure. Besides, we have apartments in the same house, so that I 
 could not get home without his annoying me. He would wait for me on the 
 staircase and throw me over the bannisters." 
 
 " Then why the deuce do you run after his mistress, if you dread him so 
 much ? " 
 
 " I can't tell — it was in a moment of folly, the waiting for you that 
 morning on the landing did it. M 
 
 Here he took another peep through the blind, ejaculated, " Oh, Lord, 
 he's coming ! " clapped my hat upon my head, pushed me out of the room, 
 and locked himself in. 
 
 I laughed internally at my unexpectedly prolonged vengeance for his 
 having acted the spy on my Nicette, and wholly careless of what uik hfc 
 occur, walked quietly into the next apartment, where Agatha expressed the 
 greatest pleasure at meeting me, and laughed at Raymond's cowardly fears. 
 We moderated our merriment in order that the poor devil might not hear 
 us, and then she told me that she could not bear my neighbour, who had 
 been pestering her lately with his attentions, and that she had accompanied 
 him merely for amusement, for an afternoon's diversion, and to lead him on 
 to make presents, without the least intention of gr nting him those favours 
 which amorous men solicit from a woman, that therefore, Raymond 
 having seen Gerville in the street, immediately took it into his head that 
 he must be jealous, that he was even capable of stabbing' him, and hence 
 the scene of terror which I had witnessed. 
 
 As she rapidly gave me this sketch of what had taken place, we heard 
 Gerville's voice as he came up the stairs. Presently the door of my own r«»'m 
 was opened, and by listening at the wainscotting, Agatha and I heard the 
 following dialogue : — 
 
 " Ah, is it you, Raymond, how are you ! " 
 
 " Pretty well, I thank you, Gerville," 
 
The Dinners. 59 
 
 « Are you dining alone in a private room ? Rather odd that, is it not 1 f " 
 
 "Oh, dear no, I expect someone on particular business that could not be 
 transacted in the morning." 
 
 " In that case I will not trespass on you. I have been waiting for a 
 friend on the Boulevard, but as it is getting late now, I suppose he will not 
 come. Good-bye, neighbour, good appetite to you." 
 
 Gerville shut the door, and passed on to another room. A pause, 
 then a subdued laugh; and then Agatha said,— 
 
 ' " Dorsan, a capital idea has come into my head, we will have such fun. 
 Bugene, kiss me, my dear fellow; let us be friends, and, I give you my word 
 of honour that I will leave Gerville, and never be false to you again. 
 
 She snatched me to her arms, and then without saying another word 
 Bhe stamped heavily up and down the room, pushed the diomg-table 
 violently on one side, threw the chairs over each other, rattled the side- 
 board until the glass upon it danced again, and uttered in deprecatory 
 
 accents, — . ., 
 
 "My dear Gerville, do not distress yourself without cause, you are quite 
 wrong, I assure you ; I havs not seen Raymond at all. I can't bear the 
 fellow. Ask Dorsan whether he did not ask me to join him at dinner, be- 
 cause he expected another person. I met him, I declare to you, by the 
 
 TTI P1*AQi" Pfl JYT1 Cft 
 
 I saw directly what Agatha was at, so imitated Gerville's voice as 
 closely as I could, and made noise enough for half-a-dozen madmen, until 
 Agatha, feeling somewhat tired with her energetic panUem-ne, whispered in 
 my ear, and I, passing into Raymond's room, found him sitting before an 
 untasted steak, the very picture of despair. I shut the door behind me, 
 turned the key gently, put my finger on ray mouth, and said pointing to 
 next apartment, — 
 
 " He is there." 
 
 " Hush, I know it too well I * 
 
 " We thought he had gone iown after speaking to you, but he only pre 
 tended to do so, and was on the watch. Unfortunately I opened the dooi 
 as I was coming to release you, so he saw Agatna, and came in, and then 
 arose all the row you heard. Such a terrible scene you cannot think : but 
 not with me ; he doesn't suspeo* m* in the least, it's you he is desperately 
 jealous of. I never saw him in suon a passion before, nothing will satisfy 
 him but your blood. I told him he was wrong in blaming you, but no- 
 thing I can say will appease him ; he says if he cannot find you here, he 11 
 watch all night at the door to catch you coming out." 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear! squeaked Raymond, " I knew it was me; he 
 must have seen us on the Boulevard." 
 
 " How imprudent in you to have walked in open day ! you^ ought to 
 have had a coach, and came into the hotel by the back entrance." 
 
 " I'll take good care to go out that way." m . 
 
 "He thought at first, Raymond, that I was your confidant in this 
 amour, and had come here to serve you. I am exposing myself to con- 
 siderable danger for you, I can tell you. I should not wonder in the least 
 if he calls us both out." 
 
 "So long as I live, Dorsan, I shall never forget your kindness. But 
 what was going on when you left ? " 
 
 "Things were rather better; it was Agatha's turn to pretend she was 
 angry with him, that it was beneath him to come h«re and piay the spy on 
 her, suspecting her of infidelity. These women are capital creatures— they 
 are sure to pull through everything. I left on pretext of ordering the dinner, 
 and so—" 
 
30 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 " It is ordered already, my friend, and a capital one too. Eat it heartily, 
 ■£o. I'll pay for all — you shall not pay one farthing — when you are doing 
 -ane this service." 
 
 " As you will. I will just put the servant up to the merits of the case, 
 sad we then will dine together." 
 
 " Do, do. Ah ! if it were not for one unfortunate circumstance, I should 
 %te quite happy." 
 
 11 What is it, neighbour ? " 
 
 " Why, just now, while dinner was getting ready, thinking I would sur- 
 prise Agatha, I slipped one of the profiles cut out at Tivoli into het 
 seticule." 
 
 "The devil you did!" 
 
 " Yes, one of my portraits, stuck on rose-coloured paper, bordered with 
 rapids. If Agatha should want to use her handkerchief, and draw it out 
 s fi>y chance, and he should demand to look at it ! What would become of 
 saae then ? Try, my dear fellow, to prevent her blowing her nose." 
 
 " I will make her a sign to use the dinner-napkin." 
 
 "Do so." 
 
 " Good-bye, my longer absence might appear suspicious." 
 
 When I rejoined Agatha, the servant was placing the dinner on the 
 liable. She seemed surprised at the change in the lady's gentleman, but one 
 crown in her hand, and two words in her ear, put that matter straight at 
 omce, and she promised to tell the fat man in the next room that three of. 
 as were dining together, delighted at having an opportunity of vexing the 
 awkward lout who had made her spill the scalding soup upon her feet. 
 We placed ourselves at table, keeping up a conversation, eating gaily, and 
 filedging each other frequently in champagne, until both of us began to 
 'warm with the remembrance of an old love, and to think our estrangement 
 fi&d been cunningly contrived, in order to render our re-union the more 
 delicious. I rallied Agatha upon her numerous infidelities to me and love 
 <jf change ; and she replied it was not so much the love of change that 
 ^actuated her, as an insatiable desire for " Forbidden Fruit," a species of 
 . ^sorticultural dainty pleasantly embodied in the present instance, by myself 
 ia the centre room, with Gerville, the absolute keeper, on one side, and 
 itaymond, the would-be lover, on the other. I laughed at this sally, and 
 Agatha went on as if she were half mad. At every pause in our luxurious 
 • meal, she roared aA the idea of cheating two men at the same time ; her 
 really bright eyes sparkled like diamonds at the pleasure she enjoyed. She 
 left her seat, sat upon my knees, put her arms round my neck, kissed me 
 sad called me by the most endearing names. Ah i Agatha, Agatha, you 
 were a most faithless wench, but, albeit, most brevitating. What could 1 
 sio but respond to her caresses ? Besides, for several days, my love had been 
 ocmfined to sighs, and vows, and tender looks, all very pretty and romantic, 
 Isat rather too aerial for my proper tastes. Neighbours, poor neighbours 
 43& each side, how delightfully we managed to deceive you both! 
 
 " Be quiet, Agatha, some one ascends the stairs." 
 
 "No fear, Eugene, it's the waitress; a clever girl that : mistress of her 
 trade, with an infinitude of tact. Always coughs as she approaches the door, 
 and fidgets some time with the lock. What has she brought 1 The second 
 coarse, with Burgundy of the highest quality ! Thanks, thanks, friend Ray- 
 mond, you are a well-known judge of wine." 
 
 As the girl placed the viands on the table, she said she bad looked into 
 
 tlbe next room not long since to inquire if Raymond wanted anything, and 
 
 *iad replied, in answer to a question from him, that we were dining three, at 
 
 -which he appeared to be rather more easy in his mind. She retired, and 
 
Tke Dinners. 61 
 
 again we attacked the costly dishes, chiefly flavoured with truffles, and the 
 wine, until, in a moment of cessation, whilst we awaited the liqueurs and the 
 dessert, my regained mistress seated herself on my knees, and narrated to 
 me how she came to be there. It appeared that ever since the morning she 
 watched on the landing for my flower-girl, Raymond had pursued her with 
 oral declarations of love and written billets — the last being always tossed to 
 her assistants to read first, and then to make curl-papers. She had refused 
 him at least twenty assignations, until that day she met him by chance on 
 the Boulevard, having missed finding Gerville, for whom she cared not a jo^ 
 and who the portress said had gone on an excursion to St Denis. Ray- 
 mond begged and prayed her to dine with him, which she refused at first, 
 but accepted eventually, to amuse herself, as I stated before, and to make 
 game of him when he should think at the end of the repast she would yield 
 herself to his will. Again we laughed, filled our glasses, and drank to 
 Raymond's health as the founder of the feast. 
 
 Another " humph ! " and another rattling of the door-key. What have 
 we now ; more dishes ? Yes ; raised pies of every description — partridges 
 with truffles, cutlets with Madeira sauce, stewed crayfish, hashed venison, 
 and more champagne I "Tis a feast fit for the gods ! But what does neigh- 
 bour Raymond eat t 
 
 " A plain boiled fowl, monsieur." 
 
 " Good ; and give him stewed prunes for the dessert ; they are aperient, 
 and excellent for his digestion." 
 
 The girl was gone, our appetites also, and Agatha solicited a respite 
 from the table in order to talk about another kind. The highly-seasoned 
 dishes, the truffles, and the wines, had played the very devil with our heads 
 and hearts. Truly, Raymond had imposed great responsibility upon me 
 when he left me with his belle. Agatha drew me passionately to the couch, 
 her arm was round my neck, her hot breath on my lips, and while her eyes 
 glistened with the madness of mischief, she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Avenge thyself, Eugene, upon that babbling fool. It was Raymond 
 who caused thy little vestal flower-girl to be seen ; he often proposed to me 
 to injure you when I was all your own. He has embroiled you with hun»- 
 dreds of your female friends. Avenge yourself upon him ; avenge yourself, 
 my own sweet love." 
 
 How terrific women are in their revenge ! Agatha's was deep and burn- 
 ing, and would know no rest ; but my rancour evaporated more speedily than 
 hers, aad had well-nigh subsided altogether when the girl appeared with the 
 dessert. What is it ? Peaches, melons, trifle, pine-apples, ices, maraschino, 
 jelly, biscuits, cakes, costly liqueurs, and more champagne I Assuredly, that 
 Raymond would be our deaths. 
 
 The fever-fit was passed ; the hot blood circulated less fiercely through 
 our veins, and we were about to cool our heated bodies with the ices and the 
 fruits ; but before enjoying the elegant dessert, I thought I would take a 
 peep at our entertainer, and see how he was getting on. I left our room, 
 leaving the door open, that Agatha might hear what took place, coughed 
 slightly at Raymond's door, and was admitted with the greatest precaution. 
 
 " How is he now ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, we have got on to the dessert, and things go well enough. Gerville 
 has forgotten all about it." 
 
 " I thought I heard Agatha sigh just now." 
 
 " She did, my friend ; she still pretends to be angry with the little man, 
 hut I can see at bottom that her sighs are all caused by the loss of you." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt, Eugene ; she adores me, I know." 
 
 " I think so too. I can see whenever she pats a truffle in her month, 
 
62 My Neighbour Raymond* 
 
 her mind reverts to you. By-the-bye, what a capital dinner yon have given 
 us. You've an excellent idea of doing things." 
 
 " Why, yes, I t«>ok pains in ordering it ; in fact, I hoped to partake of it 
 myself. Dear Agatha — who's that laughing ? " 
 
 " It's her ; she does so now and then, the better to deceive Gerville. 
 But I must be off ; the truffle calls me. Adieu." 
 
 " Stop a moment, don't be in such a hurry for your wine ; you seem to- 
 be elevated already. Tell me, shall I leave before you do, or not ? " 
 
 "Before, I think, will be best." 
 
 " Very well, then. I will creep out the back way, and go to the Turkish 
 Gardens. If Gerville should take Agatha home, you will find me in the 
 pavilion with the large crescent on the top." 
 
 " Understood, my neighbour. " 
 
 " You will find me there. I beg your pardon for giving you so much 
 trouble, but you have been a real good friend to me to-day. There is only 
 one more request for me to make, and that is, take care of my profile ; see 
 that Agatha does not open her reticule if you can help it. Do so, I beg of 
 you ; it is my last request." 
 
 I promised him, and rejoined Agatha, who had thrust her handkerchief 
 into her mouth to prevent her laughter being heard. Hitherto I had not 
 thought of the profile ; but on its being brought to my recollection by Ray- 
 mond, I opened Agatha's reticule, wherein we found the portrait, stuck on 
 rose-coloured paper, surrounded by little cupids amidst hearts, and darts* 
 and flames, with the very appropriate, new, and ingenious device underneath 
 it. — " When this you see, remember me." At first Agatha wished to affix 
 the profile to the glass above the mantelpiece, but she quickly changed her 
 mind, and decided to keep it carefully, to have several copies of it made, 
 which she would inclose in biJlets-doux, and send them to ladies of rank and 
 fashion, with the fat fool's address written underneath, which, withoui doubt, 
 would produce him sundry thrashings from the ladies' friends. 
 
 We returned to the table, and attacked the truffle, the creams, and the 
 dessert as if we had not dined. The champagne corks struck the ceiling, 
 the wine sparkled and effervesced ; from the glasses it passed upon our lip& 
 and glided insensibly into our hearts ; we shouted and laughed ; our brains 
 reeled, our bosoms panted ; we knew not what we said, but what we did 
 was too delicious to be soon forgotten. Reader, there is a goodly moral in 
 champagne. The bright wine effervesces when first it is poured out, but 
 the sparkling bubbles soon subside, and then it becomes dull, and stale, and 
 flat. Thus, ladies, do the fires of those charms, which have bound so many 
 lovers to your chariots, pale and pass away ; thus do the volcanic passions 
 of young hearts tremble before the wand of age and die. It is Dame 
 Nature's universal law ; we are born, we live, we perish ; dark Death with 
 equal stroke assails the monarch's palace and the peasant's hut. 
 
 How I came to make these wise reflections under the circumstances in 
 which I found myself, it is impossible to say. Most likely it arose from 
 my anger being greatly quenched by the most singular vengeance we 
 took upon Raymond during the dessert ; but, at all events, we moderated 
 our conduct, almost immediately — the more especially as I saw by my 
 watch it was eight o'clock ; and notwithstanding the enticing woman who 
 had established herself on my knees and in my arms, my wayward fancy 
 would draw me to the rendezvous with Caroline. Gerville had been gone 
 some time ; Raymond must be playing the sentinel in the Turkish Gardens, 
 and that there was nothing to prevent our exit. So my fair companion 
 resumed her hat and shawl, dropped her eyes, and tried to put on a quiet, 
 modest air, which the fumes of the champagne would contradict at every 
 
The Rose devoid of Thorns. 63 
 
 moment ; and as for myself, I endeavoured to keep my head up, and walk 
 with a grave demeanour, but the damnable wine would keep interfering 
 with the staidness of my step. I rang for the bill : Raymond had paid it, 
 and satisfied the girl for her attendance and her scalded foot. We descended 
 the stairs. The mistress of the hotel and the servants curtsied and bowed 
 tis out. We walked down the Boulevard, passed the Turkish Gardens, 
 laughed heartily at the idea of Raymond waiting within for his lost sheep, 
 and bade each other " Adieu " when near the Chateau d'Eau, promising 
 ourselves a host of similar delights when next we met. Agatha proceeded 
 home, and I to my watch by the rippling water's side. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BOSS DEVOID OF THORNS. 
 
 I HAD walked at least a dozen times around the fountain, unconsciously 
 Stopping to watch the water as it fell from the lions' mouths. 1 remarked 
 the stolid expression of their faces, listened to the stream as it trickled back 
 into the lower basin whence it was forced ; and was preparing to depart, 
 as I saw I had become an object of suspicion to the sentinel on duty, when 
 I perceived a jaunty cap come tripping lightly towards me, and presently-— 
 for my sight is rather weak — recognised my pretty Caroline. She advanced 
 with an encouraging smile upon her face, and took my extended hand with- 
 out a shadow of difficulty or reluctance. She was not in a grisette's full 
 dress ; but still it was evident she had paid considerable attention to her 
 toilet. Her hair was arranged in fascinating curls ; a snow-white cap was 
 tied under her chin with a smart cherry -coloured ribbon ; and her black 
 silk apron was newly ironed out. These pains are not taken unlesj a girl 
 has made up her mind to please and win a man, I thought. She seems to 
 have some knowledge of the world, so to business, Eugene, at once. An- 
 other smile, another ardent pressure of the hand, somewhat impregnated 
 with champagne, and I said, as tenderly as the wine would let me, — 
 
 " I had almost despaired of seeing you to-night, my dearest." 
 
 "Oh, I could not come sooner, monsieur, I assure you. I never leave 
 the shop before eight o'clock, and it is now only a quarter past." 
 
 «* Well, well, I am delighted to see you ; and now that you are come, 
 let us take a walk into the country." 
 
 " The country ! Oh no ; it is too far. My aunt will scold me if I do 
 not go home by nine o'clock." 
 
 '• Shall we go into some coffee-house or tavern ? " 
 
 •• Oh, dear no. If I should be seen with a gentleman, what would be- 
 come of me ? " 
 
 I felt, too, that it was not quite the thinsr for me to be seen walking 
 with a white cap and a black apron on the Boulevard ; but I did not like 
 to tell her so. Certainly there is not much difference between an artificial 
 -florist and a milliner ; but then Agatha wore a handsome bonnet, a silk 
 dress, and a shawl, which makes a great difference. Had even Nicette 
 accosted me at mid-day, instead of midnight, assuredly I should not have 
 walked with her to her mother's house. There are certain conventional 
 observances in society that no man can afford to brave with impunity. 
 
 Whilst I pondered as to what I should do, Caroline suggested a pro- 
 
64 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 menade in the Rue du Marais, a quiet, sentimental street, where we should 
 not be much exposed to view, and possessing the advantage of being near 
 the residence of her aunt. Caroline was mistress of the locality ; so we 
 descended the stairs that led to Vauxhall arm-in-arm, and once in the street^ 
 the conversation turned, as usual, on love, love, nothing else but love. 
 
 How could it be otherwise between two people who had the best dis- 
 position to make fools of each other to suit their individual purposes 
 — between a handsome girl and a good-looking fellow — an artful, rakish 
 florist and a fast young man ? From time immemorial, love has been the 
 eternal subject of conversation between man and woman. The subject is 
 inexhaustible ; for talk of it as often as you will, and in as many different 
 ways, we all come to the same end at last. 
 
 Fortified with the champagne, I boldly entered into the matter at once ; 
 but my companion, who had not made so exciting a dinner as myself, main- 
 tained a delicate reserve, and always pushed her aunt forward as her battle- 
 horse. She did not like to quit the old lady, although she was so very 
 exacting and difficult to please. She wished to be free and work on her 
 wn account ; but then humanity and duty compelled her to assist in the 
 maintenance of the aged aunt. 
 
 This gave me the cue at once. I talked of bonnets, and shawls, and 
 ribbons, and robes till her eyes glistened — that was the weak spot. I insinu- 
 ated how exquisitely lovely she would look, with a real cashmere upon her 
 shoulders, in an opera-box. I whispered something about a pretty apart- 
 ment, elegantly furnished, with no rent to pay, where she might work or 
 not, just as she pleased, and I saw, from the heaving of the bosom and the 
 fire in the eyes, that the bait was swallowed, and the hook was in her throat. 
 I passed on to concerts, plays, parties of pleasure, dinners in the country 
 at Montmorency, Englieu, and Romainville ; as she looked up in my face, 
 I stooped down to her and stole a kiss, and was proceeding to acquire some 
 further information with respect to her shape, when she gently but firmly 
 arrested the progress of my hand. What was to be done ? Nothing but 
 to fall back on the apartment of her own, which I forthwith turned to with 
 redoubled ardour. These grisettes are all alike. They all long for a room 
 of their own, for they think that then their fortunes are absolutely made. 
 I saw that my florist sighed for an apartment like the rest, and without it I 
 could expect no favours from her love Here was another piece of folly I 
 was about to commit. Favours from gratitude and love 1 Call it by its 
 proper name, seduction, and have done. 
 
 " Dear Caroline," I said, " do you think your aunt would die of grief if 
 you should leave her ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; if she could have enough to live upon she would be glad to get 
 rid of me, and I should be so happy when away from her." 
 
 " Have you any other relations ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " You would leave her, then, without regret ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, if I could have afforded to have furnished an apartment for 
 myself, I would have done so long ago. " 
 
 " If that is the case, my sweet one, you shall be mistress of your own 
 rooms to-morrow." 
 
 " Can it be possible ? Are you really in earnest, Monsieur % " She 
 made a movement of delight ; but recollecting herself directly she restrained 
 her feelings ; all the pleasure she experienced at my proposition must not 
 be testified at once, some difficulties must be interposed before the fortress 
 should be yielded up. " Ought I to accept your kind offer, sir ? " she said. 
 
 " What hinders you, my love ? " 
 
The Rose devoid of Thorns. 65 
 
 " What will the world say ? " 
 
 " A fig for the world I If your aunt is agreeable to your leaving her, 
 what is that to the world ? Why should you care for the opinion of people 
 who have never done anything, and never will do anything for you ? " 
 
 "Very true, sir ; besides, I know plenty of young girls who have their 
 own rooms, and are very comfortable indeed." 
 
 She was mine. 
 
 " Hundreds of them, I daresay, so that affair is ended. Look now e 
 Caroline, be here to-morrow evening at this hour, bring what necessaries 
 you want for immediate use with you. I will be here punctually to meet 
 you, and conduct you to your — mark me, your own — home." 
 
 " Well, as you wish it, I will be ready here to-morrow at nine." 
 
 " One question, Caroline, before we part. This Jules, who was with you 
 at Tivoli, who is he ? " 
 
 " Nothing but a young man who sometimes takes me a walk with my 
 aunt, nothing more." 
 
 " I believe you ; let him be what he may, promise me you will not see 
 him again." 
 
 " Be easy on that head, monsieur, I will never see him more. I would 
 not act contrary to your wishes for the world." 
 
 " Dear girl, all then is finally arranged for to-morrow, and now, ' fare- 
 well.'" 
 
 Our bargain was ratified by the sweet contact of our lips ; after which 
 Caroline took a tender leave of me, and returned for the last time to her 
 aunt's. As I walked towards home, certain reflections on the step I had 
 taken would force themselves upon my mind. What was the fact ? I wa* 
 about to take Caroline into "keeping. That word keeping sounds uncon- 
 sciously bad ; in general it is resorted to by elderly libertines, stupid, ugly, 
 old, infirm people, favoured only by Fortune's gifts, who obtain by gold 
 alone the favours which women lavish upon those they love, people who are 
 rarely loved and constantly deceived ; indeed, it would be no new thing for 
 me to amuse myself at the expense of these keepers, and yet I had arranged 
 to keep Miss Caroline. So much for consistency ! but then it appeared she 
 could not be obtained on easier terms, and I was determined that she should 
 be mine. Keep her I oh, dear no, that was not the word at all. I would, 
 only engage some apartments for her, furnish them, and make her a present 
 now and then ; but she must continue to work at her trade, for I could no* 
 undertake to gratify all her whims ; and so I should be her lover, and not 
 her keeper. Thus it always is that men strive to view their foolish actions 
 in the most favourable light. 
 
 Caroline was really very handsome. Almost a week had elapsed since 
 I beheld her first and sighed to possess her charms — a whole age for me — 
 besides, such was my unbounded vanity, that, although I had only seen her 
 for the third time that evening, I felt persuaded that she loved me. To be 
 sure, there was nothing as yet in her conduct to induce me to think that 
 sweet feelings towards me dwelt within her heart, and much in it to lead 
 me to suppose that she was a coquette. So much the better: it remained for 
 me to fix these volatile affections. She would see no other man but myself 
 at home, she would go out with only me ; in short, she would do everything, 
 I wished, and be faithful to me, even unto death. Such are the dreams of 
 youth. 
 
 I got up at an early hour on the following morning, ate my breakfast 
 quickly, and dressed in haste, and as I stepped out on the landing, full of 
 Caroline's apartments, I ran against Raymond, who was coming to chat 
 with me, in his morning-gown. He expressed great surprise at seeing me 
 
 E 
 
66 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 leave my rooms so early, and reproached me for not having come, according 
 to my promise, to the Turkish Gardens, where he had waited for me until 
 past eleven o'clock. Above all, he was anxious to know whether the profile 
 in Agatha's recticule had been discovered or not. My neighbour's misfor- 
 tunes possessed no interest for me just then ; I had not even time to laugh 
 at them. I had reached the bottom of the staircase before he had finished, 
 crossed the court-yard with the speed of light, and then ran up and down 
 every street in the neighbourhood in order to find Caroline some rooms not 
 far from mine, fit for immediate occupation, for it was impossible I could 
 pass another night without enfolding her within my arms. For several 
 hours I could not find any apartments that would suit me — they were all 
 either too high, too low, too dirty, too exposed, or with some other insur- 
 mountable objection ; and as I walked on, looking for bills in the windows 
 announcing lodgings to let, I heard some one cough gently, but purposely, 
 behind me, and, on turning round, saw it was Nicette. I was within two 
 steps of her shop ; yet my abstraction was so great that I had not seen 
 her. Poor girl ! She looked at me full in the face with eager eyes, half- 
 filled with tears, and then dropped them on the ground, not daring to speak 
 to me in broad daylight in the open street. The recollection of the bouquet 
 in my door lock came across me. I entered her shop, and, whilst I bought 
 some flowers, expressed my gratitude to her for her grateful souvenir. She 
 blushed with pleasure ; and, as I walked away, I could see that she came to 
 the shop door and followed me with her eyes till I was out of sight. 
 
 After some further tedious researches, I found some lodgings that 
 pleased me in the Rue Oaumartin, consisting of two neat rooms, which 
 could be occupied that day. It only remained now to buy appropriate furni- 
 ture, which, with money, would be the work of a very short space of time 
 indeed. I went to the first upholsterer I could find, described the apart- 
 ments to him, bought and paid for what was necessary, and for some nick- 
 nacks, which were packed before me, put into a cart, and sent away at once, 
 and in three hours the rooms were completely furnished, and presented a 
 very agreeable appearance. Besides the indispensable pieces of furniture, 
 there was a superb easy-chair for Caroline to lounge upon when alone, a 
 long ottoman for both of us to repose by day, and toy, and laugh, and kiss. 
 Handsome mirrors, Venetian blinds to shut out the garish eye of day, and 
 an elegant clock over the mantelpiece, that I might not quite forget the 
 ordinary business of life in the fair syren's fond embrace. All these 
 luxuries were very expensive ; but then Caroline would gain something 
 towards her living, and, with economy and retrenchment, their cost would 
 easily be saved. Economy, with a kept mistress, reader : moonshine in the 
 water, and castles in the air ! 
 
 At length all was arranged, the keys of the apartments were placed in 
 my hands — for I had taken care not to hire rooms in a house where there 
 was a great gate and a porter to spy upon us — and I went out to seek a 
 tavern close by and order a nice little collation for my fair one's supper at 
 nine o'clock ; then I returned, looked over the two rooms again and again 
 to ascertain that nothing was wanting, put fifteen sovereigns in the drawer 
 of the dressing-case for Caroline's present expenses, because, of course, she 
 would not think of working at first, but confine herself to the delights of 
 love ; and then, being satisfied that everything was as it should be, I turned 
 the key in the lock and walked away with the intention of killing time until 
 night should usher me to Caroline and unutterable bliss. Six o'clock 
 struck. Two hours and a half yet till I should see her : a whole eternity ! 
 I dined rapidly, rose from the table in a state of great nervous excitement 
 and thinking that even a jest at Raymond would be acceptable, I proceeded 
 
The Rose devoid of Thorns. 67 
 
 to the Rue Vivienne, thinking I should be sure to find him hovering around 
 Agatha's shop. As I approached, I saw a number of boys crowded before a 
 placard on the wall. Believing it to be an announcement of public inter- 
 est, I made my way to it, and beheld one of my neighbour's profiles pasted 
 on an immense sheet of white paper, with the following inscription in largo 
 characters, — " This is to give notice to the ladies of Paris, married or single; 
 that the gentleman, of whom the above is a perfect likeness, is desirous of 
 meeting any lady, from sixteen to thirty-five years of age, who will do him 
 the honour of dining with him in a private room." 
 
 There could be no doubt as to the author of this practical joke, even had 
 I not seen Agatha with her girls standing at the shop-door, laughing 
 heartily at the numbers who congregated in front of the placard, and at 
 the different remarks they made. I really felt for Raymond, and would 
 have plucked down the paper if I had dared, for although black profiles 
 are not the best likenesses in the world, my neighbour's face was by no 
 means a common one, and unfortunately the artist had hit him off exactly 
 in this instance. Amongst the curious at the placard I observed little 
 Triquet, Vanvert's nephew, who was always to be found in similar spots, 
 before caricature shops, cake stalls, street singers, penny-shows, and all 
 other out-of-door amusements. The young scamp recognised the portrait at 
 once, and cried out, — 
 
 " It is Monsieur Raymond, who comes to my aunt's to sing ; it's him, 
 sure enough. Who could have stuck him up there? Oh, I'm sure it's 
 Monsieur Raymond ! " 
 
 As I turned to walk away, who should I see but Raymond himself, 
 promenading before Agatha's shop, grinning and leering at all the damsels, 
 who could not restrain their peals of laughter. Unfortunately for him he 
 passed onwards to the corner where the bill was posted, and the moment 
 he was seen by Triquet, the lad maliciously pointed him out to all who 
 were standing round. Really wishing to spare him the galling mortifica- 
 tion I knew he must endure at seeing himself made an object of common 
 ridicule through the treachery of a woman in whose heart he thought he 
 had created an interest, I took him by the arm and endeavoured to lead 
 him away, but he refused, stating that he was there for the purpose of 
 watching Agatha. It was a favourable moment for prosecuting his suit, as 
 he saw she did not take her eyes from off him. In this remark he was 
 quite right, for there she stood in the door-way, smiling and looking lan- 
 guishingly at him as if she were desperately in love. This behaviour had 
 the desired effect of keeping Raymond near the shop, so that the inspectors 
 of the placard might have a full opportunity of recognising his likeness to 
 the profile, whilst the unfortunate victim, never having observed this 
 gracious conduct in Agatha before, and seeing all the shop-girls eyeing him 
 with evident admiration, shook off my arm abruptly, stopped short, and 
 stood leaning on his stick in the street, rocking himself gently right and 
 left. Agatha and her assistants did not remain to witness the end of the 
 farce, but having attained their object, retired into the shop. Raymond 
 then moved away, and remarking the numbers at the end of the street^ 
 would walk towards them. 
 
 It was in vain that I endeavoured to induce him to take another direo 
 tion ; he persisted in going straight on, saying, — 
 
 " There must be some curious bill there, let us see what it is." 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing but the offer of a reward for a dog that is lost, or the 
 announcement of some new lotion to prevent the hair from falling off or 
 becoming grey." 
 
 " Then let us go there by all means. Those oils are not to be treated 
 
68 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 with contempt, I assure you. I try all sorts of them ; sometimes they do 
 give me a headache, to be sure, but we rakes must suffer a little if we wish 
 to preserve all our seducing looks. But it cannot be that either ! how the 
 people titter and laugh." 
 
 " Oh, something very absurd, no doubt ; don't you know that in this city 
 you can assemble a thousand people in three minutes by only standing 
 still and staring up into the heavens ? " 
 
 "Never mind, never mind, I like to laugh at a good joke, so come 
 along." 
 
 I could not restrain him any longer ; he passed rapidly down the street 
 to the corner, elbowed his way through the crowd, and stood like a statue 
 before the profile, scarcely believing his eyes, and as I came up, anxiously 
 awaiting the termination of the scene, the scamp Triquet uttered a cry of 
 delight, and proud of displaying his knowledge of the original to the gaping 
 crowd, bawled out, — " Monsieur Raymond, here is your likeness." Upon 
 which all the spectators shouted with one voice, — " It is Monsieur Raymond, 
 who comes to sing at my aunt's." 
 
 Recovering himself in a moment, my neighbour pulled his hat down 
 on his forehead so that only the tip of his nose could be seen, and tried 
 to pass through the people, who amused themselves with barring the way 
 and joking at his expense, until, maddened with their low jests, he pushed 
 them violently aside, rushed by Agatha's shop, his anger still more in- 
 creased by the merriment he heard within, until, not seeing in the least 
 where he was going, he ran against a blind old man led by a dog, hold- 
 ing a tin pan to collect the contributions of the charitable, in his mouth. 
 The violence of the concussion upset the man and the dog on the pavement, 
 knocking the tin pan out of the animal's mouth. The man, hearing the 
 penny pieces and halfpence rattle on the stones, cried out that he was being 
 robbed, and the dog flew at Raymond, who swore in his turn, and trembled 
 for the safety of his enormous calves. Several persons ran to assist the 
 poor beggar, who was striking right and left with his stick with one hand, 
 as he endeavoured to collect the coppers with the other, whilst a terrific 
 combat was taking place between Raymond and the dog, who had evidently 
 mistaken one of my neighbour's legs for his tin pan, and did not seem in- 
 clined to relax his hold. 
 
 At last the blind man was set upon his feet, and the tin pan replaced 
 in the dog's mouth, but the ddnouement of the comedy had not yet 
 arrived. The beggar rubbed his rump, and complained of being hurt 
 severely. He required compensation for his bruises and for the moneys he 
 had lost from the tin, by reason of his fall, so that my neighbour was 
 obliged to half empty his purse in pursuance of advice hooted derisively in 
 his ears, "That a man must be generous in repairing the mischief he 
 commits when running through crowded streets as if he were mad." Ray- 
 mond stared around him, wishing but not daring to vent his spite. The 
 more he gave the more the blind man complained of his afflicted haunches, 
 and bewailed his loss. 
 
 "There," said Raymond, wearied out with putting his fingers in his 
 purse, " there are ten shillings for your jump, and half-a-crown for the losp 
 of your coppers ; that's enough, in all conscience." 
 
 " Oh, gentleman, you have hurt me badly, I'm sure I shall not be able t* 
 walk for a week at least ; you must pay me for my loss of time." 
 
 "Well then, there's another ten shillings." 
 "Not half enough, good gentleman." 
 
 " What I the devil 1 it's three shillings a day, and you are not satisfied. 
 Begging must be a pretty good trade, I think ! " 
 
rhe Rose devoid of Thorns. 69 
 
 "I am the father of a family, sir, a poor man, with five small 
 shildren." 
 
 " Then why does not your wife lead you about instead of the dog ? " 
 
 " She sings about" the squares." 
 
 " And what do your children do for their living ? " 
 
 "My eldest sings on the Italian Boulevards, the second sells matches in 
 the Rue du Grand Thirleus, the third Bells flowers on Mount Parnassus, 
 the fourth holds horses in the Champs Elysees, and the youngest, who has 
 just commenced singing, begs and earns what he can in the Boulevard du 
 Temple ; we all of us sing, Monsieur." 
 
 " And if each of you sing all day and get three shillings apiece each 
 day, you must be one of the happiest and luckiest families in all Paris." 
 
 This bit of wit caused the bystanders to laugh, and turned the tide in 
 Raymond's favour, and as the beggar continued to demand further recom- 
 pense, he was requested to show his wounds to the Inspector of Police, who 
 has a scale of remuneration for injured rumps of all classes ; but fearing a 
 considerable discount would be allowed by this public functionary, the blind 
 man retired with his dog, Raymond with his lightened purse, and I with 
 the profile, which I tore down and deposited in my pocket. 
 
 The happy hour had now arrived for my interview with Caroline. I 
 took a hackney coach, ordered the man to drive to the Chateau d'Eau, 
 where I had not been many minutes before my fair fugitive, true to time, 
 made her appearance, carrying two small parcels in her hand. She smiled 
 tenderly as soon as she perceived me, and held out her hand with a ready 
 freedom that showed I was master of her heart. I put her parcels into the 
 coach, handed her in, entered myself, desired the coachman to drive fast, 
 as I was all eagerness to behold her surprise at *he arrangement of her 
 rooms, and held her in my arms, and talked to her during the short ride» 
 on the all-engrossing subject of our future happiness and love. Arrived at 
 the house, I paid the man and opened the door ; Caroline took out her 
 parcels, and we ascended the stairs, my hand enfolding hers, leading her 
 up as if it was dark. And yet at that exciting moment, so all-important 
 for an innocent young girl ; the moment of a change for life, the moment 
 preceding the acquisition of the knowledge of the great secret of existence 
 for which men and women peril their fortunes, their reputations, and their 
 souls, Caroline's pulse beat calmly as an infant's in its sleep, and not the 
 slightest tremor agitated the small hand. Certainly, my inamorata pos- 
 sessed unshaking nerves. 
 
 Notwithstanding the darkness, we reached the landing-place in safety ; 
 an elderly neighbour kindly supplied us with a light, the room was entered, 
 the^ lamps illuminated, and Caroline left at liberty to admire her new 
 abode. As I thought, she was delighted at all she saw, and unbounded 
 pleasure sparkled in her eyes. She sat upon the easy chair, then upon the 
 couch, examined the curtains, the table, the commode, the clock, the chairs, 
 and looked at herself again and again in all the mirrors ; in fact she inspected 
 everything except the bed — that omission arose from modesty, no doubt. I 
 thought she would never have tired of exclaiming, — " How beautiful, how 
 pretty, how kind of you, how lovely, how happy I shall be 1 " 
 
 Having allowed the first burst of gratified surprise to evaporate, I drew 
 her upon my lap, and asked her if she was satisfied. 
 
 "Indeed, indeed I am," she answered; "how could I be otherwise? 
 Everything is so elegant, so charming ; nothing is wanting. It is really too 
 good for me." 
 
 " You think, then, you can be happy here ? " 
 
 "I think I should never wi*k to 1^-sve these rooms.* 1 
 
70 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 " Then all within them belong to you. All I ask you in return la your 
 
 unfailing love." 
 
 " Mine, all mine ? " 
 
 " Yes, dearest ; and although it would kill me to part with you, yet, if 
 you do not love me, you can shut the door against me. I seek not to put 
 a price upon your favours ; I would have you love me for myself alone." 
 
 "And can you think that I do not ? If so, would I have come here at 
 your solicitations, and left my poor old aunt ? Oh, no ! I — " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence, for my kisses stopped her mouth ; and 
 whilst I inhaled its wondrous sweets, a sudden knock aroused me from my 
 dream. 
 
 Caroline started like a guilty thing. Who could it be ? I calmed her 
 fears, went to the door, and admitted the tavern-keeper's boy, who had 
 brought the supper according to my orders. Wishing to have no witness 
 to our t^te-d-tete, we dismissed the youth, laid the cloth ourselves, placed 
 the dishes on the table, and sat down alone with our happiness in our realms, 
 monarchs of all we surveyed. Anticipations of the coming bliss had so- 
 racked my mind and irritated my body that I had lost all appetite ; but it 
 gave me pleasure to see Caroline do honour to the feast. She did not 
 attempt to play the coquette with the unusual delicacies that were placed, 
 before her, but commended everything she tasted, and acknowledged frankly 
 that she had never partaken of such a supper at her aunt's, nor drank such 
 wine as the Muscat I poured into her glass. 
 
 Supper being over, we attacked a pint bottle of champagne. I handed 
 her a bumper of the glorious exhilarating liquor, not that I wished to cloud 
 her brain, and so rob myself of half the enjoyment of my coming triumph 
 in witnessing the full effect of my vigorous, amorous grasp upon her trem- 
 bling form, her panting bosom, and her conscious, blushing face, but that I 
 knew the wine would put any remains of bashfulness to flight, and bring 
 her with less maiden, coy reluctance to my arms. . As the champagne began 
 to have its usual effect, I discovered to my delight that Caroline possessed 
 great natural talents, quick wit, with a happy mode of expressing herself, 
 and that, with slight tuition, she would become a perfect woman of the 
 world. It was clear that she was heartily tired of her residence in the Rue 
 aux Hosiers, and wished to shine in a larger theatre, where she expected to 
 achieve the most unlimited success ; but madly, stupidly in love as I was,. 
 I foresaw it would be necessary to circumscribe her passion for dress and every 
 sort of luxurious expense, for that species of keeping would speedily play 
 the very devil with my pockets. 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. 
 
 "Already eleven," said Caroline, "how quick the time has passed?" 
 But no sooner had the words escaped her lips, than I was at her side, my 
 head was on her breast; she encircled me tenderly with her arms, and not 
 a word was spoken. Silence is at times more ominous, and acts more 
 deeply on the heart, than the noisiest shouts of joy. Again she whispered, 
 — "It is late," and I murmured, — "Caroline, I cannot, will not, leave 
 
 you." 
 
 She did not answer, but gazed fixedly at the floor. What was she 
 thinking about ? Was ambition struggling with virtue 1 I came near to 
 her, and passing my arm around her waist with one hand, I raised her head 
 by placing the other under her chin. She did not offer the least resistance, 
 and remained perfectly passive in my hands. I look into her upturned 
 face, her eyes ; neither of which betokened the lea3t internal commotion. 
 Had I after all been mistaken ? Was she an experienced woman of th* 
 world, not the innocent and pure maiden I had taken her to be t Doubt, 
 
The Rose devoid of Thorns. 71 
 
 Jealousy, anger, and a thousand other passions began to assail me. Had I 
 been put to all this expense, had I exercised so much ingenuity merely to 
 gain the favour of one whom another had, perhaps, become tired of and 
 -cast from him as he would have a worn-out garment? 1 hesitated. 
 Her beauty gained the ascendancy. After all, what did it matter 
 that another had plucked the flower I had thought to cull. She was not 
 a whit less handsome, even had I proof of the fact, which I had not. 
 Perhaps her first love had been a mere freak of childishness, proceeding 
 .from want of thought or ignorance of the ways of the world. But it could 
 _not be so in my case. Her choice had been deliberately made. I had 
 been the object of her preference. 
 
 At length I mustered courage to speak. 
 
 " Caroline," I began, " are you sorry that you have come here ? Do you 
 regret the choice you have made ? " 
 
 " Why do you ask such questions, dearest ? Have I not told you that 
 1 never wish to leave these rooms ? " she answered in a sort of plaintive 
 tone. 
 
 " Because . . . because, Caroline, you do not seem to reciprocate my 
 great love for you. Caroline, do you really love me ? Do you think you 
 can be happy with me under this roof ? " saying which I pressed burning 
 kisses on her lipa which she did not resist. 
 
 My happiness was complete. What cared I whether she had had 
 fifty lovers before me, she would now be my own, my very own Caroline. 
 ^Both of us soon threw bashfulness to the winds. She swore eternal 
 constancy to me ; that she would see none, love none, think of none 
 but me. 
 
 When I awoke next morning about six o'clock I saw that Caroline was 
 still asleep. And as I thought she must be fatigued with the excitement 
 of the previous day, and would require some additional rest, I did not dis- 
 turb her. I dressed myself in silence, cast another look upon my new love, 
 opened the door quietly, and left the room. There was judgment in acting 
 thus : I was aware, from my experience of the sex, that the being too much 
 together is apt to produce satiety between men and women, and that no fire 
 is so quickly extinguished as that of love unless it is tended with the most 
 guarded care* For this reason I left Caroline, even on the second day of 
 our matrimonial converse, and because — all beauteous as she was — I could 
 not, like Mark Ancony, give up the whole world for her. 
 
 What a difference there is in Paris between six o'clock in the morning 
 and six in the afternoon ! What peaceful calmness in those streets which, 
 in a few brief hours, will echo with the sounds of every sort of carriages, 
 gigs, whiskeys, buggys, tandems, chariots, coaches, and landaus, the shouts 
 of the coachmen and the footmen, the oaths of waggoners and carters, and 
 the cries of perambulating hawkers as they recommend their wares. At 
 the moment that I left the house a few milk-women were the only speci- 
 mens of animated nature on the scene. As I walked towards the Boulevards 
 the bracing morning air seemed to renovate my enervated frame, rather 
 shattered with last night's exploits, and I determined to take a lengthened 
 promenade upon them, before the clouds of dust raised by the presence of 
 the sons of fashion and of toil should have destroyed their sylvan character, 
 and they should have lost their fragance in the hot air of the advancing day. 
 Soon, however, the shopkeepers began to leave their beds, and display their 
 stores ; porters commenced sweeping with their brooms, upper windows 
 were opened and blinds drawn up ; the lazy yawned; work-girls came out to 
 buy their ounce of coffee for their breakfasts, old men for their hot rolls, 
 old women for their little jugs of cream, and cookmalds for their ingredients 
 
72 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 for their soup. The errand-porter took his morning dram and the cabman 
 his drop before they commenced their work for the day, whilst the peasant 
 women remounted their donkeys and returned home. Having half got through 
 one, and I — seeing that it was half- past seven o'clock and the world was now 
 wide awake — determined to gain my rooms, hoping that I should get in 
 without being seen, and especially by neighbour Raymond. Poor fool I 
 after the adventure of the profile, it was most likely there would be any- 
 thing but a friendly explanation between us ; he would be furious against 
 me, and stupid as he was, he must have been convinced on reflection that 
 Agatha was at the bottom of the affair of the placard, and that she and 
 her assistants had all along been making game of him. 
 
 I did not meet anybody on the stairs ; but on reaching my door, found a- 
 bouquet in the lock, which, from its being rather faded, must have re- 
 mained there all the previous night. The little flower-girl had not forgotten 
 me ; but I, who had passed within a few paces of her shop, and might have 
 called, had not remembered there was such a person in existence. Never- 
 theless, Nicette well-merited to be thought of ; but I had been so occupied 
 for the last few days that I could not find time to go and see her 5 besides, 
 I had promised myself that it would be the best thing possible for her 
 happiness, that I should not think of her, and I wished she should detach 
 her thoughts altogether from me, and recompense some honest man with 
 her attachment. I took out the bouquet and went into my room ; there 
 everything recalled to my mind the night I had passed in it with Nicette j 
 oh I how unlike the last, which, when I came to reflect, was exceedingly 
 pleasing, but by no means new. I had passed, and no doubt shouldiagain 
 pass, very many similar ones to it ; but those nights are rare indeed, where 
 a lovely girl of eighteen years of age, even whilst she bewilders a young man, 
 causes him by her conduct to respect her innocence, and cease from troub- 
 ling her virtue. 
 
 I threw myself upon my bed in the hope of getting a little sleep, to 
 counterbalance the loss of it sustained by my amorous vigils, and on reflect- 
 ing on my present position, strange to say, I did not feel so completely 
 happy as I thought I should have been. True, I was the sole possessor of a 
 very beautiful woman, whose charms did not lose one tittle 61 piquancy by 
 close inspection ; who was as perfect a woman as any I had ever kuown, and 
 had sworn never to commit an infidelity ; but then fifty others had sworn 
 the' same to me before, and all of them had finished by deceiving me ! My 
 new mistress was only a woman like the rest ; might she not then act as 
 they had done ? Certainly ; but why should I torment myself in this 
 manner, and meet coming evils half-way on their road ? for no reason in the 
 world ; therefore let me act philosophically and enjoy the blessings and 
 gratifications of this life, while strength, health, and youth still lasted. 
 
 I slept rather late ; and immediately after breakfast the porter's wife 
 entered my room with a look of mystery on her face and an open letter in 
 her hand, which she presented to me with a profound curtsey. I gathered 
 from her important bearing that she was acquainted with its contents, and 
 asked with a grave countenance from whom she had received it. 
 
 " From Monsieur Raymond," she replied, to whom she was to convey 
 my answer. 
 
 The contents were as follows : — 
 
 " Monsieur Dorsan, — I have to demand satisfaction from you relative 
 to certain circumstances which occurred at the dinner at ' The Meridian ' 
 the day before yesterday, the which must take place in the woods of Boulogne 
 at half -past one o'clock this afternoon. I shall be unaccompanied, and trust 
 
The Duel zvith My Neighbour. 73 
 
 "that you will have no one with you. I believe you to be a man of such 
 courage that you will not fail to meet me at the Maillot gate. 
 
 " Raymond." 
 
 On reading this billet, I could not contain my laughter, which appeared 
 to surprise Madame Dupont very much indeed, as the poor woman could 
 not see any fun in the approaching duel. She interrogated my merriment 
 by asking what reply she should take back, and was directed to tell my 
 neighbour that I would attend his appointment punctually. Proud of 
 being employed on so delicate and important an affair, she curtsied again 
 in a very pompous manner, and returned to the lodge, where Raymond, no 
 doubt, was waiting for her, and informing all the servants in the house and 
 the good woman's gossips that he was about to risk his precious person in 
 an affair of honour. 
 
 When she was gone, I sat down to consider what weapons I should take. 
 He had not specified pistols, sabres, or small swords. In my own mind I 
 felt satisfied that in the end none would be wanted ; but, at anyrate, I could 
 not be wrong if I put my pistols in my pockets. Perhaps, after all, I mighti 
 have been in error in thinking Raymond was an arrant coward. Madmen 
 have occasional lucid intervals ; misers are sometimes prodigal ; tyrants have 
 their moments of generosity and justice ; politicians moments of sincerity ; 
 .rogues moments of probity ; and poltroons might have some ideas of valour. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE DUEL WITH MY NEIGHBOUB. 
 
 Precisely at half -past one I was at the appointed spot. As the weather 
 was very fine, and the outskirts of the wood were much frequented as a 
 charming promenade, I could not help thinking that Raymond had chosen 
 both a place and an hour for fighting in which we could not avoid being 
 seen ; but as he was the challenger, he had the undoubted right of choosing 
 both time and place, so nothing remained for me but to await his coming. 
 
 No man, however brave, ever walked coolly to a scene of personal con- 
 flict without some compunctious visitings of nature with respect to the 
 result ; but although I do not arrogate to myself a greater share of valour 
 than my neighbours, I did not experience the slightest qualms on the present 
 occasion, feeling assured that, by some means or other, Raymond would 
 contrive to prevent the hostile meeting from producing either of our un- 
 timely ends. 
 
 To speak the truth, Caroline was uppermost in my thoughts. She would 
 be astonished at my leaving her so cavalierly and not returning for so long. 
 She would pout and scold me. But then there was a delightful way of re- 
 establishing peace upon the spot, for which it was worth while risking a 
 lover's quarrel. It is only in old connections that temporary disagreements 
 banish love, because in them peace is never renewed in the same delicious 
 manner as amongst the young. 
 
 Half -past one o'clock, and the redoubtable warrior had not arrived. 
 Had he been making a fool of me ? No, he would net have dared. Then 
 he must have occupied himself since ten o'clock in the morning in going 
 xound to all his acquaintances informing them of this mock duel — for such, 
 
74 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 I was convinced, it would turn out — or possibly he might have gone to the- 
 police, so that we might be apprehended in the very nick of time. Then 
 again I thought I did him wrong in estimating him so basely. He must 
 feel deeply the ridiculous affair at " The Meridian," and the worse one of 
 the placard in the Rue Vivienne, and desired to revenge himself upon your 
 humble servant, who was compromised in both. But again it appeared to 
 me that if he was in earnest in his desire to fight, he would not have been 
 so absurd as to send a defiance by the portress : and this I well knew, that 
 the duel might have been avoided without the loss of personal honour, for if 
 he had come to me frankly, and complained of my disingenuous behaviour, 
 I should have treated the affair as a joke, engendered by my being piqued 
 at his discovery of Nicette, and apologised for it, because I own I am one 
 of those who do not consider that cutting my adversary's throat will repair 
 the injuries I may have done him. No 1 I hold that it becomes a man, if. 
 he is in the wrong, to avow it. It is time enough to fight if the apology 
 be not accepted. 
 
 I continued walking up and down, not far from the gate, until almost- 
 two o'clock, and yet Raymond did not appear. In the meantime clouds 
 rose up in the horizon, and the sky became overcast with every indication 
 of a heavy storm. The promenaders hastened homewards, the gentlemen 
 on horseback pressed their coursers' flanks with their spurs, and the coachmen 
 flogged their horses, the desire to escape the rain being universal, but just 
 as I was about to move off to some of the taverns in the wood, I saw three 
 men approaching with rapid strides, and on looking attentively at them, 
 recognised Raymond marching at their head with the air of having the 
 whole business of the world upon his shoulders. What could he mean by 
 bringing two companions with him when he had written to me he should be 
 alone ? No matter, the shallow device was easily seen through, he had 
 requested me not to bring a second that he might supply me with one of bia 
 for his own especial purposes. 
 
 As they came on, I saw that my neighbour's chosen comrades were the 
 music-mad Vanvert and Baron Witcheritchy. A pretty couple for an affair 
 like this ! We only wanted Triquet to make the party complete, and he 
 might possibly be lurking under covert, by his uncle's directions, ready to 
 alarm the guard as we took our ground with the deadly weapons in our 
 hands, and thus get the duel bruited about for the edification of all Ray- 
 mond's friends. My neighbour was as red as a turkey-cock, Vanvert as 
 pale as a bride, and the Baron made such villainous grimaces that it was- 
 impossible to ascertain the exact condition of his countenance ; however, 
 they bowed politely as soon as they saw me, and I could see from the ex- 
 pression of Raymond's eyes that he was pleased I had not brought a com- 
 panion with me. A second on my behalf might have deranged the plan, 
 he had devised to gain the reputation of being a man of courage without any 
 danger of receiving even the slightest scratch. 
 
 Of course my intention of retiring was changed at once, so I turned upon, 
 my heel to seek the recesses of the wood, where we should not be interrupted,, 
 but was stopped by Vanvert, who could scarcely speak for agitation, inquir- 
 ing whither I was going. I pretended noc to hear him, and walked on ; he 
 then came running after me, as well as he could for his trembling, and 
 requested that I would return. I made answer that it was impossible we 
 could fight where his friends were standing, in full view of the guard-house ' r 
 that we might as well finish the affair in the gardens of the Tuileries as there ^ 
 and as for the storm that was coming on, it would drive the people from the 
 wood, and prevent any impertinent persons from watching our proceedings. 
 Whilst I was making these observations to Vanvert, and laughing internally 
 
The Duel with My Neighbour. 75 
 
 mid the poor man's piteous appearance, Kaymond affected to suppose that 
 his friend was endeavouring to come to some amicable arrangement with 
 ane, and cried out in a loud voice, — 
 
 " No compromise, Monsieur Vanvert ; this affair will not admit of any. 
 There is no alternative but fighting." 
 
 " You hear him ? " Vanvert said. " Is it not terrible, nothing but your lif e 
 will satisfy him. " 
 
 Por my part I could not help laughing at Raymond's ridiculous vapouring, 
 and gave some instructions relative to the duel to poor trembling Vanvert, 
 who had never been engaged in an affair of honour before. He then joined 
 Raymond and Witcheritchy, whereupon my neighbour swaggered up to me 
 -and said,— 
 
 " I requested you, Monsieur Dorsan, to come here unaccompanied, and 
 had intended to do so myself, but in crossing the Palais Royal I met my 
 friend Vanvert, who, having heard that I was about to fight, left his office 
 and his luncheon to be my companion. " 
 
 " No, no," Vanvert broke in, " you asked me to accompany you, and I 
 consented, but you did not say one word about fighting until we had left 
 .Paris behind us ; in fact, you hurried me away so quickly from my seat that 
 I forgot to pay for what I had." 
 
 Raymond pretended not to hear, and continued, — 
 
 " I yielded to his pressing solicitations, the more because he is the friend 
 of both of us, and his presence could not displease either of us. With 
 .respect to the Baron, we met him by chance at the gate as he was proceeding 
 with his wife to dine in the country, and thinking that two seconds would 
 be better than one, I asked him to favour us with his company, which he 
 very kindly acceded to, after leaving his lady under the trees some little dis- 
 'bance off. He will act for me, then, and Monsieur Vanvert for you, if you 
 have no objection." 
 
 At the close of this address, which was delivered in the most pompous 
 manner, the Baron, who had ducked his head and taken off a huge cocked 
 hat every time his name was mentioned, stationed himself by Raymond's 
 aide, and Vanvert hid himself entirely behind me, and it became my turn 
 to speak. 
 
 " Monsieur Raymond," I said, " it appears to me that we can settle this 
 business without troubling these gentlemen in the least ; besides, I am 
 .greatly afraid that the Baroness Witcheritchy will be wet through whilst 
 we are fighting, and I am sure that Monsieur Vanvert will be far better 
 employed in his office than here." 
 
 " Yes, yes," Vanvert exclaimed, " we are very busy indeed to-day, and 
 I fear I shall get into a scrape with the chief commissioner for being 
 absent." 
 
 The Baron remarked very coolly that his wife was fond of seeing the 
 -lightning, and as we had come so far, he did not see any amusement in re- 
 turning without the affair being concluded according to rule, and upon 
 his concluding I said energetically, — 
 
 " So be it, then, I accept Monsieur Vanvert for my second." 
 
 The poor man almost jumped from the earth, and became as pale as 
 death. 
 
 " Be calm," I whispered. " Seconds very seldom fight now ; but if I 
 -ahould fall, and you should feel inclin ed to avenge my death on the Baron, 
 I shall be rather obliged to you than otherwise. " 
 
 This proposition put the cap upon Vanvert's embarrassment, and he 
 tottered towards the Baron, representing that it was a foolish piece of non- 
 sense : that friends should not quarrel about such trifles ; and that hf and 
 
76 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 the Baron ought not to permit Raymond and myself to take each other'© 
 lives. 
 
 Now the Baron seemed to be much more intent upon the safety of 
 something he had in his pocket than in our duel ; but on comprehending the 
 observations Vanvert made, with tears in his eyes, he turned an inquiring 
 look on Ra3 7 mond, to ascertain the line of conduct he should adopt. My 
 neighbour was firm as a rock. 
 
 " I will fight," he said. " I will teach people that I am not to be in- 
 sulted with impunity. Monsieur Dorsan, I have seen Monsieur Gerville, 
 and know that he did not dine with you and Agatha — you deceived me, sir ; 
 and then my profile struck against the wall — that, sir, was an abuse of my 
 confidence. No compromise, sir, you must answer to me for all this. " 
 
 11 Very well, neighbour, with all my heart, and as soon as you can make 
 it convenient, for the Baroness and these gentlemen will get wet through^ 
 and I have an engagement in town that cannot be delayed. Come, Mon- 
 sieur Raymond, play out your farce and let this stupid humbug have an 
 end." 
 
 " Monsieur Dorsan, you are adding fuel to fire with your words. I am 
 the challenger, and have the choice of weapons." 
 
 "Bight, sir, right." 
 
 " I am an admirable fencer, and should soon run you through ; but 1 
 will not abuse my advantages, and will content myself with pistols." 
 
 " I am bounden for ever to your generosity ; I guessed your intentions^ 
 and fortunately put a brace of pistols in my pocket." 
 
 Raymond turned rather pale as I took my pistols out ; he trembled also 
 slightly, but recovered himself immediately, and produced a brace of horse- 
 man's arms, well-nigh as large as carbines, one of which he presented to 
 me. 
 
 "Thank you," I said ; "as both of us are armed, it will be as well for 
 each to use his own." 
 
 " No, no, sir, put yours back ; mine will serve this turn. Mine are 
 longer than yours by three inches, which would give me an unfair advan- 
 tage over you. " 
 
 " Pretty little playthings, surely. " 
 
 " As you will. Besides, I have the choice, and have made up my mind 
 to fight with none but my own." 
 
 " Well, well ; anything you like, so that we finish the affair before we 
 are all wet. Call the gentlemen to charge them." 
 
 " They are loaded already ; I took care of that before leaving home." 
 
 " Oh, ho," I thought, " I see the game now. Humph ! My dear neigh- 
 bour, it is customary for the seconds to load the pistols." 
 
 " Generally, I admit, but there is no necessity here, I can assure you. 
 Moreover, the Baron Witcheritchy has seen they are all right. Have you 
 not, Baron ? " 
 
 The Bohemian gentleman grinned and nodded, being at that moment 
 anxiously engaged in wrapping in paper several small Neufchatel cheeses, 
 which he feared would be spoiled in his pockets by the rain ; and as for 
 Vanvert, the moment the pistols were brought into sight he went out of 
 the gate on to the high road, and it was with the greatest difficulty I could 
 induce him to rejoin our group. 
 
 Everything that had taken place confirmed me in my suspicions as to 
 Raymond's want of courage. His obstinate determination to use no pisto 1 
 but his own, and the pains he had taken to load them before coming te= 
 the ground, proved there were plots to conceal his cowardice under a show 
 of desperat* valour. To humour the braggart, I accepted one of his car 
 
The Duel with My Neighbour. 77 
 
 bines with a smile of contempt that made him wince, and took my station 
 opposite to him at thirty paces — good measure — stepped out by the Baron, 
 who, previous to doing so, placed his darling cheeses on the grass, covering 
 them over with his hat, about half-way between Eaymond and myself, but 
 considerably on my right. As for Vanvert, he ran here and there for fear 
 of being shot by mistake, and at length concealed himself behind a tree, 
 round which he peeped with a tearful eye at us combatants. All was ready 
 for the sanguinary affray. "Witcheritchy, who had to give the signal, beat 
 time as leisurely as if he was conducting one of Hayden's quartettes, Ray- 
 mond pulled the trigger, and Vanvert fell flat upon the earth. No ball 
 whistled near me — seeing there was not any in the pistol, it could not very 
 well be— and I withheld my fire, offering to waive my privilege and let the 
 matter stand as it was. Cunning, valorous neighbour Raymond, knowing 
 that he incurred no danger, called upon me to fire, and I, thinking to amuse 
 myself at the Bohemian's expense, directed my pistol at his bundle, pulled 
 the trigger, sent the wadding through the hat, blackening and smashing 
 the dear cheeses with the powder in the charge. 
 
 After the second discharge, Raymond advanced towards me crying out 
 that he was satisfied, and would not renew the combat with my pistols. 
 Vanvert lifted up his head from the grass, and, seeing that Raymond was 
 talking to me with a superabundance of affection, managed to regain his 
 feet, whilst the Baron rushed to the cheeses, and stood aghast when he 
 found them smashed to pieces inside his hat. Vanvert could scarcely be- 
 lieve that he was not wounded ; he was sure that if the ball — here I looked 
 knowingly at Raymond, who coloured up to the eyes — had not hit him, its 
 had gone very near him ; and still he trembled so much, that we were 
 obliged to deluge him with aromatic vinegar before he could stand, and 
 then to support him between us as we left the wood. Raymond was all 
 gaiety ; he knew Vanvert well, and felt convinced that before evening the 
 duel would form the subject of conversation in all the circles where he was 
 known. When the government clerk could speak freely, he complimented 
 both us combatants upon our coolness, and specially admired the sang froid 
 of neighbour Raymond, who, in his opinion, would not mind in the least 
 fighting a dozen duels a day. Raymond glanced at me, inclined his head 
 slightly, and said nothing : evidently he guessed I knew in what manner 
 the pistols had been charged. 
 
 Soon after we left the wood, we found the Baroness seated under an 
 overspreading tree, partially sheltered from the rain. She was overjoyed at 
 seeing her husband, because, as she said, she was very hungry, and as they 
 did not seek a tavern, and I had observed that during our progress towards 
 the city two large dogs had attached themselves to Witcheritchy's skirts, 
 I shrewdly suspected that their excellencies' dinners were in his pocket. 
 As we were looking about us for a hackney-coach, we heard the Baroness 
 shriek despairingly. We turned round in amazement, and there we saw 
 the two dogs running off as fast as they could lay legs to the ground, one 
 with a German sausage in his mouth, and the other with a fine piece of cold 
 salt beef. The foreigners coursed after the animals, but the lady was soon 
 obliged to desist from want of breath, and then related to us that the doga 
 had stolen from her husband's pocket the dinner which they had intended 
 to eat together in the country that day, before the rain commenced. Whilst 
 we were trying to console the lady, the Baron, who was not a man to be 
 robbed with impunity of a splendid sausage and salt beef, pursued the dog^ 
 bawling out " Stop thief ! " with all his might. As he ran he picked up some 
 stones, which he threw at the animals, and having wounded one, thereby re- 
 ducing its speed, he thought to settle him with another, and hurled it with 
 
Yo My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 such force and such bad aim, that it flew wide of its canine mark, and went 
 into the eye of one of the custom-house clerks at the barriers, who had just 
 come out of the office, and was looking up to the sky to see whether it con- 
 tinued to rain or not. 
 
 The poor man fell to the earth exclaiming that he was killed ; the men 
 in the guard-house rushed towards their officer on hearing his cries of dis- 
 tress ; one of the dogs dashed in amongst them with the beef, tripping up 
 several of them in his course, whilst the Baron, who saw nothing before him 
 except the dog with the sausage, ran forcibly into the group, knocking over 
 four or five of the soldiers, and succeeded in grasping the four-footed robber 
 by the tail. The private carriages, entering and departing, were compelled 
 to stop ; the carts and waggons speedily blocked up the way ; the soldiers 
 prevented any one from passing until they could discover the person who 
 had assaulted the head clerk. The crowd increased at every moment, and 
 lingular and various were the conjectures hazarded as to the cause of the 
 disturbance. Some persons asserted that the police had arrested a prisoner 
 of state who was endeavouring to escape, and had wounded the clerk as he 
 tried to stop him ; whilst others, that smugglers had been detected in run- 
 ning contraband goods into the city, and would not yield to anything but 
 force ; but during the whole of the murmuring and buzzing, the Baron and 
 the dog continued their arduous strife, until the man mastered the voraci- 
 ous animal, tore the sausage from his grip, and pealed forth the chant of 
 ▼ictory ; then, before the poor clerk, whom he had half -blinded, came to 
 himself so as to point the real offender out, Witcheritchy seized his wife's 
 arm, thrust the recaptured sausage into his pocket, and went his way. 
 Raymond and Van vert walked off together, and I hailed a cabriolet and 
 was driven to my rooms. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 WHICH OFVEBS NOTHING PABTIOULABLT INTERESTING, 
 
 3Ptve o'clock had struck before I was able to rejoin Caroline. She scolded me 
 for being absent so long, but said she had amused herself as well as she 
 could without me, by arranging the furniture according to her own taste, 
 and putting her things in the drawers. She then tried on a smart new 
 bonnet she had bought — the grizette cap being eschewed for ever — in which 
 she looked enchanting, and snowed me other portions of female apparel to 
 snatch the bonnet and suit her altered mode of life. What ultra-impor- 
 tance women attach to those trifles they call "dress." What research, 
 what deep reflection, what calculations on the colour of a ribbon, the placing 
 of a flower in the hat, the pains to arrange a flounce, a necklace, or the hair, 
 "Vei-ily, all the little seemingly unpremeditated effects upon men's hearts 
 have been long contemplated, and arranged with much care and thought. 
 Well, well, men must not blame them for all the pains they take to please us. 
 I passed the night with Caroline in renewed delight, left her again in 
 the morning, took her out for a drive in the afternoon, dined with her, went 
 to the theatre in the evening, supped, and then to bed again, and so on in 
 the same way for several days without the least satiety, as if I never could 
 he weary of my love. In fact, no one could have recognised her in her 
 
Which offers Nothing particularly Interesting. 79 
 
 altered state. She bore her blushing honours thick upon her with the utmost 
 ease ; she dressed well, walked well, looked the lady, and was no longer the 
 " grisette," but the elegant, accomplished woman of the higher ranks. It is 
 an undoubted fact that women assimulate themselves to new positions in 
 society much more rapidly than men. Look at that country lout : he has 
 been three months in town, and is still awkward, heavy, and walks about 
 his master's mansion with a true farm-yard tramp. Turn your head and 
 watch that village-girl : it is only a fortnight since she left her native fields 
 and now her parents would not know her, and it's very possible she will not 
 condescend to know them soon. 
 
 Three weeks only had elapsed since Caroline took up her abode with me 
 in the Rue Caumartin ; I saw her every night, she pleased daily more and 
 more ; I loved her to distraction, and she assured me that her affection for 
 me increased every day, and yet things were not quite as I had anticipated 
 they would be. She would not go to the flower-shop at all — that was quite 
 out of the question ; neither would she work at home — she was too much of a 
 lady for that, and, she was sure, I too much of a gentleman to ask her to do 
 so ; in fact she became quite the fine lady, for I could not refuse her any- 
 thing she wished, when it was solicited with so much grace, and in so charm- 
 ing a manner, although all the while I determined to reduce my expenses. 
 It was my misfortune, not my fault. Nevertheless, I began to find out that 
 what women call " trifles " are really very extravagent articles in the toilette 
 of a kept mistress ; these " trifles " were absolutely ruining me. Sometimes 
 it was a lace collar, a new fichu, a shawl, or a silk or satin dress ; neither 
 could I tell how Caroline looked upon such things, but I knew she constantly 
 assured me that they were absolutely required to be in the fashion, and 
 therefore they were necessary. The consequence was, that my income did not 
 suffice to meet our expenses, and I was compelled to borrow money and run 
 in debt. 
 
 Every morning when I quitted my Sultana and went to my own rooms, 
 I was sure to find a bouquet in my door. My little Nicette did not cease to 
 think of me, and yet I never went to see her, nay, frequently passed her 
 stall without giving her a passing glance. Indeed, I was constantly 
 making up my mind to pay her a friendly visit, but then Caroline drew so 
 much upon my time that I had scarcely an hour to myself ; there was a 
 fresh party of pleasure every day, and I was forced to accompany her 
 wheresoever she went, for she had acquired so much power over me that 
 I could not refuse her anything she asked. The lovely, seductive, graceful 
 baggage knew so well how to employ the charming gifts with which Nature 
 had endowed her. 
 
 One day the portress brought to me a billet in a handwriting with which 
 I was unacquainted. On opening it I found that it was from Madame 
 Marsan, reproaching me gently for forgetting the promise which I had 
 made her to go to her musical soirees, and inviting me to a fete she was 
 about to give at her country house. I had quite forgotten Madame Marsan 
 in the intoxication of my fresh amour, a circumstance by no means unusual 
 to me, for it often happened that by the morning the remembrance of a 
 lady who had stolen my heart on the previous evening had escaped my 
 memory, which arose from a very happy mental formation for so inflam- 
 mable a subject as myself, and proves that the affections take no part in 
 those passing follies we dignify by the name of Love. The invitation came 
 in good time, and I determined that I would accept it, because I did not 
 wish that Caroline should quite estrange me from all my acquaintances, 
 neither would I renounce good society entirely because I could not intro- 
 duce her to it. The thought of my kind sister also flashed across my mind. 
 
ou~ my Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 She had been expecting to see me day after day ; but what could I do t I 
 was amongst the rapids, and the remorseless torrent was sweeping me 
 steadily but unceasingly towards the precipice over which I could not fail 
 to fall and be engulphed. 
 
 As I was writing a reply to Madame Marsan, apologising for my 
 remissness, and accepting the invitation to her fete, my neighbour Ray- 
 mond came into the room, for the first time since our famous duel. He 
 Baluted me with an embarrassed air, as if he suspected that I was quite 
 aware of the true reason of his valour, but as he had told the story in his own 
 way a thousand times, and always in a manner highly complimentary to 
 himself, I did not choose to mortify hmi by any remarks upon his rhodo- 
 montades, especially as he might prove of some use to me with the Marsans. 
 Heading assurance in my eyes, he commenced with, — 
 
 " How are you to-day, Eugene ? How goes the health ? " 
 " Rather too fast, my friend ; it has been taxed pretty heavily of late." 
 " You must be careful, my boy, and not live so hard." 
 " By-and-by, Monsieur Raymond ; and how goes on your affairs with 
 Agatha?" 
 
 " Oh, I have given her up, I never see her now. It's all over, finished 
 for ever. I tell you what it is, I really intend to have nothing more to do 
 with these middle-aged affairs. The women tax your pocket to the last 
 shilling ; they cannot appreciate a man properly, and see no difference 
 between a poet and a consummate ass, provided both of them have money. 
 That's it, nothing but money, money, for them from morning to night. 
 They must have shawls, laces, bonnets, dinners, ices, theatres, treats in the 
 country, suppers at the taverns on the Boulevards, and all that sort of thing. 
 Let them only have all these, and a man may be the veriest donkey that 
 ever breathed, ignorant as a coalheaver, stupid as a purblind, self-styled, 
 virtuoso, or as hideous as sin, and he is all-in-all in the eyes of these 
 young ladies." 
 
 "There is a great deal of truth, neighbour, in what you say; but in 
 general it is too much flattery that spoils all the women; if we did not throw 
 ourselves at their feet so often as we do, they would not treat our persona 
 with so much disdain. In truth, vile flatterers and courtiers insinuate 
 themselves in every rank, both high and low, and easily corrupt weak, 
 erring, human nature. Monarchs are more unfortunate in this respect 
 than other mortals ; environed as they are by a servile crowd, who live 
 on their smiles, and pour a constant stream of praise into their ears, they 
 are lifted above mankind in their own conceit, and when they thunder 
 forth their mandates, men bow before them, kiss the dust, and tremble at 
 their frowns. Louis XI. had more suppliants at his Court than Louis 
 XII., and Charles IX. more flatterers than Henry IV. Richelieu and 
 Mazarin could not move a step without being accompanied by a whole 
 host of sycophants, who humbled themselves before them, and wrote verses 
 in their honour. Scilly and Colbert likewise had about their persons men 
 who worshipped them, but they were too really great to relish adulation, 
 and knew well how to reject the nauseous dose. If flattery did not aug- 
 ment man's natural vanity, if the habit of receiving constant praise did not 
 give men an overweening confidence of their ability, how many egregious 
 errors would have been avoided by those whom the world calls heroes, ho\r 
 many mistakes would not have been made by those magnates of bygone 
 ages, who repulsed the counsels of the wise because they were accustomed 
 to the silken language of the parasite, and because a thousand voices had 
 repeated to them they were models of wisdom, worth, and valour, and had 
 almost raised them to the rank of demi-gods ? From the beginning of 
 
Which offers Nothing particularly Interesting. 81 
 
 the world until the present day, the pernicious effects of adulation have 
 been sorely felt. By it the serpent seduced our common mother Eve, and 
 by it women now are daily won. Flattery destroyed Nebuchadnezzar and 
 Antioches, Semiramis and Mary Stuart, Cinq-Mars, Monmouth, Cleopatra, 
 .and Marian Delorme; the hair of Samson and his strength were torn 
 from him through the flattery of Delilah ; Holofernes lost his head by 
 listening to the treacherous tongue of Judith; Charles XII. of Sweden, 
 blinded by a hundred victories, led his army to destruction on the plains 
 of Raltowa, and Marshal Villervi, trusting to the good fortune that 
 had always smiled upon his arms, was forced to yield to Marlborough on 
 the field of Ramillies. Misplaced approbation, whilst it blinds a man 
 to his defects, causes him to rest satisfied with mediocrity, when he 
 possesses talents, which, if rightly used, would lift him far above the crowd, 
 and whilst it makes him close his ears to the harsh counsels of bitter truth, 
 causes him to mistake vanity for talent, volubility for eloquence, and facility 
 for genius. How often do we not find men in every department of High 
 Art, who, in soliciting opinions of their works, expect nothing but fulsome 
 praises in return ? Whence arises this morbid passion for flattery, but that 
 they have been already told that their paintings, their sculptures, their 
 verses, their engravings, and their books are totally devoid of faults ? It 
 is a lamentable fact that the conventional usages of society preclude a man 
 from telling the whole truth; indeed he must not be an Alcestes or Thersytea 
 in the upper classes. If an author recites his verses, or reads his book, they 
 .must be pronounced perfect, however faulty and ridiculous they may be ; it 
 is not permitted in society that a man shall set himself up as the censor of 
 others; the commerce of the gay world is more refined, for there each thinks 
 of enjoying himself, catching the passing folly as it flies, without occupying 
 himself with researches into the talents, morals, occupations, wisdom, or 
 learning of those whom, for the moment, he may meet. But what is worse, 
 politeness not only compels us to suppress that which we do feel, but obliges 
 us to utter those things we do not think; if we hear read the most detestable 
 jingling rhymes, miscalled poetry, it is not permitted to us to remain silent, 
 but we are expected to laud them to the skies ; if a painter has failed in a 
 jjortrait, it is not enough to say that the resemblance is not very striking, 
 but we are compelled to state we think a better likeness could not possibly 
 be seen ; and if a person has inflicted a song in a mass of discordant tones 
 that have gone like pins and needles through your head, you are guilty of 
 an inexpiable breach of manners if you do not say his strains are the sweet- 
 est you have ever heard. But above all, it is with nascent talent we must 
 be chary of our praise; flattery has proved the destruction of many a rising 
 genius by stopping his upward flight, for only once persuade an individual 
 that he is perfect, and he will desist from any further laudable exertion. 
 Those parental feelings may be excused which make men look upon their 
 progeny as models of talent, of beauty, and of skill ; but let us take good 
 care we do not increase them by injudicious praise; let us not express our 
 approbation at a remark partaking more largely of ill-nature than of wit ; 
 let us not hear in admiring silence the recital of some despicable nonsense ; 
 nor let us stand wrapt in admiration at beholding an inexpressive face, 
 bleared eyes, a flat nose, protruding chin, and features which are only pleas- 
 ing in the eyes of a foolish, doting mother. No, let honest enthusiasm be 
 confined to artists, authors, poets, and professors of every science, who have 
 raised themselves far above the level of their fellow-men. The contempo- 
 raries of Moliere and Voltaire rendered to those great geniuses the homage 
 which was undoubtedly their due; but they did not worry and annoy them 
 •with compliments and stupid praise; for men of the same stamp as those 
 
 F 
 
8 2 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 great writers desire the approbation of the well-judging few, and utterly 
 despise the fulsome adulation of the crowd. 
 
 "When Voltaire honoured Ferney with his constant presence, those 
 travellers who from their talents or their position in society could aspire 
 to his acquaintance lost no time in calling at his residence ; for all 
 were imbued with a strong desire to behold that distinguished philo- 
 sopher who had astonished the whole world with his writings ; persons of 
 sense and proper taste anticipated the pleasure of seeing the wondrous 
 man ; but the fools who would pester him with their worthless conversa- 
 tion thought only of the favourable impression they should make upon his- 
 mind. To the first class, Voltaire behaved with the greatest courtesy; 
 to the second, with withering contempt ; and on one occasion, when ait 
 elderly lady pretended to be overcome at the sight of him, and swoon 
 away, he merely smiled satirically, shrugged his shoulders, and turned upon 
 his heel. 
 
 "Great genius is rare indeed ; the professors of the highest talent are in- 
 variably modest, unpresuming and retiring ; whilst those who are endowed 
 with only moderate abilities are avaricious of praise, and drink in de- 
 lightedly the flattery which is lavished on them. Behold that young man 
 at the piano ; he sings agreeably, and yet his flatterers have made him be- 
 lieve he is another Mario ; they beg, they pray, they implore him to com- 
 mence ; the women faint at the anticipation of hearing his sweet voice, and 
 chant his praises to all their friends around. ' He is charming, he is de- 
 licious, heavenly, divine,' are the only words to be distinguished ; and when 
 at last this paragon deigns to honour the company by opening his melli- 
 fluous throat, they hear nothing more than a common ballad, sung in an 
 agreeable manner so far as the notes are concerned, but totally unarticu- 
 lated ; and he has scarcely finished the song before the shower of adulation 
 is recommenced, whilst the impartial spectator, who expected to hear some- 
 thing very superior indeed, cannot believe the testimony of his senses, and 
 sits down in amazement at his neighbours' folly. 
 
 " For myself, I am free to confess I never could make one of a crowd who 
 congregate around these prodigies, these pets of good society ; for I have 
 never found in them anything but excessive vanity ; nor would I consent 
 to swell the number of the flatterers of a fashionable woman who has carried 
 her affectation to an excess which brings a blush into the face of every 
 reasonable man. Undoubtedly I admire a pretty woman as much — and 
 perhaps more — than other men, and would be amongst the first to pay 
 homage to her natural charms and acquired graces of the mind ; but is it 
 absolutely necessary that I should laud her to the skies and overwhelm her 
 with compliments, which, if she has any sense, must be equally painful for 
 her to hear and me to speak ? Can she not walk across the room without 
 my praising her figure, her style, her elegance, her step ? Can she not 
 smile without my going into ecstasies at the expression of her mouth and 
 pearly whiteness of her teeth ? Can she not make the most trivial observa- 
 tions without my falling into raptures at her wit, her tact, her talent, and 1 
 her dulcet tone of voice ? No ; I could never demean myself to such base 
 flattery 1 Women may think me less gallant, and I may lose some favours^ 
 at their hands, but such is my nature, and such are the honest convictions 
 of my mind ; and if all men would act like me, we should see less .arrogant 
 pretensions amongst the men, less coquetry amongst the women, more 
 reality in society, and greater happiness throughout the world. What 
 think you, neighbour ? " 
 
 Raymond apparently had not listened to my moral rhapsody. He had 
 walked to the mantelpiece to examine the bouquet that adorned it, and 
 
The Party in the Country, 83 
 
 seemed surprised at the number of faded ones that I had placed in all 
 -available portions of the room. Turning to me, he said, — 
 
 " You seem to be very fond of orange flowers ? " 
 
 " Particularly so." 
 
 " Their scent is very delightful : you have the remains of twenty bouquets 
 .at least." 
 
 " I have not observed how many. Will you be kind enough to tell me 
 to what happy circumstance I am indebted for the honour of your company 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I had forgotten it in admiring your flowers. I have received an 
 invitation from Madame Marsan to a fHe at her country house ; and as I 
 presume you have one too, I came to propose that we should go there to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Willingly ; and as you know the way, you can act as guide. In what 
 manner shall we reach our entertainer's mansion ? " 
 
 " We will hire a cabriolet, and then we can come back at any time we 
 like. At first I thought of going on horseback, because if there is anything 
 I pride myself upon, it is my riding. Pranconi says my style of sitting and 
 holding myself is peculiarly graceful. I should have created a devil of a 
 iensation amongst the women when they saw me canter up." 
 
 " No doubt, friend Raymond, you are an admirable horseman ; but as 
 it would not be quite the thing to go to this fete in cavalry boots, I must 
 •defer the pleasure of seeing you ride until another period." 
 
 " True, my friend. I will undertake to find a stylish -looking cabriolet, 
 in which we will both set out at half -past seven o'clock precisely. We 
 shall be as happy as birds. I know the way, and everybody who will be 
 there. I'll put you up to all of them, and everything about them." 
 
 " I thought you told me you had been only twice at Marsan's villa ! " 
 
 ° No more I have, but once is quite enough for me : I have a certain 
 tact — a penetration — that nothing can escape. Besides, we shall have some 
 private theatricals there soon, in which I am to take part. By-the-bye, I 
 have written an opera, and will read the dialogue to you as we go along." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you ; till Thursday, then, adieu." 
 
 He quitted the room, humming a popular tune, and I proceeded to 
 Caroline, whom, so soon as I entered the street, I saw standing at her 
 window, a very common practice with her of late, and adopted by her, she 
 said, that she might have the delight of seeing me the first moment that I 
 came in view. I took her in my arms and kissed her fervently, for every 
 day she appeared more lovely, more attractive, and became much dearer to 
 my heart. She, too, endeavoured to make herself worthy of my attach- 
 ment ; her ardent affections were bound up in mine ; she lived for me alone ; 
 our mutual enjoyment knew no bounds ; and, so far as she was concerned, 
 the fatal word " Infidelity " was blotted from my books for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE PARTY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 When I left Caroline on the morning of the day fixed for Madame Marsan's 
 jete at her country house, I told her that she must not expect to see me 
 again that night, at which she pouted considerably, and so much the more 
 
84 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 because we had had the slightest difference of opinion in the world on the 
 preceding evening about a cashmere shawl which she was dying to have, 
 and I 'could not afford to buy her. However, before I went away, I assured 
 her beauty like hers when unadorned was adorned the most — that she did 
 not want the foreign aid of ornaments to look truly lovely, and that I pre- 
 ferred her dressed with elegant simplicity, so that we parted the very best 
 friends in all the world. 
 
 At half -past seven o'clock my toilet was quite finished, and I was ready 
 for the road when the hired cabriolet was driven up to the door ; but as my 
 neighbour did not make his appearance for several minutes, I went into his 
 room, and found that he had only commenced drawing on his pantaloons. 
 
 " How is this, Raymond ? No further advanced in your dressing yet ? * 
 
 " I shall be ready in a few minutes, Eugene." 
 
 " Not in less than half an hour, I'll be bound." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you'll see how active I shall be. But sit down and amuse 
 yourself with those sketches and my water-colour paintings. There are 
 gome pretty things amongst them, I can tell you. If I had more time, I 
 would devote myself to the art, and send my pictures to the Royal 
 Academy." 
 
 " Keep to your sketches, pray ; they are very remarkable, to say the 
 least." 
 
 " Quite so, are they not ? In the style, now, of Berthal, Gavarni, and 
 Calot ? That ' Lucian in the Bath ' is capital." 
 
 " Bless me ! I thought it was " The Temptations of St Anthony.' " 
 
 " And the ' Tom Thumb,' eh ? " 
 
 " Tom Thumb ? I declare I took it for « Blue Beard.' " 
 
 " That's because he has ' The Seven-Leagued Boots ' on." 
 
 " Ah ! But how is it, neighbour, you have not finished settling your 
 breeches yet ? " 
 
 "You see, my friend, it's a very particular article in a man's. dress, 
 which the women are sure to remark. When a man has such thighs as I 
 have, and calves to his legs that serve as models for a sculptor, he is not 
 ashamed of their beautiful proportions being fully seen. Don't trouble your 
 head about me for two or three minutes, but just read those verses I wrote 
 to the memory of the Marchioness Desormais' favourite poodle dog." 
 
 " Thank you, let me look at them." 
 
 " They have a prodigious run in the higher circles. Many of the first 
 judges amongst the nobility declare they will have them engraved on their 
 husbands' tombstones. The opening is splendid : 
 
 " ' Blest Dog of Nature, faithful to the last—' * 
 
 " I have heard of ■ The Men of Nature,' certainly, Raymond, but it is 
 the first time I have ever seen the epithet applied to a dog. You think, 
 then, that animals are perocited from the state in which nature has placed 
 them ? " 
 
 "No doubt; look at the poor brutes that are made to dance and bow and 
 move round in circles to the sounds of a flageolet and a drum. These ac- 
 complishments are the result of perocesion; now the Marchioness's deceased 
 acted perfectly as it liked — bit everybody who approached its mistress, 
 jumped upon the table at dinner or supper, and helped itself from all the 
 dishes. That was nature; therefore I maintain that the 'Dog of Nature' 
 is quite correct." 
 
 ' ' Well, well, leave your animal, and finish dressing. If you are as long 
 with your other habiliments as you have been with your breeches, we shall 
 not arrive at Marsan's before midnight " 
 
The Party in the Country. 85 
 
 " Don't grumble ; I will be at your orders presently. There, that will 
 do, I think ; my shoes are capital, and as for the breeches, they'll — bless me^ 
 there's a bit of a crease on the left side of — " 
 
 " When your coat is on, it will not be seen." 
 That's all very well, Master Eugene, but when I shall walk or dancer , 
 my coat will fly open, and the crease will be seen." 
 
 " What matter if it does; do you think the company will pay any atten- 
 tion to your haunches ? " 
 
 " To be sure ; a crease there is very important. The women observe 
 everything, you know. Ah, it will do better now. Now for the cravat." 
 
 " Shall you be long over that \ " 
 
 " Oh, no. I have studied it, and folded it very carefully. It will sit 
 properly almost of its own accord. That's it. A thought strikes me > 
 though, Dorsan. Shall I place the ends of the ties up or down 1 " 
 
 " Anywhere in the world, so that you will but finish." 
 
 " Then I will put them horizontally. Will that do ? " 
 
 " Capitally ; but get on, it's past eight o'clock already." 
 
 " Only one minute more, and then we are off. Shall I place this tur- 
 quoise brooch above or below the emerald ? " 
 
 " Anywhere you like. Indeed, I am getting quite tired of you, Monsieur 
 Raymond. If you are not ready in five minutes, I will start without you. * 
 
 " Patience, patience, my young friend. The turquoise looks best beneath.* 
 Now then for the coat, my hat, and my gloves. There they are, and now 
 I am ready. " 
 
 11 Glad indeed I am to find so." 
 
 " Stop, stop, where is my scented handkerchief t There it is ; and 'now 
 we will be off." 
 
 We left the room, but whilst locking the door, Raymond recollected his 
 brilliant ring was not on his little finger, and ran back to fetch it. We 
 commenced descending the stairs ; at the end of the first flight, he missed' 
 his double glasses, and must needs go up again for them, and on reaching 
 the courtyard, it came into his mind that he should be asked to sing, and 
 he would run upstairs again to bring some ballads and other musical pieces 
 with him. My remonstrances and my curses were all in vain, and it was 
 not until half-past eight o'clock that we drove through the gate, Raymond 
 in high spirits, and I vowing never to put a foot in the same vehicle with 
 him again. The only consolation I experienced was, that as it was dark, my 
 neighbour could not bore me with reading his opera ; but that idea was 
 speedily dispelled by his commencing to tell the whole plot, and recapitulate 
 the dialogue to me. For one mortal hour he maundered on about a Spanish 
 princess, and an Arab Emir who was in love with her, whilst my thoughts 
 were fixed on pretty Madame Marsan, and calculations as to the best mode 
 of making up with her the time I had lost in making love to Caroline. 
 
 It was half -past nine before we reached St Denis, and when we pulled- 
 up to give the horse a moment's breathing, I asked Raymond whether the 
 country house was far distant or not. He replied it was not above two 
 miles farther, and as soon as we were off, pestered me again with his infernal 
 opera. 
 
 " Let me see," he said, "where did we leave off ? Oh, I know — at the 
 end of the second act, where my Princess fainted on the stage, after being 
 borne in triumph by the Emir from the burning palace." 
 " Are you sure you know the way ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I'll drive you all right. When the curtain rises for the third 
 act, the Princess is discovered seated on a cannon in the Arab camp." 
 " You say you have only been once at Marsan's house, Raymond ? " 
 
86 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 " Only once, friend, but that's enough for me. You can't think what a 
 capital memory I have. The soldiers are asleep, with their pikes or muskets 
 by their sides, because, you see, I am not quite sure whether pikes were used 
 or not in the wars of Ferdinand and Isabella. Well, the Prince, who is not 
 inclined to sleep, hears from afar — " 
 
 11 Did not the man at the inn tell us to take the left turning t " 
 
 " No, no, we're all right. Where was I ? Oh, I see. The Emir throws 
 ; himself on his knees before the Princess, who has not come to herself yet, 
 and sings an adagio to her in E fiat, just to remind her she ought to wake 
 — I wrote the music, — and then Bhe rubs her eyes, and jumps up, and they 
 form a picture." 
 
 " If you do not leave your Princesses and your Emirs, and turn back, I 
 -see we shall soon be at Montmorency, and that cannot be our route at all." 
 
 " If you know the way better than I do, pray take the reins and drive. 
 I tell you we are not more than a quarter of a mile from the house." 
 
 " It is very odd, then, that there should not be any lights in it or in the 
 grounds." 
 
 11 Rather strange, certainly. Perhaps the wood is in the way. What a 
 . horribly hard mouth this horse has." 
 
 " You worry the animal so, pulling his head about. Ah ! I see lights 
 .mow. Groom, do you know where we are ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir ; at Montmorency." 
 
 " Damnation ! " I exclaimed. " A pretty wild goose chase this is, with 
 a vengeance, neighbour Raymond." 
 
 " Don't vex yourself, my dear friend. I recollect now where we are 
 «xactly. We must take the next turning to the right, and then we shall 
 come directly upon the house." 
 
 " It appears to me we had much better return to Paris ; there is every 
 indication of a heavy storm." 
 
 " Return ? Pooh ! what nonsense. We shall be at the fHe now before 
 ten o'clock." (To the horse), " Come up, you wretched beast 1 " 
 
 I leaned back in the cabriolet, and resigned myself to my fate. Ray- 
 r mond commenced abusing the horse and flogging him unmercifully, in spite 
 of my entreaties to him to leave off whipping. The animal at length be- 
 came enraged, and took the bit between his teeth. The groom jumped 
 . down from behind, but missed his footing and fell ; and the horse, feeling 
 himself free from all control, plunged out of the road, galloped over culti- 
 vated fields and fallow lands at the top of his speed, and dashed against a 
 plantation of vines, upsetting the cabriolet, throwing both of us out, and 
 struggling to free himself by kicking from the harness and the shafts, and 
 to increase our comforts, the lightning blazed, the thunder rolled, and the 
 rain poured down in torrents. 
 
 Whilst Raymond's heavy body lay half-buried in the earth, and he 
 was moaning in doleful accents that he was killed, I scrambled up, over- 
 joyed to find that I had not broken any bones ; and as it was written in the 
 book of fate that we were destined not to take part in Marsan's fete that 
 .night, I determined to put the best face I could on the provoking accident, 
 which was caused entirely by Raymond's obstinate stupidity, and see how 
 we could get out of the very awkward scrape that we were in. 
 
 On approaching my neighbour, I found him lying with his face towards 
 the earth, groaning as if he was very seriously hurt. I took him by the 
 arm, raised his head gently, turned him round with difficulty, and could 
 scarcely refrain from laughing at the miserable appearance he presented ; 
 >'for the heavy rain which had fallen had moistened the ground so much that 
 She earth stuck like a piaster to his face, and effectually prevented his com- 
 
The Party in the Country. ST 
 
 pletely opening his mouth or eyes. Smothering my inclination to laugh, 1 
 advised him to remain for a few minutes on his back, when the falling, 
 water would assuredly wash the dirt from out his eyes and mouth, and 
 allow him both to speak and see clearly. He did so. In a very short time 
 the effect I anticipated was produced. He rose up with my assistance^ 
 drew a long breath, and was pleased to find that none of his ribs were 
 broken and driven into his lungs, and neither were any bones dislocated, or 
 severe injuries received. When he could speak, and had felt lest any harm 
 Bhould have befallen his model rump and calves, he sighed, and addressed. 
 me thus, — 
 
 " A pretty adventure this, neighbour, is it not ? " 
 
 "It is, indeed," I answered ; "but with whom does the fault lie ? " 
 
 " With you, to be sure. I used the whip because you were in a desperate 
 hurry to get to the house." 
 
 " Don't father your stupidity on me, I beg." 
 
 " There's a pretty mess I am in, without a hat, too, and the rain falling 
 In torrents. Everything has conspired against us. " 
 
 " What's the use of talking about your hat when my head is spinning 
 round from the fall ? " 
 
 " I'm wet through " (here he began to whine), " all over dirt, pounded, 
 to a jelly, bruised, knocked to pieces. I shall catch my death of cold, and 
 my dress is totally destroyed — open work silk stockings torn to pieces, my 
 coat only fit for a dung heap, and my laced shirt frill sticking on yonder vine 
 prop. Deary me 1 deary me I a little more, and I shall faint." 
 
 " Be something of a man, Raymond," I said. " Why, you are worse 
 than a child of seven years of age ! Rouse yourself, and let us see what 
 can be done. Have you seen the groom ? I fear he must have hurt him- 
 self in jumping down." , 
 
 " No, I have not seen him ; it is impossible to tell where he may be." 
 
 " At anyrate the horse has kicked himself free from the shafts " (the poor- 
 beast had got up, and stood bathed in sweat, covered with mud, and trembling: 
 in every nerve), " and we will endeavour to raise the cabriolet upright." 
 
 "Impossible ! One of the wheels is broken." 
 
 I became furious, abused Raymond with all my might, and damned th© 
 party of pleasure which was likely to cost us dear enough ; but it was n© 
 use grumbling, so after a few more hearty curses upon Raymond, the horse, 
 the groom, the cabriolet, and the weather, I made up my mind to get out 
 of the vineyard in the best way I could, and try to find a peasant's cottage 
 or a farm house where we might obtain accommodation for the night. I was 
 obliged to support Raymond, who was afraid of falling, and at every step we 
 took in the dark, for the first ten minutes, we plunged into holes full of watery 
 at which I swore, and my neighbour declared that he should certainly have an 
 inflammation of the lungs. At length we perceived a light shining through 
 the latticed panes of a peasant's humble dwelling ; the sight at that 
 moment was a joyful one to both of us. Raymond almost screamed with 
 delight at the thought of being extricated from the peril which his dastardly 
 fears had augmented in a tenfold degree, and regaining the use of his legs 
 in an almost miraculous manner, ran towards the hut to awaken the inhabit- 
 ants ; but I, fearing that he might alarm them at that late hour of th© 
 night, bade him stop where he was, and advanced to make our presence 
 known by knocking gently at the door. 
 
 The inmates — who, being very poor, were not afraid of robbers, and were - 
 very hospitable, like most of their class — opened the door at once, and ad- 
 mitted us into their cot, where we found in the lower room a decent woman 
 surrounded by at least a dozen of her children. Whilst I was explaining 
 
358 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 our misfortune to her, Raymond peeped into a large cauldron which was 
 simmering over a turf-fire, and having ascertained its contents, came to my 
 side, whispering, with many shrugs of the shoulder, that we must not ex- 
 pect any great things for our supper, as if the delicacies of a Parisian tavern 
 were always to be met with in a peasant's cabin. I put a crown-piece into 
 the good woman's hand, ascertained that we were not more than a mile 
 from the village of Montmorency, and said I would give her more money if 
 she would allow one of her big boys to guide us there. She consented im- 
 mediately, and directed a youth to fetch some donkeys for us to ride, be- 
 cause we were tired of tramping in the muddy fields, and must endeavour to 
 find out and pick up the groom, who, we had no doubt, was lying wounded 
 and incapable of moving at no great distance off. Accordingly, the 
 donkeys were soon brought from the stables, unsaddled ; I paid the peasant 
 for their hire, each of us got upon one, and the boy led the third for the 
 groom's use when we should find him. 
 
 And here another of Raymond's braggadocios exploded. He made a 
 thousand objections to mounting the patient animal presented to him — 
 wanted a saddle, stirrups, and pads, and it was with difficulty that this man, 
 who not long before had asserted that he could ride like Franconi, was per- 
 suaded to mount a quiet, aged ass. Tired of his nonsense, I bestrode my 
 beast, and called upon the boy to follow me, whereupon Raymond, seeing 
 that he would be left alone, pushed his animal on behind me, holding by 
 the main and tail, and wherever his hands could obtain a grasp. We were 
 aoon in the fields again. I suffered my donkey to trot on at his own pace, 
 calling out lustily for the groom, and felt great pleasure at hearing him at 
 length answer to my cries. I directed the beast towards the spot whence 
 the sounds of his voice came, and discovered him lying on the earth beneath 
 an oak tree, with one of his feet so sprained that he could not stand. We 
 made him mount the led donkey, then found the horse, who had not left the 
 vehicle, put the boy upon his back, and desired him to show the way to 
 Montmorency. All this occupied so much time, that it was past eleven 
 o'clock before we reached the village inn, for we were compelled to wait 
 every two minutes for Raymond whenever his courser chose to take affairs 
 into his own hands, and loiter on the road, or wander into various bye-paths 
 . at his own good pleasure. Fortunately the rain had ceased, and we escaped 
 any further ducking. 
 
 When Raymond beheld the sign hanging over the inn-door, he uttered 
 3, shout of joy, that caused his ass to swerve, and deposited him on & reek- 
 ing dunghill that stood at the entrance of the yard, from which he emerged 
 with the loss of his dancing pumps. The animal, released from his heavy 
 burthen, started off at a gallop, braying down the street, whilst I dismounted 
 and knocked loudly, in order to waken the landlord, who was snug asleep 
 in bed. He came downstairs at last, grumbling at the stupidity of travellers 
 coming to a hostelry at that late hour of night, and was so surprised at see- 
 ing our miserable, muddy plight, that he demurred for a considerable time 
 to let us in. However, my voice and language, with a display of the glitter- 
 ing contents of my purse, convinced him that we were persons of respecta- 
 bility, so he ushered us into the public room, called up a strapping female 
 servant, bade her light a fire, and see what we could have for supper. The 
 groom was taken from the horse and placed in bed, the animal conveyed to 
 the stable, and the guide remunerated and sent back to his mother's cot. 
 
 Before long, the landlord brought in a cold roast fowl, ham, a salad, 
 
 . cheese, fruit and wine, and whilst I sat down and made a hearty meal on 
 
 this humble fare, Raymond went into a bedroom, where he caused a fire to 
 
 be lighted, and begged the servant-girl to rub his back and loins to prevent 
 
The Party in the Country. 8% 
 
 his catching cold. The wench was a bouncing specimen of a female, to whom 
 the Bight of a man's naked back conveyed no fears, and as the request was 
 seconded by the donation of a portion of that metal that overcomes all 
 scruples, she consented to do him the required service, and forthwith com- 
 menced rubbing my fat friend's loins with much the same tenderness and 
 energy as a groom currycombs a dirty horse. The doors of both apart- 
 ments happened to be open, so that, while I sat by the fire drying my 
 clothes thoroughly, and sipping a glass of hot brandy and water to keep 
 out the cold, I heard Raymond stimulating the girl to fresh exertions, and 
 complimenting her upon her talents, which, some day or other, he said, 
 would gain her a first-rate situation at a Parisian shampooing bath. Pre- 
 sently it appeared that the girl's rubbing — and possibly her youth and good 
 looks — had renovated all Raymond's slumbering vitality, and renewed his 
 passions for the fairer portions of the creation, for I heard some stifled ex- 
 clamations, then tittering, and scrambling about the room, and tumbling 
 over chairs, and speedily afterwards the girl came running into the dining- 
 room laughing heartily, followed by my neighbour in hot haste, stripped to 
 his shirt and drawers, having a large pair of the landlord's slippers on his 
 feet. I requested him to leave off annoying the girl with his attentions^ 
 but he kept on praising her figure, face, and eyes, and plaguing her to tell 
 him where she slept, until she winked at me, and pointing down a long 
 passage, said she slept in the last room at the lower end. 
 
 Thinking she was disposed to joke with him, I desired her to leave the 
 apartment, which she did immediately, and Raymond, having made an 
 excellent supper, offered to bet me a considerable sum that he would spend 
 that night with her. Not feeling inclined to be worried with any more 
 follies that he might choose to commit during the night, I represented that 
 the servant was making game of him, and requested that he would not 
 expose himself in his usual manner. But his vanity was piqued at my 
 ridiculing his persuasive attractions, so he took up a candle and retired to 
 his bedroom, shutting the door after him in a pet. After he had gone, I 
 enjoyed a laugh at his pretensions, undressed myself, went to bed, and soon 
 forgot the adventures of the evening in deep sleep. 
 
 Soon after I was in bed I awoke, thinking I heard the noise of a door 
 being opened, and some one moving in the passage. I called, but not 
 receiving any answer, soon went to sleep again, and did not wake until 
 eight o'clock the next morning, when I was aroused by the beams of the 
 sun shining brightly into the room. I got up, and reflecting that as I was 
 now at Montmorency — although certainly against my will — I could not do 
 better than avail myself of the beautiful walks that the neighbourhood 
 presents ; and having dressed myself, I called out to Raymond, inquiring 
 whether he would accompany me that splendid morning in a few turns 
 before breakfast. As he did not answer, I concluded that he slept still ; 
 but on going to his room to ascertain whether he was in bed, much to my 
 surprise the door was open, although I distinctly heard him shut it over- 
 night. 
 
 On advancing to the bed to call the lazy fellow, I found it empty. There 
 was nothing very peculiar in that. Perhaps he had awoke earlier than I 
 did, and had. gone out ; but on looking round the room, I saw his coat, 
 waistcoat, and breeches spread out on different chairs, where he had placed 
 them to dry during the night. Where, then, could he be ? for it was cer- 
 tain, notwithstanding all his eccentricities, he would not dream of promenad- 
 ing in the village without his clothes. Presently I recollected the proposi- 
 tion he had made to the servant, her sly look at me, and the bet he had 
 offered. The affair was as clear as day. My neighbour had wished to show 
 
;iK) My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 .me that no woman could refuse him, and had repaired to the bedroom of 
 %&ke girl who had dried and rubbed him down. But then servants at a country 
 inn are in the habit of rising with the lark, and the girl must have been up 
 long before eight o'clock. Why was he not in his bed 1 Surely he could not 
 tiesire that all the inmates of the house should know how he had passed the 
 saight 1 There could not be the least necessity for that, even to gratify his 
 inordinate passion for notoriety ! 
 
 Determined to be assured of what had become of him, I rang the bell, 
 ind when the same bouncing wench who had waited on us appeared, I 
 oould not discover any embarrassment in her air, for she spoke firmly, with- 
 out hesitation, and replied in an easy, off-hand manner to my questions. 
 !:3he must have been well-accustomed, I thought, to receive nocturnal visits. 
 Assuming an air of nonchalance, to put her off her guard, I commenced 
 Iby asking her how the groom was ? He was going on very well, the sprain 
 "Shaving been reduced by fomentations and a plaster. And the cabriolet ? 
 'iffhere was very little the matter with that ; the blacksmith had seen to it, 
 land said he could repair it sufficiently to take us to town in a couple of hours. 
 IBut the proprieter of the vineyard had come to the house and demanded to 
 foe paid for the damage done to his vines. That was reasonable enough. 
 _ IE then said, — 
 
 ** Tell me, my dear, what have you done with my omp anion ? M 
 
 '* Your companion, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the fat gentleman who came here with me last night." 
 
 H Oh, him that lost his shoes, whose back I rubbed ? " 
 
 -" Precisely." 
 
 " Why, bless me, I have done nothing at all with him, although he kept 
 winning after me last night as a thirsty dog does after water. What a 
 . €unny old fellow he is ! " 
 
 " It is useless for you, my girl, to pretend you do not know, when I am 
 . jmxre he slept in your room." 
 
 "That's a good joke, indeed. I sleep with my own sex," she an- 
 swered, her face becoming purple with rage, "and not with such an old 
 : .ool of a fellow as that. Has he the impudence to say so ? If he does, 
 VVL scratch his eyes out when I catch hold of him." 
 
 " Come, come, there's no harm that I can see in it if you did sleep with 
 TSiim ; besides, you know, you pointed out to him where your bedroom was 
 ,*?aiuated." 
 
 At these words she burst into a fit of laughter which I thought would 
 raever end. She roared till she held her sides, and was obliged to sit down 
 upon a chair. When her merriment had finished, she told me that she had 
 pointed to the room at the end of the passage as hers, but that it was only 
 a* loft in which, being always dry, the landlord stored his hams, sausages, 
 cheeses, apples, pears, and other fruits, in order to preserve them through 
 i6he winter season ; that latterly her master was under the impression that 
 lie was being robbed, and had left the door on the latch, and set a man -trap 
 un the room in order to catch the depredators. Possibly Monsieur Ray- 
 «nond had gone to the loft, thinking to comfort himself in her arms, had 
 Ibeen caught in the trap, and so been compelled to remain there the whole 
 ■&f the night. 
 
 This appeared possible enough : I desired her oo lead the way, but she 
 
 . j»?efused positively, telling me that no one in the house was allowed to enter 
 
 " lie loft without her master's permission, and that if I wanted to look for 
 
 .say friend there she must fetch the landlord first. Thinking that I would 
 
 .^bvoid any unpleasantness that might arise from my neighbour being dis- 
 
 -«3©vered in this very awkward predicament, I left the dining-room directly 
 
The Party in the Country. 
 
 91 
 
 traversed the passage with a hasty step, pushed open the door of the store- 
 room, and there found Raymond, held fast by one leg in the trap, quietly 
 seated, all naked, on a low pile of bacon. He looked up as I entered the 
 room, and held out his arms to me with an expression on his face that it is 
 impossible to describe. 
 
 " Deliver me, my dear friend," he cried, in piteous accents ; " pray take 
 me out of this infernal trap." 
 
 " How the devil did you come here ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you ; all I know is that here I am, so fast that I cannot 
 move a foot. Ever since one o'clock this morning I have bawled, and cried, 
 and begged, and prayed, but no one has come near me, and have sat all the 
 night upon these cursed sides of bacon. Release me, do, I ache in every 
 bone, and am as cold as death. I shall never forget this cursed Mont- 
 morency, I know." 
 
 Whilst I was fumbling about the spring of the trap, which it was im-* 
 possible to undo without the key, the girl arrived with the landlord, who- 
 was grinning at the idea of having caught the robber at last, but stared in 
 astonishment when he saw it was the guest to whom he had lent his slippers* 
 Raymond looked unutterable things at the servant, who could scarcely con- 
 tain her delight at the thought of having tricked him so gloriously, and 
 then told a pretty tale of how, feeling indisposed in his bowels during the 
 night, he had left his chamber to seek a certain necessary place, and had 
 entered the store-room by accident, where he was forcibly detained by the 
 trap. The host overwhelmed him with apologies for the mischances, then 
 unlocked the spring, and set the unhappy Raymond once more on both his 
 legs. He returned to his own room, exclaiming that he had no use in his 
 limbs, that he had caught a rheumatism that would last him all his life, and 
 whilst we left him to rub his legs, his shoulders, his back, and his haunches 
 by himself, I walked out to visit those charming woodland scenes which 
 Grfctry and Jean Jacques Rousseau have endowed with immortality. 
 
 On returning to breakfast, I found Raymond waiting for me with great 
 impatience. After a dull repastj^n which not a word could be extoacted 
 from my sulky friend, the cabriolet was brought round, and the two 
 invalids assisted into it, and having paid the bill, including the landlord's 
 slippers, which Raymond was obliged to wear to Paris, I placed myself be- 
 tween them and drove home without meeting with any further accident. 
 My neighbour put his feet in hot water, had his bed warmed, and got into 
 it directly, where I let him lie until the evening, when I presented to him* 
 the following pleasing result of our excursion to Madame Marsan's fete ; — 
 
 To one day's hire of horse and cabriolet, . .£150 
 The peasant for acting as guide and finding the 
 
 horse, .... 
 
 The hire of three donkeys, . 
 Repairs to the cabriolet, 
 Damage to the vines, . 
 Supper, beds, and breakfasts for three, 
 
 horse, .... 
 
 Slippers for Raymond, . . 
 Rubbing back of ditto, 
 Two fires in bedrooms, 
 The groom, for loss of time with sprained ankle, 
 
 Total, . £5 16 6 
 To this must be added, on Raymond's part, the destruction of his dress 
 
 and keep of 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 4 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
B2 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 ahoes, and hat inclusive. He heaved a sigh when he saw the bill, took £2, 
 18s. 6d. from his pocket as if the money burned his fingers, shook his head 
 dolefully, paid me, and returned to his bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 8USPIOIONS AND CONSEQUENT HEARTACHE. 
 
 The first thing I did in the morning was to write a letter to Madame 
 Marsan, apologising for my absence at her fSte, stating the true cause, and 
 -promising to come over and pay my homage to her as quickly as I could, 
 -after which I hastened to the Rue Caumartin, and was much disappointed 
 when I turned the corner of the street at not seeing Caroline at the 
 ■window watching for my arrival. All this was very unreasonable, you will 
 aay, reader, and no doubt it was ; there was no reason why Caroline should 
 catch a crick in her neck by gazing from the window so as to gain a sight 
 of my precious person a few minutes earlier than she otherwise would, but, 
 nevertheless, I ascended the stairs with a heaviness of heart I could not at 
 all account for, and which was much increased upon my finding that she 
 had gone out. I descended the stairs in a very bad humour at my disap- 
 pointment, although undoubtedly I had no right to be displeased at her taking 
 a promenade, and as I walked slowly away from the house, I first scratched 
 aay ear almost mechanically, and then my forehead. Was the latter action 
 caused by a presentiment ? It might be ; coming events are said to cast 
 Cheir shadows before, and I had never known ,a woman prove faithful to me 
 yet. But, as I had promised myself not to meet misfortunes half-way, I 
 shook off my gloomy anticipations, proceeded towards the Boulevard, and on 
 gaining the broad pavement, saw Caroline coming to me, very much over- 
 dressed for a quiet morning walk. She seemed rather embarrassed at first, 
 but advanced smiling, and I went to meet her with a smile also on my 
 countenance, but not of the most amiable description, I must allow. How 
 •widely different are forced smiles from those which spring spontaneous from 
 the heart ! 
 
 " Dear me, Caroline, I had not the slightest expectation of meeting you 
 bere." 
 
 You are surprised, Eugene, no doubt ; the fact is I did not think, as it 
 was so late in the day, that you would come until after dinner. Have 
 you been to our rooms ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and where have you been in this extraordinary attire ? " 
 
 " Extraordinary, do you think ? I do not see anything so very particular 
 in it." 
 
 " Very unlike what you used to wear in the Rue aux Rosiers." 
 
 ** How unkind of you I You surely would not wish me to leave the houaa 
 in an apron, with my hair in paper ? " 
 
 " You used to look uncommonly pretty in that style." 
 
 " Possibly, but I have not any desire to resume it." 
 
 " I believe you perfectly." 
 
 " One would think from your reproaches that when you first saw me I 
 was nothing but an awkward, stupid, country girl." 
 
 " Oh, dear no, I did not think you quite such an innocent." 
 
 She turned to reach her home, and as I followed her, without very well 
 
Suspicions and consequent Heartache. §3 
 
 knowing why, she rallied me upon my very unreasonable ill-humour, and 
 showed me that it was altogether out of the question that I should find 
 fault with her for taking a morning walk ; whilst I was compelled to take 
 refuge under the paltry excuse that true lovers are always jealous ; but when 
 we reached the apartment, and Caroline's bonnet was taken off, the sight 
 of her lovely face glowing with exercise, and a kiss from her lips, settled my 
 ffair, and peace was re-established in the usual way. 
 
 We dined together and went to the theatre in the evening. The piece was 
 excellent, and, moreover, was admirably performed, but she did not seem to 
 take any interest in it. There was an air of absence of thought from what 
 was going on, a pre-occupation of mind as if she expected to see somebody 
 or something else. I could not engage her attention at all ; she appeared 
 dull, and in a quite different mood to any I had ever seen her in before ; she 
 was not like herself, and answered abruptly to every remark I made ; had 
 she been like what she was, she would have escaped all hasty observations 
 from me. Gould it be that her love was on the wane ? 
 
 When the performances were over I escorted her home, but refused all 
 her repeated solicitations to remain and pass the night. On arriving at my 
 own apartments, my thoughts unconsciously reverted to Nicette, and my 
 hand sought the door ; but what was my surprise when I found there was 
 not any bouquet placed within the lock, and on the day when she never 
 failed to leave one. Had she forgotten me too I That would grieve my 
 heart. What folly ; what worse than childishness ; how could I possibly 
 suppose that the flower-girl would bring me bouquets throughout the yea* 
 when I did not pay her for them, or even go to her shop to say " Good 
 morning ! " Why should she think of me, who spurned her, and considered 
 her beneath my notice ? But with all this really logical reasoning, I felt I 
 should be deeply hurt if she should forget me. It was not with common 
 indifference that I had received these constant proofs of her attachment 
 and respect, far from it ; and dow that she had missed bringing me an ac- 
 customed one, there was an aching void within my heart that refused to be 
 filled up. Could it be possible I loved her, when every evening Caroline 
 was my companion ? Yes, I could not conceal the fatal truth from 
 my proud heart. In its inmost recesses I knew that I was capable of the 
 most enduring constancy, could I but find a woman who deserved it. I 
 fully believed that all her affections were centred in myself, and though I 
 did not doubt that if I followed up a hot pursuit, her unbounded love 
 would not permit her to refuse becoming mine upon my own terms, yet my 
 better feelings, and my respect for her industry and virtue, effectually re- 
 strained me from taking advantage of her innocence and youth. I went to 
 bed with a heavy heart, and a suspicion that all was not right with Caroline ; 
 drew a comparison between herself and Nicette — a very favourable one to 
 the latter — and went to sleep with the determination to get up at six 
 o'clock the following morning, visit the pretty flower-girl, and ascertain 
 bow she* was going on. What singularly constituted animals we men are 1 
 True, I had neglected Nicette for a whole month, and now I was angry 
 because she seemed to have forgotten me ! and burned to ascertain whethet 
 ber sentiments towards me remained the same. Whence did this singular 
 desire arise ? Was it love, vanity, jealousy, simple curiosity, or whim ? 
 Settle it as you will, reader, I only know that the feeling was within my 
 breast, and would not be appeased. 
 
 Those who have made up their minds to get up at ft certain hour seldom 
 oversleep the time. I rose at six o'clock, and as I dressed myself I scarcely 
 Smew there was such a woman as Caroline upon the face of the earth. The 
 thought of her should not torment me any longer j she might be faithful to 
 
94 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 me or not ; if the first were true it would be very stupid for me to annoy 
 myself without cause ; and if the second, she was unworthy of regret, 
 That is a mode of reasoning I recommend to the consideration of all Tceepers r 
 present and to come. A very strong suspicion as to the constancy of mjr 
 attachment to the artificial florist. True : when Reason comes in at the 
 door, Love always escapes by the -window. 
 
 Before half -past six o'clock, an hour which I choose for fear of being de- 
 tected by any of my aristocratic acquaintances talking to a flower-girl, T 
 stood near the spot where Nicette generally placed her table with the flowers, 
 but not seeing her, I addressed myself to an errand-porter seated close by, 
 and asked him if he knew where Nicette had removed. 
 
 " Yes, for the last few days she had taken a shop some doors lower down, 
 where, no doubt, I should find her. It was a small shop," he added, " but 
 very tastefully arranged." 
 
 As I turned away to seek Nicette's new abode, some misgivings came 
 over me as to how the girl had gained the means to hire a shop. I trembled 
 to think of the manner in which they had been acquired; she had listened 
 to another man, who had been more successful with her than myself, and 
 he had culled the flower that was within my reach, and I so heroically had 
 spared. The thought was madness. 
 
 I returned to the porter's stand, determined to make some inquiries of 
 him before I visited Nicette, and having placed a small piece of money in 
 his hand, begged him to give me a description of the person and manners of 
 the flower-girl he had alluded to, in order that there might be no mistake. 
 He stated that she was small in stature, very pretty, of a dark complexion, 
 with sparkling eyes, and a profusion of black hair ; that she spoke but 
 seldom to her customers, and if young gentlemen stopped to chatter with 
 her, she quickly sent them about their business ; she was a careful girl, and 
 he was quite sure a virtuous one, although she did not want lovers in the 
 least. Oh, no ; she could have any of the shopmen in the street if she liked, 
 she was so very pretty, but she treated them all alike. She had only kept 
 a stall in that street for six weeks, and yet had managed to gain enough to 
 take a shop ; to be sure her business was the most extraordinary one in the 
 line that he had ever known ; there were such numbers of gayyoung gentlemen 
 who came to talk nonsense to her, but it was of no use their trying to 
 come over her — she sold them bouquets, but would not part with anything 
 else. When some of these fine fellows purchased quantities of flowers and 
 ordered them to be delivered at their hoiises, thinking she would bring 
 them herself, they were always disappointed, for she never failed to send 
 them home by the barber's little girl ; in fact, she cared no more for a 
 lord than a lacquey. 
 
 The praises of the honest errand -porter fell gratefully upon my ears. 
 I gave him sixpence more, and walked down the street until I saw Nicette 
 arranging several flower-pots on stands before the window of the shop. At 
 sight of me she uttered a faint cry, and let a bouquet of pinks and roses fall 
 out of her hands ; she then blushed a deep carnation, curtsied to the 
 ground, and stammered how delighted she was at seeing me. I entered 
 the shop, seated myself upon a stool, looked her full in the face, and was 
 pleased to find the features of it were as beautiful, and the expression as 
 open and innocent, as ever. When she could speak freely, she told me in 
 the most touching tone that she had thought I had altogether forgotten her, 
 and that she should never see me again ; but then how could she expect 
 that a fine gentleman like me would recollect a humble flower-girl ? As she 
 stoodfbefore me, with the tears dimming her fine eyes, she seemed to me 
 more lovely and enchanting than ever ; the blood rushed ttunultuously to 
 
The Confidential Disclosure. 95 
 
 my heart and brain, and whilst I assured her that sfcpfpould always live hi 
 my remembrance, and that it was impossible to forest so much candour, 
 innocence and beauty, I drew her unresisting form towards me, and was 
 about to imprint a kiss upon her lips when she cast her eyes round, and I, 
 seeing we were within sight of the public in the street, let go her hand. 
 She thanked me with her eyes ; good reason she had to do so, for her repu- 
 tation was at stake, and that kiss might have ruined it for ever. We re- 
 tired further from the public view, and began to converse about her own 
 ikffairs, which, according to her account, had gone on very successfully since 
 the morning I first started her in business. She said she never felt lonely, 
 for she had always something to think of, something to employ her mind, 
 and in the evenings she learned to read and write from an old neighbour 
 who was kind enough to give her lessons. This amused her, at the same 
 tome that it killed many an hour which otherwise would have been most 
 wearisome to her, and when she had become proficient in the above-named 
 necessaries for the existence of anyone above the brute creation, she in- 
 tended to learn as many useful accomplishments as she could. I thanked 
 her for her kindness in bringing me the bouquets ; and encouraged her to go 
 on steadily with her lessons, for that I saw she possessed great natural 
 Abilities, only needing cultivation to place her in a fair rank in society, and 
 that if she preserved her virtue and innocence of heart, the time would 
 Assuredly soon arrive when there would be no occasion for her to demean 
 herself by selling flowers, but that she would be established comfortably 
 and respectably in life. She heard all I said in silence, and seemed to 
 approve of my remarks ; it is true she sighed as I made the last, and was 
 just about to speak, when some customers came in, to whose orders she 
 must attend. I rose, bade her adieu, motioned a thousand kisses, sighed, 
 and left the shop in despair at leaving her without one parting kiss. 
 
 Had the interview taken place in my apartments, our adieux would not 
 have been spoken in that cold, icy manner. You have but to utter one 
 word, Eugene, and another meeting may soon take place within thy rooms. 
 I know it all too well, there's heaven, but danger in the thought. No ! 
 that word shall never be pronounced by me ; absence alone oan save my 
 honour, her future happiness, and virtuous fame. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 -THE CONFIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE, 
 
 How quickly an advantageous change in a man's pecuniary affairs recon- 
 ciles him to that life which he had cursed within his heart ; how soon one 
 touch of nature reconciles a misanthrope to his fellow-men ; how speedily 
 the success of a new piece calms the ill-humour of a needy author ; how 
 the sight of a bottle of choice wine causes a drunkard to forget his vows of 
 temperance ; how swiftly a ray of sunlight dispels the lingering traces of 
 the last night's storm ; how instantaneously the sight of a tempting woman 
 effaces all our vows of chastity ; how do her caresses erase from out our 
 minds the remembrance of our last love's infidelities, and bind us again to 
 that dear sex which we have sworn to avoid for ever when we have been 
 deceived ; but whom we have never quitted, because it is not in nature 
 that we should. 
 
96 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 Thus it was that my interview with Nicette completely reconciled me to 
 womankind, whom I had almost began — without the slightest reason — to dis- 
 like ; and I began to reflect that I had no real cause to suspect Caroline,, 
 that there was nothing in her conduct deserving of iny reproaches, and that 
 it was possible my bad temper and want of confidence might produce the 
 very results I so much dreaded. I must inform you, reader, that whilst X 
 was making these sage reflections I was walking towards Fortone's, where 
 I intended to breakfast, and before I reached that celebrated establishment 
 I had almost persuaded myself that the faithlessness of my mistresses was 
 entirely brought on by my own conduct, from constantly behaving to them 
 in a manner that must alienate their affections from me. My reverie was 
 terminated by the steps of the coffee-house, where I found Raymond chatting 
 with a gentleman about sixty years of age, ill-made, with a coarse, disagree 
 able face, and apparently rather lame, as he leaned upon a superbly-mounted 
 malacca cane, but whose dress, and accessories and manners, denoted a man 
 of some pretensions and considerable wealth. I nodded to my neighbour, 
 and sat down at a table some little distance off ; but whilst I was sip- 
 ping my chocolate, the conversation of Raymond and his friend became- 
 very animated, and I heard, from the loud tone in which the stranger 
 talked, that he was recounting the history of an amour with all the liveli- 
 ness and enjoyment of the youngest libertine in Paris. At the conclusion 
 of the recital, which Raymond listened to with great deference, the old 
 gentleman left the room, walking with difficulty by the help of his cane, 
 and my neighbour came up to me and inquired whether I had recovered 
 from the fatigues of the last night's journey, stating at the same time that he 
 was as lissome as a monkey and as blithsome as a lark, having lost his 
 rheumatism and regained his pristine agility by rubbing his person with 
 the contents of several bottles of Ceylon oil, with the assistance of the old 
 portress, whose manipulations had not produced the same exciting sensa- 
 tions as those of the strapping girl at Montmorency. He then sat down,. 
 and lowering his voice almost to a whisper, said with great mystery, — 
 
 " Do you know that gentleman who has just gone ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " He is Monsieur Grandmaison." 
 
 " Indeed, I never heard of him before. " 
 
 " Immensely rich." 
 
 "And immensely ugly." 
 
 " Quite an astonishing financier ; formerly a contractor for the armies, e> 
 fanner of Government duties, and all that.** 
 
 " Ah, I see." 
 
 " He gives delightful balls." 
 
 "Does not dance himself, I should think." 
 
 " I won't promise you that : he's a mettlesome old boy, makes many- 
 conquests of women's hearts still." 
 
 "Buys them, you mean." 
 
 " Exactly so ; but, somehow or other, he manages to have all the finest 
 women in Paris." 
 
 " No compliment to their taste." 
 
 "By-the-by, he has just been speaking to me, in confidence, of a fresh 
 intrigue with one of the sweetest creatures ever seen, with whom he hopes 
 to succeed in a very few days. He says she is delightful. " 
 
 " Some kept girl, I suppose ? " 
 
 Just so ; the young man who keeps her is very jealous, and their estab- 
 lishment is on a very so-so scale ; but the minx knows the value of her at- 
 tractions, and stands out for high terms with Grandmaison. He saw he? 
 
The Confidential Disclosure. 97 
 
 first at the window of her apartment, then he dispatched notes with the 
 usual proposition ; he found from her replies that she was desirous of cut- 
 ting a dash, so he talked of diamonds, a box at the opera, and Cashmere 
 shawls, which had the desired effect, and the affair is quite arranged be- 
 tween them. The young puppy of a lover will soon be spared any further 
 expense on the lady's part." 
 
 During the time he was speaking I felt a certain uneasiness, although 
 I listened mechanically, as it were ; but when he mentioned diamonds and 
 Cashmere shawls, and I recollected Caroline's passion for display, I became^ 
 seriously alarmed, notwithstanding Grandmaison's infirmities and age. 
 Certainly my vanity would not permit me to suppose that such a rival ae 
 he was could be preferred to myself ; btft a still, small voice within kept 
 impressing upon me that vanity is constantly deceived, and therefore I 
 determined to ask Raymond a few questions which could either confirm my 
 suspicions, or set them satisfactorily at rest. With this view I inquired 
 where Grandmaison lived, and was told he possessed a splendid house at 
 the upper end of the Rue Caumartin. 
 
 A cold shudder ran throughout my frame ; it seemed as a heavy weight 
 oppressed my chest, and my hair almost stood on end with affright. How- 
 ever, I mastered the convulsive feeling, and said, assuming an air of perfect 
 indifference, — 
 
 "And this young beauty you have been speaking of, where does 
 she live \ " 
 
 " Immediately opposite, at a house where there is not any porter ; she 
 lives in the second -floor front. Grandmaison saw her originally at the 
 window. The street is rather wide, but he has had a capital opera-glass 
 constructed purposely for him. It's quite a small telescope, brings every- 
 thing close to you, and you know how convenient it is when a danseuse 
 spins a pirouette, to direct a powerful glass full upon." 
 
 ** Yes, yes, but the girl ? " 
 
 " Oh, he says he saw by this friendly glass that she is young, handsome^ 
 well-shaped, and not all used up — quite fresh, indeed ; the lover does not 
 live with her, but comes to see her very often, and so soon as he leaves, 
 there she is again at the window. The night before last he went into the 
 country for some purpose or other, so Grandmaison contrived to take her 
 into a private box at the theatre, and now it is quite arranged that for th«< 
 future — that is, for the present you know — she will be under his protection." 
 
 Here, then, was an end of my dream of Caroline's fidelity and love I I 
 could not contain myself any longer, and struck my fist so violently upon 
 the table, over which Raymond was leaning as he whispered, that the 
 chocolate was thrown by the concussion over his shirt-front, and he recoiled 
 in dismay at the fierceness of the gesture. As Raymond was wiping the 
 liquid from his face, and drying his shirt with his pocket-handkerchief, I 
 became more calm, apologised for my unintentional rudeness, which had 
 been caused by a sudden, severe twinge in the bowels, and begged him to 
 proceed. He further stated that the lecherous old man had seen the girl by 
 appointment yesterday afternoon out of doors — (she was coming from the 
 assignation when I met her) — that he had promised her a handsome suite 
 of rooms, with a female servant, and a carriage at her orders and a 
 hundred pounds a month ; that she was to receive a magnificent Cashmere 
 shawl that evening at his house at supper with a few select friends, and that 
 Bhe would not return to her fool of a young man again. 
 
 I jumped up unwittingly, in an agony which caused the perspiration to 
 stand on my forehead in big drops : Raymond started back again in fear, 
 and asked me whether I was ill, to which I answered that I only required 
 
 O 
 
98 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 air, and seizing his arm, almost dragged him into the street. Deceived, 
 deceived again, always the same with these infernal women — nothing but 
 deceit ! Unconsciously murmuring to myself and swearing inwardly, I 
 held Raymond's arm so tight that he screamed with pain, and implored mo 
 to loose him, without the purport of his words reaching my brain. At last, 
 perceiving his misery, I let him go, and moderating my despair and rage 
 with a gigantic effort, essayed to smile, and begged him to go on with any 
 other detail of this very amusing intrigue. He looked at me as if he was 
 afraid that I was mad, and proceeded to say, that if I liked I could see 
 Grandmaison's angel at supper at his house that very evening, for the 
 former contractor had invited my friend and a few other dashing fellows to 
 meet her, because, not being over- burdened with sense and wit himself, he 
 always wanted some clever men to keep things going on these interesting 
 occasions, and amuse the new Sultana ; in fact, he took things very quietly 
 at his own house, leaving the task of entertaining to his friends. This, 
 according to Raymond's account, was a very excellent arrangement ; be- 
 cause, first, there suppers always consisted of the greatest delicacies and 
 the choicest wines that wealth could purchase; there was no ceremony, 
 every man did what he chose, talked nonsense, cut jokes, made double 
 entendres, and amused himself as he liked j and secondly, as it was im- 
 possible a handsome, eage* sprightly lascivious young woman could be 
 in love with such a worn-out, crippled debauchee as Grandmaison, she was 
 sure to distribute her favours amongst his younger friends. Presented by 
 him, the banker would be delighted to see me, and if I would only exert 
 myself to be agreeable and be as witty and jovial as I could be when I liked, 
 it was clear that I should become the rich man's friend, and one of the 
 select circle of gallant spirits on the spot. 
 
 Burning with rage, and determined to expose my fickle mistress, I ac- 
 cepted Raymond's invitation, agreeing to meet him at the English coffee- 
 house on the Boulevard at ten o'clock, and then, having made up my mind 
 to act firmly but quietly, and above all not to betray my promised ven- 
 geance, I repaired to the abode of the faithless, perjured Caroline. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE SUPPEB. 
 
 She was at home, and received me in her usual affectionate manner, with- 
 out the slightest embarrassment. This behaviour puzzled me : was I wrong 
 in suspecting her ? perhaps ; but why did she not remark the agitation 
 which I felt must be seen in spite -of all my efforts to prevent it, for no cir- 
 cumstance, however trifling, escapes the eyes of love. She could not love 
 me ; again suspicions poured in upon my brain ; and it seemed that I must 
 give way to the passionate anger that devoured me. After several 
 moments' silence, I said it was my intention to pass the day with her, to 
 which she replied she was always pleased to see me, and in so sweet a voice, 
 and with so much love and kindness in the tone, that I had well-nigh 
 clasped her in my arms, and thrown my jealous doubts to the winds of 
 heaven. We conversed upon uninteresting subjects during the afternoon 
 until dinner, which was hastened by mutual consent, as if it were that each 
 of us desired to hurry over the slow-paced hours which must intervene before 
 
The Supper. 99 
 
 the arrival of the night ; and after the dull, cheerless meal, Caroline lay 
 down upon the sofa complaining of headache, whilst I sat by her side and 
 tried to talk of love, but the attempt was unsuccessful, for the heart re- 
 fused to dictate the charmed words, which fell heavy and leaden from my lips. 
 
 At length I proposed that we should go to the Opera ; she declined, her 
 headache was worse, and would keep her in the house. Traitress, I under^ 
 stood her all too well ! Should I remain with her and read ? could I do any- 
 thing to relieve her pain ? 
 
 " No, all she wanted was repose. She would not detain me near her 
 couch and interfere with my pleasures on any account ; she would be well 
 enough on the morrow, and delighted to see me again. 
 
 A slight tremulousness of accent showed me that she feared lest my 
 remaining with her should derange her plan of resorting to Grandmaison 
 in the evening. I could have easily done so had I wished, but not the 
 least intention of opposing myself to the full fruition of her desires entered 
 into my head. Of what use could it possibly be for me to do so ? None, 
 except to protract the final moment of her quitting me ; what then was my 
 object in offering to remain by her during the night ? Merely to ascertain 
 how far dissimulation would carry her before I should meet her and con- 
 found her in the blaze of her anticipated triumph. At eight o'clock th& 
 artful woman pretended her illness had increased so much that she could not 
 keep out of bed, so I pressed her hand tightly as if nothing had transpired 
 to awaken any doubt of her fidelity, said I would come early the next morn- 
 ing to see how she was, and left her to herself to dress for her new conquest, 
 and revel in the delights the contractor's wealth would furnish to her. 
 
 As I walked from the house, somewhat relieved by the cool air that 
 played upon my fevered brow, I thought — mournfully at first, for the heart 
 tears asunder slowly those chains with which it has been bound, even when 
 cruelly deceived — that if I had thought only for one single moment, I would 
 have expected that Caroline would leave me for a richer man. She had 
 quitted her aunt and Jules for the apartments arid the dresses I pro- 
 vided for her ; and now it was quite natural that, dazzled by the prospect 
 of a splendid establishment, she should forsake my protection. She never 
 loved me, her caresses were all purchased ; she had deceived me, and that 
 necessarily wounded my self-love ; but connections of this sort must 
 terminate sooner or later, and perhaps it was as well that this one was 
 brought to its present summary conclusion. Had Nicette deceived me, 
 my sensations would have been widely different. I called to mind the 
 agony, the despair I felt when I heard she had taken a shop, which my 
 jealous fancy suggested must have been given her by another, and I 
 pictured to myself that had she lived with me on the same terms as Caroline, 
 I could not have survived her loss ; whereas now, when the first breath of 
 grief and disappointment was over, I congratulated myself on having 
 escaped the pangs of a harpy who was daily leading me to destruction. 
 
 Having consoled myself in this philosophical manner, and brought 
 Nicette's image again most prominently on my mental mirror, I dressed 
 myself, went to the English coffee-house punctually at ten o'clock, and 
 whilst I waited for Raymond, took a glass of punch to enliven my spirits 
 and keep me up to concert pitch in the exciting scene I knew I must go 
 through. My neighbour arrived soon after, dressed in a free-and-ea3y f 
 devil-may-care style, appropriate to a rakish bachelor's supper, and a few 
 minutes sufficed to transport us to Grandmaison's handsome house in the 
 Rue Cauaaartin, nearly opposite to the faithless Caroline's apartments. We 
 ascended a highly-decorated staircase, graced with flowers ir costly china 
 mrs and evergreens, traversed several ante-chambers, superbly furnished 
 
100 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 and lighted by torches suspended from the ceiling, and entered at length a 
 small room, hung with rich silk curtains trimmed with gold, and with several 
 raluable cabinet pictures by celebrated masters, where I was presented to 
 four gentlemen, but not to the happy possessor of all this Oriental wealth. 
 
 " E>w are you, my lads, how are you ? " said Raymond, shaking them all 
 by the hand ; " but where is Grandmaison ? " 
 
 " In his boudoir," one of them replied, laughing and jerking his thumb 
 over his shoulder, " in his boudoir, there, taming his little beautiful wild 
 beast, and showing her to behave herself at supper." 
 
 " Making the last arrangements for the night, eh ? Very circumspect 
 and proper indeed, on these occasions when a man is determined there shall 
 be no mistake." 
 
 " Yes, yes, but introduce us, Raymond, to your friend." 
 
 The presentation was made in due form ; I was hailed an important 
 addition to this clique of sensualists, and then some one said, — 
 
 " Has any gentleman seen our host's new beauty ? " 
 
 " Not yet, but Grandmaison has told us she is charming, ravishing, but 
 quite a novice, so that we must not offend her modesty with giving free scope 
 to our wit, and perhaps annoy the little darling's delicate young ears." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! he does not understand much about the tempting crea- 
 tures, could never make his way alone with them ; it's his money that does 
 it all. But his wine is capital, it must be allowed." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, and his head cook an inimitable artist." 
 
 " I've a great respect for him." 
 
 " For whom, the cook or Grandmaison ? 
 
 11 Be quiet, with your nonsense, will you ! No puns, no witticisms, if 
 you please, they are prohibited to-day." 
 
 Whilst this enlightened conversation was going on, showing plainly the 
 true light in which the guests viewed their epicurean entertainer, I amused 
 myself with examining the faces and persons of the individuals assembled 
 in the room. One, short, fat, with an empurpled complexion, the effect of 
 excess in eating and drinking, contented himself with laughing at the jokes 
 of his companions, without contributing anything to the common stock. 
 The second was a little man about fifty years old, who affected to be a 
 youth, and vented every stupid, obscene idea that offered itself to his 
 prurient imagination. The third, a young man who lounged listlessly in a 
 brocaded velvet arm-chair, was pale and livid, with hollow cheeks and 
 sunken eyes, which announced the fatal ravages of continued early de- 
 bauch ; and the set, with the exception of Raymond, was made up by a 
 burly personage with round, staring eyes, a prodigious nose, and a face be- 
 tokening continual intoxication. 
 
 The opening of the door of Grandmaison's private apartment, and the 
 Appearance of that gentleman alone, put an end to the very affectionate re- 
 marks of his intimate personal friends. 
 
 |* Where is she ? " they all exclaimed with one voice. 
 
 " Gently, gentlemen, a moment, if you please ; she is arranging her 
 dress. I told her I had some select friends to sup with me, before whom 
 she did not like to appear in dithabUU. Besides, my servant will show her 
 the presents I am about to make her. A little patience, my friends, and a 
 little punch, and then to supper, if you wilL" 
 
 Raymond introduced me to Grandmaison, who exhausted his stock of 
 stale compliments in expressing the pleasure he felt at making my ac- 
 quaintance. I feared at first that he would recognise me as Caroline's 
 frwui from seeing me in the street, but I soon found that he had need of 
 ni* pocket-telescope in order to distinguish objects clearly, and I had no 
 
The Supper. 101 
 
 further dread of detection. An enormous bowl of punch, accompanied by 
 silver salvers bearing biscuits and cakes, was brought in, to which so much 
 honour was done by the guests that I began to think they would not be in 
 a very fit state to enjoy their supper ; the little red-faced man, in particular, 
 crammed himself with macaroons, and the burly one, who was an English 
 lord, did nothing but fill, empty, and refill his glass. 
 
 The bowl was emptied, and the company teased Grandmaison for a 
 description of his mistress ; he gave them as much information as he pos- 
 sessed at present, he said, and promised them more on the morrow, when his 
 researches into her beauties should have been further prosecuted. All 
 laughed, as in duty bound, at the rich man's joke. He was again assailed as to 
 the colour of the eyes, the shape, and teeth of his Sultana, and in the general 
 buzz I roared and said anything that came uppermost, without heeding its 
 applicability or sense, thereby endearing myself to all my new acquaintances 
 and the master of the house, and gaining for myself the character of a go-a- 
 head, witty, rattling creature. Three-quarters of an hour had elasped, and 
 still the Houri did not appear. Grandmaison looked at his watch, requested 
 his visitors to proceed to the dining-room, where the repast was served, 
 whilst he returned to the boudoir, so we walked under Raymond's guidance 
 into a large apartment, massively furnished, and redolent of spices and of her 
 balmy odours burning in cassolettes, and a handsome timepiece on the 
 chimney, the hands precisery at midnight, which my neighbour instantly put 
 back one hour, in order that we should have more time to divert ourselves 
 with the viands and the amorous toying of the old libertine with his belle. 
 Not content with this practical joke, Raymond thrust the key of the clock 
 rudely into the hole on the dial which retards the time ; but before he could 
 withdraw it the voice of Monsieur Grandmaison was heard in the adjoining 
 room. All the guests ran to the door with the greatest impatience to receive 
 the lady, whilst I placed myself completely behind it, so as to avoid being 
 seen. My heart beat high as I heard the rustling of her dress ; she advanced 
 a few steps — it was Caroline, modest, but radiant as ever, smiling softly as 
 she replied in a timid, trembling tone to all the compliments showered on 
 her beauty by the obsequious parasites ; my throat swelled as if I should 
 have been suffocated ; one more deep sigh, and the influence of the faithless 
 woman over me was passed. 
 
 She was arrayed in a magnificent light-coloured satin dress, trimmed 
 with lace flounces, a collar of large emeralds glistened on her throat, with a 
 high comb and earrings to match, bracelets of the same precious stones were 
 on her well-turned wrists, and there she stood in the centre of the room, 
 with downcast eyes, with that look of youthful innocence which had 
 deceived me the evening I ran against her in the street. Yet in all that 
 hashf ulness, there was to my practised scrutiny a thrill of proud satisfaction 
 at the splendour of her apparel and the gorgeousness of the room into which 
 she entered as the acknowledged temporary mistress. Grandmaison 
 whispered in her ear, and as he was leading her to the table, Raymond drew 
 me from my hiding place, crying out in his usual tone, — 
 
 " Come here, Eugene, come here and be introduced to the earthly repre- 
 sentative of all the goddesses. Venus, Juno, Hebe, Psyche were — ' 
 
 At the utterance of my Christian name, Caroline lifted up her head, she 
 started from her seat, stared at me as if I had been a basilisk and fascinated, 
 then slowly lifted up one arm, pointed her finger at me as if conjuring a 
 phantom, tottered, shrieked, and fell senseless into the arms of Grandmaison, 
 at the same instant that the overwound chain of the timepiece broke with 
 % loud report that carried consternation into the hearts of all in the room. 
 It happened that the unexpected shock of Caroline's fall knocked the con- 
 
102 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 tractor from his equilibrium, which was badly supported at all times in con- 
 sequence of the lameness of his left leg, so that he was precipitated to the 
 floor, catching hold of Rocambolle's thigh as he fell, which, being partly com- 
 posed of cotton, to make the worn-out rake appear muscular, gave way, tear- 
 ing the cassimere of the breeches with it, and remaining in the banker's hand. 
 
 Whilst Rocambolle hastened to pick up his supposititious muscular devel- 
 opment, the young used-up gentleman was rolling in an easy chair, laughing 
 at the fun, and the gourmand epicure, Lamorin, was cursing at the idea of 
 the supper getting cold. Raymond rushed to the table to get a tumbler of 
 water for the fainting Odalisque, but in his haste he knocked a candelabrum 
 into an epergne of truffle, and upset two bottles of Madeira, one of which rolled 
 and fell upon Grandmaison's face as he struggled to rise, and cut his no3e in 
 two, whilst Lamorin called to the servants to take the supper from the table 
 for fear the dishes should be destroyed. Mademioselle Caroline did not deem 
 it expedient to recover from her fit, and the English lord placed several 
 bottles of champagne in safety on one side. 
 
 As Grandmaison continued to bemoan the destruction of his nose, 
 Rocambolle to swear at the exposure of his false herculean thigh, and 
 Lamorin to groan for the loss of the good things, Raymond, in his absurd 
 hurry to set all to rights, and assist everybody, upset the table and chairs, 
 broke the superbly-cut glasses and the real China plates, and finished by 
 tumbling over a dumb-waiter bearing wines, liquors, ices, and fruits, provided 
 for the dessert, breaking the bottles into pieces, and flooding the rich turkey 
 carpet with their generous contents. 
 
 What more had I to do in the mansion of the hated Grandmaison ? 
 My vengeance was complete; the bright scene of anticipated luxury had 
 been turned, as if by an enchanter's wand, into one of tumult and disorder. 
 Shouts of anger and shrieks of pain resounded where cries of joy and amorous 
 ditties were alone expected ; sighs replaced pungent witticisms, and dulnesa, 
 prevailed instead of gaiety ; in fact, Caroline had seen and recognised me, 
 and my revenge was glutted to the full. I drew myself up to my full height, 
 looked on Caroline with a smile of contempt as she opened her deep blue 
 eyes, stalked from the room r and left the house of Monsieur Grandmaison 
 entirely cured of my passionate devotion to the artificial flower-girl. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE TWO VISITS — THE WRITING LESSON. 
 
 Nine o'clock on the morning after the memorable snpper found me stil! 
 in bed reviewing in my mind, calmly and coolly — now that my rage at 
 Caroline's infidelity had evaporated — the scene of the preceding evening and 
 the chief actress in it, and as the debris of the supper, worthy of the 
 Emperor Heliogabalus, passed across my mind, I laughed so loudly that if 
 any prying individual, conducted through the air by the Devil-on-two- 
 sticks, had removed the roof of the house and looked into my apartment, he 
 would have thought that I was qualifying myself for a dark chamber in a 
 lunatic asylum. The bell of the outer dc or rang, Raymond was ushered in 
 by the portress, and finding me in a very gay mood, he took the same tone, 
 and approached to my bedside, saying, — 
 
 " Well, neighbour, a pretty scene that last night, eh ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes, but how did it all end 1 I must look to yon for the details.* 
 
The Two Visits — The Writing Lesson. 10*S 
 
 u And I to you for an explanation of the causes. " 
 M In the wood of Boulogne, eh ? " 
 
 " No, no ; tell me how was it that the lady came to swoon at seeing you ? " 
 " Simply because I happen to be the fool of a young man whom Grand- 
 maison bad succeeded." 
 
 " Is it possible I But why did not you tell me all about it before we went, 
 that I might have been in the secret and enjoyed the fun ? " 
 " Because I wished to cause you an agreeable surprise." 
 " You succeeded in that beyond all doubt." 
 " But tell me, Raymond, how did the uproar terminate ! " 
 " Dull enough ; Caroline insisted on retiring, Grandmaison's eyes were 
 mo swollen that he could not see out of them, so we put the young couple 
 away to enjoy themselves as they might, and as the supper was totally de- 
 stroyed by the table and dumb-waiter being knocked over, we went to our 
 respective homes in anything but amiable humours ; Rocambolle regretting 
 his thigh ; Lamorin the supper ; and the Englishman the absence of the young 
 beauty whom he intended to take away from the old fool Grandmaison. 
 Apropos, Dorsan, have you heard the news about our old friend Baron 
 Witcheritchy?" 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll tell you. They say that the Baroness was taking lessons 
 of an amateur on the serpent, with Witcheritchy's consent, because it would 
 De an additional instrument for her to play hereafter according to some 
 plan he had laid down, in which duets by him and her on the violin and 
 serpent or violoncello were to bring them in no end of money. Well, the 
 gentleman was in the habit of giving Madame lessons every day, and one 
 fine morning, when Witcheritchy was thought to be in the country, he came 
 home quite unexpectedly and discovered the Baroness amusing herself with 
 the amateur. Apparently the Baron did not like music at ail that 
 morning, for he cursed and swore, and kicked both his friend and the 
 serpent out of the house. The tale was told to me by young Triquet, who 
 heard his aunt talk of it, who heard it from Madame Bertin, who had it 
 from Crachini, who was told it by Gripaille, who learned it from a lady 
 who lives in the same house as the Witcheritchys. So you see it comes 
 direct from the fountain-head, and must be true. However, I'll ascertain 
 directly whether it is so or not, for I'll go to the Baron's to pay him a 
 friendly visit, and when I have managed to bring in some casual observations 
 with respect to the serpent, I shall see whether he winces or not. Good-bye, I 
 must be off. I have got also to write the last scene of the farce that will 
 "be acted soon at Madame Marsan's, and begin another for the little theatre 
 on the Boulevard." 
 
 " Indeed I I was not aware that the managers had received any of your 
 pieces." 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes ; at almost all the theatres." 
 " Singular that I why, I never hear of their being played." 
 " Of course not ; if they are not put in rehearsal at once, I withdraw 
 them directly. Just the same as it is with my water-colour paintings ; 
 when they are not put in a good light at the Royal Academy, I send them 
 back. True talent is never vain ; it is always content within its own 
 circle. But good-bye, I will leave you to dress yourself, for I've a thousand 
 things to do." 
 
 With these words he left the room. 
 
 Raymond's unequalled vanity amused me. I turned over on my side 
 for another quiet laugh, and thought he must be the happiest man alive. 
 He was convinced that he was an " Admirable Orichton," that he was hand- 
 
104 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 some, exquisitely shaped, and had talents and wit at will. If a woman re- 
 fused his solicitations, it was because she was afraid of loving him too 
 fondly ; if publishers would not print his verses, it was because they were 
 ignorant fools, incapable of judging of good poetry ; if his pieces were not 
 received at the theatres, it was through the jealousy of a clique of authors 
 who were arrayed against him. I really believe he thought he had shown 
 great courage in fighting a sham duel with pistols devoid of balls, just as he 
 thought his enormous calves constituted a model of a leg, and that he had & 
 fine head of hair, because it was as thick and as woolly as a negro's. After 
 all, the man was happy : it is a very fortunate thing ; and a great many 
 more are precisely of the same stamp. 
 
 ** It was now too late in the day to visit poor Nicette ; to read thafe 
 affectionate truth within her eyes which I had never found in those of 
 Caroline, even at the very summit of my frenzy; but as I left the house* 
 and walked leisurely away, my steps were unconsciously directed to the Rue 
 Oaumartin, which I only discovered when I was at the corner of the street. 
 Such is the force of habit ; an almost second nature, the imperceptible f 
 most minute, but yet strongest chain that binds mankind ! How many 
 couples, from whom fond love has passed away, still live together merely 
 from the force of habit. I do not speak of married people ; they are 
 obliged to do so, poor, miserable devils 1 
 
 In order to commence getting rid of this tendency of my legs, which could 
 not have been irresistibly confirmed, seeing that my liaison with Caroline 
 was only two months old, I resolved to pay a morning visit to Madame 
 Marsan, with whom I had a faint idea I had been a little touched, and, 
 moreover, because in all propriety of behaviour I owed her a call to express- 
 my gratitude for the invitation to her country seat, which, thanks to Ray- 
 mond, had been so unpleasantly postponed. With this intention I pro- 
 ceeded to the Rue St Honored and inquired for the residence of Monsieur 
 Marsan. Several persons pointed it out at once, which satisfied me that my 
 new acquaintance was a wealthy man. The rich are known by everybody, 
 whereas if a man commits the sin of being poor he becomes a pariah of society ;. 
 no matter, then, in what filthy, unknown kennel he hides his aching head 1 
 
 The house presented a genteel appearance, not so gaudy and highly 
 ornamented as that of Grandmaison, but with every indication of opulence 
 and essential comfort ; but as I stopped in the gateway I deliberated 
 whether I should enter or not, for twelve o'clock only had struck, which, it 
 must be agreed, is rather an early hour to pay a first visit to a lady, especi- 
 ally when she is advancing towards thirty years of age. The further a 
 woman recedes from the gorgeous spring of her existence, the more time she 
 expends upon her toilette. At sixteen she is anxious to be seen in all her 
 natural charms ; at twenty-five a man is not admitted quite so readily to her 
 boudoir ; at thirty she spends some hours at her toilette j and at thirty-six 
 — halt, Eugene, stop there, for mercy's sake, who can possibly think of a 
 iemale.at that venerable age ? 
 
 Monsieur Marsan's business offices were on the ground-floor, and the 
 private apartments on the first. I ascended the stairs, passed through three 
 or four apartments furnished simply, but with excellent taste ; I was re- 
 ceived by a smart female, whose charms were not sufficently tempting to 
 divert my attention from her mistress. I gave her my name, she left me to 
 announce it, returned in less than five minutes, and ushered me into Madame 
 Marsan's own apartment. 
 
 A quick reception by a pretty women is always a good omen. I found 
 the lady seated on an ottoman in a boudoir, fitted up in a luxurious style, 
 with double windows and Venetian blinds, that cast a well-tempered light 
 
The Two Visits — The Writing Lesson. 105 
 
 throughout the room, in which there were also a harp, a piano, and guitar, 
 proof that the presiding Deity possessed good taste, and resources against 
 the Demon of Ennui that sometimes overpowers our fashionable belles. A 
 woman who does not possess these resources thinks too much, and not 
 always quite in the right direction. 
 
 Madame Marsan received me courteously, but without those demonstra- 
 tions of satisfaction that my vanity had anticipated, which shade of coolness I 
 attributed to my so long neglecting to come and see her, and so cavalierly 
 absenting myBelf from her fite. At the same time I thought it rather re- 
 markable, after the expression she threw into her glances at me in the theatre, 
 «nd her conduct whilst at the staircase on Vanvert's in the dark ; perhaps 
 «he was sure of me, and wished, like a coquette, to show her powers by 
 carrying off things with an overbearing hand. She did not reproach me, not- 
 withstanding, but listened attentively to my excuses, laughing immoderately 
 at my animated recital of our misfortunes in the vineyard, and the droll 
 adventures of neighbour Raymond in quest of the Montmorency Dulcinea 
 del Soboso. 
 
 There is nothing like a well -told tale and a hearty laugh for breaking 
 down the icy barriers of etiquette. After the touching history was ended, 
 and we had indulged our merriment at the thought of Raymond in the rat- 
 trap, Madame thawed apace, and condescended to favour me by singing an air 
 which she accomplished with great feeling and taste, accompanying herself 
 on the piano. What she must have suffered at Vanvert's ! and the song being 
 ended, with my praise duly offered, I resumed my hat, bidding the lady fare- 
 well, in accordance with the old precept in the Art of Love, that a man 
 should never prolong a first interview and be prodigal of profession of 
 attachment, especially to a woman accustomed to the profound homage of 
 our sex, but cause her, by a somewhat quick withdrawal, after producing 
 an effect by his conversation, wit and manner, to wish to see him soon again. 
 She received my adieu with a sweet smile, suffered me to take her hand, 
 which I pressed a little tenderly, for my inflammable heart thought her now a 
 thousand times handsomer than Caroline, requested me to come frequently 
 and sing duets with her, which would amuse her, as she was so constantly 
 alone, and curtsied me out of the room, over head and ears in love for at 
 least the two hundredth time. 
 
 "That woman is a divinity," I exclaimed, so soon as I got into the 
 street. I believe it is the very expression I had used whenever I fancied I 
 was in love, but as the sentiment was always the same, the word may very 
 well be the same too. " How affectionate she was at parting 1 Since she could 
 not see me too often — why, that's almost a declaration ! Without doubt she is 
 smitten with me, and especially after what Raymond told me of her little 
 amiable weakness, assuredly I shall be a happy man ; softly, softly, all that 
 my neighbour says is not gospel. Shall I go there this evening ? No, that 
 will be too soon. Gently, let me go to work warily, ascertain her disposition, 
 conceal my own feelings until I am master of hers, make my approaches to 
 the fortress cautiously, and be sure of a friend within the walls before I pro- 
 ceed to the attack." 
 
 Such was my determination all that afternoon, when I trod on air, the 
 image of Caroline being dismissed as of the things that had been, and were 
 now buried in the tomb ; but, alas for my constancy of resolution, it was 
 with the greatest difficulty I could abstain from seeing Madame Marsan 
 on the following day. My time passed heavily. I could not repair to 
 Nicette to have a chat with her until the evening, for my pride would not 
 let me be seen talking impressively with a flower-girl in open day ; so I re- 
 mained indoors, fretting impatiently, and endeavouring to make an exam- 
 
106 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 ination into my revenue, ascertain how far I had plunged in debt through 
 Mademoiselle Caroline, and devise some plan of future economy and of 
 knitting up the ravelled skein of my affairs. The portress entered the 
 room and presented a letter to me from my sister. Dear Emily ! She 
 complained of being entirely forgotten ; September had arrived, and I had 
 not even written a line to say what had kept me from going to her. 
 Would I come, if only for two or three days ? No, I thought, I know too 
 well, sister, what your country house is. When once there, there are no 
 means of getting away. Then she mentioned an excellent match for me \ 
 a lovely girl, only sixteen, excellently brought up, and with a good fortune — 
 in fact, everything that I could wish. This was all very tempting, but I 
 was not to be caught yet ; perhaps in three or four years I might feel dis- 
 posed to become domestic, but at present Love and the delightful Madame 
 Marsan awaited me. Possibly when the autumn should be more advanced 
 I might run down to Emily for a few days, but first I must see my way 
 through the incumbrances which my absurdities with the artificial florist 
 had brought upon me. When I looked seriously into them, they were far 
 more extensive than I had anticipated, and I could not conceal from myself 
 that, at the rate Caroline and I had been going on, with shawls, dresses, 
 jewels, bonnets, hats, etc., I should speedily have been without a penny in 
 the world. Indeed, I ought to be much obliged to her for leaving me be- 
 fore I was completely ruined. When I had added up the amount of my 
 liabilities, I found that six months of rigid economy would suffice to pay 
 them ; for six months, then, I made up my mind to refrain from those in- 
 toxicating delights which cost so much, and which, in my last instance, had 
 been enjoyed with a woman upon whom I had relied more, expended more f 
 and been deceived by more than by any one of my preceding mistresses. 
 
 Night came, and " twilight grey had in its sober livery all things clad '* 
 as I walked down the street towards Nicette's shop. It was shut, but I saw 
 by the light of a candle through the small skylight of the door that she was 
 within, and knocked as gently as a lover who wishes to enter his mistress's 
 apartment without being heard or seen. " Who's there ! " the young girl 
 asked. " 'Tis I; " no need to name myself, her heart told her who it was, and 
 the door was opened in a moment. I entered, shut the door quickly, and 
 remained admiring Nicette's simple beauty as she stood amid flowers 
 and shrubs, herself the sweetest of them all, in a small room in which 
 there was scarcely space sufficient for two chairs and a table, covered 
 with paper, books, and implements for writing, and lighted by one solitary, 
 flaring, tallow candle. When we sat down she said, her eyes beaming with 
 gratitude, — 
 
 " How kind it 1b of you, Monsieur Dorsan, to come and see me. It show* 
 you do not quite forget the poor flower-girl whom you protected." 
 
 •' And do you not think of me, Nicette ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, but then our situations are so different. At times I scarcely 
 dare—" 
 
 " What were you doing when I knocked, Nicette 1 " 
 
 "I was writing, Monsieur, learning my lesson." 
 
 I looked upon the table and saw only one word written over and over 
 again in large letters upon several sheets ; it was my own — poor, poor 
 Nicette ! As I lifted my eyes, they met hers fixed upon me with the greatest 
 embarrassment ; she blushed all over her neck and face, and stammered outo 
 that as she wanted a word to copy, she could not think of a better one than 
 the name of her benefactor. I took her hand within both of mine and 
 pressed it tenderly, then looking at her for a few moments in silence, I told 
 her—which was really the case — that I found her much thinner than she' 
 
The Two Visits— The Writing Lesson. 107 
 
 nad been, and altered for the worse. She replied that she was aa happy as 
 she could expect, but the paleness of her countenance and the melancholy 
 that overspread her features proved the contrary to my jealous, watchful 
 eye. 
 
 I sighed as I guessed what was passing in the poor girl's heart, but 
 ceased from putting any further questions to her. She sat by my side in 
 perfect silence, with her fine eyes dropped for fear that I should read her 
 secret in them ; my heart felt icy cold as I thought of her future unhappy 
 fate, pining away and falling into the grave from unrequited love, but when 
 our hands met as we sat, and their gentle pressure supplied the want of 
 words, their contact aroused the slumbering fires of sensual passion, and I 
 forced myself to contemplate the object on the table in order to restrain as 
 explosion that I should have regretted during the remainder of my life. 
 
 " You begin to write well, Nicette," I said ; " do you take lessons 
 -continually ? " 
 
 "No, sir, I have not any master now, for I have scarcely time to 
 practise ; besides, he was not agreeable at all. He would write for my 
 copies — "Commencement," "edification," "exactly," and all those long, 
 stupid words, when I thought it so much easier and prettier to write 
 " Eugene," and " Dorsan," although they are not nearly so long. He would 
 not let me do so at all, and so I sent him away." 
 
 "Let me see you write, Nicette." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, I could not, I should tremble so much." 
 
 " Never mind, dear ; come, sit by me, and I will give you a lesson. " 
 
 She did as I requested, and placed her chair close to mine. I passed my 
 arm around her waist, took hold of her right hand with mine, and guided it 
 across the paper. The curls of her dark hair fell upon my face, her form wag 
 pressed closely against mine, I could even count the pulsation of her heart, 
 and her balmy breath came in thick pants upon my cheek, more redolent of 
 sweets than the beauteous plants within the room, without the slightest 
 sinister intention. " / love you" were the words I made her write ; my hand 
 was as agitated as that of the fair girl which I essayed to guide, a tear fell 
 irom her dove-like eyes, the pen slipped from her fingers, and I cannot tell 
 how it happened. Nicette's face was hid upon my breast, her arms were 
 round my neck, and I pressed her lovely person to my bosom with a feeling 
 of passionate attachment that I vainly struggled to resist. We took no heed 
 of time as we remained in this endearing situation ; Nicette was happy, and 
 I enjoyed a few minutes of delight such as I never yet had known, delight 
 of which hitherto I had no idea, and without one desire that could raise a 
 flush upon my cheek. 
 
 As we sat thus, beloving and beloved, some one knocked violently at the 
 door. Nicette disengaged herself from my arms, and hastened to open it, 
 whilst I almost feared she had deceived me, and that the new-comer was 
 some favoured lover. My suspicions, however, were instantly set at rest by 
 tier own exclamation of candid unaffected wonder, and by the entrance of 
 the daughter of one of Madame Jerome's neighbours, who came to tell her 
 that her mother was taken seriously ill. In a moment Nicette put on her 
 cap and apron. 
 
 " Adieu, Monsieur Dorsan," she cried. " I go to my mother ; she is ill, 
 and all her cruelty to me is now forgotten." 
 
 With those words we left the shop ; she ran quickly down the street, and 
 was lost to view. 
 
 "Amiable girl I I love you more than I thought that I could ever love; 
 you have achieved a victory over me indeed, and taught me to respect your 
 virtue, that is for the present, for I feel it would be too dangerous to giv« 
 
108 My Neighbour Raymond. . 
 
 writing lessons often ; even just now, if the little girl had not arrived, one 
 spark might have raised a fire it would have been difficult indeed to quench." 
 So saying I walked home, thinking whether it would not be best to pay 
 a visit to Madame Marsan, to relieve the heart by occupying the head. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FBIVATB THEATRICALS — THE REHEARSAL. 
 
 Fob several days after my last interview with Nicette, no young mac 
 could possibly be more regular in his habits. I went every day to pay 
 my compliments to Madame Marsan, who, I had discovered by this time, 
 merited all the eulogiums Raymond had passed upon her, and I did not 
 once enter Nicette's shop, confining myself to a simple "Good morning n 
 when I passed it. I saw from her mourning habiliments that her mother 
 was dead, but it did not appear necessary for me to request any information 
 as to the particulars of her death. 
 
 In truth, Madame Marsan was a very pretty, lively, clever, coquettish 
 woman, fond of having numbers of young men about her, all of whom might 
 have made more progress in her good graces than myself ; I was not yet suffi- 
 ciently in love to be jealous of this crowd of flatterers, but nevertheless I 
 was sometimes rather out of temper at seeing them come between us and 
 interrupt some little plan that I had formed. Twenty times I had been 
 tempted to swell the ranks of her adorers, but a species of intuition seemed 
 to whisper to me that, although she did not make the least observable dis- 
 tinction in public, yet that I was preferred to them all, and only wanted a 
 few favourable opportunities in order to push my wishes to their utmost 
 limits. The evenings at the house of the new enslaver of my heart were 
 always passed in the most agreeable manner ; the society was well se- 
 lected ; the women charming and accomplished ; the men of good taste, and 
 talented without pretension ; the manners that prevailed were of a high caste, 
 without being cold, and little caustic jokes were bandied about without the 
 slightest tincture of ill nature ; the music was good, and performed without 
 affectation or greediness of applause ; and if high play was occasionally in- 
 dulged in, the features of the company underwent no change at either gain 
 or loss. 
 
 It was now the middle of October, and as the time would speedily arrive 
 when people of rank and fortune would leave their country houses to enjoy 
 the balls, and plays, and other amusements of the metropolis, Madame 
 Marsan intended to give a fSte at St Denis, at which an opera should be 
 performed, before breaking up her country establishment for the winter 
 season. Great preparations had been long in hand for this fite ; the pieces 
 to be performed had been debated over and over again at several solemn 
 conclaves, and at last it was arranged to be Rossini's beautiful Opera, The 
 Barber of Seville, to be followed by the farce of Fanchon, the Cymbal Girl. 
 As for myself, hitherto my histrionic attempts had been limited to takings 
 small parts in the pantomime of " Acted Charades," but Madame Marsan 
 having insisted that I should be in the cast, the character of Count A Imaviva 
 was assigned to me, whilst she was to be the Jftosina, an agreeable arrange- 
 ment, which would bring us often together in the act of making and confe««- 
 ing love and possibly tend to very delightful results, because all the world 
 
Private Theatricals — Tke Rehearsal. 109 
 
 knows that it is but an easy step — and often made — from simulation to 
 reality. Raymond was not forgotten in the distribution of the other parts ; 
 but Monsieur Marsan would not take any one. In great fites the only use of 
 a husband is to find the money. 
 
 A week before the day when all the actors were to assemble for a grand 
 rehearsal, Madame Marsan left for her country house to see that the theatre 
 in the grounds, the scenes, and everything, was in order. Every morning 
 that stupid Raymond was forcing his way into my room, and boring me 
 to death to hear him repeat the lines in his part of Doctor Bartolo ; besides, 
 as he was to play the " Abbe de Lattaignaut " in the after-piece, he begged 
 me to teach him the airs in that character, for though he pretended to be a. 
 first-rate musician, it always took him a fortnight to learn the music of any 
 single stanza. One morning, after his usual droning, he said, — 
 
 " Instead of this interminable Fanchon, it would have been far better if" 
 they would get up some nice, short, telling new piece. I would have 
 written one for them that would have been just the thing, although, indeed, 
 there would not have been any necessity for that, for I have half-a-dozen ones- 
 ready. It is all through that Madame St Marc, who has an idea that she 
 is pretty, and will look well as the dancing-girl. And what a cast too ! that 
 thin lanky fellow will play the very devil with St Luce. I ought to have 
 been the officer instead of the Abb£, it suits my height and military figure i 
 but what could I do, my friend ? In society, you know, a man frequently 
 sacrifices himself out of pure politeness. I hope, though, before the season 
 is over, if this opera goes off right, that they will play my Favoured Lovers, 
 or Great Venus' Doves ; it's only in three short acts, but such capital situa- 
 tions for scenery, dresses, and spectators ! Here, Dorsan, I'll just read you 
 the libretto of the first act. " 
 
 " No, I thank you ; another time if you please ; I'm busy just now with 
 my part of Almaviva." 
 
 '- Oh, bother, throw Almaviva on one side ; listen, and then you can telL 
 me what you think the effect will be. The stage represents a beautiful spot 
 In the country, where a magnificent fHe is being prepared to celebrate the 
 marriage of the lovers. The Princess advances from the back of the scene 
 where she has been shaking hands with all the country girls and kissing a re- 
 spectable old woman who has brought her up from an infant — because she- 
 was deserted by her unnatural parents and found in a very singular manner, 
 as you will hear by-and-by — when the honest farmer — that's the bass — comes 
 on and sings : — 
 
 ' In this blest spot where first my eyes saw light, 
 What happiness now thrills.' . . ." 
 
 I did not stay to hear another word, but turned my neighbour out of the 
 room, and set off as soon as I was dressed to Madame Marsan's, determined 
 to remain there until the eventful day, to assist her in all the preparations, to 
 study the part of Almaviva, to rehearse the music and the dialogue with 
 her, and to improve all the chances that solitude and the God of Love 
 might send me. 
 
 This time I took good care to ascertain every particular as to the road 
 to the villa, and being alone arrived there without any accident, and found 
 the retreat much more delightful than I had anticipated. The house 
 approached to the dignity of a chateau, the house grounds were delightful, 
 the surrounding county well divided into wood and glade, the forcing -houses 
 for grapes, melons, and pines, of great extent, the gardens scrupulously kept, 
 the receiving apartments large and lofty, and the bedrooms numerous 
 enough to accommodate a great influx of visitors. I sent in my name, and 
 was shown immediately to the mistress of this terrestrial Paradise, who wa^ 
 
110 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 at home and alone, for it appeared, from subsequent inquiries, that Monsieur 
 Marsan never troubled himself in the least with these affairs, and would 
 only leave Paris the evening before the fite. This was everything I could 
 have wished. Nothing could be more kind and engaging than my reception 
 by Madame Marsan ; she seemed quite pleased at my having thought of 
 coming to have some quiet rehearsals, for some of the scenes in the Opera 
 were long, and her memory was not very good, and proposed to go at once 
 and inspecther theatre, which, she informed me, was not a little box in which 
 the actors are taller than the houses, and touch the ceiling with their heads, 
 but a large, comfortable, well fitted-up apartment, better than many of the 
 smaller theatres in the metropolis. We then passed through the gardens, 
 laughing gaily, and came to the theatre, which I found as she had stated, 
 with a wide, deep stage, and the space allotted to the audience tastefully 
 decorated, and capable of accommodating three hundred persons. 
 
 " Well," she said, " and what do you think of our theatre ? " 
 
 " It is far superior to many I have seen in important provincial towns." 
 
 " Yes, yes, and I flatter myself that our ^company perform better than 
 many provincial actors. We fly at high game, I assure you — comedy, opera, 
 vaudeville, melodrama, and farce ; nothing comes amiss to us except 
 tragedy." 
 
 " Wherefore that exception ? " 
 
 " You will agree with me, I think, that in every band of amateurs thera 
 is always one half of them who are entirely useless, and only provoke 
 laughter by their imitating Nature so abominably ; you also know that 
 derisive laughter and all demonstrations of disapprobation are forbidden ; 
 so as we found that our audiences were disposed to laugh more at the 
 tragedies than at other plays, we determined always to play lively pieces, so 
 that if the spectators did laugh, we could persuade ourselves it was a mark 
 of approbation. Thus it is that vanity invariably discovers a panacea for 
 its wounds. Not long ago we played Pourceaugnae ; the properties were 
 capital, in fact I think we borrowed and bought all the garden and other 
 syringes around Montmorency. Oh, it was capitally got up, was talked of 
 all over the neighbourhood. Our farce even extended to the great city, and 
 I believe there was a favourable article in one of the newspapers upon it. 
 So you see, sir, it is incumbent upon us to maintain our reputation." 
 
 I promised my hostess to exert myself to the utmost to become worthy 
 of her theatre, which we then left to pay a visit to the ornamental grounds. 
 They were very extensive, forming almost a park, wherein parties might 
 wander for hours without being seen by others — another great natural ad- 
 vantage — a grotto, hermitage, sombre thickets, a cascade, and a bridge — -the 
 water only being wanting — shady alleys, emerald green lawns, artificial rocks, 
 a cavern, and every accessory to out-of-doors amusement that could be 
 assembled. In fact, the villa appeared to me an enchanted domain, into which 
 lassitude and disgust could never enter. We returned into the house, and 
 I was shown to my bedroom, which had a beautiful view of the surrounding 
 country, and possessed every advantage except that of being near Madame'a. 
 I whispered my regrets delicately and timidly at this desolating circum- 
 stance, and received a not displeasing but rather equivocal glance from th« 
 lady in reply. 
 
 " Patience, patience Eugene, the time will come." 
 
 I then quitted Madame Marsan in order to change my dress before dinner, 
 and in the evening we rehearsed several of our scenes together. These over, 
 she begged me to consider myself completely at home, to go where I pleased, 
 do what I liked, ride, drive, walk, go out, and come in whenever it should 
 please me, the only restriction being punctuality at dinner, breakfast, and 
 
Private Theatricals — The Rehearsal 111 
 
 rehearsals. I promised to conform implicitly to the regulations, and went 
 into one of the covered alleys to study the Count Almaviva, but, do what) I 
 would to fix my attention upon the lines, the image of Madame Marsan con- 
 stantly interfered and drove the words of the dramatist from out my head. 
 The thought of being alone with this pretty woman — because the servants 
 and the labourers counted for nothing — who heard my compliments, almost 
 amounting to open declarations of attachment, without being displeased, and 
 who seemed to take a greater interest in me than in other young men, chafed 
 my blood and distracted my mind from the book, but even in those moments 
 I thought that possibly Madame Marsan was a thorough coquette, who would 
 exhibit me for a long time bound a captive to her car before she would re- 
 ward my homage with her grateful love. 
 
 The following day I reckoned on dining alone with my fair hostess, but 
 was disagreeably disappointed at finding that a neighbour, a perfect specimen 
 of a country gentleman, who had called to pay a morning visit, was requested 
 to honour us with his company at table ; of course I was obliged to be de- 
 lighted at making his acquaintance, and luckily he talked enough during 
 dinner for all three of us, thereby relieving me, and I thought Madame, from 
 the embarrassment of prolonged conversation when the heart and mind are 
 directed another way. The good, honest man scarcely stopped a moment 
 to take breath ; he gave us a minute description of his house and land from 
 top to bottom ; from the avenue that led up to the hall-door to the gate at 
 the lower end of the kitchen-garden ; what the herbs and vegetables sold 
 for at the adjoining market ; how many acres his farm consisted of ; the 
 number of trees, fruits and forest he had planted ; the dozens of eggs his hens 
 laid a week ; and a hundred other domestic details of which we took no 
 notice except by the usual interjectional assents, but while his tongue spoke, 
 our eyes discoursed a sufficiently intelligible language. Talkative, elderly 
 gentlemen at times are very useful. Whilst the neighbour chattered away 
 about his plans and his improvements, evening came on, and he thought it 
 high time to return home and ascertain the amount of the harvest of fowls 
 eggs during the day ; he left accordingly, and as it was only half -past seven 
 o'clock, I proposed to Madame Marsan that we should take a quiet stroll in 
 the garden and the grounds. When there the song of the birds whistling their 
 evening hymn, the silence, the deep shade, all shed their influence on my 
 heart and as we wandered on I could not resist making an open declaration 
 of my love. The lovely trifler at my side pretended not to hear me, and 
 kept on learning her lesson from Rosina. I persisted, and she replied, — 
 
 " What are you muttering, Almaviva, there is not one word you have been 
 saying in the part. Pray learn it ; you do not know anything about it." 
 
 " Dearest madame, don't talk of the opera now when I am dying with — " 
 
 " Bless me, did we not come here to study ? " 
 
 •'There's time enough for that, bright star of — " 
 
 " Oh no, no, no 5 I have such a wretched memory." 
 
 " Will you not deign to listen to me ? Will you drive me to desperation ? " 
 
 " That's not the cue ; do give me the proper cue, I beg." 
 
 " Ever since that night I saw you at the theatre you alone have occupied 
 my heart." 
 
 " Yes, that's right enough in another place but not in this scene ; in- 
 deed, Alamviva, you will spoil everything if you introduce it here." 
 
 M I see, madame, that your cruelty will cause me—" 
 
 11 Capital, capital ; a little more temper, more anger ; that's it. Oh 1 
 what an admirable Count Almaviva you will make." 
 
 It was all of no use ; there was nothing to be done with the woman 
 that evening, so we returned to the house, she mumbling Rosina as fast a# 
 
112 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 ahe could, and I piqued and nettled, and in a very execrable hmnoar* 
 Having subdued it a little — for it would have been exceedingly ill-bred to 
 testify any unamiable passions to my hostess — I began to repeat the part of 
 the Count to her, but I did it so badly that she jeered me and laughed at 
 me every minute, and I retired to bed hastily, cursing the wiles and whims 
 of all the women in the world, and half -disposed to leave the house the 
 following morning, and let the farce and the opera go to the devil if they 
 liked. The only female, I reflected, who united in her person every charm 
 that could be desired, the only one who really and truthfully loved me, was 
 her whom I could not make my wife, and would not make my mistress 1 
 
 Nevertheless the morning found me at breakfast, calm as a Greek 
 philosopher. The pet had passed away in the slumber of the night, and 
 another plan of attack had entered into my head ; I would learn my part 
 thoroughly, rehearse the music with Madame carefully, follow all her sug- 
 gestions and directions in what is technically termed the business, and see 
 whether my obedience would not bring its coveted reward. In pursuance 
 of this intention, I sought the leafy shades of the wood with The Barber of 
 Seville in my hand, devoted myself intently to the part, and in four hours 
 was letter-perfect in every line. The dinner-hour came, and I said nothing 
 about my extraordinary success to Madame Marsan, wishing to surprise her, 
 especially as she jokingly asked me whether I knew more about it than on 
 the preceding evening. At night we remained in the drawing-room for our 
 rehearsal ; it was rather too cold for the garden, she said, but I do not think 
 •that was her real motive. And as we went on I threw so much energy into 
 my part that she absolutely forgot hers, and I was obliged to prompt her, 
 and sometimes to ask for hers too. She was delighted with me, declared I 
 should be by far the best actor that had been seen on her boards, suffered 
 me to take her hand, to press it tenderly, to kiss it, and to throw myself on 
 my knees before her. She was much agitated, and trembled from head to 
 foot, but just as I had assured her that the acting of the part demanded all 
 these demonstrations of ardent love by Almaviva, and was about to profit 
 by mj casual position and her very visible emotion ; when I had regained 
 my legs and encircled her with my arms, a noise was heard without, the 
 door of the room was thrown open, and the figure of my infernal neighbour 
 appeared. Damn that fellow, he was born to be my curse ! 
 
 As quick as lightning I was on my knees again, and Madame Marsan 
 leant down to me, muttering a few words of Eosina, whereupon Raymond, 
 completely deceived, and thinking we were only rehearsing, pulled out hie 
 part of Doctor Bartolo, and shouted, — 
 
 " Curse that fellow, Figaro. I cannot leave the house even for a moment 
 without being sure to find him when I come back — Madame Marsan, I 
 hope I have the pleasure of seeing you in good health ! You see I am 
 punctual. Dorsan, how do you do ? Why did you leave Paris without me ? 
 I would have accompanied you with the greatest pleasure. Ah, ha 1 been 
 rehearsing, I see ; all very well for short memories and young actors, but 
 not for me. I'm up in the part and know all the by-play and business, I 
 can tell you ; the prompter may go to the devil for me." 
 
 Madame Marsan thanked Raymond for his punctuality, and com* 
 plimented him upon his acknowledged talent. We commenced again, but 
 now she knew her part perfectly, and her agitation was at an end — more 
 hopes vanished : damn that Raymond ! 
 
 The next day all the ladies and gentleman engaged in the private 
 theatricals arrived. From that moment there were no more t&te-a-tites with 
 our hostess, nothing but rehearsals from morning till night, and even when 
 ihey were going on with Fanchon, in which Madame did not play, she had 
 
Private Theatricals — The Rehearsal. 113 
 
 so many orders to give for the dresses, and all the minor details of the/efe, 
 that it was totally impossible to find her one minute alone. Alas, alas ! had 
 it not been for that accursed marplot Raymond, I might have been a 
 happy man. The favourable moment had arrived when he broke in upon 
 us; that was a crisis which might, never present itself again, for those 
 moments of yielding agitation with coquettes are like " angel's visits, few 
 and far between." As for my fat, abominable neighbour, he was almost 
 out of his mind with joy. Besides the getting his two parts — no joke for an 
 ass like him— Madame Marsan had delegated to him the task of looking 
 to the scenery and superintending the rehearsals of the orchestra ; and more- 
 over, as the day of the fete happened to be the birthday of the young lady 
 who was to perform Fanchon, she had requested him to write some verses 
 appropriate to the occasion, which might be introduced as an additional 
 scene at the end of the vaudeville. My neighbour cudgelled his brains night 
 and day to no purpose to compose this lutle scene. As soon as it was light 
 in the morning, he was in my room to recite to me the opening line of each 
 stanza — he could never come to the concluding ones, which he always re- 
 quested me to write for him, undertaking to perform the same task for me 
 whenever I should find myself in an equal difficulty. The moment breakfast 
 was finished he dashed into the theatre, where he put all things at sixes and 
 sevens, inspected the properties, scolded the stage carpenter for not entering 
 into the merits of his added scene, and even wished to introduce demons 
 into it, being signally appropriate to a young lady's birthday. But as 
 Madame Marsan would not hear of them, for fear of fire from their torches, 
 or of nymphs because they were not bred in that neighbourhood, he was 
 obliged to content himself with causing a wreath of roses to descend and 
 crown Fanchon'x head, and particularly charged the gardener, who officiated 
 as property man, to take care that the wreath was attached to a line above 
 the centre of the stage on the morning of the representation. He also pro- 
 posed that two little cupids should appear through the trap-doors behind 
 the footlights, instead of swinging about in a damp cloud, according to 
 usage, who would then advance and present bouquets of flowers to each of 
 the actors in the scene. 
 
 As the important day approached, the rehearsals became more frequent, 
 and all endeavoured, by being perfect, and giving the greatest attention to 
 their parts, to outvie their friends. Everyone was " well up " except 
 Kaymond, for he did not know one line of the Abb£, and completely 
 murdered poor Doctor Bartolo ; the ladies and gentlemen scolded him a 
 hundred times a day, to all of whom he replied that he knew what he was 
 About, and should be all right in the evening. The night before the play 
 we had a full dress rehearsal, with all the accessories and scenes. Raymond 
 had not been seen since the morning ; six o'clock came and he was not to be 
 found ; they hunted for him all over the house, in the garden, in the woods ; 
 the servants were sent into the neighbourhood to seek him, with orders to 
 bring him back, dead or alive, but still no Raymond appeared. It was 
 impossible to commence without him ; all were in despair, no one had 
 studied his parts, which were too long to be acquired in the short space 
 before the representation ; and the ladies had almost cried for rage, when 
 about eight he arrived, streaming with perspiration and covered with dust, 
 bringing with him two rosy-cheeked, chubby boys, of about six years of age, 
 their faces glistening with soap, and clad in very dirty linen blouse*. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " all the men exclaimed at once ; " these ladies 
 thought you must be dead, and have wept oceans of tears for your irreparable 
 loss. " 
 
 " Where have I been ? " Raymond replied, panting for breath, " why, to 
 
 H 
 
11A My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 fetch these little cupids. Ever since daybreak I have been running all over 
 the country till I am ready to drop. I'm sure I've been over twenty miles 
 of ground, and wherever I went, met nothing but squinting eyes and snub, 
 turned -up noses until I reached St Denis, where I found these splendid 
 little fellows ; there are eyes and cheeks for you, bright as diamonds, and 
 red as roses. They'll make a pretty pair of cupids, I think 1 " 
 
 The " Loves " did not quite respond to the conventional appearance of 
 the " Archer God," seeing at that very moment they were besmeared all 
 over their faces and hands with sucking a quantity of lollipops, which my 
 neighbour had bought to keep them in good humour on the way. 
 
 The sight of the two agrarian cupids somewhat moderated the rancour 
 of the ladies. They inquired who the mother was, and were told in reply 
 that she was an honest milk woman in the village of St Denis, who had 
 consented to deprive herself of the presence of her most delectable cherubs 
 for one night, on condition that she should be permitted to remain behind 
 the scenes and see them act. The rehearsal went on and lasted until one 
 o'clock in the morning ; the sleepy " Loves " were committed to the care of 
 the housekeeper, with instructions to see them particularly well washed in. 
 the morning, and the amateurs retired to their respective couches to dream 
 of their histrionic triumphs on the following evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE BARBEB OF SEVILLE — WITH A SCENE NOT TO BE FOUND IN BOSSINl'S OPEBA 
 
 The great, the eventful day arrived at last ; the ladies were up with the sun, 
 and busied themselves with the dresses in which they were to appear, and it 
 must be acknowledged that the men were quite as anxious as the women 
 with regard to their costumes, but of them all none could approach neighbour- 
 Raymond in activity. At six o'clock he pounced upon the juvenile peasants, 
 and the moment they had crammed their breakfasts down their throats, he 
 had them in his own room, striving to divest them as much as possible of 
 their native awkwardness, and to indoctrinate them with somewhat ap- 
 proaching to a mystical idea of what they were to do. They stared him in 
 the face, not conceiving in the least degree what he could mean, jumped 
 about like young bears when he desired them to dance, fell down when he 
 tried to make them stand on one leg, whilst the other* was to be flourished 
 about like Faglioni on the rose-bud in La Sylphide, and began to -cry when 
 he told them they ought to smile. Tired out with them, they were again 
 dismissed to the tender mercies of the housekeeper, who wished them at 
 the devil in her anxiety to see that all the confectionery should be ready 
 for the supper ; and then Raymond proceeded to put the finishing stroke 
 to the education, of the lout of a gardener, who had been metamorphosed 
 into a property man for the occasion. The following dialogue then took 
 place : — 
 
 " Do you thoroughly understand what you have got to do to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " All about the wreath of flowers ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " it must descend upon Fanchon's head." 
 
 •* Fanchon's head ? Ah, yes, sir." 
 
The Barber of Seville — with a Scene not found, etc. 115 
 
 " You will fasten it by a cord, so it shall hang in the middle of the 
 ceiling. Have you got one ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; we had one for that gentleman with the squirts in the last 
 farce we played. Monsieur Pounceau — Pourceau — what was his name % he 
 that wouldn't take his medicine before all the people, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. Well then, when you have tied the wreath to the 
 string all right, you will cut a dozen bouquets, which you will give to the 
 cupids." 
 
 " Oh, those children you brought with you last night ? I know them, 
 they .belong to Madeline." 
 
 " Damn Madeline, sir, pay attention to what I am saying to you. When 
 you have given them the bouquets, you will take them underneath the stage, 
 and when I clap my hands twice, you are to push them up through the 
 traps." 
 
 " When you clap your hands twice ? " 
 
 " Now, be sure you don't forget anything." 
 
 " Not I, indeed, I'm rather used to acting plays, I am." 
 
 This lesson being over, Raymond returned to the housekeeper's room 
 for the children, and took them to the wardrobe, where he searched in vain 
 for "fleshings," because it is not usual to wear them in such society as he 
 met at the Marsan's, so he was obliged to be satisfied with tight nankin 
 pantaloons, over which he placed white tunics with a scarlet band, and 
 fillets of spangles round the head, with bows and arrows, formed a neat 
 and appropriate costume. He then gave imperative orders to the hair- 
 dresser — who had come express from Montmorency — to distinguish himself 
 by the arrangement of the cupids' elf -like locks, and to have them quite 
 ready for the evening. In the latter part of the afternoon numbers of 
 fashionable guests came from Paris, who were received by Madame Marsan 
 with much elegance, and Monsieur arrived himself shortly before the per- 
 formances were to begin. He had been detained at the Stock Exchange 
 with a heavy speculation, for, as he was aware that the cost of the fite 
 would be no trifle, he had determined to gain largely that day, and so make 
 both ends meet. A great number of the most respectable inhabitants of 
 the neighbourhood were also invited, so that the theatre was completely 
 filled, the hind rows being occupied by some village shopkeepers, who were 
 in ecstasies at being permitted to mingle with their superiors on such a 
 distinguished occasion. There was considerable judgment, too, in this 
 arrangement, for nothing is so deadening to an actor as exhausting his 
 energies before empty benches. 
 
 At half -past eight o'clock all was ready } the audience had arrived, the 
 band was in the orchestra, the curtain lowered, and at every moment Ray- 
 mond was peeping through a little hole in it to ascertain where particular 
 ladies were seated whom he intended to honour with his glances. It must 
 be understood that he was not completely dressed in the costume of the part 
 of Bartolo, and whensoever those who were ready cried out to him to come 
 down because it was time to begin, he had still something to do, and kept 
 running back to the curtain with the manuscript of his part in one hand, 
 and a pot of rouge in the other. Madame Marsan, dressed admirably as 
 Rosina, and looking delightfully, was standing in the wing ; the four 
 amateurs who composed the orchestra had played the overture of Richard 
 Caur de Lion — which did very well for the Barber of Seville — over twice, 
 «nd were about to play it a third time. The spectators began to be impa- 
 tient, and whisperings were heard, when Raymond declared he was ready, 
 ordered the curtain to be rang up, and ran to help the scene -shifters with 
 his own hands. I was master of my part, and did not feel the slightest 
 
lib My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 nervousness. The sight of Madame Marsan, looking more lovely and piquant 
 than I had ever Been her before, fired my blood and inspired me with that 
 energy which became the love of such a man as Almaviva. The young 
 gentleman who played Figaro was gay, reckless, dashing, and sang really 
 well, so that nothing could possibly be better than the scenes between him 
 and me, and the public were delighted. One only little accident disturbed 
 the progress of the first act, and that, of course, was caused by neighbour 
 Raymond. In raising the blind when Rosina is discovered with Bartolo 
 at the window, the officious fellow pulled the cord so hard that the blind 
 came off from the roller and fell upon the stage-lights, to the imminent 
 danger of setting fire to the theatre. But the sight of Madame Marsan in 
 her pretty Andalusian costume completely restored the good-humour of 
 one portion of the audience, and put an end to the critical sneering of the 
 other. In the second act the misfortunes gradually commenced. Ray- 
 mond, who had forgotten every line of his part (that is, if he ever knew it), 
 would not stir from the wing next the prompter, but kept his eyes fixed 
 upon that official, having the word given to him two or three times before 
 he could take up the passages ; bullying the man at every moment, and stand- 
 ing silent when the prompter ceased to speak. In this manner he made a 
 thorough mess of Doctor Bartolo, and but for the other parts being very 
 well performed, we might have let the curtain fall at once. The third act 
 was opened by Raymond ; he came on through a portable door in the 
 flat at the back of the stage, and forgetting Doctor Bartolo's age, walked 
 with a stalwart stride to the prompter side next the proscenium door, where 
 he made a dead halt, and said,— 
 
 " What a devil of a passion she is in. (To the prompter, ' WhatV 
 next ? ') /thought I had succeeded in calming her fury ; and now they tell me — 
 (Don't, I tell you I know it all) — they tell me that she has made a vow that 
 the will not — (the next word) — will not take any more music lessons from 
 Basilia. (That'll do). She knows that her marriage with me is arranged, 
 and does all — (what is it t) — she can to make — to make — (why the devil 
 don't you give me the right words ? There never was such a stupid 
 prompter !)" 
 
 The audience laughed heartily at Raymond, but the fool, who thought 
 they were laughing with him, retired and gained the wing, exclaiming that 
 the public were delighted with him, and had never been pleased so much, 
 even at the Theatre of the Variet^s or the Opera Comique. 
 
 Notwithstanding the stupid, pig-headed absurdities of Bartolo, the 
 opera was brought to a conclusion amidst deafening plaudits, thanks to the 
 exquisite singing of Madame Marsan, the off-hand, light, touch-and-go 
 acting of Figaro, and — for I must do myself justice — the fervour and anima- 
 tion I displayed in the Count Almaviva ; in fact, the illusion was complete, 
 and as the lady and myself returned to the green-room arm-in-arm, as we 
 appeared on the stage when the curtain fell, she congratulated me on my 
 very marked success, and I, turning to look upon her lovely face, lighted up 
 with pride and joy, read, as I thought, my love's sweet triumph in her 
 eyes. 
 
 All the ladies and gentlemen who had to perforan in the after-piece 
 hastened to put on their dresses for the characters in Fanchon ; I repaired 
 to my dressing-room to resume my general costume, and having done so, 
 Btepped out into an avenue of lime-trees, by the side of which it was placed 
 in common with the others assigned to the gentlemen, to take a mouthful 
 of fresh air after the heat of the saloon. The vaudeville had been com- 
 menced some time, the peaceful aspect of the gardens and the calm solitude 
 contrasted delightfully with the glare, and bustle, and noise which I had 
 
The Barber of Seville — with a scene not found, etc. 11T 
 
 left, and I was well content to be alone, when, on issuing from the avenu©- 
 I heard the voice of Madame Marson, who was advancing towards me 
 having just quitted -her dressing-room, crying, — 
 
 " Where goeth his Excellency the Count Almaviva ? " 
 
 " To enjoy the freshness of these shady walks. Dearest Rosina, yoaw 
 presence alone was wanting to my felicity ; now I ana indeed happy." 
 
 "Rosina knows not whether she ought to accompany you." 
 
 " What, sweetest, after having consented to elope with me ? " 
 
 " Well, Almaviva, I confess it would be wrong in me to play the hard- 
 hearted mistress now ; but recollect that you have sworn to be always faith- 
 ful to me, and to love none other than myself." 
 
 " Yes, by heavens I will 1 I will repeat the oath until the very crack of 
 doom." 
 
 "But whither »re you leading me, Lindor, we are too far from the 
 house t why do you seek the shady walks ? what need is there of traversing: 
 this dark thicket ? " 
 
 " Loveliest Rosina, what can you fear with your devoted Almaviva ! " 
 
 " My dear Lindor, I fear I have not done well." 
 
 " Be assured, dearest, and trust your happiness implicitly to me." 
 
 " Ah me, what are you doing ? " 
 
 *• Kiss me, too, Rosina ; there, there, is it not all in the piece ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no." 
 
 " What 1 refuse an embrace to a lover who is soon to be your husband ? 
 
 " Be quiet, Lindor ; leave off, Dorsan, I beg." 
 
 " Nay, then, to crown our loves — " 
 
 By this time we had reached a beautiful circular piece of turf in the 
 centre of the wood. I had re-entered into the spirit of my part. Rosin© 
 was identified in hers ; we acted the love-passages over and over again, till 
 Madame Marsan could resist my importunities no longer, and giving herself 
 up to me, we added a new scene to the Barber of Seville, into which we both 
 entered with the greatest zest. Had Mozart, the composer, been present* 
 It would assuredly have inspired him with the finest themes that had eves 
 run off at the point of his exuberant pen. For a long time the sweetly smell* 
 ing shrubs and the moon, now on the wane, were the only witnesses of this 
 new scene. The excitement with which we played our separate parts made 
 us forget outward things. I was determined that Almaviva should obtaias 
 equally signal honours in her part as on the stage, and my Rosina acted up 
 to me with a delicious willingness that left nothing to be desired ; and it is 
 impossible to say what would have occurred next had we been left to our- 
 - selves, had it not been for an unforeseen circumstance, to explain which it i» 
 necessary that we should return to the other actors in the mimic scene. 
 
 The after-piece had been going on rather better than usual amongsfe 
 amateurs ; to be sure, some of the actors had jumped over whole scenes, so 
 that the vaudeville was over in very unusually quick time. And here I 
 must premise that the absence of Madame Marsan and myself had not been 
 remarked ; the actors thought we were in front of the house, and the 
 audience that we were behind the scenes. . . . Well, the after-piece being 
 finished, the scene, supposed to be written by Raymond in honour of 
 Fanchon, whose birthday it was, was commenced. Everyone was to sing a 
 couplet — Madame Marsan and myself included — but, of course, we could 
 not be found. As the rest of the actors awaited our reappearance, my 
 neighbour ran into the wing, caught hold of the cord by which the wreath 
 was to be lowered on Fanchon's head, poised it, and, feeling certain from 
 the weight that the floral coronet was attached to it, rang the bell for the 
 curtain to rise. It was done ; *he ladies and gentlemen formed a picture 
 
118 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 on the stage, with the charming young beauty in the centre, the orchestra 
 played the prelude, the first voice took up the song, — 
 
 " LoTely maid, to crown thy natal day—" 
 
 The cue was given for the flowers to descend ; Raymond, in a fever of 
 impatience, lowered away the cord, when mutterings were first heard, and 
 then loud bursts of laughter from every part of the house, accompanied 
 by shouts of " Stop, stop ! " Raymond popped out his head to see what 
 was wrong, and, horrible to tell, perceived that an enormous clyster-pipe 
 was dangling immediately over the head of poor Fanchon. The young 
 lady pushed the accursed instrument from her, and ran off in a very natural 
 paroxysm of rage, and Raymond precipitated himself upon the stage, 
 crying out, — 
 
 " I had nothing to do with it, it's not my fault at all, it's the syringe 
 we had for Pourceaugnac which that fool of a gardener has forgotten to 
 remove — it ought to have been a triumphal wreath, but I'll soon set it all 
 to rights." (To the gardener), " Where are the cupids ? Be ready, I say." 
 
 The audience smothered their merriment as well as they could, expect- 
 ing to be amused with some other folly ; the orchestra played an Adagio 
 from Cupid and Psyche, and Raymond clapped his hands twice, waited a 
 moment, clapped them again energetically, crying out, — 
 
 " Cupids, appear ! " but no cupids responded to the call. The audience 
 were becoming tired of the nonsense, and prepared to quit the room, and 
 the actors left the boards. In vain Raymond called to them to wait, that 
 the cupids only wanted their bows and arrows, and would rise from the 
 traps in a minute, so, becoming furious, he pulled up both the traps, looked 
 down each, and not perceiving either of " The Loves," plunged down to 
 find them somewhere or other and bring them at all hazards upon 
 the stage. 
 
 Now, it happened that the fugacious Loves had been dressed from top 
 to toe, fillet to sandals, nankin tight inexpressibles, bows, arrows, and all, 
 and were ready for service at least two hours before they were wanted. The 
 stupid gardener, quite beside himself with the innumerable orders he had 
 received, although he forgot the wreath of flowers, had remembered to cut 
 the bouquets, and having given them to the children, placed the cupids on 
 the traps underneath the stage, telling them to remain there until he 
 should come and fetch them. The poor things waited patiently enough for 
 about half -an-hour ; at the end of that time they became tired, and think- 
 ing it was no fun at all to be cooped up in that dark hole, determined to 
 amuse themselves with a run in the garden ; they threw down the bouquets, 
 found their way out, and having approached the house in the course of their 
 games, they peeped through one of the windows of a room on the ground- 
 floor, and beheld, with eyes almost starting from their spheres, several 
 tables brilliantly lighted up, and covered with cold viands, pastry, ices, 
 creams, confectionery, wines, fruits, preserves, and a thousand other 
 delicious, tempting things. They stopped in amazement ; their mouths 
 watered, they sighed, nudged each other, looked instinctively behind them 
 to ascertain if anybody was near ; saw there was no one nigh — all the 
 servants being in the theatre— climbed up the window, pushed it open, 
 jumped down into the room, rushed to the tables, crammed their mouths 
 until they almost choked, made aprons of their white tunics, filled them 
 lull of fruits and cakes, dabbed their fingers into the creams, pawed the 
 ices, but soon let them go from the cold, licked the pots of jellies, and ran 
 away to a garret to devour their stolen spoil in safety. 
 
 While the young pilferers were regaling themselves in this manner, 
 
Termination of the Loves of Almaviva and Rosina. 119> 
 
 Raymond was seeking them in' every part of the theatre, when he met 
 Monsieur Marsan looking for his wife, whom the company desired to see in 
 order to compliment her upon the decided success which had attended 
 her efforts in Rosina. 
 
 " Have you seen them \ " Bald Raymond. 
 
 " I have not, indeed, nor can I tell where she is ; oar friends are asking. 
 for her." 
 
 " Of whom are you speaking ? " 
 
 " Of my wife. I wish her to do the usual honour to our guests." 
 
 H Bless me, Madame Marsan cannot be lost, she will turn up presently,, 
 but it is my cupids who must be found, for although my scene has been 
 spoiled by the little brutes, I must give them up to their mother, who is not 
 Venus, and would break her milking pans over my head if I did not return 
 her cubs. Help me to find them, pray ; they must be somewhere in the 
 garden." 
 
 Monsieur Marsan accompanied Raymond in order to find his wife, not 
 caring one farthing if the cupids, demons, and the whole heathen mythology 
 were at the bottom of his fish-ponds. They had traversed the whole range 
 of the gardens, and Marsan wished to return to the house, but Raymond 
 kept him by his side, and gradually they approached the swing on the lawn, 
 In the thicket wherein Rosina and myself were still deeply engaged playing 
 our delightful additional scene. 
 
 " They are there," Raymond whispered, " I heard the creaking of the 
 swing ; oh, ho ! the young scamps are amusing themselves pleasantly, no 
 doubt." 
 
 The swing was reached, but they discovered nothing. Marsan observed 
 that Raymond was deceived ; the latter replied that it certainly was odd, 
 but nevertheless he heard the selfsame movement, and they must be in the 
 wood. He pushed the shrubs aside, followed by Marsan, the moon shone 
 out at that unlucky moment, and disclosed to view Almaviva and Rosina, 
 seated like statues side by side. 
 
 Raymond started back in an agony of fear, dreading my resentment ; 
 but Monsieur Marsan preserved his presence of mind, and quietly addressing 
 his wife, said, — 
 
 '- Your friends require your presence, Madame ; do not let your pleasure* 
 interfere with the performance of your duties." 
 
 He walked slowly away towards the house, Rosina fainted, Raymond 
 stood still, I started up, dashed him on one side, reached the house, snatched 
 up my hat, and ran to Paris, where I did not arrive until half -past two- 
 o'clock in the morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 TERMINATION OF THE LOVE8 OF ALMAVIVA AND ROSINA. 
 
 It needs no wizard to divine that after the last scene in the thicket afc 
 Montmorency, I could not return to Madame Marsan's house or be seen 
 with her in public ; it became necessary therefore to conceal our intercourse 
 under the veil of secrecy, which would have made it all the more delightful 
 to the majority of women, but not to my new and very exacting mistress, 
 who delighted in seeing herself surrounded by adorers. If I did not go tc- 
 her house, however, it v/as only out of respect to appearances, for, as 
 
120 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 Raymond was a witness of our catastrophe in the woods, there could be no 
 doubt that the affair was known to the whole circle of our mutual acquaint- 
 ances. A week had passed, and I was quite surprised that I had not seen 
 my neighbour ever since the night of the fete ; undoubtedly he feared my 
 anger, and hid himseif when he heard me leave my rooms, for, as we lived 
 on the same landing, scarcely two days had ever passed without our seeing 
 each other. 
 
 In the meantime, an intimate correspondence had been established 
 between Madame Mars an and myself ; we made assignations, drove 
 together into the country, dined together at the first taverns in Paris, in 
 private rooms, and went to private boxes at all the theatres. Thus I 
 enjoyed her amiable society all alone, and having driven off that herd of 
 batterers who constantly fluttered around her, she could not play the 
 coquette and torment me, which, of course, was all the more agreeable to 
 myself, but I feared not so to her. Speedily this intimacy languished, oar 
 rendezvous became less frequent ; there were nothing but objections to her 
 coming to my rooms ; it was seldom that we dined or went to the theatr* 
 together ; there was always some party, some ball, or some fite at which 
 «he must be present. I did not believe the reasons she proffered, because I 
 knew her husband left her entirely mistress of her own actions, and that 
 ahe was perfectly free to do as she liked. If, therefore, she refused to meet 
 me, I attributed her reluctance to do so to the desire of shining at a ball or 
 a concert, and to her preferring the making conquests of other men to the 
 quiet pleasures of my society. The infallible inference to be drawn from 
 iier conduct was, that my success with her was owing to the peculiarity of 
 our position, and my surprise of her person, and that she did not now love, 
 and, in fact, had never loved me. Originally she had selected me from her 
 other slaves out of mere whim, encouraged my advances from pure coquetry, 
 iell into my arms by the merest chance, and would soon cut me without 
 a sigh. 
 
 One morning, when I was on the watch for Raymond, I heard his door 
 open, and darting out, succeeded in catching him by the skirt of his coat as 
 ne was about to descend the stairs. He stared at first half in fright ; but 
 my smiling countenance reassured him, and I went on to say, — 
 
 " What, neighbour Raymond, is it you ? In truth, I thought you were 
 dead." 
 
 " Oh, dear no ; it is a long while, to be sure. Why, we have not met 
 since The Barber of Seville." 
 
 " Right, friend, and I wanted to know from you how that eventful fite 
 terminated. " 
 
 " You did ; now, I really thought you were vexed with me." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because I was unlucky enough to bring the husband into the wood." 
 
 " Ah, did you so ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I did, and yet I did not exactly. You see he was looking 
 jsafter his wife, and I was seeking my cupids, those little villains, who at 
 that moment were as sick as dogs in one of the garrets, and had well-nigh 
 burst themselves ; when, unfortunately, we stumbled upon you ; but if you 
 liad only taken me into your confidence about Madame Marsan, this acci- 
 dent would not have happened, for I would have taken care to keep the 
 husband far enough off. But so it always is ; you never tell me anything, 
 and so mistakes are for ever happening. Do you know, now, that you are 
 the cause of my never going to the Marsan's ? " 
 
 " How can that be ? " 
 
 11 How ? rightly enough. A woman who knows that a man has seen 
 
Termination of the Loves of Almaviva and Rosina. 121. 
 
 her — you know — does not receive him very graciously. Her husband, t«o 9 
 is a very droll creature, I can't make him out at all ; I tried all I could to 
 explain the affair away, talked about mistakes by a waning moon, and all 
 that, but he marched off without saying a word." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 M Well ; when he had gone, and you had run off like a flash of lightning, 
 I stooped down to assist Madame, who, I thought, had fainted, but at the 
 moment I held my bottle of salts to her nose, she came to herself all at once, 
 threw the salts at my head, jumped up, and ran to the house as fast as ever 
 she could. I walked back myself, and thought as I went that it would be 
 just as well to throw dust in Marsan's eyes, and made a sign as he was 
 playing at eearU that I wanted to speak to him. He finished the game as 
 easily as if nothing unusual had happened, then rose and came to me, when 
 I told him that we must not always believe all we see ; that the moon 
 changes the appearance of all things ; that you and Madame were only 
 acting a scene of my invention which ought to have been added to The 
 Barber ; that it required the lover should be on his knees and take the 
 lady's hand, and all that. Very clever, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Very clever, indeed ! And what did Marsan say t " 
 
 11 Why, the ungrateful fellow told me in the most insolent tone not to 
 annoy him with any more of my buffoonery, and that he would horsewhip- 
 me to death if ever I opened my lips again on the subject, and then turned 
 his back upon me. Very low-bred that indeed in a husband whom I wished* 
 to set at peace with himself in his domestic affairs, and who received my 
 Well-intentioned efforts with about as much politeness as a dog gets when 
 he obtrudes his person into a game of skittles ; and to crown all, I was sent 
 for out of the room by the impudent milk-woman, the mother of my cupids, 
 who threatened me that if her brats should come to any harm from stuffing 
 the sweet things they had stolen, she would summon me before a magis- 
 trate. After all this, I determined to stay no longer in that unlucky house, 
 and returned home with Figaro in his cabriolet." 
 
 Raymond left me at the end of this recital, which he had delivered 
 with an embarrassed air altogether unusual to him ; and although I did 
 not bear any resentment against him for the part he had taken at Marsan's 
 fite, yet it was borne in upon me that he was fated to be my Evil Genius, 
 and that eventually I should sustain some great loss or injury at his hands. 
 But that which was a source of greater uneasiness to me was the circum- 
 stance that, for some time past, I had not found in my lock the usual bouquets 
 from Nicette. For the first few days I missed them I thought it must be in 
 consequence of her mother's death ; but six weeks had elapsed since that 
 event, and still I did not find any flowers in the door ; indeed, I was so 
 accustomed to this mark of her grateful remembrance, that every night on 
 my return home I felt the lock mechanically, and finding nothing, thought 
 sorrowfully that she too had forgotten me. For a long time past I had no 
 seen her ; I rose too late in the morning to do so, and in the evening, when 
 it became dusk, and I could repair to her shop without being remarked, I 
 was sure to be dragged away by my friends to some party, or else I was in 
 company with my fading love. The interviews with her, however, were 
 becoming extremely rare ; it was clear she only wanted an opportunity to 
 break entirely with me, and that opportunity I determined should very 
 speedily occur. 
 
 After an interval of several days, during which Madame Marsan and 
 I had not seen each other, we dined together, dully enough, at the " Blue 
 San-Dial," and the "Meridian" being immediately opposite, recalled to my 
 mind the gay amusing dinner I enjoyed with Agatha some few weeks be- 
 
122 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 fore, when we practised so successfully upon neighbour Raymond's fears. 
 "We were neither of us in very amiable humour ; the dessert was consumed 
 in almost complete silence, and at seven o'clock, as we had not a single word 
 of conversation for each other, I proposed the theatre, a concert, or any other 
 amusement, but none of them suited the lady's taste that evening ; at length 
 she complained of a headache, stomach-ache, megrims, and a thousand other 
 ills that flesh is heir to, and decided to go home at once. This was a great 
 relief to me : we quitted the tavern, and I proposed to see her home in a 
 coach, but she preferred going on foot, as the air would refresh her, and it 
 being night, we should not run the risk of being seen by any of our friends. 
 We passed along the Boulevards as stupidly as if we had been married twenty 
 years, exchanging monosyllables every five minutes, until we reached the 
 Hue St Honored where we must pass in front of Nicette's shop, which I hoped 
 would be shut ; but as we approached it I saw it was open, and wished 
 within my heart that I could have returned, why I cannot exactly tell, as 
 I was undoubtedly free to give my arm to anybody I liked. Some small 
 shrubs and flowers had not yet been taken in for the night, and as Nicette 
 stood at the door, blushing to see me, yet afraid to look me in the face, 
 my companion took it into her head to stop and examine the plants. 
 
 "What a pretty orange tree," she said ; "I have wanted one for my 
 boudoir a long time, and this is just the thing ; do you not think it pretty, 
 Dorsan ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame, very." 
 
 I was really embarrassed, and feared to meet Nicette's eyes. Madame 
 Marsan could not conceal her astonishment at the stupid figure I cut ; she 
 then turned her attention to Nicette, and looked at her long and fixedly as 
 she poor girl stood trembling, her eyes upon the ground. Her beauty, her 
 agitation, and my emotion aroused her suspicions — for women are lynx-eyed 
 in all affairs of the heart — and though she loved me no longer, she pretended 
 At that instant that she was devoured by affection for me. She stepped 
 Into the shop, lolling upon my arm, looked at me as if she were dying with 
 love, addressed me in the second person singular — which had not occurred 
 twenty times during our liaison — and said, — 
 
 " My love, what do you think of these plants ? Tell me, dear, because 
 I will not buy anything that you dislike in the least." 
 
 This spiteful behaviour roused my ire so that I almost choked with rage ; 
 T could scarcely get out two consecutive words. I saw Nicette turn pale 
 as the endearing terms used by the hypocrite entered the portals of her 
 ears, her bright eyes filled wiih tears, and seemed to say, " She loves you, 
 and, alas, you love her too I " 
 
 The heartless woman saw all this ; she smiled malignantly, and said to 
 the trembling girl, — 
 
 " What is the matter with you, child ? You seem uncommonly agitated 
 at being asked a simple question." 
 
 " Nothing, madame, nothing," Nicette replied, looking from one of us to 
 "the other. 
 
 11 What is the price of this orange tree 1 " 
 
 " It is what you please, madame ; it is all the same to me." 
 
 " All the same to you I Did you ever hear anything so exquisitely stupid, 
 dear Eugene ? Why don't you speak, love ! What is the matter with you 
 this evening ? " 
 
 " Nothing, madame. I care not how soon we leave this shop." 
 
 " I see, sir. No doubt you have excellent reasons for not wishing to stop 
 in this neighbourhood. My presence annoys you ; it gives pain to this 
 fiower- wench. Come, sir, as soon as you please j I could not behave cruelly 
 
My Evil Genius pursues Me. 12S 
 
 to her for the world. Don't cry, little girl, don't give way to your grief, I 
 beg of you. " 
 
 With these words she stalked out of the shop with a haughty step, and 
 I followed her, after casting one glance at Nicette, who had sunk upon a 
 stool, bathed in tears. 
 
 So soon as we were in the street, Madame Marsan burst into a fit of 
 scornful laughter, and taunted me on my ridiculous amour with a humble 
 flower-girl. I could have retorted, but a man bears much from a woman 
 who has granted him the favours that ought to be restricted to the 
 marriage-bed, and when we reached her house, I quitted her coldly and 
 without regret, making up my mind never to meet her privately again. 
 As I turned away from the rich man's gate, my thoughts reverted to 
 Nicette. I longed to disclose to her all that I thought and felt, for I could 
 no longer deceive myself as to the character of the love she had instilled 
 into my breast. That she indulged an equally intense passion I had not 
 the slightest doubt. Then we should be happy together, and I would doff 
 the world and all its sneers aside when circled by the loving arms of my 
 own dear Nicette. Friendship had hitherto been the word under which 
 our dormant love had been concealed ; but now the veil was torn away I 
 was determined to possess her on honourable terms, and ran, nay flew, to 
 her abode. Judge of my fearful disappointment when I found the shop 
 was closed, and did not see any light within. I knocked, but no one 
 answered. Could she be asleep, and thus quickly have forgot her grief ? I 
 knocked louder and louder, again and again, but still no reply, and passed 
 an hour uselessly before the shop. At length I persuaded myself that she 
 Was at home striving to conceal her tears, and that she feared I should find 
 fault with her for her behaviour before Madame Marsan, so I walked 
 mournfully back to my apartments, with the heroic determination of seeing 
 her the following day, consoling her for all the miseries she had undergone, 
 find making known to her my undying honourable love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 MY EVIL GENIUS PUBSUES MS. 
 
 During the whole of that night the restlessness of my mind would not 
 permit me to have one moment's sleep. Towards the morning I fell into a 
 kind of half-conscious existence, in which a hundred dreamy plans floated 
 across my imagination. Of course, in the temper in which I then was, 
 Nicette formed the chief object in the various scenes. Sometimes she 
 visited my eyes clad as a shepherdess, then as a fashionable woman, and 
 next as a beautiful princess ; occasionally we roamed through rural spots, 
 next we traversed marble halls and stately bowers, then we wandered 
 through an arid, howling desert, surrounded by furious wild beasts, and 
 anon we passed through flowery dells ; but in each and all of them we 
 enjoyed the utmost bliss, blessed with each other's love. As soon as it was 
 daylight I rose from my bed, dressed myself as hastily as possible, left the 
 house, and in five minutes was before Nicette's shop, which was unopened. 
 Whilst I remained before the door in a state of great alarm, fearing the 
 dear girl might be unwell, and undecided whether to knock or not, the 
 lame errand-porter whom I had questioned before with regard to Nicette's 
 
124 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 iabits came up, took off his cap, and inquired whether he could be of any 
 service to me. 
 
 " I do not want you," I replied, dolefully enough, putting mechanically 
 a half-crown in his hand ; but shaking off my lethargy the next minute, I 
 turned sharply towards him, and said, pointing to the shop, " that young 
 woman seems to he very long in bed of a morning." 
 
 " It's early yet, sir, but somehow Ma'amselle Nicette has been rather 
 lazy lately ; no wonder in that, you know, sir, when a girl's head is crammed 
 full of love." 
 
 " How do you know that, sirrah ; who has told you she is in love T " 
 
 " Dear me, sir, how you startled me ! but as to Ma'amselle Nicette, it 
 needs no ghost to tell a man when a young girl is in love. I've been a 
 porter for twenty years on this very spot, and I know pretty well what is 
 going on all around." 
 
 I thrust my hand into my pocket, took out as much silver as I could 
 grasp, threw them into his cap, and desired him to relate to me faithfully, 
 and without concealing anything, all that he knew about the flower-girl 
 and her lovers. The man looked at me as if he thought I was mad, and 
 as I leaned against the wall of Nicette's house, to support myself from fall- 
 ing, so great was the agitation of my nerves, he proceeded to relate that 
 about three weeks ago a certain gentleman commenced prowling about the 
 shop. At first he came only in the morning, apparently to buy flowers, 
 Ibut soon afterwards he began to return in the evenings, and now he never 
 amissed coming and remaining with Nicette for an hour or more. There 
 was not the least concealment of what was going on ; the door of the house 
 was always open, and the girl and her lover seemed to be engaged in chat- 
 ting. The man was about forty years of age, of gentlemanly appearance, 
 and fashionably dressed ; and he thought that the flower-girl, who would 
 aot hear a word of love from any young man in her own rank, seemed very 
 proud of her aristocratic conquest. 
 
 I thanked the man, and strode from him with a heart charged to over- 
 flowing. It was gall and wormwood to me to think that at the very 
 moment in which I was about to declare my passion to Nicette, and to give 
 «p the great world in order to live with her alone, that I should find her 
 plighted to another. I had assured myself of her consent, never doubting 
 of her love ; but now the day-dream of happiness had melted into thin air, 
 and clouds and darkness rested on the miserable future period of my life. 
 In my desperation I turned upon my steps — fascinated as it were by some 
 spell that would not let me leave the street — and stood again before Nicette's 
 house, where I could not have remained more than ten minutes, when she 
 opened the door and came out to arrange her flowers, pale, downcast, but 
 with an air of open candour in her face that made her seem to me more 
 Interesting than ever. Could she be false to me, I thought. How false ? 
 I had never told her of my love ; but she might have known it ; perhaps 
 she dared not indulge her feelings towards me ! Yes, that was it. As I 
 gazed upon her, groaning inwardly, and thinking what a treasure I had 
 lost, I law her eyes were red with weeping, and she trembled as if she 
 would fall down. I stood for a few moments in silence, and then, making 
 a great effort, said coldly, — 
 
 " I came yesterday, Nicette — " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I saw you with — with — that— lady." 
 
 " No, not then, I returned a few minutes afterwards and knocked at 
 •jfour door." 
 
 " I was not within, Mr." 
 
 " Perhaps you were, and did not wish to see me." 
 
My Evil Genius pursues Me, 125 
 
 " Why bo, sir ? " 
 
 ** People do not like to be disturbed when they have company. ' 
 
 " Company, sir ! " 
 
 " Yes, Nicette, you understand me well enough. Will you persist in 
 laying that you do not receive any visitors ? " 
 
 She coloured up. 
 
 " Has there not been a gentleman here every evening for the last three 
 weeks ? " 
 
 She blushed scarlet, and faltered out a " Yes." 
 
 I would have given the world had she denied the truth ; but now she 
 avowed it to my face, and all hope was fled. I started up, for in the heat 
 of the discourse I had entered the shop, looked at her with despair painted 
 in every lineament, and rushed out, She made a motion as if she would 
 detain me, but stopped on the door sill, as I ran furiously down the street. 
 
 For some time I wandered about, scarcely knowing what I was doing, 
 and thinking how singularly unfortunate I had been in my amours. Not 
 one woman had ever remained faithful to me, but what were their in- 
 fidelities compared to the faithlessness of my Nicette t Hitherto my hot 
 fancy had been captivated and my passions inflamed by personal beauty, 
 but my fickle heart had never been rightly touched till now. She saw it, 
 and made a plaything of me ; she feigned to love me, and now threw me 
 tS like any worthless thing. So young, and yet so artful! From that 
 moment I never would believe there could be any trust in woman. At 
 length I determined that, before I strove to drown the remembrance of 
 Nicette in the riotous dissipation of gay life, I would ascertain who the 
 individual really was who had displaced me from her heart. The porter had 
 told me he came every evening, and as there was a coffee-house immediately 
 opposite the shop, I could easily discover who the gentleman was without 
 being seen myself. 
 
 I got through the day somehow or other, and at five o'clock proceeded 
 to the Rue St Honored When I arrived at the corner of the street, I peeped 
 to see if Nicette was at the door, and not finding that she or anyone else 
 was near the shop, I slipped quickly into the coffee-house, and sat down 
 at a table next one of the windows that looked into the street. Having 
 called for a bowl of punch, which order made the waiter stare, I took up a 
 newspaper, and pretending to read, kept my eyes fixed upon the flower- 
 girl's shop. Oh, how I chid the tardy-paced time, and thought the night 
 would never come ; half-past five o'clock, and no one had entered Nicette 's 
 dwelling ; I tried to swallow some of the punch, but the liquor stuck, as it 
 were, in my throat ; six o'clock struck, and yet no lover ; but as the night 
 closed in, Nicette withdrew her flowers from the street, lighted a candle, 
 sat down at the table, and kept looking anxiously into the street. At seven 
 o'clock a man entered the shop, and placed himself by her aide. Good 
 heavens, do my eyes deceive me ? It is Raymond ! Raymond Nicette's 
 lover ? Oh, no, it cannot, cannot be ! 
 
 I started up, threw a^ crown-piece to the waiter, and rushed into the 
 street. However, I checked myself instantly, and crossing to Nicette's house, 
 stooped down and looked cautiously through the window. Yes, I was not 
 mistaken, it was my neighbour Raymond t He was speaking ardently to 
 her, and she was listening to him with evident attention. It seemed that 
 his conversation was not of an agreeable nature, for she wept, and then he 
 took her hand, which she abandoned to him, and pressed it tenderly, and 
 I read the interest with which he inspired her in her eyes. There was no 
 longer any doubt that Raymond was the happy man — that infernal Ray- 
 mond, for whom I had preserved that sweet flower my honourable love had 
 
126 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 prevented me from plucking. The thought drove me to madness. Oh 
 miserable return for all my self -constraint ! 
 
 If an honest, hard-working young man, of her own station in society, 
 had won her heart and hand, I should have been pleased at the idea that 
 she was handed to him pure and undefiled, but it was inconceivable that an 
 animal like Raymond should have achieved the conquest of Nicette. He 
 was not young, but was certainly stupid, tedious, babbling, and very plain ; 
 and yet this was the man who was preferred to me I Oh, woman, woman, 
 well has it been said there is not such a riddle in creation as your heart ! 
 
 The air of embarrassment that I had remarked in Raymond on our last 
 meeting was now fully accounted for ; this, then, was the reason why he 
 avoided me 1 The traitor : he was really my evil genius. He was aware 
 that I was well acquainted with Nicette, and sought to betray me ; should 
 I call him out ? No ; there was no glory or satisfaction to be gained by 
 shooting such a cowardly wretch as him, nor would his death restore Nicette 
 to me in that sweet guise in which hitherto she had always appeared. 
 What was to be done ! Nothing but to fly, and endeavour to dismiss her 
 from my mind. 
 
 I returned home and passed another sleepless night, but how different 
 from the last ! Then all was enchanting ; all was bliss and love ; now 
 curses succeeded prayers, my hopes of future happiness had perished and 
 were buried in the tomb. The morning light put an end to a night of 
 misery such as I had never before experienced ; and as soon as I could 
 distinguish objects clearly, I rose, and promising to control my passion and 
 keep calm, I rang Raymond's bell, in order to obtain an interview and 
 demand an explanation of his views as to Nicette. As he did not open the 
 door, I knocked and rang till the bell-pull came down, and presently after- 
 wards I heard Raymond's heavy tramp as he passed across his room, and 
 his harsh, croaking voice ask who was making such a noise at the door at 
 that early hour of the morning ? I replied that it was myself, who wished 
 to speak to him. He made several ridiculous excuses for not admitting me, 
 and uttered a few lies, but on announcing my determination to see him, and 
 my intention of kicking the door in, he opened it at last, let me in, and 
 then jumped into bed, pulling the clothes over him bo that his fat nose 
 and goggle eyes alone were visible, the latter rolling anxiously around the 
 room. My eyes followed the direction of his, the first object they 
 encountered being several bunches of orange-flowers, such as I had been in 
 the habit of receiving from Nicette, arranged in a row upon the mantel- 
 piece. The sight of them made my heart beat rapidly, but I restrained my 
 anger, sat down on the bottom of the bed, and addressed my neighbour 
 the coldest tone I could assume. 
 
 V How do you find yourself this morning, Monsieur Raymond ? " 
 
 " Were you so anxious to be informed of my health that you must put 
 my bell down, and threaten to break the panels of the door ? " 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, my good fellow, that was only a joke. But what pretty 
 bouquets you have there ; you seem to be very partial to orange-flowers." 
 
 " Yes, I like their scent, it is capital for the nerves." 
 
 "Dear me, why, what extraordinary sympathy there is between us, 
 These bouquets remarkably resemble those which I had in my rooms, and 
 you admired so much." 
 
 " Yes, it was the sight of yours which induced me to have some." 
 
 " Ah ! and is your provider the same as mine ? " Here he ducked hia 
 head under the clothes. " Why don't you answer ! " 
 
 " I have not any particular person ; sometimes I go to one and sometime* 
 to another " 
 
My Evil Genius pursues Me. 127 
 
 M Come, come, Monsieur Raymonds do not play at hide-and-seek with me. 
 Is this the mutual confidence you talked of ? Don't be afraid ; I assure you, 
 I have given up all ideas of Nicette for several weeks." 
 
 His head appeared again, and a joyful grin overspread his face. 
 
 " What," he said, " are you in earnest ? Have you ceased to think of the 
 pretty flower-girl ? To be sure you have, I forgot Madame Marsan." 
 
 * " Let Madame Marsan alone, and tell me about your amour with 
 Nicette." 
 
 " Well, then, I am desperately in love with her ; you know how exceed- 
 ingly pretty she is." 
 
 " Humph 1 baby-faced." 
 
 " Baby-faced ! call her a baby-face, you are difficult to please, indeed. 
 At first she rather repulsed me, but I knew how to come over her ; and 
 now she is miserable if I am away from her ; indeed, she absolutely adores 
 me." 
 
 " Does she say so ? " 
 
 " Not quite, but she cannot help showing it. I know women's ways so 
 well." 
 
 " You're a lucky fellow. Have you gained her heart ? " 
 
 "No— no — not quite, but we are coming to it fast. Look you, be 
 tender, assiduous, bold, and persevering, and the pretty creatures can never 
 resist you long. Formerly, sighing and dying, and groaning and moaning, 
 and all that, was necessary, but things are changed now ; at the first inter* 
 view, a hot declaration ; at the next, more vigour ; at the third, we come ta 
 kisses, and then — we're happy dogs." 
 
 I could not control an angry movement as the debauchee gloated over 
 his anticipated success. Raymond cowered again, and inquired if I felt a 
 recurrence of the nervous attack I experienced at Fortone's the night of the 
 memorable supper at the banker's, and on my replying in the negative, was 
 disposed to babble on about Nicette ; the subject, however, was too exciting 
 for me to bear, notwithstanding my assumed stolidity, and I returned to 
 my own room without paying any further attention to him. Again and 
 again I gave way to floods of grief and passion which I vainly struggled to 
 restrain ; love, jealousy, despair, and rage had alternate possession of my 
 heart until night, when I seized my hat and rushing out, strove to drown 
 the remembrance of my lost love in the haunts of fashionable vice. For a 
 whole week I plunged recklessly into every species of dissipation which is 
 miscalled " pleasure," but all those things which used to delight me had 
 now lost all their charms ; balls, concerts, gambling, plays, were alike dis- 
 tasteful. The sadness of my heart imparted its sombre hue to everything 
 I saw, and a profound melancholy marked me for its own. 
 
 My apartments were especially objectionable to me, for all in them re- 
 called the memory of that night on which I first extended my protection to 
 the faithless girl. After a short interval my health began to fail, so that a 
 residence in the country became necessary. Change of scene, and absence 
 from the loved, have accomplished wonders in obliterating the deep sorrows 
 of breaking, youthful hearts ; so I determined to go and see my sister, 
 paid two months' rent of my apartments in advance, gave the key to the 
 po-tress, forbade her positively to admit anybody, and departed by the 
 stage-coach to Melun. 
 
128 My Neighbozir Raymond. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 LIFB IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I arrived in due time at the country house at which my sister used to live, 
 but was much surprised at finding the window Bhutters closed, with no 
 appearance of life within, and on ringing the bell at the entrance-gate I 
 ascertained from the gardener that Monsieur and Madame Deneterre had 
 gone to pass the winter in the town of Melun, and that they only came to 
 the villa occasionally on Sundays when the weather was particularly fine. 
 The town not being more than two miles and a half off, I determined to 
 reach it on foot, and as I walked along I could not help reflecting on the in- 
 stability of all human projects. When my brother-in-law and my sister 
 were first married, they were never, never to change their mode of living, 
 never to leave their pretty country house ; but now, as they had been 
 married some years, of course their tete-d-tetes were not so all-absorbing as 
 they used to be, and as the nights appeared rather long, they had resolved 
 to repair to the neighbouring town the better to amuse themselves, and 
 while away the tedious evenings in the society of their numerous friends, 
 Was there ever anything in this world that remained unaltered by the hand 
 of time ! 
 
 In less than an hour I beheld the outskirts of Melun, a pretty little 
 town, where I had passed many pleasant days, and meant to do so again if 
 I could, for two reasons — first, because under the circumstances I could 
 not bear to think of Paris ; and secondly, because I am not like that man 
 of sorrows, Werther, and do not seek to cherish the memory of my afflic- 
 tions amidst roaring torrents, frowning rocks, and sterile wilds ; but rather 
 endeavour to lose it in change of scene and occupation much less romanticj 
 certainly, but infinitely more natural. 
 
 I had no difficulty in finding my relations' house, which was situated in 
 the best part of the town. In the country, reader, you are not perhaps, 
 aware that a family occupies a whole house by itself ; whereas, in Paris, 
 very frequently three families live on the same floor. There can be no 
 doubt that it is far more agreeable to have a house entirely to yourself, to 
 be able to do what you please in it without annoying your neighbours, to 
 go in and out without running against a host of ugly people, cats, dogs, 
 fractious children, pilfering servants, and other domestic plagues, to have 
 the privilege of kicking your porter out of doors if he is insolent, and to be 
 free from the danger of passing the night in the streets or the station-house 
 if you happen to forget the hour in good society, and come home late. 
 Very great advantages, you will say, in favour of a country life. 
 
 My sister was delighted to see me ; she threw her arms round my neck, 
 embraced me tenderly, and sent for her husband, who was playing a game 
 of billiards at the coffee-house with several of his friends. 
 
 " Does Deneterre generally pass his evenings in that manner, Emily f " 
 I said. 
 
 " Yes, de>*r, they are so long in winter, you know, we must get rid of 
 them somehow or other. Billiards and cards are very fashionable in this 
 part of the country, and we must cor form to the usages of society." 
 
 u Quite right, sister ; the very words I used to you when you were abou* 
 to be married, and constructed such pretty castles in the air for Deneterre 
 and yourself, which, of course, are all blown down like a child's house built 
 of cards. You told me that I waa a hair-brained, foolish boy because 
 I laughed at your schemes of loye in a wood and peaceful solitude, and now 
 
Life in the Country. 129 
 
 I find you giving up your country house and taking absolute refuge from 
 melancholy in the town." 
 
 " But only for the winter, Eugene ; then, you know, the country is 
 always so very, very dull, you cannot quit the house, and nobody ever 
 thinks of such a thing as coming to see you ; but here we see everybody 
 we know, we have little parties at some one's house almost every evening, 
 and we pass our time away pleasantly enough. That is the reason we have 
 left the villa foi '.he present." 
 
 " Very naturui indeed, sister, and I hope you are happy ? " 
 " Yes, Eugene, very. My husband is a good creature ; a little obstinate, 
 ■ometimes, and will not hear reason when I speak to him, which will cause 
 a few trifling disputes ; but he is very well, poor fellow, there is nothing 
 to complain of." 
 
 " And the children, Emily ? " 
 
 " Ah, the two darling boys, they are charming ; such beauties, with such 
 Intelligence and quickness, you'll see, you'll see." 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 ■ In bed, we must not awake them : why, it is a whole year since you 
 eaw them. You will find them so grown, you can't think ! You'll see 
 at a glance who they are like. The eldest is four years, and the youngest 
 is almost three." & 
 
 The entrance of Deneterre, with a billiard -cue in his hand, interrupted 
 our conversation ; my brother-in-law evinced great pleasure at seeing me, 
 ihook me warmly by the hand, and pressed me to stop all the winter with 
 them at Melun ; we then sat down and chatted about the news in the great 
 world, and passing to his own affairs, he informed me that he was making 
 money fast by his cotton-mill, and expected that in a few years he should 
 be able to retire from business. Whilst we conversed, Emily went and came, 
 giving orders to prepare a bed for me, and after an interval of half -an -hour 
 •he invited me to take my seat at the supper-table. I declined, but she 
 insisted upon my doing so, as it was a provincial custom, which was never 
 broken. To please the good woman, I sat down and pretended to eat, and 
 whilst the country couple made a substantial meal, the following matri- 
 monial dialogue took place : — 
 
 " Where are the children, Emily ? Has not their uncle seen them ? " 
 "No dear, they are in bed." 
 
 " In bed at this hour, how rid iculous ; a great deal too early, I should think I * 
 "Early hours are good for their health, my love." 
 ''For girls, likely enough : boys do not require so much sleep." 
 " Oh yes, they do, you are quite mistaken ; boys who run about and tire- 
 themselves all day want much more sleep than girls." 
 " Well, wake them up, and let them see their uncle." 
 " To-morrow will do, Deneterre." 
 
 " To-morrow ! pooh, tell Jane to bring them now ; I particularly wish it. 
 my dear. I'll go for them myself." 
 
 " Indeed you'll do no such thing, sir, they shall not be disturbed on any 
 account ; do you wish to make them ill ?" 
 
 " It is you who will make them ill with so much sleep, like two younff 
 guinea-pigs." * **s 
 
 " Monsieur Deneterre " (this was said with great dignity) " I am mistress 
 Of my own children, and will treat them as I please." 
 
 " No, madame, as they both happen to be boys, they shall be completely 
 under my control. " _ 
 
 " You know nothing about the matter j besides, how can I help it if you 
 Will not get me any girls ? " > 
 
 I 
 
130 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 As I saw the discussion was becoming rather warm, I turned the con- 
 versation another way by asking Deneterre what he meant by bringing 
 home a billiard -cue from the coffee-house. He replied it was a prize one 
 he had won lately at a grand game of " Poule," and that on the morrow he 
 would introduce me to several of his friends, who were all masters of the 
 game. I then wished him " good-night," and Emily conducted me to a 
 bed-chamber, making me inspect a number of rooms before we reached it, 
 and entering into sundry circumstantial details of all the attractions and 
 improvements she had made, a good deal after the manner of the gentleman- 
 farmer with whom I dined at Madame Marsan's, and I began to form a 
 remote idea that, to persons who have nothing else to think of, the hatch- 
 ing of a brood of fowls, and the bringing up of a gigantic buck -rabbit, may 
 be matters of the greatest importance. 
 
 In passing along, I could not help asking my sister whether she had 
 frequent disputes with her husband. 
 
 " Disputes 1 " she exclaimed, in great surprise, ° no, dear, we never have 
 any disputes whatever." 
 
 " I thought," I said, " Emily, I was a witness to one just now." 
 " Oh, you call that a dispute, do you ? We have twenty little discussions 
 a day like that, but no disputes, oh, no ! It is impossible for man and wife 
 to be always precisely of the same opinion." 
 " It would be very delightful if they were." 
 
 11 Ah, Eugene, it is easy enough to see that you are a bachelor ; you 
 understand nothing yet of conjugal life ; but I hope before long you 
 will be acquainted with the delights of marriage, and then your ideas will 
 be quite, quite changed. Patience, patience, my dear boy, and so, ' good- 
 night.' " m 
 
 My sister left .me, and before sleeping, I pondered over the specimen of 
 conjugal existence of which I had just been a witness. And yet Deneterre's, 
 according to the opinion of the whole world of Melun, was a very happy and 
 well-managed establishment. It was incontestible that Emily was faithful 
 to her husband, and that he was fondly attached to her and the children. 
 Then why had they these constant disputes ? I could not make it out. 
 Matrimony was as a sealed book to me ; and so, being somewhat fatigued 
 with the journey and my walk, I went to bed. I slept more calmly than I 
 had for a long time previous, and my slumbers would have been even more 
 prolonged bad it not been that my dear, sweet little nephews had received 
 instructions to awake me. About seven o'clock in the morning there was an 
 unaccountable noise in the room ; first one of my legs was pulled, and next 
 one of my arms ; the two children then climbed upon the bed, and amused 
 themselves by playing at leap-frog and rolling over me ; and whilst I was 
 looking at them in wonderment, half-asleep and half-awake, wishing them 
 anywhere else, the curtain was pulled suddenly aside, and there stood 
 Deneterre, laughing heartily, and enjoying my surprise. 
 
 Rubbing his hands joyfully together, he burst out with, — 
 " There the young scamps are, what do you think of them, eh t" 
 u Why, they appear to be healthy enough." 
 
 ** Fine fellows, are they not ? Oh, I'll make real devils of them ; lively 
 and strong, are they not ? " 
 
 " Oh, strong enough, in all conscience ; I wish you would desire the oldest 
 not to pinch my calves quite so hard." 
 
 " It's only fun, Eugene, they wake me so every morning of my life." 
 
 " Dear me ! and do you really find any pleasure in it ? " 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, it's delightful. " 
 
 •'For a father, possibly, but for an uncle, not at all." 
 
^tffneLountry. 131 
 
 "Marry, my boy, and all those delights will follow. Come, children, 
 kiss your uncle, and let him get up." 
 
 Immediately the devils, to show their fervent love, threw themselves flab 
 upon me, seized hold of my head, and in embracing me slobbered all over 
 m v nose and cheeks, because it was a point of honour with them who should 
 kiss me the longest. Their father bade them leave off, but they did not mind 
 him in the least, and I was almost smothered, when luckily for me my 
 sister arrived, and the scene was changed at once. She reproached her 
 husband for bringing the children to me before they were washed, combed, 
 and dressed $ and caused them to jump off my bed in double-quick time by 
 the magical word "breakfast." My brother-in-law and sister then retired 
 in the midst of another conjugal discussiorif and whilst I dressed myself, I 
 resolved that if I should marry and have a family, I could not take them 
 as patterns for bringing up my children. 
 
 The mode of living in Deneterre's establishment was simple enough ; in 
 the morning he went to his factory, and his wife, after attending to her 
 domestic concerns, worked, or took a walk. In the afternoon, my brother- 
 in-law went to the coffee-house to play his game at billiards, and my sister 
 dressed, in order to go into society. Every evening in the week was 
 duly lotted out ; on Monday the meeting was at the house of the attorney, 
 where all the high families of the town assembled. The amusements were 
 very limited, but they read the leading articles from the Moniteur, were 
 intimately acquainted with the secrets of all the European Cabinets, and 
 confidentially discussed the views of Foreign Potentates. On Tuesday, 
 the reunion was at a merchant's, who had retired from commerce ; he was 
 rich, and gave bottles of ale. punch, confectionery, and. orange -flower water ; 
 they played high, too, their sixpenny whist and three half -penny loo, the latter 
 sometimes amounting to a large stake, and as to whist, which was played to 
 perfection, trumping a partner's trick would have been followed with 
 instant excommunication, and revoking was an atrocity never to be dreamt 
 of. On Wednesday the good folks met at the house of the widow of the late 
 District Registrar ; and as the old lady had four daughters to marry, little 
 games were permitted that brought young people of both sexes into more im- 
 mediate contact. Whist was rejected as too sombre, and loo as too expensive ; 
 charades in action were especially selected, because hands will meet, 
 pressures of them will take place, as it were, of their own accord, and words, 
 although forbidden, will be spoken ; but yet all was conducted with the most 
 rigid propriety. Hunt the slipper, which occasions an unhallowed contact 
 with the lower members of the corporeal frame, being especially eschewed. 
 An ex-deputy gave his parties on the Thursdays, which were by far the 
 most insupportably stupid of the whole lot. All conversation upon politics, 
 state affairs, foreign wars, or rumours in the papers were forbidden, that 
 the peculiar sentiments of the guests might not be offended. Card-playing 
 was showing a bad example to youth ; there was no dancing, because the 
 deputy's aged helpmate could never get a partner ; there were not any 
 charades acted, because they deranged the furniture of the apartments in 
 such a manner that curtains might be torn, and tables scratched ; there 
 were no games for the young folks, because they led to constant impro- 
 prieties, but then everybody might say and do just as they liked, the fore- 
 going restrictions being strictly enforced. On Friday they all repaired to 
 the house of a substantial landholder, whose wife affected the fine Parisian 
 Zady. In this establishment, it must be acknowledged, there was no cold- 
 ness, no ceremony ,'bub everybody was really free to do as they liked. They 
 danced, sang, played at cards s staked a penny or a pound, from dominoes and 
 beggar-my-neigbbour to piqued and chess, and there were to be found all the 
 
132 My Neighbour Kaymond. 
 
 periodical publications and newspapers representing everv shade of politics. 
 "And on Saturday, Eugene," said my sister, "the peopi< come to us. You 
 will be surprised to see how happy -they are ; they lau^., joke, dance, and 
 sing, and the time passes away so quickly that sometimes the company do 
 not go away until half -past ten o'clock." 
 
 " In the morning, sister \ " 
 
 " No, in the evening ; are you mad ? " 
 
 " It does not seem to me to be so very late." 
 
 " Oh, but it is ; and on Sundays we all go to the Mayor's, where there 
 Is everything — cards, dancing, billiards, and refreshments — that we can want. 
 So you see that every day brings its pleasures with it, and we have no time 
 to tire of them." 
 
 " But you have no theatres 1 " 
 
 M We do very well without them." 
 
 " Nor any concerts ! " 
 
 " There is quite music enough at our own houses ; and the beautiful 
 walks in the neighbourhood on fine days, the wood of Rochette, the Three 
 Mills, and fishing, and shooting, and the tittle-tattle of the town, and the 
 wonderfully concealed intrigues that are in everybody's mouth at the end 
 of a week, the petty quarrels, the scandal, the dinners, the birthdays, the 
 christenings, and the marriages— oh, the marriages give all of us occupation 
 for at least a month beforehand. Yes, yes, brother, you will see that we 
 amuse ourselves at Melun just as well as the people do in Paris." 
 
 I had forgotten to state that my sister was giving me this detail whilst 
 we were sitting at breakfast, and that at this moment she broke off abruptly 
 at seeing her husband offering the children some coffee to drink, which 
 unfortunate circumstance immediately led to another little discussion. 
 
 "Why do you give coffee to the children, it is not good for them." 
 
 "Pooh!" 
 
 "It heats them, Deneterre." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, my dear ; it cannot do them any harm." 
 
 " It always keeps them from sleeping." 
 
 "Pooh!" 
 
 " How stupid you are with your * Poohs ! ' They shall not have any." 
 
 " Only a tiny drop, it's nearly all milk." 
 
 " I don't care, I say they shall not have it. Come to me, my dears." 
 
 " Here, drink it up, quick." 
 
 " Will you obey me, boys f " 
 
 "Oh, leave them alone with your nonsense, do." 
 
 My sister laid hold of the cup, which my brother-in-law held fast ; the 
 consequence was it broke in two, the coffee was spilled, both rose in a pet, 
 and so that scene of domestic felicity was at an end. 
 
 The whole of the morning was passed in my being introduced by my 
 relations to their acquaintances ; and as I allowed them to drag me into all 
 the houses they liked, my sister said I was greatly improved in my manners, 
 and much more complaisant than she had ever seen me before. After 
 dinner I went with Deneterre to the coffee-house to play a game at " Poule," 
 and then returned to accompany my sister to an evening party, which 
 happened unfortunately to be that of the ex-deputy, where I saw nothing 
 but starched*, stiff, old-fashioned faces. There was only one compensating 
 circumstance in this formal reunion, and that was that it commenced at 
 half -past eight o'clock, and terminated at a quarter before ten, so what with 
 bows and curtseys, the usual salutations, inquiries after health, and obser- 
 vations on the weather, pinches of snuff, and gapings behind pocket- 
 handkerchiefs, the time was got through decently enough. The following 
 
Mademoiselle Pilagie—The Marriage Scheme. 133 
 
 evening the soirde took place at the landed proprietor's, and there I fared a 
 little better, because there were several pretty women present, without the 
 usual amount of provincial fastidious decorum ; in fact, in the course of a 
 week I ran through the whole circle, and was well-known to everybody in 
 the little town, and well received by all the mammas, thanks to my being 
 well off in the world, and a gay young bachelor to boot. 
 
 In a short time I became accustomed to conjugal discussions, and to the 
 funny tricks of my nephews, who well deserved the name of "Devils," 
 which their parents applied jocularly to them ; but, taking all things 
 together, the Deneterres enjoyed as much happiness as other families ; 
 their little domestic quarrels did not disturb their mutual love, and in their 
 eyes their children were the incarnation of all that was beautiful and 
 good. Whenever I marry, nevertheless, I shall try to avoid all discussions 
 with my wife ; and certainly I shall endeavour to bring up my children in 
 a very different manner to that adopted by my sister and her husband. 
 
 A fortnight passed away without my being amused, or, on the other 
 hand, much annoyed ; the novelty of the mode of living, the real, genuine 
 friendship of the Deneterres, and the old-world manners of the originals 
 whom I saw every evening, served to divert my attention from Nicette. 
 Time also, the great assuager, had its usual effects, so that my melancholy 
 was gradually dissipated, although I had not forgotten poor Nicette, but 
 forcibly expelled her image whenever it came suddenly across my mind. 
 I rather think that at the beginning of the third week I felt a slight 
 inclination to fall in love again, just for a whim, to raise one of those little 
 iSames which formerly were so easily excited irnny breast, but, on looking 
 round me, I could not see any woman with whom I could trifle for a month 
 or so in that way, and as to the charming girls of the neighbourhood who 
 expected honourable attentions, marriage, a dowry, and an establishment in 
 Paris, there was not one who could stand a moment's comparison with my 
 lost Nicette. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PELAGLE — THE MABBIAGB SCHEME. 
 
 My excellent sister was delighted to hear me say I had not any present in- 
 tention of returning to Paris, and indulged a latent hope that I would be 
 induced by the charms of some young lady to take up my residence at 
 Melun. The morning after every soirie she would pester me with questions 
 as to what I thought of the girls I had met the over-night 5 then she would 
 outer into full details of who they were, their talents, their accomplishments, 
 and virtues ; next she would extol the delights of marriage and the pleasures 
 of a family, which observations did not prevent her from scolding her babies 
 the next moment and rating her husband — these little distractions being all 
 included in the category of " pleasures." The object of these tirades was as 
 clear as the sun at noon-day ; my sister wanted me to marry because she 
 really loved me, and thought it would conduce to my happiness, to say no- 
 thing of the importance of a brother's wedding in a nice country town, the 
 confidence, the proposal, the solemn visits of the high contracting parties, 
 ihefites, the introductions, and the dresses. 
 
 Up to that moment I had never thought seriously of the holy institution; . 
 but now I had a fleeting idea that there could not be much harm in my act- 
 ing like other people, since I had totally lost that desire of making love to 
 
134 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 every pretty woman I saw, which is so common a failing with all young men > 
 About this time I observed that my sister was on uncommonly good terms 
 with herself, that she was continually whispering to Deneterre, and that he 
 agreed to everything she proposed. She vaunted matrimony more strongly 
 than ever, but did not bring any of the young ladies of the locality upon the 
 carpet, which made me think that she had some fresh damsel in her eye, 
 who was destined to fix my volatile affections. After dinner, on one of the 
 days that the gentleman -farmer gave his soirees, she said she hoped I would 
 be particular in my toilette, for there would be very good company at 
 Madame Lepine's that evening, including Madame de Pontchartrain, who> 
 had come into town for the season — a highly respectable lady of five 
 hundred a-year, and seventy years of age. That was very respectable 
 indeed, so far as the income went, but I could not see anything peculiarly 
 attractive in the venerable lady's years. Patience f no doubt the riddle 
 would soon be solved. 
 
 My sister left the table early for her dressing-room ; now, I used to think 
 that the women in Paris were the most coquettish in the world, but since I had 
 ived in the country I had done justice to the metropolitan belles, who take 
 two hours less to attire themselves than the provincial ladies. Whilst the- 
 important operation was going on, Deneterre went to his billiards, and I 
 walked in the garden, impatient to be gone to an evening party for the first 
 time in my life. Surely there are such things as presentiments 1 
 
 At last Emily was ready, Deneterre returned from the coffee-house, and 
 we reached Monsieur Lepine's. As I entered the drawing-room, my eyes 
 involuntarily wandered round without perceiving any one beyond the usual 
 guests, but undoubtedly something great was expected to take place with 
 regard to myself ; for as our hostess was arraying a loo-table and had called 
 on me to assist her with counting out the fish, my sister bustled up, and 
 whispered mysteriously to her that I did not intend to touch a card that 
 evening, but would amuse himself with playing at forfeits and other games 
 with the young ladies. It must be observed that I had not stated any inten- 
 tion of the sort to my sister, and was about to ask her what she meant by 
 disposing of my person in that off-hand manner, when the door was opened 
 and the servant announced, " Madame de Pontchartrain and her niece." 
 
 Oh ho 1 there's a niece ; now the murder is out ! 
 
 All eyes were directed towards the door ; I turned to see what sort of a 
 person the great lady was, and beheld a tall, thin, yellow woman, who, not- 
 withstanding her age, kept herself rigidly upright, and by her side a sweetly 
 pretty girl, rather starched — that would be owing to the strictness of her 
 education — short in stature, with long, dark hair, a beautiful complexion, and 
 a pair of eyes, but what their colour was I could not tell, inasmuch as she 
 did not lift them from the floor. While Madame Lepine hastened to receive 
 Madame de Pontchartrain, and the girls whispered to each other, trying to 
 find out some defect in the niece's person or dress — how envious women 
 are ! — I could see that my sister glanced slyly at me, to ascertain whether 
 the lovely girl's entrie had affected me or not. 
 
 Dear Emily, your wishes were all in vain ! my heart was tranqu$ 
 enough : nay, not so ; but then it was not the thought of this fair girl's 
 face that moved it. 
 
 Madame de Pontchartrain was escorted to a whist- table, which she did 
 not leave during the evening, and calling her niece by the name of Pelagie s 
 desired her to amuse herself as much as possible, to which kind request the 
 young lady answered meekly, — "Yes, aunt." Madame Lepine took. 
 Pelagie's hand kindly and led her to the circle of young folks ; I placed 
 myself by her side, as I began to feel an interest in the bashful, innocent^ 
 
Mademoiselle Pdqgie. — The Marriage Scheme. 135 
 
 aneek-spoken girl, and as I did so, became, of course, an object of great 
 curiosity to the rest of the juveniles ; for in the country, it seems, jealousy 
 and spite instantly accompany the slightest preference that a marriageable 
 bachelor shows, but their turned-up noses and petty anger had no effect 
 upon me, because I knew women's feelings of old towards a pretty rival, 
 and was also quite master of my own actions, and determined to do as I liked. 
 How full of envy and all uncharitableness young females are towards each 
 other ! Those girls who were in the habit of visiting constantly at 
 Madame Lepine's enjoyed the embarrassment of the new-comer, and strove 
 to augment it as much as they possibly could by proposing the most 
 difficult, puzzling questions in their little games, whilst I, perceiving their 
 ntentions, endeavoured to set her perfectly at ease. Once I thought she 
 was about to thank me, for she murmured a few words, the purport of 
 "which I could not exactly catch, and raised her eyes, which I then dis- 
 covered were of a rich, deep, liquid, heavenly blue. 
 
 Madame Lepine, having received her instructions from my sister, was 
 tlesirous that Peiagie's attractions should be brought prominently forward 
 «he accordingly requested that young lady to oblige the company with a 
 song, accompanied by herself on. the pianoforte, whereupon all the girls 
 "besought her to do so, hoping that they should find out some defect that 
 would gratify their animosity ; Pelagie hesitated, but her aunt gave her a 
 look which said as distinctly as eyes could speak, " sing," and she crossed 
 the room to the instrument, handed by myself ; and sang a ballad about 
 love almost as long and as doleful as Chevy Chase, very correctly, and in 
 good tune, but without the slightest expression. Poor Emily was in ecstasy ; 
 she watched me hand Pelagie to the piano and escort her back again, sit by 
 ner side, and speak frequently, from all which common attentions — paid by 
 myself merely out of good-nature to the debutante, and to pique the other 
 girls — she inferred that I had fallen in love, and must speedily be married. 
 
 The dull evening was over at length, but before we , retired my sister 
 found an opportunity of presenting me to Madame de Pontchartrain, who 
 honoured me with a gracious reception. On reaching the staircase I offered 
 my arm to Pelagie, and she looked inquiringly at her aunt ; the response 
 appeared to be in the affirmative, for she took my hand very timidly, and &s 
 I was in the county, and bound to conform to provincial usages, I merely 
 touched the tips of her delicate fingers the few yards we had to go to the 
 haughty widow's domicile, where we parted for the night with the three 
 profound bows and three curtseys prescribed by the Melun fashionable 
 code. When we re-entered Deneterre's dwelling, and began to talk over the 
 occurrences of the evening, Emily turned the conversation on Mademoiselle 
 Pelagie, and began to sing forth her praises to her husband, but for my 
 especial benefit, as follows : — 
 
 " She is really charming, and by far the prettiest girl in all Melun." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And so very well brought up ! n 
 
 "Exceedingly." 
 
 " And such a capital musician i " 
 
 " Excellent, and not the least vanity." 
 
 " She is sole heiress to all her aunt's property. He will be ft happy 
 fellow who has her for a wife." 
 
 "Yes, he can make quite sure of her virtuous disposition/ * 
 
 Then addressing me, rather irritated because I let her go on her own 
 Wfty, without saying a word,— 
 
 •And you, Eugene, tell us what you think of Mademoiselle de Pont* 
 ©hartrain ? " 
 
136 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 " What can I say, sister, more than you have ? " 
 
 " Do you not agree with us ? " 
 
 " Humph ! not quite. " 
 
 " Ah, you will not say so, but I am sure you think she is very pretty."* 
 
 " Passable." ' 
 
 " And well brought up ? " 
 
 " Ye-e-s." 
 
 " I saw by your talking to her so much, that she pleased you." 
 
 " Ye-e-s." 
 
 " She is not at all like your forward Parisian girls." 
 
 " There, Emily, indeed, you are quite right." 
 
 D^neterre and his wife both appeared delighted with my sparing 
 encomium, and went to bed thoroughly impressed with the idea that my 
 bachelor days were counted. 
 
 For several days nothing occurred to disturb the routine of our jog-trot 
 life. I saw Pelagie every evening, because she accompanied her aunt, who 
 played a rubber with the same three old dowagers who had formed the 
 game for fifteen years, and who considered whist to be of that tremendous 
 importance, that one of them had been known to burst into tears because 
 her best of a suit was trumped, and another to keep her bed for a whole 
 week in consequence of having once made a palpable revoke. At these 
 wretched meetings Pelagie, of course, was handed over to the younger circle, 
 but remained as nervous and as silent as on the first evening she came 
 amongst them. As she was decidedly very pretty, the other girls had not 
 one spark of compassion for her ; while, on the other hand, her beauty in- 
 flamed the gallantry of the gay Lotharios of Melun, who addressed some very 
 stale compliments to her ; but she heard them with an icy coldness which 
 soon sent them off to flutter around other damsels with less stony hearts, re- 
 serving replies extending over three words entirely for my honoured self. 
 It is true that I never said anything that could tend to embarrass her, but 
 endeavoured to make her feel herself at home, and I so far succeeded that 
 in two instances she actually raised her eyes and rewarded me with a grate- 
 ful smile. 
 
 This antediluvian manner of courtship amused me, certainly, and occupied 
 my mind, and I began to think more of Pelagie and less of poor Nicette. 
 My pastoral young virgin was attracting me to her daily, greatly by her 
 extraordinary beauty, but much more so by her bashful innocence and want 
 of knowledge of the world, traits so unusual in the metropolis, and there- 
 fore doubly attractive to an experienced roui like myself. My sister re- 
 frained from saying anything to me, and very wisely let affairs take their 
 own course. The great-aunt loaded me with favours, and even went so far 
 as to stop in the midst of a hand at whist and inquire after my health. 
 The young unmarried women no longer testified any pleasure at my coming 
 amongst them, and forgot to impose any kissing when I played with them 
 at forfeits. The mammas whispered, and the papas winked at me know- 
 ingly, all of which announced that some extraordinary event was expected 
 to take place, whereof I alone was unconscious, although the party most 
 concerned. 
 
 Deneterre was the first to open my eyes to the true state of things ; for 
 one evening he said to me, rubbing his hands as if he was mightily 
 pleased, — 
 
 " So, Eugene, we shall have a happy wedding at last I '* 
 
 " Indeed ; whose, may I ask ? " 
 
 " Why, yours, to be sure. " 
 
 " Mine ? It's the first I have heard of it. And with what lady, pray ? n 
 
Mademoiselle Pe'lagie—The Marriage Scheme. 137 
 
 " Ah, ha ! you wish to keep us in the dark, do you ; why, my dear 
 iellow, do you think we are all blind ? " ^ 
 
 This was not enough, but my sister must join in the cry,— 
 "My dear Eugene," she said, "why seek to deceive us, who are so 
 deeply interested in your future happiness ? Any one can see with half an 
 eye that you adore Pelagie. There is not any mystery about it, the whole 
 town is aware of it." 
 
 " Indeed, the whole town knows ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes; besides, the girl has picked you out from the rest of her 
 Admirers, and pays you the most marked distinction, so that all the young 
 men have yielded her completely to you. Her aunt, too, is delighted at the 
 thought of the match ; she knew our mother well, and thinks highly of our 
 family. She has assured me she will give her niece two hundred a year down 
 on her marriage, and all the remainder of her property at her death. Such 
 *n income as that is not to be caught every day, and, added to what you 
 have yourself, will place you in very comfortable circumstances for life. 
 So now, my dear brother, tell me, shall I go to-morrow and ask Pelagie for 
 you from her aunt 1 " ', . . 4 
 
 I listened to my sister's entreaties in silence ; and at their conclusion 
 was astonished to find that the common attentions I had paid to the young 
 lady—which in Paris would not have been remarked— were considered in 
 a small country town as unerring indications that I intended to become 
 a Benedict. From that moment there was no more rest for me ; Emily 
 *nd her husband dinned into my ears so often that I was in love with 
 Pelagie, that I absolutely began to have some idea it was the case, and 
 to reflect whether I should do wrong in marrying the rustic lady. If I did 
 not love her with that absorbing passion which ought to reign triumphant 
 in the breasts of all husbands, yet her constant presence would tread out 
 the smouldering embers of that fire which still existed in my heart for poor 
 Nicette ; at any rate, with a young, timid, lovely, innocent, affectionate girL 
 my days would glide peaceably away, for friendship, if not quite so delicious, 
 is infinitely more durable than love. She had been well brought up and 
 was virtuous, so that I should not be afraid of any infidelity. That was 
 .another great advantage in calculating the chances of matrimonial happiness. 
 Our children, I flattered myself, would be educated in a very different 
 manner to my nephews, " the Devils," and with a gentle, open-hearted 
 wife, I should run no risks of those conjugal discussions which my amiable 
 sister reckoned in the list of matrimonial sweets, but which, to me, had 
 very much the air of extremely disagreeable, unseemly quarrels. 
 
 All these reflections produced a melancholy feeling within me, which 
 my sister interpreted in her own way. She was persuaded that I loved 
 Pelagie, and Pelagie adored me ; she pressed, tormented, nay persecuted 
 fi me to permit her to go to Madame de Pontchartrain. She never left off 
 I * praising the delights of a wedded life, morning, noon and night ; Deneterre 
 went with her hand and glove, and even "the Devils" were taught their 
 lesson so well that they were for ever jumping upon my knee or climbing up 
 my back, and exclaiming, " Uncle, when are you going to be married, that 
 we may have some cake ? " Perhaps the last idea was spontaneous 1 
 
 Things soon came to such a pass that it was impossible I could remain 
 any longer in a state of indecision ; it was clear that I must either make up 
 my mind at once to marry, or quit the town. But if I should adopt the 
 latter alternative and return to Paris, what could I do there, when 
 Nicette was gone, when a bachelor's life was disgusting to me, and now 
 that I felt an uncontrollable desire to love and be beloved ? A few days 
 more and a brisk attack by my sister settled the point, and I said to her, 
 
138 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 " Emily, do as you please. " She wanted nothing more ; threw her arm» 
 round my neck, kissed me ardently, would not hear another word, seized' 
 her bonnet and shawl, ran off to Madame de Pontchartrain, and in less than 
 half an hour came back breathless, said all was arranged, and that I must 
 go immediately and give instructions to have the marriage settlements 
 prepared. 
 
 All indeed was over. There was no way of retreating with honour. 1 
 seemed in the clouds, but nevertheless it was too true that I should soon 
 become the husband of the lovely Pelagie de Pontchartrain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW WITH MY FUTURE WIFE. 
 
 Whilst the legal arrangements for my marriage were in progress, I was 
 allowed to visit at Madame de Pontchartrain 's and pay my respects to 
 Pelagie in the presence of her aunt ; my advances were made with all the 
 observances of the most rigid etiquette, but these formalities, puerilities, 
 and ridiculous ceremony annoyed me to death, and I resolved that when I 
 should be married and at Paris again, my wife and I would live in a very 
 different style. As my wedding could not take place before a month, not- 
 withstanding all the bustling haste of my sister to push matters forward, it 
 appeared to me that there would be ample time to become perfectly ac- 
 quainted with my future partner for life otherwise than by playing at th©= 
 usual games permitted by society of an evening, when, of course, we were 
 watched intently by all the young ladies in the room, who never took their 
 eyes off us, and strained their ears to see and hear what people do and say 
 when they' are about to be married. Poor little inquisitive dears 1 So far 
 as Pelagie and myself were concerned, it was all in vain for them to peep, 
 and peer, and stretch out their necks, for they could not hear anything that 
 would instruct them in the art and mystery of courtship, because, as yet, we- 
 had not spoken one word on the subject. 
 
 It may appear astonishing that an affianced husband should not have 
 conversed of love and marriage to his bride ; but I had no conception of 
 making the little world of Melun the confidants of my inmost thoughts, for 
 at the parties to which we were obliged to go every evening, it was impossible 
 to say one word to her without being heard by the young ladies, who never 
 left us a moment alone ; besides, how could a man talk of " love " whilst, 
 claying at the superlatively amusing games of " Hot Cockles " and " Puss- 
 m 4e-Corner " ? In tne moorings, m uch to my disgust, I did not fare on! 
 hit better ■ the detestable aunt was invariably present ; sometimes a 
 Teighbou/dropped in for a chat, and I began to fret and chafe at never 
 having an opportunity of seeing Pelagie perfectly alone. It seemed quite 
 tit me that before a man marries, he should ascertain the talents 
 ^disposition of ihe woman to whom his happiness will be confided ; so. 
 t • i, JT n, a *H«nrH nrovmcial etiquette at the devil, and repaired to my 
 L^tfindnceter togo toM*tae de Pontchartrain and solicit a private 
 
 interview with myj t «^J to have some quiet conversation with Pelagie." 
 « What prevents' you, B«g*» » Do «* 7«u «* her every evening, an* 
 every morning if you like t 
 
The Interview zvith My Future Wife. 13$ 
 
 "Yes, yes ; but then it is in a very numerous assembly, or before her 
 aunt and three or four ugly old women, who would drive the idea of love 
 out of the head of Don Giovanni himself. Pe"lagie is very timid, too, in the 
 presence of these old tabbies, who watch the poor girl as a cat does a mouse, 
 so that she cannot speak her mind freely to me." 
 
 " Cannot you guess from the few words she does let drop ? " 
 " My dear sister, looking upon our relative position, I must have some- 
 thing more than half-words and repressed sighs." 
 
 " Well, do you not sit by her side all the evening ? Why cannot yon 
 whisper to her, press her hand tenderly, and all that ? " 
 
 " I declare, Emily, there is nothing more truly ridiculous than what you 
 in the country esteem great favours from a girl ; why, these pressings of 
 hands and whisperings are common things with the Parisian women, with 
 whom one has not the most distant idea of being married. " 
 "So much the more shame for them." 
 
 " Sister, I tell you that a system of excessive rigidity often does more 
 harm than good. When sound principles shall have been duly instilled 
 into the mind of a young girl, I do not see any reason why she should 
 not enjoy a well-regulated, proper liberty ; those whose natural disposition 
 leads them to abuse that freedom would have done wrong at a later period 
 whenever they had an opportunity, but those who listen unscathed to the 
 voice of the tempter, bring to the marriage-bed an assurance that they will 
 be faithful to their husbands through life. Sister, you must procure me a 
 Ute-d.-Ute with Pelagie." 
 
 " How can you dream of such a thing, Eugene t It is contrary to all 
 custom, all decency." 
 
 " I cannot see that good manners or decency can be offended by out 
 meeting ; and as for your absurd provincial customs, they provoke me 
 beyond all bearing : so I tell you what it is, Emily, I have made up my 
 mind, if you do not obtain for me the interview that I demand, to be off 
 some fine morning and bid adieu at once to you, Pe'lagie, the ramrod of an 
 •aunt, and all the bony, old, gossiping grandmothers of the town." 
 
 " I declare my blood runs cold to hear you, Eugene. You are quite mad ; 
 there never was such a thing heard of ; but I suppose I must do as you wish. 
 It only wants a week to your marriage, to be sure, so there cannot be much 
 harm — see, an idea has come into my head ; I will go to Madame de 
 Pontchartrain and ask her to let her niece accompany me to make some 
 necessary purchases for her marriage ; she cannot refuse me, and then I 
 will bring Pelagie here, and you can converse freely with her." 
 " A happy thought, sister." 
 
 " Well, well, but you must promise me faithfully that you will behave 
 jrourself properly, that you will not attempt — " 
 
 "What an idea you have of me ! but pray be off at once," and thus the 
 .grand affair of my life was arranged. 
 
 My threat of leaving Melun had its effect. Indeed, my sister was so afraid 
 <of the delights of a marriage of such importance slipping through her hands, 
 that she would not hear of my going to Paris to buy what I really wanted, 
 but dispatched D^neterre for that purpose ; and she was quite right, for if 
 I had gone, it is extremely probable that I might have ran against mm& 
 fair lady who would have driven all ideas of marriage quite out of my head. 
 Emily left the house, and soon returned with Pelagie, who blushed when 
 «he saw me, and curtsied to me as if I were an utter stranger. My sister 
 felt embarrassed, in consequence of the unheard-of impropriety of leaving 
 in private together a young man and a girl who were to be married in a 
 week, but regaining her composure, pretended she had a thousand things to 
 
140 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 » 
 
 do, and ran out of the room, shaking her head and lifting her finger signify 
 cantly at me. 
 
 Behold me, then, alone with my future blessing I Pelagie took a seat & 
 mile from me ; the first thing to be done was to lessen the distance 
 between us, so I moved my chair close to hers, sat down, and took both her 
 hands in mine without any observable reluctance on her part ; I looked at 
 her for a few seconds, during which her eyes were on the floor, and as I 
 think she would have sat there like a beautiful statue all the live long day 
 if I had not spoken, I broke the ice by saying, — 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you are aware that in a very short time I shall enjoy 
 the inestimable happiness of being married to you ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " You are not displeased at our future prospects 1 ** 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " May I flatter myself that I am not disagreeeble to you f n 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Come, that was not so bad ; I should, however, have preferred some- 
 thing else to these continual " yes, sirs; no, sirs." Next I thought I would 
 try to make her answer me less laconically, and went on, — 
 
 "When you were first introduced to me, did I enjoy the felicity of 
 being distinguished by you ; in fact, Pelagie, did you prefer me to other 
 men ? " 
 
 This question rather posed her ; she hesitated a little, and then faintly 
 uttered another " yes, sir.*' 
 
 " May I venture to hope your heart has never yet responded to another 
 man ? " 
 
 " I do not know, sir." 
 
 " Now, mademoiselle, have you been in love ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, not that." 
 
 " Then you are now, fair angel ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Is there any one you would prefer to me ? " 
 
 "I do not know, sir." 
 
 " If your aunt were to compel you to marry another, could it grieve 
 you ? " 
 
 " I do not know, sir." 
 
 " Then why do you consent to marry me t " 
 
 " I do not know, sir." 
 
 This constant harping on the same string began to vex me ; I feared 
 that I had mistaken stupidity for simplicity, and awkwardness for timidity ; 
 but I felt her hands tremble in mine, and hastened to relieve her fears. 
 
 " Pelagie," I murmured in a most tender tone. 
 
 " Sir," she replied. 
 
 " My dear love, when a young lady is about to marry a gentleman, she 
 addresses him otherwise than 'sir.'" 
 
 " What must I say ? " 
 
 " Say ' dear ' ! I desire to be ' dear ' to you." 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " Your aunt has educated you in a strict school, my love ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 " She has never yet admitted young men to your society ? " 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 " Do you like going out to parties ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " What do you propose to do when we are married t ** 
 
The Interview with My Future Wife. 141 
 
 "Anything you please, dear." 
 
 "Shall we remain at Melun or go to Paris \ * 
 
 *' Just as you please, dear ; but I — " 
 
 " SpeaV out, dearest." 
 
 " I think I should prefer Paris." 
 
 "And so do I." 
 
 At last we were of the same opinion ; there was some comfort in 
 that, so I thought it advisable to kiss one of her hands, but she snatched it 
 away as if my ftps had burned her fingers. 
 
 "Pelagie, it is permitted to a future husband to kiss his bride's hand." 
 
 " Are you quite sure, dear t " 
 
 " I swear it." 
 
 She offered me both her hands with a charming trustfulness ; there wa* 
 something gratifying, too, in that, for it showed she relied upon my word 
 I went on to say, — 
 
 11 Pelagie, has your aunt spoken to you on the subject of my love ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir — dear, she has given me leave to listen to you." 
 
 " Well, anything more ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, she told me you had asked for my hand and she had given 
 it to you." 
 
 " She did not, then, consult you as to your own wishes ? " 
 
 "No, dear, why should she ? " 
 
 " To ascertain whether you were pleased or not at your person being so 
 disposed of." 
 
 " That would have been useless j I have been too well brought up to 
 wish to oppose my aunt." 
 
 " But suppose I was old, ugly, gouty ? " 
 
 "It would have been all the same, dear." 
 
 " What, you would have married me just the same ! " 
 
 " Certainly ; if my aunt had desired it." 
 
 " Then you have not any decided, real inclination for me t ** 
 
 " What is • inclination ' I " 
 
 " Bless me 1 has not your aunt told you you ought to love your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Be ever faithful to him t n 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Obey all his wishes ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Never listen to another man ? ' 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 It was impossible to bear any longer with this pretty lump of ice ; I 
 jumped up in a passion, and stalked across the room ; Pelagie rose too in a 
 fright, and lifting up her large, stag-like eyes, inquired if I was ill ? The 
 sight of their dark, deep lustre calmed me ; I stopped short, threw my 
 arms around her, and pressed her tenderly, with the intention of animating 
 the stone if possible. 
 
 At first she tried to disengage herself, but desisted the moment I tola 
 her a future husband had a right to do so ; and upon the same reasoning 
 she suffered me to ravish a thousand kisses upon her lovely cheeks and lips. 
 I had a slight, confused idea that she was really beginning to thaw when 
 my delightful occupation was terminated by the entrance of my sister, who 
 requested Pelagie to accompany her back to her aunt, foi fear the old lady 
 should be vexed at her remaining so long from home. The girl resumed 
 her bonnet and shawl, and looked at me with something approaching to 
 
142 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 expression in her eyes as I bade her adieu. Apparently the kisses had had 
 a slight effect upon her heart ; a consoling idea for the future, when they 
 could be repeated ad libitum. 
 
 There was no concealing the fact that PeTagie was not a woman of 
 talent ; but that consideration had not any weight with me against her in 
 considering the chances of our union. I really do not like what are called 
 "clever " women, and think a man is far happier when he has not one for 
 his wife ; for those wives who are incessantly occupied in endeavouring 
 to display their learning and attractions invariably neglect their domestic 
 duties. The moment a woman thinks she is gifted with greater mental 
 powers than her husband, she refuses to be directed any longer by him. I 
 had had several liaisons myself with clever, shrewd, intelligent women ; 
 but no good ever came of them. There is a wide difference between genius 
 and stupidity ; the absurdities of the latter are more disgusting than the 
 pretensions and vanities of the former ; but although Pelagie was not 
 destined to shine as a bright luminary in the intellectual hemisphere, she 
 was not devoid of sense, and I trusted that matrimony — which has effected 
 such wondrous metamorphoses — would cure her timidity, infuse some life 
 into her, and draw out her latent abilities, which must have been assisted 
 by the good, useful, although severe formal education she had received. 
 Hitherto her real nature and sentiments had been benumbed by the chilling 
 usages of her starched great-aunt ; the crisis was at hand when they would 
 be awakened and developed, and that crisis, unhappily, was precipitated by 
 myself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MY WEDDING. 
 
 The great day arrived when I was to pronounce that solemn " yes " which 
 would bind me to Pelagie for ever, that is, till one of us should die. 
 
 All the previous night I could not sleep on account of melancholy 
 thoughts which would obtrude themselves upon my busy brain s and chase 
 refreshing slumber from my lids. I felt that I was not truly in love with 
 my bride ; I did not entertain for her those endearing, delightful sensations 
 with which a man ought to approach the Hymeneal altar, and without 
 which his future married life must be dull and cold indeed ; but what 
 could I do ? Did I love another ? I fear I did, but she was lost to me, 
 and by this time, most probably, had become the happy wife of another. 
 One last sigh, one tear-drop were given to the memory of buried love, and 
 I started out of bed determined to devote myself to Pelagie, and pass my 
 life in tranquil enjoyment, if not in that round of heartfelt happiness I had 
 anticipated with Nicette. 
 
 Soon after daylight, my sister entered my apartment and embraced me 
 with great affection ; the tears stood in her eyes, but she soon repressed 
 them, and asked me gaily whether I had given a thought as to where I 
 should conduct my wife from the church for the accustomed fete, and 
 subsequently for the night. It appeared with respect to the latter that 
 Madame de Pontchartrain requested we should remain at her house, where 
 she had allotted us a separate suite of rooms quite removed from her own, 
 also that Deneterre had brought back from Paris the presents I was ex- 
 
My Wedding, 143 
 
 pected to make to my bride, consisting of jewels, dresses, and shawls, and 
 that there was nothing for me now to do but to get married out-of-hand 
 and have done with it. Emily said the carriages would be ready at eleven 
 o'clock to take us to the registrar's, whence we should proceed to the 
 church ; after the ceremony we should return to my brother-in-law's house 
 to dine, and Madame de Pontchartrain would give a grand ball in the 
 evening, because in the first place her drawing-room was large enough to 
 allow three sets to dance at once ; and secondly, because it would be more 
 convenient for the undressing of the bride that she should be at home. I 
 ventured to suggest that as I was an adept in the latter ceremony, the per- 
 formance of it might be very well entrusted to myself ; but Emily insisted 
 that the bride, according to custom from time immemorial, should be con- 
 ducted to her chamber and undressed by her nearest relatives, and that I 
 was not to be admitted until she should be laid in bed in due form, with 
 her blushing face concealed beneath the clothes. I begged her to cut all 
 these absurd ceremonials as short as possible, and received for answer a 
 stern injunction to behave with decency, and not infringe the precepts of 
 morality, and so the conversation ended. 
 
 The words " Decency " and " Morality," employed by my sister, led me to 
 ruminate upon what they really meant, whilst I was dressing for breakfast. 
 If we are to find purity and perfection in the dictates of Nature, then the 
 inhabitants of savage deserts and islands, where the foot of civilised man has 
 never trod, are the most pure and perfect, but nevertheless their purity does 
 not prevent them from running about stark naked, which natural custom, 
 with us, would be considered the height of disgusting, filthy ignorance, and 
 would very properly consign the perpetrators to the dark cells of a loathsome 
 prison. Diogenes, who pretended to be a natural philosopher, was nothing 
 but a madman ; how many writers, in wishing to be sublime., have taken that 
 one irrevocable step from the Bublime to the ridiculous ; how many men, 
 wishing to be thought profound, have lost themselves in mysticism ; how 
 many actors, desirous of natural simplicity, have aped the manners of 
 awkward country louts ; and how many damsels, ambitious of display, have 
 missed their pirouettes, and fallen to the ground ! 
 
 Now, the upshot of all this I conceive to be that there is a happy 
 medium in all things, and I am decidedly of opinion that when a man and 
 woman have conformed to .the laws of religion and the state, they ought to 
 be allowed to go to bed without being placed within the sheets with a 
 number of stupid observances which offend delicacy instead of promoting 
 it. However, I was compelled to comply with them on this occasion, so I 
 dressed myself leisurely, and said no more about it. 
 
 Notwithstanding I was not over head and ears in love with Pelagie, I 
 paid considerable attention to my toilet that morning, and I flatter myself 
 that, although my bride had told me she would have married me had T ^een 
 ugly, old, and gouty, she was well pleased at seeing from the apneas 
 ance I made that I was neither the one nor the other. On a man's wedding- 
 day he may, without being a puppy like Raymond, and studying where to 
 place a brooch or how to arrange the ends of a cravat, occupy himself rather 
 more than usual with his dress ; dpropos of my neighbour, it was a pity he 
 was not at Melun that day, for he would infallibly have been the bride- 
 groom s head man, and invented some new wedding device which would 
 equally certainly have missed its mark, and been converted into some par- 
 ticularly foolish, unpleasant occurrence. My nephews, "the Devils," soon 
 came into my room, jumping and gambolling-dressed in their best- with 
 all the excitement of their happy age, to congratulate me and hasten my 
 preparations, and when I came downstairs I found Deneterre full dressed. 
 
144 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 He pressed my hand kindly, but I did not return his grasp very fervently, 
 nor could I help a sigh escaping me when he recognised me as a member of 
 his fraternity. 
 
 " Come, Eugene," he cried out gaily, " eat, and eat well, my boy, yo* 
 will have need of all your strength to-day." That was joke the first. How- 
 ever, I had made np my mind to take no notice of the pleasantries and 
 witty sayings that would attend my change of state, but to bear them all 
 with as good a grace as I could. A little before eleven o'clock Emily came 
 into the room in bridal array, leading the children, and called upon us to 
 make haste and enter the coach, as it would not do to keep the bridal party 
 waiting. The circumstance of the boys being with her led to a slight dit- 
 tussion, Deneterre exclaiming that they would get tired and be troublesome, 
 and his wife insisting that they should go. The result being, as usual, that 
 my sister had her own way. 
 
 Precisely as the clock struck eleven the two coaches came to the door, 
 tile drivers wearing white kid gloves and white bouquets in their breasts. 
 All the neighbours ran out to behold the august ceremonial. We started, 
 and took up full five minutes in going almost five hundred feet, because a 
 wedding was a thing that did not happen every day in that dull little town, 
 and the men had received instructions to drive as slowly as possible, in 
 der to give more solemnity and importance to the affair. In due time 
 we arrived at Madame de Pontchartrain's, and on being ushered into the 
 best drawing-room, garnished with flowers and evergreens for the occasion, 
 were received by the venerable mistress and all her near relations and most 
 intimate friends. The bride was not there, and on my proposing to seek 
 her in her own room, I was told by one hideous, impertinent fellow that I 
 had no right to enter there yet — joke the second — and her aunt desired me 
 to calm my transports, for Pelagie would be down directly. The task waf 
 not difficult, so I took a seat, heartily wishing that all the fussy parade waa 
 over. 
 
 After the lapse of a few minutes, during which I was overwhelmed with 
 compliments and congratulations, Pelagie was led in by my sister and her 
 *unt. She was remarkably well-dressed, looked more beautiful than ever, 
 and I confess that I heard the compliments paid to her appearance with 
 unfeigned pleasure, for I could not be insensible to the admiration that the 
 iovely features of my bride excited. I advanced towards her, took her 
 trembling hand, spoke a few low, encouraging words, and led her to the 
 carriage in defiance of the outcries of her aunt and Emily, who ejaculated 
 in a frenzy that I must not do so, and was spoiling the whole order in which 
 the procession had been arranged. Madame de Pontchartrain was livid 
 with rage, and only yielded to Emily's representations that the intensity of 
 my love prevented me from knowing what I did. Another quarter of an 
 hour was uselessly consumed in the guests bowing to each other and declin- 
 ing to enter the coach first, or occupy the hind seats ; but at the expiration 
 of that time we got fairly under weigh, Deneterre from want of room 
 fceing obliged to walk with his boys, who had already torn three flounce* 
 and dirtied sundry pairs of white satin slippers ; it was the only occasion 
 on which I had found them in the least amusing. Miserable lovers, who 
 are married in the country, always take a large stock of patience, and your 
 very, very best temper with you 1 
 
 We arrived at the registrar's office, dismounted, and waited one hour 
 impatiently for the great functionary ; at the end of that period our affair 
 was speedily sped, and the same bows and ceremonial took place on our 
 re-entering the coaches. Oh, how heartily I wished all my new relations at 
 the devil 1 By this time we were compelled to proceed even more slowly 
 
My Wedding. 145 
 
 than before, in consequence of the cortege being increased by several sedan 
 and garden -chairs. I believe there were even a few hand-barrows — for the 
 marriage had spread a delightful consternation throughout the town — and 
 when we arrived at the church it was so full that we could scarcely make 
 our way to the altar. Those good folks who had not beeD invited came to 
 criticise Pe*lagie and myself, and find out some defect in us if they could, 
 *nd those whose station precluded the possibility of an invitation, with all the 
 work-girls and idle people of Melun, came to witness the ceremony and be 
 Able to talk about the dress and jewels of the bride. Everybody knows 
 what a wedding is ; and therefore I shall not say anything more about 
 mine, except that I heard several observations of " What a handsome couple, 
 to be sure, it is not often we see such a pair as they are 1 " 
 
 The fatal " Yes " was pronounced ; firmly by myself, timidly, and with 
 lowered eyes, by Pelagie ; after which the minister delivered a matrimonial 
 homily, which ought to have edified us both very much indeed, and all was 
 over. As we returned to the carriages I surveyed my wife attentively ; she 
 was not much excited, and did not weep, but kept up a reserved, modest 
 air, at which I was somewhat displeased, seeing that she ought to have been 
 overcome with her position and wept abundantly. At least it is usual with 
 all young ladies, and I suppose must be right. 
 
 We passed down the aisle through a triple rank of inquisitive spectators, 
 and were driven still more slowly to my sister's house, but then all the 
 inhabitants of the town had turned out to see us, and we were bound to 
 acknowledge at every instant the profound bows and curtsies that were 
 made and dropped at every step along the road. I never descended from 
 a carriage with greater pleasure than I did on that eventful day ; but on 
 our entering the saloon, and going through another interminable round of 
 congratulations and wishes for our happiness, it was found to be only half* 
 past one o'clock, and the difficulty arose how we should pass our time until 
 three, the hour at which dinner had been ordered. Some elderly ladies 
 proposed whist or loo, but that was negatived by Madame de Pontchar train, 
 who thought it would be a gross breach of etiquette to play at cards on the 
 morning of a wedding day ; and whilst the parties amused themselves by 
 sitting bolt upright in their chairs, smoothing down their dresses and 
 whispering a few words at intervals, I paid no attention to my respectable 
 aunt's winks, but led Pelagie into the garden to take a quiet walk. 
 
 We directed our steps to a retired, shaded alley — not that I wanted to 
 avail myself immediately of my marital rights — but that I wished to read 
 her heart, and ascertain her sentiments on the important event that had 
 just taken place ; but it was impossible for us to be alone, for certain 
 curious young ladies followed us immediately, and never let us wander from 
 their sight. However, I took my wife's hand and pressed it gently ; she 
 looked up into my eyes and smiled. Good ! did she understand that 
 language ? No I for she cried out, " Dear me, Dorsan, how you hurt my 
 fingers." Plague on it ! All my desire for a promenade alone with her 
 was at an end. Luckily dinner-time arrived. Another procession was 
 formed in the same methodical order as to precedence, and we sat down to 
 table. The strictest propriety was observed ; I was placed at one end, and 
 my wife at the other ; no matter, then, everybody was aware that we should 
 be much closer at night. The first course passed over in frigid silence ; the 
 guests sat upright, handed the dishes to each other, ate, drank, and 
 pronounced everything delicious ; my wife's eyes, fearful still of those of 
 her aunt, never being lifted from her plate. I tried to catch a glance from 
 her now and then, but failing, turned my attention in despair to the lady at 
 my side* **»** -discovered she was a blonde with whom I had occasionally 
 
 B 
 
146 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 flirted, that is, such flirting as was allowed in the cold parties at which 
 I had lately been a guest. I spoke and endeavoured to originate an 
 animated conversation, but now she only replied to me in monosyllables. 
 How was this ? I had forgotten that she was single, and I was married. 
 It was no use my attempting now to talk to young, unmarried ladies ; I had 
 lost my title of " bachelor," more precious in their eyes than all the 
 engaging qualities of a decent married man. There was no resource, then, 
 except eating and drinking, and I was about to enter freely into the latter 
 pastime, when I was checked by reflecting that it would not do at all for & 
 bridegroom to imbibe too much. 
 
 The second course was served. The keen edge of the appetites was 
 taken off, the wits commenced their smart sayings, the jokers let off a few 
 bon-mots, the young men laughed, and the young ladies smiled and showed 
 their teeth. My sister, who was in the height of her glory, did her utmost 
 to promote the gaiety, but as for Deneterre, he was so engaged in carving, 
 and taking care of the side-table where his boys and six other children 
 were seated, that he had not time to slip in a single remark. The dinner 
 was over and the dessert placed on table, when my sweet nephews' delightful 
 pranks commenced. They began by knocking down a pile of plates, and 
 then broke several glasses and upset the wine upon a lady's dress in 
 scrambling upon the table striving to reach those things which were not 
 sent to them quickly enough to please them ; but they cared nothing for 
 furious and ominous looks, they knew that they could do just as they liked. 
 Their papa and mamma thought they were angels, and the ladies with the 
 damaged robes were constrained, with the usual hypocrisy of good society, 
 to say the same. 
 
 At a given signal from my sister, all the ladies rose. 
 
 " What, Emily," I said, " are we not to have any singing ? " 
 
 "No, my dear, you know it is not the fashion at any of the great 
 Parisian weddings." 
 
 " True, sister, but it is at those where people wish to be amused. And 
 the finding the bride's garter, is that out of fashion too ! " 
 
 " Oh, fie I it is quite indecent." 
 
 " Are there any other usages, Emily, to be suppressed ? " 
 
 " No, dear ; only I think that to-night you would not wish to — " 
 
 "To— finish, pray." 
 
 ' To — your wife — you know, dear, what I mean." 
 
 " Surely you're joking, sister. Is that forbidden too at Melun ? Why, 
 what on earth do you suppose a man marries for ? " 
 
 " No, not entirely forbidden, but it is customary with us for a husband 
 to leave his wife alone the first night. The poor thing has been so 
 agitated, she must have time to compose herself before—" 
 
 " Go along, Emily, do, with all your prudish nonsense. Must it not come 
 to that at last, and wherefore, then, not at once ? I know, by sad experi- 
 ence, that the simulated modesty of libertines and kept women is much 
 more easily offended than that of moral people, and those who protest the 
 loudest at the failings of others are not always the most virtuous them- 
 selves. Large fans hide more roguish, lascivious, than honest faces, and 
 evil* are employed more through coquetry than bashf ulness. " 
 
 " Well, well, brother, one thing is certain, you are now Pelagie's master, 
 and can do as you like." 
 
 How singularly Emily was changed since she had been doomed 
 to vegetate in a country town. There never could possibly have been 80 
 •tupid a wedding, and, for my own part, I could not help thinking thai 
 those marriages are always the most happy where the company are no* 
 
My Wedding. 147 
 
 restrained from enjoying themselves by what are termed, " the usages of 
 society." 
 
 The ladies stole away one after the other, my wife having been forcibly 
 carried off by Emily. What could it be for ? Ah ! to dress for the ball ; 
 three toilettes a day for a young girl, how exquisitely delightful 1 For the 
 third time that wearisome day, Deneterre, Emily, Pelagie, and myself took 
 our places in the glass-coach to proceed to Madame de Pontchartrain's for 
 the ball. This was the first time I had ever witnessed marriage festivities 
 divided in two, but such was the custom at Melun. When we arrived at 
 my grand-aunt's we were ushered into the best drawing-room — only used on 
 the most solemn occasions — lighted up with antique chandeliers which, no 
 doubt, illuminated the court of good King Pepin, and were received by 
 hosts of friends, invited from all the country round. Pelagie retired to put 
 -on her dancing dress, and on returning, entered the saloon with her eyes in 
 ■statu quo, which was clearly the order of the day from Generalissime de 
 Pontchartrain, because when I whispered gently to her to raise her eyes, 
 for their beauty could well afford to bear the light, she replied that the 
 action was forbidden by the aunt. Deneterre, who acted as Master of the 
 Ceremonies for the evening, clapped his hands ; the ladies and their 
 ■cavaliers took their places on the floor ; the strains of the orchestra were 
 heard, which consisted of two violins, a harp, a clarionet, and an octave fife 
 — to imitate Jullien — and the party danced decorously through several 
 quadrilles, which must have been invented by the leader of the band, be- 
 cause certainly they were not composed by Collinet, Tolbecque, or Musard. 
 The honour of dancing with the bride was a subject of hot contention 
 amongst the gentlemen ; she was engaged a dozen or fifteen times over, the 
 bridegroom's turn not being in the least considered, because it was well 
 known that he and she would dance to another tune by-and-by. I did 
 •dance, nevertheless, to occupy my attention, in spite of the constant 
 remonstrances of some grinning apes, who kept advising me to husband 
 my resources. 
 
 Towards the end of the evening, however, our aunt thought it the 
 correct thing that I should dance with my bride ; and so I led her out 
 amidst universal applause, and the hypocritical admiration of our friends. 
 "The previous exercise had warmed her blood and given an additional car- 
 nation to her cheek ; her rounded bosom fell and rose as she moved grace- 
 fully through all the mazes of the dance, my eyes were fastened on her 
 charms, I anticipated with delight the moment I should possess them, 
 and thought that the ball would never be at an end. Nevertheless the time 
 crept on ; several of the guests, who had some consideration for me, beat a 
 retreat, Madame de Pontchartrain made a Masonic sign to my sister, 
 the two led my bride away between them, the rest of the company 
 departed, with a few stale jokes, and I was left alone anxiously awaiting 
 the moment that should usher me to the enjoyment of my blooming wife. 
 After three-quarters of an hour — how tediously long they seemed I — Emily 
 returned, told me that Pelagie was in bed, and directed me to the suite of 
 rooms which, for the present, we were to occupy. 
 
 I took up a candle, kissed my sister affectionately on her gently request- 
 ing me not to be hard upon poor Pelagie and kill her with my love, and 
 after passing through a labyrinth of chambers entered an extensive one, 
 furnished in the handsome, heavy, antique style, but with every conveni- 
 ence, and two wax candles burning on the chimney-piece ; there I also 
 found my dressing-case, and several of my garments placed on chairs ; for 
 Emily had taken care to have my wardrobe carried there — which convinced 
 me that this apartment was intended for my reception. On looking round 
 
148 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 me, everything seemed in proper order for the night, so I bolted the door — 
 because no one likes to be disturbed on the first night of his marriage — 
 and stepped up to a massive bed with the curtains closely drawn around itt 
 That was from modesty, no doubt. 
 
 Not the slightest sound was heard : could Pelagie be asleep, or did she 
 only feign to be so ? Determined to ascertain the truth, and gratify myself 
 by gazing at her in her night-cap, I drew back the curtains, when, lo t 
 there was no one in the bed. 
 
 This was a disappointment, certainly, but the secret was out ; we were 
 to have separate rooms to enable me not to annoy my wife that night. To the 
 devil with their ridiculous custom ! But I was not to be put off in that way ; 
 Pelagie had pleased me wonderfully with her dancing ; I had not espoused 
 a pretty doll that held her tongue and kept her eyes shut all day by order, 
 to have beds apart at night ; I was determined to revenge myself on her 
 absurd restraint by revelling in her charms when there should be no- 
 abominable aunt at hand to check her passion and control the spontaneous 
 action of her love ; in a word, I made up my mind absolutely to sleep with 
 my wife, and have her I must and would, if I threw the whole house out of 
 windows, and my dear aunt too. A moment's reflection, however, convinced 
 me that Pelagie's own room could not be very far removed from mine, and 
 by seeking carefully without making any. noise, for fear of annoying that 
 Madame de Pontchartrain, who supposed I had wedded her niece merely to 
 to say pretty things to her as we played together at " Oats' Cradle " and 
 " Beggar-my- Neighbour," I should find whereabout my blushing belle lay 
 hid. On looking round I saw another door at the further end of the room, 
 which I had not perceived at first. I grasped the candlestick eagerly, 
 opened the door and found myself in a well-furnished drawing-room, with 
 another door immediately opposite. I opened it, traversed a dining-room, 
 entered a passage, and at the further end discovered a very convenient 
 little apartment, but not exactly what I looked for. I returned to the 
 dining-room and saw a second door, turned the handle, and found it was 
 locked. There could not be any doubt but that it was my wife's bedroom, 
 and that she had been advised to erect substantial barricades to withstand 
 my impetuous attacks upon her pure virginity. I knocked, no answer : I 
 knocked again more loudly, and heard the voice of Pelagie inquire,— 
 
 " Who's there ? " 
 
 " Tis I, my love." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Yes, dearest, your husband ; open the door, I beg." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Only open it, dear, and I will soon show you." 
 
 " I must not, dear." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " My aunt has forbidden me." 
 
 " Your aunt does not know what she is about ; it is thirty years since 
 she has tasted the sweets of marriage, and possibly she has forgotten that 
 it is customary for man and wife to sleep together." 
 
 " Oh, no 1 I know that you will come to bed to me at last, but they told 
 me that modesty compelled me to protract that moment as long as I 
 eould." 
 
 " And I tell you, P&agie, that I must come to you this minute : 
 modesty has nothing to do with our love now ; we have conformed to the 
 laws of religion and the state, and now the rights of marriage must and 
 will be asserted." 
 
 " I do not comprehend one word you say." 
 
The Return to Paris, 148* 
 
 " You will understand me well enough, Pelagie, when I strain you to 
 my heart ; open the door, do, there's a dear sweet girl, and let us conunenoo 
 your matrimonial education.' 
 
 " I would, dear, but I fear my aunt." 
 
 " To the devil with the old witch I I am your own husband, to whom 
 this morning you swore obedience and love ; will you forget your vows s© 
 soon ? Do not vex me, but open the door ; if do you not, by heaven, I wilS 
 set fire to the house — " 
 
 She waited to hear no more, left the bed, opened the door in her 
 chemise, and ran back, jumped in, and hid herself beneath the clothes. 
 These obstacles to the gratification of my burning passion were speedily re- 
 moved ; there were others still — of an agreeable nature — to be overcome. 
 They were met boldly, ardently assailed and vanquished, although this 
 time the rose was not without attendant thorns. But we will drop the veil 
 before the mysteries of Hymen : the secrets of the marriage-bed must be 
 respected. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 THB RETURN TO PARIS. 
 
 By common consent — whereof to the contrary no man knoweth — the first 
 four weeks after marriage have received the appellation of " The Honey- 
 moon," but the only honey I tasted on the day after my wedding was g> 
 furious altercation with my excellent aunt, Madame de Pontchartrain, who 
 saw from the bashful looks of my wife, her gait, and a hundred other indi- 
 cations well known to dowagers, that the Hose of Hymen had been plucked. 
 She exhausted herself in reproaches, accused me of want of modesty, 
 bruality, a desire for low animal gratification, and declared I wished to kill 
 her niece. The patience of Job himself could not have put up with this 
 absurd behaviour ; and as I never possessed any great portion of that de- 
 sirable attribute, I bade my aunt mind her own affairs, not to presume to 
 meddle with mine, and above all, to avoid giving any bad counsel to my 
 wife. Madame de Pontchartrain almost tore her hair with rage ; I turned 
 coolly from her, and walked back to my own apartment, and thus war was 
 declared between us. 
 
 Old women are generally indefatigable talkers ; our aunt was, and * 
 malignant, vindictive one besides. Instead of endeavouring to forget the 
 scene that had taken place, she only studied how she could best revenge 
 herself for what she called my infamous goings-on ; and within an hour 
 after we parted, all her intimate friends were acquainted with the astound- 
 ing fact that I was nothing better than a wretched libertine, and that her 
 poor niece was disgusted already with her miserable lot. On the other hand, 
 my kind sister busied herself continually in contradicting the evil reports 
 originated by Madame de Pontchartrain ; so that one half of the town be- 
 lieved what Emily said, the other half our aunt ; opinions were divided, 
 sarty ran high, and two important, almost internecine, factions sprang into 
 nght, agreeing only in one thing — the love of talking and of spreading 
 scandal. Pelagie was placed in a very embarrassing situation ; her aunt 
 forbade her to listen to anything I said, and I desired her not to pay the 
 slightest attention to her aunt ; the old lady did all in her power to draw 
 
150 My Neighbour Raymond* 
 
 my wife to her side of the house, and I tried to prevent her from going there 
 as much as possible. Madame de Fontchartrain told her niece that it waa 
 for her to make herself respected by me, to command ; in fact, to be the 
 absolute mistress ; whereas I endeavoured to make her comprehend that a 
 girl who as yet only knew how to play at " Hide-and-Seek," to embroider, 
 dance, read novels, and sing, ought to acquire the knowledge of more useful 
 things, and learn to assist her husband in the management of their domestic 
 affairs. Unfortunately Pelagie did not entertain precisely the same views 
 •with regard to an establishment. 
 
 These constant broils had a depreciating effect on my wife's behaviour 
 towards me. I had been her husband only a few days, but her aunt had 
 directed her conduct from her earliest infancy ; she feared her aunt, and 
 generally obeyed her wishes, which naturally led to some little discussions 
 which I would willingly have avoided. Had Pelagie possessed an average 
 amount of good-sense, she would have seen that her aunt was in the wrong ; 
 but, alas 1 she did not, and I found her very difficult indeed to guide. I 
 hoped, however, that when we should be removed from her aunt's pernicious 
 influence, that I should find her much more tractable and more easily led to 
 adopt my really affectionate ideas. Nevertheless there was one point upon 
 which not the least difference of opinion existed ; namely, our inalienable 
 -right to sleep together. Pelagie and I agreed entirely upon it ; she never 
 dreamed for one moment of having separate beds, and so far from shutting 
 the door against me, always ran to open it the instant she heard me coming 
 near the room. I might have guessed it. Oh, these little modest, dove-eyed 
 puritans, when once they get the reins in their own hands, they are sure 
 to drive to the very devil. 
 
 Melun had never pleased me, and now that my residence in it had been 
 made so uncomfortable, I determined to leave it at once ; but it was necessary, 
 hefore I could take my bride to Paris, that a suite of apartments should be 
 made ready for her, because I could not take her to the rooms I had oc- 
 cupied when a bachelor j and, moreover, from some inexplicable, intuitive 
 feeling, I did not like that she should know exactly where they were. It 
 would take me at least a week to find out suitable apartments in Paris, 
 furnish them, and hire servants, butif I should leave my wife under the dic- 
 tation and control of her aunt for that period, it was impossible to foresee 
 how she would be disposed towards me when I returned. An hour passed 
 by Pelagie in company with that infernal old woman always brought on a 
 quarrel between me and my wife ; whenever she left her aunt, who per- 
 suaded her to mind me no more than if I were a dog, she did all she could 
 to tease and thwart me, and I had the greatest difficulty in calming her 
 discontent and bringing her back to a right, state of mind. A week alone 
 -with her aunt ! Certes, we should never have lived together again. 
 
 My sister came to my assistance, notwithstanding her affectionate wish, 
 to detain us near her, and as she saw that her so much vaunted sweets of 
 Hymen were considerably acidulated by my residence in that accursed, 
 tattling, babbling Melun, she offered to send D^neterre to Paris to engage 
 a house and make every preparation for our immediate reception. He left 
 on the following day, furnished with full instructions, and I need hardly say 
 that I panted for his return. How terribly long his absence seemed ! My 
 situation was indeed becoming particularly unpleasant. I was obliged to 
 watch like a dragon over my wife, and to be always with her, whilst she 
 had not one sensible remark to make to me, and frequently did not compre- 
 hend the observations that I made to her. At first I indulged a hope for 
 better things, and certainly the ecstatic nights went a long way toward* 
 compensating me for her want of judgment and good sense ; but now all 
 
The Return to Paris. 151 
 
 hopes of increased mental development had fled ; even the nights had be- 
 come less deliciously attractive, and I began to feel that mere personal 
 beauty, however rare, soon palls upon the taste. 
 
 Man accustoms himself in time to a plain countenance as well as to a 
 handsome one. To be sure the latter is to be preferred, but when that 
 lovely face is devoid of soul and intellect, when ruby lips are mute as monu- 
 mental alabaster, and a delicate mouth only opens for the utterance of silly 
 trifles, when dreamy eyes lack all expression, and the vapid emile remains 
 for aye the same, then, alas 1 what can a man do but yawn and sleep beside 
 — physically speaking — a master-piece of Nature ? But when you listen to 
 an intellectual woman, who can depict the emotions of her heart and give 
 them form and fashion, whose eyes possess an eloquence, who charms us by 
 the majesty of her thoughts and the felicity of their expression, what be- 
 comes of her want of beauty then ? It flies before the magic of her con- 
 versation ; nay more, not only do you forget it, but you discover those 
 features to be agreeable which at first displeased you. So true it is that 
 " women of sound sense are never plain." Without doubt, mental attrac- 
 tions become still more powerful when aided by loveliness of person ; but, 
 when men marry, they ought not to look merely to a fair outside. A man 
 may have a mistress without giving a thought as to her style of conversation, 
 because he has taken her for the mere gratification of the carnal senses, and 
 can leave her when he likes ; but with a wife, the companion of all our 
 future life, there is an enormous, incalculable difference. I can assert, in 
 all truth, that when I married it was my firm intention faithfully to dis- 
 charge all the moral domestic duties of a husband, and never to injure 
 Pelagie in thought or deed ; and yet by-and-by, reader, you will learn all 
 that— miserable man — I was obliged to do. 
 
 My brother-in-law had now been twelve days in Paris, during which 
 Madame de Pontchartrain, who was aware of my intention to conduct my 
 wife to the capital, had become more furious than ever, and strove every 
 day to anr oy me as much as she could. She watched her niece as a cat 
 does a mouse, and whenever she saw her, tried to persuade her not to obejr 
 my wishes. My time, of course, was occupied in detecting and counteract- 
 ing her plots, so that we played the game of " open war," which served 
 rather to amuse me, until Deneterre's return. By constant repetition of 
 her calumnies with respect to myself, our old aunt had succeeded in causing 
 some of them to be believed, from which it occurred that when I went 
 occasionally to an evening party, whisperings and murmurings took place 
 the moment I entered the room. Some of the good folks looked at me 
 with horror painted in their eyes, as if I were a wild beast. The old 
 dowagers and the matrons — all staunch allies of Madame de Pontchartrain 
 — moved away from me ; nay, some shook their gowns with an affectation 
 of horror, as if I were afflicted with some contagious pestilence. This folly 
 only served for a moment's laughter with those inhabitants of the town who 
 were people of the world ; but they were not in the majority, because it is- 
 far more easy to speak evil than good. Defects stand out in bold and bright 
 relief, good, amiable qualities are cast into the deepest shade. 
 
 To ray great delight Deneterre came back at last ; he had taken apart- 
 ments for me on the Boulevard Montmartre. They were painted, decor- 
 ated, furnished, and ready for immediate occupation. I implored Pelagie 
 to hasten her preparations with her trunks, her bandboxes, and packets ; 
 she seconded me with right good-will, glad in her heart to escape from the 
 surveillance of her aunt, and to enjoy her abode in a new country ; and 
 what a country. Paris ! the heaven of women and the hell of husbands, 
 Halt 1 I had forgotten that I was one of them. All was arranged, and we- 
 
152 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 bade adieu to my sister, my brother-in-law, and their children. My wife 
 proceeded to her aunt for the same purpose, but the old woman would not 
 allow her to return, so that I was obliged to go and fetch her. She pre- 
 tended that I had no right to take Pelagie away, and wished to detain her 
 by force, but I soon put an end to that affair by leading my wife to the 
 house door, to which we were followed by our dear aunt, who threatened 
 me with the terrors of the law and her presence at Paris ; but I knew she 
 would not come, because it is not the fashion there to play whist and loo in 
 the morning. In the excess of my joy at leaving Melun, I could not help 
 taking my wife in my arms and kissing her. I had been away from Paris 
 iive months, and married just six weeks. We journeyed up without acci- 
 dent, and it is impossible to describe the joy with which I entered the walla 
 of the capital, and exclaimed, in the words of the metropolitan poet : — 
 
 " All hail ! thou sparkling, muddy, smoky city 1 " 
 
 Oh, how dearly do I prefer thy tumult to the tattle and absurdities of a 
 country town ; thy mud to the grass that germinates in solitary streets ; 
 4hy smoke to heavy soiries ; thy smart grisettes to loutish peasant-girls ; 
 thy pleasures to miscalled happiness, for real happiness is not to be found 
 elsewhere. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 
 REAPPEARANCE OP MT NEIGHBOUR RAYMOND. 
 
 Our apartments on the Boulevard were extensive, commodious, and well- 
 arranged, there being a small chamber next to my study in which a bed 
 could be placed in case my wife should feel herself unwell and prefer to 
 sleep alone. A careful man prepares for every contingency. We kept 
 only two female servants, a chambermaid and a cook ; for as I had neither 
 horses nor intrigues, I had no occasion for a set of men who would be 
 obliged to rob me through thick and thin, drink my wine, and get the 
 women with child, merely to pass away the time. 
 
 For the first fortnight after we came to Paris, my wife would not let me 
 rest for a single moment. I must take her to all the theatres of the higher 
 class, to balls and concerts, to see the monuments and public institutions 
 of the city, to picture galleries, and curiosities of every species. Every 
 morning she dragged me out to show her the whole town, and especially the 
 Palais Royal, of which she asserted she never could possibly be tired, and 
 she stood for whole hours before the shops where they sold jewellery, shawls, 
 millinery, and every article of feminine apparel. The people in the streets, 
 the noise of the various carriages and carts, the dresses of the gay young 
 women and the fine young men whom she saw at the theatres and on the 
 fashionable promenades, and who ogled her in a respectful manner so 
 peculiarly their own, all charmed Madame Dorsan, who began to find out 
 the use of her eyes and to give back little glances, although, as yet, quite 
 innocent of any harm. Free from Melun and her aunt, she was aware 
 those eyes were too pretty to be shut for ever. 
 
 As I knew every inch of Paris intimately, I soon became tired of running 
 over it from morning till night. Thanks to my wife's industry, we had 
 Speedily seen everything that was to be seen, and unless she should tax my 
 
Reappearance of My Neighbour Raymond. 15$ 
 
 complaisance to make the rounds over again, I must soon begin to enjoy 
 some little repose. Besides, by this time she knew the streets of our dis- 
 trict pretty well, and as she saw that a young married woman might go outs 
 in the morning alone without the risk of incurring any scandal, she said she 
 would avail herself of the liberty. I willingly yielded to her. Behold me, 
 then, at rest, and free again to go wheresoever it should please me. 
 
 As yet I had not been to my bachelor's rooms in the Rue St Florentine* 
 because, as my wife had been always with me, she would have thought I 
 was carrying on some intrigue by my keeping the apartments ; nor had I, 
 in any of our walks of discovery, approached one spot which I longed, yet 
 feared, to pass. Why I did not go to Nicette's shop — for that was it — 
 with her I cannot exactly tell, but it seemed to me that I should be more 
 at my ease if I were alone, that I might see the old errand-porter and 
 question him about the flower-girl, although now she could be nothing more 
 to me. 
 
 About eight o'clock one morning, whilst my wife was still asleep, I got 
 up quietly, and as we did not breakfast until ten, thought I would take a 
 stroll until that hour should arrive. It was my intention to go to my apart- 
 ments in the Rue St Florentine, but in passing alou^ the Rue St Honored an 
 irresistible impulse impelled me to the flower-shop, to ascertain whether 
 Nicette dwelt there* yet, but without the least intention of talking to her. 
 As I came nearer to the shop, I saw there were several shrubs and flowers 
 placed on tables on the pavement ; I crossed over to the other side that I 
 might not pass close to her, for if I did, perhaps she might speak, and I 
 knew my weakness so well, that I felt I could not avoid stopping with her 
 to talk ; and when opposite the house, I threw a hasty -glance into the shop 
 and saw a middle-aged woman of ordinary appearance, the very antipodes 
 of poor Nicette. Again I crossed over, advanced to the stall, looked 
 anxiously into the shop— -she was not there — and pretended to be engaged 
 examining the flowers. The woman inquired whether I would purchase 
 any of them ; I replied in the negative, and turned away to look for the 
 porter, but did not see him on his accustomed spot. After waiting for an 
 hour, he came to his stand, recognised me at once, and stated in answer to 
 my inquiries that the pretty flower-girl had sold her stock and goodwill to 
 the female now in possession of the house, and had left the neighbourhood 
 some time ago ; that it was understood Nicette had inherited a sum of 
 money which had placed her above want ; that he did not know where she 
 had gone to ; that the stout gentleman used to come to see her up to the 
 time she left, but he did not think she had gone away with him. I gave the 
 man a small silver coin and went my way, thinking it useless to put any 
 further questions to him. Nicette had left her shop, and most likely with 
 Raymond. Perhaps he had taken apartments for her, or conducted her to 
 his own ; at least it was easy enough to ascertain that, so I walked off 
 swiftly to the Rue St Florentine. 
 
 My old portress cried out with surprise when she saw me, and said, — 
 " Dear me, Monsieur Dorsan, we all thought you were dead ; I declare 
 it's nearly six months since you left. Here are your keys, sir, all right ; I 
 Save taken great care of your apartments, looked into them every week, and 
 dusted all the furniture myself." 
 
 " Thank you, Madame Dupont, I am much obliged ; but tell me, does 
 Monsieur Raymond live here still ? " 
 
 " No, sir, he has left some time, and lives now in the Rue Pinon, close 
 to the Opera, but I forget the number." 
 " Can you not recollect it at all ? " 
 " Bless me, my memory is so bad, but anyone will direct you. La ! I 
 
154 My Neighbour Raymond, 
 
 had nearly forgot, there is a letter for you ; it has been waiting here almost 
 -aix weeks." 
 
 "A letter?" 
 
 " Yes, a young woman left it." 
 
 " Give it me, quick." 
 
 The old woman brought the letter, and my heart told me it was from 
 Tficette. I snatched it from her hand before she had time to present it to 
 me, ran upstairs like lightning, opened the door, broke off the seal of the 
 letter, and devoured the contents. They were : — 
 
 " Monsieur, — You have not been to see me for many months, and I am 
 -quite ignorant of any reason you may have for leaving me ; you seemed to 
 be angry the last time you spoke to me, and to be vexed with me, but I can- 
 not guess the cause. To-day I have learned that you are married, and I 
 feel that you will not think any more of me, nor trouble yourself with a 
 humble flower-girl. I am going to sell my business, and seek some spot 
 where I can weep without being seen, for I have many sorrows and cannot 
 overcome them ; perhaps it is all my own fault, but I cannot help it. The 
 deaths of my mother and an aunt have placed me in comfort, because I 
 have now enough to live upon ; but I shall never forget that I owe my first 
 success entirely to you ; that you took compassion on me when all the world 
 forsook me, and that you saved me from misery and -despair. Oh, I shall 
 never forget it ! Adieu, monsieur ; I wish you every species of happinesi 
 with your wife, and I pray to God that she may make you happy. How 
 she must adore you ! Adieu, my ever dear benefactor. 
 
 " Nioettb." 
 
 I read this letter over and over again, and could not forbear imprinting 
 a kiss on the characters she had traced. Could the language she had used 
 be that of a faithless woman ? I thought not ; and yet I had seen, with my 
 own eyes, Raymond seated by her side, holding her hands in his. and I had 
 oeen told by the old porter that he visited her every day. But why, I 
 thought, should I torment myself about her ; was I not married ? True ; 
 but without wishing to be faithless to my wife, I was burning to know what 
 liad become of poor Nicette. I resolved to find out Raymond, to make him 
 speak of the grateful flower-girl — that would be easy enough ; but to make 
 him tell the truth — that would be difficult indeed. 
 
 It was now past our breakfast-time, and Pelagie would surely become 
 uneasy at my prolonged absence ; accordingly I folded up Nicette's letter 
 carefully, locked it up in my writing-desk, for fear of its being seen by my 
 wife, and as I walked home, ruminated as to who could have informed the 
 fiower-girl that I was married. The portress could not have done so, 
 because she was still unacquainted with the fact, for if she had known it, 
 certainly she would have spoken to me of it ; it must have been Raymond ; 
 but then how did he know it ? I was plunging into a labyrinth of ideas 
 on the subject, when I was touched gently on the shoulder, and on turning 
 round, saw it was my neighbour himself. The sight of him had never 
 before given me so much pleasure. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he exclaimed, " how glad I am to see you." 
 
 " Good morning, Monsieur Raymond." 
 
 u It seems an age, Dorsan, since we met ; apropos, accept my congratula 
 tions on your marriage. You have made an excellent match, I hear, ani 
 wedded a delightful woman." 
 
 " Ah 1 you know that, do you ; and pray who was your informant ? " 
 
 " One of my friends at Melun ; Monsieur Regnier, you may have 
 met him." 
 
Reappearance of My Neighbour Raymond, 155 
 
 "I think I have had the pleasure," 
 
 " Well, my dear Dorsan, it was he who told me all about it. But, my 
 good friend, how unkind of you to get married without acquainting me, 
 when you know I take such a deep interest in your welfare. It was very- 
 wrong of you indeed 1 " 
 
 " In truth, I did not give it a moment's thought ; but my wife is wait- 
 ing for me, and I must go to her. By-the-bye, I want to have a few 
 moments' conversation with you ; will you do me the favour of taking a- 
 family breakfast with us % " 
 
 "Will I not!" 
 
 " I will present my wife to you." 
 
 " And I shall be delighted to form her acquaintance ! " 
 
 Raymond appeared rather surprised at the flattering reception I gave^ 
 him, to which he had not been accustomed, and laughed and talked in a 
 loud key all the way to my residence ; but I forbore for the present to 
 speak to him of Nicette, for fear of awakening his suspicions. 
 
 When we arrived at the Boulevard Montmartre, it appeared my wife- 
 was not at all alarmed at my absence, as she was taking breakfast by her- 
 self ; and on my introducing Raymond to her, that worthy individual 
 poured out hundreds of nonsensical compliments with a volubility that 
 ought to have annoyed P&agie ; but women of weak minds invariably 
 attach the most importance to the eulogiums of the other sex, and worn-out 
 common-place remarks, provided there is a good dose of flattery in them r 
 always make their way. Raymond was a great proficient in that descrip- 
 tion of compliments. 
 
 The conversation turned upon the thousand amusements of the capital,, 
 and the sensation such a beautiful and accomplished woman as my wife 
 ought to cause in society ; Raymond said he could not conceive the existence 
 of a more lovely creature, he could not have believed that so aristocratic 
 and fashionable an air could have been found in the country, it was indeed' 
 quite Parisian. I ate my breakfast in silence, without paying any attention 
 to what he said, but Pelagie smiled at every compliment he paid her, and 
 the more so because it gave her an opportunity of showing her white and 
 even teeth. Seeing that I should not have an opportunity of speaking to- 
 him of Nicette that morning, I broke in short with, — 
 
 " Where do you live now, Raymond ? " 
 
 •'Rue Pinon, No. 2. I have quitted my old apartments ; when you left 
 Paris they possessed no farther charms for me." 
 
 " I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on you." 
 
 "Do not take that trouble, I beg, a bachelor is so seldom at home ; but I 
 will come frequently, if you will permit me, and pay my respects to Madame 
 Dorsan." 
 
 '•'We shall be happy to see you." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, but I must be off. I have three assignations — ap- 
 pointments, I should say —this morning ; really, so many friends and acquaint- 
 ances are very troublesome. Good-bye, Dorsan ; madame, I lay at your feet 
 that profound homage which your beauty and your graces merit." 
 
 Raymond departed, chuckling at his last stock compliment, which I had 
 heard him pay a hundred women before, and when he was gone, my wife 
 ©bserved that he was a very agreeable, polite gentleman. I thought it would 
 be so ; Raymond was just the man to suit the calibre of her very limited 
 understanding. 
 
 I did not dare to go to Raymond's lodgings the same day, but on the? 
 following one I could not contain myself any longer, and went to see him. 
 He was out ; but I learned from the porter that he lived alone — that 
 
156 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 was some satisfaction, amounting to a certainty that Nioette was not with 
 him. The nest day he did not fail to return my visit, expressing himself 
 extremely grateful for the attention 1 paid to him ; of course I was equally 
 delighted to see him, and so was my wife ; but as she did not leave the 
 room, there was no opportunity of speaking to him of Nicette. It struck 
 me, however, that the best thing I could do in order to procure a tete-a-Ute 
 would be to ask him to dinner, afterwards to propose going to the theatre, 
 and thus, whilst my wife was making her toilet — which always occupied an 
 bour — the opportunity I wished for would arise. Full of this idea I asked 
 Raymond to take his chance of dinner with us that afternoon ; be accepted 
 the invitation at once, went away delighted, and at five o'clock we assem- 
 bled again. Our dinner-party was very gay ; Raymond talked enough for 
 all three of us, for which, in my heart, I thanked him, as I had began almost 
 to dread a t&te-d-t&te with Pelagie. 
 
 All took place as I had foreseen ; the theatre was proposed and ac- 
 cepted, my wife retired to arrange her dress, and Raymond and myself 
 were left alone. After a few casual observations, I led the conversation to 
 my neighbour's fabulous successes with the women, and said, — 
 
 " By-the-bye, Raymond, what have you done with that little flower-girl?" 
 
 " Oh, Nicette ? " 
 
 " She whom you used to court every evening in her own shop." 
 
 " Ah I it's a long time, Dorsan, since I have had anything to do with 
 ier, poor thing ; I have had fifty intrigues since then." 
 
 " You triumphed then, and she became your mistress ! " 
 
 " Ye-e-es : for a few days I had her, but I soon broke it off." 
 
 " Do you ever see her now ? " 
 
 " No ; she has left her shop." 
 
 " In keeping somewhere I daresay ? " 
 
 " Likely enough ; she wanted to play the fine lady with me, but it would 
 not do. No, no ; if I am to be fixed in that way it must be with some- 
 thing superior, you know — rather above a flower-girl, I think ; a man must 
 keep up his station in society, even in his intrigues. But enough of those 
 wort of creatures ; let us change the subject and talk of your wife : what 
 exquisite beauty ! what wit ' Oh, I discovered that the first words she 
 ■poke ; ah, Dorsan, you're a lucky man." 
 
 The moment he began to talk of Pelagie I took no further interest in 
 Ms conversation, and thought about Nicette. The fellow asserted she had 
 been his mistress : he was a liar, I knew, and but for having seen her in 
 tears beside him I would not have believed one word he said. There could 
 be no doubt, however, that she was gone. This thought gave me inex- 
 pressible pain ; but my wife's toilet being finished, she came into the room, 
 Accepted Raymond's proffered arm, and we adjourned to the theatre. My 
 neighbour was in ecstasy at being seen arm-in-arm with such a lovely 
 woman, and, as usual, had the lion's share of the talking ; fortunately my 
 wife thought the play delightfully interesting, and thus I was quite at 
 liberty to indulge my grief. When we returned home, Pelagie and I 
 scarcely exchanged two words ; but it was easy enough to see from her 
 manner that she was piqued at my continued silence during the evening, 
 and considered Raymond infinitely more agreeable than myself. Can there 
 5e any action in a man's life more fatal than allying himself for ever to a 
 woman who has no tastes or feelings in common with himself 1 
 
 Such was the thought that rose involuntarily in my breast day after day, 
 sad day after day I left my young wife more and more in company with 
 Raymond, I repaired to my old apartments, read there, worked there, and 
 played on the piano. I dreamed of the happy days that had flown away. 
 
Recounting a Circumstance T ought to have foreseen. J 57 
 
 never, never to return, and of those hours when I used to find the orange- 
 flower bouquets in my lock. Then, had not my foolish pride stood in my 
 way, I might have been blessed indeed. Such and so melancholy were rny 
 thoughts — and that melancholy always increased v. bea I left my old apart- 
 merits for my new ones. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 RECOUNTING A CIRCUMSTANCE I OUGHT TO HAVE FORESEEN. 
 
 WHETHER we are miserable or gay, joyous or complaining, rich or poor, 
 the Fates never cease to weave the destiny of all below. 
 
 My days were not of the most silken tissue ; they seemed to me much 
 longer than they used to be, but still, heavy as they were, they passed away. 
 Married only a twelvemonth, I had acquired the habits of a husband of 
 twenty years' standing. My wife was acquainted with all the fashionable 
 parts of Paris as well as myself, so there was no occasion for my accompany- 
 ing her when she took a promenade, paid visits, or made her purchases. 
 Raymond, who had become " the friend of the family," dined with us al- 
 most every day ; he went with my wife to every place of amusement ; was 
 always ready to execute any commission, or run any errand. But what 
 induced me to bear with him was that he had known Nicette, and when 
 we were alone I could talk to him of her, hoping without end that some day 
 or other he would deny. what he had said respecting her connection with 
 himself. As for my wife, she could not do without him, and received him 
 every evening, whilst I slipped out and regained my dear old rooms. They 
 enjoyed what both termed " music " together ; Raymond tortured the flute 
 a little, and Pelagie thumped the piano. They also sang together, but 
 as he was an execrable performer in that line, and my wife had no idea of 
 time, they got on capitally together, and were persuaded in their own minds 
 that they were both accomplished artists. In addition to his other attrac- 
 tions, Raymond possessed a large fund of common -place compliments, 
 which he never ceased pouring into my wife's ears, and which, being a vain, 
 coquettish woman, delighted to think she was winning the hearts of all man 
 kind, she greedily drank in. 
 
 For a long time it had become painfully clear to me that Pelagie did not 
 possess even the small amount of common-sense for which I had given her 
 credit, and our interviews became less interesting every day. I could not 
 be always complimenting her on her beauty, which, nevertheless, she seemed 
 constantly to expect, and when I talked rationally to her she yawned, and 
 said I was a bore ; and thus it was that I was glad to escape from her 
 presence, and leave Raymond in my place. Perhaps I was wrong in 
 permitting my wife to have her own way so completely ; but then why 
 should I have sought to counteract her tastes ? We had married, unfortun- 
 ately, with liking, not loving, each other ; we had discovered when the first 
 bursts of sensual passion were gratified that we were not born to live together 
 in true conjugal felicity. My wife was wearied to death in my company, 
 and I was never happy and satisfied in hers. Whenever I entreated her to 
 stay more at home, to pay greater attention to her domestic duties, and not 
 to think so much of pleasure and her dress, she always cried ; said I wished 
 to seclude her from society like a nan, and that her aunt was quite right in 
 
158 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 stating I was a perfect tyrant. What could I do ? I never could bear to see 
 any woman weep, neither — although I did not love her — did I wish that any 
 one should be able to complain of any harsh behaviour on my part to her ; 
 so I let her go to all the concerts, balls, and theatres she liked, and purchased 
 anything she wished, so what with shawls, bonnets, ribbons, laces, and a 
 hundred other trifles, Pelagie soon spent a much larger income than she had 
 brought me, and her extravagance, notwithstanding my aversion to domestic- 
 broils, caused repeated uncomfortable discussions between us. 
 
 It may be urged that I acted thoughtlessly in giving her so many oppor- 
 tunities of listening to the flatteries and seductive remarks of the flatterers- 
 who abound in society ; but, in fact, I was not at all jealous of her. It 
 appeared impossible that Pe"lagie, educated in the strictest principles of 
 religion and virtue, should commit an infidelity to her husband, although 
 her dark blue eyes no longer sought the ground, but looked gaily round on 
 those captives whom she flattered herself she had bound by her beauty to 
 her chariot wheels. If Providence had blessed me with children, I know I 
 should have loved them dearly, and have occupied myself carefully with 
 their education ; but as I had not that source of unfailing domestic enjoy- 
 ment, I shut myself up more and more in my apartments in the Rue St. 
 Florentine. There I was quite another man, and fancied myself a bachelor 
 again. There no one was acquainted with my being married, although the 
 portress was astonished at my always sleeping out, but as I paid her liberally, 
 she always very wisely held her tongue. Besides, no one in the house could 
 complain of me ; I made no noise, did not bring any women there, and since 
 Raymond had left, did not know who was my next-door neighbour. 
 
 At this time my wife began to be particularly fond of going to balls and 
 parties which lasted far into the morning, and, although I did not wish to 
 deny her any gratification, I really feared that she would injure her health 
 by keeping such late hours, but on my speaking to her calmly on the 
 Bubject, she loaded me with reproaches, took a tone of audacity of which I 
 could not have supposed her capable, and announced her intention of hav- 
 ing a separate set of rooms, in order to be perfect mistress of her actions. 
 
 Nothing could suit me better than the proposition. I acceded to it at 
 once, caused a bed to be placed in a small room next to my library, separated 
 from my wife's bedroom by the drawing-room, the music-room, &nd an 
 ante-chamber, and took possession of it that evening. Raymond, on being 
 shown the new arrangement, thought we had adopted the only thing that 
 had been wanting to make our domestic establishment complete. My wife 
 now launched out into every species of fashionable expense, and in order to 
 check her innumerable follies as much as I could, I went with her into 
 society, but as I frequently tired of the late hours to which the route and 
 balls were protracted, neighbour JRaymond had the complaisance to wait 
 and escort my wife home, and as she had the keys of her own apartments, 
 my rest was not disturbed. In these fashionable reunions it would have 
 been very easy for me, had I felt so disposed, to enter upon new intrigues 
 and make new conquests, because in Paris a young husband is as well 
 received as a bachelor in the provinces, but I had no inclination for any of 
 those amours which do not interest the heart, and, without loving my wife, 
 I remained faithful to her. One circumstance caused me considerable 
 uneasiness, and that was that the continual round of dissipation which 
 occupied Pelagie's attention had a visible effect upon her health ; she suffered 
 greatly from oppression of the chest, coughed much at intervals, and began 
 to show unmistakable symptoms of pulmonary disease. 
 
 One evening Raymond accompanied us to a very brilliant party, where 
 we enjoyed ourselves delightfully until midnight. When tired of icartf, and 
 
Recounting a Circttmstance I ought to have foreseen. 159 
 
 covered with dust from the dancers, I begged my wife to retire, but she 
 declared that the ball was then at its climax of delight, and she should do 
 no such thing ; I might go as soon as I liked, for Raymond would be kind 
 enough to escort her home. There was no alternative but to leave the 
 obstinate woman, and my neighbour having promised to act as Pelagie's 
 cavalier, I withdrew and went to bed. About three o'clock I woke — why, 
 I cannot tell, but most likely it was written in the Book of Fate that I 
 should — and felt anxious to know whether my wife had returned, because 
 her cough had very much increased of late, and threatened to settle upon 
 her lungs, and although I had no real attachment for her, I was her husband, 
 and bound to watch over her safety, even if she did not render me as com- 
 fortable as she might. 
 
 I found it impossible to go to sleep again ; I felt that I must know 
 whether Pelagie had returned from the ball, and I determined to go to he* 
 room and ascertain. I had never done so since we had had different 
 apartments, but as I had a key which opened the doors of all her rooms, I 
 could enter them without awakening her — if she should be asleep — and even 
 without her knowing I had been there. I rose, crossed the apartment 
 gently, took out the key from my secretaire, and left the room on tiptoe. 
 When I reached my wife's door I perceived the light of a candle through the 
 keyhole, which assured me she had come in, and immediately after I heard 
 a low sound of voices. With whom could she be talking ? The servants 
 could not be up at that late hour. I put my ear down to the lock and 
 listened ; I heard a voice which appeared to me to be that of — Dam- 
 nation 1 A thousand horrible ideas coursed through my brain ; I placed 
 the key gently in the lock without making any noise, turned it round 
 swiftly, burst open the door, rushed to the bed, and beheld Pe"lagie hiding 
 her face on Raymond's breast 1 
 
 For a moment I stood motionless, whilst Raymond jumped from the bed 
 and ran about the room in a transport of fear, which prevented him from 
 seeing that the door was open : in an instant I came to myself, called on 
 him to stop — which order he obeyed mechanically — walked coolly up to him, 
 and felled him to the earth. The very next moment I repented of my im- 
 prudence ; I reflected how unwise it would be to make a disturbance that 
 would 1 awake the other families in the house, and proclaim my dishonour to 
 all the world ; I stooped down, assisted Raymond from the floor, led him 
 to the door by the ear, gave him a kick that sent him spinning on to the 
 landing, threw his clothes after him, and even handed him a candle that he 
 might not alarm the neighbours by breaking his neck down the stairs in the 
 dark, and then returned into the chamber to my wife. 
 
 She spoke not, she stirred not, but rocked herself to and fro in the bed, 
 covering her eye3 with both hands. Gazing at her, more in sorrow than in 
 anger, I said, — 
 
 " Madame, your misconduct and shame shall never be disclosed by me, 
 6ut after what has just taken place, you must be aware that it is impossible 
 we can live together even in the way we have of late, for, unhappily, the law 
 no longer allows of a divorce. The world, no doubt, will lay all the blame 
 upon me, and say that I made your life unhappy, but for that I care 
 nothing. From this moment you are mistress of all in these apartments ; 
 you have your own fortune, I have mine ; and henceforward there is 
 nothing in common between us." 
 
 Pelagie made no reply ; so I seized a candlestick and left my wife — for 
 ever 1 
 
 Philosophically as I flattered myself I had behaved, I shuddered when I 
 hough t, 98 I walked back to my own rooms, that I now had acquired the 
 
160 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 name which a man detests to hear applied to himself, and loves to confer 
 upon others. 
 
 I did not return to bed again, but occupied myself in packing up my 
 clothes until daylight, and reflecting upon my unhappy marriage. Why, I 
 thought, had I been rash enough to give way to my sister's wishes, and 
 marry a women whom I did not love, who did not love me, and who did not 
 suit me in the least ? If she had possessed common-sense, and endeavoured 
 to make me as happy as she could, I should have responded to her kind 
 attentions. But for this meek, innocent puritan to be false to me in 
 eighteen months — oh I she might have been a hundred times before, for 
 what I knew — and with Raymond, too ! Ah, ha ! Master Raymond, 
 assuredly this will be the last of your intrigues, for to-morrow I will seek 
 you with pistols, well loaded by myself. 
 
 When day broke I descended into the street, called in a porter, and 
 desired him to carry my things to the apartments in the Rue St Florentine, 
 where I had determined to set up my tent and live again as a bachelor. 
 
 How fortunate it was that I had kept them on I 
 
 As soon as my few packets were placed upstairs — to Madame Dupont'g 
 great delight — I charged my pistols, saw to the caps, and went to seek 
 Raymond at his lodgings ; but as I was about to ascend the staircase, the 
 portress inquired whither I was going ; and on my replying, told me that 
 he had come home about four o'clock, packed up a few necessaries in the 
 greatest haste, paid his rent, and desired his furniture to be sold, saying 
 that he would send for the amount it would produce, and that he left 
 immediately in a hired cabriolet. 
 
 Just like him ; the dastardly villain had fled from Paris to escape the 
 consequences of my revenge ! 
 
 I returned to the Rue St Florentine, and prepared my breakfast in my 
 old bachelor fashion, as if my marriage had never taken place. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 MY FEMALE NEIGHBOTJB. 
 
 At the end of a few days I completely regained my tranquillity ; even all 
 my gaiety seemed to return, and I almost persuaded myself that I was a 
 bachelor again, for certainly, as I was now virtually without a wife, there 
 could be no harm in my acting as if I were not married at all. Things 
 turned out just as I thought they would, and the popular indignation of all 
 Melun was directed against me ; Emily wrote that I had acted very indis- 
 creetly in quitting my wife so hastily ; that it would be better to make up 
 matters and live together again ; that Madame de Pontchartrain was furious 
 against me ; and that Pelagie never ceased worrying her aunt for money. 
 In my answer to my dear sister, I gave her a detailed account of what had 
 occurred, and begged her to keep it secret,, although I did not care one 
 p'.nch of snuff whether the good folks of Melun knew my forehead had been 
 ornamented by my wife or not, as I had not the slightest intention of ever 
 returning to that stupid town. 
 
 I speedily resumed my old mode of living in my ancient apartments, 
 with the exception of the follies I used to commit, not only out of choice,-bui 
 because it was necessary that I should economise, for my dear, amiable wife 
 
My Female Neighbour. 161 
 
 was making away with her fortune so rapidly, that I foresaw she would 
 soon have recourse to me, and I should be compelled to allow her an 
 annuity. The quiet of my rooms was never disturbed, for Raymond never 
 returned to his old apartments, and although I tried to find him, I did not 
 succeed, and it became evident that the dastard had quitted the metropolis 
 for fear of my revenge. But nevertheless Raymond's rooms were occupied, 
 and by some one of very domestic sedentary habits, for I never could see 
 any one go out or come in, and although not of a curious disposition, I felt 
 a wish to ascertain who my new neighbour was, and determined to inquire 
 of the portress the next time she should come in to arrange my rooms. 
 
 On the following morning, when she made her appearance after breakfast, 
 I said to her — 
 
 M Madame Dupont, did I not hear you say that the apartments wnicn 
 Monsieur Raymond used to occupy are let to anotherperson ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, they have been re-let for above a week." 
 
 " It is odd ; I have never heard any one open or shut the door, and there 
 never is the slightest noise of any kind." 
 
 " "Very likely, sir ; the lady is very quiet, does not go out at all, or receive 
 any visitors." 
 
 " Oh, it's a lady 1 An elderly one ? " 
 
 " Not at all, sir ; very young and very pretty, as well as I can see for 
 the large bonnet she always wears." 
 
 " Bless me, Madame Dupont, young and pretty, you say, and neither a> 
 husband nor lover 1 " . _ lJr 
 
 " None, if there were they could not come in without my seeing them. 
 
 " But she must go out sometimes \ " 
 
 " When she does, it is extremely early in the morning, sir, just to buy 
 what she wants, always while you are fast asleep, so that's the reason you 
 never see or hear her. When she returns from marketing, she does not 
 leave again the whole of the day." 
 
 " How very singular 1 " 
 
 " Occasionally I have made a few remarks to engage her in conversation, 
 bull she replies as briefly as possible without being rude ; I can scarcely 
 get two words out of her. It is not quite right, I think ; there ought to be 
 a law to compel people to disclose who and what they are and all about, 
 them." ' t 
 
 I could not help smiling at the portress's last remark, and wondering 
 who my recluse of a neighbour could be ; so young, so pretty, so sedate so 
 retried, without a wish for the world and its delights 1 That was enough 
 to stimulate a young man's curiosity, I think. However, I reflected that 
 whoever she might be, she had a right to pass her time away in the manner 
 that pleased her best without my interference, so I abstained from en- 
 deavouring to gain even a glance at her as she went in and out ; in fact, I 
 had almost become a hermit myself, and stayed much within doors to avoid 
 being asked a thousand impertinent questions by friends with respect ta 
 my wife, and the causes of our separation. Sometimes I went to the theatre, 
 and occasionally I saw P&agie in the boxes with some men, who appeared 
 to console her for Raymond's loss, which did not surprise me, for I knew 
 she was altogether incapable of forming a strong attachment to anything 
 more substantial than jewellery and dress. Whenever we met by chance 
 we went our own ways, the only subject upon which we had ever agreed. 
 
 One disagreeable thought would come across my mind, notwithstanding 
 all my efforts to keep it out, and that was, what should I do if unfortunately 
 my wife should have any children, because, although undoubtedly I did no* 
 beget them, I must adopt them, and would be compelled to provide for 
 
162 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 their maintenance as their reputed father. Very pleasant to be forced to 
 maintain a family of other people's making, and to hear your wife's friends 
 say — " Return to your afflicted spouse, and try to make yourself believe you 
 are positively the father of your children." Thank you, I had rather stay 
 where I am, and take the chance of the little presents my dear wife may 
 make me. 
 
 The three months that I had been a bachelor passed swiftly by, for I 
 did not know what it was to be dull alone ; my books and my music were 
 my grand resources. Every evening I whiled away many hours at the 
 piano, thinking that Nicette was listening to my strains ; I dreamed con- 
 stantly of her, solaced myself with the idea that, although she had left me 
 for another out of pure despair, she had never truly loved any one but me, 
 and I amused myself like a child by building castles in the air. " Men are 
 but children of a larger growth. " 
 
 No one in the house ever complained of my playing the piano until the 
 night was far advanced into the morning ; below me there were none but 
 old servants who would have slept in spite of thunder, and above me an old 
 lady so deaf that she would not have heard a pistol-shot fired close to her ear ; 
 there was therefore only my female neighbour on the same landing, and, 
 from the questions I asked of the portress, I ascertained that she had never 
 mentioned it at all. This lady was absolutely invisible ; several times when 
 I thought I heard her door open I ran out quickly hoping to see her, but 
 she was within in a moment, and my time and trouble were in vain. If 
 this lady had passed before me occasionally, most likely I should not have 
 made any remarks upon her, but nothing excites curiosity so much as 
 mystery ; I had determined that I would find out what she was like, and 
 who she was, and get up at three o'clock to watch her go out, but every 
 night that I went to bed with that determination, I was sure to oversleep 
 myself and lose my opportunity, for I could not, like Raymond, play the 
 sentinel for an hour on the landing, nor squint for half a one through the 
 keyhole of a door. 
 
 For some time past I heard nothing from Melun, nor had I met with 
 my unfortunate wife. Some kind friends, such as we meet every day, 
 informed me that Madame Dorsan had not become more steady ; that she 
 i&dulged the same passion for balls, concerts, and every species of pleasure \ 
 that her desire of making conquests increased every day, and a thousand 
 other equally agreeable things ; they even advised me to take a decided 
 part and obtain a divorce. I always thanked them coldly, and turned my 
 back, feeling convinced that these same friends would tell Pelagie that I 
 was a monster, a perfect tyrant, a wild beast, unworthy of having the 
 felicity of being the husband of so interesting and charming a woman as 
 herself. 
 
 In order not to meet my wife as much as possible when I went for a 
 walk outside the town, I avoided the fashionable resorts, and sought the 
 spots frequented by the middle class, shopkeepers, and grisettes. G-risettes i 
 reader, you will say ; grisettes, Dorsan, whom you used to run after so 
 perse veringly ! Yes, they were safe from my pursuit now, for marriage 
 had cooled, as well as ornamented, my head. One evening when I had been 
 to Vincennes on horseback, and felt tired from having galloped back to 
 Paris to avoid getting wet by an approaching storm — which reminded me of 
 the affair in the vineyards at Montmorency some months before — I felt so 
 fatigued that I could scarcely ascend the staircase to my rooms ; when, as I 
 was about to open the door, I was surprised to find something in the lock 
 which felt like a bouquet. I raised it to my nose and smelt it ; yes, it 
 was a sweet bouquet, and placed in precisely the same spot where I 
 
My Female Neighbour. 163 
 
 used to find them from Nicette : could it be her who had heard of my 
 misfortunes with my wife ; of my having returned to my bachelor mode of 
 living, and who had resumed her accustomed presents in order to show me 
 her unabated love % 
 
 I opened the door in an agony of impatience and suspense ; struck a 
 light, gazed on the bouquet, and found, with exquisite delight, they were 
 the same orange-flowers that Nicette used to bring me. The thought was 
 heaven ; she must have brought them ; she was in Paris ; she thought of 
 me ; she loved me still ; we should meet again ; and then — aye, there was 
 the rub, indeed. I pulled the nosegay into pieces, and sought for a note in 
 every leaf, but could not find one ; my weariness was quite forgotten ; I ran 
 downstairs like a madman, flew across the yard to the portress's lodge, 
 and asked Madame Dupont whether anybody had inquired for me. 
 
 u No one," she replied. 
 
 " No one, not a young lady 1 " 
 
 "No one, I am quite sure, for I have not left the gate one moment." 
 
 " Ah, you never see anybody ; you did not see her when she used to come 
 -before." 
 
 "Who, sir?" 
 
 " The person who used to place bunches of flowers in my lock. Some 
 one has been here to-day and supplied me with another." 
 
 " It is very odd ; someone must have made a mistake in the door." 
 
 " There is no mistake at all ; it must be she." 
 
 " She ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but open the gate at once, madame." 
 
 " Bless me, sir, it pours torrents ; you'll Burely not go out in this dread- 
 ful storm 1 " 
 
 "But I will, and that directly." 
 
 " Do pray, sir, stay." 
 
 " Open, woman, I say." 
 
 This was enough ; the portress dared not utter another word ; she pulled 
 the cord that lifted the latch, and I rushed into the street. I felt quite 
 undecided what to do ; all that I wanted was to find out Nicette, without 
 my having the least idea where to seek her. I made my way as fast as I 
 could through the pitiless pelting of the storm to her old shop in the Rue 
 St Honore, and found it closed. I knocked, but no one came to the door ; 
 I knocked again with the same effect, and then crossed over to the tavern 
 Immediately opposite, from which I saw Raymond enter the house on that 
 night which had proved so fatal to me, and astonished the waiters by my 
 clothes saturated with rain, my boots and trousers covered with mud, the 
 disorder of my whole dress, and the agitation with which I spoke. They 
 took me for a madman, answered me shortly that they knew nothing about 
 fhe shop, and were glad enough to see me leave the house. Where then 
 should I go next ? I ruminated, for my desires were so ardent that I 
 would leave no stone unturned to see her : could she live now where her 
 another died ! It was a terribly long way off, but thither I went, and on 
 my arriving there asked at a little grocer's shop opposite whether any one 
 inhabited the house formerly occupied by old Madame Jerome. There I 
 obtained a civil answer, because in this locality small shopkeepers were 
 accustomed to see wet, muddy people ; but the information I received was 
 unsatisfactory, as I was told that since the old woman's death neither of 
 her daughters had ever been seen in that quarter. 
 
 I returned home at a slow pace, being quite worn out, indulging the 
 sole hope that she would come again with another bouquet, and that then, 
 possibly, I might see her. My clothes absolutely stuck to my body and 
 
164 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 limbs, ana it was with the greatest difficulty that I could walk. When 1 
 reached my apartments the wet dripped from every one of my garments. 
 Madame Dupont was terrified at the state I was in ; the good old soul 
 offered to warm my bed and bring all sorts of hot drinks to me to promote 
 perspiration ; but I refused all her kindness, and threw myself disconsol- 
 ately upon the bed, with the bouquet beneath my pillow. I had no need 
 of physic or other adventitious aid ; if the bouquet would not prevent my 
 catching cold, nothing earthly could. On the following morning, when the 
 portress came, as usual, to make my bed and arrange the rooms, she found 
 me delirious and in a high fever ; I did not recognise her, my brain burned, 
 my mouth was parched up, and an inward fire consumed me ; the fatigue 
 of hard riding the day before, the agitation I had been in, the storm and 
 the wetting, all combined to make me dangerously ilL and for a few days 
 I was at the portals of the tomb. 
 
 Who was to tend me, who to watch over me in my dark hour ? • My 
 relations ? They could not, for they remained at Melun, unacquainted with 
 my danger. My wife ? No, far from coming to me, she would fear to hurt 
 her fatal beauty by the contagion of disease. Strangers must supply the 
 place of wife, of brother, sister, friend. For nine days and nights I was 
 totally unconscious of the presence of the angel who watched hourly by my 
 bed ; I saw nothing, I heard nothing. But at the end of that time a crisis 
 took place, the danger of immediate dissolution was passed, and the only 
 thing necessary for perfect convalescence was complete repose. 
 
 I awoke as it were from deep sleep, and gazing around me, strove to con- 
 centrate my ideas and recollect what had taken place. Seeing the portress 
 doing something at one of the tables, I said, — 
 
 " Madame Dupont, how long have I been ill t " 
 
 "Nine days, sir." 
 
 "Nine days?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, sir, you have been very, very ill, and almost dead. Thank 
 Heaven, though, you are saved. I knew well enough how it would be to run 
 into that terrible storm without half your clothes on, and get wet through, 
 and then coming back dripping like an umbrella, with your eyes starting 
 out of your head. But it's always the case, young people will never listen 
 to what is said to them, and then, to crown all, to go to sleep with a bunch 
 of nasty flowers under your head I Nothing can be more unwholesome." 
 
 " What has become of that bouquet, Madame Dupont, has anybody 
 touched it f " 
 
 " Make your mind easy, sir, about it ; it is in a vase of water in your 
 sitting-room." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you. Now tell me, who has attended me, sat up 
 with me, throughout my illness I " 
 
 " Myself and the lady." 
 
 " What lady ? My neighbour on this landing ? " 
 
 " The same ; she has watched you as if you had been her own brother. 
 As soon as she heard you were ill, it was impossible to keep her out of 
 the room ; she would be your nurse, and indeed one would almost suppose 
 she had been in an hospital all her life." 
 
 " Where is she now ? Pray go and bring her to me, that I may thank 
 lier as I ought." 
 
 " That must be by-and-by, sir, she has gone out now ; besides, the 
 doctors have said you must keep very quiet, and not talk at all." 
 
 Madame Dupont drew the curtains of the bed whilst she uttered the last 
 sentence, and left the room, and before I could form an idea as to who my 
 mysterious nurse could be, lassitude came over me, and I fell back asleep. 
 
My Female Neighbour. 165 
 
 Towards evening I awoke, and heard some one moving cautiously across the 
 room. I raised myself gently up in bed ; the person who was in the room 
 tried to escape, but I had pulled back the curtain before she had time to 
 reach the door, and saw it was .... Nicette ! 
 
 I absolutely screamed with delight at recognising her loved form, and she, 
 advancing to the bedside, laid her finger on her lips and whispered gently 
 that I must not speak. 
 
 " Not speak, Nicette," I said, as well as my weakness would permit me, 
 u not speak, my angel ? The sight of you and talking to -you will do more to 
 restore me to life and health than the whole college of physicians. It is 
 you, my ever-loved — " I could utter no more, but took her hands and 
 oressed them as affectionately between mine as the little strength left by 
 che wasting malady would permit me. Nicette calmed me with the most 
 endearing solicitations ; the tears fell in torrents from her eyes as she 
 stated that she considered the attentions she had paid me during my illness 
 were but the discharge of a duty imperatively due to the benefactor who 
 had succoured her in her hour of need ; that when she found I had 
 returned to my old rooms, and Raymond's apartments were to be let, she 
 had taken them in order to be near me, although she dared not speak to 
 me now she knew that I was married. She promised not to quit me if I 
 would consent not to talk ; and worn out as I was with the exciting scene 
 and the tumult of sensations consequent on refinding my long lost love, I 
 again resigned myself to sleep. 
 
 The following morning I felt greatly better, and soon advanced rapidly 
 to convalescence. Nicette never left me ; she was always seated by my 
 side ; she appeared perfectly astonished at the fervour of the sentiments I, 
 a married man, expressed towards her, but yet I could see, by the heaving 
 of her bosom and the bright sparkle of her eyes, that she loved me deeply 
 still. Frequently I gave way to all the tenderness that this idea en- 
 couraged ; I gazed on her lustrous orbs of light ; reposed upon her breast, 
 and drank in the honied accents of her voice, but even then the thought of 
 the detested Raymond would come across me, and then my throat swelled 
 as if I should choke, deep groans escaped me, and my joy was fled. Nicette 
 did not fail to remark these sudden transitions from happiness to despair, 
 the quick, alarming, instantaneous change in my manner of speaking and 
 behaving to her, and said to me one evening, as I lay upon the couch 
 enjoying the fresh air at the window, — 
 
 " You are thinking, Monsieur, of your wife ! " 
 
 " No, Nicette," I replied, " my thoughts were then on Raymond." 
 
 " On Raymond I and could he make you sigh ? " 
 
 " Are you astonished, Nicette, that he should ? Has he not torn from 
 me what I held dearest upon earth ? Did you not love him, girl, and make 
 him happy T " 
 
 " I love him ! Great heaven, who could have told you that atrocious lie ? " 
 
 " Did I not see him by your side, your hands in his, and you in tears." 
 
 Before I could finish my reproaches she threw herself upon me, bathed 
 in tears, took my hand in hers, covered it with ardent kisses, and 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah, could yon think, Eugene, that ever I loved any one but you t I, 
 who adored you from that night when we first met, and would have poured 
 out my heart's blood for you like rain I Forgive me for loving you so much — 
 it may offend you, it must be wrong — but I cannot restrain myself from say- 
 ing I adore you from the very bottom of my heart. When I kept the shop, 
 my only happiness was to behold you as you passed ; every day I hoped for 
 that pleasure, which, indeed, was rarely granted to me. I then thought I 
 
166 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 would bring the bouquets to keep me in your memory, and I took the 
 opportunity when the portress had gone out to place them in your door. 
 Sometimes I saw* you pass with a lady on your arm, and then I could only 
 withdraw into the shop and weep. One day that villain stopped as he went 
 past to buy some flowers ; he looked hard at me for a long time, recognised 
 sue, no doubt, and came back on the following day. Whilst he inspected 
 the plants, he paid several compliments to me, but I did not listen to him 
 ssntil he mentioned your name, and then I became all ears. He saw my 
 
 .anxiety, and every time he came, I implored him to stay and talk to me of 
 you. He told me, Dorsan, that you had twenty mistresses at least, that there 
 was not such another libertine in Paris as yourself, and to crown all he 
 showed me the bouquets I had placed in your door, and said that you had 
 given them to him." 
 
 '* The scoundrel 1 And you believed him, dear Nicette ? " 
 *' Alas ! when I saw you come to my shop to buy flowers with that hand- 
 some lady, who looked at me so angrily and called you, ' dear,' I could not 
 -bat think he told the truth. I was so cut to the heart that I did not know 
 what I did ; the moment you had gone I shut up the shop and walked all 
 Slight about the streets, and it must have been soon after I left that you re- 
 turned. On the following morning, when I saw you, you were very angry, 
 and quitted me abruptly when I sought to detain you. That evening Ray- 
 mond came and spoke of you; I cried when I recollected what had occurred, 
 and he might have taken my hands in his, thinking to console me. If he 
 did I did not know it at the time, for my thoughts were fixed on you. The 
 next day he came again and said he adored me, and a thousand other foolish 
 - thing s, but as he did not speak of you I would not hear one word he had 
 to say, and desired he would not come near the shop again. He then wrote 
 sue a stupid love-letter — which I have kept, and will show you — but as I 
 did not reply to him, he left me at last in peace ; but one day he came, 
 grinning horribly, and knowing that it would give me pain, informed me 
 
 - tahat you were married. I might have expected it, for I knew that others 
 would fall in love with you as I had done ; but it preyed so upon my mind 
 6hat I could not attend to my business, and as I had become rich enough 
 to live without it, I sold my stock, and came here to pass my life, thinking 
 to solace myself with the sight of those rooms in which you gave me a 
 tret uge that night when my poor, cruel mother thrust me on the street. 
 That is the whole, unvarnished truth. Oh, how could you think that I 
 loved any one but you ? " 
 
 When Nicette had finished her little tale, she ran to her own room to 
 fetch me Raymond's letter ; I had no need to see it to convince me of the 
 Srath of her story, but on reading it there could be no suspicion of her 
 axneerity, and that I had been the dupe of Raymond's plots. Oh, how 
 delightful it was to find Nicette was worthy of my love I In my turn I 
 detailed to her all that had happened to myself, and all the misery I 
 sadured in believing she was Raymond's mistress. She wept as she listened 
 to my sorrows ; she was in amazement when she heard the particulars of my 
 singular marriage with Pelagie, and never could cease wondering at the 
 marvel of a girl not being in love with me. 
 
 "Dear Nicette," I said, as I pressed her tenderly to my throbbing 
 •j&eart, " had it not been for this rascal Raymond I should still have been 
 free to enjoy my love for you ; but the chains which bound me to my wife 
 Usave been broken by herself, if not by the laws of the land, and I will 
 Bever see her more. This resolution I had made irrevocably before I had 
 
 r-ibe happiness to regain you in all your purity, and again I swear it now." 
 " And will jou permit me to come and see you ! 
 
An Unforeseen Event. 16? 
 
 " Nicette, you shall never leave me ; I feel I cannot exist without you. 
 I am your lover, husband, friend, and we will never, never part/' 
 
 She cast herself upon my breast, and I could hear the pulsations of hesr 
 heart as it throbbed with joy. 
 
 The evening passed away in exchanging vows of love, and at night she 
 did not quit me ; for she said it was in that room alone she would yield me 
 the inestimable reward of all my love. # . 
 
 Oh, truly happy night j such an one as I had not thought existed na 
 the world ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 AN UNFORESEEN EVENT. 
 
 Bright days had come again. With Nicette seated near me, time flew, bat 
 Love remained. Every day I loved her more and more, and the poor girl 
 Beemed to fear her happiness was but a dream. Nicette was no longer the 
 illiterate flower-girl that I had met two years ago. From the first day she 
 took her shop she had endeavoured to divest herself of the rudeness of 
 manner she acquired from childhood in her mother's house ; she had taughfe 
 herself to read and write, and lost all vulgarity of accent and expression. 
 Now she explained herself in excellent language, with perfect facility, and 
 even with occasional elegance of diction ; her personal appearance was 
 modest, but with a certain air of distinction that would make itself remarked J 
 her face was lovely, her figure upright, but not in the least formal, her 
 ihape well rounded, and her heart — ah, that was a treasure a thousand 
 times more valuable than all her charms. 
 
 Six months had passed away in mutual happiness, occasionally over- 
 clouded by Nicette's thoughts that as my wife yet lived she was acting wrong 
 in living unreservedly with me, when one morning, as we sat at breakfast, 
 the door bell was rang violently, and on its being opened, Justine, my 
 wife's chamber-maid, came in with melancholy painted on her face, and in- 
 formed me that Pelagie was dangerously ill. She had been to a ball three 
 nights ago, and on her return had thrown a quantity of blood from her 
 lungs. The physicians stated she had broken an important blood-vessel, 
 and as she was in a very weak state and in imminent danger, she had re- 
 quested that I would come and see her before she died. Nicette handed 
 me my hat and gloves, and implored me not to disappoint the miserable 
 woman, and hastening after Justine, I crossed the threshold of that house 
 I had determined never to re-enter. 
 
 On reaching my wife's chamber and advancing to the bed, she was so 
 altered that I scarcely knew her ; could that fragile, wasted, pallid form be 
 the beautiful Pelagie that I had married ? At sight of her mournful looks 
 all my anger fled, and my wrongs were totally forgotten ; I only thought off 
 her in all her loneliness as she returned my passionate embraces at Melun, 
 and I sat down by the dying, erring woman's side and wept. She took my 
 hand, and after having kissed it affectionately, acknowledged the injuries she 
 had done me, and begged for my forgiveness in a feeble voice. She declared 
 she had been severely punished for her errors, and that if she had listened to 
 my warning she would not have been, as she was then, in the very spring-time 
 of her youth, upon the brink of the dark grave. I forgave her freely, tried to 
 administer to her as much consolation as I could, remained with her the whole 
 
168 My Neighbour Raymond. 
 
 day, mingled my tears with hers, and sat up with her until five o'clock the 
 following morning, when the misguided woman dropped into the tomb. 
 
 Pelagie's obsequies were performed with all due propriety ; and after 
 having paid the debts she had contracted, and sold the furniture of the house 
 in which I had experienced so much misery, I resolved to make a tour, 
 accompanied by Nicette, in Switzerland and Italy. We set out in a hand- 
 some travelling landau which I had purchased and post horses, 60 that we 
 were not hurried in our movements, but could stop whenever we liked and 
 remain in any town we found agreeable for a temporary residence. In this 
 way we traversed Switzerland, enjoying its superb scenery, and one evening 
 arrived at a rustic inn at the foot of the magnificent Mount Cenis. On 
 entering the house, so much unusual bustle appeared to prevail that I could 
 not help asking the servant what had occurred ; she replied that a great 
 number of travellers from every European nation had arrived there on the 
 previous day, and that before breakfast that morning they had canvassed 
 the idea of setting up a table-d'Mte as the most social convivial mode of living 
 whilst they should assemble together in that region. One gentleman had 
 said a table- d'Mte would suit him perfectly, because he could eat faster than 
 any one present, and that the best things would fall to his share, whereupon 
 another had asserted that he would swallow six hard-boiled eggs before break- 
 fast, and afterwards eat more than all the others. A bet of ten pounds was 
 made that he would not ; the wretched man accepted it, swallowed the eggs, 
 and ate so much and so fast that he won the wager, but immediately after 
 the breakfast was concluded he turned deadly pale, was conveyed to his bed, 
 and was now in the agonies of death, with all the other guests around, each 
 propounding a different remedy to save him. 
 
 Curious to see who the dying man might be, I left Nicette and was 
 conducted to his chamber ; as I approached the bed I heard the last gasp, 
 the last rattling in his throat, and looking on the corpse beheld — 
 
 My Neighbour Raymond ! 1 1 
 
 TKB BND. 
 
 LONDON : PBD*TBD BY THE TKMPU* *UBLISHINa COMPANY. 
 
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Library of the 
 University of North Carolina 
 
 
 From the Pendleton King Library 
 Through Rush N. King, '04 
 
 843 
 _ K7£x 
 v. n 
 
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 43 
 
 W$* 
 
 
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This BOOK may be kept out TWO 
 WEEKS ONLY, and is subject to a fine 
 of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was 
 taken out on the day indicated below : 
 
 
'p 
 
FIRST TIME IN ENGLISH. — UNEXP URGA TED. 
 
 OR 
 
 L'EOTANT PBODXGUE 
 
 Bf 
 
 — PAUL BE KOCK.— 
 
 -:o;- 
 
 LONDOK! 
 MATHIESOIS 1 & COMPANY, 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 A GAME AT BEZIQTTE. 
 
 " My dear Plantureau, a new idea lias just struck 
 me, and I mean to follow it out, for in everything 
 one undertakes character and firmness are indispens- 
 able, and I flatter myself I am well-endowed with 
 both. When I have said such a thing is so and so- 
 well, it is so! " 
 
 "During your wife's lifetime, it seemed to me 
 that she always said it was not so ! 5: 
 
 " By no means, my dear fellow ; you are completely 
 in error. Whilst my poor wife was alive, I did ex- 
 actly as I wished; only it always happened that my 
 -wishes accorded with those of Ursula on every occa- 
 sion we were always of one mind, and* we never 
 
 had the least discussion." 
 
 "You were indeed happy! To have ^ a wife who 
 always agrees with you is indeed a rarity. I have 
 not- fallen in such pleasant places as yourself. My 
 wife persists in contradiction on every occasion, 
 but I naturally pay no heed to her, for a man ought 
 to be master in his own Jiouse. Why, we quarrel 
 about fifteen times a week ! . . Now, how many 
 shall we play ? " 
 
 "Oh! two thousand as usual, and we can have 
 
 four games." • 
 
4 A GAME AT BEZIQUE. 
 
 cc 
 
 Yes, yes, but you are only dealing eight cards, 
 and at my mother-in-law's they always deal nine*" 
 
 " Oh ! with nine the game is too easy and very 
 stupid ; with eight cards it is much more difficult, 
 and in that, I think, lies all the charm." 
 
 " I am on the point of inventing a game which 
 will, I am sure, meet with the greatest success." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, take your cards and attend to 
 the game." 
 
 "Imagine, Belatout, a game which will require 
 one hundred and four cards ! " 
 
 " Two complete sets then ? " 
 
 " No, it will be only one set with a hundred and 
 four cards*" 
 
 " Then you intend to invent some new cards ? " 
 
 " Not at all, but there will be the single and the 
 double ; for example, the ace and the double ace, the 
 jack of clubs and the double jack of clubs, and so 
 on. Do you follow me? " 
 
 "Not quite; but what will be the use of having 
 the cards in duplicate ? " 
 
 " Oh ! my dear fellow, the doubles will take the 
 singles, but three singles will take a double ; it will 
 be very complicated ! " 
 
 "I fancy it will be too complicated. — I peg a 
 hundred. — What do you intend to call your new 
 game ? " 
 
 "I have not quite decided on the name yet; I 
 rather thought of calling the game CEdipus." 
 
 " Why, there will be seme riddles in it then ? " 
 
 f* Yes, you will have to guess a good deal in the 
 game. My kings I shall call (Edipus; I shall have 
 some new figures drawn." 
 
 " I peg sixty with the queen." 
 
 " You seem to keep on pegging ! " 
 
 " Yes, I am attending to the game and not to your 
 (Edipus. Take your card." 
 
 " I am on the look-out for some talented artist to 
 
A GAME AT BEZIQT7E. O 
 
 draw my new figures for me. I shall call the queens 
 Jocastus." 
 
 " Well, what does your wife say to this new in- 
 vention ? " 
 
 " Oh ! just the same as usual, she storms and 
 raves, and $ays that I shall be unsuccessful again 
 and lose more of my money. Happily, all this does 
 not prevent me from going on my own little way." 
 
 " I peg two hundred and fifty ; take your card." 
 
 " If a man always paid attention to what his wife 
 said, he would never attempt anything; why, he 
 would never get out of his cradle ! I have un- 
 doubtedly a genius for invention, and I mean to dis- 
 cover something which shall make me a two-fold 
 millionaire." 
 
 " Why a two-fold millionaire ? Would not single 
 one suffice ? " 
 
 " When one is on the road to fortune, what need 
 is there to stop ? " 
 
 " Listen to me, my dear Plantureau; I am your 
 friend, and I am, I believe, some eight or ten years 
 your senior. I am in my fifty-third year, and you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! my wife will not let me tell my age." 
 
 " Just as you wish ; I am not very anxious to know. 
 It does not prevent me from being your friend and 
 interesting myself in all that you do ; and you must 
 allow me to say that your wife has not been far 
 wrong in opposing your inventions, for if you are 
 anxious to get on the road to fortune it seems to me 
 that just now you are going like a crab *— take your 
 card. Tou had a very good cattle business, and 
 cattle always pay, but since your father's death you 
 seem to have given it up." 
 
 "My father left me enough to live comfortably on, 
 and there is no necessity for me to go on with the 
 business." 
 
 " Well, 1 am very glad to hear it. Why not enjoy 
 your fortune then ? — take your card. Why not lead 
 
6 A GAME AT BEZIBttE. 
 
 a quiet life among your own family? Instead of 
 that, you forsake your business, which was a sure 
 means of wealth, and you are gone mad over these 
 inventions, which cost you a lot of money and bring 
 you in nothing." 
 
 " Ah ! you are just like everybody else. You see 
 no merit but in success ! Because a man does not 
 succeed at once, he is an imbecile and a fool ! What 
 about Fulton, Colombus, and Guttenberg ? Did they 
 succeed at once ? What a misfortune it is to live in 
 a little village where a man cannot give scope to his 
 genius or his ideas; where there are not enough 
 people either to understand him or to encourage him ! " 
 
 " My dear fellow, do not speak ill of our village of 
 Bar-le-duc. It is very pretty, it is watered by the 
 little river d'Orney, in which there are plenty of fine 
 trout, then lb ere are excellent preserves, renowned 
 and sought after by all the gourmands. — I peg five 
 hundred. — The wines of Bar are excellent ; I am sure 
 they almost rival those of Champagne ! We are fifty- 
 four leagues from Paris, it is true, bufc what does 
 that matter? When one is comfortable at home, 
 where is the need to search for happiness elsewhere ? 
 You know the old proverb : ' A rolling stone gathers 
 no moss.' " 
 
 " There is no common sense in that proverb. I 
 think the more one rolls the more knowledge one 
 gains." 
 
 " But when one has already a nice little store, why 
 need he expose it to risky ventures? Look now, 
 Plantureau, I think you are playing with nine cards ? " 
 
 "Yes, so I am." 
 
 " If that is a new invention it is not bring'ng you 
 much luck." 
 
 " You keep on saying : ' Take your card,' and now 
 I have taken too many." 
 
 " Well, if you count on playing with a hundred 
 and four cards, you will have to get used to holding 
 
A GAME AT BEZIQUE. 7 
 
 a good many in your hand ! ** 
 
 " Yon need not make game of me, Belatout. but 
 you shall see my new game and what a success 
 awaits it ! " 
 
 " I wish it may, with all my heart, my friend, for 
 since you commenced inventing you have waited for 
 success in vain. You made some lamps which were 
 going to burn without oil ; you had a hundred of 
 them made, and you only sold two! People say 
 they will not barn at all." 
 
 " All ! but they do not know how to use them." 
 " You also made some stoves which were going to 
 cook without fuel, did you not ? " 
 
 " Yes, by steam ; you do not deny the steam, I 
 hope?" 
 
 "I deny nothing, but I only know that very unfor- 
 tunate events followed the use of your stoves. You 
 sold two of them, one to a fat grocer and the other 
 to a tinman. The grocer, anxious to learn how his 
 sauer-kraut was cooking, lost an eye by a jet of 
 steam, which came out like a rocket ; whilst the tin- 
 man's stove exploded, and a portion of it struck him 
 in the face and carried away all one side of his nose ! " 
 " Well ! it was only because those stupid people did 
 not follow my instructions ; it was not my fault ! " 
 
 " But that did not prevent you from having to pay 
 for the grocer's eye and half the tinman's nose. The 
 latter was especially exasperating; he demanded 
 heavy damages, because he considered that the acci- 
 dent had destroyed his good looks and that he could 
 not possibly expect to find a wife now he had but 
 one nostril." 
 
 " He was a liar ; he soon found one. He was the 
 one who said that since he had lost one side of his 
 nose he had not been able to smell." 
 
 "And now, I suppose your stoves have gone to 
 join your lamps. Your wife says you have got two 
 rooms full of them, and that is really why she gets 
 
8 A GAME AT BEZIQTJE. 
 
 into "such, bad tempers over your inventions. For- 
 tunately, your game of CEdipus will not take up so 
 much room. Let us count up — you do not seem to 
 have scored much " 
 
 " ~No, the game is too easy — much too easy for me. 
 Backgammon and chess, they are the games for me ! 
 But I have a game in my head much more interest- 
 ing than either of those ! " 
 
 " What ! another invention P " 
 
 " Yes, when I say I shall do a thing I do it. For 
 this new invention I shall have to go to Paris, for 
 that is the only place where I can be appreciated — " 
 
 " Yes, and they will see your elbows through your 
 coat sleeves before you come back ! " 
 
 "Pooh! You talk just like my wife, and that's 
 not the way to get me to listen to you. You do not 
 like Paris because you do not know it and because 
 you have never been there." 
 
 " Indeed ! I do know Paris — not much, certainly, 
 but I was there for three days ; it was just before 
 my marriage. 1 went there to buy a present for my 
 fiancee ; my father told me I should find much better 
 things in Paris, so I went there, but I was glad to 
 get back after two or three days — I was dying to see 
 my sweetheart again." 
 
 " And do you imagine that you could know any- 
 thing of Paris in three days ? Why you could have 
 seen nothing of it ! " 
 
 " Oh, I saw a good many things whilst I was 
 there ; first of all, I saw the river which cuts the 
 great city in two, then the Botanical Crardens, where 
 there are a great many animals — I even gave the 
 bears something to eat, just a piece of bread, as I 
 passed ! " 
 
 " What a fad it is with country people when they 
 get to Paris, this feeding the bears ! A most exhila- 
 rating pastime, certainly ! " 
 
 "And pray, why not if it amused me ? " 
 
A GAME AT BEZIQTTE. 9 
 
 " I bet you did not go to the theatre ! " 
 
 " You are wrong again, for I did go." 
 
 " To the Opera ? " 
 
 " No, not quite that, but it was a very respectable 
 theatre ; I went to the Gaiety on the boulevaid, 
 where there are five or six theatres quite close to one . 
 another " # 
 
 " Ah ! you mean the Temple Boulevard ; it is done 
 away with now." 
 
 "I wanted to see some fun, to have a laugh or two, 
 so I set off for 1he Gaiety, naturally expecting to 
 find something amusing there. But it was nothing 
 of the kind. Just imagine a piece in which every 
 one of the characters was as miserable as could be ; 
 the princess wept, the prince swore, and the chil- 
 dren whined. At the finish everybody died; one 
 stabbed himself, another took poison . . I thought 
 to myself, well, if this is what they call gaiety, I 
 have had enough of it, and I took care not to go 
 again." 
 
 "You must have chanced upon some tearful drama." 
 
 " Then they had no right to put in front of the 
 house ' Gaiety Theatre.' In fact, everything I saw 
 in Paris fully convinced me that it was a very dan- 
 gerous city." 
 
 " Anyway you have let your son go there, so that 
 you are not consistent with yourself." 
 
 " Ah ! it is not J, it is my wife. Ho, I should say 
 it was the particular wish of both of us that Eugene 
 should become a famous lawyer. People told us 
 that he would stand a much better chance in the 
 great city. And for his own part Eugene was burn- 
 ing with anxiety to get to Paris, so I let him go, 
 but I am none the happier for it, I assure you. What 
 has my son learnt since he has been in Paris? To 
 eat money, to smoke like a chimney, and to speak a 
 sort of jargon that is neither French nor Gallic — it 
 is simply slang ! A nice language I can tell you ! 
 
10 A GAME At BEZIQTJE. 
 
 A sort of thieves' dialect. You can imagine Low 
 interesting- it is to listen to a young" man, well bred 
 and educated, talking the slang of a gaol-bird ! I think 
 it is most pitiable ! Then -again, the young men of 
 the present day think it good form to show no respect 
 for their parents ; they even call them dolts, and take 
 it very badly when an experienced man attempts to 
 give them a little advice. I should not be at all 
 surprised if one of these days they do not try to get 
 a Bill passed by which it will be made illegal to live 
 beyond the age of sixty ! " 
 
 " Stop, that is a good idea ! . . " 
 
 "My poor wife is dead, perhaps it is all the better 
 that she is, for at least she will not hear our son 
 mocking us and declaring that we are not up to date, 
 or that we are a couple of miserly wretches, and other 
 nice remarks of the same sort." 
 
 " My dear Belatout, young men are always carried 
 away by novelties; anything which is in fashion 
 seems fine to them. We must forgive a great deal 
 in the conduct of our young men. Take your card; 
 it is you this time who are forgetting the game — " 
 
 "My friend, I also was young once, and when my 
 father told me to call and see my aunt I did not 
 answer him with : 'What do you take me for? A 
 tame rat bit P" 
 
 " Does your son intend to stay in Paris altogether?" 
 
 " He did intend doing so, but I have written and 
 asked him to quit this Modern Babylon and return 
 to his father's house ; in fact, I am expecting him 
 now. I am trying to humour him into marrying the 
 niece of a notary — Miss de Boissate ; it would be an 
 excellent match." 
 
 "Mks de Boissate? Why, she is a terribly plain 
 girl ! " 
 
 " What does that matter to me ? " 
 
 " I quite understand that it matters nothing to 
 
A GAME AT BEZIQUE. 11 
 
 you, but it matters a great deal to your son. Take 
 up your card." 
 
 " Miss de Boissate, beyond her pecuniary advan- 
 tages, lias another very important point in lier 
 favour." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " She does not touch the piano. Ah ! my friend, 
 young ladies who play the piano — they are a scourge 
 to society. I say a scourge, for the piano has become 
 such a common instrument that it follows you wliere- 
 ever you go." 
 
 " But it is not at all disagreeable when it is played 
 skilfully." 
 
 " Oh yes it is, even when played well, but it is the 
 bad players who are eternally at it. There is not 
 much fear of my daughter learning to play the in- 
 strument. She expressed a wish to learn music, so 
 I told her to learn the cornet ; it is infinitely less 
 common than the piano, especiallv for a woman." 
 
 " But it is not a very appropriate instrument for a 
 woman. Stop, I have made five hundred." 
 
 " If my son will not marry Miss Boissate, I shall 
 not let him have any more money, and then we shall 
 see how he will manage to live ! " 
 
 • c And what about your daughter, your charming 
 Diana, do you intend to wheedle her into a marriage 
 as well ? " 
 
 " Oh ! as for my daughter, I have only praise to 
 bestow upon her ; she is gentle, modest, and obe- 
 dient. There is no danger of her acting contrary to 
 her father's wishes, or of disobeying him in the 
 slightest degree. But she is scarcely eighteen, and 
 she amuses herself like a child, with a puppy or cut- 
 ting out figures. There is no hurry for her to marry, 
 she hasn't the remotest idea about love — she is inno- 
 cence itself. She even thinks now that children 
 come out of parsley beds ! Quite recently, Madame 
 Gatoir chanced to say before her that she had cut 
 
12 A GAME AT BEZIQUE. 
 
 her cat ! Thereupon Diana commenced crying, and, 
 running to me, exclaimed : ' Papa, I shall not go to 
 Madame Gatoir's any more ; she is a cruel, wicked 
 woman. She has killed her cat ! She said she had 
 cut it ! ' I had all the trouble in the world to calm 
 her. I explained that it was only the cat's claws, 
 her nails, that the lady had cut. And to be sure, as 
 soon as Diana saw the cat of Madame Gatoir, she 
 hastened to fondle and caress it, saying : ' Ah, my 
 poor Moumoute, I thought you were dead.' As 
 soon as she commenced playing with the cat, the 
 devilish animal scratched her, and Diana called out 
 to Madame Gatoir that her cat had not been well 
 cnt, that some had been left behind, for she could 
 see them herself. You can imagine how everybody 
 laughed, for they conld easily see that what the 
 child said was said in innocence." 
 
 " Take yonr card. I was going to tell yon of a 
 match for your daughter. My wife and I both 
 remarked that M. Marcelin, that young friend 
 of your son's who came from Paris about six months 
 ago, paid' very marked attentions to yonr daughter. 
 He seems to be quite in love with her, and I thought 
 
 1 peg. sixty with the queen " 
 
 " M. Marcelin ISTigelle marry my daughter ? Oh ! 
 there is not much danger of that happening ! " 
 
 "Why, how is that? He is a very nice-looking 
 young fellow, his family is honourable, and be has at 
 least a fair competency ; what would there be wrong 
 about a match like that ? " 
 
 " Why, he would soon make my daughter nn^ 
 happy, 1 am quite certain. He has been to Paris, 
 he was very friendly with my son, he saw the same 
 people as he, he went to balls and fetes with him, 
 and courted the girls who make a trade of ruining 
 young men." 
 
 " Oh ! that is young men all the world over, but 
 they soon cure themselves of that fault/' 
 
A GAME AT BBZIQTJE. 13 
 
 " If he had only done that, I might, perhaps, have 
 excused him ; but there is something else which I 
 cannot forgive, which I will never forgive him." 
 
 " Take yon card then. And what is this unpardon- 
 able fault that you can never forgive poor M. 
 Marcelin ? " 
 
 "He has fought, my dear friend; he has had 
 a duel ! " 
 
 " Well, and what then*? " 
 
 " What else ? Is not that enough ? You do not 
 mean to say that you approve of duels ? " 
 
 " I neither approve nor disapprove of them ; it all 
 depends on circumstances. When one is obliged — '» 
 
 " Never, Plantureau, never ; there are no circum- 
 stance3, causes, or motives which can compel a man, 
 who is not a soldier, to fight a,gainst another man, 
 to try and kill another man or be killed himself. On 
 that point, you see, I am inexorable ! A duellist 
 shall never enter my family, for he may make his 
 wife a widow at any moment, when one least expects 
 it. When men are ill, we see them go little by 
 little, and we expect to lose them. But a young 
 man leaves his house in robust health, armed with 
 sword or pistol, and two hours after he is dead or 
 dying. And you call that right ! " 
 
 " Yes, when one has been insulted ! " 
 
 " We can fight with the arms which nature has 
 given us, our feet and hands ; it is very rarely that 
 they kill." 
 
 "But that's like a Billingsgate porter ! " 
 " What is that to me ? Then all men are Billings- 
 gate porters, for nature has put these weapons at the 
 disposition of us all. You cannot, my dear Plan- 
 tureau, change my opinions on duelling, and I repeat 
 a duellist shall never enter my family. Thank 
 Leaven, I have never had to reproach my son on this 
 matter ; I do not think he is very quarrelsome." 
 
14 FKIQUETTE. 
 
 " And how do you know this young Marcelin has 
 had a duel?" 
 
 " Oh ! my son mentioned it once in my hearing- ; 
 and that fool of a Eugene paid him some compli- 
 ment. Oh! young men ! " 
 
 " Stop, I score the fifteen hundred. I win the 
 game." 
 
 "Ah ! that's just the way with you, you have been 
 prattling about my son, and distracted my attention 
 from the game. J think when we play we ought to 
 concentrate our attention on the game. As you re- 
 marked, Bezique is a beastly game, but it requires a 
 lot of attention. Can I have my revenge? fi 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FRIQUETTE. 
 
 Just as these gentlemen were commencing a fresh 
 game, a young girl hastily entered the room where 
 they were playing. It was Eriquette. She was 
 about nineteen years of age, but appeared scarcely 
 fifteen, for she had a very small figure and her dress 
 was half rustic half Parisian, which gave her the 
 appearance of a school girl. Eriquette was very 
 pretty. If her black eyes were not very large, they 
 were at least full of roguery. Her face was round, 
 her cheeks freth and full-coloured, and her nose the 
 least bit retrousse ; her mouth was frank rnd saucy, 
 it was not small, but it was well furnished. Her 
 forehead was high and bold, encircled with luxuriant 
 brown hair, and altogether, we must admit that this 
 young girl needed no apologies for her appearance, 
 
tfBIQUETTE. lb 
 
 iriqnette was well shaped, but her long petticoats 
 scarcely showed off her charms to" advantage; how- 
 ever, the skirts were sufficiently short to enable one 
 to see the outlines of a well-shaped leg, and a glimpse 
 of a calf which was all there. Add to this a well- 
 shaped foot, which was completely hidden in her 
 great slippers or in her sabots. 
 
 This Friquette was simply the servant, the nurse 
 and attendant of the young" Diana. M. Belatout had 
 a young fellow to wait upon him, named Jacquet; 
 he was about twenty years of age, and as ill-looking 
 as Friquette was pretty. A cook completed M. Bela- 
 tout's establishment, but she was very old and had 
 been in the service of her present master's father. 
 She was looked upon as a piece of old furniture, 
 which one scarcely ever likes to get rid of, but which 
 is preserved with care till the destroying hand of 
 time finally demolishes it. But it was very different 
 with little Friquette. Although to all appearances 
 she was in attendance on the young lady of the 
 house, she really directed and superintended all that 
 went on in the establishment; in fact, she often 
 called the master of the house over the coals, as to 
 what he had been doing during the day. And all 
 tins was done in such a quiet unassuming way that 
 she never appeared to unnecessarily meddle with 
 anything. Her voice was always sweet and insinuat- 
 ing, and you felt compelled to grant her all she asked, 
 although she only seemed to be carrying out your 
 own behests. But this young girl possessed that 
 which is so rarely met with in the world, which 
 riches cannot impart and which is seldom under- 
 stood and appreciated even by those who possess it ; 
 chance alone awards it. It is as often found in the 
 village as in the town; it is admired and sought after 
 in every land; it is the despair of some, the desire of 
 all, and often renders them unhappy who actually 
 
16 tfRIQTTETTE!* 
 
 possess it. It braves time, and even death. In a 
 word, Friquette possessed esprit. 
 
 " Half a moment, here is Friquette, my daughter's 
 little maid," said M. Belatout. " What do you want 
 my dear; have you come to ask me something? I 
 must attend personally to everything in the hcuse. 
 Ah ! if the master's eye is not always there, nothing 
 goes right, nothing is doue ! Poor old Mary Ann is 
 scarcely capable of looking after her saucepans now ! 
 My daughter is a mere child, and my valet Jacquet 
 is a simpleton who understands absolutely nothing ! 
 There is Friquette, now, she is always obedient, but 
 1 have to keep telling her what to do. Oh! my 
 pcor Ursula ! where art thou ? Well, Friquette, 
 what is the matter? " 
 
 The' girl smiled slightly as she listened to her 
 master's words, and answered: "There is nothing 
 the matter, sir, only the postman has just brought 
 this letter for you. I brought it up at once, because 
 I thought on looking at the address that it came 
 from your son." 
 
 " Bah ! so it is— — did yon recognise the writing?" 
 
 " Oh! that is not at all difficult ! " 
 
 " Well, it is indeed from my son ; he talks about 
 returning at once, the idle, good-for-nothing fellow. 
 Excuse me, Plantureau." 
 
 " Go on, do not mind me ; I will think over my 
 new invention." 
 
 M. Belatout opened the letter, and read it out 
 loud : — 
 
 " My dear father, — I shall arrive home on Thurs- 
 day (that's to-morrow) . I trust I shall find every- 
 body well. As for me, I am as well as the door of 
 St. Denis. It is not because I scratched it that I 
 write in this manner. Kill the fatted calf, and get 
 up some of your Corton wine that I like so much. I 
 feel rather like enjoying myself. (He seems like 
 wanting something to drink, so I presume he is 
 
ERIQITETTE. 17 
 
 happy.) Tell my sister that I am bringing her a 
 new silk handkerchief, the best I could procure. 
 Shake hands with my old friend Marcelin for me — 
 (yes, yes, very iikely ! ) — and give Friquette a fillip 
 under the chin for me. Ah ! tell old Mary Ann I 
 adore her cheese cakes ; let her make some by the 
 time I see you. (What do you think of that, he 
 commences at once to order us all about.) Vale et 
 me ama, toto corde. — Eugene." 
 
 "Ah! what joy ! M. Eugene is coming here to- 
 morrow ! " cried Friquette, dancing with glee. 
 
 "So it amuses you, because he will put everything 
 in the house upside down ! " 
 
 " Oh ! but he is always laughing and singing. Of 
 course, you are always kind and cheerful, sir ! " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I am cheerful sometimes — when 
 I am in a good humour." 
 
 " Then you will have everybody here to dinner to- 
 morrow, sir, to welcome your son's return ? " 
 
 "Everybody? To welcome my son? He who 
 throws his money away on vile hussies and libertines 
 like himself ! ~No, indeed I shall not ; I do not see 
 the necessity of it ! Ah ! if my son only tried to 
 please me ! but he does nothing of the kind, so why 
 should I make a fuss over his return ? No, I have 
 quite made up my mind what I shall do." 
 
 " Ah ! what was I thinking about ! You are quite - 
 right, sir, after all. If you invite nobody here, you 
 can drink your best wines alone ; that's it." 
 
 "What! alone! We ought always te drink good 
 wine in company. Plantureau, have you ever tasted 
 my Corton ? " 
 
 " Eh ? how ? what ? Oh, excuse me ; I was deep 
 in my invention." 
 
 " I asked you if you had ever tasted my Corton." 
 
 " No, I think not ; at least, I do not recollect it." 
 
 " Well, come to dinner to-morrow, and we will 
 have some." 
 
 B 
 
18 FBIQUETTE. 
 
 " With pleasure — great pleasure. Shall I bring 
 m y wife '? " 
 
 " Naturally." 
 
 " Ah ! if you want a man who under stands 
 wines," sale] Friquette, "you should ask M. Potard. 
 the old registrar." 
 
 " Wha-t do you "know about that, Friquette ? " 
 
 " Why, I have often heard you say so yourself, sir." 
 
 "Yes, certainly ; Potard is a connoisseur. I think 
 I shall ask him to dinner to-morrow. I should like 
 to Lave Lis opinion." 
 
 " Then again, there is M. Boulmot and Lis wife," 
 continued Friquette; "to hear those people talk, one 
 would think they had the best wine cellar in the 
 country." 
 
 " They say so, but it is not true, and I will prove 
 it to them to-morrow. I shall invite tliem. You 
 must bring up some of my old CLambertin and 
 I&ozey ; they haven't anything like tLat to offer me." 
 
 " Oh ! your Eozey ! Why, that is the wine Ma- 
 dame Fleurmard likes so much ! She says she would 
 commit any indiscretion for Bozey ! " 
 
 "Yes, she is an amiable widow; she lias had three 
 husbands. She always sings after she has had 
 champagne. I sLallask Ler, sLe will make us laugh." 
 
 " TLere is also tLe Triffouille family, whom you 
 owe a dinner to, sir " 
 
 "The Triffouilles — ah-! of course — I dined with 
 them when their last child was baptised. Let's see, 
 there are four of them, the father and mother and 
 two girls " 
 
 " The girls are very friendly with Miss Diana." 
 
 " Do you say they are friendly with my daughter? 
 Then we can have them just as well to-morrow as 
 any other day,. and I shall be quits with them." 
 
 " Whilst you are about it, sir, you will, no doubt, 
 invite M. Marcelin, your son's great friend ? " 
 
FRIQUETTE. 19 
 
 " M. Marcelin ? Why, I have no wish for him to 
 be a friend of my " 
 
 " Quite so, sir ; only M. Marcelin has a splendid 
 voice, and after dinner he is very good company." 
 
 " He can come in the evening." 
 
 " Certainly sir, in the evening ; only I should like 
 to mention that there will be thirteen at table, and, 
 with many people, it would completely spoil all ap- 
 petite and pleasure ! " 
 
 " Thirteen at table did you say ? " 
 
 "Count them up yourself, sir." 
 
 " Let me see, there is you, Plantureau, and your 
 wife " 
 
 " Oh ! you can leave my wife out, if you like." 
 
 " Certainly not, I trust I am incapable of such an 
 act of discourtesy. Then there is Potard, the Bouli- 
 nots, Widow Pleurmard, and the Triff ouille family ; 
 that makes ten — my son and daughter and myself — 
 by jove, that makes thirteen." 
 
 " One of the thirten always dies the first year, sir." 
 
 " So you believe in those fairy tales and fables, do 
 you ? Never mind, I will invite Marcelin, to make it 
 fourteen ; after all, it does not matter much. Now 
 Priquette, you arrange with Mary Ann to prepare 
 dinner for fourteen to-morrow; you must assist her. 
 I will send Jacques out fishing, and we will have 
 some trout." 
 
 " Sir, if you count upon Jacques catching the fish, 
 you will have to do without it; the other day he 
 went fishing for about six hours, and came back with 
 a little drowned rabbit, which he had hooked from 
 the bottom of the stream " 
 
 " I remember, he was very proud of having fished 
 up a rabbit." 
 
 "M. Marcelin is the most skilful angler about 
 here ; he has often brought you some trout." 
 
 ; " Ah ! I had forgotten ; well, if you happen to see 
 him ask him to try his hand at it to-morrow," 
 
20 MISS DIANA. 
 
 " Yes sir, I am sure to see aim in time ; lie very 
 often passes here, and at the same time I Avili tell 
 him that yon expect him to dinner to-morrow. Is 
 not that as yon wish, sir? " 
 
 " Certainly ; and now run away Friquette and see 
 that my instructions are followed exactly, and that 
 no one shirks his duties." 
 
 " Oh ! sir, rest easy about that; they know joi too 
 well ever to think of disobeying you." 
 
 Friquette left, and M. Bel at out, turning to his 
 friend Plantureau, exclaimed with a self-satisfied 
 air : " There, Plantureau, you see what it is to be 
 master in one's own house, and to have all one's 
 wishes respected and obeyed ! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MISS DIANA. 
 
 On leaving her master, Friquette hurried, to her 
 young mistress, whom she found in her own room, 
 busy pulling the threads out of some pieces of silk. 
 Miss Diana was close upon eighteen years of age. 
 She was very fair, with light blue, languishing eyes ; 
 under ordinary circumstances, they were simply 
 timorous and shy, but directly her heart commenced 
 to throb her eyes assumed a languishing expression, 
 which was invariably the case when her brother's 
 friend, M. Marcelin, was by. Diana's figure was 
 graceful above the average, she was, well made, slim 
 and slender, even perhaps a trifle meagre, but had 
 she been very plump at eighteen what a belle she 
 would have been at thirty ! Everything must come 
 
MISS DIANA. 
 
 21 
 
 in time, and obesity always comes too soon. 
 
 Diana was passionately fond of music, and would 
 have been delighted to learn the piano, but M. Bela- 
 tout detested the instrument ; he was wont to de- 
 clare that ever since he had been of age to know 
 anything of the world he had heard of the piano in 
 every house he entered. In the society he frequented, 
 every girl knew the piano, and took every oppor- 
 tunity of parading her talent or of playing the last 
 new piece from Paris. Consequently, there was a 
 profound aversion to the instrument in Blatout's 
 house, and before going out to an evening party he 
 would cram his ears full of cotton wool. Tiiis arti- 
 fice, however, had one special drawback. Although 
 he heard little of the piano, he heard just as little 
 of the conversation addressed to^ him, and people 
 would remark how unfortunate it was that poor 
 Belatout had become almost as deaf as a post. Bela- 
 tout always managed to hear these unpleasant re- 
 marks, for one's ears always seem wider open to dis- 
 paraging observations than at any other time. 
 Finally ,°he renounced the cotton wool, and married 
 a plain, almost ugly girl, but one he was assured 
 could not play the instrument which had hitherto 
 been such anguish to him. 2\Tow, I think M. Bela- 
 tout deserves considerable commiseration, for gene- 
 rally speaking piano-playing is like virtue and eel- 
 pie : " A little goes a long way." M. Belatout had, 
 therefore, distinctly refused to allow his daughter to 
 have a piano, but to console her he said : " Since 
 you are so anxious to learn music and to play some 
 sort of instrument, learn the cornet. It is pretty 
 and lady-like, and, moreover, is heard a good way 
 off ; and it has another very considerable advantage, 
 you cannot very well play it all day long." 
 
 "I thought, father," timidly responded Diana, 
 " that a cornet was only played by men." 
 
 " My dear child," answered the father, " I admit 
 
22 MISS DIANA. 
 
 that as a rule one sees the instrument played by men, 
 but women are not prohibited from playing it. You 
 will be able to do something which other girls will 
 not imitate, and that will give you eminence at once. 
 I have seen women play the violin, the flute, and 
 even the horn, and they have attained to consider- 
 able success upon these instruments. I certainly do 
 not see what is to prevent them from learning the 
 cornet." 
 
 You know now why the timorous and bashful 
 Diana performs upon the cornet like a member of 
 some regimental bund. But having no, taste for 
 the instrument and being rather short of wind, her 
 repertoire consists of but three or four simple airs. 
 However, M. Belatout finds them quite enough. 
 
 Little briquette was very fond of her young mis- 
 tress,' and was never tired of trying to amuse her. 
 She had already noticed that her mistress obtained 
 little pleasure out of her cornet, but that she was al- 
 ways gay and chatty after M. Marcelin had called. 
 She blushed and smiled when he gossipped with her, 
 wlulst she fumed and pouted when anyone else at- 
 tempted to address her with gallant little compli- 
 ments. Friquette was not long guessing what all 
 this signified, and took occasion one day to remark 
 that M. Marcelin seemed very pleased when he called 
 ml found the master out, because then he found 
 her young mistress alone, and eo was more at his 
 ease in chatting with her, whilst her mistress did 
 not seem at all vexed or displeased with these visits. 
 It struck Friquette that a very simple means of let- 
 ting M. Marcelin know when Diana was alone would 
 be for her mistress to play a tune upon the cornet, 
 as it was very distinctly heard in the street below. 
 So, in making his daughter learn the cornet instead 
 of the piano, M. Belatout had provided a means by 
 which, his daughter could hold communication with 
 
SilSS DIANA. 
 
 23 
 
 her lover. La Fontaine was quite right when he 
 said : " No mortal is omniscient." 
 
 Friquette rushed joyously in to her young mistress 
 and exclaimed : "Miss, Miss, what do you think... 
 Your brother will be here to-morrow; he has written 
 to your father, who has just read the letter." 
 
 "Indeed! my brother coming to-morrow? Are 
 you sure, Friquette ? " 
 
 " I tell you that your father read the letter out 
 loud before me and that great ape of a Plantureau — 
 you know, the inventor ! — he who is always finding 
 out some new invention which is going to make him 
 a millionaire, but which his wife says will soon make 
 him a beggar." 
 
 " Ah ! I shall be so happy to see Eugene ! But 
 will he stay at our house this time ? " 
 
 "He does not say anything about that in his 
 letter. I think he likes Paris better than Bar-le- 
 Duc, in spite of our trout and our preserves. But 
 that is not all, Miss. To-morrow, a lot of people are 
 coming here to dinner to welcome your brother; there 
 will be fourteen altogether." 
 
 " Fourteen ! And do you know whom my father 
 has invited to dinner ? " 
 
 " I should just think I do ! He did not wish to 
 have anybody at first ; that would have been neither 
 pleasant nor kind to your brother, and I thought 
 you would be pleased to see some people here." 
 
 "Oh ! yes... and do you know... has my father in- 
 vited that friend of my brother — M. Marcelin ? " 
 
 " He did not think of doing so, but I called his 
 attention to the fact that there would be thirteen at 
 table, so he said : ' Yery well, you had better invite 
 him.'" 
 
 "Ah ! Friquette, you are a clever little minx ; you 
 always manage to get what you want. I am sure 
 Eugene would have been very vexed if his most inti- 
 mate friend had not been invited to dinner." 
 
24 MISS DIANA. 
 
 " Certainly, Miss." 
 
 At this moment their conversation was interrupted 
 by the appearance of Jacquet, M. Belatont's valet, 
 a great booby about twenty years of age, who did 
 not dare to look a woman in the face, and became 
 pnrple when a girl addressed a simple question to 
 him. Jacqnet was a tall, well-made fellow, but a 
 great blockhead, with his eyes always staring in the 
 clonds as though he was always on the look out for 
 a balloon. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Diana," said Jacquet, 
 "for coming into your room without being called, 
 . bnt I have been looking everywhere for Friquette, 
 for I want to speak to her at once." 
 
 "Well, what is it? Speak out, what is it you 
 have to say of such importance that you come and 
 look for me in my mistress' room ? Now then, you 
 great booby, what is it ? " 
 
 " First of all, Friquette, I must ask you to address 
 me as Jacquet, and not as a booby. I do not like 
 people calling me out of my uame." 
 
 " So, so, you need not get into such a temper! I 
 will not call you out of your name again." 
 
 " Well, I always call you Friquette ; I never say 
 Blunquette or anything else which is not your proper 
 name." 
 
 " And now, what do you want ? " 
 
 " Why, master says there is no need to invite M. 
 Marcelin in order to make up fourteen at table. He 
 had forgotteu M. Grandbec ; he is to make the four- 
 teenth. He says he infinitely prefers him to M. 
 Marcelin, so he has hurried me off to let you know 
 the new arrangements." 
 
 The girl frowned and looked at her young mistress, 
 who was commencing to pout out her lips. 
 
 " Ah! so master told you that did he ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he said he would much rather have M. 
 Grandbec as his fourteenth guest. I told him that 
 
MISS DIANA. 25 
 
 if he was at all in want of anyone to make up the 
 number of his party I would willingly make the four- 
 teenth. He only laughed at what I said, and went 
 out to see about the invitations." 
 
 " Are you sure master has gone out ? n 
 
 " Positive ; he went out with his friend Plantureau, 
 who was talking about some new invention which 
 was to take the place of walking sticks." 
 
 Eriquette paid no heed to Jacquet now, but whis- 
 pering to Diana, begged her to take down her cornet 
 and play: "J am off to-morrow, and must leave my 
 Mary." 
 
 " You always want that tune," said Diana. 
 
 " Oh ! yes Miss," responded the maid, " you play 
 it so well ; I think it is very pretty, and M. Marcelin 
 is quite in love with it." 
 
 Diana did as her maid requested ; whether she 
 guessed it was a signal or not, she invariably noticed 
 that her brother's friend always put in an appear- 
 ance whenever she repeated the tune. At times 
 there is a bit of roguishness in the most mtdest of 
 girls. As for Jacquet, as soon as he heard the first 
 few notes he hurried off towards the door, remarking 
 to himself that he believed that was the only tune 
 the young mistress could play. As he was leaving, 
 Eriquette stopped him and asked where he was going. 
 
 " I am going out fishing," responded the lad. 
 *' Master told me that as he did not intend to ask M 
 Marcelin, I should have to do the fishing, and to be 
 careful about bringing home trout this time and no 
 a drowned rabbit." 
 
 " So you are going," said the maid, "without an 
 answer to your message ? " 
 
 " The answer ? " said he; " is there any answer ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly there is. As sc8n as you see M. 
 Belatout, tell him that it is too late, that Eriquette 
 has alredy seen Marcelin and invited him to dinner 
 to-morrow. Wc shall have two fourteenths after all." 
 
26 MISS DIANA. 
 
 " That will be twenty-eight." 
 
 " Never you mind what it will be ; it does not con- 
 cern you in any way." 
 
 " Then am 1 to go fishing or not ? " 
 
 " You can do as you like ! All the fish you catch 
 will never choke anyone." 
 
 Jacquet disappeared, and Diana hastily remarked 
 to her maid : " What did you mean just now, Fri- 
 quette ? You have not seen M. Marcelin." 
 
 " Well," answered the girl, " we can very soon do 
 so, it is the same thing, and I can give him the in- 
 vitation then. I presume you would rather have 
 him next you at the table than M. Grandbec ! " 
 
 " Oh ! no, Friquette," said Diana ; " I do not like 
 him a bit. He is so grave and serious ; I have never 
 seen .him laugh yet. He looks you up and down, 
 and speaks so slowly, that he seems to be always 
 afraid of saying a word too much ! " 
 
 " Then I suppose you would not be very pleased to 
 marry him ? " 
 
 "Marry him? Whatever are you talking about, 
 Friquette ! Why, you put me qnite in a fright ! I 
 could never marry a man like M. Jules Grandbec ! 
 But where did you get such villanous ideas from ? " 
 
 " Well, Miss, without pretending to notice much, 
 I see pretty well everything that goes on, and I also 
 hear a great deal that is not meant for my ears ; for 
 what is the use of having ears and eyes if we do not 
 utilise them! I often hear your father speak in 
 glowing terms of M. Grandbec, and how your brother 
 ougiit to take him for a model of wisdom and econo- 
 my. He never plays loto for a sou, he never has in- 
 trigues with girls, and he has never once fought a 
 duel! He has considerable means, and will some 
 day be a fully Qualified notary ; he is just the sort of 
 man he should nke as a husband for his daughter." 
 
 " My God ! did my father really say that? " 
 
 " Yes, MisSj indeed he did ; and when he spoke of 
 
Miss diana. £? 
 
 M. Graudbec* he would smile and rub bis hands, as 
 much as to say : ' There is the very man!'" 
 
 " You make me quite Unnerved ! What a terrible 
 thine to think of ! And M. Marcelin does not seem 
 to be coming to-day ! ' 
 
 " Play your cornet then, play your cornet.' 
 
 Diana had just commenced when a young man 
 rushed headlong into the room* and cried out : ' " Ah ! 
 Miss, how wonderfully well you play! You make 
 progress every day ! " 
 
 It was he for whom she was waiting — Marcelin 
 Nigelle, a good-looking young fellow, tall, cheerful, 
 full of life, hasty, yet sound and sensible. He studied 
 medicine in ; fact, he had received his diploma, but 
 he did not practice, for, being only twenty-six years 
 of age, he was anxious to continue his studies thai; 
 he might be of more value to his fellow-creatures. 
 He was, in fact, anxious to become more proficient 
 in the theory of medicine before settling down to the 
 practice. This arose from a feeling of modesty, but 
 the world, seldom disposed to discern modesty in an 
 individual, declared that he was simply an idle young 
 man, who could find nothing with which to amuse 
 himself. 
 
 Diana blushed deeply when M. Marcelin entered, 
 and, hastening to put aside her instrument, she 
 stammered out: "Good day, sir; and do you really 
 think that I am making progress? I do not cer- 
 tainly care very much for the instrument " 
 
 " You are wrong, Miss ; I am enraptured with it, 
 especially when you are playing ! " 
 
 " He is not thinking of the cornet now," chimed 
 in Friquette ; " tell him that your brother is coming 
 home to-morrow, and that your father is giving a 
 big dinner, to which he is invited." 
 
 " Can it be *possible? Do you mean to say that 
 Eugene is coming up from Paris to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; my brother has just written to M. 
 
28 MISS DtAftA. 
 
 Belatout to say that he will be here to-morrow, and 
 I shall be very happy when he comes I can tell you ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I am delighted," exclaimed Marcel in ; " and 
 fancy your father inviting me to dinner! He must 
 have got over his dislike for me ; what good fortune ! 
 I must take advantage of his kindly disposition to- 
 wards me ; I have something I am anxious to ask 
 him — something on which depends my whole future 
 happiness. He has hitherto treated me so coldly 
 that I had not dared to ask him, but now he has in- 
 vited me to dinner, I indeed have every hope for 
 the best." 
 
 " Don't be in such a hurry to natter yourself," 
 said Friquette; "this invitation did not come from 
 M. Belatout of his own accord. It was a long time 
 before I could persuade him to invite you ; and, after 
 he gave me permission to ask you, he sent Jacquet 
 to me and said that he had altered his mind and 
 should invite M. Grandbec instead. Is that not true, 
 Miss?" 
 
 " Yes ; my father has changed his mind." 
 
 "Well, am I invited or not? for I do not under- 
 stand now which way it stands." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are invited, for I told Jacquet to 
 tell his master that I have already seen you and 
 given you the invitation to dinner, and" that it was 
 too late for him to make any other arrangements." 
 
 " Ah ! Friquette, you are a capital girl ; what a 
 head you have ! " 
 
 " I also said that I should ask you to go and get 
 us some trout for to-morrow." 
 
 " All right, I will be off at once, for I am very 
 anxious to put M. Belatout in a good humour. I 
 will run back and get my rod ; I must not lose any 
 time, eh Miss ? " 
 
 But Diana stopped Mm with a, nervous little 
 toss of the head, and, with downcast eyes, muttered 
 forth : " M. Marcelin, what is it you intend to ask 
 
MISS DIANA. 29 
 
 my father, and which seems to carry so much of 
 your future happiness with it ? " 
 
 "Marcelin took Diana's little hand in his, and, 
 pressing it tenderly, responded : "Can you not guess 
 what it is ? " 
 
 " No," said Diana ; " I can never guess anything." 
 
 " I bet I cou]d guess it," thought Friquette, al- 
 though she pretended not to hear a word. 
 
 " Miss Diana," murmured Marcelin, " 1 have not 
 hitherto dared to speak to you, but I thought my 
 eyes had told you all ; I had hoped that you had 
 understood them and that you knew how much I 
 loved you, ...and I flatter myself that my love is not 
 altogether displeasing to you. Am I deceived ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I do not say that sir ! " 
 
 " Then may I ask your father for your hand ? It 
 mil not be distasteful to you if he consents to have 
 me for his son-in-law ? " 
 
 "Oh! on the contrary... I mean... I should say... 
 Oh ! I am quite ashamed " 
 
 " My dear Diana ! you have made me very happy. 
 Do not retract your sweet avowal, nor fear to let me 
 read your heart." 
 
 "You had better run on to your fishing now," 
 cried Friquette, "and if you want to get master in a 
 good humour you had better bring plenty of trout. 
 Miss Diana would be very happy as your wife, but 
 before that can possibly be you will have to satisfy 
 her father." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Friquette ; I will get away to the stream 
 now.^ I will bring home a good catch, if I have to 
 dive in after them ! " 
 
 " Oh ! no, M. Marcelin, there is no need for that. 
 I should not like " 
 
 "Best at ease, my dear Diana, your love will pro- 
 tect me. I will get away now, and presently I will 
 return with the result of my fishing." 
 
 In his joy, the young man seized Diana's hand 
 
30 RETtJRN 6E THE PRODIGAL SON; 
 
 and kissed it fervently time after time ; then, as he 
 left, he caught and embraced Friquette, who laughed 
 and said : "He is off his head with joy; he mistook 
 me for yon. Your lover is very impetuous, is he not, 
 Miss ? whilst you are so timorous and shy ; but never 
 mind, it is all the same, you will get on well together, 
 for water and fire unite just as well as water and 
 wine*" 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 M. Belatotjt occupied the whole day in preparing 
 and sending out the invitations for the regal repast 
 he proposed to give on the following day. Imme- 
 diately he returned home, his first care was to dis- 
 cover whether Jacquet had given Friquette his in- 
 structions with respect to cancelling M. Marcelin's 
 invitation. Jacquet also hastened to acquaint his 
 master with* the maid's answer: that it was too late, 
 as M. Marcelin was already invited. 
 
 " Too late ! '' exclaimed Belatout ; "too late ! why 
 Friquette had scarcely left me when I sent to her ; 
 you could not have gone to her at once, you fool ! ,: 
 
 "Indeed I did, sir; I did not even stay to wipe 
 my nose." 
 
 "Then tell Friquette I want her at once; now 
 then, do you hear what I say ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; if she does not care to come, shall I 
 bring her ? " 
 
 Friquette obeyed the orders of her master, but, as 
 she easily guessed what he would say, she took care 
 
RETURN OP THE PRODIGAL SON. 31 
 
 to take something into the kitchen, which she care- 
 fully covered with her apron. With this, she pre- 
 sented herself before M. Belatout, who addressed her 
 in dry sarcatic tones : " And now, Friquette, why is 
 it you do not obey my orders now ? " 
 
 " Sir ! when have I ever disobeyed you? " 
 
 " I sent word to you by Jacquet that it was use- 
 less to invite M. Marcelin, as I had obtained my 
 fourteenth guest elsewhere ; in fact, I cannot under- 
 stand how I came to forget him when we were dis- 
 cussing the guest. M. Grandbec is such an estimable 
 fellow ! And you told Jacquet tha^ it was too late, 
 that M. Marcelin was already invited ; why, you had 
 only just left me ! How could you have already in- 
 vited M. Marcelin? " 
 
 " It is very simple indeed, sir ! As I Left you, I 
 saw the young man walking down the street, so I 
 ran after him, and said that your son and his friend 
 was coming up from Paris to-morrow and that you 
 desired his company at dinner " 
 
 " You seem to have been in a devil of a hurry to 
 execute this commission." 
 
 "I always hurry to carry out your wishes, sir. M. 
 Marcelin was delighted to accept your invitation." 
 
 " Very likely, but I should have been much more 
 delighted not to have had him ; without doubt, he is 
 a friend of my son's, but he has always given him 
 bad advice and set him evil examples." 
 
 " Why, M. Marcelm has been in Bar-le-Duc for 
 the last six months, and M. Eugene has been in Paris 
 all the time; he could not give him much advice 
 then ! Besides, everybody here speaks well of the 
 young Doctor Marcelin." 
 
 "Doctor! a pretty doctor he is! Do you know 
 anyone he has cured ? " 
 
 " No sir, I do not ; nor do I know anyone whom he 
 has killed." 
 
 "Oh ! that will 'come in time, for he is not only a 
 
32 RETURN OP THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 doctor, but a duellist as well." 
 
 " Ah ! and lie is a capital fisherman as well. You 
 must think of that too, sir ! " 
 
 And Friquette took from beneath her apron several 
 handsome-looking trout, which were still living. 
 
 " What are they ? " cried Belatout. 
 
 " Why, surely sir, you can see they are trout, and 
 what fine ones they are too ! " 
 
 " Ah ! yes, they appear to be very handsome fish. 
 Did Jacquet catch them ? " 
 
 " Jacquet ! Do you know what he brought as the 
 result of his day's fishing ? A dead cat ! A poor 
 little cat that Lad been thrown into the water." 
 
 " So, he fishes for dead cats now, does he P " 
 
 " Offer, these to your guests, with some of that 
 Geneva sauce, which Mary Ann knows so well how 
 to make. I asked M. Marcelin fo go fishing for us, 
 and he brought these hardly an instant ago " 
 
 " Ah ! so it was Marcelin " 
 
 "Are they not superb, sir? They will make a 
 splendid dish to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Yes, I have no doubt they will look well on the 
 table." 
 
 "You are not sorry now at having invited M. Mar- 
 celin are you? " 
 
 « Friquette, tell Mary Ann I expect her to surpass 
 herself to-morrow ; we must have a really grand 
 dinner." 
 
 "Yes, sir; rest assured, she will do her best. 
 What beautiful fish ! " 
 
 Friquette hastened to her young mistress and in- 
 formed her that M. Belatout no longer regretted 
 having invited his son's friend to dinner on the fol- 
 lowing day, for the trout had worked wonders and 
 had put him into the best of humours. 
 
 " Then, do you think," said Diana, " that my 
 father will receive M. Marcelin and consent to my 
 being his wife ? " 
 
RETURN OP THE PRODIGAL SON. 33 
 
 "Ah. ! Miss ; that is another matter. That is quite 
 different from an invitation to dinner! Mayhap we 
 shall find a fish with which he may be bribed into 
 giving his consent." 
 
 The following morning, ahout eleven o'clock, a 
 young man, followed by a porter with a somewhat 
 scanty supply of luggage, entered the house belong- 
 ing to M. Belatout, paid the porter and sent him 
 away, then stood in the hall and commenced to cry 
 out : " Hey ! hallo ! here I am ! Heigho ! is there 
 nobody at home ? What ! are you not going to give 
 me welcome with a volley of guns ? Where are your 
 bouquets and your preans ? " 
 
 Eriquette was soon out, quickly followed by Diana, 
 and shortly after by M. Belatout, who exclaimed : 
 "What! is it you making all this noise? Just as 
 disorderly as ever ! " 
 
 "Yes, father, I am not changed a bit; always 
 cheerful and amiable, just the same jolly fellow, al- 
 ways the boy of which you ought to be so proud. 
 Come, let us embrace." 
 
 Eugene embraced his father and sister, gave Eri- 
 quette a gentle tap upon her coy fresh cheek, and 
 entered the house, when a slight explosion was heard, 
 followed by a cry as of one in pain. 
 
 " What is that noise ? " asked M. Belatout. 
 
 " Some one fired that in my honour, I expect," 
 said Eugene; " it is a very poor show, certainly, but 
 I am quite satisfied." 
 
 " I recognised Jacquet's voice," said Eriquette. 
 
 Just at that moment, Jacquet appeared on the 
 scene, groaning and holding his head; his eye was 
 quite black and his face covered with powder. 
 
 " What is it that nigger Jacquet ! " exclaimed 
 Eugene. " What's happened my boy ? Are you 
 turned gunner ? " 
 
 " Sir ! I fired off a petard in honour of your return, 
 
 and you see what has happened to me " 
 
 o 
 
34 RETURN OP THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 " Yes ; well, I will dispense with any more petards. 
 Your intention is good, I have no doubt, lny dear 
 Jacquet ; I will compensate you for this misfortune 
 later on; but, just now, I am dying with hunger." 
 
 " Come on then, we will have breakfast, you 
 rascal." M. Belatout, in spite of the dignified air 
 he assumed, was none the less happy at seeing his 
 son again, who had not been to Bar-le-Duc for two 
 years now. He looked him up and down, with a 
 certain amount of pride, and said : " I think you 
 have grown somewhat since I last saw you."- 
 
 " And improved, eh ! father ? " 
 
 "Well, your face hasn't changed; you look pretty 
 well and seem to have a good appetite." 
 
 " Oh ! superb ! I am one of the greatest eaters in 
 Paris!" 
 
 " So you are a gourmand are you? " 
 
 " Why, I toss off a dozen oysters in the twinkling 
 of an eye ! I suppose you people have already 
 breakfasted?" 
 
 "At six every morning, as regular as the clock ! " 
 
 " My sister looks very pretty ; my dear father, you 
 must soon see about finding her a husband." 
 
 " You leave that to me, I do not forget my duty 
 towards her." 
 
 " Now, if you like, I will introduce you to a capital 
 fellow — one who will be charmed " 
 
 "No, no, thanks my boy; a son-in-law on your re- 
 commendation would inspire me with very little 
 confidence." 
 
 " Oh ! that is rather a cold way of receiving me ! " 
 
 " I ought to know much better than you what is 
 necessary for my daughter's happiness ! You will 
 be getting ruined yourself soon, and then probably 
 you will be more tractable to reason." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I am not quite so sure of it ! 
 Not even if you offered me a Venus, a Galatea, or 
 even a Hebe ! " 
 
RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 35 
 
 " Very well, we will talk it over a little later on." 
 
 "My dear brother," exclaimed Diana, "it is surely 
 not necessary for you to eat so much for your break- 
 fast; perhaps you forget that we have a grand 
 dinner to-day, and I am anxious that you should do 
 ample justice to it." 
 
 '" Eest assured, my dear sister, that your brother s 
 capacity in such matters is absolutely unlimited. A 
 good breakfast never yet prevented me from indulg- 
 ing in a good dinner; in fact, I think it augments 
 my appetite." 
 
 "You will have," said Friquette, as she waited 
 upon her young master, "some trout caught by 
 your bosom friend, Marcelin." 
 
 " Ah ! that dear fellow Marcelin ! I shall be de- 
 lighted to see him again. Is he all right ?" 
 
 " Yes, brother," Diana responded, " you will see 
 him at dinner ; father has invited him to meet you 
 on your return home." 
 
 " It is very good of you, father, to invite my old 
 friend." 
 
 " Oh ! I only invited him because . . . that is to say 
 ... in fact ... yes, 1 invited him " 
 
 " And does he practice as a physician here ? Has 
 he a* good connection ? How many people has he 
 
 killed as yet?" 
 
 " Your dear friend has done nothing except to walk 
 about or ride his horse ; always amusing himself in 
 some way or other." 
 
 "Ah! he has, of course, sufficient means to lead 
 an idle life ; but he will practice in his profession 
 soon, I feel sure." 
 
 " And do you mean to say that you approve of a 
 man doing nothing ! " exclaimed his father ; " for 
 myself, I think that any man, no matter what his 
 position may be, ought to work and render himself 
 useful to the community at large." 
 
 " Father, what you say is all very fine, but before 
 
36 RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SOlt* 
 
 criticising a man you ought to give him time to sow 
 his wild oats. Wisdom, you know, is not infectious, 
 like small pox for instance ; because if it were so, we 
 should be in constant need of re-vaccination. You 
 see, my dear father, you are a good deal past my 
 age. Did. you never commit any foolish indiscretions 
 in the days of your youth ? " 
 " Indeed, I did not ! " 
 
 "Then it must have been because you had no op- 
 portunity . . . but had one presented itself . . . well, 
 what would you have done ! " 
 
 " Oh ! there was never the least danger ! I have 
 always been a man of most consistent conduct. I 
 would have set all temptations at defiance ! " 
 
 " Very well, I have finished my breakfast ; I will 
 run upstairs and change my clothes, and take a turn 
 round and see some of my old friends." 
 
 " That's right, dress yourself in good style, for we 
 shall have a lot of people here to-night at dinner, 
 and we are anxious that you should do us credit." 
 
 Eugene rose, and, taking his father by the arm, 
 led him to an adjoining apartment, and said : " JSTow 
 father, you must understand that for my toilet I re- 
 quire innumerable little — for example, J must have 
 a tooth brush — and I haven't a sou, so now is*the 
 time for you to get out your purse. Come now, do 
 the thing well — be generous, let me have a cheque 
 for a thousand francs." 
 
 " What ! give you a thousand francs to provide 
 yourself with a tooth brush ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I shall have to buy a good many other 
 things. I have no money, so that if your son is to 
 
 hold his position — well " 
 
 " Very well, I will give you what you ask, but only 
 on condition that you conduct yourself subserviently 
 to my wishes, and that you allow me to have full 
 control over any matrimonial engagements you may 
 enter upon " 
 
RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON. 3? 
 
 t( Just as you like, my dear father ; you will be de- 
 lighted with my docility." 
 
 M. Belatout drew a cheque for a thousand francs, 
 which he presented to his son, who, finding himself 
 so easily and abundantly provided for, immediately 
 set about his toilet. As soon as he was dressed, he 
 proceeded to his friend Marcelin's, who uttered a 
 shout of joy on seeing his old companion : " Why, 
 it is dear old Eugene ! " 
 
 " Yes, my dear fellow, I have come to Bar-Ie-Duc 
 because I had no choice, for you are aware I like no 
 place like Paris ; but my father was anxious for me 
 to come home, and, as I hadn't a sou left — why, I 
 came ! " 
 
 " Do you think of settling down here then ? " 
 
 " What about yourself ? They say that you do 
 little else here but enjoy yourself; if you can get 
 much fun out here in the country, you must be very 
 easy to please ! " 
 
 " Ah ! my friend, you see, I am in love ! " 
 
 " In love ! but you can be in love anywhere. I left 
 two charming girls in Paris ; one was Zozinette, the 
 fair girl who could smoke cigarettes through her 
 nose, drink sherbert, and craunch lobsters in their 
 shells... ah! a fine girl! Then, there was Floreska, 
 who danced at the theatre... what a dainty foot she 
 had ! and what a leg ! After dinner, in the middle 
 of dessert, she would often want to dance in the 
 middle of the table. You must remember her ! " 
 
 "No, I seem to have forgotten all that, and I 
 have no wish to bring those things back to mind 
 again, for, as I just told you, I am deeply in love, 
 and am auxious to get married. Can you guess who 
 it is 9 " 
 
 " You see, I know none of the beauties about here." 
 
 "Well, Eugene, it is your own sister; I love and 
 adore her. Yes, it is no less than she whom I am 
 turning with anxiety to marry." 
 
38 RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 "Bali! Diana! she has certainly grown very 
 pretty ! Well, if you love my sister, take her, and 
 the thing is done ! " 
 
 " Ahem ! done ! Not quite so easy as yon imagine ! 
 Your father's consent is the greatest obstacle to 
 overcome." 
 
 "Well, what then? You are well-bred, well-to- 
 do, and a fully-qualified doctor, granted you do not 
 practise, but that shows your prudence, lest you 
 should make any blunders ; you love my sister, and 
 I suppose she loves you. What else can my father 
 want or expect! " 
 
 " Ah ! you see, your father will not forgive me for 
 having taken part in a duel — for having killed my 
 adversary. He has remarked times without number 
 (Friquette brings me the news) that a duellist shall 
 never enter his family." 
 
 "Good! we say many things which practically 
 signify nothing, and are forgotten as soon as said. 
 My father will relent. Moreover, if you take my ad- 
 vice, you will see my father as soon as possible; I 
 think you have a most favourable opportunity, for 
 he seems to have got it into his head that I ought 
 to think about getting married. So that in giving 
 his consent to you, he will be killing two birds with 
 one stone." 
 
 " Then do you foel disposed to marry anyone 
 whom he choses to suggest? " 
 
 " Yes, if she is young, pretty, well-made, and of a 
 cheerful disposition. But, in the contrary case, I 
 shall lay low." 
 
 "Ah! you had better not talk like that before 
 your father; that will certainly not make matters 
 smooth for me! " 
 
 "Rest contented, I shall hold my gag ! " 
 
 " What ! more slang ! Do you know that a young 
 fellow who talks slang is very badly received ! " 
 
 " I suppose you can laugh now and then ? " 
 
A REFRIGERANT INVENTION. 39 
 
 % 
 
 "Not like that; certainly not ! " 
 
 " Then I shall soon get sick of this place ! I have 
 managed to get a cheque for a thousand francs out 
 of the old man, so I am just going out to get some 
 cigars. Zozinette ! thou who smokest through thy 
 pretty nose ! where art thou at this moment ? I bet 
 I shan't find a woman who can smoke here ! " 
 
 " "Very likely not." 
 
 " How much behind the times the country al- 
 ways is ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A REFRIGERANT INVENTION. 
 
 About four in the afternoon the guests began to 
 arrive. In the country they do not dine at half-past 
 seven, or even eight, as is the custom in Paris ; that 
 custom simply transforms dinner into supper. At 
 M. Belatout's they always dined at five o'clock ; you 
 were allowed a quarter of an hour's grace, not a minute 
 more, and even that was allowed to the ladies only ; 
 rigid punctuality was exacted from the men. 
 
 Marcelin was the first to arrive ; he was anxious 
 to see Diana, but he put down his early arrival to 
 the fact that he was dying to see his old friend 
 Eugene. The beautiful trout which he had sent, 
 had put him into good favour with the master of 
 the house, who remarked somewhat sarcastically that 
 Marcelin could not be reproached with being late, 
 seeing that he was the very first. 
 
 "I am perhaps indiscreet in arriving so early," 
 said Marcelin. 
 
40 A BEFRIGERANT INVENTION. 
 
 " I did not say that, besides somebody must always 
 be the first." 
 
 " Yes, unless several shonld happen to arrive at 
 the same moment." 
 
 Diana did not say a word, she only blushed, and 
 did it with a naivete which would do credit to the 
 most modest girl going. The blushing soon disap- 
 peared, for the time soon arrives when we blush at 
 nothing. But it is a great pity that it is so. 
 
 After Marcelin, M. and Madame Plantureau ar- 
 rived. Madame was a slight brunette, who at one 
 time had been very piquant, and was so still to some 
 extent. For example, she did not seem to be exces- 
 sively fond of her husband, and she did not mind 
 shrugging her shoulders when he commenced to talk 
 about his inventions. But all this did not prevent 
 M. Plantureau, a great fair fellow, with hair as 
 woolly as a negro, from continuing to look for some- 
 thing which would eventually make him a million- 
 aire, and (which he coveted btill more) would hand 
 his name down to posterity. On this occasion, he 
 arrived in a most jubilant state of mind, and con- 
 tinued rubbing his hands, for that was his particular 
 habit when he thought he had discovered something 
 new. As for Madame Plantureau, she was almost 
 ready to shed tears whenever she saw her husband 
 rubbing his hands, for it was a certain indication to 
 her that he was on the point of taking out another 
 patent for some new invention. The Plantureaus 
 congratulated Eugene upon his return. 
 
 "It is a long time since you came to see your \ 
 father," said madame. 
 
 " Two years, madame ; and then I only spent six- 
 teen days here." 
 
 " I suppose you will stay with us longer this time?" 
 
 " I trust he will not go away again," said M. Bela- 
 tout. " Yes, he is going to settle down here in Bar- 
 le-Duc; I have found a capital method of making 
 
A REFEIGERANT INVENTION. 41 
 
 5> 
 
 hiui tractable to ruy wishes. 
 
 " Ah ! my God ! and have you invented something 
 also?" 
 
 At this remark Madame Plantureau hurried from 
 M. Belatont with a look of the greatest consterna- 
 tion, whilst her husband rubbed his hands and said : 
 " My wife here is always making attacks upon in- 
 ventors — but patience ! When she can keep her own 
 carriage she will alter her tone then." 
 
 " I do not know, sir, what I shall eventually keep, 
 but what I do know is that we have rooms full of 
 your inventions, which serve no other purpose than 
 make our house look like a secondhand shop ! " 
 
 " Madame, no one ever succeeds at the first at- 
 tempt, and it seems to me that you ought to put up 
 with a certain amount of trouble and inconvenience 
 if eventually your name is handed down to prosterity 
 as that of an illustrious- inventor." 
 
 " Posterity ! What has posterity got to do with 
 me ? Will it put butter on the spinach ? " 
 
 "Ah! hold your tongue, Eulalia; you are blas- 
 phemous." 
 
 " jNo, I am speaking logically ! I say that before 
 working for prosterity you ought to buy your own 
 stockings and trousers." 
 
 The arrival of M. Potard put a stop to this little 
 conjugal squabble. The ex-registrar was a great 
 fat man, who was everlastingly taking snuff; not 
 two minutes passed without he took out his box. 
 He came in wiping his face. " Ah ! good day ladies 
 and gentlemen. I am delighted to see you. Pooh ! 
 how hot it is ! more than 82 degrees, and we are only 
 in June ! What will it be presently ! Ah ! there is 
 the boy ! How do you do Eugene ? You have not 
 grown very fat ! " 
 
 " jSTo, thank God it hasn't come to that ! " 
 
 "And how is the world using you ? " 
 
 "Do you take snuff? I am surprised; it is con- 
 
42 A REFRIGERANT INVENTION. 
 
 sidered very bad form to take snuff now-a-days — 
 everybody smokes now. 5 ' 
 
 "Well then I am in bad form, for I take snuff 
 and I never smoke." 
 
 "Very well, if it amuses you don't trouble; peg 
 away at it as long as you like ! " 
 
 " What do you say ? " 
 
 " Why, do as you please." 
 
 "Do you take snuff?" 
 
 "I have just told you I do not.' 
 
 "Ah! well M. Belatout, I have come to pass sen- 
 tence on some Gorton wine you have managed 
 to acquire." 
 
 "Yes, and, as I believe you are a bit of a connois- 
 seur, I shall be glad to have your opinion." 
 
 " Connoisseur ! you flatter me ; but I admit that 
 no one could ever deceive me over a wine, either as 
 to its quality or its age." 
 
 " Tell me, M. Potard," cried Eugene, " are you as 
 good a judge of women as you are of wines ? " 
 
 " No, I am afraid that is too much for me." 
 
 " There is a means of making them old very 
 quickly," said Plantureau ; " simply bury them in 
 sand." 
 
 " What ! women ? " 
 
 " No, the bottles of wine. As for women, they get 
 old quite fast enough ! " 
 
 "Well! and what about men?" cried Madame; 
 " I suppose you think they are always young. They 
 are nice fellows, these men ; they would have us be- 
 lieve that time passes with us and not with them ! " 
 
 The men laughed heartily at this sally of Madame 
 Plantureau, and M. Grandbec arrived. He was a 
 long young man, dry and yellow, with eyes like those 
 of a screech owl, and a nose like a beak; he was 
 about twenty-eight years of age, but looked forty 
 He held himself as upright and stiff as a bamboo' 
 and walked about with the air of a man who con. 
 
A REEEIGERANT INVENTION. 43 
 
 sidered everybody else beneath him. He walked 
 with measured tread, spoke as he walked; he sat 
 down as though he were moved by springs, and when 
 he went to the theatre he might easily have been 
 taken for a wooden man. M. Belatout hurried to 
 meet this guy of a man and shook his hand with the 
 utmost effush n, whilst Eugene stifling the premoni- 
 tory symptoms of a fit of laughter, quickly whis- 
 pered to Marcelin: " My God ! Marcelin, whatever is 
 that thing? It is like those little devils that jump 
 out of boxes to frighten children. Wherever did 
 my father get bold of that villanous image ! " 
 
 "My dear Eugene, that villanous image, as you 
 call it, is M. Grandbec, who is studying to become a 
 notary. Your father has taken a great liking to 
 him, because this Grandbec affects a tremendous 
 fascination for work and exemplary wisdom, and 
 never assumes the slightest gaiety of ^demeanour; in 
 fact, he has never been seen to laugh." 
 
 ^He ought to be a very agreeable member of 
 society ; about as welcome as an undertaker's man, 
 1 should imagine ! " 
 
 M. Grandbec responded to his host by stiffly hold- 
 ing out his hand and bowing with profuse obeisance. 
 M. Belatout introduced his guest to Eugene: "My 
 dear M. Grandbec, this is my son Eugene; I do not 
 think you have met him before, as he has only just 
 arrived from Paris. It is two years since we had the 
 pleasure of receiving him here before. But I hope 
 now that you will make much better acquaintance 
 with each other." 
 
 M. Grandbec took several steps towards Eugene, 
 whom he saluted and gravely addressed: "Sir, I 
 shall certainly be highly flattered to have the honour 
 of making your acquaintance." 
 
 "And for my part," responded Eugene, "lean 
 assure you that it will afford Bibi the greatest plea- 
 sure " 5 * 
 
44 A BEFBIGERANT INVENTION. 
 
 M. Grand bee was completely taken by surprise ; the 
 thought at first that he had misunderstood his hos's 
 son, but approaching Diana, he asked in soft tones : 
 " Is ' Bibi ' your brother's nickname ? " 
 
 " No sir," answered Diana, " or at least, the only 
 name he received in baptism was that of Eugene." 
 
 " But you know, sometimes between friends, a kind 
 of pet name is often used ; from what your brother 
 said, I should imagine that he is known among his 
 intimates as Bibi." 
 
 " Do you think so, sir ? " 
 
 " Certainly, miss ; in fact, he as much as told me 
 so just now." 
 
 The two Boulinots and Madame Fleurinard, the 
 widow of three husbands, joined the festive party. 
 The Boulinots were of an old commercial family, tho- 
 roughly well-to-do, and people who thought they 
 could do as they liked simply from the fact that they 
 had money. They were exceedingly embarrassing 
 people to have about, as they only deemed those 
 things worth having which they bought themselves. 
 The husband in his conversation continually em- 
 ployed the possessive pronoun ; in fact, his mouth 
 was always full of it : " My fortune ! my lauds, my 
 table, my servants ! " There was only one " my " 
 that he always omitted, and that was my wife. Ma- 
 dame Boulinot was not quite so personal ; she would 
 say our investments, our people, our plate, our 
 wines ! And, in speaking to her intimate friends, 
 would sometimes say "our children." 
 
 The Widow Fleurinard was forty-nine years of 
 age. She had had three husbands, and seemed to 
 always have an eye for a fourth, and, considering 
 her shy glances and triumphs of the toilet, it is very 
 probable she will get him. u It is not because they 
 think I am getting old," said Madame Fleurinard, 
 " but they believe I cast some sort of spell over my 
 husbands, and that seems to keep them back." 
 
A REFRIGERANT INVENTION. 45 
 
 The Triffouille family now completed the number 
 of the guests. They were very good people, who had 
 a very remarkable characteristic; they never spoke 
 an ill- word of any on 3. Consequently, they passed as 
 unmannered beasts amongst many of their acquaint- 
 ances, The two Misses Triffouille, young girls of 
 from fifteen to sixteen years of age, rushed to em- 
 brace Diana, and hastened to have a quiet chat with 
 her in a corner of the drawing-room. You may 
 have remarked that young girls have a peculiar 
 weakness for quiet corners. M. Belatout presented 
 his son to those among the guests to whom he was 
 unknown. But the general conversation turned upon 
 the unwonted heat, which prevailed at the time. 
 The men perspired and mopped their brows, but the 
 ladies declared they were not hot ; their self-esteem 
 was too high for that. They were red and glossy 
 with the perspiration, but they would not use their 
 handkerchiefs* Some probably feared to disarrange 
 their hair, others possibly might have spoiled the 
 harmony of their colouring. 
 
 "It is in the night," said M. Potard, "that the 
 heat is so unbearable ; if you cover youi s 3lf ever so 
 little, the heat still seems unbearable." 
 
 " Oh ! I never cover myself at all," said M. Bouli- 
 not ; " I always lie down on the bed as naked as a 
 worm, so I can kick to my heart's content." 
 
 " If Madame lies near you in the same state, you 
 ought to look very much like Adam and Eve," ex- 
 claimed Eugene. 
 
 " We do not sleep together," responded Madame 
 Boulinot ; " we have separate beds . . . my husband 
 snores enough to deafen anyone near him." 
 
 " It is my peculiar temperament," said Boulinot ; 
 " I must snore some way cr another, or I should 
 be ill." 
 
 " What is you other method of snoring, M. Bouli- 
 
46 A REFRIGERANT INVENTION. 
 
 not P " asked Eugene laughing. But he reeived no 
 reply. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," exclaimed M. Plantu- 
 reau, advancing to the centre of the room, " for 
 some long time now we have been complaining about 
 the heat, which lasts sometimes for months, and no- 
 body yet has found a means of combating this 
 high temperature and of introducing fresh cool air. 
 Well ! I have searched for a means, and I have 
 found it......" 
 
 "Indeed! what a fortunate discovery." 
 " Will you please explain it to us, M. Plantureau?" 
 " Follow me carefully then. First of all, my in- 
 vention is for night-time, when we are in bed, for, 
 as you say yourselves, it is then that the heat is 
 least endurable and it prevents sleep." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is certainly at night that the heat is 
 most insupportable." 
 
 " Well, here is my invention — now follow me care- 
 fully please. It is a wooden roller, as wide as the 
 bed ; to this roller are attached two large, widely- 
 opened fans, one above and the other below. To 
 this roller you attach two wooden bearings, which 
 ycu place on your bed, one on the right and the 
 other on the left. You take care that the bearings, 
 which sustain the roller, are placed at the head of 
 the bed. You then have near your head a roller 
 flanked with a pair of fans. The method of woiking 
 it needs but little description. It is managed by 
 means of a very simple piece of mechanism, which 
 is regulated b} r clockwork. As soon as you are in 
 bed yon wind up your — I mean your roller, and it 
 commences to revolve at a great speed, so that the 
 two fans continually supply you with a fresh current 
 of air. This mechanical contrivance will continue 
 for three hours without cessation. At the end of 
 that time, if you are not asleep, you can wind the 
 machine up again, and the roller commences its 
 
A BEFRIOERANT INVENTION". 47 
 
 game again. Well ! what do you think of that ! " 
 
 " It is most ingenious ! " 
 
 " It seems to be well thought out ! ' 
 
 "Allow me," said M. Boulinot; "I should like a 
 little further information. Supposing I am sound 
 asleep and your roller goes on fanning me; it will 
 not be very agreeable then, surely ? It may cause 
 too much draught, and cause colds and rheumatism." 
 
 " First of all, you must remember, M. Boulinot, 
 that we do not all go to bed like savages without a 
 stitch of clothing on. I think that you could get to 
 sleep much better with a gentle breeze blowing on 
 the face than without it." 
 
 " Is it possible to stop the mechanism when you 
 want to wake up ? " 
 
 " No, it must go on till the end." 
 
 "But," said Madame Meurinard, "I think I should 
 be frightened of this great roller and these fans 
 revolving round my head during the night." 
 
 " You can have them smaller if you prefer it." 
 
 " And is there any noise whilst the machine is 
 going ? " . 
 
 " Oh ! jnst the slightest murmur ; toe, toe, toe, 
 like the raddles of a mill, only not so loud. Now, do 
 you not think my system of nocturnal ventilation is 
 worthy of great success ? " 
 
 "Indeed it is ! Indeed it is ! " exclaimed the men, 
 although all their countenances expressed the con- 
 trary. As for the ladies, they seemed delighted with 
 the contrivance which would be the means of con- 
 tinually refreshing their husbands. 
 
 " Well," said young Eugene, " I think so far as I 
 myself am concerned, that I should prefer to go to 
 sleep under a windmill." 
 
 " To-morrow," cried Plantureau, " I shall order 
 five or six hundred of these rollers, and put my in- 
 vention on the market." 
 
48 THE HERO OF THE FEAST. 
 
 " All ! ' muttered his wife, " we sliall have an- 
 other room full of useless machines now. Whatever 
 shall I do with all these rollers ? " 
 
 " Dinner is ready," Friquette announced, as she 
 popped her head into the drawing-room. 
 
 u Very well ! Now then, come along all! Gentle- 
 men, take the ladies to dinner." 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE HERO OP THE FEAST. 
 
 As soon as M. Belatout gave the signal to take the 
 ladies in to* diuner, M. Grandbec advanced and 
 offered his arm to Diana ; but, as this young man 
 stepped forward in his usual measured way, Mar- 
 celin seized the opportunity of getting at the maiden 
 first, and thus had the felicity of conducting the 
 daughter of the house into the dining-room. There, 
 they had fondly hoped that they might be still next 
 one another, but it was impossible, for M. Belatout 
 had placed the name of each guest on a piece of 
 paper, so that Diana found herself between M. 
 Boulinot and Grandbec; the lovers could not touch 
 each other with their feet under the table — a very 
 useful resort at times, for what takes place under the 
 table is often more amusing and interesting than what 
 occurs above. M. Belatout was throned between 
 Madame Boulinot and Madame Triffouille. Eugene 
 had secretly moved his card to the side of the in- 
 ventor's wife, who seemed greatly in need of consola- 
 tion, above all since her husband had invented a 
 means of avoiding the heat 
 
THK HEttO OS 1 THE FEAST. 49 
 
 The soup was taken with the usual complimentary 
 phrases circulating round the table : " It is excel- 
 lent ! " " It is perfect ! " " I have never tasted such 
 delicious soup ! " 
 
 "I think it is a trifle salt," said M. Boulinot ; 
 "at home, I always insist upon the cook allowing me 
 to taste it before sending it to table, so that I may be 
 sure it contains neither too much salt nor pepper." 
 
 " If we had known that sooner," remarked Eugene, 
 "we might have sent M. Boulinot down into the 
 kitchen ; he might have had a go at everything. 
 Perhaps it is not too late now ? " 
 
 " No, thank you, I prefer to remain at the table," 
 responded the stout guest, who did not perceive that 
 Eugene was poking fun at him. 
 
 " Here is some Madeira, which I can thoroughly 
 recommend," said M. Belatout. 
 
 " Oh ! there is no necessity for your recommenda- 
 tion," cried Eugene ; " the only fault I can find with 
 it is that the bottle is too small. Come, Madame 
 Plantureau, a little Madeira? You must provide 
 yourself against those winds your kind husband pre- 
 pares for you." 
 
 " Yes, you are right ! I should often like some- 
 thing to warm me." 
 
 " What delicious Madeira ! " exclaimed M. Grand- 
 bee, holding his glass to his eye. 
 
 " What do you say, Potard ? " 
 
 " Hum ! pretty good, a trifle pungent ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Boulinot, " this has never come 
 from Madeira ; it is a mixture of brandy and Marsala, 
 probably manufactured at Cette. Get some real 
 Madeira and you will soon find the difference ! I 
 have some at home, and if you were to taste it you 
 would soon find that this is no Madeira ! " 
 
 " Zounds ! " exclaimed Eugene ; " there is a very 
 simple means of settling this matter ; you send for 
 two or three bottles of your Madeira, and, if it is 
 
 D 
 
50 THE HERO OF THE EEAST. 
 
 good, I promise you there shall not be a drop left." 
 
 M. Boulinot was considerably embarrassed at tiiese 
 remarks, for the son of the house had completely 
 nonplused him. " Ah ! no," said he ; "I do not wish 
 to send home for any; besides, my people are all 
 gone out. Moreover, I may have misjudged this 
 wine ; give me another glass," and M. Boulinot 
 handed his glass to Eugene, who hurriedly turned 
 to his neighbour and filled her glass to the brim, at 
 the same time replying to M. Boulinot : " "No, no, 
 you considered the wine so indifferent, we could not 
 possibly trouble you with any more ; it is a mixture 
 made at Cette, it would make you ill. Besides, I 
 am not afraid of mixtures; I will sacrifice myself, 
 and drink the rest." 
 
 M. Boulinot bit his lip and placed his glass on the 
 table before him, saying: "After all, I did not taste 
 it properly." 
 
 M. Belatout was not a little pleased at the salutary 
 lesson his son had inflicted upon the bumptious 
 guest. But he found Eugene's behaviour a trifle in- 
 convenient and said to him : " Eugene, you take the 
 value of my wine too much to heart. I do not wish 
 you to sacrifice yourself by drinking up the remain- 
 ing bottles. I will hand M. Boulinot some of my 
 Corton wine ; I think he will do justice to that ! " 
 
 The gentleman who was so hard to please said 
 nothing. Plantureau hurriedly took up the conver- 
 sation. " I think there ought to be some infallible 
 means of testing whether a wine is adulterated. I 
 shall have to discover one ; I feel sure it can be found, 
 and if so, I shall find it." 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed his wife, " so my poor husband 
 is bent on inventing something else ! " 
 
 " Tour husband is a terrible inventor," responded 
 Eugene; "he ought to have innovated something 
 fresh in the wav of love, and found some new method 
 of expressing his flame ! " 
 
THE HERO OP THE FEAST. 51 
 
 a 
 
 Be quiet ! you make me blush ; you have had too 
 much Madeira. My cheeks feel all on fire ! " 
 
 "M. Plantureau will cool you " 
 
 Mareelin, who considered that enough conversa- 
 tion had taken place over the wines, winch could not 
 possibly be of much interest to the ladies, asked his 
 neighbour, Madame Meurinard, whether she had re- 
 ceived her fashion book from Paris. 
 
 "Havel received my fashion book?" responded 
 that lady. "Why, sir, I subscribe to three now. 
 During the lifetime of my first husband, I only re- 
 ceived one; Alfonso was afraid lest I should grow 
 coquettish. With my second husband, I received 
 another journal, for Leonce adored dress and milli- 
 nery, whilst with my third, Joach ; m, who allowed 
 me to do just as I pleased, I subscribed for a third. 
 Ah ! I could not exist without my fashion books." 
 
 " Then, madame, it is probable that you would 
 take a fourth journal should you obtain another 
 husband ? " 
 
 "Ah! sir, one never knows!" responded the 
 widow, whilst M. Potard muttered : " Four subscrip- 
 tions for a thrice-wed widow ! too expensive ! The 
 Petit Journal ought to be quite enough." 
 
 A silence now intervened and nothing was heard 
 but the jingling of the forks, when M. Grandbec, 
 who for some long time had been trying to think of 
 something pleasant to say, pitched his voice from 
 the depths of his lungs and said : " They found a 
 man hanging in old Lucas' field yesterday." 
 
 "Oh! dear, what a horrible thing!" 
 
 " That makes a nice seasoning for the soup," ex- 
 claimed Eugene. 
 
 " Sir ! I am only relating what I saw myself." 
 
 "What? M. Grandbec, do you mean to say you 
 went to see this man hanging? " exclaimed Madame 
 Boulinot. 
 
 " And pray, why not, madame ? A man hanging 
 
52 THE HEB0 OP THE FEAST. 
 
 is the same as any other man." 
 
 " Yes > the same as any other dead man," 
 
 " Have they found out who the man is? 5 ' ashed 
 M. Belatout. 
 
 . " It is very difficult to tell, for his face was already 
 very green, and his nose was beginning to decom- 
 pose " 
 
 " Oh ! sir, spare us the details ! " 
 
 " However, he was recognised by some woman, 
 who said that it was Nicaise, her husband, and thac 
 he had killed himself because she acccused him of 
 having sweaty feet, and that he was ruining her in 
 socks." 
 
 " That is a very romantic story," said Eugene ; 
 "one wants a little Gorton to wash that down with! " 
 
 " Yes," said M. Potard, " I am of the same opinion 
 as M. Eugene. Let us have some of your Gorton, 
 Belatout ; I am dying to taste it." 
 
 Jacquet brought in the Gorton and placed several 
 bottles at his master's side, saying : " This time 
 there is something good ! " 
 
 "How do you know that?" exclaimed Eugene; 
 " have you been tasting it ? " 
 
 "Oh! yes sir, when I was putting it into the 
 bottles." 
 
 " That will do, Jacquet," said Belatout ; " I must 
 keep my eye on you when you go down into the 
 cellar." 
 
 "If master would like to go down instead of me, 
 I should be delighted." 
 
 The Corton wine was handed round and drunk. 
 M. Potard, the connoisseur, declared that it was very 
 fine and had a delicious bouquet. 
 
 "Well, Potard, what do you think of it ? 
 
 " Oh ! splendid ; I defy anyone to produce a better." 
 
 Everybody seemed of the same opinion. M. Bouli- 
 not alone was silent ; jjresently he ventured to re- 
 mark : "Is it not a trifle passed " 
 
 >> 
 
THE HEEO OF THE FEAST. 53 
 
 a 
 
 Passe? this wine passe!" cried Belatout; "why, 
 it is at its very best ; is it not, Potard ? " 
 
 " I repeat, it is perfect, and I know a good wine 
 when I taste it." 
 
 "In remarking that this wine was passe," said 
 Eugene, " M. Boulinot meant to infer that it would 
 be presently. This wine passes like a letter in the 
 post ; it turns up again. I should like some more, 
 and my neighbour also ! " 
 . " Ah ! M. Eugene ! you are drinking too much ! " 
 
 " M. Eugene," exclaimed Plantureau, " be careful 
 with my wife ; she is taking too much wine ! " 
 
 " So much the better ; she will be able to stand 
 the shock of your inventions. Now we will have a 
 peck at the trout of my friend Marcelin ... you 
 caught them, did you not, Marceliu ? " 
 
 The young fellow, who was anxious to ingratiate 
 himself with his host, responded : " My dear Eugene, 
 let me enjoy this Corton; it is the most delicious 
 wine I have ever tasted." 
 
 "Then you have never had Chambertin," ex- 
 claimed M. Boulinot." 
 
 " Excuse me, but I greatly prefer this to Cham- 
 bertin." 
 
 " I bet," cried Eugene, " that M. Boulinot has 
 some fine Chambertin in his cellars, and that he 
 would like us to taste and compare it. Jacquet ! go 
 over to M. Boulinot's, and ask his servant to look 
 you out some Chambertin." 
 
 " No, no," cried Boulinot, holding Jacquet back, 
 who was already on the point of starting off. " I 
 already told you that my servants have gone out ; 
 besides, I am not sure that I have any Chambertin. 
 I have so many kinds of wine in my cellar." 
 
 " Then, you can go and scratch ! " 
 
 M. Boulinot remained with his mouth open and 
 almost petrified at what he had heard. All the 
 ladies opened their eyes and the men their ears, and 
 
54 THE HERO OP THE FEAST. 
 
 M. Grandbec was already completely overcome by 
 listening to Eugene's slang. 
 
 "My son," said M. Belatout, assuming a grave 
 and serious demeanour, which so often expresses 
 what is to follow, " you told M. Boalinot just now 
 that he could ' go and scratch. 5 Do you think that 
 you are talking to one of your college companions ! " 
 
 "But, my dear father, I did not use any slang. 
 It was a new expression, which is adopted in the 
 very best society. ( To go and scratch' signifies that 
 you have nothing in your " 
 
 " That will do Eugene ; we have no desire to hear 
 such expressions just now." 
 
 " I do not think M. Eugene meant to slang me ; I 
 am not at all offended," said M. Boulinot. 
 
 " To slang you ; I should be very sorry to," said 
 Eugene smiling. "Ah ! when will you let me taste 
 your wines 1 That will be something like. I will 
 give you my portrait afterwards ! Come on, old 
 Potard — you are the only man who can drink here ! 
 Your health and the ladies ! " 
 
 All the men hurried to drink the toaet proposed by 
 the son of the house. But he, who had already 
 abused the Madeira and continued with the Corton, 
 commenced to babble out everything that came into 
 his head. In vain his friend Marcelin made signs to 
 him to moderate his drinking. Eugene cried out 
 every now and then : " Father's wine is superb ! 
 We must do honour to it ! I show you the way ; 
 why do you not follow ? Come, let us laugh ! let us 
 sing! let us be merry! You do nothing my pretty 
 lambs, you are like a lot of grave diggers. There 
 is no one besides my pretty neighbour who is drink- 
 ing. Yeur health, happy wife of the man who will 
 some day find an invention for making children by 
 steam ! " 
 
 " My son ! be careful what you say. You are -go- 
 ing too far ! " 
 
THE HERO OP THE FEAST. 55 
 
 "How? too far! Why, with, steam yon can do 
 
 almost anything What did you say, sir, about a 
 
 man who was hanging ? Come, haven't you another 
 droll story to relate to the ladies ? You must have 
 a very choice selection. I am sure if you want to 
 make your audience tremble or to strike fear into 
 the hearts of the fair sex you are just the man.'' 
 
 M. Grandbec looked at Eugene with a terrified 
 glance, and whispered to Diana: " Is your brother 
 always like this, Miss ? " 
 
 "I don't know, sir." 
 
 When the dessert arrived and the champagne was 
 brought on, Eugene exclaimed : " Champagne Eozey ! 
 I know it ! I have never drunk a better wine in 
 Paris. If you do not get cheerful over this, you 
 must be incurable ! It is quite the wine for ladies, 
 but men need not avoid it. Come, let us drink ! let 
 us drink! Marcelin, pass me that bottle ...you see 
 how I will make it disappear." 
 
 " But M. Belatout is opening one," said Marcelin. 
 
 " Do you suppose we are not going to drink more 
 than one ! What a nice fellow ! Pass me that 
 bottle. See how I will make the cork fly ! , " 
 
 Eugene opened his bottle before his father had cut 
 the wire of his. The froth flew out; whilst pre- 
 tending to restrain ifc, Eugene sent it into several 
 people's faces. Madame Boulinot screamed out : 
 " Sir, you have sent it into my eye ! " 
 
 " That will clear your sight, madame." 
 
 " My nose is full of it," exclaimed Plantureau. 
 
 " That Avill make you sneeze. ... I bet I could drink 
 two before my father opens his. Jacquet, give me 
 another bottle. Well, Madame Plantureau, how do 
 you like it?" 
 
 " Oh ! it is very good ; in fact, too good." . 
 
 "How can it be too good? Nothing is ever too 
 good." 
 
 " Yes it can, because we may want too much of it." 
 
56 THE HERO OF THE EEAST. 
 
 " Well, drink some more then." 
 
 " M. Eugene, for goodness sake no more. My 
 eyes are quite misty, and I cannot see my husband. " 
 
 " You see what a fine thing it is then to take 
 plenty of wine." 
 
 M. Belatout had just succeeded in opening his 
 bottle; he offered some champagne to M. Boulinot, 
 and said : " Have you ever tasted belter E.ozey than 
 that?" 
 
 " I do not know ; I do not care much for Eozey. 
 I haven't any of that colour." 
 
 "M. Boulinot only has green," said Eugene, fill- 
 ing his glass again. 
 
 "My young man, I have some Moet, some real 
 Moet." 
 
 " Well, what of it ? G-o and get it old chap, and 
 let us see what- it is like." 
 
 " Old chap ! What do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " What ! does that annoy you? Why, it is only a 
 pet way of speaking to one's friends." 
 
 " My son ! I beg of you to moderate your lan- 
 guage." 
 
 " My dear father, are we here to enjoy ourselves 
 or not ? Well then, as the hero of the feast, I set 
 the example. Look now, if I said to that gentleman ' 
 who related such an interesting story just now that 
 he had a nose like a cormorant's beak, would he be 
 offended ? " 
 
 " Do you speak of me ? " stammered out M. 
 Grandbec. 
 
 " Certainly, who else could it be ? M. Triffouille 
 is flat-nosed " 
 
 " Sir, Nature made us as we are " 
 
 " Quite true, sir; and your sister? " 
 
 "My sister? I haven't one." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! I drink to the ladies ! " 
 
 " Eugene, you are drinking too much ! " 
 
THE HERO OP THE FEAST. 57 
 
 " Marcelin, leave me alone. I want to laugh. I 
 drink again to the ladies." 
 
 "My son, stop; it is time yon stopped ! " 
 " Stop ? What, before the champagne is gone ? 
 Never. Ah ! there is Madame Boulinot making eyes 
 — Madame Triif ouille . . . There is only the Widow 
 JTleurinard who holds herself as straight as an 
 obelisk ; she is what you call an owl widow ! " 
 " My son ! I must call you to order ! " 
 " My father, we are not in bed ... I say, Madame 
 Fleurinard, you who have had three husbands, tell 
 me now, frankly, was there one of the three who had 
 
 not been you know ? " 
 
 "M. Eugene, I do not know what you mean." 
 " Ah ! that's capital. You do not know which are 
 husbands in general and which are husbands in par- 
 ticular?" 
 
 " Sir, my husbands were very happy — all three." 
 " All three were happy, were they ? That is just 
 what I wanted to ask you." 
 
 " My son, you are going beyond bounds." 
 "How? 1 simply ask this pretty Blue Beard 
 whether by chance any of her husbands had not been 
 
 so happy as well, the others." 
 
 " M. Marcelin, take him away." 
 " Eugene, come out In the air for a time." 
 " Bah ! Zut ! You bore me to the end." 
 Marcelin rose, and, taking Eugene by the arm, 
 said : " Come, let us have a smoke." 
 
 " Ah ! a smoke ! bravo ! a capital idea. Yes, I will 
 smoke with pleasure. ... Do not get impatient whilst 
 we are away ; we shall come back. Madame Plan- 
 tureau, will you join us in a smoke ? " 
 
 The gentle JDulalia made an attempt to rise, but a 
 look from her husband rooted her to the spot, and 
 she fell back on her chair, murmuring : "Ah ! they 
 are going to smoke. I thought at first they said 
 they were going to dance." 
 
58 RESULTS OF THE SOIREE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 RESULTS OF THE SOIREE. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said M. Belatont, after 
 Marcelin liad led Eugene away, " I must beg you to 
 accept a thousand apologies for the inconveniences 
 the conduct of my son has put you to. You can see 
 I am truly sorry. Of course, it is the champagne, 
 which he has so abused, that has muddled his brain. 
 It is not the least of my troubles to find from his 
 conversation the society he has kept. He ought not 
 to get drunk, but I suppose that is what young men 
 learn when they go to Paris ! " 
 
 " Good ! " said M. Potard ; " you can get drunk 
 just as easily in the country as you can in Paris. 
 Your son cannot stand much wine, that is all ; but 
 he is not so^very bad after all." 
 
 "No doubt!?' said Madame Triffouille, "it is the 
 effect of the champagne. ... This young man is very 
 festive." 
 
 " I think he is an extremely agreeable young fel- 
 low," said Madame Plantureau. 
 
 " Oh! as for me," said the widow, "I freely for- 
 give his little pleasantries." 
 
 "But why did he call me 'old chap?'" said M. 
 Boulinot. 
 
 " And he said ' zut ' when going away," added M. 
 Grandbec, with a sly glance. "Does your brother 
 often use those expressions, Miss ? " 
 
 Diana responded in a somewhat sarcastic tone: 
 "He only arrived this morning, and 1, do not find 
 much fault with what he has said." 
 
 They now returned to the drawing-room for coffee, 
 and M. Belatout did all ne could to efface the recol- 
 lection of any unpleasant incidents of the dinner. In 
 
&ESULTS OP THE SOlttEE* 59 
 
 the country, we are always glad to hear some new 
 scandal, and everybody already had something to 
 say about the conduct of the son of the house. 
 
 " Happily, Miss de Boissale was not at dinner," 
 murmured Belatout to himself, as he sipped his 
 coffee. " But she is coming this evening with her 
 aunt — I trust my son will not come in again until 
 he has quite got over the effects of the wine." 
 
 Then M. Belatout touched Grandbec on the shoul- 
 der, and said : " Well, my dear young fellow, does 
 my son's language appear very blameworthy to you, 
 who are so wise, discreet, and reserved in your 
 manners ? " 
 
 " Sir, I certainly am not accustomed to hear such 
 phrases as were used by your son at dinner — not 
 that I was offended by what he said about my nose 
 resembling a beak — but that c zut' seemed to me a 
 very ignoble expression." 
 
 "This is the result of keeping bad companions in 
 Paris, but he will soon lose all that amongst us, and 
 I want him to take you as a model." 
 
 " Well, you have a daughter who makes up for 
 any deficiency in your son." 
 
 " My daughter ! but she did not say a word at the 
 table." 
 
 " ISTever mind, she was very pleasant and enter- 
 taining for all that." 
 
 Several people attended the soiree at M. Belatout's; 
 Miss Boissale and her aunt were among the first to 
 arr.ve. This young lady was a trifle battered, very 
 ugly, and constantly assumed a snarling disposition. 
 Her aunt was a great fat lump who never said four 
 words without closing her eyes, first her right and 
 then her left. "M. Belatout hastened to find chairs 
 for his guests, who, immediately they were seated, 
 said : "And where is your son? You must introduce 
 him at once." 
 
 " He will be here directly ; he has gone out for a 
 
60 RESULTS OF THE SOIREE. 
 
 little f resli air after dinner, but lie will be here soon." 
 
 The other visitors came, and all alike were anxious 
 to see the son of the house. When Boulinot was 
 asked anything about him he never failed to say that 
 he had gone out to get over his wine. 
 
 " What? Has gone where?" 
 
 " He was as drunk as a fiddler." 
 
 " It cannot be possible ! " 
 
 " He called us screech owls, and as he left the 
 room he shouted out ' zut. 5 " 
 
 But if anyone asked Madame Plantureau, she 
 would say : " Ah ! he is charming — as agreeable as 
 possible; he made us scream with laughter at the 
 dinner table. They say that he was drunk, but it is 
 a base calumny. He had a little to drink — nothing 
 much ; I often wish my husband had as much." 
 
 These contradictory reports made the guests more 
 and more anxious to see the young man. The time 
 passed on, and still. their curiousity was not abated. 
 Nine o'clock came, and no Eugene ; yet in the 
 country nine is considered quite an advanced hour 
 of the night. M. Belatout had been into the dining- 
 room several times ; he had asked Jacquet, and he 
 had inquired of Eriquette, but they could only say : 
 
 " M. Eugene wanted to smoke here, but M. Mar- 
 celin said that as you were so adverse to the smell 
 of tobacco they had better go and smoke outside." 
 
 " As a matter of fact, I detest the smell of a pipe 
 or even a cigar, but my son left the table at half-past 
 seven, and it is now after nine. He does not surely 
 want an hour and a half outside to dissipate the 
 effects of the wine he drank." 
 
 " Perhaps they have gone to drink something else," 
 said Jacquet. 
 
 " He would not be such a fool as that ! " 
 
 "Jacquet is an imbecile," exclaimed Eriquette; 
 "M. Marcelin would not let his friend go wrong." 
 
 " Well, somebody must find my son ; it is absolutely 
 
fiESUt/TS OF THE SOIKEE. 61 
 
 necessary for hirn to come into the drawing-room. 
 Miss Boissale is asking about him every moment. 
 Jacquet, yon go into all the cafes in the place and 
 look for Eugene, and, if you find him, tell him he 
 must come back with you at once." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I will offer him my arm." 
 
 M. Belatout returned to the company. On seeing 
 him enter alone, various conjectures were made, and 
 every now and then someone would say m a low 
 voice : " He cannot find his son ; I suppose he is not 
 presentable ? " " Perhaps he has gone back to Paris 
 without taking leave of his father? " " It is evident 
 that he is a bit of a rascal ! " "A terrible good-for- 
 nothing fellow, who does not know how to behave 
 in a drawing-room." " He never opens his mouth 
 but he says the most revolting things." " Oh ! I am 
 very glad he has not come back." 
 
 The conversation suddenly ceased, for the subject 
 of their scandal appeared, accompanied by his friend 
 Marcelin. The appearance of Eugene made a sin- 
 gular impression upon the whole company; he was 
 terribly pale and looked very frightened. You will 
 understand the cause of this pallor when you learn 
 that on entering the house Eugene went to the 
 kitchen to have a glass of water, and there, to make 
 him more presentable, Priquette had powdered him 
 with some flour ; she said it would refresh him. 
 Marcelin had not noticed the effect of the powder, 
 but when Widow Pleurinard preceived him, she 
 uttered a loud cry and fell back in her chair. 
 
 " Ah ! there you are at last ! " cried M. Belatout 
 seeing his son enter. " I am so glad. Everybody is 
 wanting to see you... but how pale you look ... are 
 you ill?" 
 
 " 111 ! not a bit, father," responded Eugene, salut- 
 ing the company with grave gestures, for his friend 
 Marcelin had told him that he had been too boisterous 
 
62 RESULTS OF THE SJOREE. 
 
 at dinner, and he had promised to act differently in 
 the evening. 
 
 " I have never seen you so pale ; you have been 
 smoking too much. M. Marcelin is my son seriously 
 indisposed ? " 
 
 Marcelin advanced and looked at Eugene, and, 
 when he saw what Eriquette had done, he bit his 
 lips to prevent himself from laughing, and said with 
 considerable embarrassment: " Sir, it is nothing; he 
 has been somewhat unwell, but he will be all right 
 directly." 
 
 " I do not think he will ; why, he looks half dead." 
 
 Marcelin approached bis friend and whispered in 
 his ear that Eriquette had powdered his face with 
 flour, and made him look as pale as a sheet. 
 
 " So much the better," answered Eugene, as he 
 turned to the company and made grimaces at every- 
 body, under the impression that he was smiling. 
 
 " My son, allow me to introduce you to Miss de 
 Boissale and her aunt." 
 
 Eugene permitted his father to lead him to the 
 ladies. Miss de Boissale looked at the young man as 
 though she was afraid of him ; the aunt this time 
 closed both eyes at once. 
 
 " Miss, this is my son, who will be very happy to 
 cultivate your acquaintance." 
 
 " Ah ! so this is your son. Has he always got such 
 a wretched-looking face ? He looks like a ghost ! " 
 
 " No, Miss," responded Eugene, " this pallor will 
 pass away. It is better than being hunchbacked; 
 deformities cannot pass away. On the contrary, 
 they augment with increasing age." 
 
 Miss de Boissale darted a glance of the deepest 
 hatred towards Eugene. His father pushed him on 
 one side and whispered in his ear : " You say the 
 most foolish things. What did you want to talk 
 about hunchbacks for . . . and to that girl too, who 
 has a shoulder a trifle too far forward. You are 
 
RESULTS OP THE SOIREE. 63 
 
 terribly indiscreet. I don't think you have quite got 
 over the wine yet." 
 
 "It is your fault, father; you wanted to introduce 
 me to that monstrosity." 
 
 "That what? A young lady with twenty thou- 
 sand francs ! A nice little sum that I count upon 
 for you." 
 
 " For me ? Oh ! thanks for the gift. Marry her, 
 father, since you think such a lot of her. Marry 
 her; I shall not be jealous. Ah! there is Diana 
 coming over to me. What do you want little sister ?" 
 
 " I want to wipe your cheeks and to brush away 
 that white powder on your face." 
 
 " You leave me alone, I am very comfortable as 
 I am." 
 
 " But you are frightening everybody." 
 
 " No fear ; where is my neighbour at dinner, see 
 if she is frightened of me ? " 
 
 Eugene seated himself at the side of Madame 
 Plantureau, who greeted him with a sweet smile. 
 "Are you afraid of me ? " 
 
 " Never ; why should I fear you ? Certainly, you 
 have put something on your face; let me see what 
 it is ? " 
 
 And the lady, taking a corner of her handkerchief, 
 wiped Eugene's cheek. The white disappeared, the 
 ordinary colour returned to his face, and the gentle 
 Euialia cried: "Ah! I knew it was only some little 
 joke on your part ; let me have the other cheek now?" 
 
 M. Plantureau, preceiving his wife intently busy 
 wiping the face of the young Belatout, cried out : 
 " What are you doing to M. Eugene ?" 
 
 "I am brushing his face, to bring back the colour; 
 he has powdering it with some white stuff, or per- 
 haps his friend Marcelin has been playing some prac- 
 tical joke upon him. See, he is all right now ! " 
 
 "A nice pleasantry," said Madame Boulinot, "to 
 make him so pale just as he was coming into the 
 
64 RESULTS OP THE SOIREE. 
 
 presence of all these people/' 
 
 "It is most ridiculous," remarked Madame Meuri- 
 liard; " anyone would think it was a carnival instead 
 of a soiree." 
 
 "I believe he is still half drunk," muttered M. 
 Grandbec. 
 
 Miss de Boissale found the young man much 
 better looking now the pallid face had disappeared, 
 and she nudged her aunt to open her eyes and look 
 at him. 
 
 M. Boulinot looked at Eugene with a bantering 
 glance, and said : " Well, are you better ? " 
 
 "Better of what?" 
 
 " The bacchanalian fumes." 
 
 " I have not been under their influence ; if I have 
 appeared drunk, it has simply been to make game of 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! that won't do for me. Your pale face when 
 you entered the room was quite enough to convince 
 any reasonable being that you were not shamming." 
 
 To show you how drunk I am, if you like, I will 
 play you ecarte and win all your money." 
 
 " With pleasure, but you will get a heavy thrash- 
 ing; I am the best here at that game." 
 
 " Well, we shall see ; I know how to play it pretty 
 well too." , 
 
 Eugene and the corpulent Boulinot seated them- 
 selves at a card table. The former drew from his 
 pocket a five-franc piece, which he threw carelessly 
 upon the table before him ; then M. Boulinot, after 
 hunting in his pockets for some time, collected about 
 five sous, which he also placed on the table in front 
 of him, and said : " Come on, it is a splendid game. 
 We do not have an opportunity every day. . . . Ah ! 
 you have no change ; I think I can oblige you." 
 
 Eugene looked at the five sous deposited on the 
 table and said: " What? Have you put that down 
 to play with ? " 
 
RESULTS OF THE SOIREE. 65 
 
 " Five sous. It may seem a great deal to you, but 
 you see I like to put some interest into the game." 
 
 " A great deal ? What ! five sous ? You are 
 making a joke of it surely ! We play for five francs 
 not sous." 
 
 " Five francs ! Think what you say young man ! 
 Play for five fraucs a time ! Why, I have never 
 done that yet ! " 
 
 "Never mind, you can commence to-day; once 
 does make a rule." 
 
 " Five francs ! Why, we might as well turn this 
 place into a gaming house at once ! " 
 
 " It is not a question of gaming houses, we are 
 goin g to play ecarte " 
 
 " Sir, I shall certainly not play for five francs ! " 
 
 " Oh ! very well, M. Boulinot ; if you are afraid of 
 losing, or if your means will not permit it — then we 
 will not play." 
 
 If you offend the amour propre of an individual 
 with whom you are in discussion, there is not mach 
 doubt but that jou will gain your end. So M. 
 Boulinot hastily exclaimed : "My means, sir ! Allow 
 me to play for any sum you may be disposed to 
 mention. If I refused to play you, it was simply 
 from a desire not to win your money. But since you 
 insist, well, let us play for five franos a time ! If 
 you lose, it will be entirely your own fault. 5 ' 
 
 " Oh ! I will chance that, M. Boulinot ; I am a 
 pretty fair player, and I am not in the habit of com- 
 plaining when I lose." 
 
 " Well, we shall see, sir." 
 
 They commenced, and M. Boulinot, who had 
 never before played for more than five sous at a 
 time, trembled from head to foot as he dealt the 
 cards ; he played all awry, and lost the first game. 
 
 " Will you take your revenge, sir? " asked Eugene. 
 
 " Yes sir, yes certainly ; and I look to beating you 
 soundly this time. 
 
 E 
 
6Q RESULTS OP THE SOIREE. 
 
 Just then, Grandbec espied the gold pieces on the 
 takle and hurric d away to tell everybody in the 
 house : " They are gambling like the very devil," he 
 exclaimed ; " the table is covered with gold." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Well, go and see for yourselves." 
 
 "What! my husband playing cards for gold!" 
 shrieked Madame Boulinot, rushing off to the ecarte 
 table and seizing her worthy spouse by the shoulders. 
 " Surely this is a piece of pleasantry, M. Boulinot . . . 
 You do not mean to say that you are playing for a 
 hundred sous at a time ? " 
 
 M. Boulinot, who was in fear and trepidation lest 
 lie should lose his second stake, pushed his wife 
 away and said : " Let me alone. . .do not come bother- 
 ing here... you always bring bad luck with you... go 
 away. . . . Ah ! now I have lost again . . . my revenge, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Just as you please, sir ! " 
 
 M. Belatout approached the table and saw his 
 friend bathed in a copious perspiration and as red 
 as a lobster, rolling his eyes and muttering to him- 
 self :" Lost! lost a gain! That makes fifteen francs 
 ■ — fifteen francs ! " 
 
 '"Is that so, Boulinot?" said Belatout; "you 
 have lost fifteen francs ? I trust it is fifteen sous 
 you mean ; you cannot possibly have lost fifteen 
 francs in my house ! " 
 
 " Well, your son has won them at any rate. He 
 enticed me to play, and I was weak enough to con- 
 sent. I have lost all my money ! M. Eugene, I 
 will play for ten francs this time." 
 
 " Just as you wish, my dear sir ; double or quits, 
 if you like." 
 
 " Done then! double or quits! " 
 
 "'What! my husband play for fifteen francs!" 
 cried Madame Boulinot. ''Why, it is terrible! hor- 
 rible ! M. Belatout, take those cards away from him." 
 
RESULTS OF THE SOIREE, 
 
 67 
 
 In vain Belatout endeavoured to put a stop to the 
 game, but Boulinot, who hoped to retrieve his posi- 
 tion at a single coup, refused to desist from playing. 
 " You cannot interfere with us in this way," he ex- 
 claimed. Everybody crowded round the table to 
 witness this interesting game. Marcelin and Diana 
 were the only couple who evinced no interest in the 
 play ; the former whispered to the fair girl : " Your 
 brother has arranged things splendidly this evening. 
 To-morrow I shall speak to your father, for my fate 
 must be decided by then." 
 
 An absolute silence reigned amongst those encircl- 
 ing the little table ; they were afraid to speak, or 
 even to cough, lest they should lose sight ^of any 
 part of the game. It seemed as though the fate of 
 the whole town depended upon this little game at 
 ecarte. M. Boulinot had made three points, and 
 his adversary had not scored. He breathed freely 
 once more, and looked around him with an almost 
 triumphant gaze. All Hie ladies were eager to con- 
 gratulate Madame Boulinot in anticipation, but she 
 had seated herself in a capacious easy-chair, for she 
 dared not look upon the play. 
 
 " Your husband has scored three points ! " 
 
 " Three points ... and what about the other? " 
 
 " M. Eugene has scored nothing yet." 
 
 " Then, my husband has won? 'J 
 
 "Not yet, but he will directly." 
 
 However, in the following round Eugene had the 
 king, and made the vole ; this equalised the chances. 
 M. Boulinot became fierce and sullen again. The 
 game finished, and the son of the house was vic- 
 torious again. For a few moments, M. Boulinot was 
 completely beside himself ; then he rose and said to 
 his wife/ in a hollow raucous voice: "Madame 
 Boulinot, get your shawl, and we will get away from 
 here at once." 
 
 " Yes 3 my dear," 
 
68 RESULTS 0E THE SOIREE. 
 
 " Surely you are not going already," said M. Bela- 
 tout ; " why, it is very early yet." 
 
 " Already ! All ! I ought to have gone long ago ! 
 I have lost thirty francs ! I shall remember this 
 soiree till the day of my death! Thirty francs ! what 
 a lesson ! Come on, madame ; I must get some 
 fresh air." Boulinot, as soon as his wife was ready, 
 took his departure. 
 
 "He is a very bad player," said Eugeue ; "he 
 certainly lost, but he ought to have won ; and I 
 shouldn't have pulled such a face over it as he did." 
 " My son," exclaimed M. Belatout ; " I am extremely 
 annoyed at your behaviour! I will never let you 
 play anything but loto for the future ! " 
 
 " On, lor 5 ! I prefer cup and ball to that ! " 
 
 The company were not long in following the 
 example set by Boulinot. They left, and each gave 
 his version of the soiree to which Belatoufc had in- 
 vited them. 
 
 " I shall never go there again," said the Widow 
 Fleurinard ; "I have no fancy for young men who 
 get drunk." 
 
 " And come in pale as a ghost ! " exclaimed Miss 
 de Boissale. 
 
 " Taney winning thirty francs at ecarte ! fie ! 
 "What a scandalous bouse ! " 
 
 "It is nothing but a gaining-house," exclaimed 
 another. 
 
 " A gambling hell ! I will never put my foot in- 
 side the house again." 
 
A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 69 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 
 
 As soon as the company had gone, Eugene hurried 
 off to bed to avoid any reprimand his father might 
 have ready for him. But the next day escape was 
 not so easy, and M. Belatout, whose features plainly 
 indicated the state of his feelings, called his son into 
 his. study and said: "Eugene, I am terribly dis- 
 appointed in you." 
 
 " How is that, my dear father ? " 
 
 " You ask me how it is ? Surely you ought to 
 know ! Look at your behaviour yesterday before my 
 friends. First of all, you shock everybody with 
 your low conversation and slang expressions ... and 
 before ladies too ! " 
 
 " Why, it was only to make them laugh," ans- 
 wered the boy ; " if it had not been for me, you 
 would not have heard a laugh the whole day." 
 
 " Sir, your conduct was not amusing ; besides, 
 people in good society seldom laugh. You said 
 ' zut ' as you left the room ! " 
 
 " Do you believe I said c zut ' ? " 
 
 "I am perfectly sure of it . . . M. Grandbec was 
 absolutely scandalised at your behaviour ! " 
 
 "A nice old bird yourGrandbec is — a regular cake." 
 
 " What do you say ? " 
 
 " I say a cake, or, if you prefer it, an imbecile, 
 an idiot, one of those fools who are no good to them- 
 selves and a nuisance to everybody else ! " 
 
 " My son, you must show more respect to a youno- 
 man who is a model of wisdom, and, moreover will 
 soon be, your brother-in-law." 
 
 "My brother-in-law! You will never marry my 
 sister to that cormorant ! It cannot be possible— 
 
70 A COMPLETE JUMBLE* 
 
 you are getting at me. 55 
 
 " No sir, I am not joking ; "but let Us return to 
 your ' zut.' What does this word ' zut ' signify ? " 
 
 " Why, it signifies : ' you pester me, you bore me, 
 you plague me ; ' that is what, it means." 
 
 " So you told my friends they plagued you? That's 
 polite to say the least of it; that's nice Ian gunge for 
 an educated young man to use in polite society." 
 
 "I was a trifle excited and annoyed; the word 
 may have escaped my lips once." 
 
 " Besides, at dinner you were absolutely drunk ! " 
 
 " Well, it was only out of honour to your wine, 
 which is undoubtedly very good." 
 
 " Certainly, I am quite aware of its qualities, but 
 that is no reason why you should drink too much. 
 Then, you go out and. smoke, you remain absent for 
 at least two hours ; when you come back your face 
 is covered with some sort of white powder, just to 
 annoy the ladies I suppose ? " 
 
 "That was Friquette's fault, she put some flour 
 in the water before I washed myself." 
 
 " Very well, let that pass. Then, you provoked 
 M. Boulinot into a game at ecarte, and you make 
 him play for a hundred sous, and in my house too ! 
 It is the first time ever such a thing occurred under 
 my roof. A nice reputation you are bringing to ray 
 house ! People will say : c A nice house that of Bela- 
 tout's ! you can lose thirty francs at a soiree there.' 
 The end of it will be we shall have the police here ! " 
 
 "My dear father, I had no idea you played for 
 such small stakes ! Besides, if I did provoke M. 
 Boulinot into playing, what of it P He is a measly, 
 miserly wretch, who tries to embarrass everybody 
 else by declaring everything is inferior to what he 
 has himself ; he is nothing but a curmudgeon and a 
 money-grabber." 
 
 "I am certainly not very grieved that Boulinot 
 lost his thirty francs — he can afford to lose them, 
 
A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 71 
 
 but I am vexed that it took place in my house. Now 
 I have told you all that 1 wish to take exception to 
 in your conduct. I will with pleasure forget every- 
 thing on condition that for the future you will be 
 more circumspect and considerate — leave off your 
 boyish freaks, and get married. It is time you began 
 to think of something else besides pleasure " 
 
 " So yon want me to get married ? " 
 
 " Yes, and I have found someone who will make 
 you an excellent wife." 
 
 " Indeed ! It is the Widow Meurinard I hope? " 
 
 "No, it is not a widow; it is a maid, a pure 
 maiden." 
 
 " Pretty ? well made ? " 
 
 " She is not very beautiful, but what does that 
 signify? It disappears day by day, and finally 
 vanishes altogether." 
 
 "Yes, in about twenty years." 
 
 " But money, my boy, money ; that does not dis- 
 appear as time goes on. In fact, it augments in- 
 stead of growing less." 
 
 "Well, and who is this young damsel you have 
 interested yourself in to such an extent ? " 
 
 "You saw her here last night at my reception." 
 
 " Last night ... I didn't notice any young ladies 
 here . . . certainly there were the young Triffouilles, 
 but they are mere children." 
 
 " She whom 1 have destined for you, Eugene, was 
 certainly here, for I introduced you to her. You 
 must have forgotten her. I mean Miss de Boissale." 
 
 "Miss de Boissale ! that horrible mis-shapen crea- 
 ture ! Why, her eyes are the colour, of gingerbread 
 ... Come, my dear father, you must be joking? " 
 
 "I am most serious, I assure you. Miss de Bois- 
 sale has about twenty thousand francs invested; 
 tlmt's all right, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, but it doesn't take away her humped-back." 
 
72 A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 
 
 " A man is not necessarily compelled to be in love 
 with his wife."..." So much the worse ! "..."I have 
 already hinted the matter to the young lady's aunt." 
 ..."Yon can sound the old lady on the matter as 
 much as you like, but I shall certainly have nothing 
 to do with the niece. Come, father, look at me 
 for a moment, I am not very handsome, and, al- 
 though your son, you must admit I am not an Adonis. 
 But, of course, that is only your fault, for it was 
 certainly not my wish that you made me so plain- 
 looking. Yet you want me to marry a woman who 
 is not only much uglier than I am myself, but who 
 is actually deformed ! Pause for a moment and 
 ponder upon what the results of such a union must 
 inevitably be. Why, we should have monsters, our 
 children would be so repulsive that by the time they 
 were six months old we should have to put them in 
 masks. 55 ..." My son, your remarks are extremely 
 foolish. The ugliest parents often beget the hand- 
 somest children. It is one of those little freaks of 
 nature of which we know nothing. I repeat that I 
 have quite made up my mind that you shall marry 
 this de Boissale, and I will brook no denial. 55 ..." I 
 am extremely sorry to have to cross you in any of 
 your wishes, but I tell you candidly that I shall 
 never marry that hunchback I saw here last night. 55 
 ..." I tell you that you shall marry her ! 55 . . . " You 
 cannot marry a man against his will, and I tell you 
 I will not marry her ! 55 ..."Then I abandon you, I 
 disinherit you; I will cut you off with a shilling. I 
 will do nothing more for you, but will turn you out 
 of the house without more ado. 55 ... "Should you do 
 all that you have just said, it will be much better 
 than marrying Miss de Boissale. 55 ..." I give you 
 twenty-four hours to reflect. 55 ..." Thank you, but it 
 is not at all necessary ; there is no need for reflection, 
 my mind is quite made up. 55 ..." I trust I shall find 
 you more tractable by to-morrow. 55 ..." To-morrow 
 
A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 73 
 
 yon will not find me at all," said Eugene, as lie hur- 
 ried from his father's study. 
 
 M. Belatont felt considerably elated at having ex- 
 hibited so much firmness in his conversation with 
 his unruly son. " He will reconsider it," he mur- 
 mured ; "he will finish up by seeing that twenty 
 thousand francs easily efface a crooked back. Miss 
 de Boissale is not beautiful, it is true; but he need 
 not look at his wife too much. In fact, he can easily 
 pass whole days without seeing her at all. So long 
 as he has pleuty of money, he can go where he likes, 
 and he seldom need take his wife with him." 
 
 M. Belatoufc had not been alone many moments 
 when Jacquet came in and said that M. Marcelin 
 
 Nigelle craved a short audience "Has he brought 
 
 some more trout ? " exclaimed Belatout.. . ." No, sir ; 
 he has only got his walking stick."..." Tell him to 
 come in."..." Yes, sir. Ah! sir, I went into every 
 cafe in the town last night, but I could not find your 
 son."..." You fool! don'fc you know he is back yet? " 
 ..."Ah! but you don't know where he was all the 
 time; he was with Friquette in a corner of the 
 kitchen."..." Hold your tongue, and show M. Mar- 
 celin in."..." Friquette roared with laughter when 
 
 she* "..."Will you go and do as I tell you ! "... 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but all the same, Friquette showed great 
 want of respect towards your son." 
 
 Marcelin entered the study, where he found M. 
 Belatout seated at his desk. He was received with 
 much gravity, and seated himself on the chair which 
 was ostentatiously offered him...." You have some- 
 thing to ask me?" said M. Belatout. "Pray be 
 seated. I have just been giving my son a severe 
 talking to over his conduct last night ; nice habits 
 these young men get after a few months' residence 
 in Paris ! "..." Sir, Eugene is very noisy, he is fond 
 of laughing, but at the bottom he is an excellent 
 young fellow ; his faults are only those common to 
 
74 A COMPLETE JUMBLE. - 
 
 youth."..." Sir, perhaps yon will allow me to say 
 that I have "been young too, hut I never "behaved 
 in this dissolute fashion. Certainly, I married very 
 
 young hut what is it you have come to see me 
 
 about? "..." Sir, it is a matter of the greatest im- 
 portance, and on your answer depends my whole 
 future prospect in life.". . ." Indeed ?"..." Sir, I love 
 and adore your daughtev, Diana ; I have an income 
 of eight thousand francs, I am a fully qualified 
 physician, and I am here to ask for her hand." 
 . . .M. Belatout frowned, bit his lips, and in his cur- 
 test tones replied: "I am extremely sorry that your 
 future happiness depends upon my answer, but my 
 daughter can never be your wife, for I have des- 
 tined her for another. In fact, the matter is all ar- 
 ranged."../' Ah ! sir, your daughter will never care 
 for this M. Grandbec, for whom you seem to have 
 set apart your daughter."..." And, pray how did you 
 know it was M. Grandbec? Eh! sir? Well, it is 
 M. Grandbec ! and why will Diana never care for 
 him ? Grandbec is young, and he is certainly not 
 bad-looking; he has not the style of our Parisian 
 dandies, but he is all the more acceptable to me ou 
 that account." ..." But, sir, if another — I, for 
 example, had the good fortune to win the young 
 lady's affection ? ". . ." It is not possible, my daughter 
 has been too well educated to express her feelings in 
 that way. Besides, she will accept anyone as her 
 husband whom I chose to select for her; she would 
 not think of questioning my taste."..." She certainly 
 would not exercise any taste of her own should she 
 marry M. Grandbec ! "..."You may say what you 
 like of this young man, but I can tell you this, that 
 had I not already promised my daughter's hand, you 
 certainly would not have been permitted to take her, 
 for I could never have you as a son-in-law ! ". . ." My 
 dear sir, why not ? And what have I done that you 
 should treat me in this way ?"..." What have you 
 
A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 75 
 
 done ? " exclaimed Belatout. " Everything ! every- 
 thing that yon ought uot to have done ! In Paris 
 you never left my son's side ; you led him into ex- 
 travagance, you participated in his revels and de- 
 baucheries. In fact, you have led him by the nose." 
 ..."Oh! bo, sir; indeed I have not."..." You are 
 
 fond of play, and wine, and women "..."Like 
 
 everybody else ! "..."No, sir, it is not like everybody 
 else ; I never had such flagrant weaknesses and 
 foibles! "..."Ah ! but you would have done so had 
 you lived in Paris instead of marrying young and 
 remaining in Bar-le-Duc.".^"No, sir; I am a second 
 St. Antony. I would defy all temptation."..." Be- 
 sides, if I had all these faults which you have enu- 
 merated, I have left them all behind me now. I am 
 quite different now, wise, thoughtful, and discreet." 
 ..."Yes, yes, blow your own trumpet ! But, grant- 
 ing all that, there is something else much more 
 serious than anything I have yet mentioned. You 
 have fought a duel !"..." Well sir, that is not a 
 crime. "..."Not a crime ! It is worse, indeed it is. 
 To slay a fellow-creature in cold blood not a crime ! 
 "Why, you never know what will happen — whether 
 you will kill or be killed yourself — it is terrible ! "... 
 " But sir, there are cases where it is impossible to 
 avoid these matters ; one must fight sometimes."... 
 "Not at all. "..."But suppose you are insulted?"... 
 "Well, pocket it."..." Or provoked? "..." Do not 
 hear it."..." Or even struck?"..." Well, find four 
 men and a corporal, and have your assailant 
 arrested."-..." No, sir; that could not possibly be 
 among educated men."... "I repeat, M. Marcelin, 
 that duels and duellists are my especial horror."... 
 " But I am not a duellist."..." How is that? You 
 have fought, and understand that a man who has 
 fought another shad never enter my family ! never ! 
 never ! It is a resolution which I will never break. 
 Now, you have my answer ; it would be useless to 
 
76 A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 
 
 prolong this interview. I must also tell you that I 
 seriously object to your visiting at my house again. 
 You imagine that my daughter loves you, but I do 
 not believe it for a moment; never mind, I must cut 
 short our intercourse. Good day, sir. After Diana 
 is married, should you care to bring me some trout, 
 I shall be delighted to accept them." 
 
 Marcelin left M. Belatout, with a heavy heart and 
 very disconsolate. In the hall he found Friquette, 
 waiting to learn the result of the interview that she 
 might take the news to her young mistress, who was 
 very impatient to learn what answer her father had 
 given to her lover's appeal. * As soon as she saw poor 
 Marcelin, Friquette guessed what answer he had 
 received. 
 
 " Ah! my dear Friquette, I am in great distress," 
 exclaimed M. Marcelin; "your master has refused 
 my suit, and he is going to make his daughter marry 
 that fright of a Grandbec ! He did not leave me a 
 single ray of hope; he declared that if Grandbec did 
 not bar the way, he would still refuse to accept me 
 as his son-in-law, and simply because I once fought 
 in a duel.". . ." Poor young man ! I am sure my mis- 
 tress will be terribly cut up at the result."..." But 
 that is not all. I told him that I was not displeas- 
 ing to his daughter, so now he has forbidden me to 
 enter the house till she is married."..." What a 
 shame! As if you had any desire to visit then."... 
 " Ah ! Friquette, there is nothing left for me to live 
 for. I think I shall pay a visit to the trout in 
 yonder stream."..." Oh! sir, do not talk like that. 
 Do not say that all hope is fled; remember that 
 whilst there is life there is hope. I am quite con- 
 fident that you will marry Miss Diana yet ; the idea 
 is so fixed in my mind that I cannot get rid of it 
 night or day.". . ." How can you expect ever to change 
 your master's views on the matter ?"..." Why, I can 
 ^urn liini round my little finger, I haye done it 
 
A. COMPLETE JUMBLE. 77 
 
 dozens of times, and I shall do it again. But, I 
 forgot to tell you that ycur friend M. Eugene is 
 waiting for you at the corner cafe."..." So I must 
 leave without seeing Diana ! And when shall 1 see 
 her again, now the very house itself is shut against 
 me? "..." Bah ! the door no doubt is shut, but there 
 are such things as windows," exclaimed Friquette; 
 " and we can play the cornet when we are alone in 
 the house !"..." Ah ! Friquette, you restore some 
 rays of comfort to my aching breast.".. ." Keep up 
 your spirits : run away now and find M. Eugene, 
 whilst I try to console my poor young mistress."... 
 " You will tell her that I love her more than ever ? 
 
 And that I. shall never love another, and '\.. 
 
 " That's all right ; I can guess what you would say — 
 with lovers it is always the same old song — now, do 
 please go. It would be very awkward for me should 
 M. Belatout catch you here. He always expects a 
 very prompt obedience." 
 
 Marcelin hurried to rejoin his friend Eugene, to 
 whom he imparted the results of his interview with 
 M. Belatout. 
 
 " I am not at all surprised," said Eugene ; " my 
 father seems to have set his heart upon introducing 
 all sorts of monsters into our household ! "..."He re- 
 fused me because I had once taken part in a duel ! 
 Ah ! what an idea ! I will find this Grandbec and 
 insult him, I will provoke him — strike him if neces- 
 sary, and compel him to challenge me ; then we 
 shall see whether your father will accept a duellist 
 for his son-in-law."..." A very poor idea, my friend, 
 and quite impracticable, for Grandbec will never 
 fight; on that point you may rest assured."... 
 "What shall .1 do then?"..." Wait for a more 
 favourable opportunity. My father has also turned 
 me out of the house, so I shall avail myself of the 
 first opportunity to return to Paris."..." What do 
 you say? You are going away ?"..." Yes, to-day; 
 
78 A COMPLETE JUMBLE. 
 
 will you come with, me ? "..."No, I cannot leave 
 your sister."..." Well, write to me; I will send you 
 my address, because I do not quite know where I 
 shall put up yet,"..." Are you really going* to-day?" 
 ..." Yes, my dear friend; I have told Jacquet to get 
 
 my portmanteau ready and bring it here to me ■ 
 
 Ah ! there he comes. I must write a short note to 
 my father, just to bid him adieu. I have my bank- 
 note for a thousand francs, so I am very well pro- 
 vided for the present, and I have the thirty francs 
 I won off that jackass Boulinot. What fun it will 
 be ! I shall see Zozinette again, you know, the girl 
 who smokes through her nose ; and my old friend 
 Spitermann. You do not know my friend Spiter- 
 mann, do you ?"..." No, who is he ?"..." Oh ! a 
 German baron, a very quaint good-natured fellow, 
 who has come to Paris to find a wife who will love 
 him for himself alone."..." Ah ! that is quite a 
 German idea! "..."He is rich, and makes the ladies 
 numerous presents of all sorts, dinners, carriages, 
 pleasure parties. His only trouble is to know whom 
 to chose, for all the girls love him for himself 
 alone !"..." And what have you to do with the 
 baron? ".. ." When they begin to take too many ad- 
 vantages, I open his eyes for him, for he is nothing 
 but a child. . . Jacquet, take this portmanteau 
 to the station. Adieu, Marcelin ; we must write to 
 each other soon and often."..." Are you going with- 
 out embracing your sister? "..."My father has for- 
 bidden me the house. I will embrace you, it is all 
 the same. Au revoir ! If you find this place irk- 
 some, come to Paris, and I will introduce you to 
 Bpitermann." 
 
 Eugene embraced Marcelin, and hurried off fol- 
 lowed by Jacquet, who said : " How is it our young 
 master only arrived the day before yesterday and is 
 off again to-day? I suppose b.e cannot keep himself 
 quiet here ! " 
 
FfelQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 79 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 FJRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 
 
 M. Belatotjt, in a moment of anger, had dis- 
 missed his son from his house, because he would not 
 consent to marry Miss de Boissale; hut he had no 
 real intention to act so harshly towards Eugene. So 
 when dinner time came, and he found his son absent, 
 he sent for Friquette and said : 
 
 " Tell my son it is time to come down ; that we 
 are waiting at table for him. Why has my da/ugh- 
 ter not come down as usual? Is it come to this 
 now, that we must go and fetch her? " 
 
 Friquette pulled a long face and answered : " Miss 
 
 Diana does not care for dinner "..."How is 
 
 that ? Is she ill ?"..." I do not know whether she is 
 ill, but she has been crying so much that her eyes 
 are all puffed and swollen."..." Crying ! Diana cry- 
 ing! Whatever is she crying for? "..."All! sir, I 
 think it is because she is very sad and troubled."... 
 " Sa.d ? troubled ? Whatever is it all about ?"..." I 
 do not know, sir; only when M. Marcelin left just 
 now, after having an audience with you, he met your 
 daughter on the stairs and said : ( Good-bye, Miss 
 Diana ; I shall never see you again ! never ! never ! * 
 Miss Diana was so astonished — — "..." That will do, 
 Eriquette ; I know all about it. If that is all that 
 is the matter with Diana, the malady is not very 
 dangerous. Simply the caprice of a foolish girl. In 
 a few days she will forget all about it. Go and tell 
 my son tha,t dinner is ready." 
 
 Just as Eriquette was on the point of obeying her 
 master's order, Jacquet came into the dining-room 
 with Eugene's note, which he presented to M. Bela- 
 tout. "Half a moment," exclaimed the boy; "I 
 
80 FBIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 
 
 have a letter for you."..." Whom is it from, you 
 idiot ?"..." From your son, sir. "..."Did he give it 
 to you just now ?"..." Oh ! no; he gave it to me 
 more than two hours ago."..." What do you mean, 
 stupid ? Why did you not bring it to me at once ? " 
 ..."Ah! M. Eugene gave me strict orders not to do 
 so. He told me to present the note just as you were 
 sitting down to dinner."... "What does all this torn- 
 foolery mean ? " ; 
 
 M. Belatout hastened to open the letter, which 
 contained the following: words : — 
 
 "Adieu, father. You have turned me out of 
 your house, because I would not marry a 
 crook-back. I will return when Miss de Bois- 
 sale can pose as Hebe. Till then, I return to 
 Paris. — Your very affectionate son, 
 
 Eugene Belatout." 
 
 M. Belatout crushed the paper in his hand, then 
 he threw it on the ground and cried : " Ah ! my son, 
 so this is how you listen to your father ! He has 
 gone — returned to Paris ! Well, let him stay there — 
 so much the better ! I am well rid of a good-for- 
 nothing scamp !" And, seating himself at table, he 
 said : " Some one come and wait upon me." Fri- 
 quette brought in the soup, which he ate with 
 several spoons, then he stopped and muttered : 
 "Dinner alone, when I ought to be between wj son 
 and daughter! " 
 
 " If it is annoying for master to dine alone," ex- 
 claimed Jacquet, "I should be very happy to dine 
 with you, sir." 
 
 M. Belatout darted a look of scorn and contempt 
 at his half-witted servant, and said: "Where was 
 my son when he gave you the letter? "..."At the 
 cafe, sir."..." And pray where were you going?"... 
 "I was taking M. , Eugene's portmanteau to the 
 station, sir."..." Why did you do that without men- 
 
FRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 81 
 
 tioning the matter to me ?"..." Why! M. Eugene 
 told me that you had turned him out, so I obeyed 
 him — I thought that perhaps you could not put up 
 with your son's misconduct."..." Go to the devil, you 
 ass ! " 
 
 Jacquet left the room muttering : " An ass ! an 
 ass! Why doesn't he try to mount me then; I 
 would pretty soon have him on the floor ! " 
 
 Friquette continued to wait upon the master. 
 " You are not eating, sir," whispered the girl ; " are 
 you not hungry, sir ? "..."No, I am not hungry. 
 Has Miss Diana determined not to come down ? "... 
 " If you wish it sir, I will go and say that you de- 
 sire her presence in the dining-room."..." To hear 
 her snivel and sigh, I suppose ! It isn't likely ! I 
 
 will dispense with her society Ah ! what is that 
 
 noise ? Isn't it the cornet ? What tune is that my 
 daughter is playing ? Isn't it her favourite tune 
 ' He now must leave his Mary ' ? She does not seem 
 so bad as you make out ! "...Friquette could not 
 understand whatever made her young mistress take 
 up her cornet at such an unfortunate moment, so 
 hastened to reply : " She is probably playing the in- 
 strument as a means of distracting her thoughts — 
 or, perhaps, to please her father."..." Ah ! do you 
 think she is playing now to please me instead of 
 coming down to dinner ? " 
 
 M. .Belatout, whose suspicions were aroused, hur- 
 ried to the window which opened on the street, and 
 saw Marcelin standing in front of his house, with 
 his eyes fixed on Diana's room and his hand upon 
 his heart. Seeing Belatout at the casement, the 
 lover disappeared and the cornet stopped. " Ah ! so 
 that is why my daughter plays the cornet; it brings 
 Marcelin under her her window. Well, I shall see 
 all about that. I did not intend Diana should be 
 married till, another three months, but now she shall 
 be Grandbec's wife in six weeks. Friquette, tell 
 
 v 
 
82 FRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 
 
 jour mistress I never want to hear that cornet 
 
 asram." 
 
 Friquette hastened to her young mistress' room 
 and exclaimed : " Whatever put it into your head to 
 play the cornet whilst your father was in the house? 
 I was just telling him that you were not well enough 
 to come down to dinner ; all at once he rushed over 
 to the casement, and there he saw M. Marcelin tele- 
 graphing to you with signs. 5 '..." Well, you see, Fri- 
 quette, I felt so miserable ! M. Marcelin went this 
 morning without my seeing him, and I was anxious 
 to see him for a short time this evening."... "But he 
 should have waited."..." Waited? what for? Father 
 said he was not going out this evening. I thought 
 he was at dinner and would pay no attention to the 
 cornet."..." Ah! it was so very imprudent of you; 
 you are generally so cautious."..." They all leave me 
 to myself; even my brother does not come to see 
 me."..." Your brother! You would have to wait a 
 long time; M. Eugene has gone off to Paris."... 
 " Gone ! my brother gone without bidding me fare- 
 well, without embracing me Ah ! it is cruel, cruel, 
 
 cruel! ". . ." He was very anxious to embrace you, but 
 M. Belatout had turned him out of the house because 
 he would not marry Miss de Baissale, and, as M. 
 Eugene was not very anxious to marry a hunchback, 
 he left the place at once."..." So, I suppose if I do 
 not marry that cormorant of a Grandbec he will 
 turn me out as well? "..." Oh ! they never treat girls 
 like that."..." Whatever makes this Grandbec care 
 for me ? I scarcely ever answer him when he speaks 
 to me. "..."Hem! I am not sure that he does love 
 you, but when I took him something to drink at the 
 soiree last night he looked at me in a very droll sort 
 of way."..." How did he look, Friquette? ".."Oh ! 1 
 can hardly explain ; he made eyes at me, leered, 
 
 squinted, as if- "..."As if what? "..."As if he 
 
 wanted to say some nonsense or other to me."... 
 
FRIQTJETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 83 
 
 a 
 
 Bah ! do you think Grandbec could ever be any- 
 thing else but serious? My brother has gone, M. 
 Marcelin must nft come here again, and my father 
 will not let me play my cornet ! Ah ! Friquette, I 
 am very unhappy." And Diana commenced to sob 
 violently, although her little attendant did all she 
 could to console her, and said : " Do not give way, 
 Miss ; we shall find some way out of all this." 
 
 The next day, M. Belatout, who had not spoken to 
 his daughter, saw his old friend Plantureau, who 
 came to bid him adieu before going to Paris. 
 
 "Is there anything I can do for you whilst I am 
 in Paris ? " said Plantureau.. . ." What ? You going 
 to Paris ?"..." Yes, I start to-morrow morning."... 
 " But only for a short time surely ? You are coming- 
 back soon ?"..." Oh ! it is uncertain ; in fact, I do 
 not know. I am going this time on very important 
 business. "..."What, something else you have in- 
 vented? "..."You have guessed right first time. I 
 have discovered a means of preventing railway acci- 
 dents."..." Ah ! that's something like an invention. 
 If you have found a means of guaranteeing all tra- 
 vellers free from ri£ks and dangers, you will indeed 
 deserve to make your fortune."..." Why, certainly, 
 of course I shall nmit my reward. ISTow picture to 
 yourself what I have discovered. But you will not 
 speak to anyone about it, will you ? You will not 
 
 disclose my secret "..."I shall not mention it 
 
 to anybody, you may depend upon that."..." But 
 you will be so astonished at the simplicity and effi- 
 cacy of my invention that you "..."I think per- 
 haps, on more consideration, that it would be better 
 for me not to know anything in advance ; my as- 
 tonishment will be all the greater."..." Ah ! but I 
 want you to know all about it."..." But if you tell 
 your secret to everybody, you will have all your ideas 
 stolen from you."..." You are not everybody."... 
 " AH the same, I do not want you to confide ia 
 
84 FRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 
 
 me "..."Now listen, what is it that always 
 
 causes the accidents on onr railways ? It is the 
 collisions between the trains ; now, these collisions 
 produce shocks more or less serious, but, if there 
 were no shocks, there would be no accidents. Is 
 that not so ? "... " Certainly ; well, what then ? " . . . 
 " Why, my invention will prevent shocks ; up to the 
 present it has been impossible to prevent a more or 
 less serious shock after a collision, and it is simply 
 because the trains cannot be stopped with sufficient 
 rapidity. Well, my contrivance will stop a train 
 instantly — see ?"..." You have told me up to the pre- 
 sent what everybody knows; now I am waiting to 
 learn what your invention is."..." Ah! my dear 
 friend, it consists of enormous grappling* irons ; pic- 
 ture to yourself a colossal anchor. The drivers will 
 be provided with them, and, when they see a train 
 bearing down upon them, they will cast their grap- 
 pling irons to the right and left of the road, and 
 there is the train at a standstill at once ! What do 
 you think of that? Is it not a brilliant idea?'''... 
 M. Belatout shook his head and answered : " Per- 
 haps ; I do not know. But, if your grappling irons 
 are so enormous, how will they manage to cast them 
 over the side of the train ?"..." Oh ! that is a de- 
 tail, that is simply a matter of practice. I think 
 my idea is admirable ; I haven't the least doubt but 
 that the railway authorities will adopt the invention 
 at once."..." I hope so; but they will want to try 
 them first."..." That is why I am off to Paris; I 
 want to get some grappling irons of various dimen- 
 sions.". . ." What about your wife ? ".. ." Oh ! my wife 
 — I must take her with me, as my stay in Paris may 
 be a long one ; I must have her to look after me, for 
 I hate dining at the eating-houses. I am not very 
 keen upon taking her with me, but I am afraid 
 there is no help for it."..." Since you are going to 
 stay some time in Paris, you might let me know how 
 
FRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 85 
 
 my son is going on."..." Certainly. I am going to 
 have some grappling irons made fifteen feet across." 
 ..."I think he lodges in the Rue de Richelieu, near 
 the Palais Royal."..." Do you think I might find 
 some grappling irons at the Palais Royal ?"..." I 
 was speaking to you about my son."... "Ah! very 
 well. For this kind of work, they tell me I must 
 go to the Rue du Dragon."..." If you should learn 
 anything about Eugene at all disquieting in its 
 nature, will you release write to me at once?"... 
 ■" Certainly. If I find the Rue du Dragon too ex- 
 pensive, I shall look out for an iron-founder. Good- 
 bye ; I must get a number oi little matters settled 
 before I leave. But, above all, not a word please 
 about my grappling irons."..." You may rest assured 
 of that. "..."If you should ever be so thoughless as 
 to disclose my secret, I would never forgive you. 
 Adieu." 
 
 " What the devil interest are his grappling irons 
 to me ! " said M. Belatout, after the man of inven- 
 tions had gone. "Ah! if I only had some news of 
 my son ! I shall never know what Eugene is doing 
 in Paris ! " 
 
 Eight days paseed away. Diana no longer per- 
 formed upon her cornet; but Marcelin, none the less, 
 passed a portion of each day near Belatout's house, 
 and, when the latter was out, Friquette would go to 
 a window on the first floor. Then Diana would 
 stand at the casement on the ground floor, and 
 gossip with him whom she loved so fondly. Fri- 
 quette kept watch, and coughed loudly if she saw 
 anyone approach. Prevent a woman making love 
 when she has a mind to ! you might as well search 
 for the philosopher's stone. 
 
 M. Belatout did not scold his daughter, but he 
 was in a constant state of ill-temper. From time to 
 time he would remark to Friquette : " I thought that- 
 fool of a Plant ureau would forget all about what I 
 
86 FRIQUETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 
 
 asked him when he went to Paris. "..."Did yon ask 
 him to do anything for you. sir? ":. . ." I begged him 
 to inform me from time to time of my son's doings 
 in Paris. "...Priquette would smile wickedly and 
 answer: " If you leave it to others to bring you tid- 
 ings of your son, you are pretty sure to learn nothing 
 at all."..." So that is your opinion, Friquette?"... 
 " Yes sir, because I have always noticed that you 
 can always see better with your own eyes than you 
 can with other people's, especially with those of 
 your friends, for they are not so often disposed to 
 cause us anxiety."..." You are right. When it is 
 possible, we ought always to look after our business 
 personally. But it is scarcely possible for me to do 
 so in this case ; yet, 1 should be glad to know what 
 that scamp Eugene gets up to in Paris."..." Ah ! it 
 is very certain that if you want to know what he is 
 doing you must not stay about fifteen leagues away 
 from him ! But, what is to prevent your going to 
 Paris yourself, sir, and finding out Avhat your son is 
 doing? "..."Ah ! that's a good idea; keep an eye on 
 the young rascal myself, that would be the thing — 
 he could not deceive me much then. But, how can 
 I leave my house and my daily occupation."..." You 
 have remarked en several occasions," responded Fri- 
 quette, " that time hangs heavily on your hands be- 
 cause you have no regular occupation ; besides, you 
 would only be away for a time."..." But what about 
 my daughter ?"..." Oh ! you may rest easy about 
 that, sir; she will not budge away from here!"... 
 " Yes, and that Marcelin will pass the whole day on 
 the pavement opposite and staring at her window. 
 No, no, if I go to Paris, Diana shall go too."..." Oh! 
 sir, you would take me too, would you not ?"..." I 
 should have to take you, for my daughter could not 
 o-et along without you at her side."..." Then, sir, 
 you must go to Paris; it is the only way of finding 
 out what your son does with his time in the gay 
 
FRIQtJETTE COMMENCES TO ACT. 8 
 
 r? 
 
 city."... "But, if Eugene learns that I am in Paris, 
 he will he on his guard and take precautions to keep 
 out of my way."..." Who do you think would tell 
 him? And why not take another name? What 
 objection can there be to that?"..." Ah ! that is a 
 capital idea. I will take the first name that comes." 
 ..."They call that travelling incognito do they not, 
 sir ? "..." Yes, it is a common custom with illustrious 
 persons to travel in this way."..." You have the 
 means to travel as some grand personage, sir."... 
 "You little hussy, what ideas you are putting into 
 my head ! ".. ." No, sir ; it is you who have these new 
 ideas ! Sir, shall I begin to pack up our things ? " 
 ..."Oh! not yet; I must think a little about it first 
 — I must reflect. In the meantime, do not breathe 
 a word to a soul about this conversation."..." You 
 must trust me for that, sir. I will put my tongue in 
 my pocket." 
 
 And the first thing Friquette does is to scamper 
 off to her young mistress' room, and astonish Diana 
 with her exciting news : 
 
 " Goodness, Miss, ^ood news ! Your father is go- 
 ing to Paris, and he is going to take both of us with 
 him !"..." And do you call that good news ? Why, 
 I shall never have a chance of seeing M. Marcelm 
 then."..." Ah ! Miss, how innocent yon are! What 
 is to prevent M. Marcelm going to Paris too!"... 
 "But Paris is so large; how will he find us?"... 
 " That will not be very difficult. I'll manage to let 
 him have our address."..." But if my father sees 
 him, he will be angry."..." Have no fear about that, 
 Miss ; Paris is not a little place like this, where 
 everybody knows what you say and do. You leave 
 it to me ; I've got a few ideas in my head. Some- 
 thing tells me that I shall manage yet to marry you 
 to your lover, if we can only get to Paris. Pro- 
 vided that ugly Grandbec does not persuade your 
 father out of his present intentions." 
 
88 THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 
 
 But, instead of that, Grandbec came in the even- 
 ing to say that he expected to be sent off to Paris 
 at once, to follow up an important case in which his 
 employer was engaged. 
 
 " Well, if you go to Paris you will find me there," 
 responded Bel at out ; "because I am off there to- 
 morrow with my daughter."..." Ah ! what are you 
 anxioas for your daughter to see in Paris ?"..." It 
 is not for that I am going, but to find out for my- 
 self what that scamp of a son of mine is doing; 
 and I am taking my daughter because I always 
 like to have her under my eye."..." It is very wise 
 and prudent of you. Then, I shall perhaps have 
 the pleasure of seeing you in Paris. "..."I certainly 
 hope you will, for you will be able to assist me 
 materially in watching my son. "..."I will do any- 
 thing which is agreeable to your wishes." 
 
 M. Grandbec took his leave, shaking M. Belatout 
 by the hand, and respectfully saluting Diana. In 
 the hall, he leered at Friquette, who thrust out her 
 tongue as she bowed hiin^out. 
 
 CHAPTER X. . 
 
 THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 
 
 M. Belatout set out for Paris with his daughter, 
 Priquette, and Jacquet. Old Mary Ann remained 
 at home to look after the house. 
 
 Diana hardly knew whether to rejoice at the idea 
 of going to Paris, although her lively little maid de- 
 clared that the visit would completely change the 
 
THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 89 
 
 intentions and opinions of her father. But the 
 young girl could only see one thing, and that was 
 the fact that she would be separated from her lover. 
 
 Friquette was delighted. First of all, at seeing 
 Paris, and then because she had a thousand ideas in 
 her head which she hoped to put into execution 
 here, but which would have been impossible had 
 they remained at Bar-le-Duc. 
 
 Jacquet did not know whether to laugh or cry. 
 He had heard so much about Paris and its immen- 
 sity, that his only fear was that he shonld lose him- 
 self; so he said to Friquette: "When we are in 
 Paris, we must be sure and keep together and not 
 lose sight of one another." To which the girl 
 shrugged her shoulders and replied : " That would be 
 amusing ! M 
 
 M. Belatout decided to stay at an hotel in the 
 Rue de Richelieu, somewhat nearer the boulevards 
 than the Palais Royal, for he did not want to meet 
 his son w*hen he went out. He entered his name on 
 the books as M. Montabord. When Jacquet heard 
 his master give this name, he said to Friquette : 
 
 " Our master has forgotten himself — he doesn't 
 know his own name — that isn't his name ! "...Fri- 
 quette hurried up to him and muttered : " Hold your 
 tongue, you fool ! Can't master change his name in 
 Paris if he likes?"..." Change his name — hem! 
 It's rather suspicious. I think I ought to have been 
 told of this ? "..."Why, if you please? "..."Because 
 I undertook to serve M. Belatout, but I do not know 
 who this M. Montabord is.". . ." But it is the same — " 
 ..." Ah ! you leave me alone ; you think I am a bigger 
 fool than I look." 
 
 M. Belatout was installed in a very comfortable 
 apartment. Diana had a room with a small ante- 
 chamber for Friquette, but Jacquet had to sleep in 
 the attic, for his master could not bear to have him 
 always nears him. M. Belatout thanked his host for 
 
90 THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 
 
 the accommodation provided, and, after having 
 changed Lis clothes, he betook himself to the draw- 
 in g-room^ where the guests were wont to gossip be- 
 fore or after dinner. 
 
 The object of M. Belatont is to get acquainted 
 with those people whose knowledge of Paris is at 
 their finger tips, for they will be able to give him in- 
 formation about the doings and har-ts of those 
 young men who come to Paris for enjoyment, for he 
 expected that this would be the only chance he would 
 have at getting a glimpse of his son. At this par- 
 ticular moment, the drawing-room was occupied by 
 one solitary person. It was a lady, who had cer- 
 tainly arrived at the wrong side of forty, but who 
 had absolutely resolved never to get beyond thirty- 
 two. You can well imagine what care she bestowed 
 upon her toilet, and what time she spent in her 
 dressing room. Cosinetiques, waters of Jouvence, 
 essences, perfumes, all were employed by Madame de 
 Yanilley — that was the name of the lady — had 
 never been pretty, but she had a small foot and well- 
 made arms and legs, so that she had no difficulty in 
 finding admirers. 
 
 Belatout, who had only been out of the eountry 
 for three days, and that was twenty-five years ago, 
 clearly showed that he was out of his element in 
 Paris. His clothes, although of superior cloth, had 
 nothing Parisian about them. He had straps to his 
 trousers, and a white muslin cravat round his neck ; 
 but he also wore a magnificent diamond pin, which 
 ought to have made amends for any shortcomings 
 which might appear in his general costume. 
 
 When our traveller entered the drawing-room, 
 Madame de Yanilley was seated, or, rather, half re- 
 clining upon a couch, and her position was calcu- 
 lated to give the best effect to her tiny foot and 
 beautiful arms. In one hand she held a fan and in 
 other an album. Belatout, who at first had perceived 
 
THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 91 
 
 no one in the room, stopped all of a sudden on seeing 
 the little foot dangling over the edge of the couch, 
 bowed profusely to the lady to whom the little foot 
 belonged, and cast his eyes more carefully round 
 the room. He puzzled himself as to what he ought 
 to say with a view to commencing a conversation, 
 but he could think of nothing, so continued walking 
 round the apartment, making a fresh obeisance each 
 .time he passed the lady on the couch. He had 
 made his third bow, when the lady began to trace in 
 Belatout some resemblance to the bears in the Jardin 
 des Plantes, when another person entered the room. 
 
 This new arrival was a man about fifty, with a 
 great red face a pair of fierce grey moustaches. His 
 body was of ordinary dimensions, but his arms and 
 legs were of enoinnous size, and his hand was capa- 
 cious enough to hold a melon. This gentleman wore 
 a black tie and a frockcoat, buttoned right down, 
 and his grey hair was trimmed and well brushed. 
 He affected a military style, and people were wont to 
 address him as the major, although no one seemed 
 to know to what regiment he belonged. He spoke, 
 abruptly, his voice was very powerful, and he made 
 a great noise when he walked. He entered the 
 room cavalierly, passed Belatout without pretending 
 to see him, and nodded familiarly to the lady with 
 the tiny foot. 
 
 ^ Good-day, baroness," said the gentleman. ..." Ah ! 
 is it you, major? Wherever have you been hiding 
 yourself? We haven't seen anything of you this 
 morning."..."! have not been in hiding; I have 
 been breakfasting at the Palais Royal."..." With 
 M. de Cracoville ? " . ." No, with a pate de foie gras." 
 ..."How funny you are! but one does not neces- 
 sarily prevent the other !..." Quite so, but the other 
 wasn't there."..." So you breakfasted alone like a 
 wolf? ":•.." Wolves are not such fools after all, when 
 they find something good and keep it to themselves. 
 
92 THE GUESTS AT THE ItOTELi 
 
 To eat a duck and truffles, you know, there must be 
 two, yourself and the duck ! "..." Ah, fie ! fie ; it is 
 dreadful to be such, a gourmand ! "..."And what 
 about you, madame? Great heavens, I have seen 
 you at it ! Why, at the last dance you never once 
 left the buffet !"..." That shows what good taste I 
 have, for I love ices and preserved chesnuts; and 
 then, you see, Ethelwina begged me to keep near 
 the buffet, to see that nothing was squandered or 
 wasted. "..."Then you did your duty well !"..." It 
 was a magnificent dance, was it not? "..."Oh ! yes, 
 but I like a supper better than standing at a buffet. 
 You can at least sit down and eat and drink at your 
 ease." 
 
 During this conversation, Belatout, not knowing 
 whether he ought to listen or not, smiled every time 
 the major looked towards him. 
 
 When the conversation ceased, the major threw 
 himself into an armchair, exclaiming: "Phew ! how 
 hot it is ! It makes one want to sleep all day ! "... 
 " Indeed it does," said the baroness ; " it makes 
 one's head heavy, and the eyes to close of their own 
 accord." 
 
 "Are they both going to sleep?" murmured M. 
 Belatout. " It seems they are a baroness and a 
 major ; that is all I have learned up to the present. 
 They seem very distinguished people. However, 
 this gentleman has paid me as much attention as if 
 I had not been here. I wonder whether it is the 
 custom in Paris to sleep through the day. Ah ! the 
 gentleman is off ! he is beginning to snore ; but the 
 lady is still tapping her tiny foot on the floor. Up 
 to now there is not much entertainment for me here ; 
 I think I shall go and find my daughter, or else I 
 shall drop off to sleep myself." 
 
 Belatout was making up his mind what to do, 
 when another person entered the room. This time 
 it was a gentleman who was neither young nor old ; 
 
THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 93 
 
 in iactj one of those people who might be any age, 
 for they are always so particular with their dress, 
 and in their conversation affect the style and tone or! 
 youth. His face was delicate, and his features finely 
 cut; his smile gave indications of -hidden mirth. 
 He had a very small black moustache — much blacker 
 than his hair — the points of which were well waxed 
 and trained back, almost touching his whiskers, 
 which gave him somewhat the appearance of a cat ; 
 among those who are fond of that animal he ought 
 to pass for a good-looking fellow. 
 
 Very different from the major who had taken no 
 notice of Belatout, the new arrival saluted him 
 most courteously on entering the apartment, then, 
 casting a hurried glance around him, exclaimed : 
 " Ah ! who are these people asleep ? They must be 
 very tired ! It is only middle day ! It is only cus- 
 tomary with the major, but what about Madame de 
 Vanilley !"..." I am not asleep, my good friend," 
 murmured the lady, half raising herself from the 
 couch; "I am simply resting."..." And is this the 
 way you welcome a new boarder? for I have just 
 heard from the proprietor — M. de Montabord, I be- 
 lieve ? — whom we have the honour to welcome here." 
 
 Belatout bowed, and smiled in his most agreeable 
 manner. Enchanted by the courtesy and politeness 
 of this gentleman, he stammered out : " Sir, indeed, 
 you are extremely kind."..." But, my dear sir, when 
 strangers come to Paris is it not our duty — we who 
 live in the capital — to do the honours of the place ? 
 Are you a Prussian, sir ?"..." Oh! no; I am from 
 Bar-le-Duc " 
 
 "Ah ! where those beautiful sweets come from! " 
 exclaimed the baroness. 
 
 " Have you come to Paris on business or pleasure ? 
 Excuse me asking you ; it may appear somewhat pre- 
 sumptuous on my part, but I assure you it is entirely 
 in your own interest that I ask you. You see, I am 
 
94 THE GrtJESTS AT the hotel. 
 
 a man of the world, always anxious to be useful or 
 agreeable — Hector de Cracoville — having an inde- 
 pendent fortune, lands, estates, country houses, 
 where I never go because I get so terribly dull. I 
 am never happy but in Paris. But I like to be my 
 own master, that's why I always stay at an hotel ; it 
 is much more convenient. You haven't the ties and 
 responsibilities of a house, and, what is more, you 
 are not compelled to receive visitors. I go out every- 
 where, I know Paris from one end to the other; 
 there is not a fashionable resort that I have not 
 visited, not a piece at the theatre that I do not see, 
 and not a dance that I do not attend ! There is not 
 an article or a celebrated man that I do not know ! 
 And that is why I oifer you my services.". . .Belatout 
 bowed and responded : " Sir, I am delighted to 
 
 have " 
 
 M. de Cracoville, who had a habit of always 
 speaking himself and never letting his hearers get a 
 word in edgeways, interrupted him, and said : " You 
 see, my dear sir, I can guide you to whatever you 
 may wish to see ; and it will be with the greatest 
 pleasure. I put myself entirely at your service. It 
 
 is my good fortune to be able to "..." Sir, that 
 
 proves you ". . ." It is my character, sir ! I must 
 
 always be going somewhere or doing something — 
 movement ! Activity is life! It is my element ! ". 
 
 " Certainly ; if one had no movement "..."Ah! 
 
 there is Major Tourte. He is an excellent fellow, 
 but he only shines at the table or at cards ! Look 
 at him now, he is sound asleep ! I maintain, sir, 
 that man is not made to sleep! "..."Ah ! do you 
 
 think "..."Yes, by jove, sleep is time lost; it is 
 
 so many hours completely cut out of our existence.' 
 ..."But it is very necessary."..." Yes, we must 
 sleep when we are tired, but it should be the least 
 possible amount — the least possible, sir. You are 
 here with your daughter, I believe, sir? "..."Ah j 
 
THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 95 
 
 bow did you know that ?"..." I just told yon I know 
 everything ; when fresh people come here, my first 
 care is to make full enquiries concerning them. You 
 see, there is so much rascality in Paris that it is 
 absolutely necessary to learn as much as possible 
 about the people one meets.' 5 ..." Ah ! and do these 
 scamps you speak about come from the country? "... 
 "From the country, from abroad; in fact, from 
 everywhere. It is necessary for me to make use of 
 all my knowledge and experience lest I fall a dupe to 
 their wiles. So you have come to Paris that your 
 daughter may see all the beauties of this wonderful 
 city ?"..." Not exactly; I have really come to make 
 some enquiries about a certain young madcap. His 
 father has begged me to get what information I can 
 
 about his son, and so "...<< Ah ! exactly; we can 
 
 find out all about him very easily. What is the 
 name of this young man ? " . ." M. Eugene Belatout." 
 ..." That's enough ; before long you shall have some 
 news of him. Would you like to see him or to 
 speak to him? "..."Oh! no, no; he knows me, and, 
 should he know I am here, he would be on his guard 
 and keep out of my way."..." Very well, he doesn't 
 know me, and, I will take care not to lose sight of 
 him. I'll watch him lor you."... "Indeed, you are 
 
 exceedinglykindM.de Crac "..."De Cracoville. 
 
 Will you do me the honour of introducing me to 
 your daughter ? ". . ." Certainly, sir, with the greatest 
 pleasure." 
 
 Belatout returned to his apartment, accompanied 
 by his new acquaintance. He found his daughter 
 in tsars over her absent lover, and Priquette endea- 
 vouring to console her. " But, Miss," said Friquette, 
 as they entered, " M. Marcelin knows we are in 
 Paris ; console yourself, Miss, he will soon be here." 
 M. Belatout, who was not at all pleased at finding 
 his daughter in such a pitiable condition, exclaimed : 
 " Diana, here is M. de Cracoville ; allow me to introl 
 
96 THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL. 
 
 duce liim. He is going to pilot us through Paris, 
 for he knows the city thoroughly. But whatever is 
 the meaning of all these tears ?"..." Sir, it is no- 
 thing," said Friquette ; " Miss Diana is thinking of 
 her little canary she has left behind ; she is afraid 
 Mary Ann will forget to feed it."..." What childish- 
 ness ! to upset herself like that over a bird ! " 
 
 " Miss," said Cracoville, " we will do everything 
 possible to render your stay in Paris pleasant and 
 agreeable, and endeavour to make you forget your 
 little canary. With such beautiful eyes as yours, it 
 is dreadful to find them filled with tears. Come, my 
 dear M. du Montabord, where shall we take your 
 daughter to-day ?"..." Where shall I take her ? In- 
 deed, I had no intention of taking her anywhere." 
 ..." What ! a beautiful day like this, and not going 
 anywhere ! Why not take her to the Bois de Bou- 
 logne? Miss Diana must see that beautiful wood. 
 There are some livery stables close by, I will go at 
 once and order a nice little open carriage, so that 
 vou will be quite at your ease."..." An open car- 
 riage ! But I haven't the least idea which way to 
 go."... "Never mind about that; I will go with you. 
 I will not leave you for a moment ; I will point out 
 all the notable features we pass on the way."... 14 Ah! 
 if you come with us, M. de Cracoville, then I will 
 accept your suggestion with pleasure." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " said Friquette, " and will you take me 
 with you to the wood?"..." Ah ! " cried Cracoville, 
 " this little maid of yours is very pretty. Yes, cer- 
 tainly, we will take you, my girl ; you shall ride on 
 the box with the coachman."..." Yes sir, how jolly ! 
 I will ride with the coachman !"..." I will leave you 
 now ; your daughter can dress, and in a quarter of 
 an hour I will be here with the carriage. M. de 
 Montabord, for a few moments only, adieu." 
 
 " This gentleman is very courteous," said Fri- 
 quette, as the elegant Cracoville departed on his 
 
A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 97 
 
 self-iniposed errand."..." He* called me de Monta- 
 bord ! " remarked Belatout, arranging liis cravat be- 
 fore the glass. " He is such a capital man of the 
 world, and such good society ! You can see that at 
 
 once ! " 
 
 Diana's tears were soon dissipated at the thoughts 
 of the drive, and finished up with smiling at bri- 
 quette, who was dancing round the room with ex- 
 citement. At seventeen, a smile soon dispels a tear. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 
 
 • 
 
 They went to the famous wood, in a beautiful car- 
 riage drawn by two graceful white horses, and driven 
 by°a coachman dressed in fantastic livery. The 
 father and daughter sat side by side, whilst the ele- 
 gant Cracoville occupied the opposite seat, and con- 
 stantly exchanged salutations with the passers-by 
 both driving and walking ; he would every now and 
 then lean over towards Belatout and whisper : 
 
 " That is a Councillor of State. There goes the 
 Marchioness of Cramlovas ; that lady is the sister of 
 a foreign ambassador. Ah ! there goes one of our 
 foremost painters ; that young lady in the victoria 
 is one of our greatest actresses ; I have her name on 
 the tip of my tongue, but I cannot think of it just 
 now. That gentleman I just saluted is a renowned 
 journalist ; when he describes a play, he invariably 
 writes about the author instead of the piece; he is 
 
 G 
 
98 A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 
 
 quite an original. That gentleman reading alone 
 in a cab is one of our greatest bankers."..." The 
 devil of it ! " exclaimed Belatout ; "the company one 
 meets in the Bois de Boulogne seems extremely 
 select !"..." Yes, the best, the very cream of Paris. 
 I trust you do not regret this little outing. "Where 
 do you think of dining this evening?"..." Dining? 
 Oh! at the hotel I expect, why not? "..."No, there 
 is no table d'hote there; they have a horrible 
 system ! Everything is served half cold ! You 
 must go to one of our first-class restaurants, there 
 everything is excellent."..." You know them, I pre- 
 sume ?"..." Know them? Why, I never dine any- 
 where else ! I always go to Brabant's — it used to 
 be Yachette's — at the corner of Montmartre Square ; 
 it is one of the first dining places in Paris."..." W^ill 
 you give us the pleasure of dining with us ?"..." I 
 intended doing so. I have constituted myself your 
 guide, your pilot, and I do not mean to leave you — 
 that is, of course, if my company is agreeable to 
 you !"..." Agreeable to me! Why, I do not know 
 how to express my gratitude for your kindness, your 
 
 consideration, your "..."Hang compliments^ my 
 
 dear de Montabord. I was impressed with your 
 worth directly I cast eyes upon you ; I saw you were 
 a gentleman ignorant of Paris, and that you would 
 soon be the prey of the designing knaves who haunt 
 every quarter of the city, and I determined to offer 
 my services as guide and protector."..." Indeed, M. 
 
 de Crac Craquonville ". . ." Cracoville.". . ."I 
 
 am extremely delighted to have met you."... "It is 
 past six o'clock; let us go to Brabant's. Your little 
 maid can go back in the carriage to the hotel — "... 
 
 " Cannot Priquette come with us?" asked Diana 
 
 " Ah ! so your maid of honour is called Priquette ? 
 Quite a comical name ! Madame, it is not usual to 
 take your servants with you when you dine at a 
 restaurant ; she will be all right at the hotel."... "I 
 
A DAtfGESOTTS FRIEND. 99 
 
 have a' servant also," said Belatont; "a very simple 
 fellow, called Jacquet ; he doesn't know where I am 
 •^he will be losing himself ! "..."Oh ! he will wait 
 for yon at the hotel. Why do yon tronble yourself 
 so mnch over yonr servants ? They will only laugh 
 at yon for yonr pains !"..." Ton are quite right, sir ; 
 we ought certainly not display snch concern for onr 
 servants." 
 
 The coachman received his orders from M. de 
 Cracoville. He took them to Brabant's, and then 
 returned to the hotel with Friquette, who rode in- 
 side the carriage on the way hack. 
 
 " Oh, Miss ! " said Friquette, as she left her young 
 mistress ; " I could exist for ever riding about like 
 this ! " 
 
 The room in which they proposed to dine already 
 accommodated several persons. " It is more cheer- 
 ful than a private room," said Cracoville ; " if, how- 
 ever, you would prefer privacy "..."No; indeed 
 
 I should not. 1 have come to see Paris and its 
 people, so I am far from desirous of dining alone. 
 Only, I must beg of you to order the dinner, for I 
 hardly know what it is customary to order in Paris." 
 ..."I was on the point of making the same proposi- 
 tion. Don't you trouble about anything. I am 
 your pilot ; allow me to manage everything. ~No one 
 can beat me at arranging a menu." 
 
 So this gentleman ordered a dinner, in which 
 nothing was lacking to make it perfect ; there were 
 early fruits and flowers, truffles, ices, and wines. 
 Belatont was delighted ; at each fresh dish he cried : 
 " Delicious ! perfect ! Ah ! they cook better here 
 than they do in our part of the country, do they not, 
 Diana?" Diana, who, like all young girls, was 
 very fond of dainties, was of the same opinion as her 
 father. " You may rest assured," exclaimed Craco- 
 ville, " that so long as you remain under my. care you 
 will never :line otherwise." 
 
100 A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 
 
 But, when the waiter presented the bill to M. B da- 
 tout, he opened his ejes and frowned ominously. 
 " Sapristi ! " cried he ; " what a bill ! ". . ." It cannot 
 be dear if it is good ! " exclaimed Cracoville, as he 
 rose from the table. So the countryman paid with- 
 out a murmur. 
 
 Whilst they were dining they arranged to go to 
 the theatre in the evening, so they betook them- 
 selves to the Opera Comique, and Cracoville pushed 
 Belatout up to the ticket box and said : " Get three 
 for the balcony." " Why doesn't he get them him- 
 self ? " muttered Belatout, who, however, purchased 
 the tickets, and thought that perhaps it was custo- 
 mary in Paris to invite your guests to the theatre 
 after dinner. The show delighted Diana, but Bela- 
 tout slept right through it. They walked back to 
 the hotel. It was past midnight, and they found 
 Jacquet seated on the door-step crying like a calf. 
 
 " What are you doing there, fool ? " exclaimed his 
 master...." Ah ! sir, I thought you were lost, and I 
 have been wondering what would become of me 
 alone Paris." 
 
 Everybody retired to their rooms, and Diana re- 
 lated to her little maid all that had happened during 
 the evening. "Miss Diana," said Fricjuette, "this 
 M. de Craque — , who is so polite, strikes me as be- 
 ing a bit of a knave, who is cajoling your poor father. 
 But, so much the better ; we shall be able to turn it 
 all to account.". . ." How's that, Friquette ?"..." You 
 leave it to me, I've got my own ideas."..." You al- 
 ways have got ideas, but you never let me know what 
 they are ! ". . ." It would take a long time to explain." 
 ..."And what about Marcelin ? "..."M. Marcelin 
 knows that we are in Paris ; I have written and told 
 him where we are staying. It will not be long be- 
 fore he is here."..." But if my father meets him he 
 will be furious ! "..." Ah ! he will not meet him. I 
 have told M. Marcelin to disguise himself.". . ." What ! 
 
■A. tJANGEBOltS FRIEND. 101 
 
 Have you told hiin to get himself up as some negro ? " 
 ..."Oh ! Miss, not exactly a negro; there are a thou- 
 sand ways of altering one's general appearance* 
 Why, if I were a man, I would get in an umbrella 
 case if it were to see my lover."..." Ah ! Friquette, 
 whatever do you mean? "..."Why, it is only a way 
 of saying that under the circumstances I would do 
 anything." 
 
 Eight days passed away, during which M. de 
 Cracoville never left Belatout's side, but dined with 
 him every day and let him pay every time, and on 
 every occasion would remark. "I shall have my 
 turn presently." 
 
 Diana discontinued accompanying her father to 
 dinner; she preferred to stay at the hotel, where 
 Friquette attended to her wants. Moreover, Bela- 
 tout felt relieved at not always having his daughter 
 on his arm, and Cracoville remarked to him : " You 
 are quite right not to always embarrass yourself with 
 your charming daughter. There are hundreds of 
 places in Paris where a man cannot go when he has 
 a lady with him ; it is very embarrassing."../' That 
 was just my idea. But what about this young M. 
 de Belatout, whose actions I am anxious to observe? 
 You have done nothing yet with reference to him ! " 
 ..."Not yet, but we shall soon. Only you said he 
 was staying in the Rue de Richelieu, near the 
 Palais Royal ; I have been to every house, and I can 
 assure you he is not there."... "Indeed, then where 
 the devil has he gone? "..."You see, if we had his 
 address, we might have known what he is up to a 
 long time ago ! But, with a little patience, I think 
 we shall be able to find out all about him. I trust 
 you are not getting tired of Paris ; I am trying my 
 best to render your stay here enjoyable."..." Yes, 
 undoubtedly ; I am not getting tired of it, only the 
 living is a trifle expensive ! "..."Ah ! well, isn't 
 money made to circulate? Your means, surely, 
 
l02 A BANGEHOTJS FRIEND* 
 
 permits you to lead a comfortable existence!'*... 
 "Oh! yes, my means are sufficient — amply so!"... 
 "Well, what shall we do this evening ?"..." This 
 evening — ah ! yon think we ought to do something 
 this evening ? " 
 
 Friquette interrupted this conversation by inform- 
 ing her master that Jacquet had broken a cook-shop 
 window, and was now locked up. " That fool is always 
 into some mischief," cried Belatout. " Excuse me, 
 sir, but I must go and bail out this servant of mine ; 
 I shall be back again soon." 
 
 Belatout departed. Friquette remained in the 
 room for some moments, pretending to admire some 
 very second-rate pictures hanging on the walls. 
 Cracoville muttered to himself: "Devil take me, 
 now would be the time for me to pay my turn — now 
 is my chance. Seeing that Friquette still remained 
 in the room, Cracoville approached the maid, and, 
 touching her on the cheek, said : 
 
 "Good morning, Miss Friquette ! "..."You are 
 
 very good, sir "..."Have you been long in M. 
 
 de Montabord's service? "..." Yes sir, ever since I 
 was a little child."..." Then you know his tastes, his 
 habits, and so on?"..." Yes sir, I know my master 
 as well as if I had made him."..." I noticed he did 
 not care much for the theatre ". . ." Oh ! that al- 
 ways sends him to sleep.". . ." Does he play cards ? ". . . 
 "Oh! yes, sir; cards are his delight — he would sit 
 up all night to play cards. But he never plays be- 
 fore his daughter."..." Ah ! very well; he seems to 
 
 like his dinner, but he scarcely ever drinks "... 
 
 " Wine ? Oh ! I think he takes his share.". . ." I sup- 
 pose you have never seen him drunk? "..." Sir ! 
 What do you mean ? Do you think I am going to 
 defame my master to you? ". . ." Do not be frightened, 
 my little Friquette ; I only ask you out of considera- 
 tion for your master. I feel a great affection for 
 him, that is wiry I have put myself at his service."... 
 
- A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 103 
 
 " If you wish to make the best impression on my 
 master, you must ask him to have some punch."... 
 "Punch! Does he like punch ? "..."It is his pas- 
 sion ! ". . ." Rum punch ? ". . ." Yes, rum and brandy." 
 ..."I am delighted to kuow it."..." But do not say 
 I told you! "..."Oh. ! no. Half a moment, there is 
 something for yourself, 5 ' and M. de Cracoville slipped 
 into her hand a ten-sous piece. The girl looked 
 first at the coin, and then at the man who had given 
 it. " What ! " she murmured to herself, " ten sous ! 
 fifty centimes ! What a contemptible hound ! " 
 
 Belatout stood bail for Jacquet, who cried and 
 swore that he did not break the window to get at 
 the cakes. When Belatout returned, he found the 
 room empty. Madame de Vanilley had gone to the 
 country for a few days, and Major Tourte passed 
 most of his time at the cafe. So Belatout returned 
 to his own apartment and called Friquette : 
 
 " M. de Cracoville did not leave any message for 
 me, I suppose ?"..." No, sir."..." Did he wish to 
 wait for nie? "..."Jffe did not say so, sir, but he told 
 me something else ! "..."Ah ! what was that?"... 
 " Oh ! he said that you undoubtedly were a man of 
 good family — that you had all the manners, all the 
 language of a good family."... 4 ' Of what family ? "... 
 " Ah ! I don't know, but he said you ought to be an 
 illustrious man." 
 
 Belatout held up his head, and, standing before 
 the glass, adjusted his cravat. 
 
 Friquette continued : " Only he added that there 
 was one thing wanting to make you an acceptable 
 member of the clubs ; he said that if you only "had 
 that one accomplishment you would be a perfect 
 gen — gen — gentleman — yes that was the word gentle- 
 man."..." What is it then that debars me from being 
 a perfect gentleman? Come, tell me at once."... 
 "Oh! he said that you never drank enough; that 
 you could not hold a candle to the youngest novice 
 
104 A DANGEROUS FRIEND. 
 
 in the clubs "..."Bah! and is it necessary to get 
 
 drunk to show that you are a gentleman ? And does 
 he think I do not know how to drink ? Why, if I 
 liked, I could drink him under the table, but I have 
 no wish to do so." 
 
 A waiter now came to say that M. de Cracoville 
 was waiting downstairs, so Belatout hurried down to 
 his friend. " A thousand apologies, my dear friend," 
 exclaimed de Cracoville ; " but I have a message for 
 you. I was afraid to come up to your apartment, 
 lest your daughter should be there, and fathers do 
 not always want their daughters to know what they 
 do."..." Well, what is it, my dear sir? "..."Majoi 
 Tourte has some friends coming to see him to-day at 
 his customary resort, and, after dinner they are go- 
 ing to make up a small party to drink punch, and 
 he asked me to say that he would feel highly 
 honoured if you would accept his invitation."..." In- 
 deed ! the major invites me to his party! But he 
 has never spoken to me ; he is always asleep when I 
 come into the room."..." Ah ! sometimes he only 
 pretends to be asleep ; he is a man "of very few words. 
 But he holds you in the highest esteem, and what I 
 have told him of your amiability and good fellowship 
 has only augmented his opinion of you."..." You are 
 a thousand times too good ! . . But to accept this 
 invitation — why, he has never said a word to me — " 
 ..."In Paris, my dear sir, a bachelor's party is quite 
 without ceremony. Among his friends, the major 
 has asked a certain M. Spitermann, a young German, 
 who is very rich, a-nd who it appears is an intimate 
 friend of Eugene Belatout, of whom you wish to 
 learn all you can."..." He is a friend of my — of M. 
 Belatout. Ah ! then I must hesitate no longer, my 
 friend. I accept the major's invitation."..." The 
 major will be delighted. Then at six o'clock you 
 will be ready to accompany me to the restaurant on 
 the Champs Elysees, where the major dines ? Mind 
 
a bachelor's party. 105 
 
 you are iv^ady, my dear de Montabord."..." At six, I 
 shall be ready. Is it evening dress? "..." Not a bit 
 of it ; a simple bachelor's party, without ceremony of 
 any kind. Come just as you are."..." I shall put my 
 white gloves on."..." Just as you please." 
 
 Cracoville shook Belatout by the hand effusively, 
 and the latter, on reaching his daughter's room, de- 
 clared that at last he had some hopes of tracking 
 that young scamp Eugene. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 bachelor's party/. 
 
 M. Belatout, who felt that his daughter ought 
 not to remain couped up in the hotel whilst he was 
 passing his time dining at the cafes and seeing all 
 the sights of the town, said to Diana : " You may, 
 if you like, my dear, walk up and down the boule- 
 vards with your little maid Friquette, but you must 
 always let Jacquet follow you at a short distance ; 
 you must be very careful not to lose sight of the boy, 
 for he has already wandered away twice since we 
 have been here."..," It is not we who lost Jacquet," 
 cried Friquette, " he loses himself ; the fool stops and 
 glares into every shop, and as we walk along, instead 
 of following us, he goes back shouting: 'Friquette! 
 Friquette ! where are you ? ' and then the street boys 
 take up the cry, yelling out: ' Where are you, Fri- 
 quette?' On the last occasion he returned to the 
 hotel escorted by a crowd of urchins, who were bray- 
 ing out : * Friquette ! Friquette ! where are you ? * 
 
106 a bachelor's party. 
 
 That's very amusing is it not sir? I think you 
 would have done much better to have left Jacquet 
 at Bar-le-Duc."..."I am well aware that the boy is 
 very troublesome, but you must arrange among your- 
 selves some plan of keeping him in sight.".,." Then 
 sir, you had better buy a collar and chain, sc that we 
 can lead him like a dog. But, after all sir, cannot I 
 watch over Miss Diana? Besides, on the boulevards 
 and in broad daylight no one is likely to say any- 
 thing to us ! We will take care never to mix in a 
 crowd, and if any man comes too near me I shall 
 kick his shins. I'll answer for everything being all 
 right." 
 
 Friquette had excellent reasons for desiring to dis- 
 pense with Jacquet's services. On the two previous 
 occasions they had seen Marcelin, who dared not ap- 
 proach too near to the hotel where his loved one was 
 staying. He hovered around hoping that, by the 
 assistance of Friquette, he would soon be able to 
 exchange a few words with Diana. Since he had 
 been in Paris, Marcelin passed most of his time 
 waiting for Diana to appear ; and often whole days 
 passed without his seeing either mistress or servant. 
 But this did not prevent him commencing again the 
 next day, for lovers are like cats — their patience 
 never tires. But Diana, accompanied by her maid, 
 had seen Marcelin in the distance. 
 
 " ISTow, if Jacquet sees M. Marcelin speak to me," 
 said Diana, "he will be sure to tell my father."... 
 " We'll soon put that right," said Friquette ; " we 
 can easily lose Jacquet." And, in a few moments, 
 Jacquet might be 'seen gaping around on every side 
 trying to find the two girls. It was a very arduous 
 task for poor Jacquet to watch these two girls, and 
 Belatout could hardly have realised what respon- 
 sibility he had put upon the lad's shoulders. 
 
 At six o'clock, the elegant Cracovilre arrived in a 
 victoria for his friend Belatout, who, in spite of the 
 
a bacheloe's party. 107 
 
 remarks of Cracoville, had paid considerable atten- 
 tion to his toilet before assisting at the bachelor's 
 party to which the major had invited him. They 
 got into the carriage. Cracoville looked critically at 
 Belatout, and exclaimed : 
 
 " You are superb ! You are dressed to perfection!" 
 ..." Well, you see, the first time one goes to another's 
 
 house "..."we are not going to the major's 
 
 house ; we are going to a restaurant, close to the 
 entrance to the Bois de Boulogne, about two paces 
 from the Arc de Triomphe. The major is an excel- 
 lent gourmand; the dinner will be perfect, and I 
 have told them that you are a great connoiseur of 
 wines ! "..."Indeed! Have you really told them 
 that? "..."I told them that you were never known 
 to be deceived over a wine !"..." The devil you did ! 
 Will there be many people at this convivial meet- 
 ing?" .."No, seven or eight, I think."..." And all 
 men— no ladies ? ". . ." Ah ! you rascal ; I believe you 
 will be vexed if there are none ! "..."No, indeed ; I 
 never gave it a thought !"..." Ah ! you need not tell 
 me that ! What with your face and figure you 
 on ght to make quite a rout amongst the ladies ! "... 
 "But I never go anywhere; I always remain at 
 home — a little too much perhaps, and when I was 
 
 married "..."But you have been a widower a 
 
 long time now? "..." Yes, not a bad time, but I am 
 of a very domestic turn of mind; I never budge out 
 of Bar-le-Duc.^ Ah ! if I had only done so— I do not 
 say — the fact is, there are some very pretty women 
 in Paris. What wonderful figures some of them 
 have ! what eyes ! — they look at you in such an engag- 
 ing way too ! Eeally, if one only dared, they seem 
 
 to invite you to make their acquaintance ". . ." By 
 
 jove ! you must dare, my good fellow. I tell you, 
 with all your advantages, you would find little diffi- 
 culty— ". . ." Do you really think so ? But you see 
 
 J am in Paris with mv daughter, and X could not 
 
108 A BACHELOR'S party. 
 
 allow myself — you understand ?"..." I understand 
 that if yon do make a conquest you will certainly 
 not take her to our hotel ; but there is nothing to 
 prevent you going elsewhere. The days and even- 
 ings are long."..." Yes, they are very long, the even- 
 ings ".. ." You ought to get introduced to a young 
 
 German baron, who is staying here ; he has a most 
 ravishing mistress."../' Ah ! you mean this young 
 Spitermann, who is a friend of Belatout's ?"..." Ex- 
 actly."..." And so he has a beautiful mistress?"... 
 " Oh ! a most adorable woman — face, figure, every- 
 thing perfect. She gives parties and fetes, to which 
 everybody in Paris goes."..." Then she must have a 
 very large house ! "..."When I say all Paris, I mean 
 all the elite of the city."..." And have you made love 
 to this beautiful woman ?"..."lS[o, there is no 
 chance ; this devil of a baron never leaves her — he is 
 horribly jealous ! "..."Ah ! the German is jealous is 
 
 he ? ". . ." Like a tiger, or an African ". . ." So, if 
 
 he never leaves this lady, I suppose he will bring her 
 with him to the dinner."..." Oh ! there is no fear of 
 that! It is a bachelor's paity, and bachelors who 
 yet know what pleasure is ! Why, this poor Spiter- 
 mann would be on thorns all the time. Besides, this 
 
 beautiful Ethel wina — that is the lady's name ". . . 
 
 " Ethelwina ? Is it Swedish ?"..." JSTo, she says she 
 is Scotch, and pretends to be descended from some 
 famous clan — from a chief called Rob-Roy.". . ."Bosh ! 
 she descended from a king ! "..."From a chieftain; 
 but it doesn't matter what she is descended from. 
 Does a pretty woman want nobility to make her 
 pleasing? Are not charms better than pedigrees? 
 Come, my dear Montabord, do you not think so? I 
 would exchange a cart-load of parchments for a 
 pretty nose and a well-made leg !"..." 1 am quite of 
 your opinion ; as for the nose, I like it aquiline, but 
 a well-made leg is delightful. Then I shall not see 
 this beautiful Scotch lady ? I am very sorry for it^ 
 
A bachelor's party. 109 
 
 because what you have told me has whetted my 
 curiosity ! " ... "Madame Ethel wina is exquisitely 
 dressed — in fact, she leads the fashion, and patro- 
 nises the leading dressmakers of Paris, bat I must 
 tell you that this charming woman is not the least 
 bit prudish."..." Ah! is she not — ? What do you 
 mean by prudish?"..." Why, you see, there are 
 some women to whom you cannot say the least word, 
 who are offended and turn up their noses if you re- 
 late the most innocent adventure ; but Ethel wina is 
 not so. She is the first to laugh at a tale a trifle 
 risky, she is full of fun, and, when she laughs, she 
 shows such a beautiful set of teeth! ".* " You make 
 me terribly anxious to know this lady, I assure you." 
 ..." Ah ! perhaps you will see her at the hotel ; some- 
 times she calls on Madame de Vanilley, with whom 
 she is very intimate."..." Ah ! she knows Madame de 
 Vanilley! "..."They are bosom friends; that is how 
 I came to know the Countess Ethel wina."... "Is she 
 a countess? "..." She may be a marchioness ; I am 
 not quite sure."..." Now, I have only exchanged a 
 few words of ordinary civility with Madame de Vanil- 
 ley. I have not been to her house "..."Because 
 
 you are too timid; Madame de Vanilley has the 
 greatest regard for you. She is coming back to- 
 morrow from the country ; you must become more 
 intimate with her . . But here we are ! " 
 
 The victoria stopped before a very handsome res- 
 taurant. They alighted from the carriage, and 
 Cracoville ordered the coachman to return and wait 
 for them. 
 
 " At what time, sir ? ". .." About midnight." 
 
 " Do you think we shall stay till midnight ? " ex- 
 claimed Bela tout.... "Well, you see, after dinner we 
 always have a little game at cards ; at least, it is the 
 usual custom."..." Ah! quite so; I shall be delighted 
 to form one of the party." 
 
110 a bachelor's party. 
 
 When they entered the dining-room, they found 
 six men already there. First of all, there was Major 
 Tourte, then the German, Spiterman — he was a great 
 massive fair fellow, about thirty-six years of age, 
 with very regular features, hut a disagreeable expres- 
 sion hovered over his face. He had great blue eyes, 
 a large nose, aud very red cheeks and ears, that fell 
 back like those of a spaniel. Yet this man thought 
 himself superb ; he bestowed the greatest care upon 
 his toilet, his clothes, his teeth, his nails, and his 
 hair, and he impregnated the air with tobacco to a 
 distance of about fifteen paces all round him. At 
 the side of the baron was a diminutive little man al- 
 ways on the grin, dressed in the latest fashion, with 
 an eye-glass in his right eye ; he would look at him- 
 self about every two minutes, pass his hands through 
 his hair, smile, pull down his waistcoat, and then 
 return to the side of the massive Spitermann and 
 murmur : " Charming ! delicious ! Upon my honour 
 you tell the most ravishing stories. If I were a 
 journalist I could make my fortune, but, unfor- 
 tunately, I am. not, and the public thus lose very 
 considerably." The German listened to all this as 
 though it were all due him ; he would deign to give 
 his admirer a slight smile and then continue talking. 
 Another great unwieldy fellow, who stood some little 
 distance off, seemed to participate in the admira- 
 tion which the little dandy averred for the baron. 
 In a corner of the apartment were two other indivi- 
 duals of distinctly Jewish nationality ; they were 
 energetically discussing the price of stocks. One 
 was known as Abraham, and wore round his neck a 
 gold chain with which one could easily draw water 
 from a well; the other had rings on all his fingers 
 and in his ears. 
 
 The major advanced towards the new-comers and 
 introduced them to the compairy, to whom Cracoville 
 was already known ? and then he thanked Belatout 
 
a bachelor's party. Ill 
 
 for having accepted his invitation, remarking that 
 he felt sure the fare would be appreciated, for the 
 cellar was a famous one, but a trifle expensive. 
 "But what does that matter? " he exclaimed; " we 
 shall be well served for our money." 
 
 " What does that concern me if it is dear ? " said 
 Belatout to himself, "since he will be the one who 
 has to pay ; we don't talk in that way in the country, 
 but perhaps it is another Parisian custom." 
 
 Cracoville took Belatout by the arm and whispered 
 to him : " You see that fine-looking fellow talking on 
 the other side of the room ; well, that is the Baron 
 Spitermann. "..." I guessed as much, he has such a 
 German-looking face."..." That odd-looking little 
 fellow dancing about from one place to another is 
 young Mirza, an artist ; he is very fond of the baron 
 and has already painted his portrait about six times." 
 ..." Six times ! Why, does he sell them ?"..." JSTo, 
 the baron takes them all ; he distributes them among 
 his lady admirers. Mirza has painted him in six 
 different costumes, and I believe he is painting an- 
 other now "..."Ah! how is he painting this 
 
 one? "..."We will ask him at dinner. That thin 
 gentleman is greatly interested in railways ; he has 
 
 a long arm ". . ." And long legs too ! ". . ." J mean 
 
 he is very clever and shrewd."..." And who is that 
 fat old gentleman, with that massive gold chain ? 
 He ought to have a valet to carry it for him ! "... 
 " That is M. Abraham, a rich jeweller; he sacrificed 
 a million in order to marry his daughter to a 
 Catholic."..." I have already heard of one sacrifice 
 made by Abraham, but I have never heard mention 
 of this one before. Who is that gentleman talking 
 to him, with rings in his ears ? It looks like his 
 head clerk !"..." No, that is a young Hungarian, 
 who has just come over to Paris to acquire some 
 knowledge of commerce ; he adores jewels, he can 
 hardly ever see a ring without going frantic over it." 
 
112 a bachelor's party. 
 
 ..."If lie goes frantic over other people's rings, it 
 is rather dangerous. "..." Oh ! he is rich, and can 
 satisfy all his whims and fancies." 
 
 Cracoville left Belatout in order to have a chat 
 with the major. Belatout felt somewhat embar- 
 rassed at finding himself alone in the middle of the 
 room, so strolled towards the handsome Spitermann, 
 who was relating how on one occasion whilst swim- 
 ming on his back, he had saved a young girl, who 
 had thrown herself into the water in a frenzy of un- 
 requited love. The story threatened to last some 
 time, for the baron was trying to impress his hearers 
 with the fact tliat when the girl reached him, a wave 
 lifted her upon him, and she suddenly foand all her 
 woe gone, and she no longer had any wish to destroy 
 herself. Belatout hoped every moment that the 
 story would come to an end, and that he might start 
 a conversation with the German in the hopes of get- 
 ting some information about his son ; but just as 
 the baron was taking another plunge to save the girl 
 dinner was announced. 
 
 "Let us get to the table!" cried M. Abraham, 
 hurrying towards the door. Everybody followed his 
 example. Belatout was astonished that the major 
 did not do the honours of his table and receive his 
 guests in better style, but instead was one of the 
 first to seat himself at the table, which was set in an 
 adjoining room. Each sat where he pleased, and 
 Cracoville took care to find a place next to Belatout. 
 The diminutive Mirza sat next to his friend Spiter- 
 mann. The dinner was attacked with considerable 
 vigour; the jeweller even had soup served him twice. 
 Then they passed the Madeira, and M. Alraham, 
 who seemed bent upon making some sacrifice, faith- 
 fully guarded the bottle which stood before him. 
 " I prefer to drink Madeira throughout the dinner," 
 said he, " or, at least, I always like to have it at 
 hand." 
 
a bachelor's paety. 113 
 
 "All!" exclaimed M. Spiternrann, "bring rne 
 some Johannesburg ; that is the wine for me ! " 
 
 " Iced Moet ! " cried the artistic Mirza. 
 
 "Ton see," said Cracoville to Belatont; "there is 
 no ceremony here, everybody takes the wine he likes 
 best."..." True ; your major takes things very easily. 
 This is a princely entertainment ! I shall have some 
 Beaime, some old Beaune. «But I should very much 
 like to have a few words with the baron about that 
 young fellow Eugene Belatout, whom I have come 
 to Paris to watch."..." Oh ! that's easy enough; the 
 baron loves a gossip. You must bave noticed al- 
 ready that he is hardly ever silent."..." Yes, he re- 
 lates his adventures about saving young girls from 
 drowning and that sort of thing."..." You leave it 
 to me ; I'll question him." 
 
 " The fish is excellent," cried M. Abraham ; " I 
 must sacrifice myself again. Bring me some more 
 fish ! "..." Take care, Abraham," said Mirza, S'if you 
 sacrifice yourself in this way during the early 
 courses, later on you will be able to take nothing at 
 all."..." Never fear! lam always capable of that! 
 I once sat at table for forty-eight hours without ris- 
 ing, and did not cease eating once."..."Forty-ei°\ht 
 hours ! Magnificent ! " 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the baron, "I once knew an 
 English woman who ate a whole leg of mutton for 
 her dinner."..." Good God! what a glutton!"... 
 " Yes, and I quarrelled with her because she wanted 
 to take some pork chops to the theatre with her, 
 which she would eat instead of sweetmeats. She 
 was a superb woman! But she had a sister, with 
 whom I had a most interesting adventure, a . . I 
 will tell you all about it. This sister was named 
 Krittlekattle."..." Ah ! " said Belatout to Cracoville, 
 "this is another weary adventure coming on, and my 
 young man "..."Wait! wait!" Cracoville ad- 
 dressed these words to Spitermann, who had just 
 
 H 
 
114 a bachelor's party. 
 
 commenced his narrative. "Excuse me, Baron, for 
 
 interrupting you, but M. Montabord here is anxious 
 
 to get a little information from you "..."What, 
 
 about Miss Krittlekattle? Wait a moment, I was 
 just going to tell you all about her."..." ISTo, it is not 
 about that young lady, but about a young man 
 whom you know very well: his name is Eugene 
 Belatout.". . ." Little Belatout ! Oh yes, I know him ; 
 a charming young fellow. Well, what about him? " 
 ..."How does he behave himself here in Paris? 
 What is his general conduct ? ''..."Oh ! he is like 
 all other young men, who are always on the look-out 
 for novelty and amusement. Only this poor Bela- 
 tout has a sort of imbecile father, who cannot see 
 what his son wants with amusement ! "..."Sir," said 
 Belatout, as he felt the blood rush up into his face ; 
 "hasn't a father a perfect right to regulate his son's 
 conduct without being called a fool for his pains ? " 
 ..."No, sir; when a man sends his son to Paris, he 
 must expect him to participate in the pleasures pro- 
 vided for him. A young man must sow his wild 
 oats ; so I repeat again, this old Belatout is a fool, 
 who buries himself in some unknown, part of the 
 country. Because he has ceased to take pleasure in 
 life himself, he thinks young men ought to be the 
 same ; that's the whole story ! " 
 
 Belatout bifc his lip, and struck the table with his 
 knife, while he muttered : " Damn me, that's a nice 
 thing to say about anyone ; a good thing for him he 
 does not know whom he is speaking to." 
 
 " I judge people by their actions," said the bnron ; 
 "I don't know the father, but it is quite sufficient 
 for me to know what I do already. Now, I will 
 
 come back to Miss Krittlekattle ". . ." Pardon me. 
 
 Baron ; have you seen this young Belatout recently?" 
 ..."What the devil do you bother me with your 
 questions? Do you think I came here to occupy 
 myself over this Eugene Belatout ?"..." I only 
 
A BACHELOR'S PARTY. 115 
 
 wanted to know his address, to send it to one of his 
 friends."..." His address ! How should I know it? 
 He comes to see me, but I don't know where he 
 lives ; besides, what do I want with his address ? I 
 have an interesting story to relate to these gentle- 
 men, and you keep interrupting me with your con- 
 founded questions. Please let me alone now, for my 
 adventure with Miss Krittlekattle is more interest- 
 ing than all your Belatouts." 
 
 " Yes ! " cried Mirza, " adventures with the fair 
 sex ; that's the only kind of story that interests me. 
 Are you not of my opinion, my capacious Abraham ? " 
 ..." Oh ! I like eating better than talking; it makes 
 you lose so many mouthfuls." 
 
 Belatout said nothing more ; but, whilst the baron 
 related his new adventure, he never ceased to tap 
 the table with his knife, which annoyed Spitermann 
 very considerably. At length the baron stopped 
 suddenly, and addressing Belatout, said : 
 
 " Sir, do you think my words require an accom- 
 paniment ? "..."Why, Baron? "..."Because you con- 
 tinually tap the table with your knife whilst I am 
 talking."... "That's an old habit of mine, sir."..." If 
 it is a habit, you will please desist whilst I am speak- 
 ing, otherwise I shall look upon it as an insult, and 
 shall demand satisfaction of you ! "..."Eh ! what is 
 that?" cried Cracoville. "What! Baron you get 
 angry because Montabord plays with his kuife? I 
 am sure he has not the slightest wish to offend you, 
 and, to prove what I say, he will drink with you in 
 your own loved Johannesberg."... Belatout hastened 
 to proffer his glass, making at the same time a 
 gracious bow to M. Spitermann, who deigned to 
 glance at him, and said: "Certainly, let us drink; 
 but let your knife have a little peace."..." I will not 
 touch it again, Baron." 
 
 M. Spitermann recommenced his recital of the ad- 
 yenture witli Miss Krittlekattle, But, although 
 
116 a bachelor's party. 
 
 Belatout ceased tapping with his knife, he paid little 
 heed to the baron's narrative. In fact, scarcely 
 anyone listened, for they either wanted to speak 
 themselves or listen to others. The red faces round 
 the table soon demonstrated that the wines had been 
 well sampled. Belatout was anxious to avoid any 
 suspicion of drinking less than his companions, and 
 answered all the toasts and drank all the healths as 
 they were proposed. When he left the table for the 
 room where the coffee was served, he leant upon the 
 arm of M. Abraham. 
 
 " My faith, Major, you do the thing well," said 
 Belatout, thinking he was addressing the major. 
 " That dinner does you honour ; I am quite amazed 
 at it all."... The corpulent Abraham laughed and 
 responded : " Yes, yes, I quite see you are ' amazed,' 
 but the bill will be pretty heavy; if we get off at 
 forty francs a head we shall be lucky. But bah ! I 
 will play you for my share at lansquenet. "...Bela- 
 tout did not understand, but he noticed that he was 
 not addressing the major after all, so stammered 
 out : " Excuse me — it was your chain deceived me — 
 
 the major has one like it "..."What! Tourte? 
 
 His chain is not worth fifteen francs, whilst mine 
 cost about six hundred francs ! not a sou less ! Are 
 you gone on it ? 1 will let you have it ; you shall 
 have it for five hundred. I shall lose a hundred, but 
 it does not matter a jot ; I can afford it. Is it a 
 bargain ? ". . .*" No, indeed it is not ! I have not the 
 slightest wish for your chain ; I would rather have a 
 little coffee just now."..." Then why the devil did 
 you ask me for it ? Perhaps I could let you have it 
 at four hundred and fifty. I am very liberal in my 
 business transactions ; you see, I can afford it."... 
 " But, my dear sir, I don't want to buy your chain ; 
 it is cognac I want ! "..."You are making a great 
 mistake; you may never get such a ckance again. 
 Let me show it to you ? " 
 
a bachelor's party. 117 
 
 Cracoville came up just at the moment when Bela- 
 tout pushed Abraham on one side, for the latter was 
 trying' his hardest to force his chain upon poor 
 Belatout. 
 
 "My dear friend," exclaimed Belatout, " do please 
 come to my assistance. This gentleman is absolutely 
 trying to compel me to buy his chain, and I haven't 
 the slightest wish to."..." Come, Abraham," said 
 Cracoville, " calm yourself a little ; you will sell your 
 chain soon enough, or, perhaps someone will play 
 you for it at baccarat. Gentlemen, there are some 
 most delicious liqueurs here. Taste them; then we 
 will have some punch. Do you like punch, M. de 
 Montabord ? "..."Very much indeed! But I think 
 I have had quite enough to drink already ! "..."All 
 the more reason why you should have some punch; 
 it drives away the effects of other drinks."..." Oh ! 
 ' very well, I am with you ; and what about the baron ? 
 Did he tell you anything about the young man — 
 you know? "..." The baron ! He has just com- 
 menced over again that story about the girl he saved 
 when swimming on his back. But they are all wait- 
 ing for us now at the card tables ; come, gentlemen, 
 try your fortunes." 
 
 Belatout suffered himself to be led to the card- 
 room. He rolled his eyes in astonishment when he 
 saw they were playing for gold, and stammered out: 
 " Can we not play for twenty sous ? " All the players 
 burst out into a roar of laughter. " Twenty sous ! " 
 cried Spitermann ; " twenty sous ! What do you 
 take us for — dustmen ? The least stake is five 
 francs." So Belatout, excited by the punch, drew a 
 handful of napoleons out of his pocket, and took his 
 seat at one of the tables. " Well, gentlemen," he 
 said, " you think I cannot hold my own, but you 
 shall see. 1 can play for just what you like ; see, 
 here are some yellow boys ! "..."Ah ! bravo! bravo ! 
 honour to M. de Montabord I ".,." Gentlemen, there 
 
118 
 
 A BACHELOR S PARTY. 
 
 are sixty francs this time."..." I play them," cried 
 
 Belatout " Very well— a king — two kings — you 
 
 have lost ! ". . ." Never mind, I will play again.". .." It 
 
 is a hundred and twenty francs. "..."I can give 
 
 me some punch — it is delicious "..."You have 
 
 lost again — two hundred and forty francs."... 
 " Again ! " said Belatout.. . ."M. de Montabord is in- 
 deed a splendid player ! But you have lost again, 
 sir " 
 
 " Excuse me, gentlemen," said the major, " but 
 before the cards are dealt again, I think it would be 
 better to settle for the dinner. The waiter has just 
 brought in the bill ; the total is three hundred and 
 twenty francs. That, divided by eight, makes forty 
 francs a head, so let us each pay our share."..." Cer- 
 tainly, let us each pay our share."..." Baron, paj 
 for me," said the undersized Mirza ; " I have no 
 money."..." Abraham, pay for two," said the man 
 with the ear-rings ; "I will settle with you later on." 
 ..."My dear friend, it is your turn ! " and M. Craco- 
 ville presented Belatout with the plate in which each 
 guest placed his share of the cost. Belatout could 
 not understand how it was he had to pay for a dinner 
 to which he had been invited, so Cracoville hastened 
 to add: "It is intended as a subscription for young 
 women out of work."..." Ah ! very well, as it is for 
 such a generous purpose, with pleasure."..." We arc 
 putting forty francs each."..."! play them — I — I— 
 give them." 
 
 Belatout no longer knew what he was saying — the 
 punch had made him completely drunk. Then M. 
 Spitermann made his bank, and said. : " There an 
 two hundred francs." Belatout wished to play, but 
 he had lost all his gold, so he drew from his pocket 
 book a note for a thousand francs, which he put 01 
 the table. He lost, and lost the double ; at the last 
 throw nothing was left of his thousand-franc note. 
 Pe had lost all, he had neither gold nor notes ? sq 
 
THE DAT AFTER THE ORGIE. 119 
 
 lcoked round for his friend Cracoville, but lie was 
 nowhere to be seen. But he heard ,M. Abraham re- 
 mark : " You would have done better had you bought 
 my chain; you would not then have lost everything." 
 Belatout, who felt very ill at ease, pushed M. Abra- 
 ham on one side and hastily left the room, to get a 
 little fresh air. He went mechanically down the 
 stairs, at the foot of which he found a boy who said 
 to him : " Shall I get your carriage sir ; it has 
 arrived, and is waiting."..." Ah ! yes, yes, the car- 
 riage ; I think I will go home now." And, stagger- 
 ing along, Belatout, with the assistance of the boy, 
 entered the victoria which had brought him to the 
 restaurant. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE DAY. AFTER THE ORGIE. 
 
 When you have eaten too much and drunk too 
 much, the motion of the vehicle in which you ride 
 only augments your uneasiness. M. Belatout cried 
 out several times to the coachman to stop, but he 
 either would not or could not hear. The result was 
 certainly not an improvement to the interior of the 
 carriage. When they arrived at the hotel and the 
 coachman began to assist Belatout from the cariiage, 
 he noticed the damage done to the victoria, and 
 said: "What a disgusting thing! the dirty black- 
 guard! he has left his dinner on my yellow silk 
 cushions. This will cost you a nice round sum sir ; 
 they will all have to be re-covered. I had my doubts 
 
120 THE DAT AFTER THE OEGIE. 
 
 about taking you at all, seeing that you had to be 
 lifted into the carriage. It seems when you do any- 
 thing you take care to do it well ! " 
 
 Hearing the driver shouting in this maimer, the 
 attendants at the hotel came out. They recognised 
 Belatout, and sent word to wake up his man that he 
 might come down and take his master to bed. The 
 coachman now began to cry out for his fare, but the 
 proprietor of the hotel told him he had nothing to 
 fear and told him to call again the next day and 
 bring a bill for the damags done to the carriage. 
 Jacquet soon appeared in his shirt and night cap ; 
 when he saw his master seated in the hall, lie ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Have you come back at last, sir? Why, he 
 looks half dead ! "..."He is not half dead, but he is 
 quite drunk. Take him to his room ; get someone 
 to help you, and then make him some tea." 
 
 They took him upstairs, and Jacquet wept over his 
 master's face all the way up ; then he called bri- 
 quette, who quickly dressed herself and hurried to 
 learn what all the tumult was about. " Our master 
 has come hom#as drunk as a fiddler ! " said Jacquet ; 
 " he won't speak, and looks half dead. Come, let 
 us make him some tea." Friquette hastened to her 
 master's side just as one of the attendants was put- 
 ting him to bed. The little maid prepared the tea 
 and gave it to Belatout, who, after the second cup, 
 commenced to feel a trifle better and stammered 
 out : 
 
 " Ah ! I am in my own bed. I have returned then 
 without anyone seeing me ?"..."! do not think any- 
 one has seen you," said Jacquet; "but, sir, you 
 were drunk ; we had to carry you upstairs.". . ." What 
 is that you say, Jacquet ?"..." Do not listen to him, 
 sir ; drink another cup of tea, and then go to sleep. 
 To-morrow you will be all right again."..." You are 
 right, Friquette ; I am very anxious to get to sleep." 
 
THE DAT AFTER THE 0KGIE. 121 
 
 Belatout drank another cup of tea, and then fell 
 back on his pillow. "You must stay here to-night," 
 said Friquette to her fellow-servant ; "get a cha'ir 
 and put it by the side of the bed, and be at hand in 
 case your master wants any thing."... "Be at hand? 
 Gracious me, he has his table and e very thin o- else 
 f at hand; surely they suffice."..." Jacquet, you will 
 please remain here, at your master's side."..." Well 
 
 if you think that amuses me "..."Hold your 
 
 tongue, and remain here, I tell you." 
 
 Friquette hastened off to Diana, to whom she re- 
 lated all that had taken place, and the young girl 
 anxious about her father, wanted to get up at once 
 and go to him. It was not without great difficulty 
 that Friquette was able to explain that sleep was all 
 that was necessary to restore M. Belatout to his 
 normal condition. 
 
 "Instead of being vexed," said Friquette, "you 
 should be glad, for this will aid us considerably in 
 our little projects.". . ." How ? I do not follow you 
 Friquette."..." Do you not see that he will be un- 
 able to reproach others with what he does himself ? " 
 ..."But M. Marcelin does not get drunk! "..."No 
 but he accuses him of making your brother drink of 
 leading him astray, and into all sorts of frivolities ! 
 Well, he can say nothing about that now ! Unfor- 
 tunately, M. Marcelin does not know your brother's 
 address and he has not met him since he has been in 
 Paris, otherwise I should let M. Eugene know in 
 what state your father returned to the hotel." 
 
 The next morning, about nine o'clock, a gentleman 
 presented himself at the hotel, and asked to see M. 
 Belatout. Then he corrected himself and said* 
 " No, he is called Montabord here in Paris ; I had 
 forgotten." He was shown Belatout's room. He 
 entered, and found Jacquet, who was snoring at the 
 Side of the bed. He half woke and. exclaimed: 
 What ! it is M. Grandbec ! "..." y es? Jacquet 5 it is 
 
122 THE DAT AFTER THE OEGIE. 
 
 I. Is M. Belatout up yet? I want to see him."... 
 "See him? Why, he is sleeping like a top, and I 
 mustn't wake him."..." Ah! does he generally sleep 
 till the middle of the morning? Perhaps he was up 
 late last night ?"..." Up late ? rather ! Why, it was 
 past midnight when he came home ; he was rolling 
 about and couldn't stand. We carried him upstairs 
 and put him to bed at three o'clock this morning." 
 ..."What do you say, Jacquet ? It cannot be pos- 
 sible! M. Belatout, so cautious, so discreet!"... 
 " Yes, at Bar-le-Duc, perhaps, but in Paris he is very 
 different ; he is out all day, he dines out. In fact — 
 You had better ask Friquette all about it." 
 
 Friquette made a slight curtsey on seeing Graud- 
 bec. " Good morning, Priquette. I have called to 
 see M. Belatout, but Jacquet has just told me some- 
 thing I can scarcely bring myself to believe."... 
 "What has he told you, sir ?"..." Why, that your 
 master came home at three this morning helplessly 
 drunk ; that he couldn't stand.". . ." However did you 
 come to say that, Jacquet ?"..." Well, isn't it true ! " 
 ..." There is no reason why you should talk about it. 
 If our master has committed any faults, it is our 
 duty to try and hide them."..." Ah ! I say what I 
 see. What did he want to bring me to Paris for ? 
 Yes, sir, he was dead drunk last night, and in the 
 night he half woke up and said : ' Jacquet, I had a 
 thousand francs, and I had at least four hundred 
 francs in gold ; well, I have lost it all ! ' Well, I 
 felt in his pockets, and found two maccaroons, an 
 olive, and a truffle. I told him what I had found, 
 and he threw his head back on the pillow and ex- 
 claimed : ' Fourteen hundred francs — lost — and a 
 gold chain ! ' Then he went to sleep again.", . ." The 
 devil ! " muttered Grandbec ; " if that is the way 
 Belatout watches his son's behaviour, I think he 
 wants a little surveillance himself! "..." Sir, do not 
 heed Jacquet," exclaimed Friquette ; " he is repeating 
 
TftE 1)A1T AFTER TliE ORGIE. 123 
 
 eome dream ; there is nothing in it."..." It was not 
 a dream, for I felt in all his pockets ; he ceriamlj 
 didn't go ont with only two maccarons and an olive." 
 ..."Oh! hold your tongue, you chatterer!" inter- 
 posed Friquette. "Are you staying at this hotel, 
 sir? "..."No, I am lodging with a person to whom 
 my notary recommended me. Then, I suppose M. 
 Belatout will wake about mid-day. I will call again 
 then." 
 
 As soon as Grandbec had taken his departure, 
 Friquette hastened with all the news to her young 
 mistress. Jacquet remained at his master's side, 
 who soon after woke up and said: " Jacquet, where 
 have I been — am I ill? "..."Ill ! not exactly; but 
 you have been very drunk. In fact, so drunk that 
 you couldn't stand."..." Is it possible? I think I 
 can remember now. Yes, I dined at the Champs 
 Elysees with Major Tourte and M. de Oacoville — " 
 ..." They got you into a line state then ! "..."In the 
 evening, I played cards "..."And you lost four- 
 teen hundred francs ; that's the worst part of it ! ". . . 
 " Do you think I lost so much as that? "..." Well, 
 : that's what you told me last night.". . ." Why, I must 
 i: have been out of my mind."..." You were next door 
 ito it, for you were very drunk."... "Does my daugh- 
 ter know anything about it? "..."I have not seen 
 i Miss Diana, but Friquette saw you when we carried 
 t you upstairs ; she made ;&ou some tea." 
 
 M. Belatout frowned ; ne rose and dressed himself. 
 \ He felt stiff and sore after his night's debauchery. 
 l He betook himself to his daughter's room ; Diana 
 I rushed towards him and embraced him, exclaiming : 
 I" You are not ill now, are you, my dear father? "... 
 I" No, my pet; there is no doubt I had something at 
 i dinner yesterday which has disagreed with me."... 
 
 I ""Did you enjoy yourself."..." Not much."..." Are 
 you going to dine with M. Oacoville to-day?"... 
 "No, I shall stay at home with you; I will have 
 
124 THE DAY AFTER THE ORGlE* 
 
 breakfast with you. I only want some tea; that 
 will soon put me all right."..." Have you been able 
 to get any information about Eugene? "..."The 
 gentleman who knows him could not give me his 
 
 address; I am beginning to despair of ever "... 
 
 " M. Grandbec came to see you this morning, but, as 
 you were asleep, he said he would call again about 
 mid-day."..." Grrandbec in Paris? So much the 
 better ; he will help me to find my son." 
 
 Belatout passed the remainder of the morning with 
 his daughter. About noon, Grandbec appeared and 
 saluted Belatout with a certain amount of sarcasm. 
 " Good morning, M. Belatout ; so you are awake at 
 last ?"..." What do you mean ? Can't you see I'm 
 awake ! ". . ." I mean — has your sleep done you good ? 
 Has your indisposition disappeared ?"..." Who told 
 you I was indisposed? Can't I sleep a trifle longer 
 than usual without being ill? "..."Undoubtedly ; I 
 was only repeating what your servant told me — that 
 — yesterday — you were a trine — in fact, very much 
 
 so ". . ." Very much what ?"..." In your cups.". . . 
 
 " My servant is a jackass ! I am astonished that 
 you take any notice of the fool. Since we have been 
 in Paris, the stupid fellow sees everything awry . . 
 But what is that noise ? " 
 
 Jacqnet rushed into the room and exclaimed; 
 " Sir, there is a man downstairs who says that you 
 must pay him what you owe him, and that he does 
 not mean to leave the house without the money."... 
 " What does he mean ? I don't owe anybody any 
 money."..." Ah! you had better arrange with him 
 yourself, sir; here he comes, he has followed me up." 
 It was the coachman who followed Jacquet into 
 the room. " Look here, sir ; I haven't time to dance 
 attendance on you, sir. I cannot call again over 
 this matter; there is the bill, and I must request 
 you to pay it at once.". ..-" But you are making a mis-, 
 take, my dear fellow; I don't know you."..." You 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE ORGIE. 125 
 
 don't know me? All! I know you well enough. 
 I brought you here last night from the restaurant 
 — —"..."Didn't M. Cracoville pay you?"..." No 
 one has paid me sir ; there is the bill." 
 
 Belatout examined the bill ; it amounted to a 
 hundred and twenty-five francs. "A hundred and 
 twenty-five francs for two journeys ! " exclaimed 
 Belatout; "why, you are making game of me ! "... 
 " Sir, do you forget what you did in my carriage ? 
 There are twenty-five francs for the day's hire, and 
 a hundred francs for the cushions. It is not too much 
 to charge I assure you." 
 
 Belatout became the colour of beetroot; he felt in 
 his pocket with a view to paying the man and gettino- 
 rid of him. Just at that moment Jacquet burst out 
 laughing and Grandbec gave vent to a sort of 
 chuckle. Belatout, to relieve his feelings, kicked his 
 servant in the behind and said : " I'll teach you to 
 laugh in my face, you scamp ; be off sir." Jacquet 
 ran away, exclaiming: "It wasn't my fault if you 
 were sick in the carriage and came home rolling 
 drunk ! Another time, I will leave you to yourself) 
 and you may poison yourself." Happily, Jacquet 
 had by this time got some distance off, or he would 
 have received a second edition. 
 
 Belatout then said : " Yes, I have been a trifle in- 
 disposed ; I dined with some friends, and there were 
 too many varieties of wine — bat, let us leave it now. 
 How long have you been in Paris, my dear Grand- 
 bec ? "..."Only yesterday."..." You will be able to 
 assist me in looking for my son ; I have not been 
 able to find his address yet.". . ." I shall scarcely have 
 time to aid you in your search, for I am here on 
 business ; I have to see lawyers and advocates every 
 day, and I have to write a report every evening of 
 what I have done during the day. But, here is my 
 address ; if you have anything of importance to com- 
 municate, just drop me a line, as I shall be nearly 
 
126 THE BAY AFTER THE OEGIE. 
 
 always out."..." Thanks, a thousand times, my dear 
 
 r Grandbec then tried to get into conversation with 
 Diana, but she would only answer in monosyllables. 
 So, he hastened to take his leave. Scarcely had he 
 gone when a message was brought to say that 1Y1. 
 Cracoville was waiting downstairs to see M. .beia- 
 tout " Ah ! " pondered Belatout ; " I am curious 
 to see how this gentleman will explain his behaviour 
 
 yG On r seeing Belatout, Cracoville ran towards him 
 and shook him heartily by the hand. " Ah ! my dear 
 friend, what do I hear ? You have been indisposed ; 
 the heat was too much for you! Ah ! I am sorry 
 I was not there when you left, or I would have ac- 
 companied you."..." Ah! sir, I expected to return 
 with you, but I looked for you in vain. ... Ah. ± 
 was ill myself, very ill : I was obliged to leave or 1 
 should have fainted.". . ." Explain now why I had to 
 pav my share of that dinner.". . ." Ah ! that was my 
 fault. I made a mistake ; it was a pic-mc, m which 
 each had to pay his own share. But, you must 
 admit it was a splendid dinner— what wines ! Mi r» 
 
 " There were too many wines ; that s what made 
 me ill, and made me play like a fool. Do you know, 
 sir that I lost fourteen hundred francs at your 
 damned picnic ?"..." That does not astonish me; 
 why, I lost two thousand francs."..." What! You 
 lost two thousand francs? "..." Indeed I did ! That 
 devil of a Spitermann got all mine— he's an insolent 
 fellow ! Bah ! we shall get our revenge— to-day we 
 lose, to-morrow we win."..." Ah! thanks^ all the 
 same, but I have no wish to play again. ... U h . 
 don't say that; everybody gambles a little— on the 
 stock exchange, with cards, or in business, and young 
 men plav with their health with women who ogle 
 and leer*; soldiexs gamble with their lives and poli- 
 ticians with everybody."..." That's very possible ; but 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE OEGIE. 127 
 
 at Bar-le-Duc I used to play for ten sous, and here I 
 nave to play for ten louis; and it amused ine much 
 more. ..."Ah! but you are not at Bar-le-Duc now 
 and you must conform to the usages of the town 
 where you live. Are you coming for a walk ? " 
 
 Inanks very much, but I prefer staying with my 
 daughter just now." J 
 
 Cracoville felt that it would be prudent to leave 
 .Belatout for a time to get over the effects of the pre- 
 vious day "I will leave you at home to-day," he 
 said "and I will go out and look for this youn? 
 -Belatout that you are so interested in. If I can find 
 out anything I will hurry back and let you know"." 
 ... liiat devil of a man arranges everything so that 
 it is impossible to contradict him," muttered Bela- 
 tout to himself as Cracoville left. "But, all the 
 sameror that, I will have no more of his confounded 
 pic-nics Then; play is too heavy for me; and that 
 (xerman fellow is a very ill-tempered scamp— he only 
 speaks of his own affairs. I think I should much 
 preter that man who tried to sell me that sold 
 chain." 6 
 
 Belatout took his daughter for a walk on the 
 Boulevards; Fnquette followed behind, and made 
 signs to Marcelm, who was compelled on this occa- 
 sion to admire from a distance. At the moment 
 they returned to their hotel, the father and daughter 
 tound themselves face to face with M. Plantureau 
 
 Ah! it is Plantureau! "..."Ah! Belatout! de- 
 nted t meet you. How long have you been in 
 Paris? "..."Oh! about a fortnight. Well Plan 
 tureau, has your invention been adopted 'on the 
 railways yet ? : "." Ahem! not yet; I have the grap- 
 pling irons-m fact, I have a room full of them 
 One company paid: 'Sir, that we may judge "of the 
 merit of your invention, you must try your grappling 
 irons yourself."..." Well, try them yourself." " Yof 
 are very good, but you must be very strong. 1 tried 
 
228 THE DAT AFTER THE 0RGTE. 
 
 to throw one out of the window where I am lodging, 
 but I couldn't manage it, and have had the lumbago 
 ever since.' 5 . ..." Then, is your invention refused ? "... 
 " Oh, no ; I am looking out for a machine on which 
 I can place my irons, so that by pushing a button 
 they will fall of themselves, and thus stop the train." 
 • ■•"Ah! I am looking for my son, but I cannot gleam 
 the least information about him ; I do not even know 
 where he lodges nor where he goes."..." My wife is 
 more fortunate than you ; she has seen your son — 
 she has been to the theatre with him."..." Can it be 
 possible! What do you say! Your wife knows 
 where my son lives ?"..." I do not say that she 
 knows where he lives. You do not suppose that my 
 wife has been to his rooms !"..." Then what did you 
 say about your wife and my son. Come, explain 
 yourself."..." Several days ago, Eululia remarked to 
 me that she had met M. Eugene Belatout and that 
 he had offered to take her to the theatre, as he had 
 some tickets. I could not go with them on account 
 of my lumbago, so I allowed them to go alone ; he 
 brought my wife home in a carriage — and that's all. 
 I have not seen, him since."..." But your wife had 
 plenty of time to talk to him ; very, probably she 
 knows what he does. She will be able to give me 
 some information. To-morrow morning, I will call 
 on your wife; I presume you do not object?"... 
 "Why should I object? There's my address; we 
 shall expect you to-morrow. You can try my grap- 
 pling irons ; I am sure you could throw one easily." 
 ..." Thanks ! "..." Good day, mademoiselle ! " 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL ETHEL WINA. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWINA. 
 
 The next day, as soon as he had finished his 
 breakfast, Belatout hastened to his friend Plantu- 
 reau, who was staying at a very modest hotel. He 
 found the inventor deeply immersed in his calcula- 
 tions, and his wife occupied with her toilet. He im- 
 mediately explained to Eululia the motive of his 
 visit. 
 
 On learning that her husband had reported to 
 Belatout the fact that she had been to the theatre 
 with his son, she screwed up her mouth, screwed up 
 her nose, and, perhaps, she screwed up something 
 else. " My God ! " she said, " what an ass my hus- 
 band is ; whatever does he want to tell people what I 
 do and where I go ! "..."Madame, I had no idea 
 that you were desirous that there should be any 
 mystery in connection with this incident."..." Cer- 
 tainly not, sir; there is no mysttry about it ! But 
 it is, none the less, ridiculous for you to go prattling 
 about every little incident in connection with your 
 wife.". . ." Ridiculous if you like, madame, but I shall 
 feel very much obliged if you can tell me what you 
 know concerning my son. What is he doing in 
 Paris? How does he live? And where is be stay- 
 ing? "..." Ah ! my dear sir, do you think I should 
 ask your son such questions ? He took me to the 
 theatre, he has been very attentive and kind, and 
 has made me accept a few sweets and oranges ; but 
 that is ail, and I know nothing" more."..." But, ma- 
 dame, surely you gossiped between the acts?"... 
 " Oh, yes ; about the weather, the rain, the piece, 
 and the actors.". . ." Did he not speak about me ?''... 
 "Not once,".,." Nor of what he intended to do in 
 
130 THE BEAUTIFUL ETHEL WINA. 
 
 Paris ?"..."T$fot at all."... "And shall you see Mm 
 again soon ?"..." Do yon think I make appointments 
 with, him? Indeed, M. Belatout, your questions are 
 almost as ridiculous as my husband's inventions. 
 Come and see his grappling irons; we have to pay 
 rent for an extra room to hold them! He will drive 
 me out of mind with his inventions. What a mis- 
 fortune it is to marry an inventor ! " 
 
 Belatout could obtain no other details concerning 
 his son, and, as Madame Plantureau seemed hurt at 
 his questioning, he took the opportunity of getting 
 away without seeing Plantureau or his irons. On 
 returning to the hotel, he entered the common room 
 and remarked to himself : " Perhaps M. de Craco- 
 ville has learnt something. He took me to a dinner 
 where I lost both my wits and my money, it is true ; 
 I shall go to no more of Major Tourte's pic-nics. 
 But that is no reason why I should fall out with 
 Cracoville, who knows e tout Paris ' and is sure to be 
 able to help me a great deal in finding my son. I 
 know already that the jackass is all right, since he 
 takes ladies to the theatre, but that is not enough 
 for me." 
 
 Instead of Cracoville, he found Madame de Yanil- 
 ley in the room, stretched out in her usual manner 
 on the couch, with the customary exhibition of her 
 arm and foot. Belatout had considerably got over 
 his nervousness since his stay in Paris, so he imme- 
 diately opened a conversation with the lady. 
 
 " So madame, you have come back from the coun- 
 try ? "..."Yes, I returned last evening."..." Did you 
 enjoy the change, madame ?"..." Oh ! not much. 
 You see, 1 simply went to the country for a little 
 fresh air, which is about all one can find in the 
 country, except, perhaps, that the sun is a trifle 
 hotter and there are more insects to bite you. In the 
 evening if you sit on the grass there are a good 
 many unsavoury odours about, and when you return 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWINA. 131 
 
 liome you are smothered with gnats, which oite you 
 all over, so that you havejto pass most of the^ night 
 scratching yourself. That sir, is what I find in the 
 country. "..."That is quite true, madame ; in order 
 to enjoy the country you must live there. "..."There 
 is -nothing to hand ; if you want some fruit, there is 
 none, for it is all sent to Paris. It is the same witli 
 milk — it all goes to Paris ; every good is sent to Paris. 
 So that you see, sir, it is much better to live in 
 Paris than in the country. I stayed at a castle, a 
 very beautiful castle ; there was a superb garden, a 
 park, a lake, and apartments without end. I often 
 felt rather nervous at night, but there were three 
 ladies and several gentlemen staying in the house, 
 and then there were the servants ; it wanted a hun- 
 dred people though to give any sign of life to such a 
 wilderness of a place. Ah ! sir, you do not know 
 with what pleasure I return to my dear old Paris ! 
 I am quite decided that the only place where the 
 country is pretty is in the ballets at the theatre." 
 
 This conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
 of a lady, who immediately embraced Madame de 
 Vanilley, and appeared most delighted to see her. 
 Belatout was completely nonplused at the appearance 
 of this lady whose costume was in the latest fashion. 
 She was a young lady about twenty-eight years of 
 age, tall, well-made, and with an excellent figure ; 
 she was a blonde, and had most beautiful blue eyes. 
 Her hair was magnificent, and was dressed in such 
 a way as to make the most of her attractions. In- 
 deed, she was altogether a most beautiful woman. 
 
 "What! Is it you, my dear Ethelwina?" said 
 Madame de Vanilley, rising half way to receive her 
 friend; "it is so kind of you to come and see me."... 
 | " Ah ! you have come back at last ! That wretched 
 country of yours ; whatever made you go ? I have 
 been worrying* myself to death about you ! This 
 morning, as soon as Cracoville told me you had 
 
132 THE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWINA. 
 
 returned, I hastened here at once — I was so anxious 
 to embrace nay dear Zulema."..." A thousand thanks, 
 my dear ; but come, let us go to my room. I ought 
 not to receive you here."..." Why ? I am afraid I 
 have interrupted your conversation with this gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 These words were accompanied by a most charm- 
 ing smile and fascinating looks, which seemed to 
 fix themselves upon the diamond stud in Belatout's 
 cravat. Belatout bowed, and stammered out : 
 
 " Madame, you ought not to think that your pre- 
 sence — assuredly — I was gossiping with Madame de 
 Yanilley, but it was not very interesting. I fear I 
 have been indiscreet in remaining here, and I was 
 
 on the point of leaving "..."Ah! sir, if you are 
 
 going, I shall think I have driven you away."... 
 " Then madame, I shall stay, for I should never 
 cease to regret it if I caused you any uneasiness of 
 mind."..." Gome and sit near us, and we will all 
 three talk together. Zulema, you introduce me to 
 this gentleman."..." This is my dear friend Ethel- 
 wina."..."So madame is named Ethelwina? "... 
 " Yes, sir; do you know me ?"..." M. de Oracoville 
 has spoken of you, madame."..." Ah ! Cracoville has 
 spoken of me, has he ? And what has he told you ? 
 Horrible things, I suppose? "..." Ah ! madame, you 
 know very well that no one could speak of you but 
 in terms of the highest praise."..." Ah ! that is very 
 kind of you — very gallant indeed ! Be careful, sir ! 
 Are you staying at this hotel? ". . ." Yes, madame.". . . 
 " Alone ?"..." No, with my daughter.". . ." Are you 
 going to stay in Paris ?"..." I do not think so ; I am 
 looking out for a young man, and when I have found 
 
 I^lq "..."You will go back again? Oh! come 
 
 now, you must really stay with us."..." But I have 
 
 property in Bar-le-Duc "..."Ah! I know, the 
 
 county of confitures; will you send me some?"... 
 " With the greatest pleasure, madame."..." You find 
 
TlfE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWIKA. 13B 
 
 me a little out of fashion, do you not? But I detest 
 ceremony ; I always say that ceremony does very well 
 for those who have nothing else to think about. So 
 you know M. Cracoville? "..." Yes, madame; that 
 gentleman has been very kind to me. He has on 
 several occasions offered to guide me about Paris, 
 for I scarcely know the city at all, only having been 
 here once before, and that was twenty-five years 
 ago !"..." And have you found the place changed 
 much? . . What is your name, sir ? "..."Monta- 
 Jbord, madame."..." Ah! well M. de Montabord, you 
 must learn as much as you can about Paris ; and we 
 will endeavour to make your stay as agreeable as pos- 
 sible."..." That , madame, was done as soon as you 
 entered the room. "..."Ah! I hear all the ladies are 
 after you ! Now, take care sir what you are about ! 
 I may also see what I can do."..." Ah ! madame — " 
 
 Belatout could not feel his feet for joy ; never be- 
 fore had he felt the same sensations. The beautiful 
 Ethelwina realised for him all that his imagination 
 had ever been able to picture ; this seductive, beauti- 
 ful woman, as remarkable for her charms as for her 
 dress, threw upon him ever and anon such winning 
 glances that he felt as though he had known her 
 for some time. His head was completely turned ; he 
 who had never so much as flirted, was now, at fifty 
 years of age, completely conquered. 
 
 " My dear Zulema, did you know I am giving a 
 ball, a sort of rout or fete ?"..." Ah ! I thought you 
 had already given your ball !"..." What ! in your 
 absence ? How could I do such a thing whilst you 
 were away? "..."You are very kind; and when do 
 you propose giving this fete ?"..." I have not fixed 
 the day yet, but it will be soon. It all depends on 
 the Baron; Spitermann has so many engagements! 
 Do you know Baron Spitermann, M. de Montabord?" 
 ..."Madame, I have had the honour of dining with 
 that gentleman at a pic-nic at the Champs Elysees." 
 
134 Tfi£ BEAtjTXFtTL ETHELWIftA* 
 
 ..."Ah! I heard something mentioned about that 
 dinner. What do you think of the Baron ?"..." Ma- 
 dame, I consider him a splendid fellow! "..."Ah ! 
 I was not speaking of his physique, but his cha- 
 racter and general disposition. He is very plaguey 
 and annoying, is he not? "..."Madame, to speak 
 candidly, I should hardly like to say that."..." But 
 you thought so, none the less. I wager that Spiter- 
 mann occupied the whole of the table with his 
 anecdotes about his adventures, and about the wo- 
 men who adore him. As for myself, I think there is 
 nothing so foolish as a man who is continually talk- 
 ing about his conquests." 
 
 These remarks were accompanied by several ex- 
 pressive glances at Belatoni's stud. The beautiful 
 Ethelwina went on: "But Spitermann thinks all 
 women ought to run after him. I am obliged to 
 manage him, because he interests himself ,in my 
 future; but it does not prevent me from finding him 
 unsupportable at times ! And will you permit me to 
 invite you to my fete ? "..."Madame, you confuse 
 me; I feel so highly flattered — "..."Now, that's 
 settled ; I may depend upon you ? ". . ." Assuredly ! 
 Is it a ball?"..." Yes, a ball, a concert, — in fact, a 
 little of everything. "..."May 1 bring my daughter ? " 
 . . .Ethelwina smiled, threw a glance at her friend, 
 and answered : " And why not ? It will give us 
 great pleasure to invite her. Only I might say that 
 there will be some dances — in character — and some 
 Spanish steps, which involve rather risky attitudes — 
 and it may rather startle a young ladj who is not 
 used to the theatres — "..."Ah! you are right, it 
 might startle her, for she is a very timid girl; it 
 would be better for me not to bring her.".. ."For 
 this occasion, I certainly think it would be better. 
 But I forgot, I have a thousand things to attend to — ■ 
 my dressmaker, milliner, jeweller — Ah ! M. de 
 Montabord, what a beautiful stud you have!"... 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWINA. 135 
 
 "You think so, madame ?"..." It is a magnificent 
 
 diamond."..." Yes, it is a pretty good one "... 
 
 "■ It throws out so much fire that it is quite dazzling. 
 But I am chattering, and the time is flying by. 
 Good-bye, Zulema. M. de Montabord, I hope to see 
 yon again before long."... "I shall await the moment 
 with impatience, madame." 
 
 The beautiful woman took her departure, accom- 
 panied by her friend, who led her to the carriage 
 which was waiting for her. Belatout, on returning 
 to his room, met Friquette, who was idling on the 
 stairs. 
 
 " What a pretty woman ! " exclaimed Friquette, 
 "and what a beautiful dress !"..." Ah ' Friquette 
 did you see that lady leave?"..." Yes sir, she went 
 down stairs with another lady, and I heard her say : 
 6 What a nice fellow that Montabord is ; I feel quite 
 delighted to have met him. '"...« Eeally, Friquette 
 did she say that?"..." Yes, sir. At first, I forgot 
 that you were called Montabord here, and I did not 
 think she was speaking of you. But she went on : 
 ' I wish he would come to my house; my dear,- will 
 you bring him ? I should like it so much ! ' " " Did 
 she say that? "..."Yes sir, and something else, but 
 it was in too low a tone for me to catch the exact 
 words." 
 
 Belatout was in the third heaven of delight. He 
 went to his room, looked in the glass, and then 
 called a waiter, whom he sent for a hairdresser. 
 4n e -i maU arnved > Belatout put his head in his hands. 
 Whilst this rejuvenating performance was going on, 
 Cracoville sent word up to know whether he coutd be 
 received. " Yes, yes, let him come ! He follows the 
 fashions; he will be able to tell me whether this 
 style is all right." 
 
 Cracoville, who had already met Ethelwina, greeted 
 Belatout with a smile. "Well, my dear friend/' 
 said he, " was I far out in my praises of Ethelwina?'" 
 
136 THE BEAUTIFUL ETHELWINA. 
 
 ..."No, you did not extol her nearly as much as you 
 should have done; she is ravishing — adorable — and 
 how delightfully entertaining she is !"..."! am 
 charmed to hud you think so highly of her, for what 
 do you think she says about you ? ". . ." Did she speak 
 to you about rue ?"..." Directly I saw her."... 
 " Where did you meet her? "..."At her jeweller's; 
 she was buying some pearls."..." So she spoke of 
 me ?"..." I should just think she did! She spoke 
 of nothing else ! You rascal ! you've got a fine 
 chance there ! You have made a conquest of one of 
 the prettiest women in Paris, and at first sight too ! " 
 ..."Is she much sought after? "..."Why, every man 
 in Paris has lost his head over her ! And here you 
 are, just up from the country, and you outdo all the 
 Parisians! I call that luck and no mistake!"... 
 
 "Ah! but she is Spitermann's mistress "..."My 
 
 good fellow, that doesn't matter. A woman never 
 refused a chance of getting a little dressmaker's bill 
 paid."..." Well, what did this lovely woman say 
 about me? "..." She said that she had just met you, 
 that you were a charming fellow, and that you were 
 preferable to all the dandies in Paris ! "..." Indeed ! 
 did she really say that ?"..." She also added that 
 your conversation charmed her, and that she had in- 
 vited you to her fete. By jove! although I feel a 
 little piqued that she should take so much notice of 
 you when she will hardly look at me, I should be 
 delighted to see that fat, clumsy Spitermann ousted 
 out of her good graces."..." What ! Do you think I 
 
 could "..."Anything you like! I haven't the 
 
 least doubt about it ! "..."If I could only believe it f 
 How do you like my hair done this way ? "..." Capi- 
 tal ! you look about twenty-five ! "..."I was once ! " 
 ..." Well, you look it now. Shall we dine together ? " 
 ..."Certainly, and during dinner we will chat over 
 the beautiful Etlielwkia," 
 
¥ME BKAUTEEUL ETHELWINA. 137 
 
 They dined at the Palais Royal, and throughout 
 the whole meal Belatout continued to rave about the 
 charms of Spitermann's beautiful mistress. He 
 could think nor talk of nothing else. When, how- 
 ever, he returned to the hotel in the evening, he 
 noticed that Friquette directly she saw him burst out 
 laughing. He stopped abruptly before the girl, 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 "What are you laughing at?"..." Oh ! sir, yoVve 
 had your hair done differently; it looks so ' fanny ! 
 You have hardly any hair left !"..." It is the new 
 fashion my girl. 5 '..." Oh ! yes, and how they've 
 frizzed it round the ears !' \ .." Well, how does it 
 suit me ?"..." It has completely changed your ap- 
 pearance — you look like a little choir-boy ! ". . ." Then 
 it makes me look younger ? " 
 
 Far the next two clays Belatout was scarcely ever 
 absent from the common room in the hotel ; as soon 
 as he had finished breakfast he was there, and never 
 budged an inch all day, for fear of missing the 
 graceful Ethel wina should she happen to visit the 
 hotel. The third day she came, and, Madame de 
 Yanilley not yet being down, Belatout found him- 
 self alone with Spitermann's beautiful mistress. She 
 affected astonishment and pleasure at seeing him 
 and exclaimed, in a slightly tremulous voice : 
 
 "Ah ! you here, M. de Montabord ! I am so de- 
 lighted to meet you ! Do you think of me a little 
 now and then? "..."Madame, I have done nothing 
 else !"..." How singular it is ! I have been thinking 
 a great deal about you ! One feels drawn, I suppose" 
 by a sort of magnetic fluid . . I have never fell the 
 
 same towards any man as I do towards you ".. 
 
 "Madame, can it be possible ?"..." Oh ! I am so 
 foolish ; I never ought to tell you such things ! Bub 
 my feelings seem to force me to say what I think of 
 you !"..." Oh ! please go on, say what you have been 
 thinking about me "..."No, not now; we will 
 
Ids BEFORE THE BALL. 
 
 talk over it when you come to my house. My fete is 
 next Saturday; you will come, will you not?"... 
 "You may be sure I shall not fail you !"..." Will 
 you be kind enough to escort Zulema; she is a very 
 great friend of mine? "..."I shall consider it a great 
 honour to be allowed to do so ! "..."And, pray re- 
 member that you must pay her the most attention 
 when you are there. I am compelled to ask you 
 this favour because of my German admirer — you 
 
 understand ?"..." Yes — hardly, however -". . ." I 
 
 am going up to Zulema's re om now. Now mind you 
 come ; here is my address. If Madame de Vanilley 
 cannot come, you must come alone, and say she sent 
 you."..." Well, for the present, au revoir ! Kiss my 
 hand*— ". .," Ah ! madame !"..." Enough — enough — 
 
 you have conquered my heart — Saturday "... 
 
 " Saturday, incomparable woman ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BEFORE THE BALL. 
 
 Belatottt thought of nothing but the beautiful 
 woman, of whom he imagined he had made a com- 
 plete conquest, and when his daughter remarked to 
 him : " Father, have you heard anything of Eugene?" 
 he opened his eyes as wide as he could, and an- 
 swered : "Eugene ? Eugene ? "No, no, I have no idea 
 where he is ; but there is plenty of time ! "..." Are 
 we going to stay long in Paris ?"..." We shall stay 
 here — till I have found your brother."..." That will 
 be a long time," said Eriquette, in an undertone ; 
 
BEFORE THE BALL. 139 
 
 "yon might as well send Jacquet ont to look for 
 him." 
 
 Belatout did not fail to acquaint Cracoville of the 
 invitation he had received for the Saturday, and 
 asked him how he should dress for the fete which 
 this descendant of the Scottish clans was giving 1 . 
 
 " Your ordinary dress will do," said Cracoville ; 
 "put on a coat, that's all. You know what Ethel- 
 wina said about detesting ceremony."..." In spite of 
 that, I think for a fete something out of the ordinaLy 
 ought to be worn ; besides, you say she receives 
 'tout Paris.' "..."Yes, all Paris that is fond of 
 amusement and good cheer — and having a little 
 spree.". . ." What do you mean by a spree ?"..." Oh ! 
 to dress oneself up in all sorts of costumes, and act 
 charades; it is quite the fashion now at all first-class 
 soirees. They play comedies sometimes, or improvise 
 little plays on the spot."..." The devil! I have 
 never played in a comedy ; I shall be quite out of it. 
 Never mind, I will have a pair of black cashmere 
 tights made ; they will sure to be useful. Are you 
 going to the soiree? "..." I going! Oh! damn it, 
 fancy all the beauty of Paris being assembled, and I 
 not there! "..."And the major ?"..." Yes, all the 
 gentlemen who were at the pic-nic will be there."... 
 "All ! the man with the gold chain too ? "..." Abra- 
 ham ? Yes, certainly ; the ladies are very fond of 
 him, because he often makes them presents of rings, 
 pins, and all sorts of jewels. You see, my friend, 
 woman's greatest weakness is jewellery !"..." Will 
 there be any card playing at this soiree? "..."Natu- 
 rally ! Ethelwina wouldn't have a man at her rout 
 that couldn't play cards."..." Well, I shall not play ; 
 I have no wish to be skinned again like I was at 
 your pic-nic."..," There you're wrong, if you lose one 
 day you are bound to win another; Dame Fortune 
 is very capricious. But, I have no doubt how you 
 will employ your time, you fascinating rascal ! You 
 
140 BEFORE THE BALL. 
 
 will be courting Ethelwina ! "..." Why do you say 
 Ethelwina only? "..."My dear Montabord, it is the 
 same with women of fashion as with all other cele- 
 brities, artistes, actors, authors. Familiarity is 
 mutual amongst them." 
 
 Belatout obtained a pair of black tights, a velvet 
 waistcoat, and an opera hat. He then sought Ma- 
 dame de Yanilley, and asked her what time he should 
 wait upon her to escort her to the fete. 
 
 " Eleven o'clock," said that lady.. . ." Eleven ! why, 
 that's terribly late ! " cried Belatout ; " why, the 
 soiree will be nearly over."..." Eo, my dear sir, it 
 will hardly begin before midnight ; if we start at 
 eleven we shall be about the first there. Eemember, 
 we have the whole night to get through."..." Then, 
 madame, I shall come for you at eleven precisely." 
 
 The Saturday arrived at List. Belatout commenced 
 dressing about middle-day; first of all, the hair- 
 dresser waited upon him, then the tailor. Belatout 
 insisted upon trying on his tights, although the 
 tailor declared it to be quite unnecessary, as he was 
 positive they would fit perfectly. As a matter of 
 fact, he could not get into them. 
 
 " You see, I was right after all," said Belatout, 
 but the tailor responded : "'Not at all; they will fit 
 you splendidly."..." But I cannot put them on — "... 
 "If you could put them on easily they wouldn't be 
 tio-hts ! "..." But, if I can't get them on what's the 
 use of having them? "..."Wait a moment, sir; this 
 is the way." 
 
 The tailor pushed his arms into the tights; then, 
 he tried them again, with the assistance of Jacquet, 
 who pulled one leg through, whilst the tailor pulled 
 the other. They succeeded in getting Belatout into 
 the garments. 
 
 "You see, they're all right sir."..." Yes, but 
 they're a lot of trouble to get on— ough ! they pinch 
 me terribly everywhere !"..." Oh ! you can't help 
 
 s 
 
BEFORE THE BALL. 141 
 
 that — that's why they're called tights. "..."There's 
 one thing strikes me," said Jacquet.. . ." What is it ? " 
 ..."Why, they'll want some pulling to get off!"... 
 " I think," said the tailor, " if I were you, sir, I 
 would keep them on all day ; you will get more ac- 
 customed to them."..." You are right, I will."..." So 
 much the better for us,' v said Jacquet; "we shan't 
 have to get them on again." 
 
 Belatout paid the tailor and dismissed him. He 
 tried to walk about the room, but he could scarcely 
 move ; however, he admired his figure in the glass 
 and murmured : " How do you like them, Jacquet ? 
 Thank heaven ! I have a good figure, and they show 
 it too ! "..."They show it too much; it is absolutely 
 indecent ! " said Jacquet ; " you look as if you were 
 naked and simply blacked over !"..." I am in the 
 fashion, and I think 1 shall make some stir at the 
 soiree this evening ! " 
 
 Friquette almost burst with laughter when she 
 saw her master in his new garments. Diana asked 
 him wherever he was going in such a costume. 
 "My dear, I am going to a ball given by the queen 
 of the fashionable world. "..."And you're not going 
 to take me? And I'm so fond of dancing. "..."JSTo, 
 my dear, because it is a masked ball, and I am sure 
 you would not enjoy it ; but, if I think it would suit 
 you, after to-morrow I will get a master to teach 
 you the special dances they have at these affairs."... 
 " Are you going to dance then, sir ? " asked Fri- 
 quette...." No, I shall simply look on ; but, you see, 
 I must dress as the others do."..." What a funny 
 hat ! " said Friquette ; " put it on, sir.". . ." It isn't to 
 put on the head ; it is only to carry under the arm. 
 Give me my stud, Friquette."..." Your large dia- 
 mond ! I should not take that, sir ; it would be very 
 unfortunate if you had it stolen."..." Stolen ! what, 
 from my neck? How could it be possible?"... 
 r Well, in Paris the thieves are so clever ! " 
 
142 BEFORE THE BALL. 
 
 Belatout set about completing his toilet at seven 
 o'clock ; at a quarter to eight he was ready, but lie 
 had to wait till eleven o'clock for Madame de "V anil- 
 ley. The time was long in passing ; he thought he 
 would have a nap, but was afraid of oversleeping 
 himself. He cursed the fashion which ordained that 
 balls should commence so late. He walked back- 
 wards and forwards from one room to another, in 
 order to ease his tigLts a trifle; once or twice he 
 tried to jump, but he found that impossible. How- 
 ever, Friquette encouraged him, and said : 
 
 " Ah ! sir, how nimble you are ! how you can skip 
 about ! I never saw you dance like that at Bar-le- 
 Duc."..." Indeed you did not." joined in Diana; 
 " why did you never dance there when we went to 
 a ball ? It was very rarely that we went to one, but 
 we did so occasionally."..." My dear girl, you know 
 theie is an old proverb which says that 'opportunity 
 makes the thief.' "Well, I think that proverb is very 
 true. In our village when I went to a ball, I used 
 to sit down to cards at once — with all the grand- 
 fathers and grandmothers — although I am not yet 
 too old to take my place in the dance. I begin to 
 perceive that we were very much behind the times 
 down there. Diana, can you dance the polka?"... 
 " Of course I can, papa.". . ." Then give me a lesson ; 
 it appears that it is a very favourite dance here. 
 Cracoville told me that if I could dance the polka I 
 should be sure to get on all right. Friquette, you 
 sing to us while we dance. "..."Yes, sir. I can 
 dance as well ; I should like to teach Jacquet, but he 
 is such a fool, he has no idea of dancing in time." 
 
 Diana hurried to teach her father the polka ; Fri- 
 quette sang and beat time. The more Belatout 
 danced the more ardour he put into it, but Diana 
 soon got tired, and asked her father to stop. 
 
 "Why, whatever for! We are getting along 
 splendidly !" cried Belatout...." Perhaps you woul3 
 
BEFORE THE BALL. 143 
 
 like to continue the dance with me, sir," said bri- 
 quette ; " I am strong", and can keep up a long* time." 
 ..."Very well, Friquette; come along. Besides, 
 that will accustom me to different partners. But, if 
 you dance, who will sing? "..."Oh! I will do that 
 that and dance too. I can do heaps of things at 
 once." 
 
 So Friquette took her master by the waist and 
 commenced to dance. The pretty maid danced 
 very well ; she had a good ear, and, if her master got 
 out of time, she soon put him right. Belatout was 
 electrified ; he felt like a zephyr, he had no wish to 
 stop, and Friquette danced and sang right merrily. 
 Just at that moment who should enter the room but 
 M. Grandbec, followed by Jacquet. The dry, 
 yellow-faced young man stopped suddenly on enter- 
 ing the room, thunderstruck at what met his as- 
 tonished gaze, whilst Jacquet cried out : " Ah ! look ! 
 master dancing with Friquette. That's why he 
 sent for the tights ! " But Belatout did not stop, 
 he went on with the polka. Friquette continued her 
 singing, and skipped as gaily as her master. 
 
 Jacquet went up and pulled his master's coat tail. 
 " Stop, sir ! " he cried...." What are you touching 
 me for, you fool ! go away."..." But, there is some- 
 one to see you sir — M. Grandbec — here he is." 
 
 At the name of Grandbec, M. Belatout stopped. 
 He wiped his face, and then, puffing and blowing, 
 addressed his friend Grandbec. " Good evening, my 
 dear Grandbec. Phew ! I am warm. Friquette, go 
 .and. rest yourself; you must need it."..." Why, I am 
 ready to commence again sir, if you like."..." No, 
 no, not just now. She dances well, does she not, 
 Grandbec ? "..."Yes, sir; as though she were at it 
 all day. I have no time for dancing, but it seems 
 that is not the case here."..." Well, you see, I am 
 going to a ball to-night, and, as I want to enjoy it, 
 I am just having a little rehearsal. I am a tiifle 
 
144 BEFORE THE IBltt. 
 
 rusty in my dancing, yon see."..." What, yon are 
 going to a ball ? Your daughter is going too, I pre- 
 sume? "..." No, she does not accompany me on this 
 occasion* It is a fancy dress dance — a Spanish 
 dance I think the} 7 call it — and she knows nothing 
 about it."..." Was that a fancy dance I saw jnst 
 now with your servant? ". . ." Oh ! not exactly ; that 
 was a polka, in case they should be in want of a 
 partner. . . Damn it, my hair is all untidy." 
 
 Belatout hastened to a glass to rearrange his hair. 
 At the same time the gentleman with the nose like 
 a hawk's beak, approached Diana, smiled, and gently 
 whispered: "Your father is leaving yon at home, 
 whilst he goes to a dance ; that is rather the reverse 
 of the usual mode, is it not ? Its putting the cart 
 before the horse, the dessert before the soup; it 
 is "...Diana interrupted Grandbec in dry sar- 
 castic tones : " Sir, I presume my father may amuse 
 himself if he wishes to.". . ." Certainly, Miss ; I trust 
 yon will not think nothing I have said anything 
 amiss." 
 
 Belatout returned to Grandbec. "This dance has 
 tumbled me a bit," he said ; " but I am all right 
 again, yon see. What do you think of my waist- 
 coat? It is very gay, is it not ? "..."It dazzles me 
 completely ; men wear such outrageous garments 
 here !"..." Oh ! this is quite the latest stjle."... 
 " Well, have yon heard anything about your son? 
 I understand that was the object of your coming to 
 Paris."... Belatout was somewhat embarrassed, and 
 stammered out : " !No ; I have made inquiries every- 
 where. I cannot find out where he is, but he is in 
 Paris somewhere, for he took Madame Plantureau to 
 the theatre.". . ." Well, if you know that, you should 
 be able to find him, for she will be able to give you 
 some information."...' 4 That's jnst where yon are 
 wrong ; Madame Plantureau did not know his ad- 
 dress. In fact, she did not ask him ; why should 
 
BEFOftE THE BALL. i4S 
 
 she ? . . Damn it, there's one of my braces gone 
 now, and Friquette isn't here. Diana, call your 
 maid ; I want her to mend this brace. Fancy, if it 
 had broken at Ethel wina's I should have been in a 
 nice fix !"..." You have two of them, and one of 
 tb em would hold up your pants."..." Yes, it would 
 be enough, but it would have a deal of responsibility, 
 for if that were to break also — you don't know what 
 might happen — it does not bear thinking about ! "... 
 " It is already ten o'clock ; whatever time are you 
 going? ".:."Oh ! not just yet; I am taking a lady 
 who is staying at this hotel, and she has asked me 
 to attend her at eleven."..." I trust I shall be sound 
 asleep by that time; good night, Belatout. I hope 
 you will enjoy yourself. Miss Diana, I bid you good 
 night." 
 
 " I'm not sorry he's gone," said Belatout, as soon 
 as Grand bee disappeared; "he seemed very much 
 astonished when he came in."..." Shall we have 
 another polka, sir?" said Friquette...."ISro, I enjoy 
 it very much, but it tumbles my hair so ; besides, I 
 must calm myself now — it's a quarter past ten — how 
 slowly the time passes. Diana, my dear, if you 
 want to go to bed do not stay up for me."..." Oh ! 
 thanks papa, I am not at all tired. Ah ! you should 
 see M. Marcelin dance the polka !"..." What ! Diana, 
 do you still think about that M. Marcelin ?"..." Yes, 
 papa, every day ! "..."Yes, and sometimes she 
 dreams of him," said Friquette...." You hold your 
 tongue, Friquette ; when these young ladies have 
 anything in their heads, they are full of wayward- 
 ness ! Ah ! my tights are not uncomfortable now. 
 It is more than half-past ten — Jacquet! Jacquet ! 
 Where's that fool gone now ? He's never here when 
 he's wanted — Jacquet ! Jacquet ! " 
 
 The booby came in yawning and stretching his 
 arms. " Sir," said he, " do you wish me to undress 
 you — are you ready for bed, sir? "..." What an ass ! 
 
 K 
 
146 &EFORE THE BAl/L. 
 
 Do you think T should dress like this if I were going 
 to bed ? "..."Well, as you have danced with Fri- 
 quette, 1 thought you had had enough."..." Go up 
 to the Baroness de Yanilley's apartments and say 
 that I am ready to wait upon her ; it is nearly eleven 
 -go " 
 
 Jacquet did as he was bid. Belatout commenced 
 putting on his gloves. Jacquet was soon back and 
 said : " There's plenty of time, sir; do not be in such 
 a hurry. The lady said her hair was not done yet, 
 and that there was plenty of time."..." Hair not 
 done yet? Oh ! this is terrible ; whatever time shall 
 we get there ? Well, I suppose I must wait ; I trust 
 we shall get to this fete before day-break. I wager 
 Madame Ethelwina will find us the last there ; how 
 ridiculous it is to get to a soiree just as it is finish- 
 ing ! However, I must grin and bear it, I suppose." 
 ..." Sir, it is striking eleven. "..."Is it, Friquette? " 
 ..."Listen."..." Yes, it is eleven; Madame ought to 
 be ready by this time. Jacquet run up again and 
 see if the lady is ready. "...Jacquet, who was in a 
 terrible fret at not being able to get to bed, returned 
 with the message that Madame Yanilley desired M. 
 Belatout not to annoy her in this way...." This 
 woman will be the death of me," cried Belatout, im- 
 patiently ; "fancy, not ready yet."..." Shall we have 
 another polka, sir ? " ventured Friquette.. . ."No, Fri- 
 quette, 1 have my gloves on ; it will muddle me up 
 again. I should have done much better had I gone 
 with Cracoville and Major Tourte. But Ethelwina 
 begged of me to escort her friend — and it seems im- 
 possible for a lady to be ready at the time arranged." 
 
 Another ten minutes passed, and still Belatout 
 was waiting. At last, his impatience got the better 
 of him ; he rammed his hat on his head and rushed 
 off to Madame Yanilley's room, muttering to him- 
 self : " She must be ready now ; I cannot wait any 
 longer " 
 
BEFORE THE BALL. 147 
 
 "I have come to look for your mistress," said 
 Belatout to Madame Yanilley's little maid; "she 
 must be ready now — why, it has gone a quarter 
 past eleven! "..."But, sir, Madame is putting her 
 stockings on— — "..."What ! putting her stockings 
 on? "..."You see, sir, she has such a small foot that 
 she has some difficulty with her shoes. She has got 
 
 her left shoe on, but the "..."Who is that out 
 
 there, Florrie ?"..." It is M. de Montabord, who has 
 come to look for you, madame ."..." Show him in ; 
 perhaps he can help me with these shoes, Come in, 
 
 sir."..." Madame, I thought we were going at " 
 
 ..."Yes, as soon as I can get my shoes on. Look at 
 this pretty little shoe, and yet I cannot get it on." 
 
 Madame Vanilley, reclining on a small sofa, raised 
 her leg to show him her dainty little foot, on the toe 
 of which was hanging a white satin slipper, which 
 would have been worthy of a Cinderella. In her 
 eagerness to show her shoe she raised her leg so 
 high that she exposed to view a variety of things. 
 But Belatout was so preoccupied with Ethel win a and 
 impatient to get to her house that he betrayed not 
 the slightest curiosity. He knelt down, took the leg 
 she offered him, and said : " Well, madame, if you 
 want me to put this shoe on for you, why — sapristi ! 
 : — it shall go on."..." Ah! thanks, my dear friend. 
 But do not be too rough ; it is rather tender.". . ." Ah ! 
 it must hurt you a little to get it in."..." Oh ! you 
 are hurting me.". . ." There, that's better ; I think it's 
 in now. Put your foot on the ground."..." Yes, 
 that's all right; you are a good fellow."..." If you 
 s can walk in those shoes it is a wonder to me. And 
 are we ready to go now? "..."Yes, I will put my 
 gloves on in the carriage — is it down below?"... 
 " Yes, it has been there a long time.". . ." Well, come 
 on then. Ah ! where is my bouquet? I had almost 
 forgotten it; where have you put it? "..."What 
 bouquet, madame?"..." Why, the one you brought 
 
148 the coquette's ball. 
 
 me ; you do not expect me to go to a ball without a 
 bouquet, do you ?"..."A bouquet ? Well, I declare ! 
 
 I forgot all about it "..."Oh! M. Montabord, 
 
 how could you ! Going to a ball without a bouquet 
 — whatever will they think of us ? ". .." Do you think 
 they will notice it? "..."I canuot possibly go with- 
 out one — it would be terrible "..." But we can- 
 not get one now ; it is too late.". . ." Not at all. Tell 
 Alexander, the head-waiter here, to go and get one ; 
 he will soon find one." 
 
 Belatout could almost have cried, as he hurried off 
 to find the waiter, who soon returned with a beauti- 
 ful bouquet, which only cost ten francs. Madame 
 Vanilley was satisfied, and, as she took Belatout's 
 arm, said : " Come, let us get on now." And lie, 
 with a ponderous sigh, murmured : "Ten minutes to. 
 twelve— at last ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 THE COQUETTE'S BALL 
 
 The beautiful Ethelwina occupied a small mansion 
 in the Chaussee d' Autin, which the Baron Spiter- 
 mann had taken for her. It was beautifully fur- 
 nished with everything necessary for a lady of 
 fashion. The forecourt contained a small lake, in 
 which several swans sported themselves ; around the 
 lake were orange trees, magnolias, and other beauti- 
 ful flowers, and altogether the exterior of the house 
 was one*of the most conspicuous in Paris, When 
 
THE COQUETTE'S BALL. 149 
 
 she gave a dance, they illuminated the gardens with 
 Venetian lanterns ; she was a past mistress in every- 
 thing capable of flattering the senses or inveighlmg 
 the eyes. She had great taste and considerable 
 imagination. If she ruined her lovers, she at least 
 did honour to their resources ; she sent her gold 
 broadcast to satisfy her desires and her fancies, but 
 she never became vulgar, like so many others of her 
 kind. Her dresses were always remarkable for their 
 taste and elegance, and she wore them with parti- 
 cular grace and charm. How then could you resist 
 all this, if you have eyes and a heart '? I say 
 " heart," for many men do not know what a heart is. 
 
 As soon as they descended from the carriage, Bela- 
 tout was compelled to support Madame de Vanilley, 
 who had the greatest difficulty to keep her feet on 
 the ground for five minutes. The countryman, who 
 was dying with impatience to see the queen of the 
 fete, looked about him for someone to whom he could 
 hand over the baroness. At last, they came to the 
 saloon, and the beautiful Ethelwina came forward to 
 receive them. She wore a dress which called to 
 mind the classic costumes of Athens, and in her hair 
 she wore a diadem of beautiful stones. Bclatout 
 was completely staggered ; he was anxious to pay 
 some compliment, but could find no words to ex- 
 press himself. At last, he murmured : 
 
 "I am afraid we must blame madam e's shoes for 
 our lateness. "...At this, Ethelwina smiled and re- 
 sponded : " Half of my guests are not here yet ; but 
 you are very kind to conte so early. Come, M. 
 Montabord, give me your arm ; Zulema has been 
 monopolising yon long enough, it is time she 
 allowed someone else to participate."..." I do not 
 know whether this lady has enjoyed my company, 
 but I certainly have had no pleasure since I have 
 been in her society." 
 
150 THE COQUETTE'S BALL. 
 
 He hastened to take the arm offered hirn, and felt 
 very proud of the honour conferred upon him. He 
 smiled upon Cracoville, who whispered in his ear as 
 he passed : " Happy mortal ! You were waited for 
 with such impatience ! " 
 
 " What did that rascal say to you? " said Ethel- 
 wina, smiling at Cracoville...." Nothing, beautiful 
 lady ; something too nattering for me to repeat."... 
 "Well, what do you think of my place? "..."It is 
 superb ! it is magnificent ! it is absolutely oriental ! " 
 ..."Have you ever been to any eastern country?" 
 ..."No, but I have read the ' Thousand and one 
 Nights/ and that gives me some idea. What is this 
 delicious little apartment so mysteriously lighted 
 with those alabaster globes ? Shall we go there ? " 
 ..." No, no, that is my boudoir — my special retreat 
 when 1 receive a special visitor."..." Then let us go 
 in."..." My wolf would not let me receive another 
 man there, but I make game of his prohibition now 
 and then."..." Your wolf? Have you a wolf?"... 
 " You do not understand ; by that, I mean my jealous 
 German, the terrible Spitermann. He has not ar- 
 rived yet, that is why I am taking advantage of 
 having this chat with you. Ah ! you are wearing 
 that beautiful pin — it is a magnificent diamond — 
 and how well it is mounted !"..." Yes, I have often 
 been complimented upon it. Let us go into your 
 mysterious boudoir for a little while."... ""Well, only 
 for a minute ; for the baron is sure not to be long 
 before he is here. I am even surprised that he is 
 not here now. Come on, for I feel I can refuse you 
 nothing — charmer ! " 
 
 These words were accompanied by sundry gentle 
 pressures on the arm, Belatout was radiant with 
 pleasure. Just as they entered the sanctua?y of 
 love, several young women ran towards Ethelwina 
 and said : " My dear, do ask Grignet to sing us 
 something — something funny 5 he sings tham So 
 
Me coquette's ball, 151 
 
 well. 5 *... "Tell him yourself."..." No, lie will not 
 listen to us ; lie says he only knows indecent songs, 
 and that you would be very angry if he sung them." 
 ..."Ah ! ah! he is a very wicked fellow. Is no one 
 to laugh when they come to my house P I will go 
 and talk to this Grignet myself. Ladies, I leave you 
 with M. de Montabord, a charming man, who has 
 come to Paris for a little amusement, and who is 
 going to send us some sweets from Bar-le-Duc." 
 
 Ethelwina left Belatout, who soon found himself 
 surrounded by a* bevy of young girls, who chatted 
 and laughed with him to his heart s content. 
 
 " Ah ! sir, will you send us some sweets from 
 Bar? I adore them."... "Oh ! I could eat six boxes 
 for my dessert ! "..."Do you come from that part, 
 
 sir ? ". . ." Yes, ladies, I came ". . ." He came from 
 
 there ; he looks like it."... "He is a pigeon waiting 
 to be plucked."..." Look at that pin in his cravat." 
 ..." I think I like that better than sweets.". . ." Ah ! 
 somebody is singing ; Grignet is singing, come on. 
 Sir, do you like music ?"..." I am not fond of the 
 piano, but I am always fond of singing.". . ." Ah ! you 
 are right not to like the piano. There is nothing so 
 tedious as listening to those grand pieces which take 
 about a couple of hours to get through." 
 
 The ladies left Belatout to listen to the song; he 
 walked about and examined the company, which 
 each moment became larger. There were more men 
 than women, but the latter were all ravish in gly 
 beautiful and entertaining. The men were all well 
 dressed, but some of the faces were very common, 
 among which we must class M. Abraham, who had 
 just arrived with his great gold chain, and the Hun- 
 garian who wore ear-rings and had rings on all his 
 fingers. 
 
 Cracoville and the major approached Belatout, and 
 the latter said : " We are going to have a little bac- 
 carat in the blue room ; will you make one ? "..,"No, 
 
i52 THE COQUETTE S S BALL. 
 
 I sliall not; I have no wish to play."..." You have 
 no wish to play ? What the devil are you going to 
 do here till supper time ? "..." Talk to lie ladies and 
 dance; I suppose they are going to dance?"... 
 "What! you still dance?" and the major turned 
 away to find someone else to join him.... "You ' still' 
 dance ? What did he mean by that ? " said Bela- 
 tout ; " I think that ' still ' quite uncalled for. The 
 major can do nothing but play cards. I prefer to 
 court the ladies ; it is much nicer, is it not, M. de 
 Cracoville ?"..."! am not altogether of your 
 opinion," responded that gentleman ; " ladies are \oiy 
 often terribly expensive. I know something about 
 it ; they have had more than a million out of me.". . . 
 " A million !"..." I put that at the lowest ; but I do 
 not regret it, I have enjoyed life, and money is no 
 good but to spend. I see people are still corning . . 
 Ah ! here comes my lord protector."..." What do you 
 mean by that title? "..." Why, the supporter and 
 protector of Ethelwina — Baron Spitermann, with his 
 little favourite, the young painter Mirza." 
 
 Just then Spitermann advanced up the spacious 
 salon, looking around with glaring eyes, deigning to 
 smile occasionally upon some lady, but always with 
 a vain and proud air, as though he said : " All you 
 see around is the^outcorne of my munificence ; and, 
 if they are giving you a fete, it is I who pays." 
 
 Spitermann noticed that Ethelwina did not run to 
 meet him with her usual alacrity ; but instead, he 
 saw Belatout, and felt little pleased at meeting him 
 at his mistress' house. He looked at him without 
 taking the slightest notice, and then, instead of 
 smiling, he pulled a sort of grimace. The country- 
 man, who was on the point of saluting, stopped and 
 muttered to himself : "What's the matter with this 
 German ? I wonder if he guesses that I have made 
 a conquest of his mistress? I should be delighted to 
 snub him, for he was anything but amiable to me at 
 
THE COQUETTE'S BALL. 153 
 
 that pic-nic, and was quite a bear when I asked if he 
 knew anything about Eugene. 
 
 Spiterinann took Ethelwina aside, and, pointing 
 to Belatout, said : " Who is that you have here to- 
 night ?"..." Which ?— who ? ". . ." Eh ! damn it, that 
 fellow dressed like a guy, with a pin in his cravat." 
 ..."And a fine pin it is too; there is nothing low 
 about that."..." Oh ! I remember, he was at the pic- 
 nic we had at the Champs Ely sees. He got as drunk 
 as a street porter, and then went almost mad because 
 he lost a few pounds. But I declare I did not ex- 
 pect to find him here ; who brought him ?"..." Oh ! 
 Zulema ; he is her friend."..." Your friend Zulema 
 always seems to find lovers who are displeasing to 
 me."..." Oh! that's only chance and coincidence."... 
 " Chance ! damn it ! When it happens so often, I 
 think it gets a trifle suspicious. Now, you be care- 
 ful, Ethelwina ; you know what our conditions are. 
 I will never refuse you anything — jewels or dresses 
 — but, mind, no other man may share your affec- 
 tions."..." What an ass you make of yourself with 
 your conditions. If I wanted to deceive you, I 
 should not come and ask your permission. But you 
 are very stupid to be jealous of this country bump- 
 kin."..." You are right, my dear; it is very stupid 
 of me." 
 
 "Ethelwina! Ethelwina! let us dance; tell the 
 orchestra to begin."..." Yes, ladies, you are right; 
 we ought to dance. Come gentlemen, to your part- 
 ners ; I may mention that the can-can is permitted." 
 ..." Certainly — of course so; why, it is permitted in 
 the best society now."..." And the -English think it 
 is our national dance.".. ."In any case, it is much 
 more graceful than their jig." 
 
 An orchestra composed of two violins, a bass, a 
 cornet, and a piano, played the overture to a set of 
 quadrilles. In an instant all the ladies were at 
 their partnes' sides. Madame de Yanilley wa$ 
 
154 the coquette's ball. 
 
 obliged to sit out, for she could hardly stand for two 
 minutes together. Belatout, who did not dare to 
 risk a quadrille, stood in the front row to look on at 
 the dancing. There were steps and positions he had 
 never seen or heard of. Legs were whirling about 
 in the air, and the hips and haunches were swaying 
 in the most voluptuous manner ; posteriors were 
 stuck out as though waiting to receive a clyster, but 
 all with a grace, though unruly grace, and accom- 
 panied by piquant gestures, alluring and seductive. 
 St. Antony could scarcely have resisted had he seen 
 the can-can danced as the coquettes here danced it. 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, what do you think of that? " 
 said the Jew Abraham, who approached Belatout 
 and familiarly linked his arm in his. " The girls 
 dance very prettily, do they not ? "..." Ah ! good 
 evening, sir. Yes, the ladies dance — but it is very 
 noisy — you see, it quite dazes me."..." Ah! then 
 you are not accustomed to the Casino ; there they al- 
 ways dance like this."..." At the Casino? No, I 
 have never been to a ball there. But, 1 find the 
 men are not nearly so strong as the ladies ; the men 
 seem to tire first."..." Oh ! you wait till after supper, 
 you see how they will leap then. . '. Look at young 
 Mirza now ! " 
 
 The young painter had just made a leap, which 
 called forth acclamations from all the dancers. But 
 Belatout was anxious to see Ethelwina dance. She, 
 however, was still too busy receiving her guests ; she 
 had not, in fact, had another opportunity of speaking 
 to Belatout, but she always managed a smile or 
 tender glance for him when she came near, or would 
 gently whisper a word or two which would make his 
 heart throb, as only women can. 
 
A TEMPTING PItf* 155 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A T E MP TIJ5TG PIN. 
 
 After the quadrille, a polka was announced. 
 Belatout felt he could risk it this time, for in this 
 dance it was impossible to introduce a.nything but 
 the ordinary step. He looked about for Ethelwina, 
 for he was anxious to have the dance with her. At 
 last he espied her among a group of women who 
 seemed to be laughing very hilariously over some- 
 thing or other. Belatout had great difficulty in get- 
 ting to her, and as he approached he heard the queen 
 of the fete say to her friends : " I bet it is mine by 
 to-morrow. Hortensia, will you bet your blue casli- 
 mere against my red one? "../'Oh, no; you are too 
 good at that game ! You will get it ; but at least, 
 you will let us have the sweets. Ah ! ah ! ah ! " 
 
 Ethelwina perceived Belatout approaching and 
 made a sign ; suddenly everybody was silent. " Were 
 you looking for me, my dear sir ?"..." Yes, they are 
 playing a polka ; will you allow me the honour of 
 having this dance with you ?"..." Ah! it would 
 afford me the greatest pleasure ; but it is impossible. 
 My tiger has forbidden nie to dance with anybody 
 but him. Dance with poor Zulerna.". .." That is im- 
 possible also ; she has such tight shoes she can 
 hardly stand."..." Ah ! I remember ; well, which of 
 you ladies are disengaged? Aslasia, your Arthur 
 doesn't dance, does he? "..." No."..." Will you 
 dance with M. de Montabord ?"..." Yes, if he is 
 strong. How do you dance, sir? "..." Well, I am 
 afraid I shall get tired soon.". . ." You think so ? Well, 
 if you do not dance well, I shall leave off I assure 
 you."..."M. de Montabord, I may as well tell you 
 
156 A TEMPTING PIN. 
 
 that you are having this polka with one of the best 
 dancers in Paris." 
 
 Belatout bowed. The threat of this lady to leave 
 off should he not dance well seemed to him a trifle 
 unsociable. The orchestra started, he encircled the 
 waist of his partner, who was a well-made brunette, 
 and commenced by treading on her foot ; this made 
 her swear worthy of an old man with the gout. But 
 to make up for his maladroitness, Belatout hurried 
 to turn and reverse, a figure which Friquette had 
 taught him, and which soon obtained the forgiveness 
 of his partner. 
 
 " Stop," she cried ; " it is not bad, but you turn 
 very slowly for a man who comes from Bar-le-Duc. 
 Not bad. . , My dear friend, what a beautiful 
 pin you have !"..." You think so, niadame?"... 
 " Give me another turn. . . Yes, your pin catches 
 my eye; will you make an exchange? "..."With 
 what, madame ? "..." You give me your pin audi 
 will give you my heart? Ah ! you do not answer . . 
 You make me turn too much ! " 
 
 But Belatout was done ; he had p r ofited by Fri- 
 quette's lessons. He was in a profuse perspiration, 
 but his pride would not let him stop. Fortunately, 
 just then the band stopped, and his partner threw 
 herself upon a divan and exclaimed : " Well, you * 
 have not given me your answer — you are a roue!" 
 Belatout was very flattered at being called a roue ; 
 he hastily swallowed a glass of punch. He had 
 danced well, and was thoroughly satisfied with him- 
 self. Moreover, his partner had offered him her 
 heart ; he had not further doubts but that he had 
 the gift of pleasing the ladies. Certainly, she had 
 stipulated for his pin in exchange, but he only con- 
 sidered that as a clever wheeze on her part to in- 
 troduce the subject. 
 
 The ices, the punch, and champagne circulated 
 freely ; nothing was at fault. The ladies showed 
 
A TEMPTING PIN. 157 
 
 fclie way by making the champagne disappear with a 
 promptitude which would have excited the admira- 
 tion of a juggler. Already the aspect of the rooms 
 had undergone a change ; there was an abandon, an 
 easiness of grace, a heartiness, which, like a train of 
 powder, ran from one to the other, and made gaiety 
 and jollity run wild throughout the company. On 
 every side was talking, chatting, and laughter ; the 
 coquettes said whatever came into their heads, and 
 in the stream of words one might now and then find 
 flashes of wit and fun. Cracoville tried several 
 times to lead Belatout away to the cards, but he per- 
 sistently refused ; he preferred to remain with the 
 ladies, and Ethelwina, passing near him, would 
 whisper : " After supper — I hope — he will go to the 
 
 card-room — we will gossip alone -" 
 
 Belatout, electrified by all that he saw around him, 
 by the atmosphere of pie sure which he breathed, 
 and, perhaps, also by the champagne which he had 
 drunk, soon rose to the occasion and thoroughly felt 
 himself one of the party. He murmured to himself : 
 " ' We will gossip alone.' What thrills of pleasure 
 that word alone sends through me ! I have never 
 felt so young as I do to-night — assuredly I was not 
 so young twenty years*ago ! " 
 
 " You know, my dear sir, that I hold my chain at 
 our disposition," said M. Abraham, in taking Bela- 
 out's arm again ; " there is a young lady here, who 
 ould make any sacrifice to become possessed of it, 
 but I could not give it to her ; I have renounced the 
 air sex, whilst you, who still dance like a zephyr, 
 ou ought to court them — Eh ? ". . ." Bat, sir, I never 
 
 said "..."There is no need of opportunity here, 
 
 it is simply from one pleasure to another ; take 
 another glass of Mo el, it is excellent."..." Yes, the 
 champagne is perfect."..." Then you will buy my 
 chain for one of these ladies ? I have already beeD 
 asked for it."..." No, no, certainly not." 
 
158 i. TEMPTING PtNi 
 
 Belatout, in order to escape from M. Abraham, 
 seated himself at the side of Madame de Yanilley ; 
 she received the countryman with a sweet smile, and 
 said : " Come and talk with me a little while ; is not 
 this fete charming? "..."Yes, madame, there reigns 
 a heartiness here of which I had no conception."... 
 " And how beautiful everything looks ! "..." Yes, I 
 declare to you I never saw such ravishing costumes, 
 
 and the ladies are all so amiable "..."And the 
 
 men, whom you do not mention ? But, they are of 
 the best in Paris — financiers and bankers, rich 
 foreigners ; all men of means. By the by, were you 
 with her? ". . ." With her ? whom ?"..." Why, Ethel- 
 wina ! Do you think I cannot see she has a fancy 
 for you ?"..." A fancy ! how ? I am not—". . ." You 
 need not be so discreet with me. I am the intimate 
 friend and confidante of Ethelwina. You are very 
 pleasing to her — "..."Do you really .think I have 
 the good fortune ?"..." I am sure of it ; be gallant, 
 and you will get . . By the by, she is awfully in 
 love with that jewelled pin. If I were in your place 
 I should offer it to her.". . . " My pin ? Do you think 
 she would accept it?"..." Well, you can try her, 
 and, if she accepts it, Ethelwina has too much deli- 
 cacy not to show her gratitude — you understand?" 
 ..."Yes, I think so — but, they are starting another 
 polka. Excuse me, I have taken a fancy to this 
 dance ; I shall ask a lady to dance." 
 
 Belatout was not at all decided about offering his 
 pin ; he really left the lady with the small feet in 
 order to break off the conversation. The dancers 
 continued, the cards were still dealt, everybody was 
 busy, and the conversation was lively and animated, 
 when supper was announced. Then everyone turned 
 to the dining-room*— the card-players even left their 
 tables. At supper the scene was brilliant in the ex- 
 treme ; the table was loaded with a galaxy of light, 
 rich foods, and rare flowers. There was a place for 
 
A TEMPTING PIN. 159 
 
 everybody. The queen of the fete arrived, leaning 
 on the arm of Baron Spitermann, who seated himself 
 at the table beside her ; then each followed his 
 example, and sat next the lady he was courting. 
 Belatout, who almost trod upon Ethelwina's dress, 
 arrived in time to sit on her left; this made the 
 baron frown terribly. 
 
 The supper was as gay as the ball, talking, laugh- 
 ing, and singing, intermingled throughout the re- 
 past ; nobody listened, but everybody was talking. 
 In the midst of this general rout, the beautiful 
 Ethelwina, unfortunately, tapped her admirer on the 
 left several times under cover of the table. Belatout 
 responded energetically, and added some tender 
 glances into the bargain. But the furious Spiter- 
 mann caught sight of one of these sly glances and 
 muttered to his mistress : 
 
 "Why this intrusion — who is this humbug — this 
 caricature — how did he get next to you?"..." Why, 
 because he sat himself there, my dear."..." Then he 
 had no business to do so. If he is Zulema's lover, 
 he ought to sit next to her."..." Oh! that's no 
 reason ! Is every gentleman next to his own lady ? 
 We must have a little variety !"..." And so this 
 booby is to be allowed to ogle and leer at you in this 
 maimer ! "..."Leer ! Oh! no, but everybody is 
 throwing tender glances to-night; that's what they 
 come here for.". . . " And he keeps whispering to you ! " 
 ..."That's because he is so timid; he is afraid to 
 speak loud."..." What does he say to you ?"..." He 
 asked me if it was true that Zulema was twenty- 
 five ?"..." You lie! he did not ask you that!"... 
 " Ah ! ah ! ah ! You really do him honour to be 
 jealous of poor M. de Mo ntabord."..." Possibly so, 
 but he pays you too much attention ; I shall have to 
 correct him."..." Spitermann, my Othello, you have 
 a cricket in your lantern,"..." "Very well, laugh as. 
 
160 A TEMPTING PIN. 
 
 much, as much as you like, but remember there is 
 one subject at which I never laugh.'' 
 
 The supper lasted a considerable time ; then all of 
 a sudden the ladies cried : " The cotillon ! we have 
 not danced the cotillon ! Come ! come ! quickly ! ". . . 
 " Who will lead it ? ". ..." Oh ! Mirza, he will lead it ; 
 dancers, come on ! Mirza to the front !"..." Ladies, 
 I am still hungry.". . ." Nonsense, it is impossible ! " 
 ..."I assure you I am."..." Well, you can come back 
 to the table after wards."... "I am still thirsty!"... 
 " No, no, let us have the cotillon ; you can come 
 back again ! " 
 
 The ladies rose in a body, the card-players re- 
 turned to their tables, and Ethel win a whispered to 
 Belatout : " Presently- -in my boudoir — go and wait 
 for me." Then she disappeared with Spitermann, 
 who did not dance the cotillon, but returned to the 
 card-room. Belatout remained for a few moments at 
 the table ; he swallowed some chartreuse to give him 
 nerve, then returned to the ball-room. In a moment 
 or two he crossed to the tiny apartment, and, glanc- 
 ing nervously around, entered the pretty sanctuary.- 
 He seated himself on a small couch, and mused to 
 himself : " She dances the cotillon, but she saw me 
 come here. Besides, she told me to wait for her 
 l iere — ghe will know when to leave the dance — I am 
 very hot — my head seems on fire — my heart beats as 
 though it would break through — I can still hear the 
 music — w ill she never come ? " But the door opened 
 and Ethelwina appeared heated and ruffled by the 
 dance ; she threw herself upon a divan and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " At last, I am here — I thought I should never 
 o-et away — how impatient you must have been — "... 
 "Ah! I was thinking of you — I — "..."So kind of 
 you ; do you really love me?''..." My God ! you are 
 driving me mad! "..."Ah! but I do not put much 
 trust in what men say ; they must prove their 
 
A TEMPTING Plli 16*1 
 
 words — they must give me something "..."My 
 
 darling, everything you wish ; if it is a lock of my 
 hair, cut it off now — cut it !"..." Ah! ah! that's 
 silly ! No, my dear, I don't want your hair ; I do 
 not like hair, it is dirty. But your pm fascinates 
 me all day long ! I would name a meeting — you 
 know ! ". . ." My pin ! You would like my pin ? ". . . 
 " Eh ! yes ; do you hesitate ? It is simply a fancy, 
 but, if you refuse me, you cannot love me."..." No, 
 no, I do not hesitate ; take it — it is yours! ". . ." Ah ! 
 you are a charming man ! Kiss me, sit on my knee ; 
 may I take it out ? Come, do not be afraid ! Ah ! 
 
 it is twisted ! I do not want to break it ". . ." Ah ! 
 
 Friquette put it in, and I expect she fastened it in 
 carefully."..." She has done her work too carefully, 
 this Friquette of yours, but I shall soon get it." 
 
 At this moment the door was opened with con- 
 siderable force, and Baron Spiterinann appeared. 
 Seeing Belatout at his mistress' knees, who held him 
 by the neck as though embracing him, the German 
 gave vent to a terrible oath, and, advancing towards 
 Belatout, pushed him with considerable force, and 
 sent him rolling some five or six paces from Ethel- 
 win a, who swore also, but between her teeth, mut- 
 tering : " Ah ! sapristi! just as 1 was getting it ! " 
 
 " So you come here to court my mistress, M. de 
 Montabord ? " cried Spitermann, advancing again to- 
 wards Belatout, who rose holding his side...." Sir 
 you pushed me in a most brutal manner ; I consider 
 
 you are greatly wanting in politeness "..."Ah! 
 
 you think I am ill-mannered, do you ? And what 
 right have you to be with my mistress, whom I have 
 forbidden to receive anyone in her boudoir?"... 
 " Sir, after all, I am not in your house, I am in 
 hers; it is no business of yours."..." JSTo business of 
 mine ! Ak ! I'll soon let you see all about that, for 
 I shall kick you out of the house in about two 
 minutes !"..." Put me out of the house ! Madame, 
 
162 A TEMPTING PIN. 
 
 will you allow me to be insulted in this way ? "... 
 But Ethelwina was in a very bad humour on account 
 of not having time to get the pin, so she said nothing 
 to Belatout, but, addressing Spitermann, she said : 
 " Come, dear, do not let us have a scene ! You know 
 how I detest a quarrel. If I was chatting with this 
 gentleman, it was only for fun."..." For fun! why 
 did you hold him by the neck ? Ah ! it will not do 
 for me, my coquette. And you, } r ou ass, clear out at 
 once, or I will clump you."..." What ! do you call 
 mean ass? You impertinent humbug! "..."I will 
 put my boot somewhere if you are not off at once." 
 
 ..."You weary me; I do not know you "..."Will 
 
 you go out ?"..." Ah! Zut ! leave me alone!"... 
 
 " Zut ! he said ■ zut ' to me ! Are you going 
 
 out?" 
 
 The baron, going over to Belatout, struck him in 
 the face with his glove. This affront made the 
 countryman leap with rage ; he advanced rapidly to- 
 wards Spitermann, and planted his fist full in the 
 face of the tall German. The latter, now quite be- 
 side himself, fell upon his adversary; this scene 
 soon brought a crowd into the boudoir. Cracoville 
 and the major elbowed their way through the 
 throng, and the former, addressing the baron, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Eh, what is all this about ? Come, between 
 gentlemen too ! "..."That man has just struck me." 
 ..."You commenced it — "..."Come, Baron; calm 
 your self ."..." No, no; I must wash out this insult in 
 his blood. I must have his life."..." What does he 
 say? — my life ! — never! "..."M. de Montabord, you 
 will send your seconds to my house at noon to- 
 morrow ; if you fail to send, I will strike you across 
 the face with my cane every time I meet you.". 
 " Indeed ! and do you think the police will let you 
 do that?" 
 
THE EVE OP THE DUEL. 163 
 
 But Cracoville and the major took Belatout by the 
 arm and led him away, whilst several of the com- 
 pany urged the baron to go into the ball-room. 
 Belatout, completely upset by what had occurred, re- 
 turned to his hotel with Cracoville and the major. 
 " Leave this to us," said the major ; " we will ar- 
 range all this for you. We will go to that devil of 
 a Spitermann to-morrow ; we will be your seconds." 
 ..."Gentlemen, I pray you will understand that I 
 haven*t the slightest wish to fight. This German 
 "kept making rude remarks, and would not let me 
 speak, so I struck him with my fist. I should think 
 he was quite sstisfied, don't you ? "..."Do not up- 
 set yourself; we will ai range matters for you."... 
 "Ah! it is very kind of you. To-morrow, you 
 might let me know how you get on."..." Yes, cer- 
 tainly; after we leave the baron's to-morrow, we 
 will come straight to you."..." Not before noon, for 
 it is five o'clock now, a,nd I must get a little sleep." 
 ..."Certainly; we will see you about one o'clock." 
 ...** In the common room, gentlemen; I do not want 
 my daughter to hear anything of it."..." Of course 
 not ; we will keep the matter quite secret."..." Thank 
 you, gentlemen ; adieu, till to-morrow." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE EVE OP THE DUEL. 
 
 Belatout slept very badly. The scene of the pre- 
 vious evening had considerably lessened his passion 
 for Ethelwina; he thought that she might have 
 
164 THE EVE OP THE DUEL. 
 
 e 
 
 been more active in taking his part, and that when 
 the baron ordered hiin to leave, she might have 
 shown that she was in her own honse, and that she 
 alone had the right to give such an order. The 
 truth was that Belatout was in a terrible funk, and 
 nothing dispels an amorous vision like a funk. To 
 reassure himself, he kept on repeating : " Cracoville 
 and the major promised to settle the matter; I ought 
 not to worry over it any more." In spite of this, 
 he was very pale, and, when he appeared at the 
 breakfast table, his daughter at once inquired 
 whether he had enjoyed himself at the ball. 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear; I enjoyed myself immensely.' , 
 ..."You are very pale, sir," said Friquette ; "I ex- 
 pect you feel very tired."..." Yes; I danced a great 
 deal, and well too. Friquette, I am very glad you 
 fastened my pin in so securely, otherwise I should 
 have lost it !"..." Oh! sir, and such a beautiful pin 
 too ! It would have been a misfortune had you lost 
 it. That's why I twisted it a little after I had put 
 it in your cravat."..." But you are eating nothing, 
 papa !"..." I am not hungry."..." You are not ill, 
 are you ?",.." Oh no, I feel very well indeed."... 
 " There's something wrong somewhere," muttered 
 Friquette to herself, " but I shall find it out." 
 
 Belatout kept looking at his watch. At last, one 
 o'clock arrived, and Jacquet came in and said : " Two 
 gentlemen want to see you, sir — Major Tourte and 
 M. de Cracoville; they told me to say that your 
 seconds were waiting to see you !"..." His seconds ! 
 What does he mean, papa? "..."Nothing at all, my 
 dear. Jacquet, tell them I will be down presently." 
 
 Belatout rose and said to his daughter : " I shall 
 be back in a few moments ; there is nothing to be 
 alarmed about." He hastened to meet his friends 
 in the common room. " Good day, gentlemen ; I 
 have been waiting for you most impatiently. Well, 
 have you been to the jealous baron's ?"..." Yes, we 
 
THE EVE OF THE DUEL. 165 
 
 have just left his house. We met his seconds ; the 
 whole affair is arranged and settled."..." Thank you, 
 gentlemen, you have been exceedingly kind ; thanks, 
 a thousand times ! I was not at all alarmed, but I 
 am nevertheless glad to hear that the matter is at 
 an end."..." At an end ! " said the major; "it is not 
 finished till after the fight.". . ." What ? Eh ? What 
 do you say, major?"..." I say that it is not finished 
 till after the duel."..." The duel! What are you 
 talking to me about a duel for ? You come and say 
 the affair is settled, and then go on talking about a 
 duel ! I consider that quite an uncalled for piece 
 of pleasantry on your part, major."..." We are not 
 joking," said Cracoville ; " you do not seem to under- 
 stand us ; we mean the preliminaries to the duel are 
 all arranged — -the time, place, and weapons; you 
 will fight with swords to-morrow morning at eight 
 o'clock, in the Bois de Boulogne."..." Nonsense ! I 
 am not going to fight—whatever have you done ? 
 Is that what you call arranging the matter? Did I 
 not tell you yesterday that I would not fight?"... 
 " There's no help for it ; the baron will not accept 
 a single excuse. The fight must take place."... 
 " But, supposing I won't go — I presume, they will 
 not carry me there ?"..." No, but you will be in dis- 
 grace, and the baron will probably kick your behind 
 the first time he meets you. Of course, you could 
 not brook such an insult as that ! " 
 
 Belatout threw himself on a couch, and tore his 
 hair. " A duel ! a duel ! " he cried ; " how terrible 
 — it is impossible! Why, I haven't the slightest 
 idea how to handle a sword ! "..."If you prefer 
 pistols, it can be arranged, bat they are more 
 dangerous.". . ." No, no ; no pistols !"..." Would you 
 rather have a carbine, like the Americans ? ". . ." No; 
 neither pistol, carbine, nor sword — I want to be left 
 alone — I will not fight at all."..." My dear friend," 
 said Cracoville ; " you cannot do otherwise. Think 
 
166 THE EVE OP THE DUEL. 
 
 what you expose yourself to every time you meet 
 Spitermann, and he will follow you everywhere."... 
 " Then do you absolutely want him to kill me ? "... 
 " You may not be killed.". . ." But J do not know how 
 to hold a sword. "..."Never mind, I will give you 
 some lessons this evening," said the major ; "I am 
 one of the first swordsmen in Paris; in two hours I 
 will make a St. George of you ! "..." Yery well then, 
 this evening I will come to your room, and you will 
 give me some lessons ?"..." Yes.". . ." And to-morrow 
 morning we will take a carriage at seven o'clock for 
 the Maillot gate."..." To-morrow morning — yes— 
 Ah ! my God ! — am 1 dreaming ! " 
 
 Belatout returned to his room ; he felt as though 
 he were drunk and fuddled with wine. He had but 
 one idea, one wish, and that was not to fight. He 
 marched up and down his room with rapid strides, 
 then he threw himself into a chair, then he rose 
 again and exclaimed : " Ah ! I am not brave, but it 
 is not my fault ! I did not make myself ; had I done 
 so, I would have been a Caesar* — an Achilles. What- 
 ever do they want me to fight for ? If my son were 
 with me, he could take my place ; a son ought to 
 take his father's place. But I have no idea where 
 he is ; besides, I have forbidden him to fight, and I 
 don't think he is any more a Csesar than I am. Ah ! 
 Grandbec, who ought to be my son-in-law. Ah ! I 
 have an idea! I will look for him ; he told me he 
 would do anything for me if 1 asked him — now I 
 will put his word to the proof. 
 
 Belatout called Jacquet and told him to call at 
 once on M. Grandbec, and beg him to come at once 
 on important business...." If M. Grandbec is not in, 
 wliat shall I say? "..."Ask where he is, and don't 
 you come back without him ; go." 
 
 After this, Belatout felt somewhat calmer. He 
 sat down and puzzled his brain to try and find a way 
 out of this difficulty without fighting. He thought 
 
THE EVE OP THE DTJEti. 167 
 
 of all lie had done since lie had been in Paris ; how, 
 insfead of looking for his son, he had led a life of 
 pleasure and dissipation. Abandoning his daughter 
 to the care of her maid, he had frequented the res- 
 taurants and cafes night and day; he had got 
 drunk, played cards, and had allowed himself to be 
 seduced by the coquettishness of a pretty woman. 
 He had done a thousand foolish things, and now the 
 result of it all was that he had to fight a duel — and 
 he, above all, who had such a dread of duels. But 
 what was the use of repentance after the faults were 
 committed. 
 
 An hour had not passed since Jacquet left, and 
 M. Grandbec himself arrived. Belatout uttered a 
 cry of joy on perceiving the young man, and shook 
 him vigorously by the hand. 
 
 "You have something of importance to communi- 
 cate to me ? " said Grandbec, taking a chair opposite 
 Belatout...." Yes, my dear friend — my dear son! if 
 you will allow me to address you as such, for you 
 will be my son-in-law one day."... The dry, yellow- 
 faced young man did not respond to these demon- 
 strations of friendship, but, with a very grave ges- 
 ture, inquired what the urgent business might be.... 
 " Well, you will be terribly amazed, Grandbec ; you 
 know my principles and my ideas about duels, and 
 what I think about them generally — "..."Well, go 
 on sir."..." ]&y friend, I went to a fete — a ball, at 
 the house of a very beautiful woman. I was talking 
 to her in the most innocent fashion, when a jealous 
 fellow, who said he had certain claims on the lady, 
 insulted me. I answered him with a blow in the face 
 with my fist. Well, that does not satisfy him, but he 
 must call me out to fight with swords. His seconds 
 have been interviewed; ifc is to-morrow morning 
 at eight o'clock, in the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 Grandbec's face became longer and longer as he 
 
108 THH EVE OF THfl D-TTEL. 
 
 heard Belatout's narrative, and then, id a dry, sar- 
 castic tone, he responded : 
 
 " And pray what have I got to do with all this, 
 sir?"..." Well, I will tell you; it is very natural: I 
 want you to take my place in the duel. If I had my 
 son here, he would do so with pleasure, but I cannot 
 find him. You are my future son-in-law, aud you 
 must take my place !"..." I thank you exceedingly 
 for the honour you propose to confer upon me, but 
 I absolutely decline."..." You decline! What do 
 you mean by that, if you please ?"..." I mean that I 
 refuse you — that I will not fight your duel for you." 
 ..."Then you refuse to help me on the very first 
 occasion I have had to seek your assistance ! Then 
 you know sir what I shall do?"..." You will refuse 
 me your daughter's hand ! That will be of small 
 consequence, for I had already determined to break 
 off the engagement. I have no wish to become a 
 member of a family, the head of which gets drunk 
 and plays cards ; who k old enough to know better, 
 
 and yet goes out dancing with coquettes "... 
 
 " Sir ! "..."Your daughter has always received my 
 advances very coldly, her maid puts out her tongue 
 at me, so I would much rather ba excused ! I have 
 no wish for a father-in-law such as you. Adieu 
 sir ; play, drink, flirt, fight — I wash my hands of 
 you-. I have the honour to bid you gotfd day ! " 
 
 Having expressed these sentiments, M. Grandbec 
 took up his hat and left as gravely as he came, leav- 
 ing Belatout dumbfounded at what he had just 
 heard and utterly incapable of finding words to res- 
 pond. After resting a few moments, Belatout looked 
 around him and muttered : " He's gone ! he's refused 
 me ! acid has refused to marry my daughter ! For- 
 tunately, that will be no misfortune to Diana, she 
 never could bear him. But, what about my duel ! 
 this horrible duel ! What can I do ? If Madame 
 
THE EVE OE THE DUEL. 169 
 
 Plantureau had only seen Eugene again ! Perhaps 
 she Las ! I will go off and see her at once ! " 
 
 As Belatont hurried from his room, he encountered 
 Friquette, who said : " Where are you going sir ? " 
 ..." That's no business of yours."..." You look wor- 
 ried."..." That's not your affair ! Let me pass; and 
 mind, not a word to my daughter."..." Of what? "... 
 " My secret."..." Whatever is his secret ? " muttered 
 Priquette to herself; "but I will soon find that out." 
 
 Belatout took a carriage and soon reached Plan- 
 tureau's hotel. The inventor was among his grap- 
 pling irons...." Good day, Plantureau."..." Ah ! it is 
 Belatout !"..." Yes, my friend ; I am glad to see you. 
 Can you give me any news of my son? "..."News? 
 How can I give you any news of him ?"..." I am 
 dying to see my son. I have most important news 
 to communicate to him."... "I have not seen him."... 
 " If yon have not, perhaps your wife has. He likes 
 to chat with your wife. Come, Plantureau, do you 
 know anything of my son ?"..." How the devil 
 should I know anything of him ! Do you think I 
 have any time to think of him ?"..." Ah ! you are 
 cruel ! But your wife — where is your wife ? "..."I 
 don't know ; she has been out all day. She is never 
 at home."..." And you cannot say where she is?"... 
 " I have spent four thousand francs over these grap- 
 pling irons, and now they are no use ! " 
 
 Belatout perceived that Plantureau was paying no 
 attention to what he said, and, his wife being absent, 
 he felt that there was little hope of hearing any news 
 of his son, so he decided to return to the hotel. He 
 went back to the carriage ; on the way, he changed 
 his mind, he told the driver to go along the boule- 
 vards and not to proceed too quickly. This arrange- 
 ment just suited both the coachman and the horses. 
 Belatout carefully scanned every man that passed, 
 hoping to see his son among the crowd. About four 
 hours passed in this way, but he could see nothing 
 
170 THE EVE 0E THE DUEL. 
 
 of the lost boy, so he returned to the' hotel about an 
 hour later than he was accustomed to dine. He 
 found his daughter in a restless state of mind, and 
 Friquette was on the point of going out to look for 
 him. He sat down at the table ; he felt no greater 
 desire to eat than he did at breakfast time, but he 
 drank. He took up the bottle again and again, say- 
 ing to himself : " This will give me courage ! " At 
 last the time arrived for him to go to the major's. 
 Belatout lose, embraced his daughter, and then em- 
 braced her again. Diana, astonished at this un- 
 wonted show of tenderness, looked anxiously at her 
 father. Friquette did not take her eyes off him. 
 He went out, but returned to embrace his daughter 
 again, to whom he said : " Good-bye ! that is to say 
 —I mean— a — a — adieu ! "..." What is the matter, 
 papa?" "Oh [nothing; I was thinking of some- 
 thing else. Au revoir, au revoir." 
 
 Belatout betook himself to the major's, where he 
 found Cracoville ; they were playing cards and drink- 
 ing rum. They offered him a glass; they were in a 
 delightful frame of mind, wbich seemed rather out 
 of place to the countryman. "You are wonderfully 
 gay to-night, said he.... "And why -not? This rum 
 is delicious !"..." But have you forgotten that I must 
 fight to-morrow? "..."Well, would you have us be 
 sad over that? A duel is a very simple affair — 
 nothing whatever to be sad over."..." Ah ! M. de 
 Cracoville, if you had to fight, perhaps you would 
 not be quite so cheerful."..." Why, M. de Monta- 
 bord, I have fought over fifteen duels in my time." 
 ..."I don't know how many duels I have fought," 
 said the major ; "I used to look upon them as a sort 
 of festival."..." Ah! but see what you are, major. 
 Perhaps one of you would like to take my place, 
 seeing how fond you are of fighting."... "Impossible, 
 my dear sir, impossible ! The established rules for- 
 bid it; we are your seconds "..." What the devil 
 
THE EVE OP THE DUEL. 171 
 
 clo you take such an interest in this affair for? "... 
 " Drink, M. de Montabord, and then take your first 
 lesson in fencing." 
 
 Belatout drank, and, trembling terribly, took the 
 foil which the major offered him, and made haste to 
 assure himself that the button was well fixed. Cra- 
 coville, seeing that Belatout could scarcely move, 
 gave him another glass of rum, and said : "Drink, 
 you will be able to manage your sword better; 
 drink." Belatout drank and soon began to feel a 
 little confidence ; the major taught him to parry and 
 thrust, and encouraged him, saying : " That's it — go 
 — go— another glass of rum !"..." It certainly gives 
 one firmness," said Belatout, as he swallowed his 
 third glass..." Now, attack me— do not give your ad- 
 versary time to breathe — tire him — that's the <-ame 
 —go— go !"..." Another glass of rum ! " said Bela- 
 tout ; " there is one thing I can tell you gentlemen, 
 I am afraid of no one !"..." We were certain you 
 would finish full of courage."... "This rum does cer- 
 tainly warm you — at you major! guard ! "..."Now 
 let us rest a moment."..." You wish to stop, major; 
 I am just in form ! "..."We will have another lesson 
 presently; let us have a game at cards meanwhile." 
 ..."Just as you like, but I would rather keep on 
 fencing." 
 
 They sat down to play. Belatout, who was already 
 half drunk, soon lost about a hundred francs he had 
 with him, after which he rose to take his second 
 lesson. But he could not stand, and the two game- 
 sters, seeing that he could not hold his cards, ad- 
 vised him to go back and lie down, saying that they 
 would call him at seven o'clock. As he entered his 
 room he met Friquette, who, with a candlestick in 
 her hand, was waiting his return. Noticing his face 
 and tottering gait, she at once perceived that he 
 was drunk again. As for Belatout, on seeing the 
 maid he cried : 
 
172 KEVER SWEAR. 
 
 " Ah ! Friquette ! — wliat — eh — when — now ! ". . . 
 "What do you say, sir? "..."I have been to the 
 major's to take some lessons in fencing."..." What 
 for sir? "..."To be ready for to-morrow — I shall 
 kill my adversary — in the Bois de Boulogne at eight 
 o'clock."..." What do you say sir? You fight to- 
 morrow in the Bois de Boulogne ? With whom sir? " 
 ..." With that German — that Spitermann — that 
 furious lover ! But I will kill him ; my seconds as- 
 sure me I shall."..." You fight in a duel sir? You, 
 sir?"..." Yes, Friquette. At first I was afraid, but 
 now I am keen for the fray, because you see — one — 
 two — thrust ! — see ! I had you. It is not very diffi- 
 cult, is it ?"..." Take care, sir; you will fall."... 
 " Oh! it's nothing."... "Sir, it cannot be possible — 
 you have such a dread of duels ! "..." True ! I feel 
 a trifle tired now; I will get off to bed. Mind, Fri- 
 quette, not a word to Diana."... "But sir — — "... 
 " Not a word ! I am going to bed." 
 
 Belatout went to his room, and Friquette, sur- 
 prised at what she had seen and heard, muttered to 
 herself: "I have brought all this about, to assist 
 Miss Diana in her amours, but I never dreamt that 
 it would lead master into such a pickle as this. He 
 cannot fight a duel — and he shall not ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 NEVER SWEAR. 
 
 Belatout slept very badly ; spirits have a much 
 worse effect than wine. At five o'clock he got up ; 
 
NEVER SWEAR. 173 
 
 he was no longer the same man as on the previous 
 night. As the effects of the rum wore off, all his 
 belligerent spirits vanished; he was just as much a 
 tool as ever. When he recalled to mind that he had 
 to fight a duel that morning, he threw himself upon 
 the bed and exclaimed : "If I could only go to sleep 
 ■—if I could only get ill— if I could only stay in bed 
 tor a fortnight. . . This cursed baron declares he 
 will follow me everywhere. What a terrible scrape 
 1 am m ! " r 
 
 Belatout put on his trousers, then he stopped, took 
 them off again, and got into bed, and in a few mo- 
 ments put on his trousers again. After the same 
 performance with each garment, he heard a knock at 
 Jr™ • ' • A u \ P arox J sm of terror, he cried out : 
 "Who is it? lam not here!" The door opened 
 and Jaconet appeared. " What do you want, you 
 tool P Who told you to come here waking me up so 
 early? ..." Sir, your seconds are waiting for you " 
 
 ..." What ! already is it seven o'clock ?"./." Yes 
 
 it has just struck. Didn't you hear it?" "Ah! 
 my God-seven o'clock !"..." Oh ! Friquette has been 
 out some time ! " " Friquette out ! Where has she 
 gone? ..." Ah ! that's just what I don't know " 
 
 Belatout finished dressing, and, whilst considering 
 whether he should go in and embrace his daughter 
 Cracoville appeared with the major. "Coma on' 
 you idle fellow. There is no time to lose: the car' 
 riage is below. You must not be late, it looks so 
 bad Come ! come ! " They took his arm, and al- 
 most carried him to his carriage. The vehicle 
 mered out Belatout > S azin S at ^ fiends, stam- 
 " Where are we going? »...« Why, you know-to 
 the Boib de Boulogne.".. ."Gentlemen, I have no in 
 tention of fighting,- . .« You are joking ! Why "u 
 were quite eager for it last night ! " "Ah » I had 
 plenty of rum then. I was not in my normal state ■ 
 
174 NEVER SWEAR. 
 
 tliis morning, yon see, I am calm. Come, gentle- 
 men, is there no means of avoiding this meeting?" 
 . .."L : sten, my dear M. de Montabord," said Craco- 
 ville; " there are plenty of duels arranged which 
 never get further than a breakfast, which one of the 
 
 principals paj T s fop, "..."Oh! my friend, I will 
 
 pay ; I ask for nothing better than to pay for a first- 
 class breakfast."..." And a little baccarat after- 
 wards? "..."Any game you like; I beg you to ar- 
 range for the breakfast."..." Well, apologise to the 
 baron, and, if he accepts it, we will adjourn to a 
 restaurant."... " Ah ! gentlemen, this hope restores 
 my courage."..." Then you want to fight ?"..." No, 
 do not deceive yourselves with that idea."..." And 
 what about my lessons yesterday? "..." Your lessons 
 major? I have forgotten all about them."..." Here 
 we are."..." Already ! That cab came mighty fast." 
 
 They got out. Belatout perceived that the major 
 was carrying the swords."..." Why did you bring 
 those things?" said Belatout."..." Oh ! we shall 
 want them for the fight."..." But it is to be a break- 
 fast ! "..." If the baron accepts your apology ; but. if 
 not, you must fight."..." But if you brought no 
 swords, we could not fight." 
 
 "Here they are," said the major; " they are here 
 before us." Spitermann appeared on the scene, ac- 
 companied by two young men. Cracoville had con- 
 siderable trouble to bring Belatout up. The adver- 
 saries found themselves face to face, and all of a 
 sudden there was a couple of loud exclamations. 
 Spitermann had for his seconds Mirza and the 
 young Belatout. 
 
 " My father !"..." My son ! " . . ." What ! is my 
 father the adversary of Baron Spitermann ? Why, 
 they told me his adversary was called Montabord." 
 ..."Yes, it is the name I adopted on coming to 
 Paris.". . ." And you engage in a duel ! It cannot be 
 possible ! " 
 
NEVER SWEAR. 175 
 
 a 
 
 What ! is this gentleman your father ? " cried 
 the baron. " Well, my dear Eugene, I cannot really 
 compliment you. Ah ! so this is the M. Belatout 
 who thinks you do wrong to enjoy yourself in Paris 
 — to court the ladies, play cards, and so on. Well, 
 do you know what your father has been doing in 
 Paris ? I'll tell you — he has bean frequenting the — 
 I hardly know what to say." 
 
 In giving vent to these expressions, Spitermann 
 glanced at Cracoville and the major, both of whom 
 frowned heavily. The baron continued : 
 
 " He plays cards, loses his money foolishly, gets so 
 drunk he cannot stand, and finishes up by courting 
 my mistress. That's what your father has been 
 doing in Paris."..." Sir," said Belatout, "I utterly 
 fail to see the necessity of relating all this to my 
 son."..." And why not pray? I am delighted to 
 let him know your real worth. Now, we have had 
 enough words, let us take up our swords ! " 
 
 The baron took oif his coat, which he handed to 
 the diminutive Mirza, who at the same time gave 
 his principal a sword. Belatout became as pale as 
 death. Eugene ran towards Spitermann and ex- 
 claimed : " Baron, I trust you are not going to fight 
 my father ? "..."Indeed, I am; he insulted me — he 
 punched me in the face -"..."I did not do it in- 
 tentionally," blubbered Belatout...." You mock me, 
 sir. And when I told you to clear out of Ethel wina's 
 house, you said ' zut ! ' I will never paidon that 
 word.". . ." What is this ? Did you say ' zut ' to the 
 baron?"..."! hardly know what I did say; but, 
 since he is determined to fight, take my place 
 Eugene."... "What! I fight for you! Oh! no, 
 father ; I remember only too well what you so often 
 said touching duels. You threatened me with your 
 paternal curse, should I ever take part in one. Be- 
 sides, I feel certain the baron would not accept me 
 for his adversary."..." No, most assuredly not. Now 
 
176 NEVER SWEAR. 
 
 then, sir, are we ready ? " Spitermann brandished 
 his weapon and almost put his nose in Belatout's face. 
 
 " If you are going to start," said a young man, 
 who had been for some moments standing behind 
 some trees; "I am anxious to see fair play." He 
 then placed himself before the baron and seemed 
 likely to provoke the latter to wrath. 
 
 "Marcelin!" cried father and son together.... 
 " Who is this ? " said the baron ; " where does he 
 come from ? What right, sir, have you to come be- 
 tween me and my adversary ?"..." Because I am now 
 your adversary ."..." You? Why, I have aever seen 
 you before !"..." But I know you, and I say you are 
 a coward to fight a man who does not know how to 
 hold a sword ! "..."A coward ! That word will cost 
 you something ! After I have finished with Beia- 
 tout, I will deal with you."... "No; you will please 
 settle with me at once. Now, Baron Spitermann, 
 prepare yourself for the contest, for you have an ad- 
 versary this time who is capable of looking after 
 himself. If you are afraid, then apologise to M. 
 Belatout, and the affair is at an end."..." Afraid ! I 
 apologise ! jSTo ! Guard sir ! 
 
 Marcelin took one of the swords which the major 
 held in his hand. Cracoville endeavoured to prevent 
 the combat, but the baron pushed him on one side 
 and said : " Away ! damn you ! Let us alone, or 
 you will have to fight me also." 
 
 Seeing Marcelin take off his coat and face Spiter- 
 mann, Belatout felt ready to drop from fright ; he 
 was obliged to lean against a tree for support. The 
 baron could fence well, but, blind with rage, he 
 made a furious onslaught upon his adversary. But 
 Marcelin maintained the greatest coolness, and, 
 during one of the' barcn's charges, he managed to 
 thrust his weapon into Spiterniann's right side. The 
 baron fell ; Belatout rushed forward, crying : " My 
 God — i s he dead? "..."JSTo, but if he r«cove»s he will 
 
NEVER SWEAE. 177 
 
 be lucky," said the major, examining the wound. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Belatout, " if Marcelin had not taken 
 my place, I should be lying there ; I much prefer 
 things as they are. Marcelin, Eugene, come with 
 me; we have been here long enough. I feel op- 
 pressed. Do you prefer to remain here with the 
 baron, Eugene? "..."No, father; he wanted to fight 
 you — I am no longer his friend." 
 
 Belatout left the wood, with Marcelin and his son. 
 " My friend," said he to Marcelin, " 1 owe you my 
 life, and I cannot thank you enough for it, but I will 
 thank you better presently. By what miracle did 
 you appear just at the critical moment ? ". . ." Oh ! this 
 morning, about six o'clock, Friquette came to my 
 rooms and told me you had to fight a duel at eight 
 this morning in the Bois de Boulogne, so I followed 
 you here."..." Ah ! so it was Eriquette? Did she 
 know you were in Paris ?"..." Oh ! yes, I have met 
 her several times with Miss Diana, your daughter." 
 ..." Ah ! I understand; everything is for the best." 
 
 They got into a carriage and returned to the 
 hotel; they found Diana in a terrible state of mind, 
 for, although she did not exactly know what all the 
 disturbance was about, she perceived that her father 
 was in a very troubled state before he went out. 
 The young girl uttered a cry of joy on sseing her 
 father again, and her joy was redoubled on perceiv- 
 ing both her brother and her lover. Belatout took 
 Marcelin by the hand and led him towards his 
 daughter. " There, Diana," he exclaimed ; " allow 
 me to present you to your future husband."..." My 
 husband ! Can it be possible, father ! Do you 
 consent?"..." Ah ! sir, you indeed do me great 
 honour. "..."Yes my children, yes, I consent, but on 
 one condition — that we leave this city and return to 
 Bar-le-Duc at once; I have had enough of Paris. 
 Eugene, will you come back with us? I will not 
 insist upon you marrying Miss de Boissale, you shall 
 
 M 
 
178 NEVER SWEAB. 
 
 marry whomsoever yon like ; and I will not forbid you 
 enjoying yonrself in your ow T n way." ..." Then, 
 father, I will return with you ; I will never leave you 
 again."..." Very well; I see everybody is satisfied, 
 even Friquette, over there in the corner." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Friquette was leaping for joy, 
 and clapping her hands with might and main. 
 " Ah ! ah ! I have succeeded ! " she cried ; " I knew I 
 could manage this directly I took it into my head." 
 
 The same day they all left Paris en route for Bar- 
 le-Duc. Belatout intended at first to leave a letter 
 bidding adieu to Cracoville and the major, but his 
 son dissuaded him. "They do not deserve it," he 
 said ; " they are simply adventurers, who prey upon 
 strangers and rob them of their money. You may 
 rest assured of one thing, father, and that is, your 
 beautiful Ethelwina, Cracoville, the Major, and Ma- 
 dame de Vanilley, were simply living upon your good 
 nature and simplicity."..." And what about the 
 German baron? "..." Spittermann is the dupe of his 
 mistress ; the more he gives her, the more she de- 
 ceives him !"..." Sapristi! " said Belatout; "I am 
 lucky to have saved my pin ! " 
 
 Some weeks after their return to Bar-le-Duc, 
 Marcelin and Diana were married. "The only 
 thing I regret, Eugene," said Belatout, " is not 
 having poor Plantureau here. I am afraid he will 
 lose every penny he has over those inventions." 
 
 In the evening, Friquette seemed to laugh more 
 than usual. " What are you laughing at ? " said 
 Belatout...." Ah ! sir, I was thinking of that occa- 
 sion when you said to M. Marcelin : 'A duellist shall 
 never enter my family/ And a duel has been the 
 very means of: his doing so."..." That proves, Fri- 
 quette, that we should never speak positively on 
 anything." 
 
 — FINIS.— 
 
THE WIFE, THE HUSBAND, 
 AND THE LOVER 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 PAUL BE KOCK 
 
 By J. URQUHART 
 
 \ 
 
 lonlion: 
 
 MATHIESON & CO, 
 
THE WIFE, THE HUSBAND, AND THE LOVEB. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE NEW MELODRAMA. — THE LEGHOBN BONNET. 
 
 " Will you have the goodness, ladies, to sit a little closer there 
 on the left, and you, gentlemen, be kind enough to move nearer 
 to the ladies ? There is room for one more person, the box holds 
 ten, and there are only nine in it as yet ; the number must be 
 completed such a night as this." " The number, sir ! what do 1 
 care about the number? Do you suppose people come to the 
 theatre to be packed up like so many herrings in a barrel?" 
 replied a burly citizen, to one of the bex-ox->eners at the Theatre 
 de La Gaite" in Paris ; whilst 'another grumpy, spare old man- 
 answered sharply, ""Where the devil can you put anybody else 
 in here? I'm wedged up already as tight as I can be, and won't 
 move another inch for anybody ; be off with you, fellow, and let 
 us alone, will you ? " "I tell you, sir, the box holds ten. So you 
 will have the goodness to make room for this lady ; step in, if 
 you please, ma'am, and take the vacant seat on the front row ;. 
 if you do not somebody else must have the place, the house is so 
 crowded this evening." 
 
 The lady to whom the man spoke hesitated a moment, and 
 as I, who was seated on the second row, turned round to ascer- 
 tain what sort of a personage she might be, because people often 
 go to the theatre to see and be seen more than to behold the 
 play, I saw a very expressive physiognomy belonging to a lady, 
 apparently about twenty-four years old, neither tall nor short, 
 nor dark nor fair, and the colour of whose eyes — I really could 
 not tell at that moment exactly what the colour was, for she 
 wore a large bonnet, and as I was not in the habit of staring 
 ladies unceremoniously in the face, the colour of those said 
 ©yes was then unknown to me. I offered my assistance to the 
 Jady as she passed to the front ; she leaned slightly upon my 
 
•2 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 arm, and as she stepped upon the bench where I was seated I 
 saw she had a delicate little foot, with a well-turned ankle, 
 and, what was more, a neatr-fitting boot and milk-white stock- 
 ings, a propriety of attire which, in my mind, argues well for 
 a woman. 
 
 The old gentleman who had objected to being stowed away 
 in the same manner as red herrings did not more, but put his 
 hat between his legs, determined not to yield an inch, whilst 
 a young man who sat next him, finding the lady something te- 
 nia taste, made a little room for her, so that at last she sat 
 down timidly between them. ... As the lady sat down she 
 spoke a few disjointed words in a low tone, expressive of regret 
 at incommoding her neighbours, to which " The Herring " sale 
 nothing, but the young man replied that he was completely at 
 his ease ; and on the incognita arranging herself as comfortably 
 as she could before the performance should commence, I thought 
 to myself: "Alone in a box at the theatre. Humph! How- 
 ever, let me not prejudge her ; perhaps she has a husband or a 
 lover in the pit, or at least some attendant will come to see her 
 home. There is something about her, too, too modest and lady- 
 like for — patience, Paul, we shall see." 
 
 This was the first night of a new melodrama at the Gaite — 
 a great event for those who had season tickets, all the amateurs 
 of the neighbourhood, and stage-struck aspiring heroes of the 
 other districts of the city. There were still two places vacant by 
 my side, and on the box door being opened again, two females 
 entered — no ! rushed in — and, without looking round, precipitated 
 themselves on to the bench close by me, one of them almost falling 
 into my lap and knocking down my hat with her elbow ; and the 
 other sitting down with an audible grunt of delight. " Here 
 we are at last," she said, in a broad cockney dialect, and in 
 language which set all grammar at defiance; "here we are, 
 but hadn't we enough to do to get here. Did you ever see 
 such shoving and squeezing at the doors ? It was enough to 
 kill one, I declare ! I was nearly crushed against the banisters.' ' 
 
 From this specimen I could see that we should be entertained 
 with very agreeable remarks between the acts by these two 
 ladies, who objected seriously to being pushed in the least, but 
 did not care how much they incommoded other people. In con- 
 sidering them rather attentively, I saw they were young women 
 with tolerably agreeable faces, ruddy cheeks, good eyes and 
 teeth, but with altogether a commonplace expression, totally 
 different from the solitary female in the front. From this 
 survey I turned to look at the incognita, but could not gain a 
 sight of her face, for the very efficient reason that I was 
 seated immediately behind her, but I could see that she 
 remained quite quiet except when the young man on hei 
 
The Wife s the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 • 
 right endeavoured to engage her in conversation, and 
 then she only replied to him in monosyllables. Tired with 
 continually looking at the Leghorn bonnet upon the lady's head, 
 I directed my opera-glass around the house, and saw next to 
 u The Herring " a young woman in a smart cap, with bold eyes, 
 a slightly turned-up nose, a half smile for ever on her lips, and 
 with her a fair, open-countenanced girl about seventeen, who 
 laughed loudly at all the piquant observations her companion 
 made. Near to this couple sat a male and female, good, honest 
 citizens, who would sooner go without their dinners than miss 
 ■the first night of a new piece. The husband's hat was knocked 
 out of all shape by the pressure of the crowd at the doors, and 
 the lady's collar was almost torn in half, but they recked little 
 of these trifles and indulged in brilliant anticipations of the 
 forthcoming melodrama, and behind me were two overdressed 
 young men who kept leaning forward to recognise their friends 
 in other portions of the house, occasionally exchanging jokes 
 with them of no very intellectual nature, or remarkable for that 
 conventional propriety which distinguishes the upper classes of 
 society. Marie's friend, who sat by my side, was a particularly 
 free-and-easy lady ; every moment her arm was on my shoulder, 
 and behind her were two men, one extremely young, with an open 
 mouth, eyes standing out of his head, and a face that seemed to 
 say he was an entire novice . in the pleasures of the world ; and 
 the other a bald-headed, middle-aged man, with a few straggling 
 hairs coaxed over his forehead, who talked loudly and looked 
 languishingly at the women. Having made these perquisitions 
 as to those around me, I was compelled to listen to some further 
 remarks before the curtain rose. 
 
 "I say, Marie," said the female on my left, "do you see 
 either of our men, they must be somewhere in the pit ; they set 
 off an hour before us at least.'" "I can't see anything of 
 them," Marie answered. "That's very odd; they must have 
 got in notwithstanding the crowd.'' " Oh, you be quiet ; leave 
 Gerard alone for that. A big muscular fellow like mine is sure 
 to make his way." "And my Bribi too; but then he is so 
 short, I'm always afraid he'll get smothered in a crowd." 
 "Ah, I think I see them" (and she leaned forward over 
 "Herring's" back) "just under the centre chandelier." 
 " Take care, ma'am; you almost break my back leaning your 
 whole weight upon me in this manner." " Bless me ! I must 
 lean forward, sir, to look into the pit!" Luckily forme, 
 Gerard and Bribi soon heard their spouses, who kept calling to 
 them ; smiles were interchanged, the ladies became more calm, 
 :and I was released from sustaining the enormous weight of 
 .Madame Bribi. 
 
 The Leghorn hat before me preserved its tranquillity, the 
 
wearer neither turning to the right nor the left, nor conversing: 
 with the gentleman sitting by her side. This was very extra- 
 ordinary behaviour in a woman who came alone to the theatre. 
 
 Considerable impatience was manifested at the delay in 
 beginning the piece, and in the graphic mode customary to the 
 inhabitants of the Boulevard du Temple. The people in the pit 
 stamped, the lower gallery hissed and whistled, and the gods 
 shouted, " Raise the curtain ! " and " All in to begin ! " accom- 
 panied with a volley of execrations, during which my two 
 neighbours observed again that their husbands were talking to 
 those next to them, and vaunted their goodmen's powers of 
 conversation. Madame Bribi remarked that her better half was 
 laughing like a madman at something he himself had said ; she 
 was anxious to know what the joke was, so called out to him by 
 name, and flourished her pocket handkerchief, which 
 unfortunately flew into the face of the " Herring," who put her 
 arm down in a fury, saying, "Madame, you are blinding me 
 with your absurdities ; sit down and be quiet like other people." 
 
 " Bless me, here's a to-do ! mustn't I speak to my husband, I 
 wonder ?" «* 
 
 " No one speaks from the boxes to the pit." 
 
 " Dear me, how extraordinary. Is there a law against it ? " 
 
 " If you wish to speak to your husband, go to him." 
 
 "That's as I please, so don't give yourself airs because yon 
 are only talking to women, if my Bribi was here, he'd settle you 
 in two minutes, I can tell you." 
 
 "The Herring" shrugged his shoulders, turned away, and 
 muttered something about the intolerable vulgarity of the 
 audience at that theatre. The tradesman's wife, who thought 
 he addressed the remark to her, said she had heard the new piece 
 highly commended, to which he replied that the plots of all- 
 melodramas were precisely the same — a tyrant, a good old 
 servant, an orphan girl, a young lover, and a fool ; he had seen 
 a hundred of them, and there never was any alteration. 
 The piece of the night, he had heard, was composed 
 of six tableaux — he supposed there would be thirty-six 
 soon. Plays nowadays were nothing better than ecenes from 
 a magic lantern, but as it was in the style of Shakespeare and 
 Schiller, he thought they would go down; pleasing the eye 
 was everything, comprehension nothing. 
 
 "Really, young ladies, I cannot bear this pushing ; your feet 
 are constantly trampling upon mine, and you squeeze me so 
 that presently I shall not be able to move a hand to take out 
 my snuff-box." 
 
 Thus it was the "Herring" now addressed the grisettes, to- 
 which the elder replied — looking him full in the face — that tiiey 
 were not touching him in the least, they should be sorry to do 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 5 
 
 «o, and then they whispered, and pointed their fingers at the 
 -citizen's crushed hat and his wife's collar, and made faces at 
 the green young gentleman close to them. 
 
 At length the prompter's bell rang, and the grisettes, with 
 Mesdames Bribi and Gerard, resumed their seats; but on the 
 appearance of two of the actors the work-girls, who probably 
 had an intrigue with the artistes, bounced up again, leaned 
 over the old man, and cried out respectively — " Oh, how well 
 he looks ! How that dress becomes him ! He's got the brooch 
 on I gave him the other day ! Ah, he sees me, my dear ! What 
 & love ! Really, Ninie, I am mad about him." 
 
 *' Ladies, I cannot see what is going on at all on the stage, 
 your body is half out of the box." 
 
 " Bless me, sir, we couldn't see at all without doing so ; you 
 may think yourself lucky we haven't large bonnets on." 
 
 " Silence ! " shouted Madame Bernard ; " can't you hold your 
 tongues when the curtain's up ? " 
 
 ' « Turn them out ' ' (from the pit) . « ' Throw them over ' ' (from 
 the gallery). "Hold your tongues, you wenches," etc., etc. 
 
 Silence was restored, the little burletta was over, and the 
 moment the curtain fell my neighbours were in motion again, 
 making signs to and hailing their husbands in the pit. A 
 general move now took place, and the young gentleman next to 
 the lady in front with the Leghorn bonnet went out. Fortunately 
 for me the lady in front, being relieved from some pressure 
 by the absence of the gentleman who had sat next to her, turned 
 slightly to look round her, and then I discovered that her 
 features were as beautiful as I had pictured them to myself to 
 be. Those almond-shaped eyes had a peculiarly soft expression, 
 although of the deepest black ; her Grecian nose was thin and 
 Deautifully chiselled; her hair dark chestnut; and a mouth 
 fresh as roses, disclosing two rows of pearly teeth as she 
 •smiled or spoke ; her complexion was rather pale than other- 
 wise. I think its a great beauty, and she had altogether a 
 •serious air, which, when dispelled, as the sun lights up a 
 landscape, rendered her countenance the more interesting when 
 she srniled. At first I thought I would address her, but a 
 -second look convinced me she was not of that fair but frail 
 sisterhood with whom a man can hazard a conversation without 
 an introduction ; besides, as I had thrown away a great deal 
 of money of late, and had promised to be very good, not to 
 frequent gaming-houses, masquerades, and fancy balls, leave 
 off dining at expensive taverns, drinking champagne, and 
 running after the women, I reflected it would be as well not tfl 
 "try to engage the mysterious lady's attention for fear of the 
 consequences to my too susceptible imagination: 
 
 It seemed that I was driven by some secret sympathy 
 
8 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 towards the Leghorn bonnet. Certainly I had felt similar 
 sympathies before, and was aware that they easily establish 
 themselves between a lovely woman and a good-looking, 
 susceptible young man — not that I mean to insinuate that I am 
 at all good-looking, although susceptible to female influence in 
 the very highest degree. 
 
 Presently the noise of oaths and blows broke smartly upon my 
 ear, and rousing myself from my brown study I heard tha 
 female Bribi say : 
 
 "Oh, look, Marie, look, they are fighting in the pit, there, 
 just underneath the lustre; it's near our husbands ; oh, how I 
 hope they won't get into it ! " Madame Bribi at once began to 
 shout strong remonstrance to her better-half, and I requested 
 her to calm herself, as she could see that her husband was sitting- 
 very quietly, and indeed the quarrel was not in his immediate 
 neighbourhood. Hearing my short argument with Madame- 
 Bribi, the Leghorn bonnet turned to look at the anxious woman 
 and smiled slightly ; our eyes met, and I thought a momentary 
 secret understanding between us was established. The wish is^ 
 often father to the thought. 
 
 By this time the persons who had left the box came back and 
 took their places ; the two girls had their hands full of oranges 
 and biscuits ; they stuffed themselves with cakes, peeled their 
 oranges, throwing the skins carelessly away, to the great annoy- 
 ance of the gentleman next them, who kept repeating that they 
 would take the colour out of his coat and trousers with the orange- 
 juice ; while another exclaimed that more than twenty minutes 
 had passed and the curtain was still down ; it was shocking, 
 really such practices ought to be repressed. Madame Bribi 
 mistook the purport of the word "shocking," and agreed that 
 anything " indecent " should not be put upon the stage, but her 
 neighbour asserted that Gerard said the piece was superb, for he 
 had heard so from the foreman to the lamp-maker, who had been 
 at the rehearsals. No such thing as indecent ; there was no im- 
 propriety in it, but more murders and fighting, and killing and 
 crimes, than in any melodrama he knew of. The little bald man 
 passed his hand over his head to keep the twenty hairs that 
 remained to him in their place, leered tenderly at buxom 
 Madame Gerard, and said : 
 
 " You ladies seem to be quite at home in the mysteries- 
 behind the scenes ; you are quite in the secrets hidden from 
 profane eyes," but the gossips, who did not appear to compre- 
 hend one word he said, looked in his face, ejaculating " Eh ? " 
 and sat down upon the bench. 
 
 Again the prompter's bell rang , the overture was played and 1 
 the melodrama went on very well ; my fat neighbours were alt 
 eyes, and occasionally tears, and gave vent to their sentiment* 
 
Th.e Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 7 
 
 :*n smothered exclamations. Madame Bribi shouted out to the 
 bald little gentleman, " Leave off pushing me in that way, will 
 you! I'm rather dangerous, I can tell you ! " The person she 
 addressed turned as red as a lobster, he muttered a few words of 
 -apology, stood up, remained standing during the rest of the act, 
 and then left the box. 
 
 At the close of the act, the curtain fell amidst the appro- 
 it >ation of two hundred hands beat earnestly against each other ; 
 but the applause was of so regular a character, and proceeded so 
 manifestly from one section of the house, as to be at once 
 recognised as the work of a claque. Just then a voice behind 
 me cried, " How does Monsieur Deligny find himself tins 
 -evening?" On turning round, I found the person who had 
 addressed me was a gentleman whom I had met occasionally 
 in society, and he, after exchanging with me a few common 
 phrases, which the world calls conversation, made his bow, shut 
 ilie box-door, and retired. 
 
 As I sat down, to my great surprise my eyes met those of the 
 lady in the front; she turned round sharply to her original 
 position, but as my attention was now fixed upon her, I could 
 see that whenever I directed my glass to the right or left of the 
 house her pretty face was turned gently to that side too, and 
 that she examined me quietly but minutely. It appeared 
 singular ; her inspection of me had only commenced since she heard 
 me named. If I had been a celebrated painter, poet, or musi- 
 cian, I should not have thought anything of the circumstance ; 
 but 1 did not possess the valuable and honourable qualities of any 
 of those artistical professions. Why, then, should this lady 
 occupy herself with gazing stealthily at me who was not in any 
 way distinguished from other fashionable young men who 
 commit the usual follies of youth, whilst at the same time they 
 lose their fortunes and their health. Nevertheless my vanity 
 was piqued at the tardy notice she had taken of me, and I 
 began to bethink me of the best method of opening a con- 
 versation ; perhaps she wished it too ; but it was impossible for 
 her to commence ; so I adopted a very stale device, affected to 
 be pushed by my rude neighbours against the lady's arm, and 
 made ten thousand energetic excuses, to which she merely 
 bowed, uttering a formal — I had not hurt her in the least. It was 
 clear from her quiet, short tone she declined all conversation ; 
 then why did she examine me so closely ! The rising of the 
 -curtain now diverted our attention ; the last act was com- 
 menced, but met with considerable disapprobation ; this 
 brought up the " claque ; " hands were going vehemently on 
 one side, whilst groans and hisses were heard on the other. 
 Happily the piece was finished amid a very evenly divided 
 ^Manifestation of opinion. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 The people began to leave the box, but some spell detained me near 
 the lady in the bonnet. Would anybody -come to escort her home ? 
 A few minutes passed as she stood adjusting her dress. I pre- 
 sented my hand to assist her out, but, light as a feather, she leaped 
 over the benches without heeding me, and was in the lobby in an 
 instant. I followed quickly, keeping her in sight, when, to 
 my disgust, some persons came between us, and I lost her. 
 As I tried to fly down the stairs that led to the street, I was 
 seized by the arm, and a voice exclaimed gaily, ''Ah, Paul, 
 have I caught you ? What a hurry you are in ; gently, or you 
 will knock someone down." Pushing my friend from me, and 
 bidding him wait for me there, I plunged forward right and 
 left through the crowd as they left the house, but the object? 
 of my search was no longer in the portico, nor anywhere to* 
 be 3een. I dashed my hand upon my forehead, for my fair 
 incognita, the lady in the Leghorn hat, was gone ! 
 
 ^ 
 
The Wife, the Htcsband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 THE TAVERN. 
 
 As I stood upon the pavement in front of the tavern close to 
 -the theatre, looking anxiously around me, and undecided which 
 way to go, Dubois, the individual who had spoken to me in 
 the portico, touched my arm, and said, lauglhngly, "Tell me, 
 Paul, which road has your goddess taken, if you can, and is 
 she really worth mounting guard for on the Boulevard, as you 
 have been doing for the last five minutes ? " 
 
 " She is divinity, Dubois, and I am miserable at having lost 
 her. You were the cause, in truth, by stopping me inside." 
 
 ' ' Why did you not tell me you were after a woman, and then 
 I could have assisted you ? My good fellow, don't be down- 
 cast at having missed your bolt for once. Come into the tavern, 
 and I will find you another flame ; to speak truth, I have 
 just seen two dear little creatures go in, and they are now 
 sitting down at a table sipping lemonade. Come, do ; it is oi 
 no use remaining any longer here." 
 
 Dubois was right. He was a man of my own age — about 
 twenty-seven — rather short, but well made, and walked with 
 his head thrown back to make as much of himself as he could. 
 His hair and eyes were black, his complexion clear and healthy, 
 with good teeth and an agreeable smile, but nevertheless there 
 was something underbred in Ids appearance and manner of 
 address which made you set him down in your mind at once 
 as a rake of a very inferior class. His manners were manifestly 
 very artificial and forced, and he had acquired the vulgar habit 
 of talking in a loud tone of voice so as to attract attention. 
 He had no lack of wit, and could be particularly amusing ; 
 though his jokes were not always presentable to ears polite, he 
 had a happy knack of seizing upon any ridiculous circumstance 
 and reproducing it in still more absurd colours, and when his 
 habit of talking in a high voice brought disputes upon him, he 
 shouted and threatened his adversaries with the penalty of 
 death, but when he found a quarrel really likely to become 
 serious he invariably discovered some way of backing out of it. 
 Notwithstanding these defects, the result of a neglected educa- 
 tion, and being thrown early in life into bad company, Dubois 
 was a good fellow at heart, exceedingly kind, and willing to do 
 everything to oblige his friends. Although not often met in the 
 
10 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 higher circles of society, he was sure to be met at bachelors' 
 dinners and picnic parties in the country. After having met you 
 two or three times he became as intimate with you as if he had 
 known you all his life ; he lived as independently as any 
 commission-agent could who would spend in one evening all 
 that he had earned in a week, and neglected his business to- 
 prosecute his pleasures ; but when he had not a shilling left, he 
 would repair on foot as lively as ever to shopkeepers and private 
 houses with his samples of sugars and coffees in his pockets, 
 and a few days afterwards be seen driving out a fresh flame in a 
 gig. He was delighted to be taken for a very successful man 
 with dancers at the minor theatres and grisettes ; and in 
 sustaining this reputation he frequently found himself in com- 
 pany far from reputable. 
 
 Now it did not become me — who was so easily influenced bv 
 the fair sex — to criticise the conduct of other men, but 1 mu^fc 
 beg my readers to understand that I did not form liaisons with 
 every woman I saw, and that, before entering into an intrigue, 
 I made a few inquiries as to the position or my innamorata 
 The lady in the bonnet, although alone at the theatre, had the 
 air of a perfectly virtuous, genteel woman ; her manners were 
 high-bred, and her appearance was such that I should not have 
 been ashamed to escort her from the theatre before all the 
 world ; but as she was lost to me for the present, and it wa* 
 most probable I should never meet her again, the best thing I 
 could do was to dismiss her from my mind, and with that 
 intention I entered the tavern with Dubois. 
 
 Dubois advanced directly to a table where the grisettes who 
 had been near me were drinking bottled beer and eating more" 
 buns with a young man who had performed in the burletta — 
 really, I trembled for their digestions. Not finding a seat, my 
 friend pushed further on to a table where two old men were 
 playing at dominoes. Dubois seated himself without saying a. 
 word of apology, and requested one of the gentlemen to give 
 him a little more room. The players looked up in surprise, but 
 did not make any remark ; whereupon Dubois bawled to the 
 waiter to bring a bowl of hot punch to that table and to 
 see that it was made in the most approved manner. I repre- 
 sented that a quarter-bowl would be enough, but he insisted 
 upon having his own way as he proposed. 
 
 He then turned to the girls (whose young friend, the actor, had 
 left them) to beg the ladies would honour us by partaking of a. 
 glass. The women smiled, but did not reply, and I asked Dubois 
 in a whisper whether he was acquainted with them, as he offered 
 them the punch, to which he said aloud, " I have not the honour 
 of knowing these ladies, but their beauty and amiable carriage 
 makes me very anxious to become acquainted with them." They 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 11 
 
 smiled again, he looked languishingly at them, and there was 
 every appearance of my friend and the elder of the girls being 
 soon on very excellent terms, whilst I, who saw their class at a 
 glance, kept myself studiously aloof, not being able to discover 
 the least possible traces of the excellences which Dubois per- 
 sisted in asserting they possessed. Whilst the punch was being 
 made he kept up a constant fire of flattery upon the elder girl, 
 and on its being brought he desired the waiter to put it down on 
 the table where the two old gentlemen were playing, at the same 
 time requesting them, with the coolest impudence, to move their 
 dominoes away. One, who had an air of a man not to be trifled 
 with, quietly observed that he would not be interfered with, and 
 there were plenty of other tables for Dubois ; this did not dis- 
 courage him, for he observed that he was much better near the 
 ladies, and the old gentlemen resumed their game. 
 
 Dubois called for two more clean glasses, filled them with 
 punch, and passed them towards the girls, with the recommen- 
 dation that it was very sweet and weak, quite ladies' punch 
 indeed, and then handed over some macaroons. The temptation 
 began to work its way ; the younger grisette looked wistfully at 
 the liquor, while the elder, pretending not to see it, remarked 
 that it was getting late, and she should not have entered the 
 tavern but for a promise made by her friend's cousin Alexander 
 that he would come there for them after the play and see them 
 home. The ice now was fairly broken ; and Dubois took up the 
 conversation by observing that cousins were generally verv 
 neglectful of their duties, and that he and myself would be 
 happy to supply the place of the faithless Alexander. I kicked 
 Dubois under the table to remind him that I would have 
 nothing to do with the girls, but he only grinned and 
 continued to gabble on. "My friend, ladies," he said, "is 
 quite as gallant as I am, I assure you, and although ho 
 is rather dull at present it is only on account of his havi no- 
 fallen in love with a lady at the theatre whom he lost sight of 
 as she left the house. (The girls tittered.) We are both 
 of us very susceptible men, ladies, and as Alexander apparently 
 will not come, permit us to have the honour of seeing you home. 
 Do you live far oS ?" "Very far, indeed, sir." "So much 
 the better ; our pleasure will be the more prolonged. Ah, now, do 
 look at that man who has just come in ; did you ever see such a* 
 figure ? " Dubois well knew that the best method of obtaining 
 an intimacy with the work-girl class of women is to make them 
 laugh — this was the principle on which he acted in making 
 the last observation — and then as they smiled and I turned my 
 head to look at the person of whom he spoke, the girls seized 
 the opportunity of bolting the punch and the macaroons and; 
 replacing the empty glasses upon the table. 
 
12 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Not observing anything very singular in the appearance of 
 the gentleman who last entered the room, I was about turning 
 my face to the table again, "when Dubois whispered that the 
 girls were ours, for they had drunk the punch, and in the 
 height of his joy he pushed his arm against the old gentleman, 
 -who requested him to take more care and not throw the 
 dominoes down. Dubois replied scornfully, "It would not 
 signify much if I should, my friend ; you have not got the Double 
 Six at any rate." "I will trouble you, sir, not to expose my 
 game. ' ' My friend called for more launch, and insisted upon con- 
 ducting the women home ; he made strong love to the elder. She 
 observed that it was getting late, but both of them (according 
 to the maxim that all is easy after the first step) yielded to 
 his entreaties to taste several glasses more, whilst he related 
 in a voice that made itself heard all over the room, to the 
 annoyance of all present, the details of a dinner that had 
 taken place that day at "The Meridian," at which him- 
 self and five other capital fellows were present Jump-- 
 ing up to show his grace in filling the glasses, Dubois 
 thrust his elbow against*; the old gentleman's face ; the 
 latter rose with a determined air, and addressed some 
 observations to the former on his impertinence, but I 
 persuaded him that the incivility was unintentional, and 
 succeeded in partially restoring peace, and should have done so 
 entirely had not Dubois — observing that the old gentleman was 
 becoming calm, and thinking to frighten him, cried out, "This 
 venerable person seems to assume that my appearance is dis- 
 agreeable to him. I suppose I must change my face to suit his 
 ■convenience ?" "Yes," was the reply, "I perceive that your 
 appearance and conduct is that of a chatting, bragging puppy, and 
 unless you sit down directly and hold your tongue, I shall soon 
 find the means of keeping you quite silent. ' ' Dubois coloured up, 
 but he was too far in the quarrel to retreat with honour, so he 
 shouted that he*was not to be bullied ; he had given proof of his 
 valour in many duels, and would again, as his antagonist 
 should soon see. The old gentleman proposed to him to settle 
 their difference immediately ; Dubois agreed and rushed to the 
 door, eager for the fray. I should have known very well that this 
 was but one of his modes of retreating from a quarrel, and should 
 •not have been astonished when on reaching the street Dubois 
 was nowhere to be found. I now felt that as I had been in his 
 company it was my duty to stand in his place and to place my- 
 self at their service, but they quietly remarked that I had no* 
 offended them at ail, touched their hats politely to me, and went 
 their way. 
 
 The idlers who had left the tavern to look on dispersed. 
 ^Vexed as I was with this disgraceful adventure, I determined 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 18* 
 
 to proceed home, but before I had gone a hundred yards I 
 recollected that the punch had not been paid for, and returned; 
 to the tavern to discharge the bill. The two girls had remained 
 there quite uncertain what steps to take ; they were delighted 
 to see me, and the elder inquired eagerly for Dubois, but as he 
 did not return after a few minutes had elapsed, and the women 
 evidently were not of that dissipated class, I thought it would 1 
 be ungentlemanly in me to allow them to go home. I left th© 
 iaverii at midnight, arm-in-arm with two grisettes- 
 
&4 XJi,e Wife, t/ie Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 *HE TWO GKRISETTES. 
 
 As we walked along the Boulevard, the one who was called 
 *' Charlotte " by her companion became pettish, and complained 
 of Dubois having quitted her so unceremoniously, and the 
 younger one said, in a gentle tone, that she was very sorry they 
 should have been forced to give me so much trouble. The voice 
 pleased me — she seemed more timid and inexperienced than her 
 companion, and her manners were not so free. I had observed 
 that in the tavern she had controlled Charlotte as much as she 
 dared, and had it fallen to my lot to choose between them, I 
 should certainly have preferred her to her mature friend. 
 Unfortunately, there was not one hackney coach upon the 
 ? tand ; there was no alternative but to walk, and I heard with 
 dismay that Charlotte resided in the Rue aux Fers and the 
 younger girl in the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, both close to the 
 renowned Market of the Innocents, a district which I should 
 never have sought for the purposes of intrigue ; but it was now, 
 «ven in spite of my objection to the district, my duty to see the 
 prls to their doors as quickly as I could, and then retire to my 
 rest. 
 
 We proceeded some little distance in perfect silence, Charlotte 
 ^n my right arm and little Ninie on my left, and then it struck 
 me I might as well ascertain who my temporary companions 
 were. The usual inquiries being made by me, Charlotte, 
 delighted to hear her own tongue, explained that she made 
 ■edgings for petticoats and dresses and fringes for shawls ; that, 
 work as hard as she could, she could not earn more than 
 eighteenpence a day, which was not much for a girl who was 
 iond of dancing on a Sunday and going to plays ; that she 
 adored the theatres, and if she was in her right vocation she 
 knew she should be upon the boards performing the parts of 
 princesses and unfortunate young creatures of high degree, and 
 then she should be cheered at, and applauded, and be dressed in 
 the most fashionable styles, and have plenty of lovers, which 
 would all be very desirable indeed, and far better than working 
 her eyes out making nasty edgings and fringes. I remarked that 
 perhaps she might not have succeeded on the boards, that a 
 person did not become an actor or an actress by dressing for a 
 •g>art and walking on the stage. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 15 
 
 My criticisms met with no favour, for she at once said that 
 r ner friends all said she had a capital chest voice, and could 
 sing as high as any lady at the Opera. It was evident that 
 Charlotte — whom the punch had made extremely communi- 
 cative — would have entertained me with some examples of 
 her histrionic abilities, but at the corner of the Rue Meslay, 
 .as I stooped to make an observation to quiet little Ninie, I 
 .heard someone singing — 
 
 " Wake, gentle lady, thy lover hastes to thee," 
 
 and recognised the voice of Dubois, who, on distinguishing us, 
 came running up, asking where the two " loves" had hid 
 themselves for the last two hours and a half. He said he had 
 been seeking for them everywhere, and was in despair at not 
 finding them. I represented to him that his conduct in dis- 
 appearing so suddenly in the midst of a quarrel which he had 
 brought upon himself was disgraceful to him, to which he 
 replied, with the greatest readiness and effrontery, that he was 
 not a fellow to let a duel get cold ; that he only left the tavern 
 to get pistols as quickly as possible from a friend close by, and 
 when he returned to the tavern he was vexed to death to find 
 it closed. I had already had previous experience of the 
 inventive faculties of my friend, and therefore knew how to 
 value his excuse, and so merely remarking that it was 
 unfortunate he should not have been able to avenge the insult , 
 we resumed our walk. 
 
 They marched on very lovingly together, Charlotte relating to 
 iiim the fears she had entertained for his safety, and he com- 
 forting her with the assurance that she need never incommode 
 herself about him, because he always killed his man, when he 
 -stopped short, said he saw some persons lurking in the shade of 
 the pillars, and then walked up the street as fast as he could, 
 dragging Charlotte with him, and I came after with Ninie w#" 
 whom I had not yet had time to enter into conversation. 
 Suddenly he stopped at the door of a house where a hackney 
 coach had pulled up, and told the man to drive him home ; the 
 coachman said he was engaged waiting for a fare indoors. 
 Dubois affected to think the man was telling a lie, and was 
 threatening to pull his ears — with every probability of getting a 
 sound thrashing himself, which he richly deserved — when I, 
 tired of the stupid scene, proceeded gently on with the inten- 
 tion of making myself acquainted with the important facts of 
 " who " and " what " my pretty little fair companion was. I 
 opened the dialogue by saying : 
 
 "Do you make fringe and edgings also, mademoiselle f"' 
 ^ Yes, sir ; my occupation is the same as Charlotte's." '- And 
 
16 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lovsr, 
 
 have you the same desire as her to be an actress ? " " No, sir% 
 I should not have sufficient courage." Good, I thought, timidity 
 is always pleasing. " Do you live alone, Ninie ? " " Yes, sir ; that 
 is, -for the last six months I have." " And before then what did 
 you do ? ' ' ' ' I resided with my aunt because my parents live in the 
 country. I came from Noisy-le-Sec, sir ; do you know that vil- 
 lage ? " " Oh, yes, I am well acquainted with the environs of Paris ; 
 and what are your parents ? " " Farm labourers ; my aunt wished 
 me to come to Paris, that she might bring me up, and teach me 
 a trade." " Then why did you quit your aunt? " "In conse- 
 quence of becoming a friend of Charlotte. She was continually 
 telling me that a young girl always did better in an apartment 
 of her own ; then she would make me go to plays, and was for 
 ever putting all sorts of extravagant ideas into my head. At 
 first, I did not like to speak to the gentlemen who would come 
 and talk to us, but Charlotte said it was so stupid of me, and 
 that I looked such a fool, so that I began to answer the gentle- 
 men when they spoke to me, because she said it was for my 
 good." "Oh, I see, my dear, Charlotte has been giving you 
 very bad advice indeed." " Yes, yes, sir, indeed she did. Very 
 soon I became ambitious and discontented with my lot ; I thought 
 at first that the eighteenpence a day that I could earn was suffi- 
 cient for quite a young girl like me — for I am only sixteen ; but 
 Charlotte told me it was nothing like enough, and that it would 
 never do to go to the play with, and have pretty caps, and 
 frocks and earrings. I had no idea of any of those things before 
 she put them into my head." "And so, Ninie, I suppose she 
 told you of the means by which all those luxuries might be pro- 
 cured? " " Yes, sir ; she said all pretty young girls hod friends, 
 who paid for them at balls and other places, and gave them all 
 the bonnets and clothes they wanted. That she had five or six 
 friends, and found it very convenient and agreeable indeed j 
 they took her everywhere, and always paid for dinners and 
 suppers and refreshments, and nothing could be more delight- 
 ful." "Of course, Ninie, you did the same as Charlotte?" 
 " Not at first, she said, "I was so very awkward, I didn't know 
 how to manage the gentlemen ; if a man did not please me I 
 would not make his acquaintance at all." " Apparently, Char- 
 lotte is not deterred by such trivial scruples? " "I don't know 
 how it is, sir, but every man pleases her, if ho is well dressed, 
 and offers her refreshments." "I see, Ninie; she is endowed 
 by Nature with great susceptibility for love, miicaroons, and 
 punch." " Very often when wo used to be at the theatre 
 together, if an ugly old fellow was talking to me, making 
 all sorts of offers, and I whispered to Charlotte I could not 
 bear him, she would say he was rich, and would do very well - y 
 however, I couldn't make up my mind to do anything of the kind ; 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 17 
 
 until one evening a handsome, well-dressed young gentleman 
 spoke to me. He said I was born to shine in a palace and not 
 to be lost in a back room up four pairs of stairs, and that he 
 would run away with me if I would let him; that he would 
 never leave me, and that we should be always happy together. 
 Charlotte advised me to agree to his plans ; I was very fond of 
 
 him, and so — and so " "I understand, poor girl ! " "So 
 
 he took me to the room where I am now living, up five pairs 
 of stairs, in the Kue Aubry-le-Boucher." "The devil, Ninie, 
 your lover's palace is rather high in the world!" "Yes, sir, 
 it is. I thought the furniture would be fine mahogany, but he 
 said walnut-wood was more modern ; then there were only four 
 chairs in the room instead of the dozen he had promised me, 
 but he said as we should never be more than four at a time in 
 company, four chairs would be quite enough." " Reasoned like 
 Diogenes." "Diogenes! Oh, no, sir, his name was Adolphe; 
 he had another name, of course, but he would never tell it to 
 me, because he said if it was known he might get into harm. 
 However, I was very contented with him, and thought my room 
 superb; Charlotte said it ought to be better, but it was very 
 good- for a beginning for a chick like me." "No doubt she 
 did ; and tell me, Ninie, what did you do with this Monsieur 
 Adolphe? " " For the first six weeks he came to see me every 
 day ; he took me out into the country, where we dined quite 
 quietly by ourselves, and sometimes we went to the theatres, 
 where we sat in private boxes — oh, I was so happy ! But at the 
 end of that period he only came seldom to see me, and at last 
 one morning he told me he had business to transact in England 
 that he could not neglect ; but he would come back as soon as 
 ever he could, and then if he heard I had been a very good 
 girl and not even looked at another man, perhaps he would 
 marry me." " Were you not very unhappy at his departure? " 
 " Yes, at first ; but afterwards I tried to get rid of my melan- 
 choly, and went with Charlotte to the theatre." " I hope you 
 recollected Monsieur Adolphe's advice?" "Yes; Charlotte 
 told me it was all nonsense, that men always said the same 
 thing, and that they had promised to marry her fifty times 
 when they went away, and that none of them had ever 
 come back ; and then she tried to persuade me to have 
 another friend and to leave him if ever Adolphe should 
 return." "Mademoiselle appears to have some particularly 
 amicable principles! Did you follow her advice?" "Not as 
 yet ; I have seen many agreeable young gentlemen, but none who 
 pleased me like Adolphe ; Charlotte says it is better always to 
 have a friend that you do not love, but I do not think like her, 
 and will never attach myself to a man I do not like." 
 Dubois and Charlotte joined us again at the close of Ninie's 
 
 B 
 
18 Tlie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 tale ; he puffing and boasting of what he would have done to the* 
 coachman if she had not restrained him, and she thinking him* 
 the incarnate valour of a whole regiment of cuirassiers. Ninie' »• 
 artless manner pleased me ; there was something in her expression; 
 that showed me she was not a rake in her heart. At the same- 
 time it struck me she might be playing a part — simulation was- 
 carried to such perfection in Paris, and much of it might be- 
 acquired in Mademoiselle Charlotte's school. However, she was- 
 so young — only sixteen — that I thought she could not indulge 
 the" idea of making me her dupe, and I walked on with her 
 better pleased than I expected to have been at the commence- 
 ment of our acquaintance. 
 
 By the time we reached the other end of the Rue St. Martin 
 I could see that the friendship of Charlotte and Dubois was* 
 ripening apace ; they were about a dozen yards ahead of us, 
 he gesticulating vehemently as usual, leaning towards her and: 
 squeezing her hand, whilst she seemed dying with laughter loud- 
 enough to awaken all the sleepers of the neighbourhood. At 
 me turning of the street he shouted — "My dear fellow, love- 
 calls me another way, and as our routes do not lie together any 
 longer I wish you a very good night and much happiness with, 
 your little angel." Ninie cried to Charlotte not to leave her, 
 but the experienced lady paid no attention to her entreaties, 
 walked swiftly away, and left myself and Ninie standing in the 
 street. After a short pause I pressed Ninie' s arm gently and! 
 said I could see her safe home ; she looked up gratefully in ray- 
 face, and thanked me; then resumed her march, which brought 
 us in a few minutes to the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher ; an ill-built, 
 dirty, badly ventilated street, thickly populated and traversed 1 
 by all the carts proceeding with fish, meat, and vegetables 
 to the Market of the Innocents. About the centre of the 
 houses Ninie stopped before an iron-railed door at the 
 entrance of a passage, and said she lived there, on the fifth floor, 
 in the room at the end of a passage. As she was about to open 
 the door I asked her whether I might have the pleasure of 
 seeing her again ; she replied in the affirmative — at any time I 
 liked, as she never went out, but worked at her trade all day ;„ 
 her real Christian name she said was Fanny, ? but Charlotte 
 thought that vulgar, and had changed it to Ninie. If I inquired 
 for Ninie Boissard any of the lodgers would show me her room. 
 I asked her for a kiss, which she gave me willingly, then pushed: 
 open the door, tripped up the passage, and her fairy little fornr 
 was lost to sight. 
 
The Wife, tht H^shayid, and the Lover 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY FRIENDS JOLIVET AND JENNEVILLE, 
 
 I think, readers, I said I lived in the Faubourg Poissonniere k 
 it is true. But perhaps you will wish to know what profession 
 1 practised there — artist, musician, merchant, actor, or whafe 
 hut. In truth, I did nothing at all ; not from laziness, for there - 
 was a somewhat busy devil within me, and 1 had already 
 engaged in several speculations which had all turned out unfor- 
 tunately, whether from the fault of those with whom 1 had been 
 associated or my own want of precaution I cannot tell ; but still 
 it was an incontestible fact that I continually lost my money. 
 The world, too, said I was no fool — nay, there were some who 
 thought my talents above the common run, because I could 
 rhyme two or three couple of verses and sing them tolerably 
 when they were composed ; but, then, a reputation for talent is 
 so easily gained, and people in fashionable society deem it 
 necessary to flatter their neighbours' vanity by all sorts of 
 agreeable compliments, devoid of every particle of truth. 
 
 I ought to have told you that my name is Paul Deligny, 
 only son of a country gentleman residing at his mansion in the- 
 environs of the celebrated town of Chartres. My mother died" 
 whilst I was young, and my father lived peaceably upon four 
 hundred pounds a year, enjoying his sporting dogs, his fishing, 
 his cronies, and his bottle ; and having given me a good educa- 
 tion at one of the Parisian Colleges, he made over to me at 
 twenty-one years of age the fortune my mother had brought him, 
 and left me the sole master of my own actions, believing me- 
 incapable of committing those deeds of folly which come so 
 naturally to the young. Left to myself I came to Paris with 
 my fortune — amounting to ten thousand pounds — one-third of 
 which was speedily consumed amongst women, wine, and friends ; 
 in order to regain this loss, I was persuaded to engage in 
 ridiculous speculations, which reduced my capital to one-third of 
 what it originally was, and upon it I was now living, without 
 any great care about the future. All my follies, fortunately, 
 were unknown to my excellent father. I went to see him every 
 year, and as he never came to the capital, he fondly thought 
 that I was a thrifty, well-conducted, young man, who had con- 
 trived to increase his store by perseverance and economy. He- 
 was happy in this idea, and I ne\er took the trouble to mar his» 
 
20 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lovei. 
 
 peace of mind by undeceiving him. There still remained to me 
 an income of about one hundred and fifty pounds a year, upon 
 which I could always live comfortably enough if I did not 
 launch out into extravagant expenses, and 1 always calculated 
 upon a wealthy marriage repairing my shattered fortunes and 
 again placing me firmly on my legs. 
 
 The morning after going to the theatre I did not get up until 
 nearly ten o'clock ; very bad hours, you will say ; but I contend 
 that a man who lives upon his means has no need to rise early, 
 besides, it is so pleasant to he in bed and think over what took 
 place the previous night. I laughed when I thought of Dubois' 
 bombastic, bragging character, of the absurd scrapes into which 
 he got, and of his leaving me with the work-girl ; and the last 
 idea brought me, naturally enough, to think of little Kinie. 
 She was certainly very pretty, there was a charming na'ivett in 
 her conversation, and she seemed a pearl of price compared to 
 Charlotte ; but why should I think of her? I was not in love 
 with her, and, therefore, would not dream of taking her as my 
 mistress ; for I never could keep a woman philosophically, that 
 is, shake hands when you meet, pass the time comfortably when 
 together, and leave without troubling your head what she may 
 do when you are gone. Then the remembrance of the lady in 
 the Leghorn bonnet came across me. Could I but make 
 acquaintance with her, how happy I should be ! What a lovely 
 face, how elegant a figure, what style in every gesture, what 
 admirable manners, what expression in the eyes ; she turned 
 once only so suddenly upon me ! I could have wagered ary odds 
 -that her conversation would be delightful ; that, too, is a great 
 thing in a woman, for however madly fond you may be, the 
 words, "I love, I adore you," even in the prettiest mouth 
 imaginable, become monotonous and require some less melli- 
 fluous variation. 
 
 My breakfast things had scarcely been removed when the 
 door-bell was rung, and my good friend Jennevilie was admitted, 
 lie was about twenty-seven years of age, well built and tall. 
 ilis features were very pleasant ; good eyes, good teeth, and a 
 profusion of fair hair which fell in natural curls down the back 
 of his neck ; but there was an expression in his face vhich did 
 not convey the idea of nobleness of mind, and an air of non- 
 chalance and self-importance, with the carelessness of his 
 manners and the way in which his really fashionable clothes 
 were put on, proclaimed him a man who believed himself nice 
 to please the men and subdue the women without the least 
 effort on his part. With these defects, he had some talents 
 and great tact in society. 
 
 " Good morning, my dear Deligny," said Jennevilie, shaking 
 me warmly by the hand. " We missed you greatly yesterday 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 21 
 
 at our banquet at * The Meridian ' ; some rendezvous, some 
 intrigue, I guess, kept you away, for I know, my boy, that, like 
 myself, you are for ever changing in your amours." " Not quite- 
 so bad as you, Jenneville, I think, although sometimes I canno" 
 control my passions. What a pity it is that we fall so readily 
 in love; every time I do I burn with an ardour that I. 
 swear will endure for ever ; but somehow or other it soon- 
 goes off." "Well, well, Paul, we are young yet, and must 
 amuse ourselves ; we two possess every qualification for 
 making our way witli the women, and we shall be fools if 
 we do not make good use of them." "Time passes quickly, 
 Jenneville." "The better reason that we profit by it while it 
 lasts. Act what follies you like with the lovely creatures, 
 Paul, but for God's sake do not commit matrimony until you 
 shall have become more calm and steady, and have attained the 
 respectable age of forty-eight at least." " But if I wait so long 
 as that, how can I flatter myself that I shall be able to touch a 
 woman's heart ? It appears to me there must be similarity of 
 tastes and compatibility of ages to make the married life as 
 happy as it ought to be." "Don't deceive yourself in that 
 manner ; once I thought as you do now, but I soon discovered 
 my fatal error. Listen ! When I was twenty-four years old I 
 married a woman of twenty whom I loved to distraction and 
 who adored me — at least, she said so ; our ages were well 
 matched, you will admit. I really cannot tell how it was I 
 came to love her, for there was nothing particular in her face 
 or figure, nor had she any peculiar talent, although I thought 
 so at first ; but we had been married scarcely one year when 
 her face appeared to me one of the plainest I had ever seen, and 
 I found that she was sulky, petulant, and jealous ; passionately 
 fond of pleasure, coquettish, and disposed to worry me in every 
 way. She insisted on my accompanying her to balls, concerts, 
 and plays, and never would lose sight of me for a single 
 moment. You can conceive how dreadfully annoying that must 
 be ; and if I refused do go anywhere she chose, there was sure 
 to be crying, fainting, nervous attacks and other scenes, that it 
 soon became impossible to bear. To add to all these conjugal 
 delights, I discovered there was a young male relative of my 
 wife who took advantage of my absence to be always with her, 
 and although there was no absolute proof that she was faithless 
 to rae, yet there was every appearance of such being the case. 
 Under these circumstances it was obvious that we could not live 
 together ; so, like more distinguished people, we separated 
 without any noisy fuss or quarrel ; she took her fortune, I took 
 mine ; she withdrew — where, I never took the trouble to ascer- 
 tain, as I never mean to see her again willingly ; and since I 
 have become a bachelor renewed I have been as happy as a. 
 
4J2 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 king, and have lived in one continual round of pleasure." 
 " When married people cannot agree together, Jenneville, it 
 is far better for them to part, and I think you have acted 
 rightly in doing so, especially if your wife is such a woman 
 
 ..as you have described her to me." "Worse, much worse; 
 1 assure you I have painted her in the most favourable colours ; 
 but do not let us talk any longer about her, and tell me what 
 prevented you from dining with us yesterday? " " Why, 1 was 
 obliged to execute some commissions for my father, and they 
 detained me so long that it was then too late to join you." " Very 
 filial, Paul, and all quite right and proper. You are a happy man 
 to have a father, mine died tliree mouths after my marriage ; 
 indeed it was he who proposed the lady to me, thinking he 
 
 should increase my happiness for life. Poor man ; it was lucky 
 he did not live to see the results of Ids notable speculation. 
 Does your father reside in the coimtry ? " " Yes, in the environs 
 of Chartres. I mean to go and see him when the fine weather 
 comes." " I will accompany you, Paul, that is if you will permit 
 me ; a few days in the country renovate a man's health ; besides, 
 
 .1 shall be delighted to become acquainted with your father." 
 ' ' You shall go with me by all means ; you will find the old 
 
 gentleman a frank, open-hearted, simple, hospitable country- 
 man." "He must be proud of his son, that young paragon, 
 quoted for the elegance of his manner, his talent, and his style." 
 ' ' My dear Jenneville, he troubles his head very little about 
 fashionable manners : and between us both 1 don't think he 
 would feel particularly proud of that son if he knew that his 
 dissipated habits had reduced his income two-thirds in the 
 
 ■*space of seven years." 
 
 At this period of our discourse we were interrupted by the 
 arrival nf another of my friends, named Jolivet. He had been 
 one of my schoolfellows, and we were in the habit of seeing each 
 other continually, although our tastes were not at all in common. 
 
 .Jolivet passed for a shrewd, steady man, the reason being that 
 he never partook of pleasures except at the expense of other 
 men. He pushed economy so far that he became mean : if a 
 party were made in which each was to pay his own share he 
 always let some one defray his lot ; if he accompanied you to 
 the theatre he asked you to take a ticket for him and never 
 offered to repay you the amount. These acts of petty meanness 
 were the result of a plan of action he had laid down for himself, 
 for winch there was no reason, for he was well off as to income, 
 
 ; and must become rich by inheriting his father's wealth. It was 
 in these trifling shabbinesses Jolivet' s real character displayed 
 itself ; and so it is generally in this world. In personal appear- 
 ance Jolivet was neither good-looking nor plain, tall nor short, 
 
 vthe only remarkable thing about him being a passion for 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 23? 
 
 eating and drinking of the best and a decided tendency to 
 gluttony. 
 
 "Good morning, good fellows," he said, rubbing his hands 
 together, and advancing to the lire ; "it is uncommonly cold 
 this morning ; a little bit more wood, Paul, will not be amiss,, 
 so I'll put another log on. Ilave you breakfasted, Deligny? '■ 
 " Yes ; why? " " Oh, nothing." " Did you come to breakfast 
 with me, Jolivet ? " " No ; but if you had not finished, I thought I 
 might pick a bit." " My servant shall bring you something." 
 ' ' Thank you ; and now I think of it, I am rather in a hurry. I 
 have fifty calls on business to make, and shall not have time to 
 return to my own apartments. Anything will do — an omelette - 
 or so, nothing more, I beg of you ! " I rang for my servant, 
 who placed on the table the full half of a raised pie, the wing 
 of a cold fowl, some bread, butter, cheese, and a pot of jam. 
 Jolivet sat down at the table, explaining there was ten times 
 more than he wanted ; indeed he was scarcely hungry that 
 morning, in consequence of the excellent dinner he had the 
 evening before at "The Meridian." Notwithstanding this 
 declaration, the fowl disappeared instantly, and the pate Was 
 sent after it in a few minutes ; Jolivet then helped himself to 
 wine, and, pausing from his masticatory labour, asked why I had 
 not joined the dinner-party? I told him the reason ; and as he 
 turned to attack the cheese, Jemieville said he had intended to 
 accompany Dubois to the theatre, but had declined in conse- 
 quence of having received a note. "A billet-doux, no doubt," 
 said Jolivet. "Yes, and from a lovely creature; she well 
 deserves such a trifling sacrifice as remaining away from a 
 trumpery melodrama. Besides, I have not obtained any favours 
 from her yet, and must not neglect any means of seeing 
 her." "What sort of woman is she?" asked Jolivet, with 
 his mouth full. "A divinity; beautiful Grecian face, tall, 
 elegant figure, full round bosom, grace in every gesture, and wit 
 at her fingers' ends." " Ah, ha ! quite a ready-money creature, 
 as we merchants say. By-the-bye, Paul, I think I'll just taste 
 that jam." The picture Jenneville drew of his new love caused 
 me to sigh as I thought of the Leghorn bonnet. Jenneville 
 heard it and inquired if I were in love too. "No," I replied, 
 ' ' not quite yet, but verging fast towards it. At the Gaitd last 
 evening I was seated near a very interesting woman, and of 
 course was desirous of making her acquaintance." "Some 
 bore of a husband in the way, I reckon?" "No, she was 
 alone." "Alone, and you did not speak to her! Was that 
 done like Paul Deligny?" "I did accost her, but she would 
 only answer me in monosyllables ; she would not converse in 
 the least." "Pooh! Nothing but a trick to excite your 
 curiosity ; a woman who goes alone to the play always wishes- 
 
:24r The Wife, tiie Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 for a man to see her home." "As we went out I thought I 
 should make sure of her at the door, and ascertain whether any- 
 one was waiting for her, when that infernal Dubois came up and 
 laid hold of me, and I lost her in the crowd." "Poor, dear 
 >fellow ! However, console yourself, Paul, we will find you 
 twenty more as good. I'll bet a wager she was not half such a 
 lovely creature as my new inamorata. " " Don't take me to see 
 her, Jenneville, for fear I should fall in love with her." 
 " llather too clever for that, Paul. But you would never guess 
 who she is ; a colonel's widow, lives in a splendid mansion, and 
 mixes in the first society in Paris." "Rich, I hope?" said 
 -Jolivet, still eating without a moment's cessation. " Yes, 
 tolerably so at present, but will be very rich soon. She has had 
 some losses, and has come up from her chateau in Normandy 
 about a suit in Chancery respecting a large property, which 
 must be decided in her favour." " Always have a rich mistress 
 if you can" (this was uttered by Jolivet), "because you can 
 
 - dine frequently with her. That was a capital pate, Paul. " " She 
 gives soiries and receives the highest people — contractors, 
 heads of public offices, and all that sort of thing. She has only 
 
 - to speak a word and she can get anything she likes to ask for. 
 "She has told me she could obtain for me any place under 
 Government I may like, but I cannot make up my mind to take 
 one ; they bore a fellow so dreadfully with their keeping certain 
 hours." "I tell you what it is," said Jolivet; "I am a 
 merchant, a trader, and deal in all sorts of things, but a good 
 place, well-paid, would suit me a great deal better ; just see if 
 you can get one for me." 
 
 Jenneville did not reply to Jolivet, for at that moment his 
 attention was attracted by someone singing in the ante-chamber, 
 and Dubois entered in his usual abrupt, noisy manner. His first 
 address was, "Oh, ha! how are you all ? What a delightful 
 
 . gathering ; only wanted me to be perfect. How are you, Jenne- 
 ville ?" "Jolivet, I knew I should find you eating wherever 
 1 might drop upon you," cried Paul. " How goes it with the 
 little lady, eh? Tell me all about her, do." "What! a little 
 lady ! " said Jenneville and Jolivet both together ; " and not tell 
 us anything about her ; very bad of you, Deligny, very bad 
 
 - indeed ! " " My friend, I have not told you anything about what 
 Dubois chooses to call my little lady, because in truth I have 
 nothing to say. The fact was that we met two grisettes at the 
 theatre whom Dubois insisted upon seeing home. To oblige him 
 I offered my arm to one of them, but went no further with her 
 th&n to her own door, where I left her." "Don't believe one 
 word of it," Dubois shouted. As for me, like Caesar, I came, 
 
 .2 taw, I conquered! It Avas Caesar or Pompey, I don't know 
 
 -which, neither does it matter. Another jewel in my diadem ! " 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 2d-' 
 
 * ; A very singular jewel that squinting Charlotte." "My 
 dear fellow, she has hidden beauties that you wot not of 
 concealed from eyes profane." "And the little girl you 
 escorted, Paul ; was she very pretty?" "Tolerably; but I 
 am not the least in love with her." "Quite right, old. 
 fellow, these grisettes cost no end of money." " I say, Jolivet, 
 I am told whenever you take a woman out to dinner you 
 always make her pay half the bill." "Monsieur Dubois!" 
 "Oh, don't be angry ; pretty well for her if she docs 
 not pay it all. You're a deep dog everybody knows." 
 " Well, boys, joking apart, pleasm'es must give way to business, 
 you know," said Dubois ; " I shall just try and stick a hogshead 
 of sugar and a cask of coffee into a pudding-headed grocer in 
 the Rue de la Verrerie, and then kick a joker who sold me a 
 parcel of vanilla and put oil in it to make it weigh heavy, but 
 at five o'clock I shall be free. What say you, shall we dine 
 together?" "Agreed," said Jenneville, " I have nothing to 
 do until eight. Jolivet, will you be with us?" "Hum! I 
 really do not think I can ; when you get together you spend", 
 money so furiously ; quite unreasonably, upon my honour. ' ' 
 "We'll be steady to-day, I assure you; seven shillings ahead 
 at the very highest." " Quite enough, in all conscience ; but I 
 really think I shall not be hungry by that time." " However, 
 we will say at half-past five at Champeaux's, in the Arcade, near 
 the Panorama." " I will be there ; the cheese rather sticks in 
 my throat, Deligny ; can you find me a glass of liquor?" 
 "Here, take some maraschino." "A glass for me, Paul, too ;.. 
 it makes a man all the sweeter for business in the morning and 
 mutton cutlets in the evening. Adieu ! my friends, until half- 
 past five, then a fig for sugar-candy, and welcome mirth and 
 fun." 
 
 Dubois bustled off; Jolivet and Jenneville left soon after- 
 wards, and when I had written to my father informing him I 
 had procured liim all the things he required, I took up my hat 
 and went out for a walk, 
 
3& The Wife i the Husband^ and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN EVENING WITH THE GBISBTTES. — THE PANCAKES. 
 
 All were punctual at the rendezvous in the arcade except 
 3 olivet, who always kept people waiting. We walked up and 
 down for a few minutes before we entered the tavern, during 
 which time Jenneville kept on vaunting the beauties of his 
 j*ew conquest, and Dubois stared at the girls in the shops, 
 making all sorts of impertinent remarks upon their figures and 
 their faces. Jolivet arrived at last, and having saluted us 
 .generally, took Jenneville' s arm with every mark of vivid 
 friendship ; indeed, it was to be remarked that at dinners 
 where men were expected to pay their own share of the 
 reckoning, the gourmand had always a decided preference for 
 gentlemen who had heavy purses and cabriolets. As we entered 
 the house, a very fashionably-dressed young man drove up, 
 and, having alighted, touched his hat to all around, recognising 
 Jenneville in particular. The latter introduced him as Monsieur 
 Blagnard, and proposed that he should join us at dinner. To 
 this there could not be any objection, and as we proceeded to 
 a private room, Jolivet asked me who Monsieur Blagnard was, 
 jind, on being told that he had made a fortune rapidly by 
 speculation and gave excellent dinners, my friend contrived 
 to sit by his side and not to leave him while we remained at 
 
 Blagnard opened the campaign by ordering Ostend oysters, 
 Sauterne and Burgundy. At that pace the seven shillings a 
 liead to which we had limited ourselves would be left in the 
 rear, but that was no consideration to Jenneville and myself ; 
 on the contrary, we thought we were bound in honour not to be 
 behind the rich man, and ordered whatever expensive dish or 
 wines came into our heads, and Dubois ate, drank, and talked 
 without troubling himself in the least about the score. Not so 
 Jolivet; he fidgetted and pouted, was undecided whether to 
 drink the first-class wines or not, until at last Blagnard called 
 lor pheasants, stuffed with truffles, when he could not contain 
 Mmself any longer, and asked for the bill of fare to look at the 
 prices of the dishes. 
 
 "Oh fie!" Blagnard exclaimed, pinching up his lips and 
 pretending to be shocked at such incomprehensible vulgarity. 
 *' What on earth does the price signify ? We shall pay the bill, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 27 
 
 mnd that is all that is wanted." Now, Jolivet did not under- 
 stand that cavalier mode of going on at all : to be sure he was 
 ,glad enough to gratify his gastronomic cravings at the expense 
 <of other men, but when he had to pay he did not order those 
 -delicacies which pleased his palate, but the least inexpensive 
 dishes marked upon the card. On the present occasion he 
 ventured to suggest that instead of roasted pheasants a small 
 bit of salt beef stewed with cabbage might be agreeable ; but 
 iihis proposition was received with a general shout of disappro- 
 bation. Dinner was over at length, and the great question of 
 dessert was agitating. Jolivet thought an omelette sovfflit 
 would be appropriate; Blagnard scouted the idea as perfectly 
 antediluvian — no one but grisettes and shop-boys ate them 
 now ; we must have jellies, ices, fruit, blancmange, and above 
 all the very best champagne. In the humour in which we were, 
 warmed by the highly-seasoned dishes and excited by the wine 
 we had drunk at dinner, nothing could suit us better than 
 Blagnard' s proposition, which was received with every demon- 
 stration of delight. Jolivet held his tongue, consoling himself 
 with eating and drinking as much as he could. 
 
 When calm was restored we gave ourselves up to the delights 
 of the repast, the wine circulated briskly, Jenneville talked 
 incessantly of the beauty of his Herminie, Blagnard paid every 
 attention to me and assured me that he was most- desirous of 
 cultivating my intimate friendship, Dubois drank and hummed 
 tunes to himself, and Jolivet kept rattling the money in his 
 pocket, foreseeing the advent of an enormous bill. The — to 
 him — awful moments came ; the waiter presented the account. 
 Blagnard took it from him, paid it, and rose to leave the room ; I 
 objected to Ms defraying the whole sum, insisted upon paying 
 my share, and, having succeeded in getting the bill from him, 
 found it amounted to five pounds four shillings. This was not 
 so bad for five people. I paid my quota, and Jenneville and 
 Dubois did the same ; but as to Jolivet, he fumbled in his 
 pockets, pulled out a quantity of pence in copper, slowly one 
 after the other, so that we all left the room before he could 
 make up the sum that was owing to Blagnard. 
 
 We walked towards the Palais Royal to take coffee and 
 liqueurs, but just as we were about to enter a place of fashion- 
 able resort, Jolivet looked at his watch and feigned to have an 
 appointment. He then marched off, the truth being that he 
 feared that on paying for the coffee the score against him for the 
 dinner might be remembered. It happened that the coffee- 
 room was full of elderly gentlemen who were in the habit of 
 -coming there every evening to talk politics and comment upon 
 the information in the papers ; but the subjects were always 
 4iscussed calmly and in the best temper ; no one became heated 
 
23 . The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 with argument, no one insulted his antagonist on account of his. 
 opinion, and the greatest propriety was observed. However, 
 our appearance put another face upon the scene ; we had drunk 
 hard, so we talked loudly and made considerably more noise than 
 we were aware of, to the great annoyance of the peaceable 
 frequenters of the house. Jenneville left us early to pay his 
 court to the lady, and Blagnard also fortunately had an engage- 
 ment, or there was every probability of another quarrel, for 
 Dubois had inadvertently twice knocked an elderly gentle- 
 man's hat off, and I could see that a third offence 
 would be productive of unpleasant consequences. Under the 
 pretexts of the coffee-room being warm, I induced Dubois to 
 accompany me out into the piazza of the Palais Royal, and as 
 we lounged with slightly uncertain steps around it, ripe for any 
 fun, we debated how we should pass the remainder of the 
 evening. It would never do to shut ourselves up in a box at the 
 theatre, where we could neither talk, laugh, nor sing ; the same 
 objections applied to going to any friend's house where they 
 played whist, dominoes, and icartS ; so we remained, as it were, 
 aground for some time, until Dubois, bursting into a laugh; 
 exclaimed, " I have it ; how the deuce could I forget it? Poor 
 little dears ! we will pass the rest of the evening, or the night, 
 if that's all, with them. They will be so happy : we can chatter 
 and dance, and do every thing we like, if we like. Finis coronal. 
 How the devil is it that if I want to quote one author, I am sure 
 to stick fast in the middle ! " " Leave off your Latin, Dubois, 
 and speak French. "What is so very delightful you propose? " 
 " What is it? Why the dear, charming, amiable Charlotte, 
 whom we met last night, has invited me to eat some pancakes 
 with her!" "Pancakes!" "Yes, to be sure; is not this- 
 Carnival time, when they are the very thing? When I left 
 Charlotte this morning she said, ' My dear friend, three of my 
 acquaintances are coming here this evening to a little party, and 
 I shall be delighted if you will meet them. You can bring some 
 macaroons and chestnuts, and we shall be as happy as birds ! ' " 
 " Fried pancakes and toasted chestnuts," I said ; " very light, 
 digestible eating, indeed!" "However, Paul, I accepted the 
 polite invitation, and as it is past eight, let us go and see the 
 girls. Forward, my boy ; hurrah, for the grisettes ! " 
 
 At any other time it is most probable I should have thought 
 twice before I decided upon accompanying Dubois ; but the good 
 wine had done its office, my blood was heated, and an evening 
 with grisettes seemed to me a very agreeable novelty. However, 
 I requested Dubois to call me by my Christian name, as I did 
 not wish to be very intimately known in the select company wa 
 were about to enter. We walked along merrily through the 
 Rue St. Honore* towards the Market, and soon reached the Rue 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 29 
 
 aux Fers. Dubois stopped before an alley, and on pressing 
 a spring, the secret of which he knew, the door opened, and we 
 advanced into a passage so dark that we could not see our 
 hands before us. Not choosing to run the risk of breaking 
 my neck by falling over anything that might be in the way in 
 this obscurity, I requested my companion to procure a light 
 from his Dulcinea, who occupied a room in close proximity to 
 the roof of the house, and said I would remain where I was. 
 He did so; and I had not to wait any unconscionable time 
 before he reappeared with a lighted piece of tallow candle 
 stuck in the cleft end of a stick, such as are used in the wine 
 eellars in the dock, which he said he had borrowed from a 
 neighbour and was an indispensable piece of fnrniture when 
 visiting grisettes. As we ascended the dirty, creaking stairs, 
 which appeared interminable, we heard uncontrolled merriment 
 proceeding from several young women, and which would have 
 indicated the fringe-girls' apartments even if Dubois had not 
 been aware of the precise locality. 
 
 We knocked; Charlotte opened the door, uttered a cry of 
 pleasure at seeing Dubois, and expressed her thanks to him for 
 bringing me, as I should be a great acquisition to the party 
 and help to amuse the ladies. The room we entered was not 
 lessened in space by any superabundance of furniture, there 
 being in it nothing but a ricketty bedstead, without curtains, 
 an old worm-eaten chest of drawers, and six rush-bottomed 
 chairs — two with large holes in the centre — and beyond it was 
 the state drawing-room, in which the company, consisting of 
 three persons, were assembled. One, tall and thin, was 
 possessed of a nose and a couple of elbows so pointed that you 
 feared to approach her lest you should prick yourself with the 
 sharp, protruding bones ; she was called Amy. The- second, 
 named Manette, was equally tall, but much younger, with 
 enormous hands and arms, fit for a grenadier ; and the third, a 
 pretty, lively girl of eighteen years of age, Avas addressed as 
 Laura. I looked round the room for Ninie, and was dis- 
 appointed at not seeing her. What singular creatures we men 
 are ! In the morning I had decided never to see her again ; 
 and now I felt vexed that she was not present. The evening's 
 «ong and the morning's song are two very different things — 
 especially after a good dinner and champagne. 
 
 The first question put by Charlotte, after a ceremonious 
 introduction to the nymphs, related to the chestnuts and 
 macaroons. Dubois was inconsolable at the idea of his having 
 forgotten them, but proposed to atone for his error in furnishing 
 something to wash the pancakes down ; whereupon it transpired 
 that the hostess had intended to provide cyder, but Dubois 
 laraghed that soothing liquid to scorn, and swore he would b© 
 
30 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 content with nothing less than the very best white wine the- 
 neighbourhood could supply. There was no possibility or 
 contravening a proposition of that delightful nature ; so it was 
 agreed to with peals* of laughter, and big Manette was dis- 
 patched with a crockery basin and empty bottles to fetch the 
 wine and some eggs and flour to make the batter for the pan- 
 cakes. 
 
 Manette, who had but a short distance to go, soon returned 
 with the eggs, fiour, and wine, and Dubois, tying the rest of 
 the nightgown round him for an apron, threw off his coat, 
 tucked up his shirt-sleeves and invited all the company tc- 
 witness his dexterity in making batter. Everybody was anxious- 
 to assist ; one ran one way for a basin, and another for a spoon, 
 but unfortunately there was no bowl in the suite of apartments , 
 sufficiently capacious to hold the batter, and the insignificant 
 article of a table to hold the ingredients had been completely 
 overlooked. The latter want was soon removed. Dubois drew 
 the chest of drawers from the outer room for an extempore- 
 table — though of the highest dimensions — Manette and Charlotte 
 vent downstairs to borrow some plates and glasses from the 
 neighbours, Laura lighted the wood on the hearth, Amy wiped 
 out the frying-pan, and Mnie cleaned some wretched, two- 
 pronged iron forks, while I looked out for a dredging castor or 
 a hammer to break some lumps of sugar to put over the pan- 
 cakes. In so doing I rummaged in all the nooks and closets in 
 the room, and found nothing but a water-can, a pair of slippers, 
 some gaudy ribbons, a pretty lace habit-skirt, and a bottle of 
 blacking ; at last I perceived a flat-iron, which I seized forth- 
 with and commenced hammering away upon the sugar. 
 
 Charlotte speedily returned with a large wash-hand basin for 
 the batter and a punch-ladle with which to pour it into the 
 frying-pan ; Manette brought a mustard-pot for the broken 
 sugar, two tumblers and a wine-glass, forming altogether a 
 tolerably handsome turn-out, especially when it is considered 
 that on these festive occasions it is usual for several parties 
 to drink out of the same glass. The patriarchs shared their 
 couches with their friends : grisettes do the same generally 
 —and their glasses too. At length the materials and neces- 
 sary culinary utensils were all prepared, and loud were the 
 bursts of laughter as, one by one, they were placed upon the 
 -drawers. Thus poverty has even its pleasant phases ; had every- 
 thing been in punctilious order the feast would have been as dull 
 as a great mans ceremonious dinner; but here the impromptu 
 table and everything upon it formed the subjects of never-ending 
 jokes. Grisettes are practical philosophers : they dismiss the 
 past from their minds, enjoy the present, and take no heed for 
 the future. To increase his resemblance to a cook, Dubois had 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 31 
 
 tied his cambric pocket-handkerchief around his head, and beat 
 up the eggs and batter as if he had been a scullion all his life; 
 and whilst the important, but noisy, operation was progressing 
 I sat down by Ninie, who pouted and would not speak one word 
 to me, when I expected she would have uttered a hundred 
 reproaches for my not going to see her in the morning as I 
 promised. Of course, it was for me to begin : — 
 
 "Did you go out this morning, mademoiselle?" I said, 
 "No, monsieur." "I was really very anxious to see you, but 
 business prevented me." "Oh, sir; I could not expect you to 
 incommode yourself for me ; if I had been a fine lady, why 
 
 then- " " No, Ninie ; there is not any lady I prefer to you." 
 
 I think I meant it, for she looked extremely pretty just then^ 
 not so much dressed as she had been the night before, having on 
 only a cotton gown, a black silk apron and neat cap, more in the 
 style of her own class, with less pretension to gentility, more 
 natural and, therefore, more pleasing. I smiled upon her ten- 
 derly, took her plump, dimpled hand, somewhat worn on the 
 fingers by the action of the thread in sewing, played with and 
 petted it, and saw from her swelling bosom that I had made 
 my peace. A glow ran through me, and as I was about to 
 apeak again, my thoughts were distracted by shouts of 
 laughter, which announced some very ludicrous occurrence, the 
 fact being that as the drawers was eaten into almost a sieve 
 by worms, the top fell in under the weight of the basin, and 
 the batter ran through into the upper drawers. The greater 
 portion of the batter Avas collected with the punch-ladle and 
 returned into the basin, amidst loud lamentations as to the 
 loss of half-a-dozen pancakes, but they were abated in a great 
 degree when Dubois recollected that he had a sample of vanilla 
 in his pocket, which he produced and threw into the savoury mess. 
 
 The fire burned briskly, and all the girls were in clamorous 
 expectation. The honour of flying the first pancake having 
 been awarded by common consent to. Dubois, he took the pan 
 in his hand and placed some lard in it, whilst Ninie poured in 
 the batter ; Charlotte filled the glasses with wine, and Amy 
 searched for the salt, which she preferred to sugar for seasoning 
 her portion of the feast. The lard hissed, the batter sputtered ; 
 one side was done, and the critical moment had arrived for the 
 cook to show his skill in turning the pancake, Charlotte, 
 warned by experience, advised Dubois to take the pan from the 
 fire further into the room, but he, with all the cool assurance 
 of a first-rate cook, threw the pancake vigorously up, the effect 
 of which was that it was lost for a few seconds in the chimney, 
 and when it fell down into the pan it was covered with such 
 a mass of soot that' no one could possibly guess of what 
 ■materials it was composed. Another merry peal greetci this 
 
:32 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 misfortune. Dubois laid down the frying-pan, and went to the 
 table to cool himself with a glass of wine, and fat Manette 
 grasped the instrument, saying, "Now, ladies, you shall see 
 how dexterously I can manage them." The preliminary 
 exercises again took place, and at the decisive moment Manette 
 withdrew the pan from the fire, gave it a vigorous shake, and 
 ^propelled the half-done pancake full in the face of Amy. She 
 screamed with affright and pain, pulled it off, and threw it 
 indignantly on the floor, where it remained a sad memento of 
 poor Manette' s failure. Charlotte had no wish to try her hand at 
 the difficult culinary process, and the pan was yielded up to little 
 Laura, who handled it with great efficiency. The batter was 
 poured in and fried, and when the all-important minute arrived 
 the girl tossed the pancake into the air, caught it again with 
 great dexterity, and as everybody in this world likes to show 
 their skill, went on cooking until all the company were pro- 
 vided. Dubois complimented Laura so strongly that Charlotte 
 began to be vexed with him. She upbraided him in a whisper 
 for his volatility, seized the pan, and commenced frying with a 
 determination not to be undone; but, unfortunately for her 
 ambition, whenever she essayed a daring flight, she only caught 
 one-half of the batter, which made little Laura purse up her 
 lips and assume a disdainful air, for women will triumph over 
 their dearest friends when vanity and self-love are concerned. 
 As to Ninie, she could eat pancakes but not cook them. I was 
 in the same category, and so we contented ourselves with that 
 limited amount of knowledge. 
 
 The pancakes were handed round to the guests and mostly 
 
 consumed in a primitive style, assisted by the fingers in place 
 
 of forks ; the wine also circulated freely, Ninie and I drinking 
 
 out of the same glass, Dubois and Charlotte together, and the 
 
 three girls out of the only tumbler that remained. To enliven 
 
 the repast Dubois entertained the company with a comie song. 
 
 When he had finished, each young lady sang what suited her 
 
 iDest, and here again the palm was awarded to little Laura, for 
 
 Ninie had not any voice at all, Manette' s was a bass, Amy's 
 
 -terribly nasal, and Charlotte had no idea of either time or tune. 
 
 Notwithstanding this hilarity and the constant emptying and 
 
 refilling of glasses, the frying-pan was not neglected, until the 
 
 grisettes were fairly stuffed with pancakes, and the wine found 
 
 its way to their heads ; all talked at once, nobody had the 
 
 patience to wait till another had finished, and then all sung, 
 
 laughed, jumped about the room, and danced, so that no one's 
 
 voice was heard above the rest in the uproar of the revel. 
 
 Dubois proposed a quadrille ; but there was a difficulty to be 
 
 surmounted, seeing there was not a fiddle, and if there had 
 
 l>een, none of us could play it. What was to be done? One must 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 83> 
 
 sing or whistle ; each declined, when fat Manette solved the 
 problem by undertaking to form the orchestra, and forthwith 
 emitted some bass notes worthy of Formes or Lablache, accom- 
 panied by herself on the tongs and by Charlotte, who converted 
 the frying-pan into a tambourine and nourished it about in a 
 truly Oriental manner ; and as we were only two men, it was 
 agreed we should have two ladies each and dance no other 
 figure than " The Pastoral." 
 
 For ten minutes the dance went merrily on, and then Manette 
 plied the tongs so eagerly, Charlotte thumped the frying-pan so 
 energetically, and we all threw so much vivacity into our legs 
 that the floors creaked and trembled as if it would fall in. All 
 of a sudden someone knocked at the ceiling of the room below. 
 "It's no one but that stupid fellow, Monsieur Fouyoux," 
 Charlotte said, M He's always in our way when we have any fun ; 
 nobody ever thinks of minding him, we'll dance as heavily as- 
 we can, and teach him to rap another time." Now there was not 
 the slightest necessity for Charlotte's advice to make as much 
 noise as we could ; nevertheless it was taken with a right good- 
 will, and we were almost trampling the boards in when 
 another knocking was heard, not against the ceiling, but at 
 Charlotte's door. The lady guessed it was Fouyoux. At first she 
 refused to let him in, but consented at Dubois' request, and 
 opened the door, when in there marched a very small man, sixty 
 years of age, with a saffron-coloured skin, puckered into a 
 thousand wrinkles and his nose covered with grog-blossoms, 
 wearing a cotton nightcap drawn over his forehead down to his 
 eyes, and an old chintz dressing-gown descending to his ankles. 
 We could also see that he was without stockings ; his feet 
 slipped about in a large pair of slippers, and he held a candle- 
 stick in one hand, whilst he gathered the dressing-gown about- 
 his legs and the lower portion of his body with the other. 
 
 The old man stopped at the door still, and threw an angry 
 look around the room ; he was evidently astonished at seeing. 
 men of such appearance as Dubois and myself. He recovered 
 himself, however, quickly, and said, in a feeble voice, 
 * * Mademoiselle, I think ?" ' ( Come in Monsieur Fouyoux, I beg. ' r 
 
 *.' Mademoiselle, I come to represent " " Come in do sir, do 
 
 I really can't allow you to remain in the draught ; you'll catch 
 your death of cold." " Come in, do, there's a dear, good soul," 
 cried out all the ladies together ; and the feeble old man, 
 astonished at such a reception, walked timidly into the roon* 
 and accepted a chair which Dubois fetched for him from the' 
 inner chamber. The coffee merchant bowed with the greatest 
 civility, saying, "Sit down sir, pray." The old man inclined 
 "is head, then turning to Charlotte, said, " Mademoiselle, it ha* 
 
 *ick twelve by the clocks of Saint Eustache and Saint Malo^re.'' 
 
 G 
 
$4 The Wife, the Hushatid, and the Lover. 
 
 "Will you take anything Monsieur Fouyoux?" "Can you 
 make pancakes, old boy ? " cried Dubois, presenting the frying- 
 pan. "No, sir. You are aware, mademoiselle, that the 
 
 landlord " "Allow me to put down your candlestick, 
 
 Monsieur .Fouyoux P" "I thank you, no." ."Will you 
 approach the fire; I fear .you'll take cold ?" Fouyoux began 
 to see that the girls were making game of him ; he frowned, 
 and was about to retire in anger, when Dubois advanced to him 
 and said in a respectful tone, "Sir, we are afraid we have 
 disturbed your rest by our dancing." " You are quite right." 
 " We are aware of our error in making so much noise at this 
 late hour, and shall be gone in less than ten minutes ; but 
 before we do go, we beg your acceptance of a glass of wine to 
 prove that you are not angry any longer and accept our apology. 
 Do sit down whilst we dance positively the last quadrille, and 
 then we will all go home." 
 
 Overcome by the entreaties of the girls and the mock polit-e- 
 ness of Dubois, Fouyoux walked to the table, deposited his 
 candlestick upon it without once removing his hand from the 
 dressing-gown, bowed all round, and prepared to occupy the 
 chair Dubois had presented to him ; but the scamp had selected 
 a broken one, and as the old man chopped himself quietly into 
 it, the legs gave way, and he fell back upon the floor. Beside 
 himself with rage, he' seized his candlestick, and, wrapping his 
 dressing-gown around him, he rushed from the room, turningonly 
 once more to repeat his threats of complaining to the landlord 
 
 When the door was shut after their victim, the girls burst 
 Diit again. Laura said the old man looked like a gigantic 
 spider on the floor ; at which the others giggled, and Charlotte 
 said she did not care twopence about Iris going to the landlord, 
 as her term, would be ended in the following week. 
 
 That being the case, it was agreed that the more uproar the 
 revellers could make the better it would be. The suggestion 
 was acted on directly; first they danced "The Baker's Wife," 
 then a waltz, until the girls were almost mad with delight, 
 except Amy, who felt very giddy and began to cry. Laura did 
 nothing but scream at the very top of her voice, Manette was 
 lisposed to be quarrelsome, Charlotte threw herself into a chair 
 and yawned as if she would never leave off, and myself and 
 Ninie, who had drank less wine than the others, talked tenderly 
 in a corner, and kissed each other when we thought nobodj 7 was 
 watching us. At the same time I saw Dubois, who had* been 
 looking tenderly at and making signs to Laura for some time, 
 take advantage of Charlotte's drowsiness to steal with the romp 
 into the next room, shutting the door behind them. I continued 
 my amusement with Ninie, and Manette and Amy had got into 
 H quarrel, which effectually prevented them from" taking notice 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and tlie Lover. 3D 
 
 of what was going on ; when Charlotte, rousing herself and 
 rubbing her eyes, looked round the room, and not seeing Dubois, 
 asked where he was. Missing Laura, too, she became furious, 
 conceiving that he had accompanied the girl home, and inane* 
 -diately afterwards another thought came into her head, so, 
 seizing a candlestick, she dashed open the bedroom door and 
 discovered the errant chevalier and his new love. 
 
 All sleep was driven at once from her eyes : Laura came 
 out with her, and Dubois danced into the room with a 
 waltz-step. " Ah ! " Charlotte cried, panting with rage, " what 
 were you two doing together alone, I wonder ? Rather too 
 much," mademoiselle, and in my own apartment, too ! " " My 
 dear friend," Laura replied, "I really hope you don't think — 
 certainly I should not wish to take away a lover from any of my 
 friends." "We were only waltzing," exclaimed Dubois. 
 "Stuff! Who ever heard of waltzing in the dark! All very 
 proper, mademoiselle, no doubt ; I have heard you are propriety 
 and virtue itself ; but what were you doing without a candle? " 
 "I tell you we were waltzing." "Don't tell lies." "I was 
 only showing Laura a new step." " I dare say you were ; but 
 [ shall make her Monsieur Edward acquainted with all this.*' 
 It was Laura's turn to be affronted ; she assumed a dignified 
 .air, walked up to Charlotte, looked at her contemptuously in the 
 face, and said, "I have not dm 3 any wrong, ma'am: 1 don't 
 care one farthing about what you say to Edward ; and if I chose 
 I could tell that gentleman there fifty things about you you 
 wouldn't like to hear said." " You talk of me, you little saucy 
 minx ? ' ' Charlotte screamed. ' ' Yes ; and don' t insult me, ma' am, 
 I beg, or it's very likely I shall box your ears." 
 
 Whilst the two women stood in the middle of the room, 
 prompt for war, I observed that it was late, and we had better 
 all go home ; so Manette drew Laura away ; Amy, residing in 
 the house, went to her own room ; Dubois remained to make 
 his peace with Charlotte if he could, and I led Ninie down the 
 stairs. It was past one o'clock when we left the house; we 
 quitted Manette and Laura when we had gone only a few yards, 
 and then proceeded on our way to the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher. 
 I had remarked that mylittle blonde had not taken any part in the 
 quarrels which interrupted the harmony of the latter part of the 
 evening, and that throughout shehadbeen less noisy than the other 
 girls. These observations — and, perhaps, the kisses — disposed 
 me to think favourably of her. On the homeward route we 
 swore eternal friendship, so that on our reaching her door, we 
 ascended the stairs hand-in-hand. How a man's resolutions 
 become changed in the course of four-and-twenty hours. You 
 will observe I did not make that observation whilst I was with 
 _Ninie j no ! at that time I was thinking of very different things. 
 
-8£ The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 the opeea.. 
 
 A week passed away, and Ninie and I became more and more" 
 intimate ; I went to her lodgings every day, and always found 
 the industrious girl at work. She was gentle, frank, and open- 
 hearted ; without talent and totally devoid of education ; but 
 as I did not intend to take her into the great world, that did 
 not signify in the least ; besides, she was very pretty, and with 
 a bonnet and shawl on did very well to promenade with in the 
 grey of the evening, which is the only time when it is advisable 
 to be seen walking with a fair grisette. She said she loved me 
 very much, but I could not think her passion was so fervent a» 
 she asserted, for I thought she was not capable of any deep 
 emotions, and that she had an idea she loved when her eye alone- 
 was pleased; but she was affectionate and engaging in her 
 manners, and if she remained faithful that was enough for me. 
 Her furniture was humble but clean and neatly arranged ; at my 
 desire she had broken off her intimacy with the worldly-wise, 
 experienced, cunning Charlotte ; in fact, she did everything I 
 pleased, but talked to me rather too much of her first love,. 
 Adolphe. If I made a casual remark to her, she would say,. 
 "Adolphe told me that, too; Adolphe did just as you do; ot 
 Adolphe was not pleased with that," etc. So that one morning,, 
 being rather annoyed with these constant reminiscences, I 
 requested she would dispense with citing the gentleman, to 
 which she replied she would not quote him any more, she would 
 forget him entirely, and love nobody but me ; so I might mak& 
 myself quite easy on that head. 
 
 I confess that I felt very easy indeed upon that subject ; my 
 love for Ninie did not prevent my sleeping in the least, and as 
 the girl did not tax my time by urging me to take her to all the 
 places of public amusement, my usual habits were not inter- 
 fered with. If she said she should like to dine at a tavern or 
 go to the theatre, and I replied it was impossible because I had 
 other engagements, she acquiesced at once, said another day 
 would do, and did not press me any more. Of course I made 
 her presents of dresses, a shawl, bonnets, ribbons, handker- 
 chiefs and other indispensable articles of the toilette, which 
 delighted her although they were simple and inexpensive. A 
 quiet, three-guinea shawl gave her as much pleasure as a 
 superior Cashmere one would a lady of the highest society ; thua 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 37 
 
 1 was not half-ruined in jewellery, millinery, and other so-called 
 trifles, in which coquettish women never fail to indulge. 
 
 Soon after our liaison commenced a whole week passed with- 
 out my taking her out once. Mnie did not grumble or show the 
 least temper, but received me with her usual good humour, and 
 I determined to give her an extra treat for her excellent 
 behaviour. She had often told me she had never been at the 
 opera, and asked me to take her there, but I had always 
 declined, because the boxes are all open — except in the centre, 
 Avhere the price of admission is exceedingly dear — and where I 
 •should not have liked to have been seen escorting her by any of 
 my fashionable friends ; but now I resolved that she should 
 •enjoy the long-coveted delight, and I would take her to the 
 raised amphitheatre in front of the boxes and above the pit, 
 where the view of the stage is uninterrupted and she would 
 behold the scenery, properties and decorations from the best 
 point of view. I must own I felt two or three compunctious 
 visitings of my proud nature at taking her to the play so openly 
 In the face of the world ; but she would keep her bonnet on, I 
 was my own master, I owed her a reward, and nothing but the 
 opera would do. When I made my intention known to her she 
 jumped for joy ; I enjoined her to be particularly genteel in her 
 dress, not to put anything on in the least showy, and to be 
 ready at half -past six o'clock, at which hour I would come and 
 fetch her in a cabriolet. Punctual to the time I stepped out of 
 the vehicle in the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, and ascended the 
 staircase, which, fortunately, was somewhat less dark than that 
 which led to Mademoiselle Charlotte's establishment. I stopped 
 before the door and knocked but no one came, which rather 
 surprised me ; but on lifting up my eyes saw, from an announce- 
 ment written upon the door in chalk, that Ninie was to be found 
 in a neighbour's room on the floor immediately below. My 
 only course was to go and fetch her ; accordingly I descended 
 the stairs, and knocked at a door which was opened by an old 
 smoke-dried woman with a coloured cotton handkerchief tied 
 round her head. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for this intrusion, ma'am," I said ; " but 
 is Mademoiselle Boissard in your apartment ? " " Yes, sir, she 
 is ; but pray walk in, I cannot think of you remaining at the 
 door." The devil take the old woman and her politeness, I 
 thought to myself ; but I was obliged to enter, and found in the 
 Toom two other old washerwomen, or dealers in second-hand 
 clothes, seated gossiping around a stove. They rose as I 
 approached and handed me a chair, and as I was about sitting 
 down, Ninie came, half-dressed, out of an inner room and 
 informed me that as she could not lace her new dress behind ^ 
 *ha had come down to request the assistance of her ancient 
 
S3 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 neighbours. There was nothing to be done but to summon up 
 a large amount of resignation and yield to my fate whilst 
 Madame Ballu finished dressing Ninie, and on the old woman's- 
 disappearing with her in the inmost recesses of the apartments, 
 I took a chair in a pet, whilst the crones reseated themselves 
 and renewed their conversation. 
 
 At last Nin : e appeared full dressed, and said she was ready 
 to go with_ me. I scarcely gave her time to say so, but hurried 
 downstairs and bade her get into the cabriolet quickly, as it 
 was getting late, and we should not be able to obtain favourable 
 seats. However, before the vehicle had proceeded many yards, 
 and as I was on the point of inspecting her toilette to ascertain 
 whether she was dressed in the quiet, ladylike manner I wished 
 her to be, than I perceived an odour of such an unpleasant 
 nature that I was obliged to have recourse to my smelling- 
 bottle. Thinking it might proceed from the driver, I leaned 
 towards him, but it was not more perceptible than at first. I 
 then approached more closely to Ninie, bent my head slightly 
 down, and spoke. She replied. Ah ! there could be no doubt 
 now ; it was her. Faugh ! she smelt of rancid oil enough to 
 knock down the ephemeral insects in their flight. In an 
 ecstasy of rage, I said, "For Heaven's sake, Ninie, tell me 
 what have you been eating to-day?" "Sonie meat, with 
 kidney beans, and some salad ; nothing more." " Salad, and oil 
 in it, no doubt ?" " Yes, there was endive and other things, 
 with a small piece of bread, steeped in oil, what they call * a 
 capon,' you know, and I ate the 'capon' because I am very 
 fond of it." "I wish to God you had not ; you almost poison 
 me." "How, dear; poison you!" "Yes, you smell of oil 
 abominable." " Don't you like oil ? Adolphe didn't either." 
 "The idea of taking oil who a you were coming to the Opera ; 
 it is really too provoking ; I cannot conceive anything half so 
 stupid." "My dear friend, I am very sorry; if I had known 
 it would have displeased you, I would not have eaten the capon. 
 Pray, don't scold me any more." 
 
 Her lips were contracted and the tears stood in her eyes as 
 she dolefully uttered the last few words. It was impossible to 
 be angry with her, so I smiled, pressed her hand, and began 
 puzzling my brains to recollect something that would counteract. 
 the odour of the oil, which, if unneutralized, must prove very 
 offensive to the company near us at the opera. At last a bright 
 idea struck me, and I ordered the man to pull up at the first 
 confectioner's that he should see. A shop was soon found ; I 
 got out of the cabriolet, purchased sundry packets of lozenge* 
 flavoured with rose, orange-flowers, and mint, which I gave to 
 Ninie, telling her to keep one of them constantly in her mouth, 
 hoping thafcthe odour would overpower that of the abominable 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 8£ 
 
 oil ; ; and above all I desired her to speak to me as little as she 
 could. When we reached the opera the house wat almosffull 
 and we experienced some difficulty in findino- places from wm>h 
 we had a good view of the stage. Ninte stank bacl? ratter 
 
 EST. but T e ^ 0lding ' f SV he * rst time > S * -«S 
 
 beauty ; but I encouraged her to walk on quietly without fear 
 and succeeded in placing her on a seat in the second row of the 
 
 Sndh e efr e ;^ th ^ K « ° n the bench imm^ate^ 
 ™f£ ' recomm ? ndl ng her to remain quite still, not to talk 
 and to pay great attention to the lozenges. The poor t W 
 
 ZTrf^^ m > F* d ° WD ' Smlled ' and -oddedCsenT 
 ineie were still two places vacant before us, wliich I craved 
 
 SoTh^J W ° l , lld ?° fc be ° CCUpied ' as * that ease the oil mSht 
 not have made its presence known, but my hopes were doomed 
 to be destroyed for no sooner had we cnnifo^bly esteSed 
 
 Sd V rv than * Sawladies approaching, one of ihom wS~ 
 -could my eyes deceive me ! no, it must be : ves it was th* 
 lady whom I saw with the Leghorn bonnet at. the Gai /^ es 
 there was no possibility of mistaking her; there were the same 
 pensive, interesting features, the same elegantly-IS-ned Ifi™ 
 the same graceful manner, and the identical LeghZhat A 
 mTframe °\^f^^^onntaUe delight thfiiled t£ougt 
 
 We^W V I f ° U f? J- er affam ' * sha11 be near her all the 
 evening. I even might discover who she was : then came the 
 damning recollection that I was not alone. Oh NinT how 
 much your presence cost me that miserable evening! ' 
 ♦w« eS took t i le seats in front of us > and I could see 
 
 ^intU? P S nCe Th°e f ^ dto **«* the unmistakable" 
 S^f ZJ* * G ^ un S er sat do ™ without taking the 
 
 a ttvthi I IT f me ,' WlUCh Was not t0 be wondered at, as 
 a loitmght had elapsed since our meeting at the theatre and 
 then she had merely honoured me with a few plssin^lances 
 totahv escalrh^ 111 ^ the e ^ence of my h P umble * £3?£j 
 totally escaped her memory. Xinie kept hard at work at th» 
 lozenges, but at length turned her head and asked me whethe? 
 
 ^ P r ra W T ld S00n be ^ in ' X re P !ied negligently in the 
 affirmative, whereupon the Leghorn bonnet mile a slight 
 involuntary motion as if she recognised my voice- sL then 
 looked round quietly, and I could lee, from thTexpression of 
 
 ?o er ob£?n ft H he ^ ? C0 # niSL ' d me - She n-t nS so as 
 l? l t n „n flU1 ^ CW 5 f the , Person who had addressed me- 
 what could occasion that desire ?— and I thought on her 
 perceiving Xmie, that a slight smile of disdain and pity p* d 
 
 meT S tl is' iff U 1"H d P eeU b ^ Fate ** ffi :;i1 
 
 behol I X» I ? WQ lad ^ * should be so situated as only to 
 
 Texmi ihhn md h ^ rt ^° f her bonuet ' whieh was extremely 
 Texmg, although in the present instance, having x\inie with 
 
.Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 me, it was impossible that I could address her under any 
 pretext. 
 
 We had scarcely been seated five minutes when some ladies 
 and gentlemen in our vicinity began to complain of an 
 intolerable smell ; one said it almost choked him ; a lady that 
 it gave her the headache ; and a second gentleman, more accurate 
 than the rest, pronounced it to be the mingled odours of orange- 
 flowers, mint, and oil. Poor Ninie looked at me, putting more 
 lozenges in her mouth, and I felt I turned as red as a turkey- 
 cock in the face, but did not dare to speak. Luckily tL> 
 commencement of the opera took off the attention of our 
 neighbours, but I could only think of my position and deplore 
 it. Ninie was all eyes and ears ; for some time she did not 
 utter a word, but at last she could not control her gratification, 
 and expressed her delight, in a few short exclamations ia. the- 
 true grisette dialect, relative to the dresses, although she could 
 not understand why the performers always sang and never 
 spoke. I winked at Ninie to be quiet. Again the eyes of the 
 unknown lady met mine, and the same intelligent, sarcastic 
 smile was visible. Oh! that horrid opera; would it never 
 finish ? Thank Heaven, it was over at length. Before the 
 commencement of the ballet the spectators rose, as usual, 
 and the gentleman who had sat next to Ninie left the box, 
 declaring that he could not bear the offensive smell any 
 longer. All looked at me and smiled. The ladies took, 
 out their salts and held them to their noses, and the men took 
 snuff, whilst I could have sunk into the earth with shame. 
 The Leghorn hat stood up like the other ladies, put her glass to 
 her eyes, and directed it full upon Ninie, then on myself and 
 back again, as if she would assure herself minutely of our per- 
 sonal appearance. Ninie sat still under the scrutiny, but at 
 length feeling uneasy, she held out her ungloved hand to me, 
 exclaiming, " See, dear, how white it is ! I washed them well 
 with honey-soap this morning." I was thunderstruck, and sat- 
 down again, not knowing what to do, and had the satisfaction 
 of hearing a gentleman behind me say, "After that pretty? 
 speech, I can well understand the orange-flowers, mint, and 
 oil." I looked timidly around me, and saw nothing but con- 
 tempt in the expression of my neighbours' faces, with the- 
 exception of the lady in the Leghorn hat ; she looked grave and? 
 seemed almost to pity my wretched situation. I sat in an agony, 
 altogether indescribable, until the ballet was concluded, and 
 then saw the incognita depart, without the least desire of 
 following her. I conducted Ninie home, left her without 
 speaking a word, returned to my lodgings, and threw myself 
 upon the bed in a fit of absolute despair. Oh, that cursed' 
 opera ! Even now, after the lapse of many years, the memory 
 of that wretched night is painted vividly upon my brain ! 
 
The Wife, the Husba?id, and the Lover. 41. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 WISE EEFLECTIONS. — THE BUPTUBB. 
 
 On the following morning when my senses were somewhat 
 calmed, I began to reflect seriously on the occurrences of the 
 preceding evening ; the results of my reflections being the con- 
 viction that a well-born, well-educated, young man, with a 
 certain standing in society should never place himself in such a 
 -situation as to be ashamed of his companions. I admit that 
 when a man is in love — or entertains that casual preference 
 which passes for it — the object of his admiration excludes all 
 thoughts of conventional propriety from his head ; and certainly 
 had I loved Ninie, even in that moderate way, I should not 
 have felt ashamed of being seen at the opera with her. But 
 when a man cannot plead as his excuse that all-powerful senti- 
 ment which has made fools of the wisest of mankind, it is in- 
 excusable for him to attach himself to a person whose habitg 
 and manners make her unpresentable in refined society. 
 
 This incontestably logical deduction was not at all favourable 
 to my little fringe-girl, and the consequence was that I left off 
 visiting her so frequently as I had done. The lady in the 
 Leghorn bonnet was for ever in my mind ; I could not forget her 
 image for a moment — her beauty, her graces had impressed 
 themselves so indelibly upon my imagination that I thought 
 only of her, and therefore Ninie was left much alone. 
 
 One morning, as I sat in my apartment ruminating as to who 
 the lady could be, and cursing Dubois who had prevented me 
 -from following her the night I saw her at the Gait6, my reflec- 
 tions were interrupted by the entrance of Jenneville, Ms eyes 
 sparkling, and his whole air that of a man who had achieved a 
 triumphant conquest. On my making a remark to that effect he 
 assured me that he was a happy man, for he had at last van- 
 quished the scruples of his new love, the most beautiful, the 
 most intellectual woman he had ever met. The lady's name 
 was Madame de Remonde, the widow of a distinguished general 
 who died young, a woman not to be classed with those who 
 refuse a man's advances the more to inflame his ardour, 
 but who was above her sex, superior to all common weak- 
 nesses, and only yielded to the most persevering, ardent, 
 and undying love. He had had numerous rivals to en- 
 
♦2 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 counter, but happily he had overthrown them all : formerly 
 as I was aware, his attachments had been merely tran- 
 sient, he had formed amorous intrigues with several lovely 
 women, which had lasted only for a time, but now the case 
 was completely altered ; he was fixed for ever ; he never could 
 wander from his angel even in thought ; he could lie for ever 
 at her feet and gaze upon her charms. When he had finished 
 Ms rhapsody, he told me that Madame de RSmonde would give 
 a party on the following evening, and he proposed that after 
 we had dined together, he should introduce me to her. He 
 then left me, singing gaily, to go to a jeweller's for the purpose 
 of purchasing a valuable ring, into which a portion of his hair 
 was to be put; then to be given by him to this paragon of 
 beauty. 
 
 As he descended the stairs, I could not help sighing and 
 thinking, although I did not give full credence to all his 
 representations of the intellect and beauty of the lady, because 
 I had seen him in similar ecstasies a hundred times before — 
 how much more delightful it was to have an intrigue with a 
 sensible, agreeable woman, whose attachment did us honour, 
 than with a girl whom one could not take out for fear of her 
 offending against those rules which govern people of station in 
 their daily communications with each other, when my servant 
 brought in a letter for me, in a scarcely legible handwriting, 
 but which, on opening it, I found to be from Ninie, upbraiding 
 me for staying away from her, and requesting me to tell her 
 frankly whether my love for her had passed away. The billet 
 was neither in the styles of Heloise or Madame de Sevigne" ; 
 neither smart nor sentimental; if the writing was bad, the 
 orthography was worse, for Ninie spoke better than she wrote ; 
 but my conscience told me that I had acted cavalierly towards 
 the poor girl. I had not been to her for upwards of a week, 
 and it was certainly due to her to tell her openly that my 
 transient passion was at an end, and so leave her free to forai 
 a better engagement, which I thought she would readily do, 
 as she only liked, but did not love me. Still, the tone of the 
 letter rather surprised me ; there was a business air about it 
 foreign to Ninie's character, and, in my opinion, she had been- 
 urged to write it by her calculating, astute companion, 
 Charlotte. 
 
 After dressing myself, I sauntered to the Rue Anbry-le- 
 Boucher, and, hearing the voice of Charlotte speaking in a loud 
 voice within, 1 abstained from knocking for a few minutes, 
 being curious to ascertain whether that lady's conversation in 
 any way related to myself. Whilst I listened I heard her say, 
 " You are a little childish fool, Ninie, ami don't know how to- 
 manage men at all. Here now, your Paul, as you call him,. 
 
'£he Wife, the Husband, and tJie Lover. 45 
 
 never comes near you, and plays you all sorts of tricks, and 
 you sit down quietly in your room, crying like an ass all day 
 long, instead of revenging yourself upon him with another 
 fellow. Even the letter that I dictated to you to write 
 has failed to bring him, and he's after some other woman 
 no doubt. I would' t give twopence for all the firmness you 
 talked about." 
 
 Not hearing any remark from Ninie, I knocked and was 
 admitted. Charlotte simpered, smiled and fidgeted, doubtful 
 whether or not I had heard the advice she had given Ninie, 
 and the latter affected to be busied with the work, fearful of 
 having displeased me by seeing Charlotte after I had forbidden 
 her to do so. I took a chair and sat down, and Ninie hastened 
 to set herself right with me by saying, in a voice interrupted 
 by sobs, " Charlotte came to keep me company, Paul, because 
 now I am so very much alone." "Yes, monsieur, I was com- 
 forting her for your absence as well as I could. I know'that 
 you think ill of me and that I give her bad advice ; but I am 
 sure I never did, did I, Ninie?" Ninie would not answer and 
 I said to Charlotte, " Ninie, mademoiselle, has a right to receive 
 any friend she likes ; I really do not see why you should make any 
 excuses for coming here. " " Oh, sir, I know you forbade her to see 
 me, although I must say I can't see what harm. I can do her." 
 "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I have not forbidden her 
 seeing anybody she likes." "Oh, but you have though! She 
 said before Madame Mattoux she was so sorry she mustn't 
 
 see me. And Madame le Bceuf and the other lady " 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, mademoiselle, don't bore me with all 
 your gossip." "I don't gossip, sir, at all, Madame Mattoux 
 
 knows " "Madame Mattoux may go to the devil for what 
 
 I care ; and I tell you, mademoiselle, I did . not come here to 
 have any words with you." This silenced her for a few 
 minutes ; she looked at Ninie for assistance, but the poor little 
 thing was too frightened to speak, and then, recovering her 
 audacity, said again : 
 
 "Pray, sir, is it long since you saw your friend, Monsieur 
 Dubois?" " Not for the last week or so." " When you do, will 
 will you have the goodness to tell him from me that I think he 
 is no better than a scamp. No man ought to behave to a 
 woman as he has done to me; I can't think what he takes me 
 for, for my part ! To keep me pottering three evenings together 
 round the fountain in the Market of the Innocents, and never 
 to come near; rather too much of a joke that, 1 think! Not 
 that 1 care anything about him; he's none so handsome; I can 
 have better than him any day [ like. You may tell him, too, 
 that I shall feel much obliged by his sending back the hair- 
 brush he took away; it's only a trifle, but I don't see why<I 
 
44 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 should make him a present of it." "I will, mademoiselle, 
 when I see him." My coolness drove the woman mad; she 
 looked at me as if she could eat me, jumped up, called 
 to Ninie not to make herself a fool, and bounced out of the 
 xoom. 
 
 When she was gone, I drew my chair close to Ninie, who 
 *till preserved the appearance of feeling pained at my neglect, 
 and said to her, " My dear girl, I admit that I have not behaved 
 to you so well as you deserve." "Dear Paul, since you 
 .acknowledge it, pray do not say another word ; Charlotte made 
 me write to you, I should never have done so on my own 
 account." "I believe you, Ninie, implicitly ; but listen to me. 
 I have not come here to-day to swear to you that I love you, and 
 always will do so, for that would be deceiving you." " What ! 
 Do you not love me still ? and can you tell me so to my face in 
 that calm, unfeeling tone?" "There is no need, Ninie, of 
 useless words, when the truth must be spoken. It appears to 
 me much better that such should be the case at once that we 
 may not mistake each other for the future. The fact is, 1 
 esteem you, Ninie, for you are really a good girl, industrious, 
 domestic, and endowed with other excellent qualities." 
 4 'Then, why tell me that you do not love me?" 
 4i I cannot love you as you deserve : the sentiments I enter- 
 tain for you, Ninie, amount only to friendship, whereas 
 you deserve a man who will love you sincerely and make 
 you happy." "I was very happy when you were kind 
 to me, Paul, and came to take me out. I obeyed you in every- 
 thing, I am sure, never saw Charlotte nor talked at all of 
 Adolphe. What more could you desire from me? " " Ninie, I 
 know that I have been unmindful of all you have given up for 
 me." Then making a great effort, for I felt distressed at giving 
 her pain, I said, "At least, Ninie, let us be good friends, 
 although we are no longer lovers. Young and handsome, you 
 will soon find a hundred men who will behave more gratefully 
 to you than I have done, and you will soon forget m^" " Ah ! 
 (sobbing) , you think women are just as fickle as all you men ; 
 Charlotte was quite right when she said there isn't one of you 
 worth a bit of orange-peel ; if I had taken her advice I should 
 have left you first, and then you would not have insulted me in 
 this way." " Charlotte gives you very bad advice indeed ; if you 
 had listened to her you would haye deceived me, and then I 
 should have left you with contempt, but now I shall always 
 nave a kindly, estimable feeling towards you ; and as a proof of 
 it I beg your acceptance of this trifling present." 
 
 With these words I took from my pocket a small gold 
 watch attached to a black ribbon, and put it over Ninie' s head 
 upon her neck. She was pleased, but pouted, inquiring whether 
 
The Wife, the Husband : and the Lover-. 45 
 
 men gave such pretty presents to girls whom they did not love. 
 I made no direct reply, but resumed my seat, kissed her 
 philosophically, and endeavoured to convince her that a quiet, 
 amiable, platonic friendship was far preferable to the passionate 
 inpulses of love. I fear — from her weeping — that I did not 
 succeed. However, at the end of an hour, I took my last fare- 
 well, congratulating myself on having got rid of a tie which had 
 become burdensome to me without reproach, fainting, and 
 other disagreeable scenes, usually consequent upon a rupture 
 with one's uiiairess. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, ana the ijover. 
 
 CHAPTER VHL 
 
 AN EVENING WITH MADAME DE RKVOZTPH 
 
 I remained a thome all that day, thinking, a& usual, of the 
 little Leghorn bonnet, and making irrevocable vows never to- 
 be seduced into an entanglement with a grisette again. Lata 
 in the afternoon I prepared to dress for the evening party, 
 where I was to be introduced to Jenneville's goddess, Madame 
 de Remonde, whom I expected to find far below the portraits 
 of her my friend had painted for me, because in my pilgrimage 
 through life 1 had learnt, amongst other things, never to trust 
 a lover's description, never to accept general invitations, nop 
 take pot-luck with an old college friend As I was about to 
 leave my apartments in order to join Belleville, at the Rotunda 
 in the Palais Royal, Jolivet entered the room, and politeness 
 compelled me to delay my departure for a few minutes that I 
 might hear what he had to say, as I had not seen him since we 
 had all dined together at Champeaux's, in the Arcade. He 
 speedily reverted to our last merry meeting, and then said — 
 
 "A propos, have you seen Dubois lately ?" "Not for some 
 time ; 1 am quite astonished at it. Do you think he is ill ? " 
 "No, for I have called several times at his lodgings, and have 
 always been told that he was out. Have you heard, Deligny, 
 of his creditable affair at the Colosseum?" "Not a word of 
 it ; what was it ? " "I will tell you. About a fortnight ago I 
 met him by chance on the Boulevard, when he asked me to 
 accompany him to the Colosseum, but I declined for some time, 
 because I do not care about the balls at these sort of places, and 
 I am always afraid that he will get into some stupid scrape. 
 However, f suffered myself to be persuaded to go, and as soon 
 as we entered the room, he began his customary tricks — 
 laughing, speaking loud, talking nonsense to every woman he 
 saw, dancing quadrilles, then waitzes, and making more noise 
 than the violoncello and the big drum ; in fact, playing the 
 very devil. At the end of a country dance he proposed having 
 some punch, and, as he insisted upon paying for it, I consented 
 to join him with a glass ; so we sat down at a table, and had 
 scarcely time to sip a spoonful before the master of the ceren 
 monies' gave the signal for another set of quadrilles, whe- 
 Dubois jumped up, promising to rejoin meat the end of the set> 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 47 
 
 •^turned to a plump, jolly little woman sitting near us, and invited 
 her to dance with him. She replied she was engaged; he 
 then remarked that as the quadrille was about to commence, 
 and her cavalier did not come to claim her hand, she might as 
 well honour him ; it would be a thousand pities if she did not 
 dance, and if her male friend should be angry, he would soon 
 find out who he had to deal with, etc., etc. Well, the fat 
 fool allowed herself to be led out ; I sat still drinking my punch, 
 watching her and Dubois, and just as they had come to the 
 balancez, I saw a tall, military-looking man, with large 
 moustachios, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his 
 button-hole, station himself, frowning, before Dubois, and 
 heard him say, ' Sir, that lady is engaged to me; have the 
 goodness to release her hand; you cannot dance with her.' 
 1 But you see 1 can,' cried Dubois, spinning her round as 
 nimbly as her weight would allow him. ' Mademoiselle, I beg 
 you to observe that you will dance with me,' cried the soldier 
 in a passion ; but Dubois continued to drag her through the 
 * Queue de Chat,' saying at every moment, 'Amuse yourself, 
 lovely creature, nourish about as much as you like, never mind 
 what he says.' This nettled the soldier, who apparently was 
 not pleased that the dumpling should flourish with anybody 
 but himself, and he pursued the woman, trying to catch her 
 by the arm, until Dubois trod intentionally upon his toes, and 
 then he lifted up his fist and struck a blow intended for our 
 acquaintance, which he avoided by ducking his head, and it 
 fell heavily upon the lady's shoulder. This accident put an 
 immediate end to the quadrille; the woman screamed, Dubois 
 stormed, the soldier swore he would split him in two, a crowd 
 •collected, the police were called for, and when the inspector 
 came Dubois was nowhere to be seen. The trooper, missing 
 him, rushed through the bystanders, and returned at the end 
 of a quarter of an hour, swearing he would certainly rim Dubois 
 through the body wherever he should find him ; and the end of 
 all was that 1 was obliged to pay for the punch, and have not 
 seen the paltry fellow since." 
 
 This adventure of Dubois' did not surprise me in the least, 
 seeing that he had contrived on several occasions to involve me 
 in transactions of a similar disgraceful nature. We left my 
 rooms together, and proceeded towards the Palais Royal. On 
 the route there Jolivet beat about the bush to find out what 
 -Jenneville and myself were going to do. I told him we should 
 dine together ; he then offered to make one of the party if we 
 would not be too expensive, or I would free him for a crown ; 
 but on my mentioning that Blagnard would dine with us, the 
 bill at Champeaux's rose to his mental vision, and suddenly 
 tyecollectiTiir that an aunt whom he had not seen for a consider- 
 
48 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 able time resided in that neighbourhood, he quitted me to pay 
 a visit to the old lady. 
 
 Immediately after he had left, I saw Jenneville approaching: 
 with Monsieur Blagnard on his arm, rather to my annoyance, 
 as I did not feel very much disposed to become ultimately 
 acquainted with that gentleman. Jenneville lost not a moment 
 in informing me that when we made the arrangement for us 
 to dine together, he had forgotten that Monsieur Blagnard had 
 invited him to dinner that day, and on his mentioning his 
 mistake, Blagnard had said it would give him great pleasure 
 if I, too, would honour him with my company. The rich man 
 uttered a thousand polite things, so that it was impossible for 
 me to avoid accepting his invitation ; but, at the same time, 
 it struck me that, whether from vanity or whether from 
 calculation, this man was terribly enamoured of playing the 
 liberal, attentive host. We proceeded to Beauvillier's, where 
 dinner had been ordered in a private room, and were joined by 
 two exquisitely-dressed young gentlemen ; this made us five 
 only in number, although the viands and wines were amply 
 sufficient for sixteen. The elegance and profusion of the repast 
 could not have been exceeded at the most aristocratic table in 
 the land, and yet Blagnard affected to apologise for treating 
 us in such a homely manner. During dinner the conversation 
 turned alternately on business and pleasure, the rates of 
 exchange and the last new opera, the political aspects of 
 Europe, and the last bon mot of the wittiest of the day. 
 Blagnard spoke authoritatively on every subject. In my 
 opinion, his arguments and course of reasoning were frequently 
 erroneous, but he talked like a man who persuades himself 
 that he who possesses a large amount of gold must be correct, 
 and I daresay, readers, you have met hundreds of individuals 
 just like him. 
 
 The dinner having at last come to an end, Jenneville and my- 
 self prepared to proceed to our appointment. Madame de 
 Remonde resided in a spacious house in the Rue le Pelletier. 
 The court-yard was lighted with gas, the stairs were covered 
 with carpets almost as elegant as those in the saloons, evergreens 
 and vases of flowers abounded on the various landings, and all 
 the furniture and appointments denoted rank and wealth. As- 
 we passed up I bserved to Jenneville that it was yet early and 
 as in all probability he would be received by the lady alone that 
 my presence would interfere with their loving tete-a-tete, but 
 he replied that on her company evenings she always had a few 
 select friends to dine with her, and therefore we were certain 
 not to find her alone, even if the guests should have left the- 
 dining-room already. At the door of the outer ante-chamber 
 a manservant in a handsome livery took our cloaks and hats, and 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 49 
 
 ushered us across a substantially-furnished lobby into a superb 
 -drawing-room, and announced our names in a sonorous voice to 
 the couches, the pictures, the tables, and the chairs. Jenneville 
 was displeased and walked impatiently up and down the room ; 
 I laughed and reminded him that when people dined at half- 
 past six o'clock it was not reasonable to expect to see them in 
 the drawing-room at half-past eight, but he answered abruptly 
 that he had told Herminie he should come early, and I saw 
 that his vanity was piqued at the idea that she should remain 
 at table when she well knew that he was in the house. 
 
 At length the pair of folding-doors opposite to those through 
 wliich we had been shown in, were thrown wide open, and a 
 fresh group entered the saloon, preceded by a lady, who, from 
 the ease with which she addressed all the company, the smiles 
 -she lavished on the men, and her courtesy to the women, could 
 be no other than Madame de R6monde. Had I entertained a 
 doubt it would have been dispelled on witnessing the eagerness 
 with which Jenneville passed through the crowd to greet her. 
 The lady was of majestic sinew and stately port ; tall, but not 
 too thin ; with marked, but not harsh, features ; dark complexion 
 and coal-black hair ; brilliant eyes, which played on all around 
 her ; and two rows of large white teeth, between lips which 
 smiled with tenderness, or were drawn up with sarcasm. 
 Certainly she was a very handsome woman ; but I should have 
 fallen in love with twenty pretty little piquant faces before I 
 » should with her. She nodded to Jenneville as he approached 
 her ; as he spoke to her dejectedly and almost in a whisper, she 
 seemed to pay no attention to him, and when he had finished 
 laughed outright ; Jenneville turned to leave her, but a smile 
 and a word brought him to her feet again, his features beaming 
 with unrepressed delight. That woman knew her power over 
 hi m ; and woe to him, thought I, if she shall push it to its 
 full extent. 
 
 Absorbed with his enchantress, Jenneville thought no more of 
 me, and I remained for some time amusing myself with 
 observing the different guests and making speculations as to 
 their character and occupation. At last my friend recollected 
 there was such a person as myself in existence, and waiting for 
 a moment when Madame de R6monde was partially disengaged 
 we walked towards her, and he said, "Madame, allow me to 
 present to you my most intimate friend, Monsieur Paul Deligny, 
 •of whom you have heard me speak." "All your friends are 
 mine," the lady replied, bending to me and smiling courteously, 
 " and the oftener Monsieur Deligny will come to see me the 
 anore delighted I shall be." 
 
 Of course, I bowed profoundly and muttered something like, 
 "Madame. — lam charmed — certainly — your politeness ,f 
 
 D 
 
50 The Wife, the Htisband, and the Lover. 
 
 The phrase was not finished, because it is not the custom to- 
 make set speeches on similar introductions, and the presiding* 
 divinity passed on to go through the same hollow ceremony 
 with other persons. 
 
 And now that I am a free and accepted member of the 
 " Society " meeting at Madame de Remonde's let me endeavour 
 to inform my readers of the chief elements of which it was 
 composed. Well, then, to judge from their exterior and 
 conversation, all the persons present were either very rich or 
 were making rapid fortunes. For one hour I remained near a 
 group of men who talked of nothing but hundreds and 
 thousands ; this one had just purchased a splendid estate in the 
 country ; the second had engaged in a speculation that paid 
 fifty per cent, to the shareholders ; and a third did not know 
 how to invest his capital. I cannot tell how it was, but I 
 could not divest myself of the idea that all these men were 
 telling lies ; their tone of speaking, their manner conveyed to me 
 the thought that they were all impostors seeking to deceive 
 each other for some unknown end. In one part of the room 
 parties were playing at ecarte" and at loo ; I prefer the former 
 because you always give up your seat when you lose the game \. 
 but Monsieur Melino having lost a large stake and risen from 
 the loo-table, I was pressed so much to take his place that I 
 could not well refuse, and so sat down, promising myself, as- 
 the fish were half-a-crown, that I would not lose much money 
 at the game. After the first deal two ladies — right and left 
 of me — borrowed each a fish, and soon won ; afterwards 
 one of them, who had no silver, asked me to deposit 
 her stake for her until she should get some change ; in 
 short, as I was too gallant to ask my fair neighbours for what 
 they owed me, and had also a run of ill-luck, I was soon 
 despoiled of almost all my ready-money, and rose from the- 
 table with only a few pounds in my pocket. Had my two- 
 debtors been young and pretty, I might have been tempted to* 
 borrow some money, and take another hand, but the two 
 crafty, experienced players were fifty years of age at least. 
 
 In another room several ladies played at 6cart3 a less im- 
 portant stake, but still in those saloons gaming was the o-nly 
 occupation ; there was no music, no dancing, no singing, nothing 
 but cards, cards, cart Is. Assuredly, I thought, Madame de 
 RSmomle will not find me a frequent visitor to her magnificent 
 apartments. At that moment the lady herself happened to be 
 near me, and expressed her opinion that I must be weary of doing 
 nothing. I replied that I had been playing and had lost, and 
 she then turned the conversation upon her adoring Jenneville. 
 He was her best friend, she said, and as he came there very- 
 ^fteu, and she knew we were like brothers in our attachment 
 
The Wife, the Hmhand, and the Lover. 51 
 
 to each other, she hoped I would not consider myself a common 
 acquaintance, but come to her as often as I could. She had 
 always small dinner parties on the day of her reunions, and 
 she trusted I would honour her with my company without the 
 formality of a set invitation. I could see, she said, how 
 her guests amused themselves ; they talked, or played, or acted 
 as they pleased ; they were altogether free, and did just the 
 same as if they were at home. As we chatted, an old lady afc 
 a loo-table called out for a gentleman to make up the game ; 
 whereupon Madame de Remonde pushed me gently towards the 
 latter, saying, " Monsieur Deligny will join you ladies." 
 " No, ma dame, if you please, I have played already." "But 
 there is one player wanting; you must, indeed." "But I 
 
 should prefer " "Come, come, do be obliging and sit 
 
 down ; it is a lucky seat, and I feel sure that you will win." 
 There was no alternative. I looked round at Jenneville, and 
 whispered a few words. He put his purse covertly into my 
 hands, and then I was again nailed to the loo-table with a 
 parcel of women, who cheated most abominably and borrowed 
 your fish without the slightest intention of returning them. 
 What a very strange way Madame de Remonde had of allowing 
 her visitors to do just as they liked ! 
 
 This time I was not quite so bad off as before, for I was 
 seated next to a Madame de St. Jullien, and as we played our 
 cards, we chatted and laughed without paying much attention 
 to the game. Our merriment annoyed the old women, who 
 seemed to consider that the great business of life consisted in 
 play ; so, having lost a few pounds more, I got up, to the great 
 anger of the venerable ladies, who had promised themselves to 
 pluck me thoroughly, and led Madame de St. Jullien away. With 
 her I was soon completely at ease, and on the footing of an old 
 acquaintance. We talked for some time quite alone, maldng our 
 observations on the guests, and I had flattered myself I had 
 made so much way in her good graces that I might have the 
 pleasure of escorting her home, but on proposing to do so, I 
 found out that that honour was always the privilege of Monsieur 
 de Melino. Such being the case there was no reason why I 
 should remain any longer in the room ; I had lost more than I 
 could afford, and in the company of people I despised ; and so 
 whilst Jenneville was engaged paying his cost to the all- 
 absorbing Herminie, I glided quietly from the saloon, received 
 my mantle from the mass of outer garments in the ante- 
 chamber, wrapped myself in it and walked home, pondering 
 over what was the real character of the gorgeous widow,. 
 Madame de Remonde. 
 
«$2 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I SEE THE INCOGNITA AGAIN. 
 
 On the following morning, as I sat at breakfast, I passed in 
 Teview in my mind's eye all the occurrences of the previous 
 evening, and became exceedingly pensive whilst reflecting on 
 the manner in which I had thrown away my fortune ; for on 
 looking back at my erratic career the melancholy truth was 
 apparent that I had never experienced any real pleasure for my 
 money. Last night I lost six pounds at Herminie's, and what 
 enjoyment had I derived from it ? None, except a few minuntes' 
 bold, disjointed chat with Madame de St. Jullien ! I knew that 
 in most cases people went into society from politeness and 
 because their station forces them to do so ; but I resolved for the 
 future to do only those things which really gratified me, for if 
 you put yourself out of your way a thousand times to oblige 
 others, they never remember it or think nothing of it in the end. 
 
 The weather was still chilly whilst I made these wise resolu- 
 tions, and I pined for the return of warmer days that I might 
 carry them into execution. I also promised myself to pay a 
 visit to my father at Chartres, when the trees should have again 
 put forth their leafy screens, and the whole earth resumed its 
 livery of green, and thus at the same time that I pleased the 
 good, old man, I would economize my income, and partake of 
 shooting, fishing, bowling, and a hundred country pastimes 
 which are comparatively without cost. It must be acknowledged 
 that I had formed similar projects fifty times before, but some 
 love affair, or other trifle, had constantly intervened and pre- 
 vented its being carried into effect. Soon after I had made my 
 toilette for the day, the sun broke out, the air felt genial and 
 warm, so I determined to take a walk ; first, for the sake of my 
 health, and secondly, because it is a rule that the first fine days 
 of Spring never fail to attract numbers of pretty women to the 
 public walks : like their prototypes, the flowers, they hide their 
 beauteous heads from the stern Winter's icy grasp, but in the 
 Spring again put forth their tender stems and woo the embraces 
 of the vernal sun. 
 
 As I strolled leisurely along my favourite promenade, the 
 Italian Boulevard, a gentleman, who I did not recognise at first, 
 accosted me ; his laugh and voice, however, brought him instantly 
 to my remembrance, and I exclaimed, "I really did not know 
 
The Wife, the Eusband, and the Lover. 6«fc 
 
 you, Dubois ; why, it must be a month since I have seen you ; 
 how you are changed! " " Yes," he said, pointing to a large 
 pair of whiskers he had suffered to grow, " it's these fingers to 
 my cheeks that alter my appearance." "Oh, so it is; you 
 used not to wear them." "No-o-o; but they became me very 
 much, my new woman tells me so, and she is so fond of 
 whiskers that I wear them chiefly to please her. The other 
 day she gave me her heart and a beautiful little tortoise-shell 
 comb to touch them up with, telling me that from the very 
 moment I should cut them off I must count no longer on her 
 fidelity." "That woman, Dubois, ought to have a bearded 
 pioneer for a lover." " Now it appears to me to be an admir- 
 able arrangement, for when I am tired of her and Wish to get 
 rid of her, I have nothing in the world to do but to cut them 
 off." "But what have you been doing all this while?" 
 " Making love as usual." 
 
 I then told him that Jolivet had told me of his escapade at 
 the Colosseum, and it was manifest that he did not like my 
 version of the story. 
 
 Dubois stopped suddenly in the middle of the sentence and 
 appeared much excited ; I watched his eyes and saw them fixed 
 upon a gentleman, who was approaching us, with huge mous- 
 tachios and the Cross of the Legion of Honour. As he did not 
 take any notice of Dubois, that worthy fellow resumed his 
 discourse by saying, "Jolivet has a happy knack of viewing 
 occurrences in a false light ; besides, he was drinking punch at 
 the time, and could not see what was going on." "He says, 
 too, that you owe him the money for that punch." "The 
 shabby fellow ; he's a regular old huncks ; I've paid a hundred 
 times for him for dinners, for the theatres, and he has left his 
 name at least twenty times at my lodgings requesting payment 
 of a trumpery shilling. I would not give a fig to call such a. 
 miserly fellow as that a friend, I'm sure." Again he broke 
 short off, and screwed up his features, so that his most intimate 
 friend could not have known him, and on turning round slightly 
 I could perceive he trembled at seeing another officer advancing 
 to us. I laughed at his cowardice, attributing his visible 
 emotion to the fear of meeting the military man he had insulted 
 at the Colosseum. He repudiated the idea, and, all of a sudden, 
 beholding another officer, he found the sun was too warm where 
 we were standing, and proposed an adjournment to the Palais 
 Royal, where he had an appointment with a customer. Not having 
 any definite object in my promenade, I consented to accompany 
 him there, hoping to please my eye with the sight of several, 
 pretty genteel faces, as the gardens are frequented with good 
 company now that the omnibus nymphs have been banished from, 
 the walks. 
 
64 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 We soon arrived in the Palais Royal, and as we sauntered 
 along, Dubois talking incessantly of his amours and the price 
 of sugars, it was my turn to stop short in a state of great 
 nervous agitation, squeezing his arm so tightly that he became 
 absolutely frightened. "What is the matter with you, 
 Deligny," he said ; " are you not well ? " " Look there, Dubois, 
 there ; it is she ! " " Who ; what she ? " " She whom I saw at 
 the Gai'te* and afterwards at the Opera, tjie lady with whom I 
 have endeavoured to make acquaintance, but cannot succeed 
 There, there, before us ; she has not the Leghorn bonnet; but I 
 saw her face and am sure that it is her." " Oh, I see, the lady 
 with the other in the dark green dress ? '" " Yes ; by heavens, 
 Dubois, she shall not escape me this time; I will know her 
 address." "Hear me," said Dubois; " let us increase our speech 
 and when we are behind the ladies we will tread upon their 
 heels — accidentally, of course ; they will turn round, we will 
 make a thousand apologies and so get into conversation." " My 
 clear fellow, we will do no such thing, and you will oblige me very 
 much if you will leave me alone just now ; you have been the cause 
 of my losing sight of this lady once before, and I hope you will not 
 stand in my way again." " Well, as you please ; I'm off, but I'll 
 come to you to-morrow, and learn the result of all your schemes." 
 He left me, and I followed on the lady's steps as closely as I 
 thought it prudent, lest she should observe that I was watch- 
 ing her. As I crept on, suiting my gait to her's, 1 began to 
 ruminate on the new character of the feelings that possessed 
 me with respect to a being whom I had seen but twice. Was 
 it childish curiosity, was it a presentiment of those "Coming 
 events that cast their shadows before," or was it that true love 
 that hitherto had been unknown to me? 
 
 The incognita walked on to the piazzas, and as she looked 
 into the merceries and millinery exposed for sale in the shops, 
 I made a feint to do the same; all the while she did not 
 perceive that 1 was almost at her heels, and on her stopping to 
 admire some jewellery I advanced so close to her as to be able 
 to peep under a white silk bonnet and ascertain that it was her 
 I sought. I also heard her say to her friend, " Let us leave 
 this place, dear; I do not think we shall find precisely 
 what we want here." Heavens! how that voice fell like soft 
 music on my ravished ears ! The friends left the Palais 
 Royal, passed down the Rue Vivienne, crossed the square in 
 which the Exchange stands, and so to the boulevards; thence 
 to the right by the gates of St. Dennis and St. Martin — some- 
 what out of the way, but I would have followed her even to 
 Vincennes, had she lived so far off — to the great fountain, 
 where the ladies separated, the friend proceeding down the Hue 
 de Bondy. My incognita then pursued her way along the 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 55 
 
 boulevard, past the Turkish Gardens, through the Rue Chariot, 
 into the Rue Boucherat, where she entered a respectable^ 
 modest-looking house, and I squeezed myself up as closely as I 
 could against a friendly bench that happened to be near,, 
 impressed with the idea that she had seen me. Instantly 1 
 thought she might not reside there, and had only come to pay 
 a visit ; if so, my long pursuit had been of no use, and I must 
 wait and renew it on her coming out. There was, however, 
 one mode of setting all my doubts at rest ; so I entered the 
 court-yard and addressed myself to the portress, well knowing 
 there never yet was one of the species who could resist being- 
 communicative on the receipt of a half-crown piece. Gliding- 
 one into the old woman's hand, I said, "I think I recognise 
 the lady in the white bonnet who has just entered the house a* 
 a lady I have met in society. Is not she named Madame Benoit ? " 
 "No, sir, the lady who came in this minute, is Madame Luceval." 
 ' ; Are you quite sure ?" " Oh, yes, sir, she lives here. " " Married, 
 I think, last year, to a gentleman who was formerly in the Army ? ' ' 
 "Oh dear, no, she is a widow/' "Ah, a widow! Yes, t 
 recollect, with two little girls — twins?" "No sir, she has not any 
 children." "Thank you, I see I was wrong. Good morning." 
 The portress had my half-crown, and I had all the information 
 I required — that is, I knew she was a widow without en- 
 cumbrance, and her name was Luceval ; but what could 1 make- 
 out of that? of what use to me were the replies which had 
 created unbounded rapture in my breast? Madame Luceval, 
 certainly, could not be more than two-and-twenty years of 
 age, and was a widow. The latter was a very great advantage, 
 because she could do as she liked, free from the restraint of 
 parents or a duenna. Oh, fool that I was ! I had forgotten 
 to ask the portress on what floor the lady lived, and if li 
 returned to enquire, perhaps the old woman would inform 
 Madame de Luceval that a young gentleman had been particular 
 in Ms questions regarding her, and she might shut herself 
 entirely from my sight. This thought annoyed me, and my 
 good humour was not increased when I reflected that as 
 Madame Luceval had returned from shopping and paying visits, 
 it was most probable that she would not leave the house again 
 that morning. My only consolation, therefore, was to know- 
 that I had learned she was free, and I left the streets heaving 
 deep sighs alter throwing a dozen tender enamoured glances 
 at the windows of the fair one's house. Had Dubois been 
 with me, undoubtedly he would have counselled me to throw 
 stones at the windows, and break them, so as to attract the 
 attention of all the inmates ; but that plan, so successful with 
 silver-polishers and fringe-workers, could not be adopted with 
 a lady of the decided respectability of Madame Luceval. 
 
156 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Leaving the street, then, I walked on as if treading upon air, 
 not seeing where I went, when someone near me burst into a 
 fit of laughter, and took me by the arm, saying, "My dear 
 fellow, if you were a poet, I should believe the fit of inspiration 
 was upon you, for you appear to scorn the flagstones, and are 
 walking in the mud." "Ah, Jenneville, is it you ? I declare 
 I did not see you!" "Quite true, Deligny, I believe; but 
 what brings you to the Rue Meslay ?." " What ! am I in the 
 Rue Meslay?" "And you did not know it? Why, Paul, 
 you must absolutely be in love ! " " My dear fellow, in truth 
 I believe I am ; at least, there is a lady whom I cannot get out 
 of my head, do what I will." "Is she pretty?" "An 
 angel!" "I hope you will introduce me to her." "I must 
 first know her myself?" "Capital; in love with a woman 
 that you do not know ! But, tell me, when will you come and 
 see Madame de Rgmonde again ? She has taken quite 
 a fancy to you, Paul ; mentions your name to me frequently, 
 and says she expects you from day to day at her dinners 
 on Mondays and on Fridays." "I shall do myself the 
 pleasure of dining with her soon." "Well, Deligny, I 
 leave you alone with your love, for I have an appoint- 
 ment with Blagnard. By-the-bye, he wishes me to take 
 shares to the amount of five thousand pounds in a speculation 
 where we are sure to double our capital in a year. Will you 
 take half of it with me ? " "I will think of it and tell you." 
 "Ah, this is not a time to talk to you of business, I see; 
 nothing less ethereal than love will interest you now. Adieu ; 
 come and see Herminie soon, or she will be angry with you." 
 
 Little did I care whether Herminie was angry or not, since to 
 eat her dinners and gain her friendship I must lose my money at 
 her soirees. Talking of dinners, it was time to think of mine ; 
 but where should I go — to the Palais Royal ? No ! it would be 
 far better to dine at some tavern on the Boulevard du Temple, 
 and afterwards I could walk up and down the Rue Boucherat, 
 merely to assist digestion. Delighted at this idea, and regret- 
 ting that there was not a tavern immediately in front of 
 Madame Luceval's — where I would have gone to board at once — 
 I entered " The Blue Sun-Dial," and asked for a private room : 
 unfortunately there was not one that looked into the Rue 
 Boucherat, but, at any rate, it was something to be near 
 the lady. As I looked down the bill of fare, my stomach 
 overpowered my love for a few minutes, and I could not help 
 smiling internally when I thought of the motive that had 
 brought me to the tavern. What fools, I said to myself, men 
 are? They run mad after a pretty figure or a lovely face, think 
 only of one adorable person to whom perhaps they may never 
 'have an opportunity of speaking a word, and at the same time 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 57 
 
 laugh at children building their mimic houses with a pack of 
 Cards. Everybody has found at times how tedious it is to dine 
 alone when you are not very hungry. Such was the case with 
 me that day ; my repast was soon ended, and I proposed to 
 myself to take my coffee in the Rue Boucherat, but I was 
 doomed to be disappointed, for the very efficient reason that 
 there was not a single coffee-house in the street. Well, then, 
 the Turkish coffee-house must do ; it was the nearest, and 
 certainly Madame Luceval must walk in the gardens attached 
 to it on the fine days in the yet early spring. Accordingly I 
 repaired there and called for coffee, which was brought me,, 
 but I could not rest, and so, as soon as I had swallowed it I 
 was off again to the Rue Boucherat, where I kicked my heels 
 for two hours, comforting myself with the slightest possible 
 hope that my belle might go to the theatre and I should behold 
 her sylph-like figure as she tripped along. 
 
 As I marched up and down like a sentinel on duty, with my 
 eyes roving from window to window of Madame Luceval' s house, 
 a girl accosted me with a " Good-day, Monsieur Paul." " Ah,. 
 Ninie, is it you!" "Yes, I am going to leave some work in 
 the Rue St. Antoine." "Ah, pray don't let me stop your 
 journey." " You know you promised to come and see me 
 sometimes, Paul, that cruel morning when you left me, and. 
 you have never come nigh. I hope you are not angry with 
 me? " "Oh dear, no ; good-bye." " Ah, Paul, I forgot I had 
 something to tell you ; I met Adolphe the other day, and I 
 heard that the story-teller has not been in England at all. 
 I saw him with a fine lady on his arm ; if I dared I would: 
 have spoken to him." "You can tell me all about it, Ninie,. 
 when I come to see you; good-bye, good-bye." "AndPauV 
 there's another gentleman wants to be my friend ; but I don't 
 like him because he smokes." "I will hear all that, too, when 
 I come. Good-bye ; I am in a hurry. There, go, there's a good, 
 girl, go." "Well, adieu, when will you come?" "Next week,, 
 most likely." At length she left me, and I breathed again,, 
 for I had been in agony lest Madame Luceval should have 
 come out during our dialogue and seen me talking familiarly 
 with a pretty, young grisette. Poor Ninie ! how abruptly and 
 rudely I had spoken to her. Of a verity, love makes us ego- 
 tistical, unjust, rude and stupid. Ah, yes, very, very stupid. 
 
 Night had come and found me still upon my lonely post ; the 
 hour for going to the theatre had passed, and it was most likely 
 Madame Luceval would not come out that night. I cursed my 
 ill-luc 1 ' -<- not seeing her again, walked away, and went — I 
 know wl, where. 
 
58 The Wife t the Husband t and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH HEB, 
 
 Fob. the next six days I did nothing but walk in the Rue 
 Boucherat, the Rue Vendome, and the Rue St. Louis, and dine 
 at the "Sun-Dial," in hopes of seeing the lady who had 
 enslaved my heart ; but my constancy was all in vain, for she 
 had not stirred, and I had almost come to the determination to 
 make my dinner of a sandwich whilst promenading before her 
 house. I had ascertained that her apartments were on the 
 second floor in the front, but she never looked into the street 
 once during those six days, and the window-blinds prevented 
 my seeing into the rooms. Every evening I resolved that I would 
 not play the sentry any longer in the Rue Boucherat, and every 
 morning found me walking in that street. One day I saw there 
 were some apartments to be let in the house, and it flashed 
 .across my mind that I would ascend the stairs, ring Madame 
 Luceval' s bell, enquire if those were the vacant rooms, and 
 apologize for having disturbed the lady ; but there came the 
 dawning thought that a servant would open the door ; that, 
 on my making the inquiry, she would show me the apartments 
 that were to be let, and close the door upon me without my 
 having seen her mistress, so that I should still be as far off as 
 ever from the commencement of an acquaintance. However, 
 I was determined to make a bold dash, and waited impatiently 
 until twelve o'clock — the hour at which it is customary for 
 female servants to go out and make their purchases for the 
 day — and then, entering the gate, I passed rapidly across the 
 court-yard, and had my foot on the bottom step of the staircase, 
 when the porter shouted out to me to know where I was going. 
 The devil take the impertinent, prying fellow, I thought. If 
 I told him I wanted the apartments, he would show them to 
 me, and it would be all over with me then, so no alternative 
 remained but to reply that I wished to see Madame Luceval. 
 He said he thought she had just gone out, but I knew better 
 than that from my having been two hours and a half waiting 
 in. the street. Then, recollecting himself, he said, as I stood 
 like a statue, undetermined what to do, that it was her servant 
 who had gone out, and that I should find Madame Luceval on 
 the second floor on the left. 
 
 Delighted at the certainty of seeing my divinity, since the 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 59 
 
 servant had been to market, I ran up the stall's as if I was mad, 
 rang the bell — oh ! how my heart beat — more violently, 1 think, 
 than on my first assignation with my first mistress, for then 
 success was assured, and now it was very possible that the door 
 might be slammed in my face. Soon afterwards 1 heard a 
 gentle, fairy foot-fall on the passage fioor, the door was opened, 
 and Madame Luceval stood disclosed. She started slightly on 
 seeing me, and 1 stood silent, like a fool, bowing and playing 
 with my hat. At length, she said, " May I ask, sir, to what I 
 am indebted for the honour of this visit." In spite of myself I 
 trembled from head to foot, and falteringly replied, " Madame — 
 I beg your pardon— I wished— that is, I came — but I fear 1 have 
 made a mistake." She listened attentively, smiled almost 
 imperceptibly at my agitation, and said nothing, until I stam- 
 mered out that, seeing there were apartments to let in the house, 
 I had rang her bell, and begged to apologize for my rudeness 
 in disturbing her. She told me the rooms were above here, 
 curtsied politely, and then shut the door. 
 
 I remained for a few minutes on the landing until I had 
 somewhat recovered my equanimity. Something had resulted 
 from my audacity: I had seen and spoken to her; she had 
 replied courteously to me ; and, indeed, there was an inexplic- 
 able something in her demeanour that seemed to show my visit 
 was not disagreeable to her; so 1 descended the stairs over- 
 flowing with joy, and thinking she was a thousand times more 
 beautiful without her bonnet. I re-entered my own rooms with 
 a glad step, and did not go out again that day. I revolved in 
 rny mind all the results that might possibly 'accrue from my 
 interview with Madame Luceval, and anticipated with delight 
 the denouement of my bold adventure. That night I slept more 
 soundly than I had for the last fortnight, and the vision of 
 Madame Luceval flitted like an angel round my couch. 
 
 The next day, after having run about Paris buying the articles 
 at the different shops my father had pointed out, I began to 
 think of dinner, and was about repairing to the "Blue Sun- 
 Dial" when Jolivet was shown into my room, when I asked 
 him to join me and dine at my expense. He accepted the 
 invitation readily, and on our reaching the tavern, I allowed 
 him to order everything he liked, contenting myself with a 
 window looking on the boulevard, that I might gaze into the 
 street as we sat at table and see Madame Luceval if she should 
 leave the house, a In the course of our meal, Jolivet remarked 
 that the waiter attended upon me as if I was a frequenter of 
 the tavern, to which I replied, in the fulness of my heart, that 
 I had l>een in the habit of dining there continually of late, 
 because there was a lady in the neighbourhood with whom I 
 had fallen desperately in love. He inquired whether she was 
 
60 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 rich ; and on my answering that I did not care a fig whether 
 she was or not, he descanted upon the necessity of having & 
 mistress in comfortable circumstances, because she cost you 
 nothing. I then related to him the whole course of my adven- 
 tures with Madame Luceval since I first saw her at the Gaite' — 
 which recital he listened to in silence, eating enormously all 
 the while; when just as the dessert was placed upon the- 
 table, I uttered an involuntary exclamation of delight, left 
 the window against which I had been lolling, jumped up, seized 
 my hat and gloves, and prepared to quit the room. Jolivet stopped; 
 astonished in the midst of the consumption of some almond 
 cream, and asked what was the matter with me. "My dear 
 fellow," I replied, " I have seen her ; it must be her ; there is not 
 such another figure in all Paris ; she is on the boulevard now ;» 
 perhaps she is going to the play. At any rate I will know." 
 "Well, well," he said, "make haste back, and I will tell the 
 waiter to get some coffee ready while you are away." 
 
 I did not stop to hear him finish the last sentence. I ran 
 down the stairs like hghtning, fearing to have lost the lady 
 in my momentary delay, but no ; there she was walking quietly 
 along, and followed by her servant, a stout, healthy-looking, 
 country girl. Remaining a few yards behind, I watched them 
 into Franconi's Hippodrome, walked in after them, paid for a, 
 place in the boxes, and by dint of tormenting the box openers 
 and peering anxiously round the circle, discovered they 
 occupied two seats in the box in the front row. Repulsing all 
 attempts to place me in the front, I caused Madame Luceval' s 
 box-door to be opened, and shouted across the benches, burning 
 with ardour to be near her ; she turned her head at the noise 
 I made in my impetuosity, and on my bowing to her with 
 the greatest deference, honoured me with a gracious 
 acknowledgment in return. Heavens ! I would not have 
 exchanged my seat for all the gold in Ophir! The 
 servant-girl had no eyes except for the horses and the decora- 
 tions of the house. I was, as it were, alone with the lady, and 
 feeling that such an opportunity might not arise again, I 
 coughed slightly, so as to attract her attention, and proceeded 
 to make the best of my unexpected situation. 
 
 "Madame," I murmured — throwing as much tenderness as 
 possible into my voice — " I fear I had the misfortune to disturb 
 you this morning when I made an inquiry respecting the apart- 
 ment ; I beg to apologize most respectfully for my mistake, and. 
 to — to — express the gratification I feel at meeting you again." 
 She did not reply to this compliment ; I was a fool for making 
 it, when, as a man of the world, I ought to have known my 
 game was to begin with common-place observations. At the 
 end of a few minutes, during which she admired the evolutions- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 61 
 
 of the trained horses, I recommenced : "HI am not mistaken, 
 madame, I had the pleasure of seeing you at the Theatre de 
 la Gait6, on the first representation of a new melodrama?" 
 "Yes, monsieur; I went there that evening, as I have 
 <come here this, with my servant, for I had promised her a treat 
 •of which she had no idea, having lately left her own village 
 far off in the country. Unfortunately, we were separated in 
 the crowd at the entrance, and when I reached the interior of 
 the house, I could not find her anywhere, the fact being that 
 the poor girl lost her head and her ticket in a crowd, to which 
 she was altogether unused, and passed the whole evening on 
 the pavement before the house until I left." This explanation 
 was especially pleasing to me, because it showed the reason 
 why she haof been alone at the theatre, and testified some 
 anxiety to prove she had not been intentionally guilty of an 
 impropriety. 1 bowed, and she continued, smiling, "I think, 
 monsieur, we likewise met by chance one evening at the opera." 
 (I had rather she had not recollected that.) "Yes, madanie,, 
 yes, I think I remember the occasion." " You were not alone." 
 " No, I had a young lady with me from the country, who was 
 not at all conversant with our Parisian customs." "Ah! a 
 young lady (dwelling on the word) from the country, I see." 
 She smiled again rather sarcastically, and I feared she was not 
 to be duped by my assertion." Another pause ensued. She 
 turned her attention to the amphitheatre, and I lost myself 
 entirely in conjecture, even supposing with consummate cox- 
 combry it might be she was already jealous of Ninie, who had 
 Ibeen with me. 
 
 Rallying myself, I made another dash. " Do you go often to 
 the theatre, madame?" "In the winter they constitute my 
 only amusement ; for for some time past I have not mingled at 
 all in society." "Indeed! you have renounced some of the 
 pleasures of the world at an early period of life." "I do not 
 feel the least regret at losing them." " No doubt it has been 
 the case only since you lost your husband ? " She looked at me 
 fixedly, with a peculiar expression of countenance, sighed, and 
 Teplied, almost in a whisper, "Yes, sir, since I lost my 
 Tiusband." " What a misfortune to become a widow whilst so 
 young!" Again she regarded me as if she would penetrate 
 some hidden meaning in my words, and I felt I had made a 
 fool of myself in awakening her grief for the departed 
 Monsieur Luceval. After the lapse of a minute, she asked 
 me who had informed me she was a widow; and laughed 
 scornfully — and, as I thought, incredulously— when I stammered 
 out that I learned the circumstance from the porter of the house 
 wherein she lodged. It was impossible for me to control my 
 feelings any longer, and 1 uttered, in a subdued, but 
 
62 The Wife, the Hiisband, and the Lover. 
 
 passionate tone, "Yes, madame, I have been so impertinent as* 
 to put several questions to the porter concerning you, to ascer- 
 tain in the first place whether you Lived in the house you 
 entered the day when I was rude enough to follow you home 
 from the Palais Royal, where I think you saw and recognised 
 me. From the first hour I met you at the Gaite, the thought of 
 you was never absent from my mind; intoxicated with the 
 delight of seeing you again, I watched your homeward steps, 
 and saw you, after you left your friend, enter the house in the 
 Rue Boucherat ; but it was possible you might not reside there, 
 and so I took the liberty of questioning the porter. He told 
 me your name was Luceval, and that you were a widow ; and 
 from that time, pardon me, madame, if you think I have done 
 wrong, I have passed hours, days, in that street, gazing on the 
 windows in the hope that I should see you, and, indeed, this 
 morning I made the apartments that are to be let the pretext 
 for endeavouring to see you. This, madame, is a true statement- 
 of what I have done in the madness of my love : blame me, if 
 you will, but you camict prevent me from being at this moment 
 the happiest man on earth, since I have the unspeakable pleasure 
 of being by your side." 
 
 She heard my declaration with perfect calmness, but did not 
 speak one word at its conclusion ; she seemed to debate within 
 herself what course it would be right for her to pursue, and I 
 murmured a hope that my frankness had not displeased her. 
 The same sardonic expression dwelt in. the corners of her mouth 
 as she muttered contemptuously the two words : "Your frank- 
 ness t " What could she mean ! Once launched, I was not the 
 man to be deterred by trifles from prosecuting any plan that I 
 had formed. "Yes, madame," I continued, "it grieves me to 
 the heart that you should cast the shadow of a doubt on my 
 sincerity. Do not, I implore you, confound me with those 
 flattering young men, whose volatile hearts are inflamed by the 
 charms of any passing beauty they may see ; but I——" * " I 
 beg your pardon, monsieur, I have the advantage of knowing you, 
 that is, of knowing who you are ; and I request you to observe 
 that had I been without that knowledge I would not have 
 listened to one word that you have uttered You are, 
 Monsieur Paul Deligny." "Yes, madame." "I heard your 
 name pronounced the first evening that I saw you, and it struck 
 me at that moment, because I had heard it several times before 
 from persons who knew you intimately well. I am aware also 
 that you have lost your mother, and your father resides on his 
 patrimony in the country. You see, monsieur, I was not 
 wrong in saying I well knew who you were." " And I, madame, 
 shall only be too happy if you will deign to permit me to- 
 increase that knowledge." "Since you, monsieur, are ac- 
 
.The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 63 s 
 
 wuainted with my name and position in society, you ought also 
 to be informed that I receive no company except a few old and 
 intimate female friends ; methinks the porter might have told 
 you that." Her distended nostrils and flashing eye denoted 
 her contempt at. my curiosity ; my feelings were wounded, and 
 I replied in a rather haughty tone, that although my passionate 
 love had induced me to gain whatever information I could 
 respecting her lovely self, I was not in the habit of busying 
 myself with the affairs of other people. 
 
 A cool and stately inclination was the only response to my 
 irritable speech. The lady then made a few brief observations 
 to her servant, listlessly surveyed the company, and presently, 
 turning round with a smile that lighted up all her features, said, 
 " How happy my good girl is, how she does enjoy herself ! 
 This reward was well due to her for waiting so patiently for 
 me at the Gaite\ It is only three months since she left her 
 native village, and all is new to her in Paris. How little it takes 
 to make people of her class happy ! " I was about to answer 
 that, being with Madame Luceval, she could not be otherwise 
 than happy, but recollecting in an instant the fate of my first 
 compliment to this singular lady, I checked myself and 
 pursued the conversation with a few common-place remarks, 
 watching her replies with the greatest attention, and finding to 
 my great joy, that she possessed considerable talent, and 
 expressed her opinion in the choicest language without affecta- 
 tion or the least taint of pedantry. The more I saw of her, the 
 more I heard her, the deeper was my heart enchanted; I 
 counted the minutes as they hurried by, each act of the per- 
 formance seemed only to occupy a minute, and I thought with 
 despair of that fatal one which must terminate our easuar 
 interview. Never, never, in my life had I met any woman who 
 pleased me half so much. 
 
 My silence was again interrupted by Madame Luceval 
 inquiring, " What do you think of this piece ? " Starting from- 
 my day-dream, I said, "■ The piece, madame ? Really, I do not 
 know anything about it ; I have been so happy in your society,. 
 and so highly gratified by your permitting me to talk to you,, 
 that I really do not at all know what has been going on." 
 " Monsieur Deligny, I must beg you again to observe that if I 
 did not know who you were, I should be very angry. I am not 
 in the habit, sir, of hearing speeches similar to those you have 
 been addressing to me. However, I excuse you, because* — 
 
 because " " In mercy finish the sentence, madame." "It 
 
 is useless; you know, sir, full well what I mean." Her eyes 
 were fixed upon me again with the same look of wonder and 
 incredulity ; for a few moments she regarded me as if to ascer- 
 tain whether I was playing a paefc or not ; and then slightly 
 
Htk The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 tossing her head, she said, "How is it, monsieur, you have 
 
 not brought the young country lady with you this evening ? 
 
 She is very pretty, that young lady." A blush mounted into 
 
 my cheeks — her emphasis, the tone of her voice, and the curl 
 
 -of her lip as she uttered the word lady, showed me she saw and 
 
 despised the lie that I had coined. I stammered, "I scarcely 
 
 .recollect, madame, what she was like." " What, a fashionable 
 
 young gentleman forget a lady so readily ? " She turned from 
 
 me with a petulant motion, and throughout the remainder of 
 
 the evening I could not induce her to renew our conversation. 
 
 I made some remarks upon the piece, the horses, and the 
 
 ^acrobats, but she replied at random, and seemed to have made 
 
 up her mind to dismiss me from her thoughts as coolly as if 
 
 1 had not existed. 
 
 The general rising of the company put an end to an evening 
 which appeared to me not to have exceeded five minutes in 
 duration. Madame Luceval quitted her seat, and as I took 
 her hand to assist her over the benches, I thought all Paradise 
 was in the momentary contact. When we reached the lobby 
 she took her servant's arm, but I walked by her side for a 
 few paces until she inquired whether I lived in the direction 
 she was going. I replied in the negative, but that I should 
 be delighted if she would grant me the favour of escorting 
 her home, to which she answered that the request from 
 any other man would have offended her, but as I was 
 not a stranger, she would not refuse me. I was in the clouda 
 . again : what could this mysterious affinity between us be, 
 which she persisted did exist! Whatever it was, however, 1 
 : cared not, since it had procured me the satisfaction of accom- 
 panying her home. As I walked by her side, I determined to 
 profit by the tie, whatever it might be, and, summoning up 
 -courage, said, "Madame, as you are good enough to say I am 
 not a stranger to you, as you know my family, and some 
 persons with whom I am intimately acquainted, may I — may I 
 solicit the pleasure of being allowed to pay my respectful 
 homage to you ? " She did not speak, but seemed to reflect on 
 my request ; I awaited her reply in dread, for assuredly it was 
 the deciding moment of my happiness or misery for life, as I 
 felt I could not exist without her, and judge my unbounded 
 delight when she said, ' ' As you say it will be agreeable to you, 
 .1 will receive your visits with great pleasure." 
 
 Great heavens ! had my senses not deceived me ? Yes, her 
 -own sweet voice had spoken the gratifying words, "she would 
 ; receive my visits with the greatest pleasure. ' ' I did not know 
 where I was, nor what reply I made to Madame Luceval, for 
 'Iter kind permission ; I fear I committed some extravagance, 
 JOut luckily we were near her house, and I left her at the door, 
 
Ttte Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 65 
 
 bowing, in the fulness of my delirium, almost to the ground. 
 When the door was shut upon her, I gave the reins to my 
 delight ; I ran, I jumped, I danced. Ah ! I had been in love 
 as I thought a thousand times before, but ne e in this intoxi- 
 cating manner ! Arrived at my apartment, 1 marched up and 
 down almost half the night, repeating the words, "with the 
 greatest pleasure," thinking they would justify me in paying 
 Madame Luceval a visit the first thing in the morning. At 
 last, tired out, I undressed myself and went to bed, but sleep 
 was entirely out of the question. After tossing and tumbling from 
 one side of the bed to the other, I occupied myself in reviewing 
 the occurrences of the day, and could not restrain my laughter at 
 thinking how I had left Jolivet at the " Sun-Dial " to pay for 
 the dinner which I had invited him to eat. Even in this comical 
 episode I could see nothing long. I could t hink of nothing but 
 the woman I adored, and of the events that might arise from 
 my constant visits to her ; I strove to recollect all the words 
 that she had spoken, when she spoke them, and how she spoke 
 them, but at length my ideas became confused ; I mixed yester- 
 day with to-morrow, and to-morrow with to-day, which makes 
 me think that, in all probability, I went to sleep. 
 
 I 
 
 k 
 
CHAPTEE XL 
 
 I GO TO PAY HER MY PIEST VISIT. 
 
 Eight o'clock in the morning found me still locked in the 
 .arms of Morpheus, and dreaming of the impress of my heart — 
 for sleej) is the repose of the ideas as well as of the body, neither 
 -of which ever lose their entire consciousness — when 1 was 
 awakened by a violent ringing at the bell, and I heard my 
 servant talking loudly to someone in the ante-chamber, 
 telling him she would not permit him to disturb me by 
 entering my room. But the person would not be denied, and 
 throwing open my bed-room door, Jolivet walked in. He came 
 direct up to me, exclaiming at my laziness lying so long in bed, 
 and I laughingly replied that I was sure he had got up two 
 hours before his time to make certain of finding me at home, 
 and so get repaid the money he had expended for our dinner on 
 the previous day. He disclaimed any such mercenary intention, 
 and said he waited for me at the tavern until nine o'clock, and 
 then left, fearing some accident had befallen me, as he knew I 
 was incapable of playing him such a scurvy trick as that of 
 leaving him there. I related to him all that had taken place 
 between myseli and Madame Luceval at Franconi's ; and while 
 I spoke the miser quietly took the dinner-bill from his pocket, 
 and considered the different items written down. It was 
 impossible to bear Iris cold-blooded conduct, so I jumped out of 
 bed, tore the paper froni his hand, and almost roared out, 
 "Paltry wretch, you are unworthy of hearing one word about 
 her." 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Paul ? " "Pooh ! " I replied, 
 
 walking up and down the chamber ; " here have I been talking 
 
 to you about the veriest angel of a woman I ever saw in my 
 
 jlife, and you are thinking of nothing but that miserable bill." 
 
 "I assure you, Paul, I heard every word you said." "Oh, so 
 
 "beautiful!" "There's a mistake here, I am sure." "Such 
 
 grace : such features ! " " He's put down a glass of cream too 
 
 much." " Such an exquisite little foot and such fine-shaped 
 
 arms!" "I am sure it was not eaten." " Such flute-like 
 
 sweetness in all her tones!" "I ordered chocolate and they 
 
 brought' me lemon. Thev must make a deduction for that." 
 
 "And then such teeth!" "Sixpence taken off will make it 
 
 .sxactlv right." 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 67 
 
 I stopped short in a desperate rage, glanced my eye at the 
 bill to ascertain the amount, tossed fifteen shillings to Jolivet, 
 and desired him not to mention the cursed dinner again. Ho 
 caught up the money, protested that he had not come to me to 
 look after it, and left for the purpose of making the tavern- 
 keeper deduct the sixpence from the bill. 
 
 Whilst I dressed myself, I raved about my mistress to the 
 glass, the table, the brushes, and the combs ; put on my 
 waistcoat hind part before, and tied on my neckerchief before 
 I had shaved. Before I had finished my toilette — which 
 occupied me twice as long as usual, in consequence of 
 my having temporarily lost my senses — I heard some- 
 one singing lustily in the ante-chamber, and immediately 
 Dubois was ushered in. I was very glad to see him, as he, 
 having committed some follies himself on account of women, 
 would understand me, and not listen in surprise at my 
 absurdities, like Jolivet, whose mind was divided between his 
 stomach and his purse. "Ah, ah, Paul!" he exclaimed, as 
 he danced into the room, ' ' how glad I am to see you again ! 
 I have been at least ten times inquiring for you, and really 
 began to think that you kept on your apartments merely for 
 form's sake, just like the milliners, you know. Well, and how 
 are the amours getting on ; the divinity in the dark green 
 silk pelisse, eh ?" I rushed to him as he was speaking, and 
 was about to take him in my arms, when he drew back in 
 alarm, and well he might, for I had an open razor in my hand. 
 "Be quiet, Paul, do; less impetuosity, my good fellow; shave 
 yourself first, and we will chat together afterwards." "Dubois, 
 my dear fellow, I am the happiest man upon earth." "Take 
 care, then, that you don't cut yourself." " I have seen her again, 
 spoke to her, conversed with her ; I am going to her this very 
 day." "Oh, indeed! then it's probable that before to-morrow 
 morning there will be a consummation devoutly to be wished." 
 "Think of the delight of being with her, of being received at 
 her house; at this moment I have no other idea." "Very 
 likely, but I suppose you have not scraped acquaintance with 
 her merely for the satisfaction of carrying her pattens." 
 "Don't indulge in such profanity; if you could but see her 
 beauty, her grace, her charming manner of expressing her 
 opinions " "Bless you, Paul, I know all about that with- 
 out having seen even the tip of her little finger. A fresh 
 mistress is always a goddess in our eyes, then she descends to 
 common humanity, and then — we look out for a new one." 
 "Be quiet, sensualist, do; you know nothing of the joys of 
 real love 1 " 
 
 A hearty laugh was his only reply to my indignant remon- 
 strances ; and as I continued dressing Jolivet returned, radiant 
 
68 TJie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 with joy at haying caused the sixpence overpaid at the tavern 
 to be refunded. Dubois went up to him the moment he took a. 
 chair, slapped him familiarly on the knee, and said: "Old 
 fellow, you don't care a dump about love-stuff, I know. 
 
 Only think, our Paul here " "Dubois, I have not seen 
 
 you since the day of your quarrel " "Which do you 
 
 mean? sometimes I have half-a-dozen a day, my temper is 
 so easily excited; I must be more calm, or I can't answer for 
 what may happen." " Your quarrel at the Colosseum." " Oh, 
 when 1 wanted to thrash that insolent soldier? " " Quite the 
 other way ; when he would have given you a thrashing if you 
 would have stopped to take it. However, it is perfectly the 
 ■fcme thing to me, so that you pay me the shilling owing for 
 Ifee punch, and the money for the three macaroons besides." 
 "Jolivet, I blush for your meanness, you are a skinflint — a 
 miserable pecuniary animal." "A skinflint, am I? and only 
 for asking you for my own, which has been due to me for up- 
 wards of six weeks!" "I can't conceive your impudence, 
 Jolivet, in demanding a shilling for your trumpery punch, when 
 I think of the number of times I have been obliged to pay for 
 you. There was that day when we dined in the Champs 
 ElysSes, you said you had left your purse at home ; the evening 
 when we hired the hackney-coach together, returning from 
 Kosetta's, when you said you had lost all your money playing 
 at ecarti; the night I paid for you at the theatre, when you 
 stated you had not the price of the admission in your pocket, 
 and on a hundred other occasions. Look here, Jolivet, the man 
 who forgets to return money ought never to borrow it ; here's 
 the shilling for the punch and threepence for the macaroons \ 
 and mind I will never advance a single fraction for you again." 
 Jolivet looked down his nose and muttered a few words, but 
 put the money in his pocket. By this time I had finished 
 dressing, and as it was not yet ten o'clock, and impossible to go 
 to Madame Luceval for some time, I invited Dubois and Jolivet 
 to breakfast with me at a neighbouring coffee-house ; the 
 former accepted my invitation, but, strange to say, the latter 
 pretended to have an appointment and declined — perhaps he 
 feared I should leave him again in pledge, and as it was 
 notorious Dubois was frequently without a sixpence he should 
 have to pay for all the three, Notwithstanding Dubois' con- 
 stitutional gaiety, his budget of tittle-tattle, and his stories of 
 his amours, the breakfast passed heavily away; I listened 
 abstractedly to his tales without comprehending their purport, 
 and kept watching the clocks and sighing at the leaden pace of 
 Time. What with eating, talking, and reading the newspapers, 
 we contrived to reach twelve o'clock, and no sooner had it 
 struck than I rose from the table, saying to Dubois, "I 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 69 
 
 must delay no longer.' % "Go," he replied, almost convulsed 
 with laughter; "but not in that stupid way, stiff and 
 awkward as a raw recruit; keep your head up, man, and 
 walk with a jaunty air ; and is it come to this? one would think 
 it was your very first assignation. Well, well, be off with you, 
 and come to the Rotunda in the Palais Royal at five o'clock ; we 
 will dine together, and you can tell me all about the lady fair." 
 My companion was quite right as to my childish nervousness ; 
 my heart beat as if I had never had a tete-a-tite with a woman 
 before, and I felt so embarrassed that the waiters must have 
 noticed my emotion as I left the room. But I became compara- 
 tively calm as I proceeded to the Rue Boucherat, and when the 
 porter at the gate asked me who I wanted, I answered in a firm 
 voice, "Madame Luceval," breathing an inward prayer that I 
 might frequently have to make the same reply. 
 
 Striding across the court-yard with the air of a winner of a 
 hundred fights, I ascended the staircase and knocked at Madame 
 Luceval' s door, which was opened by the servant who had accom- 
 panied her to Franconi's. The girl recognised me and smiled — 
 I made up my mind instantly that she was an excellent 
 creature — said her mistress was at home, and showed me 
 into an unpretending, neatly decorated drawing-room, where 
 the lady of my love was seated by the fire quite alone. 
 She arose on seeing me, and held out her lily hand with 
 the frankest courtesy. I was rather tremulous, but regained 
 my composure speedily, and excused myself for having waited 
 on her so soon by urging the impossibility of denying myself 
 the gratification of seeing her again. The ice once broken, 
 -all my diffidence fled, and I talked — I know not whether 
 sensibly and well, but certainly fluently — and yet there were a 
 thousand things that I burned, but did not dare, to utter. 
 Madame Luceval heard all I said with calm, polite attention, 
 but when I turned the conversation from the topics of the day 
 to my love for her, she said, assuming a grave tone, "Sir, 
 when you spoke to me last evening of love, I thought you were 
 only trying to amuse yourself with the weakness of a woman, 
 and I forgot to tell you that when I accorded you permission to ] 
 come here it was on the express condition that you should not hold 
 such language to me. I repeat that your visits will be agreeable 
 to me if you refrain from reverting to the forbidden subjects." I 
 bowed in obedience to her will, but could not help thinking she 
 was a mystery indeed. Young, handsome, free, and refuse to hear 
 the accents of the warmest love from a man who absolutely adored 
 her ! Dubois would say it was nothing but coquetry, affectation 
 to lure me on and entangle me inextricably in her meshes, but 
 I did not think so, for it appeared to me that the very soul of 
 truth was beaming in her eyes. 
 
70 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 The interdiction was gall and wormwood to me, but resolving 
 to make a dying effort to induce her to relax her severity, I 
 said reproachfully, "What, madame, have you the cruelty to- 
 forbid my making use of the only words that rise spontaneously 
 to my lips when I have the unspeakable happiness of being 
 near you?" "Cruelty, Monsieur Deligny? pray leave off tin* 
 fustian ; for you know that were I ever so inclined, it is im- 
 possible for me to reciprocate your sentiments." " I madame, 
 I know it ! Are you not a widow, your own mistress, free to do 
 as you please ? How, then, can my sentiments offend you ?" 
 She dropped her head upon her breast for a few moments, 
 raised it again, looked at me with the same doubting, inquiring- 
 expression of countenance I had remarked so often before, 
 turned pale, trembled, and then said in a broken voice, "Is it 
 possible, Monsieur Deligny, that you do not know who I 
 am, that you have not heard me spoken of in society P 
 For mercy's sake, do not conceal the truth!" "In all 
 honesty and truth, madame, I do not understand you. I saw you, 
 for the first time at the Gait6, and you know the subsequent 
 occasion. I then took the liberty of questioning the porter, 
 who told me you were a widow. I swear to you, madame, that 
 that is all I know about you. I never heard your name men- 
 tioned, and I am confident I never saw you in any society in 
 which I may have mixed. If you are not a widow, why, then. 
 I have been deceived. I have not the slightest title to solicit 
 your confidence, but since you know me, permit me to say that a 
 young man may commit follies, and give way to dissipation, 
 without losing all the natural good qualities indigenous to his 
 heart." When I finished she turned her head aside, and said, 
 mournfully, "Then, indeed, Monsieur Deligny, I have been 
 egregiously mistaken." 
 
 An additional mystery was enveloped in this sadness, and the* 
 Sphinx was becoming a ray of dazzling light in comparison to 
 Madame Luceval. However she was- wrapped in Eleusinian 
 darkness, she was, nevertheless, a most enticing woman, and I 
 was as far as ever from giving up my suit. For a long time we 
 remained without speaking ; she, reposing her head upon her 
 hand with her elbow resting upon the table, and I, taking in. 
 all her beauties with my eyes ; in fact, I could have sat there 
 for ever, but at length she broke the silence, by saying, " I 
 must appear incomprehensible, nay, absolutely ridiculous te 
 you." " The latter, madame, you can never be : if I have said 
 anything that has recalled painful reflections to your mind, I 
 am sincerely grieved ; but still I am ignorant how- — " " No, 
 Monsieur Deligny, you have not offended me or pained me in< 
 any way ; I only thought — I suspected— that, you had known who 
 I was for a long time, that von were commissioned by a certain 
 
The Wife y the Husband, and the Lover. 71 
 
 person, to whom I am very much attached, to — but I see I was 
 in error ; and it is only justice to you to state that that was the 
 *ble reason that induced me to remark you at the theatre when 
 I heard your name mentioned, to talk to you last evening at 
 Franconi's, and to receive your visits here." 
 
 It must be confessed that this frank avowal was anything but 
 .agreeable to me ; I had flattered myself I had created an interest 
 in Madame Luceval's heart, and now she told me plainly she 
 had merely consented to my coming to her from some extra- 
 ordinary motion towards another person to whom she was much 
 attached. My vanity was cut to the quick, my hopes were over- 
 thrown, and I sat still in the silence of despair. Madame 
 Luceval saw the impression her words had made upon me, and 
 immediately added, " Nevertheless, if you shall find it agreeable 
 to visit me, I will receive you just the same ; but upon this 
 express condition, that you will never say to me things, that I 
 assure you, upon my honour, I must not hear, and upon your 
 promising, on your word as a gentleman, that you will not 
 «peak of me before any of your acquaintances, that you will not 
 pronounce my name before any — mark the word — any of your 
 friends." "To have the delight of seeing you, madame, there 
 are no conditions to which I will not willingly submit ; not to 
 speak of you to any person will not be a difficult task for me to 
 perform; but to be near you and not to talk of love will 
 require the patient endurance of a Stoic The very instant I 
 beheld you I was drawn toward you by an irresistible attraction ; 
 since that evening I have never ceased to think of you." " Ah. 
 
 Monsieur Deligny, you are breaking ' ' * ' True, madame, true ; 
 
 I will not err again, I will not speak of a sentiment which formed 
 the only comfort of my life, and is now the greatest misery ; but I 
 shall enjoy the happiness of sometimes being near you ; and for 
 even that favour I will accept any stipulations that you may 
 please to make." Madame Luceval endeavoured to lead the 
 conversation back to indifferent subjects, but I was no longer in 
 a disposition to talk ; in spite of my attempts to appear gay, I 
 thought of what she had been saying to me, and she, too, 
 became so taken up with her own ideas that our dialogue soon 
 terminated, and taking my hat, I wished her a sorrowful 
 farewell. 
 
 How totally different were the feelings with which I left the 
 house to the bright hopes I entertained on entering it. Then, 
 I promised myself unqualified pleasure in the visit ; I beheld, 
 in imagination, her heart respond to mine — that she would 
 yield to the ardour of my passion ; reciprocate my love ; and 
 that, before long, she would be mine. And now what was the 
 position of affairs ? She had received me, I knew not why ; 
 and I could scarcely understand what she had meant except 
 
72 Ihe Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 that I had been employed by someone whom I presumed 
 she loved, and that having told me so, she consented to» 
 see me out of mere compassion. The last thoughts roused 
 my pride, and I determined never to set foot in her rooms 
 again, never to think of her any more ; and then I proceeded to 
 the place of meeting with Dubois. He came swaggering to- 
 wards me, and when almost close I perceived that he had cut 
 off his whiskers. He saw from my dolorous appearance that 
 things had not turned out as I expected ; and on my giving^ 
 him a detailed account of my interview with Madame Luceval, 
 he called her a heartless coquette, and advised me to fall in 
 love with some less cruel mistress as soon as possible. " Come, 
 let us dine," he said, "and at the dessert I will tell you of a* 
 little milliner with a foot like Cinderella's and a shape like the 
 Medicean Venus. I picked her up at the Zoological Gardens as 
 she was admiring a cage of monkeys who seemed to appreciate 
 her beauties." " And that is the reason you have cut off your 
 whiskers? " " Yes, I have sacrified them, but I will carry them 
 to Zenobia this evening with a couple of bottles of Eau de 
 Cologne and orange-flower waters and take a friendly leave of 
 her." During dinner he did all he could to dissipate my melan- 
 choly ; but whilst he talked of his new flame, my thoughts were 
 on Madame Luceval, and when we rose I refused to keep com- 
 pany with him through the evening, and walked for hours itt 
 the Rue Boucherat. ftiat woman had bewitehed me I 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 73 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MADAME LUCEVAL DOES WHAT SHE LIKES WITH ME. 
 
 Two long tedious days passed without my going near her. 
 On the third I could not resist any longer, and when the servant 
 showed me in I found a lady with her. It was a disappoint- 
 ment to me that she was not alone, but better a lady than a 
 gentleman, perhaps a rival, for her companion. The lady was 
 the friend I had seen with Madame Luceval the day I followed 
 them from the Palais Royal. We talked of the weather, the 
 fashions, the new plays and literary productions, all of which 
 were treated by her friend — whom she called Juliette — with 
 considerable tact, good sense, and judgment. This lady was 
 very animated, and talked much to me of the gay world, which 
 Madame Luceval — Augustine she called her — seemed to like, 
 although she had renounced its pleasures. The latter questioned 
 me minutely with respect to what I had done during the two 
 4ays since she had seen me, asked me if I had been to any 
 soirtes or balls, and what species of amusement I preferred. 
 This puzzled me more and more, for it was impossible to con- 
 ceive that she did not esteem a man about whose lightest 
 movements she was interested, but as the subject of love 
 was forbidden, and, indeed, I could not have indulged 
 in speaking of it in the presence of a third person, my only 
 mode of acting was to satisfy her curiosity without making any 
 -comments, which I could not do, however, without concealing 
 the truth, for I could not very well tell her that I had passed 
 the best half of two nights perambulating the Rue Boucherat 
 and looking at her windows. In the course of my remarks I 
 spoke of several reunions where the guests did nothing else but 
 dance, and of those at Madame de Remonde's where they did 
 nothing else but gamble. Madame Luceval turned pale and 
 almost fainted on hearing the rich widow's name ; I feared she 
 was taken ill, but she replied it was merely a spasm that had 
 seized her, and then asked me if I thought Madame de RSmonde 
 very handsome. I answered that she was undoubtedly good- 
 looking, but I had seen very many ladies whom I preferred to 
 lier ; and then said I only knew her for a short time having 
 been introduced by my friend Jenneville, who thought she 
 ^was adorable. As I uttered the last words, Madame Luceval 
 was seized with another spasm and seemed about to fall 
 
74 Tlie Wife, the Husband t and the Lover. 
 
 upon the floor; Juliette ran towards her, leaned down and 
 whispered a few words in her ear, whilst I opened the window 
 to admit some air. We then led Augustine between us to the 
 window, where she soon recovered sufficiently to renew the 
 conversation. "You said, I think, Monsieur Deligny, that one 
 of your friends thought Madame de Remonde very handsome \. 
 is he in love with her P" "I am decidedly of that opinion." 
 •'And is his passion returned ?" "There is every reason to 
 believe it; but I have not been at Madame de R^monde's suffi- 
 ciently often to become acquainted with her real sentiments." 
 1 * I thought you said you had been there frequently with this 
 Monsieur Jenneville? " " No, madame, only once ; and although 
 Madame de Remonde has been kind enough to send me some 
 pressing invitations, she will see me but seldom, I assure you : 
 the people I met there are not suited to my habits." "Ah! 
 now, Monsieur Deligny, I must ask a favour of you ; as I do 
 not go into the world, will you have the goodness to mingle 
 in it for me and to inform me of all that is going on ? " The 
 promise was made with the greatest readiness, and we con- 
 tinued conversing for some time, but as I saw her friend would 
 not depart before me I took my leave of the ladies, promising 
 Madame Luceval to visit her again and make her acquainted 
 with the follies and passions of the world she said she had 
 i lofted aside, and the particulars of which she was so unaccounfc- 
 a bly desirous of hearing. 
 
 In the course of the ensuing fortnight I went frequently toy 
 the Rue Boucherat, and often had the gratification of finding 
 Augustine alone ; I had not advanced one step in my amours, 
 but she was on a more friendly footing with me, my visits never 
 appeared to be unwelcome, she appeared to receive me with 
 pleasure, and the tone of our conversation became much less 
 ceremonious. She made me relate to her all I saw and did in 
 society, and took so warm an interest in my actions that on 
 one occasion, enchanted with her anxiety, I quite forgot my 
 promise, and breathed some words of love. Immediately her 
 brow contracted, and she interrupted me with, " Monsieur 
 Deligny, do you wish to make me angry with you and force me 
 to deprive myself of the pleasure of your society, which I should 
 be very sorry for, as the more I see of you the more I am con- 
 vinced that I have been misled respecting you. You had been 
 
 represented to me as a wild, dissipated young man, very " 
 
 "In fact, madame, a rout, a perfect rake ? "Just so; but I 
 am happy to see you do not deserve that odious appellation." 
 "Is it not probable, madame, that this happy change i* 
 attributable to the magic influence you have exerted over me P " 
 "Whatever the cause may be, I am very pleased to find the 
 alteration has taken place, and shall always value you as a friend ; 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and bh& Lover, 1& 
 
 believe me, monsieur, that title is more enduring than that of 
 lover, for true friendship knows not inconstancy." "Nor is it 
 possible love could with you." "Alas, Monsieur Deligny, I 
 know and feel the contrary too well." She turned her head on 
 one side and wiped away a tear ; unwittingly I had again 
 recalled to her some heavy, wasting grief, and I was in despair ; 
 I swore a hundred oaths to do all she wished, to be everything 
 she liked, until she burst into ai agony of sobs, and told me that 
 one day she would let me know the whole truth of her enigma- 
 tical behaviour, and then 1 would see the importance she attached 
 to my friendship for her. At the same time, she wished me not 
 to neglect my friends, and especially not to cast off Monsieur 
 Jenneville, with whom she had heard I was so intimate that we 
 were seldom seen apart. I replied that Jenneville was now so- 
 much engaged with Madame de Remonde that we scarcely ever 
 met, and that I did not care about going to that lady's house to 
 seek him : she then observed that that was the day on which 
 Madame de R^nionde received her friends at dinner and gave 
 a soiree in the evening. The remark brought to my recollection 
 that I had a note in my pocket from the gay widow inviting me 
 to dine with her. Madame eagerly — almost impatiently — re- 
 quested to see the billet, and on my giving it to her she took it 
 with a trembling hand, read it attentively, looked at it with a 
 sorrowful expression for a considerable time— whilst I stood in 
 astonishment, totally unable to divine her motive — and then 
 returned it to me with the words, " Her writing is not so 
 exquisite as her person is said to be, nor is the diction that 
 of a polished lady." "Can you expect Literary style, madame, 
 in a common invitation to dinner >" "True, 1 really do not 
 know what I was thinking of ; but you see she expects you, 
 Monsieur Deligny ; you must go, and to-morrow you will come 
 to me and tell me how you passed your evening, what was said, 
 and who was there." "Since you desire it, madame, I will 
 go, not hoping to amuse myself, but with the consolation of 
 seeing you to-morrow as the reward for the annoyance I must 
 endure to-night." 
 
 Madame Luceval was delighted at my consenting to go to 
 Madame de Remonde' s; i could not understand the reason of 
 her joy, but it gave me the greatest possible pleasure to be able 
 to contribute to her happiness, so I promised her to return on 
 the morrow— as if it were necessary to exact such a promise 
 Irom me — and went home to dress for the dinner-party. As I 
 made my toilet, a thousand different, pleasing and distracting 
 thoughts crowded upon my mind ; it was clear that Augustine- 
 was always very pleased to see me, and yet she would not 
 permit me to talk to her of love ! She saw that I adored her, 
 that her image was indelibly impressed upon my heart, and' 
 
76 The Trtfe, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 yet — esteeming me, and free to do as she liked — she 
 "urged me to go into the giddy, fashionable world to drive 
 Liny unhappy passion from my mind ! She was aware that I 
 ■disliked Madame de R6monde, and yet I must absolutely 
 submit to her caprice by going to that lady's house ! Did she 
 wish me to be caught by Herminie's attractions, and so forget 
 my love for her ? — vain was the hope indeed, if such were her 
 intention, for the gorgeous beauty, knowledge of the world, 
 .and consummate art of Herminie could never triumph over 
 the native graces of the artless Augustine ! 
 
 At six o'clock I repaired to the ostentatious mansion in the 
 Rue Le Pelletier, and was announced, not to the furniture 
 .again, but to the glittering hostess, surrounded by half a dozen 
 men, amongst whom I recognised Jenneville and Blagnard. 
 The moment Madame de Remonde heard my name she 
 advanced towards me with uplifted hands and simulated wonder 
 in her eyes, exclaiming, "A miracle, a miracle! Monsieur 
 Deligny has deigned to honour me with his company ; I dared 
 not have anticipated such an occurrence. Surely, monsieur, 
 your visits are so few and far between that I must esteem your 
 presence an especial favour." I replied to her in the same 
 •style of inflated badinage. Blagnard pressed my hand with 
 all the fervour of long-established friendship, ' and Jenne- 
 ville reproached me for my protracted absence. "You are 
 & veritable hermit," he cried, " shutting yourself up in 
 an outlandish dreary cave ; and yet you have not been at home, 
 for whenever I have called you have invariably been out." " It 
 is shameful to neglect your friends in this manner," Blagnard 
 chimed in. "Ah, ha!" said Jenneville, "I recollect now 
 what has kept Deligny from us ; gentlemen, he is in love ! A 
 =new passion has engrossed his being ! " " Who talks of love ? " 
 squeaked out a little meagre fellow, sixty years old, at least, 
 wearing a black toupie on the top of his head, with the grey 
 tiairs, imperfectly dyed, betraying themselves below it, and who 
 •essayed the difficult task of simpering agreeably with his mouth 
 shut, because he had scarcely a tooth remaining ; " love is my 
 tforte, my stronghold, gentleman, I would have you all to know." 
 " His weakness, rather," Madame de Remonde whispered aside ; 
 "poor Breillard! he labours under the hallucination that he i& 
 still in the glow of youth ; but, my dear Monsieur Deligny, I 
 must make much of you. Oh ! fie, fie, to let the thoughts of a new 
 mistress make you forget your friends ! " "I assure you, madame, 
 I do not, in the least, understand what Jenneville means." 
 " Your discretion, monsieur, is to be admired ; I commend you 
 for it ; and yet I think Jenneville could give an excellent reason 
 
 tfor the remark he made." " Madame, I swear " " Silence, 
 
 3)eligny, silence, if you please. I have no wish to be ycur 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. VT 
 
 tonfidante; believe me, the post possesses no attractions for- 
 me." As she spoke she placed her jewelled hand softly upon* 
 my arm, and left it there for a few seconds — inadvertently, of 
 course ; then, becoming aware of the impropriety, drew it 
 quickly away, sighed almost inaudibly, and walked to another" 
 part of the saloon to do the honours to some fresh arrivals,, 
 amongst whom were Madame de St. Jullien and her ancients 
 beau, Melino. 
 
 I was pleased to see this lady, as I remembered that her; 
 manner and her conversation were equally agreeable ; but it 
 struck me as a proof of Madame de Remonde's coquetry that 
 Madame de St. Jullien was the only woman present, although- 
 the men were eight in number. Ilerminie was avaricious of 
 men's praise and adoration, and so only invited ladies who? 
 could not interfere with her conquests, but rather acted as a# 
 foil to her fair self. The door opened again, and a veiy 
 ugly woman entered. It appeared that she was the last 
 guest expected, for on her arrival dinner was served, and? 
 1 offered my hand to Madame de Union de, which she 
 accepted. As we proceeded to the dining-room, I thought- 
 she pressed my fingers gently — it might be from habit, for I 
 once knew a lady who tenderly pressed the fingers of every 
 man with whom she was acquainted, and yet she could not be- 
 in love with them all — and requested me to sit by her right 
 side at table. Thus I was in one of the seats of honour, the- 
 other, on her left, being occupied by Monsieur de Melino, from- 
 which circumstance I inferred that he was a rich man and 
 played high stakes. Jenneville, for fear of mishap, was desired 
 to take a place between old Breillard and the very ugly lady 
 whose face was like an ape's ; whilst Madame de St. Jullien 
 enjoyed the company of two foolish young men, who evidently 
 were made over to her to do with as she liked — how admirably 
 a woman of the world can arrange her company ! The only 
 remaining visitor was a thin, middle-aged man, who had the- 
 reputation of being a wit. He never spoke a word without 
 coughing previously, and then nodding and winking as if his* 
 sentences had more in them than met the eye ; but, although^ 
 the company laughed whenever he prepared to open his mouth, 
 I confess I did not hear him utter one bon-mot, or even one- 
 possible joke, the whole time we were at table. 
 
 Madame de St. Jullien laughed and talked with her young- 
 swains, Monsieur Melino busied himself with eating — his> 
 functions, apparently, were limited to taking her out and' 
 bringing her home — Blagnard discoursed to one of his neigh- 
 bours of running speculations and sales of large estates- 
 and other properties. Breillard dragged in the subject of 
 amorous intrigues at every opportunity, and threw the bread- 
 
78 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 «rust under the table because he could not chew it. The plain 
 lady next to Jenneville ate enough for half-a-dozen, her jaws 
 going with the rapidity of a monkey's, and he, poor fellow, 
 felt disgusted at his position, envying Melino's situation next 
 to Madame de Remonde. However, she did not notice the 
 deprecatory glances he threw at her, nor his sulks, and over- 
 whelmed me with attentions, as if she would make him jealous 
 and pique him to the utmost. When first we sat down I 
 remarked that Herminie's knee constantly came in contact with 
 mine, which I withdrew immediately, fearing I incommoded 
 her by being too close ; but when she found her scheme had 
 not produced any results, and pressed her foot significantly 
 upon mine, there ' could be no doubt on my mind as to her 
 amicable intentions towards myself. I was a little embarrassed, 
 for I really did not feel inclined to throw any obstacles in the 
 way of Jenneville' s success with his mistress, but as a man of 
 the world I could not avoid letting the lady perceive by a 
 glance and a slight lifting of my foot that I penetrated her 
 meaning, whereupon her knee again touched mine, and her 
 flashing eyes disclosed the ferment that was taking place 
 within. 
 
 The champagne circulated briskly with other exhilarating 
 wines, the ladies became more gay, and the men more talkative, 
 and Madame de Remonde' s looks and attentions to myself were 
 so fiery and so incessant that I feared they would arouse Jenne- 
 ville' s suspicions ; it was therefore with great delight that 1 saw 
 her give the signal to rise; and as 1 handed her back to the 
 <lrawing-room she whispered to me, with an unmistakable pres- 
 *ure of the hand, that she not only wished to see me at dinner 
 -every Monday and Friday, but that I should find her at home 
 alone every morning between eleven and one. I made her a 
 profound bow — which she could interpret in any way she liked — 
 and as she left me I fervently hoped she would not pester me 
 any more that evening. Alas, poor Jenneville ! and this was 
 the woman you adored, the severity of whose virtue you would 
 give the universe to subdue; she mocked your prayers and 
 whilst she made a fool, a tool, of you, threw herself at my feet, 
 who would have none of her. As soon as Herminie quitted me, 
 Jenneville approached and addressed a few words to her, 
 to which she replied in an imperious tone, the words, '* It 
 must be so, I will have it so," only reaching my ears; 
 *he then turned from him abruptly, and, on my walking up to 
 him, said, "My dear Deligny, why do you hide yourself from, 
 us all ? Do come here as often as you can. Herminie says 
 *he likes you uncommonly, and our extreme intimacy is an 
 additional reason why she is so glad to see you." " I am 
 very much obliged to her, Jenneville, and I will thank jou 
 
The Wife, the Husbaiid, and the Lover. 79 
 
 ~$o tell her so from me. By-the-by, you seem to be fairly 
 ^affixed to the widow now; no more inconstancy, eh?" "My 
 
 -dear fellow, can you be surprised at it ? That woman has me 
 body and soul ; I worship her. She is a little capricious now 
 and then, and will pout and fume, but she loves me deeply, 
 passionately, tenderly, and that is all-in-all to me. She has 
 £iven me undoubted proofs of her attachment. I am not rich, 
 as you know; she can have nobles, princes, for her lovers if 
 
 -she likes, and yet for me she has refused the most brilliant 
 offers, men with hundreds of thousands of pounds that they 
 would lavish on her, and, Paul, I shall soon be transported with 
 my long-looked-for bliss, for she has assured me her heart 
 
 ^shall be her only guide." The only answer I could make to 
 this rhapsody was to congratulate him on Madame de Kemonde's 
 love and constancy, for what use would there have been in 
 clispelling an illusion which made the duped man happy? 
 
 Not wishing for another tete-a-tete with the intriguing hostess, 
 I sat down to cards, endeavouring to drive away the ennui that 
 
 ^stole upon me by recollecting I was obeying the behests of 
 Augustine ; as a matter of course, I lost, because I played only 
 for amusement, whilst I was pitted against people who made 
 
 ;.gaming the business of their lives, consequently I soon was 
 rifled of all the money I could afford. That being the case, I 
 
 4eft the card-table, and took a turn through the saloons, because 
 
 * he had desired I should do so, and to be enabled to recount to 
 tier what was taking place ; it was necessary that I should make 
 
 *ome observations, if it were only upon those stale occurrences 
 which are sure to happen in all those societies where the com- 
 pany scarcely know each other. Here, then, as usual, the young 
 men crowded to the icarU tables to risk their money, and give 
 advice if it were an inexperienced player who temporarily 
 
 •occupied the seats ; the green cloths on the tables were covered 
 with gold, and by them were to be seen several vulgar, common- 
 looking people, whom you could not expect to have found in the 
 saloons of a general officer's widow, and yet who played the 
 very heaviest stakes. Monsieur Breillard was seated at what 
 was called " The little table," with some ladies, and was so 
 
 -enchanted at finding himself surrounded and petted by the fair 
 sex that he lost his money with perfect good-humour, and would 
 have staked his black toupie if he had been requested by them. 
 The would-be wit sat in a corner, isolated from the world, 
 making people believe that he was plunged in a reverie, buried 
 in thought— it was the best joke of the evening— and the ugly 
 
 -old lady with the monkey face pounced upon a mere youth, 
 and made him play with her at "Imperial." He appeared 
 
 * eady to cry, and I thought his empty pockets would teach him 
 
 -£or a long while to remember the pleasures of that ni^ht. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 Biagnard was occupied talking vehemently to Jenneville, and 
 Madame de KSmonde was fleecing Monsieur de MeUino at 
 piquet ; so as I was entirely unobserved, and it was past one- 
 o'clock, I left the room quietly, and went to bed. 
 
 When comfortably established in it, I thought of the utter- 
 difference between the time passed in the widow's sumptuous 
 saloons, and one hour with dear Augustine ; it was a relief to- 
 escape from the glare, the artifice, the hurried exclamations as the- 
 cards and dice turned up favourably or not, of the one, to the calm, 
 repose of the other, like to a tranquil summer's eve after a day 
 of fearful devastating storms. In the morning my servant 
 presented to me a letter from Ninie, requesting me to come 
 to her and give her my advice as to how she ought to behave- 
 to Adolphe, who had met her by chance and behaved very ill to- 
 iler. I put the note into my pocket, thinking I would call upon 
 her on the first opportunity, and as soon as the hour of the day 
 would allow, proceeded on the wings of love to make my report- 
 to Madame Luceval. She welcomed me with a smile, and said 
 she had waited impatiently for my arrival ; I was overjoyed to 
 hear her say so, for as it was not yet twelve o'clock, and that 
 was a very early hour to pay visits, I hailed her impatience to* 
 see me as a good augury that I was not indifferent to her, and; 
 placing my chair near hers at her own request, I held my 
 tongue until she should ask me to begin. I was closer to her 
 than as yet I had ever been, my knees almost touched hers, and 
 by extending my arms I could have clasped her waist ; I could 
 have remained for ever devouring her charms ; but she began* 
 to feel that my excited eyes were fixed upon her, and gently- 
 invited me to break my silence and begin. Thus urged, 1 said, 
 " My dear madame, the people I saw last night at Madame de- 
 R6monde's did not differ essentially from those I had met 
 before ; very few ladies, and none of them pretty ; but men 
 of all ages and stations in society." "Was Monsieur Jenne- 
 ville there?" "Certainly, there could be no necessity- 
 for asking that." "He is, then, still a slave to the lady?" 
 " More than ever." " More than ever ! I had understood he was* 
 the type of inconstancy." " Mutterers often finish by becoming: 
 
 the most faithful of men." " I agree with you ; sometimes " 
 
 (Here she dropped her head and sighed.) "Did he tell you — 
 that is — did you remark that he is very much in love with' 
 her ? " "He told me so himself." "And is adored, no doubt,, 
 in return ? " "It does not follow, madame, as I know too well,, 
 that a man who loves a woman to adoration meets with a, 
 return : I think she does not care about him." " You think — 
 but why — in .what way did she — what induces you to believe so — 
 did you remark anything particular in her behaviour to him? " 
 "No, madame/ not exactly; all I meant to say was that 
 
Tlie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 81 
 
 Madame de Remonde is fond of general admiration and that 
 -women with, that inclination are seldom susceptible of deep 
 attachment." " Too true ; then, as you did not see anything to 
 induce you to think she does not love Jenneville, you may have 
 witnessed something that leads you to believe she prefers 
 another? " 
 
 This question, coming so home to myself, took me by sur- 
 prise, as you may well believe, readers, I had no intention of 
 making Madame Luceval acquainted with the touching of feet 
 and contact of knees under the table, and her request to see 
 ine of a morning, so I contented myself with a few more 
 trifling details, concealing every particular with respect to my 
 conquest ; nor did I tell her that 1 had lost four pounds at 
 icarU entirely through my desire to furnish information to her. 
 When I had finished, she thanked me for the trouble I had 
 taken on her behalf, and inquired, in a winning tone, that 
 would have prompted me to go through fire and water for her, 
 whether I could possibly oblige her by conferring another 
 favour upon her. Forgetting our compact, and enchanted with 
 being of use to her, if only in gratifying her little whims, I 
 exclaimed — "Oh, madame, there is nothing in the world I 
 cannot, will not, do for you if you will but bless me with 
 #ie slightest hope that some day I may vanquish your in- 
 difference ; one word from you would raise me from despair to 
 the pinnacle of bliss." " Monsieur Deligny, I implore you not 
 to speak to me of love; that passion cannot exist for me." 
 "And why not? You are in the very spring-time of your 
 life ; you unite in your mind and person all that captivates and 
 retains a man." "Monsieur, monsieur, again you compel me 
 ■to recall to your memory the conditions of your reception here." 
 An impatient gesture escaped- me, both our heads were bowed 
 simultaneously on our breasts, and an unbroken silence reigned 
 ia the room for some few minutes. I believe I even began 
 tin be angry, pouted, and made ugly faces, which must have 
 materially improved my attractions in Augustine's eyes. 
 
 Presently she said, in a lighter tone, " What a morose 
 humour you are in this morning ! Do say something to amuse 
 wie and cast off the evil spirit." "Well, madame, I am at 
 your orders." " Listen then to me : you must know that I am 
 yery curious indeed, and I have long wished to know all about 
 that pretty girl who was with you that evening at the Opera." 
 I broke in at once with " Since I have had the honour of your 
 acquaintance, madame, I have not seen her." "Dear me, 
 Monsieur Deligny, it really seems that since you have had the 
 misfortune to visit me you have forgotten all your friends ! 
 JC do not think it at all amiable of you, you must not be a 
 l?«rmit or a misanthrope indeed I Why do you not meet that 
 
 F 
 
82 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 young person?" " Because — because, madame, I ha"F9 Rjfc 
 desire; those connections do not last for ever; besides, that 
 young girl did not — could not — in a word, madame, I pledge- 
 you my honour that I no longer see her." "Why do 
 you not say that the poor tiling has ceased to please 
 you ! It would be more open and manly ; however, I 
 cannot see that if she is now distasteful to you, that you should 
 quite abandon her, that you should not ascertain what sort of 
 life she is leading, whether she is industrious and happy, or 
 that her imprudence has brought her to misfortune. But sa 
 it is with all you men, hot as fire when your passions ara 
 excited, cold as ice when gratified." " Madame, I assure yo*.i 
 I do not merit your reproaches ; that girl has a trade, she is a 
 fringe- worker." " 1 know it," was the cool reply. "You 
 know it, madame ?" "Aye, and more. Nay, do uot stare so^ 
 I know her name is Fanny, although she chooses to be called 
 Ninie." "Heaven and earth! madame; is it possible you 
 
 can interest yourself ?" " Oh, monsieur, often, very often, I 
 
 am obliged to know things of which I would give millions to 
 be ignorant ; I could have laughed in your face when you told 
 me she was a young lady from the country." " For pity, 
 madame, do not mention that lie of mine again. But I am 
 struck with amazement to tliink— — -" "Ah, monsieur, that is 
 my enigma, my secret." "May I take the liberty of 
 asking, madame, whether you know the young person?" 
 *<I have never spoken one word to her." "Perhaps, as 
 you seem to penetrate my inmost secrets, you are aware: 
 that I have received a letter from her this morning ? " 
 " I am not, indeed. What does she say in it P " " She wishes 
 me to go and see her." " Sne loves you still, then ? " " On the 
 contrary, she wishes my advice about a lover whom she knew 
 before me, and of whom she never ceases to think." " Indeed I 
 and yet she threw him off for you?" "Not so; he had 
 abandoned her." " Did you know who he was ? " " No, 
 madame, she merely called him Adolphe. Excuse me, 
 madame, if I remark that the intrigues of Ninie interest you 
 more than I could have expected." "They interest me, 
 Monsieur Deligny, infinitely more than you can suppose, and: 
 I feel that my curiosity must appear inexplicable to you, but 
 a friend ought to be indulgent, and I am sure you will be to 
 me. Have you the girl's letter in your pocket ? Show it to- 
 me, I beg ; at least, if it does not contain any expression or 
 proposition I ought not to see." 
 
 1 felt great reluctance at producing the specimen of Ninie'&> 
 handwriting and orthography, but I could refuse Augustine 
 nothing, so I presented the note to her, which she took and 
 read with the same avidity as she did that of Madame d& 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 83" 
 
 E&nonde, and then gave back to me, observing, with marked 
 pronunciation, that I must visit the poor girl who placed 
 bo much confidence in me. It was in vain I represented 
 to her that if a man were to listen to the complaints of 
 every deserted damsel he would have enough to do, and that I 
 was "at a loss to conceive why she would have me visit all th* 
 women who wrote letters to me ; she replied to the latter obser- 
 vation that some day soon she would tell me all, that men had 
 no pity or the least feeling for the woman they had ruined and 
 then left ; that she burned to know who this Adolphe was, and 
 how he had behaved ill to Ninie ; and concluded by desiring the 
 servant to show me to the door, stating that as it was only two 
 in the afternoon I could see Ninie before dinner, and she would 
 be glad to receive me in the evening to hear the result of my 
 extraordinary visit. 
 
 As I walked towards the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher I could not 
 avoid reflecting on the very singular mystery that attached to 
 the proceedings of Madame Luceval. Firstly, she said she 
 could never love, and yet every day of her life she received the 
 visits of a young man who told her, and truly, that he adored 
 her : secondly, she forbade him ever to mention his passion for 
 her, and nevertheless almost implored him to come to her every 
 evening : thirdly, she could not hold out to him the slightest 
 hopes of reciprocating his love, but insisted upon knowing all 
 he did and how he passed every moment of his time; and 
 lastly, would read every billet he received from the women who 
 wrote to him : from all of which I deduced that she must love me, 
 although, at present, she would not acknowledge it ; and then I 
 resolved that, come what would, I would soon compel her to 
 disclose her sentiments. When I ascended the stairs of the 
 house where Ninie lodged, they seemed to me more dirty than 
 ever, and I trusted that I might find her at home without the 
 company of the veteran washerwomen, Mesdarues Ballu and 
 Mattoux, whose gossip I had not the least inclination to listen^ 
 to. Fortunately, Ninie was at home and alone : she uttered an 
 exclamation of pleasure at seeing me, at the same time com- 
 plaining that I had entirely forgotten her, and that it required 
 a letter to brin^ me to her." "Sit down, Monsieur Paul," 
 the poor girl said, " whilst I find you a chair without any work 
 upon it. Formerly when all the chairs were full, you know you 
 were always contented to sit upon the bed. Ah, me I things 
 are not with us as they used to be I " "I will sit there again, 
 Ninie, to please you ; and now, since my time is not my own, 
 tell me what it is you wrote to me to speak about? " Whilst 
 she busied herself in wiping the dust from a chair, I looked 
 at her and saw she had been weeping ; the sight of her grief 
 brought back some of my old feelings for her, and drawing her 
 
*84 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 to me, I asked her kindly what was the matter with her." 
 "Ah, Paul," she replied, "you see that I have been crying", 
 unfortunately for me I cry often now." " And why ? Tell me 
 -all your woes ; believe me, I will relieve them if it be possible, 
 for although it is a long time since I came to see you, I assure 
 you I am no less your real friend. I cannot tell, Paul, what I 
 cry for, unless it is thinking of you and of Adolphe." " Adolphe, 
 most likely ; you wrote to me he had behaved ill to you. What 
 has he done ?" "Well, then, in the first place, you know 1 
 told you that he said he was going to England on business, and 
 that when he came back perhaps he would marry me." " Yes, 
 but those promises always go for nothing." "Oh! but then 
 he was the first lover I ever had, and he took me away from 
 my aunt, in fact, seduced me." " But you were quite ready to be 
 run away with, and did not make very many objections, I sup- 
 pose?" "No matter, he seduced me, and Charlotte always 
 i;old me that the first man who — who — seduced a girl, ought to 
 be kind to her, and never forget her." "Charlotte, my dear 
 ^girl, has told you several things that you had far better never 
 have heard, but I agree with her that men ought to think 
 kindly and carefully of those they have led astray. But tell me 
 the particulars of Adolphe' s bad behaviour." " You see, Paul, 
 ^some weeks ago — the evening before that I saw you in the Rue 
 Boucherat — as I was going down the Rue des Petits-Champs 
 to fetch some work, I met Adolphe with a fine lady in 
 tt hat and feathers leaning on his arm. Oh! what a 
 turn it gave me, as I thought, of course, that he was far away 
 in England. Well, I stood still for a long time, for I could 
 €iot move a foot, and looked him full in the face, but he 
 -walked on and did not take any notice of me, and as soon as 
 I had power to move, I went back home, and told Charlotte 
 all that had taken place. She said to me that Adolphe was 
 a perfidious monster, and I was a stupid fool, and that I ought 
 to have run after him in the streets, and threatened him I 
 would tell his relations what he had done unless he took apart- 
 ments and furnished them handsomely for me." "Again I 
 tell you, Ninie, that wretch Charlotte will be your ruin ; she 
 is positively your evil genius." "Oh, Paul, I did not listen 
 to her, for I know I am incapable of getting up scenes in the 
 streets, in my own room, or anywhere else ; but for all that I 
 was very vexed with myself for not following Adolphe to find 
 •out where he lived, and whether he was married to the lady 
 who was walking with him. Well, some days went by, and 
 J kept hoping that he would come and see me now that he 
 was in Paris, but he never came a-nigh, and one day when I 
 ^happened to be out I met him again on the Place des Victoires. 
 He was alone ; and when he saw me he walked swiftly away, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 85* 
 
 but I overtook him, and touched him on the arm, and said I 
 was very glad to see he had returned from England, and 
 wondered he had not been near my room. He turned red in 
 the face, and said quite angrily that he did* not like to be- 
 stopped and talked to in the street ; and then he said I must 
 pretend not to know him whenever I might see him ; that if 
 he had once taken a fancy for me it was all ended now, and 
 that he would not suffer me to annoy him any more, for he 
 haa only said he was going to England to get rid of me, as I 
 might have Known, and if ever I dared: to speak to him again 
 in the street (here she wiped the tears from her eyes and 
 sobbed) he would treat me as a girl of my sort ought to be 
 treated. Then he hurried off, and my heart was so full I 
 couldn't speak. Well, when I got a little better I went to 
 Charlotte again$ and she called me a stupid fool again, and said 
 1 ought to have scratched his face, so that the marks would 
 have remained ever so long, and — and — and ever since then, 
 Paul, I have done nothing else but cry all day ; he never spoke- 
 to me like that before. Girls of my sort ; what sort am I, I 
 wonder, that I should be treated so by him?'* " Ninie, 
 Adolphe behaved infamously ill, the least he could have 
 done would have been to tell you kindly that you 
 could not be lovers any longer." "Yes, indeed, he might;, 
 when you told me, Paul, you didn't love me, you didn't 
 speak like that." "The best thing you can do, Ninie, is to 
 foro-et him. You will soon find another lover to console you for 
 his loss."* 
 
 The poor girl began to weep afresh, protesting that she did not 
 care a button for Adolphe now, and yet dwelling upon his:- 
 behaviour to her in the street : now I never could bear to see a 
 woman cry, and the sight of Ninie grieving so bitterly cut me 
 to the heart ; I took her in my arms, did all I could to console 
 her, wiped away her tears, kissed her eyes, she left off crying, 
 even smiled upon me, and somehow or other we found ourselves, 
 upon the bed we used to sit upon together in the first days of 
 our love — when the chairs were all engaged. When her calm- 
 ness had entirely returned, and I had agreed to come and see her - 
 constantly if she would give up Charlotte, and she had promised 
 me that she would concede to my wishes, work hard all the week 
 and only go out on Sundays ; I asked her if by chance she 
 knew a lady named Luceval, in the Rue Boucherat. She replied 
 in the negative, to my great surprise, and having added a few 
 mo re consolatory phrases, I embraced her and went my way, 
 reflecting that a man might yield to temporary feminine- 
 temptation without being false to his own love. 
 
 In the evening I related to Augustine as much of the par- 
 ticulars of the visit to Ninie as propriety would allow, which: 
 
€6 The Wife, the Husband, and tlie Lover. 
 
 she heard to an end with the greatest attention, and then 
 blamed Adolphe severely for heartlessly abandoning a girl who 
 had sacrificed her all for him. I could not understand what 
 interest she could take in this Monsieur Adolphe, whom I did 
 not know, more than why she would force me into the company 
 of other women ; but as she thanked me with a smile that went 
 to my heart, I felt I was bounden to obey her behests, be 
 they what they might, and left her house in ecstasy, because, 
 in taking her leave she had called me Deligny, alone, without 
 prefixing the formal, conventional Monsieur to my name. 
 
The Wife, the Husband-, and the Lover. BT 
 
 CHAPTER XDDL 
 
 THE VILLAGE BALL AT AUTEUIL. 
 
 Bbight May had come again in all its verdant freshness ; th* 
 trees and shrubs resumed their verdant livery, and the meadows 
 were bedecked with golden butter-cups and daisies pied. My 
 father had written to me several times pressing me to come to 
 Ohartres ; and although I had replied tjiat I should soon be with 
 him, yet Paris held me still, for I could not tear myself, even 
 tor a day, from the presence of the woman I adored. Ah, me ! 
 I felt the force of the British poet's celebrated line, " The 
 course of true love never did run smooth." Mine was no 
 exception to the general rule, for I had evidently made no pro- 
 gress in Augustine's heart, nor had she held out to me the 
 slightest hope I ever should. And yet nothing could exceed her 
 kindness to me. There could be no doubt that my visits gave 
 her pleasure, for she always received me with a glad smile of 
 welcome, and as we talked together all those cold ceremonials, . 
 those icy formalities, those conventialities which chill the heart, . 
 •were cast aside, and occasionally she mingled with her discourse 
 some brief words of friendship, a look, a sigh, that made my 
 heart dance within my breast, and rekindled the dying embers 
 of my hopes. Thus it was that 1 went to Madame Luceval 
 every day, and could not make up my mind to leave her. 
 
 From my constant attendance upon Augustine, I had 
 ascertained that the only company she received were Juliette 
 and the elderly lady I had seen with her at the opera ; indeed, 
 the latter came but rarely. I, therefore, was the only male, 
 and proud enough I was of the t distinguished preference. 
 Sometimes, it is true, she appeared to dread the comments of 
 the world upon my frequent visits to her, but that feeling never- 
 occupied her long, and she would resume her usual tranquillity 
 with the observation — that by this time she must be forgotten, 
 and she saw no reason why she should give up the gratification: 
 she derived from the company of myself and her two faithful 
 female friends for fear of the remarks of a crowd of ignorant, 
 presumptuous fools, who spied out evil in the most trivial 
 actions because back-biting and scandal gave a more piquant 
 flavour to their conversation, "No," she said, "I will not 
 heed the censure of the so-called ' world ' ; come to me, 
 Deligny, as often as you please ; the opinions of the mob hav@ 
 
88 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 no influence on me, for I have seen them often so totally 
 erroneous in their judgments that I attach no importance to 
 them." 
 
 Thus it was that T found my way daily to the Rue Boucherat, 
 but only on condition that I should still go into society, and 
 retail my information to the fair recluse. Sometimes, indeed, 
 I concealed the whole truth, nor did I tell her that I had not 
 been to Madame do R6nionde's since the day I dined there; 
 however, I met that lady one evening at the opera with Jenne- 
 ville, when she bowed haughtily in acknowledgment of my 
 profound salute, and then would not deign to take any further 
 notice of me. There could not be any doubt as to what this 
 change in her behaviour to me was to be attributed ; I had 
 incurred her anger by failing to respond to the amorous 
 advances she had made — for that is the heaviest offence a 
 woman recognises, and one she never will forgive. How 
 strange it would be if men were to hate all the women they 
 have made love to, and from whom they have not gained the 
 delightful favours that they sought! It is true that it is a 
 man's business to make love, and a woman's to hear it made, 
 and that may account for the difference of feeling in the sexes. 
 
 At this time the deep-rooted sentiments I entertained towards 
 the fascinating Madame Luceval caused me occasionally to 
 reflect seriously upon my real position. I thought that as I 
 adored her, and as she was a widow, perfectly free from the 
 control of any relative, and with an independent income, if I 
 could gain a decided interest in her heart, the natural conse- 
 quence would be that I should ask her hand in marriage. Every 
 feeling that burned within me, the sensations of my heart, the 
 judgment of my brain, told me that the present was no childish, 
 no frivolous attachment, none of those hot-headed deliriums 
 which seek sensualities alone, and which evaporate as soon as 
 the proper passions have been gratified, but a calm steady pre- 
 ference, which taught me to think the summit of human happi- 
 ness consisted in living for Augustine alone, and calling her my 
 wife. Nevertheless, some difficulty might arise from the 
 marked difference of our fortunes. From a few casual words she 
 had let drop, I inferred that she was in very comfortable circum- 
 stances, and might have about six hundred pounds a year, whilst 
 hardly one-fourth of that amount remained to me of the sum my 
 father had made over to me on my mother's death. What 
 made it worse was that I could not economize ; if I went ta 
 evening parties to please Madame Luceval, I invariably lost my 
 money, and my stock diminished gradually, without my being ■ 
 able to discover any method of augmenting it. The consequence 
 was, I began to conceive, that should I at last enjo}' the 
 ^unspeakable happiness of being beloved by Madame Luceval, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 89 
 
 ehe "would conclude I had an interested motive in seeking the 
 honour of her hand; and even if she should not, my pride 
 would be affronted at my not being able to offer to her all those 
 solid pleasures to which her age and rank entitled her, for as to 
 noisy, empty show and dissipation, they entered not into her 
 mind. 
 
 How unfortunate it was for me that I did not meet Augustine 
 on my taking up my residence in Paris ; if I had, certainly in 
 thinking of her comfort &s my future wife, I should not have 
 recklessly thrown away two-thirds of my fortune ; but there 
 was no use in grieving for that which was irrevocably gone ; the 
 evil was committed, and the only mode of acting which remained 
 was to repair it, if possible. Pondering over scheme after scheme, 
 and building castles in the air, which were overthrown as speedily 
 as erected, suddenly I recollected Monsieur Blagnard, the man 
 who had the happy knack of making a fortune in a rapid manner 
 hitherto unknown, and I regretted not having allied myself 
 more closely with him instead of repulsing his friendship, in 
 which case my capital might have been quadrupled by this time. 
 Occasionally these thoughts came over me in Madame Luceval's 
 company and obscured my brow, and when she asked what was 
 the matter with me and sought to dispel my sadness, I felt 
 ashamed to acknowledge to her that the want of money consti- 
 tuted a great portion of my uneasiness. Oh, how I cursed my 
 follies ! 
 
 One morning I made up my mind to make a great effort to 
 retrieve my dilapidated fortunes, and went to Jenneville's apart- 
 ments at nine o'clock to consult him as to how I should proceed. 
 To my great surprise he was dressing for the day. On my 
 remarking that he was going out at an unusually early hour, he 
 replied that he had an appointment with Blagnard on very 
 important business. Lately money had fled from his grasp like 
 water, so he was about to place five thousand pounds in the specu- 
 lator' s hands, with the certainty it would be doubled within a 
 year. This was the very thing I wanted; nothing could be 
 more opportune than my meeting with Jenneville, and on my 
 representing to him that my object in coming there was to 
 talk with him as to the best method of recruiting my finances, 
 he proposed that I should accompany him to Blagnard' s rooms 
 at once. We jumped into Jenneville's cabriolet, which was 
 in waiting, and were soon at the capitalist's splendid apart- 
 ments in the fashionable Rue d'Antin. He received us very 
 politely, and, on Jenneville explaining the business on which 
 I had come, said he should be most happy to assist me in any 
 way he could. Blagnard then took several bundles of papers 
 tied with red tape from a round table pierced for drawers, 
 looked at some rough notes he had written carelessly down,. 
 
90 The Wife, tht Husband t and the Lover. 
 
 inspected a few of the papers, made some calculations in 
 figures with pen and ink, and then commenced a jargon about 
 mortgages, bills overdue, assignments, and well-secured debts 
 that were in the market for sale at a ridiculously cheap price, 
 and which— he had the best informations-would be paid off 
 very soon, and return excellent interest for the capital invested. 
 Jenneville told him that neither of us understood anything 
 about business ; all we wanted was to make money, and if he 
 would do us the favour to lay out our funds, we would place our- 
 selves entirely in his hands, and be much obliged to him to boot. 
 Blagnard said he did not want funds to complete the purchase, 
 but to oblige me he would let me have a share in the specu- 
 lation to the amount of three thousand five hundred pounds. 
 Notwithstanding Jenneville' s confidence in Blagnard, I reflected 
 that the sum proposed reached nearly the whole of my 
 remaining property, and as I was less expensive at the present 
 moment than my friend, and consequently less eager to gain 
 money, I offered to put my name down on Blagnard' s list for 
 only fifteen hundred pounds, being, in my opinion, quite enough 
 for a first venture. My offer was accepted, the preliminaries 
 for the speculation were duly arranged, and I promised to get 
 the money from my solicitor in the evening and bring it to 
 Blagnard on the following morning, after which we sat down 
 to a sumptuous dejeuner. 
 
 Whilst Jenneville and myself were enjoying the good things 
 on the table, with the additional zest created by the pleasurable 
 anticipation of gaining respectively large sums of money, he 
 addressed me with a smile upon his countenance and inquired how 
 my love affair progressed. I sighed, shook my head, and helc 1 
 my tongue, knowing that these devoted sons of pleasure would 
 not give me credit for the honourable innocence of my attach- 
 ment. However, Jenneville would not be put off, and said she 
 must be a miracle of beauty and discretion to keep me at her 
 apron-string for upwards of two months without crowning my 
 affection with the possession of her lovely person. 1 1 Gentlemen, ' ' 
 I replied, " what would you say if I were to tell you that although 
 I have been to this lady's house every day for the time Jenne- 
 ville has stated, and that she has received me kindly, indeed 
 affectionately, I have not obtained a single favour from her ?'" 
 "I should not believe you," Blagnard cried. "Nor I," said 
 -Jenneville, " you who were so quick in reducing the dear pretty 
 -obstinate creatures to your will." "Yes, Jenneville, those in- 
 trigues where the heart was not concerned ; they are generally 
 brought to a speedy termination." "Now, you do not mean 
 to say, Deligny, that you entertain a platonic attachment for 
 this lady ? " "If yon could but see her ! " " She's a coquette 
 -who makes a fool of you." "No; were she so, I could not 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 91 
 
 love her as I do." " Well, well, Paul, no doubt you will succeed 
 ut last with your Lucretia. Look at Herminie, she was 
 unapproachable ; but I said to myself, I will subdue this superb 
 woman, and I did ; although I am uncommonly jealous of her, I 
 do declare." :l No doubt." "I tell you what it is, Paul Deligny, 
 when such men as you and I are determined to succeed with 
 women, we never fail." " My dear fellow, 1 am aware I do not 
 possess your powers of captivation, and so mistrust myself." 
 " Ah, ah ! if I were acquainted with your belle, I would court her 
 in another fashion." I could not help smiling at Jenneville's 
 vanity thinking no woman could resist him after his conquest of 
 Madame de Remonde. But to compare that woman with my 
 Augustine ! what audacity, what profanity in the very thought ! 
 
 When the hour at which Blagnard went "Upon Change" 
 -arrived, he took a polite leave of us, making an appointment 
 tor the next day, and I went to my solicitor's office to procure 
 the fifteen hundred pounds that Vere to put me on my legs 
 again : that affair being summarily disposed of, I proceeded to 
 pay my morning visit to Madame Luceval, and chatted with her 
 for some time, keeping back, however, the circumstance of the 
 dejeuner in the Rue d'Antin, and the arrangement with Blag- 
 nard, for I had no desire she should think me the embarrassed 
 man I really was. The following day I put the Bank 
 notes for the fifteen hundred pounds in my pocket and took 
 them to Blagnard ; but in spite of myself, a secret apprehension 
 and doubt of the prudence of the step would intrude ujJbn 
 my mind, and I felt nervous and agitated as I placed the money in 
 his hands, whilst Jenneville threw down more than three times 
 the amount upon the table with a reckless air. Blagnard swept 
 the money into a small canvas bag, which he deposited in a 
 secritaire, wrote out for us the docketed numbers of the bonds 
 he had taken, as our security, guve us a written undertaking on 
 his own account, to pay twelve per cent, for the use of the 
 money, and the affair was at an end. I trembled slightly as 
 the Bank notes and sovereigns disappeared, but I recollected 
 that a man who kept; horses, a close carriage, and a cabriolet, 
 who lived in such superb apartments, and gave such expensive 
 dinners, must be an adept in gaining enormous sums of money, 
 so I took heart of grace, and trusted for the very happiest 
 results. 
 
 On leaving Blagnard, Jenneville and I walked a little 
 way on our road together, and as we parted he proposed to me 
 to make one of a party to the village of Auteuil on the next 
 day ; there would be a fete-champitre, the opening ball of the 
 season on the grass plot, would take place, and although the 
 woods were not yet thickly covered with leaves, Madame de 
 R6monde had arranged to pass the afternoon there, with a few 
 
9S TJie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 of her very select acquaintance. Not desiring to see Hermmie* 
 again, I thanked Jenneville for the invitation, but declined it. 
 As I walked towards Madame Luceval's I continued to plague 
 myself about the fifteen hundred pounds, and it was only in 
 her presence that they were entirely forgotten by me. Taking 
 a chair by her side, and having resolved to make another 
 attempt, at all hazards, to disarm her severity, I gently lifted 
 one of her hands, pressing it tenderly in mine. Seeing that 
 she abandoned it to me unreservedly for a few seconds, and 
 thinking I could discern a slight tremulousness, if not a 
 pressure of my own, I made a motion as if to convey it to my 
 lips, when she drew it quickly back, crying, "What are you 
 about doing, Monsieur Deligny ? No gentleman ever kisses 
 his friend's hand." "Madame," I replied, "you are much 
 more than a friend to me ; I implore you to treat my passion 
 less unkindly ; it is impossible to rest near you in cool indif- 
 ference, and I feel I must speak to you of my unutterable love." 
 "In that case, Monsieur Deligny, I must forbid your visits to 
 this house." " The privation, madame, would be slight indeed 
 to you." "You are unjust, monsieur. Surely you do not 
 doubt my friendship for you." "No, madame, but I would 
 die to inspire you with a more tender feeling. Can such 
 a thing as calm, platonic friendsip exist between a man 
 of twenty-seven years of age, and a charming woman not yet 
 twenty-three ; friendship is for people of fifty : not for such as 
 you and me. Are you not free, your own mistress ? Yes, it is 
 clear, then, you would not treat me in this cruel manner if I 
 were not hateful to you. You sigh, madame ; in pity, answer 
 me." " Some day, Deligny, you shall know all, and then your 
 kind heart will bleed for me. (Her handkerchief was- 
 raised to her eyes again.) But let us change the subject. 
 How are all your friends? you do not tell me of them now." 
 " They are hateful to me, madame ; I am sick and tired of the 
 world, society is dull and wearisome to me. I only breathe and 
 live near you." " You must not neglect those who esteem and 
 love you." " What care I, madame, for the love of all the world, 
 so that I cannot raise a passion in your breast ? Woe is me ! 
 My love is fixed upon a lady who cannot even bear me." " Not 
 bear you! H so, would she receive your visits every day ? " 
 " 'Tis from mere compassion." "My dear Deligny, do not 
 worry yourself in this absurd wa^ ; go into the world, and tear 
 this ridiculous passion from your heart. The country season 
 has now set in, and I make no doubt that Madame de 
 B.6monde will get up many very agreeable excursions." 
 "Perhaps she may, madame, but most certainly I shall 
 not make my appearance in her train ; I have already refused 
 an invitation from her and Jenneville for to-morrow." 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Zover. 93 
 
 "'Indeed! Where are they going ?" " To Auteuil." "Is it 
 aiot the annual village fete? " "I believe it is, madame." 
 "And yo* have refused to go?" "I have, indeed." 
 "Deligny, you "will much oblige me by going there." I 
 ■shook my head, but as Augustine did not insist upon my accom- 
 panying Herminie, the subject soon was dropped. 
 
 On taking my leave in the evening, Madame Luceval told 
 me she would pass the following day with Juliette, in order 
 to fulfil a long-made promise, and therefore she would not give 
 me the trouble of coming to her house, but on the following 
 day she hoped to see me. The word "hoped" recalled me to 
 the life that had well-nigh fleeted from me when she told 
 me I must forbear seeing her even for a single day, although 
 I felt that the tedious hours would never pass away, for I was 
 ^iow so accustomed to see her and be with her that I was 
 miserable when out of her sight, and yet I experienced the 
 torments of Tantalas whilst sitting by her forbidden to utter 
 one single word of love. 
 
 The following morning the sun shone brightly at its rising, 
 and gave every appearance of a lovely day ; dull and heavy 
 indeed, I thought, to me. It was a grave question with me 
 how I should pass the time ; walking alone all day on the hot 
 pavement was not a peculiarly agreeable occupation. The 
 wood of Auteuil, encumbered with Madame de R&monde, would 
 be better than that ; so I thought I would look in upon little 
 Ninie, but she was not at home, and as a last resource I pro- 
 ceeded to Dubois' apartments in the Rue de la Lune, with the 
 amiable intention of compelling him to amuse me. When I 
 arrived there I was informed that he had left some time, and 
 lived now in the Rue Lion St. Sauveur. I walked on, and ring- 
 ing at the number pointed out to me, was told he had removed 
 to the Rue Godot de Moroy in the neighbourhood of the 
 Madelaine. What could induce the man to change his residence 
 so often I could not think. It was a considerable distance to 
 the part of the town, the portress told me, but a hack cabriolet 
 speedily conveyed me there, when, judge of my surprise at 
 receiving an answer to my inquiry for him to the effect that he 
 had removed a fortnight ago, and was most likely to be found in 
 the Cour des Harlay, near the Pont Neuf, at least another 
 mile and a half off. The devil take the wandering fool, I 
 thought, it is quite enough to have been hunting for him half 
 over Paris without going there to seek him; but as I was 
 returning to my apartments in an abominable temper I ran 
 against the very man himself near the Chinese Baths, on the 
 Boulevard. The moment he saw me he bawled out, " My dear 
 fellow, I have just come from your rooms." " And I have just 
 left the third set I have been inquiring at for you ; it appears 
 
94 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 to me you change your lodgings every week." "To tell yotu 
 the truth, I'm very fond of doing so ; one is always sure to* 
 make fresh female acquaintances. There are sure to be neigh- 
 bours, you know, and in asking to be allowed to light your 
 candle when you come home because your tinder is so very 
 bad, a fresh, pretty, little girl is to be picked up now and 
 then." " Ah, ha ! I suppose you have left the polisher then r " 
 " Just fourteen more since her." " Pray what might you have 
 done with your Egyptian mistress. Zenobie ? " " Handed her 
 over to a wine-merchant's traveller ; she was quite satisfied with 
 the change. But tell me, old fellow, how do you get on with 
 the lady you used to follow like a spaniel dog ? Now what do 
 you sigh f or ? " " Dubois, I am anything but happy j if I were 
 to tell you that I have made no further progress in the affections 
 of that angelic woman than the first day I saw her, what would 
 you think of me?" "That you ought to be locked up in a. 
 mad-house immediately ; and yet you go often to her house? " 
 " Yes ; and I adore her." " The fact is, friend Paul, you didn't- 
 go the right way to work ; on the first visit you ought to have- 
 pulled her about a bit — delicately, you know— and seen what 
 stuff she was made off." "And been very properly kicked 
 downstairs for my pains." "I wager not; "women like bold, 
 enterprising men." " You judge all of them by your milliners 
 and your silver-polishers." "Not so, Paul, in faith ; I have- 
 often met with more resistance under a cap-frill than under a 
 hat with a blonde veil." " Well, talk no more of that. What 
 are you going to do with yourself to-day? " "Really, I cant 
 tell ; by-the-bye, let us go to Auteuil to dine.; there is to be a 
 ball where we can have plenty of dust, and a score or so of rustic 
 beauties. Auteuil beats all the villages round Paris for real 
 fun." 
 
 Recollecting that Augustine wished me to go, I acceded, 
 to Dubois' proposition at the risk of off ending Jennevklle by 
 having refused his invitation, stipulating that we should dine in 
 Paris, and only repair to the ball in the evening, because although 
 there was an excellent tavern in the village, it was always 
 so crowded on fete days that it was doubtful whether we should 
 rind accommodation. After having dined, we got into a cabriolet 
 and drove to Auteuil, where we found numbers of pretty 
 women, some from Paris, but mostly peasants from the hamlets 
 in the vicinity. No sooner were we amongst the dancers than 
 Dubois declared his intention of making love to someone or 
 other, and ran off after a knot of lusty country women, who were 
 directing their steps towards the lake, swearing that I might 
 have my choice of them, that we would offer to treat them t©> 
 rides -behind us upon donkeys, which produced a very agreeable 
 sensation when t**e animals trotted and the women clasped you* 
 
The Wife, the Hushand, and the Lover. 95 
 
 tightly round the waist to avoid falling off ; but I refused to 
 yield to his seductions, and as he would not desist from 
 pursuing the peasants, I returned to the spot where the good 
 folks were dancing, and soon fell in with Ninie, who had come 
 out for a holiday with Louisa and her aunt. Declining the 
 honour of leading her down a country dance, which she 
 solicited, I commenced a general inspection of the company, 
 and soon perceived Madame de Remonde attended by Jenne- 
 ville and some other gentlemen. Jenneville expressed his 
 surprise at seeing me, after my refusing yesterday to make 
 one of the party, and Herminie remarked with a disdainful air 
 that perhaps I had found more attractive friends, to which I 
 replied that on the previous day I thought I should not have 
 been able to o ive Paris from pressure of business ; but having 
 concluded it much earlier than at first appeared likely, I had 
 come to Auteuil to enjoy the freshness of the evening. Her- 
 minie hardly listened to my apology, but turned her eyes 
 another way as if my presence were displeasing to her, so after 
 exchanging a few sentences with Jenneville, I bowed naughtily 
 to the offended beauty and turned away, intending to gain a 
 thicket in which I could hear from the giggling screams of the 
 women and the loud cries of Dubois that he had engaged his 
 fair shepherdesses in the classical game of ' ' Puss-in-the- 
 Corner," when Ninie, pale and trembling so that she could 
 scarcely stand or speak, laid her hand upon my arm.. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Ninie," I said, as she drew 
 me towards the dancers; "are you ill?" "No, no, Paul; 
 but I have seen him — Adolphe ; he's there — Adolphe." " Well, 
 well, do not tremble so, there's a good girl ; show him to me." 
 "You know him, Paul, you have just been speaking to him." 
 " I, Ninie 1 " " Yes ; see, he's sitting by that lady in the hat with 
 the plume of feathers and the rose-coloured satin dress." " Is 
 it possible — can it be?" "That lady was with him when I 
 met him in the street. I can't stay here for fear he should see 
 me, and treat me, as he said he would, like a girl of my sort. 
 Oh, Paul, dear ! if he should make a noise and there should be 
 a scene, do defend me ; take my part, do ! " " Calm yourself, 
 Ninie, and be easy ; no harm shall come to you, I swear. Do not 
 tremble so, ten to one if he sees you, and if he should, I am 
 sure, occupied as he is now, he will not take any notice of you. 
 But do not look at him." At this moment Jenneville rose from 
 the bench on which he had been sitting and Ninie ran away to 
 escape from being seen. My friend approached me, pale also, 
 and in a state of great excitement. "Deligny," he said; "by 
 the most infernal mischance I have just seen my wife." " Your 
 wife, Jenneville, what can she be doing here ? " "I know not ; 
 but it was her ; I recognised her directly, although she has on a 
 
96 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 large bonnet with a veil, and strove 10 conceal herself .?hile 
 she played the spy upon Herminie and me. It is perfectly 
 indifferent to me for what purpose she is here, whether it be 
 to find a new lover or what not ; but I must show her to you 
 that you may know her again if ever you should meet her, and 
 so defeat her tricks. This way she went, there was one of her 
 female friends with her whom I know too ; they must be some- 
 where hereabouts beneath these trees." 
 
 Jenneville drew me along, and my heart — I know not why — 
 beat more rapidly at the thought of becoming acquainted with 
 the person of his wife. Presently he stopped, pointed to two 
 ladies who, at that instant, came from behind the trunk of a tall, 
 thick tree, and exclaimed, ' ' There, Paul, there ; that one in 
 the large straw bonnet; now you can see her face distinctly." 
 I looked earnestly, and stood like a statue, for, in the wife of 
 Jenneville, I recognised my adored, my lovely Augustine X 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE BEVELATION. 
 
 Augustine and her friend vanished from my sight before I 
 recovered sufficiently from my surprise to be able to utter a 
 word. Jenneville, surprised at my silence, turned towards me, 
 and thought from the trembling of my limbs and the pallor that 
 overspread my countenance that I was taken seriously ill. I 
 assured him that it was only a spasm that would quickly pass 
 away, and, having recovered my equanimity and partially 
 regained that strength which fled entirely from me at behold- 
 ing the soi-disant Madame Luceval, Jenneville left me to go and 
 dance with Herminie. Freed from his searching looks, in 
 which there seemed to lurk a suspicion that I was acquainted 
 with his wife, I breathed more freely, and reflected on the 
 wonderful singularity of the events that had befallen me during 
 the last three months. Augustine was Jenneville' s wife ! The 
 darkness was dispelled, the mystery was explained, her in- 
 explicable behaviour to me was at once cleared up. In an 
 instant I perceived the reason why she had received my visits, 
 why she had constantly questioned me about Ninie, Madame 
 de R&nonde, and all the society into which I went. It 
 was clear her only object had been to ascertain how her 
 faithless husband was engaged, what intrigues occupied his 
 attention, on what worthless women he threw away his means ; 
 and as the fatal truth burst in upon me, my dream of happiness 
 was dispelled for ever, and my heart felt like lead within my 
 breast. Great heaven ! I had thought the esteem she possessed 
 for me might ripen into love ; and now it was apparent that 
 she had admitted my visits merely to make me the instrument 
 of obtaining information with respect to Jenneville. The letters 
 from the women, too, that she would see ! Ah ! she knew that 
 Ninie had been his mistress, and that Herminie engrossed his 
 every thought. Yes, all was explained, and I was hurled from 
 the anticipation of an earthly paradise to the depths of fell 
 despair. Oh, horrible! * 
 Heedless, almost unconscious of what was going on, I walked 
 " amidst the people looking at the dancers, elbowing and pushing 
 all who came in my way, without the least respect to persons. 
 The Parisians grumbled and swore, the country people 
 called names and threatened me. What of that ? Nothing 
 
 G 
 
98 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 disturbed me. The thought that she did not love me, 
 had played upon me, used me as her tool, alone occupied 
 my breast. In the extremity of my rage I called her 
 "ungrateful, perfidious"; had I any right to do so ? "No! 
 she had not said she loved me, nor even given the slightest 
 hope she ever would ; on the contrary, she had expressly 
 forbidden me to name the word ; but then to permit me to 
 come to her every day and not inform me she was Jenneville's 
 wife ! That was deception — bad ; so bad that I could never 
 pardon it. And wherefore should I ? There were thousands 
 of other equally lovely and less cunning women in the world who 
 would repay my ardour and assuage my grief. Love without 
 hope cannot endure, and mine was gone for ever. Nevertheless, 
 I would see her once again — that very instant if I could — to 
 tell her that I knew all, that I was aware of her duplicity, that 
 I had been her butt, and then never to see her more. 
 
 It was in vain I tried to find Augustine ; I searched every 
 alley and by-path in the wood, and then, fatigued with my 
 frantic excursion, I endeavoured to assume a gallant, easy air ; 
 threw myself down carelessly on a rustic seat by the side of 
 Madame de Remonde, and poured out a torrent of adula- 
 tion and — I believe — of love. She tossed her head and 
 fanned herself indignantly as I sat down. Presently her brow 
 became less angry, and at last, turning to me, she smiled 
 tenderly, and said, " What magic change is this that has come 
 over you, Deligny ! You love me, do you, this evening : you 
 have always adored me ; what a moment you have chosen for 
 such a declaration! " "Now, madame, do you tell me I have 
 said— that— that— I adore?" "Yes, certainly, you have, in 
 pretty intelligible phrases, too." "Ah, madame, 1 did not — 
 
 that is, I could not " "Be quiet, Deligny, do; this is no 
 
 place for explanations ; come to me to-morrow morning at 
 eleven ; I will hear what you have to say in excuse for your 
 neglect, and then I shall see whether you are still worthy of my 
 esteem." " What my reply was I cannot tell ; for as Herminie 
 finished, I thought I caught a glimpse of Augustine's bonnet 
 underneath the trees. I jumped up, and was about to dart off 
 in pursuit of her, when Madame de R&nonde laid her hand 
 lovingly upon my arm, and, calling me by my Christian name, 
 reminded me that as yet I had not invited her to dance." 
 
 We walked to a set of quadrilles that was being formed, and 
 placed ourselves opposite to a young Parisian exquisite and his 
 partner. The band commenced, but I scarcely heard the music ; 
 Madame de Remonde drew me here and there through the 
 figure, for my eyes kept wandering through the tufted bushes 
 and the stems of all the trees. The couple opposite us 
 pouted, grumbled, and evidently took an accurate portiai* of 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 99 
 
 me in order that they might avoid the infliction of being my 
 vis-a-vis if ever they should meet me at a ball again ; Jenneville 
 laughed till the tears stood in his eyes at every stupid, awkward 
 mistake I made, exclaiming it was all owing to my being 
 desperately in love, and Madame de Remonde, squeezing my 
 nngers whenever our hands came in contact, thought so too — 
 that is, with her own sweet self. 
 
 When the quadrille was over, I handed Herminie to a seat, 
 where I left her with Jenneville, and went on another voyage 
 ■of discovery in the wood. But scarcely had I taken two steps 
 amongst the trees when someone touched me lightly on the 
 arm. Oh, how I started ! for the idea shot through me that it 
 might be Augustine. But it was only Ninie, who asked me 
 whether Adolphe had seen her and spoken of her, and on my 
 Teplying in the negative, the poor, love-sick girl sighed and 
 said she felt so melancholy that she meant to return 
 home immediately . with Louise and her aunt. Having 
 shaken her kindly by the hand and promised to go and 
 see her soon, I plunged amongst the shrubs and under- 
 wood, and presently heard shouts and angry cries at no 
 great distance from me, and hastening towards the spot 
 whence they proceeded, beheld Dubois deprecating the ven- 
 geance of four countrymen, who were swearing at him with 
 uplifted sticks, ready to descend upon his head. The moment 
 lie saw me he left off his supplicating tone, and began to bully, 
 threatening the peasants with nothing less than death. " What 
 is the reason of this violence, good people ?" 1 said. " Why, 
 monsieur, this fellow here was insolent to our wives." " It's a 
 lie," Dubois roared out, "we were only playing at 'Puss-in- 
 the-Corner,' that's all." " Oh, yes ; didn't we see you there when 
 you threw Madeleine down, and wanted ' ' "It was all an acci- 
 dent ; besides, Madeleine could defend herself well enough, as my 
 cheeks can tell." "They shall have some more slaps before 
 we have done with you." "Now, do you dare — ah! there are 
 
 four of you, and we are only two, else ?" " Pooh, nonsense, 
 
 Mr. Puss-in-the-Corner, do you think you cockneys are to come 
 here and insult our girls, and do just as you like? *We'll make 
 jou dance without music." " Scoundrel, I only fight with 
 swords and pistols; come all four of you to Paris to-morrow, 
 and I will show you what a pretty scrape you have got 
 into." " A fig for you and your pistol, too. I don't believe you 
 Tiave the courage to fire one off." During the latter part of 
 this dialogue I kept drawing Dubois quietly away from the 
 scene of dispute, as he thundered at the peasants with his head 
 turned over his shoulder, and when we emerged into the light 
 I saw that, in addition to the well-merited box on the ears he 
 had received from the buxom Madeleine, that that lady had 
 
100 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 scored his face with her nails in such a way that it appeared 
 she had played "The Cat," too, in a very effective manner. 
 On my mentioning it to Dubois, he explained that when he- 
 caught Madeleine, by some unaccountable mistake his hand- 
 had got tightly clasped around her waist, whereupon 
 she clawed him liked a tigress. Those peasants, he said, 
 knew nothing at all of innocent games, and as for those- 
 
 hobnails, if ever he caught them again He did not finish 
 
 the sentence, for at that moment we came suddenly upon the* 
 four girls and their men, and the braggart made a precipitate- 
 retreat. 
 
 I thought no more of him, for I was on the rack ; again I 
 searched every place in which I was likely to find Augustine 
 and her friend, but without success, and as it was certain that 
 she was not there, and Jenneville and his party had left, I 
 determined to return to Paris on foot, thinking that the 
 exercise would do me good, and the time I should consume 
 in walking would allow me to form some definite plan of 
 proceeding for the future. When I reached the city, notwith- 
 standing my resolve to see Augustine no more, my heart 
 impelled me to the Rue Boucherat, but as it was past eleven 
 o'clock that step was impossible, and I was compelled to defer 
 my farewell visit until the following morning. What madness 
 was it that drove me towards that woman when I knew that I 
 *vas not, and never could be, loved ? When I reached nry 
 {odgings I threw myself upon my bed without undressing, 
 wishing, in my despair, that I might never rise from it again. 
 The night dragged heavily on ; I counted every hour as it tolled* 
 from the neighbouring clocks, sleep being far indeed from my 
 aching eyelids ; and when the first streak of light appeared in. 
 the eastern sky, I rose, rushed into the Rue Boucherat, and 
 wandered up - and down for two sad restless hours beneath her- 
 window, which, of course, at that early period of the morning, 
 were still closed. At length, I bethought me that if Augustine's 
 servant should be up, the usages of society would not allow her 
 mistress to receive me, so I returned to the Boulevard du Temple, 
 entered a coffee-house, called for breakfast, which was brought 
 to me, and remained untouched, with the exception of the coffee, 
 svhich I swallowed to allay the burning thirst that parched my 
 throat, and when nine o'clock struck I could not restrain myself 
 from proceeding to Augustine's apartments, although it was yet 
 unusually early for a visit. 
 
 On my ringing the bell, the good servant opened the door to- 
 me, saying that her mistress had risen and would receive me. I 
 entered the room with a mighty but ineffectual effort to calm 
 my agitation, and as I stood in the centre of it, totally at a loss 
 liow to open the conversation on the agonizing subject, Augustine 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 101 
 
 landed a chair to me and expressed a hope that I had come 
 to breakfast with her. The pathetic tone in which she 
 spoke went directly to my heart; I raised my eyes to 
 hers; and from their redness and their swollen state 
 I saw she had been weeping. Instantly all my resent- 
 ment vanished; I gazed at her, unable to reply to her 
 kind inquiry, and she, beholding my misery in perfect 
 astonishment, asked whether I was not seriously ill, or 
 whether some event, peculiarly distressing to me, had not 
 occurred. Recovering myself a little, I sank into the chair she 
 had presented to me, and stammered out, "I think, niadame, 
 you went yesterday to Auteuil?" "Auteuil, yesterday, 
 monsieur ! Yes, I was there a few minutes with my friend, 
 Juliette. Who has informed you of that circumstance ? " "I 
 saw you." " Indeed ! " she replied, colouring up. " I was not 
 fortunate enough to see you. It is true I was there only a very few 
 minutes. Who was with you ?" " Monsieur Jenneville [she 
 started with amazement] ; he pointed you out to me." "He 
 did!" she almost screamed. "He did, indeed!" A deep 
 silence ensued, and lasted for some minutes, during which 
 Madame Jenneville' s bosom heaved violently, her whole frame 
 trembled, and I was afraid that she would faint ; but becoming 
 calmer, she drew her chair close to mine, took my hand, and 
 said, "And now, Monsieur Deligny, you know who I am." 
 "Yes, madame, but I would have wished to have heard the 
 fatal, desolating truth from your own lips, and at an 
 earlier period of our acquaintance." "Do not judge ill 
 of me, Deligny, I implore you. For a long time I have been 
 desirous of confiding my miserable story to you, but have not 
 dared, for I felt assured my cruel husband must have depicted 
 me in odious colours in your intimate communications, and now 
 that you know that I am that unhappy wife with whom he 
 tells the world he could not live, listen to me patiently, I 
 conjure you, and then judge whether you consider me still 
 worthy of your friendship." Here her tears flowed copiously, 
 and her emotion was so great that I jumped from my chair 
 and took a bottle of salts and others of ether and essences 
 from the mantelpiece, in mortal dread lest she should swoon 
 away. In a short time the crisis passed ; she partially subdued 
 her feelings, and I remained spell-bound, awaiting the recital 
 of her wrongs ; not with the view of judging whether she was 
 the guilty woman she had been represented to me, but to 
 ascertain whether she still loved the heartless man who had so 
 basely, so cruelly deserted her. Wiping away her te:«rs, and 
 i; gulping down her sobs, she said — 
 
 "Jenneville, I make no doubt, has told you, Monsieur 
 JDeligny, that he married me when he was only twenty-four 
 
102 The Wife, the Husband^ and the Lover. 
 
 years of age, and I had not then reached twenty. I must telt 
 you that I was an orphan, and resided with my uncle, who 
 seldom took me into society — which he said was not suited to 
 very early age — but where it was my misfortune to have seen 
 and pleased your friend, who saw my preference for him, and. 
 endeavoured immediately to gain possession of my heart, and. 
 in which he speedily succeeded. Alone in my solitude, at least 
 with only my uncle, who was no companion for a young girl 
 like me, I created an ideal future for myself, and fondly 
 thought no earthly bliss could be comparable to that of being 
 married to the man my heart had chosen, of living only for 
 him, of having no thought, no desires that did not centre all 
 in him. It seemed to me that these bright, youthful dreams 
 would soon be realized : Jenneville paid his court most 
 assiduously to me, he taught my young heart how to love, 
 he swore that he adored me, that every hour passed away 
 from me tortured him to the very soul — oh! in those days 
 he was so aimiable, so kind, so tender — and said he existed 
 only in my sight; so my uncle gave his consent to- 
 our espousals, our fortunes being nearly equal, and we were- 
 married. For the first six happy months after our union 
 Jenneville was as tender, as passionately fond as he had 
 ever been, but at the end of that time he began to frequent 
 parties of pleasure to which I was not invited. Alas ! I was 
 ignorant that such is invariably the case, and that a husband 
 does not always require the presence of his wife. I had not 
 then the slightest knowledge of the world, and believed that 
 man and wife ought never to be separated from each other. 
 The fact was, Monsieur Deligny, that I had formed in my 
 mind a romantic standard of conjugal felicity; and now I was 
 doomed to feel the stern realities of life. Unfortunately, I 
 complained to my husband of his being happy when away from 
 me. It was a sad mistake, and bitterly have I suffered for it 
 ever since. 
 
 ' ' My husband heard my mild reproaches for that which I 
 considered most unkind with evident ill-humour. He said I was 
 volatile and much too fond of going out for pleasure ; but, in 
 very truth, it was not pleasure alone that I sought, for I cared 
 not for all the delights the world of fashion could affords 
 me if they were not shared by him. For a few weeks subse- 
 quent to our first trifling difference, Jenneville took me with 
 him wherever he went, but much against his will; he 
 paid little attention to me whilst we were out, and when we 
 returned home he was constantly morose ; the slightest thing 
 that did not please him threw him into the most violent passion, 
 the natural consequence of which was perpetual complaints, 
 unseemly scenes, and constant quarrels. Frequently, when we- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 103 
 
 %ad arranged to go to an evening party and I came down 
 ready dressed, Jenneville would alter his mind and decline 
 going out ; sometimes he would leave me at my toilette, 
 promising to return for me, and then never come back, whilst 
 X sat waiting for him half the night ; then he would not let 
 me know of invitations that had been written to me, would 
 tell me that I had disgraced him at several reunions, and did 
 all he could to disgust me with life and with himself. Excuse 
 me, Monsieur Deligny, I beg, for entering into these minute 
 details, but I cannot help dwelling upon each unkind, cruel 
 circumstance that in the end have made me miserable for life. 
 At last he told me one morning fiercely that he was determined 
 to become his own master ; that he would go into society as 
 much as he pleased without me ; and that it was ridiculous 
 for a man to drag his wife about with him wherever he might 
 go. I wept, I begged, I prayed, I reproached, and I was wrong 
 — a woman always is when she has the misery to have outlived 
 her husband's love ! 
 
 "A year had scarcely elapsed since we were married, and 
 liappiness had given way to reproaches, tears, and deep regret. 
 My uncle died ; the only individual on earth who cared for me 
 was taken away, and, to crown my grief, Jenneville told me he 
 knew that I stealthily received another man, and was unfaithful 
 to his bed. Good God ! I, who thought only of him, and 
 had never harmed him for a moment in thought even in my 
 most bitter agony, tried to justify myself in his eyes ; but he 
 only raged the more at what he termed my obstinate duplicity, 
 and when I clung to him, and besought him in piteous accents 
 to dismiss the foul suspicion from his mind, he threw me from 
 him, and left me senseless on the floor. 
 
 " Since my unfortunate marriage I had renewed my friend- 
 ship with Juliette, who had been my. chosen companion at 
 school ; she came to see me frequently, but my husband took 
 offence at her visits, asserting that she gave me bad advice and 
 encouraged me to withstand his lawful authority . Poor 
 Juliette ! all she did was to implore me not to weep. Well, 
 Monsieur Deligny, whilst our domestic affairs were in this 
 miserable condition, a distant relation of my uncle, a very young 
 man, not more than nineteen years of age, came to Paris to com- 
 plete his education at one of the first colleges, and not knowing 
 any person in the vast city, naturally enough repaired to our 
 house and looked up to Jenneville for countenance and support ; 
 but my husband always received him so formally that he 
 believed his visits were unwelcome, and took care to ascertain 
 that Jenneville had left the house before he dared to come and 
 «see me. In reality, I was not aware of this circumstance, or I 
 ^would have put a stop to it at once, much less did I think that 
 
104 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 Jenneville would make use of it against me as a proof of guilt,, 
 until one day he rushed into my chamber in a fury, declaring 
 that my cousin was the partner of my dishonour. Indignant at 
 the foul, unjust accusation, I retorted severely upon my 
 husband, but forbade the innocent young man to come again to 
 the house. Even this concession produced no alteration in his 
 cruel behaviour to me ; it was apparent that I became more 
 objectionable to him day after day, and at last he told me 
 abruptly that it was impossible he could live any longer with 
 me, and that we must have separate establishments. 
 
 "And here, then, was the end of a union dictated by love 
 alone — a marriage of affection ! It is impossible for you, mon- 
 sieur, to conceive the horror, the affright, with which the pro- 
 position inspired me, for I loved Jenneville, notwithstanding the 
 numerous wrongs, the outrages he had inflicted on me. But 
 now my heart was broken, the cold-blooded proposal for our 
 separation extinguished every spark of hope that lingered in my 
 breast. I felt his injustice, his ingratitude, with the most 
 poignant grief ; I burst into tears, and would have fallen at his 
 feet to implore him to recall his sentence of our separation, to 
 swear to him that whatever he might think fit to do no syllable 
 of complaint should ever issue from my mouth ; but he fled from 
 the room the moment he had uttered the agonizing words. As 
 soon as the first bitter transports of my misery were over, I 
 recalled my scattered senses as well as I possibly could, sum- 
 moned up the courage of desperation, resolved that I would not 
 oppose my husband's wishes, and wrote to him an affectionate, 
 forgiving letter, stating that I would conform entirely to his 
 will. The letter was despatched, and from that moment I 
 never saw Jenneville again. A solicitor was employed to make 
 the necessary arrangements with respeet to our pecuniary affairs, 
 and becoming free to do just as I pleased, I quitted that house 
 where we had lived together, and which only recalled to me 
 those moments of happiness which had flitted swiftly by. 
 
 " It struck me also that as Monsieur Jenneville did not desire 
 that I should be to him in every respect a wife, I should oblige 
 him by ceasing to call myself by his name, and with that idea 
 re-took my maiden name of Luceval, and styling myself a widow, 
 came to live in this quarter of the city, far removed from my 
 husband's new apartments. I resolved likewise to give up 
 going into society, and to receive no one but my very respectable 
 pld friend, Madame Dermont, and my school companion, dear 
 kind Juliette. I had also vowed — but all in vain — that I would 
 no longer think of that ungrateful husband who would not waste 
 one single thought on me; but, do what I would, reason as I 
 would, I found I loved him fondly still, and ofttimes in 
 the evening, despite the arguments and counsels of my two- 
 
The Wife, th$ Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 faithful friends, wrapped in a. capacious mantle, and wearing a 
 large bonnet with a thick veil, I have passed hour after 
 walking up and down before his door. I have seen him enter, 
 and having watched him out, my curiosity has prompted me 
 to learn whither he was going ; but, alas ! the knowledge of his 
 actions only contributed to increase my grief. I gained infor- 
 mation of the names of several of his mistresses, and I 
 ascertained that, under the name of Adolphe, he had seduced a 
 girl named Ninie and furnished an apartment for her, and then 
 I heard of his insane passion for Madame de R<5nionde. I 
 know the names of his most intimate friends, and amongst 
 them yours, of course, was quite familiar to me. I was not 
 acquainted with your person, but I had been told you were his 
 confidant, the companion of his excesses, and I believed you 
 were as great a libertine as he was. Excuse me, monsieur, for 
 the thought ; at that time I knew not your character as I do 
 now." I bowed gratefully, and, after a short pause, Augustine 
 resumed : — 
 
 " However, Monsieur Deligny, thanks to dear Juliette's 
 affectionate remonstrances, I became rather more rational ; I 
 ceased to act the spy upon my husband's movements, and 
 endeavoured to persuade myself that I cared no longer for him. 
 About that time I happened to sit in the same box with you at 
 the Gai't<$, and hearing your name pronounced, and knowing 
 you were my husband's friend, I was induced to look at you 
 attentively. Again I met you at the opera, and you may judge 
 of my surprise when I saw you with that young girl, who I 
 Imew had been seduced by Jenneville, and had frequently been 
 with him. The singularity of the circumstance raised a 
 thousand conjectures in my mind — all, as I am now perfectly 
 aware, devoid of truth. " We met for the third time at 
 Franconi's ; I perceived your wish to speak to me ; I thought 
 you knew perfectly well that I was Jenneville' s wife, and that 
 he had employed you to make love to me in order to try my 
 fidelity to him. The idea roused all the indignant feeling of 
 my heart. I determined not to be your dupe, and you must 
 recollect the express conditions I attached to my permission 
 to your coming to my house. 
 
 "The constant visits that you paid me, and your behaviour, 
 soon convinced me that I was mistaken, and that you did not 
 know who I really was ; and I likewise discovered you 
 were not the utterly worthless person you had been repre- 
 sented to me. As I began to know you better, I learned 
 to appreciate the good qualities of your heart. I am free 
 to acknowledge that at that time I ought to have reposed entire 
 confidence in you and to have told you I was that wife with 
 ^whom your friend asserted he could not live ; but -I saw that so 
 
106 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 long as I concealed my true situation from you I should be able 
 to gain information through you of a thousand circumstances 
 that otherwise you would not have communicated to me. No- 
 doubt you wonld not have told me of his love for Madame de- 
 Remonde, and the thousand follies he commits in consequence, 
 for you would have feared to give me pain, and that fear would 
 have counselled you to hold your tongue. And now, Monsieur 
 Deligny, you are fully acquainted with the motives that have- 
 kept me silent ; if you think I have acted wrong in not extending- 
 my entire confidence to you, blame me as much as you like — 
 but forgive me, I beg of you, and let me not lose the consola- 
 tion of your friendship. You now know my miserable position 
 in society ; you can see that the subject of love can never be 
 entertained again by me ; but that is no reason why we cannot* 
 be the closest, firmest friends." 
 
 She was silent, but placed her handkerchief to her eyes an& 
 strove to repress the feelings that agitated her poor heart. I, 
 too, was mute. What could I say to her ? I could only pity 
 and not blame her, for, far from holding out the least 
 encouragement, she had not once permitted me to talk of 
 love. Seeing that I remained quite quiet, without uttering- 
 a word, she took my passive hand, and said, "Are you still 
 vexed with me, Deligny?" " Vexed, madame ! No, indeed, 
 but I am in despair. Before I knew that you were JennevLlle's- 
 wife I indulged the delightful hope that some day I might 
 conquer your indifference — the permission you granted me to 
 come here, the kindness with which you invariably received. 
 me, the interest you took in all I did, your insisting upon, 
 reading the trifling letters I received from women, all, all induced 
 me to suppose I had slightly touched your heart, and that the 
 nascent sentiment might ripen into love. Say, madame, was 
 I presumptuous in thinking so after your mysterious behaviour 
 towards me?" "Oh, no! Deligny, I have been very, very 
 wrong indeed; I did not reflect in the least on what I did." 
 "And I, too, madame, have egregiously deceived myself. But 
 is it possible that Jenneville still has a hold upon your heart T 
 this man who has abused, betrayed, abandoned you was un- 
 worthy of the priceless treasure he has cast away." "He 
 is — my husband." "He is so no longer, since he has- 
 basely thrust you from him; his atrocious conduct as. 
 well as his deliberate act have set you free ; in quitting you. 
 causelessly he has voluntarily released you from your nuptial 
 vows." "Oh, no! I cannot think so." "Let me assure you, 
 madame, on my sacred honour, that he has not one thought 
 about you ; he cares not whether you are alive or dead — indeed, 
 I doubt but that he would prefer the latter ; he thinks of, he 
 breathes only for Madame de RSmonde ; that woman can do* 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 107 
 
 ■with him what she likes. Pardon me, madame, for distressing 
 you, but I never can forgive him for deserting you. Is it 
 possible that a man could have been so blind, so mad as to 
 possess your person and your heart, and not to love you ! The 
 idiot, the fool ! I never can forgive him : from this moment I 
 •will never speak to him again." • "I entreat, monsieur, that 
 you will not break with Jenneville on my account ; he was, he 
 is, your friend." "No, madame, not my friend; an intimate 
 acquaintance only of less than six months' standing. My friend ! 
 no, he never can be that. A man who has proved your curse, 
 
 and whom you yet love " "Can you blame me for 
 
 endeavouring to win back the husband of my youthful 
 choice?" "Your husband! you see that he repudiates the 
 appellation. For Heaven's sake, madame, think no more of him. 
 As for me it is said that love is only to be cured by love, I will not 
 affront you by pressing my now hopeless suit upon you, but I will 
 endeavour to profit by the adage I have quoted, and as I know 
 and feel that by continuing to see you I should only nurse my 
 fatal passion, I will see you — although it breaks my heart — no 
 more." "I cannot blame you; but do not cease to see me 
 
 altogether; come less often, and perhaps then " "No, 
 
 madame, half measures would be useless ; I must not see you 
 more; it is true you will not hear so much of Jenneville' s 
 amours through me ; but in Paris, with money, you will find a 
 thousand agents who will obey your will." 
 
 Madame Jenneville did not reply, but sat pondering deeply 
 with her head dropped upon her breast. For some moments we 
 both maintained the most rigid silence ; then, taking one long, 
 last, lingering look I groaned heavily, as if my heart would 
 break, made a desperate effort, seized my hat and cane, shouted, 
 "Adieu, madame, adieu, dearest Augustine," and rushed like 
 a madman from the house 
 
108 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DINNER IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The fresh air helped to abate the fever of my blood, and when 
 I had proceeded some distance down the boulevards I felt 
 pleased at the courage I had shown, and registered an oath never 
 again to see Madame Luceval, for I could not bring my lips to 
 pronounce the detested name of Jenneville. When I regained 
 my rooms I strove to sit down calmly to read ; but I soon found 
 that the thoughts that crowded upon my brain effectually 
 prevented me paying any attention to the book which I held 
 listlessly in my hand ; to draw, to sing, were equally impossible, 
 for I required some active motion, some stirring scenes, to 
 dispel the melancholy that depressed my heart. After an 
 hour's fruitless attempt to think no more of Augustine I 
 threw the book from me in a fit of petulance, and as I was 
 about leaving the house Jolivet entered my room inquiring 
 whether he had left an umbrella that he had borrowed 
 from a friend one rainy morning some few months ago. 
 Of course he had forgotten it, but now his friend had 
 been to him for it, and unless he could find it he would have to 
 buy another to replace it. "My friend Jolivet," I said to 
 him, "leave off boring me with your infernal umbrella and 
 listen to what I have got to tell you. I have made up my mind 
 to amuse myself this afternoon — that is, to try and do, so. Stop 
 here with me — I will pay for your dinner, treat you to the play, 
 and do anything you like." "You don't mean that, Paul? 
 Upon my life, your offer is wondrous tempting ! And you will 
 not leave me in pawn at the tavern as you did before?" 
 " And if I did, I repaid you the money for the bill." " Oh I 
 yes; I was only joking. Well, it's a bargain, T 11 stop with. 
 you ; but where shall we dine, eh ? " 
 
 At that moment the bell was rung violently, and Dubois, 
 almost tumbling into the room, threw himself upon the sofa, 
 exclaiming he had run all the way from Auteuil and was quite 
 done up. "How," I said; "did you sleep there?" "Yes, I 
 was obliged. I waited for you in vain ; there was not a return 
 carriage to be found, and so I slept at a lit+.lp. roadside 
 inn, where there was a sort of free-and-^asy 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 109 
 
 —(pointing to his face) — did not favour me with the 
 same souvenir as the chaste Madeleine. But what are you 
 about, lads, I see there is something in the wind ? " " Dubois, 
 I am going to be merry — if I can ; you must come with me." 
 "Yes," said Jolivet, "Paul stands treat to-day." "Humph! 
 skinflint, that's the reason you're one of the party, I know ; if 
 you had to pay your share you would not be here." " For my 
 part — I don't care who knows it — I'm quite cleaned out just 
 now, but I shall be in feather again soon, so as we have some 
 fun, that's all I care about." "Dubois, did I happen to leave 
 an old umbrella in your room ? " " Go to the devil with your 
 umbrellas. Ah, Paul, have you succeeded with the dark-green 
 satin yet?" "For God's sake, Dubois, do not mention that 
 subject to me again." " What ! you sigh ; she has been playing 
 with you, I know. Pooh, I see ; you have been acting like a 
 troubadour of the thirteenth century, and wooing her with your 
 lance and your guitar ! Trust me, my good fellow, that sort of 
 thing won't go down now. Never mind, never mind, 
 we'll go into the country and drink two bottles of 
 champagne apiece, and when we leave the table I'll be 
 bound you'll not be able to distinguish the colour of your 
 lady's hair." "Stop a bit," Jolivet cried, "shall we send 
 for Jenneville ? " "No, no, he will not leave Madame 
 de Remonde." "Bravo, Jolivet," Dubois bawled out, laughing 
 till his sides shook ; " the moment you know there is not a sou 
 to pay, you are for inviting all your friends, and making them 
 believe you are the founder of the feast. Ah, ha ! ha ! But 
 come along, we'll take a splendid hackney-coach, and go in 
 style." "Anything you please, my boys ; do not be afraid of 
 injuring my purse ; a few days ago, like Jolivet, I wanted to 
 amass wealth ; but now I find I have enough to answer all the 
 purposes of life." " Don't fret about it, Paul ; we'll make your 
 money spin merrily, I warrant." 
 
 We all three got into the first hackney-coach we found upon 
 the stand, engaged it for the rest of the day, and told the man 
 to drive into the country, no matter where, so as he went to 
 some tavern where they could give us a decent dinner, with the 
 additional stipulation made by Dubois, that there should be 
 fried fish, green trees, and pretty girls. The driver whipped 
 his horses, and as the cumbrous machine moved heavily along, 
 Dubois did what he could to amuse me ; but his jokes were 
 unheeded, and if I attempted to respond to them, my laugh 
 was forced, and I felt a weight at my heart that oppressed me 
 so that I could hardly speak. Before we quitted the gates of 
 Paris, Dubois pulled down the blinds of the carriage that we 
 might not see in what direction we were going, leaving our 
 route entirely to the choice of the coachman, and none of us 
 
110 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 could help laughing when the man pulled up at the sign of 
 " The New Barrel," close to the Government wine stores, near 
 the bridge at Bercy. It was all one to me where we should 
 dine, for I felt that the thought of Augustine would prevent 
 my eating ; but the epicurism of Jolivet found fault immedi- 
 ately with the little inn, and, fearing that the cook was not 
 possessed of first-rate talent, he rated the coachman for 
 bringing us to a part of the country where we could see 
 infinitely more casks of wine than trees. The man retorted 
 that he had been ordered to drive where there were green 
 leaves and fish, and that the house was famous for flounders, 
 eels, and all sorts of fins. " Bravo, old fellow," Dubois said, 
 patting him upon the back, " Bercy will do as well as any 
 other place ; you are to stop here all day and take us back 
 in the evening, and, as for ourselves, gentlemen, there's the 
 river Seine to delight us ; let us take a walk upon its banks, 
 and see whether we can't knock up a love affair with a pretty 
 siren or a stylish mermaid." 
 
 We commenced our walk by the river-side, watching the huge 
 rafts as they floated down the stream bringing the produce of 
 the wine countries to the immense stores, and as we went along 
 Jolivet did nothing but growl at the prospect of a wretched 
 dinner, and Dubois, after reproving him sharply^ or his gluttony, 
 whispered me that if there should be any possibility of playing 
 him a trick he would do so, as he richly deserved it for his 
 meanness and want of sociability. Having finished our stroll 
 along the banks of the Seine and stretched a short distance 
 from them into the fields, almost stunned with Jolivet' s 
 incessant cries that it was time to dine, we returned to Bercy, 
 and on entering the village perceived three women, one with a 
 bonnet and the other two with caps, a little way before us ; 
 Dubois was off to them like a shot and, on coming up 
 to them, shook them by the hand as if they were old 
 friends, and entered into conversation. On his returning 
 Jolivet rallied him on the extent of his female acquaintances, 
 inquiring whether anything was to be done with the three 
 sirens he had left, to which he replied that any temporary 
 amorous propositions would be thrown away in that quarter, for 
 that they were all three highly respectable women. Indeed, 
 the stout lady in the bonnet was the widow of a wealthy 
 grocer in the Rue de la Verrerie, who left her six hundred 
 pounds a year ; that she was pestered with solicitations to enter 
 the matrimonial state again, but she would not marry because 
 she was very happy as she was, although he thought she would 
 not resist a vigorous siege by a smart, fashionable young 
 fellow. He had tried her, as he had known her a long time 
 from dealing with her late husband, but she would not have 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. Ill 
 
 ii\m, because she thought he was too flighty and not careful 
 enough of money ; although she was not stingy, but quite the 
 'Contrary, because he knew that if she liked a man she over- 
 whelmed him with presents ; in fact, there was one youth to 
 whom she had sent seventeen handsome purses and forty-two 
 neckties and cravats. The reason she had come to Bercy was 
 that she had promised her two young cousins who were with 
 her to give them a fish dinner, and they were going to amuse 
 themselves together in a private room. 
 
 Jolivet listened to Dubois with the greatest attention, keeping 
 his eyes on the women, and seeing them enter the hostelry of 
 " The Old Oak-Tree, " proposed we should dine there instead of 
 the other inn, " The Barrel," where he believed everything was 
 liorribly dear; at any rate, he would take a turn round the 
 kitchen and ascertain by personal inspection whether the head- 
 cook knew his business and could supply us with stewed eels 
 in the manner they ought to be sent up to table. On his 
 leaving us, I told Dubois it was impossible for us to dine at 
 that pitiful hedge ale-house ; but he replied, laughing, that we 
 must absolutely stop there if we had only fish-bones and crusts 
 of bread for dinner, for our companion, the miser, had swallowed 
 the bait and the hook was in his jaws. He then proceeded to 
 tell me that the woman in the bonnet, whom he had repre- 
 sented to have six hundred a year, was nobody else than his 
 old flame Charlotte, the fringe-maker, and her attendant 
 nymphs were two young women who manufactured shanks for 
 buttons ; that Charlotte lodged at present in the Rue St. Antoine, 
 and that every Monday all three of them came into the country 
 and bought wines and liquors enough to last them through 
 the week, which they placed in vessels about their persons and 
 so smuggled them into Paris without paying the duty on all 
 provisions entering the city. Charlotte — with whom he had 
 made matters up through the all-effective agency of sugar- 
 candy, chocolate, and cocoa — had told him this before, and on 
 seeing her and the two girls the idea of humbugging Jolivet 
 came suddenly into his head ; Charlotte did not know him, he 
 had told her in the few minutes' conversation he had had with 
 her that Jolivet was a stupid cockney lout, who had at least 
 two pounds a day that he did not know what to do with ; conse- 
 quently Charlotte was dying to become acquainted with him ; 
 and no doubt, if I would put up with an inferior dinner, we 
 should have some capital sport with Jolivet in witnessing his 
 attempt to catch the wealthy widow. 
 
 For the sake of diverting my thoughts from Madam*? Jenne- 
 ville, even for a moment, I gave in to Dubois' scheme, and 
 entered the public-house, which smelt so strongly of onions *s 
 to bring tears into my eyes, and looking down a long pas»agx> 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 we got a peep into a kitchen where Jolivet was busying himself 
 examining the different dishes in process of preparation, but 
 keeping a sharp look-out on one of several private rooms at the 
 bottom of a nondescript locality, half garden and half yard* 
 A fat, purple-faced man in a cotton night-cap, placed his stev>- 
 pans in succession under Jolivet's nose that the gourmand might 
 inhale their savoury smell, whilst two assistants, who took snuff 
 in tremendous quantities, thrust their fingers into all the 
 fricandeaus they were about to carry away and then licked them 
 clean. I shuddered at the sight, and resolved not to touch a 
 fricandeau if one should be served, receiving the additional 
 comfort from Dubois that all the servants did the same at Paris, 
 only the public were not permitted to behold the secrets of the 
 kitchen, and Jolivet put an end to the discussion by asserting- 
 that the head-cook was a first-rate professor and could dress a 
 matelotte of eels and carp with Ude, V<Sfour, or the great Alexis 
 Foyer. 
 
 With many bows and scrapes and protestations of the honour 
 we had conferred upon him, the obsequious landlord invited us 
 to ascend to the " grand saloon" on the first floor, where a 
 table should be prepared ; but Jolivet insisted that we should 
 have more air and be much more comfortable in one of the 
 private rooms at the bottom of the garden, so the waiter showed 
 us into a sort of large wild-beast cage, with four bare walls, a 
 table in the centre, with only three legs, two wooden benches, 
 and one solitary window looking into a range of small indis- 
 pensable apartments by no means gratifying to the olfactory- 
 nerves. " Uncommonly pastoral, to be sure," Dubois exclaimed, 
 as the waiter threw open the door with a triumphant air, " but 
 no matter, if the fish is good, that's the chief thing " (addressing 
 Jolivet) ; " is it not, old fellow ?-" " Yes, yes, no doubt ; when, 
 we are at Rome we must do as Rome does. The cook will not 
 break down, I know ; but see, Dubois, I think those ladies are 
 opening their door." The fact was Charlotte came to the door at 
 that moment, whereupon Jolivet, who had kept on the watch 
 with ours open, bowed profoundly to her, which salute the- 
 cunning woman acknowledged with a gracious smile, bringing 
 the colour into our friend's cheeks and setting his heart dancings 
 with the anticipated possession of six hundred pounds a year. 
 Soon afterwards the waiter approached the ladies' room witb 
 an earthenware vessel containing at least three quarts of wine, 
 Dubois bit his lips to repress his laughter. Jolivet wondered 
 what the women could want with so much wine. I could not 
 help smiling, and Dubois replied that it was a known fact that- 
 new wine was good for corns, and as it was very cheap 
 %t Bercy, perhaps the rich eccentric widow had taken a fancy 
 laafche her feet in it. Jolivet said it was a singular remedy,* 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 ^nd then held his tongue, never ceasing looking at the •women's 
 door. 
 
 Our dinner being brought, we sat down to table, and as we 
 ate the fish Jolivet remarked that the servant had not brought 
 the widow anything but the jug of wine. Dubois swore that 
 he had seen some stewed tench, fried eels, a roasted pike, and 
 ~a couple of fowls taken in, whilst Jolivet was sucking the sauce 
 from the bones of the carp ; and then, casting up his eyes, 
 observed we had acted wisely in retaining the hackney-coach, 
 for the sky was becoming overcast, and there would be some 
 difficulty in procuring conveyances to Paris. We had not got 
 through the second course, consisting of an aged fowl, roasted 
 with some rank, salt bacon, and a piece of beef apparently cut 
 from the ox's horns, when the rain came down in torrents, and 
 on one of the girls, with Charlotte, coming to the door of 
 the room to look at the aspect of the weather, it was evident 
 that her hips had greatly increased in size since we 
 first saw her before dinner. She uttered an exclamation 
 of despair. Charlotte, coming to her side, said it was extremely 
 vexations, and Jolivet, advancing to the door-sill of our 
 room, bowed to the ground, and said it was impossible 
 the ladies could return to town on foot, as there was every 
 appearance that the rain had set in for the evening ; and 
 then, returning to us, he bade us remark that it would be the 
 height of rudeness and ill-behaviour to the ladies who were so 
 troubled with corns if we were to allow them to walk back to 
 Paris in such miserable weather. Dubois replied he must be 
 joking ; the ladies were rather of the plumpest, and it would be 
 impossible for all six of us to return in the same vehicle. During 
 this little colloquy Charlotte and the girls — whose haunches 
 had increased in rotundity to an enormous extent — stood at the 
 <loor, alternately looking at the clouds and ogling Jolivet. 
 Delighted at the tender glances of the rich widow, Jolivet 
 turned to us again, and expressed a hope that we would give 
 up the hackney-coach to him for the rest of the evening, as he 
 liad an intense desire to escort the widow back to Paris, 
 seeing that she kept looking at him in a manner that showed his 
 advances would be well received. We represented to him 
 that he would find many prettier women, but beauty possessed 
 no charms for him when put in competition with an income of 
 six hundred pounds, and that if we gave, up the carriage he 
 must pay all the hire from the moment we engaged it. 
 Wondrous to relate the niggard agreed to defray all the 
 expenses, and even to leave us in the middle of the dinner, so 
 determined was he to gain the widow and her wealth ; and thus 
 ior the sake of sport, we acceded to his whim. 
 
 Delighted with our concession, and sure of his success, 
 
 H 
 
114 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Jolivet advanced, bowing to Charlotte, and putting on a gallante 
 air, told her he had the immeasurable gratification of stating- 
 that his hackney-coach was at her orders if she would honour 
 him by riding back in it with her young cousins. Charlotte 
 could scarcely refrain from laughing at the terms, but accepted 
 the offer without hesitation, and the three women left the room 
 where they had been storing away a quantity of wine and spirits 
 in bladders, and placing it in concealment upon their persons, 
 putting their feet to the ground as gently as if they were treading 
 upon eggs, and walking with as much difficulty as if their legs 
 were tied together. Jolivet offered his arm to Charlotte, but 
 she refused him, under the pretext of holding up her dress from 
 the wet earth, but in reality for fear of his leaning against her 
 person and interfering with the secure position of the bladders. 
 It will be recollected that the coachman had been desired to 
 Avait for us at " The New Barrel " ; and therefore Jolivet, seeing 
 that the women must be wet through before they could reach 
 the tavern at the pace they were walking, ran on, heedless of 
 the rain, and brought the carriage round to the entrance of 
 "The Old Oak-Tree," whilst I paid the reckoning in a hurry, 
 and, accompanied by Dubois, left the public-house, in order to 
 see what might transpire between Jolivet and the girls. 
 
 In crossing the garden — or rather yard — to the entrance the 
 paths had become a mass of mud from the heavy rain, and the 
 bottoms of the women's dresses were covered with mud, because 
 they would not hold them up for their own peculiar reasons. 
 When the coach drew up, all of them refused any assistance in 
 entering it, either from Jolivet or the driver; they became 
 very much embarrassed, and mounted the steps with great 
 difficulty, their hips rocking to and fro in the most inexplicable 
 manner, until all being comfortable seated, Jolivet sprang in and 
 throwing himself rather hastily by Charlotte's side, was met with 
 a request to move further from her, as she always required a 
 great deal of room and air in a carriage to prevent her from 
 being sick. Our enamoured friend murmured an apology ; then, 
 putting his head out of the window, told the coachman to drive 
 to the Rue de la Verrerie, but Charlotte, countermanding the 
 order, told the man to go to the Rue St. Antoine, and to stop at 
 a red house at the corner of an alley, with a pork-butcher's 
 shop next door. Jolivet thought it a rather singular locality for 
 the apartments of a widow with six hundred a year, but he 
 made no remark. The coachman got upon his box and drove 
 away, and Dubois and myself having succeeded in engaging 
 another coach, told the driver to go after the other one and not 
 lose sight of it. 
 
 During the ride back to Paris — as we learned afterwards — 
 Jolivet was very much astonished at the rather free conversation 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 115> 
 
 of the widow and her cousins, but the vision of the large income 
 that loomed upon him from the distance reconciled him to som& 
 incongruities in their behaviour, and the distant**' to the barrier 
 at the gate of the city was passed very pleasantly, until they 
 were stopped by the clerks and the usual interrogatory made- 
 whether they had with them any articles that were liable to- 
 duty. The three women drew themselves up stiffly, looked 
 straight out of the window on the opposite side to the excise- 
 man, and Jolivet answered, " Nothing, my good sirs ; absolutely 
 nothing." It happened, unfortunately for the amorous- 
 gourmand, tfhat the men on duty knew the women well, and 
 had remarked the physical phenomenon of their frequently 
 leaving Paris with genteel shapes and slightly-developed 
 charms, and returning with bosoms, hips, and haunches worthy- 
 of the Hottentot Venus. They argued very sagaciously that a 
 lady's lower dorsal appendages could not increase in that 
 immense ratio merely from eating a good dinner, and they 
 resolved to search their persons the next time they should pass 
 the gate. 
 
 This being the case, the chief clerk turned a deaf ear to 
 Jolivet' s laconic answer, and said, addressing himself to the 
 women, "Ladies, have you anything to declare?" "Not an 
 ounce, not a scrap," one of the young ladies replied, followed 
 by Charlotte with "Does the man take us for smugglers ?" 
 and the additional observation from Jolivet, " Sir, I have the 
 pleasure of being acquainted with these ladies, and I assure 
 you they are quite incapable of committing any fraud upon the 
 Revenue." "Perhaps not, monsieur; but at all events they 
 will have the goodness to alight, and come into the office to be 
 searched." "Heavens!" the girls all cried. "Search us! 
 Horrible ! Who ever heard of such an insult ? We never have- 
 been searched, and we never will submit to such an indignity." 
 " Excuse us, ladies, we must do our duty ; do get out at once. 
 If you have nothing about you there cannot be any harm ; you 
 will not be detained above a minute." "What! to be pulled 
 about and felt all over. It's abominable ! " " My good men," 
 Jolivet said again, "I assure you you are quite wrong. Prick 
 the carriage lining and the cushions with your probes, and 
 welcome, but I will be answerable for the innocence of these- 
 ladies." " Quite sorry I cannot take your word, sir ; will one of 
 them just allow me to place my hand upon her hips." A general 
 scream. Charlotte cried out, "What unheard-of indecency; 
 can't a \voman re-enter Paris without showing her rump to an 
 exciseman ?" "We do not require any such thing, ma'am, 
 but your hips are so unusually large that we suspect you have 
 some contraband articles upon you." We are all of us 
 naturally stout." "You were much thinner when you quitted 
 
116 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Paris in the morning. "We cannot lose our time in this way ; 
 either come out at once, or we must be compelled to use our 
 probes." 
 
 As the women remained obstinate, the clerk made a signal 
 to two of his inferiors, who came out from the covered shed 
 in front of the office with their long, thin, bright, sharp- 
 pointed probes in their hands, looking like glittering fencing- 
 foils with the buttons off. At the sight of these deadly 
 instruments Charlotte and her companions screamed fear- 
 fully. Jolivet shrunk back from their points, and the two girls, 
 fearing they were about to be run through, cast themselves 
 down amongst the straw, forgetful of everything but the safety 
 of their persons, and, striving to hide themselves the one under 
 the other, burst the bladders they carried under their petticoats ; 
 in an instant the probes became useless, the girls' well-rounded 
 beauties disappeared, and the coach was flooded with the spirits 
 and the wines. The officers laughed, the coachman swore, and 
 Jolivet, who had received a portion of the liquids on his waist- 
 coat and pantaloons, exclaimed in amazement, "Is it possible 
 that a woman with six hundred pounds a year can descend so 
 low as to smuggle wines ! " At these words the girls burst 
 into a fit of merriment, and being divested of their plump hips, 
 jumped lightly from the coach, leaving Jolivet to settle matters 
 with the driver and the exciseman as he could. 
 
 Jolivet, who perceived that he had been made a fool of by 
 Dubois, fearing that he should have to pay a heavy penalty for 
 oeing discovered attempting to defraud the Revenue, endeavoured 
 to explain that he really did not know the women, and had 
 brought them back to Paris out of pure compassion to prevent 
 their getting wet ; but the officers were deaf to his assertions ; 
 they conducted him into the office to detain him until he should 
 pay the fine, amidst the jeers and shouts of the crowds of people 
 the dispute had attracted to the spot. We came up at the 
 moment ; he called out to us to come to his assistance ; but we 
 pretended not to see him, and were driven onwards to my 
 lodgings. # 
 
 When I got home I could not help smiling at recollecting the 
 piteous plight poor Jolivet was in, in having not only to pay 
 the penalty for infringing the excise laws but the damage done 
 to the hackney-coach ; but those thoughts soon vanished when 
 my servant handed a letter to me. I broke the seal precipi- 
 tately, hoping it might be from Augustine, and was cruelly 
 disappointed at finding it was only from Madame de Remonde, 
 written in the most peremptory style, upbraiding me for 
 neglecting my assignation with her that morning and forbidding 
 me ever to come to her apartments or speak to her again. I 
 lore the billet into pieces ; there was no need for Herminie to 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 117 
 
 tell me never to go to her again. I had seen her only in 
 obedience to the wishes of Augustine, and now that I could no 
 longer oblige that lady by so doing, all temptation to prolong 
 my acquaintance was at an end. 
 
 My heart was broken ; all the enjoyments of life were lost to 
 me, and the future presented a dark and dreary prospect. How 
 strangely the affairs of this world seemed to me to be arranged 
 — Madame de Remonde, beloved by Jenneville, uselessly wasted 
 her blandishments on me, and Augustine, adored by me f 
 thought only of Jenneville, who had abandoned her. 
 
118 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EOBESEEN. 
 
 Foe the next fortnight I kept my vow and did not attempt to 
 go near Augustine, but frequented the theatres, concerts, balls, 
 dinners, and evening parties, occupying my mind as much as 
 possible, but not effecting the slightest change in my deep- 
 seated feelings of attachment. Dubois, with his really kind 
 heart, did all in his power to dispel my melancholy, but as for 
 Jolivet, I had not seen him since the memorable dinner at 
 Bercy. I had indulged in the hope that if she did not write to 
 me, she would have sent to make some inquiries respecting me ; 
 but that not being the case I concluded, in my despair, that I 
 never had the least interest in her heart, and now that I was 
 not of any utility to her in .obtaining information, she had 
 dismissed me from her mind as if no such person as myself 
 had ever been. 
 
 One morning as I was sitting in my room disconsolately alone, 
 the bell was rung violently, and JennevLUe entered in a state of 
 great excitement, his dress disordered, and his hair flowing 
 wildly almost on his shoulders. Without even making the usual 
 salutations, he said in a husky, agitated voice, "Well, Deligny, 
 do you know what has happened?" I looked at him in great 
 apprehension, thinking Augustine might be ill or dead, shook my 
 head, and he continued, striking his fist upon the table, 
 4 ' That villain, Blagnard, has decamped 1 " ' ' How ! Blagnard ! ' \ 
 41 Yes Blagnard, to whom you and I were fools enough to trust, 
 our money, I, five thousand pounds, and you, fifteen hundred. 
 He is a bankrupt, owes fifty thousand, and has run away or 
 lies somewhere concealed. What, can you sit still and utter 
 not a word? You must have great philosophy to hear this 
 •calamity with such firmness!" " Jenneville," I said, "lam 
 not surprised to hear that that man has turned out a scoundrel ; 
 I always had a presentiment of it; I feared it would be so." 
 " Then why did you entrust your money to him? % " At that 
 moment when I did so, I had a great desire to ' recruit my 
 impoverished finances ; I saw that you reposed unlimited confi- 
 dence in him, and I suffered myself to be led away by you." 
 "And who would not have confided in him? Sueh manner; 
 such an air of confidence in all he did, such a style of 
 living, such elegance and sumptuousness in his establish- 
 
The Wife, the Susba/Kd, and the Lover. 119 
 
 ment?" "Those are the very circumstances, Jenneville, 
 that ought to have made us the more suspicious of him. 
 The man who intended to meet his liabilities would have- 
 been more economical in his expenses ; the really rich are 
 not those who are most desirous to appear so. It is those who- 
 live upon other people's money who invariably make the most 
 display. They give dinners, balls, reunions at the cost of some 
 poor widows or helpless orphans ; the hard-earned gains of 
 artists, or the savings of a frugal, honest trader. Ah, Jenne- 
 ville, such rascals are ten-fold greater villains than the robbers 
 who stop you on the highway and demand your purse, and who, 
 at least, expose their lives, whilst these elegant pickpockets of 
 the gay saloon, these insolent insolvents, laugh in the faces of 
 the fools whom they have made their dupes." " You are quite^ 
 right, my friend ; but your moralizing will not bring me back 
 the five thousand pounds that he has robbed me of." "At 
 least, Jenneville, the loss will not ruin you, you must still be in 
 comfortable circumstances ; but as for me I am absolutely 
 reduced to ninety pounds a year." "Ah," he said, gnashing 
 his teeth, and striding up and down the room, "you are a 
 philosopher, and I dare say will make it do; but I tell you 
 frankly, this cursed event has brought me to despair;. 
 I am not so rich as you expect ; I have been lately 
 in the habit of throwing money recklessly away, and. 
 I had calculated on this speculation with the rascal 
 Blagnard setting me upon my legs again. Madame de- 
 Remonde has such extravagant ideas." "I thought she cost 
 you nothing." "Nothing! why, yes, so to speak, not exactly 
 in hard cash, but then she expects such princely presents, and 
 what is worse than all, as the devil will have it, the Court of 
 Chancery has just decided against her about the large estate in 
 Normandy. I know it, although she has not told me so herself. 
 Oh, no ! she is the very soul of delicacy with me, bound 
 together as we are, she pushes it to a ridiculous excess, and 
 at this moment she has refused an English nobleman, in- 
 calculably rich, who offered to throw his fortune at her »mk.. 
 When she acts so out of pure love for me, what can I do f- 
 Deligny, a woman who gives such proofs of her love well 
 deserves some sacrifices should be made for her. At this 
 moment she is in want of four thousand pounds to pay the 
 costs of that infernal suit. Now, I have a small property that 
 is worth that sum, and I will send it into the market before 
 this day is over." "What! Jenneville, sell your land 
 for /Madame de Remonde?" "Aye, that I will; it 
 will embarrass still more at present, I must allow ; but Herminie 
 is only in momentary want of funds, and I am sure will return. 
 all I may advance for her." "Be careful; Madame de- 
 
120 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Hemonde is but your mistress ; women are proverbially fickle ; 
 it is not always those we love who prize us most." " Oh, fear 
 not, Deligny, my Herminie is all constancy and truth." 
 
 My heart was upon my lips, and I had well nigh told him all 
 that had taken place between Madame de Remonde and myself 
 at her dinners and during the quadrilles at Auteuil ; but if I 
 had, I thought, desperately enamoured as he was, that he 
 -would not believe me ; so a long silence ensued, until again 
 t he thought came over me that I should be doing him a real 
 service in detaching him from the woman who was evidently 
 raining him, and that if I could be the means of reconciling 
 him to Augustine I should not have lived in vain ; and if she 
 couid not love she must respect me, and I should enjoy her 
 gratitude for life. Full of this idea, I determined to go to the 
 point at once, and, drawing my chair close to his, addressed 
 hiin thus : — 
 
 fc ' J enueville, my dear friend, do you ever recollect that you 
 are married ? ' ' He looked at me with surprise, and answered, 
 1 • 'Tis the last tiling in the world I ever think of." "Of course, 
 Alien, you have quite forgotten your wife ?" " Entirely ; but 
 what on earth makes you ask me such a question ? " " Because 
 I deemed it impossible not to think sometimes of a woman to 
 whom one is tied for life." " Tied, indeed, Deligny ; it is that 
 same tie that grieves me. But you see it does not hinder either 
 of us from living just as we please ; in fact, as if we were not 
 
 married." "True; but perhaps your wife " "Oh, never 
 
 mind her, it is all the same to me what she does." "You 
 would not like to be reconciled to her ? V " Now heaven in it's 
 mercy forbid! I have had enough of marriage, my dear 
 fellow; may the Lord defend me from it!" "Nevertheless, 
 when you married you loved your wife ? " " Ye-e-es ; but it did 
 not last long." ' ' Had your love endured, I think you might have 
 been far happier than you now are." " My dear Deligny, it is 
 olear you have not been married, for if you had been you would 
 not talk in the way you do ; you cannot conceive how tiresome, 
 captious, querulous, and exacting women become when once you 
 are chained to them. In the first place, they always desire to have 
 the upper hand, and the consequence is you are to become their 
 slaves ; but if you are firm against their encroachment, and will 
 not be treated as puppets or nonentities, then you are monsters, 
 tyrants, tigers. Oh, I promise you, if I had consented to obey 
 * my wife's whims and fantasies all day long, it is very possible 
 she might have adored me."^" Have you any reason to think 
 she did not love you?" "A woman who makes a man's life 
 miserable cannot have the least affection for him. Nothing is 
 so shocking as a woman making you as wretched as you can be, 
 and telling you she loves you ail the while. Hate me, say I, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 121 
 
 80 as you leave me quiet." "You appear to me, Jenneville, to 
 throw all the blame of your living unhappily together 
 on your wife. Are you sure you were not sometimes in 
 the wrong yourself ?" " Why, what is the matter with 
 you this morning ? You plead her cause as warmly as 
 if you were her paid advocate. Can you have fallen in 
 love with her since I showed her to you at Auteuil?" 
 "I have met her in society since then, Jenneville, and I 
 acknowledge she appeared very different to the picture you had 
 painted of her." "No doubt, my dear fellow, no doubt; the 
 women are all that is charming and delightful in society ; you 
 must see them at home to become acquainted with their real 
 dispositions. But, drop the subject ; we have talked quite long 
 enough of her; the great question now is how to raise some 
 money, and to do so I must sell my land ; so, adieu, for I must 
 set about it." He rose ; but as he was about to quit the room, 
 I made one last effort to save him. 
 
 "Jenneville," I said, "reflect, think before you commit a 
 rash act that you may bitterly regret hereafter." " Why should 
 I think ? Of what use would it be to think ? I want money, 
 and money I must have. Can you lend me four thousand 
 pounds?" "Unfortunately I cannot; but, I implore you, do 
 not leave yourself destitute; if you were to return to your 
 
 wife " "My wife again!" "Hear me for a moment; 
 
 you have not treated your wife as you ought to have 
 done ; you have entirely mistaken her disposition ; she always 
 loved you and does so still. She may have appeared exacting 
 in the first weeks of your marriage in wishing to have you 
 always with her, but it was only from excess of love. Keturn 
 to her, be indulgent to her weaknesses, treat her affectionately, 
 and she will ensure your happiness for life." Looking me full 
 in the face, he said, "Deligny, I will sell the land" ; then 
 turned on his heel and left the room without another word. 
 
 I threw myself into an arm-chair, wondering at the madness 
 of a man persisting in casting from him what I would have 
 given all the gold in Potosi or Peru to have gained, and 
 reflected with some satisfaction that I had done my duty in 
 endeavouring to reconcile him to his wife. My own heavy 
 loss next occupied my mind; I gave one deep sigh to the 
 memory of the fifteen hundred pounds sacrificed to the scoundrel 
 Blagnard, and then, as I was too proud to run in debt or borrow 
 money of my friends without meaning to repay it, I sat down 
 coolly to lay out a plan of living economically upon my remain- 
 ing ninety pounds a year. Whilst I was so engaged 
 the time slipped away, until Dubois came in and re- 
 minded me that we had engaged to dine together at V6four's ; 
 ^•i my relating what had occurred and the small income to 
 
122 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 which my funds were reduced, he cursed Blagnard heartily 
 :and promised, in his Gasconading style, to run mm through the 
 body wherever he should meet hYm • then tried to raise my 
 spirits, said ninety pounds a year was a very good beginning 
 for a good-looking fellow like me, and that he would soon find 
 out for me a rich, tender-hearted widow of some forty-five or 
 fifty years of age, who would take upon herself to furnish me 
 all the luxuries of life without my having recourse to one 
 farthing of my own money. I thanked him, but told him I 
 "was not ambitious now, and would manage to live upon my 
 modest income. ' ' In that case, ' ' he replied, ' ' I must give up my 
 ^amours in high life and be content with a sentimental grisette, 
 who would confine her ideas to being taken out on Sundays and 
 treated to buns and bottled beer ; but, at all events, married 
 or single, with a work-girl or a dowager for a lover, I must 
 come and dine at the best tavern in the Palais Royal." He 
 had made a capital hit in figures that morning, made fifty pounds 
 commission on a large sale, and nothing would do, as I had 
 always treated him when he was out of luck, but that I should 
 breakfast and dine with him every day until all his money should 
 be gone. It was impossible to refuse gratifying the good-natured 
 creature, so I put the best face I could upon my trouble, and we 
 went to VSfour's, where Dubois ordered a dinner as if the fifty 
 pounds would never come to an end. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 It is impossible for a man with an income of only ninety 
 pounds to retain a servant and apartments at thirty pounds a 
 year. Therefore, to commence economizing at once, I discharged 
 my female domestic and gave the landlord notice to quit ; and 
 then, having sold the most expensive articles of my furniture to 
 pay some debts that pressed upon me, I engaged a quiet, 
 Teasonable lodging in the Rue Chariot, which possessed the 
 additional advantage of being near to Augustine. I did not 
 regret my grand apartments ; the two little scantily-furnished 
 rooms which I now occupied sufficed for my wants ; but 
 I am inclined to think that, had I not been so enthusiasti- 
 cally in love, I should not have borne my misfortune 
 in quite so philosophical a manner. From the first moment 
 that Dubois became acquainted with my loss, he would not leave 
 me alone ; every day he insisted upon our dining at the most 
 frequented taverns in Paris, and treating me as a lord ; I believe 
 lie would have provided mistresses for me if I would have per- 
 mitted him ; it was in vain I entreated him to be more careful 
 of his money, the only reply I received being*that feasting was 
 an excellent remedy for lightening the heart, and when the 
 money should be all spent, he could go to work and soon fill his 
 purse again. As for Jolivet, I had only seen him once, and 
 then when I informed him of Blagnard's rascality, he imme- 
 diately began recapitulating a dozen heavy losses that he had 
 suffered with failing speculations, money invested at very little 
 interest, etc., all to prevent my asking him to lend me 
 money ; and then, suddenly recollecting he had an important 
 appointment, he left the room abruptly. His absence did 
 not grieve me. That which surprised me most was 
 the continued neglect of Madame Luceval : it was true 
 that I had not been to her, and that I had told her I would 
 never see her again; but still I had hoped that she would 
 think of me sometimes and endeavour to ascertain how I was 
 going on. Had she known what I had said to Jenneville, had 
 she known how I tore my very heart-strings in striving to 
 promote her happiness and brinsr him back to her, she would 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 have had some pity for my weakness and not have suffered me* 
 to pine in misery alone. 
 
 I had now been ten days in my new lodgings, and during the 
 last two I had not seen Dubois. The fact was, the fifty pounds were 
 entirely consumed, so that the light-hearted fellow had busied 
 himself with sales of coffee, sugar, and spice to gain a similar 
 amount, which he laughingly declared should be expended in the 
 self-same way. As I returned home from an eating-house, 
 where I had expended eighteenpence, I reflected how I should 
 have been astonished a few weeks before if anyone had asserted 
 it was possible to dine for such a sum. I saw now that a man 
 could live comfortably on a much less amount than he conceived 
 he could, and I also saw that, had I not thrown money uselessly 
 away, I should have been in far better circumstances than I 
 was. How wise men get, and what admirable reflections men 
 make, when their pockets are empty and their fortunes are 
 obscured. 
 
 Before entering the house I took a turn round the Turkish 
 Gardens, thinking it possible I might meet Madame Luceval, 
 but I was disappointed. There were, however, the same sort 
 of people one always meets at public places— ^old couples, fully 
 developed on the broad,- open walks ; young lovers who hide 
 themselves in the bushes ; the economical tradesman and his 
 better-half who sit for three hours with a bottle of beer before 
 them, whilst their children play about upon the grass ; gay 
 fellows who consume quantities of coffee, ices, and punch 
 within ten minutes ; the constant visitor who comes there 
 every day to ogle the women ; a family composed of five females 
 who prowl about all day, like Diogenes, looking for a man ; 
 some old beaux, who flatter themselves they are young and 
 good-looking still, who become every year more careful of their 
 dress and screw their waists in until they are almost suffocated ; 
 workwomen in caps, with their children in large, straw 
 hats, so capacious in the brims that they almost hide the 
 little creatures ; a woman fifty years old, who walks 
 about with a child so young that it cannot possibly be 
 her's, although she pretends it is ; a married couple who 
 promenade for hours without ■ exchanging two syllables with 
 each other ; tall, gawky, spinster-looking women, who stare 
 at others from head to foot as if taking their measure for a 
 robe or suit of clothes ; a jolly man and fair, round woman, 
 whose accent betrayed their northern provincial origin, and a 
 thousand others of the different species one always has seen 
 and one always will see while places of public amusement- 
 shall endure. 
 
 Not finding: anything to interest me, I walked quietly home, 
 and, on entering the court-yard, saw the porter of the establish- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 125 
 
 ment seated with all his household before the great gate in 
 the patriarchal manner common to that quarter of the city. 
 The instant he saw me he cried out, " Monsieur, there is "a 
 letter for you." A letter ; I thought it might be from my 
 father, or from Ninie, inviting me to go to her, as I had not 
 seen her since the evening at Auteuil, but on the man giving 
 it. to me, it was clear it was not my father's writing nor poor 
 Ninie's miserable scrawl, although I could have sworn 
 it came from a woman from the peculiar manner in which 
 they fold their notes. Making fifty guesses, but none of 
 them approaching the truth, I opened the letter, and 
 directing my eyes to the signature beheld, with inexpressible 
 delight, it was from Augustine. Pressing it to my heart, and 
 kissing it a thousand times, I read : — 
 
 " 1 have just been made acquainted with your heavy loss, and 
 the villainy of the man who has deceived Jenneville and your- 
 self. I respect and admire the firmness you have shown in not 
 coming near me for so long, but your misfortune, in a great 
 measure, breaks the chains of ceremony, and urges me to 
 suggest to you that you have kind Mends who would willingly 
 testify the esteem in which they hold you. Notwithstanding 
 the resentment you naturally feel towards me, I assure you you 
 can reckon confidently on my friendship, and I hope and trust 
 you will put it speedily to the test by coming to 
 
 " Augustine. " 
 
 Again and again I kissed the letter, uttered a thousand 
 broken exclamations, and played so many fantastic tricks that 
 the old porter who stood near me with the candle supposed 
 that I had become rich by the decease of some relation, and 
 congratulated me on my good fortune. Those people think that 
 money alone can give satisfaction to a man. This mercenary 
 observation recalled me to myself. I inqmred the horn*, and 
 finding it was only just past ten, I determined to go to Madame 
 Luceval forthwith. I had constrained my feelings violently in 
 resisting my desire to see her, but I would not do so any 
 more ; absence had failed to cure me of my deep attachment, 
 and always would, then why should I not enjoy her presence and 
 her conversation, but never speak to her one single world of 
 love ? Whilst these reflections were passing through my mind 
 I traversed the short space between my apartments and 
 Augustine's, and on the door being opened was received with 
 a smile of welcome from the servant, accompanied by the 
 observation that I had been long away. She then hastened to 
 the door of the saloon, as if she thought her mistress would be 
 pleased to see me, and ushered me into the room where 
 Augustine was seated alone, at an open window, her head 
 
126 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 resting on her hand, apparently contemplating the lovely silver 
 moon. 
 
 One lamp placed upon the mantelpiece served imperfectly to 
 light the large saloon, a great portion of which was in obscurity. 
 She did not hear the girl announce me, and took no notice of my 
 entrance ; believing she was alone, she stirred not hand or foot, 
 and as I stood waiting in the centre of the room, my heart 
 bounding with delight at being near her, at again beholding* 
 her loved form, it seemed to me that I was dreaming, and 
 that the slightest motion of my body would dispel the sweet 
 illusion. She heaved a gentle sigh, the tears that dimmed her 
 eyes glistened in the moon's bright rays, and as she lifted her 
 handkerchief to her face, despite my resolve, I moved so as to 
 attract her notice, and turning round with a slight start she 
 saw who it was. She rose, advanced towards me, smiled 
 kindly, and held out her hand, which I pressed tenderly. She 
 then returned to her seat in the shadow of the curtain near the 
 window, desired me to sit by her side, and opened an interest* 
 ing conversation with me. 
 
 "How long it seems to me, Deligny, since I saw you last ;. 
 I was so accustomed to your visits that I found the evenings 
 long without them." " Custom is everything, madame; I 
 always felt nattered with the very favourable reception you 
 granted to me." "Keally, Monsieur Deligny, your tone is 
 very ceremonious ; formerly we used to be on a more friendly 
 footing; let us resume it pray." " Willingly, madame, to 
 you I must always be the same ; time can never alter my feel- 
 ings toward you.' " Well, well, let us talk of a subject that 
 concerns yourself : you have been the victim of a scoundrel ? " 
 " Yes, madame, I have; it is an everyday occurrence now for 
 men to be deceived. Fool that I was, I ought to have been 
 upon my guard with that false man ; his affected manners, his 
 impudent assertions, his constant interruption of conversation, 
 his desire to make friends through the medium of 'their 
 stomach, all announced a man who seeks to make society his 
 dupes." "And he succeeded with you?" In reply I gave 
 Madame Luceval a history of my follies, the dissipation of my 
 income, the desire that I had to increase it in order to make it 
 some day worthy of her acceptance, and said that as I never 
 could be anything to her the pittance I had left would bo 
 sufficient for my wants, and that I even ought to feel grateful 
 for my loss, as through it I had been enabled to see her again, 
 a blessing which otherwise I should not have enjoyed. Sh& 
 answered that my abstaining from visiting her proceeded from 
 my own will, and that if I chose to renew my visits she had 
 no reason to refuse herself that gratification. There was some- 
 thing constrained in her voice and manner ; I thought she did 
 
The Wife, the Husba?id i and the Lover. 127' 
 
 not speak with that freedom with which she had formerly 
 addressed me ; but as we sat together in the shade I could not. 
 discover the expression of her eyes. A long silence ensued — 
 both of us being occupied by our own thoughts — which va,- 
 broken by my enquiring how she had heard of my misfortune .-, 
 upon which she told me that a relative of her frienc. 
 Juliette, who had likewise lost a large sum by Blagnard, had 
 stated that Jenneville and myself were amongst his creditors. 
 I expressed a hope that her husband's losses would bring him to 
 reason, although, at the same time, I felt bound to inform her 
 of the follies he was committing for the sake of Madame dc 
 Remonde, and his intention of disposing of some of his landed 
 property to support her in her extravagance j but I feared that 
 nothing but his total ruin and her desertion of him would open 
 his eyes to the true character of that intriguing woman. 
 
 Madame Luceval sighed again and turned the conversation 
 She said that she had missed me much ; that latterly, she knew 
 not why, she had not had the heart to leave the house* even for 
 a promenade, and had passed the chief portion of her time with 
 Juliette; now, however, she had made up her mind not to be 
 quite so much of a recluse, and as the weather had set in fine, 
 she would go to her country-house at Lucienne to pass the 
 summer months. I applauded her resolution, and silence again. 
 came over us for several minutes, during which I pondered over 
 the extraordinary changes which had taken place in Augustine. 
 All at once, as I cast my eyes on the pavement of the street, 
 I thought I perceived the figure of a man, enveloped in a 
 Spanish cloak, stealing along in the shadow of the houses on' 
 the other side, and that presently he stopped and looked up at 
 the window near which we were seated ; then, watching him, 
 I saw him pass on to the upper end of the street and return 
 slowly again, and pass by several times without ever going 
 far from the house. Apparently, Augustine thought the man 
 was engaged as a spy upon her, for she said to me, "It seems 
 to me there is someone in the street watching us ; it is a man, 
 and not of the most aristocratic appearance!" I tried to 
 calm her apprehension by representing that the individua! 
 could have nothing to do with her, and most probably had a 
 rendezvous there. She acceded to my view of the occurrence 
 in the same agitated yet melancholy tone that had pervaded 
 her conversation throughout the evening, and on the clock 
 striking twelve, exclaimed how swiftly the moments had 
 passed since I had been there, and bade me farewell, begging 
 me#^eware of the promenader in the street, who had been 
 watering the window so narrowly. I promised to be with her 
 soon again, kissed her proffered hand, and gained the street, 
 where I no longer saw the person in the cloak, but, turning. 
 
3128 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 'when I had proceeded a few yards, to catch a last glimpse of 
 the window where I had left Augustine, it is impossible to 
 .conceive the ecstatic joy I felt when I saw that she was leaning 
 out and following my retreating figure with her eyes. Reaching 
 •3ny room without any accident or interference, I undressed 
 myself and went to bed, hugging to my heart the remembrance 
 of Augustine's plaintiff accents when addressing me, her 
 trembling at the mysterious stranger, her fear for my safety, 
 /and her last farewell ; and, poor and miserable as I was, and 
 knowing that Jenneyille was aliye and well, I never felt %o 
 chappy in my life. 
 
 *-'■'■ 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 12$ J 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 MY FATHER. COMES TO PARIS, 
 
 Early on the following morning I paid another visit to 
 Augustine, and the evening .found me with her again. How 
 delightful these renewed meetings were ; yet though she received 
 me kindly and her conversation possessed all its former charms, 
 every day confirmed me in the opinion that there was con- 
 siderably less freedom in her manner than there had previously 
 been : when she spoke her eyes were not fixed upon my face 
 with the same careless ease, and when they occasionally met 
 mine she turned her head away ; sometimes she would appear 
 thoughtful and abstracted, and when I taxed her with being- 
 absent, she assumed a forced gaiety of spirit that did not sit 
 naturally upon her. Faithful to the plan of action I had laid 
 down, I did not speak one word of love ; sometimes, indeed, she 
 tried to lead the conversation to that charming topic, but 
 whenever it was the case I purposely avoided it, and immediately 
 talked about indifferent things, and then I could see a. 
 slight shade of vexation overspread her beauteous face. The 
 singularity of the circumstance struck me as wonderful, and at, 
 times my imagination indulged in the delusive dream that I 
 had created an interest in her heart and that she might yet be 
 mine. 
 
 It was likewise observable that now she never mentioned her - J 
 husband's name, and when I spoke by chance of Jenneville she 
 almost seemed displeased. It was clear from this that she did? 
 not receive me now to gather information for her respecting 
 him ; and the only inference my vanity could draw was that 
 she desired to see me for myself, for I was no longer useful to 
 her in retailing all the news I picked up in society. Her 
 respected friend, Madame Dermont, had taken advantage of the 
 fine weather to pass some time at her country seat, so that 
 Juliette and myself were the only persons admitted to the 
 apartments of Augustine. Juliette, ever lively, did not seem 
 to pay attention to Madame Luceval's melancholy moods ; ort 
 the contrary, she appeared to think they afforded capital 
 occasions for pleasantries, and when Augustine became 
 offended at her raillery she only laughed more joyously and 
 teased her more. 
 
 One morning, as I was seated by her side, reading, whilst she- 
 
 I 
 
130 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 worked at her embroidery-frame, more pensive than ever, 
 Juliette came bounding into the room, saying she had received 
 a letter from Madame Dermont, who was exceedingly anxious 
 that Augustine should pay her her promised visit in the country, 
 and as she was going to write immediately, she wished to know 
 what she should reply to the venerable lady. ' • What you please, " 
 Augustine tartly answered, "you seem very desirous to send 
 me out of Paris." "Not so, my dear; but, nevertheless, I am 
 surprised that you have not yet gone into the country, so fond of 
 it as you pretend to be. It is noAv almost the end of June, and 
 you know you used to be at Lucienne generally long enough 
 before this." "There is time enough yet, Juliette. I love the 
 country as much as ever, but there is scarcely shade enough yet for 
 me." "Oh, dear, I had not thought of that; shall I tell poor 
 Madame Dermont you will wait till the bushes are thicker and 
 ■the underwood more grown?" "Write anything you please, 
 Juliette, and do not seek to play upon my feelings ; latterly you 
 seem to take delight in vexing me." Having uttered these words, 
 she burst into a fit of sobs and tears that appeared to me quite 
 tmsuited to the occasion. Juliette ran to her, kissed her affec- 
 tionately, and begged her pardon for having unwittingly dis- 
 tressed her. But Augustine did not reply to her caresses, but 
 rose briskly from her chair and quitted the apartment. I was 
 in amazement, and could not possibly conceive the reason of 
 her grief. 
 
 The moment Juliette and I were alone, I could not help 
 asking her whether she was aware of the cause of Madame 
 Luceval's melancholy, when she said she could guess it well 
 enough, and was far better pleased to see her in her present 
 state than that in which she formerly had been, externally calm, 
 but fretting fearfully when alone, thinking of nothing but her 
 husband, talking of nobody but him, occupying herself entirely 
 with obtaining information of his follies and misdeeds, and 
 loving him in spite of all his atrocious conduct to her 
 Now it seemed that she had partially forgotten the 
 hardened libertine, which in her (Juliette's) opinion was a 
 very happy circumstance. More she would not say, except 
 that she well knew her friend's amiable disposition and would 
 soon make her peace with her. Having said thus much, she 
 nodded to me with a sly expression of countenance and went to 
 Augustine. 
 
 As I walked towards home I reflected much upon what Juliette 
 had told me, and without quite giving myself up to the 
 -enchanting idea that my passion was at length fully returned, 
 I thought that Madame Luceval, with the usual capriciousness 
 of the sex, finding that I did not talk to her of love, was doing 
 all she could to ascertain whether that sentiment still dwelt in 
 
The Wife, the Hiishand, and the Lover. 131 
 
 my heaic, and was somewhat piqued that I d*d not show it 
 openly. \\>en I reached my apartments the porter delivered 
 to me a letter from my father, in which I expected to find 
 expressions of disappointment at my haying so long delayed 
 going to Chartres, but I was much surprised and not very 
 agreeably, at finding the contents were as follows: "My 
 dear Son, — As you have not time to come and see me, 1 
 suppose in consequence of the number and importance of 
 the claims upon your time, and your successful speculations 
 occupy you completely, I have determined to come up to 
 Paris and spend a few days there, gratifying myself with 
 the sight of your prosperity. At first I had thought of giving 
 you a surprise by coming to your house without advising you 
 of it, but" as I know very little of your beautiful city, having 
 been there only twice in my life, and the last time being twenty 
 years ago, I think it will be best for you to meet me as I leave 
 the coach. Be kind enough, then, to come to the office where 
 the coach stops at half-past five o'clock in the afternoon, the 
 day after to-morrow." 
 
 Here was a thunderbolt ; the letter had been delayed a day, 
 as I saw by the post-mark, having been probably backward in 
 the delivery by being directed to the rooms I formerly occupied, 
 so that "the day after to-morrow" would be this very day, 
 and at half -past five o'clock— it was now nearly one — he would 
 arrive. My poor, dear father ; he would come to see his only 
 son's prosperity, and alas! how cruelly he would be deceived! 
 He would come to behold with fond, paternal affection, the 
 brilliant position my industry and perseverance had gained for 
 me in a pitiful lodging on the third floor, but a few degrees 
 removed from a garret, without a servant, without any 
 comfort, much less opulence. Good Heavens ! what could I 
 say to him, how could I divulge to him that his dear son was 
 almost ruined ! What cruelty when he came to Paris to enjoy 
 himself to tell him that in seven short years I had thrown away 
 my mother's fortune, and had only a scanty remnant left ! No, 
 I thought, I will die sooner than he shall be made acquainted 
 with the fatal truth ; and yet how can I possibly conceal it from 
 him ? I walked up and down my two small rooms, examining 
 them more attentively than I had ever done before ; I arranged 
 the furniture in the best possible manner and wiped some of it 
 with my pocket-handkerchief; I altered the places of several 
 of the chairs ; but all in vain. The small apartments would 
 not appear larger ; in fact, their size formed no consideration 
 with me when I took them ; their great charm at that time 
 being they were near to Augustine's residence in the Rue de 
 Boucherat. 
 
 I was bewildered ; my father was an excellent old man and 
 
132 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 dotingly fond of me, which made it more incumbent on me not 
 to distress him if I could possibly avoid it ; and again I felt 
 that when he should know in what a reckless manner I had 
 dissipated my means, he would take me from Paris to his 
 pretty town to teach me to live economically, and perhaps- 
 talk to me of getting married. Quit Paris at tins moment! 
 Never ; a bed upon the roof of any house, so that I could 
 behold my Augustine ! With respect to my marriage, he had 
 entertained that project for some time, and had spoken to me 
 about it, and I knew that were I to tell him I was in love 
 with a rich woman, he would tell me to publish the banns 
 directly ; but it was impossible. If he should propose some- 
 wealthy woman to me as a last resource, then I should inform 
 him I was in love with another man's wife, and that there was 
 no probability of the husband's death at present. Utterly at 
 a loss what to do, I struck my forehead with my clenched fist, 
 and dropped into a chair fairly out of my wits, when the 
 thought that Dubois' inventive genius might be of use to- 
 me came across my mind. I looked at my watch ; i$ 
 was only just past one, and my father would not arrive 
 until after five ; there were, then, nearly four hours before 
 me, and with diligence wonders might be accomplished 
 in that time. Sending for a cabriolet, I directed the man 
 to drive as fast as he could to the last- address that Dubois 
 had given me, praying that he might not have found 
 some new fair female acquaintance in another part of the city, 
 and removed in accordance with his usual habits. Having 
 arrived at the house in the quaint old street, which must have 
 been built in the reign of King John, and been directed by the 
 portress, who appeared almost as old as the house, to a back- 
 room on the second floor, I knocked at a door I supposed to be- 
 his, which was opened by another old woman — the house seemed 
 to be inhabited by. none other than hags — who told me that the- 
 adjoining apartments were my friend's. 
 
 I knocked as louidy as my impatience and agitation dictated, 
 and was surprised at not hearing anybody move within, fearing 
 at the same time the portress might be mistaken and Dubois have- 
 gone out, or that he might have a frail companion with him, and 
 could not open to me. Again I knocked louder than before, with 
 the full determination that he should hear me if he were within - r 
 and presently I heard him say, as he shuffled across the ante- 
 chamber, "Who's there ?" "'Tis I, Paul," I replied, " open 
 quick ! 'Tis I, my Mend, in haste." Dubois opened the door, 
 having nothing on but his shirt. "What, sluggard, in bed atr 
 past one o'clock in the day?" "Why not, Paul? Day or 
 night are all the same to me so that I have the usual quantity 
 of sleep." "Ah! then you passed all last night at a ball ?' r 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 133 
 
 ** No, I passed the whole of it in bed," and he jumped into it 
 .again. I stared at him intently, for I could not make out what 
 he was about. " Dubois ! " I exclaimed, petulantly, " going to 
 bed again ! " ' ' All true, old fellow. *■' " Are you ill ? " " Not 
 in the least ; was never in better health in my life. Could eat 
 a donkey this morning." " And yet you are in bed at one 
 o'clock ! " "I can't help it, my boy ; shut the door close, and 
 I'll tell you all about it." " The door is shut ; quick then, and 
 •dress yourself while you are talking, for I have pressing need of 
 jou to get me out of an infernal scrape." " There is nothing in 
 the world that would give me more pleasure at this moment, 
 Paul, than to be able to get up. Do you suppose I am 
 lying in bed for the pleasure of the tiling, when I have so much 
 ^business on hand that I don't know how to get through it, ten 
 appointments at least for this morning and an assignation in 
 the afternoon with a delicious little lace-working girl. " " Come, 
 come, Dubois, leave off your joking do, and dress yourself." 
 "It's very easy to say l dress yourself,' but how the devil am I 
 to do so without my breeches ? " " Without your breeches ! " 
 " Yes, to be sure, or rather my pantaloons." " Have you not a 
 pair of any sort ? Put on winter ones ; they will do for once." 
 " Not a single pair, by Jupiter ! If I had a pair made of iron 
 I'd put them on to do you a service." "But I cannot under- 
 stand this at all : surely, Dubois, you did not come home last 
 night without your trousers ? " " Oh, dear no ; last evening I 
 wore a pair of dark blue with a violet railroad stripe that fitted 
 my legs as tight and as easy as a glove, and three other pairs 
 in that venerable chest in the corner." "Do you mean to 
 say you have been robbed?" "Wrong again, Paul, but 
 it's the funniest thing in the world, upon my honour. Ah, 
 ah, ah!" "Really, I cannot see anything peculiarly laugh- 
 able at being without a single pair of trousers." "I can't 
 help it, old fellow; if your disposition were the same as 
 mine, you would laugh too. If my accident were generally 
 known, Paul, what a number of women would come to see me, 
 to be sure!" " Explain yourself , I pray; time presses, and I 
 am at my wits' end." "Listen, then — you must know that 
 last evening I reoeived a delicate seamstress, especially 
 susceptible to the tender passion, over head and ears in love 
 with your humble servant, who came to pass the night in this 
 poor hermitage, while all the world believed that she was 
 piously sitting up with a bed-ridden old aunt ; and, unfor- 
 tunately, during our protracted interview I let drop a word or 
 two respecting the lace-mender of to-day. Now, my lady is as 
 jealous as a woman can be, and so this morning, when I was 
 asleep, she got up without waking me, and has taken away all 
 ,my pantaloons to prevent my keeping my appointment. She has 
 
134 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 not even left me one pair ; you may judge of my surprise 
 when I went to dress myself." "The most malignant trick 
 I ever heard of. But why did you not send the porter out 
 to buy a pair ?" "My dear fellow, I have but one shilling: 
 and sixpence in the world." "Without money and not come- 
 to me!" "You have scarcely enough for yourself, Paul, 
 now. If I could only obtain a pair of trousers I should do well 
 enough ; I've good tick at the coffee-house, and in less than a* 
 week I shall be well up in cash again ; but I've no doubt the- 
 jade will bring the things back again in the evening ; she only- 
 wanted me to miss my assignation and offend the girls." "And--, 
 now, Dubois, listen to me, and set your wits to work. My 
 father will be in Paris at half -past five this afternoon." "The- 
 devil ! " " Too true ; my real situation must be concealed from., 
 him; he must be made to believe that I am rich and my 
 appearance must support the illusion. He is fond of the 
 country and will not remain in Paris more £han four or five 
 days, and if he is satisfied that I am doing well he will leave 
 me then in peace. Now then, what is to be done to blind his = 
 eyes; think quickly, think." "It's a pretty mess indeed!" 
 "For God's sake invent some means of helping me. Do you, 
 know anyone who would lend us a handsome suite of rooms and 
 some servants ? I would pay liberally for the accommodation." 
 "Stop, stop a moment whilst I reflect. Here, you may have 
 my rooms." " Much obliged ; my lodging is a palace compared 
 to yours." "How provoking! Now, I am acquainted with 
 plenty of artists who have very large studios, where yo'ir 
 father would be quite at his ease, but then, you see, there is do 
 furniture in them, and plenty of pretty creatures who would be 
 happy to receive him, but then they have only one bed." 
 i ' Are you mad, Dubois ? "Would you take the old gentleman 
 to a woman ? Eecollect that he must think he is in my 
 apartments, in a highly respectable house." " I have it, Paul ;. 
 the very thing. There's an honest woman who has a large 
 establishment near the Champs ElysSes that she lets out. She 
 has been leering at me for some time, and I think would do 
 anything to oblige me. She is fifty at least, but to save & 
 friend I don't mind sacrificing myself at all. If she ha3 a 
 suite of apartments disengaged, you shall have them, and half- 
 a-dozen servants of all sorts to boot." 
 
 He did not stop to hear my thanks, but jumped out of bed 
 ana cried, " Lend me your trousers." " My trousers ? Why ? " 
 "To go out with to be sure ! If it were winter I would risk 
 running through the streets in a large cloak, but as we are in. 
 summer it wouldn't be quite the thing. Lend me your trousers j 
 it' s all for your own service. ' ' " V 11 go down and buy you a pair. ' ' 
 *• And while you are doing so time is running on, and your 
 
The Wife, the Husband, mid the Lover. 135 
 
 father will be upon us before we are half ready. Take them 
 off quick ; I shall not be away more than half an hour. I will 
 see the old woman and arrange with her for the rooms, tell her 
 to get a capital dinner for six o'clock, call at the seamstress's 
 for my clothes, come back here, return you your trousers, and 
 then we'll go and receive the respected parent together." 
 
 Dubois appeared so certain of settling matters comfortably 
 that I was persuaded to do as he suggested. I took off my 
 ^trousers, which fitted him completely, and whilst he finished 
 his toilette he told me that the woman he spoke of resided near 
 the A116e des Veuves in a splendidly-furnished house, which 
 she let only to English lords, German and Italian quack doctors, 
 .and other people who could pay handsomely, that she was well 
 disposed towards all young men, and, at the present moment, 
 particularly so to himself, and he had no doubt that a few 
 oaths and kisses from him would induce her to help me 
 out of my difficulty. I gave Dubois the money to take a 
 cabriolet for the sake of speed, and my watch that he might 
 mark the time, bidding him remember that the coach would 
 arrive at half-past five, and he left me, promising to be back in 
 three-quarters of an hour at the latest. Behold me, then, walk- 
 ing up and down Dubois' confined apartments with all my 
 clothes on except my pantaloons ; I could not help laughing at 
 the ridiculous position I should be in if anybody should call 
 upon him, but then I decided that I would not open the door 
 to anyone but him. In order to pass away the time I went to 
 the window, but that only looked out into a dismal dirty back- 
 yard ; I next examined his rooms, and saw there was only the 
 furniture that was absolutely necessary, and very few habili- 
 ments, the story about several pairs of trousers having been 
 taken away by the seamstress being, in my opinion, a fabulous 
 invention. I then, as a last resource, threw myself into an arm- 
 chair, and thought of Augustine and of the extraordinary change 
 of temper Juliette and myself had remarked in her; and 
 as my heart admitted some rays of hope it grew lighter 
 in my breast, and the time passed quickly away with- 
 out Dubois' return. Notwithstanding a man may be despe- 
 rately in love, he is not the less susceptible to the atmos- 
 pheric influences, so the winds that penetrated the worm-eaten 
 wainscoting breathed softly on my naked thighs and recalled 
 me from my reverie to the real unpleasantness of my position. 
 It seemed to me that Dubois had been absent much longer than 
 lie said he would ; I became impatient, took another promenade 
 through the rooms, became anxious to know the time, and ioit 
 angry that my situation precluded me from knocking at the 
 neighbour" s door and asking; and then I resolved to curb my 
 impetuosity and search if Dubois had any books. 
 
136 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 With this view I opened two cupboards ; one was quite 
 empty, and in the other I found some bottles of Eau de Cologne- 
 and packets of scented soap — Bravo ! thought i, I kno w j.ox 
 what class of women these little presents are intended — and 
 two or three odd volumes. On examining these I saw they 
 were Senceau's " Treatise on the Vanity of Riches" — it's alB 
 very good to despise riches when their absence does not extend 
 to pantaloons L — "Man in his Primitive State," and " Nature 
 Revealed." As all these books seemed to contain allusions to 
 the state I was in, I threw them from me in a passion, and 
 put my hand in my waistcoat for my watch, forgetting I 
 had lent it to Dubois. Then came the idea that he might not 
 succeed, or — what was very possible in his flightiness — forget 
 me ! To be sure the AllSe des Vevues was a long way off, but 
 as it seemed an age since he left, and as I could not quit the 
 room to ascertain the time, 1 leaned out of the window as far 
 as I could to see whether I could discover any of the people in 
 the adjoining rooms. Turning my head to the right I saw an. 
 old woman on the same floor, working near a window, and 
 politely inquired whether she knew what o'clock it was, tc» 
 which she replied, taking off her spectacles, that her " Cuckoo " 
 had stopped for a long time, but that Madame Bertrand had a 
 famous Breguet timepiece, and she would inform me with the 
 greatest pleasure. Here I had not advanced at all, seeing that 
 it was impossible to present myself before Madame Bertrand 
 in my Highland costume. I felt convinced that the hour of 
 meeting my father was approaching fast, that that scamp 
 Dubois had been gone at least three hours, and as a last 
 desperate resource I determined to search whether he had any- 
 thing like a great coat that would descend below the tops of my 
 boots, and being buttoned to the bottom and held tight in front, 
 would not disclose the loss of my most important habiliment. 1 
 took out all the drawers, threw on the clothes, and turned the bed- 
 stead topsy-turvy, looked under it, and at last, in one of the cup- 
 boards, I saw an old, lengthy riding-coat, with half-a-dozen capes, 
 hanging on a hook. I seized it with avidity, almost tore it 
 down, and saw at the first glance that Dubois had not put it 
 away without cause, for it was completely worn out, moth- 
 eaten, and the collar as low as if it had been cut off from the- 
 ahoulders ; no matter, at that instant it was as welcome as a- 
 first-rate Spanish mantle. 
 
 My paletot was off in a moment and the old riding-coat upon* 
 my back. I saw with delight that it came down to my ankles,, 
 and, what was more fortunate still, did not open up the back at 
 all ; therefore, I had only to fasten the buttons in front, so far 
 as they extended, and to pin the remainder of the skirts 
 closely together. I looked in the glass, thinking I must be a. 
 
The Wife, the band, and the Lover. 137 
 
 •frery ridiculous figure, and had the satisfaction of seeing that 
 I looked exactly like one of the old Jews who sell penknives, 
 sealing-wax, and wafers in the streets. That could not be helped ; 
 my only object was to get to the coach office to receive my father 
 without offending against propriety ; but where was I to find the 
 spins to fasten the skirts of the coat in a bachelor's establishment ? 
 I might as well have expected to find a pair of boat-hooks in a 
 j-oung lady's bedroom, so there I was almost in as bad a plight as 
 poor Monsieur Fouyoux on the great pancake night at Charlotte's. 
 However, there was nothing to be done but to put a bold face 
 on the matter, and, leaving the room, I ascended the stairs to 
 the next floor, where I perceived a half-open door, and listening 
 afc it, heard the voices of several girls all singing different airs, 
 which produced a very peculiar harmony indeed. Peeping in, 
 I saw that some of the young women were starching, some 
 were ironing, and others employed with work that proved to 
 me that Madame Bertrand was a laundress, and, feeling that 
 :as that was the case, there would not be any great effrontery 
 in presenting myself to the young ladies, I opened the door 
 entirely, and enquired in a most insinuating tone whether they 
 could inform me what o'clock it was. All the girls turned 
 their heads at once, looked at me attentively, smiikd, and 
 began whispering to each other, whilst a comely, stout woman, 
 with a ruddy, good-humoured countenance, who was wringing 
 «ome linen, answered, " Yes, monsieur, certainly, I am always 
 quite correct; I regulate the whole house. Pray, monsieur, 
 may I ask whether it is you who have taken the room below ? " 
 "No, madanie, at present I am stopping with my friend, 
 Dubois." " Ah, the good-humoured gentleman! Whenever he 
 comes up here he is always sure to set all the girls a-laughing. 
 It's only the other day he began teaching Josephine 'The 
 Rose that I Hold,' and Emily ' My Lover has gone far away.' ' 
 " Excuse me, Madame Bertrand, but I have a pressing engage- 
 ment." "Dear me, ah! I had forgotten all about you; 
 Victorine, go to the clock in the other room, and tell me what 
 the time is." Victorine put down her iron, and having gone 
 into the adjoining room, called out, "Madame, when the large 
 hand points to the bottom, and the little one is by its side, what 
 time is it ? " " Bless me, what a stupid girl that is ; I believe 
 she doesn't know the hours yet! Go you, Francoise." Fran- 
 coise left off starching, and, having made her inspection of the 
 clock, said, " Monsieur, it's three, no, I mean four, that is, it s 
 not quite five yet. " Madame Bertrand shrugged up her shoulders, 
 uttered another petulant exclamation at the stupidity of all her 
 joung folks, and requested me to step in and look myself as 
 she was too busy to leave off work even for a minute : and I 
 passed before all the girls holding the skirts of the coat tightly 
 
138 £Jie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover 
 
 together in the front, which gave rise to another general 
 whispering and some suppressed titters. 
 
 Pretending not to hear them, I stepped up to the clock and 
 saw it was already a quarter-past five ! There was not a moment 
 to lose. I thanked Madame Bertrand as I shuffled through the 
 tubs, the large basins of starch on the floor, and the ironing- 
 tables, and had gained the door, when suddenly recollecting my 
 semi-nudity, I returned to the laundress, and asked her to* 
 oblige? "ce with the loan of four pins, which request brought 
 forth a peal of laughter from the girls. Madame Bertrand pro* 
 duced them at once, checking the girls for their rudeness, and 
 remarking, with a knowing nod and a wink, that everybody 
 knew young gentlemen did not require them for themselves - r 
 but when they received visits dresses would get torn, and then 
 pins were very useful, finishing with, "Isn't it so, my dear - r 
 there, take your pins, and bless your good-looking face." Again 
 I thanked her — indeed 1 would have hugged the jolly old soul 
 if I had had time — jumped down the stairs, rushed into 
 Dubois' room, stuck in the pins as well as I could, flattering 
 myself that the skirts were secured, so that they would 
 not fly open t and descended the stairs, determined to take a% 
 cabriolet, and proceed to the coach-office at once. When I 
 reached the entrance-gate I stood for a few moments undecided 
 what to do. It seemed to me that, in spite of the pins, every- 
 body could tell that I had not got any trousers on, and if I sent 
 the porter the probability was that he would stop chattering 
 somewhere and be gone an hour at least, so there I stood, 
 praying that some public vehicle would pass ; but Providence 
 sent nothing by for some minutes but market-carts. At length 
 a cabriolet was seen ; I hailed the driver, and got into it as- 
 carefully as Charlotte and her companions entered the hackney- 
 coach at Bercy when they had the bladders with spirit* 
 underneath their dresses, and directed the driver to proceed a* 
 quickly as his horse could go, cursing Dubois and vowing - 
 vengeance on hirn as we went. The driver whipped his horse r 
 the animal bounded rapidly along, and we arrived at the coach 
 office a few minutes before the time, and on my inquiring' 
 whether the coach from Chartres had arrived, 1 was told that it 
 drove into a yard at the back, where hackney-coaches were not 
 allowed to enter. 
 
 The devil ! I was oblige* 1 to get out, and I did so with such- 
 timidity and precaution that the cabman remarked I must have> 
 the rheumatism in my legs very badly indeed, to which I 
 replied, so loud that the bystanders could hear, that I had 
 only just recovered from a severe fit of the gout, and, hobbling 
 across the yard, sat down on a stone bench in a corner, and 
 pulled my hat over my eyes for fear that anyone should 
 
TJie Wife, the Husband^ and the Lover. 139^ 
 
 recognise me in the wretched riding-coat. In general the 
 yard of an extensive coach-office presents a lively, bustling 
 scene, but at that moment my attention was so concentrated 
 in myself in order to provide against any accident to my 
 ridiculous costume that I had not any time to make remarks 
 upon the peculiarities of the various travellers who came and 
 went. I had hardly been seated two minutes before the coach 
 drove into the yard. I saw my father ; my heart impelled me 
 to run to him, but fear kept me nailed to the bench until all 
 the passengers should have left the coach, when I heard some- 
 one laugh outrageously close to my ear, and, on turning round, 
 beheld Dubois winking and pointing to my trousers that he 
 had on. I could have felled him to the earth ! Darting 
 at him a look full of rage, I exclaimed, "Are you 
 there, you vagabond?" "Yes, Paul, as large as life. 
 Ha, ha, ha! I could have sworn to my old uncle's old; 
 riding-coat half a mile off ; how. delightfully it fitsjou." " You 
 laugh now, you scoundrel, but you shall pay dearly for this 
 trick you have played me by-and-bye." " Oh, Paul, for 
 heaven's sake let me laugh. If you could but see yourself with 
 all those pins, oh, such a delightful figure. I'd give a ten- 
 pound note to see you spin a pirouette in the midst of the yard. ' * 
 " Leave off your damnable folly. I must go to my father ; but> 
 remember, you shall hear from me." "Be calm, Paul, all's 
 right, upon my honour. I've procured a suit of apartments fit 
 for a prince, and the use of all the servants in the house if you 
 like, and such a hostess ! My dear fellow, I dare say you were 
 vexed at my not coming back, but all those things are not 
 arranged in a minute, I can tell you ; and when I went to that 
 beast of a seamstress for my trousers, what should I see but a 
 strapping six-feet high sergeant of cuirassiers trying them on. 
 Oh, it was too bad!" "Well, well, Dubois, you shall 
 tell me all that hereafter. My father has just got out, and 
 I'must go to him." "Go to him directly by all means, em- 
 brace him ; then, after the first salutations, pretend that you 
 have a business engagement that must be attended to, and 
 hand him over to me. I'll take him to the house in the All<5e 
 des Veuves, and you can go home, dress yourself, and join us 
 at dinner." "Can I depend upon you, Dubois?" "Until 
 death us do part. Go along, do, and don't keep your thighs 
 so close together as you walk ; people will think your legs are 
 tied." 
 
 His last words had reassured me, and I recovered a portion 
 of my usual spirits. Making a great effort, I advanced as 
 rapidly as I could, still holding the skirts of the wretched old 
 coat tightly, towards my father, who saw, and came to me. 
 We embraced each other affectionately, and Dubois also threw 
 
140 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Mmself upon my father's breast and squeezed him as if he had 
 been an intimate friend for twenty years at least. Having 
 disengaged himself from this fraternal embrace, the old gentle- 
 man looked at him as much as to say, "Who is this person 
 whom I have not the pleasure of knowing, and who yet is so 
 prodigal with his friendship ? ' ' upon which I hastened to say, 
 " My dear father, allow me to present to you one of my very 
 best friends, Monsieur Dubois, an eminent merchant, who 
 will be delighted to form your acquaintance." "Delighted 
 indeed," Dubois replied, "to know the father of my excel- 
 lent friend, Paul ; let me shake your hand again, dear 
 <sir ; you can't think how we have longed to see you." " You 
 are too good, monsieur ; the pleasure is reciprocal, I assure 
 you." As I stood somewhat aloof, fearing that the abominable 
 old coat would part in the front, Dubois pushed me again to 
 my father, who received me in his arms, but cried out 
 immediately, " Oh ! oh ! what the devil is that that pricks me 
 <so ?" I blushed a deep scarlet — one of the pins had touched 
 my father in the leg. Dubois bit his lip and turned away, and 
 then the old man, examining me attentively, said, ' ' What a 
 
 very odd costume, Paul ! It seems to me " I stammered, 
 
 "Dear father, I was so hurried that " And Dubois 
 
 exclaimed, " My dear sir, it is his summer dress. At first sight 
 you would think he must be almost smothered in this great coat, 
 but I assure you he is quite at ease in his undergarments." 
 "But why do you wear these pins, Paul, instead of buttons P" 
 4 'We always wear them now in Paris ; it's quite the fashion." 
 4< Well, well, it may be so ; but formerly it was only the 
 women who fastened their dresses with pins." "Before the 
 devolution, my respected friend ; but since then people have 
 made so much progress in the sciences and arts that men 
 liave quite discarded buttons and adopted pins. You 
 know the proverb, 'Dinna touch me.'" I trod upon Dubois 
 toes to hint to him that he was going too far, and then address- 
 ing my father, said, " We will talk of the new style of men's 
 -dress by-and-bye. At present, father, you must be fatigued 
 with your long ride, and if you will allow this gentleman, he 
 •will be happy to conduct you to my apartments. We have a 
 carriage waiting for you." "What, Paul, will you not come 
 with me ? " " My dear father, I beg your pardon a thousand 
 'times, but I have a very important appointment that must not 
 •be neglected. " "Yes, monsieur, it is very probable that by 
 not attending it he might lose making a hundred pounds. 
 Oh, I assure you, Paul does not lose sight of the main 
 chance ; I do not think there are half-a-dozen men upon 'Change 
 who understand business better than he does." " Indeed, I am 
 wery happy to hear it." " You will excuse me, I know, father. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, t&& 
 
 I will be with you again in half an hour. Dubois, you will be 
 sure to take care of my father, and see that he has everything he j 
 wants.'' "Trust me, Paul; he shall not call twice for 
 anything. Come, Monsieur Deligny, let me carry your carpet- 
 bag. I suppose you have no other luggage ? " " No, monsieur." 
 "Come then with me, if you please; we will go straight to- 
 Paul's rooms, and you will be delighted to see how things are^ 
 conducted there." Saying these words, he dragged my father 
 to the hackney-coach he had retained, and I, leaping back again- 
 into the cabriolet, desired the man to drive me to the Rue- 
 Chariot, mad with impatience to get rid of the miserable riding- 
 coat and resume my accustomed dress. 
 
 When we reached the street, to my disgust I found a carte 
 drawn up immediately in front of the house where I resided, 
 and I was compelled to get out about twenty yards from the 
 gate. I walked very fast to avoid being seen, not looking 
 before me, with my head down, when just as I was turning 
 into the yard I ran against someone, and on raising my eyes- 
 was stupefied to behold Juliette and Augustine. All the blood 
 in my body was concentrated directly in my cheeks : Augustine- 
 looked at me amazed, and Juliette, repressing her laughter 
 with the greatest difficulty, cried, "Oh, how droll he looks! 
 Tell me, Monsieur Deligny, in Heaven's name where did yon- 
 pick up that antediluvian coat ? Now did you want to attract 
 attention ? " I was taken all aback, and did not know whafe 
 excuse to make; at last I stammered, "Really, madame, Js 
 went out in such a hurry — that is — such a pressing engagement 
 — it is an old dressing-gown — I had not time to change it." 
 Augustine's eyes were open as she quietly observed that I was- 
 not dressed in that way when I came to see her in the morning j 
 but before she could continue her remarks Juliette indulged in 
 another fit of laughter, bidding her take notice of the pins, and 
 saying to me she supposed I had laid some silly wager that I 
 would wear that singular costume in the streets. Catching afc 
 the idea as a drowning man does at a straw, I answered in the 
 affirmative, when Augustine interrupted by sharply reminding: 
 me that almost the moment before I had stated I had gone out 
 on business ; and, covered with shame and burning with rage> 
 1 touched my hat to the ladies, and rushed upstairs. Throwing- 
 myself passionately upon the sofa, I reflected what injurious 
 suspicions Augustine must entertain of my extraordinary con- 
 duct ; but it was no use thinking, so I cursed my fate, tore off 
 the riding-coat, threw it vehemently upon the floor, put on a* 
 pair of trousers and another coat, came downstairs again, 
 jumped into the cabriolet that I had kept waiting, and hastened^ 
 to my father and Dubois. 
 
:142 The Wife, the Husband, and the Love?* 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 $MB HOUSE IN THE AXLEE DBS VEUVES, 
 
 On my way there I could not help thinking of the wart of 
 belief that shone in Augustine's face as I faltered my ridiculous 
 explanation, and her evident anger gave me pleasure, for it 
 showed she took an interest even in my outward appearance, 
 and I nattered myself that when I should go to her residence 
 on the following morning to inform her of my father's arrival, 
 I should set all things straight again. "When we reached the 
 A116e des Veuves I was puzzled to answer the coachman's 
 inquiry as to the number of the house, but on my telling him. 
 it was a fashionable lodging-house, he guessed it was that where 
 he said a great foreign doctor lived who cured every complaint 
 with herbs and where he had already driven numbers of patients ; 
 he stopped accordingly at the open door of a stylish-looking house 
 which I knew at once to be right, for I saw Dubois walking up 
 and down the hall. The moment he perceived me he came to me 
 dancing and rubbing his hands, and when I had paid the 
 cabman, said, " Well, Paul, and how do you like your new 
 apartments ?" "Capitally, if the interior corresponds to the 
 
 outside " " It's a great deal better in comparison ; you will 
 
 be delighted." "I hear there's a famous physician staying 
 here?" "There was; but luckily for us he has gone hum- 
 bugging the people in the country for a fortnight, and we have 
 got his rooms ; here on the first floor, and furnished in first- 
 rate style. Your father is enchanted ; he's a good old fellow, 
 that ! and does nothing but admire the rooms. I thought it 
 would please him, so 1 told him the whole house was yours." 
 " It would not be amiss, Dubois, if I were to be introduced to 
 my splendid apartments, too." " Presently, my dear boy. I've 
 been obliged to work hard for you ; you must come with me 
 first and be introduced to your hostess, Madame Ledoux ; she's 
 been in love with me for some time, but don't think a moment 
 about that. If you take a fancy to her you may have her directly 
 for what I care." 
 
 He then led me to a back room on the ground floor, where 
 we found a corpulent, red-faced woman, about forty-eight 
 years old, busily employed tying brown paper over little pots 
 of jam. "Madame Ledoux," said Dubois, " permit me to 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, i43 
 
 introduce to you my friend, Paul Deligny, who is dying to thank 
 you for your kindness in lending him your apartments and 
 assisting him to deceive his respected progenitor." The old 
 lady leered tenderly at Dubois, smiled on me, and replied: 
 " Young gentlemen must be excused sometimes." " Madame, 
 you are all goodness," I said ; " as Dubois has told you I have 
 reasons for inducing my father to believe that your apartments 
 are mine, and as for the rent for my temporary occupation of 
 
 -them " "Pray do not mention it, Monsieur Deligny." 
 
 I was proceeding upstairs, and Dubois was about to follow 
 me when Madame Ledoux said to him in a confidential tone, 
 "Monsieur Dubois, I should like to have a word with 
 you — about the price of coffee and other colonial pro- 
 ducts." Dubois made a faint grimace to me and whispered 
 in my ear, "My good lady I fancy should pay the rent 
 of the lodgings." "But my father is not likely to remain 
 longer than a few da} 7 s." I left Dubois in a tete a Ute with 
 Madame Ledoux, and ascended the stairs to my new apartments. 
 I went into an antechamber, and found there a very polite 
 servant, who informed me that he would be at my service during 
 Signor Delzini's absence, that the latter was very partial to the 
 house and that he could see that his hostess had already 
 informed me as to his position, and wound up by assuring me 
 that Madame Ledoux was a very charming woman, than whom 
 none could be more obliging. 
 
 I thanked Lapierre — this was the name of tne valet who had 
 been assigned me — and having passed through several rooms, all 
 ^very elegantly furnished, I found my father seated upon a sofa 
 in my salon. He came up to me and embraced me affectionately, 
 saying, " My boy, I congratulate you on the manner in winch 
 you are conducting your business ; you must have trebled your 
 capital. I ask nothing of you, my boy, since you are acting so 
 prudently. I must tell you, however, that in our little village 
 in the country people sometimes rally me. No later than last 
 week a gentleman said to me, * Oh, yes, you believe that your 
 son is doing well in Paris, that he is living on his own means. 
 You shall see ! ' And I assure you that it was such speeches 
 that brought me to Paris. How I will confound all those people 
 on my return to Chartres ! Ha, ha, ha ! " " Enough, my dear 
 father ; let us leave that subject. You must be hungry. As 
 for myself, I have not yet dined. I will call the waiter." 
 So, having rung the bell, Lapierre replied to my question 
 whether dinner was ready, that he only waited for my 
 orders to place it on the table. "Yes, yes, Monsieur 
 Deligny," said Dubois, who had contrived to get rid of 
 the old woman, "I took care of all that while your son was 
 away, and you will see, my dear friend, that Paul has one of 
 
144 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 the first cooks in France, to whom he gives one hundred a year^. 
 I assure you." "A hundred a year! " the old man exclaimed, 
 lifting his hands in wonder. "You must make money- 
 fast indeed to be able to afford that sum." I am bound to- 
 acknowledge that Madame Ledoux sent up an excellent dinner 
 and some capital wines. Dubois ate and drank enough for four, 
 remarking to me in an under-tone that he had gained his dinner. 
 And then he set seriously to work to make my father tipsy ; but 
 he had a seasoned hand to deal with, and it was soon apparent 
 that the old gentleman would have the best of it. However, 
 matters did not proceed so far as intoxication, for soon after the 
 dessert was placed on the table, and the champagne had made 
 three or four rounds, the old gentleman pushed his plate and 
 glass from him, saying, "My dear boys, I cannot stop long in 
 Paris, you see, and therefore it will not do for me to waste my 
 time ; you must show me all that deserves seeing, and I should; 
 like very much to go to the theatre." "So you shall, Papa. 
 Deligny," said Dubois, on whose brain the wines had begun to* 
 make innovations; "so you shall, and if we could show you 
 all the lions in a day, we would." "Tell me, is not this 
 district rather away from the city ? " " Not at all, papa, quite 
 in the very centre of it. Here on the right are the celebrated 
 Beaujon Gardens, and on the left the buildings of Francis the 
 First ; we are close to the Triumphal Arch, the Bowling-green, 
 the Hospitals, and the road to the Park of Boulogne — it's im- 
 possible to be better situated." "But the Palais Eoyal, 
 Monsieur Dubois, that is the place all we country folks look 
 for." "Oh, here, papa, close by; not a stone's throw off."' 
 "Come then, boys, you shall take me to it." "Yes, yes, 
 but would you not like to go to the theatre first?" 
 "By all means, to the best." "What style of perfor- 
 mance do you prefer, classic, tragedy, opera, or domestic 
 melodrama ? " " Upon my word, I do not exactly comprehend 
 you." "Ah, papa, you are certainly a little behind the agej, 
 do the people never read the papers in your part of the world ? " 
 "Oh, yes, chiefly the Agricultural Magazine, but that publica- 
 tion never treats of the style you spoke of." "I suppose not. 
 Well, then, Paul, we'll take your father to see ' Masaniello ' at 
 the Grand Opera. Oh, you'll be delighted, papa ; and the 
 
 ballet afterwards — such dancers, such beautiful legs, such 
 
 Are you provided with a good glass ? People who go much 
 to the Opera have always small telescopes the better to dis- 
 tinguish pleasing objects." "Be quiet, do, Dubois." "At all. 
 events, if we do go we must have a coach. Fll order yours." 
 " His ! my father cried out in astonishment ; " what, my boy, 
 do you sport a coach?" • Dubois is only joking, father." 
 " When I said his carriage, Papa Deligny, I meant the one he a 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 145 
 
 always uses if it is disengaged * it's the same thing, you 
 know." 
 
 Whilst Lapierre was absent looking for a hackney-coach I 
 reflected that it was impossible I should quit my father, and 
 therefore I could not see Augustine that evening ; but I consoled 
 myself with the thought that perhaps my absence might serve 
 me better than my presence, for women are such very singular 
 beings that men do not always succeed best by paying unremit- 
 ting attention to them. Lapierre must have been gone more 
 than twenty minutes before he returned with a hackney- 
 roach; and then descending the staircase we found Madame 
 Ledoux at the bottom. The good lady curtsied profoundly, which 
 -alutation drew an inquiry from my father as to who she was. 
 Dubois replied she was my confidential housekeeper, and my 
 father was only prevented complimenting her on the excellent 
 manner in which she kept my house by my reminding him 
 that it was getting late, and if we did not leave directly we 
 should not get a good situation in the boxes. As ill-luck would 
 have it, Lapierre had stumbled upon one of the dirtiest, worst- 
 : appointed hackney-coaches in all Paris, with as wretched a pair 
 of horses as ever were harnessed, so that my father remarked 
 that the carriage proceeded very slowly, whereupon Dubois, never 
 at a loss, replied it was necessary to drive cautiously in that 
 • crowded quarter for fear of running over people, a remark which 
 the old gentleman could not understand at all, as he had just 
 put his head out of the window and could not see anybody near. 
 After three-quarters of an hour's misery in the abominable coach, 
 we reached the Opera House and got placed in the stalls near 
 the orchestra. My father was all eyes and ears, and looked only 
 on the stage ; but Dubois chattered so long and so loudly that 
 he annoyed the spectators near us, and when they remonstrated 
 quietly with him, he answered insolently, and defied them all. 
 It was with great difficulty that I prevailed on him to keep 
 -quiet by representing to him the impropriety of getting into a 
 broil whilst my father was with us ; and at the end of the 
 second act we left our places to take a walk in the saloon on 
 the second tier, where I had the pleasure of fixing him by the 
 side of two very pretty, easy women, to whom he began to make 
 love immediately. Delighted at being freed from him, I was 
 hastening back to my father, but as I passed down the centre 
 alley of the pit to reach the stalls, I came so suddenly upon 
 Jenneville and Madame de R6monde that it was impossible for 
 me to retreat, and I was obliged to stop and make some common- 
 place observations to my friend. Jenneville replied courteously ; 
 but Herminie did not deign to speak ; her eyes flashed lightning, 
 and could she have launched a thunderbolt, I verily believed 
 she would have crushed me to death ; but I heeded not her 
 
 K 
 
146 The Wife, the Htisband, and the Lover 
 
 anger ; and at the same time there appeared to me to be some- 
 thing ironical in Jenneville's manner of addressing me, a feel- 
 ing not at all akin to the very friendly terms upon which we- 
 had always met. He feigned to be surprised at seeing me, 
 remarking sarcastically, " What a treat it is, Deligny, to find 
 you anywhere in society now that you have withdrawn entirely 
 from it and consecrated your whole life to the lady of your 
 love " ; to which Madame de RSmonde added, with great bitter- 
 ness, " How kind of the lady to permit him to come to the 
 theatre this evening ! " " My^cheeks flushed with rage ; I drew 
 myself up haughtily, and said, "If I do not mingle in the 
 world so much as I used, it is because it suits me not to do so ;, 
 and if I pay attention to any lady in particular, it is because I 
 choose to do so. I am my own master, and mean to act 
 just as I please." "You are mistaken, Deligny, if you 
 fancy I have any desire to interfere with your amours ; your 
 love is by far too well placed for me to seek to interrupt 
 it." "And I believe," I retorted, "it would be well if 
 the affections of some other men were equally well placed." 
 Madame de Kenionde bit her lips and coloured" up, and Je*me- 
 vilie laughed sneeringly and said, " Your intrigue is far better 
 known than you may think. I felicitate you upon it, and some- 
 lay will return you all my grateful thanks." 
 
 I bowed, and walked towards the stalls, much troubled in my 
 mind with respect to Augustine, for it was apparent that Jenne- 
 ville had not made the last remark without some motive. It 
 was possible that he might have been informed of my going 
 every day to his wife's residence, and if he were it could only 
 be through the instrumentality of Madame de Remonde, who 
 now hated me with all the intensity of a bad woman whose 
 advances have been scorned, and would now lose no oppor- 
 tunity of watching my actions and annoying me. Resuming my 
 seat by my father's side, I reflected deeply on what Jenneville 
 had said, until the opera was rudely interrupted by a terrible 
 noise in one of the boxes in an upper tier. People were- 
 evidently engaged in a sharp quarrel ; cries and oaths were 
 heard, and the voice of Dubois resounded above the rest. 
 But on the appearance of the police, order was restored, the 
 colonial dealer, as usual, not being found. At the end of the 
 Opera my father declined stopping any longer in consequence 
 of feeling fatigued ; we therefore took a cabriolet back to the 
 Champs Elyse"es, enjoyed a reciter chi supper, and, as he would 
 not hear of my leaving him, I was obliged to sleep that night 
 in the elegant apartments so singularly and fortunately pro- 
 vided for me. 
 
 Before I went to bed I sent for Lapierre to gain some informa- 
 tion with regard to the menage, and from him I learned that 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 14T 
 
 the Signor Delzini, whose rooms we had invaded, was an 
 Italian quack who pretended to cure all diseases by simples, 
 and who, like many others of his trade, had a reputation for 
 great skill merely by charging enormously for his medicine and 
 advice. I then retired to rest, praying that the mountebank 
 would not return until my dear father should be comfortably 
 re-installed by his own fireside at Chartres. In the morning I 
 rose betimes, hoping that I should have time to proceed to my 
 own rooms before my father should get up, but I forgot that I 
 had to do with a countryman whose habits were of the earliest, 
 and I was disagreeably surprised on entering the breakfast- 
 room to find that he was ready dressed, and had laid out a plan 
 of action for the day. 
 
 Whilst we were breakfasting he kept repeating, " You must 
 take me there ; I must not quit Paris without seeing that," etc., 
 and I wished fervently for the arrival of Dubois, that he might 
 take charge of the old gentleman, and allow me to visit 
 Augustine. At last my friend came in, apologizing for having 
 left us the preceding evening at the Opera, and having promised 
 to take my father to the Tuileries, the Zoological Gardens, the 
 Luxembourg Palace, the Arcades, the Palais Royal, and to 
 treat him to a ride on the river in a boat, which was enough 
 occupation in all conscience for one day, we agreed to dine at 
 the most celebrated tavern in the Palais Royal, and as we went 
 downstairs — I congratulating myself on being off immediately — 
 Dubois was stopped again by the economical Madame Ledoux 
 inquiring the price of coffee and all other colonial produce. 
 The poor fellow grinned horribly, but did not dare to move^ 
 telling us to go on, and that he would join us immediately. 
 
 What terrible, tedious, boring people country folks are 
 whenever they find themselves in a great city. They are not 
 content with seeing things as they pass along, but they will 
 examine them and go close to them. My father made me stop 
 a dozen times in the same number of minutes looking into 
 shops, and, when we went on, making the most particular 
 inquiries where this place was and that place was, and how long 
 it would take us to go there, with all the minuteness of strangers 
 who always know more about the monuments and public institu- 
 tions of the town than those who have lived in it almost all 
 their lives We arrived at the Tuileries and lounged through 
 the gardens for a considerable time, hoping Dubois would come 
 to us ; but after waiting quite an hour, during which I wished 
 Madame Ledoux and colonial produce at the devil, my father- 
 said he was quite content so long as I remained with him, sa 
 we decided on continuing our route, and penetrated, I think, 
 into all the recesses of Paris until, tired out, at length we 
 returned to the Palais Roval at six o'clock, and went into* 
 
148 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 V6four's to dine. My father's legs were far better than mine, 
 ■from his constant habit of walking long distances and shooting, 
 and I confess that I never remember being so knocked up in all 
 my life. 
 
 Giving up all hope that Dubois might pitch upon us, and 
 iearing to be compelled to keep my father company all the 
 •evening, I ordered dinner to be served, and before the soup 
 tureen had been removed I had the pleasure of seeing my 
 estimable friend approach and seat himself at our table. My 
 father, quite pleased to see him again, held out his hand, 
 paying, "Ah, ha! Dubois, so there you are at last." "Yes, 
 Papa Deligny, glad to see you looking as blooming as a rose.'* 
 * l Why did you not come along with us?" "You saw that 
 Paul's housekeeper detained me about some preserving sugar 
 and West Indian jellies that she wants to lay in for her winter 
 stock, and when I got free from the talkative old lady — we 
 must chat with them, you know — I recollected that I had an 
 important appointment — (leaning towards me and whispering, 
 with a magistrate at a police-office, in consequence of last night's 
 tow, and also for the pantaloons the vixen took away. I gave 
 
 her my heart, but not them) and then " "A truce, Dubois, 
 
 with your adventures for the present ; you can narrate them all 
 "to my father in the evening, for I, too, have business that must 
 be attended to ; and I am sure you will be kind enough to keep 
 him company." " Go," my father said, " by all means, if you 
 are busy ; Monsieur Dubois will, I am sure, be kind enough to 
 stay with me." " To be sure I will, with the greatest pleasure. 
 Go, Paul, as soon as you like, papa and I will amuse ourselves 
 together, I warrant. We'll have a game or two, I promise 
 you." 
 
 The knowledge that I should be free to see Augustine brought 
 TDaek all my gaiety. We dined merrily together ; Dubois kept my 
 father in a continual roar of laughter. He and the old gentle- 
 man drank glass for glass, and so fast that it was evident they 
 would soon pass the boundaries of discretion ; so when we had 
 finished the dessert, I left them to-take their coffee and liqueurs, 
 .giving them a rendezvous in the Glass Arcade at nine o'clock 
 precisely. As I stepped out into the air I breathed more freely 
 at finding myself liberated from the bondage in which I had 
 been held for several hours. I looked at my watch, saw it was 
 Tialf-past seven, and, taking a cabriolet, offered the man double 
 iare to drive quickly, and in a few minutes was set down in 
 the Rue Boucherat. It seemed a century to me since I had 
 seen Augustine. My cheeks burned with shame at the recollec- 
 tion of the figure I cut when she met me the previous afternoon, 
 and at the rude, abrupt mode in which I had left her, and I 
 felt an insatiable desire to know in what manner she would 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 149* 
 
 receive me. 1 flew up the staircase as if I was pursued by 
 bailiffs ; I only stopped to hear that she was at home, and in- 
 an instant I was in the salon, where I found her sitting with 
 Madame Juliette. How dreadfully dear friends are in the way 
 sometimes ! 
 
 Madame Luceval received me as I entered with a cold, studied, 
 formal bow, quite different to her usual flattering style, and? 
 scarcely replied to the conventional compliments I uttered. 
 She was annoyed with me : so much the better ; it was a good" 
 sign for my hopes. She was vexed because I had not been to* 
 her the previous evening to explain my conduct ; but I should 
 make my peace when I informed her that my absence was 
 entirely owing to the unforeseen arrival of my father. Juliette 
 also was more reserved than was her wont, and pouted and 
 hung down her. head. For some time we exchanged some- 
 commonplace observations on the weather, which I prolonged as- 
 much as possible, fearing any questions respecting my costume- 
 of yesterday. But at last Juliette's curiosity overpowered her, 
 and, lifting up her eyes, she said, with a ringing laugh, " And 
 so, monsieur, you have discarded your charming robe with the 
 pins; it is quite a pity, I declare; you looked so well in it." 
 "Monsieur Deligny," Augustine interposed, "possesses too 
 much good taste to adopt such a dress unless he had been- 
 compelled to do so. No doubt he was disguised in that way in 
 order to deceive some jealous husband." "You are far from 
 guessing the truth, ladies ; nothing could be easier than an. 
 explanation from me if I chose to give it." "We think you. 
 would find it very difficult indeed." "No, ladies; nothing 
 would be less so." And thereupon I gave them a full detail of 
 my adventures of the day and evening. Augustine looked more- 
 kindly upon me, and almost smiled, although her countenance 
 still wore an expression of slight doubt ; but Juliette indulged: 
 in a merry peal as she listened to my description of the agony I 
 endured whilst waiting for Dubois to bring back my pantaloons, 
 and when I concluded the tale by relating my anxiety to get: 
 free from my father and hasten to Augustine to relieve myself 
 from all suspicion in her mind, her dove-like eyes were fixed upon, 
 me with an interest that I had never seen in them before. 
 Juliette began to moralize upon the fallacy of judging from* 
 appearances, stating that she and Augustine had at once- 
 pronounced me to be a rake, and that the latter had vowed 
 she would not permit me to enter the house again, for- 
 that a young man who disguised himself and did not sleep 
 at his apartments must be an incorrigible fellow. I bowed, 
 and could have worshipped Augustine, because she could, 
 not have known I had been from home one night except 
 from causing questions to be put to the old, chattering porterc 
 
150 The Wife, the Husband; and the Lover. 
 
 All was cleared up, the severity of Augustine's looks was 
 fully accounted for, and to my inexpressible delight, for I 
 thought if she did not care about me she would not take the 
 trouble of informing herself about my deeds, nor feel annoyed 
 at my not coming to explain my equivocal behaAiour to her. 
 She loved me, I was sure ; yes, and I would force her to avow 
 it. Juliette having taken her leave soon after the conclusion of 
 my tale, I found myself alone with Augustine, and as we drew 
 our chairs closer together, and conversed for upwards of an 
 hour in a low, confidential tone, our words frequently inter- 
 rupted by involuntary sighs, I gazed upon her with unspeak- 
 able tenderness, and, had I dared, I would have fallen at her 
 feet and again declared my love. Fearful of incurring her dis- 
 pleasure, I restrained my burning passion, until at length she 
 said, "Why, Deligny, are you so afraid that your father should 
 become acquainted with your having lost a portion of your 
 funds ? Sooner or later he must know the truth." " Yes, 
 raadame ; but were he to learn it now he would take me from 
 Paris, and most likely compel me to marry." "Marry! no 
 doubt [a sigh] ; it must be so some day." The last words were 
 uttered mournfully, and then her sweet eyes filled with tears, 
 and her head dropped upon her breast. Recovering herself in 
 -a few moments she continued: "What makes you averse, 
 Peligny, to being married now p " " Matrimony has no charms 
 for me." "But you must obey your father's wishes, and when 
 you do may your fate be more happy than mine has been ! " 
 She burst into a flood of tears, covered her face with her hand- 
 kerchief, and sobbed so violently that I had almost rung the 
 bell for the assistance of the female servants. Did she weep 
 at the recollection of her cruel husband, or did she weep at the 
 idea of my being married ? 
 
 Maddened at the sight of her deep grief, I took her passive 
 hand in mine, pressed it violently, and besought her to tell me 
 why she suffered thus. She returned the pressure, shook her 
 head mournfully, bade me not mention the subject to her again, 
 and then asked me whether I was going back to my father in 
 in the Champs ElysSes, for he must have left the Arcade in the 
 Palais Royal long before. In fact, midnight had struck ; near 
 her I took no note of time ; and as the wind howled and the 
 rain fell in torrents, and my father must be in bed and fast 
 asleep, I determined to go to my own rooms in the Rue Chariot, 
 and persuade the old gentleman next morning that 1 had gone 
 out and transacted business before he was up. Taking up my 
 hat I bade Augustine adieu. She held out her hand to me ; I 
 •seized it and kissed it rapturously as she murmured: "Fare- 
 well till to-morrow, Paul! " 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 151 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MY FATHER'S ADVENTURES WITH DUBOIS. 
 
 "Whilst I passed the evening with Augustine, intoxicated with 
 love and hope, iinmindful of my father and Dubois, those gentle- 
 men entirely forgot me and thought no more of the rendezvous I 
 gave them in the Glass Arcade. Unfortunately, Dubois had made 
 some money that morning, and after my father and he had taken 
 coffee, nothing would do but he must make the old gentleman 
 taste all the most expensive liqueurs in the house. Now, 
 country people always make it a point of honour when they 
 come to Paris not to be outdone in politeness or generosity by 
 the citizens ; and thus it was that whenever Dubois ordered any- 
 thing Monsieur Deligny paid for something else ; when Dubois 
 asked for another glass to be the last, my father, determined 
 to be victorious, would have two more, so that it appeared 
 extremely probable that the boon companions would very 
 speedily be underneath the table. Dubois began to bully and 
 gasconade, and the company in the coif ee-house to be offended ; 
 but, fortunately, the heat of the weather and the large 
 quantity of liqueurs the two had swallowed induced them to 
 go out into the fresh air, and when there they proceeded to 
 the boulevards, where Dubois— half-drunk— addressed himself 
 to every decent-looking woman he came near, to the great 
 surprise of my father, who remarked, with a hiccup, that he 
 had a very extraordinary number of female acquaintances 
 " Yes, respectable old gentleman," he remarked, "lamas well 
 known by the fair sex as the statue of ' The Dying Gladiator ' 
 in the Gardens of the Tuileries." 
 
 « Nevertheless it happened occasionally that some of the women 
 xook offence at Dubois' observations, and requested him to 
 mind his own business ; men, too, would interfere, and then 
 Dubois walked on as fast as his reeling legs would carry him ; 
 and at times also the pair tumbled against the dealers' stalls at 
 the edge of the pavement, upsetting their wares, and producing 
 a shower of curses at their stupidity. At last, after several 
 quarrels, in all of which Dubois declared nothing but s 
 consideration for the old gentleman prevented him from 
 stopping and thrashing all his opponents most unmercifully, 
 my father said he was tired and wished to return home ; but 
 Dubois insisted that no person ever thought of going to bed ic 
 
152 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lova^. 
 
 Paris before midnight, and that they would have a nightcap 
 -at a delightful place not more than a quarter of a mile from my 
 residence. Getting into a cabriolet, Dubois directed the man 
 •to drive to the Pavilion of Flora in the Champs Elysees, where 
 lie explained they would find people dancing, drinking punch, 
 playing cards, and doing everything they liked. When they 
 •entered the saloon, Dubois took my father's arm, and marched 
 him round the room, sterling before every woman wiio appeared 
 in his drunken eyes to be good-looking, and telling him to offer 
 them a pinch of snuff ; and the old gentleman, whose brain had 
 been tottering for some time, thinking that that was the custom 
 of the metropolis, walked up and down with his snuff-box open, 
 to the great amusement of the young spectators. The punch- 
 bowl was now brought into requisition, and when its contents 
 had increased the intoxication of the two compotators, nothing 
 would please Dubois but they must dance. The old gentleman 
 represented that he was fifty-eight years old, which period 
 Dubois contended was the very prime of life ; and so 
 •over-persuaded him, that he rose, staggered along the room, 
 and requested the pleasure of dancing with a woman fifty years of 
 .age, who had only come there to gratify her nieces. The old lady 
 •enchanted with a proposition which had not been made to her 
 for several years, accepted it at once, and the venerable pair 
 took their places opposite Dubois, who bawled out, laughing 
 ready to kill himself, " Attention, young couple, the eyes of 
 the world are upon you." Dubois was not in error as far as 
 the world of the Pavilion of Flora was concerned, for numbers 
 of those who did not dance crowded round the set of quadrilles, 
 curious to see in what manner the " juveniles" would acquit 
 themselves. The leader of the band tapped with his bow, and 
 the preluding bars were played, but my father, not being aware 
 that they were only a signal to call the attention of the dancers, 
 .started off at score with his partner towards his vis-a-vis Dubois, 
 who repulsed them with " Stop a moment, my little dears, not 
 yet ; that's it, now then, cut away, youngsters, as hard as you 
 like." In a few minutes my father and his partner were all 
 abroad in the Chaine Anglaise, but they danced on, seizing every 
 iiand held out to them, and swinging people round at hazard, 
 until the bystanders were convulsed with laughter, which so 
 irritated Dubois, that on casually passing my father in one of 
 the next figures he whispered to him to leave off dancing and 
 kick the impertinent grinning fools all round. 
 
 My father took no heed of the advice, but smiled upon his 
 lady, who simpered in return, until it was their turn to figure 
 away, when they again got into a mess, and finished " The 
 Pastoral " with waltzing. The visitors laughed more and more - T 
 4he old gentleman looked about him in wonder, not having 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 153- 
 
 the least suspicion that he formed the subject of their merriment, 
 and Dubois, mad with punch and rage, clapped his hat upon hia 
 head, set his arms akimbo, and called them all a set of insolent 
 blackguards. In a moment, a number of hot-headed young men 
 threw themselves upon him, the dancing was stopped, the 
 women screamed, girls cried, and men swore-; my father was 
 elbowed from side to side in the crowd, and had his hat, his 
 pocket-handkerchief and snuff-box stolen, whilst Dubois made liis 
 way towards him, seized hold of him, and made use of his cor- 
 pulent person as a shield against the enraged assailants. The 
 police came to the spot, and satisfying themselves that Dubois 
 was the aggressor, turned him and my father out of the saloon ;. 
 and so, heated wi$h the dancing and the liquors they had drank, 
 and not knowing what they were about, they soon found them- 
 selves in the centre of the Champs Elys6es without umbrellas or 
 greatcoats, with the rain pouring down in torrents. Dubois fumed' 
 and bullied, and talked of going back to the dance and killing the 
 thirty cowardly fellows who had set upon Mm at once ; but the old 
 gentleman was somewhat sobered by the heavy rain that fell 
 upon his defenceless head, and insisted upon his companion 
 finding their way home as quickly as possible, which he conceived 
 to be no very easy task in the thick darkness that surrounded: 
 them. 
 
 Dubois professed to be acquainted with every inch of the- 
 ground, which seemed to my father to be very ill-lighted for the 
 best part of Paris ; and as they groped their way along, leaning 
 upon each other for support, they plunged into holes it was 
 impossible for them to see in the dark, and got entangled in 
 bushes, tearing their trousers with thorns, and wetting their 
 legs up to their knees, until they fell head over heels into a 
 dirty ditch half-filled with rain and mud. Swearing like troopers, 
 they scrambled up the slippery sides of the ditch with the 
 greatest difficulty, and after wandering about for upwards of an 
 hour, succeeded in reaching the A116e des Veuves and the house 
 of Madame de Ledoux. The porter stood aghast as he let them 
 in, but Dubois told him to say nothing to anybody in the house 
 about the plight in which they had returned, to which the man 
 assented, on the presentation of half-a-crown, and handing him a 
 candlestick, said his mistress desired him to say that before 
 Monsieur Dubois went to bed she wished him to inform her as 
 to — the price of coffee and all other colonial produce. 
 " Devil take the woman," he muttered ; " she's rather too fond of 
 the sweets of this lif e. Tell her to ask the price of kidney-beans - t 
 and so let us go to bed, O venerable parent of my friend." « 
 
 No proposition could possibly give greater pleasure to the old? 
 gentleman, who was soon in bed and fast asleep. Not so with 
 poor Dubois, for he did not know where it was arranged he- 
 
154 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 should pass the night, and therefore he set about finding ait 
 empty chamber if he could. Being past twelve o'clock, all the- 
 servants had retired, so that no intelligence could be obtained 
 from them. He traversed many passages and opened several 
 doors, not seeing a room in which there was a bed ; but at last he 
 walked into a small chamber on the upper story, where there was 
 a bedstead without any curtains, so Dubois undressed himself 
 and tumbled into bed. 
 
 When my father woke on the following morning he called to 
 mind the occurrences of the past night as well as "he could, and 
 was very angry with himself at having committed such excesses 
 at his time of life, and more so with Dubois for taking him to 
 the pavilion and for having made him dance, which piece of folly 
 he now recollected was the proximate cause of the loss of his 
 snuif-box, nocket-handkerchief, and hat, an*d their miserable 
 adventures in the dark. He descended to the breakfast-room. 
 in a state of great surprise at my not responding to his call — 
 which I could not very well have done, being at that moment 
 sound asleep at my lodgings in the Rue Chariot — and whilst he 
 was grumbling at my absence, and likewise at not finding 
 Lapierre, who had gone out to execute some commissions, a 
 tap was heard at the door, and a young, fashionably-dressed 
 gentleman entered the room, bowing and inquiring, with a 
 marked English accent, whether he had the pleasure of 
 addressing Monsieur Desini. My father bowed in return, attri- 
 buting the wrong pronunciation of his name to the limited 
 knowledge of the French language which the stranger possessed, 
 and thinking he wished to have an interview with'me, respecting 
 some commercial transaction, believing as he did, from Dubois' 
 exaggerated accounts, that I had numerous correspondents in 
 Great Britain. The Englishman, having taken a chair, which 
 my father presented to him, commenced an address respecting 
 some worms he had in his bowels, which made the old gentleman 
 open his eyes and stare as if he was listening to a madman. He 
 professed he did not understand in the least what the foreigner 
 meant, the Englishman repeated his complaint, my father shook 
 his head, and both of them believing each was making a fool of 
 the other, had got to high words, when their misunderstanding 
 was interrupted by screams and oaths proceeding from another 
 portion of the mansion. 
 
 The fact was that the hostess, feeling surprised that the cook 
 had not got up as early as usual, had gone to Mimie's chamber 
 to hasten her with the breakfast, and there she found hei 
 with Dubois, who was enlightening her as to — the price 
 of coffee and all other colonial produce. Madame Ledoux, very 
 naturally, was quite iurious, because it was extremely vexatious 
 -that she should display so much interest in Dubois rmlv th«t 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lccer. 155 
 
 another -woman might profit by it, so she roared and fainted, 
 ^and then swore, and having told poor Mimie to pack up her 
 things, directed the false Dubois to inform me that I must leave 
 Jier rooms immediately. At this crisis my friend came down- 
 stairs, half-dressed, to communicate this unpleasant intelligence, 
 followed by Madame Ledoux apostrophizing him as the most 
 ungrateful, fickle vagabond under the sun, and arrived just in 
 time to prevent my father and the Englishman proceeding from 
 liigh words to blows. " For Heaven's sake, Monsieur Dubois," my 
 father cried, " do get rid of this islander for me ; and you mis- 
 tress housekeeper, how could you think of showing him upstairs 
 in my son's absence!" " I, your son's housekeeper, you old 
 country jackass!" she repbed, "I'd have you to know that you 
 have been deceived ; this house belongs to me, and if I did lend 
 Signor Delzini's apartments to your son out of kindness to this 
 scampjpointing to Dubois), it was not that he should have the 
 impuvfence to seduce my cook. Oh ! a man with any education 
 to descend to the scullery! it's monstrous, I declare! " " What, 
 madame ! do you mean to say these are not my son's apartments ? " 
 41 Not a bit of it ; he wished to deceive you, old gentleman, to 
 make you believe that he was rich, when most probably he is as 
 poor as a rat, and I was f oolish enough to lend him the rooms -, 
 but I won't have any of the set stay here, so you must all go 
 directly. With a cook, the skimmings of the saucepans ! Ah ! " 
 With some difficulty the English gentleman was made to 
 understand that the mountebank was in the country, and at the 
 moment that Madame Ledoux escorted him downstairs, I 
 arrived almost out of my senses with joy, for I had been to 
 Augustine — early as it was — and had promised to go there again 
 sit night. As I entered the room I perceived at a glance that all 
 was not right. Dubois made all sorts of signs, and nodded, and 
 winked, and as I stood undecided what course I should take, my 
 father walked up to me with a severe aspect, and said, " Why 
 have you deceived me, Paul? Why did you say this house was 
 yours, and bring me to a residence where you have no interest? 
 Is it true, tell me, I conjure you, that instead of being in comfort- 
 able circumstances the sum you inherited from your mother is 
 all gone? Speak, and this time be sure you tell the truth." So 
 unexpected was this curt, stern inquiry, that for a few moments 
 I could not make any answer. At length, summoning up courage, 
 I replied, " Father, I own I have deceived you. % Fortune has 
 been adverse to me; I have been the victim of specious 
 scoundrels, and have had the misery to lose my fortune ; but I 
 can say, without fear of contradiction, that I do not owe one 
 farthing and that your honour has remained untarnished in my 
 hands." Dubois was about to break in with some deprecatory 
 words, but my father bade him sternly to mind his own affairs, 
 
156 The Wife, the Hitsband, and the Lover. 
 
 and then, turning to me, resumed his address thus, ■» Paul, % 
 will not add to your distress by reproaching you for your want 
 of confidence in me ; but my mind is made up : I leave you this, 
 very moment for Chartres ; will you go with me ? " " Father, I 
 had rather stay in Paris ; I have yet enough to live on with, 
 economy, and with industry I may recruit my funds." "As you 
 please ; but expect no help from me ; and when you have con- 
 sumed your last shilling you will at least find a home at Chartres, 
 Send for a hackney-coach, then drive me to the ooach-office, the 
 diligence does not start till nine o'clock, and if there should be 
 a vacant seat I will depart at once. I have had enough of Paris,, 
 and shall not easily forget yesterday and to-day." 
 
 % Overwhelmed with shame, and trembling in every limb as if I 
 had committed some heinous deed, I did not attempt to prevail 
 upon my father to remain ; and as soon as the hackney-coach 
 arrived, his carpet-bag was thrown in it, and we were driven from 
 the cursed house to the office, where, fortunately, we found one 
 place still untaken in the coach. My father embraced me with 
 tears in his eyes, and as he shook my hand with a convulsive grasp,. 
 he said, " Paul, I forgive you all your follies, for I think many of 
 them can be traced to that scamp Dubois. There is, however, 
 only one way to save you ; that is, to get you married ; and as 
 soon as I get home will seek for a fitting lady for you." I did 
 not reply, but pressed my father's hand affectionately, and as 
 the coach drove off, I thought, with a heavy heart, of my 
 impoverished condition, and the next moment strode from the- 
 yard, determined — come what might — that no power upon earth 
 should ever detach me from my beloved Augustine. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE VISITS. 
 
 Behold me no w entirely free, master of my own actions, free 
 to see Augustine as often as I please, to gaze into her lovely 
 eyes, to hear her dulcet voice, and to hope — from a thousand 
 •signs, intelligible only to a devoted lover — that I was not very 
 far removed from attaining the summit of my hopes! 
 
 The first thing to be done was to ascertain upon what footing 
 I stood with Madame Ledoux ; and for that purpose I repaired 
 to Dubois' lodgings and found him in the laundress's room sur- 
 rounded by the girls, who were laughing at his nonsense whilst 
 they were'putting curl-papers in his hair. He told me all his 
 night adventures with my father and Mimie, and said, with 
 respect to Madame Ledoux, I owed her nothing, for he had paid 
 her — he did not state how — over and over again ; so I left him 
 to have his long locks curled at his ease, and had scarcely taken 
 two steps in the street before I was stopped byNinie, dressed in 
 a far better style than that she used to adopt in the days when 
 we were intimate. As she said she had been to my rooms 
 because she wanted to consult me on a very particular subject, 
 we returned there, and then she informed me that on the 
 -evening of the ball at Auteuil, her aunt and herself returned in 
 a jaunting-car with several other persons, amongst whom was a 
 young journeyman pastrycook, who paid great attention to her 
 all the way back, and told her that his father had promised to 
 give him a sufficient sum to set him up in business whenever he 
 should marry. By the greatest chanca in the world she met the 
 pastrycook the next morning, and then he told her his name was 
 B6nin, that he had dreamed of her all night, and after some 
 further conversation he asked permission to come to see her at 
 her aunt's, as his intentions were honourable, and if she would 
 accept him he would marry her at once. He also made her con- 
 tinual presents, and as he seemed a good-tempered man, but 
 very plain, she was inclined to take him for a husband, but did' 
 not like to do so without consulting me. I smiled at the girl's 
 confidence in me, and advised her to marry Benin by all means 
 if she thought she could be constant to him ; and she left me, 
 much pleased at the excellent prospect before her, with a 
 determination to get married and settle somewhere in the 
 neighbourhood of Paris, exacting a promise from me that I 
 
353 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover 
 
 would come and see her at her matrimonial residence wherever 
 it might be. 
 
 Eating ray dinner as rapidly as I could that I might join 
 Augustine the sooner, I went to the Rue Boucherat, thinking 
 she would not be displeased to hear that my father had left 
 Paris, and on the door being opened I was struck dumb by 
 Madame LucevaFs servant telling me that she had gone out 
 without leaving any message as to where she could be found or 
 when she would come back. Disappointed and grieved, I walked 
 about tor upwards of an hour, and then returned and inquired 
 whether she had come in. The answer was in the negative. 
 Again I walked away in a passion, believing in my rage and 
 vexation that I was really ill-treated by her, and resolving that 
 I would stop away for a fortnight at least ; but a quarter of an 
 hour had scarcely elapsed before I altered my mind, although I 
 waited till dark, when, on looking up at her bedroom window,, 
 I observed a light, and felt assured that the servant could not 
 deny her to me then. I ran up the stairs, rang the bell, and said, 
 before the maid could speak, that I knew her mistress was at 
 home, because I had seen a light through her window, to which 
 she replied that her mistress had given her orders not to admit 
 anybody, and especially myself. I was thunderstruck. Could it 
 be possible that Augustine would not receive me ? What 
 offence had I committed P In what manner had I vexed her ? I 
 could not think how I had incurred her anger, unless it was 
 that by some unhappy chance she had seen Mnie talking to me 
 in the street or inquiring for me at my house. Full of this idea I 
 walked sadly home, and asked the porter whether any lady had 
 inquired for me during the time Ninie had been with me, to 
 which he replied that a servant had brought a letter, which he 
 then placed in my hands. Seeing the characters were those of 
 Augustine, I opened the billet with a trembling hand and read t 
 " Monsieur, — I shall leave Paris to-morrow morning for the 
 country, and I beg you will not give yourself the trouble to seek 
 me, for it is not my intention ever to see you again. My absence, I 
 am sure, will not cause your hours to hang heavily upon you, 
 for time passes quickly in the presence of agreeable companions. 
 Farewell! Accept my congratulations on your well-placed 
 love. — Augustine." 
 
 Agreeable companions ! Well-placed love ! The mystery was 
 solved : she was acquainted with the fact that Ninie had been 
 to visit me ; jealousy was the cause of her anger and of her 
 leaving Paris. The thought conveyed new life into my breast : 
 but placed as I was I could not suffer her to depart without 
 striking one blow in self-defence, and as it was still early I ran 
 up to my room and wrote two lines requesting that she would 
 griAre me an opportunity of exculpating myself from the charge- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 159 
 
 of receiving female visits from a feeling so often miscalled love. 
 Having sealed it and written the address, I rushed down the 
 stairs and across the courtyard to give it to the porter for 
 immediate delivery ; but in my haste, not perceiving that the 
 flap of the cellar-door was open, I fell into it, striking my head 
 rudely against a salient angle of the wall, and wounding myself 
 so severely that I fainted on the spot. How long I remained 
 there I cannot tell, but when I recovered my senses I found 
 myself in bed, attended by an old woman — whom I recognised 
 as the porter's sister — who had drawn the window-curtains so 
 close as almost to exclude the light, and was sitting quietly at 
 the foot of the bed. My head ached fearfully, my pulses 
 throbbed as if my blood was lightning ; and on my inquiring 
 what had occurred, the nurse informed me that I had been 
 delirious for several hours, and that a surgeon had bled me ; but he 
 had stated there yet remained a great deal of fever in my system, 
 and that I must be kept quite still, and on no account to be 
 allowed to talk. Sad at heart, and desirous of gaining some 
 intelligence respecting Augustine, I endeavoured to open a con- 
 versation with the nurse ; but the old woman pleaded the doctor's 
 injunctions as a reason for not gratifying my wish, and on my 
 making a second attempt, drew the bed-curtains closer and left 
 the room, 
 
 A night's good sleep refreshed me, and on the following 
 morning my bruised head became so clear that I perfectly 
 remembered the occurrences that had taken place immediately 
 before my accident, and the first thing I did was to send for the 
 porter and ascertain what had become of the letter which I held 
 in my hand when I fell through the cellar-door. He told me 
 that he found the letter beside me, but that as he thought the 
 first thing to be done was to procure assistance, he had removed 
 me to my bed and placed the letter on. the dressing-table, where 
 it still remained. This could not be helped, the man had acted 
 rightly in obeying the impulses of humanity ; but as there was 
 still a faint chance that Madame Luceval had not left Paris, I told 
 him to run directly with it to the Rue Boucherat, and if the lady 
 had not quitted town, to insist on delivering it to her personally, 
 and to take the opportunity of stating to her the accident that 
 had befallen me. During his absence I counted the minutes as 
 they passed. They seemed interminable, but I was well repaid 
 for all the sufferings I had endured when he told me on his 
 return that he had seen the lady, that on being informed of my 
 accident she had turned pale and trembled so that she almost 
 fainted, that she then made most anxious inquiries as to my 
 real state, and said she should send every day to see how I was. 
 Here, then, was an assurance that she was not on the point of 
 leaving town ; indeed, I was so delighted on hearing it that I 
 
160 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 would have willingly got up, dressed myself, and gone to 
 her, to make my excuses and explain the truth at once ; but my 
 bodily strength refused to obey the dictates of my will, and I 
 found some few days must yet elapse before I should be 
 sufficiently recovered to venture out. Such, indeed, was the 
 surgeon's order ; and, of course, I was compelled to bow to it, 
 comforting myself with the thought that the more passive and 
 resigned I was the sooner I should be restored to health and 
 able to dispel the jealousy of my beloved. 
 
 How tedious are the hours a sick man passes! how slowly 
 they creep away when his couch is surrounded by mercenary 
 attendants whose services are bought, instead of those whose 
 endearing cares, whose tender watchfulness are suggested by a 
 sister's or a mother's love ! 
 
 At the end of the fourth dreary day I was allowed to sit up 
 for a short time, and informed that if I went on well I might go 
 out on the next day but one. The intelligence overjoyed me ; 
 the distance between my rooms and those of Madame Luceval 
 was so short that I could reach the latter easily notwithstanding 
 my diminished strength; but as there Avould be some difficulty 
 in passing the time until the period the doctor would permit me 
 to leave the house, I wrote to Dubois to come and amuse me if 
 he could. Unfortunately, my note did not find him at home, 
 but as he was certain to receive it on his returning at night, I 
 felt sure that I should see him on the following morning. 
 Feeling much better, I dismissed the nurse soon after break- 
 fast, and as I sat listening attentively for any indications of 
 Dubois' approach, which were generally pretty audible, and half 
 resolved to break through the doctor's injunctions and go out at 
 once, I heard a gentle knock at the door, and on opening it 
 could scarcely believe my eyes on seeing Augustine. She 
 uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and then hastened to 
 inform me that on her asking the porter how 1 was, he had 
 stated I was still very bad, and feeling that some sacrifice of 
 female delicacy should be made to real friendship, she resolved 
 to cast aside all conventionalities for the moment and personally 
 to ascertain the real condition I was in. 
 
 As I led her to a chair, I could only murmur my thanks, I 
 fear, almost unintelligibly, and sitting down beside her I looked 
 at her for several minutes in silence as if she were a guardian 
 angel come with healing on her wings to hover round my couch ; 
 then, regaining my voice and all my spirits at the delightful 
 thought that she was so interested in me that she had come to 
 inquire after my health, I poured out a torrent of thanks for her 
 amiable condescension, and implored her to tell me in what 
 manner I had offended her so deeply that she had been induced 
 \o exclude me from her presence. She blushed, appeared uneasy, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 161 
 
 and endeavoured to turn the conversation by asking whether 
 my father had left Paris. I gave her all the information she 
 could require on that point, stating that he had become aware 
 of the real position of my affairs and had avowed his intention 
 of finding a wife for me forthwith (she started again and 
 sighed), and then 1 besought her to explain to me what she 
 meant in her letter to me by the expressions, " Agreeable com- 
 panions " and u well-placed love." This was almost forcing her 
 to acknowledge her jealousy of Ninie, and at last it had the 
 desired effect, for she told me frankly that having seen me 
 talking with the girl in the street and then taking her to my 
 rooms, where she remained a considerable time, she thought I 
 had renewed my improper intimacy with Mnie, and in a 
 moment of folly had writt3n that reproachful letter to me, 
 although she had been wrong in doing so, inasmuch as I was a 
 free man, and could do just as I pleased without the slightest 
 interference on her part. This avowal of jealousy was tanta- 
 mount to an acknowledgment of affection for myself. Throwing 
 myself at her feet, I assured her that Ninie had only been to 
 consult me as a friend with regard to her approaching marriage ; 
 that she was no longer my mistress, nor would I ever renew my 
 intimacy with her ; and then I swore with an earnestness- that 
 banished every shade of suspicion from her brow, that I could 
 never again love anyone but Augustine. " What, Paul ! " she 
 said, her eyes filled with tears, but a sweet smile playing on her 
 lips, " have you not been false ? Do you love me fondly, 
 affectionately, still ? " " Since the first moment I beheld you, 
 Augustine, the inmost feelings of my heart have never changed." 
 " Alas ! mine have, and wonderfully indeed. I, who thought 
 that love was dead within me, except for one cruel, ungrateful 
 man alone — I, who in first receiving you, proposed only to myself 
 to gain information respecting him, now feel — I cannot tell how 
 it was, I was accustomed to see you every day, still thinking 
 you could never be more to me than a friend — but there, I soon 
 began to feel for you much more than I ought. You became 
 acquainted with my position, fled from me, and did not come 
 back for many days, and when you did you spoke no longer of 
 your former sentiments towards me. Juliette, too, said I had 
 wronged you, that I had behaved harshly, almost improperly to 
 you,]in making you my tool to obtain the knowledge 1 sought of 
 Jenneville'sjamours, and then I desired, foolishly enough, that my 
 heart should remain untouched whilst your affections should be 
 bound up in me ; in fact, Detfgny, I relied too strongly, too con- 
 fidently, upon myself. The idea entered my imagination that 
 there was no reason 1 should continue in cold indifference to a 
 man who swore he adored me, because another was unworthy 
 of me and had contemptuously cast aside my love, and at last I 
 
162 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 brought myself to believe that I was not acting as a guilty 
 woman when I gave my heart entirely to you." 
 
 Again she cast down her eyes ; I took her hand and covered 
 it with a thousand kisses ; in my transport of delight at the 
 confession of her love, I committed a hundred extravagancies, 
 when suddenly someone knocked loudly at the door. Augustine 
 started up as pale as death, and I stopped short in the madness 
 of my joy ; then, thinking it was only Dubois, who had come to 
 visit me in consequence of the note I had written to him, I 
 oegged Augustine to enter a small room with a half -glass door at 
 the head of my bed, promising her I would make such signs to 
 my friend that he would understand I had someone with me, 
 and then retire immediately. Having pushed her hurriedly, but 
 gently in, I went to the door, and opening it, beheld — Jenneville 
 himself I 
 
The Wife* the Husband, and the Lover, 163 
 
 OHAPTEK XXH 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVEB. 
 
 Jenneville bowed to me with a polite but constrained air, 
 and smiled sarcastically as he said, " I am delighted to find you 
 at home " ; and as he sat down in the chair which his wife had 
 occupied hardly two minutes before, I replied, " It is quite a 
 chance, for I was about going out." " The porter told me you have 
 had a terrible fall." " Yes ; but I am well now, and am just start- 
 ing for the benefit of the air." " You are pale, and appear still 
 weak." "Of course, I have not got rid of all the ill effects of my 
 
 accident. But I am on my way to the doctor, and " " In that 
 
 case I will accompany you, for I have much to talk to you about." 
 What was to be done? If he should go with me there would 
 be no no means of escape for Augustine. The best way, there- 
 fore, to release her from her unpleasant situation, I thought, 
 would bs for me to hear her husband out. "With this intention 
 I took another chair with an expression of impatience which I 
 did not care to conceal, but Jenneville did not take any notice 
 s>f it, and continued thus : — 
 
 "Well, my dear Deligny, do you still wish that I should 
 Teturn to my wife ? " I felt the colour rush into my pale cheek, 
 and I tried in vain to assume an air of indifference as I answered, 
 "Me — I — it is all the same to me; you are your own master, 
 and can do just as you like." " No doubt ; but do you not recol- 
 lect that morning when I came to tell you of Blagnard's 
 rascality, how energetic you were in behalf of my admirable 
 wife ; the beautiful sermon you favoured me with endeavouring 
 to persuade me that all the errors and wrongs were on my side, 
 and the best possible step I could take would be to return to 
 her." " Yes, I do, Jenneville, and I think I gave you very good 
 advice." " No doubt ; I think I have a slight idea that you quite 
 touched my feelings at the time ; but since then — I forget how 
 it arose — oh, whilst talking with Madame de Re*monde, she told 
 me of certain things which induced me to think more lightly of 
 your counsels on that point." " I care nothing, Jenneville, of 
 what Madame de RSmonde may say of me." " But how is it 
 vou do not mention Blagnard's name ? Has anything been 
 lieard of him ? And the money, too, that you needed so 
 urgently?" "I obtained the money, thank you; but let us 
 
164 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 return to the subject that Madame de RSmonde spoke of." "By 
 Heaven, Deligny, I could not help laughing at what Herminie 
 told me when I recollected the very affecting discourse about 
 my wife you were kind enough to indulge me with." " Mon- 
 sieur, I am in a hurry ; I think I told you I was going out." 
 *i You will give me a few moments more, I know. "Well, my 
 good fellow, there never was such a capital joke. Madame de 
 Remonde told me positively that you are my wife's lover. Ha £ 
 ha! ha!" "Madame de Remonde has purposely deceived you. 
 The fact is I have been frequently in company with Madame 
 Luceval — for that is the name I know her by — but I was not in 
 
 the least aware who she was, and I assure you " " My dear 
 
 fellow, there is no reason on earth why you should trump up 
 any excuses at all ; it is not of the least consequence to me 
 whether she takes you or any other man. When I left 
 Augustine, I made her mistress of herself and free to do 
 everything she pleased. As our wives deceive us whilst we live 
 with them, it would be too much to expect they should be con- 
 stant when we are apart." " I assure you, monsieur, that you 
 have been misinformed with regard to any relations that exist 
 between Madame Luceval and myself." " Ha! ha! I am aware 
 *he has assumed that name ; a very delicate attention on her 
 part, of which I am quite susceptible and grateful for, upon my 
 honour. But you forget before you knew who she was that you 
 told me you were in iove, deeply, passionately in love, with a 
 certain lady." " I did so, I acknowledge, but that is no proof 
 that the lady listened to my vows." " You are too diffident by 
 half, Deligny, too modest. Besides, the age of Platonic love is 
 past — that is, if ever it existed, which is very difficult to believe. 
 Nowadays, men have got rid of visionary abstractions, and 
 must have real, positive, tangible demonstrations of attachment. 
 No, no ; I know, too, that my wife is susceptible, very sus- 
 ceptible to the tender passion ; I have had proofs of it, monsieur. 
 Will you tell me that a man who has not obtained the last 
 favours from a woman will pass whole days with her, and 
 remain in her apartment until past one in the morning ? Eh ? 
 you see for a husband, my information is very good." 
 " Appearances are not always to be relied on. I swear to you 
 your wife only received me that she might obtain intelligence of 
 yourself." " I thank her from the bottom of my heart ; the 
 subject must have been peculiarly interesting; there is no 
 wonder you should have remained so late together conversing of 
 my humble self." " Believe me or not, Jenneville, but I have 
 spoken nothing but the sacred truth." " My dear Deligny, it is 
 my real appreciation of your merits which prevents me from 
 giving credence to you. Oh! don't be angry. If anyone shouli 
 be tired of the exciting subject I should think it would be me, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 165 
 
 siot you, who are the favoured lover of Augustine." "Again, 
 
 Monsieur Jenneville, I say " " Now, now, no passion, if you 
 
 jplease ; I shall not fly in one, I assure you. Believe me, Deligny, 
 I am not one of those jealous, pig-headed husbands who, not 
 content with being deceived, expose themselves to be shot 
 through the head or run through the body by their successors 
 in their wives' embraces. I would fight fifty a hundred times 
 for my mistresses, but for my wife not one single finger would I 
 raise. Can anything be more ridiculous than a man fighting 
 for a woman who cares less for him than for any other person in 
 the world P " 
 
 At this moment, when, goaded out of all patience at Jenne- 
 ville's false charges, an angry reply was on my lips, a slight 
 groan, followed by a sound of a heavy body falling, was heard 
 in the adjoining cabinet. I stood still, fearing 4hat Augustine 
 had fainted, and not daring to go near, whilst Jenneville rose 
 from the chair, saying coldly, " You have someone with you, 
 Deligny. Believe me, I am profoundly grieved at having 
 incommoded you so long ; it strikes me the lady would be better 
 for a little air," and, before I could intercept him, he threw open 
 the door of the cabinet, and there pointed to Augustine lying 
 senseless on the floor. Frantic at the sight, losing all presence 
 of mind, and thinking only of the woman I adored, I ran to her, 
 lifted her up, and bore her into the room, exclaiming, " See, she 
 is dying, and, you, you are the accursed cause." " I the cause ! 
 Delicious ! And row, Monsieur Deligny, will you still tell me 
 that you have not an absorbing interest in my wife ? " " Help 
 me to recall her to life ; and then, Monsieur Jenneville, you will 
 find me ready to give you any satisfaction you may demand." 
 " And again I tell you, Paul Deligny, that I do not require any. 
 Why the devil should I quarrel with you about such an every-day 
 affair ? Make your mind ensy about the lady, my dear fellow; 
 these fainting fits are never dangerous, she will soon come round 
 again ; but I must leave you, for should she open her eyes there 
 would be a tragic scene to go through, not at all to my taste, I 
 assure you. Never speak about this foolish thing again, my 
 only objeet — for I well knew she was here — was to show you 
 that I was not your dupe." 
 
 He looked fixedly on Augustine as I supported hw on a chair, 
 then snorted contemptuously, turned upon his heel, and left the 
 room without uttering another word. As soon as he was gone, I 
 bathed her temples with water and vinegar, but without pro- 
 ducing reanimation, until, weakened as I was by medicine and 
 loss of blood, 1 felt my own strength failing fast, so making a 
 desperate effort I lifted her up, bore her with her head resting 
 on my shoulders to the window, placed her on a couch below it, 
 and was calling to the porter in the courtyard for help, when 
 
166 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 Dubois came dancing and singing through the outer doorway- 
 On seeing ine kneeling before a lady, he stopped short in his* 
 song, whistled one long, sharp note of surprise, and then, 
 advancing on tiptoes towards Augustine, cried, " A lady with 
 you, Paul, and the door left open ! Was there ever such care- 
 lessness ? " " Oh, Dubois, for Heaven's sake, help me, she is 
 dead. Oh ! had you but come five minutes sooner, her husband 
 would not have seen herl " " Dear me, if the happy man h;>.s^ 
 been here, I can understand the fainting tolerably well. What 
 can we give her? You are worse off than me ; there is absolutely 
 nothing sovereign in these cases in your room ! " " Dubois, fetch 
 me a doctor, pray ; women, a doctor, any aid you can." " I'm off 
 like a shot, Paul ; be quiet, don't fret, you shall have all the 
 doctors in the district in less than a quarter of an hour." 
 
 Whilst he was gone I remained close to Augustine, rubbing 
 her hands in mine, my eyes fixed upon her lovely but now pallid 
 face, and calling her by all the endearing names my passionate 
 attachment could suggest. At length a slight blush found its 
 Way into her cheeks, then a convulsive shudder passed through 
 *rer frame, and opening her eyes she looked apprehensively 
 around the room, but not seeing Jenneville she covered them 
 again with her hands, and murmured in a voice half-stifled with 
 sobs, " Was he not here? Did he not see me? Oh, Heaven! 
 yes, and I am lost!" "Augustine," I cried, "my own loved, 
 adored one, Augustine, calm yourself, I implore you! wherefore, 
 this despair ? Has he not by his conduct left ycu free mistress 
 of your own actions ? Besides, you have the consolation of 
 knowing that you are not guilty." " Vain hope that, Deligny ; 
 in the eyes of the world I must be. You see already it is 
 asserted that you are my favoured lover." " What signifies it, 
 Augustine, what such an infamous woman as Madame de 
 Remonde says? Her object was to keep your husband still away 
 from you." " How much, Paul, am I indebted to you, who 
 sought to bring him back." " To render you happy, Augustine, 
 I would have done ten times as much, though my heart bled as 
 I went through the hateful task. I thought the villain was 
 necessary to your comfort." " Think so no longer, Paul, but for 
 God's sake do not despise me." Here she burst into a torrent 
 of tears, which relieved her aching heart, and having somewhat 
 recovered, I represented to her that Dubois' return with a 
 physician might be productive of further scandal and miscon- 
 struction, so extending her hand to me with an assurance of her 
 undying gratitude, she bade me farewell, and holding her hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, tottered down the stairs, passed across the 
 courtyard with a trembling gait and reached the street. 
 
 The moment she was gone I threw myself upon the couch 
 that had sustained her, in order to repose my wearied limbs and- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. ~ 167 
 
 reduce my agitation. Poor Augustine t I thought of the cruel 
 reprobate, and the atrocious cold-blooded manner in which he 
 speaks of her must have pierced her heart. I hoped, too, that 
 -this last proof of his utter worthlessness would show her that 
 she owed no constancy to a man who had deserted her without 
 the slightest reason and now maligned her so causelessly as he 
 4id ; and whilst 1 recalled the tearful scene I had just witnessed, 
 1 thought of the delicious interview that immediately preceded 
 it, and of the sweet avowal of her love. Why, I whispered to 
 myself, should she change her sentiments towards me ? Has 
 mot the proof of her husband's total baseness an additional 
 inducement to her to rely upon my ever-faithful breast? Yes, I 
 would dry her scalding tears ; I would bring back to the pallid 
 cheek the bloom of happiest years, and as the world pronounced 
 tier guilty, why should not I receive the long-coveted reward of 
 all my constancy and love? As I lay absorbed in thought with 
 these ideas chasing each other through my brain, my attention 
 was attracted by a short, dry, husky cough, and on raising my 
 eyes was surprised to see standing near me a little middle-aged 
 woman, who was peering inquisitively into the adjoining 
 room. " Where is the lady," she asked, " who is in want of my 
 assistance P " « Of your assistance ? " I replied. " Yes, mon- 
 sieur ; a gentleman came to my rooms not long ago, rang the 
 bell as if he would pull it down, and said I was wanted here 
 mmediately. Have the goodness, monsieur, to show me to the 
 ady. How long has she felt the pains? is she young? is this her 
 lfirst ? " I began to see through the mystery. Dubois had sent 
 la midwife to me. I placed a crown piece in the woman's hand 
 and explained to her that there had been some mistake ; and she 
 had hardly left the room before Dubois arrived, carrying half-a- 
 dozen phials, which he placed upon the table, telling me that 
 some of the essences were good for nervous attacks, some for 
 fainting-fits, and others to promote the circulation of the blood 
 in cases oE lethargy; to which I replied that all his attentive 
 cases were now useless, for the lady had recovered without 
 further help than my own, and by that time I hoped was safe at 
 her own residence. He then replaced the phials in his pocket 
 observing that they might be useful hereafter in his own practice 
 and on my confiding to him who Augustine really was, he* 
 promised to maintain the most inviolable secresy He then 
 pressed me to dine with him at a tavern, but I declined doing so 
 feeling still too weak to venture out and that I required rest' 
 especially after the exciting events that had taken place thafl 
 morning; and he left me, as he said, to live that day on love 
 and sighs, but that on the marrow he would make me eat some 
 beefsteaks and some fowl, which was much less romantic, but 
 infinitely more nourishing and far easier of digestion. 
 
168 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XXHL 
 
 THE TEDIOUS FORTNIGHT. 
 
 The rest of that day passed quickly by, although I was alone, 
 for the certainty that my love for Augustine was now fully 
 reciprocated painted my future life in the most glowing colours. 
 It struck me also that the morning's adventure would not tend 
 to mar my prospects, because, I thought, it was impossible 
 that Augustine should remain true to her vows to a man whom 
 she now knew no longer had the least remnant of affection for 
 her, and who set no store upon her conjugal fidelity. The 
 following morning I felt quite strong, and had there not been a 
 deep scar on^my forehead from the wound I received in falling, 
 I could not have believed that I had been ill. As I ate my 
 breakfast my mind continued to dwell upon the pleasing subject 
 of Madame Luceval, for I could not bring myself to call her by 
 the name of the besotted man who was so unworthy of her ; and 
 whilst I was dressing myself to proceed to her apartments,, 
 anticipating the delight of again pressing her dear hand and 
 listening with thrilling sensations to the renewed assurance of 
 her love, the porter came into the room, bearing a letter in 
 Augustine's handwriting. As usual, he began to talk and make 
 fifty inquiries as to my health, whether I felt any pain from the 
 wound in my head, and what my opinions were as to his sister's 
 capabilities for a nurse ; but I cut his babble short by abruptly 
 ordering him to quit the room, and then broke the seal, wonder- 
 ing why she should write to me when she knew that I should 
 certainly come to see her so soon as she could be visible. Almost 
 fearing that some misfortune had occurred, I read : — 
 
 My dear friend, — Her friend, that word assured me she was not 
 vexed with me. The terrible scene of yesterday has made me very 
 ill; and I cannot help thinking that my husband is justified in 
 thinking I have been faithless to him, and must now despise me. 
 Despise her! Not so: it was he alone who was guilty; he it 
 was who merited contempt. To make amends for the fault which 
 I so thoughtlessly committed, and in order to triumph over that fatal 
 weakness which 1 acknowledged' to you, the best mode of actinq will be 
 for me never to see you more. See me no more 1 No, that should 
 never be I And I think, my dear Paul, that you will agree in the 
 propriety of my resolution, for I feel that were I to continue to see 
 you I might at last be as guilty as the world now falsely judges me to- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 169 
 
 be, for I have no reliance on my own strength of purpose, and scarcely 
 on the preservation of my senses. Again, I have thought that to 
 renounce you entirely would be too great a sacrifice to make to the 
 prejudices of the world. A most silly one, indeed ! And, therefore, 
 in my present deep affliction, I must forbear seeing you for some time 
 to come, and until I shall have acquired some control over the emotions 
 of my breaking heart. Be satisfied then, Paul, with the assurance 
 that we shall meet again. To-morroio I shall leave Paris for the 
 country ; do not follow me ; give me, I implore you, this other proof 
 of your attachment. 
 
 I threw the letter on the ground and could have stamped upon 
 at in the fierceness of my rage. The recompense of my love, my 
 enduring attachment to her, of all the suffering I had gone 
 through, the money I had expended in serving her, amounted to 
 this — that when I had raised a flame within her breast she fled 
 from me because she feared she should give way to it in my 
 presence. Could anything be more ridiculous than her behaviour ? 
 Her husband found no fault with her taking a lover to herself, 
 and yet she would refuse the consolation ! My resolution was 
 soon taken : I determined to set the injunction in the concluding ' 
 paragraph of her letter at nought; and having reached the 
 -staircase of her house, was about ascending, "when the porter 
 informed me £hat Madame Luceval's servant had packed up her 
 mistress's things on the preceding evening, and that she had 
 left for the country at seven o'clock that morning. All the 
 airy castles I had formed were again felled to earth. All I knew 
 about her country house was that it was near Luciennes, and 
 come what would, I determined to find it out and follow her to 
 it, though she should order the doors to be closed against me. 
 Luckily I had her friend, Madame Darbelle's (Juliette) address ; 
 I had found that lady kind, gentle, and compassionate, and as 
 she had professed the most supreme contempt for Jenneville, 
 and had testified her earnest sympathy for me and my unhappy 
 passion, I not only thought she would tell me where to find 
 Augustine, but indulged the hope that she would aid me in 
 attempting to dispel the brooding melancholy that had seized 
 upon her. 
 
 As good luck would have it, Juliette was at home and seemed 
 very pleased to see me. After making some kind inquiries with 
 regard to ray health and condoling with me on my accident, she 
 told me, with a good-natured smile, that she had been expecting 
 me. " Expecting me, madame ! " I said. " Certainly ; you have 
 received a letter from Augustine, in which she announced her 
 departure to you, and the moment it reached you you ran to her 
 house in a frenzy to see whether she had actually left, and having 
 ascertained it to be the case, you have come here to learn where 
 tier country-house is situated." " Yes, madame, but how could 
 
170 . The Wife, tlie Husband, and the Lover. ' 
 
 you tell ? " " Oh, easily enough. visited Augustine yesterday 5 
 she was in tears, in deep distress at what had taken place at 
 your apartments, so I comforted her as well as I could — which 
 kind deed was certainly due to her from me, for it was I who 
 persuaded her to come to you by constantly representing to her 
 that now you were ill and suffering, she owed you some return 
 for all the trouble you had been put to in obtaining intelligence 
 of that vagabond, her husband." " Madame, I can never repay 
 your inestimable kindness." " Well, Monsieur Deligny, I told her 
 that her despair at being seen by Jenneville was ridiculous ; that 
 that circumstance had in no wise altered her position with 
 respect to him ; on the contrary, she had only acquired additional 
 proof of his worthlessness, and of your admirable conduct in 
 endeavouring to bring back the scoundrel to her arms." " Ah 9 . 
 madame, you are all goodness." " Hold your tongue, do ! At 
 length I succeeded in calming her, and I persuaded her to alter 
 her determination of catting you off for ever, and so I hope we- 
 shall both have the happiness of seeing her speedily again.' 
 " To-morrow, madame ! to-day ! let us fly to her ! " " Not so fast,, 
 monsieur, if you please. When I saw that she had made up 
 her mind to go to her country house, I did not seek to alter her 
 determination ; but I promised to pay her a visit soon, and 
 although I did not ask her permission, I mean to take you with 
 me." " A thousand thanks, madame. When shall we leave ? " 
 " Calm yourself, Monsieur Deligny ; nothing must be done in. 
 haste. We must allow Augustine to get weary of her solitude 
 before we see her. In about three weeks I think we may set 
 out." " Three weeks, madame! They will appear three ages ; 
 I cannot wait so long." " Well, then, let it be a fortnight."" 
 " Why not to-morrow ? " " Because from my knowledge of 
 Augustine's character, I feel it would not be judicious. Although 
 an excellent woman, she is rather obstinate. Having formed the 
 resolution of not seeing you for some time, she might not receive 
 you if you should present yourself before her immediately ; but 
 the lapse of a fortnight will make an extraordinary alteration 
 in her ideas." " If there are no means, madame, of inducing 
 you to recall your determination, I must obey." " Not an hour 
 sooner than a fortnight ; but I feel so much indebted to you for 
 having cured her of her weak attachment to that detestable 
 Jonneville, that I will do all I can to serve you; so take courage 
 and a little patience, Monsieur Deligny ; come here a fortnight 
 hence, and we will visit Augustine together." 
 
 Having thanked Madame Darbelle gratefully for the great 
 interest she now took in me, I left her house without any definite 
 object and with only one desire — that of being older by a fort- 
 night than I. was. What singularly inconsistent animals men; 
 are ! We fear to die, and at the same time we often wish that the 
 
The Wife, the Husband^nd the Lover. 171 
 
 few years and days we have to rema n upon this earth may 
 glide more swiftly by. In our childhood our only hope is to 
 become older j when still youths, we burn to take up a position 
 amongst the ranks of men ; but when we have arrived at manhood, 
 instead of being satisfied, ambition, love, and vanity trace out a 
 thousand schemes and projects for the future, in the accomplish- 
 ing of which each coming day is sure to make us happier than 
 the past. The father of a family wishes to see his beloved 
 children well established in the world ; the lover desires to gain 
 the affections of the woman who has won his . heart ; the 
 ambitious courtier aims at ribbons, stars, and places of high 
 trust and wealth ; and poets, painters, and musicians dream of 
 the morrow which is to bring success and make their names 
 renowned throughout all the regions of the habitable globe. 
 And yet these morrows come and find us anticipating others of 
 still more brilliant hue ! 
 
 My only wish was that I might become a dormouse for the 
 nonce and sleep away the odious fortnight that must intervene 
 between my next visit to Juliette ; indeed, I had some serious 
 thoughts of taking to my bed for that period, and was walking- 
 towards home with that intention when someone touched me 
 on the arm, and on looking round I saw Jolivet dressed much 
 more fashionably than was his wont. He addressed me also in 
 a free-and-easy style, totally different to that he had been in the 
 habit of using to me, and as I recollected I had not seen him 
 since the day I told him of my heavy loss through Blagnard, I 
 formed the idea that the tone of high importance and protection 
 to myself in which he spoke was the result of his conceiving 
 that I was completely ruined and could not treat him any more 
 to dinners, public balls, and dfrjeuners. I laughed internally at 
 this fresh proof of the fellow's meanness, and promised myself 
 to bring him down. " Since we met last, little Paul," he said, 
 " my business has increased astonishingly; I have removed to a 
 larger office, and been obliged to engage a clerk at a high salary, 
 for I find it impossible to do without one. Business is really 
 wonderful! I have lent — that is, I have procured the money — 
 for a person upon very excellent terms indeed. I must have 
 mortgages on real property, or else good, sound bondsmen." 
 "Ah! I understand, you only lend money to poor devils, and 
 screw them down to the last farthing." u My dear fellow, 
 unfortunate poor people never repay what they borrow. I never 
 have anything to do with them. And you, Paul, how have you 
 got over that bankruptcy, eh? I think you were hit for fifteen 
 hundred pounds, you said ; it's hard, very hard, upon my word." 
 " Bah! Jolivet, I have got over that trifle long ago ; one of my 
 uncles on my mother's side left me four times that amount since 
 then." (He had been walking coolly by my side, but as I spoke 
 
172 The "Wife, the Hpusband, and the Lover, 
 
 he passed his arm quickly under mine.) " The devil! four times 
 the amount ; very pretty indeed! And what do you with it, my 
 dear fellow ? Well laid out, it would bring you a capital return." 
 " You know, Jolivet, that I'm a very bad hand at business." 
 "Yes, yes; but then you might join some clever fellow who 
 understands it, and the money thrown into the firm might do 
 wonders with that already there," " Probably ; but I shall not 
 trouble myself about stupid affairs. This last fortune left me by 
 my uncle, with what I had before, is quite enough for any 
 reasonable man to live on ; then there is my father's property 
 which I shall inherit, and as I mean to marry a woman with 
 equal means, my income will not be less than a thousand a 
 year; quite enough for a man to live upon I think!" Jolivet 
 leaned upon my arm and squeezed it quite affectionately. He 
 then said, " A thousand a year is a very pretty income, indeed ; 
 but if you wish to increase it by a good safe investment, pray 
 give me the preference for the sake of our old friendship, which 
 I hope you did not think was interrupted on my part. By-the- 
 bye, what has become of Dubois ? I have not seen him for a 
 long time past ; consuming his money, I suppose, as fast as he 
 makes it ? " " That fellow will never do any good." " Not so ; 
 Dubois has been doing very well of late; he has placed his 
 savings in a merchant's warehouse, and has a share of the busi- 
 ness. He is better off — and always was — than he pretends to 
 be." " Ah ! ah ! that is that people should not ask him to lend 
 them money. Not a bad idea, that! Poor Dubois! I should not 
 have thought that of him either ; however, he was always a 
 good-natured fellow. I think I must go and see him some day." 
 Feeling tired of the fellow's cringing meanness and having 
 plunged further upon his credulity to the extent of my being 
 now in the society of the nobility and having several invitations 
 a day to dinner, I went home and found Dubois waiting for me 
 in my rooms. The first question he asked was respecting the 
 course of my true love ; and on my telling him that Augustine 
 had left Paris and that I should not see her for a fortnight, he 
 proposed that I should amuse myself with an amourette for the 
 fourteen days that must elapse, and offered to take me that 
 evening to a select circle where we should meet two young 
 seamstresses who were dying to go upon the boards, and were 
 taking instructions in their mother tongue in order to be able to 
 join in the choruses*. He meant to call one of them Signora, and 
 he was of opinion that compliment must bring her to his arms. 
 Notwithstanding the pressing instances of my faithful com- 
 panion, I declined the introduction to the enchanting sirens ; 
 and that day and on the following seven we dined constantly 
 together, during which period he ridiculed me upon what he 
 called my knight-errant constancy, and called me Amadis, 
 
Tine, Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 173 
 
 Tancred, and by the names of all the most celebrated Paladins of 
 antiquity, all of whom, he said, had I existed in their ages, must 
 have lowered their flags to me. One evening, as we were 
 walking in the gardens attached to the Palace of the Tuileries, 
 Jolivet approached with every demonstration of joy, and abso- 
 lutely offered us an ice apiece. Dubois immediately observed 
 that he must have become rich, or he would not be guilty of such 
 extravagance, and the conversation then turning on the best 
 mode of investing capital, Jolivet boasted that his business was 
 increasing daily and that he and a friend had lately lent a certain 
 Madame de Re"monde four thousand pounds upon Jenneville's 
 personal security. Dubois then stated that when he was at the 
 Exchange in the morning, Jenneville's affairs formed a subject 
 of conversation, and it was asserted broadly that he was com- 
 pletely ruined, upon which Jolivet ran off in a fever of anxiety, 
 and I returned home to think of Augustine and speculate upon 
 the course she would pursue under her husband's fallen fortunes, 
 feeling assured that she would never suffer him to be in want. 
 
 At length the tedious fortnight had expired, and on my going 
 to Juliette's at ten o'clock on the following morning, I found her 
 dressed and ready for the road. " You see I expected you," sha 
 said, to which I only replied by kissing her hand and escorting 
 her downstairs. 
 
174 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LOVE IN THE COUNTBY. 
 
 We got into a cabriolet which I had hired for the day, and as 
 I drove rapidly along, burning to reach the country house and 
 behold Augustine again, Madame Darbelle, who was somewhat 
 alarmed at the pace, kept on entreating me every minute not to 
 drive so fast, for, as she very shrewdly observed, if I drove in 
 that head T ong manner the possibility was either that the horse 
 would break down, or the carriage would be upset, and ourselves 
 hurt, in either of which cases W3 should be detained the longer 
 from reaching the end of our journey in due time. Seeing the 
 force of this reasoning I left off urging the horse, and on his 
 subsiding from a brisk canter into an easy trot, I opened a 
 conversation with Juliette by inquiring whether she had received 
 any letter from Augustine during the last fourteen days. She 
 replied that at the end of the third day of her absence Augustine 
 had written to her requesting her to come to Luciennes, and 
 asking whether she had seen me ; and that four days afterwards 
 Augustine had written again stating she found the country very 
 dull, that everybody had forgotten her, and that, of course, I 
 thought no more about her ; that she (Juliette) had taken care 
 not to answer either of the letters, and she was sure that at that 
 moment Augustine was furious against herself and me for our 
 neglect, but that after the first few minutes her anger would 
 evaporate and she would be delighted at our arrival, for it was 
 an incontrovertible axiom that the greater fear people enter- 
 tained of not seeing their friends the greater was their joy in 
 meeting them. 
 
 I did not understand this strain of reasoning at all, and feeling 
 angry that Juliette had not communicated the contents of 
 Augustine's letter to me that I might have answered it myself 
 and assured her that my ardent love had undergone no change, 
 I struck the horse sharply with the whip, and breaking into a 
 gallop again we soon passed Neuilly, Nanterre, Malmaison, and 
 Bougival/and walking the reeking animal up the steep street of 
 Luciennes, we turned to the right and stopped at a pretty house 
 lying back about a quarter of a mile from the main road. As I 
 handed Juliette from the cabriolet, my heart beat as violently 
 as if I feared some terrible misfortune had occurred; she, 
 beholding my emotion, endeavoured to comfort me by renewed 
 
The Wife, the Hmband, and the Lover. 175 
 
 ^assurances that Augustine longed to see me, and all would be 
 ■well, and on the door being opened by an aged female peasant, 
 we ascertained that Madame Luceval was walking in the garden, 
 and we went immediately to seek her there. Juliette, who was 
 well acquainted with the locality, walked straight across a 
 verdant lawn, dotted with beds of bright-hued, fragrant flowers, 
 and having traversed two long allies over-arched with branches 
 of the sumach, the wee ping- willow, and the drooping-ash, she 
 -directed me to remain concealed behind the massive stem of a 
 .fine chestnut tree whilst she advanced to a woodbine bower a 
 few paces off, which was one of Augustine's most favourite 
 resorts. As soon as Augustine perceived her friend, she threw 
 aside the book she had been reading, started up, rushed into her 
 arms and kissed her fondly ; and then, after fifty caresses — oh ! 
 how I envied them! — she held her at arm's length and said, 
 smiling, but with a bright tear glistening in her eye, "Ah! 
 Juliette, Juliette, I would fain scold you for not replying to my 
 •letters." " And, indeed, Augustine, it served you right ; you 
 were in such a terrific hurry to leave Paris, the world, and your 
 friends that I thought it right you should taste the sweets of 
 that perfect solitude you so ardently desired." " It would have 
 been better, Juliette, had I sought that solitude when first my 
 ^husband left me, and never entered that wretched world again." 
 ** No doubt ; I can conceive how delicious it would have been to 
 inhabit a cabin in a desert and live upon herbs and roots, and 
 all because that wretch Jenneville sacrificed you to his fifty 
 mistresses." " Juliette, for God's sake do not mention him." 
 "" Not I, my love, I had much rather not, I assure you. But 
 Augustine, I am not alone, dear; I have brought someone with 
 me." " What do you mean, Juliette ; who can it be ? " " One 
 who is afraid to show himse'f, so much does he dread your anger 
 ior setting your commands at nought." 
 
 Uttering these words, she beckoned to me to advance, and 
 ■stepping from my hiding-place, I threw myself at the feet of 
 Augustine, apologizing for my intrusion and expressing my 
 unbounded joy at seeing her again. So far from being displeased 
 at my appearance, she smiled upon me, held out her hand, which 
 I pressed within mine as if I would never be deprived of it 
 again, and, gently reproving me for my ill-founded fears, 
 welcomed me cordially to her country house. In an instant all 
 restraint was banished from our breasts. Augustine was every- 
 thing that I had ever found her to be previous to the hateful 
 discovery of her by Jenneville at my rooms, and, more than that, 
 I read in her sweet eyes the expression of that love for me she 
 lhad confessed before her husband came. We then made the 
 •tour of the ornamental grounds, which were tastefully laid out, 
 :and comprised arbours, plants of every description, shaded 
 
176 The Wife, tlie Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 walks, thickets of shrubs, and a small wood, where it would b& 
 delightful to repose, sheltered from the glaring heat of the- 
 scorching noontide sun. Yes! that sombre wood was the first 
 thing that struck me as we walked through the grounds. "We 
 returned to the house to dinner, and when the evening came we 
 could not conceive it possible that the time had slipped so 
 quickly by whilst we had been engaged in charming conversa- 
 tion. As Juliette had promised Augustine to remain some time 
 with her, I was doomed to return to town alone, but happily for 
 my peace of mind, Augustine requested me to come again, and 
 so, after a day which had appeared to me scarcely to occupy an. 
 hour in duration, I re-entered the cabriolet, and drove back in 
 unspeakable present happiness, and full of the brightest future 
 hopes. 
 
 wii the following morning I did not hire a private carriage, as 
 that would have cost too much — proposing as I did to go to 
 Luciennes every day — but I got into the coach for St. Germain, 
 and being put down at Marly, reached my destination before 
 breakfast-time. The ladies had been kind enough to postpone 
 it on my account, having made sure that I should come early ; 
 although not a word had been said upon the subject, and after 
 another charming day, in the course of which we read, and 
 talked, and walked, and sang, the peaceful evening came, and I 
 could not help sighing as I rose and said I must return to Paris. 
 Kind Juliette, who guessed the secret wishes of my heart, 
 exclaimed it was impossible ; I had no vehicle, and if there 
 should not be a vacant place in the coach at Marly, I could not 
 walk eleven miles in the dark, so that I had much better remain 
 there for the night, as there were plenty of unoccupied bedrooms 
 in the house. Augustine hung down her head at hearing the 
 proposition; she said she feared the misconstruction of the 
 world and the calumnies with which her character might be 
 assailed ; but Juliette laughed all her scruples to scorn, repre- 
 senting to her that the world, as it was called, did not care one- 
 tenth so much about her as she thought, that she was her own 
 mistress, free to do as she pleased, that it was customary to> 
 have resident visitors in the house, and, lastly, she affirmed that 
 as she was very timid, and the old gardener was the only man 
 in the house, she would not stay unless there was another; and 
 so that point was soon determined in my favour. Dear, good,, 
 thoughtful Juliette ! I would have kissed her had I dared. 
 
 My spirits rose at the prospect of remaining under the same 
 roof with Augustine, and in the excess of my delight I com- 
 mitted all sorts of stupid acts ; reading, music, cards, all went 
 amiss, I could not see the words, i could not distinguished one^ 
 note from another, and I could not tell the aces from the Queens ; 
 but I was easily forgiven, for each of the ladies attributed my 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 177 
 
 <distraction to the real cause. At length the chamber-lights 
 were brought, and the comfortable, homely words, " Good 
 night " were fervently pronounced. The servant showed me to 
 a room where 1 found a bed with curtains, sheets, and counter- 
 pan • white as the driven snow, and smelling sweetly from having 
 been bleached upon the daisied fields. But sleep fled my eyes 
 that night; my happiness was as yet too new, too overpowering, 
 too e -static to permit me to steep my senses in f orgetfulness ; 
 and thus, having passed a waking, but, strange to say, delightful 
 night, 1 rose with the first streak of dawn that glimmered in the 
 east, and descended to the garden, where I promenaded for some 
 time, enjoying the freshness of the morning breeze and hoping 
 that I might find Augustine alone. My wish was not long in its 
 -accomplishment ; Augustine walked towards me with her whole 
 soul beaming from her eyes, and heard my expression of delight 
 at being in the same house with her, restored to her confidence 
 -and to her love with unaffected pleasure ; but we had scarcely been 
 together ten minutes, and my burst of gratitude was hardly at an 
 end, when Juliette appeared and summoned us to the cheerful 
 morning's meal. The repast being ended, the ladies retired to 
 put on their bonnets, and we then strolled for some hours in the 
 neighbourhood. We traversed several shaded groves, thick 
 coverts overhung with stately forest trees into which the sun's 
 rays seldom penetrated, long vistas where the deer bounded 
 free from harm, and ascended several small hills denuded of the 
 wood that originally crowned their tops, and from which we 
 obtained lovely glimpses of the far-off city and the country 
 round. We also found a large pond — honoured with the name of 
 a lake — in the midst of which was a small island, planted with 
 willows and other aquatic trees, which strongly reminded me of 
 the island frequented by Rousseau at Ermenonville. Another 
 advantage of this picturesque locality consisted in its being so 
 far removed from Paris as not to be frequented by the citizens in 
 their picnic parties, and it was delightful to think that in these 
 woods I could roam, and dream, and hope, and stroll with 
 Augustine, free from the interruptions of the busy world. 
 
 We returned to Luciennes when the heat of the^sun made the 
 open fields no longer bearable, and whilst the ladies worked at 
 their embroidery after dinner, I took up a book to read to them ; 
 but it was in vain that I endeavoured to identify myself with the 
 meaning of the author, for whenever my eyes met those of 
 Augustine I either stopped or read a passage over again without 
 recollecting that 1 had done so twice before. The days passed 
 rapidly away at Luciennes, although I could not obtain a tete-a- 
 tete with Augustine; Juliette was always with us, and if by 
 chance I met Augustine by herself, she seemed to dread her weak- 
 ness, and fled immediately to find her friend, all of which showed 
 
 M 
 
178 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 that she feared to be alone with me, that she felt she could not 
 resist my sighs and prayers, and if vigorously pressed must 
 yield her beauteous person to my burning love. A fortnight 
 had flown away, consumed in silent expectation on my part,, 
 raillery from Juliette at my dulness, with threats to send me 
 back to Paris if I did not become more gay, and excuses for me 
 by Augustine, who well knew what was passing in my heart,, 
 when one morning very early, as 1 walked across the lawn to the 
 arbour where we saw Augustine on our first arrival, I had the 
 happiness to find her sitting quite alone. She rose the moment 
 that she saw me, but quick as lightning I gently forced her to- 
 resume her seat, and throwing myself upon one knee before her, 
 I took her hand, and said — 
 
 "Loveliest, dearest Augustine, why seek to deprive me of 
 the only opportunity I have enjoyed since I have had the honour 
 and happiness of being in your house of seeing you alone ? " 
 " And why, Deligny, should you wish to find me so ? Do you not 
 see me and talk to me every day ? " " Yes, lady, but Juliette is- 
 always with you, and before her I cannot speak of love." 
 " What need is there to speak of your affection ? Is it not 
 enough that I am acquainted with it ? " " No, Augustine, not- 
 for such love as mine. I would have it reciprocated— ardently 
 returned by you ; and yet your avoiding me, your constantly- 
 flying from me would almost induce me to believe- that ray 
 presence is hateful to you." <« Paul, your words belie you 
 thoughts. I have unfolded to your view the pages of a heart 
 that knows not how to feign ; I have acknowledged that I love- 
 you, but the deep feeling must not lead to criminality on my 
 part. Be satisfied with my friendship— with my love." " You 
 say you love me, dearest ; then why not make me happy ? tr 
 " Because, Paul, although I have been basely deserted and 
 betrayed by Jenneville, while he lives I feel that Heaven will 
 not absolve me from the vows I made to him at the altar. Be- 
 you still my firm, my watchful, faithful friend, and let us hope 
 that better days may come." She put her handkerchief to her 
 eyes, rose and re-entered the house without my making the least 
 effort to detain her. 
 
 At the end of a month passed in this— to me— unsatisfactory 
 manner, the ladies requested me to go to Paris to execute some 
 commissions for them. On my reaching my lodging in the Rue- 
 Chariot, I learnt that Dubois had called there several times, 
 stating he had an important communication to make to me, and 
 as I was selecting some changes of apparel that I required, th& 
 jovial fellow bounced into the room. After an interchange of 
 the usual friendly inquiries he began to joke me upon mv 
 possessing a country-house where I spent whole months at my 
 ease upon a bed of roses with the ^dy of my heart, a delightful 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 17& 
 
 occupation which it would never fall to his lot to enjoy, until 
 milliners and lace-menders should have castles and estates ; and 
 then he told me that since I quitted Paris, Madame de Remonde- 
 ran away one fine morning with a young Englishman, a Russian- 
 Prince, a bankrupt banker, or some other rich man, leaving 
 Jenneville to pay the debts for which he had become answerable,. 
 and amongst others the four thousand pounds to Jolivet ; that 
 the latter amiable miser had set the bailiffs at work to seize- 
 everything in her house, but they found that all the furniture 
 was hired, and then Jolivet, mad with his loss, had a fit of the- 
 jaundice, and caused Jenneville to be safely locked up in " Key 
 Street." I could not believe it possible that Jolivet could have 
 acted so vindictively to a man who had been his friend, and: 
 treated him to so many dinners ; but Dubois assured me that 
 Jenneville was in the prison of Saint Pelagie, not only on account 
 of Jolivet, but at the suit of several other creditors who had 
 lodged detainers when they heard of the impostor, Madame de 
 Remonde's flight. My friend concluded with the consolatory 
 reflection that if a mistress with a carriage, ostrich feathers, and. 
 Cashmere shawls, brought a man to ruin, that consummation 
 could never arrive to one who restricted his amours to seam- 
 stresses, women who made shanks for buttons, and silver- 
 polishers. 
 
 One idea only occupied my brain — Jenneville was in prison 
 owing twenty thousand pounds, and, of course, deserted by all. 
 those hangers-on who in his prosperity had called themselves 
 his friends, for when a man has no other companions than those 
 who support him in his pleasures and incite him to extravagance^ 
 they fly from him the very moment he is no longer in a condition 
 to pander to their luxuries and minister to their fastidious tastes.. 
 Had I been in the possession of the necessary amount, I would 
 have liberated Jenneville, were it only for the gratification of 
 pleasing Augustine ; but as I had not one-fourth of the sum for 
 which he was incarcerated, and most assuredly my father would 
 not send me any money, the only step I could take was to repair- 
 to Jolivet, intercede for Jenneville, and obtain his release from 
 him, which Dubois said I should never effect until I could carry 
 one of the Egyptian pyramids in my arms, or accomplish some 
 other impossibility. 
 
 Notwithstanding the colonial broker's ridicule of the Quixotic 
 attempt I was about to make, I proceeded to Jolivet's apart- 
 ments, and found him seated on a stool in a little square place 
 partly fenced in with glass that he had constructed in one corner- 
 of his bedroom, and called his oflice, another proof of economy 
 which satisfied me that he was well off in the world. So soon 
 as he saw me enter he came bustling towards me with a friendly- 
 greeting, because he thought me rich, then bowed me into the* 
 
 \ 
 
180 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 .glass cabinet, where there was scarcely room for two chairs, and 
 inquired with eagerness what he could have the pleasure and 
 happiness of doing for me ; but the moment I named Jenneville, 
 his face became purple, and he exclaimed, in a rage, " The 
 scoundrel! the villain! He has robbed me of four thousand 
 pounds ; and that wretch of a woman, too, with that splendid 
 costly furniture. Who could have thought that it was only 
 hired?" " I hear, Jolivet, that you have locked him up." "Yes; 
 he is in prison, and there he shall remain until he pays me back 
 my money." " They say he has not a shilling left." " No matter 
 for that." "But you forget he was your friend, paid for ycu 
 everywhere, invited you often to his table." " Well, what then ? 
 If he had tried to borrow money of me I should not have 
 accepted his invitations ; besides he might be your friend but he 
 was not mine, only an acquaintance; he threw away too much 
 money even to be my friend." " But if he cannot pay, what is 
 the use of keeping him in prison ? " " He has wealthy relations, 
 and perhaps they will come forward for him ; at all events, I 
 tell you, Monsieur Deligny, he shall not stir one foot until I 
 have my money." " Do you know the full amount of his liabili- 
 ties ? " " To myself four thousand pounds, with the costs 
 about fifty more, and perhaps twice that sum to other creditors. 
 Some of them, I hear, will accept a composition, but I will not 
 abate one shilling. Now, Paul, could you make up your mind to 
 pay Jenneville's debt to me ? It will be a magnificent act on 
 j-our part." Disgusted with the fellow's avarice and vindictive 
 feeling, I told him that if the act was magnificent he had the 
 best opportunity in the world for gaining credit in doing it, and 
 quitting him without further leave-taking, executed my com- 
 missions and returned to Luciennes. 
 
 Finding the ladies seated in the arbour, I proceeded there 
 immediately after my arrival, and gave an account of the pur- 
 chases I had made, but though I endeavoured to speak in a light, 
 indifferent tone, Augustine perceived that something had 
 agitated me during my absence, and making a signal to me to 
 follow her, she walked from the bower into a pleached alley 
 hard by, and when I had joined her, conjured me, in hurried 
 accents, to inform her what great misfortune had occurred. 
 Notwithstanding my reluctance to give her pain, I felt that 
 she had an undoubted right to know the result of Jenneville's 
 follies, extravagance, and dissipation, and when I related the 
 whole circumstances to her as delicately as I could, she leaned her 
 head pensively upon her hand for some minutes, then, starting, 
 bade me remain where I was, walked swiftly to the house, and 
 returned shortly afterwards, holding a sealed letter in her hand, 
 which she presented to me, saying with a sweet but melancholy 
 smile : — 
 
The Wife, the Htisband, and the Lover. 181 
 
 M My good friend, Paul, you have already given me undoubted 
 proofs of your attachment, but I must exact another from you." 
 " My life, Augustine, my heart's best blood, are at your dis- 
 posal." " My husband must not be left to languish miserably in 
 prison ; my fortune is not large, but I wiD sacrifice one half of it 
 to set Jenneville free. Take this letter ; it is to my solicitor. In. 
 it I fully empower him to raise the money necessary to liberate 
 my unhappy husband, which he will give to you, and then I 
 hope you will oblige me by going to Jenneville's creditors aud 
 satisfying all their claims in full. I do not bid you conceal from 
 him that it is I who have released him from the consequences 
 of his wretched conduct. I will not affect a grandeur of soul 
 that I do not possess, and I would have him learn that, faithless 
 and guilty as he deems me, all feelings for his comfort are not 
 extinct within my heart. My lawyer is also authorized to pay 
 him an annuity of three hundred pounds ; the same amount will 
 remain for my own use, and, I trust, Paul, you will not forbear 
 visiting me in my altered circumstances. Happiness does not 
 consist in wealth alone ! " 
 
 " Angelic woman!" I could not help exclaiming ; " what noble- 
 ness, of heart! what sublime forgiveness of the deepest injuries 
 an erring husband can inflict upon his wife ! Give me the letter,. 
 I will to Paris this very instant, and not return until every 
 arrangement shall be made." She thanked me with her lips, and 
 her eyes beamed so affectionately on me that, frantic with 
 passion, 1 threw my arms around her, strained her to my heart,, 
 and imprinted a thousand burning kisses on her lips. She dis- 
 engaged herself gently from my embrace, held up her finger in 
 a warning attitude', and again requested that I would depart 
 forthwith. I bowed obedience, walked to Bougival as swiftly 
 as I could, got into a coach, and soon reached Paris the second 
 time that day. A few minutes found me at the office of the 
 solicitor, who promised to have the money ready on the follow- 
 ing morning ; and then, without taking any rest or any refresh- 
 ment, I went to the gaol of Saint Pelagie to find out the names 
 of Jenneville's creditors, and thence to their residences, to ascer- 
 tain the amounts of their respective claims. ' I worked sa 
 energetically, and was so ably assisted by the attorney, that on 
 the fourth day every debt was paid and Jenneville set free, with 
 the knowledge that his wife had satisfied his creditors, although^ 
 the part I had taken in the arrangement was studiously con- 
 cealed from him for fear of hurting his feelings, in consideration 
 of the discovery of Augustine made by him at my apartments. 
 
 Having taken all the receipts from the attorney, I set out 
 again for Luciennes and presented myself to the ladies in the 
 drawing-room with such an air of satisfaction that Augustine 
 saw at once I had been successful in my operations ; but as X 
 
182 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 hesitated to broach the subject before Juliette, that lady told 
 me I might speak out, because she had been informed why 
 T had been sent to Paris. At first she said she had scolded 
 Augustine for throwing so much money in the street, but at 
 last had acknowledged that the action was highly honourable, 
 and that under similar circumstances she should have done the 
 same. Augustine extended her hand for the receipts, and as 
 she took them pressed mine in such a manner as rewarded me 
 & hundredfold for the trouble I had taken. Nor did the loss of 
 fortune tend to depress her spirits, but, on the contrary, she 
 became more lively, and, as I thought, more solicitous of my 
 comforts every day. 
 
 The morning arrived at length when Juliette's visit terminated, 
 and I made ready with a heavy heart to escort her back to 
 Paris, for propriety would not permit that I should remain 
 alone with Augustine ; but on my bidding her farewell, she 
 thanked me for the pleasure she had experienced in my society, 
 and requested me to come and pass a day with her as often as I 
 could, a request which, as may be guessed, I acceded to with 
 the greatest readiness, resolving to return on the following day, 
 -when as Juliette would not be there I should enjoy some hours 
 with Augustine alone, unless she sent for the maid-servant to 
 keep us company. Having seen Juliette home, I went to my 
 own lodgings, where I found the following letter from my 
 father : — 
 
 " My Dbab, Paul, — "When I left you in Paris on that frightful 
 morning I forbore reproaching you for having thrown away 
 your poor mother's fortune, because I felt that upbraiding 
 you with your folly would not bring it back again, and I thought 
 the best mode of reclaiming you would be to give you an 
 amiable and accomplished wife. Since then I have occupied 
 myself sedulously in carrying out my project, and I have made 
 the acquaintance of a lady, eighteen years of age, virtuous, 
 ^sensible, pretty, and moderately rich, and who has no objection 
 to become your bride, and her parents also are willing that you 
 should marry her, as I have undertaken that you will make her 
 a good husband and commit no more follies. It is my request, 
 therefore, Paul, that you will leave Paris directly and come down 
 here, and, above all things, do not attempt to bring that scamp, 
 Dubois, with you. Farewell, my son ; come as speedily as you 
 can, for I assure you the girl is well worthy the trouble of the 
 journey." 
 
 Here, then, was the fulfilment of the promise my excellent 
 
 father had made me when he left Paris ! A wife, young, amiable, 
 
 virtuous, and rich, was a tempting bait which would have been 
 
 swallowed greedily by many men, but not by me. Had she been 
 
 .cas rich as Croesus and as beauteous as the Graces or the fabled 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 183". 
 
 Queen of Love, I would have none of her. Marry, and renounce 
 Augustine! No, that could never be. The stars might fall, the 
 sun suspend its daily course, but I would remain faithful to my 
 first, my only love. Full of this determination, I dined quietly 
 alone ; went to the play, slept soundly, woke at daybreak, put 
 my father's lettter in my pocket, and set off for Luciennes on 
 foot, with the intention of showing to Augustine another proof" 
 of my undying constancy, and again imploring her no longer to 
 delay the just reward I thought I had so dearly earned. I found 
 her, as usual, alone in the woodbine bower, and beheld, with 
 secret satisfaction that her delight at seeing me was equal to 
 my own. I sat beside her in that fragrant arbour where we had 
 passed so many happy days during the last six weeks ; but now, , 
 alone with her, the flowers, the lawn, the carols of the birds, 
 the sighing of the breeze and the tremulous motion of the 
 branches as it breathed gently through them, appeared ten 
 times more delicious to the senses, and strung every cord within 
 my breast to the thrilling tone of love. Well indeed had 
 Juliette said that "It is not in the solitude of the fields, the~ 
 woods, listening to the feathered songsters, or by the side of 
 rippling streams that the heart recovers its indifference." For 
 two hours I remained at her side or at her feet speaking of 
 nothing else than my fond attachment. She interrupted me 
 and tried to lead my thoughts to other subjects, but I always^ 
 found the means to bring her back to the all-absorbing theme, 
 and although she faintly scolded, yet she seemed to experience 
 pleasurable emotions as I poured forth my vows. 
 
 After dinner, at which the presence of the servant restrained 
 the expression of our thoughts, and bound us to the common- 
 places of this earth, we went again into the garden, and as the 
 appearance of the elements announced a coming storm, and the 
 atmosphere was thick and heavy, we strolled into the thicket to 
 enjoy a cooler air. As we walked arm-in-arm in a silence more 
 eloquent than the most passionate declarations, interrupted 
 only by occasional sighs and tender pressure of the hands, 
 Augustine asked me suddenly whether I had heard lately from 
 my father. " Yes, madame," I replied, " I have received a letter 
 from him this very morning. ,> " And what says he in it ? Does, 
 he scold you heartily ? " " No, madame ; he desires that I 
 should go and see him." " And he is right." " And yet I shall 
 not go." " Why not, Deligny ? you cannot do better than pass 
 some time with your good old father." " He does not require my 
 presence merely for a few days or weeks, Augustine ; he fain 
 would -make me — marry." She started as if a wasp had stung her^ 
 dropped my arm, stifled a hysteric sob, and asked, in a broken 
 voice, whether my father had found a wife for me, and what sort 
 of a woman he described her to be. By way of answer I placed 
 
.184 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 my father's letter in her hand. She took it, walked with a 
 faltering step to a mossy bank, on to which she almost fell, read 
 it attentively, and then as I stood trembling before her, as a con- 
 victed felon listens to his doom, she looked steadily into my 
 •eyes, and pronounced the cruel words, " Paul, your father must 
 be obeyed; you must marry the girl he has selected! " I stood 
 aghast. " Marry," I thundered out, " and part from you ? 
 Never, never!" Her eyes filled with moisture as she said, 
 "" Uecollect, Paul, the lady is young and beautiful." "Oh! no! 
 no! no! There is but one lovely woman in my eyes." " She is 
 virtuous, and will love you." " But I cannot love her." " She is 
 rich and will promise you every comfort and luxury of life. She 
 will gratify every desire you may form." "I have but one, and 
 that is to be beloved by you, to see you every moment of my 
 life, and never to quit you." " Think, Paul, that the indis- 
 soluble tie to Jenneville still exists, and that I must not be your 
 mistress and cannot be your wife." " Augustine, in mercy do 
 not drive me mad ; be mine through love alone, and we will 
 never part." She shook her head feebly, and encouraged by the 
 thought that I had triumphed, I threw myself on my knees before 
 her, kissed the fair hand she abandoned to me, and reiterated 
 my vows of love. Emboldened by the passiveness with which 
 she heard me, I rose up with all the fervour of delirious passion 
 rand led her unresisting form still deeper into the recesses of the 
 ivood. She was all my own ; her head drooped like a cropped 
 flower on my shoulder, her panting breath fell like the gales of 
 Araby upon my cheek ; I kissed her bosom, her forehead, and 
 her lips a thousand and a thousand times ; but at the very 
 instant when my long-sought rapturous bliss was on the point 
 of consummation, the harsh voice of the old gardener was heard 
 resounding through the wood. The dream was at an end ; we 
 •descended from Paradise to earth, and Augustine, uttering one 
 deep sigh that seemed to relieve her overburthened heart, gave 
 all folly to the winds, and advanced calmly and steadily to meet 
 the honest man. As the gardener came near, she called sharply to 
 "him, " What is the matter that you disturb me by hallooing in this 
 manner ? What has happened ? " " Dear me, madame, there is 
 a gentleman just arrived from Paris asking for you, and when I 
 said you were engaged, and were walking, he said that was of 
 no consequence, but I must go and tell you, although he was not 
 in any hurry, and he would remain where he was, and so he lay 
 down on the sofa, madame, and I came to tell you." The colour 
 left Augustine's cheeks, and I felt uncomfortable, though I could 
 not tell why; but being asked if the gentleman had not 
 mentioned his name, her face became deadly pale, and she 
 leaned upon me for support when the old man replied the 
 •*tranerer had stated he was Monsieur Jenneville Augustine 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 185* 
 
 recovered herself with a great effort, and directed the gardener 
 to tell the visitor that she would wait on him immediately, and, 
 then entreated me to leave the wood by a back gate that led 
 out into the fields. It was in vain I represented to her that 
 Jenneville had only come to thank her for her generosity in- 
 releasing him from prison, and that he would not stop long, and 
 besought her earnestly to let me stay. She insisted on my going 
 for the present, but bidding me to return on the morrow ; and 
 as I pressed her to my aching heart and, bathed in tears, she 
 closed the gate behind me, and said, " Farewell," a presentiment 
 whispered me the word was said for ever, and that we two- 
 should neyer meet again. 
 
186 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND THE WIFE. 
 
 When Jenneville became responsible to Joliyet for the four 
 thousand pounds advanced to Madame de Remonde, he was 
 already much straitened in his circumstances. For some time 
 previous the gorgeous Herminie, who, at the commencement of 
 their connection refused to accept any money from him, had 
 entirely changed her conduct, and large sums were wanted 
 daily to satisfy her exorbitant demands ; in fact, she was con- 
 stantly borrowing money from him and promising repayment 
 when she should have gained her suit. Jenneville was a man who 
 could never be brought to look into his affairs ; he detested all 
 calculations, hated the sound of the word "economy," and 
 utterly devoid of all forethought, did not think of regulating his 
 expenses by his income. Involved as he was, Blagnard's failure 
 was a fatal blow to him, and even then, instead of reducing his 
 expenditure, he sold his estates, one after the other, borrowed 
 large sums from anyone who would lend them to him, and threw 
 them away at the gaming-table whilst endeavouring to regain 
 his losses. More infatuated than ever with Madame de Remonde 
 — by whom he thought himself adored — he refused her nothing 
 that she asked for, being persuaded that the decision of the 
 Chancery suit in her favour would put her in possession of an 
 enormous fortune which should be shared with him. © 
 
 Some time after he had become her surety for the four 
 -thousand pounds, he found himself in such difficulty that he felt 
 obliged to apply to her for assistance, and requested her to lend 
 him one thousand of the four for which he had become 
 responsible, and was astounded to find that she answered him 
 with a disdainful smile, told him he was a monster, unworthy 
 of her love, and then turned her back upon him. From that 
 moment he began to doubt the sincerity of the attachment she 
 had so long professed, and when he learnt she had quitted Paris 
 with a wealthy foreigner he became convinced that he had been 
 the dupe of a vile, intriguing courtesan. Thrown into prison at 
 the suit of Jolivet, he cursed all women in his heart, and espe- 
 cially her who had so cruelly deceived him. Sometimes the 
 image of his injured wife presented itself to his imagination, 
 and he was compelled to acknowledge inwardly that he had 
 foully wronged her ; but though he knew the goodness of her 
 "heart, and felt that when she should be informed of his sad 
 ^condition she would do all she could to relieve him from the 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 187 
 
 consequences of his excesses, he had too much pride to solicit 
 aid from her he had abandoned. 
 
 No sooner had he regained his liberty than he hastened to 
 inquire to whom he was indebted for it, and on learning that 
 his wife had paid his debts, he experienced mingled f eelings of 
 Texation and of shame, which were still more increased by the 
 solicitor's informing him that Augustine had also settled on him 
 an allowance of three hundred pounds a year. He directed the 
 agent to write to Augustine and tell her he refused her bounty ; 
 but after he had left the house only a few minutes he returned 
 and said there was no necessity to write, as he meant to see his 
 wife himself, and then not finding her in Paris, he came to 
 Luciennes, where we left him at the end of the last chapter. 
 
 Turning to catch a. last look of Augustine, I observed that she 
 left the gate with a tottering step, and I learnt afterwards from 
 the servant-maid, that on entering the room where her husband 
 reposed upon a couch, with a heaving bosom and her eyes in tears, 
 she stopped short on seeing him, and he rose and saluted her with 
 a polite but formal bow. " I beg a thousand pardons, madame," 
 he said, " for having disturbed you, but I told your servant to 
 inform you if you were engaged with any friends that I was not 
 in a hurry. My visit seems to have surprised you." " Monsieur, I 
 must state that I was very far from expecting to see you." 
 u Could I avoid coming in person, madame, to thank you for 
 your generous behaviour ? " "I only did my duty." " Your 
 duty! Not so; it was not your duty to pay any debts I had 
 incurred. Your fortune was entirely your own." " It was a 
 duty that my conscience told me must be discharged." " At all 
 events, madame, ib was nobly done on your part. But let us 
 sit ; we shall converse more at our ease that standing." Jenne- 
 ville handed his wife gallantly to a chair, which she accepted 
 without lifting her eyes from the floor, and then he continued in 
 the same nonchalant, careless tone with which he had com- 
 menced: "As I just now told you, madame, without you I 
 should have remained in gaol until Doomsday probably, for who 
 on earth, I wonder, would have paid my debts ? Not my 
 so-called friends who have helped me on the road to ruin. Not 
 the servile, fawning coquettes who have deceived me! Oh, the 
 women! the women! how 1 hate them all! I have received a 
 terrible lesson from them. Kuined, completely ruined, and in 
 so short a time! Verily, it is enough to make a man turn 
 hermit. But let that pass by. It appears to me, madame, that 
 you have sacrificed at least one-half of your fortune." " Speak 
 no more of that." " You will excuse me, but I must. You nave 
 also been generous enough to propose to grant me an annuity 
 of three hundred pounds a year. I thank you, but I will not 
 accept it." " Not accept it! " " No, madame, I cannot live at 
 
188 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 your expense. When I left you— abandoned, I believe, is the 
 real word, for I am free to confess that my matrimonial 
 
 behaviour was rot very exemplary " " No more of what is 
 
 past; I pray, an^ let me entreatj you to take what I have 
 offered to yoa; let me have the satisfaction of knowing that the 
 husband who once loved me is not in want." She threw herself 
 upon her knees and implored him to accept the sum her muni- 
 ficence had proffered to him. " Augustine, you know what 
 
 you do — on your knees, when it is I who rather Think again. 
 
 You weep : but I came not here to add to your affliction, I assure 
 you " " 1 will dry my tears, Jenneville, if you will take the 
 annuity; indeed it is all that I can offer to you." "There is 
 but 0Be way,madame, in which I can profit by your munificence 
 without blushing." " What is it ? I promise you it shall be 
 adopted before you can name it." " Take care, Augustine, what 
 you do ; make no rash promises you may repent hereafter." 
 " No, Jenneville, no." " Then listen. Whilst we have been 
 separated I have committed many follies, and am ruined. On 
 the other hand, you have made use of the liberty I accorded to 
 you." " Monsieur, I own that appearances are against me, that 
 my conduct was thoughtless." " Excuses are useless, Augustine j 
 there is no need of them to me, who had released you from your 
 vows. The case stands thus : I cannot accept the annuity you 
 offer me, but I can return to you, and we will use your funds 
 in common. The past shall be as nothing ; for guilty as we 
 both are, neither has the right to reproach the other. I know 
 your character well enough to- feel assured that you will break 
 off any intimacy you may have formed during my absence from 
 you, and if it should meet with your approbation, we will live 
 together in one establishment simply as friends, for it is impos- 
 sible that ihe relations of man and wife can ever again exist 
 between us. This is the offer, madame, I make to you, and I 
 beg you to remark that it is only a proposition. As I am your 
 husband still in every respect, our separation not having been 
 arranged according to the laws of the land, I have the most 
 undoubted right to establish myself in this house without your 
 making the slightest opposition ; but be convinced, madame, that 
 such is not my intention. If what I have proposed should suit 
 your convenience, well and good ; if not, I shall quit France for 
 ever, and endeavour in another country to regain that fortune 
 which I have lost so foolishly, or else to die unknown, 
 unhonoured, in some obscure corner of the globe. But, 
 Augustine, wherever my wretched fate may lead me, be assured 
 I shall never forget that it wa* you who saved me from the 
 horrors of a gaol." ■* 
 
 Augustine heard her husband in motionless attention; but 
 when he spoke of coming back to live with her she turned pale, 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and ths Lover. ±89 
 
 Sier eyes were again lowered, and her heaving bosom betrayed 
 the agitation of her heart. Jenneville waited in silence for a 
 few minutes, and then cried, impatiently, " I see, madam e, that 
 the proposition I have made does not suit your views, nor did I 
 expect it would. Farewell, for long, if not for ever, for I must 
 quit my native land." Augustine rose as he reached his hat 
 and detained him by the arm. " Leave your native land, mon- 
 sieur," she exclaimed ; " oh, no ! Forgive me if I reflected for a 
 few moments, but I thought you could not be happy in the same 
 domestic establishment with me. Our tastes, our habits, are so 
 different ; you love the world and all its joys ; I, solitude and 
 peace. To please me you would restrain your -vishes, whilst by 
 accepting what I offer you you will be able to enjoy what the 
 world calls * pleasures ' according to your will. Tue gifts of a wife 
 car.not, ought not, to offend your pride. Take it then, I beg of 
 you, and do not deprive yourself of that liberty which possesses 
 such attrations in your eyes ; be happy, if you can, without the 
 sacrifice." " No, Augustine, the pleasures of the world have no 
 longer any charms for me ; the only regret I feel is that I have 
 been the silly dupe of designing women and false friends. As to 
 your proposal, my pride will not permit me to accept it ; it will 
 be quite degradation enough for me to think that the means of 
 carrying on our joint establishment come from you, although 
 that idea may be dismissed, because men marry for money 
 every day. My determination is unalterable ; reflect for a few 
 minutes carefully on what course you will take, but do nothing 
 that will inconvenience you in the least." 
 
 He rose, and whilst he walked up and down the room, 
 Augustine strove to subdue the turbulence of ' the mingled 
 passions that struggled in her breast. At length she advanced 
 to Jenneville, saying, in a melancholy tone, " I am your wife, mon- 
 sieur, and whatever ill-founded ideas you may have formed 
 respecting me I am still bound to obey your will." " Not so, 
 madame; there is no will in the question now. Do you 
 or do you not agree to the offer I have made?" With 
 a mighty effort Augustine gasped out, "I do." "In 
 that case, madame, I shall return to Paris immediately 
 to make the necessary arrangements, and to-morrow I will 
 come back here." "To-morrow, monsieur, I shall be in 
 Paris, too." " Then I shall have the pleasure of meeting you 
 there. Adieu, madame, adieu! You shall see that adversity has 
 tamed me and that I shall be the very best creature on the earth." 
 
 Jenneville took his wife's hand, kissed it lightly, and left the 
 house as if he had merely paid a common morning visit ; but 
 the moment he had gone Augustine sank upon a couch, and gave 
 a free course to the bitter tears the misery of her situation forced 
 from her agonized breast. 
 
190 Z%e Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI 
 
 MY MISEBY. — THE TWO FAITHFUL FRIENDS. 
 
 Although on my leaving Augustine I felt very uneasy as to 
 Jenneville's visit to Luciennes, I "was far from suspecting what 
 had really happened, and I burned with impatience to hasten 
 .back to the village, to calm her apprehensions, and to read again 
 "in her dear eyes that love that now responded so devotedly to 
 mine. After a sleepless night, I rose very early, and as I could 
 not set out so soon I thought I would reply to my father's letter ; 
 but when I attempted to do so, my thoughts wandered in such 
 a manner that I could not write two lines of commonsense, and 
 the forms of Jenneville and his wife were ever present to my 
 imagination. I tore the letter into pieces, and began another, 
 with no better result, and just as I had made up my mind to 
 defer my correspondence to another day, and proceed to 
 Luciennes, the porter gave a letter to me, saying that the person, 
 who brought it had told him to deliver it immediately because 
 it was of importance. 
 
 I saw at a glance that it was Augustine's handwriting, and 
 my heart trembled within me for fear some dire misfortune had 
 occurred. I broke the seal impatiently, feeling that my future 
 hopes, my happiness, my fate, depended upon the little scroll, 
 and tearing it open, read : — 
 
 " The dark presentiment that overhung me yesterday as I 
 bade you ' Farewell ' at the garden-gate, those sorrowful ideas I 
 then entertained that we should not meet again have been 
 fulfilled. All is now at an end between you and me. Monsieur 
 Jenneville has returned and accepted the shelter of my 
 establishment. He was wretched and without means, so my 
 duty compelled me to offer an asylum to him. An insur- 
 mountable barrier, Deligny, has been placed between us ; seek 
 not to overcome it, for, notwithstanding the profound grief I 
 feel— inconsolable, I believe— you must know me sufficiently 
 well to be aware that all your efforts will be fruitless, for I shall 
 now take as much pains to avoid your presence as heretofore I 
 have taken to promote it. Oh! why did fate ever cast you in my 
 way ! and why have we loved each other with such a misguided, 
 fatal passion! Do not think, dear Paul, that it is my intention 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 191- 
 
 to reproach you ; the fault was mine alone, and I am now bitterly 
 punished for it. Our love was a dream, the happiness of which' 
 was doomed never to be realized. That you may forget me, 
 Paul, is the last wish of my breaking heart; forget me, and be 
 happy ; and if by any chance you should ever meet me in society,, 
 feign that you do not see me, and thus have pity for that weak- 
 ness which could not bear to watch the expression of those eyes 
 that have gazed so long and fondly into mine. Adieu, dearest 
 Paul ; adieu, for ever! " 
 
 When I had perused the letter to the end, I could not persuade 
 myself that its contents were real, and even felt the paper to be 
 convinced 1 was not in a dream. Again and again I read it, and 
 then threw it violently on the floor. At that moment my sensa- 
 tions were neither those of pain or grief ; anger, madness, fury 
 possessed me when I thought I had lost Augustine for ever. I 
 stalked up and down my room, stamping with rage and striking; 
 the senseless pieces of furniture with my clenched fists. I even 
 broke the bottles, glasses, tea-cups, and every brittle article that 
 came within my reach, and then rushed downstairs to the yard ; 
 but the porter ran into his lodge on seeing me, shutting the 
 half door after him, and there stood on his guard with the handle 
 of a broom, and calling to me that if I would remain upstairs he 
 would run and fetch a surgeon. Blushing for my violence, I 
 stopped short, and inquired who had brought the letter, when 
 he informed me it was a countryman, who left the moment he 
 had delivered it. Being convinced now that the accursed note- 
 was from Augustine herself, I returned upstairs for my hat, 
 which I had forgotten to put on in my fury, and running to the 
 nearest coach-stand, jumped into a cabriolet, directing the man 
 to go to Luciennes, promising to pay him liberally if he would; 
 drive fast; and as we proceeded swiftly along the road I 
 pondered over in my mind how 1 should act if Augustine 
 should refuse to see me, and whether it would not be advisable 
 to persist in remaining in her house, to insult Jenneville and 
 pro7oke him to challenge me and so get rid of my hated rival, 
 for such I now considered him, by shooting him upon the spot. 
 We made good way, but the road seemed interminable, and on 
 my reaching Bougival, where the country becomes extremely 
 hilly and the horses drawing vehicles are obliged to walk, I got 
 out of the cabriolet, knowing that I should proceed faster on 
 foot, and ran all the way to Luciennes, where, as I crossed the 
 lawn expecting to find Augustine in the woodbine bower, I 
 was rooted to the earth by the old gardener calling out to me 
 that Madame Luceval had returned to Paris the very first thing 
 that morning. 
 
 Fool that I had been, I thought ; she was in Paris and near 
 me ; in fact, only a few yards distance from my rooms, and I 
 
3.92 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 liad been losing time in seeking her some leagues away. I ran 
 back to Bougival, got into the cabriolet, and told the driver not 
 to spare whipcord or horseflesh until we should reach the city 
 again. As soon as we were upon the Boulevard du Temple, I 
 paid the man, walked swiftly to the Rue Boucherat, and 
 stopped with a heart beating as if it would burst from my 
 bosom, looking up at the window where I had passed so many 
 delicious hours with Augustine. Uttering a deep sigh at the 
 memory of my lost happiness, I summoned up my courage and, 
 entering the yard, inquired if Madame Luceval had returned 
 from the country. The porter replied she had come back that 
 morning, and had instructed him to tell all visitors that she had 
 retaken her real name of Jenneville, which she had only dropped 
 during the long absence of her husband, who had been travelling 
 in a foreign country; and he further stated that Madame 
 Jenneville expected her husband to arrive that day, " And so 
 you see, monsieur," the garrulous old man said, " if you ask for 
 Madame Jenneville, why, she is upstairs, but if you ask for 
 Madame Luceval, why, there is no such a person in the house. ,, 
 
 The porter's communication felt like a heavy burthen on my 
 chest that weighed me to the earth ; but the very sound of the 
 name of Madame Jenneville recalled my duty to me; I knew 
 that she had given directions to the porter to call her so that I 
 might fully understand our relative position when I should call, 
 as no doubt she thought I would on the receipt of her farewell 
 letter, and I felt that from that moment there was no longer any 
 Madame Luceval for me. Turning from the porter abruptly, I 
 regained my own apartments, where I locked myself in and 
 gave full scope to my heartrending grief. How many hours 
 might have elapsed before I acquired any command over my 
 feelings I cannot tell, but all of a sudden I thought of Juliette, 
 and a gleam of hope shot across my brain, for she had acted 
 towards me as a sister, she detested and despised Jenneville, 
 and I felt assured would do all in her power to defeat the 
 arrangement that had been made between him and his wife. 
 In a few minutes I was at Madame Darbelle's house, and found 
 she was at home. She held out her hand to me as I almost 
 staggered towards her, and I could see from her angry frown 
 and the impatience of her manner that she was fully acquainted 
 with all that had occurred. My heart was so full that I could 
 not speak, so, giving her Augustine's letter, I took a chair, 
 covered my face with my hands, and, childlike, in spite of all my 
 manhood, gave way to a flood of tears. 
 
 When Juliette had read the letter through, she pressed my 
 hand, kindly entreated me to moderate my grief, and then said» 
 u The more I see how ardently Augustine loves you the more 
 vexation I feel that she should sacrifice you to that odi 
 
The Wife, the Hwband, and the Lover. 193 
 
 Jenneville. And yet, perhaps, she is not wrong after all; but 
 -all I know is that I could not have acted in the same manner. 
 I should have said candidly, if a husband such as he is had 
 made a similar proposition to me, " Monsieur, you left me 
 without any reason when I loved you with all my heart, and you 
 •come back to me when I have totally lost all feeling for you. 
 I am very sorry to inconvenience you, but, if you please, let us 
 both remain as we are." " In what way, Madame Darbelle, 
 have you become acquainted with this unfortunate occurrence ? " 
 " Through Augustine herself. She had scarcely arrived in Paris 
 this morning before she wrote me all that had taken place. I 
 went to her directly and endeavoured to make her change her 
 resolution, telling her that she would make both herself and you 
 miserable for life, and entreating her not to reside again with a 
 man who most probably would throw away her fortune as he 
 had his own ; but she answered me that she had reflected deeply 
 upon every casualty that might arise, she knew she could never 
 be happy again, but she had made up her mind to do what she 
 considered her duty, and she did not care whether Jenneville 
 ruined her or not, her only desire being to live in some retreat far 
 from the world, where she might indulge her grief in solitude, 
 comforted only with the hope that you were happy." " I happy, 
 madame, away from her! " " Believe me, Deligny, Time is the 
 .great physician who cures all diseases. The Fates committed a 
 great error in not making you Augustine's husband ; but you 
 must be contented with abiding by her will, for you know her 
 -disposition as well as I do, and are aware that she will hold to 
 what she has resolved." " But to refuse to see me." " Deligny, 
 she is right. Of what use could it be ? It would but renew all 
 your woes. Consider that she is no longer free, that Jenneville 
 knows you have been her lover, and recollect that shot. Id you 
 two meet again fatal consequences might ensue." " I am obliged 
 to agree that I ought not to see her again ; but I implore you, 
 madame, who will be so often with her, to let her know what 
 sufferings I have endured in submitting to her will ; and I entreat 
 that you will inform me from time to time how she is ; and if 
 there is a possibility of pleasing her in any way, say that she can 
 command me until death." " I shall see her, Deligny, frequently, 
 although I hate to encounter Jenneville, and were it not for my 
 attachment to Augustine I would not risk meeting him. But 
 that will not often happen, as they will have separate apart- 
 ments." " Separate apartments ! Are you quite sure of 
 that?" "Of course! Think you I cannot tell how every 
 honourable-minded woman would conduct herself in Augustine's- 
 position? This arrangement certainly has not been made througli 
 any returning love on her part; had she even not known you* 
 her heart, wounded by his numerous infidelities, could never 
 
 N 
 
194 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 nave reposed itself upon his breast again. Has this assurance iu 
 some degree lightened your despair ? " "It has, indeed ; but it 
 is inconceivable why she should have returned to Paris." " Not 
 so at all. She has felt unwilling to remain at the country 
 house where everything must remind her of the pleasant hours 
 she has passed there with you and me ; and you will see that the 
 same feeling will drive her from Paris that she may lose sight of 
 everything that recalls you to her remembrance. Vain is the 
 thought, indeed! Poor Augustine! She will never forget you,, 
 never, I fear." " Now, madame, do you wish she could ? ,r 
 " Yes, truly : would it not be all the happier for her? But calm 
 yourself ; she may roam from place to place seeking to divert 
 her thoughts, and look for peace in various climes, but the heart 
 sees when the eyes do not, and my poor friend will bear you. 
 constantly in mind. And now, farewell! I promise you that t 
 will talk to her of you, and when I have the pleasure of seeing 
 you will talk to you of her, and that I think will be the best way 
 of pleasing both." My interview with Juliette had the effect of 
 raising me from the depths of despair, and I could not help 
 feeling great satisfaction at thinking that Augustine and her 
 husband had entirely separate apartments, and also indulging 
 the charitable wish that providence would speedily remove him 
 to a better world. The absence of all hope for the present 
 forced me to summon my natural spirits to my aid, but in spite 
 of all my attempts to bear my burthen lightly the days and 
 nights draaged heavily along. I had been so accustomed to 
 see Augustine every day, that when I left my rooms in the 
 morning my feet instinctively directed themselves to the Rue 
 Boucherat. At times I thought of giving up my lodgings, but 
 when I looked around and perceived the chair in which she sat 
 when she made the sweet avowal of her love, the place seemed 
 hallowed by her presence, her spirit floated round me, and 
 immediately all ideas of change were given to the winds. Some- 
 times I thought of Dubois, but as— faithful to his principle with 
 respect to the convenience of constant change— he had long 
 since left his old rooms, I did not know where to find him, and I 
 had not the courage to venture on a voyage of discovery for him. 
 One morning, however, as I was plunged in a deep reverie, he 
 entered the room in a great bustle, exclaiming, " What the devil, 
 Paul, does all this mean ? The porter tells me you have been in. 
 Paris for a fortnight, and you have never let me know of it all 
 that time. But, bless me, how pale and ill you look! What is 
 it? Another loss ? " " No, Dubois ; that woman whom I loved, 
 adored, would you believe it, has gone back to her husband!" 
 " Pooh! pooh! Is that all ? Nay, man, never grow thin and pale 
 for love. Be yourself again, man alive! With your figure and 
 face you need never want half-a-dozen mistresses. I have two- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 195 
 
 or three ready for you if you will only speak the word." 
 " Dubois, you do not know what it is to love ; if you had ever 
 experienced a real passion you would not joke me upon my 
 sufferings." " Well, well, don't be vexed, Paul ; I believe I do 
 make love rather in the butterfly style ; but since I must not 
 laugh at you, I will cry with you, my dear boy. Tell me all 
 your woes, all your pains, and I'll have a river in my head, I'll 
 weep like Mobe herself. But how can it be that you were in 
 the seventh heaven about her not long ago, and now you are in 
 despair ? " " Dubois, she has returned to her husband." " Her 
 husband!— Jenneville? Has he escaped from gaol ? " "He is 
 out of it ; she has paid his debts." " She must have always 
 loved him then!" "No, no; but she thinks it was her duty to 
 <Ioso. From this "you may judge the virtues of her heart." 
 u Well, Paul, after all it cannot be helped, and so don't grieve 
 any more about it, although the fugitive has come back, you will 
 see her just the same, and your meetings will be the more 
 piquant for their secresy." " Say no such thing, Dubois ; you do 
 not know the character of Augustine. She would scorn to 
 -deceive her husband." " You don't mean to tell me, my dear 
 fellow, that she is a Penelope ? Sighs, and tears, and oaths, and 
 protestations, and then a husband or a guardian arrives on a 
 *udden, and all is over. I could not have supposed it; however, 
 such things never occur to me. But throw all this ridiculous 
 sorrow overboard ; dress yourself, and let us go out to breakfast. 
 I swear I'll not leave you, Paul, for the next six weeks. I'll be 
 your Pylades, your Damon, your Castor, your Ajax. We'll weep 
 as we take our chocolate and rolls, we'll weep as we take our 
 dinners and our wines, we'll weep at our coffee or our tea, and 
 weep while we smoke cigars and sip our punch ; so you see, my 
 hoy, by weeping the whole day long we shall get through it all 
 the quicker." 
 
 It was impossible to resist Dubois' well-meant endeavours to 
 •divert my mind from brooding over my misery ; besides, I felt 
 that he was right, for when a passion is devoid of all hope it is 
 folly to cherish it within one's heart. 1 left the house with 
 Dubois, and after we had taken breakfast went to Juliette, whom 
 I had not seen for the last fortnight, to make inquiries about 
 Augustine. Juliette informed me that the Jennevilles had left 
 the Rue Boucherat, and lived now in the greatest privacy in the 
 Taubourg Saint Germain. Augustine had no complaints to 
 make of her husband ; she was entirely her own mistress, and 
 «he declined going out anywhere, hating society, and shutting 
 herself up for days in her own rooms. She looked ill and pale, 
 and was oppressed with the deepest melancholy; she told 
 Juliette she did all in her power to forget me, but inquired after 
 jne, and appeared much pleased at being told I loved her 
 
196 The Wife, the Htisband, and the Lover, 
 
 still, although she said it was a miserable infatuation on my 
 part. 
 
 Having thanked Madame Darbelle for her intelligence, and 
 implored her to visit Augustine as often as she could, I took my 
 leave of her and dined at a tavern with Dubois, who exerted 
 himself to raise my drooping spirits, but although I made strong 
 efforts to respond to his intentions, my hilarity was hollow and 
 my laugh was forced. 
 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 19"£ 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVII. 
 
 THE ROADSIDE INN. 
 
 It was now three months since I parted from Augustine a£ 
 Luciennes, but her image still occupied my mind to the exclusion 
 of all other thoughts, although I seldom mentioned her in order 
 to gratify Dubois, and had accompanied him to several of his 
 grisette rdunions, where he thought my fancy might be touched ; 
 but notwithstanding that I met several very pretty women there 
 and other willing ones of a far higher grade, with whom I wiled 
 away some hours in amorous dalliance, the proposed remedy was 
 unsuccessful, for it did not cure me of my love, but on the con- 
 trary ray passion for Augustine seemed to take deeper root 
 from each trivial, intrigue, which never lasted above a week at 
 farthest. 
 
 My father had written three letters to me, all of them com- 
 mencing with upbraiding me for my neglect and becoming 
 calmer in their tone towards the middle, and stating he had 
 found great difficulty in accounting for my absence to the 
 parents of the young lady who was destined for me ; but that I 
 must leave Paris and come to Chartres immediately, unless I 
 wished the contemplated marriage to be completely broken off. 
 To these epistles I had replied very dutifully and very affection- 
 ately, but without adverting to my proposed union with the 
 young lady in the country ; for although there was no hope at 
 present with Augustine, who continued to retain her secluded 
 habits, hope was not extinct within my breast, and my heart 
 whispered me that some day yet she might be all my own. 
 
 Ten days had passed without my hearing any news of 
 Augustine, and on my repairing to Juliette to know how thing* 
 were going on I found that lady sitting alone, with a heavy frown 
 overclouding her usually happy, sunny brow. Her sadness- 
 alarmed me, and I inquired eagerly whether any accident had 
 befallen Augustine. " Calm yourself," she replied, " and take a 
 chair and listen to me. It is not melancholy alone that you 
 perceive in my face ; it is anger, absolute passion, that such a 
 woman as Augustine should be tied to such a fellow ! " "Oh; 
 Heaven! She is unhappy, surely he does not dare to ill-use 
 her? " " No, no, Deligny ; do not fly into a rage ; nothing has 
 happened more than might have been expected. I told you the- 
 other day that she left Jenneville entire master of her income* 
 
198 Tlie Wife, the Husband, and the Lover- 
 
 •to carry on the establishment and do just as he liked. It was 
 very stupid, but there was no use talking to her ; she would do 
 it. Well, for some time Monsieur Jenneville did not abuse his 
 power ; but becoming weary of living in retirement, and ardently 
 desiring to make the same figure in the world as he had done, 
 he must go upon the Stock Exchange and dabble in the Funds, 
 and the consequence is that in a very short time he has lost 
 one-half of Augustine's remaining fortune. However, I must 
 do him the justice to say he acted openly, for he came to his 
 wife, told her of this fresh loss, and requested her to take care 
 of the remainder of her money, or in all probability he should 
 reduce her to absolute beggary. Augustine did not utter a com- 
 plaint, a murmur, or a reproach; she merely observed they 
 must live with more economy, and as Jenneville declared that 
 Paris would be insupportable with a miserable three hundred a 
 year, and she positively refused to return to the house at 
 Luciennes, for reasons which you can very well define, they 
 have determined to live at a cottage they have taken in the 
 Valley of Beauce, quite isolated from the world, and only in the 
 vicinity of a few peasants' huts. What a lovely residence, 
 especially as the winter is about setting in! " "Is it possible 
 Augustine could have consented to such an arrangement ? " 
 " Not only has she consented, Deligny, but she says she is more 
 likely to recover her peace of mind in an obscure asylum ; and 
 she is glad to leave Paris, for she fears to meet you." " She 
 ■hates me then." "Ah, no. If she did she would not dread the 
 sight of you. Poor Augustine! I well know how deep her 
 sufferings are, although she endeavours to conceal them from 
 me. She has requested me to make another request to you ; it 
 is her last, and she hopes you will not fail to grant her 
 prayer." "Speak, madame; tell me what it is. Augustine's 
 slightest wishes are as laws to me." " I have constantly 
 impressed upon her that her image is deeply graven in your 
 heart ; but she will not hear of your losing the best years of 
 your life in giving way to your unhappy passion, and therefore 
 she requests you will conform to your father's wishes and marry 
 the lady he has provided for you." "What! madame, wishes 
 me to marry ! 'Tis a proof she cares no longer for me." " On 
 the contrary, Deligny, it is a fresh proof of her solicitude, her 
 anxiety for your welfare ; she wishes you may be happy, and 
 -to be so she knows you must cease to think of her." " Madame, 
 the sacrifice she imposes is most painful to me, the marriage 
 will render me miserable, but my father shall be obeyed since 
 •she desires it ; it will be a consolation to me to know that my 
 sufferings are caused by the fulfilment of her wishes." 
 "With a young and amiable wife, Deligny, you will not be 
 unhappy, and some day you will be compelled to acknowledge 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 199 
 
 "that Augustine was right. Adieu ! to-morrow I will tell her that 
 at last you have become a reasonable man." She left the room 
 with these words, and I the house, in anything but a delightful 
 temper. 
 
 On my joining Dubois, he remarked that something had 
 vexed me, and on my telling him the cause, he swore that both 
 my father and Augustine were right. " What! " he cried, " not 
 marry such a Phoenix as your father has found you! "Whereas I 
 have written a hundred times to my respected uncles and 
 
 -aunts, imploring them to discover a petticoat with a few hundred 
 crowns stitched to it, and they do not take the slightest notice 
 
 -of me." "But what if 1 cannot marry the girl?" " You are 
 wrong, Paul, quite wrong, I assure you. Listen, while I talk to 
 you like the venerable irritated father in the melodramas. 
 Humph ! Sirrah, you have thrown away almost all ycur fortune, 
 and 1 will not suffer the remainder to be squandered in the 
 same reckless way. You are no longer the same man you used 
 to be; since this ridiculous, this libertine passion for the wife 
 
 -of another man has got into your head, you are melancholy and 
 careworn, and instead of singing and being merry, do nothing 
 but sigh, and cry. There must be an end of this, sir; this 
 journey will cure you of your foolish love ; the lady commands 
 you, and the marriage must take place. And now, Paul, in 
 sober earnestness, let us go to Papa Deligny and get married 
 as soon as we can. Of course, I, your faithful friend, will 
 accompany you to Chartres and be the bridegroom's first man. 
 Ill arrange everything, write out the programme of all the 
 
 - ceremonies, assign their places in the procession to the proper 
 individuals, order the breakfast and the dinner, and see to the 
 music and the decorations of the ball-room. You shall have no 
 trouble at all only to get married. Then we will return to Paris ; 
 you shall live gaily with your wife and her money, and if any 
 insolent fellow should dare to look at her through his glass, why 
 I'll " Not needing Dubois' solicitations to induce me to con- 
 sent to this repugnant marriage, I interrupted him in his tirade 
 by telling him that my mind was made up, and that we would set 
 
 : out on the third day from that, to which he only replied that he 
 would take a sponge to each of his mistresses for them to wipe 
 away their tears during his brief sojourn in the country. As 
 
 * he was about to quit me to make his dispositions for the 
 journey I recollected my father's injunction not to bring him 
 with me, and not wishing to hurt the good-natured creature's 
 
 " feelings by making him verbally acquainted with it, I put the 
 last letter in his hand. When he had read it he burst into a fit 
 of laughter, and requested me not to be down-hearted at such 
 a trifle as that. No doubt papa recollected the night in the 
 Champs Elysees, but when the venerated parent should know 
 
200 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 that it was his argument — as he was pleased to state— that hacfr 
 reconciled me to the marriage, and brought the prodigal son 
 back to his arms, when he should hear him recite the verses 
 he would write on his lovely daughter-in-law, on her respected 
 father and mother, and her little brother — if there happened to • 
 be one — when he should escort all the old aunts on both sides, 
 and dan^e the Minuet de la Cour with the grandmammas, then 
 he would be delighted, transported, and acknowledge he was 
 the very best friend he had ever known. Being satisfied that 
 my father, in the pleasure of seeing me, would not retain any 
 animosity, and on his promising to behave with propriety, I 
 consented to take him with me, and we went each our separate - 
 ways. 
 
 The preparations for the important change from the bachelor 
 to the matrimonial state are generally of long duration, but 
 mine occupied only a few minutes, and having bade adieu to 
 Madame Darbelle, who told me that the Jennevilles would also set 
 out for their cottage at the latter end of the week, I was all 
 ready for the start. Whilst lounging along the boulevards before 
 dinner, I pondered over the singularity that had attended my 
 intimacy with Augustine, and the accomplishment of our desti- 
 nies almost at the same time. She and her truant husband were 
 about to live in the country in solitude, and I to reside with my 
 wife,— where, I neither knew nor cared. Oh, could I have antici- 
 pated the trouble I had gone through, the sufferings, the misery 
 I had endured, assuredly I should never have followed the lady 
 in the Leghorn hat. But it was no use now regretting what was 
 past, so having heard that a return carriage to Epernon would 
 leave on the following Saturday, I engaged two places in h% 
 resolving to walk the intervening twelve miles across the 
 country to Chartres. 
 
 Precisely at eight o'clock on Saturday morning, Dubois made 
 his appearance at my lodgings, with a small valise under his 
 arm. My rent had been paid, so there was nothing to detain me, 
 and having directed the porter to see the rooms were kept clean 
 and ready for immediate occupation, — as I had made up my mind . 
 to return directly if the young lady proposed for my acceptance 
 did not please me, — we took a hackney-coach to the place where 
 the carriage for Epernon started, and "on entering it found four 
 places occupied in such a manner that Dubois was compelled to 
 seat himself behind an old female peasant and a sturdy farmer, 
 and as he did not anticipate much pleasure on the road he pro- 
 mised the driver an extra shilling for himself if he would get 
 over the ground faster. All being in readiness the whip cracked, . 
 the horses strained at the collar, and I left Paris, not knowing if 
 *ver I should return to it again. 
 
 Notwithstanding Dubois' bribe to the coachman, the carriage- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 201' 
 
 dragged heavily along, and we did not reach Epernon until three 
 o'clock. We waited some time after dinner in hopes of 
 obtaining some chance conveyance to Chartres, but as none- 
 offered we were advised to walk to Maintenon, where we should 
 be sure to find one, and having engaged a peasant lad as oui 
 guide, we set out on foot on a dreary November afternoon. 
 The country had lost all its beauty, the late harvest was gathered* 
 in, the trees were almost devoid «f leaves, the verdant screen 
 that adorned the fields in summer had become a dreary russet, 
 and before we h* ' walked half the distance large drops of rain 
 began to fall. A. increased our speed, and presently, having 
 inquired what part of the country we were in, I was surprised 
 to hear from the boy that it was called La Beauce. Was there 
 a fatality in all that concerned myself and Augustine, and 
 forced me to follow her in whatever direction she might bend 
 her steps ? Yes ; like the action of the magnet, some secret 
 sympathy drew me with resistless power to her. We were 
 still far from Maintenon, and the rain came down in torrents, 
 when we perceived a village on our left called Hanches, which 
 the guide told us contained a capital inn named " The Rising: 
 Sun," where we could be comfortably accommodated by a land- 
 lord and landlady, the latter being exceedingly pretty, and the 
 former a first-rate confectioner and cook. 
 
 The last words respecting the landlady had a great effect 
 upon Dubois, he quickened his pace almost to a run and proposed 
 that as it was almost impossible we could reach Chartres that 
 evening and he felt very hungry, we miarht as well proceed to 
 " The Rising Sun " and dine, and if we found the place- 
 tolerably comfortable, put up there for the night. I agreed at 
 once, seeing no alternative except that of being wet through, and 
 ten minutes' hard walking brought us to the door of the vaunted 
 village inn, which in Paris would have been called an indifferent 
 public-house. Notwithstanding its unpretending size, at first 
 sight everything appeared neat and clean ; there was no dunar-hill 
 in the yard before the buildings, and the female servant who 
 came to take our valises from us was more comely and better 
 dressed than most of those of her class in the vicinity of Paris, 
 She had scarcely taken the valises from us before a fat, little,, 
 chubby-faced, rosy-cheeked, goggle-eyed man in a white jacket 
 and apron, with a cook's cap on his head, advanced towards us- 
 smirking and bowing, and assured us we should be quite satisfied 
 if we remained there all the night, for he had good hay and 
 straw and corn for the horses, and stables, and everything- 
 they could want. 
 
 " All very excellent, ray friend," said Dubois, slappinjr the- 
 little man on the shoulder, " but as we do not happen to have 
 any nags, and are very hungry, can you give my friend andl 
 
'202 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 myself anything fit to eat for dinner? " " Oh, yes, gentlemen, 
 certainly ; my wife shall bring you the bill of fare directly, sir. 
 Hi, Mary, tell your mistress to come here." Apparently the wife 
 heard the husband call, for she replied from within doors that 
 she was coming, and in a few moments a young woman in a 
 coloured muslin gown, with a smart cap trimmed with lace on 
 her head, appeared, and guess my astonishment when I perceived 
 that she was Ninie, the little fringe girl. Dubois and myself 
 could not conceal our surprise. Ninie utter>d an exclamation of 
 joy, threw herself in my arms, and the husband, after staring at 
 her for a second with his eyes almost starting out of his head, 
 delivered himself of a sigh torn from the bottom of his breast, 
 and said, " You gentlemen seem to know my wife ; bless me, 
 how fortunate ! " " To be sure," Dubois replied, " my friend 
 here is her godfather, and so am I too." I nudged Dubois, but 
 he whispered to me that we could not do better than stick to 
 what he had asserted, because the title of " godfather " allowed 
 kissing and other little pleasantries that were not permitted to 
 a stranger ; and Ninie said, laughingly, " I expect, Monsieur Paul, 
 you never thought of finding me in a public-house at HanchesP" 
 " Indeed, I did not, Ninie, but I recollect now your telling me 
 you were about to be married to a young man named Benin, a 
 pastry-cook." " There he stands, Monsieur Paul, that is my 
 husband." 
 
 Benin pulled off his white paper cap, smoothed his hair down 
 with his hand, and bowing to the ground, said, " Yes, monsieur, I 
 have had the honour of marrying your god-daughter, who 
 makes me happier and happier every day, and I venture to hope 
 you are satisfied with her choice." "I am, indeed, Benin," I 
 replied, shaking him cordially by the hand. " I congratulate 
 you on your marriage, and am quite sure that Ninie will make 
 you an excellent wife." The round little man was about to 
 throw himself upon my breast in the ebullition of his pride and 
 gratitude for my condescension, but Ninie detained him by 
 catching hold of his apron, and continued, '■ Yes, yes, Monsieur 
 Paul, the man's well enough as times go ; he does all he's told. 
 So, you see, after our marriage we came to this house, which was 
 given up to Benin by his uncle, who had lived in it for many 
 years, and now we are doing very well in it, for my husband is 
 an excellent cook, and we have gained a reputation in the 
 country round for our cakes." " Yes, gentlemen, and you'll see 
 that I'll send you up as good a dinner as you ^an get in Paris. 
 But what I pride myself upon is my pastry ; so when we took 
 this inn I wanted to change the name to ' The Golden Pat 6/ 
 but Ninie thought it was better to keep to the old name of 
 4 The Rising Sun ' for fear of mistakes, and so it remains as it 
 is. Ha, ha! but tell me, my dear, how was it that these god- 
 
The Wife, thv Husband, and the Lover. 203- 
 
 papas were not at our wedding?" "We were travelling in 
 Russia then, and have only just returned by the steamer to 
 Havre." 
 
 Ninie saw that this was dangerous ground, and by way of 
 tur ing the conversation pushed her husband out of the yard,, 
 telling him to display all his talents in the dinner, but to bring 
 up some of the best wine in the house before he should occupy 
 himself with the mysteries of the kitchen, and then invited us 
 to enter a neatly-appointed room on the ground floor. Whilst . 
 Benin was gone to the cellar, Ninie kept smiling and looking at 
 me, occasionally murmuring, " What a curious chance ! how 
 droll ! The same day, and in my house too." As I was about 
 asking for an explanation of these enigmatical words, Benin 
 entered with three long-necked bottles of wine, all with different 
 coloured seals,^which on tasting we found to be of first-rate 
 quality. Dubois sat down at once to drink them out with the 
 landlord in order to decide which we would have at dinner,, 
 whilst Ninie requested me to visit the dairy, the poultry-yard,, 
 and garden, and when we were quite alone, she laid her hand 
 upon my arm, with some little agitation, saying, "I am 
 delighted to see you, Monsieur Paul ; but you will never guess 
 who is in the house, too. Oh, what a turn it gave me ! I knew 
 it before she came in, and so I did not go to receive her as I would 
 any other lady, and kept out of her sight for fear she should 
 recollect me, although 1 do not think she would now, I look so 
 different dressed as a landady ; as for him, there's no fear at all, 
 he's too proud to look at the mistress of a village inn." " Who 
 are you speaking of Ninie ? " " Of the lady and Monsieur 
 Adolphe ; they arrived about an hour before you did." " Is it 
 possible! Is Jenneville here ? " " Yes, Adolphe, or Jenneville, 
 or whatever his name is. It appears that he and his wife were 
 travelling in a postchaise, when one of the springs broke near 
 the village, and they are obliged to remain here until the black- 
 smith shall repair it. Dear me, monsieur, are you ill? how pale 
 you look! " I could not restrain my emotions at hearing that I 
 was again near Augustine ; my deep trouble, my anguish, were 
 so clearly visible to Ninie, that she pressed me with a hundred 
 questions, and at length I sat down by her side on a bench under 
 a large tree at the bottom of the garden and told her the whole 
 history of my love for Augustine, and the events that had 
 separated us for ever. Ninie was affected to tears at the recital 
 of my grief, and entreated me to make use of her services if she 
 could do anything to please me. Feeling desirous of taking a. 
 last farewell of Augustine without Jenneville being aware of it,.. 
 I consulted Ninie as to the pos ibilityof obtaining an interiview, 
 when she told me that the Jennevilles could not have seen 
 Dubois and myself enter the inn because the room in which they 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 were looked upon the kitchen-garden, that their dinner would bo 
 -soon served, and if Jenneville should come down in the evening 
 which was very probable, she would take an opportunity of 
 delivering a note to Augustine if I would write it. Nothing 
 could be better than this advice, which I determined to adopt ; 
 and tearing a leaf from my tablets I wrote as follows : — " Chance 
 has brought me here, and I will not leave without taking a last 
 farewell ; grant me this, the only favour I shall ever ask of you, 
 as the reward of my obedience to your wishes. To-night, while 
 your husband sleeps, I shall expect you in the large room below, 
 in the presence of the mistress of the house, in whom I can 
 
 confide, and I will bless you for ever. If you refuse me ! but 
 
 I will not think of it." Ninie took the scrap of paper, which she 
 placed in her bosom, promising me solemnly that it should be 
 delivered to Augustine if she had an opportunity, and we 
 returned to the house, having been absent almost an hour. 
 
 Dubois and Benin remained at table, still occupied with the 
 wine, and the former, on seeing me, rose, glided behind the 
 landlord, and held up his fingers over his head behind his back, 
 making the figure of a pair of horns. Directing Benin to get us 
 dinner as quickly as possible, I took Dubois almost by force from 
 the wine, and, preceded by Ninie, ascended to a double-bedded 
 chamber, where I told him the Jennevilles were in the house, 
 and requested him to be quiet and not play the fool for fear 
 Augustine's husband should discover we were here, too. " The 
 devil take the Jennevilles," he exclaimed, " coming to this inn 
 at this critical moment and upsetting you when you had become 
 quite reasonable. Kecollect yourself, Paul, think that you are 
 going to be married." " I think of nothing but that Augustine 
 is underneath this roof, and I swear she shall not leave the 
 house without my speaking to her." "Ah! more tragedy, I 
 suppose!" " Dubois, for heaven's sake do not stir from this 
 room to-night." " A very delightful request ; how amusing it wi 1 
 be!" "If you go out and are seen by Jenneville, I will go 
 back to Paris, and no earthly power shall induce me to marry." 
 " Eh, what P Just like your obstinacy. Well, well, if it must be 
 so, it must ; but at any rate, let us have a good dinner and some 
 nre, for — anomalous as it is — I am nearly freezing in " The 
 Rising Sun." 
 
 Accordingly, a fire was made, which soon sparkled brightly; 
 the table was laid by Ninie herself, assisted by her " neat- 
 handed Phyllis," and Benin having served up a really capital 
 dinner, I promised Dubois to remain with him as long as he 
 liked, and help him to while away the long November evening. 
 We ate heartily, our appetites being stimulated by the long 
 walk. Benin and his wife came into the room from time to 
 time to see whether we wanted anything, and, to my great dis- 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 205 
 
 ^appointment, I perceived, irom the signs she made me that she 
 had not been able to execute my commission. Benin made his 
 appearance again with the dessert, carrying a cob-webbed bottle 
 -of choice Burgundy, and on our insisting on his sitting down 
 and partaking of it with us, he was so sensible of the honour 
 that he ran to the cellar for a bottle of super-excellent Malaga 
 which he intended to preserve for the christening of his eldest 
 son, although his wile was not yet in " the way that ladies 
 wish to be who lore their lords." Aided by the Burgundy and 
 the Malaga, followed by champagne, the time passed quickly 
 on until, what with talking and drinking, Dubois and Benin 
 became rather confused in their conservation, and Ninie, entering 
 with a smile, gave me a sign that my billet had been delivered. 
 ■ u Go to bed, my dear," she said to her husband, " you are 
 sleepy, and will have to get up early in the morning. 1 wiil 
 just inquire whether the strange lady and gentleman want any- 
 thing and come to you." " You are right my love," Benin 
 replied, taking a chamber candlestick and walking unsteadily 
 to the door, " I have made more than a hundred cakes to-day, 
 and dressed two dinners, and that's heavy work; good-nighr, 
 gentlemen, I hope my wife's godfathers will do me the favour 
 to sleep well beneath my roof." He staggered out of the room, 
 very nearly tumbling down in his attempts to bow, and Dubois, 
 who was not much better and could not keep his eyes open, 
 tumbled into bed, and wishing me a happy interview with 
 Augustine was soon asleep. Taking up a light, I left the 
 chamber quietly, descended the stairs as gently as possible, and 
 entered the large room on the ground-floor, where I found Ninie 
 all alone. She told me that she had watched Jenneville's apart- 
 ment as a cat does a mouse, that when he lelt she went in to 
 ivsk the lady if she could do anything for her, and on Augustine 
 replying in the negative, she presented to her the slip of paper 
 that I had written, stating that a traveller in the house had 
 requested she should do so. Augustine^— who did not recognise 
 her in the least — took the note, read it, turned as pale as death, 
 almost fainted, and said, with trembling accents and in a 
 melancholy tone, " He is here, then ? " to which Mnie was about 
 to reply when she heard Jenneville's footsteps ascending the 
 stairs, and left the room, which opened into Madame Jenneville's 
 chamber and out of it on to a landing and down by the back 
 stairs, so that she could not tell whether Augustine would grant 
 me the interview or not. 
 
 Having made this communication, Ninie got up to make a 
 tour of the house and ascertain whether all was locked up and 
 in order, leaving me sitting by a single lamp which dimly- 
 lighted the large room, and listening to the ticking of the clock, 
 which sounded to my distempered fancy in the stillness of tho 
 
206 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 night as loudly as a cathedral bell. At the end of half-an-hour- 
 Mnie returned, stating that all the servants and Benin and. 
 Dubois were snoring, and that the lights were still burning in 
 both of the Jennevilles' rooms. We remained again, only inter- 
 changing a few words at intervals, my ears acutely on the 
 watch, until eleven o'clock struck and Ninie's eyes closed as she 
 sat upon the chair. All hope of seeing Augustine had left me, and 
 I was in despair, when I thought I heard the rustling of a. 
 silk dress. I woke Ninie quietly, stepped on tiptoe to the door, 
 and peered down the passage. Ninie, with more presence of 
 mind than myself, advanced with the lamp; light steps 
 approached, my heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. 
 Augustine hastened on when she saw the light, then all her 
 strength forsook her, and heaving a deep sigh she reposed once 
 more upon my throbbing breast. I carried her into the room 
 and placed her as tenderly as a mother would an infant upon a- 
 couch, and when she had recovered herself a little Ninie left the 
 room to keep watch in the passage lest any of the household 
 should approach. 
 
 We remained for some moments gazing in each other's eyes,,, 
 and holding each other's hands, without uttering one word. At 
 length Augustine said, " You wished to see me, Paul, and I am 
 here, for in truth, I could not refuse you this last sad inter- 
 view." " Sad, indeed ; but yet the delight at seeing you again 
 is so overpowering, Augustine ! Oh, pardon me, I feel I ought 
 not to address you by that name." " Alas, Dehgny, I am not 
 free ; indeed, I never have been. Had I always recollected that, I 
 should not have been in this miserable position now." " Where- 
 fore do you reproach yourself, Augustine ? — for I must call you 
 so — you have done no wrong ; you have been faithful to that 
 husband who abandoned you, who only returned " " Mon- 
 sieur Deligny, forget not that he is my husband." " I know it all 
 too well ; but that consideration cannot prevent my loving, my 
 adoring you. Do not fly me, Augustine, it is the last time I shall 
 see you, that I shall have an opportunity of speaking to you of 
 my love." " If I had thought, monsieur, you would have talked 
 of that subject I have so often forbidden you to name I would 
 not have left my room to see you. Why do you seek to renew 
 my grief ? Why do you strive to render me still more un- 
 happy ? " 
 
 As she raised her handkerchief to her eyes a slight sound was 
 heard in the corridor. Augustine trembled, and said she feared 
 that Jenneville had heard her descend and was listening to our- 
 conversation. I endeavoured to calm her agitation by repre- 
 senting that Ninie was watching in the passage, and that no one 
 could approach without her knowledge. I recalled to her 
 memory the delightful moments we had passed at Luciennes^ 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 207 
 
 tmt she would not hear me, and, dropping the subject, turned to 
 my hated marriage. " Yes, madame," I replied, " I am about 
 to sacrifice myself to your wishes ; I shall be married soon, but 
 my heart can never experience for another woman those feelings 
 that T have entertained for you." " Paul Deligny, you tear my 
 heart. Let me solace myself by thinking that you will be 
 happy." " Oh, no! And you, madame, are compelled by Jenne- 
 ville's reckless extravagance, to hide yourself in an obscure 
 retreat." "Yes, Monsieur Jenneville will have it so, and it will 
 suit me best ; the residence we have fixed upon is far removed 
 from the busy, thoughtless world. What pleasure should I find 
 now in the company of frivolous, vain, light-hearted beings, who 
 deride all real affection and laugh it into scorn? Solitude alone 
 possesses any charms for me, for in it I can give myself up to 
 the remembrance of the few fleeting pleasurable hours of the 
 past, and think of him— of those whom I shall never see again." 
 " Shall I not hear of you in your new abode ? " " Juliette will 
 receive letters often from me, and if you see her she will tell 
 you how we are going on." " If I see her! it will be my only 
 comfort, my duty ; nothing shall compel me to be silent when I 
 think of you. And sometimes, Augustine, I implore you, let one 
 line, one word, from your pen show that you have not quite 
 forgot Deligny," 
 
 She answered not, but pressed my hand gently. I lifted her's 
 to my lips, and another long silence spoke more than speech 
 could say. At last she rose, and said, " Deligny, I must go ; the 
 longer we remain together the greater will be the pain to part. 
 Let me go, do not take from me the little courage I possess ; it 
 is time that I should leave ; farewell, my heart is breaking." 
 4i Farewell, Augustine, but not I feel for ever ; death would be 
 my instant lot did I think I should no more behold the sweet 
 expression of those eyes, that I should never hear the sounds of 
 that voice most musical to my ears. Augustine, think, oh, 
 think sometimes of me." " My God, can you doubt it, Paul ? 
 If you have any pity for me, detain me not. Farewell ! " With 
 these words she broke from me, and snatching up the lamp to 
 light her through the passage, we found Ninie fast asleep upon 
 a chair. 
 
 Augustine shook her head as she pointed to the drowsy 
 woman. I whispered to her that as no one had seen her descend 
 all must be right. She mounted the stairs with a cautious step, 
 turned to look at me on the landing, then clasped her hands 
 together, looked up to heaven, and disappeared ; and, having 
 awoke Ninie, regained my chamber, I threw myself upon the bed, 
 and gave myself up to all the horrors of despair. 
 
208 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover* 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVm. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. — THE DUEL. 
 
 I baved, I moaned, I swore, I accused my fate and Augustin© 
 herself, for I thought, in the depths of my misery, that she had 
 treated me barbarously in sacrificing my happiness to a man 
 who had so cruelly abandoned her, and now only came to her to 
 relieve him in his pressing necessities ; at times, I even strode 
 across the room, stamping with rage and striking the furniture 
 with my clenched fist. Dubois, who was awakened every ten 
 minutes by my imprecations, cursed all foolish lovers, then, sitting 
 upright in his bed, he commenced a discourse, the purport of 
 which was that if I did not take some repose 1 should be in a 
 very sorry plight to present myself to my bride and my father 
 in the morning ; but seeing that I did not pay any attention to 
 him, he stopped abruptly in his lecture, consigned me to the 
 regions below, and replaced his head upon his pillow. 
 
 The night passed tediously away in this manner, but my mind 
 became more calm with the first rays of light. I reflected that 
 Augustine had set me an example of fortitude which I should do 
 well to imitate, and that it would be unmanly, and, what was 
 more, useless to yield myself up to unavailing grief. At first I 
 intended to leave early in the morning, before Augustine should 
 be up, but then I thought there was a possibility of Jenneville 
 seeing us, and, therefore, I deemed it more advisable to remain 
 until he should be gone. All the people of the house were on 
 foot betimes and went to their respective work ; I heard Ninie 
 scolding her husband for being lazy, and then he making excuses 
 to his wife and soliciting more repose on account of the headache 
 consequent upon the excesses of the preceding evening. Soon 
 afterwards our hostess knocked at the door, inquiring if we were 
 disposed to rise, whereupon Dubois rubbed his eyes, and replied 
 pettishly that he had not been able to sleep all night on account 
 of my vagaries, and then asked whether the lady and gentleman 
 were about to leave. Ninie answered that the post-chaise was 
 repaired and she presumed they would depart soon after break- 
 fast, but that she would come and tell us when they were gone. 
 " That is to say," said Dubois, " that I am to remain a prisoner 
 in this room ; therefore, Madame Benin, have the goodness to get 
 us a good breakfast as soon as you can, for the country air gives 
 me a most voracious appetite." 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 9 
 
 Ninie retired to prepare the breakfast, and whilst Dubois 
 dressing himself I looked by the side of the curtain out of t* 
 window into the front yard, that I might see everybody come 
 into and leave the inn. Breakfast was brought, and we were 
 about placing ourselves at table when I heard the cracking of a 
 postillion's whip and the noise of a carriage driven into the yard. 
 Supposing it was that which would take Augustine for ever from 
 jny longing eyes, I rushed to the window to obtain one parting 
 look at her loved form, but I was mistaken, for I beheld a hand- 
 some travelling carriage drawn by four horses, a valet and a 
 groom in livery, and then there descended from it a gentleman 
 wearing a large cloak, superbly trimmed with fur, and a velvet 
 cap with a gold band upon his head, and as his arrival did not 
 interest me, I returned to the breakfast-table, where the viands 
 were fast disappearing before Dubois' vigorous attacks. 
 
 A short time only had elapsed before the landlord entered the 
 Toom, bowing respectfully and hoping we had slept well, to which 
 Dubois replied by shrugging his shoulders and offering him a 
 glass of wine, and then casually remarked that some fresh 
 travellers had arrived. " Yes, monsieur," Benin answered, " a 
 gentleman of great importance apparently, for he has a valet and 
 a groom, and orders everything as if he were a prince travelling 
 incognito. He gives a great deal of trouble, but then he spends 
 a great deal of money, and that will make up for the other. The 
 valet calls out, ' The best apartments in the house for my master ; 
 bring everything you have got for my master, never mind the 
 price— that's a trifle if we are satisfied! ' Eh! gentlemen, that's 
 something like, I think, and so I'll send him up such a game pie 
 as he never tasted before in his life. He'll have to wait a bit, 
 to be sure, but then my oven must get hot." " Stop, Benin, do 
 the lady and gentleman who were here all night remain to break- 
 fast ? " " Bless me, monsieur, I had quite forgot, I haven't put 
 their cutlets yet upon the gridiron! But the newcomer has 
 turned all things upside down." " You must not neglect your 
 other customers for him." " No, not at all, godfather, if you will 
 permit me to call you so, my wife and myself are one you know." 
 " Call me what you like, my good man, but attend to the lady." 
 " To be sure I will ; but I tell you what it is, monsieur, my weak 
 point is that I can't bear anyone who don't eat pastry ; that lady 
 and gentleman refused to taste my cakes, whereas this prince, or 
 whatever he is, has ordered a raised pie, pigs' feet with truffles, 
 oyster patties, a herb omelette, and a tart. That fellow knows 
 how to live. But I mustn't stand gossiping here ; good morning, 
 godfather ; I'll look in again when I've put the path in the oven, 
 
 nl see what you may want." 
 
 Benin left us in a hurry, and before he had gone many 
 minutes I heard Jenneville in the yard complaining of his break- 
 
 o 
 
210 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover. 
 
 last not being served, and on going close to the window I could 
 hear his words. " Will you never bring the breakfast ? " he- 
 exclaimed, in a passion ; " here we have been waiting more than 
 an hour for it." " I beg your pardon, monsieur, for keeping you 
 so long, but you see my oven is not thoroughly hot yet." " What 
 the devil do you want your oven for to dress pigs' feet and 
 cutlets?" "Quite right, monsieur, but a fresh customer has 
 just arrived ; a grand gentleman, who has ordered a great deal 
 of pastry, and that takes up time." " Your other guests are 
 nothing to me, fellow, my money is as good as that of anybody" 
 
 else, I believe." " Yes, monsieur, but " " Well, then, I am 
 
 in a hurry to leave your wretched hovel, so let me be served, 
 forthwith." 
 
 Benin shrugged his shoulders, muttered some observation that 
 I could not hear, and as he turned to enter the house, and Jenne- 
 ville strode angrily up and down the yard, the new arrival came 
 upon the scene, and slapping the landlord familiarly on the 
 back, inquired how long it would be before his breakfast would 
 be ready. Benin made a profound obeisance to him, and saying 
 he should be served immediately, ran to the kitchen as fast as 
 his legs would carry him. 
 
 The voice of the grand traveller struck me as one that I had 
 often heard before, and on putting my head out of the window 
 to satisfy the doubts that crowded on my mind, I fixed my eyes 
 upon him as he stood in the yard without his cap, passing his 
 fingers negligently through his hair, and instantly saw he was the 
 villain Blagnard who had robbed me of my fifteen hundred 
 pounds. Jenneville recognised him at the same moment, and 
 placed himself right in his way as he was about to walk into the 
 garden. In an instant the scoundrel's assurance deserted him, 
 and the sight of one of his victims appeared to disconcert him, 
 but, recovering himself directly, he bowed and said with the 
 greatest nonchalance, and in the blandest tone, "Can I believe 
 my eyes ! Yes, it is he ! My dear Jenneville, how delighted I 
 am to see you ! " " It is you then, Monsieur Blagnard, who 
 travels in such luxury and prevent other people from being duly 
 waited on ? " " Luxury, my dear fellow ? nothing in the least 
 like it, I assure you ; merely a plain travelling carriage, and four 
 horses for speed — a man must go fast when business affairs- 
 demand his time. Adieu, Jenneville, I must be in Paris by 
 
 eleven, for I have got to see the Ministers of " " Stop, 
 
 villain ! " Jenneville shouted, " you shall never see that city again 
 if my hand and eye prove true." Blagnard struggled to main- 
 tain his air of ease, but his cheek grew pale and there was a 
 slight tremor in his voice as he replied, " What are all these 
 furious looks about, my dear fellow ? what is the matter with 
 you ? are you ill ? " Lay aside this silly joking, scoundrel, for I. 
 
The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 211 
 
 have a long account to settle with you. What have become of 
 my four thousand pounds? To regain that loss I have been com- 
 pelled to sell my property, and that too is gone. You are the 
 cause of all my misery, my ruin. Give me back my money or 
 abide by the consequences of my wrath." " My dear Jenne- 
 ville, I cannot conceive why you reproach me for your losses ; I 
 was deeply engaged in the same venture, and lost four times as. 
 much as you. I am much more to be pitied." "To be pitied! 
 and yet you can afford to travel like an English nobleman, with 
 four horses, a valet and a groom? You are an impostor, fellow,. 
 a swindler, a common thief." "Jenneville! Beware— but you. 
 cannot mean it ? People lose their money in speculations every 
 day, but that never hinders them from beginning life again." 
 " No doubt, scoundrels like you never pay ; but those who have- 
 been unfortunate reimburse their creditors when fortune again 
 smiles upon them." " Excuse me, I have not the time to 
 
 spare " " No, scoundrel, you shall not escape me ; I repeat, 
 
 you are a liar and a thief " — and he took Blagnard roughly by 
 
 the arm. " No violence, Monsieur Jenneville, or " These 
 
 words had scarcely escaped the villain's lips before Jenneville^ 
 struck him a blow on the face that drove him against the wall, 
 and Blagnard, purple with rage and grinding his teeth, uttered a 
 few words of which I could only catch " Pistols, directly, in the 
 little wood there, be quick." 
 
 It was clear that they were about to fight ; at'the same moment,, 
 recollecting the loss of the fifteen hundred pounds, I felt an irre- 
 sistible impulse to be present at the duel, and to challenge 
 Blagnard in case he should remain unharmed. I ran across the 
 room to my valise, but was stopped by Dubois casting his arms 
 round me as I took out my pistols ; he implored me to think of 
 my approaching marriage and not to meddle in the quarrel, but 
 throwing him. from me I rushed down the stairs and found only 
 Ninie in great terror in the yard, who told me in answer to my 
 hurried questions, that Blagnard and Jenneville had passed 
 through the flower-garden behind the house towards the wood. 
 I flew along the path she indicated, traversed the little garden 
 with the speed of light, and had just gained the outer thickets 
 of the wood when I heard two shots fired almost at the same 
 instant, and turning down a by-path whence the reports came, I 
 met Blagnard running at full speed. I called to him to stop, 
 but he dashed past me without taking any notice, and on 
 advancing a few yards, I found the unhappy Jenneville extended 
 on the ground and bathed in blood. I lifted up his head, 
 supported it on my knee, and held my handkerchief to the wound 
 in his breast, through which the ball had passed, and strove to 
 staunch the blood which welled darkly from the wound, and 
 scarcely had I been five minutes with the miserable man when 
 
212 The Wife, the Husband, and the Lover, 
 
 1'enin, Ninie, Augustine, and all the servants of the inn came 
 running to the spot. Silent and calm, but with the tears stream- 
 ing from her eyes, poor Augustine threw herself on her knees 
 beside me, and aided me to support her husband's sinking form. 
 At last a cold shudder passed through his frame, his eyes 
 unclosed, and rested with a benignant look upon his wife ; then 
 vrandering towards me, he held out his hand, and murmured, 
 " Paul, my friend, I am glad to see you at this solemn moment," 
 and then his voice failed him and his head sank upon his breast. 
 "We tried to bear him to the house, but the pain he experienced 
 in being moved recalled his fleeting senses, and he feebly begged 
 the men to place him in a sitting position on the grass, and me 
 to support him. He made a last effort, motioned Benin and the 
 men away from him, and then gasped out, " It is useless attempt- 
 ing to remove me. I feel the wound is mortal, and that I have 
 not long to live. Let my last minutes repair, if possible, some 
 of the many crimes and errors of my life. Dearest Augustine, 
 weep not for me, I am not worthy of your sorrow ; I have made 
 your existence miserable by my cruel, wanton neglect, but I am 
 convinced that you were always faithful to me. Last night I 
 heard you leave the room and I followed you downstairs ; I over- 
 heard your conversation with Deligny, and all the foul suspicions 
 I entertained were banished from my mind. Farewell, good 
 friends ; grieve not for me, Paul, make her happier than " 
 
 He could say no more, but pressed my hand affectionately, 
 closed his eyes, and the spirit fled for ever. Augustine looked 
 at her husband's lifeless form for a moment in the deepest 
 anguish, and then fainted in Dubois' arms, and was borne into 
 the house, whilst I remained to see the last sad offices performed 
 to Jenneville. On returning to the inn, I found that Blagnard 
 had been gone some time without taking breakfast, having paid 
 the hostess largely to harness the horses, so that he might leave 
 no trace behind him ; but I hoped to be able to discover him by 
 means of the police on my return to Paris. 
 
 It may be easily conceived that, as Jennevtlle's unexpected 
 death had made me in a manner master of my own affections, I 
 did not prosecute my journey to my father's ; but not wishing to 
 intrude upon Augustine in her first burst of grief for the man 
 Avhom she had once loved, I studiously avoided all mention of the 
 delightful hopes that dawned ^gain within my heart, and 
 charged Dubois to escort her back to Paris and leave her at the 
 residence of her sincere friend, Juliette. When she was gone, I 
 occupied myself with the obsequies of Jenneville, which took 
 place at Hanches, and caused a headstone to be placed upon his 
 grave, with the simple inscription of his name, and that being 
 done I took leave of Ninie and her husband, wishing them more 
 pleasant customers than we had been, and promising I would 
 
The Wife t the Husband, and the Lover. 213 
 
 «sall and see them on every occasion that should take me to or 
 irom my father. 
 
 Returning to my lodgings in the Rue Chariot, my first care 
 was to seek Dubois, who told me that Madame Jenneville was 
 still at Juliette's, and in strict seclusion, and declined seeing any 
 of her friends at present. That being the case, I was compelled 
 to await patiently for some cessation of her grief, endeavouring 
 in the meantime to discover Blagnard, but without success; 
 when one evening, on leaving a tavern where I had been dining 
 with Dubois, we accidentally met Jolivet, whom I had not seen 
 since the day I entreated him to release Jenneville from gaol. 
 After the usual compliments he began— as was his wont— to 
 talk of his private affairs and of his frequent losses, and lamented 
 the death of one of his creditors in the hospital of Saint P&agie. 
 He would have put the man in prison had he been worth a 
 shilling, but as that was not the case he was content, he said, to 
 see Blagnard— for it was he— who had lived in such a luxurious 
 style, die without a single friend. Dubois remarked laughingly, 
 that the impostor's decease had saved the necessity of two duels, 
 for I had made up my mind to challenge the scoundrel, and as 
 he would certainly have been my second, he should have had to 
 fight him too. 
 
 My restless desire to avenge Jenneville and revenge myself 
 oeing at an end by Blagnard's death, I passed my time away in 
 the best manner I could until three months had elapsed, when I 
 had the ecstacy of beholding Augustine again. One look repaid 
 me for the pain of my long absence from her sight ; and as she 
 was too frank to conceal the pleasure she experienced at seeing 
 me, we had now no reason to repress the real feelings of our 
 liearts, and promised ourselves that our future lives should glide 
 happily away in the sweet delight of ardent and reciprocated 
 love. Augustine remained with Juliette until returning spring 
 reclad the fields in emerald green, and then we all three repaired 
 to Luciennes, where, wandering through the shady woods and 
 flowery vales, and reposing in the woodbine arbour where she first 
 blessed me with the announcement of her love, we passed the 
 summer until brown autumn brought the termination of the 
 prescribed widowhood, and then, with the full approval of my 
 father, she became my bride. 
 
 After the expiration of the honeymoon we went to my father's 
 house at Ohartres, where Augustine soon won the hearts of all 
 my relations and friends ; and happy in each other's loves, we 
 returned at the approach of winter to enjoy the amusements of 
 -the capital and that excellent society from which my gentle wife 
 had so long been debarred. As for the kind Juliette, she was 
 our constant visitor, and the follies of Dubois were entirely for- 
 gotten in his esteem for me and the natural goodness of his open 
 heart. 
 
 -^ THE END. 
 

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